27347	----	_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ A MODERN SYMPOSIUM. THE MEANING OF GOOD. JUSTICE & LIBERTY, A POLITICAL DIALOGUE. _PROBLEMS OF THE DAY SERIES_ RELIGION & IMMORTALITY. LETTERS FROM JOHN CHINAMAN. RELIGION: A FORECAST. APPEARANCES APPEARANCES BEING NOTES OF TRAVEL BY G. LOWES DICKINSON AUTHOR OF "A MODERN SYMPOSIUM," "JUSTICE AND LIBERTY," ETC. [Illustration] MCMXIV LONDON & TORONTO J. M. DENT & SONS LIMITED NEW YORK: DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO. All rights reserved PREFACE The articles included in this book have already appeared, those from the East in the _Manchester Guardian_, those from America in the _English Review_. In reprinting them, I have chosen a title which may serve also as an apology. What I offer is not Reality; but appearances to me. From such appearances perhaps, in time, Reality may be constructed. I claim only to make my contribution. I do so because the new contact between East and West is perhaps the most important fact of our age; and the problems of action and thought which it creates can only be solved as each civilisation tries to understand the others, and, by so doing, better to understand itself. These articles represent at any rate a good will to understand; and they may, I hope, for that reason throw one gleam of light on the darkness. For the opportunity of travelling in the East I am indebted to the munificence of Mr. Albert Kahn of Paris, who has founded what are known in this country as the Albert Kahn Travelling Fellowships.[1] The existence of this endowment is perhaps not as widely known as it should be. And if this volume should be the occasion of leading others to take advantage of the founder's generosity it will not have been written in vain. I have hesitated long before deciding to republish the letters on America. They were written in 1909, before the election of President Wilson, and all that led up to and is implied in that event. It was not, however, the fact that, so far, they are out of date, that caused me to hesitate. For they deal only incidentally with current politics, and whatever value they may have is as a commentary on phases of American civilisation which are of more than transitory significance. Much has happened in the United States during the last few years which is of great interest and importance. The conflict between democracy and plutocracy has become more conscious and more acute; there have been important developments in the labour movement; and capital has been so "harassed" by legislation that it may, for the moment, seem odd to capitalists to find America called "the paradise of Plutocracy." No doubt the American public has awakened to its situation since 1909. But such awakenings take a long time to transform the character of a civilisation and all that has occurred serves only to confirm the contention in the text that in the new world the same situation is arising that confronts the old one. What made me hesitate was something more important than the date at which the letters were written. There is in them a note of exasperation which I would have wished to remove if I could. But I could not, without a complete rewriting, by which, even if it were possible to me, more would have been lost than gained. It is this note of exasperation which has induced me hitherto to keep the letters back, in spite of requests to the contrary from American friends and publishers. But the opportunity of adding them as a pendant to letters from the East, where they fall naturally into their place as a complement and a contrast, has finally overcome my scruples; the more so, as much that is said of America is as typical of all the West, as it is foreign to all the East. That this Western civilisation, against which I have so much to say, is nevertheless the civilisation in which I would choose to live, in which I believe, and about which all my hopes centre, I have endeavoured to make clear in the concluding essay. And my readers, I hope, if any of them persevere to the end, will feel that they have been listening, after all, to the voice of a friend, even if the friend be of that disagreeable kind called "candid." Footnotes: [Footnote 1: These Fellowships, each of the value of £660, were established to enable the persons appointed to them to travel round the world. The Trust is administered at the University of London, and full information regarding it can be obtained from the Principal, Sir Henry Miers, F.R.S., who is Honorary Secretary to the Trustees.] CONTENTS PART I INDIA PAGE I. IN THE RED SEA. 3 II. AJANTA. 7 III. ULSTER IN INDIA 12 IV. ANGLO-INDIA. 16 V. A MYSTERY PLAY. 20 VI. AN INDIAN SAINT. 24 VII. A VILLAGE IN BENGAL 28 VIII. SRI RAMAKRISHNA. 32 IX. THE MONSTROUS REGIMEN OF WOMEN 38 X. THE BUDDHA AT BURUPUDUR 42 XI. A MALAY THEATRE 47 PART II CHINA I. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF CHINA 55 II. NANKING 60 III. IN THE YANGTSE GORGES 65 IV. PEKIN 72 V. THE ENGLISHMAN ABROAD 79 VI. CHINA IN TRANSITION 87 VII. A SACRED MOUNTAIN 95 PART III JAPAN I. FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF JAPAN 105 II. A "NO" DANCE 111 III. NIKKO 116 IV. DIVINE RIGHT IN JAPAN 122 V. FUJI 129 VI. JAPAN AND AMERICA 136 VII. HOME 142 PART IV AMERICA I. THE "DIVINE AVERAGE" 149 II. A CONTINENT OF PIONEERS 153 III. NIAGARA 160 IV. "THE MODERN PULPIT" 164 V. IN THE ROCKIES 171 VI. IN THE ADIRONDACKS 178 VII. THE RELIGION OF BUSINESS 184 VIII. RED-BLOODS AND "MOLLYCODDLES" 192 IX. ADVERTISEMENT 199 X. CULTURE 205 XI. ANTÆUS 211 CONCLUDING ESSAY 218 PART I INDIA I IN THE RED SEA "But why do you do it?" said the Frenchman. From the saloon above came a sound of singing, and I recognised a well-known hymn. The sun was blazing on a foam-flecked sea; a range of islands lifted red rocks into the glare; the wind blew fresh; and, from above, "Nothing in my hand I bring, Simply to Thy cross I cling." Male voices were singing; voices whose owners, beyond a doubt, had no idea of clinging to anything. Female voices, too, of clingers, perhaps, but hardly to a cross. "Why do you do it?"--I began to explain. "For the same reason that we play deck-quoits and shuffle-board; for the same reason that we dress for dinner. It's the system." "The system?" "Yes. What I call Anglicanism. It's a form of idealism. It consists in doing the proper thing." "But why should the proper thing be done?" "That question ought not to be asked. Anglicanism is an idealistic creed. It is anti-utilitarian and anti-rational. It does not ask questions; it has faith. The proper thing is the proper thing, and because it is the proper thing it is done." "At least," he said, "you do not pretend that this is religion?" "No. It has nothing to do with religion. But neither is it, as you too simply suppose, hypocrisy. Hypocrisy implies that you know what religion is, and counterfeit it. But these people do not know, and they are not counterfeiting. When they go to church they are not thinking of religion. They are thinking of the social system. The officers and civilians singing up there first learned to sing in the village church. They walked to the church from the great house; the great house stood in its park; the park was enclosed by the estate; and the estate was surrounded by other estates. The service in the village church stood for all that. And the service in the saloon stands for it still. At bottom, what that hymn means is not that these men are Christians, but that they are carrying England to India, to Burma, to China." "It is a funny thing," the Frenchman mused, "to carry to 300 million Hindus and Mahometans, and 400 million Confucians, Buddhists, and devil-worshippers. What do they do with it when they get there?" "They plant it down in little oases all over the country, and live in it. It is the shell that protects them in those oceans of impropriety. And from that shell they govern the world." "But how can they govern what they can't even see?" "They govern all the better. If once they could see, they would be lost. Doubt would enter in. And it is the virtue of the Englishman that he never doubts. That is what the system does for him." At this moment a voice was borne down the breeze. It was that of my travelling companion, and it appeared, as he approached, that he was discoursing to the captain on the merits of Dostoievsky's novels. He is no respecter of persons; he imposes his own conversation; and the captain, though obviously puzzled, was polite. "Russians may be like that," he was remarking as he passed, "but Englishmen aren't." "No," said my friend, "but don't you wish they were?" "I do _not_," said the captain with conviction. I looked at the Frenchman. "There," I said, "behold the system." "But your friend?" "Ah, but he, like myself, is a pariah. Have you not observed? They are quite polite. They have even a kind of respect--such as our public school boys have--for anyone who is queer, if only he is queer enough. But we don't "belong," and they know it. We are outside the system. At bottom we are dangerous, like foreigners. And they don't quite approve of our being let loose in India." "Besides, you talk to the Indians." "Yes, we talk to the Indians." "And that is contrary to the system?" "Yes, on board the boat; it's all very well while you're still in England." "A strange system--to perpetuate between rulers and ruled an impassable gulf!" "Yes. But, as Mr. Podsnap remarked, 'so it is.'" We had penetrated to the bows of the ship and hung looking over. Suddenly, just under the surf, there was an emerald gleam; another; then a leap and a dive; a leap and a dive again. A pair of porpoises were playing round the bows with the ease, the spontaneity, the beauty of perfect and happy life. As we watched them the same mood grew in us till it forced expression. And "Oh," I said, "the ship's a prison!" "No," said the Frenchman, "it's the system." II AJANTA A dusty road running through an avenue across the great plateau of the Deccan; scanty crops of maize and cotton; here and there low hills, their reddish soil sparsely clothed with trees; to the north, a receding line of mountains; elsewhere infinite space and blazing light. Our "tonga," its pair of wheels and its white awning rolling and jolting behind two good horses, passes long lines of bullock-carts. Indians, walking beside them with their inimitable gait, make exquisite gestures of abjection to the clumsy white Sahibs huddled uncomfortably on the back seat. Their robes of vivid colour, always harmoniously blent, leave bare the slender brown legs and often the breast and back. Children stark naked ride on their mothers' hips or their fathers' shoulder. Now and again the oxen are unyoked at a dribble of water, and a party rests and eats in the shade. Otherwise it is one long march with bare feet over the burning soil. We are approaching a market. The mud walls of a village appear. And outside, by a stream shrunk now into muddy pools, shimmers and wimmers a many-coloured crowd, buzzing among their waggons and awnings and improvised stalls. We ford the shallow stream, where women are washing clothes, cleaning their teeth, and drinking from the same water, and pass among the bags of corn, the sugar-cane, and sweetmeats, saluted gravely but unsolicited. Then on again for hours, the road now solitary, till as day closes we reach Fardapur. A cluster of mud-walled compounds and beehive huts lies about a fortified enclosure, where the children sprawl and scream, and a Brahmin intones to silent auditors. Outside they are drawing water from the puddles of the stream. And gradually over the low hills and the stretches of yellow grass the after-glow spreads a transfiguring light. Out of a rosy flush the evening star begins to shine; the crickets cry; a fresh breeze blows; and another pitiless day drops into oblivion. Next day, at dawn, we walk the four miles to the famous caves, guided by a boy who wears the Nizam's livery, and explains to us, in a language we do not know, but with perfect lucidity, that it is to him, and no one else, that backsheesh is due. He sings snatches of music as old and strange as the hills; picks us balls of cotton, and prickly pear; and once stops to point to the fresh tracks of a panther. We are in the winding gorge of a watercourse; and presently, at a turn, in a semicircle facing south, we see in the cliff the long line of caves. As we enter the first an intolerable odour meets us, and a flight of bats explains the cause. Gradually our eyes accustom themselves to the light, and we become conscious of a square hall, the flat roof resting on squat pillars elaborately carved, fragments of painting on the walls and ceiling, narrow slits opening into dark cells, and opposite the entrance, set back in a shrine, a colossal Buddha, the light falling full on the solemn face, the upturned feet, the expository hands. This is a monastery, and most of the caves are on the same plan; but one or two are long halls, presumably for worship, with barrel-vaulted roofs, and at the end a great solid globe on a pedestal. Of the art of these caves I will not speak. What little can be seen of the painting--and only ill-lighted fragments remain--is full of tenderness, refinement, and grace; no touch of drama; no hint of passion. The sculpture, stripped of its stucco surface, is rude but often impressive. But what impresses most is not the art but the religion of the place. In this terrible country, where the great forces of nature, drought and famine and pestilence, the intolerable sun, the intolerable rain, and the exuberance of life and death, have made of mankind a mere passive horde cowering before inscrutable Powers--here, more than anywhere, men were bound under a yoke of observance and ritual to the gods they had fashioned and the priests who interpreted their will. Then came the Deliverer to set them free not _for_ but _from_ life, teaching them how to escape from that worst of all evils, rebirth again and again into a world of infinite suffering, unguided by any reason to any good end. "There is no god," said this strange master, "there is no soul; but there is life after death, life here in this hell, unless you will learn to deliver yourselves by annihilating desire." They listened; they built monasteries; they meditated; and now and again, here, perhaps, in these caves, one or other attained enlightenment. But the cloud of Hinduism, lifted for a moment, rolled back heavier than ever. The older gods were seated too firmly on their thrones. Shiva--creator, preserver, destroyer--expelled the Buddha. And that passive figure, sublime in its power of mind, sits for ever alone in the land of his birth, exiled from light, in a cloud of clinging bats. But outside proceeds the great pageant of day and night, and the patient, beautiful people labour without hope, while universal nature, symbolised by Shiva's foot, presses heavily on their heads and forbids them the stature of man. Only the white man here, bustling, ungainly, aggressive, retains his freedom and acts rather than suffers. One understands at last the full meaning of the word "environment." Because of this sun, because of this soil, because of their vast numbers, these people are passive, religious, fatalistic. Because of our cold and rain in the north, our fresh springs and summers, we are men of action, of science, of no reflection. The seed is the same, but according to the soil it brings forth differently. Here the patience, the beauty, the abjection before the Devilish-Divine; there the defiance, the cult of the proud self. And these things have met. To what result? III ULSTER IN INDIA "Are you a Home Ruler?" "Yes. Are you?" Instantly a torrent of protest. He was a Mahometan, eminent in law and politics; clever, fluent, forensic, with a passion for hearing himself talk, and addressing one always as if one were a public meeting. He approached his face close to mine, gradually backing me into the wall. And I realised the full meaning of Carlyle's dictum "to be a mere passive bucket to be pumped into can be agreeable to no human being." It was not, naturally, the Irish question for its own sake that interested him. But he took it as a type of the Indian question. Here, too, he maintained, there is an Ulster, the Mahometan community. Here, too, there are Nationalists, the Hindus. Here, too, a "loyal" minority, protected by a beneficent and impartial Imperial Government. Here, too, a majority of "rebels" bent on throwing off that Government in order that they may oppress the minority. Here, too, an ideal of independence hypocritically masked under the phrase "self-government." "It is a law of political science that where there are two minorities they should stand together against the majority. The Hindus want to get rid of you, as they want to get rid of us. And for that reason alone, if there were not a thousand others"--there were, he hinted, but, rhetorically, he "passed them over in silence"--"for that reason alone I am loyal to the British raj." It had never occurred to me to doubt it. But I questioned, when I got a moment's breathing space, whether really the Hindu community deliberately nourished this dark conspiracy. He had no doubt, so far as the leaders were concerned; and he mistrusted the "moderates" more than the extremists, because they were cleverer. He "multiplied examples"--it was his phrase. The movement for primary education, for example. It had nothing to do with education. It was a plot to teach the masses Hindi, in order that they might be swept into the anti-British, anti-Mahometan current. As to minor matters, no Hindu had ever voted for a Mahometan, no Hindu barrister ever sent a client to a Mahometan colleague. Whereas in all these matters, one was led to infer, Mahometans were conciliation and tolerance itself. I knew that the speaker himself had secured the election of Mahometans to all the seats in the Council. But I refrained from referring to the matter. Then there was caste. A Hindu will not eat with a Mahometan, and this was taken as a personal insult. I suggested that the English were equally boycotted; but that we regarded the boycott as a religious obligation, not as a social stigma. But, like the Irish Ulstermen, he was not there to listen to argument. He rolled on like a river. None of us could escape. He detected the first signs of straying, and beckoned us back to the flock. "Mr. Audubon, this is important." "Mr. Coryat, you must listen to this." Coryat, at last, grew restive, and remarked rather tartly that no doubt there was friction between the two communities, but that the worst way to deal with it was by recrimination. He agreed; with tears in his eyes he agreed. There was nothing he had not done, no advance he had not made, to endeavour to bridge the gulf. All in vain! Never were such obstinate fellows as these Hindus. And he proceeded once more to "multiply examples." As we said "Good-bye" in the small hours of the morning he pressed into our hands copies of his speeches and addresses. And we left him perorating on the steps of the hotel. A painfully acquired mistrust of generalisation prevents me from saying that this is _the_ Mahometan point of view. Indeed, I have reason to know that it is not. But it is a Mahometan point of view in one province. And it was endorsed, more soberly, by less rhetorical members of the community. Some twenty-five years ago, they say, Mahometans woke to the fact that they were dropping behind in the race for influence and power. They started a campaign of education and organisation. At every point they found themselves thwarted; and always, behind the obstacle, lurked a Hindu. Lord Morley's reform of the Councils, intended to unite all sections, had had the opposite effect. Nothing but the separate electorates had saved Mahometans from political extinction. And precisely because they desired that extinction Hindus desired mixed electorates. The elections to the Councils have exasperated the antagonism between the two communities. And an enemy might accuse the Government of being actuated, in that reform, by the Machiavellian maxim "Divide et impera." What the Hindus have to say to all this I have not had an opportunity of learning. But they too, I conceive, can "multiply examples" for their side. To a philosophic observer two reflections suggest themselves. One, that representative government can only work when there is real give and take between the contending parties. The other, that to most men, and most nations, religion means nothing more than antagonism to some other religion. Witness Ulster in Ireland; and witness, equally, Ulster in India. IV ANGLO-INDIA From the gallery of the high hall we look down on the assembled society of the cantonment. The scene is commonplace enough; twaddle and tea, after tennis; "frivolling"--it is their word; women too empty-headed and men too tired to do anything else. This mill-round of work and exercise is maintained like a religion. The gymkhana represents the "compulsory games" of a public school. It is part of the "white man's burden." He plays, as he works, with a sense of responsibility. He is bored, but boredom is a duty, and there's nothing else to do. The scene is commonplace. Yes! But this afternoon a band is playing. The music suits the occasion. It is soft, melodious, sentimental. It provokes a vague sensibility, and makes no appeal to the imagination. At least it should not, from its quality. But the power of music is incalculable. It has an essence independent of its forms. And by virtue of that essence its poorest manifestations can sink a shaft into the springs of life. So as I listen languidly the scene before me detaches itself from actuality and floats away on the stream of art. It becomes a symbol; and around and beyond it, in some ideal space, other symbols arise and begin to move. I see the East as an infinite procession. Huge Bactrian camels balance their bobbing heads as they pad deliberately over the burning dust. Laden asses, cattle, and sheep and goats move on in troops. Black-bearded men, men with beard and hair dyed red, women pregnant or carrying babies on their hips, youths like the Indian Bacchus with long curling hair, children of all ages, old men magnificent and fierce, all the generations of Asia pass and pass on, seen like a frieze against a rock background, blazing with colour, rhythmical and fluent, marching menacingly down out of infinite space on to this little oasis of Englishmen. Then, suddenly, they are an ocean; and the Anglo-Indian world floats upon it like an Atlantic liner. It has its gymnasium, its swimming-bath, its card-rooms, its concert-room. It has its first and second class and steerage, well marked off. It dresses for dinner every night; it has an Anglican service on Sunday; it flirts mildly; it is bored; but above all it is safe. It has water-tight compartments. It is "unsinkable." The band is playing; and when the crash comes it will not stop. No; it will play this music, this, which is in my ears. Is it Gounod's "Faust" or an Anglican hymn? No matter! It is the same thing, sentimental, and not imaginative. And sentimentally, not imaginatively, the Englishman will die. He will not face the event, but he will stand up to it. He will realise nothing, but he will shrink from nothing. Of all the stories about the loss of the _Titanic_ the best and most characteristic is that of the group of men who sat conversing in the second-class smoking-room, till one of them said, "Now she's going down. Let's go and sit in the first-class saloon." And they did. How touching! How sublime! How English! The _Titanic_ sinks. With a roar the machinery crashes from stem to bow. Dust on the water, cries on the water, then vacuity and silence. The East has swept over this colony of the West. And still its generations pass on, rhythmically swinging; slaves of Nature, not, as in the West, rebels against her; cyclical as her seasons and her stars; infinite as her storms of dust; identical as the leaves of her trees; purposeless as her cyclones and her earthquakes. The music stops and I rub my eyes. Yes, it is only the club, only tea and twaddle! Or am I wrong? There is more in these men and women than appears. They stand for the West, for the energy of the world, for all, in this vast Nature, that is determinate and purposive, not passively repetitionary. And if they do not know it, if they never hear the strain that transposes them and their work into a tragic dream, if tennis is tennis to them, and a valse a valse, and an Indian a native, none the less they are what a poet would see them to be, an oasis in the desert, a liner on the ocean, ministers of the life within life that is the hope, the inspiration, and the meaning of the world. In my heart of hearts I apologise as I prolong the banalities of parting, and almost vow never again to abuse Gounod's music. V A MYSTERY PLAY A few lamps set on the floor lit up the white roof. On either side the great hall was open to the night; and now and again a bird flew across, or a silent figure flitted from dark to dark. On a low platform sat the dancers, gorgeously robed. All were boys. The leader, a peacock-fan flashing in his head-dress, personated Krishna. Beside him sat Rhada, his wife. The rest were the milkmaids of the legend. They sat like statues, and none of them moved at our entry. But the musicians, who were seated on the ground, rose and salaamed, and instantly began to play. There were five instruments--a miniature harmonium (terrible innovation), two viols, of flat, unresonant tone, a pair of cymbals, and a small drum. The ear, at first, detected little but discordant chaos, but by degrees a form became apparent--short phrases, of strong rhythm, in a different scale from ours, repeated again and again, and strung on a thread of loose improvisation. Every now and again the musicians burst into song. Their voices were harsh and nasal, but their art was complicated and subtle. Clearly, this was not barbarous music, it was only strange, and its interest increased, as the ear became accustomed to it. Suddenly, as though they could resist no longer, the dancers, who had not moved, leapt from the platform and began their dance. It was symbolical; Krishna was its centre, and the rest were wooing him. Desire and its frustration and fulfilment were the theme. Yet it was not sensual, or not merely so. The Hindus interpret in a religious spirit this legendary sport of Krishna with the milkmaids. It symbolises the soul's wooing of God. And so these boys interpreted it. Their passion, though it included the flesh, was not of the flesh. The mood was rapturous, but not abandoned; ecstatic, but not orgiastic. There were moments of a hushed suspense when hardly a muscle moved; only the arms undulated and the feet and hands vibrated. Then a break into swift whirling, on the toes or on the knees, into leaping and stamping, swift flight and pursuit. A pause again; a slow march; a rush with twinkling feet; and always, on those young faces, even in the moment of most excitement, a look of solemn rapture, as though they were carried out of themselves into the divine. I have seen dancing more accomplished, more elaborate, more astonishing than this. But never any that seemed to me to fulfil so well the finest purposes of the art. The Russian ballet, in the retrospect, seems trivial by comparison. It was secular; but this was religious. For the first time I seemed to catch a glimpse of what the tragic dance of the Greeks might have been like. The rhythms were not unlike those of Greek choruses, the motions corresponded strictly to the rhythms, and all was attuned to a high religious mood. In such dancing the flesh becomes spirit, the body a transparent emblem of the soul. After that the play, I confess, was a drop into bathos. We descended to speech, even to tedious burlesque. But the analogy was all the closer to mediæval mysteries. In ages of Faith religion is not only sublime; it is intimate, humorous, domestic; it sits at the hearth and plays in the nursery. So it is in India where the age of Faith has never ceased. What was represented that night was an episode in the story of Krishna. The characters were the infant god, his mother, Jasodha, and an ancient Brahmin who has come from her own country to congratulate her on the birth of a child. He is a comic character--the sagging belly and the painted face of the pantomime. He answers Jasodha's inquiries after friends and relations at home. She offers him food. He professes to have no appetite, but, on being pressed, demands portentous measures of rice and flour. While she collects the material for his meal, he goes to bathe in the Jumna; and the whole ritual of his ablutions is elaborately travestied, even a crocodile being introduced in the person of one of the musicians, who rudely pulls him by the leg as he is rolling in imaginary water. His bathing finished, he retires and cooks his food. When it is ready he falls into prayer. But during his abstraction the infant Krishna crawls up and begins devouring the food. Returning to himself, the Brahmin, in a rage, runs off into the darkness of the hall. Jasodha pursues him and brings him back. And he begins once more to cook his food. This episode was repeated three times in all its detail, and I confess I found it insufferably tedious. The third time Jasodha scolds the child and asks him why he does it. He replies--and here comes the pretty point of the play--that the Brahmin, in praying to God and offering him the food, unwittingly is praying to him and offering to him, and in eating the food he has but accepted the offering. The mother does not understand, but the Brahmin does, and prostrates himself before his Lord. This is crude enough art, but at any rate it is genuine. Like all primitive art, it is a representation of what is traditionally believed and popularly felt. The story is familiar to the audience and intimate to their lives. It represents details which they witness every day, and at the same time it has religious significance. Out of it might grow a great drama, as once in ancient Greece. And perhaps from no other origin can such a drama arise. VI AN INDIAN SAINT It was at Benares that we met him. He led us through the maze of the bazaars, his purple robe guiding us like a star, and brought us out by the mosque of Aurungzebe. Thence a long flight of stairs plunged sheer to the Ganges, shining below in the afternoon sun. We descended; but, turning aside before we reached the shore, came to a tiny house perched on a terrace above the ghat. We took off our shoes in the anteroom and passed through a second chamber, with its riverside open to the air, and reached a tiny apartment, where he motioned us to a divan. We squatted and looked round. Some empty bottles were the only furniture. But on the wall hung the picture we had come to see. It was a symbolic tree, and perhaps as much like a tree as what it symbolised was like the universe. Embedded in its trunk and branches were coloured circles and signs, and from them grew leaves and flowers of various hues. Below was a garden lit by a rising sun, and a black river where birds and beasts pursued and devoured one another. At our request he took a pointer and began to explain. I am not sure that I well understood or well remember, but something of this kind was the gist of it. In the beginning was Parabrahma, existing in himself, a white circle at the root of the tree. Whence sprang, following the line of the trunk, the egg of the universe, pregnant with all potentialities. Thence came the energy of Brahma; and of this there were three aspects, the Good, the Evil, and the Neuter, symbolised by three triangles in a circle. Thence the trunk continued, but also thence emerged a branch to the right and one to the left. The branch to the right was Illusion and ended in God; the branch to the left was Ignorance and ended in the Soul. Thus the Soul contemplates Illusion under the form of her gods. Up the line of the trunk came next the Energy of Nature; then Pride; then Egotism and Individuality; whence branched to one side Mind, to the other the senses and the passions. Then followed the elements, fire, air, water, and earth; then the vegetable creation; then corn; and then, at the summit of the tree, the primitive Man and Woman, type of Humanity. The garden below was Eden, until the sun rose; but with light came discord and conflict, symbolised by the river and the beasts. Evil and conflict belong to the nature of the created world; and the purpose of religion is by contemplation to enable the Soul to break its bodies, and the whole creation to return again to Parabrahma, whence it sprung. Why did it spring? He did not know. For good or for evil? He could not say. What he knew he knew, and what he did not know he did not. "Some say there is no God and no Soul." He smiled. "Let them!" His certainty was complete. "Can the souls of men be reincarnated as animals?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Who can say?" I tried to put in a plea for the life of action, but he was adamant; contemplation and contemplation alone can deliver us. "Our good men," I said, "desire to make the world better, rather than to save their own souls." "Our sages," he replied, "are sorry for the world, but they know they cannot help it." His religion, I urged, denied all sense to the process of history. "There may be process in matter," he replied, "but there is none in God." I protested that I loved individual souls, and did not want them absorbed in Parabrahma. He laughed his good cheery laugh, out of his black beard, but it was clear that he held me to be a child, imprisoned in the Ego. I felt like that, and I hugged my Ego; so presently he ministered to it with sweetmeats. He even ate with us, and smoked a cigarette. He was the most human of men; so human that I thought his religion could not be as inhuman as it sounded. But it was the religion of the East, not of the West. It refused all significance to the temporal world; it took no account of society and its needs; it sought to destroy, not to develop, the sense and the power of Individuality. It did not say, but it implied, that creation was a mistake; and if it did not profess pessimism, pessimism was its logical outcome. I do not know whether it is the religion of a wise race; but I am sure it could never be that of a strong one. But I loved the saint, and felt that he was a brother. Next morning, as we drifted past the long line of ghats, watching the bright figures on the terraces and stairs, the brown bodies in the water, and the Brahmins squatting on the shore, we saw him among the bathers, and he called to us cheerily. We waved our hands and passed on, never to see him again. East had not met West, but at least they had shaken hands across the gulf. The gulf, however, was profound; for many and many incarnations will be needed before one soul at least can come even to wish to annihilate itself in the Universal. VII A VILLAGE IN BENGAL At 6 A.M. we got out of the train at a station on the Ganges; and after many delays found ourselves drifting down the river in a houseboat. To lie on cushions, sheltered from the sun, looking out on the moving shore, to the sound of the leisurely plash of oars, is elysium after a night in the train. We had seven hours of it and I could have wished it were more. But towards sunset we reached our destination. At the wharf a crowd of servants were waiting to touch the feet of our hosts who had travelled with us. They accompanied us through a tangle of palms, bananas, mangoes, canes, past bamboo huts raised on platforms of hard, dry mud, to the central place where a great banyan stood in front of the temple. We took off our shoes and entered the enclosure, followed by half the village, silent, dignified, and deferential. Over ruined shrines of red brick, elaborately carved, clambered and twined the sacred peepul tree. And within a more modern building were housed images of Krishna and Rhada, and other symbols of what we call too hastily idolatry. Outside was a circular platform of brick where these dolls are washed in milk at the great festivals of the year. We passed on, and watched the village weaver at his work, sitting on the ground with his feet in a pit working the pedals of his loom; while outside, in the garden, a youth was running up and down setting up, thread by thread, the long strands of the warp. By the time we reached the house it was dusk. A lamp was brought into the porch. Musicians and singers squatted on the floor. Behind them a white-robed crowd faded into the night. And we listened to hymns composed by the village saint, who had lately passed away. First there was a prayer for forgiveness. "Lord, forgive us our sins. You _must_ forgive, for you are called the merciful. And it's so easy for you! And, if you don't, what becomes of your reputation?" Next, a call to the ferry. "Come and cross over with me. Krishna is the boat and Rhada the sail. No storms can wreck us. Come, cross over with me." Then a prayer for deliverance from the "well" of the world where we are imprisoned by those dread foes the five senses of the mind. Then a rhapsody on God, invisible, incomprehensible. "He speaks, but He is not seen. He lives in the room with me, but I cannot find Him. He brings to market His moods, but the marketer never appears. Some call Him fire, some ether. But I ask His name in vain. I suppose I am such a fool that they will not tell it me." Then a strange ironical address to Krishna. "Really, sir, your conduct is very odd! You flirt with the Gopis! You put Rhada in a sulk, and then ask to be forgiven! You say you are a god, and yet you pray to God! Really, sir, what are we to think?" Lastly, a mystic song, how Krishna has plunged into the ocean of Rhada; how he is there drifting, helpless and lost. Can we not save him? But no! It is because his love is not perfect and pure. And that is why he must be incarnated again and again in the avatars. Are these people idolaters, these dignified old men, these serious youths, these earnest, grave musicians? Look at their temple, and you say "Yes." Listen to their hymns, and you say "No." Reformers want to educate them, and, perhaps, they are right. But if education is to mean the substitution of the gramophone and music-hall songs for this traditional art, these native hymns? I went to bed pondering, and was awakened at six by another chorus telling us it was time to get up. We did so, and visited the school, set up by my friend as an experiment; a mud floor, mud-lined walls, all scrupulously clean; and squatting round the four sides children of all ages, all reciting their lessons at once, and all the lessons different. They were learning to read and write their native language, and that, at least, seemed harmless enough. But parents complained that it unfitted them for the fields. "Our fathers did not do it"--that, said my impatient young host, is their reply to every attempt at reform. In his library were all the works of Nietzsche, Tolstoy, Wells, and Shaw, as well as all the technical journals of scientific agriculture. He lectured them on the chemical constituents of milk and the crossing of sugar-canes. They embraced his feet, sang their hymns, and did as their fathers had done. He has a hard task before him, but one far better worth attempting than the legal and political activities in which most young Zemindars indulge. And, as he said, here you see the fields and hear the birds, and here you can bathe in the Ganges. We did; and then breakfasted; and then set out in palanquins for the nearest railway station. The bearers sang a rhythmic chant as they bore us smoothly along through mustard and pulses, yellow and orange and mauve. The sun blazed hot; the bronzed figures streamed with sweat; the cheerful voices never failed or flagged. I dozed and drowsed, while East and West in my mind wove a web whose pattern I cannot trace. But a pattern there is. And some day historians will be able to find it. VIII SRI RAMAKRISHNA As we dropped down the Hooghly they pointed to a temple on the shore as lately the home of Sri Ramakrishna. He was only a name to me, and I did not pay much attention, though I had his "Gospel" [2] actually under my arm. I was preoccupied with the sunset, burning behind a veil of smoke; and presently, as we landed, with the great floating haystacks smouldering at the wharf in the red afterglow. As we waited for the tram, someone said, "Would you like to see Kali?" and we stepped aside to the little shrine. Within it was the hideous idol, black and many-armed, decked with tinsel and fed with the blood of goats; and there swept over me a wave of the repulsion I had felt from the first for the Hindu religion, its symbols, its cult, its architecture, even its philosophy. Seated in the tram, it was with an effort that I opened the "Gospel" of Sri Ramakrishna. But at once my attention was arrested. This was an account by a disciple of the life and sayings of his master. And presently I read the following: "_Disciple._ Then, sir, one may hold that God is 'with form.' But surely He is not the earthen image that is worshipped! "_Master._ But, my dear sir, why should you call it an earthen image? Surely the Image Divine is made of the Spirit! "The disciple cannot follow this. He goes on: But is it not one's duty, sir, to make it clear to those who worship images that God is not the same as the clay form they worship, and that in worshipping they should keep God Himself in view and not the clay images? * * * * * "_Master._ You talk of 'images made of clay.' Well, there often comes a necessity of worshipping even such images as these. God Himself has provided these various forms of worship. The Lord has done all this--to suit different men in different stages of knowledge. "The mother so arranges the food for her children that every one gets what agrees with him. Suppose she has five children. Having a fish to cook, she makes different dishes out of it. She can give each one of the children what suits him exactly. One gets rich _polow_ with the fish, while she gives only a little soup to another who is of weak digestion; she makes a sauce of sour tamarind for the third, fries the fish for the fourth, and so on, exactly as it happens to agree with the stomach. Don't you see? "_Disciple._ Yes, sir, now I do. The Lord is to be worshipped in the image of clay as a spirit by the beginner. The devotee, as he advances, may worship Him independently of the image. "_Master._ Yes. And again, when he sees God he realises that everything--image and all--is a manifestation of the Spirit. To him the image is made of Spirit--not of clay. God is a Spirit." As I read this, I remembered the answer invariably given to me when I asked about Hindu idolatry. The people, I was told, even the humblest and most ignorant, worshipped not the idol but what it symbolised. Actually, this hideous Kali stood to them for the Divine Mother. And I was told of an old woman, racked with rheumatism, who had determined at last to seek relief from the goddess. She returned with radiant face. She had seen the Mother! And she had no more rheumatism. In this popular religion, it would seem, the old cosmic elements have dropped out, and the human only persist. So that even the terrifying form of Shiva, the Destroyer, stands only for the divine husband of Parvati, the divine wife. Hinduism, I admitted, is not as inhuman and superstitious as it looks. But I admitted it reluctantly and with many reserves, remembering all I had seen and heard of obscene rites and sculptures, of the perpetual repetition of the names of God, of parasitic Brahmins and self-torturing ascetics. What manner of man, then, was this Sri Ramakrishna? I turned the pages and read: "The disciples were walking about the garden. M. walked by himself at the cluster of five trees. It is about five in the afternoon. Coming back to the verandah, north of the Master's chamber, M. comes upon a strange sight. The Master is standing still. Narendra is singing a hymn. He and three or four other disciples are standing with the Master in their midst. M. is charmed with their song. Never in his life has he heard a sweeter voice. Looking at the Master, M. marvels and becomes speechless. The Master stands motionless. His eyes are fixed. It is hard to say whether he is breathing or not. This state of ecstasy, says a disciple in low tones, is called Samadhi. M. has never seen or heard of anything like this. He thinks to himself, 'Is it possible that the thought of God can make a man forget the world? How great must be his faith and love for God who is thrown into such a state!'" "Yes," I said, "that is the Hindu ideal--ecstatic contemplation." Something in me leapt to approve it; but the stronger pull was to Hellenism and the West. "Go your way, Ramakrishna," I said, "but your way is not mine. For me and my kind action not meditation; the temporal not the eternal; the human not the ultra-divine; Socrates not Ramakrishna!" But hardly had I said the words when I read on: "M. enters. Looking at him the Master laughs and laughs. He cries out, 'Why, look! There he is again!' The boys all join in the merriment. M. takes his seat, and the Master tells Narendra and the other disciples what has made him laugh. He says: "'Once upon a time a small quantity of opium was given to a certain peacock at four o'clock in the afternoon. Well, punctually at four the next afternoon who should come in but the selfsame peacock, longing for a repetition of the favour--another dose of opium!'--(Laughter.) "M. sat watching the Master as he amused himself with the boys. He kept up a running fire of chaff, and it seemed as if these boys were his own age and he was playing with them. Peals of laughter and brilliant flashes of humour follow upon one another, calling to mind the image of a fair when the Joy of the World is to be had for sale." I rubbed my eyes. Was this India or Athens? Is East East? Is West West? Are there any opposites that exclude one another? Or is this all-comprehensive Hinduism, this universal toleration, this refusal to recognise ultimate antagonisms, this "mush," in a word, as my friends would dub it--is this, after all, the truest and profoundest vision? And I read in my book: "M.'s egotism is now completely crushed. He thinks to himself: What this God-man says is indeed perfectly true. What business have I to go about preaching to others? Have I myself known God? Do I love God? About God I know nothing. It would indeed be the height of folly and vulgarity itself, of which I should be ashamed, to think of teaching others! This is not mathematics, or history, or literature; it is the science of God! Yes, I see the force of the words of this holy man." Footnotes: [Footnote 2: _Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna._ Second Edition. Part 1. Madras: Published by the Ramakrishna Mission. 1912.] IX THE MONSTROUS REGIMEN OF WOMEN Here at Cape Comorin, at India's southernmost point, among the sands and the cactuses and the palms rattling in the breeze, comes to us news of the Franchise Bill and of militant suffragettes. And I reflect that in this respect England is a "backward" country and Travancore an "advanced" one. Women here--except the Brahmin women--are, and always have been, politically and socially on an equality and more than an equality with men. For this is one of the few civilised States--for aught I know it is the only one--in which "matriarchy" still prevails. That doesn't mean--though the word suggests it--that women govern, though, in fact, the succession to the throne passes to women equally with men. But it means that woman is the head of the family, and that property follows her line, not the man's. All women own property equally with men, and own it in their own right. The mother's property passes to her children, but the father's passes to his mother's kin. The husband, in fact, is not regarded as related to the wife. Relationship means descent from a common mother, whereas descent from a common father is a negligible fact, no doubt because formerly it was a questionable one. Women administer their own property, and, as I am informed, administer it more prudently than the men. Not only so; they have in marriage the superior position occupied by men in the West. The Nair woman chooses her own husband; he comes to her house, she does not go to his; and, till recently, she could dismiss him as soon as she was tired of him. The law--man-made, no doubt!--has recently altered this, and now mutual consent is required for a valid divorce. Still the woman is, at least on this point, on an equality with the man. And the heavens have not yet fallen. As to the vote, it is not so important or so general here as at home. The people live under a paternal monarchy "by right divine." The Rajah who consolidated the kingdom, early in the eighteenth century, handed it over formally to the god of the temple, and administers it in his name. Incidentally this gave him access to temple revenues. It also makes his person sacred. So much so that in a recent prison riot, when the convicts escaped and marched to the police with their grievances, the Rajah had only to appear and tell them to march back to prison, and they did so to a man, and took their punishment. The government, it will be seen, is not by votes. Still there are votes for local councils, and women have them equally with men. Any other arrangement would have seemed merely preposterous to the Nairs; and perhaps if any exclusion had been contemplated it would have been of men rather than of women. Other incidental results follow from the equality of the sexes. The early marriages which are the curse of India do not prevail among the Nairs. Consequently the schooling of girls is continued later. And this State holds the record in all India for female education. We visited a school of over 600 girls, ranging from infancy to college age, and certainly I never saw school-girls look happier, keener, or more alive. Society, clearly, has not gone to pieces under "the monstrous regimen of women." Travancore claims, probably with justice, to be the premier native State; the most advanced, the most prosperous, the most happy. Because of the position of women? Well, hardly. The climate is delightful, the soil fertile, the natural resources considerable. Every man sits under his own palm tree, and famine is unknown. The people, and especially the children, are noticeably gay, in a land where gaiety is not common. But one need not be a suffragette to hold that the equality of the sexes is one element that contributes to its well-being, and to feel that in this respect England lags far behind Travancore. Echoes of the suffrage controversy at home have led me to dwell upon this matter of the position of women. But, to be candid, it will not be that that lingers in my mind when I look back upon my sojourn here. What then? Perhaps a sea of palm leaves, viewed from the lighthouse top, stretching beside the sea of blue waves; perhaps a sandy river bed, with brown nude figures washing clothes in the shining pools; perhaps the oiled and golden skins glistening in the sun; perhaps naked children astride on their mothers' hips, or screaming with laughter as they race the motor-car; perhaps the huge tusked elephant that barred our way for a moment yesterday; perhaps the jungle teeming with hidden and menacing life; perhaps the seashore and its tumbling waves. One studies institutions, but one does not love them. Often one must wish that they did not exist, or existed in such perfection that their existence might be unperceived. Still, as institutions go, this, which regulates the relations of men and women, is, I suppose, the most important. So from the surf of the Arabian sea and the blaze of the Indian sun I send this little object lesson. X THE BUDDHA AT BURUPUDUR To the north the cone of a volcano, rising sharp and black. To the east another. South and west a jagged chain of hills. In the foreground ricefields and cocoa palms. Everywhere intense green, untoned by grey; and in the midst of it this strange erection. Seen from below and from a distance it looks like a pyramid that has been pressed flat. In fact, it is a series of terraces built round a low hill. Six of them are rectangular; then come three that are circular; and on the highest of these is a solid dome, crowned by a cube and a spire. Round the circular terraces are set, close together, similar domes, but hollow, and pierced with lights, through which is seen in each a seated Buddha. Seated Buddhas, too, line the tops of the parapets that run round the lower terraces. And these parapets are covered with sculpture in high relief. One might fancy oneself walking round one of the ledges of Dante's "Purgatorio" meditating instruction on the walls. Here the instruction would be for the selfish and the cruel. For what is inscribed is the legend and cult of the lord of tenderness. Much of it remains undeciphered and unexplained. But on the second terrace is recorded, on one side, the life of Sakya-Muni; on the other, his previous incarnations. The latter, taken from the "Jatakas," are naïve and charming apologues. For example: Once the Buddha lived upon earth as a hare. In order to test him Indra came down from heaven in the guise of a traveller. Exhausted and faint, he asked the animals for help. An otter brought fish, a monkey fruit, a jackal a cup of milk. But the hare had nothing to give. So he threw himself into a fire, that the wanderer might eat his roasted flesh. Again: Once the Buddha lived upon earth as an elephant. He was met by seven hundred travellers, lost and exhausted with hunger. He told them where water would be found, and, near it, the body of an elephant for food. Then, hastening to the spot, he flung himself over a precipice, that he might provide the meal himself. Again: Once the Buddha lived upon earth as a stag. A king, who was hunting him, fell into a ravine. Whereupon the stag halted, descended, and helped him home. All round the outer wall run these pictured lessons. And opposite is shown the story of Sakya-Muni himself. We see the new-born child with his feet on lotuses. We see the fatal encounter with poverty, sickness, and death. We see the renunciation, the sojourn in the wilderness, the attainment under the bo-tree, the preaching of the Truth. And all this sculptured gospel seems to bring home to one, better than the volumes of the learned, what Buddhism really meant to the masses of its followers. It meant, surely, not the denial of the soul or of God, but that warm impulse of pity and love that beats still in these tender and human pictures. It meant not the hope or desire for extinction, but the charming dream of thousands of lives, past and to come, in many forms, many conditions, many diverse fates. The pessimism of the master is as little likely as his high philosophy to have reached the mind or the heart of the people. The whole history of Buddhism, indeed, shows that it did not, and does not. What touched them in him was the saint and the lover of animals and men. And this love it was that flowed in streams over the world, leaving wherever it passed, in literature and art, in pictures of flowers or mountains, in fables and poems and tales, the trace of its warm and humanising flood. Still, there is the other Buddhism, the Buddhism of the thinker; his theory of human life, its value and purpose. And it was this that filled my mind later as I sat on the summit next to a solemn Buddha against the setting sun. For a long time I was silent, meditating his doctrine. Then I spoke of children, and he said, "They grow old." I spoke of strong men, and he said, "They grow weak." I spoke of their work and achievement, and he said, "They die." The stars came out, and I spoke of eternal law. He said, "One law concerns you--that which binds you to the wheel of life." The moon rose, and I spoke of beauty. He said, "There is one beauty--that of a soul redeemed from desire." Thereupon the West stirred in me, and cried "No!" "Desire," it said, "is the heart and essence of the world. It needs not and craves not extinction. It needs and craves perfection. Youth passes; strength passes; life passes. Yes! What of it? We have access to the youth, the strength, the life of the world. Man is born to sorrow. Yes! But he feels it as tragedy and redeems it. Not round life, not outside life, but through life is the way. Desire more and more intense, because more and more pure; not peace, but the plenitude of experience. Your foundation was false. You thought man wanted rest. He does not. We at least do not, we of the West. We want more labour; we want more stress; we want more passion. Pain we accept, for it stings us into life. Strife we accept, for it hardens us to strength We believe in action; we believe in desire. And we believe that by them we shall attain." So the West broke out in me; and I looked at him to see if he was moved. But the calm eye was untroubled, unruffled the majestic brow, unperplexed the sweet, solemn mouth. Secure in his Nirvana, he heard or he heard me not. He had attained the life-in-death he sought. But I, I had not attained the life in life. Unhelped by him, I must go my way. The East, perhaps, he had understood. He had not understood the West. XI A MALAY THEATRE It seems to be a principle among shipping companies so to arrange their connections that the traveller should be compelled to spend some days in Singapore. We evaded this necessity by taking a trip to Sumatra, but even so a day and a night remained to be disposed of. We devoted the morning to a bathe and a lunch at the Sea View Hotel, and the afternoon to the Botanical Gardens, where the most attractive flowers are the children and the most interesting gardeners their Chinese nurses. There remained the evening, and we asked about amusements. There was a bioscope, of course; there is always a bioscope; we had found one even in the tiny town of Medan, in Sumatra. There was also an opera company, performing the "Pink Girl." We seemed to know all about her without going to see her. Was there nothing else? Yes; a Malay theatre. That sounded attractive. So we took the tram through the Chinese quarter, among the "Ah Sins" and "Hup Chows," where every one was either a tailor or a washerman, and got down at a row of red lights. This was the Alexandra Hall, and a bill informed us that the performers were the Straits Opera Company. This dismayed us a little. Still, we paid our dollars, and entered a dingy, dirty room, with a few Malays occupying the back benches and a small group of Chinese women and children in either balcony. We took our seats with half a dozen coloured aristocrats in the front rows, and looked about us. We were the only Europeans. But, to console us in our isolation, on either side of the proscenium was painted a couple of Italians in the act of embracing as one only embraces in opera. We glanced at our programme and saw that the play was the "Moon Princess," and that Afrid, a genie, figured in the cast. It was then, at least, Oriental, though it could hardly be Malay, and our spirits rose. But the orchestra quickly damped them; there was a piano, a violin, a 'cello, a clarionet, and a cornet, and from beginning to end of the performance they were never in tune with themselves or with the singers. And the music? It was sometimes Italian, sometimes Spanish, never, as far as I could detect, Oriental, and always thoroughly and frankly bad. No matter! The curtain rose and displayed a garden. The Prince entered. He was dressed in mediæval Italian costume (a style of dress, be it said once for all, which was adopted by the whole company). With gestures of ecstatic astonishment he applied his nose to the paper roses. Then he advanced and appeared to sing, for his mouth moved; but the orchestra drowned any notes he may have emitted. The song finished, he lay down upon a couch and slept. Whereupon there entered an ugly little girl, in a short white frock and black stockings and ribbons, with an expression of fixed gloom upon her face, and began to move her feet and arms in a parody of Oriental dancing. We thought at first that she was the Moon Princess, and felt a pang of disappointment. But she turned out to be the Spirit of Dreams; and presently she ushered in the real Princess, with whom, on the spot, the Prince, unlike ourselves, became violently enamoured. She vanished, and he woke to find her a vision. Despair of the Prince; despair of the King; despair of the Queen, not unmixed with rage, to judge from her voice and gestures. Consultation of an astrologer. Flight of the Prince in search of his beloved. Universal bewilderment and incompetence, such as may be witnessed any day in the East when anything happens at all out of the ordinary way. At this point enter the comic relief, in the form of woodcutters. I am inclined to suppose, from the delight of the audience, that there was something genuine here. But whatever it was we were unable to follow it. Eventually the woodcutters met Afrid, whether by chance or design I could not discover. At any rate, their reception was rough. To borrow the words of the synopsis, "a big fight arose and they were thrown to space"; but not till they had been pulled by the hair and ears, throttled and pummelled, to the general satisfaction, for something like half an hour. The next scenes were equally vigorous. The synopsis describes them thus: "Several young princes went to Genie Janar, the father of the Moon Princess, to demand her in marriage. Afrid, a genie, met the princes, and, after having a row, they were all thrown away." The row was peculiar. Afrid took them on one by one. The combatants walked round one another, back to back, making feints in the air. Then the Prince got a blow in, which Afrid pretended to feel. But suddenly, with a hoarse laugh, he rushed again upon the foe, seized him by the throat or the arm, and (I cannot improve on the phrase) "threw him away." After all four princes were thus disposed of I left, being assured of a happy ending by the account of the concluding scene: "The Prince then took the Moon Princess to his father's kingdom, where he was married to her amidst great rejoicings." Comment perhaps is superfluous. But as I went home in my rickshaw my mind went back to those evenings in India when I had seen Indian boys perform to Indian music dances and plays in honour of Krishna, and to the Bengal village where the assembled inhabitants had sung us hymns composed by their native saint. And I remembered that everywhere, in Egypt, in India, in Java, in Sumatra, in Japan, the gramophone harmonium is displacing the native instruments; and that the bioscope--that great instrument of education--is familiarising the peasants of the East with all that is most vulgar and most shoddy in the humour and sentiment of the West. The Westernising of the East must come, no doubt, and ought to come. But in the process what by-products of waste, or worse! Once, surely, there must have been a genuine "Malay theatre." This is what Europe has made of it. PART II CHINA I FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF CHINA Some recent travellers have expressed disappointment or even disgust with what they saw or learned or guessed of China. My own first impression is quite contrary. The climate, it is true, for the moment, inclines one to gloomy views. An icy wind, a black sky, a cold drizzle. March in England could hardly do worse. But in Canton one almost forgets all that. Imagine a maze of narrow streets, more confused and confusing than Venice; high houses (except in the old city); and hanging parallel to these, in long, vertical lines, flags and wooden signs inscribed with huge Chinese characters, gold on black, gold on red, red or blue on white, a blaze of colour; and under it, pouring in a ceaseless stream, yellow faces, black heads, blue jackets and trousers, all on foot or borne on chairs, not a cart or carriage, rarely a pony, nobody crowding, nobody hustling or jostling, an even flow of cheerful humanity, inexhaustible, imperturbable, convincing one at first sight of the truth of all one has heard of the order, independence, and vigour of this extraordinary people. The shops are high and spacious, level with the street, not, as in India, raised on little platforms; and commonly, within, they are cut across by a kind of arch elaborately carved and blazing with gold. Every trade may be seen plying--jade-cutters, cloth-rollers, weavers, ring-makers, rice-pounders, a thousand others. Whole animals, roasted, hang before the butchers' shops, ducks, pigs--even we saw a skinned tiger! The interest is inexhaustible; and one is lucky if one does not return with a light purse and a heavy burden of forged curios. Even the American tourist, so painfully in evidence at the hotel, is lost, drowned in this native sea. He passes in his chair; but, like oneself, he is only a drop in the ocean. Canton is China, as Benares is India. And that conjunction of ideas set me thinking. To come from India to China is like waking from a dream. Often in India I felt that I was in an enchanted land. Melancholy, monotony, austerity; a sense as of perennial frost, spite of the light and heat; a lost region peopled with visionary forms; a purgatory of souls doing penance till the hour of deliverance shall strike; a limbo, lovely but phantasmal, unearthly, over-earthly--that is the kind of impression India left on my mind. I reach China, awake, and rub my eyes. This, of course, is the real world. This is every-day. Good temper, industry, intelligence. Nothing abnormal or overstrained. The natural man, working, marrying, begetting and rearing children, growing middle-aged, growing old, dying--and that is all. Here it is broad daylight; but in India, moon or stars, or a subtler gleam from some higher heaven. Recall, for example, Benares--the fantastic buildings rising and falling like a sea, the stairs running up to infinity, the sacred river, the sages meditating on its banks, the sacrificial ablutions, the squealing temple-pipes, and, in the midst of this, columns of smoke, as the body returns to the elements and the soul to God. This way of disposing of the dead, when the first shock is over, lingers in the mind as something eminently religious. Death and dissolution take place in the midst of life, for death is no more a mystery than life. In the open air, in the press of men, the soul takes flight. She is no stranger, for everything is soul--houses, trees, men, the elements into which the body is resolved. Death is not annihilation, it is change of form; and through all changes of form the essence persists. But now turn back to Canton. We pass the shops of the coffin-makers. We linger. But "No stop," says our guide; "better coffins soon." "Soon" is what the guide-books call the "City of the Dead." A number of little chapels; and laid in each a great lacquered coffin in which the dead man lives. I say "lives" advisedly, for there is set for his use a table and a chair, and every morning he is provided with a cup of tea. A bunch of paper, yellow and white, symbolises his money; and perhaps a couple of figures represent attendants. There he lives, quite simply and naturally as he had always lived, until the proper time and place is discovered in which he may be buried. It may be months, it may be, or rather, might have been, years; for I am told that a reforming Government has limited the time to six months. And after burial? Why, presumably he lives still. But not with the life of the universal soul. Oh no! There have been mystics in China, but the Chinese are not mystical. What he was he still is, an eating and drinking creature, and, one might even conjecture, a snob. For if one visits the family chapel of the Changs--another of the sights of Canton--one sees ranged round the walls hundreds of little tablets, painted green and inscribed in gold. These are the memorials of the deceased. And they are arranged in three classes, those who pay most being in the first and those who pay least in the third. One can even reserve one's place--first, second, or third--while one is still alive, by a white tablet. You die, and the green is substituted. And so, while you yet live, you may secure your social status after death. How--how British! Yes, the word is out; and I venture to record a suspicion that has long been maturing in my mind. The Chinese are not only Western; among the Western they are English. Their minds move as ours do; they are practical, sensible, reasonable. And that is why--as it would seem--they have more sympathy with Englishmen, if not with the English Government, than with any other Westerners. East may be East and West West, though I very much doubt it. But if there be any truth in the aphorism, we must define our terms. The East must be confined to India, and China included in the West. That as a preliminary correction. I say nothing yet about Japan. But I shall have more to say, I hope, about China. II NANKING The Chinese, one is still told, cannot and will not change. On the other hand, Professor Ross writes a book entitled _The Changing Chinese_. And anyone may see that the Chinese educated abroad are transformed, at any rate externally, out of all recognition. In Canton I met some of the officials of the new Government; and found them, to the outward sense, pure Americans. The dress, the manners, the accent, the intellectual outfit--all complete! Whether, in some mysterious sense, they remain Chinese at the core I do not presume to affirm or deny. But an external transformation so complete must imply _some_ inward change. Foreign residents in China deplore the foreign-educated product. I have met some who almost gnash their teeth at "young China." But this seems rather hard on China. For nearly a century foreigners have been exhorting her, at the point of the bayonet, to adopt Western ways and Western ideas. And when she begins to do so, the same people turn round and accuse her of unpardonable levity, and treachery to her own traditions. What _do_ foreigners want? the Chinese may well ask. I am afraid the true answer is, that they want nothing but concessions, interest on loans, and trade profits, at all and every cost to China. But I must not deviate into politics. What suggested this train of thought was the student-guide supplied me at Nanking by the American missionary college. There he was, complete American; and, I fear I must add, boring as only Americans can bore. Still, he showed me Nanking, and Nanking is worth seeing, though the interest of it is somewhat tragic. A wall 20 to 40 feet thick, 40 to 90 feet high, and 22 miles in circuit (I take these figures on trust) encloses an area larger than that of any other Chinese city. But the greater part of this area is fields and ruins. You pass through the city gate in the train, and find yourself in the country. You alight, and you are still in the country. A carriage takes you, in time, to the squalid village, or series of villages, where are housed the 350,000 inhabitants of modern Nanking. Among them are quartered the khaki-clad soldiers of new China, the new national flag draped at the gate of their barracks. Meantime old China swarms, unregenerate, in the narrow little streets, chaffering, chattering, laughing in its rags as though there had never been a siege, a surrender, and a revolution. Beggars display their stumps and their sores, grovelling on the ground like brutes. Ragged children run for miles beside the carriage, singing for alms; and stop at last, laughing, as though it had been a good joke to run so far and get nothing for it. One monument in all this scene of squalor arrests attention--the now disused examination hall. It is a kind of rabbit-warren of tiny cells, six feet deep, four feet broad, and six feet high; row upon row of them, opening on narrow unroofed corridors; no doors now, nor, I should suppose, at any time, for it would be impossible to breathe in these boxes if they had lids. Here, for a week or a fortnight, the candidates sat and excogitated, unable to lie down at night, sleeping, if they could, in their chairs. And no wonder if, every now and again, one of them incontinently died and was hauled out, a corpse, through a hole in the wall; or went mad and ran amuck among examiners and examinees. For centuries, as is well known, this system selected the rulers of China; and whole lives, from boyhood to extreme old age, were spent in preparing for the examinations. Now all this is abolished; and some people appear to regret it. Once more, what _do_ the foreigners want? The old imperial city, where once the Ming dynasty reigned, was destroyed in the Taiping Rebellion. The Tartar city, where before the revolution 3000 mandarins lived on their pensions, was burnt in the siege of 1911. Of these cities nothing remains but their huge walls and gates and the ruins of their houses. The principal interest of Nanking, the so-called "Ming tombs," lies outside the walls. And the interest is not the tombs, but the road to them. It is lined by huge figures carved out of monoliths. Brutes first--lions, camels, elephants, horses, a pair of each lying down and a pair standing; then human figures, military and civil officers. What they symbolise I cannot tell. They are said to guard the road. And very impressive they are in the solitude. Not so what they lead to, which is merely a hill, artificial, I suppose, piled on a foundation of stone. Once, my guide informed me, there was a door giving admission; and within, a complete house, with all its furniture, in stone. But the door is sealed, and for centuries no one has explored the interior. I suggested excavation, but was told the superstition of the inhabitants forbade it. "Besides," said my guide, "the Chinese are not curious." I wonder? Whether or no they are curious, they are certainly superstitious. Apropos, a gunboat ran aground on the Yangtse. The river was falling, and there seemed no chance of getting off for months. The officers made up their minds to it, and fraternised with the priest of a temple on the bank. The priest one day asked for a photograph of the boat. They gave him one, and he asked them to dinner. After dinner he solemnly burnt the photograph to his god. And--"would you believe it?"--next day a freshet came down and set the vessel afloat. Which shows how superstitions are generated and maintained in a world so little subject to law, on the surface of it, as ours. My anecdote has brought me to the Yangtse, and it is on a river-boat that I write. Hour after hour there passes by the panorama of hills and plain, of green wheat and yellow rape, of the great flood with its flocks of wild duck, of fishers' cabins on the shore and mud-built thatched huts, of junks with bamboo-threaded sails skimming on flat bottoms, of high cliffs with monasteries perched on perilous ledges, of changing light and shade, of burning sunset and the stars. Travelling by river is the best of all travelling--smooth, slow, quiet, and soothingly contemplative. All China, I am informed by some pessimists, is in a state of anarchy, actual or latent. It may be. But it is difficult to believe it among these primitive industrious people living and working as they have lived and worked for 4000 years. Any other country, I suppose, in such a crisis as the present would be seething with civil war. But China? When one puts the point to the foreigner who has been talking of anarchy he says, "Ah! but the Chinese are so peaceable! They don't mind whether there's a Government or no. They just go on without it!" Exactly! That is the wonderful thing. But even that seems to annoy the foreigner. Once more, what _does_ he want? I give it up. III IN THE YANGTSE GORGES At the upper end of the gorge poetically named "Ox Liver and Horse Lungs" I watched the steamboat smoking and splashing up stream. She had traversed in a few hours the distance I, in my houseboat, had taken three days to cover; and certainly she is much more convenient and much more comfortable. That, however, is not necessarily an advantage. What may be urged with some force is that travelling by steamboat is more humane. It dispenses with human labour of a peculiarly dangerous and strenuous kind. Twenty-eight boatmen are attached to my single person. A big junk may have a crew of two hundred. When the wind is not fair they must row or tow; and towing is not like towing along the Thames! Suddenly you see the men leap out and swarm up a precipice. Presently they appear high above, creeping with the line along a ledge of rock. And your "boy" remarks nonchalantly, "Plenty coolie fall here. Too high place." Or they are clambering over boulders, one or two told off to disentangle the line wherever it catches. Or they are struggling along a greasy slope, their bare feet gripping the mud, hardly able to advance a step or even to hold their own. As a labour-saving machine one must welcome the advent of the steamboat, as one is constrained to welcome even that of the motor-omnibus. But from the traveller's point of view it is different. Railways and steamboats enable more of us to travel, and to travel farther, in space. But in experience he travels the farthest who travels the slowest. A mediæval student or apprentice walking through Europe on foot really did see the world. A modern tourist sees nothing but the inside of hotels. Unless, that is, he chooses to walk, or ride, or even cycle. Then it is different. Then he begins to see. As now I, from my houseboat, begin to see China. Not profoundly, of course, but somehow intimately. For instance, while my crew eat their midday rice, I stroll up to the neighbouring village. Contrary to all I have been taught to expect, I find it charming, picturesque, not so dirty after all, not so squalid, not so poor. The people, too, who, one thought, would insult or mob the foreigner, either take no notice, or, if you greet them, respond in the friendliest way. They may, of course, be explaining to one another that you are a foreign devil, but nothing in their countenance or manner suggests it. The children are far better-mannered than in most European countries. They may follow you, and chatter and laugh; but at least they have not learnt to beg. Curiosity they have, and gaiety, but I detect no sign of hostility. I walk down the long street, with its shops and roomy houses--far roomier and more prosperous-looking than in most Indian villages--and come to the temple. Smilingly I am invited to enter. There are no mysteries in Chinese religion. I begin to wonder, indeed, whether there is any religion left. For everywhere I find the temples and monasteries either deserted or turned into schools or barracks. This one is deserted. It is like a series of lumber-rooms, full of dusty idols. The idols were once gaudy, brightly painted "to look like life," with beards and whiskers of real hair. But now their splendour is dimmed. The demons scowl to no purpose. To no purpose the dragons coil. No trespasser threatens the god behind his dingy curtains. In one chamber only a priest kneels before the shrine and chants out of a book while he taps a bronze vessel with a little hammer. Else, solitude, vacuity, and silence. Is he Buddhist or Taoist? I have no language in which to ask. I can only accept with mute gestures the dusty seat he offers and the cup of lukewarm tea. What has happened to religion? So far as I can make out, something like the "disestablishment of the Church." The Republic has been at work; and in the next village I see what it has been doing. For there the temple is converted into a school. Delightedly the scholars show me round. On the outside wall, for him who runs to read, are scored up long addition sums in our Western figures. Inside, the walls are hung with drawings of birds and beasts, of the human skeleton and organs, even of bacteria! There are maps of China and of the world. The children even produce in triumph an English reading-book, though I must confess they do not seem to have profited by it much. Still, they can say "cat" when you show them a picture of the creature; which is more than I could do in Chinese. And China does not change? Wait a generation! This, remember, is a tiny village in the heart of the country, more than 1000 miles from the coast. And this is happening all over the Celestial Empire, I suppose. I start to return to my boat, but have not gone a quarter of a mile before I hear a shout, and looking back find half the school following me and escorting their teacher, who speaks English. He regrets to have missed my visit; will I not return and let him show me the school? I excuse myself, and he walks with me to the boat, making what conversation he can. One remark I remember--"China a good place now; China a republic." And I thought, as we exchanged cards, that he represented the Republic more essentially than the politicians whom foreigners so severely criticise. Anyhow, Republic or no, China is being transformed. And there is something other than steamboats to attest it. Which brings me back to my starting-point. On the steamboat you have no adventures. But on the houseboat you do. For instance, the other day the rope broke as we were towing up a rapid, and down we dashed, turning round and round, and annihilating in five minutes the labour of an hour. I was afraid, I confess; but the boatmen took it as a matter of course. In some way, incomprehensible to me, they got us into the bank, and, looking up, the first thing I saw was an embankment in construction--the railway from Ichang to Chungking. When it is finished we shall go by train--not even by steamboat,--and so see nothing except tunnels. Certainly, we shall not be compelled to pass the night in a small village; nor permitted to see the sunset behind these lovely hills and the moon rising over the river between the cliffs of the gorge. Nor shall we then be delayed, as I was yesterday, till the water should run down, and so tempted to walk into the country. I made for a side valley, forded a red torrent, and found myself among fields and orchards; green of mulberries, green of fruit trees, green of young corn; and above, the purple hills, with all their bony structure showing under the skin of soil. I followed a high path, greeted by the peasants I met with a charming smile and that delightful gesture whereby, instead of shaking your hand, they clasp theirs and shake them _at_ you. I came at last to a solitary place, and, sitting down there, watched the evening light on the mountains. I watched, and they seemed to be saying something. What? "Rocks that are bones, earth that is flesh, what, what do you mean Eyeing me silently? Streams that are voices, what, what do you say? You are pouring an ocean into a cup. Yet pour, that all it can hold May at least be water of yours." At dusk I got back to the river, and found that a wind had sprung up and the junks were trying to pass the rapid. There must have been fifty of them crowded together. They could only pass one by one; and the scene was pandemonium. The Chinese are even noisier than the Italians, and present the same appearance of confusion. But in some mysterious way an order is always getting evolved. On this occasion it seemed to be perfectly understood which boat should go first. And presently there she was, in mid-rapid, apparently not advancing an inch, the ropes held taut from a causeway a quarter of a mile off. At last the strain suddenly ceased, and she moved quickly up stream. Another followed. Then it was dark. And we had to pass the night, after all, tossing uneasily in the rough water. Soon after dawn we started again. I went across to the causeway, and watched the trackers at work--twenty each on two ropes, hardly advancing a step in five minutes. Then the boat's head swung into shore, the tension ceased; something had happened. I waited half an hour or so. "Nothing doing," in the expressive American phrase. Then I went back. We had sprung a leak, and my cabin was converted into a swimming-bath. Another hour or so repairing this. Then the rope had to be brought back and attached again. At last we started for the second time, and in half an hour got safely through the hundred yards of racing waters into the bank above. At ten I got my breakfast, and we started to sail with a fair wind. It dropped. Rain came on. My crew (as always in that conjuncture) put up their awning and struck work. So here we are at 1 P.M., in a heavy thunder-shower, a mile from the place we tried to leave at six o'clock this morning. This is the ancient method of travelling--four thousand years old, I suppose. It is very inconvenient! Oh, yes--BUT!---- IV PEKIN Professor Giles tells us, no doubt truly, that the Chinese are not a religious nation. No nation, I think, ever was, unless it be the Indians. But religious impulses sweep over nations and pass away, leaving deposits--rituals, priesthoods, and temples. Such an impulse once swept over China, in the form of Buddhism; and I am now visiting its deposit in the neighbourhood of Pekin. Scattered over the hills to the west of the city are a number of monastery temples. Some are deserted; some are let as villas to Europeans; some, like the one where I am staying, have still their complement of monks--in this temple, I am told, some three to four hundred. But neither here nor anywhere have I seen anything that suggests vitality in the religion. I entered one of the temples yesterday at dusk and watched the monks chanting and processing round a shrine from which loomed in the shadow a gigantic bronze-gold Buddha. They began to giggle like children at the entrance of the foreigner and never took their eyes off us. Later, individual monks came running round the shrines, beating a gong as though to call the attention of the deity, and shouting a few words of perfunctory praise or prayer. Irreverence more complete I have not seen even in Italy, nor beggary more shameless. Such is the latter end of the gospel of Buddha in China. It seems better that he should sit deserted in his Indian caves than be dishonoured by such mummeries. But once it must have been otherwise. Once this religion was alive. And then it was that men chose these exquisite sites for contemplation. The Chinese Buddhists had clearly the same sense for the beauty of nature that the Italian Franciscans had. In secluded woods and copses their temples nestle, courts and terraces commanding superb views over the great plain to Pekin. The architecture is delicate and lovely; tiled roofs, green or gold or grey, cornices elaborately carved and painted in lovely harmonies of blue and green; fine trees religiously preserved; the whole building so planned and set as to enhance, not destroy, the lines and colour of the landscape. To wander from one of these temples to another, to rest in them in the heat of the day and sleep in them at night, is to taste a form of travel impossible in Europe now, though familiar enough there in the Middle Ages. Specially delightful is it to come at dusk upon a temple apparently deserted; to hear the bell tinkle as the wind moves it; to enter a dusky hall and start to see in a dark recess huge figures, fierce faces, glimmering maces and swords that seem to threaten the impious intruder. This morning there was a festival, and the people from the country crowded into the temple. Very bright and gay they looked in their gala clothes. The women especially were charming; painted, it is true, but painted quite frankly, to better nature, not to imitate her. Their cheeks were like peaches or apples, and their dresses correspondingly gay. Why they had come did not appear; not, apparently, to worship, for their mood was anything but religious. Some perhaps came to carry away a little porcelain boy or girl as guarantee of a baby to come. For the Chinese, by appropriate rites, can determine the sex of a child--a secret unknown as yet to the doctors of Europe! Some, perhaps, came to cure their eyes, and will leave at the shrine a picture on linen of the organs affected. Some are merely there for a jaunt, to see the sights and the country. We saw a group on their way home, climbing a steep hill for no apparent purpose except to look at the view. What English agricultural labourer would do as much? But the Chinese are not "agricultural labourers"; they are independent peasants; and a people so gay, so friendly, so well-mannered and self-respecting I have found nowhere else in the world. The country round Pekin has the beauty we associate with Italy. First the plain, with its fresh spring green, its dusty paths, its grey and orange villages, its cypress groves, its pagodas, its memorial slabs. Then the hills, swimming in amethyst, bare as those of Umbria, fine and clean in colour and form. For this beauty I was unprepared. I have even read that there is no natural beauty in China. And I was unprepared for Pekin too. How can I describe it? At this time of year, seen from above, it is like an immense green park. You mount the tremendous wall, 40 feet high, 14 miles round, as broad at the top as a London street, and you look over a sea of spring-green tree-tops, from which emerge the orange-gold roofs of palaces and temples. You descend, and find the great roads laid out by Kubla Khan, running north and south, east and west, and thick, as the case may be, with dust or mud; and opening out of them a maze of streets and lanes, one-storeyed houses, grey walls and roofs, shop fronts all ablaze with gilt carving, all trades plying, all goods selling, rickshaws, mule-carts canopied with blue, swarming pedestrians, eight hundred thousand people scurrying like ants in this gigantic framework of Cyclopean walls and gates. Never was a medley of greatness and squalor more strange and impressive. One quarter only is commonplace, that of the Legations. There is the Wagon-lits Hotel, with its cosmopolitan stream of Chinese politicians, European tourists, concession-hunters, and the like. There are the Americans, occupying and guarding the great north gate, and playing baseball in its precincts. There are the Germans, the Dutch, the French, the Italians, the Russians, the Japanese; and there, in a magnificent Chinese palace, are the British, girt by that famous wall of the siege on which they have characteristically written "Lest we forget!" Forget what? The one or two children who died in the Legation, and the one or two men who were killed? Or the wholesale massacre, robbery, and devastation which followed when the siege was relieved? This latter, I fear, the Chinese are not likely to forget soon. Yet it would be better if they could. And better if the Europeans could remember much that they forget--could remember that they forced their presence and their trade on China against her will; that their treaties were extorted by force, and their loans imposed by force, since they exacted from China what are ironically called "indemnities" which she could not pay except by borrowing from those who were robbing her. If Europeans could remember and realise these facts they would perhaps cease to complain that China continues to evade their demands by the only weapon of the weak--cunning. When you have knocked a man down, trampled on him, and picked his pocket, you can hardly expect him to enter into social relations with you merely because you pick him up and, retaining his property, propose that you should now be friends and begin to do business. The obliquity of vision of the European residents on all these points is extraordinary. They cannot see that wrong has been done, and that wrong engenders wrong. They repeat comfortable formulæ about the duplicity and evasiveness of the Chinese; they charge them with dishonesty at the very moment that they are dismembering their country; they attach intolerable conditions to their loans, and then complain if their victims attempt to find accommodation elsewhere. Of all the Powers the United States alone have shown some generosity and fairness, and they are reaping their reward in the confidence of Young China. The Americans had the intelligence to devote some part of the excessive indemnity they exacted after the Boxer riots to educating Chinese students in America. Hundreds of these young men are now returned to China, with the friendliest feeling to America, and, naturally, anxious to develop political and commercial relations with her rather than with other Powers. British trade may suffer because British policy has been less generous. But British trade, I suppose, would suffer in any case. For the British continue to maintain their ignorance and contempt of China and all things Chinese, while Germans and Japanese are travelling and studying indefatigably all over the country. "We see too much of things Chinese!" was the amazing remark made to me by a business man in Shanghai. Too much! They see nothing at all, and want to see nothing. They live in the treaty ports, dine, dance, play tennis, race. China is in birth-throes, and they know and care nothing. A future in China is hardly for them. V THE ENGLISHMAN ABROAD To write from China about the Englishman may seem an odd choice. But to see him abroad is to see him afresh. At home he is the air one breathes; one is unaware of his qualities. Against a background of other races you suddenly perceive him, and can estimate him--fallaciously or no--as you estimate foreigners. So seen the Englishman appears as the eternal school-boy. I mean no insult; I mean to express his qualities as well as his defects. He has the pluck, the zest, the sense of fair play, the public spirit of our great schools. He has also their narrowness and their levity. Enter his office, and you will find him not hurried or worried, not scheming, skimping, or hustling, but cheery, genial, detached, with an air of playing at work. As likely as not, in a quarter of an hour he will have asked you round to the club and offered you a whisky and soda. Dine with him, and the talk will turn on golf or racing, on shooting, fishing, and the gymkhana. Or, if you wish to divert it, you must ask him definite questions about matters of fact. Probably you will get precise and intelligent replies. But if you put a general question he will flounder resentfully; and if you generalise yourself you will see him dismissing you as a windbag. Of the religion, the politics, the manners and customs of the country in which he lives he will know and care nothing, except so far as they may touch his affairs. He will never, if he can help it, leave the limits of the foreign settlement. Physically he oscillates between his home, his office, the club, and the racecourse; mentally, between his business and sport. On all general topics his opinions are second or third hand. They are the ghosts of old prejudices imported years ago from England, or taken up unexamined from the English community abroad. And these opinions pass from hand to hand till they are as similar as pebbles on the shore. In an hour or so you will have acquired the whole stock of ideas current in the foreign community throughout a continent. Your only hope of new light is in particular instances and illustrations. And these, of course, may be had for the asking. But the Englishman abroad in some points is the Englishman at his best. For he is or has been a pioneer, at any rate in China. And pioneering brings out his most characteristic qualities. He loves to decide everything on his own judgment, on the spur of the moment, directly on the immediate fact, and in disregard of remoter contingencies and possibilities. He needs adventure to bring out his powers, and only really takes to business when business is something of a "lark." To combine the functions of a trader with those of an explorer, a soldier, and a diplomat is what he really enjoys. So, all over the world, he opens the ways, and others come in to reap the fruit of his labours. This is true in things intellectual as in things practical. In science, too, he is a pioneer. Modern archæology was founded by English travellers. Darwin and Wallace and Galton in their youth pursued adventure as much as knowledge. When the era of routine arrives, when laboratory work succeeds to field work, the Englishman is apt to retire and leave the job to the German. The Englishman, one might say, "larks" into achievement, the German "grinds" into it. The one, accordingly, is free-living, genial, generous, careless; the other laborious, exact, routine-ridden. It is hard for an Englishman to be a pedant; it is not easy for a German to be anything else. For philosophy no man has less capacity than the Englishman. He does not understand even how such questions can be put, still less how anyone can pretend to answer them. The philosopher wants to know whether, how, and why life ought to be lived before he will consent to live it. The Englishman just lives ahead, not aware that there is a problem; or convinced that, if there is one, it will only be solved "by walking." The philosopher proceeds from the abstract to the concrete. The Englishman starts with the concrete, and may or, more probably, may not arrive at the abstract. No general rules are of any use to him except such as he may have elaborated for himself out of his own experience. That is why he mistrusts education. For education teaches how to think in general, and that isn't what he wants or believes in. So, when he gets into affairs, he discards all his training and starts again at the beginning, learning to think, if he ever does learn it, over his own particular job. And his own way, he opines, must be the right way for every one. Hence his contempt and even indignation for individuals or nations who are moved by "ideas." At this moment his annoyance with the leaders of "Young China" is provoked largely by the fact that they are proceeding on general notions of how a nation should be governed and organised, instead of starting with the particularities of their own society, and trying to mend it piece by piece and from hand to mouth. Before they make a Constitution, he thinks, they ought to make roads; and before they draw up codes, to extirpate consumption. The conclusion lies near at hand, and I have heard it drawn--"What they want is a few centuries of British rule." And, indeed, it is curious how constantly the Englishman abroad is opposed, in the case of other nations, to all the institutions and principles he is supposed to be proud of at home. Partly, no doubt, this is due to his secret or avowed belief that the whole world ought to be governed despotically by the English. But partly it is because he does not believe that the results the English have achieved can be achieved in any other way than theirs. They arrived at them without intention or foresight, by a series of detached steps, each taken without prescience of the one that would follow. So, and so only, can other nations arrive at them. He does not believe in short cuts, nor in learning by the experience of others. And so the watchwords "Liberty," "Justice," "Constitution," so dear to him at home, leave him cold abroad. Or, rather, they make him very warm, but warm not with zeal but with irritation. Never was such a pourer of cold water on other people's enthusiasms. He cannot endure the profession that a man is moved by high motives. His annoyance, for example, with the "anti-opium" movement is not due to the fact that he supports the importation into China of Indian opium. Very commonly he does not. But the movement is an "agitation" (dreadful word!). It is "got up" by missionaries. It purports to be based on moral grounds, and he suspects everything that so purports. Not that he is not himself moved by moral considerations. Almost invariably he is. But he will never admit it for himself, and he deeply suspects it in others. The words "hypocrite," "humbug," "sentimentalist" spring readily to his lips. But let him work off his steam, sit quiet and wait, and you will find, often enough, that he has arrived at the same conclusion as the "sentimentalist"--only, of course, for quite different reasons! For intellect he has little use, except so far as it issues in practical results. He will forgive a man for being intelligent if he makes a fortune, but hardly otherwise. Still, he has a queer, half-contemptuous admiration for a definite intellectual accomplishment which he knows it is hard to acquire and is not sure he could acquire himself. That, for instance, is his attitude to those who know Chinese. A "sinologue," he will tell you, must be an imbecile, for no one but a fool would give so much time to a study so unprofitable. Still, in a way, he is proud of the sinologue--as a public school is proud of a boy so clever as to verge upon insanity, or a village is proud of the village idiot. Something of the same feeling, I sometimes think, underlies his respect for Shakspere. "If you want that kind of thing," he seems to say to the foreigner, "and it's the kind of thing you _would_ want, _we_ can do it, you see, better than you can!" So with art. He is never a connoisseur, but he is often a collector. Partly, no doubt, because there is money in it, but that is a secondary consideration. Mainly because collecting and collectors appeal to his sporting instinct. His knowledge about his collection will be precise and definite, whether it be postage stamps or pictures. He will know all about it, except its æsthetic value. That he cannot know, for he cannot see it. He has the _flair_ of the dealer, not the perception of the amateur. And he does not know or believe that there is any distinction between them. But these, from his point of view, are trifles. What matters is that he has pre-eminently the virtues of active life. He is fair-minded, and this, oddly, in spite of his difficulty in seeing another man's point of view. When he _does_ see it he respects it. Whereas nimbler-witted nations see it only to circumvent and cheat it. He is honest; as honest, at least, as the conditions of modern business permit. He hates bad work, even when, for the moment, bad work pays. He hates skimping and paring. And these qualities of his make it hard for him to compete with rivals less scrupulous and less generous. He is kind-hearted--much more so than he cares to admit. And at the bottom of all his qualities he has the sense of duty. He will shoulder loyally all the obligations he has undertaken to his country, to his family, to his employer, to his employees. The sense of duty, indeed, one might say with truth, is his religion. For on the rare occasions on which he can be persuaded to broach such themes you will find, I think, at the bottom of his mind that what he believes in is Something, somehow, somewhere, in the universe, which helps him, and which he is helping, when he does right. There must, he feels, be some sense in life. And what sense would there be if duty were nonsense? Poets, artists, philosophers can never be at home with the Englishman. His qualities and his defects alike are alien to them. In his company they live as in prison, for it is not an air in which wings can soar. But for solid walking on the ground he has not his equal. The phrase "Solvitur ambulando" must surely have been coined for him. And no doubt on his road he has passed, and will pass again, the wrecks of many a flying-machine. VI CHINA IN TRANSITION The Chinese Revolution has proceeded, so far, with less disturbance and bloodshed than any great revolution known to history. There has been little serious fighting and little serious disorder; nothing comparable to that which accompanied, for instance, the French Revolution of 1789. And this, no doubt, is due to the fact that the Chinese are alone among nations of the earth in detesting violence and cultivating reason. Their instinct is always to compromise and save everybody's face. And this is the main reason why Westerners despise them. The Chinese, they aver, have "no guts." And when hard pressed as to the policy of the Western Powers in China, they will sometimes quite frankly confess that they consider the West has benefited China by teaching her the use of force. That this should be the main contribution of Christian to Pagan civilisation is one of the ironies of history. But it is part of the greater irony which gave the Christian faith to precisely those nations whose fundamental instincts and convictions were and are in radical antagonism to its teaching. Though, however, it is broadly true that the Chinese have relied on reason and justice in a way and to a degree which is inconceivable in the West, they have not been without their share of original sin. Violence, anarchy, and corruption have played a part in their history, though a less part than in the history of most countries. And these forces have been specially evident in that department to which Westerners are apt to pay the greatest attention--in the department of government. Government has always been less important in China than in the Western world; it has always been rudimentary in its organisation; and for centuries it has been incompetent and corrupt. Of this corruption Westerners, it is true, make more than they fairly should. China is no more corrupt (to say the least) than the United States or Italy or France, or than England was in the eighteenth century. And much that is called corruption is recognised and established "squeeze," necessary, and understood to be necessary, to supplement the inadequate salaries of officials. A Chinese official is corrupt much as Lord Chancellor Bacon was corrupt; and whether the Chancellor ought properly to be called corrupt is still matter of controversy. Moreover, the people have always had their remedy. When the recognised "squeeze" is exceeded, they protest by riot. So that the Chinese system, in the most unfavourable view, may be described as corruption tempered by anarchy. And this system, it is admitted, still prevails after the Revolution. Clearly, indeed, it cannot be extirpated until officials are properly paid; and China is not in a position to pay for any reform while the Powers are drawing away an enormous percentage of her resources by that particular form of robbery called by diplomatists "indemnity." The new officials, then, are "corrupt" as the old ones were; and they are something more. They are Jacobins. Educated abroad, they are as full of ideas as was Robespierre or St. Just; and their ideas are even more divorced from sentiment and tradition. A foreign education seems to make a cut right across a Chinaman's life. He returns with a new head; and this head never gets into normal relations with his heart. That, I believe, is the essence of Jacobinism, ideas working with enormous rapidity and freedom unchecked by the fly-wheel of traditional feelings. And it is Jacobinism that accounts for the extraordinary vigour of the campaign against opium. Many Europeans still endeavour to maintain that this campaign is not serious. But that is because Europeans simply cannot conceive that any body of men should be in as deadly earnest about a moral issue as are the representatives of Young China. The anti-opium campaign is not only serious, it is ruthless. Smokers are flogged and executed; poppy is rooted up; and farmers who resist are shot down. The other day in Hunan, it is credibly reported, some seventy farmers who had protested against the destruction of their crops were locked into a temple and burnt alive. An old man of seventy-six, falsely accused of growing poppy, was fined 500 dollars, and when he refused to pay was flogged to death by the orders of a young official of twenty-two. Stories of this kind come in from every part of the country; and though this or that story may be untrue or exaggerated, there can be no doubt about the general state of affairs. The officials are putting down opium with a vigour and a determination which it is inconceivable should ever be applied in the West to the traffic in alcohol. But in doing so they are showing a ruthlessness which does not seem to be native to the Chinese, and which perhaps is to be accounted for by what I have called Jacobinism, resulting from the effects of a Western education that has been unable to penetrate harmoniously the complicated structure of Chinese character. The anti-opium campaign is one example of the way in which the Revolution has elicited and intensified violence in this peace-loving people. Another example is the use of assassination. This has been an accompaniment of all great revolutions. It took the form of "proscriptions" in Rome, of the revolutionary tribunals in France. In China it is by comparison a negligible factor; but it exists. Two months ago a prominent leader of the southern party was assassinated; and popular suspicion traces the murder to high Government officials, and even to the President himself. The other day a southern general was killed by a bomb. For the manufacture of bombs is one of the things China has learned from the Christian West; and the President lives in constant terror of this form of murder. China, it will be seen, does not altogether escape the violence that accompanies all revolutions. Nor does she altogether escape the anarchy. Anarchy, indeed, that is a simple strike against authority, may be said to be part of the Chinese system. It is the way they have always enforced their notions of justice. A curious example has been recently offered by the students of the Pekin University. For various reasons--good or bad--they have objected to the conduct of their Chancellor. After ineffectual protests, they called upon him in large numbers with his resignation written out, and requested him to sign it. He refused; whereupon they remarked that they would call again the next day with revolvers; and in the interval he saw wisdom and signed. Last week there was a similar episode. The new Chancellor proved as unpalatable as his predecessor. The students once more presented themselves with his resignation written out. He refused to resign, and, as the students aver, scurrilously abused them. They proceeded to the Minister of Education, who refused to see them. Thereupon they camped out in his courtyard, and stayed all day and all night, sending a message to the professors dated "from under the trees of the Education Office" to explain that they were unfortunately unable to attend lectures. This Chancellor, too, it would seem, has seen wisdom and resigned. How strange it all seems to Western eyes! A country, we should suppose, where such things occur, is incapable of organisation. But it is certain that we are wrong. Our notion is that everything must be done by authority, and that unless authority is maintained there will be anarchy. The Chinese notion is that authority is there to carry out what the people recognise to be common sense and justice; if it does otherwise, it must be resisted; and if it disappears life will still go on--as it is going on now in the greater part of China--on the basis of the traditional and essentially reasonable routine. Almost certainly the students of the University had justice on their side; otherwise such action would not be taken; and when they get justice they will be more docile and orderly than our own undergraduates at home. Another thing surprising to European observers is the apparent belief of the Chinese in verbal remonstrance. Under the present régime officials and public men are allowed the free use of the telegraph. The consequence is that telegrams of advice, admonition, approval, blame, fear, hope, doubt pour in daily to the Government from civil and military governors, from members of Parliament and party leaders. In the paper to-day, for example, is a telegram from the Governors of seventeen provinces addressed to the National Assembly. It begins as follows: "To the President, the Cabinet, the Tsan Yi Yuan, the Chung Yi Yuan, and the Press Association,--When the revolution took place at Wuchang, the various societies and groups responded, and when the Republic was inaugurated the troops raised among these bodies were gradually disbanded. For fear that, being driven by hunger, these disbanded soldiers would become a menace to the place, the various societies and groups have established a society at Shanghai called the Citizens' Progressive Society, to promote the means of livelihood for the people, and the advancement of society, and the establishment has been registered in the offices of the Tutuhs of the provinces." Then follows a statement of the "six dangers" to which the country is exposed, an appeal to the Assembly to act more reasonably and competently, and then the following peroration: "The declarations of us, Yuan-hung and others, are still there, our wounds have not yet been fully recovered, and should the sea and ocean be dried up, our original hearts will not be changed. We will protect the Republic with our sinews and blood of brass and iron, we will take the lead of the province, and be their backbone, and we will not allow the revival of the monarchy and the suppression of the powers of the people. Let Heaven and earth be witness to our words. You gentlemen are pillars of the political parties, or the representatives of the people, and you should unite together and not become inconsistent. You first determined that the Loan is necessary, but such opinion is now changed, and you now reject the Loan. Can the ice be changed into red coal in your hearts? Thus even those who love and admire you will not be able to defend your position. However, if you have any extraordinary plan or suggestion to save the present situation, you can show it to us." Some of the strange effect produced by this document is due, no doubt, to translation. But it, like the many others of the kind I have read, seems to indicate what is at the root of the Chinese attitude to life--a belief in the power of reason and persuasion. I have said enough to show that this attitude does not exclude the use of violence; but I feel sure that it limits it far more than it has ever been limited in Europe. Even in time of revolution the Chinese are peaceable and orderly to an extent unknown and almost unbelievable in the West. And the one thing the West is teaching them and priding itself on teaching them is the absurdity of this attitude. Well, one day it is the West that will repent because China has learnt the lesson too well. VII A SACRED MOUNTAIN It was midnight when the train set us down at Tai-an-fu. The moon was full. We passed across fields, through deserted alleys where sleepers lay naked on the ground, under a great gate in a great wall, by halls and pavilions, by shimmering tree-shadowed spaces, up and down steps, and into a court where cypresses grew. We set up our beds in a verandah, and woke to see leaves against the morning sky. We explored the vast temple and its monuments--iron vessels of the Tang age, a great tablet of the Sungs, trees said to date from before the Christian era, stones inscribed with drawings of these by the Emperor Chien Lung, hall after hall, court after court, ruinous, overgrown, and the great crumbling walls and gates and towers. Then in the afternoon we began the ascent of Tai Shan, the most sacred mountain in China, the most frequented, perhaps, in the world. There, according to tradition, legendary emperors worshipped God. Confucius climbed it six centuries before Christ, and sighed, we are told, to find his native State so small. The great Chin-Shih-Huang was there in the third century B.C. Chien Lung in the eighteenth century covered it with inscriptions. And millions of humble pilgrims for thirty centuries at least have toiled up the steep and narrow way. Steep it is, for it makes no détours, but follows straight up the bed of a stream, and the greater part of the five thousand feet is ascended by stone steps. A great ladder of eighteen flights climbs the last ravine, and to see it from below, sinuously mounting the precipitous face to the great arch that leads on to the summit, is enough to daunt the most ardent walker. We at least were glad to be chaired some part of the way. A wonderful way! On the lower slopes it passes from portal to portal, from temple to temple. Meadows shaded with aspen and willow border the stream as it falls from green pool to green pool. Higher up are scattered pines Else the rocks are bare--bare, but very beautiful, with that significance of form which I have found everywhere in the mountains in China. To such beauty the Chinese are peculiarly sensitive. All the way up the rocks are carved with inscriptions recording the charm and the sanctity of the place. Some of them were written by emperors; many, especially, by Chien Lung, the great patron of art in the eighteenth century. They are models, one is told, of caligraphy as well as of literary composition. Indeed, according to Chinese standards, they could not be the one without the other. The very names of favourite spots are poems in themselves. One is "the pavilion of the phoenixes"; another "the fountain of the white cranes." A rock is called "the tower of the quickening spirit"; the gate on the summit is "the portal of the clouds." More prosaic, but not less charming, is an inscription on a rock in the plain, "the place of the three smiles," because there some mandarins, meeting to drink and converse, told three peculiarly funny stories. Is not that delightful? It seems so to me. And so peculiarly Chinese! It was dark before we reached the summit. We put up in the temple that crowns it, dedicated to Yü Huang, the "Jade Emperor" of the Taoists; and his image and those of his attendant deities watched our slumbers. But we did not sleep till we had seen the moon rise, a great orange disc, straight from the plain, and swiftly mount till she made the river, five thousand feet below, a silver streak in the dim grey levels. Next morning, at sunrise, we saw that, north and east, range after range of lower hills stretched to the horizon, while south lay the plain, with half a hundred streams gleaming down to the river from the valleys. Full in view was the hill where, more than a thousand years ago, the great Tang poet Li-tai-po retired with five companions to drink and make verses. They are still known to tradition as the "six idlers of the bamboo grove"; and the morning sun, I half thought, still shines upon their symposium. We spent the day on the mountain; and as the hours passed by, more and more it showed itself to be a sacred place. Sacred to what god? No question is harder to answer of any sacred place, for there are as many ideas of the god as there are worshippers. There are temples here to various gods: to the mountain himself; to the Lady of the mountain, Pi-hsia-yüen, who is at once the Venus of Lucretius--"goddess of procreation, gold as the clouds, blue as the sky," one inscription calls her--and the kindly mother who gives children to women and heals the little ones of their ailments; to the Great Bear; to the Green Emperor, who clothes the trees with leaves; to the Cloud-compeller; to many others. And in all this, is there no room for God? It is a poor imagination that would think so. When men worship the mountain, do they worship a rock, or the spirit of the place, or the spirit that has no place? It is the latter, we may be sure, that some men adored, standing at sunrise on this spot. And the Jade Emperor--is he a mere idol? In the temple where we slept were three inscriptions set up by the Emperor Chien Lung. They run as follows:-- "Without labour, oh Lord, Thou bringest forth the greatest things." "Thou leadest Thy company of spirits to guard the whole world." "In the company of Thy spirits Thou art wise as a mighty Lord to achieve great works." These might be sentences from the Psalms; they are as religious as anything Hebraic. And if it be retorted that the mass of the worshippers on Tai Shan are superstitious, so are, and always have been, the mass of worshippers anywhere. Those who rise to religion in any country are few. India, I suspect, is the great exception. But I do not know that they are fewer in China than elsewhere. For that form of religion, indeed, which consists in the worship of natural beauty and what lies behind it--for the religion of a Wordsworth--they seem to be pre-eminently gifted. The cult of this mountain, and of the many others like it in China, the choice of sites for temples and monasteries, the inscriptions, the little pavilions set up where the view is loveliest--all goes to prove this. In England we have lovelier hills, perhaps, than any in China. But where is our sacred mountain? Where, in all the country, that charming mythology which once in Greece and Italy, as now in China, was the outward expression of the love of nature? "Great God, I'd rather be A pagan suckled in a creed outworn So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn." That passionate cry of a poet born into a naked world would never have been wrung from him had he been born in China. And that leads me to one closing reflection. When lovers of China--"pro-Chinese," as they are contemptuously called in the East--assert that China is more civilised than the modern West, even the candid Westerner, who is imperfectly acquainted with the facts, is apt to suspect insincere paradox. Perhaps these few notes on Tai Shan may help to make the matter clearer. A people that can so consecrate a place of natural beauty is a people of fine feeling for the essential values of life. That they should also be dirty, disorganised, corrupt, incompetent, even if it were true--and it is far from being true in any unqualified sense--would be irrelevant to this issue. On a foundation of inadequate material prosperity they reared, centuries ago, the superstructure of a great culture. The West, in rebuilding its foundations, has gone far to destroy the superstructure. Western civilisation, wherever it penetrates, brings with it water-taps, sewers, and police; but it brings also an ugliness, an insincerity, a vulgarity never before known to history, unless it be under the Roman Empire. It is terrible to see in China the first wave of this Western flood flinging along the coasts and rivers and railway lines its scrofulous foam of advertisements, of corrugated iron roofs, of vulgar, meaningless architectural forms. In China, as in all old civilisations I have seen, all the building of man harmonises with and adorns nature. In the West everything now built is a blot. Many men, I know, sincerely think that this destruction of beauty is a small matter, and that only decadent æsthetes would pay any attention to it in a world so much in need of sewers and hospitals. I believe this view to be profoundly mistaken. The ugliness of the West is a symptom of a disease of the Soul. It implies that the end has been lost sight of in the means. In China the opposite is the case. The end is clear, though the means be inadequate. Consider what the Chinese have done to Tai Shan, and what the West will shortly do, once the stream of Western tourists begins to flow strongly. Where the Chinese have constructed a winding stairway of stone, beautiful from all points of view, Europeans or Americans will run up a funicular railway, a staring scar that will never heal. Where the Chinese have written poems in exquisite caligraphy, _they_ will cover the rocks with advertisements. Where the Chinese have built a series of temples, each so designed and placed as to be a new beauty in the landscape, _they_ will run up restaurants and hotels like so many scabs on the face of nature. I say with confidence that they _will_, because they _have_ done it wherever there is any chance of a paying investment. Well, the Chinese need, I agree, our science, our organisation, our medicine. But is it affectation to think they may have to pay too high a price for it, and to suggest that in acquiring our material advantages they may lose what we have gone near to lose, that fine and sensitive culture which is one of the forms of spiritual life? The West talks of civilising China. Would that China could civilise the West! PART III JAPAN I FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF JAPAN Japan, surely, must be a mirage created by enchantment. Nothing so beautiful could be real. Take the west coast of Scotland, bathe it in Mediterranean light and sun, and let its waves be those of the Pacific. Take the best of Devonshire, enlarge the hills, extend the plains, and dominate all with the only perfect mountain in the world--a mountain that catches at your breath like a masterpiece of art. Make the copses woods, and the woods forests. For our fields with their hedgerows substitute the vivid green of rice, shining across the gleam of flooded plains. Everywhere let water flow; and at every waterfall and cave erect a little shrine to hallow the spot. Over the whole pour a flood of pure white light, and you have a faint image of Japan. Perhaps it is not, naturally, more beautiful than the British Isles--few countries are. But it is unspoilt by man, or almost so. Osaka, indeed, is as ugly as Manchester, Yokohama as Liverpool. But these are small blots. For the rest, Japan is Japan of the Middle Ages, and lovely as England may have been, when England could still be called merry. And the people are lovely, too. I do not speak of facial beauty. Some may think, in that respect, the English or the Americans handsomer. But these people have the beauty of life. Instead of the tombstone masques that pass for faces among Anglo-Saxons, they have human features, quick, responsive, mobile. Instead of the slow, long limbs creaking in stiff integuments, they have active members, for the most bare or moving freely in loose robes. Instead of a mumbled, monotonous, machine-like emission of sound they have real speech, vivacious, varied, musical. Their children are the loveliest in the world; so gay, so sturdy, so cheeky, yet never rude. It is a pure happiness merely to walk in the streets and look at them. It is a pure happiness, I might almost say, to look at anyone, so gay is their greeting, so radiant their smile, so full of vitality their gestures. I do not know what they think of the foreigner, but at least they betray no animosity. They let his stiff, ungainly presence move among them unchallenged. Perhaps they are sorry for him; but I think they are never rude. I am speaking, of course, of Old Japan, of the Japan that is all in evidence, if one lands, as I did, in the south, avoids Osaka, and postpones Yokohama and Tokio. It is still the Japan of feudalism; a system in which I, for my part, do not believe; which, in its essence, in Japan as in Europe, was harsh, unjust, and cruel; but which had the art of fostering, or at least of not destroying beauty. And in this point feudalism in Japan was finer and more sensitive, if it was less grandiose, than feudalism in Europe. There is nothing in Japan to compare with the churches and cathedrals of the West, for there is no stone architecture at all. But there is nothing in the West to compare with the living-rooms of Japan. Suites of these dating from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries are to be seen in Kyoto and elsewhere. And till I saw them I had no idea how exquisite human life might be made. The Japanese, as is well known, discovered the secret of emptiness. Their rooms consist of a floor of spotless matting, paper walls, and a wooden roof. But the paper walls, in these old palatial rooms, are masterpieces by great artists. From a background of gold-leaf emerge and fade away suggestions of river and coast and hill, of peonies, chrysanthemums, lotuses, of wild geese and swans, of reeds and pools, of all that is elusive and choice in nature; decorations that are also lyric poems, hints of landscape that yet never pretend to be a substitute for the real thing. The real thing is outside, and perhaps it will not intrude; for where we should have glass windows the Japanese have white paper screens. But draw back, if you choose, one of these screens, and you will see a little landscape garden, a little lake, a little bridge, a tiny rockery, a few goldfish, a cluster of irises, a bed of lotus, and, above and beyond, the great woods. These are royal apartments; but all the cost, it will be seen, is lavished on the work of art. The principle is the same in humbler homes. People who could so devise life, we may be sure, are people with a fineness of perception unknown to the West, unless it were once in ancient Greece. The Japanese indeed, I suspect, are the Greeks of the East. In the theatre at Kyoto this was curiously borne in upon me. On the floor of the house reclined figures in loose robes, bare-necked and barefooted. On the narrow stage were one or two actors, chanting in measured speech, and moving slowly from pose to pose. From boxes on either side of the stage intoned a kind of chorus; and a flute and pizzicato strings accompanied the whole in the solemn strains of some ancient mode. I have seen nothing so like what a Greek play may have been, though doubtless even this was far enough away. And still more was I struck by the resemblance when a comedy succeeded to the tragedy, and I found the young and old Japan confronting one another exactly as the young and old Athens met in debate, two thousand years ago, in the _Frogs_ of Aristophanes. The theme was an ascent of Mount Fuji; the actors two groups of young girls, one costumed as virgin priestesses of the Shinto cult, the other in modern European dress. The one set were climbing the mountain as a pilgrimage, the other as a lark; and they meet and exchange sharp dialectics (unintelligible to me, but not unguessable) on the lower slopes. The sympathies of the author, like those of Aristophanes, were with the old school. It is the pilgrims who reach the top and the modern young women who collapse. And the modern young man fares no better; he is beaten by a coolie and frightened by a ghost. The playwright had at least Aristophanes' gift of lampoon, though I doubt whether he had a touch of his genius. Perhaps, however, he had a better cause. For, I doubt, modern Japan may deserve lampooning more than the Athens of Aristophanes. For modern Japan is the modern West. And that--well, it seemed to be symbolised to me yesterday in the train. In my carriage were two Japanese. One was loosely wrapt in a kimono, bare throat and feet, fine features, fine gestures, everything aristocratic and distinguished. The other was clad in European dress, sprigged waistcoat, gold watch-chain, a coarse, thick-lipped face, a podgy figure. It was a hot July day, and we were passing through some of the loveliest scenery in the world. He first closed all doors and windows, and then extended himself at full length and went to sleep. There he lay, his great paunch sagging--prosperity exuding from every pore--an emblem and type of what in the West we call a "successful" man. And the other? The other, no doubt, was going downhill. Both, of course, were Japanese types; but the civilisation of the West chose the one and rejected the other. And if civilisation is to be judged, as it fairly may be, by the kind of men it brings to the top, there is much to be said for the point of view of my Tory playwright. II A "NO" DANCE On entering the theatre I was invaded by a sense of serenity and peace. There was no ornament, no upholstery, no superfluity at all. A square building of unvarnished wood; a floor covered with matting, exquisitely clean, and divided into little boxes, or rather trays (so low were the partitions), in which the audience knelt on their heels, beautiful in loose robes; running out from the back wall a square stage, with a roof supported by pillars; a passage on the same level, by which the actors entered, on the left; the screens removed from the outer walls, so that the hall was open to the air, and one looked out on sky and trees, or later on darkness, against which shone a few painted lanterns. Compare this with the Queen's Hall in London, or with any of our theatres, and realise the effect on one's mood of the mere setting of the drama. Drama was it? Or opera? Or what? It is called a "dance." But there was very little dancing. What mainly remains in my mind is a series of visual images, one more beautiful than another; figures seated motionless for minutes, almost for half-hours, with a stillness of statues, not an eyelash shaking; or passing very slowly across the stage, with that movement of bringing one foot up to the other and pausing before the next step which is so ridiculous in our opera, but was here so right and so impressive; or turning slowly, or rising and sitting with immense deliberation; each figure right in its relation to the stage and to the others. All were clothed in stiff brocade, sumptuous but not gorgeous. One or two were masked; and all of them, I felt, ought to have been. The mask, in fact, the use of which in Greek drama I had always felt to be so questionable, was here triumphantly justified. It completed the repudiation of actuality which was the essence of the effect. It was a musical sound, as it were, made visible. It symbolised humanity, but it was not human, still less inhuman. I would rather call it divine. And this whole art of movement and costume required that completion. Once I had seen a mask I missed it in all the characters that were without it. To me, then, this visual spectacle was the essence of the "No" dance. The dancing itself, when it came, was but a slight intensification of the slow and solemn posing I have described. There was no violence, no leaping, no quick steps; rather a turning and bending, a slow sweep of the arm, a walking a little more rhythmical, on the verge, at most, of running. It was never exciting, but I could not say it was never passionate. It seemed to express a kind of frozen or petrified passion; rather, perhaps, a passion run into a mould of beauty and turned out a statue. I have never seen an art of such reserve and such distinction. "Or of such tediousness," I seem to hear an impatient reader exclaim. Well, let me be frank. Like all Westerners, I am accustomed to life in quick time, and to an art full of episode, of intellectual content, of rapid change and rapid development. I have lost to a great extent that power of prolonging an emotion which seems to be the secret of Eastern art. I am bored--subconsciously, as it were--where an Oriental is lulled into ecstasy. His case is the better. But also, in this matter of the No dance he has me at a disadvantage. In the first place he can understand the words. These, it is true, have far less importance than in a drama of Shakspere. They are only a lyric or narrative accompaniment to the music and the dance. Still they have, one is informed, a beauty much appreciated by Japanese, and one that the stranger, ignorant of the language, misses. And secondly, what is worse, the music failed to move me. Whether this is my own fault, or that of the music, I do not presume to decide, for I do not know whether, as so often is the case, I was defeated by a convention unfamiliar to me, or whether the convention has really become formal and artificial. In any case, after the first shock of interest, I found the music monotonous. It was solemn and religious in character, and reminded me more of Gregorian chants than of anything else. But it had one curious feature which seemed rather to be primitive and orgiastic. The two musicians who played the drums accompanied the performers, almost unceasingly, by a kind of musical ejaculation, starting on a low note and swooping up to a high, long-held falsetto cry. This over and over again, through the dialogue and through the singing. The object, I suppose, and perhaps, to Japanese, the effect, is to sustain a high emotional tone. In my case it failed, as the music generally failed. My interest, as I began by saying, was maintained by the visual beauty; and that must have been very great to be able to maintain itself independently of the words and the music. As to the drama, it is not drama at all in the sense in which we have come to understand the term in the West. There is no "construction," no knot tied and untied, no character. Rather there is a succession of scenes selected from a well-known story for some quality of poignancy, or merely of narrative interest. The form, I think, should be called epic or lyric rather than dramatic. And it is in this point that it most obviously differs from the Greek drama. It has no intellectual content, or very little. And, perhaps for that reason, it has had no development, but remains fossilised where it was in the fifteenth century. On the other hand, these actors, I felt, are the only ones who could act Greek drama. They have, I think, quite clearly the same tradition and aim as the Greeks. They desire not to reproduce but to symbolise actuality; and their conception of acting is the very opposite of ours. The last thing they aim at is to be "natural." To be unnatural rather is their object. Hence the costume, hence the mask, hence the movement and gesture. And how effective such "unnaturalness" can be in evoking natural passion only those will understand who have realised how ineffective for that purpose is our "naturalness" when we are concerned with Sophocles or Shakspere. The Japanese have in their No dance a great treasure. For out of it they might, if they have the genius, develop a modern poetic drama. How thankful would hundreds of young men be, starving for poetry in England, if we had as a living tradition anything analogous to work upon! III NIKKO Waking in the night, I heard the sound of running water. Across my window I saw, stretching dimly, the branch of a pine, and behind it shone the stars. I remembered that I was in Japan and felt that all the essence of it was there. Running water, pine trees, sun and moon and stars. All their life, as all their art, seems to be a mood of these. For to them their life and their art are inseparable. The art is not an accomplishment, an ornament, an excrescence. It is the flower of the plant. Some men, some families of men, feeling beauty as every one felt it, had the power also to express it. Or perhaps I should say--it is the Japanese view--to suggest it. To them the branch of a tree stands for a forest, a white disk on gold for night and the moon, a quivering reed for a river, a bamboo stalk for a grove. Their painters are poets. By passionate observation they have learnt what expression of the part most inevitably symbolises the whole. That they give; and their admirers, trained like them in feeling, fill in the rest. This art presupposes, what it has always had, a public not less sensitive than the artist; a similar mood, a similar tradition, a similar culture. Feel as they do, and you must create as they do, or at least appreciate their creations. It was with this in my mind that I wandered about this exquisite place, where Man has made a lovely nature lovelier still. More even than by the famous and sumptuous temples I was moved by the smaller and humbler shrines, so caressing are they of every choice spot, so expressive, not of princely, but of popular feeling. Here is one, for instance, standing under a cliff beside a stream, where women offer bits of wood in the faith that so they will be helped to pass safely through the pangs of childbirth. Here in a ravine is another where men who want to develop their calves hang up sandals to a once athletic saint. "The Lord," our Scripture says, "delighteth not in any man's legs." How pleasant, then, it must be to have a saint who does! Especially for the Japanese, whose legs are so finely made, and who display them so delightfully. Such, all over the world, is the religion of the people, when they have any religion at all. And how human it is, and how much nearer to life than the austerities and abstractions of a creed! Hour after hour I strolled through these lovely places, so beautifully ordered that the authorities, one feels, must themselves delight in the nature they control. I had proof of it, I thought, in a notice which ran as follows: "FAMOUS TAKINO TEMPLE STANDS NOT FAR AWAY, AND SOMEN FALL TOO. IT IS WORTH WHILE TO BE THERE ONCE." It is indeed, and many times! But can you imagine a rural council in England breaking into this personal note? And how reserved! Almost like Japanese art. Compare the invitation I once saw in Switzerland, to visit "das schönste Schwärm- und Aussichtspunkt des ganzen Schweitzerischen Reichs." There speaks the advertiser. But beside the Somen Fall there was no restaurant. Northerners, and Anglo-Saxons in particular, have always at the back of their minds a notion that there is something effeminate about the sense for beauty. That is reserved for decadent Southern nations. _Tu regere imperio populos, Romane memento_ they would say, if they knew the tag; and translate it "Britain rules the waves"! But history gives the lie to this complacent theory. No nations were ever more virile than the Greeks or the Italians. They have left a mark on the world which will endure when Anglo-Saxon civilisation is forgotten. And none have been, or are, more virile than the Japanese. That they have the delicacy of women, too, does not alter the fact. The Russian War proved it, if proof so tragic were required; and so does all their mediæval history. Japanese feudalism was as bloody, as ruthless, as hard as European. It was even more gallant, stoical, loyal. But it had something else which I think Europe missed, unless it were once in Provence. It had in the midst of its hardness a consciousness of the pathos of life, of its beauty, its brevity, its inexplicable pain. I think in no other country has anything arisen analogous to the Zen sect of Buddhism, when knights withdrew from battle to a garden and summerhouse, exquisitely ordered to symbolise the spiritual life, and there, over a cup of tea served with an elaborate ritual, looking out on a lovely nature, entered into mystic communion with the spirit of beauty which was also the spirit of life. From that communion, with that mood about them, they passed out to kill or to die--to die, it might be, by their own hand, by a process which I think no Western man can bear even to think of, much less conceive himself as imitating. This sense at once of the beauty and of the tragedy of life, this power of appreciating the one and dominating the other, seems to be the essence of the Japanese character. In this place, it will be remembered, is the tomb of Iyeyasu, the greatest statesman Japan has produced. Appropriately, after his battles and his labours, he sleeps under the shade of trees, surrounded by chapels and oratories more sumptuous and superb than anything else in Japan, approached for miles and miles by a road lined on either side with giant cryptomerias. His spirit, if it could know, would appreciate, we may be sure, this habitation of beauty. For these men, ruthless as they were, were none the less sensitive. For example, the traveller is shown (in Kyoto, I think) a little pavilion in a garden where Hideyoshi used to sit and contemplate the moon. I believe it. I think Iyeyasu did the same. And also he wrote this, on a roll here preserved: "Life is like unto a long journey with a heavy load. Let thy steps be slow and steady, that thou stumble not. Persuade thyself that privations are the natural lot of mortals, and there will be no room for discontent, neither for despair. When ambitious desires arise in thy heart, recall the days of extremity thou hast passed through. Forbearance is the root of quietness and assurance for ever. Look upon wrath as thy enemy. If thou knowest only what it is to conquer, and knowest not what it is to be defeated, woe unto thee! It will fare ill with thee. Find fault with thyself rather than with others. Better the less than the more." Marcus Aurelius might have said that. But Marcus Aurelius belonged to a race peculiarly insensitive to beauty. The Japanese stoics were also artists and poets. Their earliest painters were feudal lords, and it was feudal lords who fostered and acted the No dances. If Nietzsche had known Japan--I think he did not?--he would surely have found in these Daimyos and Samurai the forerunners of his Superman. A blood-red blossom growing out of the battlefield, that, I think, was his ideal. It is one which, I hope, the world has outlived. I look for the lily flowering over the fields of peace. IV DIVINE RIGHT IN JAPAN When Japan was opened to the West, after more than two centuries of seclusion, she was in possession of a national spirit which had been enabled, by isolation, to become and remain simple and homogeneous. All public feeling, all public morals centred about the divinity of the Emperor; an idea which, by a process unique in history, had hibernated through centuries of political obscuration, and emerged again to the light with its prestige unimpaired in the middle of the nineteenth century. In the Emperor, one may say, Japan was incarnate. And to this faith the Japanese, as well as foreign observers, attribute their great achievement in the Russian War. The little book of Captain Sakurai, _Human Bullets_, testifies to this fact in every sentence: "Through the abundant grace of Heaven and the illustrious virtue of his Majesty, the Imperial forces defeated the great enemy both on land and sea." ... "I jumped out of bed, cleansed my person with pure water, donned my best uniform, bowed to the East where the great Sire resides, solemnly read his proclamation of war, and told his Majesty that his humble subject was just starting to the front. When I offered my last prayers--the last I then believed they were--before the family shrine of my ancestors I felt a thrill going all through me, as if they were giving me a solemn injunction, saying: 'Thou art not thy own. For his Majesty's sake, thou shalt go to save the nation from calamity, ready to bear the crushing of thy bones and the tearing of thy flesh. Disgrace not thy ancestors by an act of cowardice.'" This, it is clear, is an attitude quite different from that of an Englishman towards the King. The King, to us, is at most a symbol. The Emperor, to the Japanese, is, or was, a god. And the difference may be noted in small matters. For instance, a Japanese, writing from England, observes with astonishment that we put the head of the King on our stamps and cover it with postmarks. That, to a Japanese, seems to be blasphemy. Again, he is puzzled, at the Coronation in Westminster Abbey, to find the people looking down from above on the King. That, again, seems to him blasphemy. Last year, when the Emperor was dying, crowds knelt hour after hour, day and night, on the road beside the palace praying for him. And a photographer who took a picture of them by flashlight was literally torn to pieces. One could multiply examples, but the thing is plain. The national spirit of Japan centres about the divinity of the Emperor. And precisely therein lies their present problem. For one may say, I think, with confidence that this attitude cannot endure, and is already disappearing. Western thought is an irresistible solvent of all irrational and instinctive ideas. Men cannot be engineers and pathologists and at the same time believe that a man is a god. They cannot be historians and at the same time believe that their first Emperor came down from heaven. Above all, they cannot be politicians and abstain from analysing the real source and sanction of political power. English political experience, it is true, suggests immense possibilities in the way of clinging to fictions with the feelings while insisting upon facts in practice. And the famous verse: "But I was thinking of a plan To dye my whiskers green, And always wear so large a fan That they should not be seen," might have been written to summarise the development of the British Constitution. But the success of that method depends upon the condition that the fictions shall be nothing _but_ fictions. The feelings of the English can centre about the King only because they are well assured that he does not and will not govern. But that condition does not exist in Japan. The Japanese Constitution is conceived on the German, not the English, model; and it bristles with clauses which are intended to prevent the development which has taken place in England--the shifting of power from the Sovereign to a Parliamentary majority. The Ministers are the Emperor's Ministers; the policy is the Emperor's policy. That is the whole tenour of the Constitution. No Constitution, it is true, can "trammel up" facts and put power anywhere but where nature puts it. If an Emperor is not a strong man he will not govern, and his Ministers will. And it seems to be well understood among Japanese politicians that the personal will of the Emperor does not, in fact, count for very much. But it is supposed to; and that must become an important point so soon as conflict develops between the Parliament and the Government. And such conflict is bound to arise, and is already arising. Japanese parties, it is true, stand for persons rather than principles; and the real governing power hitherto has been a body quite unknown to the Constitution--namely, the group of "Elder Statesmen." But there are signs that this group is disintegrating, and that its members are beginning to recognise the practical necessity of forming and depending upon a party in the country and the House of Representatives. The crisis which led, the other day, to the fall of Prince Katsura was provoked by popular tumults; and it was noticeable that, for the first time, the name of the Emperor was introduced into political controversy. It seems clear that in the near future either the Emperor must appear openly as a fighting force, as the German Emperor does, or he must subside into a figure-head and the government pass into the hands of Parliament. The former alternative is quite incompatible with the idea of the god-king; the latter might not be repugnant to it if other things tended to foster it. But it is so clear that they do not! An Emperor who is titular head of a Parliamentary Government might, and in Japan no doubt _would_, be surrounded with affection and respect. He could never be seriously regarded as divine. For that whole notion belongs to an age innocent of all that is implied in the very possibility of Parliamentary government. It belongs to the age of mythology and poetry, not to the age of reason. Japanese patriotism in the future must depend on love of country, unsupported by the once powerful sanction of a divine personality. If this be true, I question very much the wisdom of that part of the Japanese educational system which endeavours to centre all duty about the person of the Emperor. The Japanese are trying a great experiment in State-imposed morality--a policy highly questionable at the best, but becoming almost demonstrably absurd when it is based on an idea which is foredoomed to discredit. The well-known Imperial rescript, which is kept framed in every school, reads as follows: "Our Ancestors founded the State on a vast basis, and deeply implanted virtue; and Our subjects, by their unanimity in their great loyalty and filial affection, have in all ages shown these qualities in perfection. Such is the essential beauty of Our national polity, and such, too, is the true spring of Our educational system. You, Our beloved subjects, be filial to your parents, affectionate to your brothers, be loving husbands and wives, and truthful to your friends. Conduct yourselves with modesty, and be benevolent to all. Develop your intellectual faculties and perfect your moral power by gaining knowledge and by acquiring a profession. Further, promote the public interest and advance the public affairs; and in case of emergency, courageously sacrifice yourself to the public good. Thus offer every support to Our Imperial Dynasty, which shall be as lasting as the Universe. You will then not only be Our most loyal subjects, but will be enabled to exhibit the noble character of your ancestors. "Such are the testaments left us by Our Ancestors, which must be observed alike by their descendants and subjects. These precepts are perfect throughout all ages and of universal application. It is Our desire to bear them in Our heart, in common with you Our subjects, to the end that we may constantly possess their virtues." This rescript may be read with admiration. But common sense would teach every Westerner that a document so framed is at variance with the whole bent of the modern mind, and, if forced upon it, could only goad it into rebellion. And such, I have been informed, and easily believe, is the effect it is beginning to have in Japan. Young people brought up on Western languages and Western science demand a Western, that is a rational, sanction for conduct. They do not believe the Emperor to be divine, and therefore they cannot take their moral principles on trust from him and from his ancestors. The violent reaction from this State-imposed doctrine drives them into sheer scepticism and anarchy. And here, as always throughout history, authority defeats its own purposes. Western ideas cannot be taken _in part_. They cannot be applied to the natural world and fenced off from the moral world. Japan must go through the same crisis through which the West is passing; she must revise the whole basis of her traditional morals. And in doing so she must be content to lose that passionate and simple devotion which is the good as well as the evil product of an age of uncritical faith. V FUJI It was raining when we reached Gotemba and took off our boots at the entrance of the inn. I had never before stayed at a Japanese inn, and this one, so my friend assured me, was a bad specimen of the class. Certainly it was disorderly and dirty. It was also overcrowded. But that was inevitable, for a thousand pilgrims in a day were landing at Gotemba station. Men and women, young and old, grandparents, parents, children come flocking in to climb the great mountain. The village street is lined with inns; and in front of each stood a boy with a lantern hailing the new arrivals. We were able, in spite of the crowd, to secure a room to ourselves, and even, with difficulty, some water to wash in--too many people had used and were using the one bath! A table and a chair were provided for the foreigner, and very uncouth they looked in the pretty Japanese room. But a bed was out of the question. One had to sleep on the floor among the fleas. Certainly it was not comfortable; but it was amusing. From my room in the upper storey I looked into the whole row of rooms in the inn opposite, thrown open to the street, with their screens drawn back. One saw families and parties, a dozen or more in a room, dressing and undressing, naked and clothed, sleeping, eating, talking; all, of course, squatting on the floor, with a low stool for a table, and red-lacquered bowls for plates and dishes. How people manage to eat rice with chopsticks will always be a mystery to me. For my own part, I cannot even--but I will not open that humiliating chapter. Of the night, the less said the better. I rose with relief, but dressed with embarrassment; for the girl who waited on us selected the moment of my toilet to clean the room. It was still raining hard, and we had decided to abandon our expedition, for another night in that inn was unthinkable. But, about eleven, a gleam of sun encouraged us to proceed, and we started on horseback for the mountain. And here I must note that by the official tariff, approved by the police, a foreigner is charged twice as much for a horse as a Japanese. If one asks why, one is calmly informed that a foreigner, as a rule, is heavier! This is typical of travel in Japan; and there have been moments when I have sympathised with the Californians in their discrimination against the Japanese. Those moments, however, are rare and brief, and speedily repented of. Naturally, as soon as we had started the weather clouded over again. We rode for three hours at a foot-pace, and by the time we left our horses and began the ascent on foot we were wrapped in thick, cold mist. There is no difficulty about climbing Fuji, except the fatigue. You simply walk for hours up a steep and ever-steeper heap of ashes. It was perhaps as well that we did not see what lay before us, or we might have been discouraged. We saw nothing but the white-grey mist and the purple-grey soil. Except that, looming out of the cloud just in front of us, there kept appearing and vanishing a long line of pilgrims, with peaked hats, capes, and sandals, all made of straw, winding along with their staffs, forty at least, keeping step, like figures in a frieze, like shadows on a sheet, like spirits on the mountain of Purgatory, like anything but solid men walking up a hill. So for hours we laboured on, the slope becoming steeper every step, till we could go no further, and stopped at a shelter to pass the night. Here we were lucky. The other climbers had halted below or above, and we had the long, roomy shed to ourselves. Blankets, a fire of wood, and a good meal restored us. We sat warming and congratulating ourselves, when suddenly our guide at the door gave a cry. We hurried to see. And what a sight it was! The clouds lay below us and a starlit sky above. At our feet the mountain fell away like a cliff, but it fell rather to a glacier than a sea--a glacier infinite as the ocean, yawning in crevasses, billowing in ridges; a glacier not of ice, but of vapour, changing form as one watched, opening here, closing there, rising, falling, shifting, while far away, at the uttermost verge, appeared a crimson crescent, then a red oval, then a yellow globe, swimming up above the clouds, touching their lights with gold, deepening their shadows, and spreading, where it rose, a lake of silver fire over the surface of the tossing plain. We looked till it was too cold to look longer, then wrapped ourselves in quilts and went to sleep. At midnight I woke. Outside there was a strange moaning. The wind had risen; and the sound of it in that lonely place gave me a shock of fear. The mountain, then, was more than a heap of dead ashes. Presences haunted it; powers indifferent to human fate. That wind had blown before man came into being, and would blow when he had ceased to exist. It moaned and roared. Then it was still. But I could not sleep again, and lay watching the flicker of the lamp on the long wooden roof, and the streaks of moonlight through the chinks, till the coolie lit a fire and called us to get up. We started at four. The clouds were still below, and the moon above; but she had moved across to the west, Orion had appeared, and a new planet blazed in the east. The last climb was very steep and our breath very scant. But we had other things than that to think of. Through a rift in a cloud to the eastward dawned a salmon-coloured glow; it brightened to fire; lit up the clouds above and the clouds below; blazed more and intolerably, till, as we reached the summit, the sun leapt into view and sent a long line of light down the tumultuous sea of rolling cloud. How cold it was! And what an atmosphere inside the highest shelter, where sleepers had been packed like sardines and the newly kindled fire filled the fetid air with acrid smoke! What there was to be seen we saw--the crater, neither wide nor deep; the Shinto temple, where a priest was intoning prayers; and the Post Office, where an enterprising Government sells picture-postcards for triumphant pilgrims to despatch to their friends. My friend must have written at least a dozen, while I waited and shivered with numbed feet and hands. But after an hour we began the descent, and quickly reached the shelter where we were to breakfast. Thence we had to plunge again into the clouds. But before doing so we took a long look at the marvellous scene--more marvellous than any view of earth; icebergs tossing in a sea, mountains exhaling and vanishing, magic castles and palaces towering across infinite space. A step, and once more the white-grey mist and the purple-grey soil. But the clouds had moved higher; and it was not long before we saw, to the south, cliffs and the sea, to the east, the gleam of green fields, running up, under cloud-shadows, to mountain ridges and peaks. And so back to Gotemba, and our now odious inn. We would not stop there. So we parted, my friend for Tokyo, I for Kyoto. But time-tables had been fallacious, and I found myself landed at Numatsa, with four hours to wait for the night train, no comfort in the waiting-room, and no Japanese words at my command. I understood then a little better why foreigners are so offensive in the East. They do not know the language; they find themselves impotent where their instinct is to domineer; and they visit on the Oriental the ill-temper which is really produced by their own incompetence. Yes, I must confess that I had to remind myself severely that it was I, and not the Japanese, who was stupid. At last the station-master came to my rescue--the station-master always speaks English. He endured my petulance with the unfailing courtesy and patience of his race, and sent me off at last in a rickshaw to the beach and a Japanese hotel. But my troubles were not ended. I reached the hotel; I bowed and smiled to the group of kow-towing girls; but how to tell them that I wanted a bathe and a meal? Signs were unavailing. We looked at one another and laughed, but that did not help. At last they sent for a student who knew a little English. I could have hugged him. "It is a great pity," he said, "that these people do not know English." The pity, I replied, was that I did not know Japanese, but his courtesy repudiated the suggestion. Could I have a bathing costume? Of course! And in a quarter of an hour he brought me a wet one. Where could I change? He showed me a room; and presently I was swimming in the sea, with such delight as he only can know who has ascended and descended Fuji without the chance of a bath. Returning to the inn, I wandered about in my wet costume seeking vainly the room in which I had changed. Laughing girls pushed me here, and pulled me there, uncomprehending of my pantomime, till one at last, quicker than the rest, pulled back a slide, and revealed the room I was seeking. Then came dinner--soup, fried fish, and rice; and--for my weakness--a spoon and fork to eat them with. The whole house seemed to be open, and one looked into every room, watching the ways of these gay and charming people. At last I paid--to accomplish _that_ by pantomime was easy,--and said good-bye to my hostess and her maids, who bowed their heads to the ground and smiled as though I had been the most honoured of guests instead of a clumsy foreigner, fit food for mirth. A walk in a twilight pine wood, and then back to the station, where I boarded the night train, and slept fitfully until five, when we reached Kyoto, and my wanderings were over. How I enjoyed the comfort of the best hotel in the East! But also how I regretted that I had not long ago learnt to find comfort in the far more beautiful manner of life of Japan! VI JAPAN AND AMERICA On the reasons, real or alleged, for the hostility of the Californians to the Japanese this is not the place to dwell. At bottom, it is a conflict of civilisations, a conflict which is largely due to ignorance and misunderstanding, and which should never be allowed to develop into avowed antagonism. For with time, patience, and sympathy it will disappear of itself. The patience and sympathy, I think, are not lacking on the side of the Japanese, but they are sadly lacking among the Californians, and indeed among all white men in Western America. The truth is that the Western pioneer knows nothing of Japan and wants to know nothing. And he would be much astonished, not to say indignant, were he told that the civilisation of Japan is higher than that of America. Yet there can, I think, be no doubt that this is the case, if real values be taken as a standard. America, and the "new" countries generally, have contributed, so far, nothing to the world except material prosperity. I do not under-estimate this. It is a great thing to have subdued a continent. And it may be argued that those who are engaged in this task have no energy to spare for other activities. But the Japanese subdued their island centuries, even millenniums, ago. And, having reduced it to as high a state of culture as they required, they began to live--a thing the new countries have not yet attempted. To live, in the sense in which I am using the term, implies that you reflect life in the forms of art, literature, philosophy, and religion. To all these things the Japanese have made notable contributions; less notable, indeed, than those of China, from whom they derived their inspiration, but still native, genuine, and precious. To take first bare externals, the physical life of the Japanese is beautiful. I read with amazement the other day a quotation from a leading Californian newspaper to the effect that "there is an instinctive sense of physical repugnance on the part of the Western or European races towards the Japanese race"! Had the writer, I wonder, ever been in Japan? Perhaps it would have made no difference to him if he had, for he is evidently one of those who cannot or will not see. But to me the first and chief impression of Japan is the physical attractiveness of the people. The Japanese are perfectly proportioned; their joints, their hands, their feet, their hips are elegant and fine; and they display to the best advantage these natural graces by a costume which is as beautiful as it is simple. To see these perfect figures walking, running, mounting stairs, bathing, even pulling rickshaws, is to receive a constant stream of shocks of surprise and delight. In so much that, after some weeks in the country, I begin to feel "a sense of physical repugnance" to Americans and Europeans--a sense which, if I were as uneducated and inexperienced as the writer in the _Argonaut_, I should call "instinctive," and make the basis of a campaign of race-hatred. The misfortune is that the Japanese abandon their own dress when they go abroad. And in European dress, which they do not understand, and which conceals their bodies, they are apt to look mean and vulgar. Similarly, in European dress, they lose their own perfect manners and mis-acquire the worst of the West. So that there may be some excuse for feeling "repugnance" to the Japanese abroad, though, of course, it is merely absurd and barbarous to base upon such superficial distaste a policy of persecution and insult. If we turn from the body to the mind and the spirit, the Japanese show themselves in no respect inferior, and in some important respects superior, to the Americans. New though they are to the whole mental attitude which underlies science and its applications, they have already, in half a century, produced physicians, surgeons, pathologists, engineers who can hold their own with the best of Europe and America. All that the West can do in this, its own special sphere, the Japanese, late-comers though they be, are showing that they can do too. In particular, to apply the only test which the Western nations seem really to accept, they can build ships, train men, organise a campaign, and beat a great Western Power at the West's own game of slaughter. But all this, of science and armaments, big though it bulks in our imagination, is secondary and subordinate in a true estimate of civilisation. The great claim the Japanese may make, as I began by saying, is that they have known how to live; and they have proved that by the only test--by the way they have reflected life. Japanese literature and art may not be as great as that of Europe; but it exists, whereas that of America and all the new countries is yet to seek. While Europe was still plunged in the darkest of the dark ages, Japanese poets were already producing songs in exquisite response to the beauty of nature, the passion and pathos of human life. From the seventh century on, their painting and their sculpture was reflecting in tender and gracious forms the mysteries of their faith. Their literature and their art changed its content and its form with the centuries, but it continued without a break, in a stream of genuine inspiration, down to the time when the West forced open the doors of Japan to the world. From that moment, under the new influences, it has sickened and declined. But what a record! And a record that is also an incontrovertible proof that the Japanese belong to the civilised nations--the nations that can live and express life. But perhaps this test may be rejected. Morals, it may be urged, is the touchstone of civilisation, not art. Well, take morals. The question is a large one; but, summarily, where do the Japanese fail, as compared with the Western nations? Is patriotism the standard? In this respect what nation can compete with them? Is it courage? What people are braver? Is it industry? Who is more industrious? It is their very industry that has aroused the jealous fears of the Californians. Is it family life? Where, outside the East, is found such solidarity as in Japan? Is it sexual purity? On that point, what Western nation can hold up its head? Is it honesty? What of the honesty of the West? No; no Westerner, knowing the facts, could for a moment maintain that, all round and on the whole, the morals of the Japanese are inferior to those of Europe or America. It would probably be easier to maintain the opposite. Judged by every real test the Japanese civilisation is not lower, it is higher than that of any of the new countries who refuse to permit the Japanese to live among them. That, I admit, does not settle the question. Competent and impartial men like Admiral Mahan, who would admit all that I have urged, still maintain that the Japanese ought not to be allowed to settle in the West. This conclusion I do not now discuss. The point I wish to make is that the question can never be fairly faced, in a dry light, and with reference only to the simple facts, until the prejudice is broken up and destroyed that the Japanese, and all other Orientals, are "inferior" races. It is this prejudice which distorts all the facts and all the values, which makes Californians and British Columbians and Australians sheerly unreasonable, and causes them to jump at one argument after another, each more fallacious than the last, to defend an attitude which at bottom is nothing but the childish and ignorant hatred of the uncultivated man for everything strange. If the Japanese had had white skins, should we ever have heard of the economic argument? And should we ever have been presented with that new shibboleth "unassimilable"? VII HOME Moscow, Berlin, Paris, London! What a crescendo of life! What a quickening of the flow! What a gathering intensity! "Whatever else we may think of the West," I said to the young French artist, "it is, at any rate, the centre of life." "Yes," he replied, "but the curious thing is that that Life produces only Death. Dead things, and dead people." I reflected. Yes! The _things_ certainly were dead. Look at the Louvre! Look at the Madeleine! Look at any of the streets! Machine-men had made it all, not human souls. The men were dead, then, too? "Certainly!" he insisted. "Their works are a proof. Where there is life there is art. And there is no art in the modern world--neither in the East nor in the West." "Then what is this that looks like Life?" I said, looking at the roaring streets. He shrugged his shoulders and said, "Steam." With that in my mind, I crossed to England, and forgot criticism and speculation in the gleam of the white cliffs, in the trim hedgerows and fields, in the sound of English voices and the sight of English faces. In London it was the same. The bright-cheeked messenger boys, the discreetly swaggering chauffeurs, the quiet, competent young men in City offices who reassured me about my baggage, the autumn sun on the maze of misty streets, the vast picturesqueness of London, its beauty as of a mountain or the sea, fairly carried me off my feet. And passing St. Paul's--"Dead," I muttered, as I looked at its derivative facade,--I went in to take breath. From the end of the vast, cold space came the dreary wail I remembered so well. I had heard Church music at Moscow, and knew what it ought to be. But the tremendous passion of that Eastern plain-song would have offended these discreet walls. I was in a "sacred edifice"; and with a pang of regret I recalled the wooden shrines of Japan under the great trees, the solemn Buddhas, and the crowds of cheerful worshippers. I walked down the empty nave and came under the dome. Then something happened--the thing that always happens when one comes into touch with the work of a genius. And Wren's dome proves that he was that. I sat down, and the organ began to play; or rather, the dome began to sing. And down the stream of music floated in fragments visions of my journey--Indians nude like bronzes, blue-coated Chinese, white robes and bare limbs from Japan, plains of corn, plains of rice, plains of scorched grass; snow-peaks under the stars, volcanoes, green and black; huge rivers, tumbling streams, waterfalls, lakes, the ocean; hovels and huts of wood or sun-dried bricks, thatched or tiled; marble palaces and baths; red lacquer, golden tiles; saints, kings, conquerors, and, enduring or worshipping these, a myriad generations of peasants through long millenniums, toiling, suffering, believing, in one unchanging course of life, before the dawn of history on and down to here and now. As they were, so they are; and I heard them sound as with the drone of Oriental music. Then above that drone something new appeared. Late in time, Western history emerged, and--astonishing thing--began to move and change! "Why," I said, "there's something trying to happen! What is it? Is there going to be a melody?" There was not one. But there was--has the reader ever heard the second--or is it the third?--overture to "Leonora"? A scale begins to run up, first on the violins; then one by one the other instruments join in, till the great basses are swept into the current and run and scale too. So it was here. The West began; but the East caught it up. The unchanging drone began to move and flow. Faster and faster, louder and louder, more and more intensely, crying and flaming towards--what? Beethoven knew, and put it into his music. We cannot put it into ideas or words. We can see the problem, not the solution; and the problem is this. To reconcile the Western flight down Time with the Eastern rest in Eternity; the Western multiformity with the Eastern identity; the Western energy with the Eastern peace. For God is neither Time nor Eternity, but Time in Eternity; neither One nor Many, but One in Many; neither Spirit nor Matter, but Matter-Spirit. That the great artists know, and the great saints; the modern artists and the modern saints, who have been or who will be. Goethe was one; Beethoven was one; and there will be greater, when the contact between East and West becomes closer, and the sparks from pole to pole fly faster. I had dropped into mere thinking, and realised that the organ had stopped. I left the great church and came out upon the back of Queen Anne, which made me laugh. Still, it was quite religious; so were the 'buses, and the motor-cars, and the shops and offices, and the Law Courts, and the top-hats, and the crossing-sweepers. "Dear people," I said, "you are not dead, any more than I am. You think you are, as I too often do. When you feel dead you should go to church; but not in a 'sacred edifice.' Beethoven, even in the Queen's Hall, is better." PART IV AMERICA I THE "DIVINE AVERAGE" The great countries of the East have each a civilisation that is original, if not independent. India, China, Japan, each has a peculiar outlook on the world. Not so America, at any rate in the north. America, we might say, does not exist; there exists instead an offshoot of Europe. Nor does an "American spirit" exist; there exists instead the spirit of the average Western man. Americans are immigrants and descendants of immigrants. Putting aside the negroes and a handful of orientals, there is nothing to be found here that is not to be found in Western Europe; only here what thrives is not what is distinctive of the different European countries, but what is common to them all. What America does, not, of course, in a moment, but with incredible rapidity, is to obliterate distinctions. The Scotchman, the Irishman, the German, the Scandinavian, the Italian, even, I suppose, the Czech, drops his costume, his manner, his language, his traditions, his beliefs, and retains only his common Western humanity. Transported to this continent all the varieties developed in Europe revert to the original type, and flourish in unexampled vigour and force. It is not a new type that is evolved; it is the fundamental type, growing in a new soil, in luxuriant profusion. Describe the average Western man and you describe the American; from east to west, from north to south, everywhere and always the same--masterful, aggressive, unscrupulous, egotistic, at once good-natured and brutal, kind if you do not cross him, ruthless if you do, greedy, ambitious, self-reliant, active for the sake of activity, intelligent and unintellectual, quick-witted and crass, contemptuous of ideas but amorous of devices, valuing nothing but success, recognising nothing but the actual, Man in the concrete, undisturbed by spiritual life, the master of methods and slave of things, and therefore the conqueror of the world, the unquestioning, the undoubting, the child with the muscles of a man, the European stripped bare, and shown for what he is, a predatory, unreflecting, naïf, precociously accomplished brute. One does not then find in America anything one does not find in Europe; but one finds in Europe what one does not find in America. One finds, as well as the average, what is below and what is above it. America has, broadly speaking, no waste products. The wreckage, everywhere evident in Europe, is not evident there. Men do not lose their self-respect, they win it; they do not drop out, they work in. This is the great result not of American institutions or ideas, but of American opportunities. It is the poor immigrant who ought to sing the praises of this continent. He alone has the proper point of view; and he, unfortunately, is dumb. But often, when I have contemplated with dreary disgust, in the outskirts of New York, the hideous wooden shanties planted askew in wastes of garbage, and remembered Naples or Genoa or Venice, suddenly it has been borne in upon me that the Italians living there feel that they have their feet on the ladder leading to paradise; that for the first time they have before them a prospect and a hope; and that while they have lost, or are losing, their manners, their beauty and their charm, they have gained something which, in their eyes, and perhaps in reality, more than compensates for losses they do not seem to feel, they have gained self-respect, independence, and the allure of the open horizon. "The vision of America," a friend writes, "is the vision of the lifting up of the millions." This, I believe, is true, and it is America's great contribution to civilisation. I do not forget it; but neither shall I dwell upon it; for though it is, I suppose, the most important thing about America, it is not what I come across in my own experience. What strikes more often and more directly home to me is the other fact that America, if she is not burdened by masses lying below the average, is also not inspired by an élite rising above it. Her distinction is the absence of distinction. No wonder Walt Whitman sang the "Divine Average." There was nothing else in America for him to sing. But he should not have called it divine; he should have called it "human, all too human." Or _is_ it divine? Divine somehow in its potentialities? Divine to a deeper vision than mine? I was writing this at Brooklyn, in a room that looks across the East River to New York. And after putting down those words, "human, all too human," I stepped out on to the terrace. Across the gulf before me went shooting forward and back interminable rows of fiery shuttles; and on its surface seemed to float blazing basilicas. Beyond rose into the darkness a dazzling tower of light, dusking and shimmering, primrose and green, up to a diadem of gold. About it hung galaxies and constellations, outshining the firmament of stars; and all the air was full of strange voices, more than human, ingeminating Babylonian oracles out of the bosom of night. This is New York. This it is that the average man has done, he knows not why; this is the symbol of his work, so much more than himself, so much more than what seems to be itself in the common light of day. America does not know what she is doing, neither do I know, nor any man. But the impulse that drives her, so mean and poor to the critic's eye, has perhaps more significance in the eye of God; and the optimism of this continent, so seeming-frivolous, is justified, may be, by reason lying beyond its ken. II A CONTINENT OF PIONEERS The American, I said, in the previous letter, is the average Western man. It should be added, he is the average man in the guise of pioneer. Much that surprises or shocks Europeans in the American character is to be explained, I believe, by this fact. Among pioneers the individual is everything and the society nothing. Every man relies on himself and on his personal relations. He is a friend, and an enemy; he is never a citizen. Justice, order, respect for law, honesty even and honour are to him mere abstract names; what is real is intelligence and force, the service done or the injury inflicted, the direct emotional reaction to persons and deeds. And still, as it seems to the foreign observer, even in the long-settled east, still more in the west, this attitude prevails. To the American politician or business man, that a thing is right or wrong, legal or illegal, seems a pale and irrelevant consideration. The real question is, will it pay? will it please Theophilus P. Polk or vex Harriman Q. Kunz? If it is illegal, will it be detected? If detected, will it be prosecuted? What are our resources for evading or defeating the law? And all this with good temper and good conscience. What stands in the way, says the pioneer, must be swept out of it; no matter whether it be the moral or the civil law, a public authority or a rival in business. "The strong business man" has no use for scruples. Public or social considerations do not appeal to him. Or if they do present themselves, he satisfies himself with the belief that, from activities so strenuous and remarkable as his, Good must result to the community. If he break the law, that is the fault of the law, for being stupid and obstructive; if he break individuals, that is their fault for being weak. _Vae victis!_ Never has that principle, or rather instinct, ruled more paramount than it does in America. To say this, is to say that American society is the most individualistic in the modern world. This follows naturally from the whole situation of the country. The pioneer has no object save to get rich; the government of pioneers has no object save to develop the country quickly. To this object everything is sacrificed, including the interests of future generations. All new countries have taken the most obvious and easy course. They have given away for nothing, or for a song, the whole of their natural resources to anybody who will undertake to exploit them. And those who have appropriated this wealth have judged it to be theirs by a kind of natural right. "These farms, mines, forests, oilsprings--of course they are ours. Did not we discover them? Did not we squat upon them? Have we not 'mixed our labour with them'?" If pressed as to the claims of later comers they would probably reply that there remains "as much and as good" for others. And this of course is true for a time; but for a very short time, even when it is a continent that is being divided up. Practically the whole territory of the United States is now in private ownership. Still, the owners have made such good use of their opportunities that they have created innumerable opportunities for non-owners. Artisans get good wages; lawyers make fortunes; stock and share holders get high dividends. Every one feels that he is nourishing, and flourishing by his own efforts. He has no need to combine with his fellows; or, if he does combine, is ready to desert them in a moment when he sees his own individual chance. But this is only a phase; and inevitably, by the logic of events, there supervenes upon it another on which, it would appear, America is just now entering. With all her natural resources distributed among individuals or corporations, and with the tide of immigration unchecked, she begins to feel the first stress of the situation of which the tension in Europe has already become almost intolerable. It is the situation which cannot fail to result from the system of private property and inheritance established throughout the Western world. Opportunities diminish, classes segregate. There arises a caste of wage-earners never to be anything but wage-earners; a caste of property-owners, handing on their property to their descendants; and substantially, after all deductions have been made for exaggeration and simplification, a division of society into capitalists and proletarians. American society is beginning to crystallise out into the forms of European society. For, once more, America is nothing new; she is a repetition of the old on a larger scale. And, curiously, she is less "new" than the other new countries. Australia and New Zealand for years past have been trying experiments in social policy; they are determined to do what they can to prevent the recurrence there of the European situation. But in America, there is no sign of such tendencies. The political and social philosophy of the United States is still that of the early English individualists. And, no doubt, there are adequate causes, if not good reasons for this. The immense wealth and size of the country, the huge agricultural population, the proportionally smaller aggregation in cities has maintained in the mass of the people what I have called the "pioneer" attitude. Opportunity has been, and still is, more open than in any other country; and, in consequence, there has hardly emerged a definite "working class" with a class consciousness. This, however, is a condition that cannot be expected to continue. America will develop on the lines of Europe, because she has European institutions; and "labour" will assert itself more and more as an independent factor in politics. Whether it will assert itself successfully is another matter. At present, as is notorious, American politics are controlled by wealth, more completely, perhaps, than those of any other country, even of England. The "corporations" make it a main part of their business to capture Congress, the Legislatures, the Courts and the city governments; and they are eminently successful. The smallest country town has its "boss," in the employ of the Railway; the Public Service Corporations control the cities; and the protected interests dominate the Senate. Business governs America; and business does not include labour. In no civilised country except Japan is labour-legislation so undeveloped as in the States; in none is capital so uncontrolled; in none is justice so openly prostituted to wealth. America is the paradise of plutocracy; for the rich there enjoy not only a real power but a social prestige such as can hardly have been accorded to them even in the worst days of the Roman Empire. Great fortunes and their owners are regarded with a respect as naïf and as intense as has ever been conceded to birth in Europe. No American youth of ambition, I am told, leaves college with any less or greater purpose in his heart than that of emulating Mr. Carnegie or Mr. Rockefeller. And, on the other hand, it must be conceded, rich men feel an obligation to dispose of their wealth for public purposes, to a degree quite unknown in Europe. By these lavish gifts the people are dazzled. They feel that the millionaire has paid his ransom; and are ready to forgive irregularities in the process of acquiring wealth when they are atoned for by such splendid penance. Thus the rich man in America comes to assume the position of a kind of popular dictator. He is admired on account of his prowess and forgiven on account of his beneficence. And, since every one feels that one day he may have the chance of imitating him, no one judges him too severely. He is regarded not as the "exploiter," the man grown fat on the labour of others. Rather he is the type, the genius of the American people; and they point to him with pride as "one of our strong men," "one of our conservative men of business." Individualism, then, is stronger and deeper rooted in America than elsewhere. And, it must be added, socialism is weaker. It is an imported article, and it does not thrive on the new soil. The formulæ of Marx are even less congenial to the American than to the English mind; and American conditions have not yet given rise to a native socialism, based on local conditions and adapted to local habits of thought. Such a native socialism, I believe, is bound to come before long, perhaps is arising even now. But I would not hazard the assertion that it is likely to prevail. America, it would seem, stands at the parting of the ways. Either she may develop on democratic lines; and Democracy, as I think, demonstrably implies some kind of socialism. Or she may fossilise in the form of her present Plutocracy, and realise that new feudalism of industry which was dreamt of by Saint-Simon, by Comte, and by Carlyle. It would be a strange consummation, but stranger things have happened; and it seems more probable that this should happen in America than that it should happen in any European country. It is an error to think of America as democratic; her Democracy is all on the surface. But in Europe, Democracy is penetrating deeper and deeper. And, in particular, there can be little doubt that England is now more democratic than the United States. III NIAGARA I shall not describe Niagara; instead I shall repeat a conversation. After a day spent in visiting the falls and the rapids, I was sitting to-night on a bench on the river bank. The racing water-ridges glimmered faintly in the dusk and the roar of the falls droned in unwavering monotony. I fell, I think, into a kind of stupor; anyhow, I cannot remember when it was that some one took a seat beside me, and began to talk. I seemed to wake and feel him speaking; and the first remark I definitely heard was this: "All America is Niagara." "All America is Niagara," the voice repeated--I could see no face. "Force without direction, noise without significance, speed without accomplishment. All day and all night the water rushes and roars. I sit and listen; and it does nothing. It is Nature; and Nature has no significance. It is we poets who create significance, and for that reason Nature hates us. She is afraid of us, for she knows that we condemn her. We have standards before which she shrinks abashed. But she has her revenge; for poets are incarnate. She owns our bodies; and she hurls us down Niagara with the rest, with the others that she loves, and that love her, the virile big-jawed men, trampling and trampled, hustling and hustled, working and asking no questions, falling as water and dispersing as spray. Nature is force, loves force, wills force alone. She hates the intellect, she hates the soul, she hates the spirit. Nietszche understood her aright, Nietszche the arch-traitor, who spied on the enemy, learned her secrets, and then went over to her side. Force rules the world." I must have said something banal about progress, for the voice broke out: "There is no progress! It is always the same river! New waves succeed for ever, but always in the old forms. History tells, from beginning to end, the same tale--the victory of the strong over the sensitive, of the active over the reflective, of intelligence over intellect. Rome conquered Greece, the Germans the Italians, the English the French, and now, the Americans the world! What matters the form of the struggle, whether it be in arms or commerce, whether the victory go to the sword, or to shoddy, advertisement, and fraud? History is the perennial conquest of civilisation by barbarians. The little islands before us, lovely with trees and flowers, green oases in the rushing river, it is but a few years and they will be engulfed. So Greece was swallowed up, so Italy, and so will it be with England. Not, as your moralists maintain, because of her vices, but because of her virtues. She is becoming just, scrupulous, humane, and therefore she is doomed. Ignoble though she be, she is yet too noble to survive; for Germany and America are baser than she. Hark, Hark to Niagara! Force, at all costs! Do you hear it? Do you see it? I can see it, though it is dark. It is a river of mouths and teeth, of greedy outstretched hands, of mirthless laughter, of tears and of blood. I am there, you are there; we are hurrying over the fall; we are going up in spray." "Yes," I cried as one cries in a nightmare, "and in that spray hangs the rainbow." He caught at the phrase. "It is true. The rainbow hangs in the spray! It is the type of the Ideal, hanging always above the Actual, never in it, never controlling it. We poets make the rainbow; we do not shape the world." "We do not make the rainbow," I said. "The sun makes it, shining against it. What is the sun?" "The sun is the Platonic Good; it lights the world, but does not warm it. By its illumination we see the river in which we are involved; see and judge, and condemn, and are swept away. That we can condemn is our greatness; by that we are children of the sun. But our vision is never fruitful. The sun cannot breed out of matter; no, not even maggots by kissing carrion. Between Force and Light, Matter and Good, there is no interchange. Good is not a cause, it is only an idea." "To illuminate," I said, "is to transform." "No! it is only to reveal! Light dances on the surface; but not the tiniest wave was ever dimpled or crisped by its rays. Matter alone moves matter; and the world is matter. Best not cry, best not even blaspheme. Pass over the fall in silence. Perhaps, at the bottom, there is oblivion. It is the best we can hope, we who see." And he was gone! Had there been anyone? Was there a real voice? I do not know. Perhaps it was only the roar of Niagara. When I returned to the hotel, I heard that this very afternoon, while I was sunning myself on one of the islands, a woman had thrown herself into the rapids and been swept over the fall. Niagara took her, as it takes a stick or a stone. Soon it will take the civilisation of America, as it has taken that of the Indians. Centuries will pass, millenniums will pass, mankind will have come and gone, and still the river will flow and the sun shine, and they will communicate to one another their stern immortal joy, in which there is no part for ephemeral men. IV "THE MODERN PULPIT" It is a bright July morning. As I sit in the garden I look out, over a tangle of wild roses, to a calm sea and a flock of white sails. Everything invites to happy thought and innocent reverie. Moreover, it is the day of rest, and every one is at leisure to turn his mind towards pleasant things. To what, in fact, are most people on this continent turning theirs? To this, which I hold in my hand, the Sunday newspaper. Let us analyse this production, peculiar to the New World. It comprises eight sections and eighty-eight pages, and very likely does really, as it boasts, contain "more reading matter than the whole Bible." Opening Section 1, I read the following headings: "Baron Shot as Bank-teller--Ends Life with Bullet." "Two fatally Hurt in Strike Riots at Pittsburg." "Steals a Look at Busy Burglars." "Drowned in Surf at Narragansett." "Four of a Family fear a Dogs' bite" (_sic_). "Two are Dead, Two Dying; Fought over Cow." Section 2 appears to be concerned with similar matter, for example: "Struck by Blast, Woman is Dying." "Hard Shell Crabs help in giving Burglar Alarm." "Man who has been Married three times denies the Existence of God." But here I notice further the interesting and enigmatic heading: "Will 'boost' not 'knock' New York," and roused for the first time to something like curiosity, read: "To lock horns with the muckrakes and to defend New York against all who defame and censure it the Association for New York was incorporated yesterday." I notice also "Conferences agree to short rates on woollen goods," and am reminded of the shameless bargaining of which, for many weeks past, Washington has been the centre; which leads me to reflect on the political advantages of a Tariff and its wholesome effect on the national life. Section 3 deals with Aviation and seaside resorts: "Brave Lake Placid," I read, "Planning New Hotel." "Haines Falls entertaining a Great Throng of People." "Resound with the Laughter and Shout of Summer Throngs." Section 4 consists entirely of advertisements: "Tuning-up Sale," I read. "Buff-and-crimson cards will mark the trail of all goods ready for the sale. We are tuning up. By September it is our intention to have assembled in these two great buildings the most fashionable merchandise ever shown. No one piece of goods will be permitted to linger that lacks, in any detail, the æsthetic beauty demanded by New York women of fashion. Everything will be better and a definite percentage lower in price than New York will find in any other store. Do not expect a sale of ordinary proportions. To-morrow you will find the store alive with enthusiasm. This is not a summer hurrah." And so on, to the end of the page. Twelve pages of advertisements, uninterrupted by any item of news. Section 5 is devoted to automobile gossip and automobile advertisements. Thereupon follows the _Special Sporting Section_: "Rumsom Freebooters defeat Devon's first." "'Young Corbett' is chipped in the 8th." "Doggett and Cubs each win shut out." "Brockett is easy for Detroit Nine." Glancing at the small type I read:-- "Englewood was the first to tally. This was in the fourth inning. W. Merritt, the first man up, was safe on Williams' error, and he got round to third on another miscue by Williams. Charley Clough was on deck with a timely single, which scored Merritt. Curran's out at first put Clough on third, from whence he tallied on Cuming's single. Cuming got to second, when Wiley grounded out along the first base line and scored on Reinmund's single. Every other time Reinmund came to the bat he struck out." I pass to the _Magazine Section_. On the first page is the mysterious heading "E. of K. and E." Several huge portraits of a bald clean-shaven man in shirt sleeves partially explain. E. is Mr. Erlanger, a theatrical impresario, and K. and E. presumably is his firm. The article describes "the accomplishment of a busy man on one of his ordinary days," and makes one hope no day is ever extraordinary. The interviewer who tells about him is almost speechless with emotion. He searches for a phrase to express his feelings, finds it at last, and comes triumphantly to his close--Mr. Erlanger is a man "with trained arms, trained legs, a trained body and a trained mind." There follows: "The Story of a Society Girl," in which we are told "there is a confession of love and the startling discovery that Dolly was a professional model"; "The Doctor's Story," with a picture of a corpse, "whose white shapely hands were clasped one over the other"; and "Would you Convict on Circumstantial Evidence?--A Scaffold Confession. A True Story." I glance at this, and read, "While the crowd watched in strained, breathless silence there came a sharp agonised voice and a commotion near the steps of the scaffold. 'Stop! Stop! The man is not guilty. I mean it. It is I who should stand there. Let me speak.'" You can now reconstruct the story for yourself. Next comes "Get the Man! Craft and courage of old-time and modern express robbers matched by organised secret service and the mandate that makes capture alone the end of an unflagging man-hunt." This is accompanied by portraits of famous detectives and train-robbers. There follows "_Thrilling Lines_," with a picture of a man who seems to be looping the loop on a bicycle. And the conclusion of the section is a poem, entitled "Cynthianna Blythe," with coloured illustrations apparently intended for children, and certainly successful in not appealing to adults. Comment, I suppose, is superfluous. But it is only fair to say that the whole of the press of America is not of this character. Among the thousands of papers daily produced on that continent, it would be possible, I believe, to name ten--I myself could mention five--which contain in almost every issue some piece of information or comment which an intelligent man might care to peruse. There are to be found, now and again, passing references to European and even to Asiatic politics; for it cannot be said that the press of America wholly ignored the recent revolutions in Persia and in Turkey. I myself saw a reference to the new Sultan as a man "fat, but not fleshy." England looms big enough on the American horizon to be treated to an occasional gibe; and the doings of fashionable Americans in London are reported somewhat fully. Still, on the whole, the American daily press is typified by the specimen I have analysed. Sensations, personalities and fiction are its stock-in-trade. Why? The causes are well known, but are worth recapitulating, for they are part of the system of modern civilisation. The newspaper press is a business intended to make money. This is its primary aim, which may, or may not, include the subordinate purpose of advocating some line of public policy. Now, to make money, it is essential to secure advertisements; and to secure advertisements it is essential to have a large circulation. But a large circulation can only be obtained by lowering the price of the paper, and adapting it to the leisure mood of the mass of people. But this leisure mood is usually one of sheer vacuity, incapable of intellectual effort or imaginative response. The man is there, waiting to be filled, and to be filled with the stuff easiest to digest. The rest follows. The newspapers supply the demand and by supplying extend and perpetuate it. Among the possible appeals open to them they deliberately choose the lowest. For people are capable of Good as well as of Bad; and if they cannot get the Bad they will sometimes take the Good. Newspapers, probably, could exist, even under democratic conditions, by maintaining a certain standard of intelligence and morals. But it is easier to exist on melodrama, fatuity and sport. And one or two papers adopting that course force the others into line; for here, as in so many departments of modern life, "The Bad drives out the Good." This process of deterioration of the press is proceeding rapidly in England, with the advent of the halfpenny newspaper. It has not gone so far as in America; but there is no reason why it should not, and every reason why it should; for the same causes are at work. I have called the process "deterioration," but that, of course, is matter of opinion. A Cabinet Minister, at a recent Conference in London, is reported to have congratulated the press on its progressive improvement during recent years. And Lord Northcliffe is a peer. The more the English press approximates to the American, the more, it would seem, it may hope for public esteem and honour. And that is natural, for the American method pays. Well, the sun still shines and the sky is still blue. But between it and the American people stretches a veil of printed paper. Curious! the fathers of this nation read nothing but the Bible. That too, it may be said, was a veil; but a veil woven of apocalyptic visions, of lightning and storm, of Leviathan, and the wrath of Jehovah. What is the stuff of the modern veil, we have seen. And surely the contrast is calculated to evoke curious reflections. V IN THE ROCKIES Walking alone in the mountains to-day I came suddenly upon the railway. There was a little shanty of a station 8000 feet above the sea; and, beyond, the great expanse of the plains. It was beginning to sleet, and I determined to take shelter. The click of a telegraph operator told me there was some one inside the shed. I knocked and knocked again, in vain; and it was a quarter of an hour before the door was opened by a thin, yellow-faced youth chewing gum, who looked at me without a sign of recognition or a word of greeting. I have learnt by this time that absence of manners in an American is intended to signify not surliness but independence, so I asked to be allowed to enter. He admitted me, and resumed his operations. I listened to the clicking, while the sleet fell faster and the evening began to close in. What messages were they, I wondered, that were passing across the mountains? I connected them, idly enough, with the corner in wheat a famous speculator was endeavouring to establish in Chicago; and reflected upon the disproportion between the achievements of Man and the use he puts them to. He invents wireless telegraphy, and the ships call to one another day and night, to tell the name of the latest winner. He is inventing the flying-machine, and he will use it to advertise pills and drop bombs. And here, he has exterminated the Indians, and carried his lines and his poles across the mountains, that a gambler may fill his pockets by starving a continent. "Click--click--click--Pick--pick--pick--Pock--pock--pockets." So the west called to the east, and the east to the west, while the winds roared, and the sleet fell, over the solitary mountains and the desolate iron road. It was too late now for me to reach my hotel that evening, and I was obliged to beg a night's rest. The yellow youth assented, with his air of elaborate indifference, and proceeded to make me as comfortable as he could. About sunset, the storm passed away over the plains. Behind its flying fringes shot the last rays of the sun; and for a moment the prairie sea was all bared to view, as wide as the sky, as calm and as profound, a thousand miles of grass where men and cattle crept like flies, and towns and houses were swallowed and lost in the infinite monotony. We had supper and then my host began to talk. He was a democrat, and we discussed the coming presidential election. From one newspaper topic to another we passed to the talk about signalling to Mars. Signalling interested the youth; he knew all about that; but he knew nothing about Mars, or the stars. These were now shining bright above us; and I told him what I knew of suns and planets, of double stars, of the moons, of Jupiter, of nebulae and the galaxy, and the infinity of space, and of worlds. He chewed and meditated, and presently remarked: "Gee! I guess then it doesn't matter two cents after all who gets elected president!" Whereupon we turned in, he to sleep and I to lie awake, for I was disturbed by the mystery of the stars. It is long since the notion of infinite space and infinite worlds has impressed my imagination with anything but discomfort and terror. The Ptolemaic scheme was better suited to human needs. Our religious sense demands not only order but significance; a world not merely great, but relevant to our destinies. Copernicus, it is true, gave us liberty and space; but he bereft us of security and intimacy. And I thought of the great vision of Dante, so terrible and yet so beautiful, so human through and through,--that vision which, if it contracts space, expands the fate of man, and relates him to the sun and the moon and the stars. I thought of him as he crossed the Apennines by night, or heard from the sea at sunset the tinkling of the curfew bell, or paced in storm the forest of Ravenna, always, beyond and behind the urgency of business, the chances of war, the bitterness of exile, aware of the march of the sun about the earth, of its station in the Zodiac, of the solemn and intricate wheeling of the spheres. Aware, too, of the inner life of those bright luminaries, the dance and song of spirits purged by fire, the glow of Mars, the milky crystal of the moon, and Jupiter's intolerable blaze; and beyond these, kindling these, setting them their orbits and their order, by attraction not of gravitation, but of love, the ultimate Essence, imaged by purest light and hottest fire, whereby all things and all creatures move in their courses and their fates, to whom they tend and in whom they rest. And I recalled the passage: "Frate, la nostra volontà quieta Virtù di carità, che fa volerne Sol quel ch'avemo, e d'altro non ci asseta. Se disiassimo esser più superne, Fôran discordi gli nostri disiri Dal voler di Colui che qui ne cerne; Che vedrai non capere in questi giri, S'essere in caritate è qui necesse, E se la sua natura ben rimiri; Anzi è formale ad esto beato esse Tenersi dentro alia divina voglia, Perch'una fansi nostre voglie stesse. Si che, come noi siam di soglia in soglia Per questo regno, a tutto il regno piace, Com'allo re, che in suo voler ne invoglia. E la sua volontade è nostra pace: Ella è quel mare al qual tutto si muove Cio ch' ella crea o che natura face."[3] And then, with a leap, I was back to what we call reality--to the clicking needle, to the corner in wheat, to Chicago and Pittsburg and New York. In all this continent, I thought, in all the western world, there is not a human soul whose will seeks any peace at all, least of all the peace of God. All move, but about no centre; they move on, to more power, to more wealth, to more motion. There is not one of them who conceives that he has a place, if only he could find it, a rank and order fitted to his nature, higher than some, lower than others, but right, and the only right for him, his true position in the cosmic scheme, his ultimate relation to the Power whence it proceeds. Life, like astronomy, has become Copernican. It has no centre, no significance, or, if any, one beyond our ken. Gravitation drives us, not love. We are attracted and repelled by a force we cannot control, a force that resides in our muscles and our nerves, not in our will and spirit. "Click--click--click--tick--tick--tick," so goes the economic clock. And that clock, with its silly face, has shut us out from the stars. It tells us the time; but behind the dial of the hours is now for us no vision of the solemn wheeling spheres, of spirit flames and that ultimate point of light "pinnacled dim in the intense inane." "America is a clock," I said; and then I remembered the phrase, "America is Niagara." And like a flake of foam, dizzy and lost, I was swept away, out into the infinite, out into unconsciousness. The sun was shining brightly when I woke, and I had slept away my mood of the night. I took leave of my host, and under his directions, after half a mile along the line, plunged down into a gorge, and followed for miles, crossing and re-crossing, a mountain brook, between cliffs of red rocks, by fields of mauve anemones, in the shadow and fragrance of pines; till suddenly, after hours of rough going, I was confronted by a notice, set up, apparently, in the desert: "Keep out. Avoid trouble. This means you." I laughed. "Keep out!" I said. "If only there were a chance of my getting in!" "Avoid trouble! Ah, what trouble would I not face, could I but get in!" And I went on, but not in, and met no trouble, and returned to the hotel, and had dinner, and watched for a solitary hour, in the hall, the shifting interminable array of vacant eyes and blank faces, and then retired to write this letter; "and so to bed." Footnotes: [Footnote 3: "Brother, the quality of love stilleth our will, and maketh us long only for what we have, and giveth us no other thirst, "Did we desire to be more aloft, our longings were discordant from his will who here assorteth us, "And for that, thou wilt see, there is no room within these circles, if of necessity we have our being here in love, and if thou think again what is love's nature. "Nay, 'tis the essence of this blessed being to hold ourselves within the divine will, whereby our own wills are themselves made one. "So that our being thus, from threshold unto threshold, throughout the realm, is a joy to all the realm as to the King, who draweth our wills to what he willeth; "And his will is our peace; it is that sea to which all moves that it createth and that nature maketh." DANTE, _Purgatorio_, iii. 70-87 (trans. by Rev. Philip H. Wicksteed, in the "Temple Classics" edition).] VI IN THE ADIRONDACKS For the last few days I have been living in camp on a mountain lake in the Adirondacks. All about me are mountains and unlumbered forest. The tree lies where it falls; the undergrowth chokes the trails; and on the hottest day it is cool in the green, sun-chequered wilderness. Deer start in the thickets or steal down to drink in the lake. The only sounds are the wood-pecker's scream, the song of the hermit-thrush, the thrumming and drumming of bull-frogs in the water. My friend is a sportsman; I am not; and while he catches trout I have been reading Homer and Shelley. Shelley I have always understood; but now, for the first time, I seem to understand Homer. Our guide here, I feel, might have been Homer, if he had had imagination; but he could never have been Shelley. Homer, I conceive, had from the first the normal bent for action. What his fellows did he too wanted to do. He learned to hunt, to sail a boat, to build a house, to use a spear and bow. He had his initiation early, in conflict, in danger, and in death. He loved the feast, the dance, and the song. But also he had dreams. He used to sit alone and think. And, as he grew, these moods grew, till he came to live a second life, a kind of double of the first. The one was direct, unreflective, and purposeful. In it he hunted wild beasts that he might kill them, fought battles that he might win them, sailed boats that he might arrive somewhere. So far, he was like his fellows, and like our guide, with his quick observation, his varied experience, his practical skill. But then, on the other hand, he had imagination. This active life he reproduced; not by recapitulating it--that the guide can do; but by recreating it. He detached it, as it were, from himself as centre; ceased, indeed, to be a self; and became all that he contemplated--the victor and the vanquished, the hunter and the hunted, the house and its builder, Thersites and Achilles. He became the sun and the moon and the stars, the gods and the laughter of the gods. He took no sides, pronounced no judgment, espoused no cause. He became pure vision; but not passive vision. To see, he had to re-create; and the material his observation had amassed he offered up as a holocaust on the altar of his imagination. Fused in that fierce fire, like drew to like, parts ran together and formed a whole. Did he see a warrior fall? In a moment the image arose of "a stately poplar falling by the axe in a meadow by the riverside." Did a host move out to meet the foe? It recalled the ocean shore where "wave follows wave far out at sea until they break in thunder on the beach." Was battle engaged? "The clash of the weapons rang like the din of woodcutters in the mountain-glades." Did a wounded hero fall? The combatants gathered about him "like flies buzzing round the brimming milk-pails in the spring." All commonest things, redeemed from isolation and irrelevance, revealed the significance with which they were charged. The result was the actual made real, a reflexion which was a disclosure, a reproduction which was a recreation. And if experience, as we know it, is the last word of life, if there is nothing beyond and nothing behind, if there is no meaning, no explanation, no purpose or end, then the poetry of Homer is the highest reach of human achievement. For, observe, Homer is not a critic. His vision transmutes life, but does not transcend it. Experience is ultimate; all the poet does is to experience fully. Common men live, but do not realise life; he realises it. But he does not question it; it is there and it is final; glorious, lovely, august, terrible, sordid, cruel, unjust. And the partial, smiling, unmoved, unaccountable Olympians are the symbol of its brute actuality. Not only is there no explanation, there is not even a question to be asked. So it is, so it has been, so it will be. Homer's outlook is that of the modern realist. That he wrote an epic, and they novels, is an accident of time and space. Turgeneff or Balzac writing 1000 years before Christ would have been Homer; and Homer, writing now, would have been Turgeneff or Balzac. But Shelley could never have been Homer; for he was born a critic and a rebel. From the first dawn of consciousness he challenged and defied the works and ways of men and the apparent order of the universe. Never for a moment anywhere was he at home in the world. There was nothing attainable he cared to pursue, nothing actual he cared to represent. He could no more see what is called fact than he could act upon it. His eyes were dazzled by a different vision. Life and the world not only are intolerable to him, they are unreal. Beyond and behind lies Reality, and it is good. Now it is a Perfectibility lying in the future; now a Perfection existing eternally. In any case, whatever it be, however and wherever to be found, it is the sole object of his quest and of his song. Whatever of good or lovely or passionate gleams here and there, on the surface or in the depths of the actual, is a ray of that Sun, an image of that Beauty. His imagination is kindled by Appearance only to soar away from it. The landscape he depicts is all light, all fountains and caverns. The Beings with which it is peopled are discarnate Joys and Hopes; Justice and Liberty, Peace and Love and Truth. Among these only is he at home; in the world of men he is an alien captive; and Human Life presents itself as an "unquiet dream." "'Tis we that, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings." When we die, we awake into Reality--that Reality to which, from the beginning, Shelley was consecrated: "I vowed that I would dedicate my powers To thee and thine--have I not kept my vow?" He calls it "intellectual Beauty"; he impersonates it as Asia, and sings it in verse that passes beyond sense into music: "Life of Life! thy lips enkindle With their love the breath between them; And thy smiles before they dwindle Make the cold air fire; then screen them In those looks, where whoso gazes Faints, entangled in their mazes. Child of Light! thy limbs are burning Through the vest which seems to hide them; As the radiant lines of morning Through the clouds ere they divide them; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe'er thou shinest. Fair are others; none beholds thee, But thy voice sounds low and tender Like the fairest, for it folds thee From the sight, that liquid splendour, And all feel, yet see thee never, As I feel now, lost for ever! Lamp of Earth! where'er thou movest Its dim shapes are clad with brightness, And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness, Till they fail, as I am failing, Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing!" This we call poetry; and we call the Iliad poetry. But the likeness is superficial, and the difference profound. Was it Homer or Shelley that grasped Reality? This is not a question of literary excellence; it is a question of the sense of life. And--oddly enough--it is a question to which the intellect has no answer. The life in each of us takes hold of it and answers it empirically. The normal man is Homeric, though he is not aware of the fact. Especially is the American Homeric; naïf, spontaneous, at home with fact, implicitly denying the Beyond. Is he right? This whole continent, the prairies, the mountains and the coast, the trams and trolleys, the sky-scrapers, the factories, elevators, automobiles, shout to that question one long deafening Yes. But there is another country that speaks a different tongue. Before America was, India is. VII THE RELIGION OF BUSINESS In the house in which I am staying hangs an old coloured print, representing two couples, one young and lusty, the other decrepit, the woman carrying an hour-glass, the man leaning on a stick; and underneath, the following inscription: "My father and mother that go so stuping to your grave, Pray tell me what good I may in this world expect to have?" "My son, the good you can expect is all forlorn, Men doe not gather grapes from of a thorn." This dialogue, I sometimes think, symbolises the attitude of the new world to the old, and the old to the new. Not seldom I feel among Americans as the Egyptian is said to have felt among the Greeks, that I am moving in a world of precocious and inexperienced children, bearing on my own shoulders the weight of the centuries. Yet it is not exactly that Americans strike one as young in spirit; rather they strike one as undeveloped. It is as though they had never faced life and asked themselves what it is; as though they were so occupied in running that it has never occurred to them to inquire where they started and whither they are going. They seem to be always doing and never experiencing. A dimension of life, one would say, is lacking, and they live in a plane instead of in a solid. That missing dimension I shall call religion. Not that Americans do not, for aught I know, "believe" as much as or more than Europeans; but they appear neither to believe nor to disbelieve religiously. That, I admit, is true almost everywhere of the mass of the people. But even in Europe--and far more in India--there has always been, and still is, a minority who open windows to the stars; and through these windows, in passing, the plain man sometimes looks. The impression America makes on me is that the windows are blocked up. It has become incredible that this continent was colonised by the Pilgrim Fathers. That intense, narrow, unlovely but genuine spiritual life has been transformed into industrial energy; and this energy, in its new form, the churches, oddly enough, are endeavouring to recapture and use to drive their machines. Religion is becoming a department of practical business. The Churches--orthodox and unorthodox, old and new, Christian, Christian-Scientific, theosophic, higher-thinking--vie with one another in advertising goods which are all material benefits: "Follow me, and you will get rich," "Follow me, and you will get well," "Follow me, and you will be cheerful, prosperous, successful." Religion in America is nothing if not practical. It does not concern itself with a life beyond; it gives you here and now what you want. "What _do_ you want? Money? Come along!--Success? This is the shop!--Health? Here you are! Better than patent medicines!" The only part of the Gospels one would suppose that interests the modern American is the miracles; for the miracles really did _do_ something. As for the Sermon on the Mount--well, no Westerner ever took that seriously. This conversion of religion into business is interesting enough. But even more striking is what looks like a conversion of business into religion. Business is so serious that it sometimes assumes the shrill tone of a revivalist propaganda. There has recently been brought to my attention a circular addressed to the agents of an insurance society, urging them to rally round the firm, with a special effort, in what I can only call a "mission-month." I quote--with apologies to the unknown author--part of this production: THE CALL TO ACTION. "How about these beautiful spring days for hustling? Everything is on the move. New life and force is apparent everywhere. The man who can stand still when all creation is on the move is literally and hopelessly a dead one. "These are ideal days for the insurance field-man. Weather like this has a tremendously favourable effect on business. In the city and small town alike there is a genuine revival of business. The farmer, the merchant, the manufacturer, are beginning to work overtime. Spring is in the footstep of the ambitious man as well as in the onward march of nature. This is the day of growth, expansion, creation, and re-creation. "Consciously or unconsciously every one responds to the glad call to new life and vigour. Men who are cold and selfish, who are literally frozen up the winter through, yield to the warm, invigorating, energising touch of spring. "Gentlemen of the field force, now is the psychological moment to force your prospects to action as indicated by the dotted line. As in nature, some plants and trees are harder to force than others, so in the nature of human prospects, some are more difficult than others. Sunshine and rain will produce results in the field of life-underwriting. "Will it not be possible for you during these five remaining days not only to increase the production from regular sources, but to go out into the highways and hedges and compel others to sign their applications, if for only a small amount? "Everything is now in full swing, and we are going to close up the month "IN A BLAZE OF GLORY." Might not this almost as well have been an address from the headquarters of the Salvation Army? And is not the following exactly parallel to a denunciation, from the mission-pulpit, of the unprofitable servant? "A few days ago we heard of a general agent who has one of the largest and most prosperous territories in this country. He has been in the business for years, and yet that man, for some unknown reason, rather apologises for his vocation. He said he was a little ashamed of his calling. Such a condition is almost a crime, and I am sure that the men of the Eastern Department will say, that man ought to get out of the business. "_Instead of being ashamed of his calling, he should be mortally ashamed of his not calling._ "Are you happy in your work? If not, give it up and go into some business more to your liking." WHY IS IT? "So many times the question is asked, 'Why is it, and how is it, that Mr. So-and-so writes so much business? There is not a week but he procures new applications.' Gentlemen, there's but one answer to this question. There is a great gulf between the man who is in earnest and works persistently every day and the man who seems to be in earnest and makes believe he is working persistently every day. "One of the most successful personal producers said to the writer the other day: 'No wonder certain agents do not write more business. I couldn't accomplish very much either if I did not work longer hours than they do. Some insurance agents live like millionaires and keep bankers' hours. You cannot expect much business from efforts like that.' This man speaks from practical knowledge of the business. He has written $147,500 _in personal business in the last six weeks_. "It does seem rather strange, sometimes, that half of the men in the Eastern Department should be writing twice as much business as the other half. They are representing the same company; presenting the same propositions; are supposed to be talking to practically the same number of men; have the same rates, same guarantees, and the same twenty-four hours in each day, and yet are doing twice the business. In other words, making more money. What really makes this difference? I will tell you. They put heart into their work. There is an enthusiasm and earnestness about them that carries conviction. They are business through and through, and everybody knows it. "Are you getting your share of applications? If some other agent is up early, wide-awake and alert, putting in from ten to fifteen hours per day, he is bound to do business, isn't he? This is a plain, every-day horse-sense business fact. No one has a patent on time or the use of it. To work and to succeed is common property. It is your capital, and the use of it will determine your worth." I think, really, this is one of the most remarkable documents that could be produced in evidence of the character of American civilisation. There is all the push, initiative, and enterprise on which they justly pride themselves; there is also the reduction of all values to terms of business, the concentration of what, at other times, have been moral and religious forces upon the one aim of material progress. In such an atmosphere it is easy to see how those who care for spiritual values are led to protest that these are really material; to pack up their goods, so to speak, as if they were biscuits or pork, and palm them off in that guise on an unsuspecting public. In a world where every one is hustling, the Churches feel they must hustle too; when all the firms advertise, they must advertise too; when only one thing is valued, power, they must pretend they can offer power; they must go into business, because business is going into religion! It is a curious spectacle! How long will it last? How real is it, even now? That withered couple, I half believe, hanging on the wall, descend at night and wander through the land, whispering to all the sleepers their disquieting warning; and all day long there hovers at the back of the minds of these active men a sense of discomfort which, if it became articulate, might express itself in the ancient words: "My son, the good you can expect is all forlorn, Men doe not gather grapes from of a thorn." VIII RED-BLOODS AND "MOLLYCODDLES" I am staying at a pleasant place in New Hampshire. The country is hilly and wooded, like a larger and wilder Surrey; and through it flows what, to an Englishman, seems a large river, the Connecticut. Charming villas are dotted about, well designed and secluded in pretty gardens. I mention this because, in my experience of America, it is unique. Almost everywhere the houses stare blankly at one another and at the public roads, ugly, unsheltered, and unashamed, as much as to say, "Every one is welcome to see what goes on here. We court publicity. See how we eat, drink, and sleep. Our private life is the property of the American people." It was not, however, to describe the country that I began this letter, but to elaborate a generalisation developed by my host and myself as a kind of self-protection against the gospel of "strenuousness." We have divided men into Red-bloods and Mollycoddles. "A Red-blood man" is a phrase which explains itself, "Mollycoddle" is its opposite. We have adopted it from a famous speech of Mr. Roosevelt, and redeemed it--perverted it, if you will--to other uses. A few examples will make the notion clear. Shakespeare's Henry V. is a typical Red-blood; so was Bismarck; so was Palmerston; so is almost any business man. On the other hand, typical Mollycoddles were Socrates, Voltaire, and Shelley. The terms, you will observe, are comprehensive, and the types very broad. Generally speaking, men of action are Red-bloods. Not but what the Mollycoddle may act, and act efficiently. But, if so, he acts from principle, not from the instinct of action. The Red-blood, on the other hand, acts as the stone falls, and does indiscriminately anything that comes to hand. It is thus he that carries on the business of the world. He steps without reflection into the first place offered him and goes to work like a machine. The ideals and standards of his family, his class, his city, his country and his age, he swallows as naturally as he swallows food and drink. He is therefore always "in the swim"; and he is bound to "arrive," because he has set before himself the attainable. You will find him everywhere in all the prominent positions. In a military age he is a soldier, in a commercial age a business man. He hates his enemies, and he may love his friends; but he does not require friends to love. A wife and children he does require, for the instinct to propagate the race is as strong in him as all other instincts. His domestic life, however, is not always happy; for he can seldom understand his wife. This is part of his general incapacity to understand any point of view but his own. He is incapable of an idea and contemptuous of a principle. He is the Samson, the blind force, dearest to Nature of her children. He neither looks back nor looks ahead. He lives in present action. And when he can no longer act, he loses his reason for existence. The Red-blood is happiest if he dies in the prime of life; otherwise, he may easily end with suicide. For he has no inner life; and when the outer life fails, he can only fail with it. The instinct that animated him being dead, he dies too. Nature, who has blown through him, blows elsewhere. His stops are dumb; he is dead wood on the shore. The Mollycoddle, on the other hand, is all inner life. He may indeed act, as I said, but he acts, so to speak, by accident; just as the Red-blood may reflect, but reflects by accident. The Mollycoddle in action is the Crank: it is he who accomplishes reforms; who abolished slavery, for example, and revolutionised prisons and lunatic asylums. Still, primarily, the Mollycoddle is a critic, not a man of action. He challenges all standards and all facts. If an institution is established, that is a reason why he will not accept it; if an idea is current, that is a reason why he should repudiate it. He questions everything, including life and the universe. And for that reason Nature hates him. On the Red-blood she heaps her favours; she gives him a good digestion, a clear complexion, and sound nerves. But to the Mollycoddle she apportions dyspepsia and black bile. In the universe and in society the Mollycoddle is "out of it" as inevitably as the Red-blood is "in it." At school, he is a "smug" or a "swat," while the Red-blood is captain of the Eleven. At college, he is an "intellectual," while the Red-blood is in the "best set." In the world, he courts failure while the Red-blood achieves success. The Red-blood sees nothing; but the Mollycoddle sees through everything. The Red-blood joins societies; the Mollycoddle is a non-joiner. Individualist of individualists, he can only stand alone, while the Red-blood requires the support of a crowd. The Mollycoddle engenders ideas, and the Red-blood exploits them. The Mollycoddle discovers, and the Red-blood invents. The whole structure of civilisation rests on foundations laid by Mollycoddles; but all the building is done by Red-bloods. The Red-blood despises the Mollycoddle; but, in the long run, he does what the Mollycoddle tells him. The Mollycoddle also despises the Red-blood, but he cannot do without him. Each thinks he is master of the other, and, in a sense, each is right. In his lifetime the Mollycoddle may be the slave of the Red-blood; but after his death, he is his master, though the Red-blood know it not. Nations, like men, may be classified roughly as Red-blood and Mollycoddle. To the latter class belong clearly the ancient Greeks, the Italians, the French, and probably the Russians; to the former the Romans, the Germans, and the English. But the Red-blood nation _par excellence_ is the American; so that, in comparison with them, Europe as a whole might almost be called Mollycoddle. This characteristic of Americans is reflected in the predominant physical type,--the great jaw and chin, the huge teeth, and predatory mouth; in their speech, where beauty and distinction are sacrificed to force; in their need to live and feel and act in masses. To be born a Mollycoddle in America is to be born to a hard fate. You must either emigrate or succumb. This, at least, hitherto has been the alternative practised. Whether a Mollycoddle will ever be produced strong enough to breathe the American atmosphere and live, is a crucial question for the future. It is the question whether America will ever be civilised. For civilisation, you will have perceived, depends on a just balance of Red-bloods and Mollycoddles. Without the Red-blood there would be no life at all, no stuff, so to speak, for the Mollycoddle to work upon; without the Mollycoddle, the stuff would remain shapeless and chaotic. The Red-blood is the matter, the Mollycoddle the form; the Red-blood the dough, the Mollycoddle the yeast. On these two poles turns the orb of human society. And if, at this point, you choose to say that poles are points and have no dimensions, that strictly neither the Mollycoddle nor the Red-blood exist, and that real men contain elements of both mixed in different proportions, I have no quarrel with you except such as one has with the man who states the obvious. I am satisfied to have distinguished the ideal extremes between which the Actual vibrates. The detailed application of the conception I must leave to more patient researchers. One point more before I close. This Dichotomy, so far as I can see, applies only to man. Woman appears to be a kind of hybrid. Regarded as a creature of instinct, she resembles the Red-blood, and it is to him that she is first attracted. The hero of her youth is the athlete, the soldier, the successful man of business; and this predilection of hers accounts for much of human history, and in particular for the maintenance of the military spirit. On the other hand, as a creature capable of and craving sympathy, she has affinities with the Mollycoddle. This dual nature is the tragedy of her life. The Red-blood awakens her passion, but cannot satisfy it. He wins her by his virility, but cannot retain her by his perception. Hence the fact, noted by a cynic, that it is the Mollycoddle who cuckolds the Red-blood. For the woman, married to the Red-blood, discovers too late that she is to him only a trophy, a scalp. He hangs her up in the hall, and goes about his business. Then comes the Mollycoddle, divining all, possessing and offering all. And if the Red-blood is an American, and the Mollycoddle an European, then the situation is tense indeed. For the American Red-blood despises woman in his heart as profoundly as he respects her in outer observance. He despises her because of the Mollycoddle he divines in her. Therefore he never understands her; and that is why European Mollycoddles carry off American women before the very eyes of the exasperated Red-blood. "Am I not clean?" he cries. "Am I not healthy? Am I not athletic and efficient?" He is, but it does not help him, except with young girls. He may win the body; but he cannot win the soul. Can it be true then that most women would like two husbands, one Red-blood, the other Mollycoddle, one to be the father of their children, the other to be the companion of their souls? Women alone can answer; and, for the first time in history, they are beginning to be articulate. IX ADVERTISEMENT The last two days and nights I spent in a railway train. We passed through some beautiful country; that, I believe, is the fact; but my feeling is that I have emerged from a nightmare. In my mind is a jumbled vision of huge wooden cows cut out in profile and offering from dry udders a fibrous milk; of tins of biscuits portrayed with a ghastly realism of perspective, and mendaciously screaming that I needed them--U-need-a biscuit; of gigantic quakers, multiplied as in an interminable series of mirrors and offering me a myriad meals of indigestible oats; of huge painted bulls in a kind of discontinuous frieze bellowing to the heavens a challenge to produce a better tobacco than theirs; of the head of a gentleman, with pink cheeks and a black moustache, recurring, like a decimal, _ad infinitum_ on the top of a board, to inform me that his beauty is the product of his own toilet powder; of cod-fish without bones--"the kind you have always bought"; of bacon packed in glass jars; of whiz suspenders, sen-sen throat-ease, sure-fit hose, and the whole army of patent medicines. By river, wood, and meadow, hamlet or city, mountain or plain, hovers and flits this obscene host; never to be escaped from, never to be forgotten, fixing, with inexorable determination, a fancy that might be tempted to roam to that one fundamental fact of life, the operation of the bowels. Nor, of course, are these incubi, these ghostly emanations of the One God Trade, confined to the American continent. They haunt with equal pertinacity the lovelier landscapes of England; they line the route to Venice; they squat on the Alps and float on the Rhine; they are beginning to occupy the very air, and with the advent of the air-ship, will obliterate the moon and the stars, and scatter over every lonely moor and solitary mountain peak memorials of the stomach, of the liver and the lungs. Never, in effect, says modern business to the soul of man, never and nowhere shall you forget that you are nothing but a body; that you require to eat, to salivate, to digest, to evacuate; that you are liable to arthritis, blood-poisoning, catarrh, colitis, calvity, constipation, consumption, diarrhoea, diabetes, dysmenorrhoea, epilepsy, eczema, fatty degeneration, gout, goitre, gastritis, headache, hæmorrhage, hysteria, hypertrophy, idiocy, indigestion, jaundice, lockjaw, melancholia, neuralgia, ophthalmia, phthisis, quinsey, rheumatism, rickets, sciatica, syphilis, tonsilitis, tic doloureux, and so on to the end of the alphabet and back again to the beginning. Never and nowhere shall you forget that you are a trading animal, buying in the cheapest and selling in the dearest market. Never shall you forget that nothing matters--nothing in the whole universe--except the maintenance and extension of industry; that beauty, peace, harmony are not commercial values, and cannot be allowed for a moment to stand in the way of the advance of trade; that nothing, in short, matters except wealth, and that there is no wealth except money in the pocket. This--did it ever occur to you--is the real public education every country is giving, on every hoarding and sky-sign, to its citizens of every age, at every moment of their lives. And that being so, is it not a little ironical that children should be taught for half an hour in school to read a poem of Wordsworth or a play of Shakespeare, when for the rest of the twenty-four hours there is being photographed on their minds the ubiquitous literature of Owbridge and of Carter? But of course advertisement cannot be interfered with! It is the life-blood of the nation. All traders, all politicians, all journalists say so. They sometimes add that it is really, to an unprejudiced spirit, beautiful and elevating. Thus only this morning I came across an article in a leading New York newspaper, which remarks that: "The individual advertisement is commonly in good taste, both in legend and in illustration. Many are positively beautiful; and, as a wit has truly said, the cereal advertisements in the magazines are far more interesting than the serial stories." This latter statement I can easily believe; but when I read the former there flitted across my mind a picture of a lady lightly clad reclining asleep against an open window, a full moon rising in the distance over a lake, with the legend attached, "Cascarella--it works while you sleep." The article from which I have quoted is interesting not only as illustrating the diversity of taste, but as indicating the high degree of development which has now been attained by what is at once the art and the science of advertisement. "The study of advertisement," it begins, "seems to have a perennial charm for the American public. Hardly a month passes but some magazine finds a new and inviting phase of this modern art to lay before its readers. The solid literature of advertisement is also growing rapidly.... The technique of the subject is almost as extensive as that of scientific agriculture. Whole volumes have been compiled on the art of writing advertisements. Commercial schools and colleges devote courses of study to the subject. Indeed the corner-stone of the curriculum of a well-known business college is an elective upon 'Window-dressing.'" That you may be under no misapprehension, I must add that this article appears in what is admittedly the most serious and respectable of the New York newspapers; and that it is not conceived in the spirit of irony or hyperbole. To the American, advertisement is a serious, important, and elevating department of business, and those who make it their speciality endeavour to base their operations on a profound study of human nature. One of these gentlemen has expounded, in a book which has a wide circulation, the whole philosophy of his liberal profession. He calls the book "Imagination in Business";[4] and I remark incidentally that the use of the word "imagination," like that of "art," in this connection, shows where the inquirer ought to look for the manifestation, on this continent, of the æsthetic spirit. "The imaginative man," says the writer, "sends his thought through all the instincts, passions, and prejudices of men, he knows their desires and their regrets, he knows every human weakness and its sure decoy." It is this latter clause that is relevant to his theme. Poets in earlier ages wrote epics and dramas, they celebrated the strength and nobility of men; but the poet of the modern world "cleverly builds on the frailties of mankind." Of these the chief is "the inability to throw away an element of value, even though it cannot be utilised." On this great principle is constructed the whole art and science of advertisement. And my author proceeds to give a series of illustrations, "each of which is an actual fact, either in my experience, or of which I have been cognisant." Space and copyright forbid me to quote. I must refer the reader to the original source. Nowhere else will be found so lucid an expression of the whole theory and practice of modern trade. That theory and practice is being taught in schools of commerce throughout the Union; and there are many, I suppose, who would like to see it taught in English universities. But, really, does anyone--does any man of business--think it a better education than Greek? Footnotes: [Footnote 4: _Imagination in Business_ (Harper & Brothers).] X CULTURE Scene, a club in a Canadian city; persons, a professor, a doctor, a business man, and a traveller (myself). Wine, cigars, anecdotes; and suddenly, popping up, like a Jack-in-the-box absurdly crowned with ivy, the intolerable subject of education. I do not remember how it began; but I know there came a point at which, before I knew where I was, I found myself being assailed on the subject of Oxford and Cambridge. Not, however, in the way you may anticipate. Those ancient seats of learning were not denounced as fossilised, effete, and corrupt. On the contrary, I was pressed, urged, implored almost with tears in the eye--to reform them? No! to let them alone! "For heaven's sake, keep them as they are! You don't know what you've got, and what you might lose! We know! We've had to do without it! And we know that without it everything else is of no avail. We bluster and brag about education on this side of the Atlantic. But in our heart of hearts we know that we have missed the one thing needful, and that you, over in England, have got it." "And that one thing?" "Is Culture! Yes, in spite of Matthew Arnold, Culture, and Culture, and always Culture!" "Meaning by Culture?" "Meaning Aristotle instead of Agriculture, Homer instead of Hygiene, Shakespeare instead of the Stock Exchange, Bacon instead of Banking, Plato instead of Pædagogics! Meaning intellect before intelligence, thought before dexterity, discovery before invention! Meaning the only thing that is really practical, ideas; and the only thing that is really human, the Humanities!" Rather apologetically, I began to explain. At Oxford, I said, no doubt the Humanities still hold the first place. But at Cambridge they have long been relegated to the second or the third. There we have schools of Natural Science, of Economics, of Engineering, of Agriculture. We have even a Training College in Pædagogics. Their faces fell, and they renewed their passionate appeal. "Stop it," they cried. "For heaven's sake, stop it! In all those things we've got you skinned alive over here! If you want Agriculture go to Wisconsin! If you want Medicine, go to the Rockefeller Institute! If you want Engineering, go to Pittsburg! But preserve still for the English-speaking world what you alone can give! Preserve liberal culture! Preserve the Classics! Preserve Mathematics! Preserve the seed-ground of all practical inventions and appliances! Preserve the integrity of the human mind!" Interesting, is it not? These gentlemen, no doubt, were not typical Canadians. But they were not the least intelligent men I have met on this continent. And when they had finally landed me in my sleeping-berth in the train, and I was left to my own reflections in that most uncomfortable of all situations, I began to consider how odd it was that in matters educational we are always endeavouring to reform the only part of our system that excites the admiration of foreigners. I do not intend, however, to plunge into that controversy. The point that interests me is the view of my Canadian friends that in America there is no "culture." And, in the sense they gave to that term, I think they are right. There _is_ no culture in America. There is instruction; there is research; there is technical and professional training; there is specialisation in science and industry; there is every possible application of life, to purposes and ends; but there is no life for its own sake. Let me illustrate. It is, I have read, a maxim of American business that "a man is damned who knows two things." "He is almost a dilettante," it was said of a student, "he reads Dante and Shakespeare"! "The perfect professor," said a College President, "should be willing to work hard eleven months in the year." These are straws, if you like, but they show the way the wind blows. Again, you will find, if you travel long in America, that you are suffering from a kind of atrophy. You will not, at first, realise what it means. But suddenly it will flash upon you that you are suffering from lack of conversation. You do not converse; you cannot; you can only talk. It is the rarest thing to meet a man who, when a subject is started, is willing or able to follow it out into its ramifications, to play with it, to embroider it with pathos or with wit, to penetrate to its roots, to trace its connexions and affinities. Question and answer, anecdote and jest are the staple of American conversation; and, above all, information. They have a hunger for positive facts. And you may hear them hour after hour rehearsing to one another their travels, their business transactions, their experiences in trains, in hotels, on steamers, till you begin to feel you have no alternatives before you but murder or suicide. An American, broadly speaking, never detaches himself from experience. His mind is embedded in it; it moves wedged in fact. His only escape is into humour; and even his humour is but a formula of exaggeration. It implies no imagination, no real envisaging of its object. It does not illuminate a subject, it extinguishes it, clamping upon every topic the same grotesque mould. That is why it does not really much amuse the English. For the English are accustomed to Shakespeare, and to the London cabby. This may serve to indicate what I mean by lack of culture. I admit, of course, that neither are the English cultured. But they have culture among them. They do not, of course, value it; the Americans, for aught I know, value it more; but they produce it, and the Americans do not. I have visited many of their colleges and universities, and everywhere, except perhaps at Harvard--unless my impressions are very much at fault--I have found the same atmosphere. It is the atmosphere known as the "Yale spirit," and it is very like that of an English Public School. It is virile, athletic, gregarious, all-penetrating, all-embracing. It turns out the whole university to sing rhythmic songs and shout rhythmic cries at football matches. It praises action and sniffs at speculation. It exalts morals and depresses intellect. It suspects the solitary person, the dreamer, the loafer, the poet, the prig. This atmosphere, of course, exists in English universities. It is imported there from the Public Schools. But it is not all-pervading. Individuals and cliques escape. And it is those who escape that acquire culture. In America, no one escapes, or they are too few to count. I know Americans of culture, know and love them; but I feel them to be lost in the sea of philistinism. They cannot draw together, as in England, and leaven the lump. The lump is bigger, and they are fewer. All the more honour to them; and all the more loss to America. Whether, from all this, any conclusion is to be drawn about the proper policy to be pursued at our universities, is a question I will not here discuss. Culture, I think, is one of those precious things that are achieved by accident, and by accident may be destroyed. The things we do to maintain it might kill it; the things we do to kill it might preserve it. My Canadian friends may be quite wrong in their diagnosis of the causes that engender or destroy it. But they are right in their sense of its importance; and it will be an interesting result of imperial unity if we find, to our astonishment, that the Dominions beyond the seas rally round exactly those things in England which we expect them to declare effete. The Rhodes scholars go to Oxford, not to Birmingham or Liverpool. And it is Cambridge that peoples the universities of the Empire with professors. XI ANTÆUS I saw to-day some really remarkable landscapes by an American artist. So, at least, they seem to me. They have, at any rate, a quality of imagination which one does not expect to find in this country. "One does not expect"--why not? Why, in this respect, is America, as undoubtedly she is, so sterile? Artists must be born here as much as elsewhere. American civilisation, it is true, repels men of reflection and sensitiveness, just as it attracts men of action; so that, as far as immigration is concerned, there is probably a selection working against the artistic type. But, on the other hand, men of action often produce sons with a genius for the arts; and it is to be supposed that they do so as much in America as elsewhere. It must be the environment that is unfavourable. Artists and poets belong to the genus I have named "Mollycoddle"; and in America the Mollycoddle is hardly allowed to breathe. Nowhere on that continent, so far as I have been able to see, is there to be found a class or a clique of men, respected by others and respecting themselves, who also respect not merely art but the artistic calling. Broadly, business is the only respectable pursuit; including under business Politics and Law, which in this country are only departments of business. Business holds the place in popular esteem that is held by arms in Germany, by letters in France, by Public Life in England. The man therefore whose bent is towards the arts meets no encouragement; he meets everywhere the reverse. His father, his uncles, his brothers, his cousins, all are in business. Business is the only virile pursuit for people of education and means, who cannot well become chauffeurs. There is, no doubt, the professorial career; but that, it is agreed, is adopted only by men of "no ambition." Americans believe in education, but they do not believe in educators. There is no money to be made in that profession, and the making of money is the test of character. The born poet or artist is thus handicapped to a point which may easily discourage him from running at all. At the best, he emigrates to Europe, and his achievement is credited to that continent. Or, remaining in America, he succumbs to the environment, puts aside his creative ambition, and enters business. It is not for nothing that Americans are the most active people in the world. They pay the penalty in an atrophy of the faculties of reflection and representation. Things are different in Europe, and even in England. There, not only are artists and men of letters honoured when they are successful--they are, of course, honoured at that stage in America; but the pursuit of literature and art is one which a young man need not feel it discreditable to adopt. The contemporaries of a brilliant youth at Oxford or at Cambridge do not secretly despise him if he declines to enter business. The first-class man does not normally aspire to start life as a drummer. Public life and the Church offer honourable careers; and both of them have traditional affinities with literature. So has the Law, still in England a profession and not a trade. One may even be a don or a schoolmaster without serious discredit. Under these conditions a young man can escape from the stifling pressure of the business point of view. He can find societies like-minded with himself, equally indifferent to the ideal of success in business, equally inspired by intellectual or æsthetic ambitions. He can choose to be poor without feeling that he will therefore become despicable. The attitude of the business classes in England, no doubt, is much the same as that of the business classes in America. But in England there are other classes and other traditions, havens of refuge from the prevalent commercialism. In America the trade-wind blows broad, steady, universal over the length and breadth of the continent. This, I believe, is one reason for the sterility of America in Art. But it is not the only one. Literature and Art in Europe rest on a long tradition which has not only produced books and pictures, but has left its mark on the language, the manners, the ideas, the architecture, the physical features of the country. The books and the pictures can be transplanted, but the rest cannot. Thus, even though in every art the technical tradition has been interrupted, there remains in Europe what I will call the tradition of feeling; and it is this that is absent in America. Art in Europe is rooted; and there still persists into the present something of the spirit which fostered it in the past. Not only is Nature beautiful, she is humanised by the works of Man. Politics are mellowed by history, business tempered by culture. Classes are more segregated, types more distinct, ideals and aims more varied. The ghost of a spiritual life still hovers over the natural, shadowing it with the beat of solemn wings. There are finer overtones for a sensitive ear to catch; rainbow hues where the spray of life goes up. All this, it is true, is disappearing in Europe; but in America it has never existed. A sensitive European, travelling there, feels at once starved and flayed. Nothing nourishes, and everything hurts. There is natural beauty, but it has not been crowned and perfected by the hand of man. Whatever he has touched he has touched only to defile. There is one pursuit, commerce; one type, the business man; one ideal, that of increasing wealth. Monotony of talk, monotony of ideas, monotony of aim, monotony of outlook on the world. America is industrialism pure and simple; Europe is industrialism superimposed on feudalism; and, for the arts, the difference is vital. But the difference is disappearing. Not that America is becoming like Europe, but Europe is becoming like America. This is not a case of the imitation that is a form of flattery; it is a case of similar causes producing similar results. The disease--or shall we say, to use a neutral term--the diathesis of commercialism found in America an open field and swept through it like a fire. In Europe, its course was hampered by the structures of an earlier civilisation. But it is spreading none the less surely. And the question arises--In the future, when the European environment is as unfavourable to Art as the American, will there be, in the West, any Art at all? I do not know; no one knows; but there is this to remark. What I am calling commercialism is the infancy, not the maturity of a civilisation. The revolution in morals, in manners, and in political and social institutions which must accompany the revolution in industry, has hardly yet begun its course. It has gone further in Europe than in America; so that, oddly enough, Europe is at once behind and in front of this continent, overlaps it, so to speak, at both ends. But it has not gone very far even in Europe; and for generations, I conceive, political and social issues will draw away much of the creative talent that might have been available for Art. In the end, one may suppose, something like a stable order will arise; an order, that is, in which people will feel that their institutions correspond sufficiently with their inner life, and will be able to devote themselves with a free mind to reflecting their civilisation in Art. But will their civilisation be of a kind to invite such reflection? It will be, if the present movement is not altogether abortive, a civilisation of security, equity, and peace; where there is no indigence, no war, and comparatively little disease. Such society, certainly, will not offer a field for much of the kind of Art that has been or is now being produced. The primitive folk-song, the epic of war, the novel or play inspired by social strife, will have passed irrecoverably away. And more than that, it is sometimes urged, there will be such a dearth of those tense moments which alone engender the artistic mood, that Art of any kind will have become impossible. If that were true, it would not, in my opinion, condemn the society. Art is important, but there are things more important; and among those things are justice and peace. I do not, however, accept the view that a peaceable and just society would necessarily also be one that is uninspired. That view seems to me to proceed from our incurable materialism. We think there is no conflict except with arms; no rivalry except for bread; no aspiration except for money and rank. It is my own belief that the removal of the causes of the material strife in which most men are now plunged would liberate the energies for spiritual conflict; that the passion to know, the passion to feel, the passion to love, would begin at last to take their proper place in human life; and would engender the forms of Art appropriate to their expression. To return to America, what I am driving at is this. America may have an Art, and a great Art. But it will be after she has had her social revolution. Her Art has first to touch ground; and before it can do that, the ground must be fit for it to touch. It was not till the tenth century that the seed of Mediæval Art could be sown; it was not till the thirteenth that the flower bloomed. So now, our civilisation is not ripe for its own Art. What America imports from Europe is useless to her. It is torn from its roots; and it is idle to replant it; it will not grow. There must be a native growth, not so much of America, as of the modern era. That growth America, like Europe, must will. She has her prophet of it, Walt Whitman. In the coming centuries it is her work to make his vision real. CONCLUDING ESSAY The preceding pages were written in the course of travel and convey the impressions and reflections of the moment. Whatever interest they may have depends upon this immediacy, and for that reason I have reprinted them substantially as they first appeared. Perhaps, however, some concluding reflections of a more considered nature may be of some interest to my readers. I do not advance them in a dogmatic spirit nor as final judgments, but as the first tentative results of my gropings into a large and complicated subject. I will ask the reader, therefore, be he Western or Oriental, to follow me in a spirit at once critical and sympathetic, challenging my suggestions as much as he will, but rather as a fellow-seeker than as an opponent bent upon refutation. For I am trying to comprehend rather than to judge, and to comprehend as impartially as is compatible with having an attitude of one's own at all. Ever since Mr. Rudyard Kipling wrote a famous line it has become a commonplace of popular thought in England and America that there is an East and a West, and an impassable gulf between them. But Mr. Kipling was thinking of India, and India is not all the East: he was thinking of England, and England is not all the West. As soon as one approaches the question more particularly it becomes a complicated matter to decide whether there is really an East and a West, and what either stands for. That there is a West, in a real sense, with a unity of its own, is, I think, true. But it must be limited in time to the last two centuries, and in space to the countries of Western Europe and the continent of America. So understood, the West forms, in all the most important respects, a homogeneous system. True, it is divided into different nations, speaking different languages, and pursuing different, and often conflicting, policies; and these distinctions are still so important, that they colour our fears and hopes and sympathies, and take form in the burden of armaments and the menace of war. Nevertheless, seen in the perspective of history, they are survivals, atrophying and disappearing. Behind and despite of them there is a common Western mind and a common Western organisation. Finance is cosmopolitan; industry is cosmopolitan; trade is cosmopolitan. There is one scientific method, and the results achieved by it are common. There is one system of industry, that known as Capitalism; and the problems arising from it and the solutions propounded appear alike in every nation. There is one political tendency, or fact, that of popular government. There are cognate aims and similar achievements in literature and art. There is, in brief, a Western movement, a Western problem, a Western mentality; and the particular happenings of particular nations are all parts of this one happening. Nor is this all. There is in the West a common religion. I do not refer to Christianity, for the religion I mean is held by hundreds and thousands who are not Christians, and indeed does not very readily find in Christianity an expression at once coherent and pure. It has not been formulated in a creed; but it is to be felt and heard in all the serious work and all the serious thought of the West. It is the religion of Good and Evil, of Time and the process in Time. If it tried to draw up a confession of faith perhaps it would produce, as its first attempt, something of this kind:-- "I believe in the ultimate distinction between Good and Evil, and in a real process in a real Time. I believe it to be my duty to increase Good and diminish Evil; I believe that in doing this I am serving the purpose of the world. I know this; I do not know anything else; and I am reluctant to put questions to which I have no answer, and to which I do not believe that anyone has an answer. Action, as defined above, is my creed. Speculation weakens action. I do not wish to speculate, I wish to live. And I believe the true life to be the life I have described." In saying that this is the real creed of the modern Western man I do not pretend that he always knows or would admit it to be so. But if his actions, his words, and his thoughts be sympathetically interpreted, where all are at their best, I think they will be found to imply something of this kind. And this attitude I call religious, not merely ethical, because of its conviction that the impulse towards Good is of the essence of the World, not only of men, or of Man. To believe this is an act of faith, not of reason; though it is not contrary to reason, as no faith should be or long can be. Many men do _not_ believe it, for many are not religious; others, while believing it, may believe also many other things. But it is the irreducible minimum of religion in the modern West, the justification of our life, the faith of our works. I call it the Religion of Time, and distinguish it thus from the Religion of Eternity. In this sense, then, this profound sense, of a common aim and a common motive, there is really a West. Is there also an East? That is not so clear. In some important respects, no doubt, the Eastern civilisations are alike. They are still predominantly agricultural. Their industry is manual not mechanical. Their social unit is the extended family. To travel in the East is to realise that life on the soil and in the village is there still the normal life, as it has been almost everywhere and always, throughout civilisation, until the last century in the West. But though there is thus in the East a common way of life, there is not a common organisation nor a common spirit. Economically, the great Eastern countries are still independent of one another. Each lives for the most part by and on itself. And their intellectual and spiritual intercourse is now (though it was not in the past) as negligible as their economic commerce. The influence that is beginning to be strong upon them all is that of Western culture; and if they become alike in their outlook on life, it will be by assimilating that. But, at present, they are not alike. It is easy, in this matter, to be deceived by the outward forms of religion. Because Buddhism originated in India and spread to China and Japan, because Japan took Confucian ideals from China, it is natural to conclude that there is a common religious spirit throughout the East, or the Far East. But one might as reasonably infer that the spirit of the christianised Teutons was the same as that of the Jews or of the Christians in the East. Nations borrow religions, but they shape them according to their own genius. And if I am not very much mistaken the outlook of India is, and always has been, radically distinct from and even opposed to that of China or Japan. These latter countries, indeed, I believe, are far closer to the West than they are to India. Let me explain. India is the true origin and home of what I have called the religion of Eternity. That idea seems to have gone out from her to the rest of the world. But nowhere else was it received with equal purity and passion. Elsewhere than in India the claims of Time were predominant. In India they have been subordinate. This, no doubt, is a matter of emphasis. No society, as a whole, could believe and act upon the belief that activity in Time is simply waste of time, and absorption in the Eternal the direct and immediate object of life. Such a view, acted upon, would bring the society quickly to an end. It would mean that the very physical instinct to live was extinguished. But, as the Eternal was first conceived by the amazing originality of India, so the passion to realise it here and now has been the motive of her saints from the date of the Upanishads to the twentieth century. And the method of realisation proposed and attempted has not been the living of the temporal life in a particular spirit, it has been the transcending of it by a special experience. Indian saints have always believed that by meditation and ascetic discipline, by abstaining from active life and all its claims, and cultivating solitude and mortification, they could reach by a direct experience union with the Infinite. This is as true of the latest as of the earliest saints, if and so far as Western influences have been excluded. Let me illustrate from the words of Sri Ramakrishna, one of the most typical of Indian saints, who died late in the nineteenth century. First, for the claim to pass directly into union with the Eternal: "I do see that Being as a Reality before my very eyes! Why then should I reason? I do actually see that it is the Absolute Who has become all these things about us; it is He who appears as the finite soul and the phenomenal world. One must have such an awakening of the Spirit within to see this Reality.... Spiritual awakening must be followed by Samadhi. In this state one forgets that one has a body; one loses all attachment to things of this world."[5] And let it not be supposed that this state called Samadhi is merely one of intense meditation. It is something much more abnormal, or super-normal, than this. The book from which I am quoting contains many accounts of its effects upon Sri Ramakrishna. Here is one of them: "He is now in a state of Samadhi, the superconscious or God-conscious state. The body is again motionless. The eyes are again fixed! The boys only a moment ago were laughing and making merry! Now they all look grave. Their eyes are steadfastly fixed on the master's face. They marvel at the wonderful change that has come over him. It takes him long to come back to the sense world. His limbs now begin to lose their stiffness. His face beams with smiles, the organs of sense begin to come back each to its own work. Tears of joy stand at the corners of his eyes. He chants the sacred name of Rama."[6] The object, then, of this saint, and one he claims to have attained, is to come into union with the Infinite by a process which removes him altogether from contact with this world and from all possibility of action in it. This world, in fact, is to him, as to all Indian saints and most Indian philosophers, phenomenal and unreal. Of the speculative problems raised by this conception I need not speak here. But it belongs to my purpose to bring out its bearing upon conduct. All conduct depends upon the conception of Good and Evil. Anti-moralists, like Nietzsche, assume and require these ideas, just as much as moralists; they merely attempt to give them a new content. If conduct is to have any meaning, Good and Evil must be real in a real world. If they are held to be appearances conduct becomes absurd. What now is Sri Ramakrishna's view of this matter? The whole life that we Western men call real is to him a mere game played by and for the sake of God, or, to use his phrase, of the Divine Mother. For her pleasure she keeps men bound to Time, instead of free in Eternity. For her pleasure, therefore, she creates and maintains Evil. I quote the passage: "My Divine Mother is always in Her sportive mood. The world, indeed, is Her toy. She will have Her own way. It is Her pleasure to take out of the prisonhouse and set free only one or two among a hundred thousand of her children! "_A Brahmo_: Sir, She can if She pleases set everybody free. Why is it then, that She has bound us hand and foot with the chains of the world? "_Sri Ramakrishna_: Well, I suppose it is her pleasure. It is her pleasure to go on with Her sport with all these beings that She has brought into existence. The player amongst the children that touches the person of the Grand-dame, the same need no longer run about. He cannot take any further part in the exciting play of Hide and Seek that goes on. "The others who have not touched the goal must run about and play to the great delight of the Grand-dame."[7] Thus the Indian saint. Let us now try to bring his conception into relation with what we in the West believe to be real experience. In a railway accident a driver is pinned against the furnace and slowly burned to death, praying the bystanders in vain to put him out of his misery. What is this? It is the sport of God! In Putumayo innocent natives are deprived of their land, enslaved, tortured, and murdered, that shareholders in Europe may receive high dividends. What is this? The sport of God! In the richest countries of the West a great proportion of those who produce the wealth receive less than the wages which would suffice to keep them in bare physical health. What is this? Once more the sport of God! One might multiply examples, but it would be idle. No Western man could for a moment entertain the view of Sri Ramakrishna. To him such a God would be a mere devil. The Indian position, no doubt, is a form of idealism; but an idealism conditioned by defective experience of the life in Time. The saint has chosen another experience. But clearly he has not transcended ours, he has simply left it out. Now I am aware that it will be urged by some of the most sincere representatives of religion in India that Sri Ramakrishna does not typify the Indian attitude. Perhaps not, if we take contemporary India. But then contemporary India has been profoundly influenced by Western thought; modern Indians like Raja Ram Mohan Roy, Keshub Chunder Sen, Rabindranath Tagore, could hardly have thought and felt as they did, and do, were it not for this influence. The following poem of Rabindranath Tagore may aptly symbolise this breaking in of the West upon the East, though I do not know that that was the author's intention: "With days of hard travail I raised a temple. It had no doors or windows, its walls were thickly built with massive stones. I forgot all else, I shunned all the world, I gazed in rapt contemplation at the image I had set upon the altar. It was always night inside, and lit by the lamps of perfumed oil. The ceaseless smoke of incense wound my heart in its heavy coils. Sleepless, I carved on the walls fantastic figures in mazy bewildering lines--winged horses, flowers with human faces, women with limbs like serpents. No passage was left anywhere through which could enter the song of birds, the murmur of leaves, or the hum of the busy village. The only sound that echoed in its dark dome was that of incantations which I chanted. My mind became keen and still like a pointed flame, my senses swooned in ecstasy. I knew not how time passed till the thunderstone had struck the temple, and a pain stung me through the heart. The lamp looked pale and ashamed; the carvings on the walls, like chained dreams, stared meaningless in the light, as they would fain hide themselves. I looked at the image on the altar. I saw it smiling and alive with the living touch of God. The night I had imprisoned spread its wings and vanished."[8] The closed temple, I believe, is a true image of the spiritual life of India, if not at all times, at any rate for many centuries previous to the advent of the English. Everything seems to point to this--the symbolic character of Indian art; the absence of history and the prevalence of religious legend; the cult of the fakir and the wandering ascetic. In India one feels religion as one feels it nowhere else, unless it were in Russia. But the religion one feels is peculiar. It is the religion that denies the value of experience in Time. It is the religion of the Eternal. But, it will be urged, how can that be, when India continues to produce her teeming millions; when these perforce live their brief lives in a constant and often vain struggle for a bare livelihood; when, in order to live at all, it is necessary at every point to be straining vitality in the pursuit of temporal goods or the avoidance of temporal evils? I make no attempt to disguise or to weaken this paradox. But I suggest that it is but one of the many paradoxes set up by the conflict between men's instinct for life and their conscious beliefs. Indians live not because they believe in life, but because they cannot help it. Their hold on life is certainly less than that of Western men. Thus I have been told by administrators of famine relief or of precautions against plague, that what they have to contend with is not so much the resistance as the indifference of the population. "Why worry us?" they say, in effect; "life is not worth the trouble. Let us die and be rid of it." Life is an evil, that is the root feeling of India; and the escape is either, for the mass, by death; or for the men of spiritual genius, by a flight to the Eternal. How this attitude has arisen I do not here seek to determine; race, climate, social and political conditions, all no doubt have played their part. The spiritual attitude is probably an effect, rather than a cause, of an enfeebled grip on life. But no one, I think, who knows India, would dispute that this attitude is a fact; and it is a fact that distinguishes India not only from the West but from the Far East. For China and Japan, though they have had, and to a less extent still have, religion, are not, in the Indian sense, religious. The Chinese, in particular, strike one as secular and practical; quite as secular and practical as the English. They have had Buddhism, as we have had Christianity; but no one who can perceive and understand would say that their outlook is determined by Buddhism, any more than ours is by Christianity. It is Confucianism that expresses the Chinese attitude to life, whenever the Chinese soul, becoming aware of itself, looks out from the forest of animistic beliefs in which the mass of the people wander. And Confucianism is perhaps the best and purest expression of the practical reason that has ever been formulated. Family duty, social duty, political duty, these are the things on which it lays stress. And when the Chinese spirit seeks escape from these primary preoccupations, it finds its freedom in an art that is closer to the world of fact, imaginatively conceived, than that of any other race. Chinese art purifies itself from symbolism to become interpretation; whereas in India the ocean of symbolism never ceases to roll over the drowning surface of the phenomenal world. Chinese literature, again, has this same hold upon life. It is such as Romans or Englishmen, if equally gifted, might have written. Much of it, indeed, is stupidly and tediously didactic. But where it escapes into poetry it is a poetry like Wordsworth's, revealing the beauty of actual things, rather than weaving across them an embroidery of subjective emotions The outlook of China is essentially the outlook of the West, only more sane, more reasonable, more leisured and dignified. Positivism and Humanity, the dominant forms of thought and feeling in the West, have controlled Chinese civilisation for centuries. The Chinese have built differently from ourselves and on a smaller scale, with less violence and less power; but they have built on the same foundations. And Japan, too, at bottom is secular. Her true religion is that of the Emperor and his divine ancestors. Her strongest passion is patriotism. A Japanese, like an Indian, is always ready to die. But he dies for the splendours and glories of this world of sense. It is not because he has so little hold on life, but because he has so much, that he so readily throws it away. The Japanese are unlike the Chinese and unlike the Europeans and Americans; but their outlook is similar. They believe in the world of time and change; and because of this attitude, they and the rest of the world stand together like a mountain in the sun, contemplating uneasily that other mysterious peak, shrouded in mist, which is India. The reader by this time will have grasped the point I am trying to put. There are in Man two religious impulses, or, if the expression be preferred, two aspects of the religious impulse. I have called them the religion of the Eternal and the religion of Time; and India I suggest stands pre-eminently for the one, the West for the other, while the other countries of the East rank rather with the West than with India. It is not necessary to my purpose to exaggerate this antithesis. I will say, if it be preferred, that in India the emphasis is on the Eternal, in the West on Time. But that much at least must be said and is plainly true. Now, as between these two attitudes, I find myself quite clearly and definitely on the side of the West. I have said in the preceding pages hard things about Western civilisation. I hate many of its manifestations, I am out of sympathy with many of its purposes. I can see no point, for instance, in the discovery of the north or the south pole, and very little in the invention of aeroplanes; while gramophones, machine guns, advertisements, cinematographs, submarines, dreadnoughts, cosmopolitan hotels, seem to me merely fatuous or sheerly disastrous. But what lies behind all this, the tenacity, the courage, the spirit of adventure, this it is that is the great contribution of the West. It is not the aeroplane that is valuable; probably it will never be anything but pernicious, for its main use is likely to be for war. But the fact that men so lightly risk their lives to perfect it, _that_ is valuable. The West is adventurous; and, what is more, it is adventurous on a quest. For behind and beyond all its fatuities, confusions, crimes, lies, as the justification of it all, that deep determination to secure a society more just and more humane which inspires all men and all movements that are worth considering at all, and, to those who can understand, gives greatness and significance even to some of our most reckless enterprises. We are living very "dangerously"; all the forces are loose, those of destruction as well as those of creation; but we are living towards something; we are living with the religion of Time. So far, I daresay, most Western men will agree with me in the main. But they may say, some of them, as the Indian will certainly say, "Is that all? Have you no place for the Eternal and the Infinite?" To this I must reply that I think it clear and indisputable that the religion of the Eternal, as interpreted by Sri Ramakrishna, is altogether incompatible with the religion of Time. And the position of Sri Ramakrishna, I have urged, is that of most Indian, and as I think, of most Western mystics. Not, however, of all, and not of all modern mystics, even in India. Rabindranath Tagore, for example, in his "Sádhana," has put forward a mysticism which does, at least, endeavour to allow for and include what I have called the religion of Time. To him, and to other mystics of real experience, I must leave the attempt to reconcile Eternity and Time. For my own part, I can only approach the question from the point of view of Time, and endeavour to discover and realise the most that can be truly said by one who starts with the belief that that is real. The profoundest prophets of the religion of Time are, in my judgment, Goethe and George Meredith; and from them, and from others, and from my own small experience, I seem to have learned this: the importance of that process in Time in whose reality we believe does not lie merely in the bettering of the material and social environment, though we hold the importance of that to be great; it lies in the development of souls. And that development consists in a constant expansion of interest away from and beyond one's own immediate interests out into the activities of the world at large. Such expansion may be pursued in practical life, in art, in science, in contemplation, so long as the contemplation is of the real processes of the real world in time. To that expansion I see no limit except death. And I do not know what comes after death. But I am clear that whatever comes after, the command of Life is the same--to expand out of oneself into the life of the world. This command--I should rather say this impulse--seems to me absolute, the one certain thing on which everything else must build. I think it enough for religion, in the case at least of those who have got beyond the infant need for certitudes and dogmas. These perhaps are few; yet they may be really more numerous than appears. And on the increase in their numbers, and the intensity of their conviction and their life, the fate of the world seems to me to depend. Footnotes: [Footnote 5: _Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna_, second edition, Part 1., p. 310.] [Footnote 6: _Ibid._, p. 61.] [Footnote 7: _Gospel of Sri Ramakrishna_, second edition, Part 1., p. 145.] [Footnote 8: _The Gardener_, p. 125.] Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO. at Paul's Work, Edinburgh BOOKS ON THE EAST THE CIVILISATION OF THE EAST. By Dr. FRITZ HOMMEL. Illustrations and Map. Pott 8vo, with Frontispiece, 1s. net. _JAPAN_--THE LIFE AND THOUGHT OF JAPAN. By OKAKURA-YOSHISAURO. Illustrated. 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THE GODS OF INDIA. By E. OSBORN MARTIN. With 60 Illustrations from Photographs specially taken. Small crown 8vo, 4s. 6d. net. J. M. DENT & SONS, LTD., LONDON TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: Pg. 168, added closing single quote mark for clarity. In this case it serves to close a quote within a quote. (speak.'" You can now) Footnote 3, in the original text, the English translation of Dante's poem did not preserve the line breaks in each stanza. The original appearance has been retained. Footnote 3, the reference is given as Dante's "Purgatorio". In actual fact the lines of verse come from Dante's "Paradiso". The author's original text has been retained. Pg. 184 and 191, line of verse beginning "My son, the good you....". In the original text, the fifth word was an abbreviation comprising a "y" and a superscript "o". This is presumed to represent "you" and has been expanded as such for readability. Pg. 192, "poeple" changed to "people". (property of the American poeple.) 
12320	----	[Transcriber's note: The typographical errors of the original are preserved in this etext.] CIVILIZATION AND BEYOND Learning From History By Scott Nearing This book is not copyrighted. It may be reproduced by anybody and distributed in any quantity as a whole. It should not be summarized, abbreviated, garbled or chopped into out-of-context fragments. Social Science Institute, Harborside, Maine August 1975 TABLE OF CONTENTS Preface INTRODUCTION: Thoughts about History and Civilization PART I _The Pageant of Experiments with Civilization_ 1. Experiments in Egypt and Eurasia 2. Rome's Outstanding Experiment 3. The Origins of Western Civilization 4. The Life Cycle of Western Civilization 5. Features Common to Civilizations PART II _A Social Analysis of Civilization_ 6. The Politics of Civilization 7. The Economics of Civilization 8. The Sociology of Civilization 9. Ideologies of Civilization PART III _Civilization Is Becoming Obsolete_ 10. World-wide Revolution Disrupts Civilization 11. Western Civilization Attempts Suicide 12. Talking Peace and Waging War PART IV _Steps Beyond Civilization_ 13. Ten Building Blocks for a New World 14. Moving Toward World Federation 15. Integrating a World Economy 16. Conserving our Natural Environment 17. Re-vamping the Social Life of the Planet 18. Man Could Change Human Nature 19. Man Could Break Out of the Age-Long Prison-House of Civilization and Enter a New World PREFACE LEARNING FROM HISTORY Human history may be viewed from various angles. The easiest history to write concerns the doings of a few well known people and their involvement in some memorable events. History may also concern itself with inventions and discoveries: the use of fire, of the wheel or smelting metals. It may center around sources of food, means of shelter, or the making of records. It may be concerned with the construction and decoration of cities, kingdoms and empires. Social history enters the picture with travel, transportation, communication, trade. Human beings group themselves in families, clans and tribes, in voluntary associations; they compete, plunder, conquer, enslave, exploit; they co-operate for construction and destruction. Political history is but one aspect of man's group contacts and group projects. There have been histories of particular civilizations and of civilization as a field of historical research. With minor exceptions none of the authors that I have consulted has attempted an analytical treatment of civilization as a sociological phenemenon. Scientists start from hunches, examine available data, advance tentative conclusions, test them in the light of wider observations, and round out their research by formulating general principles or "laws." This scientific approach has been used in many fields of observation and study. I am applying the formula to one aspect of social history: the appearance, development, maturity, decline and disappearance of the vast co-ordinations of collective, experimental human effort called civilizations. "Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, where are they?" asked Byron. He might have added: "What were they? How did they come into being? What was the nature of their experience? Why did they rise from small beginnings, develop into wide-spread colossal complexes of wealth and power, and then, after longer or shorter periods of existence, break up and disappear from the stage of social history?" Such questions are far removed from the lives of people who are busy with everyday affairs. In one sense they _are_ remote; in the larger picture, however, they are of vital concern to anyone and everyone now living in civilized communities. If Assyrians, Egyptians, Greeks, Romans and Carthaginians built extensive empires and massive civilizations that flourished for a time, then broke up and disappeared, are we to follow blindly and unthinkingly in their footsteps? Or do we study their experiences, benefit from their successes and learn from their mistakes? Can we not take lessons out of their voluminous notebooks, avoid their blunders and direct our own feet along paths that fulfil our lives at the same time that they meet the widespread demand for survival and well-being? Civilization has been extensively experimental. Several thousand years, during which civilizations have appeared, disappeared and reappeared, have been too brief to establish and stabilize a hard and fast social pattern. As the complexity of civilizations has increased, variations and deviations have grown in number and intensity. With the advent of western civilization a culture pattern is being put together which differs widely from its predecessors. All civilized peoples seem to have developed from simple beginnings and experimented with broader and more complicated life styles. In western civilization the number of experiments has increased and the span of their deviations seems to have broadened. Under the circumstances an analysis of civilization must take for granted not only social change but the development of, human society along lines which link up the outstanding structural and functional ideas, institutions and practices of successive civilizations. I propose in this inquiry to state certain accepted facts from the history of civilizations and of contemporary experience. I also propose to analyze the facts and generalize them in such a way that the results of the study may provide an understanding of the human social past, together with some guide-lines that will prove useful in the formulation and implementation of the present-day policy and procedure of civilized peoples, nations, empires and of the western civilization. This book is not a popular treatise, nor is it a textbook. Rather. it is an attempt to summarize an area of critical human concern. Academia may not use such material: nevertheless it should be available to students and administrators who must plan and direct the social future of humankind. _Civilization and Beyond_ rounds out a series of studies that I began in 1928 with _Where Is Civilization Going_? The series has extended through _The Twilight of Empire_ (1930), _War_ (1931) and _The Tragedy of Empire_ (1946). Up to 1914 my field of study was confined largely to the economics of distribution. The war of 1914-18 pushed me rudely and decisively into the broader field. I have described the process in my political autobiography: _Making of a Radical_ (1971). I hope that this study will provide a useful link in the chain of material dealing with the structure and function of man's social environment, leading directly into an action program that will conclude the preservation and loving economical use of nature's rich gifts and the dedication of thousands of young aspiring men and women to the good life here, now and indefinitely, into a bright, productive and creative future. As of this date seven publishers have examined the manuscript of this work and declined to publish it. All felt that it would not find any considerable reading public. Nevertheless, I feel that the work should be printed and distributed because it carries a message that may be of first rate importance to the future of my fellow humans. Scott Nearing. Harborside, Maine May 5, 1975 INTRODUCTION THOUGHTS ABOUT HISTORY AND CIVILIZATION We may think and talk about civilization as one pattern or level of culture, one stage through which human life flows and ebbs. In that sense we may regard it abstractly and historically, as we regard the most recent ice age or the long and painful record of large-scale chattel slavery. From quite another viewpoint we may think of civilization as a technologically advanced way of life developed by various peoples through ages of unrecorded experiment and experience, and followed by millions during the period of written history. It is also the way of life that the West has been trying to impose upon the entire human family since European empires launched their crusade to westernize, modernize and civilize the planet Earth. A third approach would regard civilization as an evolving life style, conceived before the earliest days of recorded human history and matured through the series of experiments marking the development of civilization as we have known it during the five centuries from 1450 to 1975. Thinking in terms of this age-old experience, with six or more thousand years of social history as a background, it is possible to give a fairly exact meaning to the word "civilization" as it has been lived and is being lived by the present-day West. It is also possible to understand the history of previous civilizations in cycle after cycle of their rise, their development, decline and extinction. At the same time it will enable the reader to recognize the relationship (and difference) between the words "culture" and "civilization". Human culture is the sum total of ideas, relationships, artifacts, institutions, purposes and ideals currently functioning in any community. Three elements are present in each human society: man, nature and the social structure. Human culture at any point in its history is the social structure: the aggregate of existing culture traits, the products of man's ingenuity, inventiveness and experimentation, set in their natural environment. Civilization is a level of culture built upon foundations laid down through long periods of pre-civilized living. These foundations consist of artifacts, implements, customs, habit patterns and institutions produced and developed in numerous scattered localities by groups of food-gatherers, migrating herdsmen, cultivators, hand craftsmen and traders and eventually in urban communities built around centers of wealth and power: the cities which are the nuclei of every civilization. Urban centers, housing trade, commerce, fabrication and finance, with their hinterlands of food-gatherers, herdsmen, cultivators, craftsmen and transporters, are the nuclei around which and upon which recurring civilizations are built. Within and around these urban centers there grows up a complex of associations, activities, institutions and ideas designed to promote, develop and defend the particular life pattern. A civilization is a cluster of peoples, nations and empires so related in time and space that they share certain ideas, practices, institutions and means of procedure and survival. Among these features of a civilized community we may list: (1) means of communication, record-keeping, transportation and trade. This would include a spoken language, a method of enumeration, writing in pictographs or symbols; an alphabet, a written language, inscribed on stone, bone, wood, parchment, paper; means of preserving the records of successive generations; paths, roads, bridges; a system for educating successive generations; meeting places and trading points; means for barter or exchange; (2) an interdependent urban-oriented economy based on division of labor and specialization; on private property in the essential means of production and in consumer goods and services; on a competitive survival struggle for wealth, prestige and power between individuals and social groups; and on the exploitation of man, society and nature for the material benefit of the privileged few who occupy the summit of the social pyramid; (3) a unified, centralized political apparatus or bureaucracy that attempts to plan, direct and administer the political, economic, ideological and sociological structure; (4) a self-selected and self-perpetuating oligarchy that owns the wealth, holds the power and pulls the strings; (5) an adequate labor force for farming, transport, industry, mining; (6) large middle-class elements: professionals, technicians, craftsmen, tradesmen, lesser bureaucrats, and a semi-parasitic fringe of camp-followers; (7) a highly professional, well-trained, amply-financed apparatus for defense and offense; (8) a complex of institutions and social practices which will indoctrinate, persuade and when necessary limit deviation and maintain social conformity; (9) agreed religious practices and other cultural features. This description of civilization covers the essential features of western civilization and the sequence of predecessor civilizations for which adequate records exist. Successive civilizations have introduced new culture traits and abandoned old ones as the pageant of history moved from one stage to the next, or advanced and retreated through cycles. Using this description as a working formula, it is possible to understand the development followed in the past by western civilization, to estimate its current status and to indicate its probable outcome. Long-established thought-habits cry aloud in protest against such a description of civilization. Until quite recently the word "civilization" has been used in academic circles to symbolize a social idea or ideal. Professor of History Anson D. Morse of Amherst College presents such a view in his _Civilization and the World War_ (Boston: Ginn 1919). For him, civilization is "the sum of things in which the heritage of the child of the twentieth century is better than that of the child of the Stone Age. As a process it is the perfection of man and mankind. As an end, it is the realization of the highest ideal which men are capable of forming.... The goal of civilization ... is human society so organized in all of its constituent groups that each shall yield the best possible service to each one and thereby to mankind as a whole, (producing) the perfect organization of humanity." (page 3). Such thoughts may be noble and inspired; they are not related to history. We know more or less about a score of civilizations that have occupied portions of the earth during several thousand years. We know a great deal about the western civilization which we observe and in which we participate. Professor Morse's florid words apply to none of the civilizations known to history. Certainly they are poles away from an accurate characterization of our own varient of this social pattern. We are writing this introduction in an effort to make our word pictures of mankind and its doings correspond with the facts of social history. With the nuclear sword of Damocles hanging over our heads, it is high time for us to exchange the clouds of fancy and the flowers of rhetoric for the solid ground of historical reality. The word "civilization" must generalize what has been and what is, as nearly as the past and present can be embodied in language. Civilization is a level or phase of culture which has been attained and lost repeatedly in the course of social history. The epochs of civilization have not been distributed evenly, either in time or on the earth's surface. A combination of circumstances, political, economic, ideological, sociological, resulted in the Egyptian, the Chinese, the Roman civilizations. One of these was centered in North Africa, the second in Asia, the third in eastern Europe. All three spilled over into adjacent continents. No two civilizations are exactly alike at any stage of their development. Each civilization is at least a partial experiment, a process or sequence of causal relationships, altered sequentially in the course of its life cycle. These thoughts about culture and civilization should be supplemented by noting the relationship between civilizations and empires. An empire is a center of wealth and power associated with its economic and political dependencies. A civilization is a cluster or a succession of empires and/or former empires, co-ordinated and directed by one of their number which has established its leadership in the course of survival struggle. The total body of historical evidence bearing on human experiments with civilization is extensive and impressive. It covers a large portion of the Earth's land surface, includes parts of Asia, Africa and Europe and extends sketchily to the Americas. In time it covers many thousands of years. Experiments with civilization have been conducted in highly selective surroundings possessing the volume and range of natural resources and the isolation and remoteness necessary to build and maintain a high level of culture over substantial periods of time. In these special areas it was possible to provide for subsistence, produce an economic surplus large enough to permit experimentation and ensure protection against human and other predators. Egypt and the Fertile Crescent were surrounded by deserts and high mountains. Crete was an island, extensive but isolated. Productive river valleys like the Yang-tse, the Ganges and the Mekong have afforded natural bases for experiments with civilization. Similar opportunities have been provided by strategic locations near bodies of water, mineral deposits and the intersections of trade-routes. Others, less permanent, were located in the high Andes, on the Mexican Plateau, in the Central American jungles. Histories of civilizations, some of them ancient or classical, have been written during the past two centuries. There have been general histories in many languages. There have been scholarly reports on particular civilizations. Prof. A.J. Toynbee's massive ten volume _Study of History_ is a good example. Still more extensive is the thirty volume history of civilization under the general editorship of C.K. Ogden. These writings have brought together many facts bearing chiefly on the lives of spectacular individuals and episodes, with all too little data on the life of the silent human majority. At the end of this volume the reader will find a list, selected from the many books that I have consulted in preparation for writing this study. Most of these authorities are concerned with the facts of civilization, with far less emphasis on their political, economic and sociological aspects. In this study I have tried to unite theory with practice. On the one hand I have reviewed briefly and as accurately as possible some outstanding experiments with civilization, including our own western variant. (Part I. The Pageant of Experiments with Civilization.) In Part II I have undertaken a social analysis of civilization as a past and present life style. In Part III, Civilization Is Becoming Obsolete, I have tried to check our thinking about civilization with the sweep of present day historical trends. Part IV, Steps Beyond Civilization, is an attempt to list some of the alternatives and opportunities presently available to civilized man. Any reader who has the interest and persistence to read through the entire volume and to browse through some of its references will have had the equivalent of a university extension course dealing with one of the most critical issues confronting the present generation of humanity. _Part I_ The Pageant of Experiment With Civilization CHAPTER ONE EXPERIMENTS IN EGYPT AND EURASIA Thousands of years before the city of Rome was ringed with its six miles of stone wall, other peoples in Asia, Eastern Europe and Africa were building civilizations. New techniques of excavation, identification and preservation, subsidized by an increasingly affluent human society, and developed during the past two centuries of archeological research have provided the needed means and manpower. The result is an imposing number of long buried building sites with their accompanying artifacts. Still more important are the records written in long forgotten languages on stone, clay tablets, metal, wood and paper. These remnants and records, left by extinguished civilizations, do not tell us all we wish to know, but they do provide the materials which enable us to reconstruct, at least in part, the lives of our civilized predecessors. Extensive in time and massive in the volume of their architecture are the remains of Egyptian civilization. The earliest of these fragments date back for more than six thousand years. The seat of Egyptian civilization was the Nile Valley and its estuary built out into the Mediterranean Sea from the debris of disintegrating African mountains. Annual floods left their silt deposits to deepen the soil along the lower reaches of the river. River water, impounded for the purpose, provided the means of irrigating an all but rainless desert countryside. Skillful engineering drained the swamps, adding to the cultivable area of a narrow valley cut by the river through jagged barren hills. Deserts on both sides of the Nile protected the valley against aggressors and migrants. Within this sanctuary the Egyptians built a civilization that lasted, with a minor break, for some 3,000 years. Egyptian temples and tombs carry records chiseled and painted on hard stone, which throw light on the life and times of upper-class Egyptians, including emperors, provincial governors, courtiers, generals, merchants, provincial organizers. In a humid, temperate climate these stone-cut and painted records would have been eroded, overgrown and obliterated long ago. In the dry desert air of North Africa they have preserved their identity through the centuries. Since the Egyptians had a few draft animals, and little if any power-driven machinery, energy needed to build massive stone temples, tombs and other public structures must have been supplied by the forced labor of Egyptians, their serfs and slaves. Egypt's history dawns on a well-organized society: The Old Kingdom, based on the productivity of the narrow, lush Nile Valley. The products of the Valley were sufficient to maintain a large population of cultivators: some slave, some forced labor, about which we have little knowledge; a bureaucracy, headed by a supreme ruler whose declared divinity was one of the chief stabilizing forces of the society. Between its agricultural base and its ruling monarch, the Old Kingdom had a substantial middle class which procured the wood, stone, metals and other materials needed in construction; a corps of engineers, technicians and skilled workers, and a substantial mass of humanity which provided the energy needed to erect the temples, monuments and other remains which testify to the political, economic, and cultural competence of the ruling elements and the technical skills present in the Old Kingdom. Foremost among the factors responsible for the success of the Old Kingdom was the close partnership between the "lords temporal" and the "lords spiritual"--the state and the church. The state consisted of a highly centralized monarchy ruled by a Pharoah who personified temporal authority. This authority was strengthened because it represented a consensus of the many gods recognized and worshiped by the Egyptians of the Old Kingdom. The monarch was also looked upon as an embodiment of divinity. Some Egyptian pharoahs had been priests who became rulers. Others had been rulers who became priests. The two aspects of public life--political and religious--were closely interrelated. In theory the land of Egypt was the property of the Pharoah. Foreign trade was a state monopoly. In practice the ownership and use of land were shared with the temples and with those members of the nobility closest to the ruling monarch. Hence there were state lands and state income and temple lands and temple income. The use of state lands was alloted to favorites. Each temple had land which it used for its own purposes. Political power in the Old Kingdom was a tight monopoly held by the ruling dynasty of the period. During preceding epochs it seems likely that rival groups or factions had gone through a period of power-survival struggle which eliminated one rival after another until economic ownership and political authority were both vested in the same ruling oligarchs. This struggle for consolidation apparently reached its climax when Menes, a pharoah who began his rule about 3,400 B.C., in the south of Egypt, invaded and conquered the Delta and merged the two kingdoms, South and North, into one nation which preserved its identity and its sovereignty until the Persian Conquest of 525 B.C. The unification of the northern kingdom with the South seems to have been a slow process, interrupted by insurrections and rebellions in the Delta and in Lybia. Inscriptions report the suppression of these insurrections and give the number of war-captives brought to the south as slaves. In one instance the captives numbered 120,000 in addition to 1,420 small cattle and 400,000 large cattle. Using these war captives to supplement the home supply of forced and free labor, successive dynasties built temples, palaces and tombs; constructed new cities; drained and irrigated land; sent expeditions to the Sinai peninsula to mine copper. Such enterprises indicate a considerable economic surplus above that required to take care of a growing population: the high degree of organization required to plan and assemble such enterprises, and the considerable engineering and technological capacity necessary for their execution. Chief among the binding forces holding together the extensive apparatus known as the Old Kingdom was religion, with its gods, its temples and their generous endowments. Each locality consolidated into the Old Kingdom had its gods and their places for worship. In addition to these local religious centers there was an hierarchy of national deities, their temples, temple lands and endowments. The ruling monarch, who was official servitor of the national gods, interpreting their will and adding to the endowments of the temples, was the embodiment of secular and of religious authority. Egyptians of the period believed that death was not an end, but a transition. They also believed that those who passed through the death process would have many of the needs and wants associated with life on the Earth. Furthermore they believed that in the course of their future existence those who had died would again inhabit the bodies that they had during their previous existences on Earth. Following out these beliefs the Egyptians put into their tombs a full assortment of the food, clothing, implements and instruments which they had used during their Earth life. They also embalmed the bodies of their dead with the utmost care and buried them in carefully hidden tombs where they would be found by their former users and occupied for the Day of Judgment. Holding such views, preparation for the phase of life subsequent to death was a chief object of the early Egyptian rulers and their subjects. One of the preoccupations of each new occupant of the throne was the selection of his burial place. Early in his reign he began the construction of suitable quarters for the reception of his embalmed body. The great pyramids were such tombs. Other monarchs constructed rock-hewn chambers for the reception of their bodies. In these chambers in addition to a room for a sarcophagus were associated rooms in which every imaginable need of the dead was stored: food, clothing, furniture, jewelry, weapons. Adjacent to the royal tomb favored nobles received permission to build their own tombs, similarly equipped but on a smaller, less grandiose scale than that of the pharaoh. By this means the courtiers who had attended the pharaoh in his life-time would be at hand to perform similar services in the after death existence. Construction and maintenance of temples and tombs absorbed a considerable part of Egypt's economic surplus. These drains on the economy grew more extensive as the country became more populous and more productive. Thanks to the lack of rain in and near the Nile Valley and despite the depleting activities of persistent vandalism these constructs have stood for thirty centuries as monuments to one of the most extensive and elaborate civilizations known to historians. Despite the absence of detailed records, Egyptian achievements under the Old Kingdom indicate an abundance of food, wood, metal and other resources far in excess of survival requirements; a population sufficiently extensive to produce the necessaries of existence and a surplus which made it possible for the lords temporal and spiritual to erect such astonishing and enduring monuments; high levels of technical skills among woodsmen, quarrymen and building crews; the transport facilities by land and water required to assemble the materials, equipment and man power; the foresight, planning, timing and over-all management involved in such constructs as the pyramids, temples and tombs which have withstood the wear and tear of thousands of years; the willingness and capacity of professionals, technicians, skilled workers, and the masses of free and slave labor to co-exist and co-operate over the long periods required for the completion of such extensive structural projects; the utilization of an extensive economic surplus not primarily for personal mass or middle-class consumption but to enhance the power and glory of a tiny minority, its handymen and other dependents; and a considerable middle class of merchants, managers and technicians. Speaking sociologically, the structure of Egyptian society from sometime before 3,400 B.C., to 525 B.C., passed through four distinct phases or stages. During the first phase, the Nile Valley, which had been separated by tribal and/or geographical boundaries into a large number of more or less independent units, was consolidated, integrated and organized into a single kingdom. This working, functioning area (the land of Egypt) could provide for most of its basic needs from within its own borders. In a sense it was a self-sufficient, workable, liveable area. Egypt was populous, rich, well organized, with a surplus of wealth, productivity and man-power that could be used outside of its own frontiers. Some of the surplus was used outside--to the south, into Central Africa, to the west into North Africa, to the north into Eastern Europe and Western Asia, inaugurating the second phase of Egyptian development. During this second phase Egyptian wealth, population and technology, spilling over its frontiers onto foreign lands, established and maintained relations with foreign territory on a basis that yielded a yearly "tribute," paid by foreigners into the Egyptian treasury. The land of Egypt thus surrounded itself with a cluster of dependencies, converting what had been an independent state or independent states into a functioning empire. The land of Egypt was the nucleus of the Egyptian Empire--center of wealth and power with its associates and its dependencies. The empire was held together by a legal authority using armed force where necessary to assert or preserve its identity and unity. Expansion, the third phase of Egyptian development, involved the export of culture traits and artifacts beyond national frontiers, extending the cultural influence of Egypt into non-Egyptian lands inhabited by Egypt's neighbors. Merchants, tourists, travelers, explorers and military adventurers carried the name and fame of Egypt into other centers of civilization and into the hinterland of barbarism that surrounded the civilizations of that period. Thus the land of Egypt expanded into the Egyptian Empire and the culture of Egypt (its language, its ideas, its artifacts, its institutions) expanded far beyond the boundaries of Egyptian political authority and established Egyptian civilization in parts of Africa, Asia and Europe. The era of Egyptian civilization was divided into two periods by an invasion of the Hyksos, nomadic leaders who moved into Egypt, ruled it for a period and later were expelled and replaced by a new Egyptian dynasty. The fourth period of Egypt's experiment with civilization was that of decline. From a position of political supremacy and cultural ascendancy Egyptian influence weakened politically, economically, ideologically and culturally until the year of the Persian Conquest, 525 B.C., when Egypt became a conquered, occupied, provincial and in some ways a colonial territory. Egyptian civilization can be summed up in three sentences. It covered the greatest time span of any civilization known to history. Its monuments are the most massive. Its records, chiefly in stone, picture massed humans directed for at least thirty centuries toward providing a satisfying and rewarding after-life for a tiny favored minority of its population. To achieve this result, the natural resources of three adjacent continents were combined and concentrated into the Nile Valley through an effective imperial apparatus that enabled the Egyptians to exploit the resources and peoples of adjacent Africa, Asia and Europe for the enrichment and empowerment of the rulers of Egypt and its dependencies. The disintegration and collapse of Egyptian civilization occupied only a small fraction of the time devoted to its upbuilding and supremacy. Before, during and after Egyptians played their long and distinguished parts in the recorded history of civilization, the continent of Asia was producing a series of civilization in four areas: first at the crossroads joining Africa and Europe to Asia; then in Western Asia (Asia Minor); in Central Asia, especially in India and Indonesia and finally in China and the Far East. Experiments with civilization during the past six thousand years have centered in the Eurasian land mass, including the North African littoral of the Mediterranean Sea. Within this area of potential or actual civilization, until very recent times, the centers of civilization have been widely separated geographically and temporally. Occasionally they have been unified and integrated by some unusual up-thrust like that of the Egyptian, the Chinese or the Roman civilizations. In the intervals between these up-thrusts various centers of civilization have maintained a large degree of autonomy and isolation. Only in the past five centuries have communication, transportation, trade and tourism created the basis for an experiment in organizing and coordination of a planet-wide experiment in civilization. Nature offered humankind two logical areas for the establishment of civilizations. One was the cross-roads of migration, trade and travel by land to and from Asia, Africa and Europe. The other was the Mediterranean with its possibility of relatively safe and easy water-migration, trade and travel between the three continents making up its littoral. Both possibilities were brought together in the Eastern Mediterranean with its multitude of islands, its broken coastline, and its many safe harbors. The Phoenicians developed their far-flung trading activities around the Mediterranean as a waterway, and the tri-continental crossroads as a logical center for a civilization built around business enterprise. Aegean civilization occupied the eastern Mediterranean for approximately two thousand years. Its nucleus was the island of Crete. Its influence extended far beyond its island base into southern Europe, western Asia and North Africa. Experiments with civilization on and near the Indian sub-continent centered around the Indonesian archipelago and the rich, semi-tropical and tropical valleys of the Ganges, the Indus, the Gadari, the Irra-waddy and the Mekong. Although they were contiguous geographically and extended over a time span of approximately two thousand years they were aggregates rather than monolithic civilizations, retaining their localisms and avoiding any strong central authority. Beginnings of civilization have been made outside the Asian-European-African triangle centering around the Mediterranean Sea and the band of South Asia extending from Mesopotamia through India and Indonesia to China. They include the high Andes, Mexico and Central America and parts of black Africa. In no one of these cases did the beginnings reach the stability and universality that characterized the Eurasian-African civilizations. CHAPTER TWO ROME'S OUTSTANDING EXPERIMENT Among the many attempts to make the institutions and practices of civilization promote human welfare, Roman civilization deserves a very high rating. First, it was located in the eastern Mediterranean area, the home-site of so many civilizations. Second, it was part and parcel of a prolonged period of attempts by Egyptians, Assyrians, Hittites, Babylonians, Mycaenians, Phoenicians and others in the area to set up successful empires and to play the lead role in building a civilization that would be more or less permanent. Third, the Romans seemed to have the hardiness, adaptability, persistence and capacity for self-discipline necessary to carry such a long term project to a successful conclusion. Among the widely varied human groups occupying the eastern Mediterranean area between 1000 B.C. and 1000 A.D., the Romans seem to have been well qualified to win the laurel crown. Western civilization is an incomplete experiment. Its outcome remains uncertain. Its future still hangs in the insecure balance between construction and destruction, between life and extinction. It is "our" civilization in a very real sense. It was developed by our forebears. We live as part of its complex of ideas, practices, techniques, institutions. Since we are in it and of it, it is difficult for us humans to judge it objectively. Roman civilization, on the contrary, is a completed experiment, one that came into being, developed over several centuries, attained a zenith of wealth and power, then sank gradually from sight, until it lived only as a part of history. A study of Roman civilization has two advantages. First, its life cycle has been completed. Second, it is close enough to us in history and its records are so numerous and so well preserved that we can form a fairly accurate picture of its structure and its functions. It was written up extensively by the Romans themselves, by their Greek and other contemporaries and by a host of scholars and students; since the break-up of Roman civilization as a political, economic and cultural force in world affairs. Rome's experiment is sometimes called Graeco-Roman civilization because Greece and Italy were close geographical neighbors and also because Greek culture, which reached its zenith by 500 B.C. and was closely paralleled by the rise of Roman culture, had a profound effect in determining the total character of Roman civilization. In a very real sense Graeco-Roman civilization was the parent of western civilization. Among the many completed civilizations of which we have fairly adequate records, those concerning Rome are most complete and most available. The story of Roman civilization begins in the Eastern Mediterranean Basin in an era when Greek and Phoenician cities, together with segments and fragments of the Egyptian-Assyrian-Babylonian civilizations were competing for raw materials, trade and alliances. Egyptians had been supreme in the area for centuries. The Sumerian, Aegean, Chinese, Hittite, Assyrian and Indian civilizations had enjoyed periods of dominance but had never reached the level of supremacy enjoyed by the Egyptians. When Rome came on the scene as a first-rate power, circa 300 B.C., the crucial land bridge joining Africa, Europe and Asia was being passed from hand to hand, with no power strong enough to succeed Egypt as the dominant political-economic-cultural force in the region. Historically speaking it was an interregnum, a period of transition. Egypt had ceased to dominate the public life of the area. The trading cities of the Greeks and the Phoenicians were pushing their way of life into the front ranks among the recognized powers. The kingdoms of Asia-Minor were still warring for supremacy in a field which none of the local kingdoms was able to dominate and hold for any considerable period of time. Public affairs at the African-European-Asian crossroads were being periodically disturbed and upset by the intrusion of Asian marauders and nomads who came in successive waves, defeated and drove the native inhabitants off from the choicest land and settled down in their places, only to be pushed out in their turn by fresh Asian migrants. The African-European-Asian triangle was a meeting place and a battle ground. Phoenician and Greek cities brought to this scene new factors and new forces: the rudiments of science; trade and commerce, including a money economy, accounting and cost keeping; the elements of economic organization; the conduct of public affairs by governments based on law rather than on the whim and word of a deified potentate; and the construction of cities and city states built on these foundations. Rome entered the picture when the forces of political absolutism based upon an agriculture operated by serfs and slaves had fought themselves to a standstill and exhausted their historical usefulness. The times called for new forces capable of adapting themselves to a new culture pattern extending over a greatly enlarged world. The Romans, with their Greek associates, were in a position to fill the gap. Romans lived originally in Latium, a small land area in southern Italy on the Tiber River far enough inland to be protected against pirates. They built a city which finally covered seven adjacent hills and developed a community of working farmers, merchants, craftsmen and professionals. The farms were small, averaging perhaps eight to fifteen acres, an area large enough to provide a family with a stable though meagre livelihood. The farmers were hard working and frugal. At this period of Roman history and mythology Latium was one of many communities occupying Italy. Each was self-governing. Each took the steps necessary for survival and expansion. Like their neighbors, the inhabitants of Latium were prepared to defend themselves against piracy, brigandage and ambitious, aggressive rivals. Defense took the form of an embankment and a water-filled moat which surrounded the early settlements and provided shelter for herdsman and farmers in case of emergencies. At some point in pre-history, presumably when Etruscan princes were in control of Roman affairs, the protective earth embankment which surrounded the Roman settlements was strengthened by building a moat 100 feet wide and 30 feet deep. Behind the moat was a stone wall 10 feet thick and 30 feet or more in height. Parts of this defense were built and rebuilt at various times. When completed they were about six miles in length, enclosing an area sufficient to accommodate the chief buildings of the city and living space for a population of perhaps 200,000 people. The defenses were designed to prevent interference or intrusion into the life of the Romans. Behind them the inhabitants constructed temples, a forum, palaces and other public buildings, bringing in clean mountain water by an aqueduct that eventually reached a length of 44 miles, constructing an extensive system of drains and sewers that disposed of city wastes, building a network of roads that eventually gave the Romans access first to all parts of Italy and later to the entire Mediterranean Basin. They also replaced the wooden bridges over the Tiber and other rivers by stone bridges carried on stone piers and arches. Early in their building activities the Romans learned to make a cement so weather-resistant that many of their constructs are still usable two thousand years after the Romans built them. These and similar building operations made Rome one of the show places of the Graeco-Roman world. They also provided for the Romans a level of stability and security far beyond that of their neighbors in that part of the unstable Italian peninsula. At the time Rome was founded, presumably about 700 B.C., the Italian peninsula was occupied by a large number of principalities, kingdoms and tribal nomads, newly arrived from eastern Europe and Asia. The struggle for pasturage and fertile soil, for dwelling sites and trading opportunities, went on ceaselessly. Romans, like their neighbors and competitors, were reaching out to provide themselves with food, building materials, trade opportunities, strategic advantages. They expanded peacefully if possible, using diplomacy up to a certain point and only engaging in war as a last resort. But since the entire Italian peninsula was occupied by more or less independent groups, each of which was seeking a larger and safer place in the sun, the outcome was ceaseless diplomatic maneuvering, using war as an instrument of policy in the struggle for pelf and power. Four centuries of power struggle, in which Romans played an increasingly prominent role, gave the Roman Republic and its allies substantial control of the entire Italian peninsula. Beginning as one among many small independent states in Italy, the inhabitants of Latium emerged from four centuries of competitive diplomatic and military struggle as the de facto masters of all Italy. Power struggles are carried on by contestants who occupy a particular land area with its resources and other advantages. Latium was small in extent (some 2,000 square miles) and had very limited natural advantages. Operating from this restricted base, through four centuries of diplomacy, intrigue and war, the Romans enlarged their base of operations to include the whole of Italy. In this crucial era of its history Rome expanded its geographic-economic base to a point from which it could use the natural and human resources of all Italy as a nucleus upon which to build the Roman Empire in Europe, West Asia and North Africa. At the beginning of this period the Mediterranean Basin housed a number of African, Asian and European empires. Each exercised authority over a part of the Mediterranean littoral. Each empire was built around its central city or cities. Each empire had its distinctive institutions and practices. During these centuries all of the empires were defeated, conquered, occupied and either dismembered or otherwise brought under Roman control. Extension of Roman authority, first over the Italian peninsula and subsequently over parts of Europe, Africa and Asia, was the result of a policy of expansion that was aggressively, persistently and patiently followed by Roman leaders and policy makers. Neighboring territories were amalgamated into the nucleus of the Roman Empire. More remote territories were associated by treaty as allies of Rome, as dependent or client dependencies of Rome, and as colonies or provinces of the Roman Empire. In all cases they were integral parts of an expanding political, economic and military sphere of influence with Rome, and later Italy, as the center and nucleus. In the course of this development the expanding Roman Empire grew to be the wealthiest and most powerful political, sociological and cultural unit in the Euro-Asian-African area. The Roman imperial cycle spanned some thirteen centuries. During this period Roman life was transformed from its small, local seat of authority in Central Italy into its new stature as the outstanding power in the Mediterranean area. Economically it extended from peasant proprietorship and a use economy to a market-money economy; from a society of working peasant farmers to an economy resting upon war captives reduced to slavery; from an economy based on production for trade and profit to an economy based on power-grabbing, special privilege, speculation and corruption; from an austerity economy based on primary production to an economy based on affluence, exploitation, and gluttony. These revolutionary transformations in the Roman economy were accompanied, politically, by hardening of the division of Roman society along class lines with the resulting contradictions, antagonisms, and class struggles, including open class warfare. Domestic contradictions, confrontations, civil strife and formal civil war were present throughout the entire history of Rome. They existed in embryo in the earliest days of the original settlements on the seven hills over which the city of Rome eventually spread. As Rome and its interests became more complex socially and more extensive geographically the number and variety of contradictions, confrontations, civil and military conflicts increased correspondingly. In terms of individual human lives the changes which took place in Roman society during the six or seven centuries that elapsed between the early Roman settlements and the reign of their Emperor Augustus were profound and far-reaching. Many communities of diverse and often incompatible backgrounds and interests were herded together, helter-skelter, into the City of Rome, Latium, the Italian nucleus and the subsequent alliances, federations, conquests, consolidations into colonies, occupied areas, provinces and spheres of influence. The greater the number and diversity of these interests and relationships, the greater the probability of conflict. This empire building process was not gradual and directed with scrupulous care to preserve the amenities and niceties of polite social intercourse. The job was done by and under the direction of military leaders who are traditionally in a hurry to get results. The subordinates who carried out military decisions were volunteer-professional soldiers, mercenary adventurers and conscripts drawn form the four corners of the empire. As the empire grew in extent and as its troubles multiplied, the military was more frequently called upon to take over and iron out difficulties. Domestically, in the city of Rome and its immediate environs, there were several sharp lines of cleavage; between Roman citizens and non-citizens; between the aristocracy, the bourgeoisie, the working proletariat and the idle proletariat; between the rich and the poor; between freeman (citizens) and the slaves who grew in numbers as the wars of conquest and consolidation multiplied war captives; between the civilian bureaucrats and the members of the military hierarchy. In the brief period of maximum territorial expansion following the defeat and destruction of Carthage, the frontiers of the Roman Empire were pushed out ruthlessly, North, East, West and South. In the hurly-burly of rapid expansion individual rights were ignored, local communities and entire regions were overrun, depopulated and resettled with the tough disregard of individual and local interests that must characterize any quick, general movement--economic, sociological or military. If the expansion, expulsion and rehabilitation had produced greater degrees of stability and security for individuals and social groups they might have been tolerated and assimilated by the diverse populations caught up in the maelstrom of drastic expansion. But rapid, coercive social transformation produces neither stability nor security. Its normal consequence is chaos, conflict and further change. In the course of these internal conflicts the Roman Republic was gradually phased out. In theory it persisted until the establishment of the military dictatorship of Julius Caesar. Practically, while many of its forms remained, the conduct of public affairs passed more and more into the hands of political leaders who were able to command the backing of the legions. When the first war against Carthage was launched in 265 B.C., Carthage was at the height of her power. Situated on the North African Coast almost directly across the Mediterranean from Italy, the Carthaginians were in effective control of the western Mediterranean. Carthage was firmly entrenched in Spain. It was trading extensively with the British Isles. Fleets of Carthaginian war ships patrolled the Mediterranean guarding against piracy and economic or political interference by rivals. Roman political and business leaders, inexperienced in international political dealings and the promotion of international trade, found their further expansion to the west blocked by Carthaginian political, economic and military installations. The result of the confrontation was a series of three wars that began in 265 B.C., and ended in 146. During these 119 years an established power, Carthage, struggled to preserve its position against aggressive Roman efforts to take control of the West Mediterranean basin. The Carthaginians, under the able generalship of Hannibal, mobilized a military force (including elephants), marched from Spain over the Alpine passes into Italy reaching the gates of Rome. Romans countered with the slogan: "Carthage must be destroyed!" When the third Punic war ended in 146 B.C., with the defeat of the Carthaginian military forces, the city of Carthage was leveled. The defeat of Carthage gave the Romans control of the western Mediterranean. During the same period Roman interests were pushing into East Europe and Western Asia. In 214 B.C., Philip of Macedon had made an alliance with Hannibal, directed against Rome. Consequently, three wars between Rome and Macedonia followed, the third ending in 168 B.C., with the defeat of the Macedonians and their subordination to Roman authority in the form of a Roman governor. When opposition to Roman influence developed in Greece in 148 B.C., a commission of ten was appointed by the Roman Senate to settle affairs in the Greek peninsula. The city of Corinth was burned to the ground and its lands were confiscated. Thebes and Chalcis were also destroyed. The walls of all towns which had shared in the revolt against Rome were pulled down. All confederations between Greek cities were dissolved. Disarmament, isolation and Roman taxation were imposed on the Greek cities and the oversight of affairs was assigned to the Roman governor of neighboring Macedonia. Successful wars against Syria and Egypt extended Roman control over additional territory in West Asia and North Africa. A map of Italy at the time of the Roman Federation in 268 B.C. shows Rome as the most powerful among two score minor associates in the federation. A map of the Roman Empire at the death of Augustus in 14 A.D. shows a Roman Empire extending from the Atlantic seaboard on the west to Central Europe on the north, the Black Sea on the east and a generous strip of Africa on the south. Within three centuries Rome had expanded from its position as a minor state in Italy to the effective control of those portions of three continents which bordered the Mediterranean. Conquests during the following century further extended the Roman frontiers. Under the Caesars Rome was a society in the throes of political transition. Roman Emperors, backed and frequently selected by the military, were exercising despotic power. They still paid lip service to the Constitution, an instrument that had relevance during the life of the defunct Republic. In the era of the Caesars the law slumbered and might ruled. The turbulent masses were fed and housed by the Roman Oligarchy to which the Emperors were ultimately responsible. The far flung territories conquered by military power and held by military occupation were subject to the authority of the same Roman Oligarchy. Behind the shams, frauds and tyrannies of a political dictatorship paying lip service to the corpse of a defunct Republic lay the stark realities of a bankrupt economy. Throughout the era of the Caesars the Roman Empire continued to expand geographically. It also came into contact and conflict with peoples so remote from Italy that for them Rome was only a name for tyranny, extortion and exploitation. Julius Caesar and his immediate successors penetrated these remote territories, subjugating them, levying tribute, appointing governors and other officials, policing them, pretending to rule over them. To do this soldiers were marching on foot into regions that lay thousands of miles from the mother city. To be sure, they marched over Roman roads and bridges so well constructed that some of them are still being used at the present day. But the excellence of Roman engineering could not match up to the implacable limitations of time and distance. Nor could they overlook the need for building the physical structure of Roman economy as they advanced into enemy territory. Equally decisive were the political consequences of the property confiscation and forced labor required to establish and maintain Roman power and enrich greedy Roman officials and their lackeys and overseers. Rising overhead costs, with no corresponding growth of income, an empty treasury in Rome, and a persistent policy of fleecing the provinces to pay for the normal costs of bureaucracy, plus its extravagances and excesses, could lead to only one possible outcome. Higher taxes and more ruinous levies in the newly conquered provinces could not fill the insatiable maw of deficit spending. Inflation was the immediate result, accompanied and followed by the debasement of currency and new expropriations of private property. Government expenses consistently exceeded income. The situation was aggravated by the growth of parasitic elements which persistently produced little or nothing and as persistently multiplied their luxuries and extravagances. The parasites grew richer. The impoverished masses suffered the normal deprivations of poverty plus the weight of steadily rising over-head costs. As Roman authority extended farther from its center, the chasm between its income and its out-go widened. Slave labor aggravated the situation. There was a time when Roman farmers and craftsmen did their own work. That time ended with the enslavement of war captives who swamped the labor market. Like any parasitic growth, slavery and forced labor destroyed the fabric of a largely self-contained economy based on peasant proprietorship. Roman economy was honey-combed with problems created by deficit spending, currency devaluation and exploitation. At its base was a foot-loose urban proletariat made up largely of refugees from a countryside given over increasingly to the employment of military captives as slave labor. The city masses at the outset were extensively unemployed. Increasingly they became unemployable, parasitic, restless, demanding. At the outset the slave revolts were local and occasional. As the slaves grew more numerous unrest spread and hardened into organized resistance. Spartacus, a slave, led a revolt which mobilized armies, defeated the Roman legions in a series of battles and ended only with the death of Spartacus and the dispersal of his forces. Local and provincial affairs under the Roman Empire were administered by a self-seeking corrupt bureaucracy. Expansion by means of military conquest increased the influence of the military at the expense of the civilian administrators. The consequent burdens of militarism reached from the bottom to the top of Roman society. Eventually, under the Caesars, the military selected emperors from among the rivals for the purple of imperial authority, and used the legions under their command to protect and promote their own political fortunes, thus maintaining a form of latent and frequently open civil war. Colonial unrest and provincial self-seeking were promoted by conspiracies among Rome's less dependable allies. Wars of rivalry between Roman candidates for top preferment shifted the power-balance out of civilian hands into the grip of the military. Step by step and stage by stage the Roman Empire became a warfare state maintained at home and abroad by the intervention of the military. Wars of rivalry at home in Rome were paralleled by wars of rivalry abroad. During the Era of the Caesars Rome became the Eurasian-African honey pot. Wealth centered there. Authority was enthroned there. Power was generated there. Throughout the sphere of Roman political influence, of trade and travel, the central position of Rome was recognized and acknowledged. Not only knowledge and authority, but folklore mushroomed, with Rome as its central theme. Asian nomads, searching for grass, Asian potentates seeking new worlds to conquer and plunder, heard of Rome and finally went there. All roads led to Rome. Thousands of miles of stone roads were built as binding forces to hold the Empire together and defend it against all possible enemies. It was along these roads that the legions marched as they pushed back potential invaders and extended the frontiers. It was these same roads and bridges that made easy and sure the advance of the Asian hordes that would one day occupy and loot the home city. Roads and bridges enabled Roman authority to maintain and extend itself. The same roads and bridges provided a freeway that led into the citadel of Roman power. Under the Caesars the Roman Empire achieved its greatest geographical extent and exercised its widest cultural influence. The city of Rome was the capital of the western world. There was one state, one law, one economy, one official language, one military authority. Despite its apparent massiveness, Roman civilization was not a monolith. Rather it was a conglomerate, consisting of many parts held together by connecting social tissues which Rome and Italy alone supplied. In the first instance there was a division into provinces, colonies and newly acquired territories. The provinces, under their Roman appointed governors, enjoyed a large measure of economic and cultural self-determination within the Roman Empire. Beyond the Roman Empire lay territories and peoples associated with Rome by treaties, bound to Rome by trade and travel, in some cases paying tribute to Rome, but enjoying sufficient autonomy as peoples, nations and empires maneuvering for position and advantage, frequently allying themselves with non-Roman areas and occasionally conspiring to by-pass Roman authority and even to challenge Roman supremacy. This political diversity along the defense perimeter of the Roman Empire existed in a chaos ranging from questioned authority to open defiance and military challenges to Rome and the threat of Romanization. Along this defense perimeter were stationed the legions that guarded the frontiers. Across it moved trade, travel, incursions, invasions and periodic reprisals as a result of which the more turbulent neighbors were brought within the sphere of Rome's influence or, in cases of extreme dissidence and resistance, were depopulated, colonized and added to the Roman conglomerate. It goes without saying that the influence of Roman culture extended far beyond the Roman defense perimeter, reaching peoples, nations and empires to which Rome was little more than a name. The no-man's land between what-was and what-was-not Rome not only existed in a state of perpetual uncertainty, but provided a battle field for the smuggling, brigandage, the periodic border clashes, the migrations, incursions, invasions and punitive expeditions that are the characteristic features of every ill-defined political boundary. Roman civilization under the Caesars was a centralized absolutism with a large measure of peripheral deviation and autonomy. It was directed by a central oligarchy and patrolled, defended and extended by a military force unified in theory but in practice grouped around the outstanding personalities and subjected to the vagaries and upsets always associated with power politics in the hands of military backed political despots. Roman civilization, like all social organisms, came into being, moved toward maturity, reached a plateau of fulfillment from which it declined, broke up and eventually disappeared into the interregnum known as the Dark Ages. The entire episode occupied a dozen centuries. Its beginnings were unimpressively local. At the height of its wealth, power and cultural influence it bestrode the Eurasian-African triangle. Its decline and disappearance were no less spectacular than its meteoric rise to fame and fortune. I would like to summarize the Roman experiment and some of its lessons by listing and commenting briefly on the forces that built up Roman civilization and those forces which resulted in its decline and dissolution. Primary up-building forces in the Roman experiment: 1. Establishing the city of Rome as a stable, defensible center of merchandising and commerce, transport, finance, population, wealth and power with a hinterland of associates and dependencies. As it turns out, the city of Rome has outlived both the Roman Empire and Roman Civilization. 2. Steadfast dedication to Roman interests first, by all necessary means and despite costs which at the time seemed to be excessive. 3. A recognition of that which is possible, especially in political relationships. The acceptance with good grace of a half-loaf where no more was available. 4. Consistent, persistent aggression and expansion where such policies were beneficial to Rome, with little or no regard for their effects on Roman associates, allies, friends or enemies. Studied ruthlessness. 5. Rewarding Rome's friends, allies and associates with economic, political and cultural advantages. Implacably punishing and where necessary exterminating Rome's persistent enemies. 6. Wide tolerance of local cultural variation in matters that did not conflict with the major principles and practices of Rome's central authority. 7. Taking defeats in their stride, paying the price, and recovering lost momentum. Again advancing along avenues which led to Roman success and aggrandizement. 8. Indomitable persistence in the pursuit of major objectives. 9. After the reigns of Julius Caesar and Augustus, concentrating power in a single person and his chosen brain trust, using that power to further aggrandize the Roman Empire and Roman Civilization. This category is not complete. It aims to answer the basic question: In a situation where a thousand contestants entered the knock-down and drag-out struggle, first for survival and then for supremacy, what qualities or qualifications enabled Romans to win the laurel crown of victory? Paralleling the up-building forces that established Roman supremacy were counter-forces which undermined and eventually destroyed the Roman Empire and Roman civilization: 1. The growth of city life at the expense of rural existence. At the outset of its life cycle, Rome was essentially rural. At the end of the cycle Roman culture was turning its back upon ruralism and moving into a culture that was to be chiefly urban during an entire millennium. In that millennium Rome, her associates and dependencies, experimented with a culture that was essentially urban, but encircled, dependent and eventually replaced by a culture that was essentially rural. 2. During the millennium between 600 B.C. and 500 A.D. the Romans and their associates succeeded in bringing large parts of Europe, Asia and Africa under their control, but the control was so rigid and temporary that tribalism and local nationalisms broke loose from the fetters of central authority and coercive integration, shattering the structure of Roman civilization and its structural core--the Roman Empire. Instead of resulting in closer cooperation, the strategy and tactics of the Roman builders and organizers led to contradictions, bitter feuds, civil strife, independence movements which combined with expansionist diplomacy and periodic wars to discourage, frustrate and eventually to eliminate peace, order and planned progress. 2. The spread of chattel slavery had a profound effect upon the texture of Roman life. At the outset Roman family farms housed the bulk of the population. During the cycle of Roman civilization unnumbered millions of captives were seized in the course of military operations and reduced to slavery. By the end of the Roman cycle the work-load of agriculture, commerce, industry, mining, transport, and the domestic life of the well-to-do was carried by slaves. Basically, therefore, the Roman world was divided first into Romans and non-Romans and second into masters and slaves, with a third category which consisted of an immense bureaucracy (including the military), a professional and technological group and a heavy burden of persistent parasitism. 4. Growth of the abyss that separated wealth and the wealthy from mass poverty in the cities and the countryside. The abyss was widened and deepened by the presence of slavery. More extensive and more frequent foreign conquests added to the volume of slave labor in a market already glutted and reduced the price of slaves. Against this super-abundant cheap slave labor, free labor could compete only by reducing its standard of living and thus deepening the abyss of poverty. At the other end of the social arc, the rich were able to surround themselves with multitudes of slaves who provided the energy needed to carry on the complex life of Roman civilization. As the Roman world expanded, the abyss widened, deepened and became all but impassable. It was from such lower depths that Spartacus and other leaders of rebellious slaves drew sufficient manpower to challenge and for a time even defeat the full military power of Rome. 5. Built into the structure of Roman civilization was the potential of civil war. The contradictions of mass slavery and poverty side by side with boundless leisure and abundance was only one side of the picture. Each of the more distant provinces became a possible base from which ambitious governors or generals could wage wars of independent conquest at the expense of Roman authority. Each newly subjugated people, smarting under defeat and the heavy hand which Rome laid on its dissidents and opponents, became a potential center for disaffection, conspiracy and rebellion against Roman authority. 6. Conflicts over power succession, in the provinces, and more significantly in the mother city, added another aspect to the many sided pressures. As there was no legal means of determining the succession, the end of each imperial reign offered the probability of military intervention. 7. Deification of emperors, during the era of the Caesars, led to the denigration and degradation of the common man. The fact that the common men of Rome were more and more likely to be poor slaves furthered the process and deepened the abyss between the haves and have-nots. 8. Among the forces of disintegration operating in Rome none was more potent and more decisive than the numerical growth of the military and the increasing probability that any one of the growing contradictions and conflicts would lead to intervention by the military. Roman emperors were dictators and their retention of authority was increasingly decided by the legions which were willing and able to fight for the perpetuation and extension of their authority. 9. The extensive, complicated, elaborate structure of Roman civilization involved a persistent and implacable rise of overhead costs of food and raw materials, of production, of transportation, of the bureaucracy, including the military. The area of Roman civilization increased arithmetically. Overhead costs rose geometrically. They were expressed in an empty treasury, rising taxes, inflation, expropriation, the degradation of the currency. 10. Side by side with the rise in overhead costs went the increase of parasitism among the rich and among the poor. Something-for-nothing was the order of the day. Speculation was rampant. Gambling was universal. Instead of living by production of goods and services, Romans let the slaves do their work and lived by their wits. 11. From top to bottom of Roman society negative forces replaced positive forces. Self directed labor gave place to slavery; participation in productive activity yielded to parasitism; productivity was subordinated to destructivity; the spirit of independence was replaced by the acceptance of increasing arbitrary individual authority. 12. Roman society constantly faced and consistently failed to solve the contradiction between centralism and local interests and local rights. This contradiction increased with increasing size, diversity and complexity. 13. Psychological forces played a part in the breakdown and break-up of Roman civilization. People lost faith and hope. They became disillusioned and cynical. They forgot the common good and devoted themselves to the gratification of body hungers. They turned from proud service of fatherland to the pursuit of pleasure for pleasure's sake. Romans lost freshness and vigor. Creativeness had never been as highly regarded among the Romans as it was among the Greeks. Life was lived closer to the surface. It was confined more and more to the present. Growth in the volume of Roman life sapped its vitality so that there was less surplus for experiment and innovation as more and more of the social income was devoted to meeting overhead costs. Moralists have insisted that the decline and dissolution of Roman civilization resulted from the abandonment of moral standards. Undoubtedly this was true. The upstanding womanhood and manhood of early Rome was replaced by a wealth-seeking, pleasure-loving, parasitically inclined population. But these features of Roman life under the empire and during the period of Roman decline were the outcome of political, economic and social forces that have characterized one civilization after another. Instead of insisting that Rome declined and fell because it was immoral, it would be far more accurate to insist that Rome declined and fell because the objectives which it sought, the means it employed and the civilized institutions which it developed contained within themselves oppositions and contradictions which led to decline and dissolution. Rome declined and fell because the ideas, institutions and practices upon which it depended--the ideas, institutions and practices of civilization--could lead to no other outcome. CHAPTER THREE THE ORIGINS OF WESTERN CIVILIZATIONS An experiment with civilization presently spans the planet Earth. It is called "modern," "contemporary" or "western civilization." Its artifacts, institutions and practices predominate in Europe, North America and Australasia. They play a prominent role in the lives of Asians, South Americans and Africans. Two thousand years ago a long established Egyptian civilization was passing into the shadows. Civilizations in China and India were developing. Roman civilization was approaching the zenith of its ascendancy. A thousand years ago Roman civilization, like that of Egypt, was a memory; Chinese and Indian civilizations were holding their own, while the followers of Islam were reaching out into Central Asia, North Africa and Eastern Europe. In east central Europe and around the Mediterranean the beginnings of western civilization had made their appearance and were expanding their control along the Eurasian trade routes and beginning to penetrate western and northern Europe. The Crusades had introduced Asian culture traits into the European backwoods. Hardy European and Asian mariners were penetrating the Americas. Dark ages of ignorance and superstition which had held sway in Europe for centuries were coming to an end. Western civilization was beginning to draw the breath of a new life. The vast structure of Roman civilization had split West from East. The Eastern Empire retained its form and continued its culture for centuries after its break with the West. Meanwhile the West fragmented into smaller and smaller units, increasingly self-contained and increasingly isolated. Cities raised and manned their own walls. The countryside broke up into smaller and smaller divisions over which the Holy Roman Empire exercised little more than a shadowy authority. Each landed estate had its stronghold or castle. Each locality looked after its own interests. The massive Roman Universal State, stretching for centuries across parts of three continents, had broken up into a multitude of tiny semi-sovereign, semi-independent fragments. Some of the fragments as leagues, alliances and coalitions were reaching nationhood. New dawn was illuminating the Dark Ages. Western man was sorting and re-assembling some of the scattered fragments of the defunct and dismembered Roman civilization. The task was colossal. Rome's "one authority, one law, one language" hegemony had been replaced by an all pervading diversity. The closely knit Greco-Roman Empire had been superseded in Europe by a sparsely inhabited, roadless wilderness, largely bereft of trade, using waterways as the easiest means of communication and transport. The economy was built around wood cutting, charcoal burning, backward animal husbandry, hand-tool agriculture, hand-craft industry, the rudiments of commerce and finance centered in trading cities. The great houses of the aristocracy and the gentry, scattered villages, towns and walled cities were preoccupied and disrupted by endless feuding and between-seasons warfare. Adding to the chaos of this dismembered society were the controversies over dynastic succession. Intermittent incursions of migrating hordes from central Asia pushed their way into central and southern Europe. Covert and open conflicts between ecclesiastical and secular authority added to the general lethargy, confusion and chaos. Europe struggled for centuries to free itself from Asian invasion and occupation. At the same time Europe was improving its agriculture, restoring its trade and expanding its hand-craft industries and its commerce. Towns grew in population and productivity. Life-standards rose in the cities. Cities based on trade and commerce extended their authority and became city-states. Commercial cities joined their forces to form trading leagues. Lords spiritual and temporal, who had ruled Europe for centuries, were joined by lords commercial, enriched by the growth of trade, transport and developing industry. Generations passed into centuries--the fourteenth, fifteenth, sixteenth and seventeenth. From small local beginnings the nations of western Europe emerged: Spain, Portugal, the Low Countries, France, Britain, Italy, Austria and eventually Russia. Each was a consolidation of local principalities, earldoms, dukedoms, kingdoms. Each was passing through the rural-urban transformation. Each was outgrowing feudalism and producing a larger and larger group of businessmen, professionals, tradesmen, craftsmen and maturing a middle class and a proletariat. After the fifteenth century each state was spilling over its own frontiers, annexing or losing neighboring territory, spreading beyond the boundaries of Europe into the teeming markets of Asia and the newly discovered treasure-house of the Americas. A score of European peoples were engaged in the give-and-take of this struggle for wealth and power--for land and its resources in Europe, North Africa and the Near East; for booty, trade and overseas colonies. As the struggle grew more intense smaller and weaker nations dropped out of the contest or were partitioned and gobbled up piecemeal. Such was the condition of Europe's free-for-all in the closing years of the seventeenth century and the opening decades of the eighteenth century, while three developing forces pushed into the forefront of European life: the enlightenment and science, representative government, and the industrial revolution. Enlightenment broadened the social basis of knowledge and learning. During the Dark Ages, knowledge and learning were a monopoly of a tiny privileged minority composed of priests, scholars and a segment of the aristocracy. Monasteries, great houses and trading cities sheltered this monopoly. The countryside was a sea of ignorance, superstition, oppression and exploitation. With the printing press came books. Books promoted literacy and curiosity. Literacy and curiosity led to speculation, experiment, discovery and the formulation and spread of ideas. The product of these forces was science, which had had a long period of gestation in North Africa and Asia. Dark Ages of localism, with landlords, priests and soldiers directing public affairs led to the concentration of wealth and power in the landed aristocracy and the church. But traders in the countryside and merchants in the centers of commerce held a talisman that opened before them ever increasing sources of wealth. Country dwellers harvested one crop a year. When crops were poor they starved. At best the margin of profit was thin. Traders and merchants made a profit every time they found a customer. The countryside lived on a use economy supplemented by barter. As money increased in quantity it was loaned at rates of interest by merchants and bankers who owned it and used it for their purposes. Accumulating wealth and money enabled the traders, merchants, bankers and manufacturers to out-buy and out-point landlords and churchmen. Politically, these changes reduced the authority of absolute monarchies. In their places representative governments made their appearance. The third force that surfaced in Europe after the end of the Dark Ages was the industrial revolution, which led to fundamental changes in the means of production at the same time that advances in natural and social science produced their practical counterpart--an explosive expansion of technology. Science, representative government and the industrial revolution led to a rapid and extensive transformation of western society sometimes referred to as the bourgeois revolution. As the bourgeois revolution worked its way into the structure and function of European society, the developing class of businessmen and professionals who had begun to challenge the power-monopoly of the "lords spiritual and temporal" ended by establishing a higher power monopoly under the control of business, military, public relations oligarchy. This revolutionary transformation of modern society took place during the thousand years that elapsed between the crusades and the closing years of the nineteenth century. The resulting social transformation had its geographical homeland in Europe from which it spread around the planet. Politically, these forces found expression through the commerce-dominated, profit-seeking, colonizing empires, with the nation-state as nucleus. Colonizing empires became the dominant force in Europe and in the non-European segments of the planet which were gradually brought under European imperial control. In the course of voyaging, "discovery" and the establishment of trade, Europeans set up military outposts and maintained increasingly large naval forces. The avowed object of these military and naval build-ups was to defend and promote Spanish, Dutch, Portuguese, French and British imperial interests. Actually military and naval installations were marking out and maintaining the defense perimeters of their respective colonial empires. One of the widely accepted axioms of the period equated colonies with national prosperity. The more successful colonizing empires of the seventeenth and eighteen centuries became the strongholds of nineteenth century monopoly capitalism. Industrial revolution, flowering in Europe during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, gave the European commercial empires a lead over potential rivals based on Asian wealth-power centres. As a result of this lead European empire builders were able to establish and maintain their authority in India and Indonesia, dismember the Turkish and Chinese empires and partition Africa among themselves. Their only potential rivals were the lumbering, isolationist United States of North America and the newly awakened Island Kingdom of Japan. Both of these non-European nations began playing serious wealth-power roles in the same period from 1895 to 1910. Up to that point Europe continued to be the homeland of monopoly capitalism. The chief centers of heavy industry, commerce and finance were in Europe. European merchant fleets and European navies sailed the seas. European banks and business houses dominated planetary financing, insuring and investing. Viewed from outside, the ascendancy of Europe seemed to be complete. Europe held the strategic strong points: productivity, wealth, the means of transportation, mobile fire-power. By the end of the nineteenth century Europe was the monopoly-capitalist motherland. The rest of the planet was made up of actual or potential dependents under European authority. From these outsiders living at subsistence levels, Europeans could get their supplies of food and raw materials at low prices and to them Europeans could sell their surplus manufactures, their commercial services, and their investment capital at high prices. The resulting European prosperity was expected to continue indefinitely into the future. This planetary structure, with Europe as the center of wealth, power, art, science, free business enterprise and wage slavery, progress and poverty, left the majority of mankind living as dependents and colonials. The situation embodied several confrontations: 1. The masters of Europe might quarrel among themselves. 2. Non-Europeans might set up rival wealth power centers and challenge Europe's world hegemony. 3. Colonials and other dependants might demand independence, and equal status in the family of nations. 4. Rootless middle classes and the wretched of the earth might join forces and pull down western civilization's house of cards. Western civilization, like its predecessors, was accepting and following one central principle: expand, grab and keep. The application of this principle took the form of an axiom of public and private life: might makes right; let him take who has the power; let him keep who can. Grab and keep, in a period of rapid economic expansion, led each of the burgeoning European empires to the zealous defense of its frontiers as the first principle of imperial policy. The second principle: geographical expansion, followed as a matter of course. Expansion inside Europe, with its tight frontier defenses, meant war with aggressive rivals. Expansion abroad, especially in Asia and Africa, was less costly and might prove more profitable. As a consequence, from 1870 onward, British, French, Dutch, Russia and German colonial territory increased; European armaments multiplied. Each expanding empire prepared for the day which would give it additional square miles of European and foreign real estate. Grab-and-keep, with its resultant chaotic free-for-all, was the rule of thumb accepted and followed by the West during the decline of Roman power and through the middle ages to modern times. The "might makes right" formula was in violent conflict with the "love and serve your neighbor" professions of Christian ethics. Nevertheless, it was the accepted overall principle of private enterprise economy and the ruling ethic of Western statecraft. The principle was formulated in five propositions or axioms: 1. Make money, honestly if possible, but make money. 2. Every businessman for himself and the devil take the laggards. 3. We defend and promote our national interests. 4. Our national interests come first. 5. Our country, right or wrong. These five propositions were the outcome of a millennium of experience with the Crusades and extending to the present century. They are the outcome of preoccupation with material incentives that can be stated in two words, profit and power. Such propositions, applied to everyday affairs, produced an economy and a statecraft which favored the interests of a part before those of the entire community. Where the whole is favored before any part there is a possibility of co-existence and even of cooperation. Placing a part before the whole involves competition all the way from the marketplace to the chancelleries where the fate of nations is discussed and decided. The above five propositions or axioms result from preoccupation with material incentives: profit and power for managers, disciplined co-ordination for subordinates, affluence, comfort and recognition for the favored few. They provide the ideological background for twentieth century western civilization. CHAPTER FOUR THE LIFE CYCLE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION Like its predecessors, western civilization from its inception was essentially competitive. As it developed, the commercially, technically and politically supreme Spanish, Dutch, French and British Empires battled individually, or in rival alliances, for plunder, colonies, markets and raw materials. From the end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1815, to the Victorian Jubilee in 1897, Great Britain became and remained top dog economically, politically and to a large extent culturally. Britain was the workshop. British shipping was omnipresent. The pound sterling was the chief medium of foreign exchange. The British Navy patrolled the seas. English was replacing French as the language of commerce and diplomacy. During this British Century, from 1815 to 1897, Great Britain was dominant among the European great powers, but it was never supreme. Always there were countervailing forces. For centuries France had been a major factor in the control and direction of European affairs. Defeat at Waterloo reduced but did not destroy French influence. After 1870 Bismark's Germany began playing a major role. Russia, Austria, Holland, Italy and Spain were also European powers. Overseas, the United States of America and Japan were spreading their imperial wings. With the explosive advances made by science, technology, productivity, income and wealth accumulation, other countries were moving to the fore. Even though Britain maintained her actual levels of economic output and potential diplomatic presence she was one among several relatively equal European states and world empires. At the same time her natural resources were being depleted and with the growing importance of cotton, rubber and petroleum, all of which Britain must import, her economic ascendancy was progressively undermined. During the wars of 1914-18 and 1936-45 Britain entered an era of decreasing relative importance. Her empire was largely intact, but her economic and political strength was stretched to the breaking point. Throughout its history, until the wars of 1914-45, western civilization had its headquarters in central and west Europe, with branch offices elsewhere on the planet. At no time after 1870 did any one European power occupy a position of easy superiority over its rivals. If Great Britain was top dog, France, the long established continental power was snapping at her heels. Germany was an expanding power of major consequence. To the North and East lay Russia, with its vast territories and its persistent pressures into East Europe and Far Asia. By any standard of political measurement Europe was in no sense a universal state. Literally it was a potential battle field. War fortunes and misfortunes revolutionized the Europe of 1870-1910. They also realigned the planetary power structure. Heavy war losses down-graded all of the erstwhile European powers. Central and West Europe ceased to be the planetary hub. At the same time America and Asia shouldered their way toward the center of the world stage. From London, Paris, Berlin and other European vantage points the 1870-1945 era could be described as a period of world revolution. For half a century United States money and arms were used to stabilize capitalism. For many years Washington through its control of all Latin American states (except Cuba after 1960) had been able to dominate United Nations policy, exclude socialist nations, notably China, and hem in socialism. Through this period Washington subsidized and armed counter revolution. Its anti-socialist-communist doctrine had been accepted and largely followed by the West. Washington's drive to cripple and stamp out socialism-communism was accepted and followed particularly by the states with fascist leanings. Since many western states had large and influential socialist minorities and since several of them had been governed by coalitions in which socialists-communists played a substantial role, acceptance of Washington's anti-socialist program never won wholehearted support in Europe. Atlantic alliance countries voted against the admission of People's China to the United Nations during the Dulles Era. The stalemated outcome of the Korean War (1950-3) called Washington anti-socialist policies into serious question. The stupidities, mendacities and wanton cruelties of the United States' undeclared Vietnam War, even before the advent of Johnson and Nixon, had so weakened Washington leadership that no major power would associate itself with the adventure. The "Allies" in Vietnam were the U.S.A. and two or three vassal Asian states. Half a century of cold war and co-existence punctuated by military invasions and hot wars, fought between groups from both sides in the class struggle, faced mankind with several undeniable facts: 1. Planet-wide economic, political and social changes had been made during the previous half-century. 2. Capitalism was no longer supreme as it had been before 1900. On the contrary, since 1950 the planet has been divided along class lines--capitalism versus socialism. 3. Socialism-communism is one of the most obvious facts of present-day planetary life. 4. Capitalism is losing ground, especially in Europe. 5. Socialism is gaining ground, especially in Eurasia. Co-existence presupposes recognition of these five propositions and a willingness to abide by the outcome of the evolutionary-revolutionary process, through which the western world is passing. During several centuries, ending in 1900, western civilization passed through an era of consolidation and integration that brought its sovereign segments into increasing stable relationships. The most advanced of these relationships took political shape in the half-dozen European empires which controlled the planet in 1900. Side by side with the consolidation of the planet into nations and empires there was another process, world-wide in scope, which made the facts and products of science and technology and their duplication the common property of mankind, creating a cultural synthesis far more universal than the political synthesis in nations, empires, the League of Nations or the United Nations. Any social synthesis includes positive and negative aspects which function side by side. One builds up. The other wears down. For centuries the building forces in western civilization were in the ascendant. Since the turn of the century a shift of forces has been under way. The wearing down forces presently are in the ascendant. Had it been less competitive and more cooperative and co-ordinated, western civilization might have taken another step in advance by extending cultural unification into the political arena. The League of Nations and the United Nations were efforts in this direction. Neither succeeded in breaking down sovereignty far enough to permit planet-wide political federation. Having failed to co-ordinate and establish a planet-wide authority during the critical years following 1870, western civilization accepted the antithesis of co-ordination and entered a period of fragmentation: 1. During the century and a half from 1815 to the present day, as facilities for co-ordination were multiplied by discovery and invention, Europe remained stubbornly fragmented into more than a score of sovereign states. Minor changes were made in boundary lines and in internal relationships of property and privilege, but the European maps of the period present a record of persistent fragmentation of the continent into strongly frontiered sovereign segments. 2. Break-up of the European empires after two general wars led to the fragmentation of each empire into self-determining sovereign units. 3. The "third world," consisting chiefly of European empire fragments, has not consolidated, but after the Bandung Conference of 1955 has consisted of a fragmented Africa and Asia torn by domestic and inter-state conflicts and harried by the persistent intervention of the western powers. 4. Rivalry in the Pacific and in Asia has been heightened by the meteoric rise of Japan as a world power, the dismemberment of the Japanese Empire after 1945 and the fierce subsequent economic competition between Japan and her planetary competitors, chiefly the United States. 5. United States efforts to coordinate Latin America as a source of raw materials and a market for manufactures and investment capital have not produced a United Latin American front against a common Yankee menace, but a sturdy refusal even of the tiniest Latin American Republic to surrender or limit its sovereignty has pushed a thorn into the vulnerable side of Washington's Monroe Doctrine control of the western hemisphere. 6. The high point in divisiveness was the decision of the United States spokesmen to inaugurate the American Century by establishing control over the Pacific Ocean, making itself the chief power in Asia and installing U.S.A. authority in the power vacuum left by the expulsion of Britain, France, Holland and Japan from the territories composing their former empires. Local wars begun in Korea (1950) and extending across Southeast Asia have strengthened the determination of the local peoples to defend themselves at all costs against imperialist invaders from Europe and North America. 7. The United States has been rich enough since 1945 to build and maintain a navy that can patrol the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans and the Mediterranean Sea and maintain large military forces in various European and Asian waters. This policy has been justified by the Truman-Johnson-Nixon Doctrine of determined opposition to the extension of socialism-communism and the consequent perpetuation of the cold war. 8. In theory the socialist world is unitary. In practice it is so fragmented by national boundary lines and ideological differences that its members have not been able (during recent years) to get together and discuss their major common problems. United States wealth and military equipment have been sufficiently over-whelming to support the program of an American Century during which one nation might establish a universal state exercising planet-wide authority along the lines of the Universal State established by the Romans at the zenith of their power. In practice the program has not worked out. On the contrary, opposition to the United States as _the_ world power or even as _the_ power in Asia has grown steadily and quickly into a widespread "Anti-Americanism" or "anti-Yankeeism." Conceivably a universal anti-American movement might develop a hot war similar to the anti-Hitler coalition of the 1930's. If that precedent is followed, however, the defeat of the United States would be followed by a period of fragmentation similar to or even more intense than the fragmentation of the 1950's and 1960's. Present efforts to shore up the insolvent U.S.A. economy and the resulting opposition of America's leading European trading partners is not reassuring. If western civilization has passed the zenith of its development and entered a period of decline and fragmentation even a figure of Napoleonic capacities would be sorely pressed to breathe new life into its disintegrating social structure. At the moment, to the best of our knowledge, no such genius is in sight. Western civilization is in some ways unique. In the main, however, the development of its life cycle has been typical. May we take it for granted that western civilization has turned its corner or may we assume that it is still replete with the possibilities of further maneuver, development and expansion? Perhaps the best way to approach the problem would be to ask three questions: What contribution has western civilization made to human nature, to human society and to mother nature, and what further contribution can it make in the foreseeable future? Individuals, born or reared in any form of society are adjusted, shaped and conditioned by the social pattern of which they are a part. Each society attempts to stamp the individuals with its own image and likeness. The success or failure of this effort to assure individual adjustment to the social norm and conformity to its practices varies with the prosilitizing enthusiasm of the society and with the ration of adaptability and self-consciousness of its individual members. Western civilization has produced a bourgeois human being intensively conscious of his capacities and anxious to try himself out in the rough-and-tumble of the market place and on the battlefield; to initiate, undertake, direct, administer. In the main, these are characteristics of the human male, though the female often possesses them in a greater or lesser degree. Western civilization has opened the doors wide to aspirants eager to win out in the game of grab-and-keep. It has been equally kind to their chief executives, organizers and managers who rank second or third in the chain of command. These individuals come from widely different backgrounds. The social mobility of a bourgeois society gives them opportunity to climb high on the ladder of preferment. Many of those who fall into line, adapt themselves to the civilizing process, accept with alacrity the chances that come their way, but do not reach the top of the success ladder. They have the health, energy and assertiveness necessary to keep climbing. They accept their assignments and carry them out with modest success. They are the lesser executives who work themselves out by the time they are fifty and find some sinecure or safe position near the top of the social pyramid. Below the high command posts there is a wide range of handymen and specialists who fill particular positions and place their time, energy, experience and expertise at the disposal of the high command. Among them are scientists, engineers, technicians. Equally important are their spokesmen, advisers and apologists: lawyers, preachers, teachers, writers, speakers, publicists, carefully chosen for their ability to apologize, passify, justify and reassure. On the political side are the diplomats and politicians. Protection for their persons and property is provided by the police and the armed forces, composed of highly paid, well-trained, well-armed destroyers and killers. Social stability and mass support come from an extensive middle class composed of public servants and body servants, small tradesmen, self-employed craftsmen, rentiers and retired persons who are assured body comforts, social recognition and preferment for themselves, their relatives and dependants. Members of this middle class are recognized on occasion, pampered, amused, diverted, bored, frustrated and eventually corrupted by the soft living which their middle class status makes possible. Close to the middle class come the white collar workers and the better paid blue collar workers. Their lives are cluttered with gadgets and fringe benefits. Their homes are paid for or bought on credit. Below these more or less regularly employed workers on salaries and wages come the semi-employed, racial or class underlings living in poverty at or near the subsistence level. Associated with this range of bourgeois occupations and often closely identified with it are owners of family farms, tenants and hired hands. Outside of the employment range, but dependent upon the economy are the defectives and delinquents, the parasites who live on cake and the parasites who live out of garbage cans. Beyond these categories, in the American Empire, there are the colonial compradors and handymen who enjoy standards of living comparable to their opposite members in the North America nucleus. Below them are the colonial masses who live their entire lives under conditions of uncertainty and insecurity. Millions of young people across the planet, born into the complicated and bewildering social network of western civilization after war's end in 1945 and graduated from school after the onset of the Vietnam War in 1965, find themselves in a complex, frustrating jungle. Should they fit in or drop out? Those who are more conventional and adaptable fit in as best they can, although the recent high unemployment rate among the youth indicates that the adjustment is often difficult. Millions of the less adaptable drop out. Such a situation could have been foreseen by the initiated. Preparations could have been made in advance to deal with it when it arose. In the absence of adequate preparation the result is the chaos incident to every downturn of the private enterprise business cycle, magnified in this case by the regressive forces released during the disintegration of the entire social fabric. Two other areas require a word of comment. Among human faculties are ambition, imagination, ingenuity, inventiveness, creativity. Human beings are, to a greater or lesser degree, cosmically aware. In the physical field western civilization handsomely rewards initiative. In the social field it has been far less generous. Imagination and cosmic consciousness have been quite generally listed among the undesirable endowments of mankind. Western civilization, in the early years of the present century, produced a generation of insecure, unsettled, anxious, worried, harried people. This is generally true of young, middle aged and old, of rich and poor. Rapid social transition from expansion and advance to contraction and retreat is a traumatic, hectic experience for any human being. Western civilization in the early years of its decline has not brought out the more generous aspects of human nature. In the best of times a materialistically oriented society appeals to the more material and less spiritual aspects of human beings. A period of social decline leads away from principled conduct toward unashamed opportunism. The current generation, born and reared in a disintegrating civilization has been sorely tested and tried. From such tests the strong and purposeful are likely to emerge stronger and more determined. For the weak and vacillating the consequences are likely to prove disastrous. The individual born into western society during its current "time of troubles" has not had an easy row to hoe. What has western civilization done to human society as such? Western civilization has urbanized its society. Until recently in Europe and until very recently in North America, the majority of people were living outside of cities, in villages or on the land. From their flocks and herds or from their cultivated land they fed themselves and the cities. Mechanization reduced the demand for labor power in the countryside. At the same time the growth of industry, trade, commerce and "services" increased the demand for labor power in the cities. Relatively the countryside was poor while the cities were rich. The high prizes were in the cities, bright lights, crowds and the seductive excitements of seething mass life. Incessant human contacts were part and parcel of city life. City landlords collected high rents, city merchants found many customers. City manufacturers could pick and choose their wage and salary underlings among throngs of young and not so young jobseekers. Western civilization grew in and around its cities. Both in form and function it was urban rather than rural. Western civilization specialized its society, mechanized it and later computerized it, making social relationships depend less and less on personality and more on the position of the individual in a working team or on an assembly line. Human beings ceased to have names. Instead they acquired numbers on the payroll, on their homes, on their identity cards. Specialization and division of labor, plus power-driven machines increase productivity, income, surplus. In the countryside goods and services often are scarce. In the city they are likely to be super-abundant. Growth of wealth and income provide support for an increase in population. Hence the population explosions in cities and in centers of developing industry, trade and commerce. Countries passing through the industrial revolution expanded their populations. Recently, the population of some countries has doubled each twenty-five years. Western civilization has been militarized as it was mechanized. Every tool is a potential weapon. The truck becomes a tank, the airplane a bomber. War making, like other aspects of western civilization, was mechanized. Formerly war had pitted man against man. Mechanized war pitted machines and their attendants against other machines and their human attachments. The same mechanical forces that built cities, factories and ships converted these agencies of production into instruments of destruction. Each country in the civilized West fortified its frontiers, trained officers in special schools, mobilized young men and women for military service, stockpiled weapons, multiplied fire-power, making western civilization an armed camp, with guns pointing in every direction. Regimentation of city life, of industry and commerce, of war, of education and public health followed one after another as the individual human became more and more a cog in a vast social mechanism. This regimentation dulled imagination at the same time that it deified greed, with "gimme, gimme;" "more, more;" as its watch words. At certain points in its development western civilization has lifted itself temporarily above the material forces that hemmed in the life of primitive man. The Renaissance was one such period. The Enlightenment was another. A third was the scientific breakthrough from Darwin and Marx to the research and experiments which split the atom and inaugurated the space age. These gains were offset by the growing planet-wide chasm between wealth and poverty, the plunder and pollution of man's natural and social environment and the terrifying growth of destructive power revealed during two prolonged general wars in one generation. Mechanized war demonstrated its destructivity, physically, socially, psychologically. Prolonged war accustomed an entire generation of mankind to unnecessary suffering and the deliberate twisting, maiming and destroying which are characteristic features of the war-waging civilized state. Exposure of an entire generation to wholesale destruction and mass murder as a way of life had two quite divergent effects. It converted sensitive introverts into pacifists. It produced millions of trained destroyers and killers, experienced in the science and art of mechanized warfare. Pacifists opposed, denounced and resisted the warfare state and its progeny. Masses of trained destroyers and killers, the "new barbarians," gained experience and improved their qualifications by taking part in conventional warfare and in the innumerable guerrilla adventures and operations that accompanied and followed conventional wars. Previous civilizations have been harried, hectored and undermined by migrating "barbarians" who had heard of accumulated wealth and had come to share or perhaps to take over the "honey-pot" and lick up the honey. Western civilization has faced the problem of migration, intensified by population explosion. But the "barbarians" who are tearing the social body of western civilization limb from limb are not outsiders, invading a civilization in order to plunder and sack it, but the offspring of well-to-do civilized affluent communities who have repudiated the acquisition and accumulation of material goods and services, turning, instead to the satiation of body hungers and the freedom of social irresponsibility. Western man has spent ten centuries in building a civilization aimed at economic stability and social security for the privileged. The "new barbarian" progeny have rejected this civilization of affluence and are busily engaged in fragmenting the social apparatus that has made affluence possible. In a word, western civilization has organized and coordinated, but in the process it has sowed the seeds of disorganization and chaos. One last word about the effect of western civilization on human society. The West has littered and cluttered the planet with an immense variety and with enormous quantities of gimmicks and gadgets from tin cans to airplanes that fly faster than sound, and rockets that carry their occupants to the moon. Western productivity has multiplied greatly. Too often it has by-passed utility, ignored quality and outraged beauty. More often than not its goods, services, institutions, practices and ideas have remained at the surface without reaching down to life's essentials. If life can be fragmented into "physical," "mental," "emotional," "energetic," "spiritual," and "creative" it must be evident that the western way has smothered life's more significant aspects under a blanket of trivialities, non-essentials and inconsequentials. Western civilization has stressed competition, aimed at the acquisition and accumulation of material goods and services. The competitive struggle, in its civilian and military aspects, has played fast and loose with the contents of nature's storehouse. Through uncounted ages Mother Nature has set up a knife-edge balance among the multitude of aspects and differentiated forms that have existed and still exist on the planet. Humanity has increasingly upset this balance of nature, ignorantly and often stupidly, without pausing to determine the resultant changes. Nowhere is this upset more in evidence than the changes in climate and animal life and their possibilities of survival brought about by the erosion of topsoil. Paul Sears, in his _Deserts on the March_, has told the story. It can be summed up in four words: deforestation, overgrazing, erosion, drifting sands. Another aspect of man's aggressions against nature is the wanton destruction of wildlife--like the American bison and the wood pigeon. Still another example is the extraction from the earth's crust of minerals and metals accumulated through ages and used to turn out frivolous gadgets or, more disastrously, the materials and machines of civilized warfare. Instead of conserving natural wealth, rationing it and thus extending its use to succeeding generations, western man has burnt it up in the firestorms deliberately kindled during the seven disaster years from 1939 to 1945. In the course of its existence western civilization has replaced food gatherers, cultivators and artisans by hucksters and professional destroyers of mankind and ravagers of the living space afforded by the earth's land mass. Western civilization has done its most far-reaching disservice to mankind by separating and estranging man from nature. For ages man lived with nature as one aspect of an evolving ecological balance. Civilization's basic unit--the city--as it sprawls, cuts off man from more and more contacts with the earth and its multitudinous life forms; with fresh air, sunshine, starshine; with nature's sequences--day and night, the procession of the seasons; with the birth, growth, death animating so many of nature's aspects. The city is man-made. Well planned, properly built and organized, it might have become an ornament beautifying and exalting nature. Page the cities of the West one by one--they are monotonous, ungainly, ugly slums and rookeries set off by an occasional bit of creative architecture. Western civilization has differed in certain respects from the long line of its predecessors, stretching back through the centuries. In one sense it has matured, ripened, taking its ideas and practices from its nearest of kin. In the course of its life cycle it has already made distinctive contributions: 1. It has become more nearly planet-wide than any of its known forerunners. 2. It has developed unique approaches and controls through its science and its technology, inaugurating the power age by making riotous use of nature's energy sources. 3. It has extended man's conquest of the planet and begun his adventures into space. 4. It has enlarged the field of human creativity by increasing the number and proportion of men and women trained and experienced in productive and creative enterprises. 5. It has opened the door to study and experimentation in extrasensory perception--man's "sixth" sense. 6. It has made possible an unprecedented increase in the human population of the planet. 7. It has raised its potential for destruction far above and beyond its potential for production and construction. 8. It has brought together, classified and indexed the ideas, materials, techniques and generalizations which made possible this study of civilization, its appearances, disappearances and reappearances. 9. Europeans have carried the burdens of western civilization and inherited its disintegrative consequences for so long a period that the fate of western civilization and the fate of present day Europe are closely interwoven. Western civilization seems to have reached and passed the zenith of its lifecycle without achieving the political integration, the stability or the unified authority attained by the Romans and the Egyptians at the high points in their lifecycles. CHAPTER FIVE FEATURES COMMON TO CIVILIZATIONS Each civilization that has left legible records or significant traditions during the past five or six thousand years has made distinctive contributions that modified the culture pattern of its predecessors and its contemporaries. At the same time all of the civilizations have had certain common features that are the characteristic aspects which justify the general definition of civilization presented in the Introduction to this study. Civilization is the most comprehensive, extensive and inclusive life pattern achieved by terrestrial humanity. Starting locally and following the three basic principles of urbanization, expansion and exploitation, each civilization has charted a course that led from tentative local beginnings through a cycle of growth, maturity, decline, decay and dissolution. The civilizing process is essentially collective, subordinating the interests of each part to the interests of the whole, while allowing sufficient home rule to enable each part to have the political, economic and cultural advantages enjoyed by the other parts, always excepting the privileged position occupied by the civilization's dominant empire and its nucleus. Necessarily a civilization is composed of more or less disparate segments, each one (before its inclusion in the collective whole) maintaining a large measure of sovereign independence. Utilizing advanced techniques of communication, exchange, and transportation, the separate sovereign units are coordinated, consolidated, unified and universalized. The result is an aggregate of parts, differing in many local respects, but acknowledging the authority of the power center and contributing material goods and manpower to its support and defense. The main sociological purpose of each civilization has been to impose central authority and universality upon political, economic and ideological diversity. Every civilization has been confronted with the advantages of unity over diversity. Every civilization has professed its devotion to unity. Every civilization at one or another stage in its development has subordinated unity to the increasingly insistent demands of diversity. For at least six thousand years one civilization after another has sought to achieve centralization and universality. In every instance of which history provides a legible record, centralized, universalized institutions and practices have fragmented into diversity and stubborn localism. Western civilization is part and parcel of this generalization. Generation by generation and century by century it has professed and proclaimed the advantages of universality while it yielded to the persistent demands of nationalism, regionalism and localism. Throughout the latter years of the nineteenth century the will to unify gained much ground. The tide turned with the turn of the century. For the first half of the present century the forces of unity and of diversity seemed stalemated. War's end in 1945 saw the shadow of a universal state flicker across the screen of history. With the adjournment of the Bandung Conference in 1955 the shadow dissolved and was replaced by the strident nationalisms that have become an outstanding feature of planetary politics, economics and social organization. Despite the insistence of reason and experience that strength and stability are the result of unity,--tradition, custom and habit have held human society at the level of political, economic and ideological diversity. Nowhere in history is this generalization more emphatic than in the failure of the European standard-bearers of western civilization to replace a millennium of diversity, discord and conflict by a unified, coordinated, co-existing, cooperating European community. At its best a civilization is insecure and even unstable, disturbed and upset by an increasing domestic struggle for preferment and power that includes rivalry, competition, revolt, rebellion, civil war and wars of self-determination carried on by unassimilated regional, provincial and colonial elements. From beyond their frontiers civilizations have been assailed by rival aspirants for power, by armed bands in search of plunder or by migrating peoples seeking greener pastures. All of these forces have held the ground for diversity and barred the way to universality. Another factor of great consequence leading to the instability of civilizations has been the concentration of wealth, power, privilege, comfort and security in the hands of a minority, in sharp contrast with poverty and insecurity among the less well-placed majority. Generally, the privileged minority has been relatively small and the exploited majority overwhelmingly large. Still another disturbing factor in each civilization is the transformation of its military arm from a means of defense against external enemies into a major factor in the direction of domestic affairs. The professional military build-up has frequently usurped the state power and became king-maker by virtue of its monopoly of weapons, organization, and its highly trained personnel of professional destroyers and killers. Upset by one or another of these disturbing and disruptive forces, civilized populations have panicked and retreated from their collectiveness toward more localized, more fragmented, less social and more individual life patterns. Such a retreat rounds out the later phases of a cycle of civilization--the phases of decline and final dissolution. Civilizations perish in the first instance because of internal contradictions and conflicts, the struggle to grab, monopolize, and keep wealth, status, power. They perish because of the division of the nucleus and its associates and dependencies between those who work for a living, those who have an unearned income and those parasites who scrounge for a living. They perish because of the hard class and caste lines that grow out of economic contradictions; because of the development of a social pyramid, layer above layer, until the summit is reached where there is standing room for only a few. Competent, talented persons may rise from level to level in this pyramid. A political and social bureaucracy develops which feeds at the public trough. Then comes a bitter struggle to get both feet in the trough and keep them there side by side with an equally determined effort to exclude outsiders and other intruders. An army of volunteers and novices is converted into a military establishment which becomes a state within the state, extending its control until it makes policy, selects top leaderships and carries on its internal feuds and wars of succession dividing the defense forces and using them for partisan purposes. Overhead costs rise; deficits in the public treasury grow; so does public debt. Inflation follows, and the debasement of the currency. Levies are made on private wealth for public purposes. There is expropriation of the property of political enemies. Espionage, secret agents, the growth of informers become part of the society, along with the use of assassination as a political weapon, the increase of violence and crime, and eventually, a flight from the cities. This tragic enumeration only skims the surface of the many and various aspects of a situation that reaches its breaking point in civil war, famine, pestilence and eventually in depopulation. Social dissolution is accelerated by provincial revolts against central authority; by survival struggle between the empires which were coordinated and consolidated into the civilization; by revolt in the subordinate and dependent segments of the civilization; by rivalry and conflict between racial, cultural and political sub-groups forced into the civilization, held there by coercion, policed by armed force and taking the first opportunity to win political independence and self determination. While the momentum for expansion lasted, the civilization grew in wealth and power. When it waned, disintegration set in. Changelessness seems to be impossible in a social group. A civilization either expands or withers, builds up or falls to pieces. Starting from one or more local groups, each civilization has reached out "to conquer the world", occupy it, organize it, dominate it, exploit it, perpetuate itself. In each case expansion, occupation, domination and exploitation are limited by human capacity (human nature); by the relative brevity of a single human life; by the extreme variations in the capacity of successive leaders. It is limited by geography; by the means of transportation and communication; by overhead costs that increase geometrically as the civilization expands arithmetically; by the means of delegating responsibility; by accounting devices, available raw materials and labor power; by power struggles inside the ruling oligarchies; by the failure to maintain a balance between centerism and localism; by growing local demands for self-determination; by the invasion of nomads seeking to plunder the tempting honey pot at the nucleus of the civilization. Such limitations are political, economic and sociological. Psychological forces are also at work. The vigor and vitality of the early builders gradually spends itself. The will to austerity and the sense of loyalty and social responsibility are diffused and diluted. Bureaucracy degenerates into a rat race. The paralysis of parasitism replaces the will to power. Physical gratification gains priority over the service of the gods. Consistently, through its entire written history, civilization has been built upon what the civil law of all nations calls "robbery with violence". In every instance when the robbers have grabbed everything in sight, and gorged to the point of physical satiety, they fall to quarreling among themselves or turn with boredom and disgust from the whole sodden mess of discord, disorder and degeneration. Each step, from the establishment of an urban nucleus of expansion, through the building of rival empires to the final struggle for supreme power, involves the violent subordination of lesser interests to the interests of one supreme authority. Violence takes precedence over persuasion and negotiation. In each case the final appeal is to armed combat using the most sophisticated weapons available. During the "time of troubles" which overtakes each civilization, war and the threat of war become normal aspects of domestic and international relations. A specialized war-making bureaucracy is organized; war plans are made; war games (rehearsals) are carried on, and wars are fought as a means of determining which nation or combination of nations shall have access to raw materials and markets, dominate the trade routes, control the weaker peoples, own and exploit the colonies. To the victor, war is the means of extending national or imperial frontiers and legalizing expansion at the expense of the vanquished. Defeat in war leads to the imposition of indemnities, the payment of tribute, the transfer of territory to the victor and in extreme cases the extermination of the defeated nations or empires. Settlements imposed by violence and policed by victors lead to resentment, antagonism, hatred and the build-up of a desire for revenge, including the restoration to the vanquished of lost territories. The logical outcome of such a situation is preparation for a war of independence by the vanquished, countered by military occupation, rigid suppression, and exploitation by the victors in the previous struggle. War is taken for granted as an instrument of policy. It is employed by civilized nations and empires as a means of expansion. Wars of independence and restitution follow conquest, dismemberment and annexation. Civilized nations and empires prepare for war and wage war as a normal aspect of civilized life. Civilization, and in particular western civilization, is a time-bomb, built to detonate and scatter its fragments far and wide. It is a type of booby trap in which humanity has been caught periodically and horribly mangled. Without exception, each civilization has contained the forces and equipment needed for its own annihilation. At no time reported by history has this formulation been more obvious than during the decades immediately following war's end in 1945. Destructivity was lifted to new levels of efficiency by electronic communication, the tank and the airplane. It was further escalated by atomic fission and nuclear fusion. Advances in science and technology had made dramatic increases in the tempo of production and construction. Utilization of atomic energy had stepped up destructivity to the nth power. Based on assumptions that oft-repeated experience has proved to be false and misleading, civilization in the 1970's is unstable and insecure. Most civilizations are strangled in their cradles or plundered and demolished in the course of the never-ending political, economic and military conflicts which have marked and marred civilizations since the dawn of history. The national and imperial survivors of these struggles in every known instance have been largely or wholly led by military adventurers and plunderers in search of booty, fame and power. With professional plunderers, destroyers and murderers occupying the seats of power, it is only a question of time and occasion before rising overhead costs and the misfortunes of war result in their overthrow and replacement by better organized, better armed invaders who slaughter and enslave their predecessors and usurp and abuse their power. Of necessity, civilizations are self-destructive, built as they are on the ebb and flow of power struggle. Successive conflicts involve an indefinite volume of overhead costs, which grow with the intensity and extent of the expansive survival struggle, creating a series of crises along a path that leads to self-destruction and the return of the experimenters to a condition of pre-civilized self-containment. We in the West, looking back on our own immediate history, refer to this pre-civilized status as the Dark Ages. Actually, such Dark Ages are the transition stages between two periods of experiments with the building of civilizations. In view of this oft-repeated experience, modern man must look upon an epoch of civilization not as a way of life, but an adventure of suicidal self-degradation and ultimate self-destruction. Each cycle of civilization has had its peculiarities, determined by the geographical and historical factors surrounding its origin and development. Yet all have had features in common. Among the common features we would list: 1. A revolutionary movement within the societies under consideration. In each experiment with civilization the culture pattern was transformed from pastoral and/or agricultural to a culture based on trade, commerce and finance; from rural to urban; from simple to complex; from local toward universal. 2. In each case an independent, self-directing, expanding state was built around an urban center. 3. In each experiment a simple, local, social structure was extended, expanded, specialized, sub-divided, integrated, consolidated. 4. In each experiment a relatively static society passed into the control of an emerging class of peddlers, merchants, traders, speculators, business enterprisers and professionals who were not directly involved in the conversion of nature's gifts into goods and services ready for human use, but in political and cultural practices which enabled the emerging bourgeois class to stabilize and extend its wealth and power and build an economic structure that augmented unearned income and laid the foundation for predation, exploitation and parasitism. 5. In each experiment an amateur apparatus for defense and/or aggression matured into a professional military means for enlarging the geographical area and strengthening the economic and political authority of the new trading-ruling classes. In each empire and each civilization there was an evolution of "defense" forces from voluntary to professional status, from subordinate to dominant status, from participation in public life to political supremacy over all aspects of public life. 6. In each experiment massed labor power (slave, serf, or wage-earner) was assembled, organized and trained to build roads, bridges, aqueducts, housing facilities and eventually to operate agriculture, construction, industry, trade and commerce, public utilities and other services in the interests of an oligarchy. 7. In each experiment a capital city (and associated cities) became the nucleus for accumulating wealth, constructing public buildings, providing means of transportation and sources from which raw materials could be secured for city maintenance and for the provision of sanitary facilities, means of recreation and diversion. 8. In each experiment there was a competitive struggle between rival communities, each passing through the rural-urban transformation. The result was an increasing conflict for survival, for expansion and for local supremacy. 9. Each experiment expanded along lines that led the more successful to build traditional empires consisting of wealth-power centers and peripheries of associates and dependents. 10. Each experiment produced a competitive survival struggle between rival empires that would determine eventual supremacy. 11. In each experiment one among the local and regional contestants defeated, conquered, dismembered, assimilated or destroyed its rivals and emerged as victor, giving its name to a civilization: Egyptian, Babylonian, Persian, Roman. 12. In each experiment the victims of imperial aggression, conquest, exploitation and assimilation, conspired, united, resisted and revolted against the dominant power. The result was endemic civil war. 13. Within each experiment, as the civilization matured, the same confrontations appeared at the nuclear center and in the provincial-colonial periphery: a. Extremes of riches side by side with slum-dwelling poverty. b. Expanding unearned income, with one class (the propertied and privileged) owning for a living and another class (peasants, artisans, serfs, slaves) working for a living. c. Intensified exploitation of mass labor side by side with the proliferation of parasitism throughout the body social, consisting of individuals and social sub-groups whose contribution in the form of goods produced and services rendered was less than the cost of maintaining the participants. d. Economic stagnation. Public spending in excess of public income; higher levies and taxes to replenish the empty treasury; rising prices due to excess of demand over supply; public borrowing with no means for repayment; the issue of money without corresponding reserves; degradation of currency through decrease of its metal content; unemployment among citizens due chiefly to increase in forced labor of war captives and other slaves; public insolvency due to territorial over-expansion; excessive overhead costs; nepotism, bribery, corruption in public service; an over-large bureaucracy feeding at the public trough. e. Revolution in the nuclear center and fierce suppression. Provincial revolt. Revolt in the colonies. Endemic civil war. f. Migration toward the central honey-pot; invasion by rivals and adventurers seeking to control it, plunder it and guzzle its contents. g. Dissolution of the society; boredom; ennui; loss of purpose and direction; growing dissension; power struggle and avoidance of responsibility for trends that were little understood and generally beyond the control of existing officialdom. Histories of individual nations and empires and histories of civilizations and civilization assemble and present a great body of factual information which support and substantiate this factual summary. The present study aims to organize the facts, to compare them and to draw conclusions as to the benefits and detriments; the practicality or futility; the wisdom or folly of building empires and merging them into civilizations. These conclusions are based on several thousand years of experiment and experience with the civilized life pattern. Time after time, in age after age, human beings by the millions have poured faith, hope and unbounded energy, devotion and dedication into the upbuilding of the urban nuclei of successive civilizations. Details have varied. Ultimate conclusions have been the same. One civilization after another has passed into the limbo of history leaving, sometimes, splendid ruins as a testimonial to its evident inadequacy to meet the survival needs of oncoming generations. Such conclusions, based on history, are underlined by current experience with the over-ballyhooed, over-priced variant of the life pattern which signs itself western civilization. Dating from the Crusades a thousand years ago, western civilization has been promoted, built up and carried forward by the blood, sweat and tears of credulous, hopeful, eager human beings. Its promises have been wonderful; its performance, especially since 1900, has been pitifully inadequate, superficial and unsatisfying. _Part II_ A Social Analysis of Civilization CHAPTER SIX THE POLITICS OF CIVILIZATION Several thousand years ago humankind began experimenting with the life style which we are now calling civilization. Presumably it was not thought out and blueprinted in advance but worked out by trial and error, episode by episode, step by step--perhaps, also, leap by leap. Historical and contemporary experiments with this lifestyle supply a fund of valuable information, some of which has been covered in the earlier chapters of this book. Our next task is to analyze and classify this information under four headings: the politics, the economics, the sociology and the ideology of civilization. (When the information is properly arranged, we can do something with it and about it.) Politics is the part of social science and engineering which is concerned with the organization, direction and administration of human communities. We use the word to cover the conduct of public affairs in any social group more extensive than a family. Hence we refer to village politics, town politics, national politics, international politics and, in the present instance, to the politics of civilization as a way of life. Each sample, referred to in our examination of typical civilizations, was built around a center, nucleus or homeland consisting of one or more cities with their adjacent hinterlands. The nucleus of the developing civilization was also the nucleus of an empire. Each nucleus was a center of planned production; accumulating wealth, growing population and expanding authority. Certain locations are better suited than others to provide the essentials of a civilization nucleus. The first requirement for a nucleus is a tolerable climate, primarily a satisfactory balance between heat and cold. Before the general use of fire as a source of warmth human populations were concentrated at or near the tropics. With the increasing use of artificial heating and lighting human beings were able to cluster farther and farther away from concentrated equatorial sunlight. The second requirement of such a location is a strategic position in a crossroads, in a network of transportation and communication. The third requirement is a readily available source of the food and building materials necessary to feed, house, and clothe a community and provide it with some of the niceties of daily living. The fourth requirement is the presence of sufficient man-power to operate the nucleus and provide a surplus for defense and for its extension and expansion. The fifth requirement is defensibility against aggression or invasion. The sixth essential is the availability of sufficient raw materials to meet the requirements of the nucleus, provide the exports needed to maintain a favorable trade balance for the nucleus and permit of its expansion, advancement and enrichment. Seventh, and in some ways, the most important requirement for the establishing of an empire or a civilization nucleus, is the presence of a will to live, a will to grow, a will to advance, competence in management, and a dogged persistence that will remain constant through generations or centuries of adversity, and still more demanding, through long periods of security, comfort and affluence. Eighth, and by no means least important, is the capacity to fight and win the aggressive trade and military wars incidental to the defense and expansion of the nucleus, of the empire, and eventually of the civilization. The ninth requirement is tolerance, receptivity to new ideas and practices, the capacity to adapt and to assimilate the outside elements which are constantly incorporated into the growing, expanding empire or the civilization. Finally, as we read the history and observe the development of nuclei, empires and civilizations, we are impressed by the role of outstanding individuals who occupy positions of responsibility over sufficiently long periods or with sufficient intensity to leave a lasting impression on the ideas, practices and institutions of their times. This requirement covers the practice of effective leadership. Our concern, at this point, lies primarily with the first eight of these requirements for survival and success in building up empires and civilizations. Empires and civilizations are established during periods of social expansion when the up-building and out-going urges are widely felt. The surge produces not a single center of growth and expansion but dozens or scores of competitors, each aiming to win and keep a position well in advance of its rivals. The resulting up-surge and free-for-all, which usually lasts for centuries, is a characteristic and recurring feature in the political life of every civilization. This statement is less a requirement for success in organizing the nucleus of a civilization, than a generalization about the natural and social milieu out of which competing nuclei arise. Success of one among the many competitors is a characteristic feature of the struggle for nuclear survival, development and perhaps for eventual supremacy. From earliest times waterways have provided the readiest means of getting about. All that was needed was a hollow log, a raft, a primitive canoe. Movement by land was impeded by mountains, deserts, forests, swamps, water courses. Movement by water was a natural. More and bigger boats required shelter against storms and protection against destruction by enemies. A good harbor with an adjacent walled town or city was the answer to this need. Good harbors and navigable waterways are notably absent along the west coast of South America and notably present in the Eastern Mediterranean. Consequently, the South American West Coast line is sparsely settled to this day, while the Eastern Mediterranean has been crowded with peoples, teemed with trade and commerce, carried largely by sea, between cities that occupied the best access to waterways. Safe harbors and navigable waterways made trade and transport easy and cheap. As each wave of human advance turned from animal husbandry and agriculture to bourgeois practices of industry, commerce and finance, locations at strategic points along trade routes were first occupied by occasional markets and fairs and eventually by trading towns and cities. Geography was a decisive factor. Fertility was equally important. In the early stages of social development transportation was difficult, dangerous and expensive. Sources of food and building materials were found within a short distance of the growing trade center. Again geography played a decisive role. A deep, sheltered harbor backed by a desert could not attract and support a thriving trade center. Food and raw materials are indispensable to concentrations of human beings. The Nile Valley, like that of the Ganges and the Yellow River, provided the fertility and transport, the food and raw materials that have sustained concentrated human populations for many thousands of years, forming part of the base for Egyptian, Indian and Chinese civilizations. Animal husbandry and grain farming, coupled with fishing and forestry, made possible the growth of cities and laid the foundations for the nuclei of these civilizations. Temples, tombs and other public constructs provided the centers around which Egyptian civilization was built. The stone, wood and other raw materials used in the building of these unique examples of human handiwork were floated up and down the Nile from their sources of origin. Annual Nile floods provided silt deposits necessary to fertilize farms and gardens. Nile water, impounded during floods, irrigated the land during the long dry seasons. Banked by deserts, the Nile was a ribbon of fertility running through a largely uninhabited wilderness. The upper reaches of the Nile lay in the mountains of Central Africa. The Nile delta, built up through ages by silt deposits, provided a meeting place where African, European and Asian traders could exchange their wares and lay the foundations for the civilization of lower Egypt. The Nile also provided the means of communication which connected Lower Egypt with Upper Egypt and led, finally, to the unification of the two areas in a long enduring and prestigious Egyptian civilization. Once again geography was laying down the guide lines within which civilizations have been built up and liquidated. Thus far we have noted the role of physiographic factors that have led to building the nuclei of empires and civilizations. They have been parallelled by social factors as men took advantage of natural opportunities to concentrate, feed and house ever larger human aggregates. Empires and civilizations have been built up by comparatively large numbers of human beings concentrated in relatively small spaces. Wandering food gatherers and herdsmen ranged widely in search of game and grass. Cultivators settled in villages from which they could work the land. If crops were scanty, population was sparse. Only abundant crops, dependable, season after season, provided the basis for large settled populations. Large, settled populations, adequately supplied with the essentials of life, enabled human beings to organize social centers in which a comparatively few people, tending their animals and working the land, could release a comparatively large part of the population to devote its time and energy to trade and commerce, to industry and transport, to the arts and sciences and to the organization, direction and administration of large scale enterprises such as government, the military, construction and the mobilization of sufficient labor power to carry on and enlarge their enterprises. In its simplest essence this was politics. Egyptian government, in its broad sense, rested on a class structured society: the aristocracy, the priesthood, officialdom, businessmen, highly trained scientists and engineers, skilled craftsmen and an immense proletariat consisting of tenant farmers, peons, slaves and war captives. At the top of the political structure was an absolute monarch who wielded power that was limited only by the ambition, tolerance and loyalty of his associates--nobles, priests, soldiers, businessmen and political advisers, and by the willingness of the rural and urban masses to work and fight for their overlords. A number of the monarchs (Pharaohs) ruled for long periods--up to sixty years. It was during these long reigns that the Egyptian Kingdom was organized, strengthened and unified, the rule of the monarch was safeguarded; ambitious nobles were placated or destroyed; and the leadership succession was determined and assured. The nucleus of the Egyptian Empire was a dictatorship by a self-perpetuated elite, headed by lords spiritual and temporal. Both groups held land, accumulated wealth and exercised authority. It was a government combining the theory of absolutism with the practice of public responsibility. It was sufficiently arbitrary to get things done. It was sufficiently inclusive to recognize and utilize special ability. It was sufficiently structured to carry on from dynasty to dynasty. It was sufficiently flexible to consolidate scattered communities into the Old Kingdom, to unite Lower and Upper Egypt, to extend its authority into Central Africa, the Near and Middle East and parts of Eastern Europe, thus laying the foundations for history's most extensive and long-lasting civilization during the period 3500 to 500 B.C. I have used the Egyptian example of nucleus organization because of the phenomenal successes achieved by the Egyptians in maintaining an empire for at least 3,000 years. For a considerable part of those thirty centuries Egypt was top dog in the strategic area where Africa joins Eurasia. The nucleus is the hub from which the spokes of empire and of civilization radiate. The radius of authority and the vast stretches of occupied, exploited territory constitute the circumference of the wheel. The nucleus is the center of wealth and power surrounded by a cluster of associates and dependencies. The control, direction and administration of the nucleus is parallelled by the control, direction and administration of the total complex--the empire and/or the civilization. The development from nucleus to empire and from empire to civilization creates three sets of political problems: those arising from the administration of the nucleus; those arising out of contacts between the nucleus and the circumference, between the associates and dependencies and the nucleus, and those arising out of the determination of the associates and dependencies to sever their connections with the nucleus, win their independence, and take part in the unceasing efforts to establish new nuclei, win the unending power struggle and shift the power center. Relationship between nucleus and periphery are the normal outcome of the expansion of a nucleus into an empire. Each growing urban center reaches out for an extension of its territory; for the food and raw materials required by a growing population; for markets that can absorb the goods and services exported by the urban center to pay for its necessary imports of food and raw materials. Politically speaking, the essential problem is to maintain a relationship that will keep the imports coming in and keep the exports going out. Imports may take the form of plunder seized by the strong in contacts and conflicts with weaker neighbors; tribute paid by the weak to the strong at the insistence of the strong, or trade in which each side gains something. Empire building involves all three methods. In virtually all instances the nucleus is richer and stronger; the periphery is poorer and weaker. In virtually all instances these relative positions have been the outcome of military operations in which each party has tried to impose its will upon its rivals. In each case the spoils went to the victor, who forced defeated rivals to cede territory, to pay tribute, to give hostages or in some other fashion to agree upon a settlement that left the victor richer and stronger and the vanquished poorer and weaker. Politically speaking, the relation of nucleus to periphery was that of superior to inferior. Where the discrepancy was very great it resulted in a relation of master and vassal or even master and slave. An empire or a civilization, consisting of a wealth-power center and a periphery of associated and dependent territories and peoples, led to a living-standard differential in favor of the center. It also involved the establishment of a political apparatus strong enough to perpetuate the relationship by collecting tribute and taxes from the weak and depositing them in the treasure chests of the strong. The outcome was a civil bureaucracy backed by a military or police strong enough to defend and perpetuate an unpalatable superior-inferior position. Once established, both the civilian bureaucracy and the military apparatus tended to maintain themselves, to extend their privileges and strengthen their positions. Since controversial issues, domestic and foreign, are generally decided by force or the threat of force, the military became the strong right arm of authority. These confrontations and contradictions created three sets of political problems: centralism versus localism; established central authority versus provincial rights and self-determination; the concentration or centralization of authority in the hands of a select few civilian and/or military leaders, responsible to the central authority, who made on the spot decisions and took action. Under the institutions and practices of civilized society, the select few were in a position to call in the military which was organized for emergency action and was constantly standing-by. The military was trained, disciplined and held a monopoly of weapons. Civilizations frequently begin as commonwealths or federations forged in the course of survival struggle. In any such struggle the military will of necessity play a major role. As the competitive survival struggle develops, one of the contending parties establishes its superiority by winning military victory. In the course of this struggle the commonwealth, a cluster of equals, yields place to the pattern of empire--a center of wealth and authority with its associates, subordinates and dependencies. The strong right arm of politics includes man-power, money and weapons. The politics of civilization faces a simple mandate: establish, stabilize and perpetuate a nucleus of wealth and authority; build around the nucleus a periphery of associates and dependencies. Historically, the process was a long one extending through generations and probably centuries. Throughout the struggle individuals must have the necessities of daily life. Community activities must be housed, equipped, staffed, supported. Pastoral and village life were based on a use economy. People produced what they needed and consumed their own products. Each tribe, family, village was a more or less self-sufficient unit. When they were threatened or invaded people defended themselves as best they could. At worst they abandoned their homes to the invaders and fled into the forests, mountains or deserts. Towns and cities, with their industries, trade, commerce, their permanent housing and capital equipment faced a radically different situation. Since they could not carry their wealth on their backs they must stay put and defend themselves or face irreparable losses. Defense required careful, extensive, expensive preparations: walls, equipment, stored food, personnel. Unless the city was sacked and burned during survival struggles it remained as a vantage point to be held at all costs. If surrendered and occupied by assailants, it was equally valuable to invaders who were prepared to settle down, take advantage of the site, the capital equipment and exploit the available manpower. Whether occupied by friend or enemy, towns and cities were centers of actual or potential wealth and power. They were also consumers of goods and services many of which could not be home-produced. Food must come from herdsmen or farmers. Building materials must come from forests or mines. Such raw materials, the essentials of daily life, must be brought into urban centers when and as wanted. Food and raw materials could be secured occasionally by plunder. A regular supply depended on trade and commerce, or on tribute levied and collected periodically from associated or dependent peoples. In the long run trade and commerce proved to be more reliable and more productive than plunder. As urban centers grew and developed, they established regular channels of trade and communication, by land and water. Along these channels needed imports moved into the urban centers and exports in exchange moved from the urban centers into the back country or the provinces. At every stage in the process care must be taken to prevent intervention by thieves, robbers or envious rivals. Two devices were used to meet this situation: money to facilitate exchange and a defense organization to deal with intruders. Money and its uses developed money changers, money lenders and banks. Bankers and banks exchanged currency at a profit and extended credit. Weapons in the hands of trained personnel evolved into locally employed police and centrally organized armed services, performing police functions and fighting wars, domestic and foreign. Politics, local, regional or national, developed with the growth of population, the profits of expanding urban life, production, technology. As its scope broadened geographically city survival depended increasingly on wealth and power (money and weapons). During periods of peace and stability the civil authorities controlled public affairs. In emergencies, such as natural disasters, invasion, civil or international wars, the military authorities took command. Military authority is an institutional feature of every civilization. In periods of public danger it enjoys complete ascendancy. Like civil authority, the military is a permanent and frequently the dominant feature of each civilization. It is assured of ample income and entrusted with the installations and implements of war making. Both in income and in prestige the military holds a preferred position. Since military functions center about destroying the person and property of the "enemy"--domestic or foreign--public funds are made available or are pre-empted by the military during periods of martial law. As a civilization becomes more complex and extensive, the funds at the disposal of the military tend to increase. The same factors of extent and complexity lead to larger and larger numbers of confrontations and conflicts in which the military is called upon to play the leading role. Increasingly, therefore, the military is at the center of policy making. Finally a point is reached at which war, civil, colonial or international is always in progress somewhere within the territories occupied by the civilization. At such periods civil law slumbers and military authority is more or less dominant and permanent. Under the slogan "defense of civilization," military necessity and military adventurism shape public policy, empty the public treasury, bankrupt and eventually destroy the superstructure of a civilization. The nucleus which lies at the heart of an empire or a civilization has a political life cycle that runs from the unstructured or little structured aggregation of confederation or self-determining local groups to a highly centralized political absolutism holding and exercising its authority by the use of the military. The steps in this process have been clearly marked in earlier civilizations. They are playing a decisive role in the day-to-day life of western civilization. They extend from early forms of government under leaders selected or elected by popular acclaim or at least by popular consent, to more or less permanent leadership enjoying many political privileges, including the selection of its successors. Under the pressure of social emergency, engendered within the social group or imposed from outside the group by migration, intrusion or invasion, leadership takes the measures which it considers necessary to preserve and/or extend its authority. Each emergency offers leadership an opportunity or an excuse to by-pass custom and/or law, overlook whatever public opinion may exist and proceed to the measures needed to meet the emergency. In each organized social group the exercise of authority has provided the leadership with a near-monopoly of money and weapons in the hands of a permanent military elite. The use of this elite to deal with the emergency is accepted by civil authority as a matter of course. When social division of function has produced and armed a military elite, leadership turns to this elite in any emergency arising from natural disaster or social crisis. The outcome is a community directed by a military arm seeking to perpetuate and enlarge its own role in the determination and exercise of public authority, using any means which seems likely to produce the desired results. Politically, therefore, any expanding empire or civilization reaches a point at which absolute monarchy, exercising unquestioned authority, makes and enforces public policy by the use of the military or with its help. Many commentators write as though the essence of civilization was its art galleries, concert halls, its universities and its libraries. Such agencies are the trappings, decorations and fringes of a civilization. There is no justification for such a selective approach. The strong right-arm of every civilization has been its wealth (money) and its martial equipment (its guns). Success in politics has been described as the art of selecting the possible and bringing it to fruition. Every community is more or less fragmented by deviations, contradictions, confrontations and conflicts. These fragmentations begin in the personality and extend through the entire social structure--from the individual, through the family, such voluntary associations as the sports club, the trade union, the merchants' association, the educational system, the political party, the municipal or the national government. Unrestrained and undirected social fragmentation leads to conflict, destruction, perhaps to chaos. Success in politics rests on an understanding of the chaos and its causes and an integration of conflicting forces behind specific programs and around charismatic personalities. One aspect of the problem is especially disturbing and baffling to the uninitiated. Compared with the brief adulthood of an individual the life span of communities is immensely long. The individual is at his or her best for a few years or decades. Communities and their institutions endure for hundreds and in some cases for thousands of years. Under the most favorable conditions an individual can hope to play a part in community affairs for a decade or two. Before he comes on the stage of public affairs and after he leaves it, social life stretches indefinitely. Politics is one aspect of that more or less extensive social experience. Its immediate objective is to bring order out of chaos and replace randomness by purpose and if possible by plan. In the wake of the bourgeois revolution, which was directed particularly against monarchy and generally against absolutism, the most obvious and attractive social pattern was a republic, ruled by the citizens in a manner which in their opinion was best calculated to promote their safety and happiness. Under a republican government public affairs would be openly and freely discussed by the citizens at a time or place of their choice by word of mouth, through a free press or in public gatherings. At stated intervals elections would be held at which all citizens of proper age would select representatives and a legislature or parliament where questions of public concern could be debated and appropriate measures adopted. Implementation or execution of these measures would be placed in the hands of executive officers responsible to the parliament. As a safeguard against any miscarriage of the public will, the right of petition was guaranteed. In some instances the right of referendum and recall was provided. To obviate any miscarriage of justice, provision was made for courts, responsible to the citizenry, as an independent arm of government competent to protect and assert popular rights. Overall, citizens of the republic, through duly elected representatives, would draw up and proclaim a constitution containing a general plan of the governmental machinery. When adopted by the legislature or parliament this constitution became the law of the land. Governmental activities were carried out and laws were enacted in conformity with constitutional provisions. In practice the citizens of the freest republic were face to face with one of the oldest political dilemmas confronting mankind: the question of leadership and followership. In almost any social situation, from trivial to grave and critical, some one woman or man volunteers advice and often initiates action. If no one approves, the initiative falls flat. If there is a chorus of approval, the crowd follows the lead of its spokesman. If some approve while others disapprove or remain silent, a show of hands is in order. If there are real differences in the group, some taking one side, some another side with no chance of common action, the group may divide into several factions, some remaining in the assemblage, others departing, with their spokesmen leading the way. In such confrontations there are many determining factors, the experience and wisdom of the leadership; the urgency of the subject under discussion; the depth of the separation between opposing factions; the experience of the citizenry and their willingness to compromise on divisive issues; the willingness of the factionalists to abide by a majority decision. Experienced leadership, which has enjoyed a period of public approval long enough to build up not only a group of devoted followers, but a group of place-men and office-holders who owe their positions to the leader, can assemble a bureaucratic or political machine, adopt measures and take the steps necessary to keep its chosen leader in a life job, with the possibility of naming a successor. Republics have adopted various measures to prevent the establishment of a self-perpetuating dynasty, by limiting public office-holding to a stated number of years; by providing that the office holder may not succeed himself. Political leaders may avoid such provisions by staying in the background, having their closest associates elected to office, and when their term is ended, secure the selection of other associates upon whose personal fidelity they can rely. All such measures require that the leader keep the favor of a considerable number of his constituents. To avoid this often difficult or disagreeable task the leader and his close associates may persuade their constituency to by-pass both constitution and parliament, enlist the support of the military, seize power and establish an arbitrary dictatorship of admirals and generals or establish a committee of military leaders who will pick out civilian office holders willing to follow the political line laid down by the military leaders. As republics gain in wealth, increase their power and broaden their geographical base by bringing outside peoples under their sway, their dependence upon military means of resolving public controversies becomes greater. This is particularly true where outsiders brought under the republic's authority have mature political institutions including their own leaders and their own ways of dealing with public relations. Given such a situation, the control by the republic over the policy-making apparatus of dependencies is likely to have been established by force of arms. In such a case it is only a matter of time and occasion when the dependency will demand the right of self-determination and be prepared to fight for independence of "foreign tyrants, oppressors and exploiters." Minor inexpensive military operations for the suppression of colonial revolt which are quickly and successfully ended may add to the stature of empire-building leaders. But major operations, long continued, expensive and inconclusive, will undermine the prestige and weaken the position of the most firmly seated imperialist. The Boer War against the British and the wars waged by the Koreans and the Vietnamese against a series of occupiers and exploiters are excellent examples of the operation of this principle. As empire building proceeds under its inescapable expansionist drive, a point will be reached at which the overhead costs of maintaining the empire will exceed the income. As that point is approached in one after another of the empires comprising the civilization, the central authority will be successfully challenged by the dependent, colonial periphery. Ordinarily, such challenges will coincide with the inter-imperial wars which have periodically disrupted every civilization known to history. When such a coincidence does occur, as it did in western civilization from 1914 to 1945, the bell is likely to toll loudly for the civilization in question. Measures usually adopted to prevent such a catastrophe--martial law, military dictatorship, self-perpetuating monarchy, divine authority, are more than likely to heap fuel on the flames of rebellion and lead into a social revolution. An unstructured social group operating under the competitive principle "Let him take who has the power" tends to develop into absolutism. At any stage in the history of a civilization this development can take place. Civilization, therefore, comes into being with this built-in contradiction: the strong and predatory exploit the weak, but at a certain point protect the weak and nurture the defenseless. Exploitation by the rich and powerful is recognized and accepted as a prerogative enjoyed by the rich and powerful. At the same time limitations are placed on the character and intensity of the exploitation. This dichotomy is perpetuated by agreements, laws and constitutions which guarantee the property rights and social privileges by which the rich and powerful safeguard and increase their wealth and power. Under the same agreements, laws and constitutions, the privileges and rights of the defenseless and weak, are specified. Political institutions in every civilization, including that of the West, have accepted and adopted a regulatory structure under which limits are imposed on profiteering. The domestic life of a civilization consists of an establishment within which exploitation can continue in a manner which the constitution makers and legislators consider to be as efficient as possible and as fair as possible to all of the parties concerned. As a civilization matures, wealth and power (the means of exploitation) are increased in volume and concentrated in fewer hands. The resulting absolutism with its immense structure of wealth production and its well-organized military arm, imposes conformity to its decrees, servility, peonage and even slavery on the working masses. The masses, in their turn, organize, agitate, demonstrate, strike, sabotage, and periodically take up, arms in defense of their lives and their livelihood. We are describing certain political aspects of a process of social selection which has dominated one civilization after another. At the present moment it has reached a critical stage in the West. We apply the term "social selection" to the result of this process because there is a parallel between the natural selection of the biologists and the social selection which sociologists observe in the rapid and extensive changes presently taking place in the centers of western civilization. Natural selection is a process in the course of which many compete and contend while only a few survive and mature. Social selection is a similar knock-down and drag-out struggle in which peoples, nations, empires and civilizations take part. Many enter the contest but only a few live to write their story in the long and complex history of civilizations. At the outset of such a contest, the European-Asian-African cradle of the coming western culture contained numerous political fragments--kingdoms, principalities, cities, city states, inert peasant masses, migrating tribes--struggling locally and regionally for a place in the sun, or for additional territory and extended authority. These struggles reached the military level in local wars, regional wars, general wars. In the course of this survival struggle, the weakest and least effective contestants were defeated, dismembered and gobbled up by their stronger and more efficient opponents. Local struggles--in the Near and Middle East, in North Africa, in eastern, central and western Europe--were trial heats in the course of which many contestants were eliminated, while the survivors continued the process of city, nation and empire building at higher and broader levels. It was only after five hundred years of such conflicts that the outlines of western civilization took definite political form:--a group of battle-hardened contestants, centered in Europe, heavily armed and equipped, intent on protecting and enlarging their home territory and extending their authority over dependencies and colonies in various parts of the planet. This survival struggle continued for another three hundred years, down to the beginning of the present century, reaching its highest level of intensity between 1914 and 1945, with contestants from all of the continents taking an active part. In this present round the contestants are nations and empires, organized in ever-changing alliances. Some of the contestants are old, scarred and battle weary. Others are young and vigorous, recent entrants in the planet-wide contest for pelf, possessions and power. During the later years of the struggle, after war's end in 1945, erstwhile dependencies and colonies of the disintegrating European empires declared their independence, joined the United Nations as sovereign states and played active parts in the battle for survival. African development typifies the process during the later phases of western civilization. When voyaging and discovery became a leading activity of European nations around 1450 A.D. northern Africa was directly involved, but the bulk of the continent--Equatorial Africa--remained almost entirely untouched. After 1870 the pattern was dramatically altered as British, French, Spanish, Portuguese, German and Italian forces moved inland, staking out their claims. Division of Africa among the great powers reached its culmination when this process was completed, about 1910, when the whole vast continent of Africa excepting Ethiopia, Egypt and South Africa had been parcelled out among the rival European empires. In terms of geography and population, Africa was still African. Politically it was pre-empted, occupied, dominated and exploited by European empire builders, who used the over, all trade name of western civilization. Excessive costs of empire building, including the disastrous losses of military struggle from 1914 to 1945, impoverished and weakened the European overlords to such an extent that they could no longer maintain their footholds in Africa. At the same time African minorities in various parts of the continent launched independence movements under the slogan of self-determination, drove out the European occupiers, organized political states and declared that Africa must be governed by and for Africans. Much of Africa, at the time, was organized along tribal lines, which cut across the boundaries drawn by the European imperialists between their colonial territories. The resulting chaos temporarily removed Africa from any meaningful role in the planet-wide contest for pelf and power. Africans are politically sovereign. Economically and culturally they remain dependent on their former European masters. Politically, western civilization is in a state of flux. Its European homeland is basically divided by potent fears, ambitions, feuds and conflicts, and separated geographically from North America and Asia. Despite several attempts to unify the continent politically, Europe was disrupted, fragmented and weakened by two general wars in a single generation. The European empires were politically and economically upset by widespread colonial revolt in Asia and Africa. Spectacular achievements of socialism-communism, particularly in East Europe and Asia, added to the previous fragmentation a new line of division between capitalist West Europe and socialist East Europe. This process of fragmentation is giving separatist forces ascendancy over the forces of integration and unification. In Roman and Egyptian civilizations, the period of survival conflict led to the centralization of wealth and authority. After five centuries of suicidal competitive struggle, the European homeland of western civilization is criss-crossed by sharp lines of division. Furthermore, the shift of production and military power from Europe to North America and Asia reduces the probability of speedy European integration. In the more important centers of western civilization the chief item of public expenditure is preparation for a war of air, water and land machines that may extend technologically into a nuclear war. While we have no precedent that would enable us to gauge the consequences of an extensive nuclear war it seems reasonable to assume that it would further fragment an already fragmented European continent. The heavy burdens of militarism which western civilization is presently carrying, have unbalanced budgets, which lead to inflation and to onerous burdens of debt and taxes. It seems unlikely that a group of warfare states like the top western European powers can escape the economic contraction which presently threatens them and regain solvency and stability through fiscal reforms or readjustments in tariffs and trade. Our analysis of the politics of civilization may be summarized in four general statements: 1. Each civilization has consisted of a cluster of empires, nations and peoples which at some previous period have enjoyed independence and sovereignty. 2. Relations between these erstwhile sovereign units have been determined by a shifting mixture of diplomacy and armed force, with war playing a determining role in the process. 3. In the course of survival struggle, political leadership within the civilization has shifted back and forth as one group has succeeded in establishing and maintaining its authority over the entire civilization. 4. A general axiom of the politics of civilization might read: At the conclusion of each war among civilized peoples the victors are entitled to make the following declaration: We operate under the Law of the Jungle: "Let him take who has the power and let him keep who can." We have the power. We have grabbed the real and personal property of our neighbors and we propose to keep it. Our friends are welcome to attend our Feast of Victory. Let our enemies beware. CHAPTER SEVEN THE ECONOMICS OF CIVILIZATION Politics involves the exercise of authority--the policy making, planning, control, direction and administration of a community. Economic forces provide the wealth, income and livelihood--the wherewithal upon which a community depends for its physical existence, its survival, its geographical extension, the continuance of its life cycle. There is no sharp line separating economics from politics. While the two fields are different in character and scope, they are so interrelated and interwoven that any successful attempt to separate them would leave the inquirer with two segments of a lifeless social cadaver. In the course of this exposition it will become increasingly evident, as the political and economic lines cross and re-cross, that the two fields are inseparable parts of a total body social. One civilization after another has begun with a predominantly rural economy that has become increasingly urban as it matured. Food gathering, pastoral life and small scale agriculture were rural. Trade, commerce, manufacturing and finance, concentrated populations, increased division of labor, specialization, inter-communication and interdependence produced the trade center, the commercial metropolis and the general purpose city. Herdsmen and land workers, dependent on grass and rainfall, lived close to the subsistence margin and were at the mercy of forces they could not control. Traders and money changers, with an eye for business in a growing marketplace made a more ample living. At the same time the more successful among them accumulated capital which they loaned or invested in stocks of goods, shops, warehouses, caravans, ships. By hiring labor-power they multiplied their own limited physical capacities. By investing in varied enterprises they assured themselves against possible loss in any one of them. They also multiplied the possibilities of profit. Trade, finance and commerce, by producing a regular flow of abundant income, brought into existence a new field of occupations and a new class--business and the businessmen. Herdsmen and farmers depended for their livelihood on nature, her niggardliness or generosity. The businessmen required only the presence of a group large enough to purchase goods and services, pay rent and interest, work for wages and leave the profits to the enterpriser. Each profit beyond the subsistence level enabled the businessmen to expand, buying more goods, hiring more labor, making still greater profits. Communities of businessmen pooled their profits, extended their markets, built fleets, enlarged cities. Through joint action they engaged in plundering expeditions and collected tribute from their victims. Organized fabrication turned out the goods and services which were marketed for profits. The resulting wealth enabled the successful businessmen to build houses, stock them with consumer goods and art treasures, hire servants, live sumptuously. Productivity, wealth, prosperity filled their honey pot to overflowing. Honey pots provide the "good things" of life for their owners. They also tempt outsiders. Honey-pot owners fear pilfering by their servants; fear sponging by their relatives, friends, neighbors; fear robbers and kidnappers; fear migrating hordes on the lookout for plunder. Defense is a necessary aspect of each rich household, neighborhood, city, nation, empire, civilization. The sequence from productivity, through prosperity, wealth accumulation, abundance and the measures needed to defend and safeguard the accumulations, leads to an affluent community or society. It also calls into being new and distinctive class forces. I. The business class (hucksters and profiteers), a self-seeking, aggressive group of adventurers, promoters and organizers of bourgeois society to whom _profit_ comes first. At one or another stage in the life cycle of every civilization aggressive bourgeois greed for wealth and power makes itself felt. Their role in western civilization has been outstanding. The business class through its control of the productive apparatus and the sources of credit has been able to surround itself with subordinates, scientists and other experts, apologists, strong-arm squads (police and military), spies and assassins. II. A middle class, made up of business class subordinates plus self employed tradesmen, professionals, independent farmers and craftsmen. III. A class of blue collared and white collared producers of goods and services who hold their jobs during good behavior. When not needed or wanted they are pushed into the ranks of the partially or wholly unemployed. Most civilizations have added to the working force serfs, peons and/or chattel slaves. IV. A class of hangers on--economic parasites--who consume more than they produce. The payment of unearned income to property holders and the creation of monopolies enables this class to live on rent, interest and profit in proportion to their ownership. As parasitism increases and multiplies it proves to be a dead weight which eventually drags down any economy that tolerates it. V. A class of dependents, defectives and delinquents, supported by society but contributing little or nothing to its maintenance or its advancement. Every civilization has maintained a greater or lesser degree of mobility between the classes. Mobility makes it possible for those with greater ability and energy to leave the countryside, settle near the market-place and climb the ladder of success. It has also made it possible for policy makers to dump those whose services are no longer needed or wanted by the ruling oligarchy. Among the driving economic forces in a civilization are hunger, fear, greed, ambition. In practice these forces have proved far more effective than whips and clubs in the hand of slave drivers. They animate the rat-race for pelf, power, "success", which attracts idealism, energy, ability and throws out the carcases of those no longer able to make a contribution to the wealth and power of the oligarchy and its establishment. Hunters, herdsmen, cultivators, craftsmen, mariners, miners perform services that maintain the solvency of any economy in which they play a leading role. Fast talkers, adventurers, promoters, manipulators, gamblers add little or nothing to the income of the communities in which they operate. Often, however, as gargantuan consumers, they play an important role in building up the deficits which finally wreck an economy. Accumulations of wealth in market centers tempts the ambitious and the adventurous to enter the rat-race and grab more than their pro-rata share of the honey. The most obvious way to do this is to secure possession of the honey pot. Far away, in the tribal past of a civilization, lay a period of scarcity in which the members of the community shared the scarce income or starved. As the tribal wealth increased, the leaders, their families and retainers got more than a fair share of the available goods, services, preferment, privileges. At a very early stage the "ants" stored away what they could spare, while the "grasshoppers" had a "good time". Investing their stored wealth in land or productive enterprises the "ants" added unearned income to their normal earnings from productive labor. Because the "ants" held the wealth of the community they were able to exercise authority and determine community policy. One result of their decisions was the creation of titles to land and stored wealth. A second result was the institution of property-custom and later of property-law under which those who owned property enjoyed special privileges which gave them still larger shares of the community wealth and income. Wealth ownership and the exercise of authority, concentrated in one person or family, created a basic division in the community between those whose livelihood depended on their labor and those whose income was determined by their ownership of property and their exercise of authority. In the course of time this development divided the community into a property-owning, governing minority which was wealthy, and a property-poor majority whose livelihood depended upon the willingness of the property holding minority to use their land and productive implements in operations that turned out goods and services. Property ownership and income were protected by law. Labor income depended on the bargaining power of the property-less majority. Property income yielded wealth to the property owners. Labor income, under the pressure of competition in the labor market, yielded only subsistence. Thus the community was divided into owners and workers. The owners controlled and spent or invested the income. The workers were provided with the necessaries and a few crumbs of comfort. Private property and property law supported by state power institutionalized a basic division in every civilization. One segment of a civilized community enjoyed wealth and power; other segments produced goods and performed services. The owners were rich; the producers were poor. Riches side by side with poverty are characteristic features of a civilized society. Exploitation has been the economic backbone of every civilization from earliest times to the present day. Each civilization has exploited and used up its natural resources. In every civilization individuals, groups, classes and sometimes castes have exploited or used up fellow humans and fellow creatures to suit their own purposes and advance their own interests. Abraham Lincoln gave a classical definition of human exploitation in a simple sentence: "It is the principal that says you work and toil and earn bread and I will eat it." Exploitation of nature and of fellow beings by man began long before written history. During periods of civilization, and notably in present-day civilization, exploitation has determined social relationships. It has also become one of the pillars of every civilized community. Civilized peoples use up natural resources as a matter of course. The more advanced technically have stripped their environments of replaceable and irreplaceable resources. They have also perfected techniques for using the productive power of their fellow creatures. One way to do this is by owning the body. Another way is ownership of land, capital and consumer goods which enable the owner to live without labor on the products resulting from the labor of others. Owners of property and wealth receive an income because they are owners. They may be very young or very old, able-bodied or helpless. Their livelihood comes to them not because of anything they do, but because of the property titles which they own. The owner of land may collect rent. The owner of capital may collect interest. The owner of an enterprise may collect profits. Each lives by owning. Workers produce goods and services. They are paid an income proportioned to their production. Owners of land, capital and consumer goods are paid incomes proportioned to their ownership. Workers work for a living. Owners live by ownership, chiefly of land and the implements of production. Owners of property frequently are rich. Workers, by comparison, are poor. The line separating owners from workers also separates riches from poverty. Income from services rendered, from work, is earned income. Income from property ownership, by contrast, is unearned income. The relation between earned and unearned income is not confined to one generation. Under laws passed by the owners and their retainers the owners of private property may give or bequeath this property to their descendants. In the course of time a community is divided between workers who are poor and owners who are rich. Since the rich need not work in order to live, they and those associated with them may live on the unearned income derived from property ownership. In a word, they may become parasitic. Parasitism may lead to social decay. Generation after generation, the owners and their dependants may live in comfort or even in luxury while those who work and their dependents may lack simple necessities. This is the confrontation of riches and poverty which has played so large a role in every civilization. Through the ages, in one civilization after another, the glaring contrast between riches and poverty has appeared, dividing the community and laying the foundation for class struggle and class war, both of which decrease social efficiency, intensify class antagonism. In the early stages of any culture cycle, barter is replaced by a money economy. Money is a medium of exchange, usually issued by a public authority and used in daily transactions, to pay tribute or taxes and to meet other general expenses. In its earlier forms it is made of relatively scarce materials that are in general demand, limited in supply and easily divisible into smaller units. Gold, silver and other metals meet these requirements and have been used as money through the ages. Cash money and promises to pay speed up wholesale and retail exchanges in the market place. They fill the bill in normal times. But there are emergencies and other exceptions. One of the commonest of the emergencies is war. In a previous chapter we pointed out that war is a characteristic feature of a civilization that has passed the top-point of its expansion and begun to decline. Then the chickens come home to roost. Civil war, colonial wars and wars between imperial rivals follow each other, creating emergencies in which demand for certain strategic goods and services rises steeply, with no corresponding increase in supply. Prices increase. The common defense requires immediate purchase of supplies. The public treasury is exhausted. The government borrows from money lenders (bankers). It also prints paper money and puts it in circulation. If the credit of the government is good, if the emergency is of short duration, matters right themselves and the economy survives without serious derangements. But war-emergency disrupts and sometimes destroys an economy. This outcome often results from military defeat. Another exception to normal economic transactions is buying on credit--buying today and paying tomorrow. The temporary gap between purchase and payment is filled by credit--a promise of the purchaser to pay later and the confidence of the seller that the bill will be paid. Such credit transactions are covered by notes, bonds and mortgages made out by the buyer and accepted by the seller. Until the debt is settled, the borrower pays the seller interest at an agreed rate. Bankers enter the picture, providing capital and collecting interest on their loans. Where credit is abundant and relatively cheap, borrowers spend beyond their incomes, hoping to pay later when the loan falls due. Borrowing and over-spending are among human frailties. They are also forms of risk-taking or gambling. Who knows whether the banker who promises to pay on demand will be alive and doing business next week when his promise to pay is presented for settlement? When the promise to pay is issued by a government which decides the value of currency, and accepted by that government as payment for taxes and other obligations, it is more readily acceptable than paper issued and guaranteed by an individual money lender or banker. Each civilization has had a background of simple use economy--food gathering, animal husbandry, agriculture--in which most of the people produced what they needed and consumed what they produced. Such an economy employs money rarely. In a money economy those who have cash use it to pay their bills or settle their accounts. Those who buy on credit pay interest to money lenders. The money lenders, later the bankers, make their profits by helping others to spend beyond their own means. The money-lender also accepted loans from others, promising to pay them back at a later date, and giving the lender a piece of paper, specifying the amount of the loan. The paper promise to pay became a bank-note, passed from hand to hand. It had no intrinsic value, but as the money lender promised to pay cash for the note on demand, it was accepted in payment of debts or for the purchase of commodities. When a shirt-maker turns out a product and exchanges it for a pair of shoes made by a shoemaker there are no overhead costs. Each producer adds to his wardrobe an item that makes his life more satisfactory. Examples of simple barter are seldom found in market economies. Civilized society assembles quantities and varieties of goods and services in the market place, invites consumers to choose among the wares and provides money to make transactions quick and easy. Civilized society supplements money with credit on the principle: buy and use today; pay tomorrow. Civilization goes beyond these bare essentials of merchandizing by furnishing transportation and communication, making long term loans at interest, writing insurance, developing the techniques of accounting and management. Customers who visit the market have basic human needs--the necessities of life. Beyond these necessaries, there are conveniences, comforts, luxuries. The markets of civilization cover the entire range of human needs and human wants from necessaries to luxuries. Civilized merchandizers take two other steps aimed to activate consumption. They develop new lines of merchandise that will have more customer appeal, leading to new wants. They also advertise new wares that will create new wants, bring back old customers and attract new ones. For the foot-weary customer who has shopped away his energy and enthusiasm for buying more and more, a civilized marketplace furnishes food and shelter, recreation, entertainment and culture--beer, libraries, concert halls and circuses as well as food, clothing and shelter. These multiple functions of a civilized economy are part and parcel of the changes which have converted the simple barter deal of exchanging a pair of shoes for a shirt into a specialized, civilized market place. They also cause civilized economies to devote far more time and money to marketing goods and services than they spend in their manufacture. In a broad sense, these supplementary costs are "overhead." Shirt makers and shoemakers convert raw materials and partly finished goods into shirts and shoes. Operating costs of manufacture are minimal in a civilized economy. The major items that go into the final price of the product are overhead costs. Current accounting practices include in overhead: taxes, interest, insurance and general items. Actually the price of goods and services in a civilized economy includes minimal charges for raw materials and labor and maximum charges for overhead. There is another phase of overhead which pyramids with each advance in the extent and complexity of a civilization--taxes to cover the costs of government. As the civilization expands and specializes, governmental services multiply. The number of government workers grows in proportion and often out of proportion to the total production costs. Expenses of government rise and with them the corresponding need to increase taxes. Overhead costs in the village or small town are low. Much of the "public service" is done by citizens who volunteer their time and energy. In the centers of civilization public service is a profession, often well paid and usually quite permanent. Expansion is a basic feature in the life of every civilization. Expansion increases overhead costs. When American Indians made their silent way through the forests or roamed the plains there was no overhead. Each provided his own means of locomotion. With roads came bridges. With roads and bridges came capital costs. As dirt roads gave way to macadam and macadam to asphalt and concrete, as country roads, winding over hill and through dale were replaced by graded superhighways cut straight through or built over all obstacles, the cost per mile rose fantastically. All of these added costs appeared somewhere in the tax bills which citizens were required to pay. In any enterprise overhead costs rise in direct proportion to the extent and complexity of the social order. As they rise, they increase the prices of the goods and services which citizens (or consumers) must pay for their livelihood. A good illustration of this principle is the price of an identical acre of land: in the remote countryside; on an improved highway; in the suburbs of a growing city and at the city center. Increasing wealth brings greater risks. Wealthy cities like wealthy individuals and families must pay for their protection against robbery and piracy; against extortion and expropriation. Among important business enterprises insurance ranks high. The costs and profits of insurance are suggested by elaborate insurance company buildings and the high salaries paid to their officials. Insurance, usually a private overhead, comes high. Public insurance: maintenance of law and order, crime and punishment, the secret and open police, the armed forces, (land and sea and air) are vastly more expensive. If, to these limited costs of overhead are added the costs of militarism as a public enterprise and the ruinous costs of military adventurism and its inevitable wars, the mounting costs lead to insolvency and eventual economic and social ruin. Another overhead cost which plays havoc with civilized nations and peoples is the support of a bureaucracy. Increased extent and complexity exhaust the community capacity for voluntary service and lead into an era where the volunteers who carried on the limited public activities of a village are supplemented and eventually replaced by a constantly growing body of public servants. Growing extent and complexity plus the need for finding safe places for those who are useful to the rich and powerful, widens and deepens the public crib. In large enterprises, private as well as public, paper work employs a small army, which must be fed and housed at a level worthy of "a great nation." Business machines reduce the personnel necessary for a given social enterprise, but their high capital and operational costs increase overhead. Another aspect of overhead costs is the multiplication of parasitic professions. In simple villages, there are few body servants, no able-bodied individuals who fetch and carry at the word of command, or who only stand and wait for the moment when some whim, fancy or real need may call for their services. Village life, with its limited area and still more limited resources, has little economic surplus upon which parasitism can feed. There is landlordism, of course, but the margin of surplus is small. The city, the province, the nation, the empire present a different picture. Parasitic professions abound and proliferate: money changers, money lenders, realtors, confidence men, gamblers, fortune tellers, priests, entertainers, artists, thieves, robbers, and prostitutes abound, consume more than their share of the community income, without making an equivalent return in production or service. Their support adds to the social overhead. Another source of social overhead are the numerous followers of the "something for nothing" cult who receive unearned income--an income derived from civilization in its mature and its final stages. Broadly there are two types of income--earned income and unearned income. Earned income is something for something--or return for goods provided or service rendered. Unearned income is something for nothing--an income derived from some monopoly, privilege, sinecure or form of property ownership. Property in persons or things has been a characteristic feature of all civilizations. Property owners, receiving rents, interest, dividends, in proportion to the amount of property which they own are not called upon to make equivalent return in exchange for their property--based income. This personal parasitism of property owners is aggravated by provisions of property law under which the owners of property can give, sell or bequeath these sources of unearned income to family members, friends, associates. Eventually, unearned income, handed on through generations, creates a class or even a caste of citizens who live without rendering an equivalent of services, on the labor of their fellows, adding a significant amount to the total of overhead costs. Wealth ownership, the exercise of power, living in luxury on unearned income, add to overhead costs, but are accepted as respectable in civilized communities. Another and far less respectable form of social parasitism is the manipulation of social forces in a way that will bring the operator more than a fair share of social income with no equivalent in service. Such is "politics" or "politicising." "Politics" as a source of livelihood takes many forms, some less legitimate than others. The most usual source of office-holding is the humble work of the clerk, handyman or messenger, responsible for carrying out the nagging routine of government. Beyond this common labor of public service are public servants skilled in their several professions. Beyond and above them are department heads and still higher are the appointed or elected officials responsible for the success or failure of a given public policy. Who are the occupants of town, city, state, and national positions of authority and responsibility? Preferably they are elected or appointed because of their popularity or are the successful product of civil service examinations. At worst they are appointed as a return for favors or else because they are relatives or friends of successful politicians or their backers. Whatever its source and however efficient or inefficient its performance, the body of paid public servants increases with the expanding life of locality, region, province, state, nation and empire. With its growth goes corresponding accommodations in wages and salaries, office space and equipment and other routine outlays. Frequently the increase of the emoluments of bureaucrats, especially at the higher levels of authority and responsibility, creates sinecures which are filled by parasites or by individuals who are engaged in shoring up the bureaucracy rather than rendering a public service. The outlays necessary to finance such a top-heavy bureaucratic fabric grow in direct proportion to the age and rigidity of the bureaucracy, draining off public funds into private coffers and adding uncompensated elements to overhead costs. If inflation is a problem, at or beyond the apex of an imperial epoch or cycle of civilization, financial costs rise correspondingly. The chief overhead cost in every civilization is and has been war. Examine the budget of the United States or any other leading civilized power. From two-thirds to three-quarters of central government outlays are for war in the past and preparation for war in the future. The net result of rising overhead costs appears in the history of all previous civilizations. They are eating out the vitals of western civilization while we write and read these words. CHAPTER EIGHT THE SOCIOLOGY OF CIVILIZATION Sociology is the science and art of association. Human associations range from kinship groups like the family, tribe and clan to larger more complex groups like villages, towns, cities, nations, empires, to still more inclusive leagues, federations and civilizations. In a broad view, sociology includes politics, economics and ideology. For the purposes of our social analysis, we have divided the field into four separate categories, beginning with politics, continuing through economics and drawing our study together under the general headings of sociology and ideology. No civilization that we have studied can be regarded as an intentional or projected or planned enterprise. On the contrary, civilizations have developed and matured in true pragmatic fashion, taking one step after another because their predecessors had followed this course or because, given the human urges and the available natural and social opportunities, the next step seemed to be determined by previous steps plus the momentum of the enterprise. In the course of this development an ideology was built up and modified in such a way as to justify and strengthen the entire project. When William Penn received a grant of land from the English Crown, he was already committed, ideologically, by the Quaker faith to Quaker methods. Without ever seeing his proposed home across the Atlantic he drew up a plan for his City of Brotherly Love (Philadelphia), and for the organization and conduct of his enterprise. The entire project was formulated in Penn's mind and put on paper. This is a good example of an intentional community. No civilization so far as I know, has followed such a sequence. Certainly in the civilizations with which we are most familiar, political and economic forces, the principles of necessity and availability have led to the formulation of an ideology that would justify and promote the interests of the social group which was controlling and directing the community or communities in which the civilization was maturing. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that each of the component elements making up the expanding civilization--each people, city, state, nation, empire--developed its own total culture pattern, subject to the pressures mutually exerted by neighboring communities. The aggregate of these culture patterns, separately and often antagonistically matured, comprised a lesser totality called an empire and a larger totality called a civilization. It is with this larger totality that we are concerned. We propose to analyse the sociology of civilization under the following headings: (1) the structure or anatomy; (2) the function, physiology, or process; (3) motive forces in civilization; (4) contradictions and conflicts, with a final section on the life cycle of civilization. The structure of human society consists of specialized economic, political, administrative and cultural groupings assembled and maintained in relationships that supply necessities, conveniences, comforts, luxuries for the individuals, together with capital goods and services for the social groups composing the civilization. In terms of social history the growth of structure has proceeded from the horde, tribe and clan to the family, village, city, city-state, nation, empire, civilization. These steps are not necessarily sequential. Under varying social conditions they have been determined and modified by particular historical situations. The smallest and most intimate building block of human society has been the family. The largest and most inclusive has been the civilization. The family as a social group has existed for long periods, over wide areas, in immense numbers. Civilizations have been few and often far between. They have arisen out of particular historical situations, played distinctive roles, written their own histories and made varying contributions to the sum total of human culture. In the long time intervals and the wide geographical distances that have separated civilizations human beings have lived within more local and less complex social structures. Civilized human society is distinctive in structure. While it varies in detail from one civilization to another, its broad outline is unmistakable. Each civilization has been built, defended and perpetuated in and around cities. Between civilizations, in time and space, most human communities have been self-sufficient. Whether as food gatherers, pastoral people or cultivators of the soil they have produced and consumed the food, shelter, clothing, implements and weaponry required for their survival. The city, whether a political capital or a center of trade and commerce, was sharply separated from the self-sufficient countryside. The city, by its very nature, could not be self-sufficient. Food, building supplies and raw materials were not produced inside the city limits, but must be produced in the hinterland from which they were transported to the cities. City dwellers devised means of paying for the production, transportation and marketing of these necessary imports. The countryside can and does exist independently of the city because it can provide the goods and services on which its existence depends. The city, on the contrary, cannot exist without the supplies produced in the hinterland and transported to the city. Urban centers of civilization have for their background a pastoral and agricultural source of food supplemented by fabrication, merchandising and financing. Instead of the occupational uniformity of the countryside, the city offers a wide range of occupations, increased productivity, quick and substantial profits resulting in a build-up of capital on one side and enlarged consumer spending on the other. Consequently the successful competitor in the race for supremacy develops productivity, accumulates wealth, expands capital spending, enlarges the scope of the arts, thereby augmenting the city's attractiveness to business enterprise and migrants from the hinterland. As the capital city grows in wealth and opportunity it requires larger imports of food, raw materials, building supplies, manpower. Growing internal need leads to greater external expansion. Economic, political, administrative and cultural needs not only increase the demands of the city on its existing hinterland, but they lead to a demand for a more widely extended hinterland. The countryside is the goose that lays the golden eggs. The city gathers, guards and eventually consumes the eggs or converts them into capital forms and lives in part on this unearned income. The city is the mecca which attracts by its wide ranging opportunities. It is also the center in which policies are made and offered to the countryside as normal facts of life. The countryside accepts city leadership including a higher wealth-power per capita ratio for the city. Cities, with their accumulations of population and wealth, are walled or otherwise defended. When danger threatens, countrymen often move inside the walls until the danger abates. Cities and city life increase and expand with the growth and expansion of civilization. Cities are the centers from which civilization grows and expands. Historically, a number of cities or city-states have competed for survival and supremacy. One by one they have dropped out of the race or have been out-classed, defeated and/or absorbed by the victors in the competitive struggle. One location proved to be more advantageous than others. The inhabitants of one locality were more skillful, more far sighted than those of rival localities. Many competed. Eventually one survived the final round of struggle, emerging as the nucleus of an expanding empire and a maturing civilization. A protracted conflict raging first in Italy and later in the entire Mediterranean basin, resulted in the Roman Empire and eventually in Roman civilization. A similar series of struggles, this time planet-wide, gave the British a taste of planetary supremacy in the nineteenth century and opened the door wide enough to give the United States oligarchy a glimpse of an American Twentieth century, which never eventuated. Occupational differences within the city led to a differentiated class structure. As the trading city developed, businessmen eventually played a dominant role because they were able to command larger incomes, accumulate more wealth and offer more aggressive leadership. Nuclei of both empire and civilization were associated with a cluster of allies, client states, dependencies and colonies related to the center by economic interests and by diplomatic bargains or political controls. They paid tribute or taxes as the price of living within the defense perimeter of the ruling elite, conforming to the chief aspects of its culture and in emergencies taking refuge inside the city defenses. The city center made and implemented policy and provided local leadership in emergencies. Inhabitants of the city enjoyed a superior status and had a higher standard of consumer-living than most of those who inhabited the countryside and the hinterland. A structured society based on division of labor and/or function enjoys a competitive superiority over a classless community. The structured city was not only richer than the countryside, but it was in a position to provide leadership, to plan and implement policy and act more effectively. A civilization consists of a cluster of associated allies, clients, dependencies, and colonies bound together by economic, political and cultural ties. Since armed force has been the chief instrument for bringing these elements together, the agency responsible for exercising armed force enjoys priority in a listing of the structural institutions of civilization. Land owners, often acting as military chieftains, dominated the hinterland of a civilization. The city was dominated by businessmen. The unification of city and hinterland and the complex of cities and hinterlands composing a civilization established a governmental apparatus in which all ruling elements were represented. In the earlier stages of a civilization there may have been assemblies or parliaments composed of representatives of various interests. As the civilization was unified by war, representation was replaced by some form of monarchy in which one supreme commander, emperor or pharoah was the final judge and arbiter. The monarch set up a network of public authority, regional as well as universal, provincial as well as central, and garrisoned it with professional soldiers and sailors paid by the monarch and responsible to him. Corresponding with this political structure was an economic structure consisting of a central treasury, a uniform system of weights, measures and values, a system of spending priorities, decided by the central authority, a source of income: taxes, tribute, booty, sufficient to cover expenditures. A civilization which ran a chronic deficit--over-spending its income--moved year by year, through debt, inflation, currency degradation, and repudiation toward its own disintegration and ultimate bankruptcy. The historical record is very clear on this point, especially in Roman civilization and in western civilization after 1870. Most civilizations have had a body of religious institutions staffed by a priestcraft, which has shared power with the economic overlords. During certain periods in the long history of Egyptian civilization the priestcraft held the balance of power. So great was its ascendancy that the spoils of war and the gains of peace were shared by the temple treasury and the royal treasury. In some cases the temple treasuries had priority. All civilizations for at least five thousand years have had a professional military of sufficient consequence to play a leading role in policy making and to claim a lion's share of the spoils of military victory. In some cases civil and military authority were merged in one supreme commander--emperor, pharoah. At other times, notably in Rome, after the fall of the Republic, the Pretorian Guard nominated and appointed its emperors. Well up toward the summit of each known civilization, four groups have shared authority and competed for supremacy: land-lords, wealth-lords, war-lords and priests. Where these four major shapers of public policy and directors of public administration were of like mind, they shared wealth and power. When they differed, one or another enjoyed priority and exercised some measure of control over the other three. Less personal, but of major concern among the institutions of civilization were the channels of communication and transportation that have played so decisive a role in the life of every civilization. Top ranking among the means of communication were common language, spoken and written on metal, papyrus, paper; a unified system of accounting and cost keeping; permanent records. Among the means of transport were waterways, including canals, viaducts, roads, bridges skillfully built and kept in good repair. Another significant institution of civilization is the idea of ownership, the division of property into public property and private property and the right of the private property owner to do what he will with his property, subject always to the over-riding principle of eminent domain: the right of the community to expropriate private property for public uses, with or without compensation. Another institution of civilization is the provision of public services in addition to means of communication and transportation. These public services include a water supply; the disposal of waste; public defense of life and property; food and diversion (bread and circuses) for the needy; fire prevention and fire fighting apparatus; educational facilities, including libraries and reading rooms; outside recreational facilities such as parks and play-grounds. All of these facilities could be provided by the rich and powerful for themselves and members of their families. They could be supplied more effectively and apportioned more justly when they were public services open to all. The countryside lacks the financial and the administrative means of providing a wide range of public services. Indeed, countryside dwellers pride themselves on being able to provide necessary services on a family, household or village basis. City dwellers learn to regard such public services as a matter of public right. Their existence is a magnet which draws a steady stream of migrants from the countryside into the cities. Civilizations are dominated by business interests. It is for them to provide facilities for the transaction of business, cash money, credit instruments, installment buying, means for changing money, insurance, discounting facilities. As a civilization grows in wealth and population the political apparatus becomes a major employer, a major producer of goods and services, a major purchaser of producer and consumer goods, a major agency for borrowing, lending, insuring, in short a major factor in the multitudinous activities of a commercial, industrial community. Classes, class interests and class lines are a part and parcel of all civilizations. They are less rigid and more flexible than similar lines existing in an agrarian community where land ownership plays so large a role in determining social forms and social functions. In a static agrarian community dominated by landlords, war-lords and the clergy, rigid class lines help to hold the community together. In a community dominated by business interests, both labor power and purchasing power must be free to respond to demand and supply. This is as true in a planned public economy as it is in a private enterprise economy. In accordance with the same principle, facilities are provided for the movement of individuals back and forth across class lines. The specialized, interdependent structure of civilization with its city control of the hinterland, its products and inhabitants, enabled the city-centered oligarchy to accumulate and concentrate wealth and monopolize power, to skim the cream from the available milk, monopolize the cream, distribute the skimmed milk judiciously and thus perpetuate its ascendancy through generations and centuries. During periods of expansion civilized communities develop a dynamism which maintains their ascendancy. In subsequent periods of contraction form takes over, imposing conformity on the status quo. During their periods of expansion civilizations are dynamic. Their history records growth at home, expansion abroad, exploitation, domestic and foreign under the pressure of effective motivating forces. The resulting dynamism leads to the contradictions, confrontations and conflicts which have studded the internal and external life story of every civilization. Perhaps the most outstanding aspect of the dynamic functioning of civilization is its growth in magnitude. It might be more accurate to describe the process as an explosive expansion--explosive because rapid and spectacular. Form limits function. At the same time function modifies and ultimately determines form. The two factors are omnipresent and complementary. Except for purposes of analysis they are two inseparable aspects of every human society. Where form predominates, social status results. Where function predominates fluidity, flexibility and dynamism are the outcome. Rapid change occurs on the home front at the same time that it is taking place abroad. Growth at home takes place in two fields. The first is the extension of the homeland frontiers, broadening the geographical area of the nucleus around which the civilization is being built. The second aspect of growth involves an increase in multiplicity, variety and complexity and perhaps also a higher level of quality. Increase in quality is an optional feature of growth and expansion. Toward the end of a cycle of civilization quality declines. For the record we list fourteen aspects of the domestic growth of civilization: (1) population; (2) production of goods and services; (3) trade, commerce, finance; (4)wealth, capital, income, capital construction; (5) the defense establishment; (6) growth in numbers and in variety of consumer goods and services; (7) specialization; (8) formal education, literacy, learning; (9) advances in science and technology; (10) growth in the arts; (11) rising standards of luxury for the oligarchy and growth in the volume of the professional and technical middle class and their living standards; (12) growth of the state bureaucratic apparatus in its complexity and in the number of its personnel; (13) growth of the sources of unearned income and especially in the number of persons living on unearned income; (14) growth of dependents, delinquents, criminals and other outlaws. This list is not exhaustive, but it is indicative of the wide area in which domestic growth takes place. Paralleling their domestic expansion, civilizations expand geographically up to the point of diminishing returns, determined by the growth of overhead costs. This process has taken the civilization, its personnel, its institutions and practices into territory not heretofore occupied, sometimes with the consent of the "foreigners", but more often in the teeth of their determined and long-continued opposition. Expansion of a civilization is of necessity a movement from an urban center and beyond the urban center. Each civilization has been built around one or more urban nuclei which accepted and practiced expansion as the primary law of their beings. Expansion takes many forms. It may be peaceful, as travel is peaceful. It may be competitive, as trade is competitive. It may be economically aggressive; the search for markets, for raw materials, for investment opportunities carried on simultaneously by representatives of long time rival cities, states, empires. It may be a movement for a place in the sun; mass migration, colonization. It may take the form of planned military invasion having as its purpose the conquest and occupation of foreign territory; the subjugation of the citizenry of the conquered lands; the establishment of an alien government in the conquered territory; the reduction of the "natives" to the status of second class citizens in their own homelands; exploitation of the natural resources; the levying of tribute; the imposition of taxes and the expropriation of moveable articles such as bullion, works of art and other treasure by the invaders, conquerors and occupiers. Policies of expansion, conquest and occupation rely upon weaponry and war-making as essential instruments. Historically their role has been frankly recognized by builders of every empire and the leaders of every civilization. All civilizations known to history prepared for war and utilized war as the final arbiter in their pursuit of expansionist policy. Empire builders and civilizers have taken it for granted that might made right. The mighty, in terms of military striking power and killing power, have fought over and inherited the earth. The practices of every civilization have centered about exploitation--of natural resources, of labor power, of rivals in the race for supremacy, of weaker and less aggressive peoples. Expansion gives the ruling oligarchy of the expanding nation, empire or civilization command of the strategic vantage points from which the principle of exploitation can be made continuously operative. We have dealt with exploitation in connection with the economics of civilization (Chapter 7). Its central concept is the "you work--I eat" formula. In sociological terms it extends far beyond livelihood, into the relations of man with the natural environment (ecology); the management and direction of labor power and policy making; social administration and policy implementation, including policing of the territories lying within the frontiers of the nation, empire or civilization, plus contacts and relationships with territories lying outside the frontiers: in short, with the success or failure, the domination or subordination of the territory under consideration. Structurally and functionally a civilization cannot remain static. It must expand or contract. If it expands, crossing frontiers and penetrating areas heretofore considered foreign or alien, and proposes to remain in those alien territories, it must have sufficient means at its disposal to continue the administration of its home territory and at the same time to take on the administration of the newly acquired foreign territory. Home territory administration has as its broad purpose the utilization of available means to attain its ends and serve its interests. Administration of areas into which the home forces are penetrating must attain the same ends and serve the same interests on the "you work--I eat" axiom. Unless the newly acquired territory can attain those ends and serve those interests it is a liability, not an asset, and its continued existence will pose a threat to the expansionist venture. Natural resources, plus labor power, plus effective management and direction must be integrated in the interests of the entire enterprise. Self determination is of secondary consequence, coming into play only after the interests of the whole have been assured and safeguarded. There is of course the collective principle under which the interests of the whole can be best served through the cooperation of its component elements. But this is a horse of quite another color. It presupposes the willingness of the respective parts to enter voluntarily into a cooperative relationship. Sociologically speaking this is the antithesis of the situation we have been considering: expansion and exploitation in the interests and for the purposes of the expanding forces. So long as expansion and exploitation are accepted and practiced as the basic principles of any community, so long independence and self-determination will be irrelevant and inimical to the dominant elements in the nation, empire or civilization under consideration. Under the "you work--I eat" formula natural resources will be utilized in the manner best calculated to advance the interests of the ruling oligarchy. Who will be the judge, jury and executioner in the case? Who else but the concerned ruling oligarchy? In the history of civilization this principle has been followed systematically. The forests have been cleared away, the land has been overgrazed, cultivated and exposed to the erosive attacks of sunlight, air, water and frost. Wood from the forests has been hauled to the cities and burned, has been used to construct palaces and temples, houses and ships, with no recognition of the principles of priority or renewal. If wood was available where must it go? The oligarchy decided the issue in terms of ostentation and expediency. Rarely during recorded human history have there been oligarchs who said: "Irreplaceable resources like minerals must be used with extreme economy. Replaceable resources like forests or top-soil must be used and at the same time replaced and if possible augmented." Decision making in the civilizations reported by history has been chiefly in the hands of specially privileged minorities. The purpose of these minorities has revolved around the provision of comforts and luxuries for the decision makers and their dependents and the increase of their wealth and power. Rarely has any ruling oligarchy said: "The continuance of our privileges and our barest existence is the result of labor power applied to natures gifts. We must safeguard nature and improve the health and vitality of those who do the world's work. If, due to unforeseen circumstances, over which we have failed to exercise adequate control, there is some shortage, let the idler and the wastrel suffer. Under all circumstances the producers must have all those goods and services needed to preserve their productive efficiency." Through the entire course of written history the shrewdest, the strongest, the best fed and most comfortably housed have gained wealth and power, kept them and added to them. This has been the central sociological principle followed by the wealth-owning, power-wielding oligarchs of one civilization after another. Nature has been polluted, despoiled, pillaged. Society has been exploited and plundered. Most civilizations, during most of their history, have been led and ruled by the rich and powerful, who have used their wealth and power to advance their own interests, with scant respect for the hewers of wood, the drawers of water and the tillers of the soil. Those at the imperial center have milked the periphery. Cooperation has been occasional and confined largely to pre-civilized communities. In all civilizations exploitation has been the rule; the exploitation of nature, of labor power and of the social fabric. The record of natural resources exploitation is well known. Paul Sears' _Deserts on the March_; Fairfield Osborn's _Our Plundered Planet_; William Vogt's _Road to Survival_, and Rachel Carson's _Silent Spring_ tell the story of the misuse and the extravagant abuse of nature. The record of labor power exploitation is less publicized. Food gatherers like the North American Indians had no machinery and a minimum of implements or weapons. They migrated with the weather and the available game, traveling with their possessions. Herdsmen also moved about in search of pasture. Land workers faced four new problems. They must stay with their land and make a weather-proof habitat in dwellings and villages. They must make the implements needed for farming, building and defense against marauders. They must accumulate and preserve enough food to carry them from one harvest to the next. They must improve and beautify their artifacts and constructs. Traders added a fifth must--they must produce and accumulate stocks to meet the needs of various customers as well as their own greed for profits. Successive stages, from food gathering to trading and manufacturing, required more energy--human energy, animal energy, and eventually mechanical energy. Part of this energy enabled humans to survive, another part enabled them to multiply. Still another part made it possible for one portion of the population to live without productive work on the work output of their fellow creatures. This exploiting minority was headed by land owners, soldiers and priests. Landowners built themselves and their dependents strong houses and castles. Much of the labor power that went into this construction was "forced." The laborer gave the landlord labor time in exchange for the privilege of working part of the land for his own support. Soldiers defended the landlord and joined plundering forays on the territory of neighbors. The priests, in exchange for sustenance, mollified "higher powers" and built temples in which the people could gather, worship and be admonished. Farsighted, energetic, resourceful men (and women), using mass productive energy, built themselves castles, built their priests temples and mobilized serfs, war captives and slaves who worked in gangs for generations and centuries to assemble the raw materials, construct and decorate the buildings, and perform the services needed to operate the enterprises and to provide their owners and masters with the necessaries, comforts, luxuries. As centers of civilization grew richer and more powerful they defeated neighboring peoples, brought some of them home as war captives and exacted from their defeated rivals promises to pay yearly tribute in the form of timber, metals, food and often of slaves. Mobilization of energy resources had been proceeding on a small scale for ages. Successful civilizers made this one of their chief tasks, mobilizing energy forces and materials and using them to build palaces, temples, mausoleums and whole city complexes with appropriate defenses against marauders and other enemies. Administrative networks, adequate to produce such results, planned and directed the construction and administered and policed the operations. Using elaborate techniques of communication, transportation, fabrication, beautification, accounting, planning, initiative, leadership, mobilization, maintenance and replacement of labor power, imposition and sharing of authority, discipline, adjustment to deviation and opposition, means for dealing with revolt and rebellion, the builders of civilization performed their necessary tasks. As civilizations have matured they have grown at the nucleus, expanded abroad and experimented more or less successfully with various means of exploiting nature, man and human society. Most of the competitors for survival and supremacy dropped out or were forced out in the course of continuous survival struggles. Survivors of the obstacle race dealt successively with personal rivalries; class conflicts; civil wars; dictatorships; tyrannies; with overhead costs that grew more rapidly than income; with empty treasuries, inflation, depression, economic stagnation; with increases in top-heavy bureaucracies; with parasitism; with hooliganism; with the growing role of the military in decision making and administration; sharing the honey-pot with migrants and invaders; with rivalry and power struggle at home and abroad; with division, fragmentation and eventual dissolution. Any student of the sociology of civilization must turn from this analysis of function with the conviction that whatever the advantages of civilization as opposed to earlier phases of human association, the pattern of civilization in action is workable only to a very limited extent. Civilization is not an example of perpetual motion. Rather it is a social life cycle, with a beginning and an end, and a peck of troublesome contradictions and conflicts in between. Civilization is an integrative process. During the course of its competitive survival struggle, potential building units of an expanding civilization are tested out and included or rejected in much the same way that a stone-mason checks and tests the individual stones of which his wall is being built. The analogy is not entirely accurate. A wall becomes a completed part of a total structure. A civilization is a process of existence from conception and birth to dissolution and death. At any point in the process there is a delicate balance between integration and disintegration. As a matter of fact, both integration and disintegration exist and act, constantly, side by side. If the integrative forces are in the ascendant, form is built and function is accelerated. If the disintegrative forces are dominant, form breaks down and function stagnates. This shifting balance and/or imbalance with its resulting build-up and/or break-down exists geographically, biologically, sociologically. It can perhaps be best described as successive change. It cannot be referred to as evolution except in its integrative aspect. Disintegratively it becomes devolution. Civilization is a result of sociological build-up at a certain cultural level. It has not been universal in all human societies, but exceptional, both in time and in geographical space. What has caused the pattern of civilization to appear, disappear and reappear again and again during the period of written history? There have been many answers. The most general answer is divine intervention by beings above and beyond mankind. Whether such intervention has taken place or is taking place, human beings are unable to say with finality, but several thousand years of recorded history, plus our own daily experience provides convincing proof that the political, economic, ideological and sociological constructs which have appeared and disappeared in the course of social history are, at least in large part, the products of human brains and human hands. They are man-made. The social pattern of civilization, like other social patterns which preceded civilization and which continue to exist side by side with civilized communities, is the result of human ingenuity and human energy, of human inertia, ineptitude, and the human urges to build, decorate and destroy. Variety in human culture is caused by the variety in the human natural environment, the human social environment and in man himself. Natural advantages exist and vary from place to place. There are fertile valleys; there are also mountains and deserts. There are a few fine harbors, but for the most part landings are difficult and dangerous. Certain islands have become the bases of civilizations, but this is true of only a very small number of many existing islands. Civilizations have flourished in certain climatic zones and not elsewhere. At one historical period civilizations were established in the tropics and semi-tropics. In the present period they are located chiefly in temperate climatic belts. Another source of differences between civilizations is the variation and the adaptability of certain peoples to the peculiar conditions out of which civilization grows. Still another explanation of the presence or absence of civilization in particular times and places is the "great man" theory of history. All human communities, pre-civilized and civilized, have had gifted leaders whose thoughts and actions have brought about social changes. These "greats" were the divinely, ideologically or sociologically inspired. Divine inspiration or revelation led to the founding of religious faiths. Ideological and sociological inspiration resulted in domestic cultural changes and the extension of economic, cultural and ideological activities into foreign lands, thus pushing the frontiers of nations, empires, and civilizations farther from the chief wealth-power centers. Thomas Carlyle wrote that history is the lengthened shadows of a few great men. Arnold Toynbee concluded from his _Study of History_ that religion has been a prime motive force in the building and preservation of civilizations. Technology has been a motive force of hard-to-define importance in revitalizing, changing, expanding and perpetuating civilizations. Increased productivity, expressing itself as increases in income, accumulated wealth and various forms of capital investment, have provided the economic basis for population growth and the more effective exploitation of natural resources and labor power, advances in the means for transportation and communication, accounting, planning management and "defense." Among the social motive forces responsible for the development of civilization is the accumulation of wealth in an impoverished world. The most important single factor in this connection was the development of a class of businessmen in a society dominated by landlords, churchmen and soldiers. Landlords, churchmen and soldiers lived during periods of animal husbandry and primitive agriculture on the very narrow margins produced during bountiful harvests. When harvests were bad, husbandmen and farmers were reduced to starvation levels. Lacking means of storage and refrigeration as well as facilities for transporting heavy materials such as food, fuel and building materials, pre-civilized society accumulated wealth slowly in mobile forms (precious metals and jewels) and made few productive investments. The advent of trade (business) and the trading class created a small but potentially powerful class whose income and wealth were not derived from direct contact with nature but came from trade, money changing, lending, insuring and other activities associated with the accumulation and investment of wealth in profit-yielding enterprises. Only in a secondary sense did business depend on animal husbandry or agriculture. As their primary task businessmen devoted themselves to the exploitation of labor power and the storage and merchandising of the products turned out by herdsmen, farmers, craftsmen. Part of their profits went into more elaborate standards of feeding, clothing and housing themselves and their dependents. Another, and a more crucial part of their profits went into ships, warehouses, and the implements used in converting raw materials into consumer goods and services, transporting them to the markets, displaying them and persuading consumers to diversify their needs, purchase a greater variety of goods and services and thus increase the number and profitability of business transactions. As this process mushroomed with the expansion of civilization, consumers demanded a greater number of more expensive artifacts and consumer capital goods, from housing and house furnishings such as bathrooms and well-stocked kitchens to refrigerators, washing machines, air conditioners, telephones, television sets, bicycles, automobiles and elaborate recreation facilities and equipment. The expansion of mass production and the mass market paced one another, constantly raising the ante. Mass production, mass marketing and pyramiding profits resulted, first and foremost in the enrichment of businessmen. Their riches automatically pushed them into a position of pre-eminent importance from which they were able to make public policy and utilize public authority for the protection and advancement of their own class interests. It also called into being a vast array of new professionals; teachers, engineers, scientists, technicians, social workers and propagandists, converting the "middle class" from a shadowy remnant of feudal society into the largest class numerically and the most influential class politically in the entire modern community. At the same time, economic enrichment and expansion increased the importance of the war-making apparatus. The expansion of civilization has involved a competitive struggle carried on constantly along several fronts, economic, political, cultural, ideological. The means of struggle in every civilization has included the military as a political force and as a final arbiter in deciding who should win and who should lose civil and inter-group wars. Victory and defeat determined the fate of land and natural resources, populations, capital installations, taxing facilities, domestic policing. This deterministic role of the war machine has never been more dramatically in the foreground than during the crucial years from 1910 to the present day, when war apparatus costs have topped the list of government expenditures. Growth of state functions with the expansion of the economy has resulted in the creation of a vast state bureaucratic apparatus. Heading this bureaucracy are the ministers of state, each with a separate department. Under the department heads are sub-departments, sub-divided in their turn into bureaus or separate offices. At each level, functions are assigned and salaries are fixed. Entrance into this anthill is sometimes by personal favor, sometimes by examination. Once in, however, barring misbehavior, or some catastrophe like the abolition of a particular bureau, the office holder is in for life with a pension when he is retired for age. Inside the bureaucracy there is a slow movement determined by seniority. There is also some skipping, as when new bureaus are formed or when death or retirement offer opportunities for the favored few to move forward or skip upward. As we read the record, the bureaucracy existed in the days of Egypt's Amenhotep, or in those of Rome's Augustus Caesar, as it exists today--locally in every municipality, province, nation and empire and generally throughout western civilization. Every civilization known to history has had its priestcraft as well as its statecraft. Statecraft spawned its bureaucracy. Priestcraft spawned its theocracy. Both patterns have inter-penetrated entire civilizations. Each locality, region and district has had its representatives of state and of church. In some instances the church took precedence. In others the state was supreme. As the civilization matured, using war as the chief instrument of policy, the state in the person of military dictators has tended to predominate. In every civilization the state has collected its taxes and the church has collected its tithes. The net result, in every civilization, has been a ruling oligarchy, self-appointed and self-perpetuating, which has shaped policy, planned and directed administration, exercised authority and lived comfortably and at least semi-parasitically on the backs of the underlying urban and rural masses, sharing its sinecure with its middle class handymen. In some times and in certain localities the oligarchy has maintained a representative front. Elsewhere it has functioned arbitrarily. In extreme cases one man has ruled for a brief period. Generally the oligarchy has held the reins of authority. Each phase of human society has had its oppositions, its confrontations, its conflicts, proportioned to its magnitude, its specialization and the interdependence of its component parts, its ratio of change to stability and its foresight, plans and preparations for dealing with changes when they occur. Since civilization, of all known forms of human association, is the largest, most specialized and most interdependent, it is in civilization that we should expect to find the most intensive and extensive contradictions, confrontations and conflicts. Among the many oppositions of civilized association five are outstanding: the we-they relationship; rural versus urban life; subsistence versus acquisition and accumulation; hard work versus ease, luxury and parasitism; poverty versus wealth. Civilization is not only complex and interdependent in form, it is avowedly competitive in its functioning. Politically, nation building, empire building and the establishment and maintenance of each civilization is a competitive struggle between declared rivals to gain and keep place and power. Economically, the efforts to get and keep natural resources and labor power and to use them to _Our_ advantage and _Their_ disadvantage dominates the field of livelihood. Ideologically _We_ are right, while _They_ are wrong. Culturally _We_ are superior. _They_ are inferior. The _We-They_ relationship developed very early in the history of the human family. Individuals and small, more advanced groups have reached a level of understanding and living based on the cooperative inclusive formula of _"We, Ours, Us",_ but every civilization known to history has accepted and adopted the competitive, divisive formula and poured energy and wealth into the political, economic, ideological and cultural struggle to take and keep for individual, local or class advantage. Resulting oppositions fragmented civilization: (1) urban vs. rural life, city vs. hinterland; (2) cooperation vs. competition; (3) acquisition and accumulation vs. sharing; (4) riches vs. poverty; (5) the individual vs. the group; (6) status vs. change. These fragmenting forces have been accepted, adopted and given priority by civilizations as they developed predominance. As they grew in magnitude they limited or subordinated the forces of integration and unification. Opposites and oppositions lead to confrontations along class lines, geographic lines, cultural lines, color lines, racial lines. The traditional confrontation of rural vs. urban life is doubly underlined by two factors: first, the countryside operates generally on a use economy with pay for services largely in kind or by barter. The city operates under a market economy with payment for services usually in money. Second, the standards of life and work are more primitive in the countryside than in the city. Third, as the civilization advances toward maturity, city population increases while it declines in the countryside. Consequently vigorous, energetic, adventurous people leave the deteriorating countryside. Increasingly the owners of land and capital live in the cities, visiting the countryside for holidays and recreation, leaving rural areas to servants, peons, serfs and slaves. Small owning farmers are bought out or expropriated. Unable to make a living in the countryside they move to the city. Lacking city skills they work as casual labor or are unemployed. The city is divided between enterprisers, their subordinates, owners of country estates and members of the state bureaucracy on one side and vassals, servants, serfs, and slaves and the unemployed on the other. The rich and powerful become richer and more powerful. The poor and dependent grow in numbers--protest, demonstrate, riot, revolt. This class struggle dominates public life in the urban centers of every civilization. The rich offer petty reforms and minor benefits to the impoverished, semi-employed city masses. At the same time the urban oligarchy breaks up into rival factions: the Ins and the Outs. The Ins hold public jobs, spend public money, award contracts and pass around favors. The Outs wait and maneuver for their turn at the public pie-counter. Both Ins and Outs appeal for mass support. Oppositions and confrontations lead to conflicts which have studded the life of every civilization. Conflicts include wars which may be divided into six groups: (1) Wars of expansion, conquest, colonization directed toward the enlargement of the territories included in the civilization. (2) Wars of survival among adjacent nations and empires. (3) Wars fought to suppress unrest and revolt in the colonies and dependencies of an empire or civilization. (4) Wars fought to repel the invasion of migrating peoples attempting to occupy territory over which an empire or a civilization claims jurisdiction. (5) Peasant, serf and slave revolts and rebellions against the authority of empires or civilizations. (6) Civil wars to determine the leadership of particular empires; wars of leadership succession; conflicts and power seizures within particular oligarchies. In every civilization final decisions regarding domestic and foreign issues have been made by an appeal to arms. There were laws and legal institutions in many civilizations under which confrontations might have been prevented and armed conflict avoided. Where these legal means failed to provide solutions, contestants turned to armed force as the final arbiter. Competitive survival struggle has played a prominent role in the life of every civilization known to history. Competition at its highest level employs armed force as its instrument of policy. War, domestic and foreign has, therefore, dominated the history of every civilization. Walter Bagehot called war a state maker. In the same context, war may be referred to as a civilization maker. Conflict, including war, has played a major role, often a determining role in building and maintaining civilizations. It has also been a major and perhaps _the_ major factor in undermining and destroying civilizations. Arnold Toynbee contends that war has been a "proximate cause" of the overthrow of one civilization after another. No observer of current western civilization can fail to note the determining part played by war during the first half of the present century. Every completed civilization known to historians has passed through a sociological life cycle: origin, growth, expansion, maturity, violent premature dismemberment and death in the competitive survival struggle or gradual decline and eventual dissolution. Every completed civilization has had small, local beginnings, on an island like Crete, or a group of islands like the Japanese Archipelago, or a tiny spot like Latium on the Tiber River, or an isolated area like the desert-surrounded Nile River Valley in Africa. The seed ground or nucleus of each civilization has been a small, well-knit group of vigorous, energetic people, well-led, living in an easily defended, limited area, enjoying relative isolation, but also having ready access to the outside world. At the beginning the growth cycle has moved slowly, from victory to victory, as competing neighboring peoples have been brought under the authority of the victor in local wars. After generations or centuries of struggle a point is reached at which the nucleus of the growing empire begins to expand, through trade, colonization, diplomatic alliances, conquest, into an era of survival struggle in which rival cities reach out for the same piece of fertile land, the same markets, the same mineral deposits. Again the life and death survival struggle tests out the people, their leaders, their ambitions, determination, tenacity. Earlier struggles were local. Now the struggle area has become regional. At the outset the peoples were amateurs in the science and art of expansion, occupation, consolidation, exploitation. Through the hard school of struggle they became professionals. From victory to victory they gained in territory, in wealth, in administrative skill. One by one, rivals were eliminated, annexed or associated with the nascent empire which was by way of becoming the central empire of a maturing civilization. Generations of effort and centuries of time have gone into the empire building process. The farther the civilization has expanded, the greater the necessary input of manpower, wealth, enterprise and administrative talent needed to keep the enterprise strong, solvent, masterful. Eventually the expanding civilization reaches a point at which the costs of further expansion are greater than the income derived from further extension of its authority. Up to this point expansion had paid its own way. Beyond this point it is a losing proposition--politically, economically, sociologically. At this point begin times of troubles; bad harvests; colonial or provincial revolts; power struggles between individuals or classes in the homeland; new rivals moving in to share in the prospective plunder of the mother-city. From this time of troubles the civilization enters a new phase of its lifecycle. Up to this point victory has brought plunder and prosperity which have financed new foreign adventures and led to new victories. Beyond this point lies stalemate, economic stagnation, military defeat. Building an empire and establishing it as the central force in a civilization is a long and arduous process. Once the process is reversed, the decline may move quickly or slowly, but as it proceeds the civilization is fragmented and eventually dissolved or taken over by a more vigorous rival. At all stages of this cycle there have been life and death survival struggles. Peoples, nations and empires entered the contest, played their parts, made their contribution to the up-building process. There were ups and downs, advances and withdrawals, victories and defeats. There were many contenders for survival and supremacy. Usually there was one survivor which gave its name to the civilization. The period of ascendancy of any civilization has been historically brief. The struggle to the summit was long and exhausting; the descent from the summit more rapid than the ascent. Literally, like the bear that went over the mountain to see what he could find, and who found the other side of the mountain, the civilizations that have reached the summit of wealth and power have found on the other side of the summit a steep downward sloping time of troubles that ended in dissolution and liquidation. Civilization, as a sociological life pattern, has proved to be seductive and alluring in prospect, but in retrospect unsatisfactory and frustrating. Civilization has proved to be not an opportunity for the ambitious, but a trap for the ignorant, inexperienced and unwary. For the many contestants who set out to conquer the world the experience has been disappointing and on the whole disastrous. For the few who have reached the summit the experience has been frustrating. Civilization as a way of life is like any other contest. The struggle is good for those who are able to benefit from it by learning its lessons. Whether they win or lose is a matter of no great consequence. For the losers the experience often is heart breaking and death-dealing. Students of social history have been tempted to draw a parallel between the biological life cycle of an individual and the sociological lifecycle of a civilization. There are elements of likeness between biological birth, growth, maturity, old age and death of human individuals and of human civilizations. All of the individuals and civilizations that we know have passed or are passing through such a lifecycle. The same thing may be true of the larger universe of which we are a minute fragment. However exact or inexact it may prove to be, the parallel certainly is unmistakable, alluring. It may also be seductive and mortal. CHAPTER NINE IDEOLOGIES OF CIVILIZATION This study was laid out along inductive lines: an examination of the facts with such generalizations as the facts suggest or justify. We began our social analysis of civilization by presenting noteworthy facts concerning the politics, economics, and sociology of various civilizations. In the present chapter we deal with their ideologies. We are accepting and following the fourth variant definition of "ideology" presented by Webster's New World Dictionary: "The doctrines, opinions or way of thinking of an individual, class, etc." In this case we are reporting on the doctrines, opinions, thought forms and action patterns of entire civilizations. Our concern is not with the doctrines, opinions and ways of thinking and acting advanced by elite minorities. Such an approach would involve a study of comparative ideologies. Rather we are asking what civilized peoples were trying to do, as measured by their political, economic and sociological activities, programs and purposes. It may be presumptuous for an individual to generalize about civilizations of which he knows so little. On the other hand, if we recognize the limitations under which all assumptions and generalizations operate it is possible and often helpful to assume and generalize, although the generalizations may be no more than interim reports, subject to later amendment, correction or rejection. What were the prevailing ideas of civilizations and what ideas were put into practice? What purposes dominated and directed the lives of civilized peoples? How successful have civilized peoples been in achieving their objectives? At the outset we must realize that in any complex society there are wide ranges of ideology, from the body of ideas held by small uninfluential sects to the purposes, ideas, policy declarations and actions of governing oligarchies. We do not wish to defend or attack the ideas, but to summarize them and understand them in a way that will give a group picture of the purposes, ideas, policies and day-to-day activities of the civilizations in question. For convenience in our discussion we will take up, first, civilized societies as collectives, and then the operation of civilized ideology as expressed in the lives of individuals. Presumably the most immediate purpose of all civilized peoples has been survival, getting on as a collective or group from day to day, through summer and winter, under normal conditions, and/or in periods of stress and emergency. If the group cannot survive it loses its identity, breaking up into the self-determining parts of which it is composed. Survival means continued existence as a group--in the face of disruption from within or attack and invasion from without. The group which survives continues to exist and to act as a group that maintains the common defense and promotes the general welfare. Each social group competing for survival has a sense of its own identity and a belief in its capacity to survive. This ideology is strengthened by the belief that the group has special qualities and is protected by powerful entities that will guarantee its success in the survival struggle. The group considers itself better qualified to survive than neighbor groups. Such ideas, carried to their logical conclusion, make the group in question superior to its neighbors in survival qualities and a people chosen by its gods. A superior people, chosen by its gods, is in a class by itself. Other people, by comparison, are inferior. It is the destiny of the superior people to take the lands of their inferior neighbors, and, whenever opportunity offers, to defeat the neighbors in battle, capture them and force them to do the bidding of the captors. Cults of ideological superiority are widespread. Put into successful practice by a victorious tribe, nation or empire, they develop into cults of superiority which assert: "We, the victors, are stronger, better people than our weaker neighbors." As one victory follows another the belief in superiority grows. People in an expanding empire or burgeoning civilization are obviously better survivors than their less successful competitors. Competitive survival struggle modifies the cultures of both victors and vanquished. The dispersal and adoption of culture traits, supplemented by negotiation and accommodation, broaden the geographical area of the victors, increasing the population and adding to the material resources, the wealth and income of the enlarged group. It may also involve the corresponding decrease of the geographical area, population, wealth and income of the vanquished. In order to protect itself, preserve itself, to enlarge itself and, where possible, to improve itself, each competing groups aims to set up standards of ideas and conduct to which all living members of the group are presumed to agree and to which they must adhere. When new members enter the group, by birth or adoption, they are duly indoctrinated with the group ideology. Early in their history the individuals and sub-groups composing every civilization adopted such standards and promulgated them by the decree of a leader or by the common consent of associated groups, as the outcome of negotiation, discussion, give and take. During the history of every civilization such agreements were reached and recorded in compacts, treaties, laws, constitutions, specifying the nature and limits of the collective cultural uniformity at which the community aimed. The struggle for collective uniformity was long and often bitter. Individuals and factions resented and resisted the imposition of group authority. Internal conflict led to civil wars in the course of which the group was divided or the solidarity of the group was reaffirmed despite hardships imposed on disagreeing, divergent minorities. Closely paralleling the group need for survival and uniformity (solidarity) was the need for group expansion, or extension. In the competitive struggle for survival which played such an important role in the life of pre-civilized communities, strategic geographic location was often decisive. Soil fertility, mineral deposits, timber reserves, access to waterways, location on trade routes all played a part in community survival, stability and growth. Such geographical advantages are few and far between. Often they are already occupied and defended by stable communities. Their control and utilization are basic in determining the survival or elimination of rivals in the competitive struggle. Above and beyond the need to occupy the "corner lots" of the planetary land mass was the urge of civilized peoples to advance from littleness to bigness as a goal in itself. Confined by limitations on communication and transportation, pre-civilized man was circumscribed and localized. With the advent of cultivation, land workers were tied to a particular piece of real estate on which they lived and worked. When asked whether the village across the valley was Sunrise Mountain the local peasant could reply: "How should I know? I live here." Reacting against restricted living and pressed by curiosity and the spirit of adventure, the imaginative and adventurous members of each generation pressed outward from the homeland toward wider horizons. Many traveled. Some migrated. Others pursued the will o' the wisp of expansion by adding field to field. The grass always looked greener on the other side of the mountain. The ambitious expansionist therefore tried to control both sides. "Move on! Move on!" became the watchword, without any particular emphasis on quality. In one civilization after another bigness (magnitude) was accepted as a symbol of success, because "the more you get and keep, the happier you will be." Mastery of strategic advantages, plus the illusion of mere bigness, without any specification to quality, became keys to survival and success. Civilized man exploited natural advantages and augmented his power over nature and society by increasing his wealth and multiplying the population. At the outset of the struggle strategic geographical advantages were occupied and utilized by local groups. Through survival struggle, one of the groups, better organized, better led, more determined and productive, succeeded in securing possession of one strong point after another, until an entire region, like the Nile Valley or the Mediterranean Basin had been conquered and occupied by a single great power. The measure of success in the power struggle is the occupation of strategic strong points. Natural resources, including land and labor power, are among the chief spoils of victory. Seven basic goals or principles were involved in the building of civilizations: group survival; propitiating the gods; recognizing and following aesthetic principles; achieving and stabilizing property and class relations; expansion (bigness); individual conformity to the collective pattern; and collective uniformity in a united world of human brotherhood. At times and in places the basic propositions were accepted, rejected, fought over. Each civilization which followed them successfully was able to establish itself, maintain itself, and up to a certain point add to its prestige, wealth and power. The first goal was success in the struggle for survival. Collective uniformity and expansion opened the path to wealth and power, in the city, state, the empire, the civilization. From a multitude of local beginnings the struggle for expansion and consolidation led to ever larger aggregations of land, population, capital and wealth concentrated in the hands of an increasingly rich, powerful oligarchy, protected and defended by a military elite pushing itself ceaselessly toward a position from which it could make and enforce domestic policy and order. A second collective goal has been propitiating and wooing the unseen forces of the universe: holding their attention; keeping them on "our" side; relying on their influence for defense against enemies, mortal and immortal, and help in providing water in case of drought, fertility, assistance in healing the sick, comfort for the dying, consolation for the bereaved and success in business deals. These multiple aspects of ideology are summed up under the term "religion". Each civilization has had its religious ideas and ideals, its religious practices and institutions. Many civilizations have divided their attention between civil ideology and religious ideology. In some cases religious ideology took precedence, resulting in a theocratic society under the leadership of religious devotees. In other cases, notably Roman civilization and western civilization, religious ideology was subordinated to secular interests. In the early stages of western civilization, religious ideology took precedence over secular ideology. With the rise of the bourgeoisie, secular ideology moved into the foreground, making loud religious professions, but also making sure that business-for-profit had the last word in the determination of public policy. A third collective ideological goal of civilization has been aesthetic; the yen for symmetry and balance; the love of beauty; the desire for harmony; the quest for excellence; the lure of magnificence; the search for truth. Out of these urges have arisen the pictorial and plastic arts, architecture, music, the dance, science, and philosophy, providing outlets, occupations and professions that have colored and shaped many aspects of civilized living. A fourth collective goal of civilization has been the establishment and maintenance of social structure, including classes and/or caste lines based partly upon tradition, partly on function and partly upon proximity to the honey-pot, the wellspring of wealth, income, prestige and power. Since the principle of private property has been implicit in every known civilization, the ownership of land, capital and consumer goods and services has been a prerogative of the ruling oligarchies, shared by them with their associates and dependents and used as their chief means of establishing and maintaining the "you work, I eat" principal of economic relationships. Private property, and its derivative, unearned or property income, has enabled the ruling oligarchies of civilized communities to receive the first fruits of every enterprise. They have also enabled the oligarchs to establish a priority scale of income distribution under which those who held property and its derivatives could have first choice among available consumer goods and services. Second choice went to the associates, retainers and defenders of the oligarchs. Third choice went to the preferred, professional experts who spoke for and represented the oligarchy. Fourth choice went to the artisans--skilled designers, builders, fabricators. What remained went to hewers of wood and drawers of water, the workers, women and men, who provided the necessaries, comforts, luxuries upon which physical survival and social status depended. Generally this proletarian mass, including chattel slaves, serfs, tenant farmers and war captives, were outside the pale of respectability. In a caste-divided community they were scavengers and untouchables, living a life close to that of domestic animals. Most civilizations have permitted gifted individuals to move vertically, from the bottom toward the top levels of the social pyramid. Vertical movement was severely restricted, however. Generally people lived, served and died on the class or caste level into which they were born. Members of classes and castes are not free agents. They have privileges and rights. They also have obligations and duties. Classes and castes are functioning parts of an interdependent social whole which can maintain balanced order only so long as each segment recognizes its obligations and performs its duties. Social balance therefore depended on class collaboration. Successful collaboration, in its turn, is the outcome of a general acceptance of class and caste and general willingness to go on living and functioning in a class divided society. A fifth collective goal of civilization has been expansion from the nucleus outward, with final authority exercised by and from the nucleus. At the outset of the survival struggle which led to the establishment of one language, one religion, one law, one authority, one loyalty, each among the many contestants had its own language, its own religion, its own law, its own authority. These rival forces were temporarily confederated against internal disruption or foreign invasion. ("Liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable.") In the course of the survival struggle, the separate parts of which the civilization was composed began with the local autonomy permitted by confederation, and ended up with one among the many contestants donning the imperial purple and establishing itself as the master and supreme dictator--the Caesar or Pharoah of the conquered, unified world. Foreign territories conquered and brought by force of arms within this imperium were subjects of a central authority which they never really accepted. Authority continued to be exercised from the imperial nucleus. The newly conquered territories were policed by professional soldiers whose primary loyalty was national but whose responsibility was to the aggregate composing the Roman or the Egyptian civilization. The acid test of the expanding civilization was embodied in the degree of acceptance of wholeness as opposed to self-determination. Were the individual members--the provinces and colonies composing the whole--willing and able to sink their differences in an unquestioned wholeness, or were they prepared at the first opportunity to exercise their right to self-determination and declare their independence of the whole? The resolution of this question constituted the sixth collective goal of civilization: to establish a whole in which the component members were able and willing to recognize the axiom that the interests of the whole come before the interests of any of its component parts. The issue of central authority versus local self determination has been one of the basic issues of the present century because during the preceding period, the British, French, Dutch and Spanish Empires had been built up by the conquest and occupation of foreign lands. If the nineteenth century was an epoch of expanding imperial authority, the twentieth century has been an epoch of the dismemberment of empires by movements for independence and self-determination. Seventh, and finally, among the collective goals of civilization, each has developed an ideology that justified empire building by conquest, exploitation, chattel slavery, peonage, wagery, the supremacy of the empire nucleus, the subordination of the periphery to the nucleus and other aspects of ascendancy and mastery including "divine" rights in politics and "natural" rights in economics. Civilizations expect the individuals and groups of which they are composed to preserve the status quo, work as disciplined members of an effective team and be satisfied with the outcome. This brings us back to the goal with which we began this discussion of the collective goals of civilizations: The primary task of any civilization is to survive. Each individual human being, living and working in a civilized community occupies a sphere of action, enjoys the advantages and disadvantages and accepts the responsibilities and duties which pertain to his sphere. Within his sphere the individual succeeds or fails in so far as he leads a rewarding personal life and contributes his share toward the collective life of the group to which she or he belongs. If the individual in a civilized community is to live a good life, the first task is to maintain normal health, good spirits and a determination to get the most out of life and to contribute at least the equivalent of what he receives in service to his group. As a civilization expands and extends its influence, the individual must contribute his mite to the entire enterprise while adding to his own store of goods and services. Acquisition and accumulation satisfy a human desire to have and to keep. They also add to the wealth and well being of the community on the widely accepted utilitarian formula: happiness comes in direct proportion to the extent and variety of ones possessions. In most civilized communities the building unit is a family. It is this family unit, usually directed by a male or father figure, who acts for the family and represents it in the community. In passing, the reader should note that the breakdown in family life now so prevalent in many parts of western civilization is a departure from the civilized norm. It is really a measure of the extent to which western civilization itself is disintegrating. The revolution in science and technology, mass production and the distribution of goods and services through a mass market have put acquisition and accumulation of goods and services as a life-goal to a severe test. Until the early years of the present century no civilization had provided affluence for more than a small fraction of its population. The vast majority consisted of slaves, serfs, war captives, and tenant farmers. Only an exceptional few were in a position to live in comfort or luxury on unearned income. As each civilization matured, ownership of land and capital diverted the flow of consumer goods and services into the coffers of a diminishing proportion of the total population. The vast majority lived at or below the subsistence level. General affluence was a goal that was talked about and dreamed about, but there was no way to test its practical effects on the population as a whole. Under conditions presently existing in many parts of the West, millions of individuals and families following the utilitarian principles of acquisition and accumulation have secured and kept an abundance of goods and services in strict accordance with utilitarian principles. Yet they have not been and are not happy. Quite the contrary, in many cases they are unhappy, particularly in the second and third generations of affluent family life. This is notably true in the United States, Scandinavia, Switzerland and other parts of western Europe. It is true to a lesser degree in New Zealand and Australia. Millions of families in these countries, with all their possessions, fail to enjoy peace and happiness. On the contrary, they are so acutely unhappy that many of them have come to regard acquisition and accumulation as a sterile rat-race. Consequently multitudes of people, young and old, have turned their backs on civilization, separating themselves from their affluent homes with their glut of consumer goods to live at non-civilized or pre-civilized levels. These individuals are avowedly anti-civilization in so far as its material incentives are concerned. Similar attitudes were expressed in previous civilizations. Socrates went barefoot through the streets of Athens. Diogenes lived in a tub. Uncounted numbers of Indian holy men and early Christians rejected all affluence, embraced poverty, lived simply and austerely. Religious asceticism is no novelty. But the wholesale rejection of acquisition and accumulation as a way of life certainly marks a turning point in the popular attitude toward the utilitarian axiom that human happiness is directly proportioned to the quantity and variety of material possessions. Civilization presupposes getting, keeping and exercising power over nature, society and man. Each civilization has added to man's utilization of nature. This has been a notorious aspect of western civilization since the inauguration of the scientific-technological revolution. After a century of intensified exploitation of the natural environment, entire communities are reacting with dismay and disgust against the resulting pollution of air, water and land, the wanton waste of soil fertility, forests and minerals, and extermination of various forms of "wilderness." Freedom to exploit nature's storehouse has not brought happiness. On the contrary, it threatens the existence of other life forms and even the continuance of human life on the planet. Private enterprise and other forms of permissiveness have led to practices that circumscribe and hamper life. Their declared objective is the liberation and enlargement of human life and well being. Where they have been tested out they have proved themselves to be obstructive and destructive rather than creative and constructive. Notable advances in science and technology have greatly increased the human capacity to transform nature and remake society. Designed and executed as a means of enhancing the general welfare, science and technology might have promoted human well-being. But employed as a means of exploiting nature and society for the benefit of a favored few, science and technology, whether directed by European and American promoters of the African slave trade, Spanish conquerors in Latin America, by Belgians in the African Congo, by European whites in their dealings with the North American Indians, by the Nazis in Europe, or by Americans in South East Asia, have involved merciless exploitation accompanied by revolting atrocities. Never in recorded history was the capacity of man to modify nature and exploit society more publicly tested out than in the atom bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki and the purposeful devastation of jungle life and village life in large parts of Vietnam and Cambodia. Reported in the public press and pictured, live, over radio and television, these latest developments in the ugly record of man's exploitation of nature have become part of the record of the decline and dissolution of western civilization. Exploitation of human society for the benefit of the few at the expense of the many is an old story that extends through the entire record of written history. Every civilization has produced a cluster of institutions and practices that enabled a few rich and privileged to live in affluence at the expense of the impoverished many. This juxtaposition of riches and poverty is the logical outcome of a system of social relations designed to provide the few with comfort and luxury while the many are forced to accept penury and hardship. Exploitation, carried to its logical conclusion, permits and requires a parasitic minority to live in abundance while the majority must content itself with scarcity, extending to death from malnutrition. Another goal presented to individuals by the promoters and fashioners of civilization is individual perfection, physical, mental, emotional, moral. Every generation of human beings contains individuals who are beyond the average--bigger, stronger, more talented, seeing farther, searching more deeply, endowed with greater sensitivity, working more conscientiously, imbued with a love of their fellows and determination to serve them. Such individuals have genius in one or another form and offer themselves and their products as a gift to the general welfare of their generation. Scientists, poets, musicians, inventors, artists, teachers, healers, philosophers, statesmen have appeared in each civilization adding their mite to the sum-total of community culture. Innovators, moralists and counselors of perfection have played a noteworthy part by advocating and often by living noteworthy lives. Reports of their sayings and doings are part of the folklore and the history of each civilization. If they did not set the tone of their generation, they provided it with a model toward which their less talented, less creative fellows might aspire. If they were creative artists their works provided models which were admired, copied and emulated by their successors. If they were moralists or philosophers their sayings were recorded, respected and repeated by successive generations. Each civilization has adopted lines of thinking and codes of action which embody the best and most advantageous in theory and in practice. These codes of thought, feeling and action are attributed to some outstanding individual and passed on from generation to generation as codes of conduct to which all right-thinking individuals may or should aspire. Human beings know everything about themselves except whence they came, what they should do and whither they will go. To compensate for this lack of knowledge and wisdom each civilization has established and maintained religious organizations and institutions whose duty it was to search out the truth, record it and teach it to successive generations. In some civilizations the religious institutions have dominated the secular. At other times and in other places the secular has maintained its ascendancy over the religious. In still other cases the religious and the secular forces have maintained an uneasy balance leading to acrimonious bickering and sometimes to civil war. Central to their discussions is the nature of life. Is it continuous, as it appears in vegetation and the animal kingdom, or is it discontinuous like the rocks on the mountainside or the grains of sand on the seashore? Those who live for the moment prefer discontinuity. Those who observe their natural environment are forced to the conclusion that life today is part of a sequence or progression which relates the life of yesterday to that of tomorrow. Recorded history, from fossil and geological remains, to the books on library shelves assures us that man has had a past. Projecting this experience, it seems quite reasonable that barring accident or a purposed intervention, man will have at least some future. To prepare for that future, using the knowledge and wisdom at our disposal, seems to be a must for any reasoning creature. Even for the short planetary life-span of the average human, the logic of this position seems inescapable, whether it applies to the next hour, day, year, or century. In terms of our children and grandchildren it is even more impressive. Today we find it desirable to live as well as possible. If there is any future, the same principle should apply to its implementation and utilization. If the "hereafter" begins tomorrow and if those whose well-being concerns us will probably be "alive" tomorrow, the science and art of the future (futurology) takes its place beside other fields of theory and practice as a must for all responsible members of the human race. If the conditions presently existing in human society affordment, skills and technical experience necessary to make significant changes, why wait? Why not proceed forthwith to live a better life? This dilemma has confronted individuals and sub-groups in various civilizations. It has been particularly in evidence during periods of decline and social disintegration. It has led people of both sexes and all ages to uproot themselves from the old social order and reestablish themselves in a social order "nearer to the heart's desire." Such efforts have been described as "intentional communities" to distinguish them from a traditional, currently existing social order which emerged from the past encumbered with vestigial remains and obsolete institutions and practices having little or no relation to the needs and wants of a changing world. Pilgrim Fathers in New England, William Penn in Pennsylvania, Lord Baltimore in Maryland aimed to organize local intentional communities. Similar efforts were made by the Mennonites, the Dukhobors, the Hutterites, the Mormons in North America. The Christians during the decline of Roman civilization led a movement to convert a large geographical area to a new and better way of life. Followers of Mohammed, several centuries later, made a similar effort to convert the Eurasian-African world to their ways of thinking and acting. Young people by the thousands, in the United States and other western countries, are turning their backs on western civilization and are organizing enlarged families and communes that provide their members with a modified social order which aims at improvements here and now. Necessarily such social experiments are looked upon with suspicion by the Establishment. They are "new", "different", "subversive", "godless", "wicked." Hence, they are criticized, denounced, raided and often broken up as threats to existing law and order. Intentional communities may grow out of consumers' cooperation. They may begin as farm collectives. Generally, however, they consist of the followers of outstanding leaders of religious or ethical sects. Many intentional communes spring up, mushroom-fashion, and disappear with equal rapidity. Others endure for generations and centuries. In a very real sense they are pilot plants designed to correct individual or social maladjustments and substitute new ways for old ones. As pilot plants they experiment with deviations from existing social norms, acting as a social laboratory in which new ideas and practices are tested, modified, accepted, rejected. Change is one of the essential aspects of every society. There are changes in personnel. In each generation individuals grow old and retire. Others grow up and take over the tasks of organizing the communities in which they live. Profound social changes result from discoveries and inventions: the wheel, the arch, steam and gas engines, electricity, atomic power. Cyclic changes occur in the economy. Social changes follow alterations in the weather. Nations, empires, civilizations are produced by the changing life forms. During long periods, social changes are so gradual that they are unnoticed save by the more sensitive and perceptive. At other times, social changes tumble over one another in an overwhelming revolutionary flood which sweeps away the old, yielding place to new, "lest one good custom should corrupt the world". Changes in society beget changes in ideology. Reciprocally, changes in ideology lead to changes in social structure and function. The more rigid the social order, the more stubborn its resistance to change. By the same token, more fluid societies lend themselves more readily to changes in practice and in theory. It is not possible to discuss ideology without some reference to the closely related problems of means and ends. As we consider our existing social establishment, in the light of unceasing social change, we must deal with goals or objectives, with practicable modifications of social form and function and with the way in which changes can be, might be, will be brought about. One fact is obvious. Whether social change is major or minor, local or general, it shifts the social balance. Any shift in the social balance involves reactionaries, conservatives, liberals, radicals, some of whom will gain, while others will lose in the course of each social transformation. All will be concerned and involved. Since political change involves some alteration in the balance of social forces, it behooves those who advocate and those who oppose social change to maximize acceptance and minimize opposition in order to take advantage of the gains and cut down the losses incident to all change. For present purposes we wish to make seven notes about means and ends. 1. _Opportunists_ propose to act now and win what they can today. Never mind about tomorrow with its sequences and consequences of today's action. Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof. 2. _Pragmatists_ believe in serving their own interests, on the theory that whatever serves personal interests must have first priority. "What is good for me/us is good for the universe". 3. _Experimentalists_ are prepared to try out any suggestion which promises to achieve the desired goals. Singly and in working teams they test and try out, seeking the most effective means of reaching desired ends. 4. _Innovators_ formulate projects and test out results, checking and rechecking as they search for more effective means of achieving results. 5. _Radicals_ seek out the roots, digging, sifting, classifying, assembling their findings, announcing their conclusions and working to apply them in theory and practice to the structure and function of their communities. 6. _Revolutionists_ are in a hurry. Disillusioned with the past and the present they seek by "direct action" to create a new social order, out of whole cloth, quickly, here and now. Never mind the means, get results! 7. _Totalists_ have the whole truth, attained through reasoning, experimentation, revelation. Having learned the truth, they dedicate their energies to the propagation of the faith. Where they encounter opposition they counter it and, if necessary, annihilate it with its originators and advocates. As a matter of practical experience, proponents of all seven approaches to social problems and social change employ a wide range of techniques from persuasion to coercion. To support their projects they advance logical arguments, elaborate half-truths, make emotional appeal; employ trickery, deceit, preferment, privilege, flattery, soft living, bribery, coercion, physical and social violence--individual and collective extermination. Civilization as reported in history and in its current practice is based on five faulty ideological assumptions: 1. _Competitive survival struggle results in social improvement._ Survival struggle has certainly played a role in stimulating discovery, invention and the diffusion of culture traits. Its end results have always included civil and inter-group war with its unavoidable costs in destruction, dissolution and death. 2. _The effort to grab and keep, with its accompanying competition, is a chief source of social progress._ The game of grab and keep is play for children. Mature human beings should strive to create, produce, share. 3. _The accumulation of goods and services brings happiness._ At the out-set of life this may be true. But accumulation for its own sake produces the miser. Misers are not happy people. Riches yield happiness only as they are distributed. Accumulation brings many headaches, and few abiding satisfactions. 4. _Successful accumulators "have fun."_ Perhaps they do, for a time, at the expense of others on whose backs they ride and whose life blood they suck. But mature men and women do not "have fun"; they shoulder and carry their share of social responsibility. 5. _Progress can be measured by the multitude of personal possessions._ Not so. True progress for humanity consists in movement from having to doing; from the possessive to the creative; from the material toward the spiritual. Ideologies have played a role in determining the structure and function of every civilization. As civilization grows up, matures, and declines, ideologies change with the changing times. In its early history each civilization seeks acceptance for its picture of reality and its techniques for reaching individual and social goals. As each civilization declines and disintegrates, a multitude of counselors clamors for attention to a particular formula that will prove acceptable and workable in the existing emergent circumstances. _Part III_ Civilization Is Becoming Obsolete CHAPTER TEN WORLDWIDE REVOLUTION DISRUPTS CIVILIZATION Every organism, mechanism or social construct reaches a point in its life cycle at which its existing apparatus must be repaired, renovated and updated or scrapped, redesigned and replaced. Today western civilization in its totality faces that dilemma. The culture pattern variously known as European, western or modern civilization, dating from the Crusades, has existed for about a thousand years, and spread across the planet. During that millennium western civilization has passed through a life cycle similar to that of its predecessors. According to Oswald Spengler's historical perspective, a civilization passes through its life cycle in about a thousand years. If the Spenglerian assumption is in line with the course of history, western civilization should be in an advanced stage of decline and should eventually disappear as a decisive factor in world affairs. Spengler's argument is fully and floridly presented in _The Decline of the West_. The author offers a theory of history based on the existence of an arbitrary and rather mechanical life cycle. It includes a period of gestation, rise and expansion, a period of maturity and stability and a final period of decline and dissolution. Spengler believed that western civilization is in the grip of an irreversable decline. The Spenglerian perspective is based on the assumption of a normal pattern in the growth and decline of civilizations. The normalcy on which Spengler based his assumption was disrupted around 1750 when a series of new dynamic factors entered the stream of modern social history: I. Mankind gained access to immense stores of energy which supplemented human energy, the energies of domesticated animals and a miniscule use of water power and air power. To these traditional energy sources the revolution in science and technology has added steam, electricity, and the energy stored in the atom. II. These new sources of energy were harnessed and directed through mechanical and chemical agencies that greatly extended human capacity to convert nature's stored wealth into goods and services available for human consumption, and to develop a surplus of wealth and a release of manpower sufficient to build up a backlog of capital which, in its turn, produced goods and services with economic surpluses convertible into additional capital. III. This revolution in the tempo of production and capital accumulation was parallelled by a like revolution in transportation and communication by land, water, and eventually by air and in space. Electricity played an essential part in the process by speeding communication and helping to put transportation on wheels. IV. Building construction was also revolutionized--metals, concrete, glass and synthetics replaced wood and stone as the basic construction materials. V. New energy sources and the new capital expanded the volume and variety of production far more rapidly than the increase in population and turned the resulting surplus into a technical apparatus that made possible mass production for a mass market. VI. Mass production, transportation, construction and marketing ushered in an era of surplus that replaced the age of comparative scarcity with an age of rapidly increasing abundance. Changes in the means of production play havoc with any established social pattern. The economic alteration that accompanied and followed the eighteenth and early nineteenth century transformation of western economy overturned various aspects of the western social structure: 1. Representative government made its appearance and spread widely; 2. Social services and social security, previously reserved for the elite, were provided for wider and wider circles of the population; 3. Changes in technology, advances in science, the replacement of landlords, clergymen and soldiers by businessmen and professionals, including the military, as the recognized leaders of the modern society, put social control in the hands of a new ruling bourgeois class; 4. The bourgeois revolution brought into existence two other classes: the industrial proletariat as an ally and/or an acceptable leader of the peasant masses of Europe. At the same time it enlarged the middle class to a point at which it was able to play a decisive role in the formulation and direction of social policy in industrialized communities. 5. Fragments of the industrial proletariat and the greatly enlarged middle class came together in an avowedly revolutionary movement: socialism-communism, which reached the power summit between 1910 and 1917. 6. The bourgeoisie countered with a cold war aimed to exterminate socialism-communism, using propaganda, petty reform and armed intervention as its chief agencies. 7. The high birth rate, the prolongation of life and mass education provided society with a substantial body of skilled, experienced, socially conscious, alert citizens, increasingly aware of the historical changes through which they were living and determined to intervene whenever their well-being was threatened. 8. Extension and equalization of opportunity opened the way for an informed citizenry to express itself and defend its interests. 9. Emerging planet-wide social consciousness spread an awareness that the concerns, plans and programs of any part of the human family are of vital importance to the whole of mankind. Change is a universal force which operates in nature, in society, in man himself. At times it takes place so gradually that one day seems like another. At other times it operates with furious energy, turning things upside-down overnight. Such change, whether it takes place in nature or in society is revolutionary. Rome's demise as a world power was followed by centuries of quietude--The Dark Ages. These in turn yielded to a period of revolutionary change that found its early expression in the voyages and discoveries that spanned the earth after 1450. Three centuries later the rebirth of western humanity expressed itself in the industrial revolution that flooded across the planet and became an early stage of the planet-wide sweep that has played havoc with nature, turned the old society upside down and presently promises to produce a new society for a reborn human race. World-wide revolution is the predominant force in the twentieth century. Its existence and some of its consequences have become an all-embracing theme for thought and discussion. They have put into the hands of present-day humanity the ideas, experiments and experiences needed for transforming nature, rebuilding social institutions and practices and opening the way for mankind to move confidently into a future replete with intriguing and exciting possibilities. An excellent summary of this entire field is appearing in a six volume _History of Mankind_, sponsored by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO). Volume six of the history is titled _The Twentieth Century_. Particularly noteworthy is an Introduction of more than a hundred printed pages, Part I, _The Development and Application of Scientific Knowledge_, and Part II on _The Transformation of Societies_. Events surrounding the war of 1914-18 are correctly described as "a turning point in world history." (Vol. VI p. 11) World revolution is one aspect of present-day society. From our present vantage point we cannot tell how far it will go or what it will do to humanity and its present habitat. Advances in science and technology have provided mankind with a new stage on which to go through a new act and speak a new piece. What effect will they have on the institutions and practices of western civilization? Have they rendered the forms and functions of civilization obsolete? Or can western civilization adapt itself or be adapted to the very difficult situation created by the revolution through which human society is presently passing? Can western civilization be reformed to meet the new historical situation created by the great revolution or must it be rejected and replaced? If the institutions and practices of western civilization can be adjusted to meet the demands of the new situation created by the scientific, technological, political and cultural revolution, the reformed social apparatus may function in a new day that is dawning for the human family. If reform proves to be impossible, the apparatus of western civilization must be replaced by a social structure in keeping with the requirements of the new age inaugurated by the innovations introduced into the human culture pattern by the revolution of our time. There is widespread recognition of the need to keep the structure of a society in harmony with necessary functions and updated to the consequences of probable or possible discovery and invention. This is no mean task as western experience during recent centuries has so clearly demonstrated. Power elites of feudal Europe neither anticipated nor prepared for the consequences of the industrial revolution. The result was the smash and clatter of the American and French Revolutions (1776 and 1789) and minor revolutionary shocks through the nineteenth century. Power elites in western Europe dealt with mass production and its consequent abundance of goods and services with mass marketing, social security and other crumbs of affluence scattered among the restless masses. But when the trade winds of the scientific and technological revolution blew in the Mexican Revolution of 1910, the Chinese Revolution of 1911 and the Russian Revolution of 1917, the Romanoff dictatorship was still ordering back the tide of social change and the dominant United States oligarchy cold-shouldered the Mexican Revolution, took sixteen years to recognize officially the Russian Soviets and waited twenty-three years after 1949 before they were even on speaking terms with the Chinese Communists. For two centuries, new ideas, institutions and practices have followed discoveries and inventions as regularly as day follows night. The consequent flood of innovations that has swept through the West and across the planet in the past two generations has made drastic social change a matter of the utmost urgency. The only open questions concern the direction of the changes, their rapidity, and the success of the social system in adapting itself to the shattering effects of newly released social forces. Social change can come with the rush and turmoil of revolution or the studied step-by-considered-step constancy of the conscious improvement of society by society. Two powerful social forces limit gradualness. One is human impatience. The other is the rapidity with which masses of people all over the planet are being informed of the good-life potential implicit in present-day western affluence. Impatience is emotional rather than rational. It is a compound of human urges on one hand and on the other hand of the frustrations built up in individuals and populations attracted by new wants and frustrated by barriers of custom-habit; the carefully constructed apparatus of direction, division and restriction (the State, the Church, the communication media), and the potent class forces of the counter-revolution. In every modern community the media of mass communication are broadcasting information regarding the widening consumer prospects created by the current revolution in science and technology. In every modern community there are eager, ambitious, hopeful individuals urging their fellow workers and fellow citizens to get moving toward the promised land of peace and plenty. In every community the bureaucracy, representing the more comfortable and secure elements of the population, is asking the less well placed class groups to "take it easy," take "one step at a time," and remember that "Rome was not built in a day." Conservatives, urging law and order under the status quo, have reason on their side. The movement of a technologically oriented community from monopoly capitalism into socialism-communism is without historical precedent and therefore largely experimental. Plans are tentative; there are shortages of materials and particularly of skills based on experience. Costly mistakes are made leading to delay until they can be corrected. The counter-revolution, abundantly financed by the forces of reaction, operates constantly, in critical situations almost always through the military, to preserve the "law and order" which are the prime forces behind its wealth and its power. In an untrod, untested area ignorance is a blank wall until it is pierced by ingenuity and innovation. There are many ways to miss a defined objective and only a few ways to reach it. Cautious, experienced people, living comfortably, are inclined to let well enough alone. Restless, hopeful idealists are eager to reject, modify, improvise and replace. Conservatives try to preserve both the structure and the traditional activities of a community on the plea that a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Liberals (moderates) would preserve the structure but bring its activities up to date. Radicals would scrap the old and replace it with a new structure and new activities geared to the new possibilities and the new requirements. Survival wars from 1914 to 1945 marked not only the end of Britain's planetary domination but the termination of Europe's planetary regency. The events of the period also loosened the bonds that had held western civilization together. A social structure which includes imperial nuclei and colonial dependencies is constantly threatened by colonial unrest and revolt. Colonial revolt, endemic in every civilization, became epidemic after 1943. The path to independence had been blazed by North and South American colonials. It was followed after 1943 by the inhabitants of British, French, Dutch, Spanish and Portuguese colonies in Asia and Africa. The slogan of the independence movement was "self-determination." Before self-determination can operate there must be a "self" capable of making decisions and carrying them into practice. Identification of the "self," or "nationhood" as it was called in this era, involved bitter domestic struggle, internal reorganization and consolidation. The process was typified in the British Colonies of North America between 1770 and 1789 which produced the United States of North America. Asians and Africans who gained their independence after 1945 faced a double problem: the establishment of nationhood, and regional consolidation. The British colonies in North America won their independence as a loose confederation of sovereign states. After war's-end in 1783, they were able to form a regional federation: the United States of North America. Despite their efforts, they were unable to include Canada, which was under strong French influence. British colonials in Asia and Africa after 1943 were less fortunate. After winning their independence as Indians or Burmese, they were unable to take the next step and organize a United States of Southern Asia. The Bandung Conference (in 1955) of representatives from Asia and African countries failed to realize the hopes of its conveners. After prolonged deliberations it was able to go no further than the "five principles" of self-determination and co-existence, under which the independence of each participating nation was reaffirmed and each agreed not to interfere in the internal affairs of its neighbors. The conference adjourned without establishing any form of organization or making provision for further meetings. After the Cuban Revolution in 1959, hopes ran high for the establishment of a bloc of Latin American States, led by the elected president of Brazil, Joao Goulart, that might act as a bulwark against further "yankee aggression" in Latin America. In 1962 a military coup overthrew Goulart, drove him into exile, jailed and disenfranchised his supporters and lined up Brazil, largest and most populous nation of Latin America, solidly behind the Monroe Doctrine of United States supremacy in the Americas, implemented by Washington's burgeoning "Pentagon diplomacy." African developments were even less fruitful than those in Asia and Latin America. Asians and Latin Americans generally had reached the level of self-identification necessary for statehood and national self-determination. Large parts of Africa living at pre-national levels of tribal identification, devoted their energies to the realization of nationhood. Their constitutions announced their frontiers and proclaimed their sovereignty, but inter-tribal rivalries and personal ambitions turned each new nation into a battle field for prestige and authority, with the military often making the final decisions. Asians and Africans had won telling victories in their struggle to drive out their former imperial masters. When it came to the affirmative task of organizing responsible regional federations, their failure was dismal. Asia and Africa were regionally disunited. Former colonial people, still monitored by alien representatives of monopoly capitalism, were fragmented by the self-determination struggle into theoretically sovereign nations many of which lacked the experience and the local expertise which are the indispensible prerequisites of self-determination and of fruitful regional federation. Another aspect of the world revolution produced more tangible results. The latter half of the nineteenth century brought into being a grass-roots movement of peoples demanding everything from petty reforms of administrative machinery to planned revolutionary transformations of the established monopoly capitalist structure. This movement crystallized as an anti-capitalist, anti-imperialist, pro-socialist national and international struggle. From the publication of the Communist Manifesto in 1848 until the beginnings of socialist construction in 1917, it was a movement of protest against poverty, unemployment, war, waste, inequality, exploitation. After 1917 it became a movement to end imperialism, war and exploitation and substitute a planet-wide social system that would give every human being a chance to play a meaningful part in utilizing nature, improving society and creating socialist women and men, capable of cooperating for the general welfare of mankind. The Enlightenment had diminished ignorance, spread information and brought elementary education to the masses. Self-government had given people confidence in their ability to make the phrase "we, the people" a working formula for social improvement. The Industrial Revolution had converted millions of superstitious, frustrated peasants into craftsmen and professionals confident in their ability to use nature effectively, to advance their own interests and to improve society. These and secondary social forces laid the foundation for the social revolution that mushroomed across the planet during the opening years of the present century. The occasion for the revolution was four years of destructive war (1914-18) during which two rival gangs of imperialists led their dupes and victims to shed blood and destroy property in a struggle to decide which band of plunderers should exploit natural resources and labor power for its own advantage. General war presented twentieth century man with a dilemma, an opportunity and a choice. Should he continue the grab-and-keep society that had flowered in Europe and elsewhere during the previous century, with its consequent poverty for the many, unemployment, exploitation and the power-struggle of the empires, or make a revolutionary change? As the stalemated war of 1914-18 with its frightful destruction of life and property continued year after year, the determination in favor of revolutionary change grew and crystalized. David Lloyd George, Britain's Prime Minister, put the situation into words presented to the Versailles Peace Conference on March 25, 1919: "The whole of Europe is filled with the spirit of revolution.... The whole existing order in its political, social and economic aspects is questioned by the masses of the population from one end of Europe to the other." (Memorandum of Lloyd George to the Peace Conference, 1922 Cmd. 1614.) Lloyd George proved a true prophet. Mass discontent and the spirit of revolt spread rapidly. Soldiers at the front mutinied. The armies of Tsarist Russia dissolved as the privates and officers alike returned to their homes, determined to stop war, end Romanoff tyranny and build a better life for the Russian people. To gain these results they replaced the Tsarist absolutism by local, regional and nationally elected people's Soviets. Before the War began in July, 1914, the socialist parties of Europe were divided between moderates who were willing to accept welfare-state reforms and allow the grab-and-keep structure of monopoly capitalism to continue in authority, and revolutionaries who demanded the abolition of capitalist imperialism and its replacement by socialism. European reformist socialists shouldered arms in July, 1914, and shot down their comrades across the frontiers. European revolutionary socialists, led by Lenin in Russia, Liebknecht in Germany and Jaures in France gained in strength as the war proceeded. Liebknecht and Jaures were assassinated. Lenin lived in exile until he went back to Russia and led the revolutionary forces that liquidated Tsarism in the closing months of 1917. For the first time in the history of western civilization, a proletarian revolutionary force had established its authority over one of the most extensive and populous nations on the planet. For the first time a responsible government threatened to abandon the fundamental assumptions and principles of western civilization. Could this new "subversive" government survive in the merciless free-for-all in which western man was engaged? Could it not only survive but build up a social system which contradicted and condemned the underlying precepts of the West? In a word, could socialism be built in one country, surrounded by civilized monopoly capitalist powers? Historical events have answered these questions in the affirmative. At this writing the Soviet Government has survived continuously for more than half a century. During that period it has transformed economically, politically and culturally backward portions of Europe and Asia into one of the most advanced areas on the planet. Monopoly capitalist society assumes that productivity, wealth and fire-power, effectively co-ordinated under competent authority, will guarantee survival and perhaps win supremacy. Beginning its life in one of the backward areas of the planet, the Soviet Union has met all of these tests by converting itself into a first class world power. Its productivity is second only to that of the United States. In wealth it stands second among the nations. Its fire power has carried the Soviet Union to victory in civil and international war. Its ruling oligarchy--the Soviet Communist Party--has maintained its authority through the stresses of domestic strife and major international conflict. In terms accepted by the existing free-for-all West, the Soviet Union is an established world power. Through the first three decades of its existence the Soviet Union was the only government avowedly engaged in building a socialist rival to monopoly capitalism and determined to replace capitalism as the dominant planet-wide social system. After 1943 it was joined by a dozen other European, Asian and American countries, dedicated like the Soviet Union to the task of building socialism. In addition to these dozen countries, several others such as India, Burma, Indonesia, Ceylon, Ghana and Libya, declared their intention of building socialism by legal, and gradual stages. Almost all of the countries busied with socialist construction were in East Europe and Asia. The countries building toward socialism were more widely scattered, but by and large they were Eurasian. From 1919 to 1943 socialist construction was directed, at least in theory, by the Communist International with headquarters in Moscow--the "general staff of the World Revolution". Under war pressure the Communist International was dissolved in 1943. No equally inclusive international socialist authority has since been established. World revolution is not confined to the Old World of Africa--Asia--Europe. It is widely prevalent in the Americas where it can claim a certain priority. Outstanding among colonial uprisings of modern times was the rebellion of the British colonies of North America, from 1776 to 1783. Even more widespread was the rebellion of the Spanish, Portuguese and French colonies of Central and South America which spanned most of the nineteenth century and extended on into the twentieth. Russian Bolsheviks held the headlines on revolutionary activity from 1917 to 1943 but it should not be forgotten that one of the most prolonged and thorough-going revolutions of the present century gripped Mexico from 1910 to 1917. At the beginning of this period Mexico was a political semi-dependency of the United States. It was semi-feudal, with a large population of Amerindians and a pre-industrial economy. Foreign capitalists and entrepreneurs, including those from the United States, played a leading role in the country. Mexico's 1910-1917 revolution was prolonged. It was also radical, up-rooting many aspects of its old social pattern, speeding up the bourgeois revolution, and preparing the way for a Mexican form of populism and a Mexican foretaste of a proletarian revolution, initiated, led and manned by Mexicans. Mexico's revolution resulted in two important developments that have played a major role in socialist construction. Both contributions appeared in the Mexican Constitution of 1917, adopted eight months before the Russian Bolsheviks seized power in November. The first contribution was a chapter on the rights of labor. Bourgeois constitutions had emphasized "civil" rights: the right to vote, trial by jury; freedom of speech, press, assembly; the right to go and come; the right to compensation when private property is taken for public purposes; the right to modify or replace the existing constitution. The Mexican Constitution of 1917 contained a detailed specification of the rights of labor, including proper working conditions, adequate compensation, education, health, social security. The Constitution also contained a crucial property provision: the natural resources of Mexico are the property of the Mexican people and cannot be alienated. This second provision was inserted in the Mexican Constitution at a time when extensive concessions to develop Mexican resources had been handed out to North American and European capitalists. It was inserted in part because the social ownership and sharing of land and other natural resources has been one of the basic demands of the Socialist--Communist--Anarchist movements from their inception. Monopoly capitalism depends primarily on the private ownership of the means of production, including natural resources. Capitalist opposition to socialism is not only a matter of theory. In practice the private ownership of natural resources enables the owner to charge rent to any and all users. Natural resources are sharply limited and usually localized. As population grows, demand for living space is intensified and rents rise. It is not an accident that the stretches of "black earth", of copper, iron, petroleum, the precious metals, and the land occupied by Mexico City, London, New York and other population centers, poured a stream of wealth into the treasuries and augmented the power of their owners. Effects of the insertion into the Mexican Constitution of the provision making natural resources "the property of the Mexican people" have been far-reaching. One socialist country after another has written into its constitution a provision that its natural wealth is the inalienable heritage of its people. This provision has two important results: it establishes natural resources as part of the public sector of the national economy; it also limits the possibility of handing out concessions to foreign exploiters, private or public. During the opening years of the present century socialist parties and other forward looking organizations were demanding social ownership of natural resources, public utilities and other social means of production as the next logical step toward a more equitable distribution of wealth and income. There was a possibility that such revolutionary changes could be made under bourgeois law by exercising the right of eminent domain, upon the payment of reasonable compensation to former owners. At least in theory, the democratic majority in any bourgeois country could put an end to private enterprise capitalism and establish socialism by a constitutional amendment, legislative enactment, and a caretaker political apparatus to administer and supervise the transition. Socialist parties were making "reformist" demands for better working and living conditions and "revolutionary" demands for changes in property and class relationships. Increased productivity and growing affluence made it possible for a progressive bourgeois state to meet the reformist demands, establishing a welfare state legally and constitutionally. Under the bourgeois constitutions generally existing at the beginning of the present century, a popular majority could adopt necessary constitutional amendments, pass the necessary enabling laws and launch a program of socialist construction. Such a program was part of the thinking of European and other socialist leaders during the opening years of the present century. Inspired and encouraged by the successes of socialist construction in the Soviet Union and other socialist countries, middle of the road socialists proposed to move gradually and legally from capitalism to socialism. Conservative socialists who were members of coalition governments in parts of Eurasia, described such welfare states as victories for socialism, despite the fact that they left the essentials of state power in bourgeois hands. Between 1920 and 1950 the western world found itself in this essentially revolutionary situation: the world-wide revolution in science and technology had opened the way for the human race to turn its back on the limitations and inadequacies of civilization and advance to a new level of culture and human opportunity. The impact of this revolutionary situation expressed itself at several levels: 1. Much of west and central Europe, important parts of North America, much of Australasia, important parts of East Asia and fringes of Africa had at least two generations of experience with some degree of affluence. 2. Scientifically and technologically maturing societies that had opted for socialism constitutionally and legally were engaged officially in socialist construction. These countries and peoples were located chiefly in Eurasia. 3. Former colonial and client dependencies of the nineteenth century empires struggling for self-determination and statehood were entering a stage of affluence. These countries and peoples were mainly Afro-Asian. Some of them were located in Latin America. 4. Countries and peoples still under the political, economic and cultural umbrella of the formerly dominant empires were at different stages in the completion of the bourgeois revolution. Their ruling oligarchies--fascist or neo-fascist--were stubborn defenders of remnants and fragments of the nineteenth century bourgeois culture. Their stronghold was the Atlantic Community. During the cold war years following 1945 each of these groups was undergoing the drastic social changes incident to the worldwide revolution of the period. Meanwhile mini-wars, civil and international, were fought in the Americas, Africa and Asia. By common consent conventional weapons were used and atomic weapons were kept in mothballs. These experiences were highlighted in British Guyana and Cuba. British Guyana was a Crown Colony, with a London-appointed Governor and a small occupying force of British troops with an elected legislative assembly and a considerable measure of home rule. Democratic socialists Cheddi and Janet Jagan helped to organize the Peoples Progressive Party of British Guyana. Twice Jagan won a popular electoral majority and was established as Prime Minister of the British Colony. His two periods of administrative responsibility were badgered and hectored by every reactionary force that could be mobilized inside and outside British Guyana, from the British appointed governor to the domestic and foreign business interests and the urban trade unions. Before a third election British and American governments, business and labor interests got together. Money was funnelled into the country through trade union connections. Protests were staged. Riots were organized. The electoral system under which the Peoples Progressive Party had won its victories was altered in London and Jagan was replaced by a system of proportional representation under which the P.P.P. was defeated and a new regime inaugurated. Throughout the struggle the Peoples Progressive Party had insisted upon winning popular majorities as a basis for establishing socialism in the colony by democratic methods and legal means. Imperialist reactionaries from Britain's Prime Minister and the President of the United States to the A.F. of L.-C.I.O. retorted: "No you don't", and backed up their veto with money, riots and guns. As a consequence of this counter-revolutionary conspiracy, the Peoples Progressive Party was forced out of office and an administration favorable to British, United States and native Guyanese capital was substituted. A revolt was led by Fidel Castro and his associates against the Washington-backed Batista regime in Havana, Cuba. When Cuba was seized by United States armed forces during the Spanish-American War of 1898 much of the island was in the hands of anti-Spanish rebels who were demanding independence of Spain's imperialist rule. Between 1898 and 1959 seven million Cubans enjoyed technical independence. Actually the island, located only 90 miles from Florida, was economically a United States colony and politically a Washington dependency, with United States armed forces stationed in the Guantanamo Bay Naval Base. After seizing power in 1959, Castro went to the United States seeking a market for Cuba's chief export, sugar; a source of food supplies not produced in Cuba, and the manufactures necessary for the economic and social life of an essentially agricultural island. Batista had emptied the Cuban treasury before he fled the island in 1959. Castro therefore needed loans to meet the immediate needs of the Cuban economy. He also sought to continue arrangements under which the chief market of Cuban sugar was in the United States. Castro was turned down cold. All doors, political and economic, were closed to him. As a revolutionary with left leanings he got the cold shoulder in New York as well as in Washington. Faced by economic bankruptcy and political hostility in the West, Castro turned to the Soviet Union and other socialist countries. They bought his sugar on long term contracts; provided him with manufactures; extended loans. Under these economic and political conditions Castro's Cuba had no choice. Of necessity it became a part of the socialist bloc, took over the property of Americans and other foreign investors, planned its economy and announced socialist goals, thus making the island of Cuba the only outpost of socialist construction in the Americas. Socialists exercised authority in one country from 1917 until 1943. Thereafter the land area devoted to building socialism steadily increased. By the time China threw off imperialist leading strings and opted for socialist construction in 1949, a third of mankind was living on territory under nominally socialist control. Most of this territory was Asian. An important part lay in eastern Europe. Until 1917, effective control of the planet was held by a half-dozen empires headed by the British, who exercised authority over a quarter of the human race living on a quarter of the earth's land area. After 1917 socialism mushroomed as a potential competing social system, challenging monopoly capitalism in Europe, replacing it in large sections of Asia and even threatening to destroy the foundations of western civilization. "Action and reaction are equal and opposite" is an axiom of physical science which is also applicable in the social field. The sweep of world revolution and the growth of socialism-communism after 1945 called into being an opposing force of counter-revolution. The greater the successes of socialism, the more ardent and assiduous was the counter drive, aimed to modify, negate and, if possible, to destroy the revolution and restore the social system of imperialism-colonialism built by monopoly capitalism to its prerevolutionary status of planet-wide ascendancy. Winston Churchill personified this counter revolutionary drive. It was he who proposed to "strangle the Bolshevik infant in its cradle". The Peace Conferees, meeting in Versailles, heeded Lloyd George's warning of March, 1919, and turned their attention to the urgent task of strangling socialism. Revolutionary beginnings in central Europe were stamped out. Funds were raised and arms were supplied to the anti-Bolshevik forces in European Russia and Siberia. At the height of the counter-Bolshevik crusade there were sixteen armies in Soviet Russia with the common aim of destroying Bolshevism and restoring the country to its previous status as one of the pillars of western civilization. This military phase of the counter-revolution lasted for four years. It failed. By 1922 the Soviet leaders were able to turn their energies to the task of rebuilding a devastated country while they planned and organized a socialist society. Counter revolutionary forces failed to overthrow the Bolsheviks during the civil war of 1918-1921. They failed again when the Nazi armies swarmed into the Soviet Union in June, 1941. The years from 1941 to 1945 cost the Russians perhaps twenty million dead, six million dwelling units and immense damage to their economy and their social organization. When the war ended, responsible observers in the West predicted that if the Soviet power survived, decades must elapse before the country was back on its feet. War destruction had played havoc with much of Europe. The Soviet Union was especially hard hit. Under the Marshall Plan billions of dollars of United States aid were poured into Britain, France, Belgium and West Germany. At the same time, the Soviet request for United States loans was refused categorically by President Truman. Alone and unaided the Soviet People repaired the extensive damage inflicted by the 1914-18 war, the Russian Civil War and the 1941 military invasion from the West, and went on with the task of socialist construction which the war had interrupted. Within five years--by 1950--the Bolsheviks were again on their feet, going strong, extending substantial aid to China and other professedly socialist countries and playing a crucial part in the struggle for disarmament and peace. At war's end in 1918 the Soviet Union was struggling to draw the first breath of socialist life. Three decades later, after expelling the Nazis, the Soviet Union was a sturdy giant of a nation standing head and shoulders above its nearest European competitors. During the interval, Soviet Russia was attacked, denounced, boycotted, encircled, invaded, ostracized as the leading figure in "an international communist conspiracy". When the policy of intervention and invasion failed, the counter-revolutionaries turned to cold war. Whether or not there was a "communist conspiracy" to overthrow capitalism, there was certainly an organized capitalist conspiracy to overthrow socialism-communism. Representatives of the chief capitalist empires made repeated attempts to subsidize anti-Bolshevik forces in the Soviet Union. From 1918 to 1921 and from 1941 to 1945 they used every available means, including military invasion, to overthrow the Soviet Union and stamp out the beginnings of socialist construction in Central and East Europe. From the military invasions of the Soviet Union immediately following war's end in 1918, western spokesmen, led by President Wilson, did their utmost to subsidize counter-revolution inside the Soviet Union, to send American and other armed forces into the country, to villify, denounce, boycott and handicap the Soviet Government. Sixteen years passed (1917-1933) before Washington extended diplomatic recognition to the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. President Wilson did his best to keep the Soviet Union and Mexico, both under the control of revolutionary governments, out of the League of Nations. After the 1936-1945 war Washington played the same role with regard to China, refusing for twenty-two years to recognize Socialist China diplomatically, leading the drive in the United Nations to exclude China from membership, although the United Nations Charter specified that China should be one of the permanent members of the Security Council. Secretary of State John Foster Dulles justified the policy of blacklisting and boycotting China by declaring that there was no such nation as China on the Asian mainland, only 650 million slaves, and that Chiang Kai Shek's rump government on the island of Formosa was the "China" specified in the U.N. Charter. Under the Truman Doctrine announced immediately after war's end in 1945, the United States refused to tolerate any extension of socialism, whether by revolution from within or by invasion from without any country. This doctrine was applied to Greece, to Iran, to Guatemala, to Santo Domingo, to Chile. During the Korean War, which began in June, 1950, one of President Truman's first directives ordered the United States Seventh (Pacific) Fleet to occupy the waters about Taiwan (Formosa), which was historically part of China. In order to implement this anti-communist policy, Washington used a newly created international secret service, the Central Intelligence Agency or C.I.A., gave it an initial appropriation of $100,000,000 and turned it loose to spy, corrupt, undermine and overthrow governments that refused to accept or follow Washington's leadership. Between 1815 and 1914 the planet enjoyed a measure of peace and order. In the three decades between 1914 and 1945, two general wars, a plague of lesser wars, a general economic depression and a hurricane of revolutions scourged the planet. Meanwhile, the revolution in science and technology and its products penetrated almost every crack and cranny of human society. Had the changes incidental to these rapid transformations been carefully planned and supervised, the disturbances in the ecology and the shocks to human society would have been less disturbing and upsetting. In the absence of any planet-wide authority, there could be neither general planning nor general supervision. There were warnings aplenty from liberals and radicals who were attempting to keep the situation in perspective, but such utterances failed to reach the great bulk of mankind. Disturbing and upsetting products of the revolution in science and technology--the harnessing of steam, the internal combustion engine, the air plane, electronics, plastics, and the release of atomic energy--were used to mutilate, destroy and kill. During the half century that began in 1910, tens of millions were mobilized, fed, taught, armed, and led to the slaughter fields by the masters of western civilization in two long orgies of wholesale destruction and mass murder--1914-18 and 1936-1945. Energies and techniques that might have brought peace and plenty to the human family were used to set fire storms that incinerated property while it degraded humanity to the horrors of mass suicide. In a very real sense these ghoulish results were the logical outcome of competitive nationalism armed and equipped with the technology produced during the two centuries of the great revolution. War is the most carefully planned, most elaborate and most intensive form of competition--the decisive climax of a life and death struggle for survival. The great revolution had put into human hands almost infinite possibilities for utilizing nature and improving the social environment. With foresight, careful planning and skillful manipulation of forces and trends the cultivatable portions of the planetary land mass might have been turned into a garden of unending plenty dotted with marvelous city centers of light and learning. In order to achieve such results it would have been necessary for the human family to coordinate its efforts around an agreed division of labor, share the goods and services produced and move from one level of affluence to a level of abundance. Instead of joint efforts to achieve abundance and security, the most prosperous and most highly developed centers of western civilization consolidated their authority in sovereign states, surrounded by forbidding frontiers, armed them with the most destructive agencies that human imagination and ingenuity could devise, schooled the citizens of each nation in the suicidal formula: "might makes right; every nation for itself and woe betide the laggard and the loser." The logical ideology of such a formula was egomania, suspicion, fear and hatred. Its outcome was a competitive life and death struggle for wealth and power, with the nation or a bloc of nations as the units of competition. The struggle at its highest level involved occasional local wars and periodical general wars like those of 1914-18 and 1936-45. Before the great revolution such struggles were waged chiefly with weapons wielded by human muscle power, supplemented with whatever animal power was available. Equipped with the products of the technological revolution, the struggle became a war of machines, powered by the energies of nature. Retail killing and destruction was replaced by mass murder and wholesale annihilation. Given the assumptions, the practices and the institutions of civilization, the catastrophic losses of the present century could have been foretold and, with competent leadership and disciplined followership, could have been averted. But leadership was self-serving, shortsighted and for the most part untrained, while followership was split up into national and local segments, each following the suicidal doctrine of every nation for itself and the devil take the laggards. Socialists-communists around the earth have spent a wealth of time and energy during several generations predicting the present revolutionary upset and preparing for it. They have been derided, denounced and persecuted for their efforts. Despite bitter opposition they have prepared for change, they accept change, they welcome it, because in change they see the only path to improvement and betterment. They are learning to live with change and even to welcome it because the time of troubles through which their society is passing is warning them of the dangers they face. At the same time they are learning, bit by bit, of the spectacular achievements of the billion human beings in socialist-communist countries. The majority of mankind has been unprepared for revolutionary change. When change came they resented it, maybe resisted it at the outset. Those who have a vested interest in capitalist imperialism--the real backbone of the counter-revolution--join and support counter-revolutionary organizations and take part in counter-revolutionary activities. Planners and organizers of the counter-revolution have the bourgeois state generally on their side and enjoy the backing of the bourgeois establishment, its organizations and its facilities. Since their object is defense, they have no constructive program. Instead they stumble, fumble and bungle as their system flounders into one disastrous crisis after another. CHAPTER ELEVEN WESTERN CIVILIZATION ATTEMPTS SUICIDE (1914-1945) Each bit of handiwork, each artifact, tool and machine is an expression of man's wish and will. Each transcends nature and is an affirmation that takes its place in the vast storehouse of human culture. Cities, the building blocks of civilization, not only transcend nature; they replace her. Up to a certain point man lived more or less consciously as a part of nature. Bit by bit and step by step man shifted from the stream, the glade, the tree and the cave to the hut, the village, the city, the nation, the empire, the civilization. Early in this study I wrote of civilization as an experiment: an aspiration, a creative urge, a concept, a purpose, a unity of thought and act, a conscious sequence of related actions, a construct of multiplying complexity. These terms, by and large, are constructive and, to a degree, creative. I might have written a parallel series of words associated with destructiviness. In every social situation construction and destruction are Siamese twins. One does not appear without the other. The same forces, the same implements, the same institutions and practices that construct can be used to destroy. Through ages, men learned how to establish, maintain and perpetuate community and organize society. At every stage of the building process it was necessary to check, to question, to evaluate, unlearn, tear down, make a new start. Pushing up and tearing or wearing down is implicit in nature. It is an essential aspect of human society. Each human being is a living example of production and destruction. Each generation repeats the affirmation, modifying it little or much in accord with circumstances. Modification means purposeful change--partially or wholly abandoning the old and replacing it with something new. In the course of these changes the conservative elements in man and in society, voluntarily or under coercion, give up the old and learn how to use the new. The learning process is always more or less painful, especially to people past middle age. The world-wide revolution resulted from a long-continued related series of affirmations, punctuated and interrupted by contradictions and conflicts. Trends inherent in the world-wide revolution of 1750-1970 suggest a cycle that reached its high point at the turn of the century and began its downward course around 1900. The chief European empires were jointly and severally involved in the bitter struggle for survival and supremacy from 1870 onward. Until the outbreak of war in 1914, events followed an irregular course marked by the shifting relationships of Italy and the increased pressure from Germany for a showdown. The showdown was the war of 1914-18, continued in a second phase from 1936 to 1945. Immediate political results of the showdown were victory for one side and defeat for the other side. Economic, sociological and ideological consequences were profound and far reaching. We noted some of them in the previous chapter. UNESCO's _History of Mankind_ devotes its final volume six to the twentieth century. The authors note that the chief European powers emerged from the general war of 1914-18 "weakened in every way: in men and wealth, in the balance of their economies and the stability of their political structure and above all in their relation to other powers rising or beginning to rise in other parts of the world". (Vol. VI p. 10.) Aside from the victory-defeat relationship which led to political realignments during the post-war years, the essence of the experience is to be found in the UNESCO phrase "weakened in every way". Another way of describing the experience is to state that the participants in this four year blood bath were "bled white." It is easy to be specific. In the course of the war sixty million people were mobilized. Most of these people stopped what they had been doing until mid-summer of 1914 and began an entirely new line of activity. Up to that point most of them had been living with their families, in their neighborhoods, going through a daily routine that included household cares, production or service work, the conduct of neighborhood affairs, the maintenance of normal livelihood activities, the upbringing of the new generation and perhaps most important of all, adaptation to a rapidly changing social situation. The changes that took place in the summer of 1914 involved an almost complete reversal of purpose and direction. Up to that point Europeans were devoting a considerable proportion of their time to production and the maintenance of the normal life routine. At that point they left their homes, exchanged ordinary clothes for uniforms, laid down the implements of peace, picked up the weapons of war and prepared, under very expert leadership and direction, a series of mass movements designed to disrupt the ordinary life routine of other human beings on the other side of lines drawn on a map, but having little relation to customary life activity and even less to geography. Execution of this purpose involved a mass movement from the home territory into that occupied by the "enemy". If the enemy resisted he must be forced to do the will of the invaders. Instead of cooperating in a joint effort to maintain and improve the general welfare, uniformed, armed, expertly-led masses began beating up each other, until one side gave in and cried "enough." Plans for war had been drawn and redrawn for years, for decades. Elaborate preparations had been made. Destructive weapons had been designed and built. Transport had been provided, food stored. Defensive preparations had also been made in the form of fortifications so placed as to obstruct or prevent "the enemy" from crossing the "frontier". When sport-lovers go from home for a day to play a competition in another city or province, they go, play the game and then go back home to continue the ordinary life routine. In the case of the project we are now considering they left home in July, 1914 and returned months or years later. Many never got back home because they were killed in battle or died of wounds; many were "missing"; they disappeared. If casualties in the 1914-18 war had been numbered in dozens, or scores or even in hundreds, the communities from which they came could have gone on without them--handicapped perhaps but not seriously disrupted. But when they were numbered in thousands and tens of thousands it was a quite different story. Actually, they were numbered in millions. Mobilized to carry on the war were 42.2 million on the Allied side. On the side of the Central Powers, 22.8 millions. The total: 65 million. 12 million of those mobilized were Russian, 11 million were Germans, 8.4 million were French, 8 million were from the British Empire. From Austro-Hungary came 7.8 million, from Italy, 5.6 million. Turkey furnished 2.9 million, Bulgaria 1.2 million; 4.4 million came from the United States; 0.8 million from Japan. Lesser numbers came from other countries. Except for Spain, the largest contributions of war conscripts came from the countries with the largest populations. With the exception of Spain, all of the great powers of Europe provided the "cannon fodder"; the human beings which Europe's "great powers" assembled to take part in this profligate orgy of mass murder which went on for more than four years, from July 1914 until November 1918. Body count reports and "estimates" give the total number of human beings murdered in the four year period as 8,538,315. (The legal definition of "murder" is killing, not accidentally but with the intention of taking life.) This figure of 8.5 million murdered human adults, most of them in the prime of life, refers to the murdered bodies that were recovered and disposed of. In addition there were "prisoners" and "missing." As the 1914-18 war proceeded it became less a series of combats between human beings; more and more it was a war of machines such as battleships, tanks, big guns and by war's end, of airplanes. Human beings drew up the plans, made the blueprints, shifted the gears, pushed the buttons. Their efforts were supplemented and multiplied by the killing power of physics, chemistry and mechanics brought to the task of wholesale murder, which produced 8.5 million dead human bodies. "Prisoners and missing" accounted for 7,750,000 additional human beings. Many of them were torn to shreds and smithereens by the gigantic concentration of mechanical and explosive power, designed, constructed and transported to the European battlefields for the express purpose of carrying on this month-long and year-long collective endeavor to take as much life as possible and destroy as much property as possible while war declarations authorized and legalized mass murder and wholesale destruction. Not all victims of the hideous 1914-18 blood bath were killed. "Wound casualties" numbered 12.8 million among the Allies; 8.4 million among the boys, young men and adults mobilized by the Central Powers. Some of the wounded were crippled for life. Some were less severely injured, but all 22.2 million were more or less severely handicapped when they stood up to face the rigors of civilian life at war's end. All were denied the possibility of living normal, productive, creative, satisfying lives. Wars are fought on battlefields. In the war of 1914-18 many of the battlefields included villages, towns, cities. These complex institutions, occupied by men, women and children were smashed and burned wholesale. The figures which I have used in listing the 1914-18 war losses were compiled by the United States War Department. They are more or less accurate, but they underline the fact that for years on end the centers of western civilization concentrated their energies and devoted every means at their disposal to cripple or destroy fellow human beings and their habitations. When we read of the destruction of the Roman Empire we console and perhaps try to fool ourselves by saying that the immense network of civilization which the Romans and their Greek associates spread across Eurasia and Africa during the historical period that began about 700 B.C. was destroyed by hordes of migrating "barbarians." When we turn to our own civilization, however, there are no barbarian hordes to take the blame. The wholesale destruction which took place in Europe from 1914 to 1918 and which was repeated and multiplied during the wars of 1936-1945 was carried on officially by spokesmen for the most advanced, most highly developed, most civilized countries of the western world. We have been using the word "murder" to describe the wholesale slaughter of Europeans by Europeans that took place from 1914 to 1918 and from 1936 to 1945. The word "murder" is inaccurate. The Europeans who carried on the wholesale destruction and mass murder during the two most general wars of modern times were committing murder in one sense. In quite another sense they were engaged in collective suicide. Europeans were blotting out the life and well-being of fellow Europeans. When the process came to a temporary halt in 1945 every European participant in the struggle was weaker in human potential and poorer in economic means than they were when the war began. Arnold Toynbee describes the entire episode as the "down grading" of Europe. He might have added two words and reported "the down grading of Europe by Europeans", as a glaring example of large scale, long continued, deliberate self-destruction. Fundamental social changes were bound to follow the revolutionary technical transformations that took place during the world-wide revolution of 1750-1970. Changes may be made in various ways. Some are slow and relatively painless, particularly when they extend over generations; other changes are so rapid that they are agonizingly painful. Involuntary changes, made under outside pressure are almost always painful. World-wide revolution, under the best of conditions, promises to be painful. When it comes from alien sources, and is under forced pressure, the costs are almost sure to be excessively high. This brings us face to face with one of the most important problems facing mankind at the present moment. Given the worldwide revolution of the past two centuries, what changes--political, economic, sociological and ideological--must be made to prepare the way for the new society and shift the family from the old homestead to the new apartment with a minimum of pain and a maximum of satisfaction? CHAPTER TWELVE TALKING PEACE AND WAGING WAR Blatant contradictions disorganized human life after war's end in 1945. In the crucial area of war and peace three groups were bidding for attention: dedicated peace partisans (peacenicks); nationalist enthusiasts waging wars of liberation; and massive semi-official and official nationalistic groups busily preparing for the next big war. Occasionally these groups joined hands on "hot" issues. Generally they were far apart. Often they were in active opposition. Dedicated peace advocates were an important factor in this post-war period. They had been vocal and influential in July, 1914 immediately before the outbreak of the first general war. They had continued to play an active role between the first and second general wars. In the autumn of 1972 the World Peace Council called together a peace assembly in Moscow representing significant elements from 143 countries. The largest single element in the World Peace Council was the Socialist bloc, headed by the Soviet Union. Peace advocates mobilized wide public support for the "no more war" movement that developed during the closing months of the 1914-18 war; for the Briand-Kellogg Treaty of 1928 which renounced war as an instrument of policy; for the effort to secure general disarmament that resulted in the General Disarmament Conference of 1933 and for the United Nations Charter of 1945. Official declarations in favor of disarmament and peace had been paralleled by the organization of unofficial peace committees and societies in western Europe, in the Americas and in the socialist countries. Peace efforts had been strengthened by the outbreak of local wars--between India and Pakistan, between Israel and the Arab League; by wars of independence and liberation in Korea, Vietnam, Cambodia, North Africa. Much of the public backing for the peacenicks came from student groups in official and private high schools, colleges and universities. Nationalist liberation movements were active in settled communities such as Ireland and Canada's Province of Quebec. There were less established movements in newly liberated restless ex-colonies and remaining colonies of the chief European empires, of Japan and of the United States. The widely advertised World Peace Council turned more and more from general advocacy of peace, such as the Stockholm Peace Petition, to the support of liberation movements among colonials and supressed minor nationalities. Preparations for another general war were expanded and intensified as the competitive struggle for oil and other natural resources mounted. By the end of the 1960's total arms expenditures of the chief powers were running at $200 billion per year. In 1973 the total reached $225 billion. There was much general talk about peace, but the most insistent note sounded for a high level of spending on armaments. Britain's Prime Minister Heath voiced a sentiment vigorously promulgated by every representative of national security "British interests come first". Confusion was heightened by the presence of men who faced all three ways: talking peace, waging small wars and preparing for the next big one. In February, 1974 in his State of the Union message to the U.S. Congress, President Nixon spoke of "our goal of building a structure of lasting peace in the world." At the same moment the Washington administration was feeding the fires of war in South East Asia and asking the United States Congress to increase 1975 U.S.A. defense appropriations from $80 billion to $90 billion per year. When war ended in 1945 there was a planet-wide sigh of relief and a devout hope that after so many years of local and general wars, the time had come for western man to take a long decisive step in the direction of peace. The United Nations Charter expressed this hope to end the use of war as an instrument of policy. Since the period of general social relaxation usually known as the Dark Ages was superceded by the multiple innovations of the Reformation, the Renaissance, the Enlightenment and the scientific-technical developments of the 1750-1970 Revolution, man the dreamer, inventor, designer, planner, architect and engineer has modified many aspects of nature and transformed the social environment. Until the Reformation and the Renaissance, European ruling oligarchies in territories along the Mediterranean and throughout western Europe were able to perpetuate their privileges and preserve the life styles of an agricultural-feudal society. Improvements in navigation and the growth of trade, commerce and industry opened the way for the bourgeois revolution with its rapid growth of cities and the parallel increase of wealth, income, and living standards among the newly-enriched businessmen and their associates and dependents. Social changes in feudal Europe had been gradual. The dynamism implicit in the bourgeois revolution escalated the rate of social change with corresponding modifications in the pattern of European political, economic and cultural institutions and practices. In the early stages of the transformation the awareness of change was limited to a minority of city dwellers. To the rural illiterate majority, change was a closed book. A great social gulf separated the feudal countryside from the growing centers of trade, commerce and industry. Bourgeois life processes narrowed and gradually bridged the gulf. Differences between city and country living persisted, but the stark contrast between city abundance of goods and services and their virtual absence from the common life of the countryside grew less and less marked as the proportion of the total population living in the countryside declined with the trek to cities and their suburbs. Europeans living for the most part in a pre-civilized rural environment passed through generations of illiterate unawareness of the social process through which European life was expanding. The rapid extension of industry and commerce after 1750 (the bourgeois revolution) completed the transformation of a rural, semi-feudal west and central Europe into a continent of town and city dwellers devoting their lives to pursuits unknown to their immediate forebears. In this new Europe the countryside played a decreasing role, as food supplies and raw materials came increasingly from less developed parts of eastern Europe or from the colonies which were opened up by the planet-wide trade and commerce promoted by the aggressive expansion of the European empires. Most Europeans, satisfied with the axiom "old fashions please me best" were stand-patters in the early stages of this transformation. As the conversion of Europe from feudal status to urban dynamism continued, however, an ever larger part of the population became aware of the change through which their society was passing. With the Renaissance and the Enlightenment inert unawareness gave place to enthusiastic propaganda in the writings of pamphleteers, essayists, poets, novelists and social reformers who set the intellectual tone for the new society. In a very real sense, the bourgeois Europe which emerged after 1750 was something new under the sun. Large elements of the population, previously engaged in producing and consuming the bare necessaries of food, shelter and clothing were increasingly engaged in trades and professions and rendering services unknown to the feudal countryside. As the expansion of western civilization continued, entire European nations like the Low Countries, England and Germany turned to trade, commerce, industry, leaving only a dwindling minority engaged in agricultural pursuits. The change was speeded by the revolution in science and technology. Changes in economic and social relations are paralleled by corresponding alterations in the total way of living. Western civilization was, in its entirety, a cultural departure from the pattern of any preceding experiment with civilization because of the drastic changes that the revolution in science and technology had introduced into human society. Throughout the life-cycle of western civilization minor and major alterations have been made in its structure and its function. Some of the earlier political changes were part and parcel of the bourgeois revolution. They included: 1. The abolition of absolute monarchies and hereditary aristocracies and their replacement by limited monarchies and republics with various types of representative and popular governments selected by ballot. 2. The replacement of personal tyrannies and autocracies by written constitutions and laws passed by elected parliaments. 3. Replacement of war as the sport of kings and the chief instrument of policy makers, by negotiation, diplomacy, and treaties which became the core of existing "international law." 4. Arbitrary national sovereignty was supplemented by more or less permanent alliances and by the formal international organizations such as the Universal Postal Union, the World Court and the League of Nations. 5. Regional Associations were organized; the North Atlantic Treaty Organization; the Organization of American States and the Organization for European Unity. 6. Disarmament conferences were held. General peace treaties were signed like the Kellogg-Briand Peace Pact of 1928 and the United Nations Charter. 7. Two major efforts were made to establish a general confederation of nations and empires--the League of Nations in 1919 and the United Nations a quarter of a century later. Both the League of Nations and the United Nations proved to be feeble and ineffectual efforts to bridge the gulf between limited national sovereignty and planet-wide order and peace. But they were tentative steps in the direction of a federation of the world and they did mark a notable advance from the chaos and conflict incident to the planet-wide expansion of the European empires toward more stable economic and social conditions and more orderly international relationships. Paralleling these changes in the political life of western civilization there have been a number of drastic economic reforms. One was the abolition of chattel slavery. A second was the replacement of serfdom and peonage by free labor receiving fixed wages and salaries. A third change was the division of large feudal estates and other concentrated landed properties into small units owned and operated by working farmers. A fourth change was the establishment of free trade areas within and among sovereign states. A fifth innovation was the transfer of individually operated and family businesses into associations and corporations with limited liability and widespread ownership by bond and stockholders. Sixth, trade unions and consumers' cooperatives were recognized and legalized. Seventh, legal provisions were made for social security against accident, sickness, unemployment, old age. Minimum incomes were guaranteed. Eighth, many steps were taken toward public or social ownership of the means of production, including land and other natural resources. Ninth, repeated governmental efforts were made to deal with the inflation that attends prolonged exhausting wars. These efforts included the regulation of credit and debt and the substitution of new currencies for old ones that had been hopelessly devalued. Political and economic changes in the life-patterns of western civilization have been accompanied by far-reaching cultural reforms such as the provision of free public education; the emancipation of women; the provision of public recreation facilities; popularized culture through information, the drama, music, literature, art; equalizing opportunity and facilitating movement up and down the ladder of recognition, approval, disapproval. Political reforms of western civilization date from the Reformation and the Renaissance. Economic reforms were speeded by the industrial revolution. Together they are often described as the bourgeois revolution, which resulted in the power shift from landlords, ecclesiastics and knights in armor to businessmen, protected and assisted by the state, the church, channels of information and propaganda, the police and other armed forces. Cultural reforms accompanied the reforms in politics and economics. Underlying the changes and supplementing reforms were improvements in the means of communication and transportation; the discovery and use of new sources of energy and the changes in production and merchandizing which have played so vital a role in the transition from a skimpy economy of scarcity to an open-handed economy of abundance, extravagance and conspicuous waste. Through all of the political, economic and social changes made in the structure and function of western civilization its basic activities have remained unchanged. The nuclei of civilized life have been cities concerned primarily with trade, commerce, industry, finance--planned, organized and administered by businessmen, their professional and technical associates and assistants. In practice, city centers of wealth and power have expanded, using the military as the readiest means of implementing policy. They have occupied and garrisoned the foreign territory brought under their control. At home and abroad they have exploited nature, men and other animals in their interest and for their profit. The trading cities of medieval Europe, the emerging nations of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, the colonizing empires of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, and the industrial European empires of the nineteenth century devoted their energies increasingly to expanding into new territory, occupying and exploiting it, and fighting the wars which pock-marked the ceaseless struggle for pelf and power. In short, they continued to build up the institutions and to follow the practices of civilized peoples. This has been true of the millennium that began with the crusades and has hastened the rise of western civilization and its extension to planet-wide proportions. Similar conclusions can be drawn from the life stories of the score or more of civilizations that rose, flourished and sank into inconsequence during the previous five thousand years. Each civilization has had its own habitat, its own life pattern. Each has had its own languages, laws, traditions and customs. But despite such local differences, all of the civilizations have had in common those characteristics which justify their inclusion in the family of civilizations. Anyone who wishes to test the accuracy of these generalizations may be satisfied by reading and observing the events that began with the wars between Japan, China and Russia, the Spanish American War, the Boer War, and the revolts in Cuba, China and the Philippines, all of which took place between 1895 and 1905. The present century opened in a period of critical struggle between empires, within empires and between imperial centers and colonial dependencies. These preliminary skirmishes led up to two general wars in 1914-1918 and 1936-1945, accompanied and followed by a score of minor wars and a planet-wide rash of civil wars and wars of independence waged by peoples of the erstwhile colonies. Three johnnie-come-lately empires played star-roles in the drama: Germany, the United States and Japan. The histories of all three countries from 1870 to 1950 provide ample support for the contention that the central theme of western civilization, as of its predecessors, is a competitive struggle for wealth and power, aimed at expansion and exploitation, using war and the threat of war as instruments of policy. Even under the pressures generated by the innovations and the political and economic changes of the current world wide revolution, the principle objectives of civilization have remained constant: geographical expansion; military, economic and cultural occupation; exploitation of the newly acquired territories and peoples. Each civilization has built up and maintained a professional military apparatus and used it as the final arbiter in the determination of domestic and foreign policy. The means used to achieve these objectives have varied from time to time and from place to place. The basic pattern of civilization has appeared, disappeared and reappeared. Each civilization has made heroic efforts to reform itself when submerged in a time of troubles that made its institutions and its practices intolerable to those in power or those groups and classes which had grown so desperate under its exploitation and oppression that they preferred death to continuance of the established order. Each civilization has made its contribution, retaining its essential form while modifying its practices to meet the requirements of particular situations. Western civilization is no exception to this general rule. Following the all but universal principle that "action and reaction tend to be equal and opposite," subjugated, occupied peoples revolt against "foreign" occupation and exploitation. Again western civilization is no exception, as the movements for independence and self-determination that followed the 1946 post-war collapse of the European empires clearly showed. Reaction against western civilization went beyond revolt to include the rejection of the obsolete concepts, forms and practices inherent in civilization. Rejection has been accompanied and followed by proposals for replacing civilization by concepts, forms and practices more in keeping with the social relations and situations resulting from the current world revolution. Most reforms of civilization have been attempted during the life of western civilization because during that era both the structure and functioning of civilization have been called into question. In no civilization (Egypt, Rome or the modern West) have the essential principles of civilization been seriously modified. Again and again, during the times of trouble that marked the breakdown of successive civilizations, particular institutions were rejected but civilization as a way of life has been accepted and re-established in the course of each new cycle. During previous cycles the breakdown of a civilization had been followed by a period of rest and recuperation before the beginning of the next experiment. The breakdown of western civilization, a negative reaction, has been accompanied by a planet-wide drive to replace the concepts, forms and practices of civilization by the concepts, forms and practices of socialism-communism. Socialism-communism as a way of life for nations and continents is a new experiment on the planet earth. Heretofore there have been small groups--families, tribes and sects--that have adopted and followed cooperation as a way of life, but widespread planned cooperation on a national or continental scale is a novelty. As a result of these changes, conflict-torn and fragmenting western civilization found itself divided into three factional groups: I. Corporate business organized domestically and internationally to preserve and extend its wealth and power. Big business interests, their dependents and backers were concentrated chiefly in West Europe and North America. Their network of interests and controls was planet-wide. Literally they were the backbone of western civilization. II. Builders of socialism-communism, an alternative and rival life pattern, have been concentrated in East Europe and Asia. The socialists-communists occupied a minority position in most of the countries dominated by big business. Their program called for the replacement of capitalist competition and conflict by a cooperating, planned, planet-wide society operated for service rather than for profit. III. A third segment, made up largely of nations and peoples located in Africa, Asia and Latin America, who up to war's end in 1945 had been colonies or dependencies of the big business directed empires. Since 1945 they have become increasingly independent and self-determining. The three-fold division of the planet was determined in part by the age-old ideas, principles and practices of civilized peoples during the past six thousand years. In part, it was the outcome of the planet-wide revolution of 1750-1970. It was likewise the result of the wars, revolutions and independence movements that have upset and realigned the world since 1776. Under the impact of these forces human society was being unmade, re-examined and remade. By comparison with its own beginnings and with its predecessors, western civilization has made many changes in its political, economic and sociological way of life. It has also developed national and regional variants of its overall pattern. Despite these changes, and with the possible exception of its very large and significant socialist-communist sector, the West has retained the structural and functional features of previous civilizations: urban nuclei supporting themselves by trade, commerce and finance; expansion up to and beyond the point of no return; the life and death power struggle within and between its constituent peoples, nations and empires; the use of war as the final arbiter in these struggles; the rise of the military to a position of supremacy in policy making and public administration; an all-pervasive pattern of exploitation within the urban nuclei and between rival provincial factions; speculation in the necessaries of life; the growth of overhead costs far beyond the increase of production and of income; the degradation of currency; multiple taxation; the abuse of credit; inflation, unemployment and chronic hard times. Western civilization differs from its predecessors in one crucial respect: it is planet-wide. Previous civilizations known to history have been limited by oceans, deserts and other geographical barriers. The revolution in communication and transportation has by-passed geographic barriers. The French saying "the more things change the more they remain the same" finds ample justification in the story of western civilization and its predecessors. In one instance after another, for at least six thousand years, civilizations have been built up to summits of wealth and power. Then, on the downward sweep of the cycle, they have declined, decayed and been dumped on the scrap heap of history. No two of these cycles were exactly alike. Each cycle was a social experiment that followed a well marked path. There were variations, innovations, deviations from the norm, but institutions and practices were strikingly similar. In this broad sense, and despite minor departures, the life patterns of civilization have appeared, disappeared and reappeared with close similarity in structure and function. Western civilization has had a life cycle of approximately a thousand years. During that millennium it has undergone many changes--political, economic, sociological, ideological. Throughout these changes its basic characteristics have remained; have appeared and reappeared. In the 1970's western civilization retains the essential features which justify us in describing it as a civilization. The great revolution which began about 1750 and has increased in breadth and depth throughout the past two centuries had led to vital changes in structure and functioning, particularly of the West but generally in the entirety of human society. So far-reaching are these changes, and so deep running, that human society, particularly in the West, has outgrown or is outgrowing the life pattern evolved by civilizations during the past four or five millenia. As a consequence, geographical expansion by the time-honored method of grab-and-keep has become more difficult, far more expensive in manpower and material wealth and is in growing disrepute among a sizeable minority of individuals and social groups, even in the centers of western civilization. It is in notable disfavor among the former colonies and dependencies of the European empires. At the same time, war as a means of achieving social ends has fallen into greater and greater disrepute. War costs, measured in terms of human well-being and welfare had soared to fantastic heights before 1945. The devastation, during that year, of two moderate sized cities, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, was a foretaste of the increasingly bleak chances of human survival with the stockpiling of nuclear weapons far more destructive than the fission bombs used on the two Japanese cities. Under the conditions prevailing before the great revolution, competitive struggle between nations and empires, expanding as a result of victory in war, had ceased to be a practicable means of gaining, holding and increasing wealth and power. If the costs of the international power struggle exceeded the gains, there were no longer victors who won and vanquished who lost. Instead, everybody lost as the entire social structure was wrenched, dislocated, wracked and down-graded. Certainly this seemed to be the plain-as-day lesson of the two general wars and the flurry of minor wars which swept the earth after 1910. Expansion through armed struggle no longer paid its way. It was the obvious lesson stressed by J.A. Hobson and Nicolai Lenin in their respective studies of imperialism (1903 and 1916). It was the theme of Norman Angel's _Great Illusion._ It was summarized by Arnold Toynbee's _War and Civilization._ If the costs of expansion exceeded the income, the outcome of expansion would be dismemberment for the vanquished and bankruptcy for the victors. Indeed, this formula generalises the experience of the survival struggles during the war years which began in 1911. I summarized the experience in _The Twilight of Empire_(1929). The catastrophic economic breakdown during the Great Depression of 1929-1938, the spectacular and fateful rise of Hitlerism in Germany after 1927, the destructive Civil War in Spain from 1936 to 1939, followed immediately by the war devastations of 1939-45 were part and parcel of the same picture. The same may be said for the revolt of the colonial peoples, downgrading all European "victors" in the war of 1914-18, and the social revolutions following 1945 that shook up the planetary power structure and opened the way for socialist-communist forces to begin socialist construction in one country after another. Some European states had become super-states, armed to the teeth, surrounded with their satellites, dependencies and colonies. They expanded, exploited and battled as they played the absorbing and ruinous game of "Beggar My Neighbor". Politically and economically the struggle reached and passed its high point between 1914 and 1945. The subsequent years have revealed the aftermath--a down-graded Europe and an ascendant Asia. Empire building has been made prohibitively expensive by the revolution in science and technology; if the human family is to survive in anything like its present numbers, a way must be found to end the use of war as a means of attaining social objectives. New techniques, chiefly non-competitive, must be discovered and employed in the maintenance of social relations. Not only must war be abandoned as a means of achieving social objectives, but exploitation of nature and man must be superceded by a planet-wide life style that conserves natural wealth and shifts the center of economic endeavor from competition to cooperation. Abandonment of war as an instrument of policy and the renunciation of exploitation of man by man and nation by nation as a means of enrichment would put an end to the scandalous and corrosive extremes of riches and poverty that have cursed every civilization of which we have a written record. Western civilization, like its predecessors, had consisted of rival nations and empires competing for living-space, wealth, position, expanding territorially as they exploited nature and available labor power for the advantage of the few. Civilization as a life style, built around the competitive struggle for wealth and power, using war as an instrument of policy and multiplying the techniques of expansion and exploitation, has had a series of experimental tryouts already under way at the dawn of written history. Under no circumstances has civilization proved to be wholly rewarding and satisfying. The current revolution in science and technology has rendered civilization unreformable as well as obsolete. The structure or pattern of civilization has divided western civilization into separate parts that benefit by separateness and profit from conflict. The result is a typical example of a self-destroying life style struggling through an impasse from which there is no escape save through a third fratricidal war. Today civilization is a bad buy, especially for young people starting out in life. Civilization still has its advantages for those who have lived actively, achieved many of their material objectives and retired to spend their declining years in a well-feathered nest. For some privileged young people, willing to settle for comfort and conformity, civilization offers the leisure to learn, and an opportunity to test themselves out against a big field of ardent competitors. But for energetic, forward-looking, idealistic young people, the opportunities offered by western civilization are deemed inconsequential, trivial and in the long run, inadequate. For them, the game is not worth the candle. Today civilization is a bad buy for two reasons. The first is that antisocial, predatory, exploitive and parasitic elements are unfortunately and unnecessarily prominent in the lives of all civilized peoples, including the present West. The second reason is the arrogant, self-righteous, peremptory, bragging, bullying, dictatorial approaches adopted by civilized people in their dealings with those who live on the fringes or outside the pale of civilization. The first reason is an inescapable consequence of the political, economic, ideological and sociological assumptions of the civilizing process. The second reason is inherent in the methods used by civilized peoples in their dealing with the uncivilized majority of humanity. _Part IV_ Steps Beyond Civilization CHAPTER THIRTEEN TEN BUILDING BLOCKS FOR A NEW WORLD In the previous chapter I argued that we are marking time in a fool's paradise while western civilization slips backward and downward toward dissolution and oblivion. Like many of its predecessors, our civilization seems to have exhausted its capacity to create, progress, advance. Instead it is disintegrating and breaking up in our current time of troubles. In an earlier epoch of human history civilization helped to bridge the wide gap between man the victim and plaything of nature, and man as the user, director and, to a limited degree, the coordinator of natural forces. Today questions of our demise or our survival and advance are pressing and urgent. Civilization has played an important role in the social history of mankind during the several thousand years when segments of the human family have turned their backs on barbarism, regrouped their forces, revamped their patterns of association and experimented with the more complicated, specialized and integrated life pattern of civilization. These experiments have paralleled or followed one another, separated by shorter or longer ages of rest and recuperation. Each epoch of civilization has contributed ideas, artifacts and institutions to the sum total of human culture. This has been the case with past civilizations. It is true of western civilization. Civilization, like other aspects of human culture, is never static but always dynamic. It changes constantly, waxing and waning. It develops, expands and contracts. It reaches out toward universality, then breaks down and dissolves into a welter of conflicting regional and local interest groups. These changes are the outcome of hard-nosed experience. They are related to alterations in ideas, outlooks and purposes. They are often associated with technical discoveries and inventions. They come and go in more or less clearly defined cycles. They are influenced by deep running political, economic and social forces and trends. Each civilization matures into forms and develops functions and institutions that tend to consolidate and crystallize in well defined social patterns and habit grooves in which two forces oppose each other: one force is status--preserving that which is; the other force is change--that which tends to become or is becoming. Status and change confront each other at all social levels. During periods of rapid social change they take the center of the stage and dominate the drama. The planet-wide revolution of 1750-1970 is an outstanding example of rapid change. The current opposition of status and change has pushed other aspects of social life into second place and has made the social status of yesterday outmoded today and obsolete tomorrow. The disintegration of western civilization (indicated by its 1910-1975 time of troubles) is having profound effects on western man. The effects are physical, mental, energenic and moral for individuals. Socially they find expression in vandalism, hooliganism, major crime, in the break-up of the family; in alienation, inertia, boredom; in laxity, indiscipline; loss of faith, weakness or absence of purpose. Most serious of all, perhaps, western peoples are learning to ignore principle, live for the moment, satisfy their already sated appetites and pay little or no attention to the future. These attitudes are widespread in the western world of the 1970's, particularly among the young. These effects, on the whole negative, are offset by a number of positive factors. Human beings are curious and imaginative. They are also ingenious, inventive and intuitive. All of these attributes are assets when dealing with the future and the unknown. In a previous generation, preceding the war of 1914-18, a very large part of the West was under the influence of the Christian church, which promised good things in the hereafter. During the ensuing years of military conflict, planned destruction and wholesale murder, another considerable part of the West, both socialist and liberal, was promising security, comfort and convenience here and now. The influence of the Christian church on life style, even among its own membership, has declined in the past half century. Affluent monopoly capitalism, meanwhile, has provided the rich, the middle class and important numbers of workers and farmers with necessaries and amenities far beyond the levels imagined by reformers and revolutionaries of a previous generation. As an integral part of this maturing revolutionary situation a generation of human beings born since war's end in 1945 has come on the scene, surrounded by the concrete and glass buildings, block printed nylons, the automobiles and domestic appliances of monopoly capitalism and by the social security of socialism. In both segments, capitalist and socialist, the more gifted, original, sensitive, creative members of this comfort-pampered generation have turned their backs on affluence and security and begun shouting a new slogan: "We want to live!" There is nothing surprising about this development. Many trained, experienced observers have been predicting it. Youth, idealism, aspiration, optimism, ambition--cannot be satisfied with status in any form. They want to live, to achieve, to face difficulties, to overcome dangers, to express themselves, to create. They are not content merely to arrive at physical affluence. Affluence and social security cannot satisfy. They merely sharpen the appetite for a continuance of the life journey, on the best terms permitted by the current time of troubles. Among the members of the post-war generation, this ambitious, perceptive elite is aware of two disturbing and compelling realities. The first is the peril to mankind implicit in a continuance along its present disaster course of war, with its inescapable counterpart, social dissolution. The second is the possibility that out of the wreckage and rubble of an outmoded cultural pattern, a mature, chastened, more experienced, more consciously purposive generation will arise, possessing the wit to see the necessity of creative advance, and the wisdom to guide the pioneers of humanity along the difficult and dangerous path that they must follow if they are to reach the land of purpose and promise. Current frustrating experience with the breakdown of western civilization, coupled with historical precedents, confront the present generation of mankind with a compelling challenge and a unique, precious opportunity. The challenge arises out of experiments with particular civilizations and with civilization as a way of life. Our analysis of this situation leads to only one possible conclusion: Repeated experiments with civilization unmask it as a way, not of life, but as a cycle of rise, expansion, maturity, decline and certain death. The challenge is emphasized by the failure of reforms and reformers of civilization to make changes in structure and function sufficient to meet the challenge of the birth-maturity-death cycle. Nor has it been possible for western civilization to take advantage of the drastic changes and challenges arising out of the current world revolution. Man's top negative priority at the present moment is to reject the wiles, the temptations, the mortal conflicts and the annihilative destruction which have disrupted and decimated civilized society during the past six thousand years and reached their apex in the Great Revolution of 1750-1970. These experiences prove beyond the shadow of doubt that this pattern of human collective life is inadequate to meet the present and future needs of the human family. Man's top positive priority is the present-day occupancy of the planet Earth by 3,700 million human beings who wish to survive, to utilize and conserve the natural habitat and to improve the social environment. Within narrow limits, almost all members of the human family want to live and to help other humans to do likewise. Multitudes of human beings, particularly among the youth, want to enjoy outward looking, satisfying, productive, creative lives. They also want those near and dear to do the same thing. What steps must they take in order to realize their hope and fulfill their aspirations? Broadly speaking, they must pick their way warily through the maze of artifacts, gadgets and gimmicks produced by human ingenuity during the current world revolution. Most of them are superficial and time consuming. A few are fundamental. They are of the utmost importance as implements to human advance. Taking what advantage they can of recent innovations, avoiding dead-ends and illusion leading to rainbows, the more sensitive and more competent segments of mankind must close ranks and move upward and onward to a new level of culture. The chief instrument available for such an enterprise is the twentieth century version of the political state. The bourgeois revolution was achieved through the developing, evolving political state. The political state is the binding force that held scattered fragments of the human family together during the stresses and strains of the current revolution in science and technology. It is the political state that must be depended upon to resist the fragmentating forces of a disintegrating western civilization, to preserve the social structure and administer human society through the transition from civilization into the structure and functioning of the new social order which is presently supplanting civilization. Through Europe's transition from feudalism to capitalism, the feudal state, here and there, step by step, was replaced by the bourgeois state as the chief structural building block of western civilization. The bourgeois revolution, in various parts of Europe, lasted for several centuries; the process was well under way by 1450. As lately as 1945 feudal pockets remained in Eastern Europe. An even more profound transformation of European society is made in the course of the Great Revolution of 1750-1970. The transformation is in its early stages. During the process, the political life of Europe-in-transition will be administered by the political institutions of the bourgeois state, together with the closely related state patterns of socialism-communism which have come into being during the present century. During this transition the bourgeois state itself has evolved. At the outset it was a revolutionary force devoting its energies to the elimination of feudal institutions and practices and replacing them by the institutions and practices needed for the advancement of bourgeois interests. Today the bourgeois state is a bulwark of conservatism; devoting its energies to the preservation of bourgeois forms and practices and doing its utmost to fulfill its counter-revolutionary role of resisting and, if possible, destroying the institutions and practices needed to replace the political institutions and practices of civilization by the new institutions required to move mankind from the outmoded lifestyle of civilization to a lifestyle beyond and above that to which humanity has become adapted during the now obsolete epoch of civilization. At the same time, the socialist-communist variant of the bourgeois state pattern is providing the framework within which the institutions and practices needed for the transition from civilization to a newer and more universal social order are being matured. At the next stage in the birth process, the institutions and practices necessary for upbuilding the social order that will replace civilization are being worked out in theory and embodied in experimental practice. In practice, an accurate distinction must be made between the conservative bourgeois state, the temporary transitional state and the universal socialist-communist state that will shepherd humanity along the difficult and dangerous path of the political life pattern beyond civilization. In theory such distinctions are needed as part of the scaffolding within which the social pattern of beyond-civilization will be constructed. Like most decisive epochs of human history, the revolution through which we are passing has had both a negative and a positive aspect. In Chapter 11 I wrote about one of its destructive aspects--the extreme destructivity of two periods of general war. At this point, I would like to list ten positive contributions made by the same revolution toward the development of a social life style that is offering itself as an alternative to civilization. 1. NEW SOURCES OF ENERGY. Up to 1750 human beings had the energy of the human body plus the energy of domestic animals. They used wind to turn mills and sail ships and water to turn crude wheels. They also burned various things, particularly vegetable fibres, to produce heat. During the revolution they have learned to use steam, electricity and chemical explosives. Recently they have learned to use the energy in the atom, to use water power extensively and, to a slight extent, the energy of the sun and the tides. 2. The revolution has taught people who previously feared CHANGE, to welcome change and take full advantage of discoveries and inventions that modified nature and profoundly altered human society. 3. Among the INVENTIONS were the extensive use of the wheel for movement on land, the use of steam engines and electric motors for moving, manufacturing and transportation and the use of electricity for communication. 4. INCREASED HUMAN MOBILITY on land and water, and, more recently, in the air and, still more recently, in outer space. Easy and rapid movement, and almost instantaneous communication brought people together in towns and cities, built up trade in goods and services, increased speed of communications and enabled people living at a distance from one another to keep in close touch, bringing human enterprises and human beings into continuing contact. Human life, thought and action were coordinated. Increased mobility UNIFIED HUMAN SOCIETY. 5. RESEARCH is now an accepted aspect of all phases of human life and activity. Research is a recognized occupation. Research teams solve problems, map the paths of enterprise. We are learning first to think, then, only after careful study, decide on courses of action and follow them through. 6. The field of inquiry and research covered the entire range of human experience. Information, resulting from research, provided the subject matter of new sciences. In the new fields new skills were developed and new professions built up. The members of this new TECHNOLOGICAL INTELLIGENTSIA, added to the learned professions, created a large group who expected and enjoyed affluent living conditions. 7. SPREADING AFFLUENCE increased the number of families that enjoyed abundance of goods and services, comforts and luxuries mass produced and offered in a mass market, lifting people out of scarcity by growing abundance. Scarcity ceased to restrain. Instead, people learned the values of RESTRAINT, ECONOMY, FRUGALITY, SIMPLICITY. 8. Increase in size and complexity called into being a new profession. MANAGEMENT with the necessary PLANNING, BUDGETING, COST KEEPING. 9. Large numbers of well-fed, housed, educated and aware human beings created the possibility of arousing, mobilizing and utilizing people--especially young people--to take part in voluntary group projects, co-operate and create. Such experiences developed SOCIAL AWARENESS and led to LARGE SCALE MASS ACTION. 10. People growing up in affluence, living above the rigors of poverty, asked questions about themselves, their society and the universe in which they lived. They learned that they and their fellows had not only the five accepted "senses," but additional senses with corresponding experiences. This opened their eyes to the possibility of additional or extra senses, opening the immense field of "EXTRA SENSORY PERCEPTION," E.S.P. These ten areas, opening up largely during the years of the great revolution are "new wine" which cannot be contained in the old wine skins. They raise questions and open up vistas which transcend the narrower confines of civilization. They are among the materials and facilities out of which a new world is coming into existence. CHAPTER FOURTEEN MOVING TOWARD WORLD FEDERATION One of man's earliest collective experiences is summed up in the saying: United we stand; divided we fall. United we survive and prosper. Divided we quarrel, fight and sooner or later break up into smaller sovereign competing groups. If human beings wish to utilize nature or to enjoy the advantages of collective action and group life they must get together and stay together. This necessity for collective action has appeared and reappeared all through written history. It is one of the most important lessons of present-day human experience. It holds for families, neighborhoods, villages, cities, nations, for mankind as a whole. It is joint action for the general welfare. The principle of collective action has been recognized and put into practice during the ten centuries that span the rise of western civilization--put into practice up to a certain point--the nation or the empire. Beyond that point, collective action has taken two forms: competition and conflict, including war, and coordination or cooperation under agreement, contract or treaty. Among the outstanding results of the great revolution, improvement in communication and transportation have brought humans into contact with one another on an increasingly extensive scale, reaching its high water mark in planet-wide networks of trade, travel, migration and diplomacy, leading up to the One World which was so much in the foreground of public discussions between the two general wars of 1914 and 1939. Much has been written on the subject. I contributed by two bits in _The Next Step_, a book published in 1922 and _United World_, published in 1945. Perhaps the most critical failure of western civilization was its inability or unwillingness to take that next step during the decisive years that followed the Hague Conference of 1899. In listing the Ten Building Blocks for a New World (Chapter 13 of this book) I began with world federation because in terms of the public life of the earth around 1900, the planet was divided into two alliances of nations and empires--the Allies, headed by Great Britain and the Central Powers, headed by Germany. Instead of cooperating to gain their declared objectives of peace, prosperity and progress these two power blocs engaged in an armament race from 1903 to 1914, leading up to general war in 1914, with a second general war between the rivals in 1939. When I was organizing Part II of this study (A Social Analysis of Civilization) I had to decide whether to begin with economics or politics. As an economist I was inclined to put economics first, but since the study centered on civilization, and since all known civilizations were not groupings of economic subdivisions but aggregates of nations, empires and their dependencies, and since the expansion of civilization has consisted in enlarging the geographical area of the civilization in question, I decided to begin with politics. As the study has progressed I have seen no reason for reversing the choice. On the contrary, since I began collecting data for this study at the time of the first general war, I have watched the unfolding political struggle for economic and cultural objectives with the increasing conviction that politics is the primary focus, with economic forces always in play, but usually in the background, leaving the center of the stage to politics. This is another way of saying that the present-day world is divided primarily into political nation states rather than into areas of economic function. Always, economics is important. But, at least superficially, political considerations are in the foreground to clinch decisions. A time may come when economists or sociologists occupy the central offices where primary decisions are made. That time has not yet arrived. In so far as the present generation is concerned, politics is in the foreground. The politicians make the crucial announcements and sign the key documents. Therefore our survey of the Steps Beyond Civilization begins with politics. Our attention centers on the political aspects of World Federation with economic considerations present and always operating, but not dominating the crucial decisions. For better or worse, in 1975 and the years immediately succeeding, we will be living on a planet divided into some 140 politically sovereign states. In view of the widespread pressure toward self-determination, the number of sovereign states has increased considerably, especially since war's end in 1945. Presumably the principal "united we stand" applies to those 140 sovereign states. Sovereignty includes the right of self determination--putting the interests of one particular state above the interests of the entire family of nations--the part before the whole. Here is a contradiction and a possible conflict of interest. Britain's Prime Minister Heath, like many another spokesman in his position, summed up the issue in the pithy phrase: "British interests come first." If the French, Italian, Japanese and other prime ministers take a similar stand, implied by the principle of sovereignty, situations are bound to arise in which the interests of two or more nations clash, opening the way for conflicts at many levels: differences of interpretation, negotiations in the course of which concessions may be made by both parties. The differences may be settled by diplomats sitting around conference tables or by armies on the battlefield. With 140 sovereign states on the planet, the probability of conflict would seem to be overwhelming. As a matter of daily experience such confrontations and conflicts do occur. Most of them are handled by negotiation. A few lead to armed struggle. Since 140 sovereign states exist on one earth, means must be found that will enable them to co-exist, if possible, without conflict, and certainly without military conflict. The means generally relied upon today for dealing with such problems is negotiation between representatives of all parties at interest. At the national level this would mean negotiations between representatives of the involved governments. Negotiations between representatives of various governments are always going on--dealing with political, economic and cultural issues. Within each nation such negotiations are conducted between spokesmen for various government departments. Internationally they are conducted by representatives of various governments working through their diplomatic or consular services. Within each nation and between nations confrontations may be settled by negotiation. At each level they may result in armed conflict. Governments exist to deal with conflicts and, where possible, to resolve them before they reach the shooting stage. This is notably true in domestic affairs because there are usually public officials charged with the duty of dealing with problems. Internationally, unless there is an international agency such as the Universal Postal Union of the Organization of American States, the issue must be settled by special representatives of the parties. The argument for a world government begins with the assumption that means should exist to deal with international issues before they reach an acute stage. Such means exist within each local government. Similar arrangements should exist at the international level to deal with issues that arise between governments. The political core of a social stage beyond civilization will be a planet-wide, international, regional and local network of institutions, integrated, coordinated and administered on the federal principle: local affairs controlled locally; regional affairs controlled regionally; international affairs controlled by a planet-wide political authority. Such a relationship would imply states rights for the local authority; regional rights for the regional authority, and full awareness in the central authority of the possibility, at this juncture, of establishing order, justice and mercy on the planetary level--in our present terminology, a "world government." Basic to this federal structure would be the Jeffersonian assumption: "That government governs best which governs least", with an amendment: "provided that the authority in question governs sufficiently to establish and maintain physical health, social decency, order, justice and mercy in reasonable proportions throughout the area subject to its jurisdiction". At each level, local, national, regional and planetary, there will be committees, councils or other authorities with full responsibility for the conduct of public administration at the local, the national, the regional and the planetary or international level. Currently the federal principle is widely established at local and national levels. Attempts are being made in various regions to effectuate stable authorities at the regional level, such as the United States of North America or the United States of Mexico. There has been much talk of planet-wide government established by one wealthy and militarily powerful nation over its peers, or by a voluntary association with its peers. Institutions established thus far: League of Nations, The United Nations, The World Court, the Universal Postal Union, have fallen far short of stable, planet-wide, all inclusive political authority. At the moment there are 122 states which are members of the United Nations. There are perhaps an additional score of nations which have applied for membership or which might be accepted if they made an application. Accept this rounded figure, and we have perhaps 140 nations or potential nations on the planet. Some are long established and stable. Other nations are new-born, with small populations, few resources and minimal means of defense or offense. By and large this is the family of nations which might be coordinated into an effective world authority which would be responsible for order, decency and peace in a federally coordinated world. World authority, to be effective and reasonably stable, must be equipped with sufficient delegated powers to maintain orderly and decent relations between its members, establish peace, and carry out policies necessary to provide and promote ecological and sociological welfare. To achieve such results it must have a built-in balance between central authority and local-regional self-determination. It must also enjoy sufficient elbow-room to provide for social change and for consistent social improvement. The goal of world government, as of any political enterprise that pretends to represent human needs, will be social stability, security, efficiency of service, and enlarged opportunities for citizens to speak and act for themselves, directly or through their representatives, at all levels. Politics is the theory and practice of the possible in any given situation. Executives and administrators in Los Angeles, London and Tokyo or in the United States, Britain and Japan will deal with public transportation, public education and public law and order in terms of general principles such as those stated in the opening sentences of this paragraph. They will also face specific situations arising out of climate, access to raw materials, custom, habit and other ecological and cultural factors which differ profoundly from continent to continent, nation to nation, city to city and district to district in the same nation. Human communities have sought and found different means of dealing with the problems of community administration. At one extreme of social administration are various types of arbitrary, personal dictatorships. The Greeks called them tyrannies--arbitrary rule by individuals or small groups subject only to their own decisions. At the other extreme are social groups that arrive at decisions as the outcome of discussion in which all group members may take part. Group decisions may require unanimity or they may be the outcome of voting, with a majority or plurality vote carrying with it the right and duty to put decisions into effect as part of the public life of the community. Various forms of government have been established locally and regionally. At the level of a civilization, the government has been established almost universally as the outcome of armed struggle and military conquest, and has been exercised through the use of armed force in the hands of armed minorities. A century without general war, 1815 to 1914, led to a widespread balance-of-power assumption that planet-wide peace and prosperity could be established and maintained by preserving a balance between the armed forces of individual nations or alliances. Hence there need be no more general wars fought for survival or supremacy. The bitter struggle for markets, raw materials and colonies that followed the French-German War of 1870 developed into an armament race after 1899. From the Hague Peace Conference of 1899 to the outbreak of general war in 1914, desperate efforts were made to maintain the power-balance and avert a general war. The failure of these efforts proved the ineffectiveness of the balance-of-power formula. Today it is generally taken for granted that a balance of power between armed nations is no guarantee of peace and order. It is also taken for granted that frivolous talk like that of an "American Century" after 1945 has no justification in the light of present-day history. As matters now stand neither a balance between rival armed powers, nor the domination of the planet by any one power can be relied upon to maintain world order and keep world peace. Forms of self-government and representative government developed during the bourgeois revolution and advocated and partially applied during the proletarian up-surge, are being continued or are reappearing during the current struggle for power and prestige at the planetary level. As the planet approaches one world technologically, there is an increasing possibility of a planetary political federation, directed by a world governmental apparatus. CHAPTER FIFTEEN INTEGRATING A WORLD ECONOMY Repeated efforts have been made to establish large-scale, widely ranging economies. This was the case during Egyptian and Phoenician civilizations. It was certainly true of the economy of the Roman Empire and of Roman civilization. Such efforts faced drastic limitations. The most formidable was the narrow margin of surplus produced by hand labor in the forests, on the fields and in the workshops, operated, in the main, with hand tools, with minor inputs of energy supplied by domestic animals and with the small amounts derived from wind and moving water. Two further limitations existed. First, as each civilization matured its leaders and policy makers ceased to labor on the land or in the workshops, preferring to keep their hands and clothes clean, to free themselves from irksome demanding toil and devote themselves to tasks more befitting "gentlefolk." This was notably true of landlords as a class. It was also true of the richer traders, merchants and moneylenders, particularly of the third and fourth generations. Expansion of empires and the civilizations which they developed entailed military operations. Military operations, in their turn, produced war-captives, who must earn their keep and, if possible, something more. Sold in the market to the highest bidder, war captives and their descendants became chattel slaves. As civilizations were expanded by conquest and matured by struggle, they developed some type of forced labor to balance the increased parasitism of the masters and the growing numbers who were called upon to produce "services" rather than material goods. Certain areas of civilized economies were taken over by the public authorities. Planning and building of cities and their ports, of highways, including bridges, of viaducts, aqueducts, of drainages for the cities, of public buildings. The construction of defenses, including city walls, were partly or wholly public enterprises. Temples and tombs for the mighty were often in the same category. Maintenance of large elaborate households by political leaders, and in later periods of empire building, by the successful merchants and technicians, led to the employment of many servants, including subordinate members and relatives of the elite. Much necessary labor was performed by members of each household. The resulting economy was therefore fragmented at the household level with virtually all of the energy supplied by human beings and domestic animals. As each civilization developed its pattern of forced labor, including the labor of war captives, it launched the deadly competition between freemen and slaves which almost inevitably ended in favor of the slaves, who were housed and fed by the masters and who could operate at overhead costs lower than those involved in the hiring of wage or salaried workers. Land ownership tended to center in the political-military leaders, the temples and, as each civilization matured, in the hands of its bourgeoisie. Integrating such economies proved to be a difficult, arduous task, well beyond the powers of the average political, military or hereditary leader. In a very real sense, the problems of management were extremely personal and correspondingly concentrated in the hands of skillful acquisitors. Nowhere was the impact of the 1750-1970 revolution more far reaching than in the area of management. Economic activities, in the course of the great revolution, had less and less connection with the homestead, and except for a tiny minority of the personnel, had no connection with the family of the owner-operator. The seat of the family--the home--continued to exist, but on a far more restricted basis. Arts and crafts moved from the household into the workshop, where they expanded both in extent and in complexity. Domestic tasks were associated with hand labor and simple tools. The great revolution filled the workshop with the ancestors of present day machinery, but with a prodigious difference. In the early step from home workshop to factory, hand tools in plenty were being used in the workshops. As "modernization" progressed, hand tools were replaced by specialized machines. The implements of specialization--the machine building tools and the machine tools themselves--were housed in forests of associated workshops. The mechanics of specialization sprawled over acres and square miles of factory floor space. Nowhere were the results of the great revolution more in evidence than in the vast difference between the workshop attached to the house of the early industrialist and the forest of chimneys and stacks, and the acres and square miles of floorspace in present-day industrial establishments, with their personnel numbered in thousands and the capital invested in plant and equipment running into the millions or billions of dollars. Two centuries of the great revolution have given present-day industrial society a capital plant the like of which has never existed on the planet in any historical period. After two hundred years of meteoric development, it exists today on a planet-wide scale and at a level of all-pervasive dominance undreamed of even up to the middle of the last century. Modern industry "plants"--steel plants, cement plants, open pit mines, textile plants, machine tool plants, auto plants, rubber factories, oil refineries--not only occupy extensive acreage per plant, but the same interests and corporate managements operate dozens of plants in widely separated geographical areas and produce a great variety of goods and services. An experienced observer feels entirely at home in any industrial center, on any continent. In Detroit, in Dusseldorf, in Osaka, in Shanghai, in Bombay, the architecture of the plants is essentially the same, the machines in the widely separated plants bear a striking resemblance to one another, and the problems of management are similar. Unit plants and their coordinated managements in the aggregate compose the present-day world economy. They are the essence of its being. They occupy the skyline and dominate the economic life of modern industrial society. They are the units which make up the sum-total of modern industry which, in its turn, is the bony structure around which have grown the sinews and muscle of present-day planetary economy. Modern state structure goes back through the half dozen centuries during which it has been developing. Its ancestors may be met with in the history of previous civilizations. Modern industrial structure on the other hand is something essentially new under the sun--newly imagined, designed, constructed, productive. It has no ancestry before 1750 because its essential building unit--the modern machine--did not exist previous to that date. In the last chapter we dealt with the growth of states into empires and the aggregation of empires into civilizations with the possibility that the existing states could be welded into a world federation. One of the chief obstacles to such a development is the centuries of conflict during which modern nations have been built up and the strong bonds of nationalism have been established as a means of holding divergent groups of people in line by particular oligarchies operating in particular civilizations. On the economic level such difficulties are minimal. The process of coordination and consolidation was far advanced before the end of the last century. The practice of integration--joining productive units in functional sequences--was also accepted and followed, with little regard for political or cultural considerations. The result has been an economic integration which has developed inside the chief industrial nations and across national boundaries. Despite political obstacles, economic integration has proceeded with giant strides, especially during the past hundred years. Under a well developed world political federation the world economy could be integrated and used to provide the necessaries, conveniences and minimal comforts for the entire human family. There are nationalistic obstacles to political federation. Economic integration is an obvious must and a logical outcome of the industrial integration that has gone on so swiftly during the great revolution of 1750-1970. When we talk about integrating the world economy we are dealing with a problem which no previous civilization has faced because no previous civilization had machines or the social and cultural institutions which have grouped themselves around the ultra-modern machine phenomena. World economy in 1975 includes three essential elements: the planet earth and its resources; the institutional structure of modern society; and human beings with their diverse concepts and skills which provide its motive force. These three factors, land, capital equipment, and human energy, are the three-fold apparatus upon which 3.7 billion human beings depend for the goods and services which sustain them from day to day and year to year. At an earlier period this economic apparatus centered around the land and its cultivation (agriculture). Since the onset of the great revolution the goods and services have come increasingly from a factory-office centered occupational apparatus. When we consider the integration of the world economy, it is this industrialized, modern economy that we have chiefly in mind. No previous civilization faced such a problem. There are no real precedents upon which we can rely. We must go forward, if we do go forward, experimenting with problems which face the human family for the first time. The integration of planetary economy in 1975 is a total, or unitary, problem. It is not a problem of one continent, of one nation or empire, of one racial or cultural group. It is a problem which the human family faces as a human family, occupying our planet Earth. It is our capital equipment. It is the success with which we apply our know-how to the earth, using our capital equipment and our skills, producing the goods and services upon which our physical existence depends. We rise or fall, sink or swim in terms of our own capacities, our own abilities to adapt ourselves to historical circumstances which will determine the conditions of life on the earth. Indeed, our decisions and consequent actions may determine our own extinction or survival. Planetary economy will aim to provide the means of livelihood for its constituents along six lines: to conserve the human heritage of natural resources, using them sparingly and, where possible, adding to them; to produce and distribute those goods and services which are needed to maintain health and provide for social decency; to produce and distribute goods and services honestly, efficiently and economically; to assure simple necessaries for all, including dependents, defectives and delinquents; to give high priority to local self-sufficiency; to maintain enough central economic authority to guarantee adequate goods and services to successive generations of the planetary population. An effective world government, therefore, must adopt and administer an economic program designed to: (a) Utilize and conserve natural resources, making them available, on a just basis, for the use of successive generations; (b) End involuntary poverty and insecurity and the exploitation of man by man and of one social group by another social group; (c) Make necessary public services generally available on equal terms, to all mankind; and (d) Guarantee equal opportunity to earth-dwellers based on the greatest good to the greatest number. Feeding, clothing, housing and educating an agricultural village was a prime consideration at an early stage in social history. Providing the necessaries and amenities of life in a commercial-industrial city occupied the attention of city fathers as a consequence of the shift from agriculture to trade and commerce as the principle source of livelihood. Caring for the physical, physiological and cultural needs of populations in the United States, Britain, Japan and other growing commercial-industrial nations presented difficult challenges. The organization, expansion, defense and improvement of the American, British, Japanese and any other contemporary empire, posed even larger and more complex problems which have nagged mankind during recent generations. Recently, the planet-wide revolution of 1750-1970 has brought the entire human family with 3,700 million members isolated in 140 different nations, face to face with political, economic and social problems on a planet-wide scale. These problems are planet-wide in their dimensions. Measures designed for their solution must be equally planet-wide. Villages, cities, regions and nations have learned, often the hard way, how to think, plan and act in terms of their own interests, or, more concretely, in the interest of their owners, masters and exploiters. It is with politics and economics of this planet-wide level that we of the present generation are particularly concerned. Dwellers in western Europe and North America have to deal with the politics and economics of monopoly capitalism. Its central offices are generally located in particular countries--Britain, Holland, France, Germany, where big business enterprises had their beginnings and from which representatives of oil, steel, textile, motor and banking enterprises spilled over into the territory of their competitors as well as into the "third world" of erstwhile colonies and other dependencies. Monopoly capitalism has made no real effort to organize a functioning world economy. On the contrary, it has established, maintained and consolidated centers of economic interests and activities at the national level. In theory and in practice the bourgeois-dominated planet is divided into economic and political states and spheres of influence, each equipped with the separatist institutions of political sovereignty. Politically the task of setting up a competent world government has not been seriously taken in hand. The same may be said for the organization of a planned, organized, supervised planetary economy. So far as we know, such world economic institutions and practices cannot exist in the chaos of one hundred forty sovereign states, each exercising authority over its economy, each with its own program for growth and expansion, and putting its claims for wealth and power above peace, order, justice, and mercy for the entire human family. General economic practice throughout the 1450-1970 experiments with nation building, empire building, competitive struggle and sporadic efforts at world conquest, occupation and exploitation have crossed national boundary lines as a matter of necessity. It could not be otherwise, because no nation has been able to reach the cultural level of civilization on a basis of economic self-containment. Primitive agriculture can maintain a high degree of self sufficiency. City populations abandon self-sufficiency and adopt the principles of expansion, occupation and utilization of foreign territory and exploitation of resources and manpower, at home and abroad. As western civilization has matured, power struggles at the top, conquest, occupation and exploitation have come more and more to the fore until, in the era of monopoly capitalism, they dominate the field. In this period of human history nothing less than the just sharing of available goods and services will implement the principle of "to each according to his need". Monopoly capitalism, throughout its entire history, has tended to function internationally, moving across frontiers in search of raw materials, markets, and fields of profitable investment. Inter-group trade has been carried on between and through "foreign" markets, cities and states. Not only has the flag followed the investor, but the investor has used governmental agencies, including the military, to protect economic interests, promote them and expand them. Early in their history, western nations subsidized private organizations like the Dutch East India Company and the British Hudson Bay Company and authorized them to exercise quasi-public authority. International banking and insurance paralleled international trade. Western civilization, from its earliest beginnings in foreign business relations and ideological adventures like the Crusades, has spilled across national frontiers in its search for adventure, for experience, for information, for pelf and power. A part of the expansionist drive was "strictly business" in character. Another part--international conferences, public and private; tourism; the export of artifacts and of information, were promoted by mixed motives, from missionary zeal for the propagation of The Faith to international business for profit, public and private. One of the most spectacular aspects of European expansion during modern times has been the growth of production and trade; the rapid increase in "foreign" investment; and governmental efforts to tie together geographically and ethnically remote places and peoples into neat bundles tagged Spanish Empire, British Empire, French Empire, Russian Empire. Nineteenth and early twentieth century history centered around such international experiments and included inter-state build-ups like the European Common Market and the Organization of American States. War losses and emergency spending incident to warfare led to large scale financial assistance from one government to another. Such transactions are not confined to recent times, but during the war years from 1914 to 1945 they reached fantastic proportions. The United States foreign aid program alone, following the war of 1939-45, involved grants and loans of $125,060 million dollars from July 1, 1945 to December 31, 1970 (_Statistical Abstract_ 1971 p. 958). Similar grants and loans were made by other countries to their allies and associates. These examples illustrate the build-up of an extensive international relationship that has been an integral aspect of the 1750-1970 world revolution. Throughout this experience two parallel forces have been at work. One was the effort to establish a stable, renewable and self-renewing social environment. The other was the effort to adapt and remake man (human nature) to fit into the rapidly changing social environment and to expand and deepen relations with nature. Sociology, the science and art of staying together in more or less permanent social groups, thus becomes the theory and practice of association. Politics and economics are specialized aspects of association. Political relations, economic relations and other aspects of association make up the overall field of the human community or human society. Groups of human beings are brought together and held together by various means, among which communication is outstanding. At every level, from the local to the general or universal, and in every aspect of politics, economics and other forms of association, human beings communicate. One function of planetary association involves the establishment and maintenance of a network of planetary communication. Locally, nationally, regionally, and internationally the channels or means of communication have been extensively developed. Devices designed to reproduce and elaborate oral and written communication blanket the planet so extensively that the individual and family privacy enjoyed by human beings before the middle of the last century has literally ceased to exist. In its place is a communications network that operates twenty-four hours in the day and seven days in the week. By a move of the hand and a flick of a switch everybody can be in touch with anybody and anybody with everybody almost everywhere. Channels of communication, trade and travel keep members of the human race constantly in touch with one another. Except for the solitary, living alone in the wilderness (urban or rural) there is no hiding place. Mechanisms supplementing man's five senses, see, feel, hear and report everything. Facility in communication provides a wealth of information. Using available means of human communication, a central planetary authority can inform, alert and arouse the entire human family with its 3,700 million members. Socially minded, it could announce and initiate the measures necessary to maintain peace and order through conformity to a common program of social action. Coordinating, integrating and administering the channels of communication at the planetary level will be a primary responsibility of any planet-wide economic program. Planetary government will be responsible for establishing, maintaining and improving a network of communication and education designed to ensure both uniformity and diversity in the human population. The revolution in science and technology has been particularly noteworthy in the field of communication, extending from the family to the entire human race; from the home telephone, the morning newspaper, the phonograph, radio and television to regular mail delivery, the printing press, the camera, lithography, the typewriter, tele-communication, the computer, public address systems and the various devices for overhearing and recording that produce more or less permanent records of casual vocal expressions. Planet-wide communication in the 1970's provides an example of the transformation from economic localism to economic worldism during recent times. By its very nature, communication tends to involve all four corners of the planet. In that sense, communication tends to become unique. It is not a real exception, however. Through communication channels, knowledge concerning every aspect of man's economy, from agriculture to commerce and finance, crosses frontiers almost automatically, strengthening, deepening and integrating planet-wide economy. A planet-wide economy will not be designed, planned and coordinated as a result of either military conquest or political expansion and predation. Rather, it will be a public enterprise of the entire human family, operated by a world government in the public interest for the social service and well-being of mankind. The worldwide revolution of 1750-1970 provides the economic basis for a planet-wide society--for One World. The real danger--that any local or regional war may grow into another general war in which nuclear weapons are used--provides reason aplenty to put the whole before the part and, in the pursuit of general human welfare, to federate the political life of the human family, following the many steps toward worldism already taken by various aspects of its economy. CHAPTER SIXTEEN CONSERVING OUR NATURAL ENVIRONMENT Beyond civilization we will conserve, share, beautify and, if possible, improve the earth, which is our physical base of operations. The earth is an irregular sphere, one of a number of planets circling the sun, from which we get light, heat and radiation. The earth has a shell or crust made of various minerals. Two-thirds of its surface is water of various depths up to six miles. Above the surface is an atmosphere, some twenty miles thick, composed of various gases, dust particles and water vapor. Operating throughout the earth there are vibrations of different wave lengths. As a whole the earth is a going concern that carries out its daily, seasonal, yearly business of providing a home for an immense variety of forces; for living forms, in the earth, on the earth, in the water and in the air. The earth and its attributes are the common host or mother of us all. Some of earth's inhabitants are "alive". Many of the living forms move about--and reproduce themselves, passing through a life cycle from birth to death. Some among the living forms cluster together into more or less permanent groups which develop social relationships including communities in which individuals are born, live and die. Speaking in metaphors, the sun is the common father of us all, providing us with light and heat, the earth is the common mother of us all, providing us with sustenance. We living beings, progeny of sun and earth, pass through a span or cycle of earthly existence--helping one another, ignoring one another, jostling one another, annoying and even killing and devouring one another. This is a roundabout way of saying that nature, human beings and human society are part and parcel of a total relationship which includes the planet earth, the solar system and an immense range of celestia which includes minute particles of celestial dust, like our earth, and majestic assemblies of celestial notables like the Island Universe of which we are unnumbered and barely noticed particles. At some point in this vast assemblage, actually before the assemblage came into existence, there were responsible, animating forces in play. There was also the responsibility for the use or exercise of the operating forces. We humans are a product of those forces. We also share in their functioning. Consequently we share in the responsibility which is associated with their exercise. It is the task of philosophy to designate the responsibility; to describe it, measure it and perhaps to assign it. At any rate, we find ourselves in a position where certain things are expected of us, perhaps even required of us as members of the human family and/or of the human family as a functioning whole. It is entirely possible that, instead of overlooking, ignoring, bickering, quarreling and periodically maiming and killing each other wholesale, we humans should be devoting our energies, emotions, thoughts and plans to furthering the larger purpose of which the earth and its inhabitants are small segments. In a word, that we humans should be acting as a responsible part of a functioning whole engaged in the vast enterprise of being and becoming. Whatever our ultimate tasks may be, our immediate problem is three-fold: (1) To make the earth the fittest possible living place for all of its inhabitants; (2) to organize human society in the way best calculated to achieve that objective; and (3) to make every reasonable effort to prepare ourselves to play a meaningful part in this cosmic drama to which we have been assigned. Item (1) is the theme of this chapter, item (2) is the theme of Chapter 17. Item (3) is the theme of Chapter 18. Passing beyond civilization we will attempt to conserve, share, beautify and if possible to improve our earth. Our first task is to make the earth the fittest possible place for _ALL_ of its inhabitants. In a way that is a simple assignment, but its implementation will take us into every nook and corner of the land, water, air, radiational field, and every other aspect of the planet, including the weather. When we say _ALL_ forms and phases of life we mean all. All microscopic life, all lichens and mosses, all vegetation on land, in the water, in the air. All insects, all birds, all fish, all quadrupeds. All two legged animals. All centipedes and all those in between. All forms of life have been assigned to our earth for a purpose, or have made a place for themselves in the vast scheme of things or are clinging parasitically to life after their assignments have been fulfilled or as their usefulness is drawing to a close. In a broad sense, that which lives on the earth, including mankind, has a right or an opportunity to be here, living to the utmost of its always limited capacity. How limited? Limited by the similar rights of all other forms and aspects of life. In a word life on the earth--each life and all life--is a shared opportunity. Doubtless there are planners, regulators and arbitrators whose task it is to decide, at any particular moment, who shall survive and who shall perish. Actually we humans perform a part of that function every time we thin out a forest, weed a garden, select our seed or teach a class. At one stage of life we are the judges, at another stage we are the judged, performing multiple tasks that must be fulfilled during each moment of each day and each year. In our Island Universe this earth is small. But in each backyard, on each acre or square mile of earth, decisions may be made or are being made that determine survival, utility, order, beauty. The results of those decisions appear constantly in the life all about us. We have all been in homes where neatness, usefulness and good taste abound. We have been in villages and towns where the same conditions prevailed. On the other hand, we have been in situations that can be described only by the words littered, disorderly, chaotic. We have also seen neat orderly homes in disorderly, slovenly neighborhoods. Much depends upon who makes the decisions and whether the plans that are carried into effect promote or obstruct the ultimate purpose. At the moment, we have the satisfaction of orderly, beautiful neighborhoods at the same time that we are surrounded by a disorderly, littered, chaotic international battleground. The earth with its oceans and its atmosphere is a storehouse containing many if not most of the essentials for survival, growth and development, for mankind as well as a multitude of other life forms. Perhaps its most valuable single asset from the human viewpoint is its topsoil. Topsoil plus light, air and moisture provide the elements necessary for producing vegetation. Vegetation, in its turn, furnishes the nourishment on which animals thrive. At the top of our priority list for the well-being of the earth stands the injunction: conserve and build topsoil. Topsoil is lost through erosion--wind erosion, water erosion, erosion through over cropping. It is held in place by stones, grasses, and the roots of shrubs and trees. Untouched by human hands, on the prairies and in the forests, topsoil is deepened year by year as winter frosts break up soft rocks, as dead grasses, leaves, twigs break down into humus, to become part of the topsoil and provide the nourishment for a new round of vegetation. Topsoil is renewable, replaceable. Lost through cropping and erosion, it may be rebuilt and deepened by natural processes. In temperate climates with normal rain and snowfall, the topsoil of grasslands or a forest may be deepened year by year and century by century. Topsoil may also be deepened by dust storms that pick up particles of humus from dry lands and carry them to moister areas. Through a carefully controlled sequence, semi-desert lands planted first to grasses and then to shrubs and trees can be protected against wind erosion. As vegetation flourishes it increases dew formation and rainfall. Plant roots prevent runoff and retain the water in gulleys and low places. Evaporation builds up moisture content in the atmosphere. Water vapor forms drops and falls in rain or snow. Foresighted husbandry not only prevents erosion but, practiced on a sufficiently broad scale, increases air moisture and modifies climate--the weather. We are less fortunate with some of the critically important minerals that make up the earth crust. During early centuries in the history of western civilization adventurers and prospectors concentrated on the precious metals. The voyagers and discoverers who sailed fifteenth century seas were seeking supplies of gold, silver and precious stones that could be cut and converted into the highly prized jewels adorning the crowns and scepters of the mighty. Production at that stage meant agriculture, with side occupations such as hunting, fishing, weaving, tanning, pottery, thatching and peat cutting, in the all but continuous countryside. There was a very little mining, but outside of the commercial towns and the growing capital cities people made their living by taking care of domestic animals and tilling the soil. Between seed time and harvest they tightened their belts and prayed the Powers that Be for a bountiful yield. If it came they feasted. If the crop failed they struggled to survive on the narrow margin between hunger and starvation. If they saw any money it was likely to be copper, with perhaps an occasional piece of silver. Gold was for the rich, of whom at that period there were precious few, even among the owners of land and the wielders of power. Country folk barely scratched the surface of the earth. Roads were wheel tracks in the mud. Bridges were fords that became more or less impassable with high water. These assertions sound strange and romantic to the modern beneficiaries of asphalt and reinforced concrete. They were the lot of most Europeans and North Americans when our great grandfathers and great grandmothers were in their prime. What has made the difference between their use of the earth and ours? Chiefly, the newly tapped sources of energy and the wide variety of minerals--whose names were unknown except to scholars and scientists before 1750. It is the new sources of energy and the only recently utilized metals that have made the difference. Farm land can be used and abused many times before its productive possibilities are exhausted. Even then, with foresight, technical proficiency, the investment of labor and capital, agricultural land can be restored to fertility. Iron ore, tin, copper and tungsten are extracted from the earth, refined, put to some use or wasted as the case may be, but they are gone. They may be replaced by other minerals. Through geological ages they may redeposited in the earth's crust. But to all intents and purposes, they are finished. It is a source of pride to promoters and propagandists for the status quo that western man has removed more metals and minerals from the earth's crust in the past two hundred years than his predecessors removed during the previous two thousand years. It is also a source of danger, because the possibilities of taking those particular minerals from that particular cubic foot of the earth are ended. Replaceable natural resources such as soil fertility, grasses and trees can be restored and reproduced. Irreplaceable natural resources are exhausted by one use. In so far as they are concerned, that part of the earth's crust has been impoverished--made poorer. Wasted through neglect and careless use, squandered in the senseless destruction of war, the earth is still a rich treasure house for its multitudinous forms of life. Its remaining treasures can be carefully conserved. Such replaceable resources as topsoil, vegetation and water can be husbanded. Oceans, mountains and, deserts can be dealt with as we proceed with our programs for the most economical use of the natural resources that remain to us. Western man is presently emerging from a boisterous era of invention, discovery, of multiplying productivity and corresponding waste of irreplaceable natural resources-temporarily justified by "national security" and "war emergency." The temporary loss of replaceable reserves and the permanent loss of irreplaceable resources is none the less tragic, no matter how urgent the immediate cause for their consumption. At this stage in the history of earth's conservation, when so much is waiting to be done, if each family, each village and town, each city state and nation will do its bit to conserve, plan, shape, utilize, beautify, improve what remains of the natural environment, the results will be impressive enough to justify the time and means devoted to the enterprise. Wherever we go with our plea for the foresighted and economical use of the earth and its remaining resources, we are met with the question: "But what can I do?" The answer is simple. Find your place in the nearest team working to utilize, conserve, and, where possible, enlarge the natural wealth of the planet. If no such team exists, join with your neighbors in organizing one. Take seriously your assignment to use the part of the earth with which you are in contact intelligently, economically, wisely. Whether you are a novice or a professional, a homesteader or a longtime resident, be sure that each contact you make with the earth enlarges its possibilities of utility, order, beauty. This crusade to save and utilize the earth as the common mother of so many forms of life must be carefully planned and well organized through successive generations. Men have spent far too much time and energy in destroying. The time has come when they must conserve, plan, shape, utilize, beautify, improve. If the energies now going into business, sport, social events, frivolities, make-believe and the deliberate destruction of waste and war could be directed to planning, utilizing, beautifying on the circumferences and at the centers of population concentrations, immense forward strides could be taken in a single generation. The planet still has immense, unused or little used reserves of natural resources. The old order is slipping, floundering, wasting. Civilization has told the best of its story and is busy writing its epitaph. The revolution of 1750-1970 provides the opportunity for a new beginning. The place is here. The time is now. Let us conserve, beautify, share, utilize and, in so far as possible, improve our natural surroundings. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN REVAMPING THE SOCIAL LIFE OF THE PLANET Beyond civilization we could develop a sociology-a cluster of associations, institutions, outlooks, purposes and practices designed to revamp the social life of the planet in much the same way and with the same general outlook with which we approach the political, economic, sociological and ideological problems arising from the presence, on the planet Earth, of some 3,700 million different human beings. There are at least two approaches to the sociological aspects of our planet-wide, coordinated society. One way is that with which nature's cyclism has made us familiar--the "day" of manifestation (activity) and the "night" of rest (recuperation, restoration and renewal). This might be described as a natural, gradual evolutionary way. The other way is based on creative intervention which shortcuts evolutionary gradualism in the same way that a great leap shortcuts many ordinary steps. Perhaps the conception can be illustrated in a most effective way by the alternative presented during the great revolution of 1750-1970. At the beginning of this epoch man walked the earth literally, except when he sailed on the water or used the horse or some other swift animal to travel by land. In the course of the great revolution mankind has learned to move his body at speeds which sometimes exceed the movement of sound, on the land, on the water, through the air and into space. He has done this short-cutting by revolutionary changes in types of energy coming from outside his physical body. In another sphere--communication devices--man has stepped up the movement of his emotions and thoughts and his creative imagination beyond the speed of light. This analogy is not complete, nor is it wholly convincing. But the great revolution in science and technology, applied in the field of social science can quite conceivably provide humanity with the means of short-cutting the normal or "natural" processes in sociology as it has already short-cutted the normal or "natural" process in human transportation and communication. As long as human beings accept the normal, traditional, "natural" principles of association and group action, humanity will continue on the tread-mill of civilization with its long established cycles of beginning, expansion, exploitation, maturity, conflict, decline and extermination. This aspect of planetary sociology may be illustrated by the rise and decline of total membership in the human family. We know that Roman civilization passed through a completed cycle of population expansion to an optimum, followed by a catastrophic population decline. Western civilization has been experiencing a population expansion or explosion that can be measured with a moderate degree of statistical accuracy. Planetary human population doubled from 500 million in 1650 to 1000 million in 1850. Between 1850 and 1950 population more than doubled (from 1000 million to 2,500 million). In 1975 the human population of the earth is close to 3,700 million. An essential aspect of world government will be a population program designed to adjust social structure and planning to the means of production and to make generally available to all humans and, where possible, all living things, the results of invention, discovery and experience with affluence, general security and wide variations of vocational and avocational choice. In practice such a program would include the planned utilization and conservation of nature and the conscious improvement of society by society. Social planning at the planetary level could deal chiefly with large national or regional groupings, more or less divergent in viewpoint but conscious of the necessity for bringing local and regional groups together in order to secure common agreement and to take part in directed joint actions. Such efforts must aim at sufficient cohesion to provide for normal social function at all levels; sufficient permissiveness to allow for a measure of self-determination at all levels; sufficient authority to carry on production and distribution at all levels, and sufficient libertarianism to tolerate discussion and opposition at all levels, with a maximum degree of self sufficiency and self-determination at all levels. Nowhere is the need for social planning more in evidence than in the sphere of human population. In the early years of the present twentieth century, the human population was doubling in about 50 years (from 1500 million in 1900 to 2500 million in 1950, from 1,900 million in 1925 to 3,800 million in 1975). Had this rate of growth continued for another hundred years the planet's fertile acres would have been fully occupied by jostling crowds with _standing-room only_ signs in the more desirable living spaces. Japan, the United States, several countries of West Europe and China have launched campaigns to reduce net population increase to one percent per year or less. A culture level, to be effective in the present predicament of a human race (oscillating uneasily between the possibility of social advance and the probability of recession into another Dark Age of ignorance, superstition and social stagnation), must include certain essential elements. First and foremost, it must be planet-wide. Given planetary unification by communication, transportation, travel, migration, trade and commerce, and cultural interchange, one world has become a factual reality. World oneness is laced by contradictions, confrontations, conflicts; by traditional, customary, habitual, ideological, legal, and national barriers of greater or lesser rigidity. Despite these divisive forces, our need to function in terms of planetary oneness is so great that the term "citizens of the world" not only makes sense, but is accepted and even flaunted in the face of tough restrictions and hard nosed nationalism. Segments of humanity that are ready and willing to sign up as world citizens already enjoy world consciousness, carrying world passports; and are experimenting with various aspects of worldist thinking, contact, organization. They are ready and willing to take part in a multitude of planetary experiments in world-wide human association. The great revolution of 1750-1970 has made two notable contributions to the institutions of western civilization. In the field of politics it has contributed the nation state. In the field of economics it has contributed industrialization with its twin sociological consequence, mechanization and urbanization. Machines and cities are the Siamese twins of the modern age. They are also the twin forces that helped to push the nation state into its strategic position of sovereign independence. Nationalism today is a unifying force inside the frontiers of the 140 nations that presently litter and clutter the earth. Beyond each frontier, however, nationalism has become one of the most divisive sources of misunderstanding, controversy, disruption and conflict presently cursing mankind. In the exercise of their sovereignty the oligarchs who make policy and direct procedure in each sovereign state put national interests first. On a planet which currently hosts 140 sovereign states this policy of putting the interests of the part before the interests of the whole results in controversy, conflict, and may result in collective self-destruction. It is reassuring and encouraging to compare the rise of nationalism and Europeanism during the past thousand years with the rise of planetism and worldism from 1450 to 1970. The development of nationalism and Europeanism is still incomplete, but the drive in that direction has thus far survived the fragmenting forces of self-determination and political independence which have played so vital a role in human society since the beginning of the present century. Europeanization is still a dream rather than a reality. The forces of regionalism, nationalism, and separatism still dominate European life. But the ideology and techniques of Europeanization are widely recognized, accepted and put into practice. The development of worldism seems to be following a parallel course. Consequently, wisdom, foresight, and the acceptance of change as a major factor in all social relationships seem to justify our assumption that sooner or later man's survival on the planet will depend on a degree of worldist thinking, association and institutionalism that will guarantee the preservation of order and decency at the planetary level. Since conformity implies and involves a will to diversity, measures to establish and maintain order and peace would include the widest possible latitude and the utmost effort to encourage the greatest possible diversity at regional, national and local levels. Thus diversity would become a virtue in much the same sense that conformity became a virtue in bourgeois Europe toward the end of the last century and in North America during the Joseph MacCarthy period. Through the past dozen years American youth has reversed the trend, adopting a permissiveness under which the sky is the limit in language, clothing, sexual conduct and professional choice and behavior. Non-conformity is all very well as protest against super-conformity, but it fails utterly to meet the basic need of the 1970's for a mass movement away from the institutions and practices of civilization, plus a disciplined and purposive mass determination to assume attitudes, adopt practices and establish institutions leading beyond civilization to a world culture pattern which insists upon conformity up to a point necessary for survival and social advance, and beyond that point, a diversity--including recognized and organized opposition at the planetary center. At the same time there must be a degree of regional and local diversity that will provide for the utmost independence, self-confidence, self-expression and regional and local self-determination compatible with the basic principle: to each in accordance with need. Beyond civilization, matters of general concern will take precedence at the same time that matters of regional and local concerns will be dealt with regionally and locally. In such a society individuals and communities at all levels will be schooled and experienced in self-discipline and prepared to follow conduct patterns that emphasize the principle: live and help others to live to the fullest and the utmost. Beyond civilization lies the recognition and practice of the principle that the welfare of the whole takes precedence over the demands of any of its parts. At the same time, each part or segment of the social whole has specific rights that the directors of the whole are bound to recognize, respect, defend and implement. Such results can be achieved under a social pattern aimed at respect for life--all life; the preservation and improvement of the conditions under which the good life can be lived by all members of each community as well as by the human family as a whole. If human society is to be preserved and progressively improved it must encourage individuals and cherish institutions whose responsibility and duty it is to stimulate self-criticism to a point that will make survival and social improvement the first charge on community life--from the locality, through the region to the whole human family. Should self-discipline and self-criticism falter, militant minorities must urge and initiate those revolutionary changes which are necessary for the health and well-being of any ailing human community. This is one of the contradictions that faces every human enterprise, including the human race itself. Cyclic renewal or regeneration is one aspect of life on our Island Universe. The principle operates in the life cell, and from the cell on up and out, to the more extended and extensive aspects of life and being. The course is well marked and increasingly understood. Alternatively, humanity can put its creative imagination to work; plan, organize, prepare and by a carefully designed, revolutionary technique take a great leap onto another culture level, establishing other norms beyond those currently accepted by civilized peoples. "Beyond civilization" lifestyles are being planfully introduced in order to save humankind from impending disaster. In that sense, they are emergency measures. Developmentally, they are being designed as a planned replacement of the life style current in the matured centers of western civilization. Under such conditions the habit patterns of civilizations could be deliberately abandoned or superceded by life styles more appropriate to the institutions and practices of human beings prepared to live and able to live and develop in a community which is establishing itself on a level beyond civilization. Let no reader retort: Old things are best; old ways are most secure; beware of the errors of human judgment, the lures and wiles of human imaginings, the reckless enthusiasm of inexperience; the machinations and subversions of the counter-revolution. Whether he will or no, man has already advanced far along the path that leads beyond the culture level of civilization into a culture pattern which includes new means of association and new social institutions. The most obvious examples of the universal pattern which the human race has been developing during the present epoch are to be found in the "one world" consequences of the planet-wide revolution in science and technology. Planetary fragmentation which accompanied the dissolution of Roman civilization divided and sub-divided mankind into unnumbered self-contained segments: families, tribes, classes, villages, cities, kingdoms, principalities, nations, empires. They were separated from one another by geographic, ethnic, ideological and political barriers which were intensified by tradition, custom, migration, and the competitive struggles among the elite for pelf and power. Ignorance and superstition played a major role in the decentralizing process. Conflicts at various levels led to further social segmentation and isolation of autonomous social groups. In the backwardness of those Dark Ages--curiosity, fellow feeling, mass migration, the spirit of adventure, trade, travel and the need for common action to master nature and repel enemies--broke down barriers and created fields of mutual interest and general well-being, reversing the trend toward fragmentation and replacing it by a trend toward universality which reached its high point during the closing years of the nineteenth century. The slogan of this movement was "United we stand, divided we fall. The bell which tolls for one, tolls for all. When one benefits all benefit. Peace, progress and prosperity promote general welfare." Two general wars in 1914-18 and 1939-45, brought pre-meditated, deliberated suffering, hardships and death to multitudes. Each war led to a clamor for peace and order that resulted in a World Court, The League of Nations and the United Nations. The efforts at planet-wide united action for peace and disarmament were paralleled and supplemented by the growth of specialized public services for communication, travel, scientific interchange, arms limitation. They were further augmented by a spectacular expansion of trade, travel, capital investment and scientific research and interchange. Events since war's end in 1945 have marked out the steps which the human race might take in the immediate future to deal with the new problems arising out of the world revolution of 1750-1970 and to stabilize human life on the planet. Step 1. Revise the United Nations Charter to make all citizens of member nations also citizens of the United Nations and therefore under its direct jurisdiction. Step 2. Delegate to the United Nations authority to levy taxes or otherwise provide its own income. Step 3. Call a planet-wide convention of delegates from all nations, authorized to draft a world federal constitution and submit it for ratification by all member states. Step 4. When approved by two thirds of the states represented at the constitutional convention the constitution so adopted would became the basis for world law and the administration of world affairs. Step 5. Inaugurate a world government that would be responsible for maintaining and promoting peace, order, stability, justice, equality of opportunity and general welfare at the international level. Heretofore, the nearest approach to a universal state has been an empire like that of Egypt or Rome built by conquest and maintained by military authority exercised by the imperial nucleus over its associated and subordinated territories. The universal state described above would be an association of sovereign states, each delegating a sufficient measure of its sovereignty to enable the World Federation to act as a responsible planet-wide government. The probable consequences of these five forward steps have been summarized by Barbara Ward and Rene Dubos (_Only One World_ N.Y. Nostrom 1972 pages 28-29). "In every case the needed steps take us away from division, from single shot interventions, separatist tendencies and driving ambitions and greeds. We have to grasp and foster more fully the truly integrative aspects of science. We have to revise our economic management of incomes, of environments, of cities. We have to place what is useable in nationalism within the framework of a political world order that is morally and socially responsible as well as physically one." Up to this point in social history, critical situations have usually been dealt with on the battlefield. Might measured right. The victors carried the day, won the right to exploit their defeated rivals and weaker neighbors. The result was planet-wide political chaos, and an economic free-for-all, in which political power and economic superiority bestowed upon their possessors the right to plunder and exploit geographic areas limited only by existing means of communication and transportation. At no known point in social history were conquerors and exploiters able to unify the earth politically and exploit its total economic resources. A planned, stabilized future for humanity will be assured when the earth is governed much as cities, states, nations and empires have been governed in the past and the present, but with one essential difference. At no known past time have all human beings been represented in a government authorized to make and enforce world law. In the absence of law, chaos and armed conflicts have determined the course of human affairs. Under a recognized world federal government, world law will bring, for the first time, the practical possibility of a law and order determined by and for the human population and charged with the responsibility for establishing and maintaining planetary public policy. World law will be only one aspect of the new situation that will result from the establishment of a planned, stabilized future for humanity. Other aspects of the new society will include: 1. Shaping the future of nature on and in the planet, with all of its potential riches. 2. Perhaps also taking a hand in determining the future of other celestial bodies making up our solar system. 3. Shaping human society, the man-made and man-remade human heritage that plays so vital a role in determining the course of human life--individual and social. 4. Shaping and guiding man--the gregarious, imaginative, venturesome, productive--destructive, creative animal. 5. Building up in human society respect (reverence) for being, respect for life with its multitudinous variations of opportunity for individual and social activity. 6. Arousing interest and dedicating time, thought and energy to the new science and new arts grouped together under the title Futurology. 7. Having a hand in perpetuating and shaping one segment of our expanding universe in accord with the Cult of Excellence: good, better, and best ever! This is an exciting, constructive, long-range project worthy of the attention and devotion of any being, even the most ambitious and omniscient. 8. Aiming at the Truth--the workability, improvement and the perfectability of our planet Earth as a recognized, accepted and essential part of our planetary chain and of our Island Universe. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN MAN COULD CHANGE HUMAN NATURE Man could conserve natural resources; he could remake human society. But man himself? There, perhaps, is the root of the problem we are discussing. Can man change himself? Can he change human nature? Could human beings as we know them be transformed sufficiently to live and survive under the life-style that replaces civilization? In our universe as we know it today, from the least to the greatest, from the most minute to the most extensive, change is one of the basic principles of existence. Nature changes. Human society changes. Changes in nature and in society are paralleled by changes in man himself--changes in outlooks and purposes, changes in ways of feeling, thinking and acting. Human beings have lived under the aegis of tradition, custom, habit--thinking and acting "normally" and "naturally" in ways accepted by their forebears and followed by them with little or no regard for reason, foresight, or creative imagination. Rudiments of all three capacities were known to exist in human beings. On the whole, the status quo has been preferred; innovation frowned upon and innovators discouraged, denounced, reviled and sometimes even put to death. In the field of natural science revolutionary short-cutting through the use of man's creative imagination has been widely used. The great revolution is one aspect of the anticipated result. Similar revolutionary short-cutting in the field of social science and social technology is bound to produce a "new man" in the same way that similar practices have remodeled, regenerated and renewed man's relations with nature, and his theories and practices of association. Despite efforts of the Establishment to impose conformity, non-conforming individuals continued to be born and to grow up as deviants, misfits and intentional non-conformists. Some of these rebels against the established social order left home, joined the army or went to sea. Others stayed at home, bided their time and, when opportunity offered, joined with like-minded fellows in organized underground opposition or open rebellion against the status quo. History reports the existence of such dissident individuals and social groups and movements in one civilization after another. In a very real sense any invention, discovery or innovation in any field of human thought or action, if widely accepted or adopted automatically, becomes a revolt against the status quo. Our experience with innovation during two centuries of the great revolution gives us every reason to suppose that the flow of scientific and technical invention and discovery will continue for an indefinite period into our future. On the whole the evidence suggests increase rather than decrease of innovation and therefore of change. A time of troubles such as that through which western civilization is now passing offers individuals and social groups unique opportunities to play significant roles in shaping the course of events. In every human population there are individuals who are dissatisfied with the status quo and prefer change to status. For such individuals a time of social troubles is a holiday. There is also an ever-renewing social group for whom a time of troubles presents a challenge and an opportunity--the young people of the on-coming generation. Adults are generally conditioned and shaped by the social situation into which they were born and in which they matured. Young people are passing through the conditioning process. They are undergoing the process of rapid change. Young people in their teens and early twenties stand, usually hesitant, on the threshold of life. They are bursting with energy, eager, hopeful, anxious to enter the stream of adult activity. Inexperienced, they under-estimate the difficulties, taking up any line of activity that promises quick results. They are impressionable and generally seeking "a good life." Such resources of energy and idealism exist in every generation and reappear as the generations follow one another. Youth groups have played active roles in one country after another where opportunities were restricted by the establishment and revolutionary propagandists painted a rosy future. Political nationalism in the eighteenth century and economic and social emancipation in the nineteenth century mobilized high school and college age youth in the Americas, Europe, Asia and Africa. It is folly to assert that human nature is a given and unalterable quantity in every social situation and that since "you cannot change human nature" intentional social changes are out of the question. The facts are otherwise: 1. There is a wide diversity in human beings ranging from herculean physical strength to pitiable weakness; from the mental power of genius to the nonentity of imbecility; from outstanding and unquestionable talent in arts and letters to illiteracy and clumsy inefficiency. This wide diversity in human capacity is one of the outstanding features of human nature, recorded again and again in history and encountered in all human aggregates. 2. There is a period in human life when the habit patterns of childhood are exchanged for the habit patterns of adulthood. At this turning point, youth is likely to follow dynamic and purposeful leadership. 3. There is a wide diversity in social situations, from rock-ribbed stability, to entire communities teetering on the brink or plunging over the brink into the maelstrom of revolution. Such diverse situations have existed again and again during the 1750-1970 revolutionary epoch. 4. When a revolutionary situation develops, a revolutionary leader well-established in a community trembling on the brink of a revolutionary overturn may seize the reins of power and establish a regime founded on opposition principles, dedicated to another set of principles and practices. When such a revolutionary coup is successful the bells of history have tolled for the older order and the trumpets of victory have sounded for the new society. 5. The intensity and the direction of the social changes which radiate out from the climax of a revolutionary situation and the consequent, subsequent attempts at counter-revolution, are the outcome of active, purposive intervention by all of the social groups present at the center of revolutionary activity. The current shift from a laissez-faire economy ("letting nature take her course"), to a planned, managed, controlled economy is a precedent which gives us a foretaste of what will lie ahead when a planet-wide federal government undertakes the planning, direction and management of a planet-wide economy and society. The outcome cannot be determined in advance. Unexpected situations will arise, the resolution of which will shape the fate, present and future, of mankind. In a very real sense, our eggs are all in one basket--the Earth. Our future, for generations to come, may be determined by the decisions we are making or the social policy we are initiating at the present moment. Large scale research and experiment should go a long way toward developing the skills required by competent and successful planetary leadership. Political experiments like the United States of North America or the Union of Socialist Soviet Republics or the League of Nations or the United Nations, the planet-wide search for petroleum or the joint scientific efforts that went into the splitting of the atom, have given us opportunities to develop the science and art of planet-wide leadership. Behind and beyond our training courses--our formal educational system (which should be in the front rank of our priorities)--we could train apprentices in every occupational field, selecting the most apt, the most eager, the seemingly best qualified and giving them every opportunity to try out their skills and improve their qualifications in their chosen fields of endeavor. Aspirants for any occupational assignment would divide themselves into three groups: those who feel that they have chosen wisely, find themselves in congenial surrounds and want to spend coming years in the occupation of their choice; those who are uncertain and still unable to decide upon the field of their life activity; and third, those who have chosen badly, are dissatisfied with the occupational groove in which they find themselves and who are ready to move into another field at the first opportunity. The well adjusted will constitute the elite of their chosen occupations, learning its skills and joining with other well satisfied professionals in passing on their enthusiasm and knowledge to the next generation of aspirants for inclusion in the same production teams. The undecided should be the object of special attention. They have entered an occupational field on an experimental basis and should be advised and helped during the experimental period when they are deciding to make a go of it or to try for something more congenial or at least more acceptable. Misfits who have made a wrong choice and who have no clear call to stay where they are should be advised and helped to find more congenial occupational surroundings. We may think and experiment with this selective process as though it was easy and probably final. Nothing could be further from the reality. Even the best adjusted have moments of uncertainty and indecision about their occupational futures. The less adjusted spend a part of their lives looking around for a more attractive field. In every field, some of the best adjusted go as far as their interests and capacities carry them and then shift over into other occupations which, in turn, offer them more chances to employ their talents to greater advantage. In every field of human endeavor individuals come and go. They should stay where they seem to be useful and go when their usefulness is decreasing or coming to an end. Balance between status and change is as desirable for the individual as it is for the group. The decision to stay or go should remain open to the endless round of individuals who comprise any working team. The existence of such flexibility is limited, however, by the need to maintain a working force of interested, alert, eager individuals--skilled, adjusted and disciplined in group endeavor and achievement. We are describing the unending process of selection which goes on from hour to hour and day to day in any well ordered social group. Every group has its fields of endeavor, its goals and its scale of priorities. Individuals come and go. The group carries on. Excellence in group performance depends upon its competence in selecting, training and coordinating its endeavors. Every social group has its hard corps of trained and tested veterans. Also it has its problem of aging. The apprentice of yesterday becomes the experienced, skilled operator of today. Tomorrow brings retirement for those who have reached the age limit of service and who as a matter of group routine are replaced by newcomers. In the course of this cycle the directors of the group have their opportunity to improve the level of group efficiency by phasing out the old and incorporating the new. The range of capacity, from perception and facility to ineptitude and incompetence, holds for the new generation as it did for the old. The tone and performance level of each group is determined by the effectiveness of this selective process. At some point it becomes necessary to inquire into the biologic aspects of any social enterprise. We are doing our utmost to select and educate and train the fit. Are we producing potential fitness? Long experience has taught us that we cannot produce a silk purse from a sow's ear. Eugenics emerges as an important aspect of every long term group endeavor. Qualities and capacities are handed on from parent to offspring. Are we reproducing fitness or unfitness? As we move beyond civilization onto a more mature and more complicated culture level, we may have a workable system of social priorities, but does our oncoming stream of manpower have the interest, the imagination, the competence, the sense of social responsibility and the staying power necessary to arouse in a series of generations the will and determination to carry out social policy? Are the oncoming generations able and willing to shoulder the loads of clearing out the rubbish accumulated through ten centuries of western civilization, make effective use of science, technology _and_ available human capacity and move onward and forward to new levels of social achievement? We could develop a corps of socially responsible technicians as we have developed a corps of competent scientists and technicians in the field of natural science. In each field priorities are constantly changing. Each field is called upon to meet the changes by making corresponding changes in its personnel, its education and its apprenticeships. In addition to formal schooling and apprenticeship we have a vast network for the distribution of information and the formation of public opinion. The printing press, the camera and other means of communication determine the levels of information and the willingness of the public to keep abreast of the shifting social scene. A social structure resembles every other human meeting place--it tends to accumulate dead wood. There are two answers to this problem: periodic housecleaning, without fear or favor, together with careful scrutiny of the apprentices and other newcomers in the field. Every social group has its quota of defectives and delinquents--biological and social, physical, mental, emotional. Here the critical problem is where to draw the line. Perhaps the best general answer is to measure productiveness, including those who make a net contribution, including those whose presence is desirable and excluding undesirables. Again this involves periodic housecleanings. Throughout the past two centuries mankind has been confronted by an epoch-making, many sided development--the great revolution of 1750-1970. As I write, the great revolution is modifying the structure and functioning of human society and, consequently, the forces which condition, shape and, in large measure, determine the directions and channels in which humanity lives, moves and has its being. The great revolution is changing man's relation to nature, to the structure and function of human society and the ways in which men think, feel, act and live. The great revolution has shifted the human living place from rural to urban, replaced a large measure of self-employment by wagery, lifted large segments of mankind out of scarcity into abundance, led to widespread migrations across Europe and from continent to continent, expanded nations and built empires. In the course of these developments Europe became the center of world economic, political and cultural affairs, held the position briefly and lost it in the course of two general, suicidal wars. Speaking broadly, such a period in the life of any society may be described as a revolutionary situation--one in which changes are made frequently, rapidly and with far reaching consequences. In a word, the existing social pattern is in process of being turned over, turned upside down, transformed by forces which seem to operate according to their own principles and often quite independently of human intention or intervention. Our society--western civilization--is undergoing a revolution. People born into a rapidly changing society are often tempted and sometimes compelled to play significant roles in the revolutionary process. Unconsciously or consciously, unwilling and unwitting or deliberately and purposefully they are revolutionaries. Among the participants in the revolutionary process, the far-seeing, imaginative, perceptive and mature develop into purposive revolutionaries. In the course of a series of political, economic and cultural revolutions like those which played so fateful a part in China between 1899 and 1969, an entire generation is born, grows up and, in larger part, retires from active life or dies off. Long continued cultural changes play a part in local history. They have an equally important role in the lives of neighboring nations and peoples. With present means of communication, transportation and travel, the influence of revolutionary events such as those in China from 1899 to the present day may be profound. The bourgeois revolution from 1750 to 1840 centered largely in West Europe and the Americas. In scope it was economic, political, cultural. The Chinese and other revolutions of the present period, beginning with the Mexican Revolution of 1910 and the Chinese Revolution of 1911, are once more transforming the economic, political and cultural life of mankind. UNESCO's _History of Mankind_ (Harper and Row), particularly its Volume 6 titled _The Twentieth Century_, presents voluminous comments from a wide range of qualified scientists and commentators on the changes associated with the great revolution of 1750-1970. The economic, political and cultural life of the majority of human beings has been modified by the events comprising the great revolution. Its influence has been, and continues to be, planet-wide. Consciously or unconsciously, human beings have been brought into contact with influences that are transforming them as they revolutionize human society. Western man and his way of life have been primarily responsible for this great revolution. The changes brought about in the human life pattern in the course of the great revolution have created a new world--in structure, in function, in outlook, in stepped-up capacity for even more spectacular changes in the future. Instead of regarding human beings and human society as unchangeable and sacred we must regard both as a part of our social problem: taking the steps necessary to reach and occupy the highest possible levels of social and individual health and effectiveness. We can and should make every effort to improve human society. We should be equally concerned to improve man and his nature. CHAPTER NINETEEN MAN COULD BREAK OUT OF THE AGE-LONG PRISON HOUSE OF CIVILIZATION AND ENTER A NEW WORLD We humans have been living for ages with various lifestyles--as hunters and fishermen, as herdsmen, as cultivators of the soil, as craftsmen, as traders and merchants, as professionals, as exploiters, as parasites, wreckers and plunderers. On the whole, our energies have been spent in relatively small, self-sufficient groups, staying close to nature, as a part of nature. Occasionally we have turned from this "natural" way of life, to build towns and cities, experimenting with large scale mass enterprises and expanded aggregates of population, wealth and centralized authority to which we have given the name of civilizations. These civilizations, in their turn, have passed through a recognizable life cycle--the cycle of growing, developing, maturing, aging, breaking up and disappearing. One aspect of their civilized life was the keeping of records. Another aspect was building with baked clay and stone. Baked clay, some metals and stone, have withstood the wear and tear of time, sheltered in the temples and tombs which we are uncovering, deciphering, translating. While engaged in these scholarly pursuits, our variant of the pattern--western civilization--has been passing through the customary life cycle. If we read the signs correctly, western civilization reached the high point in its cycle toward the end of the last century. Since then, for seventy-five years, it has been on the decline. If we accept the cycle of civilization as one of the facts or sequences presented to us by history, we may continue to pass submissively through the successive stages of decline until western civilization is liquidated by the same forces that wiped out preceding civilizations. This would be the normal course of a cycle of civilization as it appears in recorded history. Need we follow this course? Must we follow it? History answers "yes" and also "no." History answers "yes"--the record to date reads that way. But the record of history also shows that men have repeatedly interfered and intervened in the historical process by discovery and invention. The historical record is subject to change. Man is not entirely free. Neither is he helplessly bound on the wheel of necessity, presently known as civilization. In Chapter 10 we listed a number of discoveries and inventions which have greatly increased man's control over his own destiny. As these innovations are embodied in the life styles of planet-wide human society, there is every likelihood that men can deal with the future almost as comprehensibly as they now deal with the past. Those who take this position argue that humanity has reached a point at which it may break out of the present cycle of civilization and begin a new cycle which will correspond with the possibilities brought to mankind during the great revolution of 1750-1970. The idea is not new. It has appeared repeatedly in various forms: individual withdrawal from the world and its troubles to live solitary, perfected, sin-free existences; the formulation of plans for utopian or ideal communities; the establishment of such communities--apart from the workday world; revolutionary mass movements away from the current time of social troubles into a more workable, more acceptable, more basically productive and fundamentally creative life style. Hermits and reclusive monastic life need not concern us here. They are to be found in many parts of the existing society. They live their lives apart from the main currents of human life. We may make the same comment, with slight modifications, on intentional communities organized within the bounds of surrounding civilizations. They meet the needs of exceptional individuals who find the existing order intolerable and who wish to move at once into a more congenial community life. Intentional communities founded to demonstrate particular social or economic theories usually are short-lived, covering, at best, one or two generations. Intentional communities organized around ethical or social principles are more enduring, lasting through generations and sometimes through centuries. During their existence they may have considerable influence on the communities of which they are a part. At best they parallel the life of the civilization against which they protest, while they share its problems. Religiously oriented intentional communities may be found today in many of the countries composing western civilization. What concerns us here is the split of western civilization into two broadly divergent groups: capitalism and socialism-communism. Capitalism, in its present monopoly form, is the outcome of a thousand years of development. Throughout its existence it has been politically and economically competitive. The vehicle of political competition began as the nation, then continued as the empire. Economically, the vehicle of competition has become the profit-seeking business corporation, backed politically and often subsidized economically by the nation or empire. As western civilization has developed, nations and empires have tended to form more or less permanent alliances. Business corporations likewise have tended to establish conglomerates which include widely divergent businesses, some limited to one nation or empire, some international. Historically, the present-day business community developed out of a segmented European feudal society as a protest against political restrictions. Its early key-note was laissez-faire--freedom of businessmen to make economic policy and accumulate profits. The practical outcome of laissez-faire economy has been monopoly or finance capitalism functioning through the sovereign state or empire. Marxian socialism-communism, organized and developed largely since 1848, has grown up as a rebellion against monopoly capitalism. At it matured, after revolutions in Mexico, China, Tsarist Russia and East Europe, it became an alternative and even a competitive life style. Marxism has been, at least in theory, cooperative rather than competitive. Its objective has been not private profit but a higher standard of economic and social life for exploited masses of the business community and of the Third World. Capitalism has had as its slogan "Every man for himself". The slogan of Marxism is "Serve the whole people". Until 1917 Marxism was a body of social theory and a program of specific political demands. In the period from 1848 to 1917 Marxism operated through minority political parties organized in each nation, but linked together internationally in loose federations, except during the brief existence of the Communist International from 1919 to 1943. Beginning with the Russian Revolution of 1917, Marxism became a basic state doctrine, first in the Soviet Union and subsequently in more than a dozen other nations of East Europe and Asia. The area of Marxist influence, as expressed in socialist construction, spread slowly from 1917 to 1943 and rapidly during and immediately after the war of 1936-1945. Today about a billion human beings live in countries of East Europe and Asia calling themselves socialist-communist. A second billion human beings live chiefly in West Europe, the Americas and Australasia calling themselves capitalist. A third billion, the remaining segment of mankind, living chiefly in Africa, Asia and Latin America make up the "Third World," most of which consists of former colonies and dependencies of the 19th century empires. At the beginning of the great revolution in 1750 the planet was occupied by the European empires, their colonies and dependencies, with a segment under the control of the crumbling Chinese and Turkish empires. The ensuing two centuries witnessed a political, economic and social transformation that reached across every continent. The revolutionary process is far from complete in 1975. Capitalism and Marxism are still pitted against each other--ideologically, politically, culturally. The Marxians form a revolutionary front. Capitalists retort with counter-revolution. Nation by nation the third world is taking sides. The capitalist world is suffering from the rise and fall of the business cycle, from inflation and unemployment, from the scourge of militarism; from the exhaustion of two general wars in one generation; from absence of any positive common program or commonly accepted means of administering public affairs; from its failure to provide its young people with a satisfactory reason for existence, and from the fatal malady of fragmentation which is the logical counterpart of every major effort at coordination, consolidation and unification. Western civilization, despite repeated efforts, was never able to establish the kind of superficial unity that marked the high point in the Egyptian and Roman civilizations. The stresses and strains of the current great revolution have introduced into western civilization new disintegrative forces of which the capitalist-Marxist confrontation is the most extensive, divisive and decisive. The Marxist world, in its spectacular rise during less than a century, offers the only workable alternative to declining and disintegrating western civilization. It presents an alternative theoretical program for dealing with the transition from the built-in competitiveness of western civilization to the built-in cooperativeness of a planned, coordinated, federated socialist-communist world order. The Soviet Union and its East European socialist neighbors have survived the wars of 1914 and 1936; have survived the capitalist conspiracy to strangle infant Marxism in its cradle. In a remarkably brief period the Soviet Union has moved from a position of cultural backwardness to become the number two nation in productivity and perhaps even number one in fire power. Today Asia's active development of several variants of Marxism is defended against any repetition of Hitler's 1941 drive to the East by the massive land barrier of the Soviet Union and its East European Marxist associates. On the west, Asia is protected by the vast expanses of the Pacific Ocean against the determined efforts of the Washington government to check the spread of Marxism. Washington's current effort to become _The_ Pacific power and also _The_ Asian power have been blocked and perhaps thwarted by the defeat of General MacArthur and his international forces in the Korean War of 1950-53, and by the unanticipated and unbelievable resistance mounted by the peoples of South East Asia against the repeated efforts made by Washington to replace the French imperial presence there after its overwhelming defeat in 1954. The decisive political developments in South and East Asia following war's end in 1945 were first, the expulsion of the British, French and Dutch from their military strongholds in the area; second, the spectacular unification of China and its rapid advance from inferiority and political inconsequence to a place among the three major world powers; third, the meteoric comeback of Japan after its unconditional surrender in 1945; and fourth, the failure of the costly effort mounted by Washington after 1954 to establish itself in a position from which it could dominate the Pacific Ocean and East Asia. So much we may learn from history. Turning from the past and looking at the trends of the immediate future, it seems likely that Marxism will continue for at least some years to be the dominant force in Asia. Furthermore, the Marxian presence in Asia will include both the Soviet Union in Northern Asia and China in South Asia. Both countries are unquestionably stabilized economically and viable politically. Both are headed away from capitalist imperialism. Both are moving toward Marxian forms of socialism-communism. The wars in South East Asia after the expulsion of the French in 1954 were organized, financed and armed primarily by the Washington government. They were avowedly aimed at the up-rooting of Marxism from the area. They not only failed in their main objective but they gave the Soviet Union and the Chinese a chance to pit their advisers, technicians and military equipment against that of the United States as the major capitalist contender in the area. This phase of the counter-revolutionary drive to reestablish monopoly capitalism and imperialism in the Far East thus far has met with decisive and humiliating defeat. This defeat marks the end of the capitalist occupation of Far Asia. It also opens the way for the Marxists to demonstrate the workability of socialism-communism as a lifestyle for Asians and, presumably, for other segments of the Third World. Success of the Marxists in maintaining and extending their presence in Asia will make it politically and culturally possible for them to take five essential steps: _First_, to extend the developing pattern of collective responsibility and collective action around the earth as rapidly as possible. If such an extension proves feasible, it should give Marxism a real priority in stabilizing the economy and building up the political vigor of the Far East. _Second_, organized counter-revolution could be liquidated and revolutionaries, willing to take on the responsibility, could be provided with necessary authority, leadership and equipment. _Third_, moving along with the formulation and fulfillment of carefully developed plans for socialist construction in all of its ramifications, to close the door gradually, step by considered step, on exploitation and profiteering. In their places, well-laid plans could be drawn up for developing a people's socialist-communist economy in the more backward areas of Africa, Asia and the Americas. _Fourth_, the new economy could be federated as it was established and stabilized, with special attention to the need for a maximum of local self help to balance against pressures toward bureaucracy and the development of overhead costs. _Fifth_, with one eye on its need for integration into a socialist-communist collective planetary economy, the other eye must be kept on the planetary chain of which the earth is an essential part. Life is a process operating through the linking of causes and their effects. This is as true of social life as it is of individual life. Reviewing history we check man's past actions and learn by so doing. Turning to the future we plan and prepare to set in motion that conglomerate of causes (plans) best calculated to assure a good life individually, socially, cosmically--with a strong emphasis on the time honored sequence: good, better, best. It is our opportunity, our destiny, and our responsibility to keep on living, constructing, creating. We must live, not die. We must not stop. We must go on. By such steps we humans could by-pass the restrictions and limitations imposed on human creative genius by the structure and function of civilization. In its place we could elaborate a substitute inter-planetary culture in which a chastened, improved, rejuvenated humanity could play a creative role, in accordance with our capacities and our destiny as an integral part of the joint enterprise to which our sun furnishes light, warmth and vibrant energy. We have latent among us the talent and genius necessary to play such a part. Do we also have the imagination, courage and daring to accept the challenge and take our post of duty in the team that is directing the expansion of our expanding universe? SUGGESTED READINGS AND REFERENCES Among the books consulted in preparation of this essay on civilization as a social institution, UNESCO _History of Mankind_ holds first place. The authors describe the work as "the first global history, planned and executed from an international viewpoint". The subtitle of the six volumes is "Cultural and Scientific Development". The work is published under the auspices of the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization by an International Commission presided over by Professor Pauls E. deBerredo Carneiro of Brazil. The Commission consists of 23 members, mostly academicians from 23 countries. The commission also has a corresponding membership of 93 drawn chiefly from the academic personnel of 42 countries. Textual material for the _History of Mankind _was prepared and edited by hundreds of experts in the widely ranging fields covered by the _History_. Final approval of the text came from the Commission. In cases where there were differences of opinion or of interpretation, varying and opposing points of view are presented. _The History of Mankind _is in six volumes. I. Prehistory and The Beginnings of Civilization. II. The Ancient World. III. The World A.D. 400 to A.D. 1300. IV. The World A.D. 1300 to the End of the Eighteenth Century. V. The World in the Nineteenth Century. VI. The Twentieth Century. All but the first volume of the _History_ deal with the epoch during which civilization has played a fateful role in world affairs. Professor Arnold J. Toynbee's ten volume _Study of History_ is concerned chiefly with the rise and decline of those civilizations which have left a noteworthy historical record. His emphasis is geographical and political rather than cultural and social. The same thing may be said of other histories of civilization. They stress personalities, nations and empires. There are few books which approach the study of civilization as a stage or level of human culture. Among them are: Abbott, Wilbur C, _The Expansion of Europe_, N.Y.: Holt, 1918. 2 vols. Adams, Brooks, _The Law of Civilization and Decay_, N.Y.: Knopf, 1943. Adams, Brooks, _The New Empire_, N.Y.: MacMillian, 1902. Adams, George B., _Civilization During the Middle Ages_, N.Y.: Scribners, 1914. Albanes, Ricardo C, _La Civilizacion y el Communismo Marxista_, Habana: Cultural S.A., 1937. Ashley, Percy W., _Europe from Waterloo to Sarajero_, N.Y.: Knopf, 1926. Baikie, James, _The Life of the Ancient East_, N.Y.: MacMillan, 1923. Ballester Escalas, Rafael, _Historia de la Civilizaciones_, Barcelona: Gasso, 1961. Balmes, Jaime Luciano, _La Civilizacion_, Barcelona: Lopez Lansas, 1922. Barnes, Harry E., _A Social History of the Western World_, N.Y.: Appleton, 1921. ----, _A Survey of Western Civilization_, N.Y.: Crowall, 1947. Bell, Clive, _Civilization, an Essay_, London: Chatto and Windus, 1928. Blackmar, Frank W., _History of Human Society_, N.Y.: Scribners, 1926. Bornet-Perrier, Paul, _L'Unité Humaine_, Paris: Alcan, 1931. Bose, Pramatha, _Epochs of Civilization_, Calcutta: Newman, 1913. Breasted, James H., _A History of Egypt_, London: Hodder and Stoughten, 1921. Brier, Royce, _Western World_, Garden City: Doubleday, 1946. Briere, Yves de la, _Grands Imperialismes Contemporaires_, Anvers: Association des Licencées de St. Ignace, 1925. Brodeur, Arthur G., _The Pageant of Civilization_, N.Y.: McBride, 1931. Brown, Lawrence R., _The Might of the West_, NY.: Obolensky, 1963. Bruce, Maurice, _The Shaping of the Modern World 1870-1914_, N.Y.: Random House, 1958. Brugmans, Hendrik, _Les Origines de la Civilization_, Liege: Georges Thone, 1958. Bryce, James, _Holy Roman Empire_, London: MacMillan, 1903. Burns, Edward M., _Western Civilizations, Their History and Their Culture_, N.Y.: Norton, 1968. 2 vols. Burns, Emile, _Imperialism_, London: Labor Research Department, 1927. Callot, Emile, _Civilization et Civilizations_, Paris: Berger-Levrault, 1954. Casson, Stanley, _Progress and Catastrophe_, London: Hamilton, 1937. Chapot, Victor, _The Roman World_, London: Paul, 1928. Childe, V. Gordon, _New Light on the Most Ancient East_, London: Kegan Paul, 1934. Clough, Shepard B., _Basic Values of Western Civilization_, N.Y.: Columbia University Press, 1960. Clough, Shepard B., _Rise and Fall of Civilization_, N.Y.: Columbia University Press, 1957. Crozier, John B., _Civilization and Progress_, London: Longmans, 1892. Cunningham, William, _Western Civilization_, Cambridge: University Press, 1900. Demangeon, Albert, _Le Declin de l'Europe_, Paris: Payot, 1920. Dorpsch, Alfons, _Economic and Social Foundations of Western Civilization_, N.Y.: Harcourt, 1937. Douglas, Sholto O.G., _A Theory of Civilization_, N.Y.: MacMillan, 1914. Elias, Norbert, _Uber den Prozess der Zivilisation_, Basel: Falken, 1939. Farrington, Benjamin, _Science and Politics in the Ancient World_, London: Allen and Unwin, 1939. Fischer, Eric, _Passing of the European Age_, Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1943. Fleiweiling, Ralph T., _The Survival of Western Culture_, N.Y.: Harper, 1943. Forrest, J.D., _Development of Western Civilization_, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1907. Fougeres, Gustav and others, _Les Premiers Civilisations_, Paris: Alcan, 1926. Frank, Tenney, _Economic History of Rome_, Baltimore: John Hopkins Press, 1927. 2nd ed. Frank, Tenney, _Roman Imperialism_, N.Y.: MacMillan, 1914. Freud, Sigmund, _Civilization and its Discontents_, N.Y.: Norton, 1961. Friedell, Egon, _A Culture History of the Modern World_, N.Y.: Knopf, 1930. Friedjung, Heinrich, _Das Zeitalter des Imperialismus_, Berlin: Neufeld und Henius, 1914. 3 vols. Georg, Eugen, _The Adventure of Mankind_, N.Y.: Dutton, 1931. Glotz, Gustav, _Aegean Civilization_, N.Y.: Knopf, 1925. Goddard, Edward H. and Gibbons, P.A., _Civilization or Civilizations_, London: Constable, 1926. Gollwitzer, Heinz, _Europe in the Age of Imperialism_, N.Y.: Harcourt, Brace, 1969. Goshal, Kumar, _People in Colonies_, N.Y.: Sheridan House, 1948. Grigg, Edward W.M., _The Greatest Experiment in History_, New Haven: Yale University Press, 1924. Guizot, F.P., _Histoire de la Civilisation en Europe_, N.Y.: Appleton, 1938. Gupta, N.K., _The March of Civilization_, Pondicherry: Sri Aurobindo Ashram, 1959. Haas, William, _What Is Civilization_, London: Oxford University Press, 1929. Hankins, Frank H., _The Racial Basis of Civilization_, N.Y.: Knopf, 1926. Harris, George, _Civilization Considered as a Science_, London: Bell and Daldy, 1872. Heard, Gerald, _The Source of Civilization_, London: Cape, 1935. Hertzler, G.O., _The Social Thought of the Ancient Civilizations_, N.Y.: McGraw Hill, 1938. Hubbard, Arthur J., _The Fate of Empires_, London: Longmans, 1913. Innes, Harold B., _Empire and Communication_, Oxford: Clarendon, 1950. Louis, Paul, _Ancient Rome at Work_, N.Y.: Knopf, 1927. Lowie, Robert H., _Are We Civilized?_ N.Y.: Harcourt Brace, 1929. Lubbock, John, _The Origin of Civilization_, London: Longmans, 1875. McCabe, Joseph, _The Evolution of Civilization_, London: Watts, 1921. Majewski, Erasme de, _La Theorie de l'Homme et de la Civilisation_, Paris: Le Soudier, 1911. ------, _La Science de la Civilisation_, Paris: Alcan, 1908. Maritain, Jacques, _Twilight of Civilization_, N.Y.: Sheed and Ward, 1943. Marshak, Alexander, _The Roots of Civilization_, N.Y.: McGraw Hill, 1972. Marvin, F.S. ed., _The Unity of Western Civilization_, London: Oxford University Press, 1929. Means, Philip A., _Ancient Civilizations of the Andes_, N.Y.: Scribners, 1931. Moraze, Charles, _Essai sur la Civilisation d'Occident_, Paris: Colin, 1950. Moret, A. and Davy, G., _From Tribe to Empire_, N.Y.: Knopf, 1926. Morgan, L.H., _Ancient Society_, N.Y.: Holt, 1907. Morris, Charles, _Civilization: An Historical Review of Its Elements_, Chicago: Griggs, 1890. Mumford, Lewis, _Technics and Civilization_, N.Y.: Harcourt Brace, 1934. Pendell, Elmer, _The Next Civilization_, Dallas: Royal, 1970. Quigley, Carroll, _The Evolution of Civilizations_, N.Y.: MacMillan, 1961. Randall, Henry J., _The Creative Centuries_, N.Y.: Longmans, 1944. Rod, Edouard, _L'Imperialisme_, Paris: Revue des Deux Mondes, 1907. Rostovtzeff, Mikhail I., _Economic and Social History of the Roman Empire_, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1926. Schneider, Hermann, _The History of World Civilization_, N.Y.: Harcourt Brace, 1932. 2 vols. Schumpter, Joseph, _Zur Soziologiedes Imperialismus_, Tubingen: Mohr, 1919. Schrecker, Paul, _Work and History_, Princeton: University of Princeton Press, 1948. Schweitzer, Albert, _The Philosophy of Civilization_, N.Y.: MacMillan, 1949. Seignobos, Charles, _The Rise of European Civilization_, N.Y.: Knopf, 1938. Sellery, George C., _The Founding of Western Civilization_, N.Y.: Harper, 1929. Spengler, Oswald, _Decline of the West_, N.Y.: Knopf, 1928. Swain, Edgar S., _A History of World Civilization_, N.Y.: McGraw Hill, 1938. Toynbee, Arnold J., _A Study of History_, N.Y.: Oxford, 10 vols. UNESCO, _Scientific and Cultural History of Mankind_, N.Y.: Harper and Row, 6 vols. Walker, C.C., _The Biology of Civilization_, N.Y.: MacMillan, 1930. Walsh, Correa Moylan, _The Climax of Civilization_, N.Y.: Sturgis, 1917. Wells, H.G., _The Salvaging of Civilization_, N.Y.: MacMillan, 1922. Widney, Joseph, _Civilizations, their Diseases and Rebuilding_, Los Angeles: Pacific Publishing Co., 1937. Zimmern, Alfred E., _Greek Commonwealth_, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1911. 
13144	----	Medieval People by EILEEN POWER M.A., D.Lit. _Late Reader in History in the University of London and sometime Fellow and Lecturer of Girton College, Cambridge_ 'I counsel thee, shut not thy heart nor thy library' CHARLES LAMB _First published, 1924 Published in 1963 Eighth Printing, 1969_ _To my colleagues and students at Girton College, Cambridge 1913-20_ For if heuene be on this erthe . and ese to any soule, It is in cloistere or in scole . by many skilles I fynde; For in cloistre cometh no man . to chide ne to fizte, But alle is buxomnesse there and bokes . to rede and to lerne, In scole there is scorne . but if a clerke wil lerne, And grete loue and lykynge . for eche of hem loueth other. --LANGLAND, _Piers Plowman_ _Author's Preface_ Social history sometimes suffers from the reproach that it is vague and general, unable to compete with the attractions of political history either for the student or for the general reader, because of its lack of outstanding personalities. In point of fact there is often as much material for reconstructing the life of some quite ordinary person as there is for writing a history of Robert of Normandy or of Philippa of Hainault; and the lives of ordinary people so reconstructed are, if less spectacular, certainly not less interesting. I believe that social history lends itself particularly to what may be called a personal treatment, and that the past may be made to live again for the general reader more effectively by personifying it than by presenting it in the form of learned treatises on the development of the manor or on medieval trade, essential as these are to the specialist. For history, after all, is valuable only in so far as it lives, and Maeterlinck's cry, 'There are no dead', should always be the historian's motto. It is the idea that history is about dead people, or, worse still, about movements and conditions which seem but vaguely related to the labours and passions of flesh and blood, which has driven history from bookshelves where the historical novel still finds a welcome place. In the following series of sketches I have tried to illustrate at the same time various aspects of social life in the Middle Ages and various classes of historical material. Thus Bodo illustrates peasant life, and an early phase of a typical medieval estate; Marco Polo, Venetian trade with the East; Madame Eglentyne, monastic life; the Ménagier's wife, domestic life in a middle-class home, and medieval ideas about women; Thomas Betson, the wool trade, and the activities of the great English trading company of Merchants of the Staple; and Thomas Paycocke, the cloth industry in East Anglia. They are all quite ordinary people and unknown to fame, with the exception of Marco Polo. The types of historical evidence illustrated are the estate book of a manorial lord, the chronicle and traveller's tale, the bishop's register, the didactic treatise in household management, the collection of family letters, and houses, brasses, and wills. At the end of the book I have added a bibliography of the sources which form the raw material for my reconstructions, and a few additional notes and references. I hope that this modest attempt to bring to life again some of 'our fathers that begat us', may perhaps interest for an hour or two the general reader, or the teacher, who wishes to make more concrete by personification some of the general facts of medieval social and economic history. My thanks are due to my publishers, Messrs. Methuen and Co., for allowing me to incorporate in Chapter VI the greater part of a chapter in my book 'The Paycockes of Coggeshall', and to the Cambridge University Press for similarly allowing me to repeat in Chapter III a few sentences from my study of 'Medieval English Nunneries'. I have also to thank my friends Miss M.G. Jones and Miss H.M.R. Murray of Girton College, Cambridge, for various suggestions and criticisms, and my sister Miss Rhoda Power for making the index. _May 1924_ EILEEN POWER _London School of Economics and Political Science University of London_ _Preface to the Tenth Edition_ For years after the first edition of _Medieval People_ had come out, Eileen Power collected notes and made plans for several essays to be included in an enlarged edition of the book. Of these essays only one, "The Precursors", had been written out in full before she died; and it has now been added to the present edition. In its published form it is not in every respect identical with the author's original text. The essay was taking shape as Munich came and went and as the war itself was drawing near. No historian writing at that time about Rome menaced by the barbarians--and least of all an historian as sensitive to the extra-mural world as Eileen Power was--could have helped noting the similarities between the Roman Empire in the fifth or sixth centuries and Europe in the nineteen-thirties. In the end, having finished the essay, she decided to withold it from publication for the time being and to present it instead to a friendly audience as a tract for the times. This she did at a meeting of the Cambridge History Club in the winter of 1938: and for that occasion she replaced the opening and concluding pages of the original essay with passages, or rather notes for passages, more suited to the purpose. I am sure that she never intended these passages to be perpetuated in her _Medieval People_ and I have therefore done what I could to replace them with a reconstructed version of her first draft. The reconstruction had to be done from somewhat disjointed notes and cannot therefore be word-faithful. The readers must therefore bear in mind that the first two and the last page of the essay are mere approximations to what Eileen Power in fact wrote. _April_, 1963 M.M. POSTAN _Peterhouse, Cambridge_. _Contents_ I THE PRECURSORS II BODO, A FRANKISH PEASANT IN THE TIME OF CHARLEMAGNE III MARCO POLO, A VENETIAN TRAVELLER OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY IV MADAME EGLENTYNE, CHAUCER'S PRIORESS IN REAL LIFE V THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE, A PARIS HOUSEWIFE IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY VI THOMAS BETSON, A MERCHANT OF THE STAPLE IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY VII THOMAS PAYCOCKE OF COGGESHALL, AN ESSEX CLOTHIER IN THE DAYS OF HENRY VII NOTES AND SOURCES NOTES ON ILLUSTRATIONS INDEX _List of Illustrations_ I BODO AT HIS WORK 20 From _MS. Tit. B.V., Pt. I_. British Museum II EMBARKATION OF THE POLOS AT VENICE 21 From _Bodleian MS. 264_. Oxford III PART OF A LANDSCAPE BY CHAO MÊNG-FU 52 From the original in the British Museum IV MADAME EGLENTYNE AT HOME 53 From _MS. Add. 39843_. British Museum V THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE HAS A GARDEN PARTY 116 From _Harl. MS. 4425_. British Museum VI THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE COOKS HIS SUPPER WITH 117 THE AID OF HIS BOOK From _MS. Royal, 15 D. i_. British Museum VII CALAIS ABOUT THE TIME OF THOMAS BETSON 148 From _Cott. MS. Aug. i, Vol. II_. British Museum VIII THOMAS PAYCOCKE'S HOUSE AT COGGESHALL 149 From _The Paycockes of Coggeshall_ by Eileen Power (Methuen & Co. Ltd.) A MAP OF THE JOURNEYS OF THE POLOS 68-9 Let us now praise famous men and our fathers that begat us.... There be of them that have left a name behind them, that their praises might be reported. And some there be which have no memorial; who are perished, as though they had never been; and are become as though they had never been born; and their children after them. But these were merciful men, whose righteousness hath not been forgotten. With their seed shall continually remain a good inheritance, and their children are within the covenant. Their seed standeth fast, and their children for their sakes. Their seed shall remain for ever, and their glory shall not be blotted out. Their bodies are buried in peace; but their name liveth for evermore. ECCLESIASTICUS xliv. CHAPTER I _The Precursors_ I. ROME IN DECLINE Every schoolboy knows that the Middle Ages arose on the ruins of the Roman Empire. The decline of Rome preceded and in some ways prepared the rise of the kingdoms and cultures which composed the medieval system. Yet in spite of the self-evident truth of this historical preposition we know little about life and thought in the watershed years when Europe was ceasing to be Roman but was not yet medieval. We do not know how it felt to watch the decline of Rome; we do not even know whether the men who watched it knew what they saw, though we can be quite certain that none of them foretold, indeed could have foreseen, the shape which the world was to take in later centuries. Yet the tragic story, its main themes and protagonists were for all to see. No observer should have failed to notice that the Roman Empire of the fourth and fifth centuries was no longer the Roman Empire of the great Antonine and Augustan age; that it had lost its hold over its territories and its economic cohesion and was menaced by the barbarians who were in the end to overwhelm it. The territory of the Roman Empire had at its height stretched from the lands bordering the North Sea to the lands on the northern fringes of the Sahara, and from the Atlantic coast of Europe to the central Asiatic Steppes; it comprised most of the regions of the former Hellenic, Iranian, and Phoenician empires, and it either ruled or kept in check great clusters of peoples and principalities beyond its Gallic and north African frontiers. From these farthest frontiers Rome of the fourth century had retreated and was still retreating. Within its frontiers great currents of inter-regional commerce had in earlier centuries flowed along the routes which bound all the provinces of the Empire to Rome and most of the provinces to each other. But from the third century onwards the economic unity of the Empire was in dissolution, and by the fifth century most of the great currents of inter-regional trade had ceased to flow, and provinces and districts had been thrown upon themselves and their own resources. And with the wealth of the provinces reduced, their commerce restricted, the great provincial cities also declined in population, wealth, political power. Yet to its very last days the Empire endeavoured to defend its frontiers against the converging barbarians. Not only did the Barbarian Conquests, like all conquests, threaten destruction and ruin, but the way of life the barbarians stood for was the very denial of what Roman civilization had been, though alas, was gradually ceasing to be. However, it was not in material things, that the contemporaries found, or should have found the sharpest conflict between Rome and the barbarian prospects before it. Above all Roman civilization was a civilization of the mind. It had behind it a long tradition of thought and of intellectual achievement, the legacy of Greece, to which it had in turn made its own contribution. The Roman world was a world of schools and universities, writers, and builders. The barbarian world was a world in which mind was in its infancy and its infancy was long. The battle sagas of the race, which have all but disappeared or have survived only as legends worked up in a later age; the few rude laws which were needed to regulate personal relationships, this was hardly civilization in the Roman sense. King Chilperic, trying to make verses in the style of Sedulius, though he could not distinguish between a long foot and a short and they all hobbled; Charlemagne himself, going to bed with his slate under his pillow in order to practice in the watches of the night that art of writing which he never mastered; what have they in common with Julius Caesar and Marcus Aurelius and that great Julian called the Apostate? They sum up in their very persons the whole wide gulf that yawned between Germany and Rome. Rome and the barbarians were thus not only protagonists but two different attitudes to life, civilization and barbarism. We cannot here discuss in detail the question as to why, in the clash between the two, it was civilization which perished and barbarism which prevailed. But it is important to remember that while the Empire tried to defend its frontiers against the barbarian hosts, it gradually opened them to barbarian settlers. This peaceful infiltration of barbarians which altered the whole character of the society which it invaded would have been impossible, of course, if that society had not been stricken by disease. The disease is plain enough to see by the third century. It shows itself in those internecine civil wars in which civilization rends itself, province against province and army against army. It shows itself in the great inflationary crisis from about 268 and in the taxation which gradually crushed out the smaller bourgeoisie while the fortunes of the rich escaped its net. It shows itself in the gradual sinking back of an economy based upon free exchange into more and more primitive conditions when every province seeks to be self-sufficient and barter takes the place of trade. It shows itself in the decline of farming and in the workless city population kept quiet by their dole of bread and their circuses, whose life contrasted so dramatically, so terribly with that of the haughty senatorial families and the great landowners in their palatial villas and town houses. It shows itself in the rise of mystical faiths on the ruins of philosophy, and of superstition (more especially astrology) on the ruins of reason. One religion in particular grew mighty, by clasping its sacred book and addressing itself with words of hope to the victims of social injustice, but although it was able to bring comfort to individuals it could do nothing, indeed it did not try, to give new strength or inspiration to the embattled civilization. True to its own ethos it was impartial as between Barbarian and Roman, or between the Romans who prospered and ruled and those outside the pale. The most obvious manifestation of Roman society in decline was the dwindling numbers of Roman citizens. The Empire was being depopulated long before the end of the period of peace and prosperity which stretched from Augustus to Marcus Aurelius. Does not Augustus himself summon the poor man of Fiesole who has a family of eight children, thirty-six grandchildren and eighteen great grandchildren, and organize in his honour a fête in the Capitol, accompanied by a great deal of publicity? Does not Tacitus, half-anthropologist and half-Rousseau, describing the noble savage with his eye on fellow citizens, remark that among the Germans it is accounted a shameful thing to limit the number of your children? The long duration of Augustus's legislation to raise the birthrate is significant; successful it was not, but the fact that it was maintained on the statute book and systematically revised and developed for three centuries shows that it was at least accounted necessary. It is true of course that the mortality rate was a far more important factor in those days than it is in our own, and the mortality from pestilence and civil war from Marcus Aurelius onwards was exceptional. And it is plain that the proportion of celibates was high in the Roman empire and that the fall in the fertility of marriages was going on. It is the childless marriage, the small family system that contemporary writers deplore. In Seeley's striking phrase: 'The human harvest was bad,' It was bad in all classes, but the decline was most marked in the upper ranks, the most educated, the most civilized, the potential leaders of the race. In the terrible words of Swift, facing his own madness, the Roman Empire might have cried: 'I shall die like a tree--from the top downwards.' Why (the insistent question forces itself) did this civilization lose the power to reproduce itself? Was it, as Polybius said, because people preferred amusements to children or wished to bring their children up in comfort? Hardly, for it is more marked among the rich than the poor and the rich can have the best of both worlds. Was it because people had grown discouraged and disheartened, no longer believing in their own civilization and loath to bring children into the darkness and disaster of their war-shattered world? We do not know. But we can see the connection of the falling population with the other evils of the empire--the heavy cost of administration relatively heavier when the density of the population is low; the empty fields, the dwindling legions which did not suffice to guard the frontier. To cure this sickness of population the Roman rulers knew no other way than to dose it with barbarian vigour. Just a small injection to begin with and then more and more till in the end the blood that flowed in its veins was not Roman but barbarian. In came the Germans to settle the frontier, to till the fields, to enlist first in the auxiliaries and then in the legions, to fill the great offices of state. The army is barbarized, and a modern writer, Mr Moss, has quoted most effectively the complaint of the Egyptian mother clamouring to get back her son who (as she says) has gone off with the barbarians--he means that he has enlisted in the Roman legions. The legions are barbarized and they barbarize the Emperor. For them he is no longer the majestic embodiment of law, he is their leader, their Führer, and they raise him on their shields. And side by side with the barbarization of the army goes the barbarization of civil manners too. In 397 Honorius has to pass an edict forbidding the wearing of German fashions within the precincts of Rome. And in the end, half barbarian themselves, they have only barbarians to defend them against barbarism. Such was the general picture of the great ruin of civilization amidst which the Romans of the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries lived. What then did it feel like to live at a time when civilization was going down before the forces of barbarism? Did people realize what was happening? Did the gloom of the Dark Ages cast its shadow before? It so happens that we can answer these questions very clearly if we fix our eyes on one particular part of the Empire, the famous and highly civilized province of Gaul. We can catch the decline at three points because in three consecutive centuries, Gallo-Roman writers have left us a picture of their life and times. In the fourth century we have Ausonius, in the fifth Sidonius Apollinarius, in the sixth Gregory of Tours and Fortunatus, a stranger from Italy, who made his home in Poitiers. They show us Auvergne and the Bordelais in the evening light. The fourth, the fifth, and the sixth centuries--going, going, gone! 2. AUSONIUS Going! This is the world of Ausonius, south-western France in the latter half of the fourth century, 'an Indian summer between ages of storm and wreckage'. Ausonius himself is a scholar and a gentleman, the friend alike of the pagan Symmachus and of St Paulinus of Nela. He is for thirty years professor of rhetoric in the university of Bordeaux, for some time tutor to a prince, praetorian prefect of Gaul, consul, and in his last years just an old man contentedly living on his estates. His most famous poem is a description of the Moselle, which for all its literary affectations evokes most magically the smiling countryside which was the background of his life. High above the river on either bank stand the villas and country houses, with their courts and lawns and pillared porticos, and the hot baths from which, if you will, you can plunge into the stream. The sunny hillside is covered with vines, and from slope to hill-top the husbandmen call to each other and the wayfarer on the towpath or the bargemen floating by, shout their rude jests to the loitering vinedressers. Far out in midstream the fisherman trails his dripping net and on a rock by the shore the angler plies his rod. And, as twilight falls, the deepening shadow of the green hillside is reflected in the water and gazing downward the boatman can almost count the trembling vines and almost see the swelling of the grapes. Equally peaceful, equally pleasant is life on Ausonius' own estate in the Bordelais, his little patrimony (he calls it) although he had a thousand acres of vineyard and tillage and wood. Miss Waddell has reminded us, on the authority of Saintsbury (whom else?) that 'to this day it boasts itself as Château-Ausone, one of the two best of the St Emilion clarets.' Here he tends his roses and sends his boy round to the neighbours to bid them to luncheon, while he interviews the cook. Six, including the host, is the right number--if more it is not a meal but a melée. Then there are all his relatives to be commemorated in verse, his grandfather and his grandmother and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts (especially his aunts). And when the family circle palls there is the senior common room to fall back upon and the professors of Bordeaux to be celebrated in their turn. Professors were important people in the empire of the fourth century; Symmachus says that it is the mark of a flourishing state that good salaries should be paid to professors; though what exactly we are to deduce from that in the light of history I should hesitate to say. So Ausonius writes a collection of poems about the professors of Bordeaux. There are thirty-two of them and all are celebrated. There is Minervius the orator, who had a prodigious memory and after a game of backgammon was wont to conduct a post-mortem over every move. There is Anastasius the grammarian, who was so foolish as to leave Bordeaux for a provincial university and thenceforth languished in well-merited obscurity. There is Attius Tiro Delphidius, who retired from a legal career into the professorial chair, but could never be got to take any trouble with his men, to the disappointment of their parents. There is Jocundus the grammarian, who did not really deserve his title, but was such a kind man that we will commemorate him among men of worth, although he was, strictly speaking, unequal to the job. There is Exuperius, who was very good-looking and whose eloquence sounded superb until you examined it and found that it meant nothing. There is Dynamius, who slipped from the paths of virtue with a married lady in Bordeaux and left the place rather hastily, but fortunately fell on his feet in Spain. There is Victorius the usher, who liked only the most abstruse historical problems, such as what the pedigree of the sacrificial priest at Cureo was long before Numa's day, or what Castor had to say on all the shadowy kings, and who never got up as far as Tully or Virgil, though he might have done so if he had gone on reading long enough, but death cut him off too soon. They seem oddly familiar figures (except of course, Dynamius) and their chronicler contrives to make them live. Such is the world depicted for us by Ausonius. But while this pleasant country house and senior common room life was going calmly on, what do we find happening in the history books? Ausonius was a man of nearly fifty when the Germans swarmed across the Rhine in 357, pillaging forty-five flourishing cities, and pitching their camps on the banks of the Moselle. He had seen the great Julian take up arms ('O Plato, Plato, what a task for a philosopher') and in a series of brilliant campaigns drive them out again. Ten years later when he was tutor to Gratian he had himself accompanied the emperor Valentinian on another campaign against the same foes. While he was preening himself on his consulship ten years later still, he must have heard of the disastrous battle of Adrianople in the east, when the Goths defeated a Roman army and slew an emperor. He died in 395 and within twelve years of his death the host of Germans had burst across the Rhine, 'all Gaul was a smoking funeral pyre', and the Goths were at the gates of Rome. And what have Ausonius and his correspondents to say about this? Not a word. Ausonius and Symmachus and their set ignore the barbarians as completely as the novels of Jane Austen ignore the Napoleonic wars. 3. SIDONIUS APOLLINARIS Going, going.... Some thirty-five years after the death of Ausonius, in the midst of the disastrous sixth century, was born Sidonius Apollinaris, Gallo-Roman aristocrat, father-in-law of an emperor, sometime prefect of Rome and in the end Bishop of Clermont. Sidonius Apollinaris, 431 (or thereabouts) to 479 or perhaps a few years later. Much had happened between the death of Ausonius and his birth. The lights were going out all over Europe. Barbarian kingdoms had been planted in Gaul and Spain, Rome herself had been sacked by the Goths; and in his lifetime the collapse went on, ever more swiftly. He was a young man of twenty when the ultimate horror broke upon the West, the inroad of Attila and the Huns. That passed away, but when he was twenty-four the Vandals sacked Rome. He saw the terrible German king-maker Ricimer throne and unthrone a series of puppet emperors, he saw the last remnant of Gallic independence thrown away and himself become a barbarian subject, and he saw a few years before he died the fall of the empire in the west. They cannot, Sidonius and his friends, ignore as Ausonius and his friends did, that something is happening to the empire. The men of the fifth century are concerned at these disasters and they console themselves, each according to his kind. There are some who think it cannot last. After all, they say, the empire has been in a tight place before and has always got out of it in the end and risen supreme over its enemies. Thus Sidonius himself, the very year after they sacked the city; Rome has endured as much before--there was Porsenna, there was Brennus, there was Hannibal.... Only that time Rome did not get over it. Others tried to use the disasters to castigate the sins of society. Thus Salvian of Marseilles who would no doubt have been called the gloomy dean if he had not been a bishop. For him all that the decadent Roman civilization needs is to copy some of the virtues of these fresh young barbarian people. There is the familiar figure of Orosius, defending the barbarians with the argument that when the Roman empire was founded it was founded in blood and conquest and can ill afford to throw stones at the barbarians; and after all the barbarians are not so bad. 'If the unhappy people they have despoiled will content themselves with the little that is left them, their conquerors will cherish them as friends and brothers.' Others, especially the more thoughtful churchmen are much concerned to explain why an empire which had flourished under paganism should be thus beset under Christianity. Others desert the Empire altogether and (like St Augustine) put their hope in a city not made with hands--though Ambrose, it is true, let fall the pregnant observation that it was not the will of God that his people should be saved by logic-chopping. 'It has not pleased God to save his people by dialectic.' And how were they living? We have only to read the letters written by Sidonius during the period between 460 and 470, when he was living on his estate in Auvergne, to realize that on the surface all is going on exactly as before. Gaul is shrunk, it is true, to a mere remnant between three barbarian kingdoms, but save for that we might be back in the days of Ausonius. There is the luxurious villa, with its hot baths and swimming pool, its suites of rooms, its views over the lake; and there is Sidonius inviting his friends to stay with him or sending round his compositions to the professors and the bishops and the country-gentlemen. Sport and games are very popular--Sidonius rides and swims and hunts and plays tennis. In one letter he tells his correspondent that he has been spending some days in the country with his cousin and an old friend, whose estates adjoin each other. They had sent out scouts to catch him and bring him back for a week and took it in turns to entertain him. There are games of tennis on the lawn before breakfast or backgammon for the older men. There is an hour or two in the library before we sit down to an excellent luncheon followed by a siesta. Then we go out riding and return for a hot bath and a plunge in the river. I should like to describe our luscious dinner parties, he concludes, but I have no more paper. However, come and stay with us and you shall hear all about it. Clearly this is no Britain, where in the sixth century half-barbarian people camped in the abandoned villas and cooked their food on the floors of the principal rooms. And yet ... it had gone a long way downhill since the days of Ausonius, and Sidonius could not now ignore the very existence of the barbarians. He has indeed left notable protraits of them, especially of the king of the Visigoths and of the Burgundians who ruled Lyons, where he was born. Whenever he went to stay there, he complains, they flocked about him in embarrassing friendliness, breathing leeks and onions and dressing their hair with rancid butter (they were not, it appears, constrained to choose between spears and butter). How can he compose six foot metres, he asks, with so many seven foot patrons around him, all singing and all expecting him to admire their uncouth stream of non-Latin words? The shrug of the shoulder, the genial contempt of one conscious of an infinite superiority--how clear it is. One is reminded of a verse of Verlaine Je suis l'empire a la fin de la decadence qui regarde passer les grands barbares blancs But Sidonius's good nature was to be rudely shaken. All barbarians were not friendly giants, and the Visigoths next door, under their new king Euric, turned covetous eyes upon Auvergne. Sidonius had not been two years bishop of Clermont before he had to organize the defence of the city against their attack. The Avernians stood out gallantly; they would fight and they would starve, but they would defend this last stronghold of Rome in Gaul. But they were a small people; to resist successfully they must have help from Rome itself. Lest anyone should suspect me of twisting the story, I give it in the words of Sidonius's editor, writing twenty years ago. Julius Nepos was alive to the danger that Euric might cross the Rhône; but weak as his resources were he could only hope to secure peace by negotiation. The quaestor Licinianus had been sent into Gaul to investigate the condition of affairs on the spot.... He had now returned and it was soon only too clear that hopes based on his intervention were not likely to be fulfilled. We find Sidonius writing for information.... He began to fear that something was going on behind his back, and that the real danger to Auvergne came no longer from determined enemies but from pusillanimous friends. His suspicions were only too well founded. On receipt of the quaestor's report a Council was held to determine the policy of the Empire towards the Visigothic king.... The empire did not feel strong enough to support Auvergne and it was decided to cede the whole territory to Euric, apparently without condition. The despair of Sidonius knew no bounds and he writes a nobly indignant letter to a bishop who had been concerned in the negotiations: The state of our unhappy region is miserable indeed. Everyone declares that things were better in wartime than they are now after peace has been concluded. Our enslavement was made the price of security for a third party; the enslavement, ah--the shame of it!, of those Avernians ... who in our own time stood forth alone to stay the advance of the common enemy.... These are the men whose common soldiers were as good as captains, but who never reaped the benefit of their victories: that was handed over for your consolation, while all the crushing burden of defeat they had to bear themselves.... This is to be our reward for braving destitution, fire, sword and pestilence, for fleshing our swords in the enemy's blood and going ourselves starved into battle. This is the famous peace we dreamed of, when we tore the grass from the crannies in the walls to eat.... For all these proofs of our devotion, it would seem that we are to be made a sacrifice. If it be so, may you live to blush for a peace without either honour or advantage. Auvergne had been sacrificed to save Rome. But Rome was not to enjoy her peace with honour for long. These things took place in 475; and in 476 the last emperor was desposed by his barbarian bear-leader, and the empire in the west came to an end. As for Sidonius, the Goths imprisoned him for a time and before he could recover his estate he had to write a panegyric for King Euric (he who had written panegyrics for three Roman emperors). It is clear that the old country house life went on as before, though the men who exchanged letters and epigrams were now under barbarian rule. But in one letter shortly before his death there breaks from Sidonius a single line in which he unpacks his heart. _O neccessitas abjecta nascendi, vivendi misera dura moriendi._ 'O humiliating necessity of birth, sad necessity of living, hard necessity of dying.' Shortly after 479 he died and within twenty years Clovis had embarked upon his career of conquest and Theodoric was ruler of Italy. 4. FORTUNATUS AND GREGORY OF TOURS Going, going, gone.... There is only the time and only the heart to look for a moment at the Frankish kingdom which once was Gaul, and to survey the world of Fortunatus and Gregory of Tours, born both of them just about a century later than Sidonius, in the 530s. For a moment when you look at Fortunatus you think the world of the sixth century is the same world as that in which Sidonius entertained his friends with epigrams and tennis. Fortunatus, that versatile, gentle, genial, boot-licking gourmet, who somehow managed to write two of the most magnificent hymns of the Christian church, came from Italy on a visit to Gaul in 565 and never left it again. He travelled all over the Frankish lands, in what had been Germania as well as in what had been Gaul. From Trier to Toulouse he made his way with ease by river and by road, and it might be Ausonius again. Fortunatus too writes a poem on the Moselle; and there is the same smiling countryside with terraced vineyards sloping down to the quiet stream and the smoke of villas rising from the woods. Fortunatus too made the round of the country houses, especially of the sumptuous villas belonging to Leontius bishop of Bordeaux, a great Gallo-Roman aristocrat, whose grandfather had been a friend of Sidonius. The hot baths, the pillared porticos, the lawns sloping to the river, are all there; the feasts are even more magnificent (they upset Fortunatus's digestion badly) and the talk is still of literature. The more intelligent of the barbarian lords have imitated this refined and luxurious life as best they may. The Franks as well as the Gallo-Romans welcome little eager Fortunatus; every count wants a set of Latin verses dedicated to himself. It is plain that some of the old country house life at least has survived. The Apollinaris set still enjoys its hot baths and its tennis; as Dill puts it, the barbarian might rule the land, but the laws of polite society would be administered as before. But when you look again you realize that it is not the same. It is not merely because we know that even these remnants of the social and material civilization of Rome would soon themselves die away that the tragedy of the sixth century looms so dark. It is because when we look below the surface we see that the life has gone out of it all, the soul that inflamed it is dead, nothing is now left but the empty shell. These men welcome Fortunatus just because he comes from Italy, where the rot has gone less far, where there still survives some reputation for learning and for culture. They slake their nostalgia a little in the presence of that _enfant perdue_ of a lost civilization. For this is the world of Gregory of Tours, of which you may read in his _History of the Franks_. The rule under which it lives is the rule of the horrible Merovingian kings. Side by side with the villas barbarism spreads and flourishes like a jungle growth. Learning is dying--hardly the ghost of a university is left--and Gregory himself who came of a great Gallo-Roman family and was a bishop bewails his ignorance of grammar. The towns are shrinking, crouched behind their defences. The synagogues are flaming, and the first step has been taken in that tragic tale of proscription and tallage, tallage and expulsion which (it seems) must never end. As to politics, the will of the leader and his retinue is the rule of the Franks, and purge and bloodbath mark every stage in the rivalry of the Merovingian princes. The worst of them are devils like Chilperic and Fredegond, the best of them are still barbarians like that King Guntram, who fills so many indulgent pages in Gregory of Tours. He is a vaguely contemporary figure, a fat, voluble man, now purring with jovial good nature, now bursting into explosions of wrath and violence, a strange mixture of bonhomie and brutality. It is an ironic commentary on what has happened to civilization that Gregory should regard him with affection, that he should be known as 'Good King Guntram' and that the church should actually have canonized him after his death. Good King Guntram; Michelet has summed him up in a phrase 'Ce bon roi à qui on ne reprochait que deux ou trois meurtres.' CONCLUSION These were the men who lived through the centuries of Roman fall and Barbarian triumph, and who by virtue of their elevated position, their learning, and talents, should have seen, if not foretold, the course of events. And yet as one contemplates the world of Ausonius and Sidonius (for by the time of Gregory of Tours it was already dead) one is, I think, impelled to ask oneself the question why they were apparently so blind to what was happening. The big country houses go on having their luncheon and tennis parties, the little professors in the universities go on giving their lectures and writing their books; games are increasingly popular and the theatres are always full. Ausonius has seen the Germans overrun Gaul once, but he never speaks of a danger that may recur. Sidonius lives in a world already half barbarian, yet in the year before the Western Empire falls he is still dreaming of the consulship for his son. Why did they not realize the magnitude of the disaster that was befalling them? This is indeed a question almost as absorbing as the question why their civilization fell, for _au fond_ it is perhaps the same question. Several answers may be suggested in explanation. In the first place the process of disintegration was a slow one, for the whole tempo of life was slow and what might take decades in our own time took centuries then. It is only because we can look back from the vantage point of a much later age that we can see the inexorable pattern which events are forming, so that we long to cry to these dead people down the corridor of the ages, warning them to make a stand before it is too late, hearing no answering echo, 'Physician, heal thyself!' They suffered from the fatal myopia of contemporaries. It was the affairs of the moment that occupied them; for them it was the danger of the moment that must be averted and they did not recognize that each compromise and each defeat was a link in the chain dragging them over the abyss. At what point did barbarism within become a wasting disease? Yet from the first skinclad German taken into a legion to the great barbarian patricians of Italy, making and unmaking emperors, the chain is unbroken. At what point in the assault from without did the attack become fatal? Was it the withdrawal from Dacia in 270--allow the barbarians their sphere of influence in the east of Europe, fling them the last-won recruit to Romania and they will be satiated and leave the west alone? Was it the settlement of the Goths as _foederati_ within the Empire in 382 and the beginning of that compromise between the Roman empire and the Germans which, as Bury says, masked the transition from the rule of one to the rule of the other, from federate states within the Empire to independent states replacing it? Was this policy of appeasement the fatal error? Was it the removal of the legions from Britain, a distant people (as a Roman senator might have said) of whom we know nothing? Or was it that fatal combination of Spain and Africa, when the Vandals ensconced themselves in both provinces by 428 and the Vandal fleet (with Majorca and the islands for its bases) cut off Rome from her corn supplies and broke the backbone of ancient civilization, which was the Mediterranean sea? Not once alone in the history of Europe has the triumph of a hostile rule in Africa and Spain spelt disaster to our civilization. But if the gradualness of this process misled the Romans there were other and equally potent reasons for their blindness. Most potent of all was the fact that they mistook entirely the very nature of civilization itself. All of them were making the same mistake. People who thought that Rome could swallow barbarism and absorb it into her life without diluting her own civilization; the people who ran about busily saying that the barbarians were not such bad fellows after all, finding good points in their regime with which to castigate the Romans and crying that except ye become as little barbarians ye shall not attain salvation; the people who did not observe in 476 that one half of the Respublica Romanorum had ceased to exist and nourished themselves on the fiction that the barbarian kings were exercising a power delegated from the Emperor. All these people were deluded by the same error, the belief that Rome (the civilization of their age) was not a mere historical fact with a beginning and an end, but a condition of nature like the air they breathed and the earth they tread _Ave Roma immortalis_, most magnificent most disastrous of creeds! The fact is that the Romans were blinded to what was happening to them by the very perfection of the material culture which they had created. All around them was solidity and comfort, a material existence which was the very antithesis of barbarism. How could they foresee the day when the Norman chronicler would marvel over the broken hypocausts of Caerleon? How could they imagine that anything so solid might conceivably disappear? Their roads grew better as their statesmanship grew worse and central heating triumphed as civilization fell. But still more responsible for their unawareness was the educational system in which they were reared. Ausonius and Sidonius and their friends were highly educated men and Gaul was famous for its schools and universities. The education which these gave consisted in the study of grammar and rhetoric, which was necessary alike for the civil service and for polite society; and it would be difficult to imagine an education more entirely out of touch with contemporary life, or less suited to inculcate the qualities which might have enabled men to deal with it. The fatal study of rhetoric, its links with reality long since severed, concentrated the whole attention of men of intellect on form rather than on matter. The things they learned in their schools had no relation to the things that were going on in the world outside and bred in them the fatal illusion that tomorrow would be as yesterday, that everything was the same, whereas everything was different. So we take our leave of them. Going ... going ... gone! Gone altogether? Perhaps not. Hundreds of years of barbarism were to elapse before a new society arose capable of matching or even excelling Rome in material wealth, in arts, in sciences, and in gentler modes of existence--the _douceur de la vie_. We cannot say what date marked the moment of final recovery, or who were the men who were to represent advancing civilization as fully as Ausonius or Gregory of Tours represented civilization in retreat: Dante, Shakespeare, Capernicus, Newton? But for many centuries, perhaps a whole millennium, before western Europe scaled the heights on which these men now stood, it had been gradually raising itself from the depths of post-Roman decline. The ascent was not only slow but also discontinuous, yet it was sufficient to establish within a few centuries of Gregory of Tours a social order different from Rome and less glorious to behold across a thousand years of history, but nevertheless sufficiently exalted to draw the interest, and even to command the admiration of other still later ages. In that culture and in that social order much of what Ausonius and Sidonius and even Fortunatus represented was brought to life again, albeit in a form they would not always have recognized as their own. To this extent, at least, they were not only the epigones of Rome but the true precursors of the Middle Ages. CHAPTER II THE PEASANT BODO LIFE ON A COUNTRY ESTATE IN THE TIME OF CHARLEMAGNE Three slender things that best support the world: the slender stream of milk from the cow's dug into the pail; the slender blade of green corn upon the ground; the slender thread over the hand of a skilled woman. Three sounds of increase: the lowing of a cow in milk; the din of a smithy; the swish of a plough. --From _The Triads of Ireland_ (9th century) Economic history, as we know it, is the newest of all the branches of history. Up to the middle of the last century the chief interest of the historian and of the public alike lay in political and constitutional history, in political events, wars, dynasties, and in political institutions and their development. Substantially, therefore, history concerned itself with the ruling classes. 'Let us now praise famous men,' was the historian's motto. He forgot to add 'and our fathers that begat us'. He did not care to probe the obscure lives and activities of the great mass of humanity, upon whose slow toil was built up the prosperity of the world and who were the hidden foundation of the political and constitutional edifice reared by the famous men he praised. To speak of ordinary people would have been beneath the dignity of history. Carlyle struck a significant note of revolt: 'The thing I want to see,' he said, 'is not Red-book lists and Court Calendars and Parliamentary Registers, but the Life of Man in England: what men did, thought, suffered, enjoyed.... Mournful, in truth, it is to behold what the business called "History" in these so enlightened and illuminated times still continues to be. Can you gather from it, read till your eyes go out, any dimmest shadow of an answer to that great question: How men lived and had their being; were it but economically, as, what wages they got and what they bought with these? Unhappily you cannot.... History, as it stands all bound up in gilt volumes, is but a shade more instructive than the wooden volumes of a backgammon-board.' Carlyle was a voice crying in the wilderness. Today the new history, whose way he prepared, has come. The present age differs from the centuries before it in its vivid realization of that much-neglected person the man in the street; or (as it was more often in the earliest ages) the man with the hoe. Today the historian is interested in the social life of the past and not only in the wars and intrigues of princes. To the modern writer, the fourteenth century, for instance, is not merely the century of the Hundred Years' War and of the Black Prince and Edward III; more significantly it is for him the era of the slow decay of villeinage in England, a fact more epoch-making, in the long run, than the struggle over our French provinces. We still praise famous men, for he would be a poor historian who could spare one of the great figures who have shed glory or romance upon the page of history; but we praise them with due recognition of the fact that not only great individuals, but people as a whole, unnamed and undistinguished masses of people, now sleeping in unknown graves, have also been concerned in the story. Our fathers that begat us have come to their own at last. As Acton put it, 'The great historian now takes his meals in the kitchen.' This book is chiefly concerned with the kitchens of History, and the first which we shall visit is a country estate at the beginning of the ninth century. It so happens that we know a surprising amount about such an estate, partly because Charlemagne himself issued a set of orders instructing the Royal stewards how to manage his own lands, telling them everything it was necessary for them to know, down to the vegetables which they were to plant in the garden. But our chief source of knowledge is a wonderful estate book which Irminon, the Abbot of St Germain des Prés near Paris, drew up so that the abbey might know exactly what lands belonged to it and who lived on those lands, very much as William I drew up an estate book of his whole kingdom and called it _Domesday Book_. In this estate book is set down the name of every little estate (or _fisc_ as it was called) belonging to the abbey, with a description of the land which was worked under its steward to its own profit, and the land which was held by tenants, and the names of those tenants and of their wives and of their children, and the exact services and rents, down to a plank and an egg, which they had to do for their land. We know today the name of almost every man, woman, and child who was living on those little _fiscs_ in the time of Charlemagne, and a great deal about their daily lives. Consider for a moment how the estate upon which they lived was organized. The lands of the Abbey of St Germain were divided into a number of estates, called _fiscs_, each of a convenient size to be administered by a steward. On each of these _fiscs_ the land was divided into seigniorial and tributary lands; the first administered by the monks through a steward or some other officer, and the second possessed by various tenants, who received and held them from the abbey. These tributary lands were divided into numbers of little farms, called manses, each occupied by one or more families. If you had paid a visit to the chief or seigniorial manse, which the monks kept in their own hands, you would have found a little house, with three or four rooms, probably built of stone, facing an inner court, and on one side of it you would have seen a special group of houses hedged round, where the women serfs belonging to the house lived and did their work; all round you would also have seen little wooden houses, where the household serfs lived, workrooms, a kitchen, a bakehouse, barns, stables, and other farm buildings, and round the whole a hedge carefully planted with trees, so as to make a kind of enclosure or court. Attached to this central manse was a considerable amount of land--ploughland, meadows, vineyards, orchards, and almost all the woods or forests on the estate. Clearly a great deal of labour would be needed to cultivate all these lands. Some of that labour was provided by servile workers who were attached to the chief manse and lived in the court. But these household serfs were not nearly enough to do all the work upon the monks' land, and far the greater part of it had to be done by services paid by the other landowners on the estate. [Illustration: _January--Ploughing_] [Illustration: _March--Breaking Clods_] [Illustration: _August--Reaping_] [Illustration: _December--Threshing and Winnowing_] 1. BODO AT HIS WORK [Illustration: II. EMBARKATION OF THE POLOS AT VENICE] Beside the seigniorial manse, there were a number of little dependent manses. These belonged to men and women who were in various stages of freedom, except for the fact that all had to do work on the land of the chief manse. There is no need to trouble with the different classes, for in practice there was very little difference between them, and in a couple of centuries they were all merged into one common class of medieval villeins. The most important people were those called _coloni_, who were personally free (that is to say, counted as free men by the law), but bound to the soil, so that they could never leave their farms and were sold with the estate, if it were sold. Each of the dependent manses was held either by one family or by two or three families which clubbed together to do the work; it consisted of a house or houses, and farm buildings, like those of the chief manse, only poorer and made of wood, with ploughland and a meadow and perhaps a little piece of vineyard attached to it. In return for these holdings the owner or joint owners of every manse had to do work on the land of the chief manse for about three days in the week. The steward's chief business was to see that they did their work properly, and from every one he had the right to demand two kinds of labour. The first was _field work_: every year each man was bound to do a fixed amount of ploughing on the domain land (as it was called later on), and also to give what was called a _corvée_, that is to say, an unfixed amount of ploughing, which the steward could demand every week when it was needed; the distinction corresponds to the distinction between _week work_ and _boon work_ in the later Middle Ages. The second kind of labour which every owner of a farm had to do on the monks' land was called handwork, that is to say, he had to help repair buildings, or cut down trees, or gather fruit, or make ale, or carry loads--anything, in fact, which wanted doing and which the steward told him to do. It was by these services that the monks got their own seigniorial farm cultivated. On all the other days of the week these hard-worked tenants were free to cultivate their own little farms, and we may be sure that they put twice as much elbow grease into the business. But their obligation did not end here, for not only had they to pay services, they also had to pay certain rents to the big house. There were no State taxes in those days, but every man had to pay an army due, which Charlemagne exacted from the abbey, and which the abbey exacted from its tenants; this took the form of an ox and a certain number of sheep, or the equivalent in money: 'He pays to the host two shillings of silver' comes first on every freeman's list of obligations. The farmers also had to pay in return for any special privileges granted to them by the monks; they had to carry a load of wood to the big house, in return for being allowed to gather firewood in the woods, which were jealously preserved for the use of the abbey; they had to pay some hogsheads of wine for the right to pasture their pigs in the same precious woods; every third year they had to give up one of their sheep for the right to graze upon the fields of the chief manse; they had to pay a sort of poll-tax of 4_d_. a head. In addition to these special rents every farmer had also to pay other rents in produce; every year he owed the big house three chickens and fifteen eggs and a large number of planks, to repair its buildings; often he had to give it a couple of pigs; sometimes corn, wine, honey, wax, soap, or oil. If the farmer were also an artisan and made things, he had to pay the produce of his craft; a smith would have to make lances for the abbey's contingent to the army, a carpenter had to make barrels and hoops and vine props, a wheelwright had to make a cart. Even the wives of the farmers were kept busy, if they happened to be serfs; for the servile women were obliged to spin cloth or to make a garment for the big house every year. All these things were exacted and collected by the steward, whom they called _Villicus_, or _Major_ (Mayor). He was a very hard-worked man, and when one reads the seventy separate and particular injunctions which Charlemagne addressed to his stewards one cannot help feeling sorry for him. He had to get all the right services out of the tenants, and tell them what to do each week and see that they did it; he had to be careful that they brought the right number of eggs and pigs up to the house, and did not foist off warped or badly planed planks upon him. He had to look after the household serfs too, and set them to work. He had to see about storing, or selling, or sending off to the monastery the produce of the estate and of the tenants' rents; and every year he had to present a full and detailed account of his stewardship to the abbot. He had a manse of his own, with services and rents due from it, and Charlemagne exhorted his stewards to be prompt in their payments, so as to set a good example. Probably his official duties left him very little time to work on his own farm, and he would have to put in a man to work it for him, as Charlemagne bade his stewards do. Often, however, he had subordinate officials called _deans_ under him, and sometimes the work of receiving and looking after the stores in the big house was done by a special cellarer. That, in a few words, is the way in which the monks of St Germain and the other Frankish landowners of the time of Charlemagne managed their estates. Let us try, now, to look at those estates from a more human point of view and see what life was like to a farmer who lived upon them. The abbey possessed a little estate called Villaris, near Paris, in the place now occupied by the park of Saint Cloud. When we turn up the pages in the estate book dealing with Villaris, we find that there was a man called Bodo living there.[1] He had a wife called Ermentrude and three children called Wido and Gerbert and Hildegard; and he owned a little farm of arable and meadow land, with a few vines. And we know very nearly as much about Bodo's work as we know about that of a smallholder in France today. Let us try and imagine a day in his life. On a fine spring morning towards the end of Charlemagne's reign Bodo gets up early, because it is his day to go and work on the monks' farm, and he does not dare to be late, for fear of the steward. To be sure, he has probably given the steward a present of eggs and vegetables the week before, to keep him in a good temper; but the monks will not allow their stewards to take big bribes (as is sometimes done on other estates), and Bodo knows that he will not be allowed to go late to work. It is his day to plough, so he takes his big ox with him and little Wido to run by its side with a goad, and he joins his friends from some of the farms near by, who are going to work at the big house too. They all assemble, some with horses and oxen, some with mattocks and hoes and spades and axes and scythes, and go off in gangs to work upon the fields and meadows and woods of the seigniorial manse, according as the steward orders them. The manse next door to Bodo is held by a group of families: Frambert and Ermoin and Ragenold, with their wives and children. Bodo bids them good morning as he passes. Frambert is going to make a fence round the wood, to prevent the rabbits from coming out and eating the young crops; Ermoin has been told off to cart a great load of firewood up to the house; and Ragenold is mending a hole in the roof of a barn. Bodo goes whistling off in the cold with his oxen and his little boy; and it is no use to follow him farther, because he ploughs all day and eats his meal under a tree with the other ploughmen, and it is very monotonous. Let us go back and see what Bodo's wife, Ermentrude, is doing. She is busy too; it is the day on which the chicken-rent is due--a fat pullet and five eggs in all. She leaves her second son, aged nine, to look after the baby Hildegard and calls on one of her neighbours, who has to go up to the big house too. The neighbour is a serf and she has to take the steward a piece of woollen cloth, which will be sent away to St Germain to make a habit for a monk. Her husband is working all day in the lord's vineyards, for on this estate the serfs generally tend the vines, while the freemen do most of the ploughing. Ermentrude and the serf's wife go together up to the house. There all is busy. In the men's workshop are several clever workmen--a shoemaker, a carpenter, a blacksmith, and two silversmiths; there are not more, because the best artisans on the estates of St Germain live by the walls of the abbey, so that they can work for the monks on the spot and save the labour of carriage. But there were always some craftsmen on every estate, either attached as serfs to the big house, or living on manses of their own, and good landowners tried to have as many clever craftsmen as possible. Charlemagne ordered his stewards each to have in his district 'good workmen, namely, blacksmiths, goldsmiths, silversmiths, shoemakers, turners, carpenters, swordmakers, fishermen, foilers, soapmakers, men who know how to make beer, cider, perry, and all other kinds of beverages, bakers to make pasty for our table, netmakers who know how to make nets for hunting, fishing, and fowling, and others too many to be named'.[2] And some of these workmen are to be found working for the monks in the estate of Villaris. But Ermentrude does not stop at the men's workshop. She finds the steward, bobs her curtsy to him, and gives up her fowl and eggs, and then she hurries off to the women's part of the house, to gossip with the serfs there. The Franks used at this time to keep the women of their household in a separate quarter, where they did the work which was considered suitable for women, very much as the Greeks of antiquity used to do. If a Frankish noble had lived at the big house, his wife would have looked after their work, but as no one lived in the stone house at Villaris, the steward had to oversee the women. Their quarter consisted of a little group of houses, with a workroom, the whole surrounded by a thick hedge with a strong bolted gate, like a harem, so that no one could come in without leave. Their workrooms were comfortable places, warmed by stoves, and there Ermentrude (who, being a woman, was allowed to go in) found about a dozen servile women spinning and dyeing cloth and sewing garments. Every week the harassed steward brought them the raw materials for their work and took away what they made. Charlemagne gives his stewards several instructions about the women attached to his manses, and we may be sure that the monks of St Germain did the same on their model estates. 'For our women's work,' says Charlemagne, 'they are to give at the proper time the materials, that is linen, wool, woad, vermilion, madder, wool combs, teasels, soap, grease, vessels, and other objects which are necessary. And let our women's quarters be well looked after, furnished with houses and rooms with stoves and cellars, and let them be surrounded by a good hedge, and let the doors be strong, so that the women can do our work properly.'[3] Ermentrude, however, has to hurry away after her gossip, and so must we. She goes back to her own farm and sets to work in the little vineyard; then after an hour or two goes back to get the children's meal and to spend the rest of the day in weaving warm woollen clothes for them. All her friends are either working in the fields on their husbands' farms or else looking after the poultry, or the vegetables, or sewing at home; for the women have to work just as hard as the men on a country farm. In Charlemagne's time (for instance) they did nearly all the sheep shearing. Then at last Bodo comes back for his supper, and as soon as the sun goes down they go to bed; for their hand-made candle gives only a flicker of light, and they both have to be up early in the morning. De Quincey once pointed out, in his inimitable manner, how the ancients everywhere went to bed, 'like good boys, from seven to nine o'clock'. 'Man went to bed early in those ages simply because his worthy mother earth could not afford him candles. She, good old lady ... would certainly have shuddered to hear of any of her nations asking for candles. "Candles indeed!" she would have said; "who ever heard of such a thing? and with so much excellent daylight running to waste, as I have provided _gratis_! What will the wretches want next?"'[4] Something of the same situation prevailed even in Bodo's time. This, then, is how Bodo and Ermentrude usually passed their working day. But, it may be complained, this is all very well. We know about the estates on which these peasants lived and about the rents which they had to pay, and the services which they had to do. But how did they feel and think and amuse themselves when they were not working? Rents and services are only outside things; an estate book only describes routine. It would be idle to try to picture the life of a university from a study of its lecture list, and it is equally idle to try and describe the life of Bodo from the estate book of his masters. It is no good taking your meals in the kitchen if you never talk to the servants. This is true, and to arrive at Bodo's thoughts and feelings and holiday amusements we must bid goodbye to Abbot Irminon's estate book, and peer into some very dark corners indeed; for though by the aid of Chaucer and Langland and a few Court Rolls it is possible to know a great deal about the feelings of a peasant six centuries later, material is scarce in the ninth century, and it is all the more necessary to remember the secret of the invisible ink. Bodo certainly _had_ plenty of feelings, and very strong ones. When he got up in the frost on a cold morning to drive the plough over the abbot's acres, when his own were calling out for work, he often shivered and shook the rime from his beard, and wished that the big house and all its land were at the bottom of the sea (which, as a matter of fact, he had never seen and could not imagine). Or else he wished he were the abbot's huntsman, hunting in the forest; or a monk of St Germain, singing sweetly in the abbey church; or a merchant, taking bales of cloaks and girdles along the high road to Paris; anything, in fact, but a poor ploughman ploughing other people's land. An Anglo-Saxon writer has imagined a dialogue with him: 'Well, ploughman, how do you do your work?' 'Oh, sir, I work very hard. I go out in the dawning, driving the oxen to the field and I yoke them to the plough. Be the winter never so stark, I dare not stay at home for fear of my lord; but every day I must plough a full acre or more, after having yoked the oxen and fastened the share and coulter to the plough!' 'Have you any mate?' 'I have a boy, who drives the oxen with a goad, who is now hoarse from cold and shouting,' (Poor little Wido!) 'Well, well, it is very hard work?' 'Yes, indeed it is very hard work.'[5] Nevertheless, hard as the work was, Bodo sang lustily to cheer himself and Wido; for is it not related that once, when a clerk was singing the 'Allelulia' in the emperor's presence, Charles turned to one of the bishops, saying, 'My clerk is singing very well,' whereat the rude bishop replied, 'Any clown in our countryside drones as well as that to his oxen at their ploughing'?[6] It is certain too that Bodo agreed with the names which the great Charles gave to the months of the year in his own Frankish tongue; for he called January 'Winter-month', February 'Mud-month', March 'Spring-month', April 'Easter-month', May 'Joy-month', June 'Plough-month', July 'Hay-month', August 'Harvest-month', September 'Wind-month', October 'Vintage-month', November 'Autumn-month', and December 'Holy-month'.[7] And Bodo was a superstitious creature. The Franks had been Christian now for many years, but Christian though they were, the peasants clung to old beliefs and superstitions. On the estates of the holy monks of St Germain you would have found the country people saying charms which were hoary with age, parts of the lay sung by the Frankish ploughman over his bewitched land long before he marched southwards into the Roman Empire, or parts of the spell which the bee-master performed when he swarmed his bees on the shores of the Baltic Sea. Christianity has coloured these charms, but it has not effaced their heathen origin; and because the tilling of the soil is the oldest and most unchanging of human occupations, old beliefs and superstitions cling to it and the old gods stalk up and down the brown furrows, when they have long vanished from houses and roads. So on Abbot Irminon's estates the peasant-farmers muttered charms over their sick cattle (and over their sick children too) and said incantations over the fields to make them fertile. If you had followed behind Bodo when he broke his first furrow you would have probably seen him take out of his jerkin a little cake, baked for him by Ermentrude out of different kinds of meal, and you would have seen him stoop and lay it under the furrow and sing: Earth, Earth, Earth! O Earth, our mother! May the All-Wielder, Ever-Lord grant thee Acres a-waxing, upwards a-growing, Pregnant with corn and plenteous in strength; Hosts of grain shafts and of glittering plants! Of broad barley the blossoms, And of white wheat ears waxing, Of the whole land the harvest.... Acre, full-fed, bring forth fodder for men! Blossoming brightly, blessed become! And the God who wrought with earth grant us gift of growing That each of all the corns may come unto our need.[8] Then he would drive his plough through the acre. The Church wisely did not interfere with these old rites. It taught Bodo to pray to the Ever-Lord instead of to Father Heaven, and to the Virgin Mary instead of to Mother Earth, and with these changes let the old spell he had learned from his ancestors serve him still. It taught him, for instance, to call on Christ and Mary in his charm for bees. When Ermentrude heard her bees swarming, she stood outside her cottage and said this little charm over them: Christ, there is a swarm of bees outside, Fly hither, my little cattle, In blest peace, in God's protection, Come home safe and sound. Sit down, sit down, bee, St Mary commanded thee. Thou shalt not have leave, Thou shalt not fly to the wood. Thou shalt not escape me, Nor go away from me. Sit very still, Wait God's will![9] And if Bodo on his way home saw one of his bees caught in a brier bush, he immediately stood still and wished--as some people wish today when they go under a ladder. It was the Church, too, which taught Bodo to add 'So be it, Lord', to the end of his charm against pain. Now, his ancestors for generations behind him had believed that if you had a stitch in your side, or a bad pain anywhere, it came from a worm in the marrow of your bones, which was eating you up, and that the only way to get rid of that worm was to put a knife, or an arrow-head, or some other piece of metal to the sore place, and then wheedle the worm out on to the blade by saying a charm. And this was the charm which Bodo's heathen ancestors had always said and which Bodo went on saying when little Wido had a pain: 'Come out, worm, with nine little worms, out from the marrow into the bone, from the bone into the flesh, from the flesh into the skin, from the skin into this arrow.' And then (in obedience to the Church) he added 'So be it, Lord'.[10] But sometimes it was not possible to read a Christian meaning into Bodo's doings. Sometimes he paid visits to some man who was thought to have a wizard's powers, or superstitiously reverenced some twisted tree, about which there hung old stories never quite forgotten. Then the Church was stern. When he went to confession the priest would ask him: 'Have you consulted magicians and enchanters, have you made vows to trees and fountains, have you drunk any magic philtre?'[11] And he would have to confess what he did last time his cow was sick. But the Church was kind as well as stern. 'When serfs come to you,' we find one bishop telling his priests, 'you must not give them as many fasts to perform as rich men. Put upon them only half the penance.'[12] The Church knew well enough that Bodo could not drive his plough all day upon an empty stomach. The hunting, drinking, feasting Frankish nobles could afford to lose a meal. It was from this stern and yet kind Church that Bodo got his holidays. For the Church made the pious emperor decree that on Sundays and saints' days no servile or other works should be done. Charlemagne's son repeated his decree in 827. It runs thus: We ordain according to the law of God and to the command of our father of blessed memory in his edicts, that no servile works shall be done on Sundays, neither shall men perform their rustic labours, tending vines, ploughing fields, reaping corn and mowing hay, setting up hedges or fencing woods, cutting trees, or working in quarries or building houses; nor shall they work in the garden, nor come to the law courts, nor follow the chase. But three carrying-services it is lawful to do on Sunday, to wit carrying for the army, carrying food, or carrying (if need be) the body of a lord to its grave. Item, women shall not do their textile works, nor cut out clothes, nor stitch them together with the needle, nor card wool, nor beat hemp, nor wash clothes in public, nor shear sheep: so that there may be rest on the Lord's day. But let them come together from all sides to Mass in the Church and praise God for all the good things He did for us on that day![13] Unfortunately, however, Bodo and Ermentrude and their friends were not content to go quietly to church on saints' days and quietly home again. They used to spend their holidays in dancing and singing and buffoonery, as country folk have always done until our own gloomier, more self-conscious age. They were very merry and not at all refined, and the place they always chose for their dances was the churchyard; and unluckily the songs they sang as they danced in a ring were old pagan songs of their forefathers, left over from old Mayday festivities, which they could not forget, or ribald love-songs which the Church disliked. Over and over again we find the Church councils complaining that the peasants (and sometimes the priests too) were singing 'wicked songs with a chorus of dancing women,' or holding 'ballads and dancings and evil and wanton songs and such-like lures of the devil';[14] over and over again the bishops forbade these songs and dances; but in vain. In every country in Europe, right through the Middle Ages to the time of the Reformation, and after it, country folk continued to sing and dance in the churchyard. Two hundred years after Charlemagne's death there grew up the legend of the dancers of Kölbigk, who danced on Christmas Eve in the churchyard, in spite of the warning of the priest, and all got rooted to the spot for a year, till the Archbishop of Cologne released them. Some men say that they were not rooted standing to the spot, but that they had to go on dancing for the whole year; and that before they were released they had danced themselves waist-deep into the ground. People used to repeat the little Latin verse which they were singing: Equitabat Bovo per silvam frondosam Ducebat sibi Merswindem formosam. Quid stamus? Cur non imus?[15] Through the leafy forest, Bovo went a-riding And his pretty Merswind trotted on beside him-- Why are we standing still? Why can't we go away? Another later story still is told about a priest in Worcestershire who was kept awake all night by the people dancing in his churchyard and singing a song with the refrain 'Sweetheart have pity', so that he could not get it out of his head, and the next morning at Mass, instead of saying 'Dominus vobiscum', he said 'Sweetheart have pity', and there was a dreadful scandal which got into a chronicle.[16] Sometimes our Bodo did not dance himself, but listened to the songs of wandering minstrels. The priests did not at all approve of these minstrels, who (they said) would certainly go to hell for singing profane secular songs, all about the great deeds of heathen heroes of the Frankish race, instead of Christian hymns. But Bodo loved them, and so did Bodo's betters; the Church councils had sometimes even to rebuke abbots and abbesses for listening to their songs. And the worst of it was that the great emperor himself, the good Charlemagne, loved them too. He would always listen to a minstrel, and his biographer, Einhard, tells us that 'He wrote out the barbarous and ancient songs, in which the acts of the kings and their wars were sung, and committed them to memory';[17] and one at least of those old sagas, which he liked men to write down, has been preserved on the cover of a Latin manuscript, where a monk scribbled it in his spare time. His son, Louis the Pious, was very different; he rejected the national poems, which he had learnt in his youth, and would not have them read or recited or taught; he would not allow minstrels to have justice in the law courts, and he forbade idle dances and songs and tales in public places on Sundays; but then he also dragged down his father's kingdom into disgrace and ruin. The minstrels repaid Charlemagne for his kindness to them. They gave him everlasting fame; for all through the Middle Ages the legend of Charlemagne grew, and he shares with our King Arthur the honour of being the hero of one of the greatest romance-cycles of the Middle Ages. Every different century clad him anew in its own dress and sang new lays about him. What the monkish chroniclers in their cells could never do for Charlemagne, these despised and accursed minstrels did for him: they gave him what is perhaps more desirable and more lasting than a place in history-they gave him a place in legend. It is not every emperor who rules in those realms of gold of which Keats spoke, as well as in the kingdoms of the world; and in the realms of gold Charlemagne reigns with King Arthur, and his peers joust with the Knights of the Round Table. Bodo, at any rate, benefited by Charles's love of minstrels, and it is probable that he heard in the lifetime of the emperor himself the first beginnings of those legends which afterwards clung to the name of Charlemagne. One can imagine him round-eyed in the churchyard, listening to fabulous stories of Charles's Iron March to Pavia, such as a gossiping old monk of St Gall afterwards wrote down in his chronicle.[18] It is likely enough that such legends were the nearest Bodo ever came to seeing the emperor, of whom even the poor serfs who never followed him to court or camp were proud. But Charles was a great traveller: like all the monarchs of the early Middle Ages he spent the time, when he was not warring, in trekking round his kingdom, staying at one of his estates, until he and his household had literally eaten their way through it, and then passing on to another. And sometimes he varied the procedure by paying a visit to the estates of his bishops or nobles, who entertained him royally. It may be that one day he came on a visit to Bodo's masters and stopped at the big house on his way to Paris, and then Bodo saw him plain; for Charlemagne would come riding along the road in his jerkin of otter skin, and his plain blue cloak (Einhard tells us that he hated grand clothes and on ordinary days dressed like the common people);[19] and after him would come his three sons and his bodyguard, and then his five daughters. Einhard has also told us that: He had such care of the upbringing of his sons and daughters that he never dined without them when he was at home and never travelled without them. His sons rode along with him and his daughters followed in the rear. Some of his guards, chosen for this very purpose, watched the end of the line of march where his daughters travelled. They were very beautiful and much beloved by their father, and, therefore, it is strange that he would give them in marriage to no one, either among his own people or of a foreign state. But up to his death he kept them all at home saying he could not forgo their society.[20] Then, with luck, Bodo, quaking at the knees, might even behold a portent new to his experience, the emperor's elephant. Haroun El Raschid, the great Sultan of the 'Arabian Nights' had sent it to Charles, and it accompanied him on all his progresses. Its name was 'Abu-Lubabah', which is an Arabic word and means 'the father of intelligence[A]', and it died a hero's death on an expedition against the Danes in 810.[21] It is certain that ever afterwards Ermentrude quelled little Gerbert, when he was naughty, with the threat, 'Abu-Lubabah will come with his long nose and carry you off.' But Wido, being aged eight and a bread-winner, professed to have felt no fear on being confronted with the elephant; but admitted when pressed, that he greatly preferred Haroun El Raschid's other present to the emperor, the friendly dog, who answered to the name of 'Becerillo'. [Footnote A: _Abu-Lubabah_.--It is remarkable that the name should have suffered no corruption in the chronicles.] It would be a busy time for Bodo when all these great folk came, for everything would have to be cleaned before their arrival, the pastry cooks and sausage-makers summoned and a great feast prepared; and though the household serfs did most of the work, it is probable that he had to help. The gossipy old monk of St Gall has given us some amusing pictures of the excitement when Charles suddenly paid a visit to his subjects: There was a certain bishopric which lay full in Charles's path when he journeyed, and which indeed he could hardly avoid: and the bishop of this place, always anxious to give satisfaction, put everything that he had at Charles's disposal. But once the Emperor came quite unexpectedly and the bishop in great anxiety had to fly hither and thither like a swallow, and had not only the palaces and houses but also the courts and squares swept and cleaned: and then, tired and irritated, came to meet him. The most pious Charles noticed this, and after examining all the various details, he said to the bishop: 'My kind host, you always have everything splendidly cleaned for my arrival.' Then the bishop, as if divinely inspired, bowed his head and grasped the king's never-conquered right hand, and hiding his irritation, kissed it and said: 'It is but right, my lord, that, wherever you come, all things should be thoroughly cleansed.' Then Charles, of all kings the wisest, understanding the state of affairs said to him: 'If I empty I can also fill.' And he added: 'You may have that estate which lies close to your bishopric, and all your successors may have it until the end of time.' In the same journey, too, he came to a bishop who lived in a place through which he must needs pass. Now on that day, being the sixth day of the week, he was not willing to eat the flesh of beast or bird; and the bishop, being by reason of the nature of the place unable to procure fish upon the sudden, ordered some excellent cheese, rich and creamy, to be placed before him. And the most self-restrained Charles, with the readiness which he showed everywhere and on all occasions, spared the blushes of the bishop and required no better fare; but taking up his knife cut off the skin, which he thought unsavoury and fell to on the white of the cheese. Thereupon the bishop, who was standing near like a servant, drew closer and said: 'Why do you do that, lord emperor? You are throwing away the very best part.' Then Charles, who deceived no one, and did not believe that anyone would deceive him, on the persuasion of the bishop put a piece of the skin in his mouth, and slowly ate it and swallowed it like butter. Then approving of the advice of the bishop, he said: 'Very true, my good host,' and he added: 'Be sure to send me every year to Aix two cartloads of just such cheeses.' And the bishop was alarmed at the impossibility of the task and, fearful of losing both his rank and his office, he rejoined: 'My lord, I can procure the cheeses, but I cannot tell which are of this quality and which of another. Much I fear lest I fall under your censure.' Then Charles, from whose penetration and skill nothing could escape, however new or strange it might be, spoke thus to the bishop, who from childhood had known such cheeses and yet could not test them: 'Cut them in two,' he said, 'then fasten together with a skewer those that you find to be of the right quality and keep them in your cellar for a time and then send them to me. The rest you may keep for yourself and your ¸clergy and your family.' This was done for two years, and the king ordered the present of cheeses to be taken in without remark: then in the third year the bishop brought in person his laboriously collected cheeses. But the most just Charles pitied his labour and anxiety and added to the bishopric an excellent estate whence he and his successors might provide themselves with corn and wine.[22] We may feel sorry for the poor flustered bishop collecting his two cartloads of cheeses; but it is possible that our real sympathy ought to go to Bodo, who probably had to pay an extra rent in cheeses to satisfy the emperor's taste, and got no excellent estate to recompense him. A visit from the emperor, however, would be a rare event in his life, to be talked about for years and told to his grandchildren. But there was one other event, which happened annually, and which was certainly looked for with excitement by Bodo and his friends. For once a year the king's itinerant justices, the _Missi Dominici_, came round to hold their court and to see if the local counts had been doing justice. Two of them would come, a bishop and a count, and they would perhaps stay a night at the big house as guests of the abbot, and the next day they would go on to Paris, and there they would sit and do justice in the open square before the church and from all the district round great men and small, nobles and freemen and _coloni_, would bring their grievances and demand redress. Bodo would go too, if anyone had injured or robbed him, and would make his complaint to the judges. But if he were canny he would not go to them empty-handed, trusting to justice alone. Charlemagne was very strict, but unless the _missi_ were exceptionally honest and pious they would not be averse to taking bribes. Theodulf, Bishop of Orleans, who was one of the Emperor's _missi_, has left us a most entertaining Latin poem, in which he describes the attempts of the clergy and laymen, who flocked to his court, to buy justice.[23] Every one according to his means brought a present; the rich offered money, precious stones, fine materials, and Eastern carpets, arms, horses, antique vases of gold or silver chiselled with representations of the labours of Hercules. The poor brought skins of Cordova leather, tanned and untanned, excellent pieces of cloth and linen (poor Ermentrude must have worked hard for the month before the justices came!), boxes, and wax. 'With this battering-ram,' cries the shocked Bishop Theodulf, 'they hope to break down the wall of my soul. But they would not have thought that they could shake _me_, if they had not so shaken other judges before,' And indeed, if his picture be true, the royal justices must have been followed about by a regular caravan of carts and horses to carry their presents. Even Theodulf has to admit that, in order not to hurt people's feelings, he was obliged to accept certain unconsidered trifles in the shape of eggs and bread and wine and chickens and little birds, 'whose bodies' (he says, smacking his lips) 'are small, but very good to eat.' One seems to detect the anxious face of Bodo behind those eggs and little birds. Another treat Bodo had which happened once a year; for regularly on the ninth of October there began the great fair of St Denys, which went on for a whole month, outside the gates of Paris.[24] Then for a week before the fair little booths and sheds sprang up, with open fronts in which the merchants could display their wares, and the Abbey of St Denys, which had the right to take a toll of all the merchants who came there to sell, saw to it that the fair was well enclosed with fences, and that all came in by the gates and paid their money, for wily merchants were sometimes known to burrow under fences or climb over them so as to avoid the toll. Then the streets of Paris were crowded with merchants bringing their goods, packed in carts and upon horses and oxen; and on the opening day all regular trade in Paris stopped for a month, and every Parisian shopkeeper was in a booth somewhere in the fair, exchanging the corn and wine and honey of the district for rarer goods from foreign parts. Bodo's abbey probably had a stall in the fair and sold some of those pieces of cloth woven by the serfs in the women's quarter, or cheeses and salted meat prepared on the estates, or wine paid in rent by Bodo and his fellow-farmers. Bodo would certainly take a holiday and go to the fair. In fact, the steward would probably have great difficulty in keeping his men at work during the month; Charlemagne had to give a special order to his stewards that they should 'be careful that our men do properly the work which it is lawful to exact from them, and that they do not waste their time in running about to markets and fairs'. Bodo and Ermentrude and the three children, all attired in their best, did not consider it waste of time to go to the fair even twice or three times. They pretended that they wanted to buy salt to salt down their winter meat, or some vermilion dye to colour a frock for the baby. What they really wanted was to wander along the little rows of booths and look at all the strange things assembled there; for merchants came to St Denys to sell their rich goods from the distant East to Bodo's betters, and wealthy Frankish nobles bargained there for purple and silken robes with orange borders, stamped leather jerkins, peacock's feathers, and the scarlet plumage of flamingos (which they called 'phoenix skins'), scents and pearls and spices, almonds and raisins, and monkeys for their wives to play with.[25] Sometimes these merchants were Venetians, but more often they were Syrians or crafty Jews, and Bodo and his fellows laughed loudly over the story of how a Jewish merchant had tricked a certain bishop, who craved for all the latest novelties, by stuffing a mouse with spices and offering it for sale to him, saying that 'he had brought this most precious never-before-seen animal from Judea,' and refusing to take less than a whole measure of silver for it.[26] In exchange for their luxuries these merchants took away with them Frisian cloth, which was greatly esteemed, and corn and hunting dogs, and sometimes a piece of fine goldsmith's work, made in a monastic workshop. And Bodo would hear a hundred dialects and tongues, for men of Saxony and Frisia, Spain and Provence, Rouen and Lombardy, and perhaps an Englishman or two, jostled each other in the little streets; and from time to time there came also an Irish scholar with a manuscript to sell, and the strange, sweet songs of Ireland on his lips: A hedge of trees surrounds me, A blackbird's lay sings to me; Above my lined booklet The thrilling birds chant to me. In a grey mantle from the top of bushes The cuckoo sings: Verily--may the Lord shield me!-- Well do I write under the greenwood.[27] Then there were always jugglers and tumblers, and men with performing bears, and minstrels to wheedle Bodo's few pence out of his pocket. And it would be a very tired and happy family that trundled home in the cart to bed. For it is not, after all, so dull in the kitchen, and when we have quite finished with the emperor, 'Charlemagne and all his peerage', it is really worth while to spend a few moments with Bodo in his little manse. History is largely made up of Bodos. CHAPTER III _Marco Polo_ A VENETIAN TRAVELLER OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY Et por ce, veul ie que un et autre sachent a tos iors mais les euvres des Veneciens, et qui il furent, et dont il vindrent, et qui il sont, et comment il firent la noble Cite que l'en apele Venise, qui est orendroit la plus bele dou siecle.... La place de Monseignor Saint Marc est orendroit la plus bele place qui soit en tot li monde; que de vers li soleil levant est la plus bele yglise qui soit el monde, c'est l'Yglise de Monseignor Saint Marc. Et de les cele Yglise est li paleis de Monseignor li Dus, grant e biaus a mervoilles. --MARTINO DA CANALE And Kinsai [Hangchow] is the greatest city in the whole world, so great indeed that I should scarcely venture to tell of it, but that I have met at Venice people in plenty who have been there.... And if anyone should desire to tell of all the vastness and great marvels of this city, a good quire of paper would not hold the matter, I trow. For 'tis the greatest and noblest city, and the finest for merchandise, that the whole world containeth. --ODORIC OF PORDENONE Let us go back in mind--as would that we could go back in body--to the year 1268. It is a year which makes no great stir in the history books, but it will serve us well. In those days, as in our own, Venice lay upon her lagoons, a city (as Cassiodurus long ago saw her[B]) like a sea-bird's nest afloat on the shallow waves, a city like a ship, moored to the land but only at home upon the seas, the proudest city in all the Western world. For only consider her position. Lying at the head of the Adriatic, half-way between East and West, on the one great sea thoroughfare of medieval commerce, a Mediterranean seaport, yet set so far north that she was almost in the heart of Europe, Venice gathered into her harbour all the trade routes overland and overseas, on which pack-horses could travel or ships sail. Merchants bringing silk and spices, camphor and ivory, pearls and scents and carpets from the Levant and from the hot lands beyond it, all came to port in Venice. For whether they came by way of Egypt sailing between the low banks of the Nile and jolting on camels to Alexandria, or whether they came through the rich and pleasant land of Persia and the Syrian desert to Antioch and Tyre, or whether they slowly pushed their way in a long, thin caravan across the highlands of Central Asia, and south of the Caspian Sea to Trebizond, and so sailed through the Black Sea and the Dardanelles, Venice was their natural focus. Only Constantinople might have rivalled her, and Constantinople she conquered. To Venice, therefore, as if drawn by a magnet, came the spoils of the East, and from Venice they went by horse across the Alps by the Brenner and St Gothard passes to Germany and France, or in galleys by way of the Straits of Gibraltar to England and Flanders;[1] and the galleys and pack-horses came back again to Venice, laden with the metals of Germany, the furs of Scandinavia, the fine wools of England, the cloth of Flanders, and the wine of France. [Footnote B: 'Hic vobis, aquatilium avium more, domus est.'] But if geography gave Venice an unrivalled site, the Venetians did the rest. Through all the early years of their history they defied Constantinople to the east of them, and Pope and Holy Roman Emperor to the west; sometimes turning to one, sometimes to the other, but stubbornly bent all the while upon independence, replying, when invited to become subjects: 'God, Who is our help and protector has saved us to dwell upon these waters. This Venice, which we have raised in the lagoons, is our mighty habitation, no power of emperor or of prince can touch us'; apt, if threatened, to retire to their islands and derisively to fire cannon balls of bread into the mainland force, which sought to starve them out.[2] Always they were conscious that their future lay upon the waters, and in that East, whose colour had crept into their civilization and warmed their blood. They were eastern and western both, the Venetians, hot hearts for loving and conquering, icy heads for scheming and ruling. Bit by bit they secured the ring of mainland behind them, all the while keeping at bay the Saracen and Slav sea rovers, whose ships were the terror of the Mediterranean. Then they descended upon the pirates of Dalmatia, who thus harassed their trading vessels, and took all the Dalmatian coast. The Doge of Venice became Duke of Dalmatia. 'True it is,' says their chronicles, 'that the Adriatic Sea is in the duchy of Venice,'[3] and they called it the 'Gulf of Venice'. Now it was that there was first instituted the magnificent symbolical ceremony of wedding the sea, with the proud words 'Desponsamus te mare in signum veri perpetuique domini'![4] She was a maiden city, bright and free, No guile seduced, no force could violate, And when she took unto herself a mate She must espouse the everlasting sea. And truly it seemed as though the very sea had sworn to honour and obey her. Then came the Crusades, when Europe forgot its differences and threw itself upon the paynim who held the holy places of its faith, when men from all lands marched behind the banner of the Cross and the towers of Jerusalem were more real than the Tower of Babel. Now, at last, Venice saw her dream within her hand. It was Venice who provided galleys and Venice who provided convoys and commissariat and soldiers, at a good round sum; and when time came for the division of the spoil, Venice demanded in every captured town of Palestine and Syria a church, a counting-house and the right to trade without tolls. Her great chance came in the Fourth Crusade, when her old blind Doge Enrico Dandolo (whose blindness had the Nelson touch) upon the pretext that the Crusaders could not pay the transport fees agreed upon, turned the whole Crusade to the use of Venice, and conquered first Zara, which had dared to revolt from her, and then her ancient--her only--rival, the immortal Byzantium itself. It is true that the Pope excommunicated the Venetians when they first turned the armies against Zara, but what matter? They looted Constantinople and brought back the four great gilded horses to St Mark's--St Mark's, which has been compared to a robbers' cave crowded with the booty of the Levant, and which held the sacred body of the saint, stolen from Alexandria by the Venetians, nearly four centuries before, concealed in a tub of pickled pork, in order to elude the Moslems. A Venetian patriarch now said Mass in St Sophia. Venice received the proud title of 'Ruler of a half and a quarter of the Roman Empire,' ('quartæ partis et dimidiæ totius imperii Romaniæ'--the words have a ring of trumpets), and the Doge, buskined in scarlet like the ancient Roman emperors, now ruled supreme over four seas--the Adriatic, the Aegean, the Sea of Marmora, and the Black Sea. Venetian factories studded all the Levantine coasts, in Tripoli and Tyre, Salonica, Adrianople, and Constantinople, in Trebizond on the Black Sea, even at Caffa in the far Crimea, whence ran the mysterious road into Russia. Crete and Rhodes and Cyprus were hers; her galleys swept the pirates from the seas and brooked no rivals; all trade with the East must pass through Venice, and Venice only. The other trading cities of Italy struggled against her, and Genoa came near to rivalling her, but in 1258, and again in 1284, she utterly defeated the Genoese fleet. Not for the city of 'sea without fish, mountains without woods, men without faith, and women without shame' was it to bit the horses on St Mark's.[5] In 1268 Venice seemed supreme. Byzantium was her washpot and over the Levant she had cast her shoe. Truly her chronicler might write of her: Dalmatia, Albania, Rumania, Greece, Trebizond, Syria, Armenia, Egypt, Cyprus, Candia, Apulia, Sicily, and other countries, kingdoms and islands were the fruitful gardens, the proud castles of our people, where they found again pleasure, profit, and security.... The Venetians went about the sea, here and there and across the sea, and in all places wheresoever water runs, and bought merchandise and brought it to Venice from every side. Then there came to Venice Germans and Bavarians, French and Lombards, Tuscans and Hungarians, and every people that lives by merchandise and they took it to their countries. Small wonder that (as a later traveller observed) the Venetians were proud of their great rule, and when a son was born to a Venetian were wont to say among themselves, 'A Signor is born into the world.' Is it not true to say that Venice was the proudest city on earth, _la noble cite que l'en apele Venise, qui est orendroit la plus bele dou siecle_?[6] Life was a fair and splendid thing for those merchant princes, who held the gorgeous East in fee in the year of grace 1268. In that year traders in great stone counting-houses, lapped by the waters of the canals, were checking, book in hand, their sacks of cloves, mace and nutmegs, cinnamon and ginger from the Indies, ebony chessmen from Indo China, ambergris from Madagascar, and musk from Tibet. In that year the dealers in jewels were setting prices upon diamonds from Golconda, rubies and lapis lazuli from Badakhshan, and pearls from the fisheries of Ceylon; and the silk merchants were stacking up bales of silk and muslin and brocade from Bagdad and Yezd and Malabar and China. In that year young gallants on the Rialto (scented gallants, but each, like Shakespeare's Antonio, with a ship venturing into port somewhere in the Levant) rubbed elbows with men of all nations, heard travellers' tales of all lands, and at dawn slipped along the canals in gondolas (not black in those days, but painted and hung with silk), saluting the morning with songs; and the red-haired ladies of Venice whom centuries later Titian loved to paint, went trailing up and down the marble steps of their palaces, with all the brocades of Persia on their backs and all the perfumes of Arabia to sweeten their little hands. It was in that year, too, that one Martino da Canale, a clerk in the customs house, began to busy himself (like Chaucer after him) less with his accounts than with writing in the delectable French language ('por ce que lengue franceise cort parmi le monde, et est la plus delitable a lire et a oir que nule autre') a chronicle of Venice. It is of the water, watery, Canale's chronicle, like Ariel's dirge; he has indeed, 'that intenseness of feeling which seems to resolve itself into the elements which it contemplates.' Here is nothing indeed, of 'the surge and thunder of the Odyssey', but the lovely words sparkle like the sun on the waters of the Mediterranean, and like a refrain, singing itself in and out of the narrative, the phrase recurs, 'Li tens estoit clers et biaus ... et lors quant il furent en mer, li mariniers drecerent les voiles au vent, et lesserent core a ploine voiles les mes parmi la mer a la force dou vent';[7] for so much of the history of Venice was enacted upon deck. It is a passing proud chronicle, too, for Canale was, and well he knew it, a citizen of no mean city. 'Now would I,' he says, 'that every one and all know for ever the works of the Venetians, who they were and whence they came and what they are, and how they made the noble city which is called Venice, which is this day the fairest in the world. And I would that all those who are now living and those who are to come know how the noble city is builded and how all good things abound in her, and how the sire of the Venetians, the noble Doge, is powerful, and what nobility is found therein and the prowess of the Venetian people, and how they are all perfect in the faith of Jesu Christ and obedient to holy Church, and how they never disobey the commandment of holy Church. Within this noble Venice there dares to dwell neither heretic, nor usurer, murderer, thief nor robber. And I will tell you the names of all the Doges that have been in Venice, one after the other, and what they did to the honour of holy Church and of their noble City. And I will tell you the names of the noble captains whom the noble Doges sent in their time to lay low their enemies, and concerning the victories that they won I will have you know, for it is fitting.... In the year of the incarnation of our Lord Jesu Christ MCCLXVII years, in the time of Milord Renier Zeno, the high Doge of Venice, I laboured and strove until I found the ancient history of the Venetians, whence they came first and how they builded the noble city called Venice, which is today the fairest and the pleasantest in the world, full of beauty and of all good things. Merchandise flows through this noble city even as water flows from the fountains, and the salt water runs through it and round it and in all places save in the houses and the streets; and when the citizens go abroad they can return to their houses by land or by water, as they will. From all parts there come merchandise and merchants, who buy merchandise as they will and take it back to their own countries. Within this town is found food in great plenty, bread and wine, land fowl and river fowl, fresh meat and salt, and sea fish and river fish.... You may find within this fair town many men of gentle birth, both old men and young _damoisaus_ in plenty, and merchants with them, who buy and sell, and money changers and citizens of all crafts, and therewith mariners of all sorts, and ships to carry them to all lands and galleys to lay low their enemies. And in this fair town is also great plenty of ladies and damsels and maidens, very richly apparelled.'[8] It happened that there was a new Doge that year, our year 1268, Lorenzo Tiepolo by name, and a great procession of the gilds took place before the palace on the Piazza of St Mark to welcome his accession. Martino da Canale was watching it and wrote it all down in his chronicle. First came the navy sailing past in the harbour, fifty galleys and other ships, with their crews cheering and shouting on deck. Then came the gilds on foot: first the master smiths, with garlands on their heads and banners and trumpets; then the furriers apparelled in samite and scarlet silk, with mantles of ermine and vair; then the weavers richly bedight, and the ten master tailors in white with crimson stars. Then the master clothworkers passed, carrying boughs of olive and wearing crowns of olive on their heads; then the fustian makers in furred robes of their own weaving, and the quilt makers with garlands of gilt beads and white cloaks sewn with fleurs-de-lis, marching two by two, with little children singing _chansonettes_ and _cobles_ before them. Then came the makers of cloth of gold, all in cloth of gold, and their servants in cloth of gold or of purple, followed by the mercers in silk and the butchers in scarlet, the fish sellers robed and furred and garlanded, and the master barbers, having with them two riders attired as knights-errant, and four captive damsels, strangely garbed. Then came the glass-workers in scarlet furred with vair, and gold-fringed hoods, and rich garlands of pearls, carrying flasks and goblets of the famous Venetian glass before them, and the comb and lantern makers, with a lantern full of birds to let loose in the Doge's presence, and the goldsmiths wearing wreaths and necklaces of gold and silver beads and sapphires, emeralds, diamonds, topazes, jacinths, amethysts, rubies, jasper, and carbuncles. Master and servants alike were sumptuously clad, and almost all wore gold fringes on their hoods, and garlands of gilded beads. Each craft was accompanied by its band of divers instruments, and bore with it silver cups and flagons of wine, and all marched in fair order, singing ballads and songs of greeting, and saluted the Doge and Dogaressa in turn, crying 'Long live our lord, the noble Doge Lorenzo Tiepolo!' Gild after gild they marched in their splendour, lovely alike to ear and eye; and a week fled before the rejoicings were ended and all had passed in procession. Canale surpasses himself here, for he loved State ceremonies; he gives a paragraph to the advance of each gild, its salutation and withdrawal, and the cumulative effect of all the paragraphs is enchanting, like a prose ballade, with a repeated refrain at the end of every verse.[9] What, they lived once thus in Venice, where the merchants were the kings, Where St Mark's is, where the Doges used to wed the sea with rings? Listening to the magnificent salutation of the Doge by the priests of St Mark's, 'Criste, vince, Criste regne, Criste inpere. Notre signor Laurens Teuples, Des gracie, inclit Dus de Venise, Dalmace atque Groace, et dominator de la quarte partie et demi de tot l'enmire de Romanie, sauvement, honor, vie, et victoire. Saint Marc, tu le aie,'[10] who, hearing, could have doubted that Venice, defier of Rome and conqueror of Constantinople, was the finest, richest, most beautiful, and most powerful city in the world? But was she? Listen and judge. Thousands of miles away from Venice, across the lands and seas of Asia, a little south of the Yangtze River and close to the sea stood the city of Kinsai or Hangchow, the capital of the Sung emperors, who ruled Southern China, not yet (in 1268) conquered by the Tartars.[11] Like Venice, Kinsai stood upon lagoons of water and was intersected by innumerable canals. It was a hundred miles in circuit, not counting the suburbs which stretched round it, and there was not a span of ground which was not well peopled. It had twelve great gates, and each of the twelve quarters which lay within the gates was greater than the whole of Venice. Its main street was two hundred feet wide, and ran from end to end of the city, broken every four miles by a great square, lined with houses, gardens, palaces, and the shops of the artisans, who were ruled by its twelve great craft gilds. Parallel with the main street was the chief canal, beside which stood the stone warehouses of the merchants who traded with India. Twelve thousand stone bridges spanned its waterways, and those over the principal canals were high enough to allow ships with their tapering masts to pass below, while the carts and horses passed overhead. In its market-places men chaffered for game and peaches, sea-fish, and wine made of rice and spices; and in the lower part of the surrounding houses were shops, where spices and drugs and silk, pearls and every sort of manufactured article were sold. Up and down the streets of Kinsai moved lords and merchants clad in silk, and the most beautiful ladies in the world swayed languidly past in embroidered litters, with jade pins in their black hair and jewelled earrings swinging against their smooth cheeks.[12] On one side of this city lay a beautiful lake (famous in Chinese history, and still one of the fairest prospects upon earth), studded with wooded islands, on which stood pavilions with charming names: 'Lake Prospect', 'Bamboo Chambers', 'The House of the Eight Genii', and 'Pure Delight'. Here, like the Venetians, the men of Kinsai came for pleasure parties in barges, nobly hung and furnished, the cabins painted with flowers and mountain landscapes, and looking out they saw on one side the whole expanse of the city, its palaces, temples, convents, and gardens, and on the other the stretch of clear water, crowded with coloured pleasure boats, over which came echoing the high, clear voices and the tinkling instruments of the revellers. There is no space in which to tell of the King's palace, with its gardens and orchards, its painted pavilions, and the groves where the palace ladies coursed the game with dogs, and, tired of the pastime, flung off their robes and ran to the lake, where they disported themselves like a shoal of silver fishes. But a word must be said of the junks, which came sailing into the harbour four and twenty miles away, and up the river to the city; and of the great concourse of ships which came to Zaiton (perhaps the modern Amoy), the port of the province. Here every year came a hundred times more pepper than came to the whole of Christendom through the Levantine ports. Here from Indo China and the Indies came spices and aloes and sandalwood, nutmegs, spikenard and ebony, and riches beyond mention. Big junks laded these things, together with musk from Tibet, and bales of silk from all the cities of Mansi[C], and sailed away in and out of the East India Archipelago, with its spice-laden breezes billowing their sails, to Ceylon. There merchants from Malabar and the great trading cities of southern India took aboard their cargoes and sold them in turn to Arab merchants, who in their turn sold them to the Venetians in one or other of the Levantine ports. Europeans who saw Zaiton and the other Chinese seaports in after years were wont to say that no one, not even a Venetian, could picture to himself the multitude of trading vessels which sailed upon those eastern seas and crowded into those Chinese harbours. They said also with one accord that Kinsai was without doubt the finest and richest and noblest city in the world. To the men of Kinsai, Venice would have been a little suburb and the Levant a backyard. The whole of the east was their trading field, and their wealth and civilization were already old when Venice was a handful of mud huts peopled by fishermen. [Footnote C: Mansi or Manji was southern China and Cathay was northern China, the boundary between them lying along the River Hoang-Ho on the east and the southern boundary of Shensi on the west.] Nor was Kinsai alone and unmatched in all its wonder and beauty, for a three days' journey from it stood Sugui, which today we call Suchow, lying also on the great canal, with its circumference of twenty miles, its prodigious multitudes swarming the streets, its physicians, philosophers, and magicians; Sugui, with the ginger which was so common that forty pounds of it might be bought for the price of a Venetian silver groat, the silk which was manufactured in such vast quantities that all the citizens were dressed in it and still ships laden with it sailed away; Sugui under whose jurisdiction were sixteen wealthy cities, where trade and the arts flourished. If you had not seen Hangchow, you would have said that there was no city in the world, not Venice nor Constantinople nor another worthy to be named in the same breath with Sugui. The Chinese indeed, seeing the riches and beauty of these two cities, doubted whether even the pleasant courts of heaven could show their equal and proudly quoted the proverb: _Shang yeu t'ien t'ang, Hia yeu Su Hang_. (There's Paradise above, 'tis true, But here below we've Hang and Su.)[13] Kinsai seems far enough away in all conscience from Venice in the year 1268, and Venice was all unwitting of its existence, far beyond the sunrise. Yet there was in the city of the lagoons that year, watching the same procession of the gilds which Canale watched, a boy who was destined to link them for ever in the minds of men--a lean lad of fourteen, Marco Polo by name, who was always kicking his heels on the quay and bothering foreign sailors for tales of distant lands. He heard all they had to tell him very willingly, storing it up in that active brain of his, for his curiosity was insatiable; but always the tales that he heard most willingly were about the Tartars. At this time the Tartars were at the height of their power in the West and the East. Tartars ruled at Peking all over northern China, Corea, Mongolia, Manchuria, and Tibet, and took tribute from Indo-China and Java. Tartars were spread over central Asia, holding sway in Turkestan and Afghanistan. The Golden Horde ruled the Caucasus, a large part of Russia, and a piece of Siberia. Tartars held sway in Persia, Georgia, Armenia, and a part of Asia Minor. When the great Mangu Khan died in 1259, one empire lay spread across Asia and Europe, from the Yellow River to the Danube. There had been nothing like it in the world before, and there was nothing like it again, until the Russian Empire of modern times. By 1268 it was beginning to split up into the four kingdoms of China, central Asia, Russia, and Persia, but still it was one people. Now, the attitude of the West to the Tartars at this time was very interesting. At first it feared them as a new scourge of God, like Attila and his Huns; they overran Poland, ravaged Hungary, and seemed about to break like a great flood upon the West, and overwhelm it utterly. Then the tide rolled back. Gradually the West lost its first stupefaction and terror and began to look hopefully towards the Tartars as a possible ally against its age-old foe, the Moslem. The Christians of the West knew that the Tartars had laid the Moslem power low through the length and breadth of Asia, and they knew too, that the Tartars had no very sharply defined faith and were curious of all beliefs that came their way. Gradually the West became convinced that the Tartars might be converted to Christianity, and fight side by side beneath the Cross against the hated Crescent. There grew up the strange legend of Prester John, a Christian priest-king, ruling somewhere in the heart of Asia; and indeed little groups of Nestorian Christians did still survive in eastern Asia at this time.[14] Embassies began to pass between Tartar khans and western monarchs, and there began also a great series of missions of Franciscan friars to Tartary, men who were ethnologists and geographers at heart as well as missionaries, and have left us priceless accounts of the lands which they visited. In the year of grace 1268, much was known about central Asia, for in 1245 the Pope had sent the Italian friar John of Plano Carpini thither, and in 1251 another friar, William of Rubruck, a French Fleming, had been sent by the saintly Louis, King of France. Both got as far as Karakorum, the Tartar camp on the borders of northern China, though they did not enter China itself. They had brought back innumerable stories about the nomad conquerors, who carried their tents on carts, and drank fermented mares' milk, about the greatness of the khan and his welcome to the strangers from the West, and the interest with which he listened to their preaching.[15] These tales were common property now, and Marco Polo must have listened to them. Marco Polo was always talking of the Tartars, always asking about them. Indeed, he had reason to be interested in them. This (as we have said) was the year of grace 1268, and eight years before (some, indeed, say fifteen years) his father, Nicolo Polo, and his uncle Maffeo had vanished into Tartary. They were rich merchants, trading with their own ship to Constantinople, and there they had decided to go on a commercial venture into the lands of the Golden Horde, which lay to the north of the Black Sea. So they had sailed over to the Crimea, where they had a counting-house at Soldaia, and taking with them a store of costly jewels, for they were jewel merchants, they had set off on horseback to visit the Khan of the West Tartars. So much the Venetians knew, for word had come back from Soldaia of their venture; but they had never returned. And so Marco, kicking his heels upon the quay, caught sailor-men by the sleeve and asked them about those wild horsemen with their mares' milk and their magicians and their droves of cattle; and as he asked he wondered about his father and his uncle, and whether they were dead and lost for ever in the wilds of Tartary. But even while he asked and wondered and kicked his heels on the quay, while the Doge Tiepolo was watching the procession of the gilds and the clerk Canale was adding up customs dues or writing the ancient history of the Venetians, at that very moment the two Polos were slowly and wearily making their way across the heights of central Asia with a caravan of mules and camels, drawing near to golden Samarcand with its teeming bazaars, coming nearer and nearer to the West; and in the following year, 1269, they reached Acre, and took ship there for Venice, and so at last came home. They had a strange story to tell, stranger and better than anything the lean, inquisitive boy had heard upon the quays. They had soon disposed of their jewels and they had spent a year at the camp of the Khan of the Golden Horde of Kipchak on the mighty River Volga. Then war broke out between that ruler and the Khan who ruled the Persian Khanate, and it cut off their way back. But Marco's curiosity was inherited; and no Venetian was ever averse to seeing strange lands and seeking out new opportunities for trade; so the Polos decided to go on and visit the Khan of central Asia or Chagatai, and perhaps make their way back to Constantinople by some unfrequented route. They struggled over plains peopled only by tent-dwelling Tartars and their herds, until at last they reached the noble city of Bokhara. They must have followed the line of the Oxus River, and if we reverse the marvellous description which Matthew Arnold wrote of that river's course in _Sohrab and Rustum_, we shall have a picture of the Polos' journey: But the majestic River floated on, Out of the mist and hum of that low land, Into the frosty starlight, and there moved, Rejoicing, through the hush'd Chorasmian waste Under the solitary moon; he flow'd Right for the Polar Star, past Orgunjè, Brimming and bright and large: then sands begin To hem his watery march, and dam his streams, And split his currents; that for many a league The shorn and parcell'd Oxus strains along Through beds of sand and matted rushy isles-- Oxus, forgetting the bright speed he had In his high mountain cradle in Pamere, A foil'd circuitous wanderer:--till at last The long'd-for dash of waves is heard, and wide His luminous home of waters opens, bright And tranquil, from whose floor the new-bathed stars Emerge and shine upon the Aral Sea. For three years the Polos remained at Bokhara, until one day it happened that an embassy came to the city, on its way back from the khan in Persia to the great Khan Kublai, who ruled in far-off China, and to whom all the Tartar rulers owed allegiance. The chief ambassador was struck with the talents and charm of the brothers, who had now become proficient in the Tartar language, and persuaded them to accompany him on his journey to the presence of the Great Khan, who had never yet set eyes on a man of the West, and would, he assured them, receive them honourably. They would not have been Venetians had they refused such an opportunity, and, taking their Venetian servants with them, they journeyed for a year with the Tartar embassy across the heart of Asia, and so reached the great Kublai Khan. Many years later Marco himself described their reception, as they had told it to him: Being introduced to the presence of the Grand Khan Kublai, the travellers were received by him with the condescension and affability that belonged to his character, and as they were the first Latins who had made their appearance in that country, they were entertained with feasts and honoured with other marks of distinction. Entering graciously into conversations with them, he made earnest inquiries on the subject of the western parts of the world, of the Emperor of the Romans, and of other Christian kings and princes ... and above all he questioned them particularly respecting the Pope, the affairs of the Church, and the religious worship and doctrine of the Christians. Being well instructed and discreet men, they gave appropriate answers upon all these points, and as they were perfectly acquainted with the Tartar language, they expressed themselves always in becoming terms; insomuch that the Grand Khan, holding them in high estimation, frequently commanded their attendance.[16] [Illustration: III. PART OF A LANDSCAPE BY CHAO MÊNG-FU] The Great Khan finally decided to send these two intelligent strangers back to their own land on a mission from himself to the Pope, asking for a hundred men of learning to be sent to teach and preach to his Tartars, and for some holy oil from the lamp which burned over Christ's sepulchre in Jerusalem. He provided them with a golden tablet of honour, which acted as a passport and secured that they should be entertained and their journey facilitated from city to city in all his dominions, and so they set forth once more upon their homeward journey, But they were delayed by the dangers and difficulties of travel, 'the extreme cold, the snow, the ice, and the flooding of the rivers', and it was three years before they at last reached Acre in the April of 1269, and finding that the Pope had died the year before, and that no election had yet been made, so that they could not immediately accomplish their mission, they decided to visit their home again, and so went back to Venice. There Nicolo found that his wife, who had been with child at his departure, was dead, leaving behind her a son Marco, our young haunter of quays. [Illustration: IV. MADAME EGLENTYNE AT HOME] This was the marvellous tale which the same Marco drank in from the lips of his new-found father and uncle. But more marvels were to come. For two years the Venetians remained at home, awaiting the election of a Pope in order to deliver the Great Khan's letters; but no election was made, and at last, fearing that Kublai might suspect them of playing him false, they decided to return to the East, and this time they took with them Marco, now a well-grown lad of sixteen or seventeen years with a bright eye that looked everywhere and took in everything, observant and sober beyond his age. But when they got as far as Ayas on the Gulf of Scanderoon, news was brought them of the election of Tebaldo di Piacenza as Pope Gregory X, and as Tebaldo had already interested himself in their mission, they returned with all speed to Acre, and obtained from him letters to the Khan (they had already visited Jerusalem and provided themselves with some of the holy oil), and two Dominican friars, 'men of letters and science as well as profound theologians,' though not the hundred men of learning for whom the Khan had asked; and so they set out again from Acre in November 1271. The Dominicans may have been profound theologians, but they were somewhat chicken-hearted adventurers, and when rumours reached them of wars in the district of Armenia, through which they had to pass, they hastily handed over their letters to the Venetians, put themselves under the protection of the Knights Templars, and scuttled back to the coast and safety as fast as they could go, leaving the Polos, 'undismayed by perils and difficulties, to which they had long been inured,' to proceed alone. Assuredly, St Francis crows over St Dominic somewhere in the courts of Heaven; his friars never feared for their skins, as they travelled blithely into the heat of India and the cold of central Asia; and it is easy to imagine the comments of fat William of Rubruck upon the flight of the profound theologians. The account of this second journey of the Polos may be read in the wonderful book which Marco afterwards wrote to describe the wonders of the world. They went from Lajazzo through Turcomania, past Mount Ararat, where Marco heard tell that Noah's ark rested, and where he first heard also of the oil wells of Baku and the great inland sea of Caspian. Past Mosul and Bagdad they went, through Persia, where brocades are woven and merchants bring caravan after caravan of treasures, to Hormuz, on the Persian Gulf, into which port put the ships from India, laden with spices, drugs, scented woods, and jewels, gold tissues and elephants' teeth. Here they meant to take ship, but they desisted, perhaps because they feared to trust themselves to the flimsy nailless vessels in which the Arabs braved the dangers of the Indian Ocean. So they turned north again and prepared to make the journey by land. They traversed the salt desert of Kerman, through Balk and Khorassan to Badakhshan, where there are horses bred from Alexander the Great's steed Bucephalus, and ruby mines and lapis lazuli. It is a land of beautiful mountains and wide plains, of trout streams and good hunting, and here the brothers sojourned for nearly a year, for young Marco had fallen ill in the hot plains: a breath of mountain air blows through the page in which he describes how amid the clean winds his health came back to him. When he was well, they went on again, and ascended the upper Oxus to the highlands of Pamir, 'the roof of the world' as it has been called in our own time, a land of icy cold, where Marco saw and described the great horned sheep which hunters and naturalists still call after him the _Ovis Poli_,[17] a land which no traveller (save Benedict Goës, about 1604) described again, until Lieutenant John Wood of the Indian Navy went there in 1838. Thence they descended upon Kashgar, Yarkand, and Khotan, where jade is found, regions which no one visited again until 1860. From Khotan they pushed on to the vicinity of Lake Lob, never to be reached again until a Russian explorer got there in 1871. They halted there to load asses and camels with provisions, and then, with sinking hearts, they began the terrible thirty days' journey across the Gobi Desert. Marco gives a vivid description of its terrors, voices which seem to call the traveller by name, the march of phantom cavalcades, which lures them off the road at night, spirits which fill the air with sounds of music, drums and gongs and the clash of arms--all those illusions which human beings have heard and seen and feared in every desert and in every age. What might this be? A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beckoning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses. At last they arrived safely at Tangut in the extreme north-west of China, and, skirting the frontier across the great steppes of Mongolia, they were greeted by the Khan's people, who had been sent forward to meet them at the distance of forty days' journey, and so at last they reached his presence in the May of 1275, having journeyed for three years and a half. The Great Khan received the Polos kindly, listened attentively to the account which they gave of their mission, commended them for their zeal and fidelity, and received the holy oil and the Pope's gifts with reverence. He then observed the boy Marco, now a 'young gallant' and personable enough, no doubt, and inquired who he was, and Nicolo made answer, 'Sire, this is your servant, and my son,' to which the Khan replied, 'He is welcome, and much it pleases me,' and enrolled Marco among his own attendants. It was the beginning of a long and close association, for Kublai Khan soon found that Marco Polo was both discreet and intelligent, and began to employ him on various missions. Moreover, Marco, for his part, found that the Great Khan was always desirous of learning the manners and customs of the many tribes over whom he ruled. Kublai had to the full that noble curiosity which is the beginning of wisdom, and it irked him exceedingly that his envoys, good conscientious men, followed their noses upon his business, looking neither to right nor to left, and as like as not never even noticed that among the aboriginal hill tribes of the interior called Miaotzu there prevailed the peculiar and entertaining custom of the _couvade_, wherein Chinese go to bed And lie in, in their ladies' stead.[18] 'The Prince, in consequence,' says Marco, 'held them for no better than fools and dolts and would say, "I had far liever hearken about the strange things and the manners of the different countries you have seen than merely be told of the business you went upon,"' Very different was the habit of the Venetian, who as a lad, had lent ear so readily to swarthy sailors on the Rialto. He quickly picked up several of the languages current in the Great Khan's empire, and here is his account of his proceedings when on a mission to foreign parts: Perceiving that the Great Khan took a pleasure in hearing accounts of whatever was new to him respecting the customs and manners of people, and the peculiar circumstances of distant countries, he endeavoured, wherever he went, to obtain correct information on these subjects and made notes of all he saw and heard, in order to gratify the curiosity of his master. In short, during seventeen years that he continued in his service, he rendered himself so useful, that he was employed on confidential missions to every part of the empire and its dependencies; and sometimes also he travelled on his own private account, but always with the consent and sanctioned by the authority of the Grand Khan. In such circumstances it was that Marco Polo had the opportunity of acquiring a knowledge, either by his own observation or by what he collected from others, of so many things until his time unknown, respecting the Eastern parts of the world, and these he diligently and regularly committed to writing.... And by this means he obtained so much honour that he provoked the jealousy of other officers of the court.[19] It is small wonder that when first the lad came back with his reports the Great Khan and his courtiers marvelled and exclaimed, 'If this young man live he will assuredly be a person of great worth and ability.' It was while on these various public missions that Marco Polo journeyed through the provinces of Shansi, Shensi, and Szechuen, and skirted the edge of Tibet to Yunnan, and entered Northern Burma, lands unknown again to the West until after 1860. For three years he was himself governor of the great city of Yangchow, which had twenty-four towns under its jurisdiction, and was full of traders and makers of arms and military accoutrements.[20] He visited Karakorum in Mongolia, the old Tartar capital, and with his Uncle Maffeo spent three years in Tangut. On another occasion he went on a mission to Cochin China, and by sea to the southern states of India, and he has left a vivid picture of the great trading cities of Malabar. He might indeed have pondered with Ulysses, I am become a name For always roaming with a hungry heart, Much have I seen and known, cities of men, And manners, climates, countries, governments, Myself not least, but honoured of them all. He describes the great capital Cambaluc (Peking) in the north, and the beautiful Kinsai (Hangchow) in the south. He describes the Khan's summer palace at Shandu, with its woods and gardens, its marble palace, its bamboo pavilion swung like a tent from two hundred silken cords, its stud of white mares, and its wonder-working magicians. Indeed his description of the summer palace is better known to Englishmen than any other part of his work, for Shandu is Xanadu, which Coleridge saw in a dream after he had been reading Marco's book and wove into wonderful verse: In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure dome decree, Where Alph the sacred river ran, Past caverns measureless to man, Down to a sunless sea. And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossomed many an incense bearing tree, And here were forests, ancient as the hills Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. Nor is it only palaces which Marco Polo describes, for he tells of the great canal and inland river trade of China, the exports and imports at its harbours, the paper money, the system of posts and caravanserais, which linked it together. He gives an unsurpassed picture of that huge, rich, peaceful empire, full of wealth and commerce and learned men and beautiful things, and of its ruler Kublai Khan, one of the noblest monarchs who ever sat upon a throne, who, since 'China is a sea that salts all the rivers that flow into it,'[21] was far more than a barbarous Mongol khan, was in very truth a Chinese emperor, whose house, called by the Chinese the 'Yuan Dynasty', takes its place among the great dynasties of China. Even more than Marco Polo tells us he must, indeed, have seen. The impersonality of the greater part of the book is its one blemish, for we would fain know more of how he lived in China. There is some evidence that he consorted with the Mongol conquerors rather than with the Chinese, and that Chinese was not one of the languages which he learned. He makes no mention of several characteristic Chinese customs, such as the compressed feet of the women, and fishing with cormorants (both of which are described by Ordoric of Pordenone after him); he travelled through the tea districts of Fo-kien, but he never mentions tea-drinking, and he has no word to say even of the Great Wall.[22] And how typical a European he is, in some ways, for all his keen interest in new and strange things. 'They are,' he says of the peaceful merchants and scholars of Suchow, 'a pusillanimous race and solely occupied with their trade and manufactures. In these indeed they display considerable ability, and if they were as enterprising, manly, and warlike as they are ingenious, so prodigious is their number that they might not only subdue the whole of the province, but carry their rule further still.'[23] Nearly five hundred years later we find the same judgement expressed in different words: 'Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.' The answer is a question: Would you rather be the pusillanimous Chinese, who painted the landscape roll of which a portion is reproduced opposite page 52, or the enterprising, manly, and warlike European of the same period, whose highest achievement in pictorial art is the picture of Marco Polo's embarkation, reproduced opposite page 21? What is civilization and what progress? Yet Marco Polo shows himself throughout his book far from unable to appreciate other standards than those of his own land and religion, for of Sakya-muni Buddha he says that, 'had he been a Christian he would have been a great saint of our Lord Jesus Christ,' and he could honour Kublai as that great Khan deserved. Nevertheless, although Marco Polo shows less knowledge of the Chinese than one might expect from the extraordinary detail and fidelity of his observation in other directions, he must have known many of these charming and cultivated people, at Kinsai or Cambaluc, or at the city which he governed. Among others, he must have known the great artist who painted the roll mentioned above, Chao Mêng-fu, whom the Chinese called '_Sung ksüeh Tao jen_' or the 'Apostle of Pine Trees and Snow'. He was a lineal descendant of the founder of the Sung dynasty and a hereditary official. When that dynasty at last fell before the Tartars, he and his friend Ch'ien Hsüan, 'the Man of the Jade Pool and Roaring Torrent', retired into private life. But in 1286 Chao Mêng-fu was summoned to court by Kublai Khan, and, to the indignation of his friend, returned and became secretary in the Board of War, occupying his time in this post (what must Marco Polo have thought of him!) in painting his marvellous pictures. He became a great favourite of the Khan and was always about the court, and Marco Polo must have known him well and perhaps have watched him at work painting those matchless landscapes, and those pictures of horses and men for which he was famous. Marco loved horses, as, indeed, he loved all kinds of sport (of which he had plenty, for the Khan was a great hunter and hawker), and he has left a word picture of the white brood mares at Shansi, which may be set beside Chao Mêng-fu's brush picture of the 'Eight Horses in the Park of Kublai Khan'.[24] He knew, too, perhaps Chao Mêng-fu's wife, the Lady Kuan, who painted most exquisitely the graceful bamboo and the peony, so loved by Chinese artists, and of whom it is related that 'she would watch the moving shadows of the sprays thrown by the moon on the paper windows, and transfer the fugitive outlines to paper with a few strokes of her supple brush, so that every smallest scrap of her work was mounted in albums as models for others to copy'.[25] Chao Mêng-fu and the Lady Kuan had a son, Chao Yung, who is of special interest to us, for he painted a picture of a Tangut hunter, and Marco Polo has also given a description of the Tartar horsemen and of the province of Tangut, where he saw and described the musk deer and the yak. But we must return to the history of the Polos in China. From time to time in Marco's book we hear also of his father and uncle, travelling about the empire, growing rich by trade, and amassing a store of those jewels, in the value of which they were so skilled, even helping the Khan to reduce a rebel town, by constructing siege engines for him on the European model, handy Venetians that they were, who could lay their hands to anything.[27] Without doubt they were proud of their Marco, who from an inquisitive lad had grown to so wise and observant a man, and had risen to so high a position. So for seventeen years the three Polos abode in the Khan's service in China. The long months slipped by; and at last they began to feel upon them a longing to see Venice and the lagoons again, and to hear Mass once more beneath the majestic roof of St Mark's before they died. Moreover, Kublai Khan was growing old himself, and the favour which he had always shown to them had excited some jealousy among his own people, and they feared what might happen when he died. But the old Khan was adamant to all their prayers; wealth and honours were theirs for the asking, but he would not let them go. They might, indeed, have died in China, and we of the West might never have heard of Marco Polo or of Kublai Khan, but for a mere accident, a stroke of fate, which gave them their chance. In 1286 Arghun, the Khan of Persia, lost by death his favourite wife Bolgana, and, according to her dying wish, he sent ambassadors to the Court of Peking to ask for another bride from her own Mongol tribe. Their overland route home again was endangered by a war, and they therefore proposed to return by sea. Just at that moment, Marco Polo happened to return from a voyage on which he had been sent, and spoke with such assurance of the ease with which it had been accomplished, that the three ambassadors conceived a strong desire to take with them all three of these ingenious Venetians, who seemed to know so much about ships. Thus it was that the great Khan was prevailed upon, very reluctantly, to let them go. Early in 1292 they set sail from the busy port of Zaiton in fourteen big Chinese junks (of which Marco, writing of the shipping of the Indian and China seas, has left an excellent description),[28] with the three envoys, the princess, a beautiful girl of seventeen, 'moult bèle dame at avenant,' says Marco, who had an eye for pretty ladies, and a large suite of attendants. One version of Marco's book says that they took with them also the daughter of the king of Mansi, one of those Sung princesses who in happier days had wandered beside the lake in Hangchow, and who had no doubt been brought up at Cambaluc by the care of Kublai Khan's favourite queen, the Lady Jamui. The voyage was a long and difficult one; they suffered lengthy delays in Sumatra, Ceylon, and Southern India, occupied by Marco in studying the sea charts of the coast of India which the Arab pilots showed him, and adding to his knowledge of these parts, which he had already visited. Thus it was over two years before the junks reached Persia, and two of the three envoys and a large number of their suite had died by the way. When at last they landed, it was found that Arghun, the prospective bridegroom, had meanwhile died too, leaving his throne in the charge of a regent for his young son. But on the regent's advice a convenient solution of the difficulty was found by handing the princess over to this prince, and Marco and his uncles duly conducted her to him in the province of Timochain, where Marco Polo noticed that the women were 'in my opinion the most beautiful in the world', where stood the famed and solitary _arbor secco_, and where men still told tales of great Alexander and Darius. There they took leave of their princess, who had come on the long voyage to love them like fathers, so Marco says, and wept sorely when they parted. It was while they were still in Persia, where they stayed for nine months after handing over the princess, that the Polos received news of the death of the Great Khan whom they had served so faithfully for so many years. He died at the ripe age of eighty, and with his death a shadow fell over central Asia, darkening the shining yellow roofs of Cambaluc, the barren plains Of Sericana, where Chineses drive With sails and wind their cany waggons light, the minarets of Persia, and the tents of wild Kipchak Tartars, galloping over the Russian steppes. So wide had been the sway of Kublai Khan. A shadow fell also upon the heart of Marco Polo. It was as though a door had clanged to behind him, never to open again. 'In the course of their journey,' he says, 'our travellers received intelligence of the Great Khan having departed this life, which entirely put an end to all prospects of their revisiting those regions.' So he and his elders went on by way of Tabriz, Trebizond, and Constantinople to Venice, and sailed up to the city of the lagoons at long last at the end of 1295. A strange fairy-tale legend has come down to us about the return of the Polos. 'When they got thither,' says Ramusio, who edited Marco's book in the fifteenth century, 'the same fate befell them as befell Ulysses, who when he returned after his twenty years' wanderings to his native Ithaca was recognized by nobody.' When, clad in their uncouth Tartar garb, the three Polos knocked at the doors of the Ca' Polo, no one recognized them, and they had the greatest difficulty in persuading their relatives and fellow-Venetians that they were indeed those Polos who had been believed dead for so many years. The story goes that they satisfactorily established their identity by inviting all their kinsmen to a great banquet, for each course of which they put on a garment more magnificent than the last, and finally, bringing in their coarse Tartar coats, they ripped open the seams and the lining thereof, 'upon which there poured forth a great quantity of precious stones, rubies, sapphires, carbuncles, diamonds, and emeralds, which had been sewn into each coat with great care, so that nobody could have suspected that anything was there.... The exhibition of such an extraordinary and infinite treasure of jewels and precious stones, which covered the table, once more filled all present with such astonishment that they were dumb and almost beside themselves with surprise: and they at once recognized these honoured and venerated gentlemen in the Ca' Polo, whom at first they had doubted and received them with the greatest honour and reverence.[29] Human nature has changed little since the thirteenth century. The precious stones are a legend, but no doubt the Polos brought many with them, for they were jewel merchants by trade; they had had ample opportunities for business in China, and the Great Khan had loaded them with 'rubies and other handsome jewels of great value' to boot. Jewels were the most convenient form in which they could have brought home their wealth. But the inquiring Marco brought other things also to tickle the curiosity of the Venetians, as he lets fall from time to time in his book. He brought, for example, specimens of the silky hair of the Tangut yak, which his countrymen much admired, the dried head and feet of a musk deer, and the seeds of a dye plant (probably indigo) from Sumatra, which he sowed in Venice, but which never came up, because the climate was not sufficiently warm.[30] He brought presents also for the Doge; for an inventory made in 1351 of things found in the palace of Marino Faliero includes among others a ring given by Kublai Khan, a Tartar collar, a three-bladed sword, an Indian brocade, and a book 'written by the hand of the aforesaid Marco,' called _De locis mirabilibus Tartarorum_.[31] The rest of Marco Polo's life is quickly told. The legend goes that all the youth of Venice used to resort to the Ca' Polo in order to hear his stories, for not even among the foreign sailors on the quays, where once the boy Marco had wandered and asked about the Tartars, were stories the like of his to be heard. And because he was always talking of the greatness of Kublai Khan's dominions, the millions of revenue, the millions of junks, the millions of riders, the millions of towns and cities, they gave him a nickname and jestingly called him Marco _Milione_, or _Il Milione_, which is, being interpreted, 'Million Marco'; and the name even crept into the public documents of the Republic, while the courtyard of his house became known as the _Corte Milione_. To return from legend to history, the ancient rivalry between Venice and Genoa had been growing during Marco Polo's absence, nor had Venice always prevailed. Often as her galleys sailed, dipping deep For Famagusta and the hidden sun That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire, ... Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges, The pirate Genoese Hell raked them till they rolled Blood, water, fruit, and corpses up the hold. At last in 1298, three years after Marco's return, a Genoese fleet under Lamba Doria sailed for the Adriatic, to bate the pride of Venice in her own sea. The Venetians fitted out a great fleet to meet it, and Marco Polo, the handy man who knew so much about navigation, albeit more skilled with Chinese junks than with western ships, went with it as gentleman commander of a galley. The result of the encounter was a shattering victory for the Genoese off Curzola. Sixty-eight Venetian galleys were burnt, and seven thousand prisoners were haled off to Genoa, among them Marco Polo, who had now a taste of the results of that enterprise, manliness, and warfare, whose absence he so deprecated in the men of Suchow. But soon there began to run through the streets and courtyards of Genoa a rumour that in prison there lay a certain Venetian captain, with tales so wonderful to beguile the passing hours that none could tire of hearing them; and anon the gallants and sages and the bold ladies of Genoa were flocking, just as the men of the Rialto had flocked before, to hear his stories of Kublai Khan. Lord of the fruits of Tartary Her rivers silver-pale, Lord of the hills of Tartary, Glen, thicket, wood, and dale, Her flashing stars, her scented breeze, Her trembling lakes, like foamless seas, Her bird-delighting citron-trees In every purple vale. 'Messer Marco,' so runs Ramusio's account of the tradition which lingered in Venice in his day, 'finding himself in this position, and witnessing the general eagerness to hear all about Cathay and the Great Khan, which indeed compelled him daily to repeat his story till he was weary, was advised to put the matter in writing, so he found means to get a letter written to his father in Venice, in which he desired the latter to send those notes and memoranda which he had brought home with him.' It happened that in prison with Marco Polo there lay a certain Pisan writer of romances, Rusticiano by name,[32] who had probably been taken prisoner before at the battle of Melaria (1284), when so many Pisan captives had been carried to Genoa, that the saying arose 'He who would see Pisa let him go to Genoa.' Rusticiano was skilled in the writing of French, the language _par excellence_ of romances, in which he had written versions of the Round Table Tales, and in him Marco Polo found a ready scribe, who took down the stories as he told them, in the midst of the crowd of Venetian prisoners and Genoese gentlemen, raptly drinking in all the wonders of Kublai Khan. It was by a just instinct that, when all was written, Rusticiano prefixed to the tale that same address to the lords and gentlemen of the world, bidding them to take heed and listen, which he had been wont to set at the beginning of his tales of Tristan and Lancelot and King Arthur: 'Ye Lords, Emperors and Kings, Dukes and Marquises, Counts, Knights and Burgesses and all ye men who desire to know the divers races of men and the diversities of the different regions of the world, take ye this book and cause it to be read, and here shall ye find the greatest marvels.' But he adds, 'Marco Polo, a wise and learned citizen of Venice, states distinctly what things he saw and what things he heard from others, for this book will be a truthful one.' Marco Polo's truthful marvels were more wonderful even than the exploits of Arthur's knights, and were possibly better suited to the respectable Rusticiano's pen, for his only other claim to distinction in the eyes of posterity seems to be that in his abridgment of the Romance of Lancelot he entirely omits the episode (if episode it can be called) of the loves of Lancelot and Guinevere. 'Alas,' remarks his French editor, 'that the copy of Lancelot which fell into the hands of poor Francesca of Rimini was not one of those expurgated by Rusticiano!' [33] Marco Polo was released from prison (there must have been mourning in the palaces of Genoa) and returned to Venice at the end of a year. Sometimes hereafter his name occurs in the records of Venice, as he moves about on his lawful occasions.[34] In 1305 we find 'Nobilis Marchus Polo Milioni' standing surety for a wine smuggler; in 1311 he is suing a dishonest agent who owes him money on the sale of musk (he, Marco, had seen the musk deer in its lair); and in 1323 he is concerned in a dispute about a party wall. We know too, from his will, that he had a wife named Donata, and three daughters, Fantina, Bellela, and Moreta. Had he loved before, under the alien skies where his youth was spent, some languid, exquisite lady of China, or hardy Tartar maid? Had he profited himself from the strange marriage customs of Tibet, of which he remarks (with one of his very rare gleams of humour), 'En cele contree aurent bien aler les jeume de seize anz en vingt quatre'? Had Fantina, Bellela, and Moreta half-brothers, flying their gerfalcons at the quails by the shores of the 'White Lake' where the Khan hunted, and telling tales of the half legendary father, who sailed away for ever when they were boys in the days of Kublai Khan? These things we cannot know, nor can we ever guess whether he regretted that only daughters sprang from his loins in the city of the lagoons, and no Venetian son to go venturing again to the far-distant country where assuredly he had left a good half of his heart. Perhaps he talked of it sometimes to Peter, his Tartar servant, whom he freed at his death 'from all bondage as completely as I pray God to release mine own soul from all sin and guilt'. Some have thought that he brought Peter the Tartar with him from the East, and the thought is a pleasant one; but it is more likely that he bought him in Italy, for the Venetians were inveterate slave-owners, and captive Tartars were held of all the slaves the strongest and best. So his life passed; and in 1324 Marco Polo died, honoured much by his fellow-citizens, after making a will which is still preserved in the library of St Mark's. A characteristic story of his death-bed is related by a Dominican friar, one Jacopo of Acqui, who wrote some time later. 'What he told in the book,' says Jacopo, 'was not as much as he had really seen, because of the tongues of detractors, who being ready to impose their own lies on others, are over hasty to set down as lies what they in their perversity disbelieve or do not understand. And because there are many great and strange things in that book, which are reckoned past all credence, he was asked by his friends on his death-bed to correct the book, by removing everything that went beyond the facts. To which his reply was that he had not told _one half_ of what he had really seen.'[35] How well one can see that last indignant flash of the dying observer, who in the long years of his youth had taken notes of strange tribes and customs for the wise and gracious Kublai Khan, and whom little men now dared to doubt. Indeed, modern discovery has entirely confirmed the exactitude of Marco Polo's observation. It is true that he sometimes repeated some very tall stories which had been told to him, of dog-faced men in the Andaman Islands and of the 'male and female islands' so beloved of medieval geographers. These were sailors' yarns, and where Marco Polo reports what he has seen with his own eyes, he reports with complete accuracy, nor does he ever pretend to have seen a place which he had not visited. The explorers of our own day, Aurel Stein, Ellsworth Huntington, and Sven Hedin, travelling in central Asia, have triumphantly vindicated him. 'It is,' says an eminent French historian, 'as though the originals of very old photographs had been suddenly rediscovered: the old descriptions of things which were unchanged could be perfectly superimposed upon present reality,'[36] and Huntington and Aurel Stein took with them to the inaccessible districts of central Asia as guide-books the book of the Chinese pilgrim Hiwen Thsang (seventh century) and the book of Marco Polo, and over and over again found how accurate were their descriptions. It is indeed almost impossible to exaggerate the extent of Marco Polo's accomplishment. It is best estimated in the often-quoted words of Sir Henry Yule, whose edition of his book is one of the great works of English scholarship: He was the first traveller to trace a route across the whole longitude of Asia, naming and describing kingdom after kingdom, which he had seen with his own eyes, the desert of Persia, the flowering plateaux and wild gorges of Badakhshan, the jade-bearing rivers of Khotan, the Mongol steppes, cradle of the power that had so lately threatened to swallow up Christendom, the new and brilliant court that had been established at Cambaluc: the first Travellers to reveal China in all its wealth and vastness, its mighty rivers, its huge cities, its rich manufactures, its swarming population, the inconceivably vast fleets that quickened its seas and inland waters; to tell us of the nations on its borders with all their eccentricities of manners and worship; of Tibet with its sordid devotees; of Burma with its golden pagodas and their tinkling crowns; of Laos, of Siam, of Cochin China, of Japan, the Eastern Thule, with its rosy pearls and golden-roofed palaces; the first to speak of that Museum of Beauty and Wonder, still so imperfectly ransacked, the Indian Archipelago, source of those aromatics then so highly prized and whose origin was so dark; of Java the Pearl of Islands; of Sumatra with its many kings, its strange costly products, and its cannibal races; of the naked savages of Nicobar and Andaman; of Ceylon, the Isle of Gems, with its Sacred Mountain and its Tomb of Adam; of India the Great, not as a dreamland of Alexandrian fables, but as a country seen and partially explored, with its virtuous Brahmans, its obscene ascetics, its diamonds and the strange tales of their acquisition, its sea-beds of pearl and its powerful sun; the first in modern times to give any distinct account of the secluded Christian Empire of Abyssinia, to speak, though indeed dimly, of Zanzibar with its negroes and its ivory and of the vast and distant Madagascar, bordering on the Dark Ocean of the South, with its Ruc and other monstrosities; and in a remotely opposite region, of Siberia and the Arctic Ocean, of dog-sledges, white bears and reindeer-riding Tunguses.[37] The knowledge which Marco Polo had thus brought to Europe, the intercourse between East and West which his experience had shown to be so desirable, continued to grow after him. Merchants and missionaries alike travelled by land or sea eastward to Cathay.[38] Another of those indomitable Franciscan friars, John of Monte Corvino, went out at the age of fifty and became Archbishop of Peking. Churches and houses of friars were founded in some of the Chinese cities. Odoric of Pordenone, another friar, and a very good observer too, set forth in 1316 and sailed round India and through the Spice Islands by the same sea route by which the Polos had brought their Tartar princess back to Persia, and so reached Canton, 'a city as big as three Venices ... and all Italy hath not the amount of craft that this one city hath.' He left a wonderful account of his travels in China, including descriptions of Peking and Hangchow, and ends his stories with the words, 'As for me, from day to day I prepare myself to return to those countries, in which I am content to die, if it pleaseth Him from whom all good things do come'--no doubt where he had left his heart, but he died at Udine in Italy. Later there went out another friar, John Marignolli, who was Papal Legate to Peking from 1342 to 1346. Nor was it only missionaries who went to Cathay. Odoric, speaking of the wonders of Hangchow, refers for confirmation to Venetian traders who have visited it: ''Tis the greatest city in the whole world, so great indeed that I should scarcely venture to tell of it, but that I have met at Venice people in plenty who have been there'; John of Monte Corvino was accompanied by Master Peter of Lucolongo, 'a great merchant,' and John Marignolli mentions a _fondaco_ for the use of Christian merchants, which was attached to one of the Franciscan convents at Zaiton. Above all, there is Francis Balducci Pegolotti, that intrepid factor who served the great commercial house of the Bardi of Florence, and who wrote a priceless handbook for the use of merchants about 1340. In this he gives detailed instructions for the guidance of a merchant, who wishes to proceed from Tana on the Black Sea by the overland route across Asia to Cathay and back again with £12,000 worth of silk in his caravan, and remarks casually, in passing, 'The road you travel from Tana to Cathay is perfectly safe, whether by day or night, according to what merchants say who have used it'--'il chanmino dandare dana Tana al Ghattajo _è sichurissimo_![39] Think only of what it all means. Marco Polo travelling where no man set foot again till the twentieth century. The bells of the Christian church ringing sweetly in the ears of the Great Khan in Peking. The long road across central Asia perfectly safe for merchants. The 'many persons at Venice' who have walked in the streets of Hangchow. This is in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, in the despised and hidebound Middle Ages. _È sichurissimo_! It takes some of the gilt off Columbus and Vasco da Gama and the age (forsooth) of 'discovery'. But a change came over everything in the middle of the fourteenth century. Darkness fell again and swallowed up Peking and Hangchow, the great ports, the crowding junks, the noble civilization. No longer was the great trade route _sichurissimo_, and no longer did Christian friars chant their Masses in Zaiton. The Tartar dynasty fell and the new rulers of China reverted to the old anti-foreign policy; moreover, Islam spread its conquests all over central Asia and lay like a rampart between the far east and west, a great wall of intolerance and hatred stronger by far than the great wall of stone which the Chinese had once built to keep out the Tartars. All Marco Polo's marvels became no more than a legend, a traveller's tale. But that great adventurer was not done for yet. Nearly a century and a half after Marco's death a Genoese sea captain sat poring over one of the new printed books, which men were beginning to buy and to hand about among themselves. The book which he was reading was the Latin version of Marco Polo's travels. He was reading it with intentness and indeed with passion. As he read he made notes in the margin; on over seventy pages he made his notes.[40] From time to time he frowned and turned back and read again the tale of those great ports of Cathay and the gold-roofed palaces of Cipangu; and always he wondered how those lands might be reached, now that the wall of darkness covered central Asia, and anarchy blocked the road to the Persian Gulf. One day (may we not see him?) he lifted his head and smote his hand upon the table. 'I will sail west', he said. 'Maybe I shall find the lost island of Antilha in the western ocean, but maybe on its far rim I shall indeed come to Cipangu, for the world is round, and somewhere in those great seas beyond the coast of Europe must lie Marco Polo's rich Cathay. I will beseech the kings of England and of Spain for a ship and a ship's company, and the silk and the spices and the wealth shall be theirs. I will sail west,' said the Genoese sea captain, and he smote his thigh. 'I will sail west, west, west!' And this was the last of Messer Marco's marvels; he discovered China in the thirteenth century, when he was alive, and in the fifteenth, when he was dead, he discovered America! CHAPTER IV _Madame Eglentyne_ CHAUCER'S PRIORESS IN REAL LIFE Ther was also a Nonne, a Prioresse, That of her smyling was ful simple and coy; Hir grettest ooth was ne but by sëynt Loy; And she was cleped madame Eglentyne. Ful wel she song the service divyne, Entuned in hir nose ful semely; And Frensh she spak ful faire and fetisly, After the scole of Stratford atte Bowe, For Frensh of Paris was to hir unknowe. At mete wel y-taught was she with-alle; She leet no morsel from hir lippes falle, Ne wette hir fingres in hir sauce depe. Wel coude she carie a morsel and wel kepe, That no drope ne fille up-on hir brest. In curteisye was set ful muche hir lest. Hir over lippe wyped she so clene, That in hir coppe was no ferthing sene Of grece, whan she dronken haddie hir draughte Ful semely after hir mete she raughte, And sikerly she was of greet disport, And ful plesaunt and amiable of port, And peyned hir to countrefete chere Of court, and been estatlich of manere, And to be holden digne of reverence. But, for to speken of hir conscience, She was so charitable and so pitous, She wolde wepe, if that she sawe a mous Caught in a trap, if it were deed or bledde. Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel-breed. But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed, Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte: And al was conscience and tendre herte Ful semely hir wimpel pinched was: Hir nose tretys; her eyen greye as glas; Hir mouth ful smal, and ther-to softe and reed; But sikerly she hadde a fair foreheed; It was almost a spanne brood, I trowe; For, hardily, she was nat undergrowe. Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war. Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene; And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene, On which ther was first write a crowned A, And after, _Amor vincit omnia!_ --GEOFFREY CHAUCER _Prologue_ to the _Canterbury Tales_ Every one knows Chaucer's description of the Prioress, Madame Eglentyne, who rode with that very motley and talkative company on the way to Canterbury. There is no portrait in his gallery which has given rise to more diverse comment among critics. One interprets it as a cutting attack on the worldliness of the Church; another thinks that Chaucer meant to draw a charming and sympathetic picture of womanly gentleness; one says that it is a caricature, another an ideal; and an American professor even finds in it a psychological study of thwarted maternal instinct, apparently because Madame Eglentyne was fond of little dogs and told a story about a schoolboy. The mere historian may be excused from following these vagaries. To him Chaucer's Prioress, like Chaucer's monk and Chaucer's friar, will simply be one more instance of the almost photographic accuracy of the poet's observation. The rippling undercurrent of satire is always there; but it is Chaucer's own peculiar satire--mellow, amused, uncondemning, the most subtle kind of satire, which does not depend upon exaggeration. The literary critic has only Chaucer's words and his own heart, or sometimes (low be it spoken) his own desire to be original, by which to guide his judgement. But the historian knows; he has all sorts of historical sources in which to study nunneries, and there he meets Chaucer's Prioress at every turn. Above all, he has the bishop's registers. For a long time historians foolishly imagined that kings and wars and parliaments and the jury system alone were history; they liked chronicles and Acts of Parliament, and it did not strike them to go and look in dusty episcopal archives for the big books in which medieval bishops entered up the letters which they wrote and all the complicated business of running their dioceses. But when historians did think of looking there, they found a mine of priceless information about almost every side of social and ecclesiastical life. They had to dig for it of course, for almost all that is worth knowing has to be mined like precious metals out of a rock; and for one nugget the miner often has to grub for days underground in a mass of dullness; and when he has got it he has to grub in his own heart, or else he will not understand it. The historians found fine gold in the bishops' registers, when once they persuaded themselves that it was not beneath their dignity to grub there. They found descriptions of vicarages, with all their furniture and gardens; they found marriage disputes; they found wills full of entertaining legacies to people dead hundreds of years ago; they found excommunications; they found indulgences to men for relieving the poor, repairing roads, and building bridges, long before there was any poor law, or any county council; they found trials for heresy and witchcraft; they found accounts of miracles worked at the tombs of saints and even of some quite unsaintly people, such as Thomas of Lancaster, and Edward II, and Simon de Montfort; they found lists of travelling expenses when the bishops rode round their dioceses; in one they even found a minute account of the personal appearance of Queen Philippa, then a little girl at her father's Court at Hainault, whom the Bishop of Exeter had been sent to inspect, in order to see if she were pretty and good enough to marry Edward III: she was nine years old, and the bishop said that her second teeth were whiter than her first teeth and that her nose was broad but not snub, which was reassuring for Edward.[1] Last, but not least, the historians found a multitude of documents about monasteries, and among these documents they found visitation records, and among visitation records they found Chaucer's Prioress, smiling full simple and coy, fair forehead, well-pinched wimple, necklace, little dogs, and all, as though she had stepped into a stuffy register by mistake for the _Canterbury Tales_ and was longing to get out again. This was the reason that Madame Eglentyne got into the register. In the Middle Ages all the nunneries of England, and a great many of the monasteries, used to be visited at intervals by the bishop of their diocese--or by somebody sent by him--in order to see whether they were behaving properly. It was rather like the periodical visitation of a school by one of Her Majesty's inspectors, only what happened was very different. When Her Majesty's inspector comes he does not sit in state in the hall, and call all the inmates in front of him one after another, from the head mistress to the smallest child in the first form, and invite them to say in what way they think the school is not being properly run, and what complaints they have to make against their mistresses and which girl habitually breaks the rules--all breathed softly and privately into his ear, with no one to overhear them. But when the bishop came to visit a nunnery, that is precisely what happened. First of all, he sent a letter to say he was coming, and to bid the nuns prepare for him. Then he came, with his clerks and a learned official or two, and was met solemnly by the prioress and all the nuns, and preached a sermon in their church, and was entertained, perhaps, to dinner. And then he prepared to examine them, and one by one they came before him, in order of rank, beginning with the prioress, and what they had to do was to tell tales about each other. He wanted to find out if the prioress were ruling well, and if the services were properly performed, and if the finances were in good order, and if discipline were maintained; and if any nun had a complaint, then was the time to make it. And the nuns were full of complaints. A modern schoolgirl would go pale with horror over their capacity for tale-bearing. If one nun had boxed her sister's ears, if another had cut church, if another were too much given to entertaining friends, if another went out without a licence, if another had run away with a wandering fluteplayer, the bishop was sure to hear about it; that is, unless the whole convent were in a disorderly state, and the nuns had made a compact to wink at each other's peccadilloes; and not to betray them to the bishop, which occasionally happened. And if the prioress were at all unpopular he was quite certain to hear all about her. 'She fares splendidly in her own room and never invites us,' says one nun; 'She has favourites,' says another, 'and when she makes corrections she passes lightly over those whom she likes, and speedily punishes those whom she dislikes'; 'She is a fearful scold,' says a third; 'She dresses more like a secular person than a nun, and wears rings and necklaces,' says a fourth; 'She goes out riding to see her friends far too often,' says a fifth; 'She-is-a-very-bad-business-woman-and-she-has-let-the-house-get-into- debt-and-the-church-is-falling about-our-ears-and-we-don't-get-enough- food-and-she-hasn't-given-us-any-clothes-for-two-years-and-she-has-sold- woods-and farms-without-your-licence-and-she-has-pawned-our-best-set-of spoons; and no wonder, when she never consults us in any business as she ought to do.' They go on like that for pages, and the bishop must often have wanted to put his fingers in his ears and shout to them to stop; especially as the prioress had probably spent half an hour, for her part, in telling him how disobedient and ill-tempered, and thoroughly badly behaved the nuns were. All these tales the bishop's clerk solemnly wrote down in a big book, and when the examination was over the bishop summoned all the nuns together again. And if they had answered 'All is well', as they sometimes did, or only mentioned trivial faults, he commended them and went his way; and if they had shown that things really were in a bad way, he investigated particular charges and scolded the culprits and ordered them to amend, and when he got back to his palace, or the manor where he was staying, he wrote out a set of injunctions, based on the complaints, and saying exactly how things were to be improved; and of these injunctions one copy was entered in his register and another was sent by hand to the nuns, who were supposed to read it aloud at intervals and to obey everything in it. We have in many bishops' registers these lists of injunctions, copied into them by the bishops' clerks, and in some, notably in a splendid fifteenth-century Lincoln register, belonging to the good bishop Alnwick, we have also the evidence of the nuns, just as it was taken down from their chattering mouths, and these are the most human and amusing of all medieval records. It is easy to see what important historical documents visitation reports are, especially in a diocese like Lincoln, which possesses an almost unbroken series of registers, ranging over the three centuries before the Dissolution, so that one can trace the whole history of some of the nunneries by the successive visitations. Let us see what light the registers will throw upon Madame Eglentyne, before Chaucer observed her mounting her horse outside the Tabard Inn. Doubtless she first came to the nunnery when she was quite a little girl, because girls counted as grown up when they were fifteen in the Middle Ages; they could be married out of hand at twelve, and they could become nuns for ever at fourteen. Probably Eglentyne's father had three other daughters to marry, each with a dowry, and a gay young spark of a son, who spent a lot of money on fashionable suits. Embroidered ... as it were a mede All ful of fresshe flowers white and rede. So he thought he had better settle the youngest at once; and he got together a dowry (it was rarely possible to get into a nunnery without one, though Church law really forbade anything except voluntary offerings), and, taking Eglentyne by the hand one summer day, he popped her into a nunnery a few miles off, which had been founded by his ancestors. We may even know what it cost him; it was rather a select, aristocratic house, and he had to pay an entrance fee of £200 in modern money; and then he had to give Eglentyne her new habit and a bed, and some other furniture; and he had to make a feast on the day she became a nun, and invite all the nuns and all his own friends; and he had to tip the friar, who preached the sermon; and, altogether, it was a great affair.[2] But the feast would not come at once, because Eglentyne would have to remain a novice for some years, until she was old enough to take the vows. So she would stay in the convent and be taught how to sing and to read, and to talk French of the school of Stratford-atte-Bowe with the other novices. Perhaps she was the youngest, for girls often did not enter the convent until they were old enough to decide for themselves whether they wanted to be nuns; but there were certainly some other quite tiny novices learning their lessons; and occasionally there would be a little girl like the one whose sad fate is recorded in a dull law-book, shut up in a nunnery by a wicked stepfather who wanted her inheritance (a nun could not inherit land, because she was supposed to be dead to the world), and told by the nuns that the devil would fly away with her if she tried to set foot outside the door.[3] However, Eglentyne had a sunny disposition and liked life in the nunnery, and had a natural aptitude for the pretty table manners which she learnt there, as well as for talking French, and though she was not at all prim and liked the gay clothes and pet dogs which she used to see at home in her mother's bower, still she had no hesitation at all about taking the veil when she was fifteen, and indeed she rather liked the fuss that was made of her, and being called _Madame_ or _Dame_, which was the courtesy title always given to a nun. The years passed and Eglentyne's life jogged along peacefully enough behind the convent walls. The great purpose for which the nunneries existed, and which most of them fulfilled not unworthily, was the praise of God. Eglentyne spent a great deal of her time singing and praying in the convent church, and, as we know, Ful wel she song the service divyne, Entuned in hir nose ful semely. The nuns had seven monastic offices to say every day. About 2 a.m. the night office was said; they all got out of bed when the bell rang, and went down in the cold and the dark to the church choir and said Matins, followed immediately by Lauds. Then they went back to bed, just as the dawn was breaking in the sky, and slept again for three hours, and then got up for good at six o'clock and said Prime. After that there followed Tierce, Sext, None, Vespers, and Compline, spread at intervals through the day. The last service, compline, was said at 7 p.m. in winter, and at 8 p.m. in summer, after which the nuns were supposed to go straight to bed in the dorter, in which connexion one Nun's Rule ordains that 'None shall push up against another wilfully, nor spit upon the stairs going up and down, but if they tread it out forthwith'![4] They had in all about eight hours' sleep, broken in the middle by the night service. They had three meals, a light repast of bread and beer after prime in the morning, a solid dinner to the accompaniment of reading aloud in the middle of the day, and a short supper immediately after vespers at 5 or 6 p.m. From 12 to 5 p.m. in winter and from 1 to 6 p.m. in summer Eglentyne and her sisters were supposed to devote themselves to manual or brain work, interspersed with a certain amount of sober and godly recreation. She would spin, or embroider vestments with the crowned monogram M of the Blessed Virgin in blue and gold thread, or make little silken purses for her friends and finely sewn bands for them to bind round their arms after a bleeding. She would read too, in her psalter or in such saints' lives as the convent possessed, written in French or English; for her Latin was weak, though she could construe _Amor vincit omnia_. Perhaps her convent took in a few little schoolgirls to learn their letters and good manners with the nuns, and when she grew older she helped to teach them to read and sing; for though they were happy, they did not receive a very extensive education from the good sisters. In the summer Eglentyne was sometimes allowed to work in the convent garden, or even to go out haymaking with the other nuns; and came back round-eyed to confide in her confessor that she had seen the cellaress returning therefrom seated behind the chaplain on his nag,[5] and had thought what fun it must be to jog behind stout Dan John. Except for certain periods of relaxation strict silence was supposed to be observed in the convent for a large part of the day, and if Eglentyne desired to communicate with her sisters, she was urged to do so by means of signs. The persons who drew up the lists of signs which were in use in medieval monastic houses, however, combined a preternatural ingenuity with an extremely exiguous sense of humour, and the sort of dumb pandemonium which went on at Eglentyne's dinner table must often have been more mirth-provoking than speech. The sister who desired fish would 'wag her hands displayed sidelings in manner of a fish tail'; she who wanted milk would 'draw her left little finger in manner of milking'; for mustard one would 'hold her nose in the upper part of her right fist and rub it'; another for salt would 'fillip with her right thumb and forefinger over the left thumb'; another desirous of wine would 'move her forefinger up and down the end of her thumb afore her eye'; and the guilty sacristan, struck by the thought that she had not provided incense for the Mass, would 'put her two fingers into her nostrils'. In one such table drawn up for nuns there are no less than 106 signs, and on the whole it is not surprising that the rule of the same nuns enjoins that 'it is never lawful to use them without some reason and profitable need, for oft-times more hurt hath an evil word, and more offence it may be to God'.[6] The nuns, of course, would not have been human if they had not sometimes grown a little weary of all these services and this silence; for the religious life was not, nor was it intended to be, an easy one. It was not a mere means of escape from work and responsibility. In the early golden age of monasticism only men and women with a vocation, that is to say a real genius for monastic life, entered convents. Moreover, when there they worked very hard with hand and brain, as well as with soul, and so they got variety of occupation, which is as good as a holiday. The basis of wise St Benedict's Rule was a nicely adjusted combination of variety with regularity; for he knew human nature. Thus monks and nuns did not find the services monotonous, and indeed regarded them as by far the best part of the day. But in the later Middle Ages, when Chaucer lived, young people had begun to enter monastic houses rather as a profession than as a vocation. Many truly spiritual men and women still took the vows, but with them came others who were little suited to monastic life, and who lowered its standard, because it was hard and uncongenial to them. Eglentyne became a nun because her father did not want the trouble and expense of finding her a husband, and because being a nun was about the only career for a well-born lady who did not marry. Moreover, by this time, monks and nuns had grown more lazy, and did little work with their hands and still less with their heads, particularly in nunneries, where the early tradition of learning had died out and where many nuns could hardly understand the Latin in which their services were written. The result was that monastic life began to lose that essential variety which St Benedict had designed for it, and as a result the regularity sometimes became irksome, and the series of services degenerated into a mere routine of peculiar monotony, which many of the singers could no longer keep alive with spiritual fervour. Thus sometimes (it must not be imagined that this happened in all or even in the majority of houses) the services became empty forms, to be hurried through with scant devotion and occasionally with scandalous irreverence. It was the almost inevitable reaction from too much routine. Carelessness in the performance of the monastic hours was an exceedingly common fault during the later Middle Ages, though the monks were always worse about it than the nuns. Sometimes they 'cut' the services. Sometimes they behaved with the utmost levity, as at Exeter in 1330, where the canons giggled and joked and quarrelled during the services and dropped hot candle wax from the upper stalls on to the shaven heads of the singers in the stalls below![7] Sometimes they came late to matins, in the small hours after midnight. This fault was common in nunneries, for the nuns always would insist on having private drinkings and gossipings in the evening after compline, instead of going straight to bed, as the rule demanded--a habit which did not conduce to wakefulness at 1 a.m. Consequently they were somewhat sleepy at matins and found an almost Johnsonian difficulty in getting up early. Wise St Benedict foresaw the difficulty, when he wrote in his rule: 'When they rise for the Divine Office, let them gently encourage one another, because of the excuses made by those that are drowsy.'[8] At the nunnery of Stainfield in 1519 the bishop discovered that half an hour sometimes elapsed between the last stroke of the bell and the beginning of the service, and that some of the nuns did not sing, but dozed, partly because they had not enough candles, but chiefly because they went late to bed;[9] and whoever is without sin among us, let him cast the first stone! There was a tendency also among both monks and nuns to slip out before the end of the service on any good or bad excuse: they had to see after the dinner or the guest-house, their gardens needed weeding, or they did not feel well. But the most common fault of all was to gabble through the services as quickly as they could in order to get them over. They left out the syllables at the beginning and end of words, they omitted the dipsalma or pause between two verses, so that one side of the choir was beginning the second half before the other side had finished the first; they skipped sentences, they mumbled and slurred what should have been 'entuned in their nose ful semely', and altogether they made a terrible mess of the stately plainsong. So prevalent was the fault of gabbling that the Father of Evil was obliged to charter a special Devil called Tittivillus, whose sole business it was to collect all these dropped syllables and carry them back to his master in a big bag. In one way or another, we have a good deal of information about him, for he was always letting himself be seen by holy men, who generally had a sharp eye for devils. One Latin rhyme distinguishes carefully between the contents of his sack: 'These are they who wickedly corrupt the holy psalms: the dangler, the gasper, the leaper, the galloper, the dragger, the mumbler, the fore-skipper, the fore-runner and the over-leaper: Tittivillus collecteth the fragments of these men's words.'[10] Indeed, a holy Cistercian abbot once interviewed the poor little devil himself and heard about his alarming industry; this is the story as it is told in _The Myroure of Oure Ladye_, written for the delectation of the nuns of Syon in the fifteenth century: 'We read of a holy Abbot of the order of Citeaux that while he stood in the choir at matins he saw a fiend that had a long and great poke hanging about his neck and went about the choir from one to another and waited busily after all letters and syllables and words and failings that any made; and them he gathered diligently and put them in his poke. And when he came before the Abbot, waiting if aught had escaped him that he might have gotten and put in his bag, the Abbot was astonied and afeard of the foulness and misshape of him and said unto him: What art thou? And he answered and said, I am a poor devil and my name is Tittivillus and I do mine office that is committed unto me. And what is thine office? said the Abbot. He answered: I must each day, he said, bring my master a thousand pokes full of failings and of negligences and syllables and words, that are done in your order in reading and singing and else I must be sore beaten.'[11] But there is no reason to suppose that he often got his beating, though one may be sure that Madame Eglentyne, busily chanting through her nose, never gave him the slightest help. In his spare moments, when he was not engaged in picking up those unconsidered trifles which the monks let fall from the psalms, Tittivillus used to fill up odd corners of his sack with the idle talk of people who gossiped in church; and he also sat up aloft and collected all the high notes of vain tenors, who sang to their own glory, instead of to the glory of God, and pitched the chants three notes higher than the cracked voices of their elders could rise. But the monotony of convent life sometimes did more than make the nuns unconscious contributors to Tittivillus's sack. It sometimes played havoc with their tempers. The nuns were not chosen for convent life because they were saints. They were no more immune from tantrums than was the Wife of Bath, who was out of all charity when other village wives went into church before her; and sometimes they got terribly on each others' nerves. Readers of _Piers Plowman_ will remember that when the seven deadly sins come in, Wrath tells how he was cook to the prioress of a convent and, says he, Of wycked wordes I, Wrath ... here wordes imade, Til 'thow lixte' and 'thow lixte' ... lopen oute at ones, And eyther hitte other ... vnder the cheke; Hadde thei had knyves, by Cryst ... her eyther had killed other. To be sure, it is not often that we hear of anything so bad as that fifteenth-century prioress, who used to drag her nuns round the choir by their veils in the middle of the service, screaming 'Liar!' and 'Harlot!' at them;[12] or that other sixteenth-century lady who used to kick them and hit them on the head with her fists and put them in the stocks.[13] All prioresses were not 'ful plesaunt and amiable of port', or stately in their manner. The records of monastic visitations show that bad temper and petty bickering sometimes broke the peace of convent life. But we must be back at Eglentyne. She went on living for ten or twelve years as a simple nun, and she sang the services very nicely and had a sweet temper and pretty manners and was very popular. Moreover, she was of good birth; Chaucer tells us a great deal about her beautiful behaviour at table and her courtesy, which shows that she was a lady born and bred; indeed, his description of this might have been taken straight out of one of the feudal books of deportment for girls; even her personal beauty--straight nose, grey eyes, and little red mouth--conforms to the courtly standard. The convents were apt to be rather snobbish; ladies and rich burgesses' daughters got into them, but poor and low-born girls never. So the nuns probably said to each other that what with her pretty ways and her good temper and her aristocratic connexions, wouldn't it be a good thing to choose her for prioress when the old prioress died? And so they did, and she had been a prioress for some years when Chaucer met her. At first it was very exciting, and Eglentyne liked being called 'Mother' by nuns who were older than herself, and having a private room to sit in and all the visitors to entertain. But she soon found that it was not by any means all a bed of roses; for there was a great deal of business to be done by the head of a house--not only looking after the internal discipline of the convent, but also superintending money matters and giving orders to the bailiffs on her estates, and seeing that the farms were paying well, and the tithes coming in to the churches which belonged to the nunnery, and that the Italian merchants who came to buy the wool off her sheeps' backs gave a good price for it. In all this business she was supposed to take the advice of the nuns, meeting in the chapter-house, where all business was transacted. I am afraid that sometimes Eglentyne used to think that it was much better to do things by herself, and so she would seal documents with the convent seal without telling them. One should always distrust the head of an office or school or society who says, with a self-satisfied air, that it is much more satisfactory to do the thing herself than to depute it to the proper subordinates; it either means that she is an autocrat, or else that she cannot organize. Madame Eglentyne was rather an autocrat, in a good-natured sort of way, and besides she hated bother. So she did not always consult the nuns; and I fear too (after many researches into that past of hers which Chaucer forgot to mention) that she often tried to evade rendering an account of income and expenditure to them every year, as she was supposed to do. The nuns, of course, objected to this; and the first time the bishop came on his rounds they complained about it to him. They said, too, that she was a bad business woman and got into debt; and that when she was short of money she used to sell woods belonging to the convent, and promise annual pensions to various people in return for lump sums down, and lease out farms for a long time at low rates, and do various other things by which the convent would lose in the long run. And besides, she had let the roof of the church get into such ill repair that rain came through the holes on to their heads when they were singing; and would my lord bishop please to look at the holes in their clothes and tell her to provide them with new ones? Other wicked prioresses used sometimes even to pawn the plate and jewels of the convent, to get money for their own private purposes. But Eglentyne was not at all wicked or dishonest, though she was a bad manager; the fact was that she had no head for figures. I am _sure_ that she had no head for figures; you have only got to read Chaucer's description of her to know that she was not a mathematician. Besides the nuns were exaggerating: their clothes were not in holes, only just a little threadbare. Madame Eglentyne was far too fastidious to allow ragged clothes about her; and as to the roof of the church, she had meant to save enough money to have some tiles put on to it, but it really _was_ very hard to make two ends meet in a medieval nunnery, especially if (as I repeat) you had no head for figures. Probably the bishop saw how the land lay, so he ordered her never to do anything without consulting the convent, and he shut up the common seal in a box with three different sorts of locks, to which Madame Eglentyne and two of the senior nuns had the keys, so that she could not open it alone and so could not seal any business agreement without their consent. And he ordered her to keep accounts and present them every year (there are bundles of her accounts still preserved in the Record Office). Finally he deputed a neighbouring rector to act as custodian of the business affairs of the house so that she should always have his help. Things went better after that. Eglentyne, it seems, was never really interested in business, and was quite pleased to have her time taken up with looking after internal affairs and entertaining visitors, with an occasional jaunt outside to see how the estates were getting on. And she began to find that she could lead a much freer and gayer life now that she was a prioress; for the prioress of a convent had rooms of her own, instead of sharing the common dormitory and refectory; sometimes she even had a sort of little house with a private kitchen. The abbess of one great nunnery at Winchester in the sixteenth century had her own staff to look after her, a cook, and an under cook, and a housemaid and a gentlewoman to wait upon her, like any great lady in the world, and never dined with the nuns except on state occasions. But a superior generally had with her one nun to act as her companion and assist her in the choir and be a witness to her good behaviour; this nun was called her chaplain, and was supposed to be changed every year, to prevent favouritism. It will be remembered that when Madame Eglentyne went on her pilgrimage she took her nun chaplain with her, as well as three priests; that was because no nun was ever allowed to go out alone. One of Madame Eglentyne's duties as prioress was to entertain visitors with her celebrated cheer of court, and we may be sure that she had a great many. Her sisters, who were now grand ladies with husbands and manors of their own, and her old father, and all the great people of the county came to congratulate her; and after that they used often to drop in for a dinner of chickens and wine and wastel bread if they passed the house on a journey, and sometimes they spent the night there. One or two ladies, whose husbands were away at the wars or on a pilgrimage to Rome, even came as paying guests to the convent and lived there for a whole year, for nothing pleased the country gentlemen or wealthy burgesses better than to use nunneries as boarding-houses for their women-kind. All this was very disturbing to the peace and quiet of the nuns, and especially disturbing were the boarders, for they wore gay clothes, and had pet dogs and callers, and set a very frivolous example to the nuns. At one nunnery we find a bishop ordering: 'Let Felmersham's wife, with her whole household and other women, be utterly removed from your monastery within one year, seeing that they are a cause of disturbance to the nuns and an occasion to bad example, by reason of their attire and of those who come to visit them.'[14] It can be easily imagined _why_ the bishops objected so much to the reception of these worldly married women as boarders. Just substitute for 'Felmersham's wife' 'the Wife of Bath' and all is explained. That lady was not a person whom a prioress would lightly refuse; the list of her pilgrimages alone would give her the _entrée_ into any nunnery. Smiling her gap-toothed smile and riding easily upon her ambler, she would enter the gates, and what a month of excitement would pass before she rode away again. I am sure that it was she who taught Madame Eglentyne the most fashionable way to pinch a wimple; and she certainly introduced hats 'as broad as is a buckler or a targe' and scarlet stockings into some nunneries. The bishops disliked it all very much, but they never succeeded in turning the boarders out for all their efforts, because the nuns always needed the money which they paid for their board and lodging. It is easy to understand that this constant intercourse with worldly visitors would give rise to the spread of worldly habits in Madame Eglentyne's nunnery. Nuns, after all, were but women, and they had the amiable vanities of their sex. But Authority (with a large A) did not consider their vanities amiable at all. It was the view of Authority that the Devil had dispatched three lesser D's to be the damnation of nuns, and those three D's were Dances, Dresses, and Dogs. Medieval England was famous for dancing and mumming and minstrelsy; it was Merry England because, however plague and pestilence and famine and the cruelties of man to man might darken life, still it loved these things. But there were no two views possible about what the Church thought of dancing; it was accurately summed up by one moralist in the aphorism, 'The Devil is the inventor and governor and disposer of dances and dancing.' Yet when we look into those accounts which Madame Eglentyne rendered (or did not render) to her nuns at the end of every year, we shall find payments for wassail at New Year and Twelfth Night, for May games, for bread and ale on bonfire nights, for harpers and players at Christmas, for a present to the Boy Bishop on his rounds, and perhaps for an extra pittance when the youngest schoolgirl was allowed to dress up and act as abbess of the convent for the whole of Innocents' Day. And when we look in the bishops' registers we shall find Madame Eglentyne forbidden 'all manner of minstrelsy, interludes, dancing or revelling within your holy place'; and she would be fortunate indeed if her bishop would make exception for Christmas, 'and other honest times of recreation among yourselves used in absence of seculars in all wise'. Somehow one feels an insistent conviction that her cheer of court included dancing.[15] Then, again, there were the fashionable dresses which the visitors introduced into nunneries. It is quite certain that Madame Eglentyne was not unmoved by them; and it is a sad fact that she began to think the monastic habit very black and ugly, and the monastic life very strict; and to decide that if some little amenities were imported into it no one would be a penny the worse, and perhaps the bishop would not notice. That is why, when Chaucer met her, Ful fetis was hir cloke, as I was war, Of smal coral aboute hir arm she bar A peire of bedes, gauded al with grene, And ther-on heng a broche of gold ful shene. Unfortunately, however, the bishop did notice; the registers are indeed full of those clothes of Madame Eglentyne's, and of the even more frivolous ones which she wore in the privacy of the house. For more than six weary centuries the bishops waged a holy war against fashion in the cloister, and waged it in vain; for as long as nuns mingled freely with secular women, it was impossible to prevent them from adopting secular modes. Occasionally a wretched bishop would find himself floundering unhandily, in masculine bewilderment, through something like a complete catalogue of contemporary fashions, in order to specify what the nuns were _not_ to wear. Synods sat solemnly, bishops and archbishops shook their grey heads, over golden hairpins and silver belts, jewelled rings, laced shoes, slashed tunics, low necks and long trains, gay colours, costly cloth, and valuable furs. The nuns were supposed to wear their veils pinned tightly down to their eyebrows, so that their foreheads were completely hidden; but high foreheads happened to be fashionable among worldly ladies, who even shaved theirs to make them higher, and the result was that the nuns could not resist lifting up and spreading out their veils, for how otherwise did Chaucer _know_ that Madame Eglentyne had such a fair forehead ('almost a spanne broad, I trowe')? If she had been wearing her veil properly, it would have been invisible, and the father of English poetry may be observed discreetly but plainly winking the other eye when he puts in that little touch; his contemporaries would see the point very quickly. And that brooch and that fetis cloak of hers.... Here is what some tale-bearing nuns told the Bishop of Lincoln about their Prioress, fifty years after Chaucer wrote the _Canterbury Tales_. 'The Prioress,' they said with their most sanctimonious air, wears golden rings exceeding costly, with divers precious stones and also girdles silvered and gilded over and silken veils and she carries her veil too high above her forehead, so that her forehead, being entirely uncovered, can be seen of all, and she wears furs of vair. Also she wears shifts of cloth of Rennes, which costs sixteen pence the ell. Also she wears kirtles laced with silk and tiring pins of silver and silver gilt and has made all the nuns wear the like. Also she wears above her veil a cap of estate, furred with budge. Item, she has on her neck a long silken band, in English a lace, which hangs down below her breast and there on a golden ring with one diamond.[16] Is it not Madame Eglentyne to the life? Nothing escaped our good Dan Chaucer's eye, for all that he rode always looking on the ground. Moreover, it was not only in her dress that the Prioress and her sister nuns aped the fashions of the world. Great ladies of the day loved to amuse themselves with pet animals; and nuns were quick to follow their example. So, Of smale houndes had she, that she fedde With rosted flesh, or milk and wastel-breed. But sore weep she if oon of hem were deed, Or if men smoot it with a yerde smerte. The visitation reports are full of those little dogs and other animals; and how many readers of the Prologue know that the smale houndes, like the fair forehead and the brooch of gold full sheen, were strictly against the rules? For the bishops regarded pets as bad for discipline, and century after century they tried to turn the animals out of the convents, without the slightest success. The nuns just waited till the bishop had gone and then whistled their dogs back again. Dogs were easily the favourite pets, though monkeys, squirrels, rabbits, birds and (very rarely) cats were also kept. One archbishop had to forbid an abbess whom he visited to keep _monkeys and a number of dogs_ in her own chamber and charged her at the same time with stinting her nuns in food; one can guess what became of the roasted flesh or milk and wastel-breed! It was a common medieval practice to bring animals into church, where ladies often attended service with dog in lap and men with hawk on wrist; just as the highland farmer brings his collie with him today. This happened in the nunneries too. Sometimes it was the lay-boarders in the convents who brought their pets with them; there is a pathetic complaint by the nuns of one house 'that Lady Audley, who boards there, has a great abundance of dogs, insomuch that whenever she comes to church there follow her twelve dogs, who make a great uproar in church, hindering the nuns in their psalmody and the nuns thereby are terrified!'[17] But often enough the nuns themselves transgressed. Injunctions against bringing pet dogs into choir occur in several visitation reports, the most amusing instance being contained in those sent to Romsey Abbey by William of Wykeham in 1387, just about the same year that Chaucer was writing the _Canterbury Tales_: 'Item,' runs the injunction, 'whereas we have convinced ourselves by clear proofs that some of the nuns of your house bring with them to church birds, rabbits, hounds and such like frivolous things, whereunto they give more heed than to the offices of the church, with frequent hindrance to their own psalmody and to that of their fellow nuns and to the grievous peril of their souls--therefore we strictly forbid you all and several, in virtue of the obedience due to us that ye presume henceforward to bring to church no birds, hounds, rabbits or other frivolous things that promote indiscipline.... Item, whereas through hunting dogs and other hounds abiding within your monastic precincts, the alms that should be given to the poor are devoured and the church and cloister ... are foully defiled ... and whereas, through their inordinate noise divine service is frequently troubled--therefore we strictly command and enjoin you, Lady Abbess, that you remove the dogs altogether and that you suffer them never henceforth, nor any other such hounds, to abide within the precincts of your nunnery.'[18] But it was useless for any bishop to order Madame Eglentyne to give up her dogs, she could not even be parted from them on a pilgrimage, though they must have been a great nuisance in the inns, especially as she was so fussy about their food. For Chaucer's prioress, we must admit, was rather a worldly lady, though her pretty clothes and little dogs were harmless enough on modern standards and one's sympathies are all against the bishops. She probably became more worldly as time went on, because she had so many opportunities for social intercourse. Not only had she to entertain visitors in the convent, but often the business of the house took her away upon journeys and these offered many opportunities for hobnobbing with her neighbours. Sometimes she had to go to London to see after a law-suit and that was a great excursion with another nun, or perhaps two, and a priest and several yeomen to look after her. Sometimes she had to go and see the bishop, to get permission to take in some little schoolgirls. Sometimes she went to the funeral of a great man, whom her father knew and who left her twenty shillings and a silver cup in his will. Sometimes she went to the wedding of one of her sisters, or to be godmother to their babies; though the bishops did not like these worldly ties, or the dances and merry-makings which accompanied weddings and christenings. Indeed her nuns occasionally complained about her journeys and said that though she pretended it was all on the business of the house, they had their doubts; and would the bishop please just look into it. At one nunnery we find the nuns complaining that their house is £20 in debt 'and this principally owing to the costly expenses of the prioress, because she frequently rides abroad and pretends that she does so on the common business of the house although it is not so, with a train of attendants much too large and tarries too long abroad and she feasts sumptuously, both when abroad and at home and she is very choice in her dress, so that the fur trimmings of her mantle are worth 100s'![19] As a matter of fact there was nothing of which the church disapproved more than this habit, shared by monks and nuns, of wandering about outside their cloisters; moralists considered that intercourse with the world was at the root of all the evil which crept into the monastic system. The orthodox saying was that a monk out of his cloister was like a fish out of water; and it will be remembered that Chaucer's monk thought the text not worth an oyster. Indeed most of the monks managed to swim very well in the air, and the nuns too persisted in taking every sort of excuse for wandering in the world. Right through the Middle Ages council after council, bishop after bishop, reformer after reformer, tried in vain to keep them shut up. The greatest attempt of all began in 1300, when the pope published a Bull ordering that nuns should never, save in very exceptional circumstances, leave their convents and that no secular person should be allowed to go in and visit them, without a special licence and a good reason. This will make the modern reader pity the poor nuns, but there is no need, for nobody ever succeeded in putting it into force for more than five minutes, though the bishops spent over two centuries in trying to do so and were still trying in vain when King Henry VIII dissolved the nunneries and turned all the nuns out into the world for ever, whether they liked it or not. At one nunnery in the Lincoln diocese, when the bishop came and deposited a copy of the Bull in the house and ordered the nuns to obey it, they ran after him to the gate when he was riding away and threw the Bull at his head, screaming that they would never observe it.[20] The more practical bishops indeed, soon stopped trying to enforce the Bull as it stood and contented themselves with ordering that nuns were not to go out or pay visits too often, or without a companion, or without licence, or without a good reason. But even in this they were not very successful, because the nuns were most prolific in excellent reasons why they should go out. Sometimes they said that their parents were ill; and then they would go away to smooth the pillow of the sick. Sometimes they said that they had to go to market to buy herrings. Sometimes they said that they had to go to confession at a monastery. Sometimes it is really difficult to imagine _what_ they said. What are we to think, for instance, of that giddy nun 'who on Monday night did pass the night with the Austin friars at Northampton and did dance and play the lute with them in the same place until midnight, and on the night following she passed the night with the Friars' preachers at Northampton, luting and dancing in like manner'?[21] Chaucer told us how the friar loved harping and how his eyes twinkled like stars in his head when he sang, but failed perhaps to observe that he had lured Madame Eglentyne into a dance. It is indeed difficult to see what 'legitimate' excuses the nuns can have made for all their wandering about in the streets and the fields and in and out of people's houses, and it is sorely to be feared that either they were too much of a handful for Madame Eglentyne, or else she winked at their doings. For somehow or other one suspects that she had no great opinion of bishops. After all Chaucer would never have met her, if she had not managed to circumvent her own, since if there was one excuse for wandering of which the bishops thoroughly disapproved, it was precisely the excuse of pilgrimages. Madame Eglentyne was not quite as simple and coy as she looked. How many of the literary critics, who chuckle over her, know that she never ought to have got into the Prologue at all? The Church was quite clear in its mind that pilgrimages for nuns were to be discouraged. As early as 791 a council had forbidden the practice and in 1195 another at York decreed, 'In order that the opportunity of wandering may be taken from nuns we forbid them to take the path of pilgrimage.' In 1318 an archbishop of York strictly forbade the nuns of one convent to leave their house 'by reason of any vow of pilgrimage which they might have taken. If any had taken such vows she was to say as many psalters as it would have taken days to perform the pilgrimage so rashly vowed.'[22] One has a melancholy vision of poor Madame Eglentyne saying psalters interminably through her tretys nose, instead of jogging along so gaily with her motley companions and telling so prettily her tale of little St Hugh. Such prohibitions might be multiplied from medieval records; and indeed it is unnecessary to go further than Chaucer to understand why it was that bishops offered such strenuous opposition to pilgrimages for nuns; one has only to remember some of the folk, in whose company the prioress travelled and some of the tales they told. If one could only be certain, for instance, that she rode all the time with her nun and her priests, or at least between the Knight and the poor Parson of a town! But there were also the Miller and the Summoner and (worst of all) that cheerful and engaging sinner, the Wife of Bath. It is really quite disturbing to think what additional details the Wife of Bath may have given the prioress about her five husbands. This then was Chaucer's prioress in real life, for the poet who drew her was one of the most wonderful observers in the whole of English literature. We may wade through hundreds of visitation reports and injunctions and everywhere the grey eyes of his prioress will twinkle at us out of their pages, and in the end we must always go to Chaucer for her picture, to sum up everything that historical records have taught us. As the bishop found her, so he saw her, aristocratic, tender-hearted, worldly, taking pains to 'countrefete there of court'; liking pretty clothes and little dogs; a lady of importance, attended by a nun and three priests; spoken to with respect by the none too mealy-mouthed host--no 'by Corpus Dominus' or 'cokkes bones' or 'tel on a devel wey' for her, but 'cometh neer, my lady prioress,' and My lady Prioresse, by your leve If that I wiste I sholde yow nat greve, I wolde demen that ye tellen sholde A tale next, if so were that ye wolde. Now wol ye vouche-sauf, my lady dere? He talks to no one else like that, save perhaps to the knight. Was she religious? Perhaps; but save for her singing the divine service and for her lovely address to the Virgin, at the beginning of her tale, Chaucer can find but little to say on the point; But for speken of hir conscience (he says) She was so charitable and so pitous, and then, as we are waiting to hear of her almsgiving to the poor--that she would weep over a mouse in a trap, or a beaten puppy, says Chaucer. A good ruler of her house? again, doubtless. But when Chaucer met her the house was ruling itself somewhere at the 'shire's ende'. The world was full of fish out of water in the fourteenth century, and, by sëynt Loy, said Madame Eglentyne, swearing her greatest oath, like Chaucer's monk, she held that famous text not worth an oyster. So we take our leave of her, characteristically on the road to Canterbury. CHAPTER V _The Ménagier's Wife_ A PARIS HOUSEWIFE IN THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY The sphere of woman is the home. --_Homo Sapiens_ The men of the middle, as indeed of all ages, including our own, were very fond of writing books of deportment telling women how they ought to behave in all the circumstances of their existence, but more particularly in their relations with their husbands. Many of these books have survived, and among them one which is of particular interest, because of the robust good sense of its writer and the intimate and lively picture which it gives of a bourgeois home. Most books of deportment were written, so to speak, in the air, for women in general, but this was written by a particular husband for a particular wife, and thus is drawn from life and full of detail, showing throughout an individuality which its compeers too often lack. If a parallel be sought to it, it is perhaps to be found not in any other medieval treatise but in those passages of Xenophon's _Economist_, in which Isomachus describes to Socrates the training of a perfect Greek wife. The Ménagier de Paris (the Householder or Goodman of Paris, as we might say) wrote this book for the instruction of his young wife between 1392 and 1394. He was a wealthy man, not without learning and of great experience in affairs, obviously a member of that solid and enlightened _haute bourgeoisie_, upon which the French monarchy was coming to lean with ever-increasing confidence. When he wrote he must have been approaching old age, and he was certainly over sixty, but he had recently married a young wife of higher birth than himself, an orphan from a different province. He speaks several times of her 'very great youth', and kept a sort of duenna-housekeeper with her to help and direct her in the management of his house; and indeed, like the wife of Isomachus, she was only fifteen years old when he married her. Modern opinion is shocked by a discrepancy in age between husband and wife, with which the Middle Ages, a time of _ménages de convenance_, was more familiar. 'Seldom,' the Ménagier says, 'will you see ever so old a man who will not marry a young woman.' Yet his attitude towards his young wife shows us that there may have been compensations, even in a marriage between May and January. Time after time in his book there sounds the note of a tenderness which is paternal rather than marital, a sympathetic understanding of the feelings of a wedded child, which a younger man might not have compassed. Over all the matter-of-fact counsels there seems to hang something of the mellow sadness of an autumn evening, when beauty and death go ever hand in hand. It was his wife's function to make comfortable his declining years; but it was his to make the task easy for her. He constantly repeats the assurance that he does not ask of her an overweening respect, or a service too humble or too hard, for such is not due to him; he desires only such care as his neighbours and kinswomen take of their husbands, 'for to me belongeth none save the common service, or less'. In his Prologue, addressed to her, he gives a charming picture of the scene which led him to write his book: 'You, being of the age of fifteen years and in the week that you and I were wed, did pray me that I would please to be indulgent to your youth and to your small and ignorant service mewards, until that you should have seen and learned more, to the hastening whereof you did promise me to set all care and diligence, ... praying me humbly, in our bed as I remember, that for the love of God I would not correct you harshly before strangers nor before our own folk, 'but that I would correct you each night or from day to day in our chamber and show you the unseemly or foolish things done in the day or days past, and chastise you, if it pleased me, and then you would not fail to amend yourself according to my teaching and correction, and would do all in your power according to my will, as you said. And I thought well of, and praise and thank you for, what you said to me and I have often remembered it since. And know, dear sister[D], that all that I know you have done since we were wed up to this day, and all that you shall do hereafter with good intent has been and is good and well hath pleased, pleases and shall please me. For your youth excuses you from being very wise, and will still excuse you in everything that you do with good intent to please me. And know that it doth not displease, but rather pleases me that you should have roses to grow and violets to care for and that you should make chaplets and dance and sing, and I would well that you should so continue among our friends and those of our estate, and it is but right and seemly thus to pass the time of your feminine youth, provided that you desire and offer not to go to the feasts and dances of too great lords, for that is not seemly for you, nor suitable to your estate nor mine[1].' [Footnote D: He addresses her throughout as 'sister', a term of affectionate respect.] Meanwhile he has not forgotten her request that he would teach and correct her in private, and so he writes a little book (but it was a big book before he had finished) to show her how to comport herself; for he is sorry for this child, who has for long had neither father nor mother, and who is far from kinswomen who might counsel her, having 'me only' he says, 'for whom you have been taken from your kinsfolk and from the land of your birth.' He has often deliberated the matter and now here is 'an easy general introduction' to the whole art of being a wife, a housewife, and a perfect lady. One characteristic reason, apart from his desire to help her and to be comfortable himself (for he was set in his ways), he gives for his trouble and recurs to from time to time, surely the strangest ever given by a husband for instructing his wife. He is old, he says, and must die before her, and it is positively essential that she should do him credit with her second husband. What a reflection upon him if she accompanied his successor to Mass with the collar of her _cotte_ crumpled, or if she knew not how to keep fleas from the blankets, or how to order a supper for twelve in Lent! It is characteristic of the Ménagier's reasonableness and solid sense that he regards his young wife's second marriage with equanimity. One of his sections is headed, 'That you should be loving to your husband (whether myself or another), by the example of Sarah, Rebecca, Rachel.' How different from those husbands (dog-in-the-manger, or anxious for the future of their children under a possibly harsh stepfather) whose wills so often reveal them trying to bind their wives to perpetual celibacy after their deaths, such husbands as William, Earl of Pembroke, who died in 1469, admonishing his lady: 'And wyfe, ye remember your promise to me to take the ordere of wydowhood, as ye may be the better mastre of your owne to performe my wylle.' The plan of the book 'in three sections, containing nineteen principal articles', is most exhaustive. The first section deals with religious and moral duties. In the words of the Ménagier, 'the first section is necessary to gain for you the love of God and the salvation of your soul, and also to win for you the love of your husband and to give you in this world that peace which ought to be had in marriage. And because these two things, to wit the salvation of your soul and the comfort of your husband, are the two things most chiefly necessary, therefore are they here placed first.' Then follows a series of articles telling the lady how to say her morning prayer when she rises, how to bear herself at Mass, and in what form to make her confession to the priest, together with a long and somewhat alarming discursus upon the seven deadly sins, which it assuredly never entered into her sleek little head to commit, and another, on the corresponding virtues.[2] But the greater part of the section deals with the all-important subject of the wife's duty to her husband. She is to be loving, humble, obedient, careful and thoughtful for his person, silent regarding his secrets, and patient if he be foolish and allow his heart to stray towards other women. The whole section is illustrated by a series of stories (known as _exempla_ in the Middle Ages), culled from the Bible, from the common stock of anecdotes possessed by jongleur and preacher alike, and (most interesting of all) from the Ménagier's own experience. Among the Ménagier's longer illustrations is the favourite but intolerably dull moral tale of Melibeu and Prudence, by Albertano of Brescia, translated into French by Renault de Louens, whose version the Ménagier copied, and adapted by Jean de Meung in the _Roman de la Rose_, from which in turn Chaucer took it to tell to the Canterbury Pilgrims. Here also are to be found Petrarch's famous tale of patient Griselda, which Chaucer also took and gave a wider fame, and a long poem written in 1342 by Jean Bruyant, a notary of the Châtelet at Paris, and called 'The Way of Poverty and Wealth', inculcating diligence and prudence.[3] The second section of the book deals with household management and is far the most interesting. The range of the Ménagier's knowledge leaves the reader gasping. The man is a perfect Mrs Beeton! The section comprises a detailed treatise on gardening and another on the principles which should govern the engagement of servants and the method by which they should be managed when hired; the modern problem of servants who leave does not seem to have presented itself to him. There are instructions how to mend, air, and clean dresses and furs, get out grease spots, catch fleas and keep flies out of the bedroom, look after wine, and superintend the management of a farm. At one point he breaks off, addressing his wife thus: 'Here will I leave you to rest or to play and will speak no more to you; and while you disport yourself elsewhere I will speak to Master John, the Steward, who looks after our possessions, so that if there is anything wrong with any of our horses, whether for the plough or for riding, or if it is necessary to buy or exchange a horse, he may know a little of that it behoves him to know in this matter.' There follow several pages of wise advice as to the good points of horses, how to examine them and to find their ages and defects under the eye of the horse dealer, the practical 'tips' of a man who evidently knew and loved his horses, together with advice upon the treatment of their various diseases. Among the various recipes which the Ménagier gives to this intent are two charms; for instance, 'when a horse has glanders, you must say to him these three words, with three paternosters: _abgla_, _abgly_, _alphard_, _asy_, _pater noster_, etc.'[4] Last, but not least, there is a magnificent cookery book, arranged in the form sacred to cookery books from that day to this, beginning with a list of specimen menus for dinners and suppers, hot or cold, fast or feast, summer or winter, giving hints on the choice of meat, poultry, and spices, and ending with a long series of recipes for all manner of soups, stews, sauces, and other viands, with an excursus on invalid's cookery! The third section of the book was intended by the Ménagier to contain three parts: first of all, a number of parlour games for indoor amusement; secondly, a treatise on hawking, the favourite outdoor amusement of ladies; and thirdly, a list of amusing riddles and games of an arithmetical kind ('concerning counting and numbering, subtle to find out or guess'), presumably of the nature of our old friend, 'If a herring and a half cost three ha'pence.' Unfortunately, the Ménagier seems never to have finished the book, and of this section only the treatise on hawking has survived. It is a great pity, for we have several such treatises, and how interesting an account of indoor games and riddles might have been we may guess from a passage in the Ménagier's version of the story of Lucrece, when he describes the Roman ladies 'some gossiping, others playing at _bric_, others at _qui féry_, others at _pince merille_, others at cards or other games of pleasure with their neighbours; others, who had supped together, were singing songs and telling fables and stories and wagers; others were in the street with their neighbours, playing at blind man's buff or at _bric_ and at several other games of the kind.'[5] In those days, before the invention of printing had made books plentiful, medieval ladies were largely dependent for amusement upon telling and listening to stories, asking riddles, and playing games, which we have long ago banished to the nursery; and a plentiful repertoire of such amusements was very desirable in a hostess. The Ménagier was clearly anxious that his wife should shine in the amenities as well as in the duties of social life. Such was the monumental work which the Ménagier de Paris was able to present to his awed but admiring wife; and though it has been sadly neglected by historians it deserves to be well known, for it gives us a picture of a medieval housewife which it would be hard indeed to surpass. There is hardly a side of her daily life upon which it does not touch, and we may now with advantage look more closely upon her, and see in turn the perfect lady, whose deportment and manners do credit to her breeding; the perfect wife, whose submission to her husband is only equalled by her skill in ministering to his ease; the perfect mistress, whose servants love her and run her house like clockwork; and the perfect housewife, the Mrs Beeton of the fifteenth century. The Ménagier's views on deportment are incongruously sandwiched into his section on spiritual duties, under the general headings of getting up in the morning and going to church. His ideas on the subject of clothes are very clearly defined: a sweet disorder in the dress was in no way to his taste: Know, dear sister, that if you wish to follow my advice you will have great care and regard for what you and I can afford to do, according to our estate. Have a care that you be honestly clad, without new devices and without too much or too little frippery. And before you leave your chamber and house, take care first that the collar of your shift, and of your _blanchet, cotte_ and _surcotte_, do not hang out one over the other, as happens with certain drunken, foolish or witless women, who have no care for their honour, nor for the honesty of their estate or of their husbands, and who walk with roving eyes and head horribly reared up like a lion (_la teste espoventablement levée comme un lyon!_), their hair straggling out of their wimples, and the collars of their shifts and _cottes_ crumpled the one upon the other, and who walk mannishly and bear themselves uncouthly before folk without shame. And if one speaks to them about it, they excuse themselves on the ground of their industry and humility, saying that they are so diligent, hardworking, and humble that they care not for themselves. But they lie; they care so much for themselves that if they were in an honourable company, never would they be willing that men should wait less upon them than upon the wiser ladies of like lineage with themselves, nor that they should have fewer salutations, bows, reverences and speech than the rest, but rather they desire more. And they are unworthy of it, for they know not how to maintain their own honourable fame, nay, nor the fame of their husbands and of their lineage, which they bring to shame. Therefore, fair sister, have a care that your hair, wimple, kerchief and hood and all the rest of your attire be well arranged and decently ordered, that none who see you can laugh or mock at you, but that all the others may find in you an example of fair and simple and decent array.... When you go to town or to church go suitably accompanied by honourable women according to your estate, and flee suspicious company, never allowing any ill famed woman to be seen in your presence. And as you go bear your head upright and your eyelids low and without fluttering, and look straight in front of you about four rods ahead, without looking round at any man or woman to the right or to the left, nor looking up, nor glancing from place to place, nor stopping to speak to anyone on the road.[6] Such was the model of female deportment in the Middle Ages. Let us pass from the lady to the wife. On the attitude of wife to husband the Ménagier's ideas are much the same as those of the rest of his age. They may be summed up as submission, obedience, and constant attention. She must be buxom at bed and at board, even in circumstances when buxomness hides a heavy heart. The good sense of the burgess does not prevent him from likening the wife's love for her husband to the fidelity of domestic animals towards their masters: 'Of the domestic animals you see how a greyhound, or a mastiff, or a little dog, whether on the road, or at table, or in bed, always keeps near to the person from whom he takes his food, and leaves and is shy and fierce with all others; and if the dog is afar off, he always has his heart and his eye upon his master; even if his master whip him and throw stones at him, the dog follows, wagging his tail and lying down before his master, seeks to mollify him, and through rivers, through woods, through thieves and through battles follows him.... Wherefore for a better and stronger reason women, to whom God has given natural sense and who are reasonable, ought to have a perfect and solemn love for their husbands; and so I pray you to be very loving and privy with your husband who shall be.'[7] Patience is an essential quality in wives, and, however sorely tried they must never complain. The Ménagier tells three stories to illustrate how a wife should bear herself in order to win back the love of an unfaithful husband. One of these is the famous tale of Griselda, but the two others are drawn (so he says) from his own experience. In the first of these he tells of the wife of a famous _avocat_ in the _parlement_ of Paris, who saw to the nurture and marriage of her husband's illegitimate daughter; 'nor did he ever perceive it by one reproach, or one angry or ugly word.' The second is the charmingly told story of how John Quentin's wife won back her husband's heart from the poor spinner of wool to whom it had strayed.[8] All seem to show that the Ménagier's simile of the little dog was selected with care, for the medieval wife, like the dog, was expected to lick the hand that smote her. Nevertheless, while subscribing to all the usual standards of his age, the Ménagier's robust sense, his hold upon the realities of life, kept him from pushing them too far. The comment of another realist, Chaucer, on the tale of Patient Griselda will be remembered. Grisilde is deed and eek hire pacience, And bothe at ones buryed in Ytaille; For which I crie in open audience, No wedded man so hardy be t'assaille His wyves pacience in hope to fynde Grisildes, for in certein he shal faille! O noble wyves, ful of heigh prudence, Lat noon humylitee youre tonge naill, Ne lat no clerk have cause or diligence To write of yow a stone of swich mervaille As of Grisildis pacient and kynde, Lest Chichivache[E] yow swelwe in hire entraille!... [Footnote E: Chichevache, the lean cow who fed on patient wives, while her mate Bicorne grew fat on humble husbands (A.W. Pollard).] His creation of the Wife of Bath was an even more pointed commentary. Here is what the Ménagier has to say to his young wife on the same subject: And I, who have put [the tale of Griselda] here only to teach you, have not put it here to apply it to you, for I am not worthy thereof, and I am not a marquis and I have not taken you as a beggar, nor am I so foolish, so conceited or so lacking in sense that I know not that 'tis not for me to assault nor to assay you thus, nor in like manner. God keep me from trying you thus under colour of false simulations.... And forgive me that the story speaks (in my opinion) of too great cruelty and beyond reason. And know that it never befel so, but thus the tale runs and I may nor correct nor alter it, for a wiser than I hath made it. And it is my desire that since others have read it you also may know and be able to talk about everything even as other folk do.[9] Moreover, in spite of the ideal of submission which he sets before his wife, the Ménagier has some charming words to say about love--with a sigh, perhaps, for his own advanced though not crabbed age, and a glance at that younger husband of the future who shall one day enjoy his little bride. In God's name (he says) I believe that when two good and honourable people are wed, all other loves are put far off, destroyed and forgotten, save only the love of each for the other. And meseems that when they are in each other's presence, they look upon each other more than upon the others, they clasp and hold each other and they do not willingly speak or make sign save to each other. And when they are separated, they think of each other and say in their hearts, 'When I see him I shall do thus and thus to him, or say this to him, I shall beseech him concerning this or that.' And all their special pleasure, their chief desire and their perfect joy is to do pleasure and obedience one to the other, if they love one another.[10] The greater part of the Ménagier's book is concerned, however, not with the theoretical niceties of wifely submission, but with his creature comforts. His instructions as to how to make a husband comfortable positively palpitate with life; and at the same time there is something indescribably homely and touching about them; they tell more about the real life of a burgess's wife than a hundred tales of Patient Griselda or of Jehanne la Quentine. Consider this picture (how typical a product of the masculine imagination!) of the stout bread-winner, buffeted about in all weathers and amid all discomforts, nobly pursuing the task of earning his living, and fortified by the recollection of a domesticated little wife, darning his stockings at home by the fire, and prepared to lavish her attentions on the weary hero in the evening. The passage is an excellent example of the Ménagier's vivid and simple style, and of the use of incidents drawn from everyday life to illustrate his thesis, which is one of the chief charms of the book. Fair sister, if you have another husband after me, know that you should think much of his comfort, for after a woman has lost her first husband she commonly finds it difficult to find another according to her estate, and she remains lonely and disconsolate for a long time[F]; and more so still, if she lose the second. Wherefore cherish the person of your husband carefully, and, I pray you, keep him in clean linen, for 'tis your business. And because the care of outside affairs lieth with men, so must a husband take heed, and go and come and journey hither and thither, in rain and wind, in snow and hail, now drenched, now dry, now sweating, now shivering, ill-fed, ill-lodged, ill-warmed and ill-bedded; and nothing harms him, because he is upheld by the hope that he has of his wife's care of him on his return, and of the ease, the joys and the pleasures which she will do to him, or cause to be done to him in her presence; to have his shoes removed before a good fire, his feet washed and to have fresh shoes and stockings, to be given good food and drink, to be well served and well looked after, well bedded in white sheets and night-caps, well covered with good furs, and assuaged with other joys and amusements, privities, loves, and secrets, concerning which I am silent; and on the next day fresh shirts and garments. Certes, fair sister, such service maketh a man love and desire to return to his home and to see his goodwife and to be distant with other women. [Footnote F: This seems to be contrary to experience.] And therefore I counsel you to make such cheer to your husband at all his comings and goings and to persevere therein; and also to be peaceable with him and remember the rustic proverb, which saith that there be three things which drive the goodman from home, to wit, a dripping roof, a smoking chimney and a scolding woman.[11] Wherefore, fair sister, I pray you that in order to keep yourself in love and good favour with your husband you be unto him gentle, amiable and debonair. Do unto him what the good simple women of our country say has been done unto their sons, when the lads have set their love elsewhere and their mothers cannot wean them from it. It is certain that when fathers and mothers be dead, and stepfathers and stepmothers argue with their stepsons, and scold them and repulse them, and take not thought for their sleeping, nor for their food and drink, their hose and their shirts and all their other needs and affairs, and the same children find elsewhere a good home and good counsel from some other woman, who receives them and takes thought to warm them with some poor gruel with her and to give them a bed and keep them tidy, mending their hosen, breeches, shirts, and other garments, then those lads cleave to her and desire to be with her, and to sleep warm between her breasts, and are altogether estranged from their mothers and fathers, who before took no heed of them, and now want to get them back and have them again. But it may not be, for these children hold more dear the company of strangers, who think and care for them, than that of their kinsfolk, who have no care of them. Then the parents lament and weep and say that these same women have bewitched their children and that they are spellbound and cannot leave, but are never easy save when they are with their enchantresses. But whatever may be said of it, it is no witchcraft, but it by reason of the love, the care, the intimacies, joys and pleasures, which these women do in all ways unto the lads, and on my soul there is no other enchantment.... Wherefore, dear sister, I pray you thus to bewitch and bewitch again your husband, and beware of dripping roof and smoking fire, and scold him not, but be unto him gentle and amiable and peaceable. Be careful that in winter he has good fire without smoke, and let him rest well and be well covered between your breasts and thus bewitch him.... And thus you shall preserve and guard him from all discomforts and give him all the ease that you can, and serve him and cause him to be well served in your house; and you shall look to him for outside things, for if he be a good man he will take even more care and trouble over them than you wish, and by doing as I have said, you will make him always miss you and have his heart with you and with your loving service, and he will shun all other houses, all other women, all other services and households; all will be naught to him save you alone, if you think of him as aforesaid.... And so on the road, husbands will think of their wives, and no trouble will be a burden to them for the hope and love they will have of their wives, whom they will long to see, even as poor hermits, penitents and fasting monks long to see the face of Christ Jesus; and husbands served thus will never desire to abide elsewhere or in other company but will withhold, withdraw and abstain themselves there-from; all the rest will seem to them but a bed of stones compared with their home.[12] Enough has perhaps been quoted to show the Ménagier's idea of a perfect wife; his idea of the perfect housewife is contained in a mass of instructions which make excellently entertaining reading. So modern in tone is his section on the management of servants, both in his account of their ways and in his advice upon dealing with them, that one often rubs one's eyes to be sure that what one is reading is really a book written over five centuries ago by an old burgess of Paris. The Ménagier evidently had a fairly large household, and he probably owned a country as well as a town house, for he speaks several times of overseeing the farm-hands 'when you are in the village'. To assist his wife in superintending this large staff he has a _maître d'hôtel_, called Master John the Steward (_le despensier_) and a duenna, half housekeeper and half chaperon, for her young mistress, called Dame Agnes _la béguine_[G] and a bailiff or foreman to look after the farm. The Ménagier divides his servants and workmen into three classes--first, those engaged by the day or by the season for special work, such as porters and carriers, reapers, winnowers, coopers, and so on; secondly, those engaged on piecework, such as tailors, furriers, bakers, and shoemakers, hired by medieval households of some wealth to make what was needed from raw material purchased at fairs or in the shops of the city; and thirdly, the ordinary domestic servants, who were hired by the year and lived in their master's house; 'and of all these,' he says, 'there is none who does not gladly seek work and a master'. [Footnote G: The Béguines were a sort of religious order, or, more correctly, a lay sisterhood, standing half-way between the lay and the monastic life, and somewhat analogous to the Franciscan Tertiaries, or Third Order.] He gives an amusing account, evidently based upon bitter experience, of the wiles of the hired workman. He says that they are commonly lazy, rough, quick at 'answering back', arrogant (except on payday) and ready to break into insults if unsatisfied with their pay. He warns his wife to bid Master John always to take the peaceable ones and always to bargain with them beforehand as to the pay for which they will do the work. For know that most often they do not want to bargain, but they want to get to work without any bargain having been made and they say gently, 'Milord, it is nothing--there is no need--you will pay me well and I shall be content with what you think fit.' And if Master John take them thus, when the work is finished they will say, 'Sir, there was more to do than I thought, there was this and that to do, and here and there,' and they will not take what is given them and will break out into shouting and angry words ... and will spread abroad evil report concerning you, which is worst of all.[13] We know from the various ordinances fixing wages from the time of the Black Death onwards, that labour troubles were acute in France as well as in England at the end of the fourteenth century; and the Ménagier's advice throws an interesting sidelight on the situation. It is, however, in his observations upon the engagement and management of maidservants that the wisdom of the serpent is most apparent. Incidentally he gives an account of how servants were hired in fourteenth-century Paris, which shows that the registry office and the character are by no means modern phenomena. There were _recommanderesses_--women holding what we should call registry offices--in Paris at this time, and an ordinance of 1351 (fixing wages after the Black Death) allows them to take _1s. 6d_. for placing a chambermaid and _2s_. for a nurse. A servant maid's wage at this time was 30s. a year and her shoes. The Ménagier counsels his wife thus on the delicate subject of interviewing and engaging her domestic chambermaids and serving men: Know, dear sister (he says), that in order that they may obey you better and fear the more to anger you, I leave you the rule and authority to have them chosen by Dame Agnes the béguine, or by whichever other of your women you please, to receive them into our service, to hire them at your pleasure, to pay and keep them in our service as you please, and to dismiss them when you will. Nathless you should privily speak to me about it and act according to my advice, because you are too young and might be deceived by your own people. And know that of those chambermaids who are out of a place, many there be who offer themselves and clamour and seek urgently for masters and mistresses; and of these take none until you first know where their last place was, and send some of your people to get their character, to wit whether they talked or drank too much, how long they were in the place, what work they have been accustomed to doing and can do, whether they have homes or friends in the town, from what sort of people and what part of the country they come, how long they were there and why they left; and by their work in the past you shall find out what hope or expectation you may have of their work in the future. And know that oft-times such women from distant parts of the country have been blamed for some fault in their own part of the world and that is what brings them into service at a distance.... And if you find from the report of her master and mistress, neighbours and others that a girl is what you need, find out from her, and cause Master John to register in his account book, the day on which you engage her, her name and those of her father, mother and any of her kinsfolk, the place where they live and her birthplace and her references. For servants will be more afraid to do wrong if they know that you are recording all these things and that if they leave you without permission, or are guilty of any offence, you will write and complain to the justice of their country or to their friends. And not withstanding bear in mind the saying of the philosopher called Bertrand the Old, who says that if you engage a maid or man of high and proud answers, you shall know that when she leaves she will miscall you if she can; and if, on the contrary, she be flattering and ¸full of blandishments, trust her not, for she is in league with someone else to trick you; but if she blushes and is silent and shamefast when you correct her, love her as your daughter.[14] The Ménagier's instructions as to how to look after servants when they have been engaged are equally practical. Good order is to be maintained, quarrels and bad language[15] prevented, and morals guarded. Each is to have his or her work assigned and to do it promptly. 'If you order them to do something now and these your servants answer "There is plenty of time, it shall be done," or "It shall be done tomorrow," hold it as forgotten, it must all be begun again, it is as nought. And also when you give a general order to every one, each will wait for the other to do it, and it is the same.' Not only is the work of the servants to be carefully superintended by the mistress and by Dame Agnes, 'who is with you', the Ménagier tells his wife, 'in order to teach you wise and ripe behaviour and to serve and instruct you and to whom in particular I give the charge of this matter', but she is to show herself careful and benevolent in looking after their health and happiness. At the proper hour she is to cause them to sit down before a hearty meal of one sort of meat, avoiding rich viands, and one kind of drink, which must be nourishing but not intoxicating--'the cup that cheers but not inebriates'; probably in this case the light ale which was the habitual drink of the Middle Ages. She is to admonish them to eat and drink their fill, but as soon as they begin to tell stories, or to argue, or to lean on their elbows, order the béguine to make them rise and take away their table, for the common folk have a saying 'when a varlet holds forth at table and a horse grazes in the ditch, it is time to take them away, for they have had their fill.' In the evening, after their afternoon's work, they are to have another hearty meal, and then in winter time they may warm themselves at the fire and take their ease. Then she is to lock up the house and pack them all off to bed. And arrange first that each have beside his bed a candlestick in which to put his candle, and have them wisely taught to extinguish it with the mouth or hand before getting into bed and by no means with their shirts. And also have them admonished and taught each and all, that they must begin again the next day and that they must rise in the morning and each set to upon his own work. The Ménagier further advises his wife that chambermaids of fifteen to twenty years of age are foolish girls who do not know the world, and that she should always cause them to sleep near her in an antechamber, or a room without a skylight or a low window looking on to the street, and should make them get up and go to bed at the same time as herself. 'And you yourself,' he adds, 'who, if God please, will be wise by this time, must keep them near to you.' Moreover, if any of her servants fall ill, 'do you yourself, laying aside all other cares, very lovingly and charitably care for him or her, and visit him and study diligently how to bring about his cure'.[16] But it is perhaps in his capacity as Mrs Beeton that the Ménagier is most amusing. His infinite variety of household knowledge is shown in the incidental recipes which he gives when he is describing the measures which a wife must take for her lord's comfort, and the work of the servants. There are elaborate instructions concerning the costly medieval garments, worn year after year for a lifetime and often bequeathed in their owner's will, instructions for cleaning dresses and furs and for preserving them from moths, and instructions for removing stains and grease spots. The Ménagier gives seven recipes for taking out grease spots, but he is rather sceptical about one or two of them, which he has evidently copied from a book without trying them for himself. 'To get rid of stains on a dress of silk, satin, camlet, damask cloth or another,' runs one of these, 'dip and wash the stain in verjuice and the stain will go; even if the dress be faded, it will regain its colour. _This I do not believe'_. The chief impression left, however, is that the medieval housewife was engaged in a constant warfare against fleas. One of the Ménagier's infallible rules for keeping a husband happy at home is to give him a good fire in the winter and keep his bed free from fleas in the summer. He gives six recipes for getting rid of such small livestock, which must indeed have been a very common trial to our forefathers: In summer take heed that there be no fleas in your chamber nor in your bed, which you may do in six ways, as I have heard tell. For I have heard from several persons that if the room be scattered with alder leaves the fleas will get caught therein. Item, I have heard tell that if you have at night one or two trenchers of bread covered with birdlime or turpentine and put about the room with a lighted candle set in the midst of each trencher, they will come and get stuck thereto. Another way which I have found and which is true: take a rough cloth and spread it about your room and over your bed and all the fleas who may hop on to it will be caught, so that you can carry them out with the cloth wheresoever you will. Item, sheepskins. Item, I have seen blankets placed on the straw and on the bed and when the black fleas jumped upon them they were the sooner found and killed upon the white. But the best way is to guard oneself against those which are within the coverlets and furs and the stuff of the dresses wherewith one is covered. For know that I have tried this, and when the coverlets, furs or dresses in which there be fleas are folded and shut tightly up, in a chest straitly bound with straps or in a bag well tied up and pressed, or otherwise compressed so that the said fleas are without light and air and kept imprisoned, then they will perish and die at once.[17] A similar war had also to be waged against flies and mosquitoes, which rendered summer miserable. "I have sometimes," says the Ménagier, "seen in several chambers that when one has gone to bed in them, they were full of mosquitoes, which at the smoke of the breath came to sit on the faces of those who slept and sting them so that they were fain to get up and light a fire of hay to smoke them off." Against such pests he has also six infallible recipes--to wit, a mosquito net over the bed; sprigs of fern hung up for the flies to settle on; a bowl filled with a mixture of milk and hare's gall, or with the juice of raw onions, which will kill them; a bottle containing a rag dipped in honey, or else a string dipped in honey to hang up; fly whisks to drive them away; and closing up windows with oiled cloth or parchment.[18] The section on cookery, which contains the Ménagier's injunctions for "feeding the brute", is the longest in the book, and gives an extraordinarily interesting picture of the domestic economy of our ancestors.[19] The Ménagier must have been brother to Chaucer's Franklin, 'Epicurus owene sone': An housholdere, and that a greet, was he: Seint Julian he was in his contree; His breed, his ale, was alwey after oon; A bettre envyned man was nowher noon. Withoute bake mete was never his hous, Of fissh and flessh, and that so plenteuous It snewed in his hous of mete and drynke. Of alle deyntees that men koude thynke. After the sondry sesons of the yeer, So chaunged he his mete and his soper. Ful many a fat partrich had he in muwe And many a breem and many a luce in stuwe. Wo was his cook but if his sauce were Poynaunt and sharpe and redy al his geere. His table dormant in his hal alway Stood redy covered al the longe day. In this, as in all other medieval cookery books, what strikes the modern reader is the length and elaboration of the huge feasts, with their many courses and dishes, and the richness of the highly spiced viands. There are black puddings and sausages, venison and beef, eels and herrings, fresh water fish, round sea fish and flat sea fish, common pottages unspiced, spiced pottages, meat pottages and meatless pottages, roasts and pastries and entremets, divers sauces boiled and unboiled, pottages and 'slops' for invalids. Some of them sound delicious, others would be ruin to our degenerate digestions today. Pungent sauces of vinegar, verjuice, and wine were very much favoured, and cloves, cinnamon, galingale, pepper, and ginger appear unexpectedly in meat dishes. Almonds were a favourite ingredient in all sorts of dishes, as they still are in China and other parts of the East, and they might well be used more lavishly than they are in modern European cookery. True to his race, the Ménagier includes recipes for cooking frogs and snails.[20] To the modern cook some of his directions may appear somewhat vague, as when he bids his cook to boil something for as long as it takes to say a paternoster or a _miserere_; yet for clockless kitchens in a pious age what clearer indication could a man give? And, after all, it is no worse than 'cook in a hot oven', which still finds a place in many modern cookery books which should know better. Other instructions are detailed enough. In one valuable passage he gives a list of all the meat markets of Paris, together with the number of butchers to be found in each and the number of sheep, oxen, pigs, and calves sold there every week, adding also for interest the amount of meat and poultry consumed weekly in the households of the King, the Queen and the royal children, the Dukes of Orleans, Berry, Burgundy, and Bourbon. Elsewhere also he speaks of other markets--the Pierre-au-Lait, or milk market; the Place de Grève, where they sell coal and firewood; and the Porte-de-Paris which is not only a meat market, but the best place in which to buy fish and salt and green herbs and branches to adorn your rooms. For his wife's further guidance the Ménagier sets out a careful specification of the catering arrangements for several great feasts--to wit, a dinner given by the Abbot of Lagny to the Bishop of Paris and the members of the King's Council, the feast, comprising dinner and supper, which one Master Elias (evidently a grave and reverend _maître d'hôtel,_ like Master John _le despensier_ himself) made for the wedding of Jean du Chesne, upon a Tuesday in May, and the arrangements for another wedding, "les nopces Hautecourt", in the month of September, as to which the Ménagier observes "that because they were widower and widow they were wed very early, in their black robes and then put on others"; he was anxious that his widow should do the correct thing at that second wedding of hers. The description of the wedding feast arranged by Master Elias is particularly detailed and valuable.[21] The careful Ménagier, perhaps because he foresaw some big entertainment which he must give to the burgesses and gentlemen of Paris, perhaps because of his delightful interest in all the details of material life, has set down at length not only the menu of the dinner and supper, but a long account of the ingredients needed, their quantities and prices, and the shops or markets where they must be bought, so that the reader can see with his eyes the _maître d'hôtel_ and the cooks going round from stall to stall, visiting butcher and baker, poulterer, saucemaker, vintner, wafer maker, who sold the wafers and pastries dear to medieval ladies, and spicer whose shop was heavy with the scents of the East. The Ménagier sets down also all the esquires and varlets and waiters who will be needed to serve such a feast as this. There was the master cook, comfortably stout and walking 'high and disposedly', as Queen Elizabeth danced, brain pan stuffed full of delectable recipes, hand of ravishing lightness with pastries, eye and nose skilled to say when a capon was done to a turn, warranted without a rival To boille the chiknes with the marybones, And poudre-marchant tart and galyngale ... He koude rooste and seethe and boille and frye, Maken martreux and wel bake a pye ... For blankmanger, that made he with the beste. He brought his varlets with him, and in Paris he took two francs for his hire 'and perquisites' (a pregnant addition). Then there were ushers, 'stout and strong', to keep the doors, and a clerk to add up the account; bread-cutters and water-carriers, two squires to serve at the dresser in the kitchen where the plates and dishes were handed out, two others at the hall dresser to give out spoons and drinking cups and pour wine for the guests, and two others in the pantry to give out the wine which their varlet kept drawing for them. There were the two _maîtres d'hôtel_ to set out the silver salt-cellars for the high table, the four great gilded goblets, the four dozen hanaps, the four dozen silver spoons, the ewers and alms mugs and sweetmeat dishes, and to usher the guests to their places; a head waiter and two servitors for each table, a flower girl to make chaplets of flowers for the guests, women to see to the linen and deck the bridal bed,[22] and a washerwoman. The floors were strewn with violets and green herbs and the rooms decked with branches of May (all bought in the market in early morning), and there was a good stock of torches and candles, small candles to stand on the supper tables, and great torches to be set in sconces on the walls, or to be carried in procession by the guests, for the supper ended with 'dancing, singing, wine and spices and lighted torches'. On this occasion eight francs were given to the minstrels, over and above the spoons and other presents made to them during the meal, and there were also acrobats and mimes to amuse the guests. If they had to prepare a great feast Master John and his little mistress could not go far wrong after this, or fail to please the genial epicure who set it down for them. The Ménagier copied many of his recipes from other cookery books, but he must have got the details of this entertainment from Master Elias himself, and one can see their grey heads wagging with enjoyment, as one talked and the other wrote. The cookery book ends with a section containing recipes for making what the Ménagier calls 'small things which are not necessities'. There are various sorts of jams, mostly made with honey; in the Middle Ages vegetables were evidently much prepared in this way, for the Ménagier speaks of turnip, carrot, and pumpkin jam. There is a delicious syrup of mixed spices (at least the palate of faith must believe it to have been delicious) and a powder of ginger, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, and sugar, to be sifted over food, as sugar is sifted today; there is a recipe for hippocras, and for 'gauffres' or wafers, and for candied oranges. There are various sage pieces of advice as to the seasons for certain foods and the best ways of cooking and serving them. Most amusing of all these are a number of recipes not of a culinary nature--to wit, for making glue and marking ink, for bringing up small birds in aviaries and cages, preparing sand for hour-glasses, making rose-water, drying roses to lay among dresses (as we lay lavender today), for curing tooth-ache, and for curing the bite of a mad dog. The latter is a charm, of the same type as the Ménagier's horse charms: 'Take a crust of bread and write what follows: _Bestera bestie nay brigonay dictera sagragan es domina siat siat siat_.' Let us remember, however, that the nation which produced it, some four centuries later, produced Pasteur. [Illustration: V. THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE HAS A GARDEN PARTY] Enough has been said about this entrancing book to show how vividly it brings not only the Ménagier, but the Ménagier's young wife before our eyes after these many years. In the morning she rises, much earlier than ladies rise nowadays, though not so early as nuns, who must say matins, for that, her husband tells her, is not a fitting hour for married women to leave their beds. Then she washes, much less than ladies nowadays, hands and face only perchance, and says her orisons, and dresses very neatly, for she knows whose eye is upon her, and so goes with Dame Agnes the béguine to Mass, with eyes on the ground and hands folded over her painted primer. After Mass, and perhaps confession, back again to see if the servants are doing their work, and have swept and dusted the hall and the rooms, beaten the cushions and coverlets on the forms and tidied everything, and afterwards to interview Master John the steward and order dinner and supper. Then she sends Dame Agnes to see to the pet dogs and birds, "for they cannot speak and so you must speak and think for them if you have any". Then, if she be in her country house, she must take thought for the farm animals and Dame Agnes must superintend those who have charge of them, Robin the shepherd, Josson the oxherd, Arnoul the cowherd, Jehanneton the milkmaid, and Eudeline the farmer's wife who looks after the poultry yard. If she be in her town house she and her maids take out her dresses and furs from their great chests and spread them in the sun in the garden or courtyard to air, beating them with little rods, shaking them in the breeze, taking out spots and stains with one or other of the master's tried recipes, pouncing with lynx eyes upon the moth or sprightly flea. [Illustration: VI. THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE COOKS HIS SUPPER, WITH THE AID OF HIS BOOK] After this comes dinner, the serious meal of the day, eaten by our ancestors about 10 a.m. What the Ménagier's wife gives to her lord and master will depend upon the time of year and upon whether it be a meat or a fast day; but we know that she has no lack of menus from which to choose. After dinner she sees that the servants are set to dine, and then the busy housewife may become the lady of leisure and amuse herself. If in the country she may ride out hawking with a gay party of neighbours; if in town, on a winter's day, she may romp and play with other married ladies of her tender years, exchange riddles or tell stories round the fire. But what she most loves is to wander in her garden, weaving herself garlands of flowers, violets, gilly flowers, roses, thyme, or rosemary, gathering fruit in season (she likes raspberries and cherries), and passing on to the gardeners weighty advice about the planting of pumpkins ("in April water them courteously and transplant them"), to which the gardeners give as much attention as gardeners always have given, give still, and ever shall give, world without end, to the wishes of their employers. When she tires of this, the busy one gathers together Dame Agnes and her maids, and they sit under the carved beams of the hall mending his mastership's doublet, embroidering a vestment for the priest at his family chantry, or a tapestry hanging for the bedchamber. Or perhaps they simply spin (since, in the words of the Wife of Bath, God has given women three talents--deceit, weeping, and spinning!); and all the while she awes them with that tale of Griselda, her voice rising and falling to the steady hum of the wheels. At last it is evening, and back comes the lord and master. What a bustle and a pother this home-coming meant we know well, since we know what he expected. Such a running and fetching of bowls of warm water to wash his feet, and comfortable shoes to ease him; such a hanging on his words and admiring of his labours. Then comes supper, with a bevy of guests, or themselves all alone in the westering sunlight, while he smacks connoisseur's lips over the roast crane and the blankmanger, and she nibbles her sweet wafers. Afterwards an hour of twilight, when she tells him how she has passed the day, and asks him what she shall do with the silly young housemaid, whom she caught talking to the tailor's 'prentice through that low window which looks upon the road. There is warm affection in the look she turns up to him, her round little face puckered with anxiety over the housemaid, dimpling into a smile when he commends her; and there is warm affection and pride too in the look the old man turns down upon her. So the night falls, and they go round the house together, locking all the doors and seeing that the servants are safe abed, for our ancestors were more sparing of candlelight than we. And so to bed. We may take our leave of the couple here. The Ménagier's wife evidently had a full life. Some respit to husbands the weather may send, But huswiues affaires haue neuer an end. There was no room in it for the idleness of those lovely ladies, with their long fingers, whom Langland admonished to sew for the poor. Moreover, exaggerated as some of her husband's ideas upon wifely submission appear today, the book leaves a strong impression of good sense and of respect as well as love for her. The Ménagier does not want his wife to be on a pedestal, like the troubadour's lady, nor licking his shoes like Griselda; he wants a helpmeet, for, as Chaucer said, 'If that wommen were nat goode and hir conseils goode and profitable, oure Lord God of hevene wolde never han wroght hem, ne called hem "help" of man, but rather confusioun of man.'[23] Ecclesiastical Jeremiahs were often wont to use the characteristically medieval argument that if God had meant woman for a position of superiority He would have taken her from Adam's head rather than his side; but the Ménagier would have agreed with the more logical Peter Lombard, who observed that she was not taken from Adam's head, because she was not intended to be his ruler, nor from his feet either, because she was not intended to be his slave, but from his side, precisely, because she was intended to be his companion. There is something of this spirit in the Ménagier's attitude towards his little wife, and it is this which makes his book so charming and causes it to stand head and shoulders above most other medieval books of behaviour for women. But, above all, its social and historical value lies in the fact that it gives us, in hues undimmed by time, a full length portrait of a medieval housewife, who has her place (and it is a large one) in history, but concerning whom historians have almost invariably been silent. CHAPTER VI _Thomas Betson_ A MERCHANT OF THE STAPLE IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY Some men of noble stock were made, some glory in the murder blade: Some praise a Science or an Art, but I like honourable Trade! --JAMES ELROY FLECKER _The Golden Journey to Samarcand_ The visitor to the House of Lords, looking respectfully upon that august assembly, cannot fail to be struck by a stout and ungainly object facing the throne--an ungainly object upon which in full session of Parliament, he will observe seated the Lord Chancellor of England. The object is a woolsack, and it is stuffed as full of pure history as the office of Lord Chancellor itself. For it reminds a cotton-spinning, iron-working generation that the greatness of England was built up, not upon the flimsy plant which comes to her to be manufactured from the Far East and West of the world, nor upon the harsh metal delved from her bowels, but upon the wool which generation after generation has grown on the backs of her black-faced sheep. First in the form of a raw material sought after eagerly by all the cloth-makers of Europe, then in the form of a manufacture carried on in her own towns and villages, and sent out far and wide in ships, wool was the foundation of England's greatness right up to the time of the Industrial Revolution, when cotton and iron took its place. So if you look at old pictures of the House of Lords, in Henry VIII's reign, or in Elizabeth's, you will see the woolsack before the throne,[1] as you will see it if you visit the House today. The Lord Chancellor of England is seated upon a woolsack because it was upon a woolsack that this fair land rose to prosperity. The most remarkable body of traders in England during the Middle Ages were the Merchants of the Staple, who traded in wool. The wool trade had for long been the largest and most lucrative body of trade in the country, and it was one in which the Kings of England were particularly interested, for their customs revenue was drawn largely from wool and wool fells; and, moreover, when they desired to borrow money in anticipation of revenue it was to the wool merchants that they turned, because the wool merchants were the wealthiest traders in the country. For these and other reasons the Government adopted the custom of fixing staple towns, which acted as centres of distribution through which the export trade was forced to go. The location of the Staple was altered from time to time; sometimes it was at Bruges, sometimes at Antwerp, sometimes in England; but usually it was at Calais, where it was first fixed in 1363 and finally established in 1423. Through the Staple all wool and wool fells, hides, leather, and tin had to pass, and the organization of the system was complete when the body of wool merchants, in whose hands lay the bulk of the Staple trade, were finally incorporated in 1354, under the governance of a mayor. The system was a convenient one for Crown and merchants alike. The Crown could concentrate its customs officers in one place and collect its customs the more easily, particularly as a method was gradually developed by which the custom and subsidy on wool was paid to the Royal officials by the Fellowship of the Staple, who then collected it from the individual members. The merchants, on the other hand, benefited by the concentration in trade: they were able to travel in groups and to organize convoys to protect the wool fleets from pirates who swarmed in the narrow seas between England and France; as members of a powerful corporation they could secure both privileges and protection in Flanders. Moreover, the wool buyers also benefited by the arrangement, which rendered possible a careful surveillance by the Crown and the Company of the Staple of the quality of the wool offered for sale, and a series of regulations against fraud. It must be remembered that in days when trade stood in need of a protection which the Government was not yet able to give it, there was nothing unpopular in the idea of giving the monopoly of the staple trade to the members of a single company. 'Trade in companies is natural to Englishmen,' wrote Bacon; and for four centuries it was the great trading companies which nurtured English trade and made this country the commercial leader of the world. The wool trade throve in England until the close of the Middle Ages, but throughout the fifteenth century the staplers were beginning to feel the competition of another company--that of the famous Merchant Adventurers, who, taking advantage of the growth in the native cloth manufacture during the previous century, had begun to do a great trade in the export of cloth. This was obnoxious to the staplers, who desired the continuance of the old system, by which they exported English wool to the Continent, where at Ypres and Ghent, Bruges and Mechlin, and the other famous cloth-working cities of the Netherlands, it was woven into fine cloth. This cloth manufacture gave to the Netherlands a sort of industrial pre-eminence in Europe throughout the Middle Ages, and it was dependent entirely upon a good supply of English wool, for the next best wool in Europe--that of Spain--was not satisfactory unless mixed with wool of English growth. Hence the close political tie between England and Flanders, the one needing a customer, the other an essential raw material; for, as a fifteenth century poet said, the lytelle londe of Flaundres is But a staple to other londes, iwys, And alle that groweth in Flaundres, greyn and sede, May not a moneth fynde hem mete and brede. What hath thenne Flaundres, be Flemmyngis leffe or lothe But a lytelle madere and Flemmyshe cloothe? By drapynge of our wolle in substaunce Lyvene here comons, this is here governaunce; Wythought whyche they may not leve at ease, Thus moste hem sterve, or wyth us most have peasse.[2] In those days the coat on the Englishman's back was made out of English wool, indeed, but it had been manufactured in Flanders, and the staplers saw no reason why it should ever be otherwise. As to the Flemings, the political alliances which commercial necessities constantly entailed between the two countries gave rise among them to a proverb that they bought the fox-skin from the English for a groat and sold them back the tail for a guelder;[3] but it was the sheepskin which they bought, and they were not destined to go on buying it for ever. The great cloth-making cities of the Netherlands were finally ruined by the growth of the English cloth manufacture, which absorbed the English wool. However, in spite of the growing prosperity of this trade, which had by the beginning of the sixteenth century ousted that of wool as the chief English export trade, the Company of the Merchants of the Staple was still great and famous throughout the fifteenth century. Many were the wealthy and respected staplers who were in those days to be found directing the destinies of English towns, mayors of London and provincial ports, contractors and moneylenders to an impecunious king, so rich and so powerful that they became a constitutional menace, almost, it has been said, a fourth estate of the realm, with which His Majesty was wont to treat for grants apart from Parliament. Many are the staplers' wills preserved in registries up and down England and bearing witness to their prosperity and public spirit. Many are the magnificent brasses which preserve their memory in the parish churches of the Cotswolds and other wool-growing districts of England. At Chipping Campden lies William Grevel with his wife, 'late citizen of London and flower of the wool merchants of all England', who died in 1401, and his beautiful house still stands in the village street. At Northleach lies John Fortey, who rebuilt the nave before he died in 1458; his brass shows him with one foot on a sheep and the other on a woolpack, and the brasses of Thomas Fortey, 'woolman', and of another unknown merchant, with a woolpack, lie near by. At Linwood, at Cirencester, at Chipping Norton, at Lechlade, and at All Hallows, Barking, you may see others of the great fraternity.[4] They rest in peace now, but when they lived they were the shrewdest traders of their day. Of wool, cries the poet Gower, O leine, dame de noblesce Tu est des marchantz la duesse, Pour toy servir tout sont enclin-- 'O wool, noble dame, thou art the goddess of merchants, to serve thee they are all ready; by thy good fortune and thy wealth thou makest some mount high, and others thou bringest to ruin. The staple where thou dwellest is never free of fraud and trickery, wherewith man wounds his conscience. O wool, Christians no less than pagans and Saracens seek to have thee and confess thee. O wool, we should not be silent about thy doings in strange lands; for the merchants of all countries, in time of peace, in time of war, come to seek thee by reason of their great love, for whoever else hath enemies thou art never without good friends, who have given themselves to thy profitable service. Thou art cherished throughout the world, and the land where thou art born may do great things by reason of thee. Thou art carried throughout the world by land and sea, but thou goest to the wealthiest men; in England art thou born, but it is said that thou art but ill governed, for Trick, who hath much money, is made regent of thy staple; at his will he taketh it to foreign lands, where he purchaseth his own gain to our harm. O fair, O white, O delightful one, the love of thee stings and binds, so that the hearts of those who make merchandise of thee cannot escape. So they compass much trickery and many schemes how they may gather thee, and then they make thee pass the sea, queen and lady of their navy, and in order to have thee envy and covetousness hie them to bargain for thee.'[5] The daily life of a Merchant of the Staple is not a difficult one to reconstruct, partly because the Golden Fleece has left so many marks upon our national life, partly because the statute book is full of regulations concerning the wool trade, but chiefly because there have come down to us many private letters from persons engaged in shipping wool from England to Calais. Of all the different sorts of raw material out of which the history of ordinary people in the Middle Ages has to be made, their letters are perhaps the most enthralling, because in their letters people live and explain themselves in all their individuality. In the fifteenth century most men and women of the upper and middle classes could read and write, although their spelling was sometimes marvellous to behold, and St Olave's Church is apt to become 'Sent Tolowys scryssche' beneath their painfully labouring goose quills, and punctuation is almost entirely to seek. But what matter? their meaning is clear enough. Good fortune has preserved in various English archives several great collections of family letters written in the fifteenth century. Finest of all are the famous Paston Letters, written by and to a family of Norfolk gentlefolk, and crammed with information about high politics and daily life.[6] Less interesting, but valuable all the same, are the letters of the Plumptons, who were lords in Yorkshire.[7] But for our purposes the most interesting are two other collections, to wit, the correspondence of the Stonors, whose estates lay chiefly in Oxfordshire and the neighbouring counties; and the Cely papers, kept by a family of Merchants of the Staple. These two collections give us a vivid picture of wool staplers in their public and private lives. The Cely papers cover the years 1475 to 1488, and it so happens that during that period William Stonor (he became Sir William in 1478) also became interested in the wool trade, for in 1475 he married Elizabeth Riche, the daughter and widow of wealthy city merchants. The Stonors had great sheep runs on their estates in the Chilterns and Cotswolds, and William readily perceived the advantage of his alliance with Elizabeth's family, who were interested in the wool trade. Consequently he entered into a partnership with a friend of his wife's, a Merchant of the Staple in Calais, named Thomas Betson, who is the subject of this study, and until Elizabeth's death in 1479, he took an active part in the export trade. Thomas Betson died in 1486, and was thus an exact contemporary of those other Merchants of the Staple, George and Richard Cely, whom he must have known; indeed, William Cely, their cousin and agent, writes from London to George in Calais in 1481, advising him that he has dispatched 464 fells to him in the _Thomas_ of Newhithe, 'and the sayd felles lyeth nexte be afte the maste lowest under the felles of Thomas Bettson'.[8] By the aid of the 'Stonor Letters and Papers', which contain many letters from and concerning him during the years of his partnership with Sir William, and of the 'Cely Papers', which are full of information about the life of a Merchant of the Staple at Calais, Thomas Betson may be summoned before us by a kindly magic until he almost lives again. So he deserves to do, for he is one of the most delightful people revealed to us in any of the fifteenth-century letters; for honest charm he has no rival save the attractive Margery Brews, who married John Paston the younger, and shows up so pleasantly beside the hard Paston women. Perhaps the reason why our hearts warm immediately towards Thomas Betson is that our first meeting with him plunges us immediately into a love affair. His first letter to William Stonor is dated April 12, 1476, and informs William that their wool has come in to Calais. 'Right worshipfful Syr,' it begins, 'I recomaund me unto your good maystershipe, and to my right worshipffulle maystresse your wiffe, and yf it plese your maystershipe, to my maystresse Kateryn.'[9] Ten days later he writes again from London, on the eve of sailing for Calais, thanking Stonor for his 'gentle cheer and faithful love, the which alway ye bear and owe unto me, and of my behalf nothing deserved[H],' announcing that he has sent a present of powdered[I] lampreys from himself and a pipe of red wine from his brother, and adding this postscript: 'Sir, I beseech your mastership that this poor writing may have me lowly recommended to my right worshipful mistress, your wife, and in like wise to my gentle cousin and kind mistress Katherine Riche, to whom I beseech your mastership ever to be favourable and loving.'[10] Who was this Katherine Riche to whom he so carefully commends himself? Katherine Riche was William Stonor's stepdaughter, one of his wife's children by her first husband; she was Thomas Betson's affianced bride, and at this time she was about thirteen years old. [Footnote H: Henceforth I shall modernize spelling, for the reader's convenience.] [Footnote I: I.e. pickled.] Modern opinion, which is happily in favour of falling in love, and of adult marriages, is often shocked by the air of business which pervades matchmaking in the days of chivalry, and by the many cases of grown men married to little girls not yet out of their teens. In those days it was held that a boy came of age at fourteen and a girl at twelve (a discrepancy which the great canon lawyer, Lyndwood, the son of a stapler,[11] attributed to the fact that ill weeds grow apace!). For reasons of property, or to settle family feuds, or simply to assure their own future, babies in cradles were sometimes betrothed and even married; all that the Church required was that children should be free when they came of age (at the ages of fourteen and twelve!) to repudiate the contract if they so desired. Nothing seems to separate modern England from the good old days so plainly as the case of little Grace de Saleby, aged four, who for the sake of her broad acres was married to a great noble, and on his death two years later to another, and yet again, when she was eleven, to a third, who paid three hundred marks down for her.[12] There is an odd mixture of humour and pathos in the story of some of these marriages. John Rigmarden, aged three, was carried to church in the arms of a priest, who coaxed him to repeat the words of matrimony, but half-way through the service the child declared that he would learn no more that day, and the priest answered, 'You must speak a little more, and then go play you.' James Ballard, aged ten, was married to Jane his wife 'at x of the clocke in the night without the consent of any of his frendes, bie one Sir Roger Blakey, then curate of Colne, and the morowe after, the same James declarid vnto his Vnckle that the said Jane [beyinge a bigge damsell and mariageable at the same tyme] had intised him with two Apples, to go with her to Colne and to marry her.' Elizabeth Bridge _née_ Ramsbotham, says that after her marriage to John Bridge, when he was eleven and she thirteen, he never used her 'lovinglie, insomoche that the first night they were maried, the said John wold Eate no meate at supper, and whan hit was bed tyme, the said John did wepe to go home with his father, he beynge at that tyme at her brother's house.'[13] Sometimes, however, medieval records throw a pleasanter light on these child marriages. Such was the light thrown by the Ménagier de Paris's book for his young wife, so kindly, so affectionate, so full of indulgence for her youth; and such also is the light thrown by the charming letter which Thomas Betson wrote to little Katherine Riche on the first day of June in 1476. It is a veritable gem, and it is strange that it has not attracted more notice, for certainly no anthology of English letters should be without it. I set it down here at length, for it brings to warm life again both Thomas Betson and Katherine Riche: Mine own heartily beloved Cousin Katherine, I recommend me unto you with all the inwardness of my heart. And now lately ye shall understand that I received a token from you, the which was and is to me right heartily welcome, and with glad will I received it; and over that I had a letter from Holake, your gentle squire, by the which I understand right well that ye be in good health of body, and merry at heart. And I pray God heartily in his pleasure to continue the same: for it is to me very great comfort that he so be, so help me Jesu. And if ye would be a good eater of your meat alway, that ye might wax and grow fast to be a woman ye should make me the gladdest man of the world, by my troth; for when I remember your favour and your sad loving dealing to me wards, for sooth ye make me even very glad and joyous in my heart; and on the tother side again, when I remember your young youth, and see well that ye be none eater of your meat, the which should help you greatly in waxing, for sooth then ye make me very heavy again. And therefore I pray you, mine own sweet Cousin, even as you love me, to be merry and eat your meat like a woman. And if ye will so do for my love, look what ye will desire of me, whatsoever it be, and by my troth, I promise you by the help of our Lord to perform it to my power. I can no more say now, but on my coming home I will tell you much more between you and me and God before. And whereas ye, full womanly and like a lover, remember me with manifold recommendation in divers manners, remitting the same to my discretion to depart them there as I love best, for sooth, mine own sweet Cousin, ye shall understand that with good heart and good will I receive and take to myself the one half of them and them will I keep by me; and the tother half with hearty love and favour I send them to you, mine own sweet Cousin, again, for to keep by you; and over that I send you the blessing that our Lady gave her dear son, and ever well to fare. I pray you greet well my horse and pray him to give you four of his years to help you withal; and I will at my coming home give him four of my years and four horse loaves till amends. Tell him that I prayed him so. And Cousin Katherine, I thank you for him, and my wife shall thank you for him hereafter; for ye do great cost upon him, as is told me. Mine own sweet Cousin, it was told me but late that ye were at Calais[J] to seek me, but could not see me nor find me; forsooth ye might have comen to my counter, and there ye should both find me and see me, and not have faulted of me; but ye sought me in a wrong Calais, and that ye should well know if ye were here and saw this Calais, as would God ye were and some of them with you that were with you at your gentle Calais. I pray you, gentle Cousin, commend me to the clock, and pray him to amend his unthrifty manners; for he strikes ever in undue time, and he will be ever afore, and that is a shrewd condition. Tell him without he amend his condition that he will cause strangers to avoid and come no more there. I trust to you that he shall amend against mine coming, the which shall be shortly, with all hands and all feet, with God's grace. My very faithful Cousin, I trust to you that though all I have not remembered my right worshipful mistress your mother afore in this letter, that ye will of your gentleness recommend me to her mistresship as many times as it shall please you: and ye may say, if it please you, that in Whitsun week next I intend to the mart ward. And I trust you will pray for me; for I shall pray for you and, so it may be, none so well. And Almighty Jesu make you a good woman and send you many good years and long to live in health and virtue to his pleasure. At great Calais, on this side on the sea, the first day of June, when every man was gone to his dinner, and the clock smote nine, and all your household cried after me and bade me 'Come down, come down to dinner at once!'--and what answer I gave them, ye know it of old. [Footnote J: Possibly an inn with that name (?).] By your faithful Cousin and lover Thomas Betson. I send you this ring for a token. So ending, Thomas Betson smiled, dropped a kiss on the seal and inscribed his letter, 'To my faithful and heartily beloved cousin Katherine Riche at Stonor, this letter be delivered in haste.'[14] Henceforth there begins a charming triangular correspondence between Betson and Stonor and Dame Elizabeth Stonor, in which family news and business negotiations are pleasantly mingled. Dame Elizabeth and Betson were on the best of terms, for they had been old friends before her second marriage. A special chamber was kept for him at Stonor, and by an affectionate anticipation she often refers to him as 'My son Stonor'. Almost all her letters to her husband contain news of him--how he took his barge at 8 a.m. in the morning and God speed him, how no writing has come from him these eight days, how he has now written about the price to be paid for forty sacks of Cotswold wool, how he recommends him to Sir William and came home last Monday. Sometimes he is entrusted with the delicate business of interviewing Dame Elizabeth's mother, a difficult old lady with a tongue; 'God send her,' says Thomas, mopping his brow, after one of these interviews, 'once a merry countenance or shortly to the Minories[K]!' After another he writes to Dame Elizabeth: 'Sith I came home to London I met with my lady your mother and God wot she made me right sullen cheer with her countenance whiles I was with her; methought it long till I was departed. She break out to me of her old "ffernyeres" and specially she brake to me of the tale I told her between the vicar that was and her; she said the vicar never fared well sith, he took it so much to heart. I told her a light answer again and so I departed from her. I had no joy to tarry with her. She is a fine merry woman, but ye shall not know it nor yet find it, nor none of yours by that I see in her[15].' It was the faithful Betson, too, who was chosen to look after his Katherine's little sister Anne when she was ill in London, and he writes home asking for her clothes--'She hath need unto them and that knoweth our Lord'--and complaining of the old grandmother's behaviour: 'If my lady your mother meet my cousin Anne she will say no more but "God's blessing have ye and mine', and so go her way forth, as though she had no joy of her[16]." It was Betson, too, who escorted Dame Elizabeth, when need was, from Windsor to London and wrote to her husband: 'By the way we were right merry, thanked be God, and so with his mercy we mean here to be merry for the season that my lady is here, and when your mastership is ready to come hitherwards, we here shall so welcome you that the season of your abiding shall not be noisome, with God's grace[17].' Whereupon Sir William sends a present of capons by the carrier to assist the merriment, and Betson reports, 'Sir, I took two capons, but they were not the best, as ye counselled me by your letter to take, and indeed to say the truth I could not be suffered. My lady your wife is reasonably strong waxed, the Lord be thanked, and she took her will in that matter like as she doth in all other.'[18] [Footnote K: The convent of Minoresses, or Franciscan nuns, outside Aldgate.] There are, indeed, a hundred evidences of the warmth of Betson's affection for the Stonors and of the simple piety of his character. Sometimes he ventures to give them good advice. Dame Elizabeth was somewhat uplifted by her elevation from the ranks of the mercantile bourgeoisie to a place among the country gentry, and was apt to be extravagant, nor was her husband entirely guiltless of running up bills. We hear of the ale brewer and the bread baker calling daily upon his agent for money, and on one occasion the Stonors owed over £12 to Betson's own brother, a vintner, for various pipes of red and white wine and a butt of Rumney[L][19]. So Thomas writes to Dame Elizabeth, on his way to the mart: 'Our blessed lord Jesus Christ preserve you both in honour and worship virtuously to continue in God's pleasure and also to send you good and profitable counsel and grace to do hereafter. This is and shall be my prayer forsooth every day; your honour and worship of countenance hereafter sticketh as nigh mine heart as doth any friend, man or other about you, by my troth, our blessed Lord so help me. I will avise you, Madame, to remember large expenses and beware of them, and in likewise my master your husband; it is well done ye remember him of them, for divers considerations, as ye know both right well. And our blessed Lord be your comforter and help in all your good work. Amen.'[20] A month later he hears that William Stonor has been ill and writes to sympathize with Dame Elizabeth: 'And if I could do anything here that might be to his pleasure and yours, I would I knew it and it should be done withouten fail. Truly your discomfort is not my comfort, God knoweth it. Nevertheless your ladyship must cause him to be merry and of glad cheer, and to put away all fantasies and unthrifty thoughts, that comes no good of, but only hurtful. A man may hurt himself by riotous means; it is good to beware.'[21] [Footnote L: Greek wine.] Meanwhile what of little Katherine Riche? She recurs over and over in Thomas Betson's letters. Occasionally she is in disgrace, for she was not handy with her pen. 'I am wroth with Katherine,' writes he to her mother, 'because she sendeth me no writing. I have to her divers times and for lack of answer I wax weary; she might get a secretary if she would and if she will not, it shall put me to less labour to answer her letters again.'[22] But the important thing is that she grows steadily older, though not quickly enough to please our lover. On Trinity Sunday in 1478 he writes to Dame Elizabeth: 'I remember her full oft, God know[eth] it. I dreamed once she was thirty winters of age and when I woke I wished she had been but twenty and so by likelihood I am sooner like to have my wish than my dream, the which I beseech Almighty Jesu heartily when it shall please Him'[23]; and to the lady's stepfather he writes a month later: 'I beseech you to remember my cousin Katherine. I would she did well, God knoweth it, and ye deme, as I trow, if I had found her at home here my comfort should have been the more; but I thank God of all. My pain is the more; I must needs suffer as I have done in times past, and so will I do for God's sake and hers.'[24] However, Katherine was now fifteen years of age and was sufficiently grown up to wed, and the next letter, written a week later to Dame Elizabeth, shows us Thomas Betson beginning to set his house in order and getting exceedingly bothered about laying in her trousseau, a business with which Dame Elizabeth had, it seems, entrusted the future bridegroom. Madam, and it like you, I understand by your writing that it will be the latter end of August or your ladyship can come here to London; and if it should be so I would be sorry, for I have much to do and I can little skill to do anything that longeth to the matter ye wot of [evidently the preparations for Katherine] ... I must beseech your ladyship to send me [your advice] how I shall be demeaned in such things as shall belong unto my cousin Katherine, and how I shall provide for them. She must have girdles, three at the least, and how they shall be made I know not, and many other things she must have, ye know well what they be, in faith I know not; by my troth, I would it were done, liever than more than it shall cost.... And as for the sending hither of my Cousin Katherine, your ladyship may do therein as it shall please you. I would she knew as much as you know, forsooth, and then she should do some good and help me in many things when she come.... Also, madam, as ye write me the courteous dealing of my master with my Cousin Katherine, etc., truly I am very glad thereof and I pray God heartily thank him therefore, for he hath ever been lovingly disposed [unto] her, and so I beseech God ever continue him and also my Cousin Katherine to deserve it unto him by her goodly demeanour and womanly disposition, as she can do right well if her list, and so saith every body that praiseth her.[25] The note of pride in the last words is as engaging as the impatience of the harassed male faced with the choosing of girdles. Even more charming is the letter which he wrote the same day to Sir William Stonor. He is a little incoherent with joy and gratitude, full of regrets that business keeps him from Stonor and good wishes for the health of the family. 'I fare like a sorry piper,' he says. 'When I begin I cannot leave, but yet once again our blessed Lord be your speed and your help,' Of Katherine he writes thus: I understand by the worshipful report of your mastership the [be]haviours of my cousin Katherine unto you, to my lady your wife and to all other, etc.; and truly it is to me right joyful and comfortable gladness to hear of her and I beseech our blessed Lord ever to preserve her in all virtue and good living to his pleasure, and to reward your mastership with heaven at your ending, for your good disposition to herwards in good exhortations giving. And that I wot well of old, or else truly she could not be of that disposition, virtuous and goodly, her youth remembered and excused.... Sir, remember your mastership well what ye have written of my Cousin Katherine; truly I shall when I speak with her, tell her every word, and if I find the contrary. Our vicar here, so God help me, shall cry out upon her[M] within this ten weeks and less, and by that time I shall be ready in every point, by God's grace, and so I would she were, forsooth ye may believe me of it.[26] [Footnote M: I.e. call the banns.] This letter was written on June 24, 1478, and Thomas probably married his little Katherine in August or September, for when Dame Elizabeth writes to her husband on October 5, she says, 'My son Betson and his wife recommend them to you'[27] The poor child was to learn soon enough some of the sorrows of a wife, for a year later Thomas Betson fell dangerously ill, and she was nursing him and looking after his business for all the world as though she were a grave matron and not a bride of sixteen. Moreover, she must already have been expecting the birth of her eldest son. William Stonor's attitude towards his partner's illness is not without humour. He was torn between anxiety for the life of a friend and an even greater anxiety that Betson should not die without setting straight the business obligations between them. We hear of the illness and of Katherine's labours in a letter from one of Stonor's agents to his master: Sir, according to the commandment of your mastership, we were at Stepney by nine of the clock; at such time as we came thither we saw the gentleman forthwith, and in good faith he made us good cheer as a sick man might by countenance notwithstanding, for in good faith we saw by his demeanour that he might not prosper in this world, for Mistress Bevice and other gentlewomen and his uncle were of the same opinion. And we desired and prayed him to be of good comfort and so comforted him as heartily as we could in your name and in my lady's, and so we departed from the chamber down into the hall, and he fell into a great slumbering and was busily moved in his spirits. And at eleven of the clock I called his uncle out of his bed into the gentleman's chamber, and I asked his advice and my mistress his wife, of the stock and of the demeanour thereof for the year and the half that is last past. And touching the stock he confessed that it was £1,160, wherein at the sight of your acquittance in discharging of him and all his doers that shall be behind him, the said stock shall be ready. And as for the occupation of it, as he will answer between God and devil, the book that he bought it by ye shall be privy thereto; and the book that he sold by ye shall be also privy to, which two books shall be his judges, which remain in the keeping of my mistress his wife's hands under lock and key and other bills and obligations according, concerning the surety for divers payments to be made to divers merchants, as the said lord saith.... And as for the plate my mistress Jane [probably Jane Riche, the younger sister of Katherine] and I have caused it to be taken up and set in surety, save that that must needs by occupied. He sends to Sir William for information about two sums of £80 each owed by Betson to his master and mistress, and adds: I trust to Jesu he shall endure till the messenger come again; longer the physicians have not determined. The executors be three persons, my mistress his wife, Humphrey Starkey, Recorder of London, Robert Tate, merchant of Calais; notwithstanding I moved him, between him and me and mistress Jane, that he should break this testament and make my mistress his wife sole executrix. What will be done therein as yet I cannot speak, but I shall do as I can, with God's grace.[28] There is something unexpected and a little vulture-like about this gathering of creditors and seizing of plate about the death-bed of a man who had always, after all, shown himself exceedingly affectionate towards the Stonors and devoted to their interests, and who was now my lady's son-in-law. The attempt to make the young wife of sixteen sole executrix, so that she might be completely in her family's hands and without the counsel of two experienced and disinterested merchants, has a somewhat sinister air. The intrigues went on, and three days later the agent writes again. It is pleasant to observe that bad-tempered old Mistress Croke, Dame Elizabeth's mother, was not unmindful of Betson's forbearance during those visits when she had railed upon him with her sharp tongue: As for the tidings that is here, I trust to God it shall be very good. On Thursday my lady Croke came to Stepney and brought with her Master Brinkley to see Betson, and in faith he was a very sick man; and ere he departed he gave him plasters to his head, to his stomach and to his belly, [so] that he all that night was in a quiet rest. And he came to him again on Friday ... and he was well amended and so said all the people that were about him. Notwithstanding he will not determine him whether he shall live or die as yet, but he may keep him alive till Tuesday noon, he will undertake him. The cause that I write to you now rather was because I had no certainty. Sir, there hath been many special labours and secret i-made, sithen mistress Jane and I were come, to the contrary disposition that we come for. I cannot write the plain[nes]s of them as yet, for my mistress Betson attendeth, all things and counsels laid apart, to abide and trust in your good fatherhood and in my lady, and furthermore if he depart the world, ye shall hear tidings of her in as goodly haste as we may purvey for her. And whether he die or live, it is necessary and behoveful that mistress Jane depart not from her into [i.e. until] such time as the certainty be knowen, for in truth divers folks, which ye shall know hereafter and my lady, both thus hath and would exhort her to a contrarier disposition, had not we been here by time. And mistress Jane is worthy of much thank.[29] However, all the schemings were premature, for Betson happily recovered. On October 10 the 'prentice' Henham writes: 'My master Betson is right well amended, blessed be Jesus, and he is past all doubts of sickness and he takes the sustenance right well, and as for physicians, there come none unto him, for he hath no need of them.'[30] But another death was at hand to break the close association between Thomas Betson and the Stonors, for at the end of the year the kind, extravagant, affectionate Dame Elizabeth died. It is a surprising fact that her death seems to have brought to a close the business partnership between her husband and her son-in-law. Henceforth the only references to Thomas Betson in the Stonor papers are occasional notes of his debts to Stonor: doubtless he had bought Sir William's share in their joint business. On March 10, 1480, he acknowledged obligations of £2,835 9s. 0d. to Stonor, and in 1482 he still owed £1,200.[31] It is impossible to guess why the relationship, which was an affectionate personal friendship as well as a business tie, should have come to such a sudden end. As the editor of the _Stonor Letters_ remarks, 'The sincerity and honesty of Betson's character as revealed in his letters, forbids one to suppose that he was to blame.' Such was the more private and domestic side of Thomas Betson's life; but it tells us little (save in occasional references to the Fellowship of the Staple or the price of Cotswold wool) about that great company with which this chapter began; and since he stands here as a type as well as an individual, we must needs turn now to his public and business life, and try to find out from more indirect evidence how a Merchant of the Staple went about his business. The stapler, who would make a good livelihood, must do two things, and give his best attention to both of them: first, he must buy his wool from the English grower, then he must sell it to the foreign buyer. Some of the best wool in England came from the Cotswolds, and when you are a Merchant of the Staple you enjoy bargaining for it, whether you want the proceeds of the great summer clip or of the fells after the autumn sheep-killing. So Thomas Betson rides off to Gloucestershire in the soft spring weather, his good sorrel between his knees, and the scent of the hawthorn blowing round him as he goes. Other wool merchants ride farther afield--into the long dales of Yorkshire to bargain with Cistercian abbots for the wool from their huge flocks, but he and the Celys swear by Cotswold fells (he shipped 2,348 of them to London one July 'in the names of Sir William Stonor knight and Thomas Betson, in the _Jesu_ of London, John Lolyngton master under God'). May is the great month for purchases, and Northleach the great meeting-place of staplers and wool dealers. It is no wonder that Northleach Church is so full of woolmen's brasses, for often they knelt there, and often the village hummed with the buyers and sellers, exchanging orders and examining samples. The Celys bought chiefly from two Northleach wool dealers, William Midwinter and John Busshe. The relations between dealers and sellers were often enough close and pleasant: Midwinter even occasionally tried to provide a customer with a bride as well as with a cargo, and marriageable young ladies were not unwilling to be examined over a gallon of wine and much good cheer at the inn.[32] It is true that Midwinter was apt to be restive when his bills remained for too long unpaid, but he may be forgiven for that. Thomas Betson favoured the wool fells of Robert Turbot of Lamberton,[33] and dealt also with one John Tate, with Whyte of Broadway (another famous wool village),[34] and with John Elmes, a Henley merchant well known to the Stonors. Midwinter, Busshe, and Elmes were all wool dealers, or 'broggers'--middlemen, that is to say, between the farmers who grew and the staplers who bought wool, but often the staplers dealt directly with individual farmers, buying the small man's clip as well as the great man's, and warm friendships sprang from the annual visits, looked forward to in Yorkshire dale and Cotswold valley. It strikes a pleasant note when Richard Russell, citizen and merchant of York, leaves in his will, 'for distribution among the farmers of Yorkes Walde, from whom I bought wool 20 l., and in the same way among the farmers of Lyndeshay 10 l.' (1435).[35] The 'Cely Letters' give a mass of information about the wool buying at Northleach. In the May of the same year in which Betson's partnership with Stonor would seem to have ended, old Richard Cely was up there doing business and reporting it to his son, 'Jorge Cely at Caleys'. I greet you well and I have received a letter from you writ at Calais the 13th day of May (1480), the which letter I have well understood of your being at the marts and of the sale of my middle wool, desired by John Destermer and John Underbay. Wherefore by the grace of God I am abusied for to ship this foresaid 29 sarplers, the which I bought of William Midwinter of Northleach, 26 sarplers, the which is fair wool, as the wool packer Will Breten saith to me, and also the 3 sarplers of the rector's is fair wool, much finer wool nor was the year before, the which I shipped afore Easter last past. The shipping is begun at London, but I have none shipped as yet, but I will after these holy days, for the which I will ye order for the freight and other costs. This same day your brother Richard Cely is rid to Northleach for to see and cast a sort of fell for me and another sort of fell for you.[36] On another occasion he writes: 'By your letter you avise me for to buy wool in Cotswold, for which I shall have of John Cely his gathering 30 sack, and of Will Midwinter of Northleach 40 sack. And I am avised to buy no more; wool in Cotswold is at great price, 13s. 4d. a tod, and great riding for wool in Cotswold as was any year this seven year.'[37] What a picture it calls up of merchants trotting along the roads and looking as Chaucer often saw them look: A Marchant was ther with a forked berd, In motteleye and hye on horse he sat, Upon his heed a Flaundryssh bever hat, His boots clasped faire and fetisly; His resons he spak ful solempnely, Sounynge alway thencrees of his wynnyng. Often at Northleach Betson must have encountered his brethren of the Staple, the staid old merchant Richard Cely among the rest, and son George who rides with 'Meg', his hawk, on his wrist, and has a horse called 'Bayard' and another called 'Py'; and perhaps also John Barton of Holme beside Newark, the proud stapler who set as a 'posy' in the stained glass windows of his house this motto: I thank God and ever shall It is the sheepe hath payed for all;[38] though indeed it is unlikely that he came as far south as the Cotswolds for his wool. Sometimes also Betson meets upon the road his rivals, stout, self-possessed Flemings and thin sleek Lombards with black eyes and gesticulating hands, who have no business in the Cotswolds at all, but ought to be buying wool in the mart at Calais. But they come, and all good Englishmen are angry at their tricks and angrier still perhaps at their successful trade. 'I have not as yet packed my wool in London,' writes old Richard Cely on October 29, 1480; 'nor have I not bought this year a lock of wool, for the wool of Cotswold is bought by Lombards, wherefore I have the less haste for to pack my wool at London';[39] and his son writes to him on November 16 from Calais: 'There is but little Cotswold wool at Calais and I understand Lombards has bought it up in England.'[40] It is true that the Celys, other English merchants too, are not unwilling to conclude private bargains from time to time with foreign buyers in England. Two years later their agent, William Cely, writes to advise them that two Flemish merchants are now trying to buy in England contrary to the ordinance, and that those in authority at Calais have got wind of it, and therefore his masters must take care and make Wyllykyn and Peter Bale pay at Calais, 'but as for your dealings knoweth no man, without they search Peter Bale's books.'[41] The upright Betson no doubt eschewed such tricks and resented particularly the clever usurious Lombards, so full of financial dodges to trick the English merchant, for did they not buy the wool in England on credit, riding about as they list in the Cotswolds? In Cotteswolde also they ryde aboute And al Englonde, and bien wythouten doute, What them liste, wythe fredome and fraunchise More then we Englisshe may getyn in any wyse. And then did they not carry the wool to Flanders and sell it for ready money at a loss of five per cent, thereafter lending out this money at heavy usury, mostly to the English merchants themselves, so that by the time pay day came in England, they had realized a heavy profit? And thus they wold, if we will beleve Wypen our nose with our owne sleve, Thow this proverbe be homly and undew, Yet be liklynesse it is forsoth fulle trew.[42] The next serious piece of business Thomas Betson must take in hand is the packing and shipping of his wool to Calais. Here he found himself enmeshed in the regulations of the company and the Crown, ever on the look-out for fraud in the packing or description of the staple product. The wool had to be packed in the county from which it came, and there were strict regulations against mixing hair and earth or rubbish with it. The collectors appointed by the company for the different wool-growing districts, and sworn in before the Exchequer, rode round and sealed each package, so that it could not be opened without breaking the seal. Then the great bales were carried on the backs of pack-horses 'by the ancient trackways over the Wiltshire and Hampshire Downs, which had been used before the Roman conquest, and thence through Surrey and Kent to the Medway ports by the Pilgrims' Way.' At the different ports the collectors of customs were ready to enter on their rolls the names of the merchants shipping wool, together with the quantity and description of wool shipped by each.[43] Some of the wool came to London itself, where many of the staplers had offices in Mark Lane (which is a corruption of Mart Lane) and was weighed for the assessment of the customs and subsidy at the Leadenhall.[44] In this business Thomas Betson was helped by Stonor's three assistants or 'prentices', as they call themselves, Thomas Henham, Goddard Oxbridge, and Thomas Howlake, for the last of whom he had a warm corner in his heart, because the young man was gentle to little Katherine Riche. These men were sometimes at the Stonors' London warehouse and sometimes at their house in Calais, and they saved Betson a good deal of trouble, being experienced enough to oversee both the packing of wool in London and its sale in Calais. To Calais the wool thus packed, and weighed and marked and assessed by the customs officer, was carried in the ships of Calais itself, or of the little ports on the east or south-eastern coast of England, many of which are mere villages today. For ships put out not only from Hull and Colchester, but from Brightlingsea, Rotherhithe, Walberswick in Suffolk, Rainham in Essex, Bradwell, Maidstone, Milton, Newhithe, and Milhall. In August 1478, the Celys were paying the masters of twenty-one different ships for the freight of their sarplers of wool after the summer clip.[45] All through the summer the shipping went on, and right up to Christmas; but during the winter months the merchants were mostly sending over fells or sheepskins, after the great slaughter of sheep and cattle which took place at Martinmas, when housewives salted down their meat for the winter and farmers made delivery of the fells and hides, for which the staplers had long ago bargained. Very often merchants' letters and customs accounts give us the names of these doughty little ships and their cargoes. In the October of 1481, for instance, the Celys were shipping a consignment of fells: Right worshipful sir, after due recommendation I lowly recommend unto you, letting you understand that my master hath shipped his fells at the port of London now at this shipping in October ..., which fells ye must receive and pay the freight first by the grace of God, in the 'Mary' of London, William Sordyvale master, 7 packs, sum 2800, lying be aft the mast, one pack lieth up rest and some of that pack is summer fells marked with an O, and then lieth 3 packs fells of William Daltons and under them lieth the other 6 packs of my masters. Item in the 'Christopher' of Rainham, Harry Wylkyns master, 7 packs and a half Cots[wold] fell, sum 3000 pelt, lying be aft the mast, and under them lieth a 200 fells of Welther Fyldes, William Lyndys man of Northampton, and the partition is made with small cords. Item, in the 'Thomas' of Maidstone, Harry Lawson master, 6 pokes, sum 2400 pelt, whereof lieth 5 packs next before the mast under hatches, no man above them, and one pack lieth in the stern sheet; of the six packs fells be some summer fells marked with an O likewise. Item, in the 'Mary Grace' of London, John Lokyngton master 6 packs, sum 2400 pelt, lying be aft under the fells of Thomas Graunger, the partition between them is made with red; sum of the fells my master hath shipped at this time 26 packs and a half whereof be winter fells of the country 561 fells and they be marked with an C, and of summer fells there should be 600 and more, but part of them be left behind, for we have two packs we could have no appointment for them, and all the summer fells be marked with an O. Item, sir, ye shall receive of the 'Mary' of Rainham, John Danyell master, your _male_ [trunk] with your gear and a Essex cheese marked with my master's mark. And so on, with details of the number of fells shipped in like manner by the _Michael_ of Hull and the _Thomas_ of Newhithe, where they lay 'next the mast aftward under the fells of Thomas Betson's', over 11,000 fells in all.[46] How invigorating is such a list of ships. Cargoes are the most romantic of topics, whether they be apes and ivory and peacocks, or 'cheap tin trays'; and since the day that Jason sailed to Colchis fleeces have ever been among the most romantic of cargoes. How they smack of the salt too, those old master mariners, Henry Wilkins, master of the _Christopher_ of Rainham, John Lollington, master of the _Jesu_ of London, Robert Ewen, master of the _Thomas_ of Newhithe, and all the rest of them, waving their hands to their wives and sweethearts as they sail out of the sparkling little bays, with the good woolsacks abaft or under hatches--shipmen, all of them, after Chaucer's heart: But of his craft, to rekene wel his tydes His stremes and his daungers hym besides, His herberwe and his moone, his lodemenage, Ther was noon swich from Hulle to Cartage. Hardy he was, and wys to undertake: With many a tempest hadde his berd been shake; He knew wel alle the havenes, as they were, From Gootland to the Cape of Fynystere, And every cryke in Britaigne and in Spayne. His barge y-cleped was the Maudelayne. Their ships were doubtless like the _Margaret Cely_, which the two Cely brothers bought and called after their mother, for the not excessive sum of £28, exclusive of rigging and fittings. She carried a master, boatswain, cook, and sixteen jolly sailor-men, and she kept a good look out for pirates and was armed with cannon and bows, bills, five dozen darts, and twelve pounds of gunpowder! She was victualled with salt fish, bread, wheat and beer, and she plied with the Celys' trade to Zealand, Flanders, and Bordeaux.[47] She must have been about two hundred tons, but some of the other little ships were much smaller, for, as the learned editor of the _Cely Papers_ tells us, 'The ships of the little Medway ports could scarcely have been of thirty tons to navigate the river safely; the "Thomas" of Maidstone can have been only a barge, if she had to pass Aylesford Bridge.'[48] But they navigated the channel and dodged the pirates blithely enough, though often Thomas Betson at Calais was nervous about the safe arrival of the wool fleet. Like Chaucer's merchant, He wolde the see were kept for any thing Betwixe Middelburgh and Orewelle. Side by side with George or Richard Cely he must often have strained his eyes from the quay, with the salt wind blowing out the feather in his cap, and breathed a thanksgiving to God when the ships hove in sight. 'And, Sir,' he writes once to Stonor from London, 'thanked be the good Lord, I understand for certain that our wool shipped be comen in ... to Calais. I would have kept the tidings till I had comen myself, because it is good, but I durst not be so bold, for your mastership now against this good time may be glad and joyful of these tidings, for in truth I am glad and heartily thank God of it.'[49] The 'prentice' Thomas Henham writes likewise three weeks later: 'I departed from Sandwich the 11th day of April and so came unto Calais upon Sher Thursday[N] last with the wool ships, and so blessed be Jesu I have received your wools in safety. Furthermore, Sir, if it please your mastership for to understand this, I have received your wools as fair and as whole as any man's in the fleet. Moreover, Sir, if it please your mastership for to understand how your wool was housed ever deal by Easter even. Furthermore, Sir, if it please your mastership for to understand that the shipman be content and paid of their freight.'[50] The Celys write in the same strain too: 'This day the 16th of August the wool fleet came to Calais both of London and Ipswich in safety, thanked be God, and this same day was part landed and it riseth fair yet, thanked be God.'[51] Their letters tell us too what danger it was that they feared. 'I pray Jesu send you safe hither and soon,' writes Richard to his 'right well beloved brother George', on June 6, 1482. 'Robert Eryke was chased with Scots between Calais and Dover. They scaped narrow.'[52] There are many such chases recorded, and we hear too of wool burnt under hatches or cast overboard in a storm.[53] [Footnote N: I.e. Shrove Thursday.] Thomas Betson and the Celys travelled very often across the Channel in these ships, which carried passengers and letters, and they were almost as much at home in Calais as in London. When in Calais English merchants were not allowed to live anywhere they liked, all over the town. The Company of the Staple had a list of regular licensed 'hosts', in whose houses they might stay. Usually a number of merchants lived with each host, the most potent, grave, and reverend seniors dining at a high table, and smaller fry at side tables in the hall. Sometimes they quarrelled over terms, as when William Cely writes home one day to Richard and George in London: Item. Sir, please it you to understand that here is a variance betwixt our host Thomas Graunger and the fellowship, of our lodging, for Thomas Graunger promised us at his coming in to our lodging that we should pay no more for our board but 3s. 4d. a week at the high table, and 2s. 6d. at the side table, and now he saith he will have no less than 4s. a week at the high table and 40d. at the side table, wherefore the fellowship here will depart into other lodgings, some to one place and some to another, William Dalton will be at Robert Torneys and Ralph Temyngton and master Brown's man of Stamford shall be at Thomas Clarke's and so all the fellowship departs save I, wherefore I let your masterships have knowledge, that ye may do as it shall like you best.[54] But Thomas Betson never fell out with his hosts, whose only complaint of him must have been that he sat long over his love letters and came down late to dinner. There was business enough for him to do at Calais. First of all, when the wool was landed, it had to be inspected by the Royal officers, to see that it had been properly labelled, and their skilled packers examined, repacked, and resealed the bales. This was an anxious moment for merchants who were conscious of inferior wool among their bulging sarplers. The honest Betson, we may be certain, never cheated, but the Celys knew more than a little about the tricks of the trade, and one year, when the Lieutenant of Calais took out sarpler No. 24, which their agent, William Cely, knew to be poor wool, in order to make a test, he privily substitutes No. 8, which was 'fair wool' and changed the labels, so that he was soon able to write home, 'Your wool is awarded by the sarpler that I cast out last.'[55] No wonder Gower said that Trick was regent of the Staple, Siq'en le laines maintenir Je voi plusours descontenir Du loyalté la viele usance.[56] Then there was the custom and subsidy to be paid to the Mayor and Fellowship of the Staple, who collected it for the King. And then came the main business of every merchant, the selling of the wool. Thomas Betson preferred, of course, to sell it as quickly as possible, as the ships came in, but sometimes the market was slow and wool remained for some months on his hands. Such wool from the summer sheep shearing, shipped in or before the month of February following, and remaining unsold by April 6th, was classed as old wool, and the Fellowship of the Staple ordained that foreign buyers must take one sarpler of old wool with every three of new; and although the Flemings grumbled and wanted to take one of old to five of new, they had to put up with the regulation.[57] A great deal of Betson's business would be done at the mart of Calais itself, where he met with the dignified Flemish merchants, scions of old families with estates of their own, and the more plebeian merchants of Delft and Leyden, and the wool dealers from sunny Florence and Genoa and Venice. Among the best customers both of the Stonors and the Celys (for they are mentioned in the letters of both) were Peter and Daniel van de Rade of Bruges. Thomas Howlake on one occasion reports a sale of four sarplers of fine Cotswold wool to them at 19 marks the sack, with a rebate of 4-1/2 cloves on the sack of 52, and adds: 'Sir, an it please you, as for the foresaid merchants that have bought your wool, [they] be as good as any that came out of Flanders and for that I have showed them the more favour and given them the more respite of that.'[58] The staplers, however, did not do business at Calais alone, but rode also to the great fairs at Antwerp, Bruges, and the country round. 'Thomas Betson,' writes Henham to his master, 'came unto Calais the last day of April and so he departed in good health unto Bruges mart the first day of May.'[59] But so bifel this marchant on a day Shoop hym to make redy his array Toward the toun of Brugges for to fare, To byen there a porcioun of ware--[60] only it was to 'sellen' a portion that Betson went. He himself writes Sir William: 'Liketh it you to wit that on Trinity even I came to Calais and, thanked be the good Lord, I had a full fair passage, and, Sir, with God's might I intend on Friday next to depart to the mart-wards. I beseech the good Lord be my speed and help me in all my works. And, Sir, I trust to God's mercy, if the world be merry here, to do somewhat that shall be both to your profit and mine. As yet there cometh but few merchants here; hereafter with God's grace there will come more. I shall lose no time when the season shall come, I promise you.... And, Sir, when I come from the mart I shall send you word of all matters by the mercy of our Lord.'[61] At the fairs Betson would meet with a great crowd of merchants from all over Europe, though often enough political disturbances made the roads dangerous and merchants ran some risk of being robbed. The English traders were commonly reputed to be the best sellers and customers at the fairs of Flanders and Brabant, though the Flemings sometimes complained of them, and said that the staplers made regulations forbidding their merchants to buy except on the last day, when the Flemish sellers, anxious to pack and be off, let their goods go at insufficient prices.[62] The author of the _Libelle of Englyshe Polycye_ boasts proudly of the custom brought by the English to these marts: But they of Holonde at Calyse byene oure felles, And oure wolles, that Englyshe men hem selles... And wee to martis of Braban charged bene Wyth Englysshe clothe, fulle gode and feyre to seyne, Wee bene ageyne charged wyth mercerye Haburdasshere ware and wyth grocerye, To whyche martis, that Englisshe men call feyres Iche nacion ofte makethe here repayeres, Englysshe and Frensh, Lumbards, Januayes [Genoese], Cathalones, theder take here wayes, Scottes, Spaynardes, Iresshmen there abydes, Wythe grete plente bringing of salt hydes, And I here saye that we in Braban lye, Flaunders and Seland, we bye more marchaundy In common use, then done all other nacions; This have I herde of marchaundes relacions, And yff the Englysshe be not in the martis, They bene febelle and as nought bene here partes; For they bye more and fro purse put owte More marchaundy than alle other rowte.[63] Fairs were held at different times in different places, but there were during the year four great fair seasons corresponding to the four seasons in the year.[64] There was the Cold mart in the winter, to which Thomas Betson rode muffled in fur, with his horse's hoofs ringing on the frosty roads; there was the Pask (_Pasques,_ Easter) mart in the spring, when he whistled blithely and stuck a violet in his cap; there was the Synxon (St John) mart in the summer, round about St John the Baptist's Day, when he was hot and mopped his brow, and bought a roll of tawny satin or Lucca silk for Katherine from a Genoese in a booth at Antwerp; and there was the Balms, or Bammys mart in the autumn, round about the day of St Rémy, whom the Flemings call St Bamis (October 28), when he would buy her a fur of budge or mink, or a mantle of fine black shanks from the Hansards at their mart in Bruges. It was at these marts that the Merchants of the Staple, jaunting about from place to place to meet buyers for their wool, did a hundred little commissions for their friends; for folk at home were apt to think that staplers existed to do their errands for them abroad and to send them presents. One wanted a pair of Louvain gloves, the other a sugar loaf, the other a pipe of Gascon wine ('You can get it cheaper over there, my dear'), the other a yard or two of Holland cloth; while ginger and saffron were always welcome, and could be bought from the Venetians, whom the Celys spell 'Whenysyans'. Then, of course, there were purchases to be made in the way of business, such as Calais packthread and canvas from Arras or Brittany or Normandy to pack the bales of wool.[65] As to the Celys, Thomas Betson was wont to say that their talk was of nothing but sport and buying hawks, save on one gloomy occasion, when George Cely rode for ten miles in silence and then confided to him that over in England his grey bitch had whelped and had fourteen pups, and then died and the pups with her.[66] Between the counting-house in Calais and the fairs and marts of the country Thomas Betson would dispose of his wool and fells. But his labour did not end here, for he would now have to embark upon the complicated business of collecting money from his customers, the Flemish merchants, and with it paying his creditors in England, the Cotswold wool dealers. It was customary for the staplers to pay for their wool by bills due, as a rule, at six months, and Thomas Betson would be hard put to meet them if the foreign buyers delayed to pay him. Moreover, his difficulties were inconceivably complicated by the exchanges. We think we know something about the difficulty of divers and fluctuating exchanges today, but we can hardly imagine the elaborate calculations and the constant disputes which racked the brain of a Merchant of the Staple in the fifteenth century. Not only did the rates between England and the Continent constantly vary, but, as the editor of the _Cely Papers_ points out, 'the number of potentates of all kinds who claimed the privilege of issuing their own coinage and the frequently suspicious character of what they uttered as gold and silver, made the matter of adjustment of values difficult for the Celys, who were evidently obliged to take what they could get.'[67] Only imagine the difficulties of poor Thomas Betson, when into his counting-house there wandered in turn the Andrew guilder of Scotland, the Arnoldus gulden of Gueldres (very much debased), the Carolus groat of Charles of Burgundy, new crowns and old crowns of France, the David and the Falewe of the Bishopric of Utrecht, the Hettinus groat of the Counts of Westphalia, the Lewe or French Louis d'or, the Limburg groat, the Milan groat, the Nimueguen groat, the Phelippus or Philippe d'or of Brabant, the Plaques of Utrecht, the Postlates of various bishops, the English Ryall (worth ten shillings), the Scots Rider or the Rider of Burgundy (so called because they bore the figure of a man on horseback), the Florin Rhenau of the Bishopric of Cologne and the Setillers.[68] He had to know the value in English money of them all, as it was fixed for the time being by the Fellowship, and most of them were debased past all reason. Indeed, English money enjoyed an enviable good fame in this respect until Henry VIII began debasing the coinage for his own nefarious ends. The letters of the Celys are full of worried references to the exchange, and much we should pity Thomas Betson. But doubtless he was like Chaucer's bearded merchant: 'Wel koude he in exchaunge sheeldes [French crowns] selle.' [Illustration: VII. CALAIS ABOUT THE TIME OF THOMAS BETSON] To effect their payments between England and the Netherlands the staplers used to make use of the excellent banking facilities and instruments of credit (bills of exchange and so forth), which were placed at their disposal by Italian and Spanish merchants and by the English mercers, all of whom combined trading with financial operations. Thus we find William Cely writing to his masters: [Illustration: VIII. THOMAS PAYCOCKE'S HOUSE AT COGGESHALL] Please your masterships to understand that I have received of John Delowppys upon payment of the bill, the which is sent me by Adlington but £300 fleming, whereof I have paid to Gynott Strabant £84 _6s. 6d_. fleming. Item, I have made you over by exchange with Benynge Decasonn, Lombard, 180 nobles sterling, payable at usance. I delivered it at _11s. 2-1/2d_. fleming the noble, it amounteth £100 _17s. 6d_. fleming. Item, I have made you over by exchange in like wise with Jacob van de Base 89 nobles and _6s_. sterling, payable at London at usuance in like wise; I delivered it at _11s. 2d_. fleming for every noble sterling; it amounteth fl.--£50 fleming and the rest of your £300 remains still by me, for I can make you over no more at this season, for here is no more that will take any money as yet. And money goeth now upon the bourse at _11s. 3-1/2d_. the noble and none other money but Nimueguen groats, crowns, Andrew guilders and Rhenish guilders, and the exchange goeth ever the longer worse and worse. Item, sir, I send you enclosed in this said letter, the two first letters of the payment of the exchange above written. Benynge Decasonn's letter is directed to Gabriel Defuye and Peter Sanly, Genoese, and Jacob van de Base's is directed to Anthony Carsy and Marcy Strossy, Spaniards; in Lombard Street ye shall hear of them.[69] A week later he writes: I understand your masterships hath taken up by exchange of John Raynold, mercer, £60 sterling, payable the 25th day of the month and of Deago Decastron [Diego da Castro, a Spaniard] other £60 sterling, payable the 26th day of the same month, the which shall be both content at the day; and as for master Lewis More, Lombard, [he] is paid and I have the bill; his attorney is a wrangling fellow--he would none other money but Nimueguen groats.[70] Many a letter such as this must Thomas Betson have written at his lodgings, sitting so late over his work that he must needs write to his friends when he ought to be sleeping and date his letters: 'At London, on our Lady day in the night, when I deem ye were in your bed, for mine eyne smarted, so God help me.'[71] And when he came to make up his annual accounts he had the hardest work of all to do. Here is a portrait of him at his labours: The thridde day this marchant up ariseth, And on his nedes sadly hym avyseth, And up into his countour-hous gooth he, To rekene with hymself, as wel may be, Of thilke yeer, how that it with hymn stood, And how that he despended hadde his good, And if that he encressed were or noon. His bookes and his bagges, many oon, He leith biform hymn on his countyng-bord. Ful riche was his tresor and his hord, For which ful faste his countour dore he shette; And eek he nolde that no man sholde hymn lette Of his accountes, for the meene tyme; And thus he sit til it was passed pry me.[72] Thus was passed the life of a Merchant of the Staple: in riding to the Cotswold farms for wool; in business at the counting-houses in Marks Lane; in sailing from London to Calais and from Calais to London again; in dealing with merchant strangers at the mart in Calais, or riding to the marts of Flanders in fair time. The great company sheltered him, arranged his lodging, kept a sharp eye on the quality of his wool, made rules for his buying and selling, and saw that he had justice in its court. It was in this setting of hard and withal of interesting work that Thomas Betson's love story flowered into a happy marriage. He was not destined to live long after his recovery from the serious illness of 1479; perhaps it left him permanently delicate, for he died some six years later, in 1486. During her seven years of married life (beginning, be it remembered, at the age of fifteen), the diligent Katherine had borne him five children, two sons, Thomas and John, and three daughters, Elizabeth, Agnes, and Alice. Fortunately Thomas died very comfortably off, as his will (still preserved in Somerset House) informs us. He had become a member of the Fishmongers' Company as well as a Merchant of the Staple, for by his time the great city companies were no longer confined to persons actually engaged in the trade which each represented. In his will[73] Thomas Betson leaves money for the repair of the roof loft in his parish church of All Hallows, Barking, where he was buried, and 'thirty pounds to the garnishing of the Staple Chapel in Our Lady Church at Calais, to buy some jewel', and twenty pounds to the 'Stockfishmongers' to buy plate. He makes the latter company the guardian of his children, leaves his house to his wife, and a legacy of 40_s_. to Thomas Henham, his colleague in Stonor's service, and characteristically gives directions 'for the costs of my burying to be done not outrageously, but soberly and discreetly and in a mean [moderate, medium] manner, that it may be unto the worship and laud of Almighty God.' Katherine, a widow with five children at the age of twenty-two, married as her second husband William Welbech, haberdasher (the Haberdashers were a wealthy company), by whom she had another son. But her heart stayed with the husband who wrote her her first playful love-letter when she was a child, and on her death in 1510 she directed that she should be laid by the side of Thomas Betson at All Hallows, Barking, where three staplers still lie beneath their brasses, although no trace of him remains.[74] There let them lie, long forgotten, and yet worthier of memory than many of the armoured knights who sleep under carved sepulchres in our beautiful medieval churches. The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds! Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds. Your heads must come To the cold tomb: Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in their dust. CHAPTER VII _Thomas Paycocke of Coggeshall_ AN ESSEX CLOTHIER IN THE DAYS OF HENRY VII This was a gallant cloathier sure Whose fame for ever shall endure. --THOMAS DELONEY The great and noble trade of cloth-making has left many traces upon the life of England, architectural, literary, and social. It has filled our countryside with magnificent Perpendicular churches and gracious oak-beamed houses. It has filled our popular literature with old wives' tales of the worthies of England, in which the clothiers Thomas of Reading and Jack of Newbury rub elbows with Friar Bacon and Robin Hood. It has filled our shires with gentlemen; for, as Defoe observed, in the early eighteenth century 'many of the great families who now pass for gentry in the western counties have been originally raised from and built up by this truly noble manufacture'. It has filled our census lists with surnames--Weaver, Webber, Webb, Sherman, Fuller, Walker, Dyer--and given to every unmarried woman the designation of a spinster. And from the time when the cloth trade ousted that of wool as the chief export trade of England down to the time when it was in its turn ousted by iron and cotton, it was the foundation of England's commercial greatness. 'Among all Crafts,' says old Deloney, 'this was the only chief, for that it was the greatest merchandize, by the which our Country became famous thorowout all Nations.'[1] Already by the end of the fourteenth century the English clothiers were beginning to rival those of the Netherlands in the making of fine cloth, as witness Chaucer's Wife of Bath: Of clooth-making she hadde swiche an haunt She passed hem of Ypres and of Gaunt, and by the end of the sixteenth century all real rivalry was at an end, for the English manufacture was so clearly victorious. With the development of the manufacture a change too took place in its organization. It had never been an easy industry to organize on a gild basis, because the making of a piece of cloth entailed so many distinct processes. The preliminary processes of spinning and carding were always by-industries, performed by women and children in their cottages; but the weavers, who bought the spun yarn, had their gild; and so had the fullers, who fulled it; and the shearmen, who finished it; and the dyers who dyed it. All could not sell the finished piece of cloth, and in the group of inter-dependent crafts, each with its gild, we sometimes find the weavers employing the fullers and sometimes the fullers the weavers. Moreover, since weaving is a much quicker process than spinning, the weaver often wasted much time and found it hard to collect enough yarn to keep his loom busy; and, as the market for cloth grew wider and was no longer confined to the town of the weaver, the need was felt for some middleman to specialize in the selling of the finished cloth. So by degrees there grew up a class of men who bought wool in large quantities and sold it to the weavers, and then by a natural transition began, not to sell the wool outright, but to deliver it to the weavers to weave, to the fullers to full, and to the shearmen to finish at a wage, receiving it back again when the work was done. These men grew rich; they amassed capital; they could set many folk at work. Soon they began to set to work all the different workers who combined to make a piece of cloth; their servants carried wool to the cottages for the women to card and spin; carried the spun yarn in turn to dyers, weavers, fullers, shearers; and carried the finished piece of cloth back to the industrial middleman--the clothier, as he was called--who in his turn disposed of it to the mercantile middleman, who was called a draper. The clothiers grew rapidly in wealth and importance, and in certain parts of the country became the backbone of the middle class. They pursued their activities in country villages, rather than in the old corporate towns, for they wished to avoid the restrictions of the gilds, and gradually the cloth industry migrated almost entirely to the country. In the west of England and in East Anglia (though not in Yorkshire) it was carried out by clothiers on this 'putting out' system, right up to the moment when the Industrial Revolution swept it out of the cottages into the factories and out of the south into the north. Then the thriving villages emptied themselves, so that today we must needs re-create again from scattered traces and old buildings, and still older names, the once familiar figures of the East Anglian clothier and his swarm of busy workmen. Such a familiar figure was once old Thomas Paycocke, clothier, of Coggeshall in Essex, who died full of years and honour in 1518. His family originally came from Clare, in Suffolk, but about the middle of the fifteenth century a branch settled at Coggeshall, a village not far distant. His grandfather and father would seem to have been grazing butchers, but he and his brother and their descendants after them followed 'the truly noble manufacture' of cloth-making, and set an indelible mark upon the village where they dwelt. Coggeshall lies in the great cloth-making district of Essex, of which Fuller wrote: 'This county is charactered like Bethsheba, "She layeth her hand to the spindle and her hands hold the distaffe."... It will not be amiss to pray that the plough may go along and the wheel around, that so (being fed by the one and clothed by the other) there may be, by God's blessing, no danger of starving in our nation[2] All over Essex there lay villages famous for cloth-making, Coggeshall and Braintree, Bocking and Halstead, Shalford and Dedham, and above all Colchester, the great centre and mart of the trade. The villages throve on the industry and there was hardly a cottage which did not hum with the spinning wheel, and hardly a street where you might not have counted weavers' workshops, kitchens where the rough loom stood by the wall to occupy the goodman's working hours. Hardly a week but the clatter of the pack-horse would be heard in the straggling streets, bringing in new stores of wool to be worked and taking away the pieces of cloth to the clothiers of Colchester and the surrounding villages. Throughout the fifteenth century Coggeshall was an important centre, second only to the great towns of Norwich, Colchester, and Sudbury, and to this day its two inns are called the 'Woolpack' and the 'Fleece.' We must, as I said, build up the portrait of Thomas Paycocke and his compeers from scattered traces; but happily such traces are common enough in many and many an English village, and in Coggeshall itself they lie ready to our hand. Out of three things he can be brought to life again--to wit, his house in the village street, his family brasses in the aisle of the village church, and his will, which is preserved at Somerset House. A house, a brass, a will--they seem little enough, but they hold all his history. It is the greatest error to suppose that history must needs be something written down; for it may just as well be something built up, and churches, houses, bridges, or amphitheatres can tell their story as plainly as print for those who have eyes to read. The Roman villa, excavated after lying lost for centuries beneath the heel of the unwitting ploughboy--that villa with its spacious ground-plan, its floors rich with mosaic patterns, its elaborate heating apparatus, and its shattered vases--brings home more clearly than any textbook the real meaning of the Roman Empire, whose citizens lived like this in a foggy island at the uttermost edge of its world. The Norman castle, with moat and drawbridge, gatehouse and bailey and keep, arrow slits instead of windows, is more eloquent than a hundred chronicles of the perils of life in the twelfth century; not thus dwelt the private gentleman in the days of Rome. The country manor-house of the fourteenth century, with courtyard and chapel and hall and dovecote, speaks of an age of peace once more, when life on a thousand little manors revolved round the lord, and the great mass of Englishmen went unscathed by the Hundred Years' War which seamed the fair face of France. Then begin the merchants' elaborate Perpendicular houses in the towns and villages of the fifteenth century, standing on the road, with gardens behind them, and carved beams, great fire-places, and a general air of comfort; they mark the advent of a new class in English history--the middle class, thrust between lord and peasant and coming to its own. How the spacious days of great Elizabeth are mirrored in the beautiful Elizabethan houses, with their wide wings and large rooms, their chimneys, their glass windows, looking outwards on to open parks and spreading trees, instead of inwards on to the closed courtyard. Or go into a house built or redecorated in the eighteenth century, where you will see Chippendale chairs and lacquer tables and Chinese wall-papers covered with pagodas and mandarins; and surely there will come to your mind the age of the nabobs, the age which John Company had familiarized with the products of the Far East, the age in which tea ousted coffee as the drink for a gentleman of fashion, in which Horace Walpole collected porcelain, Oliver Goldsmith idealized China in 'The Citizen of the World', and Dr Johnson was called the Great Cham of Literature. Look here upon this picture and on this: look at that row of jerry-built houses, a hundred in a row and all exactly alike, of that new-art villa, all roof and hardly any window, with false bottle glass in its panes; here is the twentieth century for you. Indeed all the social and very much of the political history of England may be reconstructed from her architecture alone; and so I make no apology for calling Thomas Paycocke's house first-rate historical evidence. Of much the same type, though less interesting, is the evidence of monumental brasses, which are to be found in most parts of England and which abound in East Anglia, the Home Counties, and the Thames Valley.[3] Their variety is magnificent; brasses of ecclesiastics in vestments, of doctors of law and divinity and masters of arts in academic dress and of a few abbots and abbesses; brasses of knights in Armour; brasses of ladies, with their little dogs at their feet and dresses which show the changes in fashion from century to century and make clear all the mysteries of kirtles and cotte-hardies, wimples and partlets and farthingales and the head-dresses appropriate to each successive mode. The brasses also, like the houses, bear witness to the prosperity of the middle class, for in the fourteenth century when merchants began to build themselves fine houses they began also to bury themselves under splendid brasses. Finest of all, perhaps, are the brasses of the wool staplers, with feet resting on woolpack or sheep; but there are many other merchants too. Mayors and aldermen abound; they set their merchants' marks upon their tombs as proudly as gentlemen set their coats of arms, and indeed they had as great cause for pride. You may see them at their proudest in the famous brass at Lynn, where Robert Braunch lies between his two wives, and at his feet is incised a scene representing the feast at which he entertained Edward III royally and feasted him on peacocks. There is a tailor with his shears, as glorious as the Crusader's sword, at Northleach, and a wine merchant with his feet upon a wine cask at Cirencester. There are smaller folk, too, less dowered with wealth but proud enough of the implements of their craft; two or three public notaries with penhorn and pencase complete, a huntsman with his horn, and in Newland Church one of the free miners of the Forest of Dean, cap and leather breeches tied below the knee, wooden mine-hod over shoulder, a small mattock in his right hand, and a candlestick between his teeth. This kind of historical evidence will help us with Thomas Paycocke. His family brasses were set in the north aisle of the parish church of St Peter Ad Vincula. Several of them have disappeared in the course of the last century and a half, and unluckily no brass of Thomas himself survives; but in the aisle there still lie two--the brass of his brother John, who died in 1533, and John's wife, and that of his nephew, another Thomas, who died in 1580; the merchant's mark may still be seen thereon. Lastly, there is the evidence of the Paycocke wills, of which three are preserved at Somerset House--the will of John Paycocke _(d._ 1505), Thomas's father and the builder of the house; the will of Thomas Paycocke himself _(d._ 1518); and the will of his nephew Thomas, the same whose brass lies in the aisle and who left a long and splendidly detailed testament, full of information upon local history and the organization of the cloth industry. For social historians have as yet hardly, perhaps, made as much use as they might of the evidence of wills. The enormous amount of miscellaneous information to be derived therefrom about the life of our forefathers can hardly be believed, save by those who have turned the pages of such a collection as the great _Testamenta Eboracensia_.[4] In wills you may see how many daughters a man could dower and how many he put into a nunnery, and what education he provided for his sons. You may note which were the most popular religious houses, and which men had books and what the books were, how much of their money they thought fit to leave for charitable purposes, and what they thought of the business capacity of their wives. You may read long and dazzling lists of family plate, all the favourite cups and dishes having pet names of their own, and of rings and brooches and belts and rosaries. There are detailed descriptions of dresses and furs, sometimes splendid, sometimes ordinary, for people handed on their rich clothes as carefully as their jewels. There are even more wonderful descriptions of beds, with all their bedclothes and hangings, for a bed was a very valuable article of furniture and must often, judging from the wills, have been a brilliant and beautiful object indeed; Shakespeare has earned a great deal of unmerited obloquy for leaving Ann Hathaway his second-best bed, though it is not to be denied that he might have left her his first-best. Even more beautiful than dressings and bed or chamber hangings are the brocaded and embroidered vestments mentioned in wills, and the elaborate arrangements for funeral ceremonies are extremely interesting. The wills are of all kinds; there are even villeins' wills, though in theory the villein's possessions were his lord's, and there are wills of kings and queens, lords and ladies, bishops and parsons and lawyers and shopkeepers. Here also is more evidence for the social prosperity of the middle class, details of their trade, the contents of their shops, the inventories of their houses, their estates (sometimes) in the country, their house rents (almost always) in the town, their dressers garnished with plate and their wives' ornaments, their apprentices and their gilds, their philanthropy, their intermarriage with the gentry, their religious opinions. Such a living picture do men's wills give us of their daily lives. These, then, are the three sources from which the life and times of Thomas Paycocke may be drawn. All three--houses, brasses, and wills--contain much evidence for the increasingly rapid growth during the last two centuries of the Middle Ages of a large and prosperous middle class, whose wealth was based not upon landed property but upon industry and trade. It is a class of whom we have already met typical examples in Thomas Betson and the anonymous Ménagier de Paris, and we must now see what his house, his will, and his family brasses tell us about the clothier Thomas Paycocke. First and foremost, they tell us a great deal about the noble industry which supported him. Paycocke's house is full of relics of the cloth industry. The merchant mark of the Paycockes, an ermine tail, looking like a two-stemmed clover leaf, is to be found on the carved beams of the chimney, on the breastsummers of the fire-places, and set in the midst of the strip of carving along the front of the house. Thomas marked his bales of cloth thus, and what other armorial bearings did he need? The whole house is essentially middle class-the house of a man who was _nouveau riche_ in an age when to be _nouveau riche_ was not yet to be vulgar. His prosperity has blossomed out into exquisitely ornate decoration. A band of carving runs along the front of the house, and from the curved stem of it branch out a hundred charming devices--leaves, tendrils, strange flowers, human heads, Tudor roses, a crowned king and queen lying hand in hand, a baby diving with a kick of fat legs into the bowl of an arum lily, and in the midst the merchant's mark upon a shield and the initials of the master of the house. In the hall is a beautiful ceiling of carved oakwork, exceedingly elaborate and bearing at intervals the merchant's mark again. Upstairs in the big bedchamber is a ceiling of beams worked in bold roll mouldings; and there is an exquisite little parlour, lined with linen fold panels, with a breastsummer carved with strange animals. This elaboration is characteristic. It is all of a piece with Coggeshall Church, and with all those other spacious East Anglian churches, Lavenham, Long Melford, Thaxted, Saffron Walden, Lynn, Snettisham, lofty and spacious, which the clothiers built out of their newly won wealth. The very architecture is characteristic, _nouveau riche_ again, like those who paid for it, the elaborate ornament and sumptuous detail of the Perpendicular taking the place of the simple majesty of the Early English style. It is just the sort of architecture that a merchant with a fortune would pay for. The middle class liked some show for its money; but again it was the ostentation without the vulgarity of wealth. Looking upon his beautiful house, or worshipping beside his family tombs, with the merchant's mark on the brasses, in St Katherine's aisle, Thomas Paycocke must often have blessed the noble industry which supported him. The wills of the Paycockes tell the same story. To whom beside his family does Thomas leave legacies but the good folk of the neighbourhood, who worked for him. There is the Goodday family of cheerful name, two of whom were shearmen, or cloth finishers, and had substantial gifts. 'I bequeth to Thomas Goodday Sherman xx s. and ych of his childryn iij s. iiij d. apece. Item, I bequeth to Edward Goodday Sherman xvj s. viij d., and to his child iij s. iiij d. He also left money to Robert Goodday of Sampford and to Robert's brother John and to each of Robert's sisters, with something extra for Grace, who was his goddaughter; and he did not forget Nicholas Goodday of Stisted and Robert Goodday of Coggeshall and their families, nor their relative John, who was a priest and had ten shillings for a trental. All these Gooddays were doubtless bound to Thomas Paycocke by ties of work as well as of friendship. They belonged to a well-known Coggeshall family, for generations connected with the cloth industry. Thomas Paycocke's namesake and grand-nephew, whose will is dated 1580, was still in close relations with them, and left 'to Edwarde Goodaye my godson Fourtie shillinges and to every brother and sister the saide Edwarde hath livinge at the tyme of my decease tenne shillinges a pece,' and 'unto William Gooday thelder tenne shillinges.' The hurrying, scattering generation of today can hardly imagine the immovable stability of the village of past centuries, when generation after generation grew from cradle to grave in the same houses, on the same cobbled streets, and folk of the same name were still friends, as their fathers and grandfathers had been before them. Other friends and employees of Thomas Paycocke also had their legacies. He leaves _6s. 8d_. to Humphrey Stonor, 'somtyme my prentis'. We may see Humphrey Stonor, with sleepy eyes, making his way downstairs on a frosty morning, from those huge raftered attics, where perhaps the 'prentices used to sleep. He was on terms of impudent friendship, no doubt, with the weavers and fullers whom his master set to work; withal a young man of good family, a relative perchance of those Stonors for whom Thomas Betson worked, for, as Deloney wrote, 'the yonger sons of knights and gentlemen, to whom their Fathers would leave no lands, were most commonly preferred to learn this trade, to the end that thereby they might live in good estate and drive forth their days in prosperity.' Two of his friends got substantial legacies; apparently Thomas Paycocke had lent them money and wished to wipe out the debt upon his death-bed, for, says the will, 'I bequethe to John Beycham, my weyver, v li and [i.e. if] there be so moch bitwene vs and ells to make it vp v li, and a gowne and a doublett.... I bequeth and forgive Robert Taylor, fuller, all that is betwixt vs, and more I give him iij s. iiij d.' Other legacies show even more clearly that his operations were on a larger scale. 'I bequeth to all my wevers, ffullers and shermen that be not afore Rehersed by name xij d. apece, And will they that have wrought me verey moch wark have iij s. iiij d. apece. Item, I bequethe to be distributed amonge my Kembers, Carders and Spynners summa iiij li.'[5] Here are all the branches of the cloth industry at a glance. It is Thomas Paycocke, clothier, round whom the whole manufacture revolves. He gives the wool to the women to comb it and card it and spin it; he receives it from them again and gives it to the weaver to be woven into cloth; he gives the cloth to the fuller to be fulled and the dyer to be dyed; and having received it when finished, he has it made up into dozens and sends it off to the wholesale dealer, the draper, who sells it; perhaps he has been wont to send it to that very 'Thomas Perpoint, draper' whom he calls 'my cosyn' and makes his executor. The whole of Thomas Paycocke's daily business is implicit in his will. In the year of his death he was still employing a large number of workers and was on friendly and benevolent terms with them. The building of his house had not signalized his retirement from business, as happened when another great clothier, Thomas Dolman, gave up cloth-making and the weavers of Newbury went about lamenting: Lord have mercy upon us, miserable sinners. Thomas Dolman has built a new house and turned away all his spinners.[6] The relations between Paycocke and his employees evinced in his will are happy ones. Such was not always the case, for if the clothiers of this age had some of the virtues of capitalists, they also had many of their vices, and the age-old strife of capital and labour was already well advanced in the fifteenth century. One detail Paycocke's will does not give us, which we should be glad to know: did he employ only domestic weavers, working in their own houses, or did he also keep a certain number of looms working in his house? It was characteristic of the period in which he lived that something like a miniature factory system was establishing itself in the midst of the new outwork system. The clothiers were beginning to set up looms in their own houses and to work them by journeymen weavers; as a rule the independent weavers greatly disliked the practice, for either they were forced from the position of free masters into that of hired servants, obliged to go and work in the clothier's loom shop, or else they found their payment forced down by the competition of the journeymen. Moreover, the clothiers sometimes owned and let out looms to their work-people, and then also part of the industrial independence of the weaver was lost. All through the first half of the sixteenth century the weavers in the cloth districts kept on petitioning Parliament against this new evil of capitalism. It was as though, long before it established itself in England they had a prevision of the factory system and of the worker no longer owning either his raw material, his tool, his workshop, or the produce of his industry, but only his labour; the master-weaver dwindled to a hired hand. Certainly the practice was growing in Essex, where, some twenty years after Thomas Paycocke's death, the weavers petitioned against the clothiers, who had their own looms and weavers and fullers in their own houses, so that the petitioners were rendered destitute; 'for the rich men, the clothiers, be concluded and agreed among themselves to hold and pay one price for weaving the said cloths,' a price too small to support their households, even if they worked day and night, holiday and work-day, so that many of them lost their independence and were reduced to become other men's servants.[7] Nevertheless, the outwork system remained the more common, and without doubt the majority of Paycocke's workers lived in their own cottages, though it is probable also that he had some looms in his house, perhaps in the long, low room at the back, which is traditionally supposed to have been used for weaving, perhaps in a shed or 'spinning house'. A highly idyllic picture of work in one of these miniature factories, which we may amuse ourselves by applying to Thomas Paycocke's, is contained in Deloney's _Pleasant History of Jack of Newbery._ Jack of Newbury was an historical character, a very famous clothier named John Winchcomb who died at Newbury only a year later than Paycocke himself, and of whom Paycocke must certainly have heard, for his kersies were famous on the Continent, and old Fuller, who celebrates him among his _Worthies of England_ calls him 'the most considerable clothier (without fancy or fiction) England ever beheld'.[8] The tales of how he had led a hundred of his own 'prentices to Flodden Field, how he had feasted the King and Queen in his house at Newbury, how he had built part of Newbury Church, and how he had refused a knighthood, preferring 'to rest in his russet coat a poor clothier to his dying day,' spread about England, growing as they spread. In 1597 Thomas Deloney, the forefather of the novel, enshrined them in a rambling tale, half prose and half verse, which soon became extremely popular. It is from this tale that we may take an imaginary picture of work in a clothier's house, being wary to remember, however, that it is an exaggeration, a legend, and that the great John Winchcomb certainly never had as many as two hundred looms in his own house, while our Thomas Paycocke probably had not more than a dozen. But the poet must have his licence, for, after all, the spirit of the ballad is the thing, and it is always a pleasant diversion to drop into rhyme: Within one roome, being large and long There stood two hundred Loomes full strong. Two hundred men, the truth is so, Wrought in these Loomes all in a row. By every one a pretty boy Sate making quilts with mickle joy, And in another place hard by A hundred women merily Were carding hard with joy full cheere Who singing sate with voyces cleere, And in a chamber close beside Two hundred maidens did abide, In petticoats of Stammell red, And milk white kerchers on their head. Their smocke-sleeves like to winter snow That on the Westerne mountaines flow, And each sleeve with a silken band Was featly tied at the hand. These pretty maids did never lin But in that place all day did spin, And spinning so with voyces meet Like nightingales they sang full sweet. Then to another roome came they Where children were in poore aray; And every one sate picking wool The finest from the course to cull: The number was sevenscore and ten The children of poore silly men: And these their labours to requite Had every one a penny at night, Beside their meat and drinke all day, Which was to them a wondrous stay. Within another place likewise Full fifty proper men he spies And these were sheremen everyone, Whose skill and cunning there was showne: And hard by them there did remaine Full four-score rowers taking paine. A Dye-house likewise had he then, Wherein he kept full forty men: And likewise in his Fulling Mill Full twenty persons kept he still. Each weeke ten good fat oxen he Spent in his house for certaintie, Beside good butter, cheese and fish And many another wholesome dish. He kept a Butcher all the yeere, A Brewer eke for Ale and Beere; A Baker for to bake his Bread, Which stood his hushold in good stead. Five Cookes within his kitchin great Were all the yeare to dress his meat. Six Scullion boyes vnto their hands, To make clean dishes, pots and pans, Beside poore children that did stay To turne the broaches every day. The old man that did see this sight Was much amaz'd, as well he might: This was a gallant Cloathier sure, Whose fame forever shall endure.[9] The private life of Thomas Paycocke, no less than his business, can be made to live again. Of his family the invaluable will tells us a little. His first wife was that Margaret whose initials, together with his own, decorate the woodwork of the house, and indeed it is probable that old John Paycocke built the house for the young couple on their wedding. Gay, indeed, must have been the sights which it witnessed on that happy day, for our ancestors knew how to put their hearts into a wedding, and Merry England was never merrier then when the bridegroom led home the bride. We may borrow once again from Deloney's idyll, to recreate the scene: The Bride being attyred in a gowne of sheepes russet and a kertle of fine woosted, her head attyred with a billiment of gold and her haire as yeallow as gold hanging downe behinde her, which was curiously combed and pleated, according to the manner in those dayes; shee was led to Church betweene two sweete boyes, with Bridelaces and Rosemary tied about their silken sleeves. Then was there a fair Bride-cup of silver and gilt carried before her, wherein was a goodly branch of Rosemary gilded very faire, hung about with silken Ribands of all colours; next was there a noyse of Musicians that played all the way before her; after her came all the chiefest maydens of the Country, some bearing great Bride Cakes and some Garlands of wheate finely gilded and so she past unto the Church. It is needlesse for mee to make any mention here of the Bridegroome, who being a man so well beloued, wanted no company and those of the best sort, beside diuers Marchant strangers of the Stillyard that came from London to the wedding. The marriage being solemnized, home they came in order as before and to dinner they went where was no want of good cheare, no lack of melody.... The wedding endured ten dayes, to the great reliefe of the poore that dwelt all about.[10] Much dancing the house doubtless saw under the beautiful carved roof of the hall, with much song, games, kissing, and general abandon. Even when the bride and groom retired to the bridal chamber with its roll-moulded beams the merry-making was not done; they must hold a levee to their nearest friends in the bedchamber itself, enthroned in the great four-poster bed. There was no false delicacy about our ancestors. Indeed, as Henry Bullinger says (he was a very different person from jovial Deloney, but he was a contemporary of Paycocke's, and Coverdale translated him, so let him speak): 'After supper must they begynne to pype and daunce agayne of the new. And though the yonge parsones, beynge weery of the bablyng noyse and inconuenience, come ones towarde theyer rest, yet can they haue no quietnesse. For a man shall fynd unmanerly and restlesse people, that will first go to theyr chambre dore, and there syng vycious and naughtie balates that the deuell maye haue his triumphe now to the vttermost.'[11] What would we not give for one of those 'naughty ballads' today? The bride Margaret, who was somewhat after this merry fashion brought home to Coggeshall, came from Clare, the ancient home of the Coggeshall Paycockes. She was the daughter of one Thomas Horrold, for whose memory Paycocke retained a lively affection and respect, for in founding a chantry in Coggeshall Church he desired specially that it should be for the souls of himself and his wife, his mother and father, and his father-in-law, Thomas Horrold of Clare. He also left five pounds, with which his executors were 'to purvey an oder stone to be hade to Clare chirch and layd on my ffader in lawe Thomas Horrold w't his pycture and his wife and childryn thereon' (i.e. a memorial brass), and also five cows or else three pounds in money to Clare Church 'to kepe and mayntene my ffader in lawe Thomas Horrold his obitt'. He also left money to his wife's brother and sisters. Margaret Paycocke died before her husband and without children; and the only young folk of his name whom Thomas ever saw at play in his lofty hall, or climbing upon his dresser to find the head, as small as a walnut, hidden in the carving of the ceiling, were his nephews and nieces, Robert and Margaret Uppcher, his sister's children; John, the son of his brother John; and Thomas, Robert, and Emma, the children of his brother Robert; perhaps also his little godchild Grace Goodday. It was perhaps in the hope of a son to whom he might leave his house and name that Thomas Paycocke married again a girl called Ann Cotton. She was the wife of his old age, 'Anne my good wif', and her presence must have made bright the beautiful house, silent and lonely since Margaret died. Her father, George Cotton, is mentioned in the will, and her brothers and sister, Richard, William, and Eleanor, have substantial legacies. But Thomas and Ann enjoyed only a short term of married life; she brought him his only child, but death overtook him before it was born. In his will he provides carefully for Ann; she is to have five hundred marks sterling, and as long as she lives the beautiful house is to be hers; for to his elaborate arrangements for its inheritance he adds, 'provided alwey that my wif Ann haue my house that I dwell in while she lyvyth at hir pleyser and my dof house [dove-house] with the garden y't stoundeth in.' A gap in the Paycocke records makes it difficult to say whether Thomas Paycocke's child lived or died; but it seems probable that it either died or was a girl, for Paycocke had bequeathed the house, provided that he had no male heirs, to his nephew John (son of his eldest brother John), and in 1575 we find it in the hands of this John Paycocke, while the house next door was in the hands of another Thomas Paycocke, his brother Robert's son. This Thomas died about 1580, leaving only daughters, and after him, in 1584, died John Paycocke, sadly commemorated in the parish register as 'the last of his name in Coxall'. So the beautiful house passed out of the hands of the great family of clothiers who had held it for nearly a hundred years.[12] Of Thomas Paycocke's personal character it is also possible to divine something from his will. He was obviously a kind and benevolent employer, as his thought for his work-people and their children shows. He was often asked to stand godfather to the babies of Coggeshall, for in his will he directs that at his burial and the ceremonies which were repeated on the seventh day and 'month mind' after it there were to be 'xxiiij or xij smale childryn in Rochettes with tapers in theire hands and as many as may be of them lett them be my god childryn and they to have vj s. viij d. apece and euery oder child iiij d. apece ... and also euery god chyld besyde vj s. viij d. apece.' All these children were probably little bread-winners, employed at a very early age in sorting Thomas Paycocke's wool. 'Poore people,' says Thomas Deloney, 'whom God lightly blessed with most children, did by meanes of this occupation so order them, that by the time they were come to be sixe or seven yeeres of age, they were able to get their owne bread';[13] and when Defoe rode from Blackstone Edge to Halifax, observing the cloth manufacture, which occupied all the villages of the West Riding, it was one of his chief grounds for admiration that 'all [were] employed from the youngest to the oldest; scarce any thing above four years old, but its hands were sufficient for its own support.'[14] The employment of children at what we should regard as an excessively early age was by no means a new phenomenon introduced with the Industrial Revolution. That Thomas Paycocke had many friends, not only in Coggeshall but in the villages round, the number of his legacies bears witness. His will also shows that he was a man of deep religious feeling. He was a brother of the Crutched Friars of Colchester and left them on his death five pounds to pray 'for me and for them that I am bound to pray fore'. It was customary in the Middle Ages for monastic houses to give the privilege of the fraternity of the house to benefactors and persons of distinction; the reception took place at a long and elaborate ceremony, during which the _consrater_ received the kiss of peace from all the brethren. It is a mark of the respect in which Thomas Paycocke was held in the countryside that he should have been made a brother by the Crutched Friars. He seems to have had a special kindness for the Order of Friars; he left the Grey Friars of Colchester and the Friars of Maldon, Chelmsford, and Sudbury each ten shillings for a trental and 3s. 4d. to repair their houses; and to the Friars of Clare he left twenty shillings for two trentals, 'and at Lent after my deceste a kade of Red heryng'. He had great interest in Coggeshall Abbey; it lay less than a mile from his house, and he must often have dined in state with the abbot at his guest table on feast days and attended Mass in the abbey church. He remembered the abbey as he lay dying, and the sound of its bells ringing for vespers came softly in at his window on the mellow September air; and he left 'my Lord Abbot and Convent' one of his famous broadcloths and four pounds in money 'for to have a dirige and Masse and their belles Ryngyng at my buriall when it is doon at Chirche, lykewyse the vijth day and mounth day, with iij tryntalls upon the same day yf they can serve them, orells when they can at more leasur, Summa x li.' His piety is shown also in his bequests to the churches of Bradwell, Pattiswick, and Markshall, parishes adjacent to Coggeshall, and to Stoke Nayland, Clare, Poslingford, Ovington, and Beauchamp St Pauls, over the Essex order, in the district from which the Paycockes originally came. But his greatest care was naturally for Coggeshall Church. One of the Paycockes had probably built the north aisle, where the altar was dedicated to St Katherine, and all the Paycocke tombs lay there. Thomas Paycocke left instructions in his will that he should be buried before St Katherine's altar, and made the following gifts to the church: 'Item, I bequeth to the high aulter of Coxhall Chirche in recompence of tithes and all oder thyngs forgoten, Summa iiij li. Item, I bequethe to the Tabernacle of the Trenyte at the high awlter and an other of Seint Margarete in seint Katryne Ile, there as the great Lady stands, for carvyng and gildyng of them summa c. marcs sterlinge. Item, to the reparacons of the Chirch and bells and for my lying in the Chirche summa c. nobles.' He founded a chantry there also and left money to be given weekly to six poor men to attend Mass in his chantry thrice a week. Of piety and of family pride these legacies to religious houses and to churches speak clearly. Another series of legacies, which takes a form characteristic of medieval charity, bears witness perhaps to Thomas Paycocke's habits. He must often have ridden abroad, to see the folk who worked for him or to visit his friends in the villages round Coggeshall; or farther afield to Clare, first to see the home of his ancestors, then to court Margaret Horrold, his bride, and then, with Margaret beside him, to visit his well-loved father-in-law. Certainly, whether he walked to church in Coggeshall, or whether he rode along the country lanes, he often sighed over the state of the road as he went; often he must have struggled through torrents of mud in winter or stumbled among holes in summer; for in the Middle Ages the care of the roads was a matter for private or ecclesiastical charity, and all except the great highways were likely to be but indifferently kept. Langland, in his _Piers Plowman_, mentions the amending of 'wikked wayes' (by which he means not bad habits but bad roads) as one of those works of charity which rich merchants must do for the salvation of their souls. Thomas Paycocke's choice of roads no doubt reflects many a wearisome journey, from which he returned home splashed and testy, to the ministrations of 'John Reyner my man' or 'Henry Briggs my servant', and of Margaret, looking anxiously from her oriel window for his return. In his own town he leaves no less than forty pounds, of which twenty pounds was to go to amend a section of West Street (where his house stood), and the other twenty was 'to be layde on the fowle wayes bitwene Coxhall and Blackwater where as moost nede ys'; he had doubtless experienced the evils of this road on his way to the abbey. Farther afield, he leaves twenty pounds for the 'fowle way' between Clare and Ovington, and another twenty for the road between Ovington and Beauchamp St Pauls. As his life drew to its close he doubtless rode less often afield. The days would pass peacefully for him; his business flourished and he was everywhere loved and respected. He took pride in his lovely house, adding bit by bit to its beauties. In the cool of the evening he must often have stood outside the garden room and seen the monks from the big abbey fishing in their stewpond across the field, or lifted his eyes to where the last rays of sun slanted on to the lichened roof of the great tithebarn, and on to the rows of tenants, carrying their sheaves of corn along the road; and he reflected, perhaps, that John Mann and Thomas Spooner, his own tenants, were good, steady friends, and that it was well to leave them a gown or a pound when he died. Often also, in his last year or two, he must have sat with his wife in his garden with the dove-house and watched the white pigeons circling round the apple-trees, and smiled upon her bed of flowers. And in winter evenings sometimes he would take his furred cloak and stroll to the Dragon Inn, and Edward Aylward, mine host, would welcome him with bows; and so he would sit and drink a tankard of sack with his neighbours, very slow and dignified, as befitted the greatest clothier of the town, and looking benevolently upon the company. But at times he would frown, if he saw a truant monk from the abbey stolen out for a drink in spite of all the prohibitions of bishop and abbot, shaking his head, perhaps, and complaining that religion was not what it had been in the good old days; but not meaning much of it, as his will shows, and never dreaming that twenty years after his death abbot and monks would be scattered and the King's servants would be selling at auction the lead from off the roof of Coggeshall Abbey; never dreaming that after four hundred years his house would still stand, mellow and lovely, with its carved ceiling and its proud merchant's mark, when the abbey church was only a shadow on the surface of a field in hot weather and all the abbey buildings were shrunk to one ruined ambulatory, ignobly sheltering blue Essex hay wagons from the rain. So Thomas Paycocke's days drew to a close amid the peace and beauty of the most English of counties, 'fatt, frutefull and full of profitable thinges,'[15] whose little rolling hills, wych elms, and huge clouded skies Constable loved to paint. There came a day in September when gloom hung over the streets of Coggeshall, when the spinning-wheels were silent in the cottages, and spinners and weavers stood in anxious groups outside the beautiful house in West Street; for upstairs in his bridal chamber, under its noble ceiling, the great clothier lay dying, and his wife wept by his bedside, knowing that he would never see his child. A few days later the cottages were deserted again, and a concourse of weeping people followed Thomas Paycocke to his last rest. The ceremony of his burial befitted his dignity: it comprised services, not only on burial day itself, but on the seventh day after it, and then again after a month had passed. It is given best in the words of his will, for Thomas Paycocke followed the custom of his time, in giving his executors elaborate injunctions for his funeral rites: 'I will myne executors bestowe vpon my buryng daye, vij day and mounthe daye after this manner: At my buriall to have a tryntall of prests and to be at dirige, lawdis, and comendacons as many of them as may be purveyed that day to serve the tryntall, and yf eny lack to make it vpp the vij'th daye. And at the Mounthe daye an oder tryntall to be purveyed hoole of myne executors and to kepe dirige, lawdis and commendacons as is afore reherssed, with iij high massis be note [by note, i.e. with music], oon of the holy gost, an other of owre lady, and an other of Requiem, both buriall, seuenth day and Mounthe daye. And prests beyng at this obseruance iiij d. at euery tyme and childryn at euery tyme ij d., w't torches at the buriall xij, and vj at the vij'th day and xij at the mounthe daye, with xxiij'th or xij smale childryn in Rochettes with tapers in theire honds, and as many as may be of them lett them be my god Childryn, and they to haue vj s. viij d. apece; and euery oder child iiij d. apece; and euery man that holdith torches at euery day he to have ij apece; and euery man, woman and child that holdeth upp hound [hand] at eny of thes iij days to haue j d. apece; And also euery god chyld besyde vj s. viij d. apece; and to the Ryngars for all iij dayes x s.; and for mete, drynke, and for twoo Semones of a doctor, and also to haue a dirige at home, or I be borne to the Chirche summa j li.' Here is something very different from the modest Thomas Betson's injunction: 'The costes of my burying to be don not outrageously, but sobrely and discretly and in a meane maner, that it may be unto the worship and laude of Almyghty God.' The worthy old clothier was not unmindful of the worship and laud of Thomas Paycocke also, and over £500 in modern money was expended upon his burial ceremonies, over and above the cost of founding his new chantry. Well indeed it was that his eyes were closed in death, ere the coming of the Reformation abolished all the chantries of England, and with them the Paycocke chantry in St Katherine's aisle, which had provided alms for six poor men weekly. Thomas Paycocke belonged to the good old days; in a quarter of a century after his death Essex was already changing. The monks were scattered from the abbey, which stood roofless; the sonorous Latin tongue no longer echoed in the church, nor priests prayed there for the souls of Thomas and his wife and his parents and his father-in-law. Even the cloth industry was changing, and the county was growing more prosperous still with the advent of finer kinds of cloth, brought over there by feat-fingered aliens, the 'new drapery', known as 'Bays and Says'. For as the adage says: Hops, reformation, bays and beer Came into England all in a year, and Coggeshall was destined to become more famous still for a new sort of cloth called 'Coxall's Whites', which Thomas Paycocke's nephews made when he was in his grave.[16] One thing, however, did not change; for his beautiful house still stood in West Street, opposite the vicarage, and was the delight of all who saw it. It stands there still, and looking upon it today, and thinking of Thomas Paycocke who once dwelt in it, do there not come to mind the famous words of Ecclesiasticus? Let us now praise famous men and our fathers that begat us. The Lord hath wrought great glory by them through His great power from the beginning... Rich men furnished with ability, living peaceably in their habitations: All these were honoured in their generations and were the glory of their times. _Notes and Sources_ * * * * * CHAPTER II THE PEASANT BODO _A. Raw Material_ 1. The Roll of the Abbot Irminon, an estate book of the Abbey of St Germain des Prés, near Paris, written between 811 and 826. See _Polyptyque de l'Abbaye de Saint-Germain des Prés_, pub. Auguste Longnon, t. I, _Introduction_; t. II, _Texte_ (Soc. de l'Hist. de Paris, 1886-95). 2. Charlemagne's capitulary, _De Villis_, instructions to his stewards on the management of his estates. See Guerard, _Explication du Capitulaire 'de Villis'_ (Acad. des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres, _Mémoires_, t. XXI, 1857), pp. 165-309, containing the text, with a detailed commentary and a translation into French. 3. _Early Lives of Charlemagne_, ed. A.J. Grant (King's Classics, 1907). Contains the lives by Einhard and the Monk of St Gall, on which see Halphen, cited below. 4. Various pieces of information about social life may be gleaned from the decrees of Church Councils, Old High German and Anglo-Saxon charms and poems, and Aelfric's _Colloquium_, extracts from which are translated in Bell's Eng. Hist. Source Books, _The Welding of the Race_, 449-1066, ed. J.E.W. Wallis (1913). For a general sketch of the period see Lavisse _Hist. de France_, t. II, and for an elaborate critical study of certain aspects of Charlemagne's reign (including the _Polyptychum_) see Halphen, _Études critiques sur l'Histoire de Charlemagne_ (1921); also A. Dopsch, _Wirtschaftsentwicklung der Karolingerzeit, Vornehmlich in Deutschland_, 2 vols. (Weimar, 1912-13), which Halphen criticizes. _B. Notes to the Text_ 1. 'Habet Bodo colonus et uxor ejus colona, nomine Ermentrudis, homines sancti Germani, habent secum infantes III. Tenet mansum ingenuilem I, habentem de terre arabili bunuaria VIII et antsingas II, de vinea aripennos II, de prato aripennos VII. Solvit ad hostem de argento solidos II, de vino in pascione modios II; ad tertium annum sundolas C; de sepe perticas III. Arat ad hibernaticum perticas III, ad tramisem perticas II. In unaquaque ebdomada corvadas II, manuoperam I. Pullos III, ova XV; et caropera ibi injungitur. Et habet medietatem de farinarium, inde solvit de argento solidos II.' Op. cit., II, p. 78. 'Bodo a _colonus_ and his wife Ermentrude a _colona_, tenants of Saint-Germain, have with them three children. He holds one free manse, containing eight _bunuaria_ and two _antsinga_ of arable land, two _aripenni_ of vines and seven _aripenni_ of meadow. He pays two silver shillings to the army and two hogsheads of wine for the right to pasture his pigs in the woods. Every third year he pays a hundred planks and three poles for fences. He ploughs at the winter sowing four perches and at the spring sowing two perches. Every week he owes two labour services _(corvées)_ and one handwork. He pays three fowls and fifteen eggs, and carrying service when it is enjoined upon him. And he owns the half of a windmill, for which he pays two silver shillings.' 2. _De Villis_, c. 45. 3. Ibid. cc. 43, 49. 4. From 'The Casuistry of Roman Meals,' in _The Collected Writings of Thomas De Quincey_, ed. D. Masson (1897), VII, p. 13. 5. Aelfric's _Colloquium_ in op. cit. p. 95. 6. The Monk of St Gall's _Life_ in _Early Lives of Charlemagne_, pp. 87-8. 7. Einhard's _Life_ in op. cit., p. 45. 8. Anglo-Saxon charms translated in Stopford Brook, _English Literature from the Beginning to the Norman Conquest_ (1899), p. 43. 9. Old High German charm written in a tenth-century hand in a ninth-century codex containing sermons of St Augustine, now in the Vatican Library. Brawne, _Althochdeutsches Lesebuch_ (fifth edition, Halle, 1902), p. 83. 10. Another Old High German charm preserved in a tenth-century codex now at Vienna. Brawne, op. cit., p. 164. 11. From the ninth-century _Libellus de Ecclesiasticis Disciplinis_, art. 100, quoted in Ozanam, _La Civilisation Chrétienne chez les Francs_ (1849), p. 312. The injunction however, really refers to the recently conquered and still half-pagan Saxons. 12. _Penitential_ of Haligart, Bishop of Cambrai, quoted ibid. p. 314. 13. _Documents relatifs à l'Histoire de l'Industrie et du Commerce en France_, ed. G. Faigniez, t. I, pp. 51-2. 14. See references in Chambers, _The Medieval Stage_ (1913), I, pp. 161-3. 15. For the famous legend of the dancers of Kölbigk, see Gaston Paris, _Les Danseurs Maudits, Légende Allemande du XIe Siècle_ (Paris 1900, reprinted from the _Journal des Savants_, Dec., 1899), which is a _conte rendu_ of Schröder's study in _Zeitschrift für Kirchengeschichte_ (1899). The poem occurs in a version of English origin, in which one of the dancers, Thierry, is cured of a perpetual trembling in all his limbs by a miracle of St Edith at the nunnery of Wilton in 1065. See loc. cit., pp. 10, 14. 16. 'Swete Lamman dhin are,' in the original. The story is told by Giraldus Cambrensis in _Gemma Ecclesiastica_, pt. I, c. XLII. See _Selections from Giraldus Cambrensis_, ed. C.A.J. Skeel (S.P.C.K. _Texts for Students_, No. XI), p. 48. 17. Einhard's _Life_ in op. cit. p. 45. See also ibid., p. 168 (note). 18. The Monk of St Gall's _Life_ in op. cit., pp. 144-7. 19. Einhard's _Life_ in op. cit., p. 39. 20. Ibid., p. 35. 21. Beazley, _Dawn of Modern Geography_ (1897), I, p. 325. 22. The Monk of St Gall's _Life_ in op. cit., pp. 78-9. 23. See the description in Lavisse, _Hist. de France II_, pt. I, p. 321; also G. Monod, _Les moeurs judiciaires au VIIIe Siècle_, Revue Historique, t. XXXV (1887). 24. See Faigniez, op. cit., pp. 43-4. 25. See the Monk of St Gall's account of the finery of the Frankish nobles: 'It was a holiday and they had just come from Pavia, whither the Venetians had carried all the wealth of the East from their territories beyond the sea,--others, I say, strutted in robes made of pheasant-skins and silk; or of the necks, backs and tails of peacocks in their first plumage. Some were decorated with purple and lemon-coloured ribbons; some were wrapped round with blankets and some in ermine robes.' Op. cit., p. 149. The translation is a little loose: the 'phoenix robes' of the original were more probably made out of the plumage, not of the pheasant but of the scarlet flamingo, as Hodgson thinks _(Early Hist. of Venice_, p. 155), or possibly silks woven or embroidered with figures of birds, as Heyd thinks _(Hist. du Commerce du Levant_, I, p. 111). 26. The Monk of St. Gall's _Life_ in op. cit., pp. 81-2. 27. This little poem was scribbled by an Irish scribe in the margin of a copy of Priscian in the monastery of St Gall, in Switzerland, the same from which Charlemagne's highly imaginative biographer came. The original will be found in Stokes and Strachan, _Thesaurus Palæohibernicus_ (1903) II, p. 290. It has often been translated and I quote the translation by Kuno Meyer, _Ancient Irish Poetry_ (2nd ed., 1913), p. 99. The quotation from the _Triads of Ireland_ at the head of this chapter is taken from Kuno Meyer also, ibid. pp. 102-3. CHAPTER III MARCO POLO _A. Raw Material_ 1. _The Book of Ser Marco Polo the Venetian concerning the Kingdoms and Marvels of the East_, trans. and ed. with notes by Sir Henry Yule (3rd edit., revised by Henri Cordier, 2 vols., Hakluyt Soc., 1903). See also H. Cordier, _Ser Marco Polo: Notes and Addenda_ (1920). The best edition of the original French text is _Le Livre de Marco Polo_, ed. G. Pauthier (Paris, 1865), The most convenient and cheap edition of the book for English readers is a reprint of Marsden's translation (of the Latin text) and notes (first published, 1818), with an introduction by John Masefield, _The Travels of Marco Polo the Venetian_ (Everyman's Library, 1908; reprinted, 1911); but some of the notes (identifying places, etc.) are now out of date, and the great edition by Yule and Cordier should be consulted where exact and detailed information is required. It is a mine of information, geographical and historical, about the East. I quote from the Everyman Edition as Marco Polo, op. cit., and from the Yule edition as Yule, op. cit. 2. _La Cronique des Veneciens de Maistre Martin da Canal_. In _Archivo Storico Italiano_, 1st ser., vol. VIII (Florence, 1845). Written in French and accompanied by a translation into modern Italian. One of the most charming of medieval chronicles. _B. Modern Works_ 1. For medieval Venice see-- F.C. Hodgson: _The Early History of Venice from the Foundation to the Conquest of Constantinople_ (1901); and _Venice in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries, A Sketch of Venetian History, 1204-1400_ (1910). P.G. Molmenti: _Venice, its Growth to the Fall of the Republic_, vols. I and II (_The Middle Ages_), trans. H.F. Brown (1906); and _La Vie Privée à Venise_, vol. I (1895). H.F. Brown: _Studies in the History of Venice_, vol. I (1907). Mrs Oliphant: _The Makers of Venice_ (1905) is pleasant reading and contains a chapter on Marco Polo. 2. For medieval China, the Tartars, and European intercourse with the far East see-- Sir Henry Yule's introduction to his great edition of Marco Polo (above). _Cathay and the Way Thither: Medieval Notices of China_, trans. and ed. by Sir Henry Yule, 4 vols. (Hakluyt Soc., 1915-16). Contains an invaluable introduction and all the best accounts of China left by medieval European travellers. Above all, Oderic of Pordenone (d. 1331) should be read as a pendant to Marco Polo. R. Beazley: _The Dawn of Modern Geography_, vols. II and III (1897-1906). R. Grousset: _Histoire de l'Asie_, t. III (3rd edit., 1922), Chap. I. A short and charmingly written account of the Mongol Empires from Genghis Khan to Timour. H. Howarth: _History of the Mongols_ (1876). 3. For medieval trade with the East the best book is-- W. Heyd: _Histoire du Commerce du Levant au Moyen-Âge_, trans., F. Raynaud; 2 vols. (Leipzig and Paris, 1885-6, reprinted 1923). _C. Notes to the Text_ 1. To be exact, the Flanders galleys which sailed via Gibraltar to Southampton and Bruges were first sent out forty years after 1268--in 1308. Throughout the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries they sailed every year, and Southampton owes its rise to prosperity to the fact that it was their port of call. 2. The occasion of the speech quoted was when the imperial representative Longinus was trying to get the help of the Venetians against the Lombards in 568 and invited them to acknowledge themselves subjects of the Emperor. The speech is quoted in _Encyclop. Brit._, Art. _Venice_ (by H.F. Brown), p. 1002. The episode of the loaves of bread belongs to the attempt of Pipin, son of Charlemagne, to starve out the Rialto in the winter of 809-10. Compare the tale of Charlemagne casting his sword into the sea, with the words, 'Truly, even as this brand which I have cast into the sea shall belong neither to me nor to you nor to any other man in all the world, even so shall no man in the world have power to hurt the realm of Venice; and he who would harm it shall feel the wrath and displeasure of God, even as it has fallen upon me and my people.'--See Canale, _Cron._, c. VIII. These are, of course, all legends. 3. 'Voirs est que la mer Arians est de le ducat de Venise.'--Canale, op. cit., p. 600. Albertino Mussato calls Venice 'dominatrix Adriaci maris.'--Molmenti, _Venice_, I, p. 120. 4. See some good contemporary accounts of the ceremony quoted in Molmenti, _Venice_, I, pp. 212-15. 5. During the fatal war of Chioggia between the two republics of Venice and Genoa, which ended in 1381, it was said that the Genoese admiral (or some say Francesco Carrara), when asked by the Doge to receive peace ambassadors, replied, 'Not before I have bitted the horses on St Mark's.'--H.F. Brown, _Studies in the Hist. of Venice_, I, p. 130. 6. Canale, op. cit., p. 270. 7. 'The weather was clear and fine ... and when they were at sea, the mariners let out the sails to the wind, and let the ships run with spread sails before the wind over the sea'--See, for instance, Canale, op. cit., pp. 320, 326, and elsewhere. 8. Canale, op. cit., cc. I and II, pp. 268-72. Venice is particularly fortunate in the descriptions which contemporaries have left of her--not only her own citizens (such as Canale, Sanudo and the Doge Mocenigo) but also strangers. Petrarch's famous description of Venetian commerce, as occasioned by the view which he saw from his window in the fourteenth century, has often been quoted: 'See the innumerable vessels which set forth from the Italian shore in the desolate winter, in the most variable and stormy spring, one turning its prow to the east, the other to the west; some carrying our wine to foam in British cups, our fruits to flatter the palates of the Scythians and, still more hard of credence, the wood of our forests to the Egean and the Achaian isles; some to Syria, to Armenia, to the Arabs and Persians, carrying oil and linen and saffron, and bringing back all their diverse goods to us.... Let me persuade you to pass another hour in my company. It was the depth of night and the heavens were full of storm, and I, already weary and half asleep, had come to an end of my writing, when suddenly a burst of shouts from the sailors penetrated my ear. Aware of what these shouts should mean from former experience, I rose hastily and went up to the higher windows of this house, which look out upon the port. Oh, what a spectacle, mingled with feelings of pity, of wonder, of fear and of delight! Resting on their anchors close to the marble banks which serve as a mole to the vast palace which this free and liberal city has conceded to me for my dwelling, several vessels have passed the winter, exceeding with the height of their masts and spars the two towers which flank my house. The larger of the two was at this moment--though the stars were all hidden by the clouds, the winds shaking the walls, and the roar of the sea filling the air--leaving the quay and setting out upon its voyage. Jason and Hercules would have been stupefied with wonder, and Tiphys, seated at the helm, would have been ashamed of the nothing which won him so much fame. If you had seen it, you would have said it was no ship but a mountain, swimming upon the sea, although under the weight of its immense wings a great part of it was hidden in the waves. The end of the voyage was to be the Don, beyond which nothing can navigate from our seas; but many of those who were on board, when they had reached that point, meant to prosecute their journey, never pausing till they had reached the Ganges or the Caucasus, India and the Eastern Ocean. So far does love of gain stimulate the human mind.'--Quoted from Petrarch's _Lettere Senili_ in Oliphant, _Makers of Venice_ (1905), p. 349; the whole of this charming chapter, 'The Guest of Venice', should be read. Another famous description of Venice occurs in a letter written by Pietro Aretino, a guest of Venice during the years 1527 to 1533, to Titian, quoted in E. Hutton, _Pietro Aretino, the Scourge of Princes_ (1922), pp. 136-7; compare also his description of the view from his window on another occasion, quoted ibid., pp. 131-3. The earliest of all is the famous letter written by Cassiodorus to the Venetians in the sixth century, which is partly translated in Molmenti, op. cit., I, pp. 14-15. 9. The account of the march of the gilds occupies cc. CCLXIII-CCLXXXIII of Canale's Chronicle, op. cit., pp. 602-26. It has often been quoted. 10. Canale, op. cit., c. CCLXI, p. 600. 11. This account of Hangchow is taken partly from Marco Polo, op. cit., bk. II, c. LXVIII: 'Of the noble and magnificent city of Kinsai'; and partly from Odoric of Pordenone, _Cathay and the Way Thither_, ed. Yule, pp. 113-20. 12. Oderic of Pordenone, who was a man before he was a friar, remarks: 'The Chinese are comely enough, but colourless, having beards of long straggling hair like mousers, cats I mean. And as for the women, they are the most beautiful in the world.' Marco Polo likewise never fails to note when the women of a district are specially lovely, in the same way that that other traveller Arthur Young always notes the looks of the chambermaids at the French inns among the other details of the countryside, and is so much affronted if waited on by a plain girl. Marco Polo gives the palm for beauty to the women of the Province of Timochain (or Damaghan) on the north-east border of Persia, of which, he says, 'The people are in general a handsome race, especially the women, who, in my opinion, are the most beautiful in the world.'--Marco Polo, op. cit., p. 73. Of the women of Kinsai he reports thus: 'The courtesans are accomplished and are perfect in the arts of blandishment and dalliance, which they accompany with expressions adapted to every description of person, insomuch that strangers who have once tasted of their charms, remain in a state of fascination, and become so enchanted by their meretricious arts, that they can never divest themselves of the impression. Thus intoxicated with sensual pleasures, when they return to their homes they report that they have been in Kinsai, or the celestial city, and pant for the time when they may be enabled to revisit paradise.' Of the respectable ladies, wives of the master craftsmen he likewise says: 'They have much beauty and are brought up with languid and delicate habits. The costliness of their dresses, in silks and jewellery, can scarcely be imagined.'--op. cit., pp. 296, 297-8. 13. Yule, op. cit., II, p. 184. 14. For Prester John see Sir Henry Yule's article 'Prester John' in the _Encyclopædia Britannica_, and Lynn Thorndike, _A History of Magic and Experimental Science_ (1923), II, pp. 236-45. There is a pleasant popular account in S. Baring Gould, _Popular Myths of the Middle Ages_ (1866-8). 15. For their accounts see _The Journal of William of Rubruck to the Eastern Parts, 1253-5, by himself, with two accounts of the Earlier Journey of John of Pian da Carpine_, trans. and ed. with notes by W.W. Rockhill (Hakluyt Soc., 1900). Rubruck especially is a most delightful person. 16. This, together with the whole account of the first journey of the elder Polos, the circumstances of the second journey, and of their subsequent return occurs in the first chapter of Marco Polo's book, which is a general introduction, after which he proceeds to describe in order the lands through which he passed. This autobiographical section is unfortunately all too short. 17. As a matter of fact, William of Rubruck had seen and described it before him. 18. For Marco Polo's account of this custom in the province which he calls 'Kardandan', see op. cit., p. 250. An illustration of it from an album belonging to the close of the Ming dynasty is reproduced in S.W. Bushell, _Chinese Art_ (1910), fig. 134. 19. Marco Polo, _op. cit_., pp. 21-2. 20. A certain _Poh-lo_ was, according to the Chinese annals of the Mongol dynasty, appointed superintendent of salt mines at Yangchow shortly after 1282. Professor Parker thinks that he may be identified with our Polo, but M. Cordier disagrees. See E.H. Parker _Some New Facts about Marco Polos Book_ in _Imperial and Asiatic Quarterly Review_ (1904), p. 128; and H. Cordier, _Ser Marco Polo_, p. 8. See also Yule, _Marco Polo_, I, Introd., p. 21. 21. P. Parrenin in _Lett. Edis_., xxiv, 58, quoted in Yule, _op. cit_., I, Introd., p. II. 22. On Marco Polo's omissions see Yule, _op. cit_., I, Introd., p. 110. 23. Marco Polo, _op. cit_., p. 288. 24. On Chao Mêng-fu see S.W. Bushell, _Chinese Art_ (1910), II, pp. 133--59; H.A. Giles, _Introd. to the History of Chinese Pictorial Art_ (Shanghai, 2nd ed., 1918), pp. 159 ff.; the whole of c. VI of this book on the art which flourished under the Mongol dynasty is interesting. See also L. Binyon, _Painting in the Far East_ (1908), pp. 75-7, 146-7. One of Chao Mêng-fu's horse pictures, or rather a copy of it by a Japanese artist, is reproduced in Giles, _op. cit_., opposite p. 159. See also my notes on illustrations for an account of the famous landscape roll painted by him in the style of Wang Wei. 25. Bushell, _op. cit_., p. 135. 26. _Ibid_., pp. 135-6, where the picture is reproduced. 27. For the episode of the mangonels constructed by Nestorian mechanics under the directions of Nicolo and Maffeo see Marco Polo, _op. cit_., pp. 281-2. 28. Marco Polo, _op. cit_., bk. III, c. I, pp. 321-3. 29. Ramusio's preface, containing this account, and also the story of how Rusticiano came to write the book at Marco Polo's dictation at Genoa, is translated in Yule, _op. cit_., I, Introd., pp. 4-8. 30. He mentions these in Marco Polo, _op. cit_., pp. 136, 138, 344. 31. Yule, _op. cit_., I, Introd., p. 79. 32. On Rusticiano (who is mistakenly called a Genoese by Ramusio), see _ibid_., Introd., pp. 56 ff. 33. Paulin Paris, quoted _ibid_., Introd., p. 61. 34. _Ibid_., Introd., pp. 67-73. 35. Extract from Jacopo of Acqui's _Imago Mondi_, quoted _ibid_., Introd., p. 54. 36. M. Ch.-V. Langlois in _Hist. Litt. de la France_, XXXV (1921), p. 259. For tributes to Marco Polo's accuracy see Aurel Stein, _Ancient_ _Khotan_ (1907) and _Ruins of Desert Cathay_ (1912); Ellsworth Huntington, _The Pulse of Asia_ (1910); and Sven Hedin, _Overland to India_ (1910). 37. Yule, _op. cit_., I, Introd., pp. 106-7. 38. For these later missions and traders see Yule, _Cathay and the Way Thither_, Introd., pp. cxxxii-iv, and text, _passim_. 39. _Ibid_., II, p. 292; and App., p. lxv. 40. Concerning the marginal notes by Columbus see Yule, _op. cit_., II, App. H, p. 558. The book is preserved in the Colombina at Seville. I must, however, frankly admit that modern research, iconoclastic as ever, not content with white-washing Lucrezia Borgia and Catherine de Medicis, and with reducing Catherine of Siena to something near insignificance, is also making it appear more and more probable that Columbus originally set sail in 1492 to look for the islands of the Antilles, and that, although on his return after his great discovery in 1493 he maintained that his design had always been to reach Cipangu, this was a _post hoc_ story, the idea of searching for Cipangu having probably come from his partner, Martin Pinzon. It is a pity that we do not know _when_ he made his notes in the edition (the probable date of publication of which was 1485) of Marco Polo's book, which might settle the matter. On the whole question see Henry Vignaud, _Études critiques sur la vie de Colomb avant ses découvertes_ (Paris, 1905) and _Histoire de la Grande Enterprise de 1492_, 2 vols. (Paris, 1910), and the summary and discussion of his conclusions by Professor A.P. Newton in _History_, VII (1922), pp. 38-42 (_Historical Revisions_ XX.--'Christopher Columbus and his Great Enterprise.') The idea that a new road to the East was being sought at this time, primarily because the Turks were blocking the old trade routes, has also been exploded. See A.H. Lybyer, _The Ottoman Turks and the Routes of Oriental Trade_ in _Eng. Hist. Review_, XXX (1915), pp.577-88. CHAPTER IV MADAME EGLENTYNE _A. Raw Material_ 1. Chaucer's description of the Prioress in the Prologue to the _Canterbury Tales_. 2. Miscellaneous visitation reports in episcopal registers. On these registers, and in particular the visitation documents therein, see R.C. Fowler, _Episcopal Registers of England and Wales_ (S.P.C.K. Helps for Students of History, No. 1), G.G. Coulton, _The Interpretation of Visitation Documents_ (Eng. Hist. Review, 1914), and c. XII of my book, cited below. A great many registers have been, or are being, published by learned societies, notably by the Canterbury and York Society, which exists for this purpose. The most important are the Lincoln visitations, now in the course of publication, by Dr A. Hamilton Thompson, _Visitations of Religious Houses in the Diocese of Lincoln_, ed. A. Hamilton Thompson (Lincoln Rec. Soc. and Canterbury and York Soc., 1915 ff.); two volumes have appeared so far, of which see especially vol. II, which contains part of Bishop Alnwick's visitations (1436-49); each volume contains text, translation, and an admirable introduction. See also the extracts from Winchester visitations trans. in H.G.D. Liveing, _Records of Romsey Abbey_ (1912). Full extracts from visitation reports and injunctions are given under the accounts of religious houses in the different volumes of the Victoria County Histories (cited as V.C.H.). 3. The monastic rules. See _The Rule of St Benedict_, ed. F.A. Gasquet (Kings Classics, 1909), and F.A. Gasquet, _English Monastic Life_ (4th ed., 1910). 4. For a very full study of the whole subject of English convent life at this period see Eileen Power, _Medieval English Nunneries c. 1275 to 1535_(1922). _B. Notes to the Text_ 1. _The Register of Walter de Stapeldon, Bishop of Exeter_ (1307-26), ed. F. Hingeston Randolph (1892), p. 169. The passage about Philippa is translated in G.G. Coulton, _Chaucer and His England_ (1908), p. 181. 2. See the account of expenses involved in making Elizabeth Sewardby a nun of Nunmonkton (1468) in _Testamenta Eboracensia_, ed. James Raine (Surtees Soc., 1886), III, p. 168; and Power, _op. cit_., p. 19. 3. _Year Book of King Richard II_, ed. C.F. Deiser (1904), pp. 71-7; and Power, _op. cit_., pp. 36-8. 4. G.J. Aungier, _Hist. of Syon_ (1840), p. 385. 5. As at Gracedieu (1440-1), _Alnwick's Visit_, ed. A.H. Thompson, pp. 120-3. 6. G.J. Aungier, _op. cit_., pp. 405-9. 7. Translated from John de Grandisson's Register in G.G. Coulton, _A Medieval Garner_ (1910), pp. 312-14. 8. _Rule of St Benedict_, c. 22. 9. _V.C.H. Lincs_., II, p. 131. 10. Translated in G.G. Coulton, _A Medieval Garner_. 11. _Myroure of Oure Ladye_, ed. J.H. Blunt (E.E.T.S., 1873), p. 54. On Tittivillus see my article in _The Cambridge Magazine_ (1917), pp.158-60. 12. _Linc. Visit_., ed. A.H. Thompson, II, pp. 46-52; and Power, _op. cit._ pp. 82-7. 13. _V.C.H. Oxon_, II. p. 77. 14. _Linc. Visit_., ed. A.H. Thompson, I, p. 67. 15. On these gaieties see Power, _op. cit_. pp. 309-14. 16. _Linc. Visit_., II, pp. 3-4; and see Power, _op. cit_., pp. 75-7, 303-5, on gay clothes in nunneries. 17. _Linc. Visit_., II. p. 175. 18. Power, _op. cit_., p. 307. On pet animals see _ibid_., pp. 305-9, and Note E ('Convent Pets in Literature'), pp. 588-95. 19. Power, _op. cit_., p. 77. 20. _Ibid_., pp. 351-2; and see Chap. IX _passim_ on the Bull _Periculoso_ and the wandering of nuns in the world. 21. _Linc. Visit_., II, p. 50. 22. _V.C.H. Yorks_., III, p. 172. CHAPTER V THE MÉNAGIER'S WIFE _A. Raw Material_ I. _Le Ménagier de Paris, Traité de Morale et d'Economie Domestique, compose vers_ 1393 _par un Bourgeois Parisien ... publié pour la première fois par la Société des Bibliophiles Francois_. (Paris, 1846). 2 vols., edited with an introduction by Jérôme Pichon. There is a notice of it by Dr F.J. Furnivall, at the end of his edition of _A Booke of Precedence_ (Early English Text Soc., 1869 and 1898), pp. 149-54. It was a book after his own heart, and he observes that it well deserves translation into English. 2. On the subject of medieval books of deportment for women see A.A. Hentsch, _De la littérature didactique du moyen âge s'addressant spécialement aux femmes_ (Cahors, 1903), an admirably complete collection of analyses of all the chief works of this sort produced in western Europe from the time of St Jerome to the eve of the Renaissance. It is full of plums for adventurous Jack Horners. 3. With the Ménagier's cookery book there may profitably be compared _Two Fifteenth Century Cookery Books_, ed. by Thomas Austin (E.E.T.S., 1888). _B. Notes to the Text_ 1. Pp. 1-2. 2. These long moral treatises on the seven deadly sins and the even deadlier virtues were very popular in the Middle Ages. The best known to English readers occurs in the _Parson's Tale_ in Chaucer's _Canterbury Tales,_ and is taken from the _Somme de Vices et de Vertus_ of Frère Lorens, a thirteenth-century author. The sections on the deadly sins are usually, however, well worth reading, because of the vivid illustrative details which they often give about daily life. The Ménagier's sections are full of vigour and colour, as one would expect. Here, for instance, is his description of the female glutton: 'God commands fasting and the glutton says: "I will eat". God commands us to get up early and go to church and the glutton says: "I must sleep. I was drunk yesterday. The church is not a hare; it will wait for me." When she has with some difficulty risen, do you know what her hours are? Her matins are: "Ha! what shall we have to drink? is there nothing left over from last night?" Afterwards she says her lauds thus: "Ha! we drank good wine yesterday." Afterwards she says thus her orisons: "My head aches, I shan't be comfortable until I have had a drink." Certes, such gluttony putteth a woman to shame, for from it she becomes a ribald, a disreputable person and a thief. The tavern is the Devil's church, where his disciples go to do him service and where he works his miracles. For when folk go there they go upright and well spoken, wise and sensible and well advised, and when they return they cannot hold themselves upright nor speak; they are all foolish and all mad, and they return swearing, beating and giving the lie to each other.'--_Op. cit_., I, pp. 47-8. The section on Avarice is particularly valuable for its picture of the sins of executors of wills, rack-renting lords, extortionate shopkeepers, false lawyers, usurers, and gamblers.--See _ibid_., I, pp. 44-5. 3. _Prudence and Melibeus_ is worth reading once, either in Chaucer's or in Renault de Louens' version, because of its great popularity in the Middle Ages, and because of occasional vivid passages. Here, for instance, is the episode in Chaucer's version, in which Melibeus, the sages, and the young men discuss going to war, and the sages advise against it: 'Up stirten thanne the yonge folk at ones, and the mooste partie of that compaignye scorned the wise olde men, and bigonnen to make noyse, and seyden that "Right so as, whil that iren is hoot, men sholden smyte, right so men sholde wreken hir wronges while that they been fresshe and newe"; and with loud voys they criden, "Werre! werre!" Up roos tho oon of thise olde wise, and with his hand made contenaunce that men sholde holden hem stille, and yeven hym audience. "Lordynges," quod he, "ther is ful many a man that crieth 'Werre! werre!' that woot ful litel what werre amounteth. Werre at his bigynnyng hath so greet an entryng and so large, that every wight may entre whan hym liketh and lightly fynde werre; but certes, what ende that shal ther-of bifalle it is nat light to knowe; for soothly, whan that werre is ones bigonne ther is ful many a child unborn of his mooder that shal sterve yong by cause of that ilke werre, or elles lyve in sarwe, and dye in wrecchednesse; and therefore, er that any werre bigynne, men moste have greet conseil and greet deliberacioun."--Chaucer, _Tale of Melibeus_,§ 12; and see the French version, _op. cit_., I, p. 191. 4. II, p. 72-9. 5. I, pp. 71-2. These medieval games are very difficult to identify. The learned editor remarks that _bric_, which is mentioned in the thirteenth century by Rutebeuf was played, seated, with a little stick; _qui féry_ is probably the modern game called by the French _main chaude; pince merille,_ which is mentioned among the games of Gargantua, was a game in which you pinched one of the players' arms, crying 'Mérille' or 'Morille'. Though the details of these games are vague, there are many analagous games played by children today, and it is easy to guess the kind of thing which is meant. 6. I, pp. 13-15. 7. I, 92, 96. 8. The story of Jeanne la Quentine is reproduced in the _Heptameron_ of Margaret of Navarre (the 38th tale, or the 8th of the 4th day), where it is attributed to a _bourgeoise_ of Tours, but it is probable that the Ménagier's is the original version, since he says that he had it from his father; although, knowing the ways of the professional raconteur, I should be the first to admit that this is not proof positive. 9. I, pp. 125-6. 10. I, p. 139. 11. This was a favourite saying. It occurs in the story of Melibeus, 'Trois choses sont qui gettent homme hors de sa maison, c'est assavoir la fumée, la goutière et la femme mauvaise.'--_Ibid_., I, p. 195. Compare Chaucer's use of it: 'Men seyn that thre thynges dryven a man out of his hous,--that is to seyn, smoke, droppyng of reyn and wikked wyves.'--_Tale of Melibeus_, §15; and 'Thou seyst that droppying houses, and eek smoke, And chidyng wyves, maken men to flee Out of hir owene hous.' --_Wife of Bath's Prologue_, LL, 278-80. 12. I, pp. 168-71, 174-6. 13. II, p. 54. The Ménagier also warns against running up long bills on credit. 'Tell your folk to deal with peaceable people and to bargain always beforehand and to account and pay often, without running up long bills on credit by tally or on paper, although tally or paper are better than doing everything by memory, for the creditors always think it more and the debtors less, and thus are born arguments, hatreds, and reproaches; and cause your good creditors to be paid willingly and frequently what is owed to them, and keep them in friendship so that they depart not from you, for one cannot always get peaceable folk again.' 14. II, pp. 56-9. 15. It is curious here to note the antiquity of the term 'bloody' as an expletive. The Ménagier says: 'Forbid them ... to use ugly oaths, or words which are bad or indecent, as do certain evil or ill bred persons who swear at bad bloody fevers, the bad bloody week, the bad bloody day ('de males sanglantes fièvres,' 'de male sanglante sepmaine,' 'de male sanglante journée'), and they know not, nor should they know, what a bloody thing is, for honest women know it not, since it is abominable to them to see the blood but of a lamb or a pigeon, when it is killed before them.'--_Ibid._, II, p. 59. 16. The section on household management described above occupies sec. II, art. 2, of the Ménagier's book (II, pp. 53-72). 17. I, pp. 171-2. 18. I, pp. 172-3. 19. The cookery book occupies sec. II, arts. 4 and 5 (II, pp. 80-272). 20. II, pp. 222-3. Translated by Dr Furnivall in _A Booke of Precedence_ (E.E.T.S.), pp. 152-3. 21. II, pp. 108-18, 123. The feast was still a thing of the future when the Ménagier thus gathered all the details. He calls it 'L'ordenance de nopces que fera maistre Helye en May, à un mardy ... l'ordonnance du souper que fera ce jour.' 22. 'The office of the woman is to make provision of tapestries, to order and spread them, and in especial to dight the room and the bed which shall be blessed.... And note that if the bed be covered with cloth, there is needed a fur coverlet of small vair, but if it be covered with serge, or broidery, or pinwork of cendal, not.'--II, p. 118. The editor quotes the following ceremony for blessing the wedding bed: '_Benedictio thalami ad nuptias et als_, Beredic, Domine, thalamum hunc et omnes habitantes in eo, ut in tua voluntate permaneant, requiescant et multiplicentur in longitudinem dierum. Per Christum, etc. _Tunc thurificet thalamum in matrimonio, postea sponsum et sponsam sedentes vel jacentes in lecto suo. Benedicentur dicendo_: Benedic, Domine, adolescentulos istos; sicut benedixisti Thobiam et Sarram filiam Raguelis, ita benedicere eos digneris, Domine, ut in nomine tuo vivant et senescant, et multiplicentur in longitudinem dierum. Per Christum, etc. Benedictio Dei omnipotentis, Patris et Filii et Spiritus sancti descendat super vos et maneat super vobiscum. In nomine Patris, etc.'--_Ibid._, I, _Introd._, p. lxxxvi. 23. Chaucer, _Tale of Melibeus_, § 15. CHAPTER VI THOMAS BETSON _A. Raw Material_ 1. _The Stonor Letters and Papers_, 1290-1483, ed. C.L. Kingsford (Royal Hist. Soc., Camden, 3rd Series), 2 vols., 1919. The Betson correspondence is in vol. II. 2. _The Cely Papers, selected from the Correspondence and Memoranda of the Cely Family, Merchants of the Staple_, 1475-88, ed. H.E. Malden (Royal Hist. Soc., Camden 3rd series), 1900. I am much beholden to the excellent introductions to these two books, which are models of what editorial introductions should be. 3. The best introduction to the history of the Company of the Staple is to be found in Mr Malden's aforesaid introduction to _The Cely Papers_, which also contains a masterly account of the political relations of England, France and Burgundy during the period. I have constantly relied upon Mr Malden's account of the working of the Staple system. Other useful short accounts of the wool trade and the Stapler's Company may be found in the following works: Sir C.P. Lucas, _The Beginnings of English Overseas Enterprise_ (1917), c. II; and A.L. Jenckes, _The Staple of England_ (1908). _B. Notes to the Text_ 1. Four interesting contemporary illustrations of Parliament in 1523, 1585, some date during the seventeenth century, and 1742 respectively, are reproduced in Professor A.F. Pollard's stimulating study of _The Evolution of Parliament_ (1920). 2. _The Lybelle of Englyshe Polycye_, in _Political Poems and Songs_, ed. Thos. Wright (Rolls Ser., 1861), II, p. 162. This remarkable poem was written in 1436 or 1437, in order to exhort the English 'to kepe the see enviroun and namelye the narowe see' between Dover and Calais, since in the author's opinion the basis of England's greatness lay in her trade, for the preservation of which she needed the dominion of the seas. Its chief value lies in the very complete picture which it gives of English import and export trade with the various European countries. There is a convenient edition of it in _The Principal Navigations Voyages Traffiques and Discoveries of the English Nation by Richard Hakluyt_ (Everyman's Lib. Edition, 1907), I, pp. 174-202. 3. G.W. Morris and L.S. Wood, _The Golden Fleece_ (1922), p. 17. 4. For accounts of these brasses see H. Druitt, _A Manual of Costume as Illustrated by Monumental Brasses_ (1906), pp. 9, 201, 205, 207, 253. John Fortey's brass and William Greville's brass are conveniently reproduced in G.W. Morris and L.S. Wood, _op. cit_., pp. 28, 32, together with several other illustrations, pertinent to the wool trade. 5. Gower, _Mirour de l'Omme_ in _The Works of John Gower_. I. _The French Works_, ed. G.C. Macaulay (1899), p. 280-1. 6. _The Paston Letters_, ed. J. Gairdner (London, 1872-5); Supplement 1901. See also H.S. Bennett, _The Pastons and their England_ (1922). 7. _Plumpton Correspondence_, ed. T. Stapleton (Camden Soc., 1839). 8. _Cely Papers_, p. 72; and compare below p. 134. 9. _Stonor Letters_, II, p. 2. 10. _Ibid_., II, pp. 2-3. 11. The brasses of his father 'John Lyndewode, woolman', and of his brother, also 'John Lyndewode, woolman' (_d._ 1421), are still in Linwood Church. They both have their feet on woolpacks, and on the son's woolpack is his merchant's mark. See H. Druitt, _op. cit_., pp. 204-5. 12. See _Magna Vita S. Hugonis Episcopi Lincolniensis_, ed. J.F. Dimock (Rolls Series, 1864), pp. 170-7. 13. For these extracts see a vastly entertaining book, _Child Marriages and Divorces in the Diocese of Chester_, 1561-6, ed. F.J. Furnivall (E.E.T.S., 1897), pp. xxii, 6, 45-7. 14. _Stonor Letters_, II, pp. 6-8. 15. _Ibid_., II, pp. 28, 64. 16. _Ibid_., II, p. 64. 17. _Ibid_., II, pp. 42-43. 18. _Ibid_., II, p. 44. 19. _Ibid_., II, pp. 61, 64-5. 20. _Ibid_., II, pp. 46-8. 21. _Ibid_., II, p. 53. 22. _Ibid_., II, p. 28. 23. _Ibid_., II, p. 47. 24. _Ibid_., II, p. 53. 25. _Ibid_., II, pp. 54-5. 26. _Ibid_., II, pp. 56-7. 27. _Ibid_., II, p. 69. 28. _Ibid_., II, pp. 87-8. 29. _Ibid_., II, pp. 88-9. 30. _Ibid_., II, p. 89. 31. _Ibid_., II, pp. 102-3, 117. 32. See Richard Cely's amusing account of the affair in a letter to his brother George, written on May 13, 1482, _Cely Papers_, pp. 101-4. For other references to the wool dealer William Midwinter see _ibid_., pp. 11, 21, 28, 30, 32, 64, 87, 89, 90, 105, 124, 128, 157, 158. 33. _Stonor Letters_, II, p. 3. 34. _Ibid_., II, p. 64. 35. _Testamenta Eboracensia_ (Surtees Soc.), II, p. 56. He was a well-known wool merchant of York, at different times member of the town council of twelve, sheriff and mayor, who died in 1435. He is constantly mentioned in the city records; see _York Memorandum Book_, ed. Maud Sellers (Surtees Soc., 1912 and 1915), vols. I and II, _passim_. 36. _Cely Papers_, pp. 30-1. 37. _Ibid_., p. 64. 38. See his will (1490) in _Test. Ebor._, IV, p. 61, where he is called 'Johannes Barton de Holme juxta Newarke, Stapulae villae Carlisiae marcator,' and ordains 'Volo quod Thomas filius meus Johannem Tamworth fieri faciat liberum hominem Stapulae Carlis,' _ibid_., p. 62. 39. _Ibid_., p. 45. 40. _Ibid_., p. 48. 41. _Ibid_., pp. 154-5. 42. _The Lybelle of Englysche Polycye_ in _loc. cit._, pp. 174-7, _passim_. Compare Gower's account of the machinations of the Lombards, _op. cit_., pp. 281-2. 43. See the clear account of all these operations in Mr Malden's introduction to the _Cely Papers_, pp. xi-xiii, xxxviii. 44. _Ibid_., p. vii. 45. _Cely Papers_, pp. 194-6; and see _Introd_., pp. xxxvi-viii. 46. _Ibid_., pp. 71-2. 47. _Ibid_., pp. 174-88, a book entitled on the cover 'The Rekenyng of the Margett Cely,' and beginning, 'The first viage of the Margaret of London was to Seland in the yere of our Lord God m iiijciiijxxv. The secunde to Caleis and the thrid to Burdews ut videt. Md to se the pursers accomptes of the seide viages. G. Cely.' 48. _Ibid_., p. xxxviii. 49. _Stonor Letters_, II, p. 2. 50. _Ibid_., II, p. 4. 51. _Cely Papers_, pp. 112-13. 52. _Ibid_., p. 106; compare _ibid_., p. 135. 53. 'Sir, the wool ships be come to Calais all save three, whereof two be in Sandwich haven and one is at Ostend, and he hath cast over all his wool overboard.'--_Ibid_., p. 129. 'Item, sir, on Friday the 27 day of February came passage from Dover and they say that on Thursday afore came forth a passenger from Dover to Calais ward and she was chased with Frenchmen and driven in to Dunkirk haven.'--_Ibid_., p. 142. (There are many records of similar chases; see _Introd_., pp. xxxiv-v.) 54. _Ibid_., p. 135. 55. 'Sir, I cannot have your wool yet awarded, for I have do cast out a sarpler, the which is [ap]pointed by the lieutenant to be casten out toward the sort by, as the ordinance now is made that the lieutenant shall [ap]point the [a]warding sarplers of every man's wool, the which sarpler that I have casten out is No. 24, and therein is found by William Smith, packer, a 60 middle fleeces and it is a very gruff wool; and so I have caused William Smith privily to cast out another sarpler No. 8, and packed up the wool of the first sarpler in the sarpler of No. 8, for this last sarpler is fair wool enough, and therefore I must understand how many be of that sort and the number of the[m], for they must be packed again' (12 Sept., 1487).--_Ibid_., p. 160. Item, sir, your wool is awarded by the sarpler that I cast out last, etc. Item, sir, this same day your mastership is elected and appointed here by the Court one of the 28, the which shall assist the Master of the Staple now at this parliament time.'-_Ibid_., p. 162. 56. Gower, _op. cit_., p. 281. 57. _Cely Papers_, pp. xii, xxiv-v. 58. _Stonor Letters_, II, pp. 62-3; see also _Cely Papers_, pp. 1, 10, 13. 59. _Stonor Letters_, II, p. 4. 60. Chaucer, _Canterbury Tales (Shipman's Tale_) LL, 1243-6. 61. _Stonor Letters_, II, p. 48. 62. _Cely Papers_, p. xxiii. 63. _Lybelle of Englysshe Polycye_ in _loc. cit_., pp. 179-81. 64. With deference, I think that Mr Malden in his introduction to the _Cely Papers_, App. II, pp. lii-iii, is mistaken in seeking to identify Synchon Mart with a particular fair at Antwerp on St John's Day, Bammes mart with the fair at St Rémy (a Flemish name for whom is Bamis) on August 8, and Cold Mart with Cortemarck near Thourout. The names simply refer to the seasons in which there were fairs in most of the important centres, though doubtless in one place the winter and in another the spring, summer, or autumn fair was the more important. That the names refer to seasons and not to places appears quite clearly in various letters and regulations relating to the Merchant Adventurers of York. See _The York Mercers and Merchant Adventurers_, 1356-1917, ed. M. Sellers (Surtees Soc., 1918), pp. 117, 121-5, 160, 170-1; see Miss Sellers' note, _ibid_., p. 122, quoting W. Cunningham: 'The ancient Celtic fairs ... were a widespread primitive institution and appear to have been fixed for dates marked by the change of seasons.'--_Scottish Hist. Review_, xiii, p. 168. For instance, a document of 1509 ('For now att this cold marte last past, holdyn at Barow in Brabond,' _loc. cit_. p. 121) disposes of the idea that the Cold mart was the mart at Cortemarck, while another document refers to merchants intending to ship 'to the cold martes' and 'to the synxon martes' in the plural. _Ibid_., p. 123. The identification of Balms mart with the fair at St Rémy on August 8 is, moreover, belied by the same document (1510-11), which runs, 'Whereas this present marte ... we have lycensed and set you at libertie to shipp your commodities to the balmes marte next coming. Nevertheless ... we thinke it good ... that upon the recepte of these our letters ye ... assemble and consult together, and if ye shall thinke good amongest yourselffs ... discretly to withdraw and with holde your hands from shippyng to the said balmes marte.... Wryten at Andwarp the xvij day of August.' _Ibid_., p. 124. The Balms mart was obviously the autumn fairtide, and Mr Malden is no doubt right in identifying Balms (Bammys, Bammes) with Bamis, the local Flemish name of St Rémy; St Rémy's Day was October 28, and the Balms mart was not the mart held on August 8 at St Rémy, but the mart held on and round about St Rémy's Day. Another document of 1552 gives interesting information about the shippings for three of the marts: 'The last daye of shippinge unto the fyrst shippinge beinge for the pasche marte is ordeyned to be the laste of Marche nexte ensuyinge; and the seconde shippinge which is appointed for the sinxon marte the laste day to the same, is appoynted the laste of June then nexte followinge; and unto the colde marte the laste day of shippinge is appoynted to be the laste of November then nexte insuyinge.'--_Ibid_., p. 147. The Merchant Adventurers tried sometimes to restrict merchants to the Cold and the Synxon marts, which were the most important. 65. _Cely Papers_, p. xl, and _passim_. 66. _Ibid_., p. 74. Richard Cely the younger to George: 'I understand that ye have a fair hawk. I am right glad of her, for I trust to God she shall make you and me right great sport. If I were sure at what passage ye would send her I would fetch her at Dover and keep her till ye come. A great infortune is fallen on your bitch, for she had 14 fair whelps, and after that she had whelped she would never eat meat, and so she is dead and all her whelps; but I trust to purvey against your coming as fair and as good to please that gentleman.'--_Ibid_., p. 74. 67. _Ibid_., p. xlix. 68. _Ibid_., App. I., pp. xlix-lii, a very interesting note on contemporary coinage, identifying all the coins mentioned in the letters. 69. _Ibid_., p. 159. 70. _Ibid_., p. 161. 71. _Stonor Letters_, II, p. 43. So Dame Elizabeth Stonor ends a letter to her husband: 'Written at Stonor, when I would fain have slept, the morrow after our Lady day in the morning,'--_Ibid_., p. 77. 72. Chaucer, _Canterbury Tales (Shipman's Tale_), LL, 1265-78, in _Works_ (Globe Ed., 1903), p. 80. 73. The will is P.C.C. 24 Logge at Somerset House. For this analysis of its contents and information about the life of Thomas Betson after his breach with the Stonors see _Stonor Letters_, I, pp. xxviii-ix. 74. They are (1) John Bacon, citizen and woolman, and Joan, his wife (_d_. 1437); (2) Thomas Gilbert, citizen and draper of London and merchant of the Staple of Calais (_d_. 1483), and Agnes, his wife (_d_. 1489); (3) Christopher Rawson, mercer of London and merchant of the Staple of Calais, Junior Warden of the Mercers' Company in 1516 (_d_. 1518), and his two wives. Thomas Betson was doubtless acquainted with Gilbert and Rawson. CHAPTER VII THOMAS PAYCOCKE OF COGGESHALL _A. Raw Material_ 1. The raw material for this chapter consists of Paycocke's House, presented to the Nation in 1924 by the Right Hon. Noel Buxton, M.P., which stands in West Street, Coggeshall, Essex (station, Kelvedon); the Paycocke brasses, which lie in the North aisle of the parish church of St Peter ad Vincula at Coggeshall; and the wills of John Paycocke (_d_. 1505), Thomas Paycocke (_d_. 1518), and Thomas Paycocke (_d_. 1580), which are now preserved at Somerset House (P.C.C. Adeane 5, Ayloffe 14, and Arundell 50, respectively), and of which that of the first Thomas has been printed in Mr Beaumont's paper, cited below, while I have analysed fully the other two in my book, _The Paycockes of Coggeshall_ (1920), which deals at length with the history of the Paycockes and their house. See also G.F. Beaumont, _Paycocke's House, Coggeshall, with some Notes on the Families of Paycocke and Buxton_ (reprinted from Trans. Essex Archæol. Soc., IX, pt. V) and the same author's _History of Coggeshall_ (1890). There is a beautifully illustrated article on the house in _Country Life_ (June 30, 1923), vol. LIII, pp. 920-6. 2. For an apotheosis of the clothiers, see _The Pleasant History of John Winchcomb, in his younger days called Jack of Newbery, the famous and worthy Clothier of England_ and _Thomas of Reading, or the Six Worthy Yeomen of the West_, in _The Works of Thomas Deloney_, ed. F.O. Mann (1912), nos. II and V. The first of these was published in 1597 and the other soon afterwards and both went through several editions by 1600. 3. On the cloth industry in general see G. Morris and L. Wood, _The Golden Fleece_ (1922); E. Lipson, _The Woollen Industry_ (1921); and W.J. Ashley, _Introd. to English Economic History_ (1909 edit.). For the East Anglian woollen industry see especially the _Victoria County Histories_ of Essex and Suffolk. For a charming account of another famous family of clothiers see B. McClenaghan, _The Springs of Lavenham_ (Harrison, Ipswich, 1924). _B. Notes to the Text_ 1. _Deloney's Works_, ed. F.O. Mann, p. 213. 2. Thomas Fuller, _The Worthies of England_ (1622), p. 318. 3. A convenient introduction to the study of monumental brasses, with illustrations and a list of all the surviving brasses in England, arranged according to counties, is W. Macklin, _Monumental Brasses_ (1913). See also H. Druitt, _Costume on Brasses_ (1906). These books also give details as to the famous early writers on the subject, such as Weaver, Holman, and A.J. Dunkin. 4. _Testamenta Eboracensia, a selection of wills from the Registry at York_, ed. James Raine, 6 vols. (Surtees Soc., 1836-1902). The Surtees Society has also published several other collections of wills from Durham and elsewhere, relating to the northern counties. A large number of wills have been printed or abstracted. See, for instance, _Wills and Inventories from the Registers of Bury St Edmunds_, ed. S. Tymms (Camden Soc., 1850); _Calendar of Wills Proved and Enrolled in the Court of Hastings_, _London_, ed. R.R. Sharpe, 2 vols. (1889); _The Fifty Earliest English Wills in the Court of Probate, London_, ed. F.J. Furnivall (E.E.T.S., 1882); _Lincoln Wills_, ed. C.W. Foster (Lincoln Record Soc., 1914); and _Somerset Medieval Wills_, 1383-1558, ed. F.W. Weaver, 3 vols. (Somerset Record Soc., 1901-5). 5. The will of the other Thomas Paycocke 'cloathemaker', who died in 1580, also refers to the family business. He leaves twenty shillings 'to William Gyon my weaver'; also 'Item, I doe give seaven poundes tenne shillinges of Lawful money of Englande to and amongest thirtie of the poorest Journeymen of the Fullers occupacion in Coggeshall aforesaide, that is to every one of them fyve shillinges.' William Gyon or Guyon was related to a very rich clothier, Thomas Guyon, baptized in 1592 and buried in 1664, who is said to have amassed £100,000 by the trade. Thomas Paycocke's son-in-law Thomas Tyll also came of a family of clothiers, for in a certificate under date 1577 of wool bought by clothiers of Coggeshall during the past year there occur the names of Thomas Tyll, William Gyon, John Gooddaye (to whose family the first Thomas Paycocke left legacies), Robert Lytherland (who receives a considerable legacy under the will of the second Thomas), and Robert Jegon (who is mentioned incidentally in the will as having a house near the church and was father of the Bishop of Norwich of that name). See Power, _The Paycockes of Coggeshall_, pp. 33-4. 6. Quoted in Lipson, _Introd. to the Econ. Hist, of England_ (1905), I, p. 421. 7. Quoted _ibid_., p. 417. 8. On John Winchcomb see Power, _op. cit_., pp. 17-18; and Lipson, _op. cit_., p. 419. 9. Deloney's Works, ed. F.C. Mann, pp. 20-1. 10. _Ibid_., p. 22. 11. Quoted in C.L. Powell, _Eng. Domestic Relations_, 1487-1563 (1917), p. 27. 12. The house subsequently passed, it is not quite clear at what date, into the hands of another family of clothiers, the Buxtons, who had intermarried with the Paycockes some time before 1537. William Buxton (_d_. 1625) describes himself as 'clothyer of Coggeshall' and leaves 'all my Baey Lombs [Looms]' to his son Thomas. Thomas was seventeen when his father died and lived until 1647, also carrying on business as a clothier, and the house was certainly in his possession. He or his father may have bought it from John Paycocke's executors. By him it was handed down to his son Thomas, also a clothier (_d_. 1713), who passed it on to his son Isaac, clothier (_d_. 1732). Isaac's two eldest sons were clothiers likewise, but soon after their father's death they retired from business. He apparently allowed his third son, John, to occupy the house as his tenant, and John was still living there in 1740. But Isaac had left the house by will in 1732 to his youngest son, Samuel, and Samuel, dying in 1737, left it to his brother Charles, the fourth son of Isaac. Charles never lived in it, because he spent most of his life in the pursuit of his business as an oil merchant in London, though he is buried among his ancestors in Coggeshall Church. In 1746 he sold the house to Robert Ludgater and it passed completely out of the Paycocke-Buxton connexion, and in the course of time fell upon evil days and was turned into two cottages, the beautiful ceilings being plastered over. It was on the verge of being destroyed some years ago when it was bought and restored to its present fine condition by Mr Noel Buxton, a direct lineal descendant of the Charles Buxton who sold it. See Power, _op. cit_., pp. 38-40. 13. _Deloney's Works_, ed. F.O. Mann, p. 213. 14. Defoe, _Tour through Great Britain_, 1724 (1769 edit.), pp. 144-6. 15. 'This shire is the most fatt, frutefull and full of profitable thinges, exceeding (as far as I can finde) anie other shire for the general commodities and the plentie, thowgh Suffolk be more highlie comended by some (wherewith I am not yet acquainted). But this shire seemeth to me to deserve the title of the Englishe Goshen, the fattest of the lande, comparable to Palestina, that flowed with milk and hunnye.'--Norden, _Description of Essex_ (1594), (Camden Soc.), p. 7. 16. According to Leake, writing about 1577, 'About 1528 began the first spinning on the distaffe and making of Coxall clothes.... These Coxall clothes weare first taught by one Bonvise, an Italian.'--Quoted _V.C.H. Essex_, II, p. 382. _Notes on Illustrations_ PLATE I. _Bodo at his work_ From an eleventh-century Anglo-Saxon calendar in the British Museum (MS. Tit., B.V., pt. I), showing the occupations of Bodo, or of his masters, for each month of the year. The months illustrated are January (ploughing with oxen), March (breaking clods in a storm), August (reaping), and December (threshing and winnowing). The other pictures represent February (pruning), April (Bodo's masters feasting), May (keeping sheep), June (mowing), July (woodcutting), September (Bodo's masters boar-hunting), October (Bodo's masters hawking), and November (making a bonfire). PLATE II. _Embarkation of the Polos at Venice_ From the magnificent MS. of Marco Polo's book, written early in the fifteenth century and now preserved at the Bodleian Library, Oxford (MS. no. 264, f. 218). The artist gives an admirable view of medieval Venice, with the Piazetta to the left, and the Polos embarking on a rowing boat to go on board their ship. In the foreground are depicted (after the medieval fashion of showing several scenes of a story in the same picture) some of the strange lands through which they passed. Note the Venetian trading ships. PLATE III. _Part of a landscape roll by Chao Mêng-fu_ This very beautiful scene is taken from a roll painted by Chao Mêng-fu in 1309 in the style of Wang Wei, a poet and artist of the T'ang dynasty (A.D. 699-759). A fine description of it is given by Mr Laurence Binyon: 'In the British Museum collection is a long roll, over seventeen feet long, painted almost entirely in blues and greens on the usual warm brown silk.... It is one continuous landscape, in which the scenes melt into one another. Such rolls are not meant to be exhibited or looked at all at once, but enjoyed in small portions at a time, as the painting is slowly unrolled and the part already seen rolled up again. No small mastery is requisite, as may be imagined, to contrive that wherever the spectator pauses an harmonious composition is presented. One has the sensation, as the roll unfolds, of passing through a delectable country. In the foreground water winds, narrowing and expanding, among verdant knolls and lawns, joined here and there by little wooden bridges; and the water is fed by torrents that plunge down among pine-woods from crags of fantastic form, glowing with hues of lapis-lazuli and jade; under towering peaks are luxuriant valleys, groves with glimpses of scattered deer, walled parks, clumps of delicate bamboo, and the distant roofs of some nestling village. Here and there is a pavilion by the water in which poet or sage sits contemplating the beauty round him. These happy and romantic scenes yield at last to promontory and reed-bed on the borders of a bay where a fisherman's boat is rocking on the swell. It is possible that a philosophic idea is intended to be suggested--the passage of the soul through the pleasant delights of earth to the contemplation of the infinite.'--Laurence Binyon, _Painting in the Far East_ (1908), pp. 75-6. The section of the roll which has been chosen for reproduction here has already been reproduced in S.W. Bushell, _Chinese Art_ (1910), II, Fig. 127, where it is thus described: 'A lake with a terraced pavilion on an island towards which a visitor is being ferried in a boat, while fishermen are seen in another boat pulling in their draw-net; the distant mountains, the pine-clad hills in the foreground, the clump of willow opposite, and the line of reeds swaying in the wind along the bank of the water are delightfully rendered, and skilfully combined to make a characteristic picture.'--_Ibid_., II, p. 134. Other sections of the same roll are reproduced in H.A. Giles, _Introd. to the Hist, of Chinese Pictorial Art_ (2nd ed., 1918) facing p. 56; and in L. Binyon, _op. cit_., plate III (facing p. 66). It is exceedingly interesting to compare this landscape roll with the MS of Marco Polo, illuminated about a century later, from which the scene of the embarkation at Venice has been taken; the one is so obviously the work of a highly developed and the other of an almost naïve and childish civilization. PLATE IV. _Madame Eglentyne at home_ This is a page from a fine manuscript of _La Sainte Abbaye_, now in the British Museum (MS. Add. 39843, f. 6 vo). At the top of the picture a priest with two acolytes prepares the sacrament; behind them stands the abbess, holding her staff and a book, and accompanied by her chaplain and the sacristan, who rings the bell; behind them is a group of four nuns, including the cellaress with her keys, and nuns are seen at the windows of the dorter above. At the bottom is a procession of priest, acolytes and nuns in the choir; notice the big candles carried by the young nuns (perhaps novices) in front, and the notation of the music books. PLATE V. _The Ménagier's wife has a garden party_ This beautiful scene is taken from a fifteenth-century manuscript of the _Roman de la Rose_ (Harl. MS. 4425), which is one of the greatest treasures of the British Museum. PLATE VI. _The Ménagier's wife cooks his supper with the aid of his book_ From MS. Royal, 15 D. I, f. 18, in the British Museum which is part of a _petite bible historiale_, or biblical history, by Guyart des Moulins, expanded by the addition of certain books of the Bible, in French. It was made at Bruges by the order of Edward IV, King of England by one J. du Ries and finished in 1470, so that it is about eighty years later than the Ménagier's book. The illustration represents a scene from the story of Tobias; Tobit, sick and blind, is lying in bed, and his wife Anna is cooking by the fire, with the help of a book and a serving maid. The right-hand half of the picture, which is not reproduced here, shows the outside of the house, with Tobias bringing in the angel Raphael. The illuminated border of the page from which this scene is taken contains the arms of Edward IV, with the garter and crown. PLATE VII. _Calais about the time of Thomas Betson_ This plan of Calais in 1546 is reproduced from a 'Platt of the Lowe Countrye att Calleys, drawne in October, the 37th Hen. VIII, by Thomas Pettyt,' now in the British Museum. (Cott. MS. Aug. I, vol. II, no. 70). There is only room to show the top corner of the plan, with the drawing of Calais itself, but the whole plan is charming, with its little villages and great ships riding in the channel. PLATE VIII. _Thomas Paycocke's house at Coggeshall_ From a photograph of the front of the house, standing on the street. Note the long carved breastsummer that supports the overhanging upper story. On the left can be seen, much foreshortened, the archway and double doors of linen fold panels. The windows are renovations on the original design, flat sash windows having been put in in the eighteenth century. _Index_ ABU LUBABAH, 33 Acqui, Jacapo of, 66, 182 Acre, 51, 53 Adrianople, 7, 42 Adriatic, 39, 41, 42, 63, 179 Aegean, 42, 179 Aelfric, _Colloquium_, 174, 175 Agnes, Dame, _see_ Beguine Aldgate, 121 Alexander, 54 Alexandria, 40, 42 Alnwick, William, Bishop of Lincoln, 77, 184 Ambrose, 9 Andaman Islands, 69, 70 Anglia, East, 153, 156 Antilha, Antilles, 72, 183 Antwerp, 121, 145, 147 Arab, Arabia, 43, 47, 61, 171 Ararat, Mount, 54 Aretino, Pietro, 180 Arghun, Khan of Persia, 60, 61 Armenia, 42, 49, 53, 179 Arnold, Matthew, 51 Arras, 147 Asia: Central, 40, 49, 50, 51, 54, 67, 71, 72; Minor, 49 Attila, 8, 49 Audley, Lady, 91 Augustine, St, 9, 175 Augustus, 3 Ausonius, 5 ff; his country estate, 6 ff; his friends, 6 ff; and University of Bordeaux, 5 Austin Friars, 93 Auvergne, 5 ff Bacon, Francis, 122 Badakhshan, 43, 54, 67 Bagdad, 43, 54 Baku, 54 Bale: Peter, 131; Wyllikyn, 131 Balk, 54 Ballard: James, 127; Jane, 127 Balms (_Bammers, Bamis, Bammys_) Mart, 147, 193 Barbarians, 1-17 Babarian invasions, 7 Bardi, 71 Barton, John, of Holme, 138 Base, Jacob van de, 149 Bath, Wife of, 84, 104, 118, 152 Bayard, 138 _Bays and Says_, 172 Beauchamp St Pauls, 169, 170 Becerillo, 33 _Beguine_, Dame Agnes the, 107, 116, 117 Bellela, _see_ Polo Benedict, St, 81, 82, 184 Betson: Agnes, Alice, Elizabeth, John, Thomas (the younger), 150; Katherine, _see_ Riche Betson, Thomas; Chap VI _passim_, 158; children of, 150; death of, 150; illness of, 133-5; letters of, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 189; member of Fishmongers Company, 150; partnership with Sir W. Stonor, 125, 137; will of, 134, 150, 194 Bevice, Mistress, 134 Bishops' registers, 74, 75, 76, 78, 183 _Bicorne_, 104 Black Death, 108, 109 Black Prince, 19 Black Sea, 40, 42, 50, 71 Blakey, Sir Roger, 127 Booking, 154 Bodo, Chap _II passim_, 18-38, 174-5, 198 Bokhara, 51, 52 Bolgana, wife of Khan of Persia, 60 Bordeaux, Burdews, 142; University of, 6 Bordelais, the, 6, 7 Brabant, 146, 148 Brad well, 140 Brasses, 123, 136, 151, 155, 156, 157, 159, 190, 195 Braunch, Robert, 156 Brenner Pass, 40 Brescia, Albertano de, 99 Breten, Will, 137 Brews, Margery, 125-6 Bridge, John, 119 Briggs, Henry, 169 Brightlingsea, 140 Brinkley, 135 Brittany, 147 Broadway, Whyte of, 137 _Brogger_, 137 Bruges, 121, 122, 145, 147, 178 Bruyant, Jean, 100 Bucephalus, 54 Buddha, 59 Bullinger, Henry, 165 Burgundy, Dukes of, 114, 148 Burma, 57, 67 Bury, 15 Busshe, John, 137 Buxton: Charles, Isaac, Samuel, Thomas, William, 197; Mr Noel, 195 Byzantium, _see_ Constantinople Caffa, 42 Calais, 121, 125, 137, 138, 139, 140, 142, 143, 144, 145, 146, 147, 148, 150, 200 Cambaluc (see Peking), 57, 59, 60, 61, 67 Cambrensis, Giraldus, 176 Canale, Martino da, 43-5, 48, 50, 177, 179, 180 Candia, 42 Canterbury, 74 _Canterbury Tales_, 74, 75, 91, 183, 186 Canton, 70 Ca' Polo, 62, 63 Carrara, Francesco, 179 Carsy, Anthony, 149 Caspian Sea, 40, 54 Cassiodorus, 39, 180 Castro, Diego da, 149 Cathay (_see also_ China), 47, 50, 58, 70, 71, 72, 178 Caucasus, 49, 180 Cely: family of wood merchants, 137-47 _passim_; George, 125, 137, 138, 142, 147; Richard, 125, 137, 138, 142; William, 125, 138, 142, 149 _Cely papers_, 125, 137, 142, 145, 147, 148, 189 Ceylon, 43, 47, 61, 70 Chagatai, Khan of, 51 Chao Mêng-fu, 59, 182, 198 Chao Yung, 59 Charlemagne, 2, 20, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 74, 176 Charms (_see also_ superstition), 27-9, 100, 116, 175 Châtelet, 100 Chaucer, 26, 43, 74, 75, 81, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 99, 104, 112, 119, 138, 142, 148, 152, 183 Chelmsford, 168 Chesne, Jean du, 114 _Chichevache_, 104 Chi'en Hsüan, 59 Child-marriages, 126-7, 190 Chilperic, King, 2, 13 Chilterns, 125 China (_see also_ Cathay), 43, 46-50, 52, 57-61, 66, 67-70, 178, 180, 181 Chioggia, War of, 179 Church, attitude to: child marriages, 126, 190; convent pets, 91; dancing, 30, 31, 88; decline of Roman Empire, 9; monastic intercourse with the world, 92, 93; nuns' dowries, 78; superstition, 28, 29, 30; attack on worldliness of, 74; bequests to (_see also_ Wills), 151, 168; brasses in, _see_ brasses; councils of, 174 Churches of: Barking, All Hallows, 123,151; Beauchamp St Pauls, 168; Bradwell, 168; Calais, Our Lady, 151; Chipping Campden, 123; Chipping Norton, 123; Cirencester, 123, 157; Clare, 164, 168; Coggeshall, St Peter ad Vincula, 157, 159, 168, 172, 195; Constantinople, St Sophia, 41; East Anglia, 159; Lechlade, 123; London, St Olave's, 124; Linwood, 123, 190; Markswell, 168; Newbury, 163; Newland, 157; Northleach, 136, 157; Ovington, 168; Pattiswick, 168; Peking, 71; Poslingford, 168; Stoke Nayland, 168; Venice, St Mark's, 41, 44, 46, 60, 66, 179 Cipangu (Japan), 72, 183 Cistercian, Citeaux, 83, 136 Clare, 154, 164, 168, 178 Clarke, Thomas, 144 Cloth, _see_ Chapter VII _passim_, 195; capitalism in industry, 164; Coxall's whites, 178, 197; growth of English manufacture of, 122-3; makers of, 120, 161; merchants of, _see_ Merchants, Paycocke, Staple; processes in manufacture, 153, 154, 161, 164; where made, 122-3, 154, 155 Cochin China, 57, 67 Coggeshall, _see_ Chapter VII _passim_, 154, 155, 159, 160, 164, 166, 167, 168, 169, 170, 172 Coinage, debasement and rates of exchange of, 148 Coins: crown, new and old, of France, 148; David, of Utrecht, 148; Falewe, of Utrecht, 148; florin, Rhenau, 148; groat, Carolus, Hettinus, Limburg, of Milan, of Nimueguen, 148, 149; Venetian, 48; guilder, Andrew (of Scotland), Arnoldus (of Gueldres) Rhenish, 148, 149; Lewe, Louis d'or, 148; noble, 148; Philippus (Philipe d'or) of Brabant, 148; Plaques, of Utrecht, 148; Postlate, 148; Rider, Scots, of Burgundy, 148; Ryall, English, 148; Setiller, 148 Colchester, 140, 154, 168 Cold Mart, 147, 193 Coleridge, 57 Colne, curate of, 127 Cologne, 148 _Coloni_, 21-2 Columbina, The (Seville), 183 Columbus, 71, 183 Company: East India ('John Company'), 156; Fishmongers, 150; Haberdashers, 151; Mercers, 149; Merchant Adventurers, 122; Staplers. Chapter VI _passim_ Compline, 79, 82 _Consrater_, 168 Constantinople (_see_ Byzantium), 41, 42, 46, 50, 51, 62 Convent, _see_ Nunneries Cookery, Medieval, 100, 112-17, 186 Corea, 49 _Corte Milioni_, 63 Cotswolds, 123, 125, 129, 136, 137, 138, 145, 147, 150 Cotton, Ann, 166 Court Rolls, 26 Coverdale, 165 Coxall, _see_ Coggeshall _Coxall's Whites_, 178, 197 Crimea, 42, 50 Croke, Mistress, 129 Crusader, Crusades, 41, 157 Dalmatia, 41, 42 Dalton, William, 141, 144 Damaghan, 180 Dancing: at clothier's wedding, 165; Church's attitude to, 30, 31, 88; in churchyard, 30, 31; of dancers of Kölbigk, 30, 176; of nun at Northampton, 93 Dandolo, Doge, Enrico, 41 Danube, River, 49 Danyell, John, 141 Dardanelles, 40 Dean, Forest of, 157 Decasoun, Benynge, 149 Dedham, 154 Defoe, 152, 167 Defuye, Gabriel, 149 Deloney, Thomas, 160, 163-4, 165, 167, 195 Delowppys, John, 149 Denys, St, Abbey of, 36; fair of, 36, 37 Destermer, John, 137 Dogs, 33, 90, 91, 103, 117, 147, 156 Dogaressa, 45 Doges, 42, 44-6, 63, 179 Dolman, Thomas, 161 _Domesday Book_, 20 Dominic, Dominican, 53, 66 Don, River, 180 Donata, _see_ Polo Doria, Lamba, 63 Edith, St, 176 Edward II, 75 Edward III, 19, 75 Eglentyne, Madame (_see_ Chapter IV _passim_), _see also_ Nunnery, Prioress Egypt, 40, 42 Einhard, 31, 32, 33, 174, 175 Elias, Master, 114, 116 Elizabeth, Queen, 120 Elmes, John, of Henley, 137, 156 England, 40, 121, 122, 123, 147, 152, 153, 155, 163 Ermentrude, wife of Bodo, 24-38, 175 Ermoin, 24 Eryke, Robert, 143 Essex, 140, 154, 168, 172, 197 Euric, King, 10 Ewen, Robert, 142 Exchange, rates of, 148-9 Exeter: Bishop of, 75, 184; Canons of, 82 Fairs, 36, 37, 147, 193. _See_ Marts Fantina, _see_ Polo Felmersham, wife of, 87 Fisc, 20 Flanders, 40, 121, 122, 123, 139, 142, 145, 150, 178 Flemings, 138, 145, 146, 147 Flodden Field, 163 Florence, 71, 145 Fo-Kien, 58 _Fondaco_, 71 Fortey: John, 123; Thomas, 123 Fortunatus, 12 ff Frambert, 24 France, French, 40, 42, 50, 78, 79, 108; _see also_ Gaul Franciscan: convents, 71; friars, 49, 70, 71; nuns, 129; tertiaries, 107 Franks, 12 ff, 27 Fredegond, 13 Friars: Austin, 93; of Chelmsford, 168; of Clare, 168; Crutched, of Colchester, 168; Franciscan, 49, 50; of Maldon, 168; of Sudbury, 168 Frisia, 37 Fuller, Thomas, 154, 162 Fyldes, Welther, 141 Gallo-Roman civilization, 5 ff Games, medieval, 168, 187 Gall, Monk of St, 32, 33, 174, 176 Gascon, 147 Gaul, 5 ff Genoa, 42, 63, 64, 145, 149, 179, 182 Georgia, 49 Germain des Pres, Abbey of, 19-23, 27-8, 174 Germans, Germany, 2, 4, 5, 7, 14, 40, 42 Gerbert, 23, 33 Ghent, 122 Gibraltar, 40 Gilds (_see also_ Companies); procession of, at Venice, 45, 48; restrictions of, 153 Gloucestershire, 136 Gobi, Desert of, 55 Goës, Benedict, 54 Golconda, 43 Golden Horde, 49, 50 Gooday (Coggeshall family), 159, 166 Goths, 7, 8 Gower, 123, 144, 190 Graunger, Thomas, 141, 144 Greece, 42 Gregory X, 53 Gregory of Tours, 12 ff Grève, Place de, 114 Grevel (Greville) William, 123 Griselda, 100, 104, 105, 118, 119 Groat (_see_ Coins), 48, 123, 148, 149 Guelder, Guilder, Gulden (_see_ coins), 123, 148, 149 Guntrum, King, 13 Hainault, Philippa of, 75 Halitgart, 175 Halstead, 154 Hangchow (_see also_ Kinsai), 45-8, 57, 61, 70, 71, 180 Hansard, 147 Haroun el Raschid, 33 Hautecourt, wedding of, 114 Hedin, Sven, 67 Henham, Thomas, 135, 140, 143, 145, 151 Henley, _see_ Elmes, John Henry VIII, 93, 120, 148 _Heptameron_, 187 Hildegard, 23, 24 Hiwen Thsang, 67 Hoangho, River, 47 Holake, _see_ Howlake Holme, _see_ Barton, John Holy Roman Emperor, 40, 42 Hormuz, 54 Horrold: Margaret, 166; Thomas, 166 House of Lords, 120 Howlake, Thomas, 140, 145 _Hugh, St, Tale of_, 94 Hull, 140, 141 Hun, 8, 49 Hungarian, 42, 49 Hundred Years War, 19, 155 Huntington, Ellsworth, 67 India, 47, 54, 57, 61, 70 Indian Ocean, 54 Indies, 43, 47 Indo-China, 43, 47, 49 Inns: the 'Dragon' (Coggeshall), 170; the 'Fleece' (Coggeshall), 154; the 'Tabard' (Southwark), 78; the 'Woolpack' (Coggeshall), 154 Ipswich, 143 Irminon, Abbot of St Germain des Pres, Estate book of, 19-25, 26, 28, 174 Islam, 71 Isomachus, 96, 97 Italy, Italian, 70; _see also_ Florence, Genoa, Venice, etc. Jamui, Queen of Kublai Khan, 61 Japan, 67 Java, 49, 67 Jerusalem, 41, 53 Jews, 13, 37 Johnson, Doctor, 156 Judea, 37 Julian the Apostate, 2, 7 Justices, itinerant, 35, 36 Karakorum, 50, 57 Kashgar, 54 Kerman, 54 Khan: of Central Asia, 50; of Kipchak, 51; of Persia, 51, 52, (_see also_ Mangu, Kublai) Khorassan, 54 Khotan, 54, 67 Kinsai (_see also_ Hangchow), 45-8, 57, 59, 181 Kipchak, 51, 61 Kölbigk, dancers of, 30, 176 Kuan, 59 Kublai Khan, 52, 53, 56, 57, 59, 60, 61, 63, 64, 65, 66, 71 Lagny, Abbot of, 114 Lajazzo, 54 Lamberton, _see_ Turbot, Robert Lancaster, Thomas of, 75 Langland, 26, 118 Laos, 67 Lauds, 79 Leadenhall, 140 Letters, _see_ Cely, Paston, Plumpton, Stonor Levant, 40, 42, 47, 48 _Libelle of Englyshe Policye_, 146, 189 Lincoln, 77, 89 Linwood, 123, 190 Lob, lake, 54 Lokyngton, John, 141 Lollington, John, 136, 141 Lombard, Peter, 119 Lombards, the, 42, 138, 139, 149 Lombard Street, 149 Lombardy, 37 London, 123, 129, 130, 137, 138, 140, 141, 142, 143, 149 Louens, Renault de, 99 Louis, St, 36; the Pious, 30, 31 Louvain, 147 Lucca, 147 Lucolongo, Peter, of 71 Ludgater, Robert, 197 Lyndeshay, 137 Lyndwood (Lyndewode): John, 123, 190; William, 126 Lyndys, William, 141 Lynn, 156, 159 Lyons, 10 Madagascar, 43, 70 Maidstone, 140, 141, 142 Major, _see_ Steward Malabar, 43, 47, 57 Maldon, 168 Manchuria, 49 Manji, 43, 61 Mangu Khan, 49 Mann, John, 170 Manor, _see_ Bodo, 150 Manse, 20, 21, 22, 23, 25 Mansi. _See_ Manji Marcus Aurelius, 2, 3, 4 Marignolli, John, 70 Marino Faliero, 63 Mark Lane, 140, 150 Markshall, 168 Marmora, Sea of, 42 Marts, 147, 150, 193. _See_ Fairs Mass, 44, 71, 80, 99, 117 Matins, 79, 82 Mechlin, 122 Mediterranean, 15, 42, 43 Medway, 140, 142 'Meg', a hawk, 138 Melaria, 64 _Melibeus and Prudence_, 99, 186 Ménagier de Paris, Chap. V _passim_ 127, 185; on accounts, 188; on cookery, 100, 112, 113, 114, 115, 116, 186; on deportment, 99, 102-3, 116; on duty to husband, 99, 101, 103-7, 118; on extermination of insects, in, 112; on games, 101, 117, 187; on garments and household linen, 98, 99, 102, 111, 112, 117, 188; on management of farm, 100; on servants, 100, 102, 107-111, 114, 115, 117, 118; on wife's second marriage, 98, 114 Mercers, 149 Merchant Adventurers, 122, 193 Merchant: Arab, 47; Chinese, 46, 47, 58, 71; English, _see_ Betson, Company Merchant Adventurers, Paycocke, Staple; Indian, 47; Italian, 149; Roman, 1 ff; Spanish, 149; Venetian, _see_ Venice, trade of, marks of, 153, 157, 158, 159; repair of roads by, 169 Merovingian, 13 Meung, Jean de, 99 Middleburgh, 142 Middle classes: growth of, 158; houses of, 158, 159; ménagier as type of, 158 Midwinter, William, 136, 137 Milhall, 140 Milton, 140 Minoresses, 129 Minstrels, 31, 32, 38 _Missi dominici, see_ Justices Money, _see_ Coins Mongol, 58, 60, 178, 182 Mongolia, 49, 55, 57, 67 Monte Corvino, John of, 70 Montfort, Simon de, 75 More, Lewis, 149 Moreta. _See_ Polo Moslem, 42, 49 Mosul, 54 _Myroure of Our Ladye_, 83, 185 Navarre, Margaret of, 187 Navy: Genoese, 42, 63; Vandal, 15; Venetian, 45, 64 Nestorian, 49, 182 Netherlands, 122, 123, 152 Newark, 138 Newbury, 161; Jack of (John Winchcomb), 152, 162, 163-4, 195 Newhithe, 141 Nicobar, 70 Nile, 40 None, 79 Norman, Normandy, 155 Northampton, 93, 141 Northleach, 123, 136, 137, 138 Norwich, 154 Nunneries, Chap. IV _passim_, and 129, 184; of Minoresses, 129; at Stainfield, 82; of Syon, 83; of Wilton, 176; bishops' visits to, 76-8; Chaucer's sources for study of, 74; dissolution of, 78, 93; fashions in, 88, 89; management of, 85-7; mentioned in wills, 157; paying guests in, 87, 91; pets in, 90, 91; schoolgirls in, 80, 92; silence hours in, 80; sources for study of, 184 Nuns (_see_ Eglentyne, Nunneries, Prioress, Chap. IV _passim_), 200; clothes of, 88, 89; complaints of, to bishop, 76-8, 85, 92; dowries of, 78-9; intercourse of, with the world, 92-4; meals of, 79; offices of, 79; periods of silence of, 80; pets of, 90, 91; recreations of, 88; work of, 80 Orewelle (Orwell), 142 Orleans, Bishop of, 35 Orosius, 9 Ovington, 169, 170 Ovis Poli, 54 Oxbridge, Goddard, 140 Oxus, River, 51, 54 Paris, 23, 36, 73, 100, 107, 108, 114 Parliament, 190 _Pask_ (Pasche) Mart, 147, 193 Paston, John, 126; Letters, 125, 190 Pattiswick, 168 Paulinus, St, of Nela, 5 Paycocke: Emma, 166; John, 157, 165; John, jun., 166; Margaret, 165, 166; Robert, 166; Robert, jun., 166; Thomas, jun., 157; Thomas, Chap. VII _passim, see also_ Cloth; bequests of, 168, _see_ Will of; brasses of family of, 157, 195; burial ceremonies of, 171-2; character of, 167; child of, 166, 171; _consrater_ of Crutched Friars, 168; death of, 166, 171; friends of, 168; house of, 156, 158, 165, 170, 195, 200; merchant mark of, 158, 159; repairs roads, 169; second wife of, 166, 169, 171; wedding of, 165; will of, 157, 158, 159, 166, 167, 168, 169, 195, 196 Pegolotti, Francis Balducci, 71 Peking (_see also_ Cambaluc, China, Polo), 49, 57, 60, 71; ambassadors sent to, 60; Archbishop of, 70; description of, by Oderic of Pordenone, 70; papal legate, to, 70; Tartar rule in, 49 Pembroke, William, Earl of, 99 Perpendicular architecture, 152, 155, 159 Perpoint, Thomas, 161 Persia, 40, 42, 49, 51, 54, 61, 67 Peter the Tartar, 66 Petrarch, 100, 179, 180 Piacenza, Tebaldo di, 53 Pian da Carpine (_see_ Piano Carpini) Pierre an Lait, 114 _Piers Plowman_, 84, 169 Pilgrims' Way, 140 Piano Carpini, John of, 50, 181 _Pleasant History of Jack of Newbury_, 162, 195 Plumpton Letters, 190 Polo: Bellela, Donata, Fantina, Moreta, 65 Maffeo, 50-7 Marco, _see_ Chap. Ill _passim_, 177, Kublai Khan; attendant on Khan, 55; book of, 54 ff, 63, 67, 185, 198; death of, 66; departure from China of, 60; father of (_see_ Maffeo), 50-75; governor of Yangchow, 57, 182; interest in Tartars, 48-50; journeys of, 54-62, 181; mention of, in Venetian records, 65; nicknamed _Il Milione_, 63; prisoner of Genoese, 64-5; released by Genoese, 65; return to Venice of, 62; sent on mission by Khan, 57; stories of, about Khan, 64-6; uncle of, 50-7, 181; wife and family, 65 Nicolo, 50-71 _Polyptychum_, 174 Pope, 40, 41, 50, 52, 53, 70, 93 Pordenone, Ordoric of, 58, 70, 180 Porte-de-Paris, 114 Prester John, 49, 181 Prioress, _see_ Eglentyne, Nunneries, Nuns, Chap. IV _passim_, 183; in bishop's registers, 74-8; clothes of, 88, 89, 90; complaints by nuns of, 76-8, 85, 92; entertainment of visitors by, 86, 87; intercourse of, with world, 92, 93-4; pets of, 90, 91; treatment of nuns by, 84; work of, 85, 86, 87, 92 Prime, 79 Prologue: of _Canterbury Tales_, 73-4, 89, 94, 95, 113, 130, 142, 186; of Ménagier de Paris, 97 Quentin, la'Quentine, Jehanne, 105, 187 Quincey, de, 26, 175 Rade, Daniel and Peter van de, 145 Ragenold, 24 Rainham, 140, 141 Ramsbotham, Elizabeth, 127 Ramusio, 62, 182 Raynold, John, 149 Reading, Thomas of, 152, 195 Reformation, 30, 170 Remy, Saint, 147 Renault de Louens, 99 Revolution, Industrial, 120, 154, 120 Reyner, 169 Rialto, 43, 64 Ricimer, 8 Riche: Anne, 130; Elizabeth, 125, _see_ Stoner, Elizabeth, Jane, 131 135; Katherine, 126-33, 140, 150, 151 Rigmarden, John, 127 Roman: civilization, 2; Emperor 1-17; villa, 3, 6, 155 _Roman de la Rose_, 99 Rome, Chap. I _passim_, 46, 87, 155 Roman Empire, 1-17, 27, 42, 155 decline of, 1-17; reasons for disintegration of, 14-17; trade of, 1 ff? Romsey Abbey, 91 Rotherhithe, 140 Rouen, 37 _Round Table_, 32, 65 Rubruck, William of, 50, 54, 181 Rumania, 42 Rumney wine, 131 Russell, Richard, 137 Russia, 42, 49 Rusticiano, 64, 65, 182 Salvian of Marseilles, 8 St Gothard Pass, 40 St Sophia, 42 Saleby, Grace de, 127 Samarcand, 50 Sanly, Peter, 149 Sandwich, 143 Sext, 79 Shalford, 154 Shandu, Xanadu, 57 Shansi, 56, 59 Shensi, 47, 56 Ships, 136, 140, 142, 143, 192; masters of, 141, 142; names of, 136, 141-3 Siam, 67 Siberia, 49, 70 Sicily, 42 Sidonius Apollinaris, 5, 8 ff; and his villa, 9; and siege of Clermont, 10 ff Socrates, 96 _Sohrab and Rustum_, 51 Soldaia, 50 Somerset House, 150, 155 Sordyvale, William, 134 Spain, Spaniards, Spanish, 37, 122 spices, 47, 48 Spice Islands, 70 Spooner, Thomas, 170 Stainfield, 82 Stamford, 144 Staple, Chap. VI _passim, see_ Betson, merchant; banking facilities of, 148; benefits of, 121, 122; brasses of merchants of, 123, 156; business of merchants of, 120-51; competition of, with Merchant Adventurers, 122; history of company of, 189; location of, 121; Merchants of the, Chap. VI _passim_; organization of, 121; regulations of, 121, 139, 140, 144, 145; wills of merchants of, 123; _see also_ Betson, Wills Starkey, Humphrey, 134 Stein, Sir Aurel, 67 Stepney, 135 Steward: Charlemagne's instructions to, 19, 22, 24, 36; Master John the, 100, 108-9, 115-16; of Villaris, 20, 21, 22-4 Stoke Nayland, 168 Stonor: Dame Elizabeth, 129, 130 131, 132, 133, 135; Humphrey, 160; Letters, 125, 136, 145, 189; Sir William, 125, 129-30, 134, 136, 145 Strabant, Gynott, 149 Stratford-Atte-Bowe, 73, 78 Strossy, Marcy, 149 Suchow, Sugui, 48, 51, 64 Sudbury, 154 Suffolk, 153 Sugui, _see_ Suchow Sumatra, 61, 63, 67 Sung dynasty, 46, 59, 61 Superstition (_see_ Charms), 27-9, 175 Symmachus, 5, 6 _Synxon_ (Synchon) Mart, 147, 193 Syon Abbey, 83 Syria, 37, 40-2 Szechuen, 56 Tabriz, 62 Tacitus, 4 Tana, 71 Tangut, 55, 57, 59, 63 Tartar(s), 49-52, 57, 62, 66-71, 178, _see also_ Marco Polo; attitude of West to, 49; embassy of, 52; fall of dynasty of, 71; modern books on, 178; Peter the, 66; power of, 49; princess, 61, 70; slaves, 66 Tartary, 49, 50, 63 Tate, John, 134, 137 Taylor, Robert, 160 Templars, 53 Temyngton, 144. _Testamenta Eboracensia_, 157, 154, 191, 196 Thames, 156 Theodulf, Bishop of Orleans, 35 Tibet, 43, 47, 49, 57, 66, 67 Tiepolo, Doge Lorenzo, 44, 45, 50 Tierce, 79 Timochain, 61, 180 Tittivillus, 83-4 Torneys, Robert, 144 Trade, _see_ Merchant Trebizond, 40, 42, 62 Tripoli, 42 Turbot, Robert of Lamberton, 137 Turcomania, 54 Turkestan, 49 Tuscan, 42 Tyre, 40, 42 Udine, 70 Underbay, 137 _f_ Uppcher, Margaret and Robert, 166 Vandals, 15 Venice: Venetian, 39-44, 44-8, 51, 53, 62-5, 70, 71, 145, 177-8; Cassiodorus on, 39; Chronicler of, _see_ Canale, Martino da; Doge of, 4, 44-6, 63; excommunication of, 41; history of, 39-46, 50, 178; merchants of, at Hangchow, 70, 71; modern works on, 177; Polos' return to, 53, 63; procession of gilds in, 45, 48, 50; records of, 65; rivalry of, with Genoa, 42, 63-4; trade of, 37, 40, 41, 42-3, 47, 70, 145, 178; wedding of, with sea, 40, 41; wool dealers of, 145 Vespers, 79 Villaris, 23, 24, 25 _Villicus, see_ Steward Villein, Villeinage, 19, 21, 158 Visigoths, 10 Walberswick, 140 Walpole, 156 Wang Wei, 182 _Way of Poverty and Wealth_, 100 Wedding feasts, 115-16, 164-5 Welbech, William, 151 West: Riding, 167; Street, Coggeshall, 170, 171, 172 Whyte of Broadway, 137 Wido (_see also_ Bodo), 23, 27, 29, 33 Wilkins (Wylkyns) Henry, 140 William I, 20 Wills: of John Barton of Holme, 191; of Thomas Betson, 134, 151, 194; of bishops, 158; of Paycockes, 157, 166-9, 195, 196; of villeins, 158; general sources for, 157, 191, 196 Wilton, 176 Winchester, St Mary's, Abbess of, 86 Winchcomb, John (_see_ Jack of Newbury) Wood, Lieutenant John, 54 Wool (_see_ Betson, Cely, Merchan Staple); export of, 122, 123 Gower on, 123, 144; inspection of, 144; lives of merchants of, 151 (_see_ Betson); packing and shipping of, 139-44; ports from whence sent, 140; private bargains in, 138; private letters or export of, 125; purchase of, 136-7, regulations concerning, 139-44; revenues from, 121; sale of, 138, 145-9; tombs of merchants of, 123; where grown, 123, 136 Woolsack, 120 Wykeham, William of, 92 Xanadu (_see_ Shandu), 57 Xenophon, 96 Yangchow, 57, 182 Yangtze river, 46 Yarkand, 54 Yellow River, 49 Yezd, 43 York, 94, 137 Yorkshire, 136, 137, 153 Ypres, 122 Yuan dynasty, 58 Yule, Sir Henry, 67, 177 Yunnen, 57 Zaiton, 54, 60, 71 Zanzibar, 70 Zara, 41 Zealand (Seland), 142, 146 Zeno, Renier, 44 
31303	----	EUPHORION: BEING STUDIES OF THE ANTIQUE AND THE MEDIÆVAL IN THE RENAISSANCE BY VERNON LEE _Author of "Studies of the 18th Century in Italy," "Belcaro" etc._ VOL. I. WALTER PATER, IN APPRECIATION OF THAT WHICH, IN EXPOUNDING THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS OF THE PAST, HE HAS ADDED TO THE BEAUTIFUL THINGS OF THE PRESENT. TABLE OF CONTENTS. Introduction The Sacrifice The Italy of the Elizabethan Dramatists The Out-Door Poetry Symmetria Prisca INTRODUCTION. _Faustus is therefore a parable of the impotent yearnings of the Middle Ages--its passionate aspiration, its conscience-stricken desire, its fettered curiosity amid the tramping limits of imperfect knowledge and irrational dogmatism. The indestructible beauty of Greek art,--whereof Helen was an emblem, became, through the discovery of classic poetry and sculpture, the possession of the modern world. Mediævalism took this Helen to wife, and their offspring, the Euphorion of Goethe's drama, is the spirit of the modern world._--J.A. Symonds, "Renaissance In Italy," vol. ii. p. 54. Euphorion is the name given by Goethe to the marvellous child born of the mystic marriage of Faust and Helena. Who Faust is, and who Helena, we all know. Faust, of whom no man can remember the youth or childhood, seems to have come into the world by some evil spell, already old and with the faintness of body and of mind which are the heritage of age; and every additional year of mysterious study and abortive effort has made him more vacillating of step and uncertain of sight, but only more hungry of soul. Postponed and repressed by reclusion from the world, and desperate tension over insoluble problems; diverted into the channels of mere thought and vision; there boils within him the energy, the passion, of retarded youth: its appetites and curiosities, which, cramped by the intolerant will, and foiled by many a sudden palsy of limb and mind, torment him with mad visions of unreal worlds, mock him with dreams of superhuman powers, from which he awakes in impotent and apathetic anguish. But these often-withstood and often-baffled cravings are not those merely of scholar or wizard, they are those of soldier and poet and monk, of the mere man: lawless desires which he seeks to divert, but fails, from the things of the flesh and of the world to the things of the reason; supersensuous desires for the beautiful and intangible, which he strives to crush, but in vain, with the cynical scepticism of science, which derides the things it cannot grasp. In this strange Faustus, made up of so many and conflicting instincts; in this old man with ever-budding and ever-nipped feelings of youthfulness, muddling the hard-won secrets of nature in search after impossibilities; in him so all-sided, and yet so wilfully narrowed, so restlessly active, yet so often palsied and apathetic; in this Faustus, who has laboured so much and succeeded in so little, feeling himself at the end, when he has summed up all his studies, as foolish as before--which of us has not learned to recognize the impersonated Middle Ages? And Helena, we know her also, she is the spirit of Antiquity. Personified, but we dare scarcely say, embodied; for she is a ghost raised by the spells of Faustus, a simulacrum of a thing long dead; yet with such continuing semblance of life, nay, with all life's real powers, that she seems the real, vital, living one, and Faustus yonder, thing as he is of the present, little better than a spectre. Yet Helena has been ages before Faust ever was; nay, by an awful mystery like those which involve the birth of Pagan gods, she whom he has evoked to be the mother of his only son has given, centuries before, somewhat of her life to make this self-same Faust. A strange mystery of Fate's necromancy this, and with strange anomalies. For opposite this living, decrepit Faust, Helena, the long dead, is young; and she is all that which Faust is not. Knowing much less than he, who has plunged his thoughts like his scalpel into all the mysteries of life and death, she yet knows much more, can tell him of the objects and aims of men and things; nay, with little more than the unconscious faithfulness to instinct of the clean-limbed, placid brute, she can give peace to his tormented conscience; and, while he has suffered and struggled and lashed himself for every seeming baseness of desire, and loathed himself for every imagined microscopic soiling, she has walked through good and evil, letting the vileness of sin trickle off her unhidden soul, so quietly and majestically that all thought of evil vanishes; and the self-tormenting wretch, with macerated flesh hidden beneath the heavy garments of mysticism and philosophy, suddenly feels, in the presence of her unabashed nakedness, that he, like herself, is chaste. Such are the parents, Faustus and Helena; we know them; but who is this son Euphorion? To me it seems as if there could be but one answer--the Renaissance. Goethe indeed has told us (though, with his rejuvenation of Faustus, unknown to the old German legend and to our Marlowe, in how bungling a manner!) the tale of that mystic marriage; but Goethe could not tell us rightly, even had he attempted, the real name of its offspring. For even so short a time ago, the Middle Ages were only beginning to be more than a mere historical expression, Antiquity was being only then critically discovered; and the Renaissance, but vaguely seen and quite unformulated by the first men, Gibbon and Roscoe, who perceived it at all, was still virtually unknown. To Goethe, therefore, it might easily have seemed as if the antique Helena had only just been evoked, and as if of her union with the worn-out century of his birth, a real Euphorion, the age in which ourselves are living, might have been born. But, at the distance of additional time, and from the undreamed-of height upon which recent historical science has enabled us to stand, we can easily see that in this he would have been mistaken. Not only is our modern culture no child of Faustus and Helena, but it is the complex descendant, strangely featured by atavism from various sides, of many and various civilizations; and the eighteenth century, so far from being a Faustus evoking as his bride the long dead Helen of Antiquity, was in itself a curiously varied grandchild or great-grandchild of such a marriage, its every moral feature, its every intellectual movement proclaiming how much of its being was inherited from Antiquity. No allegory, I well know, and least of all no historical allegory, can ever be strained to fit quite tight--the lives of individuals and those of centuries, their modes of intermixture, genesis, and inheritance are far different; but if an allegory is to possess any meaning at all, we must surely apply it wherever it will fit most easily and completely; and the beautiful allegory prepared by the tradition of the sixteenth century for the elaborating genius of Goethe, can have a real meaning only if we explain Faust as representing the Middle Ages, Helena as Antiquity, and Euphorion as that child of the Middle Ages, taking life and reality from them, but born of and curiously nurtured by the spirit of Antiquity, to which significant accident has given the name of Renaissance. After Euphorion I have therefore christened this book; and this not from any irrational conceit of knowing more (when I am fully aware that I know infinitely less) than other writers about the life and character of this wonderful child of Helena and Faustus, but merely because it is more particularly as the offspring of this miraculous marriage, and with reference to the harmonies and anomalies which therefrom resulted, that Euphorion has exercised my thoughts. The Renaissance has interested and interests me, not merely for what it is, but even more for what it sprang from, and for the manner in which the many things inherited from both Middle Ages and Renaissance, the tendencies and necessities inherent in every special civilization, acted and reacted upon each other, united in concord or antagonism; forming, like the gases of the chemist, new things, sometimes like and sometimes unlike themselves and each other; producing now some unknown substance of excellence and utility, at other times some baneful element, known but too well elsewhere, but unexpected here. But not the watching of the often tragic meeting of these great fatalities of inherited spirit and habit only: for equally fascinating almost has been the watching of the elaboration by this double-natured period of things of little weight, mere trifles of artistic material bequeathed to it by one or by the other of its spiritual parents. The charm for me--a charm sometimes pleasurable, but sometimes also painful, like the imperious necessity which we sometimes feel to see again and examine, seemingly uselessly, some horrible evil--the charm, I mean the involuntary compulsion of attention, has often been as great in following the vicissitudes of a mere artistic item, like the Carolingian stories or the bucolic element, as it has been in looking on at the dissolution of moral and social elements. And in this, that I have tried to understand only where my curiosity was awakened, tried to reconstruct only where my fancy was taken; in short, studied of this Renaissance civilization only as much or as little as I cared, depends all the incompleteness and irrelevancy and unsatisfactoriness of this book, and depends also whatever addition to knowledge or pleasure it may afford; Were I desirous of giving a complete, clear notion of the very complex civilization of the Renaissance, a kind of encyclopædic atlas of that period, where (by a double power which history alone possesses) you could see at once the whole extent and shape of this historical territory, and at the same time, with all its bosses of mountain and furrows of valley, the exact composition of all its various earths and waters, the exact actual colour and shape of all its different vegetations, not to speak of its big towns and dotting villages;--were I desirous of doing this, I should not merely be attempting a work completely beyond my faculties, but a work moreover already carried out with all the perfection due to specially adapted gifts, to infinite patience and ingenuity, occasionally amounting almost to genius. Such is not at all within my wishes, as it assuredly would be totally without my powers. But besides such marvels of historic mapping as I have described, where every one can find at a glance whatever he may be looking for, and get the whole topography, geological and botanical, of an historic tract at his fingers' ends, there are yet other kinds of work which may be done. For a period in history is like a more or less extended real landscape: it has, if you will, actual, chemically defined colours in this and that, if you consider this and that separate and unaffected by any kind of visual medium; and measurable distances also between this point and the other, if you look down upon it as from a balloon. But, like a real landscape, it may also be seen from different points of view, and under different lights; then, according as you stand, the features of the scene will group themselves--this ridge will disappear behind that, this valley will open out before you, that other will be closed. Similarly, according to the light wherein the landscape is seen, the relative scale of colours and tints of objects, due to pervading light and to distances--what painters call the values--will alter: the scene will possess one or two predominant effects, it will produce also one or, at most, two or three (in which case co-ordinated) impressions. The art which deals with impressions, which tries to seize the real relative values of colours and tints at a given moment, is what you call new-fangled: its doctrines and works are still subject to the reproach of charlatanry. Yet it is the only truly realistic art, and it only, by giving you a thing as it appears at a given moment, gives it you as it really ever is; all the rest is the result of cunning abstraction, and representing the scene as it is always, represents it (by striking an average) as it never is at all. I do not pretend that in questions of history we can proceed upon the principles of modern landscape painting: we do not know what were the elevations which made perspective, what were the effects of light which created scales of tints, in that far distant country of the past; and it is safer certainly, and doubtless much more useful, to strike an average, and represent the past as seen neither from here nor from there, neither in this light nor that, and let each man imagine his historical perspective and colour value to the best of his powers. Yet it is nevertheless certain that the past, to the people who were in it, was not a miraculous map or other marvellous diagram constructed on the principle of getting at the actual qualities of things by analysis; that it must have been, to its inhabitants, but a series of constantly varied perspectives and constantly varied schemes of colour, according to the position of each individual, and the light in which that individual viewed it. To attempt to reconstruct those various perspective-making heights, to rearrange those various value-determining lights, would be to the last degree disastrous; we should have valleys where there existed mountains, and brilliant warm schemes of colour where there may have been all harmonies of pale and neutral tints. Still the perspective and colour valuation of individual minds there must have been; and since it is not given to us to reproduce those of the near spectator in a region which we can never enter, we may yet sometimes console ourselves for the too melancholy abstractness and averageness of scientific representations, by painting that distant historic country as distant indeed, but as its far-off hill ranges and shimmering plains really appear in their combination of form and colour, from the height of an individual interest of our own, and beneath the light of our individual character. We see only very little at a time, and that little is not what it appeared to the men of the past; but we see at least, if not the same things, yet in the same manner in which they saw, as we see from the standpoints of personal interest and in the light of personal temper. Scientifically we doubtless lose; but is the past to be treated only scientifically? and can it not give us, and do we not owe it, something more than a mere understanding of why and how? Is it a thing so utterly dead as to be fit only for the scalpel and the microscope? Surely not so. The past can give us, and should give us, not merely ideas, but emotions: healthy pleasure which may make us more light of spirit, and pain which may make us more earnest of mind; the one, it seems to me, as necessary for our individual worthiness as is the other. For to each of us, as we watch the past, as we lie passive and let it slowly circulate around us, there must come sights which, in their reality or in their train of associations, and to the mind of each differently, must gladden as with a sense of beauty, or put us all into a sullen moral ache. I should hate to be misunderstood in this more, perhaps, than in anything else in the world. I speak not of any dramatic emotion, of such egotistic, half-artistic pleasure as some may get from the alternation of cheerfulness and terror, from the excitement caused by evil from which we are as safely separated as are those who look on from the enfuriate bulls in an arena. To such, history, and the history especially of the Renaissance, has been made to pander up but too much. The pain I speak of is the pain which must come to every morally sentient creature with the contemplation of some one of the horrible tangles of evil, of the still fouler intermeshing of evil with good, which history brings up ever and anon. Evil which is past, it is true, but of which the worst evil almost of all, the fact of its having been, can never be past, must ever remain present; and our trouble and indignation at which is holy, our pain is healthy: holy and healthy, because every vibration of such pain as that makes our moral fibre more sensitive; because every immunity from such sensation deadens our higher nature: holy and healthy also because, just as no image of pleasurable things can pass before us without gathering about it other images of some beauty which have long lain by in each individual mind, so also no thought of great injustice of man or of accident, of signal whitewashing of evil or befouling of good, but must, in striking into our soul, put in motion there the salutary thought of some injustice or lying legitimation or insidious pollution, smaller indeed perhaps, but perhaps also nearer to ourselves. Be not therefore too hard upon me if in what I have written of the Renaissance, there is too little attempt to make matters scientifically complete, and too much giving way to personal and perhaps sometimes irrelevant impressions of pleasure and of pain; if I have followed up those pleasurable and painful impressions rather more than sought to discover the exact geography of the historical tract which gave them. Consider, moreover, that this very cause of deficiency may have been also the cause of my having succeeded in achieving anything at all. Personal impression has led me, perhaps, sometimes away from the direct road; but had it not beckoned me to follow, I should most likely have simply not stirred. Pleasant impression and painful, as I have said; and sometimes the painful has been more efficacious than the other. I do not know whether the interest which I have always taken in the old squabble of real and ideal has enabled me to make at all clearer the different characteristics of painting and sculpture in Renaissance portraiture, the relation of the art of Raphael to the art of Velasquez and the art of Whistler. I can scarcely judge whether the pleasure which I owe to the crowding together, the moving about in my fancy, of the heroes and wizards and hippogriffs of the old tales of Oberon and Ogier; the association with the knights and ladies of Boiardo and Ariosto, of this or that figure out of a fresco of Pinturicchio, or a picture by Dosso, has made it easier or more difficult for me to sum up the history of mediæval romance in Renaissance Italy; nor whether the recollection of certain Tuscan farms, the well-known scent of the sun-dried fennel and mint under the vine-trellis, the droning song of the contadino ploughing or pruning unseen in the valley, the snatches of peasants' rhymes, the outlines of peasants' faces--things all these of this our own time, of yesterday or to-day; whether all this, running in my mind like so many scribbly illustrations and annotations along the margin of Lorenzo dei Medici's poems, has made my studies of rustic poetry more clear or more confused. But this much I know as a certainty, that never should I have tried to unravel the causes of the Renaissance's horrible anomaly of improvement and degradation, had not that anomaly returned and returned to make me wretched with its loathsome mixture of good and evil; its detestable alternative of endurance of vile solidarities in the souls of our intellectual forefathers, or of unjust turning away from the men and the times whose moral degradation paid the price of our moral dignity. I also have the further certainty of its having been this long-endured moral sickening at the sight of this moral anomaly, which enabled me to realize the feelings of such of our nobler Elizabethan playwrights as sought to epitomize in single tales of horror the strange impressions left by the accomplished and infamous Italy of their day; and which made it possible for me to express perhaps some of the trouble which filled the mind of Webster and of Tourneur merely by expressing the trouble which filled my own. The following studies are not samples, fragments at which one tries one's hand, of some large and methodical scheme of work. They are mere impressions developed by means of study: not merely currents of thought and feeling which I have singled out from the multifold life of the Renaissance; but currents of thought and feeling in myself, which have found and swept along with them certain items of Renaissance lore. For the Renaissance has been to me, in the small measure in which it has been anything, not so much a series of studies as a series of impressions. I have not mastered the history and literature of the Renaissance (first-hand or second-hand, perfectly or imperfectly), abstract and exact, and then sought out the places and things which could make that abstraction somewhat more concrete in my mind; I have seen the concrete things, and what I might call the concrete realities of thought and feeling left behind by the Renaissance, and then tried to obtain from books some notion of the original shape and manner of wearing these relics, rags and tatters of a past civilization. For Italy, beggared and maimed (by her own unthrift, by the rapacity of others, by the order of Fate) at the beginning of the sixteenth century, was never able to weave for herself a new, a modern civilization, as did the nations who had shattered her looms on which such woofs are made, and carried off her earnings with which such things may be bought; and she had, accordingly, to go through life in the old garments, still half mediæval in shape, which had been fashioned for her during the Renaissance: apparel of the best that could then be made, beautiful and strong in many ways, so beautiful and strong indeed as to impose on people for a good long time, and make French, and Germans, and Spaniards, and English believe (comparing these brilliant tissues with the homespun they were providing for themselves) that it must be all brand new, and of the very latest fashion. But the garments left to Italy by those latest Middle Ages which we call Renaissance, were not eternal: wear and tear, new occupations, and the rough usage of other nations, rent them most sorely; their utter neglect by the long seventeenth century, their hasty patchings up (with bits of odd stuff and all manner of coloured thread and string, so that a harlequin's jacket could not look queerer) by the happy-go-lucky practicalness of the eighteenth century and the Revolution, reduced them thoroughly to rags; and with these rags of Renaissance civilization, Italy may still be seen to drape herself. Not perhaps in the great centres, where the garments of modern civilization, economical, unpicturesque, intended to be worn but a short time, have been imported from other countries; but yet in many places. Yes, you may still see those rags of the Renaissance as plainly as you see the tattered linen fluttering from the twisted iron hooks (made for the display of precious brocades and carpets on pageant days) which still remain in the stained whitewash, the seams of battered bricks of the solid old escutcheoned palaces; see them sometimes displayed like the worm-eaten squares of discoloured embroidery which the curiosity dealers take out of their musty oak presses; and sometimes dragging about mere useless and befouled odds and ends, like the torn shreds which lie among the decaying kitchen refuse, the broken tiles and plaster, the nameless filth and ooze which attracts the flies under every black archway, in every steep bricked lane descending precipitously between the high old houses. Old palaces, almost strongholds, and which are still inhabited by those too poor to pull them down and build some plastered bandbox instead; poems and prose tales written or told five hundred years ago, edited and re-edited by printers to whom there come no modern poems or prose tales worth editing instead; half-pagan, mediæval priest lore, believed in by men and women who have not been given anything to believe instead; easy-going, all-permitting fifteenth century scepticism, not yet replaced by the scientific and socialistic disbelief which is puritanic and iconoclastic; sly and savage habits of vengeance still doing service among the lower classes instead of the orderly chicanery of modern justice;--these are the things, and a hundred others besides, concrete and spiritual, things too magnificent, too sordid, too irregular, too nauseous, too beautiful, and, above all, too utterly unpractical and old-fashioned for our times, which I call the rags of the Renaissance, and with which Italy still ekes out her scanty apparel of modern thoughts and things. It is living among such things, turn by turn delighted by their beauty and offended by their foulness, that one acquires the habit of spending a part only of one's intellectual and moral life in the present, and the rest in the past. Impressions are not derived from description, and thoughts are not suggested by books. The juxtaposition of concrete objects invites the making of a theory as the jutting out of two branches invites the spinning of a spider's web. You find everywhere your facts without opening a book. The explanation which I have tried to give of the exact manner in which mediæval art was influenced by the remains of antiquity, came like a flash during a rainy morning in the Pisan Campo Santo; the working out and testing of that explanation in its details was a matter of going from one church or gallery to the other, a reference or two to Vasari for some date or fact being the only necessary reading; and should any one at this moment ask me for substantiation of that theory, instead of opening books I would take that person to this Sienese Cathedral, and there bid him compare the griffins and arabesques, the delicate figure and foliage ornaments carved in wood and marble by the latter Middle Ages, with the griffins and arabesques, the boldly bossed horsemen, the exquisite fruit garlands of a certain antique altar stone which the builders of the church used as a base to a pillar, and which must have been a never-ceasing-object of study to every draughtsman and stoneworker in Siena. Nor are such everywhere-scattered facts ready for working into theoretic shape, the most which Italy still affords to make the study of the Renaissance an almost involuntary habit. In certain places where only decay has altered things from what they were four centuries ago, Perugia, Orvieto, S. Gimignano, in the older quarters of Florence, Venice, and Verona, but nowhere I think so much as in this city of Siena (as purely mediæval as the suits of rusted armour which its townsfolk patch up and bury themselves in during their August pageants), we are subjected to receive impressions of the past so startlingly lifelike as to get quite interwoven with our impressions of the present; and from that moment the past must share, in a measure, some of the everyday thoughts which we give to the present. In such a city as this, the sudden withdrawal, by sacristan or beggar-crone, of the curtain from before an altar-piece is many a time much more than the mere displaying of a picture: it is the sudden bringing us face to face with the real life of the Renaissance. We have ourselves, perhaps not an hour before, sauntered through squares and dawdled beneath porticos like those which we see filled with the red-robed and plumed citizens and patricians, the Jews and ruffians whom Pinturicchio's parti-coloured men-at-arms are dispersing to make room for the followers of Æneas Sylvius; or clambered up rough lanes, hedged in between oak woods and oliveyards, which we might almost swear were the very ones through which are winding Sodoma's cavalcades of gallantly dressed gentlemen, with their hawks and hounds, and negro jesters and apes and beautiful pages, cantering along on shortnecked little horses with silver bits and scarlet trappings, on the pretence of being the Kings from the East, carrying gold and myrrh to the infant Christ. It seems as if all were astoundingly real, as if, by some magic, we were actually going to mix in the life of the past. But it is in reality but a mere delusion, a deceit like those dioramas which we have all been into as children, and where, by paying your shilling, you were suddenly introduced into an oasis of the desert, or into a recent battle-field: things which surprised us, real palm trunks and Arabian water jars, or real fascines and cannon balls, lying about for us to touch; roads opening on all sides into this simulated desert, through this simulated battle-field. So also with these seeming realities of Renaissance life. We can touch the things scattered on the foreground, can handle the weapons, the furniture, the books and musical instruments; we can see, or think we see, most plainly the streets and paths, the faces and movements of that Renaissance world; but when we try to penetrate into it, we shall find that there is but a slip of solid ground beneath us, that all around us is but canvas and painted wall, perspectived and lit up by our fancy; and that when we try to approach to touch one of those seemingly so real men and women, our eyes find only daubs of paint, our hands meet only flat and chilly stucco. Turn we to our books, and seek therein the spell whereby to make this simulacrum real; and I think the plaster will still remain plaster, the stones still remain stone. Out of the Renaissance, out of the Middle Ages, we must never hope to evoke any spectres which can talk with us and we with them; nothing of the kind of those dim but familiar ghosts, often grotesque rather than heroic, who come to us from out of the books, the daubed portraits of times nearer our own, and sit opposite us, making us laugh, and also cry, with humdrum stories and humdrum woes so very like our own. No; such ghosts the Renaissance has not left behind it. From out of it there come to us no familiars. They are all faces--those which meet us in the pages of chronicles and in the frames of pictures: they are painted records of the past--we may understand them by scanning well their features, but they cannot understand, they cannot perceive us. Such, when all is said, are my impressions of the Renaissance. The moral atmosphere of those days is as impossible for us to breathe as would be the physical atmosphere of the moon: could we, for a moment, penetrate into it, we should die of asphyxia. Say what we may against both Protestant reformation and Catholic reaction, these two began to make an atmosphere (pure or foul) different from that of the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, an atmosphere in which lived creatures like ourselves, into which ourselves might penetrate. A crotchet this, perhaps, of my own; but it is my feeling, nevertheless. The Renaissance is, I say again, no period out of which we must try and evoke ghostly companions. Let us not waste our strength in seeking to do so; but be satisfied if it teaches us strange truths, scientific and practical; if its brilliant and solemn personalities, its bright and majestic art can give us pleasure; if its evils and wrongs, its inevitable degradation, can move us to pity and to indignation. Siena, _September_, 1882. THE SACRIFICE. Ihr führt ins Leben uns hinein; Ihr lässt den armen schuldig werden; Dann übergiebt Ihr ihm der Pein, Denn alle Schuld rächt sich auf Erden. At the end of the fifteenth century, Italy was the centre of European civilization: while the other nations were still plunged in a feudal barbarism which seems almost as far removed from all our sympathies as is the condition of some American or Polynesian savages, the Italians appear to us as possessing habits of thought, a mode of life, political, social, and literary institutions, not unlike those of to-day; as men whom we can thoroughly understand, whose ideas and aims, whose general views, resemble our own in that main, indefinable characteristic of being modern. They had shaken off the morbid monastic ways of feeling, they had thrown aside the crooked scholastic modes of thinking, they had trampled under foot the feudal institutions of the Middle Ages; no symbolical mists made them see things vague, strange, and distorted; their intellectual atmosphere was as clear as our own, and, if they saw less than we do, what they did see appeared to them in its true shape and proportions. Almost for the first time since the ruin of antique civilization, they could show well-organized, well-defined States; artistically disciplined armies; rationally devised laws; scientifically conducted agriculture; and widely extended, intelligently undertaken commerce. For the first time, also, they showed regularly built, healthy, and commodious towns; well-drained fields; and, more important than all, hundreds of miles of country owned not by feudal lords, but by citizens; cultivated not by serfs, but by free peasants. While in the rest of Europe men were floundering among the stagnant ideas and crumbling institutions of the effete Middle Ages, with but a vague half-consciousness of their own nature, the Italians walked calmly through a life as well arranged as their great towns, bold, inquisitive, and sceptical: modern administrators, modern soldiers, modern politicians, modern financiers, scholars, and thinkers. Towards the end of the fifteenth century, Italy seemed to have obtained the philosophic, literary, and artistic inheritance of Greece; the administrative, legal, and military inheritance of Rome, increased threefold by her own strong, original, essentially modern activities. Yet, at that very time, and almost in proportion as all these advantages developed, the moral vitality of the Italians was rapidly decreasing, and a horrible moral gangrene beginning to spread: liberty was extinguished; public good faith seemed to be dying out; even private morality flickered ominously; every free State became subject to a despot, always unscrupulous and often infamous; warfare became a mere pretext for the rapine and extortions of mercenaries; diplomacy grew to be a mere swindle; the humanists inoculated literature with the filthiest refuse cast up by antiquity; nay, even civic and family ties were loosened; assassinations and fratricides began to abound, and all law, human and divine, to be set at defiance. The nations who came into contact with the Italians opened their eyes with astonishment, with mingled admiration and terror; and we, people of the nineteenth century, are filled with the same feeling, only much stronger and more defined, as we watch the strange ebullition of the Renaissance, seething with good and evil, as we contemplate the enigmatic picture drawn by the puzzled historian, the picture of a people moving on towards civilization and towards chaos. Our first feeling is perplexity; our second feeling, anger; we do not at first know whether we ought to believe in such an anomaly; when once we do believe in it, we are indignant at its existence. We accuse these Italians of the Renaissance of having wilfully and shamefully perverted their own powers, of having wantonly corrupted their own civilization, of having cynically destroyed their own national existence, of having boldly called down the vengeance of Heaven; we lament and we accuse, naturally enough, but perhaps not justly. Let us ask ourselves what the Renaissance really was, and what was its use; how it was produced, and how it necessarily ended. Let us try to understand its inherent nature, and the nature of what surrounded it, which, taken together, constitute its inevitable fate; let us seek the explanation of that strange, anomalous civilization, of that life in death, and death in life. The Renaissance, inasmuch as it is something which we can define, and not a mere vague name for a certain epoch, is not a period, but a condition; and if we apply the word to any period in particular, it is because in it that condition was peculiarly marked. The Renaissance may be defined as being that phase in mediæval history in which the double influence, feudal and ecclesiastic, which had gradually crushed the spontaneous life of the early mediæval revival, and reduced all to a dead, sterile mass, was neutralized by the existence of democratic and secular communities; that phase in which, while there existed not yet any large nations, or any definite national feeling, there existed free towns and civic democracies. In this sense the Renaissance began to exist with the earliest mediæval revival, but its peculiar mission could be carried out only when that general revival had come to an end. In this sense, also, the Renaissance did not exist all over Italy, and it existed outside Italy; but in Italy it was far more universal than elsewhere: there it was the rule, elsewhere the exception. There was no Renaissance in Savoy, nor in Naples, nor even in Rome; but north of the Alps there was Renaissance only in individual towns like Nürnberg, Augsburg, Bruges, Ghent, &c. In the North the Renaissance is dotted about amidst the stagnant Middle Ages; in Italy the Middle Ages intersect and interrupt the Renaissance here and there: the consequence was that in the North the Renaissance was crushed by the Middle Ages, whereas in Italy the Middle Ages were crushed by the Renaissance. Wherever there was a free town, without direct dependence on feudal or ecclesiastical institutions, governed by its own citizens, subsisting by its own industry and commerce; wherever the burghers built walls, slung chains across their streets, and raised their own cathedral; wherever, be it in Germany, in Flanders, or in England, there was a suspension of the deadly influences of the later Middle Ages; there, to greater or less extent, was the Renaissance. But in the North this rudimentary Renaissance was never suffered to spread beyond the walls of single towns; it was hemmed in on all sides by feudal and ecclesiastical institutions, which restrained it within definite limits. The free towns of Germany were mostly dependent upon their bishops or archbishops; the more politically important cities of Flanders were under the suzerainty of a feudal family; they were subject to constant vexations from their suzerains, and their very existence was endangered by an attempt at independence; Liege was well-nigh destroyed by the supporters of her bishop, and Ghent was ruined by the revenge of the Duke of Burgundy. In these northern cities, therefore, the commonwealth was restricted to a sort of mercantile corporation--powerful within the town, but powerless without it; while outside the town reigned feudalism, with its robber nobles, free companies, and bands of outlawed peasants, from whom the merchant princes of Bruges and Nürnberg could scarcely protect their wares. To this political feebleness and narrowness corresponded an intellectual weakness and pettiness: the burghers were mere self-ruling tradesfolk; their interests did not extend far beyond their shops and their houses; literature was cramped in guilds, and reflection and imagination were confined within the narrow limits of town life. Everything was on a small scale; the Renaissance was moderate and inefficient, running no great dangers and achieving no great conquests. There was not enough action to produce reaction; and, while the Italian free States were ground down by foreign tyrannies, the German and Flemish cities insensibly merged into the vast empire of the House of Austria. While also the Italians of the sixteenth century rushed into moral and religious confusion, which only Jesuitism could discipline, the Germans of the same time quietly and comfortably adopted the Reformation. The main cause of this difference, the main explanation of the fact that while in the North the Renaissance was cramped and enfeebled, in Italy it carried everything before it, lies in the circumstance that feudalism never took deep root in Italy. The conquered Latin race was enfeebled, it is true, but it was far more civilized than the conquering Teutonic peoples; the Barbarians came down, not on to a previous layer of Barbarians, but on to a deep layer of civilized men; the nomads of the North found in Italy a people weakened and corrupt, but with a long and inextinguishable habit of independence, of order, of industry. The country had been cultivated for centuries, the Barbarians could not turn it into a desert; the inhabitants had been organized as citizens for a thousand years, the Barbarians could not reorganize them feudally. The Barbarians who settled in Italy, especially the latest of them, the Lombards, were not only in a minority, but at an immense disadvantage. They founded kingdoms and dukedoms, where German was spoken and German laws were enacted; but whenever they tried to communicate with their Italian subjects, they found themselves forced to adopt the Latin language, manners, and laws; their domination became real only in proportion as it ceased to be Teutonic, and the Barbarian element was swallowed up by what remained of Roman civilization. Little by little these Lombard monarchies, without roots in the soil, and surrounded by hostile influences, died out, and there remained of the invaders only a certain number of nobles, those whose descendants were to bear the originally German names of Gherardesca, Rolandinghi, Soffredinghi, Lambertazzi, Guidi, and whose suzerains were the Bavarian and Swabian dukes and marquises of Tuscan. Meanwhile the Latin element revived; towns were rebuilt; a new Latin language was formed; and the burghers of these young communities gradually wrested franchises and privileges from the weak Teutonic rulers, who required Italian agriculture, industry, and commerce, without which they and their feudal retainers would have starved. Feudalism became speedily limited to the hilly country; the plain became the property of the cities which it surrounded; the nobles turned into mere robber chieftains, then into mercenary soldiers, and finally, as the towns gained importance, they gradually descended into the cities and begged admission into the guilds of artizans and tradesfolk. Thus they grew into citizens and Italians; but for a long time they kept hankering after feudalism, and looking towards the German emperors who claimed the inheritance of the Lombard kings. The struggle between Guelphs and Ghibellines, between the German feudal element and the Latin civic one, ended in the complete annihilation of the former in all the north and centre of Italy. The nobles sank definitely into merchants, and those who persisted in keeping their castles were speedily ousted by the commissaries of the free towns. Such is the history of feudalism in Italy--the history of Barbarian minority engulphed in Latin civilization; of Teutonic counts and dukes turned into robber nobles, hunted into the hills by the townsfolk, and finally seeking admission into the guilds of wool-spinners or money-changers; and in it is the main explanation of the fact that the Italian republics, instead of remaining restricted within their city walls like those of the North, spread over whole provinces, and became real politically organized States. And in such States having a free political, military, and commercial life, uncramped by ecclesiastic or feudal influence, in them alone could the great revival of human intelligence and character thoroughly succeed. The commune was the only species of free government possible during the Middle Ages, the only form which could resist that utterly prostrating action of later mediævalism. Feudalism stamped out civilization; monasticism warped it; in the open country it was burnt, trampled on, and uprooted; in the cloister it withered and shrank and perished; only within the walls of a city, protected from the storm without, and yet in the fresh atmosphere of life, could it develope, flourish, and bear fruit. But this system of the free town contained in itself, as does every other institution, the seed of death--contained it in that expanding element which developes, ripens, rots, and finally dissolves all living organisms. A little town is formed in the midst of some feudal state, as Pisa, Florence, Lucca, and Bologna were formed in the dominions of the lords of Tuscany; the _elders_ govern it; it is protected from without; it obtains privileges from its suzerain, always glad to oppose anything to his vassals, and who, unlike them, is too far removed in the feudal scale to injure the commune, which is under his supreme jurisdiction but not in his land. The town can thus develope regularly, governing itself, taxing itself, defending itself against encroaching neighbours; it gradually extends beyond its own walls, liberates its peasantry, extends its commerce, extinguishes feudalism, beats back its suzerain or buys privileges from him; in short, lives the vigorous young life of the early Italian commonwealths. But now the danger begins. The original system of government, where every head of a family is a power in the State, where every man helps to govern, without representation or substitution, could exist only as long as the commune remained small enough for the individual to be in proportion with it; as long as the State remained small enough for all its citizens to assemble in the market-place and vote, for every man to know every detail of the administration, every inch of the land. When the limits were extended, the burgher had to deal with towns and villages and men and things which he did not know, and which he probably hated, as every small community hated its neighbour; witness the horrible war, lasting centuries, between the two little towns of Dinant and Bouvines on the Meuse. Still more was this the case with an important city: the subjugated town was hated all the more for being a rival centre; the burghers of Florence, inspired only by their narrow town interest, treated Pisa according to its dictates, that is, tried to stamp it out. Thence the victorious communes came to be surrounded by conquered communes, which they dared not trust with any degree of power; and which, instead of being so many allies in case of invasion, were merely focuses of revolt, or at best inert impediments. Similarly, when the communes enlarged, and found it indispensable to delegate special men, who could attend to political matters more thoroughly than the other citizens, they were constantly falling under the tyranny of their _captains of the people_, of their _gonfalonieri_, and of all other heads of the State; or else, as in Florence, they were frightened by this continual danger into a system of perpetual interference with the executive, which was thus rendered well-nigh helpless. To this rule Venice forms the only exception, on account of her exceptional position and history: the earliest burghers turning into an intensely conservative and civic aristocracy, while everywhere else the feudal nobles turned into petty burghers, entirely subversive of communal interests. Venice had the yet greater safeguard of being protected both from her victorious enemies and her own victorious generals; who, however powerful on the mainland, could not seriously endanger the city itself, which thus remained a centre of reorganization in time of disaster. In this Venice was entirely unique, as she was unique in the duration of her institutions and independence. In the other towns of Italy, where there existed no naturally governing family or class, where every citizen had an equal share in government, and there existed no distinction save that of wealth and influence, there was a constant tendency to the illegitimate preponderance of every man or every family that rose above the average; and in a democratic, mercantile State, not a day passed without some such elevation. In a systematic, consolidated State, where the power is in the hands of a hereditary sovereign or aristocracy, a rich merchant remains a rich merchant, a victorious general remains a victorious general, an eloquent orator remains an eloquent orator; but in a shapeless, flunctuating democracy like those of Italy, the man who has influence over his fellow-citizens, whether by his money, his soldiers, or his eloquence, necessarily becomes the head of the State; everything is free and unoccupied, only a little superior strength is required to push into it. Cosimo de' Medici has many clients, many correspondents, many debtors; he can bind people by pecuniary obligations: he becomes prince. Sforza has a victorious army, whom he can either hound on to the city or restrain into a protection of its interests: he becomes prince. Savonarola has eloquence that makes the virtuous start up and the wicked tremble: he becomes prince. The history of the Italian commonwealths shows us but one thing: the people, the only legal possessors of political power, giving it over to their bankers (Medici, Pepoli); to their generals (Della Torre, Visconti, Scaligeri); to their monkish reformers (Fra Bussolaro, Fra Giovanni da Vincenza, Savonarola). Here then we have the occasional but inevitable usurpers, who either momentarily or finally disorganize the State. But this is not all. In such a State every family hate, every mercantile hostility, means a corresponding political division. The guilds are sure to be rivals, the larger wishing to exclude the smaller from government: the lower working classes (the _ciompi_ of Florence) wish to upset the guilds completely; the once feudal nobles wish to get back military power; the burghers wish entirely to extirpate the feudal nobles; the older families wish to limit the Government, the newer prefer democracy and Cæsarism. Add to this the complications of private interests, the personal jealousies and aversions, the private warfare, inevitable in a town where legal justice is not always to be had, while forcible retaliation is always within reach; and the result is constant party spirit, insults, scuffles, conspiracies: the feudal nobles build towers in the streets, the burghers pull them down; the lower artizans set fire to the warehouses of the guilds, the magistrates take part in the contest; blood is spilt, magistrates are beheaded or thrown out of windows, a foreign State is entreated to interfere, and a number of citizens are banished by the victorious party. This latter result creates a new and terrible danger for the State, in the persons of so many exiles, ready to do anything, to join with any one, in order to return to the city and drive out their enemies in their turn. The end of such constant upheavings is that the whole population is disarmed, no party suffering its rival to have any means of offence or defence. Moreover, as industry and commerce develope, the citizens become unwilling to fight, while on the other hand the invention of firearms, subverting the whole system of warfare, renders special military training more and more necessary. In the days of the Lombard League, of Campaldino and Montaperti, the citizens could fight, hand to hand, round their _carroccio_ or banner, without much discipline being required; but when it came to fortifying towns against cannon, to drilling bodies of heavily armed cavalry, acting by the mere dexterity of their movements; when war became a science and an art, then the citizen had necessarily to be left out, and adventurers and poor nobles had to form armies of mercenaries, making warfare their sole profession. This system of mercenary troops, so bitterly inveighed against by Machiavelli (who, of course, entirely overlooked its inevitable origin and viewed it as a voluntarily incurred pest), added yet another and, perhaps, the very worst danger to civil liberty. It gave enormous, irresistible power to adventurers unscrupulous by nature and lawless by education, the sole object of whose career it became to obtain possession of States; by no means a difficult enterprise, considering that they and their fellows were the sole possessors of military force in the country. At the same time, this system of mercenaries perfected the condition of utter defencelessness in which the gradual subjection of rival cities, the violent party spirit, and the general disarming of the burghers, had placed the great Italian cities. For these troops, being wholly indifferent as to the cause for which they were fighting, turned war into the merest game of dodges--half-a-dozen men being killed at a great battle like that of Anghiari--and they at the same time protracted campaigns beyond every limit, without any decisive action taking place. The result of all these inevitable causes of ruin, was that most of the commonwealths fell into the hands of despots; while those that did not were paralyzed by interior factions, by a number of rebellious subject towns, and by generals who, even if they did not absolutely betray their employers, never efficiently served them. Such a condition of civic disorder lasted throughout the Middle Ages, until the end of the fifteenth century, without any further evils arising from it. The Italians made endless wars with each other, conquered each other, changed their government without end, fell into the power of tyrants; but throughout these changes their civilization developed unimpeded; because, although one of the centres of national life might be momentarily crushed, the others remained in activity, and infused vitality even into the feeble one, which would otherwise have perished. All these ups and downs seemed but to stir the life in the country: and no vital danger appeared to threaten it; nor did any, so long as the surrounding countries--France, Germany, and Spain--remained mere vast feudal nebulae, formless, weightless, immovable. The Italians feared nothing from them; they would call down the King of France or the Emperor of Germany without a moment's hesitation, because they knew that the king could not bring France, nor the emperor bring Germany, but only a few miserable, hungry retainers with him; but Florence would watch the growth of the petty State of the Scaligers, and Venice look with terror at the Duke of Milan, because they knew that _there_ there was concentrated life, and an organization which could be wielded as' perfectly as a sword by the head of the State. In the last decade of the fifteenth century the Italians called in the French to put down their private enemies: Lodovico of Milan called down Charles VIII. to rid him of his nephew and of the Venetians; the Venetians to rid them of Lodovico: the Medici to establish them firmly in Florence; the party of freedom to drive out the Medici. Each State intended to use the French to serve their purpose, and then to send back Charles VIII. with a little money and a great deal of derision, as they had done with kings and emperors of earlier days. But Italian politicians suddenly discovered that they had made a fatal mistake; that they had reckoned in ignorance, and that instead of an army they had called down a nation: for during the interval since their last appeal to foreign interference, that great movement had taken place which had consolidated the heterogeneous feudal nebulae into homogeneous and compact kingdoms. Single small States, relying upon mercenary troops, could not for a moment resist the shock of such an agglomeration of soldiery as that of the French, and of their successors the Spaniards and Germans. Sismondi asks indignantly, Why did the Italians not form a federation as soon as the strangers appeared? He might as well ask, Why did the commonwealths not turn into a modern monarchy? The habit of security from abroad and of jealousy within; the essential nature of a number of rival trading centres, made such a thing not only impossible of execution, but for a while impossible of conception; confederacies had become possible only when Burlamacchi was decapitated by the imperialists; popular resistance had become a reality only when Feruccio was massacred by the Spaniards; a change of national institutions was feasible only when all national institutions had been destroyed; when the Italians, having recognized the irresistible force of their adversaries, had ceased to form independent States and larger and smaller guilds; when all the characteristics of Italian civilization had been destroyed; when, in short, it was too late to do anything save theorize with Machiavelli and Guicciardini as to what ought to have been done. We must not hastily accuse the volition of the Italians of the Renaissance; they may have been egotistic and timid, but had they been (as some most certainly were) heroic and self-sacrificing to the utmost degree, they could not have averted the catastrophe. The nature of their civilization prevented not only their averting the peril, but even their conceiving its existence; the very nature of their political forms necessitated such a dissolution of them. The commune grows from within; it is a little speck which gradually extends its circumference, and the further this may be from the original centre, the less do its parts coalesce. The modern monarchy grows from external pressure, and towards the centre; it is a huge mass consolidating into a hard, distinct shape. Thence it follows that the more the commonwealth developes, the weaker it grows, because its tendency is to spread and fall to pieces; whereas the more the monarchy developes, the stronger it becomes, because it fills up towards the centre, and becomes more vigorously knit together. The city ceases to be a city when extended over hundreds of miles; the nation becomes all the more a nation for being compressed towards a central point. The entire political collapse of Italy in the sixteenth century was not only inevitable, from the essential nature of the civilization of the Renaissance, but it was also indispensable in order that this civilization might fulfil its mission. Civilization cannot spread so long as it is contained within a national mould, and only a vanquished nation can civilize its victors. The Greece of Pericles could not Hellenize Rome, but the Greece of the weak successors of Alexander could; the Rome of Cæsar did not Romanize the Teutonic races as did the Rome of Theodosius; no amount of colonizing among the vanquished can ever produce the effect of a victorious army, of a whole nation, suddenly finding itself in the midst of the superior civilization of a conquered people. Michelet may well call the campaign of Charles VIII. the discovery of Italy. His imaginative mind seized at once the vast importance of this descent of the French into Italy, which other historians have been too prone to view in the same light as any other invasion. It is from this moment that dates the _modernisation_, if we may so express ourselves, of the North. The barbarous soldiers of Gaston de Foix, of Frundsberg, and of Gonsalvo, were the unconscious bearers of the seeds of the ages of Elizabeth, of Louis XIV., and of Goethe. These stupid and rapacious ruffians, while they wantonly destroyed the works of Italian civilization, rendered possible the existence of a Montaigne, a Shakespeare, and a Cervantes. Italy was as a vast store-house, sheltered from all the dangers of mediæval destruction; in which, while all other nations were blindly and fiercely working out their national existence, the inheritance of Antiquity and the produce of the earliest modern civilization had been peaceably garnered up. When the store-house was full, its gates had to be torn open and its riches plundered and disseminated by the intellectual starvelings of the North; thus only could the rest of mankind feed on these riches, regain and develope their mental life. What were those intellectual riches of the Renaissance? What was that strong intellectual food which revived the energies and enriched the blood of the Barbarians of the sixteenth century? The Renaissance possessed the germs of every modern thing, and much that was far more than a mere germ: it possessed the habit of equality before the law, of civic organization, of industry and commerce developed to immense and superb proportions. It possessed science, literature, and art; above all, that which at once produced and was produced by all these--thorough perception of what exists, thorough consciousness of our own freedom and powers: self-cognizance. In Italy there was intellectual light, enabling men to see and judge all around them, enabling them to act wittingly and deliberately. In this lies the immense greatness of the Renaissance; to this are due all its achievements in literature and science, and, above all, in art: that, for the first time since the dissolution of antique civilization, men were free agents, both in thought and in deed; that there was an end of that palsying slavery of the Middle Ages, slavery of body and of mind, slavery to stultified ideas and effete forms, which made men endure every degree of evil and believe every degree of absurdity. For the first time since Antiquity, man walks free of all political and intellectual trammels, erect, conscious of his own thoughts, master of his own actions; ready to seek for truth across the ocean like Columbus, or across the heavens like Copernicus; to seek it in criticism and analysis like Machiavelli or Guicciardini, boldly to reproduce it in its highest, widest sense like Michael Angelo and Raphael. The men of the Renaissance had to pay a heavy price for this intellectual freedom and self-cognizance which they not only enjoyed themselves, but transmitted to the rest of the world; the price was the loss of all moral standard, of all fixed public feeling. They had thrown aside all accepted rules and criteria, they had cast away all faith in traditional institutions, they had destroyed, and could not yet rebuild. In their instinctive and universal disbelief in all that had been taught them, they lost all respect for opinion, for rule, for what had been called right and wrong. Could it be otherwise? Had they not discovered that what had been called right had often been unnatural, and what had been called wrong often natural? Moral teachings, remonstrances, and judgments belonged to that dogmatism from which they had broken loose; to those schools and churches where the foolish and the unnatural had been taught and worshipped; to those priests and monks who themselves most shamefully violated their teachings. To profess morality was to be a hypocrite; to reprobate others was to be narrow-minded. There was so much error mixed up with truth that truth had to share the discredit of error; so many innocent things had been denounced as sins that sinful ones at length ceased to be reprobated; people had so often found themselves sympathizing with supposed criminals, that they soon lost their horror of real ones. Damnation came to be disassociated from moral indignation: it was the retribution, not of the unnatural and immoral, but of the unlawful; and unlawful with respect to a law made without reference to reason and instinct. As reason and instinct were thus set at defiance, but could not be silenced, the law was soon acquiesced in without being morally supported; thus, little by little, moral feeling became warped. This was already the case in Dante's day. Farinata is condemned to the most horrible punishment, which to Dante seems just, because in accordance with an accepted code; yet Dante cannot but admire him and cannot really hate him, for there is nothing in him to hate; he is a criminal and yet respected--fatal combination! Dante punishes Francesca, Pier delle Vigne, and Brunetto Latini, but he shows no personal horror of them; in the one case his moral instinct refrains from censuring the comparatively innocent, in the other it has ceased to revolt from the really infamous. Where Dante does feel real indignation, is most often in cases unprovided for by the religious codes, as with those low, grovelling, timid natures (the very same with whom Machiavelli, the admirer of great villains, fairly loses patience), those creatures whom Dante personally despises, whom he punishes with filthy devices of his own, whom he passes by with words such as he never addresses to Semiramis, Brutus, or Capaneus. This toleration of vice, while acquiescing in its legal punishment, increased in proportion to the development of individual judgment, and did not cease till all the theories of the lawful and unlawful had been so completely demolished as to permit of their being rebuilt on solid bases. This work of demolition had not yet ceased in the beginning of the sixteenth century; and the moral confusion due to it was increased by various causes dependent on political and other circumstances. The despots in whose hands it was the inevitable fate of the various commonwealths to fall, were by their very position immoral in all their dealings: violent, fraudulent, suspicious, and, from their life of constant unnatural tension of the feelings, prone to every species of depravity; while, on the other hand, in the feudal parts of Italy--which had merely received a superficial Renaissance varnish imported from other places with painters and humanists--in Naples, Rome, and the greater part of Umbria and the Marches, the upper classes had got into that monstrous condition which seems to have been the inevitable final product of feudalism, and which, while it gave France her Armagnacs, her Foix, and her Retz, gave Italy their counterparts in her hideously depraved princelets, the Malatestas, Varanos, Vitelli, and Baglioni. Both these classes of men, despots and feudal nobles, had a wide field for their ambition among the necessarily dissolved civic institutions; and their easy success contributed to confirm the general tendency of the day to say with Commines, "Qui a le succès a l'honneur," and to confound these two words and ideas. Nor was this yet all: the men of the Renaissance discovered the antique world, and in their wild, blind enthusiasm, in their ardent, insatiable thirst for its literature, swallowed it eagerly, dregs and all, till they were drunk and poisoned. These are the main causes of the immorality of the Renaissance: first, the general disbelief in all accepted doctrines, due to the falseness and unnaturalness of those hitherto prevalent; secondly, the success of unscrupulous talent in a condition of political disorder; thirdly, the wholesale and unjudging enthusiasm for all that remained of Antiquity, good or bad. These three great causes, united in a general intellectual ebullition, are the explanation of the worst feature of the Renaissance: not the wickedness of numberless single individuals, but the universal toleration of it by the people at large. Men like Sigismondo Malatesta, Sixtus IV., Alexander VI., and Cæsar Borgia might be passed over as exceptions, as monstrous aberrations which cannot affect our judgment of their time and nation; but the general indifference towards their vices shown by their contemporaries and countrymen is a conclusive and terrible proof of the moral chaos of the Renaissance. It is just the presence of so much instinctive simplicity and virtue, of childlike devotion to great objects, of patriarchal simplicity of manners, of all that is loveable in the books of men like Vespasiano da Bisticci and Leon Battista Albert; of so much that seems like the realization of the idyllic home and merchant life of Schiller's "Song of the Bell," by the side of all the hideous lawlessness and vice of the despots and humanists; that makes the Renaissance so drearily painful a spectacle. The presence of the good does not console us for that of the evil, because it neither mitigates nor even shrinks from it; we merely lose our pleasure in the good nature and simplicity of Æneas Sylvius when we see his cool admiration for a man of fraud and violence like Sforza; we begin to mistrust the purity and integrity of the upright Guarino da Verona when we hear his lenient judgment of the infamous Beccadelli; we require of the virtuous that they should not only be incapable of vice, but abhorrent of it; and this is what even the best men of the Renaissance rarely were. Such a state of moral chaos there has constantly been when an old effete mode of thought required to be destroyed. Such work is always attended, in greater or less degree, by this subversion of all recognized authority, this indifference to evil, this bold tasting of the forbidden. In the eighteenth century France plays the same part that was played in the fifteenth by Italy: again we meet the rebellion against all that has been consecrated by time and belief, the toleration of evil, the praise of the abominable, in the midst of the search for the good. These two have been the great fever epochs of modern history; fever necessary for a subsequent steady growth. Both gave back truth to man, and man to nature, at the expense of temporary moral uncertainty and ruthless destruction. The Renaissance reinstated the individual in his human dignity, as a thinking, feeling, and acting being; the Eighteenth Century reconstructed society as a homogeneous free existence; both at the expense of individual degradation and social disorder. Both were moments of ebullition in which horrible things rose to the surface, but after which what remained was purer than it had ever been before. This is no plea for the immorality of the Renaissance: evil is none the less evil for being inevitable and necessary; but it is nevertheless well that we should understand its necessity. It certainly is a terrible admission, but one which must be made, that evil is part of the mechanism for producing good; and had the arrangement of the universe been entrusted to us, benevolent and equitable people of an enlightened age, there would doubtless have been invented some system of evolution and progression differing from the one which includes such machinery as hurricanes and pestilences, carnage and misery, superstition and license, Renaissance and Eighteenth Century. But unfortunately Nature was organized in a less charitable and intelligent fashion; and, among other evils required for the final attainment of good, we find that of whole generations of men being condemned to moral uncertainty and error in order that other generations may enjoy knowledge peacefully and guiltlessly. Let us remember this, and let us be more generous towards the men who were wicked that we might be enlightened. Above all, let us bear in mind, in judging the Renaissance, that the sacrifice which it represents could be useful only in so far as it was complete and irretrievable. Let us remember that the communal system of government, on whose development the Renaissance mainly depended, inevitably perished in proportion as it developed; that the absolute subjugation of Italy by Barbarous nations was requisite to the dissemination of the civilization thus obtained; that the Italians were politically annihilated before they had time to recover a normal condition, and were given up crushed and broken spirited, to be taught righteousness by Spaniards and Jesuits. That, in short, while the morality of the Italians was sacrificed to obtain the knowledge on which modern society depends, the political existence of Italy was sacrificed to the diffusion of that knowledge, and that the nation was not only doomed to immorality, but doomed also to the inability to reform. Perhaps, if we think of all this, and weigh the tremendous sacrifice to which we owe our present intellectual advantages, we may still feel sad, but sad rather with remorse than with indignation, in contemplating the condition of Italy in the first years of the sixteenth century; in looking down from our calm, safe, scientific position, on the murder of the Italian Renaissance: great and noble at heart, cut off pitilessly at its prime; denied even an hour to repent and amend; hurried off before the tribunal of posterity, suddenly, unexpectedly, and still bearing its weight of unexpiated, unrecognized guilt. THE ITALY OF THE ELIZABETHAN DRAMATISTS. I. The chroniclers of the last years of the fifteenth century have recorded how the soldiery of Charles VIII. of France amused the tedious leisure of their sullen and suspicious occupation of Rome, by erecting in the camp a stage of planks, and performing thereon a rude mystery-play. The play thus improvised by a handful of troopers before this motley invading army: before the feudal cavalry of Burgundy, strange steel monsters, half bird, half reptile, with steel beaked and winged helmets and claw-like steel shoes, and jointed steel corselet and rustling steel mail coat; before the infantry of Gascony, rapid and rapacious with their tattered doublets and rag-bound feet; before the over-fed, immensely plumed, and slashed and furbelowed giants of Switzerland, and the starved, half-naked savages of Brittany and the Marches--before this multifaced, many-speeched army, gathered from the rich cities of the North and the devastated fields of the South, and the wilds and rocks of the West and the East, alike in nothing save in its wonder and dread and delight and horror at this strange invaded Italy--the play performed for the entertainment of this encamped army was no ordinary play. No clerkly allegorical morality; no mouthing and capering market-place farce; no history of Joseph and his brethren, of the birth of the Saviour, or of the temptations of St. Anthony. It was the half-allegorical, half-dramatic representation of the reigning Borgia pope and his children; it was the rude and hesitating moulding into dramatic shape of those terrible rumours of simony and poison, of lust and of violence, of mysterious death and abominable love, which had met the invaders as they had first set their feet in Italy; which had become louder and clearer with every onward step through the peninsula, and now circulated around them, with frightful distinctness, in the very capital of Christ's vicar on earth. This blundering mystery-play of the French troopers is the earliest imaginative fruit of that first terrified and fascinated glimpse of the men of the barbarous North at the strange Italy of the Renaissance; it is the first manifestation of that strong tragic impulse due to the sudden sight, by rude and imaginative young nations, of the splendid and triumphant wickedness of Italy. The French saw, wondered, shuddered, and played upon their camp stage the tragedy of the Borgias. But the French remained in Italy, became familiar with its ways, and soon merely shrugged their shoulders and smiled where they had once stared in horror. They served under the flags of Sforzas, Borgias, Baglionis, and Vitellis, by the side of the bravos of Naples and Umbria; they saw their princes wed the daughters of evil-famed Italian sovereigns, and their princes' children, their own Valois and Guises, develope into puny, ambiguous, and ominous Medicis and Gonzagas, surrounded by Italian minions and poison distillers, and buffoons and money-lenders. The French of the sixteenth century, during their long Neapolitan and Lombard wars and negotiations, and time to learn all that Italy could teach; to become refined, subtle, indifferent, and cynical: bastard Italians, with the bastard Italian art of Goujon and Philibert Delorme, and the bastard Italian poetry of Du Bellay and Ronsard. The French of the sixteenth century therefore translated Machiavel and Ariosto and Bandello; but they never again attempted such another play as that which they had improvised while listening to the tales of Alexander VI. and Cæsar and Lucrezia, in their camp in the meadows behind Sant' Angelo. The Spaniards then came to Italy, and the Germans: strong mediæval nations, like the French, with the creative power of the Middle Ages still in them, refreshed by the long rest of the dull fifteenth century. But Spaniards and Germans came as mere greedy and besotten and savage mercenaries: the scum of their countries, careless of Italian sights and deeds, thinking only of torturing for hidden treasure, or swilling southern wines; and they returned to Spain and to Germany, to persecutions of Moriscos and plundering of abbeys, as savage and as dull as they had arrived. A smattering of Italian literature, art, and manners was carried back to Spain and Germany by Spanish and German princes and governors, to be transmitted to a few courtiers and humanists; but the imagination of the lower classes of Spain and of Germany, absorbed in the Quixotic Catholicism of Loyola and the biblical contemplation of Luther, never came into fertilizing contact with the decaying Italy of the Renaissance. The mystery-play of the soldiers of Charles VIII. seemed destined to remain an isolated and abortive attempt. But it was not so. The invasions had exhausted themselves; the political organization of Italy was definitely broken up; its material wealth was exhausted; the French, Germans, and Spaniards had come and gone, and returned and gone again; they had left nothing to annex or to pillage; when, about the middle of the sixteenth century, the country began to be overrun by a new horde of barbarians: the English. The English came neither as invaders nor as marauders; they were peaceable students and rich noblemen, who, so far from trying to extort money or annex territory, rather profited the ruined Italians by the work which they did and the money which they squandered. Yet these quiet and profitable travellers, before whom the Italians might safely display their remaining wealth, were in reality as covetous of the possessions of Italy and as resolute to return home enriched as any tattered Gascon men-at-arms or gluttonous Swiss or grinding Spaniards. They were, one and all, consciously and unconsciously, dragged to Italy by the irresistible instinct that Italy possessed that which they required; by the greed of intellectual gain. That which they thus instinctively knew that Italy possessed, that which they must obtain, was a mode of thought, a habit of form; philosophy, art, civilization: all the materials for intellectual manipulation. For, in the sixteenth century, on awakening from its long evil sleep, haunted by the nightmare of civil war, of the fifteenth century, the English mind had started up in the vigour of well-nigh mature youth, fed up and rested by the long inactivity in which it had slept through its period of assimilation and growth. It had awakened at the first touch of foreign influence, and had grown with every fresh contact with the outer world: with the first glance at Plato and Xenophon suddenly opened by Erasmus and Colet, at the Bible suddenly opened by Cranmer; it had grown with its sob of indignation at the sight of the burning faggots surrounding the martyrs, with its joyous heart-throbs at the sight of the seas and islands of the New World; it had grown with the sudden passionate strain of every nerve and every muscle when the galleys of Philip had been sighted in the Channel. And when it had paused, taken breath, and looked calmly around it, after the tumult of all these sights and sounds and actions, the English mind, in the time of Elizabeth, had found itself of a sudden full-grown and blossomed out into superb manhood, with burning activities and indefatigable powers. But it had found itself without materials for work. Of the scholastic philosophy and the chivalric poetry of the Middle Ages there remained but little that could be utilized: the few bungled formulæ, the few half-obsolete rhymes still remaining, were as unintelligible, in their spirit of feudalism and monasticism and mysticism, as were the Angevin English and the monkish Latin in which they were written to these men of the sixteenth century. All the intellectual wealth of England remained to be created; but it could not be created out of nothing. Spenser, Shakespeare, and Bacon could not be produced out of the half-effete and scattered fragments of Chaucer, of Scotus, and of Wycliffe. The materials on which English genius was to work must be sought abroad, and abroad they could be found only in Italy. For in the demolished Italy of the sixteenth century lay the whole intellectual wealth of the world: the great legacy of Antiquity, the great work of the Middle Ages had been stored up, and had been increased threefold, and sorted and classified by the Renaissance; and now that the national edifice had been dismantled and dilapidated, and the national activity was languishing, it all lay in confusion, awaiting only the hand of those who would carry it away and use it once more. To Italy therefore Englishmen of thought and fancy were dragged by an impulse of adventure and greed as irresistible as that which dragged to Antwerp and the Hanse ports, to India and America, the seekers for gold and for soil. To Italy they flocked and through Italy they rambled, prying greedily into each cranny and mound of the half-broken civilization, upturning with avid curiosity all the rubbish and filth; seeking with aching eyes and itching fingers for the precious fragments of intellectual splendour; lingering with fascinated glance over the broken remnants and deep, mysterious gulfs of a crumbling and devastated civilization. And then, impatient of their intoxicating and tantalizing search, suddenly grown desperate, they clutched and stored away everything, and returned home tattered, soiled, bedecked with gold and with tinsel, laden with an immense uncouth burden of jewels, and broken wealth, and refuse and ordure, with pseudo-antique philosophy, with half-mediæval Dantesque and Petrarchesque poetry, with Renaissance science, with humanistic pedantry and obscenity, with euphuistic conceits and casuistic quibble, with art, politics, metaphysics--civilization embedded in all manner of rubbish and abomination, soiled with all manner of ominous stains. All this did they carry home and throw helter-skelter into the new-kindled fire of English intellectual life, mingling with it many a humble-seeming Northern alloy; cleaning and compounding, casting into shapes, mediæval and English, this strange Corinthian brass made of all these heterogeneous remnants, classical, Italian, Saxon, and Christian. A strange Corinthian brass indeed; and as various in tint, in weight, and in tone, in manifold varieties of mixture, as were the moulds into which it was cast: the white and delicate silver settling down in the gracious poetic moulds of Sidney and Spenser; the glittering gold, which can buy and increase, in the splendid, heavy mould of Bacon's prose; and the copper, the iron, the silver and gold in wondrous mixture, with wondrous iridescences of colour and wondrous scale of tone, all poured into the manifold moulds, fantastic and beautiful and grand, of Shakespeare. And as long as all this dross and ore and filth brought from the ruins of Italy was thus mingling in the heat of English genius, while it was yet but imperfectly fused, while already its purest and best compounded portion was being poured in Shakespeare's mould, and when already there remained only a seething residue; as long as there remained aught of the glowing fire and the molten mass, some of it all, of the pure metal bubbling up, of the scum frothing round, nay, of the very used-up dregs, was ever and anon being ladled out--gold, dross, filth, all indiscriminately--and cast into shapes severe, graceful, or uncouth. And this somewhat, thus pilfered from what was to make, or was making, or had made, the works of Shakespeare; this base and noble, still unfused or already exhausted alloy, became the strange heterogeneous works of the Elizabethan dramatists: of Webster, of Ford, of Tourneur, of Ben Jonson, of Beaumont and Fletcher, and of their minor brethren; from the splendid ore of Marlowe, only half molten and half freed from dross, down to the shining metal, smooth and silvery as only tinsel can be, of Massinger. In all the works of our Elizabethans, we see not only the assimilated intellectual wealth of Italy, but we see the deep impression, the indelible picture in the memory, of Italy itself; the positive, unallegorical, essentially secular mode of thought; the unascetic, æsthetic, eminently human mode of feeling; the artistic desire of clear and harmonious form; the innumerable tendencies and habits which sever the Elizabethans so completely from the Middle Ages, and bring them so near at once to ourselves and to the ancients, making them at once antique and modern, in opposition to mediæval; these essential characters and the vast bulk of absolute scientific fact and formula, of philosophic opinion, of artistic shape, of humanistic learning, are only one-half of the debt of our sixteenth century to the Italy of the Renaissance. The delicate form of the Italian sonnet, as copied by Sidney from Bembo and Molza and Costanzo, contained within it the exotic and exquisite ideal passion of the "Vita Nuova" and Petrarch. With the bright, undulating stanza Spenser received from Ariosto and Tasso the richly coloured spirit of the Italian descriptive epic. With the splendid involutions of Machiavelli's and Guicciardini's prose Bacon learned their cool and disimpassioned philosophy. From the reading of Politian and Lorenzo dei Medici, from the sight of the Psyche of Raphael, the Europa of Veronese, the Ariadne of Tintoret, men like Greene and Dorset learned that revival of a more luscious and pictorial antique which was brought to perfection in Shakespeare's "Venus and Adonis" and Marlowe's "Sestiad." From the Platonists and Epicureans of Renaissance Italy our greatest dramatists learned that cheerful and serious love of life, that solemn and manly facing of death, that sense of the finiteness of man, the inexhaustibleness of nature, which shines out in such grand, paganism, with such Olympian serenity, as of the bent brows and smiling lips of an antique Zeus, in Shakespeare, in Marlowe, in Beaumont and Fletcher, even in the sad and savage Webster. But with the abstract, with the imbibed modes of thought and feeling, with the imitated forms, the Elizabethans brought back from Italy the concrete, the individual, the personal. They filled their works with Italian things: from the whole plot of a play borrowed from an Italian novel, to the mere passing allusion to an Italian habit, or the mere quotation of an Italian word; from the full-length picture of the actions of Italian men and women, down to the mere sketch, in two or three words, of a bit of Italian garden or a group of Italian figures; nay, to the innumerable scraps of tiny detail, grotesque, graceful, or richly coloured, which they stuffed into all their works: allusions to the buffoons of the mask comedy, to the high-voiced singers, to the dress of the Venetian merchants, to the step of a dance; to the pomegranate in the garden or the cypress on the hillside; mere names of Italian things: the _lavolta_ and _corranto_ dances, the _Traglietto_ ferry, the Rialto bridge; countless little touches, trifling to us, but which brought home to the audience at the Globe or at Blackfriars that wonderful Italy which every man of the day had travelled through at least in spirit, and had loved at least in imagination. And of this wonderful Italy the Englishmen of the days of Elizabeth and of James knew yet another side; were familiar, whether travelled or untravelled, with yet other things besides the buffoons and singers and dancers, the scholars and learned ladies, the pomegranates, and cypresses and roses and nightingales; were fascinated by something besides the green lagoons, the clear summer nights, the soft spring evenings of which we feel as it were the fascination in the words of Jessica and Portia and Juliet. The English knew and were haunted by the crimes of Italy: the terrible and brilliant, the mysterious and shadowy crimes of lust and of blood which, in their most gigantic union and monstrous enthronement on the throne of the vicar of Christ, had in the first terrified glimpse awakened the tragic impulse in the soldiers of Charles VIII. We can imagine the innumerable English travellers who went to Italy greedy for life and knowledge or merely obeying a fashion of the day--travellers forced into far closer contact with the natives than the men of the time of Walpole and of Beckford, who were met by French-speaking hosts and lacqueys and officials--travellers also thirsting to imbibe the very spirit of the country as the travellers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries never thirsted; we can imagine these Englishmen possessed by the morbid passion for the stories of abominable and unpunished crime--crime of the learned, the refined, the splendid parts of society--with which the Italy of the deeply corrupted sixteenth century was permeated. We can imagine how the prosaic merchants' clerks from London; the perfumed dandies, trying on Italian clothes, rehearsing Italian steps and collecting Italian oaths, the Faulcon-bridges of Shakespeare and Mr. Gingleboys of Beaumont and Fletcher, sent to Italy to be able gracefully to Kiss the hand and cry, "sweet lady!" Say they had been at Rome and seen the relics, Drunk your Verdea wine, and rid at Naples-- how all these privileged creatures ferreted about for monstrous crimes with which to horrify their stay-at-home countrymen; how the rich young lords, returning home with mincing steps and high-pitched lisp, surrounded by a train of parti-coloured, dialect-jabbering Venetian clowns, deft and sinister Neapolitan fencing masters, silver-voiced singing boys decoyed from some church, and cynical humanists escaped from the faggot or the gallows, were expected to bring home, together with the newest pastoral dramas, lewd novels, Platonic philosophy and madrigals set in complicated counterpoint; stories of hideous wickedness, of the murders and rapes and poisonings committed by the dukes and duchesses, the nobles and senators, in whose palaces they had so lately supped and danced. The crimes of Italy fascinated Englishmen of genius with a fascination even more potent than that which they exercised over the vulgar imagination of mere foppish and swashbuckler lovers of the scandalous and the sensational: they fascinated with the attraction of tragic grandeur, of psychological strangeness, of moral monstrosity, a generation in whom the passionate imagination of the playwright was curiously blent with the metaphysical analysis of the philosopher and the ethical judgment of the Puritan. To these men, ardent and serious even in their profligacy; imaginative and passionate even in their Puritanism, all sucking avidly at this newly found Italian civilization; the wickedness of Italy was more than morbidly attractive or morbidly appalling: it was imaginatively and psychologically fascinating. Whether they were as part of the action or as allusions, as in Webster's two great plays, in which there occurs poisoning by means of the leaves of a book, poisoning by the poisoned lips of a picture, poisoning by a helmet, poisoning by the pommel of a saddle; crimes were multiplied by means of subordinate plots and unnecessary incidents, like the double vengeance of Richardetto and of Hippolita in Ford's "Giovanni and Annabella," where both characters are absolutely unnecessary to the main story of the horrible love of the hero and heroine; like the murders of Levidulcia and Sebastian in Tourneur's "Atheist's Tragedy," and the completely unnecessary though extremely pathetic death of young Marcello in Webster's "White Devil;" until the plays were brought to a close by the gradual extermination of all the principal performers, and only a few confidants and dummies remained to bury the corpses which strewed the stage. Imaginary monsters were fashioned out of half-a-dozen Neapolitan and Milanese princes, by Ford, by Beaumont and Fletcher, by Middleton, by Marston, even by the light and graceful Philip Massinger: mythical villains, Ferdinands, Lodowicks, and Fernezes, who yet fell short of the frightful realities of men like Sigismondo Malatesta, Alexander VI., and Pier Luigi Farnese; nay, more typical monsters, with no name save their vices, Lussuriosos, Gelosos, Ambitiosos, and Vindicis, like those drawn by the strong and savage hand of Cyril Tourneur. Nothing which the English stage could display seemed to the minds of English playwrights and the public to give an adequate picture of the abominations of Italy; much as they heaped up horrors and combined them with artistic skill, much as they forced into sight, there yet remained an abyss of evil which the English tongue refused to mention, but which weighed upon the English mind; and which, unspoken, nay (and it is the glory of the Elizabethan dramatists excepting Ford), unhinted, yet remained as an incubus in the consciousness of the playwrights and the public, was in their thoughts when they wrote and heard such savage misanthropic outbursts as those of Tourneur and of Marston. The sense of the rottenness of the country whence they were obtaining their intellectual nourishment, haunted with a sort of sickening fascination the imaginative and psychological minds of the late sixteenth century, of the men who had had time to outgrow the first cynical plunge of the rebellious immature intellects of the contemporaries of Greene, Peele, and Marlowe into that dissolved civilization. And of the great men who were thus enthralled by Italy and Italian evil, only Shakespeare and Massinger maintain or regain their serenity and hopefulness of spirit, resist the incubus of horror: Shakespeare from the immense scope of his vision, which permitted him to pass over the base and frightful parts of human nature and see its purer and higher sides; Massinger from the very superficiality of his insight and the narrowness of his sympathies, which prevented his ever thoroughly realizing the very horrors he had himself invented. But on the minds less elastic than that of Shakespeare, and less superficial than that of Massinger, the Italian evil weighed like a nightmare. With an infinitely powerful and passionate imagination, and an exquisitely subtle faculty of mental analysis; only lately freed from the dogma of the Middle Ages; unsettled in their philosophy; inclined by wholesale classical reading to a sort of negative atheism, a fatalistic and half-melancholy mixture of epicurism and stoicism; yet keenly alive, from study of the Bible and of religious controversies, to all questions of right and wrong; thus highly wrought and deeply perplexed, the minds of the Elizabethan poets were impressed by the wickedness of Italy as by the horrible deeds of one whom we are accustomed to venerate as our guide, whom we cannot but love as our benefactor, whom we cannot but admire as our superior: it was a sense of frightful anomaly, of putrescence in beauty and splendour, of death in life and life in death, which made the English psychologist-poets savage and sombre, cynical and wrathful and hopeless. The influence is the same on all, and the difference of attitude is slight, and due to individual characters; but the gloom is the same in each of them. In Webster--no mere grisly inventor of Radcliffian horrors, as we are apt to think of the greatest of our dramatists--after Shakespeare--in the noble and tender nature of Webster the sense is one of ineffable sadness, unmarred by cynicism, but unbrightened by hope. The villains, even if successful till death overtake them, are mere hideous phantoms-- these wretched eminent things Leave no more fame behind 'em, than should one Fall in a frost, and leave his print in snow-- the victims of tortured conscience, or, worse still, the owners of petrified hearts; there is nothing to envy in them. But none the better is it for the good: if Ferdinands, Bosolas, Brachianos, and Flaminios perish miserably, it is only after having done to death the tender and brave Duchess, the gentle Antonio, the chivalric Marcello; there is virtue on earth, but there is no justice in heaven. The half-pagan, half-puritanic feeling of Webster bursts out in the dying speech of the villain Bosola-- O, this gloomy world! In what a shadow, or deep pit of darkness, Doth womanish and fearful mankind live! Let worthy minds ne'er stagger in distrust To suffer death or shame for what is just. Of real justice in this life or compensation in another, there is no thought: Webster, though a Puritan in spirit, is no Christian in faith. On Ford the influence is different; although equal, perhaps, in genius to Webster, surpassing him even in intense tragic passion, he was far below Webster, and, indeed, far below all his generation, in moral fibre. The sight of evil fascinates him; his conscience staggers, his sympathies are bedraggled in foulness; in the chaos of good and evil he loses his reckoning, and recognizes the superiority only of strength of passion, of passion for good or evil: the incestuous Giovanni, daring his enemies like a wild beast at bay and cheating them of their revenge by himself murdering the object of his horrible passion, is as heroic in the eyes of Ford as the magnanimous Princess of Sparta, bearing with unflinching spirit the succession of misfortunes poured down upon her, and leading off the dance while messenger succeeds messenger of evil; till, free from her duties as a queen, she sinks down dead. Cyril Tourneur and John Marston are far more incomplete in genius than either Webster or Ford, although Tourneur sometimes obtains a lurid and ghastly tragic intensity which more than equals Ford when at his best; and Marston, in the midst of crabbedness and dulness, sometimes has touches of pathos and Michelangelesque foreshortenings of metaphor worthy of Webster. But Tourneur and Marston have neither the constant sympathy with oppressed virtue of the author of the "Duchess of Malfy," nor the blind fury of passion of the poet of "Giovanni and Annabella;" they look on grim and hopeless spectators at the world of fatalistic and insane wickedness which they have created, in which their heroes and heroines and villains are slowly entangled in inextricable evil. The men and women of Tourneur and Marston are scarcely men and women at all: they are mere vague spectres, showing their grisly wounds and moaning out their miserable fate. There is around them a thick and clammy moral darkness, dispelled only by the ghastly flashes of lurid virtue of maniacs like Tourneur's Vindici and Hippolito; a crypt-like moral stillness, haunted by strange evil murmurs, broken only by the hysterical sobs and laughs of Marston's Antonios and Pandulphos. At the most there issues out of the blood-reeking depth a mighty yell of pain, a tremendous imprecation not only at sinful man but at unsympathizing nature, like that of Marston's old Doge, dethroned, hunted down, crying aloud into the grey dawn-mists of the desolate marsh by the lagoon-- O thou all-bearing earth Which men do gape for till thou cram'st their mouths And choak'st their throats for dust: O charme thy breast And let me sinke into thee. Look who knocks; Andrugio calls. But O, she's deafe and blinde. A wretch but leane relief on earth can finde. The tragic sense, the sense of utter blank evil, is stronger in all these Elizabethan painters of Italian crime than perhaps in any other tragic writers. There is, in the great and sinister pictures of Webster, of Ford, of Tourneur, and of Marston, no spot of light, no distant bright horizon. There is no loving suffering, resigned to suffer and to pardon, like that of Desdemona, whose dying lips forgive the beloved who kills from too great love; no consoling affection like Cordelia's, in whose gentle embrace the poor bruised soul may sink into rest; no passionate union in death with the beloved, like the union of Romeo and Juliet; nothing but implacable cruelty, violent death received with agonized protest, or at best as the only release from unmitigated misery with which the wretch has become familiar, As the tann'd galley slave is with his oar. Neither is there in these plays that solemn sense of heavenly justice, of the fatality hanging over a house which will be broken when guilt shall have been expiated, which lends a sort of serene background of eternal justice to the terrible tales of Thebes and Argos. There is for these men no fatality save the evil nature of man, no justice save the doubling of crime, no compensation save revenge: there is for Webster and Ford and Tourneur and Marston no heaven above, wrathful but placable; there are no Gods revengeful but just: there is nothing but this blood-stained and corpse-strewn earth, defiled by lust-burnt and death-hungering men, felling each other down and trampling on one another blindly in the eternal darkness which surrounds them. The world of these great poets is not the open world with its light and its air, its purifying storms and lightnings: it is the darkened Italian palace, with its wrought-iron bars preventing escape; its embroidered carpets muffling the foot steps; its hidden, suddenly yawning trapdoors; its arras-hangings concealing masked ruffians; its garlands of poisoned flowers; its long suites of untenanted darkened rooms, through which the wretch is pursued by the half-crazed murderer; while below, in the cloistered court, the clanking armour and stamping horses, and above, in the carved and gilded hall, the viols and lutes and cornets make a cheery triumphant concert, and drown the cries of the victim. II. Such is the Italy of the Renaissance as we see it in the works of our tragic playwrights: a country of mysterious horror, the sinister reputation of which lasted two hundred years; lasted triumphantly throughout the light and finikin eighteenth century, and found its latest expression in the grim and ghastly romances of the school of Ann Radcliff, romances which are but the last puny and grotesque descendants of the great stock of Italian tragedies, born of the first terror-stricken meeting of the England of Elizabeth with the Italy of the late Renaissance. Is the impression received by the Elizabethan playwrights a correct impression? Was Italy in the sixteenth century that land of horrors? Reviewing in our memory the literature and art of the Italian Renaissance, remembering the innumerable impressions of joyous and healthy life with which it has filled us; recalling the bright and thoughtless rhymes of Lorenzo dei Medici, of Politian, of Bern!, and of Ariosto; the sweet and tender poetry of Bembo and Vittoria Colonna and Tasso; the bluff sensuality of novelists like Bandello and Masuccio, the Aristophanesque laughter of the comedy of Bibbiena and of Beolco; seeing in our mind's eye the stately sweet matrons and noble senators of Titian, the virginal saints and madonnas of Raphael, the joyous angels of Correggio;--recapitulating rapidly all our impressions of this splendid time of exuberant vitality, of this strong and serene Renaissance, we answer without hesitation, and with only a smile of contempt at our credulous ancestors--no. The Italy of the Renaissance was, of all things that have ever existed or ever could exist, the most utterly unlike the nightmare visions of men such as Webster and Ford, Marston and Tourneur. The only Elizabethan drama which really represents the Italy of the Renaissance is the comedy of Shakespeare, of Beaumont and Fletcher, and of Ben Jonson and Massinger: to the Renaissance belong those clear and sunny figures, the Portias, Antonios, Gratianos, Violas, Petruchios, Bellarios, and Almiras; their faces do we see on the canvases of Titian and the frescoes of Raphael; they are the real children of the Italian Renaissance. These frightful Brachianos and Annabellas and Ferdinands and Corombonas and Vindicis and Pieros of the "White Devil," of the "Duchess of Malfy," of the "Revenger's Tragedy," and of "Antonio and Mellida," are mere fantastic horrors, as false as the Counts Udolpho, the Spalatros, the Zastrozzis, and all their grotesquely ghastly pseudo-Italian brethren of eighty years ago. And, indeed, the Italy of the Renaissance, as represented in its literature and its art, is the very negation of Elizabethan horrors. Of all the mystery, the colossal horror and terror of our dramatists, there is not the faintest trace in the intellectual productions of the Italian Renaissance. The art is absolutely stainless: no scenes of horror, no frightful martyrdoms, as with the Germans under Albrecht Dürer; no abominable butcheries, as with the Bolognese of the seventeenth century; no macerated saints and tattered assassins, as with the Spaniards; no mystery, no contortion, no horrors: vigorous and serene beauty, pure and cheerful life, real or ideal, on wall or canvas, in bronze or in marble. The literature is analogous to the art, only less perfect, more tainted with the weakness of humanity, less ideal, more real. It is essentially human, in the largest sense of the word; or if it cease, in creatures like Aretine, to be humanly clean, it becomes merely satyr-like, swinish, hircose. But it is never savage in lust or violence; it is quite free from the element of ferocity. It is essentially light and quiet and well regulated, sane and reasonable, never staggering or blinded by excess: it is full of intelligent discrimination, of intelligent leniency, of well-bred reserved sympathy; it is civilized as are the wide well-paved streets of Ferrara compared with the tortuous black alleys of mediæval Paris; as are the well-lit, clean, spacious palaces of Michelozzo or Bramante compared with the squalid, unhealthy, uncomfortable mediæval castles of Dürer's etchings. It is indeed a trifle too civilized; too civilized to produce every kind of artistic fruit; it is--and here comes the crushing difference between the Italian Renaissance and our Elizabethans' pictures of it--it is, this beautiful rich literature of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, completely deficient in every tragic element; it has intuition neither for tragic event nor for tragic character; it affords not a single tragic page in its poems and novels; it is incapable, after the most laborious and conscientious study of Euripides and Seneca, utterly and miserably incapable of producing a single real tragedy, anything which is not a sugary pastoral or a pompous rhetorical exercise. The epic poets of the Italian Renaissance, Pulci, Boiardo, Berni, and Ariosto, even the stately and sentimental Tasso, are no epic poets at all. They are mere light and amusing gossips, some of them absolute buffoons. Their adventures over hill and dale are mere riding parties; their fights mere festival tournaments, their enchantments mere pageant wonders. Events like the death of Hector, the slaughter of Penelope's suitors, the festive massacre of Chriemhilt, the horrible deceit of Alfonso the Chaste sending Bernardo del Carpio his father's corpse on horseback-- things like these never enter their minds. When tragic events do by some accident come into their narration, they cease to be tragic; they are frittered away into mere pretty conceits like the death of Isabella and the sacrifice of Olympia in the "Orlando Furioso;" or melted down into vague pathos, like the burning of Olindo and Sofronia, and the death of Clorinda by the sentimental Tasso. Neither poet, the one with his cheerfulness, the other with his mild melancholy, brings home, conceives the horror of the situation; the one treats the tragic in the spirit almost of burlesque, the other entirely in the spirit of elegy. So, again, with the novel writers: these professional retailers of anecdotes will pick up any subject to fill their volumes. In default of pleasant stories of filthy intrigue or lewd jest, men like Cinthio and Bandello will gabble off occasionally some tragic story, picked out of a history book or recently heard from a gossip: the stories of Harmodius and Aristogeiton, of Disdémona and the Moorish Captain, of Roméo Montecchio and Giulietta Cappelletti, of the Cardinal d'Aragona and the Duchess of Amalfi, of unknown grotesque Persian Sophis and Turkish Bassas--stories of murder, massacre, rape, incest, anything and everything, prattled off, with a few words of vapid compassion and stale moralizing, in the serene, cheerful, chatty manner in which they recount their Decameronian escapades or Rabelaisian repartees. As it is with tragic action, so is it with tragic character. The literature of the country which suggested to our Elizabethans their colossal villains, can display only a few conventional monsters, fire-eating, swashbuckler Rodomonts and Sultan Malechs, strutting and puffing like the grotesque villains of puppet-shows; Aladins and Ismenos, enchanters and ogres fit to be put into Don Quixote's library: mere conventional rag puppets, doubtless valued as such and no more by the shrewd contemporaries of Ariosto and Tasso. The inhabitants of Tasso's world of romance are pale chivalric unrealities, lifeless as Spenser's half-allegoric knights and ladies; those of Pulci's Ardenne forests and Cathay deserts are buffoons such as Florentine shopmen may have trapped out for their amusement in rusty armour and garlands of sausages. The only lifelike heroes and heroines are those of Ariosto. And they are most untragic, unromantic. The men are occasionally small scoundrels, but unintentionally on the part of the author. They show no deep moral cancers or plague-spots; they display cheerfully all the petty dishonour and small lusts which the Renaissance regarded as mere flesh and blood characteristics. So also Ariosto's ladies: the charming, bright women, coquettish or Amazonian, are frail and fickle to the degree which was permissible to a court lady, who should be neither prudish nor coquettish; doing unchaste things and listening to unchaste words simply, gracefully, without prurience or horror; perfectly well-bred, _gentili_, as Ariosto calls them; prudent also, according to the notions of the day, in limiting their imprudence. The adventure of Fiordispina with Ricciardetto would have branded an English serving-wench as a harlot; the behaviour of Roger towards the lady he has just rescued from the sea-monster would have blushingly been attributed by Spenser to one of his satyrs; but these were escapades quite within Ariosto's notions of what was permitted to a _gentil cavaliero_ and a _nobil donzella_; and if Fiordispina and Roger are not like Florimell and Sir Calidore, still less do they in the faintest degree resemble Tourneur and Marston's Levidulcias and Isabellas and Lussuriosos. And with the exception perhaps, of this heroine and this hero, we cannot find any very great harm in Ariosto's ladies and gentlemen: we may, indeed, feel indignant when we think that they replace the chaste and noble impossibilities of earlier romance, the Rolands and Percivals, the Beatrices and Lauras of the past; when we consider that they represent for Ariosto, not the bespattered but the spotless, not the real but the ideal. All this may awaken in us contempt and disgust; but if we consider these figures in themselves as realities, and compare them with the evil figures of our drama, we find that they are mere venial sinners--light, fickle, amorous, fibbing--very human in their faults; human, trifling, mild, not at all monstrous, like all the art products of the Renaissance.[1] [1] The "Orlando Innamorato" of Boiardo contains, part i, canto 8, a story too horrible and grotesque for me to narrate, of a monster born of Marchino and his murdered sister-in-law, which forms a strange exception to my rule, even as does, for instance, Matteo di Giovanni's massacre of the Innocents. Can this story have been suggested, a ghastly nightmare, by the frightful tale of Sigismondo Malatesta and the beautiful Borbona, which was current in Boiardo's day? A serene and spotless art, a literature often impure but always cheerful, rational, civilized--this is what the Italian Renaissance displays when we seek in it for spirits at all akin to Webster or Lope de Vega, to Holbein or Ribera. To find the tragic we must wait for the Bolognese painters of the seventeenth century, for Metastasio and Alfieri in the eighteenth; it is useless seeking it in this serene and joyous Renaissance. Where, then, in the midst of these spotless virgins, these noble saints, these brilliant pseudo-chivalric joustings and revels, these sweet and sonneteering pastorals, these scurrilous adventures and loose buffooneries; where in this Italian Renaissance are the horrors which fascinated so strangely our English playwrights: the fratricides and incests, the frightful crimes of lust and blood which haunted and half crazed the genius of Tourneur and Marston? Where in this brilliant and courteous and humane and civilized nation are the gigantic villains whose terrible features were drawn with such superb awfulness of touch by Webster and Ford? Where in this Renaissance of Italian literature, so cheerful and light of conscience, is the foul and savage Renaissance of English tragedy? Does the art of Italy tell an impossible, universal lie? or is the art of England the victim of an impossible, universal hallucination? Neither; for art can neither tell lies nor be the victim of hallucination. The horror exists, and the light-heartedness exists; the unhealthiness and the healthiness. For as, in that weird story by Nathaniel Hawthorne, the daughter of the Paduan wizard is nurtured on the sap and fruit and the emanations of poisonous plants, till they become her natural sustenance, and she thrives and is strong and lovely; while the youth, bred in the ordinary pure air and nourished on ordinary wholesome food, faints and staggers as soon as he breathes the fatal odours of the poison garden, and sinks down convulsed and crazed at the first touch of his mistress' blooming but death-breathing lips; so also the Italians, steeped in the sin of their country, seeing it daily and hourly, remained intellectually healthy and serene; while the English, coming from a purer moral atmosphere, were seized with strange moral sickness of horror at what they had seen and could not forget. And the nation which was chaste and true wrote tales of incest and treachery, while the nation which was foul and false wrote poetry of shepherds and knights-errant. The monstrous immorality of the Italian Renaissance, as I have elsewhere shown in greater detail, was, like the immorality of any other historical period, not a formal rebellion against God, but a natural result of the evolution of the modern world. The Italy of the Renaissance was one of the many victims which inevitable moral sequence dooms to be evil in order that others may learn to be good: it was a sacrifice which consisted in a sin, a sacrifice requiring frightful expiation on the part of the victim. For Italy was subjected, during well-nigh two centuries, to a slow process of moral destruction; a process whose various factors--political disorganization, religious indifference, scientific scepticism, wholesale enthusiasm for the antique, breaking-up of mediæval standards and excessive growth of industry, commerce, and speculative thought at the expense of warlike and religious habits--were at the same time factors in the great advent of modern civilization, of which Italy was the pioneer and the victim; a process whose result was, in Italy, insensibly and inevitably to reduce to chaos the moral and political organization of the nation; at once rendering men completely unable to discriminate between good and evil, and enabling a certain proportion of them to sin with complete impunity: creating on the one hand moral indifference, and on the other social irresponsibility. Civilization had kept pace with demoralization; the faculty of reasoning over cause and effect had developed at the expense of the faculty of judging of actions. The Italians of the Renaissance, little by little, could judge only of the adaptation of means to given ends; whether means or ends were legitimate or illegitimate they soon became unable to perceive and even unable to ask. Success was the criterion of all action, and power was its limits. Active and furious national wickedness there was not: there was mere moral inertia on the part of the people. The Italians of the Renaissance neither resisted evil nor rebelled against virtue; they were indifferent to both, and a little pressure sufficed to determine them to either. In the governed classes, where the law was equal between men, and industry and commerce kept up healthy activity, the pressure was towards good. The artizans and merchants lived decent lives, endowed hospitals, listened to edifying sermons, and were even moved (for a few moments) by men like San Bernardino or Savonarola. In the governing classes, where all right lay in force, where the necessity of self-defence induced treachery and violence, and irresponsibility produced excess, the pressure was towards evil. The princelets and prelates and mercenery generals indulged in every sensuality, turned treachery into a science and violence into an instrument; and sometimes let themselves be intoxicated into mad lust and ferocity, as their subjects were occasionally intoxicated with mad austerity and mysticism; but the excesses of mad vice, like the excesses of mad virtue, lasted only a short time, or lasted only in individual saints or blood-maniacs; and the men of the Renaissance speedily regained their level of indifferent righteousness and of indifferent sinfulness. Righteousness and sinfulness both passive, without power of aggression or resistance, and consequently in strange and dreadful peace with each other. The wicked men did not dislike virtue, nor the good men vice: the villain could admire a saint, and the saint could condone a villain. The prudery of righteousness was as unknown as the cynicism of evil; the good man, like Guarino da Verona, would not shrink from the foul man; the foul man, like Beccadelli, would not despise the pure man. The ideally righteous citizen of Agnolo Pandolfini does not interfere with the ideally unrighteous prince of Machiavelli: each has his own position and conduct; and who can say whether, if the positions were exchanged, the conduct might not be exchanged also? In such a condition of things as this, evil ceases to appear monstrous; it is explained, endured, condoned. The stately philosophical historians, so stoically grand, and the prattling local chroniclers, so highly coloured and so gentle and graceful; Guicciardini and Machiavelli and Valori and Segni, on the one hand--Corio, Allegretti, Matarazzo, Infessura, on the other; all these, from whom we learn the real existence of immorality far more universal and abominable than our dramatists venture to show, relate quietly, calmly, with analytical frigidness or gossiping levity, the things which we often shrink from repeating, and sometimes recoil from believing. Great statesmanlike historians and humble chattering chroniclers are alike unaffected by what goes on around them: they collect anecdotes and generalize events without the fumes of evil, among which they seek for materials in the dark places of national or local history, ever going to their imagination, ever making their heart sicken and faint, and their fancy stagger and reel. The life of these righteous, or at least, not actively sinning men, may be hampered, worried, embittered, or even broken by the villainy of their fellow-men; but, except in some visionary monk, life can never be poisoned by the mere knowledge of evil. Their town maybe betrayed to the enemy, their daughters may be dishonoured or poisoned, their sons massacred; they may, in their old age, be cast starving on the world, or imprisoned or broken by torture; and they will complain and be fierce in diatribe: the fiercest diatribe written against any Pope of the Renaissance being, perhaps, that of Platina against Paul II., who was a saint compared with his successors Sixtus and Alexander, because the writer of the diatribe and his friends were maltreated by this pope. When personally touched, the Italians of the Renaissance will brook no villainy--the poniard quickly despatches sovereigns like Galeazzo Maria Sforza; but when the villainy remains abstract, injures neither themselves nor their immediate surroundings, it awakens no horror, and the man who commits it is by no means regarded as a fiend. The great criminals of the Renaissance--traitors and murderers like Lodovico Sforza, incestuous parricides like Gianpaolo Baglioni, committers of every iniquity under heaven like Cæsar Borgia--move through the scene of Renaissance history, as shown by its writers great and small, quietly, serenely, triumphantly; with gracious and magnanimous bearing; applauded, admired, or at least endured. On their passage no man, historian or chronicler, unless the agent of a hostile political faction, rises up, confronts them and says, "This man is a devil." And devils these men were not: the judgment of their contemporaries, morally completely perverted, was probably psychologically correct; they misjudged the deeds, but rarely, perhaps, misjudged the man. To us moderns, as to our English ancestors of the sixteenth century, this is scarcely conceivable. A man who does devilish deeds is necessarily a devil; and the evil Italian princes of the Renaissance, the Borgias, Sforzas, Baglionis, Malatestas, and Riarios appear, through the mist of horrified imagination, so many uncouth and gigantic monsters, nightmare shapes, less like human beings than like the grand and frightful angels of evil who gather round Milton's Satan in the infernal council. Such they appear to us. But if we once succeed in calmly looking at them, seeing them not in the lurid lights and shadows of our fancy, but in the daylight of contemporary reality, we shall little by little be forced to confess (and the confession is horrible) that most of these men are neither abnormal nor gigantic. Their times were monstrous, not they. They were not, that is clear, at variance with the moral atmosphere which surrounded them; and they were the direct result of the social and political condition. This may seem no answer; for although we know the causes of monster births, they are monstrous none the less. What we mean is not that the existence of men capable of committing such actions was normal; we mean that the men who committed them, the conditions being what they were, were not necessarily men of exceptional character. The level of immorality was so high that a man need be no giant to reach up into the very seventh heaven of iniquity. When to massacre at a banquet a number of enemies enticed by overtures of peace was considered in Cæsar Borgia merely a rather audacious and not very holy action, indicative of very brilliant powers of diplomacy, then Cæsar Borgia required, to commit such an action, little more than a brilliant diplomatic endowment, unhampered by scruples and timidity; when a brave, and gracious prince like Gianpaolo Baglioni could murder his kinsmen and commit incest with his sister without being considered less gracious and magnanimous, then Gianpaolo Baglioni might indeed be but an indifferent villain; when treachery, lust, and bloodshed, although objected to in theory, were condoned In practice, and were regarded as venial sins, those who indulged in them might be in fact scarcely more than venial sinners. In short, where a fiendish action might be committed without the perpetrator being considered a fiend, there was no need of his being one. And, indeed, the great villains of the Renaissance never take up the attitude of fiends; one or two, like certain Visconti or Aragonese, were madmen, but the others were more or less normal human beings. There was no barrier between them and evil; they slipped into it, remained in it, became accustomed to it; but a vicious determination to be wicked, a feeling of the fiend within one, like that of Shakespeare's Richard, or a gradual, conscious irresistible absorption into recognized iniquity like Macbeth's, there was not. The mere sense of absolute power and impunity, together with the complete silence of the conscience of the public at large, can make a man do strange things. If Cæsar Borgia be free to practise his archery upon hares and deer, why should he not practise it upon these prisoners? Who will blame him? Who can prevent him? If he had for his mistress every woman he might single out from among his captives, why not his sister? If he have the force to carry out a plan, why should a man stand in his way? The complete facility in the commission of all actions quickly brings such a man to the limits of the legitimate: there is no universal cry to tell him where those limits are, no universal arm to pull him back. He pooh-poohs, pushes them a little further, and does the iniquity. Nothing prevents his gratifying his ambition, his avarice, and his lust, so he gratifies them. Soon, seeking for further gratification, he has to cut new paths in villainy: he has not been restrained by man, who is silent; he is soon restrained no longer by nature, whose only voice is in man's conscience. Pleasure in wanton cruelty takes the same course: he prefers to throw javelins at men and women to throwing javelins at bulls or bears, even as he prefers throwing javelins at bulls or bears rather than at targets; the excitement is greater; the instinct is that of the soldiers of Spain and of France, who invariably preferred shooting at a valuable fresco like Sodoma's Christ, at Siena, or Lo Spagna's Madonna, at Spoleto, to practising against a mere worthless piece of wood. Such a man as Cæsar Borgia is the _nec plus ultra_ of a Renaissance villain; he takes, as all do not, absolute pleasure in evil as such. Yet Cæsar Borgia is not a fiend nor a maniac. He can restrain himself whenever circumstances or policy require it; he can be a wise administrator, a just judge. His portraits show no degraded criminal; he is, indeed, a criminal in action, but not necessarily a criminal in constitution, this fiendish man who did not seem a fiend to Machiavel. We are astonished at the strange anomaly in the tastes and deeds of these Renaissance villains; we are amazed before their portraits. These men, who, in the frightful light of their own misdeeds, appear to us as complete demons or complete madmen, have yet much that is amiable and much that is sane; they stickle at no abominable lust, yet they are no bestial sybarites; they are brave, sober, frugal, enduring like any puritan; they are treacherous, rapacious, cruel, utterly indifferent to the sufferings of their enemies, yet they are gentle in manner, passionately fond of letters and art, superb in their works of public utility, and not incapable of genuinely admiring men of pure life like Bernardino or Savonarola: they are often, strange to say, like the frightful Baglionis of Perugia, passionately admired and loved by their countrymen. The bodily portraits of these men, painted by the sternly realistic art of the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, are even more confusing to our ideas than their moral portraits drawn by historians and chroniclers. Cæsar Borgia, with his long fine features and noble head, is a gracious and refined prince; there is, perhaps, a certain duplicity in the well-cut lips; the beard, worn full and peaked in Spanish fashion, forms a sort of mask to the lower part of the face, but what we see is noble and intellectual. Sigismondo Malatesta has on his medals a head whose scowl has afforded opportunity for various fine descriptions of a blood maniac; but the head, thus found so expressive, of this monster, is infinitely more human than the head on the medals of Lionello d'Este, one of the most mild and cultivated of the decently behaved Ferrarese princes. The very flower of precocious iniquity, the young Baglionis, Vitellis, and Orsinis, grouped round Signorelli's preaching Antichrist at Orvieto, are, in their gallantly trimmed jerkins and jewelled caps, the veriest assemblage of harmless young dandies, pretty and insipid; we can scarcely believe that these mild beardless striplings, tight-waisted and well-curled like girls of sixteen, are the terrible Umbrian brigand condottieri--Gianpaolos, Simonettos, Vitellozzos, and Astorres--whose abominable deeds fill the pages of the chronicles of Matarazzo, of Frolliere, of Monaldeschi. Nowhere among the portraits of Renaissance monsters do we meet with anything like those Roman emperors, whose frightful effigies, tumid, toad-like Vitelliuses or rage-convulsed Caracallas, fill all our museums in marble or bronze or loathsome purple porphyry; such types as these are as foreign to the reality of the Italian Renaissance as are the Brachianos and Lussuriosos, the Pieros and Corombonas, to the Italian fiction of the sixteenth century. Nor must such anomalies between the type of the men and their deeds, between their abominable crimes and their high qualities, be merely made a subject for grandiloquent disquisition. The man of the Renaissance, as we have said, had no need to be a monster to do monstrous things; a crime did not necessitate such a moral rebellion as requires complete unity of nature, unmixed wickedness; it did not precipitate a man for ever into a moral abyss where no good could ever enter. Seeing no barrier between the legitimate and the illegitimate, he could alternate almost unconsciously between them. He was never shut out from evil, and never shut out from good; the judgment of men did not dress him in a convict's jacket which made evil his only companion; it did not lock him up in a moral dungeon where no ray of righteousness could enter; he was not condemned, like the branded harlot, to hopeless infamy. He need be bad only as much and as long as he chose. Hence, on the part of the evil-doer of the Renaissance, no necessity either for violent rebellion or for sincere repentance; hence the absence of all characters such as the tragic writer seeks, developed by moral struggle, warped by the triumph of vice, or consciously soiled in virtue. What a "Revenger's Tragedy" might not Cyril Tourneur have made, had he known all the details, of the story of Alessandro de' Medici's death! What a Vindici he would have made of the murderer Lorenzino; with what a strange lurid grandeur he would have surrounded the plottings of the pander Brutus. But Lorenzino de' Medici had none of the feeling of Tourneur's Vindici; there was in him none of the ghastly spirit of self-immolation of the hero of Tourneur in his attendance upon the foul creature whom he leads to his death. Lorenzino had the usual Brutus mania of his day, but unmixed with horror. To be the pander and jester of the Duke was no pain to his nature; there was probably no sense of debasement in the knowledge either of his employer or of his employment. To fasten on Alexander, to pretend to be his devoted slave and server of his lust, this piece of loathsome acting, merely enhanced, by the ingenuity it required, the attraction of what to Lorenzino was an act of heroism. His ambition was to be a Brutus; that he had bespattered the part probably never occurred to him. The indifference to good and evil permitted the men of the Renaissance to mix the two without any moral sickness, as it permitted them to alternate them without a moral struggle. Such is the wickedness of the Renaissance: not a superhuman fury of lust and cruelty, like Victor Hugo's Lucrezia Borgia; but an indifferent, a characterless creature like the Lucrezia Borgia of history: passive to surrounding influences, blind to good and evil, infamous in the infamous Rome, among her father and brother's courtesans and cut-throats; grave and gracious! in the grave and gracious Ferrara, among the Platonic poets and pacific courtiers of the court of the Estensi. Thus, in the complete prose and colourlessness of reality, has the evil of the Renaissance been understood and represented only by one man, and transmitted to us in one pale and delicate psychological masterpiece far more loathsome than any elaborately hideous monster painting by Marston or Tourneur. The man who thus conceived the horrors of the Italian Renaissance in the spirit in which they were committed is Ford. In his great play he has caught the very tone of the Italian Renaissance: the abominableness of the play consisting not in the coarse slaughter scenes added merely to please the cockpit of an English theatre, but in the superficial innocence of tone; in its making evil lose its appearance of evil, even as it did to the men of the Renaissance. Giovanni and Annabella make love as if they were Romeo and Juliet: there is scarcely any struggle, and no remorse; they weep and pay compliments and sigh and melt in true Aminta style. There is in the love of the brother and sister neither the ferocious heat of tragic lust, nor the awful shudder of unnatural evil; they are lukewarm, neither good nor bad. Their abominable love is in their own eyes a mere weakness of the flesh; there is no sense of revolt against man and nature and God; they are neither dragged on by irresistible demoniac force nor held back by the grip of conscience; they slip and slide, even like Francesca and Paolo. They pay each other sweet and mawkish compliments. The ferocious lust of Francesco Cenci is moral compared with the way in which the "trim youth" Giovanni praises Annabella's beauty; the blushing, bride-like way in which Annabella, "white in her soul," acknowledges her long love. The atrociousness of all this is, that if you strike out a word or two the scene may be read with perfect moral satisfaction, with the impression that this is really "sacred love." For in these scenes Ford wrote with a sweetness and innocence truly diabolical, not a shiver of horror passing through him--serene, unconscious; handling the filthy without sense of its being unclean, to the extent, the incredible extent, of making Giovanni and Annabella swear on their mother's ashes eternal fidelity in incest: horror of horrors, to which no Walpurgis Night abomination could ever approach, this taking as witness of the unutterable, not an obscene Beelzebub with abominable words and rites, but the very holiest of holies. If ever Englishman approached the temper of the Italian Renaissance, it was not Tourneur, nor Shelley with his cleansing hell fires of tragic horror, but this sweet and gentle Ford. If ever an artistic picture approached the reality of such a man as Gianpaolo Baglioni, the incestuous murderer whom the Frolliere chronicler, enthusiastic like Matarazzo, admires, for "his most beautiful person, his benign and amiable manner and lordly bearing," it is certainly not the elaborately villainous Francesco Cenci of Shelley, boasting like another Satan of his enormous wickedness, exhausting in his picture of himself the rhetoric of horror, committing his final enormity merely to complete the crown of atrocities in which he glories; it is no such tragic impossibility of moral hideousness as this; it is the Giovanni of Ford, the pearl of virtuous and studious youths, the spotless, the brave, who, after a moment's reasoning, tramples on a vulgar prejudice--"Shall a peevish sound, a customary form from man to man, of brother and of sister, be a bar 'twixt my eternal happiness and me?" who sins with a clear conscience, defies the world, and dies, bravely, proudly, the "sacred name" of Annabella on his lips, like a chivalrous hero. The pious, pure Germany of Luther will give the world the tragic type of the science-damned Faustus; the devout and savage Spain of Cervantes will give the tragic type of Don Juan, damned for mockery of man and of death and of heaven; the Puritan England of Milton will give the most sublimely tragic type of all, the awful figure of him who says, "Evil, be thou my good." What tragic type can this evil Italy of Renaissance give to the world? None: or at most this miserable, morbid, compassionated Giovanni: whom Ford would have us admire, and whom we can only despise. The blindness to evil which constitutes the criminality of the Renaissance is so great as to give a certain air of innocence. For the men of that time were wicked solely from a complete sophistication of ideas, a complete melting away (owing to slowly operating political and intellectual tendencies) of all moral barriers. They walked through the paths of wickedness with the serenity with which they would have trod the ways of righteousness; seeing no boundary, exercising their psychic limbs equally in the open and permitted spaces and in the forbidden. They plucked the fruit of evil without a glance behind them, without a desperate setting of their teeth; plucked it openly, calmly, as they would have plucked the blackberries in the hedge; bit into it, ate it, with perfect ease and serenity, saying their prayers before and after, as if it were their natural daily bread mentioned in the Lord's Prayer; no grimace or unseemly leer the while; no moral indigestion or nightmare (except very rarely) in consequence. Hence the serenity of their literature and art. These men and women of the Italian Renaissance have, in their portraits, a very pleasing nobility of aspect: serene, thoughtful, healthy, benign. Titian's courtesans are our archetypes of dignified womanhood; we might fancy Portia or Isabella with such calm, florid beauty, so wholly unmeretricious and uncankered. The humanists and priests who lie outstretched on the acanthus-leaved and flower-garlanded sarcophagi by Desiderio and Rossellino are the very flowers of refined and gentle men of study; the youths in Botticelli's "Adoration of The Magi," for instance, are the ideal of Boiardo's chivalry, Rinaldos and Orlandos every one; the corseleted generals of the Renaissance, so calm and stern and frank, the Bartolomeo Colleoni of Verrocchio, the Gattamelata by Giorgione (or Giorgione's pupil), look fit to take up the banner of the crusade: that Gattamelata in the Uffizi gallery especially looks like a sort of military Milton: give him a pair of wings and he becomes at once Signorelli's archangel, clothed in heavenly steel and unsheathing the flaming sword of God. Compare with these types Holbein's courtiers of Henry VIII.; what scrofulous hogs! Compare Sanchez Coello's Philip II. and Don Carlos; what monomaniacs. Compare even Dürer's magnificent head of Willibald Pirkheimer: how the swine nature is blended with the thinker. And the swine will be subdued, the thinker will triumph. Why? Just because there is a contest--because the thinker-Willibald is conscious of the swine-Willibald. In this coarse, brutal, deeply stained Germany of the time of Luther, affording Dürer and Holbein, alas! how many besotten and bestial types, there will arise a great conflict: the obscene leering Death--Death-in-Life as he really is--will skulk everywhere, even as in the prints of the day, hideous and powerful, trying, with hog's snout, to drive Christ Himself out of limbo; but he is known, seen, dreaded. The armed knight of Dürer turns away from his grimacings, and urges on his steel-covered horse. He visits even the best, even Luther in the Wartburg; but the good men open their Bibles, cry "Vade retro!" and throw their inkstands at him, showing themselves terrified and ruffled after the combat. And these Germans of Luther's are disgustingly fond of blood and horrors: they like to see the blood spirt from the decapitated trunk, to watch its last contortions; they hammer with a will (in Dürer's "Passion") the nails of the cross, they peel off strips of skin in the flagellation. But then they can master all that; they can be pure, charitable; they have gentleness for the hare and the rabbit, like Luther; they kneel piously before the cross-bearing stag, like Saint Hubert. Not so the Italians. They rarely or never paint horrors, or death, or abominations. Their flagellated Christ, their arrow-riddled Sebastian, never writhe or howl with pain; indeed, they suffer none. Judith, in Mantegna's print, puts the head of Holophernes into her bag with the serenity of a muse; and the head is quite clean, without loathsome drippings or torn depending strings of muscle; unconvulsed, a sort of plaster cast. The tragedy of Christ, the tragedy of Judith; the physical agency shadowing the moral agony; the awfulness of victim and criminal--the whole tragic meaning was unknown to the light and cheerful contemporaries of Ariosto, the cold and cynical contemporaries of Machiavelli. The tragic passion and imagination which, in the noble and grotesque immaturity of the Middle Ages, had murmured confusedly in the popular legends which gave to Ezzelin the Fiend as a father, and Death and Sin as adversaries at dice; which had stammered awkwardly but grandly in the school Latin of Mussato's tragedy of "Eccerinis;" which had wept and stormed and imprecated and laughed for horror in the infinite tragedy--pathetic, grand, and grotesque, like all great tragedy--of Dante; this tragic passion and imagination, this sense of the horrible and the terrible, had been forfeited by the Italy of the Renaissance, lost with its sense of right and wrong. The Italian Renaissance, supreme in the arts which require a subtle and strong perception of the excellence of mere lines and colours and lights and shadows, which demand unflinching judgment of material qualities; was condemned to inferiority in the art which requires subtle and strong perception of the excellence of human emotion and action; in the art which demands unflinching judgment of moral motives. The tragic spirit is the offspring of the conscience of a people. The sense of the imaginative grandeur of evil may perhaps be a forerunner of demoralization; but such a sense of wonder and awe, such an imaginative fascination of the grandly, superhumanly wicked such a necessity to magnify a villain into a demon with archangelic splendour of power of evil, can exist only in minds pure and strong, braced up to virtue, virgin of evil, with a certain childlike power of wonder; minds to whom it appears that to be wicked requires a powerful rebellion; minds accustomed to nature and nature's plainness, to whom the unnatural can be no subject of sophistication and cynicism, but only of wonder. While, in Italy, Giraldi Cinthio prattles off to a gay party of ladies and gentlemen stories of murder and lust as frightful as those of "Titus' Andronicus," of "Giovanni and Annabella," and of the "Revenger's Tragedy," in the intelligent, bantering tone in which he tells his Decameronian tales; in England, Marston, in his superb prologue to the second part of "Antonio and Mellida," doubts whether all his audience can rise to the conception of the terrible passions he wishes to display: If any spirit breathes within this round Uncapable of weighty passion, Who winks and shuts his apprehension up From common sense of what men were and are, Who would not know what men must be: let such Hurry amain from our black visaged shows; We shall affright their eyes. The great criminals of Italy were unconscious of being criminals; the nation was unconscious of being sinful. Bembo's sonnets were the fit reading for Lucrezia Borgia; pastorals by Guarini the dramatic amusements of Rannuccio Farnesi; if Vittoria Accoramboni and Francesco Cenci read anything besides their prayerbook or ribald novels, it was some sugary "Aminta" or "Pastor Fido:" their own tragedies by Webster and Shelley they could never have understood. And thus the Italians of the Renaissance walked placidly through the evil which surrounded them; for them, artists and poets, the sky was always blue and the sun always bright, and their art and their poetry were serene. But the Englishmen of the sixteenth century were astonished and fascinated by the evil of Italy: the dark pools of horror, the dabs of infamy which had met them ever and anon in the brilliant southern cities, haunted them like nightmare, bespattered for them the clear blue sky, and danced, black and horrible spots, before the face of the sun. The remembrance of Italian wickedness weighed on them like an incubus, clung to them with a frightful fascination. While the foulest criminals of Italy discussed the platonic vapidnesses of Bembo's sonnets, and wept at the sweet and languid lamentations of Guarini's shepherds and nymphs; the strong Englishmen of the time of Shakespeare, the men whose children were to unsheathe under Cromwell the sword of righteousness, listened awe-stricken and fascinated with horror to the gloomy and convulsed, the grand and frightful plays of Webster and of Tourneur. And the sin of the Renaissance, which the art of Italy could neither pourtray nor perceive; appeared on the stage decked in superb and awful garb by the tragic imagination of Elizabethan England. THE OUTDOOR POETRY. The thought of winter is bleak and barren to our mind; the late year is chary of æsthetic as of all other food. In the country it does not bring ugliness; but it terribly reduces and simplifies things, depriving them of two-thirds of their beauty. In sweeping away the last yellow leaves, the last crimson clouds, and in bleaching the last green grass, it effaces a whole wealth of colour. It deprives us still more by actually diminishing the number of forms: for what summer had left rich, various, complex, winter reduces to blank uniformity. There is a whole world of lovely things, shapes and tints, effects of light, colour, and perspective in a wood, as long as it is capriciously divided into a thousand nooks and crannies by projecting boughs, bushes, hedges, and hanging leaves; and this winter clears away and reduces to a Haussmanized simplicity of plan. There is a smaller world, yet one quite big enough for a summer's day, in any hay field, among the barren oats, the moon-daisies, the seeded grasses, the sorrel, the buttercups, all making at a distance a wonderful blent effect of luminous brown and lilac and russet foamed with white; and forming, when you look close into it, an unlimited forest of delicately separate stems and bloom and seed; every plant detaching itself daintily from an undefinable background of things like itself. This winter turns into a rusty brown and green expanse, or into a bog, or a field of frozen upturned clods. The very trees, stripped of their leaves, look as if prepared for diagrams of the abstraction tree. Everything, in short, is reduced most philosophically to its absolutely ultimate elements; and beauty is got rid of almost as completely as by a metaphysical definition. This æsthetic barrenness of winter is most of all felt in southern climates, to which it brings none of the harsh glitter and glamour of snow and ice; but leaves the frozen earth and leafless trees merely bare, without the crisp sheen of snow, the glint and glimmer of frost and icicles, forming for the denuded rigging of branches a fantastic system of ropes and folded sails. In the South, therefore, unless you go where winter never comes, and autumn merely merges into a lengthened spring, winter is more than ever negative, dreary, barren to our fancy. Yet even this southern winter gives one things, very lovely things: things which one scarcely notices perhaps, yet which would baffle the most skilled painter to imitate, the most skilled poet to describe. Thus, for instance, there is a peculiar kind of morning by no means uncommon in Tuscany in what is completely winter, not a remnant of autumn or a beginning of spring. It is cold, but windless; the sky full of sun, the earth full of mist. Sun and mist uniting into a pale luminousness in which all things lose body, become mere outline; bodiless hills taking shape where they touch the sky with their curve; clear line of irregular houses, of projecting ilex roundings and pointed cypresses marking the separation between hill and sky, the one scarcely more solid, corporeal than the other; the hill almost as blue as the sky, the sky almost as vaporous as the hill; the tangible often more ghostlike than the intangible. But the sun has smitten the higher hills, and the vapours have partially rolled down, in a scarcely visible fold, to their feet; and the high hill, not yet rock or earth, swells up into the sky as something real, but fluid and of infinite elasticity. All in front the plain is white with mist; or pinkish grey with the unseen agglomeration of bare tree boughs and trunks, of sere field; till, nearer us, the trees become more visible, the short vinebearing elms in the fields, interlacing their branches compressed by distance, the clumps of poplars, so scant and far between from nearly, so serried and compact from afar; and between them an occasional flush, a tawny vapour of the orange twigged osiers; and then, still nearer, the expanse of sere field, of mottled, crushed-together, yellowed grass and grey brown leaves; things of the summer which winter is burying to make room for spring. Along the reaches of the river the clumps of leafless poplars are grey against the pale, palest blue sky; grey but with a warmth of delicate brown, almost of rosiness. Grey also the shingle in the river bed; the river itself either (if after rain) pale brown, streaked with pale blue sky reflections; or (after a drought), low, grey, luminous throughout its surface, you might think, were it not that the metallic sheen, the vacillating sparkles of where the sun, smiting down, frets it into a shifting mass of scintillating facets, gives you the impression that this other luminousness of silvery water must be dull and dead. And, looking up the river, it gradually disappears, its place marked only, against the all-pervading pale blue haze, by the brownish grey spectre of the furthest poplar clumps. This, I have said, is an effect which winter produces, nay, even a southern winter, with those comparatively few and slight elements at its disposal. We see it, notice it, and enjoy its delicate loveliness; but while so doing we do not think, or we forget, that the habit of noticing, nay, the power of perceiving such effects as this, is one of those habits and powers which we possess, so to speak, only since yesterday. The possibility of reproducing in painting effects like this one; or, more truthfully, the wish to reproduce them, is scarcely as old as our own century; it is, perhaps, the latest born of all our artistic wishes and possibilities. But the possibility of any visible effect being perceived and reproduced by the painter, usually precedes--at least where any kind of pictorial art already exists--the perception of such effects by those who are not painters, and the attempt to reproduce them by means of words. We do not care to admit that our grandfathers were too unlike ourselves, lest ourselves should be found too unlike our grandchildren. We hold to the metaphysic fiction of man having always been the same, and only his circumstances having changed; not admitting that the very change of circumstances implies something new in the man who altered them; and similarly we shrink from the thought of the many things which we used never to notice, and which it has required a class of men endowed with special powers of vision to find out, copy, and teach us to see and appreciate. Yet there is scarcely one of us who has not a debt towards some painter or writer for first directing his attention to objects or effects which may have abounded around him, but unnoticed or confused with others. The painters, as I have said, the men who see more keenly and who study what they have seen, naturally come first; nor does the poet usually describe what his contemporary painter attempts not to paint. An exception might, perhaps, require to be made for Dante, who would seem to have seen and described many things left quite untouched by Giotto, and even by Raphael; but in estimating Dante we must be careful to distinguish the few touches which really belong to him, from the great mass of colour and detail which we have unconsciously added thereto, borrowing from our own experience and from innumerable pictures and poems which, at the moment, we may not in the least remember; and having done so, we shall be led to believe that those words which suggest to us so clear and coloured a vision of scenes often complex and uncommon, presented to his own mind only a comparatively simple and incomplete idea: the atmospheric effects, requiring a more modern painter than Turner, which we read between the lines of the "Inferno" and the "Purgatorio," most probably existed as little for Dante as they did for Giotto; the poet seeing and describing in reality only salient forms of earth and rock, monotonous in tint and deficient in air, like those in the backgrounds of mediæval Tuscan frescoes and panels. Be this as it may, the fact grows daily on me that men have not at all times seen in the same degree the nature which has always equally surrounded them; and that during some periods they have, for explicable reasons, seen less not only than their successors, but also than their predecessors; and seen that little in a manner conventional in proportion to its monotony. There are things about which certain historic epochs are strangely silent; so much so, indeed, that the breaking of the silence impresses us almost as the more than human breaking of a spell; and that silence Is the result of a grievous wrong, of a moral disease which half closes the eyes of the fancy, or of a moral poison which presents to those sorely aching eyes only a glimmer amid darkness. And it is as the most singular instance of such conditions that I should wish to study, in themselves, their causes and effects, the great differences existing between the ancients and ourselves on the one hand, and the men of the genuine Middle Ages on the other, in the degree of interest taken respectively by each in external nature, the seasons and that rural life which seems to bring us into closest contact with them both. There is, of course, a considerable difference between the manner in which the country, its aspects and occupations, are treated by the poets of Antiquity and by those of our own day; in the mode of enjoying them of an ancient who had read Theocritus and Virgil and Tibullus, and a modern whose mind is unconsciously full of the influence of Wordsworth or Shelley or Ruskin. But it is a mere difference of mode; and is not greater, I think, than the difference between the descriptions in the "Allegro," and the descriptions in "Men and Women;" than the difference between the love of our Elizabethans for the minuter details of the country, the flowers by the stream, the birds in the bushes, the ferrets, frogs, lizards, and similar small creatures; and the pleasure of our own contemporaries in the larger, more shifting, and perplexing forms and colours of cloud, sunlight, earth, and rock. The description of effects such as these latter ones, nay, the attention and appreciation given to them, are things of our own century, even as is the power and desire of painting them. Landscape, in the sense of our artists of to-day, is a very recent thing; so recent that even in the works of Turner, who was perhaps the earliest landscape painter in the modern sense, we are forced to separate from the real rendering of real effects, a great deal in which the tints of sky and sea are arranged and distributed as a mere vast conventional piece of decoration. Nor could it be otherwise. For, in poetry as in painting, landscape could become a separate and substantive art only when the interest in the mere ins and outs of human adventure, in the mere structure and movement of human limbs, had considerably diminished. There is room, in epic or drama, only for such little scraps of description as will make clearer, without checking, the human action; as there is place, in a fresco of a miracle, or a little picture of carousing and singing bacchantes and Venetian dandies, only for such little bits of laurel grove, or dim plain, or blue alpine crags, as can be introduced in the gaps between head and head, or figure and figure. Thus, therefore, a great difference must exist between what would be felt and written about the country and the seasons by an ancient, by a man of the sixteenth century, or by a contemporary of our own: a difference, however, solely of mode; for we feel sure that of the three men each would find something to delight himself and wherewith to delight others among the elm-bounded English meadows, the fiat cornfields of central France, the vine and olive yards of Italy-- wherever, in short, he might find himself face to face and, so to speak, hand in hand with Nature. But about the man of the Middle Ages (unless, perhaps, in Italy, where the whole Middle Ages were merely an earlier Renaissance) we could have no such assurance; nay, we might be persuaded that, however great his genius, be he even a Gottfried von Strassburg, or a Walther von der Vogelweide, or the unknown Frenchman who has left us "Aucassin et Nicolette," he would bring back impressions only of two things, authorized and consecrated by the poetic routine of his contemporaries--of spring and of the woods. There is nothing more characteristic of mediæval poetry than this limitation. Of autumn, of winter; of the standing corn, the ripening fruit of summer; of all these things so dear to the ancients and to all men of modern times, the Middle Ages seem to know nothing. The autumn harvests, the mists and wondrous autumnal transfiguration of the humblest tree, or bracken, or bush; the white and glittering splendour of winter, and its cosy life by hearth or stove; the drowsiness of summer, its suddenly inspired wish for shade and dew and water, all this left them stolid. To move them was required the feeling of spring, the strongest, most complete and stirring impression which, in our temperate climates, can be given by Nature. The whole pleasurableness of warm air, clear moist sky, the surprise of the shimmer of pale green, of the yellowing blossom on tree tops, the first flicker of faint shadow where all has been uniform, colourless, shadeless; the replacing of the long silence by the endless twitter and trill of birds, endless in its way as is the sea, twitter and trill on every side, depths and depths of it, of every degree of distance and faintness, a sea of bird song; and along with this the sense of infinite renovation to all the earth and to man's own heart. Of all Nature's effects this one alone goes sparkling to the head; and it alone finds a response in mediæval poetry. Spring, spring, endless spring--for three long centuries throughout the world a dreary green monotony of spring all over France, Provence, Italy, Spain, Germany, England; spring, spring, nothing but spring even in the mysterious countries governed by the Grail King, by the Fairy Morgana, by Queen Proserpine, by Prester John; nay, in the new Jerusalem, in the kingdom of Heaven itself, nothing but spring; till one longs for a bare twig, for a yellow leaf, for a frozen gutter, as for a draught of water in the desert. The green fields and meadows enamelled with painted flowers, how one detests them! how one would rejoice to see them well sprinkled with frost or burnt up to brown in the dry days! the birds, the birds which warble through every sonnet, canzone, sirventes, glosa, dance lay, roundelay, virelay, rondel, ballade, and whatsoever else it may be called,--how one wishes them silent for ever, or their twitter, the tarantarantandei of the eternal German nightingale especially, drowned by a good howling wind J After any persistent study of mediæval poetry, one's feeling towards spring is just similar to that of the morbid creature in Schubert's "Müllerin," who would not stir from home for the dreadful, dreadful greenness, which he would fain bleach with tears, all around: Ich möchte ziehn in die Welt hinaus, hinaus in die weite Welt, Wenn's nur so grün, so grün nicht war da draussen in Wald und Feld. Moreover this mediæval spring is the spring neither of the shepherd, nor of the farmer, nor of any man to whom spring brings work and anxiety and hope of gain; it is a mere vague spring of gentle-folk, or at all events of well-to-do burgesses, taking their pleasure on the lawns of castle parks, or the green holiday places close to the city, much as we see them in the first part of "Faust;" a sweet but monotonous charm of grass, beneath green lime tree, or in the South the elm or plane; under which are seated the poet and the fiddler, playing and singing for the young women, their hair woven with chaplets of fresh flowers, dancing upon the sward. And poet after poet, Provençal, Italian, and German, Nithart and Ulrich, and even the austere singer of the Holy Grail, Wolfram, pouring out verse after verse of the songs in praise of spring, which they make even as girls wind their garlands: songs of quaint and graceful ever-changing rythm, now slowly circling, now bounding along, now stamping out the measure like the feet of the dancers, now winding and turning as wind and twine their arms in the long-linked mazes; while the few and ever-repeated ideas, the old, stale platitudes of praise of woman, love pains, joys of dancing, pleasure of spring (spring, always spring, eternal, everlasting spring) seem languidly to follow the life and movement of the mere metre. Poets, these German, Provençal, French, and early Italian lyrists, essentially (if we venture to speak heresy) not of ideas or emotions, but of metre, of rythm and rhyme; with just the minimum of necessary thought, perpetually presented afresh just as the words, often and often repeated and broken up and new combined, of a piece of music--poetry which is in truth a sort of music, dance or dirge or hymn music as the case may be, more than anything else. As it is in mediæval poetry with the seasons, so it is likewise with the country and its occupations: as there is only spring, so there is only the forest. Of the forest, mediæval poetry has indeed much to say; more perhaps, and more familiar with its pleasures, than Antiquity. There is the memorable forest where the heroes of the Nibelungen go to hunt, followed by their waggons of provisions and wine; where Siegfried overpowers the bear, and returns to his laughing comrades with the huge thing chained to his saddle; where, in that clear space which we see so distinctly, a lawn on to which the blue black firs are encroaching, Siegfried stoops to drink of the spring beneath the lime tree, and Hagen drives his boarspear straight through the Nibelung's back. There is the thick wood, all a golden haze through the young green, and with an atmosphere of birds' song, where King Mark discovers Tristram and Iseult in the cave, the deceitful sword between them, as Gottfried von Strassburg relates with wonderful luscious charm. The forest, also, more bleak and austere, where the four outlawed sons of Aymon live upon roots and wild animals, where they build their castle by the Meuse. Further, and most lovely of all, the forest in which Nicolette makes herself a hut of branches, bracken, and flowers, through which the stars peep down on her whiteness as she dreams of her Lord Aucassin. The forest where Huon meets Oberon; and Guy de Lusignan, the good snake-lady; and Parzival finds on the snow the feathers and the drops of blood which throw him into his long day-dream; and Owen discovers the tomb of Merlin; the forest, in short, which extends its interminable glades and serried masses of trunks and arches of green from one end to the other of mediæval poetry. It is very beautiful, this forest of the Middle Ages; but it is monotonous, melancholy; and has a terrible eeriness in its endlessness. For there is nothing else. There are no meadows where the cows lie lazily, no fields where the red and purple kerchiefs of the reapers overtop the high corn; no orchards, no hayfields; nothing like those hill slopes where the wild herbs encroach upon the vines, and the goats of Corydon and Damoetas require to be kept from mischief; where, a little lower down, the Athenian shopkeeper of Aristophanes goes daily to look whether yesterday's hard figs may not have ripened, or the vine wreaths pruned last week grown too lushly. Nor anything of the sort of those Umbrian meadows, where Virgil himself will stop and watch the white bullocks splashing slowly into the shallow, sedgy Clitumnus; still less like those hamlets in the cornfields through which Propertius would stroll, following the jolting osier waggon, or the procession with garlands and lights to Pales or to the ochre-stained garden god. Nothing of all this: there are no cultivated spots in mediæval poetry; the city only, and the castle, and the endless, all-encompassing forest. And to this narrowness of mediæval notions of outdoor life, inherited together with mediæval subjects by the poets even of the sixteenth century, must be referred the curious difference existing between the romance poets of antiquity, like Homer in the Odyssey, and the romance poets--Boiardo, Ariosto, Tasso, Spenser, Camoens--of modern times, in the matter of--how shall I express it?--the ideal life, the fortunate realms, the "Kennaqwhere." In Homer, in all the ancients, the ideal country is merely a more delightful reality; and its inhabitants happier everyday men and women; in the poetry sprung from the Middle Ages it is always a fairy-land constructed by mechanicians and architects. For, as we have seen, the Middle Ages could bequeath to the sixteenth century no ideal of peaceful outdoor enjoyment. Hence, in the poetry of the sixteenth century, still permeated by mediæval traditions, an appalling artificiality of delightfulness. Fallerina, Alcina, Armida, Acrasia, all imitated from the original Calypso, are not strong and splendid god-women, living among the fields and orchards, but dainty ladies hidden in elaborate gardens, all bedizened with fashionable architecture: regular palaces, pleasaunces, with uncomfortable edifices, artificial waterfalls, labyrinths, rare and monstrous plants, parrots, apes, giraffes; childish splendours of gardening and engineering and menageries, which we meet already in "Ogier the Dane" and "Huon of Bordeaux," and which later poets epitomized out of the endless descriptions of Colonna's "Hypnerotomachia Poliphili," the still more frightful inventories of the Amadis romances. They are, each of them, a kind of anticipated Marly, Versailles, Prince Elector's Friedrichsruhe or Nymphenburg, with clipped cypresses and yews, doubtless, and (O Pales and Pan!) flower-beds filled with coloured plaster and spas, and cascades spirting out (thanks to fifty invisible pumps) under your feet and over your head. All the vineyards and cornfields have been swept away to make these solemn terraces and water-works; all the cottages which, with their little wooden shrine, their humble enclosure of sunflowers and rosemary and fruit trees, their buzzing hives and barking dogs, were loved and sung even by town rakes like Catullus and smart coffeehouse wits like Horace; all these have been swept away to be replaced by the carefully constructed (? wire) bowers, the aviaries, the porticoes, the frightful circular edifice (_tondo è il ricco edificio_), a masterpiece of Palladian stucco work, in which Armida and Rinaldo, Acrasia and her Knight, drearily disport themselves. What has become of Calypso's island? of the orchards of Alcinous? What would the noble knights and ladies of Ariosto and Spenser think of them? What would they say, these romantic, dainty creatures, were they to meet Nausicaa with the washed linen piled on her waggon? Alas! they would take her for a laundress. For it is the terrible aristocratic idleness of the Middle Ages, their dreary delicacy, which hampers Boiardo, Ariosto, Tasso, Spenser, even in the midst of their most unblushing plagiarisms from Antiquity: their heroes and heroines have been brought up, surrounded by equerries and duennas, elegant, useless things, or at best (the knights at least) good only for aristocratic warfare. Plough or prune! defile the knightly hands! wash or cook, ply the loom like Nausicaa, Calypso, or Penelope! The mere thought sends them very nearly into a faint. No: the ladies of mediæval romance must sit quiet, idle; at most they may sing to the lute; and if they work with their hands, it must be some dreary, strictly useless, piece of fancy work; they are hot-house plants, all these dainty folk. Had they no eyes, then, these poets of the Middle Ages, that they could see, among all the things of Nature, only those few which had been seen by their predecessors? At first one feels tempted to think so, till the recollection of many vivid touches in spring and forest descriptions persuades one that, enormous as was the sway of tradition among these men, they were not all of them, nor always, repeating mere conventional platitudes. This singular limitation in the mediæval perceptions of Nature--a limitation so important as almost to make it appear as if the Middle Ages had not perceived Nature at all--is most frequently attributed to the prevalence of asceticism, which, according to some critics, made all mediæval men into so many repetitions of Bernard of Clairvaux, of whom it is written that, being asked his opinion of Lake Leman, he answered with surprise that, during his journey from Geneva to the Rhone Valley, he had remarked no lake whatever, so absorbed had he been in spiritual meditations. But the predominance of asceticism has been grossly exaggerated. It was a state of moral tension which could not exist uninterruptedly, and could exist only in the classes for whom poetry was not written. The mischief done by asceticism was the warping of the moral nature of men, not of their æsthetic feelings; it had no influence upon the vast numbers, the men and women who relished the profane and obscene fleshliness and buffoonery of stage plays and fabliaux, and those who favoured the delicate and exquisite immoralities of Courtly poetry. Indeed, the presence of whole classes of writings, of which such things as Boccaccio's Tales, "The Wife of Bath," and Villon's "Ballades," on the one hand, and the songs of the troubadours, the poem of Gottfried, and the romance or rather novel of "Flamenca," are respectively but the most conspicuous examples, ought to prove only too clearly that the Middle Ages, for all their asceticism, were both as gross and as æsthetic in sensualism as antiquity had been before them. We must, therefore, seek elsewhere than in asceticism, necessarily limited, and excluding the poetry-reading public, for an explanation of this peculiarity of mediæval poetry. And we shall find it, I think, in that which during the Middle Ages could, because it was an all-regulating social condition, really create universal habits of thought and feeling, namely, feudalism. A moral condition like asceticism must leave unbiassed all such minds as are incapable of feeling it; but a social institution like feudalism walls in the life of every individual, and forces his intellectual movements into given paths; nor is there any escape, excepting in places where, as in Italy and in the free towns of the North, the feudal conditions are wholly or partially unknown. To feudalism, therefore, would I ascribe this, which appears at first so purely æsthetic, as opposed to social, a characteristic of the Middle Ages. Ever since Schiller, in his "Gods of Greece," spoke for the first time of undivinized Nature (_die entgötterte Natur_), it has been the fashion among certain critics to fall foul of Christianity for having robbed the fields and woods of their gods, and reduced to mere manured clods the things which had been held sacred by antiquity. Desecrated in those long mediæval centuries Nature may truly have been, but not by the holy water of Christian priests. Desecrated because out of the fields and meadows was driven a divinity greater than Pales or Vertumnus or mighty Pan, the divinity called _Man_. For in the terrible times when civilization was at its lowest, the things of the world had been newly allotted; and by this new allotment, man--the man who thinks and loves and hopes and strives, man who fights and sings--was shut out from the fields and meadows, forbidden the labour, nay, almost the sight, of the earth; and to the tending of kine, and sowing of crops, to all those occupations which antiquity had associated with piety and righteousness, had deemed worthy of the gods themselves, was assigned, or rather condemned, a creature whom every advancing year untaught to think or love, or hope, or fight, or strive; but taught most utterly to suffer and to despair. For a man it is difficult to call him, this mediæval serf, this lump of earth detached from the field and wrought into a semblance of manhood, merely that the soil of which it is part should be delved and sown, and then manured with its carcass or its blood; nor as a man did the Middle Ages conceive it. The serf was not even allowed human progenitors: his foul breed had originated in an obscene miracle; his stupidity and ferocity were as those of the beasts; his cunning was demoniac; he was born under God's curse; no words could paint his wickedness, no persecutions could exceed his deserts; the whole world turned pale at his crime, for he it was, he and not any human creature, who had nailed Christ upon the cross. Like the hunger and sores of a fox or a wolf, his hunger and his sores are forgotten, never noticed. Were it not that legal and ecclesiastical narratives of trials (not of feudal lords for crushing and contaminating their peasants, but of peasants for spitting out and trampling on the consecrated wafer) give us a large amount of pedantically stated detail; tell us how misery begat vice, and filth and starvation united families in complicated meshes of incest, taught them depopulation as a virtue and a necessity; and how the despair of any joy in nature, of any mercy from God, hounded men and women into the unspeakable orgies, the obscene parodies, of devil worship; were it not for these horrible shreds of judicial evidence (as of tatters of clothes or blood-clotted hairs on the shoes of a murderer) we should know little or nothing of the life of the men and women who, in mediæval France and Germany, did the work which had been taught by Hesiod and Virgil. About all these tragedies the literature of the Middle Ages, ready to show us town vice and town horror, dens of prostitution and creaking, overweighted gibbets, as in Villon's poems, utters not a word. All that we can hear is the many-throated yell of mediæval poets, noble and plebeian, French, Provençal, and German, against the brutishness, the cunning, the cruelty, the hideousness, the heresy of the serf, whose name becomes synonymous with every baseness; which, in mock grammatical style, is declined into every epithet of wickedness; whose punishment is prayed for from the God whom he outrages by his very existence; a hideous clamour of indecent jibe, of brutal vituperation, of senseless accusation, of every form of words which furious hatred can assume, whose echoes reached even countries like Tuscany, where serfdom was well nigh unknown, and have reached even to us in the scraps of epigram still bandied about by the townsfolk against the peasants, nay, by the peasants against themselves.[1] A monstrous rag doll, dressed up in shreds of many-coloured villainy without a recognizable human feature, dragged in mud, pilloried with unspeakable ordure, paraded in mock triumph like a King of Fools, and burnt in the market-place like Antichrist, such is the image which mediæval poetry has left us of the creature who was once the pious rustic, the innocent god-beloved husbandman, on whose threshold justice stopped a while when she fled from the towns of Antiquity. [1] The reader may oppose to my views the existence of the--class of poems, French, Latin, and German, of which the Provençal Pastourela is the original type, and which represent the courting, by the poet, who is, of course, a knight, of a beautiful country-girl, who is shown us as feeding her sheep or spinning with her distaff. But these poems are, to the best of my knowledge, all of a single pattern, and extremely insincere and artificial in tone, that I feel inclined to class them with the pastorals--Dresden china idylls by men who had never looked a live peasant in the face--of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, --as distant descendants from the pastoral poetry of antiquity, of which the chivalric poets may have got some indirect notions as they did of the antique epics. It is moreover extremely the likely that these love poems, in which, successfully or unsuccessfully, the poet usually offers a bribe to the woman of low degree, conceal beneath the conventional pastoral trappings the intrigues of minnesingers and troubadours with women of the small artizan or village proprietor class. The real peasant woman--the female of the villain--could scarcely have been above the notice of the noblemen's servants; and, in countries where the seigneurial rights were in vigour, would scarcely have been offered presents and fine words. As regards the innumerable poems against the peasantry, I may refer the reader to an extremely curious publication of "Carmina Medii Ævi," recently made by Sig. Francesco Novati, and which contains, besides a selection of specimens, a list of references on the subject of poems "De Natura Rusticorum." One of the satirical declensions runs as follows: Singulariter. Pluraliter. Nom. Hic villanus. Nom. Hi maledicti. Gen. Huius rustici. Gen. Horum tristium. Dat. Huic tferfero (_sic_). Dat. His mendacibus. Acc. Hunc furem. Acc. Hos nequissimos. Voc. O latro. Voc. O pessimi. Abl. Ab hoc depredatore. Abl. Ab his infidelibus. The accusation of heresy and of crucifying Christ is evidently due to the devil-worship prevalent among the serfs, and is thus, alluded to in a north Italian poem, probably borrowed from the French: Christo fo da villan crucifiò, E stagom sempre in pioza, in vento, e in neve, Perchè havom fato cosi gran peccà. This feeling is exactly analogous to that existing nowadays in semi-barbarous countries against the Jews. The idle hated the industrious, and hated them all the more when their industry brought them any profit.] Yet not so; I can recall one, though only one, occasion in which mediæval literature shows us the serf. The place is surely the most unexpected, the charming thirteenth century tale of "Aucassin et Nicolette." In his beautiful essay upon that story, Mr. Pater has deliberately omitted this episode, which is indeed like a spot of blood-stained mud upon some perfect tissue of silver flowers on silver ground. It is a piece of cruellest realism, because quite quiet and unforced, in the midst of a kind of fairy-land idyl of almost childish love, the love of the beautiful son of the lord of Beaucaire for a beautiful Saracen slave girl. For, although Aucassin and Nicolette are often separated, and always disconsolate--she in her wonderfully frescoed vaulted room, he in his town prison--there is always surrounding them a sort of fairy land of trees and flowers, a constant song of birds; although they wander through the woods and tear their delicate skin, and catch their hair in brambles and briars, we have always the sense of the daisies bending beneath their tread, of the green leaves rustling aside from their heads covered with hair--"blond et menu crespelé." Their very hardships are lovely, like the hut of flowering branches and grapes, which Nicolette builds for herself, and through whose fissures the moonlight shines and the little stars twinkle: so much so, that when they weep, these two beautiful and dainty creatures, we listen as if to singing, and with no more sense of grief than at some pathetic little snatch of melody. And in the midst of this idyl of lovely things; in the midst of all these delicate patternings, whose minuteness and faint tint merge into one vague pleasurable impression; stands out, unintentionally placed there by the author, little aware of its terrible tragic realism, the episode which I am going to translate. "Thus Aucassin wandered all day through the forest, without hearing any news of his sweet love; and when he saw that dusk was spreading, he began bitterly to weep. As he was riding along an old road, where weeds and grass grew thick and high, he suddenly saw before him, in the middle of this road, a man such as I am going to describe to you. He was tall, ugly; nay, hideous quite marvellously. His face was blacker than smoked meat, and so wide, that there was a good palm's distance between his eyes; his cheeks were huge, his nostrils also, with a very big flat nose; thick lips as red as embers, and long teeth yellow and smoke colour. He wore leathern shoes and gaiters, kept up with string at the knees; on his back was a parti-coloured coat. He was leaning upon a stout bludgeon. Aucassin was startled and fearful, and said: "'Fair brother ("beau frère"--a greeting corresponding to the modern "bon homme")! God be with thee!' "'God bless you!' answered the man. "'What dost thou here?' asked Aucassin. "'What is that to you?' answered the man. "'I ask thee from no evil motive.' "'Then tell me why,' said the man, 'you yourself are weeping with such grief? Truly, were I a rich man like you, nothing in the world should make me weep.' "'And how dost thou know me?' "'I know you to be Aucassin, the son of the Count; and if you will tell me why you weep, I will tell you why I am here.' "'I will tell thee willingly,' answered Aucassin. 'This morning I came to hunt in the forest; I had a white leveret, the fairest in the world; I have lost him--that is why I am weeping.' "'What!' cried the man;' it is for a stinking hound that you waste the tears of your body? Woe to those who shall pity you; you, the richest man of this country. If your father wanted fifteen or twenty white leverets, he could get them. I am weeping and mourning for more serious matters.' "'And what are these?' "'I will tell you. I was hired to a rich farmer to drive his plough, dragged by four bullocks. Three days ago, I lost a red bullock, the best of the four. I left the plough, and sought the red bullock on all sides, but could not find him. For three days I have neither eaten nor drunk, and have been wandering thus. I have been afraid of going to the town, where they would put me in jail, because I have not wherewith to pay for the bullock. All I possess are the clothes on my back. I have a mother; and the poor woman had nothing more valuable than me; since she had only an old smock wherewith to cover her poor old limbs. They have torn the smock off her back, and now she has to lie on the straw. It is about her that I am afflicted more than about myself, because, as to me, I may get some money some day or other, and as to the red bullock, he may be paid for when he may. And I should never weep for such a trifle as that. Ah! woe betide those who shall make sorrow with you!'" Inserted merely to give occasion to show Aucassin's good heart in paying the twenty _sols_ for the man's red bullock; perhaps for no reason at all, but certainly with no idea of making the lover's misery seem by comparison trifling--there are, nevertheless, few things in literature more striking than the meeting in the wood of the daintily nurtured boy, weeping over the girl whom he loves with almost childish love of the fancy; and of that ragged, tattered, hideous serf, at whose very aspect the Bel Aucassin stops in awe and terror. And the attitude is grand of this unfortunate creature, who neither begs nor threatens, scarcely complains, and not at all for himself; but merely tells his sordid misfortune with calm resignation, as if used to such everyday miseries, roused to indignation only at the sight of the tears which the fine-bred youth is shedding. We feel the dreadful solemnity of the man's words; of the reproach thus thrown by the long-suffering serf, accustomed to misfortunes as the lean ox is to blows, to that delicate thing weeping for his lady love, for the lady of his fancy. It is the one occasion upon which that delicate and fantastic mediæval love poetry, that fanciful, wistful stripling King Love of the Middle Ages, in which he keeps high court, and through which he rides in triumphal procession; that King Love laughing and fainting by turns with all his dapper artificiality of woes; is confronted with the sordid reality, the tragic impersonation of all the dumb miseries, the lives and loves, crushed and defiled unnoticed, of the peasantry of those days. Yes, while they sing--Provençals, minnesingers, Sicilians, sing of their earthly lady and of their paramour in heaven--the hideous peasant, whose naked granny is starving on the straw, looks on with dull and tearless eyes; crying out to posterity, as the serf cries to Aucassin: "Woe to those who shall sorrow at the tears of such as these." II. But meanwhile, during those centuries which lie between the dark ages and modern times, the Middle Ages (inasmuch as they mean not a mere chronological period, but a definite social and mental condition) fortunately did not exist everywhere. Had they existed, it is almost impossible to understand how they would ever throughout Europe have come to an end; for as the favourite proverb of Catharine of Siena has it, one dead man cannot bury another dead man; and the Middle Ages, after this tedious dying of the fifteenth century, required to be shovelled into the tomb, nay, rather, given the final stroke, by the Renaissance. This that we foolishly call--giving a quite incorrect notion of sudden and miraculous birth--the Renaissance, and limit to the time of the revival of Greek humanities, really existed, as I have repeatedly suggested wherever, during the mediæval centuries, the civilization of which the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were big was not, by the pressure of feudalism and monasticism, made to be abortive or stillborn. Low as was Italy at the very close of the dark ages, and much as she borrowed for a long while from the more precocious northern nations, especially France and Provence; Italy had, nevertheless, an enormous advantage in the fact that her populations were not divided into victor and vanquished, and that the old Latin institutions of town and country were never replaced, except in certain northern and southern districts, by feudal arrangements. The very first thing which strikes us in the obscure Italian commonwealths of early times, is that in these resuscitated relics of Roman or Etruscan towns there is no feeling of feudal superiority and inferiority; that there is no lord, and consequently no serf. Nor is this the case merely within the city walls. The never sufficiently appreciated difference between the Italian free burghs and those of Germany, Flanders, and Provence, is that the citizens depend only in the remotest and most purely fictitious way upon any kind of suzerain; and moreover that the country, instead of belonging to feudal nobles, belong every day more and more completely to the burghers. The peasant is not a serf, but one of three things--a hired labourer, a possessor of property, or a farmer, liable to no taxes, paying no rent, and only sharing with the proprietor the produce of the land. By this latter system, existing, then as now, throughout Tuscany, the peasantry was an independent and well-to-do class. The land owned by one man (who, in the commonwealths, was usually a shopkeeper or manufacturer in the town) was divided into farms small enough to be cultivated--vines, olives, corn, and fruit--by one family of peasants, helped perhaps by a paid labourer. The thriftier and less scrupulous peasants could, in good seasons, put by sufficient profit from their share of the produce to suffice after some years, and with the addition of what the women might make by washing, spinning, weaving, plaiting straw hats (an accomplishment greatly insisted upon by Lorenzo dei Medici), and so forth, to purchase some small strip of land of their own. Hence, a class of farmers at once living on another man's land and sharing its produce with him, and cultivating and paying taxes upon land belonging to themselves. Of these Tuscan peasants we get occasional glimpses in the mediæval Italian novelists--a well-to-do set of people, in constant communication with the town where they sell their corn, oil, vegetables, and wine, and easily getting confused with the lower class of artizans with whom they doubtless largely intermarried. These peasants whom we see in tidy kilted tunics and leathern gaiters, driving their barrel-laden bullock carts, or riding their mules up to the red city gates in many a Florentine and Sienese painting of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, were in many respects better off than the small artizans of the city, heaped up in squalid houses, and oppressed by the greater and smaller guilds. Agnolo Pandolfini, teaching thrift to his sons in Alberti's charming treatise on "The Government of the Family," frequently groans over the insolence, the astuteness of the peasantry; and indeed seems to consider that it is impossible to cope with them--a conclusion which would have greatly astounded the bailiffs of the feudal proprietors in the Two Sicilies and beyond the Alps. Indeed it is impossible to conceive a stranger contrast than that between the northern peasant, the starved and stunted serf, whom Holbein drew, driving his lean horses across the hard furrow, with compassionate Death helping along the plough, and the Tuscan farmer, as shown us by Lorenzo dei Medici--the young fellow who, while not above minding his cows or hoeing up his field, goes into Florence once a week, offers his sweetheart presents of coral necklaces, silk staylaces, and paint for her cheeks and eyelashes; who promises, to please her, to have his hair frizzled (as only the youths of the Renaissance knew how to be frizzled and fuzzed) by the barber, and even dimly hints that some day he may appear in silken jerkin and tight hose, like a well-to-do burgess. No greater contrast perhaps, unless indeed we should compare his sweetheart, Lorenzo's beautiful Nenciozza, with her box full of jewels, her Sunday garb of damask kirtle and gold-worked bodice, her almost queenly ways towards her adorers, with the wretched creature, not a woman, but a mere female animal, cowering among her starving children in her mud cottage, and looking forward, in dull lethargy, after the morning full of outrages at the castle, to the night, the night on the heath, lit with mysterious flickers, to the horrible joys of the sacrifice which the oppressed brings to the dethroned, the serf to Satan; when, in short, we compare the peasant woman described by Lorenzo with the female serf resuscitated by the genius of Michelet; nay, more poignant still, with that mother in the "Dance of Death," seated on the mud flood of the broken-roofed, dismantled hovel, stewing something on a fire of twigs, and stretching out vain arms to her poor tattered baby-boy, whom, with the good-humoured tripping step of an old nurse, the kindly skeleton is leading away out of this cruel world. Such were the conditions of the peasantry of the great Italian commonwealths. They were, as much as the northern serfs were the reverse, creatures pleasant to deal with, pleasant to watch. The upper classes, on the other hand, differed quite as much from the upper classes of feudal countries. They were, be it remembered, men of business, constantly in contact with the working classes; Albizis, Strozzis, Pandolfinis, Guinigis, Tolomeis, no matter what their name, these men who built palaces and churches which outdid the magnificence of northern princes, and who might, at any moment, be sent ambassadors from Florence, Lucca, or Siena, to the French or English kings, to the Emperor or the Pope, spent a large portion of their days at their office desk, among the bales of their warehouses, behind the counter of their shops; they wore the same dress, had the same habits, spoke the same dialect, as the weavers and dyers, the carriers and porters whom they employed, and whose sons might, by talent and industry, amass a fortune, build palaces, and go ambassadors to kings in their turn. When, therefore, these merchant nobles turned to the country for rest and relief from their cares, it was not to the country as it existed for the feudal noble of the North. Boar and stag hunts had no attraction for quiet men of business; forests stocked with wild beasts where vineyard and cornfield might have extended, would have seemed to them the very height of wastefulness, discomfort, and ugliness. Pacific and businesslike, they merely transferred to the country the habits of thought and of life which had arisen in the city. Not for them any imitation of the feudal castle, turreted and moated, cut up into dark irregular rooms and yards, filled with noisy retainers and stinking hounds. On some gentle hillside a well-planned palace, its rooms spacious and lofty, and sparely windowed for coolness in summer; with a neat cloistered court in the centre, ventilating the whole house, and affording a cool place, full of scent of flowers and sound of fountains for the burning afternoons; a belvedere tower also, on which to seek a breeze on stifling nights, when the very stars seem faint for heat, and the dim plumy heads of cypress and poplar are motionless against the misty blue sky. In front a broad terrace, whence to look down towards the beloved city, a vague fog of roofs in the distance; on the side and behind, elaborate garden walks walled with high walls of box and oak and laurel, in which stand statues in green niches; gardens with little channels to bring water, even during droughts, to the myrtles, the roses, the stocks and clove pinks, over which bend with blossoms brilliant against the pale blue sky the rose-flowered oleander, the scarlet-flowered pomegranate; also aviaries and cages full of odd and harmless creatures, ferrets, guinea pigs, porcupines, squirrels, and monkeys; arbours where wife, daughters, and daughters-in-law may sew and make music; and neat lawns where the young men may play at quoits, football, or swordsticks and bucklers; and then, sweeping all round the house and gardens and terraces an undulating expanse of field and orchard, smoke-tinted with olive, bright green in spring with budding crops, russet in autumn with sere vines; and from which, in the burning noon, rises the incessant sawing noise of the cicalas, and ever and anon the high, nasal, melancholy chant of the peasant, lying in the shade of barn door or fig tree till the sun shall sink and he can return to his labour. If the house in town, with its spacious store-rooms, its carved chapel, and painted banqueting hall, large enough to hold sons' children and brothers' wives and grandchildren, and a whole host of poor relatives, whom the wise father (as Pandolfini teaches) employs rather than strangers for his clerks and overseers--if this town house was the pride of the Italian burgess; the villa, with its farms and orchards, was the real joy, the holiday paradise of the over-worked man. To read in the cool house, with cicala's buzz and fountain plash all round, the Greek and Latin authors; to discuss them with learned men; to watch the games of the youths and the children, this was the reward for years of labour and intelligence; but sweeter than all this (how we feel it in Agnolo Pandolfini's speeches!) were those occupations which the city could not give: the buying and selling of plants, grain, and kine, the meddling with new grafted trees, the mending of spaliers, the straightening of fences, the going round (with the self-importance and impatience of a cockney) to see what flowers had opened, what fruit had ripened over-night; to walk through the oliveyards, among the vines; to pry into stable, pig-stye, and roosting-place, taking up handfuls of drying grain, breaking twigs of olives, to see how things were doing; and to have long conversations with the peasants, shrewd enough to affect earnest attention when the master was pleased to vent his town-acquired knowledge of agriculture and gardening. Sweet also, doubtless, for younger folk, or such perhaps as were fonder of teaching new lute tunes to the girls than of examining into cabbages, and who read Dante and Boccaccio more frequently than Cicero or Sallust; though sweet perhaps only as a vague concomitant of their lazy pleasures, to listen to those songs of the peasantry rising from the fields below, while lying perhaps on one's back in the shaded grass, watching the pigeons whirring about the belvedere tower. Vaguely pleasant this also, doubtless; but for a long while only vaguely. For, during more than two centuries, the burgesses of Italy were held enthralled by the Courtly poets of other countries; listening to, and reading, at first, only Provençals and Sicilians, or Italians, like Sordello, pretending to be of Provence or Sicily; and even later, enduring in their own poets, their own Guittones, Cavalcantis, Cinos, Guinicellis, nay even in Dante and Petrarch's lyrics, only the repetition (however vivified by genius) of the old common-places of Courtly love, and artificial spring, of the poetry of feudal nations. But the time came when not only Provençal and Sicilian, but even Tuscan, poetry was neglected, when the revival of Greek and Latin letters made it impossible to rewrite the threadbare mediæval prettinesses, or even to write in earnest in the modern tongue, so stiff and thin (as it seemed) and like some grotesque painted saint, when compared with the splendidly fleshed antique languages, turning and twining in graceful or solemn involutions, as of a Pyrrhic or a maidens' dance. And it was during this period, from Petrarch to Politian, that, as philologists have now proved beyond dispute, the once fashionable chivalric romance, and the poetry of Provençal and Sicilian school, cast off by the upper classes, was gradually picked up by the lower and especially by the rural classes. Vagabond ballad-singers and story-tellers--creatures who wander from house to house, mending broken pottery, collecting rags or selling small pedlar's wares--were the old clothesmen who carried about these bits of tarnished poetic finery. The people of the town, constantly in presence of the upper classes, and therefore sooner or later aware of what was or was not in fashion, did not care long for the sentimental daintiness of mediæval poetry; besides, satire and scurrility are as inevitable in a town as are dogs in gutters and cats on roofs; and the townsfolk soon set their own buffoonish or satirical ideas to whatever remained of the music of mediæval poetry: already early in the fifteenth century the sonnet had become for the Florentine artizans a mere scurrilous epigram. It was different in the country. The peasant, at least the Tuscan peasant, is eminently idealistic and romantic in his literary tastes; it may be that he has not the intellectual life required for any utterances or forms of his own, and that he consequently accepts poetry as a ready-made ornament, something pretty and exotic, which is valued in proportion to its prettiness and rarity. Be the reason whatever it may, certain it is that nothing can be too artificial or high-flown to please the Italian peasantry: its tales are all of kings; princesses, fairies, knights, winged horses, marvellous jewels, and so forth; its songs are almost without exception about love, constancy, moon, stars, flowers. Such things have not been degraded by familiarity and parody as in the town; they retain for the country folk the vague charm (like that of music, automatic and independent of thorough comprehension) of belonging to a sphere of the marvellous; hence they are repeated and repeated with almost religious servility, as any one may observe who will listen to the stories and verses told and sung even nowadays in the Tuscan country, or who will glance over the splendid collections of folklore made in the last twenty years. Such things, must suffer alteration from people who can neither read nor write, and who cannot be expected to remember very clearly details which, in many cases, must have for them only the vaguest meaning. The stories split in process of telling and re-telling, and are completed with bits of other stories; details are forgotten and have to be replaced; the same happens with poetry: songs easily get jumbled together, their meaning is partially obliterated, and has to be restored or, again, an attempt is made by bold men to adapt some seemingly adaptable old song to a new occasion an old love ditty seems fit to sing to a new sweetheart.--names, circumstances, and details require arranging for this purpose; and hence more alterations. Now, however much a peasant may enjoy the confused splendours of Court life and of Courtly love, he cannot, with the best will in the world, restore their details or colouring if they happen to become obliterated. If he chance to forget that when the princess first met the wizard she was riding forth on a snow-white jennet with a falcon on her glove, there is nothing to prevent his describing her as walking through the meadow in charge of a flock of geese; and similarly, should he happen to forget that the Courtly lover compares the skin of his mistress to ivory and her eyes to Cupid's torches, he is quite capable of filling up the gap by saying that the girl is as white as a turnip and as bright-eyed as a ferret. As with details of description and metaphors, so also with the emotional and social parts of the business. The peasant has not been brought up in the idea that the way to gain a woman's affection is to stick her glove on a helmet and perform deeds of prowess closely resembling those of Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena; so he attempts to ingratiate himself by offering her presents of strawberries, figs, buttons, hooks-and-eyes, and similar desirable things. Again, were the peasant to pay attentions to a married woman, he would merely get (what noble husbands were too well bred to dream of) a sound horsewhipping, or perhaps even a sharp knife thrust in his stomach; so that he takes good care to address his love songs only to marriageable young women. In this way, without any deliberate attempt .at originality, the old Courtly poetry becomes, when once removed to the country, thoroughly patched and seamed with rustic ideas, feelings, and images; while never ceasing to be, in its general stuff and shape, of a kind such as only professional poets of the upper classes can produce. The Sicilian lyrics collected by Signor Pitre, still more the Tuscan poems of Tigri's charming volume, are, therefore, a curious mixture of high-flown sentiment, dainty imagery, and most artistic arrangements of metre and diction (especially in the rispetto, where metrical involution is accompanied by logical involution of the most refined mediæval sort), with hopes and complaints such as only a farmer could frame, with similes and descriptions such as only the business of the field, vineyard, and dairy could suggest. A mixture, but not a jumble. For as in this slow process of assimilation and alteration only that was remembered by the peasant which the peasant could understand and sympathize with; and only that was welded into the once Courtly poetry which was sufficiently refined to please the people who delighted in the exotic refinement--as, in short, everything came about perfectly simply and unconsciously, there resulted what in good sooth may be considered as a perfectly substantive and independent form of art, with beauties and refinements of its own. And, indeed, it appears to me that one might say, without too much paradox, that in these peasant songs only does the poetry of minnesingers and troubadours, become thoroughly enjoyable; that only when the conventionality of feeling and imagery is corrected by the freshness, the straightforwardness, nay, even the grotesqueness of rural likings, dislikings, and comparisons, can the dainty beauty of mediæval Courtly poetry ever really satisfy our wishes. Comparing together Tigri's collection of Tuscan folk poetry with any similar anthology that might be made of middle-high German and Provençal, and early Italian lyrics, I feel that the adoption of Courtly mediæval poetry by the Italian peasantry of the Renaissance can be compared more significantly than at first seemed with the adoption of a once fashionable garb by country folk. The peasant pulled about this Courtly lyrism, oppressively tight in its conventional fit and starched with elaborate rhetorical embroideries; turned it inside out, twisted a bit here, a bit there, ripped open seam after seam, patched and repatched with stuffs and stitches of its own; and then wore the whole thing as it had never been intended to be worn; until this cast-off poetic apparel, stretched on the freer moral limbs of natural folk, faded and stained by weather and earth into new and richer tints, had lost all its original fashionable stiffness, and crudeness of colour, and niminy-piminy fit, and had acquired instead I know not what grace of unexpectedness, picturesqueness, and ease.[1] [1] Any one who is sceptical of the Courtly derivation of the Italian popular song may, besides consulting the admirable book of Prof. d'Ancona, compare with the contents of Tigri's famous "Canti popolari Toscani," the following scraps of Sicilian and early Italian lyrics:-- The Emperor Frederick II. writes: "Rosa di maggio--Colorita e fresca--Occhi hai fini--E non rifini--Di gioie dare--Lo tuo parlare--La gente innamora--Castella ed altura." Jacopo Pugliesi says of his lady: "Chiarita in viso più che argento--Donami allegrezze--Ben eo son morto--E mal colto--Se non mi dai conforto--_Fior dell' orto_." Inghilfredi Siciliano: "Gesù Cristo ideolla in paradiso--E poi la fece angelo incarnando--Gioia aggio preso di giglio novello--E vago, che sormonta ogni ricchezza--Sua dottrina m' affrezza--Cosi mi coglie e olezza--Come pantera le bestie selvagge." Jacopo da Lentino: "E di virtute tutte l' altre avanza--E somigliante a stella è di splendore--Colla sua conta (_cf_. Provençal _coindeta_, gentille) e gaia innamoranza--E più bella è che rosa e che fiore--Cristo le doni vita ed allegranza--E sì la cresca in gran pregio ed onore." I must finish off what might be a much longer collection with a charming little scrap, quite in rispetto tone, by Guinicelli: "Vedut 'ho la lucente stella diana--Ch' appare anzi che 'l giorno renda albore--Ch' a preso forma di figura umana--Sovr' ogni altra mi par che dia splendore--Viso di neve colorato in grana--Occhi lucenti, gai e pien d'amore--Non credo che nel mondo sia cristiana--Si piena di beltate e di valore."] Well; for many a year did the song of the peasants rise up from the fields and oliveyards unnoticed by the good townsfolk taking their holiday at the Tuscan villa; but one day, somewhere in the third quarter of the fifteenth century, the long-drawn chant of the rispetto, telling perhaps how the singer's sweetheart was beautiful as the star Diana, so beautiful as a baby that the Pope christened her with his own hands; the quavering nasal cadence of the stornello saying by chance-- Flower of the Palm, &c., did at last waken the attention of one lettered man, a man of curious and somewhat misshapen body and mind, of features satyr-like in ugliness, yet moody and mystical in their very earthiness; a man essentially of the senses, yet imperfect in them, without taste or smell, and, over and above, with a marvellously supple intellect; weak and coarse and idealistic; and at once feebly the slave of his times, and so boldly, spontaneously innovating as to be quite unconscious of innovation: the mixed nature, or rather the nature in many heterogeneous bits, of the man of letters who is artistic almost to the point of being an actor, natural in every style because morally connected with no style at all. The man was Lorenzo di Piero dei Medici, for whom posterity has exclusively reserved the civic title of all his family and similar town despots, calling him the Magnificent. It is the fashion at present to give Lorenzo only the leavings, as it were, of our admiration for the weaker, less original, nay, considerably enervate, humanistic exquisite Politian; and this absurd injustice appears to me to show that the very essence and excellence of Lorenzo is not nowadays perceived. The Renaissance produced several versatile and charming poets; and, in the midst of classic imitation, one or two, of whom one is certainly Boiardo, of real freshness and raciness. But of this new element in the Renaissance, this element which is neither imitation of antiquity nor revival of mediæval, which is original, vital, fruitful, in short, modern, Lorenzo is the most versatile example. He is new, Renaissance, modern; not merely in this or that quality, he is so all round. And this in the first place because he is so completely the man of impressions; the man not uttering wonderful things, nor elaborating exquisite ones, but artistically embodying with marvellous versatility whatever strikes his fancy and feeling--fancy and feeling which are as new as the untouched sculptor's clay. And this extraordinary temper of art for art's sake, or rather effect for effect and form's sake, was possible in that day only in a man equally without strong passions, and without strong convictions. He is naturally attracted most by what is most opposed to the academic, Virgilian, Horatian, or Petrarchesque æstheticism of his contemporaries; he is essentially a realist, and all the effects, which he produces, all the beauty, charm, or beastliness of his work, corresponds to beauty, charm, or beastliness in the reality of things. If Lorenzo writes at one moment carnival songs of ribald dirtiness, at the next hymns full of holy solemnity; it is, I think, merely because this versatile artist takes pleasure in trying whether his face may not be painted into grinning drunkenness, and then elongated and whitened into ascetic gentleness. Instead of seeking, like most of his contemporaries, to be Greek, Roman, or mediæval by turns, he preferred trying on all the various tricks of thought and feeling which he remarked among his unlettered townsfolk. His realism naturally drew him towards the classes where realism can deal with the real; and not the affected, the self-conscious, the deliberately attempted. Hence those wonderful little poems, the carnival songs of the gold-thread spinners, of the pastry-cooks, of the shoemakers, which give us so completely, so gracefully, the whole appearance, work, manner, gesture of the people; give them to us with ease and rapidity so perfect, that we scarcely know how they are given; that we almost forget verses and song, and actually see the pulling, twisting, and cutting of the gold-threads; that we see and hear the shoemaker's hands smoothing down the leather of the shoe in his hand, to convince his customers of its pliability; that we see and smell the dear little pale yellow pasties nestling in the neat white baskets, after having stood by and watched the dough being kneaded, chopped, and floured over, the iron plates heated in the oven, the soft, half-baked paste twisted and bent; nay, we feel almost as if we had eaten of them, those excellent things which seem such big mouthfuls but are squeezed and crunched at one go like nothing at all. Hence, I mean from this love of watching effects and reproducing them, originated also the masterpiece of Lorenzo dei Medici, the "Nencia da Barberino." This poem, of some fifty octaves, is the result of those Tuscan peasant songs, of which I have told you the curious Courtly descent, at last having struck the fancy of a real poet. It is, what Lorenzo's masterpiece necessarily must be, in the highest degree a modern performance; as modern as a picture by Bastien Lepage; as an opera, founded upon local music, by Bizet. For it is not by any manner of means a pastoral, a piece of conventional poetic decoration, with just a little realistic detail, more of the mere conventional or more of the realistic dominating according as it is a pastoral by Theocritus, or a pastoral by Quinault or Metastasio. It is the very reverse of this: it is the attempt to obtain a large and complete, detailed and balanced impression by the cunning arrangement of a number of small effects which the artist has watched in reality; it is the making into a kind of little idyl, something half narrative, half drama, with distinct figures and accessories and background, of a whole lot of little fragments imitated from the peasant poetry, and set in thin, delicate rims of imitation no longer of the peasant's songs, but of the peasant's thoughts and speech; a perfect piece of impressionist art, marred only in rare places by an attempt (inevitable in those days) to force the drawing and colour into caricature. The construction, which appears to be nowhere, is in reality a masterpiece; for, without knowing it, you are shown the actors, the background, the ups and downs of temper, the variation of the seasons; above all you are shown the heroine through the medium of the praises, the complaints, the narratives of the past, the imaginings of the future, of the hero, whose incoherent rhapsodizing constitutes the whole poem. He, Valléra, is a well-to-do young farmer; she, Nencia, is the daughter of peasant folk of the castellated village of Barberino in the Mugello; he is madly in love, but shy, and (to all appearance) awkward, so that we feel convinced that of all these speeches in praise of his Nenciozza, in blame of his indifference, highly poetic flights and most practical adjurations to see all the advantages of a good match, the young woman hears few or none; Valléra is talking not to her, but at her, or rather, he is rehearsing to himself all the things which he cannot squeeze out in her presence. It is the long day-dream, poetic, prosaic, practical, and imaginative, of a love-sick Italian peasant lad, to whom his sweetheart is at once an ideal thing of beauty, a goddess at whose shrine songs must be sung and wreaths twined; and a very substantial lass, who cannot be indifferent to sixpenny presents, and whom he cannot conceive as not ultimately becoming the sharer of his cottage, the cooker of his soup, the mender of his linen, the mother of his brats--a dream in which image is effaced by image, and one thought is expelled, unfinished, by another. She is to him like the Fairy Morgana, the fairy who kept so much of chivalry in her enchanted island; she is like the evening star when above his cottage it slowly pierces the soft blue sky with its white brilliancy; she is purer than the water in the well, and sweeter than the malmsey wine, and whiter than the miller's flour; but her heart is as hard as a pebble, and she loves driving to distraction a whole lot of youths who dangle behind her, captives of those heart-thievish eyes of hers. But she is also a most excellent housewife, can stand any amount of hard field labour, and makes lots of money by weaving beautiful woollen stuff. To see her going, to church of a morning, she is a little pearl! her bodice is of damask, and her petticoat of bright, colour, and she kneels down carefully where she may be seen, being so smart. And then, when she dances!--a born dancer, bouncing like a little goat, and twirling more than a mill-wheel; and when she has finished she makes you such a curtsey; no citizen's wife in Florence can curtsey as she does. It was in April that he first fell in love. She was picking salad in the garden; he begged her for a little, and she sent him about his business; las, alas! ever since then his peace has been gone; he cannot sleep, he can only think of her, and follow her about; he has become quite good-for-nothing as to his field work,--yet he hears all the people around laughing and saying, "Of course Valléra will get her." Only _she_ will pay no heed to him. She is finer to look at than the Pope, whiter than the whitest wood core: she is more delectable than are the young figs to the earwigs, more beautiful than the turnip flower, sweeter than honey. He is more in love with her than the moth is in love with the lamp; she loves to see him perishing for her. If he could cut himself in two without too much pain, he would, just to let her see that he carries her in his heart. No; he would cut out his heart, and when she has touched it with that slender hand of hers, it would cry out, "Nencia, Nencia bella." But, after all, he is not to be despised: he is an excellent labourer, most learned in buying--and selling pigs, he can play the bagpipe beautifully; he is rich, is willing to go to any expense to please her, nay, even to pay the barber double that his hair may be nice and fuzzy from the crimping irons; and if only he were to get himself tight hose and a silk jerkin, he would be as good as any Florentine burgess. But she will not listen; or, rather, she listens and laughs. Yes, she sits up in bed at night and laughs herself to death at the mere thought of him, that is all he gets. But he knows what it is! There is a fellow who will keep sneaking about her; if Valléra only catch him near his cottage, won't he give him a taste of his long new knife! nay, rip him up and throw his bowels, like those of a pig, to dry on a roof! He is sorry--perhaps he bores her--God bless you, Nencia!--he had better go and look after his sheep. All this is not the poetry of the Renaissance peasant; it is the poem made out of his reality; the songs which Valléra sang in the fields about his Nencia we must seek in the volume of Tigri; those rispetti and stornelli of to-day are the rispetti and stornelli of four centuries ago; they are much more beautiful and poetic than any of Lorenzo's work; but Lorenzo has given us not merely a peasant's love-song; he has given us a peasant's thoughts, actions, hopes, fears; he has given us the peasant himself, his house, his fields, and his sweetheart, as they exist even now. For Lorenzo is gone, and, greater than he, the paladins and ladies of Boiardo and Ariosto, have followed the saints and virgins of Dante into the limbo of fair unrealities; and the very Greek and Roman heroes of a hundred years ago, the very knights and covenanters of forty years since, have joined them; but Valléra exists still, and still in the flesh exists his Nenciozza. Everything changes, except the country and the peasant. For, in the long farms of Southern Tuscany, with double row of blackened balcony all tapestried with heavy ingots of Indian corn, and spread out among the olives of the hillside, up which twists the rough bullock road protected by its vine trellis; and in the little farms, with queer hood-shaped double roofs (as if to pull over the face of the house when it blows hard), and pigeon towers which show that some day they must have been fortified, all about Florence; farms which I pass every day, with their sere trees all round, their rough gardens of bright dahlias and chrysanthemums draggled by the autumn rains--in these there are, do not doubt it, still Nencias: magnificent creatures, fit models for Amazons, only just a trifle too full-blown and matronly; but with real Amazonian limbs, firm and delicate, under their red and purple striped print frocks; creatures with heads set on necks like towers or columns, necks firm in broad, well-fleshed chest as branches in a tree's trunk; great penthouses of reddish yellow or lustreless black crimped hair over the forehead; the forehead, like the cheeks, furrowed a good deal--perhaps we dainty people might say, faded and wrinkled by work in the burning sun and the wind; women whom you see shovelling bread into the heated ovens, or plashing in winter with bare arms in half-frozen streams, or digging up a turnip field in the drizzle; or on a Sunday, standing listless by their door, surrounded by rolling and squalling brats, and who, when they slowly look up at the passer-by, show us, on those monumental faces of theirs, a strange smile, a light of bright eyes and white teeth; a smile which to us sophisticated townspeople is as puzzling as certain sudden looks in some comely animal, but which yet makes us understand instinctively that we have before us a Nencia; and that the husband yonder, though he now swears at his wife, and perhaps occasionally beats her, has nevertheless, in his day, dreamed, argued, raged, and sung to himself just like Lorenzo's Valléra. The "Nencia da Barberino" is certainly Lorenzo dei Medici's masterpiece: it is completely and satisfactorily worked out. Yet we may strain possibilities to the point of supposing (which, however, I cannot for a moment suppose) that this "Nencia" is a kind of fluke; that by an accident a beautiful and seemingly appreciative poem has resulted where the author, a mediæval realist of a superior Villon sort, had intended only a piece of utter grotesqueness. But important as is the "Nencia," Lorenzo has left behind him another poem, greatly inferior in completeness, but which settles beyond power of doubt that in him the Renaissance was not merely no longer mediæval, but most intensely modern. This poem is the "Ambra." It is simply an allegorical narrative of the inundation, by the river Ombrone, of a portion, called Ambra, of the great Medicean villa of Poggio a Caiano. Lorenzo's object was evidently to write a semi-Ovidian poem, of a kind common in his day, and common almost up to our own: a river-god, bearded, crown of reeds, urn, general dampness and uproariousness of temper, all quite correct; and a nymph, whom he pursues, who prays to the Virgin huntress to save her from his love, and who, just in the nick of time, is metamorphosed into a mossy stone, dimly showing her former woman's shape; the style of thing, charming, graceful, insipid, of which every one can remember a dozen instances, and which immediately brings up to the mind a vision of grand-ducal gardens, where, among the clipped ilexes and the cypress trunks, great lumbering water-gods and long-limbed nymphs splash, petrified and covered with melancholy ooze and yellow lichen, among the stagnant grotto waters. In some respects, therefore, there is in the "Ambra" somewhat more artificial, more _barrocco_ than that early Renaissance of Politian and Pontano would warrant. There also several bits, half graceful, half awkward, pedantic, constrained, childish, delightful, like the sedge-crowned rivers telling each other anecdotes of the ways and customs of their respective countries, and especially the charming dance of zephyr with the flowers on the lawns of Cyprus, which must immediately suggest pictures by Piero di Cosimo and by Botticelli. So far, therefore, there is plenty to enjoy, but nothing to astonish, in the "Ambra." But the Magnificent Lorenzo has had the extraordinary whim of beginning his allegory with a description, twenty-one stanzas long, of the season of floods. A description, full of infinitely delicate minute detail: of the plants which have kept their foliage while the others are bare--the prickly juniper, the myrtle and bay; of the flocks of cranes printing the sky with their queer shapes, of the fish under the ice, and the eagle circling slowly round the ponds--little things which affect us mixed up as they are with all manner of stiff classic allusions, very much as do the carefully painted daisies and clover among the embossed and gilded unrealities of certain old pictures. From these rather finikin details, Lorenzo passes, however, to details which are a good deal more than details, things little noticed until almost recently: the varying effect of the olives on the hillside--a grey, green mass, a silver ripple, according as the wind stirs them; the golden appearance of the serene summer air, and so forth; details no longer, in short, but essentially, however minute, effects. And then, suddenly leaving such things behind, he rushes into the midst of a real picture, a picture which you might call almost impressionistic, of the growth of rivers and the floods. The floods are a grand sight; more than a sight--a grand performance, a drama; sometimes, God knows, a tragedy. Last night, under a warm, hazy sky, through whose buff-tinted clouds the big moon crept in and out, the mountain stream was vaguely visible--a dark riband in its wide shingly bed, when the moon was hidden; a narrow, shallow, broken stream, sheets of brilliant metallic sheen, and showers of sparkling facets, when the moon was out; a mere drowsy murmur mixing with the creaking and rustling of dry reeds in the warm, wet wind. Thus in the evening. Look down from your window next morning. A tremendous rushing mass of waters, thick, turbid, reddish, with ominous steel-like lustre where its coppery surface reflects the moist blue sky, now fills the whole bed, shaking its short fringe of foam, tossing the spray as it swirls round each still projecting stone, angrily tugging at the reeds and alders which flop their draggled green upon its surface; eddying faster and faster, encircling each higher rock or sandbank, covering it at last with its foaming red mass. Meanwhile, the sky is covered in with vaporous grey clouds, which enshroud the hills; the clear runnels, dash over the green banks, spirt through the walls, break their way across the roads; the little mountain torrents, dry all summer, descend, raging rivers, red with the hill soil; and with every gust of warm wind the river rises higher and rushes along tremendously impetuous. Down in the plain it eats angrily at the soft banks, and breaks its muddy waters, fringed on the surface with a sort of ominous grime of broken wood and earth, higher and higher against the pierheads of the bridges; shaking them to split their masonry, while crowds of men and women look on, staring at the rising water, at the planks, tables, beams, cottage thatches, nay, whole trees, which it hurls at the bridge piers. And then, perhaps, the terrible, soft, balmy flood-wind persisting, there comes suddenly the catastrophe; the embankment, shaken by the resistless current, cracks, fissures gives way; and the river rushes into the city, as it has already rushed into the fields, to spread in constantly rising, melancholy livid pools, throughout the streets and squares. This Lorenzo saw, and, wonderful to say, in this soiled and seething river, in these torn and crumbling banks, in all the dreadfulness of these things, he saw a beauty and a grandeur. But he saw not merely the struggle of the waters and of the land; he--the heartless man who laid his hand even upon the saved-up money of orphan girls in order to keep up the splendour of his house and of his bank--saw the misfortunes of the peasantry; the mill, the cottage by the riverside, invaded by the flood; the doors burst open by the tremendous rushing stream, the stables and garners filled with the thick and oozy waters; the poor creatures, yesterday prosperous, clinging to the roof, watching their sheep and cows, their hay, and straw, and flour, the hemp bleached in the summer, the linen spun and woven in the long winter, their furniture and chattels, their labour and their hope whirled along by the foaming river. Thus by this versatile Lorenzo dei Medici, this flippant, egotistic artist and despot, has at last been broken the long spell of the Middle Ages. The Renaissance has sung no longer of knights and of spring, but of peasants and of autumn. An immoral and humanistic time, an immoral and humanistic man, have had at length a heart for the simpler, ruder less favoured classes of mankind; an eye for the bolder, grander, more solemn sights of Nature: modern times have begun, modern sympathies, modern art are in full swing. SYMMETRIA PRISCA. Mirator veterum, discipulusque memor, Defuit mini symmetria prisca. Peregi Quod potui; Veniam da mihi, posteritas. --_Lionardo da Vinci's epitaph by Platino Piatto_. Into the holy enclosure which had received the precious shiploads of earth from Calvary, the Pisans of the thirteenth century carried the fragments of ancient sculpture brought from Rome and from Greece; and in the Gothic cloister enclosing the green sward and dark cypresses of the graveyard of Pisa, the art of the Middle Ages came for the first time face to face with the art of Antiquity. There, among pagan sarcophagi turned into Christian tombs, with heraldic devices chiselled on their arabesques and vizored helmets surmounting their garlands, the great unsigned artist of the fourteenth century, Orcagna of Florence, or Lorenzetti of Siena, painted the typical masterpiece of mediæval art, the great fresco of the Triumph of Death. With wonderful realization of character and situation he painted the prosperous of the world, the dapper youths and damsels seated with dogs and falcons beneath the orchard trees, amusing themselves with Decameronian tales and sound of lute and psaltery, unconscious of the colossal scythe wielded by the gigantic dishevelled Death, and which, in a second, will descend and mow them to the ground; while the crowd of beggars, ragged, maimed, paralyzed, leprous, grovelling on their withered limbs, see and implore Death, and cry stretching forth their arms, their stumps, and their crutches. Further on, three kings in long embroidered robes and gold-trimmed shovel caps, Lewis the Emperor, Uguccione of Pisa, and Castruccio of Lucca, with their retinue of ladies and squires, and hounds and hawks, are riding quietly through a wood. Suddenly their horses stop, draw back; the Emperor's bay stretches out his long neck sniffing the air; the kings strain forward to see, one holding his nose for the stench of death which meets him; and before them are three open coffins, in which lie, in three loathsome stages of corruption, from blue and bloated putrescence to well-nigh fleshless decay, three crowned corpses. This is the triumph of Death; the grim and horrible jest of the Middle Ages: equality in decay; kings, emperors, ladies, knights, beggars, and cripples, this is what we all come to be, stinking corpses; Death, our lord, our only just and lasting sovereign, reigns impartially over all. But opposite, all along the sides of the painted cloister, the Amazons are wrestling with the youths on the stone of the sarcophagi; the chariots are dashing forward, the Tritons are splashing in the marble waves; the Bacchantæ are striking their timbrels in their dance with the satyrs; the birds are pecking at the grapes, the goats are nibbling at the vines; all is life, strong and splendid in its marble eternity. And the mutilated Venus smiles towards the broken Hermes; the stalwart Hercules, resting against his club, looks on quietly, a smile beneath his beard; and the gods murmur to each other, as they stand in the cloister filled with earth from Calvary, where hundreds of men lie rotting beneath the cypresses, "Death will not triumph for ever; our day will come." We have all seen them opposite to each other, these two arts, the art born of Antiquity and the art born of the Middle Ages; but whether this meeting was friendly or hostile or merely indifferent, is a question of constant dispute. To some, mediæval art has appeared being led, Dante-like, by a magician Virgil through the mysteries of nature up to a Christian Beatrice, who alone can guide it to the kingdom of heaven; others have seen mediæval art, like some strong, chaste Sir Guyon turning away resolutely from the treacherous sorceress of Antiquity, and pursuing solitarily the road to the true and the good; for some the antique has been an impure goddess Venus, seducing and corrupting the Christian artist; the antique has been for others a glorious Helen, an unattainable perfection, ever pursued by the mediæval craftsman, but seized by him only as a phantom. Magician or witch, voluptuous, destroying Venus or cold and ungrasped Helen, what was the antique to the art born of the Middle Ages and developed during the Renaissance? Was the relation between them that of tuition, cool and abstract; or of fruitful love; or of deluding and damning example? The art which came to maturity in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries was generated in the early mediæval revival. The seeds may, indeed, have come down from Antiquity, but they remained for nearly a thousand years hidden in the withered, rotting remains of former vegetation; and it was not till that vegetation had completely decomposed and become part of the soil, it was not till putrefaction had turned into germination, that artistic organism timidly reappeared. The new art-germ developed with the new civilization which surrounded it. Manufacture and commerce reappeared: the artizans and merchants formed into communities; the communities grew into towns, the towns into cities; in the city arose the cathedral; the Lombard or Byzantine mouldings and traceries of the cathedral gave birth to figure-sculpture; its mosaics gave birth to painting; every forward movement of the civilization unfolded as it were a new form or detail of the art, until, when mediæval civilization was reaching its moment of consolidation, when the cathedrals of Lucca and Pisa stood completed, when Niccolò and Giovanni Pisano had sculptured their pulpits and sepulchres; painting, in the hands of Cimabue and Duccio, of Giotto and of Guido da Siena, freed itself from the tradition of the mosaicists as sculpture had freed itself from the practice of the stone-masons, and stood forth an independent and organic art. Thus painting was born of a new civilization, and grew by its own vital force; a thing of the Middle Ages, original and spontaneous. But contemporaneous with the mediæval revival was the resuscitation of Antiquity; in proportion as the new civilization developed, the old civilization was exhumed; real Latin began to be studied only when real Italian began to be written; Dante, Petrarca, and Boccaccio were at once the founders of modern literature and the exponents of the literature of antiquity; the strong young present was to profit by the experience of the past. As it was with literature, so likewise was it with art. The most purely mediæval sculpture, the sculpture which has, as it were, just detached itself from the capitals and porches of the cathedral, is the direct pupil of the antique; and the three great Gothic sculptors, Niccolò, Giovanni, and Andrea of Pisa, learn from fragments of Greek and Roman sculpture how to model the figure of the Redeemer and how to chisel the robe of the Virgin. This spontaneous mediæval sculpture, aided by the antique, preceded by a full half-century the appearance of mediæval painting; and it was from the study of the works of the Pisan sculptors that Cimabue and Giotto learned to depart from the mummified monstrosities of the hieratic, Byzantine and Roman style of Giunta and Berlinghieri. Thus, through the sculpture of the Pisans the painting of the school of Giotto received at second-hand the teachings of Antiquity. Sculpture had created painting; painting now belonged to the painters. In the hands of Giotto it developed within a few years into an art which seemed almost mature, an art dealing victoriously with its materials, triumphantly solving its problems, executing as if by miracle all that was demanded of it. But Giottesque art appeared perfect merely because it was limited; it did all that was required of it, because that which was required was little; it was not asked to reproduce the real nor to represent the beautiful; it was asked merely to suggest a character, a situation, a story. The artistic development of a nation has its exact parallel in the artistic development of an individual. The child uses his pencil to tell a story, satisfied with balls and sticks as body, head, and legs; provided he and his friends can associate with them the ideas in their minds. The youth sets himself to copy what he sees, to reproduce forms and effects, without any aim beyond the mere pleasure of copying. The mature artist strives to obtain forms and effects of which he approves, he seeks for beauty. In the life of Italian painting the generation of men who flourished at the beginning of the sixteenth century are the mature artists; the men of the fifteenth century are the inexperienced youths; the Giottesques are the children--children Titanic and seraph-like, but children nevertheless; and, like all children, learning more perhaps in their few years than can the youth and the man learn in a lifetime. Like the child, the Giottesque painter wished to show a situation or express a story, and for this purpose the absolute realization of objects was unnecessary. Giottesque art is not incorrect art, it is generalized art; it is an art of mere outline. The Giottesques could draw with great accuracy the hand: the form of the fingers, the bend of the limb, they could give to perfection its whole gesture and movement, they could produce a correct and spirited outline, but within this correct outline marked off in dark paint there is but a vague, uniform mass of pale colour; the body of the hand is missing, and there remains only its ghost, visible indeed, but unsubstantial, without weight or warmth, eluding the grasp. The difference between this spectre hand of the Giottesques, and the sinewy, muscular hand which can shake and crush of Masaccio and Signorelli; or the soft hand with throbbing pulse and warm pressure of Perugino and Bellini,--this difference is typical of the difference between the art of the fourteenth century and the art of the fifteenth century: the first suggests, the second realizes; the one gives impalpable outlines, the other gives tangible bodies. The Giottesque cares for the figure only inasmuch as it displays an action; he reduces it to a semblance, a phantom, to the mere exponent of an idea; the man of the Renaissance cares for the figure inasmuch as it is a living organism, he gives it substance and weight, he makes it stand out as an animate reality. Thence, despite its early triumphs, the Giottesque style, by its inherent nature, forbade any progress; it reached its limits at once, and the followers of Giotto look almost as if they were his predecessors, for the simple reason that, being unable to advance, they were forced to retrograde. The limited amount of artistic realization required to present to the mind of the spectator a situation or an allegory, had been obtained by Giotto himself, and bequeathed by him to his followers; who, finding it more than sufficient for their purposes, and having no incentive to further acquisition in the love of form and reality for their own sake, worked on with their master's materials, composing and recomposing, but adding nothing of their own. Giotto had observed Nature with passionate interest, because, although its representation was only a means to an end, it was a means which required to be mastered; and as such became in itself a sort of secondary aim; but the followers of Giotto merely utilized his observations--of Nature, and in so doing gradually conventionalized and debased these second-hand observations. Giotto's forms are wilfully incomplete, because they aim at mere suggestion, but they are not conventional: they are diagrams, not symbols, and thence it is that Giotto seems nearer to the Renaissance than do his latest followers, not excepting even Orcagna. Painting, which had made the most prodigious strides from Giunta to Cimabue, and from Cimabue to Giotto, had got enclosed within a vicious circle, in which it moved for nearly a century neither backwards nor forwards: painters were satisfied with suggestion; and as long as they were satisfied, no progress was possible. From this Giottesque treadmill, painting was released by the intervention of another art. The painters were hopelessly mediocre; their art was snatched from them by the sculptors. Orcagna himself, perhaps the only Giottesque who gave painting an onward push, had modelled and cast one of the bronze gates of the Florence baptistery; the generation of artists who arose at the beginning of the fifteenth century, and who opened the period of the Renaissance, were sculptors or pupils of sculptors. When we see these vigorous lovers of nature, these heroic searchers after truth, suddenly pushing aside the decrepit Giottesque allegory-mongers, we ask ourselves in astonishment whence they have arisen, and how those broken-down artists of effete art could have begotten such a generation of giants. Whence do they come? Certainly not from the studios of the Giottesques. No, they issue out of the workshops of the stone-mason, of the goldsmith, of the worker in bronze, of the sculptor. Vasari has preserved the tradition that Masolino and Paolo Uccello were apprentices of Ghiberti; he has remarked that their greatest contemporary, Masaccio, "trod in the steps of Brunelleschi and of Donatello." Pollaiolo and Verrocchio we know to have been equally excellent as painters and as workers in bronze. Sculpture, at once more naturalistic and more constantly under the influence of the antique, had for the second time laboured for painting. Itself a subordinate art, without much vitality, without deep roots in the civilization, sculpture was destined to remain the unsuccessful pupil of the antique, and the unsuccessful rival of painting; but sculpture had for its mission to prepare the road for painting and to prepare painting for antique influence; and the noblest work of Ghiberti and Donatello was Masaccio, as the most lasting glory to the Pisani had been Giotto. With Masaccio began the study of nature for its own sake, the desire of reproducing external objects, without any regard to their significance as symbols, or as parts of a story; the passionate wish to arrive at absolute realization. The merely suggestive outline art of the Giottesques had come to an end; the suggestion became a matter of indifference, the realization became a paramount interest; the story was forgotten in the telling, the religious thought was lost in the search for the artistic form. The Giottesques had used debased conventionalism to represent action with wonderful narrative and logical power; the artists of the early Renaissance became unskilful narrators and foolish allegorists almost in proportion as they became skilful draughtsmen and colourists; the saints had become to Masaccio merely so many lay figures on to which to cast drapery; for Fra Filippo the Madonna was a mere peasant model; for Filippino Lippi and for Ghirlandajo, a miracle meant merely an opportunity of congregating a number of admirable portrait figures in the dress of the day; the Baptism for Verrocchio had significance only as a study of muscular legs and arms; and the sacrifice of Noah had no importance for Uccello save as a grand opportunity for foreshortenings. In the hands of the Giottesques, interested in the subject and indifferent to the representation, painting had remained stationary for eighty years; for eighty years did it develope in the hands of the men of the fifteenth century, indifferent to the subject and passionately interested in the representation. The unity, the appearance of comparative perfection of the art had disappeared with the limits within which the Giottesques had been satisfied to move; instead of the intelligible and solemn conventionalism of the Giottesques, we see only disorder, half-understood ideas and abortive attempts, confusion which reminds us of those enigmatic sheets on which Leonardo or Michael Angelo scrawled out their ideas--drawings within drawings, plans of buildings scratched over Madonna heads, single flowers upside down next to flayed arms, calculations, monsters, sonnets; a very chaos of thoughts and of shapes, in which the plan of the artist is inextricably lost, which mean everything and nothing, but out of whose unintelligible network of lines and curves have issued masterpieces, and which only the foolish or the would-be philosophical would exchange for some intelligible, hopelessly finished and finite illustration out of a Bible or a book of travels. Anatomy, perspective, colour, drapery, effects of light, of water, of shadow, forms of trees and flowers, converging lines of architecture, all this at once absorbed and distracted the attention of the artists of the early Renaissance; and while they studied, copied, and calculated, another thought began to haunt them, another eager desire began to pursue them: by the side of Nature, the manifold, the baffling, the bewildering, there rose up before them another divinity, another sphinx, mysterious in its very simplicity and serenity--the Antique. The exhumation of the antique had, as we have seen, been contemporaneous with the birth of painting; nay, the study of the remains of antique sculpture had, in contributing to form Niccolò Pisano, indirectly helped to form Giotto; the very painter of the Triumph of Death had inserted into his terrible fresco two-winged genii, upholding a scroll, copied without any alteration from some coarse Roman sarcophagus, in which they may have sustained the usual _Dis Manibus Sacrum_. There had been, on the part of both sculptors and painters, a constant study of the antique; but during the Giottesque period this study had been limited to technicalities, and had in no way affected the conception of art. The mediæval artists, surrounded by physical deformities, and seeing sanctity in sickness and dirt, little accustomed to observe the human figure, were incapable, both as men and as artists, of at all entering into the spirit of antique art. They could not perceive the superior beauty of the antique; they could recognize only its superior science and its superior handicraft, and these alone they studied to obtain. Giovanni Pisano sculpturing the unfleshed, caried carcases of the devils who leer, writhe, crunch, and tear on the outside of Orvieto Cathedral; and the Giottesques painting those terrible green, macerated Christs, hanging livid and broken from the cross, which abound in Tuscany and Umbria; the artists who produced these loathsome and lugubrious works were indubitably students of the antique; but they had learned from it not a love for beautiful form and noble drapery, but merely the general shape of the limbs and the general fall of the garments: the anatomical science and technical processes of Antiquity were being used to produce the most intensely un-antique, the most intensely mediæval works. Thus matters stood in the time of Giotto. His followers, who studied only arrangement, probably consulted the antique as little as they consulted nature; but the contemporary sculptors were brought by the very constitution of their art into close contact both with Nature and with the antique; they studied both with determination, and handed over the results of their labours to the sculptor-taught painters of the fifteenth century. Here, then, were the two great factors in the art of the Renaissance--the study of nature, and the study of the Antique: both understand slowly, imperfectly; the one counteracting the effect of the other; the study of nature now scaring away all antique influence, the study of the antique now distorting all imitation of nature; rival forces confusing the artist and marring the work, until, when each could receive its due, the one corrected the other, and they combined, producing by this marriage of the living reality with the dead but immortal beauty, the great art of Michael Angelo, of Raphael, and of Titian: double, like its origin, antique and modern, real and ideal. The study of the antique is thus placed opposite to the study of nature, the comprehension of the works of Antiquity is the momentary antagonist of the comprehension of the works of nature. And this may seem strange, when we consider that antique art was itself due to perfect comprehension of nature. But the contradiction is easily explained. The study of nature, as it was carried on in the Renaissance, comprised the study of effects which had remained unnoticed by Antiquity; and the study of the statue,--colourless, without light, shade, or perspective, hampered, and was hampered by, the study of colour, of light and shade, of perspective, and of all that a generation of painters would seek to learn from nature. Nor was this all; the influence of the civilization of the Renaissance, of a civilization directly issued from the Middle Ages, was entirely at variance with the influence of antique civilization through the medium of ancient art; the Middle Ages and Antiquity, Christianity and Paganism, were even more opposed to each other than could be the statue and the easel picture, the fresco and the bas-relief. First, then, we have the hostility between painting--and sculpture, between the _modus operandi_ of the modern and the _modus operandi_ of the ancient art. Antique art is, in the first place, purely linear art, colourless, tintless, without light and shade; next, it is essentially the art of the isolated figure, without background, grouping, or perspective. As linear art it could directly affect only that branch of painting which was itself linear; and as art of the isolated figure it was ever being contradicted by the constantly developing arts of perspective and landscape. The antique never' directly influenced the Venetians, not from reasons of geography and culture, but from the fact that Venetian painting, founded from the earliest times upon a system of colour, could not be affected by antique sculpture, based upon a system of modelled, colourless form; the men who saw form only through the medium of colour could not learn much from purely linear form; hence it is that even after a certain amount of antique imitation had passed into Venetian painting, through the medium of Mantegna, the Venetian painters display comparatively little antique influence. In Bellini, Carpaccio, Cima, and other early masters, the features, forms, and dress are mainly modern and Venetian; and Giorgione, Titian, and even the eclectic Tintoret, were more interested in the bright lights of a steel breastplate than in the shape of a limb; and preferred in their hearts a shot brocade of the sixteenth century to the finest drapery ever modelled by an ancient. The antique influence was naturally strongest among the Tuscan schools; because the Tuscan schools were essentially schools of drawing, and the draughtsman recognized in antique sculpture the highest perfection of that linear form which was his own domain. Yet while the antique appealed most to the linear schools, even in these it could strongly influence only the purely linear part; it is strong in the drawings and weak in the paintings. As long as the artists had only the pencil or pen, they could reproduce much of the linear perfection of the antique; they were, so to speak, alone with it; but as soon as they brought in colour, perspective, and scenery, the linear perfection was lost in attempts at something new; the antique was put to flight by the modern. Botticelli's crayon study for his Venus is almost antique; his tempera picture of Venus, with the pale blue scaly sea, the laurel grove, the flower-embroidered garments, the wisps of tawny hair, is comparatively mediæval; Pinturicchio's sketch of Pans and satyrs contrasts strangely with his frescoes in the library of Siena; Mantegna himself, supernaturally antique in his engravings, becomes comparatively trivial and modern in his oil-paintings. Do what they might, draw from the antique and calculate its proportions, the artists of the Renaissance found themselves baffled as soon as they attempted to apply the result of then linear studies to coloured pictures; as soon as they tried to make the antique unite with the modern, one of the two elements was sure to succumb. In Botticelli, draughtsman and student though he was, the modern, the mediæval, that part of the art which had arisen in the Middle Ages, invariably had the upper hand; his Venus, despite her forms studied from the antique and her gesture imitated from some earlier discovered copy of the Medicean Venus, has the woe-begone prudery of a Madonna or of an abbess; she shivers physically and morally in her unaccustomed nakedness, and the goddess of Spring, who comes skipping up from beneath the laurel copse, does well to prepare her a mantle, for in the pallid tempera colour, against the dismal background of rippled sea, this mediæval Venus, at once indecent and prudish, is no very pleasing sight. In the Allegory of Spring in the Academy of Florence, we again have the antique; goddesses and nymphs whose clinging garments the gentle Sandro Botticelli has assuredly studied from some old statue of Agrippina or Faustina; but what strange livid tints are there beneath those draperies, what eccentric gestures are those of the nymphs, what a green, ghostlike light illumines this garden of Venus Are these goddesses and nymphs immortal women such as the ancients conceived, or are they not rather fantastic fairies or nixen, Titanias and Undines, incorporeal daughters of dew and gossamer and mist? In Sandro Botticelli the teachings of the statue are forgotten or distorted when the artist takes up his palette and brushes; in his greater contemporary, Andrea Mantegna, the ever-present antique chills and arrests the vitality of the modern. Mantegna, the pupil of the ancient marbles of Squarcione's workshop even more than the pupil of Donatello, studies for his paintings not from nature, but from sculpture; his figures are seen in strange projection and foreshortening, like figures in a high relief seen from below; despite his mastery of perspective, they seem hewn out of the background; despite the rich colours which he displays in his Veronese altar-piece, they look like painted marbles, with their hard clots of stonelike hair and beard, with their vacant glance and their wonderful draperies, clinging and weighty like the wet draperies of ancient sculpture. They are beautiful petrifactions, or vivified statues; Mantegna's masterpiece, the sepia "Judith" in Florence, is like an exquisite, pathetically lovely Eurydice, who has stepped unconscious and lifeless out of a Praxitelian bas-relief. And there are stranger works than even the Judith; strange statuesque fancies, like the fight of Marine Monsters and the Bacchanal among Mantegna's engravings. The group of three wondrous creatures, at once men, fish, and gods, is as grand and even more fantastic than Leonardo's Battle of the Standard: a Triton, sturdy and muscular, with sea-weed beard and hair, wheels round his finned horse, preparing to strike his adversary with a bunch of fish which he brandishes above him; on him is rushing, careering on an osseous sea-horse, a strange, lank, sinewy being, fury stretching every tendon, his long-clawed feet striking into the flanks of his steed, his sharp, reed-crowned head turned fiercely, with clenched teeth, on his opponent, and stretching forth a truncheon, ready to run down his enemy as a ship runs down another; and further off a young Triton, with clotted hair and heavy eyes, seems ready to sink wounded below the rippling wavelets, with the massive head and marble agony of the dying Alexander; enigmatic figures, grand and grotesque, lean, haggard, vehement, and yet, in the midst of violence and monstrosity, unaccountably antique. The other print, called the Bacchanal, has no background: half a dozen male figures stand separate and naked as in a bas-relief. Some are leaning against a vine-wreathed tub; a satyr, with acanthus-leaves growing wondrously out of him, half man, half plant, is emptying a cup; a heavy Silenus is prone upon the ground; a faun, seated upon the vat, is supporting in his arms a beautiful sinking youth; another youth, grand, muscular, and grave as a statue, stands on the further side. Is this really a bacchanal? Yes, for there is the paunchy Silenus, there are the fauns, there the vat and vine-wreaths and drinking-horns. And yet it cannot be a bacchanal. Compare with it one of Rubens's orgies, where the overgrown, rubicund men and women and fauns tumble about in tumultuous, riotous intoxication: that is a bacchanal; they have been drinking, those magnificent brutes, there is wine firing their blood and weighing down their heads. But here all is different, in this so-called Bacchanal of Mantegna. This heavy Silenus is supine like a mass of marble; these fauns are shy and mute; these youths are grave and sombre; there is no wine in the cups, there are no lees in the vat, there is no life in these magnificent colossal forms; there is no blood in their grandly bent lips, no light in their wide-opened eyes; it is not the drowsiness of intoxication which is weighing down the youth sustained by the faun; it is no grapejuice which gives that strange, vague glance. No; they have drunk, but not of any mortal drink; the grapes are grown in Persephone's garden, the vat contains no fruits that have ripened beneath our sun. These strange, mute, solemn revellers have drunk of Lethe, and they are growing cold with the cold of death and of marble; they are the ghosts of the dead ones of antiquity, revisiting the artist of the Renaissance, who paints them, thinking he is painting life, while that which he paints is in reality death. This anomaly, this unsatisfactory character of the works of both Botticelli and Mantegna, is mainly technical; the antique is frustrated in Botticelli, not so much by the Christian, the mediæval, the modern mode of feeling, as by the new methods and aims of the new art which disconcert the methods and aims of the old art; and that which arrests Mantegna in his development as a painter is not the spirit of Paganism deadening the spirit of Christianity, but the laws of sculpture hampering painting. But this technical contest between two arts, the one not yet fully developed, the other not yet fully understood, is as nothing compared with the contest between the two civilizations, the antique and the modern; between the habits and tendencies of the contemporaries of the artists of the Renaissance and of the artists themselves, and the habits and tendencies of the antique artists and their contemporaries. We are apt to think of the Renaissance as of a period closely resembling antiquity, misled by the inevitable similarity between southern and democratic countries of whatever age; misled still less pardonably by the Ciceronian pedantries and pseudo-antique obscenities of a few humanists, and by the pseudo-Corinthian arabesques and capitals of a few learned architects. But all this was mere archaeological finery borrowed by a civilization in itself entirely unlike that of ancient Greece. The Renaissance, let us remember, was merely the flowering time of that great mediæval movement which had germinated early in the twelfth century; it was merely a more advanced stage of the civilization which had produced Dante and Giotto, of the civilization which was destined to produce Luther and Rabelais. The fifteenth century was merely the continuation of the fourteenth century, as the fourteenth had been of the thirteenth; there had been growth and improvement; development of the more modern, diminishing of the more mediæval elements; but, despite growth and the changes due to growth, the Renaissance was part and parcel of the Middle Ages. The life, thought, aspirations, and habits were mediæval; opposed to the open-air life, the physical training and the materialistic religion of Antiquity. The surroundings of Masaccio and of Signorelli, nay, even of Raphael, were very different from those of Phidias or Praxiteles. Let us think what were the daily and hourly impressions given by the Renaissance to its artists. Large towns, in which thousands of human beings were crowded together, in narrow, gloomy streets, with but a strip of blue visible between the projecting roofs; and in these cities an incessant commercial activity, with no relief save festivals at the churches, brawls at the taverns, and carnival buffooneries. Men and women pale and meagre for want of air, and light, and movement; undeveloped, untrained bodies, warped by constant work at the loom or at the desk, at best with the lumpish freedom of the soldier and the vulgar nimbleness of the prentice. And these men and women dressed in the dress of the Middle Ages, gorgeous perhaps in colour, but heavy, miserable, grotesque, nay, sometimes ludicrous in form; citizens in lumpish robes and long-tailed caps; ladies in stiff and foldless brocade hoops and stomachers; artizans in striped and close-adhering hose and egg-shaped padded jerkin; soldiers in lumbering armour-plates, ill-fitted over ill-fitting leather, a shapeless shell of iron, bulging out and angular, in which the body was buried as successfully as in the robes of the magistrates. Thus we see the men and women of the Renaissance in the works of all its painters: heavy in Ghirlandajo, vulgarly jaunty in Filippino, preposterously starched and prim in Mantegna, ludicrously undignified in Signorelli; while mediæval stiffness, awkwardness, and absurdity reach their acme perhaps in the little boys, companions of the Medici children, introduced into Benozzo Gozzoli's Building of Babel. These are the prosperous townsfolk, among whom the Renaissance artist is but too glad to seek for models; but besides these there are lamentable sights, mediæval beyond words, at every street corner: dwarfs and cripples, maimed and diseased beggars of all degrees of loathsomeness, lepers and epileptics, and infinite numbers of monks, brown, grey, and black, in sack-shaped frocks and pointed hoods, with shaven crown and cropped beard, emaciated with penance or bloated with gluttony. And all this the painter sees, daily, hourly; it is his standard of humanity, and as such finds its way into every picture. It is the living; but opposite it arises the dead. Let us turn aside from the crowd of the mediæval city, and look at what the workmen have just laid bare, or what the merchant has just brought from Rome or from Greece. Look at this: it is corroded by oxides, battered by ill-usage, stained with earth: it is not a group, not even a whole statue, it has neither head nor arms remaining; it is a mere broken fragment of antique sculpture,--a naked body with a fold or two of drapery; it is not by Phidias nor by Praxiteles, it may not even be Greek; it may be some cheap copy, made for a garden or a bath, in the days of Hadrian. But to the artist of the fifteenth century it is the revelation of a whole world, a world in itself. We can scarcely realize all this; but let us look and reflect, and even we may feel as must have felt the man of the Renaissance in the presence of that mutilated, stained, battered torso. He sees in that broken stump a grandeur of outline, a magnificence of osseous structure, a breadth of muscle and sinew, a smooth, firm covering of flesh, such as he would vainly seek in any of his living models; he sees a delicate and infinite variety of indentures, of projections, of creases following the bend of every limb; he sees, where the surface still exists intact, an elasticity of skin, a buoyancy of hidden life such as all the colours of his palette are unable to imitate; and in this piece of drapery, negligently gathered over the hips or rolled upon the arm, he sees a magnificent alternation of large folds and small plaits, of straight lines, and broken lines, and curves. He sees all this; but he sees more: the broken torso is, as we have said, not merely a world in itself, but the revelation of a world. It is the revelation of antique civilization, of the palaestra and the stadium, of the sanctification of the body, of the apotheosis of man, of the religion of life and nature and joy; revealed to the man of the Middle Ages, who has hitherto seen in the untrained, diseased, despised body but a deformed piece of baseness, which his priests tell him belongs to the worms and to Satan; who has been taught that the monk living in solitude and celibacy, filthy, sick, worn out with fastings and bleeding with flagellation, is the nearest approach to divinity; who has seen Divinity itself, pale, emaciated, joyless, hanging bleeding from the cross; and who is for ever reminded that the kingdom of this Godhead is not of this world. What passes in the mind of that artist? What surprise, what dawning doubts, what sickening fears, what longings and what remorse are not the fruit of this sight of Antiquity? Is he to yield or to resist? Is he to forget the saints and Christ, and give himself over to Satan and to Antiquity? Only one man boldly answered, Yes. Mantegna abjured his faith, abjured the Middle Ages, abjured all that belonged to his time; and in so doing cast away from him the living art and became the lover, the worshipper of shadows. And only one man turned completely aside from the antique as from the demon, and that man was a saint, Fra Angelico da Fiesole. And with the antique, Fra Angelico rejected all the other artistic influences and aims of his time, the time not of Giotto or of Orcagna, but of Masaccio and Uccello, of Pollaiolo and Donatello. For the mild, meek, angelic monk dreaded the life of his days; dreaded to leave the cloister where the sunshine was tempered and the noise reduced to a mere faint hum, and where the flower-beds were tidy and prim; dreaded to soil or rumple his spotless white robe and his shining black cowl; a spiritual sybarite, shrinking from the sight of the crowd seething in the streets, shrinking from the idea of stripping the rags off the beggar in order to see his tanned and gnarled limbs; shuddering at the thought of seeking for muscles in the dead, cut-open body; fearful of every whiff of life that might mingle with the incense atmosphere of his chapel, of every cry of human passion which might break through the well-ordered sweetness of his chants. No; the Renaissance did not exist for him who lived in a world of diaphanous form, colour and character, unsubstantial and unruffled; dreaming feebly and sweetly of transparent-cheeked Madonnas with no limbs beneath their robes; of smooth-faced saints with well-combed beard and placid, vacant gaze, seated in well-ordered masses, holy with the purity of inanity; of divine dolls with pallid flaxen locks, floating between heaven and earth, playing upon lute and viol and psaltery; raised to faint visions of angels and blessed, moving noiseless, feelingless, meaningless, across the flowerets of Paradise; of assemblies of saints seated, arrayed in pure pink, and blue and lilac, in an atmosphere of liquid gold, in glory. And thus Fra Angelico worked on, content with the dearly purchased science of his masters, placid, beatic, effeminate, in an æsthetical paradise of his own, a paradise of sloth and sweetness, a paradise for weak souls, weak hearts, and weak eyes; patiently repeating the same fleshless angels, the same boneless saints, the same bloodless virgins; happy in smoothing the unmixed, unshaded tints of the sky, and earth, and dresses; laying on the gold of the fretted skies, and of the iridescent wings, embroidering robes, instruments of music, halos, flowers, with threads of gold.... Sweet, simple artist saint, reducing art to--something akin to the delicate pearl and silk embroidery of pious nuns, to the exquisite sweetmeat cookery of pious monks; a something too delicately gorgeous, too deliciously insipid for human wear or human food; no, the Renaissance does not exist for thee, either in its study of the existing reality, or in its study of antique beauty. Mantegna, the learned, the archæological, the pagan, who renounces his times and his faith; and Angelico, the monk, the saint, who shuts and bolts his monastery doors and sprinkles holy water in the face of the antique; the two extremes, are both exceptions. The innumerable artists of the Renaissance remained in hesitation; tried to court both the antique and the modern, to unite the Pagan and the Christian--some, like Ghirlandajo, in cold indifference to all but mere artistic science, encrusting marble bacchanals into the walls of the Virgin's paternal house, bringing together, unthinkingly, antique-draped women carrying baskets, and noble Strozzi and Ruccellai ladies with gloved hands folded over their gold brocaded skirts; others, with cheerful and childlike pleasure in both antique and modern, like Benozzo, crowding together half-naked youths and nymphs treading the grapes and scaling the trellise with Florentine magnificos in plaited skirts and starched collars, among the pines, and porticos, the sprawling children, barking dogs, peacocks sunning themselves, and partridges picking up grain, of his Pisan frescoes; yet others using the antique as mere pageant shows, allegorical mummeries, destined to amuse some Duke of Ferrara or Marquis of Mantua, together with the hurdle races of Jews, hags, and riderless donkeys. Thus little by little the antique amalgamates with the modern; the art born of the Middle Ages absorbs the art born of Paganism; but how slowly, and with what fantastic and ludicrous results at first; as when the anatomical sculptor Pollaiolo gives scenes of naked Roman prize-fighters as martyrdoms of St. Sebastian; or when the pious Perugino (pious at least with his brush) dresses up his sleek, hectic, beardless archangels as Roman warriors, and makes them stand, straddling beatically on thin little dapper legs, wistfully gazing from beneath their wondrously ornamented helmets on the walls of the Cambio at Perugia; when he masquerades meditative fathers of the Church as Socrates and haggard anchorites as Numa Pompilius; most ludicrous of all, when he attires in scantiest of--clinging antique drapery his mild and pensive Madonnas, and, with daintily pointed toes, places them to throne bashfully on allegorical chariots as Venus or Diana. Long is the period of amalgamation, and small are the results throughout that long early Renaissance. Mantegna, Piero della Francesca, Melozzo, Ghirlandajo, Filippino, Botticelli, Verrocchio, have none of them shown us the perfect fusion of the two elements whose union is to give us Michael Angelo, Raphael, and all the great perfect artists of the early sixteenth century; the two elements are for ever ill-combined and hostile to each other; the modern vulgarizes the antique, the antique paralyzes the modern. And meanwhile the fifteenth century, the century of study, of conflict, and of confusion, is rapidly drawing to a close; eight or ten more years, and it will be gone. Is the new century to find the antique still dead and the modern still mediæval? The antique and the modern had met for the first time and as irreconcilable enemies in the cloisters of Pisa; and the modern had triumphed in the great mediæval fresco of the Triumph of Death. By a strange coincidence, by a sublime jest of accident, the antique and the modern were destined to meet again, and this time indissolubly united, in a painting representing the Resurrection. Yes, Signorelli's fresco in Orvieto Cathedral is indeed a resurrection, the resurrection of human beauty after the long death-slumber of the Middle Ages. And the artist would seem to have been dimly conscious of the great allegory he was painting. Here and there are strewn skulls; skeletons stand leering by, as if in remembrance of the ghastly past, and as a token of former death; but magnificent youths are breaking through the crust of the earth, emerging, taking shape and flesh; arising, strong and proud, ready to go forth at the bidding of the Titanic angels who announce from on high with trumpet blast and waving banners, that the death of the world has come to an end, and that humanity has arisen once more in the youth and beauty of Antiquity. II. Signorelli's frescoes at Orvieto, at once the latest works of the fifteenth century, and the latest works of an old man nurtured in the traditions of Benozzo Gozzoli and of Piero della Francesca, mark the beginning of the maturity and perfection of Italian art. From them Michael Angelo learns what he could not be taught even by his master Ghirlandajo, the grand and cold realist. He learns; and what he has learned at Orvieto he teaches with doubled force in Rome; and the ceiling of the Sixtine Chapel, the superb and heroic nudities, the majestic draperies, the reappearance in the modern art of painting of the spirit and hand of Phidias, give a new impulse and hasten on perfection. When the doors of the chapel are at length opened, Raphael forgets Perugino; Fra Bartolomeo forgets Botticelli; Sodoma forgets Leonardo; the narrower hesitating styles of the fifteenth century are abandoned, as the great example is disseminated throughout Italy; and even the tumult of angels in glory which the Lombard Correggio is to paint in far-off Parma, and the daringly simple Bacchus and Ariadne with which Tintoret will decorate the Ducal Palace more than fifty years later--all that is great and bold, all that is a re-incarnation of the spirit of Antiquity, all that marks the culmination of Renaissance art, seems due to the impulse of Michael Angelo, and, through him, to the example of Signorelli. From the celestial horseman and bounding avenging angels of Raphael's Heliodorus, to the St. Sebastian of Sodoma, with exquisite limbs and head, rich with tendril-like locks, delicate against the brown Umbrian sunset; from the Madonna of Andrea del Sarto seated, with the head and drapery of a Niobe, by the sack of flour in the Annunziata cloister, to the voluptuous goddess, with purple mantle half concealing her body of golden white, who leans against the sculptured fountain in Titian's Sacred and Profane Love, with the greenish blue sky and hazy light of evening behind her; from the most extreme examples of the most extreme schools of Lombardy and Venetia, to the most intense examples of the remotest schools of Tuscany and Umbria; throughout the art of the early sixteenth century, of those thirty years which were the years of perfection, we see, more or less marked, but always distinct, the union of the living art born of the Middle Ages with the dead art left by Antiquity, a union producing life and perfection, producing the great art of the Renaissance. This much is clear and easy of definition; but what is neither clearly understood nor easily defined is the nature of this union, the manner in which the antique and the modern did thus amalgamate. It is easy to speak of a vague union of spirit, of the antique idea having permeated the modern; but all this explains but little: art is not a metaphysical figment, and all its phases and revolutions are concrete, and, so to speak, physically explicable and definable. The union of the antique with the modern meant simply the absorption by the art of the Renaissance of elements of civilization necessary for its perfection, but not existing in the medieval civilization of the fifteenth century; of elements of civilization which gave what the civilization of the fifteenth century--which could give colour, perspective, grouping, and landscape--could never have afforded: the nude, drapery, and gesture. The naked human body, which the Greeks had trained, studied, and idolized, did not exist in the fifteenth century; in its stead there was only the undressed body, ill-developed, untrained, pinched, and distorted by the garments only just cast off; cramped and bent by sedentary occupations, livid with the plague-spots of the Middle Ages, scarred by the whipmarks of asceticism. This stripped body, unseen and unfit to be seen, unaccustomed to the air and to the eyes of others, shivered and cowered for cold and for shame. The Giottesques ignored its very existence, conceiving humanity as a bodiless creature, with face and hands to express emotion, and just enough malformed legs and feet to be either standing or moving; further, beneath the garments, there was nothing. The realists of the fifteenth century tore off the clothes and drew the ugly thing beneath; and bought the corpses from the lazar-houses, and stole them from the gallows; in order to see how bone fitted into bone, and muscle was stretched over muscle. They learned to perfection the anatomy of the human frame, but they could not learn its beauty; they became even reconciled to the ugliness they were accustomed to see; and, with their minds full of antique examples, Verrocchio, Donatello, Pollaiolo, and Ghirlandajo, the greatest anatomists of the fifteenth century, imitated their coarse and ill-made living models when they imagined that they were imitating antique marbles. So much for the nude. Drapery, as the ancients understood it in the delicate plaits of Greek chiton and tunic, in the grand folds of Roman toga, the fifteenth century could not show; it knew only the stiff, scanty raiment of the active classes; the shapeless masses of lined cloth of the merchants and magistrates; the prudish and ostentatious starched dress of the women; and the coarse, lumpish garb of the monks. The artist of the fifteenth century knew drapery only as an exotic, an exotic with whose representation the habit of seeing mediæval costume was for ever interfering; on the stripped, unseemly, indecent body he places, with the stiffness of artificiality, drapery such as he has never seen upon any living creature; the result is awkwardness and rigidity. And what attitude, what gesture, can he expect from this stripped and artificially draped model? None, for the model scarce knows how to stand in so unaccustomed a condition of body. The artist must seek for attitude and gesture among his townsfolk, and among them he can find only trivial, awkward, often vulgar movement. They have never been taught how to stand or to move with grace and dignity; the artist must study attitude and gesture in the market-place or the bull-baiting ground, where Ghirlandajo found his jauntily strutting idlers, and Verrocchio his brutally staggering prize-fighters. Between the constrained attitudinizing of Byzantine and Giottesque tradition, and the imitation of the movements of clodhoppers and ragamuffins, the realist of the fifteenth century would wander hopelessly were it not for the antique. Genius and science are of no avail; the position of Christ in baptism in the paintings of Verrocchio and Ghirlandajo is mean and servile; the movements of the "Thunder-stricken" in Signorelli's lunettes is an inconceivable mixture of the brutish, the melodramatic, and the comic; the magnificently drawn youth at the door of the prison in Filippino's Liberation of St. Peter is gradually going to sleep and collapsing in a fashion which is truly ignoble. And the same applies to sculptured figures or to figures standing isolated like statues; no Greek would have ventured upon the swaggering position, with legs apart and elbows out, of Donatello's St. George, or Perugino's St. Michael; and a young Athenian who should have assumed the attitude of Verrocchio's David, with tripping legs and hand clapped on his hip, would have been sent to sit in a corner as a saucy little ragamuffin. Coarse nude, stiff drapery, vulgar attitude, was all that the fifteenth century could offer to its artists; but Antiquity could offer more and very different things: the naked body developed by the most artistic training, drapery the most natural and refined, and attitude and gesture regulated by an education the most careful and artistic; and all these things Antiquity did give to the artists of the Renaissance. They did not copy antique statues as living naked men and women, but they corrected the faults of their living models by the example of the statues; they did not copy antique stone draperies in coloured pictures, but they arranged the robes on their models with the antique folds well in their memory; they did not give the gestures of statues to living figures, but they made the living figures move in accordance with those principles of harmony which they had found exemplified in the statues. They did not imitate the antique, they studied it; they obtained through the fragments of antique sculpture a glimpse into the life of antiquity, and that glimpse served to correct the vulgarism and distortion of the mediæval life of the fifteenth century. In the perfection of Italian painting, the union of antique and modern being consummated, it is perhaps difficult to disentangle what really is antique from what is modern; but in the earlier times, when the two elements were still separate, we can see them opposite each other and compare them in the works of the greatest artists. Wherever, in the paintings of the early Renaissance, there is realism, marked by the costume of the times, there is ugliness of form and vulgarity of movement; where there is idealism, marked by imitation of the antique, the nude, and drapery, there is beauty and dignity. We need only compare Filippino's Scene before the Proconsul with his Raising of the King's Son in the Brancacci Chapel; the grand attitude and draperies of Ghirlandajo's Zachariah with the vulgar dress and movements of the Florentine citizens surrounding him; Benozzo Gozzoli's noble naked figure of Noah with his ungainly, hideously dressed figure of Cosimo de' Medici; Mantegna's exquisite Judith with his preposterous Marquis of Mantua; in short, all the purely realistic with all the purely idealistic painting of the fifteenth century. We may give one last instance. In Signorelli's Orvieto frescoes there is a figure of a young man, with aquiline features, long crisp hair and strongly developed throat, which reappears unmistakably in all the compositions, and in some of them twice and thrice in various positions. His naked figure is magnificent, his attitudes splendid, his thrown-back head superb, whether he be slowly and painfully emerging from the earth, staggered and gasping with his newly infused life, or sinking oppressed on the ground, broken and crushed by the sound of the trumpet of judgment; or whether he be moving forward with ineffable longing towards the angel about to award him the crown of the blessed; in all these positions he is heroically beautiful. We meet him again, unmistakable, but how different, in the realistic group of the "Thunder-stricken "--the long, lank youth, with spindle-shanks and egg-shaped body, bounding forward, with most grotesque strides, over the uncouth heap of dead bodies, ungainly masses with soles and nostrils uppermost, lying in beast-like confusion. This youth, with something of a harlequin in his jumps and his ridiculous thin legs and preposterous round body, is evidently the model for the naked demi-gods of the Resurrection and the Paradise: he is the handsome boy as the fifteenth century gave him to Signorelli; opposite, he is the living youth of the fifteenth century idealized by the study of ancient sculpture; just as the "Thunder-stricken" may be some scene of street massacre such as Signorelli might have witnessed at Cortona or Perugia; while the agonies of the "Hell" are the grouped and superb agonies taught by the antique; just as the two archangels of the "Hell," in their armour of Baglioni's heavy cavalry, may represent the modern element, and the same archangels, naked, with magnificent flying draperies, blowing the trumpets of the Resurrection, may show the antique element in Renaissance art. The antique influence was not, indeed, equally strong throughout Italy; it was strongest in the Tuscan school, which, seeking for perfection of linear form, found that perfection in the antique; it was weakest in the Lombard and Venetian schools, which sought for what the antique could not give, light and shade and colour; the antique was most efficacious where it was most indispensable, and it was more necessary to a Tuscan, strong only with his charcoal or pencil, than to Leonardo da Vinci, who could make an imperfect figure, beckoning mysteriously from out of the gloom, more fascinating than the finest drawn Florentine Madonna, and could surround an insignificant childish head with the wondrous sheen and ripple of hair, as with an aureole of poetry; it was also less necessary to Giorgione and Titian, who could hide coarse limbs beneath their draperies of precious ruby, and transfigure, by the liquid gold of their palettes, a peasant woman into a goddess. But even the Lombards, even the Venetians, required the antique influence. They could not perhaps have obtained it direct like the Tuscans: the colourists and masters of light and shade might never have understood the blank lines and faint shadows of the marble; but they received the antique influence, strong but modified by the medium through which it had passed, from Mantegna; and the relentless self-sacrifice to Antiquity, the self-paralyzation of the great artist, was not without its use: from Venetian Padua, Mantegna influenced the Bellini and Giorgione; from Lombard Mantua, he influenced Leonardo; and Mantegna's influence was that of the antique. What would have been the art of the Renaissance without the antique? The speculation is vain, for the antique had influenced it, had been goading it on ever since the earliest times; it had been present at its birth, it had affected Giotto through Niccolò Pisano, and Masaccio through Ghiberti; the antique influence cannot be conceived as absent in the history of Italian painting. So far, as a study of the impossible, the speculation respecting the fate of Renaissance art had it not been influenced by the antique would be childishly useless. But lest we forget that this antique influence did exist, lest, grown ungrateful and blind, we refuse it its immense share in producing Michael Angelo, Raphael, and Titian, we may do well to turn to an art born and bred like Italian art, in the Middle Ages; like it, full of strength and power of self-development, but which, unlike Italian art, was not influenced by the antique. This art is the great German art of the early sixteenth century; the art of Martin Schongauer, of Aldegrever, of Altdorfer, of Wohlgemuth, of Kranach, of Albrecht Dürer and Hans Holbein, whom they resemble as Pinturicchio and Lo Spagna resemble Perugino, as Palma and Paris Bordone resemble Titian. This is an art born in a civilization less perfect indeed than that of Italy, narrower, as Nürnberg or Basle is narrower than Florence; but resembling it in habits, dress, religion, above all, the main characteristic of being mediæval; and its masters, as great as their Italian contemporaries in all the technicalities of the art, and In absolute honesty of endeavour, may show what the Italian art of the sixteenth century might have been without the antique. Let us therefore open a portfolio of those wonderful minute yet grand engravings of the old Germans. They are for the most part Scriptural scenes or allegories, quite analogous to those of the Italians, but purely realistic, conscious of no world beyond that of an Imperial City of the year 1520. Here we have the whole turn-out, male and female, of a German free-town, in the shape of scenes from the lives of the Virgin and saints; here are short fat burghers, with enormous blotchy, bloated faces and little eyes set in fat, their huge stomachs protruding from under their jackets; here are blear-eyed ladies, tall, thin, wrinkled though not old, with figures like hungry harpies, stalking about in high headgears and stiff gowns, or sitting by the side of lean and stunted pages, singing (with dolorous voice) to lutes; or promenading under trees with long-shanked, high-shouldered gentlemen, with vacant sickly face and long scraggy hair and beard, their bony elbows sticking out of their slashed doublets. These courtly figures culminate in Dürer's magnificent plate of the wild man of the woods kissing the hideous, leering Jezebel in her brocade and jewels. These aristocratic women are terrible; prudish, malicious, licentious, never modest because they are always ugly. Even the poor Madonnas, seated in front of village hovels or windmills, smile the smile of starved, sickly sempstresses. It is a stunted, poverty-stricken, plague-sick society, this mediæval society of burghers and burghers' wives; the air seems bad and heavy, and the light wanting physically and morally, in these old free-towns; there is intellectual sickness as well as bodily in those musty gabled houses; the mediæval spirit blights what revival of healthiness may exist in these commonwealths. And feudalism is outside the gates. There are the brutal, leering men-at-arms, in slashed, puffed doublets and heavy armour, face and dress as unhuman as possible, standing grimacing at the blood spirting from John the Baptist's decapitated trunk, as in Kranach's horrible print, while gaping spectators fill the castle-yard; there are the castles high on rocks amidst woods, with miserable villages below, where the Prodigal Son wallows among the swine, and the tattered boors tumble about in drunkenness, or rest wearied on their spades. There are the Middle Ages in full force. But had these Germans of the days of Luther really no thought beyond their own times and their own country? Had they really no knowledge of the antique? Not so; they had heard from their learned men, from Willibald Pirkheimer and Ulrich von Hutten, that the world had once been peopled with naked gods and goddesses. Nay, the very year perhaps that Raphael handed to his engraver, Marc Antonio, his magnificent drawing of the Judgment of Paris, Lukas Kranach bethought him to represent the story of the good Knight Paris giving the apple to the Lady Venus. So Kranach took up his steady pencil and sharp chisel, and in strong, clear, minute lines of black and white showed us the scene. There, on Mount Ida, with a castellated rock in the distance, the charger of Paris browses beneath some stunted larches; the Trojan knight's helmet, with its monstrous beak and plume, lies on the ground; and near it reclines Paris himself, lazy, in complete armour, with frizzled fashionable beard. To him, all wrinkled and grinning with brutal lust, comes another bearded knight, with wings to his vizored helmet, Sir Mercury, leading the three goddesses, short, fat-cheeked German wenches, housemaids stripped of their clothes, stupid, brazen, indifferent. And Paris is evidently prepared with his choice: he awards the apple to the fattest, for among a half-starved, plague-stricken people like this, the chosen of gods and men must needs be the fattest. No, such pagan scenes are mere burlesques, coarse mummeries, such as may have amused Nürnberg and Augsburg during Shrovetide, when drunken louts figured as Bacchus and sang drinking songs by Hans Sachs. There is no reality in all this; there is no belief in pagan gods. If we would see the haunting divinity of the German Renaissance, we shall find him prying and prowling in nearly every scene of real life; him, the ever present, the king of the Middle Ages, whose triumph we have seen on the cloister wall at Pisa, the Lord Death. His fleshless face peers from behind a bush at Zatzinger's stunted, fever-stricken lady and imbecile gentleman; he sits grinning on a tree in Orso Grafs allegory, while the cynical knights, with haggard, sensual faces, crack dirty jokes with the fat, brutish woman squatted below; he puts his hand into the basket of Dürer's tattered pedlar; he leers hideously at the stirrup of Dürer's armed and stalwart knight. No gods of youth and nature, no Hercules, no Hermes, no Venus, have invaded his German territories, as they invaded even his own palace, the burial-ground at Pisa; the antique has not perverted Dürer and his fellows, as it perverted Masaccio and Signorelli and Mantegna, from the mediæval worship of Death. The Italians had seen the antique and had let themselves be seduced by it, despite their civilization and their religion. Let us only rejoice thereat. There are indeed some, and among them the great English critic who is irrefutable when he is a poet, and irrational when he becomes a philosopher;--there are some who tell us that in its union with antique art, the art of the followers of Giotto embraced death, and rotted away ever after. There are others, more moderate but less logical, who would teach us that in uniting with the antique, the mediæval art of the fifteenth century purified and sanctified the beautiful but evil child of Paganism; that the goddess of Scopas and the athlete of Polyclete were raised to a higher sphere when Raphael changed the one into a Madonna, and Michael Angelo metamorphosed the other into a prophet. But both schools of criticism are wrong. Every civilization has its inherent evil; Antiquity had its inherent evils, as the Middle Ages had theirs; Antiquity may have bequeathed to the Renaissance the bad with the good, as the Middle Ages had bequeathed to the Renaissance the good with the bad. But the art of Antiquity was not the evil, it was the good of Antiquity; it was born of its strength and its purity only, and it was the incarnation of its noblest qualities. It could not be purified, because it was spotless; it could not be sanctified, because it was holy. It could gain nothing from the art of the Middle Ages, alternately strong in brutal reality, and languid in mystic inanity; the men of the Renaissance could, if they influenced it at all, influence the antique only for evil; they belonged to an inferior artistic civilization, and if we conscientiously seek for the spiritual improvements brought by them into antique types, we shall see that they consist in spoiling their perfect proportions; in making necks longer and muscles more prominent; in rendering more or less flaccid, or meagre or coarse, the grand and delicate forms of antique art. And when we have examined into this purified art of the Renaissance, when we have compared coolly and equitably, we may perhaps confess that, while the Renaissance added immense wealth of beauty in colour, perspective, and grouping, it took away something of the perfection of simple lines and modest light and shade of the antique; we may admit to ourselves that the grandest saint by Raphael is meagre and stunted; and the noblest Virgin by Titian is overblown and sensual by the side of the demi-gods and amazons of antique sculpture. The antique perfected the art of the Renaissance, it did not corrupt it. The art of the Renaissance fell indeed into shameful degradation soon after the period of its triumphant union with the antique; and Raphael's grand gods and goddesses, his exquisite Eros and radiant Psyche of the Farnesina, are indeed succeeded but too soon by the Olympus of Giulio Romano, an Olympus of harlots and acrobats, who smirk and mouth and wriggle and sprawl ignobly on the walls and ceilings of the dismantled palace which crumbles away among the stunted willows, the stagnant pools, and rank grass of the marshes of Mantua. But this is no more the fault of Antiquity than it is the fault of the Middle Ages; it is the fault of that great principle of life and of change which makes all things organic, be they physical or intellectual, germinate, grow, attain maturity, and then fade, wither, and rot. The dead art of Antiquity could never have brought the art of the Renaissance to an untimely end; the art of the Renaissance decayed because it was mature, and died because it had lived. 
31304	----	EUPHORION: BEING STUDIES OF THE ANTIQUE AND THE MEDIEVAL IN THE RENAISSANCE BY VERNON LEE _Author of "Studies of the 18th Century in Italy," "Belcaro," etc._ _VOL. II._ TABLE OF CONTENTS. THE PORTRAIT ART THE SCHOOL OF BOIARDO MEDIÆVAL LOVE EPILOGUE APPENDIX * * * * * THE PORTRAIT ART I. Real and Ideal--these are the handy terms, admiring or disapproving, which criticism claps with random facility on to every imaginable school. This artist or group of artists goes in for the real--the upright, noble, trumpery, filthy real; that other artist or group of artists seeks after the ideal--the ideal which may mean sublimity or platitude. We summon every living artist to state whether he is a realist or an idealist; we classify all dead artists as realists or idealists; we treat the matter as if it were one of almost moral importance. Now the fact of the case is that the question of realism and idealism, which we calmly assume as already settled or easy to settle by our own sense of right and wrong, is one of the tangled questions of art-philosophy; and one, moreover, which no amount of theory, but only historic fact, can ever set right. For, to begin with, we find realism and idealism coming before us in different ways and with different meaning and importance. All art which is not addressing (as decrepit art is forced to do) faculties to which it does not spontaneously and properly appeal--all art is decorative, ornamental, idealistic therefore, since it consciously or unconsciously aims, not merely at reproducing the already existing, but at producing something which shall repay the looking at it, something which shall ornament, if not a place, at least our lives; and such making of the ornamental, of the worth looking at, necessarily implies selection and arrangement--that is to say idealism. At the same time, while art aims definitely at being in this sense decorative, art may very possibly aim more immediately at merely reproducing, without, selection or arrangement, the actually existing things of the world; and this in order to obtain the mere power of representation. In short, art which is idealistic as a master will yet be realistic as a scholar: it decorates when it achieves, it copies when it studies. But this is only half the question. Certain whole schools may be described as idealistic, others as realistic, in tendency; and this, not in their study, but in their achievement. One school will obviously be contented with forms the most unselected and vulgar; others will go but little out of their way in search of form-superiority; while yet others, and these we must emphatically call idealistic, are squeamish to the last degree in the choice and adaptation of form, anxious, to get the very best, and make the very best of it. Yet, on thinking over it, we shall find that realistic and idealistic schools are all, in their achievements, equally striving after something which is not the mere reproduction of the already existing as such--striving, in short, after decoration. The pupil of Perugino will, indeed, wait patiently to begin his work until he can find a model fit for a god or goddess; while the fellow-craftsman of Rembrandt will be satisfied with the first dirty old Jew or besotten barmaid that comes to hand. But the realistic Dutchman is not, therefore, any the less smitten with beauty, any the less eager to be ornamental, than the idealistic Italian: his man and woman he takes indeed with off-hand indifference, but he places them in that of which the Italian shall perhaps never have dreamed, in that on which he has expended all his science, his skill, his fancy, in that which he gives as his addition to the beautiful things of art--in atmosphere, in light, which are to the everyday atmosphere and light what the patiently sought for, carefully perfected god or goddess model of Raphael is to the everyday Jew, to the everyday barmaid, of Rembrandt. The ideal, for the man who is quite coarsely realistic in his figures, exists in the air, light, colour; and in saying this I have, so to speak, turned over the page too quickly, forestalled the expression of what I can prove only later: the disconnection of such comparative realism and idealism as this (the only kind of realism, let us remember, which can exist in great art) with any personal bias of the artist, its intimate dependence upon the constitution and tendency of art, upon its preoccupations about form, or colour, or light, in a given country and at a given moment. And now I should wish to resume the more orderly treatment of the subject, which will lead us in time to the second half of the question respecting realism and idealism. These considerations have come to me in connection with the portrait art of the Renaissance; and this very simply. For portrait is a curious bastard of art, sprung on the one side from a desire which is not artistic, nay, if anything, opposed to the whole nature and function of art: the desire for the mere likeness of an individual. The union with this interloping tendency, so foreign to the whole aristocratic temper of art, has produced portrait; and by the position of this hybrid, or at least far from regularly bred creature; by the amount of the real artistic quality of beauty which it is permitted to retain by the various schools of art, we can, even as by the treatment of similar social interlopers we can estimate the necessities and tendencies of various states of society, judge what are the conditions in which the various schools of art struggle for the object of their lives, which is the beautiful. I have said that art is realistic in its periods or moments of study; and this is essentially the case even with the school which in many respects was the most unmistakably decorative and idealistic in intention: the school of Giotto. The Giottesques are more than decorative artists, they are decorators in the most literal sense. Painting with them is merely one of the several arts and crafts enslaved by mediæval architecture and subservient to architectural effects. Their art is the only one which is really and successfully architecturally decorative; and to appreciate this we must contrast their fresco-work with that of the fifteenth century and all subsequent times. Masaccio, Ghirlandajo, Signorelli, turn the wall into a mere badly made frame; a gigantic piece of cardboard would do as well, and better; the colours melt into one another, the figures detach themselves at various degrees of relief; those upon the ceiling and pendentives are frequently upside down; yet these figures, which are so difficult to see, are worth seeing only in themselves, and not in relation to their position. The masonry is no longer covered, but carved, rendered uneven with the cavities and protrusions of perspective. In Mantegna's frescoes the wall becomes a slanting theatre scene, cunningly perspectived like Palladio's Teatro Olimpico; with Correggio, wall, masonry, everything, is dissolved, the side or cupola of a church becomes a rent in the clouds, streaming with light. Not so with the Giottesque frescoes: the wall, the vault, the triumphant masonry is always present and felt, beneath the straight, flat bands of uniform colour; the symmetrical compartments, the pentacles, triangles, and segments, and borders of histories, whose figures never project, whose colours are separate as those in a mosaic. The Giottesque frescoes, with their tiers and compartments of dark blue, their vague figures dressed in simple ultramarines, greens, dull reds, and purples; their geometrical borders and pearlings and dog-tooths; cover the walls, the ribbed and arched ceilings, the pointed raftering almost like some beautiful brown, blue, and tarnished gold leather-hangings; the figures, outlined in dark paint, have almost the appearance of being stencilled, or even stamped on the wall. Such is Giottesque painting: an art which is not merely essentially decorative, but which is, moreover, what painting and sculpture remained throughout the Gothic period, subservient to the decorative effect of another art; an art in which all is subordinated to architectural effect, in which form, colour, figures, houses, the most dramatic scenes of the most awful of all dramas, everything is turned into a kind of colossal and sublime wall-paper; and such an art as this would lead us to expect but little realism, little deliberate and slavish imitation of the existing. Yet wherever there is life in this Gothic art (which has a horrible tendency, piously unobserved by critics, to stagnate into blundering repetition of the same thing), wherever there is progress, there is, in the details of that grandiose, idealistic decoration, realism of the crudest kind. Those Giottesque workers, who were not content with a kind of Gothic Byzantinism; those who really handed over something vital to their successors of the fifteenth century, while repeating the old idealistical decorations; were studying with extraordinary crudeness of realism. Everything that was not conventional ornament or type was portrait; and portrait in which the scanty technical means of the artist, every meagre line and thin dab of colour, every timid stroke of brush or of pencil, went towards the merciless delineation not merely of a body but of a soul. And the greater the artist, the more cruel the portrait: cruellest in representation of utter spiritual baseness in the two greatest of these idealistic decorators; Giotto, and his latest disciple, Fra Angelico. Of this I should like to give a couple of examples. In Giotto's frescoes at Santa Croce--one of the most lovely pieces of mere architectural decoration conceivable--there are around the dying and the dead St. Francis two groups of monks, which are astoundingly realistic. The solemn ending of the ideally beautiful life of sanctity which was so fresh in the memory of Giotto's contemporaries, is nothing beyond a set of portraits of the most absolutely mediocre creatures, moral and intellectual, of creatures the most utterly incapable of religious enthusiasm that ever made religion a livelihood. They gather round the dying and the dead St. Francis, a noble figure, not at all ecstatic or seraphic, but pure, strong, worn out with wise and righteous labour, a man of thought and action, upon whose hands and feet the stigmata of supernatural rapture are a mere absurdity. The monks are presumably his immediate disciples, those fervent and delicate poetic natures of whom we read in the "Fioretti di San Francesco." To represent them Giotto has painted the likeness of the first half-dozen friars he may have met in the streets near Santa Croce: not caricatures, nor ideals, but portraits Giotto has attempted neither to exalt nor to degrade them into any sort of bodily or spiritual interestingness. They are not low nor bestial nor extremely stupid. They are in various degrees dull, sly, routinist, prosaic, pedantic; their most noteworthy characteristic is that they are certainly the men who are not called by God. They are no scandal to the Church, but no honour; they are sloth, stupidity, sensualism, and cunning not yet risen to the dignity of a vice. They look upon the dying and the dead saint with indifference, want of understanding, at most a gape or a bright look of stupid miscomprehension at the stigmata: they do not even perceive that a saint is a different being from themselves. With these frescoes of Giotto I should wish to compare Fra Angelico's great ceremonial crucifixion in the cloister chapel of San Marco of Florence; for it displays to an extraordinary degree that juxtaposition of the most conventionally idealistic, pious decorativeness with the realism straightforward, unreflecting, and heartless to the point of becoming perfectly grotesque. The fresco is divided into two scenes: on the one side the crucifixion, the mystic actors of the drama, on the other the holy men admitted to its contemplation. A sense that holy things ought to be old-fashioned, a respect for Byzantine inanity which invariable haunted the Giottesques in their capacity of idealistic decorators, of men who replaced with frescoes the solemn lifeless splendours of mosaic; this kind of artistico-religious prudery has made Angelico, who was able to foreshorten powerfully the brawny crucified thieves, represent the Saviour dangling from the cross bleached, boneless, and shapeless, a thing that is not dead because it has never been alive. The holy persons around stand rigid, vacant, against their blue nowhere of background, with vague expanses of pink face looking neither one way nor the other; mere modernized copies of the strange, goggle-eyed, vapid beings on the old Italian mosaics. This is not a representation of the actual reality of the crucifixion, like Tintoret's superb picture at S. Rocco, or Dürer's print, or so many others, which show the hill, the people, the hangman, the ladders and ropes and hammers and tweezers: it is a sort of mystic repetition of it; subjective, if I may say so; existing only in the contemplation of the saints on the opposite side, who are spectators only in the sense that a contemplative Christian may be said to be the mystic spectator of the Passion. The thing for the painter to represent is fervent contemplation, ecstatic realization of the past by the force of ardent love and belief; the condition of mind of St. Francis, St. Catherine of Siena, Madame Guyon: it is the revelation of the great tragedy of heaven to the soul of the mystic. Now, how does Fra Angelico represent this? A row of saints, founders of orders, kneel one behind the other, and by their side stand apostles and doctors of the Church; admitting them to the sight of the super-human, with the gesture, the bland, indifferent vacuity of the Cameriere Segreto or Monsignore who introduces a troop of pilgrims to the Pope; they are privileged persons, they respect, they keep up decorum, they raise their eyes and compress their lips with ceremonious reverence; but, Lord! they have gone through it all so often, they are so familiar with it, they don't look at it any longer; they gaze about listlessly, they would yawn if they were not too well bred for that. The others, meanwhile, the sainted pilgrims, the men whose journey over the sharp stones and among the pricking brambles of life's wilderness finds its final reward in this admission into the presence of the Holiest, kneel one by one, with various expressions: one with the stupid delight of a religious sightseer; his vanity is satisfied, he will next draw a rosary from his pocket and get it blessed by Christ Himself; he will recount it all to his friends at home. Another is dull and gaping, a clown who has walked barefoot from Valencia to Rome, and got imbecile by the way; yet another, prim and dapper; the rest indifferent looking restlessly about them, at each other, at their feet and hands, perhaps exchanging mute remarks about the length of time they are kept waiting; those at the end of the kneeling procession, St. Peter Martyr and St. Giovanni Gualberto especially, have the bored, listless, devout look of the priestlets in the train of a bishop. All these figures, the standing ones who introduce and the kneeling ones who are being introduced, are the most perfect types of various states of dull, commonplace, mediocre routinist superstition; so many Camerlenghi on the one hand, so many Passionist or Propagandists on the other: the first aristocratic, bland and bored; the second, dull, listless, mumbling, chewing Latin Prayers which never meant much to their minds, and now mean nothing; both perfectly reverential and proper in behaviour, with no more possibility of individual fervour of belief than of individual levity of disbelief: the Church, as it exists in well-regulated decrepitude. And thus does the last of the Giottesques, the painter of glorified Madonnas and dancing angels, the saint, represent the saints admitted to behold the supreme tragedy of the Redemption. Thus much for the Giottesques. The Tuscans of the early Renaissance developed up to the utmost, assisted by the goldsmiths and sculptors, who taught them modelling and anatomy, that realistic element of Giottesque painting. Its ideal decorative part had become impossible. Painting could no longer be a decoration of architecture, and it had not yet the means of being ornamental in itself; it was an art which did not achieve, but merely studied. Among its exercises in anatomy, modelling, perspective, and so forth, always laborious and frequently abortive, its only spontaneous, satisfactory, mature production was its portrait work, Portraits of burghers in black robes and hoods; of square-jawed youths with red caps stuck on to their fuzzy heads, of bald and wrinkled scholars and magnificoes; of thinly bearded artizans; people who stand round the preaching Baptist or crucified Saviour, look on at miracle or martyrdom, stolid, self-complacent, heedless, against their background of towered, walled, and cypressed city--of buttressed square and street; ugly but real, interesting, powerful among the grotesque agglomerations of bag-of-bones nudities, bunched and taped-up draperies and out-of-joint architecture of the early Renaissance frescoes; at best among its picture-book and Noah's-ark prettinesses of toy-box cypresses, vine trellises, inlaid house fronts, rabbits in the grass, and peacocks on the roofs; for the early Renaissance, with the one exception of Masaccio, is in reality a childish time of art, giving us the horrors of school-hour blunders and abortions varied with the delights of nursery wonderland: maturity, the power of achieving, the perception of something worthy of perception, comes only with the later generation, the one immediately preceding the age of Raphael and Michael Angelo; with Ghirlandajo, Signorelli, Filippino, Botticelli, Perugino, and their contemporaries. But this period is not childish, is not immature in everything. Or, rather, the various arts which exist together at this period are not all in the same stage of development. While painting is in this immature ugliness, and ideal sculpture, in works like Verrocchio's and Donatello's David, only a cleverer, more experienced, but less legitimate kind of painting, painting more successful in the present, but with no possible future; the almost separate art of portrait-sculpture arises again where it was left by Græco-Roman masters, and, developing to yet greater perfection, gives in marble the equivalent of what painting will be able to produce only much later: realistic art which is decorative; beautiful works made out of ugly materials. The vicissitudes of Renaissance sculpture are strange: its life, its power, depend upon death; it is an art developed in the burying vault and cloister cemetery. During the Middle Ages sculpture had had its reason, its vital possibility, its something to influence, nay, to keep it alive, in architecture; but with the disappearance of Gothic building disappears also the possibility of the sculpture which covers the portals of Chartres and the belfry of Florence. The pseudo-classic colonnades, entablatures, all the thin bastard Ionic and Corinthian of Aberti and Bramante, did not require sculpture, or had their own little supply of unfleshed ox-skulls, greengrocer's garlands, scallopings and wave-linings, which, with a stray siren and one or two bloated emperors' heads, amply sufficed. On the other hand, mediæval civilization and Christian dogma did not encourage the production of naked of draped ideal statues like those which Antiquity stuck on countless temple fronts, and erected at every corner of square, street, or garden. The people of the Middle Ages were too grievously ill grown, distorted, hideous, to be otherwise than indecent in nudity; they may have had an instinct of the kind, and, ugly as they knew themselves to be, they must yet have found in forms like those of Verrocchio's David insufficient beauty to give much pleasure. Besides, if the Middle Ages had left no moral room for ideal sculpture once freed from the service of architecture; they had still less provided it with a physical place. Such things could not be set up in churches, and only a very moderate number of statues could be wanted as open-air monuments in the narrow space of a still Gothic city; and, in fact, ideal heroic statues of the early Renaissance are fortunately not only ugly, but comparatively few in number. There remained, therefore, for sculpture, unless contented to dwindle down into brass and gold miniature work, no regular employment save that connected with sepulchral monuments. During the real Middle Ages, and in the still Gothic north, the ornamentation of a tomb belonged to architecture: from the superb miniature minsters, pillared and pinnacled and sculptured, cathedrals within the cathedral, to the humbler foliated arched canopy, protecting a simple sarcophagus at the corner of many a street in Lombardy. The sculptor's work was but the low relief on the church flags, the timidly carved, outlined, cross-legged knight or praying priest, flattened down on his pillow as if ashamed even of that amount of prominence, and in a hurry to be trodden down and obliterated into a few ghostly outlines. But to this humiliated prostrate image, to this flat thing doomed to obliteration, came the sculptor of the Renaissance, and bade the wafer-like simulacrum fill up, expand, raise itself, lift itself on its elbow, arise and take possession of the bed of state, the catafalque raised high above the crowd, draped with brocade, carved with rich devices of leaves and beasts of heraldry, roofed over with a daïs, which is almost a triumphal arch, garlanded with fruits and flowers, upon which the illustrious dead were shown to the people; but made eternal, and of eternal magnificence, by the stone-cutter, and guarded, not for an hour by the liveried pages or chaunting monks, but by winged genii for all eternity. Some people, I know, call this a degradation, and say that it was the result of corrupt pride, this refusal to have the dear or illustrious dead scraped out any longer by the shoe-nails of every ruffian, rubbed out by the knees of every kitchen wench; but to me it seems that it was due merely to the fact that sculpture had lost its former employment, and that a great art cannot (thank Heaven!) be pietistically self-humiliating. Be this as it may, the sculpture of the Renaissance had found a new and singularly noble line of work, the one in which it was great, unique, unsurpassed, because untutored. It worked here without models, to suit modern requirements, with modern spirit; it was emphatically-modern sculpture; the only modern sculpture which can be talked of as something original, genuine, valuable, by the side of antique sculpture. Greek Antiquity had evaded death, and neglected the dead; a garland of mænads and fauns among ivy leaves, a battle of amazons or centaurs; in the late semi-Christian, platonic days, some Orphic emblem, or genius; at most, as in the exquisite tombs of the Keramikos of Athens, a figure, a youth on a prancing steed, like the Phidian monument of Dexileus; a maiden, draped and bearing an urn; but neither the youth nor the maiden is the inmate of the tomb: they are types, living types, no portraits. Nay, even where Antiquity shows us Death or Hermes, gently leading away the beloved; the spirit, the ghost, the dead one, is unindividual. "Sarkophagen und Urnen bekränzte der Heide mit Leben," said Goethe; but it was the life which was everlasting because it was typical: the life not which had been relinquished by the one buried there, but the life which the world danced on, forgetful, round his ashes. The Romans, on the contrary, graver and more retentive folk than the Greeks, as well as more domestic, less coffee-house living, appear to have inherited from the Etruscans a desire to preserve the effigy of the dead, a desire unknown to the Greeks. But the Etrusco-Roman monuments, where husband and wife stare forth togaed and stolaed, half reduced to a conventional crop-headedness, grim and stiff as if sitting unwillingly for their portrait; or reclining on the sarcophagus-lid, neither dead, nor asleep, nor yet alive and awake, but with a hieratic mummy stare, have little of æsthetic or sympathetic value. The early Renaissance, then, first bethought it of representing the real individual in the real death slumber. And I question whether anything more fitting could be placed on a tomb than the effigy of the dead as we saw them just before the coffin-lid closed down; as we would give our all to see them but one little moment longer; as they continue to exist for our fancy within the grave; for to any but morbid feelings the beloved can never suffer decay. Whereas a portrait of the man in life, as the throning popes in St. Peter's, seems heartless and derisive; such monuments striking us as conceived and ordered by their inmates while alive, like Michael Angelo's Pope Julius, and Browning's Bishop, who was so preoccupied about his tomb in St. Praxed's Church. The Renaissance, the late Middle Ages, felt better than this: on the extreme pinnacle, high on the roof, they might indeed place against the russet brick or the blue sky, amid the hum of life and the movement of the air, the living man, like the Scaligers, the mailed knight on his charger, lance in rest: but in the church below, under the funereal pall, they could place only the body such as it may have lain on the bier. And that figure on the bier was the great work of Renaissance sculpture. Inanimate and vulgar when in heroic figures they tried to emulate the ancients, the sculptors of the fifteenth century have found their own line. The modesty, the simplicity, the awful and beautiful repose of the dead; the individual character cleared of all its conflicting meannesses by death, simplified, idealized as it is in the memory of the survivors--all these are things which belong to the Renaissance. As the Greeks gave the strong, smooth life-current circulating through their heroes; so did these men of the fifteenth century give the gentle and harmonious ebbing after-life of death in their sepulchral monuments. Things difficult to describe, and which must be seen and remembered. There is the monument, now in the museum at Ravenna, by a sculptor whose name, were it known, would surely be among the greatest, of the condottiere, Braccioforte: the body prone in its heavy case of armour, not yet laid out in state, but such as he may have been found in the evening, when the battle was over, under a tree where they had carried him to die while they themselves went back to fight; the head has fallen back, side-ways, weighed down by the helmet, which has not even been unbuckled, only the face, the clear-cut, austere features, visible beneath the withdrawn vizor; the eyes have not been closed; and there are few things more exquisite and solemn at once in all sculpture, than the indication of those no longer seeing eyes, of that broken glance, beneath the half-closed lids. There is Rossellino's Cardinal of Portugal at S. Miniato a Monte: the slight body, draped in episcopal robes, lying with delicate folded hands, in gracious decorum of youthful sanctity; the strong delicate head, of clear feature and gentle furrow of suffering and thought, a face of infinite purity of strength, strength still ungnarled by action: a young priest, who in his virginal dignity is almost a noble woman. And there is the Ilaria Guinigi of Jacopo della Quercia (the man who had most natural affinity with the antique of all these sculptors, as one may see from the shattered remains of the Fonte Gaia of Siena), the lady stretched out on the rose-garlanded bed of state in a corner of Lucca Cathedral, her feet upon her sleeping dog, her sweet, girlish head, with wavy plaits of hair encircled by a rose-wreathed, turban-like diadem, lying low on round cushions; the bed gently giving way beneath the beautiful, ample-bosomed body, round which the soft robe is chastely gathered, and across which the long-sleeved arms are demurely folded; the most beautiful lady (whose majestic tread through the palace rooms we can well imagine) that the art of the fifteenth century has recorded. There is, above all, the Carlo Marsuppini of Desiderio da Settignano, the humanist Secretary of the Commonwealth, lying on the sarcophagus, superb with shell fretwork and curling acanthus, in Santa Croce of Florence. For the youthful beauty of the Cardinal of Portugal and of the Lady Ilaria are commonplace compared with the refinement of this worn old face, with scant wavy hair and thin, gently furrowed, but by no means ploughed-up features. The slight figure looks as if in life it must have seemed almost transparent; and the hands are very pathetic: noble, firm hands, subtle of vein and wrist, crossed simply, neither in prayer nor in agony, but in gentle weariness, over the book on his breast. That book is certainly no prayer-book; rather a volume of Plato or Cicero: in his last moments the noble old man has longed for a glance over the familiar pages; they have placed the book on his breast, but it has been too late; the drowsiness of death has overtaken him, and with his last sigh he has gently folded his hands over the volume, with the faint, last clinging to the things beloved in this world. Such is that portrait sculpture of the early Renaissance, its only sculpture, if we except the exquisite work in babies and angels just out of the nursery of the Robbias, which is a real achievement. But how achieved? This art is great just by the things which Antiquity did not. And what are those things? Shall we say that it is sentiment? But all fine art has tact, antique art most certainly; and as to pathos, why, any quiet figure of a dead man or woman, however rudely carved, has pathos; nay, there is pathos in the poor puling hysterical art which makes angels draw the curtains of fine ladies' bedchambers, and fine ladies, in hoop or limp Grecian dress, faint (the smelling bottle, Betty!) over their lord's coffin; there is pathos, to a decently constituted human being, wherever (despite all absurdities) we can imagine that there lies some one whom it was bitter to see departing, to whom it was bitter to depart. Pathos, therefore, is not the question; and, if you choose to call it sentiment, it is in reality a sentiment for line and curve, for stone and light. The great question is, How did these men of the Renaissance make their dead people look beautiful? For they were not all beautiful in life, and ugly folk do not grow beautiful merely because they are dead. The Cardinal of Portugal, the beautiful Ilaria herself, were you to sketch their profile and place it by the side of no matter what ordinary antique, would greatly fall short of what we call sculpturesque beauty; and many of the others, old humanists and priests and lawyers, are emphatically ugly: snub or absurdly hooked noses, retreating or deformedly overhanging foreheads, fleshy noses, and flabby cheeks, blear eyes and sunk-in mouths; and a perfect network of wrinkles and creases, which, hard as it is to say, have been scooped out not merely by age, but by low mind, fretting and triumphant animalism. Now, by what means did the sculptor--the sculptor, too unacquainted with sculptural beauty (witness his ugly ideal statues), to be able, like the man who turned the successors of Alexander into a race of leonine though crazy demi-gods--to insidiously idealize these ugly and insignificant features; by what means did he turn these dead men into things beautiful to see? I have said that he took up art where Græco-Roman Antiquity had left it. Remark that I say Græco-Roman, and I ought to add much more Roman than Greek. For Greek sculpture, nurtured in the habit of perfect form, art to whom beauty was a cheap necessity, invariably idealized portrait, idealized it into beauty or inanity. But when Greek art had run its course; when beauty of form had well-nigh been exhausted or begun to pall; certain artists, presumably Greeks, but working for Romans, began to produce portrait work of quite a new and wonderful sort: the beautiful portraits of ugly old men, of snub little boys, work which was clearly before its right time, and was swamped by idealized portraits, insipid, nay, inane, from the elegant revivalist busts of Hadrian and Marcus Aurelius down to the bonnet blocks of the lower empire. Of this Roman portrait art, of certain heads of half-idiotic little Cæsar brats, of sly and wrinkled old men, things which ought to be so ugly and yet are so beautiful, we say, at least, perhaps unformulated, we think, "How Renaissance!" And the secret of the beauty of these few Græco-Roman busts, which is also that of Renaissance portrait sculpture, is that the beauty is quite different in kind from the beauty of Greek ideal sculpture, and obtained by quite different means. It is, essentially, that kind of beauty which I began by saying belonged to realistic art, to the art which is not squeamish about the object which it represents, but is squeamish about the manner and medium in which that indifferent object is represented; it is a kind of beauty, therefore, more akin to that of Rembrandt and Velasquez than to that of Michael Angelo or Raphael. It is the beauty, not of large lines and harmonies, beauty residing in the real model's forms, beauty real, wholesale, which would be the same if the man were not marble but flesh, not in a given position but moving; but it is a beauty of combinations of light and surface, a beauty of texture opposed to texture, which would probably be unperceived in the presence of the more regal beauty of line and colour harmonies, and which those who could obtain this latter would employ only as much as they were conducive to such larger beauties. And this beauty of texture opposed to texture and light combined with surface is a very real thing; it is the great reality of Renaissance sculpture: this beauty, resulting from the combination, for instance, in a commonplace face, of the roughness and coarser pore of the close shaven lips and chin with the smoothness of the waxy hanging cheeks; the one catching the light, the other breaking it into a ribbed and forked penumbra. The very perfection of this kind of work is Benedetto da Maiano's bust of Pietro Mellini in the Bargello at Florence. The elderly head is of strongly marked osseous structure, yet fleshed with abundant and flaccid flesh, hanging in folds or creases round the mouth and chin, yet not flobbery and floppy, but solid, though yielding, creased, wrinkled, crevassed rather as a sandy hillside is crevassed by the trickling waters; semi-solid, promising slight resistance, waxy, yielding to the touch. But all the flesh has, as it were, gravitated to the lower part of the face, conglomerated, or rather draped itself, about the mouth, firmer for sunken teeth and shaving; and the skin has remained alone across the head, wrinkled, yet drawn in tight folds across the dome-shaped skull, as if, while the flesh disappeared, the bone also had enlarged. And on the temples the flesh has once been thick, the bone (seemingly) slight; and now the skin is being drawn, recently, and we feel more and more every day, into a radiation of minute creases, as if the bone and flesh were having a last struggle. Now in this head there is little beauty of line (the man has never been good-looking), and there is not much character in the sense of strongly marked mental or moral personality. I do not know, nor care, what manner of man this may have been. The individuality is one, not of the mind but of the flesh. What interests, attaches, is not the character or temperament, but the bone and skin, the creases and folds of flesh. And herein also lies the beauty of the work. I do not mean its interest or mere technical skill, I mean distinctly visible and artistic beauty. Thus does the sculptor of the Renaissance get beauty, visible beauty, not psychologic interest, out of a plain human being; but the beauty (and this is the distinguishing point of what I must call realistic decorative art) does not exist necessarily in the plain human being: he merely affords the beginning of a pattern which the artist may be able to carry out. A person may have in him the making of a really beautiful bust and yet be ugly; just as the same person may afford a subject for a splendid painting and for an execrable piece of sculpture. The wrinkles and creases in a face like that of Benedetto da Maiano's Mellini would probably be ugly and perhaps disgusting in the real reddish, flaccid, discoloured flesh; while they are admirable in the solid and supple-looking marble, in its warm and delicate bistre and yellow. Material has an extraordinary effect upon form; colour, though not a positive element in sculpture, has immense negative power in accentuating or obliterating the mere line. All form becomes vague and soft in the dairy flaccidness of modern ivory; and clear and powerful in the dark terra cotta, which can ennoble even the fattest and flattest faces with its wonderful faculty for making mere surface markings, mere crowsfeet, interesting. Thus also with bronze: the polished, worked bronze, of fine chocolate burnish and reddish reflections, mars all beauty of line; how different the unchased, merely rough cast, greenish, with infinite delicate greys and browns, making, for instance, the head of an old woman like an exquisite withered, shrivelled, veined autumnal leaf. It is moreover, as I have said, a question of combination of surface and light, this art which makes beautiful busts of ugly men. The ideal statue of the Greeks intended for the open air; fit to be looked at under any light, high or low, brilliant or veiled, had indeed to be prepared to look well under any light; but to look well under any light means not to use any one particular relation of light as an ally; the surface was kept modestly subordinated to the features, the features which must needs look well at all moments and from all points of view. But the Renaissance sculptor knew where his work would be placed; he could calculate the effect of the light falling invariably through this or that window; he could make a fellow-workman of that light, present for it to draw or to obliterate what features he liked, bid it sweep away such or such surfaces with a broad stream, cut them with a deep shadow, caress their smooth chiselling or their rough grainings, mark as with a nail the few large strokes of the point which gave the firmness to the strained muscle or stretched skin. Out of this model of his, this plain old burgess, he and his docile friend the light, could make quite a new thing; a new pattern of bosses and cavities, of smooth sweeps and tracked lines, of creases and folds of flesh, of pliable linen and rough brocade of dress: something new, something which, without a single feature being straightened or shortened, yet changed completely the value of the whole assemblage of features; something undreamed of by nature in moulding that ugly old merchant or humanist. With this art which produced works like Desiderio da Settignano's Carlo Marsuppini and Benedetto da Maiano's Pietro Mellini, is intimately connected the art of the great medallists of the Renaissance--Pasti, Guacialotti, Niccolò Fiorentino, and, greatest of all, Pisanello. Its excellence depends precisely upon its independence of the ideal work of Antiquity; nay, even upon the fact that, while the ancients, striking their coins in chased metal dies, obtained an astonishing minuteness and clearness of every separate little stroke and dint, and were therefore forced into an almost more than sculptural perfection of mere line, of mere profile and throat and elaborately composed hair, a sort of sublime abstraction of the possible beauty of a human face, as in the coins of Syracuse and also of Alexander; the men of the fifteenth century employed the process of casting the bronze in a concave mould obtained by the melting away of a medallion in wax; in wax, which taking the living impress of the artist's finger, and recalling in its firm and yet soft texture the real substance of the human face, insensibly led the medallist to seek, not sharp and abstract lines, but simple, strongly moulded bosses; not ideal beauty, but the real appearance of life. It is, moreover, a significant fact that while the men who, half a century or so later, made fine, characterless die-stamped medals in imitation of the antique, Caradossi and Benvenuto for instance, were goldsmiths and sculptors, workers with the chisel, artists seeking essentially for abstract elegance of line; the two greatest medallists of the early Renaissance, Vittore Pisano and Matteo di Pasti, were both of them painters; and painters of the Northern Italian school, to whom colour and texture were all important, and linear form a matter of indifference. And indeed, if we look at the best work of what I may call the wax mould medallists of the fifteenth century, even at the magnificent marble medallions of the laurel-wreathed head of Sigismund Malatesta on the pillars of his church at Rimini, modelled by Pasti, we shall see that these men were preoccupied almost exclusively with the almost pictorial effect of the flesh in its various degrees of boss and of reaction of the light; and that the character, the beauty even, which they attained, is essentially due to a skilful manipulation of texture, and surface, and light--one might almost say of colour. We all know Pisanello's famous heads of the Malatesti of Rimini: the saturnine Sigismund, the delicate dapper Novello, the powerful yet beautiful Isotta; but there are other Renaissance medals which illustrate my meaning even better, and connect my feelings on the subject of this branch of art more clearly with my feelings towards such work as Benedetto's Pietro Mellini. Foremost among these is the perhaps somewhat imperfect and decidedly grotesque, but astonishingly powerful, naïf and characteristic Lorenzo dei Medici by Niccolò real grandeur of whose conception of this coarse yet imaginative head may be profitably contrasted with the classicizing efforts after the demi-god or successor of Alexander in Pollaiolo's famous medal of the Pazzi conspiracy. Next to this I would place a medal by Guacialotti of Bishop Niccolò Palmieri, with the motto, "Nudus egressus sic redibo"--singularly appropriate to the shameless fleshliness of the personage, with his naked fat chest and shoulders, his fat, pig-like cheeks and greasy-looking bald head; a hideous beast, yet magnificent in his bestiality like some huge fattened porker. These medals give us, as does the bust of Pietro Mellini, beauty of the portrait despite ugliness of the original. But there are two other medals, this time by Pisanello, and, as it seems to me, perhaps his masterpieces, which show the quite peculiar way in which this homely charm of portraiture amalgamates, so as to form a homogeneous and most seemingly simple whole, with the homely charm of certain kinds of pure and simple youthful types. One of these (the reverse of which fantastically represents the four elements, the wooded earth, the starry sky, the rippled sea, the sun, all in one sphere) is the portrait of Don Inigo d'Avalos; the other that of Cecilia Gonzaga. This slender beardless boy in the Spanish shovel hat and wisp of scarf twisted round the throat; and this tall, long-necked girl, with sloping shoulders and still half-developed bosom; are, so to speak, brother and sister in art, in Pisanello's wonderful genius. The relief of the two medals is extremely low, so that in certain lights the effigies vanish almost completely, sink into the pale green surface of the bronze; the portraits are a mere film, a sort of haze which has arisen on the bronze and gathered into human likeness; but in this film, this scarce perceptible relief, we are made to perceive the slender osseous structure, the smooth, sleek, childish blond flesh and hair, the delicate, undecided pallor of extreme youth and purity, even as we might in some elaborate portrait by Velasquez, but with a spring-like healthiness which Velasquez, painting his lymphatic Hapsburgs, rarely has. Such is this Renaissance art of medals, this side branch of the great realistic portraiture in stone of the Benedettos, Desiderios, and Rossellinos; a perfect thing in itself; and one which, if we muse over it in connection with the more important works of fifteenth century sculpture, will perhaps lead us to think that, as the sculpture of Antiquity, in its superb idealism, its devotion to the perfect line and curve of beauty, achieved the highest that mere colourless art can achieve--thanks to the very purity, sternness, and narrowness of its sculpturesque feeling--so also, perhaps, modern sculpture, should it ever re-arise, must be a continuation of the tendencies of the Renaissance, must be the humbler sister of painting, must seek for the realistic portrait and begin, perhaps, with the realistic medal. II. This kind of realism, where only the model is ugly, while the portrait is beautiful; which seeks decorative value by other means than the intrinsic excellence of form in the object represented, this kind of realism is quite different in sort from the realisms of immature art, which, aiming at nothing beyond a faithful copy, is content with producing an ugly picture of an ugly thing. Now this latter kind of realism endured in painting some time after decorative realism such as I have described had reached perfection in sculpture. Nor was it till later, and when the crude scholastic realism had completely come to an end, that there became even partially possible in painting decorative realism analogous to what we have noticed in sculpture; while it was not till after the close of the Italian Renaissance period that the painters arose in Spain and the Netherlands who were able to treat their subjects with the uncompromising decorative realism of Desiderio or Rosellino or Benedetto da Maiano. For the purely imitative realism of the painters of the early Renaissance was succeeded in Italy by idealism, which matured in the great art of intrinsically beautiful linear form of Michael Angelo and Raphael, and the great art of intrinsically beautiful colour form of Giorgione and Titian. These two schools were bound to be, each in its degree, idealistic. Complete power of mere representation in tint and colour having been obtained through the realistic drudgery of the early Renaissance, selection in the objects thus to be represented had naturally arisen; and the study of the antique had further hastened and directed this movement of art no longer to study but to achieve, to be decorative once more, decorative no longer in subservience to architecture, but as the separate and self-sufficing art of painting. Selection, therefore, which is the only practical kind of idealism, had begun as soon as painting was possessed of the power of representing objects in their relations of line and colour, with that amount of light and shadow requisite to the just appreciation of the relations of form and the just relations of colour. Now art which stops short at this point of representation must inevitably be, if decorative at all, idealistically decorative; it must be squeamish respecting the objects represented, respecting their real structure, colour, position, and grouping. For, of the visible impressions received from an object, some are far more intrinsic than others. Suppose we see a woman, beautiful in the structure of her body, and beautiful in the colour of her person and her draperies, standing under a light which is such as we should call beautiful and interesting: of these three qualities one will be intrinsic in the woman, the second very considerably so, the third not at all. For, let us call that woman away and replace her immediately by another woman chosen at random. We shall immediately perceive that we have lost one pleasurable impression, that of beautiful bodily structure: the woman has taken away her well-shapen body. Next we shall perceive a notable diminution in the second pleasurable impression: the woman has taken with her, not indeed her well-tinted garments, which we may have bestowed on her successor, but her beautifully coloured skin and hair, so that of the pleasing colour-impression will remain only as much as was due to, and may have been retained with, the original woman's clothes. But if we look for our third pleasurable impression, our beautiful light, we shall find that unchanged, whether it fall upon a magnificently arrayed goddess or upon a sordid slut And, conversely, the beautiful woman, when withdrawn from that light and placed in any other, will be equally lovely in form, even if we cast her in plaster, and lose the colour of her skin and hair; or if we leave her not only the beautiful tints of her flesh and hair, but her own splendidly coloured garments, we shall still have, in whatsoever light, a magnificent piece of colour. But if we recall the poor ugly creature who has succeeded her from out of that fine effect of light, we shall have nothing but a hideous form invested in hideous colour. This rough diagram will be sufficient to explain my thought respecting the relative degree to which the art dealing with linear form, that dealing with colour and that dealing with light, with the medium in which form and colour are perceived; is each respectively bound to be idealistically or realistically decorative. Now painting was æsthetically mature, possessed the means to achieve great beauty, at a time when of the three modes of representation there had as yet developed only those of linear form and colour; and the very possibility and necessity of immediately achieving all that could be achieved by these means delayed for a long time the development of the third mode of representation: the representation of objects as they appear with reference to the light through which they are seen. A beginning had indeed been made. Certain of Correggio's effects of light, even more an occasional manner of treating the flesh and hair, reducing both form and colour to a kind of vague boss and vague sheen, such as they really present in given effects of light, a something which we define roughly as eminently modern in the painting of his clustered cherubs; all this is certainly a beginning of the school of Velasquez. Still more so is it the case with Andrea del Sarto, the man of genius whom critics love to despatch as a mediocrity, because his art, which is art altogether for the eyes, and in which he innovated more than any of his contemporaries, does not afford any excuse for the irrelevancies of ornamental criticism; with him the appearance of form and colour, acted upon by light, the relative values of which flesh and draperies consist with reference to the surrounding medium, all this becomes so evident a preoccupation and a basis for decorative effects, as to give certain of his works an almost startling air of being modern. But this tendency comes to nothing: the men of the sixteenth century appear scarcely to have perceived wherein lay the true excellence of this "Andrea senza errori," deeming him essentially the artist of linear perfection; while the innovations of Correggio in the way of showing the relations of flesh tones and light ended in the mere coarse gala illuminations in which his successors made their seraphs plunge and sprawl. There was too much to be done, good and bad, in the way of mere linear form and mere colour; and as art of mere linear form and colour, indifferent of all else, did the art of the Italian Renaissance run to seed. I said at the beginning of this paper that the degree to which any art is strictly idealistic, can be measured by the terms which it will make with portrait. For as portrait is due to the desire to represent a person quite apart from that person affording material for decoration, it is evident that only the art which can call in the assistance of decorative materials, independent of the represented individual, can possibly make a beautiful picture out of an ugly man; while the art which deals only with such visible peculiarities as are inherent in the individual, has no kind of outlet, is cornered, and can make of a repulsive original only a repulsive picture. The analogy to this we have already noticed in sculpture: antique sculpture, considering only the linear bosses which existed equally in the living man and in the statue, could not afford to represent plain people; while Renaissance sculpture, extracting a large amount of beauty out of combinations of surface and light, was able, as long as it could arrange such an artificial combination, to dispense with great perfection in the model. Nay, if we except Renaissance statuary as a kind of separate art, we may say that this independence of the object portrayed is a kind of analytic test, enabling us to judge at a glance, and by the degree of independence from the model, the degree to which any art is removed from the mere line and boss of antique sculpture. In the statue standing free in any light that may chance to come, every form must be beautiful from every point; but in proportion as the new elements of painting enter, in proportion as the actual linear form and boss is marked and helped out by grouping, colour, and light and shade, does the actual perfection of the model become less important; until, under the reign of light as the chief factor, it becomes altogether indifferent. In this fact lies the only rational foundation for the notion, made popular by Hegel, that painting is an art in which beauty is of much less account than in sculpture; failing to understand that the sum total of beauty remained the same, whether dependent upon the concentration of a single element or obtained by the co-operation of several consequently less singly important elements. But to return to the question of portrait art. From what we have seen, it is clear that art which requires perfection of form will be reduced to ugliness if cramped in the obtaining of such perfection, whereas art which can obtain beauty by other means will still have a chance when reduced to imitate ugly object? Hence it is that while the realistically decorative art of the seventeenth century can make actually beautiful things of the portraits of ugly people, the idealistically decorative art of the Renaissance produces portraits which are cruelly ugly in proportion as the art is purely idealistic. Yet even in idealism there are degrees: the more the art is confined to mere linear form, to the exclusion of colour, the uglier will be the portraits. With Michael Angelo the difficulty was simplified to impossibility: he could not paint portrait at all; and in his sculptured portraits of the two Medicean dukes at S. Lorenzo he evaded all attempt at likeness, making those two men into scarcely more than two architectural monsters, half-human cousins of the fantastic creatures who keep watch on the belfries and gurgoyles of a Gothic cathedral. It is almost impossible to think of Michael Angelo attempting portrait: the man's genius cannot be constrained to it, and what ought to be mere ugliness would come out idealized into grandiose monstrosity. Men like Titian and Tintoret are at the other end of the scale of ideal decoration: they are bordering upon the domain of realism. Hence they can raise into interest, by the mere power of colour, many an insignificant type; yet even they are incapable of dealing with absolute ugliness, with absence of fine colour, or, if they do deal with it, there is an immediate improvement upon the model, and the appearance of truthfulness goes. Between the absolute incapacity for dealing with ugliness of Michael Angelo, and the power of compromising with it of Titian and Tintoret, Raphael stands half-way: he can call in the assistance of colour just sufficiently to create a setting of carefully harmonized draperies and accessories, beautiful enough to allow of his filling it up with the most cruelly ugly likeness which any painter ever painted. Far too much has been written about Raphael in general, but not half enough about Raphael as a portrait-painter; for by the side of the eclectic idealist, who combined and balanced beauty almost into insipidity, is the most terribly, inflexibly veracious portrait-painter that ever was. Compared with those sternly straightforward portraits of his Florentine and Roman time, where ugliness and baseness are never attenuated by one tittle, and alloyed nobility or amiability, as with his finer models, like the two Donis, husband and wife, and Bibbiena, is never purified of its troubling element; compared with them the Venetian portraits are mere insincere, enormously idealized pieces of colour-harmony; nay, the portraits of Velasquez are mere hints--given rapidly by a sickened painter striving to make those scrofulous Hapsburgs no longer mere men, but keynotes of harmonies of light--of what the people really are. For Velasquez seems to show us the temperament, the potentiality of his people, and to leave us, with a kind of dignified and melancholy silence as to all further, to find out what life, what feelings and actions, such a temperament implies. But Raphael shows us all: the temperament and the character, the real active creature, with all the marks of his present temper and habits, with all the indications of his immediate actions upon him: completely without humour or bitterness, without the smallest tendency to twist the reality into caricature or monstrosity, nay, perhaps without much psychologic analysis to tell him the exact meaning of what he is painting, going straight to the point, and utterly ruthless from sheer absence of all alternative of doing otherwise than he does. There is nothing more cruelly realistic in the world, cruel not only to the base originals but to the feelings of the spectator, than the harmony of villainies, of various combinations of black and hog-like bestiality, and fox and wolf-like cunning and ferocity with wicked human thought and self-command, which Raphael has enshrined in that splendid harmony of scarlet silk and crimson satin, and purple velvet and dull white brocade, as the portraits of Leo X. and his cardinals Rossi and Dei Medici. The idealistic painter, accustomed to rely upon the intrinsic beauty which he has hitherto been able to select or create; accustomed also to think of form as something quite independent of the medium through which it is seen, scarcely conscious of the existence of light and air in his habit of concentrating all attention upon a figure placed, as it were, in a sort of vacuum of indifference;--this idealistic artist is left without any resources when bid to paint an ugly man or woman. With the realistic artist, to whom the man or woman is utterly indifferent, to whom the medium in which they are seen is everything, the case Is just reversed: let him arrange his light, his atmospheric effect, and he will work into their pattern no matter what plain or repulsive wretch. To Velasquez the flaccid yellowish fair flesh, with its grey downy shadows, the limp pale drab hair, which is grey in the light and scarcely perceptibly blond in the shade, all this unhealthy, bloodless, feebly living, effete mass of humanity called Philip IV. of Spain, shivering in moral anæmia like some dog thorough bred into nothingness, becomes merely the foundation for a splendid harmony of pale tints. Again, the poor little baby princess, with scarce visible features, seemingly kneaded (but not sufficiently pinched and modelled) out of the wet ashes of an _auto da fè_, in her black-and-white frock (how different from the dresses painted by Raphael and Titian!), dingy and gloomy enough for an abbess or a cameriera major, this childish personification of courtly dreariness, certainly born on an Ash Wednesday, becomes the principal strands for a marvellous tissue of silvery and ashy light, tinged yellowish in the hair, bluish in the eyes and downy cheeks, pale red in the lips and the rose in the hair; something to match which in beauty you must think of some rarely seen veined and jaspered rainy twilight, or opal-tinted hazy winter morning. Ugliness, nay, repulsiveness, vanish, subdued into beauty, even as noxious gases may be subdued into health-giving substances by some cunning chemist. The difference between such portraits as these and the portraits by Raphael does not however consist merely in the beauty: there is also the fact that if you take one of Velasquez's portraits out of their frame, reconstitute the living individual, and bid him walk forth in whatsoever light may fall upon him, you will have something infinitely different from the portrait, and of which your only distinct feeling will be that a fine portrait might be made of the creature; whereas it is a matter of complete indifference whether you see Raphael's Leo X. in the flesh or in his gilded frame. Whatever may fairly be said respecting the relative value of idealistic and realistic decorative art is really also connected with this latter point. Considering that realistic art is merely obtaining beauty by attention to other factors than those which preoccupy idealistic art, that the one fulfils what the other neglects--taking the matter from this point of view, it would seem as if the two kinds of arts were, so to speak, morally equal; and that any vague sense of mysterious superior dignity clinging to idealistic art was a mere shred of long discarded pedantry. But it is not so. For realistic art does more than merely bring into play powers unknown to idealistic art: it becomes, by the possession of these powers, utterly indifferent to the intrinsic value of the forms represented: it is so certain of making everything lovely by its harmonies of light and atmosphere that it almost prefers to choose inferior things for this purpose. I am thinking at present of a picture by I forget what Dutchman in our National Gallery, representing in separate compartments five besotten-looking creatures, symbolical of the five senses: they are ugly, brutish, with I know not what suggestion of detestable temperament in their bloodshot flesh and vermilion lips, as if the whole man were saturated with his appetite. Yet the Dutchman has found the means of making these degraded types into something which we care to look at, and to look at on account of its beauty; even as, in lesser degree, Rubens has always managed to make us feel towards his flaccid, veal-complexioned, fish-eyed women, something of what we feel towards the goddesses of the Parthenon; towards the white-robed, long-gloved ladies, with meditative face beneath their crimped auburn hair, of Titian. Viewed in one way, there is a kind of nobility in the very fact that such realistic art can make us pardon, can redeem, nay almost sanctify, so much. But is it right thus to pardon, redeem, and sanctify; thus to bring the inferior on to the level of the superior? Nay, is it not rather wrong to teach us to endure so much meanness and ugliness in creatures, on account of the nobility with which they are represented? Is this not vitiating our feelings, blunting our desire for the better, our repugnance for the worse? A great and charitable art, this realistic art of the seventeenth century, and to be respected for its very tenderness towards the scorned and castaway things of reality; but accustoming us, perhaps too much, like all charitable and reclaiming impulses, to certain unworthy contacts: in strange contrast herein with that narrow but ascetic and aristocratic art of idealism, which, isolated and impoverished though it may be, has always the dignity of its immaculate purity, of its unswerving judgment, of its obstinate determination to deal only with the best. A hard task to judge between them. But be this as it may, it is one of the singular richnesses of the Italian Renaissance that it knew of both tendencies; that while in painting it gave the equivalent of that rigid idealism of the Greeks which can make no compromise with ugliness; in sculpture it possessed the equivalent of the realism of Velasquez, which can make beauty out of ugly things, even as the chemist can make sugar out of vitriol. * * * * * THE SCHOOL OF BOIARDO. "Le donne, i cavalieri, l' armi, gli amori." I. Throughout the tales of Charlemagne and his warriors, overtopping by far the crowd of paladins and knights, move two colossal mailed and vizored figures--Roland, whom the Italians call Orlando and the Spaniards Roldan, the son of Milon d'Angers and of Charlemagne's sister; and Renaud or Rinaldo, the lord of Montauban, and eldest of the famous four sons of Aymon. These are the two representative heroes, equal but opposed, the Achilles and Odysseus, the Siegfried and Dietrich, of the Carolingian epic; and in each is personified, by the unconscious genius of the early Middle Ages, one of the great political movements, of the heroic struggles, of feudalism. For there existed in feudalism two forces, a centripetal and a centrifugal--a force which made for the supremacy of the kingly overlordship, and a force which made for the independence of the great vassals. Hence, in the poetry which is the poetry of feudalism, two distinct currents of feeling, two distinct epics---the epic of the devoted loyalty of all the heroes of France to their wise and mighty emperor Charlemagne, triumphant even in misfortune; and the epic of the hopeless resistance against a craven and capricious despot Charles of the most righteous and whole-hearted among his feudatories: the epic of Roland, and the epic of Renaud. Of the first there remains to us, in its inflexible and iron solemnity, an original rhymed narrative, "The Chanson de Roland," which we may read perhaps almost in the self-same words in which it was sung by the Normans of William in their night watch before the great battle. The centripetal force of feudalism gained the upper hand, and the song of the great empire, of the great deeds of loyal prowess, was consecrated in the feudal monarchy. The case was different with the tale of resistance and rebellion. The story of Renaud soon became a dangerous lesson for the great barons; it fell from the hands of the nobles to those of humbler folk; and it is preserved to us no longer in mediæval verse, but in a prose version, doubtless of the fifteenth century, under the name, familiar on the stalls of village fairs, of "The Quatre Fils Aymon." But, as Renaud is the equal of Roland, so is this humble prose tale nevertheless the equal of the great song of Roncevaux; and even now, it would be a difficult task to decide which were the grander, the tale of loyalty or the tale of resistance. In each of these tales,"The Chanson de Roland" and "The Quatre Fils Aymon," there is contained a picture of its respective hero, which sums up, as it were, the whole noble character of the book; and which, the picture of the dying Roland and the picture of the dying Renaud, I would fain bring before you before speaking of the other Roland and the other Renaud, the Orlando of Ariosto and the Rinaldo of Boiardo. The traitor Ganelon has enabled King Marsile to overtake with all his heathenness the rear-guard of Charlemagne between the granite walls of Roncevaux; the Franks have been massacred, but the Saracens have been routed; Roland has at last ceded to the prayers of Oliver and of Archbishop Turpin; three times has he put to his mouth his oliphant and blown a blast to call back Charlemagne to vengeance, till the blood has foamed round his lips and his temple has burst. Oliver is dead, the archbishop is dying, Roland himself is slowly bleeding to death. He goes down into the defile, heaped with corpses, and seeks for the bodies of the principal paladins, Ivon and Ivaire, the Gascon Engelier, Gérier and Gérin, Bérenger and Otho, Anseis and Salamon, and the old Gerard of Rousillon; and one by one drags them to where the archbishop lies dying. And then, when to these knights Roland has at last added his own beloved comrade Oliver, he bids the archbishop bless all the dead, before he die himself. Then, when he has reverently crossed Turpin's beautiful priestly hands over his breast, he goes forth to shatter his sword Durendal against the rocks; but the good sword has cut the rock without shivering; and the coldness of death steals, over Roland. He stretches himself upon a hillock looking towards Spain, and prays for the forgiveness of his sins; then, with Durendal and his ivory horn by his side, he stretches out the glove of his right hand to God. "He has stretched forth to God the glove of his right hand; St. Gabriel has received it... Then his head has sunk on his arm; he has gone, with clasped hands, to his end. God sends him one of his cherubim and St. Michael of Peril. St. Gabriel has come with them. They carry the soul of the Count: up to paradise." More solitary, and solemn and sad even, is the end of the other hero, of the great rebel Renaud of Montauban. At length, after a lifetime wasted in fruitless, attempts to resist the iniquity of the emperor, to baffle his power, to shame him by magnanimity into, justice, the four sons of Aymon, who have given up their youth, their manhood, the dearest things to their heart, respect to their father and loyalty to their sovereign, rather than countenance the injustice of Charlemagne to their kinsman, have at last obtained to be pardoned; to be pardoned, they, heroes, by this, dastardly tyrant, and to quietly sink, broken-hearted into nothingness. The eldest, Renaud, returning from his exile and the Holy Land, finds that his wife Clarisse has pined for him and died; and then, putting away his armour from him, and dressing in a pilgrim's frock made of the purple serge of the dead lady's robe, he goes forth to wander through the world; not very old in years, but broken-spirited; at peace, but in solitude of heart. And one evening he arrives at Cologne. We can imagine the old knight, only half aware of the sunshine of the evening, the noise of the streets, the looks of the crowd, the great minster rising half-finished in the midst of the town by the Rhine, the cries and noise and chipping of the masons; unconscious of all this, half away: with his brothers hiding in the Ardennes, living on roots and berries, at bay before Charlemagne; or wandering ragged and famishing through France; with King Yon brilliant at Toulouse, seeing perhaps for the first time his bride Clarisse, or the towers of Montauban rising under the workmen's hands; thinking perhaps of the frightful siege, when all, all had been eaten in the fortress, and his children Aymonnet and Yonnet, all thin and white, knelt down and begged him to slaughter his horse Bayard that they might eat; perhaps of that journey, when he and his brothers, all in red-furred robes with roses in their hands, rode prisoners of King Charles across the plain of Vaucouleurs; perhaps of when he galloped up to the gallows at Montfaucon, and cut loose his brother Richard; or of that daring ride to Paris, where he and his horse won the race, snatched the prize from before Charlemagne and sped off crying out that the winner was Renaud of Montauban; or, perhaps, seeing once more the sad, sweet face of the Lady Clarisse, when she had burned all her precious stuffs and tires in the castle-yard, and lay dead without him to kiss her cold mouth; of seeing once more his good horse Bayard, when he kissed him in his stall before giving him to be killed by Charlemagne. Thinking of all that past, seeing it all within his mind, and seeing but little of the present; as, in the low yellow light, he helped, for his bread, the workmen to heave the great beams, to carry the great stones of the cathedral, to split the huge marble masses while they stared in astonished envy; as he sat, unconscious of their mutterings, eating his dry bread and porridge in the building docks by the river. And then, when wearied, he had sunk to sleep in the hay-loft, dreaming perchance that all this evil life was but a dream and the awakening therefrom to happiness and strength; the jealous workmen came and killed him with their base tools, and cast him into the Rhine. They say that the huge body floated on the water, surrounded by a great halo; and that when the men of the banks, seeing this, reverently fished it out, they found that the noble corpse was untouched by decay, and still surrounded by a light of glory. And thus, it seems to me, this Renaud, this rebel baron of whose reality we know nothing, has floated surrounded by a halo of poetry down the black flood of the Middle Ages (in which so much has sunk); and when we look upon his face, and see its beauty and strength and solemness, we feel, like the people of the Rhine bank, inclined to weep, and to say of this mysterious corpse, "Surely this is some great saint." Of each of these heroes thus shown us by the Middle Ages, the Italian Renaissance also, by the hand of two of her greatest poets, has given us a picture. And first, of Roland. Of him, of Count Orlando, we are told by Messer Lodovico Ariosto, that in consequence of his having discovered, in a certain pleasant grotto among the ferns and maidenhair, words graven on the rock (interrupted, doubtless, by the lover's kisses) which revealed that the Princess Angelica of Cathay had disdained him for Medoro, the fair-haired page of the King of the Moors; Count Orlando went straightway out of his mind, and hanging up his armour and stripping off his clothes, galloped about on his bare-backed horse, slaughtering cows and sheep instead of Saracens; until it pleased God, moved by the danger of Christendom and the prayers of Charlemagne, to permit Astolfo to ride on the hippogriffs back up to the moon, and bring back thence the wits of the great paladin contained in a small phial. We all know that merry tale. What the Renaissance has to say of Renaud of Montauban is even stranger and more fantastic. One day, says Matteo Boiardo, in the fifteenth canto of the second part of his "Orlando Innamorato," as Rinaldo of Montalbano, the contemner of love, was riding in the Ardennes, he came to a clearing in the forest, where, close to the fountain of Merlin, a wonderful sight met his eyes. On a flowery meadow were dancing three naked damsels, and singing with them danced also a naked youth, dark of eyes and fair of hair, the first down on his lips, so that some might have said it was and others that it was not there. On Rinaldo's approach they broke through their singing and dancing, and rushed upon him, pelting him with roses and hyacinths and violets from their baskets, and beating him with great sheaves of lilies, which burnt like flames through the plates of his armour to the very marrow of his bones. Then when they had dragged him, tied with garlands, by the feet round and round the meadow; wings, eyed not with the eyes of a peacock but with the eyes of lovely damsels, suddenly sprouted out of their shoulders, and they flew off, leaving the poor baron, bruised on the grass, to meditate upon the vanity of all future resistance to love. Such are the things which the Middle Ages and the Renaissance found to tell us of the two great heroes of Carolingian poetry. And the explanation of how it came to pass, that for the Roland of the song of Roncevaux was substituted the Orlando of Ariosto, and for the Renaud of "The Quatre Fils Aymon" the Rinaldo of Matteo Boiardo--means simply that which I desire here to study: the metamorphoses of mediæval romance stuffs, and, more especially, the vicissitudes of the cycle of Charlemagne. II. We are apt to think of the Middle Ages as if they were the companion-piece to Antiquity; but no such ideal correspondence exists between the two periods. Antiquity is all of a piece, and the Middle Ages, on the contrary, are heterogeneous and chaotic. For Antiquity is the steady and uniform development of civilization in one direction and with one meaning; there are great differences between its various epochs, but they are as the differences between the budding, the blossoming, and the fading stages of one plant: life varies, but is one. The Middle Ages, on the other hand, are a series of false starts, of interruptions and of new departures; a perpetual confusion. For, if we think over them, we shall see that these centuries called mediæval are occupied by the effort of one people, or one generation, to put to rights and settle down among as much as it can save of the civilization of Antiquity. And the sudden overwhelming of this people or this generation by another, which puts all the elaborate arrangements into disarray, adds to the ruins of Antiquity the ruins of more recent times; and then this destroying generation tries to put things straight, to settle down, and is in its turn interrupted by the advent of some new comer who begins the game afresh. As it is with peoples, so also is it with ideas; scarcely has a scheme of life or of philosophy or of art taken shape and consistence before, from out of the inexhaustible chaos of mediæval thought and feeling, there issue new necessities, new aspirations, which put into confusion all previous ones. The Middle Ages were like some financial crisis: a little time, a little credit, money will fructify, wealth will reappear, the difficult moment will be tided over; and so with civilization. But unfortunately the wealth of ideas began to accumulate in the storehouse only just long enough to bring down a rout of creditors, people who rifled the bank, and went home to consume or invest their money in order to be succeeded by others. Hence, in the matter of civilization, the Middle Ages ended in an extraordinary slow ruin, a bankruptcy like that which overtook France before '89, and from which, as France was restored by the bold seizure and breaking up of property of the revolution, the world was restored by the bold breaking of feudal and spiritual mortmain, the restoring of wasted energies to utility, of that great double revolution, the Renaissance and the Reformation. Be this as it may, mankind throughout the Middle Ages appears to have been in a chronic condition of packing up and unpacking, and packing up again; one after another a nation, a race, a philosophy, a political system came to the front and was pushed back again into limbo: Germans and Kelts and Latins, French civilization of the day of Abélard, Provençal civilization of the days of the Raymonds, brilliant and evanescent Hohenstauffen supremacy, papacy at Canossa and at Avignon, Templars triumphant and Templars persecuted; scholasticism, mysticism, feudalism, democracy, communism: influences all these perpetually rising up and being trodden down, till they all rotted away in the great stagnation of the fifteenth century; and only in one part of the world, where the conflict was more speedily ended, where one set of tendencies early triumphed, where stability was temporarily obtained, in Italy alone did civilization continue to be nurtured and developed for the benefit of all mankind. In such a state of affairs only such things could flourish and mature as were safe from what I have called, for want of a better expression, the perpetual unpacking and repacking, the perpetual being on the move, of the Middle Ages; and among such things foremost was art, the essential art of the times, architecture, which, belonging to the small towns, to the infinite minority of the democracy, who worked and made money and let the great changes pass over their heads, thrived almost as something too insignificant for notice. But it was different with literature. Cathedrals once built cannot so easily be changed; new peoples, new ideas, must accept them. But poetry--the thing which every nation insists upon having to suit its own taste, the thing which every nation and every generation carries about with it hither and thither, the thing which can be altered to suit every passing whim--poetry was, of all the fluctuating things of the Middle Ages, perhaps the most fluctuating. And fluctuating also because, as none of these various nations, tendencies, aspirations, dominated sufficiently long to produce any highly organized art, there remained no standard works, nothing recognizedly perfect, which would be kept for its perfection and gather round it imitations, so as to form the nucleus of any homogeneous tradition. The Middle Ages, so full of fashions in literary matters, possessed no classics; the minnesingers knew nothing of the stern old Teutonic war songs; the meistersängers had forgotten the minnesingers; the trouvères and troubadours knew nothing of "The Chanson de Roland," and Villon knew nothing of them; only in Italy, where the Middle Ages came to an end and the Renaissance began with the Lombard league, was there established a tradition of excellence, with men like Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, handed down from generation to generation; even as, while in the north there came about the strange modification which substituted the French of Rabelais for the French of Chrestien de Troyes, the German of Luther for the German of Wolfram von Eschenbach, the Italian language, from Ciullo d'Alcamo almost to Boiardo and Lorenzo dei Medici, remained virtually identical. The result of this, which I may call the heterogeneousness and instability of the Middle Ages was that not merely literary forms were for ever arising and being superseded, but literary subject matter was continually undergoing a process of transformation. While in Antiquity the great epic and tragic stuffs remained well-nigh unaltered, and the stories of Valerius Flaccus and Apollonius Rhodius were merely the stories which had been current since the days of Homer, during the course of the Middle Ages every epic cycle, and every tale belonging thereunto, was gradually adulterated, mingled with, swamped by, some other cycle or tale; nay, rather, every other, cycle and every other tale, the older ones trying to save their popularity by admixture with the more recent, till at last all mythical significance, all historical meaning, all national character, all psychological reality, were lost in the chaotic result. And meanwhile, in the absence of any stable language, of any durable literary fashion, the Middle Ages were unable to give to these epic stuffs, at any one period of their life of metamorphose, a form sufficiently artistically valuable to secure anything beyond momentary vogue, to secure for them the immortality of the great Greek tales of adventure and warfare and love. Thus it came about that the epic cycle of Charlemagne, after supplanting in men's minds the grand sagas of the pagan North, was itself supplanted by the Arthurian cycle; that the Frankish stories absorbed the wholly discrepant elements of their more fortunate Keltic rivals; that both cycles, having lost all character through fusion and through obliteration by time, became more meaningless generation by generation and year by year, until when the Middle Ages had come to an end, and the great poets of the Renaissance were ready to give this old mediæval epic stuff a definitive and durable artistic shape, there came to the hands of Boiardo and Ariosto, of Tasso and Spenser, only a strange, trumpery material, muddled by jongleurs and romance writers, and reduced to mere fairy stuff, taken seriously only by Don Quixote, and by the authors of the volumes of insane twaddle called after Amadis of Gaul and all his kinsmen. Such a condition of perpetual change as explains, in my belief, why the mediæval epic subjects were wanted, can be made clear only by examples. I shall therefore try to show the transformations which were undergone by one or two principal mediæval epic subjects as a result of a mixture with other epic cycles; of a gradual adaptation to a new state of civilization; and finally of their gradual separation from all kind of reality and real interests. First of all, let us look at the epic cycle, which, although known to us only in poems no older than those of the trouvères and minnesingers who sang of Charlemagne and Arthur, is in reality far more ancient, and on account of its antiquity and its consequent disconnection with mediæval religious and political interests, was thrown aside even by the nations to which it belonged, by the Scandinavians who took to writing sagas about the wars of Charlemagne against Saracens, and by the Germans who preferred to hear the adventures of Welsh and Briton, Launcelots and Tristrams. I am alluding to the stories connected with the family and life of the hero called Sigurd by the Scandinavians, and Siegfried by the Germans. Of these we possess a Norse version called the Volsunga Saga, magnificently done into English by Mr. William Morris; which, although written down at the end of the twelfth century, in the very time therefore of Chrestien de Troyes, Wolfram von Eschenbach, and Gottfried von Strassburg, and subsequently to the presumed writing of "The Chanson de Roland" and the Nibelungenlied, shows us in reality the product of a people, the distant Scandinavians of Iceland, who were five or six hundred years behind the French, Germans, and English of the twelfth century. In the Volsunga Saga, neither Christianity nor feudalism is yet dreamed of; and it is for this reason that I wish to compare it with the Nibelungenlied, in order to show how enormously the old epic stuff was altered by the new civilization. The whole social and moral condition of the two versions is different. In the old Scandinavian civilization, where the Viking is surrounded and served by clansmen, the feeling of blood relationship is the strongest in people's hearts; strangely and fearfully shown in the introductory tale of Signy, who, in order to avenge her father Volsung, killed by her husband, murders her children by the latter, and then, altered in face by magic arts, goes forth to the woods to her brother Sigmund, that, un-wittingly, he may beget with her the only man fit to avenge the Volsungs. And then she sends the boy Sinfjotli to the man he has hitherto considered merely as his uncle, bidding the latter kill him if he prove unworthy of his incestuous birth, or train him to vengeance. The three together murder the husband and legitimate children of Signy, and set the palace on fire; which, being done, the queen, having accomplished her duty to her kin, accomplishes that towards her husband, and calmly returns to die in the burning hall. Here (and apparently again in the case of the children of Sigurd and Brynhilt) incest becomes a family virtue. This being the frightful preponderance of the feeling of blood relationship, it is quite natural that the Scandinavian Chriemhilt (called in the Volsunga Saga, Gudrun) should not resent the murder of her husband Siegfried or Sigurd by her brothers at the instigation of the jealous Brynhilt (who has in a manner been Sigurd's wife before he made her over to Chriemhilt's eldest brother); and that, so far from seeking any revenge against them, she should, when her second husband Atli sends for her brothers in order to rob and murder them, first vainly warn them of the plot, and then, when they have been massacred, kill Atli and her children by him in order to avenge her brothers. The slackening of the tribal feeling, the idea of fidelity in love and sanctity of marriage belonging to Christianity and feudalism, rendered such a story unintelligible to the Germans of the Othos and Henrys. In the Nibelungenlied, the whole story of the massacre of the brothers is changed. Chriemhilt never forgives the murder of Siegfried, and it is not Etzel--Atli for the sake of plunder, but she herself for the sake of revenge, who decoys her brothers and murders them; it is she who with her own hand cuts off the head of Gunther to expiate his murder of Siegfried. To our feelings, more akin to those of the feudal Christians of Franconia than to those of the tribal Scandinavians of the Edda, the second version is far more intelligible and interesting--the story of this once gentle and loving Chriemhilt, turned by the murder of her beloved into a fury, and plotting to avenge his death by the death of all his kinsfolk, must be much grander and more pathetic than the story of this strange Gudrun, who sits down patiently beneath the injury done to her by her brothers, but savagely avenges them on her new husband, and her own and his innocent children; to us this persistence of tribal feeling, destroying all indignation and love, is merely unnatural, confusing, and repulsive. But this alteration for the better in one of the incidents of the tale is a mere fluke; and the whole main plot of the originally central figures are completely obliterated by the new state of civilization, and rendered merely trivial and grotesque. In the Volsunga Saga Sigurd, overcome by enchantments, has forgotten his wife (or mistress, a vague mythical relationship); and, with all sense of the past obliterated, has made her over to the brother of his new wife Gudrun; and Brynhilt kills her faithless love to dissolve the second marriage and be reunited with him in death. In the Nibelungenlied Siegfried, although the flower of knighthood, conquers by foul play the Amazon Brunhilt to reward Gunther for the hand of his sister; nay, in a comic and loathsome scene he forces her into the embraces of the craven Gunther; and then he gets killed by Brunhilt's machinations; when, after most unqueenly bickerings, the proud Amazon is brutally told by Siegfried's wife of the dirty trick which has given her to Gunther. After this, it is impossible to realize, when Siegfried is murdered and all our sympathies called on to his side, the utterly out-of-character, blackguardly behaviour which has brought the hero to his death. Similarly the conception of the character and position of Brynhilt is entirely disfigured and rendered inane in the Nibelungenlied: of that superb demi-goddess of the Scandinavians, burnt on the pyre with her falcons and dogs and horses and slaves, by the side of the demi-god Sigurd, whom she has loved and killed, lest the door of Valhalla, swinging after him, should shut her out from his presence; of her there remains in the German mediæval poem only a virago (more like the giantesses of the Amadis romances) enraged at having been defeated and grotesquely and grossly pummelled into wedlock by a man not her husband, and then slanged like a fishwife by her envious sister-in-law. The old, consistent, grandly tragic tale of the mysterious incests and revenges of a race of demi-gods has lost its sense, its point in the attempt to arrange it to suit Christian and feudal ideas. The really fine portions of the Nibelungenlied are exactly those which have no real connection with the original story, gratuitous additions by mediæval poets. The delicately indicated falling in love of Siegfried and Chriemhilt, the struggles of Markgraf Rüdger between obedience to his feudal superior and fidelity towards his friends and guests; and, above all, the canto of the death of Siegfried. This last is different, intensely different, from the rugged and dreary monotony of the rest; this most poetical, almost Spenserian or Ariostesque realization of the scene; this beautiful picture (though worked with the needle of the arras-worker rather than with pencil or brush) of the wood, the hunt, the solitary fountain in the Odenwald, where, with his spear leaned against the lime-tree, Siegfried was struck down into the clover and flowers, and writhed with Hagen's steel through his back. This canto is certainly interpolated by some first-rate poet, at least a Gottfried or a Walther, to whom that passage of the savage old droning song of death had suggested a piece of new art; it is like the fragments of exquisitely chiselled leafage and figures which you sometimes find encrusted--by whom? wherefore?--quite isolated in the midst of the rough and lichen-stained stones of some rude Lombard church. All the rest of the Nibelungenlied gives an impression of effeteness; there is no definiteness of idea such as that of the Volsunga Saga; the battles are mere vague slaughter, no action, no realized movement, or (excepting Rüdger) no realized motive of conduct. Shape and colour would seem to have been obliterated by repetition and alteration. Yet even these alterations could not make the tale of Siegfried survive among the Germans of the Middle Ages; nay, the more the alterations the less the interest; the want of consistency and colour due to rearrangement merely accelerated the throwing aside of a subject which, dating from pagan and tribal times, had become repugnant to the new generations. All the mutilations in the world could not make the old Scandinavian tales of betrayed trust, of revenge and triumphant bloodshed, at all sympathetic to men whose religious and social ideals were those of forgiveness and fidelity; even stripped of its incestuous mysteries and of its fearful tribal love, the tale of Sigurd and Brynhilt, reduced to the tale of Chriemhilt's revenge, was unpalatable: no more attempts were made at re-writing it, and the poems of Walther, of Gottfried, of Wolfram, of Ulrich, and of Tannhäuser, full as they are of references to stories of the Carolingian and Arthurian cycles, nay, to Antique and Oriental tales, contain no allusion to the personages of the Nibelungenlied. The old epic of the Gothic races had been pushed aside by the triumphant epic of the obscure and conquered Kelts. There are few phenomena in the history of ideas and forms more singular than that of the sudden conquest of the poetry of dominant or distant nations by the poetic subjects of a comparatively small race, sheared of all political importance, restricted to a trifling territory, and well-nigh deprived of their language; and of this there can be found no more striking example than the sudden ousting of the Carolingian epic by the cycle of Arthur. The Kelts of Britain and Ireland possessed an epic cycle of their own, which came to notice only when they were dispossessed of their last strongholds by Saxons and Normans, and which immediately spread with astounding rapidity all over Europe. The vanquished race became fashionable; themselves, their art and their poetry, began to be sought for as a precious and war-enhanced loot. The heroic tales of the Kelts were transcribed in Welsh, and translated into Latin, by order of the Norman and Angevine kings, glad, it would seem, to oppose the Old Briton to the Saxon element. The Keltic songs were carried all over France by Breton bards, to whose music and rhymes, with only a general idea of the subjects, the neo-Latin-speaking Franks listened with the sort of stolid satisfaction with which English or Germans of a hundred years ago listened to Italians singing Metastasio's verses. But soon the songs and tales were translated; and French poets imitated in their language, northern and southern, the graceful metres of the Keltic lays, and altered and arranged their subjects. So that, in a very short time, France, and through it Germany, was inundated with Keltic stories. This triumph of the vanquished race was not without reason. The Kelts, early civilized by Rome and Christianity, had a set of stories and a set of heroes extremely in accordance with mediæval ideas, and requiring but very little alteration. The considerable age of their civilization had long obliterated all traces of pagan and tribal feeling in their tales. Their heroes, originally, like those of all other people, divinities intimately connected with natural phenomena, had long lost all cosmic characteristics, long ceased to be gods, and, manipulated by the fancy of a race whose greatness was quite a thing of the past, had become a sort of golden age ideals--the men of a distant period of glory, which was adorned with every kind of perfection, till it became as unreal as fairyland. Fairyland, in good sooth, was this country of the Keltic tales; and there is a sort of symbolical significance in the fact of its lawgiver Merlin, and its emperor Arthur, being both of them not dead, like Sigurd, like Dietrich, like Charlemagne and Roland, but lying in enchanted sleep. Long inaction and the day-dreaming of idleness had refined and idealized the heroes of this Keltic race--a race of brilliant fancy and almost southern mobility, and softened for a long time by contact with Roman colonists and Christian priests. They were not the brutal combatants of an active fighting age, like the heroes of the Edda and of the Carolingian cycles; nor had they any particular military work to do, belonging as they did to a people huddled away into inactivity. Their sole occupation was to extend abroad that ideal happiness which reigned in the ideal court of Arthur; to go forth on the loose and see what ill-conditioned folk there might yet be who required being subdued or taught manners in the happy kingdom, which the poor insignificant Kelts connected with some princelet of theirs who centuries before may have momentarily repelled the pagan Saxons. Hence in the Keltic stories, such as they exist in the versions previous to the conquest by the Norman kings, and previous also to any communications with other peoples, the distinct beginning of what was later to be called knight-errantry; of heroes, creations of an inactive nation, having no special military duties, going forth to do what good they may at random, unforced by any necessity, and following a mere æsthetico-romantic plan of perfecting themselves by deeds of valour to become more worthy of their God, their King, and their Lady: religion, loyalty, and love, all three of them mere æsthetic abstractions, becoming the goal of an essentially æsthetic, unpractical system of self-improvement, such as was utterly incompatible with any real and serious business in life. Idle poetic fancies of an inert people, the Knights of the Round Table have no mission save that of being poetically perfect. Such was the spirit of Keltic poetry; and, as it happened, this spirit satisfied the imaginative wants of mediæval society just at the moment when political events diffused in other countries the knowledge of the Arthurian legends. The old Teutonic tales of Sigurd, Gudrun, and Dietrich, had long ceased to appeal, in their mutilated and obliterated condition, to a society to whom tribal feeling and pagan heroism were odious, and whose religion distinctly reproved revenge. These semi-mythological tales had been replaced by another cycle: the purely realistic epic, which had arisen during the struggles between the Christian west against the pagan north-east and the Mohammedan south, and which, originating in the short battle-songs narrating the exploits of the predecessors and help-mates of Charlemagne, had constituted itself into large narratives of which the "Song of Roland" represents artistic culmination. These narratives of mere military exploits, of the battles of a strong feudal aristocracy animated by feudal loyalty and half-religious, half-patriotic fury against invading heathenness, had perfectly satisfied the men of the earliest Middle Ages, of the times when feudalism was being established and the church being reformed; when the strong military princelets of the North were embarking with their barons to conquer new kingdoms in England and in Italy and Greece; when the whole of feudal Europe hurled itself against Asia in the first Crusades. But the condition of things soon altered: the feudal hierarchy was broken up into a number of semi-independent little kingdoms or principalities, struggling, with the assistance of industrial and mercantile classes, to become absolute monarchies; princes who had been mere generals became stay-at-home diplomatists, studious of taxation and intrigue, surrounded no longer by armed vassals, but by an essentially urban court, in constant communication with the money-making burghers. Religion, also, instead of being a matter of fighting with infidel invaders, turned to fantastic sectarianism and emotional mysticism. With the sense of futility, of disappointment, attendant on the later Crusades, came also a habit of roaming in strange countries, of isolated adventure in search of wealth or information, a love of the distant, the half-understood, the equivocal; perhaps even a hankering after a mysterious compromise between the religion of Europe and the religions of the East, such as appears to have existed among the Templars and other Franks settled in Asia. There was, throughout feudal society, a sort of enervated languor, a morbid longing for something new, now that the old had ceased to be possible or had proved futile; after the great excitement of the Crusades it was impossible to be either sedately idle or quietly active, even as it is with all of us during the days of weariness and restlessness after some long journey. To such a society the strongly realistic Carolingian epic had ceased to appeal: the tales of the Welsh and Breton bards, repeated by trouvère and jongleur, troubadour and minnesinger, came as a revelation. The fatigued, disappointed, morbid, imaginative society of the later Crusades recognized in this fairyland epic of a long refined, long idle, nay, effete race, the realization of their own ideal: of activity unhampered by aim or organization, of sentiment and emotion and action quite useless and unnecessary, purely subservient to imaginative gratification. These Arthurs, Launcelots, Tristrams, Kays, and Gawains, fantastic phantoms, were also far more artistically malleable than the iron Rolands, Olivers, and Renauds of earlier days; that unknown kingdom of Britain could much more easily be made the impossible ideal, in longing for which squeamish and lazy minds might refuse all coarser reality. Moreover, those who listened to the tales of chivalry were different from those who had listened to the Carolingian stories; and, therefore, required something different. They were courtiers, and one half of them were women. Now the Carolingian tales, originally battle-songs, sung in camps and castles to mere soldiers, had at first possessed no female characters at all; and when gradually they were introduced, it was in the coarsest barrack or tap-room style. The Keltic tales, on the contrary, whether from national tradition, or rather from longer familiarity with Christian culture and greater idleness of life, naturally made women and women's love the goal of a great many adventures which an effete nation could no longer ascribe to patriotic movements. But this was not all. The religious feeling of the day was extremely inclined to mysticism, in which æsthetic, erotic, and all kinds of morbid and ill-defined tendencies were united, which was more than anything else tinged with a semi-Asiatic quietism, a longing for the passive ecstasy of Nirvâna. This religious side of mediæval life was also gratified by the Arthurian romances. Oddly enough, there existed an old Welsh or Breton tale about the boy Peredur, who from a complete simpleton became the prince of chivalry, and his many adventures connected with a certain mysterious blood-dripping lance, and a still more mysterious basin or _grail_ (an allusion to which is said by M. de la Villemarqué to be contained in the originally Keltic name of Percival), which possessed magic properties akin to those of the purse of Fortunatus, or the pipkin in the story of "Little pot, boil!" The story, whose original mythical meaning had been lost in the several centuries of Christianity, was very decayed and obscure; and the fact of the blood on the lance being that of a murdered kinsman of Peredur, and of the basin containing the head of the same person cut off by Gloucester witches, was evidently insufficient to account for all the mystery with which these objects were surrounded. The French poets of the Middle Ages, strongly imbued with Oriental legends brought back by the Crusaders, saw at a glance the meaning of the whole story: the lance was the lance with which Longinus had pierced the Saviour's side; the Grail was the cup which had received His blood, nay, it was the cup of the Last Supper. A tale about the preservation of these precious relics by Joseph of Arimathæa, was immediately connected therewith; a theory was set up (doubtless with the aid of quite unchristian, Oriental legends) of a kind of kingdom of the keepers of the Grail, of a vague half-material, half-spiritual state of bliss connected with the service of the Grail, which fed its knights (and here the Templars and their semi-oriental mysteries, for which they were later so frightfully misused, certainly come into play) with food which is at once of the body and of the soul. Thus the Keltic Peredur, bent upon massacring the Gloucester witches to avenge his uncle, was turned into a saintly knight, seeking throughout a more and more perfect life for the kingdom of the Grail: the Perceval of Chrestien de Troyes, the Parzifal of Wolfram von Eschenbach, whom later romance writers (wishing to connect everything more closely with Arthur's court) replaced by the Sir Galahad of the "Morte d'Arthur," while the guest of the Grail became a sort of general mission of several knights, a sort of spiritual crusade to whose successful champions Percival, Bors, and Galahad, the Middle Ages did not hesitate to add the arch-adulterer Launcelot. Thus did the Arthurian tales answer the requirements of the languid, dreamy, courtly, lady-serving and religiously mystic sons and grandsons of those earlier Crusaders whose aspirations had been expressed by the rough and solemn heroes of Carolingian tales. The Carolingian tales were thrown aside, or were kept by the noble mediæval poets only on condition of their original meaning being completely defaced by wholesale admixture of the manners and adventures belonging to the Arthurian cycles. The paladins were forced to disport themselves in the same fairyland as the Knights of the Round Table; and many mediæval poems the heroes of which, like Ogier of Denmark and Huon of Bordeaux, already existed in the Carolingian tales, are in reality, with their romantic loves, their useless adventures, their Morgana's castles and Oberon's horns, offshoots of the Keltic stories, which were as rich in every kind of supernatural (being, in fact, pagan myths turned into fairy tales) as the genuine Carolingian subjects, whose origin was entirely historical, were completely devoid of such things. Arthur and his ladies and knights: Guenevere, Elaine, Enid, Yseult, Launcelot, Geraint, Kay, Gawain, Tristram, and Percival-Galahad, were the real heroes and heroines of the courtly nobles and the courtly poets of this second phase of mediæval life. The Teuton Charlemagne, Roland and Oliver were as completely forgotten of the poets who met in that memorable combat of the Wartburg, as were the Teuton Sigurd and Dietrich. And if the Carolingian cycle survived, however much altered, I think it must have been thanks to the burghers and artizans of the Netherlands and of Provence, to whom the bluff, matter-of-fact heroism, the simple, gross, but not illegitimate amours of Carolingian heroes, were more satisfactory than any mystic quest of the Grail, any refined adultery of Guenevere or Yseult. But the inevitable fate of all mediæval epics awaited this triumphant Arthurian cycle: the fate of being obliterated by passing from one nation and civilization to another, long before the existence of any poetic art adequate to its treatment. Of this I will take as an example one of the mediæval poems which has the greatest reputation the masterpiece (according to most critics, with whom I find it difficult, in the presence of a poet like Gottfried von Strassburg, to agree) of probably the most really poetical and earnest school of poetry which the pre-Dantesque Middle Ages possessed--the "Parzifal" of Wolfram von Eschenbach. The paramount impression (I cannot say the strongest, for strong impressions are incompatible with such work as this) left by the masterpiece of Wolfram von Eschenbach, is that of the most astonishing vagueness, fluidity, haziness, vaporousness. In reading it one looks back to that rudely hewn and extremely obliterated Nibelungenlied, as to something quite astonishingly clear, detailed and strongly marked as to something distinctly artistic. Indeed by the side of "Parzifal" everything seems artistic; Hartmann von Aue reads like Chaucer, "Aucassin et Nicolette" is as living as "Cymbeline," "Chevy Chase" seems as good as the battles of Homer. It is not a narrative, but a vague mooning; a knight illiterate, not merely like his fellow minnesingers, in the way of reading and writing, but in the sense of complete absence of all habit of literary form; extremely noble and pure of mind, chaste, gentle, with a funny, puzzled sense of humour, reminding one distantly of Jean Paul in his drowsy moments; a hanger-on of courts, but perfectly simple-hearted and childlike; very poor and easily pleased: such is, for good and for bad, Herr Wolfram von Eschenbach, the only real personality in his poem. And he narrates, in a mooning, digressive, good-natured, drowsy tone, with only a rare awaking of interest, a story which he has heard from some one else, and that some one else from a series of other some one elses (Chrestien de Troyes, a legendary Provençal Chiot or Guyot, perhaps even the original Welsh bard); all muddled, monotonous, and droning; events and persons ill-defined, without any sense of the relative importance of anything, without clear perception of what it is all about, or at least without the power of keeping the matter straight before the reader. A story, in point of fact, which is no story at all, but a mere series of rambling adventures (adventures which are scarcely adventures, having no point or plot) of various people with not much connection and no individuality--Gachmuret, Parzifal, Gawain, Loherangrein, Anfortas, Feirefis--pale ghosts of beings, moving in a country of Kennaqwhere, Aquitaine, Anjou, Brittany, Wales, Spain, and heaven knows what wondrous Oriental places; a misty country with woods and towns and castles which are infinitely far apart and yet quite near each other; which seem to sail about like cloud castles round the only solid place in the book, Plimizöl, where Arthur's court, with round table constantly spread, is for ever established. A no place, nowhere; yet full of details; minute inventories of the splendid furniture of castles (castles where? how reached?); infinitely inferior in this matter even to the Nibelungenlied, where you are made to feel so vividly (one of the few modern and therefore clear things therein) the long, dreary road from Worms to Bechlarn, and thence to Etzelburg, though of none of them is there anything beyond a name. For the Nibelungen story had been localized in what to narrator and audience was a reality, the country in which themselves lived, where themselves might seek out the abbey in which Siegfried was buried, the well in the Odenwald near which he was stabbed; where they knew from merchant and pilgrim the road taken by the Nibelungs from Santen to Worms, by the Burgundians from Worms to Hungary. But here in "Parzifal" we are in a mere vague world of anywhere, the world of Keltic and Oriental romance become mere cloudland to the Thuringian knight. And similarly have the heroes of other nations, the Arthurs, Gawains, Gachmurets, of Wales and Anjou, become mere vague names; they have become liquified, lost all shape and local habitation. They are mere names, these ladies and knights of Herr Wolfram, names with fair pink and white faces, names magnificently draped in bejewelled Oriental stuffs and embossed armour; they have no home, no work, nothing to do. This is the most remarkable characteristic of "Parzifal," and what makes it so typical of the process of growing inane through overmuch alteration, which prevented the mediæval epics ever turning into an Iliad or an Odyssey; this that it is essentially idle and all about nothing. The feudal relations strongly marked in the German Nibelungenlied have melted away like the distinctions of race: every knight is independent, not a vassal nor a captain, a Volker or Hagen, or Roland or Renaud followed by his men; but an isolated individual, without even a squire, wandering about alone through this hazy land of nowhere. Knight-errantry, in the time of the great Guelph and Ghibelline struggles, every bit as ideal as that of Spenser or Cervantes; and with the difference that Sir Calidore and Sir Artegal have an appointed task, some Blatant Beast or other nuisance to overcome; and that Don Quixote has the general rescuing of all the oppressed Princesse Micomiconas, and the destruction of all windmills, and the capturing of all helmets of Mambrino, and the establishing all over the world of the worship of Dulcinea. But these knights of Wolfram von Eschenbach have no more this mission than they have the politico-military missions, missions of a Rüdger or a Roland. They are all riding about at random, without any particular pagans, necromancers, or dragons to pursue. The very service of the Holy Grail, which is the main interest of the poem, consists in nothing apparently except living virtuously at the Castle of Montselväsche, and virtuously eating and drinking the victuals provided miraculously. To be admitted to this service, no initiation, no mission, nothing preliminary seems required. Parzifal himself merely wanders about vaguely, without doing any specified thing. The fact is that in this poem all has become purely ideal; ideal to the point of utter vacuity: there is no connection with any human business. Of all the heroes and heroines we hear that they are perfectly chaste, truthful, upright; and they are never put into any situation to test these qualities: they are never placed in the way of temptation, never made to fight with evil, or to decide between it and good. The very religion of the Holy Grail consists in doing nothing: not a word about relieving the poor or oppressed, of tending the sick, of delivering the Holy Sepulchre, of defending that great injured One, Christ. To be Grail Knight or even Grail King means to be exactly the same as before. Where in this vague dreamland of passive purity and heroism, of untempted chastity and untried honour, where are the earthly trials of Tristram, of Guenevere, of Rüdger, of Renaud? Where the moral struggles of the Middle Ages? Where is Godfrey, or Francis, or Dominick? Nowhere. All has disappeared, melted away; Christianity and Paganism themselves have melted away or into each other, as in the easy meeting of the Pagan Feirefis and the Christian Parzifal, and in the double marriage of Gachmuret with the Indian Belakane and the Welsh Herzeloid; there remains only a kind of Buddhistic Nirvâna of vague passive perfection, but without any renunciation; and in a world devoid of evil and full of excellent brocade and armour and eatables, and lovely maidens who dress and undress you, and chastely kiss you on the mouth; a world without desire, aspiration, or combat, vacantly happy and virtuous. A world purely ideal, divorced from all reality, unsubstantial like the kingdom of Gloriana, but, unlike Spenser's, quite unshadowed by any puritan sadness, by any sense of evil, untroubled by allegorical vices; cheerful, serene, filled with flowers and song of birds, but as unreal as the illuminated arabesques of a missal. In truth, perhaps more to be compared with an eighteenth century pastoral, an ideal created almost in opposition to reality; a dream of passiveness and liberty (as of light leaves blown about) as the ideal of the fiercely troubled, struggling, tightly fettered feudal world. The ideal, perhaps, of only one moment, scarcely of a whole civilization; or rather (how express my feeling?) an accidental combination of an instant, as of spectre vapour arisen from the mixture of Kelt and Teuton, of Frank and Moslem. Is it Christian, Pagan, Mohammedan? None of all these. A simple-looking vaporous chaos of incongruous, but not conflicting, elements: a poem of virtue without object, of knighthood without work, of religion without belief; in this like its central interest, the Grail: a mystery, a cup, a stone; a thing which heals, feeds, speaks; animate or inanimate? Stone of the Caaba or chalice of the Sacrament? Merely a mysterious holy of holies and good of goods, which does everything and nothings means nothing and requires nothing--is nothing. III. Thus was obliterated, in all its national and traditional meaning, the heroic cycle of Arthur; and by the same process of slow adaptation to new intellectual requirements which had completely wiped out of men's memory the heroic tales of Siegfried, which had entirely altered the originally realistic character of the epic of Charlemagne. But unreal and ideal as had become the tales of the Round Table, and disconnected with any national tradition, the time came when even these were not sufficiently independent of reality to satisfy the capricious imagination of the later Middle Ages. At the end of the fourteenth century was written, most probably in Portuguese by Vasco de Lobeira, the tale of "Amadis de Gaula," which was followed by some forty or fifty similar books telling the adventures of all the brothers, nephews, sons, grandsons sons, and great-grandsons, an infinite succession, of the original Amadis; which, translated into all languages and presently multiplied by the press, seem to have usurped the place of the Arthurian stories in feudal countries until well-nigh the middle of the sixteenth century; and which were succeeded by no more stories of heroes, but by the realistic comic novels of the type of "Lazarillo de Tormes," and the buffoon philosophic extravaganzas of "Gargantua." Further indeed it was impossible to go than did mediæval idealism in the Amadises. Compared with them the most fairy-tale-like Arthurian stories are perfect historical documents. There remains no longer any connection whatsoever with reality, historical or geographical: the whole world seems to have been expeditiously emptied of all its contents, to make room for kingdoms of Gaul, of Rome, of the Firm Island, of Sobradisa, etc., which are less like the Land West of the Moon and East of the Sun than they are like Sancho Panza's island. All real mankind, past, present, and future, has similarly been swept away and replaced by a miraculous race of Amadises, Lisvarts, Galaors, Gradasilias, Orianas, Pintiquinestras, Fradalons, and so forth, who flit across our vision, in company with the indispensable necromancers, fairies, dwarfs, giants, and duennas, like some huge ballet: things without character, passions, pathos; knights who are never wounded or killed, princesses who always end with marrying the right man, enchanters whose heads are always chopped off, foundlings who are always reinstated in their kingdom, inane paper puppets bespangled with impossible sentiment, tinsel and rags which are driven about like chaff by the wind-puffs of romance. The advent of the Amadises is the coming of the Kingdom of Nonsense, the sign that the last days of chivalric romance have come; a little more, and the Licentiate Alonzo Perez will take his seat in Don Quixote's library, and Nicholas the Barber light his faggots in the yard. But, as if in compensation of the usurpation of which they had been the victims, the Carolingian tales, pushed out of the way by the Arthurian cycle, were not destined to perish. Thrown aside with contempt by the upper classes, engrossed with the Round Table and the Holy Grail, the tales of Charlemagne and his paladins, largely adulterated with Arthurian elements, were apparently cherished by a lower class of society: burgesses, artizans, and such-like, for whom that Arthurian world was far too etherial and too delicately immoral; and to this circumstance is due the fact that the humiliated Carolingian tales eventually received an artistic embodiment which was not given to the Arthurian stories. While troubadours and minnesingers were busy with the court of Arthur, and grave Latinists like Rusticiano of Pisa wrote of Launcelot and Guenevere; the Carolingian epics seem to have been mainly sung about by illiterate jongleurs, and to have busied the pens of prose hackwriters for the benefit of townsfolk. The free towns of the Netherlands and of Germany appear to have been full of this unfashionable literature: the Carolingian cycle had become democratic. And, inasmuch as it was literature no longer for knights and courtiers, but for artizans and shopkeepers, it went, of course, to the pre-eminently democratic country of the Middle Ages--Italy. This was at a time when Italian was not yet a recognized language, and when the men and women who talked in Tuscan, Lombard, or Venetian dialects, wrote in Latin and in French; and while Francesca and Paolo read the story of Launcelot most probably in good mediæval _langue d'oil_, as befitted people of high birth; the jongleurs, who collected crowds so large as to bar the streets and require the interference of the Bolognese magistrates, sang of Roland and Oliver in a sort of _lingua Franca_ of French Lombard. French jongleurs singing in impossible French-Italian; Italian jongleurs singing in impossible French; Paduan penny-a-liners writing Carolingian cyclical novels in French, not of Paris, assuredly, but of Padua--a comical and most hideous jabber of hybrid languages--this was how the Carolingian stories became popular in Italy. Meanwhile, the day came when the romantic Arthurian tales had to dislodge in Italy before the invasion of the classic epic. Troy, Rome, and Thebes had replaced Tintagil and Cærleon in the interest of the cultured classes long before the beginning of the fifteenth century; when Poggio, in the very midst of the classic revival, still told of the comically engrossed audience which surrounded the vagabonds singing of Orlando and Rinaldo. The effete Arthurian cycle, superseded in Spain and France by the Amadis romances, was speedily forgotten in Italy; but the Carolingian stories remained; and when Italian poetry arose once more after the long interregnum between Petrarch and Lorenzo dei Medici, and looked about for subjects, it laid its hand upon them. But when, in the second half of the fifteenth century, those old tales of Charlemagne received, after so many centuries of alterations and ephemeral embodiments, that artistic form which the Middle Ages had been unable to give them, the stories themselves, and the way in which they were regarded, were totally different from what they had been in the time of Theroulde, or of the anonymous author of "The Quatre Fils Aymon;" the Renaissance, with its keen artistic sense, made out of the Carolingian tales real works of art, but works of art which were playthings. To begin with, the Carolingian stories had been saturated with Arthurian colour: they had been furnished with all the knight-rrantry, all the gallantry, all the enchantments, the fairies, giants, and necromancers of the Keltic legends; and, moreover, they had lost, by infinite repetition, all the political realism and meaning so striking in "The Chanson de Roland" and "The Quatre Fils Aymon;" a confusion and unreality further increased by the fact that the Italians had no original connection with those tales, that to them real men and plans were no better than imaginary ones, and that the minstrels who sang in the market-place, and the laborious prose-writers who compiled such collections as that called of the "Reali di Francia," were equally free in their alterations and adaptations, creating unknown relationships, inventing new adventures, suppressing essential historical points, with no object save amusing their audience or readers with new stories about familiar heroes. Such was the condition of the stories themselves. The attitude of the public towards them was, by the middle of the fifteenth century, one of complete incredulity and frivolous amusement; the paladins were as unreal as the heroes of any granny's fairy tale. The people wanted to hear of wonderful battles and adventures, of enchantments and love-makings; but they wanted also to laugh; and, sceptical, practical, democratic, the artizans and shopkeepers of Florence--to whom, paying, as they did, expensive mercenaries who stole poultry and never got wounded on any account, all chivalry or real military honour was the veriest nursery rubbish--such people as crowded round the _cantastoria_ of _mercato vecchio_, must indeed have found much to amuse them in these tales of so different an age. And into such crowds there penetrated to listen and watch (even as the Magnificent Lorenzo had elbowed among the carnival ragamuffins of Florence, and had slid in among the holiday-making peasants of Poggio a Caiano) a learned man, a poet, an intimate of the Medicis, of Politian, Ficino, and Pico della Mirandola, Messer Luigi Pulci, the same who had written the semi-allegorical, semi-realistic poem about Lorenzo dei Medici's gala tournament. There was a taste in the house of the Medici, together with those for platonic philosophy, classical erudition, religious hymns, and Hebrew kabbala, for a certain kind of realism, for the language and mode of thinking of the lower classes, as a reaction from Petrarchesque conventionality. As the Magnificent Lorenzo had had the fancy to string together in more artistic shape the quaint and graceful love poems, hyperbolical, realistic, tender, and abusive, of the Tuscan peasantry; so also Messer Luigi Pulci appears to have been smitten with the notion of trying his hand at a chivalric poem like those to which he and his friends had listened among the butchers and pork-shops, the fishmongers and frying booths of the market, and giving an impression, in its ideas and language, of the people to whom such strains were sung. But Luigi Pulci was vastly less gifted as a poet than Lorenzo dei Medici; Florentine prentices are less æsthetically pleasing than Tuscan peasants, and the "Morgante Maggiore" is a piece of work of a sort utterly inferior to the "Nencia da Barberino." Still the "Morgante Maggiore" remains, and will remain, as a very remarkable production of grotesque art. Just as Lorenzo dei Medici was certainly not without a deliberate purpose of selecting the quaintness and gracefulness of peasant life; even so, and perhaps more, Luigi Pulci must have had a deliberate intention of producing a ludicrous effect; in both cases the deliberate attempt is very little perceptible, in the "Nencia da Barberino" from the genius of Lorenzo, in the "Morgante Maggiore" from the stolidity of Pulci. The "Morgante," of which parts were probably written as a mere sample to amuse a supper party, became interesting to Pulci, in the mere matter of inventing and stringing together new incidents; and despite its ludicrous passages, it must have been more seriously written by him, and more seriously listened to by his friends, than would a similar production now-a-days. For the men of the Renaissance, no matter how philosophized and cultured, retained the pleasure in mere incident, which we moderns seem to have given over to children and savages; and Lorenzo, Ficino, and Politian probably listened to the adventures of Luigi Pulci's paladins and giants with much the same interest, and only a little more conscious sense of grotesqueness, with which the crowd in the market listened to Cristofano dell' Altissimo and similar story-tellers. The "Morgante Maggiore," therefore, is neither really comic nor really serious. It is not a piece of realistic grotesqueness like "Gargantua" or "Pantagruel," any more than it is a serious ideal work like "Amadis de Gaula:" the proportion of deliberately sought effects is small; the great bulk, serious or comic, seems to have come quite at random. It is not a caricatured reproduction of the poems of chivalry sung in the market, for they were probably serious, stately, and bald, with at most an occasional joke; it is the reproduction of the joint impression received from the absurd, harum-scarum, unpractical world of chivalry of the poet, and the real world of prose, of good-humoured buffoonish coarseness with which the itinerant poet was surrounded. The paladins are no Don Quixotes, the princesses no Dulcineas, the battles are real battles; but the language is that of Florentine wool-workers, housewives, cheese-sellers, and ragamuffins, crammed with the slang of the market-place, its heavy jokes and perpetual sententious aphorism. Moreover the prominence given to food and eating is unrivalled except by Rabelais: the poet must have lounged with delight through the narrow mediæval lanes, crowded with booths and barrows, sniffing with rapture the mingled scents of cheese, pork, fish, spices, and a hundred strange concomitant market smells. And the market, that classic _mercato vecchio_ (alas, finally condemned and destroyed by modern sanitary prudishness, and which only those who have seen can conceive in its full barbarous, nay, barbaric Pantagruelian splendour of food, blood, and stenches) of Florence, is what we think of throughout the poem. And, when Messer Luigi comes to narrate, with real gravity and after the due invocation of the Virgin, the Trinity, and the saints, the tremendous disaster of Roncevaux, he uses such words and such similes, that above the neighing of horses and the clash of hurtling armour and the yells of the combatants we suddenly hear the nasal sing-song of Florentine tripe-vendors and pumpkin-pod-sellers, the chaffer and oaths and laughter of the gluttonous crowd pouring through the lanes of Calimala and Pellicceria; nay (horrible and grotesque miracle), there seems to rise out of the confused darkness of the battle-filled valley, there seems to disengage itself (as out of a mist) from the chaos of heaped bodies, and the flash of steel among the whirlwinds of dust, a vision, more and more distinct and familiar, of the crowded square with its black rough-hewn, smoke-stained houses, ornamented with Robbia-ware angels and lilies or painted madonnas; of its black butchers dens, outside which hang the ghastly disembowelled sheep with blood-stained fleeces, the huge red-veined hearts and livers; of the piles of cabbage and cauli-flowers, the rows of tin ware and copper saucepans, the heaps of maccaroni and pastes, of spices and drugs; the garlands of onions and red peppers and piles of apples; the fetid sliminess of the fish tressels; the rough pavement oozy and black, slippery with cabbage-stalks, puddled with bullock's blood, strewn with plucked feathers--all under the bright blue sky, with Giotto's dove-coloured belfry soaring high above; a vision, finally, of one of those deep dens, with walls, all covered with majolica plates and dishes and flashing brass-embossed trenchers, in the dark depths of which crackles perennially a ruddy fire, while a huge spit revolves, offering to the flames now one now the other side of scores of legs of mutton, rounds of beef, and larded chickens, trickling with the butter unceasingly ladled by the white-dressed cooks. Roncisvalle, Charlemagne, the paladins, paganism, Christendom--what of them? "I believe in capon, roast or boiled, and sometimes done in butter; in mead and in must; and I believe in the pasty and the pastykins, mother and children; but above all things I believe in good wine "--as Margutte snuffles out in his catechism; and as to Saracens and paladins, past, present, and future, a fig for them! But meanwhile, for all that Florentine burgesses, artizans, and humorists may think, there is in this Italy of the Renaissance something besides Florence; there is a school of poetry, disconnected with the realisms of Lorenzo and Pulci, with the Ovidian Petrarchisms of Politian. There is Ferrara. Lying, as they do, between the Northern Apennine slopes of Modena and the Euganean hills, the dominions of the House of Este appear at first sight merely as part and parcel of Lombardy, and we should expect from them nothing very different from that which we expect from Milan or Bologna or Padua. But the truth is different; all round Ferrara, indeed, stretches the fertile flatness of Lombard cornfields, and they produce, as infallibly as they produce their sacks of grain and tuns of wine and heaps of silk cocoon, the intellectual and social equivalents of such things in Renaissance Italy: industry, wealth, comfort, scepticism, art. But on either side, into the defiles of the Euganean hills to the north, into the widening torrent valleys of the Modenese Apennines to the south, the Marquisate of Este stretches up into feudalism, into chivalry, into the imaginative kingdom of the Middle Ages. Mediævalism, feudalism, chivalry, indeed, of a very modified sort; and as different from that of France and Germany as differ from the poverty-stricken plains and forests and and moors of the north these Italian mountain slopes, along which the vines crawl in long trellises, and the chestnuts rise in endlessly superposed tiers of terraces, cultivated by a peasant who is not the serf, but the equal sharer in profits with the master of the soil. And on one of those fertile hill-sides, looking down upon a narrow valley all a green-blue shimmer with corn and vine-bearing elms, was born, in the year 1434, Matteo Maria Boiardo, in the village which gave him the title, one of the highest in the Estensian dominions, of Count of Scandiano. Here, in the Apennines, Scandiano is a fortified village, also a castle, doubtless half turned into a Renaissance villa, but mediæval and feudal nevertheless; but the name of Scandiano belongs also, I know not for what reason, to a certain little red-brick palace on the outskirts of Ferrara, beautifully painted with half-allegorical, half-realistic pageant frescoes by Cosimo Tura, and enclosing a sweet tangled orchard-garden; to all of which, being the place to which Duke Borso and Duke Ercole were wont to retire for amusement, the Ferrarese have given the further name of Schifanoia, which means, "fly from cares." This little coincidence of Scandiano the feudal castle in the Apennines, and Scandiano the little pleasure palace at Ferrara, seems to give, by accidental allegory, a fair idea of the double nature of Matteo Boiardo, of the Ferrarese court to which he belonged, and of the school of poetry (including the more notable but less original work of Ariosto) which the genius of the man and the character of the court succeeded together in producing. To understand Boiardo we must compare him with Ariosto; and to understand Ariosto we must compare him with Boiardo; both belong to the same school, and are men of very similar genius, and where the one leaves off the other begins. But first, in order to understand the character of this poetry which, in the main, is identical in Boiardo and in his more successful but less fascinating pupil Ariosto, let us understand Ferrara. It was, in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries, a chivalric town of Ariostesque chivalry: feudalism turned courtly and elegant, and moreover, very liberal and comfortable by preponderance of democratic and industrial habits; a military court, of brave mercenary captains full of dash and adventure, not mere brigands and marauders having studied strategy, like the little Umbrian chieftains; a court orderly, elegant, and brilliant: a prince not risen from behind a counter like Medicis and Petruccis, nor out of blood like Baglionis and Sforzas, but of a noble old house whose beginnings are lost in the mist of real chivalry and real paladinism; a duke with a pretence of feudal honour and decorum, at whose court men were all brave and ladies all chaste--with the little licenses of baseness and gallantry admitted by Renaissance chivalry. A bright, brilliant court at the close of the fifteenth century; and more stable than the only one which might have rivalled it, the Feltrian court of Urbino, too small and lost among the Umbrian bandits. A bright, brilliant town, also, this Ferrara: not mercantile like Florence, not mere barracks like Perugia; a capital, essentially, in its rich green plain by the widened Po, with its broad handsome streets (so different from the mediæval exchanges of Bologna, and the feudal alleys of Perugia), its well-built houses, so safe and modern, needing neither _bravi_ nor iron window bars, protected (except against some stray murder by one of the Estensi themselves), by the duke's well-organized police; houses with well-trimmed gardens, like so many Paris hôtels; and with the grand russet brick castle, military with its moat and towers, urban with its belvederes and balconies, in the middle, well placed to sweep away with its guns (the wonderful guns of the duke's own making) any riot, tidily, cleanly, without a nasty heap of bodies and slop of blood as in the narrow streets of other towns Imagine this bright capital, placed, moreover, in the richest centre of Lombardy, with glitter of chivalry from the Euganean hills and Apennines (castellated with Este, Monselice, Canossa, and Boiardo's own Scandiano); with gorgeous rarities of commerce from Venice and Milan--a central, unique spot. It is the natural home of the chivalrous poets of the Renaissance, Boiardo, Ariosto, Tasso; as Florence is of the Politians and Pulcis (Hellenism and back-shopery); and Venice of the literature of lust, jests, cynicism, and adventure, Aretine, Beolco, Calmo, and Poliphilo-Colonna. In that garden, where the white butterflies crowd among the fruit trees bowed down to the tall grass of the palace of Schifanoia--a garden neither grand nor classic, but elegiac and charming--we can imagine Boiardo or Ariosto reading their poems to just such a goodly company as Giraldi Cinthio (a Ferrarese, and fond of romance, too) describes in the prologue of his "Ecatomiti:" gentle and sprightful ladies, with the splendid brocaded robes, and the gold-filleted golden hair of Dosso Dossi's wonderful Alcina Circe; graceful youths like the princely St. John of Benvenuto Garofalo; jesters like Dosso's at Modena; brilliant captains like his St. George and St. Michael; and a little crowd of pages with doublets and sleeves laced with gold tags, of sedate magistrates in fur robes and scarlet caps, of white-dressed maids with instruments of music and embroidery frames and hand looms, like those which Cosimo Tura painted for Duke Borso on the walls of this same Schifanoia palace. Such is the audience; now for the poems. The stuff of Boiardo and Ariosto is the same: that old mediæval stuff of the Carolingian poems, coloured, scented with Arthurian chivalry and wonder. The knight-errantry of the Keltic tales is cleverly blended with the pseudo-historical military organization of the Carolingian cycle. Paladins and Saracens are ingeniously manoeuvred about, now scattered in little groups of twos and threes, to encounter adventures in the style of Sir Launcelot or Amadis; now gathered into a compact army to crash upon each other as at Roncevaux; or else wildly flung up by the poet to alight in fairyland, to find themselves in the caverns of Jamschid, in the isles where Oberon's mother kept Cæsar, and Morgana kept Ogier, in the boats, entering subterranean channels, of Sindbad and Huon of Bordeaux; a constant alternation of individual adventure and wholesale organized campaigns, conceived and carried out with admirable ingenuity. So much for the deeds of arms. The deeds of love are also compounded of Carolingian and Arthurian, but flavoured with special Renaissance feeling. There is a great deal of rapid love-making between too gallant knights and too impressionable ladies; licentious amours which we moderns lay at the door of Boiardo and Ariosto, not knowing that the licentiousness of the Olivers and Ogiers and Guerins and Huons of mediæval poetry, of the sentimental Amadises, Galaors, and Lisvarts of the fourteenth century, whom the Renaissance has toned down in Rogers and Rinaldos and Ricciardettos, is by many degrees worse. A moral improvement also (for all the immorality of the Renaissance) in the eschewing of the never-failing adultery of the Arthurian romances, and the appropriation to legitimately faithful love of the poetical devotion which Tristram and Launcelot bear to other men's wives. To this are added, and more by Ariosto than by Boiardo, two essentially Italian elements: something of the nobility of passion of the Platonic sonneteers; and a good dose of the ironical, scurrilous, moralizing immoral anecdote gossiping of Boccaccio and Sacchetti. Such is the stuff. The conception, though rarely comic, and sometimes _bond fide_ serious, is never earnest. All this is a purely artistic world, a world of decorative arabesque incident, intended to please, scarcely ever to move, or to move, at most, like some Decameronian tale of Isabella and the Basil Plant, or Constance and Martuccio. On the other hand, there is none of the grotesque irreverence of Pulci. Boiardo and Ariosto are not in earnest; they are well aware that their heroes and heroines are mere modern men and women tricked out in pretty chivalric trappings, driven wildly about from Paris to Cathay, and from Spain to the Orkneys--on Tony Lumpkin's principle of driving his mother round and round the garden plot till she thought herself on a heath six miles off--without ever really changing place. But they do not, like Pulci, make fun of their characters. They write chivalry romances not for Florentine pork-butchers and wool-carders, but for gallant ladies and gentlemen, to whom, with duels, tournaments, serenades, and fine speeches, chivalry is an admired name, though no longer a respected reality. The heroes of Boiardo and of Ariosto are always bold and gallant and glittering, the spirit of romance is in them; a giant Sancho Panza like Morgante, redolent of sausage and cheese, would never be admitted into the society of a Ferrarese Orlando. The art of Boiardo and of Ariosto is eminently pageant art, in which sentiment and heroism are but as one element among many; there is no pretence at reality (although there is a good deal of incidental realism), and no thought of the interest in subject and persons which goes with reality. It is a masquerade, and one whose men and women must, I think, be imagined in a kind of artistic fancy costume: a mixture of the Renaissance dress and of the antique, as we see it in the prints of contemporary pageants, and in Venetian and Ferrarese pictures; that Circe of Dosso's, in the Borghese gallery of Rome, seated in her stately wine-lees and gold half-heraldically and half-cabalistically patterned brocade, before the rose-bushes of the little mysterious wood, is the very ideal of the Falerinas and Alcinas, of the enchantresses of Boiardo and Ariosto. Pageant people, these of the Ferrarese poets; they only play at being in forests and deserts, as children play at being on volcanoes or in Green-land by the nursery fire. It is a kind of dressing up, a masquerading of the fancy; not disguising in order to deceive, but rather laying hold of any pretty or brilliant impressive garb that comes to hand, and putting that on in conjunction with many odds and ends, as an artist's guests might do with the silks and velvets and Oriental properties of a studio. These knights and ladies, for ever tearing about from Scotland to India, never, in point of fact, get any further than the Apennine slopes where Boiardo was born, where Ariosto governed the Garfagnana. They ride for ever (while supposed to be in the Ardennes or in Egypt) across the velvet moss turf, all patterned with minute starry clovers and the fallen white ropy chestnut blossom, amidst the bracken beneath the slender chestnut trees, the pale blue sky looking in between their spreading branches; at most they lose their way in the intricacies of some seaside pineta, where the feet slip on the fallen needles, and the sun slants along the vistas of serried, red, scaly trunks, among the juniper and gorse and dry grass and flowers growing in the sea sand. Into the vast mediæval forests of Germany and France, Boiardo and Ariosto's fancy never penetrated. Such is the school: a school represented in its typical character only by Boiardo and Ariosto, but to which belong, nevertheless, with whatever differences, Tasso, Spenser, Camoens, all the poets of Renaissance romance. Now of the two leaders thereof. Here I feel that I can speak only personally; tell only of my own personal impressions and preferences. Comparing together Boiardo and Ariosto, I am, of course, aware of the infinite advantages of the latter. Ariosto is a man of far more varied genius; he is an artist, while Boiardo is an amateur; he is learned in arranging and ornamenting; he knows how to alternate various styles, how to begin and how to end. Moreover, he is a scholarly person of a more scholarly time: he is familiar with the classics, and, what is more important, he is familiar with the language in which he is writing. He writes exquisitely harmonious, supple, and brilliant Tuscan verse, with an infinite richness of diction; while poor Boiardo jogs along in a language which is not the Lombard dialect in which he speaks, and which is very uncouth and awkward, as is every pure language for a provincial; indeed, so much so, that the pedantic Tuscans require Berni to make Tuscan, elegant, to _ingentilire_, with infinite loss to quaintness and charm, the "Orlando Innamorato" of poor Ferrarese Boiardo. Moreover, Ariosto has many qualities unknown to Boiardo; wit, malice, stateliness, decided eloquence and power of simile and apostrophe; he is a symphony for full orchestra, and Boiardo a mere melody played on a single fiddle, which good authorities (and no one dare contest with Italians when they condemn anything not Tuscan as jargon) pronounce to be no Cremona. All these advantages Ariosto certainly has; and I do not quarrel with those who prefer him for them. But many of them distinctly take away from my pleasure. I confess that I am bored by the beautifully written moral and allegorical preludes of Ariosto's cantos; I would willingly give all his aphorism and all his mythology to get quickly to the story. Also, I resent his admirable rhetorical flourishes about his patrons, his Ercoles, Ippolitos, and Isabellas they ring false, dreadfully false and studied; and Boiardo's quickly despatched friendly greeting of his friends, his courteous knights and gentle ladies, pleases me much better. Moreover, the all-pervading consciousness of the existence of Homer, Virgil, nay, Statius and Lucan, every trumpery antique epic-monger, annoys me, giving an uncomfortable doubt as to whether Ariosto did not try to make all this nonsense serious, and this romance into an epic; all this occasional Virgilian stateliness, alternated with a kind of polished Decameronian gossipy cynicism, diverts my attention, turns paladins and princesses too much into tutor-educated gentlemen, into Bandello and Cinthio-reading ladies of the sixteenth century. The picture painted by Ariosto is finer, but you see too much of the painter; he and his patrons take up nearly the whole foreground, and they have affected, idealized faces and would-be dignified and senatorial poses. For these and many other reasons, I personally prefer Boiardo; and perhaps the best reason for my preference is the irrational one that he gives me more pleasure. My preferences, my impressions, I have said, are in this matter, much less critical than personal. Hence I can speak of Boiardo only as he affects me. When first I read Boiardo, I was conscious of a curious phenomenon in myself. I must confess to reading books usually in a very ardent or rather weary manner, either way in a hurry to finish them. As it happened, when I borrowed Boiardo, I had a great many other things on hand which required my time and attention; yet I could not make up my mind to return the book until I had finished it, though my intention had been merely to satisfy my curiosity by a dip into it. I went on, without that eager desire to know what follows which one has in a novel; drowsily with absolute reluctance to leave off, like the reluctance to rise from the grass beneath the trees with only butterflies and shadows to watch, or the reluctance to put aside some fairy book of Walter Crane's. It was like strolling in some quaint, ill-trimmed, old garden, finding fresh flowers, fresh bits of lichened walls, fresh fragments of broken earthenware ornaments; or, rather, more like a morning in the Cathedral Library at Siena, the place where the gorgeous choir books are kept, itself illuminated like missal pages by Pinturicchio: amused, delighted, not moved nor fascinated; finding every moment something new, some charming piece of gilding, some sweet plumed head, some quaint little tree or town; making a journey of lazy discovery in a sort of world of Prince Charmings, the real realm of the "Färy Queen," quite different in enchantment from the country of Spenser's Gloriana, with its pale allegoric ladies and knights, half-human, half-metaphysical, and its make-believe allegorical ogres and giants. This is the real Fairyland, this of Boiardo: no mere outskirts of Ferrara, with real, playfully cynical Ferrarese men and women tricked out as paladins and Amazons, and making fun of their disguise, as in Ariosto; no wonderland of Tasso, with enchanted gardens copied out of Bolognese pictures and miraculous forests learned from theatre mechanicians, wonders imitated by a great poet from the cardboard and firework wonders of Bianca Cappello's wedding feasts. This is the real fairyland, the wonderland of mediæval romance and of Persian and Arabian tales, no longer solemn or awful, but brilliant, sunny, only half believed in; the fairyland of the Renaissance, superficially artistic, with its lightest, brightest fancies, and its charming realities; its cloistered and painted courts with plashing fountains, its tapestried and inlaid rooms, its towered and belvedered villas, its quaint clipped gardens full of strange Oriental plants and beasts; and all this transported into a country of wonders, where are the gardens of the Hesperides, the fountain of Merlin, the tomb of Narcissus, the castle of Morgan-le-Fay; every quaint and beautiful fancy, antique and mediæval, mixed up together, as in some Renaissance picture of Botticelli or Rosselli or Filippino, where knights in armour descend from Pegasus before Roman temples, where swarthy white-turbaned Turks, with oddly bunched-up trousers and jewelled caftans, and half-naked, oak-crowned youths, like genii descended, pensive and wondering, from some antique sarcophagus, and dapper princelets and stalwart knights, and citizens and monks, all crowd round the altar of some wonder-working Macone or Apolline or Trevigante; some comic, dreadful, apish figure, mummed up in half-antique, half-oriental garb. Or else we are led into some dainty, pale-tinted panel of Botticelli, where the maidens dance in white clinging clothes, strewing flowers on to the flower-freaked turf; or into some of Poliphilo's vignettes, where the gentle ladies, seated with lute and viol under vine-trellises, welcome the young gallant, or poet, or knight. Such is the world of Boiardo. Spenser has once or twice peeped in, painted it, and given us exquisite little pictures, as that of Malecasta's castle, all hung with mythological tapestries, that of the enchanted chamber of Britomart, and those of Sir Calidore meeting the Graces and of Hellenore dancing with the Satyrs; but Spenser has done it rarely, trembling to return to his dreary allegories. Equal to these single pictures by Spenser, Boiardo has only one or two, but he keeps us permanently in the world where such pictures are painted. Boiardo is not a great artist like Spenser: but he is a wizard, which is better. He leads us, unceasingly, through the little dreamy laurelwoods, where we meet crisp-haired damsels tied to pine-trees, or terrible dragons, or enchanted wells, through whose translucent green waters we see brocaded rooms full of fair ladies; he ferries us ever and anon across shallow streams, to the castles where _gentil donzelle_ wave their kerchiefs from the pillared belvedere; he slips us unseen into the camps and council-rooms of the splendidly trapped Saracens, like so many figures out of Filippino's frescoes; he conducts us across the bridges where giants stand warders, to the mysterious carved tombs whence issue green and crested snakes, who, kissed by a paladin, turn into lovely enchantresses; he takes us beneath the beds of rivers and through the bowels of the earth where kings and knights turned into statues of gold, sit round tables covered with jewels, illumined by carbuncles more wonderful than that of Jamschid; or through the mazes of fairy gardens, where every ear of corn, cut off, turns into a wild beast, and every fallen leaf into a bird, where hydras watch in the waters and lamias rear themselves in the grass, where Orlando must fill his helmet with roses lest he hear the voice of the sirens; where all the wonders of Antiquity--the snake-women, the Circes, the sirens, the hydras and fauns live, strangely changed into something infinitely quaint and graceful, still half-antique, yet already half-Arabian or Keltic, in the midst of the fairyland of Merlin and of Oberon--live, move, transform themselves afresh; where the golden-haired damsels and the stripling knights, delicate like Pinturicchio's Prince Charmings, gallop for ever on their enchanted coursers, within enchanted armour, invincible, invulnerable, under a sky always blue, and through an unceasing spring, ever onwards to new adventures. Adventures which the noble, gentle Castellan of Scandiano, poet and knight and humorist, philanthropical philosopher almost from sheer goodness of heart, yet a little crazy, and capable of setting all the church bells ringing in honour of the invention of the name of Rodomonte relates not to some dully ungrateful Alfonso or Ippolito, but to his own guests, his own brilliant knights and ladies, with ever and anon an effort to make them feel, through his verse, some of those joyous spring-tide feelings which bubble up in himself; as when he remembers how, "Once did I wander on a May morning in a fair flower-adorned field on a hillside overlooking the sea, which was all tremulous with light; and there, among the roses of a green thorn-brake, a damsel was singing of love; singing so sweetly that the sweetness still touches my heart; touches my heart, and makes me think of the great delight it was to listen;" and how he would fain repeat that song, and indeed an echo of its sweetness runs through his verse. Meanwhile, stanza pours out after stanza, adventure grows out of adventure, each more wonderful, more gorgeous than its predecessor. To which listen the ladies, with their white, girdled dresses and crimped golden locks; the youths, with their soft beardless faces framed in combed-out hair, with their daggers on their hips and their plumed hats between their fingers; and the serious bearded men, in silken robes; drawing nearer the poet, letting go lute or violin or music-book as they listen on the villa terrace or in some darkened room, where the sunset sky turns green-blue behind the pillared window, and the roses hang over the trellise of the cloister. And as they did four hundred years ago, so do we now, rejoice. The great stalwart naked forms of Greece no longer leap and wrestle or carry their well-poised baskets of washed linen before us; the mailed and vizored knights of the Nibelungen no longer clash their armour to the sound of Volker's red fiddle-bow; the glorified souls of Dante no longer move in mystic mazes of light before the eyes of our fancy. All that is gone. But here is the fairyland of the Renaissance. And thus Matteo Boiardo, Count of Scandiano, goes on, adding adventure to adventure, stanza to stanza, in his castle villa, or his palace at Ferrara. But suddenly he stops and his bright fiddle and lute music jars and ends: "While I am singing, O Redeeming God, I see all Italy set on fire by these Gauls, coming to ravage I know not what fresh place." And thus, with the earlier and more hopeful Renaissance of the fifteenth century, Matteo Boiardo broke off with his "Orlando Innamorato." The perfect light-heartedness, the delight in play of a gentle, serious, eminently kindly nature, which gives half the charm to Boiardo's work, seems to have become impossible after the ruin of Italian liberty and prosperity the frightful showing up of Italy's moral and social and political insignificance at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Lombardy especially became a permanent battle-field, and its towns mere garrison places of French, German, Spanish, and Swiss barbarians, whose presence meant slaughter and pillage and every foulest outrage; and then, between the horrors of the unresisted invasions and the unresisted exactions, came plague and famine, and industry and commerce gradually died out. A few princes, subsidised and guarded by French or Imperialists, kept up an appearance of cheerfulness, but the courts even grew more gloomy as the people grew more miserable. There is more joking, more resonant laughter in Ariosto than in Boiardo, but there is very much less serenity and cheerfulness; ever and anon a sort of bitterness, a dreary moralizing tendency, a still more dreary fit of prophesying future good in which he has no belief, comes over Ariosto. Berni, who rewrote the "Orlando Innamorato" in choice Tuscan, and who underlined every faintly marked jest of Boiardo's, with evident preoccupation of the ludicrous effects of the "Morgante Maggiore"--Berni even could not keep up his spirits; into the middle of Boiardo's serene fairyland adventures he inserted a description of the sack of Rome which is simply harrowing. All real cheerfulness departed from the people, to be replaced only by pleasure in the debaucheries of the buffoonish obscenity of Aretino, Bandello, and so forth, to which the men of the dying Italy of the Renaissance listened as the roysterers of the plague of Florence, with the mortal sickness almost upon them, may have listened to the filthy songs which they trolled out in their drunkenness. Or at best, the poor starved, bruised, battered, humiliated nation may have tried to be cheerful on the principle of its harlequin playwright Beolco, who, more honest than the Ariostos and Bibbienas, and Aretines, came forward on his stage of planks at Padua, and after describing the ruin and wretchedness of the country, the sense of dreariness and desolation, which made young folk careless of marriage, and the very nightingales (he thought) careless of song, recommended his audience, since they could not even cry thoroughly and to feel any the better for it, to laugh, if they still were able. Boiardo was forgotten; his spirit was unsuited to the depression, gloomy brutality, gloomy sentimentality, which grew every day as Italy settled down after its Renaissance-Shrovetide in the cinders and fasting of the long Lent of Spanish and Jesuit rule. Still the style of Boiardo was not yet exhausted; the peculiar kind of fairy epic, the peculiar combination of chivalric and classic elements of which the "Orlando Innamorato" and the "Orlando Furioso," had been the great examples, still fascinated poets and public. The Renaissance, or what remained of it, was now no longer confined to Italy; it had spread, paler, more diluted, shallower, over the rest of Europe. To follow the filiation of schools, to understand the intellectual relationships of individuals, of the latter half of the sixteenth century, it becomes necessary to move from one country to another. And thus the two brother poets of the family of Boiardo, its two last and much saddened representatives, came to write in very different languages and under very different circumstances. These two are Tasso and our own Spenser. They are both poets of the school of the "Orlando Innamorato," both poets of a reaction, of a kind of purified Renaissance: the one of the late Italian Renaissance emasculated by the Council of Trent and by Spain; the other of the English Renaissance, in its youth truly, but, in the individual case of Spenser, timidly drawn aside from the excesses of buoyant life around. In the days of the semi-atheist dramatists, all flesh and blood and democracy, Spenser steeps himself in Christianity and chivalry, even as Tasso does, following on the fleshly levity and scepticism of Boiardo, Berni, and Ariosto. There is in both poets a paleness, a certain diaphanous weakness, an absence of strong tint or fibre or perfume; in Tasso the pallor of autumn, in Spenser the paleness of spring: autumn left sad and leafless by the too voluptuous heat and fruitfulness of summer; spring still pale and pinched by winter, with timid nipped grass and unripe stiff buds and catkins, which never suggest the tangle of bush, grasses, and magnificent flowers and fruits, sweet, splendid, or poisonous, which the sun will make out of them. The Renaissance, in the past for Tasso, in the proximate and very visible future for Spenser, has frightened both; the cynicism and bestiality of men like Machiavelli and Aretino; the godless, muscular lustiness of Marlowe, Greene, and Peele, seen in a glimpse by Tasso and Spenser, have given a shock to their sensitive nature, have made them turn away and hide themselves from a second sight of it. They both take refuge in a land of fiction, of romance, from the realities into which they dread to splash; a world unsubstantial, diaphanous, faint-hued, almost passionless, which they make out of beauty and heroism and purity, which they alembicize and refine, but into which there never enters any vital element, anything to give it flesh and bone and pulsing life: it is a mere soap bubble. And beautiful as is this world of their own making, it is too negative even for them; they move in it only in imagination, calm, serene, vacant, almost sad. There is in it, and in themselves, a something wanting; and the remembrance of that unholy-life of reality which jostled and splashed their delicate souls, comes back and haunts them with its evil thought. There is no laugh--what is worse, no smile --in these men. Incipient puritanism, not yet the terrible brawny reality of Bunyan, but a vague, grey spectre, haunts Spenser; and the puritanism of Don Quixote, the vague, melancholy, fantastic reverting from the evil world of to-day to an impossible world of chivalry, is troubling the sight of Tasso. He cannot go crazy like Don Quixote, and instead he grows melancholy; he cannot believe in his own ideals; he cannot give them life, any more than can Spenser give life to his allegoric knights and ladies, because the life would have to be fetched by Tasso out of the flesh of Ariosto, and by Spenser out of the blood of Marlowe; and both Tasso and Spenser shrink at the thought of what might with it be inoculated or transfused; and they rest satisfied with phantoms. The phantoms of Spenser are more shadowy much more utterly devoid of human character; they are almost metaphysical abstractions, and they do not therefore sadden us: they are too unlike living things to seem very lifeless. But the phantoms of Tasso, he would fain make realities; he works at every detail of character, history, or geography, which may make his people real; they are not, as with Spenser, elves and wizards flitting about in a nameless fairyland, characterless and passionless; they are historical creatures, captains and soldiers in a country mapped out by the geographer; but they are phantoms all the more melancholy, these beautiful and heroic Clorindas and Erminias and Tancreds and Godfreys--why? because the real world around Tasso is peopled with Brachianos and Corombonas, and Annabellas and Giovannis, creatures for Webster and Ford; and because this world of chivalry is, in his Italy, as false as the world of Amadis and Esplandian in Toboso and Barcelona for poor Don Quixote. Melancholy therefore, and dreamy, both Tasso and Spenser, with nothing they can fully love in reality, because they see it tainted with reality and evil; without the cheerful falling back upon everyday life of Ariosto and Shakespeare, and with a strange fancy for fairyland, for the distant, for the Happy Islands, the St. Brandan's Isles, the country of the fountain of youth, the country of which vague reports have come back with the ships of Raleigh and Ponce de Leon. Tasso and Spenser are happiest, in their calm, melancholy way, when they can let themselves go in day-dreams, and talk of things in which they do not believe, of diamond shields which stun monsters of ointments which cure all ills of body and of soul of enchanted groves whose trees sound with voices, and lutes, of boats in which, steered by fairies, we can glide across the scarcely rippled summer sea, and watching the ruins of the past, time and reality left behind, set sail for some strange land of bliss. And there is in the very sensuousness and love of beauty-of these men a vagueness and melancholy, a constant: sense of the fleeting and of the eternal, as in that passage, translated from the languidly sweet Italian perfection of Tasso into the timid, almost scentless, English of Spenser--"Cosi trapassa al trapassar d'un giorno." So passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortall life the leafe, the bud, the flowre No more doth florish after first decay, That earst was sought to deck both bed and bowre Of many a lady, and many a Paramowre. Gather therefore the Rose whilest yet is prime, For soone comes age that will her pride deflowre; Gather the Rose of love whitest yet is time, Whitest loving thou mayest loved be withe equall crime. A sense of evanescence, of dreamlikeness, quite different from the thoughtless enjoyment of Boiardo, from the bold and manly facing of the future, the solemn, strong sense of life and death as of waking realities, of the Elizabethan dramatists, even of weaklings like Massinger and Beaumont. In Tasso and in Spenser there is no such joyousness, no such solemnity; only a dreamy watching, a regret which is scarcely a regret, at the evanescence of pale beauty and pale life, of joys feebly felt and evils meekly borne. With Tasso and Spenser comes to a close the school of Boiardo, the small number of real artists who finally gave an enduring and beautiful shape to that strangely mixed and altered material of romantic epic left behind by the Middle Ages; comes to an end at least till our own day of appreciative and deliberate imitation and selection and rearrangement of the artistic forms of the past. Until the revival (after much study and criticism) by our own poets of Arthur and Gudrun and the Fortunate Isles, the world had had enough of mediæval romance. Chivalry had avowedly ended in chamberlainry; the devotion to women in the official routine of the _cicisbeo_; the last romance to which the late Renaissance had clung, which made it sympathize with Huon, Ogier, Orlando, and Rinaldo, which had made it take delight still in the fairyland of Oberon, of Fallerina, of Alcina, of Armida, of Acrasia, the romance of the new world, had also turned into prose, prose of blood-stained filth. The humanistic and rationalistic men of the Renaissance had doubtless early begun to turn up their noses in dainty dilettantism or scientific contempt, at what were later to be called by Montaigne, "Ces Lancelots du Lac, ces Amadis, ces Huons et tels fatras di livres à quoy l'enfance s'amuse;" and by Ben Jonson: Public nothings, Abortives of the fabulous dark cloister, Sent out to poison courts, and infect manners-- the public at large was more constant, and still retained a love for mediæval romance. But more than humanities, more than scientific scepticism and religious puritanism, did the slow dispelling of the illusion of Eldorado and the Fortunate Isles. Mankind set sail for America in brilliant and knightly gear, believing in fountains of youth and St. Brandan's Isles, with Ariosto, Tasso, and Spenser still in its pockets. It returns from America either as the tattered fever-stricken ruffian, or as the vulgar, fat upstart of Spanish comedy, returns without honour or shame, holding money (and next to money, negroes) of greater account than any insignia of paladinship or the Round Table; it is brutal, vulgar, cynical; at best very sad, and it gets written for its delectation the comic-tragic novels of rapscallions, panders, prostitutes, and card-sharpers, which from "Lazarillo de Tormes" to "Gil Blas," and from "Gil Blas" to "Tom Jones," finally replace the romances of the Launcelots, Galahads, Rinaldos, and Orlandos. Thus did the mediæval romantic-epic stuffs suffer alteration, adulteration, and loss of character, throughout the long period of the Middle Ages, without ever receiving an artistic shape, such as should make all men preserve and cherish them for the only thing which makes men preserve and cherish such things--that never to be wasted quality, beauty. The Middle Ages were powerless to endow therewith their own subjects; so the subjects had to wait, altering more and more with every passing day, till the coming of the Renaissance. And by that time these subjects had ceased to have any serious meaning whatever; the Roland of the song of Roncevaux had become the crazy Orlando of Ariosto; the Renaud of "The Quatre Fils Aymon," had become the Rinaldo, thrashed with sheaves of lilies by Cupid, of Matteo Boiardo. The Renaissance took up the old epic-romantic materials and made out of them works of art; but works of art which, as I said before, were playthings gets written for its delectation the comic-tragic novels of rapscallions, panders, prostitutes, and card-sharpers, which, from "Lazarillo de Tormes" to "Gil Bias," and from "Gil Bias" to "Tom Jones," finally replace the romances of the Launcelots, Galahads, Rinaldos, and Orlandos. * * * * * MEDIEVAL LOVE. On laying down the "Vita Nuova" our soul is at first filled and resounding with the love of Beatrice. Whatever habits or capacities of noble loving may lurk within ourselves, have been awakened by the solemn music of this book, and have sung in unison with Dante's love till we have ceased to hear the voice of his passion and have heard only the voice of our own. When the excitement has diminished, when we have grown able to separate from our own feelings the feelings of the man dead these five centuries and a half, and to realize the strangeness, the obsoleteness of this love which for a moment had seemed our love; then a new phase of impressions has set in, and the "Vita Nuova" inspires us with mere passionate awe: awe before this passion which we feel to be no longer our own, but far above and distant from us, as in some rarer stratum of atmosphere; awe before this woman who creates it, or rather who is its creation. Even as Dante fancied that the people of Florence did when the bodily presence of this lady came across their path, so do we cast down our glance as the image of Beatrice passes across our mind. Nay, the glory of her, felt so really while reading the few, meagre words in the book, is stored away in our heart, and clothes with a faint aureole the lady--if ever in our life we chance to meet her--in whom, though Dante tells us nothing of stature, features, eyes or hair, we seem to recognize a likeness to her on whose passage "ogni lingua divien tremando muta, e gli occhi non ardiscon di guardare." Passion like this, to paraphrase a line of Rossetti's, is genius; and it arouses in such as look upon it the peculiar sense of wonder and love, of awe-stricken raising up of him who contemplates, which accompanies the contemplation of genius. But it may be that one day we feel, instead of this, wonder indeed, but wonder mingled with doubt. This ideal love, which craves for no union with its object; which seeks merely to see, nay, which is satisfied with mere thinking on the beloved one, will strike us with the cold and barren glitter of the miraculous. This Beatrice, as we gaze on her, will prove to be no reality of flesh and blood like ourselves; she is a form modelled in the semblance of that real, living woman who died six centuries ago, but the substance of which is the white fire of Dante's love. And the thought will arise that this purely intellectual love of a scarce-noticed youth for a scarce-known woman is a thing which does not belong to life, neither sweetening nor ennobling any of its real relations; that it is, in its dazzling purity and whiteness, in fact a mere strange and sterile death light, such as could not and should not, in this world of ours, exist twice over. And, lest we should ever be tempted to think of this ideal love for Beatrice as of a wonderful and beautiful, but scarcely natural or useful phenomenon, I would wish to study the story of its origin and its influence. I would wish to show that had it not burned thus strangely concentrated and pure, the poets of succeeding ages could not have taken from that white flame of love which Dante set alight upon the grave of Beatrice, the spark of ideal passion which has, in the noblest of our literature, made the desire of man for woman and of woman for man burn clear towards heaven, leaving behind the noisome ashes and soul-enervating vapours of earthly lust. I. The centuries have made us; forcing us into new practices, teaching us new habits, creating for us new capacities and wants; adding, ever and anon, to the soul organism of mankind features which at first were but accidental peculiarities, which became little by little qualities deliberately sought for and at lengths inborn and hereditary characteristics. And thus, in, what we call the Middle Ages, there was invented by the stress of circumstances, elaborated by half-conscious effort and bequeathed as an unalienable habit, a new manner of loving. The women of classical Antiquity appear to us in poetry and imaginative literature as one of two things: the wife or the mistress. The wife, Penelope, Andromache, Alkestis, nay, even the charming young bride in Xenophon's "Oeconomics," is, while excluded from many concerns, distinctly reverenced and loved in her own household capacity; but the reverence is of the sort which the man feels for his parents and his household gods, and the affection is calm and gently rebuking like that for his children. The mistress, on the other hand, is the object of passion which is often very vehement, but which is always either simply fleshly or merely fancifully æsthetic or both, and which entirely precludes any save a degrading influence upon the sensual and suspicious lover. Even Tibullus, in love matters one of the most modern among the ancients, and capable of painting many charming and delicate little domestic idyls even in connection with a mere bought mistress, is perpetually accusing his Delia of selling herself to a higher bidder, and sighing at the high probability of her abandoning him for the Illyrian prætor or some other rich amateur of pretty women. The barbarous North--whose songs have come down to us either, like the Volsunga Saga translated by Mr. Morris, in an original pagan version, or else, as the Nibelungenlied, recast during the early Middle Ages--the North tells us nothing of the venal paramour, but knows nothing also beyond the wedded wife; more independent and mighty perhaps than her counterpart of classical Antiquity, but although often bought, like Brynhilt or Gudrun, at the expense of tremendous adventures, cherished scarcely more passionately than the wives of Odysseus and Hector. Thus, before the Middle Ages, there existed as a rule only a holy, but indifferent and utterly unlyrical, love for the women, the equals of their husbands, wooed usually of the family and solemnly given in marriage without much consultation of their wishes; and a highly passionate and singing, but completely profligate and debasing, desire for mercenary though cultivated creatures like the Delias and Cynthlas of Tibullus and Propertius, or highborn women, descended, like Catullus' Lesbia, in brazen dishonour to their level, women towards whom there could not possibly exist on the part of their lovers any sense of equality, much less of inferiority. To these two kinds of love, chaste but cold, and passionate but unchaste, the Middle Ages added, or rather opposed, a new manner of loving, which, although a mere passing phenomenon, has left the clearest traces throughout our whole mode of feeling and writing. To describe mediæval love is a difficult matter, and to describe it except in negations is next to impossibility. I conceive it to consist in a certain sentimental, romantic, idealistic attitude towards women, not by any means incompatible however with the grossest animalism; an attitude presupposing a complete moral, æsthetical, and social superiority on the part of the whole sex, inspiring the very highest respect and admiration independently of the individual's qualities; and reaching the point of actual worship, varying from the adoration of a queen by a courtier to the adoration of a shrine by a pilgrim, in the case of the one particular lady who happens to be the beloved; an attitude in the relations of the sexes which results in love becoming an indispensable part of a noble life, and the devoted attachment to one individual woman, a necessary requisite of a gentlemanly training. Mediæval love is not merely a passion, a desire, an affection, a habit; it is a perfect occupation. It absorbs, or is supposed to absorb, the Individual; it permeates his life like a religion. It is not one of the interests of life, or, rather, one of life's phases; it is the whole of life, all other interests and actions either sinking into an unsingable region below it, or merely embroidering a variegated pattern upon its golden background. Mediæval love, therefore, never obtains its object, however much it may obtain the woman; for the object of mediæval love, as of mediæval religious mysticism, is not one particular act or series of acts, but is its own exercise, of which the various incidents of the drama between man and woman are merely so many results. It has not its definite stages, like the love of the men of classical Antiquity or the heroic time of the North: its stages of seeking, obtaining, cherishing, guarding; it is always at the same point, always in the same condition of half-religious, half-courtier-like adoration, whether it be triumphantly successful or sighingly despairing. The man and the woman--or rather, I should say, the knight and the lady, for mediæval love is an aristocratic privilege, and the love of lower folk is not a theme for song--the knight and the lady, therefore, seem always, however knit together by habit, nay, by inextricable meshes of guilt, somehow at the same distance from one another. Once they have seen and loved each other, their passion burns on always evenly, burns on (at least theoretically) to all eternity. It seems almost as if the woman were a mere shrine, a mysterious receptacle of the ineffable, a grail cup, a consecrated wafer, but not the ineffable itself. For there is always in mediæval love, however fleshly the incidents which it produces, a certain Platonic element; that is to say, a craving for, a pursuit of, something which is an abstraction; an abstraction impossible to define in its constant shifting and shimmering, and which seems at one moment a social standard, a religious ideal, or both, and which merges for ever in the dazzling, vague sheen of the Eternal Feminine. Hence, one of the most distinctive features of mediæval love, an extraordinary sameness of intonation, making it difficult to distinguish between the _bonâ fide_ passion for which a man risks life and honour, and the mere conventional gallantry of the knight who sticks a lady's glove on his helmet as a compliment to her rank; nay, between the impure adoration of an adulterous lamia like Yseult, and the mystical adoration of a glorified Mother of God; for both are women, both are ladies, and therefore the greatest poet of the early Middle Ages, Gottfried von Strassburg, sings them both with the same religious respect, and the same hysterical rapture. This mediæval love is furthermore a deliberately expected, sought-for, and received necessity in a man's life; it is not an accident, much less an incidental occurrence to be lightly taken or possibly avoided: it is absolutely indispensable to man's social training, to his moral and æsthetical self-improvement; it is part and parcel of manhood and knighthood. Hence, where it does not arise of itself (and where a man is full of the notion of such love, it is rare that it does not come but too soon) it has to be sought for. Ulrich von Liechtenstein, in his curious autobiography written late in the twelfth century, relates how ever since his childhood he had been aware of the necessity of the loyal love service of a lady for the accomplishment of knightly duties; and how, as soon as he was old enough to love, he looked around him for a lady whom he might serve; a proceeding renewed in more prosaic days and with a curious pedantic smack, by Lorenzo dei Medici; and then again, perhaps for the last time, by the Knight of La Mancha, in that memorable discussion which ended in the enthronement as his heart's queen of the unrivalled Dulcinea of Toboso. _Frowendienst,_ "lady's service," is the name given by Ulrich von Liechtenstein, a mediæval Quixote, outshining by far the mad Provençals Rudel and Vidal, to the memoirs very delightfully done into modern German by Ludwig Tieck; and "lady's service" is the highest occupation of knightly leisure, the subject of the immense bulk of mediæval poetry. "Lady's service" in deeds of arms and song, in constant praise and defence of the beloved, in heroic enterprise and madcap mummery, in submission and terror to the wondrous creature whom the humble servant, the lover, never calls by her sacred name, speaking of her in words unknown to Antiquity, _dompna, dame, frowe, madonna_--words of which the original sense has almost been forgotten, although there cleave to them even now ideas higher than those associated with the _puella_ of the ancients, the _wib_ of the heroic days--lady, mistress--the titles of the Mother of God, who is, after all, only the mystical Soul's Paramour of the mediæval world. "Lady's service"--the almost technical word, expressing the position, half-serf-like, half-religious, the bonds of complete humility and never-ending faithfulness, the hopes of reward, the patience under displeasure, the pride in the livery of servitude, the utter absorption of the life of one individual in the life of another; which constitute in Provence, in France, in Germany, in England, in Italy, in the fabulous kingdoms of Arthur and Charlemagne, the strange new thing which I have named Mediæval Love. Has such a thing really existed? Are not these mediæval poets leagued together in a huge conspiracy to deceive us? Is it possible that strong men have wept and fainted at a mere woman's name, like the Count of Nevers in "Flamenca," or that their mind has swooned away in months of reverie like that of Parzifal in Eschenbach's poem; that worldly wise and witty men have shipped off and died on sea for love of an unseen woman like Jaufre Rudel; or dressed in wolf's hide and lurked and fled before the huntsmen-like Peire Vidal; or mangled their face and cut off their finger, and, clothing themselves in rags more frightful than Nessus' robe, mixed in the untouchable band of lepers like Ulrich von Liechtenstein? Is it possible to believe that the insane enterprises of the Amadises, Lisvarts and Felixmartes of late mediæval romance, that the behaviour of Don Quixote in the Sierra Morena, ever had any serious models in reality? Nay, more difficult still to believe--because the whole madness of individuals is more credible than the half-madness of the whole world--is it possible to believe that, as the poems of innumerable trouvères and troubadours, minnesingers and Italian poets, as the legion of mediæval romances of the cycles of Charlemagne, Arthur, and Amadis would have it, that during so long a period of time society could have been enthralled by this hysterical, visionary, artificial, incredible religion of mediæval love? It is at once too grotesque and too beautiful, too high and too low, to be credible; and our first impulse, on closing the catechisms and breviaries, the legendaries and hymn-books of this strange new creed, is to protest that the love poems must be allegories, the love romances solar myths, the Courts of Love historical bungles; that all this mediæval world of love is a figment, a misinterpretation, a falsehood. But if we seek more than a mere casual impression; if, instead of feeling sceptical over one or two fragments of evidence, we attempt to collect the largest possible number of facts together; if we read not one mediæval love story, but twenty--not half a dozen mediæval love poems, but several scores; if we really investigate into the origin of the apparent myth, the case speedily alters. Little by little this which had been inconceivable becomes not merely intelligible, but inevitable; the myth becomes an historical phenomenon of the most obvious and necessary sort. Mediæval love, which had seemed to us a poetic fiction, is turned into a reality; and a reality, alas, which is prosaic. Let us look at it. Mediæval love is first revealed in the sudden and almost simultaneous burst of song which, like the twitter and trill so dear to trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers, fills the woods that yesterday were silent and dead, and greeted the earliest sunshine, the earliest faint green after the long winter numbness of the dark ages, after the boisterous gales of the earliest Crusade. The French and Provençals sang first, the Germans later, the Sicilians last; but although we may say after deliberate analysis, such or such a form, or such or such a story, was known in this country before it appeared in that one, such imitation or suggestion was so rapid that with regard to the French, the Provençals, and the Germans at least, the impression is simultaneous; only the Sicilians beginning distinctly later, forerunners of the new love lyric, wholly different from that of trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers, of the Italians of the latter thirteenth century. And this simultaneous revelation of mediæval love takes place in the last quarter of the twelfth century, when Northern France had already consolidated into a powerful monarchy, and Paris, after the teachings of Abélard, was recognized as the intellectual metropolis of Europe; when south of the Loire the brilliant Angevine kings held the overlordship of the cultured Raymonds of Toulouse and of the reviving Latin municipalities of Provence \ when Germany was welded as a compact feudal mass by the most powerful of the Stauffens; and the papacy had been built up by Gregory and Alexander into a political wall against which Frederick and Henry vainly battered; when the Italian commonwealths grew slowly but surely, as yet still far from guessing that the day would come when their democracy should produce a new civilization to supersede this triumphant mediæval civilization of the early Capetiens, the Angevines, and the Hohenstauffens. Europe was setting forth once more for the East; but no longer as the ignorant and enthusiastic hordes of Peter the Hermit: Asia was the great field for adventure, the great teacher of new luxuries, at once the Eldorado and the grand tour of all the brilliant and inquisitive and unscrupulous chivalry of the day. And, while into the West were insidiously entering habits and modes of thought of the East; throughout Germany and Provence, and throughout the still obscure free burghs of Italy, was spreading the first indication of that emotional mysticism which, twenty or thirty years later, was to burst out in the frenzy of spiritual love of St. Francis and his followers. The moment is one of the most remarkable in all history: the premature promise in the twelfth century of that intellectual revival which was delayed throughout Northern Europe until the sixteenth. It is the moment when society settled down, after the anarchy of eight hundred years, on its feudal basis; a basis fallaciously solid, and in whose presence no one might guess that the true and definitive Renaissance would arise out of the democratic civilization of Italy. Such is the moment when we first hear the almost universal song of mediæval love. This song comes from the triumphantly reorganized portion of society, not from the part which is slowly working its way to reorganization; not from the timidly encroaching burghers, but from the nobles. The reign of town poetry, of fabliaux and meistersang, comes later; the poets of the early Middle Ages, trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers are, with barely one or two exceptions, all knights. And their song comes from the castle. Now, in order to understand mediæval love, we must reflect for a moment upon this feudal castle, and upon the kind of life which the love poets of the late twelfth and early thirteenth century--whether lords like Bertram de Born, and Guillaume de Poitiers, among the troubadours; the Vidame de Chartres, Meurisses de Craon, and the Duke of Brabant among the trouvères of Northern France; like Ulrich von Liechtenstein among the minnesingers; or retainers and hangers-on like Bernard de Ventadour and Armand de Mareulh, like Chrestiens de Troyes, Gaisses Brulez, or Quienes de Béthune, like Walther, Wolfram, and Tannhäuser--great or small, good or bad, saw before them and mixed with in that castle. The castle of a great feudatory of the early Middle Ages, whether north or south of the Loire, in Austria or in Franconia, is like a miniature copy of some garrison town in barbarous countries: there is an enormous numerical preponderance of men over women; for only the chiefs in command, the overlord, and perhaps one or two of his principal kinsmen or adjutants, are permitted the luxury of a wife; the rest of the gentlemen are subalterns, younger sons without means, youths sent to learn their military duty and the ways of the world: a whole pack of men without wives, without homes, and usually without fortune. High above all this deferential male crowd, moves the lady of the castle: highborn, proud, having brought her husband a dower of fiefs often equal to his own, and of vassals devoted to her race. About her she has no equals; her daughters, scarcely out of the nurse's hands, are given away in marriage; and her companions, if companions they may be called, are the waiting ladies, poor gentlewomen situated between the maid of honour and the ladies' maid, like that Brangwaine whom Yseult sacrifices to her intrigue with Tristram, or those damsels whom Flamenca gives over to the squires of her lover Guillems; at best, the wife of one of her husband's subalterns, or some sister or aunt or widow kept by charity. Round this lady--the stately, proud lady perpetually described by mediæval poets--flutters the swarm of young men, all day long, in her path: serving her at meals, guarding her apartments, nay, as pages, admitted even into her most secret chamber; meeting her for ever in the narrowness of that castle life, where every unnecessary woman is a burden usurping the place of a soldier, and, if possible, replaced by a man. Servants, lacqueys, and enjoying the privileges of ubiquity of lacqueys, yet, at the same time, men of good birth and high breeding, good at the sword and at the lute; bound to amuse this highborn woman, fading away in the monotony of feudal life, with few books to read or unable to read them, and far above all the household concerns which devolve on the butler, the cellarer, the steward, the gentleman, honourably employed as a servant. To them, to these young men, with few or no young women of their own age to associate, and absolutely no unmarried girls who could be a desirable match, the lady of the castle speedily becomes a goddess, the impersonation at once of that feudal superiority before which they bow, of that social perfection which they are commanded to seek, and of that womankind of which the castle affords so few examples. To please her, this lazy, bored, highbred woman, with all the squeamishness and caprice of high birth and laziness about her, becomes their ideal; to be favourably noticed, their highest glory; to be loved, these wretched mortals, by this divinity--that thought must often pass through their brain and terrify them with its delicious audacity; oh no, such a thing is not possible. But it is. The lady at first, perhaps most often, singles out as a pastime some young knight, some squire, some page; and, in a half-queenly, half-motherly way, corrects, rebukes his deficiencies, undertakes to teach him his duty as a servant. The romance of the "Petit Jehan de Saintre," written in the fifteenth century, but telling, with a delicacy of cynicism worthy of Balzac, what must have been the old, old story of the whole feudal Middle Ages, shows the manner in which, while feeling that he is being trained to knightly courtesy and honour, the young man in the service of a great feudal lady is gradually taught dissimulation, lying, intrigue; is initiated by the woman who looms above him like a saint into all the foulness of adultery. Adultery; a very ugly word, which must strike almost like a handful of mud in the face whosoever has approached this subject of mediæval love in admiration of its strange delicacy and enthusiasm. Yet it is a word which must be spoken, for in it is the explanation of the whole origin and character of this passion which burst into song in the early Middle Ages. This almost religious love, this love which conceives no higher honour than the service of the beloved, no higher virtue than eternal fidelity--this love is the love for another man's wife. Between unmarried young men and young women, kept carefully apart by the system which gives away a girl without her consent and only to a rich suitor, there is no possibility of love in these early feudal courts; the amours, however licentious, between kings' daughters and brave knights, of the Carolingian tales, belong to a different rank of society, to the prose romances made up in the fourteenth century for the burgesses of cities; the intrigues, ending in marriage, of the princes and princesses of the cycle of Amadis, belong to a different period, to the fifteenth century, and to courts where feudal society scarcely exists; the squires, the young knights who hang about a great baronial establishment of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, have still to make their fortune, and do not dream of marriage. The husband, on the other hand, the great lord or successful knightly adventurer, married late in life, and married from the necessity, for ever pressing upon the feudal proprietor, of adding on new fiefs and new immunities, of increasing his importance and independence in proportion to the hourly increasing strength and claims of the overlord, the king, who casts covetous eyes upon him--the husband has not married for love; he has had his love affairs with the wives of other men in his day, or may still have them; this lady is a mere feudal necessity, she is required to give him a dower and give him an heir, that is all. If the husband does not love, how much less can the wife; married, as she is, scarce knowing what marriage is, to a man much older than herself, whom most probably she has never seen, to whom she is a mere investment. Nay, there is not even the after-marriage love of the ancients: this wife is not the housekeeper, the woman who works that the man's house may be rich and decorous; not even the nurse of his children, for the children are speedily given over to the squires and duennas; she is the woman of another family who has come into his, the stranger who must be respected (as that most typical mediæval wife, Eleanor of Guienne, was respected by her husbands) on account of her fiefs, her vassals, her kinsfolk; but who cannot be loved. Can there be love between man and wife? There cannot be love between man and wife. This is no answer of mine, fantastically deduced from mediæval poetry. It is the answer solemnly made to the solemnly asked question by the Court of Love held by the Countess of Champagne in 1174, and registered by Master Andrew the King of France's chaplain: "Dicimus enim et stabilito tenore firmamus amorem non posse inter duos jugales suas extendere vires." And the reason alleged for this judgment brings us back to the whole conception of mediæval love as a respectful service humbly waiting for a reward: "For," pursues the decision published by André le Chapelain, "whereas lovers grant to each other favours freely and from no legal necessity, married people have the duty of obeying each other's wishes and of refusing nothing to one another." "No love is possible between man and wife," repeat the Courts of Love which, consisting of all the highborn ladies of the province and presided by some mighty queen or princess, represent the social opinions of the day. "But this lady," says a knight (Miles) before the love tribunal of Queen Eleanor, "promised to me that if ever she should lose the love of her lover, she would take me in his place. She has wedded the man who was her lover, and I have come to claim fulfilment of her promise." The court discusses for awhile. "We cannot," answers Queen Eleanor, "go against the Countess of Champagne's decision that love cannot exist between man and wife. We therefore desire this lady to fulfil her promise and give you her love." Again, there come to the Court of Love of the Viscountess of Narbonne a knight and a lady, who desire to know whether, having been once married, but since divorced, a love engagement between them would be honourable. The viscountess decides that "Love between those who have been married together, but who have since been divorced from one another, is not to be deemed reprehensible; nay, that it is to be considered as honourable." And these Courts of Love, be it remarked, were frequently held on occasion of the marriage of great personages; as, for instance, of that between Louis VII. and Eleanor of Poitiers in 1137. The poetry of the early Middle Ages follows implicitly the decisions of these tribunals, which reveal a state of society to which the nearest modern approach is that of Italy in the eighteenth century, when, as Goldoni and Parini show us, as Stendhal (whose "De l'Amour" may be taken as the modern "Breviari d'Amor") expounds, there was no impropriety possible as long as a lady was beloved by any one except her own husband. No love, therefore, between unmarried people (the cyclical romances, as before stated, and the Amadises, belong to another time of social condition, and the only real exception to my rule of which I can think is the lovely French tale of "Aucassin et Nicolette"); and no love between man and wife. But love there must be; and love there consequently is; love for the married woman from the man who is not her husband. The feudal lady, married without being consulted and without having had a chance of knowing what love is, yet lives to know love; lives to be taught it by one of these many bachelors bound to flutter about her in military service or social duty; lives to teach it herself. And she is too powerful in her fiefs and kinsmen, too powerful in the public opinion which approves and supports her, to be hampered by her husband. The husband, indeed, has grown up in the same habits, has known, before marrying, the customs sanctioned by the Courts of Love; he has been the knight of some other man's wife in his day, what right has he to object? As in the days of Italian _cecisbei_, the early mediæval lover might say with Goldoni's Don Alfonso or Don Roberto, "I _serve_ your wife--such or such another serves mine, what harm can there be in it?" ("Io servo vostra moglie, Don Eugenio favorisce la mia; che male c' e?" I am quoting from memory.) And as a fact, we hear little of jealousy; the amusement of En Barral when Peire Vidal came in and kissed his sleeping wife; and the indignation of all Provence for the murder of Guillems de Cabestanh (buried in the same tomb with the lady who had been made to eat of his heart)--showing from opposite sides how the society accustomed to Courts of Love looked upon the duties of husbands. Such was the social life in those feudal courts whence first arises the song of mediæval love, and that this is the case is proved by the whole huge body of early mediæval poetry. We must not judge, as I have said, either by poems of much earlier date, like the Nibelungen and the Carolingian _chansons de geste_, which merely received a new form in the early Middle Ages; still less from the prose romances of Mélusine, Milles et Amys, Palemon and Arcite, and a host of others which were elaborated only later and under the influence of the quite unfeudal habits of the great cities; and least of all from that strange late southern cycle of the Amadises, from which, odd as it seems, many of our notions of chivalric love have, through our ancestors, through the satirists or burlesque poets of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, been inherited. We must look at the tales which, as we are constantly being told by trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers, were the fashionable reading of the feudal classes of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries: the tales best known to us in the colourless respectability of the collection made in the reign of Edward IV. by Sir Thomas Malory, and called by him the "Morte d'Arthur"--of the ladies and knights of Arthur's court; of the quest of the Grail by spotless knights who were bastards and fathers of bastards; of the intrigues of Tristram of Lyoness and Queen Yseult; of Launcelot and Guenevere; the tales which Francesca and Paolo read together. We must look, above all, at the lyric poetry of France, Provence, Germany, and Sicily in the early Middle Ages. Vos qui très bien ameis i petit mentendeis Por l'amor de Ihesu les pucelles ameis. Nos trouvons en escris de sainte auctoriteis Ke pucelle est la fleur de loyaulment ameir. This strange entreaty to love the maidens for the sake of Christ's love, this protest of a nameless northern French poet (Wackernagel, Altfranzösische Lieder and Leiche IX.) against the adulterous passion of his contemporaries, comes to us, pathetically enough, solitary, faint, unnoticed in the vast chorus, boundless like the spring song of birds or the sound of the waves, of poets singing the love of other men's wives. But, it may be objected--how can we tell that these love songs, so carefully avoiding all mention of names, are not addressed to the desired bride, to the legitimate wife of the poet? For several reasons; and mainly, for the crushing evidence of an undefinable something which tells us that they are not. The other reasons are easily stated. We know that feudal habits would never have allowed to unmarried women (and women were married when scarcely out of their childhood) the opportunities for the relations which obviously exist between the poet and his lady; and that, if by some accident a young knight might fall in love with a girl, he would address not her but her parents, since the Middle Ages, who were indifferent to adultery, were, like the southern nations among whom the married woman is not expected to be virtuous, extreme sticklers for the purity of their unmarried womankind. Further, we have no instance of an unmarried woman being ever addressed during the early Middle Ages, in those terms of social respect--_madame, domna, frowe, madonna_--which essentially belong to the mistress of a household; nor do these stately names fit in with any theory which would make us believe that the lady addressed by the poet is the jealously guarded daughter of the house with whom he is plotting a secret marriage, or an elopement to end off in marriage. This is not the way that Romeo speaks to Juliet, nor even that the princesses in the cyclical romances and in the Amadises are wooed by their bridegrooms. This is not the language of a lover who is broaching his love, and who hopes, however timidly, to consummate it before all the world by marriage. It is obviously the language of a man either towards a woman who is taking a pleasure in keeping him dangling without favours which she has implicitly or explicitly promised; or towards a woman who is momentarily withholding favours which her lover has habitually enjoyed. And in a large proportion of cases the poems of trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers are the expression of fortunate love, the fond recollection or eager expectation of meetings with the beloved. All this can evidently not be connected with the wooing, however stealthy, however Romeo-and-Juliet-like of a bride; still less can it be explained in reference to love within wedlock. A man does not, however loving, worship his wife as his social superior; he does not address her in titles of stiff respect; he does not sigh and weep and supplicate for love which is his due, and remind his wife that she owes it him in return for loyal, humble, discreet service. Above all, a man (except in some absurd comedy perhaps, where the husband, in an age of _cicisbeos_, is in love with his own wife and dares not admit it before the society which holds "that there can be no love between married folk ")--a husband, I repeat, does not beg for, arrange, look forward to, and recall with triumph or sadness, secret meetings with his own wife. Now the secret meeting is, in nearly every aristocratic poet of the early poetry, the inevitable result of the humble praises and humble requests for kindness; it is, most obviously, _the_ reward for which the poet is always importuning. Mediæval love poetry, compared with the love poetry of Antiquity and the love poetry of the revival of letters, is, in its lyric form, decidedly chaste; but it is perfectly explicit; and, for all its metaphysical tendencies and its absence of clearly painted pictures, the furthest possible removed from being Platonic. One of the most important, characteristic, and artistically charming categories of mediæval love lyrics is that comprising the Provençal _serena_ and _alba,_ with their counterparts in the _langue d'oil_, and the so-called _Wachtlieder_ of the minnesingers; and this category of love poetry may be defined as the drama, in four acts, of illicit love. The faithful lover has received from his lady an answer to his love, the place and hour are appointed; all the day of which the evening is to bring him this honour, he goes heavy hearted and sighing: "Day, much do you grow for my grief, and the evening, the evening and the long hope kills me." Thus far the _serena_, the evening song, of Guiraut Riquier. A lovely anonymous _alba,_ whose refrain, "Oi deus, oi deus; de l' alba, tan tost ve!" is familiar to every smatterer of Provençal, shows us the lady and her knight in an orchard beneath the hawthorn, giving and taking the last kisses while the birds sing and the sky whitens with dawn. "The lady is gracious and pleasant, and many look upon her for her beauty, and her heart Is all in loving loyally; alas, alas, the dawn! how soon it: comes!--" "Oi deus, oi deus; de l'alba, tan tost ve!" The real _alba_ is the same as the German _Wachtlieder,_ the song of the squire or friend posted at the garden gate or outside the castle wall, warning the lovers to separate. "Fair comrade (Bel Companho), I call to you singing. 'Sleep no more, for I hear the birds announcing the day in the trees, and I fear that the jealous one may find you;' and in a moment it will be day, 'Bel Companho, come to the window and look at the signs in the sky! you will know me a faithful messenger; if you do it not, it will be to your harm" and in a moment it will be dawn (et ades sera l' alba)... Bel Companho, since I left you I have not slept nor raised myself from my knees; for I have prayed to God the Son of Saint Mary, that he should send me: back my faithful comrade, and in a moment it will be dawn In this _alba_ of Guiraut de Borneulh, the lover comes at last to the window, and cries to his watching comrade that he is too happy to care either for the dawn or for the jealous one. The German _Wachtlieder_ are even more explicit. "He must away at once and without delay," sings the watchman in a poem of Wolfram, the austere singer of Parzifal and the Grail Quest; "let him go, sweet lady; let him away from thy love so that he keep his honour and life. He trusted himself to me that I should bring him safely hence; it is day ..." "Sing what thou wilt, watchman," answers the lady, "but leave him here." In a far superior, but also far less chaste poem of Heinrich von Morungen, the lady, alone and melancholy, wakes up remembering the sad white light of morning, the sad cry of the watchman, which separated her from her knight. Still more frankly, and in a poem which is one of the few real masterpieces of Minnesang, the lady in Walther von der Vogelweide's "Under der linden an der Heide" narrates a meeting in the wood. "What passed between us shall never be known by any! never by any, save him and me--yes, and by the little nightingale that sang _Tandaradei_! The little bird will surely be discreet." The songs of light love for another's wife of troubadour, trouvère, and minnesinger, seem to have been squeezed together, so that all their sweet and acrid perfume is, so to speak, sublimated, in the recently discovered early Provençal narrative poem called "Flamenca." Like the "Tristram" of Gottfried von Strassburg, like all these light mediæval love _lyrics,_ of which I have been speaking, the rhymed story of "Flamenca," a pale and simple, but perfect petalled daisy, has come up in a sort of moral and intellectual dell in the winter of the Middle Ages--a dell such as you meet in hollows of even the most wind-swept southern hills, where, while all round the earth is frozen and the short grass nibbled away by the frost, may be found even at Christmas a bright sheen of budding wheat beneath the olives on the slope, a yellow haze of sun upon the grass in which the little aromatic shoots of fennel and mint and marigold pattern with greenness the sere brown, the frost-burnt; where the very leafless fruit trees have a spring-like rosy tinge against the blue sky, and the tufted little osiers flame a joyous orange against the greenness of the hill. Such spots there are--and many--in the winter of the Middle Ages; though it is not in them, but where the rain beats, and the snow and the wind tugs, that grow, struggling with bitterness, the great things of the day: the philosophy of Abélard, the love of man of St. Francis, the patriotism of the Lombard communes; nor that lie dormant, fertilized in the cold earth, the great things of art and thought, the great things to come. But in them arise the delicate winter flowers which we prize: tender, pale things, without much life, things either come too soon or stayed too late, among which is "Flamenca;" one of those roses, nipped and wrinkled, but stained a brighter red by the frost, which we pluck in December or in March; beautiful, bright, scentless roses, which, scarce in bud, already fall to pieces in our hand. "Flamenca" is simply the narrative of the loves of the beautiful wife of the bearish and jealous Count Archambautz, and of Guillems de Nevers, a brilliant young knight who hears of the lady's sore captivity, is enamoured before he sees her, dresses up as the priest's clerk, and speaks one word with her while presenting the mass book to be kissed, every holiday; and finally deceives the vigilance of the husband by means of a subterranean corridor, which he gets built between his inn and the bath-room of the lady at the famous waters of Bourbon-les-Bains. In this world of "Flamenca," which is in truth the same world as that of the "Romaunt of the Rose," the "Morte d'Arthur," and of the love poets of early France and Germany, conjugal morality and responsibility simply do not exist. It seems an unreal pleasure-garden, with a shadowy guardian--impalpable to us gross moderns--called Honour, but where, as it seems, Love only reigns. Love, not the mystic and melancholy god of the "Vita Nuova," but a foppish young deity, sentimental at once and sensual, of fashionable feudal life: the god of people with no apparent duties towards others, unconscious of any restraints save those of this vague thing called honour; whose highest mission for the knight, as put in our English "Romaunt of the Rose" is to-- Set thy might and alle thy witte Wymmen and ladies for to plese, And to do thyng that may hem ese; while, for the lady, it is expressed with perfect simplicity of shamelessness by Flamenca herself to her damsels, teaching them that the woman must yield to the pleasure of her lover. Now love, when young, when, so to speak, but just born and able to feed (as a newborn child on milk, without hungering for more solid food) on looks and words and sighs; love thus young, is a fair-seeming godhead, and the devotion to him a pretty and delicate piece of æstheticism. And such it is here in "Flamenca," where there certainly exists neither God nor Christ, both complete absentees, whose priest becomes a courteous lover's valet, whose church the place for amorous rendezvous, whose sacrifice of mass and prayer becomes a means of amorous correspondence: Cupid, in the shape of his slave Guillems de Nevers--become _patarin_(zealot) for love--peeping with shaven golden head from behind the missal, touching the lady's hand and whispering with the words of spiritual peace the declaration of love, the appointment for meeting. God and Christ, I repeat, are absentees. Where they are I know not; perhaps over the Rhine with the Lollards in their weavers' dens, or over the Alps in the cell of St. Francis; not here, certainly, or if here, themselves become the mere slaves of love. But this King Love, as long as a mere infant, is a sweet and gracious divinity, surrounded by somewhat of the freshness and hawthorn sweetness of spring which seem to accompany his favourite Guillems. Guillems de Nevers, "who could still grow," this brilliant knight and troubadour, in his white silken and crimson and purple garments and soundless shoes embroidered with flowers, this prince of tournaments and _tensos_, who hearing the sorrows of the beautiful Flamenca, loves her unseen, sits sighing in sight of her prison bower, and faints like a hero of the Arabian Nights at her name, and has visions of her as St. Francis has of Christ; this younger and brighter Sir Launcelot, is an ideal little figure, whom you might mistake for Love himself as described in the "Romaunt of the Rose;" Love's avatar or incarnation, on whose appearance the year blooms into spring, the fruit trees blossom, the birds sing, the girls dance at eve round the maypoles; behind whom, while reading this poem, we seem to see the corn shine green beneath the olives, the white-blossomed branches slant across the blue sky. For is he not the very incarnation of chivalry, of beauty, and of love? So much for this King Love while but quite young. Unfortunately he is speedily weaned of his baby food of mere blushing glances and sighed-out names; and then his aspect, his kingdom's aspect, the aspect of his votaries, undergoes a change. The profane but charming game of the loving clerk and the missal is exchanged for the more coarse hide-and-seek of hidden causeways and tightened bolts, with jealous husbands guarding the useless door; Guillems becomes but an ordinary Don Juan or Lovelace, Flamenca but a sorry, sneaking adulteress, and the gracious damsels mere common sluts, curtseying at the loan (during the interview of nobler folk) of the gallant's squires. For the scent of May, of fresh leaves and fallen blossoms, we get the nauseous vapours of the bath-room; and, alas, King Love has lost his aureole and his wings and turned keeper of the hot springs, sought out by the gouty and lepers, of Bourbon-les-Bains; and in closing this book, so delightfully begun, we sicken at the whiff of hot and fetid moral air as we should sicken in passing over the outlet of the polluted hot water. "But where is the use of telling us all this?" the reader will ask; "every one knows that illicit passion existed and exists, and has its chroniclers, its singers in prose and in verse. But what has all this poetry of common adultery to do with a book like the 'Vita Nuova,' with that strange new thing, that lifelong worship of a woman, which you call mediæval love?" This much: that out of this illicit love, and out of it, gross as it looks, alone arises the possibility of the "Vita Nuova;" arises the possibility of the romantic and semi-religious love of the Middle Ages. Or, rather, let us say that this mere loose love of the _albas_ and _Wachtlieder_ and "Flamenca," is the substratum, nay, is the very flesh and blood, of the spiritual passion to which, in later days, we owe the book of Beatrice. It is a harsh thing to say, but one which all sociology teaches us, that as there exists no sensual relation which cannot produce for its ennoblement a certain amount of passion, so also does there exist no passion (and Phædrus is there to prove it) so vile and loathsome as to be unable to weave about itself a glamour of ideal sentiment. The poets of the Middle Ages strove after the criminal possession of another man's wife. This, however veiled with fine and delicate poetic expressions, is the thing for which they wait and sigh and implore; this is the reward, the supremely honouring and almost sanctifying reward which the lady cannot refuse to the knight who has faithfully and humbly served her. The whole bulk of the love lyrics of the early Middle Ages are there to prove it; and if the allusions in them are not sufficiently clear, those who would be enlightened may study the discussions of the allegorical persons even in the English (and later) version of Guillaume de Lorris' "Roman de la Rose;" and turn to what, were it in _langue d'oc_, we should call a _tenso_ of Guillaume li Viniers among Mätzner's "Altfranzösische Lieder-dichter." The catastrophe of Ulrich von Liechtenstein's "Frowendienst," where the lady, the "virtuous," the "pure," as he is pleased to call her, after making him cut off his finger, dress in leper's clothes, chop off part of his upper lip, and go through the most marvellous Quixotic antics dressed in satin and pearls and false hair as Queen Venus, and jousting in this costume with every knight between Venice and Styria, all for her honour and glory; pulls the gallant in a basket up to her window, and then lets him drop down into the moat which is no better than a sewer; this grotesque and tragically resented end of Ulrich's first _love service_ speaks volumes on the point. The stones in Nostradamus' "Lives of the Troubadours," the incidents in Gottfried's "Tristan und Isolde," nay, the adventures even in our expunged English "Morte d'Arthur," relating to the birth of Sir Galahad, are as explicit as anything in Brantôme or the Queen of Navarre; the most delicate love songs of Provence and Germany are cobwebs spun round Decameronian situations. And all this is permitted, admitted, sanctioned by feudal society even as the _cecisbeos_ of the noble Italian ladies were sanctioned by the society of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In the mediæval castle, where, as we have seen, the lady, separated from her own sex, is surrounded by a swarm of young men without a chance of marriage, and bound to make themselves agreeable to the wife of a military superior; the woman soon ceases to be the exclusive property of her husband, and the husband speedily discovers that the majority, hence public ridicule, are against any attempt at monopolizing her. Thus adultery becomes, as we have seen, accepted as an institution under the name of _service_; and, like all other social institutions, developes a morality of its own--a morality within immorality, of faithfulness within infidelity. The lady must be true to her knight, and the knight must be true to his lady: the Courts of Love solemnly banish from society any woman who is known to have more than one lover. Faithfulness is the first and most essential virtue of mediæval love; a virtue unknown to the erotic poets of Antiquity, and which modern times have inherited from the Middle Ages as a requisite, even (as the reproaches of poets of the Alfred de Musset school teach us) in the most completely illicit love. Tristram and Launcelot, the two paragons of knighthood, are inviolably constant to their mistress: the husband may and must be deceived, but not the wife who helps to deceive him. Yseult of Brittany and Elaine, the mother of Galahad, do not succeed in breaking the vows made to Yseult the Fair and to Queen Guenevere. The beautiful lady in the hawthorn _alba_ "a son cor en amar lejalmens." But this loyal loving is for the knight who is warned to depart, certainly not for the husband, the _gilos_, in whose despite ("Bels dous amios, baizem nos eu e vos--Aval els pratzon chantols auzellos--_Tot O fassam en despeit del gilos_") they are meeting. The ladies of the minnesingers are "pure," "good," "faithful" (and each and all are pure, good, and faithful, as long as they do not resist) from the point of view of the lover, not of the husband, if indeed a husband be permitted to have any point of view at all. And as fidelity is the essential virtue in these adulterous connections, so infidelity is the greatest crime that a woman (and even a man) can commit, the greatest misfortune which fate can send to an unhappy knight. That he leaves a faithful mistress behind him is the one hope of the knight who, taking the cross, departs to meet the scimitars of Saladin's followers, the fevers, the plagues, the many miserable deaths of the unknown East. "If any lady be unfaithful," says Quienes de Béthune, "she will have to be unfaithful with some base wretch." Et les dames ki castement vivront Se loiauté font a ceus qui iront; Et seles font par mal conseil folaje, A lasques gens et mauvais le feront, Car tout li bon iront en cest voiage. "I have taken the cross on account of my sins," sings Albrecht von Johansdorf, one of the most earnest of the minnesingers; "now let God help, till my return, the woman who has great sorrow on my account, in order that I may find her possessed of her honour; let Him grant me this prayer. But if she change her life (_i.e_., take to bad courses), then may God forbid my ever returning." The lady is bound (the Courts of Love decide this point of honour) to reward her faithful lover. "A knight," says a lady, in an anonymous German song published by Bartsch, "has served me according to my will. Before too much time elapse, I must reward him; nay, if all the world were to object, he must have his way with me" ("und waerez al der Werlte leit, so muoz sîn wille an mir ergän"). But, on the other hand, the favoured knight is bound to protect his lady's good fame. Se jai mamie en tel point mis, Que tout motroit (m'octroit) sans esformer, Tant doi je miex sonnor gaiter-- thus one of the interlocutors in a French _jeu-parti_, published by Mätzner; a rule which, if we may judge from the behaviour of Tristram and Launcelot, and from the last remnants of mediæval love lore in modern French novels, means simply that the more completely a man has induced a woman to deceive her husband, the more stoutly is he bound to deny, with lies, rows, and blows, that she has ever done anything of the sort. Here, then, we find established, as a very fundamental necessity of this socially recognized adultery, a reciprocity of fidelity between lover and mistress which Antiquity never dreamed of even between husband and wife (Agamemnon has a perfect right to Briseis or Chryseis, but Clytæmnestra has no right to Aegisthus); and which indeed could scarcely arise as a moral obligation except where the woman was not bound to love the man (which the wife is) and where her behaviour towards him depended wholly upon her pleasure, that is to say, upon her satisfaction with his behaviour towards her. This, which seems to us so obvious, and of which every day furnishes us an example in the relations of the modern suitor and his hoped-for wife, could not, at a time when women were married by family arrangement, arise except as a result of illegitimate love. Horrible as it seems, the more we examine into this subject of mediæval love, the more shall we see that our whole code of Grandisonian chivalry between lovers who intend marriage is derived from the practice of the Launcelots and Gueneveres, not from that of the married people (we may remember the manner in which Gunther woos his wife Brunhilt in the Nibelungenlied) of former ages; nay, the more we shall have to recognize that the very feeling which constitutes the virtuous love of modern poets is derived from the illegitimate loves of the Middle Ages. Let us examine what are the habits of feeling and thinking which grow out of this reciprocal fidelity due to the absence of all one-sided legal pressure in this illegitimate, but socially legitimated, love of the early Middle Ages; which are added on to it by the very necessities of illicit connection. The lover, having no right to the favours of his mistress, is obliged, in order to win and to keep them, to please her by humility, fidelity, and such knightly qualities as are the ideal plumage of a man: he must bring home to her, by showing the world her colours victorious in serious warfare, in the scarcely less dangerous play of tournaments, and by making her beauty and virtues more illustrious in his song than are those of other women in the songs of their lovers--he must bring home to her that she has a more worthy servant than her rivals; he must determine her to select him and to adhere to her selection. Now mediæval husbands select their wives, instead of being selected; and once the woman and the dowry are in their hands, trouble themselves but little whether they are approved of or not. On the other hand, the mistress appears to her lover invested with imaginative, ideal advantages such as cannot surround her in the eyes of her husband: she is, in nearly every case, his superior in station and the desired of many beholders; she is bound to him by no tie which may grow prosaic and wearisome; she appears to him in no domestic capacity, can never descend to be the female drudge; her possession is prevented from growing stale, her personality from becoming commonplace, by the difficulty, rareness, mystery, adventure, danger, which even in the days of Courts of Love attach to illicit amours; above all, being for this man neither the housewife nor the mother, she remains essentially and continually the mistress, the beloved. Similarly the relations between the knight and the lady, untroubled by domestic worries, pecuniary difficulties, and squabbles about children, remain, exist merely as love relations, relations of people whose highest and sole desire is to please one another. Moreover, and this is an important consideration, the lady, who is a mere inexperienced, immature girl when she first meets her husband, is a mature woman, with character and passions developed by the independence of conjugal and social life. When she meets her lover, whatever power or dignity of character she may possess is ripe; whatever intensity of aspiration and passion may be latent is ready to come forth; for the first time there is equality in love. Equality? Ah, no. This woman who is the wife of his feudal superior, this woman surrounded by all the state of feudal sovereignty, this woman who, however young, has already known so much of life, this woman whose love is a free, gift of grace to the obscure, trembling vassal who has a right not even to be noticed; this lady of mediæval love must always remain immeasurably above her lover. And, in the long day-dreams while watching her, as he thinks unseen, while singing of her, as he thinks unheard, there cluster round her figure, mistily seen in his fancy, those vague and-mystic splendours which surround the new sovereign of the Middle Ages, the Queen of Heaven; there mingles in the half-terrified raptures of the first kind glance, the first encouraging word, the ineffable passion stored up in the Christian's heart for the immortal beings who, in the days of Bernard and Francis, descend cloud-like on earth and fill the cells of the saints with unendurable glory. And thus, out of the baseness of habitual adultery, arises incense-like, in the early mediæval poetry, a new kind of love--subtler, more imaginative, more passionate, a love of the fancy and the heart, a love stimulating to the perfection of the individual as is any religion; nay, a religion, and one appealing more completely to the complete man, flesh and soul, than even the mystical beliefs of the Middle Ages. And as, in the fantastic song of Ritter Tannhäuser, whose liege lady, so legend tells, was Dame Venus herself, the lady bids the knight go forth and fetch her green water which has washed the setting sun, salamanders snatched from the flame, the stars out of heaven; so would it seem as if this new power in the world, this poetically worshipped woman, had sent forth mankind to seek wonderful new virtues, never before seen on earth. Nay, rather, as the snowflakes became green leaves, the frost blossoms red and blue flowers, the winter wind a spring-scented breeze, when Bernard de Ventadorn was greeted by his mistress; so also does it seem as if, at the first greeting of the world by this new love, the mediæval winter had turned to summer, and there had budded forth and flowered a new ideal of manly virtue, a new ideal of womanly grace. But evil is evil, and evil is its fruit. Out of circumstances hitherto unknown, circumstances come about for the first time owing to the necessities of illegitimate passion, have arisen certain new and nobler characters of sexual love, certain new and beautiful conceptions of manly and womanly nature. The circumstances to which these are owed are pure in themselves, they are circumstances which in more modern times have characterized the perfectly legitimate passion of lovers held asunder by no social law, but by mere accidental barriers--from Romeo and Juliet to the Master of Ravenswood and Lucy Ashton; and pure so far have been the spiritual results. But these circumstances were due, in the early Middle Ages, to the fact of adultery; and to the new ideal of love has clung, even in its purity, in its superior nobility, an element of corruption as unknown to gross and corrupt Antiquity as was the delicacy and nobility of mediæval love. The most poetical and pathetic of all mediæval love stories, the very incarnation of all that is most lyric at once and most tragic in the new kind of passion, is the story, told and retold by a score of poets and prose writers, of the loves of Yseult of Ireland and of Sir Tristram who, as the knight was bringing the princess to his uncle and her affianced, King Mark of Cornwall drank together by a fatal mistake a philter which made all such as partook of it in common inseparable lovers even unto death. Every one knows the result r: how Yseult came to her husband already the paramour of Tristram; how Brangwaine, her damsel, feeling that this unhallowed passion was due to her having left-within reach the potion intended for the King and Queen of Cornwall, devoted herself, at the price of her maidenhood, to connive in the amours of the lovers whom she had made; how King Mark was deceived, and doubted, and was deceived again; how Tristram fled to Brittany, but how, despite his seeming marriage with another and equally lovely Yseult, he remained faithful to the Queen of Cornwall. One version tells that Mark slew his nephew while he sat harping to Queen Yseult; another that Tristram died of grief because his scorned though wedded wife told him that the white-sailed ship, bearing his mistress to meet him, bore the black sail which meant that she was not on board; but all versions, I think, agree in ending with the fact, that the briar-rose growing on the tomb of the one, slowly trailed its flowers and thorns along till it had reached also the grave of the other, and knit together, as love had knit together with its sweet blossoms and sharp spines, the two fated lovers. The Middle Ages were enthralled by this tale; but they were also, occasionally, a little shocked by it. Poets and prose writers tampered every now and then with incidents and characters, seeking to make it appear that, owing to the substitution of the waiting-maid, and the neglect of the wedded princess of Brittany, Yseult had never belonged to any man save Tristram, nor Tristram to any woman save Yseult; or that King Mark had sent his nephew to woo the Irish queen's daughter merely in hopes of his perishing in the attempt, and that his whole subsequent conduct was due to a mere unnatural hatred of a better knight than himself; touching up here and there with a view to justifying and excusing to some degree the long series of deceits which constituted the whole story. Thus the more timid and less gifted. But when, in the very first years (1210) of the thirteenth century, the greatest mediæval poet that preceded Dante, the greatest German poet that preceded Goethe, Meister Gottfried von Strassburg, took in hand the old threadbare story of "Tristan und Isolde," he despised all alterations of this sort, and accepted the original tale in its complete crudeness. For, consciously or unconsciously, Gottfried had conceived this story as a thing wholly unknown in his time, and no longer subject to any of those necessities of constant rearrangement which tormented mediæval poets: he had conceived it not as a tale, but as a novel. Gottfried himself was probably but little aware of what he was doing; the poem that he was writing probably fell for him into the very same category as the poems of other men; but to us, with our experience of so many different forms of narrative, it must be evident that "Tristan und Isolde" is a new departure, inasmuch as it is not the story of deeds and the people who did them, like the true epic from Homer to the Nibelungen; nor the story of people and the adventures which happened to them, like all romance poetry from "Palemon and Arcite," to the "Orlando Furioso;" but, on the contrary, the story of the psychological relations, the gradual metamorphosis of soul by soul, between two persons. The long introductory story of Tristram's youth must not mislead us, nor all the minute narrations of the killing of dragons and the drinking of love philters: Gottfried, we must remember, was certainly no deliberate innovator, and these thing's are the mere inevitable externalities of mediæval poetry, preserved with dull slavish care by the re-writer of a well-known tale, but enclosing in reality something essentially and startlingly modern: the history of a passion and of the spiritual changes which it brings about in those who are its victims. To meet again this purely psychological interest we must skip the whole rest of the Middle Ages, nay, skip even the great period of dramatic literature, not stopping till we come to the end of the seventeenth and beginning of the eighteenth century, to the "Princesse de Clèves," to "Clarissa Harlowe," nay, really, to "The Nouvelle Heloise." For even in Shakespeare there is always interest and importance in the action and reaction of subsidiary characters, in the event, in the accidental; there is intrigue, chance, misunderstanding, fate--active agencies of which Othello and Hamlet, King Lear and Romeo, are helpless victims; there is, even in this psychological English drama of the Elizabethans, fate in the shape of Iago, in the shape of the Ghost, in the shape of the brothers of Webster's duchess; fate in the shape of a ring, a letter, a drug, but fate always. And in this "Tristan und Isolde" of Gottfried von Strassburg is there not fate also in the love potion intended for King Mark, and given by the mistake of Brangwaine to Mark's bride and his nephew? To this objection, which will naturally occur to any reader who is not acquainted with the poem of Gottfried, I simply answer, there is not. The love potion there is, but it does not play the same part as do, for instance, the drugs of Friar Laurence and his intercepted letter. Suppose the friar's narcotic to have been less enduring in its action, or his message to have reached in safety, why then Juliet would have been awake instead of asleep, or Romeo would not have supposed her to be dead, and instead of the suicide of the two lovers, we should have had the successful carying off of Juliet by Romeo. Not so with Gottfried. The philter is there, and a great deal is talked about it; but it is merely one of the old, threadbare trappings of the original story, which he has been too lazy to suppress; it is merely, for the reader, the allegorical signal for an outburst of passion which all our subsequent knowledge of Tristram and Yseult shows us to be absolutely inevitable. In Gottfried's poem, the drinking of the potion signifies merely that all the rambling, mediæval prelude, not to be distinguished from the stories of "Morte d'Arthur," and of half the romances of the Middle Ages, has come to a close and may be forgotten; and that the real work of the great poet, the real, matchless tragedy of the four actors--Tristram, Yseult, Mark, and Brangwaine--has begun. Yet if we seek again to account to ourselves for this astonishing impression of modernness which we receive from Gottfried's poem, we recognize that it is due to something far more important than the mere precocious psychological interest; nay, rather, that this psychological interest is itself dependent upon the fact which makes "Tristan und Isolde," so modern to our feelings. This fact is simply that the poem of Gottfried is the earliest, and yet perhaps almost the completest, example of a literary anomaly which Antiquity, for all its abominations, did not know: the glorification of fidelity in adultery, the glorification of excellence within the compass of guilt. Older times --more distant from our own in spirit, though not necessarily in years--have presented us with many themes of guilt: the guilt which exists according to our own moral standard, but not according to that of the narrator, as the magnificently tragic Icelandic incest story of Sigmund and Signy; the guilt which has come about no one well knows how, an unfortunate circumstance leaving the sinner virtually stainless, in his or her own eyes and the eyes of others, like the Homeric Helen; the heroic guilt, where the very heroism seems due to the self-sacrifice of the sinner's innocence, of Judith; the struggling, remorseful guilt, hopelessly overcome by fate and nature, of Phædra; the dull and dogged guilt, making the sinner scarce more than a mere physical stumbling-block for others, of the murderer Hagen in the Nibelungenlied; and, finally, the perverse guilt, delighting in the consciousness of itself, of demons like Richard and Iago, of libidinous furies like the heroines of Tourneur and Marston. The guilt theme of "Tristan und Isolde" falls into none of these special categories. This theme, unguessed even by Shakespeare, is that of the virtuous behaviour towards one another of two individuals united in sinning against every one else. Gottfried von Strassburg narrates with the greatest detail how Tristram leads to the unsuspecting king the unblushing, unremorseful woman polluted by his own embraces; how Yseult substitutes on the wedding night her spotless damsel Brangwaine for her own sullied self; then, terrified lest the poor victim of her dishonour should ever reveal it, attempts to have her barbarously murdered, and, finally, seeing that nothing can shake the heroic creature's faith, admits her once more to be the remorseful go-between in her amours. He narrates how Tristram dresses as a pilgrim and carries the queen from a ship to the shore, in order that Yseult may call on Christ to bear witness by a miracle that she is innocent of adultery, never having been touched save by that pilgrim and her own husband; and how, when the followers of King Mark have surrounded the grotto in the wood, Tristram places the drawn sword between himself and the sleeping queen, as a symbol of their chastity which the king is too honest to suspect. He draws, with a psychological power truly extraordinary in the beginning of the thirteenth century, the two other figures in this love drama: King Mark, cheated, dishonoured, oscillating between horrible doubt, ignominious suspicion and more ignominious credulity, his love for his wife, his trust in his nephew, his incapacity for conceiving ill-faith and fraud, the very gentleness and generosity of his nature, made the pander of guilt in which he cannot believe; and, on the other side, Brangwaine, the melancholy, mute victim of her fidelity to Yseult, the weak, heroic soul, rewarded only with cruel ingratitude, and condemned to screen and help the sin which she loathes and for which she assumes the awful responsibility. All this does Gottfried do, yet without ever seeming to perceive the baseness and wickedness of this tissue of lies, equivocations, and perjuries in which his lovers hide their passion; without ever seeming to guess at the pathos and nobility of the man and the woman who are the mere trumpery obstacles or trumpery aids to their amours. He heaps upon Tristram and Yseult the most extravagant praises: he is the flower of all knighthood, and she, the kindest, gentlest, purest, and noblest of women; he insists upon the wickedness of the world which is for ever waging war upon their passion, and holds up to execration all those who seek to spy out their secret. Gottfried is most genuinely overcome by the ideal beauty of this inextinguishable devotion, by the sublimity of this love which holds the whole world as dross; the crimes of the lovers are for him the mere culminating point of their moral grandeur, which has ceased to know any guilt save absence of love, any virtue save loving. And so serene is the old minnesinger's persuasion, that it obscures the judgment and troubles the heart even of his reader; and we are tempted to ask ourselves, on laying down the book, whether indeed this could have been sinful, this love of Tristram and Yseult which triumphed over everything in the world, and could be quenched only by death. That circle of hell where all those who had sinfully loved were whirled incessantly in the perse, dark, stormy air, appeared in the eyes even of Dante as a place less of punishment than of glory; and, especially since the Middle Ages, all mankind looks upon that particular hell-pit with admiration rather than with loathing. And herein consists, more even than in any deceptions practised upon King Mark or any ingratitude manifested towards Brangwaine, the sinfulness of Tristram and Yseult: sinfulness which is not finite like the individual lives which it offends, but infinite and immortal as the heart and the judgment which it perverts. For such a tale, and so told, as the tale of Gottfried von Strassburg, makes us sympathize with this fidelity and devotion of a man and woman who care for nothing in the world save for each other, who are dragged and glued together by the desire and habit of mutual pleasure; it makes us admire their readiness to die rather than be parted, when their whole life is concentrated in their reciprocal sin, when their miserable natures enjoy, care for, know, only this miserable love. It makes us wink with leniency at the dishonour, the baseness, the cruelty, to which all this easy virtue is due. And such sympathy, such admiration, such leniency, for howsoever short a time they may remain in our soul, leave it, if they ever leave it completely and utterly less strong, less clean than it was before. We have all of us a lazy tendency to approve of the virtue which costs no trouble; to contemplate in ourselves or others, with a spurious moral satisfaction, the development of this or that virtuous quality in souls which are deteriorating in undoubted criminal self-indulgence. We have all of us, at the bottom of our hearts, a fellow feeling for all human affection; and the sinfulness of sinners like Tristram and Yseult lies largely in the fact that they pervert this legitimate and holy sympathy into a dangerous leniency for any strong and consistent love, into a morbid admiration for any irresistible mutual passion, making us forget that love has in itself no moral value, and that while self-indulgence may often be innocent, only self-abnegation can ever be holy. The great mediæval German poem of Tristram and Yseult remained for centuries a unique phenomenon; only John Ford perhaps, that grander and darker twin spirit of Gottfried von Strassburg, reviving, even among the morbidly psychological and crime-fascinated followers of Shakespeare, that new theme of evil--the heroism of unlawful love. But Gottfried had merely manipulated with precocious analytical power a mode of feeling and thinking which was universal in the feudal Middle Ages; the great epic of adultery was forgotten, but the sympathetic and admiring interest in illegitimate passion remained; and was transmitted, wherever the Renaissance or the Reformation did not break through such transmission of mediæval habits, as an almost inborn instinct from father to son, from mother to daughter. And we may doubt whether the important class of men and women who write and read the novels of illicit love, could ever have existed, had not the psychological artists of modern times, from Rousseau to George Sand, and from Stendhal to Octave Feuillet, found ready prepared for them in the countries not re-tempered by Protestantism, an assoiation of romance, heroism, and ideality with mere adulterous passion, which was unknown to the corruption of Antiquity and to the lawlessness of the Dark Ages, and which remained as a fatal alloy to that legacy of mere spiritual love which was left to the world by the love poets of early feudalism. II. The love of the troubadours and minnesingers, of the Arthurian tales, which show that love in narrative form, was, as we have seen, polluted by the selfishness, the deceitfulness, the many unclean necessities of adulterous passion. Elevated and exquisite though it was, it could not really purify the relations of man and woman, since it was impure. Nay, we see that through its influence the grave and simple married love of the earlier tales of chivalry, the love of Siegfried for Chriemhilt, of Roland for his bride Belle Aude, of Renaud for his wife Clarisse, is gradually replaced in later fiction by the irregular love-makings of Huon of Bordeaux, Ogier the Dane, and Artus of Brittany; until we come at last to the extraordinary series of the Amadis romances, where every hero without exception is the bastard of virtuous parents, who subsequently marry and discover their foundling: a state of things which, even in the corrupt Renaissance, Boiardo and Ariosto found it necessary to reform in their romantic poems. With idealizing refinement, the chivalric love of the French, Provençal, and German poets brings also a kind of demoralization which, from one point of view, makes the spotless songs of Bernard de Ventadour and Armaud de Mareulh, of Ulrich von Liechtenstein and Frauenlob, less pure than the licentious poems addressed by the Greeks and Romans to women who, at least, were not the wives of other men. Shall all this idealizing refinement, this almost religious fervour, this new poetic element of chivalric love remain useless; or serve only to subtly pollute while pretending to purify the great singing passion? Not so. But to prevent such waste of what in itself is pure and precious, is the mission of another country, of another civilization; of a wholly different cycle of poets who, receiving the new element of mediæval love after it has passed through and been sifted by a number of hands, shall cleanse and recreate it in the fire of intellectual and almost abstract passion, producing that wonderful essence of love which, as the juices squeezed by alchemists out of jewels purified the body from all its ills, shall purify away all the diseases of the human soul. While the troubadours and minnesingers had been singing at the courts of Angevine kings and Hohenstauffen emperors, of counts of Toulouse and dukes of Austria; a new civilization, a new political and social system, had gradually been developing in the free burghs of Italy; a new life entirely the reverse of the life of feudal countries. The Italian cities were communities of manufacturers and merchants, into which only gradually, and at the sacrifice of every aristocratic privilege and habit, a certain number of originally foreign feudatories were gradually absorbed. Each community consisted of a number of mercantile families, equal before the law, and illustrious or obscure according to their talents or riches, whose members, instead of being scattered over a wide area like the members of the feudal nobility, were most often gathered together under one roof--sons, brothers, nephews, daughters, sisters and daughters-in-law, forming a hierarchy attending to the business of factory or counting-house under the orders of the father of the family, and to the economy of the house-under the superintendence of the mother; a manner of living at once business-like and patriarchal, expounded pounded by the interlocutors in Alberti's "Governo della Famiglia," and which lasted until the dissolution of the commonwealths and almost to our own times. Such habits imply a social organization, an intercourse between men and women, and a code of domestic morality the exact opposite to those of feudal countries. Here, in the Italian cities, there are no young men bound to loiter, far from their homes, round the wife of a military superior, to whom her rank and her isolation from all neighbours give idleness and solitude. The young men are all of them in business, usually with their own kinsfolk; not in their employer's house, but in his office; they have no opportunity of seeing a woman from dawn till sunset. The women, on their side, are mainly employed at home: the whole domestic arrangement depends upon them, and keeps their hands constantly full; working, and working in the company of their female relatives and friends. Men and women are free comparatively little, and then they are free all together in the same places; hence no opportunities for _tête-à-tête_. Early Italian poetry is fond of showing us the young poet reading his verses or explaining his passion to those gentle, compassionate women learned in love, of whom we meet a troop, beautiful, vague, half-arch, half-melancholy faces, consoling Dante in the "Vita Nuova," and reminding Guido Cavalcanti of his lady far off at Toulouse. But such women almost invariably form a group; they cannot be approached singly. Such a state of society inevitably produces a high and strict morality. In these early Italian cities a case of in' fidelity is punished ruthlessly; the lover banished or killed; the wife for ever lost to the world, perhaps condemned to solitude and a lingering death in the fever tracts, like Pia dei Tolomei. A complacent deceived husband is even more ridiculous (the deceived husband is notoriously the chief laughing stock of all mediæval free towns) than is a jealous husband among the authorized and recognized _cicisbeos_ of a feudal court. Indeed the respect for marriage vows inevitable in this busy democratic mediæval life is so strong, that long after the commonwealths have turned into despotisms, and every social tie has been dissolved in the Renaissance, the wives and daughters of men stained with every libidinous vice, nay, of the very despots themselves --Tiberiuses and Neros on a smaller scale--remain spotless in the midst of evil; and authorized adultery begins in Italy only under the Spanish rule in the late sixteenth century. Such were the manners and morals of the Italian commonwealths when, about the middle of the thirteenth century, the men of Tuscany, now free and prosperous, suddenly awoke to the consciousness that they had a soul which desired song, and a language which was spontaneously singing. It was the moment when painting was beginning to claim for the figures of real men and women the walls and vaulted spaces whence had hitherto glowered, with vacant faces and huge ghostlike eyes, mosaic figures, from their shimmering golden ground; the moment when the Pisan artists had sculptured solemnly draped madonnas and kings not quite unworthy of the carved sarcophagi which stood around them; the moment when, merging together old Byzantine traditions and Northern examples, the architects of Florence, Siena, and Orvieto conceived a style which made cathedrals into marvellous and huge reliquaries of marble, jasper, alabaster, and mosaics. The mediæval flowering time had come late, very late, in Italy; but the atmosphere was only the warmer, the soil the richer, and Italy put forth a succession of exquisite and superb immortal flowers of art when the artistic sap of other countries had begun to be exhausted. But the Italians, the Tuscans, audacious in the other arts, were diffident of themselves with regard to poetry. Architecture, painting, sculpture, had been the undisputed field for plebeian craftsmen, belonging exclusively to the free burghs and disdained by the feudal castles; but poetry was essentially the aristocratic, the feudal art, cultivated by knights and cultivated for kings and barons. It was probably an unspoken sense of this fact which caused the early Tuscan poets to misgive their own powers and to turn wistfully and shyly towards the poets of Provence and of Sicily. There, beyond the seas, under the last lords of Toulouse and the brilliant mongrel Hohenstauffen princes, were courts, knights, and ladies; there was the tradition of this courtly art of poetry; and there only could the sons of Florentine or Sienese merchants, clodhoppers in gallantry and song, hope to learn the correct style of thing. Hence the history of the Italian lyric before Dante is the history of a series of transformations which connect a style of poetry absolutely feudal and feudally immoral, with the hitherto unheard-of platonic love subtleties of the "Vita Nuova." And it is curious, in looking over the collections of early Italian lyrists, to note the alteration in tone as Sicily and the feudal courts are left further and further behind. Ciullo d' Alcamo, flourishing about 1190, is the only Italian-writing poet absolutely contemporaneous with the earlier and better trouvères, troubadours, and minnesingers; and he is also the only one who resembles them very closely. His famous _tenso_, beginning "Rosa fresca aulentissima" (a tolerably faithful translation heads the beautiful collection of the late Mr. D.G. Rossetti), is indeed more explicitly gross and immoral than the majority of Provençal and German love-songs: loose as are many of the _albas, serenas, wachtlieder_, and even many of the less special forms of German and Provençal poetry, I am acquainted with none of them which comes up to this singular dialogue, in which a man, refusing to marry a woman, little by little wins her over to his wishes and makes her brazenly invite him to her dishonour. Between Ciullo d' Alcamo and his successors there is some gap of time, and a corresponding want of gradation. Yet the Sicilian poets of the courts of Hohenstauffen and Anjou, recognizable by their name or the name of their town, Inghilfredi, Manfredi, Ranieri and Ruggierone da Palermo, Tommaso and Matteo da Messina, Guglielmotto d' Otranto, Rinaldo d'Aquino, Peir delle Vigne, either maintain altogether unchanged the tone of the troubadours, or only gradually, as in the remarkable case of the Notary of Lentino, approximate to the platonic poets of Tuscany. The songs of the archetype of Sicilian singers, the Emperor Frederick II., are completely Provençal in feeling as in form, though infinitely inferior in execution. With him it is always the pleasure which he hopes from his lady, or the pleasure which he has had--"Quando ambidue stavamo in allegranza alla dolce fera;" "Pregovi donna mia--Per vostra cortesia--E pregovi che sia--Quello che lo core disia." Again: "Sospiro e sto in rancura--Ch' io son si disioso--E pauroso--Mi fate penare--Ma tanto m' assicura--Lo suo viso amoroso--E lo gioioso--Riso e lo sguardare--E lo parlare--Di questa criatura--Che per paura--Mi fate penare--E di morare--Tant' è fina e pura--Tanto è saggia e cortese--Non credo che pensasse--Nè distornasse--Di ciò he m' impromise." It is, this earliest Italian poetry, like the more refined poetry of troubadours and minnesingers, eminently an importuning of highborn but loosely living women. From Sicily and Apulia poetry goes first, as might be expected (and as probably sculpture went) to the seaport Pisa, thence to the neighbouring Lucca, considerably before reaching Florence. And as it becomes more Italian and urban, it becomes also, under the strict vigilance of burgher husbands, considerably more platonic. In Bologna, the city of jurists, it acquires (the remark is not mine merely, but belongs also to Carducci) the very strong flavour of legal quibbling which distinguishes the otherwise charming Guido Guinicelli; and once in Florence, among the most subtle of all subtle Tuscans, it becomes at once what it remained even for Dante, saturated with metaphysics: the woman is no longer paramount, she is subordinated to Love himself; to that personified abstraction Amor, the serious and melancholy son of pagan philosophy and Christian mysticism. The Tuscans had imported from Provence and Sicily the new element of mediæval love, of life devotion, soul absorption in loving; if they would sing, they must sing of this; any other kind of love, at a time when Italy still read and relished her would-be Provençals, Lanfranc Cicala and Sordel of Mantua, would have been unfashionable and unendurable. But in these Italian commonwealths, as we have seen, poets are forced, nilly-willy, to be platonic; an importuning poem found in her work-basket may send a Tuscan lady into a convent, or, like Pia, into the Maremma; an _alba_ or a _serena_ interrupted by a wool-weaver of Calimara or a silk spinner of Lucca, may mean that the imprudent poet be found weltering in blood under some archway the next morning. The chivalric sentimentality of feudalism must be restrained; and little by little, under the pressure of such very different social habits, it grows into a veritable platonic passion. Poets must sing, and in order that they sing, they must adore; so men actually begin to seek out, and adore and make themselves happy and wretched about women from whom they can hope only social distinctions; and this purely æsthetic passion goes on by the side nay, rather on the top, of their humdrum, conjugal life or loosest libertinage. Petrarch's bastards were born during the reign of Madonna Laura; and that they should have been, was no more a slight or infidelity to her than to the other Madonna, the one in heaven. Laura had a right to only ideal sentiments ideal relations; the poet was at liberty to carry more material preferences elsewhere. But could such love as this exist, could it be genuine? To my mind, indubitably. For there is, in all our perceptions and desires of physical and moral beauty, an element of passion which is akin to love; and there is, in all love that is not mere lust, a perception of, a craving for, beauty, real or imaginary which is identical with our merely æsthetic perceptions and cravings; hence the possibility, once the wish for such a passion present, of a kind of love which is mainly æsthetic, which views the beloved as gratifying merely to the wish for physical or spiritual loveliness, and concentrates upon one exquisite reality all dreams of ideal perfection. Moreover there comes, to all nobler natures, a love dawning: a brightening and delicate flushing of the soul before the actual appearance of the beloved one above the horizon, which is as beautiful and fascinating in its very clearness, pallor, and coldness, as the unearthly purity of the pale amber and green and ashy rose which streaks the heavens before sunrise. The love of the early Tuscan poets (for we must count Guinicelli, in virtue of his language, as a Tuscan) had been restrained, by social necessities first, then by habit and deliberate æsthetic choice, within the limits of this dawning state; and in this state, it had fed itself off mere spiritual food, and acquired the strange intensity of mere intellectual passions. We give excessive weight, in our days, to spontaneity in all things, apt to think that only the accidental, the unsought, can be vital; but it is true in many things, and truest in all matters of the imagination and the heart, that the desire to experience any sentiment will powerfully conduce to its production, and even give it a strength due to the long incubation of the wish. Thus the ideal love of the Tuscan poets was probably none the weaker, but rather the stronger, for the desire which they felt to sing such passion; nay, rather to hear it singing in themselves. The love of man and wife, of bride and bridegroom, was still of the domain of prose; adulterous love forbidden; and the tradition of, the fervent wish for, the romantic passion of the troubadours consumed them as a strong artistic craving. Platonic love was possible, doubly possible in souls tense with poetic wants; it became a reality through the strength of the wish for it. Nor was this all. In all imaginative passions, intellectual motives are so much fuel; and in this case the necessity of logically explaining the bodiless passion for a platonic lady, of understanding why they felt in a manner so hitherto unknown to gross mankind, tended greatly to increase the love of these Tuscans, and to bring it in its chastity to the pitch of fervour of more fleshly passions, by mingling with the æsthetic emotions already in their souls the mystical theorizings of transcendental metaphysics, and the half-human, half-supernatural ecstasy of mediæval religion. For we must remember that Italy was a country not merely of manufacturers and bankers, but of philosophers also and of saints. Among the Italians of the thirteenth century the revival of antique literature was already in full swing; while in France, Germany, and Provence there had been, in lyric poetry at least, no trace of classic lore. Whereas the trouvères and troubadours had possessed but the light intellectual luggage of a military aristocracy; and the minnesingers had, for the most part, been absolutely ignorant of reading and writing (Wolfram says so of himself, and Ulrich von Liechtenstein relates how he carried about his lady's letter for days unread until the return of his secretary); the poets of Italy, from Brunetto Latini to Petrarch, were eminently scholars; men to whom, however much they might be politicians and ringleaders, like Cavalcanti, Donati, and Dante, whatever existed of antique learning was thoroughly well known. Such men were familiar with whatever yet survived of the transcendental theories of Plato and Plotinus; and they seized at once upon the mythic metaphysics of an antenatal condition, of typical ideas, of the divine essence of beauty, on all the mystic discussions on love and on the soul, as a philosophical explanation of their seemingly inexplicable passion for an unapproachable woman. The lady upon whom the poetic fervour, the mediæval love, inherited from Provence and France, was now expended, and whom social reasons placed quite beyond the reach of anything save the poet's soul and words, was evidently beloved for the sake of that much of the divine essence contained in her nature; she was loved for purely spiritual reasons, loved as a visible and living embodiment of virtue and beauty, as a human piece of the godhead. So far, therefore, from such an attachment being absurd, as absurd it would have seemed to troubadours and minnesingers, who never served a lady save for what they called a reward; it became, in the eyes of these platonizing Italians, the triumph of the well-bred soul; and as such, soon after, a necessary complement to dignities, talents, and wealth, the very highest occupation of a liberal mind. Thus did their smattering of platonic and neo-platonic philosophy supply the Tuscan poets with a logical reality for this otherwise unreal passion. But there was something more. In this democratic and philosophizing Italy, there was not the gulf which separated the chivalric poets, men of the sword and not of books, from the great world of religious mysticism; for, though the minnesingers especially were extremely devout and sang many a strange love-song to the Virgin; they knew, they could know, nothing of the contemplative religion of Eckhardt and his disciples--humble and transcendental spirits, whose words were treasured by the sedentary, dreamy townsfolk of the Rhine, but would have conveyed no meaning even to the poet of the Grail epic, with its battles and feasts, its booted and spurred slapdash morality, Wolfram von Eschenbach. In the great manufacturing cities of Italy, such religious mysticism spread as it could never spread in feudal courts; it became familiar, both in the mere passionate sermons and songs of the wandering friars, and in the subtle dialectics of the divines; above all, it became familiar to the poets. Now the essence of this contemplative theology of the Middle Ages, which triumphantly held its own against the cut-and-dry argumentation of scholastic rationalism, was love. Love which assuredly meant different things to different minds; a passionate benevolence towards man and beast to godlike simpletons like Francis of Assisi; a mere creative and impassive activity of the divinity to deep-seeing (so deep as to see only their own strange passionate eyes and lips reflected in the dark well of knowledge) and almost pantheistic thinkers like Master Eckhardt; but love nevertheless, love. "Amor, amore, ardo d' amore," St. Francis had sung in a wild rhapsody, a sort of mystic dance, a kind of furious _malagueña_ of divine love; and that he who would wish to know God, let him love--"Qui vult habere notitiam Dei, amet," had been written by Hugo of St. Victor, one of the subtlest of all the mystics. "Amor oculus est," said Master Eckhardt; love, love--was not love then the highest of all human faculties, and must not the act of loving, of perceiving God's essence in some creature which had virtue, the soul's beauty, and beauty, the body's virtue, be the noblest business of a noble life? Thus argued the poets; and their argument, half-passionate, half-scholastic, mixing Phædrus and Bonaventura, the Schools of Alexandria and the Courts of Love of Provence, resulted in adding all the fervid reality of philosophical and religious aspiration to their clear and cold phantom of disembodied love of woman. Little by little therefore, together with the carnal desires of Provençals and Sicilians, the Tuscan poets put behind them those little coquetries of style and manner, complications of metre and rhythm learned and fantastic as a woman's plaited and braided hair; those metaphors and similes, like bright flowers or shining golden ribbons dropped from the lady's bosom and head and eagerly snatched by the lover, which we still find, curiously transformed and scented with the rosemary and thyme of country lanes, in the peasant poetry of modern Tuscany. Little by little does the love poetry of the Italians reject such ornaments; and cloth itself in that pale garment, pale and stately in heavy folds like a nun's or friar's weeds, but pure and radiant and solemn as the garment of some painted angel, which we have all learned to know from the "Vita Nuova." To describe this poetry of the immediate precursors and contemporaries of Dante is to the last degree difficult: it can be described only by symbols, and symbols can but mislead us. Dante Rossetti himself, after translating with exquisite beauty the finest poems of this school, showed how he had read into them his own spirit, when he drew the beautiful design for the frontispiece of his collection. These two lovers--the youth kneeling in his cloth of silver robe, lifting his long throbbing neck towards the beloved; the lady stooping down towards him, raising him up and kissing him; the mingled cloud of waving hair, the four tight-clasped hands, the four tightly glued lips, the profile hidden by the profile, the passion and the pathos, the eager, wistful faces, nay, the very splendour of brocade robes and jewels, the very sweetness of blooming rose spaliers; all this is suitable to illustrate this group of sonnets or that of the "House of Life;" but it is false, false in efflorescence and luxuriance of passion, splendour and colour of accessory, to the poetry of these early Tuscans. Imaginative their poetry certainly is, and passionate; indeed the very concentration of imaginative passion; but imagination and passion unlike those of all other poets; perhaps because more rigorously reduced to their elements: imagination purely of the heart, passion purely of the intellect, neither of the senses: love in its most essential condition, but, just because an essence, purged of earthly alloys, rarefied, sublimated into a cultus or a philosophy. These poems might nearly all have been written by one man, were it possible for one man to vary from absolute platitude to something like genius, so homogeneous is their tone: everywhere do we meet the same simplicity of diction struggling with the same complication and subtlety of thought, the same abstract speculation strangely mingled with most individual and personal pathos. The mode of thinking and feeling, the conception of all the large characteristics of love, and of all its small incidents are, in this _cycle_ of poets, constantly the same; and they are the same in the "Vita Nuova;" Dante having, it would seem, invented and felt nothing unknown to his immediate predecessors and contemporaries, but merely concentrated their thoughts and feelings by the greater intenseness of his genius. This platonic love of Dante's days is, as I have said, a passion sublimated into a philosophy and a cultus. The philosophy of love engages much of these poets' attention; all have treated of it, but Guido Cavalcanti, Dante's elder brother in poetry, is love's chief theologian. He explains, as Eckhardt or Bonaventura might explain the mysteries of God's being and will, the nature and operation of love. "Love, which enamours us of excellence, arises out of pure virtue of the soul, and equals us to God," he tells us; and subtly developes his theme. This being the case, nothing can be more mistaken than to suppose, as do those of little sense, that Love is blind, and goes blindly about ("Da sentir poco, e da credenza vana--Si move il dir di cotal grossa gente--Ch' amor fa cieco andar per lo suo regno"). Love is omniscient, since love is born of the knowledge and recognition of excellence. Such love as this is the only true source of happiness, since it alone raises man to the level of the divinity. Cavalcanti has in him not merely the subtlety but the scornfulness of a great divine. His wrath against all those who worship or defend a different god of Love knows no bounds. "I know not what to say of him who adores the goddess born of Saturn and sea-foam. His love is fire: it seems sweet, but its result is bitter and evil. He may indeed call himself happy; but in such delights he mingles himself with much baseness." Such is this god of Love, who, when he descended into Dante's heart, caused the spirit of life to tremble terribly in his secret chamber, and trembling to cry, "Lo, here is a god stronger than myself, who coming will rule over me. Ecce Deus fortior me, qui veniens dominabitur mihi!" The god, this chaste and formidable archangel Amor, is the true subject of these poets' adoration; the woman into whom he descends by a mystic miracle of beauty and of virtue becomes henceforward invested with somewhat of his awful radiance. She is a gentle, gracious lady; a lovable and loving woman, in describing whose grey-green eyes and colour as of snow tinted with pomegranate, the older Tuscans would fain linger, comparing her to the new-budded rose, to the morning star, to the golden summer air, to the purity of snowflakes falling silently in a serene sky; but the sense of the divinity residing within her becomes too strong. From her eyes dart spirits who strike awe into the heart; from her lips come words which make men sigh; on her passage the poet casts down his eyes; notions, all these, with which we are familiar from the "Vita Nuova;" but which belong to Cavalcanti, Lapo Gianni, nay, even to Guinicelli, quite as much as to Dante. The poet bids his verse go forth to her, but softly; and stand before her with bended head, as before the Mother of God. She is a miracle herself, a thing sent from heaven, a spirit, as Dante says in that most beautiful of all his sonnets, the summing up of all that the poets of his circle had said of their lady--"Tanto gentile e tanto onesta pare." "She passes along the street so beautiful and gracious," says Guinicelli, "that she humbles pride in all whom she greets, and makes him of our faith if he does not yet believe. And no base man can come into her presence. And I will tell you another virtue of her: no man can think ought of evil as long as he looks upon her." "The noble mind which I feel, on account of this youthful lady who has appeared, makes me despise baseness and vileness," says Lapo Gianni. The women who surround her are glorified in her glory, glorified in their womanhood and companionship with her. "The ladies around you," says Cavalcanti, "are dear to me for the sake of your love; and I pray them as they are courteous, that they should do you all honour." She is, indeed, scarcely a woman, and something more than a saint: an avatar, an incarnation of that Amor who is born of virtue and beauty, and raises men's minds to heaven; and when Cavalcanti speaks of his lady's portrait behind the blazing tapers of Orsanmichele, it seems but natural that she should be on an altar, in the Madonna's place. The idea of a mysterious incarnation of love in the lady, or of a mystic relationship between her and love, returns to these poets. Lapo Gianni tells us first that she is Amor's sister, then speaks of her as Amor's bride; nay, in this love theology of the thirteenth century, arises the same kind of confusion as in the mystic disputes of the nature of the Godhead. A Sienese poet, Ugo da Massa, goes so far as to say, "Amor and I are all one thing; and we have one will and one heart; and if I were not, Amor were not; mind you, do not think I am saying these things from subtlety ('e non pensate ch' io 'l dica per arte'); for certainly it is true that I am love, and he who should slay me would slay love." Together with the knowledge of public life and of scholastic theories, together with the love of occult and cabalistic science, and the craft of Provençal poetry, Dante received from his Florence of the thirteenth century the knowledge of this new, this exotic and esoteric intellectual love. And, as it is the mission of genius to gather into an undying whole, to model into a perfect form, the thoughts and feelings and perceptions of the less highly endowed men who surround it, so Dante moulded out of the love passion and love philosophy of his day the "Vita Nuova." Whether the story narrated in this book is fact; whether a real woman whom he called Beatrice ever existed; some of those praiseworthy persons, who prowl in the charnel-house of the past, and put its poor fleshless bones into the acids and sublimates of their laboratory, have gravely doubted. But such doubts cannot affect us. For if the story of the "Vita Nuova" be a romance, and if Beatrice be a mere romance heroine, the real meaning and value of the book does not change in our eyes; since, to concoct such a tale, Dante must have had a number of real experiences which are fully the tale's equivalent; and to conceive and create such a figure as Beatrice, and such a passion as she inspires her poet, he must have felt as a poignant reality the desire for such a lady, the capacity for such a love. A tale merely of the soul, and of the soul's movements and actions, this "Vita Nuova;" so why should it matter if that which could never exist save in the spirit, should have been but the spirit's creation? It is, in its very intensity, a vision of love; what if it be a vision merely conceived and never realized? Hence the futility of all those who wish to destroy our faith and pleasure by saying "all this never took place." Fools, can you tell what did or did not take place in a poet's mind? Be this as it may, the "Vita Nuova," thank heaven, exists; and, thank heaven, exists as a reality to our feelings. The longed-for ideal, the perfection whose love, said Cavalcanti, raises us up to God, has seemed to gather itself into a human shape; and a real being has been surrounded by the halo of perfection emanated from the poet's own soul. The vague visions of glory have suddenly taken body in this woman, seen rarely, at a distance; the woman whom, as a child, the poet, himself a child, had already looked at with the strange, ideal fascination which we sometimes experience in our childhood. People are apt to smile at this opening of the "Vita Nuova;" to put aside this narrative of childish love together with the pathetic little pedantries of learned poetry and Kabbala, of the long gloses to each poem, and the elaborate calculations of the recurrence and combination of the number nine (and that curious little bit of encyclopædic display about the Syrian month _Tismin_) as so much pretty local colouring or obsolete silliness. But there is nothing at which to laugh in such childish fascinations; the wonderful, the perfect, is more open to us as children than it is afterwards: a word, a picture, a snatch of music will have for us an ineffable, mysterious meaning; and how much more so some human being, often some other, more brilliant child from whose immediate contact we are severed by some circumstance, perhaps by our own consciousness of inferiority, which makes that other appear strangely distant, above us, moving in a world of glory which we scarcely hope to approach; a child sometimes, or sometimes some grown person, beautiful, brilliant, who sings or talks or looks at us, the child, with ways which we do not understand, like some fairy or goddess. No indeed, there is nothing to laugh at in this, in this first blossoming of that love for higher and more beautiful things, which in most of us is trodden down, left to wither, by our maturer selves; nothing to make us laugh; nay, rather to make us sigh that later on we see too well, see others too much on their real level, scrutinize too much; too much, alas, for what at best is but an imperfect creature. And in this state of fascination does the child Dante see the child Beatrice, as a strange, glorious little vision from a childish sphere quite above him; treasuring up that vision, till with his growth it expands and grows more beautiful and noble, but none the less fascinating and full of awfulness. When, therefore, the grave young poet, full of the yearning for Paradise (but Paradise vaguer, sweeter, less metaphysic and theological than the Paradise of his manhood); as yet but a gracious, learned youth, his terrible moral muscle still undeveloped by struggle, the noble and delicate dreamer of Giotto's fresco, with the long, thin, almost womanish face, marked only by dreamy eyes and lips, wandering through this young Florence of the Middle Ages--when, I say, he meets after long years, the noble and gentle woman, serious and cheerful and candid; and is told that she is that same child who was the queen and goddess of his childish fancies; then the vague glory with which his soul is filled expands and enwraps the beloved figure, so familiar and yet so new. And the blood retreats from his veins, and he trembles; and a vague god within him, half allegory, half reality, cries out to him that a new life for him has begun. Beatrice has become the ideal; Beatrice, the real woman, has ceased to exist; the Beatrice of his imagination only remains, a piece of his own soul embodied in a gracious and beautiful reality, which he follows, seeks, but never tries to approach. Of the real woman he asks nothing; no word throughout the "Vita Nuova" of entreaty or complaint, no shadow of desire, not a syllable of those reproaches of cruelty which Petrarch is for ever showering upon Laura. He desires nothing of Beatrice, and Beatrice cannot act wrongly; she is perfection, and perfection makes him who contemplates humble at once and proud, glorifying his spirit. Once, indeed, he would wish that she might listen to him; he has reason to think that he has fallen in her esteem, has seemed base and uncourteous in her eyes, and he would explain. But he does not wish to address her; it never occurs to him that she can ever feel in any way towards him; it is enough that he feels towards her. Let her go by and smile and graciously salute her friends: the sight of her grave and pure regalness, nay, rather divinity, of womanhood, suffices for his joy; nay, later the consciousness comes upon him that it is sufficient to know of her existence and of his love even without seeing her. And, as must be the case in such ideal passion, where the action is wholly in the mind of the lover, he is at first ashamed, afraid; he feels a terror lest his love, if known to her, should excite her scorn; a horror lest it be misunderstood and befouled by the jests of those around him, even of those same gentle women to whom he afterwards addresses his praise of Beatrice. He is afraid of exposing to the air of reality this ideal flower of passion. But the moment comes when he can hide it no longer; and, behold, the passion flower of his soul opens out more gloriously in the sunlight of the world. He is proud of his passion, of his worship; he feels the dignity and glory of being the priest of such a love. The women all round, the beautiful, courteous women, of whom, only just now, he was so dreadfully afraid, become his friends and confidants; they are quite astonished (half in love, perhaps, with the young poet) at this strange way of loving; they sympathize, admire, are in love with his love for Beatrice. And to them he speaks of her rather than to men, for the womanhood which they share with his lady consecrates them in his eyes; and they, without jealousy towards this ideal woman, though perhaps not without longing for this ideal love, listen as they might listen to some new and unaccountably sweet music, touched and honoured, and feeling towards Dante as towards some beautiful, half-mad thing. He talks of her, sings of her, and is happy; the strangest thing in this intensely real narrative of real love is this complete satisfaction of the passion in its own existence, this complete absence of all desire or hope. But this happiness is interrupted by the sudden, terrible thought that one day all this must cease; the horrible, logical necessity coming straight home to him, that one day she must die--"Di necessità conviene che la gentilissima Beatrice alcuna volta si muoia." There is nothing truer, more intensely pathetic, in all literature, than this frightful pang of evil, not real, but first imagined; this frightful nightmare vision of the end coming when reality is still happy. Have we not all of us at one time felt the horrible shudder of that sudden perception that happiness must end; that the beloved, the living, must die; that this thing the present, which we clasp tight with our arms, which throbs against our breast, will in but few moments be gone, vanished, leaving us to grasp mere phantom recollections? Compared with this the blow of the actual death of Beatrice is gentle. And then, the truthfulness of his narration how, with yearning, empty heart, hungering after those poor lost realities of happiness, after that occasional glimpse of his lady, that rare catching of her voice, that blessed consciousness of her existence, he little by little lets himself be consoled, cradled to sleep like a child which has sobbed itself out, in the sympathy, the vague love, of another--the Donna della Finestra--with whom he speaks of Beatrice; and the sudden, terrified, starting up and shaking off of any such base consolation, the wrath at any such mental infidelity to the dead one, the indignant impatience with his own weakness, with his baseness in not understanding that it is enough that Beatrice has lived and that he has loved her, in not feeling that the glory and joy of the ineffaceable past is sufficient for all present and future. A revolution in himself which gradually merges in that grave final resolve, that sudden seeing how Beatrice can be glorified by him, that solemn, quiet, brief determination not to say any more of her as yet; not till he can show her transfigured in Paradise. "After this sonnet there appeared unto me a marvellous vision, in which I beheld things that made me propose unto myself to speak no more of this blessed one, until the time when I might more worthily treat of her. And that this may come to pass, I strive with all my endeavour, even as she truly knows it. Thus, if it should please Him, through whom all things do live, that my life continue for several more years, I hope to say of her such things as have never been said of any lady. And then may it please Him, who is the lord of all courtesy, that my soul shall go forth to see the glory of its lady, that is to say, of that blessed Beatrice, who gloriously looks up into the face of Him, _qui est per omnia sæcula benedictus_" Thus ends the "Vita Nuova;" a book, to find any equivalent for whose reality and completeness of passion, though it is passion for a woman whom the poet scarcely knows and of whom he desires nothing, we must go back to the merest fleshly love of Antiquity, of Sappho or Catullus; for modern times are too hesitating and weak. So at least it seems; but in fact, if we only think over the matter, we shall find that in no earthly love can we find this reality and completeness: it is possible only in love like Dante's. For there can be no unreality in it: it is a reality of the imagination, and leaves, with all its mysticism and idealism, no room for falsehood. Any other kind of love may be set aside, silenced, by the activity of the mind; this love of Dante's constitutes that very activity. And, after reading that last page which I have above transcribed, as those closing Latin words echo through our mind like the benediction from an altar, we feel as if we were rising from our knees in some secret chapel, bright with tapers and dim with incense; among a crowd kneeling like ourselves; yet solitary, conscious of only the glory we have seen and tasted, of that love _qui est per omnia scecula benedictus._ III. But is it right that we should feel thus? Is it right that love, containing within itself the potentialities of so many things so sadly needed in this cold real world, as patience, tenderness, devotion, and loving-kindness--is it right that love should thus be carried away out of ordinary life and enclosed, a sacred thing for contemplation, in the shrine or chapel of an imaginary Beatrice? And, on the other hand, is it right that into the holy places of our soul, the places where we should come face to face with the unattainable ideal of our own conduct that we may strive after something nobler than mere present pleasure and profit--is it right that into such holy places, destined but for an abstract perfection, there should be placed a mere half-unknown, vaguely seen woman? In short, is not this "Vita Nuova" a mere false ideal, one of those works of art which, because they are beautiful, get worshipped as holy? This question is a grave one, and worthy to make us pause. The world is full of instances of the fatal waste of feelings misapplied: of human affections, human sympathy and compassion, so terribly necessary to man, wasted in various religious systems, upon Christ and God: of religious aspirations, contemplation, worship, and absorption, necessary to the improvement of the soul, wasted in various artistic or poetic crazes upon mere pleasant works, or pleasant fancies, of man; wastefulness of emotions, wastefulness of time, which constitute two-thirds of mankind's history and explain the vast amount of evil in past and present. The present question therefore becomes, is not this "Vita Nuova" merely another instance of this lamentable carrying off of precious feelings in channels where they result no longer in fertilization, but in corruption? The Middle Ages, especially, in its religion, its philosophy, nay, in that very love of which I am writing, are one succession of such acts of wastefulness. This question has come to me many a time, and has left me in much doubt and trouble. But on reflection I am prepared to answer that such doubts as these may safely be cast behind us, and that we may trust that instinct which, whenever we lay down the "Vita Nuova," tells us that to have felt and loved this book is one of those spiritual gains in our life which, come what may, can never be lost entirely. The "Vita Nuova" represents the most exceptional of exceptional moral and intellectual conditions. Dante's love for Beatrice is, in great measure, to be regarded as an extraordinary and exquisite work of art, produced not by the volition of man, but by the accidental combination of circumstances. It is no more suited to ordinary life than would a golden and ivory goddess of Phidias be suited to be the wife of a mortal man. But it may not therefore be useless; nay, it may be of the highest utility. It may serve that high utilitarian mission of all art, to correct the real by the ideal, to mould the thing as it is in the semblance of the thing as it should be. Herein, let it be remembered, consists the value, the necessity of the abstract and the ideal. In the long history of evolution we have now reached the stage where selection is no longer in the mere hands of unconscious nature, but of conscious or half-conscious man; who makes himself, or is made by mankind, according to not merely physical necessities, but to the intellectual necessity of realizing the ideal, of pursuing the object, of imitating the model, before him. No man will ever find the living counterpart of that chryselephantine goddess of the Greeks; ivory and gold, nay, marble, fashioned by an artist, are one thing; flesh is another, and flesh fashioned by mere blind accident. But the man who should have beheld that Phidian goddess, who should have felt her full perfection, would not have been as easily satisfied as any other with a mere commonplace living woman; he would have sought--and seeking, would have had more likelihood of finding--the woman of flesh and blood who nearest approached to that ivory and gold perfection. The case is similar with the "Vita Nuova." No earthly affection, no natural love of man for woman, of an entire human being, body and soul, for another entire human being, can ever be the counterpart of this passion for Beatrice, the passion of a mere mind for a mere mental ideal. But if the old lust-fattened evil of the world is to diminish rather than to increase, why then every love of man for woman and of woman for man should tend, to the utmost possibility, to resemble that love of the "Vita Nuova." For mankind has gradually separated from brute kind merely by the development of those possibilities of intellectual and moral passion which the animal has not got; an animal man will never cease to be, but a man he can daily more and more become, until from the obscene goat-legged and goat-faced creature which we commonly see, he has turned into something like certain antique fauns: a beautiful creature, not noticeably a beast, a beast in only the smallest portion of his nature. In order that this may come to pass--and its coming to pass means, let us remember, the enormous increase of happiness and diminution of misery upon earth--it is necessary that day by day and year by year there should enter into man's feelings, emotions, and habits, into his whole life, a greater proportion of that which is his own, and is not shared by the animal; that his actions, preferences, the great bulk of his conscious existence, should be busied with things of the soul, truth, good, and beauty, and not with things of the body. Hence the love of such a gradually improving and humanizing man for a gradually improving and humanizing woman, should become, as much as is possible, a connection of the higher and more human, rather than of the lower and more bestial, portions of their nature; it should tend, in its reciprocal stimulation, to make the man more a man, the woman more a woman, to make both less of the mere male and female animals that they were. In brief, love should increase, instead, like that which oftenest profanes love's name, of diminishing, the power of aspiration, of self-direction, of self-restraint, which may exist within us. Now to tend to this is to tend towards the love of the "Vita Nuova;" to tend towards the love of the "Vita Nuova" is to tend towards this. Say what you will of the irresistible force of original constitution, it remains certain, and all history is there as witness, that mankind--that is to say, the only mankind in whom lies the initiative of good, mankind which can judge and select--possesses the faculty of feeling and acting in accordance with its standard of feeling and action; the faculty in great measure of becoming that which it thinks desirable to become. Now to have perceived the even imaginary existence of such a passion as that of Dante for Beatrice, must be, for all who can perceive it, the first step towards attempting to bring into reality a something of that passion: the real passion conceived while the remembrance of that ideal passion be still in the mind will bear to it a certain resemblance, even as, according to the ancients, the children born of mothers whose rooms contained some image of Apollo or Adonis would have in them a reflex, however faint, of that beauty in whose presence they came into existence. In short, it seems to me, that as the "Vita Nuova" embodies the utmost ideal of absolutely spiritual love, and as to spiritualize love must long remain one of the chief moral necessities of the world, there exists in this book a moral force, a moral value, a power in its unearthly passion and purity, which, as much as anything more deliberately unselfish, more self-consciously ethical, we must acknowledge and honour as holy. As the love of him who has read and felt the "Vita Nuova" cannot but strive towards a purer nature, so also the love of which poets sang became also nobler as the influence of the strange Tuscan school of platonic lyrists spread throughout literature, bringing to men the knowledge of a kind of love born of that idealizing and worshipping passion of the Middle Ages; but of mediæval love chastened by the manners of stern democracy and passed through the sieve of Christian mysticism and pagan philosophy. Of this influence of the "Vita Nuova"--for the "Vita Nuova" had concentrated in itself all the intensest characteristics of Dante's immediate predecessors and contemporaries, causing them to become useless and forgotten--of this influence of the "Vita Nuova," there is perhaps no more striking example than that of the poet who, constituted by nature to be the mere continuator of the romantically gallant tradition of the troubadours, became, and hence his importance and glory, the mediator between Dante and the centuries which followed him; the man who gave to mankind, incapable as yet of appreciating or enduring the spiritual essence of the "Vita Nuova," that self-same essence of intellectual love in an immortal dilution. I speak, of course, of Petrarch. His passion is neither ideal nor strong. The man is in love, or has been in love, existing on a borderland of loving and not loving, with the beautiful woman. His elegant, refined, half-knightly, half-scholarly, and altogether courtly mind is delighted with her; with her curly yellow hair, her good red and white beauty (we are never even told that Dante's Beatrice is beautiful, yet how much lovelier is she not than this Laura, descended from all the golden-haired bright-eyed ladies of the troubadours!), with her manner, her amiability, her purity and dignity in this ecclesiastical Babylon called Avignon. He maintains a semi-artificial love; frequenting her house, writing sonnet after sonnet, rhetorical exercises, studies from the antique and the Provençal, for the most part; he, who was born to be a mere troubadour like Ventadour or Folquet, becomes, through the influence of Dante, the type of the poet Abate, of the poetic _cavaliere servente_; a good, weak man with aspirations, who, failing to get the better of Laura's virtue, doubtless consoles himself elsewhere, but returns to an habitual contemplation of it. He is, being constitutionally a troubadour, an Italian priest turned partly Provençal, vexed at her not becoming his mistress; then (having made up his mind, which was but little set upon her), quite pleased at her refusal: it turns her into a kind of Beatrice, and him, poor man, heaven help him! into a kind of Dante--a Dante for the use of the world at large. He goes on visiting Laura, and writing to her a sonnet regularly so many times a week, and the best, carefully selected, we feel distinctly persuaded, at regular intervals. It is a determined cultus, a sort of half-real affectation, something equivalent to lighting a lamp before a very well-painted and very conspicuous shrine. All his humanities, all his Provençal lore go into these poems--written for whom? For her? Decidedly; for she has no reason not to read the effusions of this amiable, weak priestlet; she feels nothing for him. For her; but doubtless also to be handed round in society; a new sonnet or canzone by that charming and learned man, the Abate Petrarch. There is considerable emptiness in all this: he praises Laura's chastity, then grows impatient, then praises her again; adores her, calls her cruel, his goddess, his joy, his torment; he does not really want her, but in the vacuity of his feeling, thinks he does; calls her alternately the flat, abusive, and eulogistic names which mean nothing. He plays loud and soft with this absence of desire; he fiddle faddles in descriptions of her, not passionate or burning, but delicately undressed: he sees her (but with chaste eyes) in her bath; he envies her veil, &c.; he neither violently intellectually embraces, nor humbly bows down in imagination before her; he trifles gracefully, modestly, half-familiarly, with her finger tips, with the locks of her hair, and so forth. Fancy Dante abusing Beatrice; fancy Dante talking of Beatrice in her bath; the mere idea of his indignation and shame makes one shameful and indignant at the thought. But this perfect Laura is no Beatrice, or only a half-and-half sham one. She is no ideal figure, merely a figure idealized; this is no imaginative passion, merely an unreal one. Compare, for instance, the suggestion of Laura's possible death with the suggestion of the possible death of Beatrice. Petrarch does not love sufficiently to guess what such a loss would be. Then Laura does die. Here Petrarch rises. The severing of the dear old habits, the absence of the sweet reality, the terrible sense that all is over, Death, the great poetizer and giver of love philters, all this makes him love Laura as he never loved her before. The poor weak creature, who cannot, like a troubadour, go seek a new mistress when the old one fails him, feels dreadfully alone, the world dreadfully dreary around him; he sits down and cries, and his crying is genuine, making the tears come also into our eyes. And Laura, as she becomes a more distant ideal, becomes nobler, though noble with only a faint earthly graciousness not comparable to the glory of the living Beatrice. And, as he goes on, growing older and weaker and more desolate, the thought of a glorified Laura (as all are glorified, even in the eyes of the weakest, by death) begins to haunt him as Dante was haunted by the thought of Beatrice alive. Yet, even at this very time, come doubts of the lawfulness of having thus adored (or thought he had adored) a mortal woman; he does not know whether all this may not have been vanity and folly; he tries to turn his thoughts away from Laura and up to God. Perhaps he may be called on to account for having given too much of his life to a mere earthly love. Then, again, Laura reappears beautified in his memory, and is again tremblingly half-conjured away. He is weak, and sad, and helpless, and alone; and his heart is empty; he knows not what to think nor how to feel; he sobs, and we cry with him. Nowhere could there be found a stranger contrast than this nostalgic craving after the dead Laura, vacillating and troubled by fear of sin and doubt of unworthiness of object, with that solemn ending of the "Vita Nuova," where the name of Beatrice is pronounced for the last time before it be glorified in Paradise, where Dante devotes his life to becoming worthy of saying "such words as have never been said of any lady." The ideal woman is one and unchangeable in glory, and unchangeable is the passion of her lover; but of this sweet dead Laura, whose purity and beauty and cruelty he had sung, without a tremor of self-unworthiness all her life, of her the poor weak Petrarch begins to doubt, of her and her worthiness of all this love; and when? when she is dead and himself is dying. Such a man is Petrarch; and yet, by the irresistible purifying and elevating power of the "Vita Nuova,'" this man came to write not other _albas_ and _serenas,_ not other love-songs to be added to the love-songs of Provence, but those sonnets and canzoni which for four centuries taught the world, too coarse as yet to receive Dante's passion at first hand, a nobler and more spiritual love. After Petrarch a gradual change takes place in the poetic conception of love: except in learned revivalisms or in loose buffooneries, the mere fleshly love of Antiquity disappears out of literature; and equally so, though by a slower process of gradual transformation, vanishes also the adoring, but undisguisedly adulterous love of the troubadours and minnesingers. Into the love Instincts of mankind have been mingled, however much diluted, some drops of the more spiritual passion of Dante. The _puella_ of Antiquity, the noble dame of feudal days, is succeeded in Latin countries, in Italy, and France, and Spain, and Portugal, by the _gloriosa donna_ imitated from. Petrarch, and imitated by Petrarch from Dante; a long-line of shadowy figures, veiled in the veil of Madonna Laura, ladies beloved of Lorenzo and Michael Angelo, of Ariosto, and Tasso, and Camoens, and Cervantes, passes through the world; nay, even the sprightly-mistress of Ronsard, half-bred pagan and troubadour has airs of dignity and mystery which make us almost think that in this dainty coquettish French body, of Marie or Helene or Cassandrette, there really may be an immortal soul. But with the Renaissance--that movement half of mediæval democratic progress, and half of antique revivalism, and to which in reality belongs not merely Petrarch, but Dante, and every one of the Tuscan poets, Guinicelli, Lapo Gianni, Cavalcanti, who broke with the feudal poetry of Provence and Sicily--with the Renaissance, or rather with its long-drawn-out end, comes the close, for the moment, of the really creative activity of the Latin peoples in the domain of poetry. All the things for two centuries which Italy and France and Spain and Portugal (which we must remember for the sake of Camoens) continue to produce, are but developments of parts left untouched; or refinements of extreme detail, as in the case, particularly, of the French poets of the sixteenth century; but poetry receives from these races nothing new or vital, no fresh ideal or fruitful marriage of ideals. And here begins, uniting in itself all the scattered and long-dormant powers of Northern poetry, the great and unexpected action of England. It had slept through the singing period of the Middle Ages, and was awakened, not by Germany or Provence, but by Italy: Boccaccio and Petrarch spoke, and, as through dreams, England in Chaucer's voice, made answer. Again, when the Renaissance had drawn to a close, far on in the sixteenth century, English poetry was reawakened; and again by Italy. This time it was completely wakened, and arose and slept no more. And one of the great and fruitful things achieved by English poetry in this its final awakening was to give to the world the new, the modern, perhaps the definitive, the final ideal of love. England drank a deep draught--how deep we see from Sidney's and Spenser's sonnets--of Petrarch; and in this pleasant dilution, tasted and felt the burning essence of the "Vita Nuova;" for though Dante remained as the poet, the poet of heaven and hell, this happy half-and-half Petrarch had for full two centuries completely driven into oblivion the young Dante who had loved Beatrice. For England, for this magnificent and marvellous outburst of all the manifold poetic energy stored up and quintupled during that long period of inertness, there could however be no foreign imported ideal of love; there was no possibility of a new series of spectral Lauras, shadows projected by a shadow. Already, long ago, at the first call of Petrarch, Chaucer, by the side of the merely mediæval love types--of brutish lust and doglike devotion--of the Wife of Bath and of Griseldis, had rough-sketched a kind of modern love, the love which is to become that of Romeo and Hamlet, in his story of Palemon and Arcite. Among the poetic material which existed in England at the close of the sixteenth century was the old, long-neglected, domestic love, quiet, undemonstrative, essentially unsinging, of the early Northern (as indeed also of the Greek and Hindoo) epics; a domestic love which, in a social condition more closely resembling our own than any other, even than that of the Italian democracies, which had preceded it; among a people who permitted a woman to choose her own husband, and forbade a man wooing another man's wife, had already, in ballads and folk poetry, begun a faint-twitter of song. To this love of the man and the woman who hope to marry, strong and tender, but still (as Coleridge remarked of several of the lesser Elizabethan playwrights) most outspokenly carnal, was united by the pure spirit of Spenser, by the unerring genius of Shakespeare, that vivifying drop of burning, spiritual love taken from out of the "Vita Nuova," which had floated, like some sovereign essential oil, on the top of Petrarch's rose-water. Henceforward the world possesses a new kind of love: the love of Romeo, of Hamlet, of Bassanio, of Viola, and of Juliet; the love of the love poems of Shelley, of Tennyson, of Browning and Browning's wife. A love whose blindness, exaggeration of passion, all that might have made it foolish and impracticable, leads no longer to folly and sin, but to an intenser activity of mankind's imagination of the good and beautiful, to a momentary realization in our fancy of all our vague dreams of perfection; a love which, though it may cool down imperceptibly and pale in its intenseness, like the sunrise fires into a serene sky, has left some glory round the head of the wife, some glory in the heart of the husband, has been, however fleeting, a vision of beauty which has made beauty more real. And all this owing to the creation, the storing up, the purification by the Platonic poets of Tuscany, of that strange and seemingly so artificial and unreal thing, mediæval love; the very forms and themes of whose poetry, the _serena_ and the _alba_, which had been indignantly put aside by the early Italian lyrists, being unconsciously revived, and purified and consecrated in the two loveliest love poems of Elizabethan poetry: the _serena_, the evening song of impatient expectation in Spenser's Epithalamium; the _alba_, the dawn song of hurried parting, in the balcony scene of "Romeo and Juliet." Let us recapitulate. The feudal Middle Ages gave to mankind a more refined and spiritual love, a love all chivalry, fidelity, and adoration, but a love steeped in the poison of adultery; and to save the pure and noble portions of this mediæval love became the mission of the Tuscan poets of that strange school of Platonic love which in its very loveliness may sometimes seem so unnatural and sterile. For, by reducing this mediæval love to a mere intellectual passion, seeking in woman merely a self-made embodiment of cravings after perfection, they cleansed away that deep stain of adultery; they quadrupled the intensity of the ideal element; they distilled the very essential spirit of poetic passion, of which but a few drops, even as diluted by Petrarch, precipitated, when mingled with the earthly passion of future poets, to the bottom, no longer to be seen or tasted, all baser ingredients. And, while the poems of minnesingers and troubadours have ceased to appeal to us, and remain merely for their charm of verse and of graceful conceit; the poetry written by the Italians of the thirteenth century for women, whose love was but an imaginative fervour, remains concentrated in the "Vita Nuova;" and will remain for all time the sovereign purifier to which the world must have recourse whenever that precipitate of baser instincts, which thickened like slime the love poetry of Antiquity, shall rise again and sully the purity of the love poetry of to-day. EPILOGUE. More than a year has elapsed since the moment when, fancying that this series of studies must be well-nigh complete, I attempted to explain in an introductory chapter what the nature of this book of mine is, or would fain be. I had hoped that each of these studies would complete its companions; and that, without need for explicit explanation, my whole idea would have become more plain to others than it was at that time even to myself. But instead, it has become obvious that the more carefully I had sought to reduce each question to unity, the more that question-subdivided and connected itself with other questions; and that, with the solution of each separate problem, had arisen a new set of problems which infinitely complicated the main lessons to be deduced from a study of that many-sided civilization to which, remembering the brilliant and mysterious offspring of Faustus and Helena, I have given the name of Euphorion. Hence, as it seems, the necessity for a few further words of explanation. In those introductory pages written some fifteen months ago, I tried to bring home to the reader a sense which has haunted me throughout the writing of this volume; namely, that instead of having deliberately made up my mind to study the Renaissance, as one makes up one's mind to visit Greece or Egypt or the Holy Land; I have, on the contrary, quite accidentally and unconsciously, found myself wandering about in spirit among the monuments of this particular historic region, even as I might wander about in the streets of Siena where I wrote last year, of Florence whence I write at present; wandering about among these things, and little by little feeling a particular interest in one, then in another, according as each happened to catch my fancy or to recall some already known thing. Now these, which for want of a better word I have just called monuments, and just now, less clearly, but also less foolishly, merely _things_--these things were in reality not merely individual and really existing buildings, books, pictures, or statues, individual and really registered men, women, and events; they were the mental conceptions which I had extracted out of these realities; the intellectual types made up (as the mediæval symbols of justice are made up of the visible paraphernalia, robe, scales and sword, for judging and weighing and punishing) of the impressions left on the mind by all those buildings, or books, or pictures, or statues, or men, women, and events. They were not the iniquities of this particular despot nor the scandalous sayings of that particular humanist, but the general moral chaos of the Italian fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; not the poem of Pulci, of Boiardo, of Ariosto in especial, but a vast imaginary poem made up of them all; not the mediæval saints of Angelico and the pagan demi-gods of Michael Angelo, but the two tremendous abstractions: the spirit of Mediævalism in art, and the spirit of Antiquity; the interest in the distressed soul, and the interest in the flourishing body. And, as my thoughts have gone back to Antiquity and onwards to our own times, their starting-point has nevertheless been the Tuscan art of the fifteenth century, their nucleus some notes on busts by Benedetto da Maiano and portraits by Raphael. My _dramatis persona_ have been modes of feeling and forms of art. I have tried to explain the life and character, not of any man or woman, but of the moral scepticism of Italy, of the tragic spirit of our Elizabethan dramatists; I have tried to write the biography of the romance poetry of the Middle Ages, of the realism of the great portrait painters and sculptors of the Renaissance. But these, my _dramatis persona,_ are, let me repeat it, abstractions: they exist only in my mind and in the minds of those who think like myself. Hence, like all abstractions, they represent the essence of a question, but not its completeness, its many-sidedness as we may see it in reality. Hence it is that I have frequently passed over exceptions to the rule which I was stating, because the explanation of these exceptions would have involved the formulating of a number of apparently irrelevant propositions; so that any one who please may accuse me of inexactness; and, to give an instance, cover the margins of my essay on Mediæval Love with a whole list of virtuous love stories of the Middle Ages; or else ferret out of Raynouard and Von der Hagen a dozen pages of mediæval poems in praise of rustic life. These objections will be perfectly correct, and (so far as my knowledge permitted me) I might have puzzled the reader with them myself; but it remains none the less certain that, in the main, mediæval love was not virtuous, and mediæval peasantry not admired by poets; and none the less certain, I think, also, that in describing the characteristics and origin of an abstract thing, such as mediæval love, or mediæval feeling towards the country and country folk, it was my business to state the rule and let alone the exceptions. There is another matter which gives me far greater concern. In creating and dealing with an abstraction, one is frequently forced, if I may use the expression, to cut a subject in two, to bring one of its sides into full light and leave the other in darkness; nay, to speak harshly of one side of an art or of a man without being able to speak admiringly of another side. This one-sidedness, this apparent injustice of judgment, has in some cases been remedied by the fact that I have treated in one study those things which I was forced to omit in another study; as, in two separate essays, I have pointed out first the extreme inferiority of Renaissance sculpture to the sculpture of Antiquity with regard to absolute beauty of form; and then the immeasurable superiority of Renaissance over antique sculpture in the matter of that beauty and interest dependent upon mere arrangement and handling, wherein lies the beauty-creating power of realistic schools. But most often I have shown one side, not merely of an artist or an art, but of my own feeling, without showing the other; and in one case this inevitable one-sidedness has weighed upon me almost like personal guilt, and has almost made me postpone the publication of this book to the Greek Kalends, in hopes of being able to explain and to atone. I am alluding to Fra Angelico. I spoke of him in a study of the progress of mere beautiful form, the naked human form moreover, in the art of the Renaissance; I looked at his work with my mind full of the unapproachable superiority of antique form; I judged and condemned the artist with reference to that superb movement towards nature and form and bodily beauty which was the universal movement of the fifteenth century; I lost patience with this saint because he would not turn pagan; I pushed aside, because he did not seek for a classic Olympus, his exquisite dreams of a mediæval Paradise. I had taken part, as its chronicler, with the art which seeks mere plastic perfection, the art to which Angelico said, "Retro me Sathana." It was my intention to close even this volume with a study of the poetical conception of early Renaissance painting, of that strange kind of painting in which a thing but imperfect in itself, a mere symbol of lovely ideas, brings home to our mind, with a rush of associations, a sense of beauty and wonder greater perhaps than any which we receive from the sober reality of perfect form. Again, there are the German masters--the great engravers, Kranach, Altdorfer, Aldegrever, especially; of whom, for their absolute pleasure in ugly women, for their filthy delight in horrors, I have said an immense amount of ill; and of whom, for their wonderful intuition of dramatic situation, their instinct of the poetry of common things, and their magnificently imaginative rendering of landscape, I hope some day to say an equal amount of good. I have spoken of the lesson which may be derived from studies even as humble as these studies of mine; since, in my opinion, we cannot treat history as a mere art--though history alone can gives us now-a-days tragedy which has ceased to exist on our stage, and wonder which has ceased to exist in our poetry--we cannot seek in it mere selfish enjoyment of imagination and emotion, without doing our soul the great injury of cheating it of some of those great indignations, some of those great lessons which make it stronger and more supple in the practical affairs of life. Each of these studies of mine brings its own lesson, artistic or ethical, important or unimportant; its lesson of seeking certainty in our moral opinions, beauty in all and whatever our forms of art, spirituality in our love. But besides these I seem to perceive another deduction, an historical fact with a practical application; to see it as the result not merely perhaps of the studies of which this book is the fruit, but of those further studies, of the subtler sides of Mediæval and Renaissance life and art which at present occupy my mind and may some day add another series of essays to this: a lesson still vague to myself, but which, satisfactorily or unsatisfactorily, I shall nevertheless attempt to explain; if indeed it requires to be brought home to the reader. Of the few forms of feeling and imagination which I have treated--things so different from one another as the feeling for nature and the chivalric poem, as modern art, with its idealism and realism, and modern love--of these forms, emotional and artistic, which Antiquity did not know, or knew but little, the reader may have observed that I have almost invariably traced the origin deep into that fruitful cosmopolitan chaos, due to the mingling of all that was still unused of the remains of Antiquity with all that was untouched of the intellectual and moral riches of the barbarous nations, to which we give the name of Middle Ages; and that I have, as invariably, followed the development of these precious forms, and their definitive efflorescence and fruit-bearing, into that particular country where certain mediæval conditions had ceased to exist, namely Italy. In other words, it has seemed to me that the things which I have studied were originally produced during the Middle Ages, and consequently in the mediæval countries, France, Germany, Provence; but did not attain maturity except in that portion of the Middle Ages which is mediæval no longer, but already more than half modern, the Renaissance, which began in Italy not with the establishment of despotisms and the coming of Greek humanists, but with the independence of the free towns and with the revival of Roman tradition. Why so? Because, it appears to me, after watching the lines of my thought converging to this point, because, with a few exceptions, the Middle Ages were rich in great beginnings (indeed a good half of all that makes up our present civilization seems to issue from them): but they were poor in complete achievements; full of the seeds of modern institutions, arts, thoughts, and feelings, they yet show us but rarely the complete growth of any one of them: a fruitful Nile flood, but which must cease to drown and to wash away, which must subside before the germs that it has brought can shoot forth and mature. The sense of this comes home to me most powerfully whenever I think of mediæval poetry and mediæval painting. The songs of the troubadours and minnesingers, what are they to our feelings? They are pleasant, even occasionally beautiful, but they are empty, lamentably empty, charming arrangements of words; poetry which fills our mind or touches our heart comes only with the Tuscan lyrists of the thirteenth century. The same applies to mediæval narrative-verse: it is, with one or two exceptions or half exceptions, such as "The Chanson de Roland" and Gottfried's "Tristan und Isolde," decidedly wearisome; a thing to study, but scarcely a thing to delight in. I do not mean to say that the old legends of Wales and Scandinavia, subsequently embodied by the French and German poets of the Middle Ages, are without imaginative or emotional interest; nothing can be further from my thoughts. The Nibelung story possesses, both in the Norse and in the Middle High German version, a tragic fascination; and a quaint fairy-tale interest, every now and then rising to the charm of a Decameronian _novella_, is possessed by many of the Keltic tales, whether briefly told in the Mabinogion or lengthily detailed by Chrestien de Troyes and Wolfram von Eschenbach. But all this is the interest of the mere story, and you would enjoy it almost as much if that story were related not by a poet but by a peasant; it is the fascination of the mere theme, with the added fascination of our own unconscious filling up and colouring of details. And the poem itself, whence we extract this theme, remains, for the most part, uninteresting. The figures are vague, almost shapeless and colourless; they have no well-understood mental and moral anatomy, so that when they speak and act the writer seems to have no clear conception of the motives or tempers which make them do so; even as in a child's pictures, the horses gallop, the men run, the houses stand, but without any indication of the muscles which move the horse, of the muscles which hold up the man, of the solid ground upon which is built, nay rather, into which is planted, the house. Hatred of Hagen, devotion of Rüdger, passionate piety of Parzival--all these are things of which we do not particularly see the how or why; we do not follow the reasons, in event or character, which make these men sacrifice themselves or others, weep, storm, and so forth; nay, even when these reasons are clear from the circumstances, we are not shown the action of the mechanism, we do not see how Brunhilt is wroth, how Chriemhilt is revengeful, how Herzeloid is devoted to Parzival. There is, in the vast majority of this mediæval poetry, no clear conception of the construction and functions of people's character, and hence no conception either of those actions and reactions of various moral organs which, after all, are at the bottom of the events related. Herein lies the difference between the forms of the Middle Ages and those of Antiquity; for how perfectly felt, understood, is not every feeling and every action of the Homeric heroes, how perfectly indicated! We can see the manner and reason of the conflict of Achilles and Agamemnon, of the behaviour of the returned Odysseus, as clearly as we see the manner and reason of the movements of the fighting Centaurs and Lapithæ, or the Amazons; nay, even the minute mood of comparatively unimportant figures, as Helen, Brisei's, and Nausicaa, is indicated in its moral anatomy and attitude as distinctly as is the manner in which the maidens of the Parthenon frieze slowly restrain their steps, the boys curb their steeds, or the old men balance their oil jars. Nothing of this in mediæval literature, except perhaps in "Flamenca" and "Tristan," where the motive of action, mere imaginative desire, is all-permeating and explains everything. These people clearly had no interest, no perception, connected with character: a valorous woman, a chivalrous knight, an insolent steward, a jealous husband, a faithful retainer; things recognized only in outline, made to speak and act only according to a fixed tradition, without knowledge of the internal mechanism of motive; these sufficed. Hence it is that mediæval poetry is always like mediæval painting (for painting continued to be mediæval with Giotto's pupils long after poetry had ceased to be mediæval with Dante and his school), where the Virgin sits and holds the child without body wherewith to sit or arms wherewith to hold; where angels flutter forward and kneel in conventional greeting, with obviously no bended knees beneath their robes, nay, with knees, waist, armpits, all anywhere; where men ride upon horses without flat to their back; where processions of the blessed come forth, guided by fiddling seraphs, vague, faint faces, sweet or grand, heads which might wave like pieces of cut-out paper upon their necks, arms and legs here and there, not clearly belonging to any one; creatures marching, soaring, flying, singing, fiddling, without a bone or a muscle wherewith to do it all. And meanwhile, in this mediæval poetry, as in this mediæval painting, there are yards and yards of elaborate preciousness: all the embossed velvets, all the white-and-gold-shot brocades, all the silks and satins, and jewel-embroidered stuffs of the universe cast stiffly about these phantom men and women, these phantom horses and horsemen. It is not until we turn to Italy, and to the Northern man, Chaucer, entirely under Italian influence, that we obtain an approach to the antique clearness of perception and comprehension; that we obtain not only in Dante something akin to the muscularities of Signorelli and Michael Angelo; but in Boccaccio and Chaucer, in Cavalca and Petrarch, the equivalent of the well-understood movement, the well-indicated situation of the simple, realistic or poetic, sketches of Filippino and Botticelli. This, you will say, is a mere impression; it is no explanation, still less such an explanation as may afford a lesson. Not so. This strange inconclusiveness in all mediæval things, till the moment comes when they cease to be mediæval; this richness in germs and poverty in mature fruit, cannot be without its reason. And this reason, to my mind, lies in one word, the most terrible word of any, since it means suffering and hopelessness; a word which has haunted my mind ever since I have looked into mediæval things: the word Wastefulness. Wastefulness; the frightful characteristic of times at once so rich and so poor, the explanation of the long starvation and sickness that mankind, that all mankind's concerns--art, poetry, science, life--endured while the very things which would have fed and revived and nurtured, existed close at hand, and in profusion. Wastefulness, in this great period of confusion, of the most precious things that we possess: time, thought, and feeling refused to the realities of the world, and lavished on the figments of the imagination. Why this vagueness, this imperfection in all mediæval representations of life? Because even as men's eyes were withdrawn, by the temporal institutions of those days, from the sight of the fields and meadows which were left to the blind and dumb thing called serf; so also the thoughts of mankind, its sympathy and intentions, were withdrawn from the mere earthly souls, the mere earthly wrongs and woes of men by the great self-organized institution of mediæval religion. Pity of the body of Christ held in bondage by the Infidel; love of God; study of the unknowable things of Heaven: such are the noblest employments of the mediæval soul; how much of pity, of love, may remain for man; how much of study for the knowable? To Wastefulness like this--to misapplication of mind ending almost in palsy--must we ascribe, I think, the strange sterility of such mediæval art as deals not merely with pattern, but with the reality of man's body and soul. And we might be thankful, if, during our wanderings among mediæval things, we had seen the starving of only art and artistic instincts; but the soul of man has lain starving also; starving for the knowledge which was sought only of Divine things, starving for the love which was given only to God. The explanation, therefore, and its lesson, may thus be summed up in the one word Wastefulness. And the fruitfulness of the Renaissance, all that it has given to us of art, of thought, of feeling (for the "Vita Nuova" is its fruit), is due, as it seems to me, to the fact that the Renaissance is simply the condition of civilization when, thanks to the civil liberty and the spiritual liberty inherited from Rome and inherited from Greece, man's energies of thought and feeling were withdrawn from the unknowable to the knowable, from Heaven to Earth; and were devoted to the developing of those marvellous new things which Antiquity had not known, and which had lain neglected and wasted during the Middle Ages. FLORENCE, _January_,1884. APPENDIX. I have seen the pictures and statues and towns which I have described, and I have read the books of which I attempt to give an impression; but here my original research, if such it may be called, comes to an end. I have trusted only to myself for my impressions; but I have taken from others everything that may be called historical fact, as distinguished from the history of this or that form of thought or of art which I have tried to elaborate. My references are therefore only to standard historical works, and to such editions of poets and prose writers as have come into my hands. How much I am endebted to the genius of Michelet; nay, rather, how much I am, however unimportant, the thing made by him, every one will see and judge. With regard to positive information I must express my great obligations to the works of Jacob Burckhardt, of Prof. Villari, and of Mr. J.A. Symonds in everything that concerns the political history and social condition of the Renaissance. Mr. Symonds' name I have placed last, although this is by no means the order of importance in which the three writers appear in my mind, because vanity compels me to state that I have deprived myself of the pleasure and profit of reading his volumes on Italian literature, from a fear that finding myself doubtless forestalled by him in various appreciations, I might deprive my essays of what I feel to be their principal merit, namely, the spontaneity and wholeness of personal impression. With regard to philological lore, I may refer, among a number of other works, to M. Gaston Paris' work on the Cycle of Charlemagne, M. de la Villemarqué's companion volume on Keltic romances, and Professor Rajna's "Fonti dell' Ariosto." My knowledge of troubadours, trouvères, and minnesingers is obtained mainly from the great collections of Raynouard, Wackernagel, Mätzner, Bartsch, and Von der Hagen, and from Bartsch's and Simrock's editions and versions of Gottfried von Strassburg, Hartmann von Aue, and Wolfram von Eschenbach. "Flamenca" I have read in Professor Paul Meyer's beautiful edition, text and translation; "Aucassin et Nicolette," in an edition published, if I remember rightly, by Janet; and also in a very happy translation contained in Delvau's huge collection of "Romans de Chevalerie," which contains, unfortunately sometimes garbled, as many of the prose stories of the Carolingian and Amadis cycle as I, at all events, could endure to read. For the early Italian poets, excepting Carducci's "Cino da Pistoia," my references are the same as those in Rossetti's "Dante and his Cycle," especially the "Rime Antiche" and the "Poeti del Primo Secolo." Professor d'Ancona's pleasant volume has greatly helped me in the history of the transformation of the courtly poetry of the early Middle Ages into the folk poetry of Tuscany. I owe a good deal also, with regard to this same essay "The Outdoor Poetry," to Roskoff's famous "Geschichte des Teufels," and to Signor Novati's recently published "Carmina Medii _Ævi_." The Italian _novellieri,_ Bandello, Cinthio, and their set, I have used in the Florentine editions of 1820 or 1825; Masuccio edited by De Sanctis. For the essay on the Italian Renaissance on the Elizabethan Stage, I have had recourse, chiefly, to the fifteenth century chronicles in the "Archivio Storico Italiano," and to Dyce's Webster, Hartley Coleridge's Massinger and Ford, Churton Collins' Cyril Tourneur, and J.O. Halliwell's Marston. The essays on art have naturally profited by the now inevitable Crowe and Cavalcaselle; but in this part of my work, while I have relied very little on books, I have received more than the equivalent of the information to be obtained from any writers in the suggestions and explanations of my friend Mr. T. Nelson MacLean, who has made it possible for a mere creature of pens and ink to follow the differences of _technique_ of the sculptors and medallists of the fifteenth century; a word of thanks also, for various such suggestions as can come only from a painter, to my old friend Mr. John S. Sargent, of Paris. I must conclude these acknowledgments by thanking the Editors of the _Contemporary, British Quarterly_, and _National Reviews_, and of the _Cornhill Magazine_, for permission to republish such of the essays or fragments of essays as have already appeared in those periodicals. THE END. 
15810	----	Team at www.pgdp.net. OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORK TORONTO MELBOURNE BOMBAY HUMPHREY MILFORD M.A. PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY * * * * * THE AGE OF ERASMUS LECTURES DELIVERED IN THE UNIVERSITIES OF OXFORD AND LONDON BY P.S. ALLEN, M.A. FELLOW OF MERTON COLLEGE, OXFORD OXFORD AT THE CLARENDON PRESS 1914 * * * * * CONTENTS I. THE ADWERT ACADEMY II. SCHOOLS III. MONASTERIES IV. UNIVERSITIES V. ERASMUS' LIFE-WORK VI. FORCE AND FRAUD VII. PRIVATE LIFE AND MANNERS VIII. THE POINT OF VIEW IX. PILGRIMAGES X. THE TRANSALPINE RENAISSANCE XI. ERASMUS AND THE BOHEMIAN BRETHREN * * * * * I THE ADWERT ACADEMY The importance of biography for the study of history can hardly be overrated. In a sense it is true that history should be like the law and 'care not about very small things'; concerning itself not so much with individual personality as with fundamental causes affecting the rise and fall of nations or the development of mental outlook from one age to another. But even if this be conceded, we still must not forget that the course of history is worked out by individuals, who, in spite of the accidental condensation that the needs of human life thrust upon them, are isolated at the last and alone--for no man may deliver his brother. In consequence, it is only in periods when the stream of personal record flows wide and deep that history begins to live, and that we have a chance to view it through the eyes of the actors instead of projecting upon it our own fancies and conceptions. One of the features that makes the study of the Renaissance so fascinating is that in that age the stream of personal record, which had been driven underground, its course choked and hidden beneath the fallen masonry of the Roman Empire, emerges again unimpeded and flows in ever-increasing volume. For reconstruction of the past we are no longer limited to charters and institutions, or the mighty works of men's hands. In place of a mental output, rigidly confined within unbending modes of thought and expression, we have a literature that reflects the varied phases of human life, that can discard romance and look upon the commonplace; and instead of dry and meagre chronicles, rarely producing evidence at first hand, we have rich store of memoirs and private letters, by means of which we can form real pictures of individuals--approaching almost to personal acquaintance and intimacy--and regard the same events from many points of view, to perception of the circumstances that 'alter cases'. The period of the Transalpine Renaissance corresponds roughly with the life of Erasmus (1466-1536); from the days when Northern scholars began to win fame for themselves in reborn Italy, until the width of the humanistic outlook was narrowed and the progress of the reawakened studies overwhelmed by the tornado of the Reformation. The aim of these lectures is not so much to draw the outlines of the Renaissance in the North as to present sketches of the world through which Erasmus passed, and to view it as it appeared to him and to some of his contemporaries, famous or obscure. And firstly of the generation that preceded him in the wide but undefined region known then as Germany. The Cistercian Abbey of Adwert near Groningen, under the enlightened governance of Henry of Rees (1449-85), was a centre to which were attracted most of the scholars whose names are famous in the history of Northern humanism in the second half of the fifteenth century: Wessel, Agricola, Hegius, Langen, Vrye, and others. They came on return from visits to Italy or the universities; men of affairs after discharge of their missions; schoolmasters to rest on their holidays; parish priests in quest of change: all found a welcome from the hospitable Abbot, and their talk ranged far and wide, over the pursuit of learning, till Adwert merited the name of an 'Academy'. Earliest of these is John Wessel (d. 1489), and perhaps also the most notable; certainly the others looked up to him with a veneration which seems to transcend the natural pre-eminence of seniority. Unfortunately the details of his life have not been fully established. Thirty years after his death, when it was too late for him to define his own views, the Reformers claimed him for their own; and in consequence his body has been wrangled over with the heat which seeks not truth but victory. His father, Hermann Wessel, was a baker from the Westphalian village of Gansfort or Goesevort, who settled in Groningen. After some years in the town school, the boy was about to be apprenticed to a trade, as his parents were too poor to help him further; but the good Oda Jargis, hearing how well he had done at his books, sent him to the school at Zwolle, in which the Brethren of the Common Life took part. There, as at Groningen, he rose to the top, and in his last years, as a first-form boy, also did some teaching in the third form, according to the custom of the school. He came into contact with Thomas à Kempis, who was then at the monastery of Mount St. Agnes, half an hour outside Zwolle, and was profoundly influenced by him. The course at Zwolle lasted eight years, and there is reason to suppose that he completed it in full. He was lodged in the Parua Domus, a hostel for fifty boys, and we are told that he and his next neighbour made a hole through the wall which divided their rooms--probably only a wooden partition--and taught one another: Wessel imparting earthly wisdom, and receiving in exchange the fear and love of the Lord. In the autumn of 1449 he matriculated at Cologne, entering the Bursa Laurentiana; in December 1450 he was B.A., and in February 1452, M.A. By 1455 he had arrived at Paris and entered upon his studies for the theological degree. Within a year he conceived a profound distaste for the philosophy dominant in the schools; and though he persevered for some time, his frequent dissension from his teachers earned for him the title of 'Magister contradictionis'. After this his movements cannot be traced until 1470, when he was at Rome in the train of Cardinal Francesco della Rovere. In the interval he studied medicine, and, if report be true, travelled far; venturing into the East, just when the fall of Constantinople had turned the tide of Hellenism westward. In Greece he read Aristotle in the original, and learnt to prefer Plato; in Egypt he sought in vain for the books of Solomon and a mythical library of Hebrew treasures. In 1471 his Cardinal-patron was elected Pope as Sixtus IV. The magnificence which characterized the poor peasant's son in his dealings with Italy, in his embellishment of Rome and the Vatican, was not lacking in his treatment of Wessel. 'Ask what you please as a parting gift', he said to the scholar, who was preparing to set out for Friesland. 'Give me books from your library, Greek and Hebrew', was the request. 'What? No benefice, no grant of office or fees? Why not?' 'Because I don't want them', came the quiet reply. The books were forthcoming--one, a Greek Gospels, was perhaps the parent of a copy which reached Erasmus for the second edition of his New Testament. After his return to the North, Wessel was invited to Heidelberg, to aid the Elector Palatine, Philip, in restoring the University, _c._ 1477. He was without the degree in theology which would have enabled him to teach in that faculty, and was not even in orders: indeed a proposal that he should qualify by entering the lowest grade and receiving the tonsure, he contemptuously rejected. So the Theological Faculty would not hear him, but to the students in Arts he lectured on Greek and Hebrew and philosophy. For some years, too, he was physician to David of Burgundy, Bishop of Utrecht, whom he cured of gout by making him take baths of warm milk. The Bishop rewarded him by shielding him from the attacks of the Dominicans, who were incensed by his bold criticisms of Aquinas; and when age brought the desire for rest, the Bishop set him over a house of nuns at Groningen, and bought him the right to visit Mount St. Agnes whenever he liked, by paying for the board and lodging of this welcome guest. Wessel's last years were happily spent. He was the acknowledged leader of his society, and he divided his time between Mount St. Agnes and the sisters at Groningen, with occasional visits to Adwert. There he set about reviving the Abbey schools, one elementary, within its walls, the other more advanced, in a village near by; and Abbot Rees warmly supported him. Would-be pupils besought him to teach them Greek and Hebrew. Admiring friends came to hear him talk, and brought their sons to see this glory of their country--Lux mundi, as he was called. Some fragments of his conversation have been preserved, the unquestioned judgements which his hearers loyally received. Of the Schoolmen he was contemptuous, with their honorific titles: 'doctor angelic, doctor seraphic, doctor subtle, doctor irrefragable.' 'Was Thomas (Aquinas) a doctor? So am I. Thomas scarcely knew Latin, and that was his only tongue: I have a fair knowledge of the three languages. Thomas saw Aristotle only as a phantom: I have read him in Greece in his own words.' To Ostendorp, then a young man, but afterwards to become head master of Deventer school, he gave the counsel: 'Read the ancients, sacred and profane: modern doctors, with their robes and distinctions, will soon be drummed out of town.' At Mount St. Agnes once he was asked why he never used rosary nor book of hours. 'I try', he replied, 'to pray always. I say the Lord's Prayer once every day. Said once a year in the right spirit it would have more weight than all these vain repetitions.' He loved to read aloud to the brethren on Sunday evenings; his favourite passage being John xiii-xviii, the discourse at the Last Supper. As he grew older, he sometimes stumbled over his words. He was not an imposing figure, with his eyes somewhat a-squint and his slight limp; and sometimes the younger monks fell into a titter, irreverent souls, to hear him so eager in his reading and so unconscious. It was not his eyesight that was at fault: to the end he could read the smallest hand without any glasses, like his great namesake, John Wesley, whom a German traveller noticed on the packet-boat between Flushing and London reading the fine print of the Elzevir Virgil, with his eyes unaided, though at an advanced age. On his death-bed Wessel was assailed with scepticism, and began to doubt about the truth of the Christian religion. But the cloud was of short duration. That supreme moment of revelation, which comes to every man once, is no time for fear. Patient hope cast out questioning, and he passed through the deep waters with his eyes on the Cross which had been his guide through the life that was ending. Of Rudolph Agricola we know more than of the others; his striking personality, it seems, moved many of his friends to put on record their impressions of him. One of the best of these sketches is by Goswin of Halen (d. 1530), who had been Wessel's servant at Groningen, and had frequently met Agricola. Rudolph's father, Henry Huusman, was the parish priest of Baflo, a village four hours to the north of Groningen; his mother being a young woman of the place, who subsequently married a local carrier. On 17 Feb. 1444 the priest was elected to be warden of a college of nuns at Siloe, close to Groningen, and in the same hour a messenger came running to him from Baflo, claiming the reward of good news and announcing the birth of a son. 'Good,' said the new warden; 'this is an auspicious day, for it has twice made me father.' From the moment he could walk, the boy was passionately fond of music; the sound of church bells would bring him toddling out into the street, or the thrummings of the blind beggars as they went from house to house playing for alms; and he would follow strolling pipers out of the gates into the country, and only be driven back by a show of violence. When he was taken to church, all through the mass his eyes were riveted upon the organ and its bellows; and as he grew older he made himself a syrinx with eight or nine pipes out of willow-bark. He was taught to ride on horseback, and early became adept in pole-jumping whilst in the saddle, an art which the Frieslanders of that age had evolved to help their horses across the broad rhines of their country. In 1456, when he was just 12, he matriculated at Erfurt, and in May 1462 at Cologne. But the course of his education is not clear, and though it is known that he reached the M.A. at Louvain, the date of this degree is not certain. He is also said to have been at the University of Paris. Of his life at Louvain some details are given by Geldenhauer (d. 1542) in a sketch written about fifty years after Agricola's death. The University had been founded in 1426 to meet the needs of Belgian students, who for higher education had been obliged to go to Cologne or Paris, or more distant universities. Agricola entered Kettle College, which afterwards became the college of the Falcon, and soon distinguished himself among his fellow-students. They admired the ease with which he learnt French--not the rough dialect of Hainault, but the polite language of the court. With many his musical tastes were a bond of sympathy, in a way which recalls the evenings that Henry Bradshaw used to spend among the musical societies of Bruges and Lille when he was working in Belgian libraries; and on all sides men frankly acknowledged his intellectual pre-eminence as they marked his quiet readiness in debate and heard him pose the lecturers with acute questions. By nature he was silent and absorbed, and often in company he would sit deaf to all questions, his elbows on the table and biting his nails. But when roused he was at once captivating; and this unintended rudeness never lost him a friend. There was a small band of true humanists, who, as Geldenhauer puts it, 'had begun to love purity of Latin style'; to them he was insensibly attracted, and spent with them over Cicero and Quintilian hours filched from the study of Aristotle. Later in life he openly regretted having spent as much as seven years over the scholastic philosophy, which he had learnt to regard as profitless. From 1468 to 1479 he was for the most part in Italy, except for occasional visits to the North, when we see him staying with his father at Siloe, and, in 1474, teaching Greek to Hegius at Emmerich. Many positions were offered to him already; gifts such as his have not to stand waiting in the marketplace. But his wits were not homely, and the world called him. Before he could settle he must see many men and many cities, and learn what Italy had to teach him. For the first part of his time there, until 1473, he was at Pavia studying law and rhetoric; but on his return from home in 1474 he went to Ferrara in order to enjoy the better opportunities for learning Greek afforded by the court of Duke Hercules of Este and its circle of learned men. His description of the place is interesting: 'The town is beautiful, and so are the women. The University has not so many faculties as Pavia, nor are they so well attended; but _literae humaniores_ seem to be in the very air. Indeed, Ferrara is the home of the Muses--and of Venus.' One special delight to him was that the Duke had a fine organ, and he was able to indulge what he describes as his 'old weakness for the organs'. In October 1476, at the opening of the winter term of the University, the customary oration before the Duke was delivered by Rodolphus Agricola Phrysius. His eloquence surprised the Italians, coming from so outlandish a person: 'a Phrygian, I believe', said one to another, with a contemptuous shrug of the shoulders. But Agricola, with his chestnut-brown hair and blue eyes, was no Oriental; only a Frieslander from the North, whose cold climate to the superb Italians seemed as benumbing to the intellect as we consider that of the Esquimaux. During this period Agricola translated Isocrates _ad Demonicum_ and the _Axiochus de contemnenda morte_, a dialogue wrongly attributed to Plato, which was a favourite in Renaissance days. Also he completed the chief composition of his lifetime, the _De inuentione dialectica_, a considerable treatise on rhetoric. His favourite books, Geldenhauer tells us, were Pliny's Natural History, the younger Pliny's Letters, Quintilian's _Institutio Oratoria_, and selections from Cicero and Plato. These were his travelling library, carried with him wherever he went; two of them, Pliny's Letters and Quintilian, he had copied out with his own hand. Other books, as he acquired them, he planted out in friends' houses as pledges of return. In 1479 he left Italy and went home. On his way he stayed for some months with the Bishop of Augsburg at Dillingen, on the Danube, and there translated Lucian's _De non facile credendis delationibus_. A manuscript of Homer sorely tempted him to stay on through the winter. He felt that without Homer his knowledge of Greek was incomplete; and he proposed to copy it out from beginning to end, or at any rate the Iliad. But home called him, and he went on. At Spires, in quest of manuscripts, he went with a friend to the cathedral library. He describes it as not bad for Germany, though it contained nothing in Greek, and only a few Latin manuscripts of any interest--a Livy and a Pliny, very old, but much injured and the texts corrupt--and nothing at all that could be called eloquence, that is to say, pure literature. When he had been a little while in Groningen, the town council bethought them to turn his talents and learning to some account. He was a fine figure of a man, who would make a creditable show in conducting their business; and for composing the elegant Latin epistles, which every respectable corporation felt bound to rise to on occasions, no one was better equipped than he. He was retained as town secretary, and in the four years of his service went on frequent embassies. During the first year we hear of him visiting his father at Siloe, and contracting a friendship with one of the nuns[1]; to whom he afterwards sent a work of Eucherius, bishop of Lyons, which he had found in a manuscript at Roermond. Twice he visited Brussels on embassy to Maximilian; and in the next year he followed the Archduke's court for several months, visiting Antwerp, and making the acquaintance of Barbiriau, the famous musician. Maximilian offered him the post of tutor to his children and Latin secretary to himself; the town of Antwerp invited him to become head of their school. He might easily have accepted. He was not altogether happy at Groningen. His countrymen had done him honour, but they had no real appreciation for learning, and some of them were boorish and cross-grained. It was the old story of Pegasus in harness; the practical men of business and the scholar impatient of restraint. His parents, too, were now both dead--in 1480, within a few months of each other--and such homes as he had had, with his father amongst the nuns at Siloe and with his mother in the house of her husband the tranter, were therefore closed to him. And yet neither invitation attracted him. Friesland was his native land; and for all his wanderings the love of it was in his blood. Adwert, too, was near, and Wessel. He refused, and stayed on in his irksome service. [1] In view of Geldenhauer's testimony to Agricola's high character in this respect, we need not question, as does Goswin of Halen, the nature of this intimacy. But in 1482 came an offer he could not resist. An old friend of Pavia days, John of Dalberg, for whom he had written the oration customary on his installation as Rector in 1474, had just been appointed Bishop of Worms. He invited Agricola for a visit, and urged him to come and join him; living partly as a friend in the Bishop's household, partly lecturing at the neighbouring University of Heidelberg. The opening was just such as Agricola wished, and he eagerly accepted; but circumstances at Groningen prevented him from redeeming his promise until the spring of 1484. For little more than a year he rejoiced in the new position, which gave full scope for his abilities. Then he set out to Rome with Dalberg, their business being to deliver the usual oration of congratulation to Innocent VIII on his election. On the way back he fell ill of a fever at Trent, and the Bishop had to leave him behind. He recovered enough to struggle back to Heidelberg, but only to die in Dalberg's arms on 27 Oct. 1485, at the age of 41. Few men of letters have made more impression on their contemporaries; and yet his published writings are scanty. The generation that followed sought for his manuscripts as though they were of the classics; but thirty years elapsed before the _De inuentione dialectica_ was printed, and more than fifty before there was a collected edition. Besides his letters the only thing which has permanent value is a short educational treatise, _De formando studio_, which he wrote in 1484, and addressed to Barbiriau--some compensation to the men of Antwerp for his refusal to come to them. His work was to learn and to teach rather than to write. To learn Greek when few others were learning it, and when the apparatus of grammar and dictionary had to be made by the student for himself, was a task to consume even abundant energies; and still more so, if Hebrew, too, was to be acquired. But though he left little, the fire of his enthusiasm did not perish with him; passing on by tradition, it kindled in others whom he had not known, the flame of interest in the wisdom of the ancients. Another member of the Adwert gatherings was Alexander of Heck in Westphalia, hence called Hegius (1433-98). He was an older man than Agricola, but was not ashamed to learn of him when an opportunity offered to acquire Greek. His enthusiasm was for teaching; and to that he gave his life, first at Wesel, then at Emmerich, and finally for fifteen years at Deventer, where he had many eminent humanists under his care--Erasmus, William Herman, Mutianus Rufus, Hermann Busch, John Faber, John Murmell, Gerard Geldenhauer. Butzbach, who was the last pupil he admitted, and who saw him buried in St. Lebuin's church on a winter's evening at sunset, describes him at great length; and besides his learning and simplicity, praises the liberality with which he gave all that he had to help the needy: living in the house of another (probably Richard Paffraet, the printer) and sharing expenses, and leaving at his death no possessions but his books and a few clothes. And yet he was master of a school which had over 2000 boys. Rudolph Langen of Munster (1438-1519) was another who was known at Adwert. He matriculated at Erfurt in the same year as Agricola, and was M.A. there in 1460. A canonry at Munster gave him maintenance for his life, and he devoted his energies to learning. Twice he visited Italy, in 1465 and 1486; and in 1498 he succeeded in establishing a school at Munster on humanistic lines, and wished Hegius to become head master, but in vain. Nevertheless it rapidly rivalled the fame of Deventer. Finally, Antony Vrye (Liber) of Soest deserves record, since he has contributed somewhat to our knowledge of Adwert. He also was a schoolmaster, and taught at various times at Emmerich, Campen, Amsterdam, and Alcmar. In 1477 he published a volume entitled _Familiarium Epistolarum Compendium_, the composition of which illustrates the catholic tastes of the humanists; for it contains selections from the letters of Cicero, Jerome, Symmachus, and the writers of the Italian Renaissance. But he chiefly merits our gratitude for including in the book a number of letters which passed between the visitors to Adwert and their friends, together with some of his own. The pleasant relations existing in this little society may be illustrated by the fact that when Vrye's son John had reached student age, the Adwert friends subscribed to pay his expenses at a university; and thus secured him an education which enabled him to become Syndic of Campen. A few extracts from their letters will serve to show some of the characteristics of the age, its wide interest in the past, theological as well as classical; its eager search for manuscripts, and the freedom with which its libraries were opened; its concern for education, and its attitude towards the old learning; and the extent of its actual achievements. The earliest of these letters that survive are a series written by Langen from Adwert in the spring of 1469 to Vrye at Soest. Despite the grave interest in serious study that the letters show, there are human touches about them. One begins: 'You promised faithfully to return, and yet you have not come. But I cannot blame you; for the road is deep in mud, and I myself too am so feeble a walker that I can imagine the weariness of others' feet.' Another ends in haste, not with the departure of the post, but 'The servants are waiting to conduct me to bed'. Here is a longer sample: I. LANGEN TO VRYE: from Adwert, 27 Feb. <1469>. 'Why do you delay so long to gratify the wishes of our devout friend Wolter? With my own hand I have transcribed the little book of _Elegantiae_, as far as the section about the reckoning of the Kalends. I greatly desire to have this precious work complete; so do send me the portion we lack as soon as you can. The little book will be my constant companion: I know nothing that has such value in so narrow a span. How brilliant Valla is! he has raised up Latin to glory from the bondage of the barbarians. May the earth lie lightly on him and the spring shine ever round his urn! Even if the book is not by Valla himself, it must come from his school. 'I write in haste and with people talking all round me, from whom politeness will not let me sit altogether aloof. But read carefully and you will understand me. At least I hope this letter won't be quite so barbarous as the monstrosities which the usher from Osnabruck sends you every day: they sound like the spells of witches to bring up their familiar spirits, or the enchantments "Fecana kageti", &c., which open locks whoever knocks. Poor Latin! it is worse handled than was Regulus by the Carthaginians. Forgive this scrawl: I am writing by candlelight.' We shall have other occasions to notice the admiration of the Northern humanists for Lorenzo Valla (d. 1457), the master of Latin style, and the audacious Canon of the Lateran, who could apply the spirit of criticism not only to the New Testament but even to the Donation of Constantine. 2. VRYE TO ARNOLD OF HILDESHEIM (Schoolmaster at Emmerich): <? Cologne, _c._ 1477>. 'I have still a great many things to do, but I shall not begin upon them till the printed books from Cologne arrive at Deventer. My plan was to go to Heidelberg, Freiburg, Basle and some of the universities in the East and then return to Deventer through Saxony and Westphalia. But at Coblenz I met four men from Strasburg who declared that Upper Germany was almost all overrun by soldiers. This unexpected alarm has compelled me to dispose of the 1500 copies of _The Revival of Latin_ amongst the schools.[2] After visiting Deventer and Zwolle I shall go to Louvain, and then, if it is safe, to Paris. I thought you ought to know of this change in my plans; that you might not be taken by surprise at finding me gone westwards instead of into Upper Germany. 'Please take great pains over the correction of the manuscripts.' [2] particularibus studiis. 3. AGRICOLA TO HEGIUS <at Emmerich>: from Groningen, 20 Sept. 1480. 'I was very sorry to learn from your letter that you had been here just when I was away. There are so few opportunities of meeting any one who cares for learning that you would have been most welcome. My position becomes increasingly distasteful to me: since I left Italy, I forget everything--the classics, history, even how to write with any style. In prose I can get neither ideas nor language. Such as come only serve to fill the page with awkward, disjointed sentences. Verse I hardly ever attempt, and when I do, there is no flow about it; sometimes the lines almost refuse to scan. The fact is that I can find no one here who is interested in these things. If only we were together! 'My youngest brother Henry has been fired with the desire to study. I have advised him against it, but as he persists, I do not like to do more. For the last six months he has been with Frederic Mormann at Munster, and has made some progress: but now Mormann <who was one of the Brethren of the Common Life> has been sent as Rector to a house <at Marburg>, and Henry has come home. If you can have him, I should like him to come to you. He will bring with him the usual furniture,[3] money will be sent to him from time to time, and he will find himself a lodging[4] wherever you advise. I should be glad to know whether there are any teachers who give lessons out of school hours, as Mormann does; and whether any one may go to them on payment of a fee, whether candidates for orders[5] or not. I should like him to get over the elements as quickly as possible; for if boys are kept at them too long, they take a dislike to the whole thing. The Pliny that you ask for shall come to you soon. I use it a great deal; but nevertheless you shall have it.' [3] victui necessaria, vt solent nostrates. Victus is commonly used in the technical sense of 'board'; but here the meaning probably is 'the usual outfit for a schoolboy'. Gebwiler, in 1530, required a boy coming to his school at Hagenau to be provided with 'a bed, sheets, pillow, and other necessaries'. [4] diuersorium. [5] capitiati. In answer to a question from Hegius, Agricola goes on to distinguish the words mimus, histrio, persona, scurra, nebulo; with quotations from Juvenal and Gellius. 'Leccator', he says, 'is a German word; like several others that we have turned into bad Latin, reisa, burgimagister, scultetus, or like the French passagium for a military expedition, guerra for war, treuga for truce.' He then proceeds to more derivations in answer to Hegius. [Greek: Anthrôpos] he considers a fundamental word, which, like homo, defies analysis: but nevertheless he suggests [Greek: ana] and [Greek: trepô], or [Greek: terpô], or [Greek: trephô]. To explain vesper he cites Sallust, Catullus, Ovid, Pliny's Letters, Caesar's Civil War, Persius and Suetonius. (We must remember that in those days a man's quotations were culled from his memory, not from a dictionary or concordance.) He goes on: 'About forming words by analogy, I rarely allow myself to invent words which are not in the best authors, but still perhaps I might use Socratitas, Platonitas, entitas, though Valla I am sure would object. After all one must be free, when there is necessity. Cicero, without any need, used Pietas and Lentulitas; and Pollio talks of Livy's Patauinitas.' Other words explained are tignum, asser, [Greek: dioikêsis]; and then Agricola proceeds to correct a number of mistakes in Hegius' letter. Rather delicate work it might seem; but there is such good humour between them that, though the corrections extend to some length, it all ends pleasantly. 4. HEGIUS TO AGRICOLA; from Deventer, 17 Dec. <1484>. After apologies for not having written for a long while, he proceeds: 'You ask how my school is doing. Well, it is full again now; but in summer the numbers rather fell off. The plague which killed twenty of the boys, drove many others away, and doubtless kept some from coming to us at all. 'Thank you for translating Lucian's Micyllus. I am sure that all of us who read it, will be greatly pleased with it. As soon as it comes, I will have it printed. If I may, I should much like to ask you for an abridgement of your book on Dialectic: it would be very valuable to students. I understand that you have translated Isocrates' Education of Princes. If I had it here, I would expound it to my pupils. For some of them, no doubt, will be princes some day and have to govern. 'I have been reading Valla's book on the True Good, and have become quite an Epicurean, estimating all things in terms of pleasure. Also it has persuaded me that each virtue has its contrary vice, rather than two vices as its extremes. I should like to know whether the authorities at Heidelberg have abandoned their Marsilius[6] on the question of universals, or whether they still stick to him.' [6] Of Inghen, first Rector of Heidelberg University (1386), the author of the _Parua Logicalia_. 5. AGRICOLA TO HEGIUS; from Worms, Tuesday <January 1485>, in reply. After thanks and personalities he writes: 'Certainly you shall have the Lucian, and I will dedicate it to you: but not just yet, as I am too busy to revise it. My public lectures take up a good deal of my time. I have a fairly large audience; but their zeal is greater than their ability. The majority of them are M.A.'s or students in the Arts course;[7] who are obliged to spend all their time on their disputations, so they have only a meagre part of the day left for these studies. In consequence, as they can do so little, I am not very active. 'In addition to this I am trying to keep up my Latin and Greek (though they are fast slipping from me) and am beginning Hebrew, which I find very difficult: indeed to my surprise it costs me more effort than Greek did. However, I shall go on with it as I have begun: also because I like to have something new on hand, and much as I like Greek, its novelty has somewhat worn off. I have made up my mind to devote my old age, if I ever reach it, to theology. You know how I detest the barbarisms of those who fill the schools. On their side they are indignant with me for daring to question their decisions; but this will not deter me. 'My greetings to your host, Master Richard (Paffraet), and his wife. 'Worms, in great haste, on the third day of the week: as I have determined to call it, instead of our unclassical Feria secunda, tertia, &c., or the heathen names, Monday, Mars' day, Mercury's day, Jove's day.' [7] Scholastici, vt nos dicimus, artium. We may notice the anticipation of the Quakers, who in a similar way would only speak of first day and sixth month. 6. HEGIUS TO WESSEL; from Deventer <between 1483 and 1489>. 'I am sending you the Homilies of John Chrysostom, and hope you will enjoy reading them. His golden words have always been more acceptable to you than the precious metal itself from the mint. 'I have been, as you know, at Cusanus' library, and found there many Hebrew books which were quite unknown to me; also a few Greek. I remember the names of the following: Epiphanius against heresies, a very big book; Dionysius on the Hierarchy; Athanasius against Arius; Climacus. 'These I left behind there, but I brought away with me: Basil on the Hexaëmeron and some of his homilies on the Psalms; the Epistles of Paul and the Acts of the Apostles; Plutarch's Lives of Romans and Greeks, and his Symposium; some writings on grammar and mathematics; some poems on the Christian religion, written, I think, by Gregory Nazianzen; some prayers, in Latin and Greek. 'If there are any of these you lack, let me know and they shall come to you: for everything I have is at your disposal. If you could spare the Gospels in Greek, I should be grateful for the loan of it. You enquire what books we are using in the school. I have followed your advice; for literature which is dangerous to morality is most injurious.' The library mentioned above was that of Nicholas Krebs (d. 1464), the famous Cardinal who took part in the Council of Basle and was the patron of Poggio. Cues on the Moselle was his birthplace, and gave him his name Cusanus. In his later years he founded a hostel, the Bursa Cusana, at Deventer, where he had been at school, and at Cues built a hospital for aged men and women, with a grassy quadrangle and a chapel of delicate Gothic; and there in a vaulted chamber supported by a central column he deposited the manuscripts, mainly theological but with some admixture of the classics, which he had gathered in the course of his busy life. In 1496 we hear of another visit to it; when Dalberg, who was a prince of humanists, led thither Reuchlin and a party of friends on a voyage of discovery. Their course was from Worms to Oppenheim, where his mother was still living: by boat to Coblenz and up the Moselle to Cues: then over the hills to Dalburg, his ancestral home, and finally to the abbey of Sponheim, near Kreuznach, where they admired the rich collection of manuscripts in five languages formed by the learned historian Trithemius, who was then Abbot. Whether this gay party of pleasure also carried off any treasures from Cues is not recorded. But lest this view of the Adwert Academy should appear too uniformly roseate, we will turn to the tradition of Reyner Praedinius (1510-59), who was Rector of the town school at Groningen, and whose fame attracted students thither from Italy, Spain, and Poland. He had in his possession several manuscripts of Wessel's writings, some of them unpublished; and he had been intimate with men who had known both Wessel and Agricola. One of these--very likely Goswin of Halen--as a boy had often served at table, when the two scholars were dining; and had afterwards shown them the way home with a lantern. He used to say that he had frequently pulled off Agricola's boots, when he came home the worse for his potations; but that no one had ever seen Wessel under the influence of wine. Wessel, indeed, lived to a green old age, but killed himself by working too hard. II SCHOOLS Erasmus was born at Rotterdam on the vigil of SS. Simon and Jude, 27 October: probably in 1466, but his utterances on the subject are ambiguous. Around his parentage he wove a web of romance, from which only one fact emerges clearly--that his father was at some time a priest. Current gossip said that he was parish priest of Gouda; a little town near Rotterdam, with a big church, which in the sixteenth century its inhabitants were wealthy enough to adorn with some fine stained glass. There in the town school, under a master who was afterwards one of the guardians of his scanty patrimony, Erasmus' schooldays began, and he made acquaintance with the Latin grammar of Donatus. After an interval as chorister at Utrecht, he was sent by his parents to the school at Deventer, which, with that of the neighbouring and rival town of Zwolle, enjoyed pre-eminence among the schools of the Netherlands at that date. It was connected with the principal church of the town, St. Lebuin's; and doubtless among those aisles and chapels, listening perhaps to the merry bells, whose chimes still proclaim the quarters far and wide, he caught the first breath of that new hope to which he was to devote his whole life. The school was controlled by the canons of St. Lebuin, who appointed the head master; but, as at Zwolle, some of the teachers were drawn from that sober and learned order, the Brethren of the Common Life, whose parent house was at Deventer. Of Erasmus' life in the school we have little knowledge. He tells us that he was there in 1475, when preachers came from Rome announcing the jubilee which Sixtus IV had so conveniently found possible to hold after only twenty-five years. From one of his letters we can picture him wandering by the river side among the barges, and marking the slow growth of the bridge of boats which it took the town of Deventer several years to throw across the rapid Yssel. He probably entered the lowest class, the eighth, and by 1484, when at the age of eighteen he left in consequence of the outbreak of plague mentioned in Hegius' letter to Agricola, he had not made his way above the third; thus giving little indication of his future fame. An explanation may perhaps be found by supposing that his time in the choir at Utrecht was an interlude in the Deventer period; but in any case the school in his time was still 'barbarous', to use his own word, that is, it was still modelled on the requirements of the scholastic courses, the _literae inamoenae_, which from his earliest years he abhorred. Zinthius (or Synthius), who was one of the Brethren, and Hegius 'brought a breath of something better', he tells us: but both of them taught only in the higher forms, and Hegius he only heard during his last year, on the festivals when the head master lectured to the whole school together. A few years later the school numbered 2200 boys. It is difficult to us to imagine such a throng gathered round one man. There were only eight forms, which must therefore have had on an average 275 in each; and even if subdivided into parallel classes, they must still have been uncomfortably large to our modern ideas. On the title-pages of early school-books are sometimes found woodcuts which represent the children sitting, like the Indian schoolboy to-day, in crowds about their master, taking only the barest amount of space, and content with the steps of his desk or even the floor. Some idea of the character of the teaching may be derived from the experiences of Thomas Platter (1499-1582) at Breslau about thirty years later. 'In the school at St. Elizabeth', he says, 'nine B.A.'s read lectures at the same hour and in the same room. Greek had not yet penetrated into that part of the world. No one had any printed books except the praeceptor, who had a Terence.[8] What was read had first to be dictated, then pointed, then construed, and at last explained.'[9] It was a wearisome business for all concerned. The reading of a few lines of text, the punctuation, the elaborate glosses full of wellnigh incomprehensible abbreviations; all dictated slowly enough for a class of a hundred or more to take down every word. Lessons in those days were indeed readings. For a clever boy who was capable of going forward quickly, they must have been great waste of time. [8] It is worth remarking that in the fifteenth century Terence was regarded as a prose author, no attempt having been made to determine his metres. As late as 1516 an edition was printed in Paris in prose. [9] Here, and later on, I follow Mrs. Finn's translation, 1839. At Deventer Erasmus began with elementary accidence. The books which he first mentions, _Pater meus,_ a series of declensions, and _Tempora_, the tenses, that is the conjugations of the verb, were probably local productions of a simple nature which never found their way into print. From this he proceeded to the versified Latin grammars which mediaeval authorities on education had invented to supersede the prose of Priscian and Donatus; metre being more adapted to the learning by heart then so much in fashion. 'Praelegebatur Ebrardus et Joannes de Garlandia', he says: a line or two was read out by the master and then the commentary was dictated--the boys writing down as much as they could catch. Let us see the kind of thing. Here are some extracts from the _Textus Equiuocorum_ of John Garland, an Englishman who taught at Toulouse in the thirteenth century. Latrat et amittit, humilis, vilis, negat, heret: Est celeste Canis sidus, in amne natat. 'Firstly it is a thing that barks': three verses of quotation follow. 'Secondly it loses; canis being the name for the worst throw with the dice': one verse of quotation. 'Thirdly it is something humble: David to Saul, "After whom is the King of Israel come out? after a dead dog? after a flea?" Fourthly it is something contemptible: Goliath to David, "Am I a dog that thou comest to me with staves?" Fifthly it denies, like an apostate: "A dog returned to its vomit." Sixthly it adheres.' But here the interpreter goes astray under the preoccupation of the times: 'heret significat hereticum et infidelem; hence "It is not good to take the children's bread and cast it unto dogs, that is to heretics and infidels." Seventhly it is a star; hence are named the dog days, in which that star has dominion. Eighthly it swims in the sea; the dog fish.' The qualities of the dog are also expressed in this verse: 'Latrat in ede canis, nat in equore, fulget in astris. Et venit canis originaliter a cano--is.' So Garland, or his commentator, abridged. Of sal he says: Est sal prelatus, equor, sapientia, mimus, Sal pultes condit, sal est cibus et reprehendit. Here again there is a full commentary; but the only interpretation that we need notice is the first, 'Salt denotes a prelate of the Church; for it is said in the Gospels, Ye are the salt of the earth.' When he composed these lines, Garland must surely have had his eye on ecclesiastical preferment. Another line is interesting, as illustrating the confusion between c and t in mediaeval manuscripts: Est katonque malum, katademon nascitur inde. The commentary runs: 'Kathon est idem quod malum. Inde dicitur kathodemon, i.e. spiritus malignus seu dyabolus, et venit a kathon, i.e. malum, et demon, sciens, quasi mala sciens.' You will notice also the inconstancy of h, and the indifference to orthography which allows the same word to appear as katademon in the text and kathodemon in the commentary. Garland's _Textus_ is mostly Latin; but in the last composition of his life, the forty-two distiches entitled _Cornutus_, 'one on the horns of a dilemma', he is mainly occupied with Greek words adopted into Latin: using of course Latin characters. Some specimens will show the mediaeval standards of Greek: I quote from the text and commentary edited in 1481 by John Drolshagen, who was master of the sixth class at Zwolle. Kyria chere geram cuius ph[=i]lantr[)o]pos est bar, Per te doxa theos nect[=e]n [)e]t [)v]r[=a]n[)i]c[)i]s ymas. In the commentary we are told that Kyria means the Virgin: but we are to be careful not to write it with two r's, for kirrios means a pig (I suppose [Greek: choiros]), and it would never do to say Kirrieleyson. Chere is of course [Greek: chaire], salue. Geran (geram in the text) is interpreted sanctus, and seems from a lengthy discussion of it to be connected with [Greek: gerôn] and [Greek: ieros].[10] Philantropos (notice the quantities) is Christ, the Saviour. 'Bar Grece est filius Latine.' 'Necten in Greco est venire Latine: vnde dicit Pristianus in primo minoris, antropos necten, i.e. homo venit.' (For this remarkable form I can only suggest [Greek: ênthein] or [Greek: hêkein]: -en is probably the infinitive; ne might arise from en; and ct, through tt, from th.) Ymas is explained as nobis, not vobis. The construction of the distich is then given: 'Hail, sacred queen, whose son is the lover of men; through thee divine and heavenly glory comes to us.' Again: 'Clauiculis firmis theos antropos impos et ir mis Figor ob infirmi cosmos delicta, patir mi.' Impos = in pedibus. Ir = a hand (probably [Greek: cheir], transliterated into hir, and h dropped) and mis is explained as = mei, according to the form which occurs in Plautus and early Latin. The lines are an address from Christ to God, and are interpreted: 'O my father, I God and man am fastened with hard nails in my feet and hands (upon the cross) for the sins of a weak world.' Another work dictated to Erasmus at Deventer was the metrical grammar of Eberhard of Bethune in Artois, composed in the twelfth century. Its name, _Graecismus_, was based upon a chapter, the eighth, devoted to the elementary study of Greek--a feature which constituted an advance on the current grammars of the age. A few extracts will show the character of the assistance it offered to the would-be Greek scholar. [10] Cf. Gerasmus and Hierasmus as variations of the name Herasmus or Erasmus. Quod sententia sit b[)o]l[)e] comprobat amphibol[=i]a, Quodque fides br[)o]g[)e] sit comprobat Allobroga. The gloss explains the second line thus: 'Dicitur ab alleos quod est alienum, et broge quod est fides, quasi alienus a fide'; and thus we learn that the Allobroges were a Burgundian people who were always breaking faith with the Romans. Constat apud Grecos quod tertia littera cima est, Est quoque dulce c[)i]m[=e]n, inde c[)i]m[=e]t[)e]rium; Est [)v]n[)i]uersal[=e] c[)a]t[)a], fitque c[)a]tholicus inde, ... C[=a]ta breuis pariter, c[=a]talogus venit hinc. Die decas esse decem, designans inde decanum ... Delon obscurum, Delius inde venit. Ductio sit gogos, hinc isagoga venit. Estque geneth mulier, inde gen[=e]th[=e][=u]m. Here the confusion of c with t begins the misleading; which is carried further by the gloss, 'Genetheum: locus subterraneus vbi habitant mulieres ad laborandum, et dicitur a geneth quod est mulier, et thesis positio, quia ibi ponebantur mulieres ad laborandum'; or 'Genetheum: absconsio subterranea mulierum'. Estque decem gintos, dicas hinc esse viginti, Vt pentecoste, coste valebit idem. Pos quoque pes tibi sit, compos tibi comprobat illud, Atque p[)e]dos puer est, hinc pedagogus erit. Dic zoen animam, die ind[=e] z[=o][)e]c[)a]isychen. This last word appears in eleven different forms in the manuscripts. The gloss interprets it plainly as 'vita mea et anima mea'; but without this aid it must have been unintelligible to most readers, especially in such forms as zoychaysichen, zoycazyche, zoichasichen, zoyasichem. The 'breath of something better' which Hegius and Zinthius brought was seen in the substitution of the _Doctrinale_ of Alexander of Ville-Dieu, near Avranches (_fl._ 1200), as the school Latin grammar. This also is a metrical composition; and it has the merit of being both shorter and also more correct. It was first printed at Venice by Wendelin of Spires (_c._ 1470), and after a moderate success in Italy, twenty-three editions in fourteen years, it was taken up in the North and quickly attained great popularity. By 1500 more than 160 editions had been printed, of the whole or of various parts, and in the next twenty years there were nearly another hundred, before it was superseded by more modern compositions, such as Linacre's grammar, which held the field throughout Europe for a great part of the sixteenth century. The number of Deventer editions of the _Doctrinale_ is considerable, mostly containing the glosses of Hegius and Zinthius, which overwhelm the text with commentary; a single distich often receiving two pages of notes, so full of typographical abbreviations and so closely packed together as to be almost illegible. This very fullness, however, probably indicates a change in the method of teaching, which by quickening it up must indeed have put new life into it; for it would clearly have been impossible to dictate such lengthy commentaries, or the boys would have made hardly any progress. Thirty years ago in England a schoolboy of eleven found himself supplied with abridged Latin and Greek dictionaries, out of which to build up larger familiarity with these languages. Erasmus at Deventer had no such endowments. A school of those days would have been thought excellently equipped if the head master and one or two of his assistants had possessed, in manuscript or in print, one or other of the famous vocabularies in which was amassed the etymological knowledge of the Middle Ages. Great books are costly, and scholars are ever poor. The normal method of acquiring a dictionary was, no doubt, to construct it for oneself; the schoolboy laying foundations and building upon them as he rose from form to form, and the mature student constantly enlarging his plan throughout his life and adding to it the treasures gained by wider reading. A sure method, though necessarily circumscribed, at least in the beginning. We can imagine how men so rooted and grounded must have shaken their heads over 'learning made easy', when the press had begun to diffuse cheap dictionaries, which spared the younger generation such labour. Though they were scarcely 'for the use of schools', it will repay us to examine some of the mediaeval dictionaries which lasted down to the Renaissance in general use; for they formed the background of educational resources, and from them we can estimate the standards of teaching attained in the late fifteenth century. First the _Catholicon_, compiled by John Balbi, a Dominican of Genoa, and completed on 7 March 1286; a work of such importance to the age we are considering that it was printed at Mainz as early as 1460, and there were many editions later. Badius' at Paris, 1506, for instance, was reprinted in 1510, 1511, 1514. In his preface Balbi announces that his dictionary is to be on the alphabetical principle; and, what is even more surprising to us, he goes on to explain at great length what the alphabetical principle is. Thus: 'I am going to treat of amo and bibo. I shall take amo before bibo, because a is the first letter in amo and b is the first letter in bibo; and a is before b in the alphabet. Again I have to treat of abeo and adeo. I shall take abeo before adeo, because b is the second letter in abeo and d is the second letter in adeo; and b is before d in the alphabet.' And so he goes on: amatus will be treated before amor, imprudens before impudens, iusticia before iustus, polisintheton before polissenus--the two last being from the Greek. 'But note', he continues, 'that in polissenus, s is the fifth letter and also the sixth, because s is repeated there. A repetition is therefore equivalent to a double letter; and thus this arrangement will show when l, m, n, r, s or indeed any other letter is to be doubled. And in order that the reader may find quickly what he seeks, whenever the first or second letter of a word is changed, we shall mark it with azure blue.' His preface ends with an appeal. 'This arrangement I have worked out with great labour; yet not I, but the grace of God with me. I entreat you therefore, reader, do not contemn my work as something rude and barbarous.' The most striking feature of the dictionary is its etymology. Almost every word is supplied with a derivation, often very far-fetched. Thus glisco is derived from 'glykis, quod est dulcis; que enim dulcia sunt desiderare solemus': gliscere therefore is equivalent to desiderare, crescere, pinguescere and several other words. After this we are not surprised at the following account of a dormouse. 'Glis a glisco: quoddam genus murium quod multum dormit. Et dicitur sic quod sompnus facit glires pingues et crescere.' Here is another piece of natural history. 'Irundo ab aer dicitur: quia non residens sed in aere capiens cibos edat, quasi in aere edens.' There is simplicity in the following: 'Nix a nubes, quia a nube venit.' Again: 'Ouis ab offero vel obluo: quia antiquitus in inicio non tauri sed oues in sacrificio mactarentur. Priscianus vero dicit quod descendit a Greco ... oys.' Besides his philology the good Dominican was also a theologian; and when he comes to the words upon which his world was built, he cannot dismiss them as lightly as the snow. So Antichristus has two columns, that is to say a folio page: confiteor 1½, conscientia 2¼, ordo 2½, virgo two columns. Much light is thrown on Balbi's work by the dictionary of his predecessor, Huguitio of Pisa, Bishop of Ferrara (d. 1210). The title of this, _Liber deriuationum_, indicates its character. Instead of the alphabetical principle the words are arranged according to their etymology; all that are assigned to a given root being grouped together. This made it necessary, or at any rate desirable, to find a derivation for every word; and with ingenuity to aid this was done as far as possible. Besides derivatives even compounds came under the simple root; and in consequence it must have been extremely difficult to find a word unless one already knew a good deal about it. It is no wonder that the book was never printed; although it occurs frequently in the catalogues of mediaeval libraries. A few examples will suffice. Under capio are found capax, captiuus, capillus, caput with all its derivatives, anceps, praeceps, principium, caper, capus, caupo, cippus, scipio, <s>ceptrum; and even cassis and catena. Similarly under nubo come nubes, nebula, nebulo, nix, niger, nimpha, limpha, limpidus. With such a book as one's only support it was clearly of the highest importance to be good at etymology; with ouis, for instance, not to be troubled by Priscian's fanciful derivation from the Greek, but to know that it came from offero, and was therefore to be found under fero; or again to look for hirundo under aer. Nor need we be surprised at the strange derivations upon which arguments were sometimes founded: that Sprenger, the inquisitor, could explain femina 'quia minorem habet et seruat fidem'; or the preacher over whom Erasmus' Folly makes merry, find authority for burning heretics in the Apostle's command 'Haereticum deuita'. We are now in a position to understand Balbi's performance in the _Catholicon_. From the apologetic tone of his preface it is clear that he felt Huguitio's work to be the really scientific thing, the only book that a scholar would consult: but evidently experience had shown the difficulty of using it, and therefore for the weakness of lesser men like himself he reverted to the sequence of the alphabet. In cumbering himself with derivations, too, he shows that he knows his place. He may have had a glimmering that some of them were absurd; and that Priscian with his reference to the Greek was a safer guide. But to a scholar brought up on Huguitio derivations were of the first importance; and to leave them out would have been only another mark of inferiority. Beyond Huguitio we may go back to Papias, a learned Lombard (_fl._ 1051), whose Vocabulary was still in use in the fifteenth century, and was printed at Milan in 1476. The editions of it are far fewer than those of the _Catholicon_; a fact which presumably points to the superiority of the later work. Papias also used the alphabetical principle; and his lengthy explanation of it, which lacks, however, the lucidity of Balbi's, probably implies that his predecessors had adopted the etymological arrangement by derivations, or the divisions of Isidore according to subjects. In a few cases he makes concession to etymology, by giving derivatives under their root, e.g. under ago come all the words derived from it: but he has regard to the weak, and places them also in their right alphabetical position. Not many derivations are given; but one of them is well known. Lucus is defined as 'locus amenus, vbi multae arbores sunt. Lucus dictus [Greek: kata antiphrasin] quia caret luce pro nimia arborum vmbra; vel a colocando crebris luminibus (_aliter_ uiminibus), siue a luce, quod in eo lucebant funalia propter nemorum tenebras.' This in the hands of Balbi becomes 'per contrarium lucus dicitur a lucendo', or, as we say popularly, 'lucus a non lucendo.' December, again, is derived from decem and imbres 'quibus abundare solet'; and so too the other numbered months. It is noticeable that Papias has some knowledge of Greek, for derivations in Greek letters occur, e.g. 'Acrocerauni: montes propter altitudinem & fulminum iactus dicti. Graece enim fulmen [Greek: keraunos] ceraunos dicitur, et acra [Greek: akra] sumitas'; and a great many Greek and Hebrew words are given transliterated into Latin, ballein, fagein, Ennosigaeus. Like Balbi, Papias travels outside the limits of a mere dictionary, and his interests are not restricted to theology. Aetas draws him into an account of the various ages of the world, regnum into a view of its kingdoms. Carmen provokes 7 columns, 3½ folio pages, on metres; lapis 2 columns on precious stones. Italy receives 2 columns, and ¾ of a column are given to St. Paul. Contrariwise there is often great brevity in his interpretations: 'Samium locus est', 'heroici antiqui', 'mederi curare'. His treatment of miraculum is interesting; 'A miracle is to raise the dead to life; but it is a wonder (mirabile) for a fire to be kindled in the water, or for a man to move his ears.' The next heading is mirabilia, for which his examples are taken from the ends of the earth. He begins: 'Listen. Among the Garamantes is a spring so cold by day that you cannot drink it, so hot at night that you cannot put your finger into it.' A fig-tree in Egypt, apples of Sodom, the non-deciduous trees of an island in India--these are the other travellers' tales which serve him for wonders. The alphabetical method did not hold its own without struggle. It prevailed in Robert Stephanus' Latin _Thesaurus_ (1532), the most considerable work of its kind that had been compiled since the invention of printing; but Dolet's Commentaries on the Latin Tongue (1536), are practically a reversion to the arrangement by roots. Henry Stephanus' Greek _Thesaurus_ (1572) and Scapula's well-known abridgement of it (1579) are both radical; and as late as the seventeenth century this method was employed in the first Dictionary of the French Academy, which was designed in 1638 but not published till 1694. That, however, was its last appearance. The preface to the Academy's second Dictionary (1700 and 1718), after comparing the two methods, says: 'The arrangement by roots is the most scientific, and the most instructive to the student; but it is not suited to the impatience of the French people, and so the Academy has felt obliged to abandon it.'[11] The ordinary user of dictionaries to-day would be surprised at being called impatient for expecting the words to be put in alphabetical order. [11] Cf. R.C. Christie, _Étienne Dolet_, ch. xi. In mediaeval times there was one very real obstacle to the use of the alphabetical method, and that was the uncertainty of spelling. Both Papias and Balbi allude to it in their prefaces; but it did not deter them from their enterprise. Even in the days of printing language takes a long time to crystallize down into accepted forms, correct and incorrect. You may see Dutchess with a t at Blenheim, well within the eighteenth century, and forgo has only recently decided to give up its e. In the days of manuscripts men spelt pretty much as they pleased, making very free even with their own names; and uncritical copyists, caring only to reproduce the word, and not troubling about the exact orthography of their original, did nothing to check the ever-growing variety. Such licence was agreeable for the imaginative, but it made despairing work for the compilers of dictionaries. Some of their difficulties may be given as examples. In the early days of minuscule writing, when writing-material was still scarce, to save space it was common to write the letter e with a reversed cedilla beneath it to denote the diphthongs -ae and -oe. In the Middle Ages the cedilla was commonly dropped, leaving the e plain; and so mostly it remained until the sixteenth century revived the diphthong, or at least the two double letters. At all periods down to 1600, some hands are found in which it is impossible to distinguish between c and t; and hence in mediaeval times, and even later, such forms as fatio, loto, pecieris, licterae are not infrequently found for facio, loco, petieris, litterae. An extreme example of the confusion which this variability must have caused is in the case of the fourteenth-century annalist, Nicholas Trivet, whose surname sometimes appears as Cerseth or Chereth. The doubling of consonants, too, was often a matter of doubt, and the Middle Ages, possibly again for reasons of space, used many words with single consonants instead of two--difficilimus, Salustius, consumare, comodum, opidum, fuise. The letter h was the source of infinite trouble. Sometimes it was surprisingly omitted, as in actenus, irundo, Oratius, ortus--in the latter cases perhaps under Italian influence; sometimes it appears unexpectedly, as in Therentius, Theutonia, Thurcae, Hysidorus, habundare, and even haspirafio; or in abhominor, where it bolstered up the derivation from homo: or it might change its place from one consonant to another, as in calchographus, cartha. Papias found it a great trouble, and indeed was quite muddled with it, placing hyppocrita, hippomanes among the h's, but hippopedes and several others under the i's, though without depriving them of initial h. In France, h between two short i's was considered to need support, and so we find michi, nichil, occurring quite regularly. The difficulty of i and y was met by the suppression of the latter; so that though it sometimes appears unexpectedly, as in hysteria, it is only treated as i. Between f and ph there was much uncertainty; phas, phanum, prophanus are well-known forms, or conversely Christofer, flenbothomari, Flegeton. B and p were often confused, as in babtizare, plasphemus; and p made its way into such words as ampnis, dampnum, alumpnus. A triumph of absurd variation is achieved by Alexander Neckam, who begins a sentence 'Coquinarii quocunt'. With the increased learning of the Renaissance these varieties gradually disappear. The printers, too, rendered good service in promoting uniformity, each firm having its standard orthography for doubtful cases, as printers do to-day. The use of e for ae is abundant in the first books printed North of the Alps; but it steadily diminishes, and by 1500 has almost vanished. In manuscripts, where it was easy to forget to add the cedilla, the plain e lasts much longer. There was also confusion in the reverse direction. Well into the sixteenth century the cedilla is often found wrongly added to words such as puer, equus, eruditus, epistola; in 1550 the Froben firm was still regularly printing aedo, aeditio; and in the index to an edition of Aquinas, Venice, 1593, aenigma and Aegyptus, spelt in this way, are only to be found under e. Other forms of error persisted long. To the end of his life Erasmus usually wrote irito, oportunus; in 1524 he could still use Oratius. The town of Boppard on the Rhine he styles indifferently Bobardia or Popardia: just as, much later, editors described the elder Camerarius of Bamberg as Bapenbergensis in 1583, as Pabepergensis in 1595. As late as 1540 a little book was printed in Paris to demonstrate that michi and nichil were incorrect. In such a state of flux we need not wonder that the mediaeval writers of dictionaries found the alphabetical arrangement not the way of simplification they had hoped, but rather to be full of pitfalls; nor again that the men of the Renaissance thought the work of their predecessors so lamentably inadequate. We shall do better to admire in both cases the brilliance and constancy which could achieve so much with such imperfect instruments. To complete our sketch of the books on which the scholars of the fifteenth century had to rely we may consider two more. The first is the great encyclopaedia of Vincent of Beauvais, a Dominican friar (_c._ 1190-1264). It was printed in 1472-6 by Mentelin at Strasburg, in six enormous volumes; and no one can properly appreciate the magnitude of the work who has not tried to lift these volumes about. Vincent was not the first to attempt this encyclopaedic enterprise, for his work is based on that of another Frenchman, Helinand, who died in 1229. In his preface he states that his prior had urged him to reduce his _Speculum_ to a manual; being doubtless an old man, and appalled at these colossal fruits of his friar's industry. But this was too much for the proud author after all his labour. He did, however, consent to cut it up into portions. The _Speculum naturale_ gives a description of the world in all its parts, animal and vegetable and mineral; the _Speculum doctrinale_ taught how to practise the arts and sciences; the _Speculum historiale_ embraced the world's history down to 1250; and the _Speculum morale_, which is perhaps not by Vincent, found room for the philosophies. But few libraries can have possessed this work in full. Our other book was much more compassable and more widely circulated. Its author was a certain Johannes Marchesinus, of whom so little is known that his date has been put both at 1300 and at 1466. Even the title of the book was uncertain. Marchesinus names it Mammotrectus or Mammetractus, which he explains as 'led by a pedagogue'; but a current form of the name was Mammothreptus, which was interpreted as 'brought up by one's grandmother'. The book consists of a commentary on the whole Bible, chapter by chapter; and also upon the _Legenda Sanctorum_, upon various sermons and homilies, responses, antiphons, and hymns, with notes on the Hebrew months, ecclesiastical vestments, and other subjects likely to be useful to students in the Church, especial emphasis being laid on pronunciation and quantity. It was intended, Marchesinus tells us in his preface, for the use of the poor clergy, to aid them in writing sermons and in reading difficult Hebrew names; and from the sympathy with which he enters into their troubles, it seems clear that he knew them from personal experience. From its scope the book might be expected to be as large as Vincent's _Speculum_, but in fact it can be printed in a quarto volume. It was not intended to compete with the great commentaries of Peter the Lombard, or Nicholas Lyra, or Hugh of St. Victor, which fill many folios. It was to be within reach of the poor parish priest, and so must not be costly. But the surprising part of the book is its triviality. With so little space available, one would have expected to find nothing admitted that was not important: but the fact is that it has nothing which is not elementary. There is nothing historical, nothing theological, only a few simple points of grammar and quantity. For example, in the story of Deborah, Judges iv, the commentary runs as follows: 2. Sisara: middle syllable short. 4. Debbora: middle syllable short. Prophetes masc., Prophetis fem.; meaning, propheta. 10. Accersitis: last syllable but one long; meaning, vocatis. 15. Perterreo, perterres; meaning, in pauorem conuertere. Active. 17. Cinci (the Kenites): middle syllable long. 15. Desilio, desilis, desilii or desiliui: middle syllable short in trisyllables in the present; meaning, de aliquo salire siue descendere festinanter. 21. clauus, masc., claui: meaning, acutum ferrum, malleus, masc., mallei: meaning, martellus. tempus, neut.: meaning, pars capitis, for which some people say timpus. For Daniel vi, the story of Daniel in the lions' den, the commentary is even briefer: 6. surripuerunt: meaning, falso suggesserunt. Surripio, surripis, surrepsi(!): meaning, latenter rapere, subtrahere, furari. 10. comperisset; meaning, cognouisset. Comperio, comperis, comperi: fourth conjugation. 20. affatus: meaning, allocutus. From affor, affaris; and governs the accusative. We must not exalt ourselves above the author. He is very humble. 'Let any imperfections in the book', says his preface, 'be attributed to me: and if there is anything good, let it be thought to have come from God.' He gave them of his best, explaining away such as he could of the difficulties which had confronted him. But one can imagine the disgust of even a moderate scholar if, wishing to study the Bible more carefully, he could obtain access to nothing better than Mammotrectus. Though Erasmus has not much to tell us of his time at Deventer, a fuller account of the school may be found in the autobiography of John Butzbach (_c._ 1478-1526), who for the last nineteen years of his life was Prior of Laach.[12] Indeed, his narrative is so detailed and so illustrative of the age that it may well detain us here. He was the son of a weaver in the town of Miltenberg (hence Piemontanus) on the Maine, above Aschaffenburg. At the age of six he was put to school and already began to learn Latin; one of his nightly exercises that he brought home with him being to get by heart a number of Latin words for vocabulary. After a few years he came into trouble with his master for laziness and truancy, and received a severe beating; his mother intervened and got the master dismissed from his post, and Butzbach was removed from the school. [12] Butzbach's manuscripts from Laach are now in the University Library at Bonn, but have never been printed. I have used a German translation by D.J. Becker, Regensburg, 1869. An opportunity then offered for him to get a wider education. The son of a neighbour who had commenced scholar, returned home for a time, and offered to take Butzbach with him when he went off again to pursue his courses for his degree. The consent of his parents was obtained; and the scholar having received a liberal contribution towards expenses, and Butzbach being equipped with new clothes, the pair set out together. The boy was now ten, and looked forward hopefully to the future; but the scholar quickly showed himself in his true colours. He treated Butzbach as a fag, made him trudge behind carrying the larger share of their bundles, and when they came to an inn feasted royally himself off the money given to him for the boy, leaving him to the charity of the innkeepers. At the end of two months the money was spent, and they had found no place of settlement. Henceforward Butzbach was set to beg, going from house to house in the villages they passed, asking for food; and when this failed to produce enough, he was required to steal. The scholar treated him shamefully and beat him often; and as it was a well-known practice for fags, when begging, to eat up delicacies at once, instead of bringing them in, Butzbach was sometimes subjected to the regular test, being required to fill his mouth with water and then spit it out into a basin for his master to examine whether there were traces of fat. The scholar's aim was to find some school, having attached to it a Bursa or hostel, in which they could obtain quarters; apparently he was not yet qualified for a university. They made their way to Bamberg, but there was no room for them in the Bursa. So on they went into Bohemia, where at the town of Kaaden the rector of the school was able to allot them a room--just a bare, unfurnished chamber, in which they were permitted to settle. Such teaching as Butzbach received was spasmodic and ineffectual, and after two years of this bondage he ran away. For the next five years he was in Bohemia in private service, longing for home, hating his durance among the heathen, as he called the Bohemians for following John Hus, but lacking courage to make his escape from masters who could send horsemen to scour the countryside for fugitive servants and string them up to trees when caught. However, at length the opportunity came, and after varying fortunes, Butzbach made his way home to Miltenberg, to find his father dead and his mother married again. For the substantial accuracy of Butzbach's narrative his character is sufficient warranty. He was a pious, honest man, and at the time when he wrote his autobiography at the request of his half-brother Philip, he was already a monk at Laach. But the picture of a young student's sufferings under an elder's cruelty can be paralleled with surprising closeness from the autobiography of Thomas Platter, mentioned above; the wandering from one school to another, the maltreatment, the begging, the enforced stealing, all these are reproduced with just the difference of surroundings. Platter's account of his life at Breslau is worth quoting. 'I was ill three times in one winter, so that they were obliged to bring me into the hospital; for the travelling scholars had a particular hospital and physicians for themselves. Care was taken of the patients, and they had good beds, only the vermin were so abundant that, like many others, I lay much rather upon the floor than in the beds. Through the winter the fags lay upon the floor in the school, but the Bacchants in small chambers, of which at St. Elizabeth's there were several hundreds. But in summer, when it was hot, we lay in the church-yard, collected together grass such as is spread in summer on Saturdays in the gentlemen's streets before the doors, and lay in it like pigs in the straw. When it rained, we ran into the school, and when there was thunder, we sang the whole night with the Subcantor, responses and other sacred music. Now and then after supper in summer we went into the beerhouses to beg for beer. The drunken Polish peasants would give us so much that I often could not find my way to the school again, though only a stone's throw from it.' Platter wrote his autobiography at the age of 73, when his memories of his youth must have been growing dim; but though on this account we must not press him in details, his main outlines are doubtless correct. On his return, Butzbach was apprenticed to Aschaffenburg, to learn the trade of tailoring; and having mastered this, he procured for himself, in 1496, the position of a lay-brother in the Benedictine Abbey of Johannisberg in the Rheingau, opposite Bingen. His duties were manifold. Besides doing the tailoring of the community, he was expected to make himself generally useful: to carry water and fetch supplies, to look after guests, to attend the Abbot when he rode abroad (on one occasion he was thrown thus into the company of Abbot Trithemius of Sponheim, whose work on the Ecclesiastical writers of his time he afterwards attempted to carry on), to help in the hay harvest, and in gathering the grapes. Before a year was out he grew tired of these humble duties, and bethought him anew of his father's wish that he should become a professed monk. He had omens too. One morning his father appeared to him as he was dressing, and smiled upon him. Another day he was sitting at his work and talking about his wish with an old monk who was sick and under his care. On the wall in front of his table he had fastened a piece of bread, to be a reminder of the host and of Christ's sufferings. Suddenly this fell to the ground. The old man started up from his place by the stove, and steadying his tottering limbs cried out aloud that this was a sign that the wish was granted. He had the reputation among his fellows of being a prophet and had foretold the day of his own death. Butzbach accepted the omen, and obtained leave to go to school again. His choice was Deventer. One of the brethren wrote him an elegant letter to Hegius applying for admission; and though, as he says, he answered no questions in his entrance examination (which appears to have been oral), on the strength of the letter he was admitted and placed in the seventh class, a young man of twenty amongst the little boys who were making a beginning at grammar. But he had no means of support except occasional jobs of tailor's work, and hunger drove him back to Johannisberg. There he might have continued, had not a chance meeting with his mother, when he had ridden over to Frankfort with the Abbot, given him a new spur. She could not bear to think of his remaining a Lollhard, that is a lay-brother, all his days; and pressing money privily into his hands, she besought the Abbot to let him return to Deventer. In August 1498 he was there again, was examined by Hegius, and was placed this time in the lowest class, the eighth, in company with a number of stolid louts, who had fled to school to escape being forced to serve as soldiers. There was reason in their fears. The Duke of Gueldres was at war with the Bishop of Utrecht. A hundred prisoners had been executed in the three days before Butzbach's return, and as he strode into Deventer to take up his books again, he may have seen their scarce-cold bodies swinging on gibbets against the summer sunset. The schoolboy of to-day works in happier surroundings. Butzbach's career henceforward was fortunate. He was taken up by a good and pious woman, Gutta Kortenhorff, who without regular vows had devoted herself to a life of abstinence and self-sacrifice; taking special pleasure in helping young men who were preparing for the Franciscan or the reformed Benedictine Orders. For nine months Butzbach lived in her house, doubtless out of gratitude rendering such service as he could to his kind patroness. From the eighth class he passed direct into the sixth, and at Easter 1499 he was promoted into the fifth. This entitled him to admission to the Domus Pauperum maintained by the Brethren of the Common Life for boys who were intending to become monks; and so he transferred himself thither for the remainder of his course. But he suffered much from illness, and five several times made up his mind to give up and return home--once indeed this was only averted by a swelling of his feet, which for a prolonged period made it impossible for him to walk. After six months in the fifth, and a year in the fourth class, he was moved up into the third, thus traversing in little over two years what had occupied Erasmus for something like nine. Butzbach was by temperament inclined to glorify the past; in the present he himself had a share, and therefore in his humility he thought little of it. In consequence we must not take him too literally in his account of the condition of the school; but it is too interesting to pass over. 'In the old days', he says, 'Deventer was a nursery for the Reformed Orders; they drew better boys, more suited to religion, out of the fifth class, than they do now out of the second or first, although now much better authors are read there. Formerly there was nothing but the Parables of Alan <of Lille, _fl._ 1200>, the moral distichs of Cato, Aesop's Fables, and a few others, whom the moderns despise; but the boys worked hard, and made their own way over difficulties. Now when even in small schools the choicest authors are read, ancient and modern, prose and poetry, there is not the same profit; for virtue and industry are declining. With the decay of that school, religion also is decaying, especially in our Order, which drew so many good men from there. And yet it is not a hundred years since our reformation.' He does not indicate how far back he was turning his regretful gaze; whether to the early years of the fifteenth century when Nicholas of Cues was a scholar at Deventer, or to the more recent times of Erasmus, who was about three school-generations ahead of him. But of the books used there in the last quarter of the fifteenth century we can form a clear notion from the productions of the Deventer printers, Richard Paffraet and Jacobus of Breda. School-books then as now were profitable undertakings, if printed cheap enough for the needy student; and Paffraet, with Hegius living in his house, must have had plenty of opportunities for anticipating the school's requirements. Between 1477 and 1499 he printed Virgil's Eclogues, Cicero's _De Senectute_ and _De Amicitia_, Horace's _Ars Poetica_, the _Axiochus_ in Agricola's translation, Cyprian's Epistles, Prudentius' poems, Juvencus' _Historia Euangelica_, and the _Legenda Aurea_: also the grammar of Alexander with the commentary of Synthius and Hegius, Agostino Dato's _Ars scribendi epistolas_, Aesop's Fables, and the _Dialogus Creaturarum_, the latter two being moralized in a way which must surely have pleased Butzbach. Jacobus of Breda, who began printing at Deventer in 1486, produced Virgil's Eclogues, Cicero's _De Senectute_ and _De Officiis_, Boethius' _De consolatione philosophiae_ and _De disciplina scholarium_, Aesop, a poem by Baptista Mantuanus, the 'Christian Virgil', Alan of Lille's _Parabolae_, Alexander, two grammatical treatises by Synthius and the _Epistola mythologica_ of Bartholomew of Cologne. This last, as being the work of a master in the school, deserves attention; and also for its intrinsic interest. As its title implies, it is cast in the form of a letter, addressed to a friend Pancratius; and it is dated from Deventer 10 July 1489--nine years before Butzbach entered the school. It opens with the customary apologies, and after some ordinary topics the writer, Bartholomew, says that he is sending back some books borrowed from Pancratius, including a Sidonius which he has had on loan for three years. At this point there is a transformation. Sidonius is personified and becomes the centre of a series of semi-comic incidents, which afford an opportunity for introducing various words for the common objects of everyday life; and a glossary explains many of these with precision. There is a long and vivid account of the waking of Sidonius from his three years' slumber. The door has to be broken open, and Sidonius is found lying to all appearances dead. A feather burnt under his nose produces slight signs of life; and when a good beating with the bar of the door is threatened, he at length rouses himself. Servants come in, and their different duties are described. They fall to quarrelling and become uproarious; and in the scuffle Sidonius is hurt. A lotion is prepared for his bruises, and he is offered diet suitable for an invalid: boiled sturgeon, washed down with wine or beer, the latter being from Bremen or Hamburg. Afterwards the room is cleared up, and thus an opportunity is given to describe it. Then a table is spread for the rest of the party, and the various requisites are specified--tablecloth and napkins, pewter plates, earthenware mugs, a salt-cellar and two brass stands for the dishes. Bread is put round to each place, chairs are brought up with cushions; and jugs of wine and beer placed in the centre of the table. Finally a basin is brought with ewer and towel for the guests to wash their hands, and as one o'clock strikes, dinner appears, and all sit down together, including the servants. After the meal a dice-box and board are produced; but one of the guests demurs, and it is put aside. In the conversation that ensues it is arranged that Sidonius shall go back to his master next morning after breakfast. The servant who is to accompany him asks that they may go in a carriage; but this is overruled, because of a recent accident in which one had been upset, and it is determined that a Spanish palfrey of easy paces shall be provided for Sidonius. At six supper is served; and then the curtain falls, the letter relapsing into normal matters--inquiries for a Euclid, regrets at being unable to send to Pancratius Hyginus and the _Astronomica_ of Manilius. It is clear that the object of the book, which is of no great length, was to give boys correct Latin words for the material objects of their daily life: something like Bekker's _Gallus_ and _Charicles_ on a small scale. In carrying out this idea Bartholomew of Cologne has provided us with a sketch of the world that he knew. III MONASTERIES Erasmus was not fitted for the monastic life. This is not to say that he was a bad man. Few men outside the ranks of the holy have worked harder or made greater sacrifices to do God service. But his was a free spirit. His work could only be done in his own way; and to live according to another's rule fretted him beyond endurance. His experience in the matter was not fortunate. In 1483 his mother died of plague at Deventer, whither she had accompanied him. His father recalled him next year to Gouda, but died soon afterwards; and his guardians then sent him with his elder brother to a school kept by the Brethren of the Common Life at Hertogenbosch--doubtless to a Domus Pauperum for intending monks, such as Butzbach entered at Deventer; for in this connexion Erasmus describes the schools of the Brethren as seminaries for the regular orders. After two years they returned to Gouda, and Erasmus begged to be sent to a university; but no means were forthcoming, and the guardian prevailed upon the elder brother Peter to enter the monastery of Sion, near Delft. Erasmus held out for some time; but he was without resources and the influences at work upon him were strong. One day he fell in with a school-friend, Cornelius of Woerden, who had recently entered the house of Augustinian canons at Steyn, near Gouda. In his loneliness any friend was welcome. He paid visits to Steyn and saw that the life there offered leisure and even possibilities of study; Cornelius, too, seemed inclined to be a ready companion in literary pursuits. Urged by his guardian, invited by his friend, he gave way at length to the double pressure and entered Steyn. After a novitiate of a year, during which life was made easy to him, he took his canonical vows; and soon began to repent of the step he had made. For about seven years he lived in what seemed to him a prison. There were, no doubt, good men amongst his fellow-canons. In all his diatribes against monasticism he was ready to admit that the Orders contained plenty of God-fearing souls, doing their duty honestly; and the evidence shows clearly enough that this was correct. It is, however, equally true that there were mediocrities among them, and even worse; men with low standards and no ideals, who brought their fellows to shame. Vows in those days were indissoluble, except in rare cases; as a rule it was only by flight and disappearance for ever that a man could escape social disgrace and the penalties threatened by the spiritual arm to a renegade monk. To-day, when orders can be laid down at the holder's will, the Church of England contains priests of whom it cannot get rid. The good, even when they rule, do not always lead; nor are they always learned. Erasmus found the atmosphere of Steyn hopelessly distasteful. It was not that he was prevented from study. His compositions of this period show a wide acquaintance with the classics and the Fathers; and his style, though it had not yet attained to the ease and lucidity of his later years, has much of the elegance beyond which his contemporaries never advanced. The fact, too, that he left Steyn to become Latin Secretary to a powerful bishop implies that he must have had many opportunities for study and have made good use of them. But from what he says it is clear that the tone of the place was set by the mediocrities. We need not suppose that vice was rampant among them, to shock the young and enthusiastic scholar. There was quite enough to daunt him in the prospect of a life spent among the narrow-minded. Sinners who feel waves of repentance may be better house-mates than those who have worldly credit enough to make them self-satisfied. Fortunately all houses of religion were not alike, any more than colleges are alike to-day. Butzbach's lot was very different; and it is a pleasant contrast to turn to his experiences at Laach, an important Benedictine abbey some miles west of Andernach. In the autumn of 1500, when he had been two years at Deventer, there appeared one day in the school the Steward of the Abbey of Niederwerth, an island in the Rhine below Coblenz. What the business was which had brought him from his own monastery, is not stated; but he had also been asked to do some recruiting for the Benedictines at Laach. The Abbot there was nephew of the Prior at Niederwerth, and had taken this opportunity to extend his quest further afield. The Steward brought with him letters from the Abbot to the Rector of Deventer, now Ostendorp, and also to the Brethren of the Common Life, asking for some good and well-educated young men. The Rector's first appeal evoked no response; so the Steward went on about his business. After three weeks he returned, having visited other schools, but bringing no one with him. Once more Ostendorp addressed the third and fourth classes in impressive words. But all seemed in vain. The students had paid their school fees for the half-year, and were ashamed to ask for them back from the Rector and other teachers--into whose pockets they appear to have gone direct. Their money paid for board and lodging would have been sacrificed also. It happened, too, to be exceptionally cold--not the weather in which any one would lightly set out on a journey. We must remember that the calendar had not yet been rectified, and that they were about ten days nearer to midwinter than their dates show. On occasions the whole school came together to hear the Rector--it was at such times, Erasmus tells us, that he heard Hegius. At one of these gatherings during the Steward's second visit Butzbach was sitting next to two friends from his own part of the world, Peter of Spires and Paul of Kitzingen. They were above him in the school, having passed their entrance examination before the Rector with such credit that they were placed at once in the third class--a rare distinction--and Paul indeed at the end of his first half-year had come out top and passed into the second. The friends talked together of the life of the cloister, of the happiness of study amid the practice of holiness and in the presence of God. At the end Peter and Butzbach sought out the Steward and gave him their names: Paul, the brilliant leader of the trio, remained behind in the world, and became a professor at Cologne. Butzbach said farewell to the masters who had taught him, and to his various benefactors in the town, all of whom applauded his decision. On St. Barbara's Day, 4 Dec. 1500, the party set out, and were accompanied out of the town by students who swarmed about them like bees; Butzbach, when they at length took leave, urging them to follow his example. Two days later they were at Emmerich, and after crossing the Rhine on the ice, so bitter was the frost, they were overtaken by the night at a convent and sought shelter. It proved to be a house of Brigittines, with separate orders of men and women. One of the party, a priest from Deventer, had a kinswoman among the nuns, but was not allowed to see her. On 8 December the feast of the Conception of the Virgin, as they passed through a village, the two priests asked leave to say a mass for themselves in the parish church; and only with difficulty obtained it from the pfarrer in charge, so great was the jealousy between seculars and regulars. At night they found hospitality in a Benedictine house at Neuss, where Butzbach notes the peculiarity--which he discusses at length but is quite unable to explain--that no one could be accepted as a monk with the name of Peter. Next day the party was obliged to divide. Peter of Spires, who from the first had been ailing and easily tired, was suffering acute pain from a sore on his finger; so Butzbach remained behind with him in a village, while the others went on to Cologne. After twenty-four hours the sufferer was no better; and as sleep for either of them seemed impossible, they arose at midnight, hired a cart, and journeying under the stars, arrived at Cologne just as the gates were being opened. They rejoined their friends, and the whole party was entertained in the house of a rich widow, whose son, recently dead, had been a monk at Niederwerth. The Steward had business at Cologne; so for two days the young men were free to wander about the town, looking into the churches and worried by the schoolboy tricks of the university students. Three days journeying brought them late at night and dead tired to Niederwerth. The aged Prior--he had been sixty years in the monastery--on learning their destination showed them great courtesy and kindness; and when they had supped, insisted, despite all their protests, on washing their feet himself. Next day he showed them over the monastery, took them into the rooms where the brethren were at work, and explained what each of them had to do: 'just as though we were his equals,' says Butzbach, on whom his modesty and friendliness made a deep impression. Indeed, his conversation greatly strengthened them in their determination to enter the religious life; although he did not conceal from them the temptations which they might expect, from the Devil. On 17 December he gave them leave to proceed, and sent one of the monastery servants and a lay-brother to escort them. Their way lay through Coblenz; and Peter as a weaker vessel was sent on, to go slowly ahead with the lay-brother, whilst the servant and Butzbach stopped in the town to execute some commissions. But they had under-estimated Peter's weakness. After a midday meal the second pair set out briskly, in the comfortable reflection that the others were already part-way to Laach. To their disgust as they crossed the bridge over the Moselle, they found Peter and his companion lolling outside an inn, unable to talk properly or to stand upright. The Prior's warning against the Devil had been speedily justified. Peter had been tempted to spend his last day of freedom in a carouse, and every penny he possessed had gone over a fine dinner and costly wines. To Butzbach this was the more serious, because he had given his purse to Peter to carry, and all that had gone too. Johannisberg still had strong ties for him. He had found peace there and made friends, and it was near his home. Many times, at silent moments as he journeyed along from Deventer, it had come into his head to wonder whether Laach too could give him peace, whether he could settle so far off. Now, if the old ties should be too strong to resist, thanks to Peter, he would have to set out on his way penniless. Sharp words brought the offenders to some measure of their senses; but it was a dismal party that splashed along the muddy roads that December afternoon. Evening brought them to Saffig, and hospitable reception in the house of George von Leyen, brother of the Prior of Niederwerth and father of the Abbot to whom they were going; and the parents' praises of their son's goodness and kindness were comforting to hear. Ten miles next morning brought them to Laach; and when they came over the hill, and saw the great abbey with its towers and dome beside the lake, which even in winter could smile amid its woods, Butzbach felt that in all his travels he had seen no sight more lovely. Their guide led them straight into the church, and as Butzbach's eye glanced along the plain Romanesque columns, past the gorgeous tomb of the founder, to the dim splendours of the choir, the words of the familiar Psalm rose to his lips: 'Haec requies mea in saeculum saeculi; hic habitabo, quoniam elegi eam.' Peace had come to him at once, and he received it. After a generous meal in the refectory they were brought in to the tall, dignified Abbot; and while they stood before him answering his questions, they felt that he had not been praised more highly than was his due. Abbot and Prior took them round the monastery; the latter a busy little man in whom they could hardly recognize so exalted a dignitary. At the back they found the brethren busy with the week's washing. All crowded round them, full of questions and congratulations and pleasant laughter. For three days they were lodged in the guest-chambers, and then the Prior asked them whether they stood firm in their wish to enter the Order. On their assent he expounded to them the severities of the life, the self-abnegation that would be required of them, bidding them consider whether they could face it; at the same time instructing them in all the customs and practices of the house. The dress was put upon them, they were led into the convent and cells allotted to them; and told that till St. Benedict's Day (21 March) they would be on probation. Before the day came Peter's spirit faltered, and he went. But his weakness was not for long. He repented and found his peace in a Cistercian house near Worms; and Butzbach's sympathy went with him, back to the Upper Germany which both loved. The time of probation was hard to Butzbach; not because of the life, which the good Prior tempered to his tenderness, but through the temptations of the Devil, who seemed ever present with him. He was specially tormented with the thought of Johannisberg, and the feeling that he had deserted it. But the wise heads in charge of him gave comfort and stablishment; and he persevered. On the Founder's Day, 1501, he entered upon the novitiate, which was followed a year later by his profession; and in 1503 he was sent to Trèves and ordained priest. In the course of his numerous writings Butzbach gives sketches of many of the inmates of Laach. The senior brother at the time of his arrival was Jacob of Breden in Westphalia, a man of strong character and force of will. As a boy, when at school at Cleves, he was laughed at for his provincial accent; and therefore determined henceforward to speak nothing but Latin, with the result that he acquired a complete mastery of it. He had at first joined the Brethren of the Common Life at Zwolle, then became a Benedictine in St. Martin's at Cologne, and came to Laach to introduce the Bursfeld reforms. So tender-hearted was he that he would not kill even the insects which worried him, but would catch them and throw them out of window. John of Andernach is mentioned as having appeared to the brethren after his death; and he and Godfrey of Cologne are praised for their skill in astronomy. We hear of various activities among the monks. One is good at writing, another at dictating and correcting, another has taste in painting flowers and illuminating. Henry of Coblenz combined the offices of precentor, master of the robes, gardener, glazier and barber; and also unofficial counsellor to the young, who frequently turned to him for sympathy. Antony of St. Hubert, besides the care of the refectory, was bee-master and hive-maker; and a great preacher in German, though he had come to Laach knowing only his native French. At the end of the list came the lay-brothers and the pensioners (donati), one of whom was nearly 100. Shortly after his ordination Butzbach was appointed master of the novices, to superintend their education--which included learning the Psalter by heart--until the time of their profession. He protested his unfitness, but the Abbot held him to it nevertheless. The standard of his pupils was low: many of them, though they came as Bachelors and Masters of Arts from the universities, he judged not so good as boys in the sixth form at Deventer. But he found lecturing in Latin difficult; and so to make up his deficiencies he set himself to read all the Latin classics and Fathers that he could find. One day two young kinsmen of the Abbot were at dinner. They had been at Deventer and then at Paris, and were full of their studies. Butzbach as novice-master represented the humanities, and was called upon for a poem. Readiness was not his strong point; as a preacher he never could overcome his nervousness. He asked leave to retire to his cell, and there in solitude wrung out some verses of compliment; which found such favour that, to his regret, he was often called upon again. In 1507, when only thirty, he was made Prior, and thus became responsible for much of the management of the abbey. In spite of this he kept up his studies; but only at the cost of great physical efforts, robbing himself of sleep and working through long hours of the night. To this period, 1507-9, belongs his most considerable undertaking, an _Auctarium de scriptoribus ecclesiasticis_, which had its origin in his admiration for Trithemius. In his Johannisberg days, as we have seen, he had met the great historian-abbot, though in a humble capacity. His own Abbot shared with Trithemius the duty of making the triennial visitations of the Benedictine houses in that district; and Butzbach, as the Abbot's servant, often rode with them. Trithemius noticed the young lay-brother who seemed so interested in study, and occasionally gave him a word of encouragement. Indeed it was the story of Trithemius' life--repeated with wonder by many lips--which had spurred Butzbach on to go to Deventer: how as a boy he had worked with his stepfather in the mill at Trittenheim, and at twenty-one was still labouring with his hands. One day he was carting material for a new pilgrimage-church on the hill, when the call came to him. He returned home, put up his horse and wagon, and without a word to any one walked off to Niederwesel to begin learning grammar amongst the little boys; and yet in a short time he had risen to be Abbot, and had won a wide reputation. At Laach Butzbach for the first time set eyes on Trithemius' works. One of these was a _Liber de scriptoribus ecclesiasticis_, printed by John Amorbach at Basle in 1494--a sort of theological _Who's Who_, giving the names of authors ancient and modern with lists of their writings. Butzbach continued it with an _Auctarium_, into which he hooked almost every writer he could find, whether ecclesiastical or not. It is a large book, still remaining in manuscript at Bonn, as it was written out for him by two very inefficient novices. The date of its composition is abundantly indicated by the notes with which he terminates his notices of living authors: 'Viuit adhuc anno quo hec scribimus 158' or 159.[13] Such a compilation, in so far as it deals with contemporary writers, might have had considerable value; but unfortunately, like some of Trithemius' work, it is an uncritical performance and contains ridiculous blunders, which impair the credit of its statements when they cannot be checked. Industry and devotion to learning are not the sole qualifications for a scholar. [13] = 1509. By a reverse process Bruno Amorbach writes 10507 for 1507. But it was not altogether a happy time for Butzbach, even though he was honoured by correspondence with Trithemius. There were few among the monks who actually sympathized with his studies; and from a certain section they brought him actual persecution. When, as Prior, he emphasized before the brethren the section in Benedict's rule which enjoins to study, they mocked at him. 'No learning, no doubts' said one. 'Much learning doth make thee mad' said another. 'Knowledge puffeth up' said a third; and heeded not his gentle reply, 'but love edifieth'. They protested against his allowing the novices to read Latin poetry. They appealed to the Visitor and got the supplies of money for the library cut off; even what he earned himself by saying masses for the dead was no longer allowed to be appropriated to him for the purchase of books. Finally when the visitation came round in 1509, they delated him for spending too much time on writing, to the neglect of the business of the monastery. But here they overreached themselves. The Visitors called for his books, opened them and saw that they were good--possibly they found their own names among the ecclesiastical writers. The Prior was acquitted, and the mouths of his enemies were stopped. One cause of dissension in monasteries at this period was the existence of an unreformed element among the monks; though in Butzbach's time it had probably disappeared at Laach. Ever since the Oriental practice of monasticism spread into the West, Christendom has seen a continual series of endeavours towards better and purer ideals of human life. Of all the monastic orders the Benedictine (520) was the oldest and the most widely spread. But time had relaxed the strictness of its observance; and indeed some of the younger orders, such as the Cluniac (910) and the Cistercian (1098), had their origins in efforts after a more godly life than what was then offered under the Benedictine rule, the strictness of which they sought to restore. In the fifteenth century reform of the monasteries was once more in the air.[14] In 1422 a chapter of the Benedictine houses in the provinces of Trèves and Cologne met at Trèves to discuss the question, which had been raised again at the Council of Constance, and to consider various schemes. The Abbot of St. Matthias' at Trèves, John Rode, learning of the stricter code practised in St. James' at Liège since the thirteenth century, introduced it into his house; borrowing four monks from St. James' to help him in the process. A few years later John Dederoth of Minden, Abbot of Bursfeld near Göttingen, after examining the new practice at Trèves, decided to follow Rode's example, and carried off four brethren from St. Matthias' to Bursfeld. His influence led a number of neighbouring Benedictine houses to adopt the new rule; and very soon a Bursfeld Union or Congregation was formed of monasteries which had embraced what Butzbach calls 'our reformation', with annual chapters and triennial visitations. [14] At this point and again later about Chezal-Benoît I have made much use of Dom Berlière's _Mélanges d'histoire bénédictine_, 3^e série, 1901. By the end of the fifteenth century there were more than a hundred constituents of the Congregation. The usual method of introducing the new practice was, as Rode and Dederoth had done, to borrow a number of monks from a house already reformed, who either settled in the new house or returned home when their work was done. As may be supposed, the reforms were not everywhere welcomed. A zealous Abbot or Prior returning with his band of foreigners was often met by opposition and even forcible resistance. When Jacob of Breden, Butzbach's 'senior brother', came in 1471 with seven others from St. Martin's at Cologne to renew a right spirit in Laach, a number of the older monks resented it, especially when he was made Prior for the purpose. One cannot but sympathize with them. Jacob was only thirty-two, and it is a delicate matter setting one's elders in the right way. At length the seniors became exasperated and took to violence. Not content with belabouring him in his cell, they attacked him one night with swords, and he only escaped by leaping out of the dormitory window. The rest of his company were ejected, and for three years found shelter in St. Matthias' at Trèves, the parent house of the new rule; and it was not till 1474 that the Archbishop, with the Pope's permission and the co-operation of the civil official of the district, forced his way into Laach and turned out the recalcitrants. But this movement for reform was not confined to Germany nor to the Benedictines. In the beginning of the fifteenth century the house of Augustinian canons at Windesheim near Zwolle instituted for itself a new and stricter set of statutes, and soon gathered round it nearly a hundred houses of both sexes, forming the Windesheim Congregation: besides which, other monasteries bound themselves into smaller bodies to observe the new statutes. Thus, for instance, Erasmus' convent at Steyn was a member of the Chapter of Sion, with only a few others; two of which were St. Mary's at Sion, near Delft, to which his brother Peter belonged, and St. Michael's at Hem, near Schoonhoven. The fame of Windesheim spread into France. In two successive years--1496, 7--parties were invited thence to reform French Benedictine houses. The first, headed by John Mauburn of Brussels, was brought in by the Abbot of St. Severinus' at Château-Landon near Fontainebleau. It was completely successful and Château-Landon was made the head of a new Chapter: after which Mauburn proceeded to reform the Abbey of Livry, a few miles to the north-east of Paris. The second mission, though promoted by influential men in Paris, had less result. St. Victor's, the Benedictine Abbey which the Bishop of Paris wished to reform, was one of the most important in his diocese; and its inmates were averse from the proposed changes. For nine months the mission from Windesheim sat in Paris, expounding, demonstrating, hoping to persuade. One of the party, Cornelius Gerard of Gouda, an intimate friend of Erasmus' youth, enjoyed himself greatly among the manuscripts in the abbey library; but that was all. In August 1498 they went home, leaving St. Victor's as they had found it. The strenuous endeavours made at this time towards monastic reform from within may be illustrated from the lives of Guy Jouveneaux (Juuenalis) and the brothers Fernand. Jouveneaux was a scholar of eminence and professor in the University of Paris. Charles Fernand was a native of Bruges, who, in spite of defective eyesight, which made it necessary for him regularly to employ a reader, had studied in Italy, had been Rector of Paris University, 1485-6, and had attained to considerable skill in both classical learning and music. John Fernand, the younger brother, also excelled in both these branches of study. Symphorien Champier, the Lyons physician, speaks of him with Jouveneaux as his teacher in Paris. Charles VIII made him chief musician of the royal chapel. In 1479 Peter du Mas became Abbot of the Benedictine house at Chezal Benoît, which lay in the forests, ten miles to the South of Bourges. His first care was to restore the buildings, which had been partially destroyed during the English wars earlier in the century. When that was achieved, he set himself to reform the conditions of religious observance, and for that purpose invited a band of monks from Cluny. His policy was continued by his successor, Martin Fumeus, 1492-1500, and a bull was obtained from Alexander VI in 1494 permitting the foundation of a Congregatio Casalina, which was joined by a large number of Benedictine houses in the neighbourhood: St. Sulpice, St. Laurence and St. Menulphus at Bourges, St. Vincent at Le Mans, St. Martin at Séez, St. Mary's at Nevers, and even by more distant foundations, St. Peter's at Lyons and the great Abbey of St. Germain des Prés at Paris. One point of the new practice, that Abbots should be elected for only three years at a time, struck at the prevailing abuse by which members of powerful families, non-resident and often children, were intruded into rich benefices, to the great detriment of their charges.[15] Consideration was also had of the rule adopted at St. Justina's at Padua, the centre of reform in Northern Italy; and thus it was not till 1516 that the new ordinances were finally sanctioned by Leo X. [15] Thus the family of d'Illiers at this time almost monopolized the see of Chartres; members of it holding the bishopric consecutively for fifty years, the deanery for a hundred, the arch-deaconry and the rich abbey of Bona Vallis also for fifty. About 1490, Jouveneaux, fired with enthusiasm by the success of du Mas' reforms at Chezal Benoît, determined to quit his professor's chair at Paris and take upon him the vows and the life of a monk under du Mas' rule; and subsequently he was the means of bringing into the Congregation the Abbey of St. Sulpice at Bourges, being invited thither by John Labat, the Abbot, to introduce the new rule, and himself succeeding to the abbacy for a triennial period. A year or two after his retirement from the world, he was followed to Chezal Benoît by Charles Fernand, who subsequently went on to St. Vincent's at Le Mans. John Fernand also ended his days at St. Sulpice in Bourges. Charles Fernand is a personality who deserves more attention than he has received. Whilst he was in the world he enjoyed considerable esteem amongst the learned. He was a friend of Gaguin, and published a commentary on Gaguin's poem on the Immaculate Conception; he also dedicated to Gaguin a small volume of Familiar Letters. But his most important literary work was done in the retirement of his cell: a volume of Monastic Conversations, composed at sundry times, and published in 1516; a treatise on Tranquillity (1512), in which he gives an account of the motives which led him to take the monastic habit; and a Mirror of the Monastic Life (1515), dwelling at length on the ideals that should be held before the eyes of novices and animate their lives when they were professed. Unfortunately his style is so excessively elegant, with wide intervals between words closely connected in sense, that he is difficult to read; and hence, perhaps, in some measure the neglect which has been meted out to him. Of his four Monastic Conversations the first and the last are concerned with the question whether monks should be allowed to read the books of the Gentiles, that is to say, the classics. He handles his theme sensibly and liberally. Piety, of course, is to come before eloquence, and there is to be choice of books. Anything of loose tendency is to be forbidden, but he would encourage the reading of Cicero, Seneca, and Aristotle's Ethics. The last was only accessible to himself, he says regretfully, in Latin, because he knew no Greek--a loss which he greatly deplores, desiring to read the Greek Fathers. The third conversation is about the Benedictine rule, directed to the lawless monks who contended that they were only bound by the customs of the particular monastery they had entered, and not by the general ordinances of their founder. He combats at length the contention that the world has grown old, and that latter-day men cannot be expected to undergo the rigorous fasts and penances achieved by St. Antony and St. Benedict. He is quite alive to the weakness of the age, to the need for improvement in the monasteries; and the word Reformer is applied with praise to the leaders of the movement. This was before the days of Luther, though only just before. Incidentally, an argument is reported between a Christian and an agnostic. After their diverse opinions have been rehearsed, the Christian concludes with what is meant to be a crushing reply--certainly it silences his opponent: 'On your own theory you don't know what will happen after death. On mine you will prosper, if you believe; if not, you will go to hell. Therefore safety lies in believing mine.' There are one or two glimpses of the life of the monks. At the end of one conversation, the other brother hears the bell ringing for prayers and runs off to chapel; Fernand, being old and lame, will be forgiven if he is a little late, and not fined of his dinner. In other ways consideration was shown to him, and he was often sent to dine in the infirmary, not being expected with his toothless jaws to munch the dry crusts set before the rest of the house. This, it seems, was a custom which had been learnt from St. Justina's at Padua, to put out the stale crusts first, before the new bread, to break appetite upon: just as in the old Quaker schools a hundred years ago, children were set down to suet-pudding, and then broth, before the joint appeared; the order being, 'No ball, no broth; no broth, no beef'. We are in a position to view from the inside another Benedictine house at this period, that of Ottobeuren, near Memmingen, which lies about mid-way between Augsburg and the east end of the Lake of Constance. The source of our information is the correspondence of one of the brothers, Nicholas Ellenbog (or Cubitus); 890 letters copied out in his own hand, and only 80 of these printed. It is not so continuous a narrative as Butzbach's, but the picture that it gives is rather more pleasing. Nicholas' father was Ulrich Ellenbog, a physician of Memmingen, who graduated as Doctor of Medicine from Pavia in 1459, and became first Reader in Medicine at Ingolstadt. The letters introduce us to most of his children. One son, Onofrius, went for a soldier, became attached to Maximilian's train, and received a knighthood; another, Ulrich, became M.D. at Siena, but died immediately afterwards; another, John, became a parish priest. Of the daughters three remained in the world; one, Elizabeth, married; another, Cunigunde, died of plague caught in nursing some nuns. The fourth daughter, Barbara, at the age of nine entered the convent of Heppach, and lived there forty-one years, rising to be Prioress and then Abbess. We shall hear of her again. Nicholas Ellenbog, 1480 or 1481-1543, was the third son. After five years at Heidelberg, 1497-1502, in which he met Wimpfeling and was fellow-student, though a year senior, to Oecolampadius, he went off to Cracow, the Polish university, which was then so flourishing as to attract students from the west. Schurer, for example, the Strasburg printer, was M.A. of Cracow in 1494; and some idea of the condition of learning there may be gained from a book-seller's letter to Aldus from Cracow, December 1505, ordering 100 copies of Constantine Lascaris' Greek grammar. For some months Ellenbog heard lectures there on astronomy, which remained a favourite subject with him throughout his life. Then an impulse came to him to follow his father's footsteps in medicine, and at the advice of friends he went back across half Europe to Montpellier, which from its earliest days had been famous for its medical faculty. In the long vacation of 1502 he spent two months with a friend in the château of a nobleman among the Gascon hills, and on their return journey they stayed for a fortnight in a house of Dominican nuns. The sisters were strict in their observances, and gave a good pattern of the unworldly life, which attracted Ellenbog strongly. In 1503 he went home for the long vacation to Memmingen. On the way he was taken by the plague, and with difficulty dragged himself in to Ravensburg. For three months he lay ill, and death came very close. As its unearthly glow irradiated the world around him, reversing its light and shade, the visions of the nunnery recurred. He vowed that if his life were still his to give, it should be given to God's service; and on recovering he entered Ottobeuren. In his noviciate year he was under the guidance of a kind and sympathetic novice-master, who allowed him to study quietly in his cell to his heart's content; and during this period he composed what he calls an epitome or breviary of Plato. Its precise character he does not specify, but its second title suggests that it may have been a collection of extracts from Plato: not from the Greek, for he had little acquaintance with that yet, but presumably from such of Plato's works as had been translated into Latin. On Ascension Day, 1504, which appears from other indications to mean 15 August, he made his profession, and in September 1505 he went to Augsburg to be ordained as sub-deacon. Writing to a friend to give such news as he had gathered on this outing, he tells a story to convict himself of hasty judgement. During the ordination service he noticed that one of the candidates, a bold-eyed fellow who had been at several universities, and had been Rector at Siena, let his gaze wander over the ladies who had come to see the ceremony, instead of keeping it fixed on the altar. Ellenbog censured him in his mind, but later he noticed that as the man kneeled before the bishop with folded hands to receive unction, his eyes were filled with tears of repentance--others perhaps would have called it merely emotion. On his way back to Ottobeuren, Ellenbog arrived at a village, where he had counted on a night's rest, only to find it crowded with a wedding-party; the followers of the bridegroom, who were escorting him to the marriage on the morrow, a Sunday. It was with great difficulty that he found shelter, in the house of a cobbler, who let him sleep with his family in the straw; but it was so uncomfortable that before dawn he crept out and started on his way under the moon. In the half light he missed the road and found himself at the bride's castle; where he learnt that her sister was just dead and the wedding postponed. As he passed in that evening through the abbey-gate, there was thankfulness in his heart that he was back out of the world and its petty disappointments. On Low Sunday, 1506, he was ordained priest at Ottobeuren, and celebrated his first mass. Some of his letters are to friends inviting them to be present, and adjuring them to come empty-handed, without the customary gifts. In these early years there was ample leisure for study. In 1505 he began Greek, and in 1508 Hebrew. He speaks of reading Aeneas Sylvius, Pico della Mirandola, Cyprian, Diogenes Laertius, Ambrose, Chrysostom, Dionysius the Areopagite. He went on with his astronomy, and cast horoscopes for his friends. Binding books was one of his occupations; and in 1509, when a press was set up in the monastery, he lent a hand in the printing. He was very fortunate in his abbot, Leonard Widemann, who had been Steward when he entered Ottobeuren, but was elected Abbot in 1508, and outlived him by three years, dying in 1546. Widemann called upon him for service. Immediately on election he made him Prior--at 28--and only released him from this office after four years, to make him, though infinitely reluctant, serve ten years more as Steward. But if the Abbot knew how to exact compliance, he knew also how to reward. He gave Ellenbog every assistance in his studies, allowed him to write hither and thither for books, made continual efforts to procure him first a Hebrew and then a Greek Bible, wrote to Reuchlin to find him a converted Jew as Hebrew teacher, and in 1516 built him a new library; for which Ellenbog writes to a friend asking for verses to put under the paintings of the Doctors of the Church, which are to adorn the walls. As results of his studies we hear of him correcting the abbey service-books, where for _stauros_, a scribe with no Greek had written _scayros_, and explaining to the Abbot mistaken interpretations in the passages read aloud in the refectory during meals. One of these, in a book written by some one who had recently been canonized--some mediaeval doctor--illustrates the learning of the day; deriving [Greek: gastrimargia], gluttony, from _castrum_ and _mergo_, 'quod gula mergat castrum mentis,' because gluttony drowns the seat of reason. Of Ellenbog's official duties occasional mention is made in his letters. As Steward he has to visit the tenants of the monastery; in the autumn he journeys about the country buying wine. We hear of him at Westerhaim, on the river Iller, settling a dispute among the fishermen. On one of his journeys to fetch wine from Constance, at the hospice there he fell in with a man who could fire balls out of a machine by means of nitre, and who boasted that he could demolish with this weapon a certain castle in the neighbourhood. Over supper they began to argue, the artillerist maintaining that nitre was cold, and that the explosion which discharged the balls was caused by the contrariety between nitre and sulphur; Ellenbog contending that nitre was hot, and supporting this view by scraps remembered from his father's scientific conversation. The general life of the Abbey is also reflected. Ottobeuren lay on one of the routes to Italy, and so they had plenty of visitors bringing news from regions far off: a Carthusian, who had been in Ireland and seen St. Patrick's cave; a party of Hungarian acrobats with dancing bears; a young Cretan, John Bondius, who had seen the labyrinth of Minos, but all walled up to prevent men from straying into it and being lost. A great impression he made, when he dined with the Abbot; he was so learned and polished, and spoke Latin so well for a Greek. In 1514 Pellican, the Franciscan Visitor, passed on his way south, and had a talk with Ellenbog, which was all too short, about Hebrew learning. Next year came Eck, the theologian, the future champion of orthodoxy, returning from Rome. Eck's mother and sisters were living under the protection of the abbey--it is not clear whether they were merely tenants, or whether they were occupying lay quarters within its walls, as did Fernand's at St. Germain's in Paris. At any rate, Eck came and made himself agreeable. He preached twice before the brethren; and when he left, he promised to send them the latest news from America. In 1511 a copy of Vespucci's narrative of his voyage had been lent to the monastery, and had been read with great interest. A grave question arose whether the new races discovered in the West were to be accounted as saved or damned. Ellenbog quotes Faber Stapulensis' statement that nothing could be more bestial than the condition of the Indians whom da Gama had discovered in 1498 in Calicut, Cannanore, and Ceylon; it was to be feared that the Indians of the West were no better. In writing to Ellenbog six months later to say that he had no clear opinions on the question, Eck uses an interesting expression: 'To ask what I think is like looking for Arthur and his Britons.'[16] The reference is to the Arthurian legend and the long-expected, never-fulfilled, return of the great king; but the humanists usually leave the whole field of mediaeval romance severely alone. [16] Arcturum cum Britannis exspectatis. For another allusion to Arthur, see Pace, _De Fructu_, p. 83. One September morning, when the dew was still heavy, Ellenbog went out with some brethren to gather apples. At the top of the orchard[17] one of them called out that he had found 'a star'. It was a damp white deposit on the grass, clammy and quivering, cold to the touch, very sticky, with long tenacious filaments. Ellenbog had never seen anything like it, but he found out that the peasants and the shepherds believed such things to be droppings from shooting stars,[18] if not actually fallen stars, and that they were thought to be a cure for cancer. His letter describing it is to ask the opinion of a friend who was a doctor, that is to say, the scientist of the age. [17] ortus. [18] stellae emuncturam et purgamentum. The affairs of Ellenbog's family often appear. His father had been a great collector of books, which he had corrected with his own hand, and which at his death he had wished to be kept together as a common heirloom for the whole family. A great many of them were medical, and therefore it had seemed good that the enjoyment of the books should go to Ulrich, the son who was studying medicine at Siena. On his way home, after completing his course, Ulrich died; and Nicholas composed a piteous appeal on behalf of the books, bewailing their fate that after ten years of confinement their hope of being used had come to nothing. Onofrius was the only brother from whom might be hoped a younger generation of Ellenbogs, one of whom might study medicine. Elizabeth's children were Geslers, and so apparently did not count. How long the books were kept together is not known. One of them is now in the University Library at Cambridge, and has been excellently described in an essay by the late Robert Proctor. It consists of several volumes bound together: Henry of Rimini on the Cardinal Virtues, the Journey of a penitent soul through Lent, a treatise _de diuina predestinacione_, and John Peckham, Archbishop of Canterbury, _de oculo morali_--all of a definitely religious or moral character. They are freely annotated by the father's hand, with marginalia which throw light on his life and times, his dislike of the Venetians for their anti-papal policy, his experiences as physician to the Abbey of St. Ulrich in Augsburg, and the part that he played in the introduction of printing there. On Lady Day, 1481, shortly after Nicholas' birth, perhaps when he had lived just a week and seemed likely to thrive, the father composed an address to his four living sons--four being already dead--, and wrote it into this volume. He adjures them to follow learning and goodness, and finally bids them take every care of the books; and not let them be separated. This it was which inspired Nicholas' appeal thirty years later, when Ulrich, the son, was cut off, just as his eyes seemed about to follow his father's up and down the pages. Ellenbog's letters to his sister Barbara are amusing. She was four or five years older than he, but being a woman had not had his opportunities. He begins by trying to teach her Latin. But the difficulties were many, and apparently she did not progress far enough to write in the tongue. At any rate, Ellenbog copied none of her letters into his book; a fact which is to be deplored both from her point of view and from ours. One would like to know what reply she made to some of his homilies. She invited him once to come and see her at Heppach, with leave from her Abbess. He replies cautiously that, if he comes, he hopes they will be able to talk without being overheard; for Onofrius had been once, and when he made a rather coarse remark, there had been giggles outside the door. In 1512 Barbara became Prioress, and Ellenbog took the opportunity to lecture her at length upon spiritual pride and the importance of humility; sweetening his dose of virtue with a present of cinnamon, ginger, and nutmeg. Once she let fall some regrets that she had brought nothing into her convent, and was dependent on it for food and clothing; evidently she would have liked some share of the patrimony which had been divided between her married sisters and the brothers who remained in the world. Nicholas' reply was that Heppach, like other monasteries, was well endowed; she had given herself, and that was quite enough. In 1515 Barbara was elected Abbess; and received another discourse about spiritual pride. John and Elizabeth wrote to Nicholas saying that they had been invited to Heppach to salute the new Reverend Mother, and suggesting that he should come too. But his plain speaking had had its reward, no invitation had come for him. Under the circumstances, he writes, he could not think of going; besides he had been there several times before, and had found it very dull; it was clearly John's duty to go, as he had not been once in twenty years, although his parish was only three miles from Heppach. However the breach was healed, and a proper invitation came for Nicholas; but the business of his stewardship prevented him from accepting. The relations with John, the parish priest of Wurtzen, are more harmonious. There is a frequent exchange of presents, John sending tools for wood-carving, and crayfish; which seem to have been common in his neighbourhood, for Nicholas occasionally asks for them. The only lecture is one passed on from Barbara. John had been created a chaplain to Maximilian, an honorific title, with few or no duties; and Barbara had feared that he might neglect the flock in his parish. On another occasion Nicholas urges him to follow Elizabeth's advice, and get an unmarried man to be his housekeeper. He had proposed to have a man with a family; and Elizabeth was afraid for his reputation. John was a frequent guest at Ottobeuren, and one of Nicholas' invitations contains what is unusual among the humanists, an appreciation of the charms of the country: 'Come,' he says, 'and hear the songs of the birds, the shepherds' pipes and the children's horns, the choruses of reapers and ploughmen, and the voices of the girls as they work in the fields.' By his younger relatives, Ellenbog did his duty unfailingly. Elizabeth's eldest son, John Gesler, was at school at Memmingen. When a new schoolmaster was appointed, Ellenbog wrote to bespeak his interest in the boy, and to suggest the books that he should read: Donatus' Grammar and the letters of Filelfo. At 14 he persuaded the parents to send John to Heidelberg, and took a great deal of trouble in arranging that the boy should be lodged with his own teacher, Peter of Wimpina. When two years later Elizabeth grew anxious about John's health and proposed to take him with her to some of the numerous baths, which then as now abounded in Germany and Switzerland, it was again Nicholas who made the arrangements; and in 1515, when John had left Heidelberg, Nicholas proposed to exchange letters with him daily, in order that he might not forget his Latin. In January 1515 Elizabeth's eldest daughter, Barbara, was married to a certain Conrad Ankaryte. In December 1530 he writes to one of the nuns at Heppach to announce that he has persuaded two girls, the children of this marriage, to embrace the religious life. The elder, Anna, aged 13, was forward with her education, as she was well acquainted with German literature and was reading Latin with her father[19]; by the following summer she would be ready to come to Heppach. For the younger, who was not yet 7, he begged a few years' grace, though she was eager to come at once. Truly children developed earlier in those days. [19] quae legere literas vernaculae linguae satis expedite nouit, nunc per patrem imbuitur Latinis. The happiest time of Ellenbog's life began in the summer of 1522, when after ten years' service he was allowed by the Abbot to resign his Stewardship. His accounts were audited satisfactorily, and he was discharged, to what seemed to him a riotous banquet of leisure. 'In the quiet of my cell,' he wrote to his brother, 'I read, I write, I meditate, I pray, I paint, I carve'. His interest in astronomy was resumed, and he set himself to make dials for pocket use, on metal rings or on round wooden sticks. The latter he turned for himself upon a lathe; and for this work John sent him a present of boxwood, juniper, and plane. By the New Year of 1523 he had made two sundials; one which showed the time on five sides at once, he sent to John at Wurtzen, the other to Barbara at Heppach. His cell looked South, and thus he could study the movements of the moon and the planets, and note the southing of the stars. He could turn his skill to profit, too, and exchange his dials for pictures of the saints. In 1525 his peace was broken by the Peasants' Revolt, which swept like a hurricane over South Germany. Hostility to religion was not one of its moving causes, but the monks were vulnerable, and had always been considered fair game, especially by local nobles whom in the plenitude of their power they had not troubled to conciliate. The peasants of the Rhine valley had not forgotten the burning of Limburg, near Spires, by William of Hesse in 1504. The abbey church had scarcely a rival in Germany, and the flames burned for twelve days. With such an example, and with their prey unresisting, the peasants were not likely to stay their hands. At Freiburg they brought to his death Gregory Reisch, the learned Carthusian Prior of St. Johannisberg, the friend of Maximilian. Ellenbog enumerates four monasteries burned in his neighbourhood during the outbreak--three by the peasants incensed against their landlords, and one by a noble who bore it a grudge. When the first attack came in April, Ellenbog was staying at the monastery of St. George, at Isny, about twenty miles away. The peasants there destroyed everything belonging to the monks that they could find outside the walls, and threatened dire treatment when they should force their way in; but mercifully the walls were strong, and held out. Ottobeuren was less fortunate. Being in the country, it had to rely upon itself, and so fell an easy prey. The buildings were defaced, the windows broken, the stoves and ovens wrecked, and all the ironwork carried off. Scarcely a door remained on its hinges, and the furniture of the rooms disappeared. The church was violated, its pictures soiled, and its statues smashed; Christ's wounds should be wounds indeed, hard voices cried, as axe and hammer rung over their pitiless work. The library was emptied of its books. Walls and roofs and floors were all that the monks found when they ventured back. Ellenbog, however, fared better than many. A friendly brother had seized up some of his books and papers and hidden them in the clock-tower; and the abbey carpenter thinking this insecure had found them better cover, presumably in his own house. The tempest over, calm soon returned. The countryfolk, many of whom had remained friendly, began bringing back spoil which they had wrested from wrongful possessors. Some of Ellenbog's books were brought in; and as much as two years later he recovered one of his astronomical instruments. He lost, however, a number of his father's papers, which he had been on the point of editing; a Hebrew Bible given to him by Onofrius; and the first two books of his collection of his own letters. 'God knows whether they will ever come back,' he wrote at the beginning of the third book; and to him they never did. They are now safe at Stuttgart, though in permanent divorce from the other seven books, which are in Paris. Ellenbog was no coward. In the autumn the vineyards belonging to the Abbey were to be inspected, and the due tithes of wine exacted. Unless this were done the monks would suffer lack; so some one had to be sent, in spite of the last mutterings of the revolt. One vineyard lay at Immenstadt, some distance to the South, and thus Ellenbog at Isny was already part way thither. Moreover, having served as Steward, he would know what was required. The Abbot sent down a horse and bade him go: though the roads were held by armed outlaws, who were reported to be specially hostile to monks. He was afraid; but he summoned his courage and went. If the Abbey seemed a haven before, when he came back to it from the experiences of his ordination at Augsburg, this time it was a refuge and strength against the fear that lurketh in forests and the imagination of pursuing footsteps. IV UNIVERSITIES In the autumn of 1495 Erasmus was at length at liberty to go to a university. His patron, the Bishop of Cambray, gave him a small allowance, and the authorities at Steyn were prevailed upon to consent. His purpose was to obtain a Doctor's degree in Theology; and so he entered the College of Montaigu at Paris, which had been founded in 1388, but had fallen into decay and only recently been revived. In 1483 a certain John Standonck had volunteered to become Principal. By his efforts the college buildings were restored; and by taking in rich pupils he secured means to maintain the Domus Pauperum attached to the College. He was an ardent, enthusiastic person, but rather lacking in judgement; and starved his _pauperes_ in order to be able to have as many as possible on the slender resources available. Erasmus, being delicate and therewith fastidious, complained of the rough and meagre fare--rotten eggs and stinking water; and with good reason, for it made him ill, and he had to spend the summer of 1496 with his friends in Holland. Having established himself in the college he introduced himself to the literary circle in Paris, through its head, Robert Gaguin, the aged General of the Maturins, who had served on many embassies, to Spain, to Italy, to Germany, to England. Gaguin had written much himself, and had been one of the promoters of printing in Paris. To know him was to be known of many. Erasmus began by addressing to him a poem and some florid letters, and showed him some of his work. Then an opportunity came to do him a service. Gaguin had composed a history of the French, and it was just coming through the press. At the end the printer found himself with two pages of the last sheet unfilled, despite ample spacing out, and the author was too ill to lend any help. Erasmus heard of the difficulty, and came to the rescue with a long and most elegant epistle to Gaguin, comparing him to Sallust and Livy, and promising him immortality. Time has turned the tables: Gaguin's name lives, not because of his history, but because the young and unknown Augustinian canon thought fit to court his acquaintance. Once blooded with the printers, Erasmus went steadily on. In a few months he published some poems of his own, on Christ and the angels--_de casa natalitia Jesu_, a very rare volume, of which only two copies are known. It was dedicated to a college friend, Hector Boys, of Dundee, subsequently the first Principal of King's College, Aberdeen, and historian of Scotland. It may be wondered what was Erasmus' motive. A dedication of a book had a market value and usually brought a return in proportion to the compliments laid on. Correctness certainly required that the book should be sent to the Bishop of Cambray. Boys was only a fellow-student, whose acquaintance Erasmus had made at Montaigu. The explanation perhaps lies in the fact that Bishop Elphinstone was then negotiating with Boys to come to Aberdeen; in the newly-founded university Erasmus may have sighted hopes for himself. The following year saw another volume produced by him; the poems of his Gouda and Deventer friend, William Herman, with a few of his own added. This time the Bishop of Cambray did not fail of his due. When Erasmus came to Paris, he was nearly 29, older by far than the ordinary arts student, but not old for the theological course, which lasted longer than the others. To reach the first step, the Bachelor's degree, he had to attend a number of lectures; and very tedious he found them. Theologians are apt to be conservative. The method of instruction had not advanced far beyond the dictation of text and gloss and commentary, which had been current before the days of printing. Erasmus yawned and dozed, or wrote letters to his friends making fun of these 'barbarous Scotists'. 'You wouldn't know me,' he says, 'if you could see me sitting under old Dunderhead, my brows knit and looking thoroughly puzzled. They tell me that no one can understand these mysteries who has any traffic with the Muses or the Graces. So I am trying hard to forget my Latin: wit and elegance must disappear. I think I am getting on; maybe some day they will recognize me for their own.' They did, and he proceeded B.D.; when is not known, but probably by Easter 1498. At the present day in England our systems are very set. A man matriculates at a university and completes his course there: to change even from one college to another is becoming almost unknown. Abroad, however, things are more fluid, and students pass on from university to university in search of the best teacher for special parts of their course. So it was in Erasmus' time. A course of lectures attended in one university could be reckoned in another; and thus men often proceeded to their degrees within a short time of their matriculation. Having taken his Bachelor's degree at Paris, Erasmus at once proposed to convert it into a Doctor's in Italy; but one hope after another of going there was disappointed. In 1506 he wished to take it in Cambridge; but after obtaining his grace, he was offered a chance to go to Italy as tutor to the sons of Henry VII's Italian physician. He accepted with delight, and was made D.D. as he passed through Turin; the formalities apparently requiring only a few days. The art of reasoning is an excellent thing; and so long as man continues to live according to reason, some training in this art will continue to be a part of education. Indeed, an elementary knowledge of it is as necessary as an elementary acquaintance with the art of arithmetic. Both arts have this in common that though their feet walk upon the earth, their heads are lost in the clouds. A moderate attainment of them is indispensable to all; but their higher developments can only be comprehended by the acutest minds. In the Middle Ages the art of reasoning had been raised to such a pitch of perfection that it entirely dominated the schools. Its exponents were so proud of it that its bounds were continually extended; and it became impossible to obtain a university degree without a high level of proficiency in disputation. For his examination a candidate was required to dispute with all comers--in practice this came to be a small number of appointed examiners, three or four--on questions which had been announced beforehand. It was not a hasty affair--time was allowed for reflection, and the examination might easily last several hours or even all day. But clearly readiness in debate was likely to count in a man's favour, and so besides knowledge of standard authors to be adduced in support of opinions--the Bible, the Fathers, the mediaeval commentators, the Canon Law and the glosses upon it--it was important to a candidate to be able to handle a question properly, to divide it up into its different parts by means of distinctions, to shear off side issues, to examine the various facets which it presented when approached from different points of view; and all this without hesitation, and of course in Latin. In order to train candidates in this art, university and college teachers gave frequent exhibitions of disputations, which from being on any subject, de quolibet, were styled 'quodlibeticae questiones', or 'disputationes'. A high dignitary presided, with the title of 'dominus quodlibetarius', and propounded questions, usually one supported by arguments and two plain; and then the disputer, who presumably came prepared, delivered his reply, clear cut into fine distinctions and bristling with citations from recognized authorities. Such work necessarily cost trouble and forethought, and the hard-working teacher of the day, instead of printing his lectures on philosophy or history or editing and commentating texts, gave to his pupils in permanent form the quodlibetical disputations which the busy among them had struggled to copy down into note-books, and over which the inattentive, like Erasmus, had yawned. These are some of the subjects disputed at Louvain, 1488-1507, by Adrian of Utrecht; first as a young doctor, then as professor of theology, and finally for ten years as vice-chancellor, before he was carried away to become tutor to Prince Charles, and entered upon the public career which led him finally to Rome as Adrian VI. 1488. Whether to avoid offending one's neighbour it is permissible to break a vow or oath duly made. 1491. Whether one is bound to act on the command of a superior, contrary to one's own opinion, knowing that in former days the matter had been regarded as doubtful. 1492. Whether it is lawful to administer the Eucharist or to confer the benefit of absolution on one who declares that he cannot abstain from crimes. 1493. Whether of the two is more likely to be healed and offends God the less, the man who sins from ignorance or infirmity, or the man who sins of deliberate intent. 1495. Whether a priest who gives advice that tithes ought not to be paid on the fruits of one's own labours, can receive remission of his sin without undergoing severe punishment. Whether transgression of human laws constitutes mortal sin. 1499. Whether prayer on behalf of many is as beneficial to the individuals as if one prayed as long a time for each one. 1491. <? 1501> Whether it is permissible to give money to any one to procure one a benefice by praising one's dignity and merits to the provisor to the benefice. Here are some of John Briard of Ath, a notable theologian, who was subsequently Vice-chancellor of Louvain: 1508. Whether a man who has confessed all his mortal sins but has omitted his voluntary occasions of stumbling, is bound to confess over again. Whether we are bound by the law of love to deliver a neighbour, against his will, from oppression, infamy, or death, when we cannot do so without hurt or danger to ourselves. Whether beneficed students on account of their studies are excused from reading their canonical hours. We will now consider in brief Briard's handling of the following question: 'Whether a prize of money won at Bruges or elsewhere by the hazard known as the game of the pot, or what is commonly called the lottery, may be retained with a clear conscience as a righteous acquisition?' 'For the decision of this question I premise: 1. Firstly, that gain is not to be considered unlawful because it comes by good fortune, and not by one's own labour. The truth of this preamble is shown thus: If gain coming by good fortune is unlawful, it follows that all gain arising from division by lot is unlawful. But this is false: therefore, &c. The consequent is proved by the fact that all such gain rests on good fortune. The falsity is shown by the opinions of almost all the doctors who write on this subject: St. Thomas, 2.2, question 95, article 8, shows that there is nothing wrong in dividing by lot, between friends who cannot otherwise decide. In this opinion agree Alexander of Hales, part 2 of his _Summa_, question 185, membrane 2; Angelus in his _Summa_ under the word _sors_, section 2, after the gloss in _Summa 26_, question 2; Antoninus, part 2, title 12, chapter 1, section 9. 2. Secondly, that gain is not to be considered unlawful because it comes without labour. This would exclude gifts. 3. Thirdly, that gain is not to be considered unlawful because it comes from cupidity, avarice, forbidden trade, or opus peccaminosum <e.g. working on a saint's day>, unless there is fraud, deception, or the like. See Petrus de Palude, book 4, distinction 15, question 3, conclusion 4, about the gain arising from acting. Also Angelus in his _Summa_ under _restitutio_, part 1, section 6. 4. Fourthly, that a work which brings public advantage, either spiritual or temporal, is not necessarily unlawful because some people are thereby provoked to sin. Otherwise it would be unlawful to manufacture arms or to make war. On these premises I base the following propositions: 1. The lottery is not in itself unlawful. Proof. It is not prohibited by any law, divine, human, or natural: divine, because it is not forbidden in Scripture; human, because there is no law against it as there is against hazard or dicing; natural, because it is not excluded as (_a_) coming by good fortune, (_b_) provoking others to sin, (_c_) vain and useless. _a_ and _b_ are proved by premiss 1 and 4. _c_ is proved because we are supposing that the lottery is undertaken in order that the city of Bruges may make a profit with which to pay off some of its municipal debt, or be lightened of some of its common burdens, so that its citizens may be free to journey whither they please. (That this last refers among other things to pilgrimage, may be inferred from a reference to the Canon Law on the undertaking of journeys, chapter on Sacred Churches.) 2. The lottery is not prohibited by the human laws forbidding hazard and dice. Proof. The laws prohibiting these do not forbid the lottery, nor can it be included under them by parity of reasoning. For hazard is not forbidden because it depends on chance, or else all gaming would be forbidden; and it is not forbidden to play for small stakes or on the occasion of a party. But it (hazard) is forbidden because, as Petrus de Palude says in book 4, distinction 15, question 3, article 5, the person who loses is wont to blaspheme; and also because men are tempted to lose more than they can afford.' We need not follow the argument in detail, but the fourth proposition is interesting, 'That there is an injustice in the lotteries as practised by some cities, in that the creditors of the city are compelled against their will to take part in the lottery, and so probably make a loss, for fear of not recovering the money owed to them'. After six propositions come two contrary arguments, which are refuted by five and two considerations; and then there is a brief summing up. Excellent reasoning this doubtless was, and the student who could dispute over these intricacies for hours together, must have had at least a competent knowledge of Latin, understanded of the examiners; but it is not surprising that the humanists desired something better. The universities did not live upon the teaching of the colleges alone. Scholars came from abroad and competed with the home-bred talent to supply such private tuition as was required, and when their ability had been proved, received licence from the university to teach publicly. The advantage generally rested with the new-comer. _Omne ignotum pro mirifico._ When there was so much to learn, so much novelty that the stranger might bring with him, it was little wonder that a new arrival aroused excitement, especially if he came with a reputation. Teachers travelled from one university to another in search of employment, and any one with a knowledge of Greek or Hebrew was sure to find pupils and attentive audiences. So great was the enthusiasm on both sides, that lectures often lasted for hours. Aleander, when he returned from Orleans to Paris in 1511, kept quiet for a month, in order to awaken public interest. Then he announced a course of lectures on Ausonius, to begin on 30 July. His device was entirely successful. Two thousand people gathered, and he was obliged to lead them over from his own college, de la Marche, to a larger building, known as the Portico of Cambray. He had composed an elaborate oration of twenty-four pages. 'It took me two hours and a half to deliver,' he says, 'and would have taken four, if I hadn't been a quick reader; but no one showed the least sign of fatigue, in spite of the heat. My voice lasted very well. Next day I had nearly as good an audience, although it was the day for the disputation at the Sorbonne. On the day after, all seats were taken by 11, though I do not begin till 1.' His success was not mere imagination. One who was present tells us that men looked upon him as if he had come down from heaven, and shouted 'Viuat, viuat', as they were accustomed to do to Faustus Andrelinus, another witty Italian who was then lecturing in Paris. A lecturer to-day who went on into the third hour would scarcely be so popular. But Aleander was not alone in his powers of speech, and others besides Parisians could listen. Butzbach tells us, not without humour, of a certain Baldwin Bessel of Haarlem, a learned physician with a wonderful memory, who was summoned to Laach to heal their Abbot, who lay sick. On one occasion at Coblenz he harangued an audience of 300 for three hours on end on the power of eloquence, and stimulated by the sight of such a gathering, worked himself up in his peroration, until he believed himself to be a second Cicero. His hearers perhaps did not agree. Anyway, Butzbach is the only person who mentions him, and he would have preferred a little less eloquence and a little more medicine; for the Abbot, instead of recovering, died under the hands of the new Cicero in two days. Besides lecturing at the university, young men also maintained themselves by working for the printers, correcting proof-sheets and composing complimentary prefaces and verses. Another service which they could render to both printers and authors was to give public 'interpretations', as they were called, of new books on publication, for the purpose of advertisement. These interpretations probably took place at the printer's office, and were of the nature of a review, describing the book's contents; and they were doubtless repeated at frequent intervals before new groups of likely purchasers. Erasmus, however, had been sent to Paris to take a degree in Theology, and his patrons expected him to occupy himself with this. When he returned from Holland in 1496 he could not face again the rigours of Montaigu, and so he took shelter in a boarding-house kept by a termagant woman--'pessima mulier' the bursar of the German nation, her landlords, called her when she would not pay her rent--, the wife of a minor court official. So long as his supplies lasted, he kept strictly to his work; but when the Bishop failed him, he was obliged to support himself, and took to private teaching. Two of his pupils were young men from Lubeck, who were under the care of a teacher from their own part of the world, Augustine Vincent, a budding scholar, who afterwards published an edition of Virgil, but who as yet was glad to be helped by Erasmus. Another pair came from England, one a kinsman of John Fisher, and were in the charge of a morose North-countryman. In great poverty, Erasmus made his way somehow, occasionally writing little treatises for his pupils, on a method of study, on letter-writing--an important art in those days--, a paraphrase of the _Elegantiae_ of Valla; and finally, one of his best-known works, the Colloquies, had its origin in a little composition of this period, which he refers to as 'sermones quosdam quotidianos quibus in congressibus et conuiuiis vtimur'--a few formulas of address and expressions of polite sentiments, which develop into brief conversations. The poor scholar's hardships were mitigated by the generosity of a friend. Whilst with the Bishop of Cambray Erasmus had made the acquaintance of a young man from Bergen-op-Zoom, the Bishop's ancestral home; one James Batt, who after education in Paris had returned to be master of the public school in his native town. About 1498 Batt was engaged as private tutor to the son of Anne of Borsselen, widow of an Admiral of Flanders and hereditary Lady of Veere, an important sea-port town in Walcheren which then did much trade with Scotland, and whose great, dumb cathedral and ornate town-hall still tell to the handful of houses round them the story of former greatness. From the first Batt applied himself to win his patroness' favour to his clever and needy friend. Erasmus was invited to visit them, money was sent for his journey; and within a short time he was receiving pecuniary contributions from the Lady more frequently than if she had been allowing him a pension. His letters to Batt--the replies which came he never published--are remarkable reading, and do credit to both sides. Conscious of high powers and pressed by urgent need, Erasmus begins by begging without concealment, for money to keep him going and give him leisure. But as time goes on and the Lady wearies of much giving, Erasmus' tone grows sharper and more insistent; until at last he scolds and upbraids his patient correspondent for not extorting more, and even bids him put his own needs in the background until Erasmus' are satisfied. Batt's name deserves to be remembered as chief amongst faithful friends, for putting up with such scant gratitude after his inexhaustible devotion; and we must needs think more highly of Erasmus, if his friend could accept such treatment at his hand and not be wounded. To the great much littleness may be forgiven. The surprising thing is that Erasmus should have allowed such letters to be published. In the summer of 1499 Erasmus was carried off to England by another friend whom he had captivated, the young Lord Mountjoy, who had come abroad to study until the child-bride whom he had already married should be old enough to become his wife. After a summer spent among bright-eyed English ladies at a country-house in Hertfordshire, then studded with the hunting-boxes of the nobility, and a visit to London which brought him into quick friendship with More, ten or eleven years his junior, Erasmus persuaded his patron to take him for a while to Oxford. Mountjoy promised but could not perform. The Earl of Warwick was to be tried in Westminster Hall, and Mountjoy as a peer must be in his place. So Erasmus rode in to Oxford, over Shotover and across Milham ford, alone. As an Austin canon he had a claim on St. Mary's, a college which had been established in 1435 at the instance of a number of Augustinian abbots and priors, for the purpose of bringing young canons to Oxford to profit by the life and studies of the university; in much the same way that Mansfield and Manchester Colleges have joined us in recent years. For two or three months he was here, enjoying the society of the learned and attending Colet's lectures on the Epistles of St. Paul; invited to dine in college halls, as a congenial visitor is to-day, and spending the afternoons, not the evenings, in discussions arising out of the conversation over the dinner-table. His ready wit and natural vivacity, his wide reading and serious purpose, made themselves felt. Even Colet the austere was delighted with him and begged him to stay. He was lecturing himself on St. Paul; let Erasmus take some part of the Old Testament and expound it to fascinated audiences. Oxford laid her spell upon the young Dutch canon--upon whom does she not?--but he was not yet ready. To give his life to sacred studies was the purpose that was riveting itself upon him; but he could not accomplish what he wished without Greek at the least--he never made any serious attempt to learn Hebrew--and Greek was not to be had in Oxford, hardly indeed anywhere in Western Europe outside Italy and perhaps Spain. Indeed, for some years to come this university was to display her characteristic, or may be her admirable, caution towards the new light offered to her from without. We must bear in mind the well-reasoned hostility of the Church to--or at least hesitation about--the revival of learning. In the period we are considering the powers of evil were very real. Men instinctively accepted the existence of a kingdom of darkness, extending its borders over the sphere of knowledge as over the other sides of human activity. Greek was the language of some of the most licentious literature--Sappho's poems were burnt by the Church at Constantinople in 1073--and of many detestable heresies; and thus though the Council of Vienne, with missionary zeal, had recommended in 1311 that lectures in Greek--as in other languages of the heretical East--should be established in the universities of Paris, Bologna, Oxford, and Salamanca, the decree had not been carried out, and Greek was still regarded with suspicion by the orthodox. Their opposition dies with their lives, these guardians of the thing that is. Of the thing that cometh they know, that 'if it be of God, they cannot overthrow it'. The silent flooding in of the main is to them more to be desired than the swift wave which in giving may destroy. Let us not think too lightly of them because they feared shadows which the light of time has dispelled. It needs no eyes to see where they were wrong: where they were right--and they were right often enough--can only be seen by taking trouble to inquire. Of the condition of learning in England in the second half of the fifteenth century we do not yet know all that we might. Manuscripts that men bought or had written for them, books that they read, catalogues of libraries now scattered can tell us much, even though the owners are dead and speak not. Single facts, like cards for cardhouses, will not stand alone. There is still much to be done. Great libraries are only just beginning to gather up the manuscript minutiae which their books contain; to identify handwritings; to decipher monograms; to collect facts. But some day when the work has been done, we may well hope to be able to put bone to bone and breathe new life into them in a way which will make valuable contributions to our knowledge. There is sometimes an inclination now to underestimate the effect of the Renaissance. The writers of that age were unsparingly contemptuous of their predecessors, and their verdict was for long accepted almost without question. The reaction against this has led to an undue extolling of the Middle Ages. It is true enough that many of the Schoolmen, though the humanists speak of them as hopelessly barbarous, were capable of writing Latin which, if not strictly classical, had yet an excellence of its own. But in view of the extracts given above from Ebrardus and John Garland it can hardly be maintained that there was much knowledge of Greek in Western Europe before the Renaissance. England was not ahead of France and Germany in the fifteenth century; and if Deventer school in 1475 was fed upon the monstrosities we have seen, it is not likely that Winchester and Eton had any better fare. Some sporadic examples there may have been of men who added a knowledge of the Greek character to their reminiscences of the _Graecismus_; just as at the present day it is not difficult to acquire a faint acquaintance with Oriental languages, enough to recognize the formation of words and plough out the letters, without any real knowledge. Colet and Fisher only began to learn Greek in their old age. One, the son of a Lord Mayor of London, made a name for himself as a lecturer at Oxford, and was advanced to be Dean of St. Paul's; the other, as head of a house at Cambridge and Chancellor of the University, promoted the foundation of the Lady Margaret's two colleges, Christ's and St. John's, which were to bring in the spirit of the Renaissance. It is impossible to suppose that men of such position would have spent the greater part of their lives without Greek, if there had been any facilities for them to learn it when they were young. Nor again would Erasmus, when teaching Greek at Cambridge in 1511, have chosen the grammars of Gaza and Chrysoloras to lecture upon, if his audience had been capable of anything better. Eminent scholars do not teach the elements at a university if boys are already learning them at school. The condition of things may fairly be gauged by Duke Humfrey's collections for his library at Oxford. Of 130 books which he presented to the University in 1439, not one is Greek; of 135 given in 1443, only one--a vocabulary--is certainly Greek, four more are possibly, but not probably so. A little later in the century four Oxford men were pupils of Guarino in Ferrara; Grey (d. 1478) brought back manuscripts to Balliol and became Bishop of Ely; Gunthorpe (d. 1498) took his books with him to his deanery at Wells; but to only two of the four is any definite knowledge of Greek credited--Fleming (d. 1483), who compiled a Greek-Latin dictionary, and Free (d. 1465), who translated into Latin Synesius' treatise on baldness. A discovery recently made by Dr. James of Cambridge has thrown unexpected light on the history of English scholarship at this period; and as it affords an example of the fruits to be yielded by careful research and synthesis, it may be detailed here. New Testament scholars have long been interested in a manuscript of the Gospels known, from its present habitation in the Leicester town-library, as the Leicester Codex; its date being variously assigned to the fourteenth or fifteenth century. In the handwriting there are some marked characteristics which make it easy to recognize; and in course of time other Greek manuscripts were discovered written by the same hand, two Psalters in Cambridge libraries, a Plato and Aristotle in the cathedral library at Durham, a Psalter and part of the lexicon of Suidas in Corpus at Oxford. But no clue was forthcoming as to their origin, until Dr. James found at Leiden a small Greek manuscript in the same hand, containing some letters of Aeschines and Plato, and a colophon stating that it had been written by Emmanuel of Constantinople for George Neville, Archbishop of York, and completed on 30 Dec. 1468. Where the various manuscripts were written and from what originals is not plain--the Suidas perhaps from a manuscript belonging at one time to Grosseteste; but the classical manuscripts were probably done for Neville in England during the prosperous years before his deportation to Calais in 1472, the Psalters and Gospels probably after that date at Cambridge; for the Paston Letters show that some of his disbanded household made their way to Cambridge, and Dr. Rendel Harris has ingeniously demonstrated that one Psalter and the Gospels were in fact at Cambridge with the Franciscans early in the sixteenth century. The presence of a Greek scribe in England about 1470 is an important fact. Neville was released from prison through the intervention of Pope Sixtus IV, who about 1475 sent to England another Greek scribe and diplomatist, George Hermonymus of Sparta, charged with a letter to Edward IV. Besides Andronicus Contoblacas at Basle, Hermonymus was at the time the only Greek in Northern Europe who was prepared to teach his native tongue; in consequence most of the humanists of the day, Reuchlin, Erasmus, Budaeus and many others, turned to him for instruction, though he was indeed a poor teacher. He secured the Archbishop's release, and therewith a handsome reward to himself; but lingering on, he found himself compelled to spend about a year in London--in prison: some Italian merchants having trumped up against him a charge of espionage, from which he only escaped by paying the uttermost farthing. That he suffered such a disagreeable experience perhaps indicates that no one in London was much interested in him or his language. Another Greek who was copying manuscripts in England at this time was John Serbopoulos, also of Constantinople, who between 1489 and 1500 wrote a number of Greek manuscripts at Reading: two copies of Gaza's Grammar, Isocrates _ad Demonicum_ and _ad Nicoclem_, several commentators on Aristotle's Ethics, Chrysostom on St. Matthew, a Psalter and the completion of the Corpus Suidas which his fellow-countryman Emmanuel had begun. In one of his colophons (1494) he specifies Reading Abbey as his place of abode; for the others he merely says Reading. Possibly he was in the abbey the whole time; but even a temporary visit, during which he wrote Gaza and Isocrates, is an indication that one at least of the monastic houses was not hostile to the revival of learning. Not that any doubt is possible on this point, since the researches of Abbot Gasquet into the life of William Selling, who was Prior of Christchurch, Canterbury, 1472-95. After entering the monastery, about 1448, Selling was sent to finish his studies at Canterbury College, the home of the Benedictines in Oxford.[20] In 1464 he was allowed to go with a companion, William Hadley, to Italy; where they spent two or three years over taking degrees in Theology, and heard lectures at Padua, Bologna, and Rome. Twice in later years Selling went to Italy again; and he brought back with him to England manuscripts of Homer and Euripides, and Livy, and Cicero's _de Republica_. Some of these have survived and are to be found in Cambridge libraries; others perished in the fire which broke out when Henry VIII's Visitors came to Canterbury to dissolve Christchurch. But Selling's interest in learning was not confined to the collection of manuscripts. A translation of a sermon of Chrysostom made by him in 1488 is extant; and an antiquarian visitor to Canterbury copied into his note-book 'certain Greek terminations, as taught by Dr. Sellinge of Christchurch'. [20] The Canterbury gate of Christ Church, Oxford, still marks its site. A generation or so later Linacre and More were students there; both having a connexion with Canterbury. Another Churchman of this period who was interested in the revival of learning has recently been revealed to us by his books, John Shirwood, Bishop of Durham, 1483-93. He was an adherent of Neville whom we mentioned as the patron of Emmanuel of Constantinople; and having risen to prosperity as Neville rose, he did not desert his patron when Fortune's wheel went round. It does not appear that he was educated in Italy; but for a number of years he was in Rome, as a lawyer engaged in the Papal court; and to his good service there as King's proctor he probably owed his advancement to Durham. Whilst at Rome, he bought great numbers of the Latin classics, especially those which were coming fresh from the press of Sweynheym and Pannartz. Cicero seems to have held the first place in his affections, six volumes out of forty-two; the Orations, the Epistles, _de Finibus_ and _de Oratore_, the two last being duplicated. History is well represented with Livy, Suetonius, Josephus, Plutarch, Polybius, and Dionysius of Halicarnassus; the last four in translations. In poetry he had Plautus and Terence, Horace, Martial, Juvenal, Seneca, and Statius; in archaeology Vitruvius and Frontinus; of the Fathers, Jerome, Lactantius, and the Confessions of Augustine. Twice after becoming Bishop Shirwood went to Rome again, as ambassador; once in 1487 in company with Selling and Linacre: on the second occasion, in 1492-3, he died. His books, however, had already found their way home to Durham, where they were acquired by Foxe, Shirwood's successor in the see; and Foxe subsequently presented them to his newly-founded college of Corpus Christi in Oxford. It is interesting to contrast Shirwood's collection with books presented to the library of Durham monastery by John Auckland, who was Prior 1484-94. Not a single one of them is classical, not one printed; Aquinas, Bernard, Anselm, Grosseteste, Albertus Magnus, Chrysostom in Latin, Vincent de Beauvais, _Summa Bibliorum, Tractatus de scaccario moralis iuxta mores hominum, Exempla de animalibus_. The Prior's outlook was very different from the Bishop's. Leland tells us that Shirwood had also a number of Greek books, which Tunstall found at Auckland in 1530; but only one of these has been traced, a copy of Gaza's Grammar written by John Rhosus of Crete in 1479, and bought by Shirwood at Rome. Where the rest are no one knows; doubtless scattered in many libraries, among people to whom the name of Shirwood has no meaning. One wonders why Foxe did not secure them for Corpus when he took the Latin books. He wanted Greek, but perhaps he considered the set of Aldus' Greek texts which he actually gave to Corpus, more worth having than Shirwood's manuscripts (for when Shirwood was collecting in Italy, the first book printed in Greek, the Florentine Homer, 1488, had not yet appeared): possibly he never saw them. Time would fail us to tell of all the famous Englishmen who went to study in Italy in the last years of the fifteenth century, let alone those who went and did not win fame. Langton who became Bishop of Winchester, and, not content with Wykeham's foundation, started a school in his own palace at Wolvesey; Grocin, Linacre and William Latimer, who took part in Aldus' Greek Aristotle; Colet; Lily who went further afield, to Rhodes and Jerusalem; Tunstall and Stokesley and Pace--all these were Oxford men, and yet few of them returned to settle in Oxford and teach. Of their later lives much is known, though not so much as we could wish; but their connexion with this University cannot be precisely dated, because the university registers for just this period, 1471-1505, are missing. We cannot tell just when they graduated; and we miss the chance of contemporary notes added occasionally to names of distinction. We cannot even discover to what colleges they belonged. In the last half of the fifteenth century there had been a beginning of Greek in Oxford. Thomas Chandler, Warden of New College, 1454-75, had some knowledge of it; and under his auspices an Italian adventurer of no merit, Cornelio Vitelli, came and taught here for a short time. For about two years, 1491-3, Grocin returned to lecture on Greek, as the result of his Italian studies. Colet was here about 1497-1505, until he became Dean of St. Paul's; but his lectures, as we have said, were on the Vulgate, not the Greek Testament. Of the rest that shadowy and fugitive scholar, William Latimer, was the only one of this band of Oxonians who definitely came back to live and work in the University; and he perhaps did not cast in his lot here until 1513. When he did return, he was not to be torn away again from his rooms at All Souls, under the shadow of St. Mary's tower. In 1516 More and Erasmus wished him to come and teach Greek to Fisher, Bishop of Rochester; but could not prevail with him. It would seem strange to-day for an Oxford scholar to be invited to become private tutor to the Chancellor of the sister University: he would probably shrink, as Latimer did, and find refuge in excuses. For eight or nine years, Latimer said, his studies had led him elsewhere, and he had not touched Latin and Greek. For the same reason he declared himself unable to help Erasmus in preparing for the second edition of his New Testament. What these studies were is nowhere told--Latimer's only printed work is two letters, one a mere note to Aldus, the other a long letter to Erasmus--but there is some reason to suppose that they were musical. He urged, too, that it was useless to hope the Bishop could make much progress in a month or two with such a language as Greek, over which Grocin had spent two years in Italy, and Linacre, Latimer, and Erasmus himself had laboured for many years: it would be much better to send to Italy for some one who could reside for a long time in the Bishop's household. Though he remained faithful to Oxford, Latimer in his later years held two livings near Chipping Campden: in one, Weston-sub-Edge, he rebuilt his parsonage-house and left his initials W.L. in the stonework, in the other, Saintbury, there is a contemporary medallion of him in the East window, showing the tall, thin figure which George Lily describes. At the time of Erasmus' first visit to England, 1499, London was far more a centre of the new intellectual life than either Oxford or Cambridge. He rejoiced in his first meeting with Colet, and in their walks in Oxford gardens in the soft October sunshine; his Prior at St. Mary's was benign and helpful; and he found a young compatriot, John Sixtin, of Bolsward in East Friesland, studying law, and engaged with him in a contest of that arid elegance which the taste of the age still demanded. But in London he found Grocin at his City living, ready to lend him books, and perhaps already contemplating those lectures delivered two years later, on the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy of Dionysius, which brought him to such a surprising conclusion--a denial of the attribution of them to Dionysius the Areopagite, which in agreement with Colet he had set out to prove. In London was Linacre, just returned from Venice, full of Aldus' Greek Aristotle; to a supplementary volume of which he had sent a translation of Proclus' Sphere, a mathematical work then highly esteemed. He had been working on Aristotelian commentators, and was soon to lecture on the _Meteorologica_--a course which More, who was working for the Bar in London, attended. More himself not long afterwards lectured publicly in London on Augustine's _de Ciuitate Dei_, also a favourite work with the humanists. William Lily, returned from his pilgrimage, was at work perhaps already as a schoolmaster in London; and vying with More in translating the Greek Anthology into Latin elegiacs. Bernard Andreas, the blind poet of Toulouse, after trying his fortune in vain at Oxford, had insinuated himself into Henry VII's confidence, and was now attached to the court as tutor to Prince Arthur--an office from which Linacre attempted unsuccessfully to oust him--and busy with his history of the king's reign: a project which enjoyed royal favour, and was the forerunner of Polydore Vergil's creditable essay towards a critical history of England. When Erasmus was again invited to England in 1505-6, the position had not changed. He writes to a friend in Holland: 'There are in London five or six men who are thorough masters of both Latin and Greek: even in Italy I doubt that you would find their equals. Without wishing to boast, it is a great pleasure to find that they think well of me.' To Colet in the following year, when he had said farewell, he writes from Paris: 'No place in the world has given me such friends as your City of London: so true, so learned, so generous, so distinguished, so unselfish, so numerous.' With the string of epithets we are not concerned: the point to remark is that it is of London he writes, not of either of the universities. Under these circumstances, it is not surprising that Erasmus did not at once accept Colet's proposition in 1499 that he should stay and teach in Oxford. Whether provision was offered him or not, we do not know: he might perhaps have stayed on by right at St. Mary's, but he loved not the rule. We do know, however, that at Paris there certainly was no provision for him. In quest of Greek, in quest of the proper equipment for his life's work, he went back to the old precarious existence, pupils and starvation, the dependence and the flattery that he loathed. It is this last, indeed, that puts the sting into his correspondence with Batt. That loyal friend, ever coaxing money out of his complacent and generous patroness for dispatch to Paris, would now and then ask for a letter to her, to make the claims of the absent more vivid. At this Erasmus would boil over: 'Letters,' he writes, 'it's always letters. You seem to think I am made of adamant: or perhaps that I have nothing else to do.' 'There is nothing I detest more than these sycophantic epistles.' Well he might; for this is the sort of thing he wrote. You will remember that the Lady of Veere was named Anne of Borsselen. A letter of Erasmus to her begins: 'Three Annas were known to the ancients; the sister of Dido, whom the Muses of the Romans have consecrated to immortality; the wife of Elkanah, with whose praises Jewish records resound; and the mother of the Virgin, who is the object of Christian worship. Would that my poor talents might avail, that posterity may know of your piety and snow-white purity, and count you the fourth member of this glorious band! It was no mere chance that conferred upon you this name, making your likeness to them complete. Were they noble? So are you. Did they excel in piety? Yours, too, redounds to heaven. Were they steadfast in affliction? Alas that here, too, you are constrained to resemble them. Yet in my sorrow comfort comes from this thought, that God sends suffering to bring strength. Affliction it was that made the courage of Hercules, of Aeneas, of Ulysses shine forth, that proved the patience of Job.' This, of course, is only a brief epitome. After a great deal more in this strain, he concludes: 'I send you a poem to St. Anne and some prayers to address to the Virgin. She is ever ready to hear the prayers of virgins, and you I count not a widow, but a virgin. That when only a child you consented to marry, was mere deference to the bidding of your parents and the future of your race; and your wedded life was a model of patience. That now, when still no more than a girl, you repel so many suitors is further proof of your maiden heart. If, as I confidently presage, you persevere in this high course, I shall count you not amongst the virgins of Scripture innumerable, not amongst the eighty concubines of Solomon, but, with (I am sure) the approval of Jerome, among the fifty queens.' The taste of that age liked the butter spread thick, and Erasmus' was the best butter. He relieved his mind the same day in a letter to Batt--which he did not shrink from publishing in the same volume with his effusion to the Lady Anne: 'It is now a year since the money was promised, and yet all you can say is, "I don't despair," "I will do my best." I have heard that from you so often that it quite makes me sick. The minx! She neglects her property to dally and flirt with her fine gentleman' (a young man whom Erasmus feared she would marry, as in fact she did, shortly afterwards). 'She has plenty of money to give to those scoundrels in hoods, but nothing for me, who can write books which will make her famous.' _In ira veritas._ But for Erasmus--and Batt--the rather simpering statue of Anne on the front of the town-hall at Veere would have little meaning for us to-day. We must not judge Erasmus too hardly in his double tongue. Scholars of to-day, secure in their endowments, can hold their heads high; of their obligations to pious Founders no utterance is required save _coram Deo_--'vt nos his donis ad Tuam gloriam recte vtentes'. We hear much now of the artistic temperament which brooks no control, which at all costs must express its message to the world. No artist has ever burned with a fiercer fire than did Erasmus for the high tasks which his powers demanded of him; but at this period of his life there was no pious Founder to make his way plain. Later on, in all time of his wealth, he was generosity itself with his money, and inexorable in refusing honours and places that would have hindered him from his work. V ERASMUS' LIFE-WORK In August 1511 Erasmus returned to Cambridge. He was a different man from the young scholar who had determined twelve years before that it was no use for him to stay in Oxford. In the interval he had learnt what he wanted--Greek; he had had his desire and visited Italy; and now he came back to sit down to steady work, in accordance with his promise to Colet, in accordance with the purpose of his life, to advance the study of the Scriptures and the knowledge of God. It had been no light matter to learn Greek. Books were not abundant, and the only teacher to be had, Hermonymus of Sparta, was useless to him, neither could nor would impart the classical Greek that scholars wanted. So Erasmus was compelled to fall back on the best of all methods, to teach himself. He had no Liddell and Scott, no Stephanus; probably nothing better than a manuscript vocabulary copied from some earlier scholar, and amplified by himself. No wonder that he found Homer difficult and skipped over Lucian's long words. He exercised himself in translation, from Lucian, from Libanius, from Euripides. But that ready method of acquiring a new language--through the New Testament, was probably not open to him, for copies of the Gospels in Greek were rare, and not within the reach of a needy scholar's purse. However, he persevered, and at length he was satisfied. He never attained to Budaeus' mastery of Greek, but he had acquired a working knowledge which carried him as far as he wished to go. His visit to Italy need not detain us long. Twenty-five years later he wrote to an Italian nobleman with whom he was engaged in controversy, to say that Italy had taught him nothing. 'When I came to Italy, I knew more Greek and Latin than I do now.' In the excitement of contention he perhaps 'remembered with advantages', for in Italy he had one great opportunity. He had published in 1500 at Paris a chrematistic work entitled _Collectanea Adagiorum_, a collection of Latin proverbs with brief explanations designed to be useful to the numerous public who aspired to write Latin with elegance. After the book was out, as authors do, he went on collecting, and on his way to Italy in 1506, he published a slightly enlarged edition, also in Paris. In Italy he made acquaintance with Aldus, and after finishing his year of superintendence over the pupils he had brought with him, he went, about the beginning of 1508, to dwell in the Neacademia at Venice. In September 1508 there appeared from Aldus' press a Volume on the same subject, but very different in bulk; no longer _Collectanea Adagiorum_, but _Adagiorum Chiliades_. The Paris volume, a thin quarto, had contained about 800 proverbs, Aldus' had more than 3,000, and the commentary became so amplified, with occasional lengthy disquisitions on subjects moral and political, that nothing but a folio size would accommodate it. Where this work was done, Erasmus does not specifically state. One passage gives the impression that he had made his new collections in England; but as one reason for his dissatisfaction with the first edition was the absence of citations from the Greek, it seems more probable that he really wrote the new book in Aldus' house at Venice. There, surrounded by the scholars of the New Academy, Egnatius, Carteromachus, Aleander, Urban of Belluno, besides Aldus himself and his father-in-law Asulanus, having at hand all the wealth of the Aldine Greek editions and the Greek manuscripts which were sent from far and near to be printed, Erasmus was thoroughly equipped to transform his quarto into folio, his hundreds into thousands. He tells us that the compositors printed as he wrote, and that he had hard work to keep pace with them. Some of his rough manuscripts--written rapidly in his smooth hand and flowing sentences--survive still to help us picture the scene. It is remarkable how little correction there is. Here and there a whole page is drawn straight through, to be rewritten, or a passage is inserted in the neat margin; but there is little botching, little mending of words or transposing of phrases, such as make the rough work of other humanists difficult reading. As he wished the sentences to run, so they flowed on to his pages, and so they actually were printed. The importance of Erasmus' time in Italy is, then, that he completed, or at any rate published, the enlarged _Adagia_, his first considerable work, a book which carried his name far and wide throughout Europe, and won him fame amongst all who had pretensions to scholarship. No one reads it to-day. Except the composition of the schools, for which Erasmus is considered unclassical, there is little Latin writing now; but in its youth the book had a great vogue, and went through hundreds of reprints. This second visit of Erasmus to Cambridge was under pleasant conditions. Fisher was interested in his work, and having been until recently President of Queens'--the foundation of Margaret of Anjou, which Elizabeth Woodville had succoured, York coming to the rescue of Lancaster--he was able without difficulty to secure rooms in college for his protégé. High up they are, at the head of a stair-case, where undergraduates still cherish his name, and where his portrait--an heirloom from one generation to another--may be seen surrounded by prints of gentlemen in pink riding to hounds; quite a suitable collocation for this very humanly minded scholar. Besides his own work he lectured publicly for a few months. He began to teach Greek, and lectured on the grammar of Chrysoloras. Finding that this did not attract pupils, he changed to Gaza; which he evidently expected to be more popular. But he did not persevere. If his position was public (which is doubtful), there was no money to pay him for long; and it is a sign of the state of the University, that he found it no use to lecture on anything more advanced than grammar. The Schoolmen were still strongly entrenched. Besides teaching Greek he also lectured on Jerome's Letters and his Apology against Ruffinus, books which, as we shall see, he was working at privately. He is said to have held for a time the professorship of Divinity founded in Cambridge, as in Oxford, in 1497 by the Lady Margaret, but the records are inadequate; and here too it is possible that his teaching was a private venture. He had no regular income except a pension from Lord Mountjoy, to which in 1512 Warham added the living of Aldington in Kent; and these were supplemented by occasional gifts from friends, which he courted by dedicating to them translations from Plutarch and Lucian, Chrysostom and Basil. But this was not enough. He was free in his tastes, and liked to be free in his spending. He needed a horse to ride, and a boy to attend upon him. In consequence we hear a good many complaints of penury, all through his three years at Cambridge, 1511 to 1514. It is worth while to examine in detail the work that he completed during this period on the Letters of Jerome and the New Testament. One afternoon in Oxford in 1499 he had had a long discussion with Colet, and in the course of it had argued strongly against a point of view which Colet had derived from Jerome. Whether this set him on to read Jerome again--he was already quite familiar with him--is not clear; but a year later, when he was hard at work in Paris, he was already engaged upon correcting the text of Jerome, and adding a commentary, being specially interested in the Letters. So far did his admiration carry him that he writes to a friend, 'I am perhaps biased; but when I compare Cicero's style with Jerome's, I seem to feel something lacking in the prince of eloquence himself'. After he left Paris in 1501, we hear no more of Jerome till 1511. It may therefore fairly be argued that his early work was done on manuscripts found in Paris libraries, very likely those of the great abbeys of St. Victor or St. Germain-des-Prés. Subsequently, in Cambridge, he again had access to manuscripts and completed his recension of the Letters. Robert Aldridge, a young Fellow of King's, afterwards Bishop of Carlisle, speaks of working with him at Jerome in Queens', probably helping him in collation. An early catalogue of the Queens' library does not contain any mention of Jerome, so that Erasmus had probably borrowed his manuscripts from elsewhere--perhaps, like those of the New Testament, from the Chapter Library at St. Paul's; for later on, when the book was in the press, he returned from Basle to England to consult the manuscripts again, and there is no reason to suppose that during his brief stay--not a full month--he went outside London. If this surmise were correct, the destruction of St. Paul's library in the fires of 1561 and 1666 would explain why so little has been discovered about the manuscripts which Erasmus had for his Jerome. He himself, in his prefaces, gives little indication of them, beyond saying that they were very old and mutilated, and that some of them were written in Lombardic and Gothic characters. Perhaps some day a student of Jerome will arise who will be able to throw light on the matter from examination of the text at which Erasmus arrived. To the New Testament--the other work which occupied his time at Cambridge--he had also turned his attention shortly after his return to Paris in 1500, beginning a commentary on the Epistles of St. Paul. At the first start he wrote four volumes of it, but then for some reason threw it aside, and never completed it, though his mind recurred to it at intervals; and on one occasion after a fall from his horse, in which he injured his spine, he vowed to St. Paul that he would finish it, if he recovered. Probably he felt that his vow was redeemed by his Paraphrases of the New Testament, which he wrote a few years later, beginning with St. Paul, and completing the Epistles before he undertook the Gospels. His next work on the New Testament came to him at Louvain in 1504. Walking out one day to the Abbey of Parc, outside the town--a house of White Canons, Erasmus himself being a Black--he came upon a manuscript in their library, the Annotations of Valla on the New Testament. There was an affinity between his mind and that of the famous scholar-canon of St. John Lateran, who, in spite of his dependence on Papal patronage and favour, had been unable to keep his tongue from asking awkward questions, from inquiring even into the authenticity of the Donation of Constantine. Erasmus read the Annotations and liked their critical, scholarly tone, and the frequent citations of the original Greek. With the characteristic generosity of the age he was allowed to carry the manuscript away and print it in Paris, with a dedication to an Englishman, Christopher Fisher, perhaps a kinsman of the Bishop of Rochester. From Paris he wrote to Colet to report progress, saying that he had learnt Greek and was ready to turn to the Scriptures, and asking him to interest English patrons in their common work. By this time Colet himself had become a patron, having been appointed Dean of St. Paul's. It is therefore not surprising to find that within a year Erasmus was established in London, living in a bishop's house, endowed by his old pupil Lord Mountjoy, and rejoicing in the society of the learned friends gathered in the capital. Chief among these was Colet, who lent him manuscripts from the Chapter Library of St. Paul's, and provided a copyist to write out the fruits of his labours, a one-eyed Brabantine, Peter Meghen by name, who acted also as Colet's private letter-carrier. Meghen wrote a bold, well-marked hand, which is easily recognizable, and in consequence his work has been traced in many libraries. The British Museum has a treatise of Chrysostom, translated by Selling, and written by Meghen for Urswick, afterwards Dean of Windsor and Rector of Hackney, to present to Prior Goldstone of Canterbury. (Urswick was frequently sent on embassies, and had doubtless enjoyed the hospitality of Christchurch on his way between London and Dover.) At Wells there are a Psalter and a translation of Chrysostom on St. Matthew, which Urswick, as executor to Sir John Huddelston, knight, caused Meghen to write in 1514 for presentation to the Cistercians of Hailes, in Gloucestershire. The Bodleian has a treatise written by him in 1528 for Nicholas Kratzer to present to Henry VIII; and Wolsey's Lectionary at Christ Church, Oxford, is probably in Meghen's hand. But what concern us here are some manuscripts in the British Museum and the University Library at Cambridge, written by Meghen in 1506 and 1509 at Colet's order for presentation to his father, Sir Henry Colet, Lord Mayor of London, and containing in parallel columns the Vulgate and another Latin translation of the New Testament, 'per D. Erasmum Roterodamum'. Part and possibly all of this work was done by Erasmus, therefore, during this second residence in England in 1505-6. He tells us that he received two Latin manuscripts from Colet, which he found exceedingly difficult to decipher; but one cannot make a new translation from the Latin. To the Greek manuscripts used on this occasion he gives no clue. In connexion with this help and encouragement shown by Colet as Dean to a foreign scholar, it is worth while to mention the visit to London in 1509 of Cornelius Agrippa, the famous philosopher and scientist, who had been sent to England by Maximilian on a diplomatic errand, which he describes as 'a very secret business'. During his stay, which lasted into 1510, he tells us that 'I laboured much over the Epistles of St. Paul, in the company of John Colet, a man most learned in Catholic doctrine, and of the purest life; and from him I learnt many things that I did not know'. Erasmus was in England at the time of this visit of Agrippa; but unfortunately he makes no allusion to it, neither in his life of Colet, nor in his later correspondence with Agrippa, nor, so far as I know, elsewhere in his works. If he had done so, it might have solved a problem which is very curious in the case of a public man of his fame and position, and of whom so much is otherwise known. From the autumn of 1509, when he returned from Italy and wrote the Praise of Folly in More's house in Bucklersbury, until April 1511, when he went to Paris to print it, Erasmus completely disappears from view. He published nothing, no letter that he wrote survives, we have no clue to his movements. If it had been any one else, we might almost conjecture that, like Hermonymus, he was in prison. It was just during this period that Cornelius Agrippa was in London. If either had mentioned the other, we should have a spark to illumine this singular belt of darkness. When Erasmus returned to Cambridge in 1511, he was already familiar with the field in which he was going to work; but the precise order in which his scheme unfolded itself, whether the Greek text was his first aim or an afterthought, is not clear, his utterances being perhaps intentionally ambiguous. During these three years in Cambridge he refers occasionally to the 'collation' and 'castigation' of the New Testament, so that evidently he was engaged with the four Greek manuscripts, which, according to an introduction in his first edition, he had before him for his first recension. One of these has been identified, the Leicester Codex written by Emmanuel of Constantinople, which, as already mentioned, was with the Franciscans at Cambridge early in the sixteenth century. By 1514 he was ready. In the last three years he had completed Jerome and the New Testament, and had also prepared for the press some of Seneca's philosophical writings, from manuscripts at King's and Peterhouse; besides lesser pieces of work. A difficulty arose about the printing. In 1512 he had been in negotiation with Badius Ascensius of Paris to undertake Jerome and a new edition of the _Adagia_. What actually happened is not known. But in December 1513 he writes to an intimate friend that he has been badly treated about the _Adagia_ by an agent--a travelling bookseller, who acted as go-between for printers and authors and public; that instead of taking them to Badius and offering him the refusal, the knavish fellow had gone straight to Basle and sold them, with some other work of Erasmus, to a printer who had only just completed an edition of the _Adagia_. Erasmus' indignation does not ring true. It is highly probable that he was in search of a printer with greater resources than Badius, who as yet had produced nothing of any importance in Greek, and would therefore be unable to do justice to the New Testament; and that accordingly he had commissioned the agent to negotiate with a firm which by now had established a great reputation--that of Amorbach and Froben, in Basle. His attention had perhaps been aroused by a flattering mention of him in a preface written in Froben's name for the pirated edition of the _Adagia_, August 1513, to which Erasmus was referring in the letter just quoted. Rumour had spread through Europe that Erasmus was dead--it was repeated six months later in a book printed at Vienna--and the Basle circle deplored the loss that this would mean to learning. There were other reasons for this choice, apart from the excellence of the printers. Erasmus had never been happy in Paris. He had often been ill beside the sluggish Seine, and had only found his health again by leaving it. The theologians were still predominant there, and Louis XII had a way of interfering with scholars who discovered any freedom of thought. Standonck, for instance, the refounder of Montaigu, had had to disappear in 1499-1500. For Erasmus to sit in Paris for two or three years while his books were being printed, would have been at least a penance. But Basle was very different. The Rhine, dashing against the piers of the bridge which joined the Great and Little towns, brought fresh air and coolness and health. The University, founded in 1460, was active and liberally minded. The town had recently (1501) thrown in its lot with the confederacy of Swiss cantons, thereby strengthening the political immunity which it had long enjoyed. Between the citizens and the religious orders complete concord prevailed; and finally, except Paris, there was no town North of the Alps which could vie with Basle in the splendour and number of the books which it produced. This is how a contemporary scholar[21] writes of the city of his adoption. 'Basle to-day is a residence for a king. The streets are clean, the houses uniform and pleasant, some of them even magnificent, with spacious courts and gay gardens and many delightful prospects; on to the grounds and trees beside St. Peter's, over the Dominicans', or down to the Rhine. There is nothing to offend the taste even of those who have been in Italy, except perhaps the use of stoves instead of fires, and the dirt of the inns, which is universal throughout Germany. The climate is singularly mild and agreeable, and the citizens polite. A bridge joins the two towns, and the situation on the river is splendid. Truly Basle is [Greek: basileia], a queen of cities.' [21] Beatus Rhenanus, _Res Germanicae_, 1531, pp. 140, 1. In 1513 the two greatest printers of Basle were in partnership, John Amorbach and John Froben. Amorbach, a native of the town of that name in Franconia, had taken his M.A. in Paris, and then had worked for a time in Koberger's press at Nuremberg. About 1475 he began to print at Basle, and for nearly forty years devoted all his energies to producing books that would promote good learning; being, however, far too good a man of business to be indifferent to profit. His ambition was to publish worthily the four Doctors of the Church. Ambrose appeared in 1492, Augustine in 1506, and Jerome succeeded. The work was divided amongst many scholars. Reuchlin helped with the Hebrew and Greek, and spent two months in Amorbach's house in the summer of 1510 to bring matters forward. Subsequently his province fell to Pellican, the Franciscan Hebraist, and John Cono, a learned Dominican of Nuremberg, who had mastered Greek at Venice and Padua, and had recently returned from Italy with a store of Greek manuscripts copied from the library of Musurus. Others who took part in the work were Conrad Leontorius from the Engental; Sapidus, afterwards head master of the Latin school at Schlettstadt; and Gregory Reisch, the learned Prior of the Carthusians at Freiburg, who seems to have been specially occupied with Jerome's Letters. Amorbach's sons, Bruno, Basil, and Boniface, were just growing up to take their father's place, when he died on Christmas Day, 1513. The eldest, Bruno, was born in 1485, and easily paired off with Basil, who was a few years younger. They went to school together at Schlettstadt, under Crato Hofman, in 1497. In 1500 they matriculated at Basle; in 1501 they went to Paris, where in 1504-5 they became B.A., and in 1506 M.A. Bruno was enthusiastic for classical studies, and enjoyed life in Paris, where he certainly had better opportunities, especially of learning Greek, than he had at Basle; so his father allowed him to stay on. Basil was destined for the law, and was sent to work under Zasius at Freiburg. The youngest son, Boniface, 1495-1562, also went to school at Schlettstadt; but when his time came for the university, his father preferred to keep him at home under his own eye. He was rather dissatisfied with Bruno, who as a Paris graduate had begun to play the fine gentleman, and was spending his money handsomely, as other young men have been known to do. The vigorous, straightforward old printer had made the money himself by steady hard work, and he had no intention of letting his son take life too easily. So he wrote him a piece of his mind, in fine, forcible Latin. JOHN AMORBACH TO HIS ELDEST SON, BRUNO, IN PARIS: from Basle, 23 July 1507. 'I cannot imagine, Bruno, what you do, to spend so much money.[22] You took with you 7 crowns; and supposing that you spent 2, or at the outside 3, on your journey, you must have had 4 left--unless perhaps you paid for your companion, which I did not tell you to do. Very likely his father has more money than I have, but does not give it to him; no more do I give you money to pay for other people. It is quite enough for me to support you and your brothers, indeed more than enough. Then, directly you reached Paris, you received 12 crowns from John Watensne. Also you had 9 for your horse, as you say in your letter. Also 9 more from John Watensne, which I paid to Wolfgang Lachner at the Easter fair at Frankfort; also 15 at midsummer. Add these together and you will see that you have had 52 crowns in 9 months. Perhaps you imagine that money comes to me anyhow. You know that for the last two years I have not been printing. We are living upon capital, the whole lot of us.[23] I have to provide for my household.[24] I have to provide for your brother Basil, and for Boniface, whom I have sent to Schlettstadt. I ought, too, to do something for your sister: for several sober and honourable men are at me about her, and I do not like to be unfair towards her. So just remember that you are not the only one. You may take it for sure that I cannot, and will not, give you more than 22 or 23 crowns a year, or at the most 24. If you can live on that at Paris, well: I will undertake to let you have it for some years. But if it is not enough, come home and I will feed you at my table. Think it over and let me know by the next messenger: or else come yourself. I have been told on good authority that in the town (lodgings, as opposed to a college) one can live quite decently on 16 or at most 20 crowns: also that sometimes three or four students, or more, take a house or a room, and then club together and engage a cook, and that their weekly bills scarcely amount to a teston <1/5 of a crown> a head. If that is so, join a party like that and live carefully. Good-bye. Your mother sends her love. Your affectionate father, John Amorbach. [22] Bruno, satis admirari non possum quid agas vt tot pecunias consumas. [23] Consumimus omnes de capitali. [24] Habeo prouidere domui meae. No answer came back, and on 18 August John Amorbach wrote again. Think of a modern parent waiting a month for an answer to such a communication and getting none! It might quite well have come. But posts were slow and uncertain; and when he wrote again, the father's righteous indignation had somewhat abated. It was not till 16 October that Bruno replied, but with a very proper letter. He was a good fellow, and knew what he owed to his father. After expressing his regrets and determination to live within his allowance in future, he goes on: 'There is a man just come from Italy, who is lecturing publicly on Greek. <This was Francis Tissard of Amboise, who began lecturing on Lascaris' Greek Grammar.> I have so long been wishing to learn this language, and here at length is an opportunity. I have plunged headlong into it, and with such a teacher I feel sure of satisfying my desires, which are as eager as any inclinations of the senses. So please allow me to stay a few months longer, and then I shall be able to bring home some Greek with me. After that I will come whenever you bid me.' Next summer he did return and settled down to work in the press. It was well worth while, even for a scholar who was eager to go on learning, and was inclined to grudge time given to business: for with Jerome beginning and all the scholars whom we mentioned coming in and out, Amorbach's house in Klein-Basel became an 'Academy' which could bear comparison with Aldus' at Venice. It was worth Boniface's while, too, to take his course at Basle under such circumstances; especially as in 1511 John Cono began to teach Greek and Hebrew regularly to the printer's sons and to any one else who wished to come and learn. It is worth noticing that not one of these young men went to Italy for his humanistic education. Amorbach's partner, John Froben, 1460-1527, was a man after his own heart: open and easy to deal with, but of dogged determination and with great capacity for work. He was not a scholar. It is not known whether he ever went to a University, and it is doubtful whether he knew any Latin; certainly the numerous prefaces which appear in his books under his name are not his own, but came from the pens of other members of his circle. So the division came naturally, that Amorbach organized the work and prepared manuscripts for the press, while Froben had the printing under his charge. In later years, after Amorbach's death, the marked advance in the output of the firm as regards type and paper and title-pages and designs may be attributed to Froben, who was man of business enough to realize the importance of getting good men to serve him--Erasmus to edit books, Gerbell and Oecolampadius to correct the proofs, Graf and Holbein to provide the ornaments. For thirteen years he was Erasmus' printer-in-chief, and produced edition after edition of his works, both small and great; and whilst he lived, he had the call of almost everything that Erasmus wrote. It is quite exceptional to find any book of Erasmus published for the first time elsewhere during these years 1514-27. A few were given to Martens at Louvain, mostly during Erasmus' residence there, 1517-21, one or two to Schurer at Strasburg, one or two more to a Cologne printer; but for one of these there is evidence to show that Froben had declined it, because his presses were too busy. It is pleasant to find that the harmony of this long co-operation was never disturbed. Erasmus occasionally lets fall a word of disapproval; but what friends have ever seen eye to eye in all matters? When Froben died in October 1527 as the result of a fall from an upper window, Erasmus wrote with most heartfelt sorrow a eulogy of his friend. 'He was the soul of honesty himself, and slow to think evil of others; so that he was often taken in. Of envy and jealousy he knew as little as the blind do of colour. He was swift to forgive and to forget even serious injuries. To me he was most generous, ever seeking excuses to make me presents. If I ordered my servants to buy anything, such as a piece of cloth for a new coat, he would get hold of the bill and pay it off; and he would accept nothing himself, so that it was only by similar artifices that I could make him any return. He was enthusiastic for good learning, and felt his work to be his own reward. It was delightful to see him with the first pages of some new book in his hands, some author of whom he approved. His face was radiant with pleasure, and you might have supposed that he had already received a large return of profit. The excellence of his work would bear comparison with that of the best printers of Venice and Rome. Six years before his death he slipped down a flight of steps on to a brickwork floor, and injured himself so severely that he never properly recovered: but he always pretended that the effects had passed away. Last year he was seized with a serious pain in his right ankle, and the doctors could do nothing except to suggest that the foot should be taken off. Some alleviation was brought by the skill of a foreign physician, but there was still a great deal of pain in the toes. However, he was not to be deterred from making the usual journeys to Frankfort (in March and September for the book-fairs) and rode on horseback both ways. We entreated him to take more care of himself, to wear more clothes when it was cold; but he could not be induced to give in to old age, and abandon the habits of a vigorous lifetime. All lovers of good learning will unite to lament his loss.' If Erasmus was fortunate in his printer, he was still more fortunate in the friend and confidant whom he found awaiting him at Basle, Beat Bild of Rheinau, 1485-1547, known then and now as Beatus Rhenanus, one of the choicest spirits of his own or any age. His father was a butcher of Rheinau who left his home because of continued ravages by the Rhine which threatened to sweep away the town. Settling in Schlettstadt, a free city of the Empire near by, he rose to the highest civic offices, and sent his son to the Latin school under first Crato Hofman and then Gebwiler. Beatus was contemporary there with Bruno and Basil Amorbach, and staying on longer than they did, rose to be a 'praefect' in the school, which a few years later, according to Thomas Platter, had 900 boys in it. This number seems large for a town of perhaps not more than four or five thousand inhabitants; but it was equalled by the school at Alcmar in the days of Bartholomew of Cologne, and by Deventer, as we have seen, it was far surpassed. In 1503 Beatus went to Paris, and there overtook the Amorbach boys who had two years' start of him; becoming B.A. in 1504 and M.A. in 1505, a year before Bruno. After his degree he stayed on in Paris as corrector to the press of Henry Stephanus for two years; and then returning home engaged himself in a similar capacity to Schurer at Strasburg, also giving a hand with editions of new texts. In 1511, attracted by the fame of the good Dominican, John Cono, he went to Basle to work for the elder Amorbach and take lessons under Cono with the sons. When Erasmus came, Beatus at once fell under his spell, and subordinated his own projects to the requirements of his friend's more important undertakings. That indeed is Beatus' great characteristic throughout his life. He was well off, for his father 'by the blessing of God on his ingenious endeavour had arisen to an ample estate'; and thus the son was not obliged to seek reward. He gave himself, therefore, unstintingly to any work that needed doing for his friends, editing, correcting, supervising; and usually suppressing the part he had taken in it. His own achievements are nevertheless considerable. The bibliographers have discovered sixty-eight books in which he had a capital share; and though a large number of these appear to be mere reprints of books printed in France or Italy--the law of copyright in those days was, as might be expected, uncertain--, there is a residue in which he really did original work: some notes on the history and geography of Germany which he composed, and editions of Pliny's Natural History, Tacitus, Tertullian and Velleius Paterculus--the latter having an almost romantic interest from the fortunes of the manuscript on which it is based. A measure of the confidence which Erasmus subsequently reposed in both his judgement and his good faith is that in 1519 and 1521, when he had decided to publish some more of his letters, he just sent to Beatus bundles of the rough drafts he had preserved, and told him to select and edit them at his discretion. A sketch of Beatus, written at his death by John Sturm of Strasburg, the friend of Ascham, gives a picture of the life he led at Schlettstadt during his last twenty years: the plain, simple living in the great house inherited from his father, without luxury or display, attended upon by an old maidservant and a young servant-pupil, given to friends but not allowing hospitality to infringe upon his work, lapped in such quiet as to seem almost solitude; the daily round being dinner at ten, in the afternoon a walk in his gardens outside the city walls, and supper at six. Gentle and accommodating, modest and diffident in spite of his learning, reluctant to talk of himself, and slow to take offence--it is no wonder that he held the affections of his friends. Well might Erasmus liken him to the blessed man of the first Psalm, 'who shall be as a tree planted by the waterside.' We have seen Beatus' enthusiasm for queenly Basle. Of his native town he was not so proud; though it has good Romanesque work in St. Fides' church and rich Gothic in the minster, and though Wimpfeling had just built a beautiful Renaissance house with Italian designs round its bay window and medallions of Roman Emperors on the pilasters. The school, too, was famous throughout Germany; and Lazarus Schurer had started a creditable printing-press. Yet to Beatus the minster is only 'rather good, but modern', the Dominicans' house 'mediocre', the nuns' buildings 'unhealthy', the people 'simple and resourceless, as you would expect with vine-growers, and too fond of drinking'. 'There is nothing remarkable here', he says, 'but the fortifications; indeed we are a stronghold rather than a city. The walls are circular, built of elegant brick and with towers of some pretensions.' What pleased him as much as anything was that the ramparts were covered in for almost the whole of their length, and thus afforded protection to the night-guards against what he calls 'celestial injuries'. One reason that we know Beatus so well is that his library has survived almost intact, as well as a great number of letters which he received. At his death he left his books to the town of Schlettstadt; and there they still are, forming the major and by far the most important part of the town library. It is a wonderful collection of about a thousand volumes, some of them extremely rare; many bought by him in his Paris days, some presents from friends sent or brought from far with dedicatory inscriptions. Hardly a book has not his name and the date when he acquired it, or other marks of his use. But they have not yet come to their full usefulness, for there is no adequate catalogue of them. In many cases their direct value has passed away. No one wishes to read the classics or the Fathers in the texts current in the sixteenth century; yet behind printed books lie manuscripts, and from examination of manuscripts on which printed texts are based, we can gather many useful indications to throw light on the tradition of the classics, the gradual steps by which the past has come down to us. Besides such texts there are multitudes of original compositions of Beatus' own period, books of great value for the history of scholarship; many of them requiring to be dated with more precision than is attainable on the surface. It will be a signal service to learning when a trained bibliographer takes Beatus Rhenanus' books in hand and gives us a scientific catalogue. These were some of the friends who were in Basle when Erasmus first began to think of sending his work there to be printed. By the summer of 1514 the preliminary negotiations had been satisfactorily concluded and he set out. The story which he tells of his arrival is well known. Amorbach was now dead; so he marched into the printing-house and asked for Froben. 'I handed him a letter from Erasmus, saying that I was a familiar friend of his, and that he had charged me to arrange for the publication of his works; that any undertaking I made would be as valid as if made by him: finally, that I was so like Erasmus that to see me was to see him. He laughed and saw through the joke. His father-in-law, old Lachner, paid my bill at the inn, and carried me off, horse and baggage to his house.' He was not at first sure whether he would stay: he might get the work better done at Venice or at Rome. But the attractions of the printer's house and circle were not to be resisted; and gradually, one after another, the books which he had brought were undertaken by Froben, a new edition of the _Adagia_, Seneca, the New Testament, Jerome. The way in which the printing was carried out illustrates the critical standards of the age. Erasmus was absent from Basle during the greater part of the time when Seneca was coming through the press; and the proofs were corrected by Beatus Rhenanus and a young man named Nesen. Under such circumstances a modern author would feel that he had only himself to thank for any defects in the book. Not so Erasmus. He boils over with annoyance against the correctors for the blunders they let pass. The idea that so magnificent a person as an editor or author should correct proofs had not arisen. It was the business of the young men who had been hired to do this drudgery; and all blame rested with them. So far as the evidence goes, it was the same all through Erasmus' life. In the case of one of his most virulent apologies (1520) he says that he corrected all the proofs himself; but from the stress he lays on the loss of time involved, it is clear that he regarded this as something exceptional, and not to be repeated. With the _Adagia_ published by Aldus (1508) he says that he cast his eye over the final proofs, not in search of errors, but to see whether he wished to make any changes. But in the main his books, like everybody else's, were left to the care of others. The fact is that in the splendour of the new invention of printing, the possibilities of accompanying error had not been realized. In just the same spirit the idea went abroad that when a book had been printed, its manuscript original had no value. We have seen how Erasmus was allowed to carry off the manuscript of Valla from Louvain to Paris. Aldus received codices from all parts of Europe, sent by owners with the request that they should be printed; but no desire for their return. In 1531 Simon Grynaeus came from Basle to Oxford and was given precious texts from college libraries to take back with him and have published. Generosity helped to mislead. To keep a manuscript to oneself for personal enjoyment seemed churlish. If it were printed, any one who wished might enjoy it. That any degeneration might come in by the way, that the printed text might contain blunders, was not perceived. The process seemed so straightforward, so mechanical; as certain a method of reproduction as photography. But the human element in it was overlooked. _Humanum est errare_. It was the same with the New Testament as with Seneca. When the form of the work had been decided upon--a Greek text side by side with Erasmus' translation, and notes at the end--two young scholars, Gerbell and Oecolampadius, were installed in charge of the book. For the Greek Erasmus had expected, he tells us, to find at Basle some manuscript which he could give to the printers without further trouble. But he was annoyed to find that there was none available which was good enough, and he positively had to go through the one that he selected from beginning to end before he could entrust it to his correctors. In addition to this he put into their hands another manuscript, which had been borrowed from Reuchlin; presumably to help them in case they should have any difficulty in deciphering the first. However, after a time he discovered that they were taking liberties, and following the text of the second manuscript, wherever they preferred its reading: as though the editing were in their own hands. He took it from them and found another manuscript which agreed more closely with the first. For the book of Revelation only one Greek manuscript was available; and at the end five verses and a bit were lacking through the loss of a leaf. Erasmus calmly translated them back from the Latin, but had the grace to warn the reader of the fact in his notes. As to the translation, an interesting point is that it is modified considerably from the translation which he had made in 1505-6, and is brought closer to the text of the Vulgate. In the second edition of the New Testament, March 1519, he explains in a preliminary apology that he had changed back in this way in 1516 from fear lest too great divergence from the Vulgate might give offence. But the book was on the whole so well received that he soon realized that the time was ripe for more advanced scholarship. His earlier version was the best that he could do, in simplicity of style and fidelity to the original. Accordingly in 1519 he introduced it with the most minute care, even such trivial variations as _ac_ or _-que_ for _et_ being restored. The transformation was not without its effects. Numerous passages were objected to by the orthodox; as for example, when he translates [Greek: logos] in the first verse of St. John's Gospel by _sermo_, instead of _verbum_, as in the Vulgate and the edition of 1516. The New Testament appeared in March 1516, dedicated by permission to the Pope; in the following autumn came Jerome, in nine volumes, of which four were by Erasmus, dedicated to the Archbishop of Canterbury: and thus the Head of the Church and one of his most exalted suffragans lent their sanction to an advancement of learning which theological faculties in the universities viewed with the gravest suspicion. Erasmus had now reached his highest point. He had equipped himself thoroughly for the work he desired to do. He was the acknowledged leader of a large band of scholars, who looked to him for guidance and were eagerly ready to second his efforts; and with the resources of Froben's press at his disposal, nothing seemed beyond his powers and his hopes. Wherever his books spread, his name was honoured, almost reverenced. Material honours and wealth flowed in upon him; and he was continually receiving enthusiastic homage from strangers. He saw knowledge growing from more to more, and bringing with it reform of the Church and that steady betterment of the evils of the world which wise men in every age desire. In all this his part was to be that of a leader: not the only one, but in the front rank. He enjoyed his position, feeling that he was fitted for it; but he was not puffed up. In his dreams of what he would do with his life, he had ever seen himself advancing not the name of Erasmus but the glory of God. In his later years he became impatient of criticism, and resented with great bitterness even difference of opinion, unless expressed with the utmost caution; to hostile critics his language is often quite intolerable. But the spirit underlying this is not mere vanity. No doubt it wounded him to be evil spoken of, to have his pre-eminence called in question, to be shown to have made mistakes: but the real ground of his resentment was rather vexation that anything should arise to mar the unanimity of the humanist advance toward wider knowledge. Conscious of singleness of purpose, it was a profound disappointment to him to have his sincerity doubted, to be treated as an enemy by men who should have been his friends. Into the discord of the years that followed I do not propose to enter. They were years of disappointment to Erasmus; disappointment that grew ever deeper, as he saw the steady growth of reform broken by the sudden shocks of the Reformation and barred by subsequent reaction. Throughout it all he never lost his faith in the spread of knowledge, and gave his energies consistently to help this great cause. He produced more editions of the Fathers, either wholly or in part: Cyprian, Arnobius, Hilary, Jerome again, Chrysostom, Irenaeus, Athanasius, Ambrose, Augustine, Lactantius, Alger, Basil, Haymo, and Origen; the last named in the concluding months of his life. The storms that beat round him could not stir him from his principles. To neither reformer nor reactionary would he concede one jot, and in consequence from each side he was vilified. He was drawn into a series of deplorable controversies, which estranged him from many; but of his real friends he lost not one. It is pleasant to see the devotion with which Beatus Rhenanus and Boniface Amerbach comforted his last years; never wavering in the service to which they had plighted themselves in the enthusiasm of youth. The chance survival of the following note enables us to stand by Erasmus' bedside in his last hours. It was written by one of the Frobens, possibly his godson and namesake, Erasmius, to Boniface Amerbach, and it may be dated early in July 1536, perhaps on the 11th, the last sunset that Erasmus was to see. 'I have just visited the Master, but without his knowing. He seems to me to fail very much: for his tongue cleaves to his palate, so that you can scarcely understand him when he speaks. He is drawing his breath so deep and quick, that I cannot but wonder whether he will live through the night. So far he has taken nothing to-day except some chicken-broth. I have sent for Sebastian <Munster, the Hebraist>. If he comes, I will have him introduced into the room, but without the Master's knowledge, in order that he may hear what I have heard. I am sending you this word, so that you may come quickly.' Erasmus' last words were in his own Dutch speech: 'Liever Got'. No account of Erasmus must omit to tell how he laboured for peace. Well he might. In his youth he had seen his native Holland torn between the Hoeks and the Cabeljaus, the Duke of Gueldres and the Bishop of Utrecht, with occasional intervention by higher powers. Year after year the war had dragged on, with no decisive settlement, no relief to the poor. One of his friends, Cornelius Gerard, wrote a prose narrative of it; another, William Herman, composed a poem of Holland weeping for her children and would not be comforted. _Dulce bellum inexpertis._ War sometimes seems purifying and ennobling to those whose own lives have never been jeoparded, who have never seen men die: but not so to those who have known and suffered. Throughout his life Erasmus never wearied of ensuing peace; and for its sake he reproved even kings. In 1504 he was allowed to deliver a panegyric of congratulation before the Archduke Philip the Fair, who had just returned from Spain to the Netherlands; and after sketching a picture of a model prince, inculcated upon him the duty of maintaining peace. In 1514 he wrote to one of his patrons, brother of the Bishop of Cambray, a letter on the wickedness of war, obviously designed for publication and actually translated into German by an admirer a few years later, to give it wider circulation. In 1515 the enlarged _Adagia_ contained an essay on the same theme, under the title quoted above: words which, translated into English, were again and again reprinted during the nineteenth century by Peace Associations and the Society of Friends. In 1516 he was appointed Councillor to Philip's son, Charles, who at 16 had just succeeded to the crowns of Spain. His first offering to his young sovereign was counsel on the training of a Christian prince, with due emphasis on his obligations for peace. In 1517 he greeted the new Bishop of Utrecht, Philip of Burgundy, with a 'Complaint of Peace cast forth from all lands', _Querela Pacis vndique profligatae_. And besides these direct invocations, in his other writings, his pen frequently returns upon the same high argument. For a brief period in his life it seemed as though peace might come back. Maximilian's death in 1519 followed by Charles' election to the Empire placed the sovereignty of Western and Central Europe in the hands of three young men, who were chivalrous and impressionable, Henry and Francis and Charles: only the year before they had been treating for universal peace. If they would really act in concord, it seemed as though the Golden Age might return, and Christendom show a united face against the watchful and unwearying Turk. But though the sky was clear, the weather was what Oxfordshire folk call foxy. Strife of nations, strife of creeds cannot in a moment be allayed. Suddenly the little clouds upon the horizon swelled up and covered the heaven with the darkness of night; and before the dawn broke into new hope, Erasmus had laid down his pen for ever, and was at rest from his service to the Prince of Peace. VI FORCE AND FRAUD As you stand on the Piazza dei Signori at Verona, at one side rises the massive red-brick tower of the Scaliger palace, lofty, castellated at its top, with here and there a small window, deep set in the old masonry, and the light that is allowed to pass inwards, grudgingly crossed by bars of rusty iron--a place of defence and perhaps of tyranny, within which life is secure indeed, but grim and sombre. Opposite, in an angle of the square, stands a very different building, the Palazzo del Consiglio. It has only two storeys, but each of these is high and airy; above is a fine chamber, through whose ample windows streams in the sun; below is a pleasant loggia, supported by slender columns. Marble cornices and balustrades give a sense of richness, and the wall-spaces are bright with painting and ornament. The spacious galleries invite to enjoyment, to pace their length in free light-hearted talk, or to stand and watch the life moving below, with the sense of gay predominance that the advantage of height confers. The two buildings typify most aptly the ages to which they belong: the contrast between them is as the gulf between the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. Step back in thought to the twelfth century, and we find civilization struggling for its very existence. Few careers were possible. Above all was the soldier, ruthlessly spreading murder and desolation, and expecting no mercy when his own turn came; in the middle were the merchant and the craftsman, relying on strong city walls and union with their fellows, and the lawyer building up a system, and profiting when men fell out; underneath was the peasant, pitiably dependent on others. On all sides was bestial cruelty and reckless ignorance: the overmastering care of life to find shelter and protection. How strong, how luxuriously strong seemed that tower, with so few apertures to admit the enemy and the pursuer! once inside, who would wish to stir abroad? For the man who would think or study there was only one way of life, to become sacrosanct in the direct service of God. The Church, with splendid ideals before it, was exerting itself to crush barbarism, and its forts were garrisoned by men of spirit, whose courage was not that of the destroyer. In the monasteries, if anywhere, was to be found that peace which the world cannot give, the life of contemplation, in which can be felt the hunger and thirst after knowledge. By the middle of the sixteenth century the scene has changed. Much blood has flowed through the arches of time; and now the conqueror has learnt from the Church to be merciful, from nascent science to be strong. He can spread peace wherever his sword reaches; and fear that of old ruled all under the sun, now can walk only in dark places. Walls no longer bring comfort, and soon they are to be thrown down to make way for the broad streets which will carry the movement outwards; and, most significant change, the country house with 'its gardens and its gallant walks' takes the place of the grange. From the thraldom of terror what an escape, to light, air, freedom, activity! The gates of joy are opened, the private citizen learns to live, to follow choice not necessity, to give the reins to his spirit and take hold on the gifts that Nature spreads before him. In the pursuit of peace, human progress has lain in the enlargement of the units of government capable of holding together; from villages to towns, from towns to provinces, from provinces to nations. The last step had been the achievement of the Middle Ages, though even by the end of the fifteenth century it was not yet complete: the twentieth century finds us reaching forward to a new advance. We have spoken of Erasmus' efforts to bring back peace from her exile, of the experiences of his youth when Holland had wept for her children. In 1517, when he wrote his 'Complaint of Peace cast forth from all lands', he was a man and one of Charles' councillors; but Holland was still weeping and refusing comfort. She had good reason. The provinces of the Netherlands were disunited, no sway imposed upon them with strength enough first to restrain and then to knit together. On either side of the Zuider Zee lay two bitter enemies: Holland, which had accepted the Burgundian yoke, and Friesland, which after a long struggle against foreign domination, had been reduced by the rule of Saxon governors, Duke Albert and Duke George. To the south was Gueldres, which, under its Duke, Charles of Egmont, had thrown in its lot with France against Burgundy, and was continually instigating the subjugated Frieslanders to rebellion. Then was war in the gates. This was the kind of thing that happened. In 1516, after a fresh outbreak of the ceaseless struggle, Henry of Nassau, Stadhouder of Holland and Zeeland, ordered that all Gueldrians or Frieslanders who showed their faces in his dominions should be put to death; and some who were resident at the Hague were executed on the charge of sending aid to their compatriots. A raid by the Gueldrians ended in the massacre of Nieuwpoort. Nassau replied by ravaging the country up to the walls of Arnhem, the Gueldres capital. Duke Charles had terrible forces at command. A body of mercenary troops, known as the Black Band, had been used by George of Saxony for the repression of Friesland in 1514, and since then had been seeking employment wherever they could find it. At the same time, one of the conquered Frieslanders, known as Long Peter, had turned to piracy as an effective way of revenging himself on Holland. Proclaiming himself 'King of the Sea', he seized every ship that came in his way, showing no mercy to Hollanders and holding all others to ransom. In May 1517, the Duke, violating a truce not yet expired, renewed hostilities. The Black Band, some of whom had strayed as far as Rouen in quest of fighting, flocked back. At the end of June 3000 of them crossed the Zuider Zee in Long Peter's ships and disembarked suddenly at Medemblik, in North Holland. The town was quickly set on fire, and everything destroyed except the citadel; the fleet carrying back the first spoils. Then they marched southwards, burning what they list; and happy were those whose offer of ransom was accepted, to escape with plunder only. There was no fixed plan. The murderous horde wandered along, turning to right or left as fancy suggested. After burning five country towns, they appeared at Alcmar, the chief town of North Holland, into which the most precious possessions of the neighbourhood had been hurriedly conveyed. By a heavy payment, the burghers purchased immunity from the flames; but for eight days the town was given up to the lust and ferocity of an uncontrolled soldiery, from whose senseless destruction it took thirty years to recover. Egmond, with its great abbey, was pillaged; and then it was Haarlem's turn to suffer. But by this time resistance had been organized. Troops had been called back from garrison work in Friesland, and a strong line drawn in front of Haarlem. Headed off, the Black Band turned suddenly away. Passing Amsterdam and Culemborg, it penetrated down into South Holland, whence it would be easy to pass back into Gueldres. Asperen was its next prey. Three times the citizens beat off the cruel foe: a few more to man their walls, and they might have driven him right away, to overwhelm others less fortunate and less brave. But it was not to be. At the fourth attempt the marauders were successful, and massacre ensued. Death to the men, worse than death to the women: nor age nor innocence could touch those black hearts. A schoolmaster with his boys fled into a church and hid trembling in the rood-loft. Before long they were discovered. Thirsting for blood, some of the monsters rushed up the steps and tossed the shrieking victims over on to the pikes of their comrades below. When all the butchery was finished, a few helpless and infirm survivors were dragged out of hiding-places. The miserable creatures were driven out of the city and the gates barred in their faces. For a month the Black Band held Asperen as a standing camp, living upon the provisions stored up by the dead. Then Nassau came with troops and drove them forth, pursuing into Gueldres, where he burned '46 good villages' in revenge. The sight of fire blazing to heaven is appalling enough when men are ranged all on one side, and the battle is with the element alone. Our peace-lapped imaginations cannot picture the terror of flames kindled aforethought. As those poor fugitives scattered over the country, cowering into the darkness out of the fire's searching glow, they cannot but have recalled the words: 'Woe unto them that are with child and to them that give suck in those days.' At least they could give thanks that their flight was not in the winter. Meanwhile Long Peter had not been idle. On 14 August he had a great battle with the Hollanders off Hoorn. Eleven ships he took, and cast their crews into the sea: 500 men, save one, a Gueldrian, struggling in the calm summer waters and stretching out their hands to a foe who knew no pity. In September he surrounded a merchant fleet. The Easterlings escaped at heavy ransom; but the crews of three Holland vessels were flung to the waves. Then he carried the war on to the land, to glean what the Black Band had left. With 1200 men he took Hoorn by escalade; plunder-laden and sated, they returned to the sea. Nothing was too small or too helpless for his rapacity. Along the coast they picked up a barge of Enckhuizen. Its only crew, master and mate, were thrown overboard, and Peter's fleet sailed upon its way. We must remember that the provinces engaged in this internecine strife were not widely diverse in race, and that to-day they are peacefully united under one governance. The winter of 1517-18 was spent by the Black Band in Friesland. Three thousand men who are prepared to take by force what is not given to them, do not lie hungry in the cold. We may be sure that under them the land had no rest. At Easter they began to move southwards in quest of other victims and other employ. But as they halted between Venlo and Roermond, resistance confronted them. Nassau had arrayed by his side the Archbishop of Cologne and the Dukes of Juliers and Cleves: the gates of the cities were closed and the ferry-boats that would have carried them across the Maas had been kept on the other side. Caught in a trap, the freebooters promised to lay down their weapons and disperse. The disarmament proceeded quietly till one of the company-leaders refused to part with a bombard, the new invention, of which he was very proud. A trumpeter, seeing the man hesitate, sounded a warning, and the containing troops stood on the alert. Readiness led to action. Suddenly they fell on the helpless horde, for whom there was no safety but in flight. A thousand were massacred before Nassau and his confederates could check their men. Erasmus was about to set out from Louvain to Basle, to work at a new edition of the New Testament. Bands such as these were, of course, a peril to travellers. Half exultant, half disgusted, he wrote to More: 'These fellows were stripped before disbandment: so they will have all the more excuse for fresh plundering. This is consideration for the people! They were so hemmed in that not one of them could have escaped: yet the Dukes were for letting them go scot-free. It was mere chance that any of them were killed. Fortunately, a man blew his trumpet: there was at once an uproar, and more than a thousand were cut down. The Archbishop alone was sound. He said that, priest though he was, if the matter were left to him, he would see that such things should never occur again. The people understand the position, but are obliged to acquiesce.' To Colet he exclaimed more bitterly: 'It is cruel! The nobles care more for these ruffians than for their own subjects. The fact is, they count on them to keep the people down.' Let us be thankful that Europe to-day has no experience of such mercenaries. A sign of the troubles of the times was the existence of the French order of Trinitarians for the redemption of prisoners. This need had been known even when Rome's power was at its height, for Cicero[25] specifies the redemption of men captured by pirates as one of the ways in which the generously minded were wont to spend their money. The practice lasted down continuously through the Middle Ages. Gaguin, the historian of France, Erasmus' first patron in Paris, was for many years General of the Trinitarians, and made a journey to Granada to redeem prisoners who had been taken fighting against the Moors. Even in the eighteenth century, church offertories in England were asked and given to loose captives out of prison. [25] _De Officiis_, 2. 16. Where the king's peace is not kept and the king's writ does not run, men learn to rely on themselves. Those who protect themselves with strength, discover the efficacy of force, and soon are not content to apply it merely on the defensive. It is not surprising, therefore, to find in Erasmus' day many cases of resort to violence to remedy defective titles. Nowadays we never hear of a defeated candidate for a coveted post trying to obtain by force and right of possession the position which has been given to another. It is unthinkable, for instance, that a Warden of Merton duly elected should have to eject from college some disappointed rival who had possessed himself of the Warden's office and house: as actually happened in 1562. It is, perhaps, not so much that we have become more law-abiding, as that we realize that any such attempt must be fruitless when the strong arm of the State is at hand, ready to assert the rights of the lawful claimant. In Erasmus' day might was often right. Thus in 1492 the Abbot of St. Bertin's at St. Omer died, and the monks elected in his place a certain James du Val, who was duly consecrated in July 1493. The Bishop of Cambray, however, had had the abbey in his eye for his younger brother Antony, who had been ejected ten years before by the powerful family of Arenberg from the Abbey of St. Trond in Limburg, and meanwhile had been living unemployed at Louvain. The Bishop persuaded the Pope to annul du Val's election and appoint Antony in his place, probably on some technical ground. Armed with this permission he appeared at St. Omer in October 1493 and violently installed his brother; who held the abbey undisturbed till his death nearly forty years later. The Bishop's success with the Pope is the more noteworthy, as for a period of seven years he himself had refused to surrender an abbey near Mons to a papal nominee, who was not strong enough to wrest it from him. Again, during the five years of the English occupation of Tournay, 1513-18, there was a continual struggle between two rival bishops, appointed when the see fell vacant in 1513--Wolsey nominated by Henry VIII and Louis Guillard by the Pope. It goes without saying that Wolsey won; and Guillard did not get in till 1519, the year after the evacuation by the English. Fernand tells a story of violence at the monastery of Souillac, which was closely connected with his own at Chezal-Benoît. When the Abbot died, a monk of St. Martin's at Tours, who was a native of Souillac, with the aid of a brother who was a court official, got himself put in as abbot before the monks had time to elect. They appealed to the king, but quite in vain; for instead of giving ear to their complaint he sent down a troop of soldiers to support the invading Abbot. It was a grievous time for the poor monks. The garrison did whatever they pleased: imprisoned the faithful servants of the monastery, introduced hunting-dogs and birds, roared out their licentious choruses to the sound of lute and pipe, and gave up the whole day to games of every sort, in which the weaker brethren joined. Those who refused to do so or to violate their vows by eating flesh were insulted; and as they held divine service, coarse laughter and clamour interrupted them. Strict watch was kept upon them, too, lest they should speak or write to any one of their injuries. We need not deplore the passing of such 'good old days'. It is necessary to realize the certainty which in the sixteenth century men allowed themselves to feel on subjects of the highest importance; for nothing short of this intense conviction is adequate to explain the ferocity with which they treated those over whom they had triumphed in matters of religion. Burning at the stake was the common method of expiation. The fires of Smithfield consumed brave, humble victims, while Erasmus jested over the rising price of wood, In France the Inquisition entrapped many men of literary distinction, Louis de Berquin 1529, John de Caturce 1532, Stephen Dolet 1546; on the charge of heresy or atheism which could only with great difficulty be refuted. To kill a fellow-creature or to watch him put to death would be physically impossible to most of us, in our unruffled lives; where from year's-end to year's-end we hardly even hear a word spoken in anger. In consequence it is difficult for us to understand the indifference with which in the sixteenth century men of the most advanced refinement regarded the sufferings of others. Between rival combatants and claimants for thrones fierce measures are more intelligible; especially in days when stone walls did not a prison make--such a prison, at least, as the prisoner might not some day hope to break. Things had improved somewhat since the Middle Ages. We hear less of the varieties of mutilation, the blinding, loss of nose, hands, breasts, which were the portion of either sex indiscriminately, when the death-penalty had not been fully earned. But it was still fashionable to suspend your adversary in a cage and torture him, or to confine him for years in a dungeon which light and air could never reach. The executions of heretics became public shows, carefully arranged beforehand, and attended by rank and fashion; to whom to show any sign of sensibility would have been disgrace. Impossible it seems to believe. We must remember that the perpetrators of such noble acts had persuaded themselves that they were serving God. They were as confident as Joshua or as Jehu that they knew His will; and they had no hesitation in carrying it out. If you may take a man's life in God's name, there can be no objection to telling him a lie. The violation of the safe-conduct which brought Hus to Constance was a fine precedent for breaking faith with a heretic. When Luther came to Worms to answer for himself before Emperor and Diet, the Pope's representatives reminded Charles of the principle which had lighted the fires at Constance and ridded the world of a dangerous fellow. Fortunately Charles had German subjects to consider, and the Germans had a reputation for good faith of which they were proud. Let us credit him too with some generosity; he was scarcely 21, and the young find the arguments of expediency difficult. Anyway, Luther with the help of his friends got off safely. The intrigues and subterfuges of diplomatists are still very often revolting to honest men. But there is some excuse for them; they act on behalf of nations, who have to look to themselves for protection and can rarely afford to be generous and aboveboard. But so barefaced a violation of faith to an individual before the eyes of the world would no longer be tolerated, not even in the name of the Lord. The following example will illustrate the ideas of the age about the treatment of heretics; an example of faith continually broken and of incredible cruelty. In 1545 the Cardinal de Tournon and Baron d'Oppède, the first president of the Parliament of Aix, were moved to extirpate that plague-spot of Southern France, the Vaudois communities of Dauphiné, who went on still in their wickedness and heresy. The intriguers prepared a decree revoking the letters patent of 1544, which had suspended proceedings against the Vaudois; and when the keeper of the seals refused to present it to the king for signature, by unlawful means they presented it through a secretary and unlawfully procured the affixion of the seals. But this was a mere trifle: greater things were to follow. On 13 April 1545 the Baron entered the Vaudois territory at the head of a body of troops, reinforced by the papal Vice-legate and a fanatical mob of countryfolk. The inhabitants offered little resistance, and soon villages were in flames on every side. At Mérindol the soldiers found only one inhabitant, a poor idiot; all the rest had fled. The Baron ordered him to be shot. Above by the castle some women were discovered hiding in a church; after indescribable outrages they were thrown headlong from the rocks. Cabrières being fortified was prepared to stand a siege; but on a promise of their lives and property the inhabitants opened the gates. Without a moment's hesitation the Baron gave orders to put them all to death. The soldiers refused to break plighted faith; but the mob had no scruples and the ghastly work began. 'A multitude of women and children had fled to the church: the furious horde rushed headlong among them and committed all the crimes of which hell could dream. Other women had hidden themselves in a barn. The Baron caused them to be shut up there and fire set to the four corners. A soldier rushed to save them and opened the door, but the women were driven back into the fire with blows of pikes. Twenty-five women had taken shelter in a cavern at some distance from the town. The Vice-legate caused a great fire to be lighted at the entrance: five years afterwards the bones of the victims were found in the inmost recesses.'[26] La Coste had the same fate; the promise made and immediately violated, and then all the terrors of hell. In the course of a few weeks 3000 men and women were massacred, 256 executed, and six or seven hundred sent to the galleys; while children unnumbered were sold as slaves. The offence of these poor people was that they had been seeking in their own fashion to draw nearer to the God of Love. [26] R.C. Christie, _Étienne Dolet_, ch. xxiv. But public morals ever lag behind private; and in the sixteenth century private standards of truth and honour were not so high as they are now. Here again we may find one main cause in the absence of personal security. In these days of settled government, when thought and speech are free, it is scarcely possible to realize what men's outlook upon life must have been when walls had ears and a man's foes might be those of his own household. In Henry VII's reign England had not had time to forget the Wars of the Roses, and claimants to the throne were still occasionally executed in the Tower. Even under the mighty hand of Henry VIII ministers rose and fell with alarming rapidity. When princes contend, private men do well to hold their peace; lest light utterances be brought up against them so soon as Fortune's wheel has swung to the top those that were underneath. In matters of faith, too, it was supremely necessary to be careful; for unguarded words might arouse suspicions of heresy, to be followed by the frightful penalties with which heresy was extirpated. On great questions, therefore, men must have kept their tongues and thoughts in a strict reserve: candour and openness, those valuable solvents of social humours, can only have been practised by the unwise. Truth is one of those things in which to him that hath shall be given. It is a common jest in the East that professional witnesses come daily to the law-courts waiting to be hired by either side. The harder truth is to discover, with the less are men content. With many inducements to dissimulation and no great expectations of personal honesty, men are likely to traffic with expediency and to be adept in justifying themselves when they forsake the truth. Some examples of this may be found in Erasmus' letters. When he was in Italy in 1509, Henry VII died. His English patron, Lord Mountjoy, was intimate with Henry VIII. A few weeks after the accession a letter from Mountjoy reached Erasmus, inviting him to return to England and promising much in the young king's name. The letter was in fact written by Ammonius, an Italian, who afterwards became Latin secretary to the king. He was recognized as one of the best scholars of the day; and there can be no doubt that the letter was his composition. Mountjoy was a sufficiently keen scholar to sit up late at night over his books, and to be chosen as a companion to the young Prince Henry in his studies; but such autograph letters by him as survive show that he wrote with difficulty even in English, and it is impossible to suppose that he would have kept an accomplished Latinist in his employ merely to act as copyist to his effusions. Moreover, Erasmus, writing a few years later, says that he recognized the letter as Ammonius' work, not from the handwriting, which he had forgotten, but from the style. Nevertheless he allowed it to be published in 1519 as his patron's. Of his connivance in the matter there is actual proof; for in 1517 he had the letter copied by one of his servant-pupils into a letter-book, and added the heading himself. What he first wrote was: 'Andreas Ammonius Erasmo Roterodamo S.D.,' but afterwards he scratched out Ammonius' name and wrote in 'Guilhelmus Montioius'. In a sense, of course, he was correct; for the letter was written in Mountjoy's name. But he cannot have been unaware that in an age which valued elegant Latinity so highly, his patron would be gratified by the ascription. It was no great matter, and did no harm to any one. But it throws some doubt on Erasmus' statement as to the scholarship of Henry VIII. When Henry's book against Luther appeared in 1521, people said that Erasmus had lent him a hand. In denying the insinuation Erasmus avers that Henry was quite capable of doing the work himself, and adds that his own suspicions of Henry's capacity had been dispelled by Mountjoy, who when tutor to the young prince had preserved rough copies of Latin letters written by Henry's own hand; and these he produced to convince the doubter. Erasmus had a double motive in asserting Henry's authorship, to play the courtier and to avoid provoking Luther; and Mountjoy, as we have seen, is not above suspicion. But there is some further evidence in support of them all, prince and patron and scholar. Pace, Colet's successor at St. Paul's, speaks of hearing Henry talk Latin quickly and readily; and Giustinian, the Venetian ambassador, quotes a few remarks made to him by Henry in Latin by way of greeting. Till more evidence is forthcoming, Erasmus must be let off on this count with a Not proven. Another example of scant regard for truth is his disowning of the _Julius Exclusus_. This was a witty dialogue, in Erasmus' best style, on the death of Pope Julius II. The Pope is shown arriving at the gate of heaven, accompanied by his Genius, a sort of guardian angel, and amazed to find it locked, with no preparation at all for his reception. His amazement grows when St. Peter at length appears and makes it plain that the gate is not going to be opened, and that there is no room in heaven for Julius with his record of wars and other unchristian deeds; whereupon there is a fine set-to, and each party receives some hard knocks. That Erasmus was its author there can be no doubt; for there is evidence in two directions of the existence of a copy or copies of it in his handwriting, and we cannot suppose that at that period of his life, when he regularly had one or more servant-pupils in his employ, he would have troubled to copy out with his own hand a work of that length by another. There was nothing very outrageous in the dialogue, nothing much more than there was in the _Moria_; but it was not the sort of thing for a man to write who was so closely connected as Erasmus was with the Papal see, and who wished to stand well with it in the future. The _Julius_ appeared in print in 1517, of course anonymously, and Erasmus was pleased with its reception; but he soon found that people who were not in the secret were attributing it to him. That would never do; so he set to work to repudiate it. The friends that knew he exhorted to know nothing; the rest he endeavoured to persuade that he was not the author, using many forms of equivocation. He rises to his greatest heights in addressing cardinals. To Campegio, then in London, he writes on 1 May 1519: 'How malicious some people are! Any scandalous book that comes out they at once put down to me. That silly production, _Nemo_, they said was mine; and people would have believed them, only the author (Hutten) indignantly claimed it as his own. Then those absurd Letters (of the Obscure Men): of course I was thought to have had a hand in them. Finally, they began to say that I was the author of this book of Luther; a person I have hardly ever heard of, certainly I have not read his book. As all these failed, they are trying to fasten on me an anonymous dialogue which appears to make mock of Pope Julius. Five years ago I glanced through it, I can hardly say I read it. Afterwards I found a copy of it in Germany, under various names. Some said it was by a Spaniard, name unknown; others ascribed it to Faustus Andrelinus, others to Hieronymus Balbus. For myself I do not quite know what to think. I have my suspicions; but I haven't yet followed them up to my satisfaction. Certainly whoever wrote it was very foolish;'--that sentence was from his heart!--'but even more to blame is the man who published it. To my surprise some people attribute it to me, merely on the ground of style, when it is nothing like my style, if I am any judge: though it would not be very wonderful if others did write like me, seeing that my books are in all men's hands. I am told that your Reverence is inclined to doubt me: with a few minutes' conversation I am sure I could dispel your suspicions. Let me assure you that books of this kind written by others I have had suppressed: so it is hardly likely that I should have published such a thing myself, or ever wish to publish it.' Not bad that, from the author of the _Julius_. A fortnight later he wrote to Wolsey to much the same effect, instancing as books that had been attributed to him Hutten's _Nemo_ and _Febris_, Mosellanus' _Oratio de trium linguarum ratione_, Fisher's reply to Faber, and even More's _Utopia_. As to the _Julius_ he says: 'Plenty of people here will tell you how indignant I was some years ago when I found the book being privately passed about. I glanced through it (I can hardly be said to have read it); and I tried vigorously to get it suppressed. This is the work of the enemies of good learning, to try and fasten this book upon me.' Finally, to clinch his argument, he asseverates with audacious ingenuity: 'I have never written a book, and I never will, to which I will not affix my own name.' Jortin points out that the only thing which Erasmus specifically denies is the publication of the _Julius_. As we have seen, an author of consequence in those days rarely troubled to correct his own proof-sheets. Erasmus left his _Moria_ behind in Paris for Richard Croke to see through the press; More committed his _Utopia_ to Erasmus, who had it printed for him at Louvain; Linacre sent his translations of Galen to Paris by the hands of Lupset, who supervised the printing. It is therefore quite probable that Erasmus did not personally superintend the publication of the _Julius_; but until students of typography can tell us definitely which is the first printed edition, and where it was printed, we cannot be certain. But besides this point of practice born of convenience, there was another born of modesty. With compositions that were purely literary--poems and other creations of art and fancy, as opposed to more solid productions--the convention arose of pretending that the publication of them was due to the entreaties of friends, or even in some cases that it had been carried out by ardent admirers without the author's knowledge. Printing, with its ease of multiplication, had made publication a far more definite act than it was in the days of manuscripts. In the prefaces to his early compositions, Erasmus almost always assumes this guise. More actually wrote to Warham and to another friend that the _Utopia_ had been printed without his knowledge. Of course this was not true, but nobody misunderstood him. Dolet's _Orationes ad Tholosam_ appeared through the hand of a friend, but with the most transparent figments. There was, therefore, abundant precedent for denying authorship. But there is a difference between the light veil of modesty and clouds of dust raised in apprehension. The publication of the _Julius_ certainly placed Erasmus in a dilemma; he extricated himself by equivocation, which barely escapes from direct untruth. It is possible that a public man of his position at the present day might find himself driven to a similar method of escape from a similar indiscretion.[27] But experience has taught men not to write lampoons which they dare not avow, and a more effective law of copyright protects them against publication by pirate printers. [27] An example of this may be seen in the new _Life of Edward Bulwer, First Lord Lytton_, 1913, ii. 71-6. Bulwer-Lytton's letter, 15 March 1846, denying the authorship of the _New Timon_, might almost have been translated from Erasmus' to Campegio, except that it goes further in falsehood. VII PRIVATE LIFE AND MANNERS An interesting parallel is often drawn between Indian life to-day and the life with which we are familiar in the Bible. The women grinding at the mill, the men who take up their beds and walk, the groups that gather at the well, the potter and his wheel, the marriage-feasts, the waterpots standing ready to be filled, the maimed, the leper, and the blind--all these are everyday sights in the streets and households of modern India. But we may also make an instructive comparison between India and mediaeval, or even Renaissance, Europe. As soon as one gets away from the railway and the telegraph--indeed even where they have already penetrated--one still finds in India conditions prevailing which continued in Europe beyond the Middle Ages. The customary tie between master and servant, lasting from one generation to another, preserves the community of interest which prevented the feudal bond from being irksome. The modern severance of classes, the modern desire for aloofness, has not yet come. The servants are an integral part of the household, sharing in its ceremonies and festivities, crowding into their master's presence without impairing his privacy, and following him as escort whenever he stirs abroad. The child-marriage which we condemn in modern India, was frequently practised in Europe in the sixteenth century, when the uncertainty of life made men wish to secure the future of their children so far as they could. The foster-mothers with whom young Mughal princes found a home, whose sons they loved as their own brothers, had their counter-part in these islands as late as the days of the great Lord Cork. Walled cities with crowded houses looking into one another across narrow winding alleys, were an inevitable condition of life in sixteenth-century Europe before strong central government had made it safe to live outside the gates. Even the houses of the great were dark, airless, cramped, with tiny windows and dim, opaque glass; such as one may still see at Compton Castle in Devonshire or the Château des Comtes at Ghent. Communications moved slowly along unmetalled roads or up and down rivers. Carriages with two or four horses were occasionally used; but the ordinary traveller rode on horseback, and needy students coming to a university walked, clubbing together for a packhorse to carry their modest baggage. These are features which may still be matched in many parts of India. The ravages of plague, the absence of sanitation, the recurrence of famine and war, all combined in sixteenth-century Europe to produce an uncertainty in the tenure of life, which modern India knows only too well from all the causes except the last; but India does not follow Europe in the resulting practice of frequent remarriage on both sides. In Erasmus' day a marriage in which neither side had previously or did subsequently contract a similar relation must have been quite exceptional. A certain German lady, after one ordinary husband, became the wife of three leading Reformers in succession, Oecolampadius, Capito, and Bucer--almost an official position, it would seem. She survived them all, and when Bucer died at Cambridge in 1551, was able to return to Basle, to be buried beside Oecolampadius in the Cathedral. Katherine Parr married four times. To her first husband, who left her a widow at fifteen, she was a second wife; to her second, a third wife; to her third, who was Henry VIII, a sixth; and only her fourth was a bachelor. The custom of the year's 'doole' after the death of husband or wife was just at this period breaking down. In 1488 Edward IV declined a new marriage for his sister, Margaret of York, the new-made widow of Charles the Bold, on the ground that 'after the usage of our realms no estate or person honourable communeth of marriage within the year of their dool'. But Tudor practice was very different. For Mary, Queen of France, who married her Duke of Suffolk as soon as her six weeks of white mourning were out, there was some excuse of urgency; Henry, too, in his rapid marriage with Jane Seymour had special reasons. But Katherine Parr, when her turn to marry him came, was but a few months a widow; and later, in being on with her old love, Thomas Seymour, when her grim master was only just dead, she had no motive beyond the wishes of lovers long delayed. The Princess Mary, however, considered this latter action highly improper. John Oporinus (Herbst), the Basle printer (1507-68), had a varied experience; taking four widows to wife. At the age of 20 he married--almost, it seems, out of a sense of duty--the widow of his teacher, Xylotectus of Lucerne; an elderly lady who persecuted him sorely, and once in a passion threw dirty water over him. After eight years, two of which he had spent roving through Germany with Paracelsus, she died, leaving her property to relations. Oporinus' next widow had three children, girls, who grew up to share their mother's expensive tastes. For nearly thirty years their extravagance vexed him, though his wife had tact enough to keep from open quarrels. Then one day he returned from the Frankfort fair to find her dead of the plague. The same visitation, 1564, by carrying off first John Herwagen the younger and then Ulrich Iselin, Professor of Law at Basle, made two more widows, successively to bear Oporinus' name. Herwagen's widow, Elizabeth Holzach, was a sweet woman, but died in the fourth month of her new marriage, 17 July 1565. Iselin's was Faustina, daughter of Boniface Amerbach, born in 1530. To her seven children by Iselin, she added one for Oporinus, Emmanuel, born 25 Jan. 1568; but the father of 60 did not live six months to have pleasure in his firstborn. With such frequent changes the marriage-tie cannot have given the same personal attachment that is possible at the present day: indeed such unions can scarcely have seemed more lasting than the temporary associations of friends. One need only recall the bargainings that occur in the Paston Letters to realize that there was not much romance about their marriages, at any rate beforehand. Thus wrote Sir John Paston in 1473 of a suitor for his sister Anne: 'As for Yelverton, he said but late that he would have her if she had her money; and else not.' Thomas More is rightly regarded as a man in whom the spirit burned brighter and clearer than in most of his contemporaries; and yet his matrimonial relations savour more of convenience or even of business than of affection. For his first wife, we are told--and there is no reason to doubt the story--, his fancy had lighted on an Essex girl, the daughter of a country-gentleman; but on visiting her at home he found that she had an elder sister not yet married. Feeling that to have her younger sister married first would be a grief to the elder, he 'inclined his affection' towards her and made her his wife in place of his first choice. The interpretation that when he saw the elder sister, he preferred her before the other, might be probable to-day: to apply it to the story of More would be a case of that commonest of 'vulgar errors' in history,--judging the past by the ideas of the present. For five or six years More lived with his girl-bride, whose country training and unformed mind caused much trouble and difficulty to them both. The unequal relation between them appears in a story told by Erasmus; that More delighted her once by bringing home a present of sham jewels, and apparently did not think it necessary to undeceive her about them. Happiness came in time; but after bearing him four children, she died. Within a month the widower came to his father-confessor by night and obtained leave to be married next morning. His new wife was a middle-aged lady of no charms--indeed she seems to have been a regular shrew--who served him as a capable housekeeper and looked after his children while they were young. But she never engaged his affections; and it was his eldest daughter, Margaret, who became the chosen partner of his joys and sorrows in later years. The habitual remarriage of widows proceeded in part from the desire, or even need, for a husband's protection; and in consequence it was not only the young who were open to men's addresses. Beatus Rhenanus, writing to a servant-pupil who had recently left him to launch forth into the world, counsels him to marry, if possible, a rich and elderly widow; in order that in a few years by her death he may find himself equipped with an ample capital for his real start in life. Such advice from a man like Beatus can only have been in jest: but if there had not been some reality of actual practice, the jest would have fallen flat. Indeed Beatus goes on to indicate that this course had been taken by Reuchlin; whose elderly consort was, however, disobliging enough to live for many years. The ill-success attending Oporinus' essay in this direction we have already seen. But it was not so with all. Not infrequently Erasmus deplores the imprudence of the young men who had left his service, in allowing themselves to fall in love and marry without securing proper dowries with their young brides. He was indeed, considering his natural shrewdness, singularly ignorant of women; as his advice to youthful husbands sometimes shows. To one, for example, who had written to announce that before long he hoped to become a father, he replies with congratulations, and then says: 'Now that your wife no longer needs your care, you will be able to betake yourself to a university and finish your studies'--advice which we may surely suppose was not taken. During the insecurity of the Middle Ages, the seclusion of women for their own protection had been severely necessary. In the East the 'purdah-system' reached the length of excluding women of the better classes from the society of all men but those of their own family. Of such rigidity in Europe I cannot find any traces except under Oriental influence;[28] but there is no doubt that women's life at the beginning of the Renaissance in the North was circumscribed. Such higher education as they received was given at home, by father or brothers or husband, or by private tutors. But there are not a few examples of educated women. In the well-known Frisian family, the Canters of Groningen, parents and children and even the maidservant are said to have spoken regularly in Latin. Antony Vrye of Soest, one of the Adwert circle, wrote to his wife in Latin; and his daughter helped him with the teaching of Latin in the various schools over which he presided, at Campen and Amsterdam and Alcmar. Pirckheimer's sisters and daughters, Peutinger's wife, are famous for their learning. In England throughout the Renaissance period the position of women and their education steadily improved. Alice, Duchess of Suffolk, the foundress of Ewelme, had an interest in literature; and the great Lady Margaret, besides the endowments which are her memorial at the universities, constantly fostered the efforts of Wynkyn de Worde, and herself translated part of the _Imitatio_ from the French. The Princess Mary, as the result of the liberal training of Vives and other masters, could translate from Aquinas, take part in acting a play of Terence, and read the letters of Jerome; and before she was 30, made a translation of Erasmus' Paraphrase of St. John's Gospel, which formed part of the English version of those Paraphrases ordered by Injunctions of Edward VI to be placed beside the Bible in every parish church throughout the realm. [28] In 1729 the Abbé Fourmont found the seclusion of women extensively practised in Athens for fear of the Turks; see R.C. Christie, _Essays and Papers_, p. 69. More, for his dear 'school', engaged the best teachers he could find. John Clement, afterwards Wolsey's first Reader in Humanity at Oxford, and William Gonell, Erasmus' friend at Cambridge, read Sallust and Livy with them. Nicholas Kratzer, the Bavarian mathematician, also one of Wolsey's Readers at Oxford, taught them astronomy: to know the pole-star and the dog, and to contemplate the 'high wonders of that mighty and eternal workman', whom More could feel revealed himself also to some 'good old idolater watching and worshipping the man in the moon every frosty night'.[29] Richard Hyrde, the friend of Gardiner and translator of Vives' _Instruction of a Christian Woman_, continued the work after the 'school' had been moved to Chelsea;[30] and when Margaret, eldest and best-beloved scholar, was married. Not that this interfered. The love of learning once implanted brought her with her husband to keep her place among her sisters in that bright Academy. Her fame is well known, how the Bishop of Exeter sent her a gold coin of Portugal in reward for an elegant epistle; how familiarly she corresponded with Erasmus; how she emended the text of Cyprian, imitated the Declamations of Quintilian, and translated the Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius. [29] More, _English Works_, 1557, f. 154 E. [30] See F. Watson, _Vives and the Renascence Education of Women_, 1912. It is evident that in England, for women as well as men, the seed of the Renaissance had fallen on good ground. By the middle of the century the gates of the kingdom of knowledge were open, and the thoughtful were rejoicing in the infinite variety of their Paradise regained. In 1547-8, Nicholas Udall, in a preface for Mary's translation of Erasmus' Paraphrase, writes with enthusiasm: 'Neither is it now any strange thing to hear gentlewomen, instead of most vain communication about the moon shining in the water, to use grave and substantial talk in Greek or Latin with their husbands in godly matters. It is now no news in England to see young damsels in noble houses and in the courts of princes, instead of cards and other instruments of vain trifling, to have continually in their hands either Psalms, "Omelies" and other devout meditations, or else Paul's Epistles or some book of Holy Scripture matters, and as familiarly both to read and reason thereof in Greek, Latin, French or Italian as in English. It is now a common thing to see young virgins so "nouzled" and trained in the study of letters that they willingly set all other vain pastimes at nought for learning's sake.' It is melancholy to reflect how soon the gates of the kingdom were to be closed again, and its trees guarded by the flaming sword of theological certainty mistaking itself for truth. Besides marriage, almost the only vocation open to women in the fifteenth century was the monastic life. It was not uncommon for several daughters in a family to embrace religion: parents, apart from higher considerations, regarding it as a sure method of providing for girls who did not wish to marry, or for whom they could not find husbands. As heads of religious houses women held positions of great dignity and influence, and discharged their duties worthily. Within convent walls, too, it was possible for some women to become learned; though in later times the achievements of Diemudis were never rivalled. She was a nun at Wessobrunn in Bavaria at the end of the eleventh century, and during her cloistered life her active pen wrote out 47 volumes, including two complete Bibles, one of which was given in exchange for an estate. We also hear of women of means, usually widows, dispensing hospitality on a large scale to the needy and deserving. Wessel of Groningen, as we saw, was adopted by a wealthy matron, who saw him shivering in the street on a winter's day and fetched him into her house to warm. Erasmus describes to us a Gouda lady, Berta de Heyen, whose kindness he repeatedly enjoyed in his early years; and in addition to her general charities mentions that she was wont to look out for promising boys in the town school who were designing to enter the Church, receive them into her family amongst her own children, and when their courses were completed, bestir herself to procure them benefices--an indication of the possession of influence outside her own home. He goes on to say that when widowhood came to her, she refused to think of a second marriage, and almost rejoiced to be released from the bonds of matrimony, because she found herself free to practise her liberality. But we must not lay too much stress on these latter utterances. They come from a funeral oration composed after the good lady's death, and addressed to her children, some of whom were nuns: to whom therefore the conventional representation of the Church's attitude towards marriage would be acceptable. Butzbach describes the wife of a wealthy citizen of Deventer as entertaining daily six or seven of the poorer clergy at her table, besides the alms that she distributed continually before her own door. To him she frequently gave food and clothes and money, with much sympathy. It is noticeable how the charity is represented as proceeding from the wife and not from the husband. A mediaeval moralist urges wives to make good their husbands' deficiencies in this respect; and against the remark Ulrich Ellenbog, the father, notes that he had always left this burden to his wife. The inference is probable that though the sphere of women was in many ways restricted, they were within their own dominion, the household, supreme--more so perhaps than they are to-day. Yet in spite of this domestic authority, I do not see how we can escape the conclusion that the real power rested with the husband, when we read such passages as this in the _Utopia_, where, speaking of punishment, More says: 'Parents chastise their children, husbands their wives.' Indeed, it was recognized as one of the primary duties of a husband, to see that his wife behaved properly. What we have been saying may be well illustrated by the letter just alluded to from Antony Vrye 'to his dear wife, Berta of Groningen'. It was written 'from Cologne in haste'; and as it appears in Vrye's _Epistolarum Compendium_, it may be dated _c._ 1477. 'Your letter was most welcome, and relieved me of anxiety about you all. I rejoice to hear that the children are well and yourself; your mother too and the whole household. You write that you are expecting me to return by 1 March, to relieve you of all your cares. I wish indeed that I could; but besides our own private matters, there is some public business for me to discharge, and this will take time. So be diligent to look after our affairs, and pray to God to keep you in health and free from fault: my prolonged absence will make my return all the more joyful. It is great pain to me to be absent from you so long, who art all my life and happiness. But as I must, it falls to you to guard our honour and property, and to care for our family. This, Jerome says, is the part of a prudent housewife, and to cherish her own chastity. Bide then at home, most loving wife, and be not tempted by such amusements as delight the vulgar; but patiently and modestly await my return. I too will be a faithful husband to you in everything. Be a chaste and honoured mother to our boy and little girls; and cherish your mother in return for the singular kindness she has showed us.' One feature of life at this time which materially affected the lives of women, was the length of families and the accompanying infant mortality. It was common enough in all classes down to the middle of the last century; and it is still only too common among the poor. On the walls of churches, more especially in towns, one frequently sees tablets with long lists of children who seem to have been born only to die: and yet the parents went on their way unthinking, and content if from their annual harvest an occasional son or daughter grew up to bless them. Examples of this may be collected on every side. Cole (1467-1519), for instance, was the eldest of twenty-two sons and daughters; and by 1499 he was the only child left to his parents. His father, who was twice Lord Mayor of London, lived till 1510; the mother of this great brood survived them all, and, so far as Erasmus knew, was still living in 1521. Another case which may be cited is that of Anthony Koberger, the celebrated Nuremberg printer, 1440-1513: and it is the more interesting, since owing to his care for genealogy, we have accurate records of his two marriages and his twenty-five children. The first marriage produced eight, born between 1470 and 1483; of these, three daughters lived to grow up and marry, but of the remaining five--including three sons, all named Anthony, a fact which tells its own tale--none reached a greater age than twelve years. In September 1491 the first wife died; and in August 1492--without observing the full year's 'doole'--Anthony married again, the second wife being herself the sixteenth child of her parents. At first there was only disappointment; in 3½ years four children were born and died, two of these being twins. But better times followed: of the remaining thirteen only three died as infants. Anthony the fifth and John the third, and three sons named after the three kings, Caspar, Melchior and Balthasar, were more fortunate. When 21 years had brought 17 children, the sequence ended abruptly with the death of Anthony the father; leaving, out of the 25 he had received, only 13 children to speak with his enemies in the gate. A family Bible now in the Bodleian[31] enumerates 16 children born to the same parents in 24 years, 1550-74. One girl was married before she was 16; one son at 20 died of exposure on his way home from Holland; two reached 10, one 8, one 6. None of the remainder ten lived for one year. [31] Biblia Latina, 1529, c. 2. Of public morals in the special sense of the term this is not the place to speak in detail. But it may suitably be stated that sixteenth-century standards in these matters were not so high as those of the present day. 'If gold ruste, what shal iren do?' The highest ecclesiastical authorities were unable to check a nominally celibate priesthood from maintaining women-housekeepers who bore them families of children and were in many cases decent and respectable wives to them in all but name; indeed in Friesland the laity for obvious reasons insisted upon this violation of clerical vows. A letter from Zwingli, the Reformer, written in 1518 when he was parish priest of Glarus, gives an astonishing view of his own practice. Under such circumstances we need not wonder that the standards of the laity were low. The highest record that I have met with is that of a Flemish nobleman, who in addition to a large family including a Bishop of Cambray and an Abbot of St. Omer, is said to have been also the father of 36 bastards. Thomas More as a young man was not blameless. But it is surprising to find that Erasmus in writing an appreciation of More in 1519, when he was already a judge of the King's Bench, stated the fact in quite explicit, though graceful, language; and further, that More took no exception to the statement, which was repeated in edition after edition. We can hardly imagine such a passage being inserted in a modern biography of a public character, even if it were written after his death. Just about the same time More published among his epigrams some light-hearted Latin poems--doubtless written in his youth--such as no public man with any regard for his character would care to put his name to to-day. There is another matter to which some allusion must be made, the grossness of the age, though here again detail is scarcely possible. The conditions of life in the sixteenth century made it difficult to draw a veil over the less pleasant side of human existence. The houses were filthy; the streets so disgusting that on days when there was no wind to disperse the mephitic vapours, prudent people kept their windows shut. Dead bodies and lacerated limbs must have been frequent sights. Under these circumstances we need not be surprised that men spoke more plainly to one another and even to women than they do now. Sir John Paston's conversations with the Duchess of Norfolk would make less than duchesses blush now. The tales that Erasmus introduces into his writings, the jests of his Colloquies, are often quite unnecessarily coarse; but one which will illustrate our point may be repeated. One winter's morning a stately matron entered St. Gudule's at Brussels to attend mass. The heels of her shoes were caked with snow, and on the smooth pavement of the church she slipped up. As she fell, there escaped from her lips a single word, of mere obscenity. The bystanders helped her to her feet, and amid their laughter she slunk away, crimson with mortification, to hide herself in the crowd. Nowadays great ladies have not such words at command. Theological controversy has a proverbial name for ferocity; in the sixteenth century other qualities were added to this. In 1519 a young Englishman named Lee, who was afterwards Archbishop of York, ventured to criticize Erasmus' New Testament, with a vehemence which under the circumstances was perhaps unsuitable. Erasmus of course resented this; and his friends, to cool their indignation, wrote and published a series of letters addressed to the offender: 'the Letters of some erudite men, from which it is plain how great is the virulence of Lee.' Among the contributors was Sapidus, head master of the famous school at Schlettstadt, which was one of the first Latin schools of the age. His letter to Lee concludes with a disgusting piece of imagery, which would shock one if it proceeded from the most unpleasantly minded schoolboy. One cannot conceive a Head Master of Rugby appearing in print in such a way now. VIII THE POINT OF VIEW There is one thing in the world which is constantly with us, and which has probably continued unchanged throughout all ages of history: the weather. Yet Erasmus' writings contain no traces of that delight in brilliant sunshine which most Northerners feel, nor of that wonder at the beauties of the firmament which was so real to Homer. He frequently remarks that the weather was pestilent, that the winds blew and ceased not, that the sea was detestably rough and the clouds everlasting; but of the praise which accompanies enjoyment there is scarcely a word. His utmost is to say that the climate of a place is salubrious. He often describes his journeys. As he rode on horseback across the Alps or was carried down the Rhine in a boat, he must have had ample opportunity to behold the glories which Nature sometimes spreads before us in our Northern clime, and lavishes more constantly on less favoured regions. But the loveliness of blue skies and serene air, the glitter of distant snows, the soft radiance of the summer moon, and the golden architrave of the sunset he had no eyes to see. Such indifference to the beauties of Nature admits, however, of some explanation. With a scantier population than that which now covers the earth, there was less agriculture and more of waste and unkempt places not yet reduced to the service of mankind. Solitudes were vaster and more complete. In a country so well cared for as England is to-day, it is difficult to imagine how unpleasing can be the aspect of land over which Nature still has the upper hand, how desolate and dreadful the great mountain areas which men now have to seek at the ends of the earth, where the smoke rises not and even the lone goatherd has not penetrated. To-day our difficulty is to escape from the thronging pressure of millions: we rarely experience what in the sixteenth century must often have been felt--the shrinking to leave, the joy of returning to, the kindly race of men. Ascham in the _Toxophilus_ (1545), when discussing the relaxations open to the scholar who has been 'sore at his book', urges that 'walking alone into the field hath no token of courage in it'. But though this may have been true by that time in the immediate neighbourhood of English towns, it was not yet true abroad; for Thomas Starkey in his _Dialogue_ (1538), almost as valuable a source as the _Utopia_, praises foreign cities with their resident nobles by comparison with English, which are neglected and dirty 'because gentlemen fly into the country to live, and let cities, castles and towns fall into ruin and decay'. It is tantalizing, too, considering how abundant are Erasmus' literary remains, that we get so little description of places from him. He travelled far and wide, in the Low Countries, up and down the Rhine, through France, southwards to Rome and Naples. He was a year in Venice, three years at Cambridge, eight years at Basle, six at Freiburg. What precious information he might have given us about these places, which then as now were full of interesting buildings and treasures of art! what a mine of antiquarian detail, if he had expatiated occasionally! But a meagre description of Constance, a word or two about Basle in narrating an explosion there, glimpses of Walsingham and Canterbury in his colloquy on pilgrimages--that is almost all that can be culled from his works about the places he visited. When he came to Oxford, Merton tower had been gladdening men's eyes for scarcely fifty years, and the tower of Magdalen had just risen to rival its beauty; Duke Humfrey's Library and the Divinity School were still in their first glory, and the monks of St. Frideswide were contemplating transforming the choir of their church into the splendid Perpendicular such as Bray had achieved at Westminster and Windsor for Henry VII. But Erasmus tells us nothing of what he saw; only what he heard and said. This lack of enjoyment in Nature, lack of interest in topography and archaeology, was probably personal to him. It was not so with some of his friends. More and Ellenbog, as we have seen, could feel the beauty in the night 'Of cloudless climes and starry skies'. Aleander in a diary records the exceptional brilliance of the planet Jupiter at the end of September 1513. He pointed it out to his pupils in the Collège de la Marche at Paris, and together they remarked that its rays were strong enough to cast a shadow. Ellenbog enjoyed the country, and Luther also was susceptible to its charms. Budaeus had a villa to which he delighted to escape from Paris, and where he laid out a fine estate. Beatus Rhenanus after thirty years retained impressions of Louis XII's gardens at Tours and Blois and of a 'hanging garden' in Paris; and could write a detailed account of the Fugger palace at Augsburg with its art treasures. Or think of the painters. The Flemings of the fifteenth century had learnt from the Italians to fit into their pictures landscapes seen through doors or windows, gleaming in sunshine, green and bright. Van Eyck's 'Adoration of the Lamb' is set in beautiful scenery; grassy slopes and banks studded with flowers, soft swelling hills, and blue distances crowned with the towers he knew so well, Utrecht and Maestricht and Cologne and Bruges. Even in the interiors of Durer and Holbein, where no window opens to let in the view, Nature is not left wholly unrepresented; for flowers often stand upon the tables, carnations and lilies and roses, arranged with taste and elegance. On the whole the enjoyment of Nature formed but a small part in the outlook of that age as compared with the prominence it receives in modern literature and life; but we should be wrong in inferring that it was wholly absent. To the men of the fifteenth century the earth was still the centre of the universe: the sun moved round it like a more magnificent planet, and the stars had been created 'to shed down Their stellar influence on all kinds that grow'. Aristarchus had seen the truth, though he could not establish it, in the third century B.C. But Greek science had been forgotten in an age which knew no Greek; and it was not till after Erasmus' death that an obscure canon in a small Prussian town near Danzig--Nicholas Copernicus, 1473-1543--found out anew the secret of the world. This fruit of long cold watches on the tower of his church he printed with full demonstration, but he scarcely dared to publish the book: indeed a perfect copy only reached him a few days before his death. Even in the next century Galileo had to face imprisonment and threats of torture, because he would speak that which he knew. But when Erasmus was born, the earth itself was but partially revealed. Men knew not even whether it were round or flat; and the unplumbed sea could still estrange. The voyages of the Vikings had passed out of mind, and the eyes of Columbus and Vespucci had not yet seen the limits of that western ocean which so long fascinated their gaze. Polo had roamed far into the East; but as yet Diaz and da Gama had not crowned the hopes which so often drew Henry the Navigator to his Portuguese headland. In the world of thought the conception of uniformity in Nature, though formed and to some extent accepted among the advanced, was still quite outside the ordinary mind. Miracles were an indispensable adjunct to the equipment of every saint; and might even be wrought by mere men, with the aid of the black arts. The Devil was an ever-present personality, going about to entrap and destroy the unwary. Clear-minded Luther held converse with him in his cell; and lesser demons were seen or suspected on every side. Thus in 1523 the Earl of Surrey writes to Wolsey describing a night attack on Jedburgh in a Border foray. The horses took fright, and their sudden panic threw all things into confusion. 'I dare not write', he says, 'the wonders that my Lord Dacre and all his company do say they saw that night, six times, of spirits and fearful sights. And universally all their company say plainly the Devil was that night among them six times.' In that gaunt and bleak Border country the traveller overtaken by night may feel a disquieting awe even in these days when the rising moon is no longer a lamp to guide enemies to the attack. Four hundred years ago, when it lay blood-stained and scarred with a thousand fights, bearing no crops to be fired, no homesteads to be sacked, we need not wonder if teams of demons swept down in the darkness and drove through and through the trembling ranks. Again, in 1552 Melanchthon writes thus to a friend: 'In some cases no doubt the causes of madness and derangement are purely physical; but it is also quite certain that at times men's bodies are entered by devils who produce frenzies prognosticating things to come. Twelve years ago there was a woman in Saxony who had no learning of books, and yet, when she was vexed by a devil, after her paroxysms uttered Greek and Latin prophecies of the war that should be there. In Italy, too, I am told there was a woman, also quite unlearned, who during one of her devilish torments was asked what is the best line of Virgil, and replied, "Learn justice and to reverence the gods "'.[32] In this second case it would seem that the Devil scarcely knew his own business. [32] _Aen._ 6. 620. Sudden death descending upon the wicked was a judgement of heaven, letting loose the powers of hell; and if the face of the corpse chanced to turn black, there was never any doubt but that Satan had flown off with the soul. Suspicions and accusations of witchcraft were rife; and an old woman had to be careful of the reputation of her cat. Wanderers among the mountains saw dragons; in the forests elves peeped at the woodmen from behind the trees, and fairies danced beneath the moon in the open places. The world had not been sufficiently explored for the absence of contrary experience to carry much weight; and the means for the dissemination of news were quite inadequate. In consequence men had not learnt to doubt the evidence of their senses and to regard things as too strange to be true. It was felt that anything might happen; and as a result almost everything did happen. For example, in 1500 there was an outbreak of crosses in two villages not far from Sponheim; and next year the same thing happened at Liège. They appeared on any clothing that was light enough of hue; coloured crosses that no washing or treatment could remove. Men opened their coats to find crosses on their shirts: a woman would look down at her apron, and there, sure enough, was a cross. Clothes that had been folded up and put away in presses, came out with the sacred sign upon them. One day during the singing of the mass thirty men suddenly found themselves marked with crosses. They lasted for nine or ten days, and then gradually faded. It was afterwards remarked that where the crosses had been, the plague followed. Such is Trithemius' account in his chronicle: we may wonder how closely he had questioned his informants. It is difficult for us to conceive a world in which news spreads mainly by word of mouth. Morning and evening it is poured forth to us, by many different agencies, in the daily press; and though many of these succumb to the temptation to be sensational, among the better sort there is a healthy rivalry which restrains exuberance and promotes accuracy. There is safety, too, in numbers. News which appears in one paper only, is looked at doubtfully until it is confirmed by the rest; but even unanimity amongst all papers will scarcely at first win acceptance for what is at all startling and out of the common, until time and the absence of contradiction may perhaps corroborate. In practice men of credit have learnt not to see the sea-serpent. For a picture of conditions in the sixteenth century we must sweep all the newspapers away. Kings had their heralds and towns their public messengers who took and of course brought back news. Caravans of merchants travelled along the great trade-routes; and their tongues and ears were not idle. Private persons, too, sent their servants on journeys to carry letters. But even so news had to travel by word of mouth; for even when letters were sent, we may be sure that any public news of importance beneath the seals and wafers had reached the bearers also. But for what they told confirmation was not to be had for the asking. Not till chance brought further messengers was it possible to establish or contradict, and till then the first news held the field. Rumour stalked gigantic over the earth, often spreading falsehood and capturing belief, rarely, as in Indian bazars to-day, with mysterious swiftness forestalling the truth. In such a world caution seems the prime necessity; but men grow tired of caution when events are moving fast and the air is full of 'flying tales'. The general tendency was for them, if not to believe, at any rate to pass on, unverified reports, from the impossibility of reaching certainty. In such a world of bewilderment, sobriety of judgement does not thrive. Two examples may show the difficulty of learning the truth. In 1477 Charles the Bold was killed at Nancy. That great Duke of Burgundy was not a person to be hidden under a bed. Yet nearly six years later reports were current that he had escaped from the battle and was in concealment. Again, Erasmus, during his residence at Bologna in 1507, made many friends. One of these was Paul Bombasius, a native of that town, who became secretary to Cardinal Pucci, and lost his life at Rome in May 1527, when the city was sacked by Charles V's troops; another was the delightful John de Pins, afterwards diplomatist and Bishop of Rieux. To him in 1532 Erasmus wrote asking for news of Bombasius. The Bishop replied that he had heard a rumour of his death, but hoped it was not true. Not till May 1535 could Erasmus report the result of inquiries made through a friend visiting Bologna, that Bombasius had fallen a victim to the Bourbon soldiery eight years before. That the movements of the stars should affect human life is not easy to disprove even now, to any one who is determined to maintain the possibility of it; but under the training of modern science scarcely any one retains such a belief. Of the influence formerly attributed to the planets, traces survive in such epithets as mercurial, jovial, saturnine. Comets appearing in the sky caused widespread alarm, and any disasters that followed close were confidently connected with them. The most learned scientists observed the stars and cast horoscopes: Cardan, for instance, published a collection of the horoscopes of great men. The Church looked askance on astrology, suspecting it of connexion with forbidden arts; but it could not check the observance of lucky days and the warnings of the heavens. Even a Pope himself, Julius II, deferred his coronation until the stars were in a fortunate conjunction. Every university student should be familiar with the story of Anthony Dalaber, undergraduate of St. Alban's Hall in Oxford, which Froude introduced into his _History of England_ from Foxe's _Book of Martyrs_; it is the most vivid picture we have of university life in the early sixteenth century. Dalaber was one of a company of young men who were reading Lutheran books at Oxford. Wolsey, wishing to check this, had sent down orders in February 1528 to arrest a certain Master Garret, who was abetting them in the dissemination of heresy. The Vice-Chancellor, who was the Rector of Lincoln, seized Dalaber and put him in the stocks, but was too late for Garret, who had made off into Dorsetshire. He took counsel with the Warden of New College and with the Dean of Wolsey's new foundation, Cardinal College; and at length, as they could find out nothing, being 'in extreme pensiveness', they determined to consult an astrologer. They knew they were doing wrong. Such inquiries were forbidden by the law of the Church, and they were afraid; but they were more afraid of Wolsey. The man of science drew a figure upon the floor of his secret chamber, and made his calculations; at the end he reported that the fugitive was fled in a tawny coat to the South-east. The trembling officials hastily dispatched messengers to have the ports watched in Kent and Sussex, hoping that their transgression might at least be justified by success. They were successful: Master Garret _was_ caught--trying to take ship at Bristol. It would need awesome circumstances indeed to send a modern Vice-Chancellor through the night to inquire of an astrologer. In the realm of medicine, too, magic and the supernatural had great weight, and claimed a measure of success which is not unintelligible in these days, when the value of the will as an ally in healing is being understood. Erasmus, suffering from the stone, was presented by a Hungarian physician with an astrological mug, shaped like a lion, which was to cure his trouble. He used it and felt better, but was not sure how much to attribute to the lion. The famous Linacre, one of the founders of the College of Physicians, sent to Budaeus, a French court official and the first Greek scholar of the age, one gold ring and eighteen silver rings which had been blessed by Henry VIII, and had thus been made preservative against convulsions; and Budaeus presented them to his womenkind. We need not take this to imply that he thought little of them; more probably he reflected that convulsions are most frequent among the race of babies, and therefore distributed them where they would be most useful. Anyway, it was Linacre who sent them. With such notions abroad, quackery must have been rife, and serious medical practitioners had many difficulties to contend with. Some idea of these may be gained from a letter written by Wolfgang Rychard, a physician of high repute at Ulm, to a friend at Erfurt, whither he was thinking of sending his son to practise. He asks his friend to inquire of the apothecaries what was the status of doctors, whether they were allowed by the town council to hire houses for themselves and to live freely without exactions, as at Tubingen and universities in the South, or whether they were obliged to pay an annual fee to the town, before they might serve mankind with their healing art. The feeble-minded and half-witted are nowadays caught up into asylums, for better care, and to ensure that their trouble dies with them. Of old it was thought that God gave them some recompense for their affliction by putting into their mouths truths and prophecies which were hidden from the wise; and thus the village soothsayer or witch often held a strong position in local politics. But it is surprising to find the Cardinal of Sion, Schinner, a clever and experienced diplomatist, writing in 1516, with complete seriousness: 'A Swiss idiot, who prophesies many true things, has foretold that the French will surfer a heavy blow next month'; as though the intelligence would really be of value to his correspondent. But the prophet's credit varied with his circumstances. Early in the sixteenth century a Franciscan friar, naming himself Thomas of Illyria, wandered about through Southern France, calling on men to repent and rebuking the comfortable vices of the clergy. A wave of serious thought spread with him, and all the accompaniments of a religious revival, such as the twentieth century saw lately in Wales. As the 'saintly man' set foot in villages and towns, games and pleasures were suddenly abandoned, and the churches thronged to overflowing. His words were gathered up, especially those with which he wept over Guienne, that 'fair and delicious province, the Paradise of the world', and foretold the coming of foes who should burn the churches round Bordeaux while the townsmen looked on helplessly from their walls. For a time he retired to a hermitage on a headland by Arcachon, where miracles were quickly ascribed to him. An image of the Virgin was washed ashore, to be the protectress of his chapel. His prayers, and a cross drawn upon the sand, availed to rescue a ship that was in peril on the sea. When English pirates had plundered his shrine, the waves opened and swallowed them up. Later on he withdrew to Rome, where he won the confidence of Clement VII, and he died at Mentone. But his fame remained great in Guienne. Half a century onward, during the war of 1570, when from Bordeaux men saw the church of Lormont across the river burning in the name of religion, the old folks shook their heads and recalled the words of the saintly Thomas. Less fortunate was a young Franconian herdsman, John Beheim, of Niklashausen--a 'poor illiterate', Trithemius calls him. In the summer of 1476, as he watched his flocks in the fields, he had a vision of the gracious Mother of God, who bade him preach repentance to the people. His fame soon spread, and multitudes gathered from great distances to hear him. The nearest knelt to entreat his blessing, those further off pressed up to touch him, and if possible, snatched off pieces of his garments, till he was driven to speak from an upper window. But his way was not plain. Instigated seemingly by others, he began to touch things social: taxes should not be paid to princes, nor tithes to clergy; rivers and forests were God's common gifts to men, where all might fish or hunt at will. Such words were not to be borne. The Bishop of Wurzburg, his diocesan, took counsel with the Archbishop of Mainz; and the prophet was ordered to be burnt. But death only increased his fame. Still greater crowds flocked to visit the scene of his holy life, until in January 1477 the Archbishop had the church of Niklashausen razed to the ground as the only means of suppressing this popular canonization. We make a great mistake if we allow ourselves to suppose that because that age knew less than ours, because its bounds were narrower and the undispelled clouds lower down, it therefore thought itself feeble and purblind. By contrast with the strenuous hurry-push of modern life such movement as we can see, looking backwards, seems slow and uncertain of its aim; before the power of modern armaments how helpless all the might of Rome! It is easy to fall into the idea that our mediaeval forefathers moved in the awkward attitudes of pre-Raphaelite painting, that their speech sounded as quaint to them as it does to us now, and that it was hardly possible for them to take life seriously. But in fact each age is to itself modern, progressive, up-to-date; the strong and active pushing their way forward, impatient of trifling, and carrying their fellows with them. A future age that has leapt from one planet to another, or even from one system to another sun and its dependants, that has 'called forth Mazzaroth in his seasons, and loosed the bands of Orion', that has covered the earth with peace as with a garment and pierced the veil that cuts us off from the dead, will look back to us as groping blindly in darkness. But they will be wrong indeed if they think that we realize our blindness. A still greater pitfall before us is that we read history not as men, but as gods, knowing the event. The name of Marathon to us implies not struggle, not danger, but triumph; and as we think of the little band of Athenians defiling from the mountains and looking on the sea, with the utmost determination we cannot quite enter into their thoughts. Of how little avail must have seemed this handful of lives, their last and best gift to Athens, against the might and majesty of Persia afloat before them. We know of that runner and of the rejoicing that broke out upon his words; and at the very opening of the scene the darkness is pierced by a gleam they could not see, a gleam which for us will not go out. Or think of Edwardes besieging the Sikhs in Multan with his puny force, half of whom, when he began, were in sympathy with the besieged. We know that the terrier's courage kept the tiger in; and, conscious of that, we cannot really place ourselves beside the young Engineer of 29, as with only one or two volunteers of his own race round him he kept the field during those four burning months in which British troops were not allowed to move. The tiger's paw had crushed those whom he had hastened to avenge: he did not know, as we know, that it was not to fall on him too. There is the same difficulty with the course of years. With the history of four centuries before our minds, only by sustained effort of thought can we realize that the men of 1514 looked onward to 1600, as we to-day look towards 2000, as to a misty blank. We hardly trouble our heads with the future. The air is full of speculations, of attempts to forecast coming developments, the growth, the improvement that is to be. But we do not really look forward, more than a little way. The darkness is too dense: and besides, the needs of the present are very urgent. As we think of the sixteenth century, behind Henry VIII's breach with Rome, behind Edward VI's prayer-books, waits the figure of Pole, steadfast, biding his time; coming to salute Mary with the words of the angel to the Virgin; coming, as he hoped, to set things right for ever. And behind Pole are the Elizabethan settlement and the Puritans; ineradicable from our consciousness. To the Englishmen of 1514 Henry VIII was the divine young king whose prowess at Tournay, whose victory at Flodden seemed to his happy bride the reward of his piety: the name of Luther was unknown: Pole was an unconsidered child. Into their minds we cannot really enter unless we can think away everything that has happened since and call up a mist over the face of time. IX PILGRIMAGES To go on pilgrimage is an instinct which appears in most religions and at all ages. The idea underlying the practice seems to be that God is more nigh in some spots than in others, the desire to seek Him in a place where He may be found: for where God is, there men hope to win remission of sins. So widespread is this sentiment that both in Catholic Europe and in Asia it is not possible to travel far without coming upon sites invested in this way with a special holiness. The objects which draw men to peregrinate may be divided into three classes: natural features which are in themselves remarkable; places difficult of access, which can only be reached at cost of risk and effort; and sites which have been rendered holy by the visitation of God or the preservation of sacred relics. But this classification is not always clearly defined; for the same object of pilgrimage often falls into two categories at once. Of striking natural features--self-created objects of veneration, as the Hindus call them--many kinds are found. There are chasms from which issue mysterious vapours, stimulating prophecy, such as Delphi, or Jwala Mukhi, sacred to Hindus and Sikhs, or the Grotta del Cane, near Naples. Caves with their dreadful gloom inspire a sense of supernatural presence. Such are the cave of Trophonius in Boeotia, St. Patrick's cave in Ireland, the grotto of Lourdes, Mariastein near Basle, and the great fissure of Amarnath in Kashmir, with its icy stalactite which is the special object of worship. Some of these add to their sanctity by difficulty of access: St. Patrick's cave is on an island in Lough Derg; Mariastein lies over the edge of a steep cliff; Amarnath is hidden among lofty mountains at 17000 feet above the sea. Enormous stones, too, are apt to acquire holiness, arousing interest by their vast mass; as though they could hardly have been brought into independent existence, detached from the great earth, without some direct intervention of divine power. Such are the stone at Delphi, or the great rock, now enshrined in a Muhammadan mosque, which no doubt caused men to go up to Jerusalem in Jebusite days, before Israel came out of Egypt. (It is thought by pious Muhammadans to rest in the air without support; their tradition being that at the time of Muhammad's ascension into heaven this stone, which was his point of departure, sought to accompany him but was detained by an angel. To the Hebrews it was sacred as the rock on which Abraham was ready to offer Isaac; and also as a stone which kept down within the earth the receded waters of the Flood.) Meteoric stones have a sanctity as having fallen from heaven: for example, the _lingam_ of Jagannath at Puri, and the famous black stone at Mecca. Wells also, for obvious reasons, tend to attract worship. Of places inaccessible to which pilgrims toil, some are the sources of rivers, like Gangotri, whence springs the Ganges: others are islands, such as the Îles de Lérins off Cannes, Iona and Lindisfarne, or many off the West coast of Ireland: or distant headlands, like the Spanish Finisterre, or Rameshwaram, the extreme southern cape of the Indian peninsula. More numerous are those which lie high up on mountains or above precipitous rocks; such as the many peaks of Sinai, the lake on Haramuk in Kashmir, the cliffs of Rocamadour in Central France, which Piers Plowman mentions,[33] or the grey cone of Athos. In a mild form such places may frequently be seen, in the pilgrimage churches and chapels which crown modest eminences beside many villages and towns of Catholic Europe: akin no doubt to the high places and hill-altars where lingered the heathen worship that the Israelite priests and prophets were continually trying to exterminate. [33] Right so, if thou be religious, renne thou never ferthere To Rome ne to Roquemadoure: but as thy rule techeth, Holde thee to thine obedience: that heighway is to heaven. The third class of pilgrimage sites is of those which are sanctified through association with divinities or saints or relics: Gaya in Bihar, with its pilgrims' way leading pious Buddhists by long flights of steps up and down the circle of hills, like the great way at Bologna; Jerusalem, Rome, Canterbury, Trèves; and Santiago (St. James) de Compostella, rendered attractive also by remote distance. Or a settlement of hermits in a wilderness might become a place of pilgrimage, especially when death had heightened the fame enjoyed during their lives: such as Gueremeh in Cappadocia, St. Bertrand among the Pyrenees, or Einsiedeln above the Lake of Lucerne, where in 1487 died Nicholas the Hermit, reputed to have lived for twenty years without food. And we may make a special category for sacred houses; the Bait-ullah or Qaabah at Mecca, the house of the Virgin at Loretto, St. Columba's at Glencolumbkill, and the house in which St. Francis died, in dei Angeli at Assisi. In many cases there is definite evidence to show that pilgrimage sites remain sacred even when religions change. Mecca was a resort of pilgrims in the first century B.C., 700 years before Muhammad. The Central-Asian shrines visited by Buddhist pilgrims from China on their way to India, Fa-hsien in the fifth and Hsuan-tsang in the seventh century, are now appropriated to Islam. The so-called foot-mark on Adam's Peak in Ceylon has been attributed by Brahmans to Siva, by Buddhists to Sakyamuni, by Gnostics to Ieu, by Muhammadans to Adam, and by the Portuguese Christians to either St. Thomas or the eunuch of Candace, queen of Ethiopia.[34] [34] J.E. Tennent's _Ceylon_ (1860), ii. 133, quoted in Yule's _Marco Polo_, ed. H. Cordier, 1903, ii. 321. In the age we are considering, we hear of Henry VII, Henry VIII, and even Wolsey going as pilgrims to Our Lady of Walsingham in Norfolk; and Colet took Erasmus with him to Canterbury. But the most renowned places of Christian pilgrimage were Rome, Santiago, and Jerusalem. Thither journeyed pilgrims in great numbers from all parts of Europe; bishops and abbots and clergy, both regular and secular, noblemen of every degree, wealthy merchants, scholars from the universities, civil officials and courtiers, and occasionally even women. Piety or superstition were doubtless the usual motives which led men to face the very considerable perils of the journey; but besides this there was probably in some cases the desire to see new scenes, and a love of adventure for its own sake. Holiday travel was scarcely known in those days. The discomforts were great, and there were still dangers of the ordinary kind, even in the most settled parts of Europe. The beginning of a story in one of More's English works shows how such travel was regarded--as at least unwise, and perhaps extravagant: 'Now was there a young gentleman which had married a merchant's wife. And having a little wanton money which him thought burned out the bottom of his purse, in the first year of his wedding he took his wife with him and went over the sea, for none other errand but to see Flanders and France, and ride out one summer in those countries.' But in the company of pilgrims there was some security, and accordingly the adventurous availed themselves of such opportunities. Thus Peter Falk, burgomaster of Freiburg in Switzerland, went on pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 1515 and again in 1519; and had he not died on the second journey, he was projecting a visit to Portugal and Spain, perhaps to Compostella. He was a keen, interested man. A companion, who was a Cambridge scholar, describes him as taking an ape with him on board to make fun for his shipmates; wearing a gun hanging at his belt, being curious in novelties; carefully noting the names of places and the situations of towns, and using red ink to mark his guide-book. The literature of pilgrimages is abundant, and consists primarily in narratives written by pilgrims themselves. A few of these were printed by the writers in their own day; many have been published by antiquarians in isolated periodicals; and in the volumes of the Palestine Pilgrims' Text Society there is a collection of translations. Professor Röhricht of Innsbruck has made a wonderful bibliography of German pilgrims to the Holy Land, replete with information and references. The narratives necessarily traverse the same ground, and repeat one another in many points; often reproducing from an early source exactly identical information of the guide-book order as to sites, routes, preparations, precautions, and so forth. We have three English narratives of Erasmus' period: by William Wey, Fellow of Eton, who went to Jerusalem in 1458 and again in 1462; by Sir Richard Guilford, a Court official who made the journey in 1506; and by Sir Richard Torkington, a parish priest from Norfolk, who went in 1517. But besides these some Baedekers of the time survive; one entitled 'Information for Pilgrims unto the Holy Land'[35] which was printed by Wynkyn de Worde at Westminster in 1498, and again by him in London in 1515 and 1524; another written by Hermann Kunig of Vach in 1495 and several times printed before 1521, 'Die Walfart und Strass zu sant Jacob'[36] which gives the distance of each stage and notes inns and hospitals at which shelter might be found. [35] It has been reproduced with an introduction by Mr. E.G. Duff, London, 1893. [36] It has been reproduced with an introduction by Professor K. Häbler, Strasburg, 1899. The Compostella pilgrimage was popular for many reasons, and no doubt began long before St. James had ousted St. Vincent from being patron-saint of Spain. The spot was remote, literally then at the end of the earth, 'beyond which', as another pilgrim says, 'there is no land any more, only water'. There was a great stone, too, in which later piety found the boat that had borne the saint's body from Jerusalem. And there were islands to be visited, one a St. Michael's Mount, round the shores of which should be gathered the cockle shells that were the emblems of pilgrimage duly performed: though the less active bought them at stalls high-heaped outside the cathedral doors, and the rich had them copied in silver and gold. To the 'end of the earth' Northern Europe went most easily by sea, all others by land. Convoys gathered in Dartmouth in the lengthening days of spring, and crept along Slapton sands and round the unlighted Start, until there was no land any more, and summoning their courage they must steer out into the Bay of Biscay. This way went John of Gaunt to St. James in 1386, to be crowned King of Castile in the great Romanesque cathedral; and so, too, Chaucer must have pictured the Wyf of Bath visiting 'Galice'. But Kunig's route lay overland: from Einsiedeln to Romans and Valence; over the Rhone by the famed bridge of the Holy Spirit, which even kings must cross on foot, to Uzès, Nîmes and Béziers; and then westwards into the sandy scant-populated lands where the track was scarcely to be found, except for the pilgrims' graves, often nameless, sometimes perhaps marked with such simple inscriptions as may still be seen on trees and crosses among the forests of the Alps. A Pyrenean pass led him to Roncesvalles; at Logroño the ancient bridge brought him over the Ebro, and so by Burgos and Leon to his journey's end, blessing the patrons--Kings of France and England and Navarre, Dukes of Burgundy--who had raised shelters for poor pilgrims on the way, and above all the Catholic Kings whose munificence had built a huge serai to welcome them in Santiago itself. For Jerusalem the usual point of departure was Venice. Pilgrims congregated there from all parts of Western and Central Europe, and there were regular services of ships, sailing mostly in the summer months. The competition between shipmasters, or 'patrons', to secure custom was very keen. Thus Torkington records: 'On 3 May the patron of a new goodly ship with other merchants desired us pilgrims that we would come aboard and see his ship within: which ship lay afore St. Mark's Church. We all went in, and there they made us goodly cheer with diverse subtilties, as comfits and march-panes and sweet wines. Also 5 May the patron of another ship which lay in the sea five miles from Venice, desired us all pilgrims that we would come and see his ship. And the same day we all went with him; and there he provided for us a marvellous good dinner, where we had all manner of good victuals and wine.' Ultimately, Torkington sailed in a new ship of 800 tons,[37] under a patron named Thomas Dodo. Only three days later another ship set sail with a large party of German pilgrims. [37] If the figure is correct, she was a large vessel for the times; for a century later, the _Pelican_, in which Drake sailed round the world, was only 100 tons, the _Squirrel_, in which Sir Humfrey Gilbert was cast away in an Atlantic gale, only 10. In all ages a great ship is a great wonder, representing for the time the final triumph of the shipwright's art. The monster vessel that set Lucian's friend dreaming at the Piraeus had but one mast; yet the curious from Athens flocked down to see her extraordinary proportions and to admire the sailors who had beaten up in her from Egypt against the Etesian winds in only seventy days. She was the ship of the hour: anything greater scarcely conceivable. Again, Macaulay returning from India in 1837 compares his comfortable sailing-ship to a huge floating hotel. Burton on his way to Mecca in 1853, when steaming across the Bay of Biscay in a vessel of 2000 tons, prophesies that sea-sickness is at an end now that such monsters ply across the ocean and laugh at the storm. How puny do they seem beside the Olympic and Imperator, at which we in our turn gaze wonderingly and think that engineering can no further go. It is amusing to find the same proud admiration in a traveller of 1517: 'Our ship was so great that when we came to land, we could not run her upon the beach like a galley, but must remain in deep water', the passengers going ashore in boats. Quite a number of contracts between patron and pilgrim have been preserved. Some of the terms are as follows: 'that the ship shall be properly armed and manned, and carry a barber and a physician; that it shall only touch at the usual ports, and not stay more than three days at Cyprus, because of malaria there.' The Holy Land was in Turkish hands, and the Turks, though willing to receive the pilgrims, for the sake of the money they brought into the country, were not sorry to have opportunities of teaching the 'Christian dogs' their place. The authorities maintained some semblance of order and justice, but took little trouble to control their underlings; and in consequence the pilgrims suffered all kinds of minor oppressions. It is not surprising therefore to find that the contract stipulated that the patron should accompany them on all their journeyings in the Holy Land, even as far as the Jordan, and that he should pay all the tolls and tributes for them, except the small tips, just as Cook does to-day, and also make all arrangements for such pilgrims as wished to go on to Sinai. In view of this last possibility the stipulation was sometimes made that only half the passage-money should be paid at Venice; the other half at Jaffa on the return-journey. If a pilgrim died on the journey, the patron might not bury him at sea, unless there was no immediate prospect of reaching land. The voyage outwards could be done in a month, but often took longer if the weather was bad, or if long halts were made at Rhodes and Cyprus. On shore the pilgrims worked as hard as any 'conducted' party to-day, being herded about to one sacred site after another, to the Holy Sepulchre, the vale of Josaphat, the Mount of Olives, Bethlehem, the mountains of Judea, the Jordan, and receiving in each place 'clean absolution'. Twelve or thirteen days was a fair time to allow for all this, including one or two days each way between Jaffa and Jerusalem; but Guilford's party were given 22. On the other hand we hear of another company which did it in nine. The Holy Land guide-book of which we spoke is full of practical advice of all sorts: about distances, rates of exchange, terms of contract with a ship-master, tributes to be paid to the Saracens, and finally vocabularies of useful words, in Moresco, Greek, Turkish. Here are a few specimens: 'If ye shall go in a galley, make your covenant with the patron betime; and choose you a place in the said galley in the overmost stage. For in the lowest under it is right evil and smouldering hot and stinking.' The fare in this to Jaffa and back from Venice, including food, was 50 ducats, 'for to be in a good honest place, and to have your ease in the galley and also to be cherished'. In a carrick the fare was only 30 ducats: there 'choose you a chamber as nigh the middes of the ship as ye may; for there is least rolling or tumbling, to keep your brain and stomach in temper'. Amongst other arrangements to be made with the patron, 'Covenant that ye come not at Famagust in Cyprus for no thing. For many Englishmen and other also have died. For that air is so corrupt there about, and the water there also. Also see that the said patron give you every day hot meat twice at two meals, the forenoon at dinner and the afternoon at supper. And that the wine that ye shall drink be good, and the water fresh and not stinking, if ye come to have better, and also the biscuit.' The traveller is recommended to buy in Venice a padlock with which to keep his cabin locked, three barrels, two for wine and one for water, and a chest to hold his stores and things: 'For though ye shall be at table with the patron, yet notwithstanding, ye shall full ofttimes have need to your own victuals, as bread, cheese, eggs, wine and other to make your collation. For some time ye shall have feeble bread and feeble wine and stinking water, so that many times ye will be right fain to eat of your own.' Besides this he will want 'confections and confortatives, green ginger, almonds, rice, figs, raisins great and small, pepper, saffron, cloves and loaf sugar'. For equipment he should take 'a little caldron, a frying-pan, dishes, plates, saucers, cups of glass, a grater for bread and such necessaries'. 'Also ye shall buy you a bed beside St. Mark's Church in Venice, where ye shall have a featherbed, a mattress, a pillow, two pair sheets and a quilt' for three ducats. 'And when ye come again, bring the same bed again, and ye shall have a ducat and a half for it again, though it be broken and worn. And mark his house and his name that ye bought it of, against ye come to Venice.' Further needs are 'a cage for half a dozen of hens or chickens' and 'half a bushel of millet seed for them': also 'a barrel for a siege for your chamber in the ship. It is full necessary, if ye were sick, that ye come not in the air.' The malady here considered is probably not that which is usually associated with the sea; though pilgrims were not immune from this any more than from other troubles. On coming to haven towns, 'if ye shall tarry there three days, go betimes to land, for then ye may have lodging before another; for it will be taken up anon'. Similarly at Jaffa in choosing a mount for the ride up to Jerusalem 'be not too long behind your fellows; for an ye come betime, ye may choose the best mule' and 'ye shall pay no more for the best than for the worst'. 'Also take good heed to your knives and other small japes that ye bear upon you: for the Saracens will go talking by you and make good cheer; but they will steal from you if they may.' 'Also when ye shall ride to flume Jordan, take with you out of Jerusalem bread, wine, water, hard eggs and cheese and such victuals as ye may have for two days. For by all that way there is none to sell.' Let us turn now to an individual narrative,[38] that of Felix Fabri, a learned and sensible Dominican of Ulm (1442-1502). He had already made the journey once, out of piety, in 1480, with the company mentioned above, which had only nine days on shore. He was desirous to go also to St. Catherine's at Mount Sinai because she was his patroness-saint, to whom he had devoted himself on entering the Dominican order on her day (25 November) in 1452; and accordingly for the second time, in 1483, he procured from the Pope the permission, which every one needed, to visit the Holy Land: those that went without this being ipso facto excommunicate, until they did penance before the Warden of the Franciscans at Jerusalem. He gives us a picture of all that he went through, in the most minute details. During the day we see the pilgrims crowded together on deck, some drinking and singing, others playing dice or cards or that unfailing pastime for ship-life, chess. Talking, reading, telling their beads, writing diaries, sleeping, hunting in their clothes for vermin; so they spend their day. Some for exercise climb up the rigging, or jump, or brandish heavy weights: some drift about from one party to another, just watching what is going on. Our good friar complains of the habits of the noblemen, who gambled a great deal and were always making small wagers, which they paid with a cup of Malmsey wine. He also tells how the patron, to beguile the journey, produced a great piece of silk, which he offered as a prize for the pilgrims to play for. [38] It has been translated by Mr. Aubrey Stewart for the Palestine Pilgrims' Text Society, vols. 7-10, 1892-3. At meal times, to which they are summoned by trumpets, the pilgrims race on to the poop: for they cannot all find seats, and those that come late have to sit among the crew. Noblemen, who have their own servants, are too fastidious to mingle with the crowd; and pay extra to the cooks,--poor, sweating fellows, toiling crossly in a tiny galley--for food which their servants bring to them on the main-deck, or even below. After the pilgrims, the captain and his council dine in state off silver dishes; and the captain's wine is tasted before he drinks it. At night all sleep below, in a cabin the dirt of which is indescribable. They wrangle over the places where they shall spread their beds, and knives are drawn. Some obstinately keep their candles burning, even though missiles come flying. Others talk noisily; and the drunken, even when quiet, snore. No wonder the poor friar longed for the peace of his own cell at home in Ulm. Fabri has much practical advice to give. He bids his reader be careful in going up and down the companion, veritably a ladder in those times; not to sit down upon ropes, or on places covered with pitch, which often melts in the sun; not to get in the way of the crew and make them angry; not to drop things overboard or let his hat be blown off. 'Let the pilgrim beware of carrying a light upon deck at night; for the mariners dislike this strangely, and cannot endure lights when they are at work.' Small things are apt to be stolen, if left about: for on board ship men have no other way to get what they want. 'While you are writing, if you lay down your pen and turn your face away, your pen will be lost, even though you be among men whom you know: and if you lose it, you will have exceeding great trouble in getting another.' To Fabri's annoyance the ship's company included one woman, an elderly lady, who came on board at the last moment with her husband, a Fleming. 'She seemed,' he says, 'when we first saw her, to be restless and inquisitive; as indeed she was. She ran hither and thither incessantly about the ship, and was full of curiosity, wanting to hear and see everything, and made herself hated exceedingly. Her husband was a decent man, and for his sake many held their tongues; but had he not been there, it would have gone hard with her. This woman was a thorn in the eyes of us all.' His delight was great, when she was left behind at Rhodes, having strayed away to some church outside the town. 'Except her husband, no one was sorry.' But their peace was short-lived, for this active lady procured a boat and overtook them at Cyprus; and Fabri could not help pitying the straits she had been put to. We may rather admire her courage in undertaking the pilgrimage at all, and especially the resource which she displayed on this very unpleasant emergency. On the eve of St. John Baptist, after dark, the sailors made St. John's fire; stringing forty horn lanterns on a rope to the maintop, amid shouts and trumpeting and clapping of hands. Upon which Fabri makes this curious remark: 'Before this I never had beheld the practice of clapping the hands for joy, as it is said in Psalm 46. Nor could I have believed that the general clapping of many men's hands would have such great power to move the human mind to rejoicing.' With some misgiving he goes on to record that after the festivity the ship was left to drive of itself, both pilgrims and sailors betaking themselves to rest. At Cyprus they had a few days, and Fabri led some of his companions to the summit of Mount Stavrovuni, near their port Salinae (Citium by the salt lakes of Larnaka), to visit the Church of Holy Cross--the cross of Dismas, the thief on the right hand, said to have been brought by that great finder of relics, the Empress Helena. By the way he was careful to explain that they must expect no miracle: 'we shall see none in Jerusalem, so how can there be one here?' In the church he read them a mass and preached, and at departing rang the church bell, saying that they would hear no bells again till they returned to Christendom. When they set sail again, all eyes were turned Eastwards: happy would he be who should first sight the land of their desire. Fabri crept forward to the prow of the galley and sat for hours upon the horns, straining his gaze across the summer seas which whispered around the ship's stem: almost, he confesses, cursing night when it fell and cut off all hope till dawn. Before sunrise he was there again, and on 1 July the watchman in the maintop gave the glad shout. The pilgrims flocked up on deck and sang Te Deum with bounding joy. It was a tumult of harsh voices; but to Fabri in his happiness their various dissonance made sweet harmony. On reaching Jaffa they lay for some days awaiting permission to land. At length all was ready. The ship's officers collected the tips due to them, and the pilgrims were put on shore: falling to kiss the ground as they struggled out of their boats through the surf. One by one they were brought before Turkish officials, who took record of their names and their fathers' names--an occasion on which noblemen often tried to pass themselves off as of low degree, to escape the higher fees due. Fabri notes that his Christian name, Felix, gave the official recorders some trouble: that he pronounced it again and again for them, but they could get nothing at all like it. Each pilgrim, when entered, was hurried off by Saracens, like sheep into a pen, and thrust into a row of caves along the sea-shore, known as St. Peter's Cellars. If they had suffered on board ship, their sufferings were multiplied now tenfold. Strict watch was kept upon them, and no one was allowed to leave the caves. Within, the ground was covered with semi-liquid filth. From the ship, as they lay waiting to land, Fabri had noticed the Saracens running in and out of the caves; and he argued that they were intentionally defiling them, to make it more disagreeable to the Christian dogs. But this seems hardly necessary. There had doubtless been other pilgrims before them. Droves of mankind can tread ground into a foul swamp as cattle tread a farmyard. With their feet the poor pilgrims managed to collect some of the impurities together into a heap in the centre; each man clearing enough space to lie down upon. Fabri found solace to his offended senses in thinking of his dear Lord lying in a hard manger, amongst all the defilements of the oxen. After a time came traders selling rushes and branches of trees to make beds, unguents and perfumes and frankincense to burn, and attar of roses from Damascus. Others brought bread and water and lettuces and hot cakes made with eggs, which the pilgrims gladly bought; and, as the day wore on, with the much going to and fro the ground was slowly dried under their feet. At nightfall appeared a man armed, whom they took to be the owner of the caves. With menaces he extorted from each of them a penny, and in the morning again, before they could come out, another penny; to their great indignation against the captains and dragoman, who were sleeping in tents higher up the hill, and had by contract undertaken all these charges. So long as they were there, the pilgrims suffered continual annoyance from the Turks, who ran in among them pilfering, breaking any wine bottles they found, and provoking them to blows, in order to secure the fines of which the pilgrims would then be mulcted. One young man was so disgusted at it all that he went back on board and gave up his pilgrimage; living with the crew till the party came back from Jerusalem. They were indeed entirely in the hands of the Turks. It was not a case of moving when they were inclined. When the Turks wished, they were allowed to go forward: till then they were confined like prisoners. No date was fixed: the pilgrims just had to wait in patience, hoping that tomorrow or tomorrow or tomorrow would see them start. Fabri records, however, that there was some justice available. Petty wrongs must go unredressed; but a pilgrim who had been gulled into buying coloured glass as gems to the value of five ducats, recovered his money by complaining to the local governor. A subordinate came down, took the money from the fraudulent trader by force, and restored it to its owner. Again Fabri testifies to the careful way in which the escort protected the company from molestation on its way up to Jerusalem. He is also at pains to refute the idea that the Turks compelled them to ride on donkeys, lest the land should be defiled by Christian feet: rather, he says, it is for our comfort and convenience. And indeed there was sufficient refutation in the regulation which compelled them to dismount on reaching any village and proceed through its narrow streets on foot. Whilst waiting at Jaffa, Fabri to his great delight fell in with the donkey-boy who had gone up with him three years before; and was able to secure him again. The boy welcomed him, especially as Fabri had brought him a present of two iron stirrups from Ulm; and all the way served him most faithfully, picking him figs and grapes from the gardens they passed, sharing water and biscuit, and even giving him a goad for his mount--a concession which was not allowed to the ordinary pilgrim. Their first march was to Ramlah, and on arrival they were penned for the day into a great serai, built by a Duke of Burgundy. It was still early, only 9 o'clock, for they had started before sunrise. After barring the gate to keep out the Turks, they set up an altar and celebrated mass. A sermon was preached by the Franciscan Warden of Jerusalem, in the course of which he gave them advice as to their behaviour towards those to whose tolerance they owed their position there--counsels which forty years later the fiery spirit of Loyola burned to set at nought, till the Franciscans were thankful to get him safely out of Jerusalem without open flouting of the masters--: not to go about alone; not to enter mosques or step over graves; not to insult Saracens when at prayer or by touching their beards; not to return blow for blow, but to make formal complaints; not to drink wine openly; to observe decorum and not rush to be first at the sacred sites; and generally to be circumspect in presence of the infidels, lest they mark what was done amiss and say, 'O thou bad Christian', a phrase which was familiar to them in both Italian and German. He further charged them that they must on no account chip fragments off the Holy Sepulchre and other sacred buildings; nor write their names or coats of arms upon the walls; and finally, he advised them to be careful in any money-transactions with Muhammadans, and to have no dealings at all with either Eastern Christians or German Jews. After mass was over, they opened the gate and found the outer court filled with traders who brought them excellent food: fowls ready roasted, puddings of rice and milk, capital bread and eggs, and fruit of every kind, grapes, pomegranates, apples, oranges (pomerancia), lemons and water-melons; and in the afternoon they were allowed to go and have hot baths in the splendid marble hamáms. In the evening came a rumour that they were to proceed. They packed up their bundles and sat waiting for an hour or two; and then the rumour proved to be false. Meanwhile the sleeping-mats which they had hired for their stay had been rolled up by their owners and carried off; and the pilgrims had to sleep as best they might. Fabri made his way up on to the roof and passed the night there. Waking early before sunrise he was much impressed to observe the devotion of the Muhammadans at their morning prayers: the long rows of kneeling figures, swaying forward together in reverent prostration, the grave faces and solemn tones. Surely, as he looked, he must have felt that God, even his God, was the God of all the earth, and would be a Father to those that sought Him so earnestly. At any rate he turned away, with a strong sense of contrast, to his own comrades waking to the day with laughing chatter and no thought of prayer. An episode of this halt was a visit from a Saracen fruit-seller upon whom Fabri looked with curiosity. Then, taking the man's hat, he spat upon it with every expression of disgust at its Saracen badge. The man, instead of resenting it, looked cautiously round and then spat on the badge himself, at the same time making the sign of the Cross. He was a Christian who had been forced into conversion, probably in expiation of some crime; and now hated his life. It was no uncommon thing. As their procession wound through village streets, the pilgrims would often see furtive signs made to them from inner chambers: unwilling converts signalling the symbol that they loved, to eyes that were sure to be sympathetic. As Fabri made his way along, his heart was glad. His foot was on holy ground, and at every step new associations came floating into his thoughts. These were the mountains to which Moses had looked from Pisgah; here Jephthah's daughter had made plaint for her young life; hither had come Mary in the joy of the angel's message; the stones on which he stumbled might have felt the feet of Christ. At the hill called Mount Joy they should have seen Jerusalem; but the air was thick, and they could only make out the Mount of Olives. So they toiled on along their dusty way, between dry stone walls and thirsty vegetable-gardens, until, as they reached the crest of a low ridge, suddenly like a flash of light it shone before them, the City, the Holy City. At once their footsteps quickened with new life; and when at length they found themselves in the courtyard of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, their pent-up emotions burst forth, into tears and groans, sweet wailings and deep sighs. Some lay powerless on the ground, forsaken by their strength and to all appearances dead. Others drifted from one corner to another, beating their breasts, as though urged by an evil spirit. Some knelt bare-kneed; as they prayed, stretching out their arms like a rood. Others were shaken with such violent sobs that they could only sit down and hold their heads in their hands. Some lost all command of themselves, and, forgetting how to behave, sought to please God with strange and childish gestures. On the other hand, Fabri noted some who stood quite unmoved, and merely mocked at the strange display: dull, unprofitable souls he calls them, brute beasts, not having the spirit of God. Their self-contained temperament misliked him, especially as thereafter they held aloof from those who had given way to such enthusiasm or, as they felt it, weakness. We cannot company with the party to all the numerous sites that piety bade them visit. It was prodigiously fatiguing for them under the July sun, and the ranks grew thin as the weaker spirits fell out dead tired, to rest awhile in hospitable cloister or by cooling well. Fabri found it very toilsome to struggle after mental abstraction, to rise to such heights as he desired of devotion and comprehension of all the holy influences around him, to seize every opportunity of contemplation and lose nothing; being soon thoroughly exhausted with his bodily exertions. Some alleviation there was: when holy women--nuns of his own Order, who had a house in Jerusalem--washed his scapular and tunic for him, and wrought other works of charity for which he was very grateful. The pilgrims had been warned not to wander away from their party. One day as they went to the Dead Sea, they halted at a monastery; and Fabri was tempted to ramble off alone to inspect a cliff which had been hollowed out by hermits into innumerable caves. It was a precipitous place; and at one point, where the path was narrow and the cliff fell sheer below, he encountered an Eastern Christian. Seeing that Fabri was afraid, the fellow began to trifle with him and demanded money; and in the end Fabri was obliged to open his slender purse. 'Ever since then', he says, 'I have abhorred the company of Christians of that sort more than that of Saracens and Arabs, and have trusted them less. Though perhaps he would not have thrown me down the precipice, even had I given him nothing, yet it was wicked of him to play with me in a place of such danger. If an Arab had done so, I should have been pleased at his play, and should have held him to be a good pagan; but I believe no good of that Christian.' When he rejoined his party, the patron told him that the Eastern Christians were least to be trusted of any men. On arrival at Jordan there was much excitement. To bathe in that ancient river was thought to renew youth, and so all the pilgrims were eager to immerse themselves; even women of 80--a rather doubtful figure--plunging into the lukewarm stream. Some had brought bells to be blessed with Jordan water, others strips of material for clothes; and wealthier members of the party jumped in as they were, in order that the robes they had on might bring them luck in the future. Three things were forbidden to the pilgrims: (1) to swim across the stream, because in the excitement of emotion and amongst such crowds individuals had often been drowned; (2) to dive in, because the bottom was muddy; (3) to carry away phials of Jordan water. The first regulation was openly violated. On his first journey Fabri had swum across, but on the return had been seized with panic and nearly drowned. So this time he contented himself with drawing up his garments round his neck and sitting down in the shallow water among the crowd who were splashing about and jestingly baptizing one another. The prohibition of Jordan water was to appease the shipmen; for it was thought to cause storms when carried over the sea. We have not time to follow Fabri in more detail. On 24 August he left Jerusalem with a small company of pilgrims who had not been deterred from undertaking the journey to Sinai. There was much dispute about the route they should follow. Some were for going by sea to Alexandria, others wished to march down the sea coast; but finally they made up their minds to go straight South across the desert. Starting from Gaza on 9 September they reached St. Catherine's on the 22nd. Five days of very hard work sufficed for them to see all the sacred sites and ascend the many towering peaks; and here again Fabri impressed upon his companions that the days of miracles were over, and that in these evil times God would show no more. On 27 September they set forth again, and journeying through Midian reached Cairo on 8 October; having picked up on the shore of the Red Sea oyster shells which should be an abiding witness of their pilgrimage. On 5 November they set sail from Alexandria; but summer had departed from the sea, and the winds blew obstinately. Three times they beat up to Cape Malea, before they could round the point and make sail for the North; and it was not till 8 Jan. 1484 that they landed in Venice. The pilgrimage was over after seven months, and with what Guilford's chaplain calls 'large departing of our money'. X THE TRANSALPINE RENAISSANCE Hitherto we have viewed the age mainly through the personality of individuals. It remains to consider some of the features of the Renaissance when it had spread across the Alps--to France, to Spain, to Switzerland, to Germany, to England--and some of the contrasts that it presents with the earlier movement in Italy. The story of the Italian Renaissance has often been told; and we need not go back upon it here. On the side of the revival of learning it was without doubt the great age. The importance of its discoveries, the fervour of its enthusiasm have never been equalled. But though it remains pre-eminent, the period that followed it has an interest of its own which is hardly less keen and presents the real issues at stake in a clearer light. Awakened Italy felt itself the heiress of Rome, and thus patriotism coloured its enthusiasm for the past. To the rest of Western Europe this source of inspiration was not open. They were compelled to examine more closely the aims before them; and thus attained to a calmer and truer estimate of what they might hope to gain from the study of the classics. It was not the revival of lost glories, thoughts of a world held in the bonds of peace: in those dreams the Transalpines had only the part of the conquered. Rather the classics led them back to an age before Christianity; and pious souls though they were, the scholar's instinct told them that they would find there something to learn. Christianity had fixed men's eyes on the future, on their own salvation in the life to come; and had trained all knowledge, even Aristotle, to serve that end. In the great days of Greece and Rome the world was free from this absorbing preoccupation; and inquiring spirits were at liberty to find such truth as they could, not merely the truth that they wished or must. Another point of difference between Italy and the Transalpines is in the resistance offered to the Renaissance in the two regions. The scholastic philosophy and theology was a creation of the North. The greatest of the Schoolmen found their birth or training in France or Germany, at the schools of Paris and Cologne; and with the names of Duns, Hales, Holcot, Occam, Burley and Bradwardine our own islands stand well to the fore. The situation is thus described by Aldus in a letter written to the young prince of Carpi in October 1499, to rejoice over some translations from the Greek just arrived from Linacre in England: 'Of old it was barbarous learning that came to us from Britain; it conquered Italy and still holds our castles. But now they send us learned eloquence; with British aid we shall chase away barbarity and come by our own again.' The teaching of the Schoolmen made its way into Italy, but had little vogue; and with the Church, through such Popes as Nicholas V, on the side of the Renaissance, resistance almost disappeared. The humanists charging headlong dissipated their foes in a moment, but were soon carried beyond the field of battle, to fall into the hands of the forces of reaction. Across the Alps, on the other hand, the Church and the universities stood together and looked askance at the new movement, dreading what it might bring forth. In consequence the ground was only won by slow and painful efforts, but each advance, as it was made, was secured. The position may be further illustrated by comparing the first productions of the press on either side of the Alps: in the early days, before the export trade had developed, and when books were produced mainly for the home market. The Germans who brought the art down into Italy, Sweynheym and Pannartz at Rome, Wendelin and Jenson at Venice, printed scarcely anything that was not classical: Latin authors and Latin translations from the Greek. Up in the North the first printers of Germany, Fust and Schoeffer at Mainz, Mentelin at Strasburg, rarely overstepped the boundaries of the mediaeval world that was passing away or the modern that was taking its place. The appearance of the _Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum_ in 1515 exposed the scholastic teachers and their allies in the Church to such widespread ridicule that it is not easy for us now to realize the position which those dignitaries still held when Erasmus was young. The stream of contempt poured upon them by the triumphant humanists obscures the merit of their system as a gigantic and complete engine of thought. Under its great masters, Albert the Great, Thomas Aquinas, Duns Scotus, scholasticism had been rounded into an instrument capable of comprehending all knowledge and of expressing every refinement of thought; and, as has been well said, the acute minds that created it, if only they had extended their inquiries into natural science, might easily have anticipated by centuries the discoveries of modern days.[39] In expressing their distinctions the Schoolmen had thrown to the winds the restraints of classical Latin and the care of elegance; and with many of them language had degenerated into jargon. But in their own eyes their position was unassailable. Their philosophy was founded on Aristotle; and while they were proud of their master, they were prouder still of the system they had created in his name: and thus they felt no impulse to look backwards to the past. [39] Cf. F.G. Stokes, _Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum_, 1909, p. xvii. In the matter of language they had been led by a spirit of reaction. The literature of later classical times had sacrificed matter to form; and the schools had been dominated by teachers who trained boys to declaim in elegant periods on any subject whatever, regardless of its content; thus carrying to an extreme the precepts with which the great orators had enforced the importance of style. The Schoolmen swung the pendulum back, letting sound and froth go and thinking only of their subject-matter, despising the classics. In their turn they were confronted by the humanists, who reasserted the claims of form. There was sense in the humanist contention. It is very easy to say the right thing in the wrong way; in other spheres than diplomacy the choice of language is important. Words have a history of their own, and often acquire associations independent of their meaning. Rhythm, too, and clearness need attention. An unbalanced sentence goes haltingly and jars; an ambiguous pronoun causes the reader to stumble. An ill-written book, an ill-worded speech fail of their effects; it is not merely by sympathy and character that men persuade. But of course the humanists pushed the matter too far. Pendulums do not reach the repose of the mean without many tos and fros. Elegance is good, but the art of reasoning is not to be neglected. Of the length to which they went Ascham's method of instruction in the _Scholemaster_ (1570) is a good example. He wished his scholar to translate Cicero into English, and then from the English to translate back into the actual words of the Latin. The Ciceronians did not believe that the same thing could be well said in many ways; rather there was one way which transcended all others, and that Cicero had attained. Erasmus, however, was no Ciceronian; and one of the reasons why he won such a hold upon his own and subsequent generations was that, more than all his contemporaries, he succeeded in establishing a reasonable accord between the claims of form and matter in literature. In their neglect of the classics the Schoolmen had a powerful ally. For obvious reasons the early and the mediaeval Church felt that much of classical literature was injurious to the minds of the young, and in consequence discouraged the use of it in schools. The classics were allowed to perish, and their place was taken by Christian poets such as Prudentius or Juvencus, by moralizations of Aesop, patchwork compositions known as 'centos' on Scriptural themes, and the like. The scholars, therefore, who went to Italy and came home to the North carrying the new enthusiasm, had strenuous opposition to encounter. The Schoolmen considered them impertinent, the Church counted them immoral. To us who know which way the conflict ended, the savage blows delivered by the humanists seem mere brutality; they lash their fallen foes with what appears inhuman ferocity. But the truth is that the struggle was not finished until well into the sixteenth century. Biel of Tubingen, 'the last of the Schoolmen', lived till 1495. Between 1501 and 1515 a single printer, Wolff of Basle, produced five massive volumes of the _Summae_ of mediaeval Doctors. Through the greater part, therefore, of Erasmus' life the upholders of the old systems and ideals, firmly entrenched by virtue of possession, succeeded in maintaining their supremacy in the schools. Between the two periods of the revival of learning, the Italian and the Transalpine, a marked line is drawn by the invention of printing, _c._ 1455: when the one movement had run half its course, the other scarcely begun. The achievements of the press in the diffusion of knowledge are often extolled; and some of the resulting good and evil is not hard to see. But the paramount service rendered to learning by the printer's art was that it made possible a standard of critical accuracy which was so much higher than what was known before as to be almost a new creation. When books were manuscripts, laboriously written out one at a time, there could be no security of identity between original and copy; and even when a number of copies were made from the same original, there was a practical certainty that there would be no absolute uniformity among them. Mistakes were bound to occur; not always at the same point, but here in one manuscript, there in another. Or again, when two unrelated copies of the same book were brought together, there was an antecedent probability that examination would reveal differences: so that in general it was impossible to feel that a fellow-scholar working on the same author was using the same text. Even with writers of one's own day uniformity was hardly to be attained. Not uncommonly, as a mark of attention, an author revised manuscript copies of his works, which were to be presented to friends; and besides correcting the copyists' errors, might add or cut out or alter passages according to his later judgement. Subsequent copies would doubtless follow his revision, and then the process might be repeated; with the result that a reader could not tell to what stage in the evolution of a work the text before him might belong: whether it represented the earliest form of composition or the final form reached perhaps many years afterwards. To understand the conditions under which mediaeval scholars worked, it is of the utmost importance to realize this state of uncertainty and flux. Not that in manuscript days there was indifference to accuracy. Serious scholars and copyists laid great stress upon it. With insistent fervour they implored one another to be careful, and to collate what had been copied. But there are limits to human powers. Collation is a dull business; and unless done with minute attention, cannot be expected to yield perfect correctness. When a man has copied a work of any length, it is hard for him to collate it with the original slowly. Physically, of course, he easily might: but the spirit is weak, and, weary of the ground already traversed once, urges him to hurry forward, with the inevitable result. With a manuscript, too, the possible reward might well seem scarcely worth the labour; for how could any permanence be ensured for critical work? A scholar might expend his efforts over a corrupt author, might compare his own manuscript with others far and near, and at length arrive at a text really more correct. And yet what hope had he that his labour was not lost? His manuscript would pass at his death into other hands and might easily be overlooked and even perish. Like a child's castle built upon the sand, his work would be overwhelmed by the rising tide of oblivion. Such conditions are disheartening. Thus mediaeval standards of accuracy were of necessity low. In default of good instruments we content ourselves with those we have. To draw a line straight we use a ruler; but if one is not to be had, the edge of a book or a table may supply its place. In the last resort we draw roughly by hand, but with no illusions as to our success. So it was with the scholar of the Middle Ages. His instruments were imperfect; and he acquiesced in the best standards he could get: realizing no doubt their defects, but knowing no better way. But with printing the position was at once changed. When the type had been set up, it was possible to strike off a thousand copies of a book, each of which was identical with all the rest. It became worth while to spend abundant pains over seeking a good text and correcting the proofs--though this latter point was not perceived at first--when there was the assured prospect of such uniformity to follow. One edition could be distinguished from another by the dates on title-page and colophon; and work once done was done for all time, if enough copies of a book were taken off. This necessarily produced a great change in methods of study. Instead of a single manuscript, in places perhaps hopelessly entangled, and always at the mercy of another manuscript of equal or greater authority that might appear from the blue with different readings, the scholar received a text which represented a recension of, it may be, several manuscripts, and whose roughnesses had been smoothed out by the care of editors more or less competent. The precious volumes to which modern book-lovers reverently give the title of 'Editio princeps', had almost as great honour in their own day, before the credit of priority and antiquity had come to them; for in them men saw the creation of a series of 'standard texts', norms to which, until they were superseded, all future work upon the same ground could be referred. As a result, too, of the improved correctness of the texts, instead of being satisfied with the general sense of an author, men were able to base edifices of precise argument upon the verbal meaning of passages, in some confidence that their structures would not be overset. But the new invention was not universally acclaimed. Trithemius with his conservative mind quickly detected some weaknesses; and in 1492 he composed a treatise 'In praise of scribes', in vain attempt to arrest the flowing tide. 'Let no one say, "Why should I trouble to write books, when they are appearing continually in such numbers? for a moderate sum one can acquire a large library." What a difference between the results achieved! A manuscript written on parchment will last a thousand years: books printed on paper will scarcely live two hundred. Besides, there will always be something to copy: not everything can be printed. Even if it could, a true scribe ought not to give up. His pen can perpetuate good works which otherwise would soon perish. He must not be amazed by the present abundance that he sees, but should look forward to the needs of the future. Though we had thousands of volumes, we must not cease writing; for printed books are never so good. Indeed they usually pay little heed to ornament and orthography.' It is noticeable that only in this last point does Trithemius claim for manuscripts superior accuracy. In the matter of permanence we may wonder what he would have thought of modern paper. The first advance, then, rendered possible by the invention of printing was to more uniform and better texts: the next step forward was no less important. To scholars content with the general sense of a work, a translation might be as acceptable as the original. Improved standards of accuracy led men to perceive that an author must be studied in his own tongue: in order that no shade of meaning might be lost. Here again the two periods are easily distinguished. Nicholas V set his scholars, Poggio and Valla, to translate the Greeks, Herodotus and Thucydides, Aristotle and Diodorus. The feature of the later epoch is the number of Greek editions which came out to supplant the versions in common use. The credit for this advance in critical scholarship must be given to Aldus for his Greek Aristotle, which appeared in 1495-9; and he subsequently led the way with numerous texts of the Greek classics. At the same time he proposed to apply the same principle to Biblical study. As early as 1499 Grocin in a letter alludes to Aldus' scheme of printing the whole Bible in the original 'three languages', Hebrew, Greek and Latin; and a specimen was actually put forth in 1501. In this matter precedence might seem to lie with the Jewish printers, who produced the Psalms in Hebrew in 1477, and the Old Testament complete in 1488; but as the Jews never at any period ceased to read their Scriptures in Hebrew, there was no question of recovery of an original. Aldus did not live to carry his scheme out; and it was left to Ximenes and the band of scholars that he gathered at Alcala, to produce the first edition of the Bible complete in the original tongues, the Complutensian Polyglott, containing the Hebrew side by side with the Septuagint and the Vulgate, and for the Pentateuch a Syriac paraphrase. The New Testament in this great enterprise was finished in 1514, and the whole work was ready by 1517, shortly before Ximenes' death. But as publication was delayed till 1522, the actual priority rests with Erasmus, whose New Testament in Greek with a Latin translation by himself appeared, as we have seen, in 1516. Thus by an accident Germany gained the credit of being the first to assert this new principle, the importance of studying texts in the original, in the field where resistance is most resolute and victory is hardly won. And now it was about to enter upon a still greater contest. Erasmus' New Testament encountered hostile criticism in many quarters: conservative theologians made common cause with the friars in condemning it. But at the very centre of the religion they professed, the book was blessed by the chief priests. The Pope accepted the dedication, and bishops wished they could read the Greek. Far otherwise was it with the impending struggle of the Reformation: there the cleavage of sides followed very different lines. Into that wide field we cannot now expatiate; but it is important to notice an element which the German Renaissance contributed to the Reformation, and which played a considerable part in both movements--the accentuation of German national feeling. At the middle of the fifteenth century Italy enjoyed undisputed pre-eminence in the world of learning. The sudden splendour into which the Renaissance had blazed up on Italian soil drew men's eyes thither more than ever; and to its ancient universities students from the North swarmed like bees. To graduate in Italy, to hear its famous doctors, perhaps even to learn from one of the native Greeks brought over out of the East, became first the ambition, and then the indispensable requirement of every Northern scholar who could afford it; and few of Erasmus' friends and colleagues had not at some time or other made the pilgrimage to Italy. Consequence and success brought the usual Nemesis. The Italian _hubris_ expressed itself in the familiar Greek distinction between barbarian and home-born; and the many nations from beyond the Alps found themselves united in a common bond which they were not eager to share. We have seen the kind of gibe with which Agricola's eloquence was greeted at Pavia. The more such insults are deserved, the more they sting. We may be sure that in many cases they were not forgotten. Celtis returning from Italy to Ingolstadt in 1492 delivered his soul in an inaugural oration: 'The ancient hatred between us can never be dissolved. But for the Alps we should be eternally at war.' In other countries the feeling, though less acute, was much the same. Thus in 1517 spoke Stephen Poncher, bishop of Paris, after his first meeting with Erasmus: 'Italy has no one to compare with him in literary gifts. In our own day Hermolaus and Politian have rescued Latin from barbarism; and their services can never be forgotten. When I was there, too, I met a number of men of rare ability and learning. But with all respect to the Italians, I must say that Erasmus eclipses every one, Transalpine and Cisalpine alike.' Of the foreign 'nations' at the universities of Italy none was more numerous than the German, a title which embraced many nationalities of the North: not merely German-speaking races such as the Swiss and Flemish and Dutch, but all who could by any stretch of imagination be represented as descendants of the Goths; Swedes and Danes, Hungarians and Bohemians, Lithuanians and Bulgars and Poles. That they went in such numbers is not surprising. The prestige of Italian teaching was great and well-established, whereas their own universities were few and scarcely more than nascent; indeed, when the Council of Vienne had ordained the teaching of Greek and other missionary languages in 1311, its injunctions went to France and Italy and England and Spain: but Germany had no university to which a missive could be directed. From Southern Germany, too, and Switzerland and Austria, the distance was small, notwithstanding the obvious Alps and the difficulties of the passes. Even Celtis, in spite of his denunciations, sent on his best pupils to Italy. So there were many who brought home with them to the North recollections of lofty condescension and of ill-disguised contempt for the foreigner: insults that they burned to repay. Italy might vaunt the glories of ancient Rome; but Germany also had deeds to be proud of. Rome might have founded the World-empire; but Charlemagne had conquered the dominions of the Caesars and made the Empire Germanic. Classic antiquity, too, could not be denied to the land and people whom Tacitus had described; and Germans were not slow to claim the virtues found among them by the Roman historian. Arminius became the national hero. German faith and honour, German simplicity, German sincerity and candour--these are insisted upon by the Transalpine humanists with a vehemence which suggests that while priding themselves on the possession of such qualities, they marked the lack of them in others. We may recall Ascham's horror of the Englishman Italianated. Not that Germans could not make friends in Italy. Scheurl loved his time at Bologna, and was eager to fight for the Bentivogli against Julius II. Erasmus was made much of by the Aldine Academy at Venice; and ten years later Hutten was charmed with his reception there. But with many, conscious of their own defects[40] and of the reality of Italian superiority, the charge of barbarism must have rankled. To Luther in 1518 Italian is synonymous with supercilious. [40] Thus a worthy abbot in the Inn valley, writing to Erasmus in 1523, manages to achieve a Latin letter, but apologizes for only being able to write in German characters. The rising German feeling expresses itself on all sides in the letters of the humanists. A young Frieslander, studying at Oxford in 1499, writes to a fellow-countryman there: 'Your verses have shown me what I never could have believed, that German talents are no whit inferior to Italian.' Hutten in 1516 writes of Reuchlin and Erasmus as 'the two eyes of Germany, whom we must sedulously cherish; for it is through them that our nation is ceasing to be barbarous'. Beatus Rhenanus, in editing the poems of Janus Pannonius (d. 1472), says in his preface, 1518: 'Janus and Erasmus, Germans though they are and moderns, give me as much satisfaction to read as do Politian and Hermolaus, or even Virgil and Cicero.' Erasmus in 1518 writes to thank a canon of Mainz who had entertained him at supper. After compliments on his host's charming manners, his erudition free from superciliousness--if he could have known Gibbon, he surely must have used those immortal words of praise, 'a modest and learned ignorance'--and his wit and elegance of speech, he goes on: 'One might have been listening to a Roman. Now let the Italians go and taunt Germans with barbarism, if they dare!' In 1519 a canon of Brixen in Tirol writes to Beatus: 'Would to God that Germany had more men like you, to make her famous, and stand up against those Italians, who give themselves such airs about their learning; though men of credit now think that the helm has been snatched from their hands by Erasmus.' This is how Zwingli writes in 1521 of an Italian who had attacked Luther and charged him with ignorance: 'But we must make allowances for Italian conceit. In their heads is always running the refrain, "Heaven and earth can show none like to us". They cannot bear to see Germany outstripping them in learning.' Rarely a different note is heard, evoked by rivalry perhaps or the desire to encourage. Locher from Freiburg could call Leipzig barbarous. Erasmus wrote to an Erfurt schoolmaster that he was glad to see Germany softening under the influence of good learning and putting off her wild woodland ways. But these are exceptions: towards insolence from the South an unbroken front was preserved. In another direction the strong national feeling manifested itself; in the study of German antiquity and the composition of histories.[41] Maximilian, dipping his hands in literature, stimulated the archaeological researches of Peutinger, patronized Trithemius and Pirckheimer, and even instituted a royal historian, Stabius. Celtis the versatile projected an elaborate _Germania illustrata_ on the model of Flavio Biondo's work for Rome; and his description of Nuremberg was designed to be the first instalment. As he conceived it, the work was never carried out; but essays of varying importance on this theme were produced by Cochlaeus, Pirckheimer, Aventinus and Munster. The most ardent to extol Germany was Wimpfeling of Schlettstadt, a man of serious temperament, who was prone to rush into controversy in defence of the causes that he had at heart. His education had all been got in Germany, and he was proud of his country. His first effort to increase its praise was to instigate Trithemius to put together a 'Catalogue of the illustrious men who adorn Germany with their talents and writings'. The author's preface (8 Feb. 1491) reveals unmistakably the animosity towards Italy: 'Some people contemn our country as barren, and maintain that few men of genius have flourished in it; hoping by disparagement of others to swell their own praise. With all the resources of their eloquence they trick out the slender achievements of their own countrymen; but jealousy blinds them to the great virtues of the Germans, the mighty deeds and brilliant intellects, the loyalty, enthusiasm and devotion of this great nation. If they find in the classics any credit given to us for valour or learning, they quickly hide it up; and in order to trumpet their own excellences, they omit ours altogether. That is how Pliny's narrative of the German wars was lost, and how so many histories of our people have disappeared.' [41] Cf. A. Horawitz in Sybel's _Historische Zeitschrift_, xxv. (1871), 66-101; and P. Joachimsen, _Geschichtsauffassung und Geschichtschreibung in Deutschland unter dem Einfluss des Humanismus_, pt. 1, 1910. The book was sent to Wimpfeling, who collected a few more names and added a preface of his own (17 Sept. 1492) in the same strain. 'People who think that Germany is still as barbarous as it was in the days of Caesar should read what Jerome has to say about it. The abundance of old books in existence shows that Germany had many learned men in the past; who have left carefully written manuscripts on oratory, poetry, natural philosophy, theology and all kinds of erudition. All down the Rhine you will find the walls and roofs of monasteries adorned with elegant epigrams which testify to German taste of old. To-day there are Germans who can translate the Greek classics into Latin; and if their style is not pure Ciceronian, let our detractors remember that styles change with the times. Mankind is always discontented, and prefers the old to the modern. I can quite understand that our German philosophers adapted their style to their audiences and their lofty subjects. So foreign critics had better let this provocative talk alone for ever.' A few years later Wimpfeling edited a fourteenth-century treatise by Lupold of Bebenburg entitled 'The zeal and fervour of the ancient German princes towards the Christian religion and the servants of God'; the intention of which clearly fell in with his desire. In his preface, addressed to Dalberg, Agricola's patron, he tells a story which explains a peculiarity occasionally found in mediaeval manuscripts; of being written in sections by several different hands. Some years before, the Patriarch of Aquileia was passing through Spires. To divert the enforced leisure of a halt upon a journey, he prowled round the libraries of the town; and in one discovered this treatise of Lupold, which pleased him greatly. As he was to be off again next morning, there was no time to have it copied, at least by one hand: so the manuscript was cut up and distributed among a number of scribes, and in the space of a night the desired copy was ready. Subsequently Wimpfeling heard of the incident from one of the brethren in the monastery, and obtained the original manuscript to publish. When such things could happen, no wonder that some manuscripts are imperfect and others have disappeared. Wimpfeling's next endeavour to assert the glories of Germany was completed in 1502; but did not appear till 1505. It was based upon the work of a friend, Sebastian Murrho of Colmar (d. 1494). The title, _Defensio Germaniae_ or _Epithoma Germanorum_, sufficiently explains its purpose. After a brief account of Germany in Roman times--his hero being not Arminius, but 'the first German king, Arioviscus, who fought with Julius Caesar',--and fuller records of the Germanic Emperors since Charlemagne, Wimpfeling comes to the praise of his own days; the men of learning, the famous soldiers, the architects who could build the great tower of Strasburg, the painters, the inventors of printing and of that terrible engine the bombard. But nearest to his heart lay a question debated then as now: to whom should rightfully belong the western part of the Rhine valley, between the river and the Vosges? It was there that his home lay, Schlettstadt, one of the fairest cities of the plain. With all the 'zeal and fervour of the ancient German princes' he sets out to prove that it must be German: 'where are there any traces' he cries 'of the French language? There are no books in French, no monuments, no letters, no epitaphs, no deeds or documents. For seven or eight centuries there is nothing but Latin or German.' The cathedral of Spires, the fine monastery of St. Fides in his native town, supply him with a further argument: would the good Dukes of Swabia have lavished so much money, the substance of their fathers, upon Gallic soil, to pour it out among the French? With such arguments he convinced himself and others. Almost at the same time Peutinger put out a little volume of 'Conversations about the wonderful antiquities of Germany'; supporting Wimpfeling with further evidence and concluding satisfactorily that French had never ruled over Germans. A work of very different calibre which appeared about this time was the _Germaniae Exegesis_ of Francis Fritz, who Latinized his name into Irenicus. Wimpfeling was growing grey when he had made his defence of Germany: the new champion was a young man of 23, who had scarcely emerged from his degree. The book was published in 1518; printed at Hagenau by Anshelm at the cost of John Koberger, the great Nuremberg printer, and fostered by Pirckheimer. In his later years Irenicus became a Lutheran and displayed some dignity in refusing to sacrifice his convictions to worldly interests; but at this time he was enthusiastic and heady, and as a result his work is an uncritical jumble. 'Puerile and silly' Erasmus called it, when he saw some of the proof-sheets at Spires in 1518. 'A most unfortunate book', wrote Beatus Rhenanus in 1525, 'without style and without judgement.' To Aventinus in 1531 it was 'an impudent compilation from Stabius and Trithemius, by a poor creature of the most despicable intelligence'. But even a bad book can be a measure of the time, showing the ideas current and the catchwords that were thought likely to attract the reading public. It is much larger than Wimpfeling's Defence, and even more miscellaneous; ranging over many aspects of Germany ancient and modern. To us in the present inquiry its interest lies in the frequency with which the excellence of Germany is asserted against Italian sneers. The following specimen will illustrate this point, and also explain Erasmus' epithets. In the chapter on the German language (ii. 30) Irenicus is throughout engaged in refuting the charge of German barbarism. 'It may be true', he says, 'that German is not so much declined as Latin: but complexity does not necessarily bring refinement. Germany is as rich in dialects as Italy, and to speak German well merits high praise. Italian may be directly descended from Latin; but German too has a considerable element of Latin and Greek words. Guarino and Petrarch have written poetry in their vernaculars, and so the Italians boast that their language is more suited to poetry. But more than 1000 years ago Ovid wrote a book of German poetry[42]; and Trebeta, son of Semiramis, is known to have been the first person to compose in German.' [42] Ovid, _Pont._ 4. 13. 19: Getico sermone. In spite of such stuff, Pirckheimer, who saw the book in manuscript, was delighted with it. 'You have achieved what many have wished but few could have carried out. Every German must be obliged to you for the lustre you have brought to the Fatherland.' After stating that he had arranged with Koberger for the printing, he points out details which might be improved: more stress might be laid on the connexion of the Germans with the Goths, 'which the dregs of the Goths and Lombards--by which I mean the Italians--try to snatch from us'; and the universal conquests of the Goths might be more fully treated. Finally he suggests that before publication the work should be submitted to Stabius: 'the book deserves learned readers, and I should wish it to be as perfect as possible.'[43] [43] The letter is printed in Pirckheimer's _Opera_, 1610, p. 313: but is addressed wrongly, to Beatus Rhenanus. This brief survey may close with a far more considerable work, the _Res Germanicae_ of Beatus Rhenanus, published in 1531; from which we have made some extracts above. The book is sober and serious, and the subject-matter is handled scientifically; but in his preface Beatus is careful to point out that German history is as important as Roman, modern as much worth studying as ancient. Such was the soil into which fell the seed that Luther went forth to sow. When Tetzel came marching into German towns, with the Pope's Bull borne before him on a cushion, and brandishing indulgences for the living and the dead, when the coins were tinkling in the box, and the souls, released by contract, were flying off out of purgatory, the religious sense of thinking men was outraged by this travesty of the Day of Judgement; but scarcely less were they angered to see the tinkling coins, honest German money, flying off as rapidly as the souls, to build palaces for the supercilious Italians. In the great struggle of the Reformation the main issue was of course religious; but even its leader could feel added bitterness in the knowledge that this shocking traffic was ordained from Italy to benefit an Italian Pope. If the sympathies of educated Germany had not already been strongly moved in the same direction, it is conceivable that Luther's intrepid protest might have lacked the support which carried it to success. XI ERASMUS AND THE BOHEMIAN BRETHREN (A paper read before the third International Historical Congress, in London, April 1913.) Whatever may still be the troubles of the great, amongst men of learning at any rate visits of ceremony are mercifully no longer in fashion. At first sight one is inclined to find the cause of this in an improved sense of the value of time. Modern inventions have taught first the business man and then the world in general that time is money. Improved communications with time-tables that may be relied upon enable us to arrange our days in such a way as to be at least more busy, if not more useful; and we have acquired a wholesome respect for the time of others. But I do not think we should be right in accounting for the change in this way. At all ages the scholar, looking round him at tasks which exceed the capacity of a lifetime, has been avaricious of the hours--'labuntur anni', 'pereunt et imputantur' ever in his thoughts: and though the world of old moved slower, the man of business has rarely belied his name. A more plausible explanation is that the custom has died of surfeit. As increased facilities of travel made the world smaller, the circle of those that might be visited and saluted by the active grew boundless; so that on both sides limits were desired. Another consideration is that with new facilities came increased opportunities and hopes. To-day we live in the happy consciousness that friends, however distant, may be brought across the world to our doors by the urgencies of business or pleasure; and thus no one knows what the coming year may bring forth. In the sixteenth century men knew that opportunities lost might never recur, and that they must seize or make them as best they might. At that time visits of ceremony were in great vogue. Officials and scholars alike groaned under them. After a visit to the Court Erasmus writes: 'If Pollio (a disguised name, as he was writing of a man who afterwards became an intimate friend) has been with you, you will understand what I suffered at Brussels; every day hosts of Spanish visitors, besides Italians and Germans.' A little later he apologizes to a correspondent for having given him a chilly welcome: 'just then I had escaped from Brussels, quite worn out with the salutations of these persistent Spaniards.' The custom was widespread. An English graduate, studying for a time at Louvain, congratulates himself on having escaped from it at Cambridge. Clenardus found it thriving at Salamanca; Casaubon complained of it at Montpellier; in Oxford it was even obligatory for intending disputants in the schools to pay formal visits beforehand to their examiners. In 1517 Erasmus' fame was at its zenith; and in consequence visitors came to him from every side, some to seek counsel, others to adore. His correspondence gives us many instances. In the spring of 1517, when the Cardinal of Gurk attended Maximilian to the Netherlands, his two secretaries, Richard Bartholinus of Perugia and Ursinus Velius, a Silesian, prepared panegyrical verses with which to greet Erasmus if they should have the good fortune to meet him. For some reason Bartholinus alone came, and, presenting both the poems, elicited a complimentary letter in reply. A more distinguished visitor received less attention. In the summer of 1518 Erasmus was at Basle, printing the notes to his second edition of the New Testament. The Bishop of Pistoia, nephew of one of the most influential cardinals, and Papal nuncio in Switzerland, also came to Basle. Wishing to see the great scholar, he asked him to dinner. But Erasmus could not spare the time. He declined, and in his place sent his friends, Beatus Rhenanus and the young Amerbachs. Three times he made excuse; and at length the Nuncio went on foot to seek in Froben's press the scholar who would not come to him. What their conversation was we do not know; but before leaving, the Nuncio ordered a copy of the Amerbach-Froben Jerome to be sent to the binders and equipped with his arms and adornments. Later in the year the enthusiastic Eobanus of Hesse appeared in Louvain. He had come from Erfurt where he was teaching, and the main purpose of his journey was to see Erasmus. His _Hodoeporicon_, printed on his return, describes his course in detail. With a young companion, John Werter, also from Erfurt, he entered Louvain in the evening. Next morning early they sent in their 'callow' verses to the great man, and followed shortly themselves. Erasmus came down to greet them at the door with a kindly welcome, and Eobanus describes a banquet to which he invited them, entertaining them with serious talk and light-hearted jest. But it was at no light cost to Erasmus' time: for when his admirers left five days later, he had been cajoled into writing six letters of compliment, two to the travellers themselves and four more to friends at Gotha and Erfurt. But this was not the only cost. Eobanus imbued others of the Erfurt circle with his hero-worship; and next year came two more, Jonas and Schalbe, to trouble Erasmus' leisure, when he was taking a spring holiday at Antwerp, 'by the sea', and to bear off more letters to Erfurt. The spirit that animated these visitors is shown in a letter of John Turzo, bishop of Breslau, a man of Erasmus' own age. In 1518 Ursinus Velius, the disappointed secretary of the Cardinal of Gurk, had become canon of Breslau on Turzo's presentation; and had doubtless talked to his patron of Erasmus' attractive gifts. 'I am most eager to visit you' wrote the Bishop, from Breslau. 'If ever I had heard that you were anywhere within a week's journey from here, I should have rushed over at once: indeed I would have gone as far as Belgium, if only the business of my office allowed. The men of Cadiz who journeyed to Rome to see Livy were not more eager.' A picture of the interruptions to which Erasmus was exposed is given in a preface written in Froben's name for the new edition of Erasmus' _Epigrammata_ combined with More's and with the _Utopia_, March 1518. 'Most of these verses' Froben is made to say 'were written not for publication, but to give pleasure to friends; to whom he is always very obliging. When he was here bringing out his New Testament and Jerome, heavens! how he worked! toiling away untiringly day after day. Never was any one more overwhelmed in composition; and yet certain great persons thought themselves entitled to come and waste his time, coaxing out of him a few lines of verse or a little letter. So compliant was he that they made it very difficult for him. To refuse seemed uncivil when they pressed him so. But to write when his mind was intent elsewhere, and not a minute to spare from his labours----! However, he did write, on the spur of the moment, turning aside for a little to the groves of the Muses.' Some other visitors can be traced in this period. John Alexander Brassicanus, poet laureate, came from Tubingen in September 1520 and saw Erasmus at Antwerp; whence in reply to a letter of self-introduction he bore away a complimentary letter that he afterwards printed, and the sound piece of advice, that if he wished to become learned, he must never think himself so. More distinguished was Ferdinand Columbus, the explorer's natural son and heir, who in October 1520, on one of those journeys on which he gathered his famous library, received at Louvain a copy of Erasmus' _Antibarbari_, with his name inscribed in it by the author. A visitor to whom we must pay more heed was John Draco, one of the Erfurt circle, who in July 1520 came to pay homage at Louvain. In the autumn of 1518 the agent of a Leipzig bookseller trading to Prague received a letter to carry back with him and forward on to Erasmus at Louvain. The writer was a certain Jan Slechta, a Bohemian country gentleman, who was living at Kosteletz on the upper waters of the Elbe, a few miles to the North-east of Prague. He was a man of education and position. After taking his M.A. at Prague in 1484, he had served for sixteen years as a secretary to King Ladislas of Bohemia and Hungary; but about 1507, disgusted with the turmoils of court life in that very troubled time, he had retired to his home, to give his later years to the education of his son and the personal management of his estates. The world of affairs had not extinguished his love of learning. He was an intimate friend of Bohuslaus of Hassenstein, scholar and traveller, and corresponded with him in elegant Latin. Attracted by the reputation for eloquence won by the notorious Hieronymus Balbus, he had persuaded him _c._ 1499 to come and teach in Prague--a step which in view of Balbus' bad life he afterwards deeply regretted. He was also the author of a dialogue on the relations of body and soul, entitled _Microcosmus_; which with characteristic modesty he kept for more than twenty years known only to his intimate friends--indeed it was only in the last year of his life that he composed a dedication for it, and it seems never to have been printed. The tone of Slechta's thoughts in his later years was grave and serious; as well it might be. The two kingdoms, then but loosely united, were torn with internal factions and racial jealousies; while in church towers and over city gates the bells hung ready to proclaim to the countryside the advent of that ever-present menace, the Turk. In the priesthood men could mark much that was amiss; and the seamless robe of Christ was rent with schism, the candle that Hus and Jerome had lighted a century before, still burning clearly among less sober heresies, which drew down on it, as upon themselves, spasmodic outbursts of retributive violence. Uneasy sat the crown on Ladislas' head; and when Death, coming as a friend, took it from him in 1516, it was only to thrust this sad office upon a ten-year-old boy, who after ten more years of childish government was miserably to perish at Mohacz. No wonder that Slechta and his friends looked anxiously upon the future. 'The times of Hus and Wycliffe which our grandfathers detested, seem golden beside our own' wrote Bohuslaus to Geiler of Kaisersberg--a member of that grave circle of Strasburg humanists, with which, it may be noted in passing, our Bohemians had much in common. The letters of Slechta contain two disquisitions, one on the frailties of a celibate clergy, the other on the duties of a parish priest; advocating reforms by which he hoped to check the continuous growth of 'those unutterable heretics, the Pyghards': by whom he meant the Bohemian Brethren. What moved Slechta to correspond with Erasmus we do not know; possibly a slighting reference in one of the latter's printed letters to 'those schismatic Bohemians, who have infected most of Europe'. Slechta's letter is unhappily lost; but from Erasmus' reply, dated 23 April 1519 from Louvain, its general tenor may be gathered. It began, of course, with eulogies of Erasmus and his work; and then, after some account of the writer's life and fortunes, it proceeded to assure him that there were persons in Bohemia who were not merely interested in good learning but prepared to advance it. Finally it invited him to come to Prague. Erasmus' answer to his unknown correspondent was courteous, but firmly declined the invitation. 'What I can do at Prague I do not see. It is considerate of you to offer me an escort for my journey; but I confess I do not like regions where such company is necessary. In this country one can go about wherever one likes, alone. I am sure that, as you say, I should find among you plenty of learned and pious men, who are not contaminated with the errors of schism. But how is it that this division is suffered to remain? Better unity with some hardship than to hold one's own at the cost of discord. I fear it is money that stands in the way. Paul suffered the loss of all things that he might win Christ. The world is full of cardinals and princes and bishops; if only one of these would take up this matter in a truly Christian spirit! If Paul were on the Pope's throne, I am sure he would allow not only his revenues but his authority to be diminished, if his loss would purchase unity.' Erasmus concludes cordially: 'If we cannot meet, at any rate we can write. I will walk and talk with you sometimes beside your Elbe, you shall come and dwell with me in Brabant. Friendship can flourish without actual contact.' This letter was handed to Slechta on 11 September, four and a half months after it was written. Nearly a year had elapsed since his letter had been dispatched and he had given up hopes of a reply: so that these amiable and encouraging words were the more welcome, and he at once proceeded to act upon them. Within a month he had composed a letter of some elegance, in which while subscribing to Erasmus' prayers for unity, he pointed out the difficulties of the task. To the remarks about coming to Prague he rejoined regretfully: 'I can quite see that there is nothing for you to do here. There are many of us who would have been glad of your coming; but I understand that we must hope to see you at another time and elsewhere. That travellers in our country need an escort you would not wonder if you could see how the roads run, among lofty mountains shrouded in impenetrable forests. These give cover to hordes of brigands, who prey upon travellers and merchants, robbing and killing indifferently. Almost every month there are punitive raids made from the towns, and brigands are captured and put to death. But the pest seems ineradicable.' Slechta then proceeds to the religious troubles, and after expressing general agreement with Erasmus, describes the three main parties into which the life of Bohemia and Moravia was cloven. First the orthodox Romanists, loyal to the Church and in unity with Germany and the rest of Christendom; finding their adherents amongst the upper classes, together with some of the King's cities and the monasteries, many of which, though once rich, had now fallen into decay. Secondly, the Utraquists, otherwise orthodox but practising communion in both kinds, and at their services reading the Epistle and Gospel in the vernacular: with some supporters among the nobility, a good many gentry, and nearly thirty royal cities. After tracing their history from the Council of Basle and briefly stating their views, he adds that no one in the kingdom is able to propound a solution of the difficulties existing. Thirdly, the Bohemian Brethren, whom he styles Pyghards. This name, from the opprobrious sense in which it is generally used, is now thought to be derived from the Beghards, a mediaeval sect whose vagaries drew down upon it frequent persecution; but Slechta traces it to a foreign vagabond who came from Picardy in 1422 and infected with his pestilent doctrines the army of John Ziska, the Taborite, an army of those that were in distress, in debt, in discontent. This sect, Slechta tells us, lasted continuously down to the times of the late King Ladislas (d. 1516), and indeed increased considerably under him; for his thoughts were much occupied with Hungary, and he was content if Bohemia could be maintained in an outward appearance of peace. Then follows a description of their opinions. 'The Pope and all his officials they regard as Antichrist. They choose their own bishops, rude unlettered laymen, with wives and families. They salute one another as Brother and Sister; and recognize no authority but the Bible. Their priests celebrate mass without vestments, use leavened bread and only the Lord's Prayer. Transubstantiation they deny, and the worship of the host they regard as idolatry. Vows to the saints, prayers for the dead, and confession to priests they ridicule; and they keep no holy days but Sundays, Christmas, Easter and Whitsun.' 'I will not waste your time with more of these pernicious views. My feeling is that if the two first-named parties could only be reconciled, this nefarious sect might, with the aid of the King, be exterminated or at any rate reduced to a better state of faith and religion.' The roads in Bohemia might be dangerous, but the distance to Louvain was not so great as it had seemed at first; for Erasmus' reply is dated 1 Nov. 1519, only three weeks after Slechta's letter. He begins again with the roads. 'Prevention is better than punishment. It would be wiser if, instead of these avenging raids, the more frequented roads could be cleared of forest on either side, and held by block-houses and armed posts at intervals. Indeed it is somewhat discreditable that the great towns and princes of Germany cannot achieve what the Swiss do by co-operation and local action.' He then turns to the religious dissensions, and in his passion for concord exclaims that it would be better that a nation should be united in error than so numerously divided: experience shows that there is no opinion so wild but that some one will be found to embrace it. Of the orthodox party he has nothing to say beyond extolling the system by which the Pope might act as judge and father of all, and as supreme court of appeal. To the Utraquists he would counsel conformity to the practice of the majority; although unable to understand why the Church should have allowed a practice instituted by Christ to fall into disuse. Then he comes to the Brethren, and after admitting that they have strayed further than the Utraquists from the rule of Christian life, he continues: 'If they go on still in their wickedness, they must be restrained; but this is not the duty of any one who likes, nor must violence be used, lest the innocent suffer with the guilty. Their practice of electing their own priests and bishops has authority in antiquity; but it certainly is unfortunate if their choice falls on men bad as well as unlearned. With the titles of Brother and Sister I see no fault to find: it is a pity they are not more widely used among Christians. To prefer God's word in the Bible to the judgements of Doctors is sound: though to reject the latter altogether is as uniform an error as to embrace them to the exclusion of everything else. To celebrate the mass in everyday dress is not contrary to the truth; but it is a pity to abandon customs sanctioned by use and authority: though perhaps the Pope might be persuaded to concede to them the use of their own rites, as he does to the Greeks and the Milanese. The Lord's Prayer is, of course, part of our own use; and though it seems narrow to confine themselves to this, I doubt whether they do worse than those who weave in long strings of intercession from any source. Their opinions about the sacraments are certainly impious; but at any rate they are under no temptation to exploit these holy mysteries for the sake of gain or futile glory or tyrannous imposition. I do not see why they should reject vigils and fasts in moderation; but these are matters for encouragement rather than positive command. About festivals they seem to follow the usage current in the days of Jerome: better, I think, than the modern calendar, full of saints-days which end in riot and carouse, and on which the honest journeyman is forbidden to work for his children's bread.' As Slechta read these words, he must surely have felt as did Balak, the son of Zippor, when he listened to the seer from Mesopotamia taking up his parable upon Israel in the plains of Moab. The man whose eyes were open, had blessed the Brethren instead of cursing them; and literary Europe might well follow his lead. The history of the Bohemian Brethren is of exceptional interest, affording an example of a community professing a plain, simple faith and ruling their lives by modest conceptions of ordinary goodness, who, guided by leaders almost unknown to the world, through the trials of good and evil repute, through tribulation and prosperity, kept serenely upon the path they had marked out for themselves, living and growing into one of the most flourishing and devoted missionary bodies of the present day. As is natural under such conditions, their origin is not free from obscurity. Men connected them with the Waldensians of Southern France, or traced them, as we have seen, to a leader from Picardy. Through the fifteenth century they grew steadily in strength and unity, sheltered by the toleration which Rome unwillingly granted to the Utraquists as a result of the Compacts of Basle; and as compared with other dissentient bodies their name was singularly free from gross imputations. Throughout that age such imputations were freely made and believed against heretics. This was not unreasonable. In the low state of public and private morals faith was regarded as an indispensable bulwark to conduct, the faith which taught indeed that a man should love God and his neighbour, but stablished him into practising what he professed, by lurid pictures of the fate awaiting him if he did not. Without this bulwark it was not thought possible that a man could lead a godly, righteous and sober life; and so he was considered capable of every form of vice, if he ventured to doubt the truth of those opinions on which the Church had set its seal, in realms into which it now seems that human knowledge cannot penetrate. At the beginning of the sixteenth century fresh attempts were being made to win back the Brethren to orthodoxy; and in this work the ardour of the Dominicans burned bright. In 1500 one of them, Henry Institor, a Doctor of Theology, procured from Alexander VI bulls which recognized him as 'Inquisitor into heresy throughout Germany and Bohemia', and empowered him to collect heretical books and send them to the Bishop of Olmutz, the chief see of Moravia, to be burned; also to join to himself two or three other Masters of Theology and preach against the heretics. These bulls are printed at the head of a great volume written by Institor, with the title 'A shield for the faith of the Holy Roman Church against the heresy of the Waldensians or Pickards, who on all sides are infecting with virulent contagion certain races in Germany and Bohemia, to hatred of the clergy and enervation of the ecclesiastical power'. In 1501 the volume appeared at Olmutz, with an enumeration of thirty-six erroneous articles in which the Pickards denied the authority of the Church; followed of course by a vigorous refutation. At the same time one of their own countrymen, Augustine Kasenbrot of Olmutz was writing a series of open letters on the Brethren and their views. But the most succinct account of the position is contained in an attack made upon them by a learned and fair-minded Dominican, Jacobus Lilienstayn. His book, 'a Treatise against the erroneous Waldensian Brethren, commonly known as the Pickards, without rule, without law, and without obedience, of whom there are many in Moravia, more than in Bohemia', was composed in 1505 and is dedicated to the Dean of Prague. It begins by setting forth five general and twelve special errors of the Waldensians. The former are as follows: 1. They call the Gospels, the Epistles and the Acts, together with the Old Testament where it agrees with the New, 'the Law of Christ'; and they attack and deride the Doctors of the Church. 2. They say the Pope has no more power in administering the sacraments of the Church, and in other ecclesiastical matters, than a simple priest has. 3. They say that in the practice of the Church nothing is to be added to what Christ and the Apostles taught and did. 4. They hold the pure text of the Gospel without any gloss. 5. They allege that the Church is in error, and that they themselves are the brethren of Christ and the true imitators of the Apostles. Amongst the special errors are denials of the validity of indulgences and of the efficacy of masses for the dead; and the general simplicity of their conduct is shown in their practices at birth and death, baptism requiring only pure water, not holy oil and the chrism, and extreme unction banished from the death-bed. Finally the good Dominican gives a brief account of the life of these Brethren 'without obedience'. In his preface he expresses his difficulty in gathering the truth about them: 'for they are as inconstant as the moon, and the practices alleged against them in the past are denied by them to-day.' But he concludes honestly that though their faith is 'abhominable' to true Christians, their life is good enough. His good sense is further shown by his refusal to accept an absurd story about their method of choosing their leaders. 'When one of these is to be chosen', so ran the tale, 'the community meets together. And as they sit in silence, the windows being open, a great fly enters and buzzes over them, settling at length on the head of one; who is then set apart for a season. And when he is brought back, he is found to be learned in Latin and theology and whatever else is necessary, though he were rude and ignorant before.' This Lilienstayn finds clearly false: the simple life of the Brethren he illustrates by their practice. 'They have Bibles in Bohemian, which they read. Their women wear veils, and no colours, only black, white and grey. They all labour with their hands.' Thus their life to him was 'good enough'. It may remind us in many points of the Quakers. The attacks upon them led the Brethren to reply. In 1507 they composed an _Apologia_ addressed to the King, to show that they were not without rule, without law and without obedience, and to defend the manner of their life. This was printed at Nuremberg in 1507, and again in 1518; but of the original editions I have not been able to see a copy. The attacks continued. In 1512 another ponderous volume appeared, composed by Jacob Ziegler, the well-known Bavarian scientist, to demonstrate the falsity of their opinions. What finally impelled the Brethren to court countenance from Erasmus is not clear; possibly the cool reception the Utraquists had had from Luther the year before, with the rather contemptuous suggestion that their style and opinions were more like Erasmus' than his own. The episode has escaped Erasmus' biographers; and I cannot find any mention of it except an allusion in one of his letters, and a description in a treatise on the Brethren by Joachim Camerarius the elder (1500-1574). Camerarius' book was not published till 1605; but we can perhaps trace the source of his information. From 1518 onwards he spent some years at Erfurt. In January 1521 Erasmus describes the visit of the Brethren's envoys as having occurred six months before; at Antwerp, according to Camerarius, where he may be traced in June 1520. If we recall that it was in July that Draco came from Erfurt to pay his visit of homage, it seems quite likely that on his return he may have given to Camerarius the detailed record which the latter has preserved. By that time Erasmus' name was well known in Central Europe. 'Both from Hungary and Bohemia' he says in 1518 'bishops and men of position write to thank me for my New Testament.' Apart from the learned world there were others, too, who must have known him; for a Bohemian translation had just appeared of the new preface to his _Enchiridion_, a preface in which he had written with an almost Lutheran freedom about abuses in the Church, and had extolled the life of simple Christianity. This was a book to appeal at once to the Brethren. Another of his works which may have had its effect in attracting them was the _Julius Exclusus_. This exquisitely witty satire dealt freely with the Pope and his office, the Pope whom the Brethren accounted no more than a simple priest; and though its licence was too bold for Erasmus ever to admit its authorship--indeed, as we have seen, he consistently denied it--, it was attributed to him on all sides, in company with others, his secret being on the whole well kept. The _Julius_ was translated into Bohemian, somewhere about this time: but from the nature of it, a kind of book to which publishers as well as authors were loath to put their names, it cannot be definitely placed. So it was, too, with the _Moria_, which had been translated by Gregory Hruby Gelenski, father of the scholar, Sigismund Gelenius; but of which no contemporary edition survives. If the Brethren had seen Erasmus' final letter to Slechta, they might well have been encouraged to hope much from him. But of this there is no indication. Slechta was hardly likely to communicate it to them; and though such documents often leaked out against the owner's will, its first appearance in print was in 1521, in Erasmus' _Epistolae ad diuersos_. I cannot find any translation into a vernacular except a German version by John Froben of Andernach which appeared at Nuremberg in 1531. Whatever was the motive attraction, the Brethren sent as their envoys, so Camerarius tells us, Nicholas Claudianus, a learned physician, and Laurence Voticius (Woticky), a man of many accomplishments, who died at a good age in 1565--a date, which, if it be not a later interpolation, is an indication as to when Camerarius composed his narrative.[44] They brought with them a copy of their _Apologia_, printed at Nuremberg in 1511--a date which appears to be wrong--and presented it to Erasmus at Antwerp with the request that he would read it through and see if there was anything in it that he would wish to have changed. If that were so, they would readily defer to his criticisms; but if, as they hoped, he approved of what they said, it would be a help and consolation to them if he would express that opinion. [44] L. Camerarius, in his preface, 1 Jan. 1605, describes the book as composed 'more than thirty years ago'. He took the book and said he would be glad to read it; but when after a few days they came for his answer, he told them he had been too busy to do more than glance through it: so far as he had gone, he found no error and nothing that he would wish to alter. He declined, however, to bear testimony about it, as this would bring them no help, and only danger to himself. 'You must not think', he said, 'that any words of mine will bring you support; indeed, my own influence, such as it is, requires the backing of others. If it is true that my writings are of any value to divine and useful learning, it seems to me unwise to jeopardize their influence by proclaiming publicly the agreement between us: such actions might lead to their being condemned and torn from the hands of the public. Forgive me for this caution, you will perhaps call it fear: and be assured that I wish you well and will most gladly help you in other matters.' The envoys were disappointed, Camerarius records, but took his refusal in good part: for they relied not on the judgements of men to be the foundation of their heavenly edifice of truth. The good sense of his words no doubt appealed to them; for the Brethren were above all things moderate men, averse from violence, convinced perhaps by their own experience that a display of courage is unwise when it provokes opposition and raises obstacles to progress. The matter was not, however, allowed to rest. In the same year an appeal on behalf of the Brethren was made to Erasmus from another quarter. One of the features of their movement had been the number of the nobility who had become sympathizers, if not actual members of the community. One of these was Artlebus of Boskowitz, a kinsman perhaps of that 'nobilis virgo, Martha de Boskowitz' whom the Brethren in addressing the King had adduced as one of their supporters. From the castle of Znaim, his official residence as Supreme Captain of Moravia, Artlebus wrote, telling Erasmus of the steady growth of the Brethren, and of the futility of all attempts to withstand their doctrines by argument; and sending him a copy of their Rule, with the request that he would read it and frame thereupon a standard of Christian piety, which all men, including the Brethren, might follow. He turned then to praise Luther for the courageous fight he was making, and urged Erasmus to join with him in sowing the seed of the Gospel. Erasmus' reply, dated 28 Jan. 1521 from Louvain, has no address but 'N. viro praepotenti'; and in consequence its connexion with Artlebus of Boskowitz has escaped notice. As was to be expected, he declined the proposal that he should set up a standard of Christian observance. He might criticize with all freedom the practices of monks and clergy and speak straightly of Papal iniquities: but the standard of the Church was still the life of Christ, and he would not arrogate to himself the right to draw the picture of this anew. He took the opportunity to lament, as he had done to Slechta, the discord prevailing in Bohemia, and to urge that a serious attempt should be made to reconcile the Brethren to the Church. But since his correspondence with Slechta the world had gone forward. Luther had burned the Pope's bull at Wittenberg, and Aleander at Worms was pressing the Diet to annihilate him. Erasmus has less to say to Artlebus in favour of the Brethren than he had said to Slechta: indeed, after the appeal for moderation, he goes no further than to condemn the attitude of the opponents of the Papacy, doubtless intending to include among them the Brethren. About Luther he would give no decided opinion. 'It is absurd how men condemn Luther's books without reading them. Some parts of Luther's writings are good; but parts are not, and over these I skip. If Luther stands by the Catholic Church, I will gladly join him.' Artlebus' reply is not extant; but a sentence in a letter of Erasmus to Wolsey a year later shows that the 'Bohemian Captain' was greatly vexed by the failure of his overtures. This is the last trace of Erasmus' correspondence with Bohemia. But, uncompromising as he had been in his refusal to both appeals, his influence there was only just at its commencement, if we may judge by the list of his works translated into Bohemian, which the Ghent bibliography has brought to light. The translation of his preface to the _Enchiridion_ was followed by his version of the _Saturnalia_ of Lucian (first published in 1517) in 1520; the _Precatio dominica_ (1523) in 1526; his version of the New Testament in 1533; some of the Colloquies in 1534; the _De Ciuilitate_ (1530) in 1537; the Paraphrase on St. Matthew (1522) and the _De puritate Ecclesiae_ (1536) in 1542; the _De immensa Dei misericordia_ (1524) in 1558 and 1573; the _Apophthegmata Graeciae sapientum_ (1514) in 12 editions between 1558 and 1599; the _De praeparatione ad mortem_ (1534) in 1564 and 1786; and the _Vidua Christiana_ (1529) in 1595. The envoys of the Brethren were perhaps wise enough to see that they had much to learn from the man who was courageous enough to preach caution and to let himself appear afraid. * * * * * INDEX Aberdeen University, 103-4. accuracy, new standards of, 258-61. Adrian VI, 107. Agricola, R., 14-21, 25-9, 31, 32, 63. Agrippa, H.C., 143. Aldus, 126, 128, 129, 135-6, 151, 253, 262-3. Aleander, 112, 136, 209, 297. Alexander of Ville-Dieu, 41. alphabetical principle, 43, 47-9. America, 92. Amorbach: Ba., 147-9; Bo., 147-9, 151, 164, 193, 278; Br., 147-51; J., 77, 146-51. Andreas, B., 129. Andrelinus, Faustus, 113, 186. Aquinas, 12, 255. Arnold of Hildesheim, 24. Arthurian legend, 93. Artlebus of Boskowitz, 296-8. Ascham, 156, 208, 256, 266. Asperen, destruction of, 172. astrology, 216-18. Augustinian Canons, reformed, 81; house at Oxford, 117. Balbi, J., 43 seq., 49. Balbus, H., 186, 281. Bartholomew of Cologne, 63-5. Basle, 146. Batt, J., 115-16, 130. Beatus Rhenanus, 154-8, 164, 278; his _Res Germanicae_, 146, 156, 275; extracts from his letters, 195, 210, 267, 268, 273. Beheim, J., of Niklashausen, 220. Benedictines, at Neuss, 70; at Ottobeuren, 86 seq.; at Oxford, 124; reformed, 61-2, 79-85. Bergen, Ant. of, abbot of St. Omer, 165, 176, 205. Bergen, Henry of, bp. of Cambray, 68, 102, 104, 176, 204. Bessel, B., 113. Black Band, 170-5. Bohuslaus of Hassenstein, 281-2. Bondius, J., 92. books, supervision of, by others, 155, 159-61, 187. Boys, H., 103. Brassicanus, J.A., 280. Breslau, 35, 58, 279. Brethren of the Common Life, 69, 75; as teachers, 9, 25-6, 34, 61, 66. Briard, J., 108. Budaeus, 122, 135, 210, 218. Bursfeld reforms, 75, 80. Burgundy, David of, bp. of Utrecht, II; Philip of, bp. of Utrecht, 166. Butzbach, 21, 56-62, 68-79, 113, 201. Camerarius, J., 52, 293, 295. Canterbury; Christchurch, 123-4; pilgrimages to, 209, 228-9. Catholicon, 43-6. Celtis, C., 265, 266, 269. Château-Landon, 81-2. Chezal-Benoît, 83-4. child-marriage, 116. Colet, 117, 127, 128, 130, 138, 141-3, 175, 203, 229. Columbus, F., 280. Complutensian Polyglott, 263. Compostella, 231-2. Cono, J., 147, 151. Copernicus, N., 211. Cracow University, 87. Crete, labyrinth of Minos in, 92. Cues, library at, 30-1. Cusanus, N., 30. Dalaber, A., 217. Dalberg, John of, bp. of Worms, 19, 20, 31, 271. Dederoth, J., 80. Deventer school, 21, 30, 33-6, 39, 60-4, 69, 76; plague at, 27, 34; printers, 63. Dominicans, 43, 52, 88, 146, 147, 238, 249, 290, 291. 'doole', 192. Draco, J., 281, 293. Drolshagen, J., 38. Ebrardus, 36, 39-41. Eck, J., 92. Ellenbog: B., 87, 95-6, 99; J., 87, 96-7, 99; N., 87-101, 209, 210; U., 87, 92, 94-5, 201; U. jun., 87, 94. Emmanuel of Constantinople, 122. Eobanus of Hesse, 278-9. Erasmus, form of name, 39 n.; early life, 11; at school, 21, 11; at Steyn, 66-8; in Paris, 102-5, 114-15, 139-41; in England, 116-17, 130; at Oxford, 117, 128; at Cambridge, 120, 134,137-44; in Italy, 135-7; rumour of death, 145; at Basle, 158-64; death, 164; labours for peace, 164-6; indifferent to Nature, 207-9; uses astrological mug, 218; pilgrimage to Canterbury, 229; appreciations of, 265, 267-8; visitors to, 277-81; relations with the Bohemians, xi. WORKS. _Adagia_, 135-7, 144, 158, 165; _Antibarbari_, 281; compositions in Paris, 115; early poems, 103-4, 132; editions of the Fathers, 163; _Enchiridion_, 293; _Epigrammata_, 280; Jerome, 138-40, 158, 280; _Julius Exclusus_, 184-9, 294; _Moriae Encomium_, 46, 143, 187, 294; New Testament, 11, 140, 158, 160-2, 263-4, 280; Paraphrases, 197; _Querla Pacis_, 166; Seneca, 144, 158-9; translations into Bohemian from, 293-4, 298. Fabri, F., 238-51. families, length of, 202-4. Fernand, C., 82, 84-6, 92, 177; J., 82, 84. Franciscans, 92, 144, 147; at Jerusalem, 238, 245. Frankfort, book-fairs at, 149, 153. Froben, J., 151-3, 158. Gaguin, 84, 102-3, 175. Garland, J., 36-9. Gebwiler, H., 26 n. Geldenhauer, G., 15, 16, 17, 18, 21. Gerard, Cornelius, 82, 165. Germany, national feeling in, 264-75; historical studies in, 268-75. Goswin of Halen, 14, 31-2. Greek, study of, 10, 11, 12, 16, 18, 27-30, 38-41, 43-8, 85, 88, 90, 91, 117, 120, 126, 127, 134, 137, 150, 151, 262-3; manuscripts, 11, 18, 30, 31, 147, 160-1. Grocin, W., 126-9, 263. grossness, 205-6. Grynaeus, S., 160. Gueldres, 61, 165, 170-3. Hebrew, study of, 11, 12, 29, 30, 47, 54, 90, 91, 92, 100, 117, 147, 151, 263. Hegius, 16, 21, 25-30, 34-5, 41-2, 60, 61, 63, 69. Heidelberg University, 11, 20, 28, 87, 97. Helinand, 53. Henry VIII, scholarship of, 184. Herman, W., 21, 104, 165. Hermonymus of Sparta, 122, 134. Huguitio, 45. humanists, attitude towards mediaeval romance, 93; feeling towards Nature, 207-10. Hungarian acrobats, 92. Hus, 58, 179, 282. Hyrde, R., 198. India, religious condition of, 93. interpretations, 114. Irenicus, F., 272-4. Jacobus of Breda, 63. Johannisberg, Abbey of, 59, 60, 72, 74, 76. Jouveneaux, G., 82, 84. Kempis, Thomas à, 10. Koberger, A., 203-4. Kortenhorff, Gutta, 61. Kratzer, N., 142, 197. Kunig, H., 231-2. Laach, 68, 73-81. Langen, R., 21, 23. Lascaris, C., 88, 150. Latimer, W., 126-8. Lily, W., 126, 129. Limburg, burning of, 99. Linacre, 41, 126, 129, 187, 218, 253. Lollhard, 60. London, scholars in, 128, 130. Louvain University, 15, 107-8. Loyola, 245. Luther, 212, 267, 268, 275, 293; at Worms, 179; Erasmus' attitude towards, 186, 298; love of nature, 210. Mammotrectus, 53-5. manuscripts, free lending of, 30, 136, 140-2, 160; free access to, 82, 271. Marchesinus, J., 53. Mary, Princess, 193, 197, 198. Mas, P. du, 83. Mauburn, J., 81-2. medicine, practice of, 218-19. Meghen, P., 141-2. Melanchthon, 212. Merton College, Oxford, ejection of Warden, 176. Milanese rite, 288. morals, 204-5. More, T., 127, 129, 143, 197-8, 205, 229; _Utopia_, 187, 188, 201; matrimonial relations, 194-5; love of Nature, 209. Mormann, F., 25-6. news, dissemination of, 214-16. Oda Jargis, 9, 200. Oporinus, J., 193. Ostendorp, 12, 69. Ottobeuren, 86-101. Paffraet, R., 29, 63. Papias, 46-8, 49. Paris University, 10; lectures at, 104, 112; life in, 112-15, 145, 148-51; Montaigu College, 102; Collège de la Marche, 112, 210. Parr, Katherine, 192. Paston, Sir John, 194, 205. Pavia University, 16. Peasants' Revolt, 99-101. Pellican, C., 92, 147. Peter, name of, 71. Platter, T., 35, 58-9, 154. Poncher, S., 265. Praedinius, R., 31. Prague University, 281. press, early productions of, 254. prisoners, redemption of, 175. proofs, correction of, 159, 187. Quakers, 29, 86, 292. quodlibetical disputations, 105-11. Reading Abbey, 123. Rees, Henry of, 8, 12. Reisch, G., 99, 147. remarriage, 192-5. Reuchlin, 31, 91, 122, 147, 195, 267. Rode, J., 80. Roper, M., 195, 198. Rychard, W., 219. St. Patrick's cave, 92, 226. Santiago de Compostella, 229, 231-2. Sapidus, J., 147, 206. Schinner, M., 219. Schlettstadt, 147, 154, 156-8, 206, 272. schools, books used in, 62-5, 257; numbers of, 154. Selling, W., 123, 141. Serbopoulos, J., 123. Shirwood, J., 124-6. Sion, near Delft, 66, 81. Sixtus IV, 10, 11, 34, 122. Slechta, J., 281-8. Souillac, 177. spelling, uncertainty in, 49-52. Spires, libraries at, 18, 271. Sprenger, 46. Standonck, J., 102, 145. Synthius, _v._ Zinthius. Thomas of Illyria, 219-20. Tournay, dispute over bishopric, 177. Trithemius, 31, 59, 76-8, 214, 269, 273; 'In praise of scribes', 261-2. Trivet, Nic., 50. Turzo, J., 279. Urswick, C., 142. Utraquists, 285, 287, 289, 293. Valla, L., 23, 24, 27, 28, 115, 140-1, 262. Vaudois, 289; crusade against, 180-1. Veere, Lady of, 115, 131. Vienne, Council of, 118, 266. Vincent of Beauvais, 52. visits of ceremony, 276-81. Vrye, A., 22-5, 197, 201-2. Vrye, J., 22. Wesley, J., 13. Wessel, 9-13, 29-32, 200. Wimpfeling, 87, 269. Windesheim, 81. women, seclusion of, 196; education of, 196-200; position of, 200-2. Ximenes, 263. Zinthius, 34, 41-2, 63. Zwingli, 204, 268. Zwolle, 9, 10, 33, 34, 38. * * * * * Transcriber's Note: _text_ represents text that was italicised in original. [=x] represents letter 'x' with macron. [)x] represents letter 'x' with crescent. [Greek: xxx] contains transliteration of Greek in original. 
15084	----	Proofreading Team. THE UNITY SERIES RECENT DEVELOPMENTS IN EUROPEAN THOUGHT _ESSAYS ARRANGED AND EDITED_ BY F.S. MARVIN AUTHOR OF 'THE LIVING PAST', ETC. 'To hope till Hope creates From its own wreck the thing it contemplates.' _Prometheus Unbound._ HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORK TORONTO MELBOURNE CAPE TOWN BOMBAY 1920 PRINTED IN ENGLAND AT THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS PREFACE This volume, like its two predecessors, arises from a course of lectures delivered at a Summer School at Woodbrooke, near Birmingham, in August, 1919. The first, in 1915, dealt with 'The Unity of Western Civilization' generally, the second, in 1916, with 'Progress'. In this book an attempt has been made to trace the same ideas in the last period of European history, broadly speaking since 1870. It was felt at the conclusion of the course that the point of view was so enlightening and offered so many opportunities of useful further study that it should, if possible, be resumed in future years. A large number of subjects were suggested--'The Relations of East and West,' 'The Duty of Advanced to Backward Peoples,' 'The Rôle of Science in Civilization,' &c.--all containing the same elements of 'progress in unity' which have inspired the previous volumes. It was thought that possibly for the next session 'World Reconstructions Past and Present' might be most appropriate. If any reader feels moved by interest or sympathy with the general idea to send suggestions, either as to possible places of meeting, or topics for treatment or any other kindred matter, they would be welcomed either by the Editor or by Edwin Gilbert, Woodbrooke, Selly Oak, Birmingham. F.S.M. BERKHAMSTED, _December, 1919._ [** Transcriber's Note: This text contains a single instance of a character with a diacritical mark. The character is a lower-case 'r' with a caron (v-shaped symbol) above it. In the text, that character is depicted thusly: [vr] **] CONTENTS PAGE I. GENERAL SURVEY 7 By F.S. MARVIN. II. PHILOSOPHY 25 By Professor A.E. TAYLOR, St. Andrews. III. RELIGION 65 By Dr. F.B. JEVONS, Hatfield Hall, Durham. IV. POETRY 91 By Professor C.H. HERFORD, Manchester. V. HISTORY 140 By G.P. GOOCH. VI. POLITICAL THEORY 164 By A.D. LINDSAY, Balliol College, Oxford. VII. ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT 181 1. THE INDUSTRIAL SCENE, 1842 181 2. MINING OPERATIONS 195 3. THE SPIRIT OF ASSOCIATION 209 By C.R. FAY, Christ's College, Cambridge. VIII. ATOMIC THEORIES 216 By Professor W.H. BRAGG, F.R.S. IX. BIOLOGY SINCE DARWIN 229 By Professor LEONARD DONCASTER, F.R.S. X. ART 247 By A. CLUTTON BROCK. XI. A GENERATION OF MUSIC 262 By Dr. ERNEST WALKER, Balliol College, Oxford. XII. THE MODERN RENASCENCE 293 By F. MELIAN STAWELL. I GENERAL SURVEY F.S. MARVIN We are trying in this book to give some impression of the principal changes and developments of Western thought in what might roughly be called 'the last generation', though this limit of time has been, as it must be, treated liberally. From the political point of view the two most impressive milestones, events which will always mark for the consciousness of the West the beginning and the end of a period, are no doubt the war of 1870 and the Great War which has just ended. From 1870 to 1914 would therefore be the most obvious delimitation of our study; and it is a striking illustration of human paradox, that a great stage in the growth of unity should be marked by two international tragedies and crowned by the most terrible of all. Nearly coincident with the political divisions there are important landmarks in the history of thought. During the 'sixties, while the power of Prussia was rising to its culmination in the Franco-Prussian War, the Darwinian theory of development was gaining command in biology. To many thinkers there has appeared a clear connexion between that biological doctrine and the 'imperialism', Teutonic and other, which was so marked a feature of the time. In any case 'post-Darwinian' might well describe the scientific thought of the age we have in view. Industrially the epoch is as clearly defined as it is in politics and science. For in 1871, the year of the Treaty of Frankfort, an act was passed after a long working-class agitation, assisted by certain eminent members of the middle class, legalizing strikes and Trade Unions. And now at the end of the war, all over the world, society is faced by the problem of reconciling the full rights, and in some cases the extreme demands, of 'labour', with democratic government and the prosperity and social union of the whole community. This is the situation discussed in our seventh and eighth chapters. In philosophy and literature a similar dividing line appears. In the 'sixties Herbert Spencer was publishing the capital works of his system. The _Principles of Psychology_ was published in 1872. This 'Synthetic Philosophy' has proved up to the present the last attempt of its kind, and with the vast increase of knowledge since Spencer's day it might well prove the last of all such syntheses carried out by a single mind. Specialism and criticism have gained the upper hand, and the fresh turn to harmony, which we shall notice later on, is rather a harmony of spirit than an encyclopaedic unity such as the great masters of system from Descartes to Comte and Spencer had attempted before. In literature also the dates agree. Dickens, most typical of all early Victorians, died in 1870. George Eliot's last great novel, _Daniel Deronda_, was published in 1876. Victor Hugo's greatest poem, _La Légende des Siècles_, the imaginative synthesis of all the ages, appeared in the 'seventies. There have been many writers since, with Tolstoi perhaps at their head, in whom the fire of moral enthusiasm has burnt as keenly, nor have the borders of human sympathy been narrowed. Yet one cannot fail to note a less pervading and ready confidence in human nature, a less fervent belief that the good must prevail if good men will only follow their better leading. Here then is our period, marked in public affairs by a progress from one conflict, desperate and tragic, between two of the leading nations of the West, to another and still more terrible which swept the whole world into the maelstrom; and marked in thought by a certain dispersion and depression of mind, a falling in the barometer of temperament and imagination, but also by a grappling with realities at closer quarters. No wonder that some have seen here a 'tragedy of hope' and the 'bankruptcy of science'. But it must be noted at once that these obvious landmarks, though striking, are in themselves superficial. They require explanation rather than give it, and in some cases an explanation, much less tragic than the symptom, is suggested by the symptom itself. We may at least fairly treat them at starting simply as beacon-hills to mark out the country we are traversing. We have to go deeper to find out the nature of the soil, and travel to the end to study the vista beyond. In making this fuller analysis of man's recent achievement, especially in the West, the first, and perhaps ultimately the weightiest, element we have to note is the continued and unexampled growth of science. Was there ever a more fertile period than the generation which succeeded Darwin's achievement in biology and Bunsen's and Kirchhoff's with the spectroscope? Both have created revolutions, one in our view of living things, the other in our view of matter. In physics the whole realm of radio-activity has come into our ken within these years, and during the same time chemistry, both organic and inorganic, has been equally enlarged. All branches of science in fact show a similar expansion, and a new school of mathematicians claim that they have recast the foundations of the fundamental science and assimilated it to the simplest laws of all thinking. Some discussion of this will be found in the chapter on philosophy. It may serve as tonic--an antidote to that depression of spirits of which we have spoken--to consider that such an output of mental energy, rewarded by such a harvest of truth, is without precedent in man's evolution. No single generation before ever learnt so much not only of the world around it but also of the doings of previous generations. For since 1870 we have been living in an age as much distinguished for historical research as for natural science. If mankind is now to go down in a wrack of war, starvation, bankruptcy, and ruin, the sunset sky at least is glorious. And there is tonic in another thought which rises from the very nature of this recent blossoming of knowledge. It marks the growing co-operative activity of mankind. The fact that science and research of every kind have advanced so rapidly is not only, or even primarily, a proof of the continued vigour of the human intellect, but of the stability of society, the coherence of social classes and nations, the readiness of the bulk of men to allow their more immediately productive work to be used for the support of those whose labours are in a more remote and ideal sphere. Science did not begin until the ancient priesthoods were enabled to pursue disinterested inquiries without the need of earning their daily bread. Civilization, we may be assured, is not threatened in its most vital part so long as the general will permits the application of the general resources to the promotion of learning and research without a claim for immediate marketable results. Our last generation has not only permitted but has encouraged this in all Western countries, and in other countries, such as China and Japan, influenced by the West. The money thus spent is vastly greater than in any equal period before, and the United States, the land of the fullest democratic claims, is also the land of the amplest generosity for scientific and educational purposes. The growth of knowledge is a symptom not only of the collective capacity of living man but also of the continuity of the present age with those which had laid the earlier foundations. One school of vigorous action, and still more vigorous talk, advises our generation to be done with the past and make a fresh start on more ideal lines. This is not the voice of science, which, just in proportion to its growth, has shown more and more care for its origins and its past: and this is true at every stage in the history of thought. The Greeks, fighting for freedom and establishing in the city-state a new form of political organization for the world, were yet in their scientific evolution true and grateful successors of the priests who first compiled the observations necessary for the scientific study of the heavens and founded the art of medicine. The men of the Renascence, who were burnt and imprisoned for doubting the verbal inspiration of Aristotle and the Bible, were in fact going back to an earlier impulse than that of the scholastic philosophy. The mathematics of Pappus and the mechanics of Archimedes had to be carried further before the new sciences of which Aristotle had given the first sketch could be securely founded. The pioneers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries built therefore on the past, although accused of impiety and revolution; and it must be so with any intellectual construction which is to hold its own and form the future. So far from there being any opposition in nature between history and science, the two are but different aspects of one continuous enlargement of the human spirit, which sees and lives more fully at each great moment of its progress, and, so far as it is alive, is always informed by the real achievements of the past. We illustrate this advance in the marvellous record of our fifth chapter, and its spirit is summed up in the great saying of Benedetto Croce that 'all history is contemporary history'. But the reader may here begin not unnaturally to feel some impatience with the argument, and to think that he is being carried into a region of ideal imaginings quite out of touch with the realities of blood and hatred and starvation with which we have been actually surrounded at the end of our period. It is well to be thus sharply reminded of the contrariety of facts, when we are sailing smoothly along on the current of any theory, whether of education or politics, religion or art. To get right with our objector, to set our sail so that the rocks in the stream may not completely wreck us, we will go back to the point where we were insisting on the obvious truth that the collective resources and capacity of mankind have of late enormously increased. The material fruits of science are among our most familiar wonders--the motor-car, the aeroplane, wireless telegraphy. But it is not sufficiently realized how all these things and the like are dependent upon the co-operation of a multitude of minds, the collective rather than the individual capacity of man. Men had dreamt for ages of flying, but it was not until the invention of the internal combustion engine that bird-like wings and the mechanical skill of man could be brought together and made effective. It is Humanity that flies, and not the individual man alone. The German Daimler, the French Levassor, are the two names which stand out most prominently in this later development of engineering as our own Watt and Stephenson stand in the history of the steam-engine. Wireless telegraphy offers a similar story. Faraday, Maxwell, Hertz, Lodge, Marconi; the names are international. In 1913, before ever the League of Nations had been planned, Lord Bryce was telling an International Congress in London that 'the world is becoming one in an altogether new sense.... More than four centuries ago the discovery of America marked the first step in the process by which the European races have gained dominion over nearly the whole earth. As the earth has been narrowed through the new forces science has placed at our disposal, the movements of politics, of economics, and of thought, in each of its regions, become more closely interwoven. Whatever happens in any part of the globe has now a significance for every other part. World History is tending to become one History.' The war, tragically as it has shaken this growing oneness of mankind, has not destroyed it. In some ways it has even stimulated growth. Against a background of blood and fire the League of Nations has been forced into actual being, and the long isolation alike of the ancient East and the youthful West has been broken down at last. Within the State, again, even allowing for all setbacks, the efforts at social solidarity have on the whole been strengthened, not weakened. This war his been an accelerator of, not, as the Napoleonic, a brake upon, reform. Many reforms, especially in England, which had been long discussed and partly attempted before the war, were carried out with dispatch at its close. This was the case with education, with the franchise and with measures affecting the health, the housing, and the industrial conditions of the people. And there is now a greater and stronger demand among us for a further advance, above all for making every citizen not merely or even primarily a voting unit, but a consciously active, consciously co-operative, member of the community. Comte, who died in 1857 just before our period, was perhaps the clearest voice in Europe to herald both movements: the advance to international unity, and social reform within the State. It was he who, under the title of _Western Republic_, proclaimed the existence of a real unity of nations, whose business it was to strengthen themselves as a moral force, to act as trustees for the weaker people and lead the world. It was he who, in the phrase 'incorporation of the proletariate', summed up all those social reforms in which we are immersed, which aim at making every citizen a full member of his nation. Like all ideals it was far easier to conceive and to respect than to foresee or to secure the necessary means to put it into effect. Perhaps the perfect symmetry of the plan, the over-sanguine hopes of the man who framed it, have even proved some hindrance to its rapid spread. It has seemed, like Dante's polity in the _De Monarchia_, to take its place rather among the utopias than the practical schemes of reform, and when men saw the infinite complexity of the problems and met the living lions in the path, they suffered the comparative depression which we have noticed as a feature of the age. Here indeed it would appear that we have reached one of the most serious cross-currents in recent European thought. In science, in philosophy, in politics, and in social economics, though we see the goal at least in outline, we are in some danger of being overwhelmed by the difficulties of the pursuit. Our vision is somewhat clouded and our steps hampered by the entangling details of the country between. It is substantially the same problem which faces us both in the philosophical and the practical sphere, and the analogy between the two is instructive. Spencer's synthesis, which we instanced as the last encyclopaedic attempt to present all knowledge--at least all scientific knowledge--in one system, has been riddled fore and aft by hostile shot, though in the end more of it may be found to have survived than is seen at present above water. The philosopher who in our generation has acquired the European vogue most comparable to that of Spencer is Bergson. Now Bergson has dealt some of the shrewdest blows at Spencer's system, but he does not set out to construct a rival system of his own. He is most careful to say that he is not doing this, that any such work must be done by later workers, that he is only making suggestions for a new point of view. It is interesting to note in general terms what that point of view is, as we shall have occasion later on to revert to it. It rests on a new interpretation of the nature and growth of conscious life. He is in short a _semeur d'idées-force_ rather than an encyclopaedist or a system-maker. The difference is characteristic of the age and might be traced in the other contemporary schools, the pragmatists, the new realists, and the rest. The new Descartes is looked for but not announced. Perhaps when he arrives he will prove to be a whole army and not a single man. But if an army, it will need a better co-ordination, a more clearly defined common spirit, than is at present apparent in the philosophic hosts. A similar perplexity in the practical sphere has a similar cause but a graver urgency. The multiplicity and contrariety of the facts are upon us as we face in practice the ideals which we have accepted from the earlier thinkers, from the century of hope. In science and philosophy we feel that the cause of unity may with some safety be left to look after itself. If the new Descartes does not appear in person, we may have confidence that plenty of inferior substitutes will be found, who, if they work together, will keep alive the great task of unifying thought. For in this region the nature of things assists our efforts and will sooner or later get the work done. The stars in their courses are fighting for us and for unity. But in the world of wills the task is tenfold more difficult and the dangers imminent. The poor and labouring millions, the oppressed and dissatisfied nations, are forcing the door, and though there is fair agreement in theory as to how they should live and work together in peace, yet the realization is by no means automatic, and the difficulties thicken as we come nearer to them. But even here, perhaps most of all here, it is the first word of wisdom to take stock of the favourable symptoms, to see clearly the forces on which we can rely in our forward march. And they are not far to seek in all classes and in every Western land. Read any account of an English community in the early nineteenth century, say George Eliot's 'Milby' in the _Scenes of Clerical Life_. How far more humane, more enlightened, and happier is the state of the succeeding community, the Nuneaton or Coventry of the present day! No question but the novelist would have welcomed as a convincing proof of her 'meliorist' doctrine the progress made in her own homeland in the century since her birth. We know by personal experience the general kindliness and cheerfulness of our fellow citizens, their tolerance, their readiness to hope, their prevalent orderliness and self-restraint. We are thinking perhaps of a certain tendency to slackness, a dangerous falling-off in the output of work. If that be so, we need only look at the activities of any playground, or of a class-room in a well-ordered school, to be sure of the future. The natural man, at least in our temperate climates, and as exhibited in the behaviour of his natural progenitor, the child, is all for vigour and experiment. It is we, the adult community, the trustees of the child, who are to blame if his maturity fails of the eager questioning and the untiring labours of his unspoilt youth. But we are dealing in this volume rather with changes of thought than with the actual life of the times. Theories affecting the organization of work, the distribution of the product, and the government of society have had much to do with our present difficulties. They have arisen from the conditions of the industrial revolution and the doctrines of the political revolution which began about the same time, and they have reacted ever since on the work and wages, the life and government of the mass of Western men. They are discussed in our eighth chapter. It may be said broadly that in this sphere, as in philosophy, the old and _simpliste_ doctrines have been criticized almost to the point of extinction, but that no new all-embracing practical synthesis has taken their place. The Marxian theory that social evolution has been due mainly to economic causes, that these have produced inevitably the present--or recent--capitalist system, which inevitably must be turned upside down in the interests of manual labour--this is no longer dominant in any Western community, though it is fighting a desperate battle in Eastern Europe. But it is equally true that the capitalist system, presented in an ideal and moralized form in the Utopias of St. Simon and Comte, is not generally accepted now as an ideal for industry. The spirit which Comte desired and believed would animate the moralized employer, acting as the providence of his workpeople, we look to find rather in a reconstituted and moralized State. We all share this hope in our degree, _The Times_ as well as the _Daily News_, and we do not expect the new spirit to operate simply through the free-will and private capacity and initiative of individuals. The joint stock company has settled that. What we are waiting and hoping for is the time when, under the aegis of a benevolent State, capital and labour may live together in many mansions and, like the monks of old, follow many rules of life. In this region our ideal of unity is more diversified than in the realm of thought, and there is no demand for a Descartes. And here it is interesting to note that one of the most telling books on social reconstruction published since the war is by an international writer. This is Dr. Walther Rathenau, a German of Jewish descent, whose ideas have just been popularized by a Frenchman, M. Gaston Raphael[1]. He fits in well with our general argument by virtue of his double attitude, holding, on the one hand, that under the general supervision of the State, industry should be organized in various self-governing groups, 'Social Guilds' or 'professional syndicates' in which both employers and workmen would be included with representatives of the Government; while, on the other hand, he is emphatic that progress must proceed from a changed and widening mentality, and aim in turn at increasing the depth and capacity of the individual soul. Our book has no special chapter on the League of Nations itself. The idea pervades the whole, and the subject was treated in detail in the first volume of this series (_The Unity of Western Civilization_, 1915). The history behind the League offers a striking analogy to the other struggles for unity of which we have spoken. There is the same advance from the idea of a unity dictated and controlled by one mind to a unity of spirit arising from the free co-operation of many diverse elements all aiming at the same general good. Down even to yesterday it seemed to many minds a necessary condition that one man, gathering in his hands the resources of one great State, should from that centre dominate the world. And in the dawn of human history it was no doubt often true, the only way in which the world could then advance. This was true for Alexander, the prototype of all the Roman conquerors, and true, conspicuously, for the Roman empire at its best. But, after the break-up of the empire, unity of this type became a delusive mirage, misleading all who, like the Holy Roman emperors, sought to enjoy it again. By the time of Napoleon it had become an anachronism of the most dangerous and reactionary kind. The world was then too vast, the freedom of men and nations too various and deeply rooted. Meanwhile a real unity, stronger than before, had been forming beneath the surface and needed fresh institutions to body it forth. This movement for unity has been, as we have seen, precipitated by the war into visible and decisive action. It had been simmering for three hundred years in 'Great Designs', 'Projects of Peace', Treaties of Arbitration, and Hague Conventions. Among much that is doubtful in the future of the League, one thing stands out as a capital certainty. Without losing the very spirit of its being it can never become a satellite system, revolving round one dominant Power or even a dominant clique. It was formed to contradict and destroy an oppressive imperialism: it can only thrive by the free co-operation of the partners, finding their proper end in a prosperity shared by all. Such is a short summary of some of the leading topics treated here, those perhaps in which public interest has been most keenly aroused. But nothing has been said in this introduction of Art or Music, and of Religion only a little by implication. It may be well in conclusion to attempt a still more summary impression of the main drift of the period on the spiritual side. We may in such a wider view see some common tendency in all these activities, some inspiration of religion, some link with art, some impulse to live strongly and to hope. The present writer would find this leading thread in the increasing stress laid by recent European thought on the spiritual, or psychological, side of every problem, in the growing desire to understand the character of man's own nature and to develop all the powers of his soul. One of the latest authorities[2] on anthropology has told us that 'to develop soul is progress', and he has followed the clue through the meagre relics of Palaeolithic and Neolithic man. So does the last science of the nineteenth century throw light on the dim recesses of the past. For unquestionably psychology is the characteristic science added to the hierarchy in our period; it has crowned biology and is exercising a profound influence on philosophy, literature, and even politics. If Aristotle was its founder, if it was Descartes who first showed its profound connexion with philosophy, it is to workers in our own day that we must look for those methods of accurate observation, comparison, and the study of causes without which it could not advance farther. And modern psychology has advanced far enough to see that we must include in its purview the 'soul' of a minnow as well as of a man. Descartes had stopped too short, for to him animal life, as distinct from human, showed only the movements of automata. But now, just as the biologist conceives man as part of one infinite order of living things, so the psychologist believes that the facts of his consciousness, the crown of life, must find their place somewhere related to the simplest movements of the amoeba. Hence the whole of animate evolution, and not only that part of which Dr. Marett spoke, may be thought of as the growth of soul. But, the objector will inquire, does this imply the enlargement of every individual or even of the average or the typical personality? And if not, what becomes of a 'growth of the soul'? To this we must admit the impossibility of any complete, or even approximate, answer with our present knowledge. We can only note one or two points of certainty or of confident belief. The first, that there have been individual men, an Aristotle or a Shakespeare, in the past, with whom later ages never have, and perhaps never may, compare. The second, that there are good grounds for thinking that the average man has improved in goodness and in knowledge since we first knew him dimly in the dawn of history. But more important and more certain is the fact that the collective soul of man has grown, and all the extensions of knowledge and of power of which our volume speaks bear witness to it. They are essentially social in origin and outlook, and rest on a foundation of common thought immeasurably wider than any in the more distant past. The man of science, the statesman, even the poet, now speaks for a multitude, and out of a multitudinous consciousness, which had not gathered to support, to inspire, or to weigh down, an Aristotle, a Pericles, a Cromwell. This is a dominating fact from which it is well to take our start. Assuredly the soul of mankind has been collectively enlarged and enriched. How far the individual can share in this enlargement is still one of the problems of the future. The West has committed itself to a general policy of education which aims at making every citizen a full partaker in the advance of the race. But it cannot be said that this policy has yet been really tried. It is the acknowledged ideal to which in all Western countries partial steps have been taken, and the democracy, through their most enlightened leaders, will continue to press for its fulfilment. As this approaches, the individual may become more and more in his degree the microcosm which philosophers have proclaimed him, and the enlargement of the soul, which we know to be a fact for humanity, will become a fact for every man. Need we doubt that with the general raising in the level new eminences will appear? Do not great mountains sometimes rise from the sea and sometimes from the high plateau? We are now in the very midst of a struggle for settlement and incorporation, which, as it is accomplished, should prepare the way for new excellences of every kind. What may not be hoped of men if once they learn to live with their fellows? And they can only so learn by studying them. This is felt by all contemporary writers from Bergson in philosophy to Graham Wallas in politics. Poets and novelists, above all, have turned more and more to problems of the inner life. The novelists who ushered in our age are significant of this, and none more so than George Eliot, whose work, though somewhat out of fashion for the moment, is yet marked by the transition from Victorian complacency to modern unrest and modern hopes. Full of love and appreciation for the old order in England--the contentment and humours of the country-side, the difference of classes, the respect for religion--she was carried by the evolutionary philosophy of her time into thoughts of an eternal and world-wide order, the growth of humanity, the kinship of man with the universe, the social nature of duty. Her contribution was essentially psychological; she enlarged our knowledge of the soul. She showed us, not certainly more living types than Scott or Dickens, but more play of motives, more varied interests in life, more mental crises. The soul, above all the woman's soul, had widened its horizon between Flora Macdonald and Dorothea Brooke. Every reader will think of famous novelists who have followed the same broadening path, and their work is often really great as well as famous. The history of thought has in fact throughout the last century been a commentary on those words of Keats to which many of us have turned of late for comfort and inspiration: 'The world is not a vale of tears, but a vale of soul-making.' Tears there are in abundance, as the tears of children. But sorrow is not the leading note of children, nor should it be of humanity in growth. Soul-making--the practice and the theory--has become more and more clearly and consciously the object of human thought and endeavour. We need the greater mind to see the links in the overwhelming mass of science, in the mazes of human action and history. We need it still more to grasp and to preserve the unity of our social life. Most of all for the healing of the world is the greater soul needed, with a world-consciousness, some knowledge, some sympathy, some hope for all mankind. Without this, a league of nations would be dead before its birth. The recent development of psychology, social as well as individual, its pursuit on scientific lines, and its alliance with biology, suggest one thought which applies generally to an age of science and may be found to throw some illumination even on the future. Which of all types of modern men is the most habitually hopeful, the man of letters, the politician, the business man, or the man of science? There can be no question of the answer. The typical man of science is sure of the greatness and solidity of the work he shares, and confident that the future will extend and make still more beneficial its results. His forward glance is more assured because the backward reveals a course of growing strength and continuous ascent. The physicist foresees unmeasured sources of energy, still untapped. He warns us of our dangers, but has no doubt that, with due foresight, we may overcome them, and make the reign of man upon the planet wider and firmer than before. The doctor knows no disease which may not in time yield to scientific treatment. The agricultural expert foresees, and can produce, new types of grain and fruit which will surpass the best yet known. And the trainer of youth, the man to whom the new science of psychology stands most in stead, is the most hopeful of them all. Dealing with human nature in its growth he puts no limits to its powers of goodness and activity. He deplores the want of wise methods in the past, and if he errs at all it is in an excess of optimism, in believing that with new methods we may make a new man. On this enlargement of the soul, enlightened by science, we build the future. It is the crowning vision of the modern world, first sketched by Descartes, filled out and strengthened by the life and thought of three hundred years. In the interval we have lived much and learnt much, both of our own nature and of the world in which we live. In our own age a powerful stimulus has been given by a transformed biology and a new science which shows the soul itself in growth from an immemorial past, moulding the future by its own action, surmounting, while assimilating, the mechanism which surrounds it. But for this building two things are needed. One, that our souls, as builders, shall act as one with all our fellows and strive for unity as well as power. The other, that in the building the laws of growth shall be followed, which science has already revealed in part and will reveal more fully. For the spirit of science is the spirit of hope. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: _Walther Rathenau. Ses Idées et ses Projets d'Organisation Économique_. By Gaston Raphael (Paris: Payot, 4f. 50 c).] [Footnote 2: R.R. Marett in _Progress and History_ (Oxford University Press).] II PHILOSOPHY PROFESSOR A.E. TAYLOR Between forty and fifty years ago a great European man of science, Emil du Bois-Reymond, delivered before an audience of the leading scientific men of Germany a famous discourse on _The Limits of our Knowledge of Nature_, which he followed up some years later with a second discourse on the _Seven Riddles of the Universe_. His object was to convince the materialists of the 'seventies that there were at least seven such unsound places in _their_ story of everything. Some of the 'riddles', he admitted, might prove to be soluble as science advances, but the most important of them will always remain unanswered. Our position as regards them will always be _ignoramus et ignorabimus_--we do not know the solutions and we never shall know them. I do not ask now whether du Bois-Reymond was right in his judgement or not. If he was right, that means, of course, that the one tale of everything will never be told by human lips to human ears. There will no more ever be a finally true Philosophy than there will ever be a finally perfect poem or picture or symphony. But there is no reason why we should not, at any rate, try to make our story as nearly perfect as we can, to reduce the number of the places where we have to break off with 'that is another story', and perhaps even to hazard a 'wide solution' in matters where absolute certainty is beyond our reach. This is the work of human Philosophy as I conceive it, and every man who is disinterestedly trying, without one eye on wealth or fame or domination over the minds of others, to make any contribution, however humble, to the telling of this one story or the removal of loose threads from it, is inspired by the true spirit of Philosophy. Whoever is doing anything else, no matter under what name or with what profit or renown to himself, is no true philosopher. This point of view implies, it will be seen, no sharp dividing line between Philosophy and Science. The avoidance of this commonly made distinction may offend two different sets of students--students of metaphysics who wish to exalt their own pursuit at the expense of the 'special' sciences, and students of natural science who are accustomed to pride themselves on the contrast between the finality and definiteness of their own results and the vagueness and dubiousness of the conclusion of the metaphysicians. But I must avow my own conviction that the only distinction we can make is one of convenience, and it may help to make my peace with both parties if I explain where I take this distinction of convenience to come in. If we are ever to construct an approximation to the one story of everything, clearly one result will consist of a relatively few first principles and a great mass of conclusions which can be inferred from them. And clearly again, since men differ so widely in their mental aptitudes, some men will be most successful in the detection of the principles which underlie all our knowledge, and others most successful in the accumulation of facts and the detailed working out of the application of the principles to the facts. For convenience' sake it will be well that some of us shall be engaged on the discovery of principles which are so very ultimate that most men take them for granted without reflecting on them at all, and others on the work of detail. Further, it will be convenient that, within this second group, various students shall give their attention to more special masses of detail, according to their several tastes and aptitudes, some to the behaviour of moving particles, some to the behaviour of living organisms, some again to the structure and institutions of human societies, and so on. For convenience we may agree to call preoccupation with the great ultimate principles Philosophy and preoccupation with the application of the principles to masses of special facts Science. If we make the distinction in this way, we shall be following pretty closely the lines of historical development along which 'special' sciences have gradually been constituted. When we go back far enough in the history of human thought, we find that originally, among the great Greeks who have taught the world to think, there was no distinction at all between Science and Philosophy. Men like Plato and Aristotle were busied at once with the discovery of the first principles on which all our knowledge depends and with the construction of a satisfactory theory of the planetary motions or of the facts of growth and reproduction. As the study of special questions was pursued further, it became advisable to hand over the treatment of first one and then another group of closely interconnected questions to students who would pursue them independently of research into ultimate presuppositions. This is how Geometry, Astronomy, Biology came, in ancient times, to be successively detached from general Philosophy. The separation of Psychology--the detailed study of the processes of mental life--from Philosophy hardly goes back beyond the days of our fathers, and the separation of such studies as 'sociology' from general Philosophy may be said to belong quite definitely to our own time. If our children have leisure for study at all, no doubt they will see the process carried much further. But it is important to bear in mind that neither Philosophy in the narrower sense nor Science in the narrower sense will be fruitfully prosecuted unless the men who are working at each understand that their own labours are only part of a single undivided work. Without a genuine grasp of some department of detailed facts no man is likely to achieve much in the search for principles, for it is by analysis of facts that principles are to be found, and without real insight into broad general principles the worker in detail is likely to achieve nothing but confusion. The antagonism between 'philosophers' and 'men of science' so characteristic of the last half of the nineteenth century has been productive of nothing but evil. It has given us 'philosophers' whose knowledge about the facts with which serious thinking has to deal has been hopelessly inaccurate; it has also given us 'men of science' who have been 'ageometretes' and have, by consequence, when forced to offer some account of first principles, taken refuge in the wildest and weirdest improvisation. For really fruitful work we need the union in one person of the 'man of science' and the 'philosopher', or at least the most intimate co-operation between the two. Our theories of first principles require to be constantly revised, purified, and quickened by contact with knowledge of detailed fact; and our representations of fact call for constant restatement in terms of a system of more and more thoroughly thought-out postulates or first principles. This is perhaps why the department of human knowledge in which the last half-century has seen the most remarkable advances is just that in which unremitting scrutiny of principles has gone most closely hand-in-hand with the mastery of fresh masses of detail, pure mathematics, and again why the present state of what is loosely called 'evolutionary' science is so unsatisfactory to any one who has a high ideal of what a science ought to be. It exhibits at once an enormous mass of detailed information and an apparently hopeless vagueness about the meaning of the 'laws' by which all this detail is to be co-ordinated, the reasons for thinking these laws true, and the precise range of their significance. The work of men like Cantor, Dedekind, Frege, Whitehead, Russell, is providing us with an almost unexceptional theory of the first principles required for pure mathematics. We are already in a position to say with almost complete freedom from uncertainty what undefined simple notions and undemonstrated postulates we have to employ in the science and to express these ultimates without ambiguity. 'Evolutionary science,' rich as is its information about the details of the processes going on in the organic world, seems still to await its Frege or Russell. It talks, for example, much of 'hereditary' and non-hereditary peculiarities, and some of us can remember a time when our friends among the biologists seemed almost ready to put each other to the sword for differences of opinion about the inheritability of certain characteristics; but no one seems to trouble himself much with the question a philosopher would think most important of all--precisely what is meant by the metaphor of 'inheritance' when it is applied to the facts of biology. (Indeed, it is still quite fashionable to talk not merely as if a 'character' were, like a house or an orchard, a _thing_ which can be transferred bodily from the possession of a parent to the possession of the offspring, but even as though an 'heir' could 'inherit' himself.) This last remark leads me to a further consideration. Science and Philosophy are alike created by the simple determination to be _thorough_ in our thinking about the problems which all things and events present to us, to use no terms whose meaning is ambiguous, to assert no propositions as true until we are satisfied that they are either directly apprehended as true, or strictly deducible from other propositions which are thus apprehended. But now that the area of facts open to our exploration has become far too vast for a modern Francis Bacon to 'take all knowledge for his province', and convenience has led to the distinction between the philosopher and the man of science, a _practical_ distinction between the two makes its appearance. It is _convenient_ that our knowledge of detail should be steadily extended by considering the consequences which follow from a given set of postulates without waiting for the solution of the more strictly philosophical questions whether our postulates have been reduced to the simplest and most unambiguous expression, whether the list might not be curtailed by showing that some of its members which have been accepted on their own merits can be deduced from the rest, or again enlarged by the express addition of principles which we have all along been using without any actual formulation of them. The point may be illustrated by considering the set of 'postulates' explicitly made in the geometry of Euclid. We cannot be said to have made geometry thoroughly scientific until we know whether the traditional list of postulates is complete, whether some of the traditional postulates might not be capable of demonstration, and whether geometry as a science would be destroyed by the denial of one or more of the postulates. But it would be very undesirable to suspend examination of the consequences which follow from the Euclidean postulates until we have answered all these questions. Even in pure mathematics one has, in the first instance, to proceed tentatively, to venture on the work of drawing inferences from what seem to be plausible postulates before one can pass a verdict on the merits of the postulates themselves. The consequence of this tentative character of our inquiries is that, so far as there is a difference between Philosophy and Science at all, it is a difference in _thoroughness_. The more philosophic a man's mind is, the less ready will he be to let an assertion pass without examination as obviously true. Thus Euclid makes a famous assumption--the 'parallel-postulate'--which amounts to the assertion that if three of the angles of a rectilinear quadrilateral are right angles, the fourth will be a right angle. The mathematicians of the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, again, generally assumed that if a function is continuous it can always be differentiated. A comparatively unphilosophical mind may let such plausible assertions pass unexamined, but a more philosophical mind will say to itself, when it comes across them, 'You great duffer, aren't you going to ask _Why_?' Suppose that, by way of experiment, I assume that the fourth angle of my quadrilateral will be acute, or again obtuse, will the body of conclusions I can now deduce from my set of postulates be free from contradictions or not? If I really give my mind to the task, cannot I define a continuous function which is _not_ differentiable? The raising of the first question led in fact to the discovery of what is called 'non-Euclidean' geometry, the raising of the second has banished from the text-books of the Calculus the masses of bad reasoning which long made that branch of mathematics a scandal to logic and led distinguished philosophers--Kant among them--to suspect that there are hopeless contradictions in the very foundations of mathematical science. Now, the effect of such careful scrutiny of first principles is not, of course, to upset any conclusions which have been correctly drawn from a set of premisses. All that happens is that the conclusion is no longer asserted by itself as a truth; what is asserted is that the conclusion is true _if_ the premisses are true. Thus we no longer assert the 'theorem of Pythagoras' as a categorical proposition; what we assert is that the theorem follows as a consequence from the assertion of some half-dozen ultimate postulates which will be found on analysis to be the premisses of Euclid's proof of his forty-seventh proposition. To come back to the point I wish to illustrate. The peculiarity of the philosopher is simply that he still goes on to 'wonder' and ask _Why_ when other persons are ready to leave off. He is less contented than other men to take things for granted. Of course, he knows that, in the end, you cannot get away from the necessity of taking something for granted, but he is anxious to take for granted as few things as possible, and when he has to take something for granted, he is exceptionally anxious to know exactly what that something is. De Morgan tells a story of a very pertinacious controversialist who, being asked whether he would not at least admit that 'the whole is greater than the part', retorted, 'Not I, until I see what use you mean to make of the admission.' I am not sure whether De Morgan quotes this as an ensample for our following or as a warning for our avoidance, but to my own mind it is an excellent specimen of the philosophic temper. Until you know what use is going to be made of your admission, you do not really know what it is you have admitted. It is this superior thoroughness of Philosophy which Plato has in mind when he says of his supreme science 'Dialectic' that its business is to examine and even to 'destroy' ([Greek: anairein]) the assumptions of all the other sciences. It does not let propositions which they have been content to take for granted pass without challenge, and it may actually 'destroy' them by showing that there is no justification for asserting them. Thus Euclid's assumption about parallels ceased to be included among the indispensable premisses of geometry, and was 'destroyed' in Plato's sense when Lobatchevsky, Bolyai, and Riemann showed that complete bodies of self-consistent geometrical theory can be deduced from sets of postulates in which Euclid's assumption is explicitly denied. There are two further points I should like to put before you in this connexion. One of them has been forcibly argued by Mr. Bertrand Russell in his admirable little work _The Problems of Philosophy_; the other has not. Indeed, it is just in his unwillingness to allow the second of these points to be raised at all that Mr. Russell seems to me to fall conspicuously and unaccountably short of being what, by his own showing, a great philosopher ought to be. To take first the point with which Mr. Russell has dealt. There is one very important branch of inquiry, if we ought not rather to say that there are two, which appear to belong wholly to general Philosophy and not to any of the 'sciences'. We cannot so much as ask the simplest question without making the implication that there is an ultimate distinction between true assertions and false ones, and certain definite principles by which we can infer true conclusions from true premisses. It is thus a very important part of the true 'story of everything' to state the principles upon which valid reasoning depends, and to enunciate the ultimate postulates which have to be taken for granted whenever we try to reason validly about anything. This is the inquiry known by the name of logic. We cannot expect men whose time is fully taken up with the task of reaching true conclusions about some special class of facts, those which concern the history of living organisms, or the production and distribution of 'wealth', or the stability of various forms of government, to burden themselves with this inquiry in addition to their other tasks. They may fairly be allowed to leave the construction of logic to others. But the man who makes it the business of his life to get back to ultimate first principles must plainly be a logician, though he need not be a specialist in biology or economics or 'sociology'. One great advantage which our children should have over their parents as students of Philosophy is that the last half-century has been one of unprecedented advance in the study of logic. In the 'logic of relations', founded by De Morgan, carried out further in the third volume of Ernst Schröder's _Algebra der Logik_, and made still more precise in the earliest sections of the _Principia Mathematica_ of Whitehead and Russell, we now possess the most potent weapon of intellectual analysis ever yet devised by man. We must further remark that the serious pursuit of any kind of science implies not only that there _are_ truths, but that some of them, at least, can be _known_ by man. Hence there arises a problem which is not quite the same as that of logic. What _is_ the relation we mean to speak of when we talk of 'knowing' something, and what conditions must be fulfilled in order that a proposition may not only be true but be known by us to be true? The very generality of this problem marks it out as one which belongs to what I have been all along calling Philosophy. (We must be careful to note that the problem does not belong to the 'special science' of psychology. Psychology aims at telling us how particular thoughts and trains of thought arise in an individual mind, but it has nothing to say on the question which of our thoughts give us 'knowledge' and which do not. The 'possibility of knowledge' has to be presupposed by the psychologist as a pre-condition of his particular investigations exactly as it is presupposed by the physicist, the botanist, or the economist.) The study of the problem 'what are the conditions which must be satisfied whenever anything at all is known' is precisely what Kant meant by _Criticism_, though the raising of the problem in this definite form is not due to Kant but goes back to Plato, who made it the subject of one of his greatest dialogues, the _Theaetetus_. The simplest way to make the nature and importance of the problem clear is perhaps the way Mr. Russell adopts in the _Problems of Philosophy_--to give a very rough statement of Kant's famous solution. Kant held that careful analysis shows us that any piece of knowledge has two constituents of very diverse origin. It has a _matter_ or material constituent consisting, as Kant held, of certain crude data supplied by sensation, colours, tones of varying pitch and loudness, odours, savours, and the like. It has also a _form_ or formal constituent. Our data, when we know anything at all, are arranged on some definite principle of order. When we recognize an object by the eye or a tune by the ear, we do not apprehend simply so much colour or sound, but colours spread out and forming a pattern or notes following one another in a fixed order. (If you reverse the movement of a gramophone, you get the same notes as before, but you do not get the same tune.) Further, Kant thought it could be shown that the data of our knowledge are a disorderly medley and come to us from without, being supplied by things which exist and are what they are equally whether any one perceives them or not, but the element of form, pattern, or order is put into them by our own minds in the act of knowing them. Our minds are so constructed that we _can_ only perceive things or think of them as connected by certain definite principles of orderly arrangement. This, he thought, explains the indubitable fact that we can sometimes know universal propositions to be true without needing to examine all the individual instances. I can know for certain that in every triangle the greater angle is subtended by the greater side, or that every event has a definite cause among earlier events, though I cannot examine all triangles or all events one by one. This is because the postulates of geometry and the law of causality are types of order which my mind _puts_ into the data of its knowledge in the very act of attending to them, and it is therefore certain that I shall never perceive or think anything which does not conform to these types. I give Kant's answer to the problem of Criticism not because I believe it to be the correct one, but to show what important consequences follow from our acceptance of a solution of this problem. If it is true that one of the constituent elements of every piece of knowledge is a lump of crude sensation, it follows that we can have no knowledge about our own minds or souls, and still less about God, since, if there are such beings as my soul and God, at any rate neither furnishes me with sense-data. Hence a great part of Kant's famous _Critique of Pure Reason_ is taken up by an elaborate attempt to show that psychology and theology contain no real knowledge. We cannot even know whether there is any probability for or against the existence of the soul or of God, though Kant was very anxious to show that it is our duty on moral grounds to _believe_ very firmly in both. Now if Kant is right about this, his result is tremendously important. If psychology and theology are wholly devoid of scientific value, it is most desirable that we should know this, not only that we may not waste time in studying them, but because it may reasonably make a very great difference to the practical ordering of our lives. If Kant can be proved wrong, it is equally important to be convinced that he is wrong. We may have been led by belief in his teaching to neglect the acquisition of a great deal of knowledge of high intrinsic interest, and may even have been betrayed into basing the conduct of life on wrong principles. If, for example, we can really know something about the soul, it _may_ be possible to know whether it is immortal or not, and it is not unreasonable to hold that certain knowledge, or even probable belief, on such a point ought to make a great difference to our choice between rival aims in life. There is clearly much less to be said for the recommendation to 'eat and drink for to-morrow we die' if we have reason to believe our souls immortal than if we have not, and some of us do not share Mr. Russell's view that Philosophy is called upon to abdicate what the Greeks thought her sovereign function, the regulation of life. It is true that Kant convinced himself that it is a moral duty to act as if we knew the truth of doctrines for or against which we cannot detect the slightest balance of probability. But the logically sound inference from Kant's premisses would be that, to use Pascal's famous metaphor, a prudent man will do well to bet neither for nor against immortality. Unfortunately, as Pascal said, you can't _help_ betting; _il faut parier_. If it makes any difference to the relative values of different goods whether the soul dies with the body or not, one _must_ take sides in the matter. In making one's choices one must prefer either the things it is reasonable to regard as good for a creature whose days are threescore years and ten or those which it is reasonable to regard as best for a being who is to live for ever. The only way to escape having to bet is not to be born. I come to the second problem, the one which, as I think, Mr. Russell arbitrarily ignores. A human being is not a mere knowledge-machine. The relation of knower to known is not the only relation in which he stands to himself and to other things. The 'world' is not merely something at which he can look on, it is also an instrument for achieving what he regards as good and for creating what he judges to be beautiful. To do good and to make beautiful things are just as much man's business as to discover truth. A knowledge of the world would be very incomplete if it did not include knowledge of what ought to be, whether because it is morally best or because it is beautiful, as well as knowledge of what is actually there. And it is not immediately evident how the two, knowledge of what ought to be and knowledge of what merely is, are connected. There is, to be sure, one way in which it is pretty plain that they are _not_ related. You cannot learn what ought to be--what is beautiful or morally good--merely by first finding out what has been or what is likely to be. This simple consideration of itself deprives many of the big volumes which have been written about the 'evolution' of art and morals of most of their value. They may have interest if they are treated only as contributions to the history of opinion about art and morals. But unhappily their authors often assume that we can find out what really _is_ right or beautiful by merely discovering what men have thought right and beautiful in the remote past or guessing what they will think right or beautiful in the distant future. The fallacy underlying this procedure has been happily exposed by Mr. Russell himself in an occasional essay where he remarks that it is antecedently just as likely that evolution is going from bad to worse as that it is going from good to better. _Unless_ it is going from bad to worse it is obviously absurd to suppose that you can find out what _is_ good by discovering what our distant ancestors _thought_ good. And _if_ (as may be the case) it is going from bad to worse, no amount of knowledge about what our posterity will think good can throw any light on the question what is good. There is, in fact, no ground whatever for believing that 'evolution' need be the same thing as progress, and this is enough to knock the bottom out of 'evolutionary ethics'. On the other hand, it is quite certain that when we call an act right or a picture beautiful we do not mean to be expressing a mere personal liking of our own, any more than when we make a statement about the composition of sulphuric acid or the product of 9 and 7. As Dr. Rashdall has put it, when we say that a given act is right, we do not pretend to be infallible. We know that we may fall into mistakes about right and wrong just as we may make mistakes in working a multiplication sum. But we do mean to say that _if_ our own verdict 'that act is right' is a true one, then the verdict of any one who retorts 'that act is wrong' is false, just as when we state the result of our multiplication we mean to assert that _if_ we have done the sum correctly any one else who brings out a different answer has worked it wrongly. Indeed, we might convince ourselves that these verdicts are not meant to be expressions of private and personal liking in a still simpler way. All of us must be aware that the line of action we pronounce 'right' is not always what we like nor the conduct we call 'wrong' what we dislike. We often like doing what we fully believe to be wrong and dislike doing what we believe right, without being in the least confused in our moral verdicts by this collision of liking and conviction. So again it is a common thing to like one poem or picture better than another, and yet to be fully persuaded that the work we like the less is the better work of art. Indeed, the whole process of moral and aesthetic education may be said to exist just in learning to like most what is really best. All this, put into so many words, may seem too simple to call for statement, but it makes nonsense of a great deal that has been written about ethics of late years. It disposes once for all of the theory that moral and aesthetic verdicts are 'subjective', that is, that they mean no more than that the persons who make them have certain personal likes and dislikes of which these verdicts are a record. Of course, it might be urged that all of us do indeed mean to express truths which are independent of our personal likings when we make moral and aesthetic judgements, but that we never succeed in doing so. A man might conceivably hold that there is no real distinction between right and wrong or between beautiful and ugly, but that it is a universal illusion of mankind to suppose that there are such distinctions. Or he might hold that the distinctions are real, but that we do not know where to draw them. He might suggest that some ways of acting are really right and others really wrong, but that we do not know which are the right acts and so regularly confuse what we like doing with what is 'really' right. Mr. Russell, in some of his later writings, seems to incline to views of this sort. But the suggestion is really unmotived. It would be just as reasonable to suggest that all geometrical or astronomical propositions are only expressions of the personal and private feelings of geometers and astronomers, and that either there is no distinction between truths and falsehoods in geometry and astronomy, or that, at any rate, we do not know which the true propositions are. That there is a real distinction between true and false propositions and that, with pains and care, we can discover some truths are assumptions we must make if we are to recognize the possibility of pursuing knowledge at all, and there is no reason to suppose that these assumptions do not hold as good in matters of art and morals as elsewhere. No doubt, in practice men are prone to mistake what they like for what is right or beautiful, but this danger, such as it is, is not confined to art and morals. Men do often call acts right merely because they like doing them or pictures beautiful merely because they get pleasure from them. But it is also notorious that many men are prone to believe that a thing is likely to happen merely because they wish it to happen, or that it is unlikely to happen merely because they wish it not to happen. Yet no one seriously makes the reality of these tendencies a ground for denying the possibility of 'inferring the future from the past'. We must then, I hold, regard it as an integral part of the whole story of everything to find an answer to the questions What is good? and What is beautiful? as well as to the question What is fact? By the side of the so-called 'positive sciences', which deal with the third question, we must recognize as having an equal right to exist the so-called 'sciences of value', which deal with the first and the second. I want now to take a further step in which disciples of Mr. Russell would perhaps decline to follow me. We have already seen what is meant by the co-ordination of the sciences into a single body of deductions from definite ultimate postulates, though in what we have said about the task we were content to speak provisionally as if the sciences of 'what is' were all the sciences to be co-ordinated. We talked, in fact, as if the work of Philosophy were merely to work into a coherent story all that can be known of 'objects that present themselves to the contemplation' of a knower. But, of course, if Philosophy is ever to attack its final problem, we must take into account two things which we have so far ignored. The 'whole story of everything' includes the knowing intelligence itself as well as the 'objects' which present themselves to its gaze. Indeed, it is not even accurate to speak as if 'objects' 'presented themselves' to a merely passive intelligence; to be apprehended, they have to be actively attended to. If we would see them, we have to be on the look-out for them. And the knowing intelligence is not aware merely of these objects. It is also aware of itself, though it is certainly never a 'presented object'. Also, it is not only a knower but a doer and a maker. Intelligence is shown as much in the ordering of life by a rule based on a right valuation of goods and in the making of things of beauty as in the discovery of propositions about what is. Hence, we can hardly be content to leave the 'positive' sciences and the 'sciences of values' simply standing over against one another. There is that which 'is', and there is that which 'ought to be', and, at first sight at any rate, the two seem very different. Much that is--ignorance, sin, misery, ugliness--ought not to be, and much that ought to be is very far from being fact. We are accustomed to regard this as a matter of course, but, closely considered, it is perhaps the supreme wonder of all the wonders. We creatures of circumstance, as we call ourselves, can take stock of the sum of things to which we belong, and judge it. It is not simply that we can, and often do, _wish_ that it were different in various ways; we can judge that it _ought_ to be different, and you may find a man of science like Huxley, after a life spent in trying to understand the laws which prevail in the world, deliberately making it his last word to his fellows that their duty is to set themselves to reverse the 'cosmic process', to select for preservation just the human types which, if the much-abused metaphor may be tolerated, Nature, left to herself, selects for destruction. We might, of course, regard this apparently unreconcilable conflict between the arrangements which do prevail; as is commonly supposed, in the world, and those which ought to prevail, as a mystery which we must despair of ever understanding. But, to say the least of it, it is hardly consistent with the philosophic temper to treat any question as an insoluble riddle until one has tried all ways of solution and found them _culs-de-sac_. If we are to be thoroughly loyal to the spirit which prompts all intelligent inquiry, we are bound at least to ask whether it is, after all, beyond the power of human intelligence to think of the world as a system in which somehow, in the end, what ought to be prescribes what is. It is true that, for reasons already mentioned, we cannot, like Spinoza or the Sufis, reconcile facts and values by the simple assumption that what is is shown, by the fact that it is, to be what ought to be, and that our common conviction that sin and ugliness are painfully real is only an illusion due to spiritual short sight. We have just as much reason to believe that some pleasures are good, that pain which is not a means to good is evil, that justice and purity are good, lewdness and cruelty bad, that some colours are lovely and others odious, as we have to believe that between any two points there is always a third, or that, if _B_ and _C_ are two points there is always a point _D_ on the straight line _BC_ such that _C_ is between _B_ and _D_, and a point _A_ on _CB_ such that _B_ is between _C_ and _A_. Indeed, the most fanatical champion of what Mr. Russell in his anti-ethical mood calls 'ethical neutrality' cannot well avoid recognizing the truth of at least one proposition in ethics, the proposition that knowledge of scientific truth is _better_ than ignorance of it. The admission of this single truth of value is enough to raise all the time-honoured problems of ethics and theodicy. If knowledge of truth is better than ignorance of it, the actual present state of the world, in which so much truth is yet to seek, is by no means wholly good, and there really is at least one way in which it is our duty to make it more like what it ought to be. If then we cannot get rid of the apparent conflict between Is and Ought by saying that Ought is an illusion, can we get rid of it, in the only other possible way, by holding that what ought to be is the lasting and primary reality and that the 'facts' which are so far from being what they ought to be are by comparison only half-real, much what shadows are to the solid things which throw them? This was the doctrine of Plato, who makes Socrates say in the _Phaedo_ that it is the 'Good' which holds the Universe together, and that in the end the true reason for each particular arrangement in the world, whether we can see it or not, is that it is 'best' that this arrangement, and no other, should exist. It is also the foundation of Kant's well-known contention that, however barren speculative theology and psychology may be, the reality of the moral order and the unconditionality of moral obligation compel us to make the existence of God, the immortality of our souls, and the moral government of the world postulates of practical philosophy. More generally, it is just this conviction that 'what is' has its source and explanation in what 'ought to be', which is the central thought of all philosophical Theism. If we can accept such a faith, we shall not, of course, be enabled to eliminate mystery from things. We shall, for instance, be still quite in the dark about the way in which evil comes to be in a world of God's making. We shall neither be able to say _how_ any particular thing comes to be other than it ought to be, nor _how_ in the end good is 'brought out of evil'. But if we are to have a right to hold a view of the Platonic or Theistic type, we must be able, not indeed to say how evil comes about or how it is to be finally got rid of, but to say, in a general way, what it is 'good for'. Thus, if there are certain goods of the highest value which could not exist at all except on the condition of the existence of less important evils, this consideration will remove, so far as _those_ goods and evils are concerned, the time-honoured puzzle how evil can exist at all if God is. To take a specific example. To many of us it appears directly certain that such qualities of character as fortitude, patience, superiority to carnal lusts, magnanimity, are goods of the highest value. We think also that we see that these qualities are not primitive psychological endowments but require for their development the experience of struggle and discipline in a world where there is real suffering, real disappointment, real temptation. To us, therefore, there seems to be no contradiction between the existence of God and the presence in a world made by God of the evils needed for the development of these virtues. And this will include some of the worst of all the evils we know of. Few things are more ghastly than some of the cruelties which have been practised in the late War and are still being practised in the distracted country of Russia. Yet we know how revulsion from these horrors has made many a man who seemed to be sunk in sloth or greed or carnality into a Bayard or a Galahad. It may well be that this moral re-birth would never have been effected if the evils which provoked it had been less monstrous. Here, then, we seem to discern a principle which _may_ be adequate to explain what all the ills of human life are 'good for'. I must not deny that all such explanation, in my judgement, involves the postulate that the ennoblement of character and deepening of insight brought about by suffering are permanent--in fact, that it requires the postulates of the existence of God and the reality of everlasting life. Mr. Russell, I imagine, would regard this as a confession that I am sunk in what he airily dismisses as 'theological superstitions'. I should reply that the 'superstition' is on his side; to dismiss God and the eternal soul, without serious inquiry, as 'superstitions' is just the most superficial of all the superstitions. It is, of course, incumbent on anyone who holds the Platonic view to show that its postulates are not inconsistent with any known truth, and I would add that he ought also to show that there are at any rate known facts which seem to demand just this kind of explanation. Both these points, as I hold, can be established, but I do not in the least wish to suggest that any philosopher will ever find it an easy task to 'justify the ways of God to man'. As Timaeus says in Plato, 'to find the father and fashioner of the Universe is _not_ easy', and I want rather to lay stress on the magnitude of the task than to extenuate it. But I am concerned to urge that the doctrine which accounts for what is by what ought to be is the _only_ philosophical theory on which it ceases to be an unintelligible mystery that we should have--as I maintain we certainly have--the same kind of assurance about values that we have about facts. The chief complaint I have to make about the mental attitude of Mr. Russell and some of his friends is that, in their zeal for the unification of science, they seem inclined to assume that the larger problem of the co-ordination of Science with Life does not exist, or, at any rate, need not occupy our minds. This is what I should call mere atheistic superstition. On this point they might, I believe, learn much which it imports them to know from the works of some of the notable living philosophers of Italy, in particular from Professor Varisco of Rome and Professor Aliotta of Padua, whose labours have been specially directed to the co-ordination in a consistent system of the principles of the sciences of fact with those of the sciences of value. Though, after all, those who have refused to learn the lesson from the noble philosophical work of Professor James Ward, the illustrious champion of sober thought in their own University of Cambridge, are perhaps unlikely to master it in the schools of Rome or Padua. You will readily see that I am suggesting in effect that if Philosophy is ever to execute her supreme task, she will need to take into much more serious account than it has been the fashion to do, not only the work of the exact sciences but the teachings of the great masters of life who have founded the religions of the world, and the theologies which give reasoned expression to what in the great masters is immediate intuition. For us this means more particularly that it is high time philosophers ceased to treat the great Christian theologians as credulous persons whose convictions need not be taken seriously and the Gospel history as a fable to which the 'enlightened' can no longer pay any respect. They must be prepared to reckon with the possibility that the facts recorded in the Gospel happened and that Catholic theology is, in substance, true. If we are to be philosophers in earnest we cannot afford to have any path which may lead to the heart of life's mystery blocked for us by placards bearing the labels 'reactionary', 'unmodern,' and their likes. That what is most modern must be best is a superstition which it is strange to find in a really educated man--especially after the events of the last five years. A philosopher, at any rate, should be able to endure the charge of being 'unmodern' with fortitude. It is at least a tenable thesis that many of the qualities which we Western men have been losing in our craze for industrialism and commercialistic 'Imperialism' are just those which are most necessary to the seeker after speculative truth. Abelard and St. Thomas would very likely have failed as advertising agents, company promoters, or editors of sensational daily papers. But it may well be that both of them were much better fitted than Lord Northcliffe, Mr. Bottomley, or Mr. A.G. Gardiner to tell us whether God is and what God is. In fact, one would hardly suppose habitual and successful composition of effective 'posters' or alluring prospectuses to be wholly compatible with that candour and scrupulous veracity which are required of the philosopher. As for 'reaction', no one but a writer in a 'revolutionary' journal would be fool enough to use the word as, in itself, an epithet of reproach. Most persons who have a bowing acquaintance with Mechanics know that you cannot have an engine in which there is all action and no reaction, and most sane men can see that before you pronounce a given 'reaction' good or bad you need to know what it is reacting against. If a man who wants to go east discovers that he is walking west, he is usually reactionary enough to go back on his steps. In short, if we mean to be philosophical, our main concern will be that our beliefs should be true; we shall care very little whether they happen to be popular or unpopular with the intellectual 'proletarians' of the moment, and if we can get at a truth, we shall not mind having to go back a long way for it. Indeed, when one wants to get on the track of the most ultimate and important truths of all, there is usually a great positive advantage in going back a very long way for them. The questions which deal with first principles, being the simplest--though the hardest--of all, are mostly raised very simply and directly by Plato and Aristotle, who were the very first writers to raise them. In the discussions of later times, the great simple questions about principles have so often been overlaid by mainly irrelevant accretions of secondary details that it is usually very hard indeed 'to see the wood for the trees'. This is the chief reason why one who, like myself, finds it his main business in life to introduce younger men and women to the study of Philosophy must think indifference to Greek literature about the worst misfortune which could happen to our intellectual civilization. I have tried in what I have said so far to explain what I understand by the philosophical spirit and what I regard as the primary problems with which Philosophy has to wrestle. If what I have said is not wholly wide of the mark, it should be clear what is the deadliest enemy of the true spirit of Philosophy. It is the temper which is too indolent to think out a question for itself and consequently prefers to accept traditional ready-made answers to the problems of Science and Life. Traditionalism, wherever it is found, is the enemy, because Traditionalism is only another name for indolence. Observe that I say Traditionalism, not Tradition. Nowhere in life, and least of all in Philosophy, is the solitary likely to work to much purpose unless he has behind him that body of organized sound sense which we call Tradition. And I do not mean that true philosophers are necessarily 'heretics', or that 'orthodoxy' is less philosophical than 'heterodoxy'. I mean that however true an 'orthodox' proposition may be, it is no living truth for me unless I have made it my own, as its first discoverer did, by personal labour of the spirit. The truth is something which each generation must rediscover for itself. True traditions may be quite as injurious, if they have become mere traditions, as false ones. It was not so much because the Aristotelian doctrines were false that the unquestioning acceptance of Aristotelian formulae all but strangled human thought in the later days of Scholasticism. Some of these doctrines were false, but many of them were much truer than anything the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries had to put in their place, and the rediscovery of their real meaning is perhaps the chief service of the Hegelian school to Philosophy. The trouble was that mechanical repetition of Aristotle's formulae as matters of course inevitably led to loss of real insight into the meaning the formulae had borne for Aristotle. We may say, generally, that because Traditionalism is the death of sound thinking, the ages in which the prospects of advance in Philosophy are brightest are just those in which a powerful historical tradition has broken down and men feel themselves compelled to go back on their steps and raise once more the fundamental questions which their fathers had supposed to be disposed of once for all by a formula. This has happened twice since the downfall of the degenerate Scholasticism, Protestant and Roman, of the sixteenth century. In the seventeenth century the result was the great movement in Philosophy, Mathematics, and Physics, of which Descartes and Galileo are the principal figures. Towards the end of the eighteenth century, when the doctrines of Descartes had themselves been traditionalized, the same thing happened again, the leading actors in the drama being David Hume and Immanuel Kant; the result was first the revival of the 'critical' problem by Kant, and then the great, if over-hasty, attempt at a positive interpretation of the Universe which culminated in the philosophical system of Hegel. In our own age, it is mainly Kant and Hegel who have been traditionalized, and we seem to be living through the last stages of the discrediting of this third tradition with every prospect of a great advance if our own time can only find its Descartes. In what I am going on to say I must naturally speak of the disintegrating influences chiefly as we have seen them at work in our own country; but I should like, before I do so, to remark that on the Continent splendid work has been done in the requickening of genuine philosophical thought by an influence which has, so far, not made itself widely felt among ourselves. I mean the revival of Thomism so earnestly promoted in the academies of the Roman Church by Pope Leo XIII. Neo-Thomism, I am convinced, if its representatives will only maintain it at the high level characteristic, for example, of the Italian _Rivista Neo-Scolastica_, has a very great contribution to make to the Philosophy of the future, and is much more deserving of the serious attention of students in our own country than the much-advertised 'impressionism' of Pragmatists and Bergsonians. Indeed, I hardly know how much we may not hope from the movement if it should please Providence to send into the world a Neo-Thomist who is also a really qualified mathematician. Of the state of thought in our own country we may fairly say that a generation ago opinion on the ultimate questions was, in the main, fairly divided into two camps. There were the professional metaphysicians, mainly living on a tradition derived from Kant and Hegel, and there were the men of science whose 'philosophy', such as it was, is perhaps best represented by two well-known and most instructive books, Mach's _Science of Mechanics_ and Karl Pearson's _Grammar of Science_. The men of the Kant-Hegel tradition, whatever their family dissensions, were generally united by the common view that--as William James accused them of teaching--the function of sensation in contributing to knowledge, whatever it is, is something 'contemptible'. Kant himself, as we have seen, had thought very differently, but he was supposed to have been 'corrected' on this, as on so many points, by Hegel. The most distinguished of my own Oxford teachers seemed agreed to believe that our thought builds up the fabric of knowledge entirely from within by what Hegel called an 'immanent dialectic'. A rough idea of what this means may be given in the following way. You take any experience you please and try to put what you experience into a proposition. The proposition may, to begin with, be as vague as, e.g. 'I am now feeling something,' 'I am now aware of something.' On reflection you find that the statement does not do justice to the experience. You feel the need to say more precisely _what_ you are feeling or are aware of, how it is related to what you experience on other occasions, and what the 'I' is which is said to 'have' the experience. Until you have done this your thought is a miserable reproduction of your experience, and if you could ever do it completely, it would turn out that a really adequate account of the most trivial experience would involve complete knowledge of the structure and working of everything. Thus, if you once begin to think about your experience at all, you are irresistibly driven on to endless further reflection. If you try to stop short anywhere in the process, the results of your reflection are found to contain unexplained contradictions, just because you have not yet fitted on the fact on which you are reflecting to everything else there is to know. All the assumptions of every-day 'common sense' and all the more recondite assumptions of the sciences are saturated with these contradictions, because both 'common sense' and the sciences leave so much of the whole 'story of everything' untouched. If the whole story were told, all things would be found to be just one thing, which these philosophers call the 'Absolute', and the only perfectly true statement we can make would be a statement about this Absolute in which we asserted of it all that it is. Since no science ever attempts to say anything at all about this one sole thing, far less to get all there might be to be said about it into a single statement, no scientific proposition can be more than 'partially' true, and unhappily _we_ do not know what alterations would be required to make our 'partial' truths quite true. Naturally enough Kant's allegation that mathematical first principles are so self-contradictory that you can rigidly demonstrate mathematical propositions which contradict each other was grist to the Hegelian mill. That our notions of space, time, the infinitely great, the infinitely little, are all a jumble of contradictions was steadily repeated by the Hegelian philosophers, and indeed the mathematicians were accustomed to state their own principles so loosely and confusedly that there was a great deal of excuse for the suspicion that the fault lay with Mathematics and not with the mathematicians. It is clear that such a philosophy ought to end in unqualified Agnosticism. The Hegelians, to be sure, made merry over the Unknowable of Mr. Spencer, but their own Absolute is really just the Unknowable in its 'Sunday best'. Nothing that we can say about anything which is not the Absolute is really true, because there really _is_ nothing but the Absolute to speak about, and nothing that we can say about the Absolute is quite true either, because we can never succeed in saying itself of it. Mr. Bradley, far the most eminent of the philosophers of the Absolute, has made persistent and brilliant attempts to show that, in spite of this, we do know enough to be sure that our own mind is more like the Absolute than a cray-fish, and a cray-fish more like it than a crystal. But when all is said, though I owe more to Mr. Bradley than I can ever acknowledge adequately, I cannot help feeling that there are two men in Mr. Bradley, a great constructive thinker and a subtle destructive critic, and that the destructive Hyde is perpetually pulling to pieces all that the constructive Jekyll has built up. Of course it is obvious that the truth of mathematics, if mathematics are true, is a fatal stone of stumbling for this type of philosophy. Mathematics never attempts to say anything about the 'Absolute'--the only 'Absolute' of which it knows is only a 'degraded conic'--yet it claims that its statements, if once they have been correctly expressed, are not 'partial' but complete. Over against the Hegelianizing philosophers, we had, of course, the men of science. No one could wish to speak of the scientific men of the days of Huxley without deep respect for their success in adding to our positive knowledge of facts. But it may perhaps be said at this distance of time that it was not precisely the greatest among them who were most prominent as mystagogues of Science with the big S, and it may certainly be said that when the mystagogues, the Cliffords, Huxleys, and the rest, undertook to improvise a theory of first principles, their achievement was little better than infantile. They took it on trust from Hume that the whole of knowledge is built up of sensations, actual or 'revived', and quite missed Kant's point that their empiricism left the formal constituent in knowledge, the type of order by which data are organized into an intelligible pattern, wholly out of account. Even when they deigned to read Kant, they read him without any inkling of the character of the 'critical' problem. Hence they taught dogmatically as true a theory of scientific method which Hume himself had elaborately proved impossible. It was just because Hume had seen so clearly that no universal scientific truths can be derived from premisses which merely record particular facts that he professed himself a follower of the 'academic' or 'sceptical' philosophy. He recognized the impossibility of constructing scientific knowledge out of its material constituent alone, but did not see where the formal constituent could come from, and so resigned himself to regarding the actual successes of science as a kind of standing miracle. The men of the 'seventies were, after all, in many cases more anxious to damage theology than to build up Philosophy. They read Hume without any delicate sense for his urbane ironies, and believed in good faith that he and John Stuart Mill between them had shown that by a mysterious process called 'induction' it is possible to prove rigorously universal conclusions in science without universal premisses. A scientific law, according to them, is only a convenient short-hand notation in which to register the 'routine of our perceptions'. Thus we have known of a great many men who have died, and have never known of any man who lived to much over a hundred without dying. The universal proposition 'all men are mortal' is a short expression for this information, and it is nothing more. It ought to have been obvious that, if this is a true account of science, all scientific 'generalizations' are infinitely improbable. The number of men of whom we _know_ that they have died is insignificant by comparison with the multitude of those who have lived, are living, or will live, and we have no guarantee that this insignificant number is a fair average sample. So again, unless there are true universal propositions which are not 'short-hand' for any plurality of observed facts whatever, we cannot with any confidence, however faint, infer that a 'regular sequence' or 'routine' which has been observed from the dawn of recorded time up to, say, midnight, August 4, 1919, will continue to be observed on August 5, 1919. How, except by relying on the truth of some principle which does not depend itself on the validity of 'generalization', can we tell that it is even slightly probable that the nature of things will not change suddenly at the moment of midnight between August 4 and August 5, 1919? What is called 'inductive' science certainly has 'pulled off' remarkable successes in the past, but we can have no confidence that these successes will be repeated unless there are much better reasons for believing in its methods and initial assumptions than any which the scientific man who is an amateur 'empiricist' in his philosophy can offer us. We may note, in particular, that this empiricism, which has been expounded most carefully by Pearson and Mach, coincides with Hegelian Absolutism in leading to the denial of the truth of mathematics. It would be a superfluous task to argue at length that, e.g., De Moivre's theorem or Taylor's theorem is not a short-hand formula for recording the 'routine of our perceptions'. The general state of things at the time of which I am speaking was thus that relations were decidedly strained between a body of philosophers and a body of scientific men who ought at least to have met on the common ground of a complete Agnosticism. The philosophers were, in general, shy of Science, mainly, no doubt, because they were modest men who knew their own limitations, but they had a way of being condescending to Science, which naturally annoyed the scientific men. These latter professed a theory of the structure of knowledge which the philosophers could easily show to be grotesque, but the retort was always ready to hand that at any rate Science seemed somehow to be getting somewhere while Philosophy appeared to lead nowhere in particular. The conditions for mutual understanding have now greatly improved, thanks mainly to the labour of mathematicians with philosophical minds on the principles of their own science. If we admit that mathematics is true--and it seems quite impossible to avoid the admission--we can now see that neither the traditional Kant-Hegel doctrine nor the traditional sensationalistic empiricism can be sound. Not to speak of inquiries which have been actually created within our own life-time, it may fairly be said that the whole of pure mathematics has been shown, or is on the verge of being shown, to form a body of conclusions rigidly deduced from a few unproved postulates which are of a purely logical character. Descartes has proved to be right in his view that the exceptional certainty men have always ascribed to mathematical knowledge is not due to the supposed restriction of the science to relation of number and magnitude--there is a good deal of pure mathematics which deals with neither--but to the simplicity of its undefined notions and the high plausibility of its unproved postulates. Bit by bit the bad logic has been purged out of the Calculus and the Theory of Functions and these branches of study have been made into patterns of accurate reasoning on exactly stated premisses. It has appeared in the process that the alleged contradictions in mathematics upon which the followers of Kant and Hegel laid stress do not really exist at all, and only seemed to exist because mathematicians in the past expressed their meaning so awkwardly. Further, it has been established that the most fundamental idea of all in mathematics is not that of number or magnitude but that of _order_ in a series and that the whole doctrine of series is only a branch of the logic of Relations. From the logical doctrine of serial order we seem to be able to deduce the whole arithmetic of integers, and from this it is easy to deduce further the arithmetic of fractions and the arithmetic or algebra of the 'real' and 'complex' numbers. As the logical principles of serial order enable us to deal with infinite as well as with finite series, it further follows that the Calculus and the Theory of Functions can now be built up without a single contradiction or breach of logic. The puzzles about the infinitely great and infinitely small, which used to throw a cloud of mystery over the 'higher' branches of Mathematics, have been finally dissipated by the discovery that the 'infinite' is readily definable in purely ordinal terms and that the 'infinitesimal' does not really enter into the misnamed 'Infinitesimal Calculus' at all. Arithmetic and the theory of serial order have been shown to be the sufficient basis of the whole science which, as Plato long ago remarked, is 'very inappropriately called geometry'. A résumé of the work which has been thus done may be found in the stately volumes of the _Principia Mathematica_ of Whitehead and Russell, or--to a large extent--in the _Formulario Matematico_ of Professor Peano. Of other works dealing with the subject, the finest from the strictly philosophical point of view is probably that of Professor G. Frege on _The Fundamental Laws of Arithmetic_. The general result of the whole development is that we are now at last definitely freed from the haunting fear that there is some hidden contradiction in the principles of the exact sciences which would vitiate all our knowledge of universal truths. This removes the chief, if not the only ground for the view that all the truths of Science are only 'partial'. At the same time, the proof that pure mathematics is a strictly logical development and that all its conclusions are of the hypothetical form, 'if _a b c_ ..., then _x_' definitely disproves the popular Kantian doctrine that _sense_-data are a necessary constituent of scientific knowledge. And with this dogma falls the _main_ ground for the denial that knowledge about the soul and God is attainable. The recovery of a sounder philosophical method has, as Mr. Russell himself says, disposed of what was yesterday the accepted view that the function of Philosophy is to narrow down the range of possible interpretations of facts until only one is left. Philosophy rather opens doors than shuts them. It multiplies the number of logically possible sets of premisses from which consequences agreeing with empirical facts may be inferred. Mr. Russell's unreasoned anti-theism seems to me to make him curiously blind to an obvious application of this principle. On the other side, the revived attention to the logical methods of the sciences is killing the crude sensationalism of the days which saw the first publication of Mach's _Science of Mechanics_ and Pearson's _Grammar of Science_. The claims of 'induction' to be a method of establishing truths may be fairly said to have been completely exposed. It is clearer now than it was when Kant made the observation that each of the 'sciences' contains just so much science as it contains mathematics, and that the Critical Philosophy was fully justified in insisting that all science implies universal _à priori_ postulates, though it went wrong in thinking that these postulates are laws of the working of the human mind or are 'put into' things by the human mind. How far Science has moved away from crude sensationalistic empiricism may be estimated by a comparison of the successive editions of the _Grammar of Science_. It must always have been apparent to an attentive reader that the chapters of that fascinating book which deal directly with the leading principles of Physics and Biology are of very different quality from the earlier chapters which expound, with many self-contradictions and much wrath against metaphysicians and theologians whom the writer seems never to have tried to understand, the fantastic 'metaphysics of the telephone-exchange'. But the difference of quality is more marked in the second edition than in the first, and in the (alas!) unfinished third edition than in the second. So far, then, as the problem of the unification of the sciences is concerned, the old prejudices which divided the rationalist philosopher from the sensationalist scientific man seem to have been, in the main, dissipated. We can see now that what used to be called Philosophy and what used to be called Science are both parts of one task, that they have a common method and presuppose a common body of principles. So far it may be said with truth that Philosophy is becoming more faithful than Kant was himself to the leading ideas of 'Criticism', and again that it is reverting once more, as it reverted in the days of Galileo, to the positions of Plato. I do not mean that the whole programme has been completely executed and that there is nothing for a successor of Frege or Russell to do. It is instructive to observe that at the very end of the great work on arithmetic to which I have referred Frege found himself compelled by difficulties which had been overlooked until Russell called attention to them to add an appendix confessing that there was a single important flaw in his elaborate logical construction of the principles of arithmetic. He had shown that if there are certain things called 'integers', defined as he had defined them, the whole of arithmetic follows. But he had not shown that there _is_ any object answering to his definition of an integer, and the logical researches of Russell had thrown some doubt on the point. This proved that some restatement of the initial assumptions of the theory was needed. Since the date of Frege's appendix (1903), Mr. Russell and others have done something towards the necessary rectification, and the resulting 'Theory of Types' is pretty certainly one of the most important contributions ever made to logical doctrine, but it may still be reasonably doubted whether the 'Theory of Types', as expounded by Whitehead and Russell in their _Principia Mathematica_, is the last word required. At any rate, it seems clear that it is a great step on the right road to the solution of a most difficult problem. There still remains the greatest problem of all, the harmonization of Science and Life. I cannot believe that this problem is an illegitimate one, or that we must sit down content to accept the severance of 'fact' and 'value' as final for our thought. Even the unification of the sciences itself remains imperfect so long as we treat it as merely something which 'happens to be the case' that there are many things and many kinds of things in the universe and also a number of relations in which they 'happen' to stand. It is significant that in his later writings Mr. Russell has been driven to abandon the concept of personal identity, which is so fundamental for practical life, and to assert that each of us is not one man but an infinite series of men of whom each only exists for a mathematical instant. I am sure that such a theory requires the abandonment of the whole notion of value as an illusion, and even more sure that it is ruinous to any practical rule of living, and I cannot believe in the 'philosophy' of any man who is satisfied to base his practice on what he regards as detected illusion. Hence I find myself strongly in sympathy with my eminent Italian colleague Professor Varisco, who has devoted his two chief works (_I Massimi Problemi_ and _Conosci Te Stesso_) to an exceedingly subtle attempt to show that 'what ought to be', in Platonic phrase 'the Good', is in the end the single principle from which all things derive their existence as well as their value. Mr. Russell's philosophy saves us half Plato, and that is much, but I am convinced that it is whole and entire Plato whom a profounder philosophy would preserve for us. I believe personally that such a philosophy will be led, as Plato was in the end led, to a theistic interpretation of life, that it is in the living God Who is over all, blessed for ever, that it will find the common source of fact and value. And again I believe that it will be led to its result very largely by what is, after all, perhaps the profoundest thought of Kant, the conviction that the most illuminating fact of all is the _fact_ of the absolute and unconditional obligatoriness of the law of right. It is precisely here that fact and value most obviously meet. For when we ask ourselves what in fact we are, we shall assuredly find no true answer to this question about what _is_ if we forget that we are first and foremost beings who _ought_ to follow a certain way of life, and to follow it for no other reason than that it is good. But I cannot, of course, offer reasons here for this conviction, though I am sure that adequate reasons can be given. Here I must be content to state this ultimate conviction as a 'theological superstition', or, as I should prefer to put it with a little more certainty, as a matter of faith. The alternative is to treat the world as a stupid, and possibly malicious, bad joke. _Note_.--It may be thought that something should have been said about the revolt against authority and tradition which has styled itself variously 'Pragmatism' and 'Humanism', and also about the recent vogue of Bergsonianism. I may in part excuse my silence by the plea that both movements are, in my judgement, already spent forces. If I must say more than this, I would only remark about Pragmatism that I could speak of it with more confidence if its representatives themselves were more agreed as to its precise principles. At present I can discern little agreement among them about anything except that they all show a great impatience with the business of thinking things quietly and steadily out, and that none of them seems to appreciate the importance of the 'critical' problem. 'Pragmatism' thus seems to me less a definite way of thinking than a collective name for a series of 'guesses at truth'. Some of the guesses may be very lucky ones, but I, at least, can hardly take the claims of unmethodic guessing to be a philosophy very seriously. To 'give and receive argument' appears to me to be of the very essence of Philosophy. As for M. Bergson, I yield to no one in admiration for his brilliancy as a stylist and the happiness of many of his illustrations. But I have always found it difficult to grasp his central idea--if he really has one--because his whole doctrine has always seemed to me to be based upon a couple of elementary blunders which will be found in the opening chapter of his _Données Immédiates de la Conscience_. We are there called on to reject the intellect in Philosophy on the grounds (1) that, being originally developed in the services of practical needs, it can at best tell us how to find our way about among the bodies around us, and is thus debarred from knowing more than the _outsides_ of things; (2) that its typical achievement is therefore geometry, and geometry, _because it can measure only straight lines_, necessarily misconceives the true character of 'real duration'. Now, as to the first point, I should have thought it obvious that the establishment of a _modus vivendi_ with one's fellows has always been as much of a practical need as the avoidance of stones and pit-falls, and the alleged conclusion about the defects of the intellect does not therefore seem to me to follow from M. Bergson's premisses, even if we had any reason, as I do not see that we have, to accept the premisses. And as to the second point, I would ask whether M. Bergson possesses a clock or a watch, and if he has, how he supposes time is measured on them? He seems to me to have forgotten the elementary fact that angles can be measured as well as straight lines. (I might add that he makes the further curious assumption that all geometry is metrical.) It may be that something would be left of the Bergsonian philosophy if one eliminated the consequences of these initial blunders, but I do not know what the remainder would be. At any rate, the anti-intellectualism which M. Bergson and his disciple, Professor Carr, seem to regard as fundamental will have to go, unless different and better grounds can be found for it. I must leave it to others to judge of the adequacy of this apology. FOR REFERENCE Varisco, _The Great Problem_ (Macmillan). Varisco, _Know Thyself_ (Macmillan). Aliotta, _The Idealistic Reaction against Science_ (Macmillan). Bertrand Russell, _Our Knowledge of the External World_ (Open Court Publishing Co.). Bertrand Russell, _The Problems of Philosophy_ (Home University Library). A.N. Whitehead, _The Principles of Natural Knowledge_ (Cambridge Press). G.E. Moore, _Ethics_ (H.U.L.). W. McDougall, _Philosophy_ (H.U.L.). A.N. Whitehead, _Introduction to Mathematics_ (H.U.L.). III RECENT DEVELOPMENTS IN EUROPEAN THOUGHT ON THE EVOLUTION OF RELIGION F.B. JEVONS The living beings that exist or have existed upon the earth are of kinds innumerable; and, in the opinion of man, the chief of them all is mankind. Man, for the simple reason that he is man, is anthropomorphic in all his judgements and not merely in his religious conceptions; he holds himself to be the standard and measure in all things. If his right so to regard himself were challenged, if he were called upon to justify himself for having taken his foot as a unit of measurement, or his fingers as the basis of his system of numbers, he might reply that anything will serve as a standard for weights and measures, provided that it never varies, but is always the same whenever referred to. But the reply, valid though it is, does not do full justice to man: it leaves room for the suspicion that a standard is something chosen by man in a purely arbitrary manner and without reference to the facts of nature. If that were really the case, then man's conception of himself as superior to the other animals on earth might be but a prejudice of an arbitrary kind. When, however, we consider, from the point of view of evolution, the place of man among the other animals that occupy or have occupied the earth, it is indubitable that the human organism is in point of time the latest evolved and the human brain is in point of complexity and efficiency the most highly developed. Further, the evidence of embryology goes to show that the organism which has eventually become human became so only by passing through successive stages, each of which has its analogue in some of the existing forms of animal life. Those forms of animal life exist side by side; and if we conceive them to be represented diagrammatically by vertical lines, differing in height according to their degree of evolution, the line representing the human organism will be the tallest, and may be considered to have become the tallest by successive increments or stages corresponding to the height of the various other parallel vertical lines. When the conception of evolution, which had been employed to explain the origin of species and the descent of man, and which had been gained by a consideration of material organisms, came to be applied to the world of man's thoughts, to the non-material and spiritual domain, and to be used for the purpose of explaining the growth and the development of religion, it was natural that the conception which had proved so valuable in the one case should be applied without modification to the other--as natural as that the first railway coach should be built on the model of the stagecoach. The possibility that the theory of evolution might itself evolve, and in evolving change, was one that was not, and at that time could hardly be, present to the minds of those who were extending the theory and in the process of extending it were developing it. Yet the possibility was there, implicit in the very conception of evolution, which involves continuous change--change in continuity and continuity in change. Any and every attempt to trace the evolution of religion seems at first necessarily to involve the assumption that from the beginning religion was there to be evolved. That was the position assumed by Robertson Smith in _The Religion of the Semites_, which appeared in 1889. At that date the aborigines of Australia were supposed to represent the human race in its lowest and its earliest stage of development. In them, therefore, if anywhere, we might expect to find what would be religion in its lowest and earliest stage indeed but still religion. Reduced to its lowest terms, religion, it was felt at first, must imply at least belief in a god and communion with him. If, therefore, religion was to be found amongst the representatives of the lowest and earliest stage in the evolution of humanity, belief in a god and communion with him must there be found. He who seeks finds. Robertson Smith found amongst the Australians totem-gods and sacramental rites. Indeed, it was at that time the belief universally held by students of the science of religion that in Australia a totem was a god and a god might be a totem. It was conjectured by Robertson Smith that in Australia the totem animal or plant was eaten sacramentally. Since, then, the totem in Australia was held to be both the god and the animal or plant in which the god manifested himself, it followed that in Australia we had, preserved to this day, the earliest form of sacrifice--that in which the totem animal was itself the totem god to whom it was offered as a sacrifice, and was itself--or rather himself--the sacramental meal furnished to his worshippers. The totem was eaten, it was conjectured, with the object of acquiring the qualities of the divine creature, or of absorbing them into the person of the worshipper. That the totem was eaten sacramentally rested, as has just been said, on the conjecture made by Robertson Smith in 1889; but in 1899 Dr. (now Sir James) Frazer declared that, thanks to the investigations of Messrs. Spencer and Gillen, 'here, in the heart of Australia, among the most primitive savages known to us, we find the actual observance of that totem sacrament which Robertson Smith, with the intuition of genius, divined years ago, but of which positive examples have hitherto been wanting.' On the foundation thus laid by the intuition of Robertson Smith and approved in 1899 by Sir James Frazer, a simple and complete theory of the evolution of religion was possible. In any one tribe there were several totem-kins. The totem of each kin was divine, but the personality of a totem was so undeveloped in conception that, though it might, and on the theory did, develop into a deity, it was originally more of the nature of a spirit than a god, and totemism proper might easily pass into polydaemonism, that is a system in which the beings worshipped were conceived to possess a personality more clearly defined than that attributed to totems but less developed than that assigned to deities. From the beginning each tribe had worshipped a plurality of totems; it was, therefore, readily intelligible that, as these totems came to be credited with more and more definite and developed personality, the plurality of totems became not only a polydaemonism, but afterwards a plurality of deities, and a system of polytheism came to be established. From polytheism then, amongst the Israelites, monotheism was conceived to have been gradually developed. On this theory the evolution of religion was, if we may so describe it, linear or rectilinear: the process consisted in a series of successive stages. In some cases, as for instance among the aborigines of Australia, it never rose higher than its starting-point, totemism; in others, as for instance in Samoa, it became polytheism without ceasing to be totemism; in others again, as for instance amongst the Aryan peoples, it became so completely polytheistic that even conjecture can discover but few indications or 'survivals' of the totemism from which it is supposed to have developed; and the polytheism of the Israelites was so completely superseded by monotheism that the very existence of an earlier stage of polytheism could be as strenuously denied in their case as the pre-existence of totemism could be denied amongst the polytheistic Aryans. Nevertheless the theory was that if we represent the growth of the various religions of the world diagrammatically by vertical lines parallel to one another but of various lengths, one line standing for totemism, a longer line for polydaemonism, a still longer one for polytheism, and the longest of all for monotheism, we should see that the line of growth has been the same in all cases, and that it is in their length, or (shall we say?) in their height alone that the various lines differ, and that the longest line culminates in monotheism only because it has been, so to speak, pulled out in the same way that a telescope when closed, may be extended. The evolution of religion on this view has been a process literally of 'evolution' or unfolding: the idea of a god and of communion with him has been present from the beginning; and, much though religion may have changed, it remains to the end essentially the same thing. This view of the process of religious evolution we may fairly term 'the pre-formation theory'; for on this theory each stage is pre-formed in the stage immediately preceding it, and in the earliest stage of all were all succeeding stages contained pre-formed, though it depended on circumstances whether the seed should spring up, and how many stages of its growth it should accomplish. Robertson Smith's theory of the evolution of religion is in effect a form of the pre-formation theory, and is liable to the same difficulties as dog the theory of pre-formation in all its applications. On the theory, if we cut open a seed we should find within it the plant pre-formed; if we analyse totemism, the seed from which, in Robertson Smith's view, all other forms of religion have grown in orderly succession one after the other, we find in it religion in all its stages pre-formed. In fact, however, if we cut open an acorn we do not find a miniature oak-tree inside. The presumption, therefore, is that neither in totemism, if we dissect it, shall we find religion pre-formed. Indeed, there is the possibility that totemism, on dissection, will be found to have no such content--that the hope or expectation of finding anything in it is as vain, is as much doomed to disappointment, as is the expectation of the child who cuts open his drum, thinking to find inside it something which produces the sound. It was, however, not on _a priori_ grounds like these that Sir James Frazer was led eventually to combat and deny the existence, 'in the heart of Australia, amongst the most primitive savages known to us' of 'that totem sacrament which', in 1899 he declared, 'Robertson Smith, with the intuition of genius' had divined years before it was actually observed. It was by the evidence of new facts, discovered by Messrs. Spencer and Gillen, that Sir James Frazer was compelled to abandon Robertson Smith's theory of the evolution of religion. Robertson Smith had seen, or had thought he saw, amongst the Australians sacramental rites and the worship of totem gods. Sir James Frazer is now compelled by the evidence of the facts to hold that in what he calls 'pure totemism', i.e., in totemism as we find it in Australia, 'there is nothing that can properly be described as worship of the totems. Sacrifices are not presented to them, nor prayers offered, nor temples built, nor priests appointed to minister to them. In a word, totems pure and simple are never gods, but merely species of natural objects, united by certain intimate and mystic ties to groups of men.' It seems, therefore, according to Frazer, that in totemism, when dissected, there is no religion, just as in the child's drum, when cut open, there is--nothing. Yet, we may reflect, on the battle-field from a drum proceeds a great and glorious sound, inspiring men to noble deeds. Whereas _ex nihilo nil fit_: from nothing naturally nothing comes. If, however, something does come, it is not from nothing that it comes. Amongst the most primitive savages known to us, men are united to their totems, as Frazer admits, by 'certain intimate and mystic ties'. What then is it in totemism from which, on Sir James Frazer's view, something comes? We might, perhaps, have expected that it was from the 'mystic' bond uniting man with the world which is not only around him but of which he is part, and in which he lives and moves and has his being. To say so, however, would be to admit that in totemism there was something not only 'mystic' but potentially religious. And Sir James Frazer does not follow that line of thought, so dangerous in his view. On the contrary, he maintains that 'the aspect of the totemic system, which we have hitherto been accustomed to describe as religious, deserves rather to be called magical'. The totem rites which Robertson Smith had interpreted as being sacramental and as being intended as a means of communion with the totem-gods Sir James Frazer regards as merely magical: 'totemism,' he says, 'is merely an organized system of magic intended to secure a supply of food.' We may remark, in passing, that if totemism is 'mere' magic, there is indeed (as Sir James holds) no worship in totemism, but in that case in totemism there can be no such 'intimate and mystic ties' between the totem and the totem-kin as Sir James at first maintained there was. But be that as it may, according to Sir James Frazer, 'in the heart of Australia, amongst the most primitive savages known to us,' we find totemism; and totemism on examination proves to be 'merely an organized system of magic'. If now we start by assuming these premisses, or by granting these postulates for the sake of argument, we can, indeed, erect on them a theory of the evolution of religion. But if we so start, we must do as Sir James Frazer did in the first edition of _The Golden Bough_: we must hold that religion is but a developed form of magic. _En route_ it may have changed considerably in appearance, but in fact and fundamentally it remains the same thing. In all the lower forms of religion, and in most of the higher, there are practices which are by common consent and beyond doubt magical. This indisputable fact lends colour to the view that religion was in its origin nothing but magic, and that religion is, to those who can see the facts as they are, nothing but magic to this day: the magician was but a priest, and the priest, claiming superhuman power, is but a magician still. Prayers were at first but spells, and even now are supposed, by simple repetition, to produce their effects. If against this view it be objected that one of the most constant facts in the history of all religions, from the lowest to the highest, is that religion has at all times carried on war against sorcery, witchcraft, and magic, that in the lowest stages of man's evolution witches have been 'smelt out' by the witch-finder, and that in the higher stages of civilization witches have been persecuted, tortured, and burnt, the reply made to the objection is that the war against witchcraft and magic is due simply to the jealousy and resentment which regular practitioners of any art, e.g., medicine, have ever displayed and do still display towards irregular, unprofessional practitioners. This reply, however, is now generally admitted to be one which it is impossible to accept in the case of religion for the simple reason that it does not account for the facts. The plain fact which wrecks this attempted explanation is that magic is punished and witches are burnt not because witch-finders or priests are jealous of them, but because the community dreads them and feels their very existence to be a danger. It is the community which feels the world of difference there is between magic and religion. The attraction of the view that religion is but magic under another name, that prayers are to the end but spells, that 'priest' is but 'magician' written differently, is that it is a simplicist theory. It simplifies things. It exhibits religion as evolved out of magic and as containing at the end nothing more or other than was present at the beginning in magic. It is but a variant of the pre-formation theory of the evolution of religion. In fine, the notion that in magic we have religion pre-formed is the counterpart of the idea that we can find religion pre-formed in totemism. In both cases we secure continuity in the process of evolution apparently, but the continuity secured is appearance merely and is gained only at the price of ignoring the facts. It is not surprising, therefore, that in the later, enlarged editions of _The Golden Bough_, Sir James Frazer has given up the view that religion evolved out of magic, being moved thereto by the fact, as he says, that there is 'a fundamental distinction and even opposition of principle between magic and religion'. There is, in Frazer's present view, no continuity between the magic which came first and the religion which came ages later: between them is an absolute breach of continuity, a fundamental distinction, an opposition of principle. 'The principles of thought on which magic is based,' Frazer says, 'resolve themselves into two: first, that like produces like; and, second, that things which have once been in contact with each other continue to act on each other.' These beliefs are due to the association of ideas: if two things are more or less like one another, or if two things have gone together in our experience of the past, the sight of the one will make us think of the other and expect to find it. So strong is the expectation which is thus created that in the savage it amounts to absolute belief; and magic consists in acting on that belief, in setting like to produce like, with the firm conviction that thus (by magic) man can obtain all that he desires. For long ages, according to Frazer, man acted on that belief, and only eventually did he discover that magic did not always act. This discovery set him thinking and led him to the inference that at work in the world there must be supernatural powers or beings, that the course of nature and of human life is controlled by personal beings superior to man. And that inference, according to Sir James Frazer's definition, constitutes religion. The fundamental distinction, then, and even opposition of principle between magic and religion, is that in the one case man thinks that he can gain all that he desires by means of magic, and that in the other he turns with offerings and supplication to the personal beings superior to man whom he imagines to control the course of nature and of human life. Whether the distinction which Sir James Frazer draws between magic and religion will hold depends partly on whether his definitions of magic and religion are acceptable. In his account of magic there at least appears to be some confusion of thought. On the one hand, he says, 'it must always be remembered that every single profession and claim put forward by the magician, as such, is false; not one of them can be maintained without deception, conscious or unconscious.' This pronouncement makes it easy for us to understand that even the savage would eventually find magic an unsatisfactory method of gratifying his desires, a deception in fact. On the other hand, Sir James apparently contradicts himself, that is to say, he denies that every single profession or claim put forward by the magician is false, and says, 'however justly we may reject the extravagant pretensions of magicians and condemn the deceptions which they have practised on mankind, the original institution of this class of man has, take it all in all, been productive of incalculable good to humanity.' The ground for this second pronouncement, so contradictory of the first, is that magicians, Sir James tells us, 'were the direct predecessors, not merely of our physicians and surgeons but of our investigators and discoverers in every branch of natural science.' Thus, though he no longer regards priests as transmogrified magicians, he does regard magicians as the earliest men of science, and does regard science, therefore, as a highly developed stage of magic. This view logically follows from the premisses from which it starts; and if it is felt to be unacceptable, we shall naturally be inclined to scrutinize the premisses once more and more carefully. When we do so scrutinize them, we see that the principles of thought on which Sir James Frazer assumes magic to be based are in effect the principles from which science started: they are the beliefs that like produces like--the basis of the law of causation--and that things which our experience shows to have gone together in the past tend always to go together--which is one way of stating our belief in the uniformity of nature. If then these principles of thought are the principles on which magic as well as science is based, then science and magic are the same thing, and we have only to choose whether we will say that magic is not magic but undeveloped science, or that science is not science but merely magic transmogrified. Thus, the pre-formation theory once more reasserts itself: magic is the seed in which science is prefigured or pre-formed. If we wish to escape from this conclusion, if we wish to maintain the validity of science and yet always to remember 'that every single profession and claim put forward by the magician, as such, is false--not one of them can be maintained without deception, conscious or unconscious', we must consider whether Sir James Frazer's account of magic, according to which the principles of magic are identical with those of science, is the only account that can be given of magic; and for that purpose we may contrast it with the view of Wilhelm Wundt. But before doing so, since Sir James Frazer holds that there is 'a fundamental distinction and even opposition of principle between magic and religion', it will be well to try to see not only what he means by magic, but also whether his description or definition of religion is acceptable. Whereas Robertson Smith held that religion, reduced to its very lowest terms, must imply at least belief in a god and communion with him, Frazer considers religion to be the belief that the course of nature and of human life is controlled by personal beings superior to man. By the one view stress is laid on the mystic side of religion, on the communion which is effected through sacrifice; by the other view stress is laid on the power which the gods may be induced by prayer and supplication to exercise for the benefit of man. Our first reflection, therefore, is that any view of religion, to be comprehensive, cannot confine itself to either of these aspects singly, but must find room for both--for both prayer and sacrifice. They cannot be mutually exclusive, nor can they be simply juxtaposed, as though they were atoms unrelated to one another, accidental neighbours in the same district. There must be a higher unity, not created by or subsequent to the coalescence of elements originally independent of each other, but a higher unity of which both prayer and sacrifice are manifestations. This higher unity, I venture to suggest, is the first principle of religion; and, if it is not explicitly recognized as the first principle of religion either by Robertson Smith or by Frazer, that may well be because their attention is concentrated on the earlier stages in the evolution of religion, when as yet it is not conspicuous and is, therefore, though in fact operative, liable to be overlooked. As Ferrier has said, 'first principles of every kind have their influence, and indeed operate largely and powerfully long before they come to the surface of human thought and are articulately expounded.' What then is the first principle of religion which only after long ages of evolution rose to the surface of human thought, and which, though it had been operative largely and powerfully, came only in the slow course of human evolution to be articulately expounded? The first principle of religion is love--love of one's neighbour and one's God. In the light of that first principle it is manifest that prayer and sacrifice are not fundamentally unrelated and accidentally juxtaposed: a sacrifice accompanied not even by unspoken prayer, prompted by no desire, no wish for anything whatever, is a meaningless concept. Equally unmeaning and unintelligible is the idea of a prayer which involves no sacrifice--whether by sacrifice we understand the offering of gifts or the sacrifice of self. But perhaps it may be said that, even though love alone can lead to sacrifice of self, still it is undeniable that prayers may be put up and sacrifices be offered by a man for the sake of what he is going to get by doing so; and that that is what Sir James Frazer means when he sees in religion the belief that beings superior to man may be induced by prayer so to order things that man may get his heart's desire. Then, indeed, we get a continuity of evolution, a continuity between magic and religion, which Frazer perhaps did not intend wholly to deny: that is to say the continuous thread running through both magic and religion and uniting them is desire. Desire is continuous, though the means of gratifying it change. In one stage of evolution magic is the means; in another, religion. But throughout we find the process of evolution to be continuous--change in continuity and continuity in change. Now it is indeed undeniable that prayer and sacrifice may be made by a man for the sake of what he is going to get, and may from the beginning have been made, partly at least, from that motive. But if evolution in one of its aspects is change, then one of the changes brought about by evolution in religion is precisely that prayer and sacrifice come to be regarded as no longer a means whereby a man can get his desires accomplished--his will done--but as the indispensable condition for doing God's will. Prayer then becomes communion with God, and the sacrifice of self the living exhibition of love--the first principle of religion, the principle which manifests itself now in prayer and now in sacrifice. From this point of view, then, Sir James Frazer's account of religion will be considered unacceptable: it makes religion and magic alike but means whereby man has--vainly--sought to satisfy desire. And the implication is that the day of both alike is over. But if Frazer's account of religion is unacceptable, his account of magic also is open to criticism. He wavers between two opinions about magic: at one time he regards it as all falsehood and deception, at another as the source from which science springs, just as at one time he considered magic fundamentally the same as religion and then again as fundamentally different from religion. When Frazer is bent upon identifying magic and science, he attributes to primitive man a theory of causation (that like produces like): magic is based, he says, upon 'the views of natural causation embraced by the savage magician'. On the other hand, according to Wilhelm Wundt in his _Völkerpsychologie_, primitive man has no notion whatever of natural causation: primitive man, Wundt says, has only one way of accounting for events--if something happens, somebody did it. If any one mysteriously falls ill and dies, the question at once presents itself to the savage mind, who did it? How any one could contrive to make the man fall ill and die is, to the man's relations, thoroughly and disquietingly mysterious. The one thing clear to them is that somebody possesses and has exercised this mysterious and horrible power. The person who, in the opinion not only of the relatives but also of all or most of the community, naturally would do this sort of thing differs in some way--in his appearance or habits--from the average member of the community, and accordingly is credited, or discredited, with this mysterious and dreadful power. Such a person, according to Wundt, is a magician. Such an event is a marvel: so long as it is supposed to be brought about by a man, it is a piece of magic; when it is ascribed (as, according to Wundt, it comes in later, though not in primitive times, to be ascribed) to a god, it is a miracle. If science then does not work magic, there must be a fundamental distinction between science and magic, an absolute opposition of principles. The principles of thought on which magic is based cannot be, as Frazer maintains, the same as those which give to science its validity. In fine, the belief in magic seems to be based not on any principle of thought, but upon the assumption that, if something happens, somebody must have done it, and therefore must have had the power to do it. Wundt, whilst differing from Frazer in his description of magic, is at one with him in believing that before religion existed there was an age of magic. But Wundt's view that marvels are magic when supposed to have been done by man, but miracles when supposed to have been done by a god or his priests, suggests the possibility that, as the belief in magic is found usually, if not always, to exist side by side with the belief in miracles, the two beliefs may from the beginning have co-existed, that the age of magic is not prior in the course of evolution to the age of religion. This possibility, it will be admitted, derives some colour at least from the way in which the theory of evolution is employed to account for the origin of species: different though reptiles are from birds, the serpent from the dove, both are descended from a common ancestor, the archaeopteryx. If this instance be taken as typical of the process of evolution in general, then the course of evolution is not, so to speak, linear or rectilinear, but--to use M. Bergson's word--'dispersive'. To suppose that religion is descended from magic would then be as erroneous as to suppose that birds are descended from reptiles or man from the monkey. The true view will be that the course of evolution is not linear, is not a line produced for ever in the same direction, not a succession of stages, but is 'dispersive', that from a common starting point many lines of evolution radiate in different directions. The course of evolution is not unilinear but multilinear; it runs on many lines which diverge, but all the diverging lines start from the same point. If we apply this conception of evolution in general to the evolution of religion in particular--and Bergson, I should say, does not--then the centre of dispersion, common to all religions, is the heart of man. The forms of religion evolving, emanating and radiating from that common centre are, let us say, fetishism, polytheism, and monotheism. If we wish to avoid, in the theory of religious evolution, an error analogous to that of supposing birds to be descended from reptiles, we must decline to suppose that monotheism is simply polytheism evolved, or that polytheism is descended from fetishism. We must consider that each of these three forms of religion is terminal, in the sense that no one of them leads on to, or passes into, either of the other two. All three forms of religious life may, and indeed do, exist side by side with one another, just as the countless forms of physical life may be found existing side by side. The foraminifera exist now, as they existed millions of years ago; but the fact that they co-exist with higher forms of physical life does not show that the higher forms of life are but foraminifera in a more highly evolved form. Similarly, the fact that fetishism exists side by side with polytheism, or polytheism with monotheism, does not show that one is but a higher form of another: we must consider each to be a terminal form, as incapable of producing another, as it is impossible to conceive that the serpent develops into the dove. The common centre and starting-point of fetishism, polytheism, and monotheism on this view (the 'dispersive' view) of the evolution of religion lies in the heart of man, in a consciousness, originally vague in the extreme, of the personality and superiority to man of the being or object worshipped. In all these three forms of religion there is worship, and in all three forms the being worshipped is personal. Further, a special tie is felt to exist between the worshipper and the personality worshipped: religion is the bond of union between them, and it is also a bond which unites the worshippers to one another. It is by its very nature a bond of union, a means of communion between persons, human and divine. That is the mystic aspect of religion which finds expression in the rite of sacrifice and in the sacramental meals which are felt somehow to bind together, or rather to reunite and keep together, the worshippers and their god. This communion however is not merely mystic: it has its practical effects inasmuch as it affects the conduct of the worshipper and enables him to do what without it he would not have had strength to do. If fetishism, polytheism, and monotheism radiate from a common centre, the heart of man, then the heart of man must also be regarded as the starting-point of magic. If they spring straight from the heart, though in different directions, dispersively, then magic must also start from the common centre; and, though its divergence from religion tends to become total, at first, and indeed it may be for long, the discrepancy between them is rather felt uneasily than recognized clearly. Categories, such as those of cause and effect, identity and difference, which are the common property of civilized thought, and which among us, Mr. L.T. Hobhouse says, 'every child soon comes to distinguish in practice, are for primitive thought interwoven in wild confusion.' Two categories, which in primitive thought are thus interwoven in wild confusion, are, it may be suggested, religion and magic; and only in the dispersive process of evolution do they tend to become discriminated. In ancient Egypt, in Babylon, in Brahminism, religion fails to disentangle itself from magic; and not even has Christianity always succeeded in throwing it off. Different as we may conceive magic and religion to be, the fact remains that at first they grow up intertwined together. In the lower forms of religion magic is worked not only by magicians but by priests as well; spells and prayers are hardly to be distinguished from one another. The idea that 'priest' is but 'magician' writ differently, that prayers are but spells under another name, is now obsolete. The truth may be that religion neither follows on, nor is evolved from magic, but that both radiate from a common centre, the heart of man; and that at first both are attempts made by man to secure the fulfilment of his desires, to do his will, though eventually he finds that the way to control nature is to obey her, not to try to command her by working magic; and that it is in endeavouring to do God's will, not his own, that man finds peace at the last. In the three forms of religion which thus far we have taken into account, fetishism, polytheism, monotheism, religion is felt to be a personal relation--a relation between the human personality and some personality more than human; and the human heart is reaching out and groping after some divine personality, if peradventure it may find Him. But there is yet another form of religion proceeding from the human heart in which this does not seem to be the case--and that is Buddhism. The Buddha definitely renounced the search after God and would not allow his disciples to engage in the pursuit. Practically the pursuit was useless, according to the Buddha: escape from suffering is all that man can want or strive or hope for. Escape from suffering is possible only by cessation from existence; and that cessation from existence, here and hereafter, can be attained by man himself, who can reach Nirvana without the aid of gods, if gods there be. From the point of view of metaphysics the idea that there is any relation between the human personality and the divine falls to the ground, according to the Buddha, because, whether there be gods or not, at any rate there is no human personality. As in a conflagration--and according to the Buddha the whole world, burning with desire, is in a state of conflagration--the flames leap from one house that is burning to the next, so in its transmigrations the self, or rather the character, _Karman_, like a flame, leaps from one form of existence to another. The flame indeed appears to be there all the time the fire is burning; but the flame has no permanence, it is changing all the time the process of combustion is going on; and 'I' have no more permanence than the flame. 'I' only appear to be there as long as the process of life goes on. And as the flame only continues so long as there is something for it to feed on, so the process of transmigration or re-birth continues only so long as the thirst for being continues: the escape from re-birth is conditional on the extinction of that thirst or desire; and the disciple who has succeeded in putting off lust and desire has attained to deliverance from death and re-birth, has attained to rest, to Nirvana. Thus, on the 'dispersive' view of the evolution of religion, Buddhism is a radiation from the common centre, from the heart of man, though it radiates in a direction very different from that followed by any other religion. The direction is indeed one which, as the history of religion shows, it has been impossible for man long to follow, for, wherever Buddhism has been established, it has relapsed; and the Buddha, who strove to divert man from prayer and from the worship of gods, has himself become a god to whom prayer and worship are addressed. Whether in the future the direction may be pursued more permanently than it has been by Buddhism up to now lies with the future to show. Buddhism, however, on the 'dispersive' view of the evolution of religion, is not the only radiation from the common centre, of which we have to take account, in addition to fetishism, polytheism, and monotheism. From the human heart also proceeds 'the religion of humanity', the Positivist Church. Here, as originally in Buddhism, the conception of a divine personality plays no part; but here the human personality, the very existence of which is denied by the Buddha, is raised to a high, indeed to the highest, level. There is no such thing as an individual, if by 'individual' is meant a man existing solely by himself, for a man can neither come into existence nor continue in existence by himself alone. It is an essential part of the conception of personality that it includes fellowship: a person to be a person must stand in some relation to other persons. They are presented to him, the subject, as objects of his awareness; and he, the subject, is also an object of their awareness. Humanity is thus a complex, in which alone persons are found and apart from which they have in fact no existence. Humanity thus plays in Positivism, as a religion, the part of 'the great Being', _le grand Être_, which in other religions is fulfilled by God, but with this difference, that humanity is human always and never divine. The ruler of a country steers the ship of state, but he is a pilot only metaphorically. Whether the terms worship and prayer are used more than metaphorically by the Positivist seems hard to decide. On the one hand, if it is felt that worship and prayer are indispensable to religion, it may be argued that in religions other than Positivism they prove not only on analysis, but in the course of history, to be, as by Positivism they are recognized to be, of purely subjective import. On the other hard, it may be that they provide merely a means of transition from the religions of the past to the religion of the future. Another matter of interest is the place of morality in Positivism as a religion. According to M. Alfred Loisy in his book _La Religion_, morality and religion are bound up together. They cannot exist apart from one another: they might, he says, 'be dissociated in fact and thought, were it not that they are inseparable in the life of humanity.' And in his view morality is summed up in the idea of duty. He says, 'in the beginning was duty, and duty was in humanity, and duty was humanity. Duty was at the beginning in humanity. By it all things were made, and without it nothing was made.' Thus, where duty is, there also is religion. Not only, according to Loisy, has that always been so in every stage through which the evolution of religion has passed, but it will also be the case with the religion of the future. Thus the conception of evolution which Loisy holds is the same as that entertained by Robertson Smith, the difference being that, whereas on the one view the idea of God and of communion with Him has been present from the beginning, and, much though it may have changed, it remains to the end the same thing; on the other view it is the idea of duty--the duty which is humanity--that was in the beginning and will continue to the end. Both views are applications of the 'pre-formation' theory of evolution. But Positivism perhaps is not necessarily tied to the 'pre-formation' theory. It seems equally capable of being fitted in to the 'dispersive' theory, and of being regarded as an emanation or radiation proceeding direct from the human heart. It may be so regarded, if we consider the essence of it to be found not in the concept of duty, which seems to imply the existence of some superior who imposes duties on man, but in that love of one's fellow-man which, to be love, must be given freely, and simply because one loves. The sense of obligation, the feeling of duty, obedience to the commandments of authority and to the prohibitions which the community both enforces and obeys, are, all of them, various expressions of the primitive feeling of taboo--a feeling of alarm and fear. If we confine our attention to this set of facts, we may say, with M. Loisy, 'in the beginning was duty, and duty was in humanity'. We may however hesitate to follow him when he goes on to say, 'by duty all things were made, and without it nothing was made'. We may hesitate and the Positivist may hesitate, because, primitive though the feeling of fear may be, the feeling of love is equally original: on it and in it the family and society have their base and their origin; and to it they owe not only their origin but their continuance. Love however is not a matter of duty and obedience; it is not subject to commandment or prohibition; nor does it strive by commands or authority to enforce itself. In the process by which duty--legal and moral obligation--evolves out of the primitive feeling of taboo, love is not implicated: love springs from its own source, the human heart, and runs its own course. Taboo may have existed from the beginning; but to the end, whatever its form--duty, obligation, obedience to authority--it remains in character what it was at first, prohibitive, negative. Love alone is creative: without it 'was not anything made that was made'. There seems, therefore, no necessity to regard the 'pre-formation' theory of evolution, rather than the 'dispersive theory, as essential to Positivism. Common to all the views about the evolution of religion that have been mentioned in this paper is the belief that, the more religion changes, the more it remains the same thing. If identified with duty, then duty it was in the beginning, and duty it will remain to the end. For those who conceive it to be merely magic, magic it was and magic it remains. Those who define it as belief in a god and communion with him find that belief in the earliest as well as the latest stages. All would agree in rejecting Bergson's view of evolution--that in evolution there is change, but nothing which changes. All would agree that in the evolution of religion there is something which, change though it may, remains the same thing, and that is religion itself. But on the question what religion is, there is no agreement: no definition of religion as yet--and there have been many attempts to define it--has gained general acceptance. We may even surmise, and admit, that no attempt ever will be successful. Such admission, indeed, may at first to some seem equivalent to admitting that religion is a nullity, and the admission may accordingly be welcomed or rejected. But a moment's reflection will show that the admission has no such consequence. None of our simple feelings can be defined: pleasure and pain can neither be defined; nor, when experienced, doubted. And some of our general terms, those at any rate which are ultimate, are beyond our power either to define or doubt: no one imagines that 'life' can be defined, but no one doubts its existence. And religion both as a term and as a fact of experience is ultimate, and, because ultimate, incapable of definition. It is not to be defined but only to be felt. It is an affair not merely of the intellect, but still more of the heart. In what sense, then, can we speak of the evolution of religion? Evolution implies change; and no one doubts that there have been changes in religion. No one can imagine that it has from the beginning till now remained identically the same. What seems conceivable is that throughout there has been, not identity but continuity--change indeed in continuity but also continuity in change. The child 'learns to speak the words and think the ideas, to reproduce the mode of thought, as he does the form of speech' of the community into which he is born. In the speech, thought, and feelings--even in the religious feelings--of the community, from generation to generation, there is continuity, but not identity. From generation to generation they are not identical but are continuously changing; and they change because each child who takes them over reproduces them; and, in reproducing them, changes them, not much in most cases, but very considerably in the case of men of genius and the great religious reformers. The heart is the treasure-house in which not only old things are stored, but from which also new things are brought forth. The process of evolution implies indeed that the old things, though not everlasting, persist for a time; but it also implies the manifestation of that which, though continuous with the old, is at the same time new. It is from the heart of man, of some one man, that what is new proceeds: the community it is which is conservative of the old. The heart of man, or man himself, exhibits both change in continuity and continuity in change. The acorn, the sapling, and the oak are different stages of one continuous process. But it is the same tree throughout the whole process. So, too, perhaps it may be said, religion is a term which includes or is applicable to all stages in the one process, and not to the stage of monotheism alone, or of polytheism alone, or even to those stages alone in which there is a reference to personal beings. Each of these stages is a stage in the process of religion but no stage is by itself the whole process. But this view of the evolution of religion regards religion as though it were an organism, self-subsistent, existing and evolving as independently of man as the oak-tree does; whereas in truth religion has no such independent existence or evolution. It is not from polytheism that monotheism proceeds; nor does polytheism proceed from fetishism: it is from the heart of man that they and all other forms of religion emanate and radiate. To conceive fetishism, polytheism, and monotheism as three successive stages in one process, to represent the evolution of religion by a straight line marked off into three parts, or any other number of parts, is to forget that they do not produce one another but that each emanates from the heart of man. The fact that they emanate in temporal succession does not prove that one springs from the other. Nor can we say that values--religious or aesthetic--are to be determined on the simple principle that the latest edition is the best. To say that an _editio princeps_ has value only for the bibliophile is to admit that all values are personal, as are all thoughts and all feelings, all goodness and all love. FOR REFERENCE Robertson Smith, _The Religion of the Semites_ (A. & C. Black, 1889). J.G. Frazer, _The Golden Bough_ (Macmillan & Co., 1890-1915). Grant Allen, _The Evolution of the Idea of God_ (Grant Richards, 1897). H. Bergson, _L'Évolution créatrice_ (F. Alcan, 1908). F.B. Jevons, _The Idea of God in Early Religions_ (1910), and _Comparative Religion_ (1913) (Cambridge University Press). G.F. Moore, _History of Religions_ (T. & T. Clark, 1914). A. Loisy, _La Religion_ (E. Nourry, 1917). IV RECENT TENDENCIES IN EUROPEAN POETRY WITH OCCASIONAL REFERENCES TO THE NOVEL, DRAMA, AND CRITICISM PROFESSOR C.H. HERFORD When Matthew Arnold declared that every age receives its best interpretation in its poetry, he was making a remark hardly conceivable before the century in which it was made. Poetry in the nineteenth century was, on the whole, more charged with meaning, more rooted in the stuff of humanity and the heart of nature, less a mere province of _belles-lettres_ than ever before. Consciously or unconsciously it reflected the main currents in the mentality of European man, and the reflection was often most clear where it was least conscious. Two of these main currents are: (1) The vast and steady enlargement of our knowledge of the compass, the history, the potencies, of Man, Nature, the World. (2) The growth in our sense of the _worth_ of every part of existence. Certain aspects of these two processes are popularly known as 'the advance of science', and 'the growth of democracy'. But how far 'science' reaches beyond the laboratory and the philosopher's study, and 'democracy' beyond political freedom and the ballot-box, is precisely what poetry compels us to understand; and not least the poetry of the last sixty years with which we are to-day concerned. How then does the history of poetry in Europe during these sixty years stand in relation to these underlying processes? On the surface, at least, it hardly resembles growth at all. In France above all--the literary focus of Europe, and its sensitive thermometer--the movement of poetry has been, on the surface, a succession of pronounced and even fanatical schools, each born in reaction from its precursor, and succumbing to the triumph of its successor. Yet a deeper scrutiny will perceive that these warring artists were, in fact, groups of successive discoverers, who each added something to the resources and the scope of poetry, and also retained and silently adopted the discoveries of the past; while the general line of advance is in the direction marked by the two main currents I have described. Nowhere else is the succession of phases so sharp and clear as in France. But since France does reflect more sensitively than any other country the movement of the mind of Europe, and since her own mind has, more than that of any other country, radiated ideas and fashions out over the rest of Europe, these phases are in fact traceable also, with all kinds of local and national variations, in Italy and Spain, Germany and England, and I propose to take this fact as the basis of our present very summary and diagrammatic view. The three phases of the sixty years are roughly divided by the years 1880 and 1900. The first, most clearly seen in the French Parnassians, is in close, if unconscious, sympathy with the temper of science. Poetry, brought to the limit of expressive power, is used to express, with the utmost veracity, precision, and impersonal self-suppression, the beauty and the tragedy of the world. It sought Hellenic lucidity and Hellenic calm--in the example most familiar to us, the Stoic calm and 'sad lucidity' of Matthew Arnold. The second, best seen in the French Symbolists, was directly hostile to science. But they repelled its confident analysis of material reality in the name of a part of reality which it ignored or denied, an immaterial world which they mystically apprehended, which eluded direct description, frustrated rhetoric, and was only to be come at by the magical suggestion of colour, music, and symbol. It is most familiar to us in the 'Celtic' verse of Mr. Yeats and 'A.E.'. The third, still about us, and too various and incomplete for final definition, is in closer sympathy with science, but, in great part, only because science has itself found accommodation between nature and spirit, a new ideality born of, and growing out of, the real. If the first found Beauty, the end of art, in the plastic repose of sculpture, and the second in the mysterious cadences of music, the poetry of the twentieth century finds its ideal in life, in the creative evolution of being, even in the mere things, the 'prosaic' pariahs of previous poetry, on which our shaping wills are wreaked. We know it in poets unlike one another but yet more unlike their predecessors, from D'Annunzio and Dehmel and Claudel to our Georgian experimenters in the poetry of paradox and adventure. I. POETIC NATURALISM The third quarter of the nineteenth century opened, in western Europe, with a decided set-back for those who lived on dreams, and a corresponding complacency among those who throve on facts. The political and social revolution which swept the continent in 1848 and 1849, and found ominous echoes here, was everywhere, for the time, defeated. The discoveries of science in the third and fourth decades, resting on calculation and experiment, were investing it with the formidable prestige which it has never since lost; and both metaphysics and theology reeled perceptibly under the blows delivered in its name. The world exhibition of 1851 seemed to announce an age of settled prosperity, peace, and progress. In literature the counterpart of these phenomena was the revolt from _Romanticism_, a movement, in its origins, of poetic liberation and discovery, which had rejuvenated poetry in Germany and Italy, and yet more signally in England and in France, but was now petering out in emotional incoherence, deified impulse, and irresponsible caprice. The revolt accordingly everywhere sought to bring literature into closer conformity with reality; with reality as interpreted by science; and to make art severe and precise. In the novel, Flaubert founded modern naturalism with his enthralling picture of dull provincials, _Mme Bovary_ (1857); two years later George Eliot tilted openly in _Adam Bede_ against the romancers who put you off with marvellous pictures of dragons, but could not draw the real horses and cattle before their eyes.[3] Realism, at once more unflinching and more profoundly poetic, and yet penetrated, especially in Tolstoy and Dostoievsky, with an intensity of moral conviction beside which the ethical fervour of George Eliot seems an ineffectual fire, was one of the roots of the Russian Novel; which also reached its climax in the third quarter of the century. But though it concurred with analogous movements in the West, it drew little of moment from them; even Turgenjev, a greater Maupassant in artistry, drew his inner inspiration from wholly alien springs of Slavonic passion and thought. And it was chiefly through them that the Russian novel later helped to nourish the radically alien movement of Symbolism in France. In drama, Ibsen broke away from the Romantic tradition of his country with the iconoclastic energy of one who had spent his own unripe youth in offering it a half-reluctant homage. The man of actuality in him denounced the drama built upon the legends of the Scandinavian past--the mark for him of a people of dreamers oblivious of the calls of the hour. On the morrow of the disastrous (and for Norway in his view ignominious) Danish war of 1864, his scorn rang out with prophetic intensity in the fierce tirade of _Brand_. Happily for his art, revolt against romance in him was united, more signally than in more than two or three of his contemporaries, with the power of seizing and presenting contemporary life. 'Realism' certainly expresses inadequately enough the genius of an art like his, enormously alive rather than fundamentally like life, and no less charged with purpose and idea than the work of the great Russians, though under cover of reticences and irony little known to them. The great series of prose dramas--from 1867 (_The League of Youth_) onwards--with their experimental prelude _Love's Comedy_ (1863)--were to be for all Europe the most considerable literary event of the fourth quarter of the century, and they generated affiliated schools throughout the West. They did not indeed themselves remain untouched by the general intellectual currents of the time, and it will be noticed below that the later plays (from _The Lady of the Sea_ onward) betray affinities, like the Russian novel, with what is here called the second phase of the European movement. In Criticism, the showy generalizations of Villemain gave place to Sainte-Beuve's series of essays towards a 'natural history of minds'[4] and Taine's more sweeping attempt to explain literature by environment.[5] Among ourselves, Meredith's _Essay on Comedy_ (1872) brilliantly restated Molière's dictum that the comic is founded on the real, and not on a fantastic distortion of it, while Matthew Arnold applied alike to literature and to theology a critical insight fertilized by his master Sainte-Beuve's delicate faculty for disengaging the native quality of minds from the incrustations of tradition and dogma. In poetry the French Parnassians created the most brilliant poetry that has, since Milton, been built upon erudition and impeccable art. Their leader, Leconte de Lisle, in the preface of his _Poèmes antiques_ (1853), scornfully dismissed Romanticism as a second-hand, incoherent, and hybrid art, compounded of German mysticism, reverie, and Byron's stormy egoism. Sully Prudhomme addressed a sterner criticism to the shade of Alfred de Musset--the Oscar Wilde of the later Romantics[6]--who had never known the stress of thought, and had filled his poetry with light love and laughter and voluptuous despairs; the new poets were to be no such gay triflers, but workers at a forge, beating the glowing metal into shape, and singing as they toiled.[7] Carducci, too, derisively contrasts the 'moonlight' of Romanticism--cold and infructuous beams, proper for Gothic ruins and graveyards--with the benignant and fertilizing sunshine he sought to restore; for him, too, the poet is no indolent caroller, and no gardener to grow fragrant flowers for ladies, but a forge-worker with muscles of steel.[8] Among us, as usual, the divergence is less sharply marked; but when Browning calls Byron a 'flat fish', and Arnold sees the poet of _Prometheus_ appropriately pinnacled in the 'intense inane', they are expressing a kindred repugnance to a poetry wanting in intellectual substance and in clear-cut form. If we turn from the negations of the anti-romantic revolt to consider what it actually sought and achieved in poetry, we find that its positive ideals, too, without being derived from science, reflect the temper of a scientific time. Thus the supreme gift of all the greater poets of this group was a superb vision of beauty, and of beauty--_pace_ Hogarth--there is no science. But their view of beauty was partly limited, partly fertilized and enriched, by the sources they discovered and the conditions they imposed, and both the discoveries and the limitations added something to the traditions and resources of poetry. Thus: (1) They exploited the aesthetic values to be had by knowledge. They pursued erudition and built their poetry upon erudition, not in the didactic way of the Augustans, but as a mine of poetic material and suggestion. Far more truly than Wordsworth's this poetry could claim to be the impassioned expression which is in the face of science; for Wordsworth's knowledge is a mystic insight wholly estranged from erudition; his celandine, his White Doe, belong to no fauna or flora. When Leconte de Lisle, on the other hand, paints the albatross of the southern sea or the condor of the Andes, the eye of a passionate explorer and observer has gone to the making of their exotic sublimity. The strange regions of humanity, too, newly disclosed by comparative religion and mythology, he explores with cosmopolitan impartiality and imaginative penetration; carving, as in marble, the tragedy of Hjalmar's heart and Angentyr's sword, of Cain's doom, and Erinnyes never, like those of Aeschylus, appeased. The Romantics had loved to play with exotic suggestions; but the East of Hugo's _Orientales_ or Moore's _Lalla Rookh_ is merely a veneer; the poet of _Qain_ has heard the wild asses cry and seen the Syrian sun descend into the golden foam. In the three commanding poets of our English mid-century, learning becomes no less evidently poetry's honoured and indispensable ally. Tennyson studies nature like a naturalist, not like a mystic, and finds felicities of phrase poised, as it were, upon delicate observation. Man, too, in Browning, loses the vague aureole of Shelleyan humanity, and becomes the Italian of the Renascence or the Arab doctor or the German musician, all alive but in their habits as they lived, and fashioned in a brain fed, like no other, on the Book of the histories of Souls. Matthew Arnold more distinctively than either, and both for better and for worse, was the scholar-poet; among other things he was, with Heredia and Carducci, a master of the poetry of critical portraiture, which focusses in a few lines (_Sophocles_, _Rahel_, _Heine_, _Obermann Once More_) the meaning of a great career or of a complex age. (2) In the elaboration of their vision of beauty from these enlarged sources, Leconte de Lisle and his followers demanded an impeccable artistry. 'A great poet', he said, 'and a flawless artist are convertible terms.' The Parnassian precision rested on the postulate that, with sufficient resources of vocabulary and phrase, everything can be adequately expressed, the analogue of the contemporary scientific conviction that, with sufficient resources of experiment and calculation, everything can be exhaustively explained. The pursuit of an objective calm, the repudiation of missionary ardour, of personal emotion, of the _cri du coeur_, of individual originality, involved the surrender of some of the glories of spontaneous song, but opened the way, for consummate artists such as these, to a profusion of undiscovered beauty, and to a peculiar grandeur not to be attained by the egoist. Leconte's temperament leads him to subjects which are already instinct with tragedy and thus in his hands assume this grandeur without effort. The power of sheer style to ennoble is better seen in Sully Prudhomme's _tours de force_ of philosophic poetry--when he unfolds his ideas upon 'Justice' or 'Happiness', for instance, under the form of a debate where masterly resources of phrase and image are compelled to the service of a rigorous logic; or in the brief cameo-like pieces on 'Memory', 'Habit', 'Forms', and similar unpromising abstractions, most nearly paralleled in English by the quatrains of Mr. William Watson. But the cameo comparison is still more aptly applied to the marvellously-chiselled sonnets of Heredia--monuments of a moment, as sculpture habitually is, but reaching out, as the finest sculpture does, to invisible horizons, and to the before and after--the old wooden guardian-god recalling his former career as a scarlet figure-head laughing at the laughter or fury of the waves; Antony seeing the flying ships of Actium mirrored in the traitorous azure of Cleopatra's eyes. In Italy the ideal of an austere simplicity and reserve, resting as it did on the immense prestige of Leopardi, asserted itself even in the naturally exuberant and impetuous genius of Carducci. Without it we should not have had those reticences of an abounding nature, those economies of a spendthrift, which make him one of the first poets of the sonnet in the land of its origin, and one of the greatest writers of Odes among the 'barbarians'. With reason he declared in 1891, when most of his poetry had been written, that 'all the apparent contradictions in my work are resolved by the triple formula: in politics Italy before all, in aesthetics classical poetry before all, in practice, frankness and force before all'. His two chief disciples, D'Annunzio and Pascoli, antithetical in almost all points, may be said to have divided his inheritance in this; Pascoli's Vergilian economy contrasting with the exuberance of D'Annunzio somewhat as with us the classicism of the present poet-laureate with that of Swinburne. In Germany the Parnassian reserve, concentration, and aristocratic exclusiveness was to reappear in the lyrical group of Stefan Georg. (3) Finally, the Parnassian poetry, like most contemporary science, was in varying degrees detached from and hostile to religion, and found some of its most vibrating notes in contemplating its empty universe. Leconte de Lisle offers the Stoic the last mournful joy of 'a heart seven-times steeped in the divine nothingness',[9] or calls him to 'that city of silence, the sepulchre of the vanished gods, the human heart, seat of dreams, where eternally ferments and perishes the illusory universe'.[10] Here, too, Leopardi had anticipated him. In the ebullient genius of Carducci and Swinburne this lofty disdain for theological illusions passes into the fierce derision of the Ode to Satan and the militant paganism of the Sonnet to Luther, and the _Hymn to Man_. In Matthew Arnold it became a half-wistful resignation, the pensive retrospect of the Greek 'thinking of his own gods beside a fallen runic stone', or listening to the 'melancholy long withdrawing roar' of the tide of faith 'down the vast edges drear and naked shingles of the world'; while in James Thomson resignation passed into the unrelieved pessimism of the _City of Dreadful Night_. In all these poets, what was of moment for poetry was not, of course, the anti-theological or anti-clerical sentiment which marks them all, but the notes of sombre and terrible beauty which the contemplation of the passing of the gods, and of man's faith in them, elicits from their art. Yet the supreme figure, not only among those who share in the anti-Romantic reaction but among all the European poets of his time, was one who had in the heyday of youth led the Romantic vanguard--Victor Hugo. Leconte de Lisle never ceased to own him his master, and Hugo's genius had since his exile, in 1851, entered upon a phase in which a poetry such as the Parnassian sought--objective, reticent, impersonal, technically consummate--was at least one of the strings of his many-chorded lyre. Three magnificent works--the very crown and flower of Hugo's production--belong to this decade, 1850-60,--the _Châtiments_, _Contemplations_, and _Légende des Siècles_. I said advisedly, one string in his lyre. Objective reticence is certainly not the virtue of the terrible indictment of 'Napoleon the Little'. On the other hand, the greatest qualities of Parnassian poetry were exemplified in many splendid pieces of the other two works, together with a large benignity which their austere Stoicism rarely permits, and I shall take as illustration of the finest achievement of poetry in this whole first phase the closing stanzas of his famous _Boaz Endormi_ in the _Légende_, whose beauty even translation cannot wholly disguise. Our decasyllable is substituted for the Alexandrine.[11] 'While thus he slumbered, Ruth, a Moabite, Lay at the feet of Boaz, her breast bare, Waiting, she knew not when, she knew not where, The sudden mystery of wakening light. Boaz knew not that there a woman lay, Nor Ruth what God desired of her could tell; Fresh rose the perfume of the asphodel, And tender breathed the dusk on Galgala. Nuptial, august, and solemn was the night, Angels no doubt were passing on the wing, For now and then there floated glimmering As it might be an azure plume in flight. The low breathing of Boaz mingled there With the soft murmur of the mossy rills. It was the month when earth is debonnaire; The lilies were in flower upon the hills. Night compassed Boaz' slumber and Ruth's dreams, The sheep-bells vaguely tinkled far and near; Infinite love breathed from the starry sphere; 'Twas the still hour when lions seek the streams. Ur and Jerimedeth were all at rest; The stars enamelled the blue vault of sky; Amid those flowers of darkness in the west The crescent shone; and with half open eye Ruth wondered, moveless, in her veils concealed, What heavenly reaper, when the day was done And harvest gathered in, had idly thrown That golden sickle on the starry field.' II. DREAM AND SYMBOL The rise of French symbolism towards the end of the 'seventies was a symptom of a changed temper of thought and feeling traceable in some degree throughout civilized Europe. Roughly, it marked the passing of the confident and rather superficial security of the 'fifties into a vague unrest, a kind of troubled awe. As if existence altogether was a bigger, more mysterious, and intractable thing than was assumed, not so easily to be captured in the formulas of triumphant science, or mirrored and analysed by the most consummate literary art. Political and social conditions contributed to the change. France stood on the morrow of a shattering catastrophe. The complacency of mid-Victorian England began to be disturbed by menaces from the workshops of industry. And it was precisely in triumphant Germany herself that revolutionary Socialism found, in Karl Marx, its first organizing mind and authoritative exponent. The millennium was not so near as it had seemed; the problems of society, instead of having been solved once for all, were only, it appeared, just coming into view. In the secluded workshops of Thought, subtler changes were silently going on. The dazzling triumphs of physical science, which had led poetry itself to emulate the marble impassivity of the scientific temper, were undiminished; but they were seen in a new perspective, their authority ceased to be exclusive, the focus of interest was slowly shifting from the physical to the psychical world. Lange, writing the history of _Materialism_ in 1874, virtually performed its obsequies; and Tyndall's brilliant effort, in 1871, to equip primordial Matter with the 'promise and the potency' of mind, unconsciously confessed that its cause was lost. Psychology, after Fechner, steadily advanced in prestige and importance from the outlying circumference of the sciences to their very centre and core. But it was not merely particular doctrines that lost ground; the scope and validity of scientific method itself began to be questioned. In the most varied fields of thought there set in that 'idealistic reaction against science' which has been described in one of the most penetrating books of our time. Most significant of all, science itself, in the person of Mach, and Pearson, has abandoned the claim to do more than provide descriptive formulas for phenomena the real nature of which is utterly beyond its power to discover. Of this changed outlook the growth of Symbolism is the most significant literary expression. It was not confined to France, or to poetry. We know how the drama of Ibsen became charged with ulterior meanings as the fiery iconoclast passed into the poet of insoluble and ineluctable doubt. But by the French symbolists it was pursued as a creed, as a religion. If the dominant poetry of the third quarter of the century reflected the prestige of science, the dominant poetry of the fourth reflected the idealistic reactions against it, and Villiers de l'Ile Adam, its founder, came forward proclaiming that 'Science was bankrupt'. And so it might well seem to him, the visionary mystic inhabiting, as he did, a world of strange beauty and invisible mystery which science could not unlock. The symbolists had not all an explicit philosophy; but they were all aware of potencies in the world or in themselves which language cannot articulately express, and which are yet more vitally real than the 'facts' which we can grasp and handle, and the 'respectable' people whom we can measure and reckon with. Sometimes these potencies are vaguely mysterious, an impalpable spirit speaking only by hints and tokens; sometimes they are felt as the pulsations of an intoxicating beauty, breaking forth in every flower, but which can only be possessed, not described; sometimes they are moods of the soul, beyond analysis, and yet full of wonder and beauty, visions half created, half perceived. Experiences like these might have been described, as far as description would go, by brilliant artificers like the Parnassians. Verlaine and Mallarmé did not discover, but they applied with new daring, the fact that an experience may be communicated by words which, instead of representing it, suggest it by their colour, their cadences, their rhythm, their verbal echoes and inchoate phrases. All the traditional artistry of French poetic speech was condemned as both inadequate and insincere. 'Take eloquence and wring her neck! Nothing but music and the nuance--all the rest is "Literature", mere writing--futile verbosity!' that was the famous watchword of Verlaine's creed.[12] The strength of symbolism lay in this demand for a complete sincerity of utterance. Its revolt against science was at the same time a vindication of truth, an effort to get nearer to reality both by shedding off the incrustations of habitual phrase and by calling into play the obscure affinities by which it can be magically evoked. In the subtleties of suggestion latent in sensations the symbolists were real discoverers. But the way had already been pointed in famous verses by Baudelaire: 'Earth is a Temple, from whose pillared mazes Murmurs confused of living utterance rise; Therein Man thro' a forest of symbols paces, That contemplate him with familiar eyes. As prolonged echoes, wandering on and on, At last in one far tenebrous depth unite, Impalpable as darkness, and as light, Scents, sounds, and colours meet in unison.' There Baudelaire had touched a chord that was to sound loud and long; for what else than this thought of all the senses meeting in union inspired the music drama of Wagner?--only one of his points of kinship, as we shall see, with symbolism. Thus the symbolists, in quest of reality, touched it only through the inner life. There they are, in their fashion, realists. 'A landscape', said Albert Samain, 'is a state of soul.' The landscape may be false, but the state of soul is veracious. What interests them in life is the image of life, not lucidly reflected but exquisitely transformed. Yet the vision of the world caught in that transforming mirror was not without strange revealing glimpses, invisible, like stars mirrored in a well, to the plain observer. They could hear the music of the spheres; or in the language of Samain's sonnet 'Feel flowing through them, like a pouring wave, The music-tide of universal Soul; Hear in their heart the beating pulse of heaven.'[13] In the earlier poetry of Maurice Maeterlinck, the inner life imposes a more jealous sway. The poet sits not before a transforming mirror, where the outer world is disguised, but in a closed chamber, where it is only dreamed of, and it fades into the incoherence and the irrelevance of a dream. But the chamber is of rare beauty, and in its hushed and perfumed twilight, dramas of the spirit are being silently and almost imperceptibly enacted, more tragic than the loud passion and violence of the stage. He has written an essay on Silence,--silence that, like humility, holds for him a 'treasure' beyond the reach of eloquence or of pride; for it is the dwelling of our true self, the spiritual core of us, 'more profound and more boundless than the self of the passions or of pure reason.' And so there is less matter for drama in 'a captain who conquers in battle or a husband who avenges his honour than in an old man, seated in his arm-chair waiting patiently with his lamp beside him, giving unconscious ear to all the eternal laws that reign about his house, interpreting without comprehending, the silence of door and window, and the quivering voice of the light; submitting with bent head to the presence of his soul and his destiny.' It is on this side that symbolism discloses its kinship with the Russian novel,--with the mystic quietism of Tolstoy and the religion of self-sacrifice in Dostoievsky; and its sharp antagonism to the Nietzschean gospel of daemonic will and ruthless self-assertion, just then being preached in Germany. The two faiths were both alive and both responded to deep though diverse needs of the time; but the immediate future, as we shall see, belonged to the second. They had their first resounding encounter when Nietzsche held up his once venerated master Wagner to scorn as the chief of 'decadents' because he had turned from the superhuman heroism of Siegfried and the boundless passion of Tristram to glorify the mystic Catholicism of the Grail and the loveliness of the 'pure fool' Parzifal. Outside France symbolism found eager response among young poets, but rather as a literary than as an ethical doctrine. In Germany Dehmel, the most powerful personality among her recent poets, began as a disciple of Verlaine; in Italy, D'Annunzio wove esoteric symbols into the texture of the more than Nietzschean supermanliness of his supermen and superwomen. More significant than these, however, was the symbolism of what we call the Celtic school of poets in Ireland. For here both their artistic impressionism and their mystic spirituality found a congenial soil. The principal mediating force was Mr. Arthur Symons, friend of Verlaine and of Yeats, and himself the most penetrating interpreter of Symbolism, both as critic and as poet.[14] And to the French influence was added that of Blake, a poet too great to be included in any school, but allied to symbolism by his scorn for 'intellect' and for rhetoric, and by his audacities of figured speech. But Mr. Yeats and 'A.E.', the leaders of the 'Celtic' group, are in no sense derivation voices. They had the great advantage over the French of a living native folklore and faery lore. Hence their symbolism, no less subtle, and no less steeped in poetic imagining, has not the same air of literary artifice, of studio fabrication, of cultured Bohemianism; it breathes of the old Irish hills, holy with old-world rites, and the haunted woods, and the magical twilight and dewy dawns. And beneath all the folklore, and animating it, is the passion for Ireland herself, the mother, deathless and ever young, whom neither the desolation of the time nor the decay of hope can touch: 'Out-worn heart in a time out-worn Come clear of the nets of wrong and right; Laugh, heart, again in the grey twilight; Sigh, heart, again in the dew of the morn. Your mother Eire is always young, Dew ever shining and twilight grey; Tho' hope fall from you and love decay Burning in fires of a slanderous tongue. Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill; For there the mystical brotherhood Of sun and moon and hollow and wood And river and stream work out their will.' For that, the French had only the Fauns of a literary neo-classicism. The passion for France was yet indeed to find a voice in poetry. But this was reserved for the more trumpet-tongued tones of the contemporary phase to which I now turn. III. 'CREATIVE EVOLUTION' 1. _Philosophic Analogies_ Nothing is more symptomatic of the incipient twentieth century than the drawing together of currents of thought and action before remote or hostile. The Parnassians were an exclusive sect, the symbolists an eccentric and often disreputable coterie; Claudel, D'Annunzio, Rudyard Kipling, speak home to throngs of everyday readers, are even national idols, and our Georgians contrive to be bought and read without the least surrender of what is most poetic in their poetry. And the analogies between philosophic thinking and poetic creation become peculiarly striking. Merely to name Friedrich Nietzsche, Henri Bergson, and Benedetto Croce is to become vividly aware of these analogies and of the common bent from which they spring. All three--whether with brilliant rhetoric, or iron logic, or a blend of both--use their thinking power to deride the theorizing intelligence in comparison with the creative intuition which culminates in poetry. To define the scope and province of this intuition is the purport of Croce's epoch-making _Aesthetics_, the basis and starting-point of his illumining work, in _Critica_, as a literary critic. Bergson is the dominant figure in a line of French thinkers possessed with the conviction that life, a perpetual streaming forth of creative energy, cannot be caught in the mechanism of law, adapted to merely physical phenomena, which at best merely gives us generalizations and lets the all-important particulars--the individual living thing--slip through the meshes; whereas intuition--the eye fixed on the object--penetrates to the very heart of this individual living thing, and only drops out the skeleton framework of abstract laws. Philosophy, in these thinkers, was deeply imbued with the analogies of artistic creation. 'Beauty,' said Ravaisson, 'and especially beauty in the most divine and perfect form, contains the secret of the world.'[15] And Bergson's _Creative Evolution_ embodied a conception of life and of the world profoundly congenial to the artistic and poetic temper of his time. For he restated, it has been well said, the two great surviving formulas of the nineteenth century, evolution and the will to live, in terms precisely suited to the temper of the age just dawning. The will to live became a formula of hope and progress; evolution became a formula of vital impulse, of creative purpose, not of mechanical 'struggle for existence'. The idea that aesthetic experience gives a profounder clue than logical thought to the inner meaning of things was as old as Plato. It was one of the crowning thoughts of Kant; it deeply coloured the metaphysics of Schelling. And Nietzsche developed it with brilliant audacity when in his _Birth of Tragedy_ (1872) he contrasted scornfully with the laboured and ineffectual constructions of the theoretic man, even of Socrates the founder of philosophy, the radiant vision of the artist, the lucid clarity of Apollo. 'His book gave the lie to a thousand years of orderly development', wrote the great Hellenist Wilamowitz, Nietzsche's old schoolfellow, indignant at his rejection of the labours of scholastic reason. But it affirmed energetically the passion of his own time for immediate and first-hand experience. And it did more. Beside and above Apollo, Nietzsche put Dionysus; beside vision and above it, _rage_. Of the union of these two Tragedy was born. And Nietzsche's glorification of this elemental creative force also responded to a wider movement in philosophy, here chiefly German. His Dionysiac rage is directly derived from that will in which Schopenhauer saw the master faculty of man and the hidden secret of the universe; and the beginning of Schopenhauer's fame, about 1850, coincides with a general rehabilitation of will as the dominant faculty in the soul and in the world, at the cost of the methodic orderly processes of understanding; a movement exhibited in the psychological innovations of Wundt and Münsterberg, in the growth of the doctrine that what a thing is is determined by what it _can_; that value is in fact the measure, and even the meaning, of existence; that will can arm impotence, create faith, and master disease; and in the call of the colossal will-power which created the German empire and launched her on the career of industrial greatness. Nietzsche's Superman is, above all, a being of colossal and masterful will, and Zarathustra, the prophet of superhumanity, is only an incarnation of the will that for Schopenhauer moved the world. The moment at which the prestige of will began definitely to overcome that of reasoning is marked, as Aliotta has pointed out, by the appearance of James's _Will to Believe_, just when agnosticism seemed triumphant. Nietzsche and Bergson thus, with all their obvious and immense divergences, concurred in this respect, important from our present point of view, that their influence tended to transfer authority from the philosophic reason to those 'irrational' elements of mind which reach their highest intensity in the vision and 'rage' of the poet. James's vindication of drunken exaltation as a source of religious insight was not the least symptomatic passage of his great book. And both concurred, however remote their methods or their speech, in conceiving reality as creation, creation in which we take part--a conception which again, in the hands of the constructive religious thinker, led directly to the type of faith announced in that last--the Jamesian--'Variety' of religious experience, which represents us as indispensable fellow-workers and allies of a growing and striving God. 2. _The New Freedom_ No reader of the poetry of our time can mistake the kinship of its prevailing temper with that which lies at the root of these philosophies. Without trying to fit its infinite variety to any finite formula, we may yet venture to find in it, as Mr. McDowall has found in our Georgian poetry in particular, a characteristic union of grip and detachment; of intense and eager grasp upon actuality as it breaks upon us in the successive moments of the stream of time, and yet an inner independence of it, a refusal to be obsessed by its sanctions and authorities, a tacit assumption that everything, by whatever length of tradition consecrated, must come before the bar of the new century to be judged by its new mind. 'Youth is knocking at the door,' as it is said of Hilda in the symbolical _Master Builder_, and doubtless in every generation the philistines or Victorians in possession have had occasion to make that remark. The difference in our time is rather that youth comes in without knocking, and that instead of having to work slowly up to final dominance against the inertia of an established literary household, it has spontaneously, like Hilda Wrangel, taken possession of the home, rinding criticism boundlessly eulogistic, the public inexhaustibly responsive, and philosophy interpreting the universe, as we have seen, precisely in sympathy with its own naïve intuitions. No wonder that youth at twenty is writing its autobiography or having its biography written, and that at twenty-five it makes a show of laying down the pen, like Max Beerbaum, with the gesture of one rising sated from the feast of life: 'I shall write no more.' The fact that youth finds itself thus at home in the world explains the difference in temper between the new poets of freedom and the old. The wild or wistful cry of Shelley for an ideal state emancipated from pain and death is as remote from their poetry as his spiritual anarchy from their politics; they can dream and see visions, in Scott's phrase, 'like any one going', but their feet are on the solid ground of actuality and citizenship, and the actuality comes into and colours their poetry no less than their vision. When Mr. Drinkwater looks out of his 'town window' he dreams of the crocus flaming gold in far-off Warwick woods; but he does not repudiate the drab inglorious street nor the tramway ringing and moaning over the cobbles, and they come into his verse. And I find it significant of the whole temper of the new poetry to ordinary life no less than that of ordinary men and women to the new poetry, that he has won a singularly intimate relationship with a great industrial community. He has not fared like his carver in stone. But then the eagles of his carving, though capable of rising, like Shelley's, to the sun, are the Cromwells and Lincolns who themselves brought the eagle's valour and undimmed eye into the stress and turmoil of affairs. No doubt a fiercer note of revolt may be heard at times in the poetry of contemporary France, and that precisely where devotion to some parts of the heritage of the past is most impassioned. The iconoclastic scorn of youth's idealism for the effeteness of the 'old hunkers', as Whitman called them, has rarely rung out more sharply than in the closing stanzas of Claudel's great Palm Sunday ode. All the pomp and splendour of bishops and cardinals is idle while victory yet is in suspense: that must be won by youth in arms. 'To-morrow the candles and the dais and the bishop with his clergy coped and gold embossed, But to-day the shout like thunder of an equal, unofficered host Who, led and kindled by the flag alone, With one sole spirit swollen, and on one sole thought intent, Are become one cry like the crash of walls shattered and gates rent: 'Hosanna unto David's son!' Needless the haughty steeds marble-sculptured, or triumphal arches, or chariots and four, Needless the flags and the caparisons, the moving pyramids and towers, and cars that thunder and roar,-- 'Tis but an ass whereon sits Christ; For to make an end of the nightmare built by the pedants and the pharisees, To get home to reality across the gulf of mendacities, The first she-ass he saw sufficed! Eternal youth is master, the hideous gang of old men is done with, we Stand here like children, fanned by the breath of the things to be, But victory we will have to-day! Afterwards the corn that like gold gives return, afterwards the gold that like corn is faithful and will bear, The fruit we have henceforth only to gather, the land we have henceforth only to share, But victory we will have to-day!' In the same spirit Charles Péguy--like Claudel, be it noted, a student of Bergson at the École Normale--found his ideal in the great story of the young girl of Domremy who saved France when all the pomp and wisdom of generals had broken down. And in our own poetry has not Mr. Bottomley rewritten the Lear story, with the focus of power and interest transferred from the old king--left with not an inch of king in him--to a glorious young Artemis-Goneril? But among our English Georgians this tense iconoclastic note is rare. Their detachment from what they repudiate is not fanatical or ascetic; it is conveyed less in invective than in paradox and irony; their temper is not that which flies to the wilderness and dresses in camel hair, but of mariners putting out to the unknown and bidding a not unfriendly good-bye at the shore. The temper of adventure is deeply ingrained in the new romance as in the old; the very word adventure is saturated with a sentiment very congenial to us both for better and worse; it quickens the hero in us and flatters the devil-may-care. In its simplest form the temper of adventure has given us the profusion of pleasant verses which we know as the poetry of 'vagabondage' and 'the open road'. The point is too familiar to be dwelt on, and has been admirably illustrated and discussed by Mr. McDowall. George Borrow, prince of vagabonds, Stevenson, the 'Ariel', with his 'Vagabond-song'-- 'All I seek the heaven above, And the road below me', and a few less vocal swallows, anticipated the more sustained flights and melodies of to-day, while Borrow's wonderful company of vagabond heroes and heroines is similarly premonitory of the alluring gipsies and circus-clowns of our Georgian poetry. Sometimes a traditional motive is creatively transformed; as when Father Time, the solemn shadow with admonitory hour-glass, appears in Mr. Hodgson's poem as an old gipsy pitching his caravan 'only a moment and off once again'. Elsewhere a deeper note is sounded. It is not for nothing that Jeanne d'Arc is the saint of French Catholic democracy, or that Péguy, her poet, calls the Incarnation the 'sublime adventure of God's Son'. That last adventure of the Dantesque Ulysses beyond the sunset thrills us to-day more than the Odyssean tale of his triumphant home-return, and D'Annunzio, greatly daring, takes it as the symbol of his own adventurous life. Francis Thompson's most famous poem, too, represents the divine effort to save the erring soul under the image of the hound's eager chase of a quarry which may escape; while Yeats hears God 'blowing his lonely horn' along the moonlit faery glades of Erin. And Meredith, who so often profoundly voiced the spirit of the time in which only his ripe old age was passed, struck this note in his sublime verses on revolutionary France-- 'soaring France That divinely shook the dead From living man; that stretched ahead Her resolute forefinger straight And marched toward the gloomy gate Of Earth's Untried.' It is needless to dwell upon the affinity between this temper of adventure in poetry and the teaching of Bergson. That the link is not wholly fortuitous is shown by the interesting _Art Poétique_ (1903) of his quondam pupil, Claudel, a little treatise pervaded by the idea of Creative-evolution. It was natural in such a time to assume that any living art of poetry must itself be new, and in fact the years immediately before and after the turn of the century are crowded with announcements of 'new' movements in art of every kind. Beside Claudel's _Art Poétique_ we have in England the _New Aestheticism_ of Grant Allen; in Germany the 'new principle' in verse of Arno Holz. And here again the English innovators are distinguished by a good-humoured gaiety, if also by a slighter build of thought, from the French or Nietzschean 'revaluers'. Rupert Brooke delightfully parodies the exquisite hesitances and faltering half-tones of Pater's cloistral prose; and Mr. Chesterton pleasantly mocks at the set melancholy of the aggressive Decadence in which he himself grew up: 'Science announced nonentity, and art adored decay, The world was old and ended, but you and I were gay.' Like their predecessors in the earlier Romantic school, the new adventurers have notoriously experimented with poetic _form_. France, the home of the most rigid and meticulous metrical tradition, had already led the way in substituting for the strictly measured verse the more loosely organized harmonies of rhythmical prose, bound together, and indeed made recognizable as verse, in any sense, solely by the rhyme. With the Symbolists 'free verse' was an attempt to capture finer modulations of music than the rigid frame of metre allowed. With their successors it had rather the value of a plastic medium in which every variety of matter and of mood could be faithfully expressed. But whether called verse or not, the vast rushing modulations of rhythmic music in the great pieces of Claudel and others have a magnificence not to be denied. And the less explicitly poetic form permits matter which would jar on the poetic instinct if conveyed through a metrical form to be taken up as it were in this larger and looser stride. In Germany, on the other hand, the rhythmic emancipation of Whitman was carried out, in the school of Arno Holz, with a revolutionary audacity beyond the example even of Claudel. Holz states with great clearness and trenchancy what he calls his 'new principle of lyric'; one which 'abandons all verbal music as an aim, and is borne solely by a rhythm made vital by the thought struggling through it to expression'. Rhyme and strophe are given up, only rhythm remains. Of our Georgian poetry, it must suffice to note that here, too, the temper of adventure in form is rife. But it shows itself, characteristically, less in revolutionary innovation than in attempts to elicit new and strange effects from traditional measures by deploying to the utmost, and in bold and extreme combinations, their traditional resources and variations, as in the blank verse of Mr. Abercrombie and Mr. Bottomley. This, and much beside in Georgian verse, has moods and moments of rare beauty. But, on the whole, verse-form is the region of poetic art in which Georgian poetry as a whole is least secure. 3. _The New Realism_ We see then how deeply rooted this new freedom is in the passion for actuality; not the dream but the waking and alert experience throbs and pulses in it. We have now to look more closely into this other aspect of it. Realism is a hard-worked term, but it may be taken to imply that the overflowing vitality of which poetry is one expression fastens with peculiar eagerness upon the visible and tangible world about us and seeks to convey that zest in words. Our poets not only do not scorn the earth to lose themselves in the sky; they are positive friends of the matter-of-fact, and that not in spite of poetry, but for poetry's sake; and Pegasus flies more freely because 'things' are 'in the saddle' along with the poet. That this matter-of-factness is loved by poets, for poetry's sake, marks it off once for all from the photographic or 'plain' realism of Crabbe. But it is also clearly distinct from the no less poetic realism of Wordsworth. Wordsworth's mind is conservative and traditional; his inspiration is static; he glorifies the primrose on the river brink by seeing its transience in the light of something far more deeply interfused which does not change nor pass away. Romance, in a high sense, lies about his greatest poetry. But it is a romance rooted in memory, not in hope--the 'glory of the grass and splendour of the flower' which he had seen in childhood and imaginatively re-created in maturity; a romance which change, and especially the intrusions of industrial man, dispelled and destroyed. Whereas the romance of our new realism rests, in good part, precisely in the sense that the _thing_ so vividly gripped is not or need not be permanent, may turn into something else, has only a tenancy, not a freehold, in its conditions of space and time, a 'toss-up' hold upon existence, as it were, full of the zest of adventurous insecurity. A pessimistic philosophy would dissipate this romance, or strip it of all but the mournful poetry of doom. Mr. Chesterton glorifies the dust which may become a flower or a face, against the Reverend Peter Bell for whom dust is dust and no more, and Hamlet who only remembers that it once was Caesar. If our realism is buoyant, if it had at once the absorbed and the open mind, this is, in large part, in virtue of the temper which finds reality a perpetual creation. Every moment is precious and significant, for it comes with the burden and meaning of something that has never completely been before; and goes by only to give place to another moment equally curious and new. This is the deeper ground of our present fashion of paradox; what Mr. Chesterton, its apostle, means when he says that 'the great romance is reality'; for paradox, the unexpected, is, in a reality so framed, the bare and sober truth. Hence the frequency, in our new poetry, of pieces founded deliberately upon, as Mr. McDowall points out, paradox: the breaking in of some utter surprise upon a humdrum society, as in Mr. de la Mare's _Three Jolly Farmers_, or Mr. Abercrombie's _End of the World_, or Mr. Munro's _Strange Meetings_. Moreover, in this incessantly created reality we are ourselves incessantly creative. That may seem to follow as a matter of course; but it corresponds with the most radical of the distinctions between our realism and that of Wordsworth. When Mr. Wells tells us that his most comprehensive belief about the universe is that every part of it is ultimately important, he is not expressing a mystic pantheism which feels every part to be divine, but a generous pragmatism which holds that every part _works_. The idea of shaping and adapting will, of energy in industry, of mere routine practicality in office or household, is no longer tabooed, or shyly evaded; not because of any theoretic exaltation of labour or consecration of the commonplace, but because merely to use things, to make them fulfil our purposes, to bring them into touch with our activities, itself throws a kind of halo over even very humble and homely members of the 'divine democracy of things'. Rupert Brooke draws up a famous catalogue of the things of which he was a 'great lover'. He loved them, he says, simply _as being_. And no doubt, the simple sensations of colour, touch, or smell counted for much. But compare them with the things that Keats, a yet greater lover of sensations, loved. You feel in Brooke's list that he liked doing things as well as feasting his passive senses; these 'plates', 'holes in the ground,' 'washen stones,' the cold graveness of iron, and so forth. One detects in the list the Brooke who, as a boy, went about with a book of poems in one hand and a cricket-ball in the other, and whose left hand well knew what his right hand did.[16] That takes us far from the dream of eternal beauty, which a Greek urn or a nightingale's song brought to Keats, and the fatal word 'forlorn', bringing back the light of common day, dispelled. The old ethical and aesthetic canons are submerged in a passion for life which finds a good beyond good and evil, and a beauty born of ugliness more vital than beauty's self. 'The worth of a drama is measured', said D'Annunzio, 'by its fullness of life', and the formula explains, if it does not justify, those tropical gardens, rank with the gross blooms of 'superhuman' eroticism and ferocity, to which he latterly gave that name. And we know how Maeterlinck has emerged from the mystic dreams and silences of his recluse chamber to unfold the dramatic pugnacities of Birds and Bees. Even the downright foulness and ugliness which some people find so puzzling in poets with an acute delight in beauty, like Mr. Masefield, come into it not from any aesthetic obtuseness, but because these uglinesses are full of the zest of drama, of things being done or made, of life being lived. When Masefield sounded his challenge to the old aesthetics: 'Others may sing of the wine and the wealth and the mirth, Mine be the dirt and the dross, the dust and scum of the earth', he knew well, as _The Everlasting Mercy_ and _The Widow of Bye Street_ showed, that dirt and dross, if wrought into tragedy, can win a higher beauty than the harmonies of idyll. Even the hideous elder women in Mr. Bottomley's _Lear's Wife_, or his Regan--an ill-conditioned girl, sidling among the 'sweaty, half-clad cook-maids' after pig-killing, 'smeary and hot as they', participate in this beauty and energy of doing. Poetry, in these cases, wins perhaps at most a Pyrrhic victory over reluctant matter. It is otherwise with the second of the great Belgian poets. In the work of Verhaeren, the modern industrial city, with its spreading tentacles of devouring grime and squalor, its clanging factories, its teeming bazaars and warehouses, and all its thronging human population, is taken up triumphantly into poetry. Verhaeren is the poet of 'tumultuous forces', whether they appear in the roar and clash of 'that furnace we call existence', or in the heroic struggles of the Flemish nation for freedom. And he exhibits these surging forces in a style itself full of tumultuous power, Germanic rather than French in its violent and stormy splendour, and using the chartered licence of the French 'free verse' itself with more emphasis than subtlety. 4. _The Cult of Force_ In Verhaeren, indeed, we are conscious of passing into the presence of power more elemental and unrestrained than the civil refinement of our Georgians, at their wildest, allows us to suspect. The tragic and heroic history of his people, and their robust art, the art of Rembrandt, and of Teniers, vibrates in the Flemish poet. He has much of the temperament of Nietzsche, and if not evidently swayed by his ideas, or even aware of them, and with a generous faith in humanity which Nietzsche never knew, he thinks and imagines with a kindred joy in violence: 'I love man and the world, and I adore the force Which my force gives and takes from man and the universe.' And it is no considerable step from him to the poets who in this third phase of our period have unequivocally exulted in power and burnt incense or offered sacrifice before the altar of the strong man. The joy in creation which, we saw, gives its romance to so much of the realism of our time, now appears accentuated in the fiercer romance of conflict and overthrow. Thanks largely to Nietzsche, this romance acquired the status of an authoritative philosophy--even, in his own country, that of an ethical orthodoxy. The German people was doubtless less deeply and universally imbued with this faith than our war-prejudice assumes. But phenomena such as the enormous success of a cheap exposition of it, _Rembrandt als Erzieher_ (1890) by a fervent Bismarckian, and of the comic journal _Simplicissimus_ (founded 1895) devoted to systematic ridicule of the old-fashioned German virtues of tenderness and sympathy, indicated a current of formidable power and compass, which was soon to master all the other affluents of the national stream. But older, and in part foreign, influences concurred to colour and qualify, while they sustained, the Nietzschean influence,--the daemonic power of Carlyle, the iron intensity and masterful reticence of Ibsen. This was the case especially, as is well known, in the drama. Gerhardt Hauptmann, who painted the tragedy of the self-emancipated superman,--as Mr. Shaw about the same time showed us his self-achieved apotheosis,--was no doubt the most commanding (as Mr. Shaw was the most original) figure in the European drama of the early century. In poetry, the contributory forces were still more subtly mingled, and the Nietzschean spirit, which blows where it listeth, often touched men wholly alien from Nietzsche in cast of genius and sometimes stoutly hostile to him. Several of the most illustrious were not Germans at all. Among the younger men who resist, while they betray, his spell, is the most considerable lyric poet of the present generation in Germany. Richard Dehmel's vehement inspiration from the outset provoked comparison with Nietzsche, which he warmly resented. He began, in fact, as a disciple of Verlaine, and we may detect in the unrestraint of his early erotics the example of the French poet's _fureur d'aimer_. But Dehmel's more strongly-built nature, and perhaps the downright vigour of the German language, broke through the tenuities of _la nuance_. It was not the subtle artistry of the Symbolists, but the ethical and intellectual force of the German character, which finally drew into a less anarchic channel the vehement energy of Dehmel. Nietzsche had imagined an ethic of superhuman will 'beyond good and evil'. The poet, replied Dehmel, had indeed to know the passion which transcends good and evil, but he had to know no less the good and evil themselves of the world in and by which common men live. And if he can cry with the egoism of lawless passion, in the _Erlösungen_, 'I will fathom all pleasure to the deepest depths of thirst, ... Resign not pleasure, it waters power',--he can add, in the true spirit of Goethe and of the higher mind of Germany, 'Yet since it also makes slack, turn it into the stuff of duty!' If Nietzsche provoked into antagonism the sounder elements in Dehmel, he was largely responsible for destroying such sanity as the amazing genius of Gabriele D'Annunzio had ever possessed. In D'Annunzio the sensuality of a Sybarite and the eroticism of a Faun go along with a Roman tenacity and hardness of nerve. The author of novels which, with all their luxurious splendour, can only be called hothouses of morbid sentiment, has become the apostle of Italian imperialism, and more than any other single man provoked Italy to throw herself into the great adventure of the War. Unapproached in popularity by any other Italian man of letters, D'Annunzio discovered Nietzsche, and hailed him--a great concession--as an equal. When Nietzsche died, in 1900, D'Annunzio indicted a lofty memorial ode to the Titanic Barbarian who set up once more the serene gods of Hellas over the vast portals of the Future. Nietzsche indeed let loose all the Titan, and all consequently that was least Hellenic, in the fertile genius of the Italian; his wonderful instinct for beauty, his inexhaustible resources of style are employed in creating orgies of superhuman valour, lust, and cruelty like some of his later dramas, and hymns intoxicated with the passion for Power, like the splendid Ode in which the City of the Seven Hills is prophetically seen once more the mistress of the world, loosing the knot of all the problems of humanity. His poetic autobiography, the first _Laude_ (1901)--counterpart of Wordsworth's _Prelude_ and its very antipodes--culminates in a prayer 900 lines long to Hermes, god of the energy which precipitates itself on life and makes it pregnant with invention and discovery, of the iron will 'which chews care as a laurel leaf'--the god of the Superman. And so he discovers the muse of the Superman, the Muse of Energy, a tenth Muse whose first poet he modestly disclaims to be, if he may only be, as he would have us interpret his name, her Announcer. If D'Annunzio emulates Nietzsche, the two great militant poets of Catholic France would have scorned the comparison. Charles Péguy's brief career was shaped from his first entrance, poor and of peasant birth, at a Paris Lycée, to his heroic death in the field, September 1914, by a daemonic force of character. His heroine, glorified in his first book, was Jeanne d'Arc, who attempted the impossible, and achieved it. In writing, his principle--shocking to French literary tradition--was to speak the brutal truth _brutalement_. As a poet he stood in the direct lineage of Corneille, whose _Polyeucte_ he thought the greatest of the world's tragedies. As a man, he embodied with naïve intensity the unsurpassed inborn heroism of the French race. Claudel, even more remote as a thinker from Nietzsche than Péguy, exhibits a kindred temper in the ingrained violence of his art. His stroke is vehement and peremptory; he is an absolutist in style as in creed. It is the style of one who apprehends the visible world with an intensity as of passionate embrace, such as the young Browning expresses in _Pauline_. 'I would fain have seen everything,' he cries, 'possessed and made it my own, not with eyes and senses only, but with mind and spirit.' And after he was converted he saw and painted supernatural things with the same carnal and robust incisiveness. The half-lights of Symbolist mysticism are remote from his hard glare. As a dramatist he drew upon and exaggerated that which in Aeschylus and Shakespeare seems to the countrymen of Racine nearest to the limit of the terrible and the brutal permissible in art: a princess nailed by the hands like a sparrow-hawk to a pine by a brutal peasant; the daughter of a noble house submitting to a loathed marriage with a foul-mouthed plebeian in order to save the pope. And if we look, finally, for corresponding phenomena at home, we find them surely in the masculine, militant, and in the French sense _brutal_ poetry of W.E. Henley and Rudyard Kipling. If any modern poets have conceived life in terms of will, and penetrated their verse with that faith, it is the author of 'I am the Captain of my Soul', the 'Book of the Sword', and 'London Voluntaries', friend and subject of the great kindred-minded sculptor Rodin, the poet over whose grave in St. Paul's George Wyndham found the right word when he said--marking him off from the great contemplative, listening poets of the past--'His music was not the still sad music of humanity; it was never still, rarely sad, always intrepid.' And we know how Kipling, after sanctioning the mischievous superstition that 'East and West can never meet', refuted it by producing his own 'two strong men'. 5. _The New Idealism_ (1) _Nationality_ We have now seen something of that power, at once of grip and of detachment with which the dominant poetry of this century faces what it thinks of as the adventure of experience, its plunge into the ever-moving and ever-changing stream of life. How then, it remains to ask, has it dealt with those ideal aspirations and beliefs which one may live intensely and ignore, which in one sense stand 'above the battle', but for which men have lived and died. With a generation which holds so lightly by tradition, which revises and revalues all accepted values, these aspirations and beliefs might well drop out of its poetry. On the other hand, these same aspirations and beliefs might overcome the indifference to tradition by ceasing to be merely traditional, by being immersed and steeped in that moving stream of life, and interwoven with the creative energies of men. The inherited faiths were put to this dilemma, either to become intimately alive and creative in poetry or to be of no concern for it. Some of them failed in the test. England has still devotees of Protestantism, but Protestant religion has hardly inspired noble poetry since Milton. Nationality, on the other hand, has during the last century inspired finer poetry than at any time since the sixteenth, and that because it has been brought down from the region of political abstractions and ideologies into intimate union with heart and brain, imagination and sense. This is true also of Catholicism and of Socialism, and, if fitfully and uncertainly yet, of the ideal of international fraternity, of humanity. And to all these ideals, to all ideals, came finally the terrific, the overwhelming test of the War,--a searching, annihilating, purifying flame, in which some shrivelled away, some were stripped of the illusive glitter that concealed their mass of alloy, and some, purged of their baser constituents, shone out with a lustre unapproached before. What is the distinctive note of this new poetry of nationality? And for the moment I speak of the years before the War. May we not say that in it the ideal of country is saturated with that imaginative grip of reality in all its concrete energy and vivacity which I have called the new realism? The nation is no abstraction, whether it be called Britannia, or _Deutschland über Alles_. It is seen, and felt; seen in its cities as well as in its mountains, in the workers who have made it, as well as in the heroes who have defended it; in its roaring forges as well as in its idyllic woodlands and its tales of battles long ago; and all these not as separate strands in a woven pattern, but as waters of different origin and hue pouring along together in the same great stream. Émile Verhaeren, six years before the invasion, had seen and felt his country, living body and living soul, with an intensity which made it seem unimaginable that she should be permanently subdued. He well called his book _Toute la Flandre_, for all Flanders is there. Old Flanders,--Artevelde and Charles Téméraire--whose soul was a forest of huge trees and dark thickets, 'A wilderness of crossing ways below, But eagles, over, soaring to the sun,'-- Van Eyck and Rubens--'a thunder of colossal memories'; then the great cities, with their belfries and their foundries, and their warehouses and laboratories, their antique customs and modern ambitions; and the rivers, the homely familiar Lys, where the women wash the whitest of linen, and the mighty Scheldt, the Escaut, the 'hero sombre, violent and magnificent', 'savage and beautiful Escaut', whose companionship had moulded and made the poet, whose rhythms had begotten his music and his best ideas[17]. None of our English poets have rendered England in poetry with the same lyric intensity in its whole compass of time and space, calling up into light and music all her teeming centuries and peopled provinces. Yet the present generation has in some respects made a nearer approach to such achievement than its predecessors. A century of growing historic consciousness has not passed over us in vain; and if any generic distinction is to be found between our recent, often penetrating and beautiful, poetry of the English countryside and the Nature description of Wordsworth or of Ruskin, it is in the ground-tone of passion and memory that pervades it for England herself. Wordsworth wrote magnificently of England threatened with invasion, and magnificently of the Lake Country, Nature's beloved haunt. But the War sonnets and the Lake and mountain poetry come from distinct strains in his genius, which our criticism may bring into relation, but our feeling insists on keeping apart. His Grasmere is a province of Nature--her favoured province--rather than of England; it is in the eye of Nature that the old Cumberland beggar lives and dies; England only provides the obnoxious workhouses to which these destitute vagrants were henceforth to be consigned. Is it not this that divides our modern local poetry from his? Mr. Belloc's Sussex is tenderly loved for itself; yet behind its great hills and its old-world harbours lies the half-mystic presence of historic England. And in Edward Thomas's wonderful old Wiltshireman, Lob, worthy I think to be named with the Cumberland Beggar, 'An old man's face, by life and weather cut And coloured,--rough, brown, sweet as any nut,-- A land face, sea-blue eyed,'-- you read the whole lineage of sterling English yeomen and woodlanders from whom Lob springs. This note is indeed relatively absent from the work of the venerable master who has made 'Wessex' the most vividly realized of all English provinces to-day, and whose prose Egdon Heath may well be put at the head of all the descriptive poetry of our time. But Mr. Hardy, in this respect, belongs to an earlier generation than that into which he happily survives. Sometimes this feeling is given in a single intense concentrated touch. When Rupert Brooke tells us of 'Some corner of a foreign field That is for ever England. There shall be In that rich earth a richer dust concealed; A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware, Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,' do we not feel that the solidarity of England with the English folk and of the English folk with the English soil, is burnt into our imaginations in a new and distinctive way? But the poetry of shires and provinces reacts too upon the poetry of nationality. It infuses something of the more instinctive and rudimentary attachments from which it springs into a passion peculiarly exposed to the contagion of rhetoric and interest. Some of the most strident voices among living nationalist poets have found an unexpected note of tenderness when they sang their home province. Mr. Kipling charms us when he tells, in his close-knit verse, of the 'wooded, dim, Blue goodness of the Weald'. And the more strident notes of D'Annunzio's patriotism are also assuaged by the tenderness and depth of his home feeling. We read with some apprehension his dedication of _La Nave_ to the god of seas: 'O Lord, who bringest forth and dost efface The ocean-ruling Nations, race by race, It is this living People, by Thy grace Who on the sea Shall magnify Thy name, who on the sea Shall glorify Thy name, who on the sea With myrrh and blood shall sacrifice to Thee At the altar-prow, Of all earth's oceans make our sea, O Thou! Amen! But he dedicated a noble drama, the _Figlia d'Iorio_, in a different tone, 'To the land of the Abruzzi, to my Mother, to my Sisters, to my brother in exile, to my father in his grave, to all my dead and all my race in the mountains and by the sea, I dedicate this song of the ancient blood.' (2) _Democracy_ The growth of democratic as of national feeling during the later century naturally produced a plentiful harvest of eloquent utterance in verse. With this, merely as such, I am not here concerned, even though it be as fine as the Socialist songs of William Morris or Edward Carpenter. But the Catholic Socialism of Charles Péguy,--itself an original and, for most of his contemporaries, a bewildering combination--struck out a no less original poetry,--a poetry of solidarity. Péguy's Socialism, like his Catholicism, was single-souled; he ignored that behind the one was a Party, and behind the other a Church. It was his bitterest regret that a vast part of humanity was removed beyond the pale of fellowship by eternal damnation. It was his sublimest thought that the solidarity of man includes the damned. In his first version of the Jeanne d'Arc mystery, already referred to, he tells how Jesus, crucified, Saw not his Mother in tears at the cross-foot Below him, saw not Magdalen nor John, But wept, dying, only for Judas' death. The Saviour loved this Judas, and though utterly He gave himself, he knew he could not save him. It was the dogma of damnation which for long kept Péguy out of its fold, that barbarous mixture of life and death, he called it, which no man will accept who has won the spirit of collective humanity. But he revolted not because he was tolerant of evil; on the contrary to damn sins was for him a weak and unsocial solution; evil had not to be damned but to be fought down. Whether this vision of Christ weeping because he could not save Judas was un-Christian, or more Christian than Christianity itself, we need not discuss here; but I am sure that the spirit of a Catholic democracy as transfigured in the mind of a great poet could not be more nobly rendered. (3) _Catholicism_ But Péguy's powerful personality set its own stamp upon whatever he believed, and though a close friend of Jaurès, he was a Socialist who rejected almost all the ideas of the Socialist school. As little was his Catholicism to the mind of the Catholic authorities. And his Catholic poetry is sharply marked off from most of the poetry that burgeoned under the stimulus of the remarkable revival of Catholic ideas in twentieth-century France. I say of Catholic ideas, for sceptical poets like Rémy de Gourmont played delicately with the symbols of Catholic worship, made 'Litanies' of roses, and offered prayers to Jeanne d'Arc, walking dreamily in the procession of 'Women Saints of Paradise', to 'fill our hearts with anger'.[18] The Catholic adoration of women-saints is one of the springs of modern poetry. At the close of the century of Wordsworth and Shelley, the tender Nature-worship of Francis of Assisi contributed not less to the recovered power of Catholic ideas in poetry, and this chiefly in the person of two poets, in France and in England, both of whom played half-mystically with the symbolism of their names, Francis Thompson and Francis Jammes. The child-like naïvete of S. Francis is more delicately reflected in Jammes, a Catholic W.H. Davies, who casts the idyllic light of Biblical pastoral over modern farm life, and prays to 'his friends, the Asses' to go with him to Paradise, 'For there is no hell in the land of the Bon Dieu.' But the most powerful creative imagination to-day in the service of Catholic ideas is certainly Paul Claudel. I pass by here the series of dramas, where a Catholic inspiration as fervent as Calderon's is enforced with Elizabethan technique and Elizabethan violence of terror, cruelty, and pity.[19] From the ferocious beauty of _L'Ôtage_ turn rather to the intense spiritual hush before the altar of some great French church at noon, where the poet, not long after the first decisive check of the invaders on the Marne, finds himself alone, before the shrine of Marie. Here too, his devotion finds a speech not borrowed from the devout or from their poetry: 'It is noon. I see the Church is open. I must enter. Mother of Jesus Christ, I do not come to pray. I have nothing to offer and nothing to ask. I come only, Mother, to gaze at you. To gaze at you, to weep for happiness, to know That I am your son and that you are there. Nothing at all but for a moment when all is still, Noon! to be with you, Marie, in this place where you are. To say nothing, to gaze upon your face, To let the heart sing in its own speech.' There the nationalist passion of Claudel animates his Catholic religion, yet does not break through its confines. But sometimes the strain of suffering and ruin is too intense for Christian submission, and he takes his God to task truculently for not doing his part in the contract; we are his partner in running the world, and see, he is asleep! 'There is a great alliance, willy-nilly, between us henceforth, there is this bread that with no trembling hand We have offered you, this wine that we have poured anew, Our tears that you have gathered, our brothers that you share with us, leaving the seed in the earth, There is this living sacrifice of which we satisfy each day's demand, This chalice we have drunk with you!' Yet the devout passion emerges again, with notes of piercing pathos: 'Lord, who hast promised us for one glass of water a boundless sea, Who knows if Thou art not thirsty too? And that this blood, which is all we have, will quench that thirst in Thee, We know, for Thou hast told us so. If indeed there is a spring in us, well, that is what is to be shown, If this wine of ours is red, If our blood has virtue, as Thou sayest, how can it be known Otherwise than by being shed?' (4) _Effects of the War upon Poetry_ Thus could the great Catholic poet sing under pressure of the supreme national crisis of his country. Poetry at such times may become a great national instrument--a trumpet whence Milton or Wordsworth, Arndt or Whitman, blow soul-animating strains. The war of 1914 was for all the belligerent peoples far more than a stupendous military event. It shattered the patterns of our established mentality, and compelled us to seek new adjustments and support in the chaotically disorganized world. The psychical upheaval was most violent in the English-speaking peoples, where the military shock was least direct; for here a nation of civilians embraced suddenly the new and amazing experience of battle. Here too, the imaginatively sensitive minds who interpret life through poetry, and most of all the youngest and freshest among them, themselves shared in the glories and the throes of the fight as hardly one of the signers of our most stirring battle poetry had ever done before. How did this new and amazing experience react upon their poetry? This, our final question, is perhaps the crucial one in considering the tendencies of recent European poetry. In the first place it enormously stimulated and quickened what was deepest and strongest in the energies and qualities which had been apparent in our latter day poetry before. They had sought to clasp life, to live, not merely to contemplate, experience; and here indeed was life, and death, and both to be embraced. Here was adventure indeed, but one whose grimness made romance cheap, so that in this war-poetry, for the first time in history, the romance and glamour of war, the pomp and circumstance of military convention, fall entirely away, and the bitterest scorn of these soldier-poets is bestowed not on the enemy, but on those contemplators who disguised its realities with the camouflage of the pulpit and the editorial arm-chair. Turn, I will not say from Campbell or from Tennyson, but from Rudyard Kipling or Sir H. Newbolt, to Siegfried Sassoon, and you feel that you have got away from a literary convention, whether conveyed in the manners of the barrack-room or of the public-school, to something intolerably true, and which holds the poet in so fierce a grip that his song is a cry. But if the war has brought our poets face to face with intense kinds of real experience, which they have fearlessly grasped and rendered, its grim obsession has not made them cynical, or clogged the wings of their faith and their hope. I will not ask how the war has affected the idealism of others, whether it has left the nationalism of our press or the religion of our pulpits purer or more gross than it found them. But of our poetry at least the latter cannot be said. In Rupert Brooke the inspiration of the call obliterated the last trace of dilettante youth's pretensions, and he encountered darkness like a bride, and greeted the unseen death not with a cheer as a peril to be boldly faced, but as a great consummation, the supreme safety. How his poetry would have reacted to the actual experience of war we can only guess. But in others, his friends and comrades, the fierce immersion in the welter of ruin and pain and filth and horror and death brought only a more superb faith in the power of man's soul to rise above the hideous obsession of his own devilries, to retain the vision of beauty through the riot of foul things, of love through the tumult of hatreds, of life through the infinity of death. True this was not a new power: poetry to be poetry must always in some measure possess it. What was individual to the poets was that this power of mastering actuality went along in them with the fierce and eager immersion in it; the thrill of breathing the 'calm and serene air Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth,' with the thrill of seeing and painting in all its lurid colouring the volcanic chaos of this 'stir and smoke' itself. Thus the same Siegfried Sassoon who renders with so much close analytic psychology the moods that cross and fluctuate in the dying hospital patient, or the haunted fugitive, as he flounders among snags and stumps, to feel at last the strangling clasp of death, can as little as the visionary Shelley overcome the insurgent sense that these dead are for us yet alive, made one with Nature. He visits the deserted home of his dead friend-- 'Ah, but there was no need to call his name, He was beside me now, as swift as light ... For now, he said, my spirit has more eyes Than heaven has stars, and they are lit by love. My body is the magic of the world, And dark and sunset flame with my spilt blood.' And so the undying dead 'Wander in the dusk with chanting streams, And they are dawn-lit trees, with arms upflung, To hail the burning heaven they left unsung.' Further, this war poetry, while reflecting military things with a veracity hardly known before, is yet rarely militant. We must not look for explicit pacifist or international ideas; but as little do we find jingo patriotism or hymns of hate. The author of the German hymn of hate was a much better poet than anyone who tried an English hymn in the same key, and the English poets who could have equalled its form were above its spirit. Edith Cavell's dying words 'Patriotism is not enough' cannot perhaps be paralleled in these poets, but they are continually suggested. They do not say, in the phrase of the old cavalier poet, that we should love England less if we loved not something else more, or that something is wanting in our love for our country if we wrong humanity in its name. But the spirit which is embodied in these phrases breathes through them; heroism matters more to them than victory, and they know that death and sorrow and the love of kindred have no fatherland. They 'stand above the battle' as well as share in it, and they share in it without ceasing to stand above it. The German is the enemy, they never falter in that; and even death does not convert him into a friend. But for this enemy there is chivalry, and pity, and a gleam, now and then, of reconciling comradeship. 'He stood alone in some queer sunless place Where Armageddon ends,'-- the Englishman whom the Germans had killed in fight, to be themselves slain by his friend, the speaker. Their ghosts throng around him,-- 'He stared at them, half wondering, and then They told him how I'd killed them for his sake, Those patient, stupid, sullen ghosts of men: At last he turned and smiled; smiled--all was well Because his face would lead them out of hell.' Finally, the poet himself glories in his act; he knows that he can beat into music even the crashing discords that fill his ears; he knows too that he has a music of his own which they cannot subdue or debase: 'I keep such music in my brain No din this side of death can quell, Glory exulting over pain, And beauty garlanded in hell.' To have found and kept and interwoven these two musics--a language of unflinching veracity and one of equally unflinching hope and faith--is the achievement of our war-poetry. May we not say that the possession together of these two musics, of these two moods, springing as they do from the blended grip and idealism of the English character, warrants hope for the future of English poetry? For it is rooted in the greatest, and the most English, of the ways of poetic experience which have gone to the making of our poetic literature--the way, ultimately, of Shakespeare, and of Wordsworth. But that temper of catholic fraternity which finds the stuff of poetry everywhere does not easily attain the consummate technique in expression of a rarer English tradition, that of Milton, and Gray, and Keats. Beauty abounds in our later poets, but it is a beauty that flashes in broken lights, not the full-orbed radiance of a masterpiece. To enlarge the grasp of poetry over the field of reality, to apprehend it over a larger range, is not at once to find consummate expression for what is apprehended. The flawless perfection of the Parnassians--of Heredia's sonnets--is nowhere approached in the less aristocratically exclusive poetry of to-day. But the future, in poetry also, is with the spirit which found the aristocracy of noble art not upon exclusions, negations, and routine, but upon imagination, penetration, discovery, and catholic openness of mind. SOME BOOKS FOR CONSULTATION Pellissier, _Le Mouvement Littéraire au XIXme Siècle_. Brunetière, _La Poésie Lyrique au XIXme Siècle_. Eccles, F.Y., _A Century of French Poets_. Vigié-Lecocq, _La Poésie Contemporaine_. Phelps, _Advance of English Poetry in the Twentieth Century_. Muret, _La Littérature Italienne d'aujourd'hui_. Ladenarde, _G. Carducci_. Symons, _The Symbolist Movement in Literature_. Jackson, _The Eighteen Nineties_. McDowall, _Realism_. Aliotta, _The Idealist Reaction against Science_. Soergel, _Die deutsche Litteratur unserer Zeit_. Bithell, _Contemporary German Poetry_ (Translated). Halévy, _Charles Péguy_. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 3: The temper of the two realists was no doubt widely different. 'C'est en haine du réalisme', wrote Flaubert, 'que j'ai entrepris ce roman. Mais je n'en déteste pas moins la fausse idéalité, dont nous sommes bercés par le temps qui court' (_Corresp._ 3, 67).] [Footnote 4: _Causeries du Lundi_, 1850 f.] [Footnote 5: _Histoire de la littérature anglaise_, 1863.] [Footnote 6: But a Wilde who wrote no _De Profundis_ and no _Ballad of Reading Gaol_.] [Footnote 7: _La Forge_: dedicated to Gaston Paris, the greatest _forgeron_ of his generation in the love of Old French.] [Footnote 8: _Rime Nuove_: Classicismo e Romantismo.] [Footnote 9: _Midi_.] [Footnote 10: _La Paix des Dieux_.] [Footnote 11: For this and the other verse-translations the writer is responsible.] [Footnote 12: Even the 'music' was far removed from the simplicity of pure song. The song of these poets was an incantation. Nay, painting itself witnessed a corresponding revolt against the 'eloquence' of the pseudo-realists--the 'far away dirty reasonableness', as Manet dubbed it, which missed the essential vision by using the worn-down accepted phrases of the public.] [Footnote 13: _Au jardin de l'Infante: Veillée_.] [Footnote 14: To some types of Irish imagination French Naturalism, it is true, was no less congenial; hence the rift between the realist and the spiritual Irishmen delightfully played on in Max Beerbaum's cartoon of Yeats presenting the _Faery Queene_ to George Moore.] [Footnote 15: Aliotta, _The Idealistic Revolt_, p. 116. Cf. the account of the analogous views of Boutroux and Renouvier in the same chapter.] [Footnote 16: Keats, no doubt, also aspired to the life of action. But in him the two moods were disparate, even in conflict; in Brooke they were seemingly fused.] [Footnote 17: Eighteenth-century observation, in the person of Goldsmith, had found no worthier epithet for the great Flemish river than 'lazy', and the modern tourist is likely to find this by far the more 'characteristic'. But which had the best chance of seeing truly, the life-long companion and lover, or the stranger, sad, lonely, and longing for home?] [Footnote 18: _Les Saintes du Paradis_.] [Footnote 19: Cf. for instance the situation of Signe, in the grip of the brutal _préfet_, with that of Beatrice, in _The Changeling_, in the hands of De Flores.] V HISTORICAL RESEARCH G.P. GOOCH The scientific study of history began a hundred years ago in the University of Berlin. Preparatory work of the highest importance had been accomplished by laborious collectors like Baronius and Muratori, keen-sighted critics such as Mabillon and Wolf, and brilliant narrators like Gibbon and Voltaire. But it was not till Niebuhr, Böckh, and above all Ranke preached and practised the critical use of authorities and documentary material that historical scholarship entered on the path which it has pursued with ever-increasing success for the last three generations. It is my task to-day to direct your attention to some of its main achievements during the last half-century. The outstanding feature of our time has been the immense increase in the material available for the knowledge and interpretation of every stage and chapter in the life of humanity. Primitive civilization has been definitely brought within the circle of historical study. The discoveries of Boucher des Perthes, Pitt-Rivers, and their successors have thrown back the opening of the human drama tens if not hundreds of thousands of years, and we recreate prehistoric man from skull and weapon, language and legend. Anthropology has become a science, and the habits and beliefs of our savage ancestors have been rendered intelligible by the piercing insight of Tylor and Sir James Frazer. In its boundless erudition, its constructive imagination, and its wealth of suggestion, the _Golden Bough_ stands forth as perhaps the most notable contribution of the age to our knowledge of the evolution of the human race. Among the most sensational events of the nineteenth century was the resurrection of the Ancient East. We now know that Greece and Rome, far from standing near the beginning of recorded history, were the heirs of a long series of civilizations. Our whole perspective has been changed or should be changed by the discovery. The ancient world thus revealed by the partnership of philology and archaeology ceases to be merely the vestibule to Christian Europe, and becomes in point of duration the larger part of human history. The story opens with Champollion's decipherment of the bilingual tablet discovered more than a century ago at the Rosetta mouth of the Nile. The key once fitted to the lock, the whole civilization of ancient Egypt lay open to the explorer. A secure chronological basis was supplied by Lepsius, and systematic excavation was commenced by Mariette, who was named by the Khedive Director of Antiquities and established the Cairo Museum. The work of the three great founders of Egyptology has been carried forward during the last half-century by an international army of scholars. The interpretation of the ancient scripts has reached a technical mastery unknown to the pioneers, and the genius of Brugsch unlocked the door to demotic, which Champollion had never thoroughly mastered. But the triumphs of philology have been surpassed by the conquests of the spade. The closest friend of Mariette's later years was Maspero, who succeeded him as Director of Antiquities, and whose most sensational find was the tombs of the Kings near Thebes. Equally eminent as excavator, philologist, and historian, Maspero was the first to popularize Egyptology in France, as Flinders Petrie, the greatest excavator since Mariette, has popularized it in England. Until twenty years ago the curtain rose on the pyramid-builders of the Fourth dynasty. We have now not only recovered the earlier dynasties, but neolithic and palaeolithic Egypt emerges from the primitive cemeteries. The immense accession of new material has enabled Eduard Meyer to construct something like a definite chronology; but though marvellous progress has been made in our knowledge of the Early, Middle, and New Empires, a great gap remains between the sixth and the eleventh dynasties, and the period of the Hyksos is still tantalizingly obscure. Egyptian history in the light of the latest discoveries may be best studied in the judicial pages of Breasted, the foremost of American Egyptologists. The revelation of Assyrian civilization through Rawlinson's decipherment of cuneiform and the excavations of Botta and Layard in the middle of the nineteenth century was followed by a concerted attack on Babylonia. It was clear from the Nineveh tablets that most of the literary treasures of Assyria were merely copies of Babylonian originals; and when in 1877 de Sarzec, French Vice-Consul at Basra, bored into the mounds at Tello, the ancient Lagash, in Southern Babylonia, the most eager anticipations were surpassed. Texts had been found which Rawlinson pronounced to be pre-Semitic; but for the purpose of history the Sumerians were discovered at Tello. When de Sarzec died in 1901 he had opened a new chapter of history. The palaces of Sargon and Sennacherib, at which the world had marvelled in the 'forties, appeared relatively modern beside the vast antiquity of the Chaldean city. The chain of human experience lengthened before our eyes when it was realized that as Assyrian culture derived from Babylonia, so a large part of Babylonian culture, including the art of writing, was inherited by the Semites from the Sumerians. While de Sarzec was busy at Tello, an American expedition was sent to Nippur under the lead of Peters and Hilprecht; and the long array of magnificent volumes which embody the results of the mission, including the thousands of tablets found in the temple library, constitutes the most important source of our knowledge of Northern Babylonia. Still more recently a German mission under Koldewey commenced the systematic excavation of Babylon itself; but its operations were interrupted by the outbreak of the Great War. Though no monuments have been brought to light in Babylonia comparable in magnificence to those of Khorsabad and Nineveh, Babylonian culture towers above its neighbour. Since the discovery in the royal library of Nineveh of a cylinder containing the story of the Flood, no find has aroused such world-wide interest as that of the Code of Hammurabi, unearthed by de Morgan at Susa in 1901. The massive block of diorite, eight feet high, containing 282 paragraphs of laws, revealed in a flash a complex, refined, and orderly civilization. After expelling the Elamites about 2250 B.C. Hammurabi united North and South Babylonia into a single State, and, desiring that uniform laws should prevail, issued the code which bears his name. During the last decade the exploration of Assyria has been resumed after a long interval, and the city of Assur, the first capital, has been unearthed by the German Oriental Society. We thus learn of Assyria before the days of its greatness, when it was still a subject province under Babylonian Viceroys. The history of the lands watered by the Tigris and the Euphrates, which was almost a blank half a century ago, may now be tentatively reconstructed. The vast mass of official correspondence, judicial decisions, and legal documents, taken in conjunction with the evidences of religion, science, and art, reveal a startlingly modern society a thousand years before Rameses and two thousand years before Pericles. Babylonia proves to have been to the ancient East what Rome was one day to be to Europe. The Tel-el-Amarna letters prove the unchallenged supremacy of its culture over vast areas, and the revelation of the religious debt of the Jews sets the Old Testament in a new frame. So rapid is the pace of excavation and interpretation that all but the most recent narratives of the Ancient East are out of date. If we master Leonard King's sumptuous volumes on Babylonia and the latest edition of the first volume of Eduard Meyer's incomparable _History of Antiquity_, we need go no farther afield. Scarcely if at all less remarkable has been the discovery of an advanced civilization in Crete in the second and third millenniums before Christ. While in Egypt and Mesopotamia the frontiers of knowledge were pushed back, in Crete an unknown world was brought to light. Its romantic interest was intensified by the establishment of an historic foundation for one of the most celebrated legends of the ancient world. How the Minotaur devoured the tribute of youths and maidens in the labyrinth, how Ariadne, daughter of Minos, fell in love with Theseus and gave him a sword to slay the Minotaur and a thread to retrace his steps, was known to every Greek child and has thrilled the imagination of the centuries. The exploration of the city called by Homer 'Great Knossus' was among the ambitions of Schliemann; but it was carried out by Sir Arthur Evans, whose labours have outlined a series of chapters in Cretan history extending two thousand years before the destruction of the palace about the year 1400. Though the Minoan language still defies attack, the frescoes, sculptures, and objects of art tell their tale of a luxurious and peace-loving community, closely connected with Egypt and forming one of the main sources of the Greek culture of a later age. Most of us are old enough to remember the thrill of excitement when Susa and Knossus, if not Tello or Thebes, yielded up their romantic secrets; but the generation now growing to manhood may experience similar emotions as it watches the ghost of the Hittite Empire materialize before its eyes. The meagre references in the Old Testament have been supplemented by Assyrian and Egyptian inscriptions, revealing an important Power in Northern Syria and Asia Minor for a thousand years before it was swallowed up by Assyria. During the last twenty years Hittite remains, marked by crude vigour rather than by a sense of beauty, have been discovered all over Asia Minor and in the northern reaches of the great Mesopotamian plain. In 1911 the British Museum undertook the excavation of Carchemish on the Euphrates, the capital of the North Syrian sector of the Empire; but the most precious results have been achieved by Winckler at Boghaz Keui, the capital of the Cappadocian portion of the Hittite dominions, which yielded a library of 20,000 tablets of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, now stored in the museum at Constantinople. A few bilingual inscriptions have furnished valuable clues; but the world still eagerly awaits the coming of a new Champollion to unlock the doors of the treasure-house. Winckler himself died in 1913; but in 1915 the Austrian Professor Hrozny startled the world by proclaiming his conviction that Hittite was an Indo-European language. Whether or no his contention is confirmed, orientalists of both hemispheres are hot in pursuit, and it is no rash prophecy that within a decade scholars will read Hittite as they now read cuneiform and hieroglyphics, and new chapters of incalculable importance will be added to the story of the Ancient East. The recovery of the political and religious history of the empires surrounding Palestine has run parallel with the application of critical methods to the Jewish scriptures. To read Ewald's _History of the People of Israel_, which was regarded as dangerous by pious folk in the middle of last century, is to realize the progress of Semitic studies. The great revolution in our conception of the Old Testament which rendered Ewald out of date was accomplished by Wellhausen's _Prolegomena to the History of Israel_. That the arrangement of the Canon was utterly misleading, that the Prophets were earlier than the priestly code and that the Psalms for the most part were later than both, was proclaimed in the writings and lectures of Vatke and Graf, Kuenen and Reuss; but it was not till their discoveries were confirmed and elaborated by Wellhausen that they won their way, and it was generally recognized that their reconstruction alone rendered the religious development of the Jews intelligible. This outline was shortly after filled in by Stade in the first critical history of Israel; but his emphasis on the falsity of tradition was overdone, and subsequent critics, while accepting the late redaction of the law, have argued that parts of it are far older, in substance if not in form, than Wellhausen and his disciple were prepared to allow. The history of the Jews owes much less to archaeological research on the arena of their historic life than Egypt or Mesopotamia. No splendid buildings or sculptures have been brought to light, and the inscriptions are few. But British, American, and German excavators have flashed light far back into the third millennium, and a partial excavation of Jerusalem has revealed a network of prehistoric tunnels and aqueducts. The historic life of Gezer has been minutely revealed by Macalister, with the strata of seven cities reaching back to the neolithic age. The most piquant result of his excavations has been to rehabilitate the Philistines, the makers of the most artistic objects found in the debris of two thousand years. Far more light, however, has been thrown on the religious customs and beliefs of the Jews by discoveries beyond their borders. The notion firmly held by our fathers that Israel was one of the oldest of civilizations and formed a world by itself has vanished into thin air; for an older and vaster civilization has been discovered to which she owed not only her science but the larger part of her religion. The dimension of the debt to Babylonia has been and continues to be fiercely argued by conservative and radical critics; but its recognition has sufficed to revolutionize the study of early Israel and to provide a new background for the religious history of the world. The relation of the beliefs and practices of the Jews to those of other branches of the Semitic family was boldly explored by Robertson Smith, and has lately been illuminated by the epoch-making volumes of Sir James Frazer on the _Folklore of the Old Testament_. The history of Greece, like the history of the Jews, presents a very different aspect to that which was offered to the readers of Grote, Thirlwall, and even Curtius. Schliemann's discoveries at Troy, Tiryns, and Mycenae unearthed Mycenaean civilization and gave an incalculable impetus to archaeological research; but the brilliant amateur was almost pathetically incompetent to interpret the treasures he had brought to light, and much of his work has had to be done again by Dörpfeld. Despite the achievements of archaeology, however, the period before Solon remains very dark. Barely second in importance to the discoveries of Schliemann was the Aristotelian treatise on the Constitution of Athens, which was given to the world in 1891 by Sir Frederick Kenyon and has been most authoritatively interpreted by Wilamowitz, the greatest of living Hellenists. With the growing mass of new literary material, inscriptions, coins, and papyri, the exploration of sites, the recovery of innumerable objects of art and fresh light streaming from Asia Minor and Crete, new attempts to write the history of Greece have been made. Professor Bury's narrative, at once scientific and popular, has summarized for English readers the assured results of research; but the most authoritative survey is that contained in the Greek volumes of Eduard Meyer's vast survey of antiquity. 'For the great tasks of history', he writes, 'salvation is only to be found when it becomes conscious of its universal character, in ancient as well as in modern times. Only by treating Greece in connection with the Mediterranean peoples can its real nature be seized.' This colossal task, which proved beyond the strength of Duncker, has been performed by the Berlin Professor, the only scholar of our time who could have accomplished it single-handed. The dazzling picture of Athenian democracy painted by Grote has faded away; and Beloch, following in the footsteps of Droysen, dwells with greater satisfaction on the diffusion of Greek influence through the conquests of Alexander. Greek culture has received no less attention than Greek politics. The Homeric problem continues to exert an irresistible attraction. Every expert from Wilamowitz to Gilbert Murray and Walter Leaf adds to our comprehension of the epic; but no positive results have been established, and Holm uttered the gloomy prophecy that we shall never know whether Homer existed, who he was, or what he wrote. On the other hand we have gained a deeper insight into the early mind and soul of Greece, thanks in large measure to a group of English scholars with Jane Harrison at their head. Rohde's _Psyche_, the most illuminating treatise on any branch of Greek religion, has traced the conception of immortality through the ages. The later editions of Zeller's _Philosophy of the Greeks_, first published in 1851, kept pace with the progress of scholarship, and remains one of the glories of German scholarship. The more recent work of the Austrian Gomperz has won almost equal popularity, without placing its predecessor on the shelf. In the realm of literature the most interesting event has been the recovery of the poems of Bacchylides and Herondas, fragments of Sappho and Pindar, Euripides and Sophocles and Menander; and the Oxyrhynchus Papyri, which have already produced undreamed-of treasures, may well have in store for us further glad surprises. The attempt to assess the influence of economic factors, courageously undertaken by Böckh and somewhat neglected after his death, has in recent years been renewed, with the fruitful results familiar to us in Zimmern's realistic picture of Athens in the fifth century. The history of Roman studies since Niebuhr is largely the record of the activity of a single man. The most personal and popular of Mommsen's works, the _Roman History till the death of Caesar_, the greatest effort of his genius though not of his scholarship, was published as far back as 1854, and carried his name all over the world. He next turned to special departments of research, pouring forth in rapid succession his treatises on Chronology, Coinage, the Digest, and above all the _Staatsrecht_, the largest and in his opinion the most important of his works, and perhaps the greatest constitutional treatise in historical literature. Meanwhile the _Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum_, which he edited for the Berlin Academy, was the main occupation and the most enduring monument of his life. He had devoted himself to Latin epigraphy and had edited the Sammite and Neapolitan inscriptions before the publication of the Roman History. The first instalment of the Corpus appeared in 1863, and the great scholar lived to hail the appearance of nearly twenty volumes, half of them edited by himself. The Inscriptions rendered possible a history of the Empire, and the whole world hoped that the master would write it; but he contented himself with a survey of the provinces. The closing years of his life were devoted to a gigantic treatise on Roman Criminal Law, and to editions of Jordanes, Cassiodorus, the Theodosian Code and the Liber Pontificalis, thus enlarging the sphere of his operations till Rome was swallowed up in the Middle Ages. His publications extended over sixty years. There is no immaturity in his early works and no decline in the later. The imaginative and critical faculties met and balanced, large vision mating with a genius for detail. The complete assimilation and reproduction of a classical civilization of which scholars have dreamed ever since Scaliger has been achieved by Mommsen alone. Rome before Mommsen was like modern Europe before Ranke. We may truly say of him, as was said of Augustus, that he found it of brick and left it of marble. Mommsen, like Ranke, was the founder of a school; and his inspiration has been felt by every worker in the field of Roman studies. His successors naturally confine themselves to some special province or period. Gaetano de Sanctis is far advanced in the most ambitious history of the Republic that has been attempted in the last half-century. Ferrero's _Greatness and Decline of Rome_, though frowned on by scholars, aroused world-wide interest by interpreting the fall of the Republic in terms of economics and psychology. The political and social crises which fill the century from Sulla to Augustus, he argues, were due to the change of customs caused by the augmentation of wealth, expenditure, and needs. Of greater value are the attempts to fill in different sections of the vast canvas of Imperial Rome, such as Gardthausen's monumental survey of the reign of Augustus, Camille Jullian's volumes on Gaul, and Professor Haverfield's slender monographs on Britain. Roman life and culture have been diligently explored; but the extreme paucity of materials makes the recovery of the atmosphere of the early Republic almost impossible. The most daring attempt was made by Fustel de Coulanges in _La Cité Antique_, which offered a complete interpretation of early society in terms of religion. Less harmonious but more convincing pictures of religious life have been painted by Warde Fowler, while the civilization of the Empire has been successively analysed in the fascinating and authoritative works of Friedländer, Boissier, and Dill. Meanwhile archaeology contributes a steady stream of new material. Boni's excavations in the Forum and on the Palatine have produced sensational results. The unveiling of Pompeii moves slowly forward, and that of Ostia, the port of Rome, has begun. The resurrection of Herculaneum should be witnessed by the next generation if not by our own. A more difficult because a more controversial problem than the Roman Empire is its contemporary, the early Christian Church. In the middle decades of last century Baur treated the rise of Christianity as an historical phenomenon, leaving his hearers to determine for themselves whether it was human or divine; but his influence proved more enduring than his writings. Weiszäcker, his successor at Tübingen, in his _Apostolic Age_, described with consummate scholarship and passionless serenity the life and organization of the early Christian communities. The necessity of a careful study of the soil out of which Christianity has grown is now generally recognized, and great scholars such as Schürer and Pfleiderer have re-created the religious atmosphere into which Christ was born. The constitution of the primitive Church, too long hotly discussed by the champions of rival sects, has been studied with welcome impartiality by Lightfoot and Hatch. But no man, alive or dead, can boast of such achievements as Harnack. His History of Dogma, his vast survey of Christian Literature till Eusebius, his narrative of the Expansion of Christianity before the conversion of Constantine, are inseparable companions of the student who means business. The treasures of the catacombs have been revealed by De Rossi, to whom we also owe the publication of the Christian Inscriptions of Rome. The history of the early Christian communities in the outlying provinces of the Empire has been enriched by Ramsay's explorations in Asia Minor. While the best work naturally goes into monographs, comprehensive narratives are occasionally attempted by scholars of the first class. Renan's sparkling volumes have enjoyed immense popularity, and some of them may still be read with profit; but, like his History of the Jews, they belong rather to literature than to science. If we desire a readable summary of the scholarship of the last half-century we may turn to the Volumes of the Catholic Duchesne or, better still, to those of the late Professor Gwatkin. Imperial Rome and the Christian Church meet and blend in the Byzantine Empire, the later history of which appeared to Gibbon 'a tedious and uniform tale of weakness and misery'. Its services to civilization and the greatness of many of its rulers were revealed to the world by Finlay, whose narrative was acclaimed by Freeman as the most considerable work of English historical literature since the _Decline and Fall_. In the half-century that has elapsed since its completion, the exploration of a thousand years has gone busily forward. The lead was taken in France by Rambaud, Schlumberger, and Diehl, the latter of whom was rewarded for his efforts by his appointment as first occupant of the Chair created in Paris in 1899. Greater than any of the three was Krumbacher, the prince of German Byzantinists, for whom a Chair was founded at Munich in 1892, and whose encyclopaedic survey of Byzantine literature is beyond comparison the most important single work in this field of historical study. England is worthily represented by Professor Bury, whose narrative of the Empire has already reached the ninth century. Byzantium has emerged from the scholarship of two generations no longer decadent and inert but the mother of great statesmen and soldiers, the home of culture while Central and Western Europe was plunged in darkness, the rampart of Christian Europe for a thousand years against the Arab and Turk, the educator of the Slavonic races. Freeman truly remarked that Constantinople was for ages the seat of the only regular and systematic Government in the world. Its administrative machine was the most elaborate yet invented by man, and the Court was to mediaeval Europe what Versailles was to the rulers of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It was indeed a bureaucratic despotism in which liberty was unknown, and, except in art, its spirit was imitative; but to preserve Greek culture during the barbarism of the Middle Ages and to defend it against the repeated assaults of Islam was to deserve well of civilization. While the Byzantine Empire carried over important elements from the classical world, Western and Central Europe passed under the dominion of ideas which were as foreign to those of Greece and Rome as they are to the conceptions of to-day. We have outgrown the blind contempt of the eighteenth century and the gushing enthusiasm of the Romantic Movement; but it is still a difficult task to form a just estimate of the character of the thousand years that began with Augustine and ended with Macchiavelli. It is true that our materials grow from year to year; that the criticism of original authorities as taught in the École des Chartes has become something like an exact science; that thanks to Lord Bryce the Holy Roman Empire has become intelligible; that the structure and function of institutions have been patiently analysed by Waitz and Stubbs, Fustel de Coulanges and Vinogradoff, Maitland and Gierke; that literature and art, scholasticism and the Universities, have found their chroniclers and interpreters; that every ruler and every State, every treaty and every council, may be studied in monographs innumerable. But the Middle Ages were above all the reign of the Catholic Church; and we are still far from agreement as to the merits and influence of that venerable institution which, be it human or divine, occupies a unique place in the story of civilization. In the middle decades of last century the history of the mediaeval Church was related from very different standpoints in the widely-read works of Neander and Milman; but it was only with the opening of the Vatican archives by Pope Leo XIII in 1881 that it became possible to set forth the whole story of the Papacy and to understand the working of the machinery of Catholicism. So vast is the accumulation of official acts and documents, and such technical training is required for the task, that we shall have to wait many years till the material is surveyed in its entirety and its results made available for the use of the historian. Some idea of the value of the Registers may be gained from the Master of Balliol's pregnant lectures on Church and State in the Middle Ages, based on the 8,000 documents of the eleven years of the rule of Innocent IV in the middle of the thirteenth century. The study of these documents, he tells us, stirred him to admiration of the organization of the Papacy, and convinced him of its enormous superiority over its secular contemporaries as a centre not merely of religion but of law and government; but he adds that he derived an equally profound impression of the abuses which ate into the heart of the system, of the growing bitterness which it inspired, and of the devastating effects of the passion to erect a powerful principality in the heart of Italy. No Protestant historian is tempted to glorify the record of the Papacy in the last two centuries before the Reformation; but it is generally agreed that in the earlier half of the Middle Ages the example and influence of the Church were a bright light shining in a dark world. This notion has been recently challenged by Mr. Coulton, who, angered by the special pleading of Cardinal Gasquet and other professional apologists, hotly denounces the exaltation of the Ages of Faith. The Middle Ages, he complains, are the one domain of history into which, in England at any rate, the scientific spirit has not yet penetrated. Taking as his text the autobiography of the Franciscan Fra Salimbene, the most precious authority for the ordinary life of Catholic folk at the high-water mark of the Middle Ages, he draws a sombre picture of manners and morals and maintains that hideous vices existed in all the Orders long before the thirteenth century. 'Imagination', he cries, 'staggers at the moral gulf that yawns between that age and ours.' His condemnation of the life and influence of the Church re-echoes in somewhat shrill tones the verdict of Henry Charles Lea, whose massive treatise on the Inquisition was rightly described by Lord Acton as the most important contribution of the New World to the religious history of the old, and whose volumes on Sacerdotal Celibacy constitute a formidable indictment of mediaeval Catholicism. Next to the origins of Christianity the most controversial of the larger problems of history is the Reformation; and here Protestants of all schools are ranged in a solid phalanx against Catholics. That the Church was in need of reform is agreed by both sides; but the Catholic contends that the evils to be remedied have been fantastically exaggerated, that there was no need for a revolt, and that the revolution inaugurated by Luther left Germany far worse than it found her. Realizing that the Protestant view most authoritatively presented in Ranke's classical work on the Reformation held the field, Janssen compiled a cultural history of the German people from the end of the Middle Ages to the outbreak of the Thirty Years War. Based throughout on original sources, and illustrating his thesis from every angle, his eight massive volumes were hailed with gratitude and enthusiasm by Catholics all over the world. No Catholic historical work of the nineteenth century, and certainly no attack on the Reformation since Bossuet's _Variations of Protestantism_, obtained such resounding success or led to so much controversy. Janssen's object was to show that the fifteenth century was not a period of moral or intellectual decrepitude, with a few 'Reformers before the Reformation' crying like voices in the wilderness, but an era of healthy activity and abounding promise. He describes the flourishing state of religious and secular education, the vitality of art, the comfort of the peasantry, and the prosperity of the towns. On reaching the sixteenth century, he denounces the paganism of the Humanists and paints a terrible picture of the material and moral chaos into which Germany was plunged by the Lutheran revolt. The later volumes are devoted to the era of the Counter-Revolution and present a canvas of unrelieved gloom, immorality and drunkenness, ignorance, superstition and violence. Thus the story which opened with the bright colours of the fifteenth century closes in deep shadows, and the moral is drawn that Germany was ruined not by the Thirty Years War but by the Reformation. Protestant historians fell upon the audacious iconoclast with fierce cries of anger, and had no difficulty in exposing his uncritical use of authorities, his habit of generalizing from isolated particulars, and his suppression of facts damaging to his own side. But though it was a dexterous polemic, not a work of disinterested science, Janssen's book has made it impossible for any self-respecting Protestant to write on the Reformation without knowing and weighing the Catholic side. Of similar tendency though of far higher value is the monumental work in which Pastor is narrating the story of the Renaissance and sixteenth-century Popes from the Vatican archives, which neither Ranke nor Creighton had been able to employ. No really objective picture of the Reformation can be painted by Catholic or Protestant; but a good deal of firm ground has been won, and the writings of Kawerau, the greatest of Lutheran scholars, inspire us with a confidence that no writings of the last generation deserved. Though Ranke's chief works had been published before the period to which this lecture is confined, his influence can be traced in almost every writer on modern history during the last half-century. His greatest service to scholarship was to divorce the study of the past from the passions of the present, and, to quote the watchword of his first book, to relate what actually occurred. A second was to establish the necessity of founding historical construction on strictly contemporary authorities. When he began to write in 1824 historians of high repute believed memoirs and chronicles to be trustworthy guides. When he laid down his pen in 1886 every scholar with a reputation to make had learned to content himself with nothing less than the papers and correspondence of the actors themselves and those in immediate contact with the events they describe. A third service was to found the science of evidence by the analysis of authorities, contemporary or otherwise, in the light of the author's temperament, affiliations, and opportunity of knowledge, and by comparison with the testimony of other writers. There can be no better preparation for the perils and responsibilities of authorship than to study the critical analyses of Guicciardini and Sarpi, Clarendon, Saint-Simon, and many another, scattered through the sixty volumes of the master. And finally he taught by precept and practice the necessity of exploring the relations of States to one another and of measuring the interaction of foreign and domestic policy. These sound principles have been applied by the scholars of all countries who have jointly built up the history of the last four centuries. We may study the Tudors under the guidance of Pollard, the Stuarts under Gardiner and Firth, the Hanoverians under Lecky, without fear that we are being misled or that essential facts are being withheld from our notice. We continue to admire the literary brilliance of Macaulay and Carlyle, Motley and Froude; but we are instinctively aware that their partisanship is out of date. The same cooling process has taken place in France, where the passions and tempers of Thiers and Michelet have tended to yield place to the calm lucidity of which Mignet and Guizot were the earliest masters. There is, it must be confessed, a good deal of the old Adam in Taine's elaborate study of Jacobinism, in Masson's innumerable volumes on Napoleon, and even in Aulard's priceless contributions to our knowledge of the French Revolution; but such works as Lavisse's full-length portrait of Louis XIV, Ségur's volumes on Turgot and Necker, Sorel's massive treatise on Europe and the Revolution, and Vandal's incomparable presentation of the Consulate rank as high in scholarship as in literature. The unification of Germany after fierce struggles within and without naturally deflected historical scholarship from the path marked out by Ranke, who had grown to manhood in the era of political stagnation following the downfall of Napoleon. The master's Olympian serenity was deplored by the group of hot-blooded scholars who are collectively known as the Prussian School, and who were firmly convinced that the principal duty of historians was to supply guidance and encouragement to their fellow-countrymen in the national and international problems of the time. In his gigantic work on the History of Prussian Foreign Policy, Droysen, the eldest of the Triumvirate, calls four centuries to witness that the Hohenzollerns alone, from their unswerving fidelity to German interests as a whole, were fitted to restore the Empire. He worked exclusively from Prussian archives, and history seen exclusively through Prussian spectacles was bound to be one-sided. No student of European history would contest the value of his researches; but his interpretation of Prussian policy in terms of German nationalism was at once recognized as a fundamental error, and has long been abandoned. The second member of the group, Sybel, himself one of the three favourite pupils of Ranke, revolted in middle life, and in his two great treatises on the era of the French Revolution and the foundation of the German Empire championed the policy of the Hohenzollerns and delivered slashing attacks on France and Austria, their rivals and antagonists. The last and greatest of the triumvirate, Treitschke, the Bismarck of the Chair, devoted his life to a history of Germany in the nineteenth century which occupies the same unique place in the affections of German readers as Macaulay's unfinished masterpiece enjoys throughout the English-speaking world. Unlike the works of Droysen and Sybel, the _German History_ was far more than a political narrative, and presented an encyclopaedic picture of national development. His theme was the conflict of the forces which were promoting and opposing the transformation of his country into a powerful Empire, and he judges men and states by the measure in which they promoted or obstructed that purpose. On the one side stands Prussia, feeling her way to the realization of her historic task, on the other the middle and smaller states, aided and abetted by the arch-enemy Austria and deeply infected with the doctrinaire liberalism of France. Treitschke's stage is a battlefield, with the historian looking down and encouraging his friends with loud cries of applause. Such methods could not survive the realization of the aim which they had done so much to assist, and with Treitschke's death in 1896 the Prussian School disappeared. Its members were the political schoolmasters of Germany at a time of uncertainty and discouragement, and they braced their countrymen to the efforts which culminated in the creation of a mighty Empire. If the purpose of history is to stir a nation to action, Droysen, Sybel, and Treitschke are among the greatest masters of the craft. If its supreme aim is to discover truth and to interpret the movement of humanity, they have no claim to a place in the first class. The stream, temporarily deflected by their powerful influence, began to return to the channel which Ranke had marked out for it. Such works as Moriz Ritter's narrative of the Counter-Reformation and the Thirty Years War, Koser's biography of Frederick the Great, Max Lehmann's biographies of Scharnhorst and Stein, and Erich Marcks' studies of Bismarck and his master are as notable for their judgement as for their erudition. The cooling process noted in the Old World has also occurred in the New, and America of the twentieth century smiles at Bancroft's complacent idealization of the Puritan colonies. Even the slavery struggle, the ashes of which are scarcely yet cold, has found in James Ford Rhodes a historian who can do justice to Jefferson Davis and Lee no less than to Lincoln and Grant. But no American scholar compares in world-wide influence with Mahan, whose study of Sea-Power in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, published in 1889, not only founded a school of naval history but was inwardly digested by distinguished pupils in both hemispheres, among them the Emperor William II and Theodore Roosevelt. The Admiral's writings owe their importance not to research, for few new facts are brought to light, but to the new angle from which familiar events are envisaged. Occasionally, perhaps, the element of sea-power in the determination of a particular result is over-emphasized at the expense of other factors; but he was the first to seize the wider bearings of naval history and to make the general reader aware of its momentous significance. The scope of history has gradually widened till it has come to include every aspect of the life of humanity. No one would now dare to maintain with my old master Seeley that history was the biography of States or with Freeman that it was merely past politics. The growth of nations, the achievements of men of action, the rise and fall of parties remain among the most engrossing themes of the historian; but he now casts his net wider and embraces the whole opulent record of civilization. The influence of nature, the pressure of economic factors, the origin and transformation of ideas, the contribution of science and art, religion and philosophy, literature and law, the material conditions of life, the fortunes of the masses--such problems now claim his attention in no less degree. He must see life steadily and see it whole. We must master such revealing works as Lecky's histories of Rationalism and Morals, Burckhardt's and Symonds' interpretations of the Italian Renaissance, Sainte-Beuve's full-length portrait of the Jansenists, Morley's studies of Voltaire, Rousseau and the Encyclopaedists, Dean Church's sketch of the Oxford Movement, and Merz's survey of European Thought in the nineteenth century, if we are to understand the throbbing life of the human spirit. We must measure the operation of economic factors and forces and profit by the faithful labours of Schmoller and Thorold Rogers, Cunningham and Kovalevsky, the Webbs and the Hammonds, if we are to visualize the life of the unnumbered and the unknown who have done the routine work of the world. The fifty years roughly sketched in this lecture witnessed an immense and almost immeasurable advance in historical studies. The technique needed to turn raw materials into the finished article kept pace with the supply, and men learned to write the history of their own country, their own party, and their own beliefs, as impartially as that of other lands and other creeds. But the Great War has ravaged the placid pastures of scholarship no less than the fields of France and Belgium. Too many historians in every belligerent country have lost their heads and degenerated into shrieking partisans. International co-operation in the pursuit of truth, which is the condition of progress in history no less than in science, has been rudely shattered by the clash of arms. With all but the calmest minds, national self-consciousness and national self-righteousness have rendered frankness in dealing with the record of our late allies and fairness in dealing with our late enemies difficult if not impossible. Many years will elapse before the European atmosphere regains the tranquillity in which alone the disinterested pursuit of truth can nourish. Meanwhile it is a source of legitimate satisfaction that while the world was rocking to its foundations two English historians, Sir Adolphus Ward and Mr. William Harbutt Dawson, were narrating the development of Germany in the nineteenth century with a steadiness of pulse unsurpassed in the piping times of peace. The historian is a man of flesh and blood and may love his country as ardently as other men; but, if he is to be worthy of his high calling, he must trample passion and prejudice under his feet and walk humbly and reverently in the temple of the Goddess of Truth. FOR REFERENCE Gooch, _History and Historians in the Nineteenth Century_ (Longmans). VI POLITICAL THEORY A.D. LINDSAY Political Philosophy or the philosophical theory of the State has closer relations with history than any other branch of philosophical inquiry. It is indeed distinguished from history in that it can disregard the success or failure, the historical development of this or that state. For it is concerned not with historical happenings but with ideals, not with the varying extent to which different states have approximated or fallen short of their purpose, but with that purpose itself, not, in short, with states but with _the_ State. Yet this need not involve that the ideal, _the_ State, is always and everywhere the same. Ideals are born of historical circumstances and fashioned to meet historical problems, and the would-be timeless ideals which political philosophers have put before us have always borne clear marks of the country and time of their origin. The ideal which men have set themselves in political organization has varied from time to time. That such variation is inevitable will be clear if we ask ourselves what we can possibly mean by an ideal state. That states fall short of their ideal because of the imperfections of their citizens is clear enough. All political life demands a certain standard of moral behaviour, of capacity to work for a common good, and an understanding of the results of our own and other people's actions. Were human selfishness completely overcome, the state would still be necessary to correct individual shortsightedness. The policeman, exempt from the cares of apprehending criminals, would still be needed to control traffic. But imagine, not that all citizens attained a certain standard of moral and intellectual behaviour, as the ideal demands, but that they were all perfectly good and perfectly wise, should we need any kind of government at all? Is not the supposition of perfection so far removed from any state of affairs we can really think of or plan for, that it cannot enter into our reckoning, ideal or practical? Every ideal takes certain facts of human life for granted whilst it tries to improve others. All ideal states, Plato's as well as others, assume certain facts about human nature and human society. These facts may and do vary. The Greek city state assumed that a state must be small, if it was to have the intensive life they demanded. The Roman Empire was a denial of the anarchy to which the Greek ideal had led, but it lost in intensity what it gained in extent. All political ideals assume a certain sociological background on which the state is based and from which spring the problems which the state is intended to solve. As this sociological background varies from time to time, _the_ State, the purpose which men set before themselves in political organization, will vary also. The Greek city state and the mediaeval state were not different approximations to the same ideal. They were the expressions of different ideals. They rested on different assumptions, e.g. as to the place of authority in society. With the disappearance at the Reformation of one of the great assumptions on which the mediaeval state had been based, a new theory of the state was inevitable. The national state of the seventeenth century was something new in history, and Hobbes differs from Aristotle, not because Hobbes is perverse and Aristotle right, though Hobbes often is perverse, but because the political problems which Hobbes and Aristotle had to face were not the same. Two great historical facts at the end of the eighteenth century, the French Revolution and the Industrial Revolution, profoundly modified the basis of political organization. The modern state in consequence differs in many important respects from any that have preceded it. It does not rest on the common acceptance of authority, either religious, as did the mediaeval state, or personal, as did the seventeenth-century state. Unlike the Greek city state, it is large. Its administration is concerned with millions who cannot be in personal relations to one another, or share the same intensive life. With the nineteenth century, then, a new chapter in the development of political theory begins as the peculiar problems of the modern state develop. Professor Dicey, in his _Law and Opinion in England_, has divided the century into two periods of political thought--Individualism and Collectivism--one marking the decrease, the other the increase of the power and authority of the state. When our period begins, the day of individualism was passing. Ever since the Reformation it had, in spite of Burke, dominated political theory. Two forces had given it strength--one idealistic, one scientific. It represented the revolt of the individual conscience against the claims of authority, and as such was a theory which attempted to limit the power of government over the individual, whether by an appeal to natural rights in Locke and Tom Paine, or to the greatest happiness of the greatest number in the Utilitarians, or to the super-eminent value of individual liberty as set forth in John Stuart Mill's noble panegyric. The French Revolution gave a notable impetus to this side of individualism, with its passionate assertion of the principle that political institutions exist for man, not man for political institutions, and that all government must be tested by the life which it enables each and every one of its citizens to live. Individualism in this sense is concerned with the discovery of principles by which the power of government over the lives of its members may be limited. It is not necessarily a theory of the nature of society. Hobbes, however, was an individualist as well as Locke, and for Hobbes the individual was the scientific unit from which societies and states were built up--the starting-point for a scientific treatment of society. As the French Revolution gave a fresh impulse to idealistic individualism, the Industrial Revolution reanimated the scientific, for it displayed the economic man, Hobbes's hero, come to life and a respectable member of society. With him came the growth of political economy, apparently the first really scientific study of man. From Political Economy Darwin borrowed the conception of the struggle for existence and the survival of the fittest, and from the new biology the doctrine of Evolution through individual competition returned to reinforce with the prestige of the new science the economists' conception of society. For the first half of the nineteenth century all the forces inspiring individualism seemed to work together, for economics and biology breathed a benevolent optimism which promised that if the scientific forces of individualism were left to work unchecked by state restriction, they would of themselves produce that individual liberty and free development which idealistic individualism desired. The development of the industrial revolution, however, soon made economic optimism impossible, and with its decay idealistic and scientific individualism parted company. The former retained its concern for individual liberty but came to see that its ideal was as much threatened by economic dependence as by state control, that the choice for most members of society was not one between state interference and no interference at all, but between the state controlling or not controlling the power of interference possessed by the economically superior members of society. On such principles Henry Sidgwick justified an extensive system of state control of industry, and for such reason the strongest supporters of the rights of the individual have been found among Socialists. Scientific individualism, which found its unit in the economic man and sought to absorb in economics both ethics and politics, was not in essence affected by the discrediting of economic optimism. It painted the struggle between individuals in gloomy instead of in attractive colours, its 'scientific' prepossessions inclined it to a determinism which led easily to the economic theory of history and even, by a curious conversion of opposites, to the 'scientific socialism' of Karl Marx. In its essence it is a denial of the real existence of politics. For it is a theory of society which denies the possibility of a will for the common good and therefore the possibility of political ideals. It was this powerful and malignant theory which was attacked and answered by the modern idealist school represented by Green, Wallace, and Ritchie, and, in the present day, by Dr. Bosanquet. These writers gave us a theory of the state based on the importance and reality of social purpose. They went back to the theory of the Greek city state expounded by Plato and Aristotle, finding modern reinforcement in the teaching of Rousseau and more especially of Hegel. Their destructive criticism of 'scientific' individualism was reinforced by the teaching of anthropology and of historical jurisprudence, which emphasized the part played in early forms of society by social solidarity and showed the inability of individualism to account for the development of society. Their destructive criticism was, however, the least part of their achievement. They exhibited convincingly the state as the product of will and purpose, based on man's moral nature and being in turn the form in which that moral nature expresses itself. In a notable phrase of Dr. Bosanquet's, a phrase to which he has given constant detailed amplification, 'institutions are ethical ideas'; moral purpose may seem to shine dimly enough in many actual institutions, but it is the only light which shines in them at all, and only in that light can their meaning and reality be understood. The main principles of this idealistic school may be safely said to have by this time established themselves against criticism. Of recent years Social Psychology has done much to explain the gap between the contemplated purpose and the actual working of institutions, and has given precision and definiteness to those elements in human nature which strengthen or weaken social solidarity. Economists have come to see that economic relations are possible only within the framework of a society which has its root in moral and political purpose, although within that framework they may be theoretically isolated and studied by themselves. Sociology, after many false starts, inspired by the mistaken belief that a scientific treatment of society should interpret higher forms in the light of lower, has now found it possible to study the manifold variety of institutional and social life on the basis provided by idealistic philosophy. As a theory of society, in short, this philosophy holds the field. It has been criticized of late years as a theory of the state, and as these criticisms show both where the idealistic theory was in some respects defective and also where the chief problems for political philosophy in the future are to be found, I shall devote the greater part of my lecture to these considerations. The idealistic school drew their inspiration from the theory of the Greek city state, and in their conception of the function of the state they assumed an essential identity between the Greek city state and the modern nation state. In so far as these two types of state have been the most self-conscious types of society that have existed, and have therefore displayed explicitly the purpose that is implicit in all society, the identification has been sound and fruitful; in so far, however, as the identity is pressed to imply that in the modern state the definite political or governmental organization should play the same function as it did in the Greek city state, the identification has been mistaken. The Greek city state failed conspicuously to solve the problem of inter-state relations, and its philosophers, instead of recognizing the failure and trying to remedy it, made their ideal state even more self-centred and autonomous than the existing states around them. Modern Idealism, just because it glorifies the state as the necessary upholder of moral relations, has often found it hard to regard the state as in its turn a member of a moral world. Again, the Greek city state, just because it was small, could take up into itself all the various social activities of its members. The state, in the sense of the Community in its political organization, directed and inspired Society, and the distinction between society and the state was not of great importance. In the modern world the boundaries of political organization are not nearly as definite boundaries in society as are the boundaries of the Greek city state. There are all manner of associations whose members are of different states and whose purposes are but to a small degree inspired or controlled by political organizations. Modern states are not all or completely nation states, and the nation is not as pervading and dominating an entity as was the Greek _polis_. This is not to say that the non-political associations could do without the state, as some recent writers have contended. Churches, e.g., could not exist were there not law and government. Yet it is impossible to maintain that in any real sense they are upheld by the state. They clearly get their inspiration from other sources. The difficulty is not evaded if we go behind both political and non-political organization to the community in which both exist and which upholds them both. For what in this reference is 'the community'? In regard to the political association it is the special solidarity of people living in a certain area; in regard to the non-political organization it is the solidarity of a section of the world-wide society, marked off from the rest on a non-territorial basis. The community in the two cases is not the same. Hence there arises in the modern state, as there arose in the mediaeval, a conflict of loyalties between the state and non-political associations. If we divide the world into states whose lines of division follow the divisions of the organization of force, we are faced with a host of problems concerning the proper place in society of these force-bearing organizations, and their relation to other associations. In considering both sets of problems, international and internal, we may either begin with the division of the world into states, each of which will be an approximation of _the_ State which we are studying, or we may regard the whole world as in some sort one society, covered with a network of overlapping associations of all kinds. On the former view the world is thought of as consisting of a number of independent communities, each shaping and controlling the various forms of social life within its own borders, upholding their moral world, and each being as a whole single entity a member of the community of states. On the latter we start with the solidarity and will to co-operate which pervades in all manner of degrees the whole world society, and regard the organization of force which marks the state as being the mark of a settled and determined form of that will to co-operate which is characteristic of all forms of human association. How dominant and determinant over other forms of association is that special form which controls organized force--that is the problem before us. We are concerned in technical language with the problem of sovereignty. Let us consider first the problem of international relations. The doctrine of sovereignty, formulated in the seventeenth century and crystallized by Austin at the beginning of the nineteenth, made sovereignty the hallmark of the state. The person or persons, to whom the bulk of a given society render habitual obedience, either do or do not render habitual obedience in turn to some other person or persons. If they do not, the society constitutes a sovereign state; if they do, it is only part of a sovereign state. The world therefore was regarded as containing a number of sovereign independent states. As sovereignty and law necessarily went hand in hand, there could be no law between sovereign states. There could only be world-wide law if there were one world-wide state. So long as there are more states than one, there are communities between whom there is no law. The doctrine of sovereignty was in its inception individualist, but in so far as concerns the implications, though not the basis of sovereignty, it was taken over by Hegel and by the English idealist school with the exception of T.H. Green. Idealism, indeed, always insisted that will, not force, was the basis of the state, but whereas in Green the state is constituted by the moral willing of individuals for a general good, in Hegel and in Bosanquet the conflicting willings of individuals are reconciled by their being taken up into the supra-personal will of the state. With the former therefore the morality of individuals is the primary fact, the existence of the state the secondary; with the latter on the whole the existence of the state is the primary moral fact, the moral willing of individuals secondary. Just because the wills of individuals are reconciled, not by each recognizing certain abstract principles of duty, but by being taken up into the supra-personal will of the state, where there is no such supra-personal will there is no reconciliation of conflicting wills and no morality beyond and outside the boundaries of communities. Hence arises a conception of the state which fits into the absolutist doctrine of sovereignty which we have described. The first thing to be said about this doctrine of the independent sovereign state is that political facts have obviously outrun it. It was derived from a study of the unitary state and will hardly fit any federal state. It is manifestly absurd when applied to the British Empire. If we disregard, as we must, the superficial legal facts and look at the real nature of the British Empire, we must admit that the Dominions are neither separate sovereign states nor parts of one sovereign state, and that the unity of the Empire is a unity of will--a willingness to co-operate which has not yet clothed itself in legal forms, and which is not, for geographical and other reasons, as intense as that will to co-operate which must be at the basis of a unitary sovereign state. This must suggest to us that the willingness to co-operate admits of degrees, and the relations of communities to one another to have stability must reflect these degrees. The importance of these considerations is obvious if we think of the problems with which we are confronted at the present moment, when we are attempting to form an international organization. The problems which have confronted the Peace Conference have brought two things clearly to light. The first, that the nation state is far too simple a solution of modern difficulties. Self-determination will not carry us very far. There are many cases where the boundaries dictated by nationality on the one hand and by the need for common organization on the other do not coincide, and where the only solution is one which impairs sovereignty in the old sense. The second is that the League of Nations, if it is to mean anything at all, will have to impair the sovereignty of the states which join it without thereby constituting in itself a world state. Much of the opposition to the League of Nations is concerned with this implied impairment of sovereignty. Whether this opposition will weigh with us will depend on whether we regard the independent sovereign state as the be-all and end-all of political theory, or see that the fundamental fact to be taken into account is man's readiness to co-operate for common purposes. If we take the latter view, we shall still be holding to what was the fundamental contribution of the idealist school, the teaching that the basis of all political questions is moral. The essence of the matter is how we are prepared to treat other people, for what purposes we are prepared to act with them, how far we are prepared to recognize and give settled organized recognition to our mutual obligations. The political organization is the vehicle and not the creator of these moral facts. As the facts vary, so will its forces. We may learn from the Hegelian school to recognize the enormous importance of the state, the great achievement of the human spirit which its organization represents, and the folly of light-heartedly endangering its existence, without making one form which it has taken in the nation state sacrosanct and absolute. Let us turn now to the second of our problems, the relation of the state to associations, such as churches and trade unions, within its borders. Here again we find a principle, originating in earlier individualist theory, taken up into idealism. In the beginnings of modern political theory in the seventeenth century, the absolutist doctrine of the state was the outcome of the need of the times for strong government. A state that was not master in its own house was felt to be incapable of the hard task these troublous times set before it. The French Revolution made no change in the attitude of the state to associations. New-born democracy was not inclined to look favourably on the independence of religious non-democratic associations, and the fact that Leviathan had become democratic was thought to have transformed him into a monster within whose capacious maw any number of Jonahs might live at ease or liberty. Association against a tyrant might be a sacred duty; against the people it could only be a suspicious superfluity. In a very different way the Prussian state, centralized, efficient, and Erastian, organizing the whole resources of the community under the guidance of the state, enforced the same principle. The state is a moral institution, it cannot surrender the inculcation and upholding of morality to an alien or independent body. From all the sources of modern idealistic political theory, Plato, Rousseau, Hegel, comes the same principle of state absolutism over associations within the state. The principle was put in idealistic form in the doctrine that the state is a supra-personal will, absorbing in itself the activities of its members. Of late years dissatisfaction with this doctrine has been making itself more and more loudly expressed. Along with an increasing belief in the extension of the state's administrative capacities has gone an increasing disinclination to leave men's moral and cultural activities to the political organization. The ideal of the _Kulturstaat_ is now sufficiently discredited. Men are coming more and more to recognize the part played in life by non-political organizations and to insist on the importance of preserving the independence and freedom from state control of such associations as churches. The loyalty of individuals to their associations, churches or trade unions, has been conflicting with their loyalty to the state, and men are not prepared to admit that in all such cases of conflict loyalty to the state ought to be paramount. Curiously enough, the central doctrine of the later idealistic school, the personality of the state, lent a force to the criticism of the doctrine of state absolutism. If the state can be described as a person, may not also a church and a trade union? We have begun to learn from Gierke, interpreted and reinforced to us by Maitland, that what is sauce for the state goose is also sauce for the corporation gander, and that associations within the state may claim from the state a greater independence and a recognition of their intrinsic worth because they, as it, embody in some sense a real will over and above the wills of their members. This doctrine of corporate personality is of great interest and complexity, and has not yet been satisfactorily worked out. But I shall not discuss it now because it will not help us far towards a solution of the problem of what are the proper relations between associations and the state, be they personalities or not. Recent writers have mainly attempted to solve the problem by the principle of differentiation of function. This will certainly help us in considering the relation of church and state. For we can say that the task of the political organization is to maintain the conditions of the good life, leaving the work of developing the meaning of the good life, the fostering and inculcation of ideals, to voluntary associations. The state will then maintain a certain minimum of moral behaviour, while the more delicate and freer work of inspiration is left to individuals and voluntary associations. This will not always provide a clean-cut and sufficient differentiation. The state must make up its own mind what is essential to the maintenance of the good life, the voluntary associations may hold that what the state ordains is flatly evil, as the state may hold that what a voluntary association teaches is subversive of all that makes a common ordered life possible, and both must be true to the facts as they see them. When such conflict arises, as it has arisen lately, if the only answer we can give at present is the old answer given by Dr. Johnson, 'The state had a right to martyr the Early Christians, and they had a right to be martyred,' yet at least we are farther on if each side honestly recognizes the importance of the work that the other has to do. When we come to the problem raised by the present position and claims of Trade Unions, differentiation of functions is less satisfactory. Let us first look at the problem as it confronts us to-day. There was a time when the state was doubtful whether it should allow trade unions to exist. The Political Economy prevalent in the earlier part of the nineteenth century taught that trade unions were either unnecessary or useless--unnecessary in so far as economic relations, if unhindered by regulations from the state or from combinations, were regarded by economic optimism as themselves producing satisfactory social conditions; useless where Political Economy had substituted for optimism a belief in 'iron laws' whose results no combination or government regulation could affect. We now see that economic relations, just because they are possible between men who have no common purpose, need regulation inspired by a common purpose, and can be affected by such regulation. The growth of governmental interference with industry and of trade unionism are part of the same movement to control the working of economic relations with a view to maintaining the conditions of the good life. Trade unions have grown and are still steadily growing in size and importance. For a large portion of the nation loyalty to a trade union has become the most obvious form of collective loyalty or general will. This has been accompanied by an inevitable decrease in what we may call territorial loyalty. The result of the increase in means of communication and the growth of large towns has been that men's common interests as members of the same trade or as employees in the same workshop are coming to mean more and to constitute a greater common bond between men than their common interests as dwellers in the same locality. The trade union has often a more live and real general will than the Parliamentary constituency. Men's aspirations and ideals for their common life are being expressed more truly through trade union organizations than through Parliament. The growth in the prestige of organized labour is therefore coincident with a decay in the prestige of Parliament. Parliament, however, based on a local sub-division of the nation, is at present the only political organization of the nation. Trade union organization, as a political organization, has no constitutional authority, and all the general will which it represents can find no regular national expression. The result is that it either uses the territorial organization by getting men who really represent their Trade Union elected as members for Parliamentary local constituencies, to the detriment of both the territorial and the trade union organization, or acts as an _imperium in imperio_ by making demands on and issuing ultimata to Parliament. We seem to be approaching a crisis where the trade unions are asking whether they will allow the state to exist. This is obviously an unsatisfactory state of affairs. What is the cure for it? Differentiation of functions, as I have said, will not help us here. Some writers have maintained that vocational organization should concern itself with industrial or economic matters, the state, as we know it, with political matters. But can we possibly distinguish between industrial and political matters? If the aim of politics is to regulate men's actions in the light of men's common interests, the action of a trade union is in its essence political. Its differentiation from government is that it is concerned with the common interests of a few rather than the common interests of all. The difference between a trade union and a parliamentary constituency is that the sub-division of the general common interest which each represents rests on a different basis of division. The whole community might as well be organized by vocations as it now is by localities. There would seem to be certain advantages in both principles of differentiation, and one obvious practical solution of our present difficulties is that the supreme organ of government should in its two chambers represent the nation as organized on both principles, vocational and territorial. We seem to have come now to the discussion of political machinery, but, as in our discussion of the League of Nations, we can see that our attitude to such questions of machinery will vary as we regard the force-bearing organization with its national and territorial basis as the primary fact in the community, to be distinguished sharply from all other organizations, or regard the possession of organized force as the expression of men's settled and permanent will to maintain their common interests and safeguard the conditions of the good life. If we consistently follow out Green's dictum that will, not force, is the basis of the state, we shall be anxious that the political organization to which we render obedience shall follow the actual ramifications of common interests and of men's willingness to co-operate, and shall recognize that the national state with its territorial basis represents only one form of such ramification. The view that political action is not confined to constitutional and governmental channels will not imply that we must give up the distinction between society and the state. For, on the one hand, trade unions have only arisen because of the special need for a _common_ safeguarding of common interests produced by economic relations. Economic relations need to be controlled by, but cannot be superseded by, politics. On the other hand, as we have seen, the work of such associations as churches is different in kind from the work done by political organizations. The inculcation and development of moral ideals and the safeguarding of the conditions of the good life are complementary functions. Each is impossible without the other. But that does not make them identical, however closely interfused they may be. If, then, we accept the political theory of idealism as a theory of society, we must recognize in social life the distinction between ethical, economic, and political relations, and the task before Political Theory is to define the relations between politics and economic activities on the one side and ethical activities on the other, and that in a society which is not confined within the bounds of a single nation state. The intricate ramifications of vast economic undertakings and the common aspirations and ideals of humanity are but signs of a solidarity of mankind that political philosophy must recognize in all the problems it has to face. FOR REFERENCE Green, _Principles of Political Obligation_. Bosanquet, _Philosophical Theory of the State_. Barker, _Political Thought in England from Spencer to to-day_. Hobhouse, _The Metaphysical Theory of the State_. Figgis, _Churches in the Modern State_. Cole, _Labour in the Commonwealth_. Cole, _Self Government in Industry_. Delisle Burns, _The Morality of Nations_. VII ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT[20] C.R. FAY I. THE INDUSTRIAL SCENE, 1842 1. Let us hover in fancy over the industrial scene in 1842, and photograph a stage of the economic conflict which the people of England were waging then with the forces which held them in thrall. Our photograph shows us great white lines, continuous or destined to become continuous; they are numerous in Durham and Lancashire, and the newest lead up to and away from London. These white lines are the new railroads of England, and the myriad ant-heaps along them are the navvies. In the year 1848 their numbers had risen to 188,000.[21] What is a navvy and how does he live? The navvy is an inland navigator who used to dig dykes and canals and now constructs railroads. In the forties the navvies are getting 5_s._ a day, and for tunnelling and blasting even more, but they are a rowdy crowd, and many of them are Irish. Said the Sheriff substitute of Renfrewshire in 1827: 'If an extensive drain, or canal, or road were to make that could be done by piecework, I should not feel in the least surprised to find that of 100 men employed at it, 90 were Irish.'[22] In 1842 they are building railroads, and when they and the Highlanders are on the same job, it is necessary to segregate them in order to avoid a breach of the peace. The Irish sleep in huts and get higher pay than the natives who are lodged in the neighbouring cottages. The English navvy too keeps out the Irishman if he can. On a track in Northamptonshire, 'There is only one Irishman on the work, for they would not allow any other Irishman.'[23] In the South of England wages are lower and the navvies are less expert. In South Devon 'very few North countrymen; they are men who have worked down the line of the Great Western; that have followed it from one portion to another'.[24] The riff-raff from the villages cannot work stroke for stroke with the navvy. 'In tilting the waggons they could, but in the barrow runs it requires practice and experience.'[25] The high wages of the navvy are offset by the disadvantages of his employment. He is lucky if he gets the whole of his earnings in cash. In the Trent Valley they are paid once a month, 'but every fortnight they receive what is called "sub" that is subsistence money, and between the times of subsistence money and times of the monthly payment, they may have tickets by applying to the time-keeper, or whoever is the person to give them out, for goods; and those tickets are directed to a certain person; they cannot go to any other shop.'[26] The huts in which they live are little better than pigsties, and especially bad for regular navvies, who take their families about with them. In South Devon, 'man, woman, and child all sleep exposed to one another.'[27] On a section of the London and Birmingham Railway fever and small-pox broke out. 'I have seen', says an eye-witness, 'the men walking about with the small-pox upon them as thick as possible and no hospitals to go to.'[28] The country people, the witness continues, make money by letting rooms double. When one lot came out, another lot went in. Such is the navvy's life at work and at rest. 2. If we can suppose that our camera is capable of distinguishing centres of industrial activity, then our picture will give us 'vital' patches, which stand out against a background of deadness. This deadness is rural England. What is the condition of the rural counties of Wessex? 'Everywhere the cottages are old, and frequently in a state of decay.' 'Ignorance of the commonest things, needle-work, cooking, and other matters of domestic economy, is ... nearly universally prevalent.'[29] To make both ends meet the wife has abandoned her now useless spinning-wheel and hired herself out to hoe turnips or pick stones. On the little farms inside the factory districts of Lancashire and Yorkshire, on which the country hand-loom weavers eke out a miserable livelihood by cultivating patches of grass land, there is distress more acute than ever was known in a Dorset village. But in Northumberland, by exception, there is a decent country life. 'What I saw of the northern peasantry impressed me very strongly in their favour; they are very intelligent, sober, and courteous in their manners.... The education in Northumberland is very good; the people are intelligent and cute, alive to the advantages of knowledge, and eager to acquire it; it is a rare thing to find a grown-up labourer who cannot read and write and who is not capable of keeping his own accounts.'[30] The same sort of thing was said of Northumberland in 1869: 'If all England had been like Northumberland, this commission ought never to have been issued.' The Commissioner found that though the labourers worked harder and longer than in the South they were not working against starvation. They were enjoying a rough plenty, which included fresh milk. The rest of the family earned sufficient to leave the married woman in her home and no children under twelve were employed in field labour.[31] Here then in Northumberland there is a decent country life, but elsewhere there is an atmosphere of deadness; and it is this deadness of the countryside which explains the horror that new comers to industrial regions frequently expressed at the prospect of a forcible return to the parish of their origin. 'I was told,' says a visitor to Lancashire in 1842, 'that there had been several instances of death by sheer starvation. On asking why application had not been made to the commissioner of the parish for relief, I was informed that they were persons from agricultural districts who, having committed an act of vagrancy, would be sent to their parishes, and that they had rather endure anything in the hope of some manufacturing revival, than return to the condition of farm labourers from which they had emerged. This was a fact perfectly new to me, and at the first blush, truly incredible, but I asked the neighbours in two of the instances quoted ... and they not only confirmed the story, but seemed to consider any appearance of scepticism a mark of prejudice or ignorance.'[32] 3. Though there is little peasant life in England, there is life of a feverish desperate order for many who live in country places. These people are not farm workers nor yet are they craftsmen who supply the industrial needs of the village. They are feeders to the towns, engaged in what is misnamed 'domestic industry'. The life they lead is a sordid replica of an all too sordid original. Cobbett in a tirade against the Lords of the Loom[33] idealized the old-time union of agriculture and manufacture. The men should work in the fields, while the women and children stayed at home at their spinning wheels, making homespun for the family garments. But the picture was a vanishing one even in his day. Domestic industry does not mean this. The rural distress revealed in the Hand-loom Weavers Commission is the distress of specialized hand-workers, male and female, who are clinging desperately to the worst-paid branch of a dying trade. The worsted industry of East Anglia is perishing, defeated by the resources of Yorkshire, of which the power-loom is only one. The cloth trade in the Valley of Stroud (Gloucester) is a shadow of its former self. It has lost the power of recovering from a depression. The next period of slackness that comes along may bankrupt the business and rob a village of specialized hand-workers of their main employment. In Devonshire, the serge trade, which used to give employment to looms in almost every town and village, has become so unremunerative that it has passed into the hands of the wives and daughters of mechanics and agricultural labourers. In Oxfordshire in 1834, we are told by the Poor Law Commissions of that year, glove and lace making were vanishing occupations. In the neighbourhood of Banbury 'some make lace and gloves in the villages. Formerly spinning was the work for women in the villages, now there is scarcely any done.'[34] Since 1834 the process of disintegration had proceeded apace. We must not, however, convey the impression that domestic industry in 1842 had all but vanished from the countryside. In its ancient strongholds it still endures, but it is in an unhealthy condition, and the towns are sucking its life-blood away. To illustrate this, let us describe the course of a boom in domestic industry and study how the trade boom of 1833-7 reached through to the country silk weavers in Essex and other places all around London. The terms which we usually apply to the cultivation of land are apposite. The town workers represent the intensive margin of cultivation, the country workers the extensive margin. First of all the Spitalfield weavers, who have been short of work, have more work given to them. The weavers' wives also get work, and their boys and girls who never were on a loom before are now put to the trade. Fresh hands are introduced. From the Metropolis the demand for labour pushes outwards over the country. Recourse is had to 'inferior soils'. Old weavers in the villages get work, together with their wives and families. Even farm labourers are impressed. Blemishes for which at other times deductions would be claimed are now over-looked. Carts are sent round to the villages and hamlets with work for the weavers, so that time may not be lost in going to the warehouses to take back or carry home work. Then comes the ebb: 'the immediate effect is that all the less skilful workmen, the dissolute and disorderly, are denied work; the third and fourth looms, those worked by the sons and daughters of the weavers, are all thrown out of use'. The intensiveness of cultivation has been reduced in the towns, the least remunerative no longer pays. The ebb of the tide, which reduces the quantity of employment in the towns, leaves the country districts high and dry. 'At such times the country towns and villages to which work is liberally sent, when there is a demand for goods, suffer still more. A staff or skeleton only is kept in pay, and that chiefly with a view to operations when a demand returns.'[35] A skeleton--well said. Occasional cultivation is bad for land, and worse for human beings. The ribbon-weaving villages north of Coventry are a disorderly eruption from the town. Coventry itself has the better-paid 'engine weaving'; the rural districts have the 'single hand trade'. The country workers, say the Commissioners, 'retain most of their original barbarism with an accession of vice'. The yokels who went out to the French wars innocent boys returned confirmed rogues. Bastardy is greater than ever, despite the new Poor Law. 'It may surprise the denouncers of the factory system to find all the vices and miseries which they attribute to it, flourishing so rankly in the midst of a population not only without the walls of a factory, but also beyond the contamination of a large town.'[36] It may have surprised such people, but it does not surprise us who are surveying the industrial scene and beginning to apprehend the rottenness of that worm-eaten structure which under the misnomer of domestic industry marks the half-way house to full capitalism. 4. Let us now journey to the factory districts of Lancashire and the West Riding of Yorkshire where town lies close upon town, and the tall chimneys envelop in smoke the cottages in which hand-loom weavers work and the children of hand-loom weavers sleep. Let us suppose that we have found our position by Leeds. We should like to follow the track of the new railroads, for we have in our pocket a small green book: 'Bradshaw's Railway Time Tables and Assistant to Railway Travelling'. '10th Mo. 19th, 1839. Price Sixpence.' Bradshaw tells us that we can get from Littleborough to Manchester in 11 hours--via Rochdale, Heywood, and Millshill--but it is not clear how we are to get to Littleborough. So we follow an alternative route, the canal. It is a fashionable method of transit for mineral traffic and paupers. Mr. Muggeridge, the emigration agent, tells us how he transported the southern paupers in 1836. 'The journey from London to Manchester was made by boat or waggon, the agents assisting the emigrants on their journey.'[37] When we got up our geography for the tour out of Thomas Dugdale's 'England and Wales' this is what we read at every turn: 'Keighley: in the deep valley of the Aire, its prosperity had been much increased by the Leeds and Liverpool Canal which passes within two miles.' 'Skipton: in a rough mountainous district. The trade has been greatly facilitated by the proximity of the town to the Leeds and Liverpool Canal.' So the Leeds and Liverpool canal shall be our guide. We leave Bradford, Halifax, and the worsted districts to the left of us, and passing by Shipley, approach the cotton district near the Lancashire border. 'The township of Shipley is the western-most locality of the Leeds clothing districts; it runs like a tongue into the worsted district. In like manner the worsted district blends with the cotton district at Steeton, Silsden, and Addingham.' We are passing, the Commissioner tells us, from high wages to low. 'The cloth weavers of Shipley work for wages little, if any, higher than those of the worsted weavers; while the worsted weavers north-west of Keighley are reduced down to the cotton standard.'[38] At Keighley we bend sharply south and soon reach Colne in Lancashire. Dr. Cook Taylor describes the conditions there in the early part of 1842: 'I visited eighty-eight dwellings, selected at hazard. They were destitute of furniture save old boxes for tables or stalls, or even large stones for chairs; the beds are composed of straw and shavings. The food was oatmeal and water for breakfast, flour and water, with a little skimmed milk for dinner, oatmeal and water again for a second supply.' He actually saw children in the markets grubbing for the rubbish of roots. And yet, 'all the places and persons I visited were scrupulously clean. Children were in rags, but they were not in filth. In no single instance was I asked for relief.... I never before saw poverty which inspired respect, and misery which demanded involuntary homage.' From Colne we journey to Accrington. Of its 9,000 inhabitants not more than 100 were fully employed. Numbers kept themselves alive by collecting nettles and boiling them. Some were entirely without food every alternate day, and many had but one meal in the day and that a poor one.[39] Our last stage is Burnley, where the weavers--to quote again from Dr. Cook Taylor--'were haggard with famine, their eyes rolling with that fierce and uneasy expression common to maniacs. "We do not want charity," they said, "but employment." I found them all Chartists, but with this difference, that the block-printers and hand-loom weavers united to their Chartism a hatred of machinery which was far from being shared by the factory operatives.' What a comment on England's industrial supremacy--England with her virtual monopoly of large-scale manufacture in Europe! It must have been a puzzle, too, for the Poor Law Commissioners, who were then building workhouses in these parts for the purpose of depauperizing hand-loom weavers on the less eligibility principle. But how was it, with such a Poor Law, that the hand-loom weavers did not die of starvation by the thousand? If we enter a cotton mill we shall see why. Within these gaunt walls, which are illumined at night by sputtering gas-light, the factory children work, earning twice as much as their parents, who were too old and too respectable to become factory hands. By this time, perhaps, it is evening, but this matters nothing to the 'melancholy mad engines', which feed on water or burning coals. The young people will still be there, with eight hours work to their credit and more to do--'kept to work by being spoken to or by a little chastisement'.[40] 'I have seen them fall asleep,' said an over-looker in 1833, 'and they have been performing their work with their hands while they were asleep, after the Billy had stopped. Put to bed with supper in their hands, they were clasping it next morning, when their parents dragged them out of bed. Half asleep they stumbled or were carried to the mill, to begin again the ceaseless round.' 'It keeps them out of mischief', said the opponents of shorter hours. Besides, the conditions were no worse than any other industries! Factory work, however, as the doctors show, was different from work in the mines. The heat and confinement of the mill caused precocious sexual development, whilst in the mines the result of exaggerated muscular development was to delay maturity. In 1842 conditions are better than they were in 1833--thanks to the factory inspectors. There is little positive cruelty, and the sight of deformity--enlarged ankle bones, bow legs, and knock knees, caused by excessive standing as a child--is rare. The problem now is one of industrial fatigue. The children are 'sick-tired'. 5. The Midlands of Leicestershire, Notts, and Derbyshire are a region of red bricks and pantiles, dotted over valleys of exquisite green. So let us leave the smoke of Lancashire and hover here for a while. Here dwell the stocking workers or frame-work knitters--the people who knit on frames stockings, gloves, and other articles of hosiery. It does not look like a region of industry. There are only a few towns, such as Nottingham, Leicester, and Loughborough; and except for a few lace factories in Nottingham, large buildings are rare. The town knitters either work in their own homes or in shops with standings for perhaps as many as fifty frames. In the villages the knitting is nearly all done in the cottages, opposite long low windows, or in a small out-house which might well be a fowl-house. But in the streets of Leicester we can see 'life' of a sort. We can watch the procession to the pawnbrokers. Some of the knitters pawn their blankets for the day, and most lodge their Sunday clothing during the week. Says a Leicester pawnbroker: 'We regularly pay away from £40 to £50 (to some 300 persons) every Monday morning or on the Tuesday. They will, perhaps, wash on the Monday and get their linen clean preparatory to the next Sunday, and in the course of the week they bring all the linen things they can spare. Friday is the worst; they will then bring their small trifling articles, such as are scarcely worth a penny, and we lend on them, to enable them to buy a bit of meat or a few trifles for dinner.'[41] They are too poor to indulge in church-going or alcohol. They have no clothes to go to church in. Their publican is the druggist, where they buy opium for themselves and Godfrey's cordial, a preparation from laudanum, for their children. In the whole of Leicester, with its population of 50,000, there are but nine gin-houses. And only on Sundays do they get a bit of schooling. 'We have only one bit of a cover lid to cover the five of us in winter ... we are all obliged to sleep in one bed.'[42] A frame smith, making his usual inspection of hosiers' frames at workmen's dwellings in Nottingham, after thus spending a fortnight, found his health had begun to suffer from the squalid wretchedness of their abodes. Thinking to improve it, he went on the same errand into the country, but found the frame-work knitters there in a still more deplorable state. From the bad air and other distressing influences in their condition and that of their dwellings, in another fortnight he returned, too ill to attend to his business for some weeks afterwards. This occurred in 1843.[43] Nottingham, however, with its up-to-date lace trade was usually better off than this. The lace factories, like the cotton mills in Lancashire, eased the position of the hand-workers. In Leicestershire the knitters had no such alternative. The more their earnings were reduced, the more helplessly they were bound to their only trade. 6. 1842 is a long while ago! Let us go to sleep for thirty years and wake up in 1871, when the Truck Commissioners are publishing their report. West of Birmingham lies the black country, an area of some twenty square miles. Here, if we have read the evidence of the Truck Commissioners, we can interpret a dumb-show in Dudley, where the nail-makers dwell. On Monday mornings the nail-maker emerges from a small hovel containing a smithy and walks into Dudley to call on a gentleman known as a fogger, a petty-fogger if he is a middleman, a market-fogger if he is a master. The nailer comes out with a bundle of metal which he takes to a second house and changes for a second bundle of metal, and with this he walks away. (The next nailer, not so lucky, hangs about till Wednesday morning, waiting for his metal.) On Saturday the nailer comes back with his nails, enters the fogger's shop, and emerges with 12_s._ in his hand. But he does not go home. He slips into a shop close by and parts company with the shillings. In return he gets a parcel, the contents of which are obviously displeasing to him. What has happened? The nailer is a Government servant. But the Government only employs him indirectly. It puts out contracts for rivets and nails to contractors who sublet their contract, so that the work reaches the nailer at third or fourth hand. The Government, in the interest of public economy (Victorian England is famous for retrenchment), gives its contract to the lowest tenderer; and the policy of the lowest tender is responsible for the dumb-show we have watched. To begin with, the nailer gets metal which does not suit him, so he has to change it, and this he does at the price of 2_d._ per 10_d._ bundle, at a metal changers, a relative of the fogger. (His friend who has to wait till Wednesday for his bundle is kept idling about in order that he may drink what is left of last week's earnings at a 'wobble shop' which is owned by yet another branch of the family of fogger.) When the nailer and his family have worked fourteen hours a day throughout the week, the nailer returns on Saturday with the nails, and receives 12_s._ for them. These shillings he takes to the fogger's store and exchanges for tea and other articles. The shillings are 'nimble'; we commend the rapidity of their circulation to Mr. Irving Fisher. A fogger who pays out the shillings from his warehouse receives them back again in a few minutes over the counter of his store. 'He will perhaps reckon with seven or eight at one time, and when he has reckoned with them, and perhaps paid them six, seven, or eight pounds, he will wait until they have gone to the shop and taken the money there as they leave the warehouse. Then he goes into the shop himself for it, as he cannot go on paying without it.'[44] But surely this is truck! Certainly not. There may be 'fearful cheating' with tea, but the nailer is not bound to go there. He is perfectly free. The only trouble is this: it is a case of tea or no work the week following. This is why, despite the Truck Act of 1831 and despite the known existence of the abuse, these practices are rife among the nailers as late as 1871, the year in which the Truck Commissioners issued the Report from which this scene is compiled. The plight of the nailers is not the plight of factory operatives or miners; it is the plight of the frame-work knitters, of men who are bound by the intangible fetters of economic need to the uncontrollable devil of 'semi-capitalism'. 2. MINING OPERATIONS 1. Coal was king of the nineteenth century. The first steam-engine was built to pump water out of coal mines, the first canal was cut to carry the Duke of Bridgwater's coal from Worsley to Manchester. The first railroads were laid around Newcastle to convey the coals from the pit mouth to the river. George Stephenson, the inventor of the locomotive, began life as a trapper on a Tyneside colliery. Where would English industry have been without its king? In 1780 (in round figures) 5,000,000 tons of coal were raised in the United Kingdom: in 1800, 10,000,000; in 1865, 100,000,000; and in 1897, 200,000,000. Coal enticed the cotton factories from the dales of the Pennines to the moist lowlands of West Lancashire. At every stage of their work the iron-makers depended on coal; and the great inventions in the iron and steel industry are land-marks in the expansion of the demand for coal--Cort's puddling process 1783, Watt's steam-engine 1785, Neilson's hot blast 1824, Naysmith's steam-hammer 1835, Bessemer's steel-converter 1855, Siemen's open hearth 1870, Thomas' basic process for the treatment of highly phosphoric ores 1878. The steamship, a novelty in 1820, ruled the seas in 1870; and ironclads followed steamships. The smokeless steam-coal of South Wales guarded the heritage of Trafalgar. By the end of the nineteenth century, coaling stations were an important item in international politics. Meanwhile, the people of England, heedless of Malthusian forebodings, multiplied exceedingly. They lighted their streets and buildings with coal-gas, and burnt coal in their grates. With coal they paid for the food and raw materials from other lands. Imports of food and raw materials were offset by exports of coal and of textiles and hardware produced by coal. The spirit of invention has pushed on to electricity and oil, but coal is still the pivot of English industry and commerce. And therefore, seeing that coal has meant all this to England, let us look at the men who raised the coal. How did they live, what did they think about, what did they count for then, what do they count for now? 2. In 1800 the miners stood for nothing in the nation's life. In Scotland they had just been emancipated from the status of villeinage. In Northumberland and Durham they were tied by yearly bonds. Elsewhere they were weak and isolated. In 1825 a 'Voice from the coal mines of the Tyne and Wear' cried: 'While working men in general are making 20_s._ to 30_s._ per week (_sic_) the pitmen here are only making 13_s._ 6_d._ and from this miserable pittance deductions are made.'[45] In 1839, during the Chartist disturbances, a Welsh M.P. wrote to the Home Secretary begging for barracks and troops: 'A more lawless set of men than the colliers and miners do not exist ... it requires some courage to live among such a set of savages.'[46] When the miners came out in 1844, there were thousands of cottages tenantless in Northumberland and Durham. For the colliery proprietors owned the cottages, and when the miners struck evicted them. So the miners set up house in the streets. 'In one lane ... a complete new village was built, chests-of-drawers, deck beds, etc., formed the walls of the new dwelling; and the top covered with canvas or bedclothes as the case might be.'[47] Yet, for all their griminess, they had human hearts and voices. During the strike they obtained permission to hold a meeting at Newcastle; and the wealthy citizens who made their fortunes out of the coal trade trembled before the invasion of black barbarians. But the meeting passed off in rain and peace. Thirty thousand miners marched in procession, 'for near a mile flags in breeze, men walking in perfect order'; and as they marched, they sang, as only miners sing, songs and hymns and topical ditties: 'Stand fast to your Union Brave sons of the mine, And we'll conquer the tyrants Of Tees, Wear, and Tyne!' Up and down the Durham coalfields tramped a misguided agitator (in after life the veteran servant of the Durham Miners' Association), by name Tommy Ramsey. With bills under his arm and crake in hand, he went from house-row to house-row calling the miners out. He had only one message: 'Lads, unite and better your condition. When eggs are scarce, eggs are dear; When men are scarce, men are dear.'[48] Such blasphemy appalled the Government's Commissioners. But the miners had a zest for religion as well as for strikes. During the strike of 1844, 'frequent meetings were held in their chapels (in general those of the Primitive Methodists or Ranters as they are commonly called in that part of the country), where prayers were publicly offered up for the successful result of the strike.' They attended their prayer meeting 'to get their faith strengthened'.[49] Such ignorance could only be cured by education. Some worthy members of society had already recognized the fact. In 1830 a Cardiff 'Society for the improvement of the working population in the county of Glamorgan' issued improving pamphlets: No. 9. Population, or Patty's Marriage. No. 10. The Poor's Rate, or the Treacherous Friend. No. 11. Foreign Trade, or the Wedding Gown.[50] But the northern miners were perverse people. In Scotland, according to one Wesleyan minister,[51] the miners read Adam Smith. In Northumberland, with still greater perversity, they preferred Plato. 'A translation of Plato's _Ideal Republic_ is much read among those classes, principally for the socialism and unionism it contains; in pure ignorance, of course, that Plato himself subsequently modified his principles and that Aristotle showed their fallacy.'[52] 3. The Royal Commission of 1842 on the Employment and Condition of Children and Young Persons in Mines disclosed facts which made Cobdenite England gasp. The worst evidence came from Lancashire, Cheshire, the West Riding of Yorkshire, East Scotland, and South Wales. In these districts juvenile labour was cheap and plentiful; and this was an irresistible argument for its employment, though the miners themselves disliked it. The meddlesome restrictions on the factories were a contributory cause. Parents, it was said in Lancashire, were pushing their children into colliery employment at an earlier age because of the legal restrictions upon sending them to the neighbouring factories. A Lancashire woman said in evidence: 'I have a belt round my waist and a chain passing between my legs, and I go on my hands and feet.... The pit is very wet where I work and the water comes over our clog tops always, and I have seen it up to my thighs.... I have drawn till I have had the skin off me; the belt and chain is worse when we are in the family way.'[53] The children's office was a lonesome one. Children hate the dark, but being little they fitted into a niche, and so they were used to open and close the trap-doors. A trapper lad from the county of Monmouth, William Richards, aged seven-and-a-half, said in evidence: 'I been down about three years. When I first went down, I could not keep my eyes open; I don't fall asleep now; I smokes my pipe, smokes half a quartern a week.'[54] Except in the northern mining districts, where there were good day and Sunday schools and Methodism was powerful, a pagan darkness prevailed. As a Derbyshire witness put it: 'When the boys have been beaten, knocked about, and covered with sludge all the week, they want to be in bed all day to rest on Sunday.'[55] In the hope of startling a religiously-minded England, the Commissioners reproduced examples of working-class ignorance. James Taylor, aged eleven, 'Has heard of hell in the pit, when the men swore; has never heard of Jesus Christ; has never heard of God; he has heard the men in the pit say, "God damn thee ".' A Yorkshire girl, aged eighteen, said: 'I do not know who Jesus Christ was; I never saw him, but I have seen Foster, who prays about him.'[56] 4. Just as in the East Midlands the frame-work knitters worked for middlemen or master middlemen, and just as the Dudley nailers worked for petty-foggers and market-foggers, so too the Staffordshire miners worked for 'butties'. Here again the workers were exposed to the petty tyrannies of semi-capitalism; and here again the middlemen, in this case the butties, incurred the odium of a system for which their superiors, the coal-owners and coal-masters, were responsible. Why the butty system prevailed in the Midlands--and in a modified form it prevails to-day--is not clear. In some places it seems to be connected with the smallness of the mining concerns or of the metal trades which they supplied. In South Staffordshire a contributing factor was the ancient and allied industry of nail-making. The conditions in South Staffordshire in 1843 are fully described in the Midland Mining Commission of that year. The butty was a contractor who engaged with the proprietor or lessee of the mine to deliver the coal or iron-stone at so much per ton, himself hiring the labourers, using his own horses, and supplying the tools requisite for the working of the mine. The contract price was known as the 'charter price' or 'charter'. Thus by a freak of language the Staffordshire miner knew by the same word the 'butty's charter' which was the symbol of his oppression, and the 'people's charter' which was the goal of his desire. 'The butties', said the miners and their wives, 'are the devil: they are negro drivers: they play the vengeance With the men.'[57] The men kicked when, after working a couple of hours, they were fetched up, without pay, on the excuse that there were no waggons to take away the coal. But the butty comforted them with a bottle of pit drink, and all was smooth again. A collier related a case where 'a pike man had worked only one half-day in the week and got 2_s._ for it, and because he did not spend 6_d._ of this at the butty's shop, the latter told the doggy (the under man) to let the man play for it.'[58] The miners recognized that often the butty was not to blame. In the district north and east of Dudley, the butties got their 'charter price' from the coal-owners in the form of tickets on the coal-owners' truck-shop. What else could they do but hand them on to the men? 'He used to be a very good butty,' said one miner's wife, 'till they haggled him and dropped his "charter", so that he cannot pay his men.'[59] West and south of Dudley the butties, though they did not truck their men, kept public-houses; and being employer and publican in one, they had a tight hold on the men. Was the compulsion to drink an oppression? To our minds, yes; as also to the minds of the teetotal Chartists whom the Government imprisoned, and of the strike leaders whom the Government's Commissioners denounced. But to the majority of the miners the abundance of beer was a delight. They objected to the butty's bullying, but they loved his beer, especially the feckless ones, for when wives were importunate the drunkards pleaded necessity. However, all the beer-drinking could not be charged to the butties. The miners themselves, in their own fellowships, were devoted to it; and the compulsion of friends was as severe as the compulsion of butties. Every approach to recreation, every act of mutual providence against accident or disease, began and ended in beer. The day a man entered the pit's company, he paid 1_s._ for footing-ale, and the doggy saw that no churl escaped. When a lad was old enough to have a sweetheart he was toasted with the 'nasty' shilling. The sins of the married men were washed away in half-a-crown's worth of ale. The beer-shop was the head-quarters of the Burial and Savings Clubs. The first charge on a Burial Club was a good oak coffin, the second charge drinks for the pall-bearers, and then a glass or two for the rest of the company. They had lotteries to which each man contributed 20 fortnightly shillings. Each week a name was drawn, and the lucky man stood a feast; while every member, in addition to a shilling for the box, produced 6_d._ for drinks. In all these festivities the butty was in the offing. When they would have him he presided; and so at his worst an obnoxious bully, at his best he was an accommodating landlord. Direct employment, such as prevailed in the north of England, would have averted much of this evil. There were no structural difficulties in the way of change. Direct employment would not have meant a change to another class of work (this is what direct employment meant for knitters and hand-loom weavers). The butty system existed and persisted through slackness and irresponsibility. The owners paid compensation for accidents, when they might have diminished the number of accidents. They paid commissions to middlemen with whom they might have dispensed. The system made temperance impossible for the individual; and the masters, with the full approval of the Government, did their best to destroy the 'pernicious combinations' by which alone a standard of sober decency could be promoted. 5. The Report of the Truck Commissioners (1871-2) enables us to complete the picture. It also enables us to understand why, at this late day, truck was still rife in certain districts. Truck and Tommy, truck-shop and Tommy-shop, are convertible terms. Truck is from the French 'troc' = barter. Cobbett tells us how the word 'Tommy' was used. In his soldiering days the rations of brown bread, 'for what reason God knows', went by the name of Tommy. 'When the soldiers came to have bread served out to them in the several towns in England, the name of Tommy went down by tradition, and, doubtless, it was taken up and adapted to the truck-system in Staffordshire and elsewhere.'[60] From the textile districts it had all but disappeared in 1871. When the cotton manufactures went to outlying dales for water power, they were almost compelled to open stores for their workpeople. Owen's store at New Lanark was, in effect, a well-managed truck-shop; and the Truck Commissioners of 1871 reported that the New Lanark Company of that day was breaking the law. But when the cotton industry was gathered in the towns, the need for company stores ceased. Consequently, after the passing of the Act of 1831, which prohibited truck altogether, the masters very generally abolished the stores of their own accord; and survivals were jealously watched. A collection of Factory Scraps, preserved at the Goldsmiths' Library in London, contains a copy of the Factory Bill of 1833, with some pencil notes in Ostler's handwriting which run: _Cragg Dale Facts_ _Truck System_: Little altered: men knew they were imposed. They pay in money now--but compel them to buy at their own shops.... Wholesale warehouses at Rochdale say, 'Oh! put it sideways: it will do for Cragg Dale masters to sell among their people.' _Song_: 'Lousy butter and burnt bread.' About 1842 a curious perversion of truck was prevalent in parts of Yorkshire. The trade depression in the Bradford district tempted disreputable woollen manufacturers to force on their operatives the products of the factory as part payment of wages. Combers were given pieces of cloth, workers in shoddy mills bundles of rags. But this utterly inexcusable fraud, no less than its more specious complement, the employer's store, was rooted out by inspectors and factory reformers. Therefore in 1854 the Government's Commissioner was able to say that in a factory district like Lancashire truck was not only non-existent but 'impossible'.[61] He was right as to the factory districts, but not quite right as to Lancashire. In Prescot, a small Lancashire town on the fringe of the factory district, the watchmakers in 1871 were being paid in watches. The masters alleged that they only gave watches to the workers when the latter had orders for them, but the evidence showed that these orders only came to hand when the men were asking for fresh work. The pawnbrokers explained what happened. 'Watches', said a pawnbroker's clerk, 'pass from hand to hand as a circulating medium until they get very low in the market and are pawned.'[62] The pawnshop in question had 700 watches on pledge, most of them belonging to workmen in the town. In railway contracting truck was prevalent in the forties. In roving employment of this type it is difficult to see how some form of contractor's shop could have been avoided. The navvy needed canteens or Y.M.C.A. huts, but such things had not been thought of then. However, when the big period of railway construction came to an end, the question lost its importance. South Staffordshire and the Black Country were the ancient strongholds of truck. The campaigns against truck originated here. The nailers, the cash-paying masters, and the respectable ratepayers joined together to promote the Truck Act of 1820. Lord Hatherton, a Staffordshire nobleman, after three years hammering at the House of Commons, obtained the Truck Act of 1831. But in 1843, the year of the Midland Mining Commission, truck was still rife in the coalfields. The well-known Tommy-shop scene in Disraeli's novel _Sybil_, which was published in 1845, is taken direct from the Commissioners' Report. Diggs, the butty of the novel, is Banks, the coal proprietor of the Report. In the novel the people say of Master Joseph Diggs, the son: 'He do swear at the women, when they rush in for the first turn, most fearful; they do say he's a shocking little dog.' In the Report, page 93, the miner's wife says: 'He swears at the women when the women are trying to crush in. He is a shocking little dog.' One touch is Disraeli's own. He makes the miners keen to purchase 'the young Queen's picture'. 'If the Queen would do something for us poor men, it would be a blessed job.' In the Report there is nothing about this, but there is a section dealing with Chartism. However, the truck-shop was gradually disappearing. Every year it became easier to expose evasions, and in good times the workers used their prosperity to slip away from the Company store. In 1850 a final campaign was initiated by five local Anti-Truck Associations, backed by the National Miners' Association under Alexander MacDonald. Truck-masters were prosecuted and truck was steadily dislodged from the coalfields and adjacent ironworks. Only in the nail trade did it survive, for the reason that the complete subjection of the nailers made it possible to practise the essentials of truck without a formal violation of the law. In the remaining colliery districts in 1871 truck was prevalent only in West Scotland and South Wales. In West Scotland it was yielding ground before the pressure of the unions. The companies only maintained it by active coercion. If a miner held out for money, they had to yield; and if they were malicious, they marked him as a sloper and dismissed him the first when a depression came. 'Black lists', said the Truck Commissioners, 'are often kept of slopers; threats of dismissal were repeatedly proved; and cases of actual dismissal for not dealing at the store are not rare.'[63] However, the masters themselves were getting tired of it, since it led so frequently to strikes. Truck in South Staffordshire was bound up with the butty system; in railway construction with the system of contracting and sub-contracting, and similarly in South Wales, as also in the west of Scotland, it was bound up with and dependent on the system of long pays. In order to carry on from one pay day to the next, the men got advances on the company's store. In this way many lived permanently ahead of their wages. The thriftless and drunkards were always 'advance men, but the provident miners hated it and only dealt there on compulsion'. The Commissioners drew a vivid picture of Turn Book morning in South Wales at the close of the pay month. At 1 or 2 a.m. the women and children begin to arrive with their Advance Books. Perhaps one hundred would be there, wet or fine, sleeping on the doorsteps or singing ballads until morning. At 5.30 a.m. the doors opened, and the waiters made a rush for the counter. Advance Books were produced, and goods handed over up to the amount of wages which would shortly fall due. Women took their pick of the articles, groceries, tobacco, occasionally a few shillings. 'It is quite usual', say the Commissioners, 'for shoemakers and other small tradesmen in the neighbourhood of Abersychan to be paid by the workmen in goods.... Tobacco in several districts of South Wales has become nothing less than a circulating medium. It is bought by the men and resold by them for drink, and finds its way back again to some of the Company's shops. Packets of tobacco pass unopened from hand to hand. An Ebbw Vale grocer who took the Company's tobacco at a discount declared: "For years, when they were selling it for 1_s._ 4_d._ a lb. I used to give 1_s._; but I was so much over-flooded with it that I was obliged to reduce the price to 11_d._ That would not do still, and I had to reduce it to 10_d._ I told the men to take it to some other shop if they could get 11_d._ or 1_s._ for it. I was obliged to do that many a time, in order to get rid of the large stocks I held in hand. Tobacco will not keep for many months without getting worse."' Weekly pays, therefore, were the constant demand of the miners' unions. In Northumberland and Durham, whence truck had disappeared long ago, pays were fortnightly, and the only objection advanced by the owners against weekly pays was the practical inconvenience of the pressure on the pay staff. In the North of England Iron Trade, weekly pays, the Commissioners found, had just been introduced. In West Scotland some of the coal-owners were trying to recoup themselves for the loss of their truck-shop by charging poundage on the men's wages. But this dodge, like the bigger grievance of truck, was stoutly resisted by the local union. Indeed, in one coalfield after another the disappearance of truck and kindred evils coincides with the appearance of strong County Unions. 6. We are given to understand that the miners of South Wales insist on economics written by sound labour men. We therefore offer them a few suggestions for a history of the currency in the nineteenth century from the worker's point of view. i. In 1800 London relied for small coin on private enterprise. Every week the Jews' boys collected from the shopkeepers their bad shillings, buying them at a heavy discount, with serviceable copper coin forged in Birmingham (_vide_ Patrick Colquhoun, _A Treatise on the Police of the Metropolis_, 1800, Chapter VII). The resumption of cash payments in 1819 was injurious; for owing to the shortage of small coin, the wage-earners were paid in bulk with large notes, which they had to split at the nearest public-house. The Truck Act of 1831 prohibited wage-payments in notes on Banks more than 15 miles distant, but said nothing about cheques--an oversight which the capitalists repeated in their Bank Act of 1844. ii. The general dissatisfaction with the state of the currency led to attempts to dispense with coin. About 1830 Labour Exchanges were opened in London for the exchange of goods against time notes, representing one or more hours of labour. The originator was Robert Owen, and the failure of the Exchanges was probably due to the fact that Owen was at heart a capitalist. The National Equitable Labour Exchange at one time was doing a business of over 20,000 hours per week, but very shortly after this, the President (Owen) had to report a serious deficiency of hours, many thousands having been mislaid or stolen. The Exchange in consequence had to close its doors. iii. In the 'forties the centre of interest is the Midlands, and the period may be termed the Staffordshire or beer period. The currency was very popular and highly liquid, but it was issued to excess and difficult to store. More solid surrogates were therefore tried. A Bilston pawnbroker[64] said that he had in pawn numerous batches of flour, which the men's wives had brought from the Truck Shops and turned into money, in order to pay their house-rents. Flour, however, was not so hard as a Prescot watch. iv. We come next to the Welsh or Tobacco period, when the currency was easily transferable, but liable to deterioration. v. Finally, in the last quarter of the nineteenth century, the world of labour attained to a cash basis, and there was no Cobbett to denounce the resumption. We shall not be guilty of serious exaggeration if we preface our history with the motto: '_In the nineteenth century the Trade Unions and the Trade Unions alone made the nominal earnings of the working man a cash reality_.' 3. THE SPIRIT OF ASSOCIATION 1. The student of Dicey's Law and Opinion in England is invited to distinguish three periods: i. The period of old Toryism or legislative quiescence (1800-38). ii. The period of Benthamism or individualism (1825-70). iii. The period of collectivism (1865-1900). Bentham lived during the first period and his name is rightly given to the second period. The student, therefore, comes to wonder if there is anything which is not Benthamism. Benthamism, he says to himself, stands for individualism. How then can the period of Benthamism include the humanitarian legislation which begins with the first Factory Act of 1802 and broadens out during the middle of the century into the elaborate code regulating from then onwards the conditions of employment in workshops, factories, and mines? How can a monster beget an angel? We may perhaps throw light on this difficulty by suggesting that the _social_ trend from 1825-70 cannot be compressed into a single word. Individualism may suffice to define the dominant _legal_ trend, but it conceals the influence exerted on the legislature from without and from below by the action of voluntary associations. The period of voluntary association coincides with and overlaps the period of individualism. 2. What Bentham was to individualism, Robert Owen was to voluntary association. Bentham himself was an admirer of Owen and supported his philanthropy, but, as expressions of a social attitude, Benthamism and Owenism were poles asunder. The contrast between the two is admirably displayed in the evidence given before the Factory Committee of 1816 by two representatives of the employing class, Josiah Wedgwood of pottery fame and Robert Owen himself. 'In the state of society,' said Wedgwood, 'in which there is evidently a progressive movement, it is much better to leave things as they are than to attempt to amend the general state of things in detail. The only safe way of securing the comfort of any people is to leave them at liberty to make the best use of their time, and to allow them to appropriate their earnings in such way as they think fit.'[65] Robert Owen thought otherwise. In a couple of answers he exposed the fallacy of enlightened self-interest. They seem obvious enough to-day, but in 1816 they were the voice of one crying in the wilderness. He was asked whether he believed that 'there is that want of affection and feeling on the part of parents, that would induce them to exact from their children more labour than they could perform without injury to their health;' and he replied: 'I do not imagine that there is the smallest difference between the general affection of the lower order of the people, except with regard to that which may be produced by the different circumstances in which they are placed.'[66] Another question was: 'Do you conceive that it is not injurious to the manufacturer to hazard, by overwork, the health of the people so employed?' He replied: 'If those persons were purchased by the manufacturers I should say decisively, yes; but as they are not purchased by the manufacturer and the country must bear all the loss of their strength and their energy{;} it does not appear, at first sight, to be the interest of the manufacturer to do so.'[67] Owen had grasped the meaning of social responsibility, and he devoted his life to social service. But he was too wayward to observe the conventions of society, and passed beyond the social pale. The factory reformer became the Socialist. Whether his disciples comprehended his philosophy we may doubt, but he understood better than any one else their instinct for association, and he gratified it. It is not contended that Owen was responsible for all the associative effort of his generation; for with political and religious associations he had no sympathy. But the spirit which infected him infected others after him, rousing them to associate now for this, and now for that social or religious or political purpose. 3. We may divide associations for social purposes into two classes. To the first class belong associations formed to secure the abolition of some abuse. These naturally disappear when their object is attained. For example, there was the Anti-slavery Campaign in which Joseph Sturge and other Quakers played so prominent a part. By an organized crusade of political education the Abolitionists induced an originally hostile Parliament to emancipate the West Indian negroes in 1833, and to shorten the period of semi-servile apprenticeship in 1838. Yorkshire was the home of the Short Time Committees, which organized the campaign against White Slavery at home. The Ten Hours Movement caused the Ten Hours Bill to become the law of the land. From Lancashire came the Anti-Corn Law League, whose story is told in another chapter. The second class of association was the association for economic betterment--the Friendly Society, the Co-operative Society, the Trade Union. Conceived in enthusiasm and self-inspired, these associations asked only of the State a legal framework in which to develop, but they did not win it without struggle and delay. The Government was anxious to encourage thrift, but the development of the Friendly Societies was impeded for a time by legislation aimed at political conspiracy. The Corresponding Societies Act of 1799 prevented the Friendly Societies from forming a central organization with branches, and the Dorchester Labourers of 1834 discovered the peril into which the ritual of oaths might lead innocent men. These deterrents were removed by enabling legislation. In 1829 a central authority, the Registrar of Friendly Societies, was appointed to supervise Friendly Societies, and between 1829 and 1875 further privileges and safeguards were conferred. But the Friendly Society Movement throughout the nineteenth century was wholly voluntary. In 1911 the situation was suddenly reversed by the passing of the National Insurance Act. The Co-operative Societies were more suspect. They crept into legal recognition as the children of the Friendly Society, under the 'frugal investments' clause of the Act of 1846, being compelled by the legal prejudice against association in restraint of trade to adopt this unnatural mother. Their real nature was recognized in 1852, when they were brought under the Industrial and Provident Societies Act, and in 1862, when they were granted the boon of limited liability. But the accident of their legal origin still survives; for they are regulated to-day by the Industrial and Provident Societies Act of 1893. The Co-operative Movement is now drawing closer to politics, following the lead of most of the continental countries, notably Belgium and Germany. Though we cannot say that there is any indication of the State taking over the movement, we may note that the growth of municipal trading in the 'nineties was, in principle, an application of the consumers' association to monopolies of distribution such as tramways, water, electricity, and gas. The State was altogether hostile to the growth of the Trade Union. The Charter of Emancipation, won by the guile of Francis Place in 1824, was severely curtailed in 1825. Huskisson[68] depicted in lurid terms the tyranny of a military trades unionism, 'representing a systematic union of the workers of many different trades'. It was a 'kind of federal republic', whose mischievous operations, if not checked, would keep the commercial classes 'in constant anxiety and fear about their interests and property'. Arnold, of Rugby, a decade later wrote of them in the same strain: 'you have heard, I doubt not, of the trades unions; a fearful engine of mischief, ready to riot or assassinate; and I see no counteracting power.'[69] The counteracting power was their own weakness. The early militancy burnt itself out, and was succeeded at the turn of the century by a 'New Spirit and a New Model'. The new spirit was anti-militant, and the new model was a trade union representing the _élite_ of the skilled trades. The Amalgamated Society of Engineers was founded in 1850 and served as a model to the Carpenters, Tailors, Compositors, Iron-founders, Brick-layers, and others. The Trades Unions were now respectable, and in 1867 the State recognized the fact. The period of collectivism is denoted by the growth of the Labour Party in Parliament, and the increasing part played by the State in industrial disputes and the regulation of wages. The nationalization of railways and the nationalization of mines are burning questions. 4. In all the movements we have described, the spiritual stimulus, the initial drive, and the solid successes have been provided by voluntary association. The State has not been the pioneer of social reform. Such a notion is the mirage of politicians. It has merely registered the insistent demands of organized voluntary effort or given legal recognition to accomplished facts. This is the distinctive note of English social development in the nineteenth century. FOR REFERENCE Dicey, _Law and Opinion_. Robinson, _The Spirit of Association_. Hovell, _The Chartist Movement_. Sombart (tr. Epstein), _Socialism and the Socialist Movement_. [Cd. 9236], _Report of Committee on Trusts_. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 20: From the writer's forthcoming book _Life and Labour in the Nineteenth Century_, to be published by the Cambridge University Press.] [Footnote 21: Tooke and Newmarch, _History of Prices_, v. 356.] [Footnote 22: _Commons Committee on Emigration_, 1827, Q. 1761.] [Footnote 23: _Commons Committee on the Condition of Labourers employed in the Construction of Railways_, 1846, Q. 866.] [Footnote 24: Ibid., Q. 217.] [Footnote 25: Ibid., Q. 897.] [Footnote 26: Ibid., Q. 733.] [Footnote 27: Ibid., Q. 193.] [Footnote 28: Ibid., Qs. 869-78.] [Footnote 29: _Report of Poor Law Commissioners on the Employment of Women and Children in Agriculture_ (1843), pp. 20, 25.] [Footnote 30: Ibid., pp. 299-300.] [Footnote 31: _Report of Commissioners on the Employment of Young Persons in Agriculture_, p. 64.] [Footnote 32: Dr. Cook Taylor, Letter to the _Morning Chronicle_, dated from Rossendale Forest (Lancashire), June 20, 1842.] [Footnote 33: _Rural Rides_, i. 219.] [Footnote 34: _Poor Law Commission of 1834_, Appendix.] [Footnote 35: _Hand-loom Weavers' Commission, Final Report, 1841_, p. 18.] [Footnote 36: _Hand-loom Weavers' Commission, Assistant-Commissioner's Report, 1840_, Part IV, pp. 76-81.] [Footnote 37: _Second Annual Report of the Poor Law Commissioners_, 1836.] [Footnote 38: _Hand-loom Weavers' Commission, Assistant-Commissioner's Report_, Part III, p. 551.] [Footnote 39: _Anti-bread Tax Circular_, No. 91, June 16, 1842.] [Footnote 40: _First Report of the Factory Commissioners_, 1833, p. 27.] [Footnote 41: _Report of Commissioner on the Condition of the Framework Knitters_ (1845), p. 109.] [Footnote 42: Ibid., p. 115.] [Footnote 43: William Felkin, _History of the Machine-wrought Hosiery and Lace Manufactures_ (1867), p. 458.] [Footnote 44: _Evidence before the Truck Commissioners_ (1871), Q. 37,500.] [Footnote 45: Pamphlet of 1825, p. 14.] [Footnote 46: _Home Office Papers_, 40, Letter from R.J. Blewitt, Esq., M.P., November 6, 1839.] [Footnote 47: Richard Fynes, _Miners of Northumberland and Durham_, p. 72.] [Footnote 48: John Wilson, _History of the Durham Miners' Association_ (1870-1904), p. 40.] [Footnote 49: _Report of Commissioner on the State of the Mining Population_ (1846).] [Footnote 50: These pamphlets are in the British Museum.] [Footnote 51: _Report of Commissioner on the State of the Mining Population_ (1850).] [Footnote 52: Ibid. (1852).] [Footnote 53: _Royal Commission, First Report_ (_Mines_), p. 27.] [Footnote 54: Ibid., p. 21.] [Footnote 55: _Royal Commission, Second Report_ (_Trades and Manufactures_), p. 147.] [Footnote 56: Ibid., pp. 155-6.] [Footnote 57: _Midland Mining Commission, First Report_, p. 34.] [Footnote 58: Ibid., p. 91.] [Footnote 59: Ibid., p. 44.] [Footnote 60: _Rural Rides_, ii. 353.] [Footnote 61: _Commons Committee, Stoppage of Wages_ (_Hosiery, 1854_). Evidence of Mr. Tremenheere.] [Footnote 62: _Evidence before the Truck Commissioners_, Q. 33,670.] [Footnote 63: _Truck Commission, 1871. Report_, p. 16.] [Footnote 64: _Commons Committee, Stoppage of Wages in the Hosiery Manufacture_ (1854), Q. 80.] [Footnote 65: _Commons Committee of_ 1816, pp. 64 and 73.] [Footnote 66: Ibid., p. 38.] [Footnote 67: Ibid., p. 28.] [Footnote 68: Speech, March 29, 1825.] [Footnote 69: Letter to the Chevalier Bunsen, 1834, quoted in Strachey, _Eminent Victorians_, p. 197.] VIII ATOMIC THEORIES PROFESSOR W.H. BRAGG, C.B.E., D.SC., F.R.S. When a lecture on the progress of Science is given before a conference concerned largely with historical subjects, it is not inappropriate to point out that Science has a history of its own and that its progress makes a connected story. The discovery of new facts is not made in an isolated fashion, nor is it a matter of pure chance, unaffected by what has gone before. On the contrary, scientific progress is made step by step, each new point that is reached forming a basis for further advances. Even the direction of discovery is not entirely in the explorer's control; there is always a next step to be taken and a limited number of possible steps forward from which a choice can be made. The scientific discoverer has to go in the direction in which his discoveries lead him. When discoveries have been made it is possible to think of uses to which they may be put, but in the first instance all discoveries are made without any knowledge whatever of what use may afterwards be made of them. Consequently scientific progress is a quite orderly advance, not a spasmodic collection of facts, and in the truest sense of the word it has a history. In order that opportunities for this steady progress may be provided it is very important that this point should be fully appreciated. Every one, for example, is vaguely conscious that science played a great part in the War. As a consequence the number of students of science has greatly increased; manufacturing firms are awakening to the fact that they must pay more attention to scientific development and are founding research laboratories. It is very important that this awakened attention should be well informed, and for that reason it cannot be pointed out too often that the scientific work which has been the basis of all material progress can only be turned to definite material ends in the last stages of its development. Fundamentally everything rests on the pure attempt to gain knowledge without any idea of the use to which it may subsequently be put. Without pure science there is no applied science at all. It is quite right in my opinion that the researcher in pure science should have with him the hope that what he does may one day be of direct benefit to others. But it is probable that he does not in his own mind confine the idea of possible uses to such material matters as I have mentioned above and as are so prominent at present. He believes that his work has a less material side whose value need not be explained to the present audience. In the general line of progress it is natural to find that there are certain broad roads along which the main advance has been directed. Students of physics and chemistry and the subjects which are allied to them find that they are in general considering either matter, or electricity, or energy. I make this classification, not from any philosophical point of view, but simply for present convenience. The first important principle to which I would like to draw your attention is that each of these things can be measured quantitatively. If we accept the weight of a substance as an indirect measure of the amount of matter present, then we all know we can express the amount of matter in any given body in terms of a fundamental unit, like a pound or a gramme; and the idea has been put to immemorial use. In later years we have learnt that electricity itself is also a quantity and that the amount of electricity which stands on an electrified body, or flows past a given point in an electric conductor, as for example the wire connected to an electric light, can be expressed arithmetically in terms of some unit. Instruments are made for the purpose of measuring quantities of electricity in terms of the legal standard. It is one of the functions of a Government Institution, like the National Physical Laboratory, to test such instruments and report on their accuracy. International conferences have been held for the purpose of reducing these units to as small a number as possible so that people may be able to trade less wastefully and more conveniently, so that also the barriers between peoples may be broken down and the interchange of ideas as well as of materials may be made more easily. Without an arrangement of this kind it would be impossible to carry on industrial life in which use is made of electricity. It would be as difficult as to hold a market without the use of weights and scales, more difficult, in fact, since anyone can estimate the size of a piece of cloth or the amount of corn in a sack, but no one has a natural sense by which he can estimate an amount of electricity. In just the same way energy can be measured as a quantity in terms of a fundamental unit. The discovery that this was so was made by Joule and others towards the middle of the nineteenth century, and lit the road for further advance as a dark street is lit by the sudden turning-up of the lamps. All modern industry rests on this principle. We are now so accustomed to the idea that energy is a quantity that we can hardly realize a time when it was merely a vague term. If we want an illustration of how thoroughly we have grasped this idea let us remember that when we pay our electric-light bill we pay so much money for so many units of energy supplied; for so much energy, let us note, not for so much electricity, since we take into account not only the actual amount of electricity driven through our house wires, but also the magnitude of the force which is there to drive it. Energy exists in many forms: energy of motion, heat, gravitational energy, chemical energy, radiation, and so on. In the transformations of energy which are continually occurring in all natural processes, there is never any change in the total amount of energy. This is the famous principle of the Conservation of Energy. Sometimes it is stated in the form 'Perpetual motion is impossible'. One of the most important forms of energy is radiation. The constant outpouring by the sun of energy in this form is vital to us. The fact was obvious long ago and that is one of the reasons why light and heat have interested students of science in all ages. There exist then three main subjects of study--matter, electricity, and energy. These themselves and their mutual relations have been, and are, the principal objects of interest to the scientific student, and from our strivings to understand them we have learnt most of what we know. All three are quantities and all are expressible in terms of units. Now there is one point which I have thought would especially interest you. A very remarkable tendency of modern discovery shows more and more clearly that not only are these things quantities which we can express in units of our own choosing, but that Nature herself has already chosen units for them. The natural unit does not, of course, bear any exact connexion with our own. This being so, it must be of the utmost importance that we should know what these natural units are and so be able to understand what Nature is ready to tell us. Nature has chosen to speak in a certain language; we must get to know that language. In the first place we know surely that there are natural units of matter. This was the great discovery made by Dalton in the beginning of the nineteenth century. When he found that each of the known elements, such as copper or oxygen or carbon, consisted ultimately of atoms, all the atoms of any one element being alike, he laid the foundation on which the huge structure of modern chemistry has been raised. The chemist takes one or more atoms of one element, one or more of another, and may be of a third or fourth, and he puts them together into a compound which we call a molecule. The molecule for example of ordinary salt contains always one atom of chlorine and one of sodium. Chlorine and sodium are elements, salt is a compound. Six atoms of carbon and six of hydrogen put together in a certain way make benzene. In the same way every substance that we meet is capable of analysis, showing ultimately the molecules as made up, according to a definite plan, of so many atoms of the various elements. In analytical chemistry molecules are dissected in order to discover the mode of their building; in synthetic chemistry the atoms are put together to make a molecule which is already known to have, or even may be anticipated to have, certain properties. This is the work of the chemist. Sometimes enormous forces are concerned in this pulling apart and putting together, witness the terrific power of modern explosives. But the same kind of handling by the chemist may be devoted to the delicate construction of a molecule which gives a certain colour to the dyer's vat and so pleases the eye that the great cloth industries feel the consequence, and nations themselves are affected by the flow of trade. After all, since the processes of the physical world operate ultimately through the power and properties of molecules, it is not surprising that the chemist's work in these and numberless other ways has such tremendous influence in the world. Here then by the recognition of the units of matter which Nature has chosen for herself it has been possible to do great things. It should be observed that the atom, in spite of its name, is not something which is incapable of all further division; it is only incapable of retaining its properties on division. When an atom of radium breaks down in the unique operation during which its singular properties are manifested, it dies as radium and becomes two atoms, one of helium, the other of a different and rare substance. It will interest you to know that the airships of the future are expected to be filled with this non-inflammable helium. The discovery of the atomic nature of electricity came later. Faraday established the fact that in certain processes there was more than a hint that electricity was always present in multiples of a definite unit. In the process called electrolysis the electric current is driven across a cell full of liquid containing molecules of some substance. When the electricity passes there is a loosening of the bonds that bind together the atoms of the molecule, and a separation; atoms of one kind travel with the electricity across the cell and are deposited where the current leaves the cell; the other kind travel the opposite way. In this way for example we deposit silver on metal objects in electro-plating processes, or separate out the purest copper for certain electrical purposes. The striking thing which Faraday discovered was that the number of atoms deposited always bore a very simple relation to the quantity of electricity that passes. The same current passing in succession through cells containing different kinds of molecules broke up the same number of molecules in each cell. It was as if in each electrolytic cell atoms of matter and atoms of electricity travelled together. The movement of an atom meant the simultaneous movement of a definite quantity of electricity. Electricity was, so to speak, done up in little equal parcels, and an atom of matter on the move, which was termed an ion, or wanderer, carried, not a vaguely defined amount of electricity, but one of these definite parcels. It was not, however, until the later years of the nineteenth century that the natural unit of electricity was manifested by itself and without a carrier. At a famous address to the British Association at York in 1881 Sir William Crookes described the first marvellous experiments in which this feat had been accomplished, though there was still to come a long controversy before the interpretation was clearly accepted. It is now definitely established that there is a fundamental atom of electricity which we now call the electron. As we all know electrification is of two kinds--a positive and a negative. The electron is of the negative kind. There does not appear to be a corresponding positive atom of electricity, or at least not one that is so singular in its properties as the electron. Electrons go to the making of all atoms, just as atoms go to the making of molecules. The atom which is neutral, that is, shows neither positive nor negative electrification, must contain positive electricity in some form to balance the electrons which we know it contains. When we strip an atom, as we know how to do, of one or more of these electrons, the remainder is positively charged. The positive ion is any sort of an atom or molecule which has become positively electrified in this way. An atom which has become positive by the loss of one or more of its electrons exercises a force on any spare electrons in its neighbourhood or on any atom carrying a spare electron. When there are large numbers of atoms seeking in this way to become neutral once more, as occurs often in Nature, the forces generated may be tremendous. They are shown, for example, in the lightning-stroke. But indeed it would seem that all the chemical forces of which we have already spoken depend ultimately upon the electric state of the atom concerned. It is because the force which a positively-charged atom exerts on an electron is so great and because the electron is so light and easily moved compared to an atom that the electron has not been isolated at will until recent years. The isolation in fact depends upon the electron being endowed with a sufficient speed to carry it through or past the action of an atom which is seeking to absorb it into its system. A lump of matter flying in space might enter our solar system with such speed as to be able to pass through and go on its way almost undeflected. Or again, it might have a much lower speed and go so much nearer the sun that it was seriously deflected in its course, as we see in the case of comet visitors. But if for some reason or other the lump of matter found itself inside the solar system without the endowment of high velocity it would certainly be absorbed. Just so an electron can pass through an atom with or without serious deviation from its line of motion, provided that motion is rapid enough. Only recently have we been able to exert electric forces of sufficient strength to set an electron in motion with the speed it must have if it is to maintain an individual existence Now we can gather electrons at will, dragging them from the interior of solid bodies, and hurl them with tremendous speed like a stream of projectiles. Since in the open air the speed is soon lost by innumerable collisions with the air-molecules, the effect can only be studied satisfactorily in a glass bulb from which the air has been evacuated. Crookes made great improvements in air-pumps during an investigation on thallium, and consequently was able to obtain the high vacuum required for the experiment with the electron streams. It was afterwards found by Röntgen that when an electron stream in an evacuated bulb was directed upon a target placed within the bulb, a remarkable radiation issued from the target. Thus arose the so-called X or Röntgen rays. As you all know they have for many years played a most important part in surgery and medicine. You may have heard that during the war they were also used to examine the interior of aeroplane constructions and to look for flaws invisible from without. Although X-Rays are of the same nature as light rays they can penetrate where light rays cannot, passing in greater or less degree through materials which are opaque to visible light and allowing us to examine the interior which is hidden from the eye. Every electric discharge is essentially a hurried rush of electrons. When we rub two bodies together and they become electrified we have in some way or other torn electrons from one of the bodies and piled them on the other. The former becomes the positively charged body and the latter the negative. A film of moisture stops this action. When wool is spun in factories it tends to become in certain stages of the process too dry and too free from grease; the yarn then becomes electrified as it passes over the leather rollers, and when the machine tries to spin the threads together they fly apart and refuse to join up the minute hooks with which the wool fibres are furnished. The spinning operation would come to an end were there not means provided by which the air can be so filled with moisture that the fibres become damp and the action ceases. So in some cases a stream of air filled with positive and negative ions is made to play upon the fibres; the fibres select what ions they want, and so neutralizing themselves, spinning can proceed again. When a current of electricity runs along a wire there is in fact nothing more than a procession of electrons. The stream of electrons that runs through the filaments in the lamps that light this room, raising the filaments to a white heat, are set in motion by the dynamos in the city. There is a complete wire circuit, including the dynamo, the conductors, and the lamps. When the dynamos are not working the electrons do not as a whole move either way, though they are always there. When the dynamo begins to turn, the electrons set out on their continuous journey. Electrons are involved in the emission of wireless signals, and in their receipt. The so-called 'valve', which multiplies minute electric signals and was so greatly improved during the war, depends entirely on the action of electrons, and the brilliant experimental work was based on the newly-acquired knowledge of their properties. I have told you that under certain circumstances a stream of electrons may generate X-Rays, in reality a form of light rays. This action is a very common one, and it is curious that the faster the electron goes the shorter is the wave-length of the radiation. A very fast electron generates an X-Ray of so short a wave-length that the penetrating power of the ray, which goes with the shortness of the wave, is excessive, and in this way we may have rays which go right through the human body or even through inches of steel. As the speed of the exciting electron becomes less, the X-Rays are less penetrating. With still slower electrons we may generate ordinary light, and it will take a slower electron to generate red than to generate blue. The slowest electrons we use in this way have a speed of many hundred miles per second; the fastest have a speed which nearly approaches that of light, or 186,000 miles a second. And conversely radiation can set electrons in motion. When X-Rays are driven into a patient's body electrons are set in motion within, and moving over certain minute distances, initiate chemical actions which are necessary to some cure. Or they may go right through the body and fall on a photographic plate, setting in operation chemical action which forms a picture on the plate. There is another occasion of an entirely different kind when the electron is greatly in evidence and displays effects which are most astonishing and significant. Every atom of radium or other radio-active substances sooner or later meets with the catastrophe in which its life as radium ends and atoms of other substances are formed. At that moment occurs the emission which is the characteristic property of the substance. One of the radiations emitted consists of high-velocity electrons, moving, some of them, nearly as fast as light. Now it is found that when the speed approaches that of light, 186,000 miles or 3 x 10^{10} centimetres per second, the energy is higher than it should be if it followed the usual rule, viz. energy is equal to half the mass multiplied by the square of the velocity. It would seem that an electron moving with the velocity of light would have infinite energy; or, to put the matter in another way, the experimenter in his laboratory can never hope to observe an electron moving so fast; it would be the end of his laboratory and of himself if ever it turned up. Linked up with this result is the very strange fact that no one has ever been able to find any direct evidence of the existence of the ether, which is postulated in order to carry light-waves. It has been pictured as a medium through which the heavenly bodies move, and to which their motions may be referred. But when light is launched into the ether, its apparent velocity must depend on whether it travels with or against the drift of the ether through the laboratory where the measurement is made. The experiment has been performed without the discovery of any such difference, although the method was amply accurate enough to detect the effect that might be expected. It was afterwards shown that the negative result might be explained by supposing that a measure of length varied in length according to whether it was travelling with or against the ether. But the continual failure of all such experiments has led to a remarkable hypothetical development with which the name of Einstein is firmly connected. It is supposed that some flaw must exist in our fundamental hypotheses, and that if this were corrected we should then find that we ought to get the same value for the velocity of light however and whenever we measured it, and at the same time we should find that no measurement of the velocity of a body moving relative to the observer would ever equal the velocity of light. The hypothesis denies the existence of an absolute standard to which motions can be referred, and insists that they must all be considered relatively to the observer. It is called the principle of relativity. Calculations of its consequences begin with the necessary changes in the fundamentals, such as Einstein has introduced.[70] Time does not allow me to say more of the innumerable ways in which electrons play an essential part in all the processes in the world. We have long believed that this is so, but the picture has never been so clear to us as it is now; and with our understanding our power is increased. Yet once more the illumination of our understanding comes from our recognition that Nature has preferred the discrete to the continuous and that electricity is not infinitely divisible but is, like matter, and even more simply than matter, of an atomic structure. And we have found the unit and learnt how to handle it. It is even more strange that it may now be said of energy that there are signs of atomicity. It may seem absurd to think that the energy which is transformed in any operation is transformed in multiples of a universal unit or units, so that the operation cannot be arrested at any desired stage but only at definite intervals. Indeed we have no right to assert that this is always true. But undoubtedly there are cases in which the atomicity of energy is clear enough, as for example in the interchange of energy between electrons in motion and radiation. It is remarkable that when radiation sets an electron in motion, the electron acquires a perfectly definite speed depending only on the wave-length of the radiation and not on its intensity, and has apparently absorbed from the radiation a definite unit of energy. Radiation of a particular wave-length cannot spend its energy in this way except in multiples of a certain unit, because each of the electrons which it sets in motion has the same initial energy, which it must have got from the radiation. In other words, energy of radiation of the particular wave-length can only be transformed into energy of movement of electrons in multiples of a certain 'quantum' peculiar to that wave-length. The intensity of the radiation, that is to say, the amount of energy moving along the beam, can only affect the number of electrons set in motion and not the speed of any one of them. During the last few years a very extraordinary theory has been developed on the basis of these and similar facts. I doubt if it would be more profitable to give further instances at present, but I have mentioned it because it seems to show looming on the horizon of our knowledge another tendency of Nature to make use of the atomic principle. I will only add that the whole position of physics is indeed at this time of extraordinary interest, and at any moment there may be some great discovery or illuminating thought which will explain the present startling difficulties and open up new worlds of thought. FOR REFERENCE Bragg, _Rays and Crystals_ (Ball & Sons). FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 70: Since this address was given, the results of the Eclipse Expedition to Brazil are considered to have confirmed in a satisfactory manner one of the most remarkable deductions made by Einstein from the principles which he maintains. The matter has roused so much interest that some of the leading exponents of the relativity principle have published careful accounts intended for students not familiar with it: it would therefore be superfluous to discuss the matter here.] IX PROGRESS IN BIOLOGY DURING THE LAST SIXTY YEARS PROFESSOR LEONARD DONCASTER, F.R.S. On November 24, 1859, _The Origin of Species_ was published, and this date marks the beginning of an epoch in every branch of biology. Before it, Biology had been almost entirely a descriptive science, but within a few years after the publication of the _Origin_ its effects began to colour all aspects of biological research. A co-ordinating and unifying principle had been found, and the leading idea of biologists ceased to be to describe living things as they are, and became transformed into the attempt to discover how they are related to one another. The first effect of this change of attitude was chiefly to turn biologists towards the task of tracing phylogenetic or evolutionary relationships between different groups of animals--the drawing up of probable or possible genealogical trees and the explanation of natural classification on an evolutionary basis. When once, however, the notion of cause and effect, or more correctly of relationship, between the phenomena seen in living beings had become familiar to biologists, it spread far beyond the limits of tracing genealogical connexions between different animals and plants. It made possible the conception of a true Science of Life, in which every phenomenon seen in a living organism should fall into its true place in relation to the rest, and in which also the phenomena of life should be correlated with those discovered in the inorganic sciences of Chemistry and Physics. The history of the various branches of biological science in the past sixty years reflects the general course of these tendencies. Until shortly after 1859, the study of morphology, or the comparative structure of animals (and of plants) was intimately related with that of physiology, that is, with the study of function. In the years following the appearance of the _Origin_, however, anatomists and morphologists were seized with a new interest. For the time at least, the chief aim in studying structure was no longer to explain function, but rather to explain how that structure had come into being in the course of evolution, and how it was related with homologous but different structures in other forms. The result was a tendency to a divorce between morphology and physiology, or at least between morphologists and physiologists, which led to the division into two more or less distinct sciences of what had hitherto been regarded as closely inter-related branches of one. The greater men of the early part of the period, such as Huxley, remained both morphologists and physiologists, but most of their followers fell inevitably into one or the other group, and in discussing the later phases of biological progress it will be necessary to keep them separate. Apart from its effect on the systematic and anatomical side of Biology, the idea of Evolution, and especially of Darwin's theory of Natural Selection, had important consequences on that side of the science which may be described as Natural History. Before the appearance of Darwin's work, Natural History consisted chiefly in the observation and collection of facts about the habits and life-history of animals and plants, which as a rule had no unifying principle unless they were used, as in the Bridgewater Treatises, to illustrate 'the power, wisdom, and goodness of God'. Now, however, a new motive was provided--that of discovering the uses to the organism of its various colours, structures, and habits, and the application of the principle of natural selection to show how these characters conduced to the preservation and further evolution of the species. And out of this interest in the theory of natural selection grew in the last twenty years of the nineteenth century the greatly increased attention to the facts and theories of heredity, which was stimulated by Darwin's hypothesis of Pangenesis and especially by Weismann's speculations about the nature and behaviour of the 'germ-plasm'. Before the appearance of Weismann's work, the germ-cells, which bear somehow or other the hereditary characters that appear in the offspring, were supposed to be produced directly from the body of the parent. Darwin provisionally suggested that every cell of every organism gives off minute particles which become congregated in the germ-cells, and that these cells thus contain representative portions of all parts of the parent's body. Weismann, on the basis of his work on the origin of the germ-cells in Medusae and Insects, maintained that these cells are not derived from the body, but only from pre-existing germ-cells stored within it--that, in fact, although an egg gives rise to a hen, a hen does not give rise to an egg, but only keeps inside her a store of embryonic eggs which mature and are laid as the time comes round. The theory had to be modified to suit the facts of regeneration and vegetative reproduction, but in essence it was accepted by the biological world and is the orthodox opinion (if such a word may be used in Science) at the present day. The difference between the two views is not only of theoretical interest, for it involves the whole question of whether characteristics acquired by an individual during its life in response to external conditions can or cannot be transmitted to offspring. If the germ-cells contain representatives of all parts of the body, modifications impressed on the body during its life may at least possibly be transmitted to offspring born after the modifications have taken place. If, however, the germ-cells are independent of the rest of the body, and only stored within it for safe-keeping like a deed-box in the vaults of a bank, it would seem impossible for any environmental influence, whether for good or ill, to take effect on the offspring. This controversy on the heritability of 'acquired characters' was one of the most important towards the end of last century, and although the majority of biologists now follow Weismann in so far as they deny that 'acquired' characters are transmissible, the question is not yet completely settled; all that can be said is that, in spite of many attempts to prove the contrary, there is no satisfactory evidence of the transmission to offspring of effects impressed on the body of the parent, unless the germ-cells themselves have been affected by the same cause--as for example in some cases of long-continued poisoning by alcohol or similar drugs. While the problem of the transmission of acquired characters, and of the cause of variation and its relation to evolution, was occupying much of the attention of biologists, the whole problem entered upon a new phase in the year 1900 with the re-discovery of Mendel's work on heredity. Mendel worked with plants, and published his results in 1865, but at that time the biological world was too much occupied with the fierce controversy which raged over _The Origin of Species_ to take much notice of a paper the bearing of which upon it was not appreciated. Mendel's discovery never came to the notice of Darwin, was buried in an obscure periodical, and remained unknown until many years after the death of its author. In 1900 it was unearthed, and, largely owing to the work of Bateson, it rapidly became known as one of the most important contributions to Biology made during the period under review. This is not the place to describe in detail the nature of Mendel's theory. Its essence is, firstly, that the various characteristics of an organism are in general inherited quite independently of one another; and, secondly, that the germ-cells of a hybrid are pure in respect of any one character, that is to say, that any one germ-cell can only transmit any unit character as it was received from one parent or the other, and not a combination of the two. This leads to a conception of the organism as something like a mosaic, in which each piece of the pattern is transmitted in inheritance independently of the rest, and in which any piece cannot be modified by association with a different but corresponding piece derived from another ancestor. It is impossible to say as yet whether this conception at all completely represents the nature of the living organism, but it is one which is exercising considerable influence in biological thought, and if established it will mark a revolution in Biology hardly inferior to that brought about in Physics and Chemistry by the discovery of radio-activity. An important consequence of the advance in our knowledge of heredity associated with the work of Mendel and his successors is a tendency to doubt whether natural selection is of such fundamental importance in shaping the course of evolution as was supposed in the years of the first enthusiasm which followed the publication of the _Origin_. Darwin based his theory of Natural Selection on the belief which he derived from breeders of plants and animals, that the kind of variation used by them to produce new breeds was the small and apparently unimportant differences which distinguish a 'fine' from a 'poor' specimen. He supposed that the skilled breeder picked out as parents of his stock those individuals which were slightly superior in one feature or another, and that by the accumulative effect of these successive selections not only was the breed steadily improved, but also, by divergent selection, new breeds were produced. Experience shows, however, that although this method is used to keep breeds up to the required standard, it is rarely, if ever, the means by which new breeds arise. New breeds commonly come into existence either by a 'sport' or mutation, or by crossing two already distinct races, and by selecting from among the heterogeneous descendants of the cross those individuals which show the required combination of characters. And it is further found that most of the distinguishing features of various breeds of domestic animals and plants are inherited according to Mendel's Law, suggesting that each of these characters is a unit, like one piece of a mosaic, independent of the rest. Now it is easy to see how the selection of small, continuously varying characters could take place in Nature by the destruction of all those individuals which failed to reach a certain standard, but it is much more difficult to understand how natural selection could act on comparatively large, sporadic, unco-ordinated 'sports'. There is thus a distinct tendency at present to regard natural selection as less omnipotent in directing the course of evolution than was formerly supposed, but it must be admitted that no very satisfactory alternative hypothesis has been suggested. Some have supposed that there is a kind of organic momentum which causes evolution to continue in those directions in which it has already proceeded, while others have postulated, like Bergson, an _élan vital_ as a kind of directive agency. Others again have reverted towards the older belief in the inherited effects of environment--a belief which, in spite of the arguments of Weismann and his followers, has never been without its supporters. The present condition of this part of biology, as of many others, is one of open-mindedness approaching agnosticism. There is dissatisfaction with the beliefs which satisfied the preceding generation, and which were held up almost as dogmas, but there is no clear vision of the direction in which a truer view may be sought. Before leaving this side of the subject, reference must be made to one important aspect of modern work on heredity--that of the inheritance of 'mental and moral' characteristics. As a result of the work of the biometric school founded by Galton and Pearson, it has been shown that the so-called mental and moral characteristics of man are inherited in the same manner and to the same extent as his physical features. Of the theoretical importance of this demonstration this is not the place to speak; its practical value is unquestionable, and may in the future have important effects on sociological problems. Another notable line of advance, entirely belonging to the period under review, and chiefly the product of the present century, is seen in the science of Cytology--the investigation of the microscopic structure of the cells of which the body is composed. The marvellous phenomena of cell and nuclear division have revealed much of the formerly unsuspected complexity of living things, while the universality of the processes shows how fundamentally alike is life in all its forms. In recent years great progress has been made in correlating the phenomena of heredity and of the determination of sex with the visible structural features of the germ-cells. Weismann attempted a beginning of this over thirty years ago, but the detailed knowledge of the facts was then insufficient. Since the discovery of Mendel's Law, a great amount of work has been done, chiefly in America, by E.B. Wilson and T.H. Morgan and their pupils, on tracing the actual physical basis of hereditary transmission. Although the matter is far from being completely known, the results obtained make it almost indubitable that inherited characters are in some way borne by the _chromosomes_ in the nuclei of the germ-cells. The work of Morgan and his school has shown that the actual order in which these inherited 'factors' are arranged in the chromosomes can almost certainly be demonstrated, and his results go far to support the conception of the organism, referred to above, as a combination or mosaic of independently inherited features. It was said at the beginning of this sketch that most of the more notable lines of advance in Biology could be traced back to the impetus given by the acceptance of the theory of Evolution, and the desire to test and prove that theory in every biological field. It is most convenient, therefore, to take this root-idea as a starting-point, and to see how the various branches of study have diverged from it and have themselves branched out in various ways, and how these branches have often again become intertwined and united in the later development of the science. Perhaps the most obvious method of testing the theory of evolution is by the study of fossil forms, and our knowledge of these has progressed enormously during the period under review. Not only have a number of new and strange types of ancient life come to light, but in some cases, e.g. in that of the horse and elephant, a very complete series of evolutionary stages has been discovered. In this branch, however, as in almost all others, the results have not exactly fulfilled the expectations of the early enthusiasts. On the one hand, evolution has been shown to be a much more complex thing than at first seemed probable; and on the other, many of the gaps which it was most hoped to fill still remain. A number of most remarkable 'missing links' have been discovered, such as, for example, _Archaeopteryx_, the stepping-stone between the Reptiles and the Birds, and the faith of the palaeontologist in the truth of evolution is everywhere confirmed. But the hope of finding all the stages, especially in the ancestry of Man, has not been realized, and it has been found that what at one time were regarded as direct ancestors are collaterals, and that the problem of human evolution is much less simple than was once supposed. A second important piece of evidence in favour of evolution is provided by the study of the geographical distribution of animals, on which much work was done in the earlier part of the period under review. And in this connexion mention must be made of the science of Oceanography, for our whole knowledge of life in the abysses of the ocean, and almost all that we know of the conditions of life in the sea in general, has been gained in the last fifty years. Another of the chief lines of evidence for the truth of the evolution theory is based on the study of embryology, and this also was followed with great vigour by the zoologists of the last thirty years of the nineteenth century. It is found that in many instances animals recapitulate in their early development the stages through which their ancestors passed in the course of evolution. Land Vertebrates, including man, have in their early embryonic life gill-clefts, heart and circulation, and in some respects skeleton and other organs of the type found in fishes, and this can only be explained on the assumption that they are descended from aquatic fish-like ancestors. On the basis of such facts as these, the theory was formulated that every animal recapitulates in ontogeny (development) the stages passed through in its phylogeny (evolution), and great hopes were founded upon this principle of discovering the systematic position and evolutionary history of isolated and aberrant forms. In many cases the search has led to brilliant results, but, as in the case of palaeontology, in many others the light that was hoped for has not been forthcoming. For it soon became evident that the majority of animals show adaptation to their environment not only in their adult stages but also in their larval or embryonic period, and these adaptations have led to modifications of the course of development which are often so great as to mask, or obscure altogether, the ancestral structure which may once have existed. Although, therefore, the results of embryological research have provided most convincing proof of the truth of the theory of evolution in general, they have not completely justified the hopes of the early embryologists that by this method all the outstanding phylogenetic problems might be solved. The detailed study of embryology, however, has led to most important results apart from the particular purpose for which most of the earlier investigations in this field were originally undertaken. For the study of embryology, at first purely descriptive and comparative, was soon found to involve fundamental problems concerning the factors which control development. An egg consists of a single cell, and it develops by the division of this cell into two, then into four, eight, and so forth, until a mass of cells is produced. In some cases all these cells are to all appearance alike, or nearly alike; in others the included yolk is from the first segregated more or less completely into some cells, leaving the other cells without it. But in any case, after this process of cell-division has proceeded for a certain time, differentiation begins to set in--some cells become modified in one way, others in another, and from what was a relatively homogeneous mass an organized embryo, with highly differentiated parts, appears. The problem immediately propounds itself--what are the factors which control this differentiation? This problem is essentially a physiological one, and yet, since it arises most conspicuously in a field which has been worked by professed zoologists rather than physiologists, it has been studied more by those trained in zoology and botany than by those who have specialized in physiology. In this way, as in many other directions, such as in the study of heredity, of sex, and of the effects of the environment on the colours and structure of animals, the trend of zoology in recent years has returned towards the physiological side, and the old division which separated the sciences (but which has never so seriously affected students of plant life) is being obliterated. Hence we are led back to consider the progress of Physiology as a whole--a subject with which the present writer hesitates to deal except in a very superficial manner. Physiology as an organized science has inevitably been deeply influenced by its close relation with medicine, with the result that through a large portion of the period under review it has concerned itself chiefly with the functions of the human body in particular, or at least chiefly with Vertebrates from which, by analogy, the human functions may be inferred. In this field it has made enormous progress, and a vast amount of knowledge has been gained with regard to the function and mechanism of all the parts and organs of the body. It may perhaps be suggested, however, that in the pursuit of this detailed (and in practice absolutely necessary) knowledge, physiologists have to some extent lost sight of the wood in their preoccupation with the trees. That is to say, while they have advanced an immense distance in their knowledge of organs, they have not yet got as far as might be hoped in the understanding of the organism--which is to say no more than that the great and fundamental problem of Biology, the nature and meaning of Life, is apparently almost as far from solution as ever. To this further reference will be made below. The progress of Physiology has been so great in all its branches that it is difficult to decide which most deserve mention; perhaps the most important advances are those connected with the nervous system and with internal secretions. Little or nothing was known fifty years ago of the minute structure of the nervous system, nor of the special functions of its different parts. Now the main functions of the various parts of the brain, and the relation of these parts to the activities of the other organs of the body, are well known, although much remains to be discovered with regard to the more detailed localization of function. The study of the microscopic structure of brain and nerve, and experiment on the conduction of nervous impulse, have given us some insight into the mechanism of the nervous system, but the fundamental nature of nervous action still remains unsolved. The nervous system is the chief co-ordinating link between the various organs of the body, but in recent years it has been discovered that the relations of the different parts to one another are greatly influenced by substances known as internal secretions or 'hormones'. These substances are produced by ductless glands (the thyroid, suprarenals, &c.), from which they diffuse into the blood-stream and exercise a remarkable influence either on particular organs or systems, or on the body as a whole. Some of these secretions act specifically on the involuntary muscles of the body, others control growth, others the development of the secondary sexual characters, such as the distinctive plumage of male birds, and also greatly influence the sexual instinct. Much still remains to be discovered with regard to them, but it seems clear that they are of immense importance in the economy of the body. It has been suggested, without much experimental support, however, that if a part of the body becomes modified by use or environment, it may produce a modified hormone, and that so, by the action of this on the germ-cells, the modification may be transmitted to subsequent generations. Before leaving the subject of physiology in the more special or technical application of the term, reference must be made to another science the growth of which has been largely under the influence of medicine. This is bacteriology, one of the newest branches of biology, and yet one which both from its practical importance and from the theoretical interest of its discoveries is rapidly taking a foremost place. Of its practical achievements in connexion with disease, and with the part played by bacteria and other minute organisms in the life and affairs of man, it is not necessary to speak. Every one knows the great advances that have been made in recent years in identifying (and to a less extent in controlling) disease-producing organisms, whether bacteria, protozoa (such as the organisms causing malaria, dysentery, etc.), or more highly organized parasites. The attempt, however, to combat these pathogenic bacteria has led to discoveries of the highest importance with regard to the production of immunity, not only against specific germs, but against many organic poisons such as snake venom and various vegetable toxins. That an attack of certain diseases leaves the patient immune to that disease for a longer or shorter time has of course been known for centuries, but it is a modern discovery that a specific poison induces the body to produce a specific antidote which neutralizes it, and the detailed working out of this principle and the study of the means by which the immunity is brought about promise to lead us a long way towards the central problem of the nature and activities of life itself. We have seen how zoology has been led back into physiological channels of research, and how the study of bacteria is opening up some of the deepest problems of the reaction of living things to environmental stimuli, and just as the various branches of these sciences interlace and influence one another, so all of them, in recent years, have been coming into contact with the inorganic sciences of chemistry and physics. One of the noteworthy features of science in all its branches in recent years has been the tendency of subjects which were at one time regarded as distinct to come together again and to find that the problems of each can only be successfully attacked by the co-operation of the others. In their earlier days the biological sciences were in most respects far removed from chemistry and physics; it was recognized, of course, that organisms were in one sense at least physico-chemical mechanisms, consisting of chemical elements and subject to the fundamental laws of matter and energy. With the advent of the theory of evolution this conception of the organism as a mechanism took more definite shape, and among many biologists the belief was held that in no very long time all the phenomena of life would be explicable by known physico-chemical laws. Hence arose the scientific materialism which was so widespread in the years following the general acceptance of Darwin's theory. It was recognized, of course, that our knowledge of organic chemistry was at the time entirely inadequate to place this belief upon a proved scientific basis, but the expectation of proving it gave a great impetus to the study of the physical and chemical phenomena of life. This attempt was still further stimulated by the investigation of the factors controlling development referred to in a preceding paragraph, for it is evident that to a great extent at least these factors are chemical and physical in nature. And concurrently, the great advances in organic chemistry, resulting in the analysis and in many cases in the artificial synthesis of substances previously regarded as capable of production only in the tissues of living organisms, made possible a much more thorough investigation of the chemical and physical basis of vital phenomena. The result of this has been that to a quite considerable extent the factors, hitherto mysterious, which control the fertilization, division, and differentiation of the egg, the digestion and absorption of food, the conduction of nervous impulses, and many of the changes undergone in the normal or pathological functioning of the organs and tissues, can be ascribed to chemical and physical causes which are well known in the inorganic world. As in other instances, however, some of which have been mentioned above, the elucidation of the organism from this point of view has turned out to be a much less simple process than the more sanguine of the early investigators supposed. The more knowledge has progressed, the more complex and intricate has even the simplest organism shown itself to be, and although the mechanism of the parts is gradually becoming understood, the fundamental mystery of life remains as elusive as ever. The chief reason for this failure to penetrate appreciably nearer to the central mystery of life appears to be the fact that an organism is something more than the sum of its various parts and functions. In tracing the behaviour of any one part or function, whether it be the conduction of a nervous impulse, the supply of oxygen to the tissues by the blood, or the transmission of inherited characters by the germ-cells, we may be able to give a more or less complete physico-chemical or mechanical account of the process. But we seem to get little or no nearer to an explanation of the fact that although every one of these processes may be explicable by laws familiar in the non-living, in the living organism they are co-ordinated in such a way that none of them is complete in itself; they are parts of a whole, but the whole is not simply a sum of its parts, but is in itself a unity, in which all the parts are subject to the controlling influence of the whole. An organism, alone among the material bodies which we know, is constantly and necessarily in a state of unstable equilibrium, and yet has a condition of _normality_ which is maintained by the harmonious interaction of all its parts. Every function of the body, if not thus co-ordinated with the rest, would very quickly destroy this condition of normality, but in consequence of the co-ordination each is subject to the needs of the whole, and normality is maintained. When the normality is artificially disturbed, all the functions of the body adapt themselves to the change, and, if the disturbance be not too great, co-operate in the restoration of the normal condition. It is in these phenomena of adaptation and organic unity and co-ordination that up to the present time the efforts to reduce the phenomena of living things to the operation of physico-chemical laws have most conspicuously failed. From what has been said it will be evident that, fundamentally, all biological research, whether its authors are conscious of it or not, is directed towards the solution of one central problem--the problem of the real and ultimate nature of life. And the main outcome of the work of sixty years has been that this problem has begun clearly to emerge as the central aim of the science. The theory of evolution made the problem a reality, for without evolution the mystery of life must for ever be insoluble, but whatever direction biological investigation has taken, it has led, often by devious paths, to the borderland between the living and the inorganic, and in that borderland the central problem inevitably faces us. Many suggestions for its solution have been made. On the one hand there is still, as there always has been, a considerable body of opinion that the solution will be a mechanical one--using the word mechanical in the widest sense--and that the living differs from the non-living not in kind, but only in degree of complexity. The upholders of the mechanistic or materialist theory, however, are perhaps less confident than their predecessors of the last century, for the solution in this direction has to face not only the problem of organic co-ordination already referred to, but also that of consciousness and mind. For although the study of psychology on physiological lines has made similar progress to that of other branches of physiology, it seems to approach little nearer to a discovery of the nature of the relation between consciousness in its various aspects and the material body with which it is associated. So long as this gulf remains unbridged, the possibility of a satisfactory mechanistic explanation of life seems far away. On the other hand, there has been a revival of the ancient tendency towards what is called a vitalistic solution. A certain number of biologists, impressed by the apparent similarity between the control and co-ordination exercised by the organism over its functions and the conscious control of voluntary activity with which we are familiar in ourselves, have supposed that these things are not merely superficially similar but have a real and fundamental affinity. This does not mean that organic control is always conscious, but that there is a controlling entity, non-material in nature, which is similar in kind to the 'ego' of a self-conscious human being. They suppose that the organism is not simply material, but is a material mechanism controlled by a non-material entity the nature of which is more akin to what we mean by the word spirit than anything else of which we are accustomed to think. They are in fact dualists, and divide reality into the material and spatial on the one hand, and non-material principle or entity which may fairly be called spiritual on the other. And, in the third place, there are those who seek a solution which denies the truth of both the preceding, and which is metaphysically idealist or monist in character. To them, if the present writer understands their attitude, matter and spirit are different aspects of one reality. In the inorganic and non-living, phenomena appear which are generalized under the laws of physics and chemistry, but the phenomena of life fall into a different category which includes the conception of co-ordination or individuality, while a still higher category is required to include the phenomena of consciousness and mind. It is evident from this brief review that Biology in the period considered has passed through three main stages. The first of these was the acceptance of a new illuminating and unifying idea, which led to enthusiastic research in many directions for the purpose of proving and amplifying it. Very rapidly new facts, or new interpretations of facts already known, were shown to fall into line, and the evolution theory became converted from a hypothesis into something approaching a dogma. Not only the idea of organic evolution itself, but all the current beliefs about the method of evolution, and the larger speculations to which it gave rise, were widely regarded as almost indisputable, and where difficulties and inconsistencies appeared, these were supposed to be due solely to the insufficiency of our knowledge, which would soon be remedied. Then, however, as detailed knowledge increased, the voice of criticism and doubt was more frequently heard. The various branches of Biology began once more to overlap, and to join hands with chemistry and physics, and it became clear that the interpretation of life was very far from being a simple problem. And so, as with the Atomic Theory in chemistry, the present position is one of dissolution of the older ideas and of hesitation to express a fixed belief, for while Biology has a clearer vision of the problem before it than ever it had, its wider knowledge reveals the fact that the problem is far from being solved. Perhaps one of the chief results of the great increase of knowledge during the past sixty years has been to show us the immensity of the field still remaining to be explored. FOR REFERENCE Centenary volume on Darwin (Cambridge University Press). X ART A. CLUTTON-BROCK My subject is art and thought about art. I deal with aesthetics only so far as they concern art, that is to say I shall not attempt any purely philosophic speculations about the nature of art and I shall speak of the speculations of others, such as Croce and Tolstoy, only so far as they seem to me likely to have a practical effect upon art. My subject is the art of to-day and our ideas about it. We are beginning at last to connect aesthetics with our own experience of art and to see that our beliefs about the nature and value of art will affect the art we produce. Hence a new aesthetic is very slowly appearing; but I have to confess it has not yet appeared. Indeed there are at present two conflicting theories of art, one or other of which is held consciously or unconsciously by most people who are interested in art at all, and both of which I think are not only imperfect but to some extent false. They are theories about the relation of the artist to the public, and because of the conflict between them and the falsity of each, we are confused in our ideas about art, and the artists are often confused in their practice of it. The first theory has been expressed, not philosophically but with great liveliness, by Whistler in his _Ten O'clock_, and has had great influence both upon the thought of many people who care about art and upon the practice of artists. It is, put shortly, that the artist has no concern with the public whatever, nor the public with the artist. There is no kind of necessary relation between them, but only an accidental one; and the less of that the better for the artist and his art. Whistler states it in the form of a New Testament of his own. 'Listen,' he says. 'There never was an artistic period. 'There never was an art-loving nation. 'In the beginning man went forth each day--some to do battle, some to the chase; others again to dig and to delve in the field--all that they might gain and live or lose and die. Until there was found among them one differing from the rest, whose pursuits attracted him not, and so he stayed by the tents with the women, and traced strange devices with a burnt stick upon a gourd. 'This man, who took no joy in the ways of his brethren--who cared not for conquest and fretted in the field--this designer of quaint patterns--this deviser of the beautiful--who perceived in nature about him curious curvings--as faces are seen in the fire--this dreamer apart, was the first artist.' 'And when from the field and from afar, there came back the people, they took the gourd--and drank from it.' Whistler means that they did not notice the patterns the artist had traced on it. 'They drank at the cup,' he says, 'not from choice, not from a consciousness that it was beautiful, but because forsooth there was none other.' So gradually there came the great ages of art. 'Then', he says, 'the people lived in marvels of art--and ate and drank out of masterpieces for there was nothing else to eat and drink out of, and no bad building to live in.' And, he says, the people questioned not, and had nothing to do or say in the matter. But then a strange thing happened. There arose a new class 'who discovered the cheap, and foresaw fortune in the facture of the sham. Then sprang into existence the tawdry, the common, the gewgaw, and what was born of the million went back to them and charmed them, for it was after their own heart.... And Birmingham and Manchester arose in their might--and Art was relegated to the curiosity shop.' I do not think this can be a true account of the matter; for, if the people were not aware of the existence of art and did not value it at all, how came they to imitate it? One imitates only that which one values. Imitation, as we know, is the sincerest form of flattery; and you cannot flatter that which you do not know to exist. But Whistler's account of the primitive artist is also wrong, so far as we can check it. We may be sure that, if the other primitive men had seen no value in his pursuits, they would have killed him or let him starve. And the artist, as he exists at present among primitive peoples, is not a dreamer apart. The separation between the artist and other men is modern and a result of modern specialization. In many primitive societies most men practise some art in their leisure, and for that reason are interested in each other's art. In fact they notice the cups they drink out of much more than we do. If we did notice the cups we drink out of, we should not be able to endure them. In primitive societies there are not star pianists or singers or dancers; they all dance and make music. Homer himself was a popular entertainer; he would have been very much surprised to hear that he was a dreamer apart. In fact Whistler made up this pretty story about the primitive artist because he assumed that all artists must be like himself. He read himself back into the past and saw himself painting primitive nocturnes in a primitive Chelsea, happily undisturbed by primitive critics. He is wrong in his facts, and I believe he is wrong in his theory. There is a relation, and a necessary relation, between the artist and his public; but what is the nature of it? That is a difficult question for us to answer because the relation now between the artist and the public is, in fact, usually wrong; and Tolstoy in his _What is Art?_ tried to put it right. _What is Art?_ is a most interesting book, full of incidental truth; but I believe that the main contention in it is false. I will give this contention as shortly as I can in his own words. 'Art', he says, 'is a human activity, consisting in this--that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are infected by these feelings and also experience them.' Now this is well enough as far as it goes, but it is not enough, and just because it is not enough it leads Tolstoy into error. Clearly, if art is nothing but the infection of the public with the feelings of the artist, it follows that a work of art is to be judged by the number of people who are infected. And Tolstoy with his usual sincerity accepts these conclusions; indeed, he wrote his book to insist upon them. He judges art entirely as a thing of use, moral use, and he says it can be of no use unless a large audience is infected by it. A work of art that few can enjoy fails as art, just as a railway from nowhere to nowhere fails as a railway. A railway exists to be travelled by and a work of art exists to be experienced by as many people as possible. Here are the actual words of Tolstoy: 'For a work to be esteemed good and to be approved of and diffused, it will have to satisfy the demands, not of a few people living in identical and often unnatural conditions, but it will have to satisfy the demands of all those great masses of people who are situated in the natural conditions of laborious life.' Now this sounds plausible; but consider the effect of it upon yourself. You listen to a symphony by Beethoven; and before you esteem it good, you must ask yourself, not whether it is good to you, but whether it will satisfy the demands of those great masses of people who are situated in the natural conditions of laborious life. Tolstoy does proceed to ask himself this question about Beethoven's Choral symphony and about King Lear, and condemns them both because, he says, a Russian peasant would not understand them. But if we all obeyed him and asked this question about all works of art, we should none of us ever experience any work of art at all; for, while we listened to a piece of music, we should be wondering whether other people understood it; that is to say we should not listen to it at all. And what is this Jury of people situated in the natural conditions of laborious life who are to decide not individually but as a Jury? Who can say whether he himself belongs to them? Who is to choose them? Tolstoy chose them as consisting of Russian peasants; he, like Whistler, believed in the primitive, but for him it was the primitive man, not the primitive artist, who was blessed. In his view there would be no Jury in all western Europe worthy of deciding upon a work of art, because we none of us are situated in the natural conditions of laborious life. So we must change all our way of life or despair of art altogether. Not one of the great ages of art would satisfy his conditions. Certainly not the Greeks of the age of Pericles, or the Chinese of the Sung dynasty, or the thirteenth century in France, or the Renaissance in Italy; and as a matter of fact he condemns most of the great art of the world, including his own. We can escape from the tyranny of Tolstoy's doctrine, as from the tyranny of Whistler's, only by considering the facts of our own experience of art. The fact that we _can_ enjoy and experience a work of art frees us from Whistler's doctrine, because, if we can enjoy and experience it, we are concerned with it. Because of our enjoyment, art is for us a social activity and not a game played by the artist for his own amusement. We know also that the artist likes us to enjoy his art, in fact complains loudly if we do not; and we do not believe that the primitive artist or man was different in this respect. There is now, and always has been, some kind of relation between the artist and the public, but not the relation which Tolstoy affirms. According to him the proper aim of art is to do good. 'The assertion that art may be good art and at the same time unintelligible to a great number of people is extremely unjust, and its consequences are ruinous to art itself.' The word _unjust_ implies that the aim of art is to do good. The artist sins if he does not try to do good to as many people as possible, and I sin if I am ready to enjoy and encourage a work of art which most people do not enjoy. But as a matter of fact a work of art is good to me, not morally good but good as a work of art, if I enjoy it. In my estimate of the work of art I can ask only if it is a work of art to me, not if it is one to other people. I may wish and try to make them enjoy it, but if I do that is as a result of my own enjoyment of it. I can't begin by asking whether other people enjoy it; I must begin with my own experience of it, for I have nothing else to go by. And so it is with the artist; he cannot begin by asking himself whether the mass of men will understand what he proposes to produce; he must produce it, and then trust in man, and God, for its effect. Art is produced by the individual artist and experienced by the individual man. Tolstoy holds that it is to be experienced by mankind in the mass, not by individuals; his audience is an abstraction. Whistler holds that it is produced by the individual, but for himself, and not experienced by mankind either in the mass or as individuals. Both are heretics. What is the truth? I will now turn for a moment to the high aesthetic doctrine of Benedetto Croce. He in his _Aesthetic_ tells us that all art is expression. True enough, as far as it goes; but what do we mean by expression? Croce's doctrine of expression is incomplete, he does not explain clearly what he means by expression, because he also avoids the question of the necessary relation between the artist and his audience; and this is the question which our thought about art has to deal with, just as we have to solve it in our practice of art and in our actual relation with the artist. Croce does not see that the question--What is expression? depends upon the question--What is the relation between the artist and his audience? He does see that the audience exists, which Whistler denies; he insists that the audience have the same faculties as the artist, though to a less degree--that the artist is not a dreamer apart. He says indeed that to experience a work of art we also must exercise our aesthetic faculty; our very experience of it is itself expression; and this is a most important point. But for Croce, as for Whistler, the artist, when he expresses himself, is concerned only with what he expresses, not with the people to whom he expresses himself. Croce does not see this obvious fact, that a work of art is a work of art _because it is addressed to some one_ and is not a private activity of the artist. That is why he fails to give a satisfying account of the nature of expression. Croce cannot distinguish between expression, or art, and day-dreaming; but the distinction is this, that as soon as I pass from day-dreaming to expression, I am speaking no longer to myself but to others. So the form of every work of art is conditioned by the fact that it is addressed to others. A story, for instance, is a story, it has a plot, because it is told. A play is a play, and also has a plot, because it is made to be acted before an audience. A piece of music has musical form, with its repetitions and developments, because it is made to be heard. A picture has composition, emphasis, because it is painted to be seen. The very process of pictorial art is a process of pointing out. When a man draws he makes a gesture of emphasis; he says--This is what I have seen and what I want you to see. And in each case the work of art is a work of art, expression is expression, because it implies an audience or spectators. Without that implication, without the effort of address, there could be no art, no expression, at all. In fact, art in its nature is a social activity, because man in his nature is a social being. Art does not exist in isolation because man does not exist in isolation. His very faculties are in their nature social always and whether for good or for evil. The individual in isolation is a figment of man's mind, and so is art in isolation. But although art is a social activity, it is not, as Tolstoy thinks, a moral activity. The artist does not address mankind with the object of doing them good. It is useless to say that he ought to have that object; if he had he would not be an artist. The aim of doing good is itself incompatible with the artistic aim. But that is not to say that art does not do good. It may do good all the more because the artist is not trying to do good. But what is it that really happens when the artist addresses us, and why does he wish to address us? To answer this, we must consider our own experience, not merely as an audience but also as artists, for we are, as Croce insists, all of us to some extent artists. You have all no doubt been aware of some failure and dissatisfaction in those of your experiences which seem to you the highest. Suppose, for instance, you see some extreme beauty, as of a sunset. It leaves you sad with a feeling of your own inadequacy. You have not been equal to it, and why? You will say in speaking of it to others--I wish I could tell you what I felt or what I saw, but I can't. That wish is itself natural and instantly stirred in you by the experience of extreme beauty. The experience seems incomplete, because you cannot tell anyone else what you felt and saw; and you are hurt by your effort and failure to do so. It is a fact of human nature that the experience of any beauty does arouse in us the desire to communicate our experience; and this desire is instinctive. It is not that we wish to do good to others by communicating it. It is simply that we wish to communicate it. The experience itself is incomplete for us until we communicate it. The happiness which it gives us is frustrated by our failure to communicate it. We should be utterly happy if we could make others see what we see and feel what we feel, but we fail of happiness because we cannot. Why? One can only conjecture and express conjectures in dull language. This beauty is itself a universal quality or virtue which makes particular things more real when they have it. It speaks to the universal in us, to the everyman in us, and, speaking so, it makes us aware of the universal in all men. We too wish to speak to that universal, we wish to find it and the more intense reality which is to be seen only where it is seen, we wish ourselves to be a part of it; and we can do that only when all other men also are a part of it. Beauty seems to speak not merely to us but to the whole listening earth, and we would be assured that all the earth is listening to it, not to us. But we ourselves have to play our part in the realizing of this universal; the sense of it comes and goes; for the most part we ourselves are not aware of it. We are merely particulars, like other men, and separated from them by the fact that we are all particulars. Only, when for a moment we are aware of it, then we are filled with a passion to make it real and permanent; and it is this passion which causes art and the blind instinctive effort at art, at communication, at expression, which we have all experienced. But it follows from this that the audience to which the artist addresses himself is not any particular men and women: it is mankind. The moment he addresses himself to any particular men and women and considers their particular wants and desires, he is giving up that very sense of the universal that impelled him to expression; he is ceasing to be an artist and becoming something else, a tradesman, a philanthropist, a politician. The artist as artist speaks to mankind, not to any particular set of men; and he speaks not of himself but of that universal which he has experienced. His effort is to establish that universal relation which he has seen, a universal relation of feeling. And to him, in his effort, there is neither time nor space. Mankind are not here or there or of this moment or of that; they are everywhere and for ever. The voice in Mozart's music is itself a universal voice speaking to the universe of universal things. And all art is an acting of the beauty that has been experienced, a perpetuation of it so that all men may share it for ever. The artist's effort is to be the sunset he has seen, to eternalize it in his art, but always so that he and all men may be part of this universal by their common experience of it. So, as I say, the artist must not speak to any particular audience with the aim of pleasing them--there is that amount of truth in Whistler's doctrine; and he does fail if he does not communicate, since his aim is communication--there is that amount of truth in Tolstoy's doctrine. But the next question that arises is the attitude of ourselves to the artist. We have to remember that he is speaking not to us in particular, but to all mankind, and that he speaks, not to please us or to satisfy any particular demand of ours, but to communicate to us that universal he has experienced so that we with him may become part of it. It follows then that we must not make any particular demands upon him. We must not come with our own ideas of what he ought to give us. If we do, we shall be an obstruction between him and that ideal universal audience to which he would address himself. We shall be tempting him, with our egotistical demands, to comply with them. But these demands we are always making; and that is why the relation between the artist and any actual public is usually nowadays wrong. I was once looking at Tintoret's 'Crucifixion' in the Scuola di San Rocco with a lady, and she said to me--'That isn't my idea of a horse.' 'No'--I answered--'it's Tintoret's. If it were your idea of a horse, why should you look at it? You look at a picture to get the artist's idea.' But that isn't the truth about art either. The artist doesn't try to substitute his own particular for yours. He tries to communicate to you that universal which he has experienced, because it is to him a universal, not his own, but all men's, and he wishes to realize it by sharing it with all men. His faith, though he may never have consciously expressed it to himself, is in this universal which, because it is a universal, can be communicated to all men. His effort is based on that faith. He speaks because he believes all men can hear, if they will. So the effort of the audience must be to hear and not to distract him with their particular demands. They must not, for instance, demand that he shall remind them of what they have found pleasant in actual life. They must not complain of him that he does not paint pretty women for them, or compose bright cheerful tunes. They are not to him particular persons to be tickled according to their particular tastes, but mankind to whom he wishes to communicate the universal he has experienced. So, if there is an actual audience listening for that universal and clearing their minds of their own egotistical demands, then art will flourish and the artist will be encouraged to communicate that universal which he has experienced. But if particular audiences demand this or that and are not happy until they get it, if they say to him--Tickle my senses--Persuade me that all is for the best in the world as I like it; that prosperous people like myself have a right to be prosperous; that I am a fine fellow because I once fell in love; that all who disagree with me are wicked and absurd--then you will have the kind of art you have now, in the theatre, in the picture gallery, in the cinema, in the novel; yes, and in your buildings, your cups and saucers, your pots and pans even. For in the very arts of use you demand that the craftsman shall provide you with what you demand, and as cheap as possible; because you do not understand that he should express himself, you do not understand also that his expression is worth having and that he ought to be paid for it. In the very pattern on a tea-cup, if it is worth having at all, there is the communication of that universal which the artist has experienced. It is there to remind you of itself whenever you drink tea, to bring the sacrament of the universal into everything as if it were music accompanying and heightening all our common actions; but if you want a fashionable tea-cup cheap, you will get that, and you will not get anything expressed or communicated with it. You will be shut up in yourself and your own particularity and ugliness. If we want art we must know how we should think and feel and act so as to encourage the artist to produce it. But why should we want art at all? I hope I have answered that question incidentally. It is so that we may have life more abundantly; for we can have life more abundantly only when we are in communication with each other, mind flowing into mind, the universal expressing itself in and through all of us. We all more or less blindly desire this communication, but we seldom know why we desire it or even what exactly it is we desire. We make the strangest, clumsiest efforts to communicate with each other--I am making one now--and we are constantly inhibited by false shame from real communication. We are afraid to be serious with each other, afraid of beauty, of the universal, when we see it. On this point I will tell a little story from Mr. Kirk's _Study of Silent Minds_. At a concert behind the front, an audience of soldiers had listened to the ordinary items, a performance, as Mr. Kirk says, 'clean, bright, and amusing', which means of course silly and ugly. Then the orchestra played the introduction to the _Keys of Heaven_, and a gunner remarked--'Sounds like a bloody hymn.' That was his fear of beauty, his false shame. But when the _Keys of Heaven_ was ended, the whole audience, including the gunner, gave a sigh of content; and after that they went to hear it time after time. Well, the beauty of that song, and of all art, is the 'Key of Heaven' itself. For Heaven is a state of being of which we all dream, however dully, in which all have the power of communication with each other; in which all are aware of the universal, possessed by it and a part of it, all members of one body, all notes in one tune, and therefore all the more intensely themselves, for a note is itself, finds itself, only in a tune; otherwise it is mere nonsense. Of course if you are to believe this, you must believe in the existence of a universal, independent of yourself, yet also in you and in all men. You must believe that beauty exists as a virtue, a quality, a relation of things, and that it is possible for you also to produce that virtue, to live in that relation. But no one can prove that to you. The only way to believe it is to see beauty with intensity and to make the effort of communication in some form or other. Tolstoy believes that the very word beauty is a useless one because, he says, all efforts to define beauty are vain. But that is true of the word life, yet we have to use the word because life exists. And all explanations of art which refuse to believe in beauty as a reality independent of us, yet one of which we may become a part, do fall into incredible nonsense. We are told that art is play; the only answer to which is that it isn't. Others say that it is an expression of the sexual instinct, which has forgotten itself. They discover that in some savage tribe the male beats a tom-tom to attract the female; and they conclude that Beethoven's Choral Symphony is only a more elaborate tom-tom beaten to attract a more sophisticated female. But again the only answer is that it isn't; and that if all our ancestors were, not Whistler's dreamers apart, but beaters of tom-toms to attract females, then there was something in the sound of the tom-tom that made them forget the female. The reality of art is to be found not in its origins but in what it is trying to be; and what it is trying to be is always a communication between mind and mind; what we aim at in art is a fellowship not for purposes of use but for its own sake, the fellowship we feel when we are all together singing a great tune. But now, since we have a hundred foolish ideas about art, its nature and value, it is of the greatest importance that we should attain to a right idea of it, not only as a matter of theory to be discussed, but as a religion to be practised. And, if we can grasp this right idea of it, we shall not think of art as consisting merely of the fine arts, painting, poetry, music, sculpture. We shall see that it is possible for men to be artists, to exercise this great activity of communication, in the work by which they earn their living, and that a happy society is one in which all men do so exercise it. We are very far from that happiness now, and that is why Ruskin and Morris became almost desperate rebels against our present society. What they said about art and its nature is still the best that has been said about it, far nearer to philosophic truth than all that the professed philosophers have said, and of the utmost moment to us now. For if we could believe them we should change most of our values; we should see that the ordinary man, now being deprived of all the joy of art in his work, is living a mutilated life; we should place art among the rights of man. Whereas Rousseau said--All men are born free and everywhere they are in chains--we should say--All men are born artists and everywhere they are drudges. With our curious English originality, which hits on so many momentous truths and then makes no use of them, it is we who have found the greatest truth about art, but neither we nor any other people is at present making much use of it. Because we lack art, lack the power of communication, we lack fellowship; and as Morris said--Fellowship is life and the lack of it is death. FOR REFERENCE W. Morris, _Hopes and Fears for Art_. XI A GENERATION OF MUSIC DR. ERNEST WALKER The general subject of this course is European Thought; and, to some, music may perhaps seem in this connexion rather like an intruder. Indeed, if the musician is, in William Morris's phrase, 'the idle singer of an empty day', if his business is to administer alternate stimulants and soporifics to the nerves or, at best, the surface emotions, or to serve in Cinderella-like fashion any passing, shallow needs of either the individual or the crowd, then, obviously, he has no place worth self-respecting mention in the world as it exists for philosophy. But widespread as some such conception of the function of music is, I hope you will agree with me in throwing it aside as, at any rate for our present purpose, no more worth the trouble of even approximately patient argument than that other less general but more objurgated conception of musical composition as something like a mechanically calculated spinning of bloodless formulae. By the conditions of its being, music has to express itself through non-intellectual channels, but may we not say that its essence is intellectual, that it is, in Combarieu's phrase, the art of thinking in sound--thinking in as precise a sense as the word can bear? It does not express itself verbally: it is self-dependent, with a language available only for the expression of its own ideas and not even indirectly translatable by nature into a verbal medium. Yet it is thought none the less; perhaps all the more. Words, we have often been told, serve for the concealment of thought; but the language of music is more subtle, more comprehensive. It has been said that where words end, music begins; and anyhow, for musicians, there stands on record the serenely proud claim of one of themselves. 'Only art and knowledge', said Beethoven, 'raise man to the divine; and music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and all philosophy.' But I must not allow this little preliminary apology to stray into the field of abstract aesthetics. The subject proposed to me, the correlation of the progress of specifically musical thought during the last generation with the progress of European thought in general, is so extensive that I cannot within the necessary limits attempt to deal with more than some of the most salient features, and even those I shall have to treat in very broad outlines, with a certain disregard of detail and nicely balancing qualifications. I shall only attempt to put before you what seem to me the most prominent considerations, and to throw out suggestions which I hope you may perhaps, if sufficiently interested, develop at leisure for yourselves. In several ways the correlation of the musician with the non-musical world is now more intimate and conscious than ever before. Forty or fifty years ago--in spite of brilliant individual exceptions--musicians were, in the main, self-centred craftsmen; they were inclined to drift into a backwater, away from the chief currents of the intellectual, or often indeed of the general artistic life of their day, and they seem on the whole to have been content to have it so. In England we were somewhat behindhand, no doubt, in our participation in the gradual but steady change. But men like Parry and Stanford brought their profession into close touch with the general culture of their contemporaries, and made the universities and music understand each other; Grove, the first director of the Royal College, himself a man whose professional career (not to mention his amateur interests) had ended in music after ranging through civil engineering, business organization, biblical archaeology, and the editorship of a great literary magazine, preached with infectious enthusiasm the new doctrine of the larger outlook; and for the last thirty years, even if our practice may have occasionally seemed somewhat to lag behind, at any rate our theory has not looked back. Musicians have been granted their claim to be judged by the same intellectual and moral standards as other reasonable people; it is a modest claim, but, especially in England, it has had to be fought for. And the entry on this wider heritage, which English musicians, apart from an exception or two such as Pierson and Bennett, won for the first time a generation ago, has had in every country a definite influence on composition, especially (as is only natural) on the composer's attitude towards the musical setting of literature. I should be far from saying that any modern is a greater song-writer than Schubert; but it is obvious that the followers of Wolf and Duparc and Moussorgsky are aiming at something different. They may not express the general mood of the poem more faithfully, but they certainly attach more importance to its lyrical structure and to flexibly expressive diction: they accept the poet as an equal colleague. The serious song-writer can hardly any longer, like Schumann in his setting of Heine's 'Das ist ein Flöten und Geigen', afford to stultify great poetry by quoting from memory and getting the adjectives deplorably wrong. Nor can he, like Beethoven in 'Adelaide' and the 'Entfernte Geliebte' cycle, let himself weave musical structures many sizes too large for the proper structure of the words, which have consequently to be repeated over and over again with very little regard for poetical or even common sense. Schumann and Beethoven, especially the former, were culturally very far from narrow-minded men; but there was not in their days any general cultural pressure sufficiently strong to influence them as composers. Now, the pressure is so strong that few can resist. Most composers have now fully learned their lesson of a fitting politeness towards their poet-colleagues--learned it in the main, so far as not intuitively, from the high examples set by Wolf and the modern French school--and have, moreover, come to recognize the duty of setting such words as may be fit not only to be sung but to be read, a duty shockingly neglected by many of the greatest geniuses in musical history. And the cultural pressure has gone farther than this. Not only has the increasing complexity of life broadened the musician's personal outlook, professional or unprofessional: it has also modified, whether for better or for worse, the outlook of the music itself. We may conveniently divide all music into two great classes: 'absolute' music, in which the composer appeals to the listener through the direct medium of the pure sound and that alone; and 'applied' music, in which the appeal is more or less conditioned by words, either explicit or implicit by association, or by bodily movement of some kind, dramatic or not, or by any other non-musical factor that affects the nature of the composer's thought and the method of its presentation. Up to the present generation, instrumental music, unconnected with the stage, has been virtually identifiable with absolute music; there are a handful of exceptions--sporadic pieces, usually though not invariably thrown off in composers' relatively easy-going moods, and an isolated figure or two of serious revolt, like Berlioz and Liszt--but they only serve to prove the rule. Now, this identification is far from holding good. More consciously than ever before, instrumental music is straining beyond its own special domain and asking for external spurs to creative activity. And it asks in various quarters. It may ask merely the hint of particular emotional moods conditioned by special circumstances; or it may vie with the poet and the novelist in analysis of character. The psychology, again, may pass into the illustration of incident, whether partially realistic or purely imaginative, or into the illustration of philosophical tenets, as in Strauss's version of Nietzsche's doctrines in his _Also sprach Zarathustra_ or Scriabin's of theosophy in his _Prometheus_. Or the composer may go directly to painting, whether actual as in Rachmaninoff's symphonic poem on Böcklin's picture of 'The island of the dead', or visionary as in Debussy's 'La cathédrale engloutie'. There is indeed no end to such instances. All this development of instrumental music into territories more or less adjacent makes a very imposing show; and it is so markedly a product of the last generation that we easily over-estimate the novelty of its essential results. As I have said, instrumental music is more and more asking for external spurs to creative activity; but this does not mean that music as a whole is, so to speak, breaking loose from its moorings and adventurously voyaging on to uncharted seas. What it means is, simply, that, under the stress of modern culture, the barriers between vocal and instrumental, dramatic and non-dramatic, music have been to a great extent abolished. We may consider music as normally involving three persons: the composer, the performer, and the listener. Until the present generation, the role of the listener was normally quite passive. All that he had to do was to keep his ears open to the music, and further, when required, his ears open to words and his eyes to dramatic presentation. The composer and the performers did everything for him. But now they do not. The modern composer urges that, just as vocal music demands from the listener a separate knowledge of the words, so instrumental music may demand, as a condition of full understanding, a separate knowledge of some verbally expressible signification. The parallel no doubt holds well enough even if we answer, as we certainly may, that in much vocal music the words are so unimportant that it really does not musically matter if they are unintelligible or inaudible. But this latter-day demand on the listener is considerable. The listener to Strauss's _Don Quixote_, for example, must, in order to appreciate in full measure any section of this long work, have a fairly close acquaintance with Cervantes' book--whether derived from an analytical programme or from personal reading: there are neither words nor acting to give a clue, nor does the printed music itself give the slightest assistance, except in so far that a couple of themes are labelled with the names of the 'Knight of the sorrowful countenance' himself and Sancho Panza. Sometimes, no doubt, a composer helps at any rate the purchaser of his music more; but to the listener he gives nothing, and leaves his thought, as embodied in the mere title, to be reached as best it may. The modern composer makes these demands on the listener continually; and he does so simply because the sphere of the music-lover's imaginativeness and general culture has become so greatly enlarged that he thinks he can fairly afford to take the risk. But we may well ask whether the music of suggestion has not, in its restless anxiety to correlate itself with non-musical culture, reached or perhaps even overstepped the limits of musical possibility. It is no question of a composer's rights: he has a right to do anything he can, provided that he preserves a due proportion between essentials and unessentials. And judicious criticism will turn, if not a blind, at any rate a short-sighted eye towards a great composer's occasional realistic escapades, which, however irritating they may perhaps be to others, are to him only a part of the general background of his texture; after all, in their different media, Bach and most of the other giants have occasionally allowed themselves similar little flings. It is a question not of rights, but of powers. The poet and the painter and the novelist, not to mention all the non-human agents in the universe, are bound to do a good many things much better than the composer can; and even if he may personally aspire to be a kind of spectator of all time and existence, he has no means of making his listeners see eye to eye with himself. The risk he runs may be too great. Realizing as we must that all this ferment of suggestion-seeking has undoubtedly vivified and enriched musical development in not a few aspects, we may nevertheless feel, and feel profoundly, that there is a cardinal weakness inherent in it. A composer may so easily be tempted to forget that it is after all by his music, and by his music alone, that he stands or falls. If he asks too much extra-musical sympathy from the listener, he defeats his own end. The listener will inevitably concentrate on the unessentials, and will as likely as not get them quite wrong; he may indeed indulge the habit of realistic suspicion to such an extent as to make him become thoughtlessly unfair and credit the composer with sins of taste, whether babyish or pathological, of which the objurgated culprit may be altogether innocent. If a composer plays with fire, he is fairly sure to burn some one's fingers, even if he successfully avoids burning his own. And anyhow it is waste of time, and worse, for us to cudgel our brains to fits of entirely unnecessary inventiveness when the composer has left his music unlabelled. We sometimes hear of children being encouraged to give verbal or dramatic expression of their own to instrumental music; that is not education--very much the reverse. It is merely the expense of spirit in a waste of fancifulness, the wilful murder of all feeling for music as such. The feeling for music as such, that is still the one thing needful. And by this canon, so it seems to me, we must judge all these alarums and excursions of modern composers. If we hold firmly by it, we shall not be unduly worried when we learn that the music which seems so perfectly to realize the composer's expressed meaning has been originally designed by him quite otherwise--as has happened oftener than is generally known; though this fact does not excuse wilful contradictions of a composer's definite intentions, as in the vulgar perversion of Rimsky-Korsakoff's _Scheherezade_ popularized by the latest fashionable toy, the Russian Ballet, which would do more musically unexceptionable service were it to confine itself to works specially designed for it, such as the fascinating and finely-wrought scores of Stravinsky, or concert works like Balakireff's _Thamar_, based on programmes that can be mimetically reproduced without unfaithfulness. And anyhow, in the midst of all these appeals to the eye or the literary memory or what not, we may call to mind the simple truth that music is something to be heard with either the inward or the outward ear, and if we are too much distracted otherwise, our hearing sense suffers. We shall pay too high a price for our latter-day correlation of music with literature and the other arts if the music itself has to play the part of Cinderella. 'We do it wrong, being so majestical.' Again, we may endeavour to correlate recent musical development with the development of the conceptions of nationality and race. With nationality in the strictly political sense music has, indeed, nothing to do: there is no inborn musical expression common to all the inhabitants of Switzerland, or the United States, or the British Empire (or indeed the British Islands). And if we abandon political nationality entirely and think of national music solely in terms of race, we still have to make very large deductions. Heredity counts, it would seem, for far less than environment in musical development--especially so in these days of free intercourse. Nevertheless, we may to some extent isolate the racial element; and within the last generation increasingly vigorous efforts have been made to do so--though they have perhaps neglected sufficiently to observe that racial ancestry is often an extremely mixed quantity. To the musician, this insistence on race is in the main a quite modern thing. It is true that, as the successive waves of Italian influence flowed northward in the sixteenth, seventeenth, and eighteenth centuries, they met in England, France, and Germany, and, at the end, in Russia, native cross-currents; and there was plenty of controversy between the opposing parties. But this controversy was mainly concerned with matters of technique; whereas the whole force of the modern movement consists in its reliance on the simple folk-music which is supposed to be characteristic of the race as a whole, and about which hardly any composers of the past consciously troubled themselves at all. Haydn and Beethoven, no doubt, used folk-tunes in their own works to some extent, but the former's adaptations from the uncultivated tunes of his own Croatian people are polished nearly out of recognition, and when the latter commandeers from Ireland or Russia or elsewhere, nothing but pure Beethovenishness remains after his masterful hand has done its will. We may say, indeed, that nationality, as such, was never in their time a conscious factor in musical composition. The modern movement seems to owe its origin to several non-musical causes. For example, the spread of political democracy had no little influence in arousing interest in the music specifically characteristic of at any rate the non-urban sections of the newly enfranchised classes. But, in the main, it was caused by the modern rise into something like political prominence of the smaller nations, smaller either in size or in historical importance. The events of 1848, for example, brought Hungarian folk-music before the world; Bohemian claims against Austria produced the work of Smetana and Dvo[vr]ák, largely based on the general style of their own native melodies; the Irish Question made us know the Irish songs; and the dominating races followed those leads, at any rate in so far as to take interest in their own traditional music, and try to evaluate its differentiating factors. Conscious connexion between artistic composition and folk-music has varied very much: very strong in Russia and other Slavonic countries, it has been very weak in Italy and France; in Germany we find all stages between the work of Brahms, where the folk-element is very notable, and of Wolf, where it is non-existent; in our own islands it has been very weak, but is now becoming very strong. But, whether this connexion has been conscious or not, still, sooner or later, all the insisters on the importance of the element of nationality have joined hands with the enthusiasts for the folk-music of the people. In the work of preserving the knowledge of this folk-music England has been one of the last of all countries: even the last edition of Grove's _Dictionary_, our standard authority, gives many pages to Scotland and Ireland and Wales, and smuggles English folk-music into an appendix. Only indeed in the twentieth century has anything like an adequate study of the varied treasures of English folk-music become possible, and we have learned enough to realize that great folk-music is no monopoly of the races that have been either politically or socially decentralized. This advance of the conception of racialism has widened and intensified music in not a few ways. It has brought to our knowledge many splendid melodies, infinitely varied in design and emotional range, and, at their best, inspirations that the greatest composers would have been proud to sign. And, mixed as are the feelings with which we must contemplate the general course of our own musical history, we can anyhow boast of some of the finest folk-tunes in existence in these relics of the old world on its last western fringes, in Ireland and the Hebrides. We have come to see that this great mass of traditional music--only in part, of course, the outpouring of sheer genius, but at its worst sincere--is, with its appeal alike to the child and the adult, either in years or in musical culture, the most perfect educational weapon yet devised with which to combat all the forces that make for musical degradation. And, apart from all this half-unconsciously wrought music, we have been shown the value of the bypaths in art, of the work of the great men of the younger races like the Scandinavians and the Czechs and most of all the Russians, who do not speak the older classical tongues but have, all the same, abundance to say that is well worth the whole world's hearing. It is to our immense gain that we have now come, far more than ever before, to realize that in the house of music there are many mansions. And, once again, we have been taught the duty of being fair to the men of our own blood, past and present. Particularly in our own artistic history there has been visible a strongly marked tendency, such as no other nation has shown in equal measure, to neglect and depreciate native work in comparison with foreign, even when the latter might perhaps be worse. But I think we may say, without self-laudation, that British composition is now worth some considerable attention from ourselves and others; it was, not unnaturally, wellnigh forgotten during its sleep from the death of Purcell till the rise of Parry--a fairly sound sleep, during which it occasionally half-opened its eyes for a moment or two--but it is wide awake now. We are still slow to learn the lesson; but we have come to realize, at any rate theoretically, the duty of doing what we can, in the spirit not of favouritism but of justice and knowledge, to disprove the proverb that a prophet (and an artist also) has no honour in his own country and in his father's house. So much to the good. But to-day, more than ever before, many voices are urging us to go farther--and, I think, to fare worse. Artistic racialism has always been spontaneous, so far as the art is great. No composer who is worth anything can be dragooned into being patriotic: he will go his own way. Some are attracted more than others by the general types of phrase or the general emotional moods exemplified in the folk-music of their own race; but that is a matter for neither credit nor discredit. Individuality includes race as the greater includes the less. The only vital consideration is the value of the output in the general terms of all races; and indeed all great folk-music, like any other kind, speaks, for those who have ears to hear, a world-language and not a dialect. And there is still more at stake in this issue. Those who, as I do, hold that the best chance for the political future of the world lies in the weakening of national and racial as well as class consciousness, must needs regard very suspiciously any of these modern attempts to force music into channels which are deliberately designed for it by non-musical considerations: the fettering, by set purpose, of art is a very considerable step towards the fettering of life itself. England may sometimes have failed in kindness to her own artistic children, living and dead; but at any rate we have been free from the curse of a narrow jealousy and have steadfastly held to the proud faith of the open door and the open mind. The ideal--so violently dinned into our ears nowadays--of a national school of composers may very easily mean a wilful narrowing of our artistic heritage. If an English composer with nothing to say for himself imitates Brahms or Debussy, it is obviously regrettable; but he will not mend matters by imitating Purcell. And, after all, the musician who (save occasionally when seeking texts for his own individual discourses) borrows his material from his native folk-music stamps himself, just as much as if he borrowed from any other quarter, as a common plagiarist incapable of inventing material of his own. If we may adapt for the purpose Johnson's famous aphorism about patriotism and scoundrels, we may say that racial parochialism is the last refuge of composers who cannot compose. Let us assert once more the supreme beauty of folk-music at its best; but it is often childish, and, anyhow, childish or not, it is after all the work of children. And any of the world's activities would come to a strange pass if children--or any races or classes which, through lost opportunities or the oppression of others, are still virtually children--were to dictate principles of intolerance to those who, by no merit of their own but as a plain matter of fact, can possess the wider vision. Let a composer steep himself as much as he can in his native folk-music, as in all other great music, and then write in sincerity whatever is in his own marrow; but anything approximately like a chauvinistic attitude towards music, as towards any other of the things of the spirit, means either insensibility to spiritual ideals or unfaithfulness to them. Let me take an analogy. I have always felt that a philosophical and historical study of the idea of honour would throw more light than anything else on many great problems, notably the problem of war, and that in this investigation the conception of the duel would have a very prominent place. May we not say that, just as the individual honour of each of us, unless we are members of the self-styled upper classes of a few countries, is now supposed to be able to take care of itself, so the blood in a composer's veins will, if his music is worth anything, be able to take care of itself also? Neither honour nor artistic personality is affectable by external considerations which are on a different plane of value. And music indeed is the most specifically international, or supernational, of all the arts; it has not, like literature, any barriers of language, nor, like painting or sculpture or architecture, any local habitation. Musical separatism is not a natural quality; it needs careful and continuous fostering. And I know from personal experience that, all through the war, there was no difficulty at all in carrying on concerts in the programmes of which works by living German composers, and songs in the German language, were included in their due proportions just as before. Another great factor in modern European thought with which I would attempt to correlate music is the factor of religion. No one will deny that the last generation has seen profoundly important changes in religious thought: whatever may have been the eddies and backwaters, the main stream has run, and still runs, like a cataract. These changes may be very differently judged by different types of men, all of them equally firm believers in the supremacy of spiritual ideals: some may definitely regret, some may, with the help of such conceptions as that of progressive revelation, steer a middle course, some (among whom I would number myself) may definitely welcome. But in whatever light we may regard these radical refusals of the old allegiances, we shall naturally expect to find their influence in music, which has had in many ways so intimate a connexion with religion. Indeed, the conception of music as in some special way the handmaid of religion dies very hard. It is still possible, in April 1919, for distinguished musicians, when appealing for funds for the foundation of a professorship of ecclesiastical music, to put their names to the statement that 'the church will always be the chief home and school of music for the people'[71]: and this when the facts about attendances at places of worship have long been familiar. We must rate the influence of church music more modestly; it has a great influence in its own sphere, but its sphere is only one among many. We may, I think, envisage this religious development on its practical side as a process of differentiation by which the sincere standers in the old and the middle and the new paths have little by little drawn apart intellectually--but not, in societies that are happily able to take broad views of human nature, otherwise than intellectually--not only from each other but still more from those who, whatever their ostensible labels, are in reality followers of Gallio and routine. And something like the same process is observable in the religious music of the past generation. Many of its old conventions have silently dropped away, unregarded and unregretted: whatever the outlooks, and they are many and various, they are more clear-sighted, more sincere. Here in England we have somewhat lagged behind: we have had, not perhaps altogether fairly but indubitably, a reputation for national hypocrisy to sustain, and our religious music has only with difficulty shaken itself loose. Not very long ago, Saint-Saëns's _Samson and Delilah_, now one of the most popular of operas, could only be performed as an oratorio: it dealt with biblical incidents and characters, therefore it was religious music, therefore it could not be given stage presentation. Of course this kind of attitude is never logical: for a long time we closed Covent Garden to Strauss's _Salome_ for the same reason, but no one, so far as I know, ever proposed to endow it with a religious halo. Now, when Sunday secular music is everywhere, its origins seem lost in antiquity; but the chamber-music concerts at South Place in London and Balliol College in Oxford, which are, I think I am right in saying, the twin pioneers, are both little over thirty years old. In most other countries, however, music has suffered far fewer checks of this kind; and it is of more importance to correlate musical and religious development on more general lines. Particularly interesting, I think, is the history of the decline of the oratorio, which I should myself be inclined to date from the production of the German Requiem of Brahms about half a century ago, though the real impetus has become apparent only during the last generation. Brahms's Requiem was indeed something of a portent: it was a definite herald of revolt. The mere title, 'A German Requiem', involving the commandeering of the name hitherto associated exclusively with the ritual of the Roman Church and the practice of prayers for the dead, and its adaptation to entirely different words, was in itself of the utmost significance; and the significance was enhanced by the character of the words themselves. In the first place, they were self-selected on purely personal lines; in the second place, they were, theologically, hardly so much as Unitarian. Brahms claimed the right to express his own individual view of the problem, and at a length which involved the corollary that the problem was regarded in its completeness. The 'German Requiem' cannot be considered, as an anthem might be, as an expression of a mere portion of a complete conception of the particular religious problem: in an organic work of this length, what it does not assert it implicitly denies or at any rate disregards. And this was at once recognized, both by Brahms's opponents and by himself: he categorically refused to add any dogmatically Christian element to his scheme. Similarly with his _Ernste Gesänge_, written some thirty years later, at the end of his life: he balances the reflections on death taken from Ecclesiastes and similar sources with the Pauline chapter on faith, hope, and charity--not with any more definite consolation. And again, with the choral works, the settings of Hölderlin's _Schicksalslied_, Schiller's _Nänie_, Goethe's _Gesang der Parzen_ (the first-fruits of the essentially modern spirit which has impelled so many composers to choral settings of great poetry)--they deal with the ultimate things, but the expression is never, so to speak, orthodox: it is imaginative, sometimes perhaps ironical, but never anything but intensely non-ecclesiastical. Brahms's Requiem represents, as I have said, the beginning of the change in the conception of concert-room religious music, of the abandonment of the old type of oratorio in favour of something much more conscious and individual; and in refusing to take things for granted, religious music has been altogether in line with general religious development. The change can perhaps be observed in English music more markedly than elsewhere. Oratorio, in the sense in which we ordinarily use the term, is to all intents and purposes an invention of the genius of Handel reacting on his English environment: the form was of course older, but he gave it a specific shape that set the fashion for future times. It had its birth in a business speculation; it was a novelty designed to occupy the Lenten season when the theatres were not available for opera. Like the opera, it supplied narrative and incident and characterization though without scenery or action, and it dealt with biblical history. The history of the oratorio is the history of this loose compromise; it has afforded an attractive flavour of the theatre even to those to whom drama may in itself have seemed disreputable, and it has had the advantage of possessing subjects which combined unquestioningly accepted literal truth with unlimited possibilities for wholesale edification, and at the same time made no intimately personal claims. The libretto of Mendelssohn's _Elijah_ is perhaps at once the most familiar and the most skilfully compiled example of the type; but it is now, so far as great music is concerned, extinct. Here in England--where, for something like a century and a half, the demand was so large that composers, when tired of writing oratorios themselves, still went on producing them out of the mangled fragments of other music--Parry's _Judith_ of 1888 is the last of the old type from the pen of a great composer; and his subsequent works show, in striking fashion, the direction of the newer paths. There is no longer the assumption that everything in the Bible or the Apocrypha is at one and the same time literally true and somehow or other edifying. _Job_ and _King Saul_ are great literature and vivid drama; they stand on their own merits. And the long succession of smaller choral works, in which Parry mingled in curious but intensely personal fusion his own earnest but somewhat pedestrian poetry with fragments of the Old Testament prophets, represent a still further abandonment of the old routine; they form a connected exposition of his philosophy of life, on the whole theistic rather than specifically Christian, and always transparently individual. Individual--that is the real issue. According to their differing temperaments, different composers may swing towards either the right or the left wing of thought in these non-ecclesiastical expressions of ultimate things: Stanford may join with Whitman or Robert Bridges, Vaughan-Williams with Whitman or George Herbert, Frank Bridge with Thomas à Kempis, Walford Davies with a mediaeval morality-play, Gustav Hoist with the Rig-Veda, Bantock with Omar Khayyam. But the essentials, for any composer worth the name, are that his theme shall have its birth in personal vision and shall appeal to personal intelligence. The routine oratorio fulfilled neither of these conditions; and it is dead beyond recall. It was a curious illustration of foreign ignorance of British musical life that Saint-Saëns, when asked to write a choral work for the Gloucester Festival of 1913, should have imagined that he was meeting our national tastes with an oratorio on the most prehistoric lines. However, the unanimous chilliness with which _The Promised Land_ was received must have effectually disillusioned him. But the liberalisers, though the more numerous force, have no monopoly of sincerity: among the genuine conservatives also we can find, I think, signs of the correlation of musical with religious development. We have had, during the last generation, many works that are in the legitimate line of descent from the great classical settings of ritual words or (as with the Passions and Cantatas of Bach) words that are intended anyhow to appeal not as literature but as dogma. When Elgar prints on the title-pages of his oratorios the letters A.M.D.G.--_ad majorem Dei gloriam_--the personal note is, in these days, obvious. His own libretti to _The Apostles_ and its sequel _The Kingdom_ (and to the further sequels which had been sketched out twelve years ago, though none has as yet seen the light) resemble those of the older type of oratorio in so far as they include narrative and dramatic incident and religious moralizing; but there is not a trace of the old lethargic taking things for granted, it is all a ringing sacramental challenge to the individual soul. Elgar's work is indeed the typical musical expression of recent Roman Catholic developments; but there are others also. There was Perosi, the Benedictine priest, whose oratorios, tentative, childishly sincere mixtures of Palestrina and Wagner, were forced upon Europe in the late 'nineties with the full driving power of his Church, and who, when his musical insufficiency became palpable, was dropped in favour of Elgar himself, whose sudden rise into deserved fame coincides in time. There was again the allocution of Pius X, known as the _Motu proprio_, which sought to reform ecclesiastical music and has, however fruitless it may have been elsewhere, made the services in Westminster Cathedral, under Dr. Terry's direction, a Mecca for musicians of all faiths who are interested in the great sixteenth-century masterpieces. There are also the aristocratically Catholic composers of latter-day France, centring round Vincent d'Indy and the _Schola Cantorum_ and looking back for inspiration to César Franck. And again, in the English communion, there is the marked High-Church movement for the encouragement of dignified music, a movement that has had great influence in the purification of popular taste. And the pivot round which all this turns is the dogmatic faith that definitely Christian expression in music is the property, the exclusive property, of those who by temperament and conviction are Christians. The attitude, like the conditions which have brought it about, is, I think, new: but some of its adherents go surely too far when they urge that those whose minds work otherwise cannot really appreciate this music at its due worth. César Franck, that simple-minded childlike genius, once pronounced Kant's _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_ 'very amusing'--a surely unique criticism--simply, it would seem, because it was eccentric enough not to take Catholicism as a primary postulate: I do not myself happen to have any information about Kant's musicianship--perhaps, like too many great thinkers, he knew little about music and cared less--but I think we may venture to say, in the abstract, that his philosophy would have made him fairer to Franck than Franck was to him. And thus perhaps we may conclude that recent musical development has kept pace with religious development in concentrating more and more on individual sincerity, whether on the one side or the other, and abandoning the old easy-going haphazard routine. But, in reaction from the extreme right and the extreme left of the movement, we have also the sincere dislikers of stark thinking, whom their opponents call by dignified names of abuse, such as pragmatists or undenominationalists: and here again music keeps pace with religion. It is not the old routine again (though perhaps in practice it may at times come rather perilously near it); it is the more or less conscious adoption of a compromise. We can see its musical working best of all in the recent history of church music in England; it is true that the great mass of the younger musicians, here as in all other countries, stand outside these developments, and look both for ideals and practice elsewhere, but the developments have none the less been very significant. There have been three stages. A couple of generations ago there was no conflict and no call for compromise. The ecclesiastical musician of the time was expected, whether as composer, as organist, or as administrator, to do his best according to his lights: it was his accepted business, as presumably knowing more about the matter than the artistic laity, to lead their taste, not to follow. Then came the reign of men like Dykes and Stainer and Gounod, whose normal attitude involved the sacrifice by the musician of some of his musicianship in the supposed interests of religion. The supposed interests, I say; for the whole point of the third stage of development, the conflict in which English church music is now involved, is the denial by one of the opposing parties that the interests of religion are in any way served by such a sacrifice. It is a very keen conflict, in which the sympathies of the musician _qua_ musician naturally lean towards those who uphold the inalienable dignity of his art: and even if he feels that ecclesiastical music, _qua_ ecclesiastical, is outside his personal concern, influences from it are bound to radiate into the secular departments. But what I would more especially point out is that the religious and the musical developments proceed side by side. Just as the stricter purists in the one field are, in the other, generally inclined, even if themselves unmusical, to uphold plain-song and the Elizabethans and only such modern work as is inspired by something like a similar spirit, aloof and strong, so those whose religious mentality is of a more pliable type are, if musically indifferent, generally inclined to uphold the practical accommodation afforded by the inclusion of at any rate a certain quantity of music that is consciously adapted to the more immediately obvious emotions of the average worshipper. And, even if there is no question of a lowered artistic standard, we see, I think, the same spirit of compromise, of ready acceptance of the more immediately obvious as the average and proper norm for all people, elsewhere on the boundaries of musical and religious life. It is so easy to turn a blind eye to logic and minorities, or even to majorities if they have little pressure, social or other, to back them up. To illustrate from one or two English examples, the transformations of cathedrals into secular concert-rooms are as open to blame from the one side as are, from the other, such assumptions as that of the 'Union of Graduates in Music' to take rank as a definitely ecclesiastical, indeed an Anglican society. Again, it so happens that a somewhat exceptional proportion of English musicians hold, or have held, as conditions of livelihood, posts to which not all of them would have aspired had other channels, open to their foreign fellow-artists, been open to them also; and, as a necessary consequence, there is more probability here than elsewhere of the musical profession presenting practical problems for the intellectual conscience to solve. So far as the musician is a personal non-conformer and also a teacher (even if not a church organist), he is often compelled into a tacit agreement with the Cowper-Temple clause, at the least: and so far as he is a convinced conformer, he is often compelled to strain, far beyond the meaning of the parable, the principle of letting the wheat and the tares grow together. This is called a practical age: and the compromisers, in religion and in religious music, are a powerful force. But I would venture to think that the future lies, in the long run, in other hands than theirs. To the mediaeval musician, religion and science were the twin foundations of his art. But while the influence of religious development can without difficulty be traced in musical history, the influence of scientific development is much more contestable. It may indeed, I think, be said that post-mediaeval music has gone its own way without considering science at all. Theorists of course there have been, and still are, who try to discover scientific foundations for the art of music as we moderns know it: they do their best to correlate mathematical physics with practical composition. But during the past generation these attempts, never very hopeful, have become much less so. It is only too easy to play scientific havoc with the foundations of modern music: but, arbitrary and scientifically indefensible though they may be, they are our inheritance. Music has come to be what it is by methods that will not bear accurate investigation: our tonal systems are mere makeshifts, and no composer can completely express his thoughts in our clumsy notation. I doubt if, throughout all this last generation that has seen such overwhelming scientific advance, music has really been scientifically affected (in the strict sense of the word) in the slightest degree, if we exclude some interesting experiments in sympathetic resonances, primary and secondary, at which some recent composers for the piano have, at present rather tentatively, tried their hands. And whole-tone and duodecuple scales and modern harmony in general are taking us farther and farther away from those natural laws of the vibrating string upon which arm-chair theorists have sought to build a very top-heavy edifice. Of course, the vibrating string ultimately gives--mostly out of tune--all the notes of the chromatic scale, but composers employ them on principles the reverse of mathematical. The growth of music has not been scientific; but growth of some kind is evident enough, though it is none too easy to define it at all adequately. Some might say, with Romain Rolland in his _Musiciens d'autrefois_, that 'the efforts of the centuries have not advanced us a step nearer beauty since the days of St. Gregory and Palestrina'; but this is surely a narrow outlook. Beauty combines the many with the one: and plain-song and the _Missa Papae Marcelli_ show us only a few, a very few, of its manifestations. But artistic progress is, anyhow, very subtle and evasive; and musical progress, in particular, is hardly correctable with any other. Above all, we must recollect that, to us Europeans, music--which, in the only sense worth our present consideration, is an exclusively European product--is incalculably the youngest of the great arts; if we exclude some monophonic conceptions that have still their value for us, it is barely five hundred years old at the most. During the last generation an advance in material complexity is obvious, even though the complexity may often enough be one of accidentals rather than essentials. An orchestral score of Wagner is relatively simple in comparison with one of Delius or Ravel or Scriabin or Stravinsky or Schönberg; and the demands on performers' technique and also on their intelligence have steadily increased to heights altogether unknown before. The composer has at his present disposal a vastly enlarged medium; the possibilities of sound have developed incalculably more than those of paint or stone or marble. Pheidias could, we may imagine, have appreciated Rodin across a gulf of over two thousand years; but it is difficult to see the points of contact, after little over three hundred years, between Palestrina and any twentieth-century work that would claim to be 'in the movement'. And it is not only in complexity that we have advanced. We have extended the limits of musical style. We have adopted in sober earnest methods forecasted at rare intervals in the past by adventurous explorers, and employ musical notes not as elements in any harmonic scheme but purely as points of colour, exactly as if the definite notes were mere clangs of indefinite instruments like cymbals or triangles. Wordless vocal tone, moreover, of several different types, is pressed into the same service. Varied tonal and harmonic colour, and structural freedom: those are the two battle-cries of the young generation. Little by little the old tonalities, based as they were on fixed centres, are slipping away; all the notes of the chromatic scale are acquiring even status; the principles of structure are newborn with every new work. And advance of this kind has been extraordinarily accelerated during the last twenty years. At no time in musical history have there been such express-speed modifications of manner as those which divide, let us say, the latest piano pieces of Brahms (1893) and the latest of Scriabin (1914). It is possible, indeed, that our standard system of keyboard tuning may require modification in the not very distant future. Once again, as three hundred years ago, music seems to be in the throes of a new birth. On the former occasion, the process of convalescence lasted rather more than a century, from Monteverde through Carissimi and Schütz and Purcell to Bach; and it may perhaps take as long now. But it is plain enough that mere novelty does not involve progress; if it were so, the music of the casually strumming baby would demand high recognition. Nor is progress to be found in merely quantitative, Brobdingnagian expansion. And when we have taken our stand on what seems a sufficiently sound definition of musical progress in its material aspect--the combination of novelty with expansion, the new thought with its appropriately enlarged medium--we have yet to remember that many very fine composers still can, and do, express their natural and full selves in older idioms, and that progress of this kind, however widespread it may become, is not necessarily advance in the scale of values. There is, somewhere or other, a limit to the cubic capacity of things: they cannot increase indefinitely in depth and breadth at once. We may confidently hope that we have not yet musically come within hailing distance of the limit: but nevertheless it is becoming more and more difficult to see music steadily and see it whole, and it is useful to take stock of our position. Our musical minds are very much broader than they were: in that sense we can well, like the heroes of Homer, boast that we are much better than our fathers. But are they also deeper? We have gained access to many new rooms in the house of art, rooms full of strange and beautiful things, for the knowledge of which we must needs be profoundly and lastingly grateful; but some of the rooms seem rather small and their windows do not seem to have been opened very often, while others seem liable to be swept by hurricanes which upset the furniture right and left. Veterans there are, musicians not to be named except with high honour, who fall back for nutriment on the great classics and pessimism; but our notions of beauty cannot stand still, and in all ages of music one of the most vital tasks of criticism has been to distinguish between the relatively non-beautiful which has character and truth and its superficial imitation which has neither. All musicians very well recollect their first bewilderment at what has afterwards become as clear as daylight. But we must retain our standards of judgement. We have no right to criticize without familiarity, but we must remember that over-familiarity, mere dulled habitual acceptance, means equal incapacity for criticism. If, after trying our utmost, we still cannot see any sense in some of these modernist pages, there is no reason why we should not say so; it is quite possible that there really is no sense in them, and that the composer is perfectly aware of the fact. Odd stories float about the artistic world. And if the anarchists call us philistines and the philistines call us anarchists, it is fairly likely that we are seeing things pretty much as they are. Moreover, it is worth remembering that a good deal of what is loosely called modernism is in reality very much the reverse. There is nothing progressive in the confusion of processes with principles, in the breathless disregard of the larger issues. Take the ideal of 'direct expression of emotion', the attempt to give, as Pater said half a century ago, 'the highest quality to our moments as they pass and simply for those moments' sake'. Musically, it is a return to the childhood of our race, to the natural savage. If a musical composition is to consist of anything more than one isolated noise, it must inevitably have a form of some kind, its component parts must look backward and forward. The latter-day composers who speak of Form as a kind of bogey that they have at last exorcized remind us of those latter-day thinkers who boast that they have abolished metaphysics. We cannot leap off our shadows; if we try, we shall only find that we are left with a residuum of bad metaphysics or bad musical form--as thoroughly bad as the metaphysics and the musical form that have resulted from the confusion of the one with empty word-spinning and of the other with hide-bound pedantry. Again, much of the modern rhythmical complexity strongly resembles, in essence, the machine-made experiments of mediaeval times; and the peculiarly fashionable trick of shifting identical chords up and down the scale--the clothes'-peg conception of harmony, so to speak--is a mere throw-back still farther, to Hucbald and the diaphony of a thousand years ago. And the insistence, now so common, on the decorative side of music, the conscious preference of the sensuous to the intellectual or emotional elements, brings us back to our own infancy, with its unreflecting delight in things that sparkle prettily or are soft to the touch or sweet to the taste. It is a reaction from sentimentality, no doubt, but is a reaction to an equal extreme, a perversion of the truth that great art never wholly gives itself away. As Vincent d'Indy has justly pointed out, the 'sensualist formula'--'all for and by harmony'--is as much an aberration of good sense as the parallel formula of the ultra-melodic schools of Rossini and Donizetti: in either case it means the sacrifice of spaciousness to immediate effect, the supremacy of sensation over the equilibrium of the heart and the intelligence. Not of course that any music lacks the sensuous element; but it is a matter of proportion. And very distinguished as are many of the modern exponents of this side of things, history tells us, I think, that they are working in a blind alley. They have their supporters, no doubt. M. Jean-Aubry, in his very suggestive and valuable book on modern French musicians, has used a phrase that seems to me worth remembering; he speaks of the 'obsession of intellectual chastity' which, to his mind, disfigures the work of César Franck and other great composers whom he therefore rejects from his latter-day Pantheon. I am glad to think that Franck would have gloried in this shame. He, and a very goodly company with him, knew that music was, at its highest, something better than an entertainment, however thrilling or however refined. But, whatever critics and composers may feel about musical progress, it is, as Wagner said, in the home of the amateur that music is really kept alive, and the amateur's music depends very largely on the schools. A generation ago music was certainly sociologically selfish. Musicians had not realized that all classes of the community were open to the influences of fine music, if only they had the opportunities for knowing it. But since then there have been very great advances, both quantitative and qualitative, in musical education. We have spread it broadcast, in the increasing faith that appreciation depends, not on technical knowledge or executive skill, but on the responsive temperament and the will to understand. Familiarity, familiarity at home if possible, is the key to this understanding; and in this connexion there is, I believe, an enormous educational future before pianolas and gramophones, if only the preparation of their records can be taken in hand on artistic rather than narrowly commercial lines. And our standards of judgement have risen: we do not worship quite so blindly mere names, whether of the past or of the present, nor exalt the performer quite so dizzily above what is performed. Nor do we quite so glibly disguise our indifference to vital distinctions by talking about differences of taste: we know that, however catholic we may rightly be within the limits of the good, whether grave or gay, there comes sooner or later, in our judgement of musical as of all other spiritual values, a point where we must put our foot down. We are going on, and our theories are sound enough: but the path of a democratically widened, and rightly so widened, art is by no means easy. The principle of levelling up slides so readily into the practice of levelling down: and the book of music is closed once for all if we are to accept the plenary inspiration of majorities. But here in England the greatest danger to musical progress is, I venture to think, the self-styled practical Englishman--fortified as he is by the consciousness that, for at any rate a couple of centuries or more, we have as a nation taken a low view of the arts and have been rather proud of it than otherwise. It is so obvious that no profession is economically more unsound than that of the serious composer: it is not so obvious that we owe all the great things of the spirit by which we chiefly live to those whom the world calls dreamers, among whom the great musicians have had, and, I hope and believe, will always have, no mean place. Against the 'practical Englishman', and all that his attitude to music involves, we can all of us fight in our respective spheres: and I would commend to you for useful weapons three very different books by very different men--Sir Hubert Parry's great book on _Style in Musical Art_, Mr. C.T. Smith's account of his artistic work in an elementary school in the East End of London which he calls _The Music of Life_, and a pamphlet _Starved Arts mean Low Pleasures_ recently written by Mr. Bernard Shaw for the British Music Society. And one particular line of indirect attack, easily open to all of us, is, I am inclined to think, specially promising. In the third and fourth verses of the thirty-fifth chapter of the book of Ecclesiasticus we shall find these injunctions, which I translate as literally as Greek epigrams can be translated: 'Do not hinder music: do not pour out chatter during any artistic performance: and do not argue unseasonably.' In other words, conversation, however valuable, prevents complete listening to music; and music that is not meant to be listened to in its completeness is not worth calling music, and had much better not be there at all. Musical progress will be spiritually well on its way when we all realize this axiomatic truth as firmly as this Hebrew sage of two thousand years and more ago. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 71: _The Times_, April 17, 1919.] XII THE MODERN RENASCENCE F. MELIAN STAWELL To understand in any degree the modern outlook on life it seems necessary to go back to the time of the French Revolution. For at that stirring epoch there flamed up in the minds of enthusiasts an ideal of man's life larger than had ever yet been known, and one that has dominated us all ever since. If we give, as I think we should give, a wide sense to the word 'Liberty' and make it mean all that stands for self-development, then one may say that this ideal was fairly well summed-up in the famous Revolutionary watchword, 'Liberty, Equality, Fraternity'. It is impossible at any rate to read the idealists of that time and its sequel--say from 1793 to 1848--whether in France, Germany, England, or Italy, whether inside or outside the Revolutionary ranks, without feeling their buoyant hope that a fresh era was opening in which man, casting aside old shackles and prejudices, could advance at once towards knowledge, joy, splendour, both for himself and all his fellows. Shelley, perhaps, is most typical of what I mean. Hogg laughed at him for his belief in the 'perfectibility' of the race, but Hogg knew the belief was vital to the poet. To Shelley it was a damnable doctrine that the many should ever be sacrificed to the few: yet neither was the ultimate vision that inspired him the vision of the few being sacrificed for the many. He was anything but an ascetic seeking martyrdom. The martyrdom of his Prometheus is a prelude to the Unbinding when happiness shall flood the world:-- 'The joy, the triumph, the delight, the madness! The boundless, overflowing, bursting gladness, The vaporous exultation not to be confined!' And not only happiness and love, but knowledge also: the Earth calls to the Sky: 'Heaven, hast thou secrets? Man unveils me; I have none.' Soberer spirits shared this poet's ecstasy. Wordsworth sang 'Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven.' And that heaven was exactly this foretaste of the Spirit of Man entering undisturbed into his full inheritance at last: Science welcomed as a dear and honoured guest, Poetry known as 'the breath and finer spirit that is in the countenance of all knowledge'. It is scarcely necessary even to mention the high hopes of the French themselves, the confident anticipation of an Age of Reason when all men should be brothers and the earth bring forth all her treasures, but it is well worth noting the attitude of Goethe, an attitude the more significant because, in a sense, Goethe always stood outside the French Revolution. But he, like the best of its votaries--and this is less known than it should be--desired the development of all men every whit as much as he desired the high culture of a few. It was for the double goal that he worked. 'Only through all men,' he writes in a notable passage, 'only through all men, can mankind be made.'[72] All good lies in Man, he tells us again, and must be developed, 'only not in one man, but in many'. Goethe, the so-called aristocrat, has given us here as true a formula for the democratic faith as could well be found. And to him, as to Shelley and to Wordsworth, Poetry and Science were not enemies but friends dearer than sisters. Those three, Shelley, Wordsworth, and Goethe, foreshadowed a new poetry of science that has never yet been achieved, though fine work has been done by Tennyson, Whitman, Sully Prudhomme, and Meredith. Goethe, moreover, again like Shelley and the French, broke with all ideals of mere self-abnegation. In his poem, 'General Confession', he makes his disciples repent of ever having missed an opportunity for enjoyment and resolve never so to offend again. Here, as often, Goethe comes into the closest touch with our modern feeling. We, too, can never return to the Franciscan ideal of poverty, celibacy, and obedience as the highest life for man on earth. We have done with self-denial except as the means to a human end. We are still in the tide of what I would call the Modern Renascence; we claim the whole garden of the world for our own, the tree with the knowledge of good and evil included, reacting even from Christian ideals if they can make no room for that. But, after all, the characteristic of the belief dominant a century ago was exactly that such room could be made, that Hellenism could be combined with Christianity, and self-development with self-denial. And this belief is, I think, reflected in the music of the time. Schubert, that sweetest soul of tears and laughter, understands every shade of wistfulness, and yet again and again in his music it seems as though the universe had become, to quote a lover of his, one immense and glorious blackbird. Mozart, in 'The Magic Flute', as Goethe seems to have recognized, sings the very song of union between the unreflecting joy of the natural man and the strenuous self-devotion of the awakened spirit. Beethoven, greatest of them all, plumbs the lowest depths of suffering and then astounds and comforts us by ineffable vistas of happiness. After years of personal misery he crowns the glorious series of his symphonies by the one that ends in a hymn of joy, freedom, and faith, embracing the whole world--'Diese Kuss der ganzen Welt'--that majestic open melody, clear as the morning, fresh as though it came from far oversea, greater even than any of the great harmonies that have gone before, larger than the tortured human heart, steadier than the sudden ecstasy of the spirits set free, stronger than the swansong of the dying, a melody content with earth because it is conscious of heaven. I offer no apology for weaving my own fairy-tales round such music: I see no harm in the practice, but only good, so long as we understand what we are about. Music, it is true, is something other than, in a sense more than, either thought or feeling or even poetry, and cannot be reduced to any of them (nor any of them to it). The universe would be poor indeed if it could be so. But none the less the truth may be, as Spinoza thought, that the universe is at once a unity and a unity with many facets, so that any one facet, while for ever unique, can bring to our minds all the mysteries of the rest. In any case, the high confidence that breathes in the music of a hundred years ago meets us again in the philosophers. Hegel, born in the same year as Beethoven and Wordsworth (1770), is sure that nothing can resist the onslaught of man's spirit. 'Stronger than the gates of Hell are the gates of Thought.' Fichte is convinced that there waits in man, only to be developed, a power that will unite him with all other men and at the same time develop his own personality to the full. In a sense, the deepest, each man _is_ his fellow-men, and they are he. How much this conception has affected modern thought can be seen in a recent and very remarkable book, _The New State_,[73] where the very basis of democracy is shown to be the faith in this essential unity, a unity to be worked out, not yet realized, but capable of realization, a faith stirring all through the modern world, in ways expected and unexpected, from Syndicalism to the League of Nations. Later than Hegel and Fichte, the great Positivist conception of life preached by Comte is instinct with this belief that man united with his fellows, and only as so united, can attain heights undreamt-of and unlimited. The flood-tide of this faith flowed far into the nineteenth century. The Italian Mazzini, leader of revolt in 1848, was filled with it. Prophet of the most generous political gospel ever preached, he lived on the hope that, if freedom were given to the nations and duty set before them, they would prove worthy of their double mission, and peace would come to pass between all peoples. But even Mazzini had his moments of agonizing doubt. And others beside him, men of lesser intellect as well as greater, were soon to raise, or had already raised, voices, stern or fretful, of protest and criticism. It became clear at last that this joyous confidence rested on a very definite view of life and one that might easily be challenged, the view, namely, that at bottom the universe meant well to man, that his greatest aspirations were compatible with each other and nowise beyond attainment. Almost from the first there were men of the modern world who did challenge this. Byron and Schopenhauer are significant figures, both born in the same year, only eighteen years later than the great Three of 1770, Wordsworth, Hegel, and Beethoven. Byron is full of moody questionings, Schopenhauer of much more than questionings. Against the dauntless optimism of Hegel, he flatly denies that the universe is good, or happiness possible for man. On the contrary, at the heart of it and of him there lies an infinite unrest, never to be quieted until man himself gives up the Will to Live and sinks back into the Unconscious from which he came. Now after Schopenhauer came Nietzsche, and though Nietzsche's influence may have been exaggerated, yet undeniably it has been of immense importance both for Germany and Europe. He is typical of the change that begins to appear about the middle of the century. Reacting from the optimism of the idealists (which seemed to him both smug and false), Nietzsche welcomed Schopenhauer's more Spartan view with a kind of fierce delight. But his criticism of Schopenhauer was fierce too, and he gave a strangely different turn to such parts of the doctrine as he did accept. To Schopenhauer, since it was folly to hope for real happiness in this life or any other, the wise course would be to kill outright, so far as possible, the Will to Live itself. To Nietzsche the wise course was to assert life, to claim it more and more abundantly, to face this tragic show with a courage so high that it could be gay, a courage that could do without happiness, and yet that turned aside from none of life's joys simply because they were fleeting, that was more than content to 'live dangerously', picking flowers, as it were, clear-eyed, on the edge of the precipice. And this not merely in the temper of 'Let us eat and drink, for to-morrow we die.' For him the motto would have run, 'Let us be up and doing, for to-morrow we die', sustained by the belief that the heroic struggle now would lead inevitably to the production of a nobler type of man, a man who would be something more than man--the Super-man, to give him the name that every reader knows, if he knows nothing else about Nietzsche. Even this short statement shows how Nietzsche shared the admiration for life and power characteristic of what I have called the Modern Renascence, and how deeply he was influenced by the doctrine of Evolution, and that in a not unhopeful form, the hope for an advance in the race at least, if not in the individuals now living. And it shows too how mistaken those are who see in him nothing but a preacher of brutal egotism. If he had been only that, he would never have won the influence he possessed and possesses. Yet there is important truth in the cursory popular judgement. If his teaching has its heroic side, a side that has enabled him to give succour to many when other and sweeter gospels are spurned as flattering unctions, he has also a most ruthless element. And this partly because of his very sincerity. Accept the doctrine that men and women perish like candles blown out in the night, accept it really and fully, with intellect, imagination, and feeling, and then see how much light-heartedness can be got out of life, if we still allow ourselves to pity men. Nietzsche had intellect, imagination, and feeling, and he saw plainly enough that, while even in such a universe there could be a grim happiness for the lives of heroes, there could be nothing but infinite sadness for the countless failures who have never been either happy or heroic. There was no immortality; these wretched beings would never have another chance. If joy was to be kept (and Nietzsche was avid for joy), if the universe was to be accepted (and Nietzsche desired above all to say Yes! to the universe), then he must root out pity from his heart as an unmanly weakness. In this way was sharpened the ruthlessness and savage arrogance latent in the man, a ruthlessness and an arrogance that have done so much harm both to his country and the world. In fairness, we must add that Nietzsche could not succeed in his own attempt; the struggle tore him to pieces and he died in madness. But it is above all instructive to contrast him here with several of his contemporaries and successors. Browning in England, Walt Whitman in America, facing the same problems of joy and struggle, of life and death, of the few great and the many commonplace, of Man himself and the Nature that seems at once his mother and his enemy, refused to give up the hope of a solution, nay, they were sure they had found a solution, and for them it was bound up with the hope of immortality. They go even beyond the earlier men in their insistence on the double ideal of Paganism and Christianity, but they have an insistence of their own on the belief in unending life as alone giving man elbow-room, so to speak, for working out his destiny. Browning claims eternity as the due of every man, however mean; and if Whitman feels his foothold 'tenon'd and mortised in granite', it is because he can 'laugh at dissolution' and knows 'the amplitude of time'. But in such insistence and such conviction they have not been followed, speaking broadly, by our leading writers since. On the other hand, they have been so followed, again speaking broadly, in their loyalty to the twofold ideal. Here and there, no doubt, as I have said, writers like Nietzsche, on the one hand, have tried to be satisfied with the splendid development of a Few, or, on the other hand, like Tolstoy, have flung back in a kind of despair to the old ideal of abnegation, of sheer brotherly love and nothing else, turning their backs on all splendours of art, knowledge, or delight, that do not directly minister to the one thing they hold needful. But the earlier and wider ideal, the ideal of our Renascence, once envisaged by man, that has not been lost, and I believe never can be lost. Its own greatness will keep the foremost men true to it. Meredith is one of the men I mean. He is full of pity, but he does not only pity men and women--he wants them to grow, and to grow for themselves. His whole attitude towards Woman shows this: for the women's movement is nothing more and nothing less, as Ibsen also felt, than one big stream of the general movement towards liberty and self-determination. So far Meredith marches with Browning and Whitman. But he will never commit himself about immortality. It seems enough for him to take part in the struggle for a finer life, at once heroic and tender, not caring overmuch whether we reach it or no. 'Spirit raves not for a goal' is one of his hard and characteristic sayings, and here he seems to me typical both of modern thought in general and especially of English thought, and that both for good and ill. We see in him the want of precision, the lack of logical coherence, that have prevented us from ever producing a philosopher of the first rank. At the same time there is something true and profound in his instinct that the moment has not yet come in which to formulate our faith. We all feel that we are on the brink of tremendous, perhaps terrifying, discoveries; we resent any cut-and-dried solution, however pleasant, perhaps all the more if it is pleasant, and we resent it because we feel that at bottom our hopes would be travestied by any conception we, with our little intellect and minute knowledge, could at present frame. It was once said to me by a far-seeing friend[74] that the modern dislike of church-going, the modern incapacity to write a long coherent poem, the modern passion for music and for realism, even for sordid realism, all sprang from the same roots, from the thirst for an infinite harmony, the belief that everything was somehow involved in that harmony, and the conviction that all systems, as yet made or makeable, were entirely inadequate. And to the list we may add, I think, the modern passion for history and for science. We study history not merely to be warned by failures or inspired by shining examples: at bottom we have a belief that somehow the lives and struggles of those men in the distant past are still quite as important as our own. We follow the discoveries of science not only for their commercial value or because we share the excitement of the chase, but because, deeper than all, we suspect that the universe is a glorious thing. And there is another matter, perhaps the most important of all, on which I would dwell as I draw to a close, where Meredith leads directly to the dominant thought of the present day. I mean his feeling that, if the universe is to be proved acceptable to man's conscience, it will be through the effort of man himself struggling towards his own ideal. It is as though the world itself had to be redeemed by man. This hope is the real hope of our time. So far as the modern world believes the doctrine of the Incarnation, it is in this sense that it believes. And this belief we find everywhere in all hopeful writers, great or small. It gives dignity to the latest writings of H.G. Wells, this faith in a spirit moving in man greater than man himself, worthy to fight and fit to overcome all that is wrong in the universe. Bernard Shaw's creed is just the same, sometimes thinly disguised under respect for 'the Life-Force', sometimes coming boldly forward in audacious, profound assertions that God needs Man to accomplish His own will and is helpless without him. 'There is something I want to do,' Shaw imagines his God as saying, 'and I don't know what it is; I must make a brain, the human brain, to find it out.' Rodin modelled a mighty hand, the Hand of God, holding within it Man and Woman. Shaw, it is reported, asked the sculptor: 'I suppose you meant your own hand after all?' 'Yes,' said Rodin, 'as the tool.' The same idea is at the base of what is most stimulating in Bergson, the idea of what he calls Creative Evolution, an undefined splendour not yet fully existing, but, as it were, crying out to be born, and only to be born through the struggle of man's spirit with matter. This is one function of matter, perhaps the supreme function, to be the material through which alone man's vague ideal can become definite and actual, just as an artist can only get close to his own conception through the effort to embody it in visible form or audible sound. From this point of view, the world is conceived as anything but ready-made, rather it is in the process of making, and we ourselves are among the makers. Or, to take a metaphor that perhaps appeals more to the modern world, it is a fight, and an unfinished fight. To quote William James, 'It _feels_ like a real fight--as if there were something really wild in the universe which we, with all our idealities and faithfulnesses, are needed to redeem; and first of all to redeem our own hearts from atheisms and fears.' He goes on to confess that he himself does not know, and certainly cannot prove scientifically, that the redemption will surely be accomplished. Such proof, he admits, 'may not be clear before the day of judgement (or some stage of being which that expression may serve to symbolize)'. 'But the faithful fighters of this hour, or the beings that then and there will represent them, may turn to the faint-hearted, who here decline to go on, with words like those with which Henry IV greeted the tardy Crillon after a great battle had been gained: "Hang yourself, brave Crillon! We fought at Arques, and you were not there!"'[75] Thus, if the idea of the splendour and perfection of the universe has sunk into the background, if the sense of worship and the feeling of ecstasy have been dimmed (and I think they have), at least the reverence for heroism and for tenderness has not been impaired, and there after all lies the root of human majesty. There is deep pathos in the change, but maybe, paradoxical as it sounds, deep hope as well. The world may grow the stronger for having to live now by what Carlyle called 'desperate hope' as distinct from 'hoping hope'. The triumphant harmony that seemed attained a century ago by certain poets and thinkers may have been, after all, too cheap and easy, if not for their own large spirits, at least for us, their lesser readers. Mystics have spoken of 'The Dark Night of the Soul' as the stage inevitable before the crowning glory, and to-day some of those who call to us out of great darkness are among our greatest leaders. Of such certainly is a living writer, now beginning to be acclaimed as he deserves, the writer Conrad. In some ways this noble novelist might stand as the special representative of modern feeling. A Pole by birth and more than half an Englishman by sympathy, his view of life is as wide as it is profound and grave. It has all the sternness of temper of which I have spoken, the determination to look facts in the face whatever the consequences. Conrad would echo Sartor's noble cry for Truth--'Truth! though the Heavens crush me for following her;--no Falsehood! though a whole celestial Lubberland were the price of Apostasy!' This determination is fierce enough to be taken for cynicism, but Conrad is far too tender ever to be a cynic. So also does his pitifulness prevent him from ever falling into the errors of a Nietzsche, but none the less he has all Nietzsche's ardour for heroism. That to him is the core of life:--'to face it.' 'Keep on facing it,' so the old skipper tells the young mate in _Typhoon_. And facing the mysterious universe, peering into the Darkness with steady alert eyes, Conrad has at once an endless wistfulness and, or so it seems to me, a secret unquenchable hope. Doubt certainly he has in plenty. The sea of which he is always dreaming is terrible and cruel in his eyes as well as august and ennobling. But he is sure of one thing: it is through the struggle with it and such as it that man alone can become Man. It is through facing the horrors of a dead calm, with a sick crew on board and no medicine, that the young master of the sailing-vessel in the Pacific crosses successfully the Shadow Line that divides youth from manhood. And it is through facing the unleashed fury of the tornado that the old captain of the 'full-powered steam-ship' in _Typhoon_ shows what he has in him, compassion and kindness as well as shrewd knowledge of men, expert seamanship, and indomitable heroism. The whole thing is driven home with a power, an incisiveness, and a delicate irradiating humour which I should despair of conveying by mere criticism. The book must be read for itself, and read again and again. It is told, in one way, simply as a sailor's yarn, but it awakes in us the feeling that the struggle is a symbol of man's life. Threatened by the advancing cyclone, Captain MacWhirr, 'the stupid man' of no imagination, decides, almost instinctively, that the only thing to be done is to keep up steam and face the wind. By sheer force of personality he holds the crew together and carries the ship through. And in the desperate struggle, every nerve on the strain for hours that seem unending, MacWhirr finds time to care for the miserable pack of terrified coolies on board, who have given way to panic and are fighting madly in the hold. MacWhirr stops this, brings about order and a chance for the Chinese, when the rest of his men, fine men as most of them are, can think of nothing but the safety of the ship. 'Had to do what's fair for all,' he mumbles stolidly to his clever grumbling mate, Jukes, during a dead lull in the storm--'they are only Chinamen. Give them the same chance with ourselves' ... 'Couldn't let that go on in my ship, if I knew she hadn't five minutes to live. Couldn't bear it, Mr. Jukes.' He does not know whether the ship will be lost or not--(and we do not know whether mankind will be lost or not)--what he does know is how he must act. But also he never loses hope. 'She may come out of it yet': that is the kind of answer the taciturn man gives when driven to speech. The chief mate, locked in his captain's arms to brace himself against the hurricane, scarcely able to make the other hear in the terrific gale though he shouts close to his head, gets back such answers, and with them the power to endure. He tells him the boats are gone: the captain yells back sensibly, 'Can't be helped.' And so noble is the power with which Conrad uses our tongue, the tongue he has made his own by adoption and genius, that I must let him speak for himself, and can find no better close for my own lame words. Jukes has been shouting to his captain again: 'And again he heard that voice, forced and ringing feebly, but with a penetrating effect of quietness in the enormous discord of noises, as if sent out from some remote spot of peace beyond the black wastes of the gale; again he heard a man's voice--the frail and indomitable sound that can be made to carry an infinity of thought, resolution, and purpose, that shall be pronouncing confident words on the last day, when heavens fall and justice is done--again he heard it, and it was crying to him, as if from very, very far--"All right."' FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 72: _Wilhelm Meister's Lehrjahre_, Bk. 8, c. 5.] [Footnote 73: By M.P. Follett (Longmans).] [Footnote 74: Professor A.C. Bradley, to whom also is due the passage about Schubert and the parallel drawn between Beethoven, Hegel, and Wordsworth.] [Footnote 75: From _The Will to Believe_, quoted in Bridges' _The Spirit of Man_, No. 425.] 
37865	----	STUDIES IN MEDIÆVAL LIFE AND LITERATURE BY EDWARD TOMPKINS MCLAUGHLIN PROFESSOR OF RHETORIC AND BELLES-LETTRES IN YALE UNIVERSITY [Decoration] G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK LONDON 27 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET 24 BEDFORD STREET, STRAND The Knickerbocker Press 1894 COPYRIGHT, 1894 BY SARAH B. MCLAUGHLIN _Entered at Stationers' Hall, London_ BY G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS Electrotyped, Printed and Bound by The Knickerbocker Press, New York G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS [Decoration] CONTENTS. PAGE INTRODUCTION v THE MEDIÆVAL FEELING FOR NATURE 1 ULRICH VON LIECHTENSTEIN: THE MEMOIRS OF AN OLD GERMAN GALLANT 34 NEIDHART VON REUENTHAL AND HIS BAVARIAN PEASANTS 71 MEIER HELMBRECHT: A GERMAN FARMER OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY 100 CHILDHOOD IN MEDIÆVAL LITERATURE 123 A MEDIÆVAL WOMAN 152 APPENDIX 183 [Decoration] [Decoration] INTRODUCTION. Edward Tompkins McLaughlin, the writer of the essays contained in this volume, was born at Sharon, Connecticut, on May 28, 1860. He was the son of the Reverend D. D. T. McLaughlin, a graduate of Yale College of the class of 1834. His mother's maiden name was Mary Whittlesey Brownell. She was the daughter of the Reverend Grove L. Brownell, who was settled for many years over the Congregational church of Cromwell, Connecticut. Thus it will be seen that the author of this work belonged on both sides to what Oliver Wendell Holmes has aptly called the Brahman caste of New England. At the time of his birth his father was pastor of the Congregational church of Sharon, Connecticut, but in 1866 left that place for Morris in the same county. There he remained until 1872 when he gave up parish duties entirely, and retired to Litchfield, which he thenceforward made his permanent home. With the exception of a short time spent in the Litchfield Academy, the son was fitted for college almost wholly by his father, who was himself a finished scholar in Latin and Greek. He entered Yale in the autumn of 1879, and received the degree of A.B. in 1883. From the very beginning of his university life he was distinguished for his interest in English literature, and during the entire course of it displayed remarkable proficiency in the pursuit of that study. To him, before his graduation, fell the highest honors which the college has to bestow in that department. After receiving his bachelor's degree he remained another year in New Haven as a graduate student. During that time he devoted himself with increased ardor to the special branches of study in which from the outset he had been interested. In the following year he was made tutor in English. This position he held until 1890, when he was appointed assistant professor of the same subject. At the meeting of the Corporation of the University in May, 1893, he was elected by it to the chair of Rhetoric and Belles-Lettres. Happily married to a wife of congenial tastes, who speedily learned to sympathize with him in the studies which he had made peculiarly his own, he had every reason to expect a long career of usefulness, which would be attended with distinction to himself and would confer distinction upon the institution with which he was connected. But his health had never been vigorous, and in the very summer vacation following his appointment a fever, which came upon him almost without warning, and which seemed at first of slight importance, carried him off after an illness that lasted little more than a week. He died on the 25th of July, 1893, at the age of thirty-three. He lies buried at Litchfield. Such is a brief sketch of the life of the author of this volume. He had at the time of his death many projects on hand, some partly carried out, some only in contemplation. In 1893 he had edited a volume of selections from English writers under the title of _Literary Criticism for Students_; and since his death a school-edition of Marlowe's _Edward II._, prepared by him, but left mainly in manuscript, has come from the press. But these were in a measure tasks imposed upon him by the needs of students, and not those undertaken in consequence of his own inclinations. During the last year of his life, however, he had been devoting himself to the preparation for publication of the following essays. He had long been a student of mediæval literature, not merely of that found in the English tongue, but of the much fuller and more varied work that had been produced at an early period on the continent. The writers of France, of Germany, and of Italy, belonging to that period, were in truth so familiar to him that he was sometimes disposed to assume that general acquaintance with them on the part of others which it is the fortune of but few to possess. Some results of this study he now set about putting into permanent form. The first rough draft of the essays here printed had been finished when the fatal illness fell upon him that carried him away. There is no intention of apologizing either for the matter or the manner of the pieces contained in this volume. They are in no need of it, and in any event what is published must stand or fall upon its own merits. Yet it is the barest justice to the author of these essays to state that not in a single instance do they represent the final form they would have assumed, had he lived to review and revise the first sketches he made. In the case of two of them, which were nearest to the condition in which they were ultimately to appear, evidences of their incompleteness in his own eyes are plainly seen in the manuscripts. Against particular passages and sometimes whole paragraphs there were marginal notes, indicating that the expression was to undergo alteration of various kinds. In several instances a place was marked for the insertion of a transition paragraph which had apparently never been written out, though its character was suggested. These, of course, had all to be disregarded. The condition of things, furthermore, was much worse with the four which had not been so fully completed as the two just mentioned. In the case of these the matter had to be collected and pieced together, at no slight expenditure of time and trouble, from scattered leaves of manuscript, in which it was not always easy to trace out the exact order. Unfortunately, one essay, intended to be the longest and most important of all, could not be included in this volume. Professor McLaughlin had been for many years an ardent admirer of Dante. To a study of the early life of the great Italian poet he had devoted years of patient research. It was the one subject in which he had the deepest interest, and upon which he had expended the most labor, and he purposed to make the essay dealing with it the principal piece in the work he was preparing. But, as was not unnatural, it was the one essay which needed most the revising hand of its composer. The gaps in it were too numerous and important to justify its insertion in the unfinished condition in which it existed, and this particular piece, upon which the author himself set most store, has been reluctantly laid aside. But while it is simple justice to state the facts just given, it must not be inferred that these essays, unfinished and even fragmentary as they might have seemed to the writer, will so appear to the reader. Few there will be who will detect that any part of them has failed to receive the full attention to which it is entitled. Nor is it likely, indeed, that the sentiments expressed in these essays would have undergone any material modification, whatever changes might have been made in the manner in which they were set forth. Doubtless some of the points now found in them would have been amplified, others would have been retrenched. Other views again, to which no allusion is made here, would have been introduced. Still, so complete in themselves are the essays in most particulars, that no thought of their incompleteness would have arrested the attention of any save the smallest possible number of readers, had not the condition in which they were left been mentioned in this introduction. But even had these essays needed much more than they do the revising hand of the author, none the less cordially would they have been received by those who were familiar with his personal presence. Especially is this true of students possessed of literary taste, who have been under his instruction, and it is largely in compliance with their wishes that the publication of this volume was determined upon. For as a teacher Professor McLaughlin, though still young, had attained eminence. He had in particular the rare quality of inspiring those under him with the same zeal for learning and the same love of literature that animated himself. The teacher of English, it must be confessed, has set before him a task of special difficulty. In the case of other tongues the business of translation, with the verbal and grammatical investigation implied by it, must always constitute the principal part of the work of preparation for the class-room; and the skill and knowledge with which it is performed will of necessity be the main element in testing the proficiency and success of the student. But in the case of English this main part of the usual preparation has been reduced to a minimum. The business has already been done at the pupil's hands. He knows, at least after a fashion, the meaning of the words, even if he does not always comprehend the meaning of the phrase or sentence as a whole in which they are found. The hard task is, therefore, given the teacher of English of starting in his instruction at the point where the teacher of other languages ends. He is, furthermore, to make his subject one of pleasure and profit to that select body of students, who are eager to gain from the pursuit of it all the benefit possible. He is at the same time expected to exact some degree of labor from those who, whether by their own fault or the fault of others, have no interest in this particular subject, if indeed they have interest in any subject whatever. The temptation naturally presents itself to sacrifice the former class to the latter. Especially does this appeal to instructors who are deficient in the literary sense, or who possessing it, lack the ability to arouse it in those under them. The easy process is resorted to of turning the study into one of a purely linguistic character, in which the discussion of words will take the place of the discussion of literature. This is a cheap though convenient method for the teacher to evade the real work he is called upon to perform, and while it may be followed by some incidental advantages, it is almost in the nature of a crime against letters to associate in the minds of young men, at the most impressionable period of their lives, the writings of a great author with a drill that is mainly verbal or philological. It was the rare fortune of Professor McLaughlin that he solved this problem, presented to every instructor in English, with a felicity that does not fall often to the lot of those engaged in the same occupation. It was not so much in imparting knowledge that his peculiar distinction lay; it was in his success in inspiring interest in the subject and zeal for its prosecution. It is, therefore, more especially to those who have been under his teaching that this little volume is addressed as a memorial of one to whom many will acknowledge is due the first bent their minds received to the study and appreciation of what is best and highest in literature. What its author would have accomplished with his remarkable powers of acquisition and assimilation, had he lived to carry out and perfect plans which he had in contemplation, it is idle to conjecture; and the world, which cares but little for what is actually done in the field in which he was largely working, cannot be expected to concern itself with that which was never more than projected. But there are some to whom the result of his labors, shown in this volume, will prove of interest for what it is; while to those who have known him personally, it will, even in its comparatively imperfect state, furnish a suggestive intimation of what might have been. T. R. LOUNSBURY YALE UNIVERSITY, March 22, 1894. [Decoration] MEDIÆVAL LIFE AND LITERATURE THE MEDIÆVAL FEELING FOR NATURE. On the 26th April, 1335, Mt. Ventoux, near Avignon, was the scene of a remarkable occurrence. Petrarch was the hero, and on the evening of that day, while the impression was yet strong upon him, he wrote an account of it to a friend. The incident was nothing less than climbing a mountain for æsthetic gratification. That he cared to do it showed that Petrarch was on the outskirts of mediævalism. The narrative is so interesting that I may translate a part of it; for the great humanist's letters are inaccessible to general readers. He says that he had thought of climbing the mountain for many years, since he had known the country from early boyhood, and the great mass of rocky cliff, entirely rugged and almost inaccessible, was constantly and everywhere visible. He took with him his brother and two servants. As they were starting on the ascent, they fell in with an aged shepherd, who tried to dissuade them. Fifty years before he had climbed to the summit, moved by a boyish impulse--and he supposed himself the only one who had ever done it; his recollections were full of awe and terror. But the poet pressed on, beguiling the weariness, which at times amounted almost to exhaustion, by moralizing on the labor as a type of spiritual attainments. At the summit of the highest peak, "moved deeply at first by that vast spectacle, and affected by the unusual lightness of the air, I stood as if overwhelmed. I looked, and under my feet I saw the clouds." His thoughts turned to the classical myths, and the history of his beloved Italy. He recalled that ten years before, on that same day, he had left Bologna and his studies. How many changes in his ways. His wrong loves--he loved them no longer, or rather he no longer liked to love them. He thought of his future. "Thus rejoicing in what I had gained, regretful of my weakness, and pitying the common instability of human affections, I seemed to forget where I was and why I had come. At last I turned to the occasion of my expedition. The sinking sun and lengthening shadows admonished me that the hour of departure was at hand, and, as if started from sleep, I turned around and looked to the west. The Pyrenees--the eye could not reach so far, but I saw the mountains of Lyonnais distinctly, and the sea by Marseilles; the Rhone, too, was there before me. Observing these closely, now thinking on the things of earth, and again, as if I had done with the body, lifting my mind on high, it occurred to me to take out the copy of St. Augustine's _Confessions_ that I always kept with me; a little volume, but of unlimited value and charm. And I call God to witness that the first words on which I cast mine eyes were these: 'Men go to wonder at the heights of mountains, the ocean floods, rivers' long courses, ocean's immensity, the revolutions of the stars,--and of themselves they have no care!' My brother asked me what was the matter. I bade him not disturb me. I closed the book, angry with myself for not ceasing to admire things of earth, instead of remembering that the human soul is beyond comparison the subject for admiration. Once and again, as I descended, I gazed back, and the lofty summit of the mountain seemed to me scarcely a cubit high, compared with the sublime dignity of man."[1] In these sentences we find the new life and the old in the same mind. Such an action would have been impossible for a genuine son of the middle ages, but could Petrarch stand on a mountain top to-day, such an outcome of it would be equally impossible. His feeling for nature was intense even to a sense of the charm of ruggedness in hills, as Burckhardt, who refers to this letter in his work on _The Italian Renaissance_, shows by ample quotations; but the intense lover of nature in the nineteenth century, though his ethical sense be as deep as Wordsworth's, finds a different influence in such a scene. Indeed, read in Wordsworth himself, the modern contrast: "Ocean and earth, the solid frame of earth And ocean's liquid mass, in gladness lay Beneath him; far and wide the clouds were touched, And in their silent faces could he read Unutterable love. Sound needed none, Nor any voice of joy; his spirit drank The spectacle; sensation, soul, and form, All melted into him; they swallowed up His animal being, in them did he live, And by them did he live: they were his life. In such access of mind, in such high hour Of visitation from the living God, Thought was not; in enjoyment it expired. No thanks he breathed, he proffered no request, Rapt into still communion, that transcends The imperfect offices of prayer and praise." How far apart is the piety of the two poets, how different their absorption. This identification of the human mood with Nature, and the spiritual elation that arises from the union, is thoroughly characteristic of the present century. Wordsworth's peculiar beauty, as Hartley Coleridge told Caroline Fox, "consisted in viewing things as amongst them, mixing himself up in everything that he mentions, so that you admire the man in the thing, the involved man." And Hartley's inspired father uttered a great criticism on the modern feeling for nature, when in the _Ode on Dejection_ he cried, "Oh, lady, we receive but what we give, And in our life alone doth nature live." No literary contemporaries were ever more apart than Wordsworth and Byron, yet _Childe Harold_ has the same note: "I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; and to me _High mountains are a feeling_. . . . . the soul can flee And with the sky, the peak, the heaving plain Of ocean, or the stars, mingle and not in vain." We discover the same sentiment, more delicately held, in Keats, as in some of his sayings about flowers, and Shelley, speaking of the longing for a response to one's own nature, says: "The discovery of its antitype, this is the invisible and unattainable point to which love tends.... Hence in solitude, or in that state when we are surrounded by human beings, and yet they sympathize not with us, we love the flowers, and the grass, and the waters, and the sky. In the motions of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air, there is found a secret correspondence with our heart, that awakens the spirits to a dance of breathless rapture, and brings tears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes, like the enthusiasm of patriotic rapture, or the voice of one beloved singing to you alone." Yet this spirit, with which our later poetry is almost everywhere touched, "this mysterious analogy between human emotions and the phenomena of the world without us," as von Humboldt expresses it, in its present comprehensiveness is new to literature. To feel for mountains, forests, or the ocean, with mingled awe, love, and ecstasy, seems so natural to us, that we can hardly realize that Gray was striking a novel and significant chord when he wrote at the Grande Chartreuse, "One of the most solemn, the most romantic, and the most astonishing scenes.... Not a precipice, not a torrent, not a cliff, but is pregnant with religion and poetry." In Petrarch's letter we observe the deficiency in absorbing enthusiasm for the grander forms of nature, as well as his sense of the isolation of such sentiment from true spiritual life. Yet this letter is the most significant indication which we possess from the middle ages of a capacity for enjoying the sublimity of heights. In _Præterita_, Ruskin, while describing his eagerness at the first sight of the Alps, as a boy, has written two or three sentences that we may employ to illustrate the contrast between Petrarch and his predecessors: "Till Rousseau's time there had been no 'sentimental' love of nature ... St. Bernard of La Fontaine, looking out to Mont Blanc with his child's eyes, sees above Mont Blanc the Madonna; St. Bernard of Talloires, not the Lake of Annecy, but the dead between Martigny and Aosta. But for me, the Alps and their people were alike beautiful in their snow, and their humanity; and I wanted, neither for them nor myself, sight of any thrones in heaven but the rocks, or of any spirits in heaven but the clouds." Others, beside the Bernards, men from whose culture and intelligence we should expect fine appreciation, felt nothing august or inspiring in the material world. So far as we have any record, the fourteenth-century laureate was the first of the moderns to climb a mountain for the æsthetic pleasure of the view. Burckhardt's suggestion that this honor belongs to Dante, on the strength of a passage in the fourth canto of the _Purgatory_, is surely not tenable; for the top of Bismantova possessed a citadel in Dante's time to which business may easily have called him. All through the middle ages, the lofty elevations between central Europe and Italy were constantly being crossed. The most cultivated men were going back and forth as couriers on business of the Church, and the political relations, especially between Italy and Germany, kept up a continual stream of travel. Yet one recalls no lines in any mediæval poem that describe or express sensations of the least interest concerning the sights that have bowed the strongest souls of our era, that have been felt by thousands, and put into words by so many poets. There is, indeed, in the beginning of a passage from a famous scholar, John of Salisbury, an apparent exception to this strange indifference; but a few clauses correct the hasty judgment. Writing from Lombardy, he explained why he could not send a letter from the Great St. Bernard: "I have been on the mount of Jove: on the one hand looking up to the heaven of the mountains; on the other, shuddering at the hell of the valleys; feeling myself so much nearer to heaven that I was more sure that my prayer would be heard." Yet this was due to no rapture of soul, for--"Lord, I said, restore me to my brethren, that they come not into this place of torment." He goes on to specify the perils of ice, precipice, and cold, and nothing disturbs him so much as that his ink was frozen. But there is not a suggestion of anything worth looking at. Even Cæsar, as von Humboldt reminds us, composed a rhetorical treatise while crossing the Alps. But the poet of Vaucluse did climb a mountain for the love of the view, and the very fact that his æsthetic attention was distracted by ethical introspection is an indication of that serious sensibility which was destined to become such an essential element in our feeling for nature; what for every Wordsworthian is summed up in the second mood of _Tintern Abbey_. This incapacity for appreciating mountainous sublimity involved a blindness to the rugged and picturesque on smaller scales. In minor chords, and in combinations of tone superficially discordant, we have learned to recognize some of nature's richest harmonies; this is one of our marks of development. Closely linked, too, with this first of modern passions for nature, indeed unified with it by the qualities of strength and massiveness, is our feeling for the ocean and great woods. "There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore: There is society where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar." Even deeper than the idea of companionship here is the mystical sense of absorption into that physical world which seems the very dwelling-place of the infinite soul, which finds one of its most remarkable manifestations in an intense and almost defiant sensation of human transitoriness and unimportance, and which is frequently blended with very exultation in the reflection that presently we ourselves shall be unified forever with the unconscious life that stretches out before us: "Rolled round in earth's diurnal course With rocks, and stones, and trees." There is a strange fascination to the modern mind, in presence of the majesties of nature, in this thought of humanity's return to the earth-mother. Innumerable generations have come home to her, as many or more are to be born that they may follow them, and she remains. Perhaps we are never so serenely conscious of self, as in these rare moments when we bear without a pang the thought of losing personal identity. There is something more here than the certainty of at least materialistic immortality, and the impression of infinite repose and beauty. The projection of our immediate sensation into the long future silence suffuses nature with pantheistic life, until the eager and buoyant thrills of spiritual realization render one grateful to have been permitted to gain such a sensation at what seems the trivial cost of feeling oneself the mere creature of a day. Such a mood as this certainly comes but seldom, but probably every one who has ever experienced any imaginative sensibility to a grand landscape will recall a heightened sensation that is beyond description.[2] But still stranger than the failure to catch the finer suggestions in the more strenuous forms of nature, is the way in which such sights are ignored. In southern Europe, mountains, storms, rocks, the ocean, are scarcely ever described, even as objects of awe or terror. When in the course of a story they have to be mentioned, the treatment is brief and matter of fact. Heinrich von Veldeke in his famous epic, makes nothing of his necessary introduction of a storm at sea, nor does Gottfried, or indeed any one of this whole period. _Gudrun_, that epic of the people which deserves to stand near the more famous _Niebelungen Lied_, treats constantly of the ocean, yet never with any feeling except dread of shipwreck. This poem, however, shows a more northern tone in one or two descriptions of winter, that are at least elaborated. In the scene, for instance, when Herwig and Ortwin arrive at the shore where Hildeburg and Gudrun, almost naked, are washing the clothes for their cruel mistress, we find some realistic touches, such as their trembling before the March wind, in which their hair was streaming as they toiled on the beach, while before them the sea was full of cakes of ice that had broken up under the early spring. In another connection, too, the poet compares something to a thick snowstorm, driven by mountain winds. The sense of fitness in a sympathetic natural environment for the human action, that has been so generally regarded in literature, as by Shakespeare, is indeed occasionally found in mediæval poetry; so in an interesting French romance that relates the trials of a heroine who barely escapes with her life, after the loss of everything dear: "The lady is in the wood and bitterly she wails. She hears the wolves howl, and the screech-owls cry; it lightens terribly, and the thunder is heavy, rain, hail, and wind--'tis wild for a lady all alone." Exceptions occur now and then. Dante, for example, was impressed by the mountains; no readers of the _Purgatory_ need to be reminded of his experience in climbing them. The setting for a mood of unrealized love in one of his lyrics is in winter, among the whitened hills: "He wooed the lady in a lovely grassy meadow, surrounded by lofty hills." But the arbitrary verbal repetitions of the _sestina_ modify the original face of the image of the mountains towering about the lover's plain, and the pensive beauty of the whole poem may be connected with an allegory. But I believe that even in Dante we never catch the sense of exultation in the earth's power and majesty. Our modern feeling for forests is not only at times sombre and oppressive; we also derive a sense of sublime composure from them. This latter sentiment was hardly shared by the mediævals. Dante was only following earlier poets when he located the opening of Hell by a gloomy wood, and his repeated metaphor of life as a forest, "confusing," "gloomy," and "dark," accords with the feeling of his age. He would not have appreciated Chateaubriand. He has left us, however, a rare and interesting reference to the soughing in the pines on the Adriatic, which shows how well his ear could interpret its solemn beauty. The mystical apple-tree, moreover, near the close of the _Purgatory_, whose blossoms are so exquisitely defined, indirectly reminds us how exceptional is a mention of fruit trees in flower. Yet the Provençal, French, and German lyrics constantly begin with the joyousness of spring, and the happy contrast from the season that destroys flowers and foliage. Nothing is more conventional than these nature preludes. Over and over, till we close our books impatiently, we hear reiterations of the charm of spring and summer. There is a slender kind of grace and sincerity that would lend interest to many of these, if they had come down by themselves; but they lie together in books in wearisome uniformity. A dandelion in April is much prettier than the dandelions in June. These preludes are usually in keeping with the love-phrases that follow, cold and imitative. For poets thought and felt in exterior generalities, rather than in detachment and inner consciousness. Their typical landscape may be seen in a passage from Gottfried von Strassburg,--one of Germany's most brilliant poets--where Tristan and Isolde have fled to the forest grotto, in fear of King Mark. The grotto is fitted up luxuriously, in keeping with the temper of the entire poem, but since it is in the wilderness, far away from roads or paths, in a description of its surroundings we might certainly look for a sense of the picturesque. But so far from caring for the wild and rugged, Gottfried does not even like a quiet woodland simplicity. "Above the entrance stood three broad lindens, no more; but below, stretching down the slope, were innumerable trees that hid the retreat. On one side was a level stretch where a fountain flowed, a fresh, cool stream, clearer than the sun. Above it, too, stood three beautiful shady lindens that shielded the spring from rain and the sun. Bright blossoms and green grass struggled with each other sweetly on the field. One caught also the delightful songs of birds which sang more delightfully there than anywhere else. Eye and ear each had its pleasure, there was shade and sun, air and breezes soft and pleasing." He goes on to describe the lovers, in a passage from which I translate the opening: When they waked and when they slept, Side by side they ever kept. In the morning o'er the dew Softly to the field they drew, Where, beside the little pool, Flowers and grass were dewy cool. And the cool fields pleased them well, Pleased them, too, their love to tell, Straying idly thro' the glade, Hearing music, as they strayed. Sweetly sang the birds, and then In their walk they turned again Where the cool brook rippled by, Listening to the melody, As it flowed and as it went: Where across the field it bent, There they sat them down to hear, Resting there, its murmur clear. And until the sunshine blazed, In the rivulet they gazed. These lines are characteristic of Gottfried, even to the lingering verbal repetition, and the picture certainly is pretty, as is the whole account of the lovers' life that follows. Nothing in early German literature comes closer to refined modern sensuousness than Gottfried's best passages; there is a dreamy passion in them, and sometimes they flash. His rich voluptuous strain has more of the poet than the free-liver, and his general tone is curiously modern. It would be a showy phrase to call his _Tristan_ the _Don Juan_ of the middle ages, for the poems are very dissimilar, yet it is safe to say that we think of Byron as we read him. Contrast these representative poets of the thirteenth and nineteenth centuries in this matter of their feeling for nature. For once among German settings we have a wild scene. But we observe how studiously it is modified into the conventional meadow, with trees in uniform little groups, a grassy field is sprinkled with flowers, there is a spring, and the little stream that escapes from it instead of tumbling down over a rocky bed into a glen, flows across the field. Gottfried mentions mountains and rocks that lie round about, only to point out that they are types of the difficulties and perils to be undergone before reaching love's shrine. The almost inaccessible retreat was necessary as a shelter for the fugitives from Mark's court; the poet has done his best to obliterate the reality. If we turn to Byron, and look for instance at that incomparable passage in which he relates the early love of Juan and Haidee, we observe where he voluntarily places his lovers: "It was a wild and breaker-beaten coast, With cliffs above and a broad sandy shore; Guarded by shoals and rocks as by a host, With here and there a creek, whose aspect wore A better welcome to the tempest-tost; And rarely ceased the haughty billows' roar." "And thus they wandered forth, and hand in hand, Over the shining pebbles and the shells, Glided along the smooth and hardened sand, And in the worn and wild receptacles Worked by the storms, yet worked as it were planned, In hollow halls, with sparry roofs and cells, They turned to rest; and each clasped by an arm, Yielded to the deep twilight's purple charm." And, to pass over the description of sky, sea, moon, and starlight, that follows, as elements in the nature-setting, notice the scene where Juan is sleeping: "The lady watched her lover, and that hour Of Love's, and Night's, and Ocean's solitude, O'erflowed her soul with their united power, Amid the barren sand and rocks so rude, She and her wave-worn love had made their bower." It would be easy to parallel these two situations; the older by no means ends with the middle ages, for Eden's "blissful bower" is no exception in modern poetry before the romantic age: while in our own century counterparts to this conception of untrained and strenuous natural surroundings for even the happiest of emotions will occur to every one.[3] The idle triteness in those inevitable scenes of spring, was manifest to some of the poets themselves. So the Comte de Champagne declares foliage and flowers of no service to poets, except for rhyming and to amuse commonplace people. The great Wolfram himself derides the conventionality of all romance narratives falling in spring and early summer: Arthur is the man of May; Each event in every lay, Happened or at Whitsuntide Or when the May was blooming wide. And Uhland cites from the lives of the troubadours the contemporaneous criticism upon a minor poet of the twelfth century, who wrote in the old style about leaves, and flowers, and the song of birds,--nothing of any account. We may recollect that such criticisms go far back of the middle ages: Horace glances at his contemporaries' conventional descriptions of a stream hastening through pleasant fields. In the widely popular romances of Enid we find illustrations of Welsh, French, and German treatment in the hands of leading authors, and there is one point in the narrative where we may compare their feeling for the natural environment. Readers of Tennyson will recall the passage in the wandering, where, after one of Geraint's struggles with bandits, he comes upon a lad carrying provisions. Chrestien's treatment of the episode is clear and straightforward; the youth and two comrades are taking cheese, cakes, and wine to the count's meadows for the haymakers. The young man notices the travellers' worn appearance, and invites them to sit down "in this fair meadow, under these ironwood trees," to rest and eat. Hartmann von Aue (whose paraphrase of the French poem is, by the way, far from the merit of his _Iwein_) narrates the incident in the same manner, omitting the poetically specific touches of the haymaking, and the shady spot in the field; but characteristically inserting some courteous concern on the part of the young man, for the comfort of Enid. But if we turn to the _Mabinogion_ we come upon something very different: "And early in the day they left the wood, and they came to an open country, with meadows on one hand, and mowers mowing the meadows; and there was a river before them, and the horses bent down and drank the water. And they went up out of the river by a lofty steep, and there they met a slender stripling with a satchel about his neck, and they saw that there was something in the satchel, but they knew not what it was. And he had a small blue pitcher in his hand, and a bowl on the mouth of the pitcher." How charming it is, even to the lovely touch of color. We know here that the unremembered writer saw nature and cared for it as we do. Indeed, this mediæval Welshman satisfies us quite as well as does even Tennyson's transcript: "So through the green gloom of the wood they passed, And issuing under open heavens beheld A little town with towers, upon a rock: And close beneath, a meadow gemlike chased In the brown wild, and mowers mowing in it: And down a rocky pathway from the place There came a fair-hair'd youth, that in his hand Bare victual for the mowers." There we have a simplicity treated with Tennysonian artifice, which "victual" does not succeed in correcting; beautiful in its way, though its way is perhaps not so fine as the prose. Yet we notice the modern spirit in the appreciation of the "brown wild" as well as the meadow, and out of the more general and evasive "steep" is developed the picturesque "rocky pathway." Except for the interest in establishing these forms of nature-appreciation from such older and more original sources, we might have satisfied ourselves with illustrations of them from Chaucer's early poems, where his descriptions are almost wholly derivative. His feeling for "the smale, softe, swote gras," that was sweetly embroidered with flowers; the earth's joyous oblivion of the cold, in her enthusiasm of May; his constant delight in the "smale foules," and the like, are purely conventional, though the unction with which he writes shows his real enjoyment. There are touches in Chaucer, however, that we miss in his romance predecessors, such as his eye for delicate effects--most interesting as marking the growth of accurate observation and sensitive rendering, like the description of twilight in _Troylus and Creyseyde_, when "White thynges wexen dymme and donne For lakke of lyght," or the graceful illustration in the same poem of a sudden troubling of one's mood: "But right as when the sonne shyneth brighte In March that chaungeth ofte tyme his face, And that a cloude is put with wynde to flyght, Which overspret the sonne, as for a space, A cloudy thought gan through his soule pace." Such a touch makes us feel how modern he is. Yet he does not love the picturesque. Under the influence of a Breton lay, he writes in the loveliest of all his tales, of the rugged sea-coast on whose high bank Dorigen and her friends used to walk (since "stood hire castel faste by the see") and look down upon "the grisly rokkes blake," which, in her apprehension for her lord's safe return, she would call "these grisly, feendly rokkes blake." But we feel that even had Arviragus been at her side she would never have regarded the coast as we should regard it. Still we observe the advance in observation and literary expression. In the _Knight's Tale_, the wild picturesque is employed again to connote the terrible, but no poet, from Statius to Boccaccio, his guides in the passage, had written such lines as his setting for the temple of the God of War: "First on the wal was peynted a forest In which there dwelleth neither man nor best, With knotty, knarry, bareyne trees olde Of stubbes sharpe and hidous to biholde, In which ther ran a rumbel and a swough, As though a storm sholde bresten every bough." Nothing even in _Childe Roland_ sketches desolating natural effects with more power. Yet Chaucer had a superior, in the sympathetic eye and adequate expression for the stern and stormy phases of nature, in a countryman of whom perhaps he never heard. We do not know the name of the author of _Sir Gawayn and the Grene Knyght_. But the poem marks on the whole the noblest conception in our literature before Spenser. It possesses moral dignity, romantic interest, simplicity, and directness, united with deep seriousness of style, creative imagination in dealing both with character and with nature. Chaucer wrote nothing so spiritual, though much of course more artistic and poetically valuable. In regard to this one matter of the interpretation of nature, it would be difficult to point out passages in the whole range of mediæval literature so fine and so remarkable as such descriptions as follow, of the northern winter scenes through which Gawayn passed on his weird mission. A forest full deep, and wild to a wonder, High hills on each side, and crowded woods under, Of oaks hoar and huge, a hundred together. The hazel and hawthorne were grown altogether Everywhere coated by moss ragged, rough; Many birds on bare branches, unhappy enough; That piteously piped there, for pain of the cold. Wondrous fair was the earth, for the frost lay thereby; On the mist ruddy gleams the sun cast, as on high He coasted full clearly the clouds of the sky. They beat along banks where the branches are bare, They climbed along cliffs where clingeth the cold, The clouds yet held up, but 'twas ugly beneath. Mist lowered on the moor, dissolved on the mountains. Each hill had a hat, a huge misty cloak. Brooks boiling and breaking dashed on the banks, Shattered brightly on shore. That is what we find in the North, and such English feeling for the sublime is nothing new; it goes far back beyond these lines into the generations that seem misty as the air which their poets are wont to describe. Mr. Stopford Brooke's recent volume on Anglo-Saxon poetry makes it unnecessary to enter into the subject of old England's eye and ear for nature. Its accounts of the sympathy for the bold and fierce bear out what one might guess without knowledge--that the stern northern climate and familiarity with ocean life found large poetical expression. Luxury, southern artifice of sentiment and literary manner, had not invaded the rugged men of the North; they delight in describing elemental conflicts, and sometimes with studied elaboration. But if the pictures of the German and French poets are uniform in their mildness, those of these Anglo-Saxons are marked by their stormy aspect. We exchange spring for winter. The same contrast holds true when we take up the Scandinavian poets; they show much feeling and power, but little susceptibility to the beauty of gentleness and grace. Mr. Brooke has remarked upon a similarity between the _Tempest_ of Cynewulf and Shelley's _Ode to the West Wind_. A closer parallel may be observed in the _Lines Among the Euganean Hills_ and the so-called Helgi poet; where we find a curiously identical image of rooks and hawks flying into the early morning with wings sparkling from the mists through which they have passed. The Norse poems are fond of screaming eagles, and ravens on the high branches. That weird northern imagination too has vivid pictures, as the shields of the night-warriors shining in the waning moon. Nature also occasionally speaks to their personal moods, both by harmony and contrast. A poet's boat is swept fiercely by the tempest, as he dies with thoughts of his "linen-clad lady" in his heart. Another watches the sea dashing against the steep cliff, and thinks of his far-away love, in the control of his rival. Like the early English, they feel exultation in sea and storm. They know them intimately and their descriptions are spirited and faithful. They love them, but they love fiercely, terribly, as they do their women. Yet even as in their human passions, there are tranquillities. "They rode their steeds through dewy dales and dusky glens: the air, a sea of mist, shook as they passed by." We linger behind the storming horsemen for a moment, to look back as the silence steals in again through those dusky glens. But to return to what is our real subject, the sentiment for nature in what we may term the polite literatures of mediævalism. The reason for their feeling about winter is summed up in one of the Latin student songs, "the cold icy harshness of winter, its fierceness, and dull, miserable inactivity." It kept them within, when their interests and concerns were so mainly out-of-door. The poets are for ever singing in praise of spring, not so much because they loved it for itself, as because it brought them a life that was gay and easy. They seldom introduce touches of appreciation in their descriptions of the wintry season. Snow may have appeared lovely to them, but we observe Dante as doing something singular when he compares the talking of ladies, which was mingled with sighs and tears, to raindrops interspersed with beautiful snowflakes (_cp._ _Inf._, 14, 30; 24, 5), and one of the most memorable lines in his friend Guido Cavalcanti's poems is the one which mentions the dreamy sinking down of snow, falling when the air is windless. The old-time gentlemen apparently hugged the fire and drank of "their bugle-horn the wyn," and ate "brawn of the tusked swyn," when winter came, instead of watching the snow, through their little windows. There are many phases of nature which it seems to us impossible not to notice and enjoy, of which we seldom find a trace. We should expect them in the large body of lyrical verse, and still more in the copious romance literature, which corresponds to the modern novel, both in incident and in the invitation to bits of passing local color. Clouds, for instance, aside from their glory of line and mass, and the grace and loveliness of their lighter forms, are curious and oddly suggestive, as Antony reminds Eros, and they are constantly before the eye; yet let any reader of mediæval poetry recall how imperceptible a part they play in it, even as plain facts of description. A line in one of the Latin songs expresses the feeling: their thought of clouds is, how delightful not to see them. Moonlight, too, is seldom dwelt on as poetical; the most romantic touch that comes to my mind in connection with it, is in Chrestien de Troyes, where it shines over the reconciliation of estranged lovers. Just as we find little notice of sunrise, sunset, clouds, and moon, we find little feeling for the stars. They are mentioned occasionally in a facile way, though scarcely ever with manifest sentiment. There are two or three passages, however, in _Aucassin et Nicolette_, that show the daintiest sort of sentiment for moonlight and stars. Here, for instance, where the lovers are confined for the sake of thwarting their love: "'Twas in summer time, in the month of May, when the days are warm, long, and clear and the nights calm and cloudless. Nicolette was lying one night in her bed, and she saw the moon clearly shining through a window, and she heard the nightingale singing in the garden and she thought of Aucassin her lover, whom she loved so much." So making a rope of the bedclothes she lets herself down into the garden. "Then she caught her gown by one hand in front and by the other behind, and tucked it up on account of the dew which she saw was heavy on the grass, and she went down through the garden.... And the daisy-blossoms that she broke with the toes of her feet, that lay over on the small of her foot, were even black, by her feet and legs, so very white was the dear little girl. Along the streets she passed in the shadow, for the moon shone very clear, and she went on till she came to the tower where her lover was." And again when the lover is in pursuit of her, after she had built herself a lodge in what she thought a safe retreat; he does not know where she is, and his thoughts are so absorbed that he falls and puts out his shoulder, and then creeps into her vacant shelter: "And he looked through a break in the lodge and saw the stars in the sky, and he saw one brighter than the rest, and he began to say: 'Pretty little star, I see Where the moon is leading thee. Nicolette is with thee there, My darling with the golden hair; God would have her, I believe, To make beautiful the eve.'" Yet even here there is nothing of the deeper sensibility to midnight sky, common alike to ancient and modern seriousness. Yet we find notes also of this. It is hard, for example, to think of giving up the genuineness of Dante's letter refusing to return to Florence, if only for the rare touch of everywhere seeing the sun and the stars (_nonne solis astrorumque specula ubique conspiciam?_), that bears out such evidences as the last word of each of the divine canticles and other fine proofs that he felt the high wonder and peace of the stars at night. Who can doubt that he did--that every deep nature always has? Yet the poetical evidence for it is curiously scanty throughout these centuries. It is a surprise to come upon such an exclamation as this of Freidank's: "The constellations sweep through heaven as if they were alive,--sun, moon, the bright stars,--there is nothing so wonderful!" Indeed, I can recall no writer to whom the material world seems to suggest such inner sensations as he who called himself Freidank, the German free-thinker. He was not much of a poet, so far as his verses go, but his soul knew life as mystery. He also made one of the band of reformers three centuries before Luther. He saw the corruption of the Church, yet he revered the sacred institution; in spite of his faith, he was a Christian rationalist. Some of his sentences almost startle us, as words before their season: "If the Pope can forgive sins by indulgence, without repentance, people ought to stone him if he allows any one to go to hell." "God is constantly shaping new souls, which he gives to men--to be lost. How does the soul deserve God's wrath before it is born?" He is haunted by the secret of life: "How is the soul made? No one tells me that. If all souls could be in a hand, none could see or grasp their glory." "Earth and heaven are full of the Godhead. Hell would be empty, were God not there." "Whatever the sun touches, the sunlight keeps pure. However the priest may be, the mass is still pure. The mass and the sunshine will always be pure." "I never cease wondering how the soul is made. Whence it came, and whither it fares--the path is hidden. Nay, I know not who I am myself.[4] Lord God, grant me that I may know thee, and also myself." So when Freidank hears the roar of the wind, its invisible might reminds his skepticism that the soul may well be great, though none can see it: while he watches the wide mist which no hand can seize upon, a symbolism of the soul comes to him again. He is oppressed by the restless energy of being: "Our hearts beat unceasingly, our breaths are seldom still:--and then, our thoughts and dreams!" As he rides through spring, he observes the infinite diversity of nature: Many hundred flowers, Alike none ever grew; Mark it well, no leaf of green Is just another's hue. "Many a man looks out at the stars, and tells what wonders take place there. Let him tell me now (something closer at hand), what is the weed in the garden. If he tells me that truly, I shall be more ready to believe the other." It is the germ of Tennyson's _Flower in the Crannied Wall_. Nature's commonplaces hold the heavenly mystery in a common bond with their own. Such subtle blendings of the outward and inward vision could come only from a refined and pensive spirit--such as his who sums up thus the discipline of life: "Many a time the lips must smile when the heart weeps." One of the marked deficiencies of all these descriptions of nature is in the indefiniteness of the terms employed. In minute accuracy, Dante, to be sure, is one of the world's greatest masters; but elsewhere it is rarely that we come upon anything concrete or specific. It is not until centuries later, indeed, that, so far as nature goes, we find habitual composition "with the eye upon the object," but, as it seems, most mediæval poets never carried their observation beyond the barest general impressions. We do not expect Tennyson's "More black than ashbuds in the front of March," or Browning's eye for the fact that when "the leaf-buds on the vine are woolly," the red is about to turn gray. The outer world's "open secret" is not open enough to make us demand minute attention. But it is surprising that they did not more frequently record easy impressions, and in their inventions introduce definite details. The poetical effect of even apparently prosaic precision is at times imaginative, but the art of this was kept for the later romanticists. There is a lyric, however (belonging, I believe, to the twelfth century), by a poet of northern France, and written as a satire on the love-romance literature of the age, which contains one or two happy instances of just this missing trait. So charming it is in itself that I have translated it as a whole, though it belongs to an essay on the lyrical romances, instead of on nature. What a light touch the unknown writer shows, what dainty fancy! Sir Thopas is hardly a parallel to this blending of poetry with humor, a humor too gracious to be derisive, whose genial satire sparkles and dances to meet its sister wave of sentiment and beauty, till they ripple together, and each seems to have absorbed the other. The opening stanza is the poet's introduction of himself, and from the olive we may draw an inference respecting his local associations: Will ye attend me, while I sing A song of love,--a pretty thing, Not made on farms:-- Nay, by a gentle knight 'twas made Who lay beneath an olive's shade In his love's arms. 1. A linen undergown she wore, And a white ermine mantle, o'er A silken coat; With flowers of May to keep her feet, And round her ankles leggings neat, From lands remote. 2. Her girdle was of leafage green; Spring foliage, with a fringing sheen Of gold above; And underneath a love-purse hung, By bloomy pendants featly strung, A gift of love. 3. Upon a mule the lady rode, The which with silver shoes was shode; Saddle gold-red; And behind rose-bushes three She had set up a canopy To shield her head. 4. As so she passed adown the meads, A gentle childe in knightly weeds Cried: "Fair one, wait! What region is thy heritance?" And she replied: "I am of France, Of high estate. 5. "My father is the nightingale, Who high within the bosky pale, On branches sings; My mother's the canary; she Sings on the high banks where the sea Its salt spray flings." 6. "Fair lady, excellent thy birth; Thou comest from the chief of earth, Of high estate: Ah, God our Father, that to me Thou hadst been given, fair ladye, My wedded mate!" Everything here is definite and concrete, and how delightful the picture all is. Such plastic art as the "rose-bushes three" is not unworthy of the great modern poets of whom its magic and romantic definiteness reminds us,--as the "five miles meandering of Alph, the sacred river," or the "kisses four" with which the pale loiterer shut the eyes of La Belle Dame sans Merci. The description of the nightingale on its high branches, too, is a noticeably accurate touch, as we compare it, for example, with Coleridge's nightingale descriptions. The explanation for the usual vague and indefinite description is not found in saying that they could not describe minutely. We meet with abundant details of such material interests as embroideries or armor. There is artistic emotion in Villehardouin's account of the glorious sight of Constantinople, as it rose before the crusaders, just as distinctly as in Lord Byron's letter. But, to their simple eyes, nature not only failed to suggest associated fancies, like Shakespeare's "Wrinkled pebbles in the brook," or Wordsworth's ash, "A soft eye-music of slow waving boughs," but they see natural objects as units, without lingering upon their parts. When we find, for example, a line that marks the jerky flight of a swallow, we are surprised at the specific touch; we look almost in vain for such landscape details as the colors of autumn. Neidhart von Reuenthal is marking his originality, when he speaks of the red tree-tops, falling down yellow. The want of observation and the shallow sympathy with nature shown by most poets before Dante are much more surprising than their preference for placid effects. It is unusual, for instance, to meet such a suggestive note of association as in the stanza by the Frenchman Gaces Brulles: The birds of my own land In Brittany I hear, And seem to understand The distant in the near; In sweet Champagne I stand, No longer here. This paraphrase, indeed, is unworthy of the charming simplicity of the original. Surely, when Matthew Arnold made his sweeping characterization of mediæval poetry as grotesque, he forgot what a straightforward evolution of narrative or of quiet sentiment, and what a transparent expression, we find in some of these minor poets. They are as direct and unadorned, as they are graceful. It is almost impossible to translate them without substituting for the fresh and delicate touch, some metaphysical warping of the idea, or some rhetorical consciousness in words. What for instance could be more elegantly remote from the grotesque than this literal translation of Brulles' expression of his sensibility to the song-birds of his home: "The birds of my country I have heard in Brittany; by their song I know well that in sweet Champagne I heard them of old." * * * * * We may sum up these outline statements to this effect. The northern poets described storm, winter, the ocean, and kindred subjects, with considerable force and fulness. In the cultivated literatures to the south, natural description was mainly confined to the agreeable forms of beauty; the grand, awesome, and inspiring were scarcely felt, and the literal fact of their physical expression was hardly ever noticed. The exterior world was not made a subject of close observation, nor was its poetic availability realized as a setting for action, or as an interpreter of emotion. The people of the north, through being habituated to severer weather, not merely as a fact of climate, but from their rougher, less politely organized habits of living, [we should especially observe their activity on the sea,] regarded the violent seasons and aspects of nature with the sympathetic acquiescence of custom. Moreover, this influence tended to develop sturdier and more rugged character, race-temperament obviously being in part a geographical result, which acts with the forces of social organization, especially those that affect the moral qualities, such as rude or luxurious living. This vigorous character was more susceptible to impressions of native power, as well as from association more interested in recalling them. Accordingly, we find the early northern poetry an anticipation of the seriousness of modern English literature, and, as well, of its unequalled recognition of physical symbolisms of the sublime. Where the northern force blended with more southern lightness and elegance, as it did in the _Mabinogion_, we find a deeper poetic sentiment; where it coincides with moral earnestness, we find such nature sensation as in the poetry of _Sir Gawayn_. But the literature of the Germans and their romance originals, aim at courtly levities; they artificialize sentiment and thought, as well as manner. The deeper and more spiritually sympathetic minds did not as a rule devote themselves to _belles-lettres_. The Church drew them into her sober service, and even though they wrote, the close theological faith was not favorable to their poetic expansion. Most of all, there was but little individualism, and any artistic sensation of our modern complex inner consciousness was still crude, even when it existed at all. One point, however, should be observed in any inquiry into the reasons for the inadequateness of these ages' feeling for nature; that many latent sympathies may never have found a voice. Many through the centuries before our later ease of publication, may have felt the modern sensations, without ever thinking of putting them into words. In any new movement, of art as of practice, a great leader of expression is needed. Men are sheep to their leaders in various admirations, and many genuine æsthetic tastes are acquired, through stages of more or less unconscious imitation. Browning puts this in an acute sentence where Fra Lippo Lippi explains his usefulness as a painter: ". . . We're made so that we love, First when we see them painted, things we have passed Perhaps a hundred times, nor cared to see." There were few new departures, there was little originality, in the methods of mediæval literature. Descriptions of the physical world as a field of power and sublimity would have fallen dead on the ears of a public who had never dreamed that storm and cliffs were beautiful. What if Wordsworth had tried to support himself and win fame by singing at castles? Nor is it easy, though the taste has been established, to describe a sunset, or the sublimity of the Alps. We say to each other "How beautiful!" "How grand!" seldom more. Rare imagination and the tact of genius are necessary to tell what we really need to show. The sense of physical sublimity is complex. Its distinctive element is moral or spiritual emotion. For a full delineation it requires a more subtle, verbal repertory than those popular poets usually possessed. Yet these modifications no longer apply when we come to Dante, and superior as his interpretations are to his predecessors' we miss even in him, as we miss in the great poets for four hundred years afterwards, appreciation of the material world's sublimity. Macaulay and others have said that it was not until man had become the master of nature that he learned to love its stern and violent aspects. But thunder storms, for example, are as dangerous now as they ever were, at least to a traveller. Still, Byron wrote of them with raptures amid the Pindus mountains as his predecessors did not. Winter was scarcely colder or bleaker for mediæval poets than for Scottish peasants a century ago, yet Burns would sing as they could not: "E'en winter bleak has charms for me, When winds rave through the naked tree." Others have accounted for this change by the era of science, with its close scrutiny of the world, and its enthusiasm for physical knowledge. But the scientist masters the world as a reality where the poet sees it as a symbol. The two modern tendencies may be the result of a common cause--that recognition of complexity, and disposition to observe, which is a main fact in man's expansion. A better explanation may be found, I believe, in modern refinement and ethical sensitiveness. Side by side with the new appreciation of nature may be observed a steady growth in sensibility. Our modern moods of inward contemplation--we are famous for them--our modern zeal for humanity down to its lowest grades; nay, even our tenderness for the brutes, have been distinguishing marks of the poet guides under whom we have learned to appreciate our new physical symbolisms of human emotion. Modern melancholy, as well, a melancholy more subtle and thoughtful, more poetical too, than that of mediævalism, has touched men with its pensive fascination. Philosophical pantheism such as Wordsworth's or Tennyson's, feels deity in nature; the new Christianity incarnates divinity in universal man. Man is more than he used to be, his moods are deeper, his thought freer. He seeks more ardently than of old, because with less constraint, the mystery in whom he lives and moves and has his being. He no longer quails before the majesty and awe of its forever elusive presence. For he knows that though he cannot find it, it enfolds him with love and beauty, it cries back to his passion and pain in winter and storm; from the solemn mountains it reminds him of himself, an unconquerable partner of its own eternity. [Decoration] FOOTNOTES: [1] _Lit. Fam._, iv., 1. [2] Since this passage was written, I have met with the following extract from a letter of Tennyson's, dated in 1874, though with no direct reference to the experience being associated with nature: "All at once, as it were out of the intensity of the consciousness of individuality, the individuality itself has seemed to dissolve and to fade away into boundless being; and this not a confused state, but the clearest of the clearest, the surest of the surest, utterly beyond words, where death was an almost laughable impossibility, the loss of personality (if so it were), seeming no extinction, but the only true life." [3] Any student of Dante, who recalls his lovely early sonnet, _Guido, vorrei che tu e Lapo ed io_, and compares it with Shelley's almost parallel conception of lovers sailing away in indivisible companionship, in the latter part of _Epipsychidion_, will obtain an excellent illustration of this same difference of feeling about the natural setting for a happy love. In Dante the sentiment is vague, and only what is peaceful, while Shelley's ideal haunt of lovers admits owls and bats with the ring-dove, an "old cavern hoar" left unadorned, mossy mountains, and quivering waves. [4] We recall his great countryman's modern cry: "Wohin es geht, wer weiss es? Erinnert er sich doch kaum, woher er kam." [Decoration] ULRICH VON LIECHTENSTEIN. THE MEMOIRS OF AN OLD GERMAN GALLANT. Any one who has read Freytag's excellent studies of German social life will recall a curious illustration in his first volume of the lawless violence of thirteenth-century knighthood, in the imprisonment of Ulrich von Liechtenstein by his liegeman Pilgerin. The account not only proves the author's point, but it goes on to suggest a good deal besides. For the victim's unsophisticated and plaintive manner under his misfortune, the fashion in which he relates what he suffered, his allusions to his own life and character, and most of all to the consolations of his love, are all stimulating to one's curiosity about the writer. When we go to the mediæval shelves of a German library we find this curiosity satisfied in a long poem by the unfortunate Ulrich, and immediately we are in that chivalric age which wins most of its romantic lustre from its devotion to womanhood. If our guesses at a truth beneath the stories of widowed ladies rescued from bandits of the forest and recreant knights, or of lovely ladies rescued from worse than death by the capture of castles through the prowess of generous champions--stories which every one knows and incredulously likes--send us to a study of the times when they were composed, we find that the age, when stripped of romantic embellishments, in its actual life felt a sentiment for women unequalled by earlier times. We wonder what caused it. Can it have been the increase in the culture of the Virgin, that beautiful and beneficent phase of mediæval religion? In its larger development, this appears rather the parallel expression of some common influence, these adorations of the divine and human conceptions of woman seeming to be mutually impulsive, and drawn alike from some undetermined tendency of social and spiritual refinement. Or was it the Crusades? For a German essayist has suggested that we may count this increase of sentimentalism among their many influences upon western Europe; the beauty of the women and the more luxurious habits of the East, its more effeminate emotionalism, finding impressionable subjects in the hearts of those stranger knights lying, wakeful for home, beneath southern stars. Perhaps the conjecture is equally reasonable that the influence came from French poets who, as they travelled with the early Christian armies, caught such suggestions from snatches of oriental poetry. Yet it seems more natural to regard the growth of knightly sentiment toward ladies as the more delicate manifestation of a spontaneous increase of social personality, which was stimulated by that general motion in mind and heart which we observe in the progress of chivalric and crusadal life, and based, as we must not forget, upon that Teutonic character, whose ancient deference to woman is recorded by Tacitus side by side with his account of knighting youthful soldiers with spear and shield. But, to waive the question of its origin, we find its main expression in the old society, in that protracted and conventional wooing which, we should remember, was not usually directed toward marriage. As gentlemen grew hyperbolical and fantastic in their professions of regard and devotion, feminine coquettishness and love of admiration naturally became fastidious and exacting. Ladies grew arbitrary and capricious, and began to demand substantial proofs of their lovers' concern for them. It became a trait of elegant culture for a lady to pose as inexorable, while still retaining her control over the wooer; while he, complaisant to the sentimental fashion, sighed in a cheerful melancholy, obeyed, adored, and waited. The mistress set tasks, often no trifles, which the loyal subject must perform--hard feats of arms, long and perilous journeys, abnegations of pride or comfort. When these were accomplished, he sometimes returned to receive a new test, involving a continued delay of his reward. These mediæval ladies were as pitiless as the mystic spiritual dictatress of Browning's _Numpholeptos_, to their devotees: "Seeking love At end of toil, and finding calm above Their passion, the old statuesque regard." In the fourteenth century something of this romantic tyranny survived. We find Chaucer, for instance, in one of his early poems, mentioning in praise of his heroine that she did not impose dangerous expeditions to distant countries, or extravagant exploits upon her lover: "And saye, 'Sir, be now ryght ware That I may of you here seyn Worshippe, or that ye come agayn.'" Extended probations, courtships long enough to satisfy Ruskin, were an established convention. Wolfram von Eschenbach, in the seventh book of _Parzival_, represents Obie as indignantly telling her royal lover, who has asked her to marry him after what seems to him a reasonable love-making, that if he had spent his days for five years, in hard service, under full armor, with distinction, and she had then said "Yes" to his desire, she would be yielding too soon. Jane Austen, in the novel to which Trollope gave the palm of English fiction before _Henry Esmond_, has expressed in Mr. Collins's address to Elizabeth exactly the notion of the significance in a rejection, held by well-bred gentlemen six centuries earlier: "'I am not now to learn,' replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the hand, 'that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favor; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.'" But these exercises, as was suggested, were not usually directed toward the altar. A characteristic of the age is the relation, less or more sentimental, between a married knight and a lady not his wife; a relation rather expected of the former, and countenanced in the latter. This peculiar dual system of domestic and knightly love may be ascribed to various influences, such as the prosaic influence of early and dowered marriages, subject to parental arrangement, or the feudal life which for considerable periods kept gentlemen away from their own homes in residence in the larger castles, or the idleness of such a society, or again the popularity of love-lyrics and romance-recitals, which would tend to sentimentalize their audience. At any rate, it came to be a fashionable idea that the highest love was independent of marriage, and the most poetically inclined,--the troubadours and the minnesingers--were famous for their impassioned and submissive service of married ladies. It is from these poets' accounts of their own love-trials that we learn most about this phase of mediævalism, and in their contented sufferings we see once more that the joy of all romantic love is in the lover. Although there is danger of generalizing too widely from literary indications, we may believe that chivalric society was appreciably marked by formal amatory disciplines. Was it all for nothing these ceremonial disciplines? Can it be that these Don Quixote prototypes, who trifled away their frivolous days in lady-worship so trivial, did anything to help the Prince to take Cinderella from the ashes? The ashes, then the fairy coach; first the drudge, then the sentimental plaything, then at last the friend. In those days, as perhaps always, the lover objectified himself in his love, to the extent of finding in her his own _ideal feminine_. The very fact that this self, which he probably called into conscious life only as he created it in another, represented the most refined side of his thought, as is shown in the old poets' recurrent epithets of "constant, chaste, good," etc., made the devotion a refining and dignifying experience, especially for the days when men and women had less in common than they have now. These lady-services, where the lover often was denied intimacy for a considerable time, kept up the illusion which the devotee himself may have half felt was sentimental and artificial. We may reply to little Peterkin that some good did come of it at last, even for the more commonplace of these servants of abstract womanhood. Even if the "visionary gleam" left no permanent illumination, the men were better for seeing it brightening through their darkness now and then. At its best, lady-loving gave the mediæval knights consideration for women and a measure of gentleness. If it only stimulated some to fight hard, they would have fought anyway, and the motive was a shade less brutal than a directly selfish one. But such an eccentric social idea, especially when the poetic exhilaration of its earlier hours has passed by, was sure to bring out extravagant sentimentalists, whose romantic sensibility with no check from practical judgment, ran wild steeplechases of nonsense. Such, for example, was the Provençal poet, Peter Vidal, one of the most famous troubadours, who carried his romantic infatuations so far that he became crack-brained. The name of one of his ladies was Lupa, Mistress Wolf; and if he had contented himself with assuming a wolfish device for his coat-of-arms, as he did, and having himself called Mr. Wolf, he would have done nothing very peculiar, for that age. But it occurred to him that it would be a graceful symbol to wear a wolf's skin, and after he had procured one which quite covered him, he got down on all-fours, and trotted through the street; and all went charmingly until one day, while he was exhibiting himself in this fashion about his lady's estate, a pack of dogs was deceived by the metaphor, and the allegorical lover was badly bitten before rescue arrived. But the most detailed example of mediæval gallantry is that presented in the work already mentioned, the autobiography of the thirteenth-century minnesinger, Ulrich von Liechtenstein. The poem is a prolix narrative of his amatory religion, extending through some sixteen thousand lines, and containing a large number of lyrics composed in the wooing of two ladies to whom he consecrated his literary and romantic life. We utterly tire of the commonplaces in which he praises them. We reflect that not a single specific incident is ever introduced to illustrate the inner character of either; the descriptions have no color, except in the heartlessness of the first beloved, whose virtue and humor alike Ulrich apparently misses. Yet this presumably undesigned caricature of the more poetic twelfth-century chivalric love gives important suggestions of the times, and Ulrich himself is a knight and a poet worth knowing. The impression that his romance makes upon a modern reader is something like that of a beetle hovering above a lily. He played zany to the gentlemen of an early generation who had amused their leisurely lives by courtly lady-service; as he emulated their feats of sentimental gallantry, he stumbled and fell. The odd thing is that after each fall he called for his tables: "Meet it is I set it down." Undoubtedly many marvelled and admired, as they looked on: others marvelled and laughed. Perhaps he mistook the laughter for applause. It may be that the sound was lost in the applause of his own simple-minded complacency. But yet, though this gallant was born to a foolish horoscope, his life gained a good fortune denied multitudes who lived sensibly,--he saw the stars of his destiny, and he loved them. Their combination caused a silly career, yet individually they were admirable,--simplicity of nature, theoretical reverence for womanhood, patient love, regard for stately old usages. If defective eyesight makes a man fancy a burdock a rosebush, and if he tends and cherishes the absurd idealization,--at least, the man has a sentiment for roses. The earliest fact which Ulrich has confided to us, is that in his childhood he used to ride about on sticks, in imitation of the knights, and while in that simple age he noticed that the poetry which people read, and the conversation of wise men which he overheard, kept declaring that no one could become a worthy man without serving unwaveringly good ladies, and that "no one was right happy unless he loved as dearly as his own life some one whose virtue made her fitly called a woman." Whereupon, he thought in his simplicity that since pure sweet women so ennoble men's lives, he, whatever happened, would always serve ladies. In such thoughts he grew up until his twelfth year, when he began a four or five years' term as page to a lady who was good, chaste, and gentle, complete in virtues, beautiful, and of high rank. She was destined to give Ulrich much trouble, and the lover's sweet solicitude began at once, as he started in his teens. For his constant attention found nothing in her but what was good and charming, and he feared--this boy of thirteen--that she might not care for him. His ups and downs of fortune are reported for us in the popular mediæval form (used for example by Map, and one as late as by Villon), of a dialogue between his heart and his body. Heart is hopeful, but Body has the better wit. Yet even if she is too high-born to notice him, he will always serve her late and early, and in the interim between his childish page-waiting, and the bold knighthood to be his when he grows up, he gathers pretty summer flowers, and carries them to her. When she took them in her white hand, he was happy. As the time came near for him to leave her household, the youth grew emotional: when at table water was poured over those lovely white hands, he transformed her finger-glass into a tumbler. A German dry-as-dust has laughed at Ulrich for this. But the tender little Teutonic blossom could unfold its youth no longer in the sunshine of its lady-desire. The stern father appeared, and transferred the lover, his "grief showing well the power of love," to the service of an Austrian Margrave. "My body departed, but my heart remained"; and Ulrich pauses for a moment to point out the strangeness of the paradox. "Whenever I rode or walked, my heart never left her; it saw her at all times, night and day." His new master was a knightly gentleman, professedly a lady-servant, and the lessons that Ulrich had caught as a child from the conversation in his father's hall were reinforced by this Margrave Henry. He was taught the best style of riding, the refinements of address to ladies, and poetical composition, and assured that whoever would live worthily must be a lady's true subject. "It adorns a youth--sweet speech to women.... To succeed well with them, have sweet words with true deeds." After four years of such instruction, his father's death called him home to inherit his property, and he spent the three years that followed by tourneying in the noviciate of knighthood. At Vienna, in 1222, during the great festival in celebration of the marriage of Leopold's daughter, where five thousand knights were present, and tourneying and other entertainments of chivalry were mingled with much dancing, Ulrich made one of the two hundred and fifty squires who received their spurs. But the occasion was otherwise memorable to him, for here he saw his lady again. She recognized him, and told one of his friends of her pleasure at seeing become a knight one who had been her page when a little fellow. The mere simple foolish thought that she would perhaps have him for her own knight, as he tells us, was sweet and good, and put him in high spirits. Indeed this was all the contentment which the blushing young knight desired: "Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?" Ulrich did not wake from his to do anything so practical as to speak face to face with her, but gaily rode off to a summer of adventure in twelve tournaments, wherein he invariably fared well, thanks to his devotion. German sentiment has always shown a butterfly's sensibility to winter and rough weather, and with the last of autumn, Ulrich's spirit grows heavy. He longs to see his lady, he knows that now he would speak to her. There are no tourneys to distract him, and in care of heart he rose, lay down, sat, and walked. As it chanced, a cousin of his knew this only lovely one, and the taxing office of a lover's confidante fell heavily upon her, and remained for some years. After beating about the bush with her for a while, he confessed the truth, only to receive point-blank advice to give up so hopeless an aspiration. Never! on the contrary she must help him in his perseverance by visiting the lady and presenting her with a copy of the verses which Ulrich has been composing for her as a confession of his love. His cousin consented, but her mission resulted in a scornful rejection of the suit, softened by compliments upon the poem. He was advised to abandon his quest, for the lady seriously objected to his mouth. "Nothing but grim death can drive me from her; I will serve her all my life," he exclaimed. But he felt that the criticism upon his mouth was a fair one, and he determined to pay attention to it. Poor Ulrich, with so much sentiment, yet with such physical deficiencies; with such correct perception of the use of lips, yet having such uninviting ones of his own. In one of his songs he tells us: When a lady on her lover Looks and smiles, and for a kiss Shapes her lips, he can discover Never joy so great; his bliss Transcends measure: O'er all pleasures is his pleasure. But until he was quite in his twenties, his experience of this blessedness must have been of those "By hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others"; for Ulrich confesses to the deformity of what he calls three lips; that is, a bad hare-lip. But this protagonist of mediæval Quixotism has energy and nerve, as well as sentiment. In spite of his cousin's dissuasions (this plain-minded lady tells him to take the body God has given him, instead of arrogantly improving upon his creation), Ulrich rides off to find the best surgeon in the country, and submit to an operation. But the doctor decides that the time of year is unsuitable; he must wait until winter is past, keep his three lips until May. At last spring comes and Ulrich returns to the doctor. Upon the way he meets a page of his lady's, to whom he confides the purpose of his journey, and whose presence he secures as a witness. Early one Monday morning the surgeon received his patient, laid out his instruments before him, and produced several straps. At sight of the latter, martial dignity recoiled, and Ulrich refused to allow himself to be bound. It was to no purpose that he was told of the danger involved in even a twitch; he said with spirit that he came of his own will, and if anything happened amiss he alone would be to blame. Whereupon he sat calmly upon a bench, and without a tremor allowed the surgeon to "cut his mouth above his teeth and farther up. He cut like a master, I endured like a man." Ulrich describes the discomfort which he experienced during the healing of the wound, in details which give an unpleasant notion of the methods of mediæval surgery. As he was able to eat and drink scarcely anything, he wasted in flesh, and his only comfort was the thought of her for whom he had suffered. During the confinement, he composed another dancing song in her honor, which, after his recovery he entrusted to his cousin, who forwarded it with a letter of her own. Presently an answer came. The lady is to spend the next Monday night near by, in the course of a journey, and she will be very happy to see her friend's relative, and learn from himself how things are. Time changes the significance of letters, among other things. This lady-like note, which gave such a heart-leap to Ulrich's sentimental hope, interests scholars to-day as being the earliest prose letter in German. On Tuesday morning, when Ulrich appeared at the chapel where the lady's chaplain was singing mass before her, she bowed without speaking. After the service she rode off, and Ulrich had found no chance to meet her. His cousin, however, told him that everything was favorable, and that the lady would allow him to ride with her that day. So he galloped off in gay spirits, and soon overtook the cavalcade. But alas for his self-possession; when he reaches her his head drops and he cannot find a single word. Another knight was riding with her. Ulrich's heart makes a speech to his body, reproaching it for cowardice; "If you go on without speaking to her now, she will never be good to you again." So he rides up to her and gets a sweet glance, but still he cannot speak. Heart nudges Body and whispers: "Speak now, speak now, speak now!" All through the day Body tries, he tries over and over, but he cannot. Alas, as a poet of his own day said: "Mit gedanken wirt erworben niemer wîbes kint: . . . . . . . Des enkan sî wizzen niht."[5] When they reach their lodging-place for the night, he wishes to assist the only one in dismounting, but she is not sufficiently flattered by his attentions to accept them; she says that he is sick and useless, and not strong enough to help her down. The attending gentlemen laugh merrily at that, and the ever sweet, constant, good, and so forth, as she slides from her horse, catches hold of Ulrich's hair, without any one's noticing it (however that can have been done), and pulls a lock out by the roots. "Take this for being afraid," she whispers; "I have been deceived by other accounts of you." Reproaching himself, and wishing God to take his life, he stood gawkily where she left him, absorbed in remorse for his awkwardness, until a knight admonished him to step aside and allow the ladies to go by to their rooms. Whereupon he rode off to his inn, and swore that he was ill. As he tossed restlessly through the night, he talked with himself as usual, lamenting his birth, and assuring himself that should he live a thousand years he could never again be happy. "Not to speak one word to her! My worthlessness has lost my lady." But in the morning he rode up to her on the street. No silence this time: "Thy grace, gracious lady! Graciously be gracious to me. Thou art my joy's abiding place, the festival of my joys." Like many shy people, Ulrich talked fluently enough when he was once started, and he was only in the midst of his protestations when the lady interrupted him. "Hush, you are too young; ride on before me. Talking may hurt you, it never can help you. It would be amiss for others to hear what you are saying. Leave me in peace; you grow troublesome." Then she beckoned to another knight, and directed that she should never again be attended by less than two gentlemen. It was in the book of lady-service that no repulse was a discouragement. "This morning," says the heroine in Bret Harte's parody of _Jane Eyre_, "this morning he flung his boot at me! Now I know he loves me." Ulrich rode off, thinking that he had met with good success in telling her a part of his love, before the interruption. Another summer passed in tourneying, and during another winter he tried to amuse himself by making poetry for his lady. This time he sent her a more pretentious tribute, his first "Büchlein," a poem of some four hundred lines. Like most of its kind, it is formal, sentimentally prolix, and supplicatory, yet not without a certain pleasant interest. He begs her from the wealth of her loveliness to grant him some trifling favor which she never can miss: What is worse the bloomy heath, If a few flowers for the sake Of a garland some one break? He wishes it were himself that the messenger is about to deliver to her: Little book, I fain would be, When thou comest, changed to thee. When her fair white hand receives Thine assemblement of leaves, And her glances, shyly playing, Thee so happy are surveying. And her red mouth comes close by, I would steal a kiss, or die. But the unsatisfactory manuscripts were returned at once. The lady told the bearer that she recognized the merit of the poetry, but she would have nothing to do with it. Like many poets of those days when monks and ladies constituted the educated classes, like his predecessor, the great master of high mediæval romance, Ulrich could neither read nor write, and for such delicate personal affairs as correspondence with his lady he depended upon his confidential clerk. This confidant of his passion was absent when the "Büchlein" came back, but the eager eyes of the poet looked through the pages over which they had evidently wandered before he dismissed his labors to their fate, repeating the lines from memory as he looked over the characters which should interpret his loving patience to the lady who would not let him speak it to her; and as he looked, he detected an addition to what he had sent, an appendix of ten lines. The slighted letter found a home in his bosom, and for ten days he awaited his secretary's return. His happy hopes--those ten days were so cheerful. But when the little response was at last interpreted, away with hopes and cheerfulness. To make plainness trebly plain, his cruel correspondent had copied out three times the sentiment: "Whoever desires what he should not, has refused himself." Summer again, and the lover has diversion in the sports of chivalry. Any one interested in the details of mediæval tournaments will find in Ulrich's narrative a valuable and lively record of the tourney held at Friesach in 1224. His sense for material splendor is well shown by his full accounts of the costuming and tent equipments. The trustworthiness of the minor points may be questioned when we recall that the _Frauendienst_ was composed more than thirty years later, but as a sketch of thirteenth-century chivalry, no doubt it is accurate. The heralds running hither and thither, and shouting as they arranged for the contests, with their cries to "good gallant knights to risk honor, goods, and life for true women"; the squires crowding the ways, loud noise of drums, flute-playing, blowing of horns, great trumpeting,--we have the old picture, made vivid in English by Chaucer in the _Knight's Tale_, and by Tennyson. Ulrich rode in disguise, prompted by the sentimentalist's self-consciousness, always delighted in attracting attention and making himself talked of. According to his own account, he did good hearty tourneying, breaking ten spears with one antagonist, seven with another, five with a third, six with a fourth, in a single day. The meeting continued for ten days, and Ulrich grows prolix in his particulars, though he is modest enough about his own exploits, pronouncing himself neither the best nor the worst of the participants. The accidents of jousting, through which many were left at Friesach with broken limbs and other injuries, and the misfortunes which compelled others to have recourse to the Jews for loans, did not disturb the musical contestant. At the end he rode cheerfully off to his cousin with another song for the same inattentive ear. She promised to report, as she sent it, that no one in the great tourney had excelled him. This lyric is the poem by which modern German students of their old literature have been best pleased, and we shall hardly dissent from Scherer's commendation. For it is both a typical minnesong, in its treatment of nature and love, and also fortunate in its union of sentiment, force, finish, and a ring of personal meaning. Omitting two of its stanzas, it goes as follows: Now the little birds are singing In the wood their darling lay; In the meadow flowers are springing, Confident in sunny May. So my heart's bright spirits seem Flowers her goodness doth embolden; For in her my life grows golden, As the poor man's in his dream. Ah, her sweetness! Free from turning Is her true and constant heart; Till possession banish yearning, Let my dear hope not depart. Only this her grace I'll pray: Wake me from my tears, and after Sighs let comfort come and laughter; Let my joy not slip away. Blissful May, the whole world's anguish Finds in thee its single weal; Yet the pain whereof I languish, Thou, nor all the world, canst heal. What least joy may ye impart, She so dear and good denied me? In her comforts ever hide me, All my life her loving heart. But elegant and tender as in the original these verses are, their object returned a slighting answer, and added that the messenger must not be sent again. People would come to have suspicions. Ulrich made another set of verses, and went off to another joust. There one of his fingers was seriously wounded, and in his anxiety to save it he offered a surgeon a thousand pounds for a cure. The treatment was unsuccessful, and, after showing a good deal of temper, he went to a new surgeon, on the way beguiling himself of his pain by composing another poem upon the old theme. But a shock was at hand; a friend divulged to him his closely kept secret. "This lady [still unnamed to us] is the May-time of your heart." What though this friend believed that the lady cared for him? "My head sank down, my heart sighed, my mouth was dumb," in terror lest it might be through his fault that the object of his devotion had been discovered. For secrecy was the first of a chivalric lover's virtues, even about the object of his passion. Yet the pain was not without compensation, inasmuch as this gentleman, who declared that he had already kept the secret for two years and a half, volunteered to make another appeal. So off to the home of the inexorable went anew the story of unflinching devotion, the loss of a finger in a tournament for her glory not unmentioned. Ulrich's cause was pleaded with fervor, and in winning style. The lover was praised and prayed for. The song he had sent was even sung, instead of being formally delivered. A faithful and versatile legate was this proxy wooer, but it was all to no purpose. The lady declared that she would grow old in entire ignorance of any love but her husband's. She warned the messenger that Ulrich would find himself in trouble if he should persist in annoying her with such sentimental folly; she would not receive such attentions from the highest-born--not even from a king. The news saddened, but did not cast down. "What if she refuses me?" cried Ulrich; "that shall not disturb me. If she hates me to-day, I will serve her so that later she shall like me. Were I to give up for a cold greeting, could a little word drive me away from my high hope, I should have no sound mind or manly mood. Whatever the true, sweet one does to me, for that I must be grateful." But now another summer was over, and he diverted himself by a pilgrimage to Rome. After Easter he returned, on his way composing this sweetly conceived and rather pretty lyric: Ah, see, the touch of spring Hath graced the wood with green; And see, o'er the wide plain Sweet flowers on every spray. The birds in rapture sing; Such joy was never seen: Departed all their pain, Comfort has come with May. May comforts all that lives, Except me, love-sick man; Love-stricken is my heart, This drives all joys away. When life some pleasure gives, In tears my heart will scan My face, and tell its smart; How then can pleasure stay? Vowed constantly to woo High love am I; that good While I pursue, I see No promise of success. Pure lady, constant, true, The crown of womanhood, Think graciously of me, Through thy high worthiness. The knight passed his summer in Steierland under arms, and after pleasant experiences he sent his messenger again, only to have his suit repelled with the same coldness and decision as before. The report was even more discouraging, for the lady, who had been told of his losing a finger in her service, had now learned that he still had it; nor was she moved by the assurance that it was almost useless. The desire to keep the wounded member had led him to large expense of money and time, but he cared for it no longer. He set about the composition of another long elegy, which explains how his heart loves her, and weeps for her favor, as a poor and orphaned child weeps after comfort; so ardently he loves her, that he gladly sacrifices anything, and as a pledge of his constant fidelity, he sends her one of his fingers, lost in that service for which it was born. After the poem was ready, he directed a goldsmith to make a fine case, in which he enclosed it. But he put in something more; he had the convalescent finger amputated, and sent it to the chiding critic as a proof that he had not lied in saying that he had lost it for her. Yet even this failed to please so unsympathetic a mistress. She said she wondered how any one could be so foolish as to cut off his finger: he would have been able to serve ladies better by keeping it. However, she would retain the token of his consideration, but a thousand years of his service would be lost on her. Ulrich was jubilant, for he was confident that with this memento, she would always think of him.[6] Now a large idea visits this sanguine gentleman. Gone to Rome on a pilgrimage, that is what he will pretend; he rigs himself out with a wallet and staff which he obtains from a priest, and trudges off. But something more novel and magnificent is haunting his ingenious mind. It is to Venice that he goes--cautiously, so as not to be observed. Upon his arrival, he takes lodgings in an out-of-the-way inn, so that no one may hear of him. There he spends the winter, making a liberal expenditure for costumes for himself and a retinue. He dresses himself as Queen Venus, in complete feminine attire, even to the long braids of hair which figure so prominently in the descriptions of the ladies of that age. When spring came, he sent a courier over the route that he intended to take on his journey homeward, with a circular-letter that contained a list of thirty places at which Lady Venus would appear, and joust with all contestants. A ring which makes beautiful and keeps true love, was offered to whoever might break a spear against her. If she should cast a knight down, he should become a loyal knight to women everywhere; if he were to overthrow her, she would give him her horse. But to no one would she show her face or hand. Thirty days later he started on his disguised errantry. His retinue consisted of a marshal, a cook, a banner-bearer, two trumpeters, three boys to take charge of three sumpters, three squires for the three war-steeds, four finely dressed squires, each holding three spears, two maids--good-looking, he tells us,--and two fiddlers. Who raised my spirits, fiddling loud A marching tune, which made me proud. Behind these he rode himself, dressed, like the entire cavalcade, entirely in white,--cape, hood, shirt, coat reaching to his feet, embroidered silk gloves, and those hair-braids hanging to his waist. "In my love-longing heart, I rejoiced thus to serve my lady." The narrative of this "Venus-journey" is prolonged, detailed, and tedious, and only two or three episodes need be mentioned. At Treviso, a crowd of women are gathered about his lodging, when he comes out on his way to early mass, and he takes comfort in thinking how well-dressed he is. In the church, a countess suggests kissing him, conformably to the kiss of peace custom; the attraction is stronger than the desire for disguise, and he lifts his veil. She sees that Lady Venus is a man, but she kisses him nevertheless. "That raised my spirits," Ulrich confides to us, "for a lady's kiss is delightful"; and he goes on to say that "every one who ever kissed a lady's mouth knows that nothing is so sweet as the kiss of a noble lady. A high-born true woman who has a red mouth and a fair body, whenever she kisses a man he can judge of a lady's kiss, and of it he is ever glad. A lady's kiss is still better than good, and it fills a heart with joy." No wonder that many ladies collected at his inn, to bid so sentimental a knight God-speed. From their prayers he assures us that he gained good fortune, "for God cannot slight ladies' petitions," an imputation of gallantry to God, for which we find curious mediæval parallels. Wherever the knight goes, numerous contestants are awaiting him, in this idle age when no one had anything to do. Some of these, also, assume disguises, one as a monk, another in female costume, his shield and spear æsthetic with flowers. But the travelling combatant is always the winner. At one point during the journey he steals off for a couple of days to a place which he has never mentioned previously: namely, to his home. The love-stricken lady-servant speaks with the most unaffected simplicity of the joy with which he rode away to see his wife: "Who was just as dear to me as she could be.... The good woman received me just as a lady should receive her very dear husband. I had made her happy by my visit. My arrival had taken away her sadness. She was glad to see me, and I was glad to see her; with kisses the good woman received me. The true woman was glad to see me, and joyously I took my ease and pleasure there two days." This appears tautological, but it also seems sincere. But a wound was in store for his sensibility. One day he had gone to a retired place for a bath, and his attendant had gone to bring a suit. While thus left quite alone and unprotected, a lady sent by her servant a suit of female garments, a piece of tapestry, a coat, a girdle, a fine buckle, a garland, a ring with a ruby red as a lady's sweet mouth, and a letter. To receive such a gift from a lady not one's love was treason. He bade the page take the things away, but he would not; nay, he presently returned with two others, carrying fresh beautiful roses, which they strewed all about Ulrich in the bath, while he raged and fumed to think of the insult offered to his unprotected condition. To think of receiving a gift from any but his own lady! And, of all gifts, a ring! The next present that came was received very differently. After all these years of neglect, the mistress of his life sent Ulrich an affectionate message, and a ring which her white hand had worn for ten years, as a token that she took part in the honors which he was gaining, and rejoiced in his worthiness. Possibly the knight's name was gaining currency as genuinely valorous. But fancy his ecstasy! "This little ring shall ever lift up my heart. Well for me that I was born, and that I found a lady so true, sweet, blissful, lady of all my joys, brightness of my heart's joys," and so forth. He was informed that many knights were waiting to contest with him at Vienna. "What harm can happen to me, since my lady is gracious? If for every knight there were three, I could master them all." Outside of amorous and knightly themes, Ulrich's mind is not active, but he occasionally shows a philosophical observation on social topics, as in the present context, where he comments on female vanity in dress: "Woman's nature, young and old, likes many clothes. Even if she does not wear them all, she is pleased to have them, so that she can say, 'an if I liked, I could be better dressed than other people.' Good clothes are becoming to beautiful women, and my foolish masculine opinion is that a man should take pleasure in dressing them well, since he should hold his wife as his own body." Certainly Ulrich took pleasure in dressing himself well. The Venus-journey ended, and Ulrich counted up the results. Two hundred and seventy-one of his spears had been broken, and he had broken three hundred and seven; he had brought honor upon his lady by his loyalty and valor; and had shown her constant devotion, even though he had momentarily fallen in love with a bewitching woman at one of his stopping-places, and taken advantage of his disguise to kiss various fair ones at mass. Is it possible that the anonymous heroine heard of such trivial infidelities? At any rate, the next visit of the messenger brought a bitter dismissal, with cruel charges of inconstancy. She would always hate him, and never hold him dear; she was angry with herself for giving him a ring; she bade him return it at once. Alas, poor Ulrich! Never had he entertained a false thought; if he had ever been guilty of one, he would in no wise have survived it. "I sat weeping like a child; from weeping I was almost blind. I wrung my hands pitilessly; in my distress my limbs cracked as one snaps dry wood." Well may the poet declare that exhibition of grief no child's play. As the lover and his bosom friend sat weeping together, Ulrich's brother-in-law admonished him that such behavior disgraced the name of knight; moreover, there was no reason for melancholy now, when the champion ought to be happy in the fine reputation just made. "If women hear how you are behaving, they will always hate you for this weak mood." Ulrich tried to tell about his grief for the lady whom he had served so long, but the strain was too great: "The blood in truth burst out from my mouth and my nose, so that I was all blood." It was perhaps natural for his friend to thank God that "before his death he had been permitted to see one man who truly loves." Yet he bade him be courageous. "Nothing helps so much with ladies as good courage. Melancholy doesn't succeed with them at all. Joyousness always has served well with women." Water is stable compared with Ulrich's temperament. Close upon the anguish of this renewed rejection he goes home for a ten-days' visit with his wife,--"my dear wife, who could not be dearer to me even though I had another woman for the lady of my life." Within eight lines this mercurial poet speaks of his comfort with his wife, and of the suffering of his love-languishing heart. Another message from his dream brought a renewed expression of coldness. She felt kindly to him, but she never would grant favor to any one. But another song and messenger secure at last the promise of an interview. Yet notice the conditions. Evidently this lady was a humorist, to whom her former page was amusing when her less complaisant mood did not find him tiresome. And perhaps she thought that he could not accept her terms. She says she will see him if he will come the next Sunday morning before breakfast, dressed in poor clothes, and in company with a squad of lepers who have a camp near her castle. But even then he is to indulge in no hope of her love. The distance is so great that he thinks he will be unable to cover it in time; but he is told that he must, for "women are very strange; they wish men constantly to carry out their desires, and to any one who fails to do so they are not well disposed." On Saturday he rode thirty-six miles, lost two horses by the forced journey, very likely over rough country, and was wearied by the exertion of so hard an effort. But he succeeded, and as soon as they reach the neighborhood of the castle, he and his two companions put on poor clothes--the shabbiest they could procure,--and with leper cups and long knives for their safety among such outcasts of society, they go to the spot where thirty lepers are huddled together. Mediæval charity and religion are illustrated by this incident; the miserable beggars explain that a lady of the castle is ill, and therefore they often receive food and money in recompense for their prayers for her recovery. Beating his clapper like one of them, he goes toward the castle gate, and meets an envoy maid who bids him beware of failing to obey every command literally, and adds that her mistress will not see him yet awhile. That personal vanity which always marked him had submitted to stains of herbs to disguise his face, as well as to miserable and ragged dress, and off he went, in the servitude of love, and sat among the lepers, ate and drank among them--nay, even went about begging for scraps, which, however, he threw under a bush. The foul odors and the filthiness of the wretches about him made the day almost insufferable, but at last night came, and he hid himself in a field of grain, getting well stung by insects and drenched in a cold storm. But he told himself that "whoever has in his troubles sweet anticipation, he can endure them." In the morning he went to the castle again, and was encouraged to believe that he would be received that evening. So he returned and ate with the beggars; then he escaped to a wood, and with true old German nature-sentiment, he sat down where the sun fell through the trees and listened to the birds--many were singing--and forgot the cold. Toward evening he secured another interview with the maid, and received directions for the night. He and his companion hid in the ditch before the castle, skulking from the observation of the patrol, until well after dark; then when the signal light appeared at a certain window he went beneath it, and found a rope made of clothes hanging down. In this he fastened himself, and hands above began to raise him, but when he was half way up they could raise him no farther, and he was let down to the ground. This happened three times; and yet, guileless Ulrich, you had no glimmering that perhaps it was a joke? The companion was lighter than his lord, and it occurred to the two that they had better change places. So they did, and the substitute was lifted into the window by the waiting ladies above, and then Ulrich himself arrived there. He was given a coat (an accident below had compelled him to leave his on the ground), and, blissful moment, he was ushered into the presence of the woman whom he had so long served without even a glimpse. It was a brilliant social scene which broke upon those enamoured eyes, indeed too brilliant and too social to correspond with a lover's sentiment for "dual solitude." His soul's desire, richly dressed, sat upon a couch, surrounded by a bevy of ladies. Her husband, it is true, was not present, but with an absence of tact (as it must have seemed to Ulrich) she fell to talking about him and her complete happiness in his love. Their mutual confidence is so strong that he is quite willing to have her receive any visitors whom she pleases, and she added that her true mind served him better than any safeguard which he could put upon her. Awkward as such a line of conversation made it, Ulrich began to tell the story of his heart, and entreats her to respond to his devotion. She assured him that she had no thought of ever loving him; she had consented to this interview only to assure him of her kindly feeling, and satisfy him from her own lips that he must cherish no romantic hope. If he continued to ask her to love him, he should lose her favor. "I was horrified," he declares, "and started up at the threat." At this point in the interview he withdraws to talk to his cousin, who was with other ladies in an adjoining apartment, and who advised him to return and plead again. But an abrupt dismissal sends him into a moody reflection, which culminates in a desperate resolve. Now or never; he sends her word of his determination, and then rushes in and tells her that if she will not say she loves him, he will kill himself then and there. The lady sees that such a suicide would be compromising, and tries to persuade him that perhaps she may some time. Ah, no such coyness; she must confess her love to-night. Finally, as a last resource, she thinks of employing the usual right of a courted woman--putting her lover to a test of his devotion. He has already given her so many that a trifling, a merely formal one will serve now. Let him just get into the clothes-rope again and be lowered part way down, and pulled back; then she will say she loves him. A glimmer of suspicion flits over his mind, but she gives him her hand as a pledge, and he gets into the rope. Now he is hanging outside the window, still holding the dear hand, and such sweet things as she whispers, as she leans out--no knight was ever so dear to her; now comes his contentment, all his troubles are past now! She even coddles his chin with her disengaged hand, and bids him kiss her. Kiss her! In his joy he lets go the hand he was holding, to throw both arms about her neck, when suddenly he is dropped to the ground so swiftly "that he ran great peril of his life."[7] In the rooms above a score of voices ringing with laughter, on the ground a too credulous child of Mars and Venus, cursing his day. Ulrich spies a deep pool and is about to drown himself, when his companion arrives with a little present sent by the lady. She promises--(the gentleman afterward confesses that this is a falsehood of his own to preserve Ulrich from despair)--that if he will return in three weeks, she will assure him of her real affection. But now it is near day, and they must hasten off; providentially there is a tournament awaiting them, which will distract his attention. But he sends his friend back to have a talk with the lady, who is in a rather humorous mood, and says that Ulrich made so much noise when he fell that one of the guard thought it was the Devil. But though she laughs, she evidently has had enough of such fun, for she tells the messenger that if his lord wishes her favor he must make the journey over-sea. Ulrich agrees to go, but he is warned against the almost hopeless dangers of that most formidable of pilgrimages; he is reminded that no one ever took such a perilous journey except for God, and that he would surely sacrifice his soul, if he lost his life thus for a woman. But one grows tired of the story, which runs on with ups and downs, over the long thirteen years through which Ulrich served this lady. Toward the end of the period he was plainly growing impatient. He wrote more lyrics, which suggest here and there that devotion without love in return is foolish, and that he is contemplating a change. Finally he conceived himself treated shamefully (we are not told what the discourtesy was which he could not idealize), and he made a final break with his old worship. But now the time passed wearily, and he felt that he must still have a lady to serve. "How joyfully once the days went by; alas, no longer have I any service to render. How happy ladies' service makes one." But the knight has learned the lesson of his trials, and this time he arranges for a judicious passion. He runs over all his female acquaintance, to see which of them he had best select. Finally he fixes upon one who, of course, is beautiful and good, and wholly free from change; who has finished manners and gentle ways, chastity and force of character, and to her he offers his service, which she accepts. From this point in Ulrich's memoirs we have an increasing number of lyrics; he likes them all, but complains that one or two were not appreciated by the public, though whoever was clever enough to understand his poetry, he tells us, did appreciate it. Perhaps we are not clever enough to understand it all; but some of the songs, as he himself says, "are good for dancing and very cheerful; the martial ones were gladly sung when in the jousts fire sprung from helmets," and more than one of his poems is a contribution to the graceful though minor work of the later minnesingers. For example: Summer-hued, Is the wood, Heath and field; debonair Now is seen White, brown, green, Blue, red, yellow, everywhere. Everything You see spring Joyously, in full delight; He whose pains Dear love deigns With her favor to requite-- Ah, happy wight. Whosoe'er Knows love's care, Free from care well may be; Year by year Brightness clear Of the May shall he see. Blithe and gay All the play Of glad love shall he fulfil; Joyous living Is in the giving Of high love to whom she will, Rich in joys still. He's a churl Whom a girl Lovingly shall embrace, Who'll not cry "Blest am I"-- Let none such show his face. This will cure you (I assure you) Of all sorrows, all alarms; What alloy In his joy On whom white and pretty arms Bestow their charms? And again: Sweet, in whom all things behooving, Virtue, brightness, beauty, meet, Little troubles thee this loving, Thou art safe above it, sweet. My love-trials couldst thou feel From thy dainty lips should steal Sighs like mine, as deep and real. Sir, what is love? Prithee, answer; Is it maid or is it man? And explain, too, if you can, sir, How it looks; though I began Long ago, I ask in vain; Everything you know explain, That I may avoid its pain. Sweet, love is so strong and mighty That all countries own her sway; Who can speak her power rightly? Yet I'll tell thee what I may. She is good and she is bad; Makes us happy, makes us sad; Such moods love always had. Sir, can love from care beguile us And our sorrowing distress? With fair living reconcile us, Gaiety and worthiness? If her power hath controlled Everything as I've just told, Sure her grace is manifold. Sweet, of love there's more to tell thee; Service she with rapture pays; With her joys and honors dwell; we Learn from her dear virtue's ways. Mirth of heart and bliss of eye Whom she loves shall satisfy; Nor will she higher good deny. Sir, I fain would win her wages, Her approval I would seek; Yet distress my mind presages; Ah, for that I am too weak. Pain I never can sustain. How may I her favors gain? Sir, the way you must explain. Sweet, I love thee; be not cruel; Thou to love again must try. Make a unit of our dual, That we both become an "I." Be thou mine and I'll be thine. "Sir, not so; the hope resign. Be your own, and I'll be mine." The latter part of this prolix autobiography is occupied by a detailed account of a long tourneying trip, which he contrived as a parallel to his Venus-journey, this time under the disguise of King Arthur. But the narration of that ends at last, and Ulrich becomes reflective upon the seasons and his lady. "Whoever sorrows at winter, and is made glad by summer, lives like the bird which rejoices in sunny May. How distressing is bad weather! Yet whatever the weather, her goodness gives me joy which storms cannot disturb." Presently he tells us his feelings about the life around him, for the social critics of mediævalism felt the inequalities of fortune and happiness quite as strongly as do the social critics of to-day. Some time earlier Ulrich, in criticising a number of knights whom he met, showed a noteworthily refined feeling for generous qualities, and resistance against hardness and selfish aims. In spite of this love-singer's belief in cheerfulness ("no one does well to be sad except about sins," he wrote), the roughness of the age troubled him, as it had troubled earlier and greater authors of his nation. "Instead of being good, the rich work one another harm; the only profession is that of plundering, the service of ladies is forsaken. The young men are spendthrifts, and with pillaging consume their youth." Indeed, the golden hour of chivalry had struck when Ulrich wrote, in his later life, just past the middle of the thirteenth century. But this sentimental absurdity, whose fanciful devotion and melodramatic moonings we find so preposterous, kept a strain of the higher manhood. He was good-hearted; he believed in the refined side of life, so far as he knew it; in a rough time and place he loved gentleness; though born with a large streak of the fool, he had also a pleasant element of the simple-minded gentleman; and as he grew old amid fading ideals, over which he had hung with effeminately romantic faith, the brutal and joyless hardness of men perplexed and saddened him. Yet his simplicity was his trouble's best physician; nature, the beauty and goodness of true womanhood, his sense of inner virtue as opposed to worldly estimates, and his poetry--in these he found comfort. "Whatever people have done, I have been happy and sung of my love." After Ulrich has told the story of his worldly and sentimental career, he stops to think over the cause to which that career has been consecrated. Has he made a mistake? Never! "When beauty and goodness unite in woman, she is admirable; one whose goodness is clothed with a noble spirit wears the best of garments. Even though a woman has little beauty, if she has the raiment of goodness, men yet call her fair. Be sure that no clothes better become a lady than goodness--it is better than beauty, though that is excellent. By goodness a poor woman will become truly a lady, and this the rich cannot be without it; nay, shapely and noble though she may be, without this she is still no womanly woman." ... "Whoever loves the sight of pretty women," he goes on, "and will not notice their goodness but only their bright charm, is like one who gathers pretty flowers for their bright beauty's sake, and twines them into a garland; then, finding that they are not fragrant, he is sorry that he gathered them. But whoever understands plants, lets those grow which have no sweet odor, and breaks off fragrant flowers." For over thirty years he has served ladies, and he knows no truth so certain as this, that nothing equals the mutual happiness of a true woman and a loving man. Yet sentiment can play only a minor part in life, after all. There are four main objects of exertion, and upon these, as he ends his book, the poet stops to reflect: The grace of God, honor, ease, and wealth. Some strive for one, some for another, while others aim ineffectively at all, win none, and hate themselves. And what has this old German gallant to say of himself? In all these revelations of his life, we catch no suggestions of selfishness or meanness, but while fancying himself enacting high chivalric drama, he has been wearing cap, and bells, and motley, lance in his left hand, a bauble in his right. Then, too, he has been so self-satisfied with his rôle. Well, the play is finished now, and Ulrich is sitting in the green-room, thinking. His coat is flung aside, with one last jingle the bells fall to the floor, he has dropped his bauble, and as he bows his head and in his musing runs his fingers through his hair, the coxcomb falls too. It is here in the green-room that he speaks his epilogue: "Of this last class am I; I have lived my life trying not to give up the three for any one. I desired and even hoped that I might obtain all the four. This hope has still deceived me, and I am made a fool by it. One day I will serve Him who has given me soul, life, thought, whatever I have; the next as a man I will strive for honor; then for wealth; on the fourth day I am for ease. Thus inconstant, I have passed my entire life." Nothing accomplished--nothing even steadily aimed at. Nothing? With characteristic buoyancy the gray-haired poet puts aside this sombre mood of dissatisfaction with his fifty odd years. For in one point, at least, he has been true. In this book, written only because his lady commanded, he has spoken very many sweet words for worthy women, and throughout his life he has been faithful to his love. "And I do believe that the very true sweet God, through his very high goodness, will think on my fidelity to her, and my constant service." [Decoration] FOOTNOTES: [5] "A woman is never won by what is in one's thoughts: . . . . . . . . Of that she can know nothing." [6] With this extravagant but probably veracious incident, one naturally compares the sacrifice of Guillem de Balaun's finger nail. [7] These poet lovers seem to have been frequently laughed at. For instance, Pierre Vidal was promised in their amusement anything by the ladies whom he loved. Na Alazais was so indignant when he took encouragement to steal his one kiss, that he was compelled to flee, and go with Richard to the East. [Decoration] NEIDHART VON REUENTHAL, AND HIS BAVARIAN PEASANTS. Our liveliest pictures of old German peasantry come, as we should expect, from a singer of the knightly class. The masses had fewer and of course less accomplished poets, and these would be most likely to please their audiences by touching with the glamour of fashionable life such work as they cared to make contemporary and imitative. Realistic social transcripts usually come from culture. It may be that Neidhart von Reuenthal had been brought up at the ducal court or in a castle, but there is as good reason for conjecturing that his origin was among the scenes of country life that he describes. Most of the courtly poets belonged to the lower class of knights, and between this and the better order of peasants there was no wide dividing line; indeed, a farmer with a little land of his own and four free ancestors ("von allen vieren anen ein gebûre," as Neidhart says bitterly of his enemy the swaggering Ber), by the old Saxon law stood higher than a knight not of free blood. The agricultural class in the thirteenth century was becoming more impatient of the costly conflicts of their military superiors and was also suffering severely from the pillaging domestic raids of lawless knights, who, as they grew bolder, established centres of reckless free-booting to which they attracted wayward youth of the middle classes. Cities were also getting larger, and the tradesmen joined with the established gentry in thinking slightingly of the farming population. Accordingly there was jealousy on one side and arrogance on the other, yet there was still a meeting-place between the two classes. Depleted nobles would marry daughters of wealthy peasants, and a gentleman whose fief lay among well-to-do farmers might easily meet them in social relations. A grant from the Bavarian Duke evidently isolated Neidhart from his own companions, and he appears to have mingled freely with the peasantry, though we cannot determine how early the contact began. He was born in the latter part of the twelfth century, we may say about 1185, perhaps, and with the exception of absence on Leopold VII's crusade of 1217-1219, he apparently kept his home in his native Bavaria until about 1230, when he lost the Duke's favor and turned as a homeless wanderer to Austria, where he received welcome and another fief. The last date inferred from his songs is 1236, in connection with the Emperor's coming, and he was dead before the composition of Meier Helmbrecht, which is earlier than 1250. So far as imitations prove popularity, he was one of the most popular of mediæval poets. It is easy to understand the pleasure that his verses must have given, striking as they did into a new field, and executed with literary skill, full of verve and humor, and appealing to strong class prejudice. We must think of him as a gentleman fond of society, of refined courtly habits, with an aristocratic contempt for pinchbeck upstarts, yet not unwilling now and then to play the good-natured acquaintance with middle-class people. Though he ranks as a knight, his tastes were not military. He was lively, quick-witted, and satirical; clever at musical invention; genuinely interested in poetry. Moreover, he gave early evidence of an independent literary taste, that dared to yawn at the methods practised by the great minnesingers of his youth. By his singing he had obtained sufficient favor with the Duke to receive a fief though away among the peasantry; yet rather than relinquish a home of his own, that constant dream of his profession, he made the merriest and the best of the time he needed to spend on his estate. The feeling for spring is largely an animal sensation, as the lambs in the pasture, or dogs on the green, or little children remind us. The comparison of loving something "as goats love the spring," goes back to Greek literature. It has also been habitually associated with physical sentiment, as the splendid proëmium of Lucretius suggests. With this buoyancy of spirits and emotional susceptibility, serious minds touched with poetry have associated various deep and beautiful moods. But the moral element that enters into such spring poems as Wordsworth's, is not present in mediæval literature. There we find poets feeling spring as animals, as children, as lovers. Those were out-of-door generations; hunting, riding, fighting, and enjoying themselves beneath the open sky, were their chief employments. They found winter travel hard, for they had no beaten roads; it caused a dreary interruption to their principal engagements, and to a large extent confined them in narrow quarters, not too comfortably warmed. In spite of all the amusements that could be provided, the time must have dragged. If Romans could cry out as Ovid did at the significance of spring, what must the season have meant to the castled sons of central Europe. It is not strange then that their nature-worship instituted in early times a festival to the genial conqueror of frost and snow, and that this ceremony, as the old superstitions died away, was continued in graceful traditions of village customs. The first flowers or the earliest boughs in leaf served as the signal for the ceremonial welcome of April or May. With widely varying details, the youth of the parish would stream out to the fields or woods, and come back singing spring catches, and dancing that long, skipping forward step which they practised out-of-doors, carrying with them trophies of the season. Sometimes they fastened the first violet to a pole, and setting it up danced around it; sometimes they danced about the first linden that appeared in leaf. It is the linden that the poets are continually mentioning, whether in the centre of the courtyard or in the field, and the tree suggests the social life of the old times as happily as the pine under which Charlemagne sat, in the great chanson, suggests the imperial master. Customs related in Herrick's _Going a-Maying_, such as the decoration of the houses of favorites with early greenery and the processions of girls and young men to the woods and fields, were familiar in Germany long before. Exercises to welcome spring became not only a social but even--so far as the rude country songs went--a literary habit. The earlier ritual dance around some altar or symbol of the summer deity grew into an entertainment from which all sense of its original significance had passed away. These celebrations became the main social feature of the warm months. At one time partners appear to have been taken for the year (a passage in _Wilhelm Meister_ reminds us of this usage), but not in the period before us. A summons to a holiday dance (and the large number of church festivals made holidays frequent) was usually given by a musician playing or singing through the street. The young men and women, and not infrequently their elders, came to the customary field, dressed for the gaiety; as they went along, tossing and catching bright-colored balls. This favorite ball-playing, mentioned by more than one poet of the age as a sign of spring, and especially entered into by girls, often formed a prelude to the dance. For one thing it gave the girls a way of choosing their partners, for the man who caught the ball tossed by a girl, according to some usages, could claim the right to dance with her. An anonymous poet of the thirteenth century gives a lively picture of one of these scenes. "All the time the young people are passing ball on the street. This is the earliest sport of summer, and as they play they scream. What if the rustic lad gives me a shove? How rude he is as he darts here and there, flying and chasing and playing tricks with the ball. Then two by two they have a hoppaldy dance about the fiddle, as if they wanted to fly." As one of the fellows holds the ball, "What pretty speeches the girls make him, how they shriek, how wild they get. While he's hesitating to whom he'll throw, they stretch out their hands; now you're my friend (geveterlin),--throw it down here to me ... Jiutelin and Elsemuot hurry after it. Whoever gets it is the best one. Krumpolt ran, and cried, 'Throw it to me, and I'll throw it back.' In the scrimmage some of the girls get pushed down, and an accident happens to Eppe, the prettiest one in the field. But she picks herself up, and tosses the ball into the air. All scream, 'Catch it! catch it!' No girl can play better than she does; she judges the ball so well, and is such a sure catch." Another way of choosing partners was by presenting garlands, and one of the prettiest of the spring customs was the walk to the fields and woods after flowers for wreaths, either to give away or to wear. So one of the Latin songs describes young people going out,-- "Juvenes ut flores accipiant Et se per odores reficiant Virgines assumant alacriter, Et eant in prata floribus ornata, communiter." It certainly is a genial phase of those old times, this out-of-door companionship of lads and lassies, gathering flowers and "dancing in the chequered shade." The custom has in a manner survived to our own day; in England, for example, Mr. Thomas Hardy has introduced such scenes very pleasantly in some of his novels, but the zest and universality of it have not descended. Even in Elizabeth's England the hobby-horse was forgot; and back in the thirteenth century the May-time amusements were being frowned away. For preachers and moralists saw much evil in these summer gaieties. It is the old story: Nature is such a puritanical stage-manager that she likes to bring on a tragedy for the after-piece to her pleasant comedy, and she is best satisfied when we take warning from the practice and stay away from the play. The insane frenzies into which meadow dancing was carried on some occasions, especially at the riotous midsummer festival, do not belong to our subject. Neidhart assumes a flippant tone about matters of conduct, but his treatment of the summer merrymakings is usually innocent and agreeable. He comes as an artist, to the rude material provided in the traditional village songs for these occasions, and transfers to the polished verse of Germany's already highly trained lyrical school, that fresh and gay subject-matter that is so remote from the formal phrases of most of his courtly predecessors. His songs are lyric in their introduction, but almost invariably epic or dramatic in the later stanzas, scarcely ever overstepping closely drawn lines. Whereas, Walther von der Vogelweide's work in the popular poetry retains the lyrical mood throughout, and is far less realistic, never, I believe, treating a peasant element as such. Those lyrical preludes attest Neidhart's deep sentiment for nature; we feel that, in spite of the conventionality in them. He has the rare merit of an occasional specific note, and he touches even the hackneyed expressions about birds and flowers with a contagious buoyancy. Look at a few of these introductions: "Hedges green as gold; the heath dressed in bright roses. Come on, you fine girls: May is in the land. The linden is well hung with rich attire; now hearken, how the nightingale draws near." "The time is here: for many a year I have not seen a fairer. The cold winter is over, and many hearts rejoice that felt its chill. The woods are in leaf. Come then with me to the linden, dear." "Summer, a thousand welcomes! Whatever heart was wounded by the long winter is healed, its pain all gone. Thou comest welcome to the world in all lands. Through thee, rich and poor lose their sorrows, when winter has to go." And another, which loses its effect if we neglect the long, swinging metre: The forest for new foliage its grey dress has forsaken; And therefore now full many hearts to pleasure must awaken. The birds to whom the winter brought dismay, Have never sung so well as now the praises of the May. The winter from the lovely heath at last has turned aside, And there the blossoms stand, arrayed in colors gaily pied. Above them May's sweet dews are lightly shed; Ah, how I wish I had a wreath, dear friend, a lady said. This stanza moves more quickly: Forth from your houses, children fair! Out to the street! No wind is there, Sharp wind, cold snow. The birds were dreary, They're singing cheerily; Forth to the woodland go. After such opening stanzas comes the action of the song, almost always an expression of a girl's longing to go to the dance, and her mother's unwillingness. The burden of the remonstrances is that of the song in _Much Ado_, "Men were deceivers ever"; and though some of the conversations are amiable, often the two come to high words, and even to blows. The girl cannot think of going without her best costume, and this, in the prudent old domestic management, was always carefully folded up, and kept under lock and key. "Who gave you the right to lock up my gown?" a daughter demands. "You did not spin a thread of it. Where's the key? now open the room for me." Finally, she obtained it by stealth. "She took from the chest the gown that was laid in many small folds. To the knight of Reuenthal she threw her colored ball." But Neidhart grimly brings in her mother at the close. Another cries: "Bring me my fine gown. The gentleman from Reuenthal has sung us a new song. I hear him singing there to the children. I must dance with him at the linden." Her mother warns her of what happened to her playmate Jiute last year, "just as her mother said." But the gentleman had sent her a lovely garland of roses, and had brought her a pair of red stockings from over the Rhine, which she was wearing then; and she had promised to let him teach her the dance. Another song represents two girls talking of the same knight from Reuenthal: "All know him, and his songs are heard everywhere. He loves me, and to please him I will lace myself trimly, and go." Some of the mothers do more than remonstrate: "The wood is well in leaf, but my mother will not let me go. She has tied my feet with a rope. But all the same, I must go with the children to the linden in the field." Her mother overheard and threatened to punish her. "You little grasshopper, whither wilt thou hop away from the nest? Sit and sew in the sleeve for me." The girl is impudent, and the poem ends with a lively contest. Love is too strong. "He kissed me," one of them says, "and he had some root in his mouth, so that I lost all my senses." Perhaps the high-born poet bewitched these peasant-girls; he often assures us of it. One of them is plighted to a farmer, and whenever he expects to find her at home to entertain him, she joins the dancers, as toward evening "they bend their way down the street," and throws her ball to the knightly singer. Even the mothers themselves are sometimes caught by the desire to dance with him, or at least with some of the men at the linden, and in two or three of Neidhart's sprightliest songs the tables are turned, and the daughter tries to keep her mother from the gaieties that her years have outgrown. I have translated two of these summer dance songs in their exact rhythms, and so literally as to make them appear almost bald. In the first the nature opening may be omitted. "Mother, do not deny me,-- Forth to the field I'll hie me, And dance the merry spring; 'Tis ages since I heard the crowd Any new carols sing." "Nay, daughter, nay, mine own, Thee I have all alone Upon my bosom carried; Now yield thee to thy mother's will, And seek not to be married." "If I could only show him! Why, mother dear, you know him, And to him I will haste; Ah, 'tis the knight of Reuenthal, And he shall be embraced. "Such green the branches bending! The leafy weight seems rending The trees so thickly clad: Now be assured, dear mother mine, I'll take the worthy lad. "Dear mother, with such burning After my love he's yearning, Ungrateful can I be? He says that I'm the prettiest From France to Germany." Bare we saw the fields, but that is over; Now the flowers are crowding thro' the clover; At length the season that we love is here: As last year, All the heath is caught and held by roses; To roses summer brings good cheer. Thrushes, nightingales, we hear them singing; With their loud music mount and dale are ringing: For the dear summer is their jubilee: To you and me, It brings bright sights and pleasures without number; The heath is a fair thing to see. "Dewy grow the meadows," cried a maiden, "Branches lately bare are greenly laden: Listen! how the birds are crowning May: Come and play, For, Wierat, the leaves are on the linden; Winter, I ween, has gone away. "This year, too, we'll dance till twilight closes; Near the wood is a great mass of roses, I'll have a garland of them, trimly made; Come, you jade, Hand in hand with a fine knight you'll see me Dance in the linden shade." "Little daughter, heed not his advances; If thou press among the knights at dances, Something not befitting such as we There will be Trouble coming to thee, little daughter-- And the young farmer thinks of thee." "Nay, I trust to rule a knight in armor; How then should I listen to a farmer? What! you think I'd be a peasant's bride!" She replied: "He could never woo me to my liking, He'll never marry me," she cried. At first Neidhart seems to have maintained friendly relations with the young men of the district, for we find him addressing in amicable terms even Engelmar, who later became his worst enemy, complimenting him upon his room, in a song apparently designed for a dance at his house. But it is difficult to believe that his critical genius would have gone long without expression, and he presently began amusing himself, and courting the admirations of others, by original snatches of songs that were imitated from the _trutzstrophen_ of humorous, rustic, and often roughly personal verses, that were evidently in vogue among the country people before Neidhart's day. Such jeering, gibing bits of peasant fun-making would grow out of the custom of songs at these rural gatherings, like the parallel practice sometimes found with us of country valentine-parties, where personalities are touched off with the freedom of anonymous and privileged license. We can readily imagine him beginning with hits at one and another, that contained no deeper offence than an inevitable tone of his amused sense of the ridiculous. But the country gallants, already jealous of their elegant rival, whose gentlemanly prestige and courtly accomplishments would naturally make him attractive to their sweethearts, would be quick to take umbrage, and boorishly ready to manifest their displeasure. Neidhart certainly enjoyed at least as much of the poetic dower as "the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn," and must have answered their sullenness and rudeness with the contempt that falls with such a sting from gentility. Then stung himself by their bad manners, he naturally composed sharper and more direct stanzas, holding those who had offended him up to the laughter of other men, and of the tittering damsels. It does not seem probable that the most cutting and individualized of these attacks were written to be sung at dances where the victims of the satire were present. When we consider the violence and recklessness that historically marked this whole class in the thirteenth century, we are sure that the poet would hardly have survived some of the recitations. Many of them he probably composed to gratify his possibly irritated mood; for, as we shall presently see, his displeasure was deeper than the vexation of wounded social pride. But they strayed easily to the objects of their ridicule. As he strolled along the street, carrying his fiddle, and stopping to amuse himself at one house or another with any of the pretty girls whom he found idle like himself, he may have played and sung the piece over which he had just been working, or the minor singers who must have haunted him as he grew better known, would catch up and repeat far and wide the witty verses. The piece at which he was working, I said, for in an important sense the poems were professional labor. The natural comparison of the minnesinger on his farm to Ovid among the Goths, loses most of its force when we reflect that Neidhart's absences from his various little Romes were in some sense at his own pleasure, and that he must have kept riding about from castle to castle, and have made frequent sojourns at his patron's court, in the exercise of his now established musical vocation. The better his songs, the surer his hold on the Duke's favor, and as his prestige might rise throughout the country, the more cordial his greeting would be, and the more generous his dismission whenever he chose to go. These mediæval poets were more than careless rhymsters: painstaking labor was assumed as necessary for success. Their poetry was as subtle and difficult as the schoolmen's philosophy; though we may not care much for either, we at least respect the skill with which they mastered self-enforced technical difficulties. Arnaut Daniel's contest for a wager with another troubadour (King Richard was to decide which produced the cleverer poem), illustrates the statement that time was thought necessary for composition. The Provençal biography tells us that the contestants were shut up in separate rooms, and only ten days were allowed each for preparing his song. In Neidhart's seclusion on his fief, then, he would naturally make studies for his more important literary appearances, studies in subject-matter, as well as in verse and music. And a large number of his poems, at least considered in their entirety, must be thought of as compositions intended for courtly audiences. It is to be presumed that Neidhart began by writing in the conventional style of the love-singers. But his sense of humor and his originality were too vigorous to allow him to continue in the polished and monotonous manners of the school that reached its acme in Reinmar. He possessed the creative faculty, and the rude village lyrics were a sufficient suggestion of the new departure that he at once instituted and consummated. He put in the place of lyrical elegies, lyrical snatches of epic; and instead of gathering his epic materials from the already familiar, even if not hackneyed, cycles of chivalry, he took them from the real life, and that a growing life, of the German villagers of his time. Their boorish manners and arrogant social pretensions, their vulgar assumptions of elegance, and their jealous, recklessly brutal tempers, he sketches vividly. His touch is not to be called magical, there are no imaginative hauntings about the poems, there is little fascination of subtle poetry in his expression or his melodies. But his rude subjects are by no means treated rudely; he shows excellent technique in those elaborately built stanzas; his tone rather deepens than shrills in excited movements: in his dash and energy of feeling, he retains artistic self-possession; while he is such an iconoclast of sentimental poetry, that some have thought that Walther had him in mind in his complaint of the new school. He invariably shows sentiment for nature in his preludes, as well as sympathetic tones for character, especially in what we may call his personal confessions. It is indeed by virtue of this combination of qualities, as well as by his novelty of subject, that he caught the approval of his age. Romantic idealism was dying out, and a long period of coarse sensibility was drawing on; while there was yet still some feeling for sentiment, and an intellectual appreciation of artistic performance was, as usual, lapping over the first stages of literary decadence. If we accept the view which I have suggested, that at least as wholes many of Neidhart's songs were intended only for the gentry, we may find it easier to meet the question of their autobiographic and actual significance. It is possible to be unduly literal and too credulous of the historic reality of whatever is found in an old literature. Especially in the works of the minnesingers, some modern Germans appear unconscious that a poet may relate fictitious experiences and sensations. As I have remarked in an earlier essay, Cowley's love-poems had many mediæval prototypes, and there seems no necessity for assuming a fact behind each of Neidhart's statements. Why is it not reasonable to suppose that having once made what we call a "strike" with some of his village characters, he occasionally invented continuations or parallels? We may go so far as to assert the possibility that the continual reappearances of Engelmar, Neidhart's most recurrent character, who is always associated with the beginning of his disasters, is due quite as much to the fact that his early treatment of the famous snatching of a girl's mirror proved, by virtue of the topic, or the melody, or both, a great favorite, as to the incident in itself having been of the fateful influence upon his life that is implied. In other cases, as in what we may term the episode of the ginger-root, Neidhart certainly seems to be referring to some of his most popular earlier songs, for no other reason than that the reference would be agreeable to his audience and give a sort of continuity to his work. One of these instances is almost pathetic. The poet is old and song comes hard to him. After several stanzas of unusually serious tone, he says that people ask him why he does not sing as they are told he once did: they keep wondering what has become of the peasants who used to be on Tulnaere-field. So he attempts to conclude with a strain of his old satirical gaiety. "I'll tell of the bold free ways of Limizun, who is yet worse than our friend who took Friderun's mirror, or those who bought mail awhile ago at Vienna," as if by the mention of these popular achievements of his younger wit he could hide his dull present mood. So, too, as it appears to me, we may explain the recurrent complaints of his unhappy loves and of his desires frustrated by one and another of the boors. These lover's sorrows are just what we should expect from a poet in Neidhart's relation to the fashionable love lyrics; he retains something of the tone of despondent yearning that was deemed requisite by all his predecessors, yet he gives it a piquant novelty by substituting irony and class animosities for vague and impersonal wailings, and the sense of humor in these courtly woes in behalf of mere peasant maidens would be a livelier attraction to the knights and ladies of his polite circles than we might suppose. Surely Neidhart was the victim of no deep passion for his rustic heroines. He may have been amused by them, or even have liked them, and he certainly was enraged at being interfered with or baffled by middle-class rivals; but his rôle is more a Lothario's than a true lass-lorn wooer's. Imagine a peasant farm-house with a large main apartment, such as Neidhart had in mind in one of his earliest winter songs: "Engelmar, thy room is good; chill is it in the dales: winter is hateful." The young farmers and the girls come trooping in by pairs and little groups, dressed in their best, smiling and gay: no better aid to imagining the scene could be desired than Defregger's genial picture of a modern Tyrolese peasant party. It is a change from the summer dances: "Winter, thy might will drive us indoors from the broad linden. Thy winds are cold. Lark, quit thy singing: both frost and snow have said thee nay; alas, for the green clover. May, to thee I am loyal; winter is my bane." "Winter gives joy to none but such as love the chimney-corner." They all think of the change from their summer gatherings, and the singer strums his fiddle and strikes into the nature prelude of his lyric, as they prepare to begin the dance. Here is another opening, translated in the stanza system of the original: The green grass and the flowers Both are gone; Before the sun the linden gives no shade; Those happy hours On shady lawn Of various joys are over; where we played, None may play; No paths stray Where we went together; Joy fled away at the winter weather, And hearts are sad which once were gay. We are reminded again of Herrick in his lines to the meadows: "Ye have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers; And ye the walks have been, Where maids have spent their hours." The dance is under way now; if, as sometimes happened, they paid a surprise visit, the guests have taken hold and made the room ready: Clear out the benches and stools; Set in the middle The trestles, then fiddle; We'll dance till we're tired, merry fools. Throw open the windows for air, That the breeze Softly please The throat of each child debonair. When the leaders grow weary to sing, We'll all say, "Fiddler, play Us the tune for a stylish court-fling." (They apparently piled the table-frames in the middle of the room in place of the linden, about which they danced on the lawn.) The singer goes on to remind them of the preparation for the party: "I advise my friends to consult where the children shall have their fun. Megenwart has a large room: if it like you all, we will have the holiday party there. His daughter wishes us to come. All of you tell the rest. Engelmar shall lead a dance around the table." Again: "Let Kunegunde know; we shall be blamed if no one tells her about it, and don't forget Hedwig." Once more: "Come along, children, to the farm-house at Hademuot's; Engelbrecht, Adelmar, Friderich, Tuoze, Guote, Wentel, and her sisters all three; Hildeburg, pretty child; Jiutel and her cousin Ermelint." Still again, in one of the cheerful early songs, before Neidhart's bitter tone came in: "Now for the children who've been asked to the party. Jiutel shall tell them all, that they are to step after the fiddle with Hilde. 'Twill be a great dance. Diemuot, Gisel, are going together; Wendel, too, Engelmuot, for Heaven's sake! go out and call Künze to come. "Tell her the man is here; if she cares to see him, as she has all the time been wishing to, let her put on a little jacket and her cloak; I should prefer to have her come here, than to have him find her there at home in her every day clothes. "Künze tarried then no longer, but came, as Engelmuot bade her. She was in a hurry; quickly she dressed. Both sides of her gown were red silk. The finest of girls! No one could discover through the country, one I should be so glad to give my dear mother for a daughter. "Haha! How she pleased me, when I saw what she was; such hair, and red lips. Then I asked her to sit by me, but she said: 'I don't dare; I've been told not to talk with you, or even sit by you. Go and ask Heilke over there by Vriderune!'" "I hear dancing in the room," he sings at another time; "a crowd of village women are there; two fiddles; when they pause, gay outbreak of talking and laughing. Through the window goes the hubbub. Adelber never dances but between two girls." Sometimes the knightly guest entered into the gay interlude of conversation, entertaining a merry screaming group. But when his moody vein, or vexation at some common man's successful rivalry, dulled his social spirits, he would stand apart, or go to one side with one of the peasant maids, and satirically note the men scattered over the room. The young farmer's assumption of the dress and manners of gentility, carrying arms, discarding rustic fashions, affecting polite speech ("_Mit sîner rede er vlaemet_," Neidhart says of one of them,--he talks like a fine gentleman from abroad),--all this was ridiculous to the courtly poet, and his sense of the humor of it was associated with the bitterness of social contempt. "Look at Engelmar, how high he holds his head. What elegant style he has, at the dance, with his showy sword; something different from his father Batze. His son is a poor gawk, with his rough head. He puffs himself out like a stuffed pigeon, that sits crop-full on a corn-chest." And again: "Did you ever see so gay a peasant as he is? Good Lord! he is first of all in the dance. His sword-band is two hands broad. Proud enough he, of his new jacket; it has four and twenty small pieces of cloth in it, and the sleeves come down over his hand."[8] "There are two peasants wearing coats in the court style, of Austrian cloth. Uoze never cut them." Then he goes on to say: "Perhaps you would like to hear how the rustics are dressed. Their clothes are above their place. Small coats they wear, and small cloaks; red hoods, shoes with buckles, and black hose. They have on silk pouch-bags, and in them they carry pieces of ginger, to make themselves agreeable to the girls. They wear their hair long, a privilege of good birth. They put on gloves that come up to their elbows. One appears in a fustian jacket green as grass. Another flaunts it in red. Another carries a sword long as a hemp flail, wherever he goes; the knob of its hilt has a mirror, that he makes the girls look at themselves in. Poor clumsy louts, how can the girls endure them? One of them tears his partner's veil, another sticks his sword hilt through her gown, as they are dancing, and more than once, enthusiastically dancing and excited by the music, their awkward feet tread on the girls' skirts and even drag them off. But they are more than clumsy, they have an offensive horse-play kind of pleasantry that is nothing less than insult. They put their hands in wrong places, and one of them tries to get a maiden's ring, and actually wrenches it from her finger as she is treading the bending _reie_. "Why should I not be angry at his insolence? Yet I would not mind the ring so much, if he had not hurt her hand." And just so, Engelmar snatched her mirror from Neidhart's darling Vriderune. This last, as has been said, is the most famous incident in the Neidhart story. From it he dates all his misfortunes, and he reverts to it, over and over, with bitterness that can hardly be regarded as merely ironical humor. Yet numerous as the references are, there is a mystery about the affair that has not been cleared up. It has been suggested that Vriderune's way of taking the rudeness made it clear to Neidhart that it was her peasant lover, and not himself, whom she really liked, but it would seem more natural to associate the occurrence with something violent. Possibly the poet's indignation at the boorish familiarity led him to a personal attack, just as in another connection he threatens to strike an obnoxious fellow, and the resulting quarrel may have been taken up by friends of both, with such serious consequences that various annoyances followed on their part, which he could only return by insulting hits in his songs. The chances are all in favor of the poet's having been a slighter man physically than these farm-workers, at one of whom he sneers for the sacks that ride on his neck, and there are suggestions in the pseudo-Neidhart poetry of his having had helpers to a revenge. In one of these imitations it is said that through Neidhart's injury thirty-two had their left legs cut off, an evident exaggeration of an earlier imitation, where the writer reminds his hearers of what happened to Engelmar for taking Vriderune's mirror, that he lost his left leg and had to go on crutches. Such violent fights are authentically reported at merrymakings of the time, and as the aristocratic leader of such a brawl, Neidhart no doubt would find his subsequent residence among the peasants uncongenial. Yet why should he manifest such reserve, at the same time that he mentions the subject so constantly, referring to it long after he has left Bavaria? Is it possible that his jealousy and hot blood drove him to some underhanded attack in some such way as that in which a brilliant restoration poet tried to punish a supposed injury? This ill reputation as an aristocrat equally insolent and treacherous, might follow him to Austria; he would hardly be pleased to acknowledge in his poem what he had done, while the constant references to his injury in the insult of Vriderune, and the misfortunes to himself which it caused may be regarded as half defensive attempts to excite sympathy instead of disapproval. So much for possible explanations of this curious literary enigma, out of which we may make too much; for, as I have already suggested, Neidhart may only be doing what novelists sometimes do when they repeat a popular hit in characterization. At any rate, Vriderune seems to have been lost to her upper-class lover, "and ever from that time I have had some new heart-sorrow." Neidhart constantly reverts to the peasants' brutality and eagerness to fight. "Look out for a brutish fellow named Ber. He is tall and broad-shouldered; he scarcely can get in at the door. Fie, who brought him here? He is the nephew of Hildebolt of Bern, who was pounded by Williher." Lanze, again, "had got himself up for a champion, and thought nothing could resist him. He put underneath a coat of mail. Snarling like a bear he goes; so ugly is he, one were a child who withstood him." And of another: "He wears a sword that cuts like shears, and a good safety hat. Whoever you are, you may well keep out of his way. Villagers, look out for him; his sword is poisoned. It's a well-tempered Waidover, that sword of his." With such village-warriors, no wonder that the parties did not always end cheerfully. With a resemblance to modern slang Neidhart tells how they threaten to put sunshine through each other. The lively episode of a quarrel over a rural gallant's presenting a young lady with a piece of ginger, Neidhart says he cannot describe in full, for he came away. But "each began screaming to his friends; one called loudly: 'Help, gossip Wezerant.' He must have been in great difficulty to scream so for help. I heard Hildebolt's sister shriek: 'Oh, my brother, my brother!'" Another dance ends with a milder disagreement. "Ruoprecht found an egg--'I ween the devil gave it to him'--and threatened to throw it. Eppe got mad, and dared him. Ruoprecht threw it at the top of his head, and it trickled down over him." Sometimes, evidently, peacemakers interfered, as they did in Frideliep's and Engelmar's disagreement about Gotelint, so that the rivals did not fight, though "just like two silly geese they went toward each other, all the rest of the day." Like all of those poets, Neidhart, though he says "I" very often, lets us become but indifferent acquaintances. We read some of the mediæval lyrists without feeling sure that we detect a single genuine personal note; they had little of our modern sense of individuality. With Neidhart we fare better than with most; yet, after all, we are hardly sure that some of his personal confessions are not formally or humorously assumed. Yet of one trait we are left in no doubt, his strong German sense for the fatherland. With many other Bavarians, he went to Syria and Damietta on the crusade of 1217-1219, led by Leopold VII. of Austria, and he has left us two songs which, though certainly different enough from the deep religious feeling of such crusade lyrics as Hartmann's or Walther's, are unmistakably sincere. The first opens with the minnesinger's usual spring and love-lorn stanzas, but Neidhart soon drops conventionality with the exclamation, "For my song the foreign folk here do not care: ah, blessings on thee, Germany!" It reminds us of Walther: nothing is like the German home. He thinks of sending a messenger, not we notice, to some town or castle, but to that village where he left the loving heart from which his constancy never wavers, and to the dear friends over-sea. "Tell them from us all that they should quickly see us there, joyous enough, except for these wide waves. Bear my glad service to my mistress, dear to me before all ladies, and say to friends and kinsmen that I am well. If they inquire how things are going with us pilgrims, tell them, dear boy, what ill these foreign folk have wrought us. Haste thee, be swift; after thee assuredly shall I follow, quick as ever I may. God grant we may live to see the happy day of going home." "We are all scarcely alive," he goes on; "the army is more than half dead. Ah, were I there! By my beloved gladly would I rest, in mine own place." "If I may only grow old with her!" he cries, and he breaks out impatiently against those who keep delaying through August, instead of moving westward. "Nowhere could a man be better off than at home, in his own parish." At last the expedition, dissatisfied and worn, as the returning crusaders always were, are on the confines of the longed-for country. We can imagine the straggling company making their way along, their minstrel riding among them, fingering the old violin that he has carried over his shoulders all the two years, and thinking out a new song. He is still a young man, or at least only approaching middle age, and thoughts of home, friendship, love, and the spring gaiety of the village life, crowd upon him with buoyant thrills; he strikes the strings more firmly, and his voice rings out a home-coming lyric, full of life and feeling. "The long bright days are come again, and with them the birds; it is a long time since they sang so well. The winter-weary are gayer than they have been for thirty years. Maidens, ye children, fine people all, let your hearts be free to the summer joy, spring quickly in the carols." Dear herald, homeward go; 'Tis over, all my woe; We're near the Rhine! Neidhart's poems are readily classified in two divisions, his songs for summer and for winter. Both were probably sung as an accompaniment to the dances, either of the peasants or of the upper class, though there may be some doubt whether this is true of all the winter songs. Almost invariably he opens with a nature-prelude, often an elaborate one, and the temper of the songs is always congenial to the season, gay for summer, and gloomy or critical for winter. There is no evidence that the difficulty with Engelmar was the occasion of the poet's leaving Bavaria, but his unpopularity with the peasants seems to have had something to do with the loss of his fief. He was cast down at the thought of parting with Reuenthal, and said that he would sing no longer, since the name under which his merry lines had been known was taken from him; and with a play on the word, "I am put out undeservedly, my friends; now leave me free of the name!" But after he was settled by Frederich on an Austrian fief, he adapted himself cheerfully to his new home. "Here I am at Medelicke, in spite of them all. I am not sorry that I sang so much of Eppe and of Gumpe at Reuenthal." The Duke gave him money and a house, in response to musical solicitations, and Neidhart appealed for exemption from his heavy taxes, that threatened to consume what his children needed. With our modern ideas this system of literary patronage upon which mediæval poets depended, and which usually required direct and even pressing solicitation, seems painful to self-respect; we forget how lately it flourished. In those days when princely giving was an established custom, and differed from a system of salaries mainly in being a less regularly appointed income, a poet's request for a gift was scarcely more than a modern author's reminder of an unpaid claim; there is nothing of the unmanly dependence of Coleridge in these earlier suppliants for aid. None of them asked more gracefully--even Chaucer is not more delicately suggestive--than Neidhart in such lines as these: "Whoever had a bird who satisfied him with song through the year, he would occasionally look to his bird-cage, and give him good food. Then the bird could go on singing sweet melodies. If he always sang well to meet the May, he should be well cared for, summer and winter. Even the birds appreciate kind treatment." But the times were bad, and even a box of silver, and a house to put it in, and remission of taxes, could not keep the poet gay as he passed into later life. He composed penitential lyrics, after orthodox precedents, of the love-singers, for they almost always grew old seriously. On these we need not linger, though there seems a cry fuller than the echo-note in his farewell to Lady Earth, and appeal for pardon for some of his foolish songs: "Lord God of Heaven, give me thy guidance; Might of all Might, now strengthen my heart, that I may win soul's health, and partake ever-enduring joy, through thy sweet will." But the wail of all of the thirteenth-century's serious minds, that things were going "ever the lenger the wers" in Christendom, comes out nowhere more deeply than in Neidhart's allegorical love-song to Joy of the World, chiding her for her change of character during his long, unrequited service: "False, shameless folk nowadays people her court, and her old household, truth, chastity, good manners, none find these any longer. My lady's honor is lame all over. She is fallen so that none can rescue her. She lies in such a pool that only God can make her clean. Men of wise mind be on your guard before her, in church or on street: women of worth keep far away." Eighty new melodies he has sung in her service; this is the last, and not the most joyous. To this closing period we may refer a few summer songs that are an exception to the usually light-hearted verses of that form. Their seriousness is all the more noticeable from their fair-weather setting; for once, the spring is not a panacea. "A delightful May has come, but alas, neither priest nor layman rejoices in its arrival. Were it the Emperor who had come, we might rejoice. Trouble and sorrow dwell in Austria." There is something here besides a sense that the joyousness of simple free-living and the loyalty of love-service are passing away; he attributes much of the social decline to national confusion and the political unrestraint. Yet controversial as he is in social relations, he has little of Walther von der Vogelweide's thoughtfulness and energy in patriotic polemics. He drifts down the stream with a sigh. In the poem which Meyer's elaborate study of the order of his work places last, though only conjecturally, he again considers his friends' entreaty for more songs. The world goes too sadly, he says; as he had said before that they must ask Troestelin to sing; he himself had no longer a heart for poetry. Yet there is one pleasant story that he can tell them: "to break down troubles comes one worthy to be praised; 'tis May, with all his might." There is something pathetic in such songs, that try to assume the cheerful strain in which the poet, now grown gloomy, wrote while he was young. They remind us of the stray leaves that we sometimes see caught up to their old home among the branches by a sudden March gust; the brown leaves that will never again uncrumple their green infancies, hover for a moment, then sink hesitatingly back to the ground. In this one song, the nature stanzas are transferred from the place of prelude to the conclusion. "May has conquered; wood and heath have adorned themselves with their lovely attire; blue flowers are here and the roses," and he ends with the old thought, that joyousness and virtuous honor go together. As an idle fancy it is "pleasant if one consider it," to regard these as the final words of this knightly singer of mediæval country scenes, the last of the great figures of that old German group, a parting reminder of the philosophy of a happy life which mediæval lyrists often maintained so earnestly,--that the secret of good living is blitheness of heart, and out-of-door life in spring and summer. For many of these old poets the two terms were convertible; their creed was surely a simple one. [Decoration] FOOTNOTE: [8] We must remember that the unwillingness of the upper grade of society to have peasants assume its styles of dress, went so far that ducal edicts were issued forbidding them to use coats of mail and helmets, or to carry any weapons. Bitter complaints were made of their wearing any stuffs so fine as silk, and clothes stylishly cut. [Decoration] MEIER HELMBRECHT, A GERMAN FARMER OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY. The usual conception of the middle ages seems to consist of a few facts and theories about the feudal system and the crusades, the names with possibly some traits of a few eminent public figures and a general impression of confusion and obscurity. Supplementing this central idea, one usually sees a panel picture on either side. One, sunshine flashing from the spears and armor of knights tilting in tournaments, and watched by dimly beautiful women; in the distance a solitary knight pricking over a plain, or, guided by the wail of an unseen and lovely captive, making his way through forest haunts of giants and gnomes. The other, a lowering twilight overhanging gloomy monastery walls, the shelter of melancholy, hypocrisy, manuscript illuminations, and a barren, difficult philosophy. Sunshine and twilight on either hand, and in the background an impenetrable mist concealing the great masses of humanity, as well as all concrete actual lives even of the great. A little information and a little romance are unsatisfactory artists for a sketch of mediævalism. We soon discover that there is a great deal behind such a picture of soldiers living in wars, and in the tourneying pretence of war; or schoolmen contending in brilliant logical panoply within and without spectral philosophic fastnesses; or hermits, nuns, and monks fighting against God's present that they might win His future; or marauders beating down helplessness and innocence. Yet we may study the middle ages laboriously, and find ourselves still confronted by the mist that hangs over the rank and file. Our curiosity about these forgotten multitudes teases us. "How is it that you lived, and what is it that you did?" we ask these distant prototypes of Wordsworth's peasant. We come to discover that there is much behind our slight old notion of chivalry and monasticism; though seven hundred years have changed its conditions, life then and now is yet less different than we had thought. But we find it difficult to acquire much information about those social substrata on which the learned and the polite classes rested. Clio is the most aristocratic of the ladies nine, and that instinct of vitality whereby we count fame for ourselves something desirable, makes us think with a certain compassion of great armies of those generations filing sullenly on, not only as individuals, but as whole masses, to the grave of oblivion. The little that we know makes us sure only that they were wretched, their lives the most gloomy of all the lives of gloomy ages. We may read thousands of pages of the literature of those days with scarcely any addition to our knowledge of the work-a-day world, for most of the poetry is romantic, and in its imitative phases mainly a reflection of courtly customs and character. The middle ages in Germany and France were anything but uncivilized, and the poetry of secondary cultivation is, as was said in the last essay, likely to prefer idealistic interpretation of its finest development to democratic realism. Yet the student finds from time to time interesting material for an account of the average life, and in the poet whom this essay is designed to introduce to a modern audience, we obtain an extended study in this side field of literary interpretation. He wrote not of high life but of the middle classes, not in romance but in a literal yet at the same time artistic manner that we may call a heightened realism. He appears to have been himself one of the people, a poet who possibly made his living by reciting poems of incident, and by singing at their merrymakings, though of this there is no evidence. It has been thought by some German scholars that he may have been a monk, but the indications make rather against than for this view. We know in fact nothing whatever about him except for one single line, in which he tells us that his name is Wernher the Gardener. As was said, his poem is remarkable as being the heightened treatment of a plain story of the peasant classes a little before 1250; it is remarkable, too, for the liveliness and simple force of his treatment. He is an artist--though he works in chalks instead of water-colors;--unornamented, unassuming, he produces an impression of personal power, moral seriousness, a clear eye for what he saw, and the power to state it directly, one of the marks of a later and more developed age. He has no little dramatic liveliness, a sense of humor, and the pleasantest love for the plain beauties of character and home-life. He tells the story of a farmer, Helmbrecht, and his wayward son. The boy has been the admiration of his peasant family as the oldest child, notable for his splendid yellow hair, and full of life and spirit. At the time the poem opens he has grown to early manhood, dissatisfied with the hidden and laborious life of tiller of the soil, vain of his appearance, fond of fine dress, and ambitious to live easily and be admired. He is petted and indulged by his mother and his sister Gotelint, and when he desires a hood--a part of masculine costume much affected by gallant youths--they provide him with one so fine that it becomes famous far and near. Embroidery, as every one knows who is acquainted with the mediæval arts, was the most artistic accomplishment of the period. Ladies learned to embroider and weave the most complicated and elaborate devices; handicraftsmen of all sorts put on their work representations so copious that one sometimes wonders whether the literary descriptions of them are not exaggerations. Can the frequency and detail of these passages, we wonder, be a faintly remembered tradition of the devices put by Homer on the shield of Achilles, or by Vergil on the gates of the rising Carthage? At any rate, tapestries, cloths, and garments, to say nothing of saddles and the like, were covered by picture after picture, in almost every important poem of the age. This young peasant Helmbrecht's hood was embroidered, not, of course, by the rude country fingers of his mother and sister, but by a clever nun, who had run away from her nunnery to enjoy the pleasures of a lively youth. Many were the wages of farm-produce by which she was persuaded to fit out the young man. The hood was covered with birds, parrots, and doves; on one side were representations of the siege of Troy and the escape of Æneas; on the other, the stout deeds of Charlemagne, Roland, and Oliver, in their wars against the heathen Moors. Behind, adventures of old German legendary heroes, in the cycle of Dietrich of Bern. In front, dances of knights, ladies, and of maidens and young esquires--the favorite and mediæval dance, where the gentleman stood between two ladies, holding the hand of each. After this acquisition the boy became ambitious for still more finery, and was indulged in an elaborate costume that need not be described. Such white linen, such a splendid blue coat, all covered with buttons, gilded ones in double rows down the back, around the collar, and in front of silver. About the shoulders little bells were hung, that rang merrily when he sprang in the _reie_. Ah, very love-lorn were the glances cast on him by women and girls at the dance. At last he is fully equipped by the love and sacrifice of his family, and they are happy in his elegance, and contented with themselves because the self-willed and capricious boy is pleased; when suddenly the simple household is thrown into grief and anxiety by his announcement that he is going to leave home. He must have a horse--there was none on the farm--to complete his outfit as a gentleman, and then he will ride away to some court and seek his fortune. In vain they remonstrate. "'My dear father, help me on. My mother and sister have helped me so that I shall love them all my life.' "His father was troubled to hear that he was resolved to go, but he said to him: 'I'll give you a fast horse for your outfit, good at hedges and ditches, for you to have there at court. I'll buy him for you willingly, if I can find one for sale. But, my dear son, now give up going to court. The ways there are hard for those who have not been used to them from the time they were children. My dear son, now drive team for me, or if you'd rather, hold the plough, and I'll drive for you, and let us till the farm, so you'll come to your grave full of honors like me; at least I hope to, for I surely am honest and loyal, and every year I pay my tithes. I have lived my life without hate and without envy.' "But the son replied: 'My dear father, keep quiet and stop talking; there's only one way about it, I'm going to find out how things smack there at court. Your sacks sha'n't load my back any longer. I won't load any more manure on your wagon, and God hate me if I ever yoke oxen for you again, and sow your oats. That's not the thing for my long yellow hair and my curly locks, and my close-fitting coat, and my fine hood, and the silk doves the women worked on it. I won't help you farm any longer.' "'Dear son, stay with me. I am certain that farmer Ruoprecht will give you his daughter, with lots of sheep and swine, and ten cattle, old and young. At court you'll be hungry, you'll have to lie hard, and give up all comforts. Now take my advice, and it will be to your interests and credit. It very seldom happens that a man gets along well who rebels against his own station. Your station is the plough. My son, I swear to you that the genuine court-people will make fun of you, my dear child. Do as I say, and give it up.' "'Father, if I only have a horse I shall get on as well in the court ways as those who were born there. Any one who saw that hood on my head would swear a thousand oaths that I never worked for you, or drove a plough through a furrow. Whenever I put on the clothes my mother and my sister gave me yesterday, I sha'n't look much as if I ever took a flail to thresh wheat on the barn floor, or as if I ever drove stakes. When I get my legs and my feet in the hose and cordovan boots, nobody'll know that I ever made fence for you or any one else. Let me have a horse, and farmer Ruoprecht may go without me for a son-in-law. I'll not give up my future for a wife.'" The father goes on pleading with the boy to take advice and keep out of the disorderly life he is likely to get into about a court. By the silent assumption that his new master and his people will pillage from the peasantry, we get a suggestion of the lawlessness of the country--which had grown worse during the long absenteeism of Frederic II. But if the peasants catch you, he tells his son with energy, you will fare much worse than one of the gentlemen would. They will take the quickest revenge, and think that they are doing God service when they find one of their own kind stealing. But the son only goes on to repeat that he will leave the farm. He talks just as an ambitious country fellow will talk to-day about the slow life and small profits. He becomes bolder and more insolent. If it were not for that wretched horse he would be riding with the rest across fields and dragging peasants through the hedges; the cattle would be lowing as he drove them off. He says he can endure poverty no longer;--raising a colt or an ox for three years, and then selling them for just nothing. So his father traded a large piece of homespun, four good cows, two oxen, three steers, and four bushels of wheat,--all worth about ten pounds,--for a horse that could not have been sold for three ("alas for the wasted seven!"), and the young man put on his finery, tossed his head, and, looking around, jauntily declared that he could "bite through a stone, or eat iron, he felt so fierce." If he could catch the Emperor or the Duke, there would be some money coming in. "'Father, you could manage a Saxon easier than me.'" When he calls upon his father to release him from the family control, the latter assents, though with all his old reluctance. Indeed he cannot let him go without one more appeal: "'I give you your liberty, my son. But take care that no one yonder hurts your hood and its silk doves, or viciously tears your long yellow hair. And I am afraid that at the end you will be following a staff, or some little boy will be leading you.'" Then once more, after a pause, comes the abrupt: "'My son, my own dear boy, give up going. You shall live on what I live, and on what your mother gives you. Drink water, my dear son, before you steal to buy wine. Austrian pie, any one, fool or wise man, will tell you, is food fit for gentlemen. Eat that, dear child, instead of giving an ox you have stolen to some inn-keeper for a chicken. Your mother can cook good broth; eat that, instead of giving a stolen horse for a goose. My son, mix rye with oats sooner than eat fish in a dishonored life. If you will not obey me, go. But though you win wealth and great honors, never will I share them with you. And misfortune--have that alone too.' "'You drink water, father, but I'll drink wine. Eat your mush, but I'll eat what they call fricasseed chicken there and white wheat bread; oats will do for you. They say at Rome that a child takes after his godfather, and mine was a knight. Thank God for giving me such high and noble ideas.'" But the old farmer replied that he liked much better a man who did right and remained constant to it. "Even though his birth might be rather humble, he would please the world better than a king's son without virtue and honor. An honest man of lowly rank, and a nobleman who was not courteous and honorable,--let the two come to a land where neither is known, and the child of lowly birth will outrank the high-born. My son, if you will be noble, on my word I counsel you, do noble deeds. Good life is a crown above all nobility." There is the old thought, so common in literature from ancient authors down to the poet of Lady Clara Vere de Vere, and especially a favorite with writers of the middle age. Possibly some of them caught it from Boëthius, who expressed it more than once in the testament of wise and generous character that he left to the world from his confinement at Pavia, and that proved so singularly congenial to the mediæval mind; but we need certainly not require the aid of origins to account for its frequency. Aristocratic as many phases of the times were, there were a number of important evening influences, conspicuously two: the church, in whose monastery cloisters the rich and poor met together as brothers of one impartial discipline, and from whose ranks members of low birth might rise to be the peers of dukes; and the orders of chivalry, which received approved squires from the middle class. Thus, in addition to aristocracy of birth, there was a conditional gentility to which those who had the claim of merit might aspire. But though the thought that desert, and not descent, is the test for nobility, is so obvious in the days when position carried with it so strong a connotation of power, and when the upper strata of society bore down so hard and haughtily upon the lower, we always feel satisfaction in coming upon a trim statement of the fine old commonplace whose best mediæval expression we can quote from a poet of our own language: "Look, who that is moost vertuous alway, Pryvee and apert, and moost entendeth ay To do the gentil dedes that he kan, Taak hym for the grettest gentil man." "'Alas, that your mother bore you!'" the farmer exclaimed, when the boy's only answer to his appeal was to declare his hair and hood better fitted for a dance than for the plough or the harrow. "'Thou wilt leave the best and do the worst'"; and he goes on to contrast the man who lives against God and the good of others, followed by every one's curses, with the man who helps the world along, trying night and day to do good by his life, and thereby honors God. This one, wherever he may turn, has the love of God and all the world. "'Dear son,' he says, 'that man you might be, if you would yield to me. Till with the plough, and plenty of people will be the better for your life, poor and rich; nay, even wolf and eagle, and everything that lives on earth. Many a woman must be made more beautiful through the farmer, many a king must be crowned through the produce of the farm. Indeed, there is no one so noble that his pride would not be a very small thing, except for the farmer.'" How natural all this sounds,--agriculture the basis of society, tillage of the soil alike useful and honorable. With what quiet manliness this old German talks of the dignity of labor, with no touch of the modern arrogance and discontent with the existing social condition. He will keep to his rank in life, and be loyal to his station, yet, though he looks up with a simple-hearted interest and wonder to the great world above him, he reflects as he follows his plough that without him that great world's pride "would be a very small thing." But there is a quality here that is still finer: the undercurrent perception of "the gospel of service." It is not only that honesty is the best policy, though the peasant is shrewd, and appreciates the practical side too; his conversation with the boy breathes the best nineteenth-century spirit of the duty of making one's life valuable to others. That sentence about working night and day to be useful, and thereby honoring God, is no commonplace for our century, to say nothing of the thirteenth. There is something pretty, too, in the touch of sympathy with the animal world; in some way, he feels that even the birds and beasts must be better off for a good farmer. These times seem often savage in their cruelties and recklessness of giving pain, but they have a gentle side as well, as may be seen in the tales cited by Montalembert of friendly relations between monks and wild beasts, and in examples collected by Uhland in his essay on the old German animal literature. It is pleasant in connection with such barbarities as we shall presently be reminded of in this very poem to recall the myth versified by Longfellow, of the great minnesinger's legacy to the monastery, conditioned on the brethren's every day placing grain and water for the birds upon his grave; and more than one authentic story is told like that of the Abbot of Hirsan, who, when snow was deep in winter, would take oats from his barn to feed the birds. After the young Helmbrecht has begged God to release him soon from his father's preaching,--"if you only had been a real preacher you might have got up a whole army with your sermons for a crusade,"--and has explained that instead of keeping on ploughing, he is resolved to have white hands, and no longer need to feel mortified whenever he holds ladies' hands at a dance, his father resorts to his last resource--an appeal to superstition, that he has been keeping in reserve. He tells him what he has been dreaming--three dreams that he interprets as ominous of the loss of sight, feet, and arms, and worst of all, a final dream of one of those sights so common for many centuries before and after, but made no less dreadful by familiarity. "'You were hanging on a tree. Your feet were a fathom from the ground. Above your head on a bough sat a raven, by its side a crow. Your hair was all tangled. On the right hand the raven combed your head for you, on the left the crow.'" But the hopeful rode gaily off through the bars, and came to a castle where a warlike lord was glad to receive any addition to his force. There he stayed for a year, leading the extreme bandit life of whose outrages and oppressions we read so much during this troubled period. He quickly obtained reputation as daring and merciless: "Into his sack he stuffed everything; it was all one to him. Nothing was too small, nothing too great. Helmbrecht took it all, rough and smooth, crooked and straight. He took horses, cattle, jacket, sword, cloak, coat, goats, sheep. From women he stripped everything, and well enough his ship went that first year, 'its sails full.' But after a while, as people are wont to think of going home, he took leave of the court, and commended them to the good God." They heard at the farm that he was coming on for a visit, and in accordance with the ancient custom of giving a present to the bearer of good news, the messenger received a shirt and pair of hose. But when the young man himself arrived, "how he was received! Did they step forward to meet him? Nay, they ran, all together; one crowded past another; father and mother sprang as if they had never had a care." It is touching to notice the suggestiveness of a single line in the poet's description of the scene. The plain people understood that their son was no longer one of them, and they knew how his earlier false pride must have grown in this year's absence in the outer world. So in their anxiety that everything should gratify this brilliant, wayward eldest son of their admiration and hope, and that nothing should interfere with his being pleased and gracious to their yearning, timid love, and knowing how in the homely heartiness of their joy at seeing their young master again the two servants would treat him at once in the old familiar way of peasant-farm equality, they instructed their man and their woman in what they thought to be polite salutation. So when the guest appeared, "Did the woman and the man cry 'Welcome back, Helmbrecht'? Nay, they did not; they had been told not to. They said: 'Master, in God's name be you welcome.'" There is a touch of humor in their rushing forward and being the first to greet him, in their rude good-feeling; but we also get a sense of tenderness from seeing the father and mother keeping in the background, behind their daughter Gotelint. Little education as there was in the middle ages, people fully appreciated the elegance as well as the utility of a knowledge of foreign languages, and no accomplishment was held more desirable. Especially the Germans, representing an outlying civilization, would send their sons, while still boys, to some French court to serve as pages and acquire especially the language as well as other branches of knightly culture. The praises of various heroes of French as well as German romances, give to linguistic attainments a high place; Gottfried, for example, in his account of the training of Tristan, who was the typical gentleman of the romances, says that from the age of seven until he was fourteen he was studying languages under the care of a tutor, by travelling through different lands. Since this was the fashion, imitations were sure to become popular, and a thin veneering of foreign speech became the mark of a pinchbeck culture, just as it has been so frequently since. Accordingly, after the servants have cried out their "Master, in God's name be you welcome," and Gotelint has thrown her arms about her brother, the young gallant calls her his dear little sister in a phrase of salutation touched with Low Dutch, which he follows by the elegant "gratia vester." Then the younger children ran up, and last of all the farmer and his wife, who greeted him over and over. He addressed his father in French: "Deu sal"; his mother in Bohemian: "Dobraytra." They looked at each other; four strange languages all together--there must be some mistake. "The housewife said: 'My dear, this is not our son. This is a Bohemian or a Slav.' Her husband replied: 'It is a Frenchman. My son whom I commended to God, certainly this is not he, and yet he looks like him.' And Gotelint suggested: 'He answered me in Latin; may be he is a priest.' 'Faith,' put in the hired man, who had caught the phrase in dialect, 'he has lived in Saxony or Brabant, for he said, "liebe susterkindekin"; he must be a Saxon.'" The old peasant was devoted and loving, but he had resolution and self-respect under it all. He told the accomplished youth that before he would take him for his son he must talk German. If he would do that and declare himself Helmbrecht, well and good. He should have a chicken boiled, and another roasted, and his horse should be well cared for. But a Bohemian, or a Slav, or a Saxon, or a Brabanter, or a Frenchman, or a priest, should be given nothing. The youth began to reflect. It was getting late, there was no place near by where he could go; so he concluded to waive his elegant manners, and speak in the old style. But the shrewd peasant feigns incredulity, and decides to test his son a little further. In vain the young man protests himself Helmbrecht. His gentility must stoop to vulgar peasant identification, and tell what he knows about the oxen on the farm. He rattles over all four of them, Grazer, Black-spot, Rascal, and White-star, with a little praise for two, and the reconciliation is accomplished. Thereupon the repressed fondness and devotion obtain free expression. The father hurried out to attend to the horse, the mother sent her daughter for a pillow and cushion--"Run, now, and don't walk for it"--and makes a couch for him on the bench close to the stove, so that he may have a nap while she is preparing his dinner. When the boy woke the meal was ready, and Wernher assures us that any gentleman might have enjoyed it. After washing his hands, the usual first step in a meal, a dish of fine-cut sauer-kraut was put before him, by it bacon, both fat and lean, and a rich mellow cheese. Then there was as fat a goose as ever roasted on a spit--and with what good-will they provided that extraordinary peasant luxury--a roasted and a boiled chicken. A knight out hunting, and happening on such a meal, would like it well. For besides this they had managed to get delicacies in which peasants never think of indulging. "'If I had any wine you should be drunk to-night,'" the farmer said; and he added--with such a noble union of dignity, simplicity, and sentiment for the plain homely blessings which he had appreciated and loved all his life: "'My dear son, now take a drink of water from the best spring that ever came out of earth. I know no spring fit to be compared with it, except the one at Wankhûsen.'" "'Tell me, son,'" he continued, as they went on with their dinner, for he could not wait to ask him, "'tell me how about the court fashions, and then I will tell you how they used to be when I was young.'" But the son was too busy eating to stop to talk then, and he allowed his father to relate his early reminiscences. "'When I was a boy,' he began 'and your grandfather Helmbrecht had sent me to court with cheese and eggs, just as a farmer does to-day, I took note of the knights, and marked their ways. They were courteous and cheerful and had no rascality about them in those days, such as many men and women too have now. The knights had a custom, to make themselves pleasing to the ladies, that was called jousting. A man of the court explained it to me when I asked him what they called it. Two companies would come together from opposite directions, riding as if they were mad, and they would drive against each other, as if their spears must pierce through. There's nothing in these days like what I saw then. After that they had a dance, and while dancing they sang lively songs, that made the time go quickly. Presently a playman came forward and struck in with his fiddle; at that the ladies jumped up, and the knights went to meet them, and they took hold of hands. That was a pleasant sight--the overflowing delight of ladies and gentlemen, dancing so gaily, poor and rich. When that was over a man came out and read about some one called Ernest. Each could do whatever he liked. Some took their bows and shot at a target; others went hunting: there was no end to the kinds of pleasure. The worst off there would be the best off with us now. Those were the times before false and vicious people could turn the right about with their tricks. Nowadays the wise man is the one who can cheat and lie; he has position and money and honor at court, much more than the man who lives justly and strives after God's grace.'" We find here as in so many other places in thirteenth century poetry, that the serious-minded were already looking back. Just as we have seen Walther and Ulrich bewailing the lost sunshine of chivalry, Wernher laments that the old-time honesty has gone, and with it the knightly light-hearted honorable joys. Already, before 1250, there was a halo about the chivalric court; ladies were honored, knights tourneyed for their pleasure; dancing with them attracted gentlemen quite beyond drinking bouts; the poet's narratives of old German heroes were yet in fashion. All this seems amusing to the young man; what sappy and goody-goody fashions those were. He thinks it manly to swagger about the new ways, and tell how the fashionable cry is "Trinkà, herre, trinkà trinc!" It used to be good breeding to dangle about pretty ladies, but the correct thing now is just to drink. "'This is the kind of love-letters we have: "You dear little bar-maid, fill up our cups. What a fool a man is who wastes his life for women, instead of good wine." It's a genteel thing to be sharp with your tongue, and get the best of people, and tell clever lies.'" The old man hears, and with a sigh wishes back the day when gentlemen shouted "Hey[=a], ritter, wis et fro!" in the tourneys, instead of these new cries of riotry and pillage. The son would tell him more, but he has ridden far and wishes to go to sleep. There were no linen sheets in that farm-house, but Gotelint spread a newly washed shirt on his bed, and he slept until high day. The next morning he displayed the gifts he had brought: for his father, a whetstone, scythe, and axe; for his mother, a fox-skin; for Gotelint, a head-dress with a band of silk and gold, better fitted for a nobleman's child than for her; shoes with straps for the farm-hand; and for his wife, a cloth to cover her hair, and a red ribband. He remained at home for a week, and then he became restless to return. His father again took up his entreaties, begging him in the tenderest tones to stay from the bitter and sour life he has been leading. As long as he lives he will share what he has with him, even if the young man will do nothing but sit still and wash his hands. Only he must not go back. What, not go back with so much to do? Has not a rich man ridden over the field of his god-father? Has not another rich man eaten bread with crullers? And still a third, while eating at a bishop's table, loosened his girdle? Each one must be taught better manners through wholesale plunder of cattle, sheep, and swine, to say nothing of a boor who blew the foam off his beer. He and some friends will give them a good training, and he runs over the list of his bandit companions with the cant names borne by each, such as Lambswallow, Hellbag, Bolt-the-sheep, Coweater, Wolfthroat, and at last his own name, Swallow-the-land. We may pass by the exploits of which he boasts--the children of the peasants near him eat water-gruel, their father's eyes he puts out, their beards he draws with pincers, he binds them in ant-hills, or smokes them in the chimney, and so forth, through a revolting list of barbarities. The youth uncloaks himself as a full-fledged desperado, and his father's short, stern warning in God's name of vengeance only throws him into a passion, and he declares that, though hitherto on their raids he has kept off his companions from the farm, instead of doing so longer, he will give up his father and mother to their will. He reveals what had been a main motive in his visit, an arrangement he had made with his comrade Lambswallow to let him marry Gotelint. But of that brilliant match her father's conduct has deprived the girl; also she will never find another man who can give her such luxuries of dress and fare. Moreover, his sister was worthy of such a husband, and he stops to repeat the tribute he had paid to her while discussing the alliance with his friend. The lines bring before us a weird mediæval scene, to which these reckless free-livers looked forward as their assured end, and which they dreaded most from the lurid light thrown by superstition upon the picture. The ghastly swinging of their corpses on the gibbet ("The rain has drenched and washed us," Villon says two hundred years later, "and the sun dried and blackened us. Magpies and crows have hollowed out our eyes, and plucked away our beards and eyebrows."[9]) troubled them less than the thought that their falling bones must lie unburied, and their lives be followed by no religious rites to mitigate the eternal justice. French poetry has interpreted this phase of crime and misery in Villon's _Epitaphe_; in English it has been interpreted by Tennyson in _Rizpah_, at once the most intense and the most piteous of all his poems, as free from self-consciousness as an early ballad, the most pathetic expression in all literature of a mother's love, and kept out of the category of the very greatest poems only by the intolerable anguish of its emotion. In this old German story we find an interpretation of it too; the briefest and much the simplest, yet not without an unobtrusive power. Young Helmbrecht declares that he told his comrade that he might trust Gotelint never to make him repent his choice. "I know her," he represents himself as saying, "to be so loyal--on this you may count--that she never will leave you hanging long; she will cut you down with her own hands, and carry you to your grave at the cross-roads, with incense and myrrh--of this you can be sure. Nightly for a whole year she will go about you. Or if, less fortunate, you are blinded or crippled by the loss of hands or feet, the good, pure girl will guide you with her own hand over all the paths of every land; every morning she will bring your crutches to your bed, or cut for you, even till you die, your bread and meat." From the first, Gotelint has been under the fascination of her brother, and as she hears his long account of the life the wife of Lambswallow must live, she calls young Helmbrecht aside, and arranges to run away from home and marry his friend. So at the appointed time she does, and a great wedding feast, provided at the cost of many widows and orphans, follows the curious mediæval marriage ceremony. In the midst of it a strange foreshadowing of evil comes over her; she wishes herself back at her father's simple fare; his cabbage was better than the luxury of Lambswallow's fish. She tells her bridegroom that she is afraid strangers are at hand to harm them, and even as the players are receiving their gifts, the sheriff and his force break in upon the revellers. All meet quick justice; nine are hung; Helmbrecht, the tenth, is sent off blind, and with only one foot and one hand. "What the forsaken bride suffered" let him tell who saw. The story works to its conclusion in a temper better fitted to the thirteenth century than to ours. The poet feels no complaisance for an obstinate wrong-doer. He says: "God is a worker of wonders, and this is the proper lot of a youth who called his father an old peasant and his mother a worthless woman." Nor does he stop with his own exclamation; he tells in detail how the blind and maimed fellow is brought by a boy to the farm, only to receive his father's taunts and mocking. Brutal and distressing as the passage seems, it is true to the age and to the character of the sturdy old farmer. While there was hope he had borne every insult; he had pleaded persistently, tenderly, and to every limit of generosity and devotion. But when the youth had proved himself susceptible to no claims of virtue or humanity, and, as a last stroke of evil, had seduced his sister from an honorable life, further pity seems sentimentalism. Before the boy's first departure his father had warned him that he would take no part in any ill-won prosperity, and if misfortunes came, they, too, must be borne alone. The foreign phrases are on the father's lips this time, as the sightless cripple creeps up to the farm-house door. He runs over the proud speeches that have thus ended in shame and misery; nor will he listen to the entreaties for shelter, even as a beggar, for a single night. "'Every one, the country round, is cruel to me; alas! so you are now. In God's name give me the charity you would give a poor sick man!'" But the farmer "laughed scoffingly, even though it broke his heart, for this was his own flesh, his child, who stood there before him blind." He struck the boy who was leading the wretch, and drove them off. "Yet as they went away his mother put a loaf of bread in his hand, as if he were a child." For a year he crawled about, skulking in the woods and living on what he might. Then one day, having wandered to the scene of some of his worst crimes, a set of peasants catch sight of him, and recount to one another what their farms, their babes, their daughters, had suffered from this outlaw and his band. As they talk they tremble with hate and rage, and, catching up a rope, they fulfil the last of the dreams that tormented the anxious night of the father just before his son rode out, with his rich clothes and fine horse and wonderful hood covering that long, beautiful hair, to seek his fortune in a court. Why is it worth while to introduce to English readers this peasant tale of the middle ages? Not on account of its antiquarian value, though it is full of interesting suggestions of old manners. Nor primarily on account of its literary significance, notwithstanding the tact and nervous directness of Wernher's style, and the heightened realism of treatment that gives him distinction beside the romanticists of the time. Its main importance for us lies in that sense of the human unity which we derive from such a story of a time so remote from our own, and in most of its aspects so different. Many of the influences that render man's life desirable--organized society, with respect for property and personal safety, ease of living, humanitarian sensibility even to the guiltiest suffering--we miss, and missing them we rejoice in the progress of our age toward the light. But the traits whereby life in all ages becomes estimable--simplicity of character, contentment with the station of one's birth, if only one can live there with dignity and usefulness; frugality, integrity, natural love which grows most tender and yearning when the kinship of moral worthiness seems in danger of dissolution--are our own best possession, and this identity of manhood then and now makes us feel less strange among those distant and dimly remembered generations. Thus serious writers offer to our study many notable and interesting thoughts, and in their courtly poets we find scores of delightful pictures of gracious and noble dames and knights moving through the pleasures and pains of an ideal world. It is also pleasant to listen to a poet from among the people, and to touch the rough hand of an old German farmer, whose most brilliant recollection was of the time when, as a boy, he carried eggs and cheese to one of the courts of old-fashioned chivalry; whose virtue cast in a decadent era had looked at life sternly, yet whose austerity was softened by a homely simplicity through whose grace he grew old, with his heart true to his plain home life and his family, even to the assurance that no drink could be more refreshing than water from the spring on his own farm. [Decoration] FOOTNOTE: [9] "La pluye nous a debuez et lavez, Et le soleil dessechez et noirciz; Pies, corbeaulx, nous ont les yeux cavez, Et arrachez la barbe et les sourcilz." [Decoration] CHILDHOOD IN MEDIÆVAL LITERATURE. When Homer described the pretty fright of Astyanax in his nurse's arms, amid the parting of Hector and Andromache; when Vergil made Damon recall the day when, as a little boy just able to reach up to the branches, he saw his mother and the child who was to be his fate gathering apples--the hyacinths of Theocritus were daintier--they struck two chords of feeling, one charming, the other deeper and richer, which have started vibrations whenever they have met a sympathetic reader ever since. Because we are susceptible to the poetry of childhood we are pleased to find that these ancient poets also cared for it. It adds a personal touch to our feeling for them. It gives us a thrill of the immortality of heart and its simplest, purest sentiment. There may be an element of the fictitious in our feeling about childhood. Heaven may not be about our infancy, those "sweet early days" may not have been "as long as twenty days are now"; and they may not have been the types of innocence, simplicity, the loveliness of the race taken at first hand from nature, which we fancy them. But there is something beyond a fallacy in this sentiment; it is in our purer and more refined moods that we are sensitive to it. Like a whiff of spring smoke, or woodsy odors, a reminder of our early life will sometimes throw us into a revery which is more than recollection. No one can write well about children without sensibility to youthful emotion and some love for family life. Whoever looks back with genial wistfulness upon his own early days, and enjoys renewing them in the playthings of his fancy, can hardly be without a vein of quiet refinement. When an age listens with pleasure to such sketches, it is not barren of the homely affections, nor uniformly given over to restless and unlawful passions. As one wanders through the poetry of the middle ages, one observes the frequency with which it mentions children. These passages, judged absolutely, may not be remarkable for insight or tenderness, but in those days all emotional subjects were treated crudely. Yet they are often interesting for themselves, and they show a fact which many seem to question that the sentiments of simple family life were felt by poets and people. So much has been written by critics upon the worse side of the society of chivalry, that it is well to recognize this other aspect of its affections. The public has frequently been assured that those days knew nothing of true family sentiment. How much truth there is in the statement that fashionable love disregarded marriage, has been shown in a preceding essay. But on _a priori_ grounds we should disbelieve that general society was permeated by artificial gallantry. Even were the testimony of lyrical lovers uniform, we must recollect how conventional all their love-poetry was; most poets composed on formal lines impersonally, in spite of their pronouns. One of the troubadours, indeed, denied that this was possible when the husband of his theme challenged him, in the lonely place where he was hunting, by his liege truth to tell him whether he had a lady love. "Sire," he replied, "how could I sing unless I loved?" But in most poems there was more business, or ambitious art, than nature. A large number of these poets impress us as having just as little emotional veracity in writing as had Cowley in _The Mistress_. Moreover, even if a school of poetry, not conventionalized, should treat romantic and sensational sentiment to the exclusion of domestic, it would prove nothing. What if cynical critics some centuries hence should give Mr. Coventry Patmore a place in their encyclopedias, simply on the ground that he was an exception to the nineteenth-century belief that love ended at the bridal altar? Possibly by that time love, poetry, and fiction may deal mainly with domestic emotions after marriage, and then our own romances will very likely appear strange. From one point of view those centuries were too akin to undeveloped life to be prepared to represent it. Europe seven hundred years ago seems like a vast nursery abandoned by its governess. The people are like children of various ages and sizes, degrees of education, and innate sense of right and wrong. Children are impulsive, passionate, selfish, brutally inconsiderate; they are sometimes religious too. We find apparently sporadic susceptibility to isolation and prayer. They cry at trifles, and while their cheeks are still wet, they are smiling. Bright and simple things please them; they are fickle and impatient; they love lively music; when they are tired playing, nothing pleases them like a story--they listen intently, credulously. When spring comes they can no more help running and dancing over the grass, than sunbeams on a brook. The gentler sit in the meadow making posies, while the rougher are setting traps, and racing, and fighting: but sometimes the rough boys will come and play in the meadow, and be pleasant to the girls. All these traits of children apply to the mediæval character, their barbarisms, their ethical inconsistencies, their delight in stories (no age has ever cared more for story telling), their love of play, their passion for spring, and the rest. Undoubtedly the popular impression gives the period too little joyousness. Mercurial childhood has capacity for sudden pleasures even when life goes ill, and life frequently went very well even then. But the mystery and grace of motherhood and dawning life are likely to appeal to a calmer and more retrospective age. The seriousness that takes pleasure in contemplating childhood is more serene and pensive than the usual moods of an era undeveloped emotionally. So it would not be a matter for surprise if the literary remains of those days had left us mainly incidental references to children. Of such plain facts we have many, such as, for instance, that the little ones were entertained with pet dogs, birds, and squirrels (apparently never with cats), mice harnessed to a toy wagon, clay or wooden images of animals, and tiny vessels after kitchen models, toy men, women, and children, tops, and marbles; that they played blind man's buff, and many games attended with songs. As early as the interesting Latin poem called _Waltharius et Hiltgunde_, which at least in a popular version Walther von der Vogelweide liked, we find the hero appealing to Hagen, by the memory of the boyish games with which they had whiled away their childhood, and over which they never had quarrelled. We obtain considerable information about customs of education also; such as the attention paid to languages (a girl in a French romance is said to have understood fourteen tongues), and Isolde knew French and Latin as well as Irish. Boys were sent off on their travels early, going especially to Paris. Weinhold's quotation from Hugo von Trimberg illustrates the dangers that beset the pursuit of culture even then: "Many boys go to Paris; they learn little and spend much. But yet no doubt they see Paris." When Sir Philip Sidney derided the contemporary drama's habit of carrying a play through a large part of the hero's lifetime, instead of restricting the action to a developed episode, he made a poor criticism, out of tune, as are other parts of his criticism, with the genius of Elizabethan poetry. But the passage is interesting as a reminder of the relation to that great literature of the romances which runs back through the middle ages to the later Greek writings. Such narrations as the _Daphnis and Chloe_, and the _Aethiopica_, introduce their central characters while they are still children, and whether through transmitted influence or independently, the same course is pursued by the most important romance poems of mediæval France and Germany. To this practice we owe pleasant domestic scenes of many a hero's early life, and sometimes, indeed, a narration of early joys and sorrows of his parents' love. The _Tristan_ of Gottfried von Strassburg, for example, begins well before the birth of its subject, with noteworthy romantic episodes. This brilliant poem's account of the early years of chivalry's typical fine gentleman illustrates the admiration paid to intellectual training at a time when polite society in general was not well educated. Tristan spent his first seven years under the care of his foster-mother, learning various lessons of good behavior; after that Rual li Foitenant provided a master, and sent him off to acquire foreign languages in their own lands, and "book-learning" as well. The luxurious temper of his chronicler stops for a long sigh at the hardship of such training, through the years when joyousness is at its best. So it is, he exclaims in his studied style, with many youth; when life is in its first bloom and freedom, away they are constrained to go from its free blossom. For seven years this young prince was constantly kept busy with the exercises of arms and horsemanship, in addition to his formal studies; he also learned hunting, and all courtly arts, especially music. Then he was called home to be prepared for his political career. The education of children was assisted by not a few treatises on manners and morals, such as _Babees Books_, as the old English called them. They are usually manuals of etiquette, mediæval prototypes of such modern works as _Don't_. Chaucer's Prioress had evidently studied the sections on table proprieties, and her gentility, which was so tender-hearted, might well have been developed under the admonishments of the ethical passages which often accompanied them. For a tender age many of these precepts were depressing. One of the gravest and most mature of these works is called _Der Winsbeke_, with a sequel, _Die Winsbekin_, for girls, the advice of a twelfth-century Solomon, which moralizes certainly as well as most of its analogues. This stanza, for instance, shows a homely dignity: That bright candle mark, my son, While it burns, it wastes away; So from thee thy life doth run, (I say true) from day to day. In thy memory let this dwell, And life here so rule, that then With thy soul it may be well. What though wealth exalt thy name? Only this shall follow thee-- A linen cloth to hide thy shame. These gnomic writings, running into a developed didacticism, are illustrated by the song of Walther von der Vogelweide on the restraint of eye, ear, and tongue. Whether this poet was the teacher of the young King Henry, as some have thought, or gained his experience in humbler ways, he evidently knew the trials of the pedagogue. "Oh, you self-willed boy," he cries, "too small to be put to work in the field and too big to whip, have your own way and go to sleep." As for flogging, this prince of the minnesingers took the side of the Matthew Feildes against the Boyers: "No one can switch a child into education; to those whom you can bring up well, a word is as good as a blow." Apropos of the teacher's view, we also find the pupil's feeling for his teacher recorded in that little poem of the English school-boy, who was late in the morning, and explained to the master that his mother told him to stop and milk the ducks. The boy recounts the details of what follows, and afterwards, instead of taking up his interrupted studies, he words out a day-dream in which the master is turned into a hare, his books into hounds, and the boy goes hunting. There is a grain of humor, too, at least for the modern reader, in a much more sentimental child-play of the minnesinger Hadlaub. Though he mainly echoes the love singers who wrote a hundred years before him, one of the first songs in the collection of his poems raises a hope of something more than the ordinary, though this only leads us on to disappointment through the rest of his fifty-odd pieces. There is something very natural about this picture of the lover catching sight of his disdainful fair one playing with a little child. "She reached out her arms and caught it close to her, she took its face between her white hands, and pressed it to her lips and mouth and lovely cheek; ah, how deliciously she kissed it!" What did the child do? "Just what I should have done; threw its arms around her, and was so happy." When she let the little one go, the lover went after it and kissed it just where her lips had been, "and how that went to my heart!" Poor fellow! "I serve her since we both were children," and this is the nearest apparently that he ever came to the seals of love. But instead of delaying over estrays, pleasant scraps like those left us by Heinrich von Morungen, for instance, one of the few minnesingers for whom one really cares, we may pass on to three or four more detailed examples from the thirteenth century, of household love and sympathy with the poetry of childhood. But first I will translate a simple sesame for opening again the early gates. The poet is known as the Wild Alexander, but his mood was gentle and gracious when this revery of his boyhood came upon him: There we children used to play, Thro' the meadows and away, Looking 'mid the grassy maze For the violets; those days Long ago Saw them grow; Now one sees the cattle graze. I remember as we fared Thro' the blossoms, we compared Which the prettiest might be: We were little things, you see. On the ground Wreaths we bound;-- So it goes, our youth and we. Over stick and stone we went Till the sunny day was spent; Hunting strawberries each skirrs From the beeches to the firs, Till--Hello, Children! Go Home, they cry--the foresters. So he goes on to tell how their childhood took as a pleasure the hurts and stings that they received as they hunted for strawberries, and to recall the warnings against snakes that the herdsman sometimes shouted through the branches. Apart from its graceful manner, and the breezy freshness of its universal childhood, the poem's specific touches are unusual. "From the beeches to the firs," for instance, does not sound mediæval aside from one's surprise that a German should have omitted the linden. We need not be as old as was Lamb in 1820, to look back with a touch of desire on the child, that other me, there in the background. Perhaps there is the glamour of sentiment about that familiar association of childhood with purity and moral grace. Yet the feeling appeals to us as true beyond mere beauty, and many may read with responsiveness these lines, hitherto unprinted, by one on whose lips, just parted for their song, silence laid her finger: "Could I answer love like thine, All earth to me were heaven anew; But were thy heart, dear child, as mine, What place for love between us two? Bright things for tired eyes vainly shine: A grief the pure heaven's simple blue. Alas, for lips past joy of wine, That find no blessing in God's dew! From dawning summits crystalline Thou lookest down; thou makest sign Toward this bleak vale I wander through. I cannot answer; that pure shrine Of childhood, though my love be true, Is hidden from my dim confine: I must not hope for clearer view. The sky, the earth, the wrinkled brine Would wear to me a fresher hue, And all once more be half-divine, Could I answer love like thine." The spiritual subtlety of such a mood certainly is beyond the mediæval poets, yet we find pleasant proofs of sensibility to the tender, unselfish nature of a loving child. Nowhere in such detail, perhaps, as in the most familiar of Middle High German poems, the _Poor Henry_, of Hartmann von Aue. The story is known in Longfellow's _Golden Legend_. This is not the place to discuss that poem, which contains some charming passages. The poet's treatment may be far from satisfactory, yet when he calls his original the most beautiful of mediæval legends, he certainly shows a more satisfactory side of extreme estimate than does Goethe, in his curious fling at the poem (which we may notice he read in a modernized form). He says it gave him a "physico-æsthetic pain," and adds that the notion of a fine girl sacrificing herself for a leper, affected him so that he felt himself poisoned by the book. This judgment was pronounced in Goethe's later life, and is consistent with his habitual want of sympathy with mediæval romantic literature. It shows, moreover, a lack of historical adjustment, for the dreadful disease was so common in the twelfth century that its repulsiveness was blurred for Hartmann; yet he mentions it with the greatest reserve, though a description of its appearance could hardly be more painful than the famous conclusion of the _De Rerum Natura_. We are reminded of Goethe's visit to Assisi, interesting to him only as the situation of some remains of classical architecture.[10] Hartmann von Aue ranks below his two great companions in German narrative poetry, for he is more of a translator than either Gottfried or Wolfram. His distinction is in his style; he has a very agreeable way of telling a story, and there is a quiet charm about his diction. "How clear and pure his crystal words are and always must be," is Gottfried's tribute. We come to feel a personal liking for him, through his unaffected interest in his characters, his unassuming ways and the tact by which he lightens or deepens his accentuation. We feel that he was a gentleman, and we do not wonder at the kind regard in which all his fellow poets held him. We like his refined moral seriousness and that calm temperament of which he speaks in _Gregorius_. The original for the _Arme Heinrich_ is lost, but though his introduction claims for himself no merit beyond a careful selection out of the many books that he takes pains to tell us he was learned enough to read for himself, we are probably justified in feeling that he took his heart into partnership when he made the version, receiving from it touches that he did not find in the earlier treatment. To appreciate the poem we have to put ourselves into harmony with the wonder-loving, credulous, and mystically religious world of seven hundred years ago. Hartmann's simple earnestness and unobtrusive tenderness and piety constitute an ideal manner for the legend, and that ease of his soul which he hoped would come through the prayers of those who read the poem after his death, is perhaps equally well secured if he knows how some of his verses touch the sophisticated sense of to-day. He said that he was actuated in writing by the desire to soften hard hours in a way that would be to the honor of God, and by which he might make himself dear to others. He has succeeded. It is to the honor of God, and it wins the affection of others, when a poet leads his readers to a little well of pure unselfish love, hedged about by a child's religious faith. The hero of the legend is a gentleman of position and feudal possessions, whose free and generous career is cut short by an incurable leprosy. It is in vain that he consults masters at Montpelier and Salerno, the famous seats of medicine; and the honor and affection in which a genial life had established him among his friends cannot save him from becoming a social outcast. He disposes of his wealth between the poor and the church, and retires to a fief whose tenant is willing to receive his suzerain as a guest. Here, on a little estate, away from all contact with the world, the gay lord resigns himself to the companionship of the farmer and his wife, whose gratitude for his kindness in the past distinguishes them among the multitude to whom his amiable disposition had made him a benefactor and friend. There were children in the family, the eldest a girl eight years old, when Henry came. It was because their hearts were loyal that her parents were kind, but she kept close by him because she loved to be there. She was always to be found at his feet, and his affectionate nature liked her companionship. He bought her a hand mirror, a riband for her hair, a belt and finger ring, and whatever children care for. These gifts attached her to him, yet the main secret of her love was the sweet spirit that God had given her. After three years, as the family were sitting together one day with their high-born guest, the farmer asked him why it was that he had given himself up so hopelessly to his disease, and Henry laid aside his reserve, and told for the first time about his visit to the great physician at Salerno. The only remedy was an impossible one. He might indeed be healed, but not unless a virgin made a voluntary offering of her life. Alas, God was his only physician. The little girl, who was so inseparable a companion that he jestingly called her his bride, listened as she was holding her sick lord's feet in her lap. She could not get it out of her head (the old German idiom is better, "out of her heart") the rest of the day, and when at night she lay in her usual place at her father's and mother's feet, she felt so sorry for her dear lord that she cried, and the warm tears fell on her parents' feet, and woke them. When they asked her what was the matter, she said that she thought they ought to be sorry, too; for what would happen to them all if their lord should die? Some one else would own the farm, and no one could ever be as kind to them as he had been. They told her that was all true, but it could do no good to lament. "Dear child, do not grieve. We feel as badly as you do, but alas, we cannot help him." So they hushed her, but all the night and the next day she continued to be unhappy, and whatever else she was doing, she kept thinking of this. When she went to bed, she cried again, till finally she resolved to herself that if she lived till morning she would surely give her life for her lord. Straightway from that thought, she became light-hearted and happy, and felt free of all her cares, until it occurred to her that perhaps Henry and her parents would not permit her to make the sacrifice; whereupon the poor little girl burst out crying again, and wakened her parents, as she had done the night before. It was only with difficulty that they drew from her this simple speech: "My lord might get well in the way that he told us, and if you will only let me, I am what he needs for being cured. I am a maid, and rather than see him pass away, I will die for him." A long dialogue follows, in which the parents remonstrate with the daughter, who replies in a strain of spiritual elation. She appeals not only to her parents' worldly dependence on their master's goodness, but also to their desire for her own highest welfare. How much better for her to pass to eternal life in unstained childhood, only anticipating the death that must come some time, no less unwelcome late than soon. Her parents ceased to remonstrate, for they felt that the Holy Ghost was speaking through her, as they listened to the visionary cry. Instead of taking, two or three years hence, some neighbor for her husband, she will choose "the Franklin, who is wooing me to a home where the plough runs easily, where there is all abundance, where horses and cattle never are lost, where no wailing children suffer, where it is neither too warm nor too cold, where the old will grow young, where is nor frost nor hunger, no kind of pain, but all joy without toil; thither will I haste me, and forsake a farm whose tillage, fire, hail, and flood destroy, so that one half-day ruins the labor of a year. Then let me go to our Lord Jesus Christ, whose grace is sure, and who loves me, poor as I am, like a queen." Unlike our modern analysts of character, Hartmann does not stop to comment on the art of his delineation, and it is possible to miss the tact with which he keeps his heroine's renunciation consistent with a child's nature. Hartmann is not treating this character inartistically, as a mere instrument for religious culture. Earnest speech of a thoughtful parish priest; or phrases caught from the conversation of her lord touched by his sorrows, with the age's feeling _de contemptu mundi_, might have supplied her with some sentiments that seem beyond a child's invention, and children's emotions are sometimes precocious, especially in what seems a morbid religious development. Those are the years of faith, credulous belief that burns with the white light of knowledge; a child's faith is a man's superstition. The peasant maid's imagination sees heaven and salvation a fact so infinitely desirable, that all dread of death was eliminated from the path of her love. The joyousness of her sacrifice, too, instead of being a romantic exaggeration, is far truer to life than a willingness touched with pain and hesitation could have been. In a noble dread, austerely controlled, lies Calvary's dignity and pathos. But her gratitude and impetuous love for what seems to her simple mind a superior and infinitely deserving object, reached that finest pitch of selfishness, where self-sacrifice becomes the demand of impulsive egotism. To an enthusiastic temperament love's passionate altruism may be consummate self-will. As the little maid came away from her deliverance, though she was happy in her lord's restoration, she was less happy than as she went. For she did not have to die. In the tyranny of undeniable love, she broke down the opposition of her parents, and although Henry indeed hesitated, she pleaded so anxiously and drew such an eloquent sketch of the advantage and gladness death would be to her, and the value of his life compared with hers, that at last, genial and affectionate as he was, the temptation to live by the sacrifice of a mere child's life (and the feudal sense of possession ought not to be overlooked) was too strong to be resisted. Compare the scene with the one in _Philaster_, where Bellario wishes to offer herself for the man whom she loves with a hopeless earthly sentiment: "'Tis not a life, 'Tis but a piece of childhood thrown away." For her, continuance of life is only "a game that must be lost." But for the nameless German girl there is no pathos in living, beyond the thought of her master's death, and her sentiment was as childlike as when it began, while she was only eight years old. Her love is a flame that burns impatiently away from the taper that feeds it; for her generous passion is after all a beautiful devoted wilfulness. When her parents wept to lose her, and her lord wept at his own weak hesitation, she wept above them all and her tears won the day. She rode with Henry to Salerno, and was unhappy only because the journey was so long. The great physician took her hand, and led her alone into a barred and bolted room. Then he tried to frighten her and induce her to retract her consent, but she only laughed until she became afraid that he would not do his part, whereupon she broke out into an indignant scorn for his unmanly weakness. When he bade her undress, she did so without a blush; he bound her to his table, and took up his knife. He wished to render death easy (so he told himself), and taking a whetstone to make the knife sharper, he slowly whetted it--only as a pretext for delaying. The gentleman outside found himself restless. He listened, then he tried to look in and at last through a crevice in the wall he saw that "little bride" who had been his main companion and comfort during those three wretched years. By a fine touch of nature, the poet makes the sight of her perfect loveliness as she lay waiting for her celestial bridal, the force that broke the selfish charm which had enchained his manliness. He beat on the door, he called, and when no response came, he burst his way in. "The child is too lovely to die. For myself, God's will be done." It was now that her trial came, as she wailed and beat wildly at her body, to force on him the life he was unwilling to take. She talked bitterly and peevishly, as if she had been cheated of heaven through his cruelty. But it was in vain, he dressed her again in the rich garments which he had procured for the sacrificial journey, and they set out on their return to their distant home, the sobbing girl and the leper. But as they rode along, the divine might that seemed so near to mediæval faith was their companion, and touching the incurable disease, fulfilled love's miracle. Henry took their daughter back to the peasants, and gave her rich gifts, while he presented them with the land which they had farmed, and all its serfs and chattels. Then he went back to his estates, and to the welcome that the world was waiting to give him. By and by, when his people insisted that he should marry, he called an old-time conference about whom he should choose. There were numerous suggestions, but the advisers did not agree. He listened, and then telling them that unless they would approve his own choice, he should never marry, he stepped to the side of "the dear little wife" who had loved him as a leper. The romance of _Fleur et Blanchefleur_, which goes back, though not in its present form, to the twelfth century, enjoyed such popularity that it was translated into almost every European tongue. Indeed, in some languages it is found in more than one version. The story tells of a Saracen prince, whose royal father interrupts the smooth course of his true love for a Christian girl. She was the daughter of a captive lady in the palace of the Queen, and the royal boy and the bond girl had been born on the same day. From his birth, the mother of Blanchefleur became Fleur's nurse; the pagan law required that he must be suckled by a heathen, but in all other ways the infants were treated like twins. They slept in one cradle, and when they could eat and drink they were given the same food. Thus they grew up together, until they were five years old, when the King, seeing his child as fine and promising a boy as could be found in any land, decided that it was time for him to begin his education. He selected a master, but Fleur, when he was bidden to study, burst into tears and cried, "Sire, what will Blanchefleur do? Who will teach her? I never can learn without her." The King answered that since he loved her so, Blanchefleur should go with him to school. "So they went and came together, and the joy of their love was still uninterrupted. It was a wonder to see how each of the two studied for each; neither learned anything without straightway telling the other. At nature's earliest, all their concern was love; they were quick in learning and well they remembered. Pagan books that spake of love they read together with delight; these hastened them along in the understanding and joy of love. On their way home from school, they would put their arms about each other, and kiss. In the King's garden, bright with all plants and flowers of various hues, they went to play every morning, and to eat their dinner; and after they had eaten, they listened to the birds singing in the trees above them, and then they went their way back to school, and a happy walk they found it. When they were again at school they took their ivory tablets, and you might have seen them writing letters and verses of love, in the wax. Deftly with their gold and silver styles they made letters and greeting of love, of the songs of birds and of flowers. This was all they cared for. In five years and fifteen days, they both had learned to write neatly on parchment, and to talk in Latin so well that no one could understand." When we follow the poem along, we find in the different versions many familiar romance expedients, conventional incidents of the pathetic, exciting, and marvellous, but the charm is in the unwavering love of these twins, who from the hour of birth breathed together, even in their sleep, yet no kin to each other, and blending brotherhood and sisterhood with the other love of man and woman in perfection, since for neither they knew the beginning. In this way the mediæval romance is even more ideal than Beaumont's _Triumph of Love_, where Gerard and Violante passed from the sentiment of childhood "as innocently as the first lovers ere they fell." "Gerard's and my affection began," the heroine tells Ferdinand, "In infancy: my uncle brought him oft In long clothes hither; you were such another. The little boy would kiss me, being a child, And say he loved me: give me all his toys, Bracelets, rings, sweetmeats, all his rosy smiles; I then would stand and stare upon his eyes, Play with his locks, and swear I loved him too. For sure, methought he was a little Love, He wooed so prettily in innocence That then he warmed my fancy; for I felt A glimmering beam of love kindle my blood Both which time since hath made a flame and flood." In the early stages of Fleur's love-trials his parents attempted to persuade him that Blanchefleur was dead, and to give confirmation to their assertions they caused a superb tomb to be constructed, in a style that is of considerable interest in the study of literary origins from its obviously Oriental tone. Without delaying for its rich and curious Eastern details, we may yet notice the sentiment in the figures of the boy and girl that were placed upon it. "Never were seen images of fairer children, or more like to the lovers. The image of Blanchefleur holds a flower before Fleur, before her lover holds the fair one a rose of fine bright gold; and before her, Fleur holds a blanched golden fleur-de-lis. Close by each other they sit, a sweet look on their faces." A mechanical device is so contrived that when the wind blew and touched the children they embraced and kissed, and by necromancy they spoke to each other as in their childhood, and thus said Fleur to Blanchefleur: "Kiss me, sweet," and kissing him, she replied: "I love you more than all the world." The story of Fleur and Blanchefleur was so popular that they became identified with the characters of another romance, and were sung of as the parents of Berte-as-graus-pies, the heroine of an attractive legend, and the mythical mother of Charlemagne. In the poem that relates her misfortunes after she has been sent from Hungary to France as the wife of Pepin, we find a suggestion of the depth of sentiment that was always associated with her legendary parents. She has been in France almost nine years without their having heard from her, and Blanchefleur determines to undertake a journey to see her child again before she dies. The King, without opposing her desire, expresses a half remonstrance that we may add to the other proofs in mediæval poetry, that true love in our modern sense was familiar throughout those eras: "Oh, my lady, how shall we be able to live so long without each other?" Let us believe that in the Utopia where these lovers who loved from their birth resided, they found, after their own sharp trials and the trials of their daughter were safely over, a serene old age, out of which they passed unconsciously some night, sleeping themselves away in each other's arms. This love between boy and girl was attractive to the old narrative poets. The greatest of them all touched the soul of young romance when he said of Sigune and Schionatulander, "Alas, they are still too young for such pain, yet 'tis the love of youth which lasts." Wolfram gives us pretty touches of childhood as far back as the nursery; like that of a mother and her ladies playing over the new-born baby, or of children learning to stand by taking hold of chairs, and creeping over the floor to reach them, or of Sigune's care to take her box of dolls with her when she went away. "Whoever saw this little girl thought her a glimpse of May among the dewy flowers." As she grew older, too, he describes her, assuming the airs of a young lady. "When her breasts were rounding and her light wavy hair began to turn dark, she grew more proud and dignified, though always keeping her womanlike sweetness." The story of her love with Schionatulander has delightful stanzas; their long love-pleading dialogue is much truer than most of the minnesingers' work in its restraint and in the girl's coy sweetness. She is an earlier Dorigen as she watches for the beloved who does not come, wasting many an evening at the window gazing over the fields, or climbing to the housetop to look. But what distinguishes the author of the _Titurel_ above his fellow-poets is his sentiment for something more than romance. Children are dear to him, and the wife is dearer. His idea of love consists no more in Dante's platonic mysticism than in passion and inconstancy. Without transcendentalism its dominant tone is spiritual. Compare an earlier lover's cry in the loveliest of French romances: "What is there in heaven for me? I will never go there without Nicolette, my sweet darling, whom I love so much. It is to hell that fine gentlemen go and pretty, well-bred ladies who love." Compare that Parisian type of feeling with this of Wolfram: "Love between man and woman has its house on earth, and its pure guidance leads us to God and heaven. This love is everywhere save in hell!" To such a poet we naturally turn for the deepest mediæval note in the treatment of childhood, and we do not listen in vain. "What a difference there is between women," Wolfram exclaims. It seems to him the way of modern womanhood to be disloyal, worldly, selfish, like men: but in the days of which he writes in his chief poem there was a lady Herzeloide, to whom after her husband's death in the wars, the sun was a cloud, the world's joy lost, night and day alike, who for heavenly riches chose earthly poverty, and leaving her estates went with her retainers far into the unreclaimed forest to bring up her infant safe from the strife and wiles of men. This only heritage of her lost lord was the boy Parzival. She trusted that by hiding him away from all knowledge of the world, she might always keep him her own. She exacted an oath from her servants that they would never let him hear of knights and knighthood, and while they cleared farming land in the heart of the woods, she cared for the child. It was a desolate place, but she was not looking for meadows and flowers; she gave no thought to wreaths, whether red or yellow.[11] The child grew into boyhood, and was indulged in making bows and arrows. As he played in the woods, he shot some of the birds. But after he saw them dead, he remembered how they had sung, and he cried. Every morning he went to a stream to bathe. There was nothing to trouble him, except the singing of the birds over his head: but that was so sweet that his breast grew strained with feeling; and he ran to his mother in tears. She asked what ailed him, but "like children even now it may be," he could not tell her. But she kept the riddle in her heart, and one day she found him gazing up at the trees listening to the birds, and she saw how his breast heaved as they sang. It seemed to her that she hated them, she did not know why. She wanted to stop their singing, and bade her farm hands snare and kill them. But the birds were too quick; most of them remained and kept on singing. The boy asked his mother what harm the birds did, and if the war upon them might not cease. She kissed his lips: "Why am I opposing highest God? Shall the birds lose their happiness because of me?" "Nay, mother, what is God?" "My son, He is brighter than the day; He took upon himself the likeness of man. When trouble comes upon thee, pray to him: his faithfulness upholds the world. The Devil is darkness; turn thy thoughts from him, and from unbelief." This passage is Wolfram's invention; the brilliant Gallic poet whose romance he followed could not have contrived it. This sympathy with nature belongs to our later era; it seems less strange to meet it in Keats, when the boy Apollo wanders out alone in the morning twilight: "The nightingale had ceased, and a few stars Were lingering in the heavens, while the thrush Began calm-throated. Throughout all the isle There was no covert, no retired cave Unhaunted by the murmurous noise of waves. Though scarcely heard in many a green recess, He listened and he wept, and his bright tears Went trickling down the golden bow he held." One recalls nothing in the two centuries which Wolfram touches that equals this picture of the mother watching her child's baptism with the sad and precious gift of soul, as he stands gazing upward in his forest trance, or listening to his dawning perplexities, or teaching him his first religious lesson, or jealous of the birds, because his dreamy love for them dimly warned her of a mysterious growing soul that would not remain within her simple call. Those lines in the _Princess_ of the faith in womankind and the trust in all things high, that come easy to the son of a good mother, certainly are appropriate to Parzival, whose faith held true and simple through his whole career as the foremost knight of chivalric legend, living for a spiritual ideal, unseduced by beauty and the ways of courts from loyalty to his first wedlock: "True to the kindred points of heaven and home." The description of Parzival's meeting with the knights, his mistaking them in their bright armor for angels, and his eagerness to make his way to Arthur's court are narrated by Chrestien with his own excellent vivacity, and here Wolfram only follows. The Welsh version of the story in the _Mabinogi_ of Peredur, though disappointing, contains a naïve sketch of the boy's rustic attempt to imitate the knight's trappings. But for the full tenderness of his mother's parting as he goes out from home to the fierce world we must turn again to the German.[12] She kisses him, and as he rides away "runs a few steps after him" till he has galloped out of sight and then she closes forever the eyes whose light of motherhood shone like a star above the sea, over those tumultuous years. All through these centuries there are poems to the Virgin, especially in Latin, which manifest similar sensibility to infancy and motherhood. One of the most pleasing belongs to England, and is written in the commixture of Latin and the modern tongue, which occasionally produces quaintly pretty effects. The glorified Christ summons his mother, by the memory of their kisses when she calmed him in sweet song, to come and be crowned. "Pulcra ut luna"--lovely as moonlight--"veni coronaberis." But perhaps the most delicate of all such sketches comes from an unexpected source. A young lawyer in the town of Todi, whose early life had combined pleasure with sufficient study to gain the doctorate, was turned aside from a prosperous public career by the tragical loss of his bride. Matthew Arnold has given a symbolism to the story of her death in the sonnet beginning: "That son of Italy who tried to blow 'Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song." The sorrow struck deep, even to the point of partial mania; the gay young man forsook the world and devoted years to seclusion and religious culture. Later in 1278, he entered the order of the Minorites, and ranks as one of their delirious enthusiasts, a mystic poet, a reckless satirist of evils in high places. His fanatic asceticism made him glory in bodily torments and the world's scorn. The nickname, Jacapone, he carried proudly, and even the harshness of Boniface VIII. could not quell his zest for martyrdom. We should scarcely look to him for sympathy with the sweet gaieties of the nursery, yet this little sketch of the Virgin's life with Christ, the child, came from the same hand that wrote the sorrows of the _Stabat Mater_. Ah sweet, how sweet, the love within thy heart, When on thy breast the nursing infant lay: What gentle actions, sweetly loving play, Thine, with thy holy child apart. When for a little while he sometimes slept, Thou eager to awake thy paradise, Soft, soft, so that he could not hear thee, crept, And laidest thy lips close to his eyes, Then, with the smile maternal calling, "Nay, 'Twere naughty to sleep longer, wake, I say!" The almost incoherent repetition of the word "Love," in one of his poems, is suggestive of the man; despair for human love led to his half-crazed absorption in the divine. Very sweetly sounds this sacred meditation's echo of his recollection of the nights of his own childhood, of which he has told, when his mother, as she waked, would make a light and come and lean over his bed, till sometimes his eyes would open to see her watching him there. His father did not spare the rod for the careless boy, nor in later years did the father of his soul; but the divine motherhood of memory and of present faith bent with yearning eyes, we may be sure, over his anxious sleep in prison or in the ascetic cell. But it was only the greatest of all these poets who could leave us the lovely image of the new-born soul that comes forth in its simplicity from the hand that loves it before its birth, playing like a young girl who weeps and smiles. Yet Dante's principal sensation about childhood is its helplessness, and the mother's eyes, which throw its aureole about infancy, do not seem to have held their tenderest meaning for him. He would never have gone beyond the original ten lines of "She was a phantom of delight." But he gives beauty to the child's frightened eyes when they meet its mother's, and certainly the vision, whether real or imagined, toward the close of the _Vita Nuova_ will please forever. This straying love is recalled to its old faithfulness by "the strong imagination" of a little figure that is habited in red, just as it had appeared to him when, perhaps in Folco's Florentine garden, the boy not quite nine fell in love with the girl of eight. Perhaps Boccaccio's story of the falcon is too familiar to quote, though it illustrates domestic love too well to be unmentioned. One hardly can choose the best of its touches--the bright account of the boy running over the fields with his mother's old-time lover, as he hawked, always eying with a boy's eagerness for ownership the famous falcon, the only remnant of Frederick's gay and wealthy life, which he had lost for the unsuccessful love; or the picture of the mother again and again begging the child, as he lay ill, to tell her something which he desired, so that she might obtain it for him; until his feverish imagination persuaded him that to have the wonderful falcon would make him well again; or our thought of the impoverished gentleman, whose devotion had lasted under the years of exile on his little farm, his hope departed, who when suddenly visited by his widowed love, and finding nothing in the larder, nor money, nor even anything valuable enough for a pledge to secure some entertainment for her, desperately wrung the neck of his precious bird; or the delicate hesitation and awkwardness of the lady when she came to explain her errand, and the struggle, before love for her child bent both pride and pity; or the lover's broken heart when he found that his excess of devotion had cost him his only opportunity of pleasing her. The whole may be read in a little play of Tennyson's later years, or among the _Tales of a Wayside Inn_; but it is much better to read it in the narrative of the Certaldesian. Tuscany has sent us down no tenderer story. [Decoration] FOOTNOTES: [10] I will not quote Goethe's famous disparagement of the _Divina Commedia_, for the context indicates that it was uttered petulantly. Still, he certainly did not care for Dante, or appreciate him, though he recognized his eminence. [11] It may be worth noting that Wolfram substitutes for the French original's usual conventionality of a pretty watered meadow, this harder and more appropriate setting. [12] Tennyson might suitably enough have had the marriage of Parzival and Condiuiramur in mind when writing the Prince's aspiration. "Then reign the world's great bridals chaste and calm." Such passages in Wolfram's poem as Book iv. from line 666 and Book v. 676-682 may be commended to the critics who see nothing in mediæval love that is pure or faithful in the modern sense of marriage. [Decoration] A MEDIÆVAL WOMAN.[13] When Heloise was born, just after the twelfth century opened, Abelard, through whom she was to experience the deepest ecstacies and the most poignant distress, and by whose union with her life she was to become the most famous mediæval woman, was a young man of twenty-two. He came of a rather high-bred family in Brittany; his father, though an active soldier, was interested in letters and took pains to have his children instructed in the ornaments as well as the defence of life. This eldest son, so attracted by his early lessons that he determined to sacrifice his rights of primogeniture, and to renounce the distinction of a knightly career for the life of study, while yet a youth started out as a student-tramp, one of a multitude who wandered from town to town to hear lectures on the seven topics that made up the educational curriculum of the age. Through this entire epoch, for generation after generation, this practice of student vagrancy continued: now the intellectual centre was England, now France, now Germany; sometimes two or three teachers would draw crowds to the exclusion of all other schools, sometimes the numbers would divide up among scores of masters. Poor, rich, coarse, refined, hard-working, indolent, quick-witted, stupid, scholars, impostors,--these student crowds were an extraordinary medley. To realize the irregularity and the strangeness of their lives we have to read such a story as Freytag quotes[14] from Thomas Platter, a wandering scholar of the fifteenth century. Such German students were perhaps of a lower grade than the young men who travelled through France three hundred years before, and the standard of scholarship may have been inferior, but their general experiences must have been similar, and most of Abelard's companions no doubt were mentally crude, arrogant, superstitious; many dissipated and even brutal. Yet some were touched by the love of truth, and had vigorous minds, well trained by application. The majority of these better men were of course hedged in by the palisades of Catholic tradition, and sought knowledge from the past, rather than from independent present thought: but there were some whose ideas were bolder, and who kept proposing questions which their teachers did not answer. The deferential attention with which Roscellinus and William of Champeaux were listened to, was broken in upon when the handsome youth Abelard appeared at the schools of these leaders of European thought. The strength of each was in dialectics, the topic which then held intellectual interest to the practical disregard of almost every other subject except the theology into which it played, and they took opposite sides on the absorbing problem of general terms. In the school of each, Abelard rose as a disputant; he challenged his teacher to argue with him as an equal until he triumphed in turn over the extreme Nominalist and the extreme Realist. Then he set up schools of his own, which he moved from place to place, as the intolerant hostility of his vanquished chiefs and their upholders required. His reputation steadily rose, and he drew the largest and most enthusiastic following, for the keenest young thought of the generation recognized in him its natural leader. All independence and liberality of mind must be estimated relatively to the age concerned. From our outlook Abelard seems a narrow and constrained thinker, but to the churchman of the opening of the twelfth century he was a rationalist, a daring explorer into the sacred mysteries that must be accepted by the sealed eye of Faith. How absurd, he exclaims, to teach what you cannot give reasons for believing. So he tried to make belief a matter for intellectual comprehension; he argued where others asserted, and made bold to modify current opinions which his ingenuity, often childishly simple, could not explain. He had a noble grasp upon some conceptions far beyond the reach of his antagonists. He independently developed the ethical doctrine that the value of conduct is in motive, not in act; he taught that the main worth of the incarnation was to present the model of a perfect life; that the man Christ Jesus was not a member of the Trinity; that the love of God is as freely bestowed on sinner as on saint; that God could not prevent evil, or he would have done so. For the sufferings that he endured in teaching his pupils to use not credulity but unflinching independent thought in their reflections even on theology, he deserves our grateful admiration. When Abelard was thirty-eight years old he was at the height of his reputation. Technical and abstruse as his intellectual interests were, he appears to have been anything but a dry-as-dust. Though as a logician he had trained himself severely in precision of speech, the hesitating and half-frozen way of talking that most exact thinkers fall into, he seems to have escaped. We have a letter written about this time by a canon named Fulcus, who, dwelling on Abelard's intellectual cleverness, his power and subtlety of expression, makes special mention of the sweetness of his eloquence; _limpidissimus philosophiæ fons_, he calls him, too--philosophy's very clearest fountain. He was not only an easy and agreeable speaker, he had also the advantages of an attractive presence; he was a fine-looking man, in the prime of life. Now for about twenty years he had been a hero of the schools. The philosophic and theological leaders of the age he had overthrown and trampled on; the audiences that he had been at the first successful in drawing had steadily increased. Established in Paris without controversy, a canon of the church, in the chair of Notre-Dame, the philosophical throne of France, he lectured to the best pupils of Europe. Fulcus, in his letter to Abelard, described the geographical extent of his influence thus: "Rome sent her sons to be taught by you, the former teacher of all arts confessing herself not so wise as you. No distance, no height of mountains, no depth of valleys, no road hard to travel or perilous with robbers, hindered scholars from hastening to you. The English students were not frightened by the tempestuous waves of the sea between; every peril was despised as soon as your name was known. The remote Britons, the Angevins, the Picts, the Gascons, the Spaniards, the people of Normandy and Flanders, the Teutons, and the Suevi, all about Paris and through France, near and remote, thirsted to be taught by you, as if they could learn nowhere else." Such eminence had not come to him without effort. He had been a close worker, secluding himself from society. "The assiduity of my application to study," he says, "prevented my associating with refined ladies, and I had hardly any acquaintance with women outside of the church." The purity of his morals was only less famous than his intellect; he says that the notion of associating, as many churchmen of the time did, with coarse women was odious to him. But suddenly over this man already middle-aged, and, as one might suppose, established in self-control mentally and physically, there came a reaction. Reputation had become an old story, his enthusiasm for philosophy seemed to dwindle when he believed himself the first philosopher of the world; no doubt, too, the intellectual pressure of his work had so worn upon him as to make a change of interests impulsive. So Abelard turned to divert himself with immoral indulgences, and at thirty-eight began the life of passion. Several years before this, a story had begun to circulate that another canon of Notre-Dame, Fulbert by name, had a remarkable niece. She was then only a little girl in a nunnery at Argenteuil, but year by year the accounts of her precocity grew more astonishing, and by the time she was sixteen we are told that she was talked about through the whole kingdom. This was Heloise, and her uncle--people did not know whether he was prouder or fonder of her. He brought her back to his own house near the cathedral, and Abelard met her to find the reports of her learning had not been exaggerated, and--something more interesting--to find that she was not merely a scholar, that she was a genius. The modern accounts of this famous story that I have seen (most of them mere imitations of one or two authors who really have taken the trouble to study the originals) declare that Heloise was uncommonly beautiful, but there seems to be no authority for this. Abelard says only, "_per faciem non infirma_"--"not lowest in beauty, but in literary culture highest." Making allowance for his rhetorical contrast, we may say, without intensives, that she was attractive as well as brilliant. We should have to read a good many indecent chronicles, and get thoroughly familiar with Don Juan prototypes, to find as cold-blooded a story of seduction as this that follows. We have it from Abelard's own pen, told in perfectly calm language, a clear-cut narrative without the slightest tremor of confession about it. He was delighted with her loveliness, her youth and innocence, her fame, and most of all with her brilliancy. He says that he believed no woman whom he might honor with his regard could resist the combination of his personal qualities and his reputation. But he wished cultivated, congenial companionship in his amours, and deliberately resolved to betray this girl of sixteen under the disguise of her teacher. At his own application, Fulbert received him as a lodger, the board to be paid by private instruction of his niece. "He gave the lamb to me, a wolf"--such is Abelard's well-chosen metaphor. She was to be taught at any hours, day or night, that her tutor found convenient. She was to obey him in everything, and if he thought fit it was enjoined upon him to discipline her with the rod. "To such an extent," Abelard remarks, "was he blinded by his trust in his niece, and by my reputation for strict morality." Nothing could be more repulsive than the coldly deliberate wickedness of Abelard's plan, and it would be time thrown away to attempt any extenuation of it. But the crime once committed, it is a relief to find something in addition to brute passion present in the unscrupulous seducer. The girl who had fascinated him, won from him as complete love as his nature was capable of giving. Week by week he resigned himself more and more to his happiness, he neglected the school, his lectures were only the repetition of formerly acquired views, and he wooed philosophy for no new truths. Even the perfunctory teaching that he did grew irksome to him, and his knowledge of the great sadness, groans, and lamentations that he tells arose among his followers, was powerless to break the spell. For it was only a spell: he was pre-eminently an intellectual man with superficial affections; his heart was given to philosophy, and the only permanent passion of his life was ambition. But little as the praise is, to that little extent it is to his credit that where he had planned for himself a holiday from mental and moral severity, in which he was to enjoy relaxation selfishly and viciously at Heloise's undivided cost, he found his better nature captured by this loveliest representative of womanhood in its fullest and most exceptional combination of elements that mediæval history has made known to us. After all, Abelard was not wholly destitute of the moral sensibilities: I believe no narrator of this story has called attention to his love for his old home in Brittany, or to his family's devotion to him and reliance on his guidance, or to the tenderness with which he mentions his mother. In spite of all the viciousness in his early and the hardness in his later treatment of Heloise, we may credit him with real affection for her, from the early days of his crime. For a man of Abelard's force and finish of mind, such a refined companionship must have been the first of pleasures. There are traditions, not to be accepted too credulously, that Heloise was a larger scholar than her lover, and could read Hebrew and Greek--those rarest accomplishments of mediæval learning. That at least she knew Latin literature well, we have abundant evidence, and the most positive proof that her scholarship was refined and appreciative, that she felt poetry as well as understood it. Her mind responded also to the theological interests of the thinkers of the age, she was at home in the church fathers, and learned from Abelard the main principles of his philosophical doctrine. In trying to conceive a character when information is so fragmentary as ours here, we are no doubt in some danger of making fanciful biography. Three letters of her own, several of Abelard's to her, and his autobiography, a few slight contemporary hints--these materials leave some important points of her character undeveloped. But given certain suggestions, our imaginative instincts cannot go far wrong, provided the inferences of sympathetic interpretation are held in check by judgment. These guides teach us to see in the girl Heloise an extraordinary combination of thoughtfulness and bright temper, active thinking and religious deference, accurate scholarship (after the fashion of mediæval schools) and æsthetic sensibility, passion and maidenly delicacy. To this last quality Abelard has borne complete testimony, and her own letters supply any evidence needed. Absorbed though her whole nature was in her love, her lover himself has let us know that her modesty had to be conquered more than once by blows. Her mind was mastered by the greatness of his reputation, her eye was taken with his beauty, her imagination was fascinated by his universal charm: it is no wonder that she was flattered and bewitched into loving him. But the completeness and devotion and ecstatic self-oblivion of the love she gave him is a wonder. Her generous faith, though to an undeserving object, communicates to the ineffective results of her life an ideal value; by a supreme self-forgetting, she rendered herself worthy to be always remembered. Abelard's was a stormy life in a stormy age, when the scholars fought quite as bitterly as the soldiers, and the last forty-four years of Heloise's life were the tragedy of being buried alive, unable to die. But for a few months in this year 1118, both found perfect happiness. We have a pretty picture outlined for us of the way their time went. Abelard says: "We used to have our books open, but we talked more of love than about the reading, there were more kisses than ideas. Love made pictures of each of us in the other's eyes more often than we turned our eyes upon the books." Every now and then this great philosopher appeared in a new rôle. As to most of the highest men, Nature had given him a great deal more than brains. He had a wonderfully fine voice, was fond of music, and as poets in those days went, he was a poet. He had stopped constructing dialectics, but his mind could not be inactive; so he took up the art of song-writing and song-making, and wrote love-lyrics and many of them, almost all directly in the praise of Heloise. Nor was he content to praise her to her own ears alone; the man was past all prudence in the violence of his new absorption. He let others hear them, and no doubt his hateful egotism was flattered by the thought that the most fascinating girl in all France would thus become known as his mistress. The lyrics at once caught the popular fancy; we hear of them as spreading over the country, sung everywhere by the light-minded. Many years later, Heloise wrote that if any woman's heart could have resisted Abelard's other magic, to read his songs and to hear him sing them would surely have conquered her. The neglect of his work, and the notoriety of these love-ditties after a while made public Abelard's real relation to his pupil. Yet for some time after the world at large understood it, the devoted uncle and guardian of the girl heard nothing, and after the rumors did begin to reach him, he obstinately refused to believe them. Nothing in the whole history shows the essential goodness of Heloise more significantly than the canon Fulbert's complete incredulity; for as the event proved, his nature was not so gentle as to repudiate harsh thoughts without the strongest prepossessions. When the truth was forced upon him, his distress was so intense that even the cold-hearted Abelard was compelled to pity him. But if Abelard pitied the uncle, how much greater his distress for the niece, and greater still, unfortunately, his apprehension for himself. Egotist he proved himself, but he proved himself also Heloise's real lover. "First we lived together in one house," he says, "but at last in one soul." In the crash of public disgrace, "neither of us complained of personal suffering, but each for the suffering that came to the other," and the bodily separation that ensued, he says with a touch of real feeling, was "the greatest linking of our souls." Soon after the separation, Abelard discovered that Heloise required more care and comforts than the heart-broken and embittered Fulbert would be likely to provide, and he devised and carried through a plan to take her back to his own country, to his sister's house. There, amid the scenes of her lover's boyhood, in that Brittany whose legend and poetry have blessed us with so many of our loveliest romances, this heroine of a deeper romance than any of fiction found a home for several months. We may guess that the home was pleasant to her, for the lady with whom she lived afterwards entered the abbey of which Heloise was prioress. Abelard meanwhile was continuing his lectures in Paris, fearing--he seems to have been at all times a great deal of a coward--the personal violence from Heloise's family which the fierce habits of the age gave him reason to anticipate. At last the distress of Fulbert touched his better feeling into the wish to give him comfort, this long separation from Heloise he found hard to support, and his fear of revenge constantly increased. These motives induced a promise to rectify his offence by marriage. He made only one condition--that the marriage should be secret. On the whole, this is perhaps the most favorable exhibition of himself that Abelard ever made. With all deductions for selfish considerations, it is reasonable to allow some weight to moral feeling, and a good deal more to devotion for the girl. This renders it all the sadder to find him some sixteen years later referring to this best act of his life with a feeble apology. "Let no one," he entreats, "wonder at my offer of marriage, who has felt the power of love, and known how the greatest men have been overthrown by woman." Even here when his feeling for Heloise seems strongest, we see that his selfish ambition was stronger still. Secular as his tastes were, bound to the church by his intellectual side only, he still hoped to rise to ecclesiastical dignities and power. From very early times the disposition for a celibate clergy had been strong, and five years before Abelard's birth Hildebrand had declared that no married priest should have any part in the celebration of the mass. Quite apart from all questions of marriage, Abelard seems to have had scarcely any chance of distinguished clerical dignity; the student crowds might follow him, but the leaders of the church were dead set against his rationalism; they feared and hated the arrogant and progressive thinker. If Abelard had acted like a man, and had openly chosen married love with the girl whose mind and heart were, either of them, better than the best of life's other gifts, the misfortunes of his distressed later career might have been avoided, and Heloise, after a happy and lovely life, would be no more remembered to-day than the flowers she had gathered, or the birds she heard sing. But because the man, not quite unprincipled, was yet not true, he brought death upon his own good name, and upon Heloise a melancholy life with which she paid too dear for all the remembrance and love that the ages have given her. To his selfishness we owe the sweetest and saddest story which the middle ages have bequeathed us; but we think of the words of Demodocus, as he recites in the Odyssey the story of heroes dead: "This the gods contrived, and for these they ordained destruction, so that the people of times to come might have a song." His mind once made up, Abelard started for Brittany, to see the son of whose birth he had just heard, and to take back the mother as his bride. But when this resolution was known to Heloise, he met an unexpected opposition. She said she did not wish him to marry her, and persisted in her refusal. Unwomanly does it appear, this unwillingness of Heloise to become her lover's wife? She knew Abelard's vehement ambition, the impossibility of its being satisfied if he was known to be a married man, the practical certainty that her family would prefer the redemption of her reputation to her husband's success. So she told Abelard that to marry her would be dangerous to him,--but still more, that it would be disgraceful. She talked to him in the rôle of a learned and ascetic mediæval preacher; she seems to draw a monk's rough robe about her girlish figure, to disguise her tones, and to muffle her bright face in a cowl. We have long, formally rendered objections, a crowd of citations from the Bible, Cicero, Theophrastus, Jerome, Josephus, Augustine,--to prove marriage less honorable than celibacy, devotion to knowledge a duty not to be interfered with by the responsibilities and annoyances of a family, conformity to the rules of the church the highest obligation. Her desire for his own greatness completely overshadows her passion for his love. He is already the first of philosophers, but if he has outrivalled others, he must go on to surpass himself. For this, he must have quiet and solitude, freedom for thought. She quotes a Roman maxim that all things are to be neglected for philosophy. What monks endure through love of God, the thinker ought to endure from devotion to truth. If laymen and gentiles have lived thus continently, bound by no religious profession, what does it become a clerk and a canon to do? "If you regard not God, at least care for philosophy." "For what harmony is there," she asks, "between a scholar and a nurse, a writing-desk and a cradle, books and spinning-wheels? Who when absorbed in religious or philosophic meditation can endure hearing children cry, or having to listen to the lullabies of the woman who soothes them? Rich people can get along, for they have abundant room and plenty of servants; but scholars are not rich." She has difficulty in keeping herself disguised: in the excess of her feeling she throws out her arms, and discloses the gracious outline of the unselfish woman. Then, after reasoning, come personal pleadings. Is he sacrificing himself for her? She is content as she is. Now she holds him by the free gift of that love and favor to which he would have a claim in marriage. Does he believe she feels herself disgraced by this relation? To be called his mistress is dear and ennobling to her. Years later when she was past her middle life, she wrote to Abelard that "the name of mistress, or even of harlot, was sweeter to me then the holier name of wife, so that by my greater humiliation I might gain greater favor and less injure thy fame. I call God to witness that if Augustus would have set me by himself at the head of the whole world, it would have seemed to me more dear and noble to be called thy mistress than his empress." Thus by argument, authority, protestation that her sacrifice is choice, she tries to conquer his decision. Nay, she throws aside the cowl entirely, and by her natural bright humor tries to banter him into acquiescence. "And then think," she says in substance, "what a plague a wife is to a man. Only imagine" (and she laughs, and Abelard laughs too, at the inconceivable grotesqueness of the idea), "imagine what a shrew I might turn out! I might treat you as Xanthippe treated _her_ philosopher." She reminds him of the passage where Jerome tells the story about Socrates' wife having fretted and scolded and raged one day through the house with desperate temper, until she wound up by throwing a basin of dirty water over him: "He took it patiently, and wiped his head: 'Rain follows thunder,'--that was all he said." To Abelard's credit, this impassioned unselfishness strengthened, instead of weakening, his resolution. Heloise was forced to yield, but her instincts saw the dark shadows gathering about them: with sobs and tears she exclaimed, "In the ruin of both of us not less pain is to follow than was the love that came before." Leaving the child with his aunt the lovers returned to Paris; there they were married in great secrecy, and at once separated. After this they met but seldom, and then with careful precautions against their interviews becoming known. Heloise's family, however, as she had feared, determined to redeem her good name by announcing that Abelard had made her honorable reparation. When people came to her and asked if it was really true that she was the canon's wife, she denied the story angrily. When her uncle and other relatives contradicted her contradiction, the girl took religion's holiest name in vain, in her asseverations that Abelard was not her husband. Fulbert lost all patience, and attempted by cruelty and indignity to drive her to confess the truth. She told Abelard of what she suffered, and one night he contrived to steal her away from her uncle and to carry her back to her old nunnery at Argenteuil, where she assumed most of the dress of the order, and received only occasional visits from him. The conjecture that Abelard designed to keep her there, and as soon as his attachment could be weaned to make her take the vows and thus save himself from all further trouble, suggests itself to us to-day: with greater force, it occurred to the people immediately concerned. The rage of the uncle and his friends at Abelard's treachery, first and last, to themselves, and at his heartlessness toward the girl whose worth they understood so well, grew uncontrollable; they bribed a servant to admit them to his house by night, and avenged themselves. Abelard's spirit was broken, as he saw all hopes of ecclesiastical promotion at an end, and his fame turned to notoriety. Heretofore his public appearances had made the sensation of a king's: "What region did not burn to see you!" asked Heloise. "Who, when you walked abroad, did not hurry to look at you, rising on tiptoe and with straining eyes?" But now every look he fancied scornful. In this wild age there was always one refuge for the victims of the world or of themselves. To the monasteries flocked all classes, from fashionable knights broken down or unsuccessful or weary of conflict, to the half-witted clowns sheltered and utilized as lay-brethren. Husbands forsook their wives, and wives fled from their husbands, to take shelter in the religious life. In this early part of the twelfth century, monastic houses were multiplying like hives of bees, constantly sending out from themselves colonies that quickly became parents of others. For some time the tendency had been to an easier discipline than the traditional, but at last asceticism had blazed out anew, and the rich and luxurious Cluny paled in popularity before Clairveaux or the Grande Chartreuse. In this single century the Cistercians expanded from one abbey to eight hundred, a single one of which is said to have controlled seven hundred benefices. The one meal a day, the hard manual labor, the restricted sleep, the wearisome routine of prayer, reading, and penance, won by their very severity and by the mystical impression of sanctity and immortal safety which brooded about these retired prisons of self-condemned sin. "Oh, hide me in your gloom profound, Ye solemn seats of holy pain," was the cry with which multitudes approached the gates that should emancipate them from a freedom which did not satisfy. Ben Jonson's fear lest his inclination to God might be "Through weariness of life, not love of thee," was realized in the case of numbers of convertites quite equalling and probably far exceeding those who entered the ascetic orders from the enthusiasm of visionaries. To this retirement, as a screen from the world's curiosity and fancied mocks, Abelard now resolved to withdraw, as his father and mother in their later lives had done before him. His jealousy could not leave Heloise behind, so he told her of his purpose, and hoped that she would volunteer to imitate him. But Heloise made no such offer. In every way hers was a mind beyond her age, and the unnatural harshness of cloistral discipline, its artificial dreariness, its "hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell," seemed to her fine insight untrue. Though she had suffered, she was yet in tune with life; her heart assured her that innocent pleasure is the soul's hymn of praise to God; bitterly as she shared her husband's misery, she saw no reason for separating her life and his; most of all, she revolted from the notion of professing religion with lip-service only. But Abelard urged, insisted, even commanded, and, seeing it to be his wish, the girl-wife yielded. She told herself that only she was responsible for her husband's afflictions; except for her, his prosperity would have continued undimmed; so the day was fixed on which, in her old nunnery, she should take the vows of perpetual seclusion. It must have been a strange scene in that chapel at Argenteuil. Abelard was there, still in his habit of a mere secular priest, there to make sure that Heloise's impulses should not burst out again, and cast her back into the world's sunshine. The bishop, attended by his priests, stands at the altar: upon it lies a newly consecrated veil. The nuns, kneeling in their accustomed places, are praying. All wait for the votaress, but she is detained by a crowd of friends. There were many of them there, as Abelard has told us, and they could not endure that this girl, personally so charming, perhaps the most accomplished intellectually of all the women of France, should consummate the sacrifice that she had already in such large measure made. They knew her love for the bright things of life, her beautiful zest for the joyous and sympathetic, her eagerness in study, the grace of her strong, sweet seriousness. Such a nature might be for a time bewildered at the loss of the love of one of the most famous men living, yet if for a little while they could keep her face unhidden by the veil, she might forget. So they delay her outside the chapel, pleading with a heart that has made the same pleas for itself before. Presently the door is pushed open and she enters the oratory, her friends still about her. Even in the sacred place they continue their entreaties, and Abelard's glance is anxiously upon her; but her eyes are downcast. "How they pitied her!" he has told us; "they kept trying to hold back her youth from the yoke of monastic rule, as from punishment intolerable." The bishop seems half pitiful, half impatient; the nuns look up from their praying. Has the world renewed its hold upon her? Will she snatch herself from God? Does he no longer attract her? At this last moment is she hesitating? She was hesitating; the world did have a hold upon her. God? God had never attracted her. In all the ceremonials of the Catholic Church, there can have been none which has so combined sacrilege with loftiness of feeling as did the scene which followed. From the silent, even wistful hearing that she has been giving to her friends, Heloise suddenly starts away, and, as if waking from a reverie, she moves with dreamy gesture toward her husband. Her lips part, and what will be her last words as a lady of the world? Some scriptural exhortation to her friends to follow her as she follows Christ? A cry of exultant renunciation of the wilds of life's ocean, and of contentment at the holy calm in the bosom of the church? The girl is weeping, and as she tries to control herself to speak, her misery overcomes her, and she bursts into loud sobs. But it must have been surprising to the listening ecclesiastics to hear the words which at last got expression. It is probably the only time in the church's history that a novice has taken her last vows with the prelude of a quotation from a love speech in a pagan poem, directing it not to the bleeding effigy of her present and eternal Master hanging above the altar, but to a human lover at her side. Heloise "broke out as she could between her tears and sobs," in a passage from one of the later books of Lucan's _Pharsalia_: surely as she spoke the lines, her voice grew steady, and her eyes looked bravely through the tears: "Husband and lord, too worthy for my bed, Can Fortune thus cast down so dear a head? Fated to make thee wretched, why did I Become thy wife? Accept the penalty; I will endure it gladly." I fancy that Abelard was quite as much impressed by the brilliant young mind that could make so apt and scholarly a quotation from the Roman classics, as by the heart which dared on the very margin of the altar to fling back to the world and up to God this protestation of its unfaltering human love, which took the vows of religion from no other motive than to impose torture upon itself--an offering not to God, but to Abelard. As she spoke the verses, she hurried to the altar. _Accipe poenas, quas sponte luam_,--her voice died away, the bishop received her, and covered her forever with the veil. Heloise was only eighteen. * * * * * The convent gates shut in all sight of her for the next ten or eleven years. But in 1130, the nunnery over which she had become prioress was broken up by the unfavorable decision of a suit for the land and buildings which it occupied. This decade had brought abundant misery to Abelard. His heresies in theology had been exposed, and he had been compelled to burn a treasured book in which they were expounded, a council had imprisoned him in an abbey where it was boasted that his haughtiness was tamed by a course of vigorous whipping administered under the abbot's supervision. There is something pitiful in the thought of such physical and mental pride being under the control of fanatical monks, ignorant and coarse, from whom he was glad to escape to a desert east of Troyes, as a hermit. He had taught at intervals during these years, and once for a season with a notable renewal of his early success. Near Troyes, where he had built his hermit-shelter out of reeds and stubble, in a desolate region infested by wild animals and a covert for robbers, some vagrant student found the intellectual champion, and reported at Paris his discovery. The news spread, and soon the desert was populous. The students built a house for the master, apparently a commodious one, and about it they made more temporary structures for their own shelter. Not only the younger class of scholars besieged him for instruction; older men, ecclesiastics who, as we are told, were wont to grasp instead of giving, paid generously toward constructing a home for the great philosopher. But he was world-weary, and soon retired again to a bleak monastery on the Atlantic, in the lower part of Brittany, where he became abbot of a set of half-barbarous monks, who resented his austere rule and, so he tells us, tried repeatedly to poison him because he interfered with their profligacy. While there he had learned of Heloise's loss of her nunnery, and had established her and her religious sisters in the buildings in Champagne that had been standing unoccupied since he broke up that last school. "The Paraclete," he had called the home, as a special invocation to the Holy Spirit and as a tribute for the temporary comfort that he received there. Possibly he himself conducted his wife thither, but it is equally likely that he did not see her after he forced her into the church. For ten years he appears to have struggled on in Brittany, with no intellectual associations, none of the notoriety with which he had been so long pampered, in terror for his life, yet still working at his philosophy of religion. At last he was impelled to talk of what he had endured and was still enduring; to speak in the bitterness of his soul, and get, perhaps, the consolation of pity. He composed a long and immensely interesting autobiography, telling the whole story of his youth, his later triumphs, his logical acumen, his love, his disgrace, the injustice of his condemnation by the conservative church, the tumult of his experiences in the lonely monastery of St. Gildas. The creditable pages are calmly written, the shameful unflinchingly. He tells how tremendous had been his love for Heloise, but he says nothing of loving her still. The narrative reveals an egotist, but it reveals as certainly one of the most striking characters of the Middle Ages. * * * * * We find ourselves inevitably speculating upon the life of Heloise during the sixteen or more years whose only recorded event is her removal from Argenteuil to the Paraclete. It might be that a reaction in her love would follow, when the grim captivity that she had dreaded so became yet more hateful in its realization; she might lose her old gentleness; it might become hopeless for her to try to adjust her spirit to its new conditions and to devote herself to even a submissive piety. From contemporary testimony we are sure that some of these possibilities did not come true. She won respect and even devotion as an abbess, her house prospered financially to her husband's undisguised surprise and admiration, her life was pure from the least fleck of reproach, or criticism in any quarter. May we go farther, and say that her spirit did adjust itself to its new conditions, and lose its pain in a submissive piety? For such a result we should find many parallels in mediæval religion; numerous accounts not to be cavilled at as legendary prove that in these monasteries souls which had suffered found peace. Nay, many a nun among these most refined groups of mediæval women, driven in one way or another to forsake the hope of love and earthly happiness, secured delight of heart in a sort of spiritual romance. As their emotion grew more subtilized, as asceticism burned away material impulse, some of the gentlest and most poetically endowed of these religious recluses acquired a mystical compensation for their loneliest sacrifice of life,--a divinely idealized personal love, too magical for friendship, too impassioned and mutual for worship, where, the sexes mysteriously spiritualized, translated womanhood should rest at last on the breast of Christ. The final vow of religious consecration was the nun's betrothal to the divine man; to make herself beautiful for his bride she wasted her body by fasting and scarred it with the scourge; the rough lath cross on the wall of her cell was his love token; love messages came from him in her dreams; prostrated on the chapel flagging she indited to him prayers that scarcely needed verse to become lyrics. And when to such a mystic's contemplation the cloister sanctity seemed too worldly, when her exhausted body found the walk from cell to chapel too long a journey and she was compelled to stay in the coffin that for years of nights had sweetly reminded her of the sure untwining of soul and sense, when she could hear only faintly her sisters' thin chanting of the hours, and felt her spirit quivering with new sensations, vague, awed, and eager, she understood that the waiting time was over, and her espousal at hand. Her failing eyes see white processionals that come to lead her to the banqueting house where the banner of His love shall be over her; the music, which the dying so often hear, for her is a marriage melody ringing from angelic harps and dulcimers; with new-born strength and grace, mantled in new raiment, she floats upward to her desire. And when space has been traversed the immortal vision bursts upon her, a great poet has put in words her last thought this side heaven: "He lifts me to the golden doors, The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her light below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide,-- A light upon the shining sea, The Bridegroom with his bride." But for Heloise there was no such resource. It is to natures more ethereal and constitutionally religious that such fancies and dreams appeal. The main feature of the matured Heloise is sanity and balanced womanhood; she was too strong and intense to be a sentimentalist. Could the nature which had once been caught into the clouds by the whirlwind of love, beguile itself from the memory of that storm of rapture by a visionary tempest raised with a fan? And yet there would be some satisfaction if we could conceive her adjusting herself to the spiritual life with closer accord, and passing even through the gates of superstitious hallucination from the harsh religion of her day into the inner sanctuary whose "solemn shadow is better than the sun," finding an outlet for her quick emotions in this personal love for her new Master. * * * * * Heloise had been a nun some sixteen years when some one showed her Abelard's so-called _Historia Calamitatum_. Apparently her husband had forbidden her to write to him; but though she had kept a long silence, she was a lover until death. This account of Abelard's sufferings and perils broke her constraint; she could not help writing to comfort him and to beg for news of his safety. What other love-letters equal the intensity, the tenderness, the womanliness of these final appeals for the broken love? Through their nervous pliancy one may learn as nowhere else the reality of Browning's "Infinite passion, and the pain Of finite hearts that yearn." In them appears also her strength of nature; they are the love-calls of a woman who knows that the man she continues to set far above all the rest of humanity is wronging her. She chides him for this long and complete neglect, but there is a marvellous sweetness in her caressing reproaches. She tells him to remember under what peculiar bonds she holds him,--what sacred obligation of marriage, of love, and of devotion he owes to her; she gave her honor to please him, not herself; she sacrificed her tender age to the harshness of a monastic life not from piety, but only in submission to his desire. "There was a time," she writes, "when people doubted whether in our amour I yielded to love or to passion. But the end shows how I began; to please you, I have denied myself all pleasures." She points out to him how differently the end interprets his feeling for her. "It is common talk," she says, "that you felt only gross emotions toward me, and when there was a stop to their indulgence, your so-called love vanished. My dearest one, would that this appeared to me only, and not to every one; would that I might be soothed by hearing others excuse you, or that I could myself devise excuses." She appears to entertain no hope that he will visit her, though she hints longingly at the possibility; but he can at least do as much for her as he does for others under obligations so far slighter, as much as the example of the church fathers regarding the women of their flocks teaches him to do,--he can write and tell her how he is, he can comfort her love: or (and she appeals to the monk who may listen, even if the old-time lover will not) he can send spiritual admonition to uphold her slipping soul. Her heart put at rest, she can be so much freer for the divine service. "When you wooed me for the pleasures of earth," she reminds him, "you sent me letter after letter; with many songs you put your Heloise in the speech of all, so that every street and house echoed with me. How much more ought you now to excite toward God the one whom then you aroused to sin." She tells him again of her complete absorption in him: "You are the only one who can make me either sad or happy; you only can be my comforter. The whole world knows how much I loved you," and she turns with a half-shuddering reminiscence to the day she became a nun. "It was for you, not for God--that sacrifice. From God I can look for no reward; consider, then, how vain my trial, if by it I win nothing from you"; and the woman for sixteen years a nun calls God--and remember that hers was the God of mediæval superstition--to witness that she would have followed Abelard, or gone before him, if she had seen him hastening to hell. Her letters evidently moved the monk, for his replies were full of good advice, and under the surface gave some indications of tender regard. But the affection that we find is colorless and formal. No word of a husband's gentleness, nor warmth of phrase, not a hint that he cherishes happy memories of the old days of their union. They are the letters of an old man, absorbed in himself, worn by the world, who has no capacity for anything deeper than kind feeling. He calls her his sister, once dear in the world, now dearer in Christ, begs her prayers for him living and dead, and entreats that whenever he may die she will have his body carried to her abbey, that the constant sight of his grave may move her and her spiritual daughters to pray for his salvation. He gulps down the _Lachrima Christi_ of her exquisite love as if it were the small beer of pietistic commonplace, and then looks disappointed to find that it was not. For he ignores the soul of her letters, and composes complacent treatises of twelfth-century ecclesiastical discipline designed to subject her to a mechanical and lifeless asceticism. Heloise in answer reproaches him for his talk of death, like a brave heart bidding him not by anticipation suffer before his time. The knowledge of her husband's unhappiness is a renewed affliction, and she owns that there is nothing but sorrow in her life. Like a daring Titaness, she exclaims against God's administration of his world: "While we lived in sin, he indulged us; when we married, he forced us to separate. Let his other creatures rejoice and count themselves safe from the inclement clemency of the God whom I almost dare to call cruel to me in every way. They are safe, for upon me he has used up all the weapons of his wrath, so that he has none with which to rage at others; nor, if any remained, could he find a place in me wherein to strike them." After sixteen years' silence, this woman has broken into speech, and unmasked confessions of her inner spirit will no longer be restrained. She goes on as if carried by cyclone winds; she tells her far-off lover what few nuns under terror of eternal death can ever have brought themselves to confide to their confessors in scarcely audible whisper. She calls up the scenes of their union; she confesses that visions of that life are with her constantly: she bemoans the thoughts which "haunt me sometimes, even at the holy mass." She was no calm northern woman; she had nothing of the temperament that Shakespeare compared to an icicle "That's curdied by the frost from purest snow, And hangs on Dian's temple"; she was made to walk with love, under summer moonlight,--no sister of Percivale, to forget thwarted desire in prayer beneath the frosty stars of winter. "Help me," cries this victim of a gloomy religion, "for I do not find how by penance to appease God, whom I still accuse of the greatest cruelty. It is easy to confess and to torture the body; it is hard to tear the soul from its desires. My mind keeps the same wish for sin; so sweet was our happiness that I cannot be sorry for it. Most wretched life, if I have endured so much in vain, destined to have no recompense hereafter." Thus Heloise the woman and Heloise the abbess fight out the old problem whether the training of life is by the use of its gifts, or by the rejection of them; shall we play the full organ, or only the harsh reed stops? The church taught her to condemn what nature taught her to justify. The religious authority of all the dark ages confronted this woman's instincts of life, and--to her honor--it could not quell them. Yet conceive her wretchedness and the anguish of her mental struggle, living as she did in the middle of Catholic mediævalism. When, after a scanty rest, she left her cell at midnight, this artificial conscience attended her to the long chapel service that followed, pointed at the austere pages over which she bent in the study when the service was over, kept calling her hypocrite as she chided and instructed the nuns whom she is said to have ruled so wisely, snatched food and wine from her hungry lips, with fast, pitiless lashing wielded the whip of penance, haunted her sleep with its stern face. Yet the pleasures of time were still honorable to her; the world _was_ good; her love _had_ been beautiful; if her conscience prayed forgiveness for it, her heart sang, because she had known it. To hear this bewildered voice crying to Abelard for his prayers because in spite of the world's praise of her virtue she thinks herself a hypocrite,--Oh, my only one, pray for me, for I cannot be sorry that we loved--to hear this makes one glad that the time has passed for identifying the devil with the world's laughter, and God with its sobbing. She lived on as abbess of the Paraclete for twenty-one years after she buried her husband. We cannot believe that as one set of feelings cooled with age, her spiritual emotions grew more impulsive. In the twenty-eight years which followed her last letter to Abelard, she no doubt more and more mechanically went through the life of monastic duty, her intellectual accord with the church leading her to an increasingly calm performance of routine piety, her heart more and more silent--but never dead. We fancy its main utterance an anticipation of that cry of Clough's--"Submit, submit." Thus kindling with no spiritual ardor--(she once confessed that her religious ambition did not rise so high as to wish a crown of victory, or to have God's strength made perfect in her weakness), she lived out her faithful and successful life as abbess of the Paraclete, comforted--we may hope--by a continuance of the intellectual consolations of her youth, and honored, as we know, by church and world. If imaginary biography is ever safe we may employ it here, and fancy that when she came to die she repeated what she had said years before, that she should be quite content to be given just a corner in heaven. I think as she lay waiting to be received there, she dreamed of looking up from it, not at the ineffable glory, but at one human face stationed highest among the masters in divine philosophy. Highest among the masters! Less than a hundred and fifty years later, the great poem of mediævalism forgot to give Abelard a place even among the penitents of purgatory, and to-day except by special students he is remembered only as Heloise's unworthy lover. [Decoration] FOOTNOTES: [13] _Petri Abælardi Historia Calamitatum. Petri Abælardi et Heloissæ Epistolæ._ [14] _Bilder aus der deutschen Vergangenheit_, iii., 14-34. [Decoration] APPENDIX. At the suggestion of the publishers the following brief notices of some of the works and authors mentioned in these essays are added for convenience of reference. ÆTHIOPICA, the oldest and most famous of the Greek romances. It narrates the loves of Theagenes and Charicleia, and was written in his youth by Heliodorus of Emesa, who flourished about the end of the fourth century, and died as Bishop of Tricca in Thessaly. ALEXANDER, or as he is termed in some MSS. the Wild Alexander. A South-German poet of the thirteenth century. Of his life scarcely anything is known. CHRESTIEN DE TROYES, a French trouvère, who flourished in the second half of the twelfth century. He may be regarded as the popularizer in the French form of the cycle of tales that centre about the Round Table. The most important of his poems is the one bearing the title, _Perceval le Gallois_ or _Li Contes del Graal_. COMTE DE CHAMPAGNE.--See Thibaut. ARNAUD DANIEL, a Provençal poet, who died about 1189. He was distinguished for the complicated character of his versification, and in particular was the inventor of the verse called the _sestine_. He lived for some time at the court of Richard I. of England. Dante in the twenty-sixth canto of the _Purgatory_ puts him at the head of all the Provençal poets. He was also highly praised by Petrarch. DAPHNIS AND CHLOE, a Greek pastoral romance, the prototype of all the pastoral romances which have been written in various languages. Its composition is usually ascribed to a certain Longus, a Greek sophist, who flourished about the beginning of the fifth century. FREIDANK, the composer of a Middle High German didactic poem, which belongs to the first half of the thirteenth century. The name has been considered by some to be merely allegorical. His work, which was entitled _Bescheidenheit_, consists of over four thousand verses and discusses religious, political and social questions. It was an exceedingly popular work during the Middle Ages. GACES BRULLES, a French trouvère of the early part of the thirteenth century. He was born in Champagne, but spent a portion of his life in Brittany. About seventy of his _chansons_ are extant. GOTTFRIED VON STRASSBURG, a German poet who flourished at the end of the twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth century. His great work was the epic entitled _Tristan und Isolde_, continued by others after his death. This took place somewhere between 1210 and 1220. Gottfried wrote also many lyric poems. GUILLAUME DE BALAUN (or BALAZUN), a Provençal poet of the twelfth century. He was the lover of the lady of Joviac, in the Gévaudan. Alienation having sprung up between them upon account of his assumed or real indifference, his mistress would not restore him to favor unless he should agree to extract the nail of the longest finger of his right hand, and should come and present it to her with a poem composed expressly for the occasion. The condition was fulfilled. JOHANN HADLAUB, a German poet, who flourished at the end of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth century. His life was spent mainly in Zurich. His compositions were principally love-songs and popular songs dealing with the pleasures of autumn and harvest. A statue was erected to him in Zurich in 1885. HARTMANN VON AUE, a Middle High German, belonging by birth to a noble Swabian family, was born about 1170, and died between 1210 and 1220. He wrote _Erec and Enide_, basing it upon the French poem with the same title of Chrestien de Troyes. Another poem of his belonging also to the Arthurian cycle is _Iwein_. The most popular of his works with modern students is _Der arme Heinrich_. The details of its story have been made known to English readers by Longfellow's _Golden Legend_, which is founded upon it. Another work of his is entitled _Gregorius vom Stein_. HEINRICH VON MORUNGEN, a German minnesinger, a knight of Thuringia, who flourished at the end of the twelfth and the beginning of the thirteenth century. His last years were spent at the court of Meissen. He wrote many love-songs, many of which owe their existence to those of the troubadours. HEINRICH VON VELDEKE, a German poet of the twelfth century, who was of a noble family settled near Maastricht, on the lower Rhine. Besides the love-songs and other pieces he wrote, he was the composer of the epic of the _Eneide_, the first poem of the Middle High German epic poetry, which reached its highest development in the writings of Hartmann von Aue, Wolfram von Eschenbach, and Gottfried von Strassburg. HUGO VON TRIMBERG, a German poet, who flourished at the end of the thirteenth and the beginning of the fourteenth century. From 1260 to 1309 he was rector of the collegiate school in the Theuerstadt, a suburb of Bamberg. He is known as the composer of the _Renner_, a didactic poem, in which the manners and customs of the time are largely depicted, and the prevailing vices severely censured. JACOPO DA TODI, or JACOPONE, an Italian poet, born about the middle of the thirteenth century at Todi, in the duchy of Spoleto. He belonged to the noble family of the Benedetti, began life as an advocate, but, on account of the sudden accidental death of his wife, devoted himself to a religious life and entered the order of Franciscans. He wrote many religious poems in Italian, and also in Latin. To him in particular is ascribed the composition of the famous _Stabat Mater Dolorosa_. NEIDHART VON REUENTHAL, a German lyric poet of the thirteenth century. He was of a noble Bavarian family, but spent part of his life in Austria. His poems were written between 1210 and 1240, and are of special interest for the descriptions they give of the customs of the times. THIBAUT, COUNT OF CHAMPAGNE AND KING OF NAVARRE. He was born at Troyes in 1201, and died in 1253. He is one of the most noted of the early French poets. ULRICH VON LIECHTENSTEIN, a Middle High German poet, born about 1200, and died in 1276. He was the author of the poem entitled _Frauendienst_, described in this volume, and also of a didactic poem called _Frauenbuch_. WALTHARIUS ET HILTGUNDE, or simply Waltharius, a Latin poem of the tenth century in hexameter verse, and consisting of between fourteen hundred and fifteen hundred lines. Its authorship is unknown. WALTHER VON DER VOGELWEIDE, the greatest German poet of the Middle Ages. He was born about 1160, and died about 1230. He was of a knightly family, though poor, and much of his life was spent at the courts of several German princes and emperors. He wrote not only love-poems, but in the contest that went on between the imperialists and the papacy, he supported the side of the former in patriotic verses which had no slight influence upon contemporary opinion. Both for matter and manner he stood at the head of the poets called minnesingers. WERNHER THE GARDENER, a German poet of the thirteenth century, who composed, between 1234 and 1250, the story of _Meier Helmbrecht_. Nothing is known with certainty of his life. WOLFRAM VON ESCHENBACH, a German poet, of noble birth, of the latter half of the twelfth century and the beginning of the thirteenth. He died about 1220. His greatest work is the _Parzival_, which was completed about 1210. It was founded, according to his own statement, partly upon the _Conte del Graal_ of Chrestien de Troyes, but more particularly upon the work of a poet whom he calls Kyot, who is supposed by some to be Guyot de Provins, whose romance of _Perceval_, not extant, is assumed to be the original of Wolfram's poem. Another of his poems was the unfinished _Titurel_, which contains the tale of the love of Schionatulander and Sigune. [Decoration] * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Spelling and punctuation errors have been repaired. Ellipses in poetry have been spaced to preserve appearance of the original; all other ellipses are standardized. Colons after "Liechtenstein" and "Helmbrecht" on Contents page, and variant punctuation after the same terms in Chapter headings, were retained. P. 21, (cp. Inf., 14, 30; 24, 5) in original "24" was at the end of a line, and "5" at the beginning of the next, with no punctuation between. P. 47 original "midst of his prostestations" changed to "midst of his protestations." P. 76 original "reficient" changed to "reficiant." P. 92 original "merry-makings" changed to more frequent "merrymakings." P. 93 original "Wezerant. He" changed to "Wezerant.' He" (single quote added). P. 116 Hey[=a], [=a] indicates lower case "a" with macron. (Text version only). P. 132 The change in indentation in the poetry, beginning at "Thou lookest down," is faithful to the original. P. 174 "sister's thin chanting" changed to "sisters' thin chanting." P. 184 original "Tristran und Isolde" changed to "Tristan und Isolde." P. 187 original "von Lichtenstein" changed to more frequent "von Liechtenstein." The following variant spellings were used in the original equally, and were retained: god-father and godfather, riband and ribband, rose-bushes (second use is quoting the first=1 use) and rosebush, Wendel and Wentel, "Arnaud Daniel" and "Arnaut Daniel," Aethiopica and Æthiopica, Jacapone and Jacopone, sestine and sestina. 
33889	----	THE SALVAGING OF CIVILIZATION THE SALVAGING OF CIVILIZATION BY H. G. WELLS CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne 1921 CONTENTS PAGE I. THE PROBABLE FUTURE OF MANKIND 1 II. THE PROJECT OF A WORLD STATE 42 III. THE ENLARGEMENT OF PATRIOTISM TO A WORLD STATE 68 IV. THE BIBLE OF CIVILIZATION; PART ONE 95 V. THE BIBLE OF CIVILIZATION; PART TWO 118 VI. THE SCHOOLING OF THE WORLD 139 VII. COLLEGE, NEWSPAPER AND BOOK 166 VIII. THE ENVOY 193 INDEX 199 The Salvaging of Civilization I THE PROBABLE FUTURE OF MANKIND[A] [A] First published in the _Review of Reviews_. § 1 The present outlook of human affairs is one that admits of broad generalizations and that seems to require broad generalizations. We are in one of those phases of experience which become cardinal in history. A series of immense and tragic events have shattered the self-complacency and challenged the will and intelligence of mankind. That easy general forward movement of human affairs which for several generations had seemed to justify the persuasion of a necessary and invincible progress, progress towards greater powers, greater happiness, and a continual enlargement of life, has been checked violently and perhaps arrested altogether. The spectacular catastrophe of the Great War has revealed an accumulation of destructive forces in our outwardly prosperous society, of which few of us had dreamt; and it has also revealed a profound incapacity to deal with and restrain these forces. The two years of want, confusion, and indecision that have followed the Great War in Europe and Asia, and the uncertainties that have disturbed life even in the comparatively untouched American world, seem to many watchful minds even more ominous to our social order than the war itself. What is happening to our race? they ask. Did the prosperities and confident hopes with which the twentieth century opened, mark nothing more than a culmination of fortuitous good luck? Has the cycle of prosperity and progress closed? To what will this staggering and blundering, the hatreds and mischievous adventures of the present time, bring us? Is the world in the opening of long centuries of confusion and disaster such as ended the Western Roman Empire in Europe or the Han prosperity in China? And if so, will the debacle extend to America? Or is the American (and Pacific?) system still sufficiently removed and still sufficiently autonomous to maintain a progressive movement of its own if the Old World collapse? Some sort of answer to these questions, vast and vague though they are, we must each one of us have before we can take an intelligent interest or cast an effective vote in foreign affairs. Even though a man formulate no definite answer, he must still have an implicit persuasion before he can act in these matters. If he have no clear conclusions openly arrived at, then he must act upon subconscious conclusions instinctively arrived at. Far better is it that he should bring them into the open light of thought. The suppression of war is generally regarded as central to the complex of contemporary problems. But war is not a new thing in human experience, and for scores of centuries mankind has managed to get along in spite of its frequent recurrence. Most states and empires have been intermittently at war throughout their periods of stability and prosperity. But their warfare was not the warfare of the present time. The thing that has brought the rush of progressive development of the past century and a half to a sudden shock of arrest is not the old and familiar warfare, but warfare strangely changed and exaggerated by novel conditions. It is this change in conditions, therefore, and not war itself, which is the reality we have to analyse in its bearing upon our social and political ideas. In 1914 the European Great Powers resorted to war, as they had resorted to war on many previous occasions, to decide certain open issues. This war flamed out with an unexpected rapidity until all the world was involved; and it developed a horror, a monstrosity of destructiveness, and, above all, an inconclusiveness quite unlike any preceding war. That unlikeness was the essence of the matter. Whatever justifications could be found for its use in the past, it became clear to many minds that under the new conditions war was no longer a possible method of international dealing. The thing lay upon the surface. The idea of a League of Nations sustaining a Supreme World Court to supersede the arbitrament of war, did not so much arise at any particular point as break out simultaneously wherever there were intelligent men. Now what was this change in conditions that had confronted mankind with the perplexing necessity of abandoning war? For perplexing it certainly is. War has been a ruling and constructive idea in all human societies up to the present time; few will be found to deny it. Political institutions have very largely developed in relation to the idea of war; defence and aggression have shaped the outer form of every state in the world, just as co-operation sustained by compulsion has shaped its inner organization. And if abruptly man determines to give up the waging of war, he may find that this determination involves the most extensive and penetrating modifications of political and social conceptions that do not at the first glance betray any direct connection with belligerent activities at all. It is to the general problem arising out of this consideration, that this and the three following essays will be addressed; the question: What else has to go if war is to go out of human life? and the problem of what has to be done if it is to be banished and barred out for ever from the future experiences of our race. For let us face the truth in this matter; the abolition of war is no casting of ancient, barbaric, and now obsolete traditions, no easy and natural progressive step; the abolition of war, if it can be brought about, will be a reversal not only of the general method of human life hitherto but of the general method of nature, the method, that is, of conflict and survival. It will be a new phase in the history of life, and not simply an incident in the history of man. These brief essays will attempt to present something like the true dimensions of the task before mankind if war is indeed to be superseded, and to show that the project of abolishing war by the occasional meeting of some Council of a League of Nations or the like, is, in itself, about as likely to succeed as a proposal to abolish thirst, hunger, and death by a short legislative act. Let us first examine the change in the conditions of human life that has altered war from a normal aspect of the conflict for existence of human societies into a terror and a threat for the entire species. The change is essentially a change in the amount of power available for human purposes, and more particularly in the amount of material power that can be controlled by one individual. Human society up to a couple of centuries ago was essentially a man-power and horse-power system. There was in addition a certain limited use of water power and wind power, but that was not on a scale to affect the general truth of the proposition. The first intimation of the great change began seven centuries ago with the appearance of explosives. In the thirteenth century the Mongols made a very effective military use of the Chinese discovery of gunpowder. They conquered most of the known world, and their introduction of a low-grade explosive in warfare rapidly destroyed the immunity of castles and walled cities, abolished knighthood, and utterly wrecked and devastated the irrigation system of Mesopotamia, which had been a populous and civilized region since before the beginnings of history. But the restricted metallurgical knowledge of the time set definite limits to the size and range of cannon. It was only with the nineteenth century that the large scale production of cast steel and the growth of chemical knowledge made the military use of a variety of explosives practicable. The systematic extension of human power began in the eighteenth century with the utilization of steam and coal. That opened a crescendo of invention and discovery which thrust rapidly increasing quantities of material energy into men's hands. Even now that crescendo may not have reached its climax. We need not rehearse here the familiar story of the abolition of distance that ensued; how the radiogram and the telegram have made every event of importance a simultaneous event for the minds of everyone in the world, how journeys which formerly took months or weeks now take days or hours, nor how printing and paper have made possible a universally informed community, and so forth. Nor will we describe the effect of these things upon warfare. The point that concerns us here is this, that before this age of discovery communities had fought and struggled with each other much as naughty children might do in a crowded nursery, _within the measure of their strength_. They had hurt and impoverished each other, but they had rarely destroyed each other completely. Their squabbles may have been distressing, but they were tolerable. It is even possible to regard these former wars as healthy, hardening and invigorating conflicts. But into this nursery has come Science, and has put into the fists of these children razor blades with poison on them, bombs of frightful explosive, corrosive fluids and the like. The comparatively harmless conflicts of these infants are suddenly fraught with quite terrific possibilities, and it is only a question of sooner or later before the nursery becomes a heap of corpses or is blown to smithereens. A real nursery invaded by a reckless person distributing such gifts, would be promptly saved by the intervention of the nurse; but humanity has no nurse but its own poor wisdom. And whether that poor wisdom can rise to the pitch of effectual intervention is the most fundamental problem in mundane affairs at the present time. The deadly gifts continue. There was a steady increase in the frightfulness and destructiveness of belligerence from 1914 up to the beginning of 1918, when shortage of material and energy checked the process; and since the armistice there has been an industrious development of military science. The next well-organized war, we are assured, will be far more swift and extensive in its destruction--more particularly of the civilian population. Armies will advance no longer along roads but extended in line, with heavy tank transport which will plough up the entire surface of the land they traverse; aerial bombing, with bombs each capable of destroying a small town, will be practicable a thousand miles beyond the military front, and the seas will be swept clear of shipping by mines and submarine activities. There will be no distinction between combatants and non-combatants, because every able-bodied citizen, male or female, is a potential producer of food and munitions; and probably the safest, and certainly the best supplied shelters in the universal cataclysm, will be the carefully buried, sandbagged, and camouflaged general-headquarters of the contending armies. There military gentlemen of limited outlook and high professional training will, in comparative security, achieve destruction beyond their understanding. The hard logic of war which gives victory always to the most energetic and destructive combatant, will turn warfare more and more from mere operations for loot or conquest or predominance into operations for the conclusive destruction of the antagonists. A relentless thrust towards strenuousness is a characteristic of belligerent conditions. War is war, and vehemence is in its nature. You must hit always as hard as you can. Offensive and counter-offensive methods continue to prevail over merely defensive ones. The victor in the next great war will be bombed from the air, starved, and depleted almost as much as the loser. His victory will be no easy one; it will be a triumph of the exhausted and dying over the dead. It has been argued that such highly organized and long prepared warfare as the world saw in 1914-18 is not likely to recur again for a considerable time because of the shock inflicted by it upon social stability. There may be spasmodic wars with improvised and scanty supplies, these superficially more hopeful critics admit, but there remain no communities now so stable and so sure of their people as to prepare and wage again a fully elaborated scientific war. But this view implies no happier outlook for mankind. It amounts to this, that so long as men remain disordered and impoverished they will not rise again to the full height of scientific war. But manifestly this will only be for so long as they remain disordered and impoverished. When they recover they will recover to repeat again their former disaster with whatever modern improvements and intensifications the ingenuity of the intervening time may have devised. This new phase of disorder, conflict, and social unravelling upon which we have entered, this phase of decline due to the enhanced and increasing powers for waste and destruction in mankind, is bound, therefore, to continue so long as the divisions based upon ancient ideas of conflict remain; and if for a time the decadence seems to be arrested, it will only be to accumulate under the influence of those ideas a fresh war-storm sufficiently destructive and disorganizing to restore the decadent process. Unless mankind can readjust its political and social ideas to this essential new fact of its enormously enlarged powers, unless it can eliminate or control its pugnacity, no other prospect seems open to us but decadence, at least to such a level of barbarism as to lose and forget again all the scientific and industrial achievements of our present age. Then, with its powers shrunken to their former puny scale, our race may recover some sort of balance between the injuries and advantages of conflict. Or, since our decadent species may have less vitality and vigour than it had in its primitive phases, it may dwindle and fade out altogether before some emboldened animal antagonist, or through some world-wide disease brought to it perhaps by rats and dogs and insects and what not, who may be destined to be heirs to the rusting and mouldering ruins of the cities and ports and ways and bridges of to-day. Only one alternative to some such retrogression seems possible, and that is the conscious, systematic reconstruction of human society to avert it. The world has been brought into one community, and the human mind and will may be able to recognize and adapt itself to this fact--in time. Men, as a race, may succeed in turning their backs upon the method of warfare and the methods of conflict and in embarking upon an immense world-wide effort of co-operation and mutual toleration and salvage. They may have the vigour to abandon their age-long attempt to live in separate sovereign states, and to grapple with and master the now quite destructive force that traditional hostility has become, and bring their affairs together under one law and one peace. These new vast powers over nature which have been given to them, and which will certainly be their destruction if their purposes remain divergent and conflicting, will then be the means by which they may set up a new order of as yet scarcely imaginable interest and happiness and achievement. But is our race capable of such an effort, such a complete reversal of its instinctive and traditional impulses? Can we find premonitions of any such bold and revolutionary adaptations as these, in the mental and political life of to-day? How far are we, reader and writer, for example, working for these large new securities? Do we even keep them steadfastly in our minds? How is it with the people around us? Are not we and they and all the race still just as much adrift in the current of circumstances as we were before 1914? Without a great effort on our part (or on someone's part) that current which swirled our kind into a sunshine of hope and opportunity for a while will carry our race on surely and inexorably to fresh wars, to shortages, hunger, miseries, and social debacles, at last either to complete extinction or to a degradation beyond our present understanding. §2 The urgent need for a great creative effort has become apparent in the affairs of mankind. It is manifest that unless some unity of purpose can be achieved in the world, unless the ever more violent and disastrous incidence of war can be averted, unless some common control can be imposed on the headlong waste of man's limited inheritance of coal, oil, and moral energy that is now going on, the history of humanity must presently culminate in some sort of disaster, repeating and exaggerating the disaster of the great war, producing chaotic social conditions, and going on thereafter in a degenerative process towards extinction. So much all reasonable men seem now prepared to admit. But upon the question of how and in what form a unity of purpose and a common control of human affairs is to be established, there is still a great and lamentable diversity of opinion and, as a consequence, an enfeeblement and wasteful dispersal of will. At present nothing has been produced but the manifestly quite inadequate League of Nations at Geneva, and a number of generally very vague movements for a world law, world disarmament, and the like, among the intellectuals of the various civilized countries of the world. The common failings of all these initiatives are a sort of genteel timidity and a defective sense of the scale of the enterprise before us. A neglect of the importance of scale is one of the gravest faults of contemporary education. Because a world-wide political organ is needed, it does not follow that a so-called League of Nations without representative sanctions, military forces, or authority of any kind, a League from which large sections of the world are excluded altogether, is any contribution to that need. People have a way of saying it is better than nothing. But it may be worse than nothing. It may create a feeling of disillusionment about world-unifying efforts. If a mad elephant were loose in one's garden, it would be an excellent thing to give one's gardener a gun. But it would have to be an adequate gun, an elephant gun. To give him a small rook-rifle and tell him it was better than nothing, and encourage him to face the elephant with that in his hand, would be the directest way of getting rid not of the elephant but of the gardener. It is, if people will but think steadfastly, inconceivable that there should be any world control without a merger of sovereignty, but the framers of these early tentatives towards world unity have lacked the courage of frankness in this respect. They have been afraid of outbreaks of bawling patriotism, and they have tried to believe, and to make others believe, that they contemplate nothing more than a league of nations, when in reality they contemplate a subordination of nations and administrations to one common law and rule. The elementary necessity of giving the council of any world-peace organization which is to be more than a sentimental international gesture, not only a complete knowledge but an effective control of all the military resources and organizations in the world, appalled them. They did not even ask for such a control. The frowning solidity of existing things was too much for them. They wanted to change them, but when it came to laying hands on them--No! They decided to leave them alone. They wanted a new world--and it is to contain just the same things as the old. But are these intellectuals right in their estimate of the common man? Is he such a shallow and vehement fool as they seem to believe? Is he so patriotic as they make out? If mankind is to be saved from destruction there must be a world control; a world control means a world government, it is only another name for it, and manifestly that government must have a navy that will supersede the British navy, artillery that will supersede the French artillery, air forces superseding all existing air forces, and so forth. For many flags there must be one sovereign flag; _orbis terrarum_. Unless a world control amounts to that it will be ridiculous, just as a judge supported by two or three unarmed policemen, a newspaper reporter and the court chaplain, proposing to enforce his decisions in a court packed with the heavily armed friends of the plaintiff and defendant would be ridiculous. But the common man is supposed to be so blindly and incurably set upon his British navy or his French army, or whatever his pet national instrument of violence may be, that it is held to be impossible to supersede these beloved and adored forces. If that is so, then a world law is impossible, and the wisest course before us is to snatch such small happiness as we may hope to do and leave the mad elephant to work its will in the garden. But is it so? If the mass of common men are incurably patriotic and belligerent why is there a note of querulous exhortation in nearly all patriotic literature? Why, for instance, is Mr. Rudyard Kipling's "History of England" so full of goading and scolding? And very significant indeed to any student of the human outlook was the world-response to President Wilson's advocacy of the League of Nations idea, in its first phase in 1918, before the weakening off and disillusionment of the Versailles Conference. Just for a little while it seemed that President Wilson stood for a new order of things in the world, that he had the wisdom and will and power to break the net of hatreds and nationalisms and diplomacies in which the Old World was entangled. And while he seemed to be capable of that, while he promised most in the way of change and national control, then it was that he found his utmost support in every country in the world. In the latter half of 1918 there was scarcely a country anywhere in which one could not have found men ready to die for President Wilson. A great hopefulness was manifest in the world. It faded, it faded very rapidly again. But that brief wave of enthusiasm, which set minds astir with the same great idea of one peace of justice throughout the earth in China and Bokhara and the Indian bazaars, in Iceland and Basutoland and Ireland and Morocco, was indeed a fact perhaps more memorable in history even than the great war itself. It displayed a possibility of the simultaneous operation of the same general ideas throughout the world quite beyond any previous experience. It demonstrated that the generality of men are as capable of being cosmopolitan and pacifist as they are of being patriotic and belligerent. Both moods are extensions and exaltations beyond the everyday life, which itself is neither one thing nor the other. And both are transitory moods, responses to external suggestion. It is to that first wave of popular feeling for a world law transcending and moving counter to all contemporary diplomacies, and not to the timid legalism of the framers of the first schemes for a League of Nations that we must look, if we are to hope at all for the establishment of a new order in human affairs. It is upon the spirit of that transitory response to the transitory greatness of President Wilson that we have to seize; we have to lay hold of that, to recall it and confirm it and enlarge and strengthen it, to make it a flux of patriotisms and a creator of new loyalties and devotions, and out of the dead dust of our present institutions to build up for it and animate with it the body of a true world state. We have already stated the clear necessity, if mankind is not to perish by the hypertrophy of warfare, for the establishment of an armed and strong world law. Here in this spirit that has already gleamed upon the world is the possible force to create and sustain such a world law. What is it that intervenes between the universal human need and its satisfaction? Why, since there are overwhelming reasons for it and a widespread disposition for it, is there no world-wide creative effort afoot now in which men and women by the million are participating--and participating with all their hearts? Why is it that, except for the weak gestures of the Geneva League of Nations and a little writing of books and articles, a little pamphleteering, some scattered committee activities on the part of people chiefly of the busybody class, an occasional speech and a diminishing volume of talk and allusion, no attempts are apparent to stay the plain drift of human society towards new conflicts and the sluices of final disaster? The answer to that Why, probes deep into the question of human motives. It must be because we are all creatures of our immediate surroundings, because our minds and energies are chiefly occupied by the affairs of every day, because we are all chiefly living our own lives, and very few of us, except by a kind of unconscious contribution, the life of mankind. In moments of mental activity, in the study or in contemplation, we may rise to a sense of the dangers and needs of human destiny, but it is only a few minds and characters of prophetic quality that, without elaborate artificial assistance, seem able to keep hold upon and guide their lives by such relatively gigantic considerations. The generality of men and women, so far as their natural disposition goes, are scarcely more capable of apprehending and consciously serving the human future than a van full of well-fed rabbits would be of grasping the fact that their van was running smoothly and steadily down an inclined plane into the sea. It is only as the result of considerable educational effort and against considerable resistance that our minds are brought to a broader view. In every age for many thousands of years men of exceptional vision have spent their lives in passionate efforts to bring us ordinary men into some relation of response and service to the greater issues of life. It is these pioneers of vision who have given the world its religions and its philosophical cults, its loyalties and observances; and who have imposed ideas of greatness and duty on their fellows. In every age the ordinary man has submitted reluctantly to such teachings, has made his peculiar compromises with them, has reduced them as far as possible to formula and formality, and got back as rapidly as possible to the eating and drinking and desire, the personal spites and rivalries and glories which constitute his reality. The mass of men to-day do not seem to care, nor want to care, whither the political and social institutions to which they are accustomed are taking them. Such considerations overstrain us. And it is only by the extremest effort of those who are capable of a sense of racial danger and duty that the collective energies of men can ever be gathered together and organized and orientated towards the common good. To nearly all men and women, unless they are in the vein for it, such discussion as this in these essays does not appeal as being right or wrong; it does not really interest them, rather it worries them; and for the most part they would be glad to disregard it as completely as a lecture on wheels and gravitation and the physiological consequences of prolonged submergence would be disregarded by those rabbits in the van. But man is a creature very different in his nature from a rabbit, and if he is less instinctively social, he is much more consciously social. Chief among his differences must be the presence of those tendencies which we call conscience, that haunting craving to be really right and to do the really right thing which is the basis of the moral and perhaps also of most of the religious life. In this lies our hope for mankind. Man hates to be put right, and yet also he wants to be right. He is a creature divided against himself, seeking both to preserve and to overcome his egotism. It is upon the presence of the latter strand in man's complex make-up that we must rest our hopes of a developing will for the world state which will gradually gather together and direct into a massive constructive effort the now quite dispersed chaotic and traditional activities of men. As we have examined this problem it has become clear that the task of bringing about that consolidated world state which is necessary to prevent the decline and decay of mankind is not primarily one for the diplomatists and lawyers and politicians at all. It is an educational one. It is a moral based on an intellectual reconstruction. The task immediately before mankind is to find release from the contentious loyalties and hostilities of the past which make collective world-wide action impossible at the present time, in a world-wide common vision of the history and destinies of the race. On that as a basis, and on that alone, can a world control be organized and maintained. The effort demanded from mankind, therefore, is primarily and essentially a bold reconstruction of the outlook upon life of hundreds of millions of minds. The idea of a world commonweal has to be established as the criterion of political institutions, and also as the criterion of general conduct in hundreds of millions of brains. It has to dominate education everywhere in the world. When that end is achieved, then the world state will be achieved, and it can be achieved in no other way. And unless that world state can be achieved, it would seem that the outlook before mankind is a continuance of disorder and of more and more destructive and wasteful conflicts, a steady process of violence, decadence, and misery towards extinction, or towards modifications of our type altogether beyond our present understanding and sympathy. § 3 In framing an estimate of the human future two leading facts are dominant. The first is the plain necessity for a political reorganization of the world as a unity, to save our race from the social disintegration and complete physical destruction which war, under modern conditions, must ultimately entail, and the second is the manifest absence of any sufficient will in the general mass of mankind at the present time to make such a reorganization possible. There appear to be the factors of such a will in men, but they are for the most part unawakened, or they are unorganized and ineffective. And there is a very curious incapacity to grasp the reality of the human situation, a real resistance to seeing things as they are--for man is an effort-shirking animal--which greatly impedes the development of such a will. Failing the operation of such a sufficient will, human affairs are being directed by use and wont, by tradition and accidental deflections. Mankind, after the tragic concussion of the great war, seems now to be drifting again towards new and probably more disastrous concussions. The catastrophe of the Great War did more or less completely awaken a certain limited number of intelligent people to the need of some general control replacing this ancient traditional driftage of events. But they shrank from the great implications of such a world control. The only practicable way to achieve a general control in the face of existing governments, institutions and prejudices, interested obstruction and the common disregard, is by extending this awakening to great masses of people. This means an unprecedented educational effort, an appeal to men's intelligence and men's imagination such as the world has never seen before. Is it possible to rationalize the at present chaotic will of mankind? That possibility, if it is a possibility, is the most important thing in contemporary human affairs. We are asking here for an immense thing, for a change of ideas, a vast enlargement of ideas, and for something very like a change of heart in hundreds of millions of human beings. But then we are dealing with the fate of the entire species. We are discussing the prevention of wars, disorders, shortages, famines and miseries for centuries ahead. The initial capital we have to go upon is as yet no more than the aroused understanding and conscience of a few thousands, at most of a few score thousands of people. Can so little a leaven leaven so great a lump? Is a response to this appeal latent in the masses of mankind? Is there anything in history to justify hope for so gigantic a mental turnover in our race? A consideration of the spread of Christianity in the first four centuries A.D. or of the spread of Islam in the seventh century will, we believe, support a reasonable hope that such a change in the minds of men, whatever else it may be, is a practicable change, that it can be done and that it may even probably be done. Consider our two instances. The propagandas of those two great religions changed and changed for ever the political and social outlook over vast areas of the world's surface. Yet while the stir for world unity begins now simultaneously in many countries and many groups of people, those two propagandas each radiated from a single centre and were in the first instance the teachings of single individuals; and while to-day we can deal with great reading populations and can reach them by press and printed matter, by a universal distribution of books, by great lecturing organizations and the like, those earlier great changes in human thought were achieved mainly by word of mouth and by crabbed manuscripts, painfully copied and passed slowly from hand to hand. So far it is only the trader who has made any effectual use of the vast facilities the modern world has produced for conveying a statement simultaneously to great numbers of people at a distance. The world of thought still hesitates to use the means of power that now exist for it. History and political philosophy in the modern world are like bashful dons at a dinner party; they crumble their bread and talk in undertones and clever allusions to their nearest neighbour, abashed at the thought of addressing the whole table. But in a world where Mars can reach out in a single night and smite a city a thousand miles away, we cannot suffer wisdom to hesitate in an inaudible gentility. The knowledge and vision that is good enough for the best of us is good enough for all. This gospel of human brotherhood and a common law and rule for all mankind, the attempt to meet this urgent necessity of a common control of human affairs, which indeed is no new religion but only an attempt to realize practically the common teaching of all the established religions of the world, has to speak with dominating voice everywhere between the poles and round about the world. And it must become part of the universal education. It must speak through the school and university. It is too often forgotten, in America, perhaps, even more than in Europe, that education exists for the community, and for the individual only so far as it makes him a sufficient member of the community. The chief end of education is to subjugate and sublimate for the collective purposes of our kind the savage egotism we inherit. Every school, every college, teaches directly and still more by implication, relationship to a community and devotion to a community. In too many cases that community we let our schools and colleges teach to our children is an extremely narrow one; it is the community of a sect, of a class, or of an intolerant, greedy and unrighteous nationalism. Schools have increased greatly in numbers throughout the world during the last century, but there has been little or no growth in the conception of education in schools. Education has been extended, but it has not been developed. If man is to be saved from self-destruction by the organization of a world community, there must be a broadening of the reference of the teaching in the schools of all the world to that community of the world. World-wide educational development and reform are the necessary preparations for and the necessary accompaniments of a political reconstruction of the world. The two are the right and left hands of the same thing. Neither can effect much without the other. Now it is manifest that this reorganization of the world's affairs and of the world's education which we hold to be imperatively dictated by the change in warfare, communications and other conditions of human life brought about by scientific discovery during the last hundred years, carries with it a practical repudiation of the claims of every existing sovereign government in the world to be final and sovereign, to be anything more than provisional and replaceable. There is the difficulty that has checked hundreds of men after their first step towards this work for a universal peace. It involves, it cannot but involve, a revision of their habitual allegiances. At best existing governments are to be regarded as local trustees and caretakers for the coming human commonweal. If they are not that, then they are necessarily obstructive and antagonistic. But few rulers, few governments, few officials, will have the greatness of mind to recognize and admit this plain reality. By a kind of necessity they force upon their subjects and publics a conflict of loyalties. The feeble driftage of human affairs from one base or greedy arrangement or cowardly evasion to another, since the Armistice of 1918, is very largely due to the obstinate determination of those who are in positions of authority and responsibility to ignore the plain teachings of the great war and its sequelæ. They are resisting adjustments; their minds are fighting against the sacrifices of pride and authority that a full recognition of their subordination to the world commonweal will involve. They are prepared, it would seem, to fight against the work of human salvation basely and persistently, whenever their accustomed importance is threatened. Even in the schools and in the world of thought the established thing will make its unrighteous fight for life. The dull and the dishonest in high places will suppress these greater ideas when they can, and ignore when they dare not suppress. It seems too much to hope for that there should be any willingness on the part of any established authority to admit its obsolescence and prepare the way for its merger in a world authority. It is not creative minds that produce revolutions, but the obstinate conservatism of established authority. It is the blank refusal to accept the idea of an orderly evolution towards new things that gives a revolutionary quality to every constructive proposal. The huge task of political and educational reconstruction which is needed to arrest the present drift of human affairs towards catastrophe, must be achieved, if it is to be achieved at all, mainly by voluntary and unofficial effort; and for the most part in the teeth of official opposition. There are one or two existing states to which men have looked for some open recognition of their duty to mankind as a whole, and of the necessarily provisional nature of their contemporary constitutions. The United States of America constitute a political system, profoundly different in its origin and in its spirit, from any old-world state; it was felt that here at least might be an evolutionary state; and in the palmy days of President Wilson it did seem for a brief interval as if the New World was indeed coming to the rescue of the old, as if America was to play the rôle of a propagandist continent, bringing its ideas of equality and freedom, and extending the spirit of its union to all the nations of the earth. From that expectation, the world opinion is now in a state of excessive and unreasonable recoil. President Wilson fell away from his first intimations of that world-wide federal embrace; his mind and will were submerged by the clamour of contending patriotisms and the subtle expedients of old-world diplomacy in Paris; but American accessibility to the idea of a federalized world neither began with him nor will it end with his failure. America is still a hopeful laboratory of world-unifying thought. A long string of arbitration treaties stands to the credit of America, and a series of developing Pan-American projects, pointing clearly to at least a continental synthesis within a measurable time. There has been, and there still is, a better understanding of, and a greater receptivity to, ideas of international synthesis in America than in any European state. And the British Empire, which according to many of its liberal apologists is already a league of nations linked together in a mutually advantageous peace, to that too men have looked for some movement of adaptation to this greater synthesis which is the world's pre-eminent need. But so far the British Empire has failed to respond to such expectations. The war has left it strained and bruised and with its affairs very much in the grip of the military class, the most illiterate and dangerous class in the community. They have done, perhaps, irreparable mischief to the peace of the empire in Ireland, India and Egypt, and they have made the claim of the British system to be an exemplary unification of dissimilar peoples seem now to many people incurably absurd. It is a great misfortune for mankind that the British Empire, which played so sturdy and central a part in the great war, could at its close achieve no splendid and helpful gesture towards a generous reconstruction. Since the armistice there has been an extraordinary opportunity for the British monarchy to have displayed a sense of the new occasions before the world, and to have led the way towards the efforts and renunciations of an international renascence. It could have taken up a lead that the President of the United States had initiated and relinquished; it could have used its peculiar position to make an unexampled appeal to the whole world. It could have created a new epoch in history. The Prince of Wales has been touring the world-wide dominions of which, some day, he is to be the crowned head. He has received addresses, visited sights, been entertained, shaken hands with scores of thousands of people and submitted himself to the eager, yet unpenetrating gaze of vast multitudes. His smallest acts have been observed with premeditated admiration, his lightest words recorded. He is not now a boy; he saw something of the great war, even if his exalted position denied him any large share of its severer hardships and dangers; he cannot be blind to the general posture of the world's affairs. Here, surely, was a chance of saying something that would be heard from end to end of the earth, something kingly and great-minded. Here was the occasion for a fine restatement of the obligations and duties of empire. But from first to last the prince has said nothing to quicken the imaginations of the multitude of his future subjects to the gigantic possibilities of these times, nothing to reassure the foreign observer that the British Empire embodies anything more than the colossal national egotism and impenetrable self-satisfaction of the British peoples. "Here we are," said the old order in those demonstrations, "and here we mean to stick. Just as we have been, so we remain. British!--we are Bourbons." These smiling tours of the Prince of Wales in these years of shortage, stress, and insecurity, constitute a propaganda of inanity unparalleled in the world's history. * * * * * Nor do we find in the nominal rulers and official representatives of other countries any clear admission of the necessity for a great and fundamental change in the scope and spirit of government. These official and ruling people, more than any other people, are under the sway of that life of use and wont which dominates us all. They are often trained to their positions, or they have won their way to their positions of authority through a career of political activities which amounts to a training. And that training is not a training in enterprise and change; it is a training in sticking tight and getting back to precedent. We can expect nothing from them. We shall be lucky if the resistance of the administrative side of existing states to the conception of a world commonweal is merely passive. There is little or no prospect of any existing governing system, unless it be such a federal system as Switzerland or the United States, passing directly and without extensive internal changes into combination with other sovereign powers as part of a sovereign world system. At some point the independent states will as systems resist, and unless an overwhelming world conscience for the world state has been brought into being and surrounds them with an understanding watchfulness, and invades the consciences of their supporters and so weakens their resisting power, they will resist violently and disastrously. But it will be an incoherent resistance because the very nature of the sovereign states of to-day is incoherence. There can be no world-wide combination of sovereign states to resist the world state, because that would be to create the world state in the attempt to defeat it. § 4 In the three preceding essays an attempt has been made to state the pass at which mankind has arrived, the dangers and mischiefs that threaten our race, and the need there is and the opportunities there are for a strenuous attempt to end the age-long bickerings of nations and empires and establish one community of law and effort throughout the whole world. Stress has been laid chiefly upon the monstrous evils and disasters a continuation of our present divisions, our nationalisms and imperialisms and the like, will certainly entail. These considerations of evil however are only the negative argument for this creative effort; they have been thrust forward because war, disorder, insufficiency, and the ill health, the partings, deprivations, boredom and unhappiness that arise out of these things are well within our experience and entirely credible; the positive argument for a world order demands at once more faith and imagination. Given a world law and world security, a release from the net of bickering frontiers, world-wide freedom of movement, and world-wide fellowship, a thousand good things that are now beyond hope or dreaming would come into the ordinary life. The whole world would be our habitation, and the energies of men, released from their preoccupation with contention, would go more and more abundantly into the accumulation and application of scientific knowledge, that is to say into the increase of mental and bodily health, of human power, of interest and happiness. Even to-day the most delightful possibilities stand waiting, inaccessible to nearly all of us because of the general insecurity, distrust and anger. Flying, in a world safely united in peace, could take us now to the ends of the earth smoothly, securely through the sweet upper air, in five or six days. In two or three years there could again be abundance of food and pleasant clothing for everyone throughout the whole world. Men could be destroying their slums and pestilential habitations and rebuilding spacious and beautiful cities. Given only peace and confidence and union we could double our yearly production of all that makes life desirable and still double our leisure for thought and growth. We could live in a universal palace and make the whole globe our garden and playground. But these are not considerations that sway people to effort. Fear and hate, not hope and desire, have been hitherto the effective spurs for men. The most popular religions are those which hold out the widest hopes of damnation. Our lives are lives of use and wont, we distrust the promise of delightful experience and achievements beyond our accustomed ways; it offends our self-satisfaction even to regard them as possibilities; we do not like the implied cheapening of familiar things. We are all ready to sneer at "Utopias," as elderly invalids sneer at the buoyant hopes of youth and do their best to think them sure of frustration. The aged and disillusioned profess a keen appreciation of the bath chair and the homely spoonful of medicine, and pity a crudity that misses the fine quality of those ripe established things. Most people are quite ready to dismiss the promise of a full free life for all mankind with a sneer. That would rob the world of romance, they say, the romance of passport offices, custom houses, shortages of food, endless petty deprivations, slums, pestilence, under-educated stunted children, youths dying in heaps in muddy trenches, an almost universal lack of vitality, and all the picturesque eventfulness of contemporary conditions. So that we have not dwelt here upon the life-giving aspect of a possible world state, but only on its life-saving aspects. We have not argued that our present life of use and wont could be replaced by an infinitely better way of living. We have rather pointed out that if things continue to drift as they are doing, the present life of use and wont will become intolerably insecure. It is the thought of the large bombing aeroplane and not the hope of swift travelling across the sky that will move the generality of men, if they are to be moved at all, towards a world peace. But whether the lever that moves them is desire or fear the majority of men, unless the species is to perish, must be brought within a measurable time to an understanding of, and a will for, a single world government. And since at first existing institutions, established traditions, educational organizations and the like, will all be passively if not actively resistant to the spread of this saving idea, and much more so to any attempts to realize this saving idea, there remains nothing for us to look to, at the present time, for the first organization of this immense effort of mental reversal, but the zeal and devotion and self-sacrifice of convinced individuals. The world state must begin; it can only begin, as a propagandist cult, or as a group of propagandist cults, to which men and women must give themselves and their energies, regardless of the consequences to themselves. Laying the foundations of a world state upon a site already occupied by a muddle of buildings is an undertaking which will almost necessarily bring its votaries into conflict with established authority and current sentiment; they will have to face the possibility of lives of conflict, misunderstanding, much thankless exertion; they must count on little honour and considerable active dislike; and they will have to find what consolation they can in the interest of the conflict itself and in the thought of a world, made at last by such efforts as theirs, peaceful and secure and vigorous, a world they can never hope to see. So stated it seems a bad bargain that the worker for the world state is invited to make, yet the world has never lacked people prepared to make such a bargain and they will not fail it now. There are worse things than conflict without manifest victory and effort without apparent reward. To the finer kind of mind it is infinitely more tragic and distressing to find that existence bears a foolish aimless face. Many people, tormented by the discontent of conscience, and wanting, more than they can ever want any satisfaction, some satisfying rule of life, some criterion of conduct, will find in this cult of the world state just that sustaining reality they need. And their number will grow. Because it is a practical and reasonable shape for a life, arising naturally out of a proper understanding of history and physical science, and embodying in a unifying plan the teaching of all the great religions of the world. It comes to us not to destroy but to fulfil. The activities of a cult which set itself to bring about the world state would at first be propagandist, they would be intellectual and educational, and only as a sufficient mass of opinion and will had accumulated would they become to a predominant extent politically constructive. Such a cult must direct itself particularly to the teaching of the young. So far the propaganda for a world law, the League of Nations propaganda, since it has sought immediate political results, has been addressed almost entirely to adults; and as a consequence it has had to adapt itself as far as possible to their preconceptions about the history and outlook of their own nationality, and to the general absence as yet in the world of any vision of the welfare of mankind as one whole. It is because of this acceptance of current adult ideas about patriotism and nationality that the movement has adopted the unsatisfactory phrase, a League of Nations, when what is contemplated is much more than a league and a very considerable subordination of national sovereignty. And a large share in the current ineffectiveness of the League of Nations is evidently due to the fact that men interpret the phrase and the proposition of the League of Nations differently in accordance with the different fundamental historical ideas they possess, ideas that propaganda has hitherto left unassailed. The worker for the world state will look further and plough deeper. It is these fundamental ideas which are the vitally important objective of a world-unifying movement, and they can only be brought into that world-wide uniformity which is essential to the enduring peace of mankind, by teaching children throughout all the earth the common history of their kind, and so directing their attention to the common future of their descendants. The driving force that makes either war or peace is engendered where the young are taught. The teacher, whether mother, priest, or schoolmaster, is the real maker of history; rulers, statesmen and soldiers do but work out the possibilities of co-operation or conflict the teacher creates. This is no rhetorical flourish; it is a sober fact. The politicians and masses of our time dance on the wires of their early education. Teaching then is the initial and decisive factor in the future of mankind, and the first duty of everyone who has the ability and opportunity, is to teach, or to subserve the teaching of, the true history of mankind and of the possibilities of this vision of a single world state that history opens out to us. Men and women can help the spread of the saving doctrine in a thousand various ways; for it is not only in homes and schools that minds are shaped. They can print and publish books, endow schools and teaching, organize the distribution of literature, insist upon the proper instruction of children in world wide charity and fellowship, fight against every sort of suppression or restrictive control of right education, bring pressure through political and social channels upon every teaching organization to teach history aright, sustain missions and a new sort of missionary, the missionaries to all mankind of knowledge and the idea of one world civilization and one world community; they can promote and help the progress of historical and ethnological and political science, they can set their faces against every campaign of hate, racial suspicion, and patriotic falsehood, they can refuse, they are bound to refuse, obedience to any public authority which oppresses and embitters class against class, race against race, and people against people. A belligerent government as such, they can refuse to obey; and they can refuse to help or suffer any military preparations that are not directed wholly and plainly to preserving the peace of the world. This is the plain duty of every honest man to-day, to judge his magistrate before he obeys him, and to render unto Cæsar nothing that he owes to God and mankind. And those who are awakened to the full significance of the vast creative effort now before mankind will set themselves particularly to revise the common moral judgment upon many acts and methods of living that obstruct the way of the world state. Blatant, aggressive patriotism and the incitements against foreign peoples that usually go with it, are just as criminal and far more injurious to our race than, for example, indecent provocations and open incitements to sexual vice; they produce a much beastlier and crueller state of mind, and they deserve at least an equal condemnation. Yet you will find even priests and clergymen to-day rousing the war passions of their flocks and preaching conflict from the very steps of the altar. So far the movement towards a world state has lacked any driving power of passion. We have been passing through a phase of intellectual revision. The idea of a world unity and brotherhood has come back again into the world almost apologetically, deferentially, asking for the kind words of successful politicians and for a gesture of patronage from kings. Yet this demand for one world-empire of righteousness was inherent in the teachings of Buddha, it flashed for a little while behind the sword of Islam, it is the embodiment in earthly affairs of the spirit of Christ. It is a call to men for service as of right, it is not an appeal to them that they may refuse, not a voice that they may disregard. It is too great a thing to hover for long thus deferentially on the outskirts of the active world it has come to save. To-day the world state says "Please listen; make way for me." To-morrow it will say: "Make way for me, little people." The day is not remote when disregardful "patriotic" men hectoring in the crowd will be twisted round perforce to the light they refuse to see. First comes the idea and then slowly the full comprehension of the idea, comes realization, and with that realization will come a kindling anger at the vulgarity, the meanness, the greed and baseness and utter stupidity that refuses to attend to this clear voice, this definite demand of our racial necessity. To-day we teach, but as understanding grows we must begin to act. We must put ourselves and our rulers and our fellow men on trial. We must ask: "What have you done, what are you doing to help or hinder the peace and order of mankind?" A time will come when a politician who has wilfully made war and promoted international dissension will be as sure of the dock and much surer of the noose than a private homicide. It is not reasonable that those who gamble with men's lives should not stake their own. The service of the world state calls for much more than passive resistance to belligerent authorities, for much more than exemplary martyrdoms. It calls for the greater effort of active interference with mischievous men. "I will believe in the League of Nations," one man has written, "when men will fight for it." For this League of Nations at Geneva, this little corner of Balfourian jobs and gentility, no man would dream of fighting, but for the great state of mankind, men will presently be very ready to fight and, as the thing may go, either to kill or die. Things must come in their order; first the idea, then the kindling of imaginations, then the world wide battle. We who live in the bleak days after a great crisis, need be no more discouraged by the apparent indifference of the present time than are fields that are ploughed and sown by the wet days of February and the cold indifference of the winds of early March. The ploughing has been done, and the seed is in the ground, and the world state stirs in a multitude of germinating minds. II THE PROJECT OF A WORLD STATE[B] [B] Written originally as a lecture to be delivered in America. In this paper, I want to tell you of the idea that now shapes and dominates my public life--the idea of a world politically united--of a world securely and permanently at peace. And I want to say what I have to say, so far as regards the main argument of it, as accurately and plainly as possible, without any eloquence or flourishes. When I first planned this paper, I chose as the title _The Utopia of a World State_. Well, there is something a little too flimsy and unpracticable about that word Utopia. To most people Utopia conveys the idea of a high-toned political and ethical dream--agreeable and edifying, no doubt, but of no practical value whatever. What I have to talk about this evening is not a bit dreamlike, it is about real dangers and urgent necessities. It is a Project and not a Utopia. It may be a vast and impossible project. It may be a hopeless project. But if it fails our civilization fails. And so I have called this paper not the Utopia but _The Project of a World State._ There are some things that it is almost impossible to tell without seeming to scream and exaggerate, and yet these things may be in reality the soberest matter of fact. I want to say that this civilization in which we are living is tumbling down, and I think tumbling down very fast; that I think rapid enormous efforts will be needed to save it; and that I see no such efforts being made at the present time. I do not know if these words convey any concrete ideas to the reader's mind. There are statements that can open such unfamiliar vistas as to seem devoid of any real practical meaning at all, and this I think may be one of them. In the past year I have been going about Europe. I have had glimpses of a new phase of this civilization of ours--a new phase that would have sounded like a fantastic dream if one had told about it ten years ago. I have seen a great city that had over two million inhabitants, dying, and dying with incredible rapidity. In 1914 I was in the city of St. Petersburg and it seemed as safe and orderly a great city as yours. I went thither in comfortable and punctual trains. I stayed in an hotel as well equipped and managed as any American hotel. I went to dine with and visit households of cultivated people. I walked along streets of brilliantly lit and well-furnished shops. It was, in fact, much the same sort of life that you are living here to-day--a part of our (then) world-wide modern civilization. I revisited these things last summer. I found such a spectacle of decay that it seems almost impossible to describe it to those who have never seen the like. Streets with great holes where the drains had fallen in. Stretches of roadway from which the wood paving had been torn for firewood. Lampposts that had been knocked over lying as they were left, without an attempt to set them up again. Shops and markets deserted and decayed and ruinous. Not closed shops but abandoned shops, as abandoned-looking as an old boot or an old can by the wayside. The railways falling out of use. A population of half a million where formerly there had been two. A strangely homeless city, a city of discomforts and anxieties, a city of want and ill-health and death. Such was Petersburg in 1920. I know there are people who have a quick and glib explanation of this vast and awe-inspiring spectacle of a great empire in collapse. They say it is Bolshevism has caused all this destruction. But I hope to show here, among other more important things, that Bolshevism is merely a part of this immense collapse--that the overthrow of a huge civilized organization needs some more comprehensive explanation than that a little man named Lenin was able to get from Geneva to Russia at a particular crisis in Russian history. And particularly is it to be noted that this immense destruction of civilized life has not been confined to Russia or to regions under Bolshevik rule. Austria and Hungary present spectacles hardly less desolating than Russia. There is a conspicuous ebb in civilization in Eastern Germany. And even when you come to France and Italy and Ireland there are cities, townships, whole wide regions, where you can say: This has gone back since 1914 and it is still going back in material prosperity, in health, in social order. Even in England and Scotland, in Holland and Denmark and Sweden, it is hard to determine whether things are stagnant or moving forward or moving back--they are certainly not going ahead as they were before 1913-14. The feeling in England is rather like the feeling of a man who is not quite sure whether he has caught a slight chill or whether he is in the opening stage of a serious illness. Now what I want to do here is to theorize about this shadow, this chill and arrest, that seems to have come upon the flourishing and expanding civilization in which all of us were born and reared. I want to put a particular view of what is happening before you, and what it is that we are up against. I want to put before you for your judgment the view that this overstrain and breaking down and stoppage of the great uprush of civilization that has gone on for the past three centuries is due to the same forces and is the logical outcome of the same forces that led to that uprush, to that tremendous expansion of human knowledge and power and life. And that that breaking up is an inevitable thing unless we meet it by a very great effort of a particular kind. Now the gist of my case is this: That the civilization of the past three centuries has produced a great store of scientific knowledge, and that this scientific knowledge has altered the material scale of human affairs and enormously enlarged the physical range of human activities, but that there has been no adequate adjustment of men's political ideas to the new conditions. This adjustment is a subtle and a difficult task. It is also a greatly neglected task. And upon the possibility of our making this adjustment depends the issue whether the ebb of civilizing energy, the actual smashing and breaking down of modern civilization, which has already gone very far indeed in Russia and which is going on in most of Eastern and Central Europe, extends to the whole civilized world. Let me make a very rough and small scale analysis of what is happening to the world to-day. And let us disregard many very important issues and concentrate upon the chief, most typical issue, the revolution in the facilities of locomotion and communication that has occurred to the world and the consequences of that revolution. For the international problem to-day is essentially dependent upon the question of transport and communication--all others are subordinate to that. I shall particularly call your attention to certain wide differences between the American case and the old-world case in this matter. It is not understood clearly enough at the present time how different is the American international problem from the European international problem, and how inevitable it is that America and Europe should approach international problems from a different angle and in a different spirit. Both lines of thought and experience do, I believe, lead at last to the world state, but they get there by a different route and in a different manner. The idea that the government of the United States can take its place side by side with the governments of the old world on terms of equality with those governments in order to organize the peace of the world, is, I believe, a mistaken and unworkable idea. I shall argue that the government of the United States and the community of the United States are things different politically and mentally from those of the states of the old world, and that the rôle they are destined to play in the development of a world state of mankind is essentially a distinctive one. And I shall try to show cause for regarding the very noble and splendid project of a world-wide League of Nations that has held the attention of the world for the past three years, as one that is, at once, a little too much for complete American participation, and not sufficient for the urgent needs of Europe. It is not really so practicable and reasonable a proposition as it seemed at first. The idea of a world state, though it looks a far greater and more difficult project, is, in the long run, a sounder and more hopeful proposition. Now let me make myself as clear as I can be about the central idea upon which the whole of the arguments in this lecture rests. It is this: forgive me for a repetition--that there has been a complete alteration in the range and power of human activities in the last hundred years. Men can react upon men with a rapidity and at a distance inconceivable a hundred years ago. This is particularly the case with locomotion and methods of communication generally. I will not remind you in any detail of facts with which you are familiar; how that in the time of Napoleon the most rapid travel possible of the great conqueror himself did not average all over as much as four and a half miles an hour. A hundred and seven miles a day for thirteen days--the pace of his rush from Vilna to Paris after the Moscow disaster--was regarded as a triumph of speed. In those days, too, it was a marvel that by means of semaphores it was possible to transmit a short message from London to Portsmouth in the course of an hour or so. Since then we have seen a development of telegraphy that has at last made news almost simultaneous about the world, and a steady increase in the rate of travel until, as we worked it out in the Civil Air Transport Committee in London, it is possible, if not at present practicable, to fly from London to Australia, half way round the earth, in about eight days. I say possible, but not practicable, because at present properly surveyed routes, landing grounds and adequate supplies of petrol and spare parts do not exist. Given those things, that journey could be done now in the time I have stated. This tremendous change in the range of human activities involves changes in the conditions of our political life that we are only beginning to work out to their proper consequences to-day. It is a curious thing that America, which owes most to this acceleration in locomotion, has felt it least. The United States have taken the railway, the river steamboat, the telegraph and so forth as though they were a natural part of their growth. They were not. These things happened to come along just in time to save American unity. The United States of to-day were made first by the river steamboat, and then by the railway. Without these things, the present United States, this vast continental nation, would have been altogether impossible. The westward flow of population would have been far more sluggish. It might never have crossed the great central plains. It took, you will remember, nearly two hundred years for effective settlement to reach from the coast to the Missouri, much less than half-way across the continent. The first state established beyond the river was the steamboat state of Missouri in 1821. But the rest of the distance to the Pacific was done in a few decades. If we had the resources of the cinema it would be interesting to show a map of North America year by year from 1600 onward, with little dots to represent hundreds of people, each dot a hundred, and stars to represent cities of a hundred thousand people. For two hundred years you would see that stippling creeping slowly along the coastal districts and navigable waters, spreading still more gradually into Indiana, Kentucky, and so forth. Then somewhere about 1810 would come a change. Things would get more lively along the river courses. The dots would be multiplying and spreading. That would be the steamboat. The pioneer dots would be spreading soon from a number of jumping-off places along the great rivers over Kansas and Nebraska. Then from about 1830 onward would come the black lines of the railways, and after that the little black dots would not simply creep but run. They would appear now so rapidly, it would be almost as though they were being put on by some sort of spraying machine. And suddenly here and then there would appear the first stars to indicate the first great cities of a hundred thousand people. First one or two and then a multitude of cities--each like a knot in the growing net of the railways. This is a familiar story. I recall it to you now to enforce this point--that the growth of the United States is a process that has no precedent in the world's history; it is a new kind of occurrence. Such a community could not have come into existence before, and if it had it would, without railways, have certainly dropped to pieces long before now. Without railways or telegraph it would be far easier to administer California from Pekin than from Washington. But this great population of the United States of America has not only grown outrageously; it has kept uniform. Nay, it has become more uniform. The man of San Francisco is more like the man of New York to-day than the man of Virginia was like the man of New England a century ago. And the process of assimilation goes on unimpeded. The United States is being woven by railway, by telegraph, more and more into one vast human unity, speaking, thinking, and acting harmoniously with itself. Soon aviation will be helping in the work. Now this great community of the United States is, I repeat, an altogether new thing in history. There have been great empires before with populations exceeding 100 millions, but these were associations of divergent peoples; there has never been one single people on this scale before. We want a new term for this new thing. We call the United States a country, just as we call France or Holland a country. But really the two things are as different as an automobile and a one-horse shay. They are the creations of different periods and different conditions; they are going to work at a different pace and in an entirely different way. If you propose--as I gather some of the League of Nations people propose--to push the Peace of the World along on a combination of these two sorts of vehicle, I venture to think the Peace of the World will be subjected to some very considerable strains. Let me now make a brief comparison between the American and the European situation in relation to these vital matters, locomotion and the general means of communicating. I said just now that the United States of America owe most to the revolution in locomotion and have felt it least. Europe on the other hand owes least to the revolution in locomotion and has felt it most. The revolution in locomotion found the United States of America a fringe of population on the sea margins of a great rich virgin empty country into which it desired to expand, and into which it was free to expand. The steamboat and railway seemed to come as a natural part of that expansion. They came as unqualified blessings. But into Western Europe they came as a frightful nuisance. The States of Europe, excepting Russia, were already a settled, established and balanced system. They were living in final and conclusive boundaries with no further possibility of peaceful expansion. Every extension of a European state involved a war; it was only possible through war. And while the limits to the United States have been set by the steamship and the railroad, the limits to the European sovereign states were drawn at a much earlier time. They were drawn by the horse, and particularly the coach-horse travelling along the high road. If you will examine a series of political maps of Europe for the last two thousand years, you will see that there has evidently been a definite limit to the size of sovereign states through all that time, due to the impossibility of keeping them together because of the difficulty of intercommunication if they grew bigger. And this was in spite of the fact that there were two great unifying ideas present in men's minds in Europe throughout that period, namely, the unifying idea of the Roman Empire, and the unifying idea of Christendom. Both these ideas tended to make Europe one, but the difficulties of communication defeated that tendency. It is quite interesting to watch the adventures of what is called first the Roman Empire and afterwards the Holy Roman Empire, in a series of historical maps. It keeps expanding and then dropping to pieces again. It is like the efforts of someone who is trying to pack up a parcel which is much too big, in wet blotting paper. The cohesion was inadequate. And so it was that the eighteenth century found Europe still divided up into what I may perhaps call these high-road and coach-horse states, each with a highly developed foreign policy, each with an intense sense of national difference and each with intense traditional antagonisms. Then came this revolution in the means of locomotion, which has increased the normal range of human activity at least ten times. The effect of that in America was opportunity; the effect of it in Europe was congestion. It is as if some rather careless worker of miracles had decided suddenly to make giants of a score of ordinary men, and chose the moment for the miracle when they were all with one exception strap-hanging in a street car. The United States was that fortunate exception. Now this is what modern civilization has come up against, and it is the essential riddle of the modern sphinx which must be solved if we are to live. All the European boundaries of to-day are impossibly small for modern conditions. And they are sustained by an intensity of ancient tradition and patriotic passion.... That is where we stand. The citizens of the United States of America are not without their experience in this matter. The crisis of the national history of the American community, the war between Union and Secession, was essentially a crisis between the great state of the new age and the local feeling of an earlier period. But Union triumphed. Americans live now in a generation that has almost forgotten that there once seemed a possibility that the map of North America might be broken up at last into as many communities as the map of Europe. Except by foreign travel, the present generation of Americans can have no idea of the net of vexations and limitations in which Europeans are living at the present time because of their political disunion. Let me take a small but quite significant set of differences, the inconveniences of travel upon a journey of a little over a thousand miles. They are in themselves petty inconveniences, but they will serve to illustrate the net that is making free civilized life in Europe more and more impossible. Take first the American case. An American wants to travel from New York to St. Louis. He looks up the next train, packs his bag, gets aboard a sleeper and turns out at St. Louis next day ready for business. Take now the European parallel. A European wants to travel from London to Warsaw. Now that is a shorter distance by fifty or sixty miles than the distance from New York to St. Louis. Will he pack his bag, get aboard a train and go there? He will not. He will have to get a passport, and getting a passport involves all sorts of tiresome little errands. One has to go to a photographer, for example, to get photographs to stick on the passport. The good European has then to take his passport to the French representative in London for a French visa, or, if he is going through Belgium, for a Belgian visa. After that he must get a German visa. Then he must go round to the Czecho-Slovak office for a Czechoslovak visa. Finally will come the Polish visa. Each of these endorsements necessitates something vexatious, personal attendance, photography, stamps, rubber stamps, mysterious signatures and the like, and always the payment of fees. Also they necessitate delays. The other day I had occasion to go to Moscow, and I learnt that it takes three weeks to get a visa for Finland and three weeks to get a visa for Esthonia. You see you can't travel about Europe at all without weeks and weeks of preparation. The preparations for a little journey to Russia the other day took three whole days out of my life, cost me several pounds in stamps and fees, and five in bribery. Ultimately, however, the good European is free to start. Arriving at the French frontier in an hour or so, he will be held up for a long customs' examination. Also he will need to change some of his money into francs. His English money will be no good in France. The exchange in Europe is always fluctuating, and he will be cheated on the exchange. All European countries, including my own, cheat travellers on the exchange--that is apparently what the exchange is for. He will then travel for a few hours to the German frontier. There he will be bundled out again. The French will investigate him closely to see that he is not carrying gold or large sums of money out of France. Then he will be handed over to the Germans. He will go through the same business with the customs and the same business with the money. His French money is no further use to him and he must get German. A few more hours and he will arrive on the frontier of Bohemia. Same search for gold. Then customs' examination and change of money again. A few hours more and he will be in Poland. Search for gold, customs, fresh money. As most of these countries are pursuing different railway policies, he will probably have to change trains and rebook his luggage three or four times. The trains may be ingeniously contrived not to connect so as to force him to take some longer route politically favoured by one of the intervening states. He will be lucky if he gets to Warsaw in four days. Arrived in Warsaw, he will probably need a permit to stay there, and he will certainly need no end of permits to leave. Now here is a fuss over a fiddling little journey of 1,100 miles. Is it any wonder that the bookings from London to Warsaw are infinitesimal in comparison with the bookings from New York to St. Louis? But what I have noted here are only the normal inconveniences of the traveller. They are by no means the most serious inconveniences. The same obstructions that hamper the free movement of a traveller, hamper the movement of foodstuffs and all sorts of merchandise in a much greater degree. Everywhere in Europe trade is being throttled by tariffs and crippled by the St. Vitus' dance of the exchanges. Each of these European sovereign states turns out paper money at its own sweet will. Last summer I went to Prague and exchanged pounds for kroners. They ought to have been 25 to the pound. On Monday they were 180 to the pound: on Friday 169. They jump about between 220 and 150, and everybody is inconvenienced except the bankers and money changers. And this uncertain exchange diverts considerable amounts of money that should be stimulating business enterprise into a barren and mischievous gambling with the circulation. Between each one of these compressed European countries the movement of food or labour is still more blocked and impeded. And in addition to these nuisances of national tariffs and independent national coinages at every few score miles, Europe is extraordinarily crippled by its want of any central authority to manage the most elementary collective interests; the control of vice, for example; the handling of infectious diseases; the suppression of international criminals. Europe is now confronted by a new problem--the problem of air transport. So far as I can see, air transport is going to be strangled in Europe by international difficulties. One can fly comfortably and safely from London to Paris in two or three hours. But the passport preliminaries will take days beforehand. The other day I wanted to get quickly to Reval in Esthonia from England and back again. The distance is about the same as from Boston to Minneapolis, and it could be done comfortably in 10 or 12 hours' flying. I proposed to the Handley Page Company that they should arrange this for me. They explained that they had no power to fly beyond Amsterdam in Holland; thence it might be possible to get a German plane to Hamburg, and thence again a Danish plane to Copenhagen--leaving about 500 miles which were too complicated politically to fly. Each stoppage would involve passport and other difficulties. In the end it took me five days to get to Reval and seven days to get back. In Europe, with its present frontiers, flying is not worth having. It can never be worth having--it can never be worked successfully--until it is worked as at least a pan-European affair. All these are the normal inconveniences of the national divisions of Europe in peace time. By themselves they are strangling all hope of economic recovery. For Europe is _not_ getting on to its feet economically. Only a united effort can effect that. But along each of the ridiculously restricted frontiers into which the European countries are packed, lies also the possibility of war. National independence means the right to declare war. And so each of these packed and strangulated European countries is obliged, by its blessed independence, to maintain as big an army and as big a military equipment as its bankrupt condition--for we are all bankrupt--permits. Since the end of the Great War, nothing has been done of any real value to ensure any European country against the threat of war, and nothing will be done, and nothing can be done to lift that threat, so long as the idea of national independence overrides all other considerations. And again, it is a little difficult for a mind accustomed to American conditions, to realize what modern war will mean in Europe. Not one of these sovereign European states I have named between London and Warsaw is any larger than the one single American state of Texas, and not one has a capital that cannot be effectively bombed by aeroplane raiders from its frontier within five or six hours of a declaration of war. We can fly from London to Paris in two or three hours. And the aerial bombs of to-day, I can assure you, will make the biggest bombs of 1918 seem like little crackers. Over all these European countries broods this immediate threat of a warfare that will strain and torment the nerves of every living man, woman or child in the countries affected. Nothing of the sort can approach the American citizen except after a long warning. The worst war that could happen to any North American country would merely touch its coasts. Now I have dwelt on these differences between America and Europe because they involve an absolute difference in outlook towards world peace projects, towards leagues of nations, world states and the like, between the American and the European. The American lives in a political unity on the big modern scale. He can go on comfortably for a hundred years yet before he begins to feel tight in his political skin, and before he begins to feel the threat of immediate warfare close to his domestic life. He believes by experience in peace, but he feels under no passionate urgency to organize it. So far as he himself is concerned, he has got peace organized for a good long time ahead. I doubt if it would make any very serious difference for some time in the ordinary daily life of Kansas City, let us say, if all Europe were reduced to a desert in the next five years. But on the other hand, the intelligent European is up against the unity of Europe problem night and day. Europe cannot go on. European civilization cannot go on, unless that net of boundaries which strangles her is dissolved away. The difficulties created by language differences, by bitter national traditions, by bad political habits and the like, are no doubt stupendous. But stupendous though they are, they have to be faced. Unless they are overcome, and overcome in a very few years, Europe--entangled in this net of boundaries, and under a perpetual fear of war, will, I am convinced, follow Russia and slide down beyond any hope of recovery into a process of social dissolution as profound and disastrous as that which closed the career of the Western Roman Empire. The American intelligence and the European intelligence approach this question of a world peace, therefore, from an entirely different angle and in an entirely different spirit. To the American in the blessed ease of his great unbroken territory, it seems a matter simply of making his own ample securities world-wide by treaties of arbitration and such-like simple agreements. And my impression is that he thinks of Europeans as living under precisely similar conditions. Nothing of that sort will meet the problem of the Old World. The European situation is altogether more intense and tragic than the American. Europe needs not treaties but a profound change in its political ideas and habits. Europe is saturated with narrow patriotism like a body saturated by some evil inherited disease. She is haunted by narrow ambitions and ancient animosities. It is because of this profound difference of situation and outlook that I am convinced of the impossibility of any common political co-operation to organize a world peace between America and Europe at the present time. The American type of state and the European type of state are different things, incapable of an effectual alliance; the steam tractor and the ox cannot plough this furrow together. American thought, American individuals, may no doubt play a very great part in the task of reconstruction that lies before Europe, but not the American federal government as a sovereign state among equal states. The United States constitute a state on a different scale and level from any old world state. Patriotism and the national idea in America is a different thing and a bigger scale thing than the patriotism and national idea in any old world state. Any League of Nations aiming at stability now, would necessarily be a league seeking to stereotype existing boundaries and existing national ideas. Now these boundaries and these ideas are just what have to be got rid of at any cost. Before Europe can get on to a level and on to equal terms with the United States, the European communities have to go through a process that America went through--under much easier conditions--a century and a half ago. They have to repeat, on a much greater scale and against profounder prejudices, the feat of understanding and readjustment that was accomplished by the American people between 1781 and 1788. As you will all remember, these States after they had decided upon Independence, framed certain Articles of Confederation; they were articles of confederation between thirteen nations, between the people of Massachusetts, the people of Virginia, the people of Georgia, and so forth--thirteen distinct and separate sovereign peoples. They made a Union so lax and feeble that it could neither keep order at home nor maintain respect abroad. Then they produced another constitution. They swept aside all that talk about the people of Massachusetts, the people of Virginia, and the rest of their thirteen nations. They based their union on a wider idea: the people of the United States. Now Europe, if it is not to sink down to anarchy, has to do a parallel thing. If Europe is to be saved from ultimate disaster, Europe has to stop thinking in terms of the people of France, the people of England, the people of Germany, the French, the British, the Germans, and so forth. Europe has to think at least of the people of Europe, if not of the civilized people of the world. If we Europeans cannot bring our minds to that, there is no hope for us. Only by thinking of all peoples can any people be saved in Europe. Fresh wars will destroy the social fabric of Europe, and Europe will perish as nations, fighting. There are many people who think that there is at least one political system in the old world which, like the United States, is large enough and world wide enough to go on by itself under modern conditions for some considerable time. They think that the British Empire can, as it were, stand out of the rest of the Old World as a self-sufficient system. They think that it can stand out freely as the United States can stand out, and that these two English-speaking powers have merely to agree together to dominate and keep the peace of the world. Let me give a little attention to this idea. It is I believe a wrong idea, and one that may be very disastrous to our common English-speaking culture if it is too fondly cherished. There can be no denying that the British Imperial system is a system different in its nature and size from a typical European state, from a state of the horse and road scale, like France, let us say, or Germany. And equally it is with the United States a new growth. The present British Empire is indeed a newer growth than the United States. But while the United States constitute a homogeneous system and grow more homogeneous, the British Empire is heterogeneous and shows little or no assimilative power. And while the United States are all gathered together and are still very remote from any serious antagonist, the British Empire is scattered all over the world, entangled with and stressed against a multitude of possible antagonists. I have been arguing that the size and manageability of all political states is finally a matter of transport and communications. They grow to a limit strictly determined by these considerations. Beyond that limit they are unstable. Let us now apply these ideas to the British Empire. I have shown that the great system of the United States is the creation of the river steamboat and the railway. Quite as much so is the present British Empire the creation of the ocean-going steamship--protected by a great navy. The British Empire is a modern ocean state just as the United States is a modern continental state. The political and economic cohesion of the British Empire rests upon this one thing, upon the steamship remaining the dominant and secure means of world transport in the future. If the British Empire is to remain sovereign and secure and independent of the approval and co-operation of other states, it is necessary that steamship transport (ocean transport) should remain dominant in peace and invulnerable in war. Well, that brings us face to face with two comparatively new facts that throw a shadow upon both that predominance and upon that invulnerability. One is air transport; the other the submarine. The possibilities of the ocean-going submarine I will not enlarge upon now. They will be familiar to everyone who followed the later phases of the Great War. It must be clear that sea power is no longer the simple and decisive thing it was before the coming of the submarine. The sea ways can no longer be taken and possessed completely. To no other power, except Japan, is this so grave a consideration as it is to Britain. And if we turn to the possibilities of air-transport in the future we are forced towards the same conclusion, that the security of the British Empire must rest in the future not on its strength in warfare, but on its keeping the peace within and without its boundaries. I was a member of the British Civil Air Transport Committee, and we went with care and thoroughness into the possibilities and probabilities of the air. My work on that committee convinced me that in the near future the air may be the chief if not the only highway for long-distance mails, for long-distance passenger traffic, and for the carriage of most valuable and compact commodities. The ocean ways are likely to be only the ways for slow travel and for staple and bulky trade. And my studies on that committee did much to confirm my opinion that in quite a brief time the chief line of military attack will be neither by sea nor land but through the air. Moreover, it was borne in upon me that the chief air routes of the world will lie over the great plains of the world, that they will cross wide stretches of sea or mountainous country only very reluctantly. Now think of how the British Empire lies with relation to the great sea and land masses of the world. There has been talk in Great Britain of what people have called "all-red air routes," that is to say, all-British air routes. There are no all-red air routes. You cannot get out of Britain to any other parts of the Empire, unless perhaps it is Canada, without crossing foreign territory. That is a fact that British people have to face and digest, and the sooner they grasp it the better for them. Britain cannot use air ways even to develop her commerce in peace time without the consent and co-operation of a large number of her intervening neighbours. If she embarks single-handed on any considerable war she will find both her air and her sea communications almost completely cut. And so the British Empire, in spite of its size and its modernity, is not much better off now in the way of standing alone than the other European countries. It is no exception to our generalization that (apart from all other questions) the scale and form of the European states are out of harmony with contemporary and developing transport conditions, and that all these powers are, if only on this account, under one urgent necessity to sink those ideas of complete independence that have hitherto dominated them. It is a life and death necessity. If they cannot obey it they will all be destroyed. III THE ENLARGEMENT OF PATRIOTISM TO A WORLD STATE In my opening argument I have shown the connexion between the present intense political troubles of the world and more particularly of Europe, and the advance in mechanical knowledge during the past hundred and fifty years. I have shown that without a very drastic readjustment of political ideas and habits, there opens before Europe and the world generally, a sure prospect of degenerative conflicts; that without such a readjustment, our civilization has passed its zenith and must continue the process of collapse that has been in progress since August, 1914. Now this readjustment means an immediate conflict with existing patriotism. We have embarked here upon a discussion in which emotion and passion seem quite unavoidable, the discussion of nationality. At the very outset we bump violently against patriotism as any European understands that word. And it is, I hold, impossible not to bump against European patriotisms. We cannot temporize with patriotism, as one finds it in Europe, and get on towards a common human welfare. The two things are flatly opposed. One or other must be sacrificed. The political and social muddle of Europe at the present time is very largely due to the attempt to compromise between patriotism and the common good of Europe. Do we want to get rid of patriotism altogether? I do not think we want to get rid of patriotism, and I do not think we could, even if we wanted to do so. It seems to be necessary to his moral life, that a man should feel himself part of a community, belonging to it, and it belonging to him. And that this community should be a single and lovable reality, inspired by a common idea, with a common fashion and aim. But a point I have been trying to bring out throughout all this argument so far is this--that when a European goes to the United States of America he finds a new sort of state, materially bigger and materially less encumbered than any European state. And he also finds an intensely patriotic people whose patriotism isn't really the equivalent of a European patriotism. It is historically and practically a synthesis of European patriotisms. It is numerically bigger. It is geographically ten times as big. That is very important indeed from the point of view of this discussion. And it is synthetic; it is a thing made out of something smaller. People, I believe, talk of 100 per cent. Americans. There is no 100 per cent. American except the Red Indian. There isn't a white man in the United States from whose blood a large factor of European patriotism hasn't been washed out to make way for his American patriotism. Upon this fact of American patriotism, as a larger different thing than European patriotism, I build. The thing can be done. If it can be done in the Europeans and their descendants who have come to America, it can conceivably be done in the Europeans who abide in Europe. And how can we set about doing it? America, the silent, comprehensive continent of America, did the thing by taking all the various nationalities who have made up her population and obliging them to live together. Unhappily we cannot take the rest of our European nations now and put them on to a great virgin continent to learn a wider political wisdom. There are no more virgin continents. Europe must stay where she is.... Now I am told it sometimes helps scientific men to clear up their ideas about a process by imagining that process reversed and so getting a view of it from a different direction. Let us then, for a few moments, instead of talking of the expansion and synthesis of patriotism in Europe, imagine a development of narrow patriotism in America and consider how that case could be dealt with. Suppose, for instance, there was a serious outbreak of local patriotism in Kentucky. Suppose you found the people of Kentucky starting a flag of their own and objecting to what they would probably call the "vague internationalism" of the stars and stripes. Suppose you found them wanting to set up tariff barriers to the trade of the states round about them. Suppose you found they were preparing to annex considerable parts of the state of Virginia by force, in order to secure a proper strategic frontier among the mountains to the east, and that they were also talking darkly of their need for an outlet to the sea of their very own. What would an American citizen think of such an outbreak? He would probably think that Kentucky had gone mad. But this, which seems such fantastic behaviour when we imagine it occurring in Kentucky, is exactly what is happening in Europe in the case of little states that are hardly any larger than Kentucky. They have always been so. They have not gone mad; if this sort of thing is madness then they were born mad. And they have never been cured. A state of affairs that is regarded in Europe as normal would be regarded in the United States as a grave case of local mental trouble. And what would the American community probably do in such a case? It would probably begin by inquiring where Kentucky had got these strange ideas. They would look for sources of infection. Somebody must have been preaching there or writing in the newspapers or teaching mischief in the school. And I suppose the people of the United States would set themselves very earnestly to see that sounder sense was talked and taught to the people of Kentucky about these things. Now that is precisely what has to be done in the parallel European case. Everywhere in Europe there goes on in the national schools, in the patriotic churches, in the national presses, in the highly nationalized literatures, a unity-destroying propaganda of patriotism. The schools of all the European countries at the present time with scarcely an exception, teach the most rancid patriotism; they are centres of an abominable political infection. The children of Europe grow up with an intensity of national egotism that makes them, for all practical international purposes, insane. They are not born with it, but they are infected with it as soon as they can read and write. The British learn nothing but the glories of Britain and the British Empire; the French are, if possible, still more insanely concentrated on France; the Germans are just recovering from the bitter consequences of forty years of intensive nationalist education. And so on. Every country in Europe is its own _Sinn Fein_, cultivating that ugly and silly obsession of "ourselves alone." "Ourselves alone" is the sure guide to conflict and disaster, to want, misery, violence, degradation and death for our children and our children's children--until our race is dead. The first task before us in Europe is, at any cost, to release our children from this nationalist obsession, to teach the mass of European people a little truthful history in which each one will see the past and future of his own country in their proper proportions, and a little truthful ethnology in which each country will get over the delusion that its people are a distinct and individual race. The history teaching in the schools of Europe is at the very core of this business. But that is only, so to speak, the point of application of great complex influences, the influences that mould us in childhood, the teachings of literature, of the various religious bodies, and the daily reiteration of the press. Before Europe can get on, there has to be a colossal turnover of these moral and intellectual forces in the direction of creating an international mind. If that can be effected then there is hope for Europe and the Old World. If it cannot be effected, then certainly Europe will go down--with its flags nailed to its masts. We are on a sinking ship that only one thing can save. We have to oust these European patriotisms by some greater idea or perish. What is this greater idea to be? Now I submit that this greater idea had best be the idea of the World State of All Mankind. I will admit that so far I have made a case only for teaching the idea of a United States of Europe in Europe. I have concentrated our attention upon that region of maximum congestion and conflict. But as a matter of fact there are no real and effective barriers and boundaries in the Old World between Europe and Asia and Africa. The ordinary Russian talks of "Europe" as one who is outside it. The European political systems flow over and have always overflowed into the greater areas to the east and south. Remember the early empires of Macedonia and Rome. See how the Russian language runs to the Pacific, and how Islam radiates into all three continents. I will not elaborate this case. When you bear such things in mind, I think you will agree with me that if we are to talk of a United States of Europe, it is just as easy and practicable to talk of a United States of the Old World. And are we to stop at a United States of the Old World? No doubt the most evident synthetic forces in America at the present time point towards some sort of pan-American unification. That is the nearest thing. That may come first. But are we to contemplate a sort of dual world--the New World against the Old? I do not think that would be any very permanent or satisfactory stopping-place. Why make two bites at a planet? If we work for unity on the large scale we are contemplating, we may as well work for world unity. Not only in distance but in a score of other matters are London and Rome nearer to New York than is Patagonia, and San Francisco is always likely to be more interesting to Japan than Paris or Madrid. I cannot see any reason for supposing that the mechanical drawing together of the peoples of the world into one economic and political unity is likely to cease--unless our civilization ceases. I see no signs that our present facilities for transport and communication are the ultimate possible facilities. Once we break away from current nationalist limitations in our political ideas, then there is no reason and no advantage in contemplating any halfway house to a complete human unity. Now after what I have been saying it is very easy to explain why I would have this idea of human unity put before people's minds in the form of a World State and not of a League of Nations. Let me first admit the extraordinary educational value of the League of Nations propaganda, and of the attempt that has been made to create a League of Nations. It has brought before the general intelligence of the world the proposition of a world law and a world unity that could not perhaps have been broached in any other way. But is it a league of nations that is wanted? I submit to you that the word "nations" is just the word that should have been avoided--that it admits and tends to stereotype just those conceptions of division and difference that we must at any cost minimize and obliterate if our species is to continue. And the phrase has a thin and legal and litigious flavour. What loyalty and what devotion can we expect this multiple association to command? It has no unity--no personality. It is like asking a man to love the average member of a woman's club instead of loving his wife. For the idea of Man, for human unity, for our common blood, for the one order of the world, I can imagine men living and dying, but not for a miscellaneous assembly that will not mix--even in its name. It has no central idea, no heart to it, this League of Nations formula. It is weak and compromising just where it should be strong--in defining its antagonism to separate national sovereignty. For that is what it aims at, if it means business. If it means business it means at least a super-state overriding the autonomy of existing states, and if it does not mean business then we have no use for it whatever. It may seem a much greater undertaking to attack nationality and nationalism instead of patching up a compromise with these things, but along the line of independent nationality lies no hope of unity and peace and continuing progress for mankind. We cannot suffer these old concentrations of loyalty because we want that very loyalty which now, concentrates upon them to cement and sustain the peace of all the world. Just as in the past provincial patriotisms have given place to national patriotisms, so now we need to oust these still too narrow devotions by a new unity and a new reigning idea, the idea of one state and one flag in all the earth. The idea of the World State stands to the idea of the League of Nations much as the idea of the one God of Earth and Heaven stands to a Divine Committee composed of Wodin and Baal and Jupiter and Amon Ra and Mumbo Jumbo and all the other national and tribal gods. There is no compromise possible in the one matter as in the other. There is no way round. The task before mankind is to substitute the one common idea of an overriding world commonweal for the multitudinous ideas of little commonweals that prevail everywhere to-day. We have already glanced at the near and current consequences of our failure to bring about that substitution. Now this is an immense proposal. Is it a preposterous one? Let us not shirk the tremendous scale upon which the foundations of a world state of all mankind must be laid. But remember, however great that task before us may seem, however near it may come to the impossible, nevertheless, in the establishment of one world rule and one world law lies the only hope of escape from an increasing tangle of wars, from social overstrain, and at last a social dissolution so complete as to end for ever the tale of mankind as we understand mankind. Personally I am appalled by the destruction already done in the world in the past seven years. I doubt if any untravelled American can realize how much of Europe is already broken up. I do not think many people realize how swiftly Europe is still sinking, how urgent it is to get European affairs put back upon a basis of the common good if civilization is to be saved. And now, as to the immensity of this project of substituting loyalty to a world commonweal for loyalty to a single egotistical belligerent nation. It is a project to invade hundreds of millions of minds, to attack certain ideas established in those minds and either to efface those ideas altogether or to supplement and correct them profoundly by this new idea of a human commonweal. We have to get not only into the at present intensely patriotic minds of Frenchmen, Germans, English, Irish and Japanese, but into the remote and difficult minds of Arabs and Indians and into the minds of the countless millions of China. Is there any precedent to justify us in hoping that such a change in world ideas is possible? I think there is. I would suggest that the general tendency of thought about these things to-day is altogether too sceptical of what teaching and propaganda can do in these matters. In the past there have been very great changes in human thought. I need scarcely remind you of the spread of Christianity in Western Europe. In a few centuries the whole of Western Europe was changed from the wild confusion of warring tribes that succeeded the breakdown of the Roman Empire, into the unity of Christendom, into a community with such an idea of unity that it could be roused from end to end by the common idea of the Crusades. Still more remarkable was the swift transformation in less than a century of all the nations and peoples to the south and west of the Mediterranean, from Spain to Central Asia, into the unity of Islam, a unity which has lasted to this day. In both these cases, what I may call the mental turnover was immense. I think if you will consider the spread of these very complex and difficult religions, and compare the means at the disposal of their promoters with the means at the disposal of intelligent people to-day, you will find many reasons for believing that a recasting of people's ideas into the framework of a universal state is by no means an impossible project. Those great teachings of the past were spread largely by word of mouth. Their teachers had to travel slowly and dangerously. People were gathered together to hear with great difficulty, except in a few crowded towns. Books could be used only sparingly. Few people could read, fewer still could translate, and MSS. were copied with extreme slowness upon parchment. There was no printing, no paper, no post. And except for a very few people there were no schools. Both Christendom and Islam had to create their common schools in order to preserve even a minimum of their doctrine intact from generation to generation. All this was done in the teeth of much bitter opposition and persecution. Now to-day we have means of putting ideas and arguments swiftly and effectively before people all over the world at the same time, such as no one could have dreamt of a hundred years ago. We have not only books and papers, but in the cinema we have a means of rapid, vivid presentation still hardly used. We have schools nearly everywhere. And here in the need for an overruling world state, and the idea of world service replacing combative patriotism, we have an urgent, a commanding human need. We have an invincible case for this world state and an unanswerable objection to the nationalisms and patriotisms that would oppose it. Is it not almost inevitable that some of us should get together and begin a propaganda upon modern lines of this organized world peace, without which our race must perish? The world perishes for the want of a common political idea. It is still quite possible to give the world this common political idea, the idea of a federal world state. We cannot help but set about doing it. So I put it to you that the most important work before men and women to-day is the preaching and teaching, the elaboration and then at last the realization of this Project of the World State. We have to create a vision of it, to make it seem first a possibility and then an approaching reality. This is a task that demands the work and thought of thousands of minds. We have to spread the idea of a Federal World State, as an approaching reality, throughout the world. We can do this nowadays through a hundred various channels. We can do it through the press, through all sorts of literary expression, in our schools, colleges, and universities, through political mouthpieces, by special organizations, and last, but not least, through the teaching of the churches. For remember that all the great religions of the world are in theory universalist; they may tolerate the divisions of men but they cannot sanction them. We propose no religious revolution, but at most a religious revival. We can spread ideas and suggestions now with a hundred times the utmost rapidity of a century ago. This movement need not at once intervene in politics. It is a prospective movement, and its special concern will be with young and still growing minds. But as it spreads it will inevitably change politics. The nations, states, and kingdoms of to-day, which fight and scheme against each other as though they had to go on fighting and scheming for ever, will become more and more openly and manifestly merely guardian governments, governments playing a waiting part in the world, while the world state comes of age. For this World State, for which the world is waiting, must necessarily be a fusion of all governments, and heir to all the empires. So far I have been occupied by establishing a case for the World State. It has been, I fear, rather an abstract discussion. I have kept closely to the bare hard logic of the present human situation. But now let me attempt very briefly, in the barest outline, some concrete realization of what a World State would mean. Let us try and conceive for ourselves the form a World State would take. I do not care to leave this discussion with nothing to it but a phrase which is really hardly more than a negative phrase until we put some body to it. As it stands World State means simply a politically undivided world. Let us try and carry that over to the idea of a unified organized state throughout the world. Let us try to imagine what a World Government would be like. I find that when one speaks of a World State people think at once of some existing government and magnify it to world proportions. They ask, for example, where will the World Congress meet; and how will you elect your World President? Won't your World President, they say, be rather a tremendous personage? How are we to choose him? Or will there be a World King? These are very natural questions, at the first onset. But are they sound questions? May they not be a little affected by false analogies? The governing of the whole of the world may turn out to be _not_ a magnified version of governing a part of the world, but a different sort of job altogether. These analogies that people draw so readily from national states may not really work in a world state. And first with regard to this question of a king or president. Let us ask whether it is probable that the world state will have any single personal head at all? Is the world state likely to be a monarchy--either an elective short term limited monarchy such as is the United States, or an inherited limited monarchy like the British Empire? Many people will say, you _must_ have a head of the state. But _must_ you? Is not this idea a legacy from the days when states were small communities needing a leader in war and diplomacy? In the World State we must remember there will be no war--and no diplomacy as such. I would even question whether in such a great modern state as the U.S.A. the idea and the functions of the president may not be made too important. Indeed I believe that question has been asked by many people in the States lately, and has been answered in the affirmative. The broad lines of the United States constitution were drawn in a period of almost universal monarchy. American affairs were overshadowed by the personality of George Washington, and as you know, monarchist ideas were so rife that there was a project, during the years of doubt and division that followed the War of Independence, for importing a German King, a Prussian Prince, in imitation of the British Monarchy. But if the United States were beginning again to-day on its present scale, would it put so much power and importance upon a single individual as it put upon George Washington and his successors in the White House? I doubt it very much. There may be a limit, I suggest, to the size and complexity of a community that can be directed by a single personal head. Perhaps that limit may have been passed by both the United States and by the British Empire at the present time. It may be possible for one person to be leader and to have an effect of directing personality in a community of millions or even of tens of millions. But is it possible for one small short-lived individual to get over and affect and make any sort of contact with hundreds of millions in thousands of towns and cities? Recently we have watched with admiration and sympathy the heroic efforts of the Prince of Wales to shake hands with and get his smile well home into the hearts of the entire population of the British Empire of which he is destined to become the "golden link." After tremendous exertions a very large amount of the ground still remains to be covered. I will confess I cannot see any single individual human head in my vision of the World State. The linking reality of the World State is much more likely to be not an individual but an idea--such an idea as that of a human commonweal under the God of all mankind. If at any time, for any purpose, some one individual had to step out and act for the World State as a whole, then I suppose the senior judges of the Supreme Court, or the Speaker of the Council, or the head of the Associated Scientific Societies, or some such person, could step out and do what had to be done. But if there is to be no single head person, there must be at least some sort of assembly or council. That seems to be necessary. But will it be a gathering at all like Congress or the British Parliament, with a Government side and an opposition ruled by party traditions and party ideas? There again, I think we may be too easily misled by existing but temporary conditions. I do not think it is necessary to assume that the council of the World State will be an assembly of party politicians. I believe it will be possible to have it a real gathering of representatives, a fair sample of the thought and will of mankind at large, and to avoid a party development by a more scientific method of voting than the barbaric devices used for electing representatives to Congress or the British Parliament, devices that play directly into the hands of the party organizer who trades upon the defects of political method. Will this council be directly elected? That, I think, may be found to be essential. And upon a very broad franchise. Because, _firstly_, it is before all things important that every adult in the world should feel a direct and personal contact between himself and the World State, and that he is an assenting and participating citizen of the world; and _secondly_, because if your council is appointed by any intermediate body, all sorts of local and national considerations, essential in the business of the subordinate body, will get in the way of a simple and direct regard for the world commonweal. And as to this council: Will it have great debates and wonderful scenes and crises and so forth--the sort of thing that looks well in a large historical painting? There again we may be easily misled by analogy. One consideration that bars the way to anything of that sort is that its members will have no common language which they will be all able to speak with the facility necessary for eloquence. Eloquence is far more adapted to the conditions of a Red Indian pow-wow than to the ordering of large and complicated affairs. The World Council may be a very taciturn assembly. It may even meet infrequently. Its members may communicate their views largely by _notes_ which may have to be very clear and explicit, because they will have to stand translation, and short--to escape neglect. And what will be the chief organs and organizations and works and methods with which this Council of the World State will be concerned? There will be a Supreme Court determining _not_ International Law, but World Law. There will be a growing Code of World Law. There will be a world currency. There will be a ministry of posts, transport and communications generally. There will be a ministry of trade in staple products and for the conservation and development of the natural resources of the earth. There will be a ministry of social and labour conditions. There will be a ministry of world health. There will be a ministry, the most important ministry of all, watching and supplementing national educational work and taking up the care and stimulation of backward communities. And instead of a War Office and Naval and Military departments, there will be a _Peace Ministry_ studying the belligerent possibilities of every new invention, watching for armed disturbances everywhere, and having complete control of every armed force that remains in the world. All these world ministries will be working in co-operation with local authorities who will apply world-wide general principles to local conditions. These items probably comprehend everything that the government of a World State would have to do. Much of its activity would be merely the co-ordination and adjustment of activities already very thoroughly discussed and prepared for it by local and national discussions. I think it will be a mistake for us to assume that the work of a world government will be vaster and more complex than that of such governments as those of the United States or the British Empire. In many respects it will have an enormously simplified task. There will be no foreign enemy, no foreign competition, no tariffs, so far as it is concerned, or tariff wars. It will be keeping order; it will not be carrying on a contest. There will be no necessity for secrecy; it will not be necessary to have a Cabinet plotting and planning behind closed doors; there will be no general policy except a steady attention to the common welfare. Even the primary origin of a World Council must necessarily be different from that of any national government. Every existing government owes its beginnings to force and is in its fundamental nature militant. It is an offensive-defensive organ. This fact saturates our legal and social tradition more than one realizes at first. There is, about civil law everywhere, a faint flavour of a relaxed state of siege. But a world government will arise out of different motives and realize a different ideal. It will be primarily an organ for keeping the peace. And now perhaps we may look at this project of a World State mirrored in the circumstances of the life of one individual citizen. Let us consider very briefly the life of an ordinary young man living in a World State and consider how it would differ from a commonplace life to-day. He will have been born in some one of the United States of the World--in New York or California, or Ontario or New Zealand, or Portugal or France or Bengal or Shan-si; but wherever his lot may fall, the first history he will learn will be the wonderful history of mankind, from its nearly animal beginnings, a few score thousand years ago, with no tools, but implements of chipped stone and hacked wood, up to the power and knowledge of our own time. His education will trace for him the beginnings of speech, of writing, of cultivation and settlement. He will learn of the peoples and nations of the past, and how each one has brought its peculiar gifts and its distinctive contribution to the accumulating inheritance of our race. He will know, perhaps, less of wars, battles, conquests, massacres, kings and the like unpleasant invasions of human dignity and welfare, and he will know more of explorers, discoverers and stout outspoken men than our contemporary citizen. While he is still a little boy, he will have the great outlines of the human adventure brought home to his mind by all sorts of vivid methods of presentation, such as the poor poverty-struck schools of our own time cannot dream of employing. And on this broad foundation he will build up his knowledge of his own particular state and nation and people, learning not tales of ancient grievances and triumphs and revenges, but what his particular race and countryside have given and what it gives and may be expected to give to the common welfare of the world. On such foundations his social consciousness will be built. He will learn an outline of all that mankind knows and of the fascinating realms of half knowledge in which man is still struggling to know. His curiosity and his imagination will be roused and developed. He will probably be educated continuously at least until he is eighteen or nineteen, and perhaps until he is two or three and twenty. For a world that wastes none of its resources upon armaments or soldiering, and which produces whatever it wants in the regions best adapted to that production, and delivers them to the consumer by the directest route, will be rich enough not only to spare the first quarter of everybody's life for education entirely, but to keep on with some education throughout the whole lifetime. Of course the school to which our young citizen of the world will go will be very different from the rough and tumble schools of to-day, understaffed with underpaid assistants, and having bare walls. It will have benefited by some of the intelligence and wealth we lavish to-day on range-finders and submarines. Even a village school will be in a beautiful little building costing as much perhaps as a big naval gun or a bombing-aeroplane costs to-day. I know this will sound like shocking extravagance to many contemporary hearers, but in the World State the standards will be different. I don't know whether any of us really grasp what we are saying when we talk of greater educational efficiency in the future. That means--if it means anything--teaching more with much less trouble. It will mean, for instance, that most people will have three or four languages properly learnt; that they will think about things mathematical with a quickness and clearness that puzzles us; that about all sorts of things their minds will move in daylight where ours move in a haze of ignorance or in an emotional fog. This clear-headed, broad-thinking young citizen of the World State will not be given up after his educational years to a life of toil--there will be very little toil left in the world. Mankind will have machines and power enough to do most of the toil for it. Why, between 1914 and 1918 we blew away enough energy and destroyed enough machinery and turned enough good grey matter into stinking filth to release hundreds of millions of toilers from toil for ever! Our young citizen will choose some sort of interesting work--perhaps creative work. And he will be free to travel about the whole world without a passport or visa, without a change of money; everywhere will be his country; he will find people everywhere who will be endlessly different, but none suspicious or hostile. Everywhere he will find beautiful and distinctive cities, freely expressive of the spirit of the land in which they have arisen. Strange and yet friendly cities. The world will be a far healthier place than it is now--for mankind as a whole will still carry on organized wars--no longer wars of men against men, but of men against malarias and diseases and infections. Probably he will never know what a cold is, or a headache. He will be able to go through the great forests of the tropics without shivering with fever and without saturating himself with preventive drugs. He will go freely among great mountains; he will fly to the Poles of the earth if he chooses, and dive into the cold, now hidden, deep places of the sea. But it is very difficult to fill in the picture of his adult life so that it will seem real to our experience. It is hard to conceive and still more difficult to convey. We live in this congested, bickering, elbowing, shoving world, and it has soaked into our natures and made us a part of itself. Hardly any of us know what it is to be properly educated, and hardly any what it is to be in constant general good health. To talk of what the world may be to most of us is like talking of baths and leisure and happy things to some poor hopeless, gin-soaked drudge in a slum. The creature is so devitalized; the dirt is so ingrained, so much a second nature, that a bath really isn't attractive. Clean and beautiful clothes sound like a mockery or priggishness. To talk of spacious and beautiful places only arouses a violent desire in the poor thing to get away somewhere and hide. In squalor and misery, quarrelling and fighting make a sort of nervous relief. To multitudes of slum-bred people the prospect of no more fighting is a disagreeable prospect, a dull outlook. Well, all this world of ours may seem a slum to the people of a happier age. They will feel about our world just as we feel about the ninth or tenth century, when we read of its brigands and its insecurities, its pestilences, its miserable housing, its abstinence from ablutions. But our young citizen will not have been inured to our base world. He will have little of our ingrained dirt in his mind and heart. He will love. He will love beautifully. As most of us once hoped to do in our more romantic moments. He will have ambitions--for the world state will give great scope to ambition. He will work skilfully and brilliantly, or he will administer public services, or he will be an able teacher, or a mental or physical physician, or he will be an interpretative or creative artist; he may be a writer or a scientific investigator, he may be a statesman in his state, or even a world statesman. If he is a statesman he may be going up perhaps to the federal world congress. In the year 2020 there will still be politics, but they will be great politics. Instead of the world's affairs being managed in a score of foreign offices, all scheming meanly and cunningly against each other, all planning to thwart and injure each other, they will be managed under the direction of an educated and organized common intelligence intent only upon the common good. Dear! Dear! Dear! Does it sound like rubbish to you? I suppose it does. You think I am talking of a dreamland, of an unattainable Utopia? Perhaps I am! This dear, jolly old world of dirt, war, bankruptcy, murder and malice, thwarted lives, wasted lives, tormented lives, general ill health and a social decadence that spreads and deepens towards a universal smash--how can we hope to turn it back from its course? How priggish and impracticable! How impertinent! How preposterous! I seem to hear a distant hooting.... Sometimes it seems to me that the barriers that separate man and man are nearly insurmountable and invincible, that we who talk of a world state now are only the pioneers of a vast uphill struggle in the minds and hearts of men that may need to be waged for centuries--that may fail in the end. Sometimes again, in other moods, it seems to me that these barriers and nationalities and separations are so illogical, so much a matter of tradition, so plainly mischievous and cruel, that at any time we may find the common sense of our race dissolving them away.... Who can see into that darkest of all mysteries, the hearts and wills of mankind? It may be that it is well for us not to know of the many generations who will have to sustain this conflict. Yes, that is one mood, and there is the other. Perhaps we fear too much. Even before our lives run out we may feel the dawn of a greater age perceptible among the black shadows and artificial glares of these unhappy years. IV THE BIBLE OF CIVILIZATION PART ONE § 1 In my next two papers I am going to discuss and--what shall I say?--experiment with an old but neglected idea, an idea that was first broached I believe about the time when the State of Connecticut was coming into existence and while New York was still the Dutch city of New Amsterdam. The man who propounded this idea was a certain great Bohemian, Komensky, who is perhaps better known in our western world by his Latinized name Comenius. He professed himself the pupil of Bacon. He was the friend of Milton. He travelled from one European country to another with his political and educational ideas. For a time he thought of coming to America. It is a great pity that he never came. And his idea, the particular idea of his we are going to discuss, was the idea of a common book, a book of history, science and wisdom, which should form the basis and framework for the thoughts and imaginations of every citizen in the world. In many ways the thinkers and writers of the early seventeenth century seem more akin to us and more sympathetic with the world of to-day, than any intervening group of literary figures. They strike us as having a longer vision than the men of the eighteenth century, and as being bolder--and, how shall I put it?--more desperate in their thinking than the nineteenth century minds. And this closer affinity to our own time arises, I should think, directly and naturally, out of the closer resemblance of their circumstances. Between 1640 and 1650, just as in our present age, the world was tremendously unsettled and distressed. A century and more of expansion and prosperity had given place to a phase of conflict, exhaustion and entire political unsettlement. Britain was involved in the bitter political struggle that culminated in the execution of King Charles I. Ireland was a land of massacre and counter-massacre. The Thirty Years War in Central Europe was in its closing, most dreadful stages of famine and plunder. In France the crown and the nobles were striving desperately for ascendancy in the War of the Fronde. The Turk threatened Vienna. Nowhere in Western Europe did there remain any secure and settled political arrangements. Everywhere there was disorder, everywhere it seemed that anything might happen, and it is just those disordered and indeterminate times that are most fruitful of bold religious and social and political and educational speculations and initiatives. This was the period that produced the Quakers and a number of the most vigorous developments of Puritanism, in which the foundations of modern republicanism were laid, and in which the project of a world league of nations--or rather of a world state--received wide attention. And the student of Comenius will find in him an active and sensitive mind responding with a most interesting similarity to our own responses, to the similar conditions of his time. He has been distressed and dismayed--as most of us have been distressed and dismayed--by a rapid development of violence, by a great release of cruelty and suffering in human affairs. He felt none of the security that was felt in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries of the _certainty_ of progress. He realized as we do that the outlook for humanity is a very dark and uncertain one unless human effort is stimulated and organized. He traced the evils of his time to human discords and divisions, to our political divisions, and the mutual misconceptions due to our diversity of languages and leading ideas. In all that he might be writing and thinking in 1921. And his proposed remedies find an echo in a number of our contemporary movements. He wanted to bring all nations to form one single state. He wanted to have a universal language as the common medium of instruction and discussion, and he wanted to create a common Book of Necessary Knowledge, a sort of common basis of wisdom, for all educated men in the world. Now this last is the idea I would like to develop now. I would like to discuss whether our education--which nowadays in our modern states reaches everyone--whether our education can include and ought to include such a Book of Necessary Knowledge and Wisdom; and (having attempted to answer that enquiry in the affirmative) I shall then attempt a sketch of such a book. But to begin with perhaps I may meet an objection that is likely to arise. I have called this hypothetical book of ours the Bible of Civilization, and it may be that someone will say: Yes, but you have a sufficient book of that sort already; you have the Bible itself and that is all you need. Well, I am taking the Bible as my model. I am taking it because twice in history--first as the Old Testament and then again as the Old and New Testament together--it has formed a culture, and unified and kept together through many generations great masses of people. It has been the basis of the Jewish and Christian civilizations alike. And even in the New World the State of Connecticut did, I believe, in its earliest beginnings take the Bible as its only law. Nevertheless, I hope I shall not offend any reader if I point out that the Bible is not all that we need to-day, and that also in some respects it is redundant. Its very virtues created its limitations. It served men so well that they made a Canon of it and refused to alter it further. Throughout the most vital phases of Hebrew history, throughout the most living years of Christian development the Bible changed and grew. Then its growth ceased and its text became fixed. But the world went on growing and discovering new needs and new necessities. Let me deal first with its redundancy. So far as redundancy goes, a great deal of the Book of Leviticus, for example, seems not vitally necessary for the ordinary citizen of to-day; there are long explicit directions for temple worship and sacrificial procedure. There is again, so far as the latter day citizen is concerned, an excess of information about the minor Kings of Israel and Judah. And there is more light than most of us feel we require nowadays upon the foreign policies of Assyria and Egypt. It stirs our pulses feebly, it helps us only very indirectly to learn that Attai begat Nathan and Nathan begat Zabad, or that Obed begat Jehu and Jehu begat Azariah, and so on for two or three hundred verses. And so far as deficiencies go, there is a great multitude of modern problems--problems that enter intimately into the moral life of all of us, with which the Bible does not deal, the establishment of American Independence, for example, and the age-long feud of Russia and Poland that has gone on with varying fortunes for four centuries. That is much more important to our modern world than the ancient conflict of Assyria and Egypt which plays so large a part in the old Bible record. And there are all sorts of moral problems arising out of modern conditions on which the Bible sheds little or no direct light: the duties of a citizen at an election, or the duties of a shareholder to the labour employed by his company, for example. For these things we need at least a supplement, if we are still to keep our community upon one general basis of understanding, upon one unifying standard of thought and behaviour. We are so brought up upon the Bible, we are so used to it long before we begin to think hard about it, that all sorts of things that are really very striking about it, the facts that the history of Judah and Israel is told twice over and that the gospel narrative is repeated four times over for example, do not seem at all odd to us. How else, we ask, could you have it? Yet these are very odd features if we are to regard the Bible as the compactest and most perfect statement of essential truth and wisdom. And still more remarkable, it seems to me, is it that the Bible breaks off. One could understand very well if the Bible broke off with the foundation of Christianity. Now this event has happened, it might say, nothing else matters. It is the culmination. But the Bible does not do that. It goes on to a fairly detailed account of the beginnings and early politics of the Christian Church. It gives the opening literature of theological exposition. And then, with that strange and doubtful book, the Revelation of St. John the Divine, it comes to an end. As I say, it leaves off. It leaves off in the middle of Roman imperial and social conflicts. But the world has gone on and goes on--elaborating its problems, encountering fresh problems--until now there is a gulf of upwards of eighteen hundred years between us and the concluding expression of the thought of that ancient time. I make these observations in no spirit of detraction. If anything, these peculiarities of the Bible add to the wonder of its influence over the lives and minds of men. It has been The Book that has held together the fabric of western civilization. It has been the handbook of life to countless millions of men and women. The civilization we possess could not have come into existence and could not have been sustained without it. It has explained the world to the mass of our people, and it has given them moral standards and a form into which their consciences could work. But does it do that to-day? Frankly, I do not think it does. I think that during the last century the Bible has lost much of its former hold. It no longer grips the community. And I think it has lost hold because of those sundering eighteen centuries, to which every fresh year adds itself, because of profound changes in the methods and mechanisms of life, and because of the vast extension of our ideas by the development of science in the last century or so. It has lost hold, but nothing has arisen to take its place. That is the gravest aspect of this matter. It was the cement with which our western communities were built and by which they were held together. And the weathering of these centuries and the acids of these later years have eaten into its social and personal influence. It is no longer a sufficient cement. And--this is the essence of what I am driving at--_our modern communities are no longer cemented_, they lack organized solidarity, they are not prepared to stand shocks and strains, they have become dangerously loose mentally and morally. That, I believe, is the clue to a great proportion of the present social and political troubles of the world. We need to get back to a cement. We want a Bible. We want a Bible so badly that we cannot afford to put the old Bible on a pinnacle out of daily use. We want it re-adapted for use. If it is true that the old Bible falls short in its history and does not apply closely to many modern problems, then we need a revised and enlarged Bible in our schools and homes to restore a common ground of ideas and interpretations if our civilization is to hold together. Now let us see what the Bible gave a man in the days when it could really grip and hold and contain him; and let us ask if it is impossible to restore and reconstruct a Bible for the needs of these great and dangerous days in which we are living. Can we re-cement our increasingly unstable civilization? I will not ask now whether there is still time left for us to do anything of the sort. The first thing the Bible gave a man was a Cosmogony. It gave him an account of the world in which he found himself and of his place in it. And then it went on to a general history of mankind. It did not tell him that history as a string of facts and dates, but as a moving and interesting story into which he himself finally came, a story of promises made and destinies to be fulfilled. It gave him a dramatic relationship to the schemes of things. It linked him to all mankind with a conception of relationships and duties. It gave him a place in the world and put a meaning into his life. It explained him to himself and to other people, and it explained other people to him. In other words, out of the individual it made a citizen with a code of duties and expectations. Now I take it that both from the point of view of individual happiness and from the point of view of the general welfare, this development of the citizenship of a man, this placing of a man in his own world, is of primary importance. It is the necessary basis of all right education; it is the fundamental purpose of the school, and I do not believe an individual can be happy or a community be prosperous without it. The Bible and the religions based on it gave that idea of a place in the world to the people it taught. But do we provide that idea of a place in the world for our people to-day? I suggest that we do not. We do not give them a clear vision of the universe in which they live, and we do not give them a history that invests their lives with meaning and dignity. The cosmogony of the Bible has lost grip and conviction upon men's minds, and the ever-widening gulf of years makes its history and its political teaching more and more remote and unhelpful amidst the great needs of to-day. Nothing has been done to fill up these widening gaps. We have so great a respect for the letter of the Bible that we ignore its spirit and its proper use. We do not rewrite and retell Genesis in the light and language of modern knowledge, and we do not revise and bring its history up to date and so apply it to the problems of our own time. So we have allowed the Bible to become antiquated and remote, venerable and unhelpful. There has been a great extension of what we call education in the past hundred years, but while we have spread education widely, there has been a sort of shrinkage and enfeeblement of its aims. Education in the past set out to make a Christian and a citizen and afterwards a gentleman out of the crude, vulgar, self-seeking individual. Does education even pretend to do as much to-day? It does nothing of the sort. Our young people are taught to read and write. They are taught bookkeeping and languages that are likely to be useful to them. They are given a certain measure of technical education, and _they are taught to shove_. And then we turn them out into the world to get on. Our test of a college education is--Does it make a successful business man? Well, this, I take it, is the absolute degradation of education. It is a modern error that education exists for the individual. Education exists for the community and the race; it exists to subdue the individual for the good of the world and his own ultimate happiness. But we have been letting the essentials of education slip back into a secondary place in our pursuit of mere equipment, and we see the results to-day throughout all the modern states of the world, in a loss of cohesion, discipline and co-operation. Men will not co-operate except to raise prices on the consumer or wages on the employer, and everyone scrambles for a front place and a good time. And they do so, partly no doubt by virtue of an ineradicable factor in them known as Original Sin, but also very largely because the vision of life that was built up in their minds at school and in their homes was fragmentary and uninspiring; it had no commanding appeal for their imaginations, and no imperatives for their lives. So I put it, that for the opening books of our Bible of Civilization, our Bible translated into terms of modern knowledge, and as the basis of all our culture, we shall follow the old Bible precedent exactly. We shall tell to every citizen of our community, as plainly, simply and beautifully as we can, the New Story of Genesis, the tremendous spectacle of the Universe that science has opened to us, the flaming beginnings of our world, the vast ages of its making and the astounding unfolding, age after age, of Life. We shall tell of the changing climates of this spinning globe and the coming and going of great floras and faunas, mighty races of living things, until out of the vast, slow process our own kind emerged. And we shall tell the story of our race. How through hundreds of thousands of years it won power over nature, hunted and presently sowed and reaped. How it learnt the secrets of the metals, mastered the riddle of the seasons, and took to the seas. That story of our common inheritance and of our slow upward struggle has to be taught throughout our entire community, in the city slums and in the out-of-the-way farmsteads most of all. By teaching it, we restore again to our people the lost basis of a community, a common idea of their place in space and time. Then, still following the Bible precedent, we must tell a universal history of man. And though on the surface it may seem to be a very different history from the Bible story, in substance it will really be very much the same history, only robbed of ancient trappings and symbols, and made real and fresh again for our present ideas. It will still be a story of conditional promises, the promises of human possibility, a record of sins and blunders and lost opportunities, of men who walked not in the ways of righteousness, of stiff-necked generations, and of merciful renewals of hope. It will still point our lives to a common future which will be the reward and judgment of our present lives. You may say that no such book exists--which is perfectly true--and that no such book could be written. But there I think you underrate the capacity of our English-speaking people. It would be quite possible to get together a committee that would give us the compact and clear cosmogony of history that is needed. Some of the greatest, most inspiring books and documents in the world have been produced by Committees: Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence, the English Translation of the Bible, and the Prayer Book of the English Church are all the productions of committees, and they are all fine and inspiring compilations. For the last three years I have been experimenting with this particular task, and, with the help of six other people, I have sketched out and published an outline of our world's origins and history to show the sort of thing I mean. That _Outline_ is, of course, a corrupting mass of faults and minor inaccuracies, but it does demonstrate the possibility of doing what is required. And its reception both in America and England has shown how ready, how greedy many people are, on account of themselves and on account of their children, for an ordered general account of the existing knowledge of our place in space and time. For want of anything better they have taken my _Outline_ very eagerly. Far more eagerly would they have taken a finer, sounder and more authoritative work. In England this _Outline_ was almost the first experiment of the kind that has been made--the only other I know of in England, was a very compact General History of the World by Mr. Oscar Browning published in 1913. But there are several educationists in America who have been at work on the same task. In this matter of a more generalized history teaching, the New World is decidedly leading the Old. The particular problems of a population of mixed origins have forced it upon teachers in the United States. My friend--I am very happy to be able to call him my friend--Professor Breasted, in conjunction with that very able teacher Professor Robinson, has produced two books, _Ancient Times_ and _Mediæval and Modern Times_, which together make a very complete history of civilized man. They do not, however, give a history of life before man, nor very much of human pre-history. Another admirable American summary of history is Doctor Hutton Webster's _History of the Ancient World_ together with his _Mediæval and Modern History_. This again is very sparing of the story of primitive man. But the work of these gentlemen confirms my own experience that it is quite possible to tell in a comprehensible and inspiring outline the whole history of life and mankind in the compass of a couple of manageable volumes. Neither Browning nor Breasted and Robinson, nor Hutton Webster, nor my own effort are very much longer than twice the length of Dickens' novel of _Bleak House_. So there you have it. There is the thing shown to be possible. If it is possible for us isolated workers to do as much then why should not the thing be done in a big and authoritative manner? Why should we not have a great educational conference of teachers, scientific men and historians from all the civilized peoples of the world, and why should they not draft out a standard World History for general use in the world's schools? Why should that draft not be revised by scores of specialists? Discussed and re-discussed? Polished and finished, and made the opening part of a new Bible of Civilization, a new common basis for a world culture? At intervals it would need to be revised, and it could be revised and brought up to date in the same manner. Now such a book and such a book alone would put the people of the world upon an absolutely new footing with regard to social and international affairs. They would be told a history coming right up to the Daily Newspaper. They would see themselves and the news of to-day as part of one great development. It would give their lives significance and dignity. It would give the events of the current day significance and dignity. It would lift their imaginations up to a new level. I say lift, but I mean restore their imaginations to a former level. Because if you look back into the lives of the Pilgrim Fathers, let us say, or into those of the great soldiers and statesmen of Cromwellian England, you will find that these men had a sense of personal significance, a sense of destiny, such as no one in politics or literature seems to possess to-day. They were still in touch with the old Bible. To-day if life seems adventurous and fragmentary and generally aimless it is largely because of this one thing. We have lost touch with history. We have ceased to see human affairs as one great epic unfolding. And only by the universal teaching of Universal History can that epic quality be restored. You see then the first part of my project for a Bible of Civilization, a rewriting of Genesis and Exodus and Judges and Chronicles in terms of World History. It would be a quite possible thing to do.... Is it worth doing? And let me add here that when we do get our New Genesis and our new historical books, they will have a great number of illustrations as a living and necessary part of them. For nowadays we can not only have a canonical text, but canonical maps and illustrations. The old Hebrew Bible was merely the written word. Indeed it was not even that, for it was written without vowels. That was not a merit, nor a precedent for us; it was an unavoidable limitation in those days; but under modern conditions there is no reason whatever why we should confine our Bible to words when a drawing or a map can better express the thing we wish to convey. It is one of the great advantages of the modern book over the ancient book that because of printing it can use pictures as well as words. When books had to be reproduced by copyists the use of pictures was impossible. They would have varied with each copying until they became hopelessly distorted.... § 2 But the cosmological and historical part of the old Bible was merely the opening, the groundwork upon which the rest was built. Let us now consider what else the Bible gave a man and a community, and what would be the modern form of the things it gave. The next thing in order that the Bible gave a man and the community to which he belonged was the Law. Rules of Life. Rules of Health. Prescriptions--often very detailed and intimate--of permissible and unpermissible conduct. This also the modern citizen needs and should have: he and she need a book of personal wisdom. First as to Health. One of the first duties of a citizen is to keep himself in mental and bodily health in order to be fit for the rest of his duties. Now the real Bible, our model, is extremely explicit upon a number of points, upon what constitutes cleanness or uncleanness, upon ablutions, upon what a man or woman may eat and what may not be eaten, upon a number of such points. It was for its times and circumstances a directory of healthy practice. Well, I do not see why the Bible of a Modern Civilization should not contain a book of similarly clear injunctions and warnings--why we should not tell every one of our people what is to be known about self-care. And closely connected with the care of one's mental and bodily health is sexual morality, upon which again Deuteronomy and Leviticus are most explicit, leaving very little to the imagination. I am all for imitating the wholesome frankness of the ancient book. Where there are no dark corners there is very little fermentation, there is very little foulness or infection. But in nearly every detail and in method and manner, the Bible of our Civilization needs to be fuller and different from its prototype upon these matters. The real Bible dealt with an oriental population living under much cruder conditions than our own, engaged mainly in agriculture, and with a far less various dietary than ours. They had fermented but not distilled liquors; they had no preserved nor refrigerated foods; they married at adolescence; many grave diseases that prevail to-day were unknown to them, and their sanitary problems were entirely different. Generally our New Leviticus will have to be much fuller. It must deal with exercise--which came naturally to those Hebrew shepherds. It must deal with the preservation of energy under conditions of enervation of which the prophets knew nothing. On the other hand our New Leviticus can afford to give much less attention to leprosy--which almost dominates the health instructions of the ancient law-giver. I do not know anything very much about the movements in America that aim at the improvement of the public health and at the removal of public ignorance upon vital things. In Britain we have a number of powerful organizations active in disseminating knowledge to counteract the spread of this or that infectious or contagious disease. The War has made us in Europe much more outspoken and fearless in dealing with lurking hideous evils. We believe much more than we did in the curative value of light and knowledge. And we have a very considerable literature of books on--what shall I call it? on Sex Wisdom, which aim to prevent some of that great volume of misery, deprivation and nervous disease due to the prevailing ignorance and secrecy in these matters. For in these matters great multitudes of modern people still live in an ignorance that would have been inconceivable to an ancient Hebrew. In England now the books of such a writer as Dr. Marie Stopes are enormously read, and--though they are by no means perfect works--do much to mitigate the hidden disappointments, discontents, stresses and cruelties of married life. Now I believe that it would be possible to compile a modern Leviticus and Deuteronomy to tell our whole modern community decently and plainly--just as plainly as the old Hebrew Bible instructed its Hebrew population--what was to be known and what had to be done, and what had not to be done in these intimate matters. But Health and Sex do not exhaust the problems of conduct. There are also the problems of Property and Trade and Labour. Upon these also the old Bible did not hesitate to be explicit. For example, it insisted meticulously upon the right of labour to glean and upon the seller giving a "full measure brimming over," and it prohibited usury. But here again the Bible is extraordinarily unhelpful when we come to modern issues, because its rules and regulations were framed for a community and for an economic system altogether cruder, more limited and less complicated than our own. Much of the Old Testament we have to remember was already in existence before the free use of coined metal. The vast credit system of our days, joint-stock company enterprise and the like, were beyond the imagination of that time. So too was any anticipation of modern industrialism. And accordingly we live to-day in a world in which neither property nor employment have ever been properly moralized. The bulk of our present social and economic troubles is due very largely to that. In no matter is this muddled civilization of ours more hopelessly at sixes and sevens than in this matter of the rights and duties of property. Manifestly property is a trust for the community varying in its responsibilities with the nature of the property. The property one has in one's toothbrush is different from the property one has in ten thousand acres of land; the property one has in a photograph of a friend is different from the property one has in some irreplaceable masterpiece of portraiture. The former one may destroy with a good conscience, but not the latter. At least so it seems to me. But opinions vary enormously on these matters because we have never really worked them out. On the one hand, in this matter of property, we have the extreme individualist who declares that a man has an unlimited right to do what he likes with his own--so that a man who owns a coal mine may just burn it out to please himself or spite the world, or raise the price of coal generally--and on the other hand we have the extreme communist who denies all property and in practice--so far as I can understand his practice--goes on the principle that everything belongs to somebody else or that one is entitled to exercise proprietary rights over everything that does not belong to oneself. (I confess that communistic practice is a little difficult to formulate.) Between these extremists you can find every variety of idea about what one may do and about what one may not do with money and credit and property generally. Is it an offence to gamble? Is it an offence to speculate? Is it an offence to hold fertile fields and not cultivate them? Is it an offence to hold fertile fields and undercultivate them? Is it an offence to use your invested money merely to live pleasantly without working? Is it an offence to spend your money on yourself and refuse your wife more than bare necessities? Is it an offence to spend exorbitant sums that might otherwise go in reproductive investments, to gratify the whims and vanities of your wife? You will find different people answering any of these questions with Yes or No. But it cannot be both Yes and No. There must be a definable Right or Wrong upon all these issues. Almost all the labour trouble in the world springs directly from our lack of an effective detailed moral code about property. The freedom that is claimed for all sorts of property and exercised by all sorts of property to waste or withhold is the clue to that savage resentment which flares out nowadays in every great labour conflict. Labour is a rebel because property is a libertine. Now this untilled field of conduct, this moral wilderness of the rights and duties and limitations of property, the Books of the Law in a modern Bible could clear up in the most lucid and satisfying way. I want to get those parts of Deuteronomy and Leviticus written again, more urgently than any other part of the modern Bible. I want to see it at work in the schools and in the law-courts. I admit that it would be a most difficult book to write and that we should raise controversial storms over every verse. But what an excellent thing to have it out, once for all, with some of these rankling problems! What an excellent thing if we could get together a choice group of representative men--strictly rationed as to paper--and get them to set down clearly and exactly just what classes of property they recognized and what limitations the community was entitled to impose upon each sort. Every country in the world does impose limitations. In Italy you may not export an ancient work of art, although it is your own. In England you may not maltreat your own dog or cat. In the United States, I am told, you may not use your dollars to buy alcohol. Why should we not make all this classification of property and the restraints upon each class of property, systematic and world-wide? If we could so moralize the use of property, if we could arrive at a clear idea of just what use an owner could make of his machinery, or a financier could make of his credit, would there be much left of the incessant labour conflicts of the present time? For if you will look into it, you will find there is hardly ever a labour conflict into which some unsettled question of principle, some unsettled question of the permissible use of property, does not enter as the final and essential dispute. V THE BIBLE OF CIVILIZATION PART TWO § 3 In the preceding sections we have discussed Genesis and the Historical Books generally as they would appear in a modernized Bible, and we have dealt with the Law. But these are only the foundations and openings of the Bible as we know it. We come now to the Psalms and Proverbs, the Song of Songs, the Book of Job--and the Prophets. What are the modern equivalents of these books? Well, what were they? They were the entire Hebrew literature down to about the time of Ezra; they include sacred songs, love songs, a dramatic dialogue, a sort of novel in the Books of Ruth and Esther, and so forth. What would be our equivalent of this part of the Bible to-day? What would be the equivalent for the Bible of a world civilization? I suppose that it would be the whole world literature. That, I admit, is a rather tremendous proposition. Are we to contemplate the prospect of a modern Bible in twenty or thirty thousand volumes? Such a vast Bible would defeat its own end. We want a Bible that everyone will know, which will be grasped by the mind of everyone. That is essential to our idea of a Bible as a social cement. Fortunately our model Bible, as we have it to-day, gives us a lead in this matter. Its contents are classified. We have first of all the canonical books, which are treated as the vitally important books; they are the books, to quote the phrase used in the English prayer book, which are "necessary to salvation." And then we have a collection of other books, the Apocrypha, the books set aside, books often admirable and beautiful, but not essential, good to be read for "example of life and instruction of manners," yet books that everyone need not read and know. Let us take this lead and let us ask whether we can--with the whole accumulated literature of the world as our material--select a bookful or so of matter, of such exceptional value that it would be well for all mankind to read it and know it. This will be our equivalent for the canonical Books. I will return to that in a moment. And outside this canonical Book or Books, shall we leave all the rest of literature in a limitless Apocrypha? I am doubtful about that. I would suggest that we make a second intermediate class between the canonical books that everyone in our civilization ought to read and the outer Apocrypha that you may read or not as you choose. This intermediate class I would call the Great Books of the World. It would not be a part of our Bible, but it would come next to our Bible. It would not be what one must read but only what it is desirable the people should read. Now this canonical literature we are discussing is to be the third vital part of our modern Bible. I conceive of it as something that would go into the hands of every man and woman in that coming great civilization which is the dream of our race. Together with the Book of World History and the Book of Law and Righteousness and Wisdom that I have sketched out to you, and another Book of which I shall have something to say later, this canonical literature will constitute the intellectual and moral cement of the World Society, that intellectual and moral cement for the want of which our world falls into political and social confusion and disaster to-day. Upon such a basis, upon a common body of ideas, a common moral teaching and the world-wide assimilation of the same emotional and æsthetic material, it may still be possible to build up humanity into one co-operative various and understanding community. Now if we bear this idea of a cementing function firmly in mind, we shall have a criterion by which to judge what shall be omitted from and what shall be included in the Books of Literature in this modern Bible of ours. We shall begin, of course, by levying toll upon the Old and New Testaments. I do not think I need justify that step. I suppose that there will be no doubt of the inclusion of many of the Psalms--but I question if we should include them all--and of a number of splendid passages from the Prophets. Should we include the Song of Songs? I am inclined to think that the compilers of a new Bible would hesitate at that. Should we include the Book of Job? That I think would be a very difficult question indeed for our compilers. The Book of Job is a very wonderful and beautiful discussion of the profound problem of evil in the world. It is a tremendous exercise to read and understand, but is it universally necessary? I am disposed to think that the Book of Job, possibly with the illustrations of Blake, would not make a part of our Canon but would rank among our Great Books. It is a part of a very large literature of discussion, of which I shall have more to say in a moment. So too I question if we should make the story of Ruth or the story of Esther fundamental teaching for our world civilization. Daniel, again, I imagine relegated to the Apocrypha. But to this I will return later. The story of the Gospels would, of course, have been incorporated in our Historical Book, but in addition as part of our first canon, each of the four gospels--with the possible omission of the genealogies--would have a place, for the sake of their matchless directness, simplicity and beauty. They give a picture, they convey an atmosphere of supreme value to us all, incommunicable in any other form or language. Again there is a great wealth of material in the Epistles. It is, for example, inconceivable that such a passage as that of St. Paul's Epistle to the Corinthians--"Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels and have not charity I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal"--the whole of that wonderful chapter--should ever pass out of the common heritage of mankind. So much from the Ancient Bible for our modern Bible, all its inspiration and beauty and fire. And now what else? Speaking in English to an English-speaking audience one name comes close upon the Bible, Shakespear. What are we going to do about Shakespear? If you were to waylay almost any Englishman or American and put this project of a modern Bible before him, and then begin your list of ingredients with the Bible and the whole of Shakespear, he would almost certainly say, "Yes, Yes." But would he be right? On reflection he might perhaps recede and say "Not the whole of Shakespear," but well, _Hamlet_, _The Tempest_, _Romeo and Juliet_, _A Midsummer-Night's Dream_. But even these! Are they "generally necessary to salvation"? We run our minds through the treasures of Shakespear as we might run our fingers through the contents of a box of very precious and beautiful jewels--before equipping a youth for battle. No. These things are for ornament and joy. I doubt if we could have a single play--a single scene of Shakespear's in our Canon. He goes altogether into the Great Books, all of him; he joins the aristocracy of the Apocrypha. And, I believe, nearly all the great plays of the world would have to join him there. Euripides and Sophocles, Schiller and Ibsen. Perhaps some speeches and such-like passages might be quoted in the Canon, but that is all. Our Canon, remember, is to be the essential cementing stuff of our community and nothing more. If once we admit merely beautiful and delightful things, then I see an overwhelming inrush of jewels and flowers. If we admit _A Midsummer-Night's Dream_, then I must insist that we also admit such lovely nonsense as In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure dome decree, Where Alph the sacred river ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea.... Our Canon I am afraid cannot take in such things, and with the plays we must banish also all the novels; the greater books of such writers as Cervantes, Defoe, Dickens, Fielding, Tolstoi, Hardy, Hamsun, that great succession of writers--they are all good for "example of life and instruction of manners," and to the Apocrypha they must go. And so it is that since I would banish _Romeo and Juliet_, I would also banish the Song of Songs, and since I must put away _Vanity Fair_ and the _Shabby Genteel Story_, I would also put away _Esther_ and _Ruth_. And I find myself most reluctant to exclude not any novels written in English, but one or two great sweeping books by non-English writers. It seems to me that Tolstoi's _War and Peace_ and Hamsun's _Growth of the Soil_ are books on an almost Biblical scale, that they deal with life so greatly as to come nearest to the idea of a universally inspiring and illuminating literature which underlies the idea of our Canon. If we put in any whole novels into the Canon I would plead for these. But I will not plead now even for these. I do not think any novels at all can go into our modern Bible, as whole works. The possibility of long passages going in, is of course, quite a different matter. And passing now from great plays and great novels and romances, we come to the still more difficult problem of great philosophical and critical works. Take _Gulliver's Travels_--an intense, dark, stirring criticism of life and social order--and the _Dialogues of Plato_, full of light and inspiration. In these latter we might quarry for beautiful passages for our Canon, but I do not think we could take them in as wholes, and if we do not take them in as complete books, then I think that Semitic parallel to these Greek dialogues, The Book of Job, must stand not in our Canon, but in the Great Book section of our Apocrypha. And next we have to consider all the great Epics in the world. There again I am for exclusion. This Bible we are considering must be universally available. If it is too bulky for universal use it loses its primary function of a moral cement. We cannot include the _Iliad_, the Norse Sagas, the _Æneid_ or _Paradise Lost_ in our Canon. Let them swell the great sack of our Apocrypha, and let the children read them if they will. When one glances in this fashion over the accumulated literary resources of mankind it becomes plain that our canonical books of literature in this modern Bible of ours can be little more than an Anthology or a group of Anthologies. Perhaps they might be gathered under separate heads, as the 'Book of Freedom,' the 'Book of Justice,' the 'Book of Charity.' And now having done nothing as yet but reject, let me begin to accept. Let me quote a few samples of the kind of thing that I imagine would best serve the purpose of our Bible and that should certainly be included. Here are words that every American knows by heart already--I would like every man in the world to know them by heart and to repeat them. It is Lincoln's Gettysburg Address and I will not spare you a word of it: "Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battlefield of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting-place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this. But in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate--we cannot consecrate--we cannot hallow--this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us--that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion. That we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain--that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom--and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth." And here is something that might perhaps make another short chapter in the same Book of Freedom--but it deals with Freedom of a different sort: Out of the night that covers me Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud, Under the bludgeonings of Chance, My head is bloody but unbowed. Beyond this Place of wrath and tears, Looms but the Horror of the Shade, And yet the Menace of the years Finds and shall find me Unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the Master of my Fate, I am the Captain of my Soul. That, as you know, was Henley's, and as I turned up his volume of poems to copy out that poem I came again on these familiar lines: The ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet, From camp and church, the fireside and the street, She beckons forth--and strife and song have been. A summer's night descending cool and green, And dark on daytime's dust and stress and heat, The ways of Death are soothing and serene, And all the words of Death are grave and sweet. There seems something in that also which I could spare only very reluctantly from a new Bible in the world. Yet I tender those lines very doubtfully. For I am not a very cultivated and well-read person, and note only the things that have struck upon my mind; but I quite understand that there must be many things of the same sort, but better, that I have never encountered, or that I have not heard or read under circumstances that were favourable to their proper appreciation. I would rather say about what I am quoting in this section, not positively "this thing," but merely "this sort of thing." And in the vein of "this sort of thing" let me quote you--again for the Book of Freedom--a passage from Milton, defending the ancient English tradition of free speech and free decision and praising London and England. This London and England of which he boasts have broadened out as the idea of Jerusalem has broadened out, to world-wide comprehensions. Let no false modesty blind us to our great tradition; you and I are still thinking in Milton's city; we continue, however unworthily, the great inheritance of the world-wide responsibility and service, of His Englishmen. Here is my passage: "Now once again by all concurrence of signs, and by the general instinct of holy and devout men, as they daily and solemnly express their thoughts, God is decreeing to begin some new and great period in His Church, even to the reforming of reformation itself; what does He then but reveal Himself to His servants, and as His manner is, first to His Englishmen? I say, as His manner is, first to us, though we mark not the method of His counsels, and are unworthy. Behold now this vast city, a city of refuge, the mansion-house of liberty, encompassed and surrounded with His protection; the shop of war hath not there more anvils and hammers working, to fashion out the plates and instruments of armed justice in defence of beleaguered truth, than there be pens and heads there, sitting by their studious lamps, musing, searching, revolving new notions and ideas wherewith to present, as with their homage and their fealty, the approaching reformation: others as fast reading, trying all things, assenting to the force of reason and convincement. "What could a man require more from a nation so pliant and so prone to seek after knowledge? What wants there to such a towardly and pregnant soil, but wise and faithful labourers, to make a knowing people, a nation of prophets, of sages, and of worthies? We reckon more than five months yet to harvest; there need not be five weeks, had we but eyes to lift up, the fields are white already. Where there is much desire to learn, there of necessity will be much arguing, much writing, many opinions; for opinion in good men is but knowledge in the making. Under these fantastic terrors of sect and schism, we wrong the earnest and zealous thirst after knowledge and understanding, which God hath stirred up in this city. What some lament of, we rather should rejoice at, should rather praise this pious forwardness among men, to reassume the ill-deputed care of their religion into their own hands again. A little generous prudence, a little forbearance of one another, and some grain of charity might win all these diligencies to join and unite into one general and brotherly search after truth; could we but forego this prelatical tradition of crowding free consciences and Christian liberties into canons and precepts of men. I doubt not, if some great and worthy stranger should come among us, wise to discern the mould and temper of a people, and how to govern it, observing the high hopes and aims, the diligent alacrity of our extended thoughts and reasonings in the pursuance of truth and freedom, but that he would cry out as Pyrrhus did, admiring the Roman docility and courage: 'If such were my Epirots, I would not despair the greatest design that could be attempted to make a church or kingdom happy.' "Yet these are the men cried out against for schismatics and sectaries, as if, while the temple of the Lord was building, some cutting, some squaring the marble, others hewing the cedars, there should be a sort of irrational men, who could not consider there must be many schisms and many dissections made in the quarry and in the timber ere the house of God can be built. And when every stone is laid artfully together, it cannot be united into a continuity, it can but be contiguous in this world: neither can every piece of the building be of one form; nay, rather the perfection consists in this, that out of many moderate varieties and brotherly dissimilitudes that are not vastly disproportional, arises the goodly and the graceful symmetry that commends the whole pile and structure." But I will not go on turning over the pages of books and reciting prose and poetry to you. I cannot even begin to remind you of the immense treasure of noble and ennobling prose and verse that this world has accumulated in the past three thousand years. Not one soul in ten thousand that is born into this world even tastes from that store. For most of mankind now that treasure is as if it had never been. Is it too much to suggest that we should make some organized attempt to gather up the quintessence of literature now, and make it accessible to the masses of our race? Why should we not on a large scale with a certain breadth and dignity set about compiling the Poetic Books, the Books of Inspiration for a renewed Bible, for a Bible of Civilization? It seems to me that such a Book made universally accessible, made a basis of teaching everywhere could set the key of the whole world's thought. § 4 Today There remains one other element if we are to complete the parallelism of the old Bible and the new. The Christian Bible ends with a forecast, the Book of Revelation; the Hebrew Bible ended also with forecasts, the Prophets. To that the old Bible owed much of its magic power over men's imaginations and the inspiration it gave them. It was not a dead record, not an accumulation of things finished and of songs sung. It pointed steadily and plainly to the Days to Come as the end and explanation of all that went before. So too our Modern Bible, if it is to hold and rule the imagination of men, must close I think with a _Book of Forecasts_. We want to make our world think more than it does about the consequences of the lives it leads and the political deeds that it does and that it permits to be done. We want to turn the human imagination round again towards the future which our lives create. We want a collection and digest of forecasts and warnings to complete this modern Bible of ours. Now here I think you will say--and I admit with perfect reason--that I am floating away from any reasonable possibility at all. How can we have forecasts and prophecies of things that are happening now? Well, I will make a clean breast of it, and admit that I am asking for something that may be impossible. Nevertheless it is something that is very necessary if men are to remain indeed intelligent co-operating communities. In the past you will find where there have been orderly and successful communities the men in them had an idea of a Destiny, of some object, something that would amount to a criterion and judgment upon their collective conduct. Well, I believe that we have to get back to something of that sort. We have statesmen and politicians who profess to guide our destinies. Whither are they guiding our destinies? Surely they have some idea. The great American statesmen and the great European statesmen are making To-morrow. What is the To-morrow they are making? They must have some idea of it. Otherwise they must be imposters. I am loth to believe them imposters, mere adventurers who have blundered into positions of power and honour with no idea of what they are doing to the world. But if they have an idea of what they are doing to the world, they foresee and intend a Future. That, I take it, is sound reasoning and the inference is plain. They ought to write down their ideas of this Future before us. It would be helpful to all of us. It might be a very helpful exercise for them. It is, I think, reasonable for Americans to ask the great political personages of America, the president and so forth, for example: whether they think the United States will stand alone in twenty-five years' time as they stand alone now? Or whether they think that there will be a greater United States--of all America--or of all the world? They must know their own will about that. And it is equally reasonable to ask the great political personages of the British Empire: what will Ireland be in twenty-five years' time? What will India be? There must be a plan, an intended thing. Otherwise these men have no intentions; otherwise they must be, in two words, dangerous fools. The sooner we substitute a type of man with a sufficient foresight and capable of articulate speech in the matter, the better for our race. And again every statesman and every politician throughout the world says that the relations of industrial enterprise to the labour it employs are unsatisfactory. Yes. But how are those relations going to develop? How do they mean them to develop? Are we just drifting into an unknown darkness in all these matters with blind leaders of our blindness? Or cannot a lot of these things be figured out by able and intelligent people? I put it to you that they can. That it is a reasonable and proper thing to ask our statesmen and politicians: what is going to happen to the world? What sort of better social order are you making for? What sort of world order are you creating? Let them open their minds to us, let them put upon permanent record the significance of all their intrigues and manoeuvres. Then as they go on we can check their capacity and good faith. We can establish a control at last that will rule presidents and kings. Now the answer to these questions for statesmen is what I mean by a _Book of Forecasts_. Such a book I believe is urgently needed to help our civilization. It is a book we ought all to possess and read. I know you will say that such a _Book of Forecasts_ will be at first a preposterously insufficient book--that every year will show it up and make it more absurd. I quite agree. The first _Book of Forecasts_ will be a poor thing. Miserably poor. So poor that people will presently clamour to have it thoroughly revised. The revised _Book of Forecasts_ will not be quite so bad. It will have been tested against realities. It will form the basis of a vast amount of criticism and discussion. When again it comes to be revised, it will be much nearer possible realities. I put it to you that the psychology, the mentality of a community that has a _Book of Forecasts_ in hand and under watchful revision will be altogether steadier and stronger and clearer than that of a community which lives as we do to-day, mere adventurers, without foresight, in a world of catastrophies and accidents and unexpected things. We shall be living again in a plan. Our lives will be shaped to certain defined ends. We shall fall into place in a great scheme of activities. We shall recover again some or all of the steadfastness and dignity of the old religious life. § 5 Today Let me with this _Book of Forecasts_ round off my fantasy. I would picture to you this modern Bible, perhaps two or three times as bulky as the old Bible, and consisting first of The Historical Books with maps and the like; The Books of Conduct and Wisdom; The Anthologies of Poetry and Literature; and finally the Book of Forecasts, taking the place of the Prophets and Revelations. I would picture this revivified Bible to you as most carefully done and printed and made accessible to all, the basis of education in every school, the common platform of all discussion--just as in the past the old Bible used to be. I would ask you to imagine it translated into every language, a common material of understanding throughout all the world. And furthermore, I imagine something else about this--quite unlike the old Bible--I imagine all of it periodically revised. The historical books would need to be revised and brought up to date, there would be new lights on health and conduct, there would be fresh additions to the anthologies, and there would be Forecasts that would have to be struck out because they were realized or because they were shown to be hopeless or undesirable, and fresh Forecasts would be added to replace them. It would be a Bible moving forward and changing and gaining with human experience and human destiny.... Well, that is my dream of a Bible of Civilization. Have I in any way carried my vision out to you of this little row of four or five volumes in every house, in every life, throughout the world, holding the lives and ideas and imaginations of men together in a net of common familiar phrases and common established hopes? And is this a mere fantastic talk, or is this a thing that could be done and that ought to be done? I do not know how it will appear to you, but to me it seems that this book I have been talking about, the Bible of to-day's civilization, is not simply a conceivable possibility, it is a great and urgent need. Our education is, I think, pointless without it, a shell without a core. Our social life is aimless without it, we are a crowd without a common understanding. Only by means of some such unifying instrument, I believe, can we hope to lift human life out of its present dangerous drift towards confusion and disaster. It is, I think therefore, an urgently desirable undertaking. It is also a very practicable one. The creation of such a Bible, its printing and its translation, and a propaganda that would carry it into the homes and schools of most of the world, could I think all be achieved by a few hundred resolute and capable people at a cost of thirty or forty million dollars. That is a less sum than that the United States--in a time when they have no enemy to fear in all the world--are prepared to spend upon the building of what is for them an entirely superfluous and extravagant toy, a great navy. You may, you probably will, differ very widely upon much that I have here put before you. Let me ask you not to let any of the details of my sketching set you against the fundamental idea, that old creative idea of the Bohemian educationist who was the pupil of Bacon and the friend of Milton, the idea of Komensky, the idea of creating and using a common book, a book of knowledge and wisdom, as the necessary foundation for any enduring human unanimity. VI THE SCHOOLING OF THE WORLD And now I am going on to a review of the broad facts of the educational organization of our present world. I am myself a very under-educated person. It is a constant trouble to me. Like seeks like in this world. I propose to ask the question whether the whole world is not under-educated, and I warn you in advance that I am going to answer in the affirmative. I am going to discuss the possibility of raising the general educational level very considerably, and I am going to consider what such a raising of the educational level would mean in human life. I propose to adopt rather a vulgar, business-like tone about all this. I am going to apply to the human community much the same sort of tests that a manufacturer applies to his factory. His factory has some distinctive product, and when he looks into his affairs he tries to find out whether he gets the utmost quantity of the product, whether he gets the best possible quality of the product, whether he gets it as efficiently and inexpensively as possible, and constantly how he can improve his factory and his processes in all these matters. Now the human community may be regarded as a concern engaged in the production of human life. And it may be judged very largely by the question whether the human life it produces is abundant and full and intense and beautiful. Most of the tests that we apply to a state or a city or a period or a nation resolve themselves, you will find, into these questions:-- What was the life it produced? What is the life it produces? Now I will further assume that as yet the community has little or no control over the raw product, over the life, that is to say, that comes into it. I admit that from at least the time of Plato onward the possibility has been discussed of _breeding_ human beings as we do horses and dogs. There is an enormous amount of what is called eugenic literature and discussion to-day. But I will set all that sort of thing aside from our present discussion because I do not think anything of the kind is practicable at the present time. Quite apart from any other considerations, one has to remember one entire difference between the possible breeding of human beings and the actual breeding of dogs and horses. We breed dogs and horses for uniformity, for certain very limited specified _points_--speed, scent and the like. But human beings we should have to breed for variety: we cannot specify any particular _points_ we want. We want statesmen and poets and musicians and philosophers and swift men and strong men and delicate men and brave men. The qualities of one would be the weaknesses of another. It is really a false analogy, that between the breeding of men and the breeding of horses and dogs. In the case of human beings we want much more subtle and delicate combinations of qualities. For any practical purposes we do not know what we want nor do we know how to get it. So let us rule that theme out of our present discussion altogether. And I also propose to rule out another set of topics from this discussion--simply because if we don't do so we shall have more matter than we can handle conveniently in the time at our disposal. I propose to leave out all questions of health and physical welfare. There is, as you know, a vast literature now in existence, concerned with the health and welfare of children before and after birth, concerned with infantile life, with social conditions and social work directed to the production of a vigorous population. I am going to assume here that all that sort of thing is seen to--that it is all right, that somebody is doing that, that we need not trouble for the present about any of those things. This leaves us with the mental life only of our community and its individuals to consider. On that I propose to concentrate this discussion. Now the human mind in its opening stages in a civilized community passes through a process which may best be named as _schooling_. And under schooling I would include not only the sort of things that we do to a prospective citizen in the school and the infant school but also anything in the nature of a school-like lesson that is done by the mother or nurse or tutor at home, or by playmates and companions anywhere. Out of this schooling arises the general mental life. It is the structural ground-stuff of all education and thought. Now what is this _schooling_ to do--what is it doing to the new human being? Let us recall what our own schooling was. It fell into two pretty clearly defined parts. We learnt reading and writing, we made a certain study of grammar, the method of language, perhaps we learnt the beginnings of some other language than our own; we learnt some arithmetic and perhaps a little geometry and algebra; we did some drawing. All these things were ways of expression, means of expressing ourselves, means of comprehending our thoughts in terms of other people's minds, and of understanding the expressions of others. That was the basis and substance of our schooling; a training in mental elucidation and in communication with other minds. But also as our schooling went on there was something more; we learnt a little history, some geography, the beginnings of science. This second part of education was not so much expression as _wisdom_. We learnt what was generally known of the world about us and of its past. We entered into the common knowledge and common ideas of the world. Now, obviously, this _schooling_ is merely a specialization and expansion of a parental function. In the primitive ages of our race the parent, and particularly the mother, out of an instinctive impulse and practical necessity, restrained and showed and taught, and the child, with an instinctive imitativeness and docility, obeyed and learnt. And as the primitive family grew into a tribe, as functions specialized and the range of knowledge widened, this primitive schooling by the mother was supplemented and extended by the showing of things by companions and by the maxims and initiations of old men. It was only with the development of early civilizations, as the mysteries of writing and reading began to be important in life, that the school, _qua_ school, became a thing in itself. And as the community expanded, the scope of instruction expanded with it. Schooling is, in fact, and always has been, the expansion and development of the primitive savage mind, which is still all that we inherit, to adapt it to the needs of a larger community. It makes out of the savage raw material which is our basal mental stuff, a citizen. It is a necessary process of fusion if a civilized community is to keep in being. Without at least a network of schooled persons, able to communicate its common ideas and act in intelligent co-operation, no community beyond a mere family group can ever hold together. As the human community expands, therefore, the range of schooling must expand to keep pace with it. I want to base my inquiry upon that proposition. If it is sound, certain very interesting conclusions follow. I have already shown in the preceding discussions that the _range_ of the modern state has increased at least ten times in the past century, and that the scale of our community of intercourse has increased correspondingly. I want now to ask if there has been any corresponding enlargement of the scope of the schooling--either of the community as a whole or of any special governing classes in the community--to keep pace with this tremendous extension of range. I am going to argue that there has not been such an enlargement, and that a large factor in our present troubles is the failure of education and educational method to keep pace with the new demands made upon them. Now I will first ask what would one like one's son or daughter to get at school to make him or her a full living citizen of this modern world. And at first I will not take into consideration the question of expense or any such practical difficulties. I will suppose that for the education of this fortunate young citizen whose case we are considering we have limitless means, the best possible tutors, the best apparatus and absolutely the most favourable conditions. The only limits to the teaching of this young citizen are his or her own limitations. We suppose a pupil of fair average intelligence only. Now first we shall want our pupil to understand, speak, read and write the mother tongue well. To do this thoroughly in English involves a fairly sound knowledge of Latin grammar and at least some slight knowledge of the elements of Greek. Latin and Greek, which are disappearing as distinct and separate subjects from many school curricula, are returning as necessary parts of the English course. But nowadays a full life is not to be lived with a single language. The world becomes polyglot. Even if we do not want to live among foreigners, we want to read their books and newspapers and understand and follow their thought. Few of us there are who would not gladly read and speak several more languages if we had the chance of doing so. I would therefore set down as a desirable part of this ideal education we are planning, two or three other languages in addition to the mother tongue learnt early and thoroughly. These additional languages can be acquired easily if they are learnt in the right way. The easiest way to learn a language is to learn it when you are quite young. Many prosperous people in Europe nowadays contrive to bring up their children with two or three foreign languages, by employing foreign nurses and nursery governesses who never speak to the children except in the foreign languages. In many cases what is known as the alternate week system prevails. The governess is Swiss and for one week she talks nothing but French and for another nothing but German. In this way the children at the age of eight or nine can be made to talk all three languages with a perfect accent and an easy idiom. Now, if this can be done for some children it could be done for all children--provided we could find the nurses and governesses or some equivalent for the nurses and governesses, and if we can organize the business efficiently. That point I will defer. I note here simply that the thing is possible, if not practicable. Children, however, who have made this much start with languages are unable, in England and America at least, to go on properly with the learning of languages when they pass into a school. Our schools are so badly organized that it is rare to find even French well taught, and there is rarely any teaching at all of modern languages other than French or German. Often the two foreign languages are taught by different teachers employing different methods, and both employing a different grammatical nomenclature from that used in studying the mother tongue. The classes are encumbered with belated beginners. The child who has got languages from its governess, therefore, marks time--that is to say, wastes time in these subjects at school. The child well grounded in some foreign tongue is often a source of irritation to the teacher, and gets into trouble because it uses idiomatic expressions with which the teacher is unfamiliar, or seems to reflect upon the teacher's accent. These are the limitations of the school and not the limitations of the pupil. _Given facilities_, there is no reason why there should not be a rapid expansion of the language syllabus at thirteen or fourteen, and why language generally should not be studied. Some Slavonic language could be taken up--Russian or Czech--and a beginning made with some non-Aryan tongue--Arabic, for example. The object of language teaching in a civilized state is twofold: to give a thorough, intimate, usable knowledge of the mother tongue and of certain key languages. But if teaching were systematic and no time were wasted, if schooling joined on and were continuous instead of being catastrophically disconnected, there is another side of language teaching altogether--now entirely disregarded--and that is the acquisition _in skeleton_ of quite a number of languages clustering round the key languages. If at the end of his schooling a boy knows English, French and German very well and nothing more, he is still a helpless foreigner in relation to large parts of the world. But if, in addition, he has an outline knowledge of Russian and Arabic or Turkish or Hindustani--it need only be a quite bare outline--and if he has had a term or so of Spanish in relation to his French, or Swedish in relation to his German, then he has the key in his hands for almost any language he may want. If he has not the language in his head, he has it very conveniently on call--he needs but a sensible conversation dictionary and in a little while he can possess himself of it. You may think this a large order; you may think I am demanding linguistic prodigies; but remember that I am upon my own ground here; I am a trained teacher and a student of pedagogic science, and I am a watchful parent; I know how time and opportunity are wasted in school, and particularly in language teaching. Languages are not things that exist in water-tight compartments; each one illuminates the other and--unless it is taught with stupefying stupidity--leads on to others. A child can acquire the polyglot habit almost unawares. This widening grasp of languages is or was within the capacity of nearly everyone born into the world--given the facilities. I ask you to note that qualification--"given the facilities." And now let us turn from the language side to the rest of schooling. A second main division of our schooling was mathematical instruction of a sort. It fell into the three more or less isolated subjects of arithmetic, algebra and Euclid. We carried on in these closed cells what was, I now perceive, a needlessly laborious and needlessly muddled struggle to comprehend quantity, series and form. In all these matters, looking back upon what I was taught, comparing it with what I now know, and comparing my mind with the minds of more fortunate individuals, I cannot resist the persuasion that I was very badly done indeed in this section. And it is small consolation to me to note that most people's minds seem to be no better done than mine. My arithmetic, for instance, is mediocre. It is pervaded by inaccuracy. You may say that this is probably want of aptitude. Partly, no doubt, but not altogether. What is want of aptitude? Bad as my arithmetic is now it is not so bad as it was when I left school. When I was about twenty I held a sort of inquest upon it and found out a number of things. I found that I had been allowed to acquire certain bad habits and besetting sins--most people do. For instance, when I ran up a column of figures to add them I would pass from nine to seven quite surely and say sixteen; but if I went from seven to nine I had a vicious disposition to make it eighteen. Endless additions went wrong through that one error. I had fumbled into this vice and--this is my point--my school had no apparatus, and no system of checks, to discover that this had occurred. I used to get my addition wrong and I used to be punished--stupidly--by keeping me in from exercise. Time after time this happened; there was no investigation and no improvement. Nobody ever put me through a series of test sums that would have analysed my errors and discovered these besetting sins of mine that led to my inaccurate arithmetic. And another thing that made my arithmetic wrong was a defect in eyesight. My two eyes haven't quite the same focal length and this often puts me out of the straight with a column of figures. But there was nothing in my school to discover that, and my school never did discover it. My geometrical faculties are also very poor and undeveloped. Euclid's elements, indeed, I have always found simple and straightforward, but when it comes to anything in solid geometry--the intersection of a sphere by a cone, let us say, or something of that sort--I am hopelessly at sea. Deep-seated habits of faulting and fogging, which were actually developed by my schooling, prevent my forming any conception of the surfaces involved. Here again, just as with the language teaching, hardly any of us are really fully educated. We suffer, nearly all of us, from a lack of quantitative grasp and from an imperfect grasp of form. Few of us have acquired such a grasp. Few of us ever made a proper use of models, and nearly all of us have miserably trained hands. _Given proper facilities_--and here again I ask you to note that proviso--given proper educational facilities, most of us would not only be able to talk with most people in the world but we should also have a conception of form and quantity far more subtle than that possessed by any but a few mathematicians and mechanical geniuses to-day. Let me now come to a third main division of what we call _schooling_. In our schooling there was an attempt to give us a view of the world about us and a view of our place in it, under the headings of History and Geography. It would be impossible to imagine a feebler attempt. The History and Geography I had was perhaps, in one respect, the next best thing to a good course. It was so thoroughly and hopelessly bad that it left me with a vivid sense of ignorance. I read, therefore, with great avidity during my adolescence. In English schools now I doubt if the teaching of history is much better than it was in my time, but geography has grown and improved--largely through the vigorous initiative of Professor Huxley, who replaced the old dreary topography by a vivid description of the world and mingled with it a sort of _general elementary science_ under the name of Physiography. This subject, with the addition of some elementary Biology and Physiology does now serve to give many young people in Great Britain something like a general view of the world as a whole. We need now to make a parallel push with the teaching of history. Upon this matter of the teaching of history I am a fanatic. I cannot think of an education as even half done until there has been a fairly sound review of the whole of the known past, from the beginnings of the geological record up to our own time. Until that is done, the pupil has not been _placed_ in the world. He is incapable of understanding his relationship to and his rôle in the scheme of things. He is, whatever else he may have learnt, essentially an ignorant person. And now let me recapitulate these demands I have made upon the process of schooling--this process of teaching that begins in the nursery and ends about the age of sixteen or seventeen. I have asked that it should involve a practical mastery of three or four languages, including the mother tongue, and that perhaps four or five other additional languages shall have been studied, so to speak, in skeleton. I have added mathematics carried much higher and farther than most of our schools do to-day. I have demanded a sound knowledge of universal history, a knowledge of general physical and general biological science, and I have thrown in, with scarcely a word of apology, a good training of the eyes and hands in drawing and manual work. So far as the pupil goes, I submit this is an entirely practicable proposal. It can be done, I am convinced, with any ordinary pupil of average all-round ability, given--what is now almost universally wanting--the proper educational facilities. And now I will go on to examine the question of why these facilities are wanting. I want to ask why a large class, if not the whole of our population, is not educated up to the level of wide understanding and fully developed capacity such a schooling as I have sketched out implies. Well, the first fact obvious to every parent who has ever enquired closely into the educational outlook of his offspring, the first fact we have to face is this: there are not enough properly equipped schools and, still more, not enough good teachers, to do the job. It is proclaiming no very profound secret to declare that there is hardly such a thing in the world to-day as a fully equipped school, that is to say a school having all the possible material and apparatus and staffed sufficiently with a bright and able teacher, a really live and alert educationist, in every necessary subject, such as would be needed to give this ideal education. That is the great primary obstacle, that is the core of our present problem. We cannot get our modern community educated to anything like its full possibilities as yet because we have neither the teachers nor the schools. Now is this a final limitation? For a moment I will leave the question of the possibilities of more and better equipped schools on one side. I will deal with the supply of teachers. At present we do not even attempt to get good teachers; we do not offer any approach to a tolerable life for an ordinary teacher; we compel them to lead mean and restricted lives; we underpay them shockingly; we do not deserve nearly such good teachers as we get. But even supposing we were to offer reasonable wages for teachers; an average all-round wage of £1,000 a year or so, and respect and dignity; it does not follow that we should get as many as we should need--using the methods that are in use to-day--to provide this ideal schooling for most of our population, or, indeed, for any large section of our population. You will note a new proviso creeping in at this point--"using the methods that are used to-day." Because you must remember it is not simply a matter of payment that makes the teacher. Teachers are born and not made. Good teaching requires a peculiar temperament and distinctive aptitudes. I doubt very much, even if you could secure the services of every human being who had the natural gifts needed in a good teacher, if you could disregard every question of cost and payment, I doubt whether even then you would command the services of more than one passable teacher for a hundred children and of more than one really inspired and inspiring teacher for five hundred children. No doubt you could get _a sort of teacher_ for every score or even for every dozen children, a commonplace person who could be trained to do a few simple educational things, but I am speaking now of good teachers who have the mental subtlety, the sympathy and the devotion necessary for efficient teaching by the individualistic methods in use to-day. And since, _using the methods that are used to-day_, you can only hope to secure fully satisfactory results with one teacher to every score of pupils, or fewer, and since it is unlikely we shall ever be able to command the services of more than a tithe of the people who could teach well, it seems that we come up here against an insurmountable obstacle to an educated population. Now I want to press home the idea of that difficulty. I am an old and seasoned educationist; most of my earliest writings are concealed in the anonymity of the London educational papers of a quarter of a century ago, and my knowledge of educational literature is fairly extensive. I know in particular the literature of educational reform. And I do not recall that I have ever encountered any recognition of this fundamental difficulty in the way of educational development. The literature of educational reform is always assuming parents of limitless intelligence, sympathy and means, employing teachers of limitless energy and capacity. And that to an extreme degree is what we haven't got and what we can never hope to have. Educational reformers seem always to be looking at education from the point of view of the individual scholastic enterprise and of the individual pupil, and hardly ever from the point of view of a public task dealing with the community as a whole. For all practical purposes this makes waste paper of a considerable proportion of educational literature. This literature, the reader will find, is pervaded by certain fixed ideas. There is a sort of standing objection to any _machining_ of education. There is, we are constantly told, to be no syllabus of instruction, no examinations and no controls, no prescribed text-books or diagrams because these things limit the genius of the teacher. And this goes on with a blissful invincible disregard of the fact that in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of the thousand the genius of the teacher isn't and can't be there. And also of the fact that this affair of elementary education has in its essentials been done over and over and over again for thousands of millions of times. There ought to be as much scope left for genius and originality in ordinary teaching as there is for genius and originality in a hen laying an ordinary egg. These educational idealists are always disregarding the fundamental problem of educational organization altogether, the problem of economy, economy of the most precious thing of all, _teaching power_. It is the problem of stretching the competent teacher over the maximum number of pupils, and that can be done only by the same methods of economy that are practised in every other large-scale production--by the standardization of everything that can be standardized, and by the use of every possible time and labour-saving device and every possible replacement of human effort, not in order to dispense with originality and initiative but in order to conserve them for application at their points of maximum efficiency. I have said that a disregard of the possibilities of wide organization and its associated economy of effort is characteristic of most "advanced" educational literature. You will, if you will examine them, find that disregard working out to its natural consequences in what are called the "advanced" schools that appeal to educationally anxious parents nowadays. You will find that these places, often very picturesque and pleasing-looking places, are rarely prosperous enough to maintain more than one or two good teachers. The rest of the staff shrinks from scrutiny. You will find these schools adorned with attractive diagrams drawn by the teachers, and strikingly original models and apparatus made by the teachers, and if you look closely into the matter or consult an intelligent pupil, you will find there are never enough diagrams and apparatus to see a course through. If you press that matter you will find that they haven't had time to make them so far. And they will never get so far. No school, however rich and prosperous and however enthusiastically run, can hope to make for itself all the plant and diagrams and apparatus needed for a fully efficient modern education such as we have sketched out. As well might a busy man hope to array himself, by his own efforts, with hats, suits and boots made by himself out of wool and raw hides. But now I think you will begin to see what I am driving at. It is this: that if the general level of education is to be raised in our modern community, and if that better education is to be spread over most of our community, it is necessary to reorganize education in the world upon entirely bolder, more efficient, and more economical lines. We are inexorably limited as to the number of good teachers we can get into the educational organization, and we are limited as inexorably as to the quality of the rank and file of our teaching profession; but we are not limited in the equipment and systematic organization of teaching methods and apparatus. That is what I want particularly to enlarge upon now. Think of the ordinary schoolhouse--a mere empty brick building with a few hat-pegs, a stale map or so, half a dozen plaster casts, a few hundred tattered books, a blackboard, and some broken chemical apparatus: think of it as the dingy insufficiency it is! In such a place the best teacher must needs waste three-fourths of his energies. In such a place staff and pupils meet chiefly to waste each other's time. This is the first and principal point at which we can stanch the wastage of teaching energy that now goes on. Everywhere about the world nowadays, the schoolhouse is set up and equipped by a private person or a local authority in more or less complete ignorance of educational possibilities, in more or less complete disconnectedness, without any of the help or any of the economy that comes from a centralized mass production. Let us now consider what we might have in the place of this typical schoolhouse of to-day. Let me first suggest that every school should have a complete library of very full and explicit lesson notes, properly sorted and classified. All the ordinary subjects in schools have been taught over and over again millions and millions of times. Few people, I think, realize that, and fewer still realize the reasonable consequences of that. Human minds are very much the same everywhere, and the best way of teaching every ordinary school subject, the best possible lesson and the best possible succession of lessons, ought to have been worked out to the last point, and the courses ought to have been stereotyped long ago. Yet if you go into any school to-day, in ninety-nine cases out of the hundred you will find an inexpert and ill-prepared young teacher giving a clumsy, vamped-up lesson as though it had never been given before. He or she will have no proper notes and no proper diagrams, and a halting and faulty discourse will be eked out by feeble scratchings with chalk on a blackboard, by querulous questioning of the pupils, and irrelevancies. The thing is preposterous. And linked up with this complete equipment of proper lesson notes upon which the teacher will give the lessons, there should be a thing which does not exist at present in any school and which ought to exist in every school, a collection of some hundreds of thousands of pictures and diagrams, properly and compactly filed; a copious supply of maps, views of scenery, pictures of towns, and so forth for teaching geography, diagrams and tables for scientific subjects, and so on and so on. You must remember that if the schools of the world were thought of as a whole and dealt with as a whole, these things could be produced wholesale at a cost out of comparison cheaper than they are made to-day. There is no reason whatever why school equipment should not be a world market. A lesson upon the geography of Sweden needs precisely the same maps, the same pictures of scenery, types of people, animals, cities, and so forth, whether that lesson is given in China or Peru or Morocco or London. There is no reason why these pictures and maps should not be printed from the same blocks and distributed from the same centre for the schools of all mankind. If the government of any large country had the vigour and intelligence to go right ahead and manufacture a proper equipment of notes and diagrams for its own use in all its own schools, it would probably be able to recoup itself for most of the outlay by dominating the map and diagram markets of the rest of the world. And next to this full and manageable collection of pictures and diagrams, which the teacher would whip out, with the appropriate notes, five minutes before his lesson began, the modern school would have quite a considerable number of gramophones. These would be used not only to supply music for drill and so forth, and for the analytical study of music, but for the language teaching. Instead of the teacher having to pretend, as he usually pretends now, to a complete knowledge of the foreign language he can really only smatter, he would become the honest assistant of the real teaching instrument--the gramophone. Here, again, it is a case for big methods or none--a case for mass production. A mass production of gramophone records for language teaching throughout the world would so reduce the cost that every school could quite easily be equipped with a big repertory of language records. For the first year of any language study, at any rate, the work would go always to the accompaniment of the proper accent and intonation. And all over the world each language would be taught with the same accent and quantities and idioms--a very desirable thing indeed. And now let me pass on to another requirement for an efficient school that our educational organization has still to discover--the method of using the cinematograph. I ask for half a dozen projectors or so in every school, and for a well-stocked storehouse of films. The possibilities of certain branches of teaching have been altogether revolutionized by the cinematograph. In nearly every school nowadays you will find a lot of more or less worn and damaged scientific apparatus which is supposed to be used for demonstrating the elementary facts of chemistry, physics and the like. There is a belief that the science teachers--and they do their best with the time and skill and material at their disposal--rig up experimental displays of the more illuminating experimental facts with this damaged litter. Many of us can recall the realities of the sort of demonstration I mean. The performance took two or three hours to prepare, an hour to deliver and an hour or so to clear away; it was difficult to follow, impossible to repeat, it usually went wrong, and almost invariably the teacher lost his temper. These practical demonstrations occurred usually in the opening enthusiasm of the term. As the weeks wore on, the pretence of practical teaching was quietly dropped, and we crammed our science out of the text-book. Now that is the sort of thing that still goes on. But it ought to be entirely out of date. All that scientific bric-a-brac in the cupboard had far better be thrown away. All the demonstration experiments that science teachers will require in the future can be performed once for all--before a cinematograph. They can be done _finally_; they need never be done again. You can get the best and most dexterous teacher in the world--he can do what has to be done with the best apparatus, in the best light; anything that is very minute or subtle you can magnify or repeat from another point of view; anything that is intricate you can record with extreme slowness; you can show the facts a mile off or six inches off, and all that your actual class teacher need do now is to spend five minutes on getting out the films he wants, ten minutes in reading over the corresponding lecture notes, and then he can run the film, give the lesson, question his class upon it, note what they miss and how they take it, run the film again for a second scrutiny, and get out for the subsequent study of the class the ample supply of diagrams and pictures needed to fix the lesson. Can there be any comparison between the educational efficiency of the two methods? So I put it to you, that it is possible now to make--and that the world needs badly that we should make--a new sort of school, a standardized school, a school richly equipped with modern apparatus and economizing the labour of teaching to an extent at present undreamt of, in which, all over the world, the same stereotyped lessons, leading the youth of the whole world through a parallel course of schooling, can be delivered. I know that in putting this before you I challenge some of the most popular affectations of cultivated people. I know that many people will be already writhing with a genteel horror at the idea of the same lesson being given in identical terms to everybody in turn throughout the world. It sounds monotonous. It will rob the world of variety--and so on and so on. But indeed it will not be monotonous at all. That lesson will be new and fresh and good to every pupil who receives it. And remember it is by our hypothesis the best possible form and arrangement of that lesson. It is to take the place of a sham lesson or no lesson at all. There is an eternal freshness in learning as in all the other main things in life. It will be no more monotonous than having one's seventh birthday or falling in love for the first time. And as for variety, I for one do not care how soon every possible variety of ignorance and misconception is banished from the world. The sun shines on the whole world and it is the same sun. I have still to be persuaded that our planet would be more various and interesting if it were lit by two or three thousand uncertain, spasmodic and differently coloured searchlights directed upon it from every direction. I am pleading for a clear white light of education that shall go like the sun round the whole world. You see that in all this I am driving at--what shall I call it?--syndicated schools, syndicated lesson notes, and, so far as equipment goes, mass production. I want to see the sort of thing happening to schools that has already happened to many sorts of retail shops. In the place of little ill-equipped schools, each run by its own teacher and buying its own books and diagrams and material and so forth in small quantities at high prices, I want to see a great central organization, employing teachers of genius, working in consultation and co-operation and producing lesson notes, diagrams, films, phonograph records, cheaply, abundantly, on a big scale for a nation, or a group of nations, or, if you like, for all the world, just as America produces watches and alarum clocks and cheap automobiles for all the world. And I want to see the schools of the world being run, so far as the intellectual training goes, not by local committees but by that _central organization_. It is only by this reorganization of schooling upon the lines of big production that we can hope to get a civilized community in the world at an educational level very markedly higher than the existing educational level. But if we could so economize teaching energy--if we made our really great teachers, by the use of modern appliances, teachers not of handfuls but of millions; if we insisted upon a universal application of the best and most effective methods of teaching, just as we insist upon the best and most effective methods of street traction and town lighting--then I believe it would be possible to build the civilization of the years to come on a foundation of mental preparation incomparably sounder and higher than anything we know of to-day. VII COLLEGE, NEWSPAPER AND BOOK And now let us go on to the next stages of education. The schooling process is a natural phase in human development--it is our elaboration of the natural learning of boyhood and girlhood and of adolescence. There was schooling before schools; there was schooling before humanity. I have watched a cat schooling her kittens. Schooling is a part of being young. And we grow up. So there comes a time when schooling is over, when the process of equipment gives place to an increasing share in the activities and decisions of adult life. Nevertheless for us education must still go on. I suppose that the savage or the barbarian or the peasant in any part of the world or the uneducated man anywhere would laugh if you told him that the adult must still learn. But in our modern world--I mean the more or less civilized world of the last twenty-five centuries or so--there has grown up a new idea--new, I mean, in the sense that it runs counter to the life scheme of primitive humanity and of most other living things--and that is _the idea that one can go on learning right up to the end of life_. It marks off modern man from all animals, that in his adult life he can display a sense that there remains something still to be investigated and wisdom still to be acquired. I do not know enough history to tell you with any confidence when adult men, instead of just going about the business of life after they had grown up, continued to devote themselves to learning, to a deliberate prolongation of what is for all other animals an adolescent phase. But by the time of Buddha in India and Confucius in China and the schools of the philosophers in the Greek world the thing was in full progress. That was twenty-six centuries ago or more. Something of the sort may have been going on in the temples of Egypt or Samaria a score of centuries before. I do not know. You must ask some such great authority as Professor Breasted about that. It may be fifty or a hundred centuries since men, although they were fully grown up, still went on trying to learn. The idea of adult learning has spread ever since. To-day I suppose most educated people would agree that so long as we live we learn and ought to learn--that we ought to develop our ideas and enlarge, correct and change our ideas. But even to-day you will find people who have not yet acquired this view. You will find even teachers and doctors and business men who are persuaded that they had learnt all that there was to learn by twenty-five or thirty. It is only quite recently that this idea has passed beyond a special class and pervaded the world generally--the idea of everyone being a life-long student and of the whole world becoming, as it were, a university for those who have passed beyond the schooling stage. It has spread recently because in recent years the world has changed so rapidly that the idea of settling down for life has passed out of our minds, has given place to a new realization of the need of continuous adaptation to the very end of our days. It is no good settling down in a world that, on its part, refuses to do anything of the sort. But hitherto, before these new ideas began to spread in our community, the mass of men and women definitely _settled down_. At twelve, or fifteen, or sixteen, or twenty it was decided that they should stop learning. It has only been a rare and exceptional class hitherto that has gone on learning throughout life. The scene and field of that learning hitherto has been, in our Western communities, the University. Essentially the University is and has been an organization of adult learning as distinguished from preparatory and adolescent learning. But between the phase of schooling and the phase of adult learning there is an intermediate stage. In Scotland and America that is distinguished and thought of clearly as the _college stage_. But in England, where we do not think so clearly, this college stage is mixed up with and done partly at school and partly in the University. It is not marked off so definitely from the stage of general preparation that precedes it or from the stage of free intellectual enterprise that follows it. Now what should college give the young citizen, male or female, upon the foundation of schooling we have already sketched out? In practice we find a good deal of technical study comes into the college stage. The budding lawyer begins to read law, the doctor starts his professional studies, the future engineer becomes technical, and the young merchant sets to work, or should do, to study the great movements of commerce and business method and organization. As the college stage of those who do not, as a matter of fact, go to college, we have now in every civilized country the evening continuation school, the evening technical school and the works school. But important as these things are from the point of view of service, they are not the _soul_--not the real meaning of the college stage. The soul of the college stage, the most important value about it, is that in it is a sort of preparatory pause and inspection of the whole arena of life. It is the educational concomitant of the stage of adolescence. The young man and the young woman begin to think for themselves, and the college education is essentially the supply of stimulus and material for that process. It was in the college stage that most of us made out our religion and made it real for ourselves. It was then we really took hold of social and political ideas, when we became alive to literature and art, when we began the delightful and distressful enterprise of finding ourselves. And I think most of us will agree when we look back that the most real thing in our college life was not the lecturing and the lessons--very much of that stuff could very well have been done in the schooling stage--but the arguments of the debating society, the discussions that broke out in the classroom or laboratory, the talks in one's rooms about God and religion, about the state and freedom, about art, about every possible and impossible social relationship. Now in addition to that I had something else in my own college course--something of the same sort of thing but better. I have spoken of myself as under-educated. My schooling was shocking but, as a blessed compensation, my college stage was rather exceptionally good. My schooling ended when I was thirteen. My father, who was a professional cricketer, was smashed up by an accident, and I had three horrible years in employment in shops. Then my luck changed and I found myself under one of the very greatest teachers of his time, Professor Huxley. I worked at the Royal College of Science in London for one year under him in his great course in zoology, and for a year and a half under a very good but rather uninspiring teacher, Professor Judd, the geologist. I did also physics and astronomy. Altogether I had three full years of science study. And the teaching of biology at that time, as Huxley had planned it, was a continuing, systematic, illuminating study of life, of the forms and appearances of life, of the way of life, of the interplay of life, of the past of life and the present prospect of life. It was a tremendous training in the sifting of evidence and the examination of appearances. Every man is likely to be biassed, I suppose, in favour of his own educational course. Yet it seems to me that those three years of work were educational--that they gave a vision of the universe as a whole and a discipline and a power such as no other course, no classical or mathematical course I have ever had a chance of testing, could do. I am so far a believer in a biological backbone for the college phase of education that I have secured it for my sons and I have done all I can to extend it in England. Nevertheless, important as that formal college work was to me, it still seems to me that the informal part of our college life--the talk, the debates, the discussion, the scampering about London to attend great political meetings, to hear William Morris on Socialism, Auberon Herbert on Individualism, Gladstone on Home Rule, or Bradlaugh on Atheism--for those were the lights of my remote student days--was about equally important. If schooling is a training in expression and communication, college is essentially the establishment of broad convictions. And in order that they may be established firmly and clearly, it is necessary that the developing young man or woman should hear all possible views and see the medal of truth not only from the obverse but from the reverse side. Now here again I want to put the same sort of questions I have put about schooling. Is the college stage of our present educational system anywhere near its maximum possible efficiency? And could it not be extended from its present limited range until it reached practically the whole adolescent community? Let me deal with the first of these questions first. Could we not do much more than we do to make the broad issues of various current questions plain and accessible to our students in the college stage? For example, there is a vast discussion afoot upon the questions that centre upon Property, its rights and its limitations. There is a great literature of Collectivist Socialism and Guild Socialism and Communism. About these things our young people must know. They are very urgent questions; our sons and daughters will have to begin to deal with them from the moment they leave college. Upon them they must form working opinions, and they must know not only what they themselves believe but, if our public affairs are not to degenerate into the squalid, obstinate, hopeless conflicts of prejudiced adherents, they must know also what is believed by other people whose convictions are different from theirs. You may want to hush these matters up. Many elderly people do. You will fail. All our intelligent students will insist upon learning what they can of these discussions and forming opinions for themselves. And if the college will not give them the representative books, a fair statement of the facts and views, and some guidance through the maze of these questions, it means merely that they will get a few books in a defiant or underhand way and form one-sided and impassioned opinions. Another great set of questions upon which the adolescent want to judge for themselves, and ought to judge for themselves, are the religious questions. And a third group are those that determine the principles of sexual conduct. I know that in all these matters, on both sides of the Atlantic, a great battle rages between dogma and concealment on the one hand and open ventilation on the other. Upon the issue I have no doubt. I find it hard even to imagine the case for the former side. So long as _schooling_ goes on, the youngster is immature, needs to be protected, is not called upon for judgments and initiatives, and may well be kept under mental limitations. I do not care very much how you censor or select the reading and talking and thinking of the schoolboy or schoolgirl. But it seems to me that with adolescence comes the right to knowledge and the right of judgment. And that it is the _task and duty_ of the college to give matters of opinion in the solid--to let the student walk round and see them from every side. Now how is this to be done? I suggest that to begin with we open wide our colleges to propaganda of every sort. There is still a general tendency in universities on both sides of the Atlantic to treat propaganda as infection. For the adolescent it is not--it is a stimulating drug. Let me instance my own case. I am a man of Protestant origins and with a Protestant habit of mind. But it is a matter of great regret to me that there is no good Roman Catholic propaganda available for my sons in their college life. I would like to have the old Mother Church giving my boys an account of herself and of the part she has played in the history of the world, telling them what she stands for and claims to be, giving her own account of the Mass. These things are interwoven with our past; they are part of us. I do not like them to go into a church and stare like foreigners and strangers at the altar. And side by side with that Catholic propaganda I would like them to hear an interpretation of religious origins and church history by some non-catholic or sceptical ethnologist. He, too, should be free to tell his story and drive his conclusions home. But you will find most colleges and most college societies bar religious instruction and discussion. What do they think they are training? Some sort of genteel recluse--or men and women? So, too, with the discussion of Bolshevism. I do not know how things are in America but in England there has been a ridiculous attempt to suppress Bolshevik propaganda. I have seen a lot of Bolshevik propaganda and it is not very convincing stuff. But by suppressing it, by police seizures of books and papers and the like, it has been invested with a quality of romantic mystery and enormous significance. Our boys and girls, especially the brighter and more imaginative, naturally enough think it must be tremendous stuff to agitate the authorities in this fashion. At our universities, moreover, the more loutish types of student have been incited to attack and smash up the youths suspected of such reading. This gives it the glamour of high intellectual quality. The result is that every youngster in the British colleges with a spark of mental enterprise and self-respect is anxious to be convinced of Bolshevik doctrine. He believes in Lenin--because he has been prevented from reading him. Sober collectivists like myself haven't a chance with him. But you see my conception of the college course? Its backbone should be the study of biology and its substance should be the threshing out of the burning questions of our day. You may object to this that I am proposing the final rejection of that discipline in classical philosophy which is still claimed as the highest form of college education in the world----the sort of course that the men take in what is called _Greats_ at Oxford. You will accuse me of wanting to bury and forget Aristotle and Plato, Heraclitus and Lucretius, and so forth and so on. But I don't want to do that--_so far as their thought is still alive_. So far as their thought is still alive these men will come into the discussion of living questions now. If they are Ancients and dead then let them be buried and left to the archæological excavator. If they are still Moderns and alive, I defy you to bury them if you are discussing living questions in a full and honest way. But don't go hunting after them, there are still modern Immortals in the darkness of a forgotten language. Don't make a superstition of them. Let them come hunting after you. Either they are unavoidable if your living questions are fully discussed, or they are irrelevant and they do not matter. That there is a wisdom and beauty in the classics which is incommunicable in any modern language, which obviously neither ennobles nor empowers, but which is nevertheless supremely precious, is a kind of nonsense dear to the second-rate classical don, but it has nothing endearing about it for any other human beings. I will not bother you further with that sort of affectation here. And this college course I have sketched should, in the modern state, pass insensibly into adult mental activities. Concurrently with it there will be going on, as I have said, a man's special technical training. He will be preparing himself for a life of industrialism, commerce, engineering, agriculture, medicine, administration, education or what not. And as with the man, so with the woman. That, too, is a process which in this changing new world of ours can never be completed. Neither of these college activities will ever really leave off. All through his life a man or woman should be confirming, fixing or modifying his or her general opinions; and all the time his or her technical knowledge and power should be consciously increased. And now let me come to the second problem we opened up in connection with college education--the problem of its extension. Can we extend it over most or all of a modern population? I don't think we can, if we are to see it in terms of college buildings, class rooms, tutors, professors and the like. Here again, just as in the case of schooling, we have to raise the neglected problem--neglected so far as education goes--of economy of effort; and we have to look once more at the new facilities that our educational institutions have so far refused to utilize. Our European colleges and universities have a long and honourable tradition that again owes much to the educational methods of the Roman Empire and the Hellenic world. This tradition was already highly developed before the days of printing from movable type, and long before the days when maps or illustrations were printed. The higher education, therefore, was still, as it was in the Stone Age, largely vocal. And the absence of paper and so forth, rendering notebooks costly and rare, made a large amount of memorizing necessary. For that reason the mediæval university teacher was always dividing his subject into firstly and secondly and fourthly and sixthly and so on, so that the student could afterwards tick off and reproduce the points on his fingers--a sort of thumb and finger method of thought--still to be found in perfection in the discourses of that eminent Catholic apologist, Mr. Hilaire Belloc. It is a method that destroys all sense of proportion between the headings; main considerations and secondary and tertiary points get all catalogued off as equivalent numbers, but it was a mnemonic necessity of those vanished days. And they have by no means completely vanished. We still use the lecture as the normal basis of instruction in our colleges, we still hear discourses in the firstly, secondly and thirdly form, and we still prefer even a second-rate professor on the spot to the printed word of the ablest teacher at a distance. Most of us who have been through college courses can recall the distress of hearing a dull and inadequate view of a subject being laboriously unfolded in a long series of tedious lectures, in spite of the existence of full and competent text-books. And here again it would seem that the time has come to centralize our best teaching, to create a new sort of wide teaching professor who will teach not in one college but in many, and to direct the local professor to the more suitable task of ensuring by a commentary, by organized critical work, and so forth, that the text-book is duly read, discussed and compared with the kindred books in the college library. This means that the great teaching professors will not lecture, or that they will lecture only to try over their treatment of a subject before an intelligent audience as a prelude to publication. They may perhaps visit the colleges under their influence, but their basis instrument of instruction will be not a course of lectures but a book. They will carry out the dictum of Carlyle that the modern university is a university of books. Now the frank recognition of the book and not the lecture as the substantial basis of instruction opens up a large and interesting range of possibilities. It releases the process of learning from its old servitude to place and to time. It is no longer necessary for the student to go to a particular room, at a particular hour, to hear the golden words drop from the lips of a particular teacher. The young man who reads at eleven o'clock in the morning in luxurious rooms in Trinity College, Cambridge, will have no very marked advantage over another young man, employed during the day, who reads at eleven o'clock at night in a bed-sitting-room in Glasgow. The former, you will say, may get commentary and discussion, but there is no particular reason why the latter should not form some sort of reading society with his fellows, and discuss the question with them in the dinner hour and on the way to the works. Nor is there any reason why he should not get tutorial help as a university extension from the general educational organization, as good in quality as any other tutorial help. And this release of the essentials of a college education from limitations of locality and time brought about by modern conditions, not only makes it unnecessary for a man to come "up" to college to be educated, but abolishes the idea that his educational effort comes to an end when he goes "down." Attendance at college no longer justifies a claim to education; inability to enter a college is no longer an excuse for illiteracy. I do not think that our educational and university authorities realize how far the college stage of education has already escaped from the local limitations of colleges; they do not understand what a great and growing volume of adolescent learning and thought, of college education in the highest and best sense of the word, goes on outside the walls of colleges altogether; and on the other they do not grasp the significant fact that, thanks to the high organization of sports and amusements and social life in our more prosperous universities, a great proportion of the youngsters who come in to their colleges never get the realities of a college education at all, and go out into the world again as shallow and uneducated as they came in. And this failure to grasp the great change in educational conditions brought about, for the most part, in the last half-century, accounts for the fact that when we think of any extension of higher education in the modern community we are all too apt to think of it as a great proliferation of expensive, pretentious college buildings and a great multiplication of little teaching professorships, and a further segregation of so many hundreds or thousands of our adolescents from the general community, when as a matter of fact the reality of education has ceased to lie in that direction at all. The modern task is not to multiply teachers _but to exalt and intensify exceptionally good teachers_, to recognize their close relationship with the work of university research--which it is their business to digest and interpret--and to secure the production and wide distribution of books throughout the community. I am inclined to think that the type of adolescent education, very much segregated in out-of-the-way colleges and aristocratic in spirit, such as goes on now at Oxford, Cambridge, Yale, Holloway, Wellesley and the like, has probably reached and passed its maximum development. I doubt if the modern community can afford to continue it; it certainly cannot afford to extend it very widely. But as I have pointed out, there has always been a second strand to college education--the technical side, the professional training or apprenticeship. Here there are sound reasons that the student should go to a particular place, to the special museums and laboratories, to the institutes of research, to the hospitals, factories, works, ports, industrial centres and the like where the realities he studies are to be found, or to the studios or workshops or theatres where they practise the art to which he aspires. Here it seems we have natural centres of aggregation in relation to which the college stage of a civilized community, the general adolescent education, the vision of the world as a whole and the realization of the individual place in it, can be organized most conveniently. You see that what I am suggesting here is in effect that we should take our colleges, so far as they are segregations of young people for general adolescent education, and break them as a cook breaks eggs--and stir them up again into the general intellectual life of the community. Coupled with that there should, of course, be a proposal to restrict the hours of industrial work or specialized technical study up to the age of twenty, at least, in order to leave time for this college stage in the general education of every citizen of the world. The idea has already been broached that men and women in the modern community are no longer inclined to consider themselves as ever completely adult and finished; there is a growing disposition and a growing necessity to keep on learning throughout life. In the worlds of research, of literature and art and economic enterprise, that adult learning takes highly specialized forms which I will not discuss now; but in the general modern community the process of continuing education after the college stage is still evidently only at a primitive level of development. There are a certain number of literary societies and societies for the study of particular subjects; the pulpit still performs an educational function; there are public lectures and in America there are the hopeful germs of what may become later on a very considerable organization of adult study in the Lyceum Chautauqua system; but for the generality of people the daily newspaper, the Sunday newspaper, the magazine and the book constitute the only methods of mental revision and enlargement after the school or college stage is past. Now we have to remember that the bulk of this great organization of newspapers and periodicals and all the wide distribution of books that goes on to-day are extremely recent things. This new nexus of print has grown up in the lifetime of four or five generations, and it is undergoing constant changes. We are apt to forget its extreme newness in history and to disregard the profound difference in mental conditions it makes between our own times and any former period. It is impossible to believe that thus far it is anything but a sketch and intimation of what it will presently be. It has grown. No man foresaw it; no one planned it. We of this generation have grown up with it and are in the habit of behaving as though this nexus had always been with us and as though it would certainly remain with us. The latter conclusion is almost wilder than the former. By what we can only consider a series of fortunate accidents, the press and the book world have provided and do provide a necessary organ in the modern world state, an organ for swift general information upon matters of fact and for the rapid promulgation and diffusion of ideas and interpretations. The newspaper grew, as we know, out of the news-letter which in a manuscript form existed before the Roman Empire; it owes its later developments largely to the advertisement possibilities that came with the expansion of the range of trading as the railways and suchlike means of communication developed. Modern newspapers have been described, not altogether inaptly, as sheets of advertisements with news and discussions printed on the back. The extension of book reading from a small class, chiefly of men, to the whole community has also been largely a response to new facilities; though it owes something also to the religious disputes of the last three centuries. The population of Europe, one may say with a certain truth, first learnt to read the Bible, and only afterwards to read books in general. A large proportion of the book publishing in the English language in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries still consisted of sermons and controversial theological works. Both newspaper and book production began in a small way as the enterprise of free individuals, without anyone realizing the dimensions to which the thing would grow. Our modern press and book trade, in spite of many efforts to centralize and control it, in spite of Defence of the Realm Acts and the like, is still the production of an unorganized multitude of persons. It is not centralized; it is not controlled. To this fact the nexus of print owes what is still its most valuable quality. Thoughts and ideas of the most varied and conflicting sort arise and are developed and worked out and fought out in this nexus, just as they do in a freely thinking vigorous mind. I am not, you will note, saying that this freedom is perfect or that the thought process of the print nexus could not go very much better than it does, but I am saying that it has a very considerable freedom and vigour and that so far as it has these qualities it is a very fine thing indeed. Now many people think that we are moving in the direction of world socialism to-day. Collectivism is perhaps a better, more definite word than socialism, and, so far as keeping the peace goes, and in matters of transport and communication, trade, currency, elementary education, the production and distribution of staples and the conservation of the natural resources of the world go, I believe that the world and the common sense of mankind move steadily towards a world collectivism. But the more co-operation we have in our common interests, the more necessary is it to guard very jealously the freedom of the mind, that is to say, the liberty of discussion and suggestion. It is here that the Communist regime in Russia has encountered its most fatal difficulty. A catastrophic unqualified abolition of private property has necessarily resulted in all the paper, all the printing machinery, all the libraries, all the news-stalls and book shops, becoming Government property. It is impossible to print anything without the consent of the Government. One cannot buy a book or newspaper; one must take what the Government distributes. Free discussion--never a very free thing in Russia--has now on any general scale become quite impossible. It was a difficulty foreseen long ago in Socialist discussions, but never completely met by the thorough-paced Communist. At one blow the active mental life of Russia has been ended, and so long as Russia remains completely and consistently communist it cannot be resumed. It can only be resumed by some surrender of paper, printing and book distribution from absolute Government ownership to free individual control. That can only be done by an abandonment of the full rigours of communist theory. In our western communities the dangers to the intellectual nexus lie rather on the other side. The war period produced considerable efforts at Government control and as a consequence considerable annoyance to writers, much concealment and some interference with the expression of opinion; but on the whole both newspapers and books held their own. There is to-day probably as much freedom of publishing as ever there was. It is not from the western governments that mischief is likely to come to free intellectual activity in the western communities but from the undisciplined individual, and from the incitements to mob violence by propagandist religions and cults against free discussion. About the American press I know and can say little. I will speak only of things with which I am familiar. I am inclined to think that there has been a considerable increase of deliberate lying in the British press since 1914, and a marked loss of journalistic self-respect. Particular interests have secured control of large groups of papers and pushed their particular schemes in entire disregard of the general mental well-being. For instance, there has recently been a remarkable boycott in the London press of a very able collectivist book, Sir Leo Money's _Triumph of Nationalization_, because it would have interfered with the operation of very large groups which were concerned in getting back public property into private hands on terms advantageous to the latter. It is a book not only important as a statement of a peculiar economic view, but because of the statesmanlike gravity and clearness of its exposition. I do not think it would have been possible to stand between the public and a writer in this way in the years before 1914. A considerable proportion of the industrial and commercial news is now written to an end. The British press has also suffered greatly from the outbreak of social and nationalist rancour arising out of the great war, the inability of the European mind to grasp the Bolshevik issue, and the clumsy blunderings of the Versailles settlement. Quite half the news from Eastern Europe that appears in the London press is now deliberate fabrication, and a considerable proportion of the rest is rephrased and mutilated to give a misleading impression to the reader. But people cannot be continuously deceived in this way, and the consequence of this press demoralization has been a great loss of influence for the daily paper. A diminishing number of people now believe the news as it is given them, and fewer still take the unsigned portions of the newspaper as written in good faith. And there has been a consequent enhancement of the importance of signed journalism. Men of manifest honesty, men with names to keep clean, have built up reputations and influence upon the ruins of editorial prestige. The exploitation of newspapers by the adventurers of "private enterprise" in business, has carried with it this immense depreciation in the power and honour of the newspaper. I am inclined to think that this swamping of a large part of the world's press by calculated falsehood and partisan propaganda is a temporary phase in the development of the print nexus: nevertheless, it is a very great inconvenience and danger to the world. It stands very much in the way of that universal adult education which is our present concern. Reality is horribly distorted. Men cannot see the world clearly and they cannot, therefore, begin to think about it rightly. We need a much better and more trustworthy press than we possess. We cannot get on to a new and better world without it. The remedy is to be found not, I believe, in any sort of Government control, but in a legal campaign against the one thing harmful--the lie. It would be in the interests of most big advertisers, for most big advertisement is honest; it would be, in the long run, in the interests of the Press; and it would mean an enormous step forward in the general mental clarity of the world if a deliberate lie, whether in an advertisement or in the news or other columns of the press, was punishable--punishable whether it did or did not involve anything that is now an actionable damage. And it would still further strengthen the print nexus and clear the mind of the world if it were compulsory to correct untrue statements in the periodical press, whether they had been made in good faith or not, at least as conspicuously and lengthily as the original statement. I can see no impossibility in the realization of either of these proposals, and no objection that a really honest newspaper proprietor or advertiser could offer to them. It would make everyone careful, of course, but I fail to see any grievance in that. The sanitary effect upon the festering disputes of our time would be incalculably great. It would be like opening the windows upon a stuffy, overcrowded and unventilated room of disputing people. Given adequate laws to prevent the cornering of paper or the partisan control of the means of distribution of books and printed matter, I believe that the present freedoms and the unhampered individualism of the world of thought, discussion and literary expression are and must remain conditions essential to the proper growth and activity of a common world mind. On the basis of that sounder education I have sketched in a preceding paper, there is possible such an extension of understanding, such an increase of intelligent co-operations and such a clarification of wills as to dissolve away half the difficulties and conflicts of the present time and to provide for the other half such a power of solution as we, in the heats, entanglements and limitations of our present ignorance, doubt and misinformation can scarcely begin to imagine. I do not know how far I have conveyed to you in the last two papers my underlying idea of an education not merely intensive but extensive, planned so economically and so ably as to reach every man and woman in the world. It is a dream not of _individuals educated_--we have thought too much of the individual educated _for_ the individual--but of a _world educated_ to a pitch of understanding and co-operation far beyond anything we know of to-day, for the sake of all mankind. I have tried to show that, given organization, given the will for it, such a world-wide education is possible. I wish I had the gift of eloquence so that I could touch your wills in this matter. I do not know how this world of to-day strikes upon you. I am not ungrateful for the gift of life. While there is life and a human mind, it seems to me there must always be excitements and beauty, even if the excitements are fierce and the beauty terrible and tragic. Nevertheless, this world of mankind to-day seems to me to be a very sinister and dreadful world. It has come to this--that I open my newspaper every morning with a sinking heart, and usually I find little to console me. Every day there is a new tale of silly bloodshed. Every day I read of anger and hate, oppression and misery and want--stupid anger and oppression, needless misery and want--the insults and suspicions of ignorant men, and the inane and horrible self-satisfaction of the well-to-do. It is a vile world because it is an under-educated world, unreasonable, suspicious, base and ferocious. The air of our lives is a close and wrathful air; it has the closeness of a prison--the indescribable offence of crowded and restricted humanity. And yet I know that there is a way out. Up certain steps there is a door to this dark prison of ignorance, prejudice and passion in which we live--and that door is only locked on the inside. It is within our power, given the will for it, given the courage for it--it is within our power to go out. The key to all our human disorder is organized education, comprehensive and universal. The watchword of conduct that will clear up all our difficulties is, the _plain truth_. Rely upon that watchword, use that key with courage and we can go out of the prison in which we live; we can go right out of the conditions of war, shortage, angry scrambling, mutual thwarting and malaise and disease in which we live; we and our kind can go out into sunlight, into a sweet air of understanding, into confident freedoms and a full creative life--for ever. I do not know--I do not dare to believe--that I shall live to hear that key grating in the lock. It may be our children and our children's children will still be living in this jail. But a day will surely come when that door will open wide and all our race will pass out from this magic prison of ignorance, suspicion and indiscipline in which we now all suffer together. VIII THE ENVOY In the preceding papers I have, with some repetition and much stumbling, set out a fairly complete theory of what men and women have to do at the present time if human life is to go on hopefully to any great happiness and achievement in the days to come. Much of this material was first prepared to be delivered to a lecture audience, and I regret that ill-health has prevented a complete re-writing of these portions. There is more of the uplifted forefinger and the reiterated point than I should have allowed myself in an essay. But this is a loss of grace rather than of clearness. And since I am stating a case and not offering the reader anything professing to be a literary work, I shall not apologise for finally summing up and underlining the chief points of this book. They are, firstly: that a great change in human conditions has been brought about during the past century, and secondly that a vast task of adaptation, which must be, initially and fundamentally, _mental_ adaptation, has to be undertaken by our race. It is a task which politicians, who live from day to day, and statesmen, who live from event to event, may hinder or aid very greatly, but which they cannot be expected to conduct or control. Politicians and statesmen perforce live and work in the scheme of ideas they find about them; the conditions of their activities are made for them. They can be compelled by the weight of public opinion to help it, but the driving force for this great task must come not from official sources but from the steadfast educational pressure of a great and growing multitude of convinced people. In times of fluctuation and dissolving landmarks, the importance of the teacher--using the word in its widest sense--rises with the progressive dissolution of the established order. The creative responsibility for the world to-day passes steadily into the hands of writers and school teachers, students of social and economic science, professors and poets, editors and journalists, publishers and newspaper proprietors, preachers, every sort of propagandist and every sort of disinterested person who can give time and energy to the reconstruction of the social idea. Human life will continue to be more and more dangerously chaotic until a world social idea crystallizes out. That--and no existing institution and no current issue--is the primary concern of the present age. We need, therefore, before all other sorts of organization, educational organizations; we need, before any other sort of work, work of education and enlightenment; we need everywhere active societies pressing for a better, more efficient conduct of public schooling, for a wider, more enlightening school curriculum, for a world-wide linking-up of educational systems, for a ruthless subordination of naval, military and court expenditure to educational needs, and for a systematic discouragement of mischief-making between nation and nation and race and race and class and class. I could wish to see Educational Societies, organized as such, springing up everywhere, watching local bodies in order to divert economies from the educational starvation of a district to other less harmful saving; watching for obscurantism and reaction and mischievous nationalist teaching in the local schools and colleges and in the local press; watching members of parliament and congressmen for evidences of educational good-will or malignity; watching and getting control of the administration of public libraries; assisting, when necessary, in the supply of sound literature in their districts; raising funds for invigorating educational propaganda in poor countries like China and in atrociously educated countries like Ireland, and corresponding with kindred societies throughout the world. I believe such societies would speedily become much more influential than the ordinary political party clubs and associations that now use up so much human energy in the western communities. Subordinating all vulgar political considerations to educational development as the supreme need in the world's affairs, even quite small societies could exercise a powerful decisive voice in a great number of political contests. And an educational movement is more tenacious than any other sort of social or political movement whatever. It trains its adherents. What it wins it holds. I know that in thus putting all the importance upon educational needs at the present time I shall seem to many readers to be ignoring quite excessively the profound racial, social and economic conflicts that are in progress. I do. I believe we shall never get on with human affairs until we do ignore them. I offer no suggestion whatever as to what sides people should take in such an issue as that between France and Germany or between Sinn Fein and the British Government, or in the class war. I offer no such suggestion because I believe that all these conflicts and all such current conflicts are so irrational and destructive that it is impossible for a sane man who wishes to serve the world to identify himself with either side in any of them. These conflicts are mere aspects of the gross and passionate stupidity and ignorance and sectionalism of our present world. The class war, the push for and the resistance to some vague reorganization called the Social Revolution--such things are the natural inevitable result of the sordid moral and intellectual muddle of our common ideas about property. The capitalist, the employer, the property-owning class, as a class, have neither the intelligence nor the conscience to comprehend any moral limitations, any limitations whatever but the strong arm of the law, upon what they do with their property. Their black and obstinate ignorance, the clumsy adventurousness they call private enterprise, their unconscious insolence to poor people, their stupidly conspicuous self-indulgence, produce as a necessary result the black hatred of the employed and the expropriated. On one side we have greed, insensibility and incapacity, on the other envy and suffering stung to vindictive revolt: on neither side light nor generosity nor creative will. Neither side has any power to give us any reality we need. Neither side is more than a hate and an aggression. How can one take sides between them? The present system, _unless it can develop a better intelligence and a better heart_, is manifestly destined to foster fresh wars and to continue wasting what is left of the substance of mankind, until absolute social disaster overtakes us all. And manifestly the revolutionary communist, _at his present level of education_, has neither the plans nor the capacity to substitute any more efficient system for this crazy edifice of ill-disciplined private enterprise that is now blundering to destruction. But at a higher level of intelligence, at a level at which it is possible to define the limitations of private property clearly and to ensure a really loyal and effectual co-operation between individual and state, this issue--this wholly destructive conflict between the property manipulator and the communist fanatic which is now rapidly wrecking our world--disappears. It disappears as completely as the causes of a murderous conflict between two drunken men will disappear when they are separated and put under a stream of clear cold water. So it is that, in spite of their apparent urgency, I ask the reader to detach himself from these present conflicts of national politics, of political parties and of the class war as completely as he can; or, if he cannot detach himself completely, then to play such a part in them, regardless of any other consideration, as may be most conducive to a wide-thinking, wide-ranging education upon which we can base a new world order. A resolute push for quite a short period now might reconstruct the entire basis of our collective human life. In this book I have tried to show what form that push should take, to show that it has a reasonable hope of an ultimate success, and that unless it is made, the outlook for mankind is likely to become an entirely dismal prospect. I put these theses before the reader for his consideration. They are not discursive criticisms of life, not haphazard grumblings at our present discontents, they are offered as the fundamental propositions of an ordered constructive project in which he can easily find a part to play commensurate with his ability and opportunities. INDEX Adult learning, spread of, 167 Aircraft as a means of quick travel, 48 in future wars, 9 Air transport a problem for Europe, 58 possibilities of future, 66 "All-red air routes," 67 America and the League of Nations, 15, 28, 47 generalized history teaching in, 108 her part in European reconstruction, 62 locomotion in, 49, 52 political unity of, 60 (_see also_ United States) American social system, comparisons, 2 Americans, patriotism of, 69 Anthology and a modernized Bible, 125 Apocrypha, the, and a modernized Bible, 119 _et seq._ Arithmetic, a wrong way of teaching, 149 Austria after the war, 44 Belloc, Hilaire, 178 Bible, the, a criticism of, 98 _et seq._ and the theory of origin, 103 English translation of, 107 its effect upon civilization, 101 redundancy in, 99 rules of health in, 111 why it has lost hold on the people, 101 Bible of Civilization, the, 95 _et seq._ need for frequent revision, 136 what it will contain, 105 _et seq._ Biology, Huxley's system of, 171 study of, 151, 152 Bolshevik propaganda, suppression of, 175 Bolshevism and the overthrow of Russia, 44 Books and mentality, 183 Boundary question in Europe, 54, 59, 61, 62 Bradlaugh, Charles, lectures of, 171 Breasted, Professor, works of, 108 Breeding, points required in, 140 Britain, national egotism of, 72 British Civil Air Transport Committee, 48, 66 British Empire, the, a prime necessity for security of, 65 a wrong conception of, 64 an ocean state, 65 its failure with reconstruction, 28-9 British monarchy, the, lost opportunities of, 29 Browning, Oscar, 108 Canonical books and the Bible of Civilization, 119 Chinese discovery of gunpowder, 6 Christianity, 23 spread of, in Western Europe, 78 Cinematograph, the, as an aid to teaching, 80, 161 Civilization, adjustment of political ideas necessary for, 46 effect of the Bible on, 101 impotence of, 1 the Bible of, 95 _et seq._ the war and, 43 _et seq._ College stage of education, 168 changed conditions of, 180 how it could be improved, 172 problem of its extension, 177 Comenius, political and educational ideas of, 95, 97, 138 Committees, good work by, 107 Communism and property, 115 Communists, Russian, and the Press, 186 Connecticut, State of, the Bible as its only law, 98 Conscience the basis of moral life, 20 Contemporary problems, complexity of, 3 Cosmogony of the Bible, the, 103-4 Customs, the, and European travel, 56 Declaration of Independence, 63, 107 Denmark, present-day conditions in, 45 Disarmament, ineffectual movements for, 13 Discovery, the age of, 6 Education a fundamental difficulty, 155 chief end of, 25 degradation of, 105 in the world state, 20, 90 necessary basis of, 103 neglect of language teaching, 145 past and present, 79, 104 primary obstacle to, 153 progressive character of, 166, 183 reorganization of, needed, 158, 165 Educational organization, a review of, 139 need of, 194 England before and after the war, 45 Epics and a modernized Bible, 125 Eugenic literature, 140, 141 Europe, and the League of Nations, 47 boundary question of, 54, 59, 61, 62 in the seventeenth century, 96 problem of air transport, 58 propaganda of patriotism in, 72 results of political disunion, 54 slow economic recovery of, 59 European travel, preparations needed for, 55 Evening continuation and technical schools, 169 Exchange, fluctuating nature of, 56, 57 Federal World State, an approaching reality, 80 Forecasts, a Book of, and the modernized Bible, 132 Foresight, need of, 133 France, national egotism of, 72 post-war decadence in, 45 Frontiers and the possibility of war, 59 Geography, improved method of teaching, 151 Germany, ebb in civilization in, 45 intensive nationalist education in, 72 Gladstone, Mr., a speech by, 171 Gramophones as aids to school teaching, 160 Gunpowder, discovery of, 6 Hamsun's _Growth of the Soil_, 124 Health and the citizen, 111 Hebrew Bible, the, 110 Henley, a poem by, 127 Herbert, Auberon, lectures by, 171 Higher education, a false conception of, 181 Historical books, value of illustrations and maps in, 110 History, and national egotism, 73 cardinal experiences in, 1 _History of the Ancient World_, 108 History teaching in schools, unsatisfactory nature of, 151 Holland, post-war condition of, 45 Human brotherhood, gospel of, 24 Human disorder, the key to, 192 Human outlook, the, 1 Human society, ancient and modern, 5 needs reconstruction, 11 Human unity and a world state, 75 Hungary, post-war desolation in, 44 Huxley, Professor, author's tribute to, 170 his system of teaching geography, 151 Illustrations, need of, in books, 110 Independent nationality, need for, 76 Individualists and property, 115 Industrialism, modern, 114 Intellectuals, their estimate of man, 14 International mind, an, 73 International problem of to-day, 46 Ireland, after-effects of war in, 45 condition of (1640-1650), 96 Islam, lasting unity of, 79 spread of, in seventh century, 23 Italy, after the war, 45 forbids export of works of art, 117 Judd, Professor, 171 Kipling, Rudyard, 15 Komensky (_see_ Comenius) Labour problems, the Bible and, 114 Labour trouble, and from what it springs, 116, 117 Language teaching, a necessary part of education, 145 suggested use of gramophones for, 160 twofold object of, 147 League of Nations, the, 13, 17 and the boundary question, 62 educational value of its propaganda, 75 ineffectiveness of, 5, 37, 41, 47, 76 President Wilson and, 15, 28 Lectures as basis of instruction, 178 Lenin and Russia, 44 Lincoln's Gettysburg Address, 126 Locomotion and methods of communication, 48, 52, 53 Machinery, in a world state, 91 Magna Carta, 107 Man, his plain duty, 38 social nature of, 19 Mankind, influence of surroundings on, 18 probable future of, 1 _et seq._ Mathematics, teaching of, 149 _Mediæval and Modern History_, 108 _Mediæval and Modern Times_, 108 Mental life, schooling and the, 142 Mesopotamia, irrigation system of, 6 Military class, mischief of a, 29 Milton's defence of free speech, 128 Missouri, establishment of, 49 Money, Sir Leo, his _Triumph of Nationalization_, 187 Morris, William, lectures by, 171 Napoleon's retreat from Moscow, 48 National independence, meaning of, 59 Newspapers, 183 evolution of, 184 journalistic demoralization, 187, 188 Novels, and a modernized Bible, 123 Ocean transport, importance of, 65 Organized education, the key to human disorder, 192 Organized solidarity and modern communities, 102 Original Sin, the factor of, 105 _Outline of History_, Wells's, 107, 108 Passports, delays attendant on, 55 Patriotism, a unity-destroying propaganda of, 72 aggressive, dangers of, 39 American, 69 true and false conceptions of, 68, 69 Peace Ministry, functions of a, 87 Philosophical works and a modernized Bible, 124 Physiography, Huxley and, 151 Physiology, value of study of, 151 Pilgrim Fathers, the, and the Bible, 110 Plays and a modernized Bible, 123 Political reconstruction, accompaniments of, 25 Politicians, their need of foresight, 133 Politics in a world state, 81, 93 Prayer Book, the, 107 Press, the, demoralization of, 187-8 freedom of, 185 Government control of, 186, 187 Printing and the community, 7 Progress, arrest of, 1 Property, class war and, 196 labour trouble and, 116, 117 problems of, 114 rights and duties of, 115 Puritanism in the seventeenth century, 97 Quakers, the, foundation of, 97 Radiogram, the, and its results, 6 Railways, American, 49 _et seq._, 65 Readjustment of political ideas, 46 _et seq._, 68 Religion and the political and social outlook, 23, 79 universalist in theory, 81 Religious instruction and discussion barred by colleges, 175 Revolutions and how produced, 27 Robinson, Professor, 108 Roman Empire, the, rise and fall of, 53 Russia, Bolshevism in, 44 the Press in, 186 vexatious delays in a journey to, 56 _et seq._ St. Petersburg before and after the war, 43, 44 Schoolhouse, an ordinary, and an ideal, 158-9 Schooling of the world, the, 139 _et seq._ and what should be taught, 143 why so often a failure, 153 Schools and the development of education, 25 of a world state, 90 Science teaching under difficulties and a suggested remedy, 161 Scotland after the war, 45 Sea power and the submarine, 66 Semaphores, 48 Sexual morality, need for, 112 Shakespear and the Bible of Civilization, 122 Social nature of man, 19 Sovereign states, incoherent nature of, 31 Steamboats, American, 49, 65 Stopes, Dr. Marie, 113 Submarine, the, and sea power, 66 Sweden, before and after the war, 45 Teachers, lack of, and the reason, 153 Teaching and the future of mankind, 37 Teaching power and how it might be economized, 156 _et seq._ Technical study, specialized, 182 Telegraphy, development of, 6, 48 Thirty Years War, the, 96 Tolstoi's _War and Peace_, 124 Trade problems, the Bible and, 114 Transport and the international problem, 46 Travel, inconveniences of European, 55 _et seq._ United States, the government of, 47, 83 growth of, 49-50 political system of, 27 (_see also_ America) University, the, and adult learning, 168 Vienna threatened by the Turk, 96 Wales, Prince of, world tour of, 29, 84 War, a ruling and constructive idea, 4 abolition of, and what it means, 5 frequent recurrence of, 3 military science in, 8 Washington, George, and his successors, 83 Webster, Dr. Hutton, historical summaries of, 108 Wells, H. G., as educationist, 155 college life of, 170 his _Outline of History_, 107, 108 ideals of, 42 serves on British Civil Air Transport Committee, 48, 66 views on teaching of history, 151 Wilson, President, and the League of Nations, 15, 28 World control, and what it means, 14, 17 World History, a suggested, 109 World peace, American and European view of, 61 World state, the, cult of, 35 enlargement of patriotism to, 68 fundamental ideas of, 37 government of, 82 _et seq._ life in, 88 _et seq._ meaning of, 82 project of, 42 _et seq._ the Council and its functions, 85 World, the, as a university, 168 PRINTED BY CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED, LA BELLE SAUVAGE, LONDON, E.C.4 ERRATUM. _Page 176, line 20_, there are still modern Immortals in the darkness _should read_, if they are still modern Immortals, in the darkness * * * * * Mr. WELLS has also written the following novels: LOVE AND MR. LEWISHAM KIPPS MR. POLLY THE WHEELS OF CHANCE THE NEW MACHIAVELLI ANN VERONICA TONO BUNGAY MARRIAGE BEALBY THE PASSIONATE FRIENDS THE WIFE OF SIR ISAAC HARMAN THE RESEARCH MAGNIFICENT MR. BRITLING SEES IT THROUGH THE SOUL OF A BISHOP JOAN AND PETER THE UNDYING FIRE The following fantastic and imaginative romances: THE WAR OF THE WORLDS THE TIME MACHINE THE WONDERFUL VISIT THE ISLAND OF DR. MOREAU THE SEA LADY THE SLEEPER AWAKES THE FOOD OF THE GODS THE WAR IN THE AIR THE FIRST MEN IN THE MOON IN THE DAYS OF THE COMET THE WORLD SET FREE And numerous Short Stories now collected in One Volume under the title of THE COUNTRY OF THE BLIND A Series of books upon Social, Religious and Political questions: ANTICIPATIONS (1900) MANKIND IN THE MAKING FIRST AND LAST THINGS NEW WORLDS FOR OLD A MODERN UTOPIA THE FUTURE IN AMERICA AN ENGLISHMAN LOOKS AT THE WORLD WHAT IS COMING? WAR AND THE FUTURE IN THE FOURTH YEAR GOD THE INVISIBLE KING THE OUTLINE OF HISTORY RUSSIA IN THE SHADOWS And two little books about children's play, called: FLOOR GAMES and LITTLE WARS 
15030	----	THE UNITY OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION Essays Arranged and Edited by F. S. MARVIN Sometime Senior Scholar of St. John's College, Oxford Author of _The Living Past_ Humphrey Milford Oxford University Press London Edinburgh Glasgow New York Toronto Melbourne Bombay 1915 PREFACE The following essays are the substance of a course of lectures delivered at a Summer School at the Woodbrooke Settlement, near Birmingham, in August 1915. The general purpose of the course will be apparent from the essays themselves. No forced or mechanical uniformity of view was aimed at. The writers will be found, very naturally and properly, to differ in detail and in the stress they lay on different aspects of the case. But they agree in thinking that while our country's cause and the cause of our Allies is just and necessary and must be prosecuted with the utmost vigour, it is not inopportune to reflect on those common and ineradicable elements in the civilization of the West which tend to form a real commonwealth of nations and will survive even the most shattering of conflicts. That we on the Allied side stand fundamentally for this ideal is one of our most valuable assets. The fact that the lectures were delivered at a settlement for training persons for social work in a religious spirit, suggested to more than one of those who took part in the course, how similar is the task which now lies before us in international affairs to that which Canon Barnett initiated thirty years ago for the treatment of the social question at home. We need in both cases to associate ourselves mentally with others in order to realize the common elements which underlie the seeming diversity in the civilization of the West. The method of the course was primarily historical, though certain essays have been added of a more idealist type. It is hoped that the point of view suggested, though prompted by current events, may be found to have some permanent value. It could obviously be applied to many other aspects of European life, e.g. morality and politics, to which conditions of space have only permitted indirect reference to be made in this volume. F.S.M. CONTENTS I. INTRODUCTORY: THE GROUNDS OF UNITY By F. S. MARVIN. II. UNITY IN PREHISTORIC TIMES By J. L. MYRES, Wykeham Professor of Ancient History, Oxford. III. THE CONTRIBUTION OF GREECE AND ROME By J. A. SMITH, Waynflete Professor of Mental and Moral Philosophy, Oxford. IV. UNITY IN THE MIDDLE AGES By ERNEST BARKER, Fellow of New College, Oxford. V. UNITY AND DIVERSITY IN LAW By W. M. GELDART, Vinerian Professor of English Law, Oxford. VI. THE COMMON ELEMENTS IN EUROPEAN LITERATURE AND ART By the Rev. Dr. A. J. CARLYLE, University College, Oxford. VII. SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY AS UNIFYING FORCES By L. T. HOBHOUSE, White Professor of Sociology, University of London. VIII. THE UNITY OF WESTERN EDUCATION By J. W. HEADLAM, late Fellow of King's College, Cambridge. IX. COMMERCE AND FINANCE AS INTERNATIONAL FORCES By HARTLEY WITHERS. X. INTERNATIONAL INDUSTRIAL LEGISLATION By CONSTANCE SMITH, sometime British Delegate on International Bureau for Industrial Legislation. XI. COMMON IDEALS OF SOCIAL REFORM By C. DELISLE BURNS. XII. THE POLITICAL BASES OF A WORLD-STATE By J. A. HOBSON. XIII. RELIGION AS A UNIFYING INFLUENCE IN WESTERN CIVILIZATION By H. G. WOOD, late Fellow of Jesus College, Cambridge. XIV. THE GROWTH OF HUMANITY By F. S. MARVIN. ANALYSIS CHAPTER I. THE GROUNDS OF UNITY The appeal to history. Previous great schisms in Europe which have been surmounted give hope for the present. The Reformation. The Napoleonic Wars. The two points of view, (1) Man's nature itself tending to unity through conflict. (2) The stages in the process developed in history. In pre-history conflict and diversity are predominant, though the necessities of life prescribe certain uniformities. Consolidation comes in favoured physical conditions, especially great river-basins like the Nile and the Euphrates. The possibility of a world-unity first consciously envisaged in the Greco-Roman world. Greece gives unity in thought, Rome in practice. Order with a solid intellectual foundation established with the Roman Empire. In the mediaeval world a unity mainly spiritual is reached in the same framework. The position of Germany in this development. The break-up of the fourteenth and fifteenth century. The enlargement of the known world and the growth of wealth and knowledge. This crisis still continues and has been recently accentuated by the birth-throes of nationalities. The supreme problem for international unity is now the reconciliation of national units with the interests of the whole. Underneath the superficial turmoil the great unifying forces of science and of common sentiments continue to grow and will ultimately prevail. CHAPTER II. UNITY IN PREHISTORIC TIMES Retrospect of the search for unity in man's affairs, in its political and scientific bearings. The Unity of Man as an Animal Species. Ancient beliefs, doubts suggested by the practice of slavery, their solution, and the modern conception of a 'Human Family'. The unity of man as a rational animal struggling against nature for subsistence. Archaeological evidence as to the reasonableness of primitive culture on its material side; doubts raised by man's irrational 'barbarities' on the social plane. Lévy Bruhl's hypothesis of a 'savage logic' and the Greek analysis of wrongdoing as rooted in ignorance. Man's struggle with Nature in the N.W. Quadrant of the Old World. Unity here not to be found in the Food Quest. Prehistoric Europe shows variety of regimens, hoe-agriculture, pastoral nomadism. The wheel and the plough and the composite bread and cheese culture. Race, Language, and Culture as Factors of Unity. The spread of the European Bread Culture is earlier than that of Indo-European Speech and probably than that of the 'Alpine' type of man. Race in Europe has led not to unity but to discord, and linguistic affinity does not ensure mutual intelligibility. CHAPTER III. THE CONTRIBUTION OF GREECE AND ROME Contemporary history is the only genuine and important history, the present is the only object of historical knowledge; what the present is and how, properly conceived, it gives history its unity and justifies the study of what is past (ancient history); all history is _our_ history, and otherwise without meaning or value to us. The history of classical antiquity is the history of the youth of the modern world, of the formation of the now latent but still potent hopes, fears, designs and thoughts which constitute the substratum of the European mind; how this still unites a divided Europe and affords a ground of hope for a restored and deepened union. Our debt to the Greeks: (_a_) the very notion of civilization, (_b_) the idea of its realization through knowledge, (_c_) the ideal of freedom as the inner spirit of true civilization. How the Greeks failed to work all this out in both theory and practice, and how nevertheless they taught their lesson to the world; the services of Greece to the world in the creation of Art, the Sciences, and Philosophy; the Greek ideal of a life beyond 'civilized' life, but rendered possible by it, and thus giving to civilized life a new and higher value; defects and merits of this ideal. The Romans are inheritors of all this; how, while making it more prosaic, they rendered it more practical and more effectually realized it. All this most visible in the Imperial period. The Roman ideal: (_a_) world-wide peace, (_b_) secured and maintained by a centralized system of laws issuing from and enforced by a single power. Influence of this ideal on later and modern thought and practice. Causes of its decline and fall: (_a_) ignorance of the economic substructure of civilized life, (_b_) neglect of opportunities to extend and defend it, (_c_) the rise of the idea of nationality. The Revolution as the last great attempt to reinstate the full Roman ideal in its outworn form. Lessons still to be learned by us from the study of both the success and the failure of Greco-Roman civilization; how the consideration of these may at once sober our expectations and inspire us with hope in the present. The forces which created it still maintain it and show no signs of exhaustion. But that they may continue in effect we must study these forces and learn the lessons the ancient experience of their working conveys, exerting ourselves first to understand Greco-Roman thought and practice and then to better their instruction. CHAPTER IV. THE MIDDLE AGES I. The mediaeval world. Geographical extent. Economic structure: its features of uniformity and isolation: the effect of the rise of a national economy on mediaeval society. Linguistic basis. Mediaeval scheme that of a general European system of estates rather than of a balance of powers. II. The unity of mediaeval civilization in its great period (1050-1300) ecclesiastical. The attempt of the Church to achieve a general synthesis of human life by the application of Christian principle. (1) The control of war and peace and the feudal world: the Truce of God and the Crusades: the papacy as an international authority: the mediaeval conception of war. (2) The control of trade and commerce and the economic world: just wages and prices: the mediaeval town. (3) The control of learning and education and the world of thought: reconciliation of Greek science and the Christian faith: allegorical interpretation of the world and its effects on natural science. III. The mediaeval theory of society. The organic conception of society: mediaeval thought _naturaliter Platonica_. The one society of mankind. Hence (1) little conception of the State or sovereignty or State law; but the universal society has nevertheless to be reconciled in some way with the existence of different kingdoms. Hence, again, (2) no distinction of Church and State as two separate societies: these are two separate authorities, _regnum_ and _sacerdotium_, but they govern the same society. The one society of mankind an ecclesiastical scheme uniting a great variety of personal groupings. IV. The influence of law on the development of the kingdom into the state--a process begun early in England and France, but only generally achieved about 1500. The new conditions--geographical, economic, linguistic--which prepare the way for the new world of the sixteenth century. The gulf between that world and the old mediaeval world. The hope of unity to-day. CHAPTER V. UNITY AND DIVERSITY IN LAW The Problem in the Ancient World. Law universal and supreme over mankind (Sophocles, Antigone). Law arbitrary and varying from place to place (Herodotus). Nature and convention. The 'rightlessness' of the stranger in antiquity. The law was a 'law of citizens'. Admission of the foreigner to legal protection. Rome develops a law of the men of all nations (_ius gentium_), which reacts upon the law of citizens (_ius civile_), and ultimately coalesces with it. The law of nature. The break-up of the Ancient World; the Middle Ages. The invaders bring their own law with them. In the kingdoms which they founded each man had his 'personal law'. Local Law. Feudal Law. The beginnings of National Law: England, France, Germany. Roman Law in the Middle Ages. The Canon Law. The Modern World. The reception of Roman Law. State Sovereignty. The Modern Codes. Unity and diversity of law within the political unit. The world divided into territories of the English Common Law and lands where Roman Law conceptions prevail. Forces making for unity: the notion of a 'law of nature'; the pursuit of common ends. International law, private and public. CHAPTER VI. THE COMMON ELEMENTS IN EUROPEAN LITERATURE AND ART The question of the place of nationality in art and literature. It has little or no place in the Middle Ages. The mediaeval epic; its character. The mediaeval romance. Modern European art and literature transcends national conditions. The characteristics of the new European literature of the fourteenth century: Dante, Boccaccio, Chaucer. The drama of England and Spain in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Painting and sculpture from the fourteenth to the seventeenth century. The classical mind, and the principle of good taste and common sense. The realism of Defoe and Hogarth, and the Spanish Picaresque novel. Sentimentalism in the eighteenth century. The poetry and painting of nature. The great revolution and the romantic movement. Great literature and art are not national but human. CHAPTER VII. SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY Western civilization possesses a certain unity (1) in the sense of unity of character, (2) in the fact that it has a common origin, ultimately in the Greco-Roman civilization but more immediately in mediaeval Christendom, and (3) in the sense that its parts have maintained a constant intercommunication of ideas. (4) The different qualities of German, French, and English thinkers have in large measure complemented one another, (5) and the history of science and of speculative philosophy is largely a history of the interaction of distinct national schools. (6) The same thing is true of political thought. (7) Thus the world of thought forms a commonwealth which is superior to all national differences and, in spite of the war, remains a foundation of a very genuine unity. CHAPTER VIII. UNITY IN EDUCATION Distinction between Unity and Uniformity. Historical Unity; the origin of the School and the University. Both instruments of the mediaeval Church for maintaining a common system throughout Western Christendom. Importance of Latin as the universal language of education. Suppression of the vernacular and of national movements. The Reformation; a common European movement. Erasmus. The new teaching based on classical literature. Tendency to disunion; the influence of the Reformation and the national Churches. Growth of national literature. Political influences, the French Revolution, and the National State. The essential Unity still preserved, not merely in the study of the natural sciences, but in the historical unity given by Christianity and the spirit of Greece. CHAPTER IX. COMMERCE AND FINANCE Commerce and finance practical expressions of the instinct of self-preservation which is common not only to all men, but to all living creatures. Early appearance of trading habit in boys. Early examples of trade. Abraham's purchase of a burying-ground from Ephron the Hittite. Solomon's trade with Hiram of Tyre. Herodotus, the first historian, opens his history with an allusion to trade. Trade is based on specialization, and is at once a cause of unity and of disunion. Its extension from individuals to communities. Foreign trade stimulated by variations of value in different communities. Specialization increases efficiency, but makes the worker a machine, and a speculator on the chance that others will want what he makes. International trade also promotes both unity and friction. On the whole, commerce a great promoter of unity. Likewise finance, or money-dealing. Its origin and development. London's catholic taste in foreign securities: sometimes prefers them to the home-made article. Effect of foreign investment on home production and consumption. Foreign finance and productive specialization. CHAPTER X. INTERNATIONAL INDUSTRIAL LEGISLATION Interdependence true of countries as of classes. A fact brought home to us by the European War. Importance of international action in relation to the raising of social and industrial standards. This truth perceived by Robert Owen a century ago. Work of Owen and his successors in the direction of an international minimum of labour conditions. Action of the Swiss Federal Council. The German Emperor calls the first Conference on workmen's protection 1890. Formal failure and substantial achievement of this Conference. Founding of International Association for Labour Legislation and International Labour Office. Constitution and work of these bodies. Biennial conferences of the association: subjects and methods. International Conventions of 1906, their scope and value. Subsequent labours of the Association. Its present position and future hopes. CHAPTER XI. COMMON IDEALS OF SOCIAL REFORM Ideals arise from perceived social evils. They have caused in recent years (_a_) Common action by European Governments and (_b_) action by separate Governments influenced by foreign experience. There has also been a growth of sentiment, not yet embodied in law or institutions, with regard to (i) the position of women and children, (ii) social caste, and (iii) the increase of common action for reform by civilized states. CHAPTER XII. THE POLITICAL BASES OF A WORLD-STATE The nineteenth century has made three great contributions towards the possibility of International Government, the political realization of nationality, the growth in substance and method of international law, and the progress of federalism. In other fields outside politics, especially in commerce and finance, a network of international co-operation has grown up. Closer political union is needed for three purposes: first, the consolidation, extension, and improved sanctions of existing international law; secondly, the settlement of differences between nations; thirdly, positive co-operation for the common good. This progress involves some further diminution of 'sovereignty' and 'independence'. But these concepts have no absolute validity. In the Hague Conventions and other intergovernmental instruments the rudiments of international government already exist. In order to establish effective security for peace, what is needed is a general treaty providing that all disputes be submitted to arbitration or conciliation, with such guarantees for acceptance of the award as will establish confidence. The test of confidence is the voluntary reduction of armaments. Internationalists differ as to the nature and rigour of the sanctions. Some rely entirely on a 'moratorium' and the pressure of public opinion: others would compel the submission of all issues, but not the acceptance of awards: others, again, would apply force, diplomatic, economic, or military, to both processes. Internationalism, to be effective, would require a machinery for dealing with new issues before they ripened into disputes. How far will the state of mind following this war assist this progress of internationalism? Is a spiritual conversion, corresponding to the process of biological mutatism, possible or probable? CHAPTER XIII. RELIGION The history of Europe suggests that, though the Church exerted a considerable influence on the growth of a common type of civilization in the West, in modern times religion has proved a divisive rather than a unifying factor. During the last generation or two, however, there has been a decline of the dogmatic and sectarian tempers. This change is largely due to the growth of the scientific spirit, and, as in other realms of inquiry so in the study of religion, international co-operation has steadily developed. Both literary criticism and psychological analysis have contributed to the widening of sympathy. The better understanding of certain elements in the Christian ideal and the Christian hope must also be taken into consideration as a factor making for a new catholicism which finds expression in movements like the Adult School Movement and the Student Christian Movement, and in the ever-growing demand for closer co-operation in missionary work. Beyond this, partly through the comparative study of religions, we are conscious that religious thought in the West possesses some common characteristics, notably, faith in the solidarity of mankind and in the reality of progress. Of themselves, these two convictions do not constitute any very close bond of union, and both beliefs need to be defined and enforced by the sense of sin and the consciousness of God which the West has learned from Jesus. CHAPTER XIV. THE GROWTH OF HUMANITY The need of a basis of right sentiments even greater than that of improved political machinery to secure international union. We must start from patriotism and enlighten and enlarge it. Of the three Western nations which lead in the arts and sciences, France and England through the war become closely allied in defence of a policy of the union of free and pacific people throughout the world. The position of Italy, Russia, and the United States. The increase of arbitral methods and the formation of leagues of peace or even of a world-state are matters calling for earnest thought; but the spread of the notion of humanity, the co-operation of all mankind in a common work is more fundamental and may be begun by any one at home. This idea, starting with the Stoics, is fully developed with the advent of modern science. It shows itself in many forms and the spread of exact science is its most powerful aid. This is entirely independent of nationality and will be increasingly concerned with the alleviation of human suffering and the improvement of life. The final test of a high international aim is the joint effort of the stronger peoples to protect and assist the weaker and less advanced. The case of Africa and the Brussels Conference of 1889. Analogy with the treatment of the young at home. I THE GROUNDS OF UNITY In face of the greatest tragedy in history, it is to history that we make appeal. What does it teach us to expect as the issue of the conflict? How far and in what form may we anticipate that the unity of mankind, centring as it must round Europe, will emerge from the trial? Only two occasions occur to the mind on which, since the break up of the Roman Empire, a schism so serious as the present has threatened the unity of the Western world. The first was the Reformation and the war which it entailed down to the Peace of Westphalia. The second was the struggle against Napoleon, terminated a hundred years ago. The latter was in many respects a closer parallel. It was a struggle of the independent nations of Europe against the overweening ambition and aggression of one Power. It united them in an alliance which achieved its purpose and survived the successful issue of the war for some years. Some such course, with a comity of nations far wider and more enduring than the Holy Alliance as its sequel, we hope and predict for the present war. The struggle at the Reformation was less like the present, either in its causes or its course, but it has some features which make it a useful point for a survey of the permanent unifying elements which hold and will hold the West together in spite of occasional cataclysms and the clash of rival interests and passion. A man like Erasmus, trembling before the catastrophe, willing to make immense sacrifices to avoid an open breach, uncertain of any final readjustment which might restore the harmony of the world, was not unlike some among us who hoped against hope that the enemy might be appeased, who thought that almost any peace was better than any war, who still fear that the breach in unity is vital or irreparable for generations. And the issue three hundred years ago may also inspire us with a cautious optimism, a strong though not unmeasured trust. The right cause triumphed, fully in the end. Freedom was secured, both for churches and for individuals, throughout the world. The evil features in the papal system, against which the attack was really levelled, quietly but completely disappeared, and the institution survived, itself reformed. Before a hundred years were out the world had moved on to the conquest of new vantage points and the establishment of a wider unity on a firmer base. Both previous occasions are therefore full of hope. The European system is, as we shall see throughout these essays, the necessary nucleus of any civilized order embracing the whole world; and the great convulsions which have hitherto continued to occur in it from time to time are moments of especial value for the study of the conditions under which it exists. They are the pathological experiences which reveal the strength and the weaknesses of the normal functions. We strive and hope for a more lasting state of general health, and do not despair of the patient even in this grave attack. He has survived even more serious illness. For though the present war is the most gigantic that the world has ever seen, its very greatness is the result of some of those modern developments--scientific skill, improved communications, national cohesion--on which ultimately the better organization of the whole commonwealth of nations will be built. _Passi graviora_; we have weathered the storms of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, when the old Roman order and its sequel in the Catholic Church were at their weakest and the recuperative power of science and social reform and nationalism had hardly begun its work. We shall not fail with our greater forces of the present to regain and create a Europe freer, stronger, and more united than that which now seems to be shaken to the depths. The process of gaining a greater unity among the leading nations of the world, like all the aspects of human evolution, must be regarded from two points of view, distinct in theory, inextricable in life. What does the nature of man itself demand? How has this nature expressed itself, and been affected in history by the external conditions, the geography, climate, conflict and commingling of races, which the theatre of its appearance has imposed? Looked at in itself, so far as we can isolate it from its surroundings, man's nature is distinguished from that of lower animals by two features, both of them essentially social and tending to unity. He is more deeply and permanently attached to members of his own species, by affection, sympathy, veneration, tradition, than any other creature. And he is a reasoning being, reason itself requiring the contact and agreement of various minds. The incomparably greater force which he has acquired in the world, over all other species and over nature itself, is due to the working of these two factors. At starting he was physically less strong than many other creatures, and if he fought with others of his own kind, other animal species did the same. He was ahead of them by his reason, and reason acted, and must act, through the concert of thinking beings. This concert is not merely, or even mainly, an attachment among those living at the same time to co-operate for some common end; it is with man a conscious sequence of one generation on another. Sometimes the movement of adaptation is slower, sometimes quicker, but in every case the living are carrying on the work of the dead, and their co-operation in time as well as space is due to the working of the same qualities of attachment and reason, the social factors, by which at any moment a community of men is bound together. Still looking at the matter _a priori_, it is clear that the vast community of mankind, though it has come more closely in contact in recent years over all the planet, yet acts, and must act, habitually and momentarily, through many smaller aggregates. Of these the leading types are the family and the country or nation. The former is not directly relevant to our inquiry, the latter plays a leading part in it. The former is less dependent on external conditions of land-formation and the like, and is in consequence more universal, more purely human. The latter has been shaped by geographical conditions, by racial qualities, by the apparent accidents of history. Its relation to the larger units of human society raises the most difficult, fundamental and unavoidable questions. To curb aggressive nationalism is the root-problem of the present war. To reconcile permanently nationalism with humanity would be to establish the everlasting peace. Western society, indeed the whole community of mankind, is built up of these smaller units, the family and the nation, with their various intermediate groupings, but the historical process has by no means conformed at all exactly to this logical order. Society has not been made in orderly fashion by forming families and then combining families to make hundreds, and hundreds to make counties, and counties nations, and so on to the whole. A German god might have done this, but the way of nature and history was less perfect. The minor forms of human association have been taking shape, being altered and on the whole improved, throughout the process. At one point, of high importance for our argument, a larger form of association was achieved before the necessary constituent elements were articulated. This was the Greco-Roman world encircling the Mediterranean and completed in the Roman Empire of the second century A.D. It was the nucleus from which the Western world of modern civilization has been developed; yet it was there, settled in its main outlines, before the national units which it required for internal harmony and cohesion had taken any definite shape. It is to the difficulties of their growth and mutual adjustment that we owe most of the conflicts of modern history. We shall in this book go back first to a still earlier stage, a stage of pre-history, to a time when no one, not gifted with superhuman insight and prescience, could have foreseen the course which human civilization would pursue. All over the world, for tens of thousands of years, a culture persisted, associated with stone implements, and marked by a similarity which is often extremely striking, in races and tribes widely severed by distance and climatic conditions. The raw material of the human product in science, art, and invention was alike in texture although often exuberant in detail and imagination. But it had not yet the unity of an organic whole, knit by a common purpose and conscious of itself. To gain the cohesion of large numbers of men by whom wealth could be created and sufficient leisure and independence secured for an intellectual life, not dictated by the necessities of existence, a special concurrence of favourable physical conditions was required. The rich and secluded river-basins of many parts of the world provided this, and in consequence we find similar large communities arising at the end of the Stone Age in such places as China, Peru, Mexico, and above all in Mesopotamia and Egypt. The last named derived their special importance for the sequel from their proximity to the Mediterranean, which was to act as the great meeting-place and training-school for adventurous spirits and inquiring minds. From the busy intercourse of these land-locked waters arose the civilization called Minoan, or Aegean, centring in Crete, itself to be surpassed by the trading activity of the Phoenicians and the art and science of the Greeks. It is with the advent of the Greek that the seal is placed upon the claim of the Mediterranean to be the birthplace of the highest type of human civilization, the centre from which a unity of the spirit was to spread, until, by material force as well as by the conquering mind, the European or Western man was recognized as in the forefront of the race. The supremacy of the Greek lay in his achievement in three directions, as a thinker, as an artist, and as the builder of the city-state. For our present purpose the first and the last are the most important and the first the most important of all. The city-state was important as the first example of a free, self-governing community in which the individual realized his powers by living--and dying--with and for his fellows. This new type of human community was of the highest moment in the sequel. In many points it was a model to the Romans, and thus became a fulcrum for the upward movement of the Western world. In the works, too, of the Greek philosophers, especially of Plato and Aristotle, it inspired the earliest and some of the deepest reflections on the nature of social life and government. But it never acquired the permanence of the political units needed to build up the European Commonwealth. For this nations were required, and the Greeks were a race and not a nation. The [Greek: polis] lacked the size, the variety of elements, and the territorial basis on which a modern nation rests. It is rather in their achievements as thinkers and as artists, above all in their science and philosophy, that we find the most fundamental and lasting contribution of the Greeks to the unity and progress of mankind. When these became allied to the tenacity, the organizing and legal genius of the Romans, a firm centre of civilized life was established, which has survived the shocks of two thousand years of growth and conflict and will survive the upheaval of the present. The Greek unification was in the world of thought and art; the Roman attempted a corresponding work of organization in the human world which lay nearest to him in the countries round the Mediterranean Sea. Both efforts were of priceless value and continuing effect, but both were, from the conditions of the problem, imperfect solutions, the brilliant but precocious sketches of adolescent genius. The Greek, working at first on the material accumulated by generations of Chaldean and Egyptian priests, discovered from their crude, unorganized, and inexact observations of geometry and astronomy the elements of unity in diversity which constitute science. Inquiring for causes, comparing and correcting individual facts, he arrived at the first equations in mathematics, the first laws of nature. His work in this sphere and in that of medicine went on continuously until after the Roman occupation of the Mediterranean world was complete. It died out gradually in the theological atmosphere of Alexandria, and on the purely human side ended in Stoicism with an amalgam of universal philosophy and Roman law. The Stoic Empire of the second century A.D. was the high-water mark of the joint efforts of Greeks and Romans to attain unity and humanism in thought and practice. Its brilliance while it lasted the nobility of its leading men, the persistence of the main lines of its structure, are the measure of our debt to the builders of the Greco-Roman world. The Roman contribution to the result which in the end so perfectly combined both movements was, in its origin and nature, singularly unlike the Greek. The Roman did not analyse his conceptions. He accepted what came to him, either from his ancestors or from other peoples, without scrutiny, except so far as to see that new matter could be worked into old forms without a dislocation in practice. He was the pragmatist, the Greek the idealist. This instinct of adaptation and sequence made the Roman the pioneer in law as the Greek was the pioneer in science. It rendered possible the holding together in one political system of the multifarious territories and peoples from the Tigris to the Solway Firth for long enough to enable the greater part of that area to be permanently civilized on Roman lines. But, like the artist's sketch of his picture, the whole was outlined before the parts were worked out in their final form; and the sketch itself was seriously imperfect in more than one point. The set-back which Augustus received on the eastern side of the Rhine was never made good, and the Germanic tribes therefore remained un-Romanized until the Church in the seventh and eighth centuries resumed the work on other lines. This defeat of Varus and the legend of Hermann became to the German a symbol of national greatness in a sense which none of the other national conflicts with Rome ever assumed. To us Boadicea is a barbarian, and we trace with gratitude and pleasure the signs of civilization left by the Roman occupation. To us the Roman was for centuries a defence against barbarism, and we regret that we had to do over again many of the things which he had once taught us. But the Roman Empire, when the German accepted it, was no longer the Empire which had founded the unity of Europe. It was a German Empire, and though the ancient world fired his imagination, he always saw it through German eyes. The next stage in unity was the mediaeval Church, which inherited the framework of the Roman Empire and extended the area of moral and civilized life which Rome had initiated. In this Germany was included, and she played a distinguished part. Roman missionaries, some by way of England and Ireland, went further than the Roman legions had attempted, and the sword of Charlemagne did the rest. Germany in the later Middle Ages was perhaps the most valued of all the Pope's domains, and her prince-bishops his greatest lieutenants. The moral and religious effect of the Catholic discipline, appealing to sides of human nature which Greece and Rome had left untouched, was nowhere more deeply felt than by the Germans. Spiritually they were thus lifted at least to the level of the rest of Western Europe, but politically they remained unincorporated, the most feudal and military nation of the West. The growth of nations was, on the political side, the main achievement of the Middle Ages. Rome had given the framework of a great system, and into this had poured barbarians from North and East, Goths, Franks, Huns, Moors, Lombards, tribes at the level of the Homeric Greeks when they swept down to the Aegean. They came as migrant hordes, and in the area civilized by Rome and the Catholic Church they settled down as nations, mingling with the earlier population and divided up by the geographical configurations of the Continent. Among them France and England had the advantage. They gained their unity as nations earlier than any other countries of the West--England in a form which has lasted substantially unaltered for six hundred years. Spain, which had been torn asunder by the Moors, was not consolidated fully till the end of the fifteenth century, in time to send the last of the crusaders under Columbus in quest of fresh worlds to conquer across the Atlantic. But Italy and Germany--and especially the latter--remained disintegrated until our own time. Both gained their union about the same time, fifty years ago, but by different methods and in a different spirit. Italy, naturally a compact geographical unit, was welded by a democratic enthusiasm, of which Cavour and Mazzini were the soul and Garibaldi the right arm. Germany, vast in power and numbers, lay strongly entrenched in the central area of the Continent, but failed to kindle into national life at the same democratic moment. She was fashioned into political existence by a Thor's hammer, which, as it rose and fell, dealt shattering blows on friends as well as foes, in Austria as well as France, on Danes and Poles, on Liberals and Socialists, on little kings and great ecclesiastics. And now this Frankenstein creation among states offers the most serious problem in adjusting national claims with European unity. We have to check and to assimilate--if the world is to live as one--the one Power which has hitherto developed most persistently and successfully its own resources, but least in subordination to the interests of the whole. There are those who would regard all national barriers and organization as somewhat of an obstruction, who would prefer a simple internationalism to the world as we know it, with its pent-up passions and attachments, its constant liability to explosion, its slow progress by tortuous channels towards the larger view and the surer hold. Many reformers, from Plato downwards, have taken up a similar attitude in regard to the smaller institution, the family, which is often found to be an obstruction in the way of short cuts to social utopias at home. Kant's ideal of a cosmopolitan constitution as the goal of all human effort rather leans to this side of the balance. But a due balance must be kept and the full value both of family and nation maintained against theories or tendencies which would roll us all out into cosmopolitan items. A glance at other elements which go to make up the unity of European society will tend to correct the perspective. The unity of the Roman Empire was mainly political and military. It lasted for between four and five hundred years. The unity which supervened in the Catholic Church was religious and moral and endured for a thousand. Less binding on one side, it was more searching and pervasive on others, and though now broken, it still remains in full force over many millions of minds, while the Roman political and legal structure has to be sought for in formal institutions which have absorbed its spirit and transformed its letter. But beyond the actual fabric of the Church itself we have the multitude of cognate and derivative institutions which have served the cause of unity in the moral and intellectual sphere. We shall speak later of the more perfect and lasting unity of science. The universities in the Middle Ages and the Renascence tended to the same end, using a material in philosophy and theology which was bound to wear out with the spread of knowledge and the flux of time. But in their prime they succeeded in producing a more complete community of scholars than has perhaps been ever witnessed in Europe before or since. Then as always the realm of the genuine love of truth, or even of honest disputation, was independent of differences of race or political boundaries, and the scholar went from Oxford to Paris, or from Rotterdam to Bologna, solely to widen his mind or to sit at the feet of some world-famous teacher. And the wandering scholar was by no means the only social link. Many of the trade-routes surprise us by the length and adventurousness of their course. Amber from the Baltic found its way to the south of Italy and Spain, while small boats from Ireland were brought into the mouths of the Loire and the Garonne when the coasts of the Channel were impassable through barbarians from the North. Mediaeval Europe was, in fact, much more of a unity than the modern traveller would expect, and this was mainly due to the influence of the Church. The spiritual unity went deep on one side of man's nature, and when a man like Erasmus surveyed the prospect at the beginning of the sixteenth century we can well understand his horror, and his determined abstention from any step which would precipitate the break-up of the one organized body which represents the old united culture of Christendom and might check the new forces which were threatening selfishness and disorder in ever-widening circles on the globe. For it must be noted that new forces of expansion were making themselves felt, as the unity of the Church was being threatened from within. Explorers were extending, East and West, the sphere in which the European was to impose his influence for good and evil on other peoples, and the sixteenth century thus becomes one, perhaps the most critical, of all the turning-points in the history of the West. Danger was mixed with hope, disorder with new knowledge and fresh power, and the crisis has not yet been surmounted. But we have gained by now some insight into the nature of the new forces and see that they should, and one day will, work more fully in the direction of unity in the civilized world, of healthy independence in the parts and a growing harmony in the whole. Little of this could have been seen by the observer at the outbreak of the Reformation. Nationalism, democracy, colonial expansion, religious change, the growth of knowledge and its application to industry and social reform, these are the salient features which distinguish our modern from the mediaeval world, and we have to consider how far they make for the unity of mankind. The sixteenth century saw both the strengthening of national governments and the beginning of European colonization. England, France, Spain, Portugal, Holland, all settled down under a central government stronger and more independent than they had previously enjoyed, and pegged out estates for themselves beyond the seas. In each case wars have been entailed in the process, and, as we know, the backwardness of Germany at this period has been visited upon the rest of Europe tenfold in recent times. National expansion thus appears to be an eminent provocation of international strife. It is with no intention either of ignoring facts or minimizing dangers that one turns here to the other side of the account. Where was the spark actually fired which led to the present conflagration? In that part of Europe where the national units were least stable and developed, where the conditions of government and social order are most remote from our own. Who can doubt that if in the Balkans the Turks had been able to establish even the sort of government we maintain in India, or if, still better, the Balkan States, apart from the Turks, had gained their own independence in a federation like the Swiss, the aggression of the Central Powers would have been checked? The compact, well-established national unit is not in itself a danger, but there is a danger in weak, oppressed, or disjointed nationalities, who have not found safety and offer a bait to their expansive neighbours. Thus strong and independent nations, as Kant postulates in his _Perpetual Peace_, are guarantees of peace, stones in the Temple of Humanity. Another consideration not generally recognized, strengthens this conclusion. In recent years all leading and progressive nations have been devoting their first thought to social reform. This has been conspicuously the case with ourselves, with the French, with the United States, with the smaller, more advanced countries in Europe. Germany, too, though her first energies have been given to organizing war, has had in this matter two distinct souls. Her social democrats and part of her governing class have been consistent and successful in working for the amelioration of the condition of the people, and have often anticipated other nations in her process. It is self-evident, first, that a strong national government is needed to carry out wide social reform, second, that in proportion as governments devote themselves whole-heartedly to this, their energies are less likely to be devoted to molesting their neighbours. Germany, unfortunately for herself and the world, had no government which could speak for the whole people and be responsible to it. A truly national government in Germany, or anywhere else, would not have willed this war. The colonial expansion which was connected with the outburst of national sentiment in the sixteenth century, and has led to frequent conflicts between European nations ever since, also appears in a different light if we study it in view of facts not dreamt of in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The Americas, which appeared to the early navigators as rich estates to be cultivated for the benefit of proprietors at home, have developed into powerful and independent countries, eminently pacific (except for internal brawls), looking forward to producing new types of life and government, hoping perhaps to hold the balance in a long-drawn contest of the Old World Powers. The circle, therefore, of the Mediterranean world which was enlarged by the discoveries of the sixteenth century, finds its completion to-day in new states across the Atlantic, which are on the whole enormously preponderant on the side of peace, and wish to hold their own in Western civilization by force of wealth and industry, and not by arms. To us, too, it is clear, and will be one day to the Germanic Powers, that the British Empire, the largest political aggregate on the globe, is essentially a league of free peoples, under no compulsion from the centre, but responsive to attack upon their power or liberty by any third party, strong from their general contentment with the conditions and institutions of their life, and not through any systematic regulations imposed from above. Even India and other protected states and dominions, though not yet self-governing, are moving steadily in the direction of responsibility and of willing association with the British Empire or Commonwealth as a whole. Such is the much vaster community of nations which has succeeded to the Western Europe of the sixteenth century; and no mention has been made of the place of Russia or the countries still further east. The picture does not suggest a welter of conflicting passions and ambition throughout the world. On the whole a mass of men and women labouring with fair contentment at their daily task, not concerned that their state or nation should extend its boundaries, least of all that it should provoke attack; little conscious of the historic debt of nations to one another, but wishing well to others except when they cross the path of a personal desire; gaining rapidly more sense of actual community among living men, but hardly realizing yet how man's power has been built up in the past and how infinitely it might be advanced and the world improved by harmony and steadily directed efforts in the future. That the sense of brotherhood has gained ground in the world, especially since the middle of the eighteenth century, is certain. Voices of protest reach us even from Germany through the storm of hatred. But the vague sympathy, the desire for peace and shrinking from the horrors of war need to be enlightened, to have a reasoned basis in the belief that all nations, and especially those of the vanguard, are partners in a common work and essential one to another, above all, perhaps, to have institutions which tend to co-operation and make a sudden and disastrous breach as difficult as possible. Many of these instruments of peace were being forged when the war broke out. Many of the most profound ties between nations are not understood or are kept in the background by nationalist teachers or a nationalist press. Of all the modern steps towards international unity, the most indisputable, the most firmly based and furthest-reaching, is science, and the various applications of science, both in promoting intercourse between different parts of the world and in alleviating suffering and strengthening and illuminating human life. The more prominence, therefore, that we can secure for the growth of science in the teaching of history, the larger place humanity, or the united mind of mankind, will take in the moving picture which every one of us has, more or less full and distinct, of the progress of the world. For some hundreds of years, culminating in the three or four centuries A.D., the dominant feature in the picture was of a triumphant city-state, Rome, gradually subduing and embracing the world. Then for some thousand years the picture was of a religious organization leading the civilized world, and nationalities were only emerging as somewhat dim and ill-defined figures. Then, with the rupture in the Church and the upspringing of other religious bodies and forms of thought, national figures become predominant in the scene, and attract nearly all the attention, which is given, except by a few curious persons, to the study of history. Nationalism, once in defect in Western Europe, has been for some time in excess. The remedy is not directly to attack it, except in the case in which it gave us no choice, but to supply the limiting and controlling ideas. Of all these, science fits the case most exactly, because, as science, it can know no distinction between French or German, English or Russian. There is no French physics or German chemistry, and if we are told that the Prussians have their own theory of anthropology, based on the predominance of a particular type of skull which other anthropologists dispute, we are quite sure that in that case science has not yet said her last word. We put physical science first because it contains the largest number of certain and accepted laws. The further we get from mathematical exactness the more liable we are to differences of opinion, which may, as in the case of anthropology, cluster round some question of national pique. But it would be easy to trace through all the sciences, and into philosophy and religion, a growing unity of method and result before which national differences often resolve themselves into a difference of style. The style is the nation's, but the truth is mankind's. We could not, indeed, be sure that if every one in Western Europe were a trained scientist, wars would cease from the earth: certain professors have taught us too well for that. But in so far as men come to recognize that the great body of organized knowledge is a common possession, due to the united efforts of different nations, and that it can only be increased by joint action and may be increased to such a point that the whole of life is a happier and nobler thing, so far they will be averse to war. And in its various applications, to increasing production and quickening communication, to lengthening life and healing sickness, to protecting workers and cheapening food, men see the natural fruits of an activity whose basis is common thought and its ultimate purpose the common good. It has been said with truth that it is easier to trace the growth of science as a joint product of co-operating minds, than to find a growth of common sentiments among the men and the nations who have created it. True among individuals, it must be at least as true among groups and nations. We may work successfully with some one at a problem or learn from a teacher or a companion when we dislike him personally and do not seek his society apart from the needs of our common work. It has often happened, and will happen again in private and public. But though particular antipathies may increase, the tendency to dislike others is a diminishing quality among civilized men. In the long run common sense and necessity will prevail. We are born to live a while before we die; and we must live on the same planet, sometimes next door to those who have sworn a never-dying hate. II UNITY IN PREHISTORIC TIMES[1] The new perspective, with all its shift of values, which is forced on us by the war, touches the past no less than the present and the future. However objectively we try to present to ourselves the data of history, we cannot emancipate ourselves from the need to present them from a point of view which must in the last resort be our own. We may bring ourselves by training and criticism nearer to the centre of things, more intimate with essential factors and remote from the trivial periphery; but it is a matter of degree, and historical study an affair after all of mental triangulation. Like a surveyor in the field, we are safest in our determination of any third position if we have already knowledge of two, and of how the third looks from both of them. And even if we were indeed at the centre of things, I suppose we might take our round of angles quite uselessly, unless we had also some divine gift of judging distances. So the historian accepts his limitations as the rules of the game, and sets out to see unity askance. It is his rare chance, if events shift _him_, and set him gazing at a world in which, as now, half his own career is inside the picture; not perhaps very easy to find in a moment--as one might fail to recognize oneself in a group-photograph--but none the less there, and intelligible only in relation to its actual surroundings. Looking back, indeed, over the course of anthropology and prehistoric archaeology, much of which lies in the years since 1870, and nearly all of it since 1815, the first thing which strikes us now is the frequency and delicacy of its response to contemporary thoughts and aspirations. A few of the greatest men have recognized this at the time. I quote from Karl Ernst von Baer, the founder of comparative embryology, and in great matters the master of men as different as Huxley, Spencer, and Francis Balfour. He died in 1876, when political anthropology was still young; but in his great book on Man he 'appeals to the experience of all countries and ages, that if a people has power, and attempts wrongdoing against another, it also does not omit to conceive the other as very worthless and incompetent, and to repeat this conviction often and emphatically' (_Der Mensch_, ii. 235). It is easy for us to dot the _i_ and cross the _t_ here; less easy perhaps to realize that what troubled von Baer was the persistence of British and American ethnologists in the polygenist heresy, which he traced (and rightly) to their reluctance to treat their 'black brother' as if he were their relative at all. Judgement in that ethnological controversy went by default, with the victory of the North in the American Civil War; and in 1871 the lion lay down with the lamb, even in London; inveterate foes in the Ethnological Society and the Anthropological merging their fate in one Anthropological Institute. In 1915 the reluctance of the 'tall fair people who come from the north'--I borrow a phrase from Professor Ridgeway--to fraternize with mere brunettes, beyond Rhine and Danube, comes in its turn before the same tribunal as polygenism in 1862. Our subject, 'Unity in Prehistoric Times', embraces three main topics: (1) the unity of human effort and reason everywhere in Man's struggle with Nature and with his Fellow-man; (2) the special conditions which favoured or hindered unity of prehistoric culture in what has been called elsewhere the 'north-west quadrant' of the Old-World land-mass west of Ararat and the Median hills and north of Sahara, the cradle and nursery of the modern 'western world'; and (3) the convergent lines of advancement within that region, which can be traced through the centuries before Roman policy let Greek culture penetrate almost as deep into peninsular Europe as Alexander's conquests had opened to it the inlands of the Near East. When we speak of unity in human affairs, and particularly just now, when the supreme unity seems to some to be nationalism, and to others the negation, or rather the supersession of nationalism, we mean the rather complex outcome of several distinct things. This complexity was confessed, unwittingly perhaps, in the first humanist creed: 'I believe in one Blood, one Speech, one Cult, one congruous Way of Living.'[2] Modern ethnology, indeed, tends to subsume cult under way-of-living, as a peculiarly delicate test of conformity--and to regard language, alongside of both cult and way-of-living, as another manifestation of the same human reason; distinguishing therefore two kinds of unity--one physical or morphological, as of one animal species in an animal kingdom, the other cultural or psychological, as of the sole incarnate occupant of a realm of mind; and classifying the 'Science of Man' accordingly. But, in essentials, that Athenian creed will serve: our latest ethnologists, and statesmen too, are faced with the same league of problems. THE UNITY OF MANKIND AS AN ANIMAL SPECIES Whatever Greek statesmen thought about the gulf between Greek and Persian, or Greek and Barbarian generally, Greek ethnologists raised no fundamental barrier between the different sorts of Man. Good naturalists as they were, and experienced breeders of farm-stock, they accepted white, brown, and black men; and were prepared to accept any other breed that Nearchus or Pytheas might confront them with, as members of one brotherhood, just as they accepted white, brown, or black sheep, with horns of Ammon or with none. Eratosthenes, most philosophical, and therewith most _political_ of them all, was bred in Cyrene, where some Greeks seem to have been black; and he worked in Alexandria, where the University was a human Zoo like that of London or Berlin. Their simple farmer's theory of natural selection attributed 'scorched-faced' Aethiopians to sunburn, and other racial types to large factors of region and régime. The classical treatise is that of Hippocrates 'On Air, Water, and Places'.[3] In the modern world, too, no serious doubt was cast on the specific unity of mankind, handed down from antiquity, until Linnaeus and Buffon had refined upon the biological notions of genus and species (for both of which there is only one word in Greek), and had defined species by the criterion of fertility. Now not only the great explorers, but every ship's captain, knew by this time that white men, at all events, would form fertile unions with all known kinds of humanity. But in the eighteenth century it became known also, and in the same empirical way, that the fertility of unions between white men and black was imperfect; and as this was the only human cross for which there was any large quantity of evidence, the impression grew that the zoological distance between these races was greater than had been supposed. On the other hand, eighteenth-century formulators of the 'Rights of Man' challenged reconsideration of the current practice of negro slavery; and the upshot was a controversy. Abolitionists contended that the 'black brother' was indeed a blood brother, and entitled to the 'Rights of Man'; their opponents replied that the negro, being (as they held) of another species, might justly be treated in all respects as one of white man's domestic animals, and be his property as well as his drudge. At the turn of the century, the adherence of Cuvier gave prestige to Polygenesis on its scientific side: and it took all the reasonableness of Prichard in the next generation to turn the tide even in England. But the issue of the American Civil War, to which reference has already been made, coincided so closely in time with the work of Darwin and Lyell on the real meaning of species and on the antiquity of man, that the controversy was closed without bitterness. The new phase of Polygenism which seems now to be opening, with successive discoveries of the quaternary stratification of races, and Keith's analysis of the family tree of the _Hominidae_, starts from wholly different data, unembarrassed by fears or hopes of a 'Neanderthal' origin for the Negro, or for any living or recent _Homo_. The 'human family' then seems re-established as something more than a platform phrase; and separatists (who are always with us) have had to fall back upon another criterion of disunity. THE UNITY OF MANKIND AS A RATIONAL ANIMAL Omitting language for a moment (which since first telling of the 'Tower of Babel' story has somewhat fallen from grace as a symptom of unity among mankind), or rather, subsuming it as one of the most essential exhibitions of rationality, and indeed its chief instrument, we come to Man's unity as a creature possessed of reason, and expressing this reasoning habit in specific modes of living, under whatever external surroundings. These being almost infinitely various, it is not always easy to compare examples of Man's reaction to them. For proof of the uniformity of human reasoning, indeed, we have to begin almost from an animal plane. 'Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Fed with the same food, subject to the same diseases, healed by the same means, warmed and cooled by the same summer and winter, as a Christian is?' And not only is men's hunger, and their sensitiveness to 'the same summer and winter' similar: their ways of satisfying hunger, their conduct of the food-quest, their elementary organizations 'for the sake of maintaining life', as Aristotle expressed it, exhibit one mental type throughout. In the domestication of nature's gifts it is the same: in the fashioning of implements and weapons, the improvisation of clothing and shelter, the almost instinctive impulse to 'play with fire' which repels other animals. Style and finish may vary, and do vary widely from one province of culture to another; but in their last mechanical analysis, a spade is a spade all the world over, and a celt a celt. It was the service of the late General Pitt-Rivers in this country, and of Klemm more laboriously abroad, to establish this aspect of the 'Evolution of Culture' beyond controversy: as it was the work of Boucher de Perthes, and of Sir John Evans and Sir John Lubbock to proceed in the reverse direction, from a criterion of utility to a hypothesis of design, and the conclusion that certain stones, of reputedly prehuman antiquity, must be the work of human hands, geared to human brains like ours. Tylor's wider range of observation, conspicuously supplemented by other work of Lubbock, embraced all human activities in one formula of comparison, which is indeed as old as Thucydides.[4] We can infer, that is, something about early stages of an advanced culture from the present-day practices of savagery. Yet, across this 'primitive culture', to use a phrase which has become classical, so reasonable, and therewith so full of uniformities, in its intimate interplay of hand and tongue with brain, patches of shadow fall; a chaos of such incredible absurdities and (in the widest sense) of 'barbarities', that the charitable hypothesis that here and there man has lost his way and just _stopped thinking_ hardly seems adequate to account for things, and writers like Lévy-Bruhl are provoked to the pessimist guess that there can be a savage logic which is different from ours and yet is 'logical' in some coherent sense; which _stets verneint_ the conclusions, and even the axioms, which are clear as day to us; and is a 'knowledge of evil' side by side with the knowledge of good. But examples of this 'primitive thought', when we come to analyse them, all seem to resolve themselves into one or other of the ordinary sorts of fallacy, as our own logic-books expound them. If the study of them proves anything at all, it is the familiar aphorism that, while there is only one right way of doing and thinking, there are countless ways of going wrong. Among the most reasonable people (at their highest) that the world has yet seen, there were some of the worst miscarriages of reason and of morals; and throughout their great centuries there was no word either for the devil or for sin in their language. For the Greek all human wrongdoing came under the one simple category of [Greek: hamartia], 'making a mistake', or better 'making a miss'. It is the slang of target-practice, for the correlative [Greek: otochazein], used of all happy guesses at truth, is likewise only the word for '_aiming_ straight'. But why make mistakes? Why these failures of co-ordination between design and execution, between nature's truth and man's theory and practice? Why this declining from the best into sloppy or antiquated work, to name only two main sorts of technological fallacy? Again the answer comes down, past Lucretius, from the Ionian physicist. It is only in superficial appearance that 'though reason is common to all, most men live as if they had a way of thinking of their own',[5] Heraclitus' momentary despair anticipating Lévy-Bruhl almost verbally. Once penetrate, with Heraclitus himself, below the surface, and 'all men have it in them to understand themselves and to think straight'.[6] It is failure to think, not some distinct and illogical sort of thinking, that is the cause of the trouble: the lapse of that 'organized common sense' which is the content of all 'science'. Such disorganization of common sense, 'idiotic' thinking, in the Heraclitan sense of an [Greek: idia phronêsis], can be as cumulative, fallacy on fallacy, and as elaborately wrong, as the fabric of knowledge is cumulatively and elaborately right. 'Hath this man sinned, or his parents, that he was born blind?' That is the tragedy of primitive culture: for the brains are there and the eyes; only they have never seen anything straight, because in the world they were bred up in there was nothing left straight to be seen. Lucretius hit upon half the trouble when he referred the organized absurdities of his contemporaries to hereditary fear: which in the last analysis is a derangement of the higher activities extending to abdication. Its onset is an ataxy; and its culmination a paralysis. In its mental aspect it is failure of the Will-to-know; acceptance of an inferiority to which ignorance consigns us. The other half of the trouble, less clearly diagnosed by Lucretius, but detected, as we have seen, by Heraclitus, is hereditary pride, based on ignorance no less than is Lucretian fear. It is the 'lie-in-the-soul', the conviction, assailed by Socrates and before his time as well as after, that we know how things stand, when in fact we do not. Like fear, in its mental aspect, it is a failure of the Will-to-know; once again, an acceptance of the inferior status of the ignorant. Organized fears, then, lead to _tabu_, the systematic inhibition of experiment which might conflict with hypothesis; and organized pride, to _magic_, with its systematic disregard of the results of each experiment that is made, when it does so conflict with hypothesis. And it is these two superstructures of ignorance, inhibiting and insisting by turns, which add the glamour of irrationality to so much of the behaviour of mankind, and disguise its native rationalism and its morality too. Beset by fear and pride, craftsman and cultivator and explorer and reformer alike are in the same predicament. 'I could do this or that and do it thus, but may I?' and if such opinion as counts says 'Thou shalt not', the fallacious substitution of 'shalt not' for 'mayst' cannot fail to endanger advancement. It may be over the chipping of a flint axe, or a trade-union rule about a high-speed lathe; but if the craftsman conforms to opinion as such, and not through positive concurrence of his own judgement with it, he has accepted the fallacious conclusion as his own, and lets his work fall to second-hand and to second-best. Wide uniformities of conduct and of material culture may therefore result from ignorance, no less than from knowledge, and unless we have very full acquaintance with the region and external conditions, it is not easy to decide whether any one of these uniformities is wisely uniform or not. The record of the dealings of quite well-meaning conquerors with the institutions and arts of their subjects is full of tragedies of this kind. I call to mind an example in Paraguay, where abstention from infanticide, after conversion to Christianity, nearly wrought the extinction of a native tribe, for the population at once began to exceed the means of subsistence; and it was only when the committee in London was induced (just in time) to apply mission funds to the purchase of seeds and implements of agriculture that the danger was averted. It is not my purpose here to commend infanticide; only to indicate that while man cannot live by bread alone, he cannot go on living, even a good life, if he really falls short of bread. So with devotion to an ideal unity of culture, we are to combine toleration of wide diversity, seeing how diverse are the surroundings which make up the Home of Man. Were Nature uniform, in a geographical sense, from pole to pole, civilization might be practically as well as ideally one, though it may fairly be doubted whether in such a world civilization, such as we know, would arise; but with the present distribution of land and water, temperature and rainfall, and the complex of plants and animals which results from their interaction, unity among the phenomena of culture ceases to be practicable, and it has become hard for some (as we have seen) even to keep their faith in the unity of human reason. It was not, in fact, till a rather later stage in the growth of science, either in the old world, or in our own, that anyone troubled himself about the existence of such unity at all. That men of alien blood should behave in alien and incomprehensible ways seemed to the Greek and to the navigators of the Renaissance equally natural. And Herodotus and Bodin, to name only pioneers and masters, are agreed as to the cause. Variety in Man's behaviour is no impish trick of original sin: it is the response of his single reason to variety in Nature. Only when experience added intimacy with alien individuals to observations of their habits of life, did a common humanity in their behaviour begin to be so frequent and obvious as to cause surprise. Acquiescence in the discovery is implicit in Thucydides and Hobbes, and confessed in Aristotle and Locke. Had Europe broken into the Great East in Locke's day, as the Greeks broke into Persia in Aristotle's, we might have had completer analogy between the ethnology of Montesquieu and that of Eratosthenes than we can actually trace. The defect in the writer of the _Lettres Persanes_ is in his knowledge of Persia, not of Paris and London: Eratosthenes, as we remember, was born in Cyrene and worked in Alexandria. MAN IN CONFLICT WITH NATURE IN THE NORTH-WEST QUADRANT OF THE OLD WORLD We come now, from this rather general survey of human faculty, to the more pertinent question, what sort of unity do we find in human achievement within that region, or rather within those regions, of the Old World where the stream-heads of our modern culture seem to take their rise? The qualification which has slipped from my pen is half the answer already, for we are to deal not with one homogeneous region but with a cluster of regions in all climates from Arctic tundra to Sahara and the Nile, and in all altitudes from alpine to maritime. Unity of prehistoric culture, in such conditions, can at best be but a question of degree. Modern ethnology, emancipated from a belief in an immediate consanguinity of mankind, by the spread of less infantile views about Noah's Ark, goes on to question the sufficiency of language as a bond of union, and forthwith stumbles over the Tower of Babel. Two contemporary lines of discovery have tended to determine the result. Geology gives us a very long margin of time since the north-west quadrant began to be reinhabited by human beings after the Ice Age, and assumed approximately its present distribution of land and water. Archaeology, which in this aspect is the special stratigraphy of man, sanctions an extension of time, since not merely human beings but organized societies of men made their appearance in Europe, which far exceeds the period required, or commonly assumed, for the spread of any known Indo-European language, from any possible 'home' to any region where it was spoken at the beginning of historic time. And not only does archaeological evidence enable us to detect such societies sedentary for a while on this or that site over the face of Europe and its neighbourhood; it traces not merely one 'prehistoric culture', but a number of distinct types of such culture, each with its own geographical distribution, and with distributions which expand and contract at different times, superseding one type of culture here, and another there, and in turn superseded by others. It is not easy to bring home the extent of this diversity to those who are not familiar with the physical condition of a Europe which was as yet largely in the 'backwood' stage of exploitation. But it will give some idea of the range of contrast, if we revert to the method of Thucydides,[7] and compare the unexploited Europe of the days before agriculture, with unexploited America at the time of its discovery by Europeans. Here, within the same geographical limits of the north temperate zone, and with the far simpler scheme of surface relief which characterizes the New World, we have civilizations as different as those of the Eskimo, the Algonkin peoples of the coniferous forests, the Huron and Iroquois of the deciduous hardwoods, horticultural Muscogeans in the south-east, buffalo-hunting Sioux on the prairie, predatory Apaches and Blackfeet in the foothills, and littoral and riparian fisher-folk on the Pacific slope: just as recognizable now, in their distributions and overlaps, by the fashions of their pipe-bowls and other débris, as are the representatives of the 'row-grave' culture or the makers of 'band-keramik' in Central Europe. Keeping in mind this analogy of prehistoric Europe with pre-Columbian North America, let us classify the problems of subsistence which these Old World regions offered to prehistoric man; and consider, granting him all the reason in the world, and uniform physique (if you please) as well, how he is to formulate solutions which shall show any trace of uniformity, and yet be solutions for him of the one Protean problem, how to sustain life here and now? Along the Arctic seaboard, homogeneous from Behring Strait nearly to the North Cape, we have the frozen tundra region, with a characteristic tundra culture; pushed now far north since Europe mellowed into a habitable world, but formerly widespread about the skirts of the shrinking ice-sheet. Here we hunt large animals and sea-shore beasts, and trap small-deer very ingeniously; we fish in the large northward-flowing rivers; and eventually (heaven knows after how long, or how far back from now) we borrowed a notion, probably from pastorals imprudently straying too far along those northward river-lanes through the forests, and domesticated our best of beasts, the reindeer; stealing a march here on our Alaskan cousins, who call them caribou and treat them so: _they_ had no pastorals on the prairie southward to teach them otherwise, and when the Russians came and brought reindeer over from Asia, the silly fellows turned them loose and hunted them till they had eaten them all. South of the tundra, the Great Northern Woodland encircles the planet, interrupted only by the treeless sea. Here too we hunt, and trap, and eat berries of the undergrowth, like Algonkins or Tacitean Germans, many of whom had no more skill in cattle than Algonkins. But we have not the place to ourselves, like the tundra folk and the Algonkins. Our forest world is in ever-present danger of disintegration, and our wood-craft with it. Fond folk with tame animals (poor sport, both of them, for sportsmen like us) come blundering in off the parkland away south, up the grassy glades, trampling undergrowth and scaring the game. People are saved from all that 'over there', because no one can tame the prairie buffalo and drive _him_ over the hunting grounds; some sport, too, the prairie buffalo! And worse still, there are the people who come hacking and burning our great trees, and tearing up the turf and underwood, and all to plant their fancy grasses with the fat seeds, that the deer like to browse over; and that is the only thing to make those people show fight, if we or the deer go among their fat-grass plots. Those people come up, too, from the south and the south-east, and have to go back thither for seed if their sowings fail. Of course they like their animals tame, like the other fellows; but the grasses are their first string, as we bow-men say. Southward, enveloping the Alpine ridges, except where the snow peaks perforate its carpet covering, the Woodland changes its character, rather than gives place to anything fresh along the shores of the Lake Region of the Old World. Here and there, in detached plateaux enfolded among the ranges (like the Salt Lake basin and the Shoshonean plateaux in America), there are isolated grassy plains, repeating on a smaller scale the great grassland which skirts the Black Sea and the Caspian. Examples are the heart of Spain and of Asia Minor, and the miniature grasslands of the Balkan Peninsula, such as Thessaly and Eastern Thrace. It is in the southern third, or thereabouts, of the continuous Woodland, where the deciduous forest trees begin to give place to evergreens, as they themselves replaced the conifers further north, that the minutely subdivided horticulture and arboriculture begins, which characterize the Mediterranean region. To call it agriculture would be to exaggerate its scale. It is more like a northerly extension of tropical _Hackbau_, as the Germans call those forms of plant-raising which dispense with plough and spade, and employ only mattocks or hoes, which are little more than earth-chopping celts. You have only to watch the unhandy way in which the Greek peasant and what Homer called his 'foot-trailing' oxen work their Virgilian plough through the recesses of a field no bigger than a cabbage-patch, and well stocked with olive-trees besides, to realize how truly in this kind of farming the ox is in place of a house-slave to a poor man. For the house-slave could handle a _zappa_, the spadelike Levantine hoe, where an ox would fail to turn round, yet where food-plants could be coaxed to grow, and an olive-tree would luxuriate. This kind of garden-cultivation indeed repeats very closely the foodquest of the Muskogean cultivators in the South-eastern States, who make up the so-called 'civilized tribes' and, almost alone among the Redskins, 'are all self-supporting and prosperous'.[8] In the Old World, as in the New, its distribution is closely defined by certain limits of rainfall and temperature, and most of all by the extent to which the rainfall is concentrated into a few winter months, so that a dry warm summer is assured, which Man can mitigate and even exploit if he has access to perennial water. It extended, therefore, in quite early times, and still predominates, all round the mountainous shores of the Mediterranean, from Syria by Southern Europe to Algeria and Tunis, and penetrates inland and upland into the forests till summer clouds and rainfall check it. In this region of its distribution Greek and Roman legends betray the belief that grain-cultivation came late, and superseded a staple diet of tree produce, chestnut, walnut, filbert, and acorn.[9] And when the 'nobler grasses' came, it was barley and red wheat that predominated, as indeed they predominate still. But this is only one part of the distribution of the garden-culture. Far north along the Atlantic seaboard, and as far inland as the mild Atlantic climate is perceptible, the same type prevails. Its ancient limit is traced meteorologically in Tacitus' complaints (for example) of the austerity of the lands beyond the Rhine. In this northern region grain crops pass from red to white wheat, from barley to oats, and from both to rye. The ease with which the Muskogean potato and tomato have been acclimatized, and their respective prevalence now in the Atlantic and Mediterranean sections, illustrate exactly the place which primitive hoe-culture held in the economy of the Old-World region. Early monuments of this culture, in which hoe and ox-plough are equally conspicuous, are the 'meraviglie' rock-carvings above Ventimiglia.[10] The fine flower of it is the Minoan civilization of the Crete and the South Aegean. Egyptian agriculture is also in great part hoe-work. South-eastward, outside the Carpathians, and within them also, in the great plain of Hungary, we meet a totally different régime; vast featureless and treeless grasslands, extending past the Black Sea and Caspian to the foot of the mountains of North Persia and the spurs of the Central Asian highlands. Here, if Man is to maintain himself at all, he must be master of tame animals which can eat the grass, and in turn sustain him. South of the eastward continuation of the woodland Mountain Zone, through Asia Minor into Persia, and also south of the Mediterranean lake-region and the ridges of Syria and the 'Africa Minor' of Tunis, Algeria, and Morocco, which partly enclose it, lies another group of grasslands, Arabia and Sahara, desert-hearted, but capable of sustaining a considerable population of nomad pastoral folk round their margins and in oases, and of emitting them in volcanic emigrations now and then. From the human point of view, the profound difference between the northern and the southern group of these grasslands, which collectively lie athwart the great east-and-west mountain zone of the Old World, is this. The southern grassland sustains sheep and goats almost exclusively; it acquired its domesticated horses recently (at earliest about 2000 B.C.) and from the north-east; and it relies, for transport, on camels and asses, not on wheeled vehicles. The northern, on the other hand, has sufficient perennial pasture to permit of oxen; it uses horses habitually; and it has utilized the timber of its parkland margin, where it passes over into the northern forest, to construct wheeled carts and ox-ploughs. Equipped with these fundamental implements of civilization, wheel-borne nomads have penetrated the Mountain Zone from the north again and again, introducing the cart into Egypt rather late, and perhaps even into Babylonia; though with these exceptions no secondary centre of cart-folk was ever established in the south. Obvious reasons for this failure lie in the scarcity of parkland and of perennial pasture for large cattle. At best, Assyria and Syria adopted the horsed chariot for war; but these regions, like the Hittite chariot-users of Asia Minor, the Achaean conquerors of the Greek peninsula, and the Gauls in West-Central Europe, are rather within the parkland fringes of the Mountain Zone, and among those intermont plateaux which we have noted already, than borderers of the Grassland itself. In particular, they are all sedentary, and stand in this respect contrasted with the migratory Scythian cart-folk in the northern Grassland. The only nomad cart-folk within the Mountain Zone are the Gipsies,[11] and they seem mainly to have formed their habit of life in the largest intermont plateau of all, the vast table-land of Persia. The plough is less easy to trace. All that can be safely said at present is that it is a device for applying the strength of large cattle to break up the soil for a grain crop, deeply and uniformly, and above all more rapidly than a man can dig it with a hoe. By his own effort a man can barely break up enough ground to supply his home with grain, except in irrigated land. With the simplest of ploughs he can do this and more, and yet have leisure for other pursuits within the ploughing season. But it is not yet clear in what region ploughing first began. Probably it was in the comparatively well-watered and well-wooded margin of one of the large grasslands; but whether north or south of the Mountain Zone, or round the discontinuous plateaux within it, is not clear. The presumption of large cattle favours the north, yet Babylonia, and even Egypt, had large cattle from very early times. North Syria seems to dispute with Babylonia priority in the production of wheat. Somewhere in this region we may provisionally place the cradle of what I may perhaps describe as the Bread-and-Cheese culture, in which the staple foods are provided by grain-plants and cattle, the latter being valued for their strength and their milk products, but not primarily for their flesh. Disseminated westward, the Bread-and-Cheese culture is found to suffer regional modification. Southward, among the Mediterranean evergreen flora and old hoe-cultivation, the dearth of summer grass makes the large cattle useless for milking, as well as for beef; they are bred exclusively for draught, as their gait and structure show, and while cheese is supplied by the sheep and goats, butter and animal-fats are replaced by the vegetable oils, of which the olive is the chief, a characteristic Mediterranean product, evergreen, deep-rooted against summer drought, and fleshy-fruited. A Bread-and-Olive culture results, familiar to all visitors to Mediterranean lands. In the deciduous forests of South-Central Europe there is grass in the clearings, and milk enough; but goats and sheep are restricted, as the undergrowth becomes deeper and denser, and the prime giver of fats is the forest-bred pig: in a land rolling with ham and sausages we reach the Bread-and-Bacon culture. Further afield still, and later, in proportion as the forest is opened out by semi-pastoral folk, the moister summer permits open meadow-land, with perennial grass, and the possibility of hay. Here too the grain crops may be so large that there is something over to fatten stock; and to Bread and Cheese the farmer of the north-western plains adds Beef. When there is coarse grain in plenty, of course, the large-boned horse of the north gradually replaces the ox at the plough, and permits him to be bred, as with ourselves, not for draught at all, but for milking and killing exclusively. It is in this final phase that the Bread-and-Beef culture passes over eventually into the New World, and into the South Temperate Zone. It has been rather a long story to tell, and full of platitudes, but the gist of it is by this time clear. Whatever be the superstructure of social institutions, of arts and sciences, of religion and philosophy, that European men have built upon it, the régime which has made the Western World what it is, from before the dawn of metallurgy until now, has been generically a Bread culture; based on that combination of pastoral and agricultural life in which large cattle co-operate with man in the laborious preparation of the soil which cereal crops require. But the Bread culture itself is always supplemented by some form of milk product, of which cheese is typical. It is almost always supplemented further by some special provision of fats; in Mediterranean conditions by olives and oil, involving extensive tree culture; in the forest region by pig's meat; and on the Atlantic seaboard by butter and beef. The exhilarants show the same geographic control; with the olive culture go the wines and brandies of the south; with the forest culture, the ciders and the cherry brandies of Central Europe; with the copious cereals and meadow-grass, the beers and whiskies of the North. In details, of course, the distribution of types is intricately confused; but the main outline is clear; and we reach a first glimpse of a coherent European culture, on the almost animal plane of regional foodquests. RACE, LANGUAGE, AND CULTURE AS FACTORS OF UNITY Precedence has been given in our inquiry to the mere animal struggle of man with nature for bare subsistence, for two distinct reasons. The first is economic, namely, that just because this struggle is without qualification that of a highly intelligent animal species to maintain itself under these or those conditions, it is one which befalls equally every breed or race of that species which is ever exposed to those conditions; and further, is no more mitigated by considerations of language than by considerations of race. The second reason is historical or archaeological. The spread of the Bread culture is dated so far back in the history of man in this region, as to make it certain that it preceded not merely the spread of the prevalent Indo-European group of languages, but even the present distribution of racial types. It certainly reached Italy, and the Atlantic seaboard as the British Isles, before the brachycephalic 'Alpine' men arrived there; and still more before the Boreal invasions of Britain and the opposite coasts. Indeed, it would be truer to say that in general each breed of man which has changed its distribution has had to adopt sooner or later the types of culture appropriate to the regions into which it has penetrated, than to associate the spread of any element of culture so fundamental as the food-quest with the migrations of any racial type. Race, indeed, in Europe, as well as further afield, has been anything but a factor of unity. When we speak (on platforms) of Europeans as 'white men', we are in danger of forgetting, what every practical man in our audience knows, that we are dealing with at least three distinct breeds of mankind, which agree, indeed, rather imperfectly in the whiteness of their skin, but differ greatly in other points of structure and physique, including resistance to certain types of climate and regional diseases, and not least in temperament and the quality of their response to Nature's challenges of hardship or indulgence. Of these three breeds of man, only one, the blond Boreal giants (the only 'white men' in the strict sense of defect of pigment in skin, hair, and eyes) is exclusively European now, and has his habitat within the area of the 'Boreal' groups of animals and plants. His champions in ethnological propaganda seem to be of two minds about his earlier distribution; either his 'home' was round the Baltic, in which case it is difficult to see why he should be represented as a civilizing agency, in view of the cultural backwardness of that region; or else it was out on the Eurasian grassland, in which case he is as much an intruder into peninsular Europe as his brachycephalic 'Alpine' rival, and his claim to represent indigenous European man must go. The large part which he has played in European history seems to result partly from his great physical strength, surpassed (I believe) only by that of the Negro, partly from his reluctance, not so much to interbreed with more pigmented strains, but to admit the crossbred offspring to full partnership with himself. Even among his like, he has his own criteria by which one 'white man' knows another, and coheres with him politically. Most strongly contrasted externally with the 'Boreal' type is the slight-built Mediterranean brunet. That his home is in the south, that he is closely related with the men of the African and Arabian grasslands, and that he was among the first post-glacial explorers of the Atlantic seaboard, is admitted. More doubt arises as to the extent to which he penetrated from these southern and western bases into the heart of peninsular Europe. Certainly as we trace him to the south-east he seems more and more restricted to the Mediterranean coastline, and at last has no early monopoly even of the islands. The contrast between Crete and Cyprus is instructive as to this. The 'Mediterranean' type, in fact, reaffirms to the anthropologist the close zoological affinity between South-west Europe and North-west Africa. But if Europe 'ends at the Pyrenees', it ends also anthropologically at the Balkans, or even at the Carpathians; for the whole Balkan Peninsula, and most of the highland core of peninsular Europe, is essentially continuous with Asia Minor and the next eastward sections of the Mountain Zone, so far as its human population is concerned, no less than in its animals and plants. Biological continuity is as complete at the Bosphorus as it is at Gibraltar. Here, what remains in dispute is not so much whether 'Alpine' types are ultimately of Anatolian origin, as whether their spread in Europe has been early or late, and whether their predecessors here were predominantly 'Boreal' or 'Mediterranean'. It is difficult, and perhaps needless, to decide whether lack of evidence or political enthusiasm is more to blame for this; for the Roundheads of prehistoric and of modern Europe are as contentious matter as their English namesakes in the seventeenth century. To this broadly threefold analysis of European man, add only this, that ever since the old 'Sarmatian' sea shrank to its present dimensions and left the grasslands open between Tienshan and the Carpathians, there has been a steady westward movement of Mongoloid folk until a strong enough Muscovy was interposed; and that along the Northern Woodland also there has been westward movement, slower but no less persistent; and it will be clear that it is not to race that we have to look for any uniform basis of our European culture. Nor is such a basis to be found in Language. People often speak of Indo-European speech as though they really confused linguistic affinity with mutual intelligibility. But if you want to test the unifying influence of kindred languages, get a Welshman, a German, a Russian, and a Greek into a room together, and see what the 'concert of Europe' amounts to. The odds are that if they confer at all, they will do so in French, which is in the strict sense of the word a 'modern' language; while if you allowed them to write and gave them time, there is just a chance that the Greek would impose his language on the other three. There is no need to labour this point further than to recall the fateful bisection of the culture of the European peninsula which resulted from the linguistic alienation of Constantinople from Rome; of the Mediterranean base which understood Latin, from that which thought in Greek. In this tragic respect, which the Turkish conquest, with its linguistic and religious sequel, has done little more than aggravate, Europe ends still at the Save; whereas Rome's greatest daughters have reconquered more than all that Carthage ever held in Africa. And the re-incorporation of Britain, too, into the comity of nations is concurrent with the Latinization of its speech, on which the seal was set in 1611. Late as it was, then, in any case, in the prehistory of the region, the spread of a single type of linguistic structure over Europe has brought not peace, but a sword. What then of Religion? How far were the older ethnologists on the right lines, when (in spite of language, rather than aided by it) they co-ordinated their own Olympus with the confederate polytheisms of the North? Here, too, we have to keep the dates in mind, and clear ourselves of enthusiasms. It is not from Tacitus or Caesar, nor even so near to the Olympians' dwelling-place as the Thrace of Herodotus' time, that we get our modern impression of the nearness of Olympus to Asgard. If northern genealogies are any guide,--and they are not likely to have reduced the real interval wittingly--Rome's empire reached its full extent while Asgard was in building, or before. And Olympus was in building, by Greek accounts, not many generations before the Trojan War. In both cases we are dealing with political and almost historical transactions; it was not in finished societies like these that Great Gods (or their votaries either) set out from 'home' over the face of Europe to unite it. And when we pass behind Olympian structures, and look into the cults which they served to federate, such uniformities as they present prove far too much. The open-air gods of Tacitus (_Germania_, chap. 9) are common to Semitic folk, and to many peoples further afield, who are either not sedentary or are themselves not easily 'confined within walls', but haunt 'forests and groves'. Leaving, then, these high works of the mind, Language and Religion, which have proved but blind guides, and 'of a short stay' in this labyrinth, let us turn to the material evidence of industrial and aesthetic activity. Here we begin at least to get something like first-hand evidence, for we have the manufactured object itself, not Caesar's impression of a Celtic god, or Herodotus' transcript of a Scythian word. We can judge for ourselves of fabrics and styles, and though, of course, we have only objects of the least perishable sorts, stone, metal, pottery, we have, at all events, in the pottery the most imitative of arts, and therefore the widest basis for conclusions as to the principles of a style. Moreover, outside the sea-borne culture of the Mediterranean, pottery does not travel far: its uses are domestic, not commercial. John Gilpin's fate is typical of those who would carry things on horseback in bottles. Like words, however, potsherds enlighten us more about frontiers and contrasts than about uniformities. They are terribly provincial and tell their tale with a twang. We can trace our _Bandkeramik_ and _Schnurkeramik_ and _Urfirnissmalerei_ and all that sort of technological idiom, across the map, as we can trace the _centum_ and _satem_ languages. But even if we could collate the 'Bandkeramiker' with the 'Satemvölker' as recent enthusiasts propose, we should be no nearer to a common technology for Europe than we were to a common language. Metal, and even stone, implements do not help us much further, though they were traded more widely than pottery, and form larger provinces. In modern Europe, in the same way, pocket-knives are rather more uniform than milk-jugs; and where they differ, are referable to fewer types. But there is no unity, nor for the present any prospect of it. For anything more, we are reduced to the great crises of material culture, such as the introduction of bronze, of iron, of glass and glazed earthenware; and these we perceive increasingly not as turning points of the whole, but as processes within it, affecting now one region, now another, in a sequence which is clearly geographical and at very variable speed. Bronze, for example, took some thousands of years to permeate the continent of Europe; iron perhaps as many hundreds; platinum a little more than fifty years; and radium less than five. What we do get from this material evidence, however, is a quite indisputable sequence of styles in time in each locality where we can hit upon stratified remains. Dead men, they say, tell no tales; potsherds are as truthful and eloquent as they are, for the very reason that, once broken, they are dead and done with, and are allowed to lie quiet in their rubbish heaps. Intervals indeed we cannot so easily measure; but of sequences we can be sure, and by comparing the sequences on different sites we can go far towards tracing the spread and supersession of a style, sometimes over wide areas, and occasionally, with the help of the geography, we can be pretty sure of the routes by which innovations travelled. We can infer nothing, however, from this as to the movements of people: the vogue of the willow-pattern plate is no measure of our 'yellow-peril'. But where works of art can travel, ideas can travel too; and can travel right across the frontiers of race and language and even of religion; meaning at all events by these, the customary observance of each region, and of its endemic population. A few merchants, or craftsmen, or philosophers, work transformations in culture and bring about uniformities, of which language, or cult-edifices give us no indication at all, or at best an aftermath of decadence. It is not a merely ephemeral interest which draws attention at this point to the significance of engines of war, among this class of transferable inventions. Little has been done in a systematic way on this topic, but the rapidity with which a really important change in equipment and organization passes from camp to camp, and revolutionizes not only armies but states, when it is a question of survival or defeat, has its illustration in many phases of warfare, and ranks among the great levellers of national or regional pride. The recorded movements of peoples in historic times, and the previous movements inferred from language, and other symptoms, indicate a long-established distribution of what might be described in meteorological phrase as _man-pressure_; certain regions being characterized either always or repeatedly by high man-pressure, and an outward flow of men into the cyclonic areas or vortexes of low man-pressure in the human covering (or biosphere) of the planet. Typical high-pressure regions are the Arabian peninsula with its repeated crises of Semitic eruption, and the great Eurasian grasslands. Typical regions of low man-pressure, and repeated irruption, are the South European peninsulas. Occasionally a region plays both parts, alternately accepting inhabitants, and unloading them on to other lands; examples are the Hungarian plain, Scandinavia, and Britain. Others again can hardly be said to have a population of their own at all, but are simple avenues of transmission, like Western Switzerland and the Hellespont Region. I am speaking now, of course, about ancient times. The causes of these recurrent movements are not clearly made out; but the movements themselves, and the fact that they are of regional recurrence, are matters of history. Conspicuous among such movements are the westward drift from Asia into peninsular Europe, in its three parallel columns, through tundra, forest, and steppe; and the southward drifts, subsidiary to this, from East Central Europe into the Balkan lands and round the head of the Adriatic. The course of these drifts is laid out in detail, as we have seen, by the physique of the regions; and therewith is determined the kind of life which each set of folk must be living if it is to survive the journey. And here we come at once upon a new factor making strongly for a more general uniformity of culture within peninsular Europe than its physical character would at all prepare us to expect. For although individual men often respond very rapidly to fresh surroundings, and can change their mode of life almost as they change their clothes, societies react far more slowly; at the pace, in fact, usually of their most obstinate members. Confronted therefore with the opportunity, or the need, for a change of habit, in the course of a migration for example, they must either refuse it, like a shy horse, or (if they accept it) enter on their new career imperfectly trained, and extemporizing adjustments here and there in very unworkmanlike fashion. Only rarely does the statesman or 'lawgiver' appear, just when he is wanted, to bring Israel up out of Egypt into the desert, and out of the desert into the good land beyond Jordan, and to canonize a new code of behaviour suited to a new set of needs. This social inertia, of which political history is the sorry record, is of course least perceptible, and most effective, when the region of transition is graduated gently; and we have already seen that this is conspicuously so around the parkland margin of the northern grassland, where it faces on peninsular Europe. Let us follow this clue in detail. We may safely assume, as we have seen, that for a long while past, every group of newcomers into peninsular Europe has come equipped with the particular type of social organization which enabled it to make good, either on the tundra, or in the northern woodland, or on the steppe, or (if it came across the Bosphorus) on the enclosed plateaux of Asia Minor and beyond. The tundra does not greatly concern us, for the White Sea cuts through it, and deep into the woodland, and bars off the Lapps from the Samoyeds and their kin. Classical descriptions of the inhabitants of the North German plain make it clear that its culture, even so late as the first century B.C., was at its best a broken prolongation of the pastoral life of the steppe margin, and that less fortunate tribes either had never had cattle, like the hunting Redskins of the corresponding forest zone of North America, or had lost them since they entered the forest, and maintained themselves by hunting and robbery like the broken pastorals who infest the east edge of the Congo basin; the Chatti of Tacitus' day enjoying tyrannous hegemony not unlike that of the Five Nations. It is probably to this westward drift from more purely pastoral condition to less, that we must attribute the only really large unity of European civilization in the later prehistoric ages, namely, its social organization in patriarchal households linked into clans and tribes. We may doubt whether this social type is permanently adaptable to a forest régime, any more than to industrial life. Certainly forest folk outside peninsular Europe only display it rarely and imperfectly. But it is characteristic of all pastoral folk; once established, it coheres and persists under great external stresses; and in early Europe its liability (strong though its structure is) to break up sooner or later into a more individualistic order, was counteracted by the recurrent drift of new grassland peoples westward from one of its principal homes. Grassland Arabia, let us note in passing, has been performing the same function, since history began, for its own marginal neighbours from Babylonia to Palestine and Egypt. On the other hand, we now see why the feminism which recurs intermittently in our 'western' world culminates in those phases of its history when that world has been strong enough to close its avenues of intrusion for a while; in the far past which has left us the great goddesses and other matrilineal survivals; in industrial Babylonia; in the Minoan palaces; in fifth-and fourth-century Greece, as Aristophanes joins with Euripides to admit, and Euripides with Plato to advocate; in the _Femmes savantes_ of renascent Europe; in eighteenth-century France, which seemed to itself so impregnable; and in the _fin-de-siècle_ Europe of yesterday, pulling down its barns to build greater. No one would suggest that this patriarchal and tribal structure favoured political unity or large enterprises of any kind. In fact, throughout the early history of Europe these coherent kinship groups, with their inner insulation and their inability to offer anything but passive resistance to the forces which were to dissolve them, were an insuperable bar to anything politically larger. 'If only these could hold together, they would rule the world' is the judgement of Herodotus on Scythia, of Thucydides on Thrace, of Polybius and Caesar upon Gaul, of Tacitus on Germany: each with the unspoken afterthought 'but thank goodness that they cannot!' But while it hindered larger growths of political structure, so long as it remained intact, and furnished a strong social skeleton upon which to frame manners and ideals which are among man's highest achievements, patriarchal society had its own dangers, and has now so nearly succumbed to them, that to see its institutions in working order we have to penetrate into Albania or amongst the least modern backwoods of the Slav-speaking east. To take only the leading instance, Greek tribal society dissolved within historic times under the double attack of individualism, industrial and commercial, at the one end, and of the federalism of the city state, at the other. For Aristotle the village-community was the 'colony' ([Greek: apoikia]) or direct offspring of the patriarchal household, but he nowhere admits the city-state to be the 'colony' of the village-community. On the contrary, at the risk of upsetting his own theory of the state as a natural outgrowth of man's political nature, he lays stress on 'the man who first introduced them to each other' as the 'author of the greatest advantages'. And it was precisely this process of 'introducing them to one another', so that the members of hitherto autonomous clans became friends instead of enemies, and were thenceforth citizens all, in one and the same city-state, that terminated that period of migrations and political chaos which separates the Minoan from the Hellenic Age in Greek lands. Rome's mission among the tribal societies of Italy is essentially the same; and it is the lack of any such missionary of political enlightenment beyond the frontier of the Roman State in its imperial fullness, that makes early mediaeval problems, which were essentially the same, so slow to be solved. We are now hard upon the borderland of history, and we take leave of a peninsular Europe--for the grassland stands still outside, as a distinct geographic entity--in which the diverse races, and languages, and religious schemes, and material cultures, are almost wholly propagated under the forms of societies of one homogeneous type, autonomous, indeed, like the states in the loosest of federations, and involved annually, somewhere or other, in intertribal feuds and war; but sufficiently acquainted with each other's customs to know that they were based on the same large needs, not merely of 'living' somehow but of 'living well', and to respect this common heritage of intertribal customs, so far that in their uttermost dealings with admitted aliens they were wont to 'make war like gentlemen'. To Homer's audience it was sure proof that Odysseus was really 'at the back of nowhere', when the Cyclops was unable to behave when a stranger came to his cave: he was 'a monster, of knowledge not according to the rules'.[12] It was a criticism of despair, like that of M. Lévy-Bruhl: for the Cyclops had the 'will to power'.[13] Here, then, was a social structure and a political world, an _oikoumené_ where _men_ could _live_, tolerant of fairly wide variations in detail, within a general uniformity: for tribal society in Middle Italy or even in Western Greece, as we first catch sight of it, was by no means homogeneous with tribal society beyond the Alps in the times of Caesar and Tacitus. But apart from these variations, tribal Europe was a coherent whole; and it was so because, and as long as, no new problems of adjustment between Man and Nature arose to upset the balance struck by that Bread-culture with which we were concerned just now. For the patriarchal tribal societies, as we watch them still in Albania for example, are neither more nor less than the political aspect of that culture, and their varieties and deviations stand in close correlation with the varieties which we have seen the Bread-culture assume. In the same way, the break-down of this social structure proceeds, step by step, in relation with the two great changes to which normal Bread-culture is exposed. On the one hand, primitive self-sufficiency (the retrospective ideal of Greek political thought) was infringed irrevocably as soon as contact was made with a region, like ancient Scythia, where, as Herodotus puts it, 'there are no earthquakes and they grow wheat to sell'; for in the Mountain Zone you are never secure against shocks, and almost never have any surplus of grain. Once in oversea contact with lands like these, it became more economical to buy grain thence, and to pay for it by increasing the production of oil and wine, than to grow everything at home; and a new and 'limitless' source of wealth emerged in the process of exchange. On the other hand, oil and wine needing far less labour than grain-crops and offering longer leisure (which for Greeks meant the chance to start doing something else), the contemporary revelation of mineral wealth, and of many forms of craftsmanship, again largely (though not wholly) introduced from oversea, created another source of wealth, no less 'limitless' and dangerously unmanageable, in a world where wealth of any kind was literally 'so little good'. And this industrial wealth, like its commercial counterpart, was personal wealth, owed wholly to skill and push, and in no way due to your clansmen or your clan. When the poet cursed the discovery of metals, he put his finger on the 'key-industry' of the whole industrial development; and when he cursed the invention of shipping, he struck at the root-trouble of all, which had revealed to autonomous Bread-cultured tribes in peninsular Europe lands otherwise constituted and endowed by Nature, the exploitation of which seemed in the beginning so easy and obvious, but is, in fact, so profound a revolution for the societies whose members have attempted it. The tree of the knowledge of good and evil was for him the shipbuilding pine.[14] But the dissolution of early European society and culture under the stress of contact with regions outside Europe is no matter of prehistoric times. The task of this essay is over when it has presented that society and culture as Man's reasoned attempt to 'live well' in an exclusively European world. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE Marett, _Anthropology_. Home University Library. J.L. Myres, _The Dawn of History_. Home University Library. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 1: This chapter has not had the advantage of Prof. Myres's revision, in view of the rest of the book which he has not seen. Being for some time abroad on war-work, it was impossible to communicate with him; and it is therefore thought best to print his paper just as it was written some months before the lectures were delivered.] [Footnote 2: Herodotus, viii. 144. After the battle of Salamis, when the Athenians are invited by Xerxes' envoy to desert the Greek cause, they say they cannot betray what 'is of one blood and of one speech, and has establishments of gods in common, and sacrifices, and habits of life of similar mode'.] [Footnote 3: For details see the section on Herodotus in _Anthropology and the Classics_; and E.E. Sikes, _The Anthropology of the Greeks_.] [Footnote 4: Thucydides i. 6 (Greek: polla d' an kai alla tis apodeixeie, to palaion Hellênikon omoiotropa tô nun barbarikô diaitômenon).] [Footnote 5: (Greek: tou gar logon eontos xynon, zôousin oi polloi ôs idian echoutes phronêsin).] [Footnote 6: (Greek: anthrôpoisi pasi metesti ginôskein eautous kai sôphroneein).] [Footnote 7: Thucydides, i. 5. He too, as it happens, is illustrating a primitive Old World, round the Aegean shores of Greece, by the contemporary West in the backwoods of Aetolia.] [Footnote 8: Farrand, _The Basis of American History_, 1904, p. 270.] [Footnote 9: The [Greek: balanêphagoi andres], 'acorn-eating men', of Greek traditional ethnology.] [Footnote 10: Bicknell, _The Prehistoric Rock Engravings in the Italian Maritime Alps_, Bordighera, 1902; _Further Explorations_, 1903. I begin to suspect that the stippled and shaded enclosures which accompany the drawings of oxen, ploughs, and men with hoes may represent the cultivation plots.] [Footnote 11: I owe valuable information about the Gipsies to my friend Dr. John Sampson, of the University of Liverpool; but he is in no way responsible for this interpretation of it.] [Footnote 12: _Odyssey_ ix. 428 (Greek: pelôr, athemistia eidôs).] [Footnote 13: _Odyssey_ ix. 214-15: (Greek: andr' epeleusesthai megalên epieimenon alkên, agrion, oute dikas en eidota oute themistas.)] [Footnote 14: Horace, _Epode_ xvi. In his 'better land'-- Non huc Argoo contendit remige pinus, Neque impudica Colchis intulit pedem.... Iuppiter illa piæ _secrevit_ litora genti, Ut inquinavit ære tempus aureum; Ære, dehinc ferro duravit sæcula; quorum Piis secunda, vate me, datur fuga.] III THE CONTRIBUTION OF GREECE AND ROME It might appear the height of paradox to preface a discourse on the Ancient World by asserting the conviction that the only genuine and important history is contemporary history. Yet reflection on this doctrine will show that it is not only consistent with a serious and steady interest in what is called Antiquity (and indeed in the past in general), but its only rational basis and justification. Were the past really past it were dead--dead and done with, and it were wisdom for us who are alive to let the dead bury their dead. Much of what has been done and suffered under the sun is indeed gone beyond recall, and is well buried in forgetfulness. In such forgetfulness lies the fact and evidence of progress. 'Vex not its ghost'; no necromancy will or should evoke the departed spirits or avail to make them utter significant speech to living men. The chain of links which once bound stage to stage of human history is somewhere for ever broken; and as we retrace, in the memory of the race or in that of individual, the Ariadne-clue which we here call 'the unity of History' it vanishes somewhere beyond our vision into the dark backward and abysm of time. True, of late Archaeology and Anthropology have cast their search-lights into the darkness, piercing a little deeper than of old into the mists that surround the origins of our civilization; but before that dimly illuminated region of pre-history there still lies, and will always lie, an impenetrable pall. As again in thought we move forward down the stream of time, the light available to us for a while increases, increases till we reach the present where it threatens to blind us with its dazzling excess, and then suddenly fades and is quenched in the twilight and final darkness by which the future is hidden from us. Of the whole stream of history our best or utmost intelligence illuminates but a short reach, and that imperfectly. 'Our ignorance is infinitely greater than our knowledge,' and the wise historian is sobered but not discouraged by this reminder of the limits of his possible understanding. Neither the remote past nor the distant future can be the objects of knowledge nor, properly speaking, the subjects of judgement. If our insatiate curiosity has bounds thus eternally set to its satisfaction, we remember also that it is not either in the past or the future that we live, that we act and are acted upon, determine or have determined for us what we do or are to do, what we suffer or are to suffer. The present alone is real, and of the real alone is genuine knowledge possible. But if this is so, it is also so that of this alone does it import us to ascertain the true nature. What we have to discover (or perish in our blindness) is what we now are and where we now stand. All other so-called knowledge or understanding, save as it ministers to the framing of a true judgement concerning our present selves and our present situation and world, is but vanity or lumber, at best a rhetorical device for bringing before ourselves or others what we so judge concerning the one and the other. Genuine understanding, however it disguise itself as chronicle or prophecy, is always of the present or nothing. But this present is not the momentary meeting-place of two eternities or the brief span of time which psychologists have named 'the specious present'. Its content is whatsoever is not the dead past or the unborn future; it is whatever is still or already alive, whatever is yet or already operative and formative in our inward selves or our outward environment--in a word what is contemporary, contemporary with our present doings and sufferings. To such a present it is idle to attempt to fix limits of date before or behind. A new conception of the unity of History rises before us as we realize that the Past and the Future are not _severed_ by the Present, but that these meet and are made one in its living and concrete actuality. This is the fact, the centre to which all radii converge and from which they diverge again; and in the Present the Past and the Future live and are, together and all at once. Bearing this in mind, we approach the records of history in a new spirit and with a new hope. We desire to know neither origins nor ends, we expect no cosmogony and we look for no apocalyptic vision. What we aim at understanding is what we now are and where we now stand, and we realize that to understand this we must not restrict our study to what is merely of recent acquisition or growth. Neither ourselves nor our environment are bounded by chronological limits; both are contemporary with the Pyramids just as much as with the Eiffel Tower. We are not merely the heirs but the epitomes of the ages. As our bodies are but the present forms on which the secular forces of the earth continue their dateless activities, so our spirits, our minds, our very selves are the forms in which other spirits now forgotten or dimly remembered still live and move and have their being, fulfilling the work which, while still their names were named, they initiated or advanced. Not in pious gratitude only must we labour to rescue their memory from fast-coming oblivion, but because only so can we reach that knowledge of ourselves and our world which is to us as living men all and alone important. Nor will such study deny to us the reward we seek. So approaching the labours of the historian, we shall not be jealous because he comes before us with a tale, or as we call it, with a 'story'--a narrative of 'old unhappy things and battles long ago'. For though he so puts it, spacing it out in sections, half-concealing, half-revealing its logical connexions and ultimate unity, its real meaning, its ultimate--which is also its present--import is an account of what we now are and the situation in which we now stand; and unless somehow for each of us its message comes into such an account, distils and sublimates into such a quintessential judgement on the present, History remains but 'a tale of sound and fury, signifying nothing'. It is in the profoundest sense useless to us unless in the end we can say '_De nobis fabula narratur_'--it is _our_ history to which we have been listening. This is especially true of the history of the Ancient World--the world of classical antiquity. It is not a dead world; its deeds and thoughts are not past but still live, still 'breathe and burn' in us. They are largely the stuff of which our present selves and our present world are made. Not merely, I repeat, in the sense that then were the foundations of both laid, not merely in the sense that we are heirs to the labours of our ancestors. We _are_ the Greeks and the Romans, made what we now are by their deeds and thoughts and experiences, our world their world, at a later stage of an evolution never interrupted but always one and single. Our births and deaths are but a sleep and a forgetting in the unbroken biography of a spirit, not above but in us all, which is the hero of the history of European civilization, itself a part of the history of Humanity. Thus the history of Antiquity, and especially of Classical Antiquity, is the record of the thoughts and deeds of our own youth. Our deeds (and also our thoughts) still travel with us from afar, And what we have been makes us what we are. This is the spirit and the conviction in which I would invite you to approach the study of Classical Antiquity--not merely in that of gratitude and reverence, not certainly in that of idle and futile curiosity, but as seekers for knowledge of yourselves and your world. For what other knowledge matters? This quest is but the beginning of a search which is and must be lifelong. Perhaps I am wrong in calling it the beginning, and there are others who would and do bid you begin earlier. I can only ask you to begin where I began or begin myself. At any rate if you begin later or elsewhere I am confident that you will lose much light on your present selves and your present world. My own temptation has been rather to stop too soon and so to overleap the intervening period--the 'Middle Ages'--between such Antiquity and the Present. Fortunately for you, you have guides who will point out to you the way of a profitable and instructive journey across the--to me--unknown or imperfectly explored land. I must, however, in no controversy with any of my fellow lecturers here, say a word on the contention that the true beginning of the modern mind and its world--our mind and our world--lies later and elsewhere than in Classical Antiquity. The birthday and birthplace of that mind and its world have been variously fixed. We have been bidden to find the one, say, as late as the sixteenth century and the other--not from the same point of view--in the plains and woods of Northern Europe or in the deserts of Arabia or in some still more vaguely indicated region of the East. But I must avow my conviction that our civilization--and I specially remember that we are Englishmen--is not only in origin but in essence, Greco-Roman, modified no doubt by influences unknown to that in its earlier stages, but still Greco-Roman grown to a larger stature and a clearer self-consciousness, self-shaped to its present form, the same vital and vitalizing force, constantly reinvigorated and re-enlightened by reflection upon its own past. It is a true instinct that in this country still bases our system of higher education upon a study of the languages and literature of Classical Antiquity. We are, as Englishmen, co-heirs, because co-descendants of Classical Antiquity, with France and Italy and Greece, yes also with Germany, for European civilization--and not European civilization only--is, I reiterate, in essence still Greco-Roman, not Teutonic or Semitic. At least, if this inheritance is not ours by descent it is ours by adoption, and we are equally legitimate members of the household. And the bonds of such spiritual kinship are closer and more durable than those of blood, if indeed those of blood provably exist at all. The works and thoughts of which I am to speak--the dreams, the plans, the hopes and aspirations--are assuredly ours also, the stuff and substance of our being, our inner _genius_, our guiding and controlling selves, what we in our first youth imagined and conceived, what we believed, what we, in our later maturity, designed and in part executed. If we turn inward we cannot read them there, for the characters are small and faded; but as we hear their history recounted as it is by professional historians, we recognize it as the record of a past which is our very own, while at the same time it is a past which we share with other nations who are our co-partners in the work of conserving, deepening, extending, enriching the present-day civilization of Europe and the world. In most of us at all times, and in all of us at most times, these influences and their operations lie deep below the threshold of consciousness, some of them deeper than any plummet of self-analysis can sound. They are also the unseen foundations of the social and political superstructure in which we live. Or, to use another figure, they form the fertile soil in which we, with all our activities and institutions, are rooted and from which we draw no small part of our spiritual sustenance. Hence it is highly pertinent here and now to examine them, for in this identity of foundation is to be found the primary unity of the now diffused life of Europe which has parted into so many and so widely divergent currents of national life. We all come spiritually from the same ancient home, and it is well and wise to recall its memories. So we and others shall be the more disposed to re-knit the old bonds and to weave new ones which may one day restore on a grander scale, in more organized fullness and more efficacious potency, the primordial unity which interests and passions have with rude violence, at least in appearance, disrupted and dissolved and so for a time arrested or enfeebled. I have many predecessors in the task of answering the question, What do we owe to the Greeks? Any answer which I have to offer, must, in the compass at my disposal, be imperfect; it must also be abstract; and lastly it cannot but be in form dogmatic. But I think it is not too much to say that it is to the Greeks that we owe the very conception of civilization and through that in large measure its very existence. The truth of this is more evident if we put the truth in another way, saying that the Greeks first explicitly recognized the contrast between the barbarous and the civilized state of mankind, and delivered themselves and us from the former by defining the latter and attempting, not without success, to establish it in actual reality. No doubt before them men had felt the pressure of barbarism within and without, and had framed dreams of something better, but it was the Greeks who first defined and conceived the ideal and so made it possible to realize it. Their distinctive peculiarity lay in their setting themselves not merely to imagine but to think out an ideal of civilized life, and narrowly and abstractly as to the end they conceived this ideal, they discerned the main essential lines of its structure, the permanent laws of its development and well-being. In doing this they discovered the need and efficacy of knowledge for the conduct of human life, individual and collective; and found in knowledge no mere means to living but a new and heightened form of life itself, lifted above the trammelling conditions, the disillusionments and disappointments of the merely practical life. Thus they created Science and Philosophy, bequeathing to us the ideals and the results of the one and the other. We may so far define their contribution as consisting in the thought of Civilization-through-knowledge, a thought which was not a thought only but a potent and effective instrument of action, not a mere ideal but an ideal governing, directing, and realized, in action and life. We have also to recognize another most powerful influence of which they were the vehicles--closely related to the other. The Greeks first articulately conceived and deliberately pursued the ideal of Freedom. It was, I say, closely related to the other, for they meant by it not merely freedom from physical or political constraint but also inward freedom from prejudice and passion, and they held that knowledge and freedom rendered one another possible. We may amend our formula and re-state their contribution as the idea and fact of civilization regarded as a process in and to Freedom under the control of Knowledge or Reason, each inspiring, guiding, and fertilizing the other. Theory and practice thus co-operate and help one another forward; each in its advance liberates the other for a further effort. The several faculties of the human spirit work harmoniously together in mutual respect and reciprocal alliance. Hence arises another distinctive feature of the Greek ideal, namely, that of wholeness or all-round completeness; there is in it no one-sided insistence on this or that element in human nature, no tendency to ascetic mutilation, no fear or jealousy of what is merely human, tainted by its animal origin or its secular associations. But we must not exaggerate. This ideal was imperfectly defined, still more imperfectly executed or realized. It would be absurd to suppose that it was held by all Greeks; it was indeed advocated by and for a minority only. Those who now find in it the impulse and guide of Greek history might be hard put to it if they were obliged to produce evidence of their faith, and they would be forced to confess that there was much to be said against their interpretation. There is to be acknowledged first the apparent want of internal unity in the Greek world, split up as it was into small and mutually hostile civic groups; and secondly, the loose coherence of each of these groups within itself (for each, we might almost say normally, was torn by intestine faction). It is a commonplace also that Greek civilization rested upon slavery, so that barbarism was not expelled but remained as a domestic and ever-present evil. Freedom and enlightenment was not in thought or practice designed for all men, but only for Greeks, and among them only in reality for a privileged minority. The notion of a civilized world or even a civilized Greece was, if present at all, present only in feeling or imagination, not in clear vision or distinct thought, still less as an ideal of practical politics. On the other hand the ideal so narrowly conceived was not _in principle_ confined to a 'chosen people', or to one strain of blood. It supplied a programme extensible to all who could show their title to be regarded as members of the common race of humanity. As the special features of Greek civilization faded, the lineaments of this common humanity emerged more clearly into view, and the Greek, when he was compelled to give up his parochialism and provincialism, found himself already in spirit prepared to take his place as a citizen of the world. He had learned his lesson, and to him the whole world went to school, first to learn of him what civilization meant and then to better his instructions. This the world did, but not once for all; for every time since that mankind, or at least European mankind, has begun to lose faith in its dream of civilization or has again to shake itself free from the menace of outward or inward barbarism, it has always reverted to the thought and life of Greece and drawn inexhaustibly from it new light and new fruit, for it is its own thought and its own life, while still there ran in its veins the freshness and the vigour, the blitheness and hopefulness of its immortal youth. In meditating upon the unforgotten debt which we owe to Greece, we revive in memory what the spirit which now lives and moves in us not only once accomplished but still in each new generation accomplishes, accomplishing ever the better if it repeats its former achievements with increased consciousness and more deliberate care. We too here and now have to define what we mean by civilization, by knowledge, by freedom. Otherwise our future will be determined for us, and not by us. 'What is to come out of this struggle? Just anything that may come out of it, or something we mean _shall_ come out of it?' Assuredly, if we are not to stand bankrupt before our present problem, we must go to school with Greece, with Rome, with Classical Antiquity, and in the end with all History, that is to say, with our own experience as a whole; or out of the spreading chaos no civilized cosmos will be re-born. Our civilization has been shaken to its foundations, the task before us and our descendants is to rebuild once more in Europe a habitable city for the mind of man; and in designing and reconstructing it we must take counsel with our predecessors who first found the way of escape from outward and inward barbarism, doing for and in us what we would do for and in our successors. The first and most obvious achievement of the Greek mind was the deliverance of itself in the sphere of the imagination. Behind the fair creations of Greek art lies a dark and ugly background, but it does lie behind them. That was its first conquest. Under the magic spell of Art the hateful and terrifying shapes of barbarous religion retreated and the world of imagination was peopled with gracious and attractive figures. The Greek Pantheon is, for all its defects, a world of dignified and beautiful humanity. 'No thorn or threat stains its beauty bright.' On the whole the gods which are its denizens are humanized and humane, the friends and allies of men, who therefore feel themselves not abased or helpless in their relations with them. 'Of one kind are gods and men,' and their common world is one in which men feel themselves at home. Dark shadows there are, but they hide no mysteries to appal and unman. The imagination is free to follow its own laws, and so to create what is lovely and lovable. Language is no longer a tyrant but a willing and dexterous servant, and the Greek language reflecting, as all language does, the spirit of its users, is the most perfect instrument that the human mind has ever devised for the expression of its dreams. The works which were then created have ever since haunted the mind of Europe like a passion, and we are right in speaking of them as immortal, 'a joy for ever'. In such a manner the Greek mind humanized its world, and in doing so humanized itself, or rather divinized itself, without stretching to the breaking-point the strands which bound itself to its world. But it did not stop there, and we do it wrong if we dwell too exclusively on its triumphant achievements in literature and art. For 'speech created thought, which is the measure of the universe'. The Greeks were not only supreme artists but also the pioneers of thought. They first took the measure of the Universe in which they lived, asserting the mind of man to be its measure, and it amenable and subject to reason. The world they lived in was not only beautiful to the imagination, it was also reasonable, penetrable, and governable by the intellect. The ways of it and everything in it were regular and orderly, predictable, explicable not eccentric, erratic, baffling and inscrutable. Not only was Nature knowable; it was also through knowledge of it manageable, a realm over which man could extend his sway, making it ever a more and more habitable home. In it and availing himself of its offered aid he built his households and his cities, dwelling comfortably in his habitations. But the thought which enabled him to lay a secure basis, economic and social or political, for his life had other issues and promised other fruit. The Greek mind became interested in knowledge for its own sake and in itself as the knower of its world. The second and more important creation of the Greek mind was Science or the Sciences. In no earlier civilization can we trace anything but the faintest germs of this, while in Greek civilization it comes almost at once to flower and fruit. First and foremost we have to think of Mathematics, of Arithmetic and Geometry and Optics and Acoustics and Astronomy, but we must not forget also their later and perhaps not wholly so successful advances in Physics and Chemistry, in Botany and Zoology, in Anatomy and Physiology. Doubtless, especially in the case of the Sciences where experiments are required and have proved so fertile in the extension of our knowledge, there were grave defects, and too much trust was placed in mere observation and hasty speculation; but what they accomplished in Science is no less but more marvellous than what they accomplished in Art. The idea of Science was there, disengaged from the limiting restrictions of practical necessities, the idea of free and therefore all the more potent Science. The whole physical--and much more than the physical--environment of human life was proclaimed permeable to human thought and therefore governable by human will or at any rate already amicable and amenable to human purposes. But yet a third advance was made. The Greek mind became conscious of itself as the knower and therefore the lord and master of its world. Turning inward upon itself it discovered itself as the centre of its universe and set itself to explore this new inner realm of being. In the consciousness of itself it found inexhaustible interest and strength. Thus it created Philosophy, its last and greatest gift to humanity. In so doing it freed itself from the trammels even of Science, which thus became its servant and not its master--at the same time finally liberating itself from the narrowing and blinding influences of passion and imagination and all the shackles of merely practical needs and disabilities. Here too it fixed the idea or the ideal. 'Life without reflection upon life, without self-examination and self-study and self-knowledge, is a life not worth living by man.' In doing so it revealed a self deeper than the physical being of man and an environment wider and more real--more stable and permanent--than the physical cosmos, finding in the one and the other something more enduring, substantial, and precious than shows itself either to Science or the economic and political prudence, yet which alone gives meaning and worth to the one and the other. Thus for the first time arose before the mind of man the conception of a life not sunk in nature and practice, but superior to them and the end or meaning of their existence--a life of intense activity, of unfailing interest, of inexhaustible and eternal value. This life was throughout the duration of Greek thought too narrowly conceived. It was frequently thought and spoken of as the life of a spectator or bystander or onlooker, as a life withdrawn or isolated, cut off from what we should call ordinary human business and concerns, a life into which we, or at least a few of us, could escape or be transported at rare intervals and under exceptionally favourable circumstances. Yet in principle it was open to all, and certainly not confined to those privileged by birth or wealth or social position. It was not the reward of magical favour or ascetic exercises, it was reached by the beaten path of the loyal citizen and the resolute student. There was about it no esoteric mystery or other-worldliness. And if to reach it was a high privilege its attainment brought with it the imperative duty of a descent into the ordinary world to instruct, to enlighten, to comfort and help and console, to play a part in the great business and work of human civilization. In a sense this was, and is, the most permanent and fruitful gift of Greece to the European world. These then were the three ideas or ideals which the Greeks wrought into the very texture and substance of the modern mind, the idea of Art, the idea of Science, the idea of Philosophy; in all three introducing and still more deeply implanting the ideas of Freedom as the motive and end of civilized life and of Knowledge as its guide and ally. It may be thought that I have dwelt too much on theory, and have not said enough of the specific contribution of Greece as working out in practice a certain type or types of corporate life such as the City State; but the fact is that in Greek civilization theory continually outran practice and that it endowed mankind much more with ideas or ideals than with practical illustrations or models for our imitation. Yet again we must not exaggerate or imagine these ideas as merely Utopian or such stuff as dreams are made of. The ferment which they set up burst the fabric of Greek social and political institutions, but it clarified and steadied down, as the enthusiasms of youth may do, into the sober designs of grave and energetic manhood. The spectacle of the dissolution of the Greek civilization is not a pleasant one. 'The glory that was Greece' fades out of the world and leaves it grey and dull, and there was worse than this; there was also decay and degeneracy and corruption. To dwell upon it is as the sin of Ham. Nevertheless what took place was not a mere relapse towards barbarism, but on the contrary the supersession of a form of civilization which had done its work by another form less attractive, but more sound and solid. The Romans have the airs of grown and grave men beside the perpetual youth of Greece, (the Greeks were 'always children') but they are well aware of how much they learned and had to learn from their predecessors in the task of civilizing the world. So much is this so that in many departments of civilized life they look upon themselves as imitating the Greeks and carrying out their ideas. In this they were less than just to themselves, for even in the world of art they continued to create; and certainly in literature they produced works not unworthy to stand beside their chosen models. Especially they created a prose style, which without ceasing to be artistic served the sober and serious purposes of political oratory and historic record. But their peculiar genius showed itself most in the applied arts which pressed Greek science into the ministry of life in architecture and engineering. Their roads and bridges and aqueducts still stand to bear witness of them. It would be a great error to deny to them fertile advance in the sciences, because their discoveries are so immediately put to the proof in practice and so little disengage themselves into express theory from their applications. But before we proceed to reckon up their contributions to European civilization it is well to correct a misconception which arises only too easily from an accident of our education. It is the custom in England to concentrate attention upon a brief period in the history of Rome, ignoring on the one hand the early Republican period and on the other the later Imperial. There is thus lost to our imaginations those figures and their deeds which seemed for example to Shakespeare most characteristically Roman and to our more thoughtful consideration those achievements which most deeply moulded the fabric of Europe. The latter is the greater loss, and here we must remember that it is the history of _Imperial_ Rome that is most relevant to our purpose and most informative. Under the Empire Rome worked as a master, no longer as an apprentice or a journeyman. The theatre of her civilizing activities was here little less than the whole world then known, and the boast is not unjustified that she made into a city what had formerly been but a world, as we might say, merely a geographical expression. The record of that progress reads to us too much as a narrative of incessant warfare, and we are accustomed to think of her empire as a gigantic military power, but in reality it was in aim and result essentially pacific, and so appeared to those who lived under her sway. To them the name of her empire was the 'Roman peace'. It was as such that the memory of it haunted the minds of men when it too broke down from internal economic disorders and external pressure, and a distracted and divided Europe looked back to it as the pattern for a restored civilization. The aim and result of the Roman Empire was peace, a world-wide peace. It is true that this end was not very articulately defined by those who pursued it, but (perhaps just because of that) the means to it were more practically designed and more effectively executed. The civilized world was one and to be treated as one; it was still Rome under a single government and a single head. There arose then the idea of a supreme sovereignty one and indivisible, that was the absolutely indispensable condition of a world peace. But the necessity of organization was equally grasped, insisted upon, realized. The civilized world was covered with a network of institutions through which the will of the Emperor flowed and circulated throughout the Empire. Peace through system and order--that was the secret of the Roman success. But two other ideas must be added to complete the explanation. The one was the idea or ideal of Justice; no system and no order could work unless it was, and commended itself to its subjects as being, scrupulously and exactly just. The second idea was that in order to be this it must be a legal system, based upon a known body of legal rights and duties, determining and controlling the whole conduct of the subjects to the sovereign and to one another. The notion which the Romans, not so much by their thought or speech, but by their acts, added to the world's stock was that of a peace secured and maintained by the just operation throughout the civilized world of a system of law the same for all, issuing from and enforced by a single central power. The notion is at least grandiose, and so stated seems almost too high and difficult for human nature to realize. Yet for centuries it was applied, and applied with marvellous success. Nor in spite of its apparent failure in the end has the idea of it ceased to dominate men's minds. I do not speak here of the transitory imitation of it by the Carolingians or of the attempt at the restitution or copy of it in the spiritual sphere of the Church, or again of its phantom survival in the ghostly form of the Holy Roman Empire. But I would point to the way in which it still--in thought--controls us when without essential alteration of the idea we transfer its application to the nation and still look for the secret of _its_ peace and strength in an organization of all its activities under a law proceeding from and enforced by a sovereign will resident somewhere within its structure, a law demanding and receiving obedience from all loyal subjects. Nor is the hope extinct that the way to a wider or world-wide peace lies through the restoration of a similar system in its application to international relations. Though I am unable to share this hope (or indeed the desire that its realization should be endeavoured after), I find it impossible to judge that it has yet lost its hold on men's minds or is without elements of importance in view of our present problem and perplexity. It is perhaps more profitable to ask what we have to learn from the history both of its success and its failure. Of its success for a time and long time in the history of Europe there can be no doubt, and on its permanent effects rests much of what is most sound and stable in the civilization of modern Europe. Peace there was because of it, and again because of it and what it accomplished Europe resisted and survived internal disorder and barbarian invasion so that, as I said above, what still exists as a united or allied Europe is the Roman or Romanized world. Roman ideas and ideals still hold it together, although the Roman Empire has declined and fallen, and no other Empire has risen or, I trust, may rise, upon its ruins. It is not my business to analyse the causes of that decline and fall, though a few words on them may not be out of place. In the first place it declined and fell because those who administered ignored its economic substructure, paying no attention to the causes which were undermining its very material basis, or the enormous suffering which the neglect and consequent disorganization of that entailed. In the second, and partly because of that neglect, they did not sufficiently strengthen its defences against external attack; I do not so much mean in the way of remissness in military preparation as by a surcease of the former policy of bringing their barbarous or semi-civilized neighbours into the higher system, and so extending the range of civilization. It is perhaps fanciful to suggest that we are now suffering the penalty of the failure of Rome to Romanize, that is to say, to civilize their Teutonic neighbours. In the third place, they erred by not recognizing and taking account of new forces which in the way of ideas were entering into the conception of civilized life, the ideas which we mass together under the head of feudalism, the idea of nationality. Under the influence of the one and the other the ideal of a single world State, with a uniform or rigid system of laws resting upon a sovereign will, one and indivisible, dissolved, or at least entered upon dissolution, approving itself unadapted or unadaptable to the needs of a novel and immensely more complex situation of the world. No mere tinkering at it did or could suffice to save it; and the organization of Europe based upon it collapsed. The Revolution of the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth centuries was in many ways the last attempt to reinstate it, and failure to do so pronounced its doom. We cannot now look forward to the reorganization of civilized Europe on the model of the Roman Empire or of an Empire at all, and the more definitely formulated hope of salvation by the erection or re-erection of an international system of law in any real sense seems to me an unsubstantial dream--the administration of a belated nostrum for our disease, not a panacea. Not that way do the lessons of history point. The Roman ideal must be transformed, must be reborn, if it is not to lead our anticipations and our actions wholly astray. No more in the political or secular sphere than in the spiritual or ecclesiastical is 'Romanism' a possible guide to the reconstruction of modern European civilization. For that far too much water (and blood) has run under the bridge. Yet the spirit which gave it life and efficacy is immortal, and the study of the secret of its vitality and power is a necessity for us. In the work of reconstruction we must learn from the Romans the value of System and Order, of Justice and Law, as from Greece we have ever afresh to learn the love of Freedom and Truth. The Greeks have given us the idea of a life worth living which civilization renders possible, but does not directly produce. This life in its essential features they rightly conceived, but its content they failed to articulate, and whether because of that or not, they failed to realize its indispensable conditions, material, economic, political, &c. The Romans did more effectively realize this, but they lost sight of the ends in the means, securing a peace, a comfort, an ease, a leisure of which they made no particularly valuable use. It has been said that at no time in the world's history were civilized men so happy as under the Roman Empire. It might be said with greater truth that at no time were civilized men so unhappy, for the happiness that was theirs was empty, mere dead-sea fruit, dust and ashes in the mouth; a very Death in Life. Life was without savour, and they turned away from it in weariness and disgust and despair, seeking and finding in Philosophy--the fruits of reflection upon life--nothing better than consolation for the wounds and disillusions of life. Thus those who gave their lives to Rome lost heart, and retreating into themselves found nothing there but solitude and emptiness. Civilization was but the husk of a life that had fled. Nevertheless, as it is necessary for the living body to deposit a bony skeleton and for the living soul to harden its impulses into habits and stiffen its aspirations into rules and plans of action, so civilization as a whole must create within and around it a structure of ordered and systematic thought and action within which the higher forces now recognized and disengaged may be all the more free to do their work. Without such a mechanical or apparently unspiritual basis these forces can only work fugitively, erratically, and so ineffectively, as they did in the Greek world. To the prosaic business of creating or recreating and maintaining in being such a structure a large part of our energies must be devoted, and in all this from the Romans we have still much to learn. If we decline to learn and digest this lesson, turning from such concernment in disgust or disdain, our lives will be lost in vain dreams, in idle longings and empty regrets; and the kingdom of Freedom and Truth will be taken from us and given to others who have known how to grow up and to face like men the hardships and hazards without which it cannot be won or held. From the inspiring visions of these ideals we must turn as we did when we and our world were Roman, to the serious and sober task of creating a political and legal structure on which the eternal spirit of European civilization can resume its work of extending, deepening, enriching, the common life of Humanity. It seems as if we--the heirs of their experience--bound to face a more appalling problem, are bankrupt, even of hopes, having lost both the ideal of a life worth living on this earth and that of some large and complex organization rendering this life possible. But this is not so, for the forces which in Antiquity created and for long maintained a civilization at first desirable and then strong, are not spent. Still they make the Greco-Roman civilization which is ours a thing worth living and dying for; still they hold us together in a unity and concord deeper than ever plummet can sound, obscured but not destroyed by the present noise and confusion of battle. Still at heart we care--and not we only but also our enemies and all neutrals benevolent or malevolent--for the ends for which civilization exists, for the peace and order and justice which are their necessary conditions: we still have minds to devise and wills to execute whatever is necessary to its progress. Still we are willing to learn of history and resolved to better its instruction, to know ourselves and our world and adjust our ideas and our acts to the situation in which we find ourselves. The civilized world has not lost heart or hope; and will not, so long as the dreams of its immortal youth and the plans of its immortal manhood are not lost to its memory or passed beyond its retrospective reflection. _Note_. The doctrine that all History is contemporary History has been best set forth by Benedetto Croce, of Naples, from whose works several expressions have here been borrowed, with a profound acknowledgement of indebtedness to him. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE Hegel, _Philosophy of History_, Parts II and III (to be read not as philosophy, but as history guided and enlightened by philosophy). Translation in Bohn's Library. Marvin, _The Living Past_. Clarendon Press. Adamson, _The Development of Greek Philosophy_. W. Blackwood. (For a brief but pregnant account consult Webb's _History of Philosophy._ Home University Library.) Butcher's _Some Aspects of the Greek Genius_ ('What we owe to Greece'). Macmillan. Murray's _Rise of the Greek Epic_. Clarendon Press. Warde Fowler's _Rome_. Home University Library. Bryce's _Holy Roman Empire_. Macmillan. IV UNITY IN THE MIDDLE AGES[15] Ergo humanum genus bene se habet et optime, quando secundum quod potest Deo adsimilatur. Sed genus humanum maxime Deo adsimilatur quando maxime est unum; vera enim ratio unius in solo illo est. Propter quod scriptum est: 'Audi, Israel, Dominus Deus tuus unus est'. DANTE, _De Monarchia_, i. viii. I He who shuts his eyes to-day to make a mental picture of the world sees a globe in which the mass of Asia, the bulk of Africa, and the length of America vastly outweigh in the balance the straggling and sea-sown continent of Europe. He sees all manner of races, white and yellow, brown and black, toiling, like infinitesimal specks, in every manner of way over many thousands of miles; and he knows that an infinite variety of creeds and civilizations, of practices and beliefs--some immemorially old, some crudely new; some starkly savage, and some softly humane--diversify the hearts of a thousand million living beings. But if we would enter the Middle Ages, in that height and glory of their achievement which extended from the middle of the eleventh to the end of the thirteenth century, we must contract our view abruptly. The known world of the twelfth century is a very much smaller world than ours, and it is a world of a vastly greater unity. It is a Mediterranean world; and 'Rome, the head of the world, rules the reins of the round globe'. From Rome the view may travel to the Sahara in the south; in the east to the Euphrates, the Dniester, and the Vistula; in the north to the Sound and the Cattegat (though some, indeed, may have heard of Iceland), and in the west to the farther shores of Ireland and of Spain. Outside these bounds there is something, at any rate to the east, but it is something shadowy and wavering, full of myth and fable. Inside these bounds there is the clear light of a Christian Church, and the definite outline of a single society, of which all are baptized members, and by which all are knit together in a single fellowship. Economically the world was as different from our own as it was geographically. Money, if not unknown, was for the most part unused. It had drifted eastwards, in the latter days of the Roman Empire, to purchase silks and spices; and it had never returned. From the days of Diocletian, society had been thrown back on an economy in kind. Taxes took the form either of payments of personal service or of quotas of produce: rents were paid either in labour or in food. The presence of money means a richly articulated society, infinitely differentiated by division of labour, and infinitely connected by a consequent nexus of exchange. The society of the Middle Ages was not richly articulated. There were merchants and artisans in the towns; but the great bulk of the population lived in country villages, and gained subsistence directly from the soil. Each village was practically self-sufficing; at the most it imported commodities like iron and salt; for the rest, it drew on itself and its own resources. This produced at once a great uniformity and a great isolation. There was a great uniformity, because most men lived the same grey, quiet life of agriculture. The peasantry of Europe, in these days when most men were peasants, lived in the same way, under the same custom of the manor, from Berwick to Carcassonne, and from Carcassonne to Magdeburg. But there was also a great isolation. Men were tied to their manors; and the men of King's Ripton could even talk of the 'nation' of their village. If they were not tied by conditions of status and the legal rights of their lord, they were still tied, none the less, by the want of any alternative life. There were towns indeed; but towns were themselves very largely agricultural--the homes of _summa rusticitas_--and what industry and commerce they practised was the perquisite and prerogative of local guilds. Custom was king of all things, and custom had assorted men in compartments in which they generally stayed. The kaleidoscopic coming and going of a society based on monetary exchanges--its speedy riches and speedy bankruptcies, its embarrassment of alternative careers all open to talents--these were unthought and undreamed of. The same uniformity and the same isolation marked also, if in a less degree, the knightly class which followed the profession of arms. A common feudal system, if we can call that a system which was essentially unsystematic, reigned over the whole of Western Europe, and, when Western Europe went crusading into Syria, established itself in Syria. Historians have tried to establish distinctions between the feudalism of one country and that of another--between the feudalism of England, for instance, and that of France. It is generally held nowadays that they have failed to establish the distinction. A fief in England was uniform with a fief in France, as a manor in one country was uniform with manors in other countries, and a town in one country with towns in others. 'One cannot establish a line of demarcation between German and French towns,' says a famous Belgian historian, 'just as one cannot distinguish between French and German feudalism.'[16] The historian of the economic and institutional life of the Middle Ages will err unless he proceeds on the assumption of its general uniformity. But the uniformity of the fief, like that of the manor and the town, was compatible with much isolation. Each fief was a centre of local life and a home of local custom. The members of the feudal class lived, for the most part, local and isolated lives. Fighting, indeed, would bring them together; but when the 'season' was over, and the forty days of service were done, life ran back to its old ruts in the manor-hall, and if some of the summer was spent in company, much of the winter was spent in isolation. On a society of this order--stable, customary, uniform, with its thousands of isolated centres--the Church descended with a quickening inspiration and a permeating unity. Most of us find a large play for our minds to-day in the competition of economics or the struggles of politics. The life of the mind was opened to the Middle Ages by the hands of the Church. We may almost say that there was an exact antithesis between those days and these latter days, if it were not that exact antitheses never occur outside the world of logic. But it is as nearly true as are most antitheses that while our modern world is curiously knit together by the economic bonds of international finance, and yet sadly divided (and never more sadly than to-day) by the clash of different national cultures and different creeds, the mediaeval world, sundered as it was economically into separate manors and separate towns, each leading a self-sufficing life on its own account, was yet linked together by unity of culture and unity of faith. It had a single mind, and many pockets. We have a single pocket, and many minds. That is why the wits of many nowadays will persist in going wool-gathering into the Middle Ages, to find a comfort which they cannot draw from the golden age of international finance. But retrogression was never yet the way of progress. It is probable, for instance, that the sanitation of the Middle Ages was very inadequate, and their meals sadly indigestible; and it would be useless to provoke a revolt of the nose and the stomach in order to satisfy a craving of the mind. An uncritical mediaevalism is the child of ignorance of the Middle Ages. Sick of vaunting national cultures, we may recur to an age in which they had not yet been born--the age of a single and international culture; but we must remember, all the same, that the strength of the Middle Ages was rooted in weakness. They were on a low stage of economic development; and it was precisely because they were on a low stage of economic development that they found it so easy to believe in the unity of civilization. Unity of a sort is easy when there are few factors to be united; it is more difficult, and it is a higher thing, when it is a synthesis of many different elements. The Middle Ages had not attained a national economy: their economy was at the best municipal, and for the most part only parochial. A national economy has a higher economic value than a municipal or parochial economy, because it means the production of a greater number of utilities at a less cost, and a richer and fuller life of the mind, with more varied activities and more intricate connexions. A national economy could only develop along with--perhaps we may say it could only develop through--a national system of politics; and the national State, which is with us to-day, and with some of whose works we are discontented, was a necessary condition of economic progress. With the coming of the national State the facile internationalism of the Middle Ages had to disappear; and as economics and politics ran into national channels, the life of the spirit, hitherto an international life, suffered the same change, and national religions, if such a thing be not a contradiction in terms, were duly born. But a national economy, a national State, a national Church were all things unknown to the Middle Ages. Its economy was a village economy: its mental culture was an international culture bestowed by a universal Church (a village culture there could not be, and with a universal Church the only possible culture was necessarily international); while, as for its politics, they were something betwixt and between--sometimes parochial, when a local feudal lord drew to himself sovereignty; sometimes national, when a strong king arose in Israel; and sometimes, under a Charlemagne, almost international. A consideration of the linguistic factor may help to throw light on the point in question. Here again we may trace the same isolation and the same uniformity which we have also seen in the world of economics. There was an infinity of dialects, but a paucity of languages, in the Middle Ages. One is told that to-day there are dialects in the Bight of Heligoland and among the Faroes which are peculiar to a single family. Something of the same sort must have existed in the Middle Ages. Just as there were local customs of the manor, the town, and the fief, there must have been local dialects of villages and even of hamlets. But here again isolation was compatible with uniformity. There were perhaps only two languages of any general vogue in the central epoch of the Middle Ages, and they were confined by no national frontiers. First there was Latin, the language of the Church, and since learning belonged to the Church, the language of learning. Scholars used the same language in Oxford and Prague, in Paris and Bologna; and within the confines of Latin Christianity scholarship was an undivided unity. Besides Latin the only other language of any general vogue in the middle of the Middle Ages was vulgar Latin, or Romance. To Dante, writing at the close of the thirteenth century, Romance was still one _idioma_--even if it were _trifarium_, according as its 'yes' was _oïl_, or _oc_, or _sì_.[17] Of the three branches of this _idioma_, that of _oïl_, or Northern France, was easily predominant. The Norman conquest of England carried it to London: the Norman conquest of Sicily carried it to Palermo: the Crusades carried it to Jerusalem. With it you might have travelled most of the mediaeval world from end to end. It was the language of courts; it was the language of chansons; it was the language of all lay culture. It was the language of England, France, and Italy; and St. Francis himself had delighted in his youth in the literature which it enshrined. The linguistic basis of mediaeval civilization was thus Latin, either in its classical or in its vulgar form. There were of course other languages, and some of these had no small vogue. Just before the period of which we are treating--the period which extends from 1050 to 1300--Icelandic had a wide scope. It might have been heard not only in Scandinavia and the Northern Isles, but in a great part of the British Islands, in Normandy, in Russia--along the river-road that ran to Constantinople--and in Constantinople itself. But the fact remains that the linguistic basis of mediaeval thought and literature was a Latin basis. The Romance University of Paris was the capital of learning: the Romance tongue of Northern France was the tongue of society. And as the linguistic basis of mediaeval civilization was Romance, so, too, was mediaeval civilization itself. The genius of Latin Christianity was the source of its inspiration: the spirit of the Romance peoples was the breath of its being. The souvenir of the old Roman Empire provided the scheme of its political ideas; and the Holy Roman Empire, if a religious consecration had given it a new sanctity, was Roman still. Yet the irruption of the Teutons into the Empire had left its mark; and the emperor of the Middle Ages was always of Teutonic stock. It was perhaps at this point that the unity of the mediaeval scheme betrayed a fatal flaw. It would be futile to urge that the dualism which showed itself in the struggles of papacy and empire had primarily, or even to any considerable extent, a racial basis. Those struggles are struggles of principles rather than of races; they are contentions between a secular and a clerical view of life, rather than between the genius of Rome and the genius of Germany. Hildebrand stood for a free Church--a Church free from secular power because it was controlled by the papacy. Henry IV stood for the right of the secular power to use the clergy for purposes of secular government, and to control the episcopacy as one of the organs of secular administration. But the fact remains that a scheme which rested on a Teutonic emperor and a Roman pontiff was already a thing internally discordant, before these other and deeper dissensions appeared to increase the discord. Such were the bases on which the unity of mediaeval civilization had to depend. There was a contracted world, which men could regard as a unity, with a single centre of coherence. There was a low stage of economic development, which on the one hand meant a general uniformity of life, in fief and manor and town, and on the other hand meant a local isolation, that needed, and in the unity of the Church found, some method of unification. With many varieties of dialect, there was yet a general identity of language, which made possible the development, and fostered the dissemination, of a single and identical culture. Nationalism, whether as an economic development, or as a way of life and a mode of the human spirit, was as yet practically unknown. Races might disagree; classes might quarrel; kings might fight; there was hardly ever a national conflict in the proper sense of the word. The mediaeval lines of division, it is often said, were horizontal rather than vertical. There were different estates rather than different states. The feudal class was homogeneous throughout Western Europe: the clerical class was a single corporation through all the extent of Latin Christianity; and the peasantry and the townsfolk of England were very little different from the peasantry and the townsfolk of France. We have to think of a general European system of estates rather than of any balance of rival powers. II The unity which rested on these bases begins to appear, as a reality and not only an idea, about the middle of the eleventh century, and lasts till the end of the thirteenth. That unity, as we have seen, was essentially ecclesiastical. It was the product of the Church: we may almost say that it was the Church. Before 1050 the Catholic Church, however universal in theory, had hardly been universal in fact. The period of the Frankish, the Saxon, and the early Salian emperors had been a period of what German writers call the _Landeskirche_. The power of the Bishop of Rome had not yet been fully established; and the great churches of Reims and Mainz and Milan were practically independent centres. Independent of the papacy, they were not independent of the lay rulers within whose dominions they lay. On the contrary, their members were deeply engaged in lay activities; they were landlords, feudatories, and officials in their various countries. In the face of these facts, the Gregorian movement of the eleventh century pursues two closely interconnected objects. It aims at asserting the universal primacy of the papacy; it aims at vindicating the freedom of the clergy from all secular power. The one aim is a means to the other: the pope cannot be universal primate, unless the clergy he controls are free from secular control; and the clergy cannot be free from secular control, unless the universal primacy of the papacy effects their liberation. Gregorianism wins a great if not a thorough triumph. It establishes the theory, and in a very large measure the practice, of ecclesiastical unity. The days of the _Landeskirche_ are numbered: the days of the Church Universal under the universal primacy of Rome are begun. But when the universality of the Church has once been established in point of extension, it begins to be also asserted in point of intensity. Once ubiquitous, the papacy seeks to be omnicompetent. Depositary of the truth, and only depositary of the truth, by divine revelation, the Church, under the guidance of the papacy, seeks to realize the truth in every reach of life, and to control, in the light of Christian principle, every play of human activity. Learning and education, trade and commerce, war and peace, are all to be drawn into her orbit. By the application of Christian principle a great synthesis of human life is to be achieved, and the _lex Christi_ is to be made a _lex animata in terris_. This was the greatest ambition that has ever been cherished. It meant nothing less than the establishment of a _civitas Dei_ on earth. And this kingdom of God was to be very different from that of which St. Augustine had written. His city of God was neither the actual Church nor the actual State, nor a fusion of both. It was a spiritual society of the predestined faithful, and, as such, thoroughly distinct from the State and secular society. The city of God which the great mediaeval popes were seeking to establish was a city of this world, if not of this world only. It was a fusion of the actual Church, reformed by papal direction and governed by papal control, with actual lay society, similarly reformed and similarly governed. Logically this meant a theocracy, and the bull of Boniface VIII, by which he claimed that every human creature was subject to the Roman pontiff, was its necessary outcome. But a theocracy was only a means, and a means that was never greatly emphasized in the best days of the papacy. It was the end that mattered; and the end was the moulding of human life into conformity with divine truth. The end may appear fantastic, unless one remembers the plenitude of means which stood at the command of the mediaeval Church. The seven sacraments had become the core of her organization. Central among the seven stood the sacrament of the Mass, in which bread and wine were transubstantiated into the divine body and blood of our Lord. By that sacrament men could touch God; and by its mediation the believer met the supreme object of his belief. Only the priest could celebrate the great mystery; and only those who were fit could be admitted by him to participation. The sacrament of penance, which became the antechamber, as it were, to the Mass, enabled the priest to determine the terms of admission. Outside the sacraments stood the Church courts, exercising a large measure of ethical and religious discipline over all Christians; and in reserve, most terrible of all weapons, were the powers of excommunication and interdict, which could shut men and cities from the rites of the Church and the presence of the Lord. Who shall say, remembering these things, that the aims of the mediaeval Church were visionary or impracticable? For a time, and in some measure, they were actually accomplished. Let us look at each estate in turn, and measure the accomplishment--speaking first of the knightly world, and the Church's control of war and peace; then of the world of the commons, and the Church's control of trade and commerce; and last of the clerical world and the Church's control of learning and education. The control of war and peace was a steady aim of the Church from the beginning of the eleventh century. The evil of feudalism was its propensity to private war. To cure that evil the Church invented the Truce of God. The Truce was a diocesan matter. The 'form' of Truce was enacted in a diocesan assembly, and the people of the diocese formed a _communitas pacis_ for its enforcement. There was no attempt to put an absolute stop to private war; the Truce was only directed to a limitation of the times and seasons in which feuds could be waged, and a definition of the persons who were to be exempted from their menace. But from seeking to limit the fighting instinct of a feudal society, the Church soon rose to the idea of enlisting that instinct under her own banner and directing it to her own ends. So arose chivalry, which, like most of the institutions of the Middle Ages, was the invention of the Church. Chivalry was the consecration of the fighting instinct to the defence of the widow, the fatherless, and the oppressed; and by the beginning of the eleventh century liturgies already contain the form of religious service by which neophytes were initiated into knighthood. This early and religious form of chivalry (there was a later and lay form, invented by troubadour and trouvère, which was chiefly concerned with the rules for the loves of knights and ladies) culminated in the Crusades. In the Crusades we touch perhaps the most typical expression of the mediaeval spirit. Here we may see the clergy moulding into conformity with Christian principle the apparently unpromising and intractable stuff of feudal pugnacity: here we may see the papacy asserting its primacy of a united Europe by gathering Christian men together for the common purpose of carrying the flag of their faith to the grave of their Redeemer. Here the permeating influence of Christian revelation may be seen attempting to permeate even foreign policy (for what are the Crusades but the foreign policy of a Christian commonwealth controlled and directed by the papacy?); and here again even the instinct for colonial expansion, so often the root of desperate wars, was brought into line with the unity of all nations in Christ, and made to serve the cause of Him 'in whom alone is to be found the true nature of the One'. There is another aspect of the clerical control of peace and war in the interest of Christian unity which must not be forgotten. The papacy sought to become an international tribunal. The need for such a tribunal was as much a mediaeval as it is a modern commonplace. Dante, who sought to vindicate for the emperor, rather than for the pope, the position and power of an international judge, has started the argument in famous words. 'Between any two princes, of whom the one is in no way subject to the other, disputes may arise, either by their own fault, or by that of their subjects. Judgement must therefore be given between them. And since neither can have cognizance of the other, because neither is subject to the other, there must be a third of ampler jurisdiction, to control both by the ambit of his power.'[18] Such ampler jurisdiction, which might indeed be claimed for the emperor, but which he had never the power to exercise, was both claimed and exercised by the papacy. The papacy, which sought to enforce the Christian canon of conduct in every reach of life and every sphere of activity, would never admit that disputes between sovereign princes lay outside the rule of that canon. Innocent III, in a letter to the French bishops defending his claim to arbitrate between France and England, stands very far from any such admission. 'It belongs to our office', he argues, 'to correct all Christian men for every mortal sin, and if they despise correction, to coerce them by ecclesiastical censure. And if any shall say, that kings must be treated in one way, and other men in another, we appeal in answer to the law of God, wherein it is written, "Ye shall judge the great as the small, and there shall be no acceptance of persons among you." But if it is ours to proceed against criminal sin, we are especially bound so to do when we find a sin against peace.'[19] Here, in these words of Innocent, the clerical claim to control of peace and war touches its highest point. In the name of a Christian principle, permeating all things, and reducing all things to unity, the dread arbitrament of war is itself to be submitted to a higher and finer arbitration. The claim was too high to be sustained or translated into effect. It is not too high to be admired. Nor was it altogether remote from the actual life of the day. Even to the laity of the Middle Ages, war was not a mere conflict of powers, in which the strongest power must necessarily prevail. It was a conflict of rights before a watching God of battles, in which the greatest right could be trusted to emerge victorious. War between States was analogous to the ordeal of battle between individuals: it was a legal way of testing rights. Now ordeal by battle was a mode of procedure in courts of law, and a mode of procedure whose conduct and control belonged to the clergy. If, therefore, war between States is analogous to ordeal, it follows, first, that it is a legal procedure which needs a high court for its interpretation (and what court could be more competent than the papal curia?), and, next, that it is a matter which in its nature touches the clergy. Such ideas were a natural basis for the Church's attempt to control the issues of war and peace; and if we remember these ideas, we shall acquit the Church of any impracticable quixotism. The attempt to control trade and commerce was no less lofty and no less arduous. It is perhaps still easier to stop war than to stop competition; and yet the Church made the attempt. The Christian law of love was set against the economic law of demand and supply. It was canonical doctrine that the buyer should take no more, and the seller offer no less, than the just price of a commodity--a price which would in practice depend on the cost of production. The rule for prices was also the rule for wages: the just wage was the natural complement of the just price. The prohibition of usury and of the taking of interest was another factor in the same circle of ideas. If prices and wages are both to be returns for work done, and returns of an exact equivalence, then, on the assumptions which the canonists made--that the usurer does no work, and that his loan is unproductive of any new value--it necessarily follows that no return is due, or can be justly paid, for the use of borrowed money. Work is the one title of all acquisition, and all acquisition should be in exact proportion to the amount of work done. This is the basic principle, and it is the principle of the Divine Law: _In sudore frontis tuae comedes panem tuum_. Once more, therefore, and once more in an unpromising and intractable material, we find the Church seeking to enforce the unity of the Christian principle and to reduce the Many to the One. In the same way, and from the same motive, that private war was to be banished from the feudal class in the country, competition--the private war of commerce--was to be eliminated from the trading classes in the towns. Nor was the attack on competition, any more than the attack on war, so much of a forlorn hope as it may seem to a modern age. Even to-day, custom is still a force which checks the operation of competition, and custom covered a far greater area in the Middle Ages than it does to-day. The rent of land, whether paid in labour or in kind, was a customary rent; and in every mediaeval community the landed class was the majority. It was an easy transition from fixed and customary rents to the fixing of just prices for commodities and services. Lay sentiment supported clerical principle. Guilds compelled their members to sell commodities at a level price, and in a spirit of collectivism endeavoured to prevent the making of corners and the practice of undercutting. Governments refused to recognize the 'laws' of demand and supply, and sought, by Statutes of Labourers, to force masters to give, and workman to receive, no more and no less than a 'just' and proper wage. It was not only by the regulation of trade and commerce that the Church sought to penetrate the life of the towns. The friars made their homes in the towns in the thirteenth century; and the activity of the friars--Franciscan and Dominican, Austin and Carmelite--enabled the Church to exercise an influence on municipal life no less far-reaching than that which she sought to exert on the feudal classes. Towns became trustees of property for the use of the mendicant orders; and the orders of Tertiaries, which flourished among them, enabled the townsfolk to attach themselves to religious societies without quitting the pursuits of lay life. A mediaeval town--with its trade and commerce regulated, however imperfectly, by Christian principle; with its town council acting as trustee for religious orders; and with its members attached as Tertiaries to those orders--might be regarded as something of a type of Christian society; and St. Thomas, partly under the influence of these conditions, if partly also under the influence of the Aristotelian philosophy of the [Greek: polis], is led to find in the life of the town the closest approach to the ethics of Christianity. The control of learning and education by the Church is the most peculiar and essential aspect of her activity. The control of war and peace was a matter of guiding the estate of the baronage; the control of trade and commerce was a way of directing the estate of the commons; but the control of learning and education was nothing more nor less than the Church's guidance of herself and her direction of her own estate. _Studium_ may be distinguished from _sacerdotium_ by mediaeval writers; but the students of a mediaeval university are all 'clergy', and the curricula of mediaeval universities are essentially clerical. All knowledge, it is true, falls within their scope; but every branch of knowledge, from dialectic to astronomy, is studied from the same angle, and for the same object--_ad maiorem Dei gloriam_. Here, as elsewhere, the penetrating and assimilative genius of the Church moulded and informed a matter which was not, in its nature, easily receptive of a clerical impression. The whole accumulated store of the lay learning of the ages--geometry, astronomy, and natural science; grammar and rhetoric; logic and metaphysics--this was the matter to be moulded and the stuff to be permeated; and on this stuff St. Thomas wrought the greatest miracle of genuine alchemy which is anywhere to be found in the annals of learning. The learning which the Church had to transform was essentially the learning of the Hellenic world. Created by the centuries of nimble and inventive thought which lie between the time of Thales and that of Hipparchus, this learning had been systematized into a _corpus scientiae_ during that age of Greek scholasticism which generally goes by the name of Hellenistic. In its systematized Hellenistic form, it had been received by the Roman world, and had become the culture of the Roman Empire. By writers ranging from Ptolemy to Boethius the body of all known knowledge had been arranged in a digest or series of pandects; and along with the legal codification of Justinian it had been handed to the Christian Church as the heritage of the ancient world. The attitude of the Church to that heritage was for long unfixed and uncertain. The logic, and still more the metaphysics, of Aristotle were not the most comfortable of neighbours to the new body of Christian revelation committed to the Church's keeping. In the hand of Berengar of Tours the methods of Greek logic proved a corrosive to the received doctrine of the Mass. In the hands of Abelard, in the _Sic et Non_, they served to suggest the need of criticism of the text of Christian tradition. If unity was to be preserved, a bridge must be built between the secular science of the Greeks and the religious faith of the Church. In the thirteenth century that bridge was built. Aristotle was reconciled with St. Augustine; the _Organon_, the _Ethics_, and the _Politics_ were incorporated in the body of Christian culture; and the mediaeval instinct for unification celebrated its greatest and perhaps its most arduous triumph. The thirteenth century thus witnessed a unity of civilization alike as a structure of life and as a content of the human mind. On the one hand, there rose a single governing scheme of society, which culminated in the universal primacy of Rome and the Roman pontiff. On the other hand, set in this scheme, and contained in this structure, there was a single stuff of thought, directed to the manifestation of the eternal glory of God. The framework we may chiefly ascribe to Gregory VII; the content to St. Thomas Aquinas. But the whole resultant unity is less the product of great personalities than of a common instinct and a common conviction. Men saw the world _sub specie unitatis_; and its kaleidoscopic variety was insensibly focused into a single scheme under the stress of their vision. The heavens showed forth the glory of God, and the firmament declared His handiwork. Zoology became, like everything else, a willing servant of Christianity; and _bestiaria moralizata_ were written to show how all beasts were made for an ensample, and served for a type, of the one and only truth. All things, indeed, were types and allegories to this way of thinking; and just as every text in the Bible was an allegory to mediaeval interpretation, so all things in the world of creation, animate and inanimate, the jewel with its 'virtue' as well as the beast with its 'moral', became allegories and parables of heavenly meanings. Thus the world of perception became unreal, that it might be transmuted into the real world of faith; and symbolism like that of Hugh of St. Victor dominated men's thought, making all things (like the Mass itself, if in a less degree) into _signa rei sacrae_. The unity of knowledge was thus purchased at a price. Things must cease to be studied in themselves, and must be allegorized into types, in order that they might be reduced to a unity. Perhaps the purchase of unity on terms such as these is a bad bargain; and it is at any rate obvious that in such an atmosphere scientific thought will not flourish, or man learn to adjust himself readily to the laws of his environment. From the standpoint of natural science we may readily condemn the Middle Ages and all their works; and we may prefer a single _Opus_ of Roger Bacon to the whole of the _Summa_ of St. Thomas. But it is necessary to judge an age which was destitute of natural science by some other criterion than that of science; nor must we hasten to say that the Middle Ages found the Universal so easily, because they ignored the Particular so absolutely. The truth is, that though mediaeval thinkers knew far more of the writings of Aristotle than they did of those of Plato, they were none the less far better Platonists than they were Aristotelians. If they had been better Aristotelians, they would have been better biologists; but as they were good Platonists, they had a conception of the purpose and system of human life in society, which perhaps excuses all, and more than all, the defects of their biology. Any survey, however brief, of the political theory of the Middle Ages will show at once its Platonic character and its incessant impulse towards the achievement of unity. III To mediaeval thought, as to Plato, the unity of society is an organic unity, in the sense that each member of society is an organ of the whole to which he belongs, and discharges a function at once peculiar to himself and necessary to the full life of the whole. Monasticism, so often misrepresented, attains its true meaning in the light of this conception. The monk is a necessary organ of Christian society, discharging his function of prayer and devotion for the benefit not of himself solely, or primarily, but rather of every member of that society. He prays for the sins of the whole world, and by his prayer he contributes to the realization of the end of the world, which is the attainment of salvation. In the same way the conception of a treasury of merits, afterwards perverted in the system of indulgences, belongs to an organic theory and practice of society. The merits which Christ and the saints have accumulated are a fund for the use of the whole of Christian society, a fund on which any member can draw for his own salvation, just because each is fitly joined and knit together with all the rest in a single body for the attainment of a single purpose. But we need not take isolated instances of the Platonism of mediaeval thought. The whole basic conception of a system of estates, which recurs everywhere in mediaeval life, is a Platonic conception. The estates of clergy, baronage, and commons are the Platonic classes of guardians, auxiliaries, and farmers. The Platonic creed of [Greek: to auton prattein] ('Do thine own duty') is the Christian creed of 'doing my duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call me'. The Middle Ages are full of a spontaneous Platonism, and inspired by an _anima naturaliter Platonica_. The control which the mediaeval clergy exercised over Christian society in the light of divine revelation repeats the control which the guardians of Plato were to exercise over civic society in the light of the Idea of the Good. The communism of the mediaeval monastery is reminiscent of the communism of the Platonic barracks. And if there are differences between the society imagined by Plato and the society envisaged by the mediaeval Church, these differences only show that the mediaeval Church was trying to raise Platonism to a higher power, and to do so in the light of conceptions which were themselves Greek, though they belonged to a Greece posterior to the days of Plato. These conceptions--which were cherished by Stoic thinkers; which penetrated into Roman Law; and which from Roman Law flowed into the teaching and theory of the early fathers of the Church--are mainly two. One is the conception of human equality; the other, and correlative, conception is that of a single society of all the human race. The equality of men, and the universality of the city of God in which they are all contained, are conceptions which were no less present to Marcus Aurelius than they were to St. Augustine. They are conceptions which made the instinctive Platonism of the mediaeval Church even more soaring than that of Plato. While the Republic of Plato had halted at the stage of a civic society, the _respublica Christiana_ of the Middle Ages rose to the height of a single _humana civilitas_. While Plato had divided the men of his Republic into classes of gold and silver and bronze, and had reserved the ecstasy of the aspect of the divine Idea for a single class, the mediaeval Church opened the mystery of the Mass and the glory of the fruition of God to all believers, and, if she believed in three estates, nevertheless gathered the three in one around the common altar of the Redeemer. Serfdom might still remain, and find tolerance, in the economic working of society; but in the Church herself, assembled together for the intimate purposes of her own life, there was 'neither bond nor free'. The prevalence of Realism, which marks mediaeval metaphysics down to the end of the thirteenth century, is another Platonic inheritance, and another impulse to unity. The Universal _is_, and is a veritable thing, in which the Particular shares, and acquires its substance by its degree of sharing. The One transcends the Many; the unity of mankind is greater than the differences between men; and the university of mortal men, as Ockham writes, is one community. If there be thus one community, and one only, some negative results follow, which have their importance. In the first place, we can hardly say that the Middle Ages have any conception of the State. The notion of the State involves plurality; but plurality is _ex hypothesi_ not to be found. The notion of the State further involves sovereignty, in the sense of final and complete control of its members by each of a number of societies. But this, again, is _ex hypothesi_ not to be found. There is one final control, and one only, in the mediaeval system--the control of Christian principle, exerted in the last resort, and exerted everywhere, without respect of persons, by the ruling vicar of Christ. But if plurality and sovereignty thus disappear from our political philosophy, we need a new orientation of all our theory. We must forget to speak of nations. We must forget, as probably many of us would be very glad to forget, the claims of national cultures, each pretending to be a complete satisfaction and fulfilment of the national mind; and we must remember, with Dante, that culture (which he called 'civility') is the common possession of Christian humanity. We must even forget, to some extent, the existence of different national laws. It is true that mediaeval theory admitted the fact of customary law, which varied from place to place. But this customary law was hardly national: it varied not only from country to country, but also from fief to fief, and even from manor to manor. It was too multiform to be national, and too infinitely various to square with political boundaries. Nor was customary law, in mediaeval theory, anything of the nature of an ultimate command. Transcending all customs, and supreme over all enactments, rose the sovereign majesty of natural law, which is one and indivisible, and runs through all creation. 'All custom,' writes Gratian, the great canonist, 'and all written law, that are adverse to natural law, are to be counted null and void.' Here, in this conception of a natural law upholding all creation, we may find once more a Stoic legacy to the Christian Church. 'Men ought not to live in separate cities, distinguished one from another by different systems of justice'--so Zeno the Stoic had taught--'but there should be one way and order of life, like that of a single flock feeding on a common pasture.' Zeno, like St. Paul, came from Cilicia.[20] Like St. Paul, he taught the doctrine of the one society, in which there was neither Jew nor Gentile, neither Greek nor barbarian. We shall not do wrong to recognize in his teaching, and in that of his school, one of the greatest influences, outside the supreme and controlling influence of the Christian principle itself, which made for the dominance of the idea of unity in mediaeval thought. Before we proceed to draw another negative conclusion from the principle of the one community, we must enter a brief caveat in regard to the conclusion which has just been drawn. We cannot altogether take away the State from the Middle Ages by a stroke of the pen and the sweep of a paradox. There were states in mediaeval Europe, and there were kings who claimed and exercised _imperium_. These things caused the theorists, and particularly the Roman lawyers, no little trouble. It was difficult to reconcile the unity of the _imperium_ with the multiplicity of kings. Some had recourse to the theory of delegation, and this seems to be the theory of the _De Monarchia_ of Dante. But there was one contemporary of Dante who said a wise thing, prophetic of the future. _Rex est in regno suo_, wrote Bartolus of Sassoferrato, _imperator regni sui_. In that sentence we may hear the cracking of the Middle Ages. When kings become 'entire emperors of their realms' (the phrase was used in England by Richard II, and the imperial style was affected by Henry VIII), unity soon prepares to fly out of the window. But she never entirely took flight until the Reformation shattered the fabric of the Church, and made kings into popes as well as emperors in their dominions. We may now turn to draw another conclusion from the mediaeval principle of unity. To-day the world recognizes, and has recognized for nearly four centuries, not only a distinction between States, but also a distinction between two societies in each State--the secular and the religious. These two societies may have different laws (for instance, in the matter of marriage), and conflicts of duties and of jurisdictions may easily arise in consequence. The State may permit what the Church forbids; and in that case the citizen who is also a churchman must necessarily revolt against one or other of the societies to which he belongs. The conflict between the two societies and the different obligations which they impose was a conflict unknown to the Middle Ages. Kings might indeed be excommunicated, and in that event their subjects would be compelled to decide whether they should disobey excommunicated king or excommunicating pope. But that was only a conflict between two different allegiances to two different authorities; it was not a conflict between two different memberships of two different societies. The conflict between the two societies--Church and State--was one which could hardly arise in the Middle Ages, because there was only a single society, an undivided Christian commonwealth, which was at one and the same time both Church and State. Because there was only one society, baptism counted as admission both to churchmanship and to citizenship, which were one thing, and one only, in the Christian commonwealth; and for the same reason excommunication, which shut the offender from all religious life, excluded him equally and by the same act from every civil right. The excommunicated person could not enter either the Church or the law court; could not receive either the eucharist or a legacy; could not own either a cure of souls or an acre of soil. Civil right and religious status implied one another; and not only was _extra ecclesiam nulla salus_ a true saying, but _extra ecclesiam nullum ius_ would also be very near the truth. Here again is a reason for saying that the State as such can hardly be traced in the Middle Ages. The State is an organization of secular life. Even if it goes beyond its elementary purpose of security for person and property, and devotes itself to spiritual purposes, it is concerned with the development of the spirit in its mortal existence, and confined to the expansion of the mind in the bounds of a mortal society. The Middle Ages thought more of salvation than of security, and more of the eternal society of all the faithful, united together in Christ their Head, than of any passing society of this world only. They could recognize kings, who bore the sword for the sake of security, and did justice in virtue of their anointing. But kings were not, to their thinking, the heads of secular societies. They were agents of the one divine commonwealth--defenders of the Faith, who wielded the secular sword for the furtherance of the purposes of God. Thus there was one society, if there were two orders of ministering agents; and thus, though _regnum_ and _sacerdotium_ might be distinguished, the State and the Church could not be divided. Stephen of Tournai, a canonist of the twelfth century, recognizes the two powers; but he only knows one society, under one king. That society is the Church: that king is Christ. Under conditions such as these--with the plurality of States unrecognized by theory, even if it existed in practice, and with distinction between State and Church unknown and unenforced--we may truly say with a German writer, whose name I should like to mention _honoris causa_, Professor Tröltsch, that 'there was no feeling for the State; no common and uniform dependence on a central power; no omnicompetent sovereignty; no equal pressure of a public civil law; no abstract basis of association in formal and legal rules--or at any rate, so far as anything of the sort was present, it was a matter only for the Church, and in no wise for the State'.[21] So far as social life was consciously articulated in a scheme, the achievement was that of the clergy, and the scheme was that of the Church. The interdependencies and associations of lay life--kingdoms and fiefs and manors--were only personal groupings, based on personal sentiments of loyalty and unconscious elements of custom. A mixture of uniformity and isolation, as we have seen, was the characteristic of these groupings: they were at once very like one another, throughout the extent of Western Europe, and (except for their connexion in a common membership of the Church Universal) very much separated from one another. But with one at any rate of these groupings--the kingdom, which in its day was to become the modern State--the future lay; and we shall perhaps end our inquiry most fitly by a brief review of the lines of its future development. IV The development of the kingdom into the State was largely the work of the lawyers. The law is a tenacious profession, and in England at any rate its members have exercised a large influence on politics from the twelfth to the twentieth century--from the days of Glanville, the justiciar of Henry II, to the days of Mr. Asquith, the prime minister of George V. It is perhaps in England that we may first see the germs of the modern State emerging to light under the fostering care of the royal judges. Henry II is something of a sovereign: his judges formulate a series of commands, largely in the shape of writs, which became the common law of the land; and in the Constitutions of Clarendon we may already see the distinction between Church and State beginning to be attempted. With a sovereign, a law, and a secular policy all present, we may begin to suspect the presence of a State. In France also a similar development, if somewhat later than the English, occurs at a comparatively early date. By the end of the thirteenth century the legists of Philippe le Bel have created something of _étatisme_ in their master's dominions. The king's court begins to rule the land; and proud of its young strength it enters the lists against Boniface VIII, the great prophet of the Church Universal, who proclaimed that every human creature was subject to the Roman pontiff. The collapse of Boniface at Anagni in 1303 is the traditional date of the final defeat of the mediaeval papacy. Everywhere, indeed, the tide seemed on the turn at the close of the thirteenth century. The Crusades ended with the fall of Acre in 1291. The suppression of the great international order of the Templars twenty years later marked a new leap of the encroaching waves. The new era of the modern national State might seem already to have begun. But tides move slowly and by gradual inches. It needed two centuries more before the conditions in which the modern State could flourish had been fully and finally established. Economic conditions had to change--a process always gradual and slow; and a national economy based on money had to replace the old local economy based on kind. Languages had to be formed, and local dialects had to be transformed into national and literary forms, before national States could find the means of utterance. The revival of learning had to challenge the old clerical structure of knowledge, and to set free the progress of secular science, before the minds of men could be readily receptive of new forms of social structure and new modes of human activity. But by 1500 the work of preparation had been largely accomplished. The progress of discovery had enlarged the world immeasurably. The addition of America to the map had spiritual effects which it is difficult to estimate in any proper terms. If the old world of the Mediterranean regions could be thought into a unity, it was more difficult to reduce to the One the new world which swam into men's ken. Still more burdened with fate for the future generations was the vast volume of commerce, necessarily conducted on a national basis, which the age of discoveries went to swell. Meanwhile, men had begun to think and to write in national languages. Already by the reign of Richard II the dialect of the East Midlands, which was spoken in the capital and the universities, had become a literary language in which Chaucer and Wyclif had spoken to all the nation. Still earlier had come the development of Italian, and a little more than a century after the days of Wyclif, Luther was to give to Germany a common speech and a common Bible. It was little wonder that in such times the old unity of the Christian commonwealth of the Middle Ages shivered into fragments, or that, side by side with a national language, there developed--at any rate in England and in Germany--a national Church. The unity of a common Roman Church and a common Romance culture was gone. _Cuius regio eius religio_. To each region its religion; and to each nation, we may add, its national culture. The Renaissance may have begun as a cosmopolitan movement, and have found in Erasmus a cosmopolitan representative. It ended in national literatures; and a hundred years after Erasmus, Shakespeare was writing in England, Ariosto in Italy, and Lope de Vega in Spain. In the sixteenth century the State was active and doing after its kind. It was engaged in war. France was fighting Spain: England was seeking to maintain the balance: Turkey was engaged in the struggle. It is a world with which we are familiar--a world of national languages, national religions, national cultures, national wars, with the national State behind all, upholding and sustaining every form of national activity. But unity was not entirely dead. Science might still transcend the bounds of nations, and a Grotius or Descartes, a Spinoza or a Leibniz, fill the European stage. Religion, which divided, might also unite; and a common Calvinism might bind together the Magyars of Hungary and the French of Geneva, the Dutchman and the Scot. Leyden in the seventeenth century could serve, as The Hague in the twentieth century may yet serve, if in a different way, for the meeting ground of the nations; it could play the part of an international university, and provide a common centre of medical science and classical culture. But the old unity of the Middle Ages was gone--gone past recall. Between those days and the new days lay a gulf which no voice or language could carry. Much was lost that could never be recovered; and if new gold was added to the currency of the spirit, new alloys were wrought into its substance. It would be a hard thing to find an agreed standard of measurement, which should cast the balance of our gain and loss, or determine whether the new world was a better thing than the old. One will cry that the old world was the home of clericalism and obscurantism; and another will say in his bitterness that the new world is the abode of two other evil spirits--nationalism and commercialism. One thing is perhaps certain. We cannot, as far as human sight can discern, ever hope to reconstruct unity on the old basis of the Christian commonwealth of the Middle Ages. Yet need is upon us still--need urgent and importunate--to find some unity of the spirit in which we can all dwell together in peace. Some have hoped for unity in the sphere of economics, and have thought that international finance and commerce would build the foundations of an international polity. Their hopes have had to sleep, and a year of war has shown that 'a synchronized bank-rate and reacting bourses' imply no further unity. Some again may hope for unity in the field of science, and may trust that the collaboration of the nations in the building of the common house of knowledge will lead to co-operation in the building of a greater mansion for the common society of civilized mankind. But nationalism can pervert even knowledge to its own ends, turning anthropology to politics, and chemistry to war. There remains a last hope--the hope of a common ethical unity, which, as moral convictions slowly settle into law, may gradually grow concrete in a common public law of the world. Even this hope can only be modest, but it is perhaps the wisest and the surest of all our hopes. _Idem scire_ is a good thing; but men of all nations may know the same thing, and yet remain strangers one to another. _Idem velle idem nolle in re publica, ea demum firma amicitia est_. The nations will at last attain firm friendship one with another in the day when a common moral will controls the scope of public things. And when they have attained this friendship, then on a far higher level of economic development and with an improvement by each nation of its talent which is almost entirely new--they will have found again, if in a different medium, something of the unity of mediaeval civilization. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE W.J. Ashley, _An Introduction to English Economic History_, vol. i, pt. 2, ch. 3; vol. i, pt. 2, ch. 6. Longmans. Lord Bryce, _The Holy Roman Empire_. Macmillan. A.J. and R.W. Carlyle, _Mediaeval Political Theory in the West_. W. Blackwood. H.W.C. Davis, _Mediaeval Europe_ (Home University Library). Williams & Norgate. _Encyclopaedia Britannica_ (11th edition), articles on 'Crusades' and 'Empire'. J.N. Figgis, _Churches in the Modern State_, Appendix I. Longmans. Bede Jarrett; _Socialist Theories in the Middle Ages_. T.C. and E.C. Jack. E. Jenks, _Law and Politics in the Middle Ages_. Murray. F.W. Maitland, _Political Theories of the Middle Ages_, translated from Gierke's _Das Deutsche Genossenschaftsrecht_. Maitland. Cambridge University Press. R.L. Poole, _Illustrations of Mediaeval Thought_. Williams & Norgate. H. Rashdall, _Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages_. Clarendon Press. A.L. Smith, _Church and State in the Middle Ages_. Clarendon Press. H.O. Taylor, _The Mediaeval Mind_. Macmillan. E. Tröltsch, _Die Soziallehren der christlichen Kirchen_ (II. Kapitel). P. Vinogradoff, _Roman Law in Mediaeval Europe_. Harper. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 15: I should like to dedicate this essay to my friend and old pupil, the Rev. Bede Jarrett, O.P., to whom I owe much, and to whose book on _Mediaeval Socialism_ I should like to refer my readers.] [Footnote 16: Pirenne, _Revue Historique_, liii. p. 82.] [Footnote 17: _De Vulgari Eloquio_, 1. viii.] [Footnote 18: _De Monarchia_, 1. x.] [Footnote 19: Cf. Carlyle, _Mediaeval Political Theory in the West_, ii. 219-22.] [Footnote 20: Cf. E.R. Bevan, _Stoics and Sceptics_.] [Footnote 21: _Die Soziallehren der christlichen Kirchen_, p. 242.] V UNITY AND DIVERSITY IN LAW You know the story of Sophocles' _Antigone_: how, when two brothers disputed the throne of Thebes, one, Polynices, was driven out and brought a foreign host against the city. Both brothers fall in battle. Their uncle takes up the government and publishes an edict that no one shall give burial to the traitor who has borne arms against his native land. The obligation to give or allow decent burial, even to an enemy, was one which the Greeks held peculiarly sacred. Yet obedience to the orders of lawful authority is an obligation binding on every citizen. No one dares to disregard the king's order save the dead man's sister. She is caught in the act and brought before the king. 'And thou,' he says, 'didst indeed dare to transgress this law?' 'Yes,' answers Antigone, 'for it was not Zeus that published me that edict; not such are the laws set among men by the Justice who dwells with the Gods below; nor deemed I that thy decrees were of such force that a mortal could override the unwritten and unfailing statutes of heaven. For their life is not of to-day or yesterday but from all time, and no man knows when they were first put forth.'[22] There you have the assertion of a law supreme and binding on all men, eternal, not to be set aside by human enactment. And now turn to this passage from the traveller and historian Herodotus, an almost exact contemporary of Sophocles. He has been telling how Cambyses, king of the Persians, has been wantonly insulting the religion and customs of the Egyptians. 'The man must have been mad,' he says: 'For if one was to set men of all nations to make a choice of the best laws out of all the laws there are, each one upon consideration would choose those of his own country: so far do men go in thinking their own laws the best. Therefore it is not likely that any but a madman would cast ridicule on such things. And that all men do think thus about their laws may be shown by many proofs, and above all by this story. For when Darius was king he called to him the Greeks who were at his court and asked them, 'How much money would you take to eat your fathers when they die?' And they answered that they would not do this at any price. After this Darius called the men of an Indian tribe called the Kallatiai, who eat their parents, and asked them in the presence of the Greeks, who were told by an interpreter what was said, 'How much money would you take to burn with fire your fathers when they die?' And they cried with a great voice that he should speak no such blasphemy. Thus it is that men think, and I hold that Pindar spoke rightly in his poem when he said that law was king over all.'[23] There you have law, king over men and gods, but a capricious monarch commanding here this, there that. This capricious arbitrary aspect of law was a thing which much impressed the Greeks. They contrasted the varying, artificial arrangements made by mankind with the constancy and simplicity of nature. We speak of nature and convention; they contrasted things that are by nature with things that are by law. It was a contrast that bore fruit later on. Now law, whose arbitrariness and variety so much impressed the Greeks was the law not so much of this place or that, as of this or that community and its members. This is a conception quite different from that of the modern world. We may paraphrase 'English law' by saying the law of England, because it is the law which will be applied (with, it may be, some exceptions or modifications) by the English courts to all persons, be they English or aliens, who come before them. But Athenian law is not in this sense the law of Athens, nor, to begin with, is Roman law the law of Rome. What we find is a law of Athenian or Roman citizens. The stranger to the city is a stranger to its law. As a matter of principle he is without rights by that law. His life is not protected by the blood-feud which his family can pursue, or by the compensation with which it may be bought off. His marriage with a citizen will be no marriage, or at best a sort of half marriage. He can acquire no land within the city's territory, and what goods he brings with him are pretty much at the mercy of the first taker. Such, at any rate, is the theory of the 'law of citizens'. We need not, it is true, believe that it was logically formulated in primitive times and ruthlessly applied. Some of its applications were the result of positive legislation due to a growing consciousness of the self-sufficiency of the city state and of the privileges of citizenship, as when Athens passed a law excluding from citizenship the offspring of citizens who had married foreign wives. But in its broad outlines the principle is sufficiently borne out by the exceptions which were necessary to make human intercourse possible. The stranger within your gates is protected just because he is within your gates, and you throw your protection about him, as is indeed your duty, for suppliants and strangers come from Zeus. The foreigner, even at a distance, may have a citizen as representative who can and will defend his rights. A stranger may be allowed to take up a permanent residence in the city, and by the mediation of a patron or guardian enjoy private rights not much inferior to those of a citizen. His legal position will not be very different from that of a woman citizen, who needs the like mediation. Cities may, again, by treaty confer on each other's citizens reciprocal rights of legal protection. In the middle of the third century B.C., Rome, after its first successful war against Carthage, took special measures to deal with the problem of the alien litigant. The great and growing commerce which came from all parts of the Mediterranean called for something more than a mere admission to treaty privileges. A special officer was from henceforth appointed to deal with the law-suits to which foreigners were parties, and the judgement was given by a body (which we may compare with our jury) which might include fellow-citizens of the foreign suitor. But here a difficulty arose: what law was to be applied to a transaction between a Roman and a foreigner, or between two foreigners? The Roman law, the law of citizens, had been codified two centuries earlier, and its outline had been hardened by the practice of two centuries. The forms for a transfer of property, for instance, were rigid and solemn; the foreigner would hardly know them, and if he did, his alien hand could not effectively do the prescribed acts nor his alien mouth speak the almost sacred words. The answer was that behind the forms of the law of this city or that, there was 'a law of the men of all nations'. The common elements in the ordinary transactions of life, in whatever form they were clothed, could be taken into account and given effect to. Thus, side by side with the ownership according to the law of Roman citizens, the solemn words of promise which only a Roman citizen could utter, the marriage which only a Roman citizen could enter into, there might be property, contract, marriage to which any one, citizen or alien, might be a party. This 'law of the men of all nations' (_ius gentium_) was of course not an international law, it was a law administered by Roman officers, and it was coloured by Roman conceptions, however much it may have drawn from a comparison of foreign laws with which the Romans were brought into contact. In turn it reacted upon the more narrow law of Roman citizens (_ius civile_), broadening its conceptions and enabling it to free itself from primitive formalism. It also made easier the task of Roman governors who were called upon to administer the various laws of the different countries which came to form the Roman empire. The gradual extension of the citizenship (completed at the end of the second century A.D.) to the whole of the inhabitants of the empire made possible, at least in outward appearance, the application of a uniform system of law throughout what was then the civilized world, though beneath an apparent uniformity local traditions and customs survived to the end, at any rate in the east. The 'civil law', as the Roman law in its final form has been called down to the present day, consists of elements of the narrowly Roman and the more universal law inextricably interlaced. This Roman solution of the problem of the foreign litigant is of much more than merely practical importance. The Stoic philosophy which grew up amid the decay of the old city life, whose adherents spoke of themselves as citizens of the world, had fastened upon the old antithesis of law (or convention) and nature, and formed the conception of a law of nature, which should have a reasonable basis and a validity superior to the arbitrariness of the city law. To this ideal conception the Roman law of the men of all nations gave a body and a reality. Stoicism became the 'established' philosophy of Rome, and Roman lawyers well-nigh identified the '_ius gentium_' with the ideal law of nature, describing it as that which natural reason has established among all men. Yet for at least one of the great classical lawyers, whose words have been enshrined in Justinian's legislation, the identification was incomplete. By nature, it was said, all men are free, and mankind has departed from what natural reason requires, in permitting slavery. Thus the law of nature must be sought in something more universal than the practice of mankind. More than fifteen hundred years later in an English court an argument against the recognition of the rights of a slave-owner was successfully founded on the law of nature. Before the Roman law had been put (at Constantinople) into the final shape in which it is preserved to us, the Roman empire in the west had already been broken up by barbarian invasions. The invaders brought with them their tribal laws and customs, rude, often cruel, narrow rather than simple, for simplicity is the work of civilization. They did not understand, and could not adopt, the law of the world into which they had come. Yet neither could they, if they would, force their laws upon the conquered inhabitants. Among these the old civilization lingered on in a degenerate form, and with it the Roman law. One of the first things that happened was that the conquerors drew up for their Roman subjects short codes of the Roman law as it survived in a debased form, as they drew up statements of their own law for their followers. For a long time each man, according to the community to which he belonged, had a 'personal' law. As late as A.D. 850 we hear that in France it might happen that five men met together and each would have a different law. Of course such a state of things means before very long that there must be at any rate one set of common legal rules which must be applied throughout a territory, namely rules to decide which kind of personal law is to be used when there is a dispute between two persons whose personal law is different. Gradually the different populations within the same area coalesce, and law from being personal becomes local. But the local area will not be the same for all purposes. The law or custom which determines the rights of the small, often unfree or half-free tenant, whether as between him and his neighbour or as between him and his lord, may extend no further than a very small area, such as in England we call a manor. The law by which great men held their land from a king, though perhaps not uniform throughout the kingdom, will cover a much larger area. The fact that a great man may hold land in far distant places, it may be in different kingdoms, and that men of this class have connexions with different parts of Western Europe will lead to the formation of common notions of feudal law, which make possible even the scientific study of a law of feuds, though no complete uniformity was ever attained. England was the first western country to attain political unity with a territory substantially the same as at the present day; and the determination of the English kings that in the more important matters justice should be done throughout the land in the king's name, either by his courts at Westminster or by judges sent by him to the counties, secured the formation of an English Common Law which left comparatively little play for local custom, and which at an early time became strong enough to resist attempts to introduce foreign law. As early as the time of Henry III the barons proclaimed with one voice that they would not have the laws of England altered in favour of a rule--the legitimation of bastards by the subsequent marriage of their parents--which in one form or another has been adopted in Western Christendom, and even in the neighbouring kingdom of Scotland. In France political unity was reached only later and bit by bit, and when it came the difference of law in the various provinces was too firmly established to make uniformity possible until the time of the Revolution. In Germany the shadowy unity of the Holy Roman Empire was never enough to afford any effective central administration of justice. National law in the strict sense was impossible under such conditions: the most that can be expected is such a degree of unity as results from common traditions inherited from more primitive times, and a community of language and national feeling. Amid local and national diversities of law there were at any rate two unifying influences, the Roman and the Canon law. In some parts of Europe, as in the South of France and Italy, the traditions of the Roman law had never died out, and in a debased form, with much admixture of the law of the invaders, it had come to form the basis of the local law. In others it was the barbarian law which formed the groundwork. But just as behind the new languages, whether in the main founded on Latin or on Teutonic, Latin remained the medium of intercourse between the countries of the West, and the instrument of thought and learning, so Roman law remained a tradition which was ever ready to exert an influence. It is not only in law courts that law is learnt and developed. Transactions have to be drawn up in writing, and will largely be made in Latin, and founded on precedents. The grants of land to and from ecclesiastical bodies especially will be in a form which borrows much from Roman or romanesque models; and they will form models for the transactions of others. Even the formulation of native law in the early codes will be carried out by men who know of no written law except the Roman. In the twelfth century Roman law becomes a subject of University study throughout Western Europe, in Italy, at Paris, even at Oxford, and forms a part of that international learning which scholars carry from land to land. Men trained in the Roman law rise to high positions in the public service. As judges and administrators they will not forget what they have learnt as students or taught as doctors. Yet it would be easy to exaggerate its influence, great as it was. It was certainly more as a form and method of legal thought than as an actual source of legal rules that it made itself felt, for instance, in our own country, and the strength and cohesion which it helped to give to our law enabled that law later to resist its further advance. The Canon law was the law of the Western Church, a truly international society. It was formed largely on the model of the Roman law, and it largely borrowed from it, though it is full of non-Roman elements. It governed not merely what we should call purely ecclesiastical matters, but dealt or attempted to deal with other things, such as marriage and the disposition of the goods of the deceased. Our own law of marriage and divorce, and of probate of wills, has a history which goes back to the ecclesiastical law of the Middle Ages. Like the Roman law it exercised an influence as a model and a repository of maxims, all the greater because in every country it was a law in actual force within a sphere of which the boundaries were constantly being disputed between the lay and the church powers. The beginnings of modern Europe with which we associate such things as the revival of learning and the Reformation brought with them on the Continent the event which is known as the reception of Roman law. The traditions of the ancient world had been seen in mediaeval times through mediaeval eyes, and had been moulded to mediaeval needs. The new age insisted on going back direct to the classical tradition. It was the actual Roman law of Justinian, not the Roman law as interpreted by mediaeval commentators, that was to be studied and applied. The break-up of the institutions of the Middle Ages, the growth of absolute monarchical power, the centralization of government, all favoured the tendency. Roman law contained doctrines eminently pleasing to an absolute ruler, e.g. 'the decision of the monarch has the force of law'. In Germany above all, where law was divided into countless local customs, the movement had its fullest effect. Roman law comes to be the law which is to be applied in the absence of positive enactment or justifiable custom. The native law finds itself driven to plead for its life, and is lucky if it can satisfy the conditions which are required to enable it to continue as a recognized custom. In every country of the West outside England, in greater or less degree, the Roman law comes in as something which will at least fill up the gaps, and will purge or remodel the native law. Even in Scotland texts of the Roman law may be quoted as authorities. The strength of our own law, and the successful resistance of our public institutions to monarchical power saved us alone from a 'reception', in the continental sense, of Roman law. And even our Blackstone will quote Roman law with respect where it tends to confirm our own rules. If this reception was a movement which brought about a greater unity in the form and substance of the laws of Western Europe, there was another factor at work which tended in the opposite direction. The claims of the Empire to universal authority become more and more unreal: the claims of the Pope are either rejected entirely, or the ecclesiastical sphere is strictly delimited. The State becomes sovereign. For this purpose it makes no difference whether it is a High Court of Parliament or an absolute monarch which is the supreme authority: law comes to be thought of as the command of a sovereign person or assembly. 'No law', we are told, 'can be unjust', for law is the standard of justice, and there is no other standard by which the justice of law can be measured. The fact that there is in every State a sovereign power which can make and unmake the law at its pleasure makes possible the creation of a uniform law for all the subjects of a State, and so far as the State coincides with the nation, makes for the creation of a national unity in law. Thus Frederick the Great gave a code to Prussia, thus Napoleon gave France a code which swept away the diversities of the provincial customs; yet it served more than merely national purposes, for it found its way not only into the countries conquered by him, where it survived his conquests, but even into lands where he never held sway. Our French fellow-citizens in Quebec use an adaptation of it as a statement of their law. It took longer before Germany as a whole obtained a uniformity of law. The very strength of the national aspirations roused by the war against Napoleon stood for a time in the way of codification. The great German lawyer of that time, Savigny, thought of national law as a half-unconscious product of the national feeling of right. The Code of Napoleon had been a revolutionary code, founded (imperfectly, no doubt) on the doctrines of the rights of man; codification for Germany would mean the adoption of something abstract, not specifically national. It was only a century of extraordinary fruitful learned activity, bringing with it at the same time a new and intense study of the Roman law, and a revival of the knowledge and application of the native conceptions of law, that made possible the German civil code which came into force fifteen years ago. England has never seriously undertaken the work of codification, and its law, uniform and national already in the Middle Ages, has become in the modern world something far wider than a merely national law. The English settlers in the new world brought their law with them. To-day English law, modified no doubt by State and Federal legislation, is the Common Law of the great republic of the United States. The colonies which still remain within our Empire are territories of the English law, save where, as in South Africa or Quebec, civilized settlers had already established and retained their own law. Throughout these lands, it matters little under which flag, an English lawyer finds the Courts speaking a language which he understands. Thus it came about that the world, which derives its civilization from Western Europe, may be divided into lands of the English law, and lands where in outward form at least the law is Roman. And yet we must not make too much of this division. In the first place it cuts across national boundaries. It unites us with the United States of America, it separates us from some of our own colonies while it unites them with continental Europe. In the second place law is, like language, a form of thought; and diversity of form, though it hinders, does not prevent a unity of substance. Among the forces which have made for unity something should be said of the conception of a law of nature. The phrase has been out of fashion in this country since the days of Bentham and Austin, who laid stress upon the positive, one might say arbitrary, character of the only law which they would recognize as law in the proper sense of the word. I am not concerned here to discuss its philosophical validity. But it has never been lost sight of. It is one of the inheritances of the Roman law tradition. Alike in the Middle Ages, and since their close, it has been the subject of speculation and an influence guiding the legislator, the thinker, and the administrator of law. There is a whole literature upon it on the Continent. It bulks pretty largely in Blackstone: you can see its influence on the judges of the eighteenth century in this country; the founders of the American Republic put a good deal of it into their constitution, and American judges will still refer to it without shame. What it really means is a standard by which the law here and now may be judged, a standard founded on the needs of human nature. That the standard becomes a different one, as the needs and possibilities of humanity develop, has not prevented the seeking after such a standard. It is perhaps only another way of putting the same thing to say that law has developed and is developing constantly by reference to the pursuit of ends more or less consciously arrived at by mankind. So far as these ends are common, and I take it that in the main, amid national and individual diversity and conflict they are common ends, law has been formed for their attainment. On the whole what men have asked law to do for them has been the same at any given stage in civilization. The eighteenth century asked for liberty, property, and happiness. We are putting a rather different meaning, or perhaps a different stress on the words, not only here but throughout the civilized world, and the main movements of legal change are in the same direction everywhere. One word about the two kinds of law known as Public and Private International law. The fact that the laws of different countries are different gives rise to problems whenever the Courts of one country have to deal with a set of facts where some foreign element is involved, for instance a citizen or an inhabitant of another country, or property which is in another country, or a contract or transaction which took place abroad. Now we have long got past the stage at which the Courts could simply disregard the foreign element, could say this man is a foreigner, therefore he has no rights; or this event took place abroad, and therefore we will treat it as if it had never happened. On the other hand it will not do for the Court to apply simply its own law. Grave injustice would be done, for instance, if a transaction made on the faith of law which will give a certain effect to it, were treated as made under another law which will give it a different effect or no effect at all. For this reason the Courts of every country have formed rules (sometimes called Private International Law; sometimes, and as some hold, more properly, called 'Conflict of Laws') by which they determine how far, where a foreign element is involved, the foreign law is to be carried out rather than the law which the Court applies in ordinary cases. These rules are not the same in every country, because differences of opinion are possible as to what justice requires. But the very existence of such rules shows that the Courts hold that the world of law is one, however much diversified, and that no one territorial law can blindly go on its way without taking account of its neighbours. International law in the more proper sense of the word, that is Public International Law, or the law which governs the relations between States, is a very different thing. Something of the kind was not unknown in the ancient world; the Greeks, for instance, had rules against the poisoning of wells, the proper treatment of envoys, and the making and keeping of treaties. But in its modern form it dates just from the time when States were waking up to the consciousness of sovereignty, and when the horrors of the wars which followed the Reformation showed that even sovereign powers ought to conform to some rules of conduct. It has been the work in its origin of writers and teachers of law, and has been built up more recently by agreement between States. Unlike the law between man and man, which modern states enforce by organized compulsion, there is no standing organization whose business it is to see that it is kept. It is not true to say that for this reason it is not law at all, for in primitive times the recognized rules of private law were enforced not by State sanction but by the action of individuals, with the support of the opinions and at times the active help of their neighbours and friends. But a law which is defied with success and impunity is no law. The reality and strength of International Law has lain in the fact that its breach brought at least the risk of suffering, through the common disapprobation of civilized nations; its preservation and maintenance for the future must lie in a certainty of disaster, not greatly less than that which awaits the transgressor of private law. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE Jethro Brown, _The Austinian Theory of Law_. Murray. Maine, _Ancient Law_. Murray. Pollock and Maitland, _History of English Law_. Cambridge University Press. Vinogradoff, _Common Sense in Law_. Home University Library, Williams & Norgate. Vinogradoff, _Roman Law in Mediaeval Europe_. Harper's Library of Living Thought. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 22: Sophocles, _Antigone_, 449-57 (Jebb's translation).] [Footnote 23: Herodotus, iii. 38.] VI THE COMMON ELEMENTS IN EUROPEAN LITERATURE AND ART For some hundred years past it has been common to lay great stress upon the importance of national characteristics in art. This has been very natural, for they represent one main aspect and justification of the revolt against the conception of the one permanent and immutable standard of perfection of the Neo-classicists of the Renaissance. Lessing and Herder, who were the critical protagonists of the new world, had indeed a knowledge and admiration of ancient art which was probably superior to that of the classicists, but they refused to admit that art was bound to follow the forms of antiquity, and maintained rather that its forms would necessarily change with the changing conditions of the world, and with the varying characteristics of different nationalities or races. From their time down to our own, then, this conception of art, as being coloured or affected strongly and continually by nationality, has become almost a commonplace of criticism, and it will not be denied that there is real importance in the conception. For though nothing is really art which is not distinctive and personal and unique, yet just so far as the personality of the artist is conditioned by his nationality, so far also will his artistic work reflect the characteristics of his nation or country. And yet, while this is true, it really needs very little consideration to see that when we consider a great work of art, we are very little concerned with the question of the nationality of the artist, but with something which is deeper and larger than his nationality. The great artist no doubt represents life under the forms or terms of his concrete experience, but it is life and the world itself which he represents. He is not greatly concerned with the merely superficial or passing aspects of human nature and the world, but with that which is essential and continuing under these terms. It may indeed be urged that there is some real and fundamental difference between the art of the East and that of the West, but as we have come to know eastern art better, we have become more doubtful even of this, and are rather impressed with the unity of the artistic expression even of East and West. I am far from wishing to say that nationality or race has no significance in art, but I think that we have been in danger of greatly exaggerating its importance. I am at least certain that we have very constantly made too much of the supposed differences in the literature and art of the different European countries, and that we must make clear to ourselves that European art and literature are really one. It is not unimportant to observe this at the present time, to consider whether literature and art are dividing or uniting forces. As far as we can understand, what indeed seems a little unintelligible, the Germans desire to impress upon Europe their culture or civilization, an attempt as absurd as it would be impossible, for German culture is, after all, only a part of the great European civilization, and the part cannot take the place of the whole. But on the other hand it is not less important for us to understand that what we desire to do is not to destroy those elements which Germany contributes to European civilization, but only that they should take their natural and appropriate place in that greater unity which is enriched and enlarged by the contribution of every separate national society. European art is one; that is, the common characteristics are far more important than the national differences. And further, we often take to be national, characteristics which happen to show themselves at one time in one place, while they may have existed at another time in another place. The history of European art is in a great measure the history of successive influences or movements which were for the most part common to all Europe, but which did not always exactly synchronize in the different European countries. * * * * * So far as there is such a thing as nationalism in literature it is wholly modern, while in mediaeval literature and art there is hardly anything of it. This may seem strange to those who imagine that it is only the railway and the steamship which have brought the world together, but the truth is that the movement of ideas and fashions was probably at least as rapid in the Middle Ages as it is to-day. However this may be, the fact is, I think, clear, that when we come to examine mediaeval literature we find that it is practically homogeneous, that whether we look at it in England or France, in Germany or in Scandinavia, it has practically the same qualities. I do not speak of Italy yet, for Italian literature is the latest-born of the great European literatures, it has not at least come down to us in any forms earlier than those of the thirteenth century. Mediaeval literature is known to us primarily under two forms, the heroic epic and the romance, and it is to these that we must first turn our attention. We know the heroic epic in different languages throughout a period which extends roughly from the eighth to the twelfth centuries. The earliest example is the English Beowulf; among the latest are the German Nibelungenlied and some of the French Chansons de Geste, which belong to the end of the twelfth century. This epic literature is not least interesting to us because it has, as far as we can judge, no trace of that great classical influence of which you have already heard, and which plays so great a part in the later developments of European literature. Now what is the epic? Its materials are the stories of northern mythology, the traditions of the great migrations which overthrew the Roman empire in the west, and the legends which grew up round the name of Charles the Great. They are stories of the gods and demigods, of the Burgundian and the Hun, of the English people possibly while still settled on the Baltic coasts, of the conflicts of the Frank and the Saracen, of the earliest settlers in Iceland; and they vary in their temper and their tone. But they all represent the sense of the glory and splendour of the great fighting man, of the stout heart, which rises with rising danger and is never so great or so splendid as when it faces overwhelming odds and defies the inexorable fates. The epic poet is so possessed by this sense of the greatness of human nature that it does not matter much even whether the man is wrong or perverse: he loves the obstinacy of Roland, who will not, till too late, sound his horn to call Charlemagne and his armies, but prefers to face the enemy, and if need be to die, by himself, rather than to ask for help; he is filled with the sense of the magnificence of the stark figure of Hagen, who had indeed treacherously murdered the great Siegfried, but whose heart is so high and his hand so heavy, that when he is overpowered, and Chriemhilda at last avenges upon him the murder of her husband, the old knight standing by kills Chriemhilda herself--it was not meet that so great a fighter should be slain by a woman. These are the men of the epics. And beside them stand the figures of women great and gracious, women for whose love men die and perish, but who themselves also can hate and love passionately and fiercely. It has sometimes been said by those who only know the epics in one or other of the various languages, that women and the love of women have no place in the epic, but belong to the romance, but this is a mistake. In the mediaeval epic there is little talk about emotion, but in the Nibelungenlied and in some of the Icelandic sagas the woman is, like Helen in the Homeric epic, the motive and source of all the action. The epic is the story of great and heroic figures, abstracted in that sense from the common or ordinary circumstances of life, but the background of the action is always realistic and even detailed in its realism, so that, just as again in the Homeric poems, we can frequently reconstruct the life and manners of the time to which the poems belong from that which they tell us. And it is impossible to say that there is any really national difference between the epics as we find them in different languages; they are indeed the expression of the temperament and personality of the great artists who produced them, and they are each unique and individual in proportion to the greatness of their authors, but in their general characteristics they are the same. There are few changes in the history of literature more remarkable than that which came over European art in the later years of the eleventh century and the beginning of the twelfth. The epic is concerned with the world of action, the romance is occupied almost exclusively with the world of feeling and emotion. For this is the real character of the romance. It has sometimes been said that the essence of the romance lies in the strange and mysterious circumstances of the world, in stories of mystery and wonder, of fairyland and magic. And it is quite true that it often uses these forms of human experience. But this is not its real quality. From the story of Tristan and the 'lais' of Mary of France, down to the _Vita Nuova_ of Dante, that with which it is occupied is the human heart, its hopes and fears, its joys and sorrows, its exultation and despair. We have only to read the earliest and greatest forms in which the story of Tristan and Iseult have come down to us to see this for ourselves. It is indeed true that we can see or that we can conjecture that behind the present romance there may have lain an epic story of the hero's actions, but what we see now is nothing but the story of the 'infinite passion', the 'infinite pain' of the human heart. It is the story of their fatal love, of the passion which drives them out of the homes of men into the wilderness, the fatal passion which separation only makes deeper, which nothing can change, nothing can end, the story of a man and woman to whom the world is well lost for love. And if you wish to see the whole meaning of life as the romance actually understood it, you have but to turn again to that 'lai' of Mary of France, which tells us in a few lines how Tristan and Iseult, long parted, succeed in meeting in the forest for a few moments--meet and then part--and over it all there is nothing but a certain exquisite sentiment of love and pain, of love and tears. This romance poetry is indeed strange, so strange that no one has yet succeeded in finding or explaining its real origin. Only the day before, the great artists were singing the gallant deeds of men, but now they can see nothing, think of nothing but the human heart. And what is perhaps strangest of all, this great reality of feeling, of passion, is presented under the form of a world almost wholly unreal and conventional. The men and women of the epic were great heroic figures, of larger stature, of greater passions than the common run, but they were quite real people, moving and acting in the real world. The figures of romance are for the most part, but for the intense reality of their love, the unreal, conventional figures of a world of knights and ladies, of unreal and conventional actions. We understand the epic world, we see and recognize their people, their dwellings, their ways of acting and thinking, but the romantic knights and ladies are mere conventions. The truth is that the chivalrous or romantic world is unreal, partly perhaps because the artists are occupied with nothing but the emotions, and profound though these are, it is perhaps because of their abstraction that the romance ended in the strange allegorical movement of the thirteenth century. In the hands of the later and lesser poets, the romantic method finally loses almost all sense of personality, and becomes a picture and analysis of abstract emotion. It is to these abstractions that Guillaume de Lorris gave a new life and a singular grace in the personifications of the _Romance of the Rose_, and the charm and grace of his art carried Europe off its feet, so that for nearly three hundred years it tended to dominate European poetry. Even the greatest artists of these centuries, Dante and Chaucer, at least started with this method, and at the very end of the fifteenth century William Dunbar in Scotland still used it with grace and vivacity. But I have lingered too long in the Middle Ages. I have done so because, if we could only make more clear to ourselves the homogeneity of the Europe out of which we all came, it would, I think, greatly help to clear up the superstitious exaggeration of the conception of nationality in art. There is not time to deal with it, or we might stay to observe that the characteristic of mediaeval literature is that of all mediaeval art and life. To myself, indeed, it is clear that the notion that the people of the Middle Ages desired or worked for a unified political organization is indeed a great mistake. But, on the other hand, it is equally certain that in general civilization, as in religion, there was a real unity, and that it was only very slowly indeed that the self-conscious nationalities of the modern world were formed out of the welter of the confused races and tribes of Europe: indeed, in some parts of Europe this development was not reached till the nineteenth century and in south-eastern Europe it is only coming to-day. * * * * * European art still transcends nationality; in its essence it is differentiated by the personality of the artist, not by the distinction of nationality. This may seem at first sight a paradox, for you may be inclined to say that surely the modern national literatures are in many ways different, you will say that there is surely some great difference between Dutch and Italian painting, some great contrast between English and French poetry. Many people used to speak, perhaps some do still, of the warm and passionate and romantic south, and of the cold and ungracious and passionless north. But this is merely a delusion. Dante is not more imaginative or passionate than Shakespeare. What is it then which has produced this impression? The answer to the question and the best evidence of the unity of European art will perhaps be found in examining some of the great movements in its history, since the time when the civilization of the Middle Ages reached its highest point in the thirteenth century. With the fourteenth century we come to the beginning of a movement which culminated in the greatest literature of the modern world, in the drama of England and Spain. But its beginnings are at first sight strangely different from its fulfilment, and it is almost impossible therefore to find any phrase or term under which we can justly represent it. The first great master of the new world was Dante, but not the Dante of the exquisite sentiment but artificial form of the _Vita Nuova_, but the great imaginative realist of the _Divine Comedy_, the artist who could portray the passion and pain of Francesca and her lover, and with equal power the masterful figure of Farinata, whose dauntless soul not hell itself could quell; who could pass from the vivid drama of the fierce contemporary life of Italy to the infinite peace of those to whom 'la sua voluntade è nostra pace'. For indeed it is this which places Dante among the supreme poets of the world, that there is no aspect of the reality of human life and experience which is strange to him, and which the greatness of his imagination cannot make living to us. It has often been said that Dante is the greatest and most representative artist of the Middle Ages, but so far as this is true, and it is only partially true, it may make plain to us that there are no boundaries of time in art any more than of race or country. Dante is the first great artist of a new world, but it was not till three centuries had passed, it was not until Shakespeare, that the whole meaning of the new literature was made clear. The new literature has been thought to begin with two great artists, an Italian and an Englishman: with Boccaccio in the south and Chaucer in the north. What is, then, the characteristic quality or note of the _Decameron_ and the _Canterbury Tales_? It is not, as some absurd persons think, to be discovered in the licentiousness or grossness of some of these tales, this only represents one aspect of their realism, and indeed in this they do little more than continue the characteristics of what we know as the 'Fabliaux' of the Middle Ages. The quality of the new art lies just in this, that there is nothing in human life which is uninteresting or insignificant to these great artists, that they are bound by no traditions, hampered by no conventions. They had begun as artists of romance, and the romantic sentiment of life never ceased to interest and move them, but they had learned to go beyond the romantic conventions, and to find the material of their art in everything which was part of the reality of life. To them, as to the other tale-writers of these centuries, it was quite immaterial whether they were retelling a story which had come down from immemorial antiquity, or relating something which had happened but yesterday in their own town or village, and they knew nothing of distinctions of class or rank or circumstance; it is the universal human interest which arrests them. The example which we shall find most representative is that which is to us English people the most familiar, that is the 'Prologue' to the _Canterbury Tales_. Was there ever anything greater of its kind than this? Who can ever forget these figures: the Knight, the Franklyn, the Prioress, the Wife of Bath? As we read there passes before us all the company of human life, wise and foolish, grave and gay, good and bad. Chaucer and Boccaccio are the greatest artists of what has often been called the 'realistic' type, they are at least very easy to distinguish from the epic and romantic artists. They are great artists, but it is also clear enough that their powers and their insight into human life were limited. What they began was carried out to its fulfilment by the great dramatists of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. For this is indeed the relation of the tale-writers to the dramatists, that they furnish the materials upon which the dramatists built up their presentation of human life, or rather, the elements which are transformed by the imagination of the great dramatists from bare 'realism' into the highest expression of reality. No doubt the dramatists take into their work other materials and influences, but the substantial quality whether of the tragedy or the comedy is intimately related to that of the tales. How often were the great dramas built up on materials which they drew from Bandello or the other Italians who continued the tradition of Boccaccio, or from similar northern sources. But the great dramatists gave their stories a life, a passion, a breadth and fullness which is far removed from that of their sources. In their hands, or rather in their creative imagination, we see not merely the external circumstance, the bare fact, but we see all the fullness and completeness, all the exquisite grace and beauty, all the passion and terror of human experience. We may call Boccaccio and Chaucer 'realists', but it is only in Marlowe and Webster, and above all in Shakespeare, that we reach reality itself. We all know the world of Shakespeare, how he ranges from Falstaff to Hamlet, from Bottom to Lear, from Mrs. Quickly and Doll Tearsheet to Rosalind and Imogen and Cordelia; we know how to Shakespeare, and in a lesser degree to some of the other great Elizabethans like Marlowe and Webster, there is nothing common and insignificant in life, nothing which the creative imagination of the artist cannot transform, transmute, from mere dross into pure gold. We say, and we say rightly, that here is the greatest thing that England has brought forth, and we think of it as representing the splendid youth and the first maturity of a great nation. But now, do we remember and understand that alongside of the English drama there is another drama, not indeed so great as that of Shakespeare, but greater, I think, than that of any other Elizabethan, the drama of Spain, of Lope de Vega and Calderon, a drama of the same character, inspired by the same spirit, living under the power of the same creative imagination, a drama in which the same vivid reality is informed by the same breath of magical romance. In the tragedy of Lope de Vega, in the comedies of Calderon, with all the distinctive individuality of the great artists, and of each great work of art, we have a poetic drama which is in its essential characteristics the same as that of England. And yet how different were the circumstances of the two nations, Spain was decadent, bankrupt, defeated; England was rising to the supreme heights of its greatness under Elizabeth and Cromwell. At the end of the sixteenth century, Spain had passed its splendid meridian and was falling into the grey obscurity of a clouded evening. It had quickly lost the great place which for a few years it had held in the world, every day brought a new failure, every year a new disaster; the great Armada had perished miserably on the dunes of Flanders and Holland, on the cliffs of Scotland and Ireland; a handful of valiant Dutchmen had defied its power and broken its wealth; the real enemy of Spain, that is France, had gathered itself together after forty years of ruin and misery, and had driven out the Spanish power. Indeed, so great, so overwhelming, was--as we can now see it--the ruin, that Philip II, who to the English imagination has stood for the embodiment of cruel and masterful malignity, has become to the historical student one of the tragic figures in history, a sincere, stupid, bigoted man, vainly striving to hold together the great empire which had been created by Ferdinand and Isabella, by Cortez and Pizarro and Charles V. England, on the other hand, was rising from obscurity to its place as the mistress of the seas; Englishmen were raiding and plundering the New World, which Spain and Portugal had looked on as their own; England was sending out its sailors and merchants to all the seas, and to all lands, from the frozen north to the Indies. And again, Spain was possessed by a fierce and passionate love for the old religious order, it was the one country in which devotion to the forms and conceptions of mediaeval religion had proved unshakeable, while England was the representative power of the new religious temper, and was soon to hold almost the foremost place in the new intellectual life of Europe. And yet the drama of Spain is in all its most essential and intimate characteristics the same as that of England; represents on the one side the same overwhelming sense of the tragic conflicts of life, the same sense of the greatness, the splendour of human nature, which is most triumphant when most it seems to fail; and on the other side at least something of that exquisite, that almost unimaginable grace of the romantic comedy, of the world of Portia and Viola and Beatrice and Miranda. I do not think that the unity of the great art of Europe, the comparative insignificance of merely national characteristics and historical circumstances can find a more convincing illustration. * * * * * I could wish that I were able to deal adequately with the parallel movements of painting and sculpture during these centuries, but I have neither the capacity nor is there now the time to deal with them. This much only may be said, that the movement of these arts is very closely parallel during these centuries, from the fourteenth to the seventeenth, to that of literature. I cannot discuss the characteristics of mediaeval sculpture and painting, but I would remind you that the notion that these were merely conventional and abstract is just as mistaken as the notion that mediaeval literature deals only with conventions or allegories. It is of course obviously true that the ecclesiastical or religious purpose served by the greater part of the decorative art of the Middle Ages which has survived to us, limits and restrains its subjects and its forms. But no one who is at any pains to consider mediaeval sculpture and mosaic painting can fail to see that alongside of much which became conventional, and was fixed in what has been called the 'Byzantine' style, there is an immense amount of work both in sculpture and in mosaic which expresses the determination of the mediaeval artist to represent the world as he experienced and saw it, and that the main obstacle to the free expression of this spirit was not the acquiescence or satisfaction of the mediaeval artist in conventional forms, but the lack of technical dexterity. This will become evident to any one who will turn his attention, in studying the mosaics, from what are no doubt the somewhat conventional and hieratic figures of saints and angels to the realistic attempts to portray the stories of the Bible. And it will be clear to any one who will study, for instance, the sculpture of Wells or Amiens or Chartres that by the thirteenth century the artists were rapidly learning how to represent the world as they knew it, and something of its grace and beauty. If we say that the history of the plastic arts in Europe from the fourteenth to the seventeenth centuries is the history of the discovery and presentation first of reality, and then of reality as transformed by the highest imaginative conception of beauty, this must not be understood to mean that reality and beauty had been absent from those arts in the Middle Ages. If then we trace the development of Italian art, we shall first observe in such work as that of Masaccio in the Brancacci chapel at Florence just the same characteristic interest in the appearance and the varieties of human life as we find in the work of Boccaccio and Chaucer, and in the succession of the great Tuscan and Umbrian and Venetian painters and sculptors the same transformation of the bare reality of life by the magic of the imaginative sense of beauty and of passion as in the great drama. It is not, I think, merely fanciful to say that the real counterpart of the English and Spanish drama is to be found in the Italian painters and sculptors of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and in the Flemish artists of the early seventeenth. It is certainly true that each of these great artists had his own individual and distinctive genius, but the exquisite grace and beauty of the Umbrians and Tuscans have never been matched save in the romantic comedy of Shakespeare, and the presentation of the tragic passion of the human soul in _King Lear_ has only once been equalled, and that is in the dreadful beauty and horror of the Night and Day, the Evening and the Morning of Michelangelo. * * * * * I do not think I need say much about the classical movement in art and literature, for we all know that it was international. It was begun by Petrarch, not indeed the Petrarch of the sonnets, for these are only a later form of the Troubadour lyric, and do not show any special trace of the classical influence, but the Petrarch whose letters were the first summons of Europe to a new and indefatigable work of the rediscovery of the ancient world. It was an Italian with whom the classical movement began, but it was only in the hands of two northern artists that it achieved a satisfying development in literature: the one a Frenchman, Racine, the other an Englishman, Milton. Neither are, I imagine, really classical at all, but of the two, Milton, as he was by far the more learned in ancient art, was also probably nearer to the ancient world both in form and in spirit. Nor need I say anything about the deplorable ravages of the movement of good taste and common sense, which produced Boileau and, in some measure, Pope. It did some good, but far more evil, but happily it is long past and dead and done with, and we can afford to remember the little good and to forget the evil. Good or evil, it was at least very clearly a European and not a national movement. I must ask you now to consider the extraordinary changes which passed over Europe in the eighteenth century, to trace the beginnings of that change which culminated in what we generally call the Romantic movement. We all know, though not as well as we should, the work of Defoe, and beside Defoe there stands a painter whom also we all know, the great Hogarth. We all at least have read _Robinson Crusoe_, and we have probably all seen Hogarth's engravings of the good and bad apprentices, and the series of paintings in the National Gallery known as the 'Marriage à la mode'. What is it now that we find in Defoe and Hogarth? An infinite multitude of detail--we all remember the 'three Dutch cheeses' and the 'fowling-pieces' which Robinson carefully ferried on his raft from the wreck to the island--an unsparing presentation of all the ugly and sordid realities of life; you might almost say, by preference the ugly realities, the squalid vices, the stupid and brutal ferocity of human nature. It is not a pretty or a pleasing world which we see in Hogarth or in Defoe's _Colonel Jack_. But they are great artists. If you see human nature often on its most repulsive side, in its harshest and most repellent form, at least you see in their novels or pictures, the world as they saw it in the streets and taverns, in the police courts and prisons of their day, as for that matter you can still see it everywhere in town or country. The world which they see may often, perhaps usually, be ugly, but at least there is no conventional prettiness, there is no smug veneer of an artificial good taste which refuses to call a spade a spade, and which deliberately turns away from those things in life which are irritating to its sense of decorum and propriety. Here there is something new, and we can imagine a defender of the nationalist conception of art saying that here at last we have an obvious example of the revolt of northern realism against the southern or classical grace. But there could not be a greater delusion. For though it is true that the new realism was not fully developed all over Europe until the eighteenth century, it had its beginnings in the sixteenth century, and not in the 'cold' north, but in the 'romantic' south. The first signs of the new movement are to be found not in England or in Flanders, but in Spain in the sixteenth century. It was the _Lazarillo de Tormes_, the first of the Picaresque novels which struck the new note, which turned from the fantastic and conventional world of the romances in which Don Quixote had nourished his soul, and from the heroic world of beauty and grace of the dramatists, to the bare and hard reality of the life of the beggar and the vagabond. Not even Defoe himself ever surpassed the clearness and precision of the _Lazarillo_, and it was the first work of a type, whose slow development can be traced in almost every country in Europe: in England, in the realistic attempts of Greene and Nash and Deloney, in Germany in _Simplicissimus_, in France in the _Roman comique_ of Scarron and in the _Gil Blas_ of Le Sage, who was an almost exact contemporary of Defoe. And all this can be traced just as clearly in the history of painting. The great Italian painting had ended with the gorgeous magnificence of the Venetian school, with Giorgione and Titian and Tintoretto, and its mastery passed for a few years to Flanders, to Rubens and Vandyck; but in the painting of Spain and of the Low Countries in the later seventeenth century we find ourselves in another world. The little beggar boys of Murillo may perhaps show a somewhat mannered realism, but the Spanish painting, as a whole, while it would be absurd to try to describe it under any one phrase, shows very clearly the determination to present the reality of the world under terms which are very different from those of the great Italians of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. And when we turn to the art of the Low Countries in the latter part of the seventeenth and in the eighteenth centuries, leaving for the moment out of account the new art of landscape painting, we find ourselves in the same world as that of Defoe and Hogarth. What was this, then, that had come to European art and literature? Clearly what we see is the transition from the heroic world of the tragedy, from the splendid beauty and force of the Italian painters, from the infinite grace of the romantic comedy, to some other artistic apprehension of the world. The movement was not indeed wholly dependent upon a reaction, but in its development it corresponds with the reaction against the continuance of a great tradition which had become merely a convention, when it had lost its vitality and sincerity. The best examples of this may perhaps be found in Dryden's attempt to carry on the heroic tradition in English tragedy, and in Voltaire's strenuous and meritorious efforts to continue the work of Racine and Corneille. They meant well, and their tragic dramas are not without merit, but it is clear enough that they could not bend the bow of Ulysses. They were great artists, as we can see clearly enough in _Absalom and Ahitophel_, or in _Candide_, but their genius lay in other directions. 'Il faut cultiver notre jardin' is a great judgement of life, one very wholesome and necessary for all time, but it was not the mood of Othello or of Hamlet. European art had to come down from the empyrean, and though the descent was great, yet it gained new life by once again touching mother earth. No doubt, however, the harsh reality of Hogarth and Defoe was not the whole of life, and, by a strange transition, before the middle of the eighteenth century we find the novelists and, though they are less important, the dramatists, turning from the faithful and minute study of the outward appearance and form of things to the study of sensibility and emotion, and the world, which had seemed so hard and unmoved, was dissolved in tears. We find this a strange and even a ridiculous spectacle, the men who had prided themselves on their common sense and reasonableness, whose literature had sparkled with wit and epigram, blubbering and crying like great children; but whatever we think of it, that is what happened. The first artist of the new type was a Frenchman, Marivaux, and his _Vie de Marianne_ is a study of a young woman who is the embodiment of sensibility and self-consciousness, an amiable and virtuous girl, who is hardly able to enjoy the good that life brings her, for fear lest she should miss the opportunity of renunciation. The first great novel of sentiment is also French, the Abbé Prévost's _Manon Lescaut_, and here indeed we are in the deep waters of affliction; there are but few moments between the beginning and the end of his sad story when the hero is not in tears. And yet it is a great novel, for there are few studies of human nature, as absorbed and almost lost in emotion, which are more moving. These novels, however, which appeared between 1730 and 1740, are overshadowed by the works of the great Englishmen, by Richardson and Sterne and Goldsmith, for these are not artists of England alone, but of all Europe, known and loved and imitated in every country in Europe. The sorrows of _Clarissa_, the pathetic or maudlin humour of Sterne, the idyllic grace and gentle laughter of Goldsmith, these, as they moved every heart, influenced even the greatest of European artists. The influence of _Clarissa_ on Rousseau, of Goldsmith on Goethe and Jean Paul Richter need no exposition. The sentimental movement reached almost its highest level in the great and morbid genius of Rousseau, who was himself the living embodiment of the movement. Far more than even his creations, more than Julie or Saint-Preux, was he himself possessed by an emotionalism which finally became a disease. But, strangely enough, it was the Olympic genius of Goethe which gave its supreme form to the treatment of life under the terms of feeling. In _Werther_ this whole phase of art passed beyond itself into the tragedy of the vain and hopeless efforts of an honest but over-sensitive nature to control his emotion and to master his life. Not indeed that it was with _Werther_ the movement ended: it was continued in Byron: it was perhaps the most important element in what the Germans call specifically their _Romantische Schule_, and in the work of the French Romantic artists from Chateaubriand to Alfred de Musset. If you wish to see it in painting you have only to look at the work of Greuze, and at the engravings in our grandmothers' 'Forget-me-nots'. In spite of all its absurdities this sentimental movement played a great part in preparing men for the great revolution itself, for it opened men's hearts, it set free their emotions; if the realism of Defoe and Hogarth had enabled men to escape from convention and the mannerisms of good taste into a world of reality, the emotional movement gave this reality fullness and content, represented a larger and more intimate apprehension of life. This brings us to another aspect of the art of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, to the poetry and painting of 'nature', to the beginnings of that great artistic movement which culminates in Wordsworth and Turner, and whose influence dominated all Europe in the eighteenth century and continues to do so in our own time. It seems a strange thing, but it is true, that it was not till the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries that there appeared a school of painting which took landscape, and a poetry which took 'nature' specifically for its subject. There is indeed frequent reference to 'nature' in the poetry of the Middle Ages and of the sixteenth century, and this is often significant in the early English poetry and charming in the romances and in Petrarch and Chaucer, while in Dante and the Elizabethans, and especially in Shakespeare, it reaches an almost incomparable beauty; yet in all these it is, as in the backgrounds of the great Tuscan and Umbrian painters, exquisite and significant and true, but not the prime subject which engages their attention. There are indeed two great poets in whom we begin to feel that the background begins to be almost as important as the figures of the foreground; Spenser is genuinely interested in his stories of chivalry and honour, and in his moral allegory, but we sometimes wonder whether the most important thing in his poetry is not the chequered light and shade of his forests, the picturesque splendour of his castles, and the gloom of his caverns and dungeons. Spenser's poetry is like a tapestry on which indeed some story of human life is presented, but which is in the end a great work of decorative art, to which the immediate subject contributes form and pattern and colour, but in which it is in a measure lost. In Milton the matter is different: no one can doubt that he is a great artist of human life and fate; even if _Paradise Lost_ were to leave us in some uncertainty, the _Samson_ would convince us all. But, while I think this is true, it is also clear that not only in the grace of his earlier poetry, but in the maturity of his genius, in the _Lycidas_ and even in the _Paradise_, Milton is at least as great an artist of nature and its beauty as he is of life. And near Milton there stands a poet, lesser indeed, but individual and unique, that is Henry Vaughan, who had unhappily strayed into the 'metaphysical' maze, and who helplessly enough tries to endue himself with the giant armour of Donne, but who, when he is himself, is one of the most exquisite and gracious poets of nature. We may perhaps, without being fanciful, find a parallel to these poets in the great Venetian painters of the sixteenth century, in whose work we see the landscape of Venetia and the Cadore compelling more and more our attention, as not a mere background, but as an integral part of the picture; but it was not till the seventeenth century and the Flemish and Dutch painters that we see the transition complete, and the artist sets before us not some scene in human life, but simply the beauty and splendour of 'nature' herself. It was not till Thomson began to publish _The Seasons_ in 1726 that the development was complete in poetry. Thomson is a difficult poet to appreciate rightly, for though his subject was 'nature' his method was often as conventional and artificial as that of any Augustan; but he was a lover of the fields and woods, and his imagination, if it is not very powerful, is often very sincere. What was begun by Thomson was carried on with greater sincerity and reality by Cowper, and was transformed by the imagination of Gray and Collins. We sometimes think of this development as specifically English, and it is true that in Wordsworth and Shelley the poetry of nature grew into something which is unique and unmatched, but we must not think of the poetry of Wordsworth as though it were the only form under which nature can be presented. That would be to ignore the qualities, in England of Keats and Tennyson, and in Europe of great artists in whom the treatment of nature assumed other forms. The great poetry of nature began in England, but it was carried on in all the European countries, and for more than a century it was dominated mainly by the genius of Rousseau in France and of Goethe in Germany. I cannot here pretend to deal with the treatment of nature in Rousseau, or with the outcome of his influence first in Bernardin de Saint-Pierre and Chateaubriand, and then in the elegiac beauty of Lamartine and de Musset's _Nuits_; nor can I deal with the poetry of nature in Goethe, and its lesser but often beautiful expression in the German 'Romanticists', and in Heine. It is only possible here to remind ourselves that neither the poetry nor the painting of nature belongs to any one country, but is an intimate part of all modern art. * * * * * And thus at last we come to the great revolution itself, that great revolution in art and thought and life, of which the political and social revolution is one form, and of which we are all the children. In this, all the elements of which we have been thinking are gathered up and come to perfection; reality, sentiment, nature. And this was of no one country or nationality. The first and also the greatest artist of the revolution is Goethe himself, for it all culminates and reaches its highest expression in _Faust_. The passion for freedom, for the complete experience of life, for life itself, and not mere knowledge or mere words--this is the motive which drives Faust till he is willing to make his bargain with any power which will give him this. The infinite, the insatiable desire of the human soul, which can never be wholly satisfied, which can never reach its term, this is the passion which possesses Faust, this is the rock upon which the hopes of the poor devil are shipwrecked, the poor devil who in the limitation of the merely critical and negative temper cannot understand that Faust can never be satisfied, will never say to the moment, 'Verweile doch, du bist zu schön.' For the drama of _Faust_ is not a drama of damnation, but of redemption, and though the breadth and scope of the whole conception pass beyond all presentation in complete and rounded form, the great tragedy of Gretchen takes us from the splendid but abstract world of ideas into the simplest experience of human life, where Faust becomes human through love itself, but too slowly, too late to avert the tragedy. If Goethe represents the great humane conceptions of the revolution most profoundly, Wordsworth comes very near him in the depth of his knowledge of humanity, and in his supreme sense of the unity of all life and nature with the living spirit who is in all things; and the great romantic artists of France are governed by the same sense of nature and love and the spiritual, and in Victor Hugo this reaches a level only just below that of Goethe himself. * * * * * You must not misunderstand me, nationality has real meaning, it has something akin, but distantly, to personality; but in the main it affects the more superficial aspects of art. In painting and sculpture the European artists use a language which we can all understand, imagine life and nature under terms which we all feel and know to be true. And, though in literature the language creates a real difference, and causes a difficulty in recognizing the unity which lies behind the difference, yet the moment we begin to overcome that difficulty we find ourselves in a world intelligible, familiar, moving to us all; and intelligible just in proportion to the greatness of the artist. It is idle for us to dispute about the relative greatness of our national arts, for their greatness lies not in national idiosyncrasies, but in the personality of the artist, and in the single, the unique quality of the particular works of art, and these belong not to this country or nation or to that, but to us all. It is not to Frenchmen only that the intellectual passion of Pascal, or the hatred of shams and the love of the honest man of Molière or of Voltaire, appeal, but to us all. It is not only Germans who understand the splendour of human experience, and the infinite pathos of the mistakes of the human heart, but we all. And the spectacle of the tempest in the heart of Lear, that tempest of the soul, of which the storms of nature are but a faint reflection, or the exquisite serenity and humanity of the recognition of Cordelia, these are not the prerogative possessions of England, but they speak to the heart and soul of the whole world. We may be divided from each other by many things, material or political, but in the supreme art and poetry we rise above all these distinctions and are only men and women, with the earth under our feet and the heavens above us. * * * * * BOOKS FOR REFERENCE The subject treated in the essay may be considered in relation to the following works: _Beowulf_; _The Song of Roland_; _The Nibelungenlied_. _Tristan and Iseult_ (Thomas, or Béroul); Mary of France, _Lais_. Dante, _Divina Commedia_. Boccaccio, _Decameron_; Chaucer, _Canterbury Tales_. Shakespeare; Lope de Vega; Calderon. Defoe, _Robinson Crusoe_; Le Sage, _Gil Blas_. Marivaux, _Marianne_; Prévost, _Manon Lescaut_. Richardson, _Clarissa_; Goethe, _Werther_. Goethe, _Faust_; Wordsworth, _Michael_, &c.. Victor Hugo, _Légende des Siècles_. There are English translations of the greater number of these. VII SCIENCE AND PHILOSOPHY AS UNIFYING FORCES Some political thinkers have taken the State for the highest form of human association. Humanity is for them a mere abstract idea. It is no organized whole; owns, they think, no common allegiance, pursues no common aim. To find such an organized whole, such an allegiance, such an aim, we must look to the State and to nothing beyond it. We find such a whole in Germany, in France, in England, but not in anything common to the three and to other States as well. This opinion, due in its modern shape to Hegel and his followers, is false to history, false in political theory, and mischievous in ethics, but it is nowhere more false than in relation to the world of thought. The essential unity of Western civilization as an intellectual, moral, and spiritual commonwealth is indeed illustrated--unfortunately illustrated as it happens--by this very theory of the State which denies it. For the theory is of German make. It arose out of the historical conditions of Prussia in the early years of the nineteenth century, was fostered in Germany by the peculiar method by which the unity of the nation was effected, and, setting out from its home, has permeated much of the thought of the West, effectively combating the Liberal humanitarianism which was the especial contribution of England to the movement of the nineteenth century. The reaction of the German idea of the State on the English conception of liberty is the dominating influence of the last forty years in English political thought and progress. There can hardly be a more striking testimony to the reality of that unity which the theorists who embody it seek to depreciate or deny. When we speak of unity in this connexion we may mean one of three things. There is a unity of character or type. There is the unity involved in continuous unbroken descent from a common origin, and there is unity of effective interconnexion and mutual dependence. These senses of the term unity are confused by some writers, but must clearly be distinguished before any useful inquiry can be made. Unity of character, for example, is a different thing from continuity of historical development, for a civilization might radically change its character in the course of generations. It might lose all the specific features of its own family and come into closer resemblance with others of quite distinct parentage. Again unity of character is not the same thing as the effective interconnexion and co-operation of different centres. On the contrary, such co-operation is of most value where there is marked difference of character, where, for instance, a lack of a quality in one nation is counteracted by a surplus in another. Thus these three forms of unity are distinct, but if distinct they are not unrelated. Naturally, where there is a common origin, many traits of the primitive unity of character are likely to persist, and where there is effective intercommunication, many differences may be rubbed off. So, where we start with unity of origin, we are likely to find some measure of unity in other respects, and this is what we do find, in fact, in the case of Western civilization. It does possess a certain unity of character, and this is largely due to unity of origin, and is maintained in spite of marked divergences, which have not impeded an effective intercommunication but have tended rather to add interest and value to the results which that intercommunication has produced. SECTION I.--UNITY OF CHARACTER There is a certain unity of character running through all civilization, and indeed through all humanity. Certain fundamental institutions and principles of organization are common to East and West, to the ancient and modern world, to civilization and savagery, and there is not the least evidence that the similarities are the result of historic connexion. On the contrary, they arise from a human nature which is fundamentally the same, adjusting itself to conditions of life which are fundamentally the same. But of course it is only the broadest and most general characters that are thus common to all the world. Within them there is every sort and degree of specific difference. There are types within types, worlds within worlds, and what we call Western civilization is one of these. That is to say, it is at the present day a family or group of nations sharing in common certain things which distinguish it from the rest of the world, such things, for instance, as a certain degree of social order, a certain outlook upon life, certain fundamentals of religion and ethics, and an industrial organization based on applied science. Now to mention any of these points is at once to provoke a criticism. In each respect, it will be said, the nations of Western Europe and the lands that have been colonized from them differ vastly among themselves. The social order of Germany is by no means that of England. The industrial development of southern Italy is very different from that of Belgium. The Prussian outlook upon life--this in particular will be emphasized just now--is quite another thing from the French. This is true enough, but once again it means only that there are further specific differences within the genus. We could pursue the differences as far down as we like. For the United Kingdom, say, is by no means one homogeneous whole. Even within England alone deep contrasts reveal themselves between the agricultural South and the industrial North. Yet we do not hesitate to think of the English character, English institutions, the English type as distinct from the rest of the world, and we are right in so doing because there is a real unity pervading all the differences. Just in the same way at a higher remove there is a certain unity of character pervading the deeper and wider differences that appear in the various centres of Western civilization. * * * * * SECTION II.--UNITY OF ORIGIN This unity of character is very largely due to continuous descent from a common cultural ancestor. The civilization of the West is fundamentally one not because the peoples of the West are one racially. They are not so. They comprise every branch of the Aryan family and a considerable admixture of quite other stocks. Their civilization owes its common characteristics mainly to a common origin and continued interaction. That is why it is in the mass a community of ideas, for ideas pass from man to man and from nation to nation more readily than institutions, more readily far than character, more readily perhaps than anything except material goods. In the realm of ideas Western civilization forms a single commonwealth of informal but of exceeding democratic constitution. This freedom, indeed, it owes in large measure to its international character, for there are constantly arising local and temporary dictators, arbiters of fashion in the ideas of politics, philosophy, and even of science. Within a narrow circle such a dictator often has it all his own way, but it is seldom that he can maintain a prolonged ascendancy throughout the international commonwealth unless there is some pretty solid foundation for his doctrine. This commonwealth has its foundations in the past. It derives in the first instance from the unity of mediaeval Christendom, where it enjoyed the advantage of a common language of learning, the gradual loss of which is imperfectly compensated by the possession of two or three modern languages alone by the educated man of the present day. Through mediaeval Christendom and through the Arabic schools, which can hardly be regarded as a part of Western civilization but in the Middle Ages were rather its teachers, it derives from the Greco-Roman world, and through the Greco-Roman world from the Greeks themselves. The Greeks in their turn were aware that they owed the rudiments of their science to the ancient civilizations of the Nile and the Euphrates. Thus in the intellectual world there is a continuity stretching back six thousand years or more to the beginnings of recorded civilization. More than once the continuity is nearly broken, but some strand is always preserved, and it is in this continuity in the world of ideas that we get the main evidence of such progress as human history reveals. The foundations of material civilization were laid in Egypt and in Babylonia, where the progress made in agriculture and the industrial arts implies a considerable body of empirical knowledge of physics and chemistry at an early date. We have Egyptian textbooks of arithmetic dating from the eighteenth and perhaps from the twelfth dynasty. We have texts dealing with the rudiments of geometry. Empirical chemistry appears to be of Egyptian origin, the word itself is referred to the Egyptian term for black earth--and to have passed to the Arabs, who made it into a quantitative science, without greatly interesting the scientific mind of Greece. Careful astronomical records extending over thousands of years were kept both in Egypt and Babylonia, and upon them a considerable body of astronomical knowledge was built up. But there is no evidence of a scientific interest detached at once from theology and industry. In theology itself Egyptian learning early became dissatisfied with the popular deities, and sought for a unity of the godhead either in some one supreme deity such as the sun or, more often, in a mystical identification of all the gods as so many incarnations or impersonations of a single principle. But though these and kindred speculations were not without influence on Greek thought, the entire achievement of Egypt in this direction, so far as known to us, was of little importance as compared with that of other oriental civilizations. Thus without underestimating a debt which the Greeks themselves acknowledged, it remains true to regard science and philosophy alike as in essence an original creation of the Greek genius. What grew up in Greece during the sixth and fifth centuries B.C. was the spirit of disinterested inquiry proceeding on rational methods. By the term disinterested I mean detached from ulterior objects. Geometry for the Greek was something more than the art of land measurement, astronomy something more than a means of regulating the calendar or foretelling an eclipse. It was a study of the nature of the heavens, an attempt to penetrate the construction of the material universe. So with geometry. It might begin as an investigation of the relations of particular triangles, squares, and oblongs, but it developed into an attempt to grasp the nature of space relations and to understand them as depending on simple common principles. This is to say that in the hands of the Greeks these subjects first became sciences. But a still greater subject also became in their hands matter for disinterested rational inquiry. They developed what Aristotle called the science of Reality, or, as we call it, Philosophy--the attempt to approach by the rational criticism of experience the problem of the nature and origin of the universe and of man's place therein. They propounded the fundamental questions which still occupy the highest intellects of mankind. They laid the foundations of method and bequeathed to Europe the terminology which all exact thinking requires. Even when we speak of method we are using an Aristotelian term, and when we distinguish one subject from another we are employing the Latin translation of the word which Aristotle introduced. In a word, modern thought, scientific and philosophic alike, has a unitary origin. It is derived from the Greek. The mode of this derivation is not simple, and would require considerable space to examine in detail. In outline it must suffice to say that the Greek culture was spread over the Eastern Mediterranean through the conquests of Alexander, and that as its capital Alexandria gradually replaced Athens. It flowed westward with the Roman conquests, when, as the Roman poet said, captured Greece took captive her barbarous conqueror and introduced the arts into rustic Latium. It shared in the general decline which accompanied the rebarbarization and final collapse of the Roman Empire. But now occurred a division in the stream of historic tendency. The fortunes of East and West were separated. The Western Empire was overrun by Germanic tribes, and after the sixth century the tradition of the old culture was maintained for the most part in the monasteries. Greek was forgotten in the West. Greek authors were known only in Latin translations, and science and philosophy came to a standstill. In the East the Mohammedan conquests brought the Arabs into touch with Greek learning. They preserved the tradition and extended the work, and it was the contact with Arabic culture through the crusades which initiated the first renaissance in the West in the twelfth century. There followed the epoch of the great mediaeval systems, the rediscovery of Aristotle and the attempt to fuse the Christian faith with the Aristotelian system. The later Middle Age was the period at which Western civilization was most distinctly a cultural unit, the scene of a great attempt to unify all the aspects of life, the religious, the philosophic, the political, on the basis of a religious faith made articulate and systematic with the aid of Greek philosophy, speaking the Latin tongue as the common possession of all educated men. The paradox of thought is that while unity is its ideal, freedom is its necessary condition, and endless divergence the inevitable consequence. There could not be much thinking about matters of faith without heresy, nor about matters of politics without disaffection, rebellions and new political grouping. Heresy and schism broke up the mediaeval unity and reinforced the political tendencies making towards the modern state system. The rise of modern literature displaced the classics from their unique position as literary models. After the seventeenth century the habit of writing in the vernacular tended more and more to oust Latinity, and culture in each country began to assume more of a distinctively national character. Specific national characteristics began to appear in science and philosophy as well as in literature and education, and a large part of the history of modern thought depends on the partial independence on the one hand and the frequent interactions on the other of these centres. * * * * * SECTION III.--UNITY OF INTERCONNEXION This brings us to the third sense in which unity can be predicated of a cultural group. The unity that depends on the interconnexion of distinct parts implies some differences of character. Western civilization has lost something of the unity of character which it owed to its common origin, though it still retains enough of it to figure as a single whole in contrast to the rest of the world. We may be sure that the differences between German, French, and English seem much less marked to the intelligent Chinese than they are to Germans, Frenchmen, and English themselves. We ourselves habitually think of China and Japan together as denizens of the Far East, and it is only personal acquaintance which makes us begin to mark the differences between them. Few Europeans, I imagine, get as far in their discrimination as to appreciate the distinctions between the Northern and Southern Chinese, which are as clear to the Chinese themselves as the difference between English and Scottish is to us. Western civilization does retain a generic unity of character, though national differences have had an increasing influence in the sphere of thought. Meanwhile the unity of interconnexion has on the whole grown closer with the spread of education, the multiplication of learned magazines and the facilities of travel. One of the most interesting chapters in the development of modern thought can be written, as Dr. Merz has shown by example as well as by precept, on the theme of the mutual influence of the great national centres of thought, and in particular of France, England, and Germany. These nations might seem as though designed, whether by nature or by the unconscious hand of political history, to be half-willing, half-reluctant complements to each other. English common sense, French lucidity, German idealism; English liberty, French equality, German organization; English breadth, French exactitude, German detail,--how much poorer the world would be if any one of these had been allowed to develop on its own lines without the criticism of the other two. What a special providence gave the easy-going Englishman a northern neighbour to lecture him on German metaphysics in his own tongue and compel him to the definiteness which he instinctively detests. Without Scotland as a link, the connexion between English and German thought would hardly have been effective and continuous, and it was a Scotsman who aroused the greatest of German metaphysicians--himself of Scottish descent--from his dogmatic slumbers. This international division of labour is more significant in the regions of metaphysics and political thought than of physical science. To science, every modern nation has contributed both great names and useful journeyman work. Through the medium of the learned reviews and of periodical congresses science has become more and more international. It is still possible now and again for a great discovery like that of Mendel or an important hypothesis like that of the kinetic theory of gases to be ignored for a whole generation. But this does not seem to depend especially on difficulties of language or of international communication. There is a queer element of arbitrary fashion in the scientific world which every now and then decrees that certain people shall be ignored, no matter how sound their work, or that certain hypotheses shall be treated as matters of faith, no matter how flimsy their structure. Man does not all at once become a creature of pure reasoning by assuming the robe of science and entering the laboratory. But national prejudices are not pre-eminent among the forces which dictate these fashions. Indeed in the English intellectual world there operates, if anything, a certain anti-national prejudice. It has sometimes been easier for an Englishman to get a hearing in Germany than in England, and it is certain that in many subjects a respect is paid to German writers which they would not have been able to win if they had written either in French or in English. This is due to a certain encyclopaedic minuteness which is the peculiar property of German industry. If you want an exhaustive negative, I remember an archaeologist saying once, you must go to the Germans. That is to say, on almost any subject you will find some German, and a German only, who has taken the trouble to go through the whole matter from beginning to end, not attending merely to what is interesting or important, but writing down _all_ that is to be found out in all the authorities bearing on that subject. And this work will be insufferably tedious and, taken by itself, may be very unilluminating. But it is much less tedious for the reader than it was for the writer, and, if suitably indexed, such a work will in permanence serve as a guide-book to those who are going to exercise real thought and insight upon that subject. It is the element of disinterested drudgery which the Germans have contributed to science. Not that they have lacked men of genius, but that they have added to genius that which, Carlyle notwithstanding, it so often lacks--the infinite capacity for taking pains. Take up any scientific treatise in any language and on almost any subject, cast your eye down the references to authorities in the footnotes on a few pages at random, and you will find probably three out of four of those cited bearing German names. They will outbalance English, American, French, Dutch, and Italian added together. If you pass from quantity to quality, if you take the leading ideas contributed to the subject, you will find the balance redressed. Here French and English and others hold their own, and perhaps a little more than their own. But in bulk of work, and especially in the faithful, unrepaying service of the hard dry fact, the Germans have set a standard to the world. It may be that their very merit is due in part to a lack of certain qualities as well as to a superabundance of others. There is a want of proportion in some of these vast Teutonic treatises that takes the heart out of the English student. Some witty person has said that German science consists in demonstrating over again with enormously elaborate apparatus what an Englishman has already made plain enough to any sensible person with the aid of a gingerbeer bottle and an old sardine tin. But I suspect there is another side to the question. The German has probably worked out his figures to the twentieth decimal where the Englishman was content with the second, and it may always turn out that the twentieth decimal has its value. Be that as it may, the co-operation of both types of mind is necessary, and patient endeavour in the elaboration of detail is the peculiar function which the German academic tradition has developed in the service of the general cause of the advancement of learning. In more speculative thought the equipoise of international co-operation reveals itself in the changes which national thought has undergone under foreign influence. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries English and Scottish metaphysics developed in the main on lines of their own. It was the heyday of the so-called English school of experience. This school was influential in France, and in Germany acted as the ferment which dissolved the older academic tradition and stimulated the growth of the new idealism. German idealism first became an influence in England through the medium of Coleridge and later of Carlyle. But it had little effect on the national philosophy except in shaking the younger Mill out of the narrow rut in which he had been educated and contributing to his thought that stream of influence which throughout life he tried in vain to merge harmoniously with the paternal teaching. But in the last third of the nineteenth century new channels of influence were opened. The authority of Green at Oxford and of Caird in the Scottish universities brought the tide of Hegelian influence, on the ebb in Germany, in full flood over the intellectual world of Great Britain and America. English empiricism was rapidly swept out of existence. Mill and Spencer, the dominating figures of the sixties and seventies were reduced to the position of dummies used for target practice by beginners. Being intelligible they could be read by the first-year student, and the exposition of their fallacies provided an easy task for the lecturer's wit. There was none so poor to do them reverence, or if any did he was relegated to a fourth class in the Final Schools. It would be a very interesting study in our object to analyse the Anglo-Scottish idealism in close relation to the German original, and measure the changes which a philosophy undergoes in the process of assimilation by a people of very different intellectual tradition. Lack of sympathy with German and particularly with Hegelian idealism disqualifies me from the task, but this much in spite of this lack I can see. The German philosophers had a hold on those large and general ideas which the English mind seems instinctively to distrust, and which English philosophy had sought to resolve away into component parts. The Englishman as a philosopher is by nature very much like the Englishman as a mechanic or as a business man. He wants to touch and see, to test and handle, before he is convinced of reality. 'I desire that it be produced' is the frequent remark of Hume--Scotsman in some respects, but very English in this--whenever he is dealing with some conception not readily verifiable in experience. English philosophy left to itself was not inclined to do justice to the subtler, more evasive notions that are not readily defined. It did not allow enough for what we may call the imponderable elements. German idealism has had just the opposite fault. It has been too ready to take its thoughts for realities, too prone to use large and perhaps vague conceptions as if they were solid coin and not tokens that needed a good deal of scrutiny to determine their value. We may see an example in a branch of political thought which has been a good deal under discussion of late. To some German thinkers the conception of the State presents itself in a manner which by no means comes natural to the Englishman. To the German the State is an entity as obvious, real, and apparent as the individual citizen. It is not just the head of Germany, or the sixty-five millions of Germans, or the Kaiser, or the army, or the Government. It is just itself, the State, and it has attributes and powers, is the object of duties and possessor of rights just like any Hamburg merchant or Prussian Junker. To the natural Englishman all this seems half mystical, half superficial. Talk to him of the State and if he is to grasp the conception at all he must get it into terms of persons or things. He pictures it perhaps as the Government, perhaps simply as the income-tax collector, perhaps as the miscellaneous millions living in the United Kingdom. If he discusses its well-being, its success or its failure, he does so under the reserve that all this is a shorthand for the well-being of great numbers of men and women. If its honour and good faith are in question what he will ask is whether Sir E. Grey fulfilled a definite pledge at a given moment after the manner of an English gentleman. Now for my own part, whether through national prejudice or not, I believe this habit of checking and resolving large conceptions to be the safest and most scientific way of dealing with them. Yet I can also see that it may lead to a good deal of crudity and may lead men to ignore important elements for which they cannot readily find some concrete expression. In this very matter of the State, for example, we are dealing with an organization of individuals, and if our way of talking about it makes us overlook the flesh and blood of which it is composed, the other way may obscure in our minds the vital differences introduced by the very fact of organization. The Germans have often seen the wood more clearly when the Englishman was more careful to distinguish and name the trees. So I cannot doubt that it will prove in the end to have been good for us to have been compelled by a few leading thinkers to go to school with the Germans for a couple of generations, even at the cost of the temporary depreciation of much that was most vital in our own social philosophy. Perhaps the best thing that can be wished for Germany, and through her for Europe, in the next generation, is that she should learn as much from our tradition as we have learned from her. The whole history of political thought in the last two centuries is a study of complex interactions between processes going forward in each of the leading nations. The liberalism of Locke and the principles of the Whig revolution profoundly influenced France, and the very fact that distance lent them enchantment and allowed them to be idealized gave them a value as a stimulus to the French critic of absolute government which they could hardly exercise at home, where their real limitations were better known. The French revolution bore on the entire thought of Europe, alike by sympathy and antipathy, producing the reactionary philosophies of Burke in England and of Hegel in Germany, and the endeavour to formulate a new and safer line of Radicalism by Bentham. Philosophical Radicalism expressed in the main by the distinct but related Manchester school had two generations of development in England, and was felt as a real influence abroad during the period of comparative peace that followed Waterloo and that raised men's hopes of an era that should put wars aside and devote itself to the essential progress of mankind. French influences again, particularly that of Comte acting through J.S. Mill, brought new life into this school as the first flush of its youth was fading. Finally, as we have seen, German influences overwhelmed it, and England, fascinated as much by the prestige of Germany as by her thought, gravitated more and more to the doctrine of the self-contained, military, Protectionist, all-powerful State. In this story of political thought events have been no less potent than arguments. The failure and success of institutions, the victories and defeats of countries identified with certain principles have repeatedly brought new strength and resolution to the adherents or opponents of those principles as the case might be in all lands. The successive steps by which Italy secured unity and freedom were a perpetual encouragement to believers in national right and liberal government throughout the middle of the century. The triumph of Germany in 1870 was a victory for autocratic power, for discipline, for unscrupulous statesmanship, for blood and iron, which effected a conversion, only half conscious and very slow in producing its result, but all the more complete for that reason, in the attitude of men to fundamental questions of social ethics. Looking back on the hundred years that separate the two European cataclysms, the historian will discover a rise of liberal and humanitarian opinions to ascendancy in the earlier period and a reaction against them towards the close. The causes of such a change are multifarious and tangled, but he will, I believe, recognize the year 1870 and the victory of Bismarck as the dividing line. May it be so that he will find in the present war another turning-point from which a new movement is to begin. Be this as it may, we may rest assured that the political thought of Europe, like its philosophy and its science, will go forward or backward as a unity. It may move by peaceful and friendly co-operation or by the stimulus of embittered rivalry. But its many centres are related by so many strands of connexion that the movement in any one of these is reflected in the rest. The liberties of England are fostered by the emancipation of the Alsatian, the Slovak, or the Pole. They are enfeebled by the victories of political autocracy or the military machine. Thinkers, it may be said, ought to be above these mundane influences. Philosophy should deal with what is in itself and eternally rational and just and wise. But philosophy as it exists on earth is the work of philosophers, who, authority tells us, suffer as much from toothache as other mortals, and are, like others, open to the impressions of near and striking events and to the seductions of intellectual fashion. Yet, if the larger thought is worth anything, it should enable those who follow it to look a little further beyond the present and a little deeper below the surface differences that distract the kindred peoples. If the thinkers are true to their thought it may be that from them will come the beginnings of the healing process which Europe will need. Much is being and will be said of the political reconstruction which is needed to restore and secure the civilized order. But the commonwealth of thought will revive of itself from the day when peace is concluded. German physiology will not be less learned, German scientists will not be less expert, German chemists will not be less pre-eminent because their military lords have plunged Europe into a disastrous war. We shall need their services, shall watch their experiments, read their records, and utilize their brains as before. Perhaps it may be some years before the international congresses can be resumed, but the internationalism of learning will revive of itself, against our wills if not by and with our wills, and in the world of science, and in this world alone, the event of war will make no difference. Conqueror and conquered will work at the same task and meet as equals. The scientific demonstration knows no more of the nationality of its originator than of his caste or colour, age or sex. In this one real democracy the idea, the hypothesis, the proof, whatever it may be, stands or falls on its own merits with no questions asked as to its ancestors or country of origin. In the growth of this commonwealth war is but a momentary check. Its destiny is to become wider in extent, closer in its interconnexions, and not less rich in the diversities of its national centres. Whether it is also destined to grow into a political unity the future must decide. At least we can say that for any such unity it provides the only sure and solid foundation. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE Merz, _History of European Thought in the 19th Century_. W. Blackwood. Marvin, _The Living Past_. Clarendon Press. VIII THE UNITY OF WESTERN EDUCATION I have been asked to address you on the Unity of Education in Western Europe. The task is not an easy one, for what do we mean by unity? It would be easy for me to spend my time in talking on the technical aspect of the subject; I could deal with curriculum and organization, with school buildings and class-rooms, black-boards, and all the material of schoolmastering, and could show you how great is the similarity in these matters in all civilized countries. I doubt, however, whether this would interest you; I doubt whether this is the unity of which you are in search. You would tell me that you asked for unity and I had given you uniformity. Uniformity you can have anywhere; in modern life all is standardized and stereotyped; you have it in the great hotel and the Atlantic liner--there you have men of all nations, they do the same thing at the same time, they eat the same food and wear the same clothes; you find it in the factory and on the battle-field. Go to a textile factory, whether in Oldham or in Chemnitz, or in Bombay, the processes are the same and the product is the same, except as there may be more or less adulteration. And so in education, if you care to do so, you can find the mechanical uniformity of modern civilization. A new form of school-desk makes the round of the world as quickly as a new chemical process or a new battleship. The pictures on the walls of the rooms may be the reproduction of some modern German work, and the atlases you use may be second-rate copies of the products of Gotha or Leipzig; you can have, too, uniformity in time-table and curriculum; but, after all, this uniformity may be merely superficial. Go along the streets of an old town and you may see the regular façade of a modern street, but behind this you will find all the variety of the mediaeval buildings which it encloses--the façade is mere paint and stucco. Uniformity is not necessarily unity, and unity is not inconsistent with variety. That which I presume we are searching for is a more fundamental, spiritual, and intellectual unity--internal not external; not a painted and stucco resemblance, but a unity of origin and of life. Let us see what we can learn from history. The history of European education is centred round two institutions, the School and the University. Both have their origin in the remote past, and both have maintained themselves with singular fidelity to their original type. The School goes back to the very origin of our civilization; if we are to understand its nature, we must transfer ourselves in thought to those early days when the first missionaries planted in the Somerset valleys and on the stern Northumberland coast the Cross of Christ. They came to a people still on the verge of barbarism, with a language still unformed by literature, with a religion that gave no clue to the mysteries of life by which they were oppressed. They came to these men full of the enthusiasm of the Gospel--coming not only as teachers of religion, but as the apostles of a higher civilization, for they had behind them the awful name of Rome. Wherever they came, among their first duties was to found schools in which to train men who would succeed them; we must always remember that the education which they gave had one supreme object--it was to bring up the boys of the rude and barbarous communities in which they found themselves, to become teachers and servants of the Church. The substance of the teaching was always the same, whether in Spain, in Gaul, in Ireland or in Britain; it was the Bible, the services of the Church, and the writings of the Fathers. It was by the school that the boys were initiated into the common system of Western Christendom, and were made citizens of the greater world the centre of which was in Rome. But if the substance and the object was identical throughout Europe, so always was the form in which the teaching was given; at a time when all learning and all religion came from Rome, the foundation of knowledge was the Latin tongue. In these early days was established the tradition that still subsists; the gateway to learning and to culture lay by the narrow road of the Latin grammar. The schoolboy who still tells out his longs and shorts can compare them with the ruder efforts of his Saxon forefathers thirteen centuries ago. Never have authors attained a fame and a circulation equal to that of the great grammarians who, during the decline of the Empire, codified the rules of Latin speech; generation after generation passed, and down almost to our own days every schoolboy began his career on the lines laid down in the works of Donatus and Priscian. We must, however, guard ourselves against a mistake into which it would be easy to fall. It is true that in the early mediaeval days education was based on the study of the Latin language; and it was only through literature that the language could be learnt. The study of classical literature as we understand it was, however, far removed from the ideals of this time. The most authoritative teachers never neglected to warn their pupils against the moral dangers which arose from the study of heathen writers; Ovid and Cicero were only admitted under protest, and they were merely the stepping-stone to the study of Augustine and Prudentius. On this common basis--the Bible, the Church, and the Latin language--was then established the education of Western Europe, and the form it then assumed it retained for over a thousand years, almost without change. By this a common cast was given to the intellect, and the nations were disciplined by common spiritual teaching. It was extraordinarily effective. It kept down, and in many countries almost destroyed, the vigorous and aspiring local and national life which, in every country, was striving after self-expression. In our own country this effect was most conspicuous. The English, illiterate though they might be, were not without the promise of a great future. In the remains of the Saxon poems we can see the beginnings of what under happier circumstances might have grown into a great national literature. Its origins were deep seated in the life of the people. It proved itself quickly able to absorb the new teaching of the Gospel, and, as the Christian Epics show, here was the basis on which might have been built a national interpretation of Christianity. All that was required was the adoption of English as the language of the Church and the School. The beginning was made when Alfred, during the few years which he secured from the Danish inroads, began his great work of founding an English literature in which the teaching of the Church and the works of antiquity were included. The attempt was ruined for the time by the renewal of the Danish inroads, permanently by the Norman Conquest. For William brought with him not only his French knights, but also Italian priests. Once more, under the influence of Lanfranc and his successors, the Church and the School were brought under the full control of the revived power of Rome, and all prospect of a spontaneous and indigenous national intellectual life was destroyed. Unity was re-established, and the School was the instrument by which England was fully incorporated in the culture and religion of the Western Church. As it was with the School so also with the university. The second, as the first, was the creation of the Church, and even more conspicuously it was the vehicle for fostering and maintaining the control of common institutions and a common learning, and thereby of crushing out the rich variety of local life which everywhere was springing up. In its very constitution the University of Paris, the mother and model of all later universities (at least in northern Europe), showed its international character; the students who flocked to it from all countries were organized in 'nations' a system which, at least in name, still remains in many of the universities to this day; the whole instruction was and remained in Latin, and the whole course of instruction was a long apprenticeship to the study of theology. It was from the universities that emanated the great system of philosophy in which a Frenchman as Abelard, an Italian as Thomas of Aquinas, an Englishman as William of Ockham each took his part. We may regard with admiration the great intellectual achievements of the Scholastic philosophy which, for over two centuries, dominated the official education, but we must not forget that its ascendancy implied the exclusion from all public recognition of the local and national thought and literature which now, as before, was struggling into life. The Troubadours and the Minnesänger, the Chanson de Roland and the Nibelungenlied, the Chronicles of Froissard, Chaucer, and Piers Plowman, each of them so full of fresh vigorous local life, were not only outside the official system of education, but in their essence opposed to it. This was clearly seen as soon as the free and uncontrolled mind was directed to the highest subjects of thought. National idiosyncrasies, as they found expression in the domain of philosophy and theology, produced results different from the established teaching of the school. To the Church truth was always one and the same. Truth was one, error was manifold; in unity was salvation, and divergence was heresy. And so every attempt at national and local thought was not only suppressed in education, but fell under the ban of discipline. In Languedoc the Albigenses ventured the assertion of their independence; Huss in Bohemia, in England Wyclif. What happened? The Albigenses were massacred, Huss was burnt, Wyclif was condemned, and his followers suffered under the new law of heresy. This system, which had originated as a part of a great spiritual movement, long outlived its usefulness. It became an intolerable tyranny. Its effects were to be seen in the teaching of the humblest grammar school, and every boy who began the study of the Latin grammar was being initiated into the abstractions or the Scholastic logic. It became a dead and iron crust by which the mind of man was confined, and it was the school and the university which were the peculiar institutions by which this system was maintained. Unity of education there was, but at what a price had it been won. One thing had, however, been secured: the common Christian basis of our modern civilization had been stamped upon the peoples; so long as Europe remains Europe this cannot be forgotten or obliterated. No nation can repudiate its own past, and, whether they will or no, all Western nations are irrevocably bound together by the ties of the home in which their childhood and youth was passed. At last the change came: it came in that double revolution which we call the Renaissance and the Reformation. In considering them we must confine ourselves as closely as we can to their effect on education. The revival of learning was essentially an educational movement, it had from the beginning to do primarily with the school. It had as its object a complete change both in the subject-matter and in the spirit of education. Always it drew its inspiration from the literature of Greece, and this meant the fullest freedom of the human intellect, freedom of speculation, freedom of inquiry on the conditions of human life, and in particular it was a revolt from the ascetic ideas of the mediaeval Church; it was the assertion of the dignity of the body and mind of man. Now whereas in Italy, its original home, this took a warp definitely antagonistic to Christian faith and Christian ethics, in Northern Europe the new classical learning was harmonized with Christianity, and classical learning was applied to the interpretation of the Bible. It was the synthesis of what mediaeval Europe had regarded as irreconcilable opponents. That was the inspiration of the school reform, and this is the guiding principle of all higher education for the next three centuries. It was a movement that originally was not local or national but European, and in its first form was not in opposition to the maintenance of the ecclesiastical unity of Western Europe. The figure in whom it reaches its clearest expression is that of Erasmus. Standing at the transition between two epochs, he was the last of the great European scholars, and belongs to the undivided Catholic Church as much as did Abelard or Anselm. The wandering scholar of the Renaissance, without father, without mother, completely freed from ties of family or country, at home equally in Deventer or Cambridge, in Basel or in Paris or in Rome, without even a native language, for to him Latin was the only vernacular (he has, I believe, left no word written in any other language), he saw the vision of a Europe still united in obedience to the one Church, but a Europe in which the culture of the humanist would go side by side with the common faith inherited from early days. The hopes of Erasmus were not to be fulfilled. It is indeed true that he laid the foundation on which the recognized and official scheme of education has continued almost to our own day; the Latin schools of Germany and the Grammar Schools of England were each alike conducted on the basis of the Church and the classics, but even before the foundations had been completed the real unity was gone. The Renaissance was met by two forces, each stronger than itself, and the common stream was broken into a number of smaller currents. These have since increased in strength till the sense of the common origin has almost disappeared. The common mediaeval system (and in this the spirit of the Renaissance was still mediaeval) depended on the common Church, and especially in education, in the use of Latin as the universal language of learning. During the sixteenth century both were overthrown. Luther was stronger than Erasmus, and the new languages, Italian, French, Spanish, English, quickly began to encroach on the claims of Latin to be the one language of the school. The religious revolution need not detain us. It is sufficient to recall that in many parts of Europe the divergence of creed tended to become if not identical with, at least closely to follow the boundaries of states and nations. In every land the school was still strictly under the control of the Church, acting now as the delegate of the temporal ruler, and in each country a whole body of teaching and discipline was evolved, the result of which was a fundamental difference in the attitude of mind. The English bishops, the German consistories, the Scotch presbytery, set their seal on the schools, as much as did the Jesuits and Port Royal in France. The Shorter Catechism, the English Prayer Book, the German hymns, each gave a distinct character to the religions of the country, and this character was the basis of the teaching in the schools. Religion, which had been the great unifier, became the chief engine of separation. Equally important was the growth of national literature. This indeed goes back far beyond the sixteenth century, but none the less it is from this time that the writers not only of imagination, but also of learning, began to express themselves each in his own vernacular. Sir Thomas More, it is true, wrote his _Utopia_ in Latin, but it was in English that it had its great circulation. Bacon used both languages, but it is on English editions of his works that his fame chiefly rests. In particular we find that works on religion and theology are now produced not only in Latin, but one hundred years before Hooker would have discoursed on 'ecclesiastical polity' in the learned language, and Pascal would never have thought of using French for discussing the philosophy of the Jesuits. The influence of these changes upon the school is remarkable. Strictly speaking, for many generations they seemed to have little immediate effect upon it. In every country in Europe Latin remained both the subject and the vehicle of higher education, but it is just for this reason that we find that, during the seventeenth century and the greater part of the eighteenth, the schools are more and more falling out of touch with the intellectual life of the times. They continued in the old way; for them Shakespeare and Milton, Montaigne and Molière, Cervantes and Tasso, seemed to have written in vain. They maintained the form of an older period, but they had lost the spirit by which it had been inspired. Their learning remained purely classical; but even though the new national literature was long in winning for itself a definite place in the recognized school system, the growth of this literature and the evolution of national consciousness of which it was a part could not in fact take place without altering the whole spirit of the teaching. If we are to understand how this was we must keep in mind one of the chief characteristics of what is called a classical education. The study of the classics means the study of the whole life of the two great nations of antiquity as preserved in the extant literature. Now this does not contain a definite and formulated doctrine, it does not even, as might be said of the Middle Ages, mean one attitude towards the world; it opens to the student a field of extraordinary wealth and variety, and from this each will take that which he is able to appropriate. To one it may be the mysticism of the Cambridge Platonists, to another the frank and pagan joy in life of Anacreon and Horace. Rousseau and Grote will each in his own way appropriate the lesson of Liberty, while others will turn to the story of the militant and dominant aristocracy of Rome. Goethe and Keats, Milton and Gibbon, Berkeley and Schopenhauer, will each draw their inspiration from the classics, but the result will not be to make them resemble one another, it will be to give vigour, decision, form, resolution, and dignity to the qualities of each. And as it is with individuals, so it is with nations. The schools of all nations maintained their classical curriculum; boys still began, and often ended, their schooling with the Latin grammar, but this did not mean, as it had meant in the earlier days, that the influence was the same. There was indeed little in common between what we may venture to call the pedantry of Germany and the superficial elegancy of the Jesuit schools. And so the classical basis did not prevent the school assuming a national complexion. Let me give one illustration of the manner in which the classical teaching could take a markedly national spirit. Perhaps the most effective classical teaching that we find in the eighteenth century is that at Eton, and it was on it that was founded the great school of oratory and statesmanship. It was on Cicero and Homer and Demosthenes that Pitt and Fox and Canning and Gladstone (for the tradition continued to his day) formed their minds and their style, but they emerged from their training above all Englishmen, but Englishmen who had learnt how to give to their own national feelings a dignity of expression and nobility of form equal to that of the exemplars whom they had studied. Now just as the finest expression of the English national spirit is found in those whose school training had been based on the classics, just as the Girondists based their revolutionary doctrines on Hellenic models, so almost at the same time the great political awakening of Germany and Prussia was inspired by what has been called the second Renaissance; and yet how profound is the divergence between Wellesley and Pitt, Humboldt and Stein, St. Just, Demousin, and Vergniaud; all were children of the common classical tradition, but how different is the use to which they put it. During the centuries that passed between the Renaissance and the Revolution, the education of the different countries had then in fact been drifting far apart. What has been done during the nineteenth century has been openly to carry into effect changes which had long been overdue and were already to a large extent operative. It was inevitable that the new literature and thought would eventually find its way into the schools and universities. Before this change had been accomplished, a fresh and even stronger influence asserted itself. Democracy had come, and a democracy which based the state on the principle of nationality. It seized on the school as the means to hold the minds of men in fief, just as had the mediaeval Church, and in doing so enforced and perpetuated the national differences. In the eighteenth century rulers troubled themselves little about matters apparently of such minor importance as the languages in which their subjects conversed and read. Even the French did not try to touch the German-speaking inhabitants of Alsace, and Copenhagen could become a centre of German letters, while French maintained itself at the Court of Berlin. All this was changed by the Revolution, and Napoleon was the first deliberately to convert the whole fabric of French schools and the university into an instrument for the organized propaganda of the cult of the Empire. Since then there is scarcely a government (always except that of England, which alone has been strong enough to rest on the native and undisciplined political sense of the people) which has not followed in his path. In particular when the state is founded on the nation the school is used to develop in the children the full consciousness of nationality. That institution that was for so long the home of European unity has become the most useful agent for the perpetuation and exaggeration of national differences. It is in the school that the immigrant to the United States is taught to reverence the institutions of his new fatherland, and from generation to generation the school labours to keep alive the memory of the half-forgotten struggle of the new republic and the British monarchy. In France each successive government has used the school to force on the nation its interpretation of the national history and ideals. And the victories of Prussian armies were cemented and confirmed by the official exposition of the Prussian state and the cult of the Hohenzollern. To the school is transferred the conflict between the doctrines of authority and the revolution, of the secular state and of the Kingdom by the Grace of God. Every nation rightly struggling to be free has seen in the school the instrument for securing the allegiance of the young, and the school has become the centre of political struggle. In Trieste and in Poland, in Alsace and in Macedonia, we find kings and politicians contending for the minds and souls of children, and it is in the school, the college, and the university that has been prepared the conflict that is now devastating Europe. What has been done in the nineteenth century has really been only to carry into effect the change which was long overdue and was implicit in earlier years. The national culture and national authors have at length forced their way into the schools, and the result has been that institutions which originally in reality, and for so long in appearance, were the vehicles for the expression of the common European civilization, have been almost entirely won over to the cause of the national expression. This is indeed inevitable. Education, as we have seen, can only be effective when it is the vehicle for strong beliefs, and is informed by the conscious expression of an attitude towards the world. Now, in modern days, the consciousness of a common European spirit has, in fact, almost disappeared. In its place we find the intense consciousness of the nation. Even religion has become national, and God has once again become a tribal deity. The new consciousness of the common interests of what is called Labour have no recognition in the approved teaching. If the work of the school was not to be merely the dead instruction in useless knowledge, if the work was to be directed towards informing the minds of the pupils with ideals and beliefs, it was only in the idealization of the national thought that this could be attained. Is the older union of thought to be permanently lost? If not, you must find it again in some higher synthesis. There are many who would do so in the pursuit of mathematics and the natural sciences; in them, at least, no divisions of country can be found. The student in his chemical laboratory, the doctor in his hospital, the mathematician in his study, finds his colleagues in every country in the civilized world, and it matters not to him whether the next step in penetrating the secrets of nature have been made in Vienna, or in Paris, or Amsterdam, or Bologna. There are many who believe that on this basis will be established the Union of Civilization. If we look, however, more critically, we may find reason to doubt whether this optimistic view is justified. I do not share this hope and this belief, I do not look forward to a spiritual and intellectual unity of the nations established on the basis of scientific education. It is, indeed, impossible to over-estimate not only the practical but also the intellectual influence of what we may call the scientific spirit. It is indeed true that those who are accustomed to the careful and systematic investigation of causes, who have been trained from their earliest years to recognize in the pomp and pageantry of the external world--and even to some extent in the working of the human mind and the structure of human society--the orderly sequence of natural law, will have a type and character of mind essentially different from those who have not passed through this discipline. The civilization (I scarcely dare to use the word culture) of those nations who have this in common will have a unity of their own, and will differ fundamentally from their own past and from that of other races. On the other hand there are two considerations that I should like to put before you, as leading to a less important position, the one arising from the practical nature of science, the other connected with its essential intellectual origin. It is a characteristic of all work in physical science that however it may originate in the pure desire for truth, it is very quickly available for practical use, personal comfort, the acquisition of wealth, and national efficiency. The physicist who calculates the stresses and strains of an aeroplane finds that in teaching man how to control nature he is also providing the means for his struggle, whether in peace or war, in commerce or on the battle-field. We soon find that the progress of technical skill is curiously inoperative in its effect on human thought and feeling. Men remain the same whether they ride in a coach, or a train, or a motor-car; it matters little whether they use bows and arrows, or rifles, or hand-grenades, or liquid fire. Now in education it is the technical side of scientific progress which almost inevitably becomes most prominent, and the greater the advance in knowledge the more will this be true. The wider the domain of knowledge the greater is the number of those who will be chiefly occupied with the use of the processes and materials that have been discovered and the smaller is the proportion of those who will have reached the border of the known, and will begin the work of exploration into the unknown. That is, the greater will be the number of those who are the servants and not the masters of science. A unity of a certain kind we shall have, the unity of those who have learned to pilot an aeroplane, to apply X-rays, to extract the phosphate from iron, or to test cattle for tubercle. All this may produce a uniformity in the machinery of life, it passes by untouched the motives of action, the beliefs, affections, and interests. How many illustrations of this do we see around us! What more glorious illustration of the power of the human intellect can be found than the later developments of electricity, but scarcely had the discoveries been made when we find them seized upon by the man of affairs, and wireless telegraphy becomes the subject of speculation on the Stock Exchange, and a chief instrument of war. That which the chemist finds in his laboratory is, within a few years, sometimes even a few months, found again in the factory, and perhaps on the field of battle. Do not let it be supposed that I would underrate the possibility of a deeper unity, but if we would find it we must carry our analysis further back. The progress of science is in truth not a cause but a result, not an ultimate fact but the symptom of a state of mind. It springs from that which was brought into Europe consciously at the Renaissance and which we may call the spirit of Greece. It is that to which we owe not only the investigation and subjection of nature, but equally with it all progress in every department of thought, the analysis of society, whether political or economic, the investigations of the working of human reason, the probing of human passions, and their record in art and literature. What is this spirit? Is it not the confidence in the spirit of man, the spirit which in intellectual matters bends to no authority, and recognizes no limit to its enterprise, which probes all things, tests all things, and follows fearlessly where the argument leads it? This is what I mean by the spirit of Greece, it is that which Sophocles has immortalized. Of all this, what we call science is but a part, perhaps at present the most striking and important part, but still a part only; to look to it as the key of our civilization and the sole basis of our education would be to set up a partial and, therefore, a false ideal. An ideal, moreover, which, if pursued to its logical conclusion, would become the basis for the most appalling tyranny, by which the free spirit of investigation, to which we owe all our scientific progress, would be buried in the structure that itself had reared. For what is the end to which it must lead? Is it not a society which is held together by technical skill, a society of organized efficiency, where each individual holds his place, not as a living spirit, but as a slave of the great machine, tied throughout his life to the perfect performance of his limited and specialized task? I can imagine such a society; it is the ideal which some modern German writers have definitely put before us. It may be that this will be the Europe of the future, a Europe with a common government and a universal system of education by which each child will be trained to take his allotted part in an organized slavery. I hope I shall not live to see it. None the less, a unity there is, but it is a deeper unity than this. It is the unity inherited from the past. Here we may find, not indeed a superficial uniformity, but a real unity of life and spirit. No civilization can repudiate its own origin, and whatever the future may have in store the childhood of Europe was nourished on the Bible and Christianity, and in the more mature years there was added the impulse to the boldest use of the human intellect that came from Greece. These two elements give us that which is the peculiar characteristic of Western Europe, and as we are told that the growth of each individual repeats the evolution of the race, so the education of each individual repeats in childhood and boyhood the education of the nation. It is from these two elements that the whole of modern culture springs, and it is from them that again and again they regain their strength. And if we recollect this we need not be much disturbed by our apparent differences and misunderstandings. After all, they are the necessary result of freedom, and what do the Bible and Greece mean but moral and intellectual freedom? We want no formal and artificial unity: to us change, progress, conflict and division are the breath of our life. Just as the cluster of little towns in the Aegean islands and valleys prized before all things their political and intellectual independence, so is it with these small countries nestling on the shores of the Atlantic. Politically they have always refused to acquiesce in the establishment of any common authority over them, whether it comes from outside or even from among themselves, and so also they always repudiate the ascendancy of any single or partial intellectual doctrine. Each party and each nation adds its own contribution; all have a common origin, and all spring from the same root. Since the bonds have been relaxed and the dominion of the Universal Church overthrown, we see nothing from the rivalry of political systems and passing schemes of thought; they chase each other like the storms which arise from the Atlantic and pass in quick succession over our shores. It is this change and succession which is to us the breath of our life: we know nothing of the steady static weather of the great continents, where rain and drought have each their measured and settled space: and we know nothing, and will know nothing, of the formal and authoritative rule combining all Europe into one realm, whether political or intellectual. For we know that unity and permanence does not belong to this life, and our nearest approach to truth is to be found not in a settled system but in the thousandfold interactions of half-truths and partial systems. Life like a dome of many-coloured glass Stains the white radiance of eternity Until death shatters it to fragments. A unity there is, but it is the unity of the countless and varied flowers that carpet the meadows in spring, the unity of the common spirit of life which animates them all. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE Leach, _The Schools of Medieval England_. Methuen. Mullinger, J. Bass, _The Schools of Charles the Great_. Paulsen, _Geschichte des gelehrten Unterrichts_. Rashdall, _Universities in the Middle Ages_. Clarendon Press. Foster Watson, _Grammar Schools_. Cambridge University Press Woodward, _Erasmus_. Cambridge University Press. IX COMMERCE AND FINANCE AS INTERNATIONAL FORCES Commerce and finance are departments of life in which mankind approaches nearer to unity than in any other. They are practical expressions of the instinct of self-preservation which is the first law of nature. They spring straight from the acquisitiveness which is a universal characteristic of human nature and indeed of animal and vegetable nature. Every living thing wants to acquire food. Adam Smith indeed restricts the trading instinct to mankind. 'The propensity', he says, 'to truck, barter, or exchange one thing for another ... is common to all men and to be found in no other race of animals, which seem to know neither this nor any other species of contracts. Two greyhounds in running down the same hare have sometimes the appearance of acting in some sort of concert. Each turns her towards his companion or endeavours to intercept her when his companion turns her towards himself. This, however, is not the effect of any contract, but of the accidental concurrence of their passions in the same object at that particular time. Nobody ever saw a dog make a fair and deliberate exchange of one bone for another with another dog.'[24] Mr Cannan, in his edition of the _Wealth of Nations_, very judiciously points out in a note on this passage that 'it is by no means clear what object there could be in exchanging one bone for another'. Probably if one rummaged the literature of dog stories one would find plenty of examples of commerce between dogs, and when they perform tricks to get food, we detect the germ of the exchange of a service for a commodity. When a bee takes honey from a flower and leaves in exchange the pollen from a flower of an opposite sex, it may be said to be at once a merchant, a carrier, and a matrimonial agent, and the brilliant colours with which flowers attract these merchants have been compared to the advertising posters of the human trader. But however the case may be in the animal and vegetable world, there can be no question that the trading instinct appears at a very early stage of human development. In boys the instinct to trade or swop articles appears long before they feel any inclination to fall in love or to give much serious thought to religion. The classical example is given by Mark Twain, who relates how Tom Sawyer exchanged one of his own teeth, which had been pulled out that morning, for a tick in the possession of Huckleberry Finn, and then 'the two boys separated, each feeling wealthier than before'. In fact, of course, they both were wealthier than before, because each had got something that he wanted more than the article with which he had parted; and this pleasant result sums up the whole genesis and basis of commerce. But though commerce is thus merely an expression of an instinct which is primitive and universal, it does not follow that it is its only or even its earliest expression. Perhaps its earliest and most natural expression was through robbery, with or without violence. A primitive savage who saw something that he wanted would probably, if strong enough, hit its owner on the head and take it, and this short and simple method of acquisition still occasionally reappears in the realms of the most highly civilized diplomacy. Nevertheless, at a very early stage its limitations became obvious, and quite at the dawn of recorded history we find commercial transactions referred to as an established branch of human intercourse. The Old Testament story has not gone far before it tells us of buying and selling. In the twenty-third chapter of Genesis we find a very interesting bargain recorded between Abraham and Ephron. Sarah had died in Kirjath-arba: 'the same is Hebron in the land of Canaan: and Abraham came to mourn for Sarah, and to weep for her. And Abraham stood up from before his dead, and spake unto the sons of Heth, saying, I am a stranger and a sojourner with you: give me a possession of a buryingplace with you, that I may bury my dead out of my sight. And the children of Heth answered Abraham, saying unto him, Hear us, my lord: thou art a mighty prince among us: in the choice of our sepulchres bury thy dead; none of us shall withhold from thee his sepulchre, but that thou mayest bury thy dead. And Abraham stood up and bowed himself to the people of the land, even to the children of Heth. And he communed with them, saying, If it be your mind that I should bury my dead out of my sight; hear me, and intreat for me to Ephron the son of Zohar, that he may give me the cave of Machpelah, which he hath, which is in the end of his field; for as much money as it is worth he shall give it me for a possession of a buryingplace amongst you. And Ephron dwelt among the children of Heth: and Ephron the Hittite answered Abraham in the audience of the children of Heth, even of all that went in at the gate of his city, saying, Nay, my lord, hear me: the field give I thee, and the cave that is therein, I give it thee; in the presence of the sons of my people give I it thee: bury thy dead. And Abraham bowed down himself before the people of the land. And he spake unto Ephron in the audience of the people of the land, saying, But if thou wilt give it, I pray thee, hear me: I will give thee money for the field; take it of me, and I will bury my dead there. And Ephron answered Abraham, saying unto him, My lord, hearken unto me: the land is worth four hundred shekels of silver; what is that betwixt me and thee? bury therefore thy dead. And Abraham hearkened unto Ephron; and Abraham weighed to Ephron the silver, which he had named in the audience of the sons of Heth, four hundred shekels of silver, current money with the merchant.' In this very early and curious example of a bargain we find the seller continually expressing reluctance to sell and asking the buyer to accept as a gift the commodity that he wants. It appears from the sequel that this is merely an example of Oriental politeness. At any rate, the end of the bargain was that Abraham paid the money, four hundred shekels of silver, which is described as 'current money with the merchant', thus apparently showing that this system of payment in metals was already a regular feature of commercial transactions. Coined currency had not yet been developed, for we may note that Abraham weighed the silver. When we come to the days of Solomon we find something like a developed international trade. The fifth chapter of the first book of Kings describes how Solomon, on taking the throne of his father, sent to Hiram, king of Tyre, and stated his purpose to build a house unto the name of the Lord his God, asking Hiram to send his servants to hew cedar trees out of Lebanon, and saying that he would give hire for Hiram's servants according to all that he should appoint. Hiram replied that he would do all that Solomon desired concerning timber of cedar and concerning timber of fir. 'My servants shall bring them down from Lebanon unto the sea: and I will convey them by sea in floats unto the place that thou shalt appoint me, and will cause them to be discharged there, and thou shalt receive them: and thou shalt accomplish my desire, in giving food for my household. So Hiram gave Solomon cedar trees and fir trees according to all his desire. And Solomon gave Hiram twenty thousand measures of wheat for food to his household, and twenty measures of pure oil: thus gave Solomon to Hiram year by year.' According to this arrangement it would appear that Solomon paid for the timber that he imported by exporting to Hiram wheat and oil, but it is shown in a later chapter that the transaction was not a purely commercial one. At the end of twenty years, when Solomon had finished the building of the temple, he gave Hiram as further consideration twenty cities in the land of Galilee, 'and Hiram came out from Tyre to see the cities which Solomon had given him; and they pleased him not. And he said, What cities are these which thou hast given me, my brother? And he called them the land of Cabul [explained in the margin as meaning "displeasing" or "dirty"] unto this day. And Hiram sent to the king sixscore talents of gold.'[25] Apart from this transaction between the two kings, Solomon appears to have developed a very considerable foreign trade, presumably exporting wheat and oil and other agricultural products. His imports appear to have been various. Chapter ten of the first book of Kings states that 'the king had at sea a navy of Tharshish with the navy of Hiram: once in three years came the navy of Tharshish, bringing gold, and silver, ivory, and apes, and peacocks.' ... 'And the king made silver to be in Jerusalem as stones, and cedars made he to be as the sycomore trees that are in the vale, for abundance. And Solomon had horses brought out of Egypt, and linen yarn: the king's merchants received the linen yarn at a price.' The whole question of Solomon's balance of trade is a very interesting one, and deserves the attention of some Hebrew scholar who may be able to throw light upon it. In these days it is rather difficult to see how a purely agricultural country could have found the means of paying for all these articles of pure luxury which Solomon imported so freely. It must be noted, however, that 'all the earth sought to Solomon, to hear his wisdom, which God had put in his heart. And they brought every man his present, vessels of silver, and vessels of gold, and garments, and armour, and spices, horses, and mules, a rate year by year'. From this it appears that Solomon was able to exchange his wisdom for a very considerable part of the imports which came into his country, and so perhaps we may take it that Solomon's wisdom is the earliest recorded example of what is now known as an invisible export. A modern equivalent would be the articles which English writers contribute to American newspapers and are paid for, ultimately, by the shipment to England of American wheat and cotton. It is also interesting to note in these days, when personal economy and simplicity of life are so freely preached, that Solomon's very luxurious imports were followed by evil consequences, imports of an enormous number of strange women, and a consequent turning away of his heart after false gods. When we come to secular history, the very first chapter of the first book of the first history ever written deals with a question of commerce. Herodotus, who has been called the Father of History, opens his work with a few introductory words stating that 'these are the researches which he publishes in the hope of thereby preventing the great and wonderful actions of the Greeks and Barbarians from losing their due meed of glory, and withal to put on record what were their grounds of feud'. And then he plunges straight into his story, as follows: 'According to the Persians best informed in history, the Phoenicians began the quarrel. This people, who had formerly dwelt on the shores of the Erythræan Sea, having migrated to the Mediterranean and settled in the parts which they now inhabit, began at once, they say, to adventure on long voyages, freighting their vessels with the wares of Egypt and Assyria. They landed at many places on the coast, and among the rest at Argos, which was then pre-eminent above all the states included now under the common name of Hellas. Here they exposed their merchandise, and traded with the natives for five or six days; at the end of which time, when almost everything was sold, there came down to the beach a number of women, and among them the daughter of the king, who was, they say, agreeing in this with the Greeks, Io, the child of Inachus. The women were standing by the stern of the ship intent upon their purchases, when the Phoenicians, with a general shout, rushed upon them. The greater part made their escape, but some were seized and carried off. Io herself was among the captives. The Phoenicians put the women on board their vessel, and set sail for Egypt. Thus did Io pass into Egypt, according to the Persian story, which differs widely from the Phoenician: and thus commenced, according to their authors, the series of outrages.'[26] Commerce is thus a striking example of the unity of mankind, being a practically universal form of human activity which arises as soon as man verges from the earliest stages of barbarism. In the case of individuals it is easy to see how this desire to exchange commodities between one individual and another meant so great an increase in human efficiency that it had only to be thought of to be universally adopted. The primitive savage, doing everything for himself, building his own hut, killing or finding his own food, and making his own clothes, such as they were, was an extremely versatile and self-sufficing person. At the same time the comforts that he enjoyed were probably not very satisfactory. His hut was almost certain to be draughty and to let in rain through the roof; his hunting and finding of food must have very often left him with his larder empty, and the state of his wardrobe was probably simple rather than satisfying. It would inevitably happen that certain members of the tribe would show greater efficiency than others in doing a certain one of these various businesses which are essential even to the simplest form of human life. Thus the tendency to specialization begins to show itself. The skilful hut-builder builds huts not only for himself but for other members of the tribe; he acquires further skill by constant practice and the huts are more quickly built and better when finished. The other tribesmen, in effect, pay him by supplying him with a certain amount of food and clothes. The tendency for specialization would make very rapid progress, and it is easy to see how at a very early date and in the most primitive communities there would be bowyers, arrow-makers, and leather-dressers, and how various kinds of artificers would arise, supplying the wants of the community in some special line, and receiving from the community all the commodities which they required apart from those which they produced themselves. The individuals of the community thus become mutually dependent, and live by one another's production. Hence comes unity, and with it a fresh cause of disunion, owing to the likelihood of quarrelling over the exchanges effected. As progress developed and the communities at a greater distance became acquainted with one another's wants and the various kinds of goods that certain districts supplied, this tendency to specialization and consequent exchange of goods would grow in an ever-widening circle. Instead of the tribe being a commercial unity, the zone in which the interchange of goods went on would widen as far as the geographical and other boundaries allowed it. In the same country one district would be found to be specially well adapted for agriculture, and another for pasture; another, being well supplied with metals, would naturally provide a race of smiths and producers of rough tools for industry, and the exchange of commodities between districts with these various capacities would mean that the specialization of production would go steadily further, and that a whole town or village would be found in which the great majority of the inhabitants were at work upon one particular form of industry, relying for the other kinds of commodities that they required upon the activity of a similar community living in the next valley or on the other side of the river. This widening-out process would naturally extend itself over the borders of different countries. Obstacles to this process would be found in the differences of language and probably in the difficulties of transport. On the other hand, it would be greatly stimulated by the different ideas of value that prevailed in different communities. Value depends upon the extent to which anybody wants a thing, also on what he thinks it is worth, that is to say, the number of commodities in his possession with which he is prepared to part in order to secure it. Obviously commodities coming in from foreign countries, and being unknown or rare in the country in which they are offered, if they are otherwise at all attractive, possess a certain amount of what is called scarcity value, which makes them easily saleable by adventurous merchants who arrive with the cargo. The stories of fortunes made by merchants who travelled among simple native tribes with cargoes of glass beads and were able to exchange these gaudy baubles for gold or rubber or other commodities which are valuable in civilized countries, have often been told, and opportunities for trading of this kind must have been very much more frequent when communication was comparatively difficult. Value to a great extent being determined by local convention and local habit, the profits of the trader were likely to be considerably increased the further he got from his home market. If he took away with him plenty of things which were in abundant supply at home and consequently cheap, he would almost certainly be able to bring back a large number of things which were plentiful in a far-away community, and consequently cheap for him to acquire, and scarce in his own district and consequently sure of a good market. This difference of standard of value in different countries was a great stimulus to foreign trade, also a great help to bringing mankind together, though it sometimes ended in disillusionment. It has been asserted that even within the memory of man an English merchant traded with a primitive community in which gold and silver were exchangeable weight for weight. For some years he did a very pleasant and profitable trade by taking a cargo of silver and bringing back with him the same weight in gold, the value of which in England happened to be sixteen times as great, or more. Unfortunately, when he made his last voyage he was met at the mouth of the river by a friendly native, who informed him that the community was waiting for him with tomahawks, and he hastily put to sea again. For the rest of his life he cherished a grievance against this curious people with which he had dealt, according to his own view, on perfectly equitable terms, having sold them a commodity at a price to which they were accustomed, and which they regarded as quite correct, with the result that they proposed to murder him because they found that the price was not in accordance with that current in other parts of the world. By this business of exchange of commodities between one community and another, the process of specialization or division of labour which has already been referred to as its basis has been developed to extraordinary lengths. Its effect has been to increase enormously the wealth available, while at the same time the concentration of the individual has narrowed down his work so that he now no longer specializes on making one commodity, but on making a part of a fraction of a commodity. Adam Smith's chapters on division of labour are so well known that there is no need to point out the very great economic benefits that arise from it. Clearly, any man who spends all his working time upon one particular process of productive activity acquires thereby a skill and rapidity in carrying out his part of the operation which would be impossible to any worker who has to carry the manufacture of an article from the beginning to its end. Just as we saw, when the primitive savage left off doing everything for himself and took to building huts for the rest of the community, that the huts became much more water-tight and comfortable, so the process goes still further, and building becomes very much more rapid and very much more cheap and efficient when a large number of specialists are set to work on the various very different processes required for the construction of a house. The consequence is that the production of goods is very greatly cheapened and made much more rapid, but at the same time the worker tends to become an artisan instead of a craftsman, and his work is likely to be much more monotonous and much more trying. Instead of seeing his product grow under his hand from its beginning to its end, with constant changes in the nature of its call on his energy and care, he is employed during the whole of his working time on some mechanical process, with the result that he himself becomes something very like a machine. What he has gained in the power to make and acquire commodities cheaply and quickly is offset to a certain extent by the less interesting and varied nature of his work. It also follows that as the worker becomes a specialist he becomes dependent upon other members of the community for the supply to him of a large number of things which he requires for his own existence. If he spends his life in making one commodity or in making part of one commodity, it is clear that his requirements of all the things that are necessary for life apart from what he makes himself can only be satisfied by the willingness of the community to take the commodity that he makes in payment for those which it produces and of which he is in need. When he works for himself, he only makes things that he knows himself to need; when he works to sell to others, he has to speculate on the hope that the others will want what he makes. Commerce thus not only shows the unity of mankind by being a universal feature of his existence, but increases that unity by making each individual dependent upon the exertions of his fellows, and on their willingness to take from him stuff which he is turning out; but if commerce thus promotes unity, it also tends to create a certain amount of friction and disagreement between one man and another when differences of opinion arise concerning the value of the product which each man is making, that is to say, concerning the amount of goods which the rest of the community is prepared to give him in exchange. This consideration is also very strongly evident with regard to international trade. Here the division of labour is assisted by the difference in the products of different countries. There can be no doubt that the exchange of commodities between one nation and another tends to bring them together and to promote unity and harmony of interests. At the same time it is also likely to be fruitful in quarrels and bickering. We saw that Hiram was very much dissatisfied with the cities in Galilee which Solomon presented to him in the course of their semi-commercial transactions. He appears to have retaliated by making Solomon a very handsome present in gold; but Hiram seems to have been a very exceptional person, and it is probable that most traders who are dissatisfied with the consideration received would not have been so generous in expressing themselves. International commerce has also been a fruitful cause of disunion rather than unity when various nations have quarrelled with one another concerning the right to trade with a third people. If one nation is trading with another greatly to its profit, it feels that it has a grievance when it finds that a neighbouring nation is sending cargoes to the same destination and undercutting it and taking the cream of the trade. After religion, it is probable that trade has produced more bloodshed than any other form of human activity. At the same time there can be no doubt that on the whole its influence has been strongly on the side of unity and that it has done more to break down international barriers than any other influence that has operated in the course of history. The trader, as such, believes entirely and whole-heartedly in the unity of mankind. All that he wants to do is to buy his products as cheaply as he can and to sell them at the best possible price. Whether he buys at home or abroad, or whether he sells at home or abroad, is a matter of complete indifference to him except that, as has been shown, owing to variations in value in different parts of the world, he is probably likely to be able to make larger profits from foreign trade than in commerce at home. National preferences sometimes induce him to encourage home industry by buying home products when foreign goods would have paid him better, but in so far as this happens, he ceases to be a trader as such and becomes a mixture of trader and patriot. As buyers and sellers, however, mankind is, on the whole, singularly free from international prejudices. It was thought at one time that importation of foreign goods into England would be considerably checked by insisting upon marks of origin, that is to say, that imported goods should be stamped as such. This expectation, however, seems to have been entirely disappointed, since most buyers were not concerned with the question of the country whence the commodity that they bought came, and only considered whether it suited their purses and was what they wanted. Sometimes there is actually a prejudice in favour of foreign goods, and, curiously enough, this is found to be so even in countries in which a protective policy has been very highly developed. It is, or was a few years ago, common to see in American newspapers, flaming advertisements heralding sales of imported goods, which were definitely stated to be such obviously because the sellers thought that they were likely to be able to sell them better because they were stated to be so. It is also a proud boast of English manufacturers that in many countries on the Continent it is common, or was until quite lately, for native manufacturers to sell their goods more easily in their home markets by describing them as English. Political and national prejudice seems to be overruled by the common human desire for something new and strange, and consequently, in spite of all friction that has arisen from international trade, and of the number of wars which have had their origin in commercial questions, there is good reason for the assertion that on the whole commerce has been a mighty promoter of intercourse among the nations and of the unity of mankind. If it had not been for commerce, the cheapening and quickening of communication could never have been carried out. The trader goes first, and after him the traveller and the tourist. This claim can be made with perhaps even more certainty when we proceed to the realm of finance. If commerce is international and unifying, finance is perhaps even more so. Finance, of course, arises out of commerce and is an essential part of its machinery. By finance we mean the machinery of money--money-dealing and money-lending. Money becomes necessary as soon as the exchange of commodities, which is the meaning of trade, becomes fairly developed. At first, primitive peoples exchanged their commodities one for another, but a difficulty arose when out of a pair of possible traders one had something which the other wanted but the other had not. For example, if the arrow-maker had arrows to sell and wanted to buy fish, there obviously could be no bargain if his friend who wanted to buy arrows had only got deerskins to give in exchange. It was essential to the development of trade that some commodity should be hit on which could always be taken in exchange and so form a circulating medium. We have seen from the twenty-third chapter of Genesis that a certain weight of silver had in Abraham's time begun to assume this function. Economic text-books tell us that many other commodities had the form and function of money before the metals came into use. Until quite lately there were many places in which the use of an agreed medium of exchange had not been adopted to facilitate the purposes of commerce. Jevons begins his very interesting book on money by relating how Some years since, Mdlle Zélie, a singer of the Théâtre Lyrique at Paris, made a professional tour round the world, and gave a concert in the Society Islands. In exchange for an air from _Norma_ and a few other songs, she was to receive a third of the receipts. When counted, her share was found to consist of three pigs, twenty-three turkeys, forty-four chickens, five thousand cocoa-nuts, besides considerable quantities of bananas, lemons, and oranges. At the Halles in Paris, as the prima donna remarks in her lively letter, ... this amount of live stock and vegetables might have brought four thousand francs [£160], which would have been good remuneration for five songs. In the Society Islands, however, pieces of money were very scarce; and as Mademoiselle could not consume any considerable portion of the receipts herself, it became necessary in the meantime to feed the pigs and poultry with the fruit,'[27] and so her receipts consumed one another. This is an example of the inconvenience which the invention of money overcame. In primitive communities it took the form of cowry-shells or tobacco or gunpowder or any commodity which was in universal request in the place. All the seller wanted to do was to be able to obtain for his product a certain amount of stuff which he could rely on being able to exchange for other things that he wanted. In the end the precious metals, with their strong appeal to human vanity, and their utility for adorning temples and so propitiating divine favour, ousted all other commodities which had been used for money; and they are now to a great extent ousted by pieces of paper, which still, however, represent claims to so much gold. The discovery of a circulating medium enormously facilitated the progress of commerce, and it was not long before a class of people grew up who specialized in this particular form of business and became financiers and moneylenders. Bankers and financiers were known in Rome and Athens, and we know that some machinery existed by which the monetary claims of one country on another could be settled by something that fulfilled the functions of the modern bill of exchange. The actual provision of metallic currency has from the earliest times been almost entirely under the control of the government which took into its own hands, as an essential part of the police protection which it gives to the people, the coining of currency, stamping the coin in such a way that anybody who took one might know that he was getting a certain weight of a precious metal. But the money-dealing business very soon developed the machinery of credit by which anybody who had an enterprise or a venture out of which he expected to make an attractive profit could, if he had sufficient property to pledge, provide himself with the means to finance it between the day that he started on his operations and the day when he brought home his profits: and this business also became international, though not, perhaps, as rapidly as commerce had overstepped the boundaries between one people and another. In the _Merchant of Venice_ we find Antonio trading with all the countries of the then known world, From Tripolis, from Mexico, and England, From Lisbon, Barbary, and India, but we do not find that Shylock was lending money on at all the same international scale. When communication was slow, difficult, and untrustworthy, money-lending at a distance was made very risky, because it was impossible for the lender to keep the watchful eye on the borrower's operations and credit that is required if he is to feel comfortable in his venture. For a Lombard Street banker to lend money to a merchant in Cheapside payable at a year hence was, until comparatively lately, a much safer enterprise than to lend it to a merchant in Paris, because the local borrower was always under the lender's observation. If he were overtrading or living on too lavish a scale it would at once be noticed and reported. Nevertheless, international finance made steady progress through somewhat obscure beginnings. We know that Philip II of Spain was heavily indebted to moneylenders all over the Continent, and that by his famous repudiation he carried consternation throughout Europe.[28] Edward III was also heavily indebted to Florentine bankers, and he also omitted to pay his debt; and it is said that the descendants of the Florentine bankers still have a claim against the English Crown in consequence[29]; but it was not until after the creation of stock exchanges and the machinery of a public market in securities that international finance became a question of general importance. Here also the effect has been for unity combined with a good deal of disunion. Twenty years ago it used to be said that feeling in the Western States of America was very strongly anti-English because most of the Western farmers were indebted to English moneylenders, and on the whole it may be said that the relations between the borrower and lender are not likely to be so friendly and so likely to promote unity as those between buyer and seller. There is really no logical reason why this should be so: the basis of the bargain between the two is exactly the same. In commercial transactions one man sells to another because the other man wants something that he has got more than he does. It is exactly the same with the borrower and lender of money. A man borrows because he wants money and is prepared to pay a rate of interest for it. The lender lends because he has money to lend and wants to earn interest on it. Nevertheless there is something in this relationship which seems to produce discord. It is not many years since the Australian newspapers used to talk of England as John Bull Cohen, implying that the English money market made more than it ought to do by developing, with the help of its financial resources, the production and commerce of the young countries of the world. Perhaps it is human to feel a grudge against a creditor, because the money has to be paid back, whereas a commercial bargain is done with. Nevertheless, after allowing for all the friction that money-lending seems to produce, there can be no question that the establishment of the international market in securities has enormously widened the world's output of commodities, and it has greatly promoted that unity of interests which has brought mankind together more than anything else. Englishmen are always supposed to be particularly insular. Nevertheless, any one who looks at the Official List daily published by the London Stock Exchange and sees the enormous number of Government and municipal loans from all parts of the world, the number of foreign railways, and the number of foreign enterprises of all kinds which are dealt in on the London Stock Exchange, cannot avoid the conclusion that this practice of investing money abroad, which has been followed here to a greater extent than in any other country, must have very greatly widened the Englishman's horizon and forced him to confess that at least from one point of view dwellers in foreign countries have some right to exist. At any rate, in practice English investors not only have shown that they do not recognize international barriers, but there have even been times when foreign securities have actually been preferred to English. A few years ago it was reported by stockbrokers that many of their clients would not invest money at home and insisted whenever possible that it should be placed abroad. To such an extent has this process been carried on that it is now calculated by statisticians that no less than four thousand millions of English money have been placed outside England, about one-half of this having been lent to foreign countries, and about one-half to our own colonies. Here again, as in commerce, there arises a possibility of quarrelling, not only between the lender and borrower but also between rival groups of lenders in different countries. When an economically backward country is being developed with the assistance of capital from nations which are at a further stage of economic progress, the moneylender is supposed to acquire a certain amount of political prestige and privilege which makes other nations, which have an eye to increasing their influence in the borrowing country, jealous concerning such operations. A curious example was presented not long ago by China. China wanted to borrow, and probably the only countries which had any genuine surplus of capital available for export were England and France. Nevertheless, owing to the political side issues involved, Russia, Germany, and the United States also all insisted on taking part in the business of lending money to China. China was compelled to borrow more money than it wanted, so that all these so-called civilized Powers could share in the operation, and the absurdity of the position was increased by the fact that some at least of the Powers which lent the money would have had to borrow it somewhere before they could do so. This freedom with which England has furnished financial resources to the rest of the world is sometimes called in question as having had, or being likely to have, bad effects upon the activity of production at home. It is quite clear that the progress of international commerce and the division of labour among nations by which commodities of all kinds have been very greatly cheapened could not have been carried out if England and other comparatively far developed countries had not supplied the necessary capital for the development of the relatively backward parts of the earth. If English money had not gone into building railways in America, Canada, Argentina, Australia, and all over the world, and supplying capital to the farmers and others who opened up these countries, food could not have been nearly as cheap as it is or as it was before the war, and clothes and other necessaries of life would have been at a very different price. In fact, it may be said that if England had not acted as she has, as the world's financier, the development of the world's trade to anything like its present scale would have been altogether impossible. If we could feel sure that the distribution of the world's production had been as satisfactory as the wonderful increase in its output, there would be no question that all classes in England had been very greatly benefited by its financial activities abroad. As it is, it is sometimes argued that English capital going abroad stimulates production in other countries and increases the demand for labour there, but that the demand for labour in England and its reward might have been on a higher scale if English capital had been kept at home. This is a question which is, happily perhaps, outside my province at present, but it is one which demands serious attention. This much can be said, that the years in which English capital has gone abroad with the greatest rapidity have also been those in which our export trade has been most active, and it is obvious that this must be so, because when England exports capital it does so in the form of lending money either to a foreign Government or to a foreign municipality, or to some company, English or foreign, which is conducting some enterprise in a foreign country. In whatever way the money is lent the result is that the country to which it is lent is given so much buying power in England and consequently its demand for English goods is to that extent stimulated. It does not follow, of course, that the whole amount of money that it borrows is actually spent in England. It is possible that the Canadian railway which is raising money in England may spend it by buying steel rails in Belgium, but in practical fact the net result is that somebody or other abroad is given a claim on England which finally, by some roundabout process, takes effect in a demand for English goods and services. At the same time, when one does admit that international finance is essential to international commerce and that the specialization, which is an essential product of commerce, is thereby quickened, we have to remember that the objections, such as they are, which can be put forward against the division of labour among individuals cannot be overlooked altogether when the division of labour is applied to nations. Dr. Bowley, in his book on England's foreign trade, puts the matter dramatically as follows:-- The limit to the indefinite division of labour is to be found in the social, intellectual, and moral objections to specialization. It is not pleasant to contemplate England as one vast factory, an enlarged Manchester, manufacturing in semi-darkness, continual uproar, and at intense pressure for the rest of the world. Nor would the Continent of America, divided into square, numbered fields, and cultivated from a central station by electricity, be an ennobling spectacle.'[30] This is a picturesque expression of the objections to the unity of mankind if carried too far through the process of specialization. While admitting their force, it is not necessary to admit that the specialization process need go quite to that length. Even if England became one vast factory, it need not necessarily follow that it must work in semi-darkness, continual uproar, or at intense pressure, but it is all to the good that a specialist of Dr. Bowley's eminence should call our attention to certain things which have to be guarded against. On the other hand, we may contend that if England became one vast factory, it would only do so because it paid it so well to do so, that that vast factory might be made more in accordance with William Morris's ideal than the picture of Inferno drawn by Dr. Bowley. We might imagine England one vast Garden City, dotted over with factories, each of which might be as beautiful as a cathedral, embowered and surrounded by fruit trees and gardens, in which a highly educated and technically trained population would work for five or six hours a day, and spend the rest of their time in intellectual leisure and healthy exercise and home life under ideally happy conditions. It is interesting to note that the result of the present war is likely, if anything, to check the export of capital for a time, not only owing to the very obvious reason that for the present all our available capital is going into the war and for some time to come will have to go into expenses connected with the war, but also because this war has set a new precedent with regard to the duty of belligerents in the matter of making payments to one another. In olden times, when war was a gentlemanly business, trade and finance were very little interrupted by it. At the time of the Crimean War the Russian Government punctually paid the interest due on Russian loans to English holders and thereby established a prestige amongst English investors which was cherished for several decades. Now that nations have taken to going to war with tooth and nail, throwing their whole available population into the field and using every possible device, military, commercial, and financial, to beat their enemies, any such pleasant decencies as paying money due from one country to another in the shape of interest or otherwise have been abandoned. When the war is over it is possible that investors will remember this fact to a certain extent and will be more chary than they were before of investing their money abroad, at any rate in any country with which there is the remotest possibility of our being involved in war. War has also shown the great inconvenience that arises when the mutual dependence of nations one on another for certain products leaves them crippled because international exchange is interrupted. International trade and finance, in their full and free development, have been shown to depend on the assumption that peace is secure. Unless the present war should be so ended as to secure peace for all time, it seems likely that all nations will aim at being able to rely, at least for the essentials of life and of defence, on home production or on a supply from countries with which war may be regarded as impossible. If this be so, then unity through trade and finance will be less universal, but more close-knit in its narrower scope. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE A.L. Bowley, _England's Foreign Trade_. Swan Sonnenschein. C.K. Hobson, _The Export of Capital_. Constable. W.S. Jevons, _Money and the Mechanism of Exchange_. Kegan Paul, Trench, Trübner & Co. Smith's _Wealth of Nations_, chs. i-iv. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 24: _Wealth of Nations_, Bk. I, ch. ii.] [Footnote 25: 1 Kings ix.] [Footnote 26: Rawlinson's translation.] [Footnote 27: Jevons, _Money as Mechanism of Exchange_, p. 1.] [Footnote 28: Motley, _United Netherlands_, ch. xxxiii.] [Footnote 29: Thorold Rogers, _Economic Interpretation of History_, ch. xx.] [Footnote 30: _England's Foreign Trade in the Nineteenth Century_, by A.L. Bowley.] X INTERNATIONAL INDUSTRIAL LEGISLATION We have learned to look upon the doctrine of interdependence of classes within the nation as a truth self-evident to all eyes unblinded by wilful prejudice or ignorance of that disabling kind charitably defined by the Roman Catholic Church as invincible. To say that unemployment in the mills of Lancashire or the shipyards of the Clyde not only affects the happiness and well-being of cotton operatives and boiler-makers and the great businesses which are carried on by their means, but depresses the national vitality and puts a drag on the national energy throughout the kingdom--to assert that no people can be wholly strong and vigorous while any corner of its territory or any layer in its social strata remains in the possession of a group physically weak, mentally undeveloped, and morally below the standard of ethics which, as a people, it has tacitly agreed to accept as necessary, seems to many of us in these days to state truisms. Yet it is not so long ago that facts which we now presume to be familiar, at least to every undergraduate, were the dangerous discovery of the few who, in an age when people said 'Socialist' as Mr. Pecksniff said 'Pagan', had the temerity to point out, that in things human and political as in mechanics, a chain was and could be no stronger than its weakest link. Even now, in the reaction, often only half conscious, of the employing class against any force which tends to raise the employed to a social plane less removed from that on which they themselves move, in the genuine dislike of education, concealed under ceremonial phrases in days of peace but breaking into fire and fury when the natural man is roused by a touch of excitement, we can see how skin-deep in many cases is the general belief in the widely proclaimed creed that economically as well as spiritually, we are all members one of another. And if the truth of our interdependence as citizens has won acceptance slowly and grudgingly, because the facts that prove it lie other-where than on the surface, it is easy to understand that the interdependence which is international, resulting as it does from the meeting, and crossing, and twining in the web of national life of innumerable fine threads drawn from the utmost corners of the civilized world, has scarcely yet come within the consideration of the ordinary man as an influence from which he cannot escape, and with which, therefore, he is bound to reckon. That, doubtless, is why international movements in general arouse so little interest in the mind of the average reader of newspapers. He does not regard them as practical. The persons engaged in promoting them he defines as cranks, dividing them into two classes, of whom one may be dismissed as harmlessly absurd, while the other ought probably to be suppressed as dangerous. The events of the first week of August 1914, where the interdependence of countries is concerned, might and did throw some light on the journalistic mirror into which civilized man looks morning by morning, but it was light of the crudest kind. The result of the illumination, in numerous instances, was only to make a great number of people reflect with astonishment on the number of things which this country is in the habit of purchasing from abroad, comment with indignation on her folly in not having made them all at home, and, when passion rose sufficiently high, express a resolution that, however deeply they might need the enemy's products, they would never buy any of them again. To do them justice, this was not the attitude of the men confronted with the actual difficulty of inventing substitutes for raw materials of which the source had suddenly dried up. Those who sat in factory offices ruefully contemplating models of goods to the making of which Germany, Belgium, and Austria had hitherto sent some indispensable contribution, did not, even while they set about inventing something that should replace this contribution, belittle what they had lost. They knew, and said, that while they were confident of producing a working substitute, they did not pretend to offer in every case the precise quality which seemed to be the special gift of the German, or Belgian, or Austrian trader. Perhaps it was not after all only sheer laziness on the part of the British manufacturer, and sheer lack of patriotism on the part of British governments which induced our commercial leaders to concentrate on one field of production and abandon another. To each nation, as to each man, his gift. Some realization of this law may have come instinctively to practical workers engaged in practical tasks. If the organizers of production among us have not been forward in the past to promote international action in the matter of labour legislation, this is not from any failure to realize the effect of inequality of industrial conditions upon nations competing in the markets of the world. This effect was naturally greatest in cases where the countries concerned were geographically contiguous and engaged in direct rivalry with one another in respect of manufactures falling under the same trade category. Here is the perfect case of competition, in which any circumstance tending to lessen production on the one side is immediately counted as an advantage to the other. But the pressure is felt even where the territory of the rival is situated at the other side of the world, even where the article produced belongs to a different class of manufacture. In normal times long distance transport is easy and long distance freight rates cheap, so that the question of distance, although still to be reckoned with, is no longer a determining factor in the sum of consideration. Again, the network of prices which controls the ultimate cost of production of any finished article is so complex that it is difficult in many cases to rule out this or that set of industrial conditions in one country as being without importance for a given factory in another. The price of a pair of corsets sold retail in Paris may have been subtly influenced by a strike of smelters of iron ore in Silesia; and your china tea-set may be dearer to-morrow by reason of a sudden outbreak of foot and mouth disease among the herds of the Argentine. Quite naturally, therefore, it has come about that manufacturers, in opposing proposals to make existing labour legislation either more stringent in detail or wider-reaching in scope, have put forward, as their principal objection, the plea that such reforms in favour of the worker would place British industry at a disadvantage with that of countries where the action of the manufacturer remained comparatively unfettered. The distrust, as well as the dislike of long hours as a means of increasing production, together with the belief that healthy and pleasant surroundings conduce to the development of the worker's powers as well as to the satisfactory maintenance of his physical condition, has made remarkable progress among the more intelligent of the employing class since the twentieth century began. But there is still, in nearly every trade, a considerable mass of masters who rarely think and never experiment, who turn a deaf ear to the representations of their managers and foremen when these, coming into direct personal contact with the employed, take note of results due to over-strain which are invisible to the head of the business in his office, and who continue to suppose, with their fathers, that limitation of the working period necessarily restricts output and spells commercial loss. Such men, hearing that their own manufacture is produced, let us say in Russia, by men working twelve hours a day to their men's nine, and paid at a considerably lower rate than that which obtains in their own works, would certainly not dream of drawing any other conclusion than the, to them, obvious one that the result of this difference must be a lowered cost of production. Inquiries which should prove, as did those of Sir Alfred Mond's firm when confronted with such a case, that the cost of production per ton was actually higher under the long hour and low wage system would never be instituted by them, and their results, when made by others, leave them sceptical if not suspicious. Recognizing this mental attitude in a large section of the business men of every country, and bearing in mind that, in order to secure the efficient administration of labour laws, the legislator must be able to carry with him at least the general consent of the majority of those employers to whose trades they apply, it becomes clear that if we would remove all objection to complete and adequate protective law for the workers we must first dispel the fear of the manufacturer that such law would handicap him unfairly in the international market. And what way so apt to this end as the bringing of his competitors under a law similar in character and as far as possible uniform in its provisions? It is a proof of the prescience of Robert Owen that, even before he had succeeded in planting the first small seed which was to grow into the flourishing tree of British industrial legislation, he had grasped the necessity and formulated the demand for international action in the matter of Factory Laws. Owen's labours at home have, naturally enough, bulked so large in the estimation of historians and publicists in their writings on this subject, that the continental side of his activities has received comparatively little attention at their hands. Nevertheless his correspondence with European governments on the abuses and needs of industrialism as it existed in the early years of the nineteenth century are among the most remarkable he ever wrote; and his appeal to the Congress of the Holy Alliance in 1818 shows how thoroughly prepared he was to treat national reform as the first step to a system which should be international. Had the statesmen of his time, too busy in their making and unmaking of kingdoms to heed his arguments and appeals, turned their attention from those high matters (in which, after all, their achievement was for the most part neither brilliant nor beneficial) to the homelier details of their people's lives, social progress would have been indefinitely hastened, and we might have been spared the sorry spectacle of one industrial nation after another committing the blunders and painfully learning the lesson of its predecessors at the cost of much avoidable human suffering. For, in this matter of industrial legislation, as in many others, men are astonishingly slow to learn by example. Perhaps the most remarkable case in point that has occurred is that of Japan, at this hour still in course of being worked out before our eyes. Here we have a nation brimful of intelligence, quick of apprehension, with a genius for selecting from the polity and procedure of other States exactly those features best fitted to promote prosperity and efficiency and an unmatched power for assimilating and reproducing them in the form suitable to its own tradition of development, following the Western Powers along the crooked path of their early dealings with industrialism and allowing the very conditions which stunted and degraded the Lancashire cotton operative of the 'thirties to be created in the mills of Osaka. Since the days of Owen ideals of industrial conditions have mightily grown and developed. This was inevitable, since the standards of social comfort and hygiene have undergone complete transformation during the last century. But the important points to note are, first, that it is not only 'reformers' who put forward these ideals, but that they have become to a large extent common to all classes of the people, and, secondly, that the raising of the standard which proceeded at a slow, irregular rate for, roughly speaking, a hundred years, quickening in one decade and remaining almost stationary during the next, is now proceeding with comparative rapidity. Already such a rate of mortality and sickness as was common in the trades technically called dangerous twenty years ago has come to be regarded as monstrous and would no longer be tolerated with patience. This acceleration in the raising of industrial standards is doubtless largely due to the conscious participation of the workers themselves in the business of providing for their own protection; but it may also be referred in some degree to a quickened conscience and a more intelligent appreciation of the importance of the manual worker in the national economy on the part of the public as a whole. The same movement has been taking place, in different degrees according to their differing circumstances, among the other industrial peoples of the Old World and the New. The quicker this advance on the part of some nations the more keenly was the failure of others to make progress in the same _ratio_ felt by those belonging to the first group. An uneasy consciousness that the backward nations were beginning to constitute an obstacle to progressive domestic legislation on the part of the advanced nations began to manifest itself. It appeared that the lame ducks were setting the pace for the whole fleet, and it was seen that self-defence no less than concern for the welfare of the human race at large demanded the devising of some machinery by which the movements of these laggards should be quickened. Thus, seventy years after Owen had appealed in vain to the Powers in session at Aix-la-Chapelle, a definite step was taken towards an international agreement directed to the benefit of the working classes of Europe. It must not be supposed that during this interval no inheritor of Owen's tradition had been found or that his doctrine had been altogether forgotten for want of a preacher. Now and again prophets arose who, if they did not share Owen's genius, were at least his equals in sincerity and energy. Dr. Ernst Francke, in the article reprinted from the _Economic Journal_ of June 1909, which I have recommended for reference at the end of this chapter, names one of these devoted pioneers, Daniel Legrand, an Alsatian manufacturer who for thirty years did his best to induce France, Great Britain, Prussia, and Switzerland to agree on a minimum of industrial legislation. Some very useful work in the same direction was done, during the years following the Franco-German War, by a Belgian publicist; and in 1876 Colonel Frey, President of the Swiss Federal Council, took the first official step in the direction of international labour treaties, by a speech in the Council recommending that Switzerland should take the lead in an endeavour to establish them. To the Swiss Government belongs the honour of addressing the first circular note to the governments of Europe proposing the calling of a conference as a first step towards this end. This conference never met. The idea of international labour legislation was in the air, and voluntary societies composed of social reformers were beginning not only to discuss but to support it. The international meetings of organized workmen, such as the miners and cotton operatives, in different countries had familiarized the continental mind with the possibility of common action between peoples in respect of labour questions. Nowhere did the proposal for the conference arouse more general interest than in Germany, where the present German Emperor, then at the beginning of his career, was showing an active interest in German conditions of industry. It seemed that he too desired to call a conference, and on his request that he should be given precedence in the matter, the Swiss Government gracefully gave way. So it fell out that the first conference on workmen's protection met in Berlin, at the invitation of the German Government, in March 1890. There were fifteen delegates, all the governments of Europe, except those of Russia and the Balkan States, being represented. The chair was occupied by the then Minister of Commerce, Freiherr von Berlepsch, a man of broad and enlightened views and singularly sympathetic character, who subsequently became one of the founders of the International Association for Labour Legislation, and has probably, more than any other individual, secured the success of its biennial meetings. At this conference, which the German Emperor stated in precise terms to have been called in view of the problems raised by international competition, a wide range of subjects was discussed by the delegates of the different States, including employment in mines, Sunday work, child labour, the employment of women and young persons, and administrative measures. While on many points agreement was found to be possible, and the general principles which should underlie industrial legislation were accorded ready acceptance, there was enough of objection, reservation, and allegation of constitutional difficulty to prevent the conclusion of anything in the nature of an international treaty. At the time the conference appeared to have failed of its object. Subsequent events have, however, shown that this was not the case. The failure to frame an official agreement probably showed that the ground had not yet been sufficiently laboured, and that further action in the direction of inquiry and discussion was necessary before the taking of so novel a step could be justified to the official mind; but it is certain that the recognition by the representatives of all the Western States that international action in labour questions was desirable in itself, and a goal at which governments should aim, not only laid the foundation for future State action, but gave to the voluntary work of obtaining the materials for building on that foundation an impetus and a sanction which it could have obtained in no other way. That work was speedily set on foot and continued during the next ten years. It was greatly aided by the action of the International Labour Congress held at Zurich in 1897, when the trade unionists who composed the gathering passed resolutions in favour of the establishment of an International Labour Office, and by the Congress of Brussels which assembled at the invitation of Freiherr von Berlepsch, soon afterwards. At the latter gathering, which included a number of distinguished members of parliament, men of science, lawyers, and economists from France, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Holland, and Belgium, the view that for the present progress must be made by the way of private initiative prevailed, and the creation of three national committees, having for their object the foundation of an international association for labour legislation, quickly followed. These committees, which had their head-quarters in Brussels, Berlin, and Vienna respectively, were by the good offices of Professors Cauwès and Jay enabled to call an international congress in Paris in the year of the Great Exhibition, and at this congress the Association was actually founded, and its statutes, provisionally drafted by Professor Mahaim and presented by the Belgian committee, were adopted. A president, a general secretary, and an international committee were provisionally appointed. The functions of the Association were also defined. It was designed to serve as a bond between all those who, in industrial countries, are convinced supporters of the principle of protective legislation; to facilitate the study of labour legislation by the publication of the labour laws of the different States, and of reports on their administration; to assist in the compilation of international statistics of labour and of all studies tending to bring into harmony the existing national industrial codes; and finally, it was charged with the duty of organizing the meetings of international congresses in which labour legislation should be considered. A very important part of its business was to consist in the publication in German, French, and English of a periodical collection of all labour laws newly in force in different countries. This has been, from the first, the work of the International Labour Office, the fixed head-quarters of the Association, which serves as an exchange and clearing-house for all information pertinent to the Association's work. It is in perpetual session at Basle, and to it all reports and inquiries are addressed by the national sections, while from it issue circulars for the sections' consideration and requests for national investigation of problems which appear ripe for international treaty. The spade work of the Association is done by the national sections in their own countries, all action of the Association being necessarily based in the first instance on the reports received from them at head-quarters. There are now fifteen[31] such national sections--an increase of eight on the original group of seven formed in 1901. The actual membership of the Association has trebled in ten years. The seven sections to which belongs the place of honour at the head of the roll, are those of Germany, Austria, Hungary, Holland, Belgium, France, and Switzerland. Great Britain did not form a section till 1904, and it was not till 1910 that the British Government sent official representatives to the biennial meetings. The official representatives constitute a very important element at those gatherings. They attend the plenary meetings and take part in discussions, often contributing hints on their governments' attitude towards a given reform which are invaluable to those who are framing or modifying proposals with a view to government acceptance; and are also frequently present at the sitting of commissions charged with the consideration of detail, where they can hear the opinions and arguments of experts on every important point in debate. When resolutions are before the conference they do not vote--although in respect of voting right they stand on the same footing as other delegates. But on occasion they are not afraid to express opinions on the merits and tendencies of those resolutions which may have a determining effect on the votes of their fellow members, and I have known a few weighty words from such a man as M. Arthur Fontaine,[32] commending a proposal on which feeling was largely divided, to turn the scale at once in its favour. The delegates of a section are elected by the section itself. They may be either men or women, and their number is in proportion to the size of the section, the maximum figure being eight, as far as voting delegates are concerned, but substitute members and experts may be present in addition. The following is a list of the fifteen sections represented at Zurich in 1912: Austria, France, Germany, Great Britain, Hungary, Italy, the United States, Belgium, Holland, Switzerland, Denmark, Spain, Sweden, Norway, and Finland. In addition the following countries and dominions sent government representatives only: Russia, Rumania, Greece, Turkey, Portugal, Brazil, Mexico, and the Australian Commonwealth. A brief account of the Association's method of doing business may be interesting. Meetings are held once in two years, in the month of September, different towns in Switzerland being selected in turn for the place of assembly. The four conferences which I personally attended as British delegate took place in Geneva, Lucerne, Lugano, and Zurich. There are two plenary assemblies, the first having as chief business, apart from the hearing of introductory addresses, the appointment of the five commissions into which the conference splits up for actual work; the second meeting to receive the reports of these commissions and their recommendations, and decide upon the adoption or rejection of the latter. The trilingual rule is followed, delegates addressing the assembly either in French, German, or English, as they prefer, each speech being followed by a brief _résumé_ in the other two languages from the interpreter. In the commissions, by an unwritten but generally accepted custom, French and German are the only languages used. (Latterly the representatives of the United States of America, with the individualistic courage that becomes them, have shown a disposition to rebel against this custom and defy it; but the close of the Zurich meeting left it uncertain whether in this particular the New World will be able to prevail over the Old.) In the dignified speech-making of the General Assembly the recurrent changes of language, if a little disconcerting at first, can be faced with tolerable equanimity; but when it is a question of the quicker verbal sword-play which goes on in the commissions, the member imperfect in the tongues finds his position occasionally difficult. The sympathies of every humane person must go out to the expert who, having just made a telling _exposé_ of his case in French well practised for the occasion, encounters a crushing rejoinder in German of which he can barely follow the general drift. The composition of these commissions--in which all the real work of the conferences is done--is truly heterogeneous. A commission may represent a dozen nationalities; it will certainly contain specimens of every social class, members of the most varied shades of thought in politics, religion, and sociology. I can still remember the constituents of my first commission at Geneva in 1906. Our subject was the night-work of young persons. At the head of the table was a professor of Civil Law in the University of Louvain. On either side of him sat a Catholic clerical member of the German Reichstag; a German Protestant pastor from Bavaria; a distinguished Parisian engineer; an Austrian nobleman interested in social reform; a Hungarian man of science; a Dutch factory inspector; a Swiss Trade Union secretary; and myself. We were a motley crew, but the strange 'pattern' which we must have presented to the observation of any higher intelligences interested in our deliberations had no effect on the goodwill and good humour with which they were conducted. The range of subjects considered at international meetings is very wide. It includes all questions relating to the labour of women, young persons and children; matters of health and hygiene, with special reference to the use of poisonous material in industry, and the regulation of dangerous trades; workmen's insurance; the establishment of wages boards and minimum rates as preventives against sweating; the extension of the ten-hours' day and the Saturday half-holiday to be the legal rule in all industrial countries; and the introduction of the three-shift system and the eight-hour working day in continuous industries. As it is obvious that questions so large, touching so deeply the domestic life and habits of every people, cannot possibly be settled either out of hand or all at once, the Association's study of each separate problem is always prolonged and, according to the circumstances and the difficulty of the case, more prolonged in one instance than in another. Like the old pioneers of National Factory legislation, the Association has proceeded along the line of least resistance: not because it lacks courage, but for reasons of sheer prudence. If it was to become, in the words of M. Millerand, the present French Minister of War, one of its oldest and staunchest members, 'the laboratory in which international treaties are made', it was clear that it must not propose for international acceptance reforms which even among the most progressive peoples were looked upon as doubtful or dangerous. Accordingly it chose for the subject of its first great efforts two reforms in relation to which it could count with certainty upon a considerable amount of sympathy, and proposed international legislation prohibiting the night-work of women in factories, and the manufacture, importation, and sale of matches made with white phosphorus. Information on both these subjects was collected by means of the national sections; the Association in conference drew up proposals and recommendations to the governments concerned; the governments consented to a diplomatic conference at Berne, and the conventions concluded in 1906 were the happy result of their meeting. But it must not be supposed that these results were reached without difficulty. Even as regards so comparatively simple a reform as the abolition of the night-work of women--to be carried out, after considerable 'delays' in favour of those countries in which night-work by women had hitherto been an accepted industrial custom--the adjustment of the change to the varying circumstances of each State proved a delicate business, and agreement could never have been reached but for the willingness of the more backward States to make substantial sacrifices and encounter possible risks. For this reason, the allowance of some years of grace before adherence to the treaty should become practically binding was a measure almost of necessity. It would have been unreasonable and might have been cruel to insist on Belgium and Hungary assimilating their practice in such a matter to that of Great Britain without ample time to prepare for the change. Thirteen States adhered to this treaty. The difficulties in the white phosphorus case were at first sight even more striking, and, to begin with, only seven States--Germany, France, Denmark, Holland, Switzerland, Italy, and Luxemburg--were signatories of this convention. Of these, the first five had previously prohibited the use of white phosphorus within their own frontiers. Room was, however, left for the entry of other States into the convention at a subsequent date, with the result that the scope of the treaty has been gradually extended, and that we now find ourselves fairly within sight of the banishment from manufacture of one of the most deadly of all industrial poisons, and the consequent disappearance of an industrial disease peculiarly dreadful in its nature and symptoms. The tardy adhesion of the United Kingdom to this treaty remains a matter of regret; but the procedure of the Indian Government and of all the British self-governing dominions in following the mother country when at last she determined to take action has done much to redeem that tardiness. Obviously, it was the prohibition of the importation and sale of phosphorus matches in India and the Dominions which has forced the Scandinavian and Belgian manufacturers who were opposing complete prohibition to seek for substitutes for white phosphorus. At the present moment only Japan and Sweden among manufacturing countries stand outside the convention, the United States, whose constitution forbade her to impose prohibition by direct legislation, having brought about the desired result by the imposition of a prohibitive tax. Is this all? it may be asked. If the question be of treaties signed, sealed, and ratified, the answer must be 'Yes'. On the subject of the night-work of boys and the hours of women and young persons, proposals were actually considered and conventions drafted by an official conference at Berne in 1913. The draft conventions were far from admirable: their framers went so far in the spirit of compromise to meet the objections of the backward States that the provisions laid down, had they been accepted without modification, would have tended to depress rather than to raise the standard of international opinion on the questions to be affected by them. We need not, therefore, feel much regret that the war has swept them, with so many other pre-war schemes, into the wastepaper-basket. The vast question of minimum rates of wages and their regulation by the State is obviously still too much in the experimental stage of its solution (even in this country where experiments have been boldest) for it to be possible to make it the subject of international agreement. As a subject of international discussion it has had its place, and an increasingly important place, for at least eight years past in the studies of the sections and the discussions of the Association meeting. Upon no question has public international opinion ripened more rapidly. In 1906, at Geneva, where the conditions of home workers were first under discussion, a few daring delegates met in corners and whispered under their breath the words 'Wages board'. By 1910, at Lugano, an English woman delegate was elected joint president of the Association's Home Work Committee, 'as a recognition of Great Britain's achievement in passing the first Trade Boards Act'; at Zurich, in 1912, a two-day conference on the legal minimum wage preceded the meeting of the Association, and a whole sheaf of minimum wage bills introduced by private members into the Chambers of different countries was before the delegates, together with an official measure of the French Government. To watch this change of attitude was to see international thought in the making. To appreciate its full significance, it is necessary to bear in mind the different aspects presented by the 'sweating' difficulty in this country and in the great industrial States of the Continent. The French or German social reformer sees it mainly, if no longer exclusively, as a problem of home work. Now home work in Great Britain is a by-product of a strictly limited class of industries, affecting a comparatively small class of the population; in France and Germany it forms a highly important section of the general industrial structure, it is interwoven, to an extent rarely grasped by British students, with the life, and habits, and productive power of the nation. Much more courage--and greater freedom from prejudice--was required in the one case than the other. The remarkable advance towards definite action on the part of the State in relation to the establishment of minimum rates for home workers which took place between 1906 and 1913 could not have been achieved in so short a time but for the labours of certain voluntary associations led by men of insight, candour, and indefatigable devotion. In this connexion the pioneer work of the late Comte de Mun and Professor Raoul Jay has been of inestimable value. Realizing themselves, as did few unofficial reformers, the wide nature of the movement in which they had engaged and the impossibility of confining it in its sweep and effects to a section of the manual workers, they succeeded in gradually bringing home to the ablest among their fellow-workers the necessity for closing the gulf which French mental habit had fixed between factory and home workers and preparing to treat both classes on a similar footing of equity. In Germany,--where, as we might expect, there was less forwardness to launch unofficial schemes and a disposition to work rather from the first through authoritative channels--experiments were being made under the Home Work Act which, if of little value in themselves, seemed the earnest of much better things. If this result only had been attained, the meetings of the Association and the labours of the sections would not have been in vain. But far more was in process of achievement when the work of the Association was interrupted by the catastrophe of the European War. The adoption in all industrial countries of the 'English week', with its half-holiday so much coveted by the continental worker--the establishment of a uniform working day--the gradual introduction of the eight-hours shift into such 'continuous industries' as steel-smelting and glass-blowing--an international agreement to eliminate the use of lead from many branches of the pottery industry and to limit and safeguard its use in all others,--these were only some among the questions which study and investigation and discussion had brought to a stage at which the Association could look upon them as fit matter for potential international conventions in August 1914. Now that its activities are, for the most part, in suspense, it is well to remember that its greatest achievement was the proof, again and again renewed, that it is possible for persons of twenty different nationalities, holding the most diverse opinions on nearly every subject under the sun, not only to act together but to find common motives of action so strong as to break down every sundering barrier of political doctrine and religious creed. Whatever of suspicion or antipathy might flourish outside the boundaries of the international association, these evil weeds have never taken root inside them. Is it Utopian to dream, when the days of peace shall have returned, of a reconciliation within its borders for those between whom at present the great gulf of division seems hopelessly fixed? BOOKS FOR REFERENCE _History of Factory Legislation_, Harrison and Hutchins. Macmillan. Revised edition. Frederic Keeling, _Child Labour in the United Kingdom_. P.S. King. Clementina Black, _Sweating_. Duckworth. R.H. Tawney, _Studies in the Minimum Wage_: (i) _Chainmaking_; (ii) _Tailoring_. G. Bell & Sons. J.A. Hobson, _Work and Wealth_. Macmillan. Edward Howarth and Mona Wilson, _West Ham: A Study_. Dent. Sir Thomas Oliver, M.D., _Dangerous Trades_. John Murray. _Annual Reports of International Association for Labour Legislation_ (_British Section_), 1906-14. To be obtained of the Secretary, Queen Anne's Chambers, 28 Broadway, Westminster. Ernest Barker, _Nationalism and Internationalism_. C.S.U. Pamphlets, Mowbray, Oxford. Dr. Bauer, _International Legislation_. Mowbray, Oxford. Ernest Francke, 'International Labour Treaties,' _Economic Journal_ (June, 1909). Reprinted separately, Macmillan. Albert Métin, _Les Traités Ouvriers_. Armand Colin: Paris. E. Mahaim, _Le Droit International Ouvrier_. Librairie Recueil-Sirey: Paris. Fagnot, Millerand et Strohl, _La Durée légale du Travail_. Félix Alcan: Paris. Paul Boyaval, _La Lutte contre le Sweating System_. Félix Alcan: Paris. Students might also consult the following Reports: _Le Travail à Domicile en France_. Ministère du Travail: Paris. _Le Travail à Domicile en Belgique_. Ministère du Travail: Bruxelles. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 31: These figures represent the position at the last meeting of the Association held at Zurich, 1912.] [Footnote 32: The distinguished Permanent Head of the French Labour Office.] XI COMMON IDEALS OF SOCIAL REFORM Earlier ages were more able than ours to believe in the good old days. We, knowing more of the past than our forefathers did, can find in it no golden age. But our eyes do not rest even upon the present. In the nineteenth century men thought they were at the end of a process, and their evolutionary creed was often only a polite method of saying what fine fellows they were. Now we look forward. The future seems to us longer than the past and more important than the present; and we ourselves seem to be at the beginning rather than at the end of time. A knowledge of the past has made it impossible to believe that growth has stopped, and we understand how different the future may be, in part at least, by perceiving how different even this grimy and blood-stained present is from the still more inhuman past. Among the recorded changes the Economists write of an increasing interchange of goods, and we can see as well an increasing interchange of ideas across the frontiers of States. Music, painting, literature, and science have all been influenced; and ideas concerning political, economic, and social facts have been affected by that interchange which has developed our philosophy, our science, and our art. No one nation has originated all; and each nation has depended on hints and hypotheses which have arisen in others. But the interchange of ideas on social life has led to an increase of ideals, which are plans of action emotionally appreciated and therefore motive forces. Some of these are the Utopias of individual thinkers; but we shall consider here only those more powerful ideals which are shared, however vaguely, by many. In this case also, as in the purely intellectual sphere, the fire spreads from group to group, from nation to nation; and as the interchange of ideas increases knowledge, so the exchange of enthusiasm makes action more powerful. A really effective ideal, however, cannot arise except from the perception of definite evil. Vague discontents may cause such revolution as leads to reaction; but the clear sight of evil is the only source of reform. We may take it for granted, then, that although an ideal is nerveless if it is not passionate, it is futile unless it is based on knowledge. Therefore a hint must be given of the evils from the knowledge of which ideals of social reform now rise. That all is not well in the relations of man to man or of group to group must be fairly obvious to any one with imagination enough for sympathy. General dissatisfaction and universal cures for society are childish; but the perception of this and that evil gives rise to different plans for reform which all originate in the enthusiasm which is an ideal. We may put aside the long history of the growth of this shared enthusiasm for better relations between men, whatever their ability, their rank, their race, or their government. The common ideals of the present are the result of a gradual development, but we shall consider them here as attempts to deal with existing evils and plans for a better future. * * * * * Some social evils of the present are perhaps as old as any settled civilization. Such are disease and personal violence. Some are due to forces which have come into existence recently, owing to increased communication and accumulated wealth. Such are extreme poverty and the dehumanizing of social relations. With both kinds of evil we are moved to deal, and we are not deterred from the attempt to reform even long-established evil; for we feel that we do not know what is possible. Nothing is inevitable. This is not the place to give in detail the description of those evils which are being dealt with. It is enough if we recognize that it is no abstract or airy theory of equality or human nature which moves us to action. All real theories are intensely personal: and no theory has ever yet moved men unless they saw through it to the crude facts. However it may be phrased in a theory of society, we recognize it as evil that disease, leading to premature death, should be as common as it is. As a social evil it may be said to disturb seriously the relations between men. We see also that it is a social evil that men should use fraud or violence in compelling labour or in the pursuit of riches. Of the newer social evils there is the physical and spiritual deterioration which seems to result from the massing of men in great cities. There is also the dehumanizing of the relations between master and man. And this is like in kind to the dehumanizing of all functions in the vast institutions of modern times. The director of a company comes to regard himself as part of a machine; and so does the shareholder. So eventually does the agent of the State. Until at last we reach the immense evil that human action is done for which no moral responsibility is felt. How then shall we act? What has been done and what is still hoped for? The answer to such questions will be a statement of ideals. One may speak of ideals of social reform from two different points of view; either with respect to (1) the changing sentiment which produces movements for reform or with respect to (2) the institutional change which embodies that sentiment. The two are complementary parts of one historical movement: and it is difficult to divide them as cause and effect. For sentiment, becoming enthusiasm, certainly causes institutional change, and yet the reformed institution invariably creates a new sentiment. The province of law and of social custom is to lead as well as to register--a dynamic as well as a static influence, to increase order and to incite to liberty. In actual life, therefore, it is often impossible to separate the sentiment from its embodiment in measures of social reform. For purposes of study, however, one may divide. We may put aside the moving sentiments--the passions, however faint, which urge men to wish for a better future--and we may consider first the particular instances of reform. * * * * * One definite and in some sense new departure in the results of the shared enthusiasms of nations has been the industrial legislation of recent years. That has been already dealt with. But, although in an economic age such as ours industrial reform may seem the most striking, it is not the only effect of our shared enthusiasm and later ages may not think it the most important. There has been reform of social evils owing to the interchange between nations of ideas on education, religious toleration, medicine, and sanitation, the treatment of criminals, the suppression of slavery and many other subjects. All these and many more reforms are, as it were, registered in institutional (legal or administrative) change. Perhaps it is better to begin with a definite instance of the working of an ideal, lest it may seem that we are speaking only of an empty aspiration. We may take as an example the reforms connected with medicine and sanitation, and those only in so far as they have been officially established by the joint action of states. This is a very restricted embodiment of a social ideal, since of course we may find the same use of common labour between men of different races in the private contest with disease or in the municipal preventive medicine which in every great city owes much to investigators and practitioners of other nations. But it is better to take the most tangible effect in purely governmental action. The French Government proposed an international conference, which met in 1851, to deal with infectious disease; and a second conference met in 1856. In 1865 the outburst of cholera in the East led to a third congress at Constantinople. Great Britain opposed treaties for regulating quarantine, &c., because of the delay which might be caused to the pursuit of shipping interests. But at last a treaty was made in 1892 at Venice for protection against cholera. Further and more effective treaties were agreed to by civilized states in 1897 and 1903. A bureau of information concerning infectious disease was established at Paris, and commissions to supervise were established in Turkey and Egypt. With regard to sleeping sickness Great Britain took the initiative; and a conference met in 1907, in London, at which six countries were represented. So much with respect to disease; we may now turn to examples of the joint action of states as regards crime. The African slave traffic has been dealt with since 1885 (Berlin Conference) by the European States acting together on certain general principles. And what is known as the White Slave traffic was the subject of arrangement between fifteen states in the conference at Paris in 1902. Again, the reform of prisons and penitentiaries has been much assisted by international congresses since 1846. The last was held in 1910 in America, at which twenty-eight states were represented. A secretariat has been established at Berne for the exchange of expert opinion and for making suggestions to governments. These are examples of a very numerous class of reforms undertaken by the _joint action_ of governments. They are all comparatively recent and most of the twenty-eight unions between governments for concerted action have been established during the years of European peace between 1871 and 1914. In these instances the States of Europe have put their precious sovereignties into their pockets; although the lawyers and diplomatists explain the situation in the old terms. With respect to all these movements for social reform three points must be noticed: first, the initiative in most reform has come from private enterprise and not from diplomacy or governments. Secondly, this private interest has spread from the few of one nation to the few of another before any effective result was attained. Thirdly, the states have not acted together because of any general theory of international action, but simply because certain social evils could not be dealt with at all by any state acting separately. Whatever hampers common action, then, also hinders effective reform in dealing with disease or crime. I need not elaborate the conclusion. * * * * * There are also instances of governmental action being _directly influenced_ by the practice of other states, even when there has been no common action. The two most striking reforms of recent years have been in education and religious toleration. Of education enough has already been said. The interest from our point of view here is chiefly in the effect of education on social structure. It is increasingly evident that of all forces for transforming a nation, education is the most powerful; but no one nation can transform its education effectively without respect to the mistakes and successes of its neighbours. This has been perceived and acted upon. The influence, for example, of Germany on England is sufficiently well known. German precedents were quoted in the House of Commons in the early days of state education for England: and the Education Acts of 1870 and 1876 were largely due to the impression made in England by the success of state education in Prussia. Coleridge, Carlyle, and Matthew Arnold definitely acknowledged a debt to Germany. But Germany owed something to England in the perception of the value of surroundings and corporate life in schools. France also was affected by English education; and, in fact, French educators had to come to England to find the thing for which the French gave us the name--_Esprit de Corps_. The United States have been very definitely influenced in their University education both by Germany and England; and their Government has in primary education certainly established for all states the transforming possibilities of a school system. It must be remembered that the crudity of civilization and its apparent corruption in the United States are European not American. It is because Europe has neglected its duty, enslaved and brutalized its peoples, that social and political evil enters with the immigrants; and all this mass of European incompetence, the result of neglect or evil-doing in Ireland, Poland, the Slavonic Countries and Italy, the Government of the United States exorcises with education: and the effect is spreading beyond the frontiers of the States. A further effect of influence passing from nation to nation has been the change with regard to the relations of State and Church. In England it is some years since the State persecuted in the supposed interest of religion; but we remember that the abolition of tests against Roman Catholics was as late as 1830 and as against Jews as late as 1850. Even the most backward of European countries have been affected by the general feeling. In 1874 Austria for the first time allowed any creed, not dangerous to morals, to be preached; and ecclesiastical power is not any longer to be used against any but members of the particular Church which is offended. In Spain there are still some obstacles to public manifestations of any religious belief but that which is most prevalent; free worship in private, however, is at last allowed. Thus, the general tendency, spreading from the nations which are most intricately divided in religion, has been towards what is called toleration. Connected with this has been the gradual recognition of civil marriage; in which the old privilege of the most powerful Church is no longer recognized by the modern State. Law and custom have both changed. Perhaps the general attitude has not really changed. We persecute more for political than for religious unorthodoxy; or it may be that in our more economic age we forbear to burn heretics only because we cannot afford the faggots. But in any case the relations between men in society are more justly arranged, even where religion is concerned. * * * * * We have thus examples of (1) joint governmental action and (2) separate actions of governments influenced directly by foreign governments. There are also certain results of the interchange of ideals between nations which are not yet, or only in part, registered in legal or political institutions. Such for example is the changed position given to women. A change has occurred quite outside the political or even the economic sphere, both in the habits of western humanity and in their guiding conceptions. The change is affecting the meaning of marriage, since we are becoming inclined to suppose that man and woman are not simply male and female. Human individuality is given a new value; and there is no telling yet what the new attitude may involve in lessening the friction due to primitive and obsolete tradition or in making society more reasonable and civilized. The source of the change is undoubtedly an enthusiasm which has been influenced by men and women of all nations. Ibsen has a place in the history of social transformation. And besides, the contact between nations has made it possible for the freer position of women in one group to affect the domestic slavery of another. In the position of children, also, an immense change is proceeding. We cannot fail to call it social reform, that the child should be given so much more definite a place in the social organism. Aristotle thought woman was a mistake of nature's in the attempt to make man; and nearly all philosophers have treated children as if they ought to be rather ashamed of themselves for not being grown up. I speak of philosophers in the wide sense of the term, for I do not think the metaphysicians knew that there was such a thing as a child in the universe. However that may be, we can hardly believe that as late as the nineteenth century parents really imagined that they knew what was good for their children. In our more sceptical age, children have generally to be careful not to allow their parents to read certain books, and in every well brought up family, it is thought that parents should be seen and not heard. A social change has occurred in the comparative importance we assign to childhood and age. Thirdly, there is gradually coming about a transformation of social castes. One must speak carefully; for in the West we are supposed not to have castes. There is, however, an uncomfortable feeling that society is not one, that the two cities which Plato said would divide and destroy the true city of men are now established--the rich and the poor. I do not mean those with £3,000 a year, and those with £160 a year. It is not a question for the Exchequer. I mean that great numbers in all 'civilized' nations are ill-fed and ill-clothed from birth, and die prematurely. To perceive it is to desire action which perhaps no state can perform. But that we perceive it is something. Read the complacent rhymes of Lord Tennyson about 'freedom slowly broadening down' and then turn to contemporary literature, to Jean Richepin or John Galsworthy, and you will acknowledge that a common ideal of social reform has come into existence. We are at least restless in face of a social organization which wastes humanity during long years of peace almost as completely, though not so recklessly, as during a few months of war. Something has been already done--English writers and English experience have given a motive power to Hungarian, Russian, Finnish, Turkish, Persian, and Indian democracy. Groups of men have claimed, for example in South America, their right to free development. And everywhere during the period of European peace the contact between nations was teaching every nation the force of its own character, while the new complexities of society were weakening the old dividing lines of caste between individuals. In all these matters we seem to be moved by a desire for a freer social atmosphere. Whether law or administration changes or not, it is clear that most European nations have undergone in the years of peace from 1871 to 1914 considerable social changes. How far they are effective in all nations and in all classes it is very difficult for a contemporary to judge. It may be that the social structure of the decorative upper fringe or of the bedraggled hem of society is much the same as it was before communication was easy and transit rapid. But the central body of European society is certainly changed; and, after all, between the scum and the dregs is the good soup. * * * * * Such are the changes which have been introduced into social life owing to the interdependence of nations. But we should not understand what has happened if we accepted the mere record of achievements. The future is built not only upon what we have done, but upon what we hope to do. Reforms accomplished do not make us more satisfied to endure evil not yet reformed--for always working in the achieved present is the ideal which transformed the past into what we now see. We may turn, then, to consider some general features of the force working in social reform which is not yet achieved. And for that purpose we put aside established law and custom to consider the implied attitude. Now that political privilege and inequality before the law are more or less removed, there is a greater concentration upon the underlying social injustice. We all accept it as good that the activities of government should not be for the benefit of the few, or that the money should not be drawn from one class. We suppose at least that there should be one law for rich and poor. To any one with a knowledge of history this seems an immense step since small classes in every nation held political privilege, made law for others, and forced tribute from the majority. Not that all is justice and liberty. The law still, with noble impartiality, forbids both the millionaire and the pauper to steal bread. Of course it is not directed against the poor. The law never forbids the poor man to cheat the state out of more than £3,000 a year. Again, political power still depends on the social position of your cousins and your aunts. But something has been done. We hear much more nowadays about social than about political or legal reform. That, in itself, is a sign of a change of attitude. In the revolution of 1381 the crowds came marching to London swearing, in the words of the old chronicle, that there would be no peace in the land till each and every lawyer was slain. In the revolutions of 1830 and 1848 it was 'death to the politicians'. Now--it may be that we despair of lawyers or politicians, dead or alive. In any case the attention of those in every state who are moved by enthusiasm for a better society is concentrated less upon votes and laws than upon the distribution of well-being. Secondly, there has been a transference of enthusiasm of the religious or poetic kind from the sphere of contemplation or aloofness to that of earthly and even material action. Ideals of social reform do not any longer involve a neglect of food and clothing: we are all more and more convinced that it is idle to preach culture to a starving man, or to talk of liberty to one whose whole life is a bestial struggle for bare food and covering. I speak of normal times. In England, France, and Germany, social betterment means giving to a greater number security of bare life, upon which alone the good life can be built. It will be seen that I imply a disagreement with the Tolstoian conception of reform; in so far as that involves a neglect of food and clothing and generally of what are called material goods. That conception is not perhaps powerful among those who deal with what is usually called social reform. It is not 'modern', and it is also dependent upon a mistaken argument in ethical theory. An unfortunate confusion made by what is called Eastern, Stoic, or Mediaeval asceticism led to the idea that because the mind is more important than the body, the body has no importance at all. But we need not deal with this theory in detail, especially as the general attitude of to-day is opposed to it. There is undoubtedly a concentration upon the bare necessities of human life with a view to discovering how these can be shared more generally. We are fully aware of the immense social danger in the desire for riches; but that is no objection to the desire for bread and clothing and the bare necessities of human life. And the seemingly materialistic enthusiasm which will gradually transform our semi-bestial civilization is no less poetic or religious than any Eastern aloofness or Tolstoian simplicity. Poetry is not all rhyming couplets: religion is not all for the intellectually or artistically incompetent. So, a world in which twenty per cent. of humanity did not slowly starve to death would not necessarily be less worthy of admiration. Nor would religion disappear if every one were healthy, unless religion means the result of neurasthenia or dyspepsia or premature ageing. No doubt there is some exaggeration in this element of the common social ideals. Not even a poor man lives on bread alone; and it is indeed possible to have a perfectly well-fed society which would be quite barbarous. But we must regard the fine flower of culture as purchased at too high a price if, for the sake of a few connoisseurs and courtiers not to say bourgeois plutocrats, the majority in every nation must lack a bare human life. Some declare that the division between nations is more important than that between the rich and the poor. It may be so; but the only reason must be that what the few have, the many, however dimly, may hope to share or may be induced to think they do share. Humanity is infinitely gullible. But in every nation there is rising a murmur which may yet become an articulate cry. The writers of modern Utopias in their detailed conception of what is desirable may speak only for themselves; but it is a sign of the common enthusiasm that they all attach so much importance to organization and to physical health. This indicates that we all, in every nation, look forward, however vaguely, to a society in which human life shall be less difficult for the majority to obtain. We speak sometimes of the redistribution of leisure--August Bebel made it one of the chief articles of his creed. But this as an ideal does not indicate any desire that the dock-labourer should have time to loaf in a club, or his wife time to play bridge, except in so far as time to loaf is an opportunity for some other employment than the mere struggle for food. There is nothing inevitable in a situation which makes the development of most of the human faculties a privilege of a few and an impossibility for the greater number. Nor is it correct to suppose that the half-starved and the ill-clothed should be satisfied with being 'virtuous', and leave it to others, possibly wicked and certainly far from simple, to cultivate art and science. Nor again is it absurd to hope for a world in which all should have at least the opportunity for the development of any faculties they may possess. The social gain would be immense. It would be like the change from a harmony which is produced by a few amateurs to one of a full orchestra. Thirdly, it is increasingly evident that no one state or nation can act effectively in social reform unless it acts in concert with others. Treaties of commerce, common prison legislation, and common measures for sanitation and medicine have proved effective because they are in the nature of things. They are necessary means for the desired prosperity even of the most selfish and segregated state. But ignorance and prejudice and irrational violence spread as easily as disease or crime. Knowledge is not secure until it is widespread; and civilization perishes, which is segregated in a world of barbarism. Therefore education also, in its widest sense, must be contrived in common. Not merely school systems influenced by foreign ideas, but the very atmosphere of thought must change in harmony among all nations, if we are not to go toppling down into the abyss from which by painful centuries we have ascended. * * * * * This ideal of social reform then seems to be agreed upon between some men of all nations, that more common action should be taken. It is not a vague sentiment for the abolition of conflict between states; nor is it a pious aspiration for peace. It is the clear perception that the state cannot fulfil its functions in modern life if it continues to act as isolated or segregated. That for which the state itself stands cannot be attained even within the frontiers of one state by any state acting alone. This is not the place to distinguish those subjects upon which states should act together from those on which they should act separately. That is simply the problem as to the limits of political regionalism. The fact which is sufficient for our argument here is that certain forces, chiefly economic, have come into existence in recent years, which disregard state boundaries. In concrete terms, these are international trusts and international labour interests. But it is increasingly evident that these cannot be effectively dealt with by any one state acting separately. The isolated sovereign state of earlier times is simply helpless before the elaborate world-system of economics; and control can only be secured by an established world-system of politics. The states, one supposes, exist for justice and liberty. Divided, they will perish or become mere playthings in the hands of non-moral economic 'interests'. To save itself and all it stands for, the state must cease to pose as a possible opponent to any other state, and must deliberately co-operate in an increasing number of reforms. It is better to put into the coldest terms a conception which has too often hitherto proved futile, because it arose rather from vague discontent, than from the perception of a definite evil. The fire of enthusiasm must indeed work upon that conception before any effective change can be made in the attitude of governments or of peoples. But enthusiasm will be wasted if we cannot pause to see against what we are contending. We are struggling with the greatest of all obstacles to social reform when we attack the isolation of nations. Unless that is overcome we shall perhaps patch and prop; but, time and again, we shall be enslaved to the immensely powerful non-moral forces, in the midst of which humanity finds its way. I cannot speak more clearly--[Greek: bous epi glôssê]. The nations face each other in conflict, while death, disease, violence, bestial indolence and docility corrode every state. * * * * * But when war was at its brutish worst Grotius spoke with effect of a moral bond which survived between men who in physical conflict had been trying to take their 'enemies' for beasts and stones. And humanity began once more its long struggle with the beast in man. So now--I leave it to your imagination. We have made immense progress by assisting each other across the frontiers of states in such science as may provide high explosive and submarine warfare. In these the nations have co-operated. The guns which kill the English at the Dardanelles were made by Englishmen. There may yet come a time when high explosives will be out of date, and the state will use the careful dissemination of disease among its enemies. The only reason, I think, why it is not now done, is that no group can be certain of making itself immune from the disease it may spread among its enemies. * * * * * Our conclusion, therefore, is that one of the elements in the present attitude towards social reform is a tendency to co-operation between nations. We have seen that this has already had effect in various details of law and administration; and there is every reason to suppose that the method will be carried further. But the problem cannot be left there. Co-operation as a word is a mere charm, like Evolution. There has been, and there may be co-operation in doing wrong. That action has become common does not prove that it is right; and an ideal implies at least some ethical judgement. Therefore, in every nation there are some few who are convinced of the necessity for more deliberately moral action in common between men of different races. If there can be so much co-operation in the making of armaments or the defrauding of shareholders, there may yet be more co-operation in the elimination of disease and poverty. And not only may there be such co-operation, but it must be. The situation no longer exists in which most of the effects of an evil régime are confined within frontiers. The social distress of European nations must be dealt with as a whole because it is a whole. Therefore whatever militates against the unity of western civilization destroys the possibility of social reform. Many times before it has been seen that there are nobler conflicts than the struggle for markets or for the political domination of one clique or one nation. Many times before it has been felt, at least by a few, that man is deceived when he imagines that man is his enemy. And many times when the deliverance seemed near we have been enslaved again by an evil magic. A hundred years ago, at the end of the Napoleonic wars, the dreamers imagined that humanity would have done with its false prophets and lay the ghosts which have haunted it since it began to shake off the manners of the beasts. But a dismal succession of new falsehoods and new blind guides appeared. And now, in this so advanced age, we have to face the same possibility. There is much to excuse a despair; from which nothing can free us but a new enthusiasm. The evil magic must be overcome by magic of another kind, and how acute the crisis seems it is hardly possible to indicate. The quality of our age was its expectancy. For that reason men of every nation were moved to desire a transformed society. But perhaps that quality of expectancy was the quality of youth. For the first time in history, in the early twentieth century, age was giving place to youth in the political equilibrium of the generations. Now--I dare not speak too plainly. The young men of the western world are already, since August 1914, noticeably fewer. Death may have made no difference to them. It has made an immense difference to the future. It means that the eager expectancy of youth, which is the source of so much enthusiasm for a better world, is being lost. The crisis is here. As yet the common ideals of civilized nations still survive; but the desire for a better future is at ebb and flow with a tired acquiescence in the established order. It is in our hands to decide which shall overcome. No generation has faced a greater issue. We cannot tell what will be the outcome; but to hope too much is at least a more generous fault than to despair too soon. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE C.D. Burns, _Political Ideals_. Clarendon Press. P. Geddes, _Cities in Evolution_. Williams & Norgate. J.A. Hobson, _Towards International Government_. Allen & Unwin. P.S. Reinsch, _Public International Unions_. Ginn & Co. XII POLITICAL BASES OF A WORLD-STATE World-state is a term likely to be offensive in its arrogance, if it be taken to mean the substitution of a single political community and government for the numerous separate national states which have hitherto existed. I therefore hasten to say that I intend no such meaning, but use the term as a convenient expression to cover any body of political arrangements, to which most of the principal nations of the world are parties, sufficiently stable in character and wide in scope to merit the title of international government. Towards such a possibility the nineteenth century has made three great contributions. During that century great advances have been made in the settlement of political government upon a basis of nationality. This process has been accomplished partly by throwing off the dominion of some foreign power, as in the case of Belgium, Greece, Montenegro, Bulgaria, Rumania, and Serbia, and the South American colonies of Spain; partly by the closer federal union of independent states, as in the case of Germany and Switzerland; partly by a blend of the two methods as in the case of Italy; and partly by the peaceful dissolution of an unnatural union, as with Norway and Sweden. Though much still remains to be done before the identification of statehood with nationality even for Europe is completed, and some backward steps have been taken, the growing acceptance of the conception of nationality as a just and expedient basis of government is a powerful guarantee for the persistence of this joint work of liberation and of union. If, as the result of the settlement following this war, political readjustments are made which fairly satisfy the remaining aspirations after national autonomy, the more pacific atmosphere will favour all opportunities for co-operation between nations. The second contribution of the nineteenth century towards political internationalism is of a more positive character. It consists in a series of inchoate and fragmentary but genuine attempts of the Great Powers to work together upon critical occasions in the interests of 'justice and order', as they understood those terms, and to embody in acts or conventions some policy which is the result of their deliberations. This flickering light, called the Concert of Europe, first kindled at the Congress of Vienna, has reappeared fitfully throughout the century. The treaties, declarations, and conventions, proceeding from these conferences or congresses of the Powers, have marked important advances, not only in the substance of international law, but in the method of legislation. For whereas, before the Congress of Vienna, all the treaties between states which helped to form the body of international law were the acts of two or, at the most, a small group of states, since that time law-making treaties of general application and of world-wide importance have come into being. The most noteworthy examples of these general treaties are the Final Act of the Vienna Congress in 1815, the Declaration of Paris in 1856, the Geneva Convention of 1864, the Treaty of Berlin in 1878, the General Act of the Congo Conference in 1885, and the two Hague Conferences of 1899 and 1907. Having regard to the general character of many of the rules laid down at these conferences, as, for instance, the abolition of the slave trade, the neutralization of certain lands and waters, and the regulation of the rules of war, it is clear that we have to recognize throughout last century the existence of a rudimentary organ of international legislation, very irregular in its operation, very imperfect in structure and authority, but none the less a genuine experiment in international government. Hardly less significant for our purpose has been the prominent assertion of the principle of federalism in the formation or growth of national government. The great example of the United States has been followed by Switzerland and Germany, by Mexico, Argentine, Brazil, and Venezuela, and by the dominions of the British Empire in Canada, Australia, and South Africa. I must not in this brief survey even touch upon the different forms of federalism. It must suffice to remark that, whether as a a principle of devolution, as in the case of the proposal of Home Rule for the constituent parts of Great Britain, or as a principle of closer union, as in the proposal for a federated British Empire, federalism is very much alive. It furnishes a hopeful mode not only for reconciling demands for local autonomy with effective central sovereignty among the provinces or districts of a single national state, but even for harmonizing the claims of separate nationality with those of wider racial, linguistic, and traditional sympathy. But even more important than these distinctively political movements and events, as a pledge of the coming world-state, is the manifold structure of industrial and commercial internationalism which has been growing during the last few generations at an ever accelerating pace. The network of material, financial, and intellectual communications, connecting all parts of the developed world, and establishing quick, constant, cheap, and reliable modes of transport for men, goods, money, and information, form the actual basis of what may not improperly be called an economic world-state. Though much of this machinery, with the great work of international trade and capitalistic co-operation which it assists to perform, lies outside the sphere of politics, there are innumerable points of political contact and pressure. The realities of foreign policy in every state are more and more concerned with issues of trade, communications, and concessions, and the treaties and other formal arrangements between states are to a growing extent the instruments and the expressions of the internationalism of economic interests. The imperialism and the colonial policy of each great Power, though composed of various ingredients, are mainly directed by commerce and finance. Most of the disagreements and conflicts between governments relate to interferences with the free play of economic internationalism by states whose policy is still dominated by foolish and obsolescent rules of a narrowly national economy. An enlightened interpretation of the needs and interests of modern man demands that all such national economic barriers be removed and replaced by governmental co-operation to secure, by free trade and an open door, for capital and labour the fullest and best development and distribution of the economic resources of the world. While, therefore, the most impressive political events of the nineteenth century have been the expression and the successful realization of nationalism, many powerful undercurrents of internationalism have been gathering force. The pressures of civilization have been more and more towards extra-national activities. Thoughtful men and women in our time recognize the urgent need of closer international communion for three related purposes: First, the consolidation, extension, and effective sanction of the existing body of international law; secondly, the establishment of peace on a basis of reliable methods for the just settlement of differences; thirdly, the provision of regular accepted means for the co-operation of nations in all sorts of positive constructive work for the human commonwealth. These general considerations I will ask you to regard as introductory to the grave practical question which confronts us. Is this essential work of internationalism consistent with the preservation of the sovereignty and independence of the present national state, or does its performance involve some definite cession of these national state-rights to the requirements of an international government? The terrible events which are passing to-day ripen and sharpen this issue. They bring into powerful relief the inherent defects of an international polity based upon the absolute independence of the several states, and the futile mechanical balances and readjustments by which foreign policy has been conducted hitherto. But how far do they offer assistance or security for the achievement of organic reform? After this war has come to a close, will the nations and governments be enabled to lay a sound basis for pacific settlement of disputes and for active co-operation in the common cause of humanity for the future? No confident answer to this question is possible. For nobody can predict the composition and the relative strength of the feelings and ideas which will constitute 'the state of mind' of the several nations and their statesmen. As regards immediate or early policy, much will, of course, depend upon the definiteness of the victory and defeat, and the consequent distribution and intensity of the passions of elation and depression, anger and revenge, which peace may leave behind. It is, of course, part of the fighting strength of every belligerent to persuade himself that an overwhelming victory for himself affords the best security of peace and progress in the future. But this conclusion, based on the prior assumption, equally liable to error, that one's own cause is entirely right and one's enemy's entirely wrong, is unlikely to be sound. A peace which brings the least intensity of triumph and humiliation, the most even distribution of gains and losses, would seem to give an atmosphere most favourable to the growth of pacific internationalism. This, of course, will be sharply contested, and those who contest it will exhibit the usual excessive confidence of those whose mind moves in a shut oven of heated but unmeaning phrases about fighting to a finish, crushing German militarism, and 'a war to end war'. But there is no stronger evidence of the intellectual and moral havoc of war than the easy acceptance of what Ruskin called 'masked words' in lieu of thinking. "There are masked words abroad, I say, which nobody understands, but which everybody uses, and most people will also fight for, live for, or even die for, fancying they mean this or that or other of the things dear to them. There were never creatures of prey so mischievous, never diplomatists so cunning, never poisoners so deadly, as these masked words; they are the unjust stewards of all men's ideas; whatever fancy or favourite instinct a man most cherishes, he gives to his favourite masked word to take care of for him; the word at last comes to have an infinite power over him--you cannot get at him but by its ministry." In war-time this domination of 'masked words' is all-powerful, and is likely to leave the thinking powers of all Europe seriously impaired when the war is over. There are those who hold that sheer exhaustion, nervous and economic, will compel the nations to seek concerted action against the recurrence of so shattering an experience, that some sheer instinct of self-preservation will find expression in adequate political arrangements. I should be the last to deny the reality of the collective instinct. But remember that, as an instinct, it works blindly, and is liable to be diverted and frustrated in a thousand ways by the conflicting streams of narrow passion amongst which it moves. Mere exhaustion and a general feeling of insecurity cannot yield a sufficient motive and directing force for the work of international construction. It is necessary to rationalize this instinct of self-preservation and co-operation, in order to make it of effective service. Here lies the heart of our difficulty. War is the most intensely derationalizing process, and the long steeping of European civilization in the boiling cauldron will have twisted and blunted the very instruments of thought. As Professor Murray points out in a powerful essay, war rapidly undoes the slow secular process by which liberty and capacity for individual thought have grown up, and plunges the personal judgement into the common trough of the herd-mind. It is, I take it, the recognition of this peril to the human mind, this necessity of safeguarding the powers of individual thought and personal responsibility, that brings us here. We seek to fortify the separate centres of personal judgement, to inform the individual mind, because the work of making a positive contribution to the unity of civilization depends upon the vigorous independent functioning of many minds. This consideration brings me directly to confront the enemy, that is to say, those who contend that a world-state or any real international government is now and must always remain an impossibility, an unrealizable Utopian dream. The process of social evolution on its political side ends with the national state. It is a final product. National states cannot, will not, and ought not, to abate one jot or tittle of their inherent sovereignty and independence, and the experience of history shows that all attempts at international federation or union are pre-doomed to failure. It is evidently quite impossible for me to present here a full formal refutation of these positions. I will therefore content myself with brief demurrers. To the argument from social evolution I would reply that evolution knows no finality of type, and that the presumption lies in favour of those who hold that the centripetal or co-operative powers, which have forged the national state out of the smaller social unities, are not exhausted, but are capable of carrying the organizing process further. To those who rely upon the authority of history, citing the collapse of the experiments in federation which followed the Congress of Vienna as proof that similar experiments will similarly fail to-day or to-morrow, I reply that this view is based on a false interpretation of the statement that 'history repeats itself'. A psychological or sociological experiment is not the same when fundamental changes have taken place in the psychical and social conditions. We have already recognized that the nineteenth century has seen a series of vital changes in the economic and spiritual structure of civilization. The evidence of 1815 cannot, therefore, be conclusive as regards the possibilities of 1915. To those who insist on the sovereignty and independence of the national state as an eternal verity, I will make no further reply than to say that such language has for me no more meaning than talk of 'the divine right of kings', 'the natural rights of man', or any other phrase of the abracadabra of metaphysical politics. The actual world in which we live knows no such absolutes. Sovereignty and independence, like all other legal claims, are subject to modification and compromise. Every bargain made by treaty or agreement with another state, every acceptance of international law or custom, involves some real diminution of sovereign independence, unless indeed the liberty to break all treaties and to violate all laws is expressly reserved as an inalienable right of nations. Moreover, within the limits of a single nation, sovereignty is itself divided and distributed. Alike in the United States of America, the Swiss Republic, and the German Empire, the constituent states as well as the nations are recognized as sovereign, possessing certain rights or powers safeguarded by the constitution against all encroachments of the central or federal government. So again within the state itself, the sovereignty is often no longer concentrated in a single person or a single body of persons, but is exercised by the joint action of several organs, as in Great Britain, where the king and the Houses of Parliament are the joint administrators of the sovereignty of the state. Sovereignty thus becomes more and more a question of degree and of adjustment. International lawyers will doubtless insist that neither treaties nor international laws involve any derogation of sovereign powers. But when the substantial liberties of action are curtailed by any binding agreement, the unimpaired sovereignty is an idle abstraction. When, therefore, we ask whether it is not possible to extend and consolidate the agreements between so-called sovereign states into some form of effective international government, we broach a proposition less revolutionary in substance than in sound. If all the separate treaties, conventions, and other agreements, existing now between pairs of nations for the performance of specific acts and the settlement of differences, were modified and gathered into the forms of general treaties signed by all the treaty-making states; if all international laws and usages were codified and brought under the surveillance of some single representative court or council,--we should discover that there existed already the substance of an international government, not indeed adequate to our needs, but far ampler than we had suspected. In the Hague conventions and courts, again, and in certain other intergovernmental instruments, such as the Postal and Telegraphic Bureaux at Berne, we already possess the nucleus of the general forms required. We possess already the beginnings alike of the legislative, judicial, and administrative apparatus of international government. But it is slight in substance, fragmentary in its application, and exceedingly imperfect in its sanctions. Moreover, it has just shown itself quite inadequate to perform the first function of a government, viz. to keep the public peace. The task of converting so feeble a structure of government into an effective instrument of international peace and progress is evidently one of great magnitude and difficulty. But it is the task which lies persistently before us, and upon its performance the safety of civilization itself depends. It is, therefore, well not to exaggerate its difficulties, but to measure them as closely as we can. This can best be done by means of a brief survey of the principal lines of advance which have been proposed. In this country, in America, in Holland, and elsewhere, the air is thickening with schemes for obtaining better international relations after the war. All of them have this, I think, in common, that they concern themselves primarily not with ideal or practical plans for the general co-operation of nations in advancing the welfare of the world, but with methods of preventing future wars and securing relief against the burden of armaments. All agree that some general formal arrangements between nations must be substituted for 'the clash of competing ambitions, of groupings and alliances and a precarious equipoise', and that only by such stable agreement can disarmament be got and peace rendered secure. All agree that the instrument of this international government must be a general treaty to which a number of states must be parties and that the terms of this treaty must require them to submit all forms of disputes to some pacific mode of settlement. Nearly all, moreover, accept the distinction drawn between justiciable issues, relating to the application or interpretation of laws or to the ascertainment of facts by means of legal evidence, which are suitable for settlement by a judicial or arbitral process, and those which, not being capable of such settlement, are better suited for a looser process of inquiry and conciliation. But the proposals differ widely, both as regards the scope they assign to the work of preventing war, and as regards the measures they advocate for securing the fulfilment of international agreement. They may be grouped, I think, in three classes on an ascending scale of rigour. The first class envisages a general treaty, by which the signatory states shall undertake to submit all differences between them to processes of arbitration or conciliation conducted by impartial courts or commissions, and to abstain from all acts of hostility during the progress of such investigation. This principle has recently found an important expression in the treaties signed last year by the United States with Great Britain and France, and other nations. The first article of these treaties reads as follows: 'The High Contracting Parties agree that all disputes between them, of every nature whatsoever, other than disputes the settlement of which is provided for, and in fact achieved, under existing agreements between the High Contracting Parties, shall, when diplomatic methods of adjustment have failed, be referred for investigation and report to a Permanent International Commission to be constituted in the manner prescribed in the next succeeding article; and they agree not to declare war or begin hostilities during such investigation and before the report is submitted.' The objects of this method of pacific settlement are three: first, to provide impartial and responsible bodies for a reasonable inquiry into all disputes; secondly, to secure a 'cooling off' time for the heated feelings of the contestants; thirdly, to inform the public opinion of the world and to make effective its moral pressure for a sound pacific settlement. The efficacy of any such arrangement evidently depends upon two conditions, first, the confidence of the signatory states that each and all will abide by their undertaking, and, secondly, the uncovenanted condition that they will accept and carry into effect the awards or recommendations of the arbitral and conciliation commissions. These proposals, however, furnish no sanctions or guarantees other than those of conscience and public opinion for the due performance of the treaty obligations, and make no attempt to bind the parties to an acceptance of the decision of the commissions. Moreover, regarded as a means of securing world-peace and disarmament, all such proposals appear defective in that they make no provision for disputes between one or more of the signatory states and outside states which are no parties to the arrangement. Such considerations have moved many to seek to strengthen the bond of the alliance, and to make it available for mutual support against outside aggression. The vital issue here is one of sanctions or the use of joint force, diplomatic, economic, or military, to compel the fulfilment of treaty obligations and the execution of the awards. Many hold that, while most civilized states might be relied upon to carry out their undertakings, some powerful state--Germany, or Russia, or Japan--could not be trusted, and that this want of confidence would oblige all nations to maintain large armaments with all their attendant risks and burdens. To obviate this difficulty, it is proposed by some that the signatories shall pledge themselves to take joint action, diplomatic, economic, or forcible, against any of their members who, in defiance of the treaty obligations, makes or proposes an armed attack upon another member. This is the measure of stiffening added by Mr. Lowes Dickinson in his constructive pamphlet _After the War_: 'The Powers entering into the arrangement' are to 'pledge themselves to assist, if necessary, by their national forces, any member of the League who should be attacked before the dispute provoking the attack has been submitted to arbitration or conciliation.' A state, however, by Mr. Dickinson's scheme, is still to remain at liberty to refuse an award, and after the prescribed period, even to make war for the enforcement of its demands. Other peace-leaguers go somewhat further, assigning to the league an obligation to use economic or forcible pressure for securing the acceptance of the award of the Court of Arbitration, though leaving the acceptance of the recommendations of the Conciliation Court to the free option of the parties. This is the proposal made by Mr. Raymond Unwin, and by the League of Peace. Now a definite halt at this position is intelligible and defensible. While binding by strict sanctions the States to submit all disputes to the pacific machinery that is provided, to await the conclusion of the arbitral and conciliatory processes, and even to accept the legal awards of arbitration, it leaves a complete formal freedom to refuse the recommendations of the Commission of Conciliation. Yet it must be borne in mind that most of the really dangerous disputes, involving likelihood of war, are not arbitrable in their nature, and will come before the Commission of Conciliation. If no provision is made for enforcing the acceptance of the recommendations of this body, what measure of real security for peace has been attained? An incendiary torch, like that kindled last year in the Balkans, may once again put Europe in flames. The defenders of the position we are now considering have three replies. They admit that their proposal still leaves open the possibility of war, but they contend that if a sufficient cooling-off time or 'moratorium' is secured, the likelihood of an ultimate recourse to war by rejection of the award will be reduced to a minimum. They urge that no scheme which can be devised will preclude the possibility of a strong criminal or reckless State violating its treaty obligations and seeking to enforce its will by force. Finally they urge that many self-respecting States would refuse to abandon the ultimate right of declaring war, in cases where they deemed their vital interests were affected, and that any invitation to take this step might wreck the possibility of a less complete but very valuable arrangement. Now it would be a considerable advance towards world government, if all or most powerful States would consent to abandon separate alliances, or subordinate them to a general alliance binding them to submit all disputes to a process of impartial inquiry before attempting to enforce their national will by arms. It may be that this is as far as it is possible to go in the direction of securing world-peace and international co-operation in the early future. If States will not carry their co-operation so far as to agree upon united action to put down all wars between their members, and to take a united stand against all attacks from outside, it would be necessary to respect their scruples, and to rely upon the softening influence of the moratorium and informed public opinion to render a final recourse to arms unlikely among civilized States. But, in considering the measure of security thus achieved, we must remember that we must look to the weakest link in the chain of the alliance, and ask ourselves how far the plan of conciliation represented in the recent treaties between the United States and several friendly European nations can be considered equally secure in dealing with Germany, Russia, or Japan. If our international arrangement is to dispense with all forcible pressure in the last resort, and to rely upon purely moral pressure, it seems evident that the validity of the arrangement depends upon the degree of confidence which other States will entertain as to the bona fides and pacific disposition of the least scrupulous of the powerful signatory States. For if the opinion held of any one or two powerful States is that under the stimulus of greed or ambition they would be likely, in defiance of an award or of the public opinion of other States, to enforce their will upon some weaker neighbour, such an opinion will keep alive so strong a feeling of insecurity that no considerable reduction of military preparations will be possible. In assessing the early value of all proposals for better international relations, the best practical test is afforded by the question, 'Will the proposal lead nations to reduce their armaments?' For it will be admitted that any settlement or international agreement, which leaves the claims of militarism and navalism upon the vital and financial resources of the several nations unimpaired, affords little hope of a pacific future. A return to the era of competing armaments will destroy the moral strength of any formal international agreements, however specious. The importance of this consideration has led many to insist that an explicit agreement for proportional disarmament should take a prominent place in any settlement. This proposal, however, seems to me defective in that it presumes in all or some of the nations a persistence of the motives which have hitherto led them to strengthen their fighting forces. Now the primary object of such international arrangements as we are discussing, is to bring about a state of things in which the past motives to arm will weaken and tend to disappear. If nations, actuated either by arrogance or greed or fear, continue to desire to increase their fighting strength, no arrangements for proportionate disarmament are likely to be effective. On the other hand, if the basis of a really valid league or federation can be laid, precluding the most ambitious State from any reasonable hope of indulging dreams of successful conquest, while relieving timid States from the apprehensions under which they have lived hitherto, the natural play of political forces within each State will favour disarmament. An international arrangement that meets our requirements must be strong enough to reverse the motives, aggressive and defensive, which in the past have caused nations to arm. Nations will not pile up armaments if they believe that they will have no need or opportunity to use them. To produce this belief in the uselessness of national armies and navies is therefore a prime object of international policy. The successful establishment of this belief involves, however, a change of disposition among national governments amounting to the process known in religious circles as conversion. They must be induced to forgo that right of war which according to past statecraft has been the brightest jewel in the crown of sovereignty. Thus we are again brought round to our vital issue, that of the amount and kind of cession of sovereignty required for an effective International Government. It may be the case that it will be impossible to induce a sufficient number of the great States to transfer the ultimate right of waging war to a representative International Government, or to cede to such a Government the right to legislate on international relations with power to enforce obedience to these laws. There are, however, many of us who hold that these powers are essential to an international arrangement which shall effectively guarantee the peace of the world. The abandonment of the sovereign right to make war is essential for the future security of peace. Legislative and executive powers for an International Government are essential to obtain by pacific means those changes in the political and economic relations of peoples which hitherto have only been attainable by war. No merely statical settlement will suffice. Great new issues of national controversy or of economic needs will certainly come up afresh for settlement, and until some stable method of government is established with power to determine and enforce the equities and the utilities they represent, recourse to the arbitrament of war will still be likely. But granting that national government does not represent a final form of political structure, and that some federal internationalism is now practicable, is it possible to hope or to expect that by a single stride, or by a series of rapid strides, the sovereignty of national states will submit to so much diminution as is involved in the more advanced scheme of international government? Most historians, statesmen, and political philosophers will, I think, hold that so large and rapid a process of development is impracticable, however desirable in theory it might be. It will be necessary, they insist, to take one step at a time, to preserve as closely as possible the principle of continuity, and not to attempt to move further and faster than circumstances and the necessities of the time compel. But do circumstances and necessities always compel us to move slowly and to take one step at a time? Though normal growth is slow and continuous, modern science tends to lay increasing stress upon discontinuous and sudden larger variations in the production of organic changes. Biology distinguishes these mutations by which new species arise from the normal process of evolution by insensible gradations. There is, as I understand it, no real breach of continuity, no miraculous creation, but a sudden removal from a structural position which by slow accumulation of prior changes had become unstable, or to a new position of stability, involving a swift readjustment of organic parts. May not similarly important mutations occur in the evolution of political institutions, when a similar stress of circumstances makes itself felt? Nay, we may further ask, whether the special function of man's reasonable will is not to bring about these changes in the direction of individual and collective conduct. The power of making new quick and complex adaptations to new environments is the essential economy of the human brain. Freedom of thought and of will are continually producing new judgements and new determinations for action which contain this quality of sudden mutation. Quick conversions of thought and will are of the essence of our conscious life. When they carry important consequences to our conduct they appear to be, and in fact are, breaches of the normal conduct of our life which proceeds by custom, repetition, and insensible modifications. In politics, as in religion, sudden conversions under the stress of circumstances are not unknown, and they may be genuine and lasting. And what holds of individual wills and judgements holds also of the collective mind. That human nature in its fundaments of thought and feeling, its primary needs, desires and emotions, will not be appreciably changed even by this shattering experience of war must be conceded. But what we may call the general state of mind, or the moral and intellectual atmosphere, will be profoundly affected. This will be in part the result of the great economic and political disturbances which are occurring, and which will have undermined and loosened the old ideas and valuations in relation to such important institutions as property, the control of industry, the activities of woman, the party system, the State itself. But more profound still will be the direct reaction of sorrow and suffering of war, the revelation of the power of the organized destructiveness and cruelty, and of the inadequacy of reason, justice, and goodwill as defences of civilization. The very foundations of organized religion in the hearts of men will be shaken. The patent failure of the State to perform its primary function of safeguarding life and property is likely to feed currents of revolutionism in every country. The sudden changes produced in the balance of age and of sex by the destruction of so large a proportion of the young and energetic men of every nation, will affect all processes of thought and policy. Some of these changes will seem favourable to conservatism, timidity, and reaction. Everywhere, at the close of the war, military and official autocracy will be enthroned in the seats of power, and the spirit of political authority will be stoking the fires of fevered nationalism which war evokes. But other forces will be making for bold political experiments. Not only the fear of restive and impoverished workmen, who have recently acquired the use of arms and perhaps the taste for risks, but the havoc wrought upon industry and commerce, and above all the crushing burden of taxation, will dispose the controlling and possessing classes to seek alternatives to a return to the era of competing alliances and armaments. Mild and conservative measures will be obviously unavailing. During the years of exhaustion following the war, resolute leaders of public opinion will be setting themselves everywhere to frame schemes of international relations which shall yield adequate guarantees of peace. For the first time in history great reading and thinking communities will give their chief attention to international politics. They will recognize the urgency of the work of building the society of nations upon a basis of genuinely representative government. Behind this reasonable process of constructive thinking, carried on in every country by politically convinced individuals and groups, will be the powerful support of the unthinking, suffering masses, motived by no clear conception of causes or remedies, but by that collective instinct of self-preservation which impels the herd to avoid destruction and to follow leaders who point the way to safety. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE _The International Crisis in its Ethical and Psychological Aspects_. Humphrey Milford. G. Lowes Dickinson, _After the War_. Fifield. C.E. Hooper, _The Wider Outlook beyond the World-War_. Watts & Co. F.N. Keen, _The World in Alliance_. Southwood. Norman Angell, _Prussianism and its Destruction_. Heinemann. Allison Phillips, _The Confederation of Europe_. Longmans. _The New Statesman_. Special Supplement. Suggestions for the Prevention of War. J.A. Hobson, _Towards International Government_. Allen & Unwin. XIII RELIGION AS A UNIFYING INFLUENCE IN WESTERN CIVILIZATION The argument of these essays has been to prove that even now, in the greatest armed conflict of the world, the term 'Christendom' is not inapplicable to Europe. There is a real unity in Western civilization--a unity due in large measure to the influence of religious faith and organization. The mediaeval Church gave the Teutonic peoples of Northern Europe, and the barbarians who overran the Roman Empire, their first momentous introduction into the great inheritance formed by the uneasy blending of Christian faith and literature with Greco-Roman civilization. The spiritual achievements of Greek and Roman, Jew and Christian have remained the common possessions of the West, the foundation of what is still Christendom. In so far as it exists Christendom witnesses to the formative power of a religious faith: in so far as it remains a dream, we may suspect it demands the renewed impulse of a faith enlightened and chastened by all the experience of the past. If, however, we ask, Is there any likelihood that a common religious faith and life will contribute to raise Western civilization to a yet higher unity? modern as contrasted with mediaeval history seems at first sight to demonstrate the futility of any such inquiry. Since the Reformation, religion has made for division rather than co-operation. The modern period of European history begins in disruption. Not only was Europe rent by the conflict of Catholic and Protestant, but the dream of an international reformed Church which at one time floated before the mind of Cranmer was dissipated by the strength of nationalism and the cleavage in the ranks of the reformers themselves. In our own country, what is euphemistically termed the Elizabethan Settlement proved to be the source of further dissension, and reform appeared as the prolific mother of sects and schisms. The Protestant Churches were organized on national and state lines. They ceased to retain any international character in their constitution, while international intercourse became a diminishing influence. The Church of Rome in the conflict with Gallicanism found herself at grips with the spirit of nationalism, and to-day the strength of national feeling within Roman Catholicism hinders the Pope from exerting a moral authority over sovereign states that would parallel the judicial functions successfully asserted by Innocent III. No Christian Church to-day so rises above the national states of Europe, as to control or even adequately to criticize the claims of those states. The Churches no longer serve to embody and express an European conscience. The break-up of a common ecclesiastical organization was not perhaps the most serious loss of unifying power which religion in the West suffered at the time of the Reformation. If it be true that the Bible and the Greek spirit are the great common factors of Western civilization, then we must recognize that these two great influences tended to fall apart and even to oppose each other in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The humanist element in the Reform-movement grew less and less, while humanism itself became more definitely secular. The European mind has ever since been conscious of a disturbing division between religion and culture. A development of religion which should render to Western civilization services comparable to those rendered by the mediaeval Church demands not only a heightened international consciousness among Christians, which shall be able to find organized expression, but also some fresh synthesis of religion and culture, some reunion of the spirit of Hellas, the Greek delight in beauty and faith in reason, with the moral strength and religious insight of Hebrew prophecy. Those who are concerned for the future of our civilization will look eagerly for signs of any such development in the religious life and thought of our time. Do recent history and present experience discover any influences at work which may yet restore a unifying power to religion? Naturally any answer to such a question will be of a subjective character. The personal equation cannot easily be eliminated; we may be duped by our hopes or deceived by our fears. In the last analysis we cannot safely predict the future of religion. We may, however, take stock of our present situation, and survey its significant elements, even if our value-judgements as to their relative importance will inevitably vary. While religious divisions have not vanished from the West, and indeed show no prospect of immediate reconciliation, and while the formation of new sects, of which the Christian Science Movement offers an example, has not altogether ceased, there has been an admitted decline of the dogmatic and sectarian tempers, and this decline has opened the way for knitting up severed friendships. The revolt against the dogmatic attitude of mind and even against religious dogma itself is widespread. The sense of loss involved in the isolation of any sect, and the wish to pass beyond the limits of any denominational tradition, are both appreciably affecting the religious situation. In England Matthew Arnold's somewhat unhappy criticism of Dissent expressed a dislike both of dogma and sectarian narrowness. His profounder contribution to the better understanding of St. Paul derives its worth precisely from his elevation of the mystic and the saint in Paul at the expense of the doctrinal theologian of Calvinist tradition. The wish to be rid of dogma continues to find vigorous intellectual expression, of which Mr. Lowes Dickinson's _Religion, a Criticism and a Forecast_, may be taken as an example. In another direction the Brotherhood Movement and the Adult School Movement represent the search, if not for an altogether undogmatic faith, yet at least for a broader basis of association than is compatible with the insistence on definite statements of belief. Both would unite in the prayer God send us men whose aim will be Not to defend some outworn creed, and some members of both entertain the suspicion that all creeds are outworn. This dislike of dogma may cloak an unwarranted scepticism as to the possibility of reaching truth in religion, but it is symptomatic of the longing for larger sympathy and broader fellowship. It is but the extreme expression of a temper which has reduced the angularity of those who are very far from surrendering or belittling definite beliefs and doctrines. The denominationalist who used to have no hesitation in claiming a monopoly of the truth for his particular Church, now falters where he firmly stood. We are more ready to recognize our limitations. A growing number of thoughtful minds appreciate Lord Acton's position when he wrote to Mary Gladstone: 'I scarcely venture to make points against the religion of other people, from a curious experience that they have more to say than I know, and from a sense that it is safer to reserve censure for one's own which one understands more intimately, having a share in responsibility and action.' This more chastened mood opens the way to fresh understandings in the religious world. Whence does this change in atmosphere originate? In tracing out the causes of this new temper in religion, a first place may legitimately be assigned to the growth of the scientific spirit. In considering science as a source of unity, it is a mistake to dwell exclusively on the creation of a body of common knowledge. To know the same thing may do little to unite men. To attack problems in the same way, and to share the same spirit of free inquiry, the same reverence for fact, the same resolute endeavour to surmount prejudice, issue in a far closer bond of union. Science unites men even more closely by its spirit than by its achievement. The application of scientific method to the literary and historical study of the Bible, as well as in the psychological analysis of religious experience, has called into being in every Church and every land, groups of people who approach the subject-matter of their faith from the same angle and under the guidance of the same mental discipline. As a result of the critical movement a man finds his foes in his own and his friends in his neighbours' ecclesiastical household. The study of religion renews international contact and requires international co-operation as much as any other branch of science. It is possible to detect differing characteristics in the scholarship of the leading nations, though it may be doubted whether these are fundamental differences. The volume of critical work published in Germany is so considerable as to foster the illusion that it constitutes a self-sufficing world. Thus it is possible for Dr. Schweitzer in his brilliant survey of research into the life of Jesus, to represent the whole inquiry as the work of German genius and as the endeavour of German liberalism to picture Jesus in accordance with its own half-unconscious bias. Yet even so the cloven-hoof of international interdependence makes its appearance, for he has to devote one unsympathetic chapter to Renan, even if he contrives to ignore Seeley's _Ecce Homo_. But the debt of English scholarship to Germany is undeniable, and must not be repudiated in war-time. Nor is the debt entirely on one side. It is worth recalling that Adolph Harnack, perhaps the greatest living German scholar in the realm of New Testament criticism and Church History, derived no little inspiration from the work of Edwin Hatch. At any rate the acceptance of the critical method associates scholars in all lands, produces International Congresses for the study of Religions, and fosters personal friendships which even war will not destroy. Beyond the internationalism of scholarship, we must remember the reaction of criticism on popular religious thought. Slowly but surely the judgements of believers, lay and clerical, are being permeated with some sense of historical perspective. The mere attempt to recognize the literary character of the various books of the Bible has effected a liberation. The variation of the different parts of the Bible in literary quality, in evidential value for history and in spiritual significance, are at last being freely recognized outside the study and the lecture-room. Men are ceasing to regard the Bible as a series of legal enactments or common-law precedents of equal authority. This is leading to a revision of inherited traditions, that were based on a view of the Bible which is no longer tenable. In general this development favours a more modest assertion of one's own beliefs and a more charitable consideration of other people's. When we continue to differ, we differ with a more sympathetic understanding of those from whom we differ. It is impossible to trace here in any detail the influence of the critical movement on traditional beliefs or even on the conception of authority in religion. It may, however, be worth while to point out that the psychological study of religion has tended to broaden sympathy by promoting the frank recognition of the varieties of religious experience. More allowance is made for temperament, and there is less anxiety to force all spiritual life into the same mould or scheme. The sacramentalist and the non-sacramentalist, the mystic and the intellectualist, the man of feeling and the man of action, those who experience sudden changes and those who are the subjects of more gradual growth--each receives his due, and neither need despise the other. There are dangers associated with our constant reference to temperament. It is really a condemnation of a Church to say that its position appeals to a particular temperament, while it is often no real kindness to an individual to be excused from attempting to enter into a particular phase of religious life on the ground that he is temperamentally disqualified. But it is clearly a gain to challenge an over-rigid standardization of religious life. It is pathetic to hear people protest that they have no religious experience, when they are simply blinded by too narrow an interpretation of the term. In so far as the psychology of religion throws into relief the manifold appeal of religious ideas to different minds, it helps to create a new sense of unity in difference. Accompanying the growth of the scientific spirit and in part stimulated by it, more distinctly religious and philosophical influences are at work quickening the desire for wider and deeper fellowship. Considering first the problem within the borders of the Christian Church, I think we may claim that there is a growing willingness to co-operate and a revival of the hope of reunion. We may further claim that certain advances in thought, in the understanding of Christianity itself, have already been made, and render co-operation if not reunion less Utopian than before. Of these I would put first the acceptance of the principle of toleration as an essential element of Christian faith. It has been suggested by Mr. Norman Angell that the religious wars of the seventeenth century came to an end through economic exhaustion and through rationalism. Toleration was accepted as a state-principle on the strength of a common-sense calculation as to the uselessness of repression. I am not disposed to ignore the forcefulness of the argument, 'You will starve or go bankrupt, if you do not cease to persecute heretics or fight Protestants,' nor would I underestimate the influence of common-sense in closing the era of religious wars, but I cannot help thinking that an intense religious conviction of the duty of toleration and a kind of philosophic liberalism, though entertained by few, contributed to the triumph of the principle. For the Christian, the duty has become clearer through the influence of the gospels. Some of the Churches have begun to take to heart the rebuke of Jesus to the disciples who wished to call down fire on the Samaritans. Nor is it a question of a particular incident. A deep respect for individuality is found to lie at the centre of the gospel. For the Christian, the attitude of toleration, the reliance on persuasion, on the appeal to every man's conscience, has become more and more clearly the indispensable qualification of the ambassador for Christ. As the acceptance of the principle of toleration is by no means universal in the Church, its fuller recognition in some quarters may serve at first to intensify division. It may emphasize, e.g. the continued necessity for Protestantism, by bringing into clearer light the moral obstacle to reunion in the Inquisition and disciplinary methods of the Church of Rome. But in the long run, this development of thought must make for better understanding and wider fellowship. Still confining our survey to the Christian Church, there has been a significant fastening of attention on those parts of the New Testament in which the idea of Catholicity is fully developed. The epistle to the Ephesians and the seventeenth chapter of John are beginning to haunt the Christian consciousness as never before since the days of the Reformation. It is clear that the present position of the Church, in which divisions have crystallized into separate organizations, does not reflect and envisage the ideal that 'they all may be one'. The unity of the Church appears to be a condition precedent to the success of its testimony. The scandal and the impotence of division are more acutely felt. Unless the Church of Christ can heal herself or find healing for herself, it is little enough which she will be able to contribute to the healing of the nations. There is hope then for closer fellowship within the Church, because the problem is being more and more definitely laid upon the consciences of her members. A further advance in thought which makes possible a closer approximation of the severed fragments of the Christian Church, is to be found in the process of sifting the essential from the accidental in the Christian tradition. It would be idle to pretend that the process has reached its conclusion, or that there is any large measure of agreement as to what constitutes the essence of Christianity. No one indeed believes any longer in the whole Bible from cover to cover--not even those who say they do. The fight for the creeds is more strenuous, while Rome cannot afford to admit that any article of faith which has been authoritatively defined may be treated as non-essential. But if I may venture a personal judgement, I cannot see that even the Apostles' creed will be able to retain its place as a summary of essential Christianity. The articles which deal with the Descent into Hades and the Resurrection of the Body, and perhaps those which deal with the Virgin-Birth and Ascension of our Lord, are dubious, if not false, and cannot fairly be regarded as indispensable. If I may attempt to forecast, I would say that the ultimate cleavage is coming not over particular articles of the Apostles' Creed, but over the value we set on the history and person of Jesus. The choice will lie between a conception of God for which the story and character of Jesus are final and determinative, and a vaguer spiritual theism for which Jesus has no supreme significance. This is not even the division between Trinitarian and Unitarian. The ultimate parting of the ways turns on the question whether a man's faith in God is Christ-centred or not. The significant cleavage of the future will come between those who believe that Christianity--the belief in the Fatherhood of God through Jesus Christ--is the final religion, and those who hold that Christianity in this sense is destined to be swallowed up in some still broader faith in God for which other revelations, through nature and through other figures in history, are as significant as the creed embodied in a tale in Galilee and on Golgotha nineteen centuries ago. But whatever cleavage may appear hereafter in the religion of the West, the search for the essence of Christianity, even when it works through controversy, will contribute to lop off idle dissensions and reveal fellowship in fundamentals where men had previously supposed themselves to be hopelessly divided. It is a little invidious to choose out any particular movements for special reference, and in so doing I may merely betray personal bias rather than critical judgement. Yet it is perhaps permissible to point out that the genesis of the Adult School movement is the natural development of the Quaker respect for that of God in every man. It represents the longing for a religious fellowship which does not force opinion but offers the most favourable conditions for the formation of independent judgement and the growth of individual faith. How far the movement realizes its ideal, I forbear to inquire, but its very existence affords some evidence of the belief in the positive virtue of toleration as an essential element of the Christian character. Another powerful factor making for co-operation and better understanding among Christians may be found in the Student Christian movement. For this country its value has been enhanced if not created by the opening of the older Universities to Nonconformists. The future leaders of all our Churches are now being educated together, and through the Student Christian movement, they are educating each other and facing together old controversies and inherited problems at a time when their judgements are least hampered either by tradition or responsibility. What this may mean for the religious life of this country, we cannot yet tell, but it is certain that a new temper will be brought to bear on our divisions. The men who learn to appreciate one another through this association, tend to hold together when they pass out of the Universities into their life-work. There are springing up through the Student movement new associations or fellowships which conserve and continue the unifying impetus of the movement itself. Nor is that unifying power confined to this country. It forms a world-wide federation whose lines of communication have not been cut even by the present war. In every land, the Student movement intends to resume international intercourse at the earliest possible moment. I think it is not simply the bias of a student in favour of his own class, which makes me regard the Student Christian movement as one of the most hopeful developments in the religious life of our age. Perhaps the influence of this movement itself may be traced in the growing demand for co-operation in the missionary task of the Church. This demand has no doubt arisen in part through the changes in the means of transport and communication which have made the world a smaller place. Missionary effort is less sporadic than it was. The Churches are developing a _Weltpolitik_. The exact proportions of the task before them are now more clearly grasped. The difficulty of overtaking the task even when united, and the impossibility of discharging it effectively while divided are also more apparent. But the demand for unity and the power of co-operation have also been strengthened by the men and women who have gone abroad under the influence of the Student Volunteer Missionary Union. High Churchmen and Nonconformist having learnt to work together on a Christian Student executive do not find it difficult to co-operate, where opportunity offers, in India or China. A half-involuntary revolution of sentiment is proceeding under our eyes. The strength of the new spirit of co-operation was revealed in the Edinburgh Conference of 1910. That date will stand out as supremely significant in the growth of a new Catholicism in the West. We have so far been concerned with influences making for a deeper sense of unity within the Christian Church. But if we attempt a wider survey, we shall discover that religious thought and feeling in the West, whether definitely Christian or no, possess some common characteristics, bear the impress of convictions which are ever struggling for expression. First among these characteristic features of religious thought in the West I would place faith in the solidarity of mankind. The origin of this faith probably passes beyond our analysis. I should suspect that there is a universal impulse stimulating this belief which I should be inclined to regard as instinctive. Yet it has certainly found fuller expression in the West than in the civilization of India or China. It is possible to point to traditions, to philosophies, and to particular events which have carried this faith in human solidarity deep into the consciousness of the West. Dr. Prichard, whose scientific labours, we were told in an earlier lecture, refuted the heresy of polygenism, was moved to undertake his inquiries by a desire to maintain the accuracy of the Mosaic tradition as to the common origin of mankind. It is a little curious to reflect that illusory anthropology, accepted on the authority of Moses and of Rousseau, the belief in Adam, and the belief in the free and happy savage, have perhaps done more than scientific research into primitive culture to maintain our faith in human brotherhood and equality. We must not, however, attach too much weight to the story of Adam. The Western sense of the dignity of ordinary manhood owes much more to the great Stoic conception of humanity, as Mr. Barker reminded us in his lecture on the Middle Ages. Perhaps even more significant is the feeling for humanity engendered by regarding all men as the objects of a common redemption. The poorest of men have been protected from their fellows where they have been recognized as brothers for whom Christ died. It would be worth while, if one had the time and the knowledge, to follow the growth of this sentiment in modern times, to trace the influence of the doctrine of Natural Rights, of the French Revolution, of the philosophy of Comte, and of the Evangelical Revival, upon its development. But whatever the sources and phases of its growth, the existence and strength of this faith in humanity are undeniable. It is this faith which compels us to refuse to think of Western civilization as merely Western. For we believe that the West holds in trust for mankind, not only a right knowledge of nature, not only a correct scientific method, but also an essential conception of the worth and unity of human life. Whatever we are to gain from the East, this is one of the gifts we bring to the other half of the world. In speaking of this faith in human solidarity as Western, I am aware that I am making broad statements which badly need qualification. I am far from wishing to suggest that there is no such sentiment of humanity in the great structures of Asiatic civilization, particularly in the ethical systems of China. But I am persuaded that there is a broad contrast between West and East in this respect, and that in particular there is a significant gulf between the West and Hinduism. In the West, this often inarticulate faith in humanity has acted as a spring of progress. It inspires our faith in democracy, it acts as a perpetual challenge to privilege and oppression, as a constant denial of permanence to divisions of class, nationality, and race. The very difficulty which the orthodox Hindu experiences in appreciating the spiritual meaning of democracy--his feeling that the democratic movement is an irrational blindly selfish confusing of a divine appointed social order--discloses the existence of this gulf. It is not for nothing that the religious traditions of Hinduism trace the four castes back to divine appointment and regard them as coeval with the race. Nor is it without significance that India rejected Buddhism--a movement which challenged caste and whose missionary enthusiasm embodied a broader sentiment of humanity than has yet been woven into Indian civilization. The influence of the West is now renewing the attack on caste which Buddha initiated and failed to accomplish. Without serious injustice we may claim that this faith in human solidarity has attained clearer expression and exerts greater influence in the West than in the East. To detail its influence is impossible. It underlies our hopes of social reform, it refuses to believe in the subhuman--at least it refuses to believe in the necessity of his continued existence. It inspires the religious enthusiasm with which men embrace Socialism as 'a hope for mankind'. It turns the brotherhood of man into a 'masked word.' As a character in one of St. John Ervine's novels puts it, 'Brother'ood of man, my boy--that's my motter. Brother'ood of man! the 'ole world, see! Not a little bit like England! the 'ole world! all of us! see? No fightin or nothink! Just peace an' 'appiness! Takes your breath away when you think on it. It do, straight.' The same religious impulse is at work in that disease of humanitarianism which distresses Chauvinists--the humanitarianism which Bernhardi denounces in Germany and Mr. Moreton Fullerton deplores in France. It is reflected in the religious life alike of Russia and of France. Paul Sabatier's book is largely concerned with following out the influence of this sense of solidarity in all philosophic and religious schools and in all classes in France. He notes, for example, the anti-clericalism of the French peasant, which does not, however, lead him to embrace the dogmatic negations of Free-thought. The peasant still clings to the rites of the Church through 'the perhaps unconscious desire to perform an act of social solidarity, to meet our fellow-men elsewhere than on the field of material interests and distractions, to accept the rendezvous which they offer to us and we to them, that we may draw together and, more than that--unite and unify'. In another quarter we may witness a new feeling for humanity resulting from the throwing together of diverse racial elements in the melting-pot of the United States. Zangwill's play might be cited as a document of this larger faith, while Jane Addams has sympathetically described its genesis in her _Newer Ideals of Peace_. Yet another expression of this instinctive faith may be discovered in the broad human interest of much of our modern literature and art. For the standard of orthodoxy in this connexion requires not only that we respond to a grand conception of humanity as a whole, but that also in particulars we are loyal to the Terentian tag, 'Homo sum: humani nil a me alienum puto.' The worthier side of modern realism has done full justice to this motto. The expressions of this faith in human solidarity are so various, and its influence so pervading, that it is not surprising to find some modern thinkers looking to it as the essence of religion. In the sociological theory of religion, it is suggested that to become aware of society and its claims constitutes religion itself. A man is converted when his soul is 'congregationalized'. There is even a tendency to find the highest element in religious experience in a strong feeling of one's unity with one's fellows. Such a feeling of endless sympathy and tolerance is so large a part of love that it is easily mistaken for the whole. For this starting-point, we might readily imagine a Western faith in humanity with Walt Whitman as its prophet. But a second characteristic of Western thought about religion forbids any idealization of humanity as we know it, and draws us beyond the indiscriminate catholicism of 'The Open Road'. This characteristic may be defined as our faith in the worth of activity and in the reality of progress. We believe in the unity of mankind much more as a task to be achieved than as an accomplished or given fact to be enjoyed. Nietzsche says somewhere, 'if the goal of humanity be wanting, do we not lack humanity itself?' We look for the ultimate unity of mankind in the pursuit of a common end. The search for such a goal, and the effort to achieve it, lend worth to history and to present action. This faith, often blind and unreasoned, is distinctly Western and modern. We do not derive it even from Greece. It comes to us through Christianity and modern science. The absence of any such faith in activity and progress creates the pessimism of the East. Hinduism and Buddhism are alike in their bankruptcy on this side. The majestic religious philosophy of India sees in history only an endless and meaningless repetition. Thucydides and Plato assume the same view, if I mistake not. As Eucken says, 'Ancient views of life bore throughout an unhistorical character. The numerous philosophical doctrines of the procession of endless similar cycles, which continually return to the starting-point, were only the expression of the conviction that all movement at bottom brings nothing new and that life offers no prospect of further improvement.' When Paul discovered that the law was a schoolmaster to bring men to Christ, he enunciated a profounder philosophy of history than Plato ever knew. The very fact that Christianity sprang out of Judaism means that it enshrines and suggests the idea of progress in the very circumstances of its origin. But its hold on the idea is something deeper than its connexion with Judaism. Christianity claims to be the final religion, but its claim differs in kind from the parallel claim of Mohammedanism. The world of Islam is held in mortmain by the prophet. It cannot advance beyond the forms in which he embodied his message without denying the claims he made for himself. But to the early Christians the synoptic gospels were the record of all that Jesus _began_ to do and to say, while the highest development of Christian experience and reflection in the New Testament, the gospel of John, contemplates the greater things which the followers of Jesus shall accomplish and the fuller revelations which shall come as the disciples are able to bear them. The claim of Christianity to finality rests on its opening up endless possibilities of spiritual growth to mankind. To some of us it seems that part of this fuller revelation has come through modern knowledge and discovery. The faith in progress which Christians have often held falteringly and have sometimes denied, appears to be confirmed and clarified by all that we are learning of creative evolution. In any case, the influence of modern science has tended to produce a faith in progress in the West--a faith which some regard as essentially different from the Christian view of the world and history, but which for others seems more and more to coalesce with that earlier if in some respects cruder Christian conviction. No doubt when the facts of evolution were held to point to gradual and continuous development, they favoured a view of steady progress which was antagonistic to the Christian belief in the sudden introduction of new elements into history. But the later advances of evolutionary theory seem more akin to the early Christian attitude. The element of apocalyptic is seen not to be so alien from nature as had been at first supposed. However it arises and whatever form it takes, this faith in progress is characteristic of the Western outlook, and gives a positive answer to the question, Is life worth living? That such a faith is strange to India may be evidenced by the reception accorded to the poet Tagore in India itself. Mr. Yeats gives us the judgement of a Bengali who said of Tagore, 'He is the first among our saints who has not refused to live, but spoken out of Life itself, and that is why we give him our love.' Now Tagore's genius is thoroughly Indian, but his originality in this respect is due directly or indirectly to contact with the influence of the West. It is our belief in action and in the worth of human achievement which is voiced in his poems and in his philosophy, and the note is new in India. Illustrations of this belief in progress and activity are superfluous, though I may remind you of the prevalence of this temper in the realm of philosophy as well as of religion at the present time. Perhaps it is worth recalling that Harnack's great history of dogma ends with this significant sentence from Zwingli: 'It is not the part of a Christian man to be for ever talking grandly about dogma, but always to be attempting big things in fellowship with God.' This represents as well as anything our Western insistence on the worth of effort. As an admirable embodiment at once of the faith in humanity and the faith in progress, the close of Matthew Arnold's poem 'Rugby Chapel' recurs to the mind. You remember how he conceives the function of great men to lie in preserving the union of mankind, and how he conceives the life of mankind as a journey towards a city that hath foundations. These two characteristics, faith in the oneness of mankind and in the reality of progress, do add a sense of common aspiration to the civilization of the West. But of themselves they do not create a very close unity. Men may believe in human solidarity and in the worth of effort, and yet be following divergent ideals and divisive enthusiasms. These beliefs are surrounded by haze and indefiniteness. In themselves they scarcely constitute a religion that will satisfy, much less one that can effectively unite us. However fully we share them, they will not enable us to meet and surmount the present crisis. So far as I can judge, these vaguer beliefs in humanity and progress are largely the deposit of Christian faith, and to be rendered effective they need to be ever reconnected with the central elements in that faith; in particular, with the Christian judgement on sin and with the Christian devotion to the historic Jesus. The sense of sin has received a peculiar impress in the West. We owe it largely to the religious experience of the Jew and to the seriousness of the Latin mind. There is a curious coincidence of the seventh chapter of Romans with a famous quotation from Ovid. The Latin fathers, particularly Augustine, have developed, not to say over-developed, the analysis of sin. The concept of sin never had the same significance for the Greek, and humanism has always resented the severity of the tradition that comes from Paul through Augustine and Calvin. Mr. Holmes's stimulating books on education are inspired by a theological polemic against the doctrine of original sin. He not unnaturally takes refuge in Buddhism, for Buddhism makes suffering, not sin, the root trouble of human life. 'The division between the will and the power, the struggle of the senses against our better judgement, the falling below the moral ideal--none of all this comes within the horizon of Buddha.' Now it may freely be confessed that the Calvinist view of sin led to a distrust of human nature, and incidentally of child-nature, which had a not altogether healthy reaction on home discipline and school-life. It is very difficult to maintain the right balance, and the danger of morbidity through emphasis on sin is undeniable. Yet it seems to me that the worst errors of Calvinism and Evangelicalism in this regard have lain in a tendency to theological formalism and a failure to keep in touch with real life. In consequence, those who most deplore our waning sense of sin try us by a perverted or antiquated standard, and fasten often on changes of sentiment and habit which are by no means necessarily or largely sinful. They are least conscious of the want of a sense of sin, in modern society, where that want is most serious. But I do not doubt that our often old-fashioned friends are right on the main issue. I do not believe that we shall see the progress we desire, unless we recover a heightened sense of sin. I hold with Lord Acton that our internal conflicts are due to indifference to sin and not to a religious idea. We judge ourselves and our race too lightly. We quench our hope of progress by a leniency and indulgence towards our failings which involve an underestimate of our powers and responsibilities. The present crisis will not issue in a hopeful reaction through regret but only through repentance. The sense of sin which Christianity has brought to the West is not, I think, to be found elsewhere. It only appears where men feel they have an assured knowledge of God's will. It is intense only where men are conscious of God's presence. The vision of the Holiest reveals to Isaiah that he is a man of unclean lips. Such a conviction of sin seems to me inexplicable apart from contact with the living God. Two things are required to bring home to men a true estimate of their moral failure, first a right standard of judgement, and, second, a conviction of the reality of God. Is it too much to say that we are not likely to reach either, apart from Jesus of Nazareth? 'It is through Jesus and not from Adam that we know sin.' It is through Him that men discover their moral ideal and learn not simply to believe that there is a God, but to say, O God, Thou art my God even for ever and ever. Surely there is something providential in the resolute endeavour of the last century to get back to Christ. The whole movement has succeeded in disentangling the authority of Christ from that either of Moses or of Paul. We are almost where the disciples were when they saw no man save Jesus only. Some things in the traditions remain obscure and baffling. But we see enough to measure afresh our distance from Him. And when the peoples of Europe are thoroughly weary of the work of destruction, it may be they will turn to Him again for the secret of rest, and find that He alone can guide their feet into the way of peace. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE Sabatier, _L'Orientation religieuse de la France actuelle_. Armand Colin: Paris. W.K.L. Clarke, _Facing the Facts; or, an Englishman's Religion_. Nisbet. E.C. Moore, _Christian Thought since Kant_. Duckworth's Studies in Theology. XIV THE GROWTH OF HUMANITY The preceding chapter has recalled attention to the need of deeper elements of unity in civilization than can be afforded by any commercial, financial or political ties. Plans for a political union of nations, common tendencies in social reform, even the essential unity of commerce and science, will be of no avail, unless there is a basis in common sentiments of a religious kind, in the consciousness that we are all members one of another and can only advance and realize ourselves by the help and sympathy of other members of the same body. It is to this point then that we will address ourselves in the concluding section of the subject. The mechanics of unity need both earnest advocacy and careful study. But beneath and beyond them a motive force has to be found in ideals and sentiments by which alone in the end the working of all such mechanical arrangements is rendered possible. Right sentiments are not a sufficient safeguard, but they are an essential foundation, and it is of the first importance to realize the things to which the mass of mankind are most deeply attached, how they are affected towards one another, the channels through which the tide of feeling most naturally flows and is extended. Looked at from this point of view the problem becomes primarily an educational one. We study mankind as we find it in order to effect an improvement in the direction which we desire. We find then in the first place that men as a rule are most strongly attached to the localities and the people with whom they are first brought closely in contact. Here in the family is the first true microcosm, the first community in which the individual is developed by association with his fellows. On the value of this earliest social training there are hardly two opinions, and we need not dwell upon it. It is at the next stage that divergence, both of definite opinion and still more of emphasis, begins to be apparent. How far is attachment to country a valuable thing, how far should it be cultivated, what are the necessary limitations and controlling ideas? As to the reality of the sentiment every man can examine himself. We know, most of us, with what intense satisfaction we return to the country, the district, of our birth and home. The feeling is one of the strongest and deepest things in us, even if our reason deprecates and disallows the claim. As Englishmen, perhaps even more as Scotchmen and Irish, we love with an indefinable and ineradicable passion our sea-coast, our hills and valleys, the fields and cottages, even the sometimes sordid, nearly always ill-assorted, congeries of houses which we have thrown together as towns. We fight among ourselves, we have more religious, political, and social differences than any other people. Yet when we need companionship for work or pleasure, at home or abroad, we would sooner have an Englishman at our side than any other man. Men and country--'dear souls and dear, dear land'--these are the elements which make up the real thing called patriotism and which, in spite of all our curses and all our self-seeking, lead us in millions to work or die for our country, and will, while life lasts, bring us home at last. To those who know the local narrowness, the jealousies and pettiness of much of our own national life, it will seem a primary duty in education to present the country as an object of education and service, imperfect indeed and limited by larger ends, but yet supreme over the selfish interests of trade, town, or individual. This, with all its terrible losses, the war is doing for us with mighty and irresistible strokes, and it is a tragic truth that in our present imperfect social state, it is only a war, hurling us against other great and really co-operating communities of men, which can make us bear with comparative ease and cheerfulness the most serious burdens of loss and suffering. We act instantly as one people in war, we haggle and hesitate about the most moderate sacrifices to secure an advance in peace. It is this quality in patriotism, and in war as its stimulus, which largely and naturally biases our view. But to the ideal of a united Western civilization or a united mankind it is only one step. We cannot do without patriotism, but we must immediately proceed beyond it. We cannot reform the troubles and conflicts of mankind by attempting to root up some of our most tenacious passions; we progress by mastering and not mutilating our being. We have to advance beyond the limits of patriotism by wider sympathy, by seeing analogies, by recognizing the facts of common interests and co-operation in the world. But here again, looking at the question from an educational rather than an abstract point of view, we have to recognize that actual realization of the life and services of other nations is a slow, difficult, and, at best, a limited process. It was really easier for the travelling student of the Middle Ages to enter into the simple and similar life of universities abroad than for the modern traveller to grasp the complex relations of a great foreign city or state. We have therefore, in practice, to select and concentrate. For the modern Englishman a knowledge of one or two other countries and languages is as much as the pressure of life will permit, and it is greatly to be regretted that poverty and hard work limit even this acquisition to very few. A _Wanderjahr_ for the working-man would do much to cement the unity of western civilization. Until the recent acute rivalry with Germany developed, English sympathies were fairly evenly divided. Your Liberal, as a rule, was a Frenchman, and your Conservative a German. George Meredith and John Morley sang the praises of France, Coleridge and Carlyle would have us learn from Germany. Now for many years the die is cast. We shall face the settlement and the dangers of the future side by side with France. This becomes, then, one of the fixed points in our orientation. History and geography both dictate it. Just as in the building of our fatherland and its attendant sentiments, the process is not a purely logical one, but comes to its completion by most irregular courses, with all sorts of bypaths due to the odd configuration of our nature and the world we live in, so in widening out from patriotism to humanity we have to follow a line given, for the most part, by external facts. The French as our nearest neighbours have always had a special interest for us. They, like ourselves, have inherited a mixed race and a mixed civilization, partly Teutonic, partly Celtic, partly Roman, but with elements variously combined. To us a more predominantly Teutonic stock and an insular position have given a more independent and unique character, history, and constitution. France, as being continental and more central, was also more completely Romanized, and has at all periods of her history been more in touch with the general stream of thought than ourselves. Often she has led it, always she has reflected it more quickly and perfectly. Our traditional rivalry has been a chivalrous one, marked by many episodes of real admiration and close friendship. To Elizabeth, to Cromwell, to the Crusaders of the twelfth and the philosophers of the eighteenth century, France and England seemed as naturally allied as they are now in repelling a common aggression on their homes and liberty. But for the future the strongest links will be the two great common ideals, self-government and individual freedom at home, and the community of free peoples abroad. In the practical democracy already realized at home, and in the ideal of a humanity built up of such self-governing and co-operating states, France and England stand for the unity of western civilization in the sense in which it has been traced in this volume, the only sense which makes it worth the sacrifice of wealth and toil and life. ERRATUM. Page 305, line 14 from bottom _for_ cannot it abolish _read_ it cannot abolish _Marvin: The Unity of Western Civilization_. [** Transcriber's Note: The text below was modified to reflect the ERRATUM above. The original ERRATUM is left in the document for historical purposes. **] The unity of which we believe ourselves to be now the champions must therefore be a real thing based on freedom and realized by conscious effort; but it must also be truly comprehensive, not exclusive of any willing co-operator, not aimed against any one but for the whole. It is not intended in this volume to discuss any burning questions of the day, and therefore the briefest indications must be given of how the nucleus of western culture has been formed and how it must reform itself after the war. France, Germany, and England have been for many years, collectively far the most important centres of science and social progress in the world, and it would have been the ideal policy for them to give a united lead to the rest of the world. The war has altered that, but it cannot abolish the fundamental facts on which the civilization of the West is based, science, power over nature, and social organization. In these the same three countries will still have a certain primacy, though the position of the United States will be enormously strengthened. No peace can, of course, be permanent which contemplates the excommunication of a leading member of the human family. Italy in science, philosophy, and literature, is a worthy colleague, and Russia makes a great stride forward by allying herself with the forces of progress and European unity. Now it is clear that there are two distinct lines of approach to our goal of a united mankind. We may cultivate for ourselves, as an ideal based on love and reason, the notion of all men as brothers working together, helping one another even when unknown, strengthening one another's powers, and gradually advancing towards a higher goal. This, though not a complete religion for most people, at least partakes of the nature of religion. The other line is concerned with the practical task of reconciling actual difficulties, bringing nations together for various purposes--arbitration, international trade, boards of conciliation and the like. This is the slow and thorny path, and on account of its very difficulty is apt to engross the thoughts and energy of the best brains which devote themselves to the cause. But the first line, of self-cultivation and the promotion of a favourable spirit among others, though open to any one and easy of approach, is apt to be neglected. Such 'mere idealism', like pure benevolence, runs some risk of being choked by the multiplicity of details and agencies and organizations which beset the modern world. Humanity, as an idea, was perhaps more easily apprehended in the days of Turgot and Condorcet than it is with us when the implements of a united mankind have been immeasurably augmented and improved. All the greater, then, the need to re-integrate the notion. Just as in science the dispersive effect of specialism has led many thinkers to desire another order of minds specially devoted to generalism, to knitting together the results of the detailed investigations of others, so in conduct, morals and politics, it is more and more imperative to recall men's minds, and, in the first place, our own, to the large governing ideas by which after all our lesser rules and objects must stand or fall. For who will dispute that all our alliances and international action and the war itself can only be ultimately justified if they are seen to serve the highest interests of mankind as a whole? A volume, and a very valuable one, might be written on the evolution of this idea of Humanity in history. We should need in the first place to analyse, with some care, in what sense it is in each case used. There is the simple sense of brotherhood such as we know to be deeply felt among our allies in Russia. Of this there must have been germs from the earliest appearance of mankind upon earth. It is one of those most precious things which the development of wealth and class and distinctive culture has tended to blunt in more elaborate civilizations. But when we consider that the full conception of Humanity involves a knowledge of man's evolution, his growth in power, and organization throughout history, as well as the simple but indispensable sense of man's brotherhood, we shall see how long a road the Russian moujik--as well as multitudes of his fellows in all other lands--must travel before he comes in view of the goal. In the fuller sense of a self-conscious and developing being, the idea of Humanity first appears with the Stoics, after the Greeks had put their leaven of abstract thought into the world. The whole inhabited world as the City of Man was the Stoic ideal, and it embraced both the idea of the [Greek: polis] which Platonic and Aristotelian thought had reached in the fourth century B.C., and the extension to the rest of mankind which was in the air just before the Christian era. Christianity affected the conception in a twofold manner. On the one hand it limited it, for the Stoic City of Man became the City of God, who was to be sought and worshipped in one prescribed order. On the other hand it deepened it, for the springs of a common humanity were found to go beneath the superficial facts of a citizen life into the depths of souls which have identical relations with eternal things, with sin and suffering and hopes of the future. It is not till after the outburst of science in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, after that reawakening of the hopes of human powers which takes our minds back to the Greeks, that we find the conception of Humanity appearing in something like the form in which we can now imagine it. It will have been gathered from our chapter on Science and Philosophy how essential is the growth of organized thought to the realization of any unity in a progressive world. For the realm of thought is the only one in which no distinctions of race or nation are possible, but it must be thought in which agreement is reached. So long as men can differ, as they still do, on questions of human affairs, politics, social arrangements, or even archaeological matters where race or national predominance is involved, so far science does not exert her unifying sway. But in mathematics, physics, chemistry, all the matters in which it is impossible for a man to take another view because he is a Frenchman or a German--here we reach a haven of intellectual peace; and these calm waters are spreading over the world, in spite of the tempests. To return to the educational point from which we started, we can see now another line of approach to unity in training our own minds and those of others. In some respects it is a surer way, though less direct. When studying the political life and history of other nations, even if we do so deliberately in order to find out what we owe to them, we are bound to be arrested here and there by things that we do not like, even among our best friends. The French may seem frivolous or less self-restrained than ourselves; they have had their sanguinary outbursts of revolution. Where they have impeded our own movements, as in colonization, we are the more conscious of their faults. Or we may feel that Americans have their materialistic vein. And so on. This with our best friends, who, no doubt, feel the same about us. But on the other line of approach, the study of the things on which men now agree without question, which they have built up steadily with co-operating hands, the mental effect is quite different. The opening vista leads us on, with growing admiration and confidence in the unbreakable solidarity of mankind. We know that Newton who completes Galileo, Maxwell who follows Laplace, Helmholtz who uses the results of Joule, can have no conflicting jealousies. Here quite obviously and indisputably all are fellow-workers, and before the greatness of their work the passions of rival domination in material things, the differences of national taste and habit, the quarrels of the past or the future, appear contemptible and insignificant. They are not insignificant, as we know to our cost. But by dwelling on the things of greater moment and solidity, we train ourselves and others to reduce the elements of discord to their true proportion and allay the storm. The progress of a united mankind is thus an ideal, slowly realizing itself in time. But its realization is quickened and rendered wider and more beneficent, the more we think of it and believe in it. A blow comes, such as the present war, and seems to shatter the whole picture which so many hands have limned and so many eyes admired. Those who have followed its growth through the ages, know well that no such blow can finally destroy a living growth or even go very deep in injuring its features. It is surely a commonplace that in proportion as western populations, from statesmen downwards, are animated by sentiments of comradeship which arise from considerations such as these, the danger of war must diminish and the possibilities of fruitful common action increase. Yet there is probably no country in Europe where any deliberate attempt is made to instruct the people in ideas which would most surely broaden their sympathies and lay the foundations of peace. The argument takes us back for a moment to the essay on education. We left off there at a point where the old unity based on Greco-Roman culture was seen to be disappearing in a confused mass of new studies, partly suggested by modern languages and history, still more by the growth of science and the application of science to the problems of contemporary life. It may well be that in this conception of humanity, the co-operation of mankind in a growing structure of thought, we shall ultimately find the _idée-mère_ under which all the other subordinate ideas in education may be grouped and inspired. This might take place if the notion were grasped in no narrow sense, but so broadly that all human thought, religion, and philosophy, art as well as science, might find their justification in it. The advantage of putting the educational issue first has been already indicated. We can all get to work on it at once for ourselves, and it is a far more fundamental and, in some respects, easier thing to introduce a new idea into the minds of others than to alter the boundaries and political conditions of States. If we once achieved a general atmosphere of co-operation and goodwill in the world, the practical problems would be already more than half solved. Discussion will take place, with more and more vigour as years go on, as to the various measures which have been described collectively as the establishment of a World-State. At what point could it be said that a World-State is in being? How can such a World-State be reconciled with the independent sovereignty of the several States comprised in it? What is to be the sanction imposing the decisions of the larger community on its constituent members? Such are a few of the problems involved in any advance towards the Kantian ideal of cosmopolitanism. None of them admit of a single definite answer. They do not belong to questions of pure theory, and we shall have to solve them slowly and with difficulty, seizing every favourable opportunity of a slight advance, avoiding grave obstacles, compromising with every possible friend. But for the moment we seem likely to be overwhelmed by unchained passions which are the practical denial of everything that the ideal of humanity implies. Instead of co-operation we are faced by schemes of conquest and domination, and the simplest notion of brotherhood is limited to comradeship in arms for defence or attack. Many will be found to ridicule the idea that any real progress in unity has ever been made, or that the world can ever be envisaged except as an irksome enclosure of rival armed forces thirsting for the fray. But to those who are not prepared to accept this as the last word in human association the argument of this volume may have some weight. It will lead those who follow it to a quiet but well-grounded belief that the forces tending to unity in the world are different in quality, incomparably greater in scope than those which make for disruption. Discord is explosive and temporary, harmony rises slowly but dominates the final chord. Like the great common purposes of science, the common tendencies of human action have in recent years suffered some eclipse through the bustle of our activity and the multiplicity of its detail. The colours, too, of a conflict of any kind are so much more vivid and arresting than the quiet and monotonous tones of a long piece of harmonious and co-operative work. The labours of such a bureau of international effort as is described in Chapter X appear to our pressmen and publicists so little interesting that they are practically ignored, and the results of scientific congresses, being of a highly specialized kind, are left perforce to those who can understand them. Yet it is precisely in these things, if our diagnosis is correct, that the most characteristic features of the age are to be found. For in them and in similar movements we see united the two fundamental human traits from which we started, reason and sympathy: reason winning triumphs over nature, sympathy realizing itself at last in a community of men devoting their powers to mutual aid. 'Idle dreams', it will be said, as we hurl more and more millions of our best youth to destruction by the most highly developed resources of science. Yes, but the same nations were only yesterday celebrating the services of Pasteur, Virchow, and Lister to a common humanity, and will do so again to-morrow or the day after. It is in truth one of the most poignant features of the tragedy in which we are manfully and rightly bearing our part, that the community-sense in the world had never been so highly developed, or found so many channels in which to diffuse itself, as just at the moment when the blow fell. The socialist movements in all civilized countries have always had this as a leading motive; comrades and poor among themselves, these men have always been eager to stretch out a hand to those of like mind abroad. And in the last chapter we saw how among Christian communities throughout the world there has been in recent years a growing approximation. Neither the cause nor the effects of such forces can die away. They will reappear when the storm has passed and rebuild the wreck. One large aspect of the united action of the western world has received no notice in this volume, though it might very well be the subject of a detailed study in itself. This is the relation of the more advanced and powerful nations of the West towards the weaker and less progressive peoples. It might, indeed, be treated as the touchstone of our civilization, just as the education of the young is a good, perhaps the best, test of the advancement of any single people. For it involves some joint action of the western nations; it shows how far they are disinterested and how far skilful in their treatment of the less advanced. The record is not a good one, but it confirms, on the whole, the view we have suggested that a growth of the sense and conception of humanity may be traced from the time when modern science was born in the sixteenth century. The Middle Ages hardly furnish us with any examples of the action of Christendom towards heathen and weaker people until the Crusades, in which, with rare examples of personal chivalry, the earlier attitude was one of contempt and hatred of the unbeliever. In the conquest of the New World, which was to some of its earliest conquerors a new Crusade, there is the same general savagery marked by rare cases of Christian kindness, such as Las Casas showed. But after the Reformation, when the Church itself had been purified and more human tolerance and care and interest in life prevailed, we find the enlightened Jesuit missions to China and Paraguay, St. Francis Xavier's work in India, and the Quaker dealings with Red Indians in the New World. From the middle of the seventeenth century, slavery, which had fallen into abeyance during the Middle Ages as a domestic institution, began to be denounced as a trade. We are on the threshold of the great humanitarian outburst of the eighteenth century. It is impossible to believe that this growth of human feeling in dealing with other men is unconnected with that new gospel of human power which Bacon and Descartes had just proclaimed. Except for the occasional superman, the greater the powers a man possesses and the higher he rates human capacity at its best, the more careful he is to cherish and develop the germs of humanity in the young and weak. This was undoubtedly the case with the 'philosophers' of the eighteenth century; it is equally true of the nineteenth century, an age wonderful alike for its unexampled development of science and for the rise of activities, national and international, for the betterment of the race. Jointly the western nations have in this period put down the slave trade, and in the Brussels Conference of 1890 we see the highest point yet reached by the united humanity of the West expressed by the assembled states in regard to backward people. The point therefore is a notable one, and Englishmen will be glad to remember that it was Lord Salisbury, then Foreign Secretary, who took the first step. The previous Conference at Berlin, in 1884, had secured freedom of trade for the basins of the Congo and the Niger, and in 1889 Lord Salisbury, through the Belgian Government, called the Powers together to consider questions relating to the slave trade in Africa. For Africa, home of the black race, last exploited of the continents, discovered after the white man had discovered science, was pre-eminently the part of the world where the co-operation of leading peoples in civilizing backward races was most needed and most to be expected. The Congo, the Herreros, Morocco, Tripoli, Omdurman, offer a blood-stained record in reply. But the general act of the Brussels Conference is clear and adequate as to what the purpose of the Powers should be. "To put an end to the crimes and devastations engendered by the traffic in African slaves, to protect effectively the aboriginal populations of Africa, to ensure for that vast continent the benefits of peace and civilization", is in fact the whole duty of a united western civilization when dealing with the less civilized. The results achieved may well seem small compared with the magnitude of the purpose, but those who know most about it do not despise them. Slave-raiding and tribal wars have been diminished and some check put on importing arms and spirits. It is not a topic on which it is easy to keep a cheerful mind. Some Putumayo will constantly occur to remind us of the fierce brutality of strength unsupervised and unrestrained. We compare the actual performance of mankind when free to try their best or wreak their worst on comparatively defenceless folk, with the noble rivalry which we can imagine between the nations of the world in leading the weaker people to develop their resources and themselves, on paths which may tend to the greatest prosperity and happiness of all, advanced and backward together: and the comparison leaves us sick at heart. But a sober judgement will not deny that even here advance is being made. The ideal has been admitted. The rights of smaller States are being made, as in the present conflict, the subject of the concern of their strongest neighbours. Steps are being taken all over the world to preserve and ameliorate the remnants of primitive people. Horrors when revealed are more strongly reprobated. Missionaries are pursuing their labours with more enlightenment and zeal, and in wider spheres. In spite of cynics and doubters, it is true in this as in the other activities of a united mankind, _e pur si muove_. And as the work moves on it is seen to involve the same guiding thoughts that inspire us in the case of the young and feeble at home--pity for their weakness, love for their humanity, hope for the future. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE _Kant's Perpetual Peace_ (new edition just published). _International Policy_. Chapman & Hall. Fayle, _The Great Settlement_. Murray. _The Leadership of the World_. (Oxford pamphlet.) 
50148	----	LOOKING FORWARD A Dream of the United States of the Americas in 1999 BY ARTHUR BIRD Ex-Vice Consul-General of America at Port-au-Prince, Hayti PREFACE. The author respectfully submits it as his firm and immovable conviction, that the United States of America, in years to come, will govern the entire Western Hemisphere. The Stars and Stripes which never knew, nor ever will know defeat, will, in years to come, gather under its protecting folds, every nation and every island in this hemisphere. It is a duty we Americans owe to the republics of Central and South America to give them the benefits of our pacific government, the rule of the People, by and for the People, exemplified in the great Constitution of the United States of America. America has to-day an inviolable Monroe Doctrine. Any attempt on the part of Europe to violate the spirit or letter of that wise doctrine, would be promptly resented by America. Our American flag already protects and defends every republic in the Americas. How many years will it require to convince the Central and South American Republics that their security and path of safety is to come under the flag that already protects them? The purpose of this book is to clearly establish this important fact in the mind of every patriotic American. Our glorious, starry banner will rule the entire Western Hemisphere. It will be the emblem of Peace, Liberty and Civilization, floating over a united America from Alaska to Patagonia. This is America's Destiny. In setting forth this great truth the author has avoided the well beaten paths and dusty roads travelled by writers from the days of the Deluge up to the hour of going to press, and it is to be hoped that the reader, now and then, may find some refreshing scenery along his pathway. If this book serves to stimulate patriotic pride and strengthen respect for our liberty-loving flag, it then will not have been written in vain. Most respectfully submitted, The Author. LOOKING FORWARD ----A Dream of---- THE UNITED STATES OF THE AMERICAS, 1999. CHAPTER I. The American Colossus. A Dream of Magnificent Expansion. America becomes the Mightiest Nation of the World and extends her Domain from Alaska to Patagonia. Gauged by certain standards and viewed from certain standpoints, a mere century is but a brief compass of time. From an individual point of view, in the daily routine of life, a century appears to be an embryo-eternity. When time is gauged with clock like precision and to each minute is allotted its full value, a century assumes an unfathomable depth. But, in the cycles of time, a century is a mere footprint in the passage of time; a small link in the endless chain of eternity. Time is easily annihilated by mental process. Witness the feat performed by Mahomet, related in a certain chapter of the [Mahomet on Rapid Transit.] Koran. The faithful are informed in this passage of the Koran that the Prophet was awakened one morning from a deep, refreshing slumber by an angel and was summoned into Paradise to confer with Allah. While in the act of ascending to Heaven, Mahomet's foot struck and upset a pitcher of water which stood near the couch. The Koran unblushingly proclaims that the Prophet held 999 long conferences with Allah and had safely returned to his couch, ready for another snooze, before the water in the falling pitcher had time to spill on the floor! There is something very refreshing in this narrative. It shows that Mahomet was well up in rapid transit matters and again it proves the sublime virtue of a man, a son of the desert, a turbaned Washington, who couldn't tell a lie and who resisted the temptation to make this batch of conferences with Allah an even thousand. Mahomet missed his calling; he ought to have been a newspaper reporter. Assuming the prerogatives of the Koran, the author, at one stroke of his pen, proposes to annihilate time. Plunged into a profound slumber he had a dream. Great men and little men; the renowned and the ignorant; the philosopher and the Australian bushman; quakers and cannibals; the prince and the peasant, all these and myriads of others, have had their dreams. Love's dream has been the theme of all ages, the burden of songs untold. The dream of conquest, the dream of ambition and dreams of every human passion and desire have throbbed within the human brain. But the author's dream is not swayed by human emotions; it is not the handmaid of [America's Giant Republic, 1999.] passion. It is a dream that unseals the book of the future and reveals to the world the colossal, peace-loving, giant republic of the universe in the year of our Lord, 1999, The United States of the Americas, the mightiest nation ever known in contemporaneous history. It is related that at a national anniversary celebration dinner, held a few years ago, in the classic regions of Chicago, while the toasts were being dissected, a guest arose and proposed to "Our Country,"--the United States of America, bounded on the north by Canada; on the south by the Gulf of Mexico; on the east by the Atlantic and on the west by the Pacific Ocean. Another gentleman arose and protested warmly against the narrow limits as ascribed to our beloved country. "Let us," he continued, "drink to the prosperity of the United States of America,--bounded on the north by the North Pole; on the south by the Antarctic Region; on the east by the first chapter of the Book of Genesis and on the west by the Day of Judgment." At the fin-de-siecle of the twentieth century, in the year of our Lord, 1999, the United States of the Americas were virtually bounded as above related. The comparatively small segment of territory known and officially recognized in 1899 as the United States of America, still retained in 1999 its predominant importance, yet this territory in the twentieth century became only a small fraction of an integral whole. In 1899, compared with its neighbors, the United States of America appeared like a whale by the side of little fishes,--a large loaf compared with which its neighbor-nations in Central and South America resembled little biscuits,--half baked at that. In 1999 the little fishes were glad to come to the great American whale for protection and become a part of our grand union. Our glorious and ever-victorious banner remained precisely the same in 1999, as it must ever remain for centuries yet unborn, the pride of America and the glory of the world. The stripes on our noble flag were still red and white alternately; the only difference was in the number of the stars on the field of blue; they had increased from forty-five to eighty-five and Old Glory proudly waved in 1999 over one mighty united republic from Baffin's Bay to the straits of Magellan. Place in your hand an acorn. Pause as you gaze upon it, consider the mighty giant which slumbers within its bosom. It is only an acorn,--a mere pigmy. Plant it; watch it as it develops into a mighty, towering oak, which, in its majesty of strength seems to bid defiance to the very heavens. Beneath its massive branches and grateful shade the weary traveller may pause to rest his limbs and seek refuge from the heat of day. Our pilgrim fathers were the "acorns" of the colossal republic known in 1999 as [Commenced on a Small Scale.] the United States of the Americas. Little did they those pure and sturdy fathers, dream that from their loins would spring the greatest and grandest government descended to men since the promulgation of the Decalogue. From small beginnings, great ends may often be accomplished. The avalanche that rolls and thunders down the mountain side, sweeping before it forests and boulders, begins business in a very small way. A little handful of snow starts the uproar but before its headlong career has terminated, the very mountain itself trembles beneath the mad rush. So it was with that splendid political structure, known in 1999 as the United States of the Americas. Its humble origin was easily traceable to Plymouth Rock. From the landing of the pilgrims to the close of the nineteenth century, the rapid growth of the Federal States left nothing to be desired. But in the nineteenth century America was still an acorn, from which a mighty oak was to be reared in 1999, a tree under whose branches were sheltered in one mighty republic all the territory from Hudson's Bay to Cape Horn. In the year of our Lord 1999 the world gazed with an admiration, akin to awe, upon [Eighty-five States in the Union.] the magnificent spectacle presented by the United States of the Americas, a colossal republic, embracing eighty-five states, bounded on its northern apex by the states of Alaska, East and West Canada, while the state of Patagonia guarded the extreme south of the American giant, including all islands of the seas lying in the Western Hemisphere, between the Arctic and Antarctic regions. It frequently happens that the insignificant child of to-day, soon becomes, by reason of growth and intellectual force, the leader of the family, a tower of might and strength in their midst, one to whom they look for counsel and protection. So it was with America, the Child of Destiny. In 1776 America was a mere infant, attached to the breast of a harsh, unloving mother. By leaps and bounds this American infant budded into childhood, and in the year of 1899 had already become a busy, good-natured youth, whose prowess, industry and great future already commanded the respect of the world. In 1899 the western hemisphere was politically divided into independent republics, with the minor exception of certain European dependencies, belonging to England, France and Denmark. The United States in the year last named was universally regarded as a prodigy in the family of nations. Its magnificent resources and its expanding industries; its keen inventive genius; its limitless [A Big Fellow, Decidedly.] agricultural wealth; its absolute liberty and entire freedom from militarism, challenged the envy as well as the admiration of the world, while the naval and military prowess of the young American Republic, evidenced in the Spanish-American unpleasantness of 1898, exacted from other nations a wholesome and enduring respect. Such, in brief, was the condition of America in 1899. Little indeed was the popular mind prepared for the extraordinary developments and the remarkable series of events that brought about in 1999 the creation of the United States of the Americas. In that memorable year all of the independent republics of Central and South America had joined our union and were governed under the great Constitution of 1776, which is and always will be, the most inspiring document that ever issued from the pen of man, one that will continue to bless mankind as lone as the sun retains its power and the earth gives forth its fruits. How did all this happen? The Dream furnishes the solution. Read on. CHAPTER II. Under The Eagle's Wing. The Mighty Oregon and the Little Yankee Schooner met on the high seas. "Let us keep together for mutual protection." Mexico the first republic to join our union. The Central and South American Republics all stampede for the shelter of the great American Eagle. Peru joins our union in 1921, Venezuela in 1925, Canada comes stumbling along in 1930. Every American patriot recollects with feelings of pride and admiration the great voyage of the U. S. battleship Oregon, the noblest floating citadel of the nineteenth century, during the spring of the year 1898, from the Golden Gate to Jupiter, Florida, a distance of over 14,000 miles. With only five first-class battleships to its credit, it was of paramount importance for the U. S. government to secure the services of the Oregon to join in the volcanic welcome that awaited the arrival of Admiral Cervera's squadron in the Caribbean sea. The memory of that eventful voyage will remain vivid in the recollections of more than one generation. After the noble vessel had rounded the turbulent waters of Magellan and her stout prow pointed north, anxiety for her safety increased at every knot she covered. The Spanish phantom, at that critical period of the war, looked like a towering mountain, an elevation, however, which was designed to be soon transformed, by subsequent events, into a mole-hill. One bright afternoon, while steaming in latitude 30° south and in longitude 40° [A Saucy Little Yankee Craft.] west, shortly before touching at Rio Janerio, the great Oregon spoke an insignificant, one-masted little schooner, a mere shell, tossing upon South Atlantic billows, with a crew of two men. The fact that the diminutive sail boat proudly unfurled at her masthead the glorious flag of America, was the sole feature, in her case, that saved her from utter insignificance. The Oregon displayed signals, asking the captain of the little vessel if he had spoken any Spanish war-vessels adding, as a matter of information, that war had been declared between Spain and the United States of America. It happened that this was the first intimation the captain of the schooner had received that a state of war existed between the two countries above named. In reply he promptly signalled to the Oregon that he had not seen any Spanish men-of-war, and, being somewhat of a Yankee humorist, added, that if war had been declared, the best thing that they could do would be "to keep together for mutual protection." This anecdote of the recontre of the Oregon and the tiny schooner illustrates aptly the conditions that ruled in 1999 and during several preceding decades. In that year was witnessed a grand union of all the peoples of the Western Hemisphere under the starry banner of America. The little Republics of Central and South America were heartily glad to seek the protection of the Great Leviathan of the North, and, gathered into one great Republic, The United States of the Americas, they stood together one and indivisible, "for mutual protection." In 1999 the world beheld the imposing spectacle of a United America, a nation in magnitude and power that eclipsed any previously known confederation of States, invincible in war and unrivalled in arts, sciences and industry. The Americas were all under the protection of the same stars and stripes, employing the same legal tender and coinage and in 1999 the English tongue had been adopted officially by every Central and South American State. The first Republic that knocked at our gates for admission into the grand union of [Mexico makes the First Break.] the Americas, was Mexico. In the year 1520, the Spaniards, under Cortes, that valiant and most intrepid of Castillian warriors, had already crushed that most dreaded of all barbarian monarchs, Montezuma, and had reduced the Aztec Empire into vassalage and slavery. In 1898, by a series of the most brilliant victories, American prowess and arms, coupled with dare-devil bravery and resolute fighting, had in turn driven out the Spanish hordes from the Americas. With this turn in the tide of history, nothing could be more fitting than the incorporation of Mexico as a State in our Federal Union. Could they have witnessed our brilliant American victories against Spain in 1898, Montezuma and his Aztec warriors would have arisen from their graves and shouted for joy at the knowledge that at last their wrongs at the hands of Spain had been avenged by the sword of America and their Spanish oppressors of 1520 had at last been hurled back to the Castillian haunts from whence they had emerged under Columbus and Cortes. Mexico added a new star to our flag in 1912, just one hundred years after England and America crossed swords. These swords have been sheathed in their scabbards, never again in the world's history to be unsheathed against one another. As early as the year 1899 the desire to join our American Union began to manifest [Awakening of the Americas.] itself. In that year the little island of Jamaica already had under advisement the question of joining the American Union, and the people of Jamaica were seriously agitating the matter. They regarded this step as one that would benefit their material prosperity. This belief was shared by the inhabitants of the other West Indian islands and gained strength with every year, culminating in 1912 in the action taken by Mexico. The incorporation of Mexico into our grand American Union created a profound sensation, not only in the Americas, but, also, throughout the world. It was a purely voluntary act on the part of Mexico, one which could not be fondly ascribed by the ever-jealous nations of Europe to "Yankee greed." It brought about a distinctive turn in the tide and the conviction became firm in the minds of all that the example of Mexico would be followed, sooner or later, by every Republic in Central and South America. In 1920 public opinion in Peru became ripe for a change. The affairs of that Republic had been unsuccessfully administered and the land of the Incas seemed likely in that year to be devastated by Chile, that active and more or less prosperous people, sometimes called the "Yankees of South America." The prospect of another disastrous war with Chile crystalized public opinion in Peru and hastened action on her part. In the following year of 1921, Peru became a State in our Union. Venezuela came next in 1925, then followed in rapid succession the entire group of Central American States, Guatemala, Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Honduras. In 1930 Canada at last joined the American Union. Canada had long occupied the position of an old maid in reference to the Union; she had been entirely willing for many years, but had withheld her consent; England, of course, had to be consulted, and with the utmost good nature was present at the wedding ceremonies, giving away the Canadian bride into our union in a most gracious manner. Between 1930 and 1935, in rapid succession, the entire stretch of territory known as South America, and the eleven Republics occupying that continent, were incorporated into the United States of the Americas. The State of Brazil was recognized by Congress in 1931, and, on account of its large area, consisting of 3,209,878 square miles, the new State was styled the "Texas of the South." During the last half of the nineteenth century the burning issues caused by the [Old Wounds are Healed Up.] Civil War were generally and vaguely characterized as those which existed between the North and South. The question of State sovereignty, slavery and the resultant Civil War, divided the North and South into two vast, hostile camps. The fall of Richmond in 1865 terminated hostilities, it is true, but a bitter, relentless political and social war was waged between these sections for over a quarter of a century thereafter. The deep wounds caused by the Civil War began to slowly heal, but it required a foreign war to demonstrate to the world that time at last had conquered all animosity, all the anguish and bitterness of spirit that had existed between the North and South. During our war with Spain from April 22, 1898, to October 26, of the same year, Confederate generals who had taken prominent parts in the Southern army, men who had led their hosts to help tear into tatters the great Constitution of the United States, unsheathed their swords once more, in 1898, and to their lasting honor, this time it was in defense of that very Constitution. In 1898 the men of the South eagerly followed the lead of Wheeler and Fitzhugh Lee and sprang to arms in the defence of a united country. It was a most impressive spectacle; one that filled the world with amazement and America with patriotic joy. In 1999, that little strip of territory lying between Mason and Dixon's line and the [No more "South" in 1999.] gulf of Mexico was no longer known or recognized as the South. The sceptre of the South had passed into the keeping of the South American continent, which territory in 1999 had been divided into ten States of our great American Union, namely the States of Venezuela, Brazil, Ecuador, Colombia, Chile, Paraguay, Uruguay, Bolivia, Peru and, in the extreme South, the State of Patagonia. The real and actual South of the United States of the Americas, in 1999, consisted of the States above named, a vast sweep of territory lying between the 10° North and 55° South of the equator, embracing 8,207,688 square miles in area, with a population of 127,000,000 souls. In 1999 the State of Brazil alone had a population of 42,000,000. The Middle States of the great American Republic in 1999 were those of Central America, namely the States of Costa Rica, Salvador, Honduras, Guatemala, Nicaragua and Mexico. The Northern States of the great Republic in 1999 consisted of those states lying between Alaska and the Mexican gulf, including the newly acquired States of East and West Canada. The population of the Middle States in 1999 was estimated at 75,000,000, while the census of the Northern States figured at 329,000,000. The total population of the United States of the Americas in 1999, figured at 531,000,000 souls. CHAPTER III. The Cuban Question Settled. The wretches who blew up the Maine. America is slow to anger but terrible in punishment. Cuban native government not a success. Joins our Union in 1910. Cuba became part of the United States in 1910. The direct cause of the war of 1898 was the blowing up of the Maine. Through this premeditated and diabolical act, no less than 266 of our brave American sailors were murdered in cold blood. The Madrid authorities were innocent parties to this lamentable transaction and their representative in Havana, Captain-General Blanco, has been acquitted of the heinous charge of participation in that fearful piece of butchery. The guilty men, the assassins who blew up the Maine on the night of the 15th of February, 1898, were Weylerites, whose chief, the infamous Gen. Weyler, had been removed from office by the Sagasta government. To resent this slight upon their chief; to embroil their home government in a war with the United States, and to gratify their thirst for American blood, these Weylerites, (who themselves located the mines in Havana harbor,) watched their opportunity and exploded the mine that destroyed our gallant vessel, hurling into eternity 266 of as brave men as ever trod a deck. But the vengeance that was meted out to Spain for the treachery of her murderous [The Maine was Avenged.] sons, was sweeping and most complete in its character. Our martyrs of the Maine have been avenged. Spain has learned along with the rest of the nations, that America is slow to anger but swift and terrible in her vengeance; from the punishment of Spain the world has learned a Yankee lesson that will be remembered in all time to come. Apart, however, from the castigation of Spain, America had a duty to perform in the liberation of Cuba. From the date of the arrival of the first shipload of Spaniards in 1492 to the departure of the last load of Spanish officials and soldiers in 1899, Cuba had rested under a cloud. Prosperity under Spanish rule, from Valesque in 1510 to Blanco in 1898, appeared to be an impossibility. From Christopher Columbus to Admiral Cervera, the first and the last Spanish navigators dispatched by the crown of Spain to Cuba, the life-blood of that fair isle had been wasted away. Its history may fitly be written in blood. Such condition of affairs could not be endured always at the threshold of a vast, liberty-loving Republic and Cuba's loud appeals for aid stirred America to action. War was declared after a formal demand upon Spain for the liberation of Cuba. The result of the war of 1898 was that Spain stood up to the front just long enough to get kicked into tatters. On the 1st day of January, 1902, the military occupation of Cuba by the troops [A Civil War in Cuba.] of the United States terminated and the government passed into the keeping of the Cubans. The Cuban government, under President Gomez, was beset with difficulties from the start. It was found difficult to bridle and keep down jealousies and partisan feelings among the Cubans themselves. They appeared to detest one another under their native government as cordially as they did their former task-masters, the Spaniards. As soon as the Cubans established their own government, love of country vanished from among them; there appeared to be no unity of purpose. In 1907 a civil war broke out in the fair but unfortunate isle, and during the summer of that year the terrible scenes of the last struggle with Spain, under Weyler, were again re-enacted. During that year and the two following years of 1908-09, the gleaming machette once again performed its deadly work. This fratricidal war came to an end early in 1910, when the Cubans by a plebicite, or popular vote, rendered an almost unanimous vote in favor of the annexation of Cuba to the United States. This important decision was ratified by Congress and received the official signature of President George Dewey, the hero of Manila, at noon on the 24th day of December, 1910. CHAPTER IV. Keynote of American Expansion. The Awakening of America. Dewey the Idol of a great Nation. His immense responsibilities at a critical period of the war. In 1999 Manila is still on every tongue. Spain's bargain with Germany. Discomfiture of the German Admiral. It was the first gun of the Raleigh, fired in Manila bay at dawn on the first day of May, 1898, that sounded the keynote of America's future greatness. The echo of that gun had not died out even in 1999. It still rang amidst the nations of the earth, reverberating across its seas and continents. It was the signal that sounded the dawn of The United States of the Americas, a mighty Republic, which, in the year 1999, embraced every square foot of land in the Western Hemisphere, from the snow-clad huts of the Esquimos to the rock-ribbed straits of Magellan, with its teeming, hustling population of 531,000,000 souls. Uncle Samuel was boss of the ranch, from its Patagonian cellar clear to its roof in the Arctic region. With its mighty talons [The Great Bird of Freedom.] clutching the narrow isthmus of Panama; with its beak pointing into the Atlantic, far beyond Porto Rico; with its tail-feathers covering the expanse of the Pacific, clear into the Philippines, the American Eagle was a proud bird to behold, as its mighty wings spread from the North to the South Pole. And Dewey's guns did it. At critical periods the fate of nations, as well as of individuals, seems to suspend by a single, slender thread. At such moments, so keenly poised are the balances of fate, that a mere breath may disturb them. Admiral Dewey, the idol of America, unknowingly, held the fate of a vast Republic in the hollow of his hand. He knew it not; America knew it not. But in the light of events in 1999 such proved to be the case. Had he failed; had his brave squadron been annihilated by treacherous mines in Manila bay; had our American fleet been destroyed at Cavité, instead of Montojo's squadron, the Dream of the United States of the Americas would not have been realized in 1999. But America is unconquerable; and Dewey won. When, on the 24th day of April, 1898, the momentous message flashed across sea and continent to Dewey, ordering him to "sink or capture" the Spanish squadron, the American Eagle gave its first shrill cry of defiance. Every man on the American fleet off Hong Kong swelled with pride from Commodore Dewey to the humblest powder-monkey. Theirs was a mission to feel proud of, and when Dewey's six warships sailed south to Manila, April 27, 1898, to interview the Castillians, every man on board the American squadron was ready to lay down his life in the cause of our noble country. These were the men with cool heads and unflinching bravery who first encountered the Spanish hosts. These were the men who electrified a whole world by the splendor of their matchless victory. The word gratitude is a feeble one indeed to adequately express the feelings of the American people when the truth became known. At first it seemed incredible that such a brilliant stroke could have been accomplished in less than ten days after the declaration of war. In 1999 men occasionally referred to Trafalgar and the battle of the Nile, Farragut's heroism at Mobile bay, the encounter of those two little scorpions, the Monitor and Merrimac, and other naval engagements, as matters of history, but the peerless American victory at Manila bay, the praises of the one and only Dewey and his brave men, were still, in that year, the theme on every tongue. In 1999 it was reckoned a high distinction for any American to be able to say that his father, brother or relative took part in the great victory at Manila. Indeed, there still lived in 1999, in the State of Brazil, an extremely old man, aged 115 years, who took part in the gallant fight off Cavité in 1898. When Dewey's squadron left Mirs bay to proceed upon its eventful voyage to Manila, Earl Stanley, at that time a stripling of fourteen years, hid in an empty hogshead [A Plucky Little American Lad.] in the hold of the warship Boston, just as the American fleet was weighing anchor. When the mountains about Mirs bay and the Chinese mainland had disappeared from the sight of the squadron, Stanley, the young stowaway, emerged from his retreat and soon after landed in the arms of a marine, who brought the lad before the Captain. That official was at first inclined to deal severely with the young culprit. The latter, however, was straightforward and fearless in his bearing. He plainly told the Captain that he stole his way on board the Boston to share in the fight and he was ready to do anything to fight under the Stars and Stripes. The Captain, though outwardly severe, secretly admired the lad's pluck and turned him over to the charge of a gun-crew. In 1999 Earl Stanley resided in Rio Janeiro, and for over sixty years had been drawing a monthly pension of $35 from the government. He was in that year the sole survivor of the battle of Manila, an exclusive distinction he had already enjoyed for many long years. Aside from the sweeping results of the action off Cavité, Admiral Dewey's firm and resolute attitude towards Aguinaldo and his mercenaries, as well as his open defiance to the German squadron, gave the keenest satisfaction throughout the United States. As early as the year 1902, the fact, long suspected, was at last officially confirmed, that before the declaration of war in 1898 [Spain failed to deliver the Goods.] between Spain and America, there existed a firmly established secret alliance between Spain and Germany. Spain had bartered with Germany for her active support in her war against the Yankees. In compensation for her aid and countenance, Spain had agreed to cede over to Germany, in fee simple, the entire group of Philippine islands. After Dewey's matchless victory of the 1st of May, Germany slipped on her "thinking cap" and experienced an exceedingly sudden change of mind. Her "aid" in the Spanish cause was not worth a baby's rattle. As to the German "countenance," it looked so crest-fallen and hopelessly sour that Spain as she gazed upon it refused to be comforted. But, notwithstanding this, with an impudence that was positively refreshing to contemplate, after the battle of Manila, Germany put up a fine game of bluff and acted as though she held a proprietary interest in the Philippines. The German government dispatched a fleet of seven war vessels to Manila bay, under command of Admiral von Diederichs, under a flimsy pretext of "protecting German interests." In reality it was intended by the presence of this German squadron in Manila bay to annoy, bulldoze, and if possible to intimidate Commodore Dewey. For six weeks after the battle of Manila, Dewey's fleet as a result of the fight, was [Little Powder but lots of Pluck.] low in its ammunition and coal supplies. There was one very important fighting factor however, that never ran short on the American fleet, as that was the indomitable pluck and fighting mettle of Dewey and his men. Dewey diplomatically tolerated some of the petty annoyances offered at that time by the Germans, but they were given by the brave American commander to distinctly understand that there existed a danger-line which once crossed, would bring death and hospitals in its wake. None knew better than the German Admiral that the practice of lighting matches around powder magazines is a very unhealthy one. Admiral Von Diederichs bluffed around with his squadron, but with a wisdom that Solomon himself might have envied, he gave Dewey's danger-line a wide berth. It was only when Admiral Dewey sent his famous request to the Department for the Oregon, "for political reasons," that the German fleet in Manila bay suddenly discovered that they had some urgent business elsewhere, and made a very hasty exit from the unhealthy neighborhood of an American Admiral who had a mind of his own and a fine lot of lads to back up his opinion. CHAPTER V. Centennial Celebration of Manila 1998. America never surrenders, and that is one reason why we hold on to the Philippines. Grand Celebration of the Dewey Centennial throughout the Americas. In the year 1999 the American possession of the Philippine islands was regarded throughout the United States of the Americas as a master stroke. Statesmen in that year asked themselves how the Americas could have ever developed their enormous Asiatic commerce, without having a point d'appui, or base of operations, in Oriental waters? In the year 1899 Christendom (and Heathendom, as well,) beheld with amazement the carving up of China by the greedy vultures of Europe. In that year of her interminable history, China resembled a huge, helpless jelly-fish, attacked on every side by the sword-fishes of Europe. While this interesting process of China-carving was in full operation, America, as a result of Dewey's victory, discovered that a pearl [The Philippines in 1999.] of rare value had fallen into her lap. When Dewey entered Manila bay on the ever memorable morn of May 1st, 1898, he had not so much as a hitching-post to fasten the painter (rope) of his smallest launch. But, before the setting of the sun on that day, he had laid low a whole empire under the keels of his squadron. There lived not a solitary European Admiral of the period of 1898 who would not have given his right arm to have been in Dewey's place. In 1999 it appeared incredible that one year only after the battle of Manila there were men (earnest and well-meaning patriots, many of them,) who were strenuously opposed to the retention of those islands by the United States of America. It was difficult, in the twentieth century, to conceive how short-sighted, how unmindful of our country's glorious future, were those so-called anti-expansionists. In 1999 the argument was clear and indisputable that America in 1898 had not waged a wanton war for conquest. It was a necessity of war that brought about the destruction of the Manila wing of the Spanish fleet, and the city was captured subsequently as an act of self-defense. It became [Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep.] a measure of necessity to "put to sleep" every Spanish gun afloat in the Pacific. Had Dewey allowed any of these sea-hounds to escape and prey upon American commerce in that ocean, what would have become of our merchant shipping in the Pacific? Our finest steamships would have been at the mercy of the most contemptible Spanish privateer. Hundreds of precious lives and American shipping, representing millions of dollars, must have been destroyed by the pirates of the red and yellow flag. But Dewey put them all to sleep and rocked them in the cradle of the deep. This deed of self-defence accomplished, then what? Ought Dewey to have vacated Manila bay and made a laughing-stock of himself or stand his ground and bring the fight with Spain to a finish? There can be but one patriotic answer to this question. Dewey stood his ground, and in 1899 public opinion throughout the world divided itself into two great camps--those who openly and others who secretly admired the brave American Admiral. On the 1st day of May, 1998 the Centennial anniversary of the battle of Manila was celebrated with a volcanic display of intense enthusiasm throughout the United States of the Americas. It was "Dewey Day" from the State of Alaska clear south to the State [Equal to the 4th of July.] of Patagonia. The seals in Baffin's bay wore an extra smile, while the albatross and other gulls at the Horn circled about and fluttered as though something uncommon was on. Every city in the vast Republic was in gala attire to honor the glorious memories of the day. In Washington, (Mexico,) and at the capitals of each of the eighty-five States of the Americas the Manila Centennial was signalized with a patriotic enthusiasm seldom equaled but never eclipsed. The celebration of the Centennial anniversary of Waterloo by the old allied nations of Europe in 1915 proved a very brilliant affair, one which dazzled the world by its magnificence and regal splendor. But the Manila Centennial in 1998 relegated the Waterloo episode entirely in the shade. The only American national celebration of the twentieth century that might compare with it was the Bi-Centennial celebration of the Declaration of Independence on the 4th day of July, 1976. The Manila Centennial in 1998 celebrated what was universally regarded as the pivotal [Turning Point of American History.] or turning point in American History. From the date of that battle in 1898 the supremacy of the United States became established as a first-grade power. Its prowess in war and triumphs in the arts of peace were universally recognized. Little then is it to be wondered at that the American Colossus in 1998 seethed with patriotic fervor on the 1st day of May of the Manila Centennial anniversary. The preparations for the great event had been under way for nearly a year. It was clearly remembered in 1998 that, although Bunker Hill was an insignificant fight from a military point of view, yet it was a glorious battle for America from the fact that it proved a turning point in our nation's history. So it proved with the battle of Manila. It was a turning point in our national history that demanded a fitting celebration of its centennial anniversary. In 1998 the President of the United States of the Americas was Vernon R. [A Chip of the Old Block.] Schley, a grandson of the famous Admiral who annihilated Cervera's fleet on the 3rd day of July, 1898, while the commander-in-chief was inconveniently away on some other errand. Upon President Schley devolved the high honor, but irksome and difficult task, of firing at sunrise a salute of ærial torpedoes in the capitals of every State in the vast American Republic, and, at the same moment, from his private office in the Capitol building in Washington, Mexico, the President unfurled the American flag on the dome of every State house in the Americas. This, of course, was accomplished by means of electricity. At first thought it might appear to be a very easy task to press a button in the State of Mexico and fire off ærial torpedoes in the States of Alaska, the Canadas, Peru, Patagonia, Argentina, Venezuela, Bolivia and Brazil at the same instant, extending the salutes to the Middle American States of Nicaragua, Costa Rica, Salvador, Guatemala, but as a matter of fact, the task of the President was by no means an easy one. On the Manila Centennial anniversary day President Schley required nearly three [Going Around with the Sun.] hours of constant work to fire the national salutes from the Eastern to the Western Capitals of the great Republic at exactly sunrise in each city on the 1st day of May, 1998. The sun arose on the Eastern Capitals of the New England States that morning at 5:32 A. M. in Hartford, Boston, Montpelier and other cities, but it was nearly 8:43 A. M. before the President could fire off the ærial torpedoes over the Golden Gate, unfurling at the same moment Old Glory, which waved to the morning breezes of the broad Pacific. All those States of the Americas, from Canada to Patagonia that are on the same degree of longitude received their signals from the President at about the same time. The most easterly city of the American Union in 1999 was Rio Janeiro, situate on the 40° longitude. The torpedo salutes were first fired there in honor of the great Centennial. The next city that saluted was Montevideo. Buenos Ayres next followed. Boston, Mass., Caracas in the State of Venezuela and Bogota in the State of Colombia were next "touched off" by President Schley, and so in the course of the rising sun each American city saluted the glorious day. When this feature of the 1998 centennial program was explained to a Frenchman on the 1st day of May of that year, he shrugged his shoulders as only a Frenchman can, exclaiming: "Mon Dieu, vhy don't zey fire a salute in zee sun,--parbleu." In this vast aggregation of eighty-five States the Dewey Centennial celebration was everywhere observed with marked enthusiasm, but the style of the celebration differed widely, according to the section or location of the State in which it was held. [Different Ways of Celebrating.] Throughout Alaska and the two Canadian States and the northern belt of States, military pageants, naval parades, athletic sports, orations, concerts and banquets predominated. In the tropical or Central American States, high mass was celebrated in all the cathedrals and churches in Mexico, Honduras, Nicaragua, Salvador, Guatemala and Costa Rica, and the day was given to feasting and dancing. Throughout the southern sections of the United States of the Americas, in Colombia, Venezuela, Brazil and contiguous States, the Te Deum was chanted in all the principal churches and high mass was celebrated with a pomp and magnificence that appeals so irresistibly to the heart of the Latin race. In each State of the Americas ample appropriations had been voted from State funds to meet the expenses of the great day. Not a family in the colossal American Republic of 500,000,000 souls lacked on that day for a feast of the choicest delicacies, with a carte blanche of wines of the most grateful and generous vintage. On the occasion of the Manila Centennial in 1999 Englishmen were accorded the seat of honor at every table in the Americas and the health of King Alexander II, who in 1999 wielded the sceptre of Great Britain, was tossed off with gusto and enthusiasm by every living American. England's true and sterling friendship to America in 1898 was still vividly remembered in 1998. The strong grasp of her hand at a critical period in 1898, when her attitude became a matter of vital importance to America, was still cordially appreciated. Every American Governor in the South American States as well as those of Central and North America, gave a sumptuous banquet in honor of the day. At Rio Janeiro Gov. Day entertained no less than 9,000 at his festive tables. Gov. Horace K. Depew, a grandson of the Senator and ex-railroad magnate, entertained 30,000 guests in Washington, (Mexico). In splendor, elegance and lavish hospitality even the chronicles of the Middle Ages could furnish no parallel. Gov. Depew's guests were banqueted and fêted in one of Montezuma's old palaces which still retained much of its architectural beauty and was rich in the memories of a glorious past. High mass was celebrated in the cathedral of Mexico. Gov. Depew and a brilliant staff attended the services. All public edifices [Celebrating in Mexico.] and private houses were profusely decorated with garlands and festoons of beautiful tropical flowers of the most gorgeous dyes. Massive arches, embellished with medallions of Dewey, were erected on all the principal streets and avenues. These were made of verdant boughs, intertwined with the choicest floral creations of the tropics. Martial music and a constant firing of ærial torpedoes kept public interest at its keenest edge, from dawn to night. These festive scenes in the State of Mexico were re-enacted all over the Americas on the 1st day of May, 1998. The Dewey or Manila Centennial was a tribute to the memory of the man who at Manila bay, electrified the world and laid the corner stone of the United States of the Americas. CHAPTER VI. England's Valued Friendship. The American Victory at Manila was also an English Victory, so proud did our British cousins feel over it. Spain's bribe of the Philippines. France and Germany beg England to remain Neutral while they set out to thrash Uncle Sam. If the reader is an American, the question will naturally arise, what became of our transatlantic cousins in the "right tight little island" in the year 1999? In what light was the stupendous fabric of the United States of the Americas regarded by England in that year? Did England view with friendliness and complacency the development of the American Colossus? Surely the awakening of the Americas, both politically and industrially, must have seriously challenged the attention of England. Was England in 1999 the same powerful, cordial friend of America that she so well proved herself to be in 1898? During the year 1899 Admiral Seymour of the British Navy, while cruising in Asiatic waters, paid Admiral Dewey a visit on the Olympia. His parting words to the American Admiral were: "Your victory at Cavité was also our victory." No words could better express the fraternal and cordial relations existing in 1899 between England and America and the Dreamer feels proud and happy to say that in 1999 these cordial relations were still in full force. Providence, it would appear, had selected these two great nations to act as leaders and standard-bearers among the peoples of the earth. Their spheres of action in 1999 did not clash, hence no jealousy existed between the two nations. In 1899 America, while perfectly friendly to England and proud to be her ally, was reluctant to enter into an offensive and defensive alliance with her. The spirit of American independence, always self-reliant, was slow and exceedingly cautious in the matter of "entangling alliances." The only alliance possible would be one with England, which nation is the parent of the Anglo-Saxon race. England's wise and friendly course during the Spanish-American war, had filled the [England our Firm Friend.] heart of every true American patriot with gratitude. By her sagacious action the unpleasant memories of 1776, 1812 and the Alabama episode, had been entirely obliterated, root and branch, from every American breast. Before the outbreak of hostilities in 1898, which culminated in the Yanko-Spanko war, there existed between France, Germany and Spain a secret, yet none the less tacit understanding, that in the event of war, the two powers first named would come forward to the assistance of Spain as against the cordially detested Yankees. France held the bulk of Spanish securities and was vitally interested in the issue of the conflict between Spain and America. The success of the Spanish cause or its disaster, signified either the gain or loss of millions of Spanish securities. Her sympathies, therefore, were given over to Spain and the French government and people were quite ready to expend chilled steel and smokeless powder against the bulwarks of America. Germany, on the other hand, in her self-assumed rôle of general meddler-in-chief of [Spain's Two Great and Good Friends.] the so-styled "European concert," was spoiling for a fight with a country that had taken from her hundreds of thousands of her best citizens and whose industrial expansion was a thorn in her side. For the first time since 1870, when the French tri-color was humbled in the dust of Sedan, Germany and France were interested in a common cause against America, and were actuated by the same selfish motives against the American Republic. Both were ready in April, 1898, to fly at America's throat and in unison with Spain, administer to our American Republic a first-class thrashing. These two worthies entertained the notion that the great American Republic would very soon be humbled and be only too glad to sue for peace on bended knees. In return for her valuable services in this delightful program, Germany was to be rewarded by Spain with the gift outright of the Philippine islands. This was the beautiful cluster of grapes which tempted the cupidity of the German fox. But, alas, in the language of the lamented Josh Billings, "nothing is more certain than the uncertainty of this world." France and Germany, (an ill-assorted and graceless pair,) had reckoned without their host. Sorely against their wishes, with hat in hand, France and Germany found themselves under the absolute necessity of calling at the office of a certain pugnacious and only too well known gentleman by the name of John Bull, whose home since the days of the Druids and William the Bastard has been in the snug little island of England and whose postoffice address is London. They (F. and G.) came to consult John Bull on the very important subject of their proposed expedition against America, with Spain acting as a tail to their kite. They explained to Mr. Bull the object of their mission; they set forth in a very clear [A Very Anxious Pair.] light that Uncle Sam, on the other side of the Atlantic, needed a sound thrashing, and what was more, needed it very badly. France and Germany posed before J. B. as champions of a weaker nation that they were both very anxious to protect. They represented that they had no possible interest in the outcome of a war between America and Spain. All they asked of England was merely to remain neutral,--to keep quiet while the three prize stars, France, Germany and Spain, proceeded to give Uncle Sam a taste of their raw-hides. Then it was that the British Lion gave a roar, and in clear, unmistakable language informed both France and Germany if they ventured to fire a gun against America in the defence of Spain, England would not remain neutral, but would side with America and lend her assistance on sea and land. The British Lion is not to be trifled with. France and Germany knew this only too well, and when the war broke out they decided to remain home and wisely stay in doors while it rained. Spain went to war alone with her powerful enemy and took her medicine, we were nearly tempted to say, "like a good little man." The era of fraternal love, inaugurated through England's wise action in repulsing the advances of France and Germany, proved the keystone to the greatness of America and England in 1999. Ever after the Spanish-American war they remained loyal and true to one another and their friendship and mutual interests ever increased thereafter. Throughout the twentieth century England and America stood side by side in every emergency. It was not necessary to draw up legal documents with enormous seals and yards of red silk ribbon to cement the alliance of true friendship that existed between the two nations. Their hearts beat in unison in the common cause of humanity. In the twentieth century England and America were invincible in war and leaders in all arts of peace. CHAPTER VII. Our Foreign Relations in 1999. Having clearly set forth in our earlier chapters the splendid proportions and the commanding position on this globe held by the United States of the Americas in 1999, it now becomes necessary in order to determine the position of the great American Republic in its international relations, to review, in brief, the condition of Europe, and, more particularly that of England, in the twentieth century. In the year 1999 the British and American flags protected over one-half of the human family and before the close of the twenty-first century it appeared certain that English would become the universal language. The population of the world in 1999 figured at a trifle over 2,000,000,000 souls. The population of the United States of the Americas in 1999 was rated at 531,000,000, while that of the British possessions figured at about an equal amount, making a grand total population of over 1,000,000,000 people under the flags of the two nations. It is easy to comprehend how, under two thoroughly enlightened governments, [English the Universal Language.] with a good system of education, free schools, and an enterprising press, English rapidly came to the front as the universal language, and in the year 1999 it became obvious and clear to all candid minds that the Anglo-Saxon race already dominated the world. The Arbitration Treaty between England and America was signed on the 6th day of June 1910. By the provisions of this document it was agreed that in the event of any dispute between the two countries Arbitration as a settlement for all difficulties would be resorted to. Public opinion on both sides of the Atlantic was sternly opposed to any resort to war between England and the Americas. The Arbitration Treaty was signed by her gracious Majesty, Queen Victoria, who was still seated on the British throne and was enjoying a fair measure of health in 1910 at the venerable age of 92 years. This marvelous and well-preserved lady still retained the homage and respect of the entire world, and the indications pointed to a grand celebration of her Majesty's centennial anniversary in 1918. But the world was denied that privilege and honor. In the year 1912, the Duke of York, (Victoria's grandson,) succeeded to the British throne, assuming the title of Alexander I. In 1999 radical changes had taken place in the map of Europe. The long international [France Gobbled Up by Germany.] feud and bitterness existing between France and Germany had been twice weighed in the scales of war. The wound caused to French national pride by the fall of Sedan, Metz and Paris, rancored long in the breasts of all Frenchmen. It was a grief silently borne, but none the less keen. In 1907 the French military party again shouted the battle cry, "A Berlin," and in the brief but disastrous war that followed again were the proud eagles of France trailed in the dust. France lost more of her territory in the Franco-German war of 1907 and Germany saddled on her an enormous war indemnity in the shape of $3,000,000,000. This was a hard blow to French national pride. Russia, her ally, proved false to her promises of aid and France was left alone to determine the issue with Germany. The terrible disaster of 1907 only added oil to the French fire of hatred, and in 1935 France, for some imaginary cause, again entered into another war of revenge, (guerre de revanche,) against Germany. As a result of the war of 1935 France utterly collapsed. At the close of that war Germany took possession of Paris and maintained German garrisons in all of the forts surrounding that city for a period of [Germans Hold Paris for Ten Years.] ten years, or until the year 1945. Germany determined, while holding possession of Paris, to reduce the enormous military establishment of France, the maintenance of which had greatly impoverished both countries. In order to suppress and crush France, German garrisons were maintained in every province of France. In this manner Germany kept her mailed grasp upon France, ready at any moment to stifle her upon the least show of resistance. In 1999 France became practically reduced to the condition of a German province. Those who lived in the year 1899 will recollect only too well the crying injustice [The Wrongs of Poor Dreyfus.] perpetrated upon the person of an innocent French officer, Dreyfus, who suffered and was humiliated in a manner which, fortunately, seldom falls to the lot of man. France's lack of moral courage to grant justice to Capt. Dreyfus for so many years, proved to the world that "la belle France," after all, was merely a Dead Sea apple,--beautiful to the eye but rotten to the core. It is then no cause for surprise that France, the moral coward, in 1935, had been transformed into a German province. In 1999 Spain and Turkey had both been carved up, banqueted upon and digested by [Adieu Spain and Turkey.] the political cannibals of Europe. In the partition that took place in the twentieth century England had been careful to secure for herself some of Spain's choice side-cuts and joints and also secured her slice of Turkey. Turkey had been an invalid for many long years, and its obliteration from the map of Europe was merely a question of time. These semi-civilized and blood-thirsty Turks with a hideous history drenched in innocent blood, champions of lust and rapine, oppressors of Armenia and violators of chastity, were finally driven out of Europe in 1920, hurled back once more into the dens of Asia Minor from whence they came. Russia had long held a first mortgage upon the Turkish vagabond's estate in Europe and possessed herself of a large share of the vacated territory. But Russia, strange to relate, was kept out of Constantinople in 1999. England, Germany, and what was left of France, as well as Italy, were still fully determined that Russia should never command the Bosphorus and the Dardanelles. The European Powers were ready, as of old, to smash Russia and defeat her ambition in that direction. They knew only too well that once firmly [Shut Out of Constantinople.] planted in the Ottoman capital Russia would then become the absolute master of Europe. In 1999 the Turkish territory about Constantinople, on both banks of the Bosphorus, was recognized as a neutral zone and was held in trust by the united nations of Europe. No war vessels were permitted to anchor in the Dardanelles under any pretence whatsoever. CHAPTER VIII. The Fate of Spain. The Invention of ærial warships. In 1924 an International Congress is held at Washington. Law passed prohibiting the use of ærial warships. Spain is first to violate the compact. The penalty is extermination from the face of the earth. Spain, in 1999, was reduced to a mere geographical quantity. Ever after the Spanish unpleasantness with America, in 1898, Spain's unhappy history had been sliding down a greased pole. From the moment that Columbus discovered America, Spain became a spoiled child of fortune. In 1492 Spain had a population of 40,000,000 people,--frugal, industrious and prosperous. In the arts and sciences they led the world in those days. In military science and navigation none could equal them. The discovery of America utterly ruined Spain in less than three hundred years. Spaniards thereafter ceased to depend upon their own energy and resources. Intoxicated by the brilliant discoveries of Columbus, the dazzling conquests of Pizarro, Cortes and De Soto, Spain has endeavored since the fifteenth century to enslave the New World and live upon the sweat of others' brows. The acquisition of sudden and prodigious wealth in the New World; the steady flow [The Dangers of Sudden Wealth.] of money brought into Spain by slave labor; the luxury and voluptuous ease of life thus engendered, form important factors in the history of Spain's decline. After losing all of her vast possessions in the New World, it was left to America in 1898 to give the Spaniards their coup-de-grâce and check their baggage for Madrid. In 1942 Spain ceased to possess a government of her own. After a devastating war, (une guerre à l'outrance,) Spain ended her official existence and was parcelled out among the European nations. England, with Gibraltar to start with, secured a generous slice of the Spanish booty. In the twentieth century England was still well inclined to make the best possible use of her opportunities, and America was always glad to advance her cause, whenever it was practicable to do so. The annihilation of Spain came about after the following manner: In the year 1917 the world rejoiced at the prospect of a permanent solution of the war problem. The new devices invented and perfected by the deviltry of man, to be employed in the destruction of his fellow men, had reached in that year such a degree of perfection that war simply meant the wholesale destruction or total annihilation of those who engaged in it. In 1917 ærial navigation was practically solved, and a new and vast element had [A New Element in War.] opened its possibilities to the will of man. At the close of the nineteenth century the "blue etherial" was wholly unobstructed in its vast extent and still defied the skill of our best inventors. Prof. Langley and his disciples had not yet solved the great question of ærial navigation. In 1899 this most inviting and ever tempting field of research still remained an unsolved mystery. The old fashioned balloon, with no will or control of its own, subject to the whim or caprice of every breath of air, was the best apology we could offer in 1899 for purposes of ærial navigation. In 1917 the problem of ærial navigation had been practically solved by Tesla, in [Ærial Navigation Perfected.] whose brain many profound secrets of nature had long been harbored. With the aid and potentiality of electricity, (the slave of the twentieth century), ærial navigation had been perfected. One of the first devices invented for use in the air was the ærial warship, operated and controlled by electricity. Loaded with a quarter ton of dynamite, these deadly warships, without anyone to navigate them could be made to hover over a city and threaten its population with total annihilation. They were popularly called "death angels." The sight of one of the warships blanched the cheeks of the most intrepid, filling the city or town over which it hovered with utmost consternation. The human mind recoiled with horror at the thought of war with such fearful engines [Simply Wholesale Murder.] of destruction. In fact war carried on with ærial dynamite ships was no longer worthy of being called by that dignified name, it was simply a wholesale destruction of lives and property. With strange inconsistency, the world in 1917 appeared to be willing to wage war on the "retail plan." It was apparently willing to sacrifice human beings in terrible battles fought between powerfully armed vessels, with heavy rifles and rapid firing guns. The world was willing to slaughter life by one method, yet it held in abhorrence these "death angels," which accomplished a wholesale instead of a retail destruction of life and property. With an inconsistency peculiarly its own, the world in 1917 appeared quite willing that 50,000 men should be destroyed in a single battle by rapid-firing guns, which could mow down a whole regiment at a time, but the proposition to destroy an army of 50,000 men with one of the deadly ærial warships, was everywhere regarded with horror. By this decision the world placed itself in the position of a man who was willing to be killed by the shot of a six-inch rifle, yet strongly objected on the score of humanity to being riddled by the shell of a 14-inch rifle. War at best is but a relic of barbarism, and, be it waged with ærial warships, or submarine torpedoes, with Mauser rifles or smooth bore guns, it accomplishes the same end; nations are plunged into ruin; the family circle is broken; widows and orphans are left disconsolate. Be this as it may, in the year 1924, a Congress of the leading nations was held in the city of Washington, (then situated in the State of Mexico,) and, as a result of its deliberations a solemn compact was entered into, signed by the Ambassadors of every civilized nation, and a treaty of the most [Ærial War Ships Prohibited.] binding character was ratified, in which it was stipulated that under no conditions, named or unnamed, would the use of ærial warships ever be permitted as an instrument or medium for waging war among nations. It was furthermore agreed and stipulated between these nations that if, at any future period, any nation on the habitable globe should ever permit itself to employ a system of ærial warships for the prosecution of war, the other signatories of the treaty would make common cause and combine in an attack against the offender. They would proceed to invade its territory, destroy its cities and monuments, lay waste its plains, obliterate its flag and name from the family of nations. The remaining property of the violator of the treaty must also be seized and sold, the proceeds to be donated to charitable deeds. It was further stipulated between the signatory powers that the punishment meted out to any violator of this solemn treaty would be in the same kind as its offending. In other words, a nation that employed the use of ærial warships and practiced the horrible system of dropping from great heights heavy charges of high explosives upon cities, fleets or shipping, would be wiped out from the face of the earth and annihilated by the same methods of destruction. The first violator of the Washington Treaty of 1924 proved to be Spain, the [A Bad Rascal Caught.] ancient home and abiding-place of the Holy Inquisition, that reprobate among nations; the emaciated and wasted offspring of priestcraft. To her in 1930 was meted out the condign punishment which she richly deserved for her flagrant violation of the Washington Treaty in prosecuting her war against Morocco. During this war, in the year 1929, Spain had resorted to the use of ærial warships and by employing a fleet of "death angels," she had utterly destroyed the ancient city of Fez, the capital of that barbaric North African State, reducing the city into a heap of ruins and causing the slaughter, in less than thirty minutes, of over 175,000 people. Tangier, on the northern boundary of Morocco, a city of 75,000 population, had also suffered the same fate from the Spanish "death angels." Tangier, with its inhabitants, was reduced to ashes in less than ten minutes. In order to chastise Spain for her wanton cruelty and open violation of the international convention of 1924, a peremptory note was served upon the Madrid authorities, signed by the Treaty Powers, with the names of America and England at the head of the list. It was particularly observed that the signature of the United States of the Americas was underscored, as though to remind Spain that America had not forgotten the wrongs of Cuba. On the 21st day of April, 1930, (just thirty-two years after the declaration of our [Hoisting the Storm-signal.] first war with Spain,) notice was served upon the Madrid authorities that within thirty days from date, the allied nations of the world would mobilize their ærial war fleets and proceed to devastate Spanish territory. This ultimatum included Ceuta, the Balearic islands, as well as the ever-faithful isles of the Canaries. This international ultimatum was dispatched in conformity to the terms of the Washington Treaty of 1924, which demanded, irrevocably and without appeal, the extinction of any nation that employed such barbarous methods of warfare as ærial warships and the practice of hurling gun-cotton, dynamite and nitro-glycerine from the skies upon defenceless cities. At last Spanish pride was humbled. With a terrible doom to face, with no friend to counsel, succor or comfort her, Spain was at last brought to the dregs of humiliation. [Spain Sheds Crocodile Tears.] In vain did that unhappy country plead for leniency and mercy. Spain was willing to sue for peace and safety upon any terms, but in vain did that stricken nation wave the olive branch. The countenance of the world was withdrawn from Spain. The Treaty Powers were obdurate and Spain must suffer for the terrible slaughter of Fez and Tangier. The world in 1930 demanded that an example should be made. It was determined to settle, once and forever, the important question of using dynamite and other fulminants as a weapon of war thrown down from airships. It had been determined that any nation employing such barbarous methods of warfare should be uprooted from the face of the earth. The object and purpose of the thirty-day notice was to allow the entire population, men, women and children, ample time to leave the doomed kingdom. The Treaty [Thirty Days to Leave Spain.] Powers, in seeking to punish Spain, did not wish to sacrifice life. The punishment Spain was to receive consisted in the annihilation of her kingdom and the destruction of her cities and monuments. Like modern Jews, who had lost their Palestine, they were thereafter to be scattered over the face of the globe, with no country and no national ensign of their own. Such was the fiat of the nations in 1930 and this decree was fulfilled to the letter. CHAPTER IX. The Annihilation of Spain. Arrival of the "Death Angels" over Spain. Spaniards cross the Pyrenees into France. The doom of Weyler and his cohorts. "Remember the Maine." Madrid and the principal cities of Spain in ashes. Portugal's action applauded. No more ærial warships. On the 21st day of May, 1930, a remarkable sight presented itself over the Pyrenean range of mountains on the northern boundary of Spain, dividing that country from her northerly neighbor, "la belle France." High above the peaks of [Arrival of the "Death Angels."] that natural barrier between those two countries, and visible to the naked eye, could be seen what appeared to be a large flock of birds of enormous size, moving swiftly and silently in a southerly direction. Vast multitudes of Spaniards who were crossing the Pyrenees to seek shelter in French territory, gazed with awe upon the ominous sight presented by these "death angels" as they proceeded south on their errand of destruction. They knew only too well the character of these deadly messengers of war whose use had been prohibited in battle by all civilized nations. In the case of Spain they were not used for purposes of warfare but merely as instruments of punishment for her wanton violation of the Treaty. During the preceding thirty days the volume of immigration from Spain into France had kept an unbroken stream. On the 21st day of May, 1930, the appointed day of doom, a large share of the Spanish population had found its way across the border into France, and some of the provinces about Madrid, notably Segovia, Castille and Salamanca, were as innocent of population as the desert of Sahara is of cascades. On that memorable day of May, 1930, the cities of Spain might easily have been [Spanish Cities Two For a Cent.] bought up for a song or a jack lantern. Weyler and his ferocious cut-throats, (the same imps who blew up our Maine and martyred 266 brave American sailors), were the only beings who remained in Spain on that day of doom. The gang had the run of the kingdom for a few brief hours and were probably amusing themselves very much after the manner of rats who enjoy the exclusive privilege of a sinking ship. The Butcher and his satellites were holding high carnival in the regal apartments of the Royal Palace in doomed Madrid, when the ærial war craft of America, England and the Allied nations, silently stood guard and floated over the city, veritable angels of death, fearful to behold. The cellars of the Royal Palace had been ransacked and wines of the choicest vintage [Handwriting on the Wall.] were being guzzled by the Weyler brigands. Amidst revelry and shouting, and the din of rattling castenets, the mazes of fandangos were performed by voluptuous and sinuous Castillian sirens, from whose wild eyes blazed forth that baleful light, incited by wine and unholy passion. These dark, olive-skin belles in their terpsichores before the Butcher and his aides, were as innocent of habiliments as Madame Eve when that exalted personage made her début in Eden. In the midst of this debauchery, and while revelry was yet at its zenith, history again repeated itself. Suddenly, like a prolonged flash of lightning, the revelers saw distinctly the handwriting on the wall. It was an inscription that carried terror and consternation into the hearts of the Weylerites and read: "Remember the Maine." At this critical and interesting part of the program, Capt. Sigsbee, (then eighty-one years of age,) who in 1930 commanded the ærial warship "Maine," and who had been especially selected for that mission, gave the signal and from her kelson the ærial "Maine" dropped a little surprise package containing one hundred and thirty pounds of dynamite upon the Royal Palace of Spain. Weyler and his gang, one moment later, were roasting in company with their forefathers. Such, then, was the fate of Weyler, the destroyer of our noble "Maine," an [More Spanish Mules Killed.] arch fiend whose cruel orders were blindly obeyed by others of his ilk, carrying to unhappy Cuba a degree of misery, starvation and death that shocked the entire world. The British ærial warships, as well as those of Germany, Russia, Austria, Italy, France, Holland, Greece and Japan, took their signal from the first shot or discharge of dynamite dropped by the "Maine," and joined forces with the American ærial warships in the total annihilation of Madrid. The scene of destruction that followed the attack of these ærial warships baffles all belief. Indeed, naught may come within the scope of human imagination that can depict the horrors, wholesale slaughter and utter desolation that may be wrought by ærial warships. Ships floating in the air [It's Murder in The Air.] two miles over a city and dropping within its limits huge charges of dynamite, are fearful engines of destruction. In the twinkle of an eye they can turn stately churches, lofty buildings, beautiful homes, hospitals, colleges, parks and pleasure resorts into ashes, and still vastly more terrible would be the loss of life. The bare thought that human beings with souls to save and a God to answer to, might, in a flash, be hurled into eternity by these ærial dynamite ships, without a moment's warning, and their habitations turned into charnel-houses, is in itself sufficient to make one's flesh creep. The Washington treaty of 1924, forbidding forever the use of this barbarous method of warfare and threatening with destruction any nation that employed it, was a wise and humane compact. Spain's flagrant violation of the international treaty in 1929, when she wantonly destroyed Fez and Tangier, was universally condemned. On the other hand, the destruction and razing of Spain in 1930, as a punishment for her bad faith, received the warmest commendations of the world. It was fully realized that Spain's chastisement fitted her case as perfectly as the bark fits the tree that it encircles. Yet, the razing of Spain in 1930 fills one's better nature with sadness. The [Too Bad about Spain.] widespread destruction of a kingdom replete with historic memories, rich in treasure-troves of art and science, dotted with thriving cities, fertile plains, lovely vales and teeming with beautiful homes, appeals to heart, as well as imagination. Although richly meriting her fate in 1930, Spain's doom in that year deeply stirred the hearts of all humanity, but the lesson it taught was that the world would never tolerate the use in war of ærial dynamite warships, and this lesson proved a salutary one. From Cadiz to Saragossa, and from Alicante to Corunna, the deadly ærial ships pressed on their way, sweeping destruction before them. The chief cities of Spain, namely, Barcelona, Valencia, Seville, Malaga, Murcia, Cartagena, Granada, Cadiz and Saragossa, were all destroyed in rapid succession, after the fate of Madrid had been decided. The costly palaces of the Madrid grandees crumbled into dust from only a few dynamite discharges of these air-ships. Sad indeed it was to witness the destruction of the magnificent paintings in the Royal Art Gallery of Madrid, containing as it did in 1930 three thousand chef-d'oeuvres of the world's immortal artists. The gallery contained the best examples of Titian, Raphael, Rubens, Muerillo, Van Dyck, Veronese and Tenier, a grand collection of rare paintings that were valued at $300,000,000, and that had required several hundreds of years to collect. Strange to say, in 1930, there was no cathedral in Madrid for the air-ships to destroy. For some reason, unknown even to Spaniards, their national capital had never enjoyed this luxury. It is a maxim, old as the hills, that shoemakers are usually the ones who wear the shabbiest shoes; the ill-dressed man in a community is very apt to be the tailor; the most neglected man during sickness is oftentimes the physician, and the man who invariably neglects to make his will is the lawyer. Following in the line of this well-established rule, it ceases to be a surprise that priest-ridden Spain, the first-born of Rome, should find herself without a cathedral within the limits of her national capital. If the cathedral of Madrid escaped the palsied touch of the dynamite air-ships the reason therefor was simple enough. Madrid never possessed one. Portugal escaped the ravages of the dynamite air-ships, and in 1999 that kingdom [Ordered West by Portugal.] still proudly guarded the western shores of the Iberian peninsula. In the spring of the year 1898, Portugal endeared herself to every American heart when her government ordered Admiral Cervera and his squadron to sail away from her possessions, the Cape de Verde islands, and "go west." Cervera had to face the music, and it was with heavy hearts that the mariners on board of the Oquendo, Marie de Teresa, Vizcaya, Colon, and the torpedo destroyers, Pluton and Furore, weighed anchor and, like Columbus, set their faces toward the Western Hemisphere, but, this time, with the certainty that their noble vessels never again would plough their prows in European waters. The inglorious fate of Spain in 1930 ever after proved a warning to all other nations. In 1999 air-ships navigated the "blue ethereal" in every quarter of the globe. It was a safe, economical and swift method [No More Ærial Warships.] of transportation, but after the destruction of Spain, in 1930, ærial warships were put out of commission and condemned. In 1999 so stringent were the international laws against their use that the mere possession of an ærial warship by any nation was likely to embroil others in a war of extermination and on suspicion alone a most rigid investigation was instituted. CHAPTER X. Europe in 1999. The Pope Casts his Lot in the New World. Complications in Europe Rendered his Residence in Rome Undesirable. No Refuge in Europe Available for his Holiness. Generous Offer of the Southern States of the American Union. The Papal See transferred to Rio Janeiro in 1945. The relations of the United States of the Americas with Italy in 1999 were of a character that demand more than a passing notice, going far to illustrate the political eminence that had been attained in that year by the great American Republic. In the year 1927, the long standing and severe tension that had existed between the Papacy and the Italian government ever since Napoleon III in 1870 withdrew his French garrison from the Holy City, became greatly intensified and had reached an acute stage that proved beyond human endurance. The strained relations between the Vatican and the Quirinal had reached a critical stage. The fierce struggle between Church and State had attained a point of utmost tension. It became obvious, even in that year, that the break and parting of the ways could not be very distant. In 1927 the Popes of Rome had already been prisoners in the palace of the Vatican for a period of over fifty years. Patience in their case had ceased to be a virtue. Rome had long been a house divided against itself and its rule under two kings could not always endure. The delicate position of the Pope became a most unenviable one. The insolence of the Roman rabble even found its way under the glorious dome of St. Peter, where, on Palm Sunday, in the year 1923 Pope Pius X was insulted by a clique from the Roman slums. That the Holy Pontiff, the spiritual ruler and sovereign of 328,000,000 Catholics, should experience insult in St. Peter's, his citadel of strength and power, proved a scandal beyond belief. Convinced that his temporal power was forever broken, Pope Leo XIV in the year [The Pope Decides to Leave.] 1945 decided, after consulting a Conclave of Cardinals, to abandon the city of Romulus and Remus and to shake from his sandals the dust of ancient Rome. It was at first thought that the College of Cardinals would check their baggage and take the overland route to Avignon, in southern France, an honor which many centuries before had already fallen to the lot of that ancient municipality. But it was otherwise decreed and great was the astonishment of the world when its nerves were thoroughly startled by the startling news that Pope Leo XIV had elected to remove the Papal See from Rome and to establish it in the United States of the Americas. The world's astonishment was akin to consternation when the news of this radical change of base was first announced and it was learned that the Vatican intended to cast its lot in the new world. A proposition to transplant the Papal See from its ancient anchorage in the Italian [It Startles One's Nerves.] peninsula into the new world would have been scouted in 1899 with scorn and derision as the wild phantasy of a babbling maniac. People living in 1899 might perhaps have seriously entertained a proposition to remove the pyramids of Egypt from their ancient foundations and transfer them to the sandlots of San Francisco, to open up a Chinese laundry in the King's Chamber; a proposition to dispatch an army of laborers with shovels to the crater of Vesuvius and attempt to extinguish that volcano by shoveling in sand, might, in 1899, have been regarded as a plausible undertaking; the attempt of a delegation of Protestant ministers to personally convert the Sultan of Turkey from Mohamedanism and induce him to attend a camp-meeting, might have commended itself to all good citizens in 1899, but the startling proposition to remove the Papal Court from ancient Rome to South America, appeared to all minds in 1899 as the most improbable of all improbabilities, yet in 1945, (forty-six years later,) the public mind was better prepared for this great change and the removal of the Court of Rome in that year to Rio Janeiro was entertained in better grace and in a more conciliatory spirit. In 1945 the position of the Papacy in Rome was no longer endurable. The [Rome Unsafe for the Pontiff.] sacred person of the Pontiff became no longer safe within the precincts of the Eternal City. The Vatican had been frequently violated by mobs from the banks of the Tiber and the slums of Rome, over which the Italian government could effect no control. The revered head of the church, like his Divine Master while on earth, knew not where to lay his head. Europe in 1945 had no refuge or shelter to offer to His Holiness. Russia, the home of the Greek church, could offer him no asylum, where one of his exalted rank might dwell in peace. Austria, that steadfast and ever faithful son of the church, would gladly have sheltered the Papal Court, assuring it permanent safety and a splendor commensurate with its prestige, but, unfortunately for Austria in 1945 that country was rent in twain, a shadow of its former greatness. Hungary had long enjoyed her richly merited independence and in that year had become a leading European power. The eyes of the Papacy could not turn to Spain for succor in 1945. Spain in that year was reduced to a barren waste, having expiated her crime of 1930, that of employing powerful fulminants from air-ships to destroy two African cities. France in 1945 had no refuge to offer the Pope. As a result of two unfortunate wars, she had passed into the custody of Germany, occupying the position of a mere vassal. Realizing the serious difficulties which environed the Papal See in 1945, the Catholic states of the southern tier of the United States of the Americas, known as South America, made an urgent appeal that the Court of Rome might be removed into their midst. Colombia, Ecuador, Bolivia, Chile, Peru, Venezuela, Brazil, Uruguay, Argentina, [The South to the Rescue.] Paraguay and Patagonia levied contributions among the faithful and between them the munificient sum of $500,000,000 was raised, to be placed at the disposal of the Pope. Accompanying this gift offering was sent an earnest petition and prayer that the Pope would consent to abide in the new world, where a splendid reservation consisting of 17,000 square miles of choice lands had been placed at his disposal in the neighborhood of Rio Janeiro. In the petition of the South American States praying His Holiness to acquiesce in this important project, it was pointed out that the Pope would be domiciled upon the only continent which was catholic in its entirety, with no creed to oppose, and, in removing the throne of St. Peter to Rio Janeiro, the Pope would occupy the position of a patriarch surrounded by his faithful children. The invisible, but none the less galling fetters, that had enslaved the Pope since 1870, making him virtually a prisoner in the Vatican, would be entirely removed. In the State of Brazil he might rule a principality of no mean proportions, far larger and immeasurably more wealthy than the Papal kingdom of 1870 when Pius IX was yet King of Rome. The catholic citizens of South America represented fully the many advantages of removing the Papal Court from the old into the new world. It will be recollected that in 1999 the total population of the United States of the Americas amounted to 531,000,000. Of this vast population at least 175,000,000 citizens residing in South America were adherents of the church of Rome. The liberal offer that came from the South American States received the utmost [The Pope Accepts the Offer.] attention from the Papal authorities. To withdraw from that ancient city seemed like the uprooting of all traditions. The irreligious were prone to make merry over the proposition, predicting with strange irreverence, that in Rio Janeiro the Pope would feel like a cat in a strange garret. But with such innuendoes we have nothing in common. Let history proceed undisturbed in its course. It required a heroic sacrifice to give up Rome, filled with the most precious historic memories, a city in which lies enshrined the dust of St. Peter's successors. This step meant the abandonment of that magnificent cathedral, which in 1999 still formed an aureole of glory about the Eternal City. But Rome in 1945 was no longer a safe tabernacle for the Papacy. Its mobs were unbridled in their license. The person of the Pontiff was no longer safe within the walls of the Vatican. The Italian government proved to be an abettor, if not an instigator, of these outrages. With a dark, threatening cloud hovering over the throne of St. Peter in Europe, and [All Headed for the West.] on the other hand, bright skies and a most alluring and tempting prospect eagerly awaiting its transferment to Rio de Janeiro, after long hesitation and endless Conclaves, the Sacred College of Cardinals, (the Pope concurring,) gave its official sanction in 1945 to the removal of the Papal See to the Western Hemisphere, under the ægis of the great American Constitution, the noblest document ever written by the fallible pen of man, a charter which protects and defends all who are worthy and they who seek its sheltering folds. CHAPTER XI. England's Domain in 1999. England Rules Supreme in Africa in 1999. Electric Railroads Built by American Engineers Cover the Dark Continent. France Suffers Two Waterloos. England's Rule in India Unshaken in the Twentieth Century. In 1999 England was the ruler of Africa and her domain over the Dark Continent was indisputable. From the Delta of the Nile to Cape Town, from Abyssinia to Liberia, the British lion was free to roam and roar throughout the enormous, heart-shaped African continent. From Alexandria to Cape Town became, in 1999, a comparatively short journey over the electric railroads which in that year traversed the entire length of the Nile basin, with important stations at Berber and Khartoum, Uganda, Zambo to Pretoria, thence to the Terminal of the roads at Cape Town. This electric railroad through the Nile basin, the lake regions and heart of the African continent, was completed and in operation in 1930, after a sacrifice in its construction [It Reduced the Census.] of 19,000 lives and an outlay of $152,000,000. It proved to be, however, the backbone of Africa, the vertebral column from which scores of other electric railroad branches reached out both east and west, like the ribs of a mastodon. The great presiding genius and leading spirit in African railroads was Cecil Rhodes, the same who was regarded as being the most prominent colonial Englishman. It was through his perseverance and untiring energy that the great system of African railroads was created in 1930. Rhodes was a really great man. Thousands courted his favor and smile, and tens of thousands trembled at his frown. Throughout Southern Africa so great in 1899 was his power and influence that he was called the "Deputy Almighty." In the construction of these African electric railroads America played an important rôle. Cecil Rhodes was at first inclined to award the contracts for rails, copper wires, cars and general equipment to English manufacturing firms but his worthy patriotic sentiments soon vanished when it was demonstrated clear as sunlight, even early as 1898 that America could produce a far superior grade of machinery in much less time and at much less cost. In 1901 Cecil Rhodes awarded all his heavy contracts to American firms. In other words, England furnished the capital and America practically built the entire system of African railroads in 1930. The first "eye opener" in the line of American competition against British machinery came into prominence in the spring of 1899, when work had already commenced on the north division of the great trunk line through Africa. The Atbara bridge and the first lesson in industrial economy that it taught, will not soon be forgotten. Bids were invited from British and American [America Leads the World.] bridge builders in April, 1899. It was represented to all competitors that the proposed bridge must be completed in the shortest time possible. When the bids were opened it was discovered that the English engineers required seven months to complete the work, while their American competitors guaranteed to complete and deliver the bridge in forty-two days from date of signing the contract and the work was to be completed for a much less sum than the price demanded by the English builders. The lesson of the Atbara bridge was not lost upon the great "Deputy Almighty" of South Africa and Cecil Rhodes became the [A Peaceful Victory.] means during the first quarter of the twentieth century of securing many million dollars to the American trade. Africa's most urgent needs in 1900 were railroads and missionaries. England supplied a very superior article of the latter, while in the railroad field no country could equal the American output. In the nineteenth century it had been the unpleasant experience of France to suffer at the hands of England two Waterloos. [France Eats "Humble Pie."] One was the great and only Waterloo, which drenched the soil of Belgium with the blood of many brave men. Waterloo, Jr., overtook the French soldiers at Fashoda, on Africa's soil in 1899. When in that year England ordered France to leave Fashoda without any further ceremony a victory was won by England, bloodless, but none the less effective. After the Fashoda incident France gradually lost her African provinces, leaving England in undisputed sway over a continent that in wealth and resources proved far superior to her great Indian Empire. In 1999 Alexander II, of Great Britain, ruled over a mighty empire. In the nineteenth century British kings and queens were just plain, every day royalties, transacting a legitimate business in that line and otherwise enjoying the respect and confidence of their patrons. It was generally understood that the "king can do no wrong." This was indisputable for the simple reason they never did anything at all. But when great Africa became a British province, it was then felt necessary to add still another title to the British Crown and in 1999 Britain's Sovereign became known to his chums and acquaintances as King of Great Britain and Ireland, D. F., Emperor of India, Mogul of Africa and Right Bower of the Americas, because, in 1999 none of England's important deals were regarded as complete without a Yankee plum in the pie. Sometimes England contrived, as the phrase goes, to "get her foot in it" but cousin Jonathan across the salt pond, always managed to yank her out. In 1999 England still held a firm grip upon India. The secret of Samson's herculean [How England Holds India.] strength was due to the fact that a lawn-mower had never tampered with his hair. But the secret of the British lion's power in India did not consist in the fact that the lordly beast cultivated a full mane. India in 1999, as in the year 1899, still continued to remain the world's most brilliant illustration that nations which are divided among themselves must inevitably fall. In 1899 the question was repeatedly asked, how can England with a mere corporal's guard, hold together the vast, mystic India under her sway? How can a nation of 40,000,000 people, like England, hold under her sway a far distant continent like India with its population of 350,000,000 people? In 1999 India still remained a house divided against itself and England was boss of the whole ranch. The eighty different principalities of India, each one speaking a different dialect and governed by alien potentates, fired by mutual hatreds which were fanned by fierce jealousies and the immutable laws of caste, were still as far apart in 1999, in point of harmony and cohesive action, as the Himalayan peaks are remote from the spice groves of Ceylon. [Cannot Hold Together.] If at any period in the eighteenth, nineteenth or twentieth centuries these principalities of India could have united themselves together in a common cause and arisen in the might of their power against British rule, England would be driven out of India in ten days' time. India's 350,000,000 population represents an enormous mass, but, as long as it remains divided into practically eighty different nations, all of them animated by bitter hatreds and antagonisms, England will experience no trouble in retaining absolute control of her large but very acrimonious Indian family. The power and stamina of the Anglo-Saxon race, which already dominated the [Anglo-Saxons Rule the World.] world in 1999 through the vast Republic of the Americas and the world-wide British Empire, exemplified itself in a high degree in the British government of India. Only one desperate struggle was ever attempted against British rule in India and the disastrous failure of the mutiny in 1857 was yet fresh in the minds of many in 1999. The great, mighty India, the home of mysteries that baffle all reason; the fount which holds the sacred Ganges and boasts of Benares' holy soil, was still under the lion's paw in 1999 and bid fair to remain under British rule for many centuries yet to come. Mystic India, the land of the loftiest mountains, deepest jungles and broadest plains; the home of Pharsee and Thug; the lair of lion, tiger, leopard and elephant; the Eden of the deadly cobra, India, the world's vast and mystic continent, remained a British province throughout the twentieth century. CHAPTER XII. Back in God's Country Again. A Grand Constitution that could Govern the World. The American Flag must Rule the Western Hemisphere and None Save God can Prevent this. America's Perilous Over-confidence. Our Great Navy in 1999. England's Friendly Offices in 1898. America and Great Britain Firm Friends Forevermore. Having thus briefly reviewed the condition of Europe in 1999; the changes that had been effected in the map of that continent; the cordial relations existing between the American Eagle and the British Lion in that year; the acknowledged supremacy of America and England over the entire world; the obliteration of Spain in 1930; the fall of France in 1935; the banishment of moslem rule from Europe and the grandeur of British rule in Africa and India, let us again return to God's own country, The United States of the Americas, which chosen land, in 1999, became the wealthiest, most prosperous and powerful of all nations upon this inhabitable globe. Having traveled abroad in the preceding chapter to secure a glimpse of the world's condition in that year, we gladly set foot again in the new world to examine more closely and accurately into the status of the great American Colossus. If there are any who believe that the great and infallible constitution of the [It Could Govern the World.] United States of America is not broad and strong enough to include in its scope and government every country in our Western Hemisphere from Alaska to Patagonia; if there are any Americans who believe that Central and South American Republics can never be governed under our American Republic, employing the same language and the same coinage, all sheltered under the noble flag of Bunker Hill, to such unbelievers in the future expansion of America we appeal in vain through these pages. They fail to understand that America has a great duty to perform and is destined to become the light of the world. To any fair minded and candid student of history the conclusion must come with force that America with [It is the Hand of Destiny.] her forty-five states in 1899 was a mere local affair compared with the certainty of all the other republics joining under one government with ours in 1999. America in 1899 was yet in the cradle of her infancy, occupying a modest and narrow strip of territory extending from Maine to Florida; fringed by Canada on the north and laved by the waters of the Mexican gulf on the south. Her position on this continent was that of a Gulliver by whose side the other southern republics looked like Lilliputians. Providing that the giant is gifted not only with strength and a stout heart, but governed, also, by good principles, why should the Lilliputian Republics of Central and South America fear? Would it not be better for them to make common cause with their great American neighbor and live under one flag? In 1899 the tendency of the period was to consolidate; the "trust epidemic" then [Uncle Sam's Big Trust.] raged at its height; the aim of that period, at least in commercial affairs, was to gather together the small concerns and unite them into a whole. The United States of the Americas in 1999 was largely built on the trust principle. Uncle Sam was running the biggest concern in the government line and the little South American Republics had simply been gathered in by the big fellow. They all were merged into one great American nation, governed by the same constitution, and all lifted up their gaze with patriotic pride to the Stars and Stripes. At this juncture it might be interesting to learn by what means and in what manner was this vast American Republic protected by sea and land in 1999. Conscious of her vast resources and enormous strength, America from the close of the Civil War in 1865 to the year 1885 remained practically unarmed, keeping on hand a mere corporal's guard in the shape of an army. Her navy up to 1882 consisted of an aggregation of warships of more or less antiquity, mere washtubs with smooth bore guns, whose ordnance, discharged against a modern battleship, would have about the same effect as throwing boiled peas at a brick wall. Twenty years after the close of the Civil War, in 1885, America had commenced to [Uncle Sam Wakes Up.] rub her eyes and to awaken from her perilous Rip Van Winkle siesta of two decades and to realize, at last, that a strong navy had become a national necessity. Over-confidence is a dangerous foe to national safety. America, a land filled with liberty-loving patriots and master mechanics, set to work none too soon to provide herself with a navy; fighting machines that in point of speed and prowess would compare favorably with the output of the best foreign shipyards. It became obvious to the veriest child that if our national dignity at home or abroad were to be maintained, and, if we did not proposed to be bluffed by small concerns like Chile and Spain, the best thing to do about a navy would be to build it at once, forthwith, "and on the word go." Congress took spirited action in the matter, making liberal appropriations for the construction of a first grade fleet of modern warships, armed and equipped with best and most penetrating rifles. This patriotic and sensible policy had been inaugurated none too soon. The month of January, 1898, found America in possession of a small, but highly [Small but Powerful.] efficient navy and on the brink of war. What we had in the line of war vessels was of the best, but America could proudly boast of something immeasurably better than a few fine ships and heavy guns. We possessed what no Congress or Parliament could make to order or purchase by appropriation, and that was a keen, patriotic sentiment throughout both the American army and navy. "The man behind the gun," anxious to lay down his life by the side of the powerful [The True American Hero.] breech-loading destroyer he loved so well to train and groom; "the man behind the gun," who loved and cared for his mighty weapon as a father would his child; watching it by night and day, praying for the hour when he might belch from its throat missiles of destruction into the enemy's ranks,--"the man behind the gun," God bless him, is America's own true born. In the hour of peril, at Manila, Santiago and at Puerto Rico, these heroes, man and gun, did their duty right nobly and well. In 1999 the world still rang with the valor of their deeds. But America in 1898 found herself still unprepared. The war issue was lodged with a power of the third magnitude. Left alone with the Dons the tale would soon be told. Only one year before our war with the yellow and red flag, an American gentleman summed up the situation in a very concise manner: "When we get at the Spaniards, they'll hold together just long enough to get kicked to pieces." But Spain had other partners, two powerful nations, who, for selfish reasons, would have been only too glad to give Uncle Sam a punch in the ribs. Germany, having been fortified by a bribe from Spain for her co-operation against America, having been promised by Spain as a reward for assistance the entire group of the Philippines, was only too eager to close the bargain. The Teutons were spoiling for a fight with Uncle Sam, ostensibly in behalf of Spain, but more especially for a grab at the Philippines. France, on the other hand, distinctly recollected that she owned and held the bulk of Spanish securities and if the Dons in their brush with America took "a header," these Spanish securities would not be worth a last year's bird nest. And now comes an important question: Was America prepared in 1899 to clash in naval combat with the combined forces of Spain, France and Germany? Josh Billings would have made short shift of his reply by saying: "Well, hardly." Spain's two unhappy partners, in their dilemma then turned their eyes and steps [Called at the Captain's Office.] toward a little island that lies slightly north of their territory. France and Germany heard the growl of the British Lion and before they joined Spain in a war against America, John Bull must be consulted. As a result of their interview this ill-mated pair became well convinced that England would put up with none of their nonsense and would not remain neutral should they join Spain in hostilities against America. France and Germany became converted to other views and very wisely decided to remain at home, meek as lambs, while Uncle Sam was carving up Spain to suit the queen's taste. In 1999 our American patriots did not propose to get caught in the trap of January, 1898, in which America found herself. In the year first named America was able to meet in war any combination of European nations that might hazard themselves in the field against her. The unfortunate spectacle of a great nation like America, on the eve of war, rushing around as we certainly did in March, 1898, buying up odds and ends of war vessels and fairly begging to buy smokeless powder at any price, will never again be repeated in this great country. The lesson of 1898 was yet fresh in the minds of all in 1999. Americans of the twentieth century were too shrewd to get caught napping again in that manner. In 1999 the United States of the Americas embraced eighty-five states. Canada [The New American Navy.] had been divided into two American States, namely, East and West Canada. The original territory of the United States in that year consisted of sixty-two sovereign states; Texas alone had been divided into three separate states. To these were added the six states of Central America, namely, the newly created American States of Mexico, Nicaragua, Salvador, Costa Rica, Guatemala and Honduras. Next came the newly admitted American States of Colombia, Venezuela, Ecuador, Bolivia, Brazil, Peru, Chile, Argentina, Uruguay, Paraguay and Patagonia, making a grand total of eighty-five states, which formed in 1999 the United States of the Americas. By enactment of Congress provision had been made that every State in the Union must build, equip and maintain at its own cost at least one battleship of the most modern type and unrivalled power; one armored cruiser of the highest speed, (35 knots per hour,) and three submarine destroyers of the most approved pattern and of the most enterprising character. As a result of this wise policy the navy of the Americas in 1999 consisted of eighty-five (85) first grade battleships; one hundred and seventy (170) of the swiftest and most powerful cruisers; two hundred and [Five hundred and Ten Warships.] fifty-five (255) submarine destroyers, popularly called in that year, "uplifters." Such was the numerical strength of the American Navy during the closing period of the twentieth century, on a peace footing. In the remote possibility of a war, provision had been made to mobilize the American fleet upon a far more formidable standard of efficiency. The total number of our war craft of all classes aggregated in that year, five hundred and ten (510) vessels. When one reflects that the coast-line of the great Republic, along the Atlantic and Pacific shores of the Americas, embraces fully 34,000 miles, every mile of which was entitled to our national defence, it will be recognized that the American Navy in 1999 was barely in keeping with the vast proportions of the Republic it had been created to defend. Indeed, it was regarded as being a modest establishment of its kind, judged by the standards of that period. The question very properly offers itself, "If the United States of the Americas in 1999 represented such a powerful nation, wealthy and prosperous, potent in enterprise and industry, what use had it for a navy of five hundred and ten warships?" This question is easily answered by quoting an old and sterling axiom: "In time of peace we must prepare for war." The folly of March 1898, when America, on the eve of war with Spain, rushed in [Not to be Caught Again.] breathless haste into every European navy-yard to purchase any thing that could float a gun, and offered haystacks of gold for smokeless powder, was not to be repeated in 1999. It was recognized in that year that the best guarantee for peace was to maintain an efficient army and powerful navy, to exact a proper respect for a flag that protected 531,000,000 American citizens. The big American Republic in 1999 did not propose to place itself, with its vast population and interminable coast-line, in the humiliating condition of China, a people who, though mighty in population, remain helpless as infants in matters of national defence. America did not intend to suffer the fate of China. Although her territory was vast and her population reckoned by the half-billion, America did not propose to permit European cormorants to pounce upon her coasts, and, as in the case of China, steal a whole country under the guise of civilizing it. In 1999 the Americas maintained a formidable army and navy in order to impress the fact upon the world that we were not like lambs, wholly without means of self-defense. The perilous American policy, inaugurated after the Civil War, of existing without any army or navy worthy of the name, was exposed through our war with Spain. Americans cheerfully acknowledged the fact that England's friendliness tended to bring that war to an early close. Even Spain in 1898 professed to hold our army in exalted contempt, regarding Americans as a nation wholly unfit for war, at best, a nation of wheat raisers and pork-packers. Many Spaniards honestly imagined that Admiral Cervera could sail his squadron into New York harbor, land his marines at Coney Island and after bombarding the clams and battling with lager kegs, march his men over the Brooklyn Bridge and capture City Hall. In 1999 Americans did not propose to again get caught napping, as in the "good old [Eternal Vigilance in 1999.] days" of 1898. They remained armed and ready for war on drop of the hat. No nation in the former year would venture unaided to combat the great American Republic. America in the twentieth century became invincible. CHAPTER XIII. Our Army and Navy in 1999. Justice done to both Schley and Sampson. The American victory off Santiago opens the eyes of the world. Emperor Wilhelm congratulates himself. America maintains a vigorous Monroe Doctrine. Long before the advent of 1910 every trace of the bitter controversy that had so long disturbed American naval circles over the Sampson-Schley quarrel, had fortunately been effaced. The hatchet had been buried, or figuratively speaking, had been thrown overboard, and in 1999 this unhappy feud, which tarnished the prestige of the world's foremost navy, had been obliterated. In 1999, when all heat or vestige of passion had passed away, this unfortunate episode was regarded as being the one and only blot that associated itself with the memory of a wonderful naval exploit, the brilliant engagement on that ever memorable Sunday morning of July 3, 1898, when the Spanish squadron steamed into the jaws of death. Time accomplishes wonders. It tones [The Brave American Officers.] down the angles; it dulls the keenest edge and can even render mild, bitter animosities, which, alas, often sting sharper than serpent fangs. Long before 1900 it was universally acknowledged that gallant Admiral Schley had been persecuted. His tormentors, men of high station, became heartily ashamed of persecuting a brave officer who had committed what apparently, in their judgment, appeared to be the crime of annihilating the Spanish squadron off Santiago. Students of history in 1910 very naturally asked themselves: "If Admiral Schley was so bitterly assailed at the close of a sweeping victory, in what manner would he have been treated by these carping critics had a portion of Cervera's fleet made good its escape?" Admiral Sampson appeared to be willing [Sampson's Unlucky Absence.] and anxious to secure credit for a victory that had been fought and won during his absence. But the question arises, would Admiral Sampson have been willing to shoulder the blame if Cervera's vessels had escaped destruction or would he have saddled Admiral Schley with the responsibility? The reader must form his own conclusions in this matter. On the other hand, all impartial students of history in the twentieth century cheerfully accorded to Admiral Sampson full credit for his gallant services on blockade duty during that war. His responsibilities were great and pressing, and he discharged his duties with utmost fidelity. A pathetic story indeed is that of the [The Ever Watchful Eye.] "Man in the Iron Mask." None can read that page of French history without being touched by the sad fate of this mysterious prisoner of state, who was generally supposed to be a twin brother of the King of France. He was treated by his attendants with the utmost deference and courtesy. His raiments were of the costliest fabrics. The governor of the citadel in which the "Man in the Iron Mask" was imprisoned, was obsequious in his attentions to the distinguished prisoner. His wishes were observed with the most scrupulous care and the Great Unknown ever ruled his guardians with the sceptre of a king. The prisoner, however, was obliged to wear his iron mask night and day. Any attempt on his part to remove it, meant swift and certain death. The feature of his confinement which, perhaps, directly appeals to the world's sympathy, was the human eye that watched his every movement. Through a hole in the door of his apartment, (which was sumptuously furnished,) that eye never relaxed its vigilance. Night and day its ceaseless vigil continued until death's kindly hand relieved the distinguished sufferer from the terror of its unceasing gaze. And so it was with Cervera and his squadron. The Spanish admiral became the modern "Man in the Iron Mask." A prisoner behind the lofty hills of Santiago, [Watched by Night and Day.] the eyes of Sampson's fleet watched the narrow opening of that harbor night and day, nor did their vigilance relax for one second of time. By night the piercing eye of the electric search-light closely watched the harbor entrance. The thoughts, the hopes and prayers of our noble America were all centered upon Sampson and his brave men. He proved himself to be an excellent fleet commander and in the twentieth century his services were appreciated at their just value. The glorious victory at Santiago bay, occurring only sixty days after Dewey's target practice in Manila bay, amazed and electrified the world. England felt a genuine [American Plymouth Rocks.] pride in both of these achievements and pointing to America observed: "These American roosters are from our own setting and their name is Plymouth Rock." When the German Emperor heard the great news from Santiago very few men in Europe were more pleased over it. His joy, however, was prompted by feelings of self-preservation rather than from exultation over the American victory. Wilhelm patted himself on the back and shook hands with himself for at least five consecutive hours when he reflected how narrowly he had escaped getting involved in a war with America and the fortunate escape of his German fleet from the fate that overtook Cervera's vessels. This is the reason why the German squadron cleared out of Manila immediately after Dewey sent his famous request to Washington to dispatch the Oregon to Manila, "for political reasons." The "bulldog of the American navy" reached Manila in due season but Admiral Von Deiderichs withdrew long before the "crack of doom" had ploughed her way into that harbor. As for France in 1910 she had not yet recovered from her surprise, while to Spain these disasters proved a paralytic shock of a most severe character. From 1898 to 1930 Spain was merely walking around to stave off funeral expenses. With a relatively strong navy of five hundred and ten (510) war ships to patrol her coasts in 1999, the United States of the [Large Army not Wanted.] Americas were not under any necessity of maintaining a large standing army. It was fully realized that an efficient sea-power must be maintained. With that arm of defence in her possession the maintenance of a large standing American army can never seriously be entertained. It has always been a popular belief in America that if a foreign army of invasion were to land upon our shores, Americans would give it a very warm reception, so spontaneous and effusive in its character that a majority of the invaders would never find their way back home again. Many of them might become permanent residents in American soil, so deeply rooted that none but Gabriel's trump could marshal them into line again. Germany in 1899 held the world's medal [Germany's Splendid Army.] for the finest and best equipped army, a magnificent engine of war, ready to move within an hour's notice, and woe to the enemy that obstructs its path. Without any doubt in the closing period of the nineteenth century the General staff of the German army was justly regarded as the highest authority in military science. Such a vast and smooth working engine for the destruction of human beings was never before known. If the sun had been good enough to stop twelve hours in its course to accommodate Joshua's beggarly army, that luminary would no doubt gladly stand still a whole week on request of the chief of staff of the German hosts. In 1899, with a population of barely 50,000,000, Germany possessed an army of 2,500,000. France with much less population had fully as many men under arms. Russia with a population of over 90,000,000 had an army on a peace footing of 3,000,000 men. The burden upon Europe was a most crushing one. In 1899 this drain was fast sapping the life of those nations, robbing their industries and peaceful avocations of the flower of their youth. This armed state in the time of peace was fully as ruinous as war itself. No wonder that the Czar of Russia urged a congress of the nations to convene and, if possible, devise some system to reduce these huge armaments. For this well-meaning attempt to relieve the military burdens of Europe the Russian Czar deserves much credit but, unfortunately, the proposition proved to be impracticable. The international conference at the Hague in the summer of 1899 secured no definite results. In 1999 America did not propose to fall [No Standing Army in 1999.] into the European snare of maintaining a huge standing army. When America in 1899 was merely a small Republic, consisting of only forty-five states and a few odd territories, the idea of maintaining a large standing army, on the European plan, was scouted with derision. In 1899 Americans scoffed at Europe's military establishments as a symbol of Barbarism. In 1999 when the great American Republic included the entire Western Hemisphere, military rule became more unpopular than ever. In the twentieth, as in the nineteenth century, America remained firm in her adherence to the Monroe Doctrine. This wise policy will always prove one of the best safeguards of our American Republic. Europe must be kept out of the Western Hemisphere. America will always belong to Americans only. In the twentieth century the Monroe Doctrine lost none of its force, and for many centuries its principles will still remain a living issue. With a Monroe Doctrine to maintain and defend, it is not surprising to learn that in 1999 the United States of the Americas, with a population of 531,000,000, maintained a small army of 150,000 men. The absolute freedom of America from military burdens in 1899 and 1999 was the glory of the Republic and the envy of a whole world. The object of government is to guarantee the utmost allowance of freedom to the citizen, and blessed indeed is the nation that can govern itself without having to maintain a huge standing army to hurl at any moment's notice at its neighbors. Such barbarism may answer well enough for Europe, whose governments are founded upon wrong principles, but in great, free America, we want none of it, nor never shall. America always will be the land of the free. Her principles of government are founded upon justice and equity. The voice of the people is heard in the land and it is supreme. The government of the people, by and for the people, is the gift of God to Man and the Almighty has made America the custodian of that priceless jewel. CHAPTER XIV. Removal of The Capital. When the Stars and Stripes floated over the Entire Hemisphere in 1990 Washington, the National Capital, was removed to Mexico. The name of the new capital unchanged. Vera Cruz becomes the Seaport of Washington. The Canal completed in 1915. The new location proves eminently satisfactory to all. The future of China and the Philippines. When the good Lord created the earth He reserved the Western Hemisphere for the exclusive use and control of the Yankees. They were not slow to avail themselves of their opportunity. This comes from force of habit; opportunities they allow to pass by unimproved are as scarce as Swiss Admirals. Americans are warranted to take care of themselves under any circumstances. It will surprise no one to learn that in 1999 the Western Hemisphere had passed in its entirety under the dominion of the Stars and Stripes. Americans did not pounce upon and seize the continent, nor did they even fire one shot to secure its entire control. Canada, Central and South America simply gravitated towards the American Union and became absorbed into one great Republic. The smaller Republics of the Americas realized that the United States in 1899 were a peace-loving nation. Although its army was a mere corporal's guard, America had a population in that year aggregating 75,000,000. Such a large nation with an insignificant army could mean them no harm. One by one they joined our American Union of their own free will and volition, until in 1999 the great American Union became an accomplished fact. To attempt to rule such a vast stretch of country under any other than the great [It could Govern the World.] Constitution of the United States, would result in a signal failure. The American Constitution, that masterpiece and perfect symbol of human liberty, is great enough and broad enough to govern the entire globe under one flag. Indeed as early as 1999 there were already strong indications that before the expiration of three more centuries such might be the eventual result. It already looked in that year as though the great American Republic would ultimately gather under its wings, Europe, Asia, Africa and the islands of Oceanica. However, there is a limit to human ambition; there is a boundary to all possibilities. Comparatively speaking, we are dealing [America does not want the Earth.] only with a near future when we behold, in 1999, the proud flag of America, that emblem of liberty which never suffered defeat, floating over one vast Republic from Alaska to Patagonia. Other dreamers may hustle for notoriety by claiming in an aimless way that in 2999 the American flag will float over all the continents of the world. They may even wish to annex a few of the planets under the American flag, but heed them not. Daniel Webster's eloquent words: "The Union, now and forever, one and inseparable," reached a climax when the United States of the Americas consolidated in 1999. Nor was there a discordant note in the grand concert of eighty-five states. Mason and Dixon's line became a memory of the past. The northern states from Alaska and Canada to Florida; the middle states from Mexico to Costa Rica and the southern states from Colombia to Patagonia, were all linked together in the bonds of friendship and brotherly love. At last Webster's prophecy had been fulfilled; the great Union had become "one and inseparable." To the inquiring mind the question naturally offers itself: In what manner was the great American Republic governed in 1999? Were the commands of the Federal government still issued from Washington, D. C., or had it been found more convenient to transfer the seat of government to a locality better adapted and more central to the new conditions of the greater Republic? In 1990, by decree of Congress of the United Americas, and at the close of a [Capital transferred to Mexico.] special national election held for that purpose, both houses of Congress by a two-thirds vote, elected to transfer the seat of our National government from Washington, D. C., to the city of Mexico, which in 1999, commanded a position midway between the North and South sections of the great Republic. Although transferred by act of Congress to the city of Mexico, our National Capital in 1999 still retained the glorious name of Washington. The name of Washington, D. C., was changed to that of Columbia. Statesmen in 1990 wisely decided to retain the name of Washington for the National Capital of the great Republic. A few were in favor of retaining the ancient name of Mexico for the new capital but the vast majority of our American voters in 1990 treasured with patriotic love and tenderness the revered name of the Father of his Country. They believed that no matter where the capital of the Republic might be moved to, whether it were located in Brazil or in Alaska, the fame of Washington must go with it and bear the honored association of that name. Washington, D. C., took the new name of Columbia, having become a city of secondary political importance. The name of Washington belongs to the national capital alone, the home of Congress, the residence of the National Executive and forum of the Supreme Court of the Americas. The hero of Valley Forge and champion of American Independence was still near and dear to every heart in 1990, and may centuries yet unborn honor his memory. The city of Mexico became the Capital of the Americas for manifold reasons, [Mexico a Natural Centre.] chiefly political, strategical and commercial. To those, who, in 1899 had been accustomed from birth to regard the United States as that narrow strip of country lying between Canada and the Gulf of Mexico, the announcement that the capital of the Americas had been transferred to the city of Mexico, must cause a shock of unpleasant sensation. It is a human weakness to worship our idols. Woe to those who would destroy them. Tradition must not be tampered with. Americans of 1899 had been taught that a small and beautiful city on the Potomac was the capital of our Federal Union. To them it must come in the nature of a shock to learn that in 1990 the name of that city had changed to Columbia, and Washington, the National Capital, had been transferred to the State of Mexico. There are, however, other instances on record in which it has been deemed advisable to change the capital of a great nation. If in the year 1810 an intelligent Russian had announced to his countrymen that the seat of government in Russia would be transferred in 1812 from golden, sacred Moscow to bleak, cold St. Petersburg on the barren swamps of the Neva, his prediction would have been laughed to scorn; such a statement would have encountered a tempest of derision. Your orthodox Russian would have raved at the mere mention of such an eventuality. In 1810 any intelligent Russian would have regarded the abandonment of ancient Moscow, the custodian of the Kremlin, for a barren spot on the shores of the Baltic, as a positive sacrilege. Yet it is historically true that in 1812 this very thing came to pass. Instead of uprooting our National Capital from a spot hallowed with sacred traditions [In Perpetual Sunshine and Flowers.] and transplanting it into a cold, sterile region, as in the case of the Russian capital, Washington, as a seat of government, was removed from the banks of the Potomac into the splendors of a tropical region,--into the domain of Montezuma and his brave Aztec warriors, where fruits and flowers chase one another in an unbroken circle through the year; a paradise where the gales are loaded with perfumes of the forests in which birds of radiant plumage and exquisite song fill the air with their delicious melodies. Washington in 1999 was fast developing into a magnificent city, worthy of its proud [An Earthly Paradise.] name and eminence as the capital of the great American Republic with its population of 531,000,000 people. Built in the heart of the State of Mexico, it was surrounded by magical charms of scenery such as only a tropical paradise may develop. Its lofty domes and spires and stately public buildings, many of them constructed of huge blocks of multi-colored glass, were reared amidst a land luxuriant with the cochineal, cocoa, the orange and sugar-cane. The city of Washington in 1999 was hedged by nature's most subtle art. Beyond the capital's limits were visible a gay confusion of meadows, streams and perpetual flowering forests. From the centre of the new Washington could plainly be seen the majestic outlines of ancient Popocatapetl, rising as a sombre spectre whose rugged head seemed to cleave the skies. Stretching far away to the right, and clearly visible from the observatory of the Executive Mansion might be seen, towering in its solitary grandeur, the peak of the mighty Orizaba, with its eternal shroud of snow descending far down its sides. How many centuries this mighty giant of the Cordilleras has stood there, a sentinel in the Garden of the Gods, none may tell. But ages and cycles of time after the busy brains of 1899 shall have turned to dust, Orizaba, with the Stars and Stripes adorning its summit, will still rear its proud head and gaze down upon millions of American patriots yet unborn. The transferment of the capital of the Americas in 1990 to the city of Mexico, [Met with General Approval.] was generally regarded as a master-stroke of policy. From a hygienic point of view alone, the change proved eminently a desirable one. Its removal from the malodorous swamps of the Potomac to the elevated plateau upon which the Aztec race reared their ancient capital, with its balmy breezes and tropical luxuriance, proved a most welcome change. It was generally conceded in 1899 that the site of Washington on the malaria-breeding banks of the Potomac, was not a happy selection. In spite of great precautions several epidemics had devastated the national capital during the decades from 1900 to 1940. Among other pestilential attractions of the Potomac swamps, great prominence was given to a fierce and aggressive tribe of mosquitoes, called "Swamp Angels," which in 1920 increased and multiplied greatly, to the absolute terror of the Washingtonites. It is related of these aggressive and dangerous pests that in 1925 a swarm of them actually carried away a sheep while the animal was grazing upon the White House downs. But aside from its favorable hygienic considerations the central position of the city of Washington in the State of Mexico commanding the main avenue between North and South America, gave it great political and commercial importance as the capital of the Americas in 1990, one that was enjoyed by no other rival. The capture and destruction of Washington, in the State of Mexico, could not have [It Became Impregnable.] been effected in 1999 or at any subsequent period. The city in that year became impregnable, so rendered by a vast system or chain of fortresses from the city proper to Vera Cruz, its seaport, a distance of about two hundred miles. The mountain passes and rugged defiles between Washington and Vera Cruz frowned with heavy ordnance. Dynamite guns were ready on every hand to scatter their deadly missiles for the edification of all invaders. From Washington to Vera Cruz, great sentinel forts stood in the path of the invader, an unassailable chain, many of them being hardly visible to the eye. Fortifications were constructed upon the high table lands of the Cordilleras, also upon the apex of precipices, and from these dizzy summits shrinking eyes might gaze down two and three thousand feet and admire the bewildering beauties of tropical vegetation. It was estimated by leading engineers in 1999 that with its line of defences to the coast the capital of the United States of the Americas was impervious to the assaults of the world. The port of Vera Cruz, only two hundred miles east of Washington in a direct line, had been permitted to retain its original name when Mexico became a part and parcel [Washington's Outlet to the Sea.] of the American Union. This concession was made in honor of Cortes, the conqueror of Mexico, the boldest and most intrepid of all warriors of the middle ages, who founded the city of Vera Cruz and destroyed his fleet of vessels so as to compel his followers to wrest from the sway of Montezuma, the city of Mexico. It was at Vera Cruz that Cortes founded the first Spanish colony on the American mainland. In honor and memory of the valiant Spanish commander and his daring exploits in 1520, it was deemed a point of courtesy to retain for that city the baptismal name Cortes had endowed upon it. In 1999 its spacious harbor was taxed to its utmost capacity to accommodate the world's commerce while en route through the Nicaraguan Canal, which was opened to navigation in 1915, having cost its American investors $195,000,000. The proximity of Vera Cruz to the canal rendered that city an available port, bringing to it a wonderful volume of trade and commerce, and as Vera Cruz in 1999 was merely the ocean outlet of Washington, it will be readily appreciated that the opening of the Nicaraguan Canal and the volume of traffic it diverted in that direction, added materially to the importance of that region as the seat in 1999 of our national government. The completion of the Nicaragua Canal in 1915 was a triumph to the American science of engineering, yet so tardy in conception and execution that it reflected at best only an uncertain honor. It should have been constructed and opened to navigation as early [Importance of the Canal.] as 1885. It was a case of sheer neglect on the part of America. As soon as the Panama bubble exploded and Frenchmen discovered that they had been hoodwinked by speculators, America should have lost no time in constructing the Nicaragua Canal. The lesson of the Spanish War has taught America the value of an ocean canal connecting the Atlantic and Pacific oceans. With the possession of the Philippines and an enormous Oriental trade the operation of this canal became a factor of the highest importance to America. An American fleet of warships in the spacious bay of Vera Cruz, only two hundred miles away from Washington, was enabled in 1999 to steam through the canal into the Pacific in only a few hours' time and proceed to Hawaii and the Orient in short order. This was a great improvement on the "good old days" of 1899 when war vessels and transports, leaving New York to go to Manila, had to crawl around the tempestuous Horn or travel via. Suez. The construction of the interoceanic canal added greatly to the importance of the new location for our National capital in the State of Mexico. Vera Cruz became the rendezvous of the world's commerce. The central location of Washington in the State of Mexico, midway between the two great continents, proved an advantageous and commanding one and was eminently satisfactory to all sections of the great American Republic in 1999. In considering the vast importance of ocean canal navigation to the Americas, it is well to ascertain what became of the Philippine Islands and China in 1999. In that year of our Lord, the world was practically governed by three great powers. [Three Great Powers in 1999.] The first and greatest of the trio was the vast American Republic, which in that memorable year extended from Alaska to Patagonia. Next came Great Britain, whose sway was undisputed over the vast continents of India, Africa and Australia, along with valuable islands of the seas, like the articles of a traditional auction bill, "are too numerous to mention." The third great Power in 1999 was Russia. The ruler of all the Russias was not only Czar of the European and Siberian domains, but he was also crowned at the sacred Kremlin as the Emperor of China. A glance at the map of the world will show that in 1999 Russia was in possession of nearly one-fourth of the globe's real estate. Not satisfied with this, Russian ambition had designs upon India, intending to employ China as her base of operations. England, however, was always alert and ready to frustrate her designs. When the nations of Europe in 1898 were carving up China, (even Spain and Italy joining in the scramble for pieces of China-ware,) Russia, her nearest neighbor on the north, was careful to secure the biggest share of the booty. In 1895 Russia saved China from the clutches of Japan, for the philanthropic purpose of doing the stealing act herself. After appropriating China's best provinces on the north, and profiting by the completion of the Trans-Siberian railroad in the year 1905, Russian influence at the court of Pekin, overshadowed all others. The Chinese, like all other Orientals, believe only what they see. Russia had long been their only neighbor in Siberia but when the great Russian railroad was completed to Port Arthur, in a very short period an army of 450,000 well drilled Russian soldiers was bivouacked near the great wall of China, within rifle shot of Pekin. Once firmly seated on China's neck, Russian [The Russian Emperor of China.] diplomacy moulded the Middle Kingdom as clay in the potter's hand. Its enormous population obeyed implicitly the Czar's ukases, and in 1999 China became a Russian province as completely as the Crimea. Russia, however, had always entertained a warm friendship and cordial regard for the United States of America ever since the rebellion of 1860-65 and her good wishes were reciprocated on the part of all Americans. Russian respect for America became firmer and more binding as the young American Republic attained its enormous dimensions. Russia, great herself, realized that she had a right to be regarded in the same class as our noble country. As an evidence of Russian esteem for America, during the period from 1920 to 1999, Russia granted to Americans special trade privileges in China in which other nations were not permitted to share. As a result of these generous concessions to Americans our trade with China in 1999 attained gigantic proportions and nine-tenths of it passed through the Nicaragua canal. So important did our Oriental trade become in the twentieth century that the inter-oceanic canal would have been built even though it had been necessary to pave its channel with bricks of gold and silver. American wheat had largely supplanted rice as the staple food of China, and in 1999 the American export of wheat to China was estimated at a value of $95,000,000. America monopolized nearly the entire Chinese trade in farming implements, electrical machines, cotton goods, dyes and chemicals. As to the Philippines, the trade with that [Peace and Prosperity Restored.] archipelago was entirely controlled by America. After the proud flag of America had floated one century over those islands, the transformation scene was wonderful. The Filipinos had long learned, after the fall of Aguinaldo, that the American Constitution was broad and big enough to amply protect and to give them that measure of liberty to which all nations are entitled. Long before 1920 they became a docile, patient and laborious people and prospered in an amazing degree. Their exports of hemp, rice and tobacco attained immense proportions and the culture of sugar-cane became so profitable that the Philippines were famed in 1999 as the "Sugar Bowl of the Pacific." America proved a Godsend to those islands. The names of Dewey, Otis and Lawton were held in high esteem for many centuries after Dewey's great victory, which awakened America, electrified the world and gave birth to the grandest Republic the world had ever seen. CHAPTER XV. Ærial Navigation Solved. Science obtains mastery over the "ethereal blue." Ærial navigation perfected in 1925. The name of New York city changed to that of Manhattan. Washington, in the State of Mexico, becomes the centre of all airship or ærodrome lines. The fascinations of ærial navigation. From Manhattan to San Francisco in thirty-six hours, with stops at Chicago, Omaha and Denver. Terrible mid-air accidents. An air train cloud bound. The Dreamer, thus far, has invited the attention of the reader to the political conditions extant in 1999. In the preceding chapters we have contemplated with feelings exultant, national pride, the superb growth of the United States of the Americas, from a comparatively narrow strip of territory in 1899 to a magnificent Republic in 1999, consisting of eighty-five sovereign States, extending from Alaska to Patagonia, and embracing in one Republic the continents of North, Central and South America. In order to arrive at a lucid comprehension of the political status of the great American Republic and its relationship towards the world in 1899, we have reviewed the conditions of other nations of that period. We must now pass on to the consideration of other social and economic conditions which were prevalent in the American Republic during the twentieth century. Do not imagine for one moment that in the brief compass of a century human nature [Human Nature Remains The Same.] had changed in any perceptible or appreciable degree. In the year 1899 the traits of humanity were identical with those which were known to the world in the days of the Cæsars. The ebb and flow of human passions, love and hatred in the days of the Pharaohs differed in nowise from those of 1899. If forty centuries did not change our human tendencies, it will not surprise the reader to learn that in 1999 the human family was much the same in its tastes and inclinations as in the nineteenth century. The eighteenth century was an era of oak and sails; the nineteenth century proved to be an age of iron, steel and steam, but the twentieth century witnessed far greater strides of improvement resulting from the solution of the ærial navigation problem and the conquest of electricity. The solution of these two great problems alone rendered the twentieth century the most marvelous age of all since the birth of Christ. Ever since humanity has trodden upon this green, fruitful world of ours; ever since the gaze of man has turned upward and penetrated the skies, from the days of Adam and perhaps ages before that first settler made his appearance on earth, the problem of ærial navigation has agitated human breast and brain. To solve this difficult secret has long been the acme of human ambition. In 1899 we knew very little more about ærial navigation than did Noah and his family in the days when Mt. Arrarat was first used as a dry-dock. Quite certain it is that ærial navigation ten thousand years hence will be limited to [A Limited Field After all.] a moderate elevation from the earth. Never as long as the world endures will human beings with breath in their nostrils and blood in their veins reach or travel at an altitude of over six miles above the earth's surface. We know this because death would overtake every venturesome traveler who soared into those higher regions. A thousand years hence the laws of nature will still remain immutably the same. But the ambition of mankind is to control the air at a reasonable distance from the earth's surface and to navigate an element that is entirely free from all obstructions. The aim is to so control an ærial machine that it will not drift before every wind, but cleave the air and move along its course in defiance of the storm. To this must be added a guarantee of safety that the public is certain to exact before embarking upon an ærial voyage. Ærial navigation, no doubt, offers vast attractions but while sailing through the air, with the ease and grace of a bird, it might prove very inconvenient for passengers to fall out at a height of a mile or two and land through the roof of some peaceful, happy home or find themselves while unceremoniously falling securely hooked in the fork of a tree. Such little mishaps in ærial navigation had to be guarded against. Ærial navigation was perfected about the [The First Airships.] year 1925. After repeated failures of the Langley system from 1896 to 1920, the learned Washington professor changed his plans. Instead of endeavoring to lift flat-irons with wings from the ground, and watching turkey buzzards at anchor in the air over the Potomac river, Langley finally created an ærial machine that was operated by electricity and moved by a large, swiftly revolving propeller, somewhat resembling those employed in steam navigation, but with blades at a more abrupt angle. The flying machines which were constructed from 1920 to 1999 on the Langley plan, were built of Nickalum, an alloy of aluminum, crystalized, within a magnetic field. The specific gravity of Nickalum, as employed in the manufacture of ærodromes, or flying machines, was .512. It was lighter than a thin strip of pine wood, malleable as gold and impenetrable as steel. Ærodromes could not have been successfully manufactured in 1920 if Nickalum had not been employed in their construction. This new property was one of the marvelous products of the twentieth century. It was employed in nearly everything which required strength and elasticity. It was so malleable that waterproof garments, overcoats and shoes were manufactured of Nickalum as early as the year 1912. With this wonderful and cheaply manufactured metal, ærial navigation became a [Ærodromes of Nickalum.] possibility. The old fashion days of silk balloons drifting helplessly on air currents, had long passed away. These pre-Adamite curiosities belonged to the period of the nineteenth century, when man was yet living under primitive conditions, though by no means in a state of innocence. Ærodromes constructed of Nickalum were largely employed for traveling and commercial purposes between 1920 and 1925, while in 1999 they had reached a high stage of perfection. Ærodromes weighing four hundred pounds only, in 1925, could easily carry ten persons and cleave their way like an arrow through a high wind. Small ærodromes carrying four persons, weighed only one hundred pounds. If the wind were favorable on their regular trips, the high grade express ærodromes [Some Fast Traveling.] in 1999, belonging to the popular Sky-Scraper line, could easily make the trip from Manhattan (formerly New York) to Washington, in the State of Mexico, a distance of 1,949 miles in a direct air-line, in fifteen hours, making brief stops for meals at Columbia, D. C., (formerly called Washington) and at New Orleans. From the Crescent City it was only a short run across the deep, blue gulf, to Vera Cruz, then followed a short spurt of two hundred miles west of Vera Cruz to the national capital, Washington, then built upon the site of the ancient Aztec City of Mexico. In 1999 this was regarded as a neat, breezy little trip. The name of New York city (always a meaningless and unpopular one), had been [The Great City of Manhattan.] changed in 1912 to the more appropriate one of Manhattan. Its population in 1999 had increased to 25,000,000 souls. Although the largest metropolis of the world, Manhattan in 1999 had reached its zenith. The consolidation of the republics into one vast American Union, from Alaska to Patagonia, and the removal of Washington as the seat of our national government, from the little District of Columbia to a more central and appropriate location in the State of Mexico, as well as the opening of the Nicaragua Canal, were the leading factors that contributed to the commercial detriment and undoing of Manhattan. The star of destiny shone brightly over Mexico as the conspicuous centre of the new and great American Republic and the volume of the world's trade passed through the Nicaragua Canal, diverting millions of freightage that otherwise must have entered the port of Manhattan. The great air-ship or ærodrome building centre in 1999 was the city of Manhattan. Upon the Palisades, opposite Grant's tomb and about one mile east of the lofty Dewey monument, were stationed vast workshops for building these beautiful and graceful ærodromes. It was ever a fascinating sight to the men and women of 1999 to see one of these flying machines starting out of the shops on its trial trip. The body of the ærodrome was resplendent in brilliant colors and the new airships always appeared in the bravery of bunting and silk flags. By act of Congress all ærial navigation companies were obliged to adopt a certain color and number. The big express lines running from Manhattan to Rio Janeiro and Mexico, each adopted a prismatic color along with their official number. The object of this was to enable people to distinguish at sight an approaching ærodrome and at once recognize by its color the ærial line to which it belonged. The U. S. of the A. ærial express ships alone were permitted to use white paint on [Uncle Sam's Favorite Color.] the hull of their ærodromes. Thousands of them were employed in the government service and conveyed troops to all points in the great American Republic. It was, however, strictly forbidden, under severe penalties, to carry any munitions of war or any explosives or chemicals upon any ærial ship whatever. The color of black was employed only on funeral occasions. The ærodrome, which filled the functions of an ærial hearse in 1999, was painted all black, hull and sails as well. When the eye could discern floating in the air and moving swiftly in one direction a long line of black ærodromes, it became known that one more poor mortal had entered into rest, and his remains were speeding through the air to their last resting place, namely, the nearest crematory; burials of the old style having been prohibited by act of Congress in 1947 throughout the United States of the Americas. It was a really thrilling sight to see the large ærodromes in their brilliant colors sailing through the air with such swiftness and graceful ease, each one carrying over its stern the flag of the great Republic with its eighty-five stars. Like beautiful phantoms they flitted by, gracefully, noiselessly, swiftly cleaving the air without the least apparent effort. It was an inspiring sight. Bridal couples in 1999 were frequently married in an ærodrome as it rested on a [Airship Wedding in 1999.] city square or in a modest village green. Standing around the airship, which was always decorated with multi-colored flags and floral designs, were invited guests, friends and spectators. After the ceremony was over and congratulations exchanged, the minister, as well as the nearest relatives alighted from the ærodrome, which immediately commenced to ascend amidst the hand-clappings, hurrahs and Godspeeds of the gathering. As the ærodrome gracefully arose about ten feet above terra firma, a few handsful of rice were thrown at the happy pair, who retaliated by throwing roses and other flowers at their friends below. When the ærodrome attained a height of about one hundred feet, the navigator steered the ærial ship in the direction required and the journey then commenced. The trip across the continent in an ærial ship was always, in pleasant weather, a delightful experience. A voyage from Manhattan (formerly New York), to San Francisco, was a matter of about thirty-six hours, with stops at Chicago, Omaha and Denver. Sailing through balmy summer skies, with a continent at one's feet, was an experience never to be forgotten. It was exhilarating to glide unchecked, without noise or friction, dust or smoke, over lakes, valleys, plains and mountains. All sense of danger or fear was banished from the mind. At night the ærodromes were compelled by law to travel at halt speed, with two searchlights, fore and aft, in constant operation. The port lights of all ærodromes were red, and the starboard lights were green. These precautions were rendered necessary in order to avoid mid-air collisions. Some disasters in 1999 filled the [Ærodrome Collisions in Mid-air.] country with alarm. In 1940 a terrible mid-air collision occurred over Rio Janeiro. Two swift ærodromes, attached to the Mercury Limited express, collided about 2,000 feet over that city causing a serious loss of life. Collision in mid-air was always the nightmare and dread of ærial navigation. People in 1999 had not yet become fully reconciled to the delightful sensation of dropping out of the clouds and getting their clothes torn on church steeples and lightning rods. When they made a start for heaven they were better prepared to make it from earth as a starting point, rather than making a break for paradise starting from the clouds. Accidents, unfortunately, were of frequent occurrence. In the columns of the Hourly Journal, published in the city of Manhattan, (old New York,) under date of Thursday, July 17, 1984, we find the following harrowing narrative: MID-AIR COLLISION! The Comet Express Collides with the Milky Way Ærostatic Express. Twenty-five Passengers Dashed to Earth. Many Saved in the Descent by Using the Air-Life Preservers. Manhattan, N. Y., 2 p. m., July 17, 1984.--A mid-air collision resulting in the death of twenty-five persons, and injuries to many others, occurred at 11 o'clock this morning at a distance of 2,500 feet over the city of Binghamton, N. Y. The Transcontinental Comet Express, San Francisco to the eastern coast, which passes Denver at 10 p. m., takes its easterly flight and passes over Binghamton about 11 o'clock on the following day. The west bound Milky Way Express is due over Binghamton at about the same hour. A heavy fog arising from the Susquehanna prevailed at the time and this, added to the fact that a propeller-blade of the Comet Express was disabled, caused the collision, which collapsed the ærodrome of the Milky Way, capsizing twenty-five of the passengers, many of whom fell in the Court House green, being buried in the sod under the terrific velocity of the fall. One passenger from Cobleskill, who had just started for a trip to the Yellowstone Park, fell on the statue of Justice on the dome of the Court House. At noon his legs had not yet been extricated. The city is plunged in gloom. Among the killed were five passengers from Sidney, Unadilla and Bainbridge. The details of their death are too shocking for recital. The bodies were taken to the Binghamton crematory and burned. The ashes will be forwarded to-morrow to the relatives. On the Comet Express from San Francisco, the passengers were more fortunate. The navigator calmed the fears of the passengers, many of whom were ready to jump overboard and take a short cut into Binghamton, frenzied as they were through fear. Those who jumped were careful to adjust the air life preservers before leaping. The Comet Express passengers landed in Binghamton safely. Gen. Burgess had both legs so badly broken that they will have to be amputated. The surgeons will supply new electrical limbs that will prove fully as serviceable as the natural ones. Terrible accidents like the one above described, taken from the columns of the Hourly Journal, under date of July 17, 1984, were not by any means the only class of accidents caused in the twentieth century by ærial navigation. Under the influences of sighing breezes, an invigorating atmosphere and a mild, genial sun, nothing could be more delightful than a mid-air excursion on board of an ærodrome. Nothing could exceed the pleasant sensations one experiences while noiselessly gliding over tree-tops and church spires. In 1999 courtships were no longer conducted in the locality of the much abused garden gate. Love's trysting-place was often transferred to the roof of the paternal house, where the coy damsel frequently awaited with anxious heart for the arrival of her lover on an airship. But, with all its bright attractions, ærial navigation had dangers of its own, obstacles and difficulties. Here we have another illustration of the perils of ærial navigation. We copy the following article from the columns of the Sidney Record, under date of Jan. 15, 1999, which goes to prove that ærodromes, like all mortals here below, had troubles of their own: CLOUD-BOUND. The Utica Ærostatic Train Delayed by a Mid-air Storm. Sidney, N. Y., Jan. 15.--There is a cloud-blockade on the line of the Oregon & New York Ærostatic Transit Co., and the air train which left Vancouver last evening is stalled at a point 3,000 feet above Norwich, with little prospects of getting away for several hours. Cloud-plows have been sent up from Syracuse, but so dense is the raging ærial snow that the plows have been unable to reach the stranded train. The storm is the most severe one known in years in this locality and came on at 8 o'clock last night. It raged over the city of Sidney all night, although no snow fell. The Weather Bureau in Washington, Mexico, pronounces it one of the familiar mid-air storms and places its lowest point at 3,000 feet above Sidney and its highest at 5,000, making a storm stratum of 2,000 feet. The clouds are banked for a distance of thirty miles and are almost impenetrable. The conditions are such as to make telepathic messages to the conductor of the air train difficult to deliver. A message, however, was received saying that all are well on board and the etherize heating apparatus working well. In the same edition of that paper, on the first page, was published another account of a serious accident, in which an air-ship soared too high and broke away from the attraction of the earth's gravity. It read as follows: AIR SHIP MISSING. The Pontiac Ten Days Overdue at Vera Cruz. Washington, Mexico, Jan. 14. 1999.--The Transoceanic air-freighter Pontiac has been overdue at Vera Cruz for ten days. It is feared the ship has got snarled in the upper ether currents. As she has not been spoken by other air-ships it is probable she has drifted away from the influence of the earth's gravitation, and drawn into the orbit of some neighboring planet. It may land in Mars. Ærial navigation in 1999 was not merely confined to large express, passenger and [Everybody in the Air.] freight ships, but also came into general use by the public. The Ærocycle of the twentieth century was an ærial bicycle that skimmed through the air with admirable ease, being operated like the old-fashioned bicycles suffering mortals in 1899 used to jump over hills and rough roads, straining muscle and nerve to the utmost tension, and frightening horses with their "bicycle face." Two or three of the bicycles of 1899 were kept as curiosities in a glass case in 1999 in the war department at Washington, Mexico. They were regarded as instruments of voluntary torture, relics of a species of refined barbarism. The invention of the Ærocycle sealed the doom of bicycles. CHAPTER XVI. The Age of Electricity. Ærial navigation shunned by many people in 1999. The great Age of Electricity. The Passing of the Horse. The noble beast loses its fetters and becomes a Household Pet. Steam engines a relic of the past. No more smoke in railroad travel. Tunnels lighted bright as day and filled with pure air. Single-rail electric roads all the go. It must not, however, be imagined that people in 1999 passed away their whole lives traveling in the air. Millions could not be induced under any consideration, to plant a foot in any ærial ship. They hugged old Mother Earth with a true devotion worthy of a better cause. Many people in the year 1899 were to be found who entertained strong antipathies against traveling on water, but in 1999 the opponents [Old Earth Good Enough for Them.] of ærial navigation outnumbered them one hundred to one. For this and other more important reasons, the genius of the twentieth century applied itself assiduously to the perfecting of electrical and compressed air machines of every conceivable character. The twentieth century saw the coup-de-grâce, or death blow, given to sails for propelling ships, horses used for traction purposes and steam in mechanical engineering. Electricity, drawn directly from coal, as well as the air, was procurable in inexhaustible quantities. Electricity long before 1999 was stored with the utmost ease and economy, and shipped all over the world for lighting, heating and motive power. The partnership existing between the old-fashion steam engine and electric dynamos was dissolved forever in 1920. Electricity conducted the business alone and in its own name after steam and its clumsy accessories withdrew from the firm. One of the first to feel the effects of the [Good-bye Mr. Horse.] change was that greatly admired and beloved creature, the horse. In 1999 plenty of horses were yet to be found in the haunts of civilization. They were generally kept as pets, gentle, graceful and docile creatures, reminders of past centuries in which their progenitors had so laboriously served the ends of man. Occasionally in 1999 some old-fashioned swell, who had been acquainted with horses and their ways in 1930, would occasionally harness up a pair to a curious looking vehicle with shafts and take a short drive, but in 1999 such antiquities were regarded with the same curiosity Noah might have experienced could he have seen an ærodrome circling around the ark. Out in the country, in remote districts and mountain regions, horses were occasionally seen doing farm work, but the sight was an unusual one, invariably attracting much attention. It was estimated in 1999 that in about one hundred more years the horse in cities and country towns would become as rare as the buffalo. In 1930 when the horse had already ceased to be a beast of burden, epicures openly accepted its flesh as a highly esteemed dish. Indeed it became quite the fad for fast swells to dine on trotter steak. The dray and carriage horses were the first ones to disappear, but the racers held on pretty well. In 1942 the turf and paddock were still popular, though rapidly declining. The competitors that drove the horse from its field of labor were the electric and compressed air horseless vehicles. As early as 1899 the horseless carriage was rapidly striding into popularity. In 1920 they were common sights everywhere. In 1950 they had crowded the horse to the wall and in 1999 horseless vehicles for business or pleasure were exclusively employed everywhere. Horses in 1999 were no longer beasts of burden in the great American Republic. [Emancipated by Electricity.] They had been emancipated by electricity and compressed air. In remote sections of the American Republic, like the pampas of the State of Brazil and the mountain regions of the State of Peru, horses were frequently to be seen, but seldom employed as beasts of burden. It took many centuries to wipe the equine race from the face of the globe. The history and achievements of the noble brute had been for many centuries linked to that of man. In 1999 the Arab still loved his faithful charger, guarding it as the apple of his eye. The noble animal still shared his tent. In his estimation a wife or two were of little worth compared with the swift, graceful animal that so often carried him from danger and left his pursuers in the rear. It would have been sad indeed for the world, so early as 1999 to lose an animal endowed by nature with so much intelligence, an animal that again and again had decided a thousand fields of battle and had braved all dangers by land or sea. But from the thraldom of labor, the horse in 1999 had been emancipated and this tribute was one worthy of his peerless fame. Even the reindeer of the Polar regions felt the touch of twentieth century genius. The Laplander had no further use for the dog-power of his ancestors. His sleds glided along the fields of ice, propelled by electricity, of which inexhaustible supplies were drawn from the aurora borealis. In 1999 automobiles required only three days to traverse the distance from Montreal in the American State of East Canada to Washington, our national capital in the State of Mexico. The roads throughout the Americas had reached a high grade of perfection and travel on electric automobiles [Good Roads Everywhere.] became a pleasure even in all the Southern States of the American Union, such as Venezuela, Bolivia, Colombia, Ecuador, and Argentina. Uncle Sam's farm in 1999 was a big one and was covered with good roads. Horses and steam engines were altogether too slow for the twentieth century. The exclusion of steam from all railroads in 1999 proved a great boon to travel. Railroad smoke was a drawback to steam roads, while sparks, cinders and live coal were a constant danger to property. When a happy bride and groom took their departure on a train for their honeymoon in 1899 their friends pelted them with rice, while the old fashion steam engine attached to the train rounded the compliment by pelting the newly wedded pair with cinders and soot. Dense volumes of black smoke [Delights of Steam Travel.] poured into the railway coaches, filling every crevice and corner, rendering the human face unrecognizable. Travelers in these old-fashioned cars, clad in the bravery of fashion, in their silks and fine raiment, would journey only a short distance when they would become almost unrecognizable from the torrents of black soft-coal smoke that pierced their cuticle and darkened their lives. It was hard to determine at the end of a brief journey of a thousand miles whether the white man who bought a through ticket in New York was a Caucasian or an Ethiopian when he landed in Chicago, so dense was the smoke through which he had traveled. The delightful atmosphere of a tunnel formed one of the great attractions of steam travel in the good old days of 1899. Our unhappy American travelers while journeying on these steam roads would suddenly be rushed into a black hole, the damp and foul air of which was enough to kill a salamander, filled with smoke and asphyxiating gases. The marvel is that one-half of the people ever pulled through a tunnel alive. In 1999 these monstrosities of steam railroad [The Single Rail is King.] travel were entirely done away with. Not a steam engine was anywhere to be found. The single rail electric railroad was monarch of all it surveyed, and there were none to dispute its sway. It ruled the universe. The new-born electrical power drew its forces from the air. Electricity was greater than light itself. Its rule was felt by day as well as by night. In 1999 when an electric train dashed through a tunnel, its arch was aglow with electric fire, rendering the passage light as at noon time in a blazing sun. A touch of the button turned on every light in the coaches. The air of the tunnel, instead of being black with smoke and noxious vapors, was pure as the open air. Travel was rendered delightful in these swift-speeding trains on the single-rail electric railroads, which easily maintained a speed of two miles per minute. In point of speed they were easily outwinged by the ærodromes, but for all that, grass did not have much time to grow under the gearing of any electric car in 1999. These single-track electric railroads covered the Americas like a network of cob-webs. They were much safer than the two-track system of railroads peculiar to the old period of 1899, when steam engines, going around curves at two miles per minute, were liable to lose their heads and lay down in the ditch to try and figure out where they were at. The single rail upon which the electric car was balanced in 1999, was built about three feet above the track. The cars were so constructed that [Two Miles per Minute.] the wheels ran along their whole length, the sides of the car being built to a point about two feet below the rail. The trolley wire overhead gave more steadiness to the car. It could not upset. Through lines from Chicago to Washington, in the State of Mexico, attained high speed, as well as the electric lines that crossed the isthmus from the State of Mexico to Rio Janeiro. It frequently happened that strawberries gathered at the base of Mt. Orizaba, in Mexico, were delivered in Chicago in season for supper the same day. Fish of highly esteemed flavor that were swimming in the bay of Vera Cruz at break of day were frequently placed on ice and reached Manhattan in time for dinner at seven p. m. the same day. CHAPTER XVII. Electrical Navigation. Strange and novel uses to which electricity was applied in 1999. Hydrophobia banished from the earth. The relations of Creditor and Debtor greatly improved. Electrical ocean, river and lake navigation. The ocean ablaze with electric lights. Ships navigated by wireless telegraphy. It has always been the conceit of every age that its own era is the most progressive and the most enlightened of all. In 1799 any man who could have stood on the deck of Nelson's flagship "Victory" and informed that gallant sailor that in 1899 warships would navigate without sails; that powder would be used that made no smoke; that heavy rifles would hurl a ton shell fourteen miles, would have been dropped overboard as a monumental liar. The age in which we live is always a conceited one; always ready to scoff at innovations. [The Bump of The Age.] Every age had a bump of its own. How these precious bumps are smoothed down one by one, is really interesting. The stage coach was king in its day. As men gazed upon the lumbering, six miles per hour coach, the bump of the period made them believe it was the swiftest and most luxurious mode of travel the world would ever see. Steam came and reduced the stage coach bump. When men saw steam locomotives drawing fast trains and covering the country with villainous smoke, they really believed it was the swiftest mode of travel the world ever would employ. Electricity then appeared and reduced the steam bump. In 1999 electricity became a mighty monarch and an obedient slave. It ruled and [A Lively Customer.] it obeyed. This lively king of the twentieth century was a hustler. Sixteen distinct trips around the globe it could make in just one second's time. Electric railroads and flying machines could not reasonably hope to make sixteen separate trips around the globe in one second's time. The age of 1999 was a very rapid one, but its joints were too rheumatic to attempt any such gait. A traveler hustling around the world at the rate of sixteen times per second would hardly have time to visit and shake hands with friends. In the twentieth century electricity, the servant-king of the world, was harnessed [All Done by Electricity.] to everything conceivable. Everything was done by merely pressing a button. Houses built in that period had no stairs. Every private house had its elevator. Press a button and up it went. Houses built in that period had no chimneys. All heating and every bit of the cooking was done by electricity. If you wanted heat, press a button; more heat wanted, press two. Locks and keys also became relics of a past age. No one in 1999 ever locked his house. Every house was provided with an electrical outfit. Those who desired to leave the house for a few hours attached the electric gongs and alarm bells. When connection was made no one could leave or enter the house without raising a pandemonium and sending an alarm to the central police station. The uses of electricity in 1999 were carried to even absurd lengths. Man's most faithful, but, alas, uncertain friend, the dog, was in evidence throughout the twentieth century. He wagged his tail vigorously as ever in token of kindnesses received. He was as ready as ever to sacrifice his life for that of his master, as well as to plant his teeth into the calf of his leg. The Hindoo charmer is never really safe until he has extracted the fangs of the reptile. And so it was with the twentieth century dog. Nothing can be more violent than death by hydrophobia. The bite of the dog may prove more terrible than that of the cobra. This scourge was effectually removed. In 1999 dogs over one year old had their teeth removed by electricity. Their mouths were then fitted with a false set. During dog-days, while Sirius was in the ascendant, the false teeth were removed and all canines were kept on a vegetable diet. Hydrophobia became one of the lost arts. Another peculiar method in which electricity was utilized in 1999 tended to rob [Electrical Dentistry.] dentistry of some of its terrors. There was one feature of dentistry in 1899 that often tested the best nerves, and that was the peculiar odor common to all dental chambers of horror. This peculiar odor settles like a cloud upon the stomach and seldom appeals in vain to one's nerves for sympathy. For this reason an electrical machine was invented in 1999 which enabled the patient to remain at home while an offending tooth was tendering its resignation. The dentist, during the operation, remained in his den, enjoying a monopoly of its odors. If a tooth ached all one had to do was to call up a dentist, on the telephone, and ask to be placed on the line. The victim, in the seclusion of his back parlor, adjusted the electrical forceps and signalled to the dentist, five blocks away, to touch it off, then the festivities commenced. These private tooth extracting séances became very popular. No profane eyes were there to witness the agony of the victim, as in a public dental office. If he shouted loud enough to make a hole in the sky or tried to kick the plaster off the ceiling, no one was any the wiser for it. But in a public dental office (especially with ladies in the adjoining room), while the victim is being harpooned, his eloquent groans must be stifled and no attempt must be made by the victim to kick at the chandeliers. The new system of home electrical tooth extracting proved very popular. It was one of the things that had come to stay. In 1999, through the medium of electricity, the relations existing between creditors and debtors became closer and more binding. [Sure Cure for Dead Beats.] In 1899, for some reason or other never fully explained, a debtor who had a long standing account, was liable to dodge into some nook, corner or side street, if he caught a glimpse of his creditor coming down the road. The relations existing between creditor and debtor in the nineteenth century were not as cordial as they should be. If the debt were of long standing there lacked a certain warmth in their greeting which was perhaps difficult to account for. In 1930 creditors and debtors adjusted themselves in better harmony, at least they kept in closer electrical touch with one another. If the sum due was $50 or over and of long standing, the law allowed the creditor to connect his debtor with an electrical battery. The object of this wise law was to keep the creditor in constant touch with his debtor. If the debt was over three months due, the creditor was allowed to occasionally "touch up" his debtor without having to hunt him up and dun him. The creditor always had him "on the string" so to speak. It was further specified by law that creditors must employ only as many volts as there were dollars due on account in shocking a debtor. These electrical shocks were merely reminders, intended to refresh the memory of the debtor. A man owing $200 was liable to receive two hundred volts until the debt was satisfied. This plan for the collection of bad debts worked very successfully. In 1999 no [Worked Like a Charm.] debtor could tell when his creditor might touch him up. The shock reminding him of his old debt might come during the night and disturb his pleasant dreams. Perhaps while seated at the family table, or perhaps even while engaged in family worship, an electric shock might come that would raise him three feet off the floor. Such little occurrences were rather embarrassing, especially if the debtor was talking at the time to some lady friend. A man owing $500 was in danger of his life. His creditor was liable to dun him by giving him a shock of five hundred volts. Such sensations, certainly, are not as pleasant as watching a yacht race, with your boat an easy winner. A curious illustration of the operation of this new condition between creditors and bad debtors, by which the former had an electrical control of the latter, came to light in a parish church on the banks of the St. Lawrence. It appears that the village school teacher, who was also choir-master, was busy with a Saturday evening rehearsal. The members of the choir were in their places, while the professor stood near the communion-rail, facing the choir, with his back turned towards the empty pews. He was speaking, when suddenly his red hair stood on end, his whiskers straightened out at right angles, while his eyes looked big as door knobs. He then gave a leap in the air, turned a somersault backwards and cleared ten pews before landing again on his feet. It appears that he owed his landlord an old board bill of $120 and the latter had just given him an electrical dun. The choir was astounded at the professor's performance. The latter excused himself and merely said it was a slight attack of grip. In 1942 any one who used the word "steamship" was immediately rated a back number. A few of them, it is true, still fouled the ocean with their villainous smoke, but in 1999 the electrical ship ploughed the briny waters. It was a grand sight to see a magnificent ship nine hundred feet in length propelled through the waters at a [Electrical Ocean Navigation.] rate of thirty-five knots per hour by an invisible power, a mighty giant encased in the interior of the ship, a power that labored silently yet swiftly, with no perceptible vibration to the vessel and without emitting volumes of black smoke. These swiftly moving electrical ships were strange and striking in their appearance. Those constructed in 1975 by the Cramps had no masts, and they, of course, had no more use for funnels than a hen has for teeth. To the people of the old school of 1899, the ocean electrical ship looked strange indeed. The spectacle of a large steamship of 28,000 tons burden cleaving the ocean waves at the rate of forty knots per hour, with no masts and no smokestacks, looked strangely to men in 1975 who had been accustomed in their youth to old fashioned steamships like the City of New York, Campagnia, Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse, Fürst Bismarck, Teutonic and others of that class. In 1975 the hull of the electrical ship retained practically the same old lines. An electrical ship, like the Great Republic, built in the year last named, plying between Manhattan and Liverpool, was a trifle over nine hundred feet long, with only eighty-two feet breadth of beam. From stem to stern was built a swell body roof which covered the entire deck of the vessel. This covering was supported by ornamental iron columns from the bulwarks and usually stood about twenty feet above the deck. The only object that arose above the deck-roof was the captain's bridge, in which was stationed the steersman, who steered the leviathan by merely pressing electrical buttons on a small disc in front of him. With the masts and funnels removed from an electrical ocean ship, much valuable room was thus secured, adding greatly to the comfort of the passengers. Electricity was pressed into every conceivable service. That wonderful element [Lighting Up the Atlantic.] was man's best and most faithful servant. There was no duty in the twentieth century too menial for it to do. It transformed our ocean, lake and river craft into a blaze of light by night. Collisions after dark were unknown to navigation in 1975. At a distance of ten miles out at sea an electrical vessel looked like a solid mass of moving flame. Electricity drawn directly from the air and extracted from coal, costs practically nothing. The chief item of expenditure was to maintain the electrical machines in repair. In 1899 sailing ships moved along at a snail gait and during night time a small green and red lamp on the port and starboard sides of the ship was all that enabled other vessels to note their presence. It was always the marvel of that age that a hundred collisions did not take place every night on the Atlantic. But in 1999 not a sail or steamship was anywhere to be seen, on ocean, lake or river. Electricity was cheaper, swifter and more reliable. In 1899 so backward was the age that small boats, called row-boats, were still propelled with oars. In that year those primitive people still employed the old methods of propelling a boat that were in vogue in the days of the Phoenicians and Vikings. They still rowed a boat in the manner of the Greek galley slaves. In 1930 seamen had no more use for oars than a sperm whale has for paddle-wheels. Everything that could float, from a wash-tub to a man-of-war, was propelled by electricity. Even toy boats, sold for $5, were propelled by electricity. The winds still raged in 1999. From zephyr to cyclone that element ruled over the surface of the globe, but man had little use for it. Even the staid Hollander harnessed the wind no more. His mills were run by electricity, while the same agency was continually at work pumping out his dykes. Through the agency of electricity navigation in the twentieth century was rendered much safer. The ocean by night was dotted with electric buoys, which tossed and bowed with every wave. On these buoys signal-lights were placed, and passing vessels could read the latitude and longitude in which they were in at any time of the day. The figures were plainly marked on each buoy. By night the Atlantic ocean between Sandy Hook and Daunt's Rock was dotted with bright electric arc lights of 8,000 c. p. The eye never wearied gazing upon the picturesque beauty of the scene. The effect of these brilliant lights on the broad bosom of the ocean, especially during [A Scene of Thrilling Beauty.] a storm, was grand beyond the power of pen to describe. A distant wave could be clearly seen approaching one of these electric, mid-ocean buoys. On it sweeps, a tremendous current that no human power could stem. The rugged blue wall of the great wave glistens in the dazzling electric light as its huge side and foaming crest reaches the electric buoy. It seems as though the light and buoy must be swept to destruction and buried from sight. As the great wave sweeps over the light, all becomes dark for a few seconds, but when the mighty billow has swept on, the electric arc again blazes forth in the trough of the sea bidding defiance to Neptune's frowns. These mighty mid-ocean scenes, viewed from the deck of an electric ocean greyhound, were thrilling in the extreme. Along the great chain of coast-line of the United States of the Americas, from the State of Maine to the States of Venezuela, Brazil and Patagonia, also on the Pacific slope from the States of Chile, Peru and Colombia to the States of West Canada and Alaska, every rock or promontory dangerous to navigation, was ablaze with electric beacons. Electricity was common as air. Oceans and continents were made more habitable to man. It became in 1999 the world's sun by night. The perfect and absolute control of electricity by the scientists of the twentieth century benefited both ærial and ocean navigation, in furnishing the motive power. But these were benefited in another and hardly less remarkable manner by the perfected Marconi system of wireless telegraphy, which in the nineteenth century was comparatively unknown and in its early experimental stage. In ærial and ocean navigation wireless telegraphy proved an invaluable aid. The bright, young Italian inventor became a benefactor of the human race. CHAPTER XVIII. Wireless Telegraphy. The great advantages of wireless telegraphy in navigation. Ships are enabled to communicate with shore during voyages. Messages received and sent at any time en route. Collisions at sea reported at once. Belated steamers cause no anxiety. In the old-fashioned days of sails and steam, when a vessel left port and passed out of sight, she instantly became a whole world in herself. Communication had been severed with the outer world. The condition of a sailing vessel during a calm was a picture of helplessness. Steamships were more self-reliant--they at least controlled their own course. But both classes of ships, whether propelled by sail or steam, once out of sight of land, were temporarily shut out from the busy world. During these enforced absences upon an ocean voyage, great events frequently happened of which passengers, officers and crews were necessarily ignorant of. At the [Shut Out of the World.] termination of a long or short voyage, the first news could only be obtained from the pilot-boat which met the approaching vessel far out at sea. War might be on the eve of declaration as the vessel left port, battles might be fought, the enemy might be vanquished and even peace declared and a knowledge of all these events would only reach the tardy mariner upon the arrival of the vessel at her port of destination. Such a condition of affairs, often the cause of the deepest anxieties on the part of ocean travelers, might answer well enough for the days of the Crusaders, when kings of Great Britain went to Palestine to battle for the Cross, and never again heard from home in three or four years' time. When Napoleon, that meteor of the nineteenth century, left the shores of la belle France for the rocky desolation of St. Helena, it was over a year before he received any news from Paris. The same conditions ruled in 1899. Steam had rendered ocean voyages shorter and more punctual. But the main difficulty still existed. Passengers on our ocean-liners during a voyage knew as little of occurrences at home as those who traveled in the days of the Vikings and Crusaders. In this respect (as in many others), the world in 1899 was no better off than in the days when the Roman legions landed on the shores of Britain. The nineteenth century and the centuries before Christ were upon equal footing in this respect. Many splendidly equipped steamships, with colors flying and bands playing left port in the old days of sails and steam, with multitudes waving their adieux and heartily wishing them God-speed and were never again heard from. No communication was possible in those days between land and vessels at sea. Sometimes they were [Into the Jaws of Death.] doomed in the cold embrace of an iceberg; an occasional collision sent hundreds of souls to their final account; fire, always dreaded on the ocean, caused many to suffer the horrors of thirst and starvation; the ocean claimed its victims in many dreadful forms and no tidings ever reached home of the fate of loved ones, because communication between ship and shore in the "good old days" of 1899, was impossible. This supreme difficulty had not yet been overcome in 1899, and the defect was universally regarded as being a most deplorable one. The only communication ever maintained between vessels in mid-ocean and the main shore in the nineteenth century was done by cable-ships, while actually engaged in laying an ocean cable. The Great Eastern was the first steamship to lay claim to this distinction, when in 1867, her officers fished up and brought to the surface the broken Atlantic cable and the great news was flashed from ship to shore. Vessels in these days of the nineteenth century only too often left port never again [A Very Backward Age.] to be seen by mortal man. Loved ones plunged into a watery grave, locked in each other's embrace, and none survived to tell the fearful tale. Communication with shore was unknown in the vaunted civilization of the nineteenth century. The fate of the Naronic, of the White Star line, looms up in evidence. Not a whisper was again heard of her after she left port. The City of Glasgow in 1854 sank in Neptune's pastures. Four hundred and eighty souls went down in that brave ship. No hint, however slight, was ever heard of her. The Ocean Monarch, the Pacific of the Collins line, and the ill-fated City of Boston, all suffered fates that none but the day of judgment can reveal. This confession of weakness, this serious drawback of the nineteenth century, which added to the terrors of those "who go down into the great deep," was fortunately not shared by the advanced sciences and arts of the twentieth century. Wireless telegraphy contributed almost as much to the comfort of ocean and ærial navigation as electricity. Telegraph poles that rendered hideous some of our most beautiful avenues and the antiquated ocean cables were entirely relegated into oblivion. The former went into the scrap heap, while the latter found their way into Davy Jones' locker. Long before 1999 wireless telegraphy was employed on all vessels on ocean, river and lake. Instant communication was at all times maintained between ship and shore. [It Opened a New Era.] War vessels at foreign stations made their daily reports in 1999 to the Navy Department in the State of Mexico. All other navies of the world enjoyed the same facilities. Relatives telegraphed to their families and friends from vessels in mid-ocean. It was quite common to receive a brief message from an Atlantic liner two thousand miles east of Sandy Hook, as follows: On board Electrical Ship Manhattan. } Latitude 50 N., long. 30 W. } Dear Henry:--Got over being seasick. Baby and nurse doing nicely. Had strawberries and cream for dinner. Dodged an iceberg and struck a whale, yesterday. Love to all. Will wireless from Paris. Ethel. Overdue vessels in 1999 gave no anxiety in that era of progress. If a shaft broke the home office was at once notified that the vessel would be several days behind her schedule time in arriving at her destination. If caught in a fog or obliged to move at half speed, the information was immediately lodged on shore. In fact it even became possible to navigate vessels from the shore. In 1982 the strange experiment was made of navigating a large ocean electric ship [Sailed his Ship from Land.] from Manhattan (old N. Y.), to Queenstown. The name of the vessel was the City of Sidney. After the pilot had dropped off at the Hook, Captain Sherman, of the Electric Belt Line of vessels, remained in his private office in the forty-third story of Anti-Trust building on 59th street, Manhattan, and issued his commands by wireless telegraph to the first officer of the City of Sidney. Reports reached the captain every six hours, giving the exact latitude and longitude and the ship's course was directed from the captain's private office on 59th street in the city of Manhattan. In other words it was the city of Manhattan that kept the City of Sidney on the move, so to speak. The ship's course, conduct of the crew, the health of the passengers, the reports of passing electrical vessels, the velocity of wind and other details of navigation, were communicated to Captain Sherman, whose orders were given and obeyed as readily as though issued from the bridge or deck of the City of Sidney. When that vessel arrived off Queenstown to land the U. S. of the A. mails, Capt. Sherman in 59th street ordered half speed and finally stopped the electric engines. Of course, while navigating his immense vessel across the ocean and remaining seated in his office at home, Captain Sherman could not assume his place in the saloon at the head of the table. Wireless telegraphy could not, with all its ingenuity, satisfy one's appetite at the sumptuous dinners served on board the City of Sidney. But this demonstrated to the world in 1982 that with wireless telegraphy commanders could remain in their office on shore and sail their ships to foreign ports in perfect safety. This was done in 1982 just as easily as the old style train dispatcher controlled far away trains in 1899 while seated in his own office. The Marconi system of wireless telegraphy, when perfected in 1920, employed the Hertzian magnetic waves, which are identical with the waves of light. Whenever an electric spark is made to leap from one electrode to another, one of these waves is created. The Marconi instruments for sending and receiving are tuned to each other and are then invulnerable to the attack of waves of different lengths. These rays of electricity are reflected and directed in a given direction like rays of [A Marvelous Invention.] light. An electric circuit with a key, gives the basis of the Marconi system. This circuit runs through a spark coil with an oscillator to produce continuous electric sparking so long as the circuit is kept closed by the key--and from this the sparking wires run out of doors to the pole from which the messages are sent. One end of the wire is placed in the earth and the other is elevated in the air. The height to which it is carried determines the distance to which the messages may be sent. The operator presses his key as in ordinary telegraphing, making his alphabet in dots and dashes. As the waves shoot out and reach the distant station, the filings in the tube cohere and the current passing through them draws up the armature of the relay magnet. This closes the circuit of the recording instrument. It is broken constantly by the tapper and instantly re-established by receiving waves. The towers employed in 1920 for the transmission of wireless messages were very high. The manifest advantages of the system were apparent and long before 1930 wireless telegraphy came into general use. The new system proved the death-knell of telegraph poles, as well as ocean cables. Old telegraph stock faded in value like the morning mist. The supreme importance of communicating with vessels while at sea alone guaranteed the success of the wireless system. Wireless telegraphy proved to be one of the crowning scientific achievements of the twentieth century, but the ambition of scientists [Chatting with the Boys in Mars.] in 1969 knew no bounds. In that year they were busy sending messages to Mars, utilizing starbeams for that purpose. For thirty long years they repeated the same messages or signals to Mars every night. In 1999 the canalers up in that bright Yankee planet had not yet responded but hope was still entertained that some sign of recognition might yet be secured from the Martians. Telescopes in 1999 had been vastly improved. The network of canals in Mars became far more distinct to the human eye. The moon, our nearest neighbor, looked as though only one mile away. Neptune, the giant of the heavens, grew on more intimate terms with our mother Earth, but on Mars was centered the greatest attention. Fervent were the hopes that Martians would acknowledge the ceaseless signals sent from earth. The growth of the electrical machine industry in 1999 was enormous. The United States of the Americas led the world in their manufacture. The dawn of this vast industry was already manifest, even in 1899. The capital invested in electrical industries in that year was as follows: Invested Capital. 928 electric railways, aggregating 14,850 miles, $883,000,000 2,838 electric light central stations, 335,486,518 25,000 private electric lighting plants, 87,500,000 Power transmission (750,000 motors in use), 150,000,000 Electrical apparatus in mining, 125,000,000 Telegraph, telephone, &c. 600,000,000 -------------- Total, $2,180,986,518 In 1999 nearly a third of the entire capital of the vast American Republic was invested in electrical interests of some form or other. The export trade of American machines became stupendous. The world demanded only the American make; no substitutes would answer. American pluck and brains proved the lever that Archimedes, the Greek mathematician, so long sighed for. American brains moved the world. CHAPTER XIX. Cremation Becomes a Law. No more grave robberies in the twentieth century. The old style of burial becomes a back number. Popular errors about Cremation removed. Undertakers at a discount. Costly funerals discouraged. Funeral etiquette in 1999. No person buried alive in the twentieth century. Sacred memories of the dead still jealously treasured. "Rented graves" and other burial abominations of the nineteenth century are forever banished. The great innovation of the twentieth century which long rankled within the human breast, but finally uprooted and conquered prejudice, was cremation. The [No More "Earth to Earth."] old traditions and forms of Christian burial were difficult to eradicate, but reason and a general sense of public safety finally broke down the barriers and traditions of ages. Cremation for many years shocked public sensibilities. The terrors of the hidden grave, nameless and horrible, were eliminated by the new and only safe process of disposing of the dead. In the contention which prevailed during the first half of the twentieth century, many were reluctant to accept cremation as the true mode of burial. By degrees, however, public opinion settled down and adjusting itself to the new conditions, accepted the quicker and safer methods of burial. Cremation in 1999 became the only legalized form of burial. Every cemetery was [Cremation Became a Law.] provided with a crematory long before 1950. Electricity was employed in reducing the body to ashes. Grave robberies that so often disgraced the nineteenth century, became impossible. A rich man was at least sure of a safe burial of his ashes after cremation, while the poor man's body, which formerly was thrust into a Potter's field, was safe at last from medical students and professional body-snatchers, who often robbed graves to [Rich and Poor on Equal Footing.] secure a skeleton. Millionaires in the twentieth century enjoyed after death the same degree of safety vouchsafed to the poor man. Their dust was on equal footing. The old graves were left undisturbed in 1999. Graves in that year, in the manner of their occupants, gradually passed into decay. In the centre of every cemetery was constructed a fine mausoleum, a pantheon in which the ashes of the dead were carefully deposited in vaults or family receptacles. Cremation having become in 1999 the only mode of burial authorized by law, [The State pays for All Burials.] these mausoleums were built at the expense of the town. Each vault was owned by a family in perpetuity. Those who were too poor to purchase a vault had their ashes placed in a common burial plot in the ground. These large mausoleums were built of white marble in a style of architecture appropriate to the solemnity of their purpose. The interior was well-lighted and ventilated and on the door of each vault was carved the family name. All mausoleums were built about on the same plan. From the centre of the structure arose a high dome of beautifully chiseled white marble, while light poured from the top into the circular floor of the structure. The vaults used as receptacles for the ashes were stationed about in a large circle, in several tiers, one above another. The ashes of the cremated body were deposited in a small metallic box, 9 ×18 inches, and four inches deep. On the cover was engraved the name, age, date of death and cremation of the deceased. Each family vault was capable of holding thirty metallic cases, or burials. It was universally conceded that cremation was the only safe and proper mode of [It Looked Heathenish to Them.] disposing of the dead. In 1999 people wondered how the ancient form of burial had so long been practiced by civilized nations. When in 1999 cremation became the only legal form of burial, they looked with feelings of horror upon the ancient form of interment. How people could lay away their loved ones in the cold ground to remain for years the companion of the worm, could not be understood in the days of cremation. All arguments brought against burials in the ground were unanswerable. It was an offense against the laws of humanity, and the practice was maintained even as late as 1965, but public opinion became firm against it. The revolt against burials spread rapidly, once inaugurated. In 1965 a family that consented to the burial of their dead was regarded not only [Guarding the Bodies of Rich Men.] as a back number but with feelings of aversion. The question arose in the minds of many if they really could love the memory of their departed one and place the body where it was liable to be stolen or desecrated; where it became the food of vermin. People in 1899 often had to even place strong guards over the tombs of rich relatives for fear that vandals might steal the body and retain it for ransom. Long after death bodies of men had been drawn from their tomb and hanged by a mob. When in 1899 Lord Kitchner, the Sidar of the British forces in Egypt, subdued and captured Khartoum, [Nineteenth Century Practices.] he permitted his men to violate the tomb of the Mahdi. The body of the Prophet was torn from its resting place and its head was decapitated. And this, note well, was done by British soldiers in 1899, to avenge the cruel death of Gen. Gordon. In 1999 desecrations, robberies and violations of graves became impossible. The world was no longer shocked by such atrocities. Hyenas, both biped and quadruped, were thrown out of business. Cremation, the purest and swiftest mode of reducing the body to dust and ashes, was universally declared to be immeasurably better than the ancient mode of burial. The dead were not permitted to pollute the ground and to infuse germs of diseases, deadly microbes, into living springs of water. It matters [Everything For and Nothing Against It.] little, in 1999, whether the cemetery were situate on top of a hill, in a valley or in the midst of a crowded city. The ashes they contained could pollute neither water, earth nor air. A mausoleum or cemetery in 1999 was often built in the most crowded or most fashionable section of a city. Cremation was acknowledged to be a clean, wholesome method of burying the dead. Boys in 1999 were not under the painful necessity while walking past a cemetery at night to whistle to keep up their courage. In 1899 the popular idea about cremation was erroneous and was largely the cause of prejudice against this method of disposing of the dead. A vast number of people believed in that year that bodies which were cremated were literally roasted or reduced to ashes over a fierce fire. When people, however, began to learn the truth of the matter, that cremated bodies were placed in the retort of a crematory and were reduced to ashes by an exceedingly high temperature and not touched in any manner by fire, then prejudice let down the bars and cremations soon became common. As a result of cremation and the law of 1999 which compelled its adoption as the only legal method of burial, undertakers [Undertakers Wear Long Faces.] were deprived of large revenues they often derived from the sale of caskets. Caskets were no longer in demand because, as a wag in 1985 observed: "There is nobody to bury." A seven foot casket of the 1899 pattern, however gorgeous, would have been absurdly too large and meaningless to enshrine the ashes of a departed relative. Such contrivances were good enough in the backward age of the nineteenth century. Burials in 1899 were made under ground, while in 1999 they were all made above ground. In 1899, immediately after death in a family one of the first duties was to purchase a casket and arrange with an undertaker for the funeral. In their unhappy frame of mind, with hearts bowed in grief, undertakers often made terms their own way with mourners. Few mourners are in a state of mind to drive a bargain in such moments, and they too often yield to the blandishments of the suave casket-broker accepting any terms he may offer. Cremation did away with this, and unscrupulous undertakers had to come off their perch. Hearses were not abolished in the days of cremation. The style of the hearse entirely changed. In the place of the pompous affair of 1899, bedecked in its towering plumes, rich in silver appointments, massive [The Twentieth Century Hearse.] structures covered with plate glass, driven by an awe-inspiring individual perched on a high seat, the hearse of 1999 was a far less pretentious affair. It weighed no more than a light, racing sulky. It had four wheels. In the centre of the vehicle, which, of course, was propelled by electricity, was constructed a small platform about three feet square, the sides of which were elaborately trimmed in gold and silver ornaments. The platform was covered by an open canopy supported by four elaborate silver pillars. The metallic case containing the ashes of the deceased seldom exceeded 9 × 18 inches, 4 inches deep, and weighed about four pounds. These metallic cases were of exquisite designs, usually in highly burnished silver or gold. Those which contained the ashes of the wealthier classes were often covered with precious stones and brilliant gems, presenting a most artistic and attractive appearance. These burial cases looked like jewel-boxes of an elaborate pattern. In looking at them death was robbed of its terrors. A beautiful jewel-case, 9 × 18 inches, containing the ashes of some loved one did not strike one's imagination with the horror of a long burial casket with its inanimate tenant. There was everything about cremation to appeal to loftier ideals. The light, portable character of the little cremation cases became more popular than the heavy casket. The heart-rending accidents that too often occurred under the old system of burials, became impossible in the brighter and better days of cremation. In 1899 it sometimes happened that in lowering a body into the grave the bottom of the casket gave way. The rest can better be imagined than described. It sometimes happened that [Sample Horrors of 1899.] while a funeral procession was on its way to the cemetery, the hearse team got frightened. In the thrilling runaway that followed the casket fell out of the hearse and breaking open the corpse rolled out on the ground. The horror-stricken relatives and friends would remember the sad scene through life, mentioning it only in whispers. These horrors of the old-style, so-called Christian burials, were rendered impossible in the cremation regime. Not that alone, but cremation removed from earth the most horrible experience that can be endured by mortal man and that is premature burial. The practice of burying bodies is a relic of barbarism. Its horrors and possibilities are without limit. No civilized community should tolerate it. Custom and tradition are the forces that maintain it. It does not possess a single point in its favor, while, on the other hand, there are scores of sound arguments against it. No person who ever spent a minute in the fierce temperature of a crematory ever [Can't Bury them Alive.] lived to tell the tale. The ancient method of burial is not so certain--many cases have come to light where people, supposed to be dead, revived after interment. Imagine the horror of the situation. Can any human experience be more dreadful than this one? Many cases have come to light in the nineteenth century proving beyond a shadow of doubt that unfortunate men and women had been buried alive. In graves opened many weeks after burial the scratched face, torn hair and imprint of terror upon the features told only too plainly what had happened and of the final anguish of the unfortunate one. Such horrors were not possible in the cremation process. If there is anything the world appreciates it's a "sure thing"--and that salient feature of cremation did not escape its attention. On the day following the death of a person, after the remains had been viewed for the last time by relatives and friends, the body was taken by night to the crematory where it was immediately reduced to ashes. These were carefully deposited in a small metallic burial case and returned to the [No Hurry for the Funeral.] mortuary residence. The date of the funeral was agreed upon and notices were sent out to the public. Sometimes it was deemed desirable to hold the funeral one or two months after death. In cremation funerals everything passed off in the most leisurely manner possible, accompanied with the highest effects of art. A funeral could be held a week, a month or a year after death. There was ample time to make arrangements, or to postpone a funeral on account of the weather. On the day of interment when the ashes were to be deposited in the family vault in the mausoleum, at the appointed hour, friends and relatives gathered at the mortuary residence. The small metallic casket containing the ashes of the deceased was usually placed in the centre of the room, resting upon a light bamboo stand, covered with black velvet. The stand was usually surrounded with choice flowers and floral designs. The tiniest caskets used in the old burial days were double in size of the beautiful silver and gold cases sometimes holding the ashes of a person who might have weighed, during life, over three hundred pounds. The absence of the large casket used in old burial days and the substitution in its place of a small jewel-size case containing the ashes was an agreeable innovation. Otherwise, all funeral services in 1999 were substantially the same as in 1899. Although the surroundings were far more pleasant, the grief of the stricken ones was none the less profound. When funerals in 1999 were held in a church, the exercises were about the same as in the days of the old burial system. Instead of six bearers, only one became necessary. There was a marked contrast between the funeral processions of 1899 and those [Funeral Procession in 1999.] of 1999. The great, cumbersome hearse had disappeared, and in the line of carriages that followed the small, light electric hearse, no horses were to be seen. All mourners' carriages were propelled by electricity. The automobile containing the minister, led the procession, then followed the hearse and carriages of the mourners. In 1999, when a funeral passed by, people on the streets at the time were always careful to remove their hats as a mark of respect to the ashes of the deceased. This was a concession to common decency almost wholly unknown in the days of burials. People living in 1899 should not be too severely criticised in their lack of respect for the dead in the matter of uncovering as a funeral procession passed by. The entire system was a relic of barbarism and people were hardly to blame for denying this mark of respect to such an objectionable mode of burial. It was at first thought that cremation would destroy the sacred memories and observances [Memorial Day in 1999.] of Memorial or Decoration Day. In a few years, however, it was discovered that these fears were unfounded. People in 1999 were loyal to the sacred memory of departed ones, and on Memorial days the interior of the mausoleums and doors of the vaults were garlanded with flowers, presenting a most beautiful appearance. The old graves of the nineteenth and preceding centuries were still cared for by loving hands. These were decorated as in the good old days of 1899 and were not in anywise neglected. Many families in the twentieth century took up the remains of their ancestors and caused them to be cremated in order that their ashes might rest in the same vault. It was conceded that the ashes could never perish in a vault and another supreme advantage in favor of the cremation system arose from the fact that they required no care. The abominations of the old fashioned burials were apparently without limit. Under that barbaric system of the 19th century, it might truly be said that after death a man had no where to lay his head. [Ejected for Non-Payment of Rent.] One would think that after death a person had severed his connection with the living world. Such was not the case. It often happened that men were taken out of their graves for non-payment of rent. That is, the lease or care of the ground not having been satisfied or paid, the ground or cemetery lot reverts to the Association, who dislodge the body of the tenant and offer the cemetery lot for sale to other parties. In the 19th century, especially in European cities, it was a common practice to lease a grave for five years, at the expiration of which period the grave was opened and the skeletons deposited in underground catacombs or left to the tender mercies of medical students. The barbarity of such practices, sanctioned by the civilization of the 19th century, need not be dwelt upon. Cremation removed the stigma of such unholiness from civilized nations. The ashes of the dead required no material space and were easily disposed of. No grave rentals or purchases were required in their case. Last but not the least of the advantages of cremation was the death blow it gave to [Spoils the Ghost Business.] the ghost industry. Superstition tottered when in 1999 graveyards had been abolished by law, as well as custom. The stately, white marble mausoleum which held the ashes of departed ones did not possess the gruesome appearance of the old fashioned cemeteries of 1899, with mounds and graves scattered in every direction, some of them in a condition of shameful neglect. There was something about a graveyard which was naturally repellent to the living. The ones who scoffed the loudest at ghosts, and were really very brave at noon time, were never favorably impressed with the idea of spending a few hours alone at night in a cemetery. When graveyards were abolished and bodies were promptly reduced to ashes after death, superstition began to weaken. Many people who would have been terrified at the suggestion of keeping a dead body in a house any unusual length of time, did not hesitate in many instances, to keep the ashes of several cremated members of the family for years, in their parlor. Cremation removed the sting of death, robbing it of its terrors. It was a blessing to the world and was thereafter ever sustained by enlightened ages. CHAPTER XX. Newspapers in 1999. They are still progressive and enterprising as ever and constitute one of the bulwarks of American liberties. The Pneumatic tube postal service and swift delivery of mails. Four daily deliveries of mail between Manhattan and San Francisco. A Submarine Railway Accident. A Marine Spider Crippled. Returns to Babyhood. Buying up Titles. It is the proud boast of America that as a nation it possesses a larger per centage of people who can read and write than any other nation on the habitable globe. Our excellent system of free schools and the avalanche of newspapers that find their way into every home, at a mere nominal cost, have vouchsafed a general diffusion of knowledge throughout our great Republic, filling every branch of art, industry, and every profession with men and women of brains and intelligence. The force and power of the newspapers in America in 1899, the perfect liberty of [Safeguards of Liberty.] the press, were regarded in that year as guarantees of public safety, mighty levers in forming public opinion. In 1999 the newspapers of the period had lost none of the prestige and influence they enjoyed in the old days of sail boats and steam engines. They were still handled in many instances with consummate skill and wielded a power that built, as well as shattered, governments. In current topics and in the chronicles of events, there existed a marked difference between the newspapers of 1899 and those of 1999. New elements and conditions had come into play which were unknown in the period of the nineteenth century, and as a natural result the newspaper of the twentieth century contained some curious and interesting articles. In 1899 the daily that got out a morning and evening edition was regarded as an up to date affair in every sense of the term, but in 1999 the newspaper world moved much faster. In a large daily office four complete editions were issued every day or once every six hours. The news poured into these daily offices with marvelous speed. Wireless telegraphy and ærial navigation annihilated space. On the other hand, newspaper and letter mails in 1999 were conveyed through much swifter channels. The postal pneumatic tube system constructed by the American government was [Very Rapid Mail Deliveries.] a marvel of the twentieth century. There extended from Washington, (Mexico), a network of underground and overground pneumatic tubes reaching throughout the Americas, penetrating all the Northern, Central and Southern States, from the State of Alaska to the State of Argentina. Mail deliveries made through these pneumatic tubes were exceedingly rapid. No electrical transit or any method of ærial navigation could equal the rapid delivery of the pneumatic tubes. The mail pouches were forced through these large tubes and delivered at all the principal cities in a very short space of time. Mails from Manhattan to Washington, the seat of the national government in the State of Mexico, traversed the distance in less than two hours. From Mexico to the State of Argentina, as well as the Southwestern American States of Peru and Chile, the mail transit in 1999 required but a few hours in delivery,--in 1899 it was a question of weeks. Even ærial navigation in 1999 was found too slow to convey and deliver the mails. The pneumatic tube system was even swifter, and with such facilities at hand it is not surprising that people in San Francisco received four daily editions of the Manhattan journals, although the distance between Sandy Hook and the Golden Gate is a matter of 3,600 miles. The subjoined clippings from the Electrical Times, of Thursday, August 20, 1999, [The Editorial Blades of 1999.] will give the reader a general idea of the newspapers style and matter of that period. It will be observed that the noble race of beings known as editors and newspaper reporters was by no means extinct in 1999. The subtle art of telling wonderful stories and the science of making American newspapers the foremost in the world, had been inherited by the children of 1999 from their lively ancestors of 1899. In 1899 Yankee genius and enterprise was conspicuous in the newspaper line. It led the world. The latest and the best always found their way into American print. FAILED TO BEAT THE RECORD. How the Glimmerglass Failed to Cross the Atlantic in Two Days. Liverpool, Eng., Aug. 20, 1999.--The new electrical ship Glimmerglass arrived here at 12:30, having made the ocean trip from Manhattan (formerly known as New York) in two days, eight hours and thirty-seven minutes, within twenty minutes of the swiftest time ever made by a wholly equipped electrical vessel. But for a storm of twenty hours out, the record would have undoubtedly been beaten. Owing to a break in the wind-counteracting engines, the storm in the locality of the ship could not be stilled and for over an hour the passage was very rough. The counteractors were finally put in motion and the Glimmerglass regained several lost hours, but the odds were too greatly against it. An attempt will be made to break the return record. SUB-MARINE RAILWAY ACCIDENT! Wreck of a Train in the English Channel Tube-way. London, England, Aug. 20, 1999.--Passengers on the Dover & Calais Sub-Marine Electric railway train No. 44, arrived at Dover in a state of decided fright this morning. The sub-marine system runs directly under the English channel, the trains on the line of this company running through huge cylinders. At a point midway in the channel one of the inverted rails, owing probably to defective mechanism, had snapped in twain and the train, which was going at a high rate of speed, flew from the track. Two carriages were overturned and the engineer was killed by being thrown violently from the cab. The passengers were forced to remain in the tube for an hour. Several in the overturned carriages were injured but none seriously. MARINE SPIDER CRIPPLED. Four of Her Legs Broken En Route to South Carolina. Charleston, S. C., Aug. 20, 1999.--The marine spider, Nautilus, arrived here in bad shape from Brazil to-day, one of her fore legs having been broken. The Nautilus is one of the fleet of the South American Importing and Exporting Company, and was built at Charleston two years ago. The boats in this fleet were built on the principle of an insect, it being an established fact that a body can be carried over water much more rapidly than through it. The spiders were fashioned after the manner of a centipede, the feet being bell shaped and connected with a superstructural deck by ankle-jointed pipes, through which, when necessary, a pressure of air could be forced down upon the enclosed surface of the water. The locomotion is like that of a pacing horse and great speed can be maintained. The marine spider had for its inventive source a treatise on its possibilities written by John Jacob Astor as early as 1894. AMERICOMANIACS. They Cause Much Distress in the Loyal British Heart. London, Aug. 20, 1899.--Americomania is to far prevalent in this city that the deepest resentment is aroused in every loyal British heart. Since the widespread abolishment of titles and the very general purchase of historic castles and country seats by wealthy Americans, the foreign element has been a serious menace to English society, which has been for fifty years controlled by the descendants of United States heiresses who married titles. London swells are adopting the early western custom of wearing their trousers in their boots as a distinctive touch to their morning costumes and the sombrero is also being sold by leading hatters. Young debutantes are cultivating the unaffected manners of American girls, and many ambitious mothers are going so far as to send their daughters to Manhattan, Denver and San Francisco boarding schools. MESSAGE FROM MARS. Alarm Lest the Americans Shall Gain a Foothold There. Galveston, Texas. Dec. 21.--The meteoric message which has been expected from the planet Mars for several days, and which the astronomers located on Pikes Peak, Colorado, left Mars over two years ago, dropped in the bay off here to-day, striking the water with a sizzling sound. It was still quite hot when picked up and the metallic covering had to be broken up with an oceanic pile driver. The message was written on asbestos paper in non-fading ink, and a crude translation of it conveys the information that the high ruler of the combined continents of Mars died of gastronomic fright two years ago last November while watching an American Thanksgiving day celebration. He predicted before his death, that if the Americans ever got a foothold on this planet, they would ruin the incomparable digestion of every resident by the introduction of cranberry sauce, mince pie and plum pudding. AIR SHIP MISSING. The Star Chaser is Ten Days Overdue at Tokio. Tokio, Japan, Aug. 20, 1999.--Transoceanic air ship Star Chaser has been overdue at this port for ten days. It is feared that the ship has been caught in an upper ether current and carried many miles above her course. As she has not dropped to earth anywhere, there is a strong probability that she has risen beyond the influence of the earth's gravitation and been drawn into the orbit of some neighboring planet. Anxious friends of the passengers are besieging this office for tidings of the Star Chaser. RETURNS TO BABYHOOD. Tragic Transition of an Aged Spinster to a Drooling Infant. Miss Imogene Elyria of No. 678,431,222 Four Hundred and Sixty-first street, took an overdose of Florida Age Regenerator this morning, and was instantly reduced to a squalling infant. Miss Elyria was a maiden lady 45 years of age, and a few days ago she sent to Florida for a bottle of the regenerator to take for her complexion and to reduce her age a few years. She did not, unfortunately, follow the proper directions, and one of her sisters, entering her bedroom this morning, found her reduced to the age of 1 year and crying for her breakfast. She will be taken to the Oregon age-producing springs, where, it is hoped, the unfortunate lady may at least recover enough of her lost years to make her a blushing debutante. A tragic feature of the affair is the fact that Miss Elyria was engaged to a wealthy widower, who is heart-broken at the terrible contretemps. BUYING UP TITLES. Extravagant Sums Paid to the Old English Nobility. London, Aug. 20, 1999.--The English government to-day purchased the title of Lord Algernon Percy Augustus Dunraven for a mere song, the consideration being £10,000. This removes one of the oldest titles existing in modern times and only about twenty remain in England. Since the law passed by Parliament providing for the purchase of old titles held by the descendants of the members of the peerage, as it existed under a monarchy, over £800,000,000 have been spent in buying up these remnants of a semi-civilized form of government. The highest price ever paid was that for the abolishment of the name borne by the duke of Argyle, £1,000,000. Sir Tom Lipton, who will be henceforth known by the republican name of Thomas Timothy Tubbs, has been reduced to poverty by reckless expenditures entailed in his enthusiasm for air-yachting, and it is said that he has spent £40,000 in trying to increase the speed of his defective atmospheric racer, the Shamrock. IT STILL INTOXICATES. Colonel Washburn of Kentucky Prefers Death to Non-Alcoholic Liquor. Frankfort, Ky., Aug. 20, 1999.--"Foh one I shall not vote to destroy my Gawd given ancestral privilege to consume liquor, sah. They may call us uncivilized barbarians, if they will, sah; they may call down upon our degenerate heads the unbottled wrath of the universe, but, as for me, sah, give me good old Kentucky bourbon, or give me death!" With these words Colonel Henry Clay Washburn concluded his speech in the upper house of the legislature to-day on the bill to suppress the alcoholic liquor traffic in Kentucky. For years the annual legislative battle has centered on this issue. Gradually state after state has abolished, what many considered an evil, and in most localities the effects of alcoholic drinks were destroyed by the chemical discovery which, when applied, made them non-intoxicating. But the Blue Grass state has remained firm as a rock, although in modern art and science it has no superior in advancement in the union. The bill under consideration to-day was defeated by an overwhelming vote. The following advertisements, taken from Sidney Record, October 15, 1999, will interest our readers: CLASSIFIED ADVERTISEMENTS. ================================================================== INDESTRUCTIBLE FOOD--Our odorless rubber oysters are all the rage; cheap and durable; especially adapted to use in restaurants and at church fairs; will always wear; we refer by permission to the Ladies' Aid Society of the Church of the United Brotherhood, which purchased sixteen gallons of our oysters five years ago, and is using them still; will remain in a stew five hours without corroding. Perennial Bivalve Company, 149th street. ------------------------------------------------------------------ LOST--From the upper deck of a suburban airship, a lady's picture hat; the hat was caught in a whirlwind and is believed to have landed somewhere near Fort Collins; its return in good condition will insure a generous financial acknowledgment to the finder. ================================================================== MISCELLANEOUS. ================================================================== DON'T GO TO CHURCH--Have one of our kinetophones placed in your house; connects with all leading churches; you can shut off sermon whenever you wish. LONG DISTANCE RELIGIOUS COMPANY; factories in Denver and Brooklyn. ------------------------------------------------------------------ GENTLEMEN--Buy our Breath Deodorizer; fumes of Bourbon, old rye and lager removed instantaneously: splendid thing for those contemplating attending evening parties or the theater. ------------------------------------------------------------------ LADIES, READ THIS--Cinderella Shoes will make a No. 6 foot that requires an E last look like a narrow No. 1; comfortable and durable; each pair has a patent hypnotizing attachment that deceives even the most envious and spiteful women who catch a glimpse of the shoes when worn. ------------------------------------------------------------------ NO HOUSEHOLD COMPLETE WITHOUT ONE--We absolutely guarantee that our Electric Equalizer will dissipate any domestic storm and insure harmony in families; so simple that a child can operate one; so delicate in adjustment that the first angry word sets free a soothing magnetic current; for sale by every drug store and dry goods shop. Manufactured by the Anti-Divorce Mercantile Company. ================================================================== It is not to be supposed that farming, the greatest of all American industries, had not [Farm Hands at a Discount.] made any progress during the twentieth century. Probably in no other field of labor was electricity employed to better advantage. Farm hands in the nineteenth century were as unreliable in some cases as balky horses. The farm owner's distress and nightmare in 1899 was the farm laborer. But in 1999 the "farm hand" was practically done away with. Horses and farm laborers were no longer employed in the cultivation of the land. Electricity was on tap in every part of the farm. Even the milking and stable cleaning was done by mechanical means. In 1899 a farmer who hired all his work done and lived along comfortably on the proceeds [The Dignity of Labor.] of the property, was called by the absurd title of a "gentleman farmer." The farmer who rolls up his sleeves and toils is none the less a gentleman. A gentleman is not always the one who spends a life of leisure and lives on the toil of others. The hard working farmer in many cases proves to be the real gentleman; he dignifies labor and commands the respect of his neighbors. In 1999 all agriculturalists were "gentleman farmers." Their great slaves were the electrical machines. They never groaned, complained or knocked off work in the busy season to go on an excursion. The electrical farming implements could work all day without sitting under a shade tree, with a jug of cider and a corn-cob pipe. They labored patiently and faithfully and performed their tasks with great accuracy. CHAPTER XXI. Twentieth Century Inventions. The Wonderful Automatic Valet,--a faithful servant and silent friend. A Balloon-car Accident,--twelve thrown out and killed. Excursion to the Moon. Woman Worship in France. Ready Digested Dinners. Highly nutritious pellets for noon lunch. Ice cream pills become popular; also delicious fruit pellets. If some wide-awake American genius in 1999 had invented an electrical breathing machine his invention would have been well patronized. By the use of electrical appliances, manual labor had been reduced to a minimum. The electric automobiles, ærodromes, ærocycles, electric bicycles and hundreds of mechanical appliances used as labor saving machinery, really invited laziness. If a breathing apparatus had been invented in 1999 its sales would have been phenomenal. In support of this statement we reproduce, herewith, an article taken from the Scientific American, under date of May 28, 1999, as follows: THE UNIQUE MECHANICAL FIGURE THAT DOES EVERYTHING BUT FEED ITS OWNER. Some years ago the need of a machine which would dress persons on arising from bed, make their toilet and prepare them for breakfast, or a stroll on the street, was generally felt. Several attempts were made to supply this want, but nothing was perfected until M. Pantalon announced the completion of his automatic valet. This machine was shaped very much like an ordinary man, except that it was built on an absolutely square plan. There were two upholstered legs, on which reposed a heavy, square chest, and above the chest was the head, also square and resembling a block. Mechanism of the Valet. The machinery was directly in the center of the body-chest, controlling the movement of the legs and arms, the latter being round, four jointed and twenty-seven inches long. Instead of a face, the head bore a dial, on which the hour was depicted. The whole valet was wound up by a small crank in the back. If a man wished to be aroused, at, let it be said, 8 o'clock in the morning, he adjusted the alarm button on a small dial on the face of the large clock at that hour. Promptly at 8 o'clock the alarm in the head of the valet exploded, waking the sleeper. The first movement on the part of the valet after the alarm had sounded was to move quickly but noiselessly in the direction of the bath-room, where, by automatic stoppers, the water is set running, stopping instantly on the tub being filled. An Automatic Bath. After turning on the water the valet moved back to the bed, threw the covers aside, and with one of its automatic arms gently lifted the man from his resting place, conveyed him to the bath-room, laid his night robes aside and immersed him. The bath completed, the valet drew from its chest-cupboard two fresh-towels, with which it briskly rubbed the bather, and then again lifting him up carried him back into the bedroom, where it proceeded to dress him in clothes which had been laid in a certain place the night before. From its automatic chest the valet took comb, brush and whisk broom, and in less time than would be ordinarily consumed in telling about it, the toilet was completed. A feature of the invention, as perfected by Pantalon, was the arrangement on the time dial by which the speed of the valet could be regulated, and a man could be dressed quickly or slowly, as he preferred. For busy men, M. Pantalon has invented valets that do the business in less than three minutes, including bath. The chief value of these valets is that, not being human, they cannot gossip, and every man may become a hero to his valet, provided the valet is automatic. In 1999 the mania for saving time and obtaining rapid results simply knew no bounds. It is a wonder that the inventive genius of the Yankees was not applied to the perfection of some machine that would compel the universe to rotate more rapidly upon its axis. So great was the rush of human affairs that people found little time [Nutritious Pellets for Lunch.] to eat. The feverish, mad rush of the age was intense. No better proof of this can be found than in the success of a peculiar enterprise, which in 1899 would have proved a flat failure. In the good old days of 1899 people at least took time to eat, but in 1999 a big company was capitalized to manufacture and sell Ready Digested Dinners. In order to save time, people often dined on a pill,--a small pellet which contained highly nutritious food. They had little inclination to stretch their legs under a table for an hour at a time while masticating an eight-course dinner. The busy man in 1999 took a soup-pill or a concentrated meat-pill for his noon day lunch. He dispatched these while working at his desk. His fair typewriter enjoyed her office lunch in the same manner. Ice-cream pills were very popular,--all flavors, also the fruit pellets. These the blonde and brunette typewriters of 1999 preferred to the bouillon or consommé pellets. CHAPTER XXII. The Fine Arts in 1999. The art of Color-photography perfected in 1920. The world's great artists witness the death-knell of art. The doom of cheap chromos. Nature paints her own matchless pictures. The sculptor's art remains supreme in 1999. No machine can ever chisel a Venus de Milo. No substitute found for the human voice. Painting, in 1999, had become a lost art, doomed, alas, never to revive. The glorious canvases of the old masters were still highly treasured. There still existed artists who threw their entire souls into beautiful paintings, superb creations of their artistic minds, true in every detail to nature. Although painting as a high art still existed in 1999, yet, as a profession and a means of obtaining a livelihood, it died very much after the manner of wood engraving, when the half tone process was perfected and had come into general use. In the year 1912, after many struggles and disappointments, Prof. Deweyton, of the Montpelier, (Vt.) University, perfected the process of color-photography. This coveted secret, at last, had been wrested from nature. For centuries her beauties had been admired but never had she consented to transfer her own original colors on photographic plates and canvas. When the art of color photography was perfected, the world then had little use for [The Passing of the Artist.] easels, palettes and painters. Nature became the Artist of the world and none dared to dispute her sway. At first it was with a feeling of sadness that the world parted with the art profession and its devotees, men and women who had imparted to canvas the world's historic scenes, the portraits of the world's great men, enchanting, noble women. The works of these great artists had delighted the children of men for many centuries. Raphael, Titian, Michael Angelo, Correggio, Guido, and other famous artists, had bequeathed their glorious treasures of art to a grateful world, and even color photographic pictures done by nature's own hand cannot rob these eminent artists of an iota of their fame. It was sad to think that after the discovery of color-photography great artists would lose their prestige, for none can rival nature in her own art. This new process of Nature painting rendered to the world an invaluable service by [The Chromo Affliction Subsides.] driving out of the market a flood of cheap pictures and chromos of the most inferior class; pictures that had crept into many homes simply because they were cheap. These afflictions, too often paraded with flash moulding on the walls of our homes, were driven out by color-photography. In 1950 the old-style chromos were rare; they quickly disappeared from the habitations of men. Through the specially constructed cameras of Prof. Deweyton, life size pictures [Glorious Sunset Views.] were secured, large landscape scenes, magnificent marine views, were reproduced with the exact colors of nature. Superb sunset views, in a matchless wealth of color, a revelry of gold and crimson, were transferred to canvas by natural process in 1920. This process became the great art triumph of the twentieth century. No human hand had ever attempted with any hope of success to reproduce on canvas the bewitching and mystic effects of the gloaming. Nature with her master hand, dared to reproduce, on canvas, this most difficult of all artistic studies. Michael Angelo, the supreme chief of all living or dead artists, never attempted to reproduce on canvas Vesuvius in active eruption. No human power could do the faintest justice to such a scene and no master of the art ever cared to risk his reputation in the attempt. But in color-photographs Nature reproduced the exact colors of the seething flames as they belched forth from the quivering crater. In 1930 a magnificent picture of Vesuvius, Ætna or Stramboli in active eruption could be purchased for the pitiable sum of $50. So perfectly natural were the volcanic flames that the effect was startling. The lava [Could Almost Smell the Sulphur.] running down the mountain side apparently threatened to set fire to the very walls of the room. A picture of this kind, a feeble representation painted by some eminent artist, would cost over $10,000. The process of color-photography proved invaluable in reproducing human features and expression. Nothing could exceed the perfection the art attained in 1935. Photographic studios were crowded with work. No skill of man had ever transferred to canvas the maiden's blush, that emblem of purity, a shade Divine which mantles the brow of innocence only. The cameras of 1935 proved equal to that delicate task. The maid caught blushing in color photography blushed on, alas, forever. In detecting criminals, the new art proved invaluable. The Rogues' Gallery was soon filled with studies in life and deviltry, so natural that one's first impulse was to reach out for a pair of handcuffs. Although painting, in 1999, and long before that date, had received a severe blow, the sculptor's art remained unchanged. The sculptor was still supreme in his domain. No machine had yet been found that could take a block of pure Parian marble and carve out a Venus de Milo. Nature had invaded the artist's studio and robbed him of an honored profession, but nature, great and mighty as she certainly is, had not yet, in 1999, found a way to fashion a block of cold marble into a thing of beauty, an exact image of life. Statuary was still regarded in the twentieth century as the acme of true art. The sculptor had not yet been dethroned; it is doubtful if he ever will be. The new and most ingenious machines of the twentieth century met their Manila on statuary. No machine can ever [Limits to Inventive Genius.] be built that will reason or think. It requires thought, judgment and artistic taste to create a statue. As the artist beholds a perfect model, he becomes thrilled with the love of his art. His heart and hands are guided by fires of ambition and his work excites admiration. The human brain is often duplicated by machinery, but the equal of the human heart, with its subtle emotions, must ever remain a Sealed Book to cold, unfeeling mechanism. The same might be said of the human voice. In 1999, that peerless gift of God to man, that wonderful channel through which all emotions are expressed, had not been uprooted by mechanism. The Pattis, Nordicas and Melbas of the twentieth century were still held in high esteem, commanding princely stipends. The domain of all mechanical music, however, had been invaded to a large extent. Pianos, organs, orchestral and metallic instruments, which had attained a high degree of perfection in the nineteenth century, were generally discarded in the twentieth century. The tendency of the age favored mechanical music. The automatic musical instruments, which in 1889 had already attained a certain degree of perfection, were greatly improved. In the navy cornet bands were discarded and were substituted by large musical machines that played operas, marches, quicksteps, waltzes and patriotic airs with wonderful accuracy, with a volume of sound surpassing the best efforts of efficient brass bands. In the army, the brass band always held its own. The men who composed the band could march and fight, while no automatic substitute could be made to do this. CHAPTER XXIII. Improvements of The Age. The advantages of Electrical conveyances. No fire departments required and Insurance companies lose their grip. Tobacco chewing and spitting prohibited in public places. Cigarettes are condemned by law. Moderation in the use of wines. Great advancement in medical science. A purified stage. Religious toleration becomes more universal. Jews give Jerusalem the "marble heart." The changes in our social system that signalized the period of 1999 were marked and contrasted very favorably with the conditions extant in 1899. Street noises that rendered city and often village life unendurable, in 1899 were entirely [Uproar of Vehicles Abolished.] abolished in 1999. The clattering of horses' hoofs became unknown in city life. Milk wagons, enormous furniture vans, the brewery wagon with its pyramid of beer kegs, rattling express carts, mail delivery wagons and thundering omnibuses no longer tortured the human ear in 1999. Automobiles had sent the clattering hoofs to Tophet and electricity, with pneumatic tires, was exclusively used in transportation. It was a curious sight in 1999 to observe the life and animation of rapidly moving, yet noiseless, vehicles in city streets. Shouting, whistling and all loud noises were strictly prohibited on all public avenues. The jingling of bells, the yells of street Arabs, the thunder of wagon wheels over pavements and the pandemonium that reigned on all streets in 1899 became memories of a strange past. The black pall of smoke that hovered over manufacturing cities and darkened the [Havanas Cent Apiece.] lives of all men, had disappeared. Electricity drove smoke back into Hades and kept it there. Manhattan, (formerly New York) the largest and grandest city in the world in 1999, was no longer troubled in this manner. The only smoke that was ever seen in city or country life curled up from Havana cigars, of the best grades raised on American plantations in Cuba and retailed in Manhattan for one cent apiece. Pipes were occasionally used but had lost much of their former popularity. Workmen and the poorest classes could enjoy a fragrant Havana for one cent and pipes were no longer used on the mere pretence of economy. In the 20th century the tobacco chewer's life was not an enjoyable one. In many States of the Americas, in 1999, notably Brazil, East Canada and Argentina, it became a penal offense to chew tobacco in public. In 1999 tobacco chewing was everywhere regarded in the United States of the Americas in the same light as opium smoking. It was considered a filthy practice, one that must not be tolerated in public. It was regarded as a danger to public health for men to spit chewing tobacco on the street walks. Ladies in 1999 made up their minds that they had got through stepping on tobacco quids on the streets. Indeed, spitting had been prohibited in all public places. The habit was filthy and dangerous, causing the spread of disease germs. In 1980 it frequently happened that the city police raided chewing tobacco joints and hauled the offenders before court for fine. But, perhaps the worst form of smoking was the diabolical cigarette. In 1899 it [Arrested for Smoking Cigarettes.] was already sapping the youth of America, filling our hospitals with the sick and our State asylums with imbeciles. Great fears were already entertained in 1899 as to the outcome, but public opinion did not realize the danger to the national safety until 1912. In 1921 Congress passed a law making the sale, importation or manufacture of cigarettes a felony. Every inducement was extended by National and State Legislatures to encourage the growth of the purest Havana and Manila tobaccos. The object was to place a good, harmless cigar within the reach of everyone and to discourage the chewing and cigarette practices. In 1999 moderation in the use of wines and beverages became almost universal. Even in the State of Mexico and other tropical States of the Americas, drunkenness became almost unknown. In fact, it was regarded as a deep disgrace and a penal offense to be caught drunk in public. A drunken man was regarded in 1999 as a moral leper and was isolated from his fellow creatures for a period of one year and forever after was debarred from holding any public office. The law was sternly administered in every case which carried conviction. The vicious laws of 1899 which allowed the government to collect an enormous [Drunkenness Very Rare.] revenue on spirituous liquors and permitted manufacturers to poison their victims with noxious liquids were greatly ameliorated. The National government took up the work of purification in the matter of manufacturing all liquors. A much purer and safer article, much less liable to injure one's health and to intoxicate, was placed on the market. It was recognized that the government could not regulate the appetites of people, but it determined to regulate the purity of the liquors they drank. This wise course produced a decided change for the better. Drunkenness was reduced to a minimum and homes were made happier. Although men still "drank" in 1999, none but an abject sot ever lost his mental balance and disturbed public peace. In 1999 vast strides of progress had been made in medicine and surgery, and disease had been eliminated to a very large extent from our social system. Science attained a complete mastery over the hitherto unknown [Triumph of Mind Over Matter.] field of organisms. Man's mastery over these agents marked the greatest stride ever made in the conquest of mind over matter. All classes of bacteria were held under perfect control. In 1999 contagious and infectious diseases occurred only in sporadic form. The chief ills of life were those attendant upon old age. Specific organisms, namely those of construction and destruction, were created at will in that year, and were made to work with certain and perfect results. In this manner disease was easily combated. Fire departments in the city lost much of their old-time importance. In 1999 only ten fire stations were required in the great metropolis of Manhattan. In 1899 the population of New York was 3,500,000 and the number of its brave firemen ran up in the ten thousands. In 1999 the population of Manhattan was nearly 25,000,000 souls, and its fire department required only three thousand firemen to operate it. The reason for this is very simple. In 1899 fire was used everywhere; while in 1999 very few houses had any use for that element. Electricity had completely abolished fire as a domestic agent or motive power. In 1999 people never ceased to marvel how their predecessors got along with so much fire, in one form or other, burning in their houses. The sufferings of the poor in crowded city tenements during the fierce heats of summer, with a coal stove in their room, [Very Little Fire Used.] were recalled. The frightful heat took away all energy and appetite. Then the burning kerosene lamps were called to mind. Furnaces with roaring fires of coal, wood and oil, gas jets, matches, all helped to increase the percentage of danger. Fire departments were in great demand in the good old days of 1899, and insurance companies amassed fortunes by the side of which Monte Cristo was a mere Lazarus. In those days fire not only constantly threatened the destruction of property, but many thousands of valuable lives were destroyed every year by that element. In 1899 women still clung to their long, dangerous and unhealthy skirts, long dresses that impeded their movements and exposed them to constant danger from fire. Fearful tales on land and sea were told of horrible sacrifices by fire. In 1999 all this was banished, never to return. Fires were extinguished everywhere. A safer and better element had taken its place. The Pharsees of India were, perhaps, the only people in 1999 who still "worshipped" fire. Theatres in 1999 were extensively patronized, but so rigid were the laws against immoral displays that none ventured to violate. The cause of morality generally had made strides of progress in the 20th century. The world grew brighter and better and became more humane. Vice and immorality were suppressed, not so much by operation and fear of the law but by Christianizing methods. As the world grew older it became more manifest that crime and immorality must make way for purity and honesty. Theatrical performances in 1999 were more chaste, more attractive and entertaining. The exhibitions of nudity, so [No Seeley Dinners in 1999.] common in 1899, became unknown to the stage in 1999. Electricity was very successfully employed in all scenic stage effects. Some spectacular performances were beautiful visions of fairyland. Public entertainments carefully suppressed all that appealed to the baser passions. In 1899 our churches and theatres were still apart, but in 1999 so marked was the purity of the stage and so lofty its ideals, that church members were not afraid to acknowledge that they attended the theatres. Churches, on the other hand, became more Christianized in 1999. The envy, wrath and jealousy which existed between the denominations and religions lost much of their acrimony in the 20th century. The hatred and contempt that the Mohammedan [An Era of Fraternal Love.] entertained for the Christian, had greatly softened. The Roman Catholic, the Greek and Protestant Churches, followers of the same Saviour, regarded each other with more fraternal feelings and became more tolerant. As education became more generally diffused, humanity broadened the heart. Children in 1999 could not comprehend the infamy of a nation that could perpetrate the horrors of the Inquisition under a pretext of serving the cause of a gentle Christ. Their minds could not understand how in the 17th century both Protestants and Catholics burned, pillaged and destroyed one another's property; burned men, women and children at the stake and committed nameless horrors, all under a sacrilegious pretext of serving a Divine Master. These persecutions and the unfriendly feelings between opposing religions almost disappeared toward the close of the 20th century. The acrimony of the past was buried to a very large extent. In 1899 the leading religions of the world, in point of numbers, were Buddhism, and the followers of Confucius, who in that year numbered 485,000,000 followers. Next in force of numbers at the close of the nineteenth century ranked the Christians, who numbered 454,729,151. The Mohammedans numbered in 1899 about 170,000,000, Brahmanists 139,000,000, and Pagans or Heathens 220,000,000. Christians were by far the most enlightened, most powerful and progressive religious [Christianity the Light of the World.] element at the close of the nineteenth century and were firm believers in the cause of education. Through their influence in the twentieth century education became widely diffused. Turkey felt the force of the movement, and the dense ignorance of its population became more enlightened and less cruel. In 1999 the Christians of Armenia were no longer held in bondage. The horrible massacres of 1894 which so deeply stirred the hearts of all nations were memories of the past. The Sublime Porte had ordered that education be made compulsory between the ages of ten and fifteen years. Through English influence the cause of education was also generally diffused throughout Africa. Where education gained a foothold superstition was uprooted. Christianity made rapid advance in the world in 1999, and Christians outnumbered all other religious beliefs. The sublime gospel of the Cross dominated the human family in that year, inspiring more love and gentleness among men. The vital force of Christianity, perhaps little understood in the nineteenth century, became a mighty lever for good in the following century. At the close of the twentieth century indications pointed to a general christianizing of all peoples of the globe. The three leading powers of the world, the United States of the Americas, Great Britain and Russia, and in fact the whole of Europe, except Spain, which country was obliterated in 1930, as already described, exerted a mighty moral force upon the other nations. Even Japan was rapidly coming under the banner of the Cross. In 1940 the ancient city of Jerusalem was delivered over into the keeping of a Christian power. All the territory about that ancient city, including the seaport of Jaffa, Bethlehem, the Mt. of Olives, and other localities made sacred by the Mantle of our glorious Saviour while on earth, were transferred by the Ottoman government into the safe keeping of the German people. The Jews never returned to Jerusalem to rule again in that city. Centuries of persecution had driven them into every corner of the globe and under the protection of every flag. They had no use for Jerusalem in the twentieth century and nothing was farther from their minds than the re-establishment of the Jewish hierarchy. Their business had long been established all over the world and under no consideration could they be induced to return to the land of their forefathers, merely on a point of sentiment. Should the Messiah ever again return to earth, they argued, it mattered little whether they were huddled together in Jerusalem or scattered over the globe. CHAPTER XXIV. Arbitration. It was not a complete but only a partial success. Certain international questions cannot be adjusted by arbitration. The losses of the American Civil War. Europe's terrible war record during the nineteenth century. The Great American Republic in 1999 has no use for arbitration. In the twentieth century many bloody wars were averted by the peaceful offices of arbitration. The Great Dream of Universal peace, however, had not been fully realized in 1999. In the political life of all nations controversies arise that cannot be left for adjudication to arbitration. Were it not so all disputations might be entrusted to the decision of the arbiter and the world would gain immensely by the abolition of the savage methods of war. A majority of the disputes between nations can be settled by arbitration, but not all. No tribunal of arbitration could have decided the issue in 1898 between America and Spain. It was a question of tyranny. Spain was determined [Questions That Cannot Be Arbitrated.] to maintain a hell at our very doors in Cuba. That nation could not conquer Cuba and had proved, after over four hundred years, her utter inability to govern that island. In the face of wanton persecution, tyranny and merciless outrage perpetrated by Spain, would America have been justified in leaving its contention to arbitration? Certainly not. When, in 1870, Count Beneditti, openly insulted the King of Prussia at Ems and aroused the indignation of all German subjects, what could Prussia do, leave the matter to arbitration? Impossible. After Napoleon escaped from the island of Elba and returned to France in 1815, ought the other nations of Europe which he had overrun with fire and sword, to have consented to arbitration as a means of quieting Europe? Certainly not. When in 1860 the Southern States of America seceded from the Union, declared their right of self government and privilege of perpetuating slavery, what tribunal of arbitration could have decided the issue between the North and South? None. Human passions and ambitions did not change in the twentieth century. International [It Commanded Universal Respect.] quarrels arose in the nineteenth century which could not be submitted to arbitration and war became the final resort. At the same time the world's call for arbitration, and the efforts made to enthrone Peace instead of War, never ceased to occupy the minds of twentieth century statesmen. The history of the world for centuries had been written in blood. The enormous standing armies of Europe were fast sapping the vitality and energy of those nations. Something had to be done to avert catastrophe and financial ruin and the Czar's call for a Peace Congress at the Hague, justly commanded the respect of the world. War is a dreadful stain upon humanity. It is cruel, barbarous. The twentieth century was not equal to the task of entirely substituting peace for war, but made great progress in that direction. In the nineteenth century the North spent $4,800,000,000 during the American [Cost of the American Civil War.] Civil War, and the South spent $2,300,000,000. The number of casualties in the volunteer and regular armies of the United States during this war were as follows: Killed in battle, 67,056; died of wounds, 43,012; died of disease, 199,720; died from other causes, 40,154; total number of deaths, 349,944. The number of soldiers in the Confederate service, who died of wounds or disease, was about 133,800. The world's plea for arbitration in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries was indeed a forceful one and the Peace Conference at the Hague in 1899 deserved absolute success. It has been estimated that 40,000,000 human beings perish in war every century. Since the Trojan war (about 3,000 years ago), it is estimated that 1,000,200,000 men have perished (up to the close of the nineteenth century) in battle. The population of the world in 1899 was placed at 1,500,000,000. If all who had been killed in battle since the Trojan war could be ranged on a field and the entire population of the world also enumerated, the numbers of the killed would nearly equal those of the living. In the 19th century in no direction was so much human energy wasted as in preparation for war or in the process of actual warfare. It was stupendous folly and a crime, a blot upon civilization. With such terrible figures before them the advocates of universal peace might well take heart at the sight of a Peace Conference, gathered in 1899 to adopt measures to reduce European armaments. During the last half of the 19th century the following great wars were waged: War. Cost. Losses. Italian (1859) $300,000,000 45,000 Austro-Prussian (1866) 330,000,000 45,000 Crimean, 1,700,000,000 150,000 Russio-Turkish, 1,000,000,000 225,000 Franco-Prussian, 2,500,000,000 210,000 Zulu and Afghan, 300,000,000 40,000 American civil war, 7,100,000,000 800,000 --------------- --------- Totals, $13,230,000,000 1,515,000 These figures are frightful but they represent only a fraction of the losses of life and treasure through war, during the last half of the 19th century. The above figures do not include scores of other wars that occurred during that period. The Chino-Japanese war did not reduce the population of the Celestials to any appreciable extent but in loss of treasure it proved a costly struggle. The war between Spain [A Story only Half Told.] and America, commencing April 21st, and ending October 26, 1898, must also be reckoned in this list. The ceaseless tribal wars of Asia and Africa, also the French colonial wars in Madagascar, Tonquin, Siam, and the endless struggles between savage races of Borneo, Sumatra, the Zulus and head-hunters of the Philippine islands must all be included in the list of mortality from warfare during the last half of the 19th century. The plea for arbitration and the cessation of war was a noble effort and a just tribute to the civilization of the closing days of the nineteenth century. America lent her voice in the cause of Peace at the Hague Conference. In the interests of humanity this was the proper course to follow. America at this conference represented 75,000,000 of the most intelligent, brave and industrious people on earth, whose army was a mere corporal's guard. In the twentieth century, however, the great United States of the Americas, with [America a law Unto Herself.] its magnificent sweep of territory extending from Alaska to Patagonia, and its national capital built on the site of the city of Mexico, had little use for arbitration. In 1999 the vast American Republic had become a world in itself. It had long passed the period when it had become necessary to consult other nations on international questions and abide by their wishes. America in 1999 was a law unto herself, and had very little use for arbitration in the disposition of her international affairs. Arbitration answers very well providing that the arbiters are just and impartial and prove themselves able to arrive at a decision in perfect justice and equity. But America in the twentieth century, on account of her enormous expansion and world-wide commerce, had excited the jealousy as well as cupidity of every other civilized nation, with the one exception of Great Britain. In any court of international arbitration in which America might appear either as a plaintiff or as a defendant, the chances were largely in favor of a decision being rendered against her. America was denied justice in these international courts of arbitration. Left to the [Europe Becomes Jealous of America.] decision of European arbiters her case was invariably lost. Even in 1898 Europe's jealousy was ill-concealed. Germany and France would have been glad indeed to have assisted Spain in taming the Yankee and the rest of Europe, England excepted, would have applauded their interference. Because of England's firm stand Germany and France decided that prudence was the better part of valor, and those two nations declined to have their navies blown out of salt water by the combined navies of England and America. If, as above evidenced, Europe regarded America in 1898 with feelings of envy and malice, imagine then the European condition of mind towards the great American Republic in 1999 when it contained a population of over 500,000,000 citizens, inclusive of a territory that represented nearly one-fourth of the habitable globe. European nations in the twentieth century (always excepting Great Britain) would have been very glad, at any time, to attack and humble America, but so great was the power of our noble Republic in that era that even the combined assaults of the world could not have accomplished this feat. As a natural consequence of this unfriendly feeling on the part of Europe, which grew in strength as time rolled on, America in the twentieth century withdrew from the International Court of Arbitration. America became big enough, strong and willing enough to take care of herself. In other words, throughout the twentieth century, Uncle Sam ran his own ranch and had things pretty much his own way. CHAPTER XXV. Improved Social Conditions. Kissing prohibited in the twentieth century. The curbing of the tongue. The National punishment for wife beaters. The passing of the tramp. New methods of salutation. Vegetarians remain true to principle. Horse flesh as an article of food. Schools for training housekeepers. American hotels in 1999 still lead the world. Kissing as a fine art was on the wane in the twentieth century. In the nineteenth century the Japanese had long banished that custom as one dangerous to health and as a medium for communicating infectious diseases. In that remarkable and highly progressive country no kisses, or salutation with the lips, are exchanged between husband and wife, parent and son, brother and sister. The custom, without doubt, is an unwholesome one, yet one in vogue for so [Kissing Strictly Prohibited.] many centuries, even in the days of the Romans, that it became a second nature. In the nineteenth century one might as well attempt to scale Mt. Rainier with a ladder as to endeavor to convince the mother of a new born babe that kissing is a dangerous habit. The lover in his rapturous mode expresses in a kiss the acme of his devotion. It seems cruel to destroy idols before whom we have bowed down and offered incense during a whole lifetime. Custom, tradition and education are hard task-masters. They cling to us through life like limpets to a rock. Kissing, however, never came under ban of the law in the twentieth century, but the practice was discontinued on purely hygienic grounds. The mode of salutation in 1999 that was regarded as being the most tender expression of love, consisted of a gentle patting of the cheek. The advanced reason of the age broke the barriers of custom in this case; lips were seldom allowed to touch lips. A pressure of the hand became ample compensation for the most ardent lovers, while the matchless language of the eyes left no room for doubt in a lover's breast that his love was reciprocated. In the twentieth century men began to acknowledge the absolute folly of the [The Cursing Habit.] cursing habit. If any excuse could ever be offered in palliation of this vicious habit it might be made in the case of a man whose mind was disturbed by angry passions. In an outburst of passion a slight pretext might be offered for the vigorous use of unwritten Anglo-Saxon. But the twentieth century very properly turned its face against the practice of verbal profanation. This reprehensible habit was made punishable, in every instance, by a heavy fine and imprisonment. In the nineteenth century laws against profanity already existed, but they were a dead-letter on all of our statute books. In those days men might quarrel in public or in private; they might hurl epithets at one another by the hour or by the day, so long as neither one of the belligerents raised a hand against the other, society and law took no cognizance of the unhappy occurrence. Men might exchange the vilest expressions and fill the air with their sulphurous maledictions; they might insult the public ear with a riot of profanation, no breach of the peace occurred in the eye of the law until blows were given or exchanged. In the twentieth century it was finally discovered that the tongue was often a more offensive disturber of the peace than a blow of the fist. It was then recognized that vile expressions, particularly those which attacked innocent members of a family, were more cruel and cutting than blows delivered by hand or weapon. Society and law in the twentieth century determined to uproot and severely punish the offending of a vile tongue. Wife-beaters in 1999 were speedily brought to time. These degraded specimens of humanity finally received their just dues on conviction. The lash which the State of Delaware wields to such excellent advantage in many criminal cases was generally regarded as inadequate punishment for such brutes. It was felt that wife-beaters should be made conspicuous examples before the community. Every town in the Americas, from Alaska to Patagonia, was provided with a large [Punishment of Wife Beaters.] derrick, erected upon a solid stone foundation on the edge of some body of water. On the day and hour appointed for the execution of the sentence, the culprit was taken from the town jail or lock-up by the sheriff of the county. A large concourse of citizens usually gathered in the locality of the derrick to witness the "water cure." Arriving there, the sheriff adjusted two belts around the prisoner, one under his arms and the [A First-class Water Cure.] other about his loins. The belts were connected by a broad strap over the back, in the center of which was firmly fastened a large hook. This hook was fastened to the chain or rope of the derrick. Upon a given signal the prisoner was hoisted to the top of the arm of the derrick, which was then swung over the sheet of water. The windlass of the derrick was let loose and the prisoner plunged, usually a distance of twenty feet, into the water. He was then hoisted up again, and the dose repeated three more times. When the punishment was over the prisoner was properly cared for by the sheriff and his possé. He was conveyed in some vehicle back to the jail, where his ducking suit was removed. Attendants were on hand, who rubbed him dry and helped him put on his own clothes. He was then given refreshment and a cup of strong coffee and admonished to go forth and do better. In the by-gone days of the eighteenth century, highwaymen, Dick Turpins, Jack [Highwaymen and Pirates.] Shepherds and the robber element, held high carnival, flourishing in their plenitude and zenith. The old stage coach days greatly favored the success of their profession. The appearance of steam ruined their avocation. The same fate befell the pirates of the high seas, marine highwaymen who thrived and carried on their nefarious trade in the days of sailing ships. When steam came into general use it became impossible for them to ply their trade. A steam pirate ship could not very well carry on operations. Frequent coaling and repairs to machinery soon revealed their identity. The highwayman and his confrère, the pirate, were children of the 18th century. The conditions of that period favored their existence. They who would pursue the highwayman must have the swifter horse, otherwise pursuit became futile. The sailing man-of-war that would overtake the pirate must have a swifter keel or lose the race. But when came the days of steam these marauders by land and sea were driven from their lairs. These were products of the 18th century, but it was in the 19th century that the tramp, a degenerate son of the bold thieves above mentioned, first saw the light [The Great American Tramp.] of day. The tramp of the 19th century, (an exclusive exotic of that era,) was a compound mixture of loafer and robber. He led a life of leisure. The law of that period rather encouraged his existence than otherwise. After roaming over the country during the open summer weather, as the first flakes of snow fell, the tramp, with the utmost ease, contrived to secure a six months' sentence in some county jail. Once safely ensconced under the sheriff's wing for the winter months, he congratulated himself as a most favored [A Tramp's Paradise in 1899.] mortal. He was sure, above all things, of not having any work to do. That supreme misfortune having been averted, the tramp was at peace with the world. Work and soap were his deadly enemies; could the jail save him from these, come what might, his serenity of mind remained undisturbed. He had a warm bed, three regular warm meals daily, with the privilege of playing cards, smoking and reading as suited best his fancy. What better could any tramp ask for? The county jail was to him a haven of rest,--a paradise. This delightful condition of affairs, however, rapidly changed in the 20th century. Society grew tired of turning county jails into tramp colleges, from which, after a very pleasant winter's rest, the tramp graduated in the spring and was again let loose upon the community. Tramps were compelled to work or starve in our county jails long before 1910. They were given plenty of stone to crush under suitable sheds, and the product of their labor contributed to better roads. After a few years, the new law had its effect. The tramp rapidly disappeared and monuments of stone were raised in every county jail to the memory of an extinct species. The twentieth century method of exchanging salutations in public places was in marked contrast with the custom that obtained in the nineteenth century. During the latter period on meeting friends or acquaintances in public places, it was a custom established from time immemorial, when ladies and gentlemen met, for the gentleman to uncover by raising his hat. [New Style of Salutation.] This was a graceful as well as a distinct act of courtesy. The lady, however, in nine cases out of ten, acknowledged the salutation, by merely looking in the direction of the one who had just saluted her. The lady occasionally added a smile in cases that were warranted by ties of friendship. These courtesies were graceful but in the twentieth century the ladies were the first to acknowledge that their method of salutation was ambiguous and indefinite. It was not as pronounced and distinctive as the salutation accorded them by the sterner sex. Suspicion crept into the public mind that there was room for improvement in the exchange of salutation on both sides. About the period of 1925 a radical change was effected. Upon meeting in public places, it was no longer customary for the gentleman to uncover, or for the lady to cast a glance in acknowledgment of his salutation. The mode was simplified. Ladies and gentlemen saluted one another in precisely the same manner. Each one, upon approach, raised their right hand in military salute, touching the hat, and by a quick movement, letting the hand drop to the side. This new custom placed both sexes upon equal and exact terms. Whenever, in the twentieth century, a gentleman addressed a lady, after the usual military salutation, it was his duty to uncover and hold his hat in his right hand, regardless of the weather. Failure to do this would result in non-recognition on the part of the lady. The respect due to the fair sex perceptibly increased in the twentieth century and so must it ever increase as the world's civilization advances. Man may be classed as being a carniverous animal. Vegetarians hold a different theory. They banish from their tables the flesh of beasts or birds that have been killed, eschewing meats of all kinds. It is the privilege of the vegetarian to live up to the dietary standard which he has adopted. Two-thirds of the human family take issue with the vegetarian on this subject. The vast majority are in favor of meats of all kinds as an article of food. In the nineteenth, and, in fact, in all the preceding centuries, the delicacies of the table most highly esteemed were those in which rare viands of every variety were included. A model nineteenth century table reveled in such dishes as turbot à la cardinal, mutton [A Standard of Food.] chops, pork cutlets, lamb, spring chicken, selle-de mouton, ham, tongue, roast partridge, roast duck with sage dressing, turkey and cranberry sauce, braized mutton, deviled crabs, meat fritters, sausage, cold boiled ham. These savory meat dishes invariably played leading rôles at the tables of rich and poor. Vegetables and desserts were regarded as adjuncts to the feast. Vegetarians regard such food as alien to the human system and unnecessary to its sustenance. Added to this the vegetarians entertain a sentimental view of the meat-food question. They claim that man has no right to kill beast, fish, bird or fowl, to secure food supplies, and that all flesh food should be eliminated from the human system. A vegetarian's table was garnished with delightful dishes, such as sliced oranges, buttered toast, baked quinces, quaking omelet, shredded wheat biscuits, dates with quaker oats, fried hominy, stewed prunes, macaroni and cheese, stewed fig with whipped cream, French-fried potatoes, oyster plant and rice muffins. These dishes are clean and wholesome, although decidedly tame from certain points of view. Vegetarians in 1999 were more emphatic in their views than their brethren of 1899. [Vegetarians Refuse to Wear Shoes.] They still enjoyed peanut sandwiches, fried egg-plant steak, health crackers, nut biscuits, spiced beans and other delicacies dear to the hearts of those who have foresworn eating the flesh of "suffering, sentient things." In 1999 vegetarians refused to wear leather shoes. It came hard at first but shoes had to be sacrificed to principle. They refused to eat meat because it necessitated the killing of beast or fowl. On this account also they refused to wear shoes of leather because the beef must be killed in order to procure the leather. For the same reason vegetarians in 1999 refused to wear silk of any kind because its manufacture cost the lives of the dear little worms. They also refused, for the same reason, to carry alligator skin pocket books. It was so wrong to kill the poor alligators. Vegetarians claim that flesh is from ten to twenty times more expensive than fruits or cereals, and that it is unphilosophical and unbusinesslike to pay the larger sum for inferior food. Neither justice nor benevolence can sanction the revolting cruelties that are daily perpetrated in order to pamper perverted and unnatural appetites. Vegetarians in 1999 were horrified at the practices of the nineteenth century, when butchers would take innocent little lambs, the most harmless and pitiful creatures, and cut their throats in the slaughter house. The seas of blood that flowed through Chicago slaughter pens had no attractions for vegetarians. In 1999 the world was by no means converted to any single theory or idea on the food question. A delicious cold ham sandwich or slice of turkey with truffles still delighted the palates of millions in that year. The savory hot bird, washed down with a cold bottle, still held captive many epicureans in the closing days of the twentieth century. The birds of the air and beasts of the field still contributed to the world's gastronomic pleasures. In 1999 the vegetarian remained faithful to his creed. Plum pudding, peaches in wine, haricots vert, and other delicacies held the place of honor at their tables. But in 1999 the world became more liberal in its views on the meat-food question. In the nineteenth century no argument could shake the prejudice existing against the consumption of horseflesh. Anyone in 1899 who could champion the use of [The Prejudice against Horseflesh.] horseflesh and advocate its sale in open market on the same counter as hogs and poultry, would be regarded in the light of a barbarian or a person of unwholesome practice. Such is the utter blindness of custom and prejudice that in 1899 the daintiest maiden, who might faint at the sight of a mouse, would occasionally smell the stench of a pig-sty, yet, without the least compunction, would sit at table and enjoy a pork chop, pork stew, pork roast, in fact pork in any form. At the mere mention of a horse roast or horse stew, the same delicate young lady would manifest her disdain, and if such dishes were set before her, her indignation might turn into riot. This was in 1899. In 1999 people acquired more "horse sense." Education, in time, broke down [Cleaner Than Hogs or Chickens.] the barriers of pure prejudice and senseless custom. In that year it became recognized and fully acknowledged that the cleanest member of the animal kingdom, the horse, was fit food for human beings who had the strength of stomach to eat the hog, one of the filthiest, filth-devouring animals known to man, an animal whose flesh was regarded with horror by many branches of the human family, animals into which our Savior did not hesitate to cast devils. In 1999 it was the universal belief that people who could stomach pork and take their chances in contracting trichinæ, could well afford to digest the clean, wholesome flesh of horses. No animal has any cleaner habits, or more wholesome food than the horse. Such is custom, habit and prejudice. If our ancestors had taught us from the days of the Cæsars to eat horse flesh and to shun pork and poultry, it is more than probable that a man caught eating the latter would have been driven from any community as a disgrace to his kind. Prejudice and custom are hard task masters. In 1925 it became a custom to eat [Eating Raw Fish.] raw fish. The fish in such cases were carefully cleaned before serving. The head, entrails and other parts were removed and the raw flesh was served with salt and pepper. Even this simple process required an education. Many with capricious stomachs revolted at the treatment. They could not digest raw fish that had been killed and nicely cleaned before eating, but they would readily eat any quantity of raw oysters from the shell, also clams, and eat them while the bivalves were still alive. The "servant question" reached a very satisfactory solution long before 1999. As early as 1907, State Normal schools to teach the culinary art and to educate servants were instituted. In the nineteenth century the servant class in America was the hoodoo of the housekeeper and homemaker. Thousands of young women in 1899, without the slightest knowledge or qualifications as housekeepers, entered into matrimony. Unable to cook a loaf of bread or make a simple biscuit, hardly knowing the [Some Very "Lame" Cooks.] difference between hot and cold water, these zealous but inexperienced wives suddenly discovered themselves in charge of a household and all its responsibilities. In this unhappy condition they relied upon hired help to do the work. In many instances the servant knew as little about cooking as her newly wedded mistress. It was a case of "the blind leading the blind," and much unhappiness resulted. Early in the 20th century public exigencies demanded a radical change. The servant question advanced to the front. The dignity of her position was raised in the social scale. The backward civilization of 1899 treated the servant as a drudge or menial. Long hours of service, from early morn till late at night, were imposed upon her, while her wages were slender. In the country her life was more endurable because she was often treated as a member of the family. In cities, however, her lot was an unhappy one. The servant plodded along in her solitary work, often busy and at work fifteen hours every day. Even in free-born, liberty-loving America the servant in 1899 was made to regard herself as an inferior being. It was in this chaotic condition of affairs that schools for the instruction of housekeepers were opened and assisted by large annuities from the State. Before 1950 every town in the several States throughout the Americas boasted of its State Cooking [State Schools for Cooking.] School. These schools became very popular in the Central American States such as Mexico, San Salvador, Costa Rica, Guatemala, as well as in the southern States of Brazil, Argentina, Bolivia, Ecuador and others of that group of the American Union. As a result of this wise policy the fame and laurels of French cookery were transferred to our American culinary artists. Not even the famed cooks of China could equal the skill of the instructed and trained American cooks. No servant could get a situation as cook in 1999 unless they could produce a diploma from a State School of Cookery. They demanded more pay and were allowed to work only eight hours per day. As a result of having skilled housekeepers, homes were rendered better and happier. In 1999 America still remained the land of model hotels. In the 19th century the fame of Americans for maintaining the best conducted and most palatial hostelries was already world-wide. Our city palace-hotels had no rivals in the world worthy of the name. In the twentieth century their enviable fame in this line continued to increase. Chicago and Manhattan still maintained their ancient rivalry in the hotel business. Many of the palace hotels of 1999 had walls built with opaque, rock face glass in the most attractive styles of architecture. From a distance they resembled fairy palaces. Marble and brick were occasionally employed in construction but glass came into high favor as being imperishable as well as highly ornamental. The old saying that "those who live in glass houses should not throw stones," answered very well in the 19th century, when glass houses, such as conservatories, were exceedingly fragile structures. In the 20th century no structures could be more durable than these hotels with glass walls, built with blocks of great thickness and in every color of the prism. They were fire-proof for the simple reason that no one had any use for fire in any hotel or public building in 1999. Electricity was employed to the exclusion of all other agencies for heating and lighting, as well as for motive power. CHAPTER XXVI. The Negro Question Settled. Negroes in 1999 are transferred to their new reservation and permanent home in the State of Venezuela. The animosities between whites and blacks still existed in 1925. The negro a very costly importation. Never ought to have left Africa. In 1960 government lands are bought for the black race and their home in Venezuela becomes a prosperous and a happy one. The satisfactory solution of a vexed problem. In 1999 the negro problem no longer troubled the North American States. The absorption of the Central and South American Republics into the great American Union, had at last vouchsafed the earnestly prayed for outlet for the troublesome Ethiopians. The man who was guilty of making the first importation of negroes into the American Republic can never hope to rest comfortably in the great hereafter. The negro during the last half of the nineteenth century proved a black cloud in social and political America. A stupendous war was waged in his behalf. Years after the close of the war he still remained a source of bitter hatred and constant bloodshed. South of Mason and Dixon's line the war of the [Literally a "Burning Question."] races raged furiously for nearly sixty years after the close of the Civil War in 1865. The whites despised, while the blacks detested. In 1899 Negroism was in fact, as well as in metaphor, a burning question. In 1925 mention was still frequently made of the burning of the negro Sam Hose, near Palmetto, in Georgia. Whenever the slightest pretext offered itself, negroes were lynched or burned alive at the stake. On the other hand these cruelties upon their race were naturally resented by the blacks, who lost no opportunity to make reprisals. The negro proved a very costly luxury, a profound study in black, during the last half of the nineteenth century. Mainly on his account a Titanic struggle was waged in the sixties, a continent was torn asunder, 800,000 men killed and a debt of $7,100,000,000 saddled on America, and in the opening days of the twentieth century, the negro was still a thorn in the nation's side. [A Study in Black.] The negro found his way into America only after the mild race of Indians discovered by Columbus had been exterminated under the lash and torch of the Spaniard. When the harmless and gentle race of beings who inhabited the isles of the Caribbean sea had vanished before Spanish tyranny, then all eyes turned to Africa as the base of supplies for menials, hewers of wood and drawers of water. The docile nature of the negro rendered him available for purposes of serfdom. He proved submissive and obedient, which are qualities of excellence in the relations existing between master and slave. The negro, without doubt, is gifted with a high order of intelligence and is capable of appreciating all the advantages of a superior education. It is doubtful, however, if the race will ever become prominent in the field of art and sciences. With his amiable and submissive tendencies the negro is menial in his qualifications. For long centuries past he has been "a servant of servants" in his native land and his position [Not Very Fierce, Only Humble.] still remains unchanged. Had he the fierce and indomitable love of freedom which characterizes the North American Indian, the chains of slavery never would have blotted the fair name of America. His introduction into this hemisphere has proved a colossal blunder, a misfortune alike to both races. History will applaud the wisdom of American statesmanship that emancipated the slave. No matter what may be his shortcomings--or how inferior his position in the scale of civilization, slavery of the negro cannot for one moment be tolerated under the great American flag, the emblem of freedom for all peoples of this earth. The flag, however, cannot guarantee his social status. From this point of view, the fact cannot be denied that the presence of the negro in North America is undesirable. In communities where his vote preponderates there will always be friction with the whites. Whites will never submit to the dictation of the black element. The swarthy son of Ham was never permitted in the twentieth century to dominate. The high white forehead cannot be ruled by the low black one. Not in centuries could this be accomplished, in fact, never. The unquenchable hatred existing in the South found expression in frequent lynchings of negroes, burnings and other barbarities. These acts of violence were deplorable, and even in 1950 the burning of Sam Hose in 1899 at Newman, Georgia, was constantly referred to. In justice, however, to the South, it must be said, that these lynchings were perpetrated as measures of self-defense. The races could not assimilate. Miscegenation was regarded in the twentieth century, as well as in the nineteenth, as an unpardonable crime. In 1925 the racial war between whites and blacks continued unabated, and would [Peace in Sight.] have still been in force in 1999 if the only one possible relief had not come at last to the rescue. In the year last mentioned the bulk of the black population disappeared from the North American States. The accession of the Central and South American Republics into the great American Union afforded the only possible solution to the vexed problem. In 1960, just one hundred years after the Sumpter episode, another important movement was inaugurated in behalf of the blacks. People commenced to realize that the negro was an utterly alien race; that when they landed here America gained nothing, while Africa must have lost heavily through their transfer into the new world. The proposition to transfer the negro population to the Central and Southern American States was agitated in that year. The transfer of Washington as the seat of our national government from the District of Columbia to the City of Mexico had the effect of drawing a strong tide of American emigration into the State of Mexico, and into the Southern States of Brazil and Venezuela as well. In 1999 Americans spoke of Colombia and Bolivar merely as Southern States of the Union. The vast and fertile lands in those States did not escape the attention of settlers. The idea of transferring the entire negro population from the Northern States of Florida, Georgia, Kentucky, Alabama, Louisiana, Virginia and the Carolinas to the Southern States of Brazil and Venezuela was regarded as being a good one. The proposed measure proved a very popular one, particularly among the Gulf States. They were ready to make any sacrifice to be rid of their black neighbors. In 1975 a bill passed through Congress appropriating a sum of $58,000,000 for the purchase of three northern provinces in the State of Venezuela, namely, Zarmora, [No Snowstorms out That Way.] Bermudez and Miranda, bounded on the north by the Atlantic Ocean and on the south by the Orinoco River. It was generally conceded that the negro would feel more at home in a tropical climate. The three provinces named lie between the eighth and tenth degrees of north latitude, and there was no possible danger that these emigrants would ever get caught in a snowstorm on the plains of Venezuela. The northern States of the Union were determined to get rid of the entire race, if money ever could effect that purpose. The negroes readily assented to the proposition and were heartily in favor of [Were Pleased with the Change.] leaving a section of the American Republic which has been the scene of so much suffering to them, as well as their ancestors. They were elated over the prospect of emigrating to the State of Venezuela, where such a fine reservation had been purchased for them by enactment of Congress. They realized that in the State of Venezuela they would no longer be harassed by their white neighbors and the old slave-owning element, and upon the vast pastoral plains of the Zarmora and Miranda provinces they would till their own soil, own the land and enjoy each other's exclusive society. Even Boston, in 1975, applauded the movement as being a philanthropic one, calculated to increase the well being of the negro. The brainy men of Boston argued that reservations had been frequently purchased for the use of Indians, and there was no good reason why one should not be purchased for the use of the American negro. In this manner the vexed negro question was finally settled. The States south of Mason and Dixon's line became more contented. The negro reservation in Venezuela thrived well. The broad pastoral plains, well watered by branches of the Orinoco, abounding in rich tropical grasses, were admirably adapted to the raising of cattle, sheep and goats. Horses were raised in 1975 for food supplies alone. The negro farmer invested in sugar cane, cotton, indigo and banana farms. The tropical forests yielded much wealth, such as India rubber, tonka beans, copaiba and vanilla, while the mineral products of Venezuela proved rich and varied. CHAPTER XXVII. Conclusion. In setting forth at length the glorious achievements of the twentieth century, the Author has no desire to rob our now closing nineteenth century of one iota of its brilliantly earned laurels. The achievements of the nineteenth century will grow to the last syllable of recorded time. Their imprint upon the history of man is indelible and shall be linked in the chains of eternity. In the field of scientific discovery the nineteenth century has no peer in all the preceding ages. It stands forth a giant whose achievements in the cause of science, liberty, education and humanity outweigh the combined products of all eras from the birth of Christ. Newton's discovery of gravitation must ever memorize the seventeenth century in the annals of men, but the genius of the nineteenth century has produced its equal in the correlation and conservation of forces, the widest generalization that the human mind has yet attained. The telescope of the eighteenth century is overbalanced by the spectroscope of the nineteenth, telling us of the composition, rate of speed of myriads of suns. The electric telegraph, the telephone, the phonograph, wireless telegraphy, and the Röentgen rays are all children of the nineteenth century. The vast doctrine of organic evolution, the periodic law of chemistry, the molecular theory of gases, Kelvin's vortex theory of matter, are all priceless jewels in the crown of the nineteenth century. To these we must add in the nineteenth century phalanx the magnificent discovery of anæsthetics and antiseptic surgery, the wonderful mobilization of man through the medium of steam and electricity by land and sea. Let us give to the nineteenth century the full measure of its magnificent conquests in the arts and sciences. But, to-day, we stand at the threshold of the twentieth century, in which, with its legacy of nineteenth century genius, still greater and more sweeping results will be attained. Vast fields of scientific research remain unexplored. Proud science must to-day bend her knee and confess ignorance in many problems of the most simple character. The absolute command of Mind over Matter calls for herculean strides of progress before its sway be undisputed. The twentieth century, however, will pre-eminently outrank all preceding eras in the measure of liberty accorded to the peoples of the universe, and, in the foremost rank, as a pillar of fire by night and a cloud by day, the leadership of great, broad America will be followed by the nations of the world. The Supreme Ruler of the universe, who holds this globe in the hollow of His Hand, has marked out the line this nation must follow and our duty must be done. America is destined to become the Light of the World. With her grand Constitution for guide and compass, her boundaries will extend until her banner of true freedom and liberty shall spread its folds and protect every nation in the Western Hemisphere, gathering them into one flock and one mighty Republic. In the year of grace, 1999, the light of God's sun will reveal to the admiring gaze of the World, the noblest creation of Man,--a United America, the law giver unto the nations of the earth, a mighty power that shall dictate peace and banish war and make True Freedom ring throughout the world. 
31369	----	_Nationality and Race_ _From an Anthropologist's Point of View_ BEING THE ROBERT BOYLE LECTURE DELIVERED BEFORE THE _OXFORD UNIVERSITY JUNIOR SCIENTIFIC CLUB_ _On November 17, 1919_ BY ARTHUR KEITH, M.D., LL.D., F.R.S. HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORK TORONTO MELBOURNE CAPE TOWN BOMBAY 1919 PRINTED IN ENGLAND AT THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS NATIONALITY AND RACE FROM AN ANTHROPOLOGIST'S POINT OF VIEW NATIONALITY AND RACE IN BOYLE'S TIME It was during the lifetime of Robert Boyle that our forefathers began to come into close contact with the races and nationalities of the outer world. When he was born in County Cork in the year 1627, small and isolated bands of Englishmen were elbowing Red Indians from the eastern sea-board of North America; before his death in London in 1691, at the age of sixty-four, he had seen these pioneer bands become united into a British fringe stretching almost without a break from Newfoundland to Florida. Neither he nor any one else in England could then have guessed that in less than two centuries the narrow fringe of colonists would have spread from shore to shore, thus carpeting a continent with a new people. It was in his time, too, that English merchants and sailors made a closer acquaintance with the peoples of India, of the Far East, and with the sea-board natives of Africa and of South America. We have only to turn to the six splendid volumes in which his experiments, observations, and writings are preserved to see how he viewed the world which his countrymen were opening up beneath his eyes. In a short paper, drafted some time before his death, he gives the most minute directions to guide navigators in drawing up reports of newly discovered lands. His directions relate to every conceivable property or aspect of a new country--its geography, mineral wealth, natural products, climate--all but its inhabitants. Like many Englishmen of his time, Boyle conceived that his duty by native peoples began and ended when he had seen that they were supplied with copies of the Bible. For him, and for most of his contemporaries, there seem to have been no racial problems; for they did not regard the meeting and mingling of diverse races or of peoples of different nationalities as matters which deserved investigation and explanation. Boyle witnessed the acutest phases of the 'plantation' of Ireland, but the inquiries he set on foot regarding that country were: 'How it cometh to pass that there are not frogs, toads, snakes, moles, nightingales, rarely magpies' within its borders; he inquired, too, concerning the true nature of 'diverse things which the Irish foolishly report of St. Patrick'--especially concerning the 'birds turned into stones for chirping when St. Patrick was preaching'. There were, of course, racial and national problems in Boyle's time, but they had not then presented themselves before the tribunal of the public mind as matters demanding investigation and treatment. RACE AND NATIONALITY IN RECENT YEARS We need not blame the statesmen and writers of Boyle's time for failing to recognize the inward significance of national and racial manifestations any more than we condemn his contemporary physicians for failing to separate from the mass of disease such conditions as are known to modern medical men as appendicitis and typhoid fever. Typhoid fever and appendicitis existed in Boyle's time just as did national disturbances and racial antipathies, but their nature and significance passed undiagnosed. It was not until England had laid siege, by means of armies of colonists, to lands inhabited by native races, or had come to guide the destinies of great tropical empires by handfuls of civil servants, that she realized that racial contact gives rise to live and burning antagonisms. Nor are national problems new to England; they have always dogged the footsteps of her statesmen. In Boyle's time a people could make its national spirit heard and felt only by resorting to brute force. In our times there are other means; a people mobilizes its national spirit by means of the daily press; the promulgation of national propaganda has become a fine art; modern statesmen have learned that national feelings, rightly directed, have the force of an avalanche. The problems of Race and of Nationality, then, are by no means new, but in their modern form they are new. The far-flung lines of the British Empire and the mobilization of the popular spirit by means of the press and propaganda have compelled our statesmen, historians, publicists, psychologists, and anthropologists to re-examine the nature of the forces which lie behind racial movements and national agitations. Of the importance of a right understanding of the nature of these forces for the future maintenance and development of the British Empire there cannot be any question. In the guiding of its destinies Oxford men will, in the future as in the past, take a leading part, and much of their success will depend on how far they have grasped the nature of the inward forces which group mankind into races and nations. That is my reason for making the problems of Race and Nationality the subject of this lecture in memory of Robert Boyle. INHERITED INSTINCTS AND MODERN IDEALS ARE OUT OF HARMONY It has scarcely been possible in recent years to open a newspaper without our eye being arrested by head-lines telling us of racial strifes or international contentions. One day we read of race riots; on the next we learn that the inhabitants of a certain area of land demand separation from all surrounding peoples. By a process of 'self-determination' they demand to be recognized as a separate people or nation. These racial and national contentions are not restricted to any particular people or land; we find them in every country. The politician is too near to these racial and national manifestations of the modern world to see them in their proper light; even the historian is not far enough away from them to see them in their right perspective. You cannot explore the secret sources from which they spring unless you have grasped the immensity of man's unwritten history. Let me make my meaning quite clear by an historical example chosen from man's body. Among our modern populations there are no ailments more prevalent than those which arise from a disordered working of the great bowel. Why this part of our bodily machinery should fail us under modern conditions of diet becomes quite apparent when we survey the history of man's distant past. For the anthropologist there are only two well-marked phases in human history. The first phase is that of Natural subsistence--an infinitely long and monotonous chapter, stretching over a million of years or more. The second is the phase of Artificial subsistence--a short chapter covering a period of 10,000 or 12,000 years at the utmost, but a period crowded with events which have a critical bearing on our present and future welfare. In the first or long phase mankind was broken into small and scattered groups which gained as best they could a sparse, uncertain, and coarse sustenance from the natural produce of shore and stream, moorland and woodland. In the second or short phase man conquered nature; by means of cultivation and domestication he forced from the soil a sure and abundant supply of food, thus rendering possible the existence of our modern massed populations. Now the machinery of man's body and the instinctive outfit of his brain, which had been evolved to answer to the conditions of life presented by the first long phase of his history, were also those which had to serve him when he entered the new conditions of the short or modern phase. We need not be surprised to find, then, that part of his ancient outfit is ill adapted to modern conditions of life. Man's great bowel, including the caecum, appendix, and colon, which answered his needs well when his dietary was coarse and uncooked, is ill contrived to deal with foods which are artificially prepared and highly concentrated. A school, which was headed by the late Professor Metchnikoff, even goes so far as to maintain that man would be improved by the complete removal of his great bowel--a doctrine with which I totally disagree. We are all alive to the fact that there is a lack of harmony between the ancient machinery of our bodies and the modern conditions under which we live, but we are only now awakening to the fact that what is true of our bodies is also true of our minds. In that immense first phase of our history an elaborate mental machinery had been evolved for binding small groups of mankind into social units. This subconscious or instinctive mental outfit, we shall see, is part of the machinery which Nature has employed in the evolution of races of mankind. The mental adaptations which modern man has inherited from the immensity of his past we may briefly describe as part of Nature's tribal machinery. The thesis, then, which I propose to expound to you is that in our modern racial strifes and national agitations we see man's inherited tribal instincts at war with his present-day conditions of life. We have broken up, or are attempting to break up, Nature's ancient tribal machinery and at the present time are striving to replace her designs by others evolved in the minds of modern statesmen and politicians. We moderns are like hill sheep turned into fenced fields with all our wandering instincts still grafted on our original nature. As in them, our instincts are at war with our surroundings. It is the most natural thing in the world that we should blame the barriers which have been set round us because we are scarcely conscious of the inherited predispositions with which Nature encompasses her tribal fields. We cannot understand the nature of our modern racial and national problems until we perceive that in these days we are endeavouring to build a new world out of the wreckage of an old. RACIAL AND NATIONAL PROBLEMS IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA Having thus laid before you the general lines on which I propose to deal with problems relating to race and nationality, I propose now that we should make a lightning trip round the world and cull, as we go, samples which will illustrate the kind of friction which arises wherever races or nationalities come into close contact. As I have already said, every country can yield us material for our study, but none on such a vast experimental scale as the United States of North America; we shall therefore commence our hurried survey in that country. Within the frontiers of the States is massed a population of 110 millions. When we look closely we see that over ten millions of these inhabitants are marked off from the rest by a frontier, a colour line, as sharply defined and jealously guarded as the frontiers of a kingdom. Across that racial frontier all legitimate social traffic is barred, the custodians of the frontier being those who stand on the white side of the line. Any attempt to cross that racial frontier produces mob war. While these ten millions of segregated citizens abide within their racial fence, they see millions arrive from Europe and pass freely through the national and social gateways--which for them are barred. In the course of a generation they see these new arrivals, men, women, and children born and bred within the diverse nationalities of Europe, differing markedly in appearance and speech from the original colonial stock, become slowly stript of their alien outlook and gradually incorporated within a new national mass. In the States, then, we see a machinery at work which maintains racial frontiers but breaks down all national barriers. The nature of that machinery we shall have to inquire into later, but in the meantime I will briefly define the essential difference between a racial and a national frontier. A marriage across a racial frontier gives rise to an offspring so different from both parent races that it cannot be naturally grouped with either the one or the other. A marriage across a national frontier gives rise to a progeny which may pass as a member of either parent nationality. Further, as I shall attempt to prove later, nationality is the incipient stage in the process which leads on to racial differentiation. PROBLEMS OF CANADA When we cross the line which separates the United States from Canada we find a national mechanism at work which converts immigrants of alien nationalities into loyal Canadians. In Canada, however, our attention is arrested by an example which illustrates the persistence and the strength of the force which perpetuates a national spirit. The ancestors of the French Canadians began to settle in the province of Quebec early in the seventeenth century, 150 years before the Canadian national mill was set agoing by Englishmen. The French settlers never passed through that mill. They came, for the greater part, from the north-west of France, and although speaking a different tongue, adopting a different religion, and following different customs, they were yet in point of race not essentially different from the English founders of Canada. Yet the descendants of these early French settlers, now numbering well over a million and a half, and although forming but a small island in the midst of an English-speaking ocean for more than a century and a half, have maintained their sense of separateness--their national frontiers--intact. There is no question here of a racial frontier as yet, but were this national isolation of French Canadians to become permanent, then in course of time a racial differentiation would be produced within their territory. When we turn our faces westward and cross the Rocky Mountains we find the minds of the white inhabitants, along the whole stretch of the Pacific coast, occupied with a racial problem. They have erected a racial barrier to keep out the native peoples of Asia. The native of India is excluded just as strictly as the Chinaman or Japanese. They are not excluded because of their speech or of their civilization, but because the people of the United States and of Canada are conscious of a certain feeling of difference--call it race prejudice, race antipathy, or what you will. It is a conscious or subconscious state of feeling which rebels against racial fusion. RACIAL PROBLEMS OF SPANISH AMERICA When we pass from the United States to Mexico we cross the boundary line which separates the two most immense experiments in human breeding the world has ever seen. North of this experimental Rubicon, as we have just seen, the basal stock, which is north-west European or Nordic in origin, has been ruled by a sense of race-caste and has consequently maintained its racial characters. But south of our Rubicon the result of racial contact has been absolutely different. The south-west European or Iberian stock broke down the natural barrier which Nature had set up between them and the natives of Mexico and South America and solved their racial antagonisms by the fusion of blood. The results of these two experiments, carried out on such an immense scale, we can see to-day. The northern experiment, which is now three centuries old, has given the world two of her most virile peoples destined to hold their place whether humanity becomes planted out on a vast, peaceful, and uniform cabbage-patch or still remains, as now, broken up into national and racial factions. These northern peoples are as effective, so far at least as concerns their chances of survival, as the original Nordic stock. The southern experiment, which began four centuries ago, has given the world a jangling series of small peoples, not any one of which is equal, either in body or in mind, to the pioneer Iberian stock. From the anthropologist's point of view the northern experiment is the successful one. We have been glancing at the national and racial problems of the American continent and we ought now to pass on to note the form in which they are presented to us by Australasia. Before passing on, however, there is one very important aspect of the southern or Iberian experiment which we must consider now because it throws light on the path along which I want to lead you. Why did the racial barrier between Iberian and Indian break down? Was it because the Iberian did not possess--was not influenced by--a sense of race-caste such as we have seen to dominate the Nordic colonist? I believe that race-caste or race-prejudice is and has been a more potent force in the Nordic than in the Iberian stock. The Iberian people are near neighbours of the African races; in physique they are differentiated from the African stocks in a somewhat less degree than the Nordic stocks which represent the utmost point in the physical specialization of all European peoples. If the Iberian pioneer carried with him to America a lesser degree of race-caste, the process of hybridization would begin the more easily. The great north and south experiments differed, however, in another important circumstance. The Nordic encountered a scattered, nomadic, proud race; the Iberian a settled people living in dense communities. The Iberian was thus exposed to conditions in which a racial barrier was harder to maintain. STRUGGLE BETWEEN RACE AND SEX IMPULSES But neither of these two circumstances--a lesser developed sense of race-caste in the Iberian, nor the massing of the southern Indians in settled communities--explain the disappearance of a racial frontier. The true explanation lies in the fact that Nature has grafted in the human mind instinctive impulses which are far stronger than those designated as race-prejudice. Nature has spent her most painstaking efforts in establishing within the human organization a mechanism to ensure, above all other ends, that the individual shall continue. The instinct to propagate is the strongest of the instinctive impulses with which mankind has been fitted. It dominates and conquers the race instinct on all occasions save one. Sex impulse is the battery which breaks down race-barriers. Race instinct becomes the master of sexual impulse only when a pure stock has established itself as a complete and growing community in a new country. Sexual impulses are the endowments of individual men and women; they dominate and are manifested by individuals, whereas race antipathies are manifestations not of the individual, but of the mass. Race instinct comes into play only when men, women, and children of the same stock are organized into communities. Until such a community is organized sex instinct traffics freely across racial barriers; once organized, race instinct conquers or restrains hybridization. It is a right understanding of the conditions under which human instincts work that gives us the true key to the hybridization of Spaniard and American Indian. The Iberian pioneers exposed themselves to racial contact in Mexico and Peru under conditions which were bound to give their sex impulses a victory over their race instinct. No _Mayflower_ reached the Spanish coasts of America; only bands of adventurers, who established no independent home-like settlements to form the cradles of race-feeling. The sex instinct was left dominant, and by this force the racial barriers south of the Mexican rubicon were broken down. North of this Rubicon the American continent was colonized; south of it, there was not a colonization but a plantation. From an anthropologist's point of view, as we shall note later, colonization and plantation are totally different processes. RACE PROBLEMS IN AUSTRALIA AND NEW ZEALAND When we cross the Pacific to Australia we see the same racial and national factors at work as in Saxon America. It has taken only a little over a century for a British or Nordic stock, now numbering five millions, to establish itself as occupant and owner of a great continent. The Australians have had to face both national and racial problems. The continent was colonized from separate centres, and there was a tendency on the part of each colony to isolate itself from its neighbours and grow up into a separate state or nationality. These separate states or incipient nationalities were united at the commencement of the present century by the craft of statesmanship which made the shores of the new continent the frontiers of a national commonwealth. The British communities in Australia bred and exhibited the usual Saxon sense of race discrimination; almost from the first they drew a racial frontier between themselves and the native blacks, and so strictly has this frontier been maintained that there is no trace of the vanishing aboriginal blood in the veins of the new nationality. The 50,000 survivors of the original owners of the continent now present a philanthropic rather than a racial problem. But it is otherwise as regards the millions of native peoples occupying the countries which flank the Indian and China seas. Seas are the highways along which modern peoples spread and invade accessible lands. Hence round their shores the Australians have erected a racial barrier, admitting the entrance of peoples of European descent but excluding all others. The student of racial and national problems cannot afford to pass New Zealand by. In these two islands English, Scotch, Irish, and Welsh immigrants have, in the course of the last eighty years, built up a new nation, now numbering well over a million souls. Here and there in the islands there has been a tendency for the immigrants to group themselves according to their inherited nationality, but such separate groupings tend to disappear as the new national spirit becomes dominant. Herein we see exhibited a law with which herdsmen are familiar. A herd of cattle which has occupied a field for some time will resist the intrusion of a second or strange herd; but turn both herds together into a strange pasture and mutual antipathies cease almost at once. The arrival in a new land of immigrants from diverse countries breaks down the national barriers within which they were born and bred. A national spirit breeds true only on its native soil; when transplanted to a new land it becomes plastic and mouldable. A new country dissolves ancient nationalities; no country illustrates this truth more emphatically than New Zealand. The relationship which exists between the new nationality of New Zealand and the ancient owners of the country--the Maori, now numbering about 50,000--is one of a unique kind. The physical differences which separate the British and Maori types are such in degree that there can be no question of the distinctness of their racial stocks. In former cases we have seen that it was the Saxon who drew and guarded the racial frontier; but in New Zealand each of the contending human stocks has drawn its racial line, and each regards the other's delimitation with respect. Such respect is rendered possible because the territorial frontiers of Maoriland have been clearly defined. Thus wise statesmanship keeps racial problems in a latent condition in New Zealand. NATIONAL AND RACIAL PROBLEMS IN SOUTH AFRICA If we now pass to South Africa we find problems of race and of nationality in a more acute and tangled form than anywhere else in the world. Long before the Portuguese had turned the Cape of Good Hope towards the end of the sixteenth century, this land was occupied by a confusion of contending tribal peoples belonging to at least three well-differentiated human stocks. Bantu peoples were pushing southwards, ousting and exterminating Hottentot tribes; these were at the same time exercising a continuous pressure on the Bush people. At the present time this great territory, with a total area of nearly twenty times that of England, is occupied by about six and a quarter millions of people, fully five millions being descendants of the original native tribes, with a slight admixture of Asiatic elements. The masters and owners of this territory, numbering only a little over a million, are of the Nordic or north-west European stock. About one-half of the dominant stock drew its original guiding spirit from Holland, the other half carried to its new home the national spirit of England. These two nationalities, both derived from the same North Sea stock, have been thrown together in South Africa for over a century, and yet a sense of difference in nationality has persisted, even in face of dangers which threaten both alike. Thus South Africa has an acute friction arising from the rubbing of one nationality on another. She has also her racial problems; the more closely they are examined the more do their potential dangers seem to grow. Boer and Briton may differ in speech, habit, and outlook, but both agree that there is an impassable frontier between them and the native races of Africa and Asia. They do not even camouflage the racial barricade which they have erected; they purposely expose it in its nakedness to full view, so that none may fail to see it. The dark natives maintain their tribal and racial frontiers by their inherited organizations, but the surveillance of the social barrier between them and the whites lies with the dominant race. Only those who have come into direct contact with racial antagonisms know how deeply they are situated in the primitive organization of the human brain. Let me cite only one witness on this point--one who would willingly believe, if he could, that racial antagonisms are both superficial and acquired. "That a very real problem exists in the race-consciousness of the white and coloured peoples is evident, is sometimes painfully evident, sometimes dangerously so. There is nothing to be gained by under-estimating its deep-seated nature and the gravity of its issues." This is a quotation from the presidential address given by Dr. W. Flint to the last meeting (1919) of the South African Association for the Advancement of Science. The mixture of races in South Africa has roused to activity instincts or subconscious states which lie dormant in members of a uniform population. National and racial frontiers, we shall see, are part of Nature's evolutionary machinery. Meantime we merely note that modern industrial ideals clash with the working of Nature's instinctive mechanisms, and in South Africa the two are in actual collision. SOME OF THE NATIONAL AND RACIAL PROBLEMS OF EUROPE As we pass northwards along the African continent, over a welter of tribal peoples, we need merely note the cry for national recognition which ascends to us from the lower valley of the Nile. The descendants of the ancient Egyptians, mixed with a conglomeration of racial stocks drawn from Africa, Asia, and Europe, are agitating for 'national' independence and isolation. It would take us too far afield to consider the national and racial problems of the 300 millions of diverse peoples of India who are linked together by only one bond--the government extended to them by the British Empire. Nor need we stay now to speculate on the nationalities which will arise from the wreckage of Turkey, Austria, or Russia, nor shall we dally with the Balkan jumble of nationalities. We simply note that these instincts or feelings which compel men of like speech, habits, and traditions to group themselves into independent national units are most active and powerful where racial or national boundaries are most confused. ARE THE JEWS A SEPARATE RACE? In the strict sense in which the anthropologist uses the term 'Race' there is in Europe no racial problem. Our universal disturbances are those of nationality. There are no two nationalities in Europe, so different in physical appearance, that their hybrid progeny may not pass as a member of either parent nationality. In the anthropologist's sense there are no racial bastards produced by the union of European nationalities. If we except the Lapps and other Mongolian elements in Russia there is only one people in Europe with a legitimate claim to be regarded as racially different from the general population. That exception is the Jewish people. There are seven millions of them forming an archipelago in the sea of European peoples, their main islands lying in the centre of the continent, north and south of the Carpathians. The Jews maintain a racial frontier, such as dominant races surround themselves with; they carry themselves as if racially distinct. Their original stock was clearly eastern in its derivation; the peoples of Europe sprang from another racial source. The outliers of the Jewish racial archipelago are exposed to the cross-currents of the Gentile seas. The smaller islets are too far removed to be sheltered and strengthened by the race sense which is bred and nursed wherever permanent Jewish settlements are established. However much the Jewish racial frontier may be strengthened by the faith which is the standard of the race, raids have been made, are now made, across that frontier and a certain degree of hybridization has occurred. Even thus exposed in the eddying seas of modern civilization, the race spirit of the Jews has preserved the greater part of the original characters carried into Europe by the pioneer Semitic bands. In 90 per cent. of Jews the physical or Semitic characters are apparent to the eye even of the uninitiated Gentile. In the Jewish people we see Nature steering one of her cargoes of differentiated humanity between the Scylla and Charybdis of the modern sea of industrial civilization. And race instinct is her steersman. NATIONAL MOVEMENTS ARE OF TWO KINDS The processes of nationalization in Europe are of two kinds; on the one hand we see smaller nationalities being compounded into larger units; on the other we see large nationalities being disintegrated. We see fusion taking place and we see disruption. Which is Nature's method? All the great nationalities of Europe have been built up by fusion--Italy, Spain, France, Great Britain, and Germany. As the last named is the most recent and most clearly understood case of fusion we may glance at the means by which it was accomplished. The nationalities and separate states which were united to form the German Empire were derived from at least three stocks, each of which show well-differentiated physical characters. These human stocks were united by a common tongue. By war and conquest the empire surrounded itself--isolated itself--by a ring of enemies. The Germans carried their frontiers beyond the limits of their speech and set out to make Danes, Frenchmen, and Poles members of their own nationality. They sought to strengthen their national frontiers by tariff barricades. They linked themselves together by the multiplication of means of rapid transit and fostered the growth of a national or tribal spirit by active, persistent, and widespread tribal propaganda. The tribal spirit, which is an innate quality of every people, was roused to such a pitch that in the crisis of war the national or tribal bonds held; sixty millions of people acted as if they were members of a Highland clan. Even defeat, if it has loosened, has not broken the national bonds which were forged by the governing classes of Germany. In all these processes of national fusion, as in the formation of all trusts in the modern commercial world, the anthropologist observes that the operation commences from above and works downwards through the mass of the people. The governing class plays upon and fans into flame the tribal embers of the popular mind. It is altogether a different process which brings about the disruption of a nationality. Disruption has nothing to do with race; the nearer the blood relationship between two adjacent peoples the more likely is disruption to occur. We can find no better illustration of this truth than when we cross the Baltic from Germany to Scandinavia. The people of Norway and Sweden are of the same racial composition; they have many interests in common; union should have given strength. Yet after a partnership which lasted for less than a century, they agreed to separate. In this case the movement came from below; a tribal feeling which swept through the people of Norway compelled a disruption. All the natural inherited forces in a people tend towards disruption. Only when reason takes the helm can these natural disruptive forces be overcome and the process of fusion be effected. BRITISH NATIONAL PROBLEMS Having thus made a hurried survey of some of the more instructive, racial, and national problems abroad we now return homewards to apply the knowledge thus gained to the understanding of the national manifestations of our own countrymen. There is no need to remind you that the national spirit of Robert Boyle's native country is always boiling up, often boiling over. Scotland, too, has a national spirit, so has Wales; in both countries this spirit is separatist in its essence, but the national instinctive tendencies are curbed and guided by the higher reasoning centres of the brain. In England itself the sense of nationality is usually dormant; only an insult or a threat from without stirs this gigantic force into life. In Ireland the national kettle is kept always on the boil; in Scotland and Wales it is kept simmering; in England, on the other hand, it dozes quietly on the hob. Nevertheless English nationality is a force which pervades the whole population lying between Berwick-on-Tweed and Land's End. In the course of centuries statesmanship has succeeded in raising up in the minds of all the inhabitants of the British Isles--all save in the greater part of Ireland--a new and wider sense of nationality, a spirit of British nationality. Why we never succeeded in raising that spirit in the whole of Ireland represents the major part of our present quest. ARE CELTS AND SAXONS OF DIFFERENT RACIAL STOCKS? At the outset of our inquiry we are met by the ancient belief that the British Isles are divided by a racial frontier which separates the western or Celtic peoples from the eastern inhabitants of Saxon origin. It was my fortune to be born on the border of the Celtic fringe, and no one growing up under these circumstances can fail to realize that the Celtic spirit is a real and live force. Is it a racial antagonism which is elicited when Celt and Saxon are in conflict? What is the physical difference between a Celt and a Saxon? That is a matter to which I have given my attention for some years, and the results of my inquiries I will place before you as briefly as I may. In the audience now before me there are certain to be pure representatives of all our four nationalities; Celts and Saxons as pure as any in the country are sure to be present in any university audience. But except for a trick of speech or a local mannerism, the most expert anthropologist cannot tell Celt from Saxon or an Irishman from a Scotsman. There are, to be sure, certain physical types which prevail in one country more than in another, but I do not know of any feature of the body or any trait of the mind, or of any combination of features or traits which will permit an expert, on surveying groups of university students, to say this group is from Scotland, that from Wales, the third from Ireland, and the fourth from England. In stature and in colouring, in form of skull and of face, elaborate trials have revealed national difference only of the most minor kind. Nay, we know very well the physical features of the Saxon pioneers who became the masters of England and dominated the lowlands of Scotland. Their graveyards have been examined by the score, but it is not by the form of the skulls and the strength of the limb bones that we know we are dealing with the graves of ancient Saxons, but by the implements, ornaments, and utensils which were buried with them. As regards shape of skull or form of bones I do not think a practised craniologist could distinguish the skulls and bones found in an ancient Saxon cemetery in Surrey from the remains of a Celtic grave in Connemara, so much are Celtic and Saxon types alike. Were we to dress one group of fishermen from the coast of Norfolk and another from the shores of Connaught in the same garb, I do not think there is an anthropologist in Europe who by mere inspection could tell the Irish from the English group. From a physical point of view the Celt and Saxon are one; whatever be the source of their mutual antagonism, it does not lie in a difference of race. It is often said that we British are a mixed and mongrel collection of types and breeds; the truth is that as regards physical type the inhabitants of the British Isles are the most uniform of all the large nationalities of Europe. ALL BRITISH NATIONALITIES ARE OF THE NORTH SEA STOCK The statement which I have just made, that Britons are really a uniform folk, seems altogether at variance with the teaching of history. What I am to say now will explain a discrepancy which, in its essence, is only superficial. Our written history opens with the Roman invasion and occupation of Britain; it was an 'occupation' or 'plantation', not a true colonization. On the other hand, the Saxon and Danish invasions ended in widely spread and true colonizations of Britain. The Norman invasion, on the other hand, was of the nature of a plantation. I will make the difference between the various forms of invasion apparent presently. There have been, too, flocks of immigrant refugees at various times. We have the most positive evidence that long before the dawn of written history the processes of invasion and colonization had been going on in Britain. In all these invasions, historic and prehistoric, with one important exception, no strange or new racial stock was added to the British Isles; all were apparently branches of the human stock which still occupy the north-west of Europe--men of the Nordic type--or as I should prefer to call them, the North Sea breed. We are only now beginning to realize that even at the dawn of the present period, a period marked by the retreat of the ice sheet from the Baltic basin, the seashore and the sea itself were the high roads along which primitive peoples migrated and spread. They were people of the same human type who spread themselves along the shores of the Mediterranean and occupied its coastal lands. The distribution of the Mediterranean breed was determined by the limits of their sea. Apparently the shores of the North Sea were settled in a similar way. We have but scanty remains from the midden heaps along its ancient shores to tell us about the kind of folk these early settlers were, but so far as the evidence goes it supports the supposition that the Nordic type was already in possession of north-west Europe before the dawn of the Neolithic period. We can only explain the distribution of the Nordic type along the shorelands of the North Sea, of the Baltic, and of the British seas, on the supposition of a primitive and ancient North Sea stock--made up of men of the Nordic type. The earliest cave dwellers of England were of this type. It was this North Sea stock which gave Britain not only her original population but also her succession of colonists. It is certain that there were also invasions of Britain from the Mediterranean stock, but we have only to compare a sample of our modern population with one drawn from a Mediterranean people to see how little our blood has been affected by a southern mixture. In all these invasions and colonizations there is only one which was not drawn from the North Sea stock. That invasion took place in the second millenium before Christ, when the round-headed stock of Central Europe broke through the Nordic belt, reached the shores of the North Sea, and invaded Britain on a scale which has never been equalled before or since save in Saxon times. That invasion of round-heads broke first on England and Scotland, but Wales and particularly Ireland received in time a full share of the fresh arrivals. With this one exception all the invaders and settlers of the British Isles were waves derived from the same prolific source--the North Sea breed. We see, then, why there should be little physical difference between Celt and Saxon. The one was an earlier wave, the other a much later wave of the same stock. But each wave brought its own mode of speech and its own tribal spirit. Of all the inhabitants of the British Isles the Irish may be regarded as the purest representatives of the North Sea or Nordic stock. THERE ARE KINDS OF COLONIZATION--SPONTANEOUS AND FORCED The refusal of the Irish to merge their sense of nationality in a common British whole cannot be explained by any difference in blood or race. We shall get nearer to the heart of the problem if we can discover why the people on the north-east of Ireland, particularly in counties Antrim and Down, in contrast with the rest of Ireland, are sharers in the common British spirit. It is true that, even in ancient times, there was a community of feeling between Ulstermen and the West Scotch. Even in Neolithic times their cultures show a free intercourse. Before the plantation of Ireland by lowland folk in the seventeenth century, Ulster was frequented by bands of Highland Scots. Neither of these circumstances explain the unionist spirit of Ulster. Nor is the spirit of north-east Ulster a matter of British admixture. A careful examination of all the available data relating to the plantation of Ireland between 1560 and 1660 will show that an even greater proportion of British blood was poured into Leinster and Munster than into Ulster. At the end of the plantation period probably one Irishman out of every three in the provinces of Leinster and Munster had blood of British colonists in his veins. In this reckoning no count is made of the people who landed and settled in Ireland in the five centuries which preceded 1560--Danes, Normans, Welsh, and English. It is not the number of British colonists which has made north-east Ulster separatist in spirit, so far as the rest of Ireland is concerned--and unionist, so far as Great Britain is concerned. The north-east region of Ireland was the only part which was truly colonized; only a real or spontaneous colonization can carry a tribal or national spirit to a new land. For the anthropologist a true or spontaneous colonization is a totally different process from one which is false or forced. At the very time at which the English Government was settling or planting colonists on Irish soil and among Irish people, a spontaneous exodus set in among the North Sea peoples. This exodus--a people's movement--established a Saxon fringe along the eastern sea-board of North America. The exodus, which began in the seventeenth century, has continued to the present time--three full centuries. Thus fed, the fringe extended until it reached the Pacific shore. The original fringe represented a true tribal settlement; within the pioneer communities grew up the consciousness of nationality and of race-antagonism, which we have already noted in the Saxon peoples of North America. The break-away--the natural process of disintegration, represented by the War of Independence--is usually explained as a result of bad government. The disputes between the British Government and the colonists were certainly the circumstances which determined the disruption, but the forces which impelled the colonists to action were those subconscious impulses which Nature has planted deep in the human mind as part of her evolutionary machinery. THE SAXON SETTLEMENT OF BRITAIN The colonization of North America, which took place in the full light of history, gives us the means of understanding the Saxon colonization of England, which otherwise lies obscure in the twilight of our written records. In both cases we have to deal with a spontaneous or popular movement. One was across the wide Atlantic, the other across an almost land-locked sea. Both commenced by the formation of a fringe of true settlement wherein inherited tribal traditions and organizations were nursed and strengthened; in both cases the original fringe was fed by a stream of immigrants continuing over several centuries. The chief difference between the two movements lies in this: the American colonists encountered a people who were so physically unlike themselves as to raise a racial frontier, whereas the Saxon people pushed their way into a land inhabited by people of their own stock. The progeny of the captured British native could be reared so as to become a true Saxon. The Saxon colonization, as it spread over the land, engulfed--when it did not exterminate--the natives and their tribal organizations in their agricultural village communities. The Saxon settlement of England held and prospered because it was a true colonization. THE PLANTATION AND COLONIZATION OF IRELAND In Ireland we have an opportunity of contrasting the results of an artificial or forced settlement with those of a natural or spontaneous colonization. Elizabeth, James, and Cromwell settled their colonists on Irish tribal lands, thus exposing them to the full force of the clannish or tribal spirit which then animated the natives of Ireland. The consequence was that the progeny of the British colonists, as it grew up, absorbed the Irish tribal spirit, for this spirit, being more primitive and more easily understood than a sense of nationality, always makes a dominant appeal to the young mind. The blood which English statesmen of the seventeenth century poured into Ireland to quench its national flame only served to feed it. It was otherwise in the north-east of Ireland--particularly in Down and Antrim. These counties were settled in the earlier decades of the seventeenth century by a process of spontaneous colonization. The movement commenced in a small way in 1606 by Hugh Montgomery, a south Scotch laird, purchasing a large tract of the O'Neill's land in county Down. He settled that land with his relations and tenantry--a farming community. Such was the beginning of the colonial fringe on the north-east coast of Ulster. The fringe was fed by a spontaneous exodus of farming folk mainly from the south of Scotland, but the stream was also kept up and maintained from the north of England and from Scottish counties as far north as those of Aberdeen and Inverness. The men who flocked to Ulster found it easier to raise crops on the greensward of Antrim than on the heathery hill-sides of Aberdeenshire. Herein we see a repetition, but on a small scale, of the Saxon colonization of England. The settled communities established by the Scotch pioneers sheltered and nursed the national spirit they brought with them. As the fringe of colonists expanded it came to cover Antrim and Down and made inroads on adjacent counties, overwhelming and absorbing the tribal organization of the native population. In 1672 Sir William Petty estimated that there were 100,000 Scots in Ulster. Thus in the north-east of Ireland there has been established a people which manifests all the qualities of a new nationality. History can explain to us how it has come about that the inhabitants of Ireland, all of them derivatives of the same breed of Europeans, should be divided into two peoples, each possessed by its own peculiar sense of nationality. The north is predominantly industrial and Protestant; the south is predominantly pastoral and Catholic. But these circumstances are not sufficient to account for a national--almost a racial--antagonism between the inhabitants of a single small island who have so much to gain by a sense of unity. To understand national antagonisms we have to look at the inheritance which modern man has carried with him from his distant past. THE NATURE OF TRIBAL INSTINCT I now enter the third stage of my argument. In the first I cited and discussed the various forms in which racial and national feelings are manifested by various peoples abroad; in my second I dealt with the nature of the various national movements at home. We now set out in search of the root from which the flower of our complex modern civilization has sprung. In the world of to-day we see many peoples exhibiting every phase in the evolution of that organization which permits mankind to live in massed populations. Fortunately for us there yet survive, in outlandish parts of the earth, remnants of native races retaining the primitive organization which guided mankind through that great hinterland of time lying between the emergence from apedom and the dawn of the modern world. For the student of sociology the immense primitive first stage of man's history is by far the more important. In his _Voyage of the Beagle_, Darwin draws a picture of the Fuegians which gives us a real insight into the ancient state of social organization. Spencer and Gillan supply us with complementary pictures representing the conditions of life among native tribes of Central Australia. These primitive peoples live on the natural produce of the territory which they inhabit and claim as their own. Their social organization represents for us the conditions in which the modern races of mankind were evolved. It is in such primitive societies that there must have existed the machinery which differentiated mankind into races and racial breeds. It is in the long first phase that we must search for the origin of the social impulses and tendencies which have come down to modern man by inheritance.[1] When we survey a country still in the most primitive stage of human society, the first observation to impress us is the fact that its inhabitants are separated into definitely isolated groups. Such groups are usually small, consisting of men, women, and children belonging to several closely related families and numbering two or three hundred souls. Each group, forming an elemental community, occupies, and considers itself the owner of, a definite tract of country; there is developed in them a feeling--an attachment--which serves to bind them to the soil on which they live. When we look at the nature of the bonds which serve to bind the members of a primitive community together, we see that they are formed out of subconscious impulses or instincts. These instincts form an essential part of the machinery of organization. There is usually no head man or chieftain to determine the action of the community; there is no deliberative assembly to lay down rules of conduct. In Galton's phrase the members of a primitive community form 'a sentient web', dominated by traditional beliefs and customs. I have no wish to analyse the subconscious states and instinctive reactions which rule and bind together the members of a primitive community; what I want to make clear is that the tribal instincts have above all an isolating effect. These instincts serve not only as a machinery for binding the members of a community together, but also as a means of separating them from all surrounding groups. Within the community this machinery compels unity of sentiment and of action; it serves to repress schism and faction. But the tribal machinery is operative only up to the territorial boundaries of the community. At that limit the tribal instincts immediately change in their mode of action. The tribal instincts surround the community with a frontier, across which there is no peaceful traffic, only robbery and plunder; or at the best covert enmity. The tribal frontier is also a blood barrier; across it the tribal instinct forbids any form of peaceful matrimonial exchange or tribal intermixture. Nothing impressed Darwin so much as the ring of neutral territory which surrounded the primitive Fuegian settlements. TRIBAL ISOLATION PROVIDES THE CONDITIONS NECESSARY FOR RACE-BREEDING The tribal or clannish spirit tends to manifest itself in many forms, but in all its varieties there is a common factor--that of isolation. At first sight we are tempted to regard the tribal spirit as part of a machinery evolved for the protection and survival of a primitive community, but to any one who has searched for conditions which will explain the origin of separate races of mankind, the conviction grows that the tribal spirit is an essential part of Nature's evolutionary machinery. It was in these isolated cradles of primitive mankind that Nature nursed and reared new races. When a breeder wishes to produce a new type of animal, or to preserve a 'sport', his first step is to isolate the group of animals with which he is to experiment. The isolated stock becomes the cradle in which he hopes to rear his new breed. The experimental breeder, in such instances, copies the conditions which rule in primitive human communities. Under modern civilization Nature's cradles have been smashed to atoms, but the tribal instincts which Nature intended for the propagation of new breeds of humanity have come down to modern man in undiminished force. Hence our present national and racial troubles. THE CONDITIONS OF TRIBAL DISINTEGRATION The tribal spirit, which maintains the unity of an elementary community, is efficient just so long as personal contact between its members is possible. If a tribal community becomes overgrown, so that mutual contact between its members is rendered impossible, then a manifestation of a different nature appears--that of disruption or swarming. The disintegrating tendency is just as much a part of Nature's evolutionary contrivance as is the isolating and unifying effect of the tribal spirit. For breeding purposes the group must be kept within certain bounds. Modern man has overcome the tendency to disruption on the part of massed communities by the invention of means of rapid intercommunication. The daily press, the hourly post, and a network of electric wires can bind a hundred millions of modern people into a sentient tribal web. THE ORIGIN OF RACE FEELING Small isolated communities are the cradles in which new tribal breeds of mankind are reared. But how do new races arise? If isolation were to be continued throughout long intervals of time we may justly infer that the physical and mental characters of a breed would become more and more emphasized until a stage of differentiation is reached which we must regard as racial. A racial spirit is merely the tribal spirit matured and consolidated. The manifestations which begin as tribal, end, in the course of time, by becoming racial. We cannot account for the differentiation of mankind into distinct races, nor the existence of many intermediate forms which link one human race to another, unless we postulate the existence in mankind of a deeply rooted tribal mechanism. TRANSFORMATION OF A TRIBAL INTO A NATIONAL SPIRIT Having thus glanced at the nature of the instinctive machinery which has controlled human communities throughout the greater part of man's history we now return to ask ourselves: What have become of the tribal instincts which were so deeply grafted in the nature of our ancestors? Our tribal forefathers are not so far removed from us. We can still trace the distribution of the Highland clans in Scotland; the tribal spirit is still strong in the Scottish glens. The organization of Ireland was on a tribal basis even when the Anglo-Normans settled there; in subsequent centuries, even until the times of the British settlements, the tribal spirit was still rampant in Ireland; even now it is very much alive. Two thousand years ago Great Britain was in a tribal state from end to end. Practically every one of us is the descendant of ancestors who, forty generations back, were exercising their tribal instincts to the full. The Roman occupation did much to break down the tribal organization of Britain; the Saxon colonization did still more. The forces, however, which forged the tribal links into a national chain were commerce, communication, and the building of massed populations. Tribes were united to form nations, but there is no greater mistake than to suppose that the subconscious tribal impulses or instincts were wholly converted into a sense of common nationality. TRIBAL INSTINCTS NOW MANIFESTED IN EVERYDAY LIFE We have only to watch our commoner actions and predilections to see that in our modern States the spirit of nationality has only absorbed a fraction of our tribal instincts. Every one of you regards your own college and all the men belonging to it with pride; other colleges and other men you view with a critical eye. You cheer your own crews and teams; you want to see them beat all their rivals; you take sides. In all of these actions and prejudices you manifest the elementary basis of a tribal spirit. Every week we see hundreds of thousands attend football or other competitive games, not so much to see an exhibition of skill as to see their own side win. The spectators, as they cheer, are moved by a tribal spirit. If we do not belong to a cricketing county we may go so far as to adopt one as a foster-parent in order that we may exercise our tribal instincts in being elated by its success or cast down by its failure. Local national politics give us many opportunities of exercising our tribal instincts. In politics we have to take sides; a political party is a tribal organization, using ancient means for compelling a unity of sentiment amongst its members. The church, too, provides modern tribesmen with occasions for exercising their inherited impulses; a heresy hunt finds its counterpart in the most ancient of tribal communities. Women even more than men are slaves of their tribal instincts; they are as susceptible to the dictates of fashion as their ancient sisters were impressionable to the movings of the tribal spirit. The local spirit which is so inherent a trait of the countryman, particularly in the case of the Scotsman, Irishman, and Welshman, is another, and often a very powerful, manifestation of the tribal spirit. Men from the same locality or district, when they go to live in foreign communities, are drawn together by a clannish sentiment--a manifestation of their inherited tribal instincts. Turn in what direction you will, you will find amongst modern peoples innumerable tribal manifestations which find no room for display in the more intellectual exhibitions of a national spirit. In present-day politics we see the tribal spirit striving to work out certain novel effects. Although in ancient times a tribal frontier usually corresponded to a territorial frontier, such was not always the case. The tribal spirit is strong enough to hold a people together even when there is no territorial boundary. In modern massed populations, as in the organization of both ancient and modern India, the tribal spirit works so as to produce frontiers between classes of citizens; trades unions are in essence artificial tribal organizations. Except for the existence of tribal instincts within the inherited mental organization of the manual workers, such unions were impossible. Many writers believe that class or sectional tribal organizations can actually be made to cut across national and even racial frontiers. We have seen, however, that at the declaration of war, all such sectional bonds snap, for war is the match which fires the tribal spirit, exalts it to a national flame, and destroys intertribal schisms. All the petty manifestations of the tribal spirit are changed by war; the impulses which moved men and women in peace time to games and sports, to party politics, to heresy hunting--even to displays of fashion--are turned to patriotic desires and deeds. A KNOWLEDGE OF TRIBAL AND RACIAL SPIRIT IS ESSENTIAL FOR STATESMEN Several modern statesmen have grasped the important part played by the tribal spirit in unifying the action of modern nations. I shall cite only three examples to illustrate this form of political insight--Bismarck, Lincoln, and Lloyd George. Bismarck employed war to rouse and unify the German peoples; three campaigns were sufficient to raise an unbounded feeling of tribal confidence and superiority. He gave the German Empire a sharply demarcated tribal frontier; he purposely surrounded his country with a ring of animosity, true to his tribal instincts. Abraham Lincoln's tribal problem was of another kind. The conditions which led up to the Civil War concerned the freeing of slaves; but Lincoln made the war, when it became inevitable, an intratribal quarrel. He realized that the danger to the United States was disintegration, one which must continually threaten all nationalities compounded out of great massed populations. Lincoln therefore made the main issue of the war the right of a single state or a confederation of states to secede from the main tribe or union. The Civil War determined the issue in favour of the North: the natural process of tribal disruption was declared illegal. Lloyd George's task was of a different nature. He touched and wakened Britain's sleeping tribal instincts with the insight of genius. War gave him his opportunity, but had he not known that tribal instincts lie deeply buried in man's emotional nature and are intertwined with his most primitive feeling he could not have known how to touch the ancient strings. Intellectual appeals had failed to stir the primitive and basal tribal impulses of the people. THE PROBLEM OF IRELAND There was one part of the country, however, where Lloyd George's appeal did not succeed in evoking British patriotism; it left the greater part of the people of Ireland not only apathetic but even more actively hostile than before. Yet their country formed an intrinsic part of these islands; their economic interests had much more to gain by the success of Britain than of Germany. History throws light on only part of this thorny problem; the real difficulty thus encountered dates back to prehistoric days--to the origin of the inherent, inherited, and deeply-rooted tribal instincts of the Irish people. The Irish spirit leapt up, as it had often done before, into a naming tribal antagonism directed against everything British. What then is a British statesman to do? We too have our tribal instincts, and their first impulse on being awakened is--as it was in ancient days--to meet force with force, even to extermination. That is the ancient tribal practice; but in these days we have entered another era in the world's history when intelligent effort must master and direct our inherited instincts. Statesmen know that forcible means, when applied to extinguish a national flame, only serve to feed it. Statecraft has never discovered, and I think it never will discover, a method of forcing or grafting a new national or tribal spirit on an old people. We have seen that a nation can colonize only when the force which drives its members to migrate arises spontaneously within the communities; a colonization initiated and conducted by a government always fails to hold. Nationalization is a similar process; the forces which control and guide it must arise within the hearts of the people; it cannot be imposed on them from above. All that a statesman can do is to provide conditions in which a favourable spirit is most likely to develop and mature. He must sow judiciously for years and wait patiently for his harvest--even if it be for generations. Ireland's friendship is a prize which is worth working for and waiting for, even if it costs Britain a weary century of patient courtship. FOOTNOTE: [1] I have dealt more fully with primitive tribal organization in 'Certain Factors concerned in the Evolution of Human Races', _Journ. Royal Anthropological Institute_, 1916, vol. 46, p. 10. 
48674	----	A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE The Expectations of an Optimist By T. BARON RUSSELL Author of "A Guardian of the Poor," "The Mandate," etc. LONDON T. Fisher Unwin Paternoster Square 1905 There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased; The which observed, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of the main chance of things As yet not come to life; which in their seeds And weak beginnings lie intreasured. Shakespeare, 2 Henry IV., III. i. They pass through whirl-pools, and deep woes do shun, Who the event weigh, 'ere the action's done. Webster, Duchess of Malfi, II. 4. PREFACE The following was at first intended to be no more than an attempt to foresee the probable trend of mechanical invention and scientific discovery during the present century. But as the work took shape it was seen to involve a certain amount of what may be called moral conjecture, since the material progress of the new age could not very well be imagined without taking into account its mental characteristics. In these expectations of an optimist, a great ethical improvement of the civilised human race has been anticipated, and a rate of progress foreseen which perhaps no previous writers have looked for. Both in regard to moral development and material progress, it has been the aim of the author to predict nothing that the tendencies of existing movement do not justify us in expecting. An attempt of this kind is exposed to facile criticism. It will be easy for objectors to signalise this or that expected invention as beyond scientific possibility, that or the other moral reform as fit only for Utopia. But those who will consent to perpend the enormous and utterly unforeseen advance of the nineteenth century will recognise the danger of limiting their anticipations concerning the possibilities of the twenty-first. A fanciful description in (I think) Addison's Spectator of an invention by which the movements of an indicator on a lettered dial were imagined to be reproduced on a similar dial at a distance, and employed as a means of communication, must have seemed wholly chimerical to its readers; and even as recently as fifty years ago, anyone who predicted the telephone would have been laughed at. When the principle of the accumulator was already discovered a very competent practical electrician told the writer that he need not worry himself much about the idea: there was not the least likelihood that electricity could ever be "bottled up in cisterns"! On the whole there is more likelihood of error in timidity than in boldness when we attempt to foresee what will be attained after the increasingly rapid movement of scientific progress during this twentieth century shall have gathered full force. For the rest, criticism of this sort is disarmed, because the reader has been in any case invited to enter a realm of more or less pure imagination. No one can exactly know with what births, monstrous or beautiful, the future may teem. Admitting a certain point of view--that of almost unrestrained optimism--the predictions here offered will, it is believed, be found to be along the line of existing progress. Beaufort House, Brentford. CONTENTS CHAP. PAGE I. The Rate of Progress 1 II. Housing, Travel and Population. Questions 13 III. The Man of Business 38 IV. The Cult of Pleasure 54 V. The Newspaper of the Future and the Future of the Newspaper 68 VI. Utilising the Sea 95 VII. The March of Science 106 VIII. Education a Hundred Years Hence 134 IX. Religion: the Fine Arts, Literature 175 X. The Age of Economies 205 XI. The Law a Hundred Years Hence 233 XII. Conclusions 286 INDEX 309 A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE CHAPTER I THE RATE OF PROGRESS To anyone who has considered at all attentively the enormous material advances of the nineteenth century, a much more remarkable thing than any invention or improvement which that century brought forth must be the speed of human progression during the hundred years between 1800 and 1900, and the extraordinary acceleration of that speed which began to establish itself about the year 1880. But indeed, during the whole century, our forward movement was steadily gaining impetus. The difference between the state of the world in 1700 and its state in 1800 is insignificant compared with the differences established between the latter date and the opening of the twentieth century. But it is hardly less insignificant than the progress of the decade 1800-1810 compared with that of the decade 1890-1900. We are, in fact, picking up speed at an enormous rate. The beginning of the twenty-first century will exhibit differences, when compared with our own day, which even the boldest imagination can hardly need to be restrained in conjecturing. The latter part of the nineteenth century was the age of electricity, just as the middle part was the age of steam. The first part of the twentieth century is evidently going to be the age of wave manipulation, of which wireless telegraphy, as we know it, is but the first infantile stirring. What the developments promised (and they are already quite easily presageable) by wireless telegraphy will give us, and what they will be superseded by, can only be very dimly imagined; what their effects will be upon the human race in itself no one has yet ventured even to hint at. Few things are more remarkable in the numerous and highly-varied experiments of vaticinatory fiction and more serious efforts of prognostication than the utter absence of any adequate attempt to forecast the future of the race itself. Social and political changes, the enormous differences which are certain to be effected in the manner of human life, have been from time to time more or less boldly imagined, and a couple of volumes of very able forecasts of the future have recently been published by a writer of singular vision and highly-trained scientific imagination. But it does not hitherto appear to have been at all fully perceived that the moral constitution of man himself is quite certain to be profoundly modified, not alone by the influence of a material environment which will have been changed as the environment of man has never been changed since the first inhabitation of this planet, but also by the steady development of inward changes which have already begun to manifest themselves. Since the year 1800 ideas which, so far as we have any means of knowing, had been regarded as irrefragable ever since man first began to think and to set his thoughts upon record, have been utterly shattered. One has only to compare the opinions of even average thinkers of our own day on such subjects as marriage, the status of woman, and the education of children, with the opinions, practically current without material change since the dawn of history, in 1800, to perceive the truth of this statement; and the change of attitude on the part of civilised people, outside the Roman Catholic Church (and, to some extent, even within it), towards religion is not less remarkable. An enlightened man of the present day is so radically different in all his ideas from a similar individual of the early nineteenth century, that it is hardly possible for a modern student to write with any intelligence on the deeper significance of events and life prior to 1800. Grotesquely inadequate as most historical novels of our own day are, they are perhaps hardly less inadequate than our own understanding of the novels of Sir Walter Scott. Scott could probably write of crusaders and the age of chivalry without committing serious blunders of sentiment. What the world thought in the age of Saladin the world practically thought in the age of Napoleon. But the irresistible infection of modern ideas has made it hardly possible for us to enter with any fulness into the sentiments of Scott; and the sentiments put into the mouth, and the thoughts into the mind, of the hero of any historical novel of our own day would be utterly incomprehensible to that hero, could he by some miracle be resuscitated, and could we translate them literally to him. We unconsciously endow the personages of our historical fiction with ideas for which they had not even the names. And the development of the human mind proceeds apace. It will be even more difficult for the ordinary cultured man of a hundred years hence to form any full conception of our ideas than it is for us to appraise the mental attitude of the men of the eighteenth century. To take a single example: the humanest warrior of the Napoleonic wars appears a monster of cruelty if compared with the sternest of modern generals. Napoleon devastated provinces without a word of censure from competent critics of the art of war. A howl of execration went up, not from continental Europe alone, at the measures--seriously embarrassing to our military operations, and enormously helpful to our enemy--which the British generals took in order to diminish the sufferings of the non-combatant population of the Transvaal; camps of refuge, it appears, did not sufficiently excel in comfort the hospitals of our own wounded! And there is a section of the Press in this country which still occasionally remembers, to complain of it, the fact that our generals found it necessary, for military reasons, to burn farm-houses. I should not like to attempt the conjecture, what Wellington would have said in answer to such a complaint, or what he would have done to a self-appointed emissary who visited his camps for the purpose of criticising his action! It would have been no more impossible for him to foresee the day of such things, however, than it is for us to predict the moral sense of the year 2000. The fact is that we have greatly deteriorated in war, although, or rather because, we have even more greatly improved in morals and feeling. William Morris conceived of man in the coming time as a sort of recreated mediæval. Mr Wells conceives him as practically a nineteenth-century man, with his ideas merely adjusted to new material conditions. Bellamy described him in terms of a being inconceivable by any sort of reason. No one appears to have seen that his moral nature will have been not merely revolutionised, but recreated, just as our own morality has been recreated during the last hundred years, not so much by the influence of material environment or the march of invention, as by the regeneration of human conscience. In no way will the acceleration of the speed of progress be more apparent than in the thoughts and emotions of men. But to say this is not to belittle the progress which science and invention have in store for the new age. In applying a sort of imaginative telescope to the mental eye it will be necessary to keep constantly in view the utter inconceivableness of modern achievement by the civilised world of the past. When electricity was no more than a sort of scientific plaything--when notions of its possible uses were (as in Davy's time) far less substantially imagined than, for instance, the possible uses of radium are to-day, even scientific thinkers, endowed with what Huxley so luminously applauded as scientific imagination, had no rudiment of the materials for conceiving such inventions as the electric telegraph--far less the possibilities of transmitted and picked-up wave energy. And here, at the beginning of wireless telegraphy, we are no less in the dark as to what will develop from it and what will supersede it. The nineteenth century progressed, almost from first to last, on the strength of the discovery of how to utilise the stored energy of coal, whether directly in the steam engine or indirectly in the dynamo-electric machine and the electric motor. With the end of the coal age already well in view, we can only conjecture what the sources of mechanical power will be a hundred years hence. Before we have quite exhausted our coal measures and begun to draw more liberally on our stores of petroleum, we shall no doubt have abandoned altogether so wasteful a contrivance as the steam engine. There is a clumsiness almost barbarous in the roundabout employment of coal to produce heat, the steam engine to utilise only a miserable fraction of the potential energy even of the part of the coal which we do not fatuously allow to escape as smoke; of the dynamo to use up a part of the motion yielded by the steam engine in producing electricity (while a small but recognisable portion of that motion is converted wastefully back again into heat), and of the electro-motor to re-convert the electricity into motion, heat, light and chemical energy, according to our requirements. It cannot be many years before we learn to use coal far more economically than we do nowadays, abolishing the furnace and the steam engine, and obtaining electricity directly from coal itself by some sort of electro-chemical decomposition. But even so, our coal will not last much longer. The speed of our progress will exhaust it much sooner than most people imagine, and probably in another twenty-five years the end of our petroleum will also begin to be looked forward to with apprehension. About this period, or perhaps immediately after, progress will have been accelerated to an enormous degree by the invention of some new method of decomposing water. The economical analysis of water into its two component gases, whose chemical affinity and antipodal electrical attractions are already utilised to some extent in such appliances as the oxy-hydrogen blowpipe and electrical storage batteries, is a secret capable of extraordinary beneficences to the new age. By burning hydrogen in oxygen we can already produce the greatest heat practically needed in the arts; the electric furnace only superseding this process because it happens to be more manageable. But when we want oxygen and hydrogen, we do not, in practice, now obtain them from water: we only combine them as water in the act of utilisation. The rational line of progress is obviously to seek means of directly decomposing water. When we can do this compendiously and economically we shall have an inexhaustible supply of energy--for water thus used is not destroyed as water, as coal is destroyed, quâ coal, when we utilise its stored energy. The very act of utilising the gases recombines them: and we can use them thus for the production of almost every kind of energy that man at present needs. We can use them for heat by burning them together. We can use them for light by burning them in the presence of any substance capable of being made incandescent. We shall be able to use them to generate electricity by some sort of contrivance akin to the accumulator of the present day (a highly rudimentary invention); and it would be even now a very simple matter to utilise their explosive recombination for the direct production of power as motion. Utilised apart, the constituent gases of water have many other uses and possible uses. Hydrogen, under suitable treatment, yields the greatest obtainable cold, as oxygen and hydrogen together yield the greatest heat. If our flying-machines need a sort of ballast to reinforce their mechanical lifting apparatus, hydrogen is the best possible assistant. And the probable uses of oxygen are yet more numerous. So long as we still burn anything at all except a mixture of oxygen and hydrogen--and ultimately we shall have nothing else left to burn--oxygen is capable of multiplying the efficiency of all combustion. One of the greatest problems of our own day is the disposal of waste products of all sorts--the sources of inconvenience, disease and dirt. Oxygen, if readily and copiously obtainable, is capable of destroying them all. Indeed, it seems likely that medicine, the least progressive of the sciences to-day, will find in oxygen the great propulsive force of its forward movement. In considerably less than a hundred years hence such makeshifts as drugging, and the fighting of one disease by the instalment in the organism of another, will certainly have gone by the board. Antisepsis and Asepsis (the latter almost infinitely the greatest invention in the history of therapeutics) will have pushed their way from surgery into medicine. There are numerous diseases which can be not merely cured, but ultimately abolished when we have once discovered how to use oxygen adequately. The readjustment of the conditions of life determined by the removal from the civilised world of the greater number of diseases, and perhaps of all diseases except those arising out of wilful misconduct (as improper diet) and even by the elimination of most of the evils of hurry and overwork (for what are medically and chemically known as fatigue products can almost certainly be eliminated from the system by the proper use, yet to be discovered, of oxygen) must inevitably have an enormous influence not merely upon the physical life of man, but also, and even more, upon his mental constitution. The rate of progress will thus in yet another way be vastly accelerated. Most likely the universal source of power, then, before the middle of the century, will be the recomposition of water--in other words, we shall get all the power we want by splitting up water into oxygen and hydrogen, and then allowing those gases to recombine, thereby returning to us the energy we have employed in the analysis. How we shall employ this power is largely for the future to decide, and certainly in the earlier future we shall employ it in the generation of etheric waves of various kinds. The world of science is visibly on the threshold of new and revolutionary discoveries on the nature and composition of matter, and whither these discoveries will lead us it is not usefully possible to conjecture. But certainly, after the usual incubation period of a scientific discovery--when it is merely a sort of wonderful toy, as argon and radium are at present--there will come the practical men, suckled at the large and noble breasts of disinterested, unremunerative truth, and ready to turn that nutriment into world-moving material usefulness: so, again, the rate of progress will receive a vast and valuable acceleration. Electricity, whose gift to the world has been so great, will probably not, until after several decades, approach the limits of its realm, and so long as electricity remains a considerable element in the utilisation of those stores of dissipating energy by which the planet lives, it is possible to foresee something of what will become of man during the next age. We have here the limits of such an inquiry as the present. Placing the end of the age of electricity at provisionally about a hundred years hence (but it is quite conceivable that the rate of progress may overtake it earlier and shut the door on conjecture) it is possible to forecast, not indeed with certainty, but with a measure of imaginative probability, what will happen as the resources of electricity are developed and the other material amenities of the world are worked along the line of natural progress. So far as the light of analogy can point the way the reader is invited on a sort of conjectural journey. Of the developments of the moral ideas of man likely to be determined, not so much by the coming change in his material environment, as by the evolution of inner forces already at work, I propose to say something at the end of the book. In the meantime, the probable material changes in the next hundred years (or less, according to the rate of our progress) in various departments of life will be the subject of some intermediate conjectures. CHAPTER II HOUSING, TRAVEL AND POPULATION QUESTIONS When every allowance has been made for the material changes which the progress of this century threatens, it is easy to see that certain present-day problems will continue to trouble our successors. Some things which perplex ourselves will, I think, work out their own remedy. Others will remain the subject of solutions not difficult to be imagined in advance. One chief difficulty which will infallibly confront the immediate future, and even the future that is more remote, arises out of the simple fact that the race of man tends to increase numerically at a speed greater than our devices for its accommodation can quite conveniently cope with. The population of the world not only increases, but increases at compound interest. Nor is this all. Improved sanitation, better habits of life, and the progress of medicine, prolong lives that in the conditions of last century would have been shortened, and the rate of increase is thus further accelerated, as individuals who in different conditions would have died, live on, perhaps reproducing their species, and thus intensifying the population problem. Against these influences may be set the effect of the restrictions imposed by some civilised peoples on the birth rate, which Mr Roosevelt calls "race suicide." These practices, just now increasingly prevalent, retard the rate of increase, but do not at present stop our increase: they alleviate, but do not cure the difficulty of over-population. Artificial physiological checks on population, if I am right in certain other conjectures to be presently developed, will not form part of the permanent morality of the new age, partly because, with more enlightenment, they will be voluntarily abandoned or superseded, and partly because the necessity for them will have disappeared, having worked out its own cure. But with all this it would be folly to anticipate that the population of the civilised world will not have greatly increased before the end of the period contemplated by the present inquiry: and this brings us face to face with two very important questions--those of housing and transport. Where shall we live, and how shall we move from place to place--above all, how shall we proceed from home to the scene of work and thence home again every day, in the future? Shall we indeed thus move back and forth at all? The answer to the last question bifurcates somewhat. In the earlier future of (say) twenty or thirty years hence, probably the greatest tendencies will be towards concentration on the one hand and exceedingly rapid transport on the other. What the ultimate practice will be, it should not be difficult to guess when we see how these tendencies are likely to work themselves out. During the last twenty-five or thirty years of the nineteenth century the tendency of workers in great cities was more and more towards suburban life, men travelling to and from the cities in increasing numbers, to increasing distances, and at increasing speeds. Even mechanics, even labourers and the other humbler wage-earners (to say nothing of clerks not earning much more, but spending their money in a different manner) nowadays travel considerable distances to their work. But in spite of what is complacently regarded (by railway and tramway directors) as rapid conveyance, there is lately manifest an increasing impatience against the time subtracted from men's leisure by the two daily journeys, an impatience very naturally increased in the case of manual workers of both sexes by the utter inadequacy of the legislative control imposed upon railway and tramway companies. Crowded trams and trains, with desperate men and weak women fighting a daily battle for conveyance before all the cheap trips have been made, inflict a shameful degradation upon the class for which Parliament makes illusory provision in railway and tramway Acts. As a consequence of this difficulty, and also because of the early hour at which the companies are allowed to cease carrying working-folk at the workmen's fare, many men and women are compelled to waste some hours of their scanty leisure every day between the arrival of their trains and the opening of their workshops, a cruelty for which the blame may be pretty equally apportioned to Parliament and the company directors. The result of it is that many of the poor prefer the evil of overcrowding in cities before the greater evil of wasted time and degrading travel. As time goes on, no doubt the monopolists of transportation will be compelled, as their own necessities increase and so bring them under the hand of the legislature, to serve more adequately the necessities of the majority. But even so, and as long as the effective speed of conveyance is limited by the lack of permanent-way space and the necessity for frequent stations, the impatience even now manifested, and manifested chiefly by the class which suffers least from loss of time in travel, will lead to concentration. Taking London as an example, it may be said that the Victorian age was the age of the suburbs. But few people now live in the suburbs of London who can afford to live anywhere else. Either they move right out into the country, seeking a spot on some main line where the greater distance and less-frequent train service is made up for by speedy and uninterrupted journeys; or they come into London and occupy houses or flats within easy reach of their working head-quarters. The suburbs are given over to those who cannot afford either of these expedients, or who, having been brought up there, are retained by a sort of inertia. Ultimately, as the demand for town space becomes intensified, two things will happen. First of all, the restrictions which many cities, ignoring the freedom of New York and Chicago, impose upon the erection of excessively high buildings, will go by the board. The shutting out of sunlight and fresh air will be the subject of compensations to be presently explained, and thirty, forty, fifty or a hundred-storey houses, and houses which perhaps burrow to some distance underground, will, by virtue of the same compensations, house a vast, concentrated population impatient of daily travel. As the demand for homes increases, and even the high buildings cannot cope with it, the cities will push their way outwards, repopulating the rebuilt suburbs. This kind of thing will have a tendency to correct itself. Rents will be high in proportion to position near the centre. But a limit of toleration will be reached, and as certain improvements will have been effected in transport, there will ultimately be a reaction, and people will again go right out to the country, as long as there is any country left. Before discussing these improvements, however, it will be convenient to examine the conveniences, social and sanitary, of the homes of the new age. The greatest convenience of all, no doubt, will be the modification and partial elimination of the domestic servant. There is every reason to believe that the great difficulties of the servant question as at present experienced will solve themselves, forming in part an instance of the moral changes, accompanying material invention but only partly resulting from it, which the new age is certain to experience. It is usual to lay the blame of the unsatisfactory character and atrocious inefficiency of the domestic servants of our own day on the institution of free education. They are much more due to the absence of any education worthy of the name, and to the imperfect civilisation of modern houses. Thirty-five years or so are but an instant in the life of an institution so overwhelmingly more important in its possibilities than any other subject of legislation as State-compelled education of the people. No one appears to have recognised that character-making, which Herbert Spencer called the most important object which can engage the attention of the legislator, is the only true object of education, free or otherwise. When politicians have talked of the necessity of national education, the argument they have used was that Germans are better chemists than we are. When they praised the usefulness of modern languages it was in terms of commercial utility. "Modern languages, in fact" (a recent critic remarked), "make a good bagman." It is inept to despair of free education because free education has produced no very satisfactory results while conceived of as a process of shoving undesired knowledge into the children of the poor. Looking, as everyone not hidebound by pessimism must look, for a great enlightenment of the law-giving class when the system of party politics, already beginning to show signs of decay, has ceased to hold all legislation in its blighting hand, we have every reason to expect that the true uses of education will be perceived and attained long before the end of the period contemplated when we speak of the new age. And then, one very great factor in the servant question will have been satisfactorily solved, even if other conditions have not conducted us nearly all the way to the solution beforehand. For, while making every allowance for the evil effects of education, wrongly conceived and improperly administered, on the character of women destined to become servants, it must be allowed that much of what we call the servant difficulty could be cured now, and will unquestionably be cured before long, by inventions capable of abolishing the grievances which lead to it. These grievances are real and remediable. I do not refer to the confinement, restraint and gross lack of consideration on the part of employers which lead young women of the class from which servants are drawn to prefer labour in factories and elsewhere, in conditions far less comfortable, before domestic service; but to our utter lack of ingenuity in removing the irksomeness and degradation of much domestic labour. Some coming inventions calculated to improve the lot of Mary Jane will now be described. In the first place (as Mr H. G. Wells has pointed out, without apparently being aware that buildings already exist in which some of his ideas have been anticipated), modern rooms, equally with those of all time, seem to have been constructed so as to make it as difficult as possible to keep them clean. Square corners and rectangular junctions of wall and floor, wall and ceiling, will certainly before long be replaced everywhere by curves. But the work of house cleaning will be rendered easy and unlaborious by another invention, already indeed in existence on a large scale, but eventually capable of being rendered portable. I mean a contrivance for applying a vacuum to any desired spot. There is a very ingenious but rather noisy engine already in use for pumping the dust out of carpets, curtains and furniture. In the houses of the future handy contrivances of various shapes, all independent of any engine, will be found, furnished with elastic nozzles on the outside and with some sort of appliance capable of instantly exhausting the air within. Such a utensil wheeled over the floor will remove instantly every particle of dust from the surface and below the surface of the carpet, at the same time picking up any such débris as scraps of paper, pins, and other decidua of the previous day. A similar instrument, differently shaped, will clean the curtains, supposing curtains to be still in use at the time, and will dust the chairs and tables--though there will not be anything like so much dust as there is now, nearly all kinds of combustion being abolished. The kitchen fire will of course be an electric furnace: "o' my word we'll not carry coals." Lighting will all be electric, and no doubt wireless. The abolition of horse traffic in cities, and the use of the vacuum apparatus which will be continuously at work in all streets, keeping them dry and free from mud, will practically remove the necessity for boot brushing, even supposing that we shall still wear boots: every man and woman in dressing will pass a vacuum instrument over his and her clothes and get rid of even the little dust existing--for we shall be more and more intolerant of dirt in any form, having by that time fully realised how dangerous dirt is. The new age will be a clean age. A lady of the year 2000 who could be miraculously transported back to London at the present moment would probably faint (they will not have ceased fainting) at the intolerable disgustingness of what is, I suppose, now one of the cleanest cities in the world, even if the cruelty of employing horses for traction, and the frightful recklessness of allowing them to soil the streets in which people walk, did not overpower her susceptibilities in another way. Cooking will perhaps not be done at all on any large scale at home, in flat-homes at all events; and in any case, for reasons which will hereafter become apparent, cooking will be a much less disgusting process than it is to-day. In no case will the domestic servant of a hundred years hence be called upon to stand over a roaring fire, laid by herself, and to be cleaned up by herself when done with, in order to cook the family dinner. Every measure of heat--controllable in gradations of ten degrees or so--will be furnished in electrically-fitted receptacles, with or without water jackets or steam jackets: and unquestionably all cooking will be done in hermetically-closed vessels. We shall not much longer do most of our cooking by such a wasteful and unwholesome method as boiling, whereby the important soluble salts of nearly all food are callously thrown away. As, for reasons to be developed hereafter, it is quite certain that animal food will have been wholly abandoned before the end of this century, the débris of the kitchen will be much more manageable than at present, and the kitchen sink will cease to be, during a great part of the day, a place of unapproachable loathsomeness. On the other hand, its conveniences will have been greatly increased. It is difficult to understand how the old-world fashion of (for instance) "washing up" plates and dishes can have endured so long. Of course, in the new age, these utensils will be simply dropped one by one into an automatic receptacle; swilled clean by water delivered with force and charged with nascent oxygen; dried by electric heat; and polished by electric force; being finally oxygen-bathed as a superfluous act of sanitary cleanliness before being sent to table again. And all that has come off the plates will drop through the scullery floor into the destructor beneath to be oxygenated and made away with. Here we have most of the distasteful elements of domestic service got rid of. Naturally lifts of various kinds, driven by the same force (whatever it is) which lights and warms the house, will be everywhere in evidence. The plan of attaining the upper part of a small house by climbing, on every occasion, a sort of wooden hill, covered with carpet of questionable cleanliness, will of course have been abandoned: it is doubtful whether staircases will be built at all after the next two or three decades. And it is likely that the more refined sentiment of the new age will recoil before the spectacle of menial service at the table. Not because they will despise, but because they will respect, their domestic assistants, hostesses will dislike to have their guests waited upon in a servile manner during meals by plush-breeched flunkeys of the male, or neat-handed Phyllises of the female, sex. Well-arranged houses will have the kitchen on a level with the dining-room, and the dividing wall will be so contrived that a table, ready laid at each course, can be made to slide through it into the presence of the seated guests. An immense amount of running to and fro between kitchen and dining-room, and of lifting food and table-ware into and out of elevators, will thus be obviated, to the vast gastronomic improvement of the meal and the salvation of servants' time. Naturally the bedrooms of the new age will have many amenities lacking to our own. It is not too much to anticipate that we shall have learned enough of plumbing to be able to connect baths, wash-basins and other necessary fittings with the drains without poisoning ourselves, and the inconvenient modern "wash-stand" with its unreticent adjuncts will decently disappear. It cannot be very long--probably it will only be a few years--before some kind of reasonable control is exercised over the technical education of plumbers. [1] Thus the bedroom of the new age will be a much more convenient and satisfactory apartment than the one we slept in last night, and another irksome and unelevating part of the domestic work of our servants will be eliminated. But the sleeping-apartments, and indeed all apartments in city homes, will contain yet another very valuable and necessary article of furniture--the oxygenator. Nearly all the unhealthiness and the pinched, weary greyness of town-dwellers to-day could be cured by fresh air. Everyone is familiar with the improvement which can be effected in the health and appearance of a city family by even a short visit to the seaside or the country--an improvement which it happens to be fashionable just now to attribute, in the former case, to the presence of ozone in the sea air. The fact that holiday-makers are able to endure the smell of slowly-decaying seaweed with a dash of putrescent fish about it, which is called "sea-air," without injury, and even to pick up health in the presence of it, is more due to the absence of carbon dioxide and other deleterious gases of the towns than to anything else. The beneficent effects of country air are practically all due to the power possessed by green vegetation of superoxygenating the surrounding air. The atmosphere of cities, or at all events of city homes, will presently be freed from the products of combustion and respiration, and endowed with a slightly-increased proportion of oxygen, by artificial means. And especially in bedrooms, rendered to-day stuffy and unhealthy by the idiotic fear of night air which an effete tradition has handed down to us, will this reform be in evidence. Prudent people to-day insist on large bedroom windows--preferably of the French-door pattern--and keep them wide open all night. But this is attended by inconveniences in cold and wet weather; and while our grandchildren will still keep their windows open all night in all weathers, they will not be content with this alone. There will be a chemical apparatus hidden away in some corner, or built into the wall, which will absorb carbon dioxide and at the same time slowly give off a certain amount of oxygen--just enough to raise the oxygenation of the air to the standard of the best country places. And similar appliances will be at work in the streets of our cities, so that town air will be just as wholesome, just as tonic and invigorating, as country air. If the theory that the presence of ozone (that is, allotropic oxygen) in the sea air is beneficent stand the test of time, no doubt ozonators will form part of these appliances: but in any case, as the high buildings of the new age will keep out the sunlight, electric light, carrying all the ray-activity of sunlight, and just as capable of fostering life and vegetation, will serve the streets. Thus, so far as hygiene goes, town life will be on a par with country life: but many people will prefer the country, and means will have to be provided to render homes in the country compatible with work in the cities. This brings us to the question of transport. I do not think that people will, within the next hundred years at all events, travel to and from work in flying-machines. But no doubt the system of railway transport will be revolutionised. What makes suburban travel so slow is, not so much lack of speed on the part of the trains, as the necessity for frequent stoppage. You cannot satisfactorily run a train at sixty miles an hour and stop it every minute or so: otherwise sixty miles an hour would be quite fast enough, for some decades at least, to satisfy all requirements of suburban traffic, though it would be, and indeed is, ridiculously inadequate for long-distance travelling. The expense of increased permanent-way hampers railway management, and as there is no possibility of getting more land to increase the number of available tracks, some method will have to be devised for running one train over the top of another--perhaps to the height of several storeys, not necessarily provided with supporting rails: for we may very conceivably have discovered means by which vehicles can be propelled above the ground in some kind of guide-ways, doing away with the great loss of power caused by wheel friction; that is to say, the guides will direct, but not support, the carriages. The clumsy device of locomotive engines will have been dispensed with. Whatever power is employed to drive the trains of the next century will certainly be conveyed to them from central power-houses. But, as the reader has been already reminded, it is the stoppages which are so wasteful of time on a suburban railway: and they are also wasteful of force. Now in all respects the new age will be economical. One thing that will have to be perfected is the art of getting up speed. Look, as you go home to-night, at the way your train gathers speed on leaving a station. Observe what a long time it is before it can attain its full velocity. A large part of the total time you require in order to reach the suburbs is consumed in this manner. A hundred years hence trains will almost jump to full speed, somewhat as a motor-car jumps to-day. In collecting passengers at suburban stations, the train, a hundred years hence, will perhaps not stop at all. It will only slacken speed a little; but the platform will begin to move as the train approaches, and will run along beside it, at the same speed as the train itself, so that passengers can get in and out as if the train were standing still. When all are aboard, the doors will be closed all together by the guard, and the platform will reverse its motion, and return to its original position ready for the next train. With trains travelling at quite 200 miles an hour--and certainly nothing less will satisfy the remoter suburbanites of next century--frightful accidents would occur if precautions were not taken. The moment two trains are in the same section of line they will be automatically cut off from the source of power, and their brakes will at the same time bring them to a standstill. A passenger who put his head out of the window of a train travelling at this speed would be blinded and suffocated; so the windows will be glazed, the oxygenators and carbon-dioxide absorbers in each carriage keeping the air sweet, and other suitable appliances adjusting its temperature. There will be no such thing as level crossings; wherever the road crosses the line there will be bridges, provided with an endless moving track (like the automatic staircase at the Crystal Palace), to carry passengers and vehicles across. Of course horses will long since have vanished from the land, except as instruments of the pleasure of a few cranks who affect the manners of that effete period, the year 1900. And the omnipresence of high-speed vehicles will in itself have eliminated much danger of accident. It is not to be supposed that the unresting march of mechanical improvement will have failed to have its effect on the people. Man himself will have progressed. He will be cleverer in avoiding accidents. Cities will be provided with moving street-ways, always in action at two or more speeds; and we shall have learned to hop on and off the lowest speed from the stationary pavement, and from the lower speeds to the higher, without danger. When streets cross, one rolling roadway will rise in a curve over the other. There will be no vehicular traffic at all in cities of any size; all the transportation will be done by the roads' own motion. In smaller towns, and for getting from one town to another, automatic motor-cars will exist, coin-worked. A man who wishes to travel will step into a motor-car, drop into a slot-machine the coin which represents the hire of the car for the distance he wants to travel, and assume control. Here again the progress of man will come into play. Everyone will know how to drive a motor-car safely. If you doubt it, consider for a moment the position of a man of 1800 suddenly transported into a street of modern London. He would never be able to cross it; the rush of omnibuses, motors and bicycles would confuse and frighten him. Imagine the same man trying to use the underground railways of to-day, or to get up to town from a busy suburb in the morning. He would either be killed out of hand or left behind altogether from sheer inability to enter the train. We may safely suppose that the ocean ships of a hundred years hence will be driven by energy of some kind transmitted from the shores on either side. It is absolutely unquestionable that no marine engine in the least resembling what we know to-day can meet the requirements of the new age. The expense of driving a steamship increases in such a ratio to its size and speed that the economic limits of steam propulsion are foreseen. Probably the ships of A.D. 2000 will differ entirely in appearance from those we know. Just as road friction is the bugbear of the railway engineer, so water-resistance is the bugbear of the marine engineer. The ships of a hundred years hence will not lie in the water. They will tower above the surface, merely skimming it with their keels, and the only engines they will carry will be those which receive and utilise the energy transmitted to them from the power-houses ashore--perhaps worked by the force of the very tides of the conquered ocean itself. The housing problem is so intimately and visibly connected in our minds with the growth of population that the more vital entanglement of the latter with the food question is hardly perceptible except to economic experts. The ordinary newspaper reader is not in a position to trace the intimate significance of prices; indeed, he often regards it as rather a good thing that wheat should fetch a good price per quarter, forgetting that low prices for commodities mean increased purchasing power for money, and a better standard of life for the people. When such elementary implications as this are overlooked, it is hardly remarkable that the more obscure connection of population with prices is never thought of. Yet it is obvious that unless the sources of supply increase more rapidly than the consuming population, prices must rise--in other words, the purchasing power of money must diminish. Wages, to some extent, will no doubt rise also, but as competition seriously affects the markets for manufactured goods and machinery, and the increase of population not only tends to raise prices of commodities, but also restricts the rise of wages, relief will have to be found in economies of various sorts. The standard of comfort in working families must improve considerably; partly because the demand for improvement, taking the shape of industrial combination and trade-unionism developed to a high degree, will be more and more clamorous; partly because of public feeling. What is currently called the growth of sentimentalism in modern life is really the development of modern conscience. No doubt the abolition of judicial torture was at one time regarded as a mark of absurd sentimentality; and the opinion has already been expressed that a vast amelioration of public morality is in store for the new age. A great element in the conflict between comfort on the one hand and competition on the other will be economy of means. That is why the new age will, among other things, be an age of economy. In the matter of food, chiefly, a great saving can be effected. Nothing is more painfully ludicrous--I use the incongruous collocution advisedly--than the spectacle every winter of money being laboriously accumulated for the provision of free meals for the poor, and spent, to a great extent, so wastefully as on meat soups and white bread. The crass ignorance of the poor, who will not touch wholemeal bread, and indeed regard the offer of it as something in the nature of an insult; and who cannot be induced to believe that meat is one of the least satisfactory and most expensive forms of nourishment, is of course responsible in great part for this error. If we would get our nitrogen from pulses, nuts, and use vegetable fats derived from nuts, and bread made from entire wheat-kernels finely ground (instead of being only half ground as in most "brown breads") [2] our "free dinner" charities would be able to feed at least twice or three times as many people for every pound collected as they do at present. But the proposal would probably excite an outcry and we should hear that the poor were being treated as animals and that we fain would fill their bellies with the husks that the swine do eat. But all kinds of influences will tend to eliminate flesh from the dietary of the new age. "Growing sentimentalism," already in arms against the use of animals for highly necessary scientific investigations, will, as it develops, be revolted by the idea of killing for food; and the refinement of the future will come to regard the eating of dead bodies as very little better than cannibalism. Moreover, the constantly increasing demand of the new age upon bodily and nervous energies will call for nourishment suited to their supply. This, and the wastefulness of second-hand food, will banish all flesh from the bill of fare. Fish will be eaten longer than meat. But more than anything else, the need for economy will reform our dinner-tables, and eventually all food will have to be obtained directly from the soil, if we are to have food enough to nourish our overgrown population at all. We shall not be able to afford to waste the ground on pasturage. We must use it to produce cereals, nuts and fruits, which are not only a much more remunerative crop, but will also use up in their assimilation far less nervous and peptic energy--energy which we shall need to make the most of. The cereal foods--products of wheat, barley, maize, and perhaps still (to a certain extent) oats--which will form the staple of our diet, will be partially cooked at the granaries by dry heat; they will need very little treatment at home. Vegetables, cooked, not in the wasteful manner now in vogue, but by conservative methods which will preserve their valuable saline constituents, will have to be prepared in our own kitchens; but pulse in various forms (as pease, lentil flour, etc.) will be supplied to us almost wholly cooked. A cheap, nourishing and delicious dietary will thus be made available. Finally, the reader will not be unprepared for the opinion that alcohol, as a beverage, must inevitably disappear. Not only because the price of intoxicants is an unproductive expenditure (and we shall have to be more and more thrifty as time goes on) but because the nerves of the new age would never stand them, must all alcoholic beverages be regarded as destined to obsolescence: and the legislative aspect of this question must presently be touched upon. Already a considerable part of the people, in no way influenced by the illogical idea that the abuse of a commodity by one class calls for the abstention from it of another, refrains from alcohol simply because its use inflicts too great a strain on the system. A good many people even now find it necessary to abstain from tea or from coffee for precisely similar reasons; while the highly-organised nervous systems of others find in the latter a stimulant capable of all the advantages of alcohol (and they are many) and not without some of its penalties. I think it quite likely that when alcohol is gone, the nerves of the future may find it necessary to place the sale of tea and of coffee under restrictions similar to those at present inflicted upon the trade in alcohol: and it is quite certain that morphia, cocaine, chloral, perhaps ether, and similar products, will have to be very jealously safeguarded within the next few years. Differing from many writers, I do not regard this development of the nervous system as a mark of degeneration. On the contrary, it is a part of the great and rapid adaptation which is bound to take place in the constitution of man himself [3] to the rapidly-changing conditions of his environment, his life, and the duties he will have to fulfil. To overlook the certainty of such adaptations is to be blind to all history, and especially to all recent history. The men and women of the new age will differ from ourselves in much the same sort of way as we differ from our great-grandfathers. They will differ more only because the progress of the century which we have lately begun will be so much more rapid and various than those of the century before--itself the period of enormously the greatest changes since the world began to be civilised. CHAPTER III THE MAN OF BUSINESS Whatever changes may take place in the organisation of society during the present century, we may regard it as certain that the folk who "Rise up to buy and sell again" will be always with us. The man of business will possess many conveniences denied to the city man of to-day. It is, for instance, to be supposed that the inordinate defects of even the best telephone systems will be eliminated. When wireless communication of ideas has been perfected, of course the telephone exchange will disappear. Differential "tuning"--the process by which any wireless telephone will be able to be brought, as transmitter, into correspondence with any other wireless telephone, as receiver--will enable every merchant to "call up" every other merchant. Instead of, as at present, looking up his associate's number in the directory, and getting connected by the clumsy junction of wires at an exchange office, the merchant will look up the tuning-formula, adjust his own telephone to it, and ring a bell, or otherwise employ means for attracting the attention of the man he wants to speak to. As a great proportion of all the business transacted will be done by telephones the frequent occurrence of disputes as to what has or has not been said in a given conversation will have rendered safeguards necessary. Consequently, every telephone will be attached to an instrument, developed from the phonograph, which will record whatever is said at both ends of the line. Precautions will have to be devised against eavesdropping. After communication is established, probably both parties to a conversation will retune their instruments to a fresh pitch, which, in cases requiring special secrecy, could be privately agreed upon beforehand. The form which the records above suggested will ultimately assume must be a matter of conjecture. It is quite possible that the written word may in all departments of life lose some of its present vital importance. We may imagine, if we choose, that instead of creating records which can be read, we may find it advisable to create records that can be listened to: and some of the apparent inconveniences of this substitution may easily be supposed to be dispensed with. The handiness of a written memorandum is largely a matter of habit. A practised eye can "skim" a long document, and either through the use of black-type headlines, or by pure skill, alight upon exactly the passage required; and if it were necessary, in order to find a given passage, to listen to the whole document being read over by the recording phonograph, no doubt much time would be lost. We shall not be so extremely intolerant of loss of time, perhaps, in the new age, as some people imagine: but in any case, if the speed of the phonograph be imagined as adjustable, it will be perceived that we could then make it gabble parrotwise over the inessential, and let it linger with more deliberation over what we wanted to assure ourselves of. We could even "skip" useless portions--one can do this with phonographs already in use. Probably such aural records may be made capable of acceptance in courts of law, and the maxim verbum auditum manet will take the place of a well-known proverb of our day. Very likely business letters may some day take the form of conveniently-shaped tablets, made of some plastic material, and capable of being utilised by means of a talking machine. Or if these changes seem too chimerical, we may essay the more difficult task of conceiving a means by which the spoken word may be directly translatable into print or typewriting. The waste of time and energy entailed by the present plan of dictating what we want to say to a stenographer or into a phonograph, for subsequent transcription, renders some sort of improvement urgently needful; nor are these wastes the only grievance, as the introduction of a second personality into the operation of recording speech introduces a simultaneous possibility of error, and an outrageous waste of time is caused by the necessity of reading over what one has dictated laboriously to a stenographer or into a phonograph, to make sure that it is correctly transcribed. It is obviously a much more difficult matter to translate speech directly into printed words than to translate it into something which may again produce the sounds of speech. The first step would be the invention of something which would print a phonetic representation of speech--as, for instance, shorthand of the kind invented by Sir Isaac Pitman. Even this requires us to imagine machinery of a kind whose very rudiments do not at present exist. Indeed, we can only conceive such an instrument by the use of the supposition that some entirely new manipulation of sound-waves will be discovered; and if we conceive that, there is no particular reason why we should hesitate before the notion of speech directly translated into print such as we use in everyday life. If we are going to limit the possibilities of the future by the actual achievements of the present, we shall certainly fall short of any adequate notion of what a hundred years' accelerated progress may be capable of: and I do not see wherein the direct reproduction suggested is any more inconceivable than, for example, telephony, or even photography, must have been to a man of a hundred years ago. The greatest danger attending our attempt to preconceive the amenities of the next century is that we may limit our expectations too narrowly. On this ground, perhaps, I may be thought too cautious in assuming that the present form of alphabetical writing and printing will survive at all. But there are two things which seem likely to give it permanence. The first, of course, is literature. If we adopt an entirely new form of writing and printing for general use, we must either set to work to translate all our literature into it, thereby probably losing some formal beauties which the culture of the world will not consent to sacrifice; or we must make up our minds to use (as the Japanese do at present) two kinds of writing concurrently; and the difficulty of overcoming the vast inertia of the human mind (which alone still suffices to exclude from English commerce so obviously convenient an innovation as decimal coinage) will probably negative this. This inertia is the second consideration likely to give permanence to our present form of English alphabetical writing. However this may be, the convenience of direct wireless telephony will certainly, when supplemented by records of whatever kind, greatly facilitate commerce. The tedious process of writing a letter, posting it, and awaiting the reply, at present persisted in chiefly because it is so necessary to have some sort of documentary evidence of what has passed, will be largely dispensed with when we can secure an automatic record of what we say. Nearly everything will be done by word of mouth. The great inconvenience, apart from the absence of record, which attaches to transactions or negotiations by telephone at the present day, is that a telephonic conversation is not nearly so satisfactory as a personal interview face to face. Gesture, attitude, the language of face and eyes, all do so much to elucidate communication in the latter way, that we lose a great deal when we meet an associate at the other end of a telephone wire. Well, the telephone of the new age will remove this drawback, or rather it will be supplemented by something which will do so. This invention, not at all difficult to imagine, I will call provisionally the teleautoscope. It will no doubt have some name equally barbarous. The teleautoscope can be explained in a single sentence. It will be an instrument for seeing by electricity. Whatever is before the transmitting teleautoscope will be visible before the receiving teleautoscope wirelessly en rapport with the former. Thus by telephone, by phonograph, and by teleautoscope, a wireless conversation will combine all the advantages of a personal interview and a written correspondence. No doubt the post-office system of this country, despite occasional lapses, is as nearly perfect as any human institution, in the present state of society, can be reasonably expected to be. But it is equally certain that in so far as postal communication is required at all in the new age it will have to be vastly improved both as to speed and precision, compared with what we now, sometimes rather thanklessly, enjoy. For instance, that impatient age will certainly not tolerate the inconvenience of having to send out to post its letters and parcels, or the tardiness of having these articles sorted and passed on for delivery only at intervals of half an hour or so. We may take it for granted that every well-equipped business office will be in direct communication, by means of large-calibred pneumatic tubes, with the nearest post-office. And however rapidly and however frequently the trains or airships of the period may travel, the process of making up van loads of mail matter for despatch to remote centres, and redistribution there, is far too clumsy for what commerce will demand a hundred years hence. No doubt the soil of every civilised country will be permeated by vast networks of pneumatic tubes: and all letters and parcels will be thus distributed at a speed hardly credible to-day. Already every bank of any importance probably uses calculating machines. It is not likely that the fatiguing and uncertain process of having arithmetical calculations of any sort performed in the brains of clerks will survive the improvements of which these machines are capable. Account books, invoices, and all similar documents will doubtless be written by a convenient and compendious form of combined calculating machine and typewriter, which we may suppose to be called the numeroscriptor. It will, of course, be capable of writing anywhere--on a book or on a loose sheet, on a flat surface or on an irregular one. It will make any kind of calculation required. Even such operations as the weighing and measurement of goods will all be done by automatic machinery, [4] capable of recording without any possibility of error the quantity and values of goods submitted to its operation. Naturally transport will be the subject of something like a renascence. So far as inland communication goes, the chief difficulties to be overcome already call loudly for amendment. We cannot for more than a decade or so make do with the present railway tracks, and either (as already hinted) by means of some invention to enable trains to run one above another, or by some entirely new carrying device such as I will now try to suggest, the new age will certainly supersede or supplement the transport of to-day. The device most likely to be adopted, in the near future at all events, is something in the nature of elevated trottoirs roulants for goods. If we can conceive all the cities of a country to be linked-up by a system of great overways, we have at all events a feasible solution of the difficulty. There could be a double row of tall, massive pillars, between which could run a wide track, always in motion at considerable speed. It need not be a lightning speed. Most of the tardiness of railway transportation does not, in this country at all events, arise from slowness of trains, but from congestion at goods stations, and this in turn is due, partly to insufficiency of rolling stock, but much more to insufficiency of permanent way. The latter evil is very difficult to cope with. But the system of moving ways, providing a rolling stock equal in length to the line itself, will be a great saving. Returning upon itself the endless track will continuously transport merchandise in both directions. Elevators, suitably placed, will give access to it wherever needed. Probably the motive power will be electrical: and we may confidently anticipate entirely new sources of electricity. It is obviously clumsy to create power in the first instance, convert power into electricity (I use popular language), and then convert electricity back again into power. Much more hopeful than any idea of developing that method would be the conception of new ways of creating and applying motive-power directly. But, almost certainly, electricity, obtained in some new way, will do the work of the world for many generations yet--until, in fact, we devise or discover something more convenient. It will have been perceived that nearly every improvement and innovation above sketched out involves, and will be indeed designed to effect, great saving of labour. With such economies, and an increased population, there is evidently going to be a difficulty about employment. Moreover, the great facilities enjoyed by commerce will tend to make commerce extremely powerful. Already great organisers of business begin to evade competition by combining in vast "trusts," whose tendency is to make the rich richer and the poor poorer. There is a further cause for the aggrandisement of the large trader and manufacturer at the expense of the petty retail dealer. More and more every year the unprogressive methods of small shopkeepers foster the success of large multiple retailers. But it is likely that retail businesses, whether great or small, will ultimately tend to be eliminated. Manufacturers and trust companies will supply the public directly. What, then, will be the solution of the great social difficulties about to be created? The answer is, that these difficulties, and especially the developments above confidently predicted for a future comparatively near, are probably transient in their nature. It is not yet the time to discuss political questions: but the problem here directly raised demands a few words of reassurance from the professed optimist. There can be no doubt of the great social and political dangers involved in so enormous an aggrandisement of the commercial and manufacturing class as we shall most of us live to witness. What is called the problem of the unemployed grows every year more difficult and less obviously hopeful. Moreover, the concentration of great wealth in a few hands is in itself a political danger, even apart from the fact that it implies widespread impoverishment. There are dangers of corrupt legislation, for instance, and other dangers too. But there will be another great force at work in which may be foreseen the solution of many difficulties beside this. When public education becomes rationalised; when it is employed chiefly as a means of character-making; when the universal education of mankind has the effect of turning out men and women capable of thinking, and not merely of remembering, the teeming population of the working class will begin to exercise an intelligent influence on the legislature--which at present it certainly cannot be said to do. And one thing which the intelligently-elected Parliaments of the new age will assuredly discover is this principle: that it is not good for the State that any one man, or any one associated body of men, should possess an inordinate amount of wealth. [5] Once this principle is discovered and acted upon; once it is illegal for any person or corporation to be seised of more than a certain fixed capital; the dangers of inconvenient aggrandisement will vanish. Nor is this principle in any way unprogressive or injurious to the commonwealth. It is, in fact, not even injurious to the individuals affected. No reasonably-enlightened being can pretend that a sensible hardship would be inflicted on millionaires by being forbidden to pile Pelion upon Ossa in their present insane manner. A very rich man, compelled to desist from the accumulation of wealth, and consequently driven to the task of finding out how to enjoy it intelligently, would be almost infinitely better off for this constraint. The effect of the ordinance for the limitation of wealth will be to remove all temptation to concentrate manufactures in a few hands. It will open the doors shut by trust companies on competition. It will multiply factories of moderate and convenient size: and one other effect of it will be to improve many manufacturing processes in themselves. There are a great many things which can be cheaply turned out in uniform batches, every article exactly the counterpart of every other, hideous in economical uniformity, because they all emanate from one or two great factories, which, if the manufacture of them were distributed over a number of small factories, would, from this circumstance alone, and from the stress of wholesome competition, be greatly improved. Probably many industries, desirable in themselves, but driven out of successful being by our present system of concentrated manufacturing, would revive. Crafts of what we call regretfully the good old kinds would spring up, rejuvenated: cheap uniformity would cease to be the principal ideal of manufacture. The people would be able to afford agreeable furniture, utensils, decorations, and household goods of all kinds, where they now have to put up with horrible but cheap makeshifts. For one great advantage of the ordinance just predicted must not be lost sight of. When you restrain the rich from becoming inordinately richer, you concurrently save the poor from being made proportionately poorer. This ideal, it should be remarked, is in no sense socialistic. It is, on the contrary, the natural development of individualism. Hardly less certain is it that before the beginning of the twenty-first century all manufactures and all commerce will be co-operative, the workers in every industry being paid, not by fixed wages, but by a share in the produce of their labour. Instead of the profit of all trade and manufacture being secured to the managers and owners of lands, machinery, transport and other commercial utilities; while labour, the equally necessary and indeed the preponderant element of production, is reckoned as a mere element of cost, in the form of wages; the profit will be shared all round. The more prosperous the enterprise, the more money the workers will receive. No man will be able to grow rich by sweating his workmen. Neither will the present degrading temptation for every workman to perform his task as perfunctorily and as lazily as he can, so long as he does not get dismissed from work altogether, survive this reform. On the contrary, it will be directly worth every man's while to do his work as well as he possibly can. The dignity of labour--a phrase now justly mocked--will become an elevating and delightful practicality. A great many articles of everyday use will be better made than it is possible to get them made to-day. The spectacle of the producers of wealth herding in squalid cabins, clothed in the rags of cast-off clothing, eating garbage, enjoying nothing but intoxication, will give way to a more wholesome and natural state of affairs. Nor will the owners of machinery, of factories and the like long oppose this development. What are called labour-troubles will cease to exist when the interest of employer and employed is identical. The problem of the unemployed will solve itself. Leisure, and an opportunity to employ leisure wisely, will have been bestowed upon the poor as well as we have seen that it will be bestowed upon the rich. A man will have no need to spend practically all the unfatigued hours of every day at the bench, the loom, or the lathe. He will want recreation. While one batch of men is seeking this there will be an opportunity for other batches to work. And work itself, once it is work for an intelligent objective, once it is work that there is a comprehensible reason for trying to execute as well as it can possibly be executed, will lose much of its irksomeness--to the vast improvement alike of the product and the producer. CHAPTER IV THE CULT OF PLEASURE Certain predictions in the foregoing chapter will have suggested to all who accept them that the cultivation of pleasure must occupy a large part of the energy of the new age. From the moment when men, sufficiently astute and purposeful to accumulate enormous fortunes if they were permitted to do so, are required by law to desist from useless and injurious money-getting, a vast amount of ingenuity will be diverted to the development of the useless. The skill expended upon money-making--and let it be admitted frankly that, however unscrupulous one may be, it is not easy to become a millionaire--will be turned to the task, almost equally difficult, of spending it satisfactorily. We may consider it as practically certain that the pleasures of the new age will be largely intellectual in their nature. The stupidity of merely sensual pleasures will revolt the intelligence of the future. Athletic sports of some kind, facilitated by certain inventions which can easily be foreseen, will no doubt be a source of much enjoyment, though the growing gentleness of mankind will abolish, as barbarous, games which take the form of modified assault, as football, boxing, wrestling, fencing and the like. We shall certainly acquire a great distaste for fighting in any form when growing humanitarianism shall have put an end to war--a development which may confidently be predicted for the present century. Similarly--"Am I God, to kill and to make alive?"--we shall cease to take life for our amusement; as, for sentimental and other reasons, it has been shown that we shall cease to kill for food. What then will be our games? One of the most likely instruments of sport will no doubt be the small flying-machine. It is not in the least probable, so far as can at present be foreseen, that purely aërial and self-directed vehicles for purposes of travel or transportation will be a feature of the new civilisation. The dangers and inconvenience of large aërostats are less accidents of imperfect invention than inherent difficulties of the subject. It is very probable that some means of propelling self-supported vehicles between guideways may be discovered. But, as it is not at all likely that any means of suspending the effect of air-resistance can ever be devised, a flying-machine must always be slow and cumbersome. Travel and transportation, to be attractive in the new age, must be rapid in the extreme. Ships no doubt will skim the surface of the sea instead of resting upon it. But air-ships are not very likely to be anything but a sort of vast toy, within, at all events, the next hundred years. But, as a means of amusement, the idea of aërial travel has great promise. Small one-man flying-machines, or the aërial counterpart of tandem bicycles, will no doubt be common enough. We shall fly for pleasure; and just as thousands of working men and women now take a Saturday-afternoon spin on a bicycle, so they will go for a sky-trip, and visit interesting mountain-tops for (non-alcoholic) picnics. The bicycle or the motor-cycle will perhaps be the point of development. It is quite certain that within the next ten or fifteen years some means will have been discovered by which we can ride on a single wheel. The saving of weight thus effected will go a long way towards surmounting the flight problem. Then, when motor-unicycles are presently propelled by force transmitted (in the same way as Marconi's telegrams) from a fixed power-house, the difficulty of flight will be within sight of an easy solution. Any competent mechanician of the present day could design a flying-machine if the mere weight of the motive appliance could be overcome. When the motor is fixed on terra firma, and the vehicle only needs to carry a device for utilising the ætheric waves which the source of power wirelessly transmits, flight will be at least as simple a matter as wireless telegraphy is to-day. When it is possible to cross the Atlantic in a day by means of surface-riding ships, propelled, like the flying-machines, by ætheric force, the field of amusement will be vastly increased, and although (as I shall show) it will no longer be necessary to travel in order to "see the sights" of any part of the world, the pleasure of being present at the actual events of life in different countries will probably never pall. So long as any parts of the world remain comparatively unfamiliar, young men and maidens will love travel. When it is possible, wrapped in warm woollens and provided with portable heating-appliances, to pay a short visit to the Arctic circle and enjoy the matchless spectacle of the Aurora Borealis amid the awe-compelling obscurities of the Polar night: when, with even less inconvenience, we can take a trip to the tropics and witness, here the unchangeable processes of Nature's luxuriance, there the perhaps immutable conservatism of the East, the new leisure of the coming time will have great stores of recreation for those happy enough to live in the dawning twenty-first century. The more distinctively intellectual pleasures of the new age will be much subserved by one class of invention, of which the rudiments already exist. By means of the phonograph we are able, not very perfectly, to reproduce as often as we desire sounds created in favourable circumstances. By various kinds of kinetoscope we can reproduce a rudimentary sort of picture of an event which has taken place in a good light. But when the phonograph has been developed, when moving pictures have been perfected, what a vast implement of amusement may be foreseen! Each of these inventions is comparatively new. If we imagine the discovery of means, developed from the phonograph, by which any sounds which have once existed in the presence of a recording machine can be reproduced at will, not in a makeshift sort of way, but without any loss of timbre and quality, with perfect articulation where articulation is necessary, with exactly correct time-regulation automatically determined by the first enunciation, and all this cheaply and compendiously, what vast resources of cultured enjoyment are offered to the lover of music! How many people, denied the pleasure of learning to understand good music by the difficulties and exertion attendant upon our infrequent and expensive concerts, will become true lovers and appreciators of it! For music is only to be really enjoyed by the average man when it is repeatedly heard, repeatedly considered. Certainly the people of the new age will be epicures of the emotions which comprehended music is so nobly capable of stirring. No doubt the new age will have solved, in a far more satisfactory way than we have been able to solve as yet, the problem of chromatic photography. When colour influences photographic plates or some contrivance substituted for them, not indirectly by a mechanical sorting-out of tints, but by affecting directly the optical properties of the plates or whatever may succeed plates, we shall have marvellously accurate pictures. [6] Nor is this all. The kinetoscope, as at present exhibited under various unpleasing names, is imperfect in two ways: first because it is powerless to reproduce colour, and secondly because it gives at best a mere magic-lantern picture violently out of focus, and by its pulsatory motion horribly distressing to the eyes. Chromatic photography will overcome the former difficulty. When we find out how to increase greatly the receptive rapidity of photographic emulsion without spoiling what photographers call the "grain" of it; or when we have improved, as we every year are improving, the optical qualities of lenses, we shall be able to have our pictures in focus. The distressing flicker of moving pictures is an objection purely mechanical in its cause. But when, as they will be in a few years, all these objections except the first have been removed, and even when we have colour-photography in a true sense of the word, there will still remain one field to conquer. We must have, instead of moving pictures, something which represents all objects as solid. The difference is the difference between an ordinary photograph and a highly-improved stereoscopic picture magnified to life-size. When these advantages are attained it will be possible to represent, exactly as it happened, any event which has been suitably photographed. The utility of this as a means of intelligent amusement will be at once perceived. Imagine the theatre of the future. Probably it will not be beyond the means of the rich, even when restrained from over-possession as it is evident that they must be, to have theatre-rooms in their own houses. But the masses will no doubt go to the theatre much as they do now. Only instead of seeing a company of actors and actresses, more or less mediocre, engaged in the degrading task of repeating time after time the same words, the same gestures, the same actions, they will see the performance of a complete "star" company, as once enacted at its very best, reproduced as often as it may be wanted, the perfected kinetoscope exhibiting the spectacle of the stage, the talking machine and the phonograph (doubtless differentiated) rendering perfectly the voices of the actors and the music of the orchestra. There will be no need for the employment of inferior actors in the small parts. As the production of any play will only demand that it be worked up to the point of perfection and then performed once, there will be no difficulty in securing the most perfect rendering that it is capable of. The actor's art will be immensely elevated, not only by his relief from the drudgery of repeated performance and by the leisure thus afforded him for study and reflection, but also by the removal of what is keenly felt by all players of sensibility and ambition as one of the greatest drawbacks of the stage. We are accustomed to the actor's complaint that whereas the author, the sculptor, the painter, the composer of music, makes for himself a fame imperishable as the products of his art, the actor frets his hour and disappears from the stage, to be promptly forgotten by an ungrateful public. Well, the actor's art, like the art of the executant musician, will have the endowment of permanency. And there will be a magnificent opportunity for the actor as artist, in that he will be able to compare himself and his fellows with the actors who are dead and can act no more. It is probably true that Irving is the greatest actor since Garrick, but who can prove it? The actor's art is transient to-day: it will be permanent, it will be classical, in the next century. By this fact not only will the pleasures of the theatre be made cheap, convenient and varied, but the art of the theatre will be vastly improved. Just as the actor will be spared the drudgery of mechanical, parrotlike repetition, so the indifferent maidens of the new age will have no need to waste their time in learning to play upon musical instruments more or less imperfectly. No doubt some who are not professional musicians will do so for their own pleasure. But the professional executant himself will cease, like the actor, to rank as a sort of superior harlequin or performing animal, exhibiting his powers for the diversion of an assembled public. What he has once played can, if he choose, be constantly repeated. The executant will be paid by a royalty on each reproduction, when he is wise. Less prudent artists will sell their records for a lump sum, just as the unthrifty author sells his copyrights. But let it be noted that, on the assumption that the reproduction is perfect, the evolution above predicted is a highly artistic one. Instead of the executant or singer being judged by his performance on an occasion when fatigue, illness or unfavourable circumstances may militate against his perfect success, when the nerve-shattering conditions of the platform probably in any case offend his susceptibilities and detract from the perfection of his performance, he will be able to found his reputation upon the very best performance he is capable of. He will be able to try and try again in the privacy of his study. When he has satisfied himself, and then alone, will he publish his artistic effort to the world. He can destroy as many unsatisfactory records as he pleases, just as the sculptor can break up his clay when he has not succeeded, just as the painter can paint out his picture when it has not pleased him, and be judged only by his best. It would be ignoring the most obvious characteristics of mankind to suppose that the pleasures of the new age will be limited to a mere mechanical development of those which we enjoy at present. There can be no doubt that new delights will be invented. With a general improvement in intelligence and in the standard of comfort; with a moneyed class compelled, by the enactments which we have imagined, to enjoy a considerable accession of leisure; with conditions which will, as we have hoped, reduce materially the necessary hours of labour for the worker; with some of the most engrossing amusements of the present age abolished for sentimental reasons; we may take it for granted that a great demand for new recreations will develop. Some of these considerations might easily give us pause. We might perhaps fear that vice--either the extension of existing vices or (if that indeed be possible) the invention of new ones--might be a terrifying problem of the next century, if we had not foreseen, concurrently with the other developments anticipated, a marked moral improvement in human nature. There is in the calculations of the pessimist and the reactionary no fallacy more mischievous than the oft-recited aphorism that human nature is the same in all places and at all times. That is precisely what human nature is not. Spectacles which delighted ancient Rome would revolt modern civilisation. Spectacles which are still keenly enjoyed in Spain would revolt England or the United States, and probably awaken the activity of the police. Human morality has demonstrably advanced in historic time: it has very perceptibly advanced, as I showed in an earlier chapter, [7] during the nineteenth century. But the improvement in this respect which the next hundred years will show must, in all human probability, greatly excel that of the past time. And thus, though a sane and reasonable anticipation will not exclude the possibility of regrettable accidents in the future moral history of mankind, it will also regard them as probably transient. The vices regarded as incident to complicated civilisations have perhaps been too hastily considered by despairing moralists. Vice is essentially stupid. It is only in occasional, in sporadic instances that we are presented with the terrible spectacle of great intelligences depraved by gross immorality and animalism: and even then, this combination is only possible where a high degree of culture is in contact with a widespread unintelligence. Most likely it will be found, when the abstract laws of vice come to be mapped out with more exactness than, so far as I am aware, they have yet been, that the degeneracies and immoralities of greatly-civilised ages are in reality only the product of luxury seated upon degradation. The French moralists of the eighteenth century had a glimmering of this in their idyllic pictures of reformed society, when the old morality of the simple life was to return with the abolition of oligarchic splendour and popular misery. In one direction we may see means by which intelligent recreation may be supposed capable of vast developments. Already the study of the psychical side of man has been the means of extraordinary discoveries. Our knowledge of hypnotism, suggestion, thought-transference and similar psychological wonders, obscured though it has unhappily been by charlatanism and the importation into the subject of irrelevant follies, has great promise for the future man, whose psychical faculties will unquestionably develop at the expense of his animal instincts. It is hardly possible to limit our conception of the means by which thought will be communicated in the next century, but we may see just where the change will probably come. A printed essay, such as this, is obviously a successive translation of thought into words (in the brain), then of the words into letters, and then of letters into type, which is picked up by the eye, retranslated into words by one part of the brain, and finally transmuted into thought again in another part. If some method can be discovered of abolishing one or more of these processes, thought can be conveyed from brain to brain at an enormously increased pace, and with a delicacy of which we have no present conception. This development is not so inconceivable as it at first appears. We know as yet almost nothing of the processes by which (for instance) vibration, accepted by the ear as sound, is, in the brain-cells behind the ear, converted into thought. Speech and writing are purely conventional devices. If, instead of using these conventions, we can learn to transmit ideas immediately from brain to brain, the next step may be an extraordinary development of intellectual pleasures, in the case of those individuals whose tastes are capable of thus being ministered to. But to say this is not to imply that the ordinary means of human intercommunication will be dispensed with. For most occasions, and for all but the subtlest and most refined necessities of thought, no doubt books, newspapers and letters will remain a feature of everyday life--though of course with such modifications as the progress of the century will have called forth. The future of the newspaper in particular is a subject of such great importance that it requires to be discussed in detail. CHAPTER V THE NEWSPAPER OF THE FUTURE, AND THE FUTURE OF THE NEWSPAPER Suspending, as hardly within the bounds of manageable conjecture, any attempt to follow up the suggestion with which the previous chapter concluded, we can very easily imagine the lines on which newspapers such as we know are likely to develop mechanically. A number of processes already existing in embryo can be shown to be capable of very great extension; and several discoveries which an intelligent anticipation is capable of predicting could, and doubtless will, be applied to journalism. To foresee the future of the newspaper on what may be called the editorial side is a much more difficult task, because we have here to take into account the influence of the developed and rationalised education of the people, which is certain to demand very great changes. Daily newspapers of the present moment are in a more or less transitional state. It can hardly, I think, be denied that the papers which enjoy the greatest popularity exhibit retrogression in many respects when compared with the best newspapers of twenty-five years ago. But they are much more widely and popularly read. The collective influence of their largely-extended circulations is no doubt very great, though the influence of the newspaper on the individual is less, and is attained in a different way. The old newspapers aimed, and the survivors of their class still aim, at an influence based on argument. They used to report events, speeches and movements of their age more or less colourlessly, and to comment upon these things more or less one-sidedly, according to their respective political bias. They were ponderous, cultured, dignified, and a trifle dull. When an adverse statesman made a speech which they did not like, they reported it faithfully, and tore it to pieces in the formidable middle pages. The leading article was their most important weapon: they sought their chief effect by its means. But the day of the leading article is nearly ended. The newspaper of the early--perhaps the immediate--future will almost certainly dispense with leading articles altogether, and be much more a news-carrier than an educator. It will attack adverse opinion by simply not reporting it. It will sometimes, no doubt, minimise facts unfavourable to its political side by garbling them. But leading articles had a useful function not yet mentioned--that of explaining the news-columns. Things which the ordinary (but fairly intelligent) newspaper-reader was likely to have forgotten, or to be ignorant of, were (and still are, where leading articles worthy of the name exist) explained and amplified. In the newspaper of the future, little paragraphs having the same purpose will no doubt be, as they already begin to be, tacked on to the ends of news-items: and so far as comment continues to be given at all, on such matters as political speeches from the enemy, it will be given in this form. Speeches from the newspaper's own side will not require comment. Newspaper space will have too many demands upon it to permit of a statesman's arguments being first printed semi-verbatim (actual verbatim reporting hardly exists even now) and then marshalled forth all over again in editorials. Whatever attempt is made to influence opinion through political reporting will be made by selective processes. The arguments of the adversary will be simply suppressed. Although the old newspaper was really a much more intelligent affair than the popular dailies of the present decade--and it is chiefly of daily papers that I am now speaking--it is not very likely that a reversion will take place. It is a curious feature of all progress, that however much an existing institution may be perceived to be retrograde in comparison with older institutions, reversion hardly ever occurs. We adapt and modify what we have. We do not revive what we have lost. And the regeneration of the newspaper will be forced upon the newspaper-office by the development of public intelligence. Comment will probably during the next few decades be eliminated from daily journalism altogether, and confined to serious weekly publications, somewhat on the lines of our monthly reviews, and to other publications summarising the latter, like the present Review of Reviews, perhaps the most useful periodical now being issued, with the single exception of The Times. Thus the daily newspaper will be entirely a vehicle for the propagation of news, correctly so called: and very likely it will become almost entirely colourless, politically, because a well-informed public will resent obvious garbling or clearly unfair selection. The newspaper reader will no longer (as now) want only to hear what is said on a side more or less emotionally and hardly at all reflectively embraced. He will want to know what is said on all sides, and will make up his own mind, instead of swallowing whole the printed opinions, real or momentarily assumed, of other people. Thus, though the frantic popular paper of to-day will no doubt increase and multiply, and replenish its circulation books, as long as the present system of blind half-education survives, the newspaper which satisfies the new age will be a very different affair. It will no doubt discard many of the trivialities now reported as news, when a black woman of Timbuctoo could hardly bring forth four piccaninnies at a birth without the fact getting into the halfpenny London papers; but it will record the really important news in ways far more graphic, and with a far more complete appeal to the imagination, than we have as yet any but the vaguest notion of. The news considered most important a hundred years hence will probably be news as to developments of public opinion. It is hardly conceivable that exactly the methods of Government which exist at present will satisfy the developed consciousness of the new time: and most likely the methods then adopted for the ascertainment of public opinion, and the machinery devised for giving it administrative effect, will create subject-matter for a type of journalism of which the very perceptible rudiments, though still nothing but the rudiments, already exist. If I am right in expecting great results to flow from new ideas and practice in our educational system, it is certain that the notion of political freedom will greatly extend its effect: and the unavoidable corollary is that movements of public thought will become a matter of the very keenest journalistic interest and of the very highest journalistic importance. The most probable means to be adopted for giving effect, in the middle-distance of the future, to developed public feeling must be left for discussion in a later chapter: but when we perceive that the political duty of executing the will of the people must constitute the paramount work of the constitution-builder in the latter half of the present century, we cannot fail to deduce a vast effect on newspapers. Broadly speaking, what will occur will be the result of clearer thinking. We shall very likely amend our political institutions after the characteristic English manner, which is perhaps really the safest, though it rather suggest the methods of a cobbler who repairs a boot by, from time to time, successively replacing sole, vamp, golosh and upper, until there remains a boot which is not a new boot, though it contains none of the original boot's material. Our constitution has been built (to employ a better similitude) by a series of architects who reconstruct and repair the old building, with a constant adhesion to as much of the old style as they can retain, and who will in the end present the people with a house entirely reconstructed, but bearing marks all over it of the original design. We already begin to perceive that what is regarded as political freedom at the present day has developed from the entire tyranny of absolute monarchy, through the modified tyranny of limited monarchies, still not wholly powerless, to the nearly absolute tyranny of parliaments. The last now begin to delegate powers to local councils having administrative functions, and must presently delegate them to local parliaments having legislative functions on some "home-rule-all-round" principle, not because decentralisation is liked, but because the intolerable inconveniences of centralisation will make decentralisation inevitable. The more energetic propagandists of various systems of constitutional reform nearly all agree in one respect: they all desire to set up some new kind of tyranny. Few--except the philosophical anarchists, who suffer from the opprobrium brought upon the name of anarchists by quite a different set of thinkers--perceive that to endow with power any sort of machinery resting on the shifting will of a majority tends very little towards freedom and not at all towards stability--the latter even more important in some respects than the former. In proportion to the development of education (in nature even more than in extent), it is likely that the present blind faith of the public in the ability of the State to do almost anything, and the still blinder tendency of the public to require the State to do all sorts of things which could be better accomplished otherwise, will diminish, and we shall perceive the enormous educational disadvantage of allowing the citizen to lean too heavily on the State. A public properly and sufficiently educated will, with enormous difficulty (because there is nothing so hard to get rid of as a bad habit of dependency), gradually undertake the task of doing for itself by free combination what at present we try to get done for us by governmental machinery. One sees how this sort of thing is gradually evolving, in spite of the violent efforts of politicians to shove the world backwards and keep us walking on crutches instead of strengthening us to walk alone. Statutes determining the wages of labourers and the price of commodities are laughed at as examples of mediæval foolishness, though (what is exactly the same thing in principle) Government still interferes with the freights charged by railway companies, and indeed is obliged thus to interfere because it has already gone out of the right way by the powers it has granted to railway companies. The new education--the education which builds character instead of merely diffusing information (generally useless)--will teach us the far greater advantages attaching to results attained by free combination, and the State will be relieved of many functions at present regarded as essential to it, and often sought to be increased. Now the working of free combination for the attainment of these results would be almost impossible without the constant interchange of views which newspapers subserve, and without careful newsgathering as to the progress in detail of various schemes and of public opinion concerning them. To say that this kind of thing will constitute the most important class of news is not to imply that the public will develop an unintelligent indifference to news of other kind, though it is allowable to hope that it will develop an intelligent indifference to the trivialities at present solemnly chronicled by the popular papers. It may be doubted whether, even now, the public is quite so passionately interested in the minutiæ of murder trials as editors imagine: but with invention steadily moving on, and its consequences habitually developing in unexpected ways, there will be plenty of "news" to chronicle. Of course the one class of news which is at once the most expensive and the most helpful to a daily paper--I mean its individual "exclusive" war correspondence--will be done with by the end of this century. Remembering the rate of progress foreseen in the early part of this work [8] and the moral nature of that progress, we may take it as quite certain that war as an institution will be as obsolete as gladiators in the year 2000. Even if the increasing amenity of the human race did not abolish war, two other things would be certain to do so. One is the enormous development, already clearly in sight, of the means of destruction: the other the revolt of the peoples against the stupendous cost, not merely or chiefly in time of war, but also in time of peace, of modern armaments. The rising tide of educated democracy must inevitably banish war. We have lately, in our own South African experience, seen how crushingly expensive, how intolerably impoverishing, a tiny war can be: and all this is a mere trifle compared with what it had cost us to be even very ill-prepared for even such an insignificant combat. This kind of thing cannot go on for very long and the peace of Dives [9] must soon be upon us. But even while war still continues to recur it is likely that the newspapers will have to sacrifice many of the advantages which they at present derive from the intense popular appetite for the details of organised death. The war-correspondent, when he can use the telegraph, is a great nuisance to commanders in the field, and the increasing difficulties and importance of modern combat will have the effect, eventually, of causing generals to forbid telegraphic communication from the field or its neighbourhood altogether, on account of the information, useful to an alert enemy, liable to find its way through the wires. Consequently [10] war correspondence will be all under strict censorship, and will take the form chiefly of written and photographic descriptions, in a documentary form, probably conveyed by the organisation controlled by the fighting army itself. These may perhaps be telegraphed to the newspaper office from some intermediate port when the theatre of war is distant--for unquestionably we shall, before very long, be able to telegraph pictures quite as easily as words. And this brings us face to face with one of the most interesting and important developments to be looked for in the vending of news. Beyond doubt, newspaper illustration will, in even the near future, be the subject of great and, in fact, of revolutionary improvement. Every daily paper will be copiously illustrated, and illustrated in colour. It is easy to foresee that before many years we shall be able to photograph any object or scene in its natural colours at one operation. We can already do so in three, and by the same number of machinings we can reproduce such pictures in print, provided we can afford to print slowly enough and on a sufficiently smooth paper. The process is in its earliest infancy as yet. We shall ultimately make it far more practicable. But even so, printing presses of the present sort are far too slow for newspaper use. A hundred years hence magazines and weekly periodicals may perhaps still be printed on greatly improved presses; but daily papers will be produced by photography alone. Already the Röntgen rays will print a dozen or more images at a time on superimposed sensitive papers. In the next century all that will be necessary in order to multiply type-matter and illustrations in any number of colours will be to place the original on a pile of paper and expose it to the rays of some source of energy, when the whole matter will be impressed upon every sheet, and this not by any mere contact of type and process-blocks with paper (which involves serious difficulties, owing to the interference of the paper-surface with the grain of the etched "screen") but by direct action of light, or of some influence taking the place of light, so that perfectly clear pictures will be produced. And news of all sorts will be the subject of this kind of illustration. What will happen will in detail be this. The teleautoscope [11] (the instrument by which sight will be wirelessly telegraphed) will exhibit the actual facts in every newspaper office from colour-photographs taken on the spot. What it shows will be rephotographed and reproduced in colours. The amount of verbal description needed will thus be much diminished. Where an event can be long anticipated--when it is an event like the Delhi Durbar or the christening of the Czarewitch, for instance--elaborate preparations will be made, and very perfect results published. And difficulties of merely photographic detail, which at present restrict rapid photography to events in full sunlight, having been overcome, and instantaneous photography by artificial light having been made possible, such an event as an important theatrical production in London will be pictorially reported in the New York and San Francisco papers next morning. Where an event is of an unexpected character--such as a great fire, a riot, or some sudden cataclysm of Nature--the teleautoscope will still be employed with great advantage. Take, for instance, the case of some large public building or some theatre destroyed by fire--though fires will not be so frequent in the new age as they are to-day. The local newspaper artists will select from their portfolios photographs of the building kept on hand for such occasions and get to work on them with paint-box and colours, depicting the progress of what they will perhaps still cling sufficiently to tradition to call the "conflagration"; and they will transmit these efforts when it is not possible to transmit actual photographs of the event. And of course, when all is over, the ruins will be photographed in colours from every desirable standpoint, and the descriptive photographer will, in a great measure, supplant the penny-a-liner. Many pieces of news will doubtless be photographed from the small one-man air-carriages, the employment of which, as a means of recreation, we have already foreseen. [12] The real "news" of the world will therefore be served up with far more vividness than even the most feverish present-day journalism dreams of, and the newspaper will be far more quickly "read," because long descriptive articles will have gone out of fashion, and a series of pictures, occupying much more space, but apprehended by the mind with far greater rapidity, will supply their place. Even in what remains of the printed word I think that great compression is probable. It must be remembered that even in the best-educated parts of England we are hardly through the first generation which universally knows how to read, and already newspaper-English is taking on a character of its own, very different from the "journalese" of the old-fashioned reporters. By degrees a sort of slang, distinguished chiefly by brevity and conciseness, will evolve itself in the newspapers, especially those published in large towns--though indeed it is quite evident that in a few years daily newspapers will be published nowhere else. This terse, quick language will, after a period of reprobation, be adopted even by the less progressive newspapers, at first shocked to tears of indignant printer's ink by the defilement of the mother tongue, and it will accelerate vastly the task of "running through the paper," a task which must, even in the less hurried manners which I foresee for the future, be made as speedy as possible by the newspaper that would thrive and increase its circulation. Thus literature, already restive in an uncongenial wedlock, will finally obtain divorce from daily journalism. This does not mean that literature will perish. On the contrary, it will develop. And the periodicals other than newspapers will excel our own in merit of every sort. They will be permanent, dignified and, above all, literary. For with the education of the people really carried to perfection, and with universal leisure, the result of improved social arrangements even more than of improved mechanical processes, we shall have a demand for a really intelligent periodical literature, for really artistic illustrations, which will make it commercially possible to publish matter that only artificial endowment could support nowadays. And shall we be content with it? Certainly not; for the new age will still be an age of progress, and the very perfection of the periodical Press will be the greatest of all stimulants to further effort. Although, in some of their characteristics, they will be greatly ameliorated, advertisements may very likely still constitute one ground of discontent with the newspaper of the future. They sometimes are, in the newspaper of to-day, the subject of complaint not altogether reasonable, because if there were no advertisements there could be no newspapers. At all events, without this powerful source of revenue our newspapers could be neither so cheap nor so liberally conducted as they are; and all the economies of the new age will probably be insufficient to enable newspaper proprietors to dispense with them. The better and the more generously-conducted newspapers are, the more money they spend in the careful collection, editing, printing and illustrating of public information, the more dependent they will become on the revenue from advertising, which is the sinew of journalism; and the more widely and attentively newspapers are read, the greater will be the revenue they are able to command from this source. Moreover, they would be incomplete without this feature. The unreflecting newspaper-reader, who anathematises his favourite journal because its weight and bulk are increased by the presence of advertisements which he does not want, seldom takes into account the fact that there are plenty of his fellow-readers who do want them, or some of them, and that he himself is often in the same predicament. Thousands of copies of newspapers are bought every day in order to consult advertisements which they are known to contain. A man who purposes to take his family to a concert often buys The Daily Telegraph because he knows that The Daily Telegraph has more concert announcements in it than any other paper, and that it is in fact a practically complete directory to all the current musical opportunities of the Metropolis. Another man, who wants a secretary, or a steward for his estate, probably orders The Times because he knows that the best class of secretaries and stewards advertise in The Times for employment. One hardly goes to the theatre or buys a supply of coals without looking at the daily paper for information; and assuredly this information is not inserted without being paid for; in other words, it forms part of the advertisements. Deprived of newspaper advertisements as a way of announcing its need of clerks, warehousemen, labourers and assistants of all kinds, commerce, even if it could manage without advertisements of the sort more commonly thought of when the nuisance of them is being condemned, could hardly keep up its organisation at all. Thus, so far from this feature of our newspapers being a grievance, it is both directly and indirectly a boon to all who read them. And when we remember in addition that the cost of the paper and printing alone in a copy of most newspapers exceeds the price at which each copy is sold by the proprietor, so that the whole cost of newsgathering, the whole cost of editing, the fees of contributors and artists, and the cost of pictures and engraving, as well as the profit which induces persons to embark upon an enterprise so troublesome and precarious as newspaper-publishing, must be obtained from the cost of advertisements and from this alone, we cannot doubt that the enormously developed newspaper of a hundred years hence will "give us bold advertisement," even as now, and that our descendants will have the intelligence to be very glad that it does so. This being unquestionable, we can hardly think that we have made a complete forecast of the newspaper of the future unless we consider what sort of advertisements it will contain, and in order to do this we must consider just what advertising is likely to be needed in the new age. As every condition of commerce must necessarily be affected by the mechanical and economic developments of another century, evidently advertising will have to undergo vast changes in order to adapt itself to new requirements. Already competition and the urgent demand of the public for all possible utilities and luxuries to be supplied with the greatest economy of money and trouble have produced changes in the machinery of supply and demand which must develop at an increasing speed as time goes on. One tendency of these things is current talk; we speak of "eliminating the middleman." Well, the middleman will certainly be eliminated by the end of the century, and one of the forces which will help to eliminate him is the very force with which, at present, he endeavours, with a high degree of transient success, to defend himself--the very force we have to discuss here; advertisement. So long as a population is scattered into groups in small towns, and hampered by difficulty and expense in transportation, there is an evident advantage in the retail-shop system. But we can hardly with convenience remain a nation of shopkeepers in the present and future state of concentration and with cheapened transport. It is only necessary to observe the different ways in which we supply ourselves with commodities, according to where we live, in order to understand the tendencies at work. In a village remote from any large town there are generally one or two general shops, at which a highly miscellaneous collection of merchandise is handled. The smaller the village the more miscellaneous the stock kept at a single trading establishment. In a small town the shops differentiate themselves more: but they still cross the boundary lines of trade, and one gets tobacco at the chemist's and goes to the draper's for writing materials and books. When we come to towns somewhat larger, trades keep more to themselves, and it is often possible to find a place where there are no miscellaneous shops at all, except those owned by the industrial co-operative societies now so common and so useful to the thriftier artisans. It is only when we enter the largest towns and cities of all that we find large shops divided into departments and again selling almost everything under one roof. The conditions in these large towns are an index to what is likely to occur a hundred years hence: because (as has already been seen) towns will certainly grow, and the population will become more concentrated, while, even where improved facilities for travel enable men to live at a great distance from their work, the same facilities will enable their wives to do their shopping in the centres of commerce. Consequently, except for a few highly perishable commodities, such as milk, butter and the like, small shopkeepers in residential neighbourhoods will be driven out of business, as they are in fact already being driven out of it in the suburbs and dependencies of all large cities. It is always possible for a large miscellaneous trader to sell at a smaller percentage of profit than a trader in a single class of merchandise: and by his bulkier purchases the former is also able to start with a lower cost price, and thus he is in every way better situated to meet the demand for cheapness. He can also meet the demand for convenience, because when he is getting almost the whole trade of a family, even at some little distance, he can afford to arrange for the transportation of goods in ways convenient to the purchaser. Thus the small shopkeeper will lose custom in every way and the large shopkeeper will gain custom. But there is still a middleman. We have not yet begun to see how he is to be eliminated, but only how he is to be limited in his numbers while being individually pampered with increased trade. No one who observes the trend of things, however, can have failed to note how, from both sides, the middleman, quâ middleman, is liable to be squeezed out. These very large retailers tend more and more to become, little by little, manufacturers instead of merely agents for the manufactures of other people. Very often they are actually forced to this by the difficulty of obtaining a regular supply of goods of satisfactory quality from the existing factories. One of the largest companies doing a miscellaneous retailing business has an enormous estate in the neighbourhood of London covered with orchards where fruit is grown for sale and for jam-making; and it has factories of various kinds dotted all round the Metropolis, though a few years ago it was a simple trading concern which manufactured nothing. On the other hand, large manufacturers in many trades (of which the boot trade is an example which must have come under the notice of every reader) are tending to open retail shops of their own in favourable localities, so as to obtain the retailer's commission as well as the manufacturer's profit. Evidently these large manufacturer-shopkeepers are more likely to be extensive advertisers than small one-shop retailers. Another circumstance which will tend to the increase of advertising is already apparent in the growing tendency of the public to prefer branded or packed commodities before bulk goods. Such groceries as tea, oatmeal and the like are more and more purchased in packets bearing a manufacturer's name or trade-mark, instead of being purchased from bulk and wrapped up by the grocer. The obvious reason is that by this means a housewife can secure a greater uniformity of quality. She finds that she likes a certain manufacturer's oatmeal better than any other, and always buys it; whereas if she bought bulk-oatmeal she would have the product now of one mill, now of another, and these products would vary. The only way in which a manufacturer can call attention to his speciality is to advertise it. The immediate consequence of this movement is the degradation of the retailer, who ceases to be the custodian (so to speak) of his customers' interest and becomes a mere hander-out of packed specialities. It is not very likely that every manufacturer of such specialities will become a retailer with shops everywhere; but it is practically certain that trusts will be formed on a sort of co-operative principle by combinations of manufacturers, who will divide among themselves the expense of organisation and obtain the whole profit without having to share it with any middleman. And in many departments of commerce the elimination of the retailer will be secured by the utilisation of improved transport, orders being received at the works by letter or telephone and executed direct from manufacturer to consumer. Such business can only be stimulated through advertisement, and the newspaper of the future constitutes the most convenient medium for such advertisement. The intrinsic nature of the vastly-extended advertising of the new age will be influenced by the new growth of public intelligence. Once almost wholly, and now to a very great extent, addressed to the least intelligent faculties of the public--the faculties most liable to be influenced by large type and ad captandum phrasing--advertising will in the future world become gradually more and more intelligent in tone. It will seek to influence demand by argument instead of clamour, a tendency already more apparent every year. Cheap attention-calling tricks and clap-trap will be wholly replaced, as they are already being greatly replaced, by serious exposition; and advertisements, instead of being mere repetitions of stale catch-words, will be made interesting and informative, so that they will be welcomed instead of being shunned; and it will be just as suicidal for a manufacturer to publish silly or fallacious claims to notoriety as for a shopkeeper of the present day to seek custom by telling lies to his customers. Skilful writers will be employed upon the work, and skilful journalists will think it no derogation from their dignity to be employed in the writing of commercial advertisements. No doubt the methods of illustration employed in journalism proper will also be pressed into the service of the advertiser, and in this, as in other respects, our "divine discontent" will still look for improvements, and the newspaper of the future will be a vast improvement upon the newspaper of to-day. Although the distinction between journalism and literature is likely to define itself more and more sharply--periodicals growing more literary, and newspapers less literary--it is here convenient to pause for a moment on the question of the direction in which literature is likely to develop--meaning especially imaginative literature and poetry. The past of this development, widely considered, has been, of course, since the close of the eighteenth century, from the classical, through the romantic, to the realistic school; and the last has been associated with a greatly-increased and minute consideration of language as an implement of exact and elegant expression. Literature has become, and will no doubt continue to be, increasingly self-conscious. Happy effects are deliberately sought for. Felicity of phrase is no longer a matter of unconscious, almost accidental, accomplishment; it is purposefully and deliberately obtained. We no longer expect inspiration from the Muses, but climb Parnassus with arduous consciousness of our meritorious pedestrianism. The methodical, scientific orderliness of modern thought has, in short, invaded even the field of art, and we have sometimes an air of trying to make of literature an exact process. Perhaps very great literature, and certainly, according to all precedent, very great poetry, cannot be produced in that way. There is something of mystery about them, something of the instinctive, of the elemental, or, to speak with a more critical exactness, of the spiritual. And the development and circumstances of very elaborate civilisation do not wholly favour the spiritual. But to conclude from this that great poetry will never again be written would be to overlook one of the disturbing, the cataclysmal factors of human life. This factor is one of the greatest pitfalls of the would-be prophet. By examining the past, one could predict almost unfailingly the future, if there were not always, and in every department of life, the strange, incalculable thing which, for want of a better name, we call genius, to be reckoned with, to be almost alarmed by. We may examine, we may reason, we may reckon up almost anything; but athwart all our conjectures, charm we never so wisely, comes genius, and revolutionises everything! It is the one thing which no formula can embrace. Not in the realms of literature and art alone will it break in and stultify our best prevision. In every department of life we must tread cautiously, aware that no one who would forecast the future can afford to neglect its disturbing possibilities. We must prayerfully and joyously expect that from time to time genius will suddenly arrive and pass across the stage, changing everything, bringing to naught our cunningest anticipations; and as it is peculiarly the quality of literature to be thus perturbed and regenerated, we must not even attempt to predict what schools the literature of the future will pass through. The only thing we can be certain of is that from time to time some epoch-making mind will express itself. Acquainted with all the devices of the schools it will brush them all aside, and half unconsciously, half a-dream, as if indeed it were literally "inspired," it will establish new standards, engender new methods, and endow the time with new delights. Criticism will dissect, examine and explain, until the creative mind is almost persuaded that it has all along understood itself; but the one thing by which criticism must ever be eluded, the one thing which must ever elude prophecy, is genius itself. When all is said that man can say, and all is said in vain, the best explanation of the unexplainable is perhaps the old one, that genius brings in some way a message from outside the world. Perhaps, since there is always a demand for something which man can worship, this inspiration may be the subject of the conscious adoration of the new age. Perhaps we have here the subject of the religion of the future; for inspiration, as we may most conveniently name this mystery, has just that character of the unknowable half-seized, which is precisely what the soul of man is ever yearning for. CHAPTER VI UTILISING THE SEA Except for a small tribute in the shape of fish food and certain salts the ocean is to-day almost a dead loss to the world, and what is worse, the greatest of all obstacles to progress. It separates us from our kin, wrecks our ships, claims a yearly toll of dead, and is barren, fruitless, a mere receptacle for garbage. A hundred years hence we shall have awakened to these facts and found means to make "the caverns vast of ocean old" something better than a subject for the poet and a resting-place for the dead whom it murders. Not every dream, however, can be realised--not even the engineer's. Some years ago certain ardent spirits in France announced that the desert of Sahara lay below the level of the sea and could be flooded with the Atlantic or Mediterranean. The effect of this, it was considered, would not merely be to inconvenience certain Arabs, but to change entirely the climate of the rest of equatorial Africa. Laved by the beneficent waves of ocean, lands at present uninhabitable would, it was declared, become fertile and salubrious. The project was dismissed or shelved as impracticable from engineering difficulties. Shall we, a hundred years hence, have met these difficulties? Probably not. To work such changes in the distribution of land and water will be a thing not indeed beyond the power of the next century's engineers, but beyond their daring. The accomplishment of them might, if at all rapid, be attended by frightful disasters, some of which can be readily estimated, but of which the worst would probably remain unforeseen and unimagined until the irrevocable moment of fulfilment. To increase to this extent the area of the world's oceans, without increasing (as of course we could not increase) their mass, would perceptibly lower the level of the sea everywhere, and in accordance with the well-known hydrostatic law things would "right themselves" on a cataclysmal scale. Every narrow strait in the world, every oceanic canal would become, for the time being, a roaring cataract. The Mediterranean would rush tumultuously out through the Straits of Gibraltar and the Suez Canal, and the overflow would flood the adjacent lands. The Straits of Dover would roar like Niagara, and all Kent, and the low-lying north-east corner of France, would be devastated. The isthmus of Panama might at the same time be swept away, for the narrow banks of the completed Panama Canal would certainly give way before the weight of the two oceans. All the rivers of the world would rush down in spate until they ran nearly dry from the increased outfall. The sea would recede from all the coasts. Along with this fall in the level of the sea would come tempests such as, since the appearance of man on the planet, the world has never known. For the sea-supported atmosphere would suck into its vacuum the whole weight of the over-lying air until pressure was equalised. And the climate of all the world would be reconstituted in new and probably inconvenient ways. No. We cannot venture thus to change the face of creation. What we can and shall do is to make the best of it. In a hundred years' time many countries at present undeveloped will be rich and populous. Canada, for one example, has an area greater than that of the United States, with a population smaller than the population of Greater London. And Canada, endowed as it is with almost every source of wealth, will before long become perhaps the richest country in the world. By this time next century it will also be one of the most populous. Siberia, again, with many fertile and salubrious tracts, will certainly have been more intelligently utilised than by making a vast prison of it. But when all the regions available for human habitation are populated and made use of, the centres of civilisation will probably lie very much where they lie now; and here the congested populations will have found that they can no longer tolerate the waste of a neglected ocean. As we push outward from the centre of the continents, the seaboard will have to be utilised and extended. There is nothing to daunt the engineers of a hundred years hence in the project of erecting on the sea a vast floating city, fully as convenient as the present cities of terra firma, and, while vastly more healthful, quite substantial enough to resist storm and every motion of the sea, except the tides on which the city will rise and fall--tides which will no doubt furnish the motive power of many conveniences in ocean cities. There are great advantages in a city thus founded, as compared with those we at present inhabit; and we certainly shall not be able to neglect them. There will be no particular reason for economy of space or for insalubrious overcrowding (since the sea has no landlord), and breadth would make for stability as well as for convenience. Urban traffic will employ an entirely new light vehicle, the skimmer. It has been mentioned as a thing beyond doubt that the ships of a hundred years hence will no longer float in the sea, but ride on its surface, thus evading both the instability and the resistance at present so troublesome to marine engineers. As soon as the necessity arises for providing street traffic in the ocean city--when "the sea is in the broad, the narrow streets, ebbing and flowing, and the salt weed clings to the marble of her palaces"--invention will meet the demand, and light street waggons and carriages will everywhere glide about, performing the daily needs of the inhabitants. Something in the nature of break-waters will provide against wave-play and form an unequalled exterior boulevard; and by means of an invention which will long since have been called for by the requirements of other localities, the air of dwelling-houses in the ocean city will be wholesomely freed from damp. For we shall certainly not have failed to act upon our knowledge of the fact that irregularities in the proportion of atmospheric moisture are responsible for the unhealthiness of certain areas; and we shall have learned, by means of the anhydrator, to provide any place with exactly the degree of damp or dryness necessary to health. The same apparatus, by desiccating the air to the extreme point, will keep the houses of an ocean city dry and thus do away with an objection which would make homes built on the water insufferable to-day. If we have not wholly reformed throughout the world our system of land tenure, the conquered ocean will unquestionably relieve the tension which is created by it, and perhaps a radical change of this character will only become possible when the enormous advantages of it have been practically exemplified. But there is another way in which the conquest of ocean ought to prove a great economic boon to the world. Except in the case of a few coal mines, with shafts sunk near the sea beach, we have hardly at all begun to investigate the contents of the ocean floor. There is, so far as I am aware, no particular reason to doubt that the constitution of the subterranean world is in most respects very much the same under the sea as under the land. Probably vast riches, as yet undreamed of, lie below the surface of the ocean and beneath its floor. There can be no question that the needs of the world will make us eager to tap them, as we should already have begun to, if any way could be discovered of overcoming the engineering difficulties involved. These difficulties, in the present state of our knowledge, may well appal the stoutest imagination. The problem presented by the immense and paralysing air pressure in a mine at this great depth would have to be overcome. Even in some great terrestrial excavations already made the problem occurs: and where (as in river tunnels and elsewhere) men attempt to work in great air-pressures artificially induced, the phenomenon called caisson-disease occasions practical difficulty. But the mere fact of an achievement being almost inconceivable in the light of present knowledge and invention must not be allowed to put a clog upon a forecast of what next century may attain. It is a hypothesis which the reader has been invited to accept, not merely that discovery and invention will go on, but that they will go at a constantly-increasing pace. We must not, therefore, allow what may well seem, at the present day, insuperable engineering difficulties to forbid the belief that the undiscovered wealth of the earth below the sea will be tapped for the benefit of the new age. What minerals may lie there, a rich heirloom for the coming time, we can but roughly imagine. But enterprise and the world's necessities will spur us on to search them out, until the new people, deriving like a fresh Antæus constant stores of strength from Mother Earth, will enter into possessions which must vastly relieve their necessities. Individual enterprise will solve the problems and reap its store of profits. But the ocean is no-man's land, and the people--perhaps a world-people, for this purpose at least not subdivided into antagonistic communities--will beyond doubt take toll, for the relief of general taxation, from the earnings of the new mineralogy. In other ways, too, the sea itself will be made use of. We shall get our salt from it, the process of separation being electrolytic. Fish will probably be eaten later than any other form of animal food. But the chief gift of the sea to the life of the future will be the two gases of which water is composed--oxygen and hydrogen: and the other gas, chlorine, which forms half the salt, as well as the metal sodium which forms the other half, will probably have many new uses found for them. Liquefied oxygen will no doubt be our sole disinfectant. It will also replace the poisonous, noisome and destructive bleaching agents used to-day. Hydrogen, the lightest of all gases, will be another staple of commerce. It will (as we have elsewhere seen) probably be the only fuel employed, for its combustion furnishes the greatest heat terrestrially known, and its flame is smokeless and yields no poisonous by-product. Moreover, the evaporation of liquid hydrogen, by a sort of curious revenge, produces the greatest available cold. If anything in the nature of balloons should survive the century hydrogen will inflate them, and both our hydrogen and our oxygen will most likely be got by preference from the sea. There are many reasons for this preference. Probably there will be some advantage in the matter of expense, since the salts of ocean water would be a by-product of the operation, and it is conceivable that a use may be found for the rarer among them, which could only be obtained in satisfactory quantities by reducing to dryness huge amounts of water. And potable or spring waters will perhaps be too precious a commodity to be consumed unnecessarily. Distilled water could no doubt be used for drinking purposes, and bacteriologically it is of course unexceptionable; but there are certain objections to it, and though these may doubtless be overcome, natural waters have a value which cannot be ignored. Thus the oceans of the world, as yet mere watery deserts, useful to hardly a calculable percentage of the people (and then only at the expense of the rest) will have become the world's inheritance, and its hoarded wealth will stave off the time--whose coming we must not ignore--when our world-capital begins to be exhausted. For that time must come. We are living upon the hoards which the womb of our mother the earth has borne to our father the sun. But our mother is, in respect at all events of mineral wealth, past the age of conception; and every century brings us more rapidly near to the time when we shall, like spendthrifts, have lived out our capital. Already the end of coal is in sight. When, at the end of a vista however long, we begin to be able to foresee the exhaustion of other minerals, we shall face a problem appalling in its nature. Perhaps before our store of heat gives out and reduces earth to the state of a dead world like the moon, we shall already have exhausted our stock. No economies in the use of scrap metal and the re-employment of the material of machines which have been superseded can save us from ultimate metallic bankruptcy in a future calculated perhaps in thousands (but not many thousands) of years. Our only succour seems to lie in a conception for which (despite the efforts of some lively thinkers who have been obliged to ignore all but the least important difficulties of the subject) we have no material--the conception of means by which the cold depths of interplanetary space may be traversed. Even if we allow imagination, untrammelled by the most evident necessities of the case, to suggest a speed of transport computable only by astronomical analogies, we still lag behind anything which could serve this purpose, unless we concurrently believe that human life shall, by that time, be lengthened into centuries. Otherwise, however recklessly we may conceive of speed in interplanetary travel, man would almost require to live for many centuries in order to reach and return from any destination which would not inevitably destroy him by fire or cold when he arrived at it. Most likely man is for ever destined to accept the bounds of his own planet, and to be limited by its resources. In order that these resources may be utilised to the uttermost of his needs, the contents of the ocean floor must undoubtedly be laid under contribution, and probably we shall not antedate this achievement if we consider that it will have been at least entered upon a hundred years hence. CHAPTER VII THE MARCH OF SCIENCE In a forecast like the present it is impossible to avoid a certain amount of overlapping in different sections of the subject and a certain blending of topics in a single chapter. The attempt to differentiate consistently between the progress of science as science, and the concurrent advance of practical invention by which scientific discovery is turned to use would only involve needless repetition. I have already had occasion to suggest elements of material progress which presuppose the advance in pure science that would make them possible. Thus, in endeavouring to suggest what the methods of commerce and the condition of our cities are likely to be in the future it was necessary to conceive certain advances in our knowledge of what is rather clumsily called "wireless" telegraphy, and to predict the discovery of new and cheap methods of analysing water into its component gases as a source of fuel and as means for the production of electricity: and in order to avoid useless repetition it was found convenient to work out in a rough manner the various ways in which the cheap and inexhaustible supplies of hydrogen and oxygen which I have imagined discovery to have placed at the disposal of invention would be employed in the arts. Similarly, when we interrogate imagination on the subject of scientific discovery itself, we shall be forced to think chiefly of the practical results likely to be achieved by it, and indeed there would otherwise be hardly any purpose to serve by the effort. What imports the greatest amount of complexity into the subject is the difficulty of conceiving the lines upon which science is likely to travel, unless we allow ourselves to be guided by the practical requirements of the future as far as we are able to foresee them. Imagination has indeed superabundant room in which to run riot when it endeavours to give form to the probabilities of scientific discovery; and the only danger is that effort may be wasted in purely fanciful directions, if it be not pretty securely tied down by some such artificial restraint as the convention of keeping more or less strictly to the anticipation of discoveries likely to have immediate practical application. For instance, there is hardly any end to the developments we might allow ourselves to imagine as arising out of the new theories, still in a probationary condition, as to the ultimate physical structure of the universe. Such conjectures might be followed indefinitely in several directions, and the resulting conclusions would be more likely to err by timidity than by extravagance: but as there is no knowledge at present available which could serve as a guide to the probably-right, and as a warning against the probably-wrong, directions, it would be neither interesting nor useful to pursue them. Radium "the revealer," as Dr Saleeby has called it in one of those brilliant papers which fine imagination and delicate fancy have adorned with many another noble phrase and memorable image, opens the door to a whole world of new possibilities. Our whole conception of cosmic processes may have to be remodelled, in the light of those tiny scintillations which the spinthariscope has popularised. Already our notions concerning the nature of matter have been revolutionised. We are told that atoms, regarded hitherto as the ultimate units of matter--so small that Lord Kelvin has calculated that if a drop of water were magnified to the size of the earth the atoms in it would be somewhere between the size of small shot and the size of cricket balls--are themselves made up of a stuff so almost infinitely more tenuous, that the particles of it within the atom are, relatively to their size, farther apart than the planets of the solar system. Nor is this all. These particles, commonly called electrons, if particles they can still be designated at all, were at first said to "carry" a charge of electricity. But it now seems that they are electricity itself. If this be true, we should seem to be on the point of bridging the void between what used to be called the eternal antithetics--matter and force: and whither this will lead us can only with the greatest caution be pre-imagined. In any case the consequences of this discovery, philosophical as well as scientific, are stupefying in the possibilities they open up to the thinker as well as to the man of practical science. At last science begins to join hands with philosophy. What will be the philosophy of a hundred years hence, imagination pales before the effort of attempting to conceive. But the working out of the revelations promised by radiology belongs rather to this end of the century than to the other. During the interval there can be no doubt that electricity, already man's chief handmaid, will have increased and perhaps completed her services to the race. When, as I ventured to suggest in a former chapter, inexhaustible and cheap "current" is yielded to us by some method of utilising the electrical reciprocity of the hydrogen and oxygen gases derived from water, doubtless all machinery will be electrically driven, all transport electrically propelled. Perhaps this discovery lies so far in the foreground of the future as to be irrelevant to any anticipations of the world's condition a hundred years hence. The full development of electrically-driven machinery lies in the middle distance, and the duration of the electrical age can hardly be precalculated with any greater exactness than the suggestion that it will probably have reached, or at all events approached, its end in about a century's time. The most important problem connected with this subject is to imagine, if we can, how electrical power will be applied. It is quite evident that the device of long conductors, either overhead or below ground--the "live wires" of alarmed America--is too clumsy and too dangerous to be long tolerated. It is indeed a public scandal that cables carrying an electrical charge capable of killing or paralysing at a touch should be suspended over the heads of the citizens, exposed to momentary breakage by snowfall, high wind, or the inevitable wear which careless inspectors may overlook: and the mere fact that a horse can occasionally set foot on a ground plate and fall dead from the contact shows that even the vaunted "conduit system" must not be regarded as anything but a strictly-temporary device. Some of the dangers of the underground electric wires arise out of the use of our present illuminating gas, when a pipe leaks into a manhole or inspection chamber, forming an explosive mixture of gas and air, which presently becomes ignited by an electric spark and blows up the whole affair. No doubt coal gas is within easily measurable distance of its end as a convenience of civilisation. But it is extremely probable that hydrogen and oxygen will be conveyed by mains to houses and public buildings during a long time: and it is hardly possible to believe that the mains will not sometimes leak and be capable of letting out mixtures far more dangerous on ignition than the mixture of coal gas and air, and still more dangerous because neither of the gases, nor the mixture of them, has any smell, unless indeed we should take the precaution of giving them one artificially. Whatever we may do, and we shall do much, to minimise the dangers of highly-evolved civilisation, accidents will always occur, and their violence will probably increase. We must pay our toll to the conveniences of life, and we shall of course compensate ourselves by a lower death-rate from diseases, many of which will no doubt in a hundred years' time have disappeared from the planet. If we need any motive power other than electricity, or if we need motive power of some other kind to produce electricity, no doubt the explosive recombination of oxygen and hydrogen, controlled by devices developed from existing gas-engines and petrol-engines, will be a starting-point: because coal will, probably before the complete exhaustion of the supply of it, have been found altogether too dirty and unhealthy a thing to use, at all events by way of combustion, though rumours are heard from time to time of new methods by which the stored energy of coal may be utilised directly, to the great economy of the material. [13] In all sorts of ways the early years of the century will be employing themselves in seeking out new sources of man's chief necessity--power: and a hundred years hence we shall have entered upon the full inheritance of them. But the obtaining of power is only one problem of the mechanician. Of almost equal, if not quite equal, importance is that of applying power at the place where it is needed, and the careful reader will not have overlooked the fact that while we have been discussing the use of electricity as a source of power we have already been anticipating, and perhaps anticipating a good deal. For, when we now speak of machinery and locomotive engines being "driven" by electricity, we are really only employing a sort of convenient periphrasis. All our electric machinery, all our electric railways, our "tuppeny" tubes and the horrible electric trams which make life almost intolerable in houses along many of the main roads out of London, are really driven by coal-burning steam engines. In a few places (especially in the Niagara valley) waterfall power is used. But whatever the real source of power, electricity is only a means, more or less convenient, of transmitting it. Even electric launches, and slow-going electric broughams driven by accumulators, only represent slightly more subtle examples of the electrical transmission of power. The ultimate source of power is always either a steam-engine or a waterfall. A few lecture-table toys and the like are the only existing examples of machinery in which the actual source of power is electricity. Even here, it may be objected, the actual source of power is not electricity, but chemical action in the battery. But no contrivance of man is an ultimate source of power. Even a steam-engine is only a device for utilising the stored solar energy of coal. Of course man can no more create power than he can create matter: the stock of each in the universe is a fixed quantity. All that we are able to do is to harness to our use a part of the cosmic store. When I speak of electricity becoming hereafter a "source" of power, I am merely distinguishing between its use as a means of transmitting force already perceived as force in some other form (as where a dynamo-electric machine receives motion from a steam-engine or waterfall and turns this motion into electricity, which is conveyed by wires or rails to an electric dynamic engine that reconverts it into motion) and its use as a primary means of utilising the cosmic stores of force. Before we arrive, therefore, at the point of using electricity as a source of power in itself, our mechanicians will have plenty to occupy them in the task of devising safer and more convenient methods of transmitting force, and even at the end of the century, supposing the use of electricity not to have been entirely superseded by the discovery of some entirely new force as yet not even conceivable, invention will doubtless be still busy with further improvements in the transmission as well as in the production of electricity. It has been hinted that "wireless" transmission of power will no doubt by that time have become practicable, and Signor Marconi's achievement of wireless telegraphy was mentioned as a proof that such transmission is at least imaginable. In Marconi's invention an enormous electrical impulse is launched into the æther, and if the very smallest token of it can be "picked up" in any way at the receiving station, the wireless telegram is satisfactorily received. But the important fact for our present purpose is that some product of the original impulse can be picked up: and though the effort of imagination required to see in this a starting-point for entirely new inventions, capable of gathering up a practicable modicum of the transmitted power in a form capable of being converted into motion, is severe, we shall bring but a poor imaginative equipment to a task so colossal as that of guessing what the next century will be capable of if we refuse to believe that something in the nature of Hertzian waves, or something propagated as these are propagated, can be used to carry impulse to machinery at a distance from the source of power. The imaginative faculty which boggles at this effort will probably overlook the fact that the mere transmission is only a part of the difficulty which is pretty sure to have been overcome by this time next century. It will not be enough to launch waves capable of being used where they are intended to be used. We must also discover how to launch them so that they may be incapable of being used anywhere else. I read the other day the report of a police-court case in which a man was charged with "stealing electricity" (which seems a rather doubtful indictment from the point of view of the lawyer) by obtaining the use of a public telephone station without paying the usual fee. The electricians of a hundred years hence will certainly have to find out how to prevent the purloining of wireless force, and perhaps the police will have to devise means of detecting this at present somewhat recondite crime. This question of wireless transmission lies within the province of discovery rather than that of invention. Before it can receive actuality we have to do more than utilise existing knowledge: we have to acquire new knowledge. In the meantime, portable energy will no doubt be achieved in ways other than electrical. Some very interesting compressed-air tools are already in limited use. Holes are drilled and rivets driven by little contrivances which have a store of force within themselves furnished by compressed air. One of the many uses of the cheap oxygen and hydrogen, and doubtless of cheaply liquefied gases of high-resisting power, [14] will no doubt be to work various kinds of machinery. This use of liquid airs has been much derided, and indeed a good deal of nonsense has been written as to its possibilities, drawing from a recent and accomplished writer the remark that "The statements which have sometimes appeared in the daily papers, announcing impending revolutions in the methods of obtaining cheap power by the application of liquid air, have originated from an imperfect comprehension of the problems involved." [15] In present conditions, and so far as we are able to see at present, liquefied gases are for a long time not likely to serve any greater mechanical purpose than that of furnishing a highly portable apparatus by which great power can be developed for a short time at any required place. It is easy to believe that it could not be otherwise employed with any economy, even when discovery has greatly simplified the now difficult process of liquefaction. But in regard to this matter, and to almost every other mechanical and engineering improvement suggested in the present work, it is of the first importance to remember that the conditions in which the work of the world a hundred years hence will be done are certain to differ very greatly from anything we know to-day; and that procedures at present not merely out of proportion, but in themselves actually chimerical, will become perfectly workable in the new circumstances of another century. No doubt the problems at present involved make many of the developments herein suggested almost laughable to those who examine the subject without imagination. But what could have been thought of a man who, when Oersted discovered the influence of a battery current on the compass needle, suggested that the discovery might, in much less than a hundred years, be practically developed in such unforeseen ways as to produce locomotive machines capable of carrying vast weight at a speed of perhaps a hundred miles an hour? He would have been told that such predictions "could only have originated from an imperfect comprehension of the problems involved." But we know that they would have been perfectly sound, though it would have been difficult to withhold assent from the derision which instructed hearers would have poured upon them. The effect of any scientific discovery can only be measured when we are in a position to judge of the conditions in which it may be applied, and the further discoveries which may affect it--a consideration which will help us against the danger of undue caution in estimating the possible developments of recent discovery when utilised in the conditions of the next century and reinforced by inventions and discoveries yet to come. A like caution will, however, teach us to restrain our expectations from the new knowledge which radium appears to be gradually unfolding, not because there is any doubt that radio-activity will ultimately bring priceless gifts to civilisation, but because in our present ignorance of all but a few facts concerning it we can form no possible conjecture as to the lines these gifts will follow. Already we seem to have seen in some of the radium experiments one "element" turn into another. If this should develop until we acquire the power which used to be dreamed of as transmutation, the social and economic upheavals which would result beggar imagination. [16] The photographic effect of Röntgen rays has already [17] been the subject of a suggestion, and even the facts now remotest from practical use in connection with the rays of various sorts so much discussed in the scientific newspapers will no doubt be utilised in a manner or in manners far removed from the limited employment in therapeutics already found for them. And indeed medicine, not the most progressive of modern sciences, will no doubt make vast strides during the period under discussion. It would be altogether fallacious to forecast the position and probable achievements of medical science in a century's time on the line of simple development from the practice of to-day. The changes will be revolutionary rather than evolutionary. When it is remembered that only fifty years ago limbs were hacked from the quivering flesh of the sentient patient, held down by muscular assistants lest the violent struggles of his agony should embarrass the surgeon, and that wounds of all sorts festered and decayed until a hospital reeked with their impurity--in other words, that discoveries so great as anæsthesia and antisepsis are well within living memory--we need not hesitate to predict for the present century changes in medical and surgical science almost inconceivable by the light of our present attainment. Anæsthetics--of which the local kinds, as cocaine and eucaine, are of entirely recent use--represent an advance in one direction. Antiseptic surgery, which is the prevention and correction of blood and wound-poisoning by chemical disinfectants, represented an advance of a different kind. But antisepsis is already on the point of being superseded by the far more rational and scientific method of asepsis, or the exclusion from open wounds of all the germs which can set up inflammation and festering. The change is typical. The direction in which medicine is chiefly working at the present time is that of introducing into the body one disease with the idea of excluding other diseases. It is conceived that cow-pox is antagonistic to small-pox, erysipelas possibly to cancer, and so on. All the talk in medical circles is of serum and attenuated virus. And, apart from animal products administered by injection, we cure or attempt to cure all diseases by administering poisons--animal, vegetable or mineral. Just as by antiseptics we poison the germ which causes festering and inflammation, so by drugs we attempt to poison disease--for all drugs are practically poisons. The principle of their administration is almost wholly empirical. If you ask a doctor why phenacetin reduces fever, it is impossible to get beyond a metaphysical explanation. He will reply that phenacetin reduces fever by lowering the blood pressure, or something of that kind. But this merely re-states the problem. Why does phenacetin lower blood pressure? We do not know. The substitution of asepsis for antisepsis--that is, of cleanliness for disinfection--has hardly yet been perceived to be in a certain sense the greatest advance in therapeutics since Hippocrates. It probably contains the germ of future medical treatment. Hereafter we shall not try to cast out devils of disease by other disease-germs only less devilish. We shall learn enough of the causes of disease to stop them at their source, and knowledge growing from more to more, which has taught us exactly how "matter in the wrong place"--of whatever sort--is the source of all disease, will also show how matter may generally be kept in its right place. Although comparatively little progress has been made by the curative use of rays, other discoveries, of which we have even now passed the brink, will have an enormous effect on medicine and surgery. Already certain kinds of light cure rodent ulcer, one of the most hideous and terrible diseases, not by the importation of fresh substances into the body but by the modification of the tissues themselves. When radiation has been fully studied it will almost certainly be found that the sun, which is the source of practically all terrestrial activity, has been showering upon us, ever since the homogeneous vapour which was the birth-stuff of the universe aggregated itself into worlds and suns and planets, rays which are capable of correcting every sort of disease-germination and, properly used, of preventing it. The absolute deadliness of unmodified sunlight to many sorts of disease-germs is recognised already. The value of sun-baths--the exposure of the whole body, undraped or only lightly covered, to the sunlight--is already discussed in connection with anæmia, chlorosis and the early stages of consumption. When we know just where all disease originates, and why it develops, it seems likely that sunlight and oxygen its child will prevent nearly all disease and cure whatever disease accidentally arises. In place of temporary and dangerous expedients like antiseptics, serum and corrective poisons, we shall import nothing into the human organism, but only exclude what ought to be kept out, and modify into innocuousness what has found its way in. A great part of the disease we call constitutional, as distinguished from infective, arises from food, either because the food itself is not free from disease, or because, from excess in quantity or error in choice, the food we take sets up the production of poisons in the course of digestion, and by yielding, for instance, lactic or uric acid to the blood causes rheumatism or gout, or by introducing into the stomach matter in a state of incipient decay, favours typhoid and other fevers. When, for reasons already indicated, animal food has been eliminated from the menu one great source of disease will have been got rid of. When we completely understand the nature of the infective and contagious diseases it seems well within the bounds of possibility that the systematic destruction of their germs may be carried far enough to remove them altogether from the planet. [18] We have now, even by the highly imperfect measure of quarantine and a period of muzzling (from which, on no evident ground except that it would interfere with the amusements of the governing class to include them, sporting dogs were excluded), apparently banished hydrophobia from Great Britain. If it prove to be the case that just as hydrophobia cannot arise spontaneously, but requires to be "started" by the entry into the blood of an animal of an existing infection, other infective diseases require pre-existing disease before they can arise, we may get rid of them altogether. The dream may appear a wild one. But it is not wilder than the dreams of a thinker who anticipated any one of a hundred common facts of to-day must have appeared to our great-great-grandfathers. It is, of course, not to be supposed that disease can altogether be banished from a world so highly artificial as that of the next century will be. Undoubtedly the growth of sanitary science and the knowledge of the larger facts of hygiene, which is only now beginning to dawn upon us, will have a great influence in correcting some of the evils which over-civilisation at present entails. But the very progress of the art of healing will no doubt have the effect of perpetuating in a manner the existence of illness. Every forward step in medicine serves to save alive some weakling that in a less advanced civilisation would die; and these survivors, possibly propagating their species, will have weak descendants, on whom whatever possibility of disease continues to exist will certainly fasten. The discovery of means by which we can make a weak "constitution" into a strong one is perhaps the least likely of medical innovations. It would be altogether contrary to the general spirit of the times anticipated to expect that we shall have steeled our hearts to the destruction of feeble lives as dangerous to the race. We are much more likely to go on finding better means to perpetuate them: and this means that there will always be work for the doctor, though the infective fevers will have been banished from the earth. Medicine, therefore, will still aspire. But apart from what are called occupation-diseases, caused by certain manufacturing processes (of which the more deadly, as phosphorus match-making, lead-glazing of earthenware and the manufacture of enamelled iron will before long certainly be abolished), the elaborate machinery and rapid travel of the new age must needs exact a certain toll of death and mutilation. The surgeon will have more to do than the physician. Frightful accidents will occur from time to time. The maim, the halt and the blind must pay the price of progress. And it is hardly possible that nervous diseases and insanity, incident to the pressure of civilisation, can be eliminated. But certainly the alleviations of all but the last, and even of that except in its extreme expression as total dementia, will have advanced to a high standard. We shall no doubt, for instance, have discovered means of so acting on the sensory system that we shall be able innocuously and temporarily to paralyse at any desired spot the nerves which transmit pain. Thus, during convalescence, the injured will suffer no discomfort except that of confinement, and our means of amusing the patient by talking machines that will read and sing to him, and the theatroscopes that will project before him moving and coloured pictures of life or the play, will make the sick bed almost a paradise. As we have seen that, apart from the sentimental reasons which have been suggested, [19] animal and flesh foods must, for economical reasons, have been abandoned long before the end of the century, the grazing of cattle being far too expensive a method of utilising the soil, we may be quite sure that the sciences connected with agriculture will receive far greater attention than they now enjoy. It will grow more important with every decade to obtain the greatest possible tribute from the portions of land, steadily decreasing in area, which can be spared from the growing needs of the builder. Every discovery of the chemist which can be laid under contribution by the agriculturist will eagerly be seized upon. Every means which can be devised for replacing what we take from the soil will be utilised to the full: and of course the inevitable disappearance of the horse as a means of traction, and of the flocks and herds which now yield manure, and perhaps the gradual exhaustion of the minerals (as rock phosphates) from which artificial soil enrichers are prepared, will make it necessary to rearrange, on safe, economical and convenient lines, our present plans of sanitation. The insane wastefulness of draining into the sea cannot long be tolerated. Every conceivable means of conserving our mundane capital will have to be made use of. In other ways science will come to the rescue. The farmer's sufferings from the depredations of vermin of various kinds will perhaps never be much affected by invention, because all nature is so curiously interdependent that the eradication of one pest has an awkward way of intensifying some greater evil: we destroy birds and are punished by a plague of caterpillars. The accidents of climate, too, can perhaps only be obviated in a very small measure, though the science of meteorology, constantly being helped by facilities for better observation-reporting, will unquestionably help the agriculturist by giving him timely warnings. It seems hardly possible to doubt that the eccentricities of climate and the unexpected shifting of the rainy season in Manchuria during the Russo-Japanese war must have been caused by the vast atmospheric disturbances created by days and weeks of cannonading: and of course it is an old theory that heavy gun-fire "brings down the rain." Military historians say that the number of wet-day battles altogether exceeds any expectation which could have been formed without allowing for effects of this sort. When science has pondered upon the subject, and instituted in an ordered manner experiments of a kind hitherto never taken very seriously, it may very well be that some means less violent than the detonation of explosives may be discovered by the practical meteorologist for creating disturbances in the atmosphere; and while it may not be possible to prevent excessive rainfall at inconvenient times, it seems easy to conceive that when there is moisture in the atmosphere we may be able to bring it down as rain. Of course this is a very different thing from breaking up droughts: and artificial rain-making cannot in itself be anything but a momentary expedient. The effects of deforestation have for some time been observed and the plan of improving waterless areas by the contrary process is already discussed. While it seems rather a "large order" to undertake to meddle with the balance of atmospheric composition on a large scale, especially as we know so little of the conditions that even success might very possibly be attended by unforeseen and perhaps calamitous results, there is nothing intrinsically absurd in the notion that we might adopt means on a vast scale for increasing oceanic evaporation and, utilising the exact foreknowledge of winds and air currents which we shall certainly have achieved, bring moisture and rain to arid tracts or countries suffering from drought. The operation would no doubt require to be stupendous, but the next century is not going to be afraid of stupendous operations; and anticipating vast and unforeseen progress in meteorology, it would be hazardous to believe that no practical use will be made of such progress. While our knowledge and mastery of the planet we possess, and of its forces, are being steadily advanced by scientific discovery, and the researches of the pure scientist are constantly yielding practical results at first undreamed of, it is impossible to doubt that man's knowledge of himself will make equal progress. And it is not alone the physical constitution of man that will be interrogated. Everything assists the belief that this century will be among other things the century of psychical advance. We appear to be on the verge of great discoveries concerning the human mind, and especially concerning the relation of body to consciousness. Hypnotism has only during a comparatively short time been the subject of systematic observation, even in France; but at any time during the last ten years results have been achieved which, if foreseen a century ago, would certainly have produced a widespread recrudescence of belief in witchcraft. What the developed science of a hundred years hence will be capable of would certainly be a great deal more surprising if we could foresee it to-day. It is reported from the Salpetrière Hospital that a woman, under hypnosis, has had the existence of a picture on a blank sheet of paper suggested to her with such vividness that, on the suggestion being revived at a subsequent period, even after a considerable interval, she was able to detect that the "picture" was upside down, the blank paper having been actually reversed. This phenomenon is attributed to a great accentuation of the sense of vision produced by hypnotism, it being supposed that the paper, perfectly blank on ordinary observation, had really some local irregularity of colour or surface which the sharpened vision of the subject was able, unconsciously, to utilise. What secrets in the mechanism of the senses may not this fore-shadow? Without any recourse to hypnotism, as we at present understand hypnotism, impressions have, in a number of instances sufficient to exclude all possibility of collusion or error, been conveyed from one mind to another without the use of any of the ordinary means of communication: and it is shown in experiments seriously conducted by trained observers that the faculties of thus communicating and receiving impressions can be steadily cultivated. In other words, it would appear that human consciousness possesses some sort of emanation, and although certain "ray" experiments possibly connected with the subject have not received universal acceptance, it is evident that the future is going to enlarge considerably our knowledge of the nature of mental process. At present we know nothing--and it has been said with some rashness that we must always remain in a like ignorance--of the interval between sense and consciousness. We know how the ear receives air-vibrations, how it collects and conducts them to the auditory nerves, carefully protecting itself, by the action of beautifully ordered springs and cushions, from the effects of vibrations violent enough to be dangerous to its own integrity. But even when we have followed vibrations as far as the nerve, and recognised the subtle variation of its own substance by which the nerve conducts the impression of them to the brain, we have no inkling of the means by which the phenomenon of consciousness which we call "mind" is produced. Well, now that by suggestion alone we can with perfect precision, and without the use of any air vibration whatever, cause a hypnotised person (or even a person who has at some earlier period been hypnotised but has recovered his normal state) to hear--in his mind alone--sounds which have no objective existence, just as vividly and clearly as any sounds we can physically produce, does it seem extravagant to believe that the whole mechanism of sense, nay, the dark mind-gulf beyond mechanism too, will receive full illumination from the science of the coming time? Such a discovery would, of course, throw utterly into shadow anything we have yet learned of the nature of man. It would bring us a step nearer to the knowledge of the unknown soul of him. What secrets might it not carry with it of those mysterious co-partners, mind and body, thought and brain? With this, the noblest subject that can be proposed to the intellect of man, the science of a hundred years hence will assuredly be busy, and imagination pales before the contemplation of a notion so vast. Limited as we are by the knowledge of our own time, we cannot even conjecture whither such discoveries might lead us. All we can affirm is that the whole outlook of man, nay, the nature of man himself, might very conceivably be changed by them, and the greatest problems of the thinker may be resolved when we eat of the fruit tendered us by this tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Perhaps the soul of man may quail before the revelations in store, fearing that in the day we eat thereof we shall surely die. CHAPTER VIII EDUCATION A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE Allowing, as every competent thinker must allow, a full measure of validity to the contention that social developments are matters of slow growth and gradual attainment rather than of sudden and catastrophic change; admitting that even in the sphere of scientific discovery and mechanical invention changes occur much more gradually than a cursory glance at individual achievements would suggest; recognising that many of the most remarkable changes whose arrival in the past is the only possible valid guide to anticipation of similar or kindred changes in the future; it is still a condition of such anticipation that we should take account of causes likely to be operative in altering the rate at which the world will move. To allow that social improvements generally have the air of occurring almost automatically is not to conceive that they are without cause. Neither can it be believed by anyone who has studied the history of such movements in the past, or watched them in current progress, that the rate of development is everywhere and at all periods the same. There have been eras of almost complete moral, and even of almost complete mechanical, stagnation in the history of the world. There have been other eras of almost violent reformation and reconstruction. To reason as if these characteristics were arbitrarily or miraculously imposed upon the physiognomy of society, to be content with laboriously unintelligent estimation of the facts without attempting to learn anything from them of their causes, is to neglect the only important lesson which either history or observation is capable of teaching. When, therefore, an enormous acceleration in a rate of progress already unprecedented in the records of society has been predicted for the next hundred years of human history, it is evident that this anticipation must have been based upon some estimate of forces calculated to be operative in producing acceleration. So far as scientific or material progress is concerned, it is obvious enough that we shall move forward with increasing momentum, because every discovery and every invention tends automatically to facilitate fresh attainment, and the very growth of population must act in the same way, as must also the struggle for existence. As there are every year more men and women working on scientific research and on mechanical invention, the results must be progressively greater every year; and as the rewards of success are increased by the growing demand resulting from a growing population, it is evident that the incentives to industry in this respect are proportionately liable to increase. But the ethical progress of the world is actuated by forces entirely different, and what makes for mechanical improvement may very easily be conceived--in fact has actually been conceived by one rather conspicuous prophet--to operate adversely upon the moral future of the race. No secret, however, has been made of the present writer's belief that our descendants a hundred years hence will have made moral progress quite as remarkable as the mechanical progress of which the anticipation is likely to be contested by no reasonably imaginative observer. This ethical improvement, gradual, and momentarily imperceptible as it may be, necessarily has causes which must now, however tentatively and however cursorily, be examined. That these causes will be powerful, continuous in action and based upon the fundamentals of human character, is evident. That in their operation they will be opposed by other influences not less easy to foresee is equally manifest. What we have to precognise are the net results likely to be achieved by the interaction of opposing forces, of which those tending to improvement are confidently believed the stronger. The most powerful of all moral influences in the future will undoubtedly be the reform of education, not merely by the improvement of its methods in various departments, but also, and with much more importance, in the general spirit with which its objects will be conceived. But in order to affirm that this reform will occur, we must first demonstrate that the grounds upon which it is anticipated are adequate. We must, in the terms of the formula above proposed, be satisfied that they are in harmony with the fundamentals of human character. If there be any human motive of which something approaching universality can be predicted--quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus--it is that of parental solicitude. No progenitor of children, however little amenable to high aspirations, is wholly free from the wish that his offspring shall grow up to be wiser, stronger, better, more prosperous than himself. The innate hopefulness of the race expressed in the arid comment that, in his own estimation, "man never is, but always to be blest," is often discouraged by the time a man's children are beginning to grow up, especially in these days of late marriage and deferred parenthood. Realising, as most of us have realised only too acutely by the time we are forty, that we have more or less failed in the ambitions which seemed so easy of future attainment when we were twenty-five, aspiration begins to cast a golden light upon the career of our children, and it is to the successes and the fame of our first-born that we look for consolation in the failure which, for ourselves, we no longer hope to evade. Romance, celebrity, even perhaps worldly reward, we can no longer expect for ourselves; but these dear hands that a little time ago we held while the first tottering steps of babyhood were being tried, shall return to us hereafter with the laurel in them that we have never plucked. Perhaps we shall not live to see it on our child's brow, but what of that? Our confident prevision of this glory is what we console ourselves withal: this, though we hardly know it, is our True Romance:-- "The comfortress of unsuccess, To bid the dead good-night." Neither in the material and the intellectual spheres alone do we aspire more nobly for our children than for ourselves. Not success and not fame limit our demand of Fate, that she repair in our children the injustice of which we ourselves cease to complain. We want them to be better men and women than we have been. To put the thing on its lowest ground (and nothing but the lowest motives ever seem to be accorded the smallest validity by the more conspicuous among recent vaticinators of human action) it behoves us to make the best we can of our children's morals, if we are presently in old age likely to be dependant upon them. But for those who, like Malvolio, "think nobly of the soul," it is sufficient to rely upon the manifested predilection of every parent in order to be convinced that the education of the future will be moralised as well as rationalised through the natural emotions of man. Only the dullest and most turgid imagination will consent to believe that the horrible conditions of competitive struggle will be permitted to foster only the lower faculties, as greed, selfishness, unscrupulous cunning and subtle evasiveness, at the expense of all the finer characteristics of man. There is no cynic so base as would deliberately seek the fortune of his sons in the inculcation of chicane. Struggle must sharpen all our intellects as life grows yearly more difficult, but one by-product of this attrition will be the increased morality with which the education of each generation successively arising will be conceived. Pausing for a moment to remark, in regard to the methods in detail by which the improvement of education will most likely be sought, that to foresee what is probable is not necessarily to endorse it as ideal, and that the object of this book is not to formulate Utopia, but to predict the consequences implied by existing forces after the latter have been during a stated time in operation; and admitting that no reform ever practised within the recorded history of man has been without drawbacks inherent in its own constitution, it may be said at once that the work of instruction is capable of mechanical and instrumental improvement not less considerable than any other labour to be undertaken by ourselves and our successors. Even within a lifetime's limits all sorts of appliances for assisting the mind of the learner to apprehend the facts sought to be learnt have been invented, and our children, as we all know, are much more easily taught than we were ourselves. The laudator temporis acti is always pretty ready to depreciate the value of these improvements, and perhaps it is natural enough in most of us to find it difficult to believe that any plan of teaching can be better for our children than the one which produced results so pleasingly exemplified by ourselves. But at all events, it will be generally, if a little grudgingly, admitted that any form of apparatus capable of saving time and trouble in teaching is capable of being ranked as an improvement. Unquestionably appliances having this object will be constantly invented and used during the present century. For instance, it is hardly conceivable that something less than perfection in the teaching of a foreign pronunciation by the mouth of the best teacher who can be hired for the work will content us, when perfected talking-machines presently enable us to give examples of the still better speech. Evidently a boy would learn to speak French with a purer accent by listening to a phonograph which, freed of the present tin-trumpet timbre and whirring, repeated the speech of the Comédie Française, than by hearing an ordinary master read aloud. To say this is not to suggest that professors of languages will be dispensed with; but their teaching can be thus supplemented. Similarly the use of magic-lanterns and kinetoscopic pictures is capable of improving greatly upon the blackboard and chalk still used. But the plan of education in itself is so greatly more important to be foreseen than the mechanism by which the details can be worked out, and the latter can with so very little difficulty be imagined by anyone interested in them, that the reader shall not be troubled with any discussion of this branch of the subject, but will rather be asked to concentrate his attention upon the moral and intellectual aspects of it. Conceiving, what I have all along endeavoured to show is reasonable to conceive, that all social institutions will be governed with ever-increasing intelligence and rationality as time goes on, and that they could not possibly be tolerated otherwise, it is easy to see that education as hitherto and at present practised would never do for our grandchildren, let alone for our more advanced descendants a hundred years hence. To begin with, parents in that era would certainly consider it hopelessly and criminally unethical, if not actively immoral. Projects of reform, especially in morals, are often dismissed as visionary, because it is pointed out that no changes can take place in the social order which do not appeal directly to the self-interest of the individual. In other words, there is no mainspring of social action except aggregated selfishness. Without delaying to examine the validity of the belief, it may be said at once that its full acceptance is no obstacle to the admission of the whole case on which is founded the belief that education will be conducted chiefly with a view to its moral effect at the period I am attempting to describe. The very circumstances on which writers rely, who predict the ethical deterioration of man, are those which make the ethical reform of education inevitable. Precisely in proportion as competition tends to harden and debase, there will arise the unavoidable necessity for deliberate counter-action of this tendency, resulting, as the effect of the measures necessitated becomes felt, in the changes of commercial and political conditions already [20] predicted. If we consider at all thoughtfully the necessities of a hundred years hence, it is not difficult to foresee the general lines upon which they are likely to be met--lines not necessary to be accepted as representing a perfect or ideal state, but broadly indicating the methods which the effect of visible tendencies will by that time demand of a practical people. Here, as everywhere else, the only safe guidance as to the practice of the future must be sought in the tendencies of the present. The tendency most forcibly in evidence during recent times is that in favour of softening the former acerbities of education. Whereas the schoolhouse of half a century ago was something like a penitentiary in the way it was conducted, the schoolhouse of to-day is managed as much like a place of recreation as it possibly can be. At all events, recreation is at least as assiduously cultivated as study, and the candidate for an under-mastership who has a good cricket record will find employment a good deal more easily than one with a double-first. If there be any complaint of public and other upper-class schools at the present time--and there is room for plenty of complaint--it is more often that games are too much insisted upon than that brains are overtaxed. There is a visible reaction in regard to this; but it is not to be regarded as a reaction in favour of the old draconic methods. On the contrary, "the growing sentimentality of the age" steadily demands amenity of treatment for the fortunate offspring of the twentieth century. The late James Payn, sanest and kindliest of men, was never tired of denouncing what he called the barbarous and indecent corporal punishments of Eton. He used to say that if a picture of an Eton boy being birched were published in the Illustrated London News no boy would ever be birched again, and I believe that he tried to get either Mr Latey or Mr Shorter to insert such a picture. Be this as it may, what he said was perfectly true. I shall have something to say presently on this same question of school discipline: meantime it may with perfect safety be predicted of the master's cane a hundred years hence that it will be found only in museums, and (whether rightly or wrongly) be regarded as a relic of degrading barbarism. One reason why corporal punishment will have to be abolished is that boys and girls will certainly be educated together instead of apart. As we could hardly cane girls (and it would be of very little use if we could) we shall assuredly have to get on without caning their masculine schoolmates. I suppose that few will contest the statement that the religious teaching practised in schools at the present time not only has very little to do with the question of morality but tends distinctly, except in Roman Catholic seminaries and some few non-conforming colleges where a special kind of education is given, to have less and less connection therewith. Whatever moral effect "schooling" has upon the adolescent is recognisably and recognisedly due to the "tone" of the school itself, that is, to public opinion among the taught, and only indirectly to anything which emanates from the teachers. Assuredly a proficient knowledge of Biblical history has no ethical effect greater than a proficient knowledge of Greek mythology (at least of so much of it as is properly selected for school use), and we have it on the authority of Mr E. H. Cooper, a very entertaining if not particularly sound writer on children, that even "Confirmation" classes are by no means uniform in promoting a religious sentiment in boys. [21] The moral advantages of education, therefore, tend to be found in the effect of public opinion and the general "tone" of a school. It is discovered in practice that direct moral inculcation is not very successful. It is to be assumed that the ingenuity of future pædagogues will be devoted to the discovery of the best ways in which indirect moral influence can be cultivated. In view of the high importance which will evidently be attached to such influence, we may take it for granted that it is not in connection with any single branch of tuition that it will be sought for, but that it will be root and branch of the whole scheme of educational work. One very powerful assistance will be rendered to this by the system of co-education. It is quite certain that boys and girls will always be educated together a hundred years hence. The tendency of the sexes to become less different intellectually is a known fact of sociology. [22] It carries with it an inevitable tendency to dispense with the separation of the sexes in education. Wherever co-education has been tried its effects have been excellent. The presence of female students in medical colleges has had a markedly reformative influence on the manners and moral tone of medical student life, not long ago the opprobrium of civilisation. The advantages to a parent of being able to send his sons and his daughters to one place of instruction, and to the children themselves of the companionship and maintenance of family relations thus afforded, are equally obvious. In one other respect, which can only be touched upon lightly here, the system of joint education must be enormously beneficial, at all events to boys, and greatly beneficial to their sisters. Every competent schoolmaster is acquainted with special difficulties liable to arise about the age of puberty. The monastic seclusion of the schoolboy (like that of the single men in barracks who, according to Mr Kipling, "don't grow into plaster saints"), and the glamorous mystery surrounding the opposite sex, tend to accentuate these difficulties. The habit of constant association with girls who are not his sisters relieves a boy of the exaggerated sense of sexual isolation. A boy always brought up with girls is not liable to be constantly thinking about girlhood: and in practical experience many people are aware that boys who have had the opportunity of frequent association with the girl friends of their sisters grow into purer-minded and more chivalrous men, than those who have lacked this advantage; and the thoughtful future will assuredly cultivate the system which affords it. It is quite evident, in addition, that the fatuous and unreasonable mystery with which for centuries the natural facts most liable to be important in adult life have been made inevitable subjects of unholy curiosity, will be swept away, to the great enhancement of sane and clean thought in girls as well as in boys, in young women even more than in young men: while the tragedies which knowledge can avert, hidden horrors of our own day that we are too sentimental to envisage, but that everyone must now and then have met with a hint of, will happily exist no more, or occur but rarely. Among the indirect considerations which will assist us to the conclusion that co-education is the best, will be the endeavour, everywhere apparent, to make the work of teaching agreeable to the taught. This is the keynote of the tendencies whose fruition we may look for at the end of this century. It will have been recognised that to conceive of education as a process of forcing knowledge into unwilling memories is to place the greatest possible obstacle in the way of success. Even the child whose natural faculties are joyously receptive is bound to resist more or less unconsciously teaching that is conducted on the assumption that he won't learn if he can possibly help it. The worst child in the class sets the tone of the rest. The boy who can most successfully evade real learning, and trick his instructors well enough to escape punishment, is the hero of the place. Nothing could be much worse for morality. Public opinion in schools, useful as it is in other respects, is everywhere harmful in this particular. The pædagogue of the future will proceed on a method far more rational. In its essence it is quite easy to see what method the tendency of thought is likely to develop. Here, as in so many other places, etymology can help us. If we could think, whenever we talk or make plans concerning the subject, of what education really means--a drawing-out of the natural faculties of the instructed--we should always conceive more rationally of the work. There is no animal whose greatest pleasures are derived from anything else than the exercise of its faculties. Our dog, whether he jumps and tears about in glee as we take him for a walk, or sits happily by our side, his head on our knees, his wistful eyes scrutinising our face, sympathetic with every emotion, illustrates this fact. In the one case he is exercising the natural faculties of speed and vigorous agility; in the latter, the acquired and inherited faculties of mental comprehension. Shut him up in a room alone, or with an unfriendly person, and he is miserable or goes to sleep, providently accumulating energy for the next opportunity of exercise. What I am not afraid to call his mental pleasures are not less keen, if I know anything at all of dogs (who have loved many of them) than his physical pleasures; and I never had a dog in my life who would not cheerfully neglect his food to come indoors and sit with me in my library. Are children's brains less energetic, less capable of yielding pleasure to their small proprietors than the brains of a dog? One of the mistakes that we are already beginning to find out (and consequently one of those which we may expect to have amended long before this time next century) is the tacit assumption that games are richer in pleasure than study. It isn't the boys and girls themselves that give this tincture to school-government. Plenty of them really prefer books before balls, until they go to school; where we at once proceed to show them that we regard cricket as a sort of alleviation of their hard lot, and with football console them for their French lessons, and redress arithmetic by "rounders." There is no reason why this should lead to any neglect of athletics. Only, athletics will be properly treated as only one of the joys of a school life that will be fulfilled of other pleasures equally absorbing. The method which will make education agreeable instead of repulsive is part and parcel of the system on which education will be conducted, and it is only incidentally that it will subserve the concurrent sentimental tenderness which finds expression to-day in unwise use of games in themselves highly beneficial, just as elsewhere it finds expression by cultivating gluttony. [23] The true object of instruction being to show children how to think, the intellectual exercise of thinking will be always found, as it has already long ago been found where this highly unusual method has been experimented with, to give keen pleasure to the instructed. [24] A great deal that has been said both in regard to the excessive and in part exclusive training of memory, and in regard to the propriety of reversing the general order of tuition by proceeding from concrete facts to generalised theories instead of beginning with generalisations and illustrating these by specific instances, is, for practical reasons, hardly likely to be acted upon by our descendants. To begin with, the culture of memory is not in itself an abuse; on the contrary, it is a highly necessary feature of education. What is an abuse is the substitution of remembrance for ratiocination. Teachers in the future will be more anxious to develop the mind from within than to graft information upon it from without. But they certainly will foster the faculty called memory--or to speak more exactly, they will refrain from destroying that faculty in the way that present-day education destroys it. For as a matter of fact, the memory of a young child who has never been taught anything is invariably good, being both copious and retentive. One often hears it said that children quickly forget; but it is also the case that they very quickly remember again. An Anglo-Indian friend told me a somewhat pleasing anecdote which (though of course it does not prove) illustrates a general fact of which anyone can find proofs for himself by a little observation. Having taken home for a year's leave his children, reared, like all other English children in India, amid native servants, and speaking quite correct Urdu instead of the barbarous dog-Hindustani which suffices for their elders, he was under the impression, when the "wicked day of destiny" arrived, and the family had to return from refreshment in England to labour in India, that they had completely forgotten the soft vernacular speech which formerly came much more easily from them than English. And his belief was confirmed when, the children having been promptly carried off by the adoring servants, an aged bearer came to him almost in tears, complaining that "Baba Sahib" could not understand him. But the next day all the little people were chattering Urdu as easily as ever. The fact is that a child's mind concentrates itself intensely upon whatever subject interests at a given moment, and neglects everything else. By our present method of education we do all that the most malignant ingenuity could devise to destroy both this invaluable gift of mental concentration and the accompanying faculty of memory. The new teaching will industriously cultivate both. There is no doubt that the premature and unskilful use of books as implements of instruction is extremely bad for the memory; and the employment of distasteful and inconsiderate methods of teaching is equally destructive of concentration. A hundred years hence, when it has been recognised that the easiest way to teach anything is to find out how a child can be made to want to learn about it, there will be no difficulty in securing attention. Children's minds do not, as most people suppose, tire very easily. On the contrary, they are with great difficulty fatigued. Anyone who has been so imprudent as to embark on a course of tale-telling near bedtime or near a meal hour, knows that the little people are almost incapable of being satiated. And the descendants of these little people will be just as insatiable of being taught, because we shall have found out how to make them want to be taught. Herein is the whole keynote of the education of the future, moral as well as intellectual. We shall no longer treat good behaviour as if it were an artificial and unnatural abstinence from the true desires of the child or of man. We shall arrange that people, young and old, may wish to act rightly. The point of reform will be shifted. At present, all kinds of morality are approached on the assumption that it is requisite to persuade to an unwilling abstinence from vice, and that when the desires of the wicked have been curbed into a sort of ascetic abstemiousness prompted by fear of punishment, whether overt or implicit, a moral feat has been performed. The new morality will only be content when the subject of it would not sin if you asked him to. His moral sense will have been stoically cultivated. Obedience and the law of Thou-shalt-not will be dethroned. This law represents in the education of to-day the highest form of youthful virtue. Yet mere obedience, even where it has always been considered most valuable, namely, where it takes the shape of military discipline, has proved an utter failure; the last two great wars proved the fact. If the lamentable doggerel which enshrines the applauded self-immolation of Casabianca have not fortunately been forgotten altogether a hundred years hence, it will assuredly be quoted only as a monumental example of old-fashioned fat-headedness, even more offensive to the sense of reason than the verses themselves are to the sense of poetical taste. The Casabiancas of the next century will have been allowed--I do not say taught, because children don't need to be taught this--to think for themselves. And no great exertion will have been required. On the contrary, it is impossible to listen for many hours to what goes on in a modern school without being impressed with the ingenious arrangements that are required in order to prevent boys and girls from thinking for themselves. The notion of their doing so seems as offensive to the present race of schoolmasters as, to Mr W. S. Gilbert's sentinel,-- ... "the prospect of a lot Of dull M.P.s in close proximity All thinking for themselves." However, the purpose of this dissertation is not so much to point out the errors of the present as to indicate the improvements of the future: and we may be sure that the prime virtues of the scholar a hundred years hence will be reasonableness and ingenuity, not dull obedience. Thus right conduct will be inculcated, not as an expression of obedience but as the only reasonable way of behaving, and the incentive to right action will be that it is also sensible action. The test of all conduct will be its results. Whatever does harm to self and others will be obviously wrong; what does good or is indifferent will be right. The standard of these things that has to be accepted all through life will be set up from the first, an enormous improvement upon the vicious system of exacting irrational obedience for the first eighteen or twenty-one years of life, and expecting this to produce reasonable self-government thereafter, which is so fruitful in the wild-oats of early adulthood. The latter could hardly be more ingeniously cultivated. It would be extremely rash to conclude that books will not be employed as implements of instruction: but it is quite certain that they will not be employed as they now are, chiefly for the purpose of saving a schoolmaster the trouble of making his pupils think for themselves: and incidentally the abolition of this mistake will react most usefully upon memory, itself, with the exception of reasoning power, the most valuable of mental faculties. Oral teaching, accompanied in every possible place by practical illustration, will store and build up memory (as it always does when we employ it now) far more rapidly than anything else. The delight which this method of teaching confers upon the taught is enhanced by the avidity with which such subjects as chemistry, practical mechanics, and even geometry when taught with apparatus instead of with figures, are received by children of every growth. To imagine that children can ever invariably be controlled without some sort of punishments would, no doubt, be thought ridiculous Utopianism. But the greatest part of the necessity for correction will have disappeared automatically when the greatest source of youthful misbehaviour--restless superfluous activity--has been deviated into channels which will utilise it. Children whisper, fidget, or make a noise in class, simply because they are bored by the dulness of mechanical processes which we persistently use in seeking to cram information into their minds from without instead of exercising the reason that dwells within. As the education of future generations will assuredly have to be a great deal more copious than what we are content with now, it is fortunate that this reform will also be a great economiser of time. Every schoolmaster knows that an interested class progresses far more rapidly than one that is bored and consequently inattentive; and the same boy who is alive to the subtlest implications of the highly complex law of cricket, will often be found utterly incapable of applying the very simple definitions at the beginning of Euclid I., for the simple reason that cricket interests him, while Euclid doesn't. This is not because the latter is "harder" than cricket, nor yet because cricket is an outdoor pleasure, while Euclid is (or rather should be) an indoor one. It is because in cricket we get him into the habit of reasoning for himself, while in geometry we only too frequently fail to do what Euclid is supposed to help us to do. Nevertheless, after making every allowance for reduced temptations to misbehaviour resulting from the absorption of redundant mental activity, it is still to be feared that disciplinary punishment will sometimes be required. This will certainly not be corporal. The uncivilised and degrading expedient of purposely-inflicted pain is visibly on its last legs. There are still reactionary people who write to the papers in order to explain that the use of scholastic torture makes for manliness; they must be presumed to think that it would be on the whole rather good for boys to be birched at intervals, like Charles Lamb, not as a punishment, but to keep them humble. But the next century will have outgrown such ideas. The commonest of present-day alternatives--"lines"--is equally obsolescent, the evil effect of this upon handwriting and health being already recognised. "Keeping-in" is probably the most injurious of all forms of correction, but it is only too consistent with our present plans of education to treat extra tuition as a punishment--the best possible way to make all teaching hated. It is much more likely that the schoolmaster of a hundred years hence will punish refractory and inattentive pupils by keeping-out instead of keeping-in. The most detested of all chastisements will be exclusion from the pleasant exercise of learning. During the Russo-Japanese War newspaper readers noted with saturnine amusement that the artillery regiment which in St Petersburg had the maladroitness to fire a salute with a shotted gun and very nearly kill the Czar thereby, was punished by being sent to the front; while at the beginning of hostilities the exemplary conduct of the enormous Japanese army crowded in Tokio for transport was accounted for by the threat that any soldier who misbehaved himself would be left at home. It is the Japanese and not the Russian ideal of discipline that will animate the schools of the future. We shall no doubt emulate the reserve of the Confessor in the Bab Ballads; old heads upon young shoulders we shall not expect to find; and we shall punish when punish we must. Future advantage, even for oneself, is seldom a very powerful motive with the young of any age. But present deprivation is a chastisement easily and keenly comprehended: and the loss of intellectual status involved in exclusion from a lesson will no doubt supplement the immediate boredom very distasteful to an agile mind, which is the more immediate effect. I imagine that the naughty child of the future will be punished by being shut up in a well-ventilated and well-lighted but perfectly empty room, with pockets equally empty. At the same time, by treating deprivation of it as an evident chastisement, the desirable nature of instruction will be in a very useful manner impressed upon the infant mind. Young persons much more easily believe what they find to be treated as a matter of course than what is laboriously impressed upon them by explicit inculcation. Thus the effect of rationalised education will not be, as one critic has rather rashly supposed, to make children little prigs. On the contrary, its effect will be to make them naturally and happily interested little learners--a very different thing. One of the very greatest improvements in the rationalised education will precisely be that it cannot possibly foster the awful priggishness which is a very common result of our own methods. It has been said already that the education of the happy future will have to be much more copious than anything that is at all common nowadays. The nature of its extensions will next be discussed. One of the most important and most moral objects of education is to impress upon the mind, as a principle not to be evaded by any contrivance whatever, the fact that fixed causes (among which are personal acts of any kind) produce fixed effects--that there is no circumstance which, with sufficient knowledge, could not be traced back to pre-existing causative circumstance. No department of knowledge tends so intimately to give to the mind the impress of this fact in the course of its acquisition as physical science. And as a proficient acquaintance with physical science will be necessary to a great many occupations, when work of all kinds is performed in the intelligent manner in which we have seen reason to be convinced that it will be performed a hundred years hence, there will be a greater practical need for scientific instruction than there is now, though science is disgracefully neglected even with regard to our present necessities. As education is to be given with the object of fitting children for life as well as developing their minds, the science of health will certainly be taught; but all physical sciences will have their place on the curriculum even at the early stages, because it will have been recognised that the habit of mind which is formed by studies of this kind is not only very necessary to an efficient working life, but also very helpful as a basis of practical culture. It may be conceived that a thorough "grounding" in physical science will be thought as much an essential of all education in the future as a really good training in Latin and Greek used to be considered in the past, and as many of us would like it to be considered now. Fifty years ago we believed that no true education could be given in preparation for ordinary life without as much Latin as was necessary in order to be able to write a fair copy of elegiacs, and as much Greek as was necessary in order to read Homer with comfort. A hundred years hence we shall think it necessary to be able to read a scientific thesis comprehendingly. At a later period of school life, but still early in it, specialised instruction will no doubt be begun; and subjects connected with the evident tendency of a boy's or a girl's mind, and with the opportunities likely to be presented to either in forming a career, will be developed to the exclusion of subjects less immediately subservient to the object of making a useful citizen of him or her in some particular profession or branch of industry. Practical demonstrations of science, instead of being reserved for the more advanced stages of tuition, will, on the contrary, form the groundwork; and children will be required to work practically themselves instead of merely sitting still to watch the performances (in this case apt to be regarded with little more respect than scholastic conjuring tricks) of a teacher. They will be invited to deduce laws for themselves from what occurs in practice, and where they deduce wrong ones they will not be arbitrarily corrected, but assisted to make further experiments which will show where the mistake occurs, until at last the correct generalisation is reached. Only after a considerable course of practical work will they be entrusted with books in which great generalisations are to be found ready made, and these books will always be regarded as a sort of pis aller--a time-saving contrivance to be employed as a regrettable alternative, because it would take too long to work everything out by the golden implement of individual observation. The habit of mind thus cultivated, and the manual dexterity thus obtained, will be of priceless practical worth in after-life; and with what rapturous enjoyment will our descendants acquire knowledge which at present we force upon our children with stripes! Along with the physical sciences mathematics will have to be greatly cultivated. But mathematics, when perceived to be ancillary to the more immediately delightful work of concrete and experimental science, will lose much terror. Many mathematical operations can moreover be demonstrated experimentally, and no opportunity of thus demonstrating them will be lost. Rightly treated, mathematics need never be dull. According to my own experience and all that I have been able to gather from the recollections of others, algebra (for instance) is never abhorred when a proper care is taken to make use of its call upon the reasoning faculties; and the art of evoking this use will have been carefully developed by the educational specialists who alone will be permitted to direct so delicate and important a task as the training of the young. For school teachers will not be merely more or less erudite people employed to dispense their learning: they will be men and women who have undergone long and careful instruction in the art of pædagogy studied as a specialised faculty in itself. After mathematics, no doubt languages occupy chief place in the righteous abhorrence of present-day school-children. I say righteous abhorrence with intention, because this department of useful learning always has the air of being purposely planned in order to secure the maximum of execration accompanied by the minimum of advantage. What languages will be taught a hundred years hence, and in what manner will they be instilled into the children of our great-great-grand-children? Any opinions upon a controversy so recent as that which a few months ago raged about the question of compulsory Greek must be more or less untrustworthy. Every man will take the view of the future of the dead languages (so called, as someone [25] sanguinely remarked, because they can never die) determined by his own view as to whether proficiency in the tongues of Hellas and of Rome ought to be maintained in his own day. But for a reason probably admitting of very little controversy, it is at all events permissible to believe that the classical languages will at least not have to meet the urgent competition of a variety of current languages as subjects of useful learning. This reason is to be found in the evident tendency of a paramount tongue to extrude other tongues from practical employment in commerce; and commerce, more than anything else, will of course always determine the question of modern language study. Provided that the race which becomes paramount in the markets of the world during the course of this century possesses a reasonably philosophical, copious, precise language, and one fairly easy to acquire, it is likely that for commercial purposes it will become (to use an incorrect, but not conveniently replaceable term) universal. To the facile remark that every nation considers its own speech easy enough for foreigners to acquire, and much more satisfactory in the other respects named than any tongue which it is invited to give itself the trouble of learning, may be opposed the reply that peoples do in fact recognise, where it exists, the unsatisfactory nature of their own speech. For example, nearly every Russian whom one meets in polite or commercial circles speaks at least French, and often speaks it admirably; while in Norway, though the Scandinavian languages are none of them anything like so difficult to learn as Russian, practically everyone speaks English. The case of Japan is even more illustrative; for apart from the fact that enough of some European language to enable one to travel with perfect comfort is always to be found current in the Mikado's empire, it is the case that even for domestic use the Japanese have a popular language, printed in newspapers and in some books alongside of the more literary Chinese idæographs, and frequently used to elucidate the latter. [26] Thus it is quite easy to believe that the paramount language of commerce will impose itself upon at least the business population of the whole world. As the substitution of modern languages for the dead languages is advocated solely on utilitarian grounds, which practically means that it is advocated because to know a couple or more foreign languages is useful in trade; and as no one has ever seriously pretended that French, German or any other modern language can compare with Greek and Latin as intellectual gymnastics and as training in the precise expression of one's thoughts; it may be assumed that, on the ground of competitive usefulness, the latter will not need to be dispensed with. Whether the study of them will be abandoned on the ground that the time they require can be better employed in some study other than that of languages is another and more difficult question, the resolution of which depends upon the view we take of the literary tendencies probably existing after another century. If we believe that our descendants will have effected so many improvements in the shape of labour-saving contrivances as to afford a large increase of leisure for everyone, as compared with what the present time enjoys, we shall probably expect the languages which enshrine the greatest literature of the world to remain a subject of study. If we believe in the growing intellectuality of man, we shall be strengthened in the same expectation. If, on the other hand, we think that the progress of our race will exhibit itself in the shape of greedy utilitarianism and of idiotic and self-destructive immorality, we shall naturally conclude that no one will be fool enough to trouble himself with Homer or the Oresteian trilogy, the laments of Sappho or the philosophy of Plato. Seeing what great men have taken this somewhat despondent view of the future, it would perhaps be immodest to express any other opinion on the subject. In any event, we may safely believe that whatever languages are taught will not be handled in the manner now current. Mr Andrew Lang has, in more than one place, described his own "floundering" into Homer--a plunge certainly attended with the happiest results. A method of teaching alien languages which founds itself upon an imitation of the natural picking-up of the mother tongue by babies has been suggested, perhaps without sufficient consideration of the vast expenditure of time necessary to the process, and certainly without sufficient allowance for the fact that it would be impossible to afford the same incessant practice which enables children to learn the language of their fathers and mothers so easily. But there is no reason why we should perpetuate the discouraging preponderance of grammatical and etymological study which caused the late H. D. Traill to say of certain professors that "They heard with a smile of the flowers of style For they recognised nothing but roots!" In fact, here as elsewhere, the persistent demand that schooling be made agreeable will have the best possible effect in facilitating instruction. It is as literature that all languages--including the native language of the scholars--will be taught; and they will be taught far more easily than we have any example to assist us in imagining. Where a foreign language pronounced with a different accent and intonation from that of the learner is studied, no doubt (as already mentioned) talking machines will be employed: and in addition, pupils will be required to read and speak the language aloud on all possible occasions, in order to exercise the organs of speech in the alien manner. [27] It is a trite saying, and one that need not be dwelt upon here, that history ought not to be taught as if its sole purpose were to store the memory with the deeds and misdeeds of kings and the progress of various wars. It will certainly be studied hereafter as a vast lesson in sociology and politics, as an illustration of the science of human dynamics. It is perhaps not superfluous to remark that brilliant examples of the new historiography have shown that the difference is not, in its result, so great as some critics imagine. But the deductions from the facts of history are the important matter: and the way in which history will be used a hundred years hence will be in instructing the future governors of the world how to use their citizenship wisely. Among other things expected of the schoolmaster of the future will be that he implant in his scholars an ardent desire to do their part in determining the polity of the state they live in, and the sacred duty of the ballot will certainly be taught with relation to whatever methods of utilising the popular vote may by that time have become current. Moreover, history, like languages, is capable of being taught as literature; and the protest against the prevalent notion that high civilisation involves the decadence of beauty in any form implies belief in all the arts as subjects of cultivation in the schools of the future. It need not be supposed that the unreasonable waste of time entailed by the present method of teaching such a subject as drawing, and our curious neglect of sculpture and modelling, will be perpetuated. As we can already see the dawn of new ideas on both these subjects the tendency of the future in regard to them is not difficult to conceive, nor need space be consumed in discussing them in detail. Literature and poetry (the latter, I need hardly say, no longer made merely hateful as the subject of the fatuous torture called "learning by heart") with belles-lettres, drawing, painting, and sculpture, will no doubt be taught in an elementary way to all children, and the study of them developed further where a natural appetite demands it. In reply to the very natural question, "How can an art be taught?" it is only needful to say that minds exercised by being made to think about such subjects, are quite certain to exhibit special predilections in one place and special aversions in another, and that the ascertainment of these predilections and aversions will everywhere be made the subject of painstaking thought. While nobody seriously pretends nowadays that a taste for literature or the arts can be inoculated upon a child's understanding, I imagine that few will question the belief that a natural bent for any one of them can be assisted in its development, and that taste, while it is incapable of being artificially implanted, certainly is susceptible of being guided and assisted. The defect of routine teaching in æsthetics at present is the defect of all our systems of education. We try to do a scholar's thinking for him. We laboriously show him how to use a pencil and how to copy drawings and pictures; and sometimes (though this kind of instruction is usually retailed by the ingenious writers who endeavour to instruct the adult public through the Press) we even go to the trouble of telling him the kind of pictures he ought to admire (usually forgetting that in the house of Art there are many mansions, and that a disgust for the early Dutch masters does not necessarily imply an incapacity for appreciating Velasquez); but, whether in adolescence or maturity, we never seem to arrive at the point of trying to get people to think critically for themselves. We shall reform altogether the processes of artistic education in the course of this century. The training of eye and hand will certainly not be neglected. If only because learning any kind of handicraft gives the keenest enjoyment to children, we may be sure that manual instruction will be given, and that the effect of it will be of great value, not only recreative but also practical. Our mechanics will not have to inaugurate the wage-earning period of their lives by the elementary acquisition of the use of tools. Their future occupation will have been foreseen, and both by scientific understanding of the processes they are to subserve, and by manual practice of the exact work they are to perform, they will be prepared for intelligent craftsmanship; the glorious fact that real anxiety to find out the best possible method of attaining the best possible results makes every craft, however humble, not merely delightful but also noble, being automatically grasped, so that work, like learning, will be a thing of joy and a source, to the worker, of lifelong self-respect. Thus in every department of education the result of the training administered intelligently, and with almost infinite long-sightedness and subtlety during school-days, will be to form character, not by repression of any natural predilection, but by cultivation of mental and moral impulses to good. We shall never be content with an obedient abstention from misconduct, but shall unrestingly contrive that the desire to act rightly as well as wisely be implanted in the mind, until wisdom, righteousness and forethought have been stamped upon the character with so indelible an imprint that it would do violence to the whole contour of the mind to act in defiance of them. A people thus trained will be capable of all the reforms predicted of society a hundred years hence. Not by any of the unimaginable cataclysms by which dreamers have expected Utopia to be established, ready-made, on a basis of unreformed obedience to the will of fantastic lawgivers, but by the steady growth of national morality will progress, "Moving as beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man," establish, on the basis of a perfect harmony between the nature of the units and the institutions of society, the rationalised, moralised, and still progressive state of the world looked for by all who contemplate logically and with ordered faith the capabilities of their kind a hundred years hence. CHAPTER IX RELIGION: THE FINE ARTS: LITERATURE A good many people contemplate the future of the world with an alarmed feeling that vast material progress and enlarged knowledge of the visible and tangible universe are likely to be accompanied by intellectual developments dangerous to the religious spirit in mankind. But to consider thus is to overlook the manifest trend of human thought at the present time. Of the two influences named, material progress and enlarged information about the universe, the former is probably much more directly liable to affect religious feeling adversely than the latter. Epochs of high civilisation and great luxury have often accompanied a general tendency to scepticism, and these conditions are also perhaps (and for the same reasons) not highly favourable to the highest developments of poetry. There have been periods of scientific discovery which have coincided with the spread of irreligion. During the second half of the nineteenth century there was, for instance, no doubt a great increase of popular scepticism arising out of popular deductions (or supposed deductions) from science. Religion unquestionably lost ground in the sense that dogmatic irreligion became rather fashionable. When the people began to learn that geological research had entirely upset the Biblical chronology, and that biological research had proved the development of animal life by evolutionary processes not compatible with a literal acceptance of the account of the creation in Genesis; when knowledge of the developments of language proved that the various tongues of mankind could not possibly have been the subject of a sudden, cataclysmal "confusion" at Babel or elsewhere, and when it became common knowledge that the sun and stars were not suddenly produced for the convenience of man, but were, on the contrary, for the most part much older, as suns and stars, than the earth itself; it is not surprising that minds untrained in philosophical deduction leaped towards atheism, although, of course, none of these discoveries has any more to do with religion, as religion, than, say, chemistry has to do with music. Unless one takes a highly anthropomorphic view of the subject they are not even inimical to revelation. Of course it is open to anyone who chooses, to say that if the statements in the Bible, said to be inspired, are incorrect, the Creator (and Inspirer) either did not know how He had done His work, or told untruths about it; and consequently that scientific discovery has disproved revelation. But that is what I have called a highly anthropomorphic argument, and it may safely be left to the apologists to demolish. Assuredly it is not a sort of argument likely to be met with in the cultured and logical future. But it was an argument which commended itself very widely to the uncultured and illogical past, and great efforts were made to deal with it. These efforts were really inimical to religious faith. Religion having been declared to rest upon the irrefragable rock of Holy Scripture, there appeared to many excellent people an urgent necessity that science should be set right, that the theory of Evolution (by which was meant, for these thinkers, Darwinism) must be disproved: otherwise all faith must go by the board, and the world must descend into pure materialism. The Biblical criticism produced in Germany, and apparently received in the very heart of the Christian camp, seemed to plain men not merely to assail this irrefragable rock but to strike at the roots of religion itself. Atheism, having become unfashionable, was exchanged from an "agnosticism" of which the popular conception was not a great deal more philosophical. The whole question of religion was conceived to hang together. The Bible was the Word of God: if the Bible could not stand, God must fall. And the stability of the Bible was considered to rest upon scientific accuracy. A miscellaneous collection of writings, certainly of great, but of variously computed antiquity, was to be absolutely right (which no other documents of anything like the same age have ever been) on scientific facts; otherwise it could not be retained as a text-book of the churches. The latter (sometimes themselves claiming inspiration) had declared the Bible to be directly inspired: and by some people inspiration was taken to imply literal and detailed truth, though literal and detailed truth would certainly have made the collection utterly incomprehensible by the persons who have used it during all but the last comparatively insignificant portion of its existence, and to most persons even then. Evidently such a conception of the Bible, accompanied by the opinion that religion could only exist on the basis of the Bible, was dangerous to popular religion in proportion as the opinions here summarised met with public support. Hardly less dangerous was the endeavour of some apologists to assist the difficulty of belief by attenuating the minimum required of it. The exposure of their rather circular arguments--basing Faith on the inspired Bible, and the inspiration of the Bible on its internal evidence--titillated in the untrained thinker who had rejected (as he was encouraged to reject) the claim of the Church to be the repository of inspired tradition, a sense of his own logical acuteness. With a warm glow of self-approval he abandoned the ancient shibboleths and left off going to church, being convinced that no really well-informed intelligence could tolerate the mutual contradiction of science and religion. With no more ability to understand the arguments which supported the one than the philosophy which lay at the root of the other, and quite unaware that religious belief is capable of development and is as much a product of evolution as any material phenomenon, he considered according to temperament that religion was either a mischievous invention calculated to clog the progress of the world, or a pardonable aberration of amiable minds seeking consolation in superstition of one sort or another. The religiously-minded thinker of the same calibre welcomed with enthusiasm the antagonisms of scientific schools discovered for him by the less wary of his teachers, and decided that Darwin was wrong, that Huxley was following false scents, and that science would have to revise all its later conclusions. In neither case (naturally) was ... "divine philosophy, Not harsh and crabbèd as dull fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute," called into the assize. "Mistakes of Moses," to be either proved or justified, were popularly supposed to be the touchstone of religion's fate. Meanwhile, though the combatants in the popular arena were quite unaware of it, the true thinkers were realising vast depths which science had left still unexplored, and the very investigations undertaken to account for the beginnings of life on this planet were proving the belief in the spontaneous generation of life a figment. Whatever effect science may have had upon myth, it was doing nothing to assail the ultimate mystery which is the basic fact of religion. By degrees, too, the philosophical untenableness of materialism began to be popularised, and although it is a great deal easier to accept (or decline) scientific discoveries without understanding the evidence for or against them than to grasp such abstract considerations as the subjectivity of phenomena, popular scepticism began to be directed into new channels. If we could only know phenomena we really know nothing; and it was just as likely that the most absurd myths of the hagiologist might be true as that they might be false--since one could know nothing. Towards the end of the century there is no doubt that among the masses of the people the incomprehensibleness of things in general had the effect of popularising a certain tolerance of Christianity among the class which, a little earlier, had been repudiating it altogether; and if church-going, Sabbath-keeping and other formal acts of religion continued to be mentioned by the clergy and their adherents as the subject of lamentable negligence, the habits thus deplored arose, less and less from conviction and more and more from taste. People stayed away from church not because they rejected Christianity but because church-going bored them. If the clergy saw their congregations dwindle they had themselves to thank for it. The atrocious dulness of nearly all sermons drove away more churchmen than were lured from their pews by militant irreligion. There is not the smallest reason to believe that "free thought" propaganda had any really important part in producing the indifference denounced by the churches. The simple fact is that a growing appetite for amusements, athletic and other, and an intolerance of the boredom inflicted by preachers too indolent or too imperfectly educated to make their discourses tolerable by an active mind, robbed the churches of their visitors. A good preacher never lacked a crowded congregation even in the middle of a week-day in the city of London; nor are such congregations lacking now. No doubt the form of education generally adopted in non-Catholic countries has been a great cause of indifferentism. The fostering of parental indolence by States which profess to relieve it of the duty of religious as well as the expense of other teaching, cannot tend to promote religious education. To take our own country for an example, fathers, who would make it a duty to instil as well as they were able the principles of their own faith into the minds of their children if the board schools were not supposed to teach Christianity, doubtless neglect that task in the existing conditions, a fact which makes it quite easy to understand why congregations are so largely made up of elderly people, while boys and girls, not young enough to be haled unwillingly to the parental pew, and young men and maidens, young wives and husbands "educated" on the prevailing system, tend more and more to amuse themselves, not in irreligion but in indifference. The squabbles of the sects have made it impossible to invest Christianity in board schools, unless the law be flagrantly violated, with any of the importance necessary to the foundation of a genuinely religious spirit; and the very children find that religion is treated as a thing of much less importance than sums or a good handwriting. No one struggles and wrangles about the right way to do long division. Long division, therefore, is a settled thing and important. But everybody quarrels and snarls as to who shall teach his particular kind of religion. Religion, therefore, is a doubtful sort of thing, about which even grown-up people do not agree. It cannot be of much importance. If you ask father about it, he says it is the teacher's business to answer you. And in school, it has to be attended to at a certain time so as not to interfere with the real business of the day. Clearly it doesn't much matter; and the child resolves, as soon as it is old enough, to escape from the weekly boredom of sitting still for two hours in a stuffy church or chapel, saying the same things over and over again, and listening to a dull man in a sort of elevated and ornamented witness-box talking in a patronising tone about things not easy to understand, and not in the least practically useful when heard. Of course this is not the only sort of influence which has been at work to produce a result likely to affect the attitude of the present century towards the question. If the facts are as I have stated them (which I do not think anyone will dispute) we see one very good reason why the younger generation is just now somewhat irreligious. I do not believe it is nearly as irreligious as many good people (on both sides) think. But I do believe that we, at all events, have as a nation been doing every thing we can to make it so. There is no surer way of preventing a thing's being done than for the State to make a show of doing it and then neglect it. If the school boards had not assumed the duty of teaching children Christianity, parents would have attended to the matter, and probably done it a great deal better than the boards could possibly have done it, even in the best conditions. And if anyone says that you can't teach Christianity, the reply is, that in the sort of conditions which exist in England at the present time, the religious spirit is not favoured unless religion is taught. I said at the beginning that the sort of life we lead now, and that we are likely to go on living during the next hundred years, is probably more unfavourable to the spirit than any directly irreligious influence of science or discovery. People who are crowded into towns, where they are out of constant touch with Nature and the immensities of space, and lead a hurried, busy existence unfavourable to deep thought and mysticism, are much less liable to yearn for some explanation of the vast incomprehensible universe, the profound misgivings of the soul, than people who have other opportunities, who know the massive face of solitude and have lain under the inscrutable stars. The very frequency of terrible experience, when death stalks in the streets and a funeral procession is so common a sight that men hardly turn their unbared heads to look upon it, blunts the sense of awe; and in the cheap Press the alleged humorist finds it a choice subject for joking. A hundred years hence, though I hope our humorous Press won't be quite so ghastly, still more of us will have lived always in cities, and been rarely intimate with Nature. Unless, therefore, some new influences supervene, it is likely that the new age will be even less religiously inclined than the age we live in. Is it probable that such an influence will arise? Or will the next century have turned its face altogether from faith and given up in despair the world-old riddle of the universe? Assuredly, with the increase, impossible to be denied, of conditions unfavourable to church-going, the influence which could arrest the tendencies of thought at present supposed to exist must be a powerful one. But in computing the exact potency which it would require to possess we must take an accurate view of the tendencies themselves. Now, although dogmatic religion has to a certain extent lost ground, and though formal observances are somewhat neglected, it would be a fallacy to consider that morality is in consequence retrograding. The steady growth of such things as teetotalism; the revolt of the public conscience against tame stag hunting and against what was aptly called "murderous millinery"; the support afforded to the societies for the Protection of Children and for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals; the generous responses made to any appeal for public subscriptions to meet any great disaster; the remarkable way in which the working people, out of their miserable poverty, help each other in time of strikes; the waves of public indignation which the exposure of any great injustice is able to arouse; all show that the world is by no means retrograde in respect of morals. What is often called the growing sentimentality of the age, which opens all pockets at the call of want, and doubtless sometimes leads to ridiculous exhibitions of mistaken feeling, is a proof that the ethical sense of the people is by no means blunt; and it shows a constant tendency to become keener. It is mysticism rather than morality which is chiefly lacking to a re-development of the religious spirit. And although the opinions of the mass of the people are likely to be influenced at all times more by the results at which what are called leaders of thought arrive than by the reasons which lead up to those conclusions, it is rational to expect that with the improved and much more thoroughly disseminated education which the necessities of the coming century are going to enforce upon us, will make the people more accessible to philosophical reasoning than they have ever been since Socrates. Consequently, the general attitude of the world a hundred years hence towards mysticism will depend greatly upon the conclusions of eminent thinkers. These conclusions will require time in order to exercise their influence; but it seems probable that the influence will be towards and not away from mysticism. An attempt to foresee the probable position, as an institution, of religion in the future therefore demands the consideration of what net result is likely to be deduced from science and philosophy by the improved average intelligence of this century. I speak expressly of religion as an institution, intending thereby to limit the inquiry to an attempt to determine the popular view of religion; the pretence to anticipate the opinions of the great philosophers that this century will no doubt produce being a little too presumptuous even for the present writer, who may not be considered in any event to have fallen into many errors resulting from excessive modesty. We can only come within reasonable limits of safety and consistency in such an inquiry by allowing here, as I have allowed all through, for a great increase in general intelligence. Probably the mass of the population will be less greatly removed in reflective and reasoning powers from the greatest minds than at present; because the changes which have been predicted are likely to have more effect in raising the general standard of intelligence than in producing individual and exceptional minds of very great calibre. No doubt the people will be in closer touch with advanced thinkers than now. But I do not see any reason for supposing that the latter can be conspicuously greater than the thinkers of past time, from Plato to Herbert Spencer. Consequently it is impossible to restrict the inquiry to strictly popular developments. We must ask what direction abstract thought is likely to take: and it certainly does not seem that the influence of recent discoveries in physics--especially those which have produced the new theory of the constitution of the atom--can tend to materialism. With atoms resolved by the latest science into electrons, which have been declared in a passage already cited to be not merely carriers of electrical charge but the electrical charges themselves, the objectivity of matter has assuredly not received any new support. And if speculation as to the beginning of things (always the kind of speculation most important to philosophy, where philosophy is made the handmaid of religion) is relieved of the necessity of accounting for the creation of matter, and only has to concern itself with the creation of force, we evidently approach the more abstract conception of a "Something not ourselves" which is admittedly the philosophical necessity most favourable to spiritual religion. But for many people natural religion is a poor alternative for revelation, and if we interrogate probability as to the future of a faith in directly-revealed religion we approach a much more difficult question. The verbal inspiration of Scripture appears to be no longer regarded as a necessity of this faith; and with its final abandonment we shall no doubt enter upon a period of much more abstract thought and of vaguer belief, but (as I think) also a far more spiritual attitude towards the Unseen. From the moment when faith is relieved of all danger from the critical discrediting of any particular set of documents, it is of course freed from certain great dangers. Probably the Christian of the year 2000 will have abandoned all dependence upon the authenticity of the original sources of information, and will be quite ready to let what used to be regarded as the foundations of belief take their place with other mythologies. But this position need not be regarded as irreligious; possibly it need not be considered un-Christian. The hospitality which all truly religious thought begins to extend, not merely to uncanonical scriptures but to the best religious thought of all ages, will strengthen rather than weaken the spiritual attitude; and, however we may probe into the sciences of life and of the universe, the awful mysteries which lie beyond the sphere of science will always tempt man to speculate and to aspire. Always we shall yearn towards the eternities which preceded and the eternities which must follow the little interval that we call Time. Always beside the grave that has closed upon what we have loved, despair will lure us on to seek consolation in a faith which promises re-union beyond the bourn. Always the manifold injustice of Fate will make aspiration inevitable. Always the uplifting spectacle of the stars, the immensities of ocean and infinite mysteries of the soul of man will make us welcome the spiritual teaching which can throw gleams of mystic illumination upon the riddles of the universe and justify the ways of God to man. We may not always see our way to find efficacy in ritual incense; we may not long continue to ask direct interventions of the Deity in prayers which we know in a literal sense to be unthinkable and profane; we may cease the impertinence of offering suggestions to the Maker of the world on the subject of next week's weather; and yet when we uplift our hearts in aspiration and beg that we may divine more spiritually the nature of the Creator, and learn to love our neighbour more effectually and with a better enlightenment, we may still pray and know that our prayer is answered. If we cease to think that wicked men descend into some chastisement of which fire and flames are the abandoned symbols, we may still realise that none can act against the moral intuitions of his nature without mutilating his own soul: and if this soul of man be immortal, its punishment is thus eternal also, and can be cancelled only by the act of divine mercy which we shall still call man's redemption. We begin to know something of the mind's independence of the body where (in phenomena of which evidence seems to be accumulating) mind can speak to mind by other means than the senses: and everything which points that way cuts fresh ground from under the notion that bodily death is the end of us. Although the philosophical theory of immortality does not need this evidence, faith is assisted by it. On the great ideas which are the support and justification of religion there seems no reason to suppose that the discoveries of the next hundred years are likely to throw discredit. To sum up, then, I believe that the effect of improved education will be to conserve rather than to destroy religion; but I do not believe that religion will be a historical so much as a philosophical conception. The present great obstacle to religious feeling in non-Catholic countries, namely the pretence of the State to "teach religion" as if it were a science or an art, will have been removed some while before this time next century, and individual effort will be cultivated in this, as in certain other respects, instead of being repressed. The Bible will be read for its morals, its poetry, its literature; and the aspiration to conceive the Divine will continue to take the shape of some kind of public worship probably much unlike anything which we now practise, and totally divorced from any faith in miracles and verbal inspiration. In religion men will seek their consolation against the buffeting and injustice of destiny, and in a more reasoned notion of immortality dry their eyes before the poignant spectacle of Death. The whole tendency of the modern mind is to become more spiritually imaginative. We are often scornfully told that this is an age of hysteria, when the mere fact is that it is an age of imagination. The highly civilised life of our day [28] naturally exalts intelligence in comparison with mere activity of body; mind gains ascendency over muscle. It is much more important to worldly success just now that a man should be able to think accurately than that he should be able to lift great weights, endure great physical fatigues or fight satisfactorily. Consequently, there is a great premium upon intelligence, and only a much smaller premium upon bodily strength; and this condition of affairs is likely to become accentuated as the present century develops. With increase of intellectual agility we obtain increase of subtlety and intuition, and of those finer perceptive and critical faculties which make expression of the emotions important and interesting. It has often been argued that epochs of high civilisation are unfavourable to poetry and the fine arts, and a well-known passage of Macaulay argues the point at some length. Whether such an epoch as that of a hundred years hence be probably fertile in art or no, assuredly appreciation of the fine arts will be widespread and acute. Of course you can never account for the extraordinary phenomenon called genius, and while it is no doubt true that genius, like everything else, is the product of its age, yet genius consistently transcends its age. The number of minds in a thousand able to bring a reasonable degree of competent appreciation to the writings of Shakespeare is much greater now than when Shakespeare wrote. There never was a time when a great writer, or a great painter (despite what happened to Whistler) was in less danger of public neglect than the present. And the next century will be yet more critical than this. Every one of the fine arts will be more generally and more subtly appreciated than now. The existing masterpieces of antiquity will be even more reverently enjoyed than now, and the lessons they embody will be more completely assimilated. It remains to be answered, whether the next century will be fertile in new masterpieces of literature and art. There has been, in my opinion, too great a readiness on the part of most writers to assume that high civilisation necessarily creates epochs of ugliness. No doubt railways, factories and other civilised and civilising conveniences do not, in the natural course of things, tend to assume forms gratifying to the æsthetician. The present tendency of domestic architecture, for instance, shows an abject sort of spirit by basing any effort which it may make for comeliness on an attempt to imitate the picturesqueness of the past rather than to form new and beautiful styles adapted to modern requirements. Because old red-brick, timbered rough-cast, and the quaintly-shaped buildings of old time please the eye by contrast more than by inherent beauty, unintelligent builders just now think they can redeem dwelling-houses from plain ugliness by imitating these peculiarities, and they are encouraged in this course by the people who are to live in such houses and by the exploiters of estate development. But such fine examples as the new Westminster Cathedral show that the spirit of beauty has not left our architects. The growing intelligence of the new age ought, at all events, to develop, as its resources will reward, originality. And the developed æstheticism of the age will demand beautiful buildings, not slavishly copied from the antique, but created by the imagination of the modern. Reverence for natural beauty, already manifest in the revolt against advertisement-boards in juxtaposition with notable scenery and even along the sides of railways (where one would have thought that a little more ugliness could do no great harm) will no doubt be accentuated when the unviolated virginities of Nature have become fewer; and a steady growth of public taste is evidenced even now by the success of the better sort of street advertisements and the failure of the uglier kind, as demonstrated by the steady abandonment of the latter. The most fashionable artists no longer think it beneath them to design wall-posters. If the advertisers who pay their large fees find it profitable to purchase art in an expensive market, it must be because popular taste is better than it used to be; and even if the cult of the photograph and the process block in illustrated newspapers, to the detriment of drawings and wood engravings, be cited as evidence in the other direction, we have a right to quote in rebuttal of this the rather violent efforts of the more intelligent class of amateurs to secure a recognition of selective and manipulated photography as an art. Moreover, just as some critics have argued that it is better for the people to read the atrocious letterpress of the popular papers than not to read anything, it can also presumably be contended that it is better for the people to look at photographs reproduced by "process" than not to look at any pictures at all, though, in reality, it is doubtful whether bad pictures and inferior "literature" are not much worse and much more degrading to popular taste than none. That we really do care for pictures even in England (however little critical ability we may possess to distinguish good pictures from bad) is evidenced by the crowds which throng the Royal Academy. It would be better if they thronged the National Gallery; but even the Royal Academy is evidence: and the success of the sixpenny-admission plan on the days when it is adopted, and the large attendance at Burlington House on Bank Holidays, prove that the taste for pictures is shared even by the least educated part of the public. Thus there is no reason to be found in present tendencies for apprehending a decay of æstheticism as a result of material progress. Probably even the cheap papers will eventually improve, both in their reading-matter and in their illustrations, when it grows less profitable than it is at present to print the worst attainable examples of both. Of course it would be very easy to argue that the tendency of all this is rather to develop a somewhat higher standard of mediocrity than to produce brilliant examples of art in any manifestation. Beauty, up to a certain point, can be bought. The demand will evoke the supply. But the highest manifestations of the beautiful must be the spontaneous product of subtle brains and lissom fingers working for Art's sake. Yet it is also not very difficult to show that circumstances affect production even of the highest. An example may be found in the extraordinary merit of modern French sculpture, as compared with the wretched work produced in England. In the Paris Salon, which may be said to correspond with our Royal Academy, sculpture is shown in a manner which renders the huddled cloak-room full of mediocre marble and third-rate work in clay at Burlington House almost too painful to be ludicrous. However meritorious the work of an English statuary, he would get no chance--does get no chance--in the Academy exhibition: and there is every justification for the opinion that it is not bad work which in this country produces official neglect, nor good work which in France has for many years led to the loving care with which sculpture is shown in Paris; but on the contrary, that the real opportunity which a French sculptor obtains has been just as instrumental in fostering the art there as our own utter neglect to appreciate sculpture of genius has been in stifling the art here. The French treatment of sculpture has not merely raised the standard of average production. It has fostered actual genius. Even so the opportunities which the social conditions of a hundred years hence will afford to art will assuredly promote the artistic conditions favourable to the development and fostering of genius, whenever genius, in its shy, fairy-like way, contrives to be born, no man knows how. A general power of appreciating masterpieces has never been alleged to be unfavourable to their production. What is unfavourable to it in a highly civilised age is the hurry and preoccupation which leave no time for the appreciative faculties to employ themselves. It has been very well said that the feature most inimical to art in American civilisation is the absence of a "leisure class." If there be any validity in the conclusions for which I have been trying to win acceptance [29] in the earlier chapters of this work, the new age will be an age of greatly increased leisure in all ranks, and this condition ought to favour art in every way as highly as the improvement in the nature as well as in the extent of education must also favour it. And in this there will be both action and reaction--increased leisure and improved appreciation tending to foster genius, genius in the glorious perfection of its work generously returning the benefit by cultivating and refining the æsthetic sense of the new age. Similarly in literature we may hope that the atrocious consequences of instruction applied to a vast number of minds which no attempt is made to educate will be only temporary. Popular "literature" and journalism at the present time might well strike with despair the most hopeful heart. But when we remember that no attempt whatever is being made to educate the faculty of imagination, and that we stubbornly restrict all teaching to a vehement effort to cram as many facts as possible into the mind of the scholar, with no endeavour at all to improve the qualities of that mind itself; and when we grant, as I think any reasonably intelligent prevision of the future must grant, that all this will before many decades have to give place to really educational processes: it seems evident that the future will gradually fling aside in deserved contempt the basely illiterate products of the printing press which enrich popular publishers and newspaper proprietors to-day, redeem poetry from its present practical neglect, and revive and enrich the belles lettres, which, even in the latter part of the nineteenth century and these latter years of the dawning twentieth century, have contrived to appear in masterpieces for which readers, fit, if few, have never ceased to exist. One result of this will be to end, and end for ever, the idiotic and reactionary policy of "limited editions" for beautiful books, by which alone, in many cases, the production of such books has been made possible. As the public for fine literature decently printed becomes gradually larger, there will no longer be any object in accentuating popular ignorance by withholding from the greatest part of the public the opportunity to possess and to enjoy the best work in letters that the age is producing, and it will be possible for the poet of delicate imagination, the essayist of subtle insight, and the story-teller of restrained and modest genius, to be as well paid as the inventors of nightmare horrors and the biographers of impossibly ingenious detectives apparently are to-day. There remains to be considered the much less difficult problem of the sort of progress likely to be made in the mechanical implements of the fine arts. Some conceivable developments in what may be called the mechanism of literature have been discussed in the chapter on journalism, and just as it was there predicted that the forms of language hallowed by tradition and made classic by antiquity and intrinsic beauty must always continue to be employed, so in the arts it is impossible to believe that the classical methods of expression can ever become obsolete. But to say this is not to imply that new processes are incapable of being applied to the arts. Nothing which the future may evolve as a modelling substance can conceivably render obsolete clay or make marble antiquated; but innovation is always possible and may always in the right hands yield new tributes of loveliness. Prejudice is difficult to overcome where art is in question. But as was recently seen in the invention of solid oil paints, new media are quite capable of creating new modes of expression, and daring as is the flight of imagination required by such a notion, may it not be conceived that the new methods of intercommunication between mind and mind, which may develop out of the new psychology of our own age, might furnish the medium of a new literature? In music it does not seem necessary to surmise that the classical gamut must be the last word of melodic thought. The barrier between East and West in regard to musical expression--a barrier as yet so firm as to make us feel that "never the twain can meet"--is precisely of this nature. A remark by an Indian scholar educated in England, and as well versed in Western as in Eastern art, is pregnant of promise. He said to a friend of the present writer, "There is no doubt that in every form of invention, in every development of intellect, you surpass us, save in one. Your music is poor and mean, compared with the music of the East." Now to any English ear the music of Asia is as yet a mere snarl of incomprehensible cacophonies, destitute alike of melody, harmony or rhythm. But that it has laws of its own, intricate, involved and subtle, no one can doubt. I remember, one night, finding my way into a Chinese lodging-house in an Australian city. From one of the cubicles with which it was filled came what seemed to me "a rueful noise and a ghastful"--a noise as if some more than usually vocal tom-cat were being severely ill-used. From time to time the noise ceased, to be succeeded by energetic disputations in the thin nasal and guttural tones of South China, themselves, I knew, graduated in pitch, as all Chinese talk requires to be in order to be understood. Making my way to the source of these sounds, I found four young Chinamen. One of them was engaged in an unabashed bathing of his lower limbs. Other two were squatting on the floor to enjoy the music of the fourth, who sat on a high packing-case, holding a book in his toes, and performing on an instrument something like a violin. From time to time one of the others would interrupt, criticising the executant, and the book would then be referred to with energy and something as much like excitement as one ever sees a Chinaman display. The musician would extract a few notes from the instrument, clearly in defence of his rendering. Then the tumult would die down while the wailing of the smitten strings went on again. Now it cannot be impossible to fathom the obscurities of Oriental music: and it is quite possible that they may, in the future, yield new harmonies and melodies as yet undreamed-of to the West; for the difference is mainly, if I understand aright what Orientals say of it, a difference of scale. No doubt the conventions are all different. I have often observed in India that music considered to possess a jovial character is a shrill wailing in slow time; whereas funereal music always sounds a lively air. Western civilisation finds no difficulty in comprehending the decorative art of India and the Far East, nor in highly appreciating it. May not Eastern music have gifts for us as yet undreamed-of? But of course painting has a much more direct appeal to the emotions than music, and it is not at all difficult to imagine--nay, it is hardly possible to doubt--that a new manner in painting will from time to time develop, arriving out of newly-invented implements and materials. Doubtless improved methods of reproduction will multiply the numbers of those who can enjoy the masterpieces of the new age and of the old, just as in music it will unquestionably be possible to repeat satisfactorily an indefinite number of times any sounds that have once existed. Neither will any of the arts permanently suffer by the mechanical improvements applied to them--though the first employment of the latter will doubtless often have results which will be, to the artist, rather terrible. CHAPTER X THE AGE OF ECONOMIES The next century will certainly be a frugal age in the sense of planetary frugality. With a greatly-increased call on the resources of the world entailed by the vast increase of population it will be absolutely necessary for us to "make the most of what we here do spend." And with the more humane and gentler notions which will prevail it is also certain that the new age will be an age of cheapness. Of course, cheapness is a purely relative matter. The suit of clothes which would be very cheap at seven guineas in the United States would be very dear at that price here, not merely because by reason of the tariff clothes and other things are expensive in America, but also because wages are higher there than in England. In spite of the enormous growth of population since, say, the accession of Queen Victoria, the standard of comfort is much higher now than then, and prices are lower, because production has increased more quickly than population. Comforts are cheaper, wages are higher. But the standard of comfort will be higher still a hundred years hence. Workmen will earn a greater share of the commodities of life, and whether their pay be higher, computed as money, or lower, makes no difference to the question of cheapness. If wages are low commodities will be low-priced: that is all. And probably this is the turn that events will take, though, even then, the monetary earnings of the worker will probably be much higher than they are nowadays. It is doubtful whether so clumsy a contrivance as metallic currencies, of intrinsic values corresponding with their titles, can survive at all; but of course everything will be computed in terms of some currency or other--perhaps of an obsolete currency. We are apt to think that the steady value of gold can be counted upon to remain a constant factor of economics. But only a very small part of the real business of the world is even now transacted with actual gold. Much the greatest part is transacted in paper--that is by the simple balancing of debits against credits in various clearing-houses. Of course, if there were any reason to suppose that State Socialism would be the political basis of future institutions, currency of intrinsic value (which practically means, even now, only gold currency) would be easily dispensed with, because almost every transaction would be effected by means of orders on the national treasury, the State owning practically everything. Some visionaries have long included the abolition of money in their schemes for the immediate economic improvement of the race. But the disuse of a currency is not really a means to any end. It is only an effect which may or may not arise out of certain alterations in commercial method. There are signs that the people are already growing tired of the extravagance attached to the system of State, and even of municipal, trading: and this fact makes socialism improbable. Constant complaints are heard about such things as municipal tramways and municipal gasworks, and the proposal to transfer the entire working of telephones to the Government has been fiercely opposed. Where the post-office works telephones side by side with a telephone company, as in London, there is no indication that the public prefers the Government service before the private service; and it is admitted that tramways privately owned work more cheaply and yield better returns on their capital than municipal tramways. Any interference of the State in matters that could practically be left to private enterprise provokes incessant complaint. When continued and developed, however, this interference has a vicious habit of extending itself into fresh fields. Having first undertaken the education of the people the State was not long in carrying that system to its natural limit by relieving parents of school fees. Now, free meals for poor children, or meals sold below cost, are gradually becoming the fashion; what is the use of reading out lessons to children who are too hungry to listen? So the State must feed as well as educate. From this to the free clothing of school children is a very short step. But once the unavoidable sequence of such things is recognised, public opinion begins to revolt, asking where, if we go on at this rate, we are likely to stop, so long as there is any parental duty that the State has omitted to assume. We perceive that, unless the process is arrested, the begetter of children will have no obligations left, and the awful effects of relieving every member of the public of all responsibility being at length recognised, there is sure to be a reaction. It is certainly not beyond the wit of man to contrive that it shall be impossible for parents to leave their children untaught, without Government taking upon itself the function of schoolmaster. A hundred years hence I hope that it will long have been unnecessary to use force at all to compel parents to educate their children: and by that time the folly of our (perhaps temporarily unavoidable) expedients will be laughed at, and the fatuity of a minimum standard of proficiency, which inevitably becomes the maximum standard also, will be wondered at. In the matter here selected as the most convenient for illustration, and in other matters where State powers, or powers devolved by the State, are now employed in enterprises which do not properly fall into the province of Governments, the abuses and wastefulness of governmental interference are already acting as the best possible object-lessons against further interferences of the kind which makes for socialism. But of all the restraining influences inimical to socialism, none will be anything like so powerful in the present century as the new anxiety with which the people will safeguard their own self-respect. It must be borne in mind, and cannot be too often repeated, that before many decades, systems of education will be valued chiefly in proportion as they tend to develop and establish character in the individual. And with the recognition of the great truth that character is much the most important thing in the world, there will grow up a great jealousy of anything which tends to damage the public sense of individual responsibility. This jealousy cannot but be adverse to socialism, whose ideal is to relieve the individual of all responsibilities and to throw them upon committees. Not that the value of organisation and combination for various objects will at all be lost sight of. But we shall perceive that voluntary combination is a form of self-government vastly more friendly to the preservation of self-respect than legislative action, and also a form much less likely to be oppressive. It will be seen, for instance, that it is more desirable for working men to fix, through their trade-unions, the hours of labour in various industries, arranging to meet exceptional circumstances where the latter arise, than for Parliament to decree that nobody shall work more than eight hours a day. Neither is the panacea of compulsory arbitration in trade disputes likely to be a feature of future politics, because we shall certainly not be long before we perceive that, while it is no doubt quite easy to compel employers and employed to submit their respective cases to a tribunal appointed by law, there is no known way in which the award of such a tribunal can be enforced, and if there were, the effect of its employment would be almost intolerably injurious to the commerce of the country. What will happen a hundred years hence is that trade disputes will have disappeared, because all the workers will be practically their own employers. Consequently free contract and not socialism will be the basis of the political system of a hundred years hence, and the standard of comfort will be adjusted in the same way as everything else. But in order that this standard may be as high as the advanced humanity of the new age will certainly demand for a population vastly increased, it will be necessary that all the resources of the planet be made the most of. That motive power, one of the most important, if not the most important of all these resources, should be economically produced is, as has already been said, an absolute essential. When we make the most of the sources of power, and are able to apply power in convenient and portable ways to all sorts of work at present done by hand, one of the greatest economies conceivable will have been effected. Probably muscle, as an element of workmanship, will become quite obsolete, though muscular strength will be developed by athletics as a recreation and a safeguard to the health of the race. Here again self-respect will be sedulously nurtured, for nothing fosters it so much as a man's sense of his inherent bodily power. All sorts of wastefully laborious methods of labour will be superseded, in the same way as the steam hammer has superseded the sledge hammer. With the perfect development of power-production achieved, a great deal of the dirtiness of manufacture will vanish: and moreover, a use will have been discovered for every by-product of every manufacture. We are hideously wasteful as yet: and wastefulness makes for dirt. One perceives this at once on comparing a factory where the by-products are of a nature to be utilised directly, with one where these products are of small value. A goldsmith's shop is a clean place compared with the gasworks of even a modern town: but these again are clean compared with what they used to be before the various chemical uses of coal-tar and gas-liquor were discovered. In the planning of machinery, notwithstanding the fact that power will be obtained at a minimum of expense, all contrivances which economise force will be highly valued. We have been increasingly valuing them ever since steam first became important as a source of motive power. Early machines in the Patents' Museum at South Kensington exhibit the most extraordinary recklessness in the waste of power. Considering the feebleness of the motive force available, one would have expected that every means would be sought to minimise friction. But instead, the force was transmitted by contrivances which, to a modern eye, seemed deliberately contrived to introduce as much friction as possible. Every year brings out fresh inventions for the avoidance of friction: and still we are but upon the very threshold of the subject. It was only in 1904 that a party of railway engineers was entertained by a patentee who wished to show them the saving in coal per train-mile which can be saved by a new bearing for passenger coaches, and the superior smoothness (which is of course a factor in the economy) of their running. Hardly any vehicle except a bicycle or a trotting buggy is yet constructed with any serious attempt to save friction at the axles. The number of industrial machines to which ball-bearings might be applied with great economy of power is enormous. But ball-bearings are very little used. It is probably considered as yet that the saving in coal would not pay for the working expenses connected with them and with other improvements. But as machinery is further improved economies at present merely theoretical will become practical and remunerative. In a hundred years' time we shall certainly be able to make generally profitable the use of many devices as yet applicable only to delicate and exceptional machines, and shall be able to use much power which at present runs to waste. Every time a locomotive is stopped there is a great waste of power in the operation of the brakes, because it is not worth while to adopt any contrivance for utilising it. It disappears, as heat, and is lost. Many similar wastages could be cited, and engineers would scoff at the citation, on the ground that the loss is not worth saving. But it will be worth saving a hundred years hence. We shall not be able to afford any waste. The world will have to be worked, as we say, "for all it is worth." Of course all sorts of other wastes will be avoided through the natural progress of discovery and the natural development of thought. Illness is a waste. Illness will be much less common in a hundred years' time. A man who eats and consumes the world's products without contributing to them will be too expensive a luxury for the new age to indulge itself with: and the present excuse for a "leisure" class--already scorned in America--that a rich and leisured class fosters and patronises the arts, will be absurd. All classes will foster and patronise the arts. For, just as we shall see that idleness is waste (and even more injurious to the idler than to his fellows), so we shall also see that overwork is a waste, because the legitimate purpose of human endeavour is not wealth, but happiness. When all work, all will be able to play. Planetary economy will be a determining factor in the change of diet which the coming century must inevitably witness. Such a wasteful food as animal flesh cannot survive: and even apart from the moral necessity which will compel mankind, for its own preservation, to abandon the use of alcohol, the direct and indirect wastefulness of alcohol will make it impossible for beverages containing it to be tolerated. Very likely tobacco will follow it. We are already in sight of legislation to restrain the use of tobacco by the young. It will probably be unnecessary for the law to prohibit its use by adults. The frugal adult of the new age will abandon it unbidden, the change taking place as smoothly and silently as the process from the universal drunkenness of our great-grandfathers to the relative sobriety of ourselves, a process of which it is surprising that anyone can fail to perceive that the natural end must be the total disuse of alcoholic drinks. All things work their way to their natural conclusion, and there is no more fertile source of sociological blindness than the fallacy which treats certain phenomena of society as static, whereas all phenomena of society are really in the dynamic state, and always must be so. In such matters as the exhaustion of the soil, and the reckless waste of wood, our present practice will certainly be reformed. There will be great improvements in agricultural chemistry, necessitated by the disappearance of animal manure. The obsolescence of the horse is already in sight; probably we ourselves shall see the day when the horse will cease to be employed except in the organised material of war: and as soon as we cease to eat animals we shall cease to herd cattle, sheep and poultry. But some means will have to be found for returning to the soil the materials we take out of it. Of course the idiotic wastefulness of many systems of sewage disposal, and the dangers, inconveniences and degrading occupations associated with existing alternatives, will be rectified. By improved agricultural methods, lands at present unutilised will be brought under cultivation: and the wasteful and selfish reservation of game preserves, deer forests and excessive pleasure-grounds will have to be abolished--not by legislative enactment, but probably by spontaneous social developments; by the natural development, in short, of economy in the world's possessions. A hundred years hence we shall cease to behave as though the resources of the planet were illimitable and could be wasted at will. In the succession of the ages the spendthrift will have given birth to the miser, reversing the usual order of generations. No doubt the attention concentrated upon agriculture as a consequence of the greatly increased use of vegetable and cereal foods will have, as one of its consequences, the discovery of new means for improving all sorts of crops--means of which even the wonderful achievements of the scientific agriculture of the present day do not contain even the first germs. We shall also, perhaps, find means for avoiding the terrible losses and wastage entailed by climatic accidents. At all events, irrigation will be perfected, and probably we shall be able by acclimatisation and modification to find uses for crops that will flourish during that portion of the year when, in temperate climates, the land at present lies idle. This will both stimulate and further necessitate the improvements in agricultural chemistry already mentioned. As the combustions of solids will no longer be a general method of obtaining heat, we shall greatly economise wood; and the wickedly mischievous word "inexhaustible" will not be applied to timber regions like the Rocky Mountain district of Canada. Arboriculture will become a more practical art than it as yet shows any signs of being; and along with careful afforestation will go skilled improvement in tree-growing. We shall replace all the trees we use by better trees, better cultivated. Even so, however, there will have to be devised great economies in the use of wood--economies like the recent invention of a method by which, instead of being wastefully sawn into planks, a tree-trunk can be cut up spirally, so that almost the whole of it may be used. In many places where wood is now employed in the arts, metals will doubtless be used instead, their greater neatness and durability making it advisable thus to substitute them, for reasons of convenience as well as economy; and probably new alloys, into which the lighter metals, as aluminium, will enter, may give us increased strength without increased weight, which will again be an economy, because it will save power. But even so, the world's expenditure of wood will continue to be enormous. War has been alluded to above. War is too wasteful, as well as too imbecilely uncivilised, to survive this century. It may be well to inquire as to the manner in which its abolition is most likely to be brought about. We may take it for granted that no sudden political or revolutionary movement will abolish the physical conflict of peoples. "All the arts which brutalise the practical polemist" will not be abandoned at a moment's notice on the bidding of any potentate or combination of potentates. To conceive of them as thus abandoned is to overlook the whole nature of political change. It is absurd (as Herbert Spencer remarks) to assume "that out of a community morally imperfect and intellectually imperfect, there may in some way be had legislative regulation that is not proportionately imperfect." But it would be equally absurd to believe that the moral and intellectual advance which our present tendencies show to be gradually taking place--an advance certain to be greatly accelerated during the middle half of the next hundred years--can fail to put a stop to war as a political device. War will probably not be dispensed with in response to any great and sudden revolt of the world's conscience against the bloodshed and other evils much worse than bloodshed which it entails--of which indeed it actually consists. The world knows quite well already that war is wicked, wasteful and silly: if it were possible for a suddenly-exasperated realisation of this to take an instantaneous effect, we could and should similarly abolish numerous other evils which we show every disposition to tolerate for some time yet. The fact that single families are able to hold wealth in enormous excess of the maximum amount which it can possibly be good for the community that individuals should hold, is such an evil. The "Yellow" journalism of America and England is another evil just about as difficult, or as easy, to abolish at a stroke as war, and not much less injurious. The manipulation of tariffs and currencies to suit the greedy aims of manufacturers, landowners and capitalists is another evil which is constantly experienced or threatened in one part of the world or another; and if as a race we were yet enlightened enough to utter that great "Peace; be still!" which must some day be breathed over the troubled waters of international diplomacy, we should be enlightened enough to rid ourselves of these other evils. But instead, the change must be gradually worked up to. It is not even at all certain that the whole world will at one given moment decide to abandon war. It is not necessarily the case that the first nation enlightened enough to lay down the sword would immediately fall under the oppression of its armed neighbours, as Bismarck prophesied, and would no doubt have practised to arrange. Nor need we assume, as so many have thought it necessary to believe, that universal peace can only follow the exhaustion of universal war, the dove winging her first flight over the shambles of Armageddon. I do not for an instant believe that the actual horrors of war are the likely or possible source of peace; on the contrary, war always tends to breed war, partly through international exasperation, partly through the unashamed and cynical self-seeking of professional warriors. Peace hath her outrages no less severe than war. It is against the preparation for war, rather than against war itself, that we shall revolt. Of course the increased urbanity of future thought, the tenderer conscience of the future, will help the cause of peace. The world's rulers will be more humane, less reckless than those set up by the inferior morality and intellect of the present age. It is not from the rulers, but from the ruled, however, that peace will come. It is the peoples that will refuse to be the supporters of idle, useless, profligate and dangerous millions, trained to no duty but slaughter, skilful only in the service of national crime. Every decade will see the burden of armament grow heavier. In every decade fresh efforts will be made to lift the weight of them off the rich, the governing classes, and throw it upon the poor, the governed classes. The workers will be taxed, and their taxes manipulated to their disadvantage. And they must pay in person as well as purse. There is no civilised and highly developed country in the world that can possibly escape universal military service within the next quarter of a century, unless it be the United States: and only that country if the people of the United States abandon absolutely their present dreams of empire and renounce the luxury of an effective Foreign Office. As for ourselves, it is most likely universal naval service that we shall have to endure. And the rulers of the nations will play the chess of diplomacy, using the peoples as their pawns, until the pawns, grown wiser than the bishops, and more agile than the knights, reach the eighth square of intellect and become sovereign in themselves. It is not by high diplomacy that war will be abandoned, but by the will of the workers. Only a very careless and unthoughtful observer of the last fifteen years' history can have failed to note the steady growth of international solidarity in labour questions. The trade societies of different nations frequently contribute to each other's strike-funds: they constantly communicate and confer, and they do so with increasing frequency and effectiveness every time there is any special advantage to be seen in joint action against the common enemy--greed. Conceive for an instant what is going to be the effect of this when working men and women, infinitely the most important and most worthy part of the race, are no longer degraded by stupid restrictions of education, no longer brought up on the insane system of striving only for a stuffed memory instead of for a developed character, and have learned to think about their political duties instead of only transacting them without thought, without any possible opportunity of learning how to think. The whole mass of workers throughout the world will come to an understanding. They have no possible conflicting interests which can compare in importance with the interests which, for their class, are identical all the world over. Already the improved morality of the peoples will have yielded improved governments, more enlightened parliaments, wiser statesmanship. The administrative organ will only need to be properly stimulated by the solid agreement of workers throughout civilisation. There is never the least sign of international or racial jealousy among working men in their international relations, and what, by reason of the clash of international interests and the danger of national aggression diplomatists could not accomplish, the irresistible volition of the unanimous peoples will force upon the cabinets of the world. It will come about by degrees. The preparations for it will be long visible, long misunderstood. And we shall usefully tinker at the question, often stave off little dangers of war by arbitrations, treaties of mutual understanding, peace conferences and the like; and though probably no great war necessary to reconcile the conflicting destinies of peoples was ever prevented by such means, we shall avoid many fights which might have arisen out of the vain notions of prestige, dignity, and national self-sufficiency. But once means have been found for the destruction of the machinery of war, the worst danger of war will have been got rid of: and then the practice we shall have had in settling disputes peacefully will be of the greatest service to us. When the armies and the navies of the world are disbanded there will be a condition of affairs which it is highly necessary to consider. In all nations entitled to rank as world-powers there is an enormous military class. When the armies go home for the last time, and magazine rifles and machine guns become museum objects and nothing more; when it is no longer conceived to be the greatest service a man can render to his country to organise clubs wherein men may inexpensively learn how to shoot, so as to be able to kill each other with a creditable precision when the chance comes; then there will arise the problem of how to employ these disbanded drones: and to some this problem has appeared to present acute difficulties on account of the labour-problem involved. But to apprehend anything beyond the most transient embarrassments from this cause is surely to misconceive the whole subject of economics. The men at present withdrawn from productive labour by employment, either transiently (as in countries where conscription is used), or more or less permanently (as in England), have to be fed, clothed and housed in any event; and they can only be thus supplied with the commodities of life by the labour of other men. What the term of their military service happens to be is immaterial to the subject. Whether there are standing armies and navies with long or short service, and a reserve; or armies and navies served for three years by successive drafts; the amount of labour withdrawn in any community is at any one period the same in that community. The return to civil life of the volunteer armies employed in the United States during the Civil War and the war of the deliverance of Cuba did not produce troublesome economic conditions; and only those persons who think that a society is enriched by the circulation of money spent in wasteful expenditure like the fireworks and banquets consumed in celebrating an event like the visit of a foreign potentate, or commemorating more or less irrelevantly the failure of "Gunpowder treason and plot," can imagine that a nation would be impoverished by the vast accession to its productive power yielded by the abolition of armaments. Similarly, to think that the suppression of Woolwich arsenal and the closing of Krupp's gun factory would be an industrial calamity instead of an enormous saving of national money, is to adopt the uninstructed view of politics which conceives of governments as self-supported and self-created institutions whose expenditure is a gift to the people; instead of as being organisations paid by the people out of earnings which would otherwise be enjoyed by themselves. This sort of conception, fatuous as it appears when once reduced to logical terms, is common enough. Whenever any object of popular desire appears inaccessible we are always being told that the Government ought to provide it--as if Government were a sort of deity capable of producing wealth from somewhere outside the world. But such notions have only to be for a moment examined in order that their fallacy may become manifest and palpable; and it is equally easy to see that the wealth-producing power of the men composing armies would be a direct gift to the community of the world if armies were abolished, and that the moneys formerly, but no longer, expended upon their accoutrements, weapons and sustenance would be so much waste obviated. Here will, in fact, be one of the many economies of a hundred years hence. It will be convenient to digress, in passing, in order to notice one very curious contention sometimes rather fancifully introduced into discussions on the subject of universal peace. It is stated that war is an inevitable feature of national life, and that it exercises a beneficent effect upon national character--that it fosters manliness and a respect for the virile attributes of courage, steadfastness and self-respect; that nations which have abandoned the art of war sink into effeminacy, slothfulness and destructive luxury; and that the peace of the nations, if it ever comes, will be associated with a terrible deterioration of the race. As to the notion that anything can prevent the abolition of armed conflict as a means of settling the differences of peoples, we may very well be satisfied to await the issue. No one who recognises the steady growth of humanitarian feeling; no one who remembers, even to deplore, our growing sentimentalism; no one who has insight enough to perceive that progress, at an ever-increasing speed, must inevitably be accompanied by advanced intellectuality, increased self-restraint and greater wisdom, can doubt that a process so illogical, barbarous and brutalising as battle must be banished, as well by the new humanity as by the economic necessities of our race. But the notion of deploring, on moral grounds, the assured coming of a reform so salutary, calls for more strenuous reprobation. One would have thought it evident, from the popular effect of the war in South Africa, that, so far from being a matter for self-congratulation, this highly necessary war was a terrible lesson in the brutalising effect of armed conflict, not alone on the men actually engaged, but also on the people who remained at home. Indeed, since it is only a comparatively small fraction of a community that can ever be personally active in military operations, the effect on the home-stayers is evidently what the upholders of war as a civilising influence must be thinking of. It would be ridiculous, and it is quite unnecessary to the argument, to deny the fine qualities of determination, of fortitude before national disaster, and of calm confidence in the prowess of the nation's arms which, in the bulk of the English people, the Transvaal war called forth. It would be just as idle to deny the sublime exhibition of patriotism and self-abnegation which, on one side at least, was provoked by the Russo-Japanese war. But it would also be foolish not to recognise the quite evident brutalisation which has followed our war in South Africa, the remarkable increase in crimes of murderous violence, and especially of double crimes--murder and suicide--which has lately occurred. The true source of these increased evils is the reflex effect of familiarity (either at first hand, or more remotely through newspaper reading and through the personal narrative of returned soldiers) with the notion of violent slaying, and the diminished sense of the sanctity of human life which accompanies the spectacle of man-slaying by wholesale held up to popular admiration, and indeed necessitated and justified by the conditions of war and the duty of patriotism. No doubt it is true (as has been finely said) that there is one thing which is worse for a nation than war, and that is that a nation should be so afraid of war as to submit to aggression rather than fight in defence of its rights. But to subscribe to this doctrine, which no rational thinker will dispute, is a very different thing from agreeing that the nations would be otherwise than strengthened and civilised by the universal abandonment of battle. Probably we are as yet some decades from the time when we shall have sufficient nobility of sentiment to be entirely agreed, without a single dissentient, in recognising the enormous service to national and international morality which Mr Gladstone rendered when he had the courage to withdraw from the conflict with the Boers after Majuba. It will be long before we are logical enough to see that the fact of this magnanimity having been basely abused does not in the least detract from its moral weight and moral beneficence. But the influence of such an act cannot be without effect upon progress. It is by such acts, and the possibility of their glad acceptance by nations of sufficient moral elevation to perform them, that war will be banished. In the meantime, while noble virtues can be displayed by nations in time of combat, and by civilians as well as soldiers, it is a new doctrine that we are asked to accept when we are told that there is anything individually elevating to the character in sitting at home while someone else goes out and fights for that home's protection. One of the least satisfactory features of public interest in games of manly endeavour and endurance, games of danger and violent effort, like football and cricket, is that of the very greatly increased numbers who "follow" these games and watch the fortunes of selected teams in the Cup contests only a very small proportion play the games themselves. Thousands of young men hardly see a football match from September to April, though they keenly follow the admirable descriptions of them in their sporting papers. It is taking a very short-sighted view to applaud the growing interest in athletics, which, just now, we show, as a sign of our manliness. Not very much endurance is required in order to bet on the success of a favourite team: and to assist, as a contributor to gate-moneys, in paying selected athletes to endure risk and violent fatigue in a game which one does not play for oneself is exactly on a level with applauding the exploits of an army to which one contributes nothing but taxes. Moreover, this beneficent effect of actual war-in-progress could only exercise itself during limited and distressful periods. No nation is able to be seriously at war, in modern conditions, for very long, and great periods of recuperation must intervene between war and war; the combatant nations being meanwhile subject to aggressions from keepers of the peace, because they are not in a position to fight again with a fresh and an unexhausted adversary. Consequently, any beneficent effect must be expected to be exercised chiefly in time of peace. And, in practice, it does not seem to be the case that nations in which the military standard is high and the military class is exalted above the civil class, show always in any remarkable manner the virtues supposed to be fostered by the manly art of war. No one would contend that the average German is more self-reliant and self-respecting, quicker to decide on action in a moment of stress, braver, manlier, more enduring of reverses of fortune, than the average American. Yet Germany, where military officers are held in such esteem that they can behave with unrestrained arrogance and brutality towards civilians in public places without provoking any signs of popular indignation, unless when their acts are commented upon in the socialist newspapers; and can even inflict disgusting and degrading indignities upon private soldiers without being officially punished, except where they have carried brutality to the limit (and they are punished with the greatest tenderness even then): Germany, I say, ought to show the virtues of a military state at their best. Whereas in America, where there is practically no standing army, and where military titles, the residue of wars conducted almost entirely by volunteer and amateur soldiers, are so common that the very holders of them treat these titles as subjects of humorous depreciation, the people are conspicuous for manliness, for high endurance, for patience under the reverses of fortune, for temperance: and in the average of physical courage America far excels any military nation. There seems to be no reason at all for apprehending that the obsolescence of militarism will have a deleterious effect on the manhood of the race: while there are incontestable evidences that it will greatly foster the equally important virtues of gentleness, humanity, and respect for the weak. Thus, while, for reasons of sentiment and common sense, war is certain to become obsolete before the end of this century, we shall find in the release of the funds and of the labour hitherto employed in the organisation of war one of the greatest economies of an age which in all things will be thrifty: and there is no reason at all to apprehend difficulty in providing for the warrior who finds his occupation gone, when we have so reorganised (as we must reorganise) our social system, that no man will live in excessive luxury on the labour of his fellows, but that all will be contributors to a common frugality. CHAPTER XI THE LAW A HUNDRED YEARS HENCE Using the figurative words, "the law," in their widest possible sense, to mean the entire system which governs the relations of the individuals in a community with each other and with the community at large, we can easily see that in a century's time many changes of law will have taken place. If it be true that legislative restraints are mostly necessitated by the ill-conceived energies of mankind, and that the right function of the law is to assure to each citizen the largest possible liberty that is consistent with the equal liberty of every other citizen and of all, then it will be right to believe that the great extension of general intelligence, and the equally great extension of general morality, anticipated for the next century, will render many forms of existing restraint obsolete because unnecessary. Regarding offences both against the person and against property as manifestations, for the most part, of unintelligence, we may expect that increased intelligence will lead to a diminution of their number. In applying statistics to an examination of the question whether and to what extent improvements in the general standard of education have in the past diminished crime, and consequently how far crime is likely to be still further diminished in the future, we must be careful to keep in sight two considerations--first, that an increased vigilance and elaboration on the part of authority may easily make it appear that crime has failed to diminish under educational influences, when it is only the detection and punishment of crime that have been rendered more perfect; and second, that if one kind of education have not had all the salutary effects expected of it, it does not follow that a different kind will not have all this expected efficacy and more. Manifestly, legislation against crimes formerly outside the reach of the law--that creation of "new offences" which one hears rather foolishly objected to--will increase statistics of crime, if we compute crime in terms of prison-admissions; and the fact that such increase, due entirely to legislation, has taken place concurrently with some other reform, such as the improvement of education, obviously does not entitle us to connect the increase with the reform. The latter may even be operating in exactly the opposite manner, despite the statistics. A number of new offences were created, for instance, by what is called in England the Criminal Law Amendment Act, and it would be easy for a shocked observer of prison statistics to observe, in a period of years during which the administration of that useful act was being perfected, dreadful increases in the crimes which it represses; whereas the fact probably is that crime of this sort has diminished, largely through the action of the very causes which would make it appear to have been increasing. Therefore, if anyone still argues that education as a means of diminishing crime has proved a failure, it is not upon judicial statistics that he must base his contentions. Probably that argument is obsolete: but if it were not, and if it were allowed all the validity of which it is capable, it would still furnish no ground whatever from which to throw doubt upon the expectation that in a hundred years' time crime will have diminished very greatly, as a result of the improved education of the new era. For indeed, as education is at present conducted, it would be rather a remarkable thing that it should have any effect upon criminality at all. What influence increased intelligence may have in restraining one part of the population from the desire to commit crime might easily be neutralised by the effect, on another portion, of the increased craft and subtlety imparted by education. Knowledge can facilitate crime as well as deter from it. A man who has not learned to write, it has been shrewdly remarked, will not commit forgery: but that is not a reason for thinking that a knowledge of writing tends to promote criminality. The man who, being (perhaps unduly) proficient in it, becomes a forger, would not necessarily have remained blameless if he had continued illiterate. He would very probably have been a thief, which does not require penmanship: but on the other hand, the increased facility of obtaining employment when one can write might just as easily have saved him from some temptations to dishonesty. It is not very rational to expect a great moral effect upon character from the mere acquisition of knowledge. But from the moment we conceive that means and methods of education in the future will be valued in proportion to their influence in developing character, and especially intelligent self-control, it is impossible to doubt that the new teaching will be among the most potent of moral influences. One benefit derived from this will be the possibility of abandoning legislative restrictions whose effect is inimical to self-control and to intelligent self-protection. It will no longer be necessary to protect the people by law from the consequences of their own foolishness, and we shall have learned that it is much better for the public to be encouraged to safeguard its own interests than to be relieved of the necessity to do so. Anticipating, therefore, that many existing forms of restraint will have become obsolete because unnecessary, we may very fairly ask ourselves whether, in an improved moral and intellectual atmosphere, it will not have been found advisable to abolish other restraints and requisitions as a directly remedial measure. The suggestion may, at the moment, appear chimerical, but so must every intelligent anticipation of a coming time appear to anyone who approaches the subject without allowing for the difference of conditions, and conceives of changes which will take place so gradually as to be almost unperceived, as if they were to occur per saltum, without any process of slow moral preparation. So would nearly every social condition of the present age have appeared individually to a citizen of the world of 1800, if, possessing intelligence to foresee it, he lacked the imagination necessary to foresee the accompanying and subservient conditions. That public opinion should be so shocked by the execution of capital punishment, that only the most atrocious murders are thus punished--the sentence, where there is any real extenuation at all, being habitually commuted nowadays--is a condition which would hardly have suggested itself even to the most alert imaginations in an age where small thefts were constantly punished by death. Our sense of what may be called the accidental influences of punitive measures is even yet so little developed that only a small minority of the public at the present day is able to perceive that the deterrent effect of flogging, as a punishment for violent robbery, is dearly purchased at the expense of the brutalising relish with which sentences of flogging are welcomed by the public, and even on the judicial bench, where expressions of regret that the same penalty cannot be inflicted for other crimes are still common. Yet it would seem obvious enough that the sanction given to acts of violence by the deliberate adoption of hanging and flogging by the law, which is supposed to be the exemplar of public morality, must tend nearly as much to perpetuate crimes of violence as fear of these chastisements to deter. In attempting to foresee the spirit of legislation in the future it is absolutely necessary to foresee concurrently the spirit of the communities by which the legislation will be adopted. Anticipating, as we cannot fail to anticipate, a sedulous care for moral effects in education, we must anticipate an equal care in legislation. It would be unworthy of the supremely logical age which assuredly is coming, to use all possible measures in the schoolroom to foster in childhood self-reliance and intelligent self-protection, while continuing by "grandmotherly" government of the people to remove as often as possible any need for self-reliance in the adult. The advantages attending little bits of protective law-making often blind us to their ill-effects. It is no doubt very useful to provide, as we do provide, that condensed milk, when deprived of its full proportion of cream, shall only be sold in packages notifying that deprivation. If we did not do this children would be starved by their parents' ignorance. But the necessity for this enactment is at least in part created by the existence of a host of similar laws, the aggregate effect of which is to give a general impression that anything sold as food is good and useful unless it bears some warning to the contrary; and meantime every evasion of commercial morality which does not come under legislative restraint is naturally held to be perfectly justifiable--not at all a good thing for commercial morality. Now it would be a highly perilous measure to abolish, at a stroke, all protective legislation against adulterated or impoverished foods. We have built up a social condition in which every man thinks himself entitled to be protected against such frauds. But in a community which has been taught to take care of itself, and protect itself against frauds by its own intelligence, such protections would be retrograde and injurious. The aim of legislatures in the next century will be to foster all kinds of self-reliance. They will perceive that even the high importance of a reform which can be more or less easily enforced by law does not compensate for the bad effect of thus enforcing it, if it could be maintained by the spontaneous vigilance of a wisely-nurtured public; and the degrading effect of superfluous law will be more dreaded than the temporary dangers against which the law might protect the citizens. Nevertheless, it is inevitable that, during a period more or less extended, material progress will be accompanied by numerous legal enactments such as a perfect state would dispense with, and possibly the end of all of them will not have been reached even in a century's time. How invention tends to promote legislation has recently been noticeable in the new laws affecting automobile traffic on roads. In a perfect state it would doubtless be unnecessary to provide legal machinery to compel the owners of powerful and rapid vehicles to respect the rights of their fellow-citizens and to abstain from running away without identifying themselves when they had caused an accident. In proportion as the moral condition of the next century approximates to perfection, such ordinances as the motor-car laws will be unnecessary. But for a long time new laws will always be coming into necessity as a result of new inventions. For instance, when, as was suggested in an earlier chapter, business is carried on largely through the medium of recording telephones, wirelessly actuated, special laws will have to be devised to protect trade against the various kinds of fraud which this method of transaction would otherwise facilitate, and some methods will have to be devised for giving legal force to arrangements made by telephony, akin to the methods which now give legal force to written contracts. Similarly, various by-laws will have to be enacted to protect the public against the accidents incidental to the various methods of rapid transit that will have come into use. Probably it will no longer be necessary, and it will have been perceived to be injurious, to protect travellers against their own rashness. It is a well-known phenomenon that periods of material prosperity and high wages are fruitful in crime. Probably increased consumption of alcohol in prosperous times is the sole cause of this. There can be no direct connection between wealth and criminality; the bulk of the criminal population is, on the contrary, poor. It would be idle to speculate as to whether the next century will or will not continue to legislate against intoxicants, because it is morally certain that intoxicants will have been legislated out of existence already, without waiting for the period when it would no longer be necessary to abolish them forcibly. For at present, and in the more immediate future, there is no ground whatever for anticipating that the legislative hand will be withheld wherever law-making appears the simplest and most obvious method of getting rid of any crying evil: and there can be no doubt that the abuse of alcohol is an evil of precisely the sort that legislature will be active in suppressing. Some changes in the method of government will have to take place before Parliament can legislate against alcohol: but that it will so legislate before the middle of this century is morally certain. In what country the alcohol law is first likely to be passed is immaterial. Every country which adopts it will thereby assist in forcing the same measure upon other countries, because, with international travel constantly becoming cheaper and more easy, it is certain that numerous people who object to being deprived of stimulants and intoxicants in one country will migrate to others where their appetite can have full play, and will intensify the drink problem in those countries until these, too, are forced, or will think themselves forced, to legislate in self-protection. Thus such laws will become universal. No doubt this condition will be reached gradually, measures of restriction preceding measures of prohibition. But the end will be the same, and it will be forced upon the world as much by the increased evils inflicted by alcohol on nerves increasingly susceptible to its influence, as by any other consideration. Anyone who has taken the trouble to observe the nervous and physical condition of men and women in the average, during even so short a period as the last quarter of a century, must have been impressed by the marked increase of neurotic states, not merely in exceptional individuals, but in all the people. The neurotic temperament is much more adversely affected by alcohol than any other; and we are all growing more neurotic. All the conditions of modern life tend that way: and it is not alcohol alone that will have to go, but all sorts of habit-inducing drugs, such as morphine, cocaine, and the rest, all of which, like alcohol itself, will soon be so restricted in regard to their sale that their abuse will be rendered practically impossible, and their use restricted to a purely medical employment. It is even quite possible, and I have already ventured to predict, [30] that when the progress of neurotism has worked itself out, even such mild exhilarants as tea and coffee will have to be made the subjects of legal restriction. There exist many individuals at the present moment upon whom coffee acts as a stimulant nearly as powerful as alcohol, moderately employed, upon the rest of us--that is to say, they experience the same mild exhilaration after a cup of strong coffee as a moderate man does after a glass of burgundy or a whisky-and-soda. These effects are no more injurious, at present, than those of a moderate use of wine or spirits: but they can become perilous, and may develop in all sorts of ways, when the nervous organisation becomes more delicate. Thus, the abolition of alcoholic beverages, at present the fad of a minority not always very respectable in the methods of its propaganda, will presently be an indispensable feature of social progress. Unless all criminologists are wrong in their deductions, something like fifty per cent. of all crime will be got rid of when alcohol no longer exists to cause crime. There are further ameliorative influences certain to be at work which will tend to reduce the sorts of crime chiefly troublesome at present. Adopting the familiar division of crime into (a) offences against the person and (b) offences against property, it is very easy to see that what may be called private crime (as distinguished from crime against the body politic) will diminish automatically. When the extremes of wealth and poverty have become as much less marked as I have endeavoured to show that they must become, it is evident that the temptation to offences of greed will be greatly diminished. A large proportion of all these crimes arises out of poverty alone, or out of poverty coupled with stupidity. A man who has not enough intelligence to earn is very likely to steal in order to provide for himself; and one who is equipped by the knowledge of a trade is consequently not so liable to be dishonest as one who is less hopefully situated. He is also likely to be more intelligent, and consequently better qualified to perceive that the balance of comfort is on the side of the honest worker and not on the side of the burglar or thief. Anyone who has had occasion to observe the proceedings of criminal courts must have noticed the frequency with which the description "labourer" is adopted by the offenders charged. "Labourer" means an unskilled worker--a man who has learned no trade, and brings nothing to his work but thews and sinews. It is much less common to find a trade claimed: one rarely sees a thief or burglar described on the charge sheet as "John Doe, carpenter," or "Richard Roe, gas-fitter." They do not even profess to have a trade. Of course where a man's business is such as to lend itself to criminal pursuits, the case is different: one finds banknote forgers described as "engravers" and "lithographers," and makers of counterfeit money as "die sinkers." But in the average of crime--at least crime of the more stupid sorts--it is the tradeless man who is nearly always charged. It is impossible to resist the inference that poverty is a determining cause in most crimes of greed. In a hundred years' time the spread of technical education will have thinned the ranks of the unskilled. At the same time the inducements to honesty and steady industry will have been enormously increased through the universality of the profit-sharing system; and the position of the steady worker will have become so greatly more attractive than that of the casual thief, that only the utmost stupidity can tempt anyone to the latter's course of life. Self-respecting labour for a share in the profits of labour, instead of mechanical toil for wages that do not bear any relation to profits nor to anything else except the fluctuations of the labour-market, will so elevate the average of industrial character that it will be rare for workmen to drift into crime. At the same time, and similarly, the restraint placed upon undue accumulation of wealth will diminish temptation to crimes of greed at the other extremity of social life. It will no longer be worth anyone's while to organise colossal schemes of dishonest company-promoting. Thus, crimes against property are certain to become relatively infrequent, because the greatest temptations to them will have been removed. Apart from the largely preponderating number of cases in which offences against the person--assaults and the like--arise now out of intoxication, the tendency to crimes of violence will also diminish as the temper of society grows milder. An age so much advanced in sentimentality as to revolt against the cruelty of breeding horses for traction and cattle for food is not likely to be fruitful in offences of violence. These offences, where associated neither with drink nor robbery, probably arise more often from jealousy between the sexes than anything else. It is unfortunately impossible to suggest that sexual jealousy can be wholly eliminated from human nature. But no doubt its violent exhibition will have been educated out of us to a large measure. Other personal offences, as rape, criminal assault and various criminal vices will doubtless diminish in frequency as a consequence of general moral improvement. In short, the work of the policeman will be greatly eased in the course of this century, and no doubt many functions at present relegated to the police, such as the direction of street traffic, the care of vagrant dogs, and the like, will be performed by officials of a different character. Even these duties will be far less onerous than they now are, when we have become intelligent enough to see that the best way for every man to secure his own freedom and comfort is to respect the freedom and the rights of others. It remains an open question whether at some time during this century it may not be temporarily needful for the State to undertake the restraint of offences against the intellect, such as the publication of false or grossly exaggerated news, and of matter calculated to encourage vice, as betting. No doubt the balance of advantage is in favour of the entire freedom of the Press; but it cannot be denied that this freedom is at present greatly abused. It would be easy to name a dozen types of periodicals whose forcible suppression would be an enormous gain to the public; and in an age so increasingly prone to look to the governing body for assistance in every conceivable matter no one can deny the probability of some legislative steps being taken, when the public first begins to concern itself seriously with public morals. But this possibility is much nearer at hand than the end of this century; at the latter period public opinion will probably be well able to take care of itself, and any laws of the kind I have suggested will, like numerous other forms of legislation, including many now operative, have fallen into desuetude because there will be no temptation to the misdemeanours they are, or may be, framed to repress. The question of the form which the repression of crime will take a hundred years hence can only be answered if we first endeavour to see what the developments of penology, or the science of punishment, are likely to be during the next hundred years. Naturally, they will have the same tendencies as the society which produces them. We may safely anticipate that the more savage punishments, as death, flogging and painful labour will be eliminated, together with all punishments that are not believed to be reformatory in their character. And even the relatively mild penalty of long imprisonment may to the gentler mind of a new age appear unduly vindictive. Punishment will be regarded as a diminishingly necessary evil; and our "object all sublime" will not be to make it fit the particular crime for which it is awarded, but to make it diminish crime as a whole. Punition as a moral force will be judged according to its effect in two different directions, namely, its force as a means of reforming the convicted individual by preventing his relapse into crime, and its force as a means of deterring other persons from committing the same crimes at all; and of these two the second will be considered greatly the more important in an age that will be logical as well as mild; because it is obviously a greater object to produce an effect upon the minds of a possibly great number than to produce it upon the mind of one culprit. Consequently, although a benevolent solicitude for the reformation of the detected offender will not be excluded from the consideration of future penologists, the deterring from crime of the tempted classes will be much more demanded. As to this, it cannot be questioned that improvements in detection and in legal procedure (eliminating the chances of escape for the guilty without endangering the freedom of the innocent) are capable of accomplishing a great deal more than could possibly be looked for from any alteration in the nature of the punishment used. Experience shows that hitherto a ferocious punishment not very certainly applied does not deter anything like so much as comparatively mild punishment with very little chance of escape. Coining, for instance, is less common now than when coiners were slowly pressed to death under weights, if detected; and the diminution of this crime has not been due to fear of the punishment now long abandoned; neither was that penalty removed from our system of criminal law because it had done its work and stamped out counterfeiting. On the contrary, improvements in the minting of real money, by rendering the detection of counterfeits easy, may be said to have almost eliminated the offence in question, and this result is all the more remarkable when we remember that, owing to the appreciation of gold, real silver shillings, half-crowns and other pieces just as good in assay as the royal mintage could be coined by counterfeiters at a handsome profit. Our very proper anxiety to avoid every possible chance of committing and punishing the innocent doubtless enables many guilty persons to escape every year; and probably quite half the prisoners acquitted at every assize are really guilty in some degree. The jurisprudence of a hundred years hence will certainly have been so much improved that innocent persons will rarely be accused at all, and that guilty ones will not be able to escape on technical grounds: and with improved detective methods the chances of escape in any given case will be greatly diminished. What punishments are inflicted will be of a reformatory character, and no doubt provisional release, freed from the many crying scandals of the ticket-of-leave system, will play a great part in scientific penology. Recidivism will, of course, be the subject of much sharper punishment. In the meantime, the study of mental science in its relation to crime will have made great strides, and if the views of our own age in regard to heredity should be maintained, a very great source of crime will probably be got rid of altogether, because men and women with just that mental twist which leads to crime will, by one device or another, be absolutely prevented from propagating their race. [31] It is impossible to work out here the various methods of individual reform applicable to convicts of various sorts, because the nature of these methods must necessarily depend, to a great extent, upon the conditions of a society of which only the most salient and extreme peculiarities can be foreseen even by the most imaginative. But all evidence seems to suggest that actual crime will have become much diminished in amount, while the necessity for dealing with what may be called technical crimes--misdemeanours, and offences against regulations made for the convenience of society rather than for the defence of life and morals--will probably have been reduced to a minimum, partly by the intelligence of the population, and partly through the fact that the minor offences will have ceased to be dealt with by law, and will be sufficiently repressed by natural causes. Not only, therefore, will the amount of necessary restraint become less, through the diminution of crime and of temptation to crime, but the employment of legal restraint will be less demanded, the latter being recognised as, when avoidable, dangerous to public morals. And, while criminal law will be less active, civil litigation will also probably be much less heavy. The same causes which will tend to make us more careful to avoid committing offences against the common right of others, will make us more scrupulous to perform contracts. And as a consequence of the improved morality which there seems every reason to anticipate, a hundred years hence, it will no doubt have become possible to execute a reform which many thinkers have desiderated as an element of perfected polity. It is hardly necessary here to recapitulate the arguments in favour of the contention that the cost of civil suits should be borne, as the cost of criminal prosecutions is always supposed to be borne, by the State. That the man who brings successfully an action at law, or successfully defends one, should be able to do so only at an expense to himself, is against public policy: and there are even now numerous cases every year in which even the unsuccessful party in a lawsuit is really doing the public a service. In a perfect state of public morality he would always be doing so: and in a hundred years' time he will certainly be more often worthy of public thanks than he is now--he will be less often seeking to impose or defend a wrong. As matters stand, it is notorious that the grant of costs following the judgment in a civil suit is only a partial relief to the successful suitor. He has to pay his solicitor more than his solicitor can obtain leave from the taxing master to collect from the other side; while if (as not infrequently happens) the other side cannot pay, the costs awarded by the Court have to be borne by the winner of the suit. It is a frequent reply of dishonest defendants, when threatened with legal proceedings, that they "will meet the plaintiff in the Bankruptcy Court." On the other hand, a man will often submit to oppression rather than be subjected to the expense of even a successful defence. Every litigant who maintains his right, whether as plaintiff or defendant, renders very much the same service to the public which we often hear applauded on the part of persons who "come forward to prosecute" in criminal or misdemeanour cases. He is assisting to make probity profitable and evasion dangerous; in other words, he is subserving public morality and helping to repress dishonesty. It would be much to the public advantage that his costs should be borne by the public purse, and borne generously, every expense legitimately incurred being allowed him. Logically, he ought also to receive a sufficient, and even a fairly liberal, solatium for his trouble and loss of time: and an honest loser ought to be able to receive a certificate from the court entitling him to the same amenities, the withholding of which would constitute a deterrent penalty against factious litigation. But it may be urged on practical grounds that to make the path of the litigant too easy would lead to too much invocation of the law, and that the full recognition of the public usefulness of litigants must be postponed to the millennium--which age of ideal perfection will not occur (it may be thought necessary to concede) a hundred years hence. And it is not difficult to imagine means by which the public can be protected against the factious and unnecessary litigation to which, in the absence of some safeguard, we should certainly be exposed. The plaintiff might be required to obtain some sort of fiat, such as is required now before a suit of criminal libel can be prosecuted: and there would be no hardship in the litigant who failed to obtain the fiat being left to bear his own expenses up to the time of failure, though, in the event of his success, he would of course have them repaid. The legal machinery for obtaining permission to sue need not be made too complicated: it must not be allowed to develop into a sort of preliminary trial. Probably some sort of arrangement as the above will be instituted a hundred years hence, and all law-costs borne by the State, except in the case of obvious dishonesty or bad faith; the trouble and loss of time necessarily incurred exercising a restraining influence upon the litigious. In regard to the general machinery of the law it would be tedious to attempt to foresee all the reforms of which the growing complexity of human affairs will certainly impose the necessity upon us. The clumsiness of a system by which important civil cases have to be tried three times, in ways differing in detail, before a final decision is reached, needs no insisting upon: and there is a manifest inconsistency in the fact that an action about a matter worth £101 can be twice appealed, while a man tried for his life, or something even more important than life, has no appeal at all against an adverse verdict, except to a secret tribunal of Civil Service clerks--for in the "commutation" of sentences the Crown stands for the Home Secretary, and the Home Secretary is necessarily obliged to depend upon his assistants, who in their turn may very possibly have to derive their information from officials whose credit would be damaged if some fact favourable to the prisoner came out. To admit this inconsistency is not by any means equivalent to admitting the necessity for courts of criminal appeal: and anyone who knows the methods of criminal jurisprudence in the United States must recognise that such courts are capable of abuse highly dangerous to public morality, so dependent upon respect for law. But with the great increase in scrupulosity and in the mildness of public temper which the tendencies of human development clearly vaticinate for the next century, it seems impossible to doubt that some method will be adopted by which criminal trials can be reviewed, even though the class of cases in which the necessity for review is most often mentioned now will no doubt have disappeared with the abolition of capital punishment. And it does not seem likely to be beyond the ingenuity of the coming time to discover some means by which civil cases can be settled in one trial, instead of requiring three, without danger to the justice of any individual suit. It is sometimes questioned whether trial by jury will continue a feature of modern civilisation. The remark of a legal cynic that "the man with a good case is always safe with a judge, while the man with a bad case has always a chance with a jury," is sufficiently sound to make it a question whether juries are worth the trouble given to the members of them, and the vast amount of additional labour which their employment inflicts on the courts of which they are a feature. The conditions which make trial by jury "the blest palladium of our liberties" have passed away in civilised countries, and to a great extent in Ireland. It is no doubt characteristic of the British people that we should so long as this have retained the use of juries in civil suits, though even here there are many cases (especially in divorce and libel) where the average common sense of a jury is really helpful to the judge, and constitutes a check upon his prejudice or impatience. There was a time when the jury was a genuine safeguard against oppression in private as well as Crown cases, and it is like us, as a nation, to have retained them when their usefulness in this respect was happily obsolete. But it seems to the writer pretty certain that in civil trials juries will have been dispensed with long before the end of this century, and this dispensation will probably be the stepping-stone to a system whereby criminal causes will be tried by a bench of judges, instead of by a judge and jury. The whole tendency of modern conditions (in which must be included our growing, and highly discreditable, individual impatience of the trouble of jury-service) seems to point to this. [32] Reforms of judicial procedure of course constitute only a relatively small part of the legislative work which will have been accomplished by the end of the century. Apart from the work of gradually remodelling the law with the idea (which nowhere seems to suggest itself to present-day legislators) of making it act beneficially upon public character, there will no doubt be a vast amount of work for the various parliaments of the world in codifying existing statute- and common-law systems, which in all communities have fallen into complexity and confusion of a degree which makes them highly unsatisfactory instruments of social protection: and there will also be a great amount of constructive legislation, particularly in regard to the tenure of land, to the simplification of conveyancing, to a more intelligent machinery of contracts, to the equitable handling of such accidental or conditional sources of wealth as we call "unearned increment" and the discovery of unexpected minerals, to the useful limitation of inheritance, and to other matters too numerous to be safely named. And in order that these great works may be accomplished, it is quite certain that, not only in England, but in all those States where really free parliaments exist, great reforms will have been found necessary, and will have become so much a part of the machinery of legislation and administration a hundred years hence, that our descendants will hardly be able to realise how Government was ever carried on without them. Indeed, it is by the difficulty of administering anything at all by parliamentary methods--every year more evidently breaking down--rather than by the desire to undertake large schemes of legislation, that statesmen will in a very short time be forced to initiate the changes whose full development will have become time-honoured by the end of this century. The organisation of political opposition in parliaments has reached a point which makes it evident that before long the minority in parliaments will have become a nonentity. The minority, in fact, has already, here and in other countries (of which the Austro-Hungarian empire is, at the moment, the most noticeable example), become so powerful for obstruction of business that, by a sort of paradox, its power is on the eve of complete destruction. At St Stephen's the effect of obstruction working in this manner is plainly visible. Whatever party is in power will always, so long as the existing system continues, be obliged to silence the opposition by the force of parliamentary machine; and whatever party is in power will always be accused of tyranny and autocracy by the other party. In practice there is no method by which any important government measure can be passed through the House of Commons except by force. It is a mere farce to make a show of debating the details in committee. Naturally the Opposition, when it does not want the measure passed at all, will delay its passage to the last possible moment, and will make its enactment impossible unless a term is set to the deliberations of committee of the whole house. Whether the time granted by the Government be long or short makes no difference: it is impossible to pass any serious and complex bill except by the closure. In other words, the Government (which practically means the Civil Service officials and parliamentary draftsmen employed by the particular department concerned with the bill--the Home Office, the Local Government Board Office, the Exchequer, or what not) must triumph. Even the suggestions of individual supporters of the administration in power must be ignored, unless there is a cave which might turn out the ministry altogether. In detail, therefore, we are governed, not by Parliament, but by the permanent officials, so far as really important Government measures are concerned: and it is quite evident that bills introduced by private members will very soon not be considered at all. The private member is rapidly being reduced to nothingness by the force of parliamentary development. Meantime, the waste of public time by the introduction and debating of bills which the Opposition eventually succeeds in destroying, is appalling, and of course it is aggravated by the idiotic rule which destroys at the end of each session all the work which has been begun and not completed. The system, not less imbecile, in which opinion is ascertained in Parliament is another great time-waster. It is only necessary to ask for a single moment what our grandsons, or even the younger of our children, will think of a Parliament in which a vote was taken by solemnly walking through lobbies, with elaborate arrangements for counting and checking the members (when it might all be done by the simple use of an electric signal in front of each seat in the chamber) in order to perceive the miserable inadequacy of even the mechanical arrangements of all the parliaments of the world. And if even all the crass follies and mediæval stupidities of modern parliamentary arrangements were reformed, as nine-tenths of them could be by any competent board composed of a few engineers, electricians and architects, we should still be in possession of a legislative machine such as the intelligence of a hundred years hence would laugh to scorn if its restoration were suggested. Nor is this all. The whole institution of parliaments, as a contrivance for giving effect to the will of the peoples, has long been utterly inadequate, and must be reformed from the bottom. We elect members to carry out schemes of legislation and forms of policy never fully, and sometimes not even partially, formulated, upon which, even if they were set out in full detail, we could not possibly have any complete influence in giving our votes. For instance, let us suppose that, at a general election, one party wishes to increase the Navy, to abolish publicans' compensation, and to legalise marriage with a deceased wife's sister: while the other party not only objects to all these three proposals but also wishes to put a protective tariff on foodstuffs and machinery, to give Home Rule to Ireland, and to disestablish the Church of England. A Home Ruler who was also a teetotaler could not vote for either party without outraging one or other of his convictions. A believer in the support of our national supremacy who also considered that the Church ought to be disestablished would have to choose between voting against the increase of the Navy or against the Disestablishment: and the Deceased Wife's Sister Bill advocate must vote against all the proposals on the other side (all of which he may agree with) if he do not wish to assist in perpetuating what he believes to be a hardship to his fellow-countrymen, and very possibly to some of his own friends, or to himself. And any of these perplexed voters, having somehow contrived to strike a balance with his conscience, and to give a vote, will, perhaps, in a year's, or in six years', time find that he has been the instrument of placing in power an administration which is now proceeding to pass measures that he abhors. He has no redress. Nor, abandoning the extreme case of such highly-mixed policies as I have endeavoured to amuse the reader by imagining, has the voter who changes his mind, or who finds that he has been bamboozled with false promises, any means of helping to undo the harm he has helped to do. It used to be said that, on an average, parliamentary government worked well--that it carried out in a rough way the will of the people. But the peoples of a hundred years hence are going to be much more particular about matters of such high importance. They are not going to be content with a rough approximation in matters of the very highest moment when they are able to secure with perfect accuracy most of their wishes in matters of quite minor importance. They will not be satisfied to know exactly what time it is at any moment of the day (as of course they will know, all instruments for time-measuring being controlled by wireless synchronisation) and not to know exactly what their rulers are going to do about matters upon which the very fate of the country may depend. Neither will they have remained so stupid as to think that whatever one body of politicians considers right must be right and that whatever another body thinks right must necessarily be wrong. It is quite certain that in a really intelligent age so clumsy a system as that of party government will have been relegated to oblivion. The political machinery to replace it will be of a nature determined by causes much too complex to be foreseen, except in the merest outline, as yet; and probably it will, like most political institutions, be a development rather than an invention. The system, already talked of, by which any matter of great national importance should be made a referendum, the subject of a direct vote by the whole nation, is no doubt capable of ingeniously modified arrangement so as to provide for its expeditious use, without undue interference with the course of ordinary business. But obviously this device is only capable of limited application, and it could not be employed at all, without producing dangerous confusions and incongruities, except in a community whose political education had made strides almost inconceivable in the light of our present limited experience. It is difficult to see how the general legislative business of a considerable nation could be carried on unless by committees of a parliamentary character; and limited as we are by the history of political institutions arising out of states of public intelligence which will have become contemptible in comparison with the intelligence of the next century, there is a difficulty in conceiving how such committees or parliaments could work out otherwise than on some sort of party system. But the analogy of progress in general may help us to a conjecture, which is here offered only for what it is worth. All progress, as we know it, is a development from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. One form of progress consists of the development of specialism. At one time, and not so very long ago, every housewife made her own jams, pickles, perfumes, essences and condiments, which are now purchased ready made. A man of science, in Davy's time, often embraced a number of different branches as his province; whereas now even a single science is seldom completely handled by any individual professor, entomologists differentiating themselves from general biologists, and coleopterists from general entomologists. Does it not appear likely, then, that the functions of the politician and of the legislator will presently be differentiated, with great advantage to nations? In a legislature of the present time professional law-makers are numerically few, and not very highly regarded. While in a matter relatively unimportant, like coach-building, civilisation has made specialism necessary; in a matter of the highest importance, the making of a nation's laws, we continue to trust the general practitioner, and the suggestion that specialists alone should be employed in it would probably awaken a torrent of objection not unmingled with execration. But specialism of all sorts will have extended its sway to such an extent a hundred years hence that the likeliest solution of the difficulties at present envisaged is that the business of law-making will be relegated to a specially qualified and specially educated class, and that parliaments, if they exist at all, will have nothing to do with it, but will concern themselves with what they are often rather contumeliously told now is not their business (though it ought to be); namely, the management of international policy. The way in which this evolution will come about is, moreover, fairly easy to imagine. At some time during the century the manifold confusions, inconsistencies and evident inconveniences of the existing corpus of the law are pretty sure to require drastic and laborious treatment, which can only be administered by professional experts. At the same time, the public, having awakened to the ludicrous fact that laws are passed in every session of every Parliament in the world, which, when they come to be administered, break down because they have either been so stupidly and unimaginatively conceived, or so clumsily expressed in the statutes which embody them, that practical working immediately reveals their fatal defects. A clever young lawyer once said to the present writer that he knew of no intellectual pleasure so delightful as that of discovering how to circumvent the provisions of an Act of Parliament. This diverting, if immoral, remark illustrates the faults of a social system in which laws are made chiefly by persons having little experience in the working of laws, and elected to that duty by persons having no such experience at all. Having in mind the fact that international law is already relegated practically to specialists, it requires no great effort of imagination to foresee that the Hercules that will cleanse the Augean stable of the Statute Book will be a committee of professors of law. And once the public has become familiarised with the idea, what more natural than that a similar body should be formed to provide against such legislative blunders as we were all recently laughing at, when, having provided for the restraint of habitual drunkards by placing them on what was called the black list, Parliament presently learned that it had so framed the law that no one could be black-listed except by his own consent? The development from this to a system by which laws would not merely be amended, but devised ab ovo, by professional legislators, is easy to foresee; and with properly-devised precautions to ensure that the laws created shall express the will of a sovereign people sufficiently educated in political duty to possess a will worthy of consideration, probably no better solution of the legislative difficulty can be imagined. The conduct of foreign affairs is a matter much less easy to reform. If despotisms were not such desperately untrustworthy things, a good sound autocracy would probably be the best form of government for the function of conducting the affairs of one nation with another. The extraordinary diplomatic success of Russia is an evidence of this. But Russia also illustrates the drawbacks of despotism. In its management of foreign affairs Russia has (despite the habit which its departments occasionally display of acting in conflict with one another) beaten all the civilised nations. Russia has a "continuous" foreign policy. There are no changes of ministers to nullify each other's work and to encourage the diplomatists of other nations to procrastinate and shilly-shally over negotiations in the hope that a general election will bring in a new set of statesmen, easier to deal with. And Russia can herself procrastinate, prevaricate and play all sorts of tricks, neglect her promises, ignore her pledges, and prosecute her cryptic aims, without the smallest fear of a question in Parliament to spoil her game by letting all the world into her dark and devious secrets. The more a nation becomes democratised, the less competent it is to manage its foreign policy against less democratic nations, and a truly popular Government is, in the present state of the world, about the worst conceivable instrument for that purpose. With an ever-increasing democratisation of all governments such as we are sure to witness during this century, foreign offices of the present kind will become more and more incompetent until some sort of machinery is invented in their place. Nor will the disappearance of the ultimate resort to arms, as a possibility always threatening in the background, tend to improve matters. It will, on the contrary, make them worse. There can be no doubt that the awful fear of war, which must haunt the pillow of every statesman in our day with dreams of pitiable horror, does exercise an influence in settling controversies which, without this terror, would drag their slow length along from generation to exasperated generation. And if we try to imagine that the increased conscientiousness of a better time will help nations to deal more honourably with each other, it is to be feared that even the vast progress of the quick-moving century on which we have entered will not suffice to bind the princes to its pleasure and teach their senators wisdom. It is unfortunately in regard to honour between nation and nation that conscience develops most slowly, and many a man who would scorn to trick a fellow-citizen, or even defraud a railway company, and who would quite possibly hesitate before smuggling a box of cigars through the custom-house, will calmly advocate acts of international dishonesty and oppression abhorrent to any conscientious mind. There can be no doubt that the most deleterious influence of our times, which encourages nations to delay and deny to each other justice and the fulfilment of solemn obligations, is the habit of waiting upon the chances of a minister's fall, and a resulting change of policy. So long as almost any day may bring a new set of statesmen, predisposed against anything which their predecessors may have approved, diplomacy will be disfigured by ways that are dark and tricks that are vain: and the logical twentieth of the centuries may be trusted to perceive this. Consequently some method will have to be devised by which a continuous foreign policy may be made compatible with the performance of a nation's will. And here the wiser nature of the new age will assist the constructive genius of the reformer. No doubt the habit of changing our minds on the basic principles of government about once every six years will have been eradicated. Peoples will deliberate more intelligently upon the important questions which they decide by their votes: and it will no longer be thought--or rather, we shall no longer act as if we thought--that a modification of general opinion in regard (say) to Home Rule for Ireland must necessarily carry with it a change of opinion as to whether it is desirable to extend our influence in Afghanistan. When this error is abandoned, probably foreign affairs will no longer be made part and parcel of the work of the same set of men that is elected to manage domestic policy. It will then be possible for the people to express--as they rarely have any opportunity to express under the present system--their sovereign will in regard to international matters. And here, as everywhere, responsibility will certainly exercise an educative influence. When men intelligently realise that by their votes they are deciding the fate of their country, they will deliberate long before yielding a decision so momentous. Inasmuch as the foreign affairs of any nation are truly understood only by a very limited class, because very few people are willing to give up enough of their leisure to the studies necessary for such an understanding, it seems reasonable to think that one feature of the polity of the year 2000 may be the limitation of the right to vote on foreign affairs to men and women who have demonstrated in some sufficient manner their competence to assist in directing the action of their representatives in matters so intricate. The increased leisure with which other reforms already foreseen will endow the people will of course facilitate the acquirement of this competence, and the right to vote on foreign affairs will doubtless be a coveted social distinction, subserving the perennial love of titles and the childlike pleasure of having letters after one's name. Nor need we be too much daunted in this conjecture by the whispered word "oligarchy." When oligarchy really means government by those best qualified to govern--the nature of this "bestness" being intelligently determined--oligarchy will be recognised as the most satisfactory form of government: and in order to exclude objectionable one-sidedness in the method of selecting voters for the high duty of guarding the nation's honour, no doubt some method of selection by vote can be discovered, free from liability to reintroduce the baleful evil of party. Coming now to other functions of a State, the most obvious subject for conjecture is that suggested by the tendency in recent times of governments (and following their example of municipalities) to engage in trade. The comment which gained currency over a decade ago, that we were all socialists then, is still more justified now. Will States continue their increasing practice of usurping the place of private adventurers? Will railways, canals, telephonic and teleautographic systems, street conveyances, and so forth, be owned and controlled by various public authorities, after education, some other functions, including the feeding and clothing of poor children during school age, and the care of the unemployed (which States before long will certainly have embraced) have by a more enlightened polity been returned to the proper hands? The whole question of whether socialism is a probable solution of the difficulties which its advocates believe it capable of solving is here involved. Applying our familiar principle of estimating the tendencies of the future by the trend of events in the past, it seems certain that there will for a good many years immediately to come be an increase in the functions assumed by the State: but that the whole plunge into socialism will not be undertaken. For, while measures undisguisedly socialistic in character are more and more advocated and adopted, the open principle of State socialism seems to find less support every year. Whenever distress becomes prevalent, plenty of writers, for instance, loudly denounce Governments for not finding work for everyone who fails to find work for himself--so long as he is a man! (No one appears to think it the Government's duty to find work for women.) But when socialism is openly propounded, the same authors just as vehemently denounce the socialistic system to which this principle of regarding the State as the duty-bound employer of the workless clearly tends. What will most likely happen is that devices, more and more socialistic, for dealing with emergencies, and inconveniences of various sorts, will be adopted and maintained until their own inconvenience and injustice have made themselves felt: and then a more reasonable age will get rid of them--better remedies having meantime been discovered--at the same time perceiving their deleterious effect upon private responsibility, and wondering why it has tolerated the old methods so long. In other words, socialistic experiments will have demonstrated their own evils before the habit of indulging in them has gone so far as to allow States to drift the whole way into socialism. It is even possible that the example of some single nation, drifting thus far, and setting up a socialistic State, may serve as a useful warning to the rest of the world, and determine the gradual abandonment of the dangerous tendencies which will have increasingly manifested themselves. For it is certain that, unless in exceptional and abnormal instances--of which the Australian Commonwealth is very likely to furnish an example--political systems will always continue to develop by evolutionary, and not by revolutionary, steps. We shall pass gradually, and by a process of construction and elimination, from one condition to another, until the very greatly improved system of government and administration whose period of existence I have ventured to place at about the beginning of the next century, has become general throughout the world. We may, for instance, very easily imagine how a more intelligent electorate will abolish some abuses, by considering the condition of the post-office department of this and other countries. It is hardly thinkable that, during any period of the world's history, the business of carrying letters can be thrown open to anyone who chooses to undertake it. If there were nothing to be dealt with except the domestic correspondence of each nation, probably it would be a great deal better that it should be thus thrown open to competition: it is hardly likely that the vast business of international correspondence can ever be satisfactorily conducted, except by administrations acting in the name and behalf of every State. But there is not the least reason for thinking that the abuses which deface the postal department of this and every other nation will be perpetual. The British post-office contributes annually a "profit" of several millions sterling to the Exchequer. Every person who writes a letter, therefore, is taxed for doing it. In proportion to the intelligence, commercial enterprise, family affection, or professional diligence by which he is prompted to use correspondence, every one of us is compelled to contribute something more to the up-keep of the State than his neighbour who is too lazy, too ignorant or too callous to trouble himself with letter-writing. No doubt it is impossible, without a loss which would amount to subsidising, in an equally objectionable manner, the users of the post-office, to conduct that department except at a profit of some sort: but it surely will not be pretended that it could not be conducted without exacting such a surplus as the post-office does annually contribute to the Budget. The vicious manner in which we treat the postal service as a sort of trading department, expected to yield the Chancellor of the Exchequer a convenient sum towards his expenditure, is illustrated by the disgraceful underpayment of the minor officials, such as postmen, small post-masters, telegraph messengers and the like. The post-office buys its labour in the cheapest market: there is but too much reason for the belief that it treats with oppressive harshness attempts on the part of its servants to better their wages by organisation: and when reproved in the House of Commons for sweating his work-people, a postmaster-general can always reply, amid applause, that he dare not embarrass his right-honourable friend the Chancellor of the Exchequer. The polity of the enlightened future will assuredly desist from penalising intelligence, enterprise, and the other commendable characteristics which tend to increase a man's correspondence; and the postmaster-general who will be praised a hundred years hence will be that one who has succeeded in managing his department with the smallest possible surplus. We have only to envisage the obvious justice of this ambition to perceive the objections which attach to the adoption of trading functions by the State. Though it is very likely that railways will be nationalised in this, as they have been nationalised or subsidised in many other countries, it is quite certain that if we do nationalise them we shall be compensated by none of the advantages which make us tolerant, and even unconscious, of the abuses of the British post-office--itself in most respects one of the least imperfect of bureaucracies. The faults generally found with railways are precisely the faults of bureaucracy, and in proportion as railways become more and more united in their policy, through amalgamation and arrangements for mutual assistance, those faults constantly increase. The same will presently be found true of all governmental usurpations of private enterprise: and it cannot be doubted that in this, as in so many other respects, the functions of governments will be greatly reduced a hundred years hence. One subject which cannot be neglected in any attempt to foresee the conditions of the law in the next century is the delicate and difficult one of marriage laws: and on no subject are differences of opinion so numerous and so acute. All that seems to be generally agreed is that under the present system inconveniences and immoralities occur: and it is (of course) supposed to be a corollary that if the system were changed these inconveniences and immoralities would disappear. This is the usual method of considering social difficulties. Hardly anyone will consent to base plans for the future upon experience of the past. It is always presumed that new laws can reform abuses, without changes in the spirit of the age, which gives rise to the abuses. One class of thinkers, despairing of moral improvement, considers that, immorality being irremediable, the only thing to be done is to give it sanction; as it must exist, it must be made respectable and unscandalous. Another set of reformers would penalise immorality by forbidding the guilty party in a divorce suit to re-marry, just as there are people who would prevent the physically unfit from marrying at all. Both forget that the prohibition of legal unions is much more likely to lead to an increase of irregular connections than to produce any other effect. No doubt we could improve the physical standard of the legitimately born by the prohibition last digressively mentioned: but it would be at the expense of an increase in illegitimate births accompanied by the additional disadvantage of bodily weakness. Similarly, so far from the prohibition of re-marriage restraining the immorally disposed, it is much more likely that it would encourage them: the fact that a co-respondent could not be called upon to marry the woman divorced in consequence of her guilty association with him would hardly act generally as a deterrent; while, if he had been willing to face the probable consequences of publicity, expense and inconvenience attending a liaison with a woman under coverture, the co-respondent would not think it necessary to abandon his confederate, if he wished, and she were willing, to continue their connection after all the penalties had been suffered, merely because the law prevented a regular union. It is agreed by all jurists that the only justification for the greater severity with which matrimonial infidelity is visited on women as compared with men is the greater social degradation with which society visits women who have offended. To penalise their offence by prohibiting re-marriage would only perpetuate their degradation, and does in fact so perpetuate and increase it in countries where the condemned party in a divorce is forbidden the altar. On the other hand, to recognise a sort of promiscuity, as some writers have suggested that we shall be obliged to do, would probably be attended by worse effects than the bold and straightforward acceptance of polygamy as a necessary remedy for the excess of feminine population, which a writer of letters to the shocked and astonished newspapers of this city recently proposed. Neither expedient is capable of being adopted: nor does there seem much likelihood that public morality can be improved by legislation, though it is certain to be much improved by the spontaneous amelioration of public sentiment. No doubt in one or two particulars the marriage laws will gradually undergo amendment. It will be realised that it is much more immoral to compel unwilling couples to live together matrimonially, than to set them free to remedy one of the most hideous of all possible mistakes. The difficulty of determining what shall be done where one party wishes for divorce, while the other does not, is greater: but on the whole it will probably be considered more conducive to morality to dissolve the marriage here, after a precautionary and experimental period of provisional separation, than to insist upon its perpetuation. That age will only be ripe for such a reform as this, which, by moral progress, has rendered intolerable the position of a libertine capable of entering into matrimony with the deliberate intention of getting out of it again when it ceases to be attractive, and in which the social estimate of a person who acted in the same manner through instability of character would be not much better. In any reform of the kind suggested, it would no doubt be arranged that pecuniary liabilities, allocated to the support and education of children, would follow the party insisting on divorce; and this also would act as a check upon dishonest contracts of marriage. Thus, for any radical improvement in the system of matrimonial connections, we must look to a corresponding improvement in the spirit of the age, and the first step in advance will have been taken when marriage ceases to be the only legal contract which is enforced notwithstanding the ignorance of a contracting party as to the engagement entered into. The frequency of divorce petitions will be greatly diminished from the time we get rid of the idiotic and almost incredibly wicked convention by which we take every possible precaution we can think of to ensure that a girl, when she marries, shall have no possible means of knowing to what she is committing herself. No more ingenious contrivance for obtaining marital infelicity could be imagined. The next step will have been taken when it is recognised as disgraceful for parents to put pressure upon the inclinations of their children of either sex to induce them to marry, and when social execration renders such pressure impossible. Concurrently with this, or as a result of it, a third step will be some abatement of our present entire neglect of any demand for good character in a bridegroom who would be outraged if he thought that the least aspersion could be suggested concerning his bride. In other words, the greatest improvements in the status of the world with regard to matrimony will be effected when we recognise the claim of woman to be made the equal of man in knowledge, in discretion and in social rights. No legislative reform as yet ever suggested could have anything like as much effect in removing the evils under which we groan, in respect to matrimony, as this natural and inevitable development. Naturally the improvement in the position of women in the new age will not arrive at a bound, nor will their rights in relation to marriage be unaccompanied by other rights at present withheld, and perhaps not always unreasonably withheld. On the contrary, the recognition of one set of rights will facilitate and accelerate the recognition of the other. It is generally agreed that the tendency of the sexes is to become less divergent, intellectually and morally, for reasons connected with what Spencer calls "the less early arrest of individual evolution, and the result everywhere seen throughout the organic world, of a self-preserving power inversely proportionate to the race-preserving power." [33] As it will have been realised, long before the advent of the next century, that the surest way to improved capacity is to be found in increased responsibility, women will not, a hundred years hence, be allowed or compelled to shirk their political obligations. We may see with half an eye that every year women are becoming more capable, and also more desirous of aiding the counsels of the public: and in some of our Colonies, as well as in some States of the American Union, they are already voting, and voting (as it turns out) with the most wonderful intelligence and usefulness. The influence of the female vote in, for example, New Zealand has been for some time perceptible in the legislation of that highly-enlightened colony: and I never heard anyone object to the results of this influence except persons whose conduct, or the conduct which they approved in their associates, was likely to be inconvenienced by them. It is no doubt true that women are a great deal more fond of demanding that the law should do work which it would be better to leave to natural developments of public character than could be wished: but then so are men, and it is an unquestionable thing that the misdeeds which men more readily condone than women are much more likely to be bad for public morality than those which women condone more freely than men. There is no particular reason for thinking at the present time (though there was ample reason for thinking a few decades ago) that women will be more prone to legislate unnecessarily, and therefore mischievously, than men: and we are in any case bound to pass through a good many years of parliament-worship before we awaken to the fact that the law cannot do everything, and that any reform which is accomplished by the spontaneous influence of public opinion is always a great deal more complete, a great deal more conducive to public self-respect, and a great deal better adjusted to the special requirements of every individual circumstance that it touches, than one which is laboriously and mechanically embodied in statutes which cannot but be imperfect, cannot possibly fail to act oppressively and unjustly in one place or another, and frequently prove to be unworkable from beginning to end. CHAPTER XII GENERAL CONCLUSIONS "On the other hand, after observing how the processes that have brought things to their present stage are still going on, not with a decreasing rapidity indicating approach to cessation, but with an increasing rapidity that implies long continuance and immense transformations; there follows the conviction that the remote future has in store, forms of social life higher than any we have imagined: there comes a faith transcending that of the Radical, whose aim is some re-organisation admitting of comparison to organisations which exist. And while this conception of societies has naturally evolved, beginning with small and simple types which have their short existences and disappear, advancing to higher types that are larger, more complex, and longer-lived, coming to still-higher types like our own, great in size, complexity, and duration, and promising types transcending these in times after existing societies have died away--while this conception of societies implies that in the slow course of things changes almost immeasurable in amount are possible, it also implies that but small amounts of such changes are possible, within "short periods"--Herbert Spencer: The Study of Sociology, Chapter XVI. It has repeatedly been necessary, in the course of this survey, to stimulate the indulgence of the reader by a reminder, based upon the speed of our progress in the past and its steady acceleration in recent decades, that there is much more danger of underestimating than of exaggerating the advances likely to have been achieved a hundred years hence. In order to guard against misconception of the manner in which these advances will be brought about, it is now advisable to mention specifically what has been once or twice hinted parenthetically, namely, the fact that the progress of the Future is certain to be produced in a way perfectly capable of being deduced from the manner of our progress in the past. One of the most fruitful causes of error in existing prognostications has been the tacit assumption that, at some vague moment in the spacious middle-distance of the coming time, sudden and cataclysmal movements of society, and also unexpected and revolutionary discoveries in science, will occur: and it is as a precaution against one aspect of this mistake that a weighty quotation from the writings of one of the sanest and most perspicuous thinkers who have ever written upon that science of society which he may almost be said to have created has been recalled to the memory of the reader at the head of this chapter. The forecast now almost concluded, imperfect and visionary as it must necessarily be, was commenced with some reflections on the rate of future progress made probable by the movements of the recent past. But nothing whatever can be deduced from what history, remote or recent, shows us, to suggest that any stable institution can be created otherwise than by steady development: it is only the speed of development which is likely to alter, and even this will only alter by a progression gaining impetus from the influence of its own components. Whether we consider material improvements effected by science and invention and the interaction of these; or social improvements effected by readjustment of the conditions of life forced upon us through the influence of intellectual and moral changes in the individual units of society making themselves felt as aggregated forces; the manner of attainment is nearly identical. It is commonly objected to this view, that whereas science and invention commonly progress in a movement characterised (so to speak) by a succession of jerks, social conditions change imperceptibly. But thus to object is to overlook the fact that, while no doubt society develops from time to time certain needs whose growth is so steady as to preclude the possibility of pointing to a final moment when the satisfaction of them has become at length inevitable, yet, when this satisfaction is gained by legislative enactment, there is always a moment when the public, ripe for a given reform, takes definite possession of it. For example (to name a comparatively recent case), no doubt the desire for some method by which the public could distinguish between foreign and home-made articles of merchandise had for some time been generally felt before the passing of the Merchandise Marks Act fixed a moment at which all dubiety on the subject would vanish, by endeavouring to require that any imported object bearing marks calculated to give the impression that it had been manufactured in England should also bear a definite and correct statement as to its place of origin. Whether we consider this enactment to have been desirable or not, it is impossible to deny that there was a specific moment when it took effect. And similarly, the bill for the repression of secret commissions in business has come so near to being passed through Parliament that many people imagine it to be already law, though it is not, at the time of writing, even (in a technical sense) before the legislature. Without question, therefore, public opinion is ripe for this reform, and has with great gradualness become so: but the reform itself, when it takes place (as it may quite conceivably have taken place by the time this book is printed), will occur suddenly. There will be a day when the manager of a business house could, with immunity from any overt punishment except the loss of his employment, receive a secret bribe from another house with which he was doing business on behalf of his master; and a succeeding day on which, for the same offence against commercial integrity, he could be charged before a magistrate and ultimately punished by the law. Thus the difference between scientific progress and social progress is not so great as has been sometimes imagined. And on the other hand, although to the casual observer scientific discoveries and new inventions often appear to have been attained at a single step, to a person interested in the particular branch of science, or the particular path of invention where a new achievement occurs, it is generally quite evident that the latter has been led up to by steady progress extending over a long period. The existence of unidentified constituents in atmospheric air, for instance, must have been long suspected before the isolation of argon gave, to the public eye, the impression of a sudden discovery: and astronomical disturbances have generally puzzled a great army of observers for a long time before the public is indulged by the announcement of a "new" star in the heavens. To the reader who has been good enough to grant any validity at all to the arguments by which I have sought to show that, as time goes on, there will be a decreasing tendency to attempt desired reforms by legislative process, and an increasing tendency to make the public the guardian of its own security, it will be evident that any differences which exist between the nature of scientific progress and the nature of social progress are likely to be accentuated rather than diminished in the course of this century. A change brought about by the spontaneous activity of the people naturally occurs without the definite line of demarcation created by an Act of Parliament. But there is one way in which the analogy between scientific and social progress will be noteworthy. It is a commonplace of industrial history that an improvement in one machine, or the introduction of some novel method of applying power, always produces, and may very often necessitate, modifications in a number of procedures not previously seen to be connected with it: and great results from little causes flow. No one foresaw, when Mr Edison discovered the differences in the electrical conductivity of carbon induced by slight variations of pressure--a discovery at first utilised only in the micro-tasimeter, the appliance used for measuring small changes in the size of objects submitted to it--that the same discovery would presently render commercially practicable the electrical transmission of speech and numerous other conveniences, themselves the progenitors of fresh inventions now in constant use. Similarly, political and social changes quite easy to foresee will undoubtedly have effects which in their entirety no one can possibly foresee. The rate of advancement cannot be calculated like a geometrical progression: all that we can hope to do is to realise more or less vaguely the acceleration which the action and interaction of anticipated (and often antagonistic) forces will produce; the general manner of the world's progress representing the resultant of their activities. What we must constantly keep in mind is the fact that changes in the institutions of society can only be stable when they are the result of corresponding changes in the temper of the age which yields them. As this temper is a thing of gradual development, we must believe that many temporary expedients will have to be tolerated by advanced thinkers since (as Spencer remarks) society can only be held together when the institutions existing, and the conceptions generally current, are in tolerable harmony. We can foresee many changes which will be in beneficent existence a hundred years hence; but it would be irrational to show impatience because these changes cannot be immediately proposed; since, being not yet in harmony with the current conceptions of the world, their immediate adoption would be mischievous instead of beneficial, and their results anarchic instead of stable. For a great many years we must go on passing laws for the regulation of social life, which we can quite easily perceive that the altered social life of a future age will not need, because they would be injurious to it. The zealous reformer who wishes, as we must all wish, to help the world in its wearied way to perfection must aim rather to assist the mind of people to demand greater reforms than it could as yet assimilate, than to procure the arrival of reforms for which society is not yet ripe, and must be content with the effort "... to ease the burden of the world Laboriously tracing what must be And what may yet be better." To say this is not to deprecate the greatest possible energy in all endeavour that makes for progress. The doctrine, founded upon a perception of the impossibility of regenerating society except by utilising the natural and evolutionary movement of society itself, that nothing ought to be done except to wait upon this movement, betrays an evident confusion of thought, akin to the fallacy of the schoolmen, commonly called realism, partly adopted by Comte. "Society" is not in itself an entity separable from the units of society; a progress of society is only possible as the result of human volition progressively exercised. What we have to look for is a steady enlightenment of public ideals, issuing in the triumph of wisdom over folly, of virtue over laxity, of progress over reaction and inertia. Always there will be differences of opinion, exercising a salutary check upon hasty public action, and giving time for the establishment of harmony between the spirit of the age and the new institutions which mark its progress. Naturally there will have been many changes in the material of daily life which, either because they did not fit in with any one of the divisions into which a forecast of the future naturally fell, or because the consideration of them would have obscured the exposition of matters more immediately connected with each other, it has not been possible to mention. For example, we have had occasion to debate the methods by which men and women will transact the business of trade and commerce with the aid of certain foreseen conveniences; and we have glanced at the probable future aspect of dwellings, conveyances and similar conveniences; but nothing has been said as to the clothes in which our descendants are likely to attire themselves or the enjoyment of these advantages. The latter and a few other minor subjects may perhaps be considered now, without very much mutual connection. The clothing of men and women happens to illustrate rather appropriately the very same tendency of civilised institutions to develop by gradual, rather than violent, changes which has just been referred to. For, while a good deal is heard about the "vagaries" of fashion, technical writers on the subject always seem to be able to predict some time in advance the movements of modish costume; and they sometimes even condescend to explain the processes of thought and observation by which their apparently inspired predictions are arrived at. Moreover, admitting, and allowing for, the extremest variations in detail, costume in civilised countries can hardly be said to have materially and intrinsically altered--cannot, that is to say, be said to have altered its fundamental characteristics--during a century, in the case of men, nor during a great many centuries in the case of women. Since the age of knee-breeches succeeded the age of doublet and hose, men have always protected their legs with "bifurcated integuments"--some sort of double tube secured to a copious bag enclosing the middle of the body--and the upper part of the trunk with a coat and waistcoat; while women have always worn bodices and petticoats of one shape or another. Neither has the loudest outcry against the irrationality of costume as a whole, nor even the ridicule showered upon single elements of it, ever had the least effect in producing revolutionary modification. Punch laughed in vain at crinolines; Lord Ronald Gower protests in vain against the silk "chimney-pot" hat. Will a more scientific and a more logical age replace absurd or otherwise objectionable garments by others more reasonably designed, to such an extent as to produce an entire change in the sartorial aspect of civilised peoples? It is impossible to doubt that in some respects it will. Already sensible women decline to injure themselves and risk the injury of their possible offspring at the command of fashion. Tight-lacing and the wearing of such corsets as unnaturally compress the internal organs of the body are evidently near the end of their long reign. In a comparatively short time it is hardly possible to doubt that at least these, the most evidently injurious articles of clothing still surviving, will have joined the farthingale and the ruff in the lumber-room of the obsolete, and when what is really the more reasonable moiety of mankind is thus within easy reach of sacrificing to hygiene what was dedicated to a wholly mistaken conception of æsthetics, can we question that reforms in male dress founded upon convenience and reason will follow, even to the abandonment of the silk hat? If one were asked to suggest the various steps by which the ultimate costume of the century, whether male or female, will be arrived at, few would not boggle at the task. But the general nature of the more-or-less-perfected dress of a hundred years hence may perhaps be not unsuccessfully imagined, having in mind the considerations likely to determine it. We may be quite certain that two characteristics will be demanded of all costume--that it shall give to all movements of the body the greatest possible freedom consistent with warmth, and that it shall be as easy as possible to put on and take off. The highly intellectual life of the next century will certainly be impatient of anything which detains it with occupations so uninteresting as the putting on and taking off of clothes from pursuits more attractive. Hence there will doubtless be a great deal of simplification of details, the greatest practical diminution in the number of single objects worn. The essentials of a satisfactory outfit will be, first, an inner garment next the skin, worn merely for cleanliness; next a middle garment for warmth, and finally an outer suit for protection. The innermost garment will no doubt be made of some fabric not much unlike the soft silky papers now made in Japan, so that it can be destroyed as soon as it is taken off. It is not in the least likely that so insanitary and degrading an occupation as that of the washerwoman can survive in a civilisation really advanced. The middle garment, completely cleansable by vacuum action and oxygenation, will of course have to be made of some vegetable fibre like cotton or flax. It will most likely be some developed form of "combination," easy to put on and take off, fastening by means of a single knot or button, and will be just tight enough to give freedom to the movements. Its warmth will be dependent upon contained air, and it, like everything else we wear, will be highly porous; for the importance of properly ventilating the skin, perfectly well understood even now, will by that time be also acted upon. Thus far male costume and female costume will be practically identical. There is no reason to expect, however, that this identity will be carried so far as the externals of dress, because realising (as we shall of course realise) the tendency of the sexes to become less divergent in their natural and moral characteristics, we shall instinctively seek to maintain all the salutary and romantic contrast that we can. But it is not to be believed that woman, already long since emancipated from the corset, will have continued a slave to the skirt, the petticoat and other restraining garments. With underclothes practically identical with the sensible garments of men, our female descendants will no doubt wear a costume much like what Miss Rehan wore as Rosalind--a tunic and knee-skirt (probably in one) with gaiters made of some elastic material. Deprived as we shall be of animal products, the leather boot will naturally be unavailable, and a totally different kind of foot covering will be used. But it is not the absence of leather which will determine this change. Perfectly satisfactory boots of the present form are worn by some extreme vegetarians already, carrying consistency to its limit. With the disappearance of the horse from the streets, however--a disappearance which will doubtless be at least seventy years old by this time next century (for the motor car is fast pushing out the horse already)--the chief need for an entirely impervious foot-covering will have been obviated. Towns will be sanitary underfoot--they are disgusting now--and free from mud; while the drying appliances mentioned in an earlier chapter will clear away rain as fast as it falls. Consequently it will no longer be necessary to wear uncomfortable, unhealthy and deforming boots; the human foot will cease to be the source of discomfort it now more or less acutely is to nine people out of every ten, and we shall be much better walkers and athletes. For health will be the consideration dominating all our actions, health being a subject of careful tuition in every school: and as men and women will rarely need to use muscular strength in their work, they will gratify the natural yearning of healthy animals for exertion, in athletic sports, by no means confined to the male sex. Whether fashion as an institution will continue to exist is doubtful, but probably it will not exhibit the extravagances, nor the capricious development which now characterise it, and "a general uniformity with infinitesimal differences," which has been defined as one of Nature's uniformities, will be perceptible in the natural development of the race. Of course one object sought consciously or unconsciously to be attained by the use of fashions is class distinction; and similarly jewellery is probably worn much more because it is a sign of wealth than because of any intrinsic beauty which it is supposed to possess. At one time a man's occupation (and consequently his rank in society) could be ascertained by his dress; and sumptuary laws occasionally made such distinctions obligatory. It is no doubt of some law of his own time that Shakespeare was thinking [34] when he made the tribune in Julius Cæsar reprove the workmen for appearing on a business-day without the leather aprons which marked their trade:-- "What, know you not Being mechanical you ought not walk, Upon a labouring day, without the sign Of your profession?" Will class distinction survive the democratising influence of a century? The dress of our own time tends to obliterate the evidence of these distinctions; but a development from heterogeneity to homogeneity is a reversal of the usual law of progress, and it can hardly be called a sign of social advancement that artisans of our day generally wear, when at work, the cast-off clothes of the employing classes, bought second-hand, and for "Sunday best" often ape the fashions of the rich. In a hundred years' time assuredly no worker will be ambitious to give himself the aspect of an idler, and one may perpend the dry answer of an American to the remark that in the United States there is no leisure-class. "Oh, yes, there is," said the moralist, "only we don't call them that; we call them tramps." Everyone will take pride in his work, when work is no longer treated with the disgraceful contempt which we are only by degrees becoming ashamed of. Consequently the clothes worn at work will no doubt be, in every trade, specially designed to facilitate the exertions of the worker: and in the copious hours of leisure there will be variety, increased by the wearing of special garments for special amusements. It is difficult to believe that anyone, whatever his work, will dispense with the comfort of a complete change of dress when play-time comes: and the ingenious simplification of fastenings, and the reduced number of garments worn, will facilitate the enjoyment of this luxury. Everyone will dress for dinner--but not (one fancies) in a "swallow-tail" coat and stiff shirt. It is quite certain that all our clothes will be soft, supple, porous, light and warm a hundred years hence, and the clear-starcher will no longer have the opportunity to destroy them. Some attempt has already been made to suggest the general domestic and architectural conveniences of the next century, but the subject of furniture has not been referred to in detail. Allowing for the fact that animal fabrics, as wool, leather, etc., will be absent, there is no particular reason why chairs, carpets and curtains should be very different from what they are now. No doubt light metallic alloys will often be used in the framework of chairs and tables instead of wood, because the tendency of civilisation is to make things lighter and less cumbersome whenever this is possible. At one time it might have been thought that upholstery, carpets and curtains would have to be dispensed with. But to a thoughtful observer there must always have been a difficulty here. A wooden chair, and even a rattan one, however cunningly shaped, is so extremely discomfortable to sit in without cushions, that it was easier to imagine that invention would correct the unhealthiness of cushions and stuffing, than that an advanced age would consent to dispense with these luxuries. The manner in which the former solution of the difficulty would be attained was actually foreseen by the present writer before the introduction of vacuum cleaning was accomplished, and several passages in an earlier chapter had to be rewritten when what had been somewhat fancifully described as a convenience of the future suddenly became an existing factor of the present: and in one or two places innovations have similarly called for changes in the text--a circumstance which, it is to be hoped, will give pause to critics disposed to condemn certain suggestions in this book as chimerical. [35] Obviously, now that we can thoroughly cleanse and free from every particle of dust by a simple mechanical process any fabric or mass of fabrics, there is no longer any reason to expect that our descendants will, on hygienic grounds, find it necessary to dispense with comforts so essential to restful leisure as easy-chairs, soft carpets and wall hangings. On the other hand, it is quite certain that numerous inventions will enhance and beautify the luxury of an age where rational luxury will reign universally. One source of frequent discomfort to-day is the necessity of living always in rooms of one size. Whether we sit alone, or entertain a number of friends, the same apartment has to serve our needs: consequently we are crowded on one day and chilly on the next. With combustion abolished as a heating device, there will be no objection against light sliding walls--a convenience long since adopted by our allies the Japanese--which would be rather dangerous nowadays and not particularly desirable, at all events in England, where we have no means of warming most rooms except a fire on one side, and no means of cooling them at all except by letting in draughts and noise through the window. No doubt when matches and fireplaces, about equally causative of conflagration, have vanished, and when we have invented methods of warming the air in houses without the horrible drying of it caused by the American pipe-stove system, houses will be much more lightly built: and it is certainly not going to be impossible to use thin, light walls without being able to hear in each room every sound that occurs in the next. Concurrently, we shall be able to change the size of rooms--a convenience greater than might be supposed by those who have not thought about the matter. In summer we shall just as easily cool our houses as we shall heat them in winter. Very few servants will be required (another great comfort); and lighting arrangements will naturally be free from their present inadequacy. Except that no one has yet troubled to think about it, there is surely no reason why bathing should be such a tedious operation as it is. Probably the speediest dresser of our own day does not consume less than a quarter of an hour over his morning tub and the operation of drying himself. A hundred years hence, people will be so avid of every moment of life, life will be so full of busy delight, that time-saving inventions will be at a huge premium. It is not because we shall be hurried in nerve-shattering anxiety, as it is often complained that we now are, but because we shall value at its true worth the refining and restful influence of leisure, that we shall be impatient of the minor tasks of every day. The bath of the next century will lave the body speedily with oxygenated water delivered with a force that will render rubbing unnecessary, and beside it will stand the drying cupboard, lined with some quickly-moving arrangement of soft brushes, and fed with highly desiccated air, from which, almost in a moment, the bather will emerge, dried, and with a skin gently stimulated, and perhaps electrified, to clothe himself quickly and pass down the lift to his breakfast, which he will eat to the accompaniment of a summary of the morning's news read out for the benefit of the family, or whispered into his ears by a talking-machine. Does this manner of beginning the day sound like a nightmare? That is only because the purpose of it has been overlooked. Not because they will be "short" of time will our descendants thus arrange their lives, but because they wish to reserve as much time as possible for culture (physical as well as intellectual) and for thought; which the better distribution of wealth and labour will facilitate; while labour itself, everywhere performed intelligently and with interest, will be no longer irksome. The working man will ply his trade with zest--working for himself and family--instead of seeking every opportunity to shirk and evade it. And, his task accomplished, he will hasten to enjoyments as elevating as labour itself. Will man then, the critic may ask incredulously, have really been perfected in a century? Decidedly not. But unless we doubt the evidence which shows that improved institutions not only arise out of improved popular character, but also help to promote it, we cannot resist the inference that the removal of many causes of degradation must bring us nearer to perfection, to which the moral evolution of the race is slowly proceeding. There is nothing Utopian in the belief that honesty, truthfulness, respect for the rights of others, will be fostered by the increased intelligence of the new age; and from the moment when this intelligence, disseminated throughout all society, begins to make the moral improvement of the race a prime object in every social reform, in every piece of legislation (emancipating as well as restrictive) we have a right to expect the progress of morality to receive a marked impetus. "Nature, careless of the single life," will be assisted in the perfecting of the moral type, and the dishonest man, the liar, the sensualist, and the man too stupid to be unselfish, will become with every decade less fit for survival, because the same unwisdom which is at the bottom of his faults will handicap him in the battle of life, will hinder him in the competition for the right to perpetuate his characteristics in children born of his loins. It is only those who conceive of the race as capable of remaining stationary, or moving backward, in morals, while in every other respect it moves forward with constantly-increasing momentum, who imagine that cunning and unscrupulousness are likely to be fostered by enlarged civilisation. So long as we allow the world to be exploited for the selfish advantage of a handful of millionaires, no doubt these characteristics will continue at a premium. But it is impossible to believe that the irresistible power of the mass of humanity will submit in perpetuity to be thus made the tools of a minority. If the "ruling" classes wished to maintain that status they should have kept the people from the schoolroom. Numbers must inevitably prevail, and the world will have reorganised itself in ways which, if we could foresee them in their entirety, would suggest an almost unthinkable perfection. INDEX A Actor, the (his art), 61 Agriculture, economies in, 216 ----, scientific development of, 127 Alcohol, abandonment of, 36 ---- and the law, 242 ---- and crime, 244 Alphabet, the, 42 Anæsthetics, 120 Animal food, abandonment of, 34, 126 Antisepsis and asepsis, 10 Arboriculture, 217 Architecture, 194 Argon, 11, 290 Art, A.D. 2000, 196 Atheism, 177 B Bacillary diseases, destruction of, 123 Ballot, the (its inadequacy), 262 Bathing, A.D. 2000, 305 Bedroom, the, A.D. 2000, 25 Bellamy, Edward, 5 Bible, inspiration of the, 176 Birth-rate, the (its artificial restriction), 14 Bread, wholemeal, 34 Buildings, high, 17 C Calculating machines, 45 Canada (its future), 97 Casabianca, 155 Cereals, 35 Climate, artificial manipulation of, 128 Clothes, A.D. 2000, 294 Coal (its utilisation), 7 ----, exhaustion of, 104 Combination, voluntary, as a mode of self-government, 210 Comte, Auguste, 293 Conscience, public, 185 Cooper, E. H. (The Twentieth Century Child), 145, 150, note Co-operation, 51 Cooking, 22 Crime and heredity, 251 ---- and poverty, 244 ---- elimination, 247 Criminal appeals (in law), 257 D Daily Telegraph, the, 84 Darwin, Charles, 179 Davy, Sir Humphry, 6 Diplomacy, A.D. 2000, 269 Domestic servants, 18, 24 Drainage, 25, note, 127 E Economy in agriculture, 215 ----, relation of prices to, 205 ---- in use of wood, 215 Edison, T. A., 291 Education, A.D. 2000, apparatus of, 140 ----, art in, 171 ----, books in, 163 ---- by pleasure, 149 ----, corporal punishment in, 144 ----, crime in relation to, 234 ----, history in, 170 ----, rational obedience in, 154 ----, languages in, 164, 166 ----, literature in, 171 ----, mathematics in, 163 ----, mixed (of boys and girls), 146 ----, phonograph in, 141, 303, note ----, physical science in, 161 ----, punishments in, 158 ----, specialised, 162 ----, Spencer on, 151 note Education, Intellectual, Moral and Physical (H. Spencer), 151, note Electricity, the end of its age, 11 ----, wireless transmission of, 114 Eton, punishments at, 144 Euclid, 157, 158 Evolution (the term), 37, note F Fashion, A.D. 2000, 299 Flying-machines, 27, 55 Foods, vegetable, 33 Freight transportation, 46 Furniture, A.D. 2000, 302 G Games in education, 143 Gases, liquefied, as a source of power, 116 H Handicrafts, revival of, 50 Horse traffic (its abolition), 22 House construction, 20 ---- cleaning, 21 Huxley, Thomas H., 6, 179 Hydrogen, uses of, 9, 102 Hypnotism, 131 I Idæography, Chinese, 166, note J Journalism and literature, 92 Jury, trial by, 257 K Kelvin, Lord, 108 Kipling, Rudyard, 147 Kitchen, the, A.D. 2000, 22 L Lamb, Charles, 158 Land tenure, 99, 259 Lang, Andrew, 123, note, 164, note, 168 Language, a "universal," 165 Languages, modern, 19 Literature, A.D. 2000, 193, 198 ---- and journalism, 92 Latey, John, 144 Law, the, A.D. 2000, 233 ---- ----, alcohol and, 241 ---- ----, changes in, necessitated by new conditions, 240 ---- ----, cost of civil suits to be borne by Government, 253 ---- ----, education and, 234 ---- ----, marriage and, 278 ---- ----, methods of legislation, 259 ---- ----, "new offences" and, 234 ---- ----, penology and, 249 ---- ----, poverty and, 244 ---- ----, protective enactments injurious where avoidable, 239 ---- ----, protecting property, 245 ---- ---- ----, the person, 246 ---- ----, trial by jury, 257 Legislation, reform of, 266 M Macaulay, Lord, 193 Manures (see Agriculture), 127 Marriage, law of, A.D. 2000, 278 Medicine, progress of, 119 Memory (children's), 151 Merchandise Marks Act, 289 Middleman, the, 88 Morality and education, 154 ---- as affected by education, 136, 139, 235. ---- as affected by progress, 64 ----, improving tendency of, 307 ----, progress of, 136 Morris, William, 5 Motor-cars, slot-worked, 31 Music, A.D. 2000, 58, 201 ----, Oriental, 201 Musician, the (his art), 62 N Napoleon, 4 Newspapers, advertisements in, 83 ----, editorship of, 68 ----, A.D. 2000, how illustrated, 80 ---- ---- ----, language of, 82 ---- ---- ----, how printed, 79 O Ocean cities, 98 ---- ---- and the anhydrator, 99 ---- ----, urban traffic in, 98 Oersted, 117 Oxygen, uses of, 9, 26, 102 Ozone and ozonators, 27 P Payn, James, 144 Parliament, reform of, 260 Penology, principles of, in A.D. 2000, 249 Philosophy, A.D. 2000, 109 Phonograph, the, 40 ---- in education, 141, 303, note ----, the printing, 41 Photography, chromatic, 59 Plato, 188 Plumbers (their technical education), 25 Poetry of the future, 193 Post Office, the, 276 ---- in A.D. 2000, 44 Power, economy of, 212 Prayer in A.D. 2000, 190 Press, freedom of the (its possible restriction), 247 Prices, relation of, and economy, 205 ----, significance of, 32 Progress, rate of, 1, 135, 288 Psychical faculties, development of, 65, 130 Punishment, capital, 237, 257 Punishments, violent, will be abandoned, 238 (see Penology) R Radiation in therapeutics, 119 Radium, 11, 108, 118 Railway transport, 27 Recent Development of Physical Science (Whetham), 116, note Referendum, 265 Religion, A.D. 2000, 175 ----, education and, 182 ----, high civilisation and, 175 ----, indifference towards, 181 ----, morality and, 186 ----, mysticism and, 186, 188 ----, "natural," 188 ----, philosophy and, 187 Review of Reviews, the, 71 Roadways, moving, 30 S Sahara, desert of, proposal to flood, 95 Saleeby, Dr. C. W., 108, 123, note Salpetrière Hospital, 130 Scott, Sir Walter, 4 Sculpture, A.D. 2000, 198 Sea air, 26 ----, the, mineral wealth of, 101 ---- ----, utilisation of, 95 Shakespeare, 186 Ships, A.D. 2000, 30 Shorter, Clement K., 144 Siberia (its future), 93 Socialism, 51, 206, 210, 273 Society, gradual progress of, 287 Socrates, 186 Spencer, Herbert, 18, 146, note, 188, 287, 292 Sports, athletic, 54 State, the, usurpation of wrong functions by, 74, 273 (see Socialism) Steam-engine, the (its imperfections), 7 Suburbs, 15 T Talking-machines (see Phonograph), 61 Teleautoscope, the (an instrument for seeing by electricity), 43 Telephones, recording, 39 Telephony, wireless, 38 Theatre, the, 60 Times, The, 68, 71, 84 Tobacco, 214 Trade, retail (its development and changes), 86 Traill, H. D., 169 Transmutation of matter, 119 Travel, pleasures of, 57 Tyndall, John, 151, note U Unemployed, problem of the, 48 V Vacuum, cleaning by, 21 Vice, effect of progress on, 64 W Wages, 33 ---- and co-operation, 51 War, abolition of, predicted, 76 ---- correspondence, 74, note, 76, 78, note ----, its supposed advantages discussed, 226 Waste by alcohol, 215 ---- by animal food, 215 ----, illness regarded as a, 214 ----, sewage disposal a, 215 ----, war as a, 219 (see Economy) Water, electrolysis of, 8 Weaklings, perpetuation of, 125 Wealth, limitation of, 49 Wellington, 5 Wells, H. G., 5, 20 Whetham, W. C., 116, note Woman (her political influence), 283 ---- (her political influence in America), 284 ---- (her political influence in New Zealand), 284 ----, position of, A.D. 2000, 283, (see Law and Marriage) Workmen, condition of, 52 ----, trains for, 15 NOTES [1] Drains, it might be supposed, would disappear altogether from the scheme of things in favour of some kind of destructors. For reasons connected with a more enlightened view than we have yet reached of certain aspects of terrestrial economy, however, I think they will, with modifications, still exist. [2] The chief difficulty in utilising the useful integument of wheat disappears when the whole grain is finely milled. [3] It is necessary to say here, as an offset to possible misconstruction, that the word "evolution" has been purposely abstained from. The processes of evolution are far slower than the changes here contemplated. The latter are voluntary and purposeful, involving no constructional alteration in the physical frame of man, but only functional modifications, intentionally inaugurated and pursued. [4] There is a contrivance already in existence which not only weighs what is placed upon it, but can also be made to calculate the value of the goods at any desired rate per ounce, pound or hundredweight. [5] A practical objection to this principle may be here anticipated and answered. Politicians may say that for any one nation to be the pioneer in the adoption of such a policy would have the effect of driving trade and manufactures into other countries where the restriction did not exist. But there are so many highly necessary reforms open to a similar objection that I think there is no doubt that ultimately the jurists of all nations will agree upon some arrangement for universal legislation, whereby laws not affecting the relations of one country with another will be simultaneously enacted by a comity of nations. We have already one very imperfect example of such a procedure in the Convention against bounty-helped sugar. [6] Not of course in the artistic sense of the word; nor is the supersession of art by optical process in the least contemplated here. The psychological interest of art will have appreciators more and more numerous in virtue of the diffusion of culture confidently anticipated. [7] Ante, Chapter I. [8] Ante, Chapter I. [9] Kipling: The Five Nations. [10] It can hardly be disputed that the British generals in the late war in South Africa would have done well to cut the cables altogether, or at all events reserve them exclusively for their own use. There is very good evidence that, in spite of the interdiction of "coded" messages, information passed both ways between the enemy and his agents in Europe. The resolute manner in which the Japanese kept newspaper correspondents away from the scene of action until no action remained for them to correspond about, shows conclusively what will become of the war-reporter during the few remaining decades which separate us from the final disappearance of moribund war itself from the planet. [11] Ante, Chapter III. [12] Ante, Chapter IV. [13] Ante, page 7. [14] That is to say, the gases which are most difficult to liquefy, and which consequently store up most energy in liquefying, viz., hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen, as distinguished from ammonia, carbon-dioxide, chlorine, and other gases relatively easy to liquefy. [15] The Recent Development of Physical Science. By W. C. Whetham, F.R.S., 1904. London: John Murray. [16] I do not forget that a good deal of what is on record as an account of experiments in transmutation is purely mystical writing, and that when Paracelsus and some of the French alchemists describe what appear to be chemical experiments they are in reality referring to something quite different. But the learned in these matters tell me that one of their chief difficulties arises from the fact that, contemporary with the mystics, there were other investigators who, not having the key to the occult significance of the masters' writings, really devoted themselves to research, some valuable, if accidental, results of which have come down to us and are recorded in all text-books of chemistry. [17] Ante, page 79. [18] I might have "boggled" (to use one of Mr Andrew Lang's stately colloquialisms) before this suggestion, but for a remark by Dr C. W. Saleeby, which may here be quoted, to keep me in countenance. "Malaria," he writes in Nova Medica, Nov. 1904, "which causes more illness than any other disease, is already obsolescent. Tuberculosis, which causes more deaths than any other disease, can be disposed of, apparently, whenever the human race, now mightily smitten with internecine strife, decides that this campaign against a common foe is worth while. It takes some seconds to realise--or begin to realise--what the extinction of tuberculosis will signify in private and hospital practice. Yet the extermination of the last tubercle bacillus is an event quite certainly hidden in the womb of time--time pregnant by science." [19] Ante, page 34. [20] Ante, Chapter III. [21] The Twentieth Century Child. Chapter III. [22] Spencer: Study of Sociology. Chapter XV. [23] Having properly decided that it is well for children to be fed plainly while at school, parents take the greatest pleasure in alleviating this plainness by "tuck baskets" during term, and the most wicked and immoral palate-tickling during holidays. Indeed an excessive appetite seems to be regarded even by quite sensible people as rather an ornament to the juvenile character. Mr Cooper, whose charming book, The Twentieth Century Child, has already been referred to, describes with what I am afraid is approval the incident of a boy whom he brought away from school for a pleasure-trip just after lunch, and who cheerfully devoured a second lunch in the company of his friend. Assuredly our descendants will make no such mistakes as this. [24] Tyndall "On the Importance of the Study of Physics as a Branch of Education," a lecture at the Royal Institution: quoted by Herbert Spencer in his Education, Intellectual, Moral and Physical, a work which, though not very practical, contains a mass of very suggestive matter on a subject which no one else, so far as I am aware, has approached in quite the same spirit. As this book has been reprinted at so low a price as sixpence, there is no excuse for any parent who is unacquainted with its absolutely invaluable teachings. [25] I think Mr Andrew Lang. [26] Should we ever have a "universal" language, is it altogether chimerical to imagine that it might be an idæographic one? Provided that some simple code of idæographic writing were invented to denote the very limited number of concrete notions essential to commercial correspondence, no one who has had occasion to study Chinese, even in the most cursory manner, would think it at all a severe effort of the imagination to conceive of an idæographic notation as being used for business correspondence. In Chinese, the unit of expression is an idea. Words which relate to kindred subjects include, in their idæographs, the sign for the connecting link. Thus the idæograph for "agriculture" is made up of the sign for "strength" and for "a field." Consequently, although the Japanese language when spoken sounds so entirely unlike Chinese that a person knowing neither can distinguish one from the other when heard across the width of a street, the Japanese can read Chinese books without difficulty, and one form of printing can be read by the Chinese of the North and those of the South, although the spoken dialects differ so much that "pidgin" English is often used by the two as a means of spoken communication. An idæographic medium of commercial writing (not of course so archaic nor so cumbersome as Chinese, but philosophically devised for the purpose) would release the student from all difficulties of speech and accent; he would always name the signs to himself in his own language. [27] A method, it may be added, which can very usefully be practised now. Those of us who "rub-up" our French or German a little before a summer holiday by reading a novel or two, would always find the results of this rubbing-up process to be greatly more effective, when presently utilised abroad, if we would read always aloud instead of in silence according to the usual procedure. [28] Over-civilised, if one please, but I do not admit for an instant that man can be over-civilised. [29] Ante, Chapter III. [30] Ante, Chapter II. [31] Against some methods of securing this object no doubt the unintelligent sentimentality of the present time would rebel; but if any inconsistency be detected in my suggestion that the next century, which is expected to be even milder than this, will accept them, it only needs to be replied that the gentleness of our descendants will be a reasonable and ordered gentleness, not a mere effect of morbid sentimentality. They will not hesitate before an apparent and temporary cruelty which is capable of preventing much greater suffering in a much greater number of persons. The crime of permitting children to be born with brains abnormally predisposed to evil of any sort will more greatly revolt an intelligent age than any conceivable measure adopted for its prevention. [32] It may, perhaps, be thought that the disuse of trial by jury would be liable to perpetuate a somewhat glaring abuse of our present jurisprudence--the disproportionately severe repression of offences against property as compared with the disproportionately light repression of offences against the person. But the mere fact that the "unlearned" bench is conspicuously inept in this particular is no reason for thinking that "learned" courts would be so: and meantime, as judges, like other men, are children of their epoch, we may suppose that the increased mildness of the new age will be reflected here as elsewhere, and that extenuating circumstances will be allowed more weight in determining a sentence for larceny, and less weight in determining a sentence for assault. [33] Study of Sociology, Chapter XV. [34] At least this was the opinion of the editors of the Clarendon Press edition of the Plays. [35] While actually correcting the proof sheets I read in a London evening newspaper, The Star, that gramophones had been utilised in certain schools for the teaching of foreign languages, a device I had suggested in the chapter on Education as likely to be adopted in the schools of the future. THE END COLSTON AND COMPANY, LIMITED, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH 
8646	----	This is an authorized facsimile of the original book, and was produced in 1971 by microfilm-xerography by University Microfilms, A Xerox Company, Ann Arbor, Michigan, U.S.A. AN ESSAY on the HISTORY OF CIVIL SOCIETY. * * * * * BY ADAM FERGUSON, L. L. D. CONTENTS * * * * * PART I. OF THE GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS OF HUMAN NATURE. SECTION I. Of the question relating to the State of Nature SECTION II. Of the principles of Self Preservation SECTION III. Of the principles of Union among Mankind SECTION IV. Of the principles of War and Dissention SECTION V. Of Intellectual Powers SECTION VI. Of Moral Sentiment SECTION VII. Of Happiness SECTION VIII. The same subject continued SECTION IX. Of National Felicity SECTION X. The same subject continued PART II. OF THE HISTORY OF RUDE NATIONS. SECTION I. Of the informations on this subject, which are derived from Antiquity SECTION II. Of Rude Nations prior to the Establishment of Property SECTION III. Of rude Nations, under the impressions of Property and Interest * * * * * PART III. OF THE HISTORY OF POLICY AND ARTS. SECTION I. Of the Influences of Climate and Situation SECTION II. The History of Political Establishments SECTION III. Of National Objects in general, and of Establishments and Manners relating to them SECTION IV. Of Population and Wealth SECTION V. Of National Defence and Conquest SECTION VI. Of Civil Liberty SECTION VII. Of the History of Arts SECTION VIII. Of the History of Literature PART IV. OF CONSEQUENCES THAT RESULT FROM THE ADVANCEMENT OF CIVIL AND COMMERCIAL ARTS. SECTION I. Of the Separation of Arts and Professions SECTION II. Of the Subordination consequent to the Separation of Arts and Professions SECTION III. Of the Manners of Polished and Commercial Nations SECTION IV. The same subject continued * * * * * PART V. OF THE DECLINE OF NATIONS. SECTION I. Of supposed National Eminence, and of the Vicissitudes of Human Affairs SECTION II. Of the Temporary Efforts and Relaxations of the National Spirit SECTION III. Of Relaxations in the National Spirit incident to Polished Nations SECTION IV. The same subject continued SECTION V. Of National Waste PART VI. OF CORRUPTION AND POLITICAL SLAVERY. SECTION I. Of corruption in general SECTION II. Of Luxury SECTION III. Of the Corruption incident to Polished Nations SECTION IV. The same subject continued SECTION V. Of Corruption, as it tends to Political Slavery SECTION VI. Of the Progress and Termination of Despotism AN ESSAY ON THE HISTORY OF CIVIL SOCIETY. * * * * * PART FIRST. OF THE GENERAL CHARACTERISTICS OF HUMAN NATURE. * * * * * SECTION I. OF THE QUESTION RELATING TO THE STATE OF NATURE. Natural productions are generally formed by degrees. Vegetables are raised from a tender shoot, and animals from an infant state. The latter, being active, extend together their operations and their powers, and have a progress in what they perform, as well as in the faculties they acquire. This progress in the case of man is continued to a greater extent than in that of any other animal. Not only the individual advances from infancy to manhood, but the species itself from rudeness to civilization. Hence the supposed departure of mankind from the state of their nature; hence our conjectures and different opinions of what man must have been in the first age of his being. The poet, the historian, and the moralist frequently allude to this ancient time; and under the emblems of gold, or of iron, represent a condition, and a manner of life, from which mankind have either degenerated, or on which they have greatly improved. On either supposition, the first state of our nature must have borne no resemblance to what men have exhibited in any subsequent period; historical monuments, even of the earliest date, are to be considered as novelties; and the most common establishments of human society are to be classed among the encroachments which fraud, oppression, or a busy invention, have made upon the reign of nature, by which the chief of our grievances or blessings were equally withheld. Among the writers who have attempted to distinguish, in the human character, its original qualities, and to point out the limits between nature and art, some have represented mankind in their first condition, as possessed of mere animal sensibility, without any exercise of the faculties that render them superior to the brutes, without any political union, without any means of explaining their sentiments, and even without possessing any of the apprehensions and passions which the voice and the gesture are so well fitted to express. Others have made the state of nature to consist in perpetual wars kindled by competition for dominion and interest, where every individual had a separate quarrel with his kind, and where the presence of a fellow creature was the signal of battle. The desire of laying the foundation of a favourite system, or a fond expectation, perhaps, that we may be able to penetrate the secrets of nature, to the very source of existence, have, on this subject, led to many fruitless inquiries, and given rise to many wild suppositions. Among the various qualities which mankind possess, we select one or a few particulars on which to establish a theory, and in framing our account of what man was in some imaginary state of nature, we overlook what he has always appeared within the reach of our own observation, and in the records of history. In every other instance, however, the natural historian thinks himself obliged to collect facts, not to offer conjectures. When he treats of any particular species of animals, he supposes that their present dispositions and instincts are the same which they originally had, and that their present manner of life is a continuance of their first destination. He admits, that his knowledge of the material system of the world consists in a collection of facts, or at most, in general tenets derived from particular observations and experiments. It is only in what relates to himself, and in matters the most important and the most easily known, that he substitutes hypothesis instead of reality, and confounds the provinces of imagination and reason, of poetry and science. But without entering any further on questions either in moral or physical subjects, relating to the manner or to the origin of our knowledge; without any disparagement to that subtilty which would analyze every sentiment, and trace every mode of being to its source; it may be safely affirmed, that the character of man, as he now exists, that the laws of his animal and intellectual system, on which his happiness now depends, deserve our principal study; and that general principles relating to this or any other subject, are useful only so far as they are founded on just observation, and lead to the knowledge of important consequences, or so far as they enable us to act with success when we would apply either the intellectual or the physical powers of nature, to the purposes of human life. If both the earliest and the latest accounts collected from every quarter of the earth, represent mankind as assembled in troops and companies; and the individual always joined by affection to one party, while he is possibly opposed to another; employed in the exercise of recollection and foresight; inclined to communicate his own sentiments, and to be made acquainted with those of others; these facts must be admitted as the foundation of all our reasoning relative to man. His mixed disposition to friendship or enmity, his reason, his use of language and articulate sounds, like the shape and the erect position of his body, are to be considered as so many attributes of his nature: they are to be retained in his description, as the wing and the paw are in that of the eagle and the lion, and as different degrees of fierceness, vigilance, timidity, or speed, have a place in the natural history of different animals. If the question be put, What the mind of man could perform, when left to itself, and without the aid of any foreign direction? we are to look for our answer in the history of mankind. Particular experiments which have been found so useful in establishing the principles of other sciences, could probably, on this subject, teach us nothing important, or new: we are to take the history of every active being from his conduct in the situation to which he is formed, not from his appearance in any forced or uncommon condition; a wild man therefore, caught in the woods, where he had always lived apart from his species, is a singular instance, not a specimen of any general character. As the anatomy of an eye which had never received the impressions of light, or that of an ear which had never felt the impulse of sounds, would probably exhibit defects in the very structure of the organs themselves, arising from their not being applied to their proper functions; so any particular case of this sort would only show in what degree the powers of apprehension and sentiment could exist where they had not been employed, and what would be the defects and imbecilities of a heart in which the emotions that arise in society had never been felt. Mankind are to be taken in groupes, as they have always subsisted. The history of the individual is but a detail of the sentiments and the thoughts he has entertained in the view of his species: and every experiment relative to this subject should be made with entire societies, not with single men. We have every reason, however, to believe, that in the case of such an experiment made, we shall suppose, with a colony of children transplanted from the nursery, and left to form a society apart, untaught, and undisciplined, we should only have the same things repeated, which, in so many different parts of the earth, have been transacted already. The members of our little society would feed and sleep, would herd together and play, would have a language of their own, would quarrel and divide, would be to one another the most important objects of the scene, and, in the ardour of their friendships and competitions, would overlook their personal danger, and suspend the care of their self-preservation. Has not the human race been planted like the colony in question? Who has directed their course? whose instruction have they heard? or whose example have they followed? Nature, therefore, we shall presume, having given to every animal its mode of existence, its dispositions and manner of life, has dealt equally with the human race; and the natural historian who would collect the properties of this species, may fill up every article now as well as he could have done in any former age. The attainments of the parent do not descend in the blood of his children, nor is the progress of man to be considered as a physical mutation of the species. The individual, in every age, has the same race to run from infancy to manhood, and every infant, or ignorant person, now, is a model of what man was in his original state. He enters on his career with advantages peculiar to his age; but his natural talent is probably the same. The use and application of this talent is changing, and men continue their works in progression through many ages together: they build on foundations laid by their ancestors; and in a succession of years, tend to a perfection in the application of their faculties, to which the aid of long experience is required, and to which many generations must have combined their endeavours. We observe the progress they have made; we distinctly enumerate many of its steps; we can trace them back to a distant antiquity, of which no record remains, nor any monument is preserved, to inform us what were the openings of this wonderful scene. The consequence is, that instead of attending to the character of our species, where the particulars are vouched by the surest authority, we endeavour to trace it through ages and scenes unknown; and, instead of supposing that the beginning of our story was nearly of a piece with the sequel, we think ourselves warranted to reject every circumstance of our present condition and frame, as adventitious, and foreign to our nature. The progress of mankind, from a supposed state of animal sensibility, to the attainment of reason, to the use of language, and to the habit of society, has been accordingly painted with a force of imagination, and its steps have been marked with a boldness of invention, that would tempt us to admit, among the materials of history, the suggestions of fancy, and to receive, perhaps, as the model of our nature in its original state, some of the animals whose shape has the greatest resemblance to ours. [Footnote: _Rousseau_ sur l'origine de l'inegalité parmi les hommes.] It would be ridiculous to affirm, as a discovery, that the species of the horse was probably never the same with that of the lion; yet, in opposition to what has dropped from the pens of eminent writers, we are obliged to observe, that men have always appeared among animals a distinct and a superior race; that neither the possession of similar organs, nor the approximation of shape, nor the use of the hand, [Footnote: Traité de l'esprit.] nor the continued intercourse with this sovereign artist, has enabled any other species to blend their nature or their inventions with his; that, in his rudest state, he is found to be above them; and in his greatest degeneracy, never descends to their level. He is, in short, a man in every condition; and we can learn nothing of his nature from the analogy of other animals. If we would know him, we must attend to himself, to the course of his life, and the tenor of his conduct. With him the society appears to be as old as the individual, and the use of the tongue as universal as that of the hand or the foot. If there was a time in which he had his acquaintance with his own species to make, and his faculties to acquire, it is a time of which we have no record, and in relation to which our opinions can serve no purpose, and are supported by no evidence. We are often tempted into these boundless regions of ignorance or conjecture, by a fancy which delights in creating rather than in merely retaining the forms which are presented before it: we are the dupes of a subtilty, which promises to supply every defect of our knowledge, and, by filling up a few blanks in the story of nature, pretends to conduct our apprehension nearer to the source of existence. On the credit of a few observations, we are apt to presume, that the secret may soon be laid open, and that what is termed _wisdom_ in nature, may be referred to the operation of physical powers. We forget that physical powers employed in succession or together, and combined to a salutary purpose, constitute those very proofs of design from which we infer the existence of God; and that this truth being once admitted, we are no longer to search for the source of existence; we can only collect the laws which the Author of nature has established; and in our latest as well as our earliest discoveries, only perceive a mode of creation or providence before unknown. We speak of art as distinguished from nature; but art itself is natural to man. He is in some measure the artificer of his own frame, as well as of his fortune, and is destined, from the first age of his being, to invent and contrive. He applies the same talents to a variety of purposes, and acts nearly the same part in very different scenes. He would be always improving on his subject, and he carries this intention wherever he moves, through the streets of the populous city, or the wilds of the forest. While he appears equally fitted to every condition, he is upon this account unable to settle in any. At once obstinate and fickle, he complains of innovations, and is never sated with novelty. He is perpetually busied in reformations, and is continually wedded to his errors. If he dwells in a cave, he would improve it into a cottage; if he has already built, he would still build to a greater extent. But he does not propose to make rapid and hasty transitions; his steps are progressive and slow; and his force, like the power of a spring, silently presses on every resistance; an effect is sometimes produced before the cause is perceived; and with all his talent for projects, his work is often accomplished before the plan is devised. It appears, perhaps, equally difficult to retard or to quicken his pace; if the projector complain he is tardy, the moralist thinks him unstable; and whether his motions be rapid or slow, the scenes of human affairs perpetually change in his management: his emblem is a passing stream, not a stagnating pool. We may desire to direct his love of improvement to its proper object, we may wish for stability of conduct; but we mistake human nature, if we wish for a termination of labour, or a scene of repose. The occupations of men, in every condition, bespeak their freedom of choice, their various opinions, and the multiplicity of wants by which they are urged: but they enjoy, or endure, with a sensibility, or a phlegm, which are nearly the same in every situation. They possess the shores of the Caspian, or the Atlantic, by a different tenure, but with equal ease. On the one they are fixed to the soil, and seem to be formed for settlement, and the accommodation of cities: the names they bestow on a nation, and on its territory, are the same. On the other they are mere animals of passage, prepared to roam on the face of the earth, and with their herds, in search of new pasture and favourable seasons, to follow the sun in his annual course. Man finds his lodgment alike in the cave, the cottage, and the palace; and his subsistence equally in the woods, in the dairy, or the farm. He assumes the distinction of titles, equipage, and dress; he devises regular systems of government, and a complicated body of laws; or naked in the woods has no badge of superiority but the strength of his limbs and the sagacity of his mind; no rule of conduct but choice; no tie with his fellow creatures but affection, the love of company, and the desire of safety. Capable of a great variety of arts, yet dependent on none in particular for the preservation of his being; to whatever length he has carried his artifice, there he seems to enjoy the conveniences that suit his nature, and to have found the condition to which he is destined. The tree which an American, on the banks of the Oroonoko [Footnote: Lafitau, moeurs des sauvages.], has chosen to climb for the retreat, and the lodgment of his family, is to him a convenient dwelling. The sopha, the vaulted dome, and the colonade, do not more effectually content their native inhabitant. If we are asked therefore, where the state of nature is to be found? we may answer, it is here; and it matters not whether we are understood to speak in the island of Great Britain, at the Cape of Good Hope, or the Straits of Magellan. While this active being is in the train of employing his talents, and of operating on the subjects around him, all situations are equally natural. If we are told, that vice, at least, is contrary to nature; we may answer, it is worse; it is folly and wretchedness. But if nature is only opposed to art, in what situation of the human race are the footsteps of art unknown? In the condition of the savage, as well as in that of the citizen, are many proofs of human invention; and in either is not any permanent station, but a mere stage through which this travelling being is destined to pass. If the palace be unnatural, the cottage is so no less; and the highest refinements of political and moral apprehension, are not more artificial in their kind, than the first operations of sentiment and reason. If we admit that man is susceptible of improvement, and has in himself a principle of progression, and a desire of perfection, it appears improper to say, that he has quitted the state of his nature, when he has begun to proceed; or that he finds a station for which he was not intended, while, like other animals, he only follows the disposition, and employs the powers that nature has given. The latest efforts of human invention are but a continuation of certain devices which were practised in the earliest ages of the world, and in the rudest state of mankind. What the savage projects, or observes, in the forest, are the steps which led nations, more advanced, from the architecture of the cottage to that of the palace, and conducted the human mind from the perceptions of sense, to the general conclusions of science. Acknowledged defects are to man in every condition matter of dislike. Ignorance and imbecility are objects of contempt: penetration and conduct give eminence and procure esteem. Whither should his feelings and apprehensions on these subjects lead him? To a progress, no doubt, in which the savage, as well as the philosopher, is engaged; in which they have made different advances, but in which their ends are the same. The admiration which Cicero entertained for literature, eloquence, and civil accomplishments, was not more real than that of a Scythian for such a measure of similar endowments as his own apprehension could reach. "Were I to boast," says a Tartar prince, [Footnote: Abulgaze Bahadur Chan; History of the Tartars.] "it would be of that wisdom I have received from God. For as, on the one hand, I yield to none in the conduct of war, in the disposition of armies, whether of horse or of foot, and in directing the movements of great or small bodies; so, on the other, I have my talent in writing, inferior perhaps only to those who inhabit the great cities of Persia or India. Of other nations, unknown to me, I do not speak." Man may mistake the objects of his pursuit; he may misapply his industry, and misplace his improvements: If, under a sense of such possible errors, he would find a standard by which to judge of his own proceedings, and arrive at the best state of his nature, he cannot find it perhaps in the practice of any individual; or of any nation whatever; not even in the sense of the majority, or the prevailing opinion of his kind. He must look for it in the best conceptions of his understanding, in the best movements of his heart; he must thence discover what is the perfection and the happiness of which he is capable. He will find, on the scrutiny, that the proper state of his nature, taken in this sense, is not a condition from which mankind are for ever removed, but one to which they may now attain; not prior to the exercise of their faculties, but procured by their just application. Of all the terms that we employ in treating of human affairs, those of _natural_ and _unnatural_ are the least determinate in their meaning. Opposed to affectation, frowardness, or any other defect of the temper or character, the natural is an epithet of praise; but employed to specify a conduct which proceeds from the nature of man, can serve to distinguish nothing; for all the actions of men are equally the result of their nature. At most, this language can only refer to the general and prevailing sense or practice of mankind; and the purpose of every important enquiry on this subject may be served by the use of a language equally familiar and more precise. What is just, or unjust? What is happy or wretched, in the manners of men? What, in their various situations, is favourable or adverse to their amiable qualities? are questions to which we may expect a satisfactory answer; and whatever may have been the original state of our species, it is of more importance to know the condition to which we ourselves should aspire, than that which our ancestors may be supposed to have left. SECTION II. OF THE PRINCIPLES OF SELF PRESERVATION. If in human nature there are qualities by which it is distinguished from every other part of the animal creation, this nature itself is in different climates and in different ages greatly diversified. The varieties merit our attention, and the course of every stream into which this mighty current divides, deserves to be followed to its source. It appears necessary, however, that we attend to the universal qualities of our nature, before we regard its varieties, or attempt to explain differences consisting in the unequal possession or application of dispositions and powers that are in some measure common to all mankind. Man, like the other animals, has certain instinctive propensities, which; prior to the perception of pleasure or pain, and prior to the experience of what is pernicious or useful, lead him to perform many functions which terminate in himself, or have a relation to his fellow creatures. He has one set of dispositions which tend to his animal preservation, and to the continuance of his race; another which lead to society, and by inlisting him on the side of one tribe or community, frequently engage him in war and contention with the rest of mankind. His powers of discernment, or his intellectual faculties, which, under the appellation of _reason_, are distinguished from the analogous endowments of other animals, refer to the objects around him, either as they are subjects of mere knowledge, or as they are subjects of approbation or censure. He is formed not only to know, but likewise to admire and to contemn; and these proceedings of his mind have a principal reference to his own character, and to that of his fellow creatures, as being the subjects on which he is chiefly concerned to distinguish what is right from what is wrong. He enjoys his felicity likewise on certain fixed and determinate conditions; and either as an individual apart, or as a member of civil society, must take a particular course, in order to reap the advantages of his nature. He is, withal, in a very high degree susceptible of habits; and can, by forbearance or exercise, so far weaken, confirm, or even diversify his talents, and his dispositions, as to appear, in a great measure, the arbiter of his own rank in nature, and the author of all the varieties which are exhibited in the actual history of his species. The universal characteristics, in the mean time, to which we have now referred, must, when we would treat of any part of this history, constitute the first subject of our attention; and they require not only to be enumerated, but to be distinctly considered. The dispositions which tend to the preservation of the individual, while they continue to operate in the manner of instinctive desires; are nearly the same in man that they are in the other animals; but in him they are sooner or later combined with reflection and foresight; they give rise to his apprehensions on the subject of property, and make him acquainted with that object of care which he calls his interest. Without the instincts which teach the beaver and the squirrel, the ant and the bee, to make up their little hoards for winter, at first improvident, and where no immediate object of passion is near, addicted to sloth, he becomes, in process of time, the great storemaster among animals. He finds in a provision of wealth, which he is probably never to employ, an object of his greatest solicitude, and the principal idol of his mind. He apprehends a relation between his person and his property, which renders what he calls his own in a manner a part of himself, a constituent of his rank, his condition, and his character; in which, independent of any real enjoyment, he may be fortunate or unhappy; and, independent of any personal merit, he may be an object of consideration or neglect; and in which he may be wounded and injured, while his person is safe, and every want of his nature is completely supplied. In these apprehensions, while other passions only operate occasionally, the interested find the object of their ordinary cares; their motive to the practice of mechanic and commercial arts; their temptation to trespass on the laws of justice; and, when extremely corrupted, the price of their prostitutions, and the standard of their opinions on the subject of good and of evil. Under this influence, they would enter, if not restrained by the laws of civil society, on a scene of violence or meanness, which would exhibit our species, by turns, under an aspect more terrible and odious, or more vile and contemptible, than that of any animal which inherits the earth. Although the consideration of interest is founded on the experience of animal wants and desires, its object is not to gratify any particular appetite, but to secure the means of gratifying all; and it imposes frequently a restraint on the very desires from which it arose, more powerful and more severe than those of religion or duty. It arises from the principles of self preservation in the human frame; but is a corruption, or at least a partial result, of those principles, and is upon many accounts very improperly termed _self-love_. Love is an affection which carries the attention of the mind beyond itself, and is the sense of a relation to some fellow creature as to its object. Being a complacency and a continued satisfaction in this object, it has, independent of any external event, and in the midst of disappointment and sorrow, pleasures and triumphs unknown to those who are guided by mere considerations of interest; in every change of condition, it continues entirely distinct from the sentiments which we feel on the subject of personal success or adversity. But as the care a man entertains for his own interest, and the attention his affection makes him pay to that of another, may have similar effects, the one on his own fortune, the other on that of his friend, we confound the principles from which he acts; we suppose that they are the same in kind, only referred to different objects; and we not only misapply the name of love, in conjunction with self, but, in a manner tending to degrade our nature, we limit the aim of this supposed selfish affection to the securing or accumulating the constituents of interest, of the means of mere animal life. It is somewhat remarkable, that notwithstanding men value themselves so much on qualities of the mind, on parts, learning, and wit, on courage, generosity, and honour, those men are still supposed to be in the highest degree selfish or attentive to themselves, who are most careful of animal life, and who are least mindful of rendering that life an object worthy of care. It will be difficult, however, to tell why a good understanding, a resolute and generous mind, should not, by every man in his senses, be reckoned as much parts of himself, as either his stomach or his palate, and much more than his estate or his dress. The epicure, who consults his physician, how he may restore his relish for food, and, by creating an appetite, renew his enjoyment, might at least with an equal regard to himself, consult how he might strengthen his affection to a parent or a child, to his country or to mankind; and it is probable that an appetite of this sort would prove a source of enjoyment not less than the former. By our supposed selfish maxims, notwithstanding, we generally exclude from among the objects of our personal cares, many of the happier and more respectable qualities of human nature. We consider affection and courage as mere follies, that lead us to neglect, or expose ourselves; we make wisdom consist in a regard to our interest; and without explaining what interest means, we would have it understood as the only reasonable motive of action with mankind. There is even a system of philosophy founded upon tenets of this sort, and such is our opinion of what men are likely to do upon selfish principles, that we think it must have a tendency very dangerous to virtue. But the errors of this system do not consist so much in general principles, as in their particular applications; not so much in teaching men to regard themselves, as in leading them to forget, that their happiest affections, their candour, and their independence of mind, are in reality parts of themselves. And the adversaries of this supposed selfish philosophy, where it makes self-love the ruling passion with mankind, have had reason to find fault, not so much with its general representations of human nature, as with the obtrusion of a mere innovation in language for a discovery in science. When the vulgar speak of their different motives, they are satisfied with ordinary names, which refer to known and obvious distinctions. Of this kind are the terms _benevolence_ and _selfishness_, by the first of which they express their friendly affections, and by the second their interest. The speculative are not always satisfied with this proceeding; they would analyze, as well as enumerate the principles of nature; and the chance is, that, merely to gain the appearance of something new, without any prospect of real advantage, they will attempt to change the application of words. In the case before us, they have actually found, that benevolence is no more than a species of self-love; and would oblige us, if possible, to look out for a new set of names, by which we may distinguish the selfishness of the parent when he takes care of his child, from his selfishness when he only takes care of himself. For, according to this philosophy, as in both cases he only means to gratify a desire of his own, he is in both cases equally selfish. The term _benevolent_, in the mean time, is not employed to characterize persons who have no desires of their own, but persons whose own desires prompt them to procure the welfare of others. The fact is, that we should need only a fresh supply of language, instead of that which by this seeming discovery we should have lost, in order to make our reasonings proceed as they formerly did. But it is certainly impossible to live and to act with men, without employing different names to distinguish the humane from the cruel, and the benevolent from the selfish. These terms have their equivalents in every tongue; they were invented by men of no refinement, who only meant to express what they distinctly perceived, or strongly felt. And if a man of speculation should prove, that we are selfish in a sense of his own, it does not follow that we are so in the sense of the vulgar; or, as ordinary men would understand his conclusion, that we are condemned in every instance to act on motives of interest, covetousness, pusillanimity, and cowardice; for such is conceived to be the ordinary import of selfishness in the character of man. An affection or passion of any kind is sometimes said to give us an interest in its object; and humanity itself gives an interest in the welfare of mankind. This term _interest_, which commonly implies little more than our property, is sometimes put for utility in general, and this for happiness; insomuch, that, under these ambiguities, it is not surprising we are still unable to determine, whether interest is the only motive of human action, and the standard by which to distinguish our good from our ill. So much is said in this place, not from a desire to partake in any such controversy, but merely to confine the meaning of the term _interest_ to its most common acceptation, and to intimate a design to employ it in expressing those objects of care which refer to our external condition, and the preservation of our animal nature. When taken in this sense, it will not surely be thought to comprehend at once all the motives of human conduct. If men be not allowed to have disinterested benevolence, they will not be denied to have disinterested passions of another kind. Hatred, indignation, and rage, frequently urge them to act in opposition to their known interest, and even to hazard their lives, without any hopes of compensation in any future returns of preferment or profit. SECTION III. OF THE PRINCIPLES OF UNION AMONG MANKIND. Mankind have always wandered or settled, agreed or quarrelled, in troops and companies. The cause of their assembling, whatever it be, is the principle of their alliance or union. In collecting the materials of history, we are seldom willing to put up with our subject merely as we find it. We are loth to be embarrassed with a multiplicity of particulars, and apparent inconsistencies. In theory we profess the investigation of general principles; and in order to bring the matter of our inquiries within the reach of our comprehension, are disposed to adopt any system. Thus, in treating of human affairs, we would draw every consequence from a principle of union, or a principle of dissention. The state of nature is a state of war, or of amity, and men are made to unite from a principle of affection, or from a principle of fear, as is most suitable to the system of different writers. The history of our species indeed abundantly shows, that they are to one another mutual objects both of fear and of love; and they who would prove them to have been originally either in a state of alliance, or of war, have arguments in store to maintain their assertions. Our attachment to one division, or to one sect, seems often to derive much of its force from an animosity conceived to an opposite one: and this animosity in its turn, as often arises from a zeal in behalf of the side we espouse, and from a desire to vindicate the rights of our party. "Man is born in society," says Montesquieu, "and there he remains." The charms that detain him are known to be manifold. Together with the parental affection, which, instead of deserting the adult, as among the brutes, embraces more close, as it becomes mixed with esteem, and the memory of its early effects; we may reckon a propensity common to man and other animals, to mix with the herd, and, without reflection, to follow the crowd of his species. What this propensity was in the first moment of its operation, we know not; but with men accustomed to company, its enjoyments and disappointments are reckoned among the principal pleasures or pains of human life. Sadness and melancholy are connected with solitude; gladness and pleasure with the concourse of men. The track of a Laplander on the snowy shore, gives joy to the lonely mariner; and the mute signs of cordiality and kindness which are made to him, awaken the memory of pleasures which he felt in society. In fine, says the writer of a voyage to the North, after describing a mute scene of this sort, "We were extremely pleased to converse with men, since in thirteen months we had seen no human creature." [Footnote: Collection of Dutch voyages.] But we need no remote observation to confirm this position: the wailings of the infant, and the languors of the adult, when alone; the lively joys of the one, and the cheerfulness of the other, upon the return of company, are a sufficient proof of its solid foundations in the frame of our nature. In accounting for actions we often forget that we ourselves have acted; and instead of the sentiments which stimulate the mind in the presence of its object, we assign as the motives of conduct with men, those considerations which occur in the hours of retirement and cold reflection. In this mood frequently we can find nothing important, besides the deliberate prospects of interest; and a great work, like that of forming society, must in our apprehension arise from deep reflections, and be carried on with a view to the advantages which mankind derive from commerce and mutual support. But neither a propensity to mix with the herd, nor the sense of advantages enjoyed in that condition, comprehend all the principles by which men are united together. Those bands are even of a feeble texture, when compared to the resolute ardour with which a man adheres to his friend, or to his tribe, after they have for some time run the career of fortune together. Mutual discoveries of generosity, joint trials of fortitude redouble the ardours of friendship, and kindle a flame in the human breast, which the considerations of personal interest or safety cannot suppress. The most lively transports of joy are seen, and the loudest shrieks of despair are heard, when the objects of a tender affection are beheld in a state of triumph or of suffering. An Indian recovered his friend unexpectedly on the island of Juan Fernandes: he prostrated himself on the ground, at his feet. "We stood gazing in silence," says Dampier, "at this tender scene." If we would know what is the religion of a wild American, what it is in his heart that most resembles devotion; it is not his fear of the sorcerer, nor his hope of protection from the spirits of the air or the wood: it is the ardent affection with which he selects and embraces his friend; with which he clings to his side in every season of peril; and with which he invokes his spirit from a distance, when dangers surprise him alone. [Footnote: Charlevoix, Hist. of Canada.] Whatever proofs we may have of the social disposition of man in familiar and contiguous scenes, it is possibly of importance, to draw our observations from the examples of men who live in the simplest condition, and who have not learned to affect what they do not actually feel. Mere acquaintance and habitude nourish affection, and the experience of society brings every passion of the human mind upon its side. Its triumphs and prosperities, its calamities and distresses, bring a variety and a force of emotion, which can only have place in the company of our fellow creatures. It is here that a man is made to forget his weakness, his cares of safety, and his subsistence; and to act from those passions which make him discover his force. It is here he finds that his arrows fly swifter than the eagle, and his weapons wound deeper than the paw of the lion, or the tooth of the boar. It is not alone his sense of a support which is near, nor the love of distinction in the opinion of his tribe, that inspire his courage, or swell his heart with a confidence that exceeds what his natural force should bestow. Vehement passions of animosity or attachment are the first exertions of vigour in his breast; under their influence every consideration, but that of his object, is forgotten; dangers and difficulties only excite him the more. That condition is surely favourable to the nature of any being, in which his force is increased; and if courage be the gift of society to man, we have reason to consider his union with his species as the noblest part of his fortune. From this source are derived, not only the force, but the very existence of his happiest emotions; not only the better part, but almost the whole of his rational character. Send him to the desert alone, he is a plant torn from his roots: the form indeed may remain, but every faculty droops and withers; the human personage and the human character cease to exist. Men are so far from valuing society on account of its mere external conveniencies, that they are commonly most attached where those conveniencies are least frequent; and are there most faithful, where the tribute of their allegiance is paid in blood. Affection operates with the greatest force, where it meets with the greatest difficulties: in the breast of the parent, it is most solicitous amidst the dangers and distresses of the child; in the breast of a man, its flame redoubles where the wrongs or sufferings of his friend, or his country, require his aid. It is, in short, from this principle alone that we can account for the obstinate attachment of a savage to his unsettled and defenceless tribe, when temptations on the side of ease and of safety might induce him to fly from famine and danger, to a station more affluent, and more secure. Hence the sanguine affection which every Greek bore to his country, and hence the devoted patriotism of an early Roman. Let those examples be compared with the spirit which reigns in a commercial state, where men may be supposed to have experienced, in its full extent, the interest which individuals have in the preservation of their country. It is here indeed, if ever, that man is sometimes found a detached and a solitary being: he has found an object which sets him in competition with his fellow creatures, and he deals with them as he does with his cattle and his soil, for the sake of the profits they bring. The mighty engine which we suppose to have formed society, only tends to set its members at variance, or to continue their intercourse after the bands of affection are broken. SECTION IV. OF THE PRINCIPLES OF WAR AND DISSENTION. "There are some circumstances in the lot of mankind," says Socrates, "that show them to be destined to friendship and amity: Those are, their mutual need of each other; their mutual compassion; their sense of mutual benefit; and the pleasures arising in company. There are other circumstances which prompt them to war and dissention; the admiration and the desire which they entertain for the same subjects; their opposite pretensions; and the provocations which they mutually offer in the course of their competitions." When we endeavour to apply the maxims of natural justice to the solution of difficult questions, we find that some cases may be supposed, and actually happen, where oppositions take place, and are lawful, prior to any provocation, or act of injustice; that where the safety and preservation of numbers are mutually inconsistent, one party may employ his right of defence, before the other has begun an attack. And when we join with such examples, the instances of mistake, and misunderstanding, to which mankind are exposed, we may be satisfied that war does not always proceed from an intention to injure; and that even the best qualities of men, their candour, as well as their resolution, may operate in the midst of their quarrels. There is still more to be observed on this subject. Mankind not only find in their condition the sources of variance and dissention; they appear to have in their minds the seeds of animosity, and to embrace the occasions of mutual opposition, with alacrity and pleasure. In the most pacific situation, there are few who have not their enemies, as well as their friends; and who are not pleased with opposing the proceedings of one, as much as with favouring the designs of another. Small and simple tribes, who in their domestic society have the firmest union, are in their state of opposition as separate nations, frequently animated with the most implacable hatred. Among the citizens of Rome, in the early ages of that republic, the name of a foreigner, and that of an enemy, were the same. Among the Greeks, the name of Barbarian, under which that people comprehended every nation that was of a race, and spoke a language, different from their own, became a term of indiscriminate contempt and aversion. Even where no particular claim to superiority is formed, the repugnance to union, the frequent wars, or rather the perpetual hostilities which take place among rude nations and separate clans, discover how much our species is disposed to opposition, as well as to concert. Late discoveries have brought to our knowledge almost every situation in which mankind are placed. We have found them spread over large and extensive continents, where communications are open, and where national confederacy might be easily formed. We have found them in narrower districts, circumscribed by mountains, great rivers, and arms of the sea. They have been found in small islands, where the inhabitants might be easily assembled, and derive an advantage from their union. But in all those situations, alike, they were broke into cantons, and affected a distinction of name and community. The titles of _fellow citizen_ and _countrymen_, unopposed to those of _alien_ and _foreigner_, to which they refer, would fall into disuse, and lose their meaning. We love individuals on account of personal qualities; but we love our country, as it is a party in the divisions of mankind; and our zeal for its interest, is a predilection in behalf of the side we maintain. In the promiscuous concourse of men, it is sufficient that we have an opportunity of selecting our company. We turn away from those who do not engage us, and we fix our resort where the society is more to our mind. We are fond of distinctions; we place ourselves in opposition, and quarrel under the denominations of faction and party, without any material subject of controversy. Aversion, like affection, is fostered by a continued direction to its particular object. Separation and estrangement, as well as opposition, widen a breach which did not owe its beginnings to any offence. And it would seem, that till we have reduced mankind to the state of a family, or found some external consideration to maintain their connection in greater numbers, they will be for ever separated into bands, and form a plurality of nations. The sense of a common danger, and the assaults of an enemy, have been frequently useful to nations, by uniting their members more firmly together, and by preventing the secessions and actual separations in which their civil discord might otherwise terminate. And this motive to union which is offered from abroad, may be necessary, not only in the case of large and extensive nations, where coalitions are weakened by distance, and the distinction of provincial names; but even in the narrow society of the smallest states. Rome itself was founded by a small party which took its flight from Alba; her citizens were often in danger of separating; and if the villages and cantons of the Volsci had been further removed from the scene of their dissentions, the Mons Sacer might have received a new colony before the mother country was ripe for such a discharge. She continued long to feel the quarrels of her nobles and her people; and kept open the gates of Janus, to remind those parties of the duties they owed to their country. Societies, as well as individuals, being charged with the care of their own preservation, and having separate interests, which give rise to jealousies and competitions, we cannot be surprised to find hostilities arise from this source. But were there no angry passions of a different sort, the animosities which attend an opposition of interest, should bear a proportion to the supposed value of the subject. "The Hottentot nations," says Kolben, "trespass on each other by thefts of cattle and of women; but such injuries are seldom committed, except with a view to exasperate their neighbours, and bring them to a war." Such depredations then, are not the foundation of a war, but the effects of a hostile intention already conceived. The nations of North America, who have no herds to preserve, nor settlements to defend, are yet engaged in almost perpetual wars, for which they can assign no reason, but the point of honour, and a desire to continue the struggle their fathers maintained. They do not regard the spoils of an enemy; and the warrior who has seized any booty, easily parts with it to the first person who comes in his way. [Footnote: See Charlevoix's History of Canada.] But we need not cross the Atlantic to find proofs of animosity, and to observe, in the collision of separate societies, the influence of angry passions, that do not arise from an opposition of interest. Human nature has no part of its character of which more flagrant examples are given on this side of the globe. What is it that stirs in the breasts of ordinary men when the enemies of their country are named? Whence are the prejudices that subsist between different provinces, cantons, and villages, of the same empire and territory? What is it that excites one half of the nations of Europe against the other? The statesman may explain his conduct on motives of national jealousy and caution, but the people have dislikes and antipathies, for which they cannot account. Their mutual reproaches of perfidy and injustice, like the Hottentot depredations, are but symptoms of an animosity, and the language of a hostile disposition, already conceived. The charge of cowardice and pusillanimity, qualities which the interested and cautious enemy should, of all others, like best to find in his rival, is urged with aversion, and made the ground of dislike. Hear the peasants on different sides of the Alps, and the Pyrenees, the Rhine, or the British channel, give vent to their prejudices and national passions; it is among them that we find the materials of war and dissention laid without the direction of government, and sparks ready to kindle into a flame, which the statesman is frequently disposed to extinguish. The fire will not always catch where his reasons of state would direct, nor stop where the concurrence of interest has produced an alliance. "My father," said a Spanish peasant, "would rise from his grave, if he could foresee a war with France." What interest had he, or the bones of his father, in the quarrels of princes? These observations seem to arraign our species, and to give an unfavourable picture of mankind; and yet the particulars we have mentioned are consistent with the most amiable qualities of our nature, and often furnish a scene for the exercise of our greatest abilities. They are sentiments of generosity and self denial that animate the warrior in defence of his country; and they are dispositions most favourable to mankind, that become the principles of apparent hostility to men. Every animal is made to delight in the exercise of his natural talents and forces. The lion and the tyger sport with the paw; the horse delights to commit his mane to the wind, and forgets his pasture to try his speed in the field; the bull even before his brow is armed, and the lamb while yet an emblem of innocence, have a disposition to strike with the forehead, and anticipate, in play, the conflicts they are doomed to sustain. Man too is disposed to opposition, and to employ the forces of his nature against an equal antagonist; he loves to bring his reason, his eloquence, his courage, even his bodily strength to the proof. His sports are frequently an image of war; sweat and blood are freely expended in play; and fractures or death are often made to terminate the pastime of idleness and festivity. He was not made to live for ever, and even his love of amusement has opened a way to the grave. Without the rivalship of nations, and the practice of war, civil society itself could scarcely have found an object, or a form. Mankind might have traded without any formal convention, but they cannot be safe without a national concert. The necessity of a public defence, has given rise to many departments of state, and the intellectual talents of men have found their busiest scene in wielding their national forces. To overawe, or intimidate, or, when we cannot persuade with reason, to resist with fortitude, are the occupations which give its most animating exercise, and its greatest triumphs, to a vigorous mind; and he who has never struggled with his fellow creatures, is a stranger to half the sentiments of mankind. The quarrels of individuals, indeed, are frequently the operations of unhappy and detestable passions, malice, hatred, and rage. If such passions alone possess the breast, the scene of dissention becomes an object of horror; but a common opposition maintained by numbers, is always allayed by passions of another sort. Sentiments of affection and friendship mix with animosity; the active and strenuous become the guardians of their society; and violence itself is, in their case, an exertion of generosity, as well as of courage. We applaud, as proceeding from a national or party spirit, what we could not endure as the effect of a private dislike; and, amidst the competitions of rival states, think we have found, for the patriot and the warrior, in the practice of violence and stratagem, the most illustrious career of human virtue. Even personal opposition here does not divide our judgment on the merits of men. The rival names of Agesilaus and Epaminondas, of Scipio and Hannibal, are repeated with equal praise; and war itself, which in one view appears so fatal, in another is the exercise of a liberal spirit; and in the very effects which we regret, is but one distemper more, by which the Author of nature has appointed our exit from human life. These reflections may open our view into the state of mankind; but they tend to reconcile us to the conduct of Providence, rather than to make us change our own; where, from a regard to the welfare of our fellow creatures, we endeavour to pacify their animosities, and unite them by the ties of affection. In the pursuit of this amiable intention, we may hope, in some instances, to disarm the angry passions of jealousy and envy; we may hope to instil into the breasts of private men sentiments of candour towards their fellow creatures, and a disposition to humanity and justice. But it is vain to expect that we can give to the multitude of a people a sense of union among themselves, without admitting hostility to those who oppose them. Could we at once, in the case of any nation, extinguish the emulation which is excited from abroad, we should probably break or weaken the bands of society at home, and close the busiest scenes of national occupations and virtues. SECTION V. OF INTELLECTUAL POWERS. Many attempts have been made to analyze the dispositions which we have now enumerated; but one purpose of science, perhaps the most important, is served, when the existence of a disposition is established. We are more concerned in its reality, and in its consequences, than we are in its origin, or manner of formation. The same observation may be applied to the other powers and faculties of our nature. Their existence and use are the principal objects of our study. Thinking and reasoning, we say, are the operations of some faculty; but in what manner the faculties of thought or reason remain, when they are not exerted, or by what difference in the frame they are unequal in different persons, are questions which we cannot resolve. Their operations alone discover them; when unapplied, they lie hid even from the person to whom they pertain; and their action is so much a part of their nature, that the faculty itself, in many cases, is scarcely to be distinguished from a habit acquired in its frequent exertion. Persons who are occupied with different subjects, who act in different scenes, generally appear to have different talents, or at least to have the same faculties variously formed, and suited to different purposes. The peculiar genius of nations, as well as of individuals, may in this manner arise from the state of their fortunes. And it is proper that we endeavour to find some rule, by which to judge of what is admirable in the capacities of men, or fortunate in the application of their faculties, before we venture to pass a judgment on this branch of their merits, or pretend to measure the degree of respect they may claim by their different attainments. To receive the informations of sense, is perhaps the earliest function of an animal combined with an intellectual nature; and one great accomplishment of the living agent consists in the force and sensibility of his animal organs. The pleasures or pains to which he is exposed from this quarter, constitute to him an important difference between the objects which are thus brought to his knowledge; and it concerns him to distinguish well, before he commits himself to the direction of appetite. He must scrutinize the objects of one sense, by the perceptions of another; examine with the eye, before he ventures to touch; and employ every means of observation, before he gratifies the appetites of thirst and of hunger. A discernment acquired by experience, becomes a faculty of his mind; and the inferences of thought are sometimes not to be distinguished from the perceptions of sense. The objects around us, beside their separate appearances, have their relations to each other. They suggest, when compared, what would not occur when they are considered apart; they have their effects, and mutual influences; they exhibit, in like circumstances, similar operations, and uniform consequences. When we have found and expressed the points in which the uniformity of their operations consists, we have ascertained a physical law. Many such laws, and even the most important, are known to the vulgar, and occur upon the smallest degrees of reflection; but others are hid under a seeming confusion, which ordinary talents cannot remove; and are therefore the objects of study, long observation, and superior capacity. The faculties of penetration and judgment, are, by men of business, as well as of science, employed to unravel intricacies of this sort; and the degree of sagacity with which either is endowed, is to be measured by the success with which they are able to find general rules, applicable to a variety of cases that seemed to have nothing in common, and to discover important distinctions between subjects which the vulgar are apt to confound. To collect a multiplicity of particulars under general heads, and to refer a variety of operations to their common principle, is the object of science. To do the same thing, at least within the range of his active engagements, is requisite to the man of pleasure, or business; and it would seem, that the studious and the active are so far employed in the same task, from observation and experience, to find the general views under which their objects may be considered, and the rules which may be usefully applied in the detail of their conduct. They do not always apply their talents to different subjects; and they seem to be distinguished chiefly by the unequal reach and variety of their remarks, or by the intentions which they severally have in collecting them. Whilst men continue to act from appetites and passions, leading to the attainment of external ends, they seldom quit the view of their objects in detail, to go far in the road of general inquiries. They measure the extent of their own abilities, by the promptitude with which they apprehend what is important in every subject, and the facility with which they extricate themselves on every trying occasion. And these, it must be confessed, to a being who is destined to act in the midst of difficulties, are the proper test of capacity and force. The parade of words and general reasonings, which sometimes carry an appearance of so much learning and knowledge, are of little avail in the conduct of life. The talents from which they proceed, terminate in mere ostentation, and are seldom connected with that superior discernment which the active apply in times of perplexity; much less with that intrepidity and force of mind which are required in passing through difficult scenes. The abilities of active men, however, have a variety corresponding to that of the subjects on which they are occupied. A sagacity applied to external and inanimate nature, forms one species of capacity; that which is turned to society and human affairs, another. Reputation for parts in any scene is equivocal, till we know by what kind of exertion that reputation is gained. No more can be said, in commending men of the greatest abilities, than that they understand well the subjects to which they have applied; and every department, every profession, would have its great men, if there were not a choice of objects for the understanding, and of talents for the mind, as well as of sentiments for the heart, and of habits for the active character. The meanest professions, indeed, so far sometimes forget themselves, or the rest of mankind, as to arrogate, in commending what is distinguished in their own way, every epithet the most respectable claim as the right of superior abilities. Every mechanic is a great man with the learner, and the humble admirer, in his particular calling: and we can, perhaps with more assurance pronounce what it is that should make a man happy and amiable, than what should make his abilities respected, and his genius admired. This, upon a view of the talents themselves, may perhaps be impossible. The effect, however, will point out the rule and the standard of our judgment. To be admired and respected, is to have an ascendant among men. The talents which most directly procure that ascendant, are those which operate on mankind, penetrate their views, prevent their wishes, or frustrate their designs. The superior capacity leads with a superior energy, where every individual would go, and shews the hesitating and irresolute a clear passage to the attainment of their ends. This description does not pertain to any particular craft or profession; or perhaps it implies a kind of ability, which the separate application of men to particular callings, only tends to suppress or to weaken. Where shall we find the talents which are fit to act with men in a collective body, if we break that body into parts, and confine the observation of each to a separate track? To act in the view of his fellow creatures, to produce his mind in public, to give it all the exercise of sentiment and thought, which pertain to man as a member of society, as a friend, or an enemy, seems to be the principal calling and occupation of his nature. If he must labour, that he may subsist, he can subsist for no better purpose than the good of mankind; nor can he have better talents than those which qualify him to act with men. Here, indeed, the understanding appears to borrow very much from the passions; and there is a felicity of conduct in human affairs, in which it is difficult to distinguish the promptitude of the head from the ardour and sensibility of the heart. Where both are united, they constitute that superiority of mind, the frequency of which among men, in particular ages and nations, much more than the progress they have made in speculation, or in the practice of mechanic and liberal arts, should determine the rate of their genius, and assign the palm of distinction and honour. When nations succeed one another in the career of discoveries and inquiries, the last is always the most knowing. Systems of science are gradually formed. The globe itself is traversed by degrees, and the history of every age, when past, is an accession of knowledge to those who succeed. The Romans were more knowing than the Greeks; and every scholar of modern Europe is, in this sense, more learned than the most accomplished person that ever bore either of those celebrated names. But is he on that account their superior? Men are to be estimated, not from what they know, but from what they are able to perform; from their skill in adapting materials to the several purposes of life; from their vigour and conduct in pursuing the objects of policy, and in finding the expedients of war and national defence. Even in literature, they are to be estimated from the works of their genius, not from the extent of their knowledge. The scene of mere observation was extremely limited in a Grecian republic; and the bustle of an active life appeared inconsistent with study: but there the human mind, notwithstanding, collected its greatest abilities, and received its best informations, in the midst of sweat and of dust. It is peculiar to modern Europe, to rest so much of the human character on what may be learned in retirement, and from the information of books. A just admiration of ancient literature, an opinion that human sentiment, and human reason, without this aid, were to have vanished from the societies of men, have led us into the shade, where we endeavour to derive from imagination and study what is in reality matter of experience and sentiment; and we endeavour, through the grammar of dead languages, and the channel of commentators, to arrive at the beauties of thought and elocution, which sprang from the animated spirit of society, and were taken from the living impressions of an active life. Our attainments are frequently limited to the elements of every science, and seldom reach to that enlargement of ability and power, which useful knowledge should give. Like mathematicians, who study the Elements of Euclid, but, never think of mensuration; we read of societies, but do not propose to act with men; we repeat the language of politics, but feel not the spirit of nations; we attend to the formalities of a military discipline, but know not how to employ numbers of men to obtain any purpose by stratagem or force. But for what end, it may be said, point out an evil that cannot be remedied? If national affairs called for exertion, the genius of men would awake; but in the recess of better employment, the time which is bestowed on study, if even attended with no other advantage, serves to occupy with innocence the hours of leisure, and set bounds to the pursuit of ruinous and frivolous amusements. From no better reason than this, we employ so many of our early years, under the rod, to acquire, what it is not expected we should retain beyond the threshold of the school; and whilst we carry the same frivolous character in our studies that we do in our amusements, the human mind could not suffer more from a contempt of letters, than it does from the false importance which is given to literature, as a business for life, not as a help to our conduct, and the means of forming a character that may be happy in itself, and useful to mankind. If that time which is passed in relaxing the powers of the mind, and in withholding every object but what tends to weaken and to corrupt, were employed in fortifying those powers, and in teaching the mind to recognize its objects, and its strength, we should not, at the years of maturity, be so much at a loss for occupation; nor, in attending the chances of a gaming table, misemploy our talents, or waste the fire which remains in the breast. They, at least, who by their stations have a share in the government of their country, might believe themselves capable of business; and, while the state had its armies and councils, might find objects enough to amuse, without throwing a personal fortune into hazard, merely to cure the yawnings of a listless and insignificant life. It is impossible for ever to maintain the tone of speculation; it is impossible not sometimes to feel that we live among men. SECTION VI. OF MORAL SENTIMENT. Upon a slight observation of what passes in human life, we should be apt to conclude, that the care of subsistence is the principal spring of human actions. This consideration leads to the invention and practice of mechanical arts; it serves to distinguish amusement from business; and, with many, scarcely admits into competition any other subject of pursuit or attention. The mighty advantages of property and fortune, when stript of the recommendations they derive from vanity, or the more serious regards to independence and power, only mean a provision that is made for animal enjoyment; and if our solicitude on this subject were removed, not only the toils of the mechanic, but the studies of the learned, would cease; every department of public business would become unnecessary; every senate house would be shut up, and every palace deserted. Is man therefore, in respect to his object, to be classed with the mere brutes, and only to be distinguished by faculties that qualify him to multiply contrivances for the support and convenience of animal life, and by the extent of a fancy that renders the care of animal preservation to him more burthensome than it is to the herd with which he shares in the bounty of nature? If this were his case, the joy which attends on success, or the griefs which arise from disappointment, would make the sum of his passions. The torrent that wasted, or the inundation that enriched, his possessions, would give him all the emotion with which he is seized, on the occasion of a wrong by which his fortunes are impaired, or of a benefit by which they are preserved and enlarged. His fellow creatures would be considered merely as they affected his interest. Profit or loss would serve to mark the event of every transaction; and the epithets _useful_ or _detrimental_ would serve to distinguish his mates in society, as they do the tree which bears plenty of fruit, from that which only cumbers the ground, or intercepts his view. This, however, is not the history of our species. What comes from a fellow creature is received with peculiar emotion; and every language abounds with terms that express somewhat in the transactions of men, different from success and disappointment. The bosom kindles in company, while the point of interest in view has nothing to inflame; and a matter frivolous in itself, becomes important, when it serves to bring to light the intentions and characters of men. The foreigner, who believed that Othello, on the stage, was enraged for the loss of his handkerchief, was not more mistaken, than the reasoner who imputes any of the more vehement passions of men to the impressions of mere profit or loss. Men assemble to deliberate on business; they separate from jealousies of interest; but in their several collisions, whether as friends or as enemies, a fire is struck out which the regards to interest or safety cannot confine. The value of a favour is not measured when sentiments of kindness are perceived; and the term _misfortune_ has but a feeble meaning, when compared to that of _insult_ and _wrong_. As actors or spectators, we are perpetually made to feel the difference of human conduct, and from a bare recital of transactions, which have passed in ages and countries remote from our own, are moved with admiration and pity, or transported with indignation and rage. Our sensibility on this subject gives their charm in retirement, to the relations of history and to the fictions of poetry; sends forth the tear of compassion, gives to the blood its briskest movement, and to the eye its liveliest glances of displeasure or joy. It turns human life into an interesting spectacle, and perpetually solicits even the indolent to mix, as opponents or friends, in the scenes which are acted before them. Joined to the powers of deliberation and reason, it constitutes the basis of a moral nature; and, whilst it dictates the terms of praise and of blame, serves to class our fellow creatures, by the most admirable and engaging, or the most odious and contemptible denominations. It is pleasant to find men, who in their speculations deny the reality of moral distinctions, forget in detail the general positions they maintain, and give loose to ridicule, indignation, and scorn, as if any of these sentiments could have place, were the actions of men indifferent; or with acrimony pretend to detect the fraud by which moral restraints have been imposed, as if to censure a fraud were not already to take a part on the side of morality. [Footnote: Mandeville.] Can we explain the principles upon which mankind adjudge the preference of characters, and upon which they indulge such vehement emotions of admiration or contempt? If it be admitted that we cannot, are the facts less true? Or must we suspend the movements of the heart, until they who are employed in framing systems of science have discovered the principle from which those movements proceed? If a finger burn, we care not for information on the properties of fire: if the heart be torn, or the mind overjoyed, we have not leisure for speculations on the subjects of moral sensibility. It is fortunate in this, as in other articles to which speculation and theory are applied, that nature proceeds in her course, whilst the curious are busied in the search of her principles. The peasant, or the child, can reason, and judge, and speak his language with a discernment, a consistency, and a regard to analogy, which perplex the logician, the moralist, and the grammarian, when they would find the principle upon which the proceeding is founded, or when they would bring to general rule, what is so familiar, and so well sustained in particular cases. The felicity of our conduct is more owing to the talent we possess for detail, and to the suggestion of particular occasions, than it is to any direction we can find in theory and general speculations. We must, in the result of every inquiry, encounter with facts which we cannot explain; and to bear with this mortification would save us frequently a great deal of fruitless trouble. Together with the sense of our existence, we must admit many circumstances which come to our knowledge at the same time, and in the same manner; and which do, in reality, constitute the mode of our being. Every peasant will tell us, that a man hath his rights; and that to trespass on those rights is injustice. If we ask him farther, what he means by the term _right?_ we probably force him to substitute a less significant, or less proper term, in the place of this; or require him to account for what is an original mode of his mind, and a sentiment to which he ultimately refers, when he would explain himself upon any particular application of his language. The rights of individuals may relate to a variety of subjects, and be comprehended under different heads. Prior to the establishment of property, and the distinction of ranks, men have a right to defend their persons, and to act with freedom; they have a right to maintain the apprehensions of reason, and the feelings of the heart; and they cannot for a moment associate together, without feeling that the treatment they give or receive may be just or unjust. It is not, however, our business here to carry the notion of a right into its several applications, but to reason on the sentiment of favour with which that notion is entertained in the mind. If it be true, that men are united by instinct, that they act in society from affections of kindness and friendship; if it be true, that even prior to acquaintance and habitude, men, as such, are commonly to each other objects of attention, and some degree of regard; that while their prosperity is beheld with indifference, their afflictions are considered with commiseration; if calamities be measured by the numbers and the qualities of men they involve; and if every suffering of a fellow creature draws a crowd of attentive spectators; if, even in the case of those to whom we do not habitually wish any positive good, we are still averse to be the instruments of harm; it should seem, that in these various appearances of an amicable disposition, the foundations of a moral apprehension are sufficiently laid, and the sense of a right which we maintain for ourselves, is by a movement of humanity and candour extended to our fellow creatures. What is it that prompts the tongue when we censure an act of cruelty or oppression? What is it that constitutes our restraint from offences that tend to distress our fellow creatures? It is probably, in both cases, a particular application of that principle, which, in presence of the sorrowful, sends forth the tear of compassion; and a combination of all those sentiments, which constitute a benevolent disposition; and if not a resolution to do good, at least an aversion to be the instrument of harm. [Footnote: Mankind, we are told, are devoted to interest; and this, in all commercial nations, is undoubtedly true. But it does not follow, that they are, by their natural dispositions, averse to society and mutual affection: proofs of the contrary remain, even where interest triumphs most. What must we think of the force of that disposition to compassion, to candour, and good will, which, notwithstanding the prevailing opinion that the happiness of a man consists in possessing the greatest possible share of riches, preferments, and honours, still keeps the parties who are in competition for those objects, on a tolerable footing of amity, and leads them to abstain even from their own supposed good, when their seizing it appears in the light of a detriment to others? What might we not expect from the human heart in circumstances which prevented this apprehension on the subject of fortune, or under the influence of an opinion as steady and general as the former, that human felicity does not consist in the indulgences of animal appetite, but in those of a benevolent heart; not in fortune or interest, but in the contempt of this very object, in the courage and freedom which arise from this contempt, joined to a resolute choice of conduct, directed to the good of mankind, or to the good of that particular society to which the party belongs?] It may be difficult, however, to enumerate the motives of all the censures and commendations which are applied to the actions of men. Even while we moralize, every disposition of the human mind may have its share in forming the judgment, and in prompting the tongue. As jealousy is often the most watchful guardian of chastity, so malice is often the quickest to spy the failings of our neighbour. Envy, affectation, and vanity, may dictate the verdicts we give, and the worst principles of our nature may be at the bottom of our pretended zeal for morality; but if we only mean to inquire, why they who are well disposed to mankind apprehend, in every instance, certain rights pertaining to their fellow creatures, and why they applaud the consideration that is paid to those rights, we cannot assign a better reason, than that the person who applauds, is well disposed to the welfare of the parties to whom his applauses refer. Applause, however, is the expression of a peculiar sentiment; an expression of esteem the reverse of contempt. Its object is perfection, the reverse of defect. This sentiment is not the love of mankind; it is that by which we estimate the qualities of men, and the objects of our pursuit; that which doubles the force of every desire or aversion, when we consider its object as tending to raise or to sink our nature. When we consider, that the reality of any amicable propensity in the human mind has been frequently contested; when we recollect the prevalence of interested competitions, with their attendant passions of jealousy, envy, and malice; it may seem strange to allege, that love and compassion are, next to the desire of elevation, the most powerful motives in the human breast: That they urge, on many occasions, with the most irresistible vehemence; and if the desire of self preservation be more constant, and more uniform, these are a more plentiful source of enthusiasm, satisfaction, and joy. With a power not inferior to that of resentment and rage, they hurry the mind into every sacrifice of interest, and bear it undismayed through every hardship and danger. The disposition on which friendship is grafted, glows with satisfaction in the hours of tranquillity, and is pleasant, not only in its triumphs, but even in its sorrows. It throws a grace on the external air, and, by its expression on the countenance, compensates for the want of beauty, or gives a charm which no complexion or features can equal. From this source the scenes of human life derive their principal felicity; and their imitations in poetry, their principal ornament. Descriptions of nature, even representations of a vigorous conduct, and a manly courage, do not engage the heart, if they be not mixed with the exhibition of generous sentiments, and the pathetic, which is found to arise in the struggles, the triumphs, or the misfortunes of a tender affection. The death of Polites, in the Aeneid, is not more affecting than that of many others who perished in the ruins of Troy; but the aged Priam was present when this last of his sons was slain; and the agonies of grief and sorrow force the parent from his retreat, to fall by the hand that shed the blood of his child. The pathetic of Homer consists in exhibiting the force of affections, not in exciting mere terror and pity; passions he has never perhaps, in any instance, attempted to raise. With this tendency to kindle into enthusiasm, with this command over the heart, with the pleasure that attends its emotions, and with all its effects in meriting confidence and procuring esteem, it is not surprising, that a principle of humanity should give the tone to our commendations and our censures, and even where it is hindered from directing our conduct, should still give to the mind, on reflection, its knowledge of what is desirable in the human character. _What hast thou done with thy brother Abel?_ was the first expostulation in behalf of morality; and if the first answer has been often repeated, mankind have notwithstanding, in one sense, sufficiently acknowledged the charge of their nature. They have felt, they have talked, and even acted, as the keepers of their fellow creatures: they have made the indications of candour and mutual affection the test of what is meritorious and amiable in the characters of men: they have made cruelty and oppression the principal objects of their indignation and rage: even while the head is occupied with projects of interest, the heart is often seduced into friendship; and while business proceeds on the maxims of self preservation, the careless hour is employed in generosity and kindness. Hence the rule by which men commonly judge of external actions, is taken from the supposed influence of such actions on the general good. To abstain from harm, is the great law of natural justice; to diffuse happiness, is the law of morality; and when we censure the conferring a favour on one or a few at the expense of many, we refer to public utility, as the great object at which the actions of men should be aimed. After all, it must be confessed, that if a principle of affection to mankind be the basis of our moral approbation and dislike, we sometimes proceed in distributing applause or censure, without precisely attending to the degree in which our fellow creatures are hurt or obliged; and that, besides the virtues of candour, friendship, generosity, and public spirit, which bear an immediate reference to this principle, there are others which may seem to derive their commendation from a different source. Temperance, prudence, fortitude, are those qualities likewise admired from a principle of regard to our fellow creatures? Why not, since they render men happy in themselves, and useful to others? He who is qualified to promote the welfare of mankind, is neither a sot, a fool, nor a coward. Can it be more clearly expressed, that temperance, prudence, and fortitude, are necessary to the character we love and admire? I know well why I should wish for them in myself; and why likewise I should wish for them in my friend, and in every person who is an object of my affection. But to what purpose seek for reasons of approbation, where qualities are so necessary to our happiness, and so great a part in the perfection of our nature? We must cease to esteem ourselves, and to distinguish what is excellent, when such qualifications incur our neglect. A person of an affectionate mind, possessed of a maxim, that he himself, as an individual, is no more than a part of the whole that demands his regard, has found, in that principle, a sufficient foundation for all the virtues; for a contempt of animal pleasures, that would supplant his principal enjoyment; for an equal contempt of danger or pain, that come to stop his pursuits of public good. "A vehement and steady affection magnifies its object, and lessens every difficulty or danger that stands in the way." "Ask those who have been in love," says Epictetus, "they will know that I speak the truth." "I have before me," says another eminent moralist, [Footnote: Persian Letters.] "an idea of justice, which if I could follow in every instance, I should think myself the most happy of men." And it is of consequence to their happiness, as well as to their conduct, if those can be disjoined, that men should have this idea properly formed. It is perhaps but another name for that good of mankind, which the virtuous are engaged to promote. If virtue be the supreme good, its best and most signal effect is, to communicate and diffuse itself. To distinguish men by the difference of their moral qualities, to espouse one party from a sense of justice, to oppose another even with indignation when excited by iniquity, are the common indications of probity, and the operations of an animated, upright, and generous spirit. To guard against unjust partialities, and ill grounded antipathies; to maintain that composure of mind, which, without impairing its sensibility or ardour, proceeds in every instance with discernment and penetration, are the marks of a vigorous and cultivated spirit. To be able to follow the dictates of such a spirit through all the varieties of human life, and with a mind always master of itself, in prosperity or adversity, and possessed of all its abilities, when the subjects in hazard are life, or freedom, as much as in treating simple questions of interest, are the triumphs of magnanimity, and true elevation of mind. "The event of the day is decided. Draw this javelin from my body now," said Epaminondas, "and let me bleed." In what situation, or by what instruction, is this wonderful character to be formed? Is it found in the nurseries of affectation, pertness, and vanity, from which fashion is propagated, and the genteel is announced? In great and opulent cities, where men vie with each other in equipage, dress, and the reputation of fortune? Is it within the admired precincts of a court, where we may learn to smile without being pleased, to caress without affection, to wound with the secret weapons of envy and jealousy, and to rest our personal importance on circumstances which we cannot always with honour command? No: but in a situation where the great sentiments of the heart are awakened; where the characters of men, not their situations and fortunes, are the principal distinction; where the anxieties of interest, or vanity, perish in the blaze of more vigorous emotions; and where the human soul, having felt and recognised its objects, like an animal who has tasted the blood of his prey, cannot descend to pursuits that leave its talents and its force unemployed. Proper occasions alone operating on a raised and a happy disposition, may produce this admirable effect, whilst mere instruction may always find mankind at a loss to comprehend its meaning, or insensible to its dictates. The case, however, is not desperate, till we have formed our system of politics, as well as manners; till we have sold our freedom for titles, equipage, and distinctions; till we see no merit but prosperity and power, no disgrace but poverty and neglect. What charm of instruction can cure the mind that is stained with this disorder? What syren voice can awaken a desire of freedom, that is held to be meanness and a want of ambition? Or what persuasion can turn the grimace of politeness into real sentiments of humanity and candour? SECTION VII. OF HAPPINESS. Having had under our consideration the active powers and the moral qualities which distinguish the nature of man, is it still necessary that we should treat of his happiness apart? This significant term, the most frequent, and the most familiar, in our conversation, is, perhaps, on reflection, the least understood. It serves to express our satisfaction, when any desire is gratified; it is pronounced with a sigh, when our object is distant: it means what we wish to obtain, and what we seldom stay to examine. We estimate the value of every subject by its utility, and its influence on happiness; but we think that utility itself, and happiness, require no explanation. Those men are commonly esteemed the happiest, whose desires are most frequently ratified. But if, in reality, the possession of what they desire, and a continued fruition, were requisite to happiness, mankind for the most part would have reason to complain of their lot. What they call their enjoyments, are generally momentary; and the object of sanguine expectation, when obtained, no longer continues to occupy the mind: a new passion succeeds, and the imagination, as before, is intent on a distant felicity. How many reflections of this sort are suggested by melancholy, or by the effects of that very languor and inoccupation into which we would willingly sink, under the notion of freedom from care and trouble? When we enter on a formal computation of the enjoyments or sufferings which are prepared for mankind, it is a chance but we find that pain, by its intenseness, its duration, or frequency, is greatly predominant. The activity and eagerness with which we press from one stage of life to another, our unwillingness to return on the paths we have trod, our aversion in age to renew the frolics of youth, or to repeat in manhood the amusements of children, have been accordingly stated as proofs, that our memory of the past, and our feeling of the present, are equal subjects of dislike and displeasure. [Footnote: Maupertuis; Essai de Morale.] This conclusion, however, like many others, drawn from our supposed knowledge of causes, does not correspond with experience in every street, in every village, in every field, the greater number of persons we meet, carry an aspect that is cheerful or thoughtless, indifferent, composed, busy or animated. The labourer whistles to his team, and the mechanic is at ease in his calling; the frolicksome and gay feel a series of pleasures, of which we know not the source; even they who demonstrate the miseries of human life, when intent on their argument, escape from their sorrows, and find a tolerable pastime in proving that men are unhappy. The very terms _pleasure_ and _pain,_ perhaps, are equivocal; but if they are confined, as they appear to be in many of our reasonings, to the mere sensations which have a reference to external objects, either in the memory of the past, the feeling of the present, or the apprehension of the future, it is a great error to suppose, that they comprehend all the constituents of happiness or misery; or that the good humour of an ordinary life is maintained by the prevalence of those pleasures, which have their separate names, and are, on reflection, distinctly remembered. The mind, during the greater part of its existence, is employed in active exertions, not in merely attending to its own feelings of pleasure or pain; and the list of its faculties, understanding, memory, foresight, sentiment, will, and intention, only contains the names of its different operations. If, in the absence of every sensation to which we commonly give the names either of _enjoyment_ or _suffering,_ our very existence may have its opposite qualities of _happiness_ or _misery;_ and if what we call _pleasure_ or _pain,_ occupies but a small part of human life, compared to what passes in contrivance and execution, in pursuits and expectations, in conduct, reflection, and social engagements; it must appear, that our active pursuits, at least on account of their duration, deserve the greater part of our attention. When their occasions have failed, the demand is not for pleasure, but for something to do; and the very complaints of a sufferer are not so sure a mark of distress, as the stare of the languid. We seldom, however, reckon any task, which we are bound to perform, among the blessings of life. We always aim at a period of pure enjoyment, or a termination of trouble; and overlook the source from which most of our present satisfactions are really drawn. Ask the busy, where is the happiness to which they aspire? they will answer, perhaps, that it is to be found in the object of some present pursuit. If we ask, why they are not miserable in the absence of that happiness? they will say, that they hope to attain it. But is it hope alone that supports the mind is the midst of precarious and uncertain prospects? And would assurance of success fill the intervals of expectation with more pleasing emotions? Give the huntsman his prey, give the gamester the gold which is staked on the game, that the one may not need to fatigue his person, nor the other to perplex his mind, and both will probably laugh at our folly: the one will stake his money anew, that he may be perplexed; the other will turn his stag to the field, that he may hear the cry of the dogs, and follow through danger and hardship. Withdraw the occupations of men, terminate their desires, existence is a burden, and the iteration of memory is a torment. The men of this country, says one lady, should learn to sew and to knit; it would hinder their time from being a burden to themselves, and to other people. That is true, says another; for my part, though I never look abroad, I tremble at the prospect of bad weather; for then the gentlemen come moping to us for entertainment; and the sight of a husband in distress, is but a melancholy spectacle. The difficulties and hardships of human life are supposed to detract from the goodness of God; yet many of the pastimes men devise for themselves are fraught with difficulty and danger. The great inventor of the game of human life, knew well how to accommodate the players. The chances are matter of complaint; but if these were removed, the game itself would no longer amuse the parties. In devising, or in executing a plan, in being carried on the tide of emotion and sentiment, the mind seems to unfold its being, and to enjoy itself. Even where the end and the object are known to be of little avail, the talents and the fancy are often intensely applied, and business or play may amuse them alike. We only desire repose to recruit our limited and our wasting force: when business fatigues, amusement is often but a change of occupation. We are not always unhappy, even when we complain. There is a kind of affliction which makes an agreeable state of the mind; and lamentation itself is sometimes an expression of pleasure. The painter and the poet have laid hold of this handle, and find, among the means of entertainment, a favourable reception for works that are composed to awaken our sorrows. To a being of this description, therefore, it is a blessing to meet with incentives to action, whether in the desire of pleasure, or the aversion to pain. His activity is of more importance than the very pleasure he seeks, and languor a greater evil than the suffering he shuns. The gratifications of animal appetite are of short duration; and sensuality is but a distemper of the mind, which ought to be cured by remembrance, if it were not perpetually inflamed by hope. The chase is not more surely terminated by the death of the game, than the joys of the voluptuary by the means of completing his debauch. As a band of society, as a matter of distant pursuit, the objects of sense make an important part in the system of human life. They lead us to fulfil the purposes of nature, in preserving the individual, and in perpetuating the species; but to rely on their use as a principal constituent of happiness, were an error in speculation, and would be still more an error in practice. Even the master of the seraglio, for whom all the treasures of empire are extorted from the hoards of its frighted inhabitants, for whom alone the choicest emerald and the diamond are drawn from the mine, for whom every breeze is enriched with perfumes, for whom beauty is assembled from every quarter, and, animated by passions that ripen under the vertical sun, is confined to the grate for his use, is still, perhaps, more wretched than the very herd of the people, whose labours and properties are devoted to relieve him of trouble, and to procure him enjoyment. Sensuality is easily overcome by any of the habits of pursuit which usually engage an active mind. When curiosity is awake, or when passion is excited, even in the midst of the feast when conversation grows warm, grows jovial, or serious, the pleasures of the table we know are forgotten. The boy contemns them for play, and the man of age declines them for business. When we reckon the circumstances that correspond to the nature of any animal, or to that of man in particular, such as safety, shelter, food, and the other means of enjoyment, or preservation, we sometimes think that we have found a sensible and a solid foundation on which to rest his felicity. But those who are least disposed to moralize, observe, that happiness is not connected with fortune, although fortune includes at once all the means of subsistence, and the means of sensual indulgence. The circumstances that require abstinence, courage, and conduct, expose us to hazard, and are in description of the painful kind; yet the able, the brave, and the ardent, seem most to enjoy themselves when placed in the midst of difficulties, and obliged to employ the powers they possess. Spinola being told, that Sir Francis Vere died of having nothing to do, said, "That was enough to kill a general." [Footnote: Life of Lord Herbert.] How many are there to whom war itself is a pastime, who choose the life of a soldier, exposed to dangers and continued fatigues; of a mariner, in conflict with every hardship, and bereft of every conveniency; of a politician, whose sport is the conduct of parties and factions; and who, rather than be idle, will do the business of men and of nations for whom he has not the smallest regard? Such men do not choose pain as preferable to pleasure, but they are incited by a restless disposition to make continued exertions of capacity and resolution; they triumph in the midst of their struggles; they droop, and they languish, when the occasion of their labour has ceased. What was enjoyment, in the sense of that youth, who, according to Tacitus, loved danger itself, not the rewards of courage? What is the prospect of pleasure, when the sound of the horn or the trumpet, the cry of the dogs, or the shout of war, awaken the ardour of the sportsman and the soldier? The most animating occasions of human life, are calls to danger and hardship, not invitations to safety and ease: and man himself, in his excellence, is not an animal of pleasure, nor destined merely to enjoy what the elements bring to his use; but like his associates, the dog and the horse, to follow the exercises of his nature, in preference to what are called its enjoyments; to pine in the lap of ease and of affluence, and to exult in the midst of alarms that seem to threaten his being, in all which, his disposition to action only keeps pace with the variety of powers with which he is furnished; and the most respectable attributes of his nature, magnanimity, fortitude, and wisdom, carry a manifest reference to the difficulties with which he is destined to struggle. If animal pleasure becomes insipid when the spirit is roused by a different object, it is well known, likewise, that the sense of pain is prevented by any vehement affection of the soul. Wounds received in a heat of passion, in the hurry, the ardour, or consternation of battle, are never felt till the ferment of the mind subsides. Even torments, deliberately applied, and industriously prolonged, are borne with firmness, and with an appearance of ease, when the mind is possessed with some vigorous sentiment, whether of religion, enthusiasm, or love to mankind. The continued mortifications of superstitious devotees in several ages of the Christian church; the wild penances, still voluntarily borne, during many years, by the religionists of the east; the contempt in which famine and torture are held by most savage nations; the cheerful or obstinate patience of the soldier in the field; the hardships endured by the sportsman in his pastime, show how much we may err in computing the miseries of men, from the measures of trouble and of suffering they seem to incur. And if there be a refinement in affirming that their happiness is not to be measured by the contrary enjoyments, it is a refinement which was made by Regulus and Cincinnatus before the date of philosophy. Fabricius knew it while he had heard arguments only on the opposite side. [Footnote: Plutarch in Vit. Pyrrh.] It is a refinement, which every boy knows at his play, and every savage confirms, when he looks from his forest on the pacific city, and scorns the plantation, whose master he cares not to imitate. Man, it must be confessed, notwithstanding all this activity of his mind, is an animal in the full extent of that designation. When the body sickens, the mind droops; and when the blood ceases to flow, the soul takes its departure. Charged with the care of his preservation, admonished by a sense of pleasure or pain, and guarded by an instinctive fear of death, nature has not intrusted his safety to the mere vigilance of his understanding, nor to the government of his uncertain reflections. The distinction betwixt mind and body is followed by consequences of the greatest importance; but the facts to which we now refer, are not founded on any tenets whatever. They are equally true, whether we admit or reject, the distinction in question, or whether we suppose, that this living agent is formed of one, or is an assemblage of separate natures. And the materialist, by treating of man as of an engine, cannot make any change in the state of his history. He is a being, who, by a multiplicity of visible organs, performs a variety of functions. He bends his joints, contracts or relaxes his muscles in our sight. He continues the beating of the heart in his breast, and the flowing of the blood to every part of his frame. He performs other operations which we cannot refer to any corporeal organ. He perceives, he recollects, and forecasts; he desires, and he shuns; he admires, and contemns. He enjoys his pleasures, or he endures his pain. All these different functions, in some measure, go well or ill together. When the motion of the blood is languid, the muscles relax, the understanding is tardy, and the fancy is dull: when distemper assails him, the physician must attend no less to what he thinks, than, to what he eats, and examine the returns of his passion, together with the strokes of his pulse. With all his sagacity, his precautions, and his instincts, which are given to preserve his being, he partakes in the fate of other animals, and seems to be formed only that he may die. Myriads perish before they reach the perfection of their kind; and the individual, with an option to owe the prolongation of his temporary course to resolution and conduct, or to abject fear, frequently chooses the latter, and, by a habit of timidity, embitters the life he is so intent to preserve. Man, however, at times, exempted from this mortifying lot, seems to act without any regard to the length of his period. When he thinks intensely, or desires with ardour, pleasures and pains from any other quarter assail him in vain. Even in his dying hour, the muscles acquire a tone from his spirit, and the mind seems to depart in its vigour, and in the midst of a struggle to obtain the recent aim of its toil. Muley Moluck, borne on his litter, and spent with disease, still fought the battle, in the midst of which he expired; and the last effort he made, with a finger on his lips, was a signal to conceal his death; [Footnote: Verlot's Revolutions of Portugal] the precaution, perhaps, of all which he had hitherto taken, the most necessary to prevent a defeat. Can no reflections aid us in acquiring this habit of the soul, so useful in carrying us through many of the ordinary scenes of life? If we say, that they cannot, the reality of its happiness is not the less evident. The Greeks and the Romans considered contempt of pleasure, endurance of pain, and neglect of life, as eminent qualities of a man, and a principal subject of discipline. They trusted, that the vigorous spirit would find worthy objects on which to employ its force; and that the first step towards a resolute choice of such objects, was to shake off the meanness of a solicitous and timorous mind. Mankind, in general, have courted occasions to display their courage, and frequently, in search of admiration, have presented a spectacle, which to those who have ceased to regard fortitude on its own account, becomes a subject of horror. Scevola held his arm in the fire, to shake the soul of Porsenna. The savage inures his body to the torture, that in the hour of trial he may exult over his enemy. Even the Mussulman tears his flesh to win the heart of his mistress, and comes in gaiety streaming with blood, to shew that he deserves her esteem. [Footnote: Letters of the Right Honourable Lady Mary Wortley Montagu.] Some nations carry the practice of inflicting, or of sporting with pain, to a degree that is either cruel or absurd; others regard every prospect of bodily suffering as the greatest of evils; and in the midst of their troubles, embitter every real affliction, with the terrors of a feeble and dejected imagination. We are not bound to answer for the follies of either, nor, in treating a question which relates to the nature of man, make an estimate of its strength or its weakness, from the habits or apprehensions peculiar to any nation or age. SECTION VIII. THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. Whoever has compared together the different conditions and manners of men, under varieties of education or fortune, will be satisfied, that mere situation does not constitute their happiness or misery; nor a diversity of external observances imply any opposition of sentiments on the subject of morality. They express their kindness and their enmity, in different actions; but kindness or enmity is still the principal article of consideration in human life. They engage in different pursuits, or acquiesce in different conditions; but act from passions nearly the same. There is no precise measure of accommodation required to suit their conveniency, nor any degree of danger or safety under which they are peculiarly fitted to act. Courage and generosity, fear and envy, are not peculiar to any station or order of men; nor is there any condition in which some of the human race have not shown, that it is possible to employ, with propriety, the talents and virtues of their species. What, then, is that mysterious thing called _Happiness_ which may have place in such a variety of stations, and to which circumstances, in one age or nation thought necessary, are in another held to be destructive or of no effect? It is not the succession of mere animal pleasures, which, apart from the occupation or the company in which they engage us, can fill up but a few moments in human life. On too frequent a repetition, those pleasures turn to satiety and disgust; they tear the constitution to which they are applied in excess, and, like the lightning of night, only serve to darken the gloom through which they occasionally break. Happiness is not that state of repose, or that imaginary freedom from care, which at a distance is so frequent an object of desire, but with its approach brings a tedium, or a languor, more unsupportable than pain itself. If the preceding observations on this subject be just, it arises more from the pursuit, than from the attainment of any end whatever; and in every new situation to which we arrive, even in the course of a prosperous life, it depends more on the degree in which our minds are properly employed, than it does on the circumstances in which we are destined to act, on the materials which are placed in our hands, or the tools with which we are furnished. If this be confessed in respect to that class of pursuits which are distinguished by the name of _amusement_, and which, in the case of men who are commonly deemed the most happy, occupy the greater part of human life, we may apprehend, that it holds, much more than is commonly suspected, in many cases of business, where the end to be gained, and not the occupation, is supposed to have the principal value. The miser himself, we are told, can sometimes consider the care of his wealth as a pastime, and has challenged his heir, to have more pleasure in spending, than he in amassing his fortune. With this degree of indifference to what may be the conduct of others; with this confinement of his care to what he has chosen as his own province, more especially if he has conquered in himself the passions of jealousy and envy, which tear the covetous mind; why may not the man whose object is money, be understood to lead a life of amusement and pleasure, not only more entire than that of the spendthrift, but even as much as the virtuoso, the scholar, the man of taste, or any of that class of persons who have found out a method of passing their leisure without offence, and to whom the acquisitions made, or the works produced, in their several ways, perhaps, are as useless as the bag to the miser, or the counter to those who play from mere dissipation at any game of skill or of chance? We are soon tired of diversions that do not approach to the nature of business; that is, that do not engage some passion, or give an exercise proportioned to our talents, and our faculties. The chace and the gaming table have each their dangers and difficulties, to excite and employ the mind. All games of contention animate our emulation, and give a species of party zeal. The mathematician is only to be amused with intricate problems, the lawyer and the casuist with cases that try their subtilty, and occupy their judgment. The desire of active engagements, like every other natural appetite, may be carried to excess; and men may debauch in amusements, as well as in the use of wine, or other intoxicating liquors. At first, a trifling stake, and the occupation of a moderate passion, may have served to amuse the gamester; but when the drug becomes familiar, it fails to produce its effect: The play is made deep, and the interest increased, to awaken his attention; he is carried on by degrees, and in the end comes to seek for amusement, and to find it only in those passions of anxiety, hope, and despair, which are roused by the hazard into which he has thrown the whole of his fortunes. If men can thus turn their amusements into a scene more serious and interesting than that of business itself, it will be difficult to assign a reason why business, and many of the occupations of human life, independent of any distant consequences of future events, may not be chosen as an amusement, and adopted on account of the pastime they bring. This is, perhaps, the foundation, on which, without the aid of reflection, the contented and the cheerful have rested the gaiety of their tempers. It is, perhaps, the most solid basis of fortitude which any reflection can lay; and happiness itself is secured by making a certain species of conduct our amusements; and, by considering life in the general estimate of its value, as well on every particular occasion, as a mere scene for the exercise of the mind, and the engagements of the heart. "I will try and attempt every thing," says Brutus; "I will never cease to recal my country from this state of servility. If the event be favourable, it will prove matter of joy to us all; if not, yet I, notwithstanding, shall rejoice." Why rejoice in a disappointment? Why not be dejected, when his country was overwhelmed? Because sorrow, perhaps, and dejection, can do no good. Nay, but they must be endured when they come. And whence should they come to me? might the Roman say: I have followed my mind, and can follow it still. Events may have changed the situation in which I am destined to act; but can they hinder my acting the part of a man? Shew me a situation in which a man can neither act nor die, and I will own he is wretched. Whoever has the force of mind steadily to view human life under this aspect, has only to choose well his occupations, in order to command that state of enjoyment, and freedom of soul, which probably constitute the peculiar felicity to which his active nature is destined. The dispositions of men, and consequently their occupations, are commonly divided into two principal classes; the selfish, and the social. The first are indulged in solitude; and if they carry a reference to mankind, it is that of emulation, competition, and enmity. The second incline us to live with our fellow creatures, and to do them good; they tend to unite the members of society together; they terminate in a mutual participation of their cares and enjoyments, and render the presence of men an occasion of joy. Under this class may be enumerated the passions of the sexes, the affections of parents and children, general humanity, or singular attachments; above all, that habit of the soul by which we consider ourselves as but a part of some beloved community, and as but individual members of some society, whose general welfare is to us the supreme object of zeal, and the great rule of our conduct. This affection is a principle of candour, which knows no partial distinctions, and is confined to no bounds; it may extend its effects beyond our personal acquaintance; it may, in the mind, and in thought, at least, make us feel a relation to the universe, and to the whole creation of God. "Shall any one," says Antoninus, "love the city of Cecrops, and you not love the city of God?" No emotion of the heart is indifferent. It is either an act of vivacity and joy, or a feeling of sadness; a transport of pleasure, or a convulsion of anguish; and the exercises of our different dispositions, as well as their gratifications, are likely to prove matter of the greatest importance to our happiness or misery. The individual is charged with the care of his animal preservation. He may exist in solitude, and, far removed from society, perform many functions of sense, imagination, and reason. He is even rewarded for the proper discharge of those functions; and all the natural exercises which relate to himself, as well as to his fellow creatures, not only occupy without distressing him, but, in many instances, are attended with positive pleasures, and fill up the hours of life with agreeable occupation. There is a degree, however, in which we suppose that the care of ourselves becomes a source of painful anxiety and cruel passions; in which it degenerates into avarice, vanity, or pride; and in which, by fostering habits of jealousy and envy, of fear and malice, it becomes as destructive of our own enjoyments, as it is hostile to the welfare of mankind. This evil, however, is not to be charged upon any excess in the care of ourselves, but upon a mere mistake in the choice of our objects. We look abroad for a happiness which is to be found only in the qualities of the heart: we think ourselves dependent on accidents; and are therefore kept in suspense and solicitude. We think ourselves dependent on the will of other men; and are therefore servile and timid: we think our felicity is placed in subjects for which our fellow creatures are rivals and competitors; and in pursuit of happiness, we engage in those scenes of emulation, envy, hatred, animosity, and revenge, that lead to the highest pitch of distress. We act, in short, as if to preserve ourselves were to retain our weakness, and perpetuate our sufferings. We charge the ills of a distempered imagination, and a corrupt heart, to the account of our fellow creatures, to whom we refer the pangs of our disappointment or malice; and while we foster our misery, are surprised that the care of ourselves is attended with no better effects. But he who remembers that he is by nature a rational being, and a member of society; that to preserve himself, is to preserve his reason, and to preserve the best feelings of his heart; will encounter with none of these inconveniencies; and in the care of himself, will find subjects only of satisfaction and triumph. The division of our appetites into benevolent and selfish, has probably, in some degree, helped to mislead our apprehension on the subject of personal enjoyment and private good; and our zeal to prove that virtue is disinterested, has not greatly promoted its cause. The gratification of a selfish desire, it is thought, brings advantage or pleasure to ourselves; that of benevolence terminates in the pleasure or advantage of others: whereas, in reality, the gratification of every desire is a personal enjoyment, and its value being proportioned to the particular quality or force of the sentiment, it may happen that the same person may reap a greater advantage from the good fortune he has procured to another, than from that he has obtained for himself. While the gratifications of benevolence, therefore, are as much our own as those of any other desire whatever, the mere exercises of this disposition are, on many accounts, to be considered as the first and the principal constituent of human happiness. Every act of kindness, or of care, in the parent to his child; every emotion of the heart, in friendship or in love, in public zeal, or general humanity, are so many acts of enjoyment and satisfaction. Pity itself, and compassion, even grief and melancholy, when grafted on some tender affection, partake of the nature of the stock; and if they are not positive pleasures, are at least pains of a peculiar nature, which we do not even wish to exchange but for a very real enjoyment, obtained in relieving our object. Even extremes in this class of our dispositions, as they are the reverse of hatred, envy, and malice, so they are never attended with those excruciating anxieties, jealousies, and fears, which tear the interested mind; or if, in reality, any ill passion arise from a pretended attachment to our fellow creatures, that attachment may be safely condemned, as not genuine. If we be distrustful or jealous, our pretended affection is probably no more than a desire of attention and personal consideration; a motive which frequently inclines us to be connected with our fellow creatures; but to which we are as frequently willing to sacrifice their happiness. We consider them as the tools of our vanity, pleasure, or interest; not as the parties on whom we may bestow the effects of our good will, and our love. A mind devoted to this class of its affections, being occupied with an object that may engage it habitually, is not reduced to court the amusements or pleasures with which persons of an ill temper are obliged to repair their disgusts: and temperance becomes an easy task when gratifications of sense are supplanted by those of the heart. Courage, too, is most easily assumed, or is rather inseparable from that ardour of the mind, in society, friendship, or in public action, which makes us forget subjects of personal anxiety or fear, and attend chiefly to the object of our zeal or affection, not to the trifling inconveniences, dangers, or hardships, which we ourselves may encounter in striving to maintain it. It should seem, therefore, to be the happiness of man, to make his social dispositions the ruling spring of his occupations; to state himself as the member of a community, for whose general good his heart may glow with an ardent zeal, to the suppression of those personal cares which are the foundation of painful anxieties, fear, jealousy, and envy; or, as Mr. Pope expresses the same sentiment. "Man, like the generous vine, supported lives; The strength he gains, is from th' embrace he gives." [Footnote: The same maxim will apply throughout every part of nature. _To love, is to enjoy pleasure: to hate, is to be in pain._] We commonly apprehend, that it is our duty to do kindnesses, and our happiness to receive them; but if, in reality, courage, and a heart devoted to the good of mankind, are the constituents of human felicity, the kindness which is done infers a happiness in the person from whom it proceeds, not in him on whom it is bestowed; and the greatest good which men possessed of fortitude and generosity can procure to their fellow creatures, is a participation of this happy character. If this be the good of the individual, it is likewise that of mankind; and virtue no longer imposes a task by which we are obliged to bestow upon others that good from which we ourselves refrain; but supposes, in the highest degree, as possessed by ourselves, that state of felicity which we are required to promote in the world. "You will confer the greatest benefit on your city," says Epictetus, "not by raising the roofs, but by exalting the souls of your fellow citizens; for it is better that great souls should live in small habitations, than that abject slaves should burrow in great houses." [Footnote: Mrs. Carter's translation of the works of Epictetus.] To the benevolent, the satisfaction of others is a ground of enjoyment; and existence itself, in a world that is governed by the wisdom of God, is a blessing. The mind, freed from cares that lead to pusillanimity and meanness, becomes calm, active, fearless, and bold; capable of every enterprise, and vigorous in the exercise of every talent, by which the nature of man is adorned. On this foundation was raised the admirable character, which, during a certain period of their story, distinguished the celebrated nations of antiquity, and rendered familiar and ordinary in their manners, examples of magnanimity, which, under governments less favourable to the public affections, rarely occur; or which, without being much practised, or even understood, are made subjects of admiration and swelling panegyric. "Thus," says Xenophon, "died Thrasybulus; who indeed appears to have been a good man." What valuable praise, and how significant to those who know the story of this admirable person! The members of those illustrious states, from the habit of considering themselves as part of a community, or at least as deeply involved with some order of men in the state, were regardless of personal considerations: they had a perpetual view to objects which excite a great ardour in the soul; which led them to act perpetually in the view of their fellow citizens, and to practise those arts of deliberation, elocution, policy, and war, on which the fortunes of nations, or of men, in their collective body, depend. To the force of mind collected in this career, and to the improvements of wit which were made in pursuing it, these nations owed, not only their magnanimity, and the superiority of their political and military conduct, but even the arts of poetry and literature, which among them were only the inferior appendages of a genius otherwise excited, cultivated, and refined. To the ancient Greek, or the Roman, the individual was nothing, and the public every thing. To the modern, in too many nations of Europe, the individual is every thing, and the public nothing. The state is merely a combination of departments, in which consideration, wealth, eminence, or power, are offered as the reward of service. It was the nature of modern government, even in its first institution, to bestow on every individual a fixed station and dignity, which he was to maintain for himself. Our ancestors, in rude ages, during the recess of wars from abroad, fought for their personal claims at home, and by their competitions, and the balance of their powers, maintained a kind of political freedom in the state, while private parties were subject to continual wrongs and oppressions. Their posterity, in times more polished, have repressed the civil disorders in which the activity of earlier ages chiefly consisted; but they employ the calm they have gained, not in fostering a zeal for those laws, and that constitution of government, to which they owe their protection, but in practising apart, and each for himself, the several arts of personal advancement, or profit, which their political establishments may enable them to pursue with success. Commerce, which may be supposed to comprehend every lucrative art, is accordingly considered as the great object of nations, and the principal study of mankind. So much are we accustomed to consider personal fortune as the sole object of care, that even under popular establishments, and in states where different orders of men are summoned to partake in the government of their country, and where the liberties they enjoy cannot be long preserved, without vigilance and activity on the part of the subject; still they, who, in the vulgar phrase, have not their fortunes to make, are supposed to be at a loss for occupation, and betake themselves to solitary pastimes, or cultivate what they are pleased to call a taste for gardening, building, drawing, or music. With this aid, they endeavour to fill up the blanks of a listless life, and avoid the necessity of curing their languors by any positive service to their country, or to mankind. The weak or the malicious are well employed in any thing that is innocent, and are fortunate in finding any occupation which prevents the effects of a temper that would prey upon themselves, or upon their fellow creatures. But they who are blessed with a happy disposition, with capacity and vigour, incur a real debauchery, by having any amusement that occupies an improper share of their time; and are really cheated of their happiness, in being made to believe, that any occupation or pastime is better fitted to amuse themselves, than that which at the same time produces some real good to their fellow creatures. This sort of entertainment, indeed, cannot be the choice of the mercenary, the envious, or the malicious. Its value is known only to persons of an opposite temper; and to their experience alone, we appeal. Guided by mere disposition, and without the aid of reflection, in business, in friendship, and in public life, they often acquit themselves well; and borne with satisfaction on the tide of their emotions and sentiments, enjoy the present hour, without recollection of the past, or hopes of the future. It is in speculation, not in practice, they are made to discover, that virtue is a task of severity and self denial. SECTION IX. OF NATIONAL FELICITY. Man is, by nature, the member of a community; and when considered in this capacity, the individual appears to be no longer made for himself. He must forego his happiness and his freedom, where these interfere with the good of society. He is only part of a whole; and the praise we think due to his virtue, is but a branch of that more general commendation we bestow on the member of a body, on the part of a fabric, or engine, for being well fitted to occupy its place, and to produce its effect. If this follow from the relation of a part to its whole, and if the public good be the principal object with individuals, it is likewise true, that the happiness of individuals is the great end of civil society; for, in what sense can a public enjoy any good, if its members, considered apart, be unhappy? The interests of society, however, and of its members, are easily reconciled. If the individual owe every degree of consideration to the public, he receives, in paying that very consideration, the greatest happiness of which his nature is capable; and the greatest blessing the public can bestow on its members, is to keep them attached to itself. That is the most happy state, which is most beloved by its subjects; and they are the most happy men, whose hearts are engaged to a community, in which they find every object of generosity and zeal, and a scope to the exercise of every talent, and of every virtuous disposition. After we have thus found general maxims, the greater part of our trouble remains, their just application to particular cases. Nations are different in respect to their extent, numbers of people, and wealth; in respect to the arts they practise, and the accommodations they have procured. These circumstances may not only affect the manners of men; they even, in our esteem, come into competition with the article of manners itself; are supposed to constitute a national felicity, independent of virtue; and give a title, upon which we indulge our own vanity, and that of other nations, as we do that of private men, on the score of their fortunes and honours. But if this way of measuring happiness, when applied to private men, be ruinous and false, it is so no less when applied to nations. Wealth, commerce, extent of territory, and the knowledge of arts, are, when properly employed, the means of preservation, and the foundations of power. If they fail in part, the nation is weakened; if they were entirely withheld, the race would perish: Their tendency is to maintain numbers of men, but not to constitute happiness. They will accordingly maintain the wretched as well as the happy. They answer one purpose, but are not therefore sufficient for all; and are of little significance, when only employed to maintain a timid, dejected, and servile people. Great and powerful states are able to overcome and subdue the weak; polished and commercial nations have more wealth, and practise a greater variety of arts, than the rude: but the happiness of men, in all cases alike, consists in the blessings of a candid, an active, and strenuous mind. And if we consider the state of society merely as that into which mankind are led by their propensities, as a state to be valued from its effect in preserving the species, in ripening their talents, and exciting their virtues, we need not enlarge our communities, in order to enjoy these advantages. We frequently obtain them in the most remarkable degree, where nations remain independent, and are of a small extent. To increase the numbers of mankind, may be admitted as a great and important object; but to extend the limits of any particular state, is not, perhaps, the way to obtain it: while we desire that our fellow creatures should multiply, it does not follow, that the whole should, if possible, be united under one head. We are apt to admire the empire of the Romans, as a model of national greatness and splendour; but the greatness we admire, in this case, was ruinous to the virtue and the happiness of mankind; it was found to be inconsistent with all the advantages which that conquering people had formerly enjoyed in the articles of government and manners. The emulation of nations proceeds from their division. A cluster of states, like a company of men, find the exercise of their reason, and the test of their virtues, in the affairs they transact, upon a foot of equality, and of separate interest. The measures taken for safety, including great part of the national policy, are relative in every state to what is apprehended from abroad. Athens was necessary to Sparta in the exercise of her virtue, as steel is to flint in the production of fire; and if the cities of Greece had been united under one head, we should never have heard of Epaminondas or Thrasybulus, of Lycurgus or Solon. When we reason in behalf of our species, therefore, although we may lament the abuses which sometimes arise from independence, and opposition of interest; yet, whilst any degrees of virtue remain with mankind, we cannot wish to crowd, under one establishment, numbers of men who may serve to constitute several; or to commit affairs to the conduct of one senate, one legislative or executive power, which, upon a distinct and separate footing, might furnish an exercise of ability, and a theatre of glory to many. This may be a subject upon which no determinate rule can be given; but the admiration of boundless dominion is a ruinous error; and in no instance, perhaps, is the real interest of mankind more entirely mistaken. The measure of enlargement to be wished for in any particular state, is often to be taken from the condition of its neighbours. Where a number of states are contiguous, they should be near an equality, in order that they may be mutually objects of respect and consideration, and in order that they may possess that independence in which the political life of a nation consists. When the kingdoms of Spain were united, when the great fiefs in France were annexed to the crown, it was no longer expedient for the nations of Great Britain to continue disjoined. The small republics of Greece, indeed, by their subdivisions, and the balance of their power, found almost in every village the object of nations. Every little district was a nursery of excellent men, and what is now the wretched corner of a great empire, was the field on which mankind have reaped their principal honours. But in modern Europe, republics of a similar extent are like shrubs, under the shade of a taller wood, choaked by the neighbourhood of more powerful states. In their case, a certain disproportion of force frustrates, in a great measure, the advantage of separation. They are like the trader in Poland, who is the more despicable, and the less secure, that he is neither master nor slave. Independent communities, in the mean time, however weak, are averse to a coalition, not only where it comes with an air of imposition, or unequal treaty, but even where it implies no more than the admission of new members to an equal share of consideration with the old. The citizen has no interest in the annexation of kingdoms; he must find his importance diminished, as the state is enlarged. But ambitious men, under the enlargement of territory, find a more plentiful harvest of power, and of wealth, while government itself is an easier task. Hence the ruinous progress of empire; and hence free nations, under the show of acquiring dominion, suffer themselves, in the end, to be yoked with the slaves they had conquered. Our desire to augment the force of a nation is the only pretext for enlarging its territory; but this measure, when pursued to extremes, seldom fails to frustrate itself. Notwithstanding the advantage of numbers, and superior resources in war, the strength of a nation is derived from the character, not from the wealth, nor from the multitude of its people. If the treasure of a state can hire numbers of men, erect ramparts, and furnish the implements of war; the possessions of the fearful are easily seized; a timorous multitude falls into rout of itself; ramparts may be scaled where they are not defended by valour; and arms are of consequence only in the hands of the brave. The band to which Agesilaus pointed as the wall of his city, made a defence for their country more permanent, and more effectual, than the rock and the cement with which other cities were fortified. We should owe little to that statesman, who were to contrive a defence that might supersede the external uses of virtue. It is wisely ordered for man, as a rational being, that the employment of reason is necessary to his preservation; it is fortunate for him, in the pursuit of distinction, that his personal consideration depends on his character; and it is fortunate for nations, that, in order to be powerful and safe, they must strive to maintain the courage, and cultivate the virtues, of their people. By the use of such means, they at once gain their external ends, and are happy. Peace and unanimity are commonly considered as the principal foundations of public felicity; yet the rivalship of separate communities, and the agitations of a free people, are the principles of political life, and the school of men. How shall we reconcile these jarring and opposite tenets? It is, perhaps, not necessary to reconcile them. The pacific may do what they can to allay the animosities, and to reconcile the opinions, of men; and it will be happy if they can succeed in repressing their crimes, and in calming the worst of their passions. Nothing, in the mean time, but corruption or slavery can suppress the debates that subsist among men of integrity, who bear an equal part in the administration of state. A perfect agreement in matters of opinion is not to be obtained in the most select company; and if it were, what would become of society? "The Spartan legislator," says Plutarch, "appears to have sown the seeds of variance and dissention among his countrymen: he meant that good citizens should be led to dispute; he considered emulation as the brand by which their virtues were kindled; and seemed to apprehend, that a complaisance, by which men submit their opinions without examination, is a principal source of corruption." Forms of government are supposed to decide of the happiness or misery of mankind. But forms of government must be varied, in order to suit the extent, the way of subsistence, the character, and the manners of different nations. In some cases, the multitude may be suffered to govern themselves; in others they must be severely restrained. The inhabitants of a village, in some primitive age, may have been safely entrusted to the conduct of reason, and to the suggestion of their innocent views; but the tenants of Newgate can scarcely be trusted, with chains locked to their bodies, and bars of iron fixed to their legs. How is it possible, therefore, to find any single form of government that would suit mankind in every condition? We proceed, however, in the following section, to point out the distinctions, and to explain the language which occurs in this place, on the head of different models for subordination and government. SECTION X. THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. It is a common observation, that mankind were originally equal. They have indeed by nature equal right to their preservation, and to the use of their talents; but they are fitted for different stations; and when they are classed by a rule taken from this circumstance, they suffer no injustice on the side of their natural rights. It is obvious, that some mode of subordination is as necessary to men as society itself; and this, not only to attain the ends of government, but to comply with an order established by nature. Prior to any political institution whatever, men are qualified by a great diversity of talents, by a different tone of the soul, and ardour of the passions, to act a variety of parts. Bring them together, each will find his place. They censure or applaud in a body; they consult and deliberate in more select parties; they take or give an ascendant as individuals; and numbers are by this means fitted to act in company, and to preserve their communities, before any formal distribution of office is made. We are formed to act in this manner; and if we have any doubts with relation to the rights of government in general, we owe our perplexity more to the subtilties of the speculative, than to any uncertainty in the feelings of the heart. Involved in the resolutions of our company, we move with the crowd before we have determined the rule by which its will is collected. We follow a leader, before we have settled the ground of his pretensions, or adjusted the form of his election; and it is not till after mankind have committed many errors in the capacities of magistrate and subject, that they think of making government itself a subject of rules. If, therefore, in considering the variety of forms under which societies subsist, the casuist is pleased to inquire, what title one man, or any number of men, have to control his actions? he may be answered, none at all, provided that his actions have no effect to the prejudice of his fellow creatures; but if they have, the rights of defence, and the obligation to repress the commission of wrongs, belong to collective bodies, as well as to individuals. Many rude nations, having no formal tribunals for the judgment of crimes, assemble, when alarmed by any flagrant offence, and take their measures with the criminal as they would with an enemy. But will this consideration, which confirms the title to sovereignty, where it is exercised by the society in its collective capacity, or by those to whom the powers of the whole are committed, likewise support the claim to dominion, wherever it is casually lodged, or even where it is only maintained by force? This question may be sufficiently answered, by observing, that a right to do justice, and to do good, is competent to every individual, or order of men; and that the exercise of this right has no limits but in the defect of power. Whoever, therefore, has power, may employ it to this extent; and no previous convention is required to justify his conduct. But a right to do wrong, or to commit injustice, is an abuse of language, and a contradiction in terms. It is no more competent to the collective body of a people, than it is to any single usurper. When we admit such a prerogative in the case of any sovereign, we can only mean to express the extent of his power, and the force with which he is enabled to execute his pleasure. Such a prerogative is assumed by the leader of banditti at the head of his gang, or by a despotic prince at the head of his troops. When the sword is presented by either, the traveller or the inhabitant may submit from a sense of necessity or fear; but he lies under no obligation from a motive of duty or justice. The multiplicity of forms, in the mean time, which different societies offer to our view, is almost infinite. The classes into which they distribute their members, the manner in which they establish the legislative and executive powers, the imperceptible circumstances by which they are led to have different customs, and to confer on their governors unequal measures of power and authority, give rise to perpetual distinctions between constitutions the most nearly resembling each other, and give to human affairs a variety in detail, which, in its full extent, no understanding can comprehend, and no memory retain. In order to have a general and comprehensive knowledge of the whole, we must be determined on this, as on every other subject, to overlook many particulars and singularities, distinguishing different governments; to fix our attention on certain points, in which many agree; and thereby establish a few general heads, under which the subject may be distinctly considered. When we have marked the characteristics which form the general points of coincidence; when we have pursued them to their consequences in the several modes of legislation, execution, and judicature, in the establishments which relate to police, commerce, religion, or domestic life; we have made an acquisition of knowledge, which, though it does not supersede the necessity of experience, may serve to direct our inquiries, and, in the midst of affairs, give an order and a method for the arrangement of particulars that occur to our observation. When I recollect what the President Montesquieu has written, I am at a loss to tell, why I should treat of human affairs; but I too am instigated by my reflections, and my sentiments; and I may utter them more to the comprehension of ordinary capacities, because I am more on the level of ordinary men. If it be necessary to pave the way for what follows on the general history of nations, by giving some account of the heads under which various forms of government may be conveniently ranged, the reader should perhaps be referred to what has been already delivered on the subject by this profound politician and amiable moralist. In his writings will be found, not only the original of what I am now, for the sake of order, to copy from him, but likewise probably the source of many observations, which, in different places, I may, under the belief of invention, have repeated, without quoting their author. The ancient philosophers treated of government commonly under three heads; the Democratic, the Aristocratic, and the Despotic. Their attention was chiefly occupied with the varieties of republican government, and they paid little regard to a very important distinction, which Mr. Montesquieu has made, between despotism and monarchy. He too has considered government as reducible to three general forms; and, "to understand the nature of each," he observes, "it is sufficient to recal ideas which are familiar with men of the least reflection, who admit three definitions, or rather three facts: that a republic is a state in which the people in a collective body, or a part of the people, possess the sovereign power; that monarchy is that in which one man governs, according to fixed and determinate laws; and a despotism is that in which one man, without law, or rule of administration, by the mere impulse of will or caprice, decides, and carries every thing before him." Republics admit of a very material distinction, which is pointed out in the general definition; that between democracy and aristocracy. In the first, supreme power remains in the hands of the collective body. Every office of magistracy, at the nomination of this sovereign, is open to every citizen; who, in the discharge of his duty, becomes the minister of the people, and accountable to them for every object of his trust. In the second, the sovereignty is lodged in a particular class, or order of men; who, being once named, continue for life; or, by the hereditary distinctions of birth and fortune, are advanced to a station of permanent superiority. From this order, and by their nomination, all the offices of magistracy are filled; and in the different assemblies which they constitute, whatever relates to the legislation, the execution, or jurisdiction, is finally determined. Mr. Montesquieu has pointed out the sentiments or maxims from which men must be supposed to act under these different governments. In democracy, they must love equality; they must respect the rights of their fellow citizens; they must unite by the common ties of affection to the state. In forming personal pretensions, they must be satisfied with that degree of consideration they can procure by their abilities fairly measured with those of an opponent; they must labour for the public without hope of profit; they must reject every attempt to create a personal dependence. Candour, force, and elevation of mind, in short, are the props of democracy; and virtue is the principle of conduct required to its preservation. How beautiful a pre-eminence on the side of popular government! And how ardently should mankind wish for the form, if it tended to establish the principle, or were, in every instance, a sure indication of its presence! But perhaps we must have possessed the principle, in order, with any hopes of advantage, to receive the form; and where the first is entirely extinguished, the other may be fraught with evil, if any additional evil deserves to be shunned where men are already unhappy. At Constantinople or Algiers, it is a miserable spectacle when men pretend to act on a foot of equality: they only mean to shake off the restraints of government, and to seize as much as they can of that spoil, which, in ordinary times, is engrossed by the master they serve. It is one advantage of democracy, that the principal ground of distinction being personal qualities, men are classed according to their abilities, and to the merit of their actions. Though all have equal pretensions to power, yet the state is actually governed by a few. The majority of the people, even in their capacity of sovereign, only pretend to employ their senses; to feel, when pressed by national inconveniencies, or threatened by public dangers; and with the ardour which is apt to arise in crowded assemblies, to urge the pursuits in which they are engaged, or to repel the attacks with which they are menaced. The most perfect equality of rights can never exclude the ascendant of superior minds, nor the assemblies of a collective body govern without the direction of select councils. On this as account, popular government may be confounded with aristocracy. But this alone does not constitute the character of aristocratical government. Here the members of the state are divided, at least, into two classes; of which one is destined to command, the other to obey. No merits or defects can raise or sink a person from one class to the other. The only effect of personal character is, to procure to the individual a suitable degree of consideration with his own order, not to vary his rank. In one situation he is taught to assume, in another to yield the pre-eminence. He occupies the station of patron or client, and is either the sovereign or the subject of his country. The whole citizens may unite in executing the plans of state, but never in deliberating on its measures, or enacting its laws. What belongs to the whole people under democracy, is here confined to a part. Members of the superior order, are among themselves, possibly, classed according to their abilities, but retain a perpetual ascendant over those of inferior station. They are at once the servants and the masters of the state, and pay, with their personal attendance and with their blood, for the civil or military honours they enjoy. To maintain for himself, and to admit in his fellow citizen, a perfect equality of privilege and station, is no longer the leading maxim of the member of such a community. The rights of men are modified by their condition. One order claims more than it is willing to yield; the other must be ready to yield what it does not assume to itself; and it is with good reason that Mr. Montesquieu gives to the principle of such governments the name of _moderation_, not of _virtue_. The elevation of one class is a moderated arrogance; the submission of the other a limited deference. The first must be careful, by concealing the invidious part of their distinction, to palliate what is grievous in the public arrangement, and by their education, their cultivated manners, and improved talents, to appear qualified for the stations they occupy. The other, must be taught to yield, from respect and personal attachment, what could not otherwise be extorted by force. When this moderation fails on either side, the constitution totters. A populace enraged to mutiny, may claim the right of equality to which they are admitted in democratical states; or a nobility bent on dominion, may choose among themselves, or find already pointed out to them, a sovereign, who, by advantages of fortune, popularity, or abilities, is ready to seize for his own family, that envied power which has already carried his order beyond the limits of moderation, and infected particular men with a boundless ambition. Monarchies have accordingly been found with the recent marks of aristocracy. There, however, the monarch is only the first among the nobles; he must be satisfied with a limited power; his subjects are ranged into classes; he finds on every quarter a pretence to privilege that circumscribes his authority; and he finds a force sufficient to confine his administration within certain bounds of equity and determinate laws. Under such governments, however, the love of equality is preposterous, and moderation itself is unnecessary. The object of every rank is precedency, and every order may display its advantages to their full extent. The sovereign himself owes great part of his authority to the sounding titles and the dazzling equipage which he exhibits in public. The subordinate ranks lay claim to importance by a like exhibition, and for that purpose carry in every instant the ensigns of their birth, or the ornaments of their fortune. What else could mark out to the individual the relation in which he stands to his fellow subjects, or distinguish the numberless ranks that fill up the interval between the state of the sovereign and that of the peasant? Or what else could, in states of a great extent, preserve any appearance of order, among members disunited by ambition and interest, and destined to form a community, without the sense of any common concern? Monarchies are generally found where the state is enlarged, in population and in territory, beyond the numbers and dimensions that are consistent with republican government. Together with these circumstances, great inequalities arise in the distribution of property; and the desire of pre-eminence becomes the predominant passion. Every rank would exercise its prerogative, and the sovereign is perpetually tempted to enlarge his own; if subjects, who despair of precedence, plead for equality, he is willing to favour their claims, and to aid them in reducing pretensions, with which he himself is, on many occasions, obliged to contend. In the event of such a policy, many invidious distinctions and grievances peculiar to monarchical government, may, in appearance, be removed; but the state of equality to which the subjects approach is that of slaves, equally dependent on the will of a master, not that of freemen, in a condition to maintain their own. The principle of monarchy, according to Montesquieu, is honour. Men may possess good qualities, elevation of mind, and fortitude; but the sense of equality, that will hear no encroachment on the personal rights of the meanest citizen; the indignant spirit, that will not court a protection, nor accept as a favour what is due as a right; the public affection, which is founded on the neglect of personal considerations, are neither consistent with the preservation of the constitution, nor agreeable to the habits acquired in any station assigned to its members. Every condition is possessed of peculiar dignity, and points out a propriety of conduct, which men of station are obliged to maintain. In the commerce of superiors and inferiors, it is the object of ambition, and of vanity, to refine on the advantages of rank; while, to facilitate the intercourse of polite society, it is the aim of good breeding to disguise, or reject them. Though the objects of consideration are rather the dignities of station than personal qualities; though friendship cannot be formed by mere inclination, nor alliances by the mere choice of the heart; yet men so united, and even without changing their order, are highly susceptible of moral excellence, or liable to many different degrees of corruption. They may act a vigorous part as members of the state, an amiable one in the commerce of private society; or they may yield up their dignity as citizens, even while they raise their arrogance and presumption as private parties. In monarchy, all orders of men derive their honours from the crown; but they continue to hold them as a right, and they exercise a subordinate power in the state, founded on the permanent rank they enjoy, and on the attachment of those whom they are appointed to lead and protect. Though they do not force themselves into national councils and public assemblies, and though the name of senate is unknown, yet the sentiments they adopt must have weight with the sovereign; and every individual, in his separate capacity, in some measure, deliberates for his country. In whatever does not derogate from his rank, he has an arm ready to serve the community; in whatever alarms his sense of honour, he has aversions and dislikes, which amount to a negative on the will of his prince. Entangled together by the reciprocal ties of dependence and protection, though not combined by the sense of a common interest, the subjects of monarchy, like those of republics, find themselves occupied as the members of an active society, and engaged to treat with their fellow creatures on a liberal footing. If those principles of honour which save the individual from servility in his own person, or from becoming an engine of oppression in the hands of another, should fail; if they should give way to the maxims of commerce, to the refinements of a supposed philosophy, or to the misplaced ardours of a republican spirit; if they are betrayed by the cowardice of subjects, or subdued by the ambition of princes; what must become of the nations of Europe? Despotism is monarchy corrupted, in which a court and a prince in appearance remain, but in which every subordinate rank is destroyed; in which the subject is told, that he has no rights; that he cannot possess any property, nor fill any station independent of the momentary will of his prince. These doctrines are founded on the maxims of conquest; they must be inculcated with the whip and the sword; and are best received under the terror of chains and imprisonment. Fear, therefore, is the principle which qualifies the subject to occupy his station; and the sovereign, who holds out the ensigns of terror so freely to others, has abundant reason to give this passion a principal place with himself. That tenure which he has devised for the rights of others, is soon applied to his own; and from his eager desire to secure, or to extend his power, he finds it become, like the fortunes of his people, a creature of mere imagination and unsettled caprice. Whilst we thus, with so much accuracy, can assign the ideal limits that may distinguish constitutions of government, we find them, in reality, both in respect to the principle and the form, variously blended together. In what society are not men classed by external distinctions, as well as personal qualities? In what state are they not actuated by a variety of principles; justice, honour, moderation, and fear? It is the purpose of science not to disguise this confusion in its object, but, in the multiplicity and combination of particulars, to find the principal points which deserve our attention; and which, being well understood, save us from the embarrassment which the varieties of singular cases might otherwise create. In the same degree in which governments require men to act from principles of virtue, of honour, or of fear, they are more or less fully comprised under the heads of republic, monarchy, or despotism, and the general theory is more or less applicable to their particular case. Forms of government, in fact, mutually approach or recede by many, and often insensible gradations. Democracy, by admitting certain inequalities of rank, approaches to aristocracy. In popular, as well as aristocratical governments, particular men; by their personal authority, and sometimes by the credit of their family, have maintained a species of monarchical power. The monarch is limited in different degrees: even the despotic prince is only that monarch whose subjects claim the fewest privileges, or who is himself best prepared to subdue them by force. All these varieties are but steps in the history of mankind, and, mark the fleeting and transient situations through which they have passed; while supported by virtue, or depressed by vice. Perfect democracy and despotism appear to be the opposite extremes at which constitutions of government farthest recede from each other. Under the first, a perfect virtue is required; under the second, a total corruption is supposed: yet, in point of mere form, there being nothing fixed in the ranks and distinctions of men beyond the casual and temporary possession of power, societies easily pass from a condition in which every individual has an equal title to reign, into one in which they are equally destined to serve. The same qualities in both, courage, popularity, address, and military conduct, raise the ambitious to eminence. With these qualities, the citizen or the slave easily passes from the ranks to the command of an army, from an obscure to an illustrious station. In either, a single person may rule with unlimited sway; and in both, the populace may break down every barrier of order, and restraint of law. If we suppose that the equality established among the subjects of a despotic state has inspired its members with confidence, intrepidity, and the love of justice; the despotic prince, having ceased to be an object of fear, must sink among the crowd. If, on the contrary, the personal equality which is enjoyed by the members of a democratical state, should be valued merely as an equal pretension to the objects of avarice and ambition, the monarch may start up anew, and be supported by those who mean to share in his profits. When the rapacious and mercenary assemble in parties, it is of no consequence under what leader they inlist, whether Cæsar or Pompey; the hopes of rapine or pay are the only motives from which they become attached to either. In the disorder of corrupted societies, the scene has been frequently changed from democracy to despotism, and from the last too, in its turn, to the first. From amidst the democracy of corrupt men, and from a scene of lawless confusion, the tyrant ascends a throne with arms reeking in blood. But his abuses, or his weaknesses, in the station he has gained, in their turn awaken and give way to the spirit of mutiny and revenge. The cries of murder and desolation, which in the ordinary course of military government terrified the subject in his private retreat, sound through the vaults, and pierce the grates and iron doors of the seraglio. Democracy seems to revive in a scene of wild disorder and tumult; but both the extremes are but the transient fits of paroxysm or languor in a distempered state. If men be anywhere arrived at this measure of depravity, there appears no immediate hope of redress. Neither the ascendancy of the multitude, nor that of the tyrant, will secure the administration of justice; neither the license of mere tumult, nor the calm of dejection and servitude, will teach the citizen that he was born for candour and affection to his fellow creatures. And if the speculative would find that habitual state of war which they are sometimes pleased to honour with the name of _the state of nature_, they will find it in the contest that subsists between the despotical prince and his subjects, not in the first approaches of a rude and simple tribe to the condition and the domestic arrangement of nations. AN ESSAY ON THE HISTORY OF CIVIL SOCIETY. * * * * * PART SECOND. OF THE HISTORY OF RUDE NATIONS. * * * * * SECTION I. OF THE INFORMATIONS ON THIS SUBJECT WHICH ARE DERIVED FROM ANTIQUITY. The history of mankind is confined within a limited period, and from every quarter brings an intimation that human affairs have had a beginning. Nations, distinguished by the possession of arts, and the felicity of their political establishments, have been derived from a feeble original, and still preserve in their story the indications of a slow and gradual progress, by which this distinction was gained. The antiquities of every people, however diversified, and however disguised, contain the same information on this point. In sacred history, we find the parents of the species, as yet a single pair, sent forth to inherit the earth, and to force a subsistence for themselves amidst the briars and thorns which were made to abound on its surface. Their race, which was again reduced to a few, had to struggle with the dangers that await a weak and infant species; and after many ages elapsed, the most respectable nations took their rise from one or a few families that had pastured their flocks in the desert. The Grecians derive their own origin from unsettled tribes, whose frequent migrations are a proof of the rude and infant state of their communities; and whose warlike exploits, so much celebrated in story, only exhibit the struggles with which they disputed the possession of a country they afterwards, by their talent for fable, by their arts, and their policy, rendered so famous in the history of mankind. Italy must have been divided into many rude and feeble cantons, when a band of robbers, as we are taught to consider them, found a secure settlement on the banks of the Tiber, and when a people, yet composed only of one sex, sustained the character of a nation. Rome, for many ages, saw, from her walls, on every side, the territory of her enemies, and found as little to check or to stifle the weakness of her infant power, as she did afterwards to restrain the progress of her extended empire. Like a Tartar or a Scythian horde, which had pitched on a settlement, this nascent community was equal, if not superior, to every tribe in its neighbourhood; and the oak which has covered the field with its shade, was once a feeble plant in the nursery, and not to be distinguished from the weeds by which its early growth was restrained. The Gauls and the Germans are come to our knowledge with the marks of a similar condition; and the inhabitants of Britain, at the time of the first Roman invasions; resembled, in many things, the present natives of North America: they were ignorant of agriculture; they painted their bodies; and used for clothing the skins of beasts. Such, therefore, appears to have been the commencement of history with all nations, and in such circumstances are we to look for the original character of mankind. The inquiry refers to a distant period, and every conclusion should build on the facts which are preserved for our use. Our method, notwithstanding, too frequently, is to rest the whole on conjecture; to impute every advantage of our nature to those arts which we ourselves possess; and to imagine, that a mere negation of all our virtues is a sufficient description of man in his original state. We are ourselves the supposed standards of politeness and civilization; and where our own features do not appear, we apprehend, that there is nothing which deserves to be known. But it is probable that here, as in many other cases, we are ill qualified, from our supposed knowledge of causes, to prognosticate effects, or to determine what must have been the properties and operations, even of our own nature, in the absence of those circumstances in which we have seen it engaged. Who would, from mere conjecture, suppose, that the naked savage would be a coxcomb and a gamester? that he would be proud or vain, without the distinctions of title and fortune? and that his principal care would be to adorn his person, and to find an amusement? Even if it could be supposed that he would thus share in our vices, and, in the midst of his forest, vie with the follies which are practised in the town; yet no one would be so bold as to affirm, that he would likewise, in any instance, excel us in talents and virtues; that he would have a penetration, a force of imagination and elocution, an ardour of mind, an affection and courage, which the arts, the discipline, and the policy of few nations would be able to improve. Yet these particulars are a part in the description which is delivered by those who have had opportunities of seeing mankind in their rudest condition; and beyond the reach of such testimony, we can neither safely take, nor pretend to give, information on the subject. If conjectures and opinions formed at a distance, have not sufficient authority in the history of mankind, the domestic antiquities of every nation must, for this very reason, be received with caution. They are, for the most part, the mere conjectures or the fictions of subsequent ages; and even where at first they contained some resemblance of truth, they still vary with the imagination of those by whom they are transmitted, and in every generation receive a different form. They are made to bear the stamp of the times through which they have passed in the form of tradition, not of the ages to which their pretended descriptions relate. The information they bring, is not like the light reflected from a mirror, which delineates the object from which it originally came; but, like rays that come broken and dispersed from an opaque or unpolished surface, only give the colours and features of the body from which they were last reflected. When traditionary fables are rehearsed by the vulgar, they bear the marks of a national character; and though mixed with absurdities, often raise the imagination, and move the heart: when made the materials of poetry, and adorned by the skill and the eloquence of an ardent and superior mind, they instruct the understanding, as well as engage the passions. It is only in the management of mere antiquaries, or stript of the ornaments which the laws of history forbid them to wear, that they become even unfit to amuse the fancy, or to serve any purpose whatever. It were absurd to quote the fable of the Iliad or the Odyssey, the legends of Hercules, Theseus, or Oedipus, as authorities in matter of fact relating to the history of mankind; but they may, with great justice, be cited to ascertain what were the conceptions and sentiments, of the age in which they were composed, or to characterize the genius of that people, with whose imaginations they were blended, and by whom they were fondly rehearsed and admired. In this manner fiction may be admitted to vouch for the genius of nations, while history has nothing to offer that is entitled to credit. The Greek fable accordingly conveying a character of its authors, throws light on some ages of which no other record remains. The superiority of this people is indeed in no circumstance more evident than in the strain of their fictions, and in the story of those fabulous heroes, poets, and sages, whose tales, being invented or embellished by an imagination already filled with the subject for which the hero was celebrated, served to inflame that ardent enthusiasm, with which so many different republics afterwards proceeded in the pursuit of every national object. It was no doubt of great advantage to those nations, that their system of fable was original, and being already received in popular traditions, served to diffuse those improvements of reason, imagination, and sentiment, which were afterwards, by men of the finest talents, made on the fable itself, or conveyed in its moral. The passions of the poet pervaded the minds of the people, and the conceptions of men of genius, being communicated to the vulgar, became the incentives of a national spirit. A mythology borrowed from abroad, a literature founded on references to a strange country, and fraught with foreign allusions, are much more confined in their use: they speak to the learned alone; and though intended to inform the understanding, and to mend the heart, may, by being confined to a few, have an opposite effect. They may foster conceit on the ruins of common sense, and render what was, at least innocently, sung by the Athenian mariner at his oar, or rehearsed by the shepherd in attending his flock, an occasion of vice, or the foundation of pedantry and scholastic pride. Our very learning, perhaps, where its influence extends, serves, in some measure, to depress our national spirit. Our literature being derived from nations of a different race, who flourished at a time when our ancestors were in a state of barbarity, and consequently, when they were despised by those who had attained to the literary arts, has given rise to a humbling opinion, that we ourselves are the offspring of mean and contemptible nations, with whom the human imagination and sentiment had no effect, till the genius was in a manner inspired by examples, and directed by lessons that were brought from abroad. The Romans, from whom our accounts are chiefly derived, have admitted, in the rudeness of their own ancestors, a system of virtues, which all simple nations perhaps equally possess; a contempt of riches; love of their country, patience of hardship, danger, and fatigue. They have, notwithstanding, vilified our ancestors for having resembled their own; at least, in the defect of their arts, and in the neglect of conveniencies which those arts are employed to procure. It is from the Greek and the Roman historians, however, that we have not only the most authentic and instructive, but even the most engaging representations of the tribes from whom we descend. Those sublime and intelligent writers understood human nature, and could collect its features, and exhibit its characters, in every situation. They were ill succeeded in this task by the early historians of modern Europe; who, generally bred to the profession of monks, and confined to the monastic life, applied themselves to record what they were pleased to denominate facts, while they suffered the productions of genius to perish, and were unable, either by the matter they selected, or the style of their compositions, to give any representation of the active spirit of mankind in any condition. With them, a narration was supposed to constitute history, whilst it did not convey any knowledge of men; and history itself was allowed to be complete, while, amidst the events and the succession of princes that are recorded in the order of time, we are left to look in vain for those characteristics of the understanding and the heart, which alone, in every human transaction, render the story either engaging or useful. We therefore willingly quit the history of our early ancestors, where Cæsar and Tacitus have dropped them; and perhaps till we come within the reach of what is connected with present affairs, and makes a part in the system on which we now proceed, have little reason to expect any subject to interest or inform the mind. We have no reason, however, from hence to conclude, that the matter itself was more barren, or the scene of human affairs less interesting, in modern Europe, than it has been on every stage where mankind were engaged to exhibit the movements of the heart, the efforts of generosity, magnanimity, and courage. The trial of what those ages contained, is not even fairly made, when men of genius and distinguished abilities, with the accomplishments of a learned and a polished age, collect the materials they have found, and, with the greatest success, connect the story of illiterate ages with transactions of a later date. It is difficult even for them, under the names which are applied in a new state of society, to convey a just apprehension of what mankind were, in situations so different, and in times so remote from their own. In deriving from historians of this character the instruction which their writings are fit to bestow, we are frequently to forget the general terms that are employed, in order to collect the real manners of any age from the minute circumstances that are occasionally presented. The titles of _Royal_ and _Noble_ were applicable to the families of Tarquin, Collatinus, and Cincinnatus; but Lucretia was employed in domestic industry with her maids, and Cincinnatus followed the plough. The dignities, and even the offices, of civil society, were known many ages ago, in Europe, by their present appellations; but we find in the history of England, that a king and his court being assembled to solemnize a festival, an outlaw, who had subsisted by robbery, came to share in the feast. The king himself arose to force this unworthy guest from the company; a scuffle ensued between them; and the king was killed. [Footnote: Hume's History, chap. 8. p. 278] A chancellor and prime minister, whose magnificence and sumptuous furniture were the subject of admiration and envy, had his apartments covered every day in winter with clean straw and hay, and in summer with green rushes or boughs. Even the sovereign himself, in those ages, was provided with forage for his bed. [Footnote: Hume's History, chap. 8. p.73] These picturesque features, and characteristical strokes of the times, recal the imagination from the supposed distinction of monarch and subject, to that state of rough familiarity in which our ancestors lived, and under which they acted, with a view to objects, and on principles of conduct, which we seldom comprehend, when we are employed to record their transactions, or to study their characters. Thucydides, notwithstanding the prejudice of his country against the name of _Barbarian_, understood that it was in the customs of barbarous nations he was to study the more ancient manners of Greece. The Romans might have found an image of their own ancestors, in the representations they have given of ours; and if ever an Arab clan shall become a civilized nation, or any American tribe escape the poison which is administered by our traders of Europe, it may be from the relations of the present times, and the descriptions which are now given by travellers, that such a people, in after ages, may best collect the accounts of their origin. It is in their present condition that we are to behold, as in a mirror, the features of our own progenitors; and from thence we are to draw our conclusions with respect to the influence of situations, in which we have reason to believe that our fathers were placed. What should distinguish a German or a Briton, in the habits of his mind or his body, in his manners or apprehensions, from an American, who, like him, with his bow and his dart, is left to traverse the forest; and in a like severe or variable climate, is obliged to subsist by the chase? If, in advanced years, we would form a just notion of our progress from the cradle, we must have recourse to the nursery; and from the example of those who are still in the period of life we mean to describe, take our representation of past manners, that cannot, in any other way, be recalled. SECTION II. OF RUDE NATIONS PRIOR TO THE ESTABLISHMENT OF PROPERTY. From one to the other extremity of America; from Kamtschatka westward to the river Oby; and from the Northern Sea, over that length of country, to the confines of China, of India, and Persia; from the Caspian to the Red Sea, with little exception, and from thence over the inland continent and the western shores of Africa; we every where meet with nations on whom we bestow the appellations of barbarous or savage. That extensive tract of the earth, containing so great a variety of situation, climate, and soil, should, in the manners of its inhabitants, exhibit all the diversities which arise from the unequal influence of the sun, joined to a different nourishment and manner of life. Every question, however, on this subject, is premature, till we have first endeavoured to form some general conception of our species in its rude state, and have learned to distinguish mere ignorance from dulness, and the want of arts from the want of capacity. Of the nations who dwell in those, or any other of the less cultivated parts of the earth, some entrust their subsistence chiefly to hunting, fishing, or the natural produce of the soil. They have little attention to property, and scarcely any beginnings of subordination or government. Others, having possessed themselves of herds, and depending for their provision on pasture, know what it is to be poor and rich. They know the relations of patron and client, of servant and master, and by the measures of fortune determine their station. This distinction must create a material difference of character, and may furnish two separate heads, under which to consider the history of mankind in their rudest state; that of the savage, who is not yet acquainted with property; and that of the barbarian, to whom it is, although not ascertained by laws, a principal object of care and desire. It must appear very evident, that property is a matter of progress. It requires, among other particulars, which are the effects of time, some method of defining possession. The very desire of it proceeds from experience; and the industry by which it is gained, or improved, requires such a habit of acting with a view to distant objects, as may overcome the present disposition either to sloth or to enjoyment. This habit is slowly acquired, and is in reality a principal distinction of nations in the advanced state of mechanic and commercial arts. In a tribe which subsists by hunting and fishing, the arms, the utensils, and the fur, which the individual carries, are to him the only subjects of property. The food of to-morrow is yet wild in the forest, or hid in the lake; it cannot be appropriated before it is caught; and even then, being the purchase of numbers, who fish or hunt in a body, it accrues to the community, and is applied to immediate use, or becomes an accession to the stores of the public. Where savage nations, as in most parts of America, mix with the practice of hunting some species of rude agriculture, they still follow, with respect to the soil and the fruits of the earth, the analogy of their principal object. As the men hunt, so the women labour together; and, after they have shared the toils of the seed time, they enjoy the fruits of the harvest in common. The field in which they have planted, like the district over which they are accustomed to hunt, is claimed as a property by the nation, but is not parcelled in lots to its members. They go forth in parties to prepare the ground, to plant and to reap. The harvest is gathered into the public granary, and from thence, at stated times, is divided into shares for the maintenance of separate families. [Footnote: History of the Caribbees.] Even the returns of the market, when they trade with foreigners, are brought home to the stock of the nation. [Footnote: Charlevoix. This account of Rude Nations, in most points of importance, so far as it relates to the original North Americans, is not founded so much on the testimony of this or the other writers cited, as it is on the concurring representations of living witnesses, who, in the course of trade, of war, and of treaties, have had ample occasion to observe the manners of that people. It is necessary however, for the sake of those who may not have conversed with the living witnesses, to refer to printed authorities.] As the fur and the bow pertain to the individual, the cabin and its utensils are appropriated to the family; and as the domestic cares are committed to the women, so the property of the household seems likewise to be vested in them. The children are considered as pertaining to the mother, with little regard to descent on the father's side. The males, before they are married, remain in the cabin in which they are born; but after they have formed a new connection with the other sex, they change their habitation, and become an accession to the family in which they have found their wives. The hunter and the warrior are numbered by the matron as a part of her treasure; they are reserved for perils and trying occasions; and in the recess of public councils, in the intervals of hunting or war, are maintained by the cares of the women, and loiter about in mere amusement or sloth. [Footnote: Lafitau.] While one sex continue to value themselves chiefly on their courage, their talent for policy, and their warlike achievements, this species of property which is bestowed on the other, is, in reality, a mark of subjection; not, as some writers allege, of their having acquired an ascendant. [Footnote: Ibid.] It is the care and trouble of a subject with which the warrior does not choose to be embarrassed. It is a servitude, and a continual toil, where no honours are won; and they whose province it is, are in fact the slaves and the helots of their country. If in this destination of the sexes, while the men continue to indulge themselves in the contempt of sordid and mercenary arts, the cruel establishment of slavery is for some ages deferred; if, in this tender, though unequal alliance, the affections of the heart prevent the severities practised on slaves; we have in the custom itself, as perhaps in many other instances, reason to prefer the first suggestions of nature, to many of her after refinements. If mankind, in any instance, continue the article of property on the footing we have now represented, we may easily credit what is further reported by travellers; that they admit of no distinctions of rank or condition; and that they have in fact no degree of subordination different from the distribution of function, which follows the differences of age, talents, and dispositions. Personal qualities give an ascendant in the midst of occasions which require their exertion; but in times of relaxation, leave no vestige of power or prerogative. A warrior who has led the youth of his nation to the slaughter of their enemies, or who has been foremost in the chase, returns upon a level with the rest of his tribe; and when the only business is to sleep, or to feed, can enjoy no pre-eminence; for he sleeps and he feeds no better than they. Where no profit attends dominion, one party is as much averse to the trouble of perpetual command, as the other is to the mortification of perpetual submission. "I love victory, I love great actions," says Montesquieu, in the character of Sylla; "but have no relish for the languid detail of pacific government, or the pageantry of high station." He has touched perhaps what is a prevailing sentiment in the simplest state of society, when the weakness of motive suggested by interest, and the ignorance of any elevation not founded on merit, supplies the place of disdain. The character of the mind, however, in this state, is not founded on ignorance alone. Men are conscious of their equality, and are tenacious of its rights. Even when they follow a leader to the field, they cannot brook the pretensions to a formal command: they listen to no orders; and they come under no military engagements, but those of mutual fidelity, and equal ardour in the enterprise. [Footnote: Charlevoix.] This description, we may believe, is unequally applicable to different nations, who have made unequal advances in the establishment of property. Among the Caribbees, and the other natives of the warmer climates in America, the dignity of chieftain is hereditary, or elective, and continued for life: the unequal distribution of property creates a visible subordination. [Footnote: Wafer's Account of the Isthmus of Darien.] But among the Iroquois, and other nations of the temperate zone, the titles of _magistrate_ and _subject_, of _noble_ and _mean_, are as little known as those of _rich_ and _poor_. The old men, without being invested with any coercive power, employ their natural authority in advising or in prompting the resolutions of their tribe: the military leader is pointed out by the superiority of his manhood and valour; the statesman is distinguished only by the attention with which his counsel is heard; the warrior by the confidence with which the youth of his nation follow him to the field; and if their concerts must be supposed to constitute a species of political government, it is one to which no language of ours can be applied. Power is no more than the natural ascendancy of the mind; the discharge of office no more than a natural exercise of the personal character; and while the community acts with an appearance of order, there is no sense of disparity in the breast of any of its members. [Footnote: Colden's History of the Five Nations.] In these happy, though informal proceedings, where age alone gives a place in the council; where youth, ardour, and valour in the field, give a title to the station of leader; where the whole community is assembled on any alarming occasion, we may venture to say, that we have found the origin of the senate, the executive power, and the assembly of the people; institutions for which ancient legislators have been so much renowned. The senate among the Greeks, as well as the Latins, appears, from the etymology of its name, to have been originally composed of elderly men. The military leader at Rome, in a manner not unlike to that of the American warrior, proclaimed his levies, and the citizen prepared for the field, in consequence of a voluntary engagement. The suggestions of nature, which directed the policy of nations in the wilds of America, were followed before on the banks of the Eurotas and the Tyber; and Lycurgus and Romulus found the model of their institutions, where the members of every rude nation find the earliest mode of uniting their talents, and combining their forces. Among the North American nations, every individual is independent; but he is engaged by his affections and his habits in the cares of a family. Families, like so many separate tribes, are subject to no inspection or government from abroad; whatever passes at home, even bloodshed and murder, are only supposed to concern themselves. They are, in the mean time, the parts of a canton; the women assemble to plant their maize; the old men go to council; the huntsman and the warrior joins the youth of his village in the field. Many such cantons assemble to constitute a national council, or to execute a national enterprise. When the Europeans made their first settlements in America, six such nations had formed a league, had their amphyctiones or states general, and, by the firmness of their union and the ability of their councils, had obtained an ascendant from the mouth of St. Lawrence to that of the Mississippi. [Footnote: Lafitau, Charlevoix, Colden, &c.] They appeared to understand the objects of the confederacy, as well as those of the separate nation; they studied a balance of power; the statesman of one country watched the designs and proceedings of another; and occasionally threw the weight of his tribe into a different scale. They had their alliances and their treaties, which, like the nations of Europe, they maintained, or they broke, upon reasons of state; and remained at peace from a sense of necessity or expediency, and went to war upon any emergence of provocation or jealousy. Thus, without any settled form of government, or any bond of union, but what resembled more the suggestion of instinct, than the invention of reason, they conducted themselves with the concert and the force of nations. Foreigners, without being able to discover who is the magistrate, or in what manner the senate is composed, always find a council with whom they may treat, or a band of warriors with whom they may fight. Without police or compulsory laws, their domestic society is conducted with order, and the absence of vicious dispositions, is a better security than any public establishment for the suppression of crimes. Disorders, however, sometimes occur, especially in times of debauch, when the immoderate use of intoxicating liquors, to which they are extremely addicted, suspends the ordinary caution of their demeanour, and, inflaming their violent passions, engages them in quarrels and bloodshed. When a person is slain, his murderer is seldom called to an immediate account; but he has a quarrel to sustain with the family and the friends; or, if a stranger, with the countrymen of the deceased; sometimes even with his own nation at home, if the injury committed be of a kind to alarm the society. The nation, the canton, or the family endeavour, by presents, to atone for the offence of any of their members; and, by pacifying the parties aggrieved, endeavour to prevent what alarms the community more than the first disorder, the subsequent effects of revenge and animosity. [Footnote: Lafitau.] The shedding of blood, however, if the guilty person remain where he has committed the crime, seldom escapes unpunished: the friend of the deceased knows how to disguise, though not to suppress, his resentment; and even after many years have elapsed, is sure to repay the injury that was done to his kindred or his house. These considerations render them cautious and circumspect, put them on their guard against their passions, and give to their ordinary deportment an air of phlegm and composure superior to what is possessed among polished nations. They are, in the mean time, affectionate in their carriage, and in their conversations, pay a mutual attention and regard, says Charlevoix, more tender and more engaging, than what we profess in the ceremonial of polished societies. This writer has observed, that the nations among whom he travelled in North America, never mentioned acts of generosity or kindness under the notion of duty. They acted from affection, as they acted from appetite, without regard to its consequences. When they had done a kindness, they had gratified a desire; the business was finished, and it passed from the memory. When they received a favour, it might, or it might not, prove the occasion of friendship: if it did not, the parties appeared to have no apprehensions of gratitude, as a duty by which the one was bound to make a return, or the other entitled to reproach the person who had failed in his part. The spirit with which they give or receive presents, is the same which, Tacitus observed among the ancient Germans; they delight in them, but do not consider them as matter of obligation. [Footnote: Muneribus gaudent, sed nec data imputant, nec acceptis obligantur.] Such gifts are of little consequence, except when employed as the seal of a bargain or treaty. It was their favourite maxim, that no man is naturally indebted to another; that he is not, therefore, obliged to bear with any imposition, or unequal treatment. [Footnote: Charlevoix] Thus, in a principle apparently sullen and inhospitable, they have discovered the foundation of justice, and observe its rules, with a steadiness and candour which no cultivation has been found to improve. The freedom which they give in what relates to the supposed duties of kindness and friendship, serves only to engage the heart more entirely, where it is once possessed with affection. We love to choose our object without any restraint, and we consider kindness itself as a task, when the duties of friendship are exacted by rule. We therefore, by our demand for attentions, rather corrupt than improve the system of morality; and by our exactions of gratitude, and out frequent proposals to enforce its observance, we only shew that we have mistaken its nature; we only give symptoms of that growing sensibility to interest, from which we measure the expediency of friendship and generosity itself; and by which we would introduce the spirit of traffic into the commerce of affection. In consequence of this proceeding, we are often obliged to decline a favour, with the same spirit that we throw off a servile engagement, or reject a bribe. To the unrefined savage every favour is welcome, and every present received without reserve or reflection. The love of equality, and the love of justice, were originally the same; and although, by the constitution of different societies, unequal privileges are bestowed on their members; and although justice itself requires a proper regard to be paid to such privileges; yet he who has forgotten that men were originally equal, easily degenerates into a slave; or, in the capacity of a master, is not to be trusted with the rights of his fellow creatures. This happy principle gives to the mind its sense of independence, renders it indifferent to the favours which are in the power of other men, checks it in the commission of injuries, and leaves the heart open to the affections of generosity and kindness. It gives to the untutored American that sentiment of candour, and of regard to the welfare of others, which, in some degree, softens the arrogant pride of his carriage, and in times of confidence and peace, without the assistance of government or law, renders the approach and commerce of strangers secure. Among this people, the foundations of honour are eminent abilities, and great fortitude; not the distinctions of equipage and fortune: the talents in esteem are such as their situation leads them to employ, the exact knowledge of a country, and stratagem in war. On these qualifications, a captain among the Caribbees underwent an examination. When a new leader was to be chosen, a scout was sent forth to traverse the forests which led to the enemy's country, and upon his return, the candidate was desired to find the track in which he had travelled. A brook, or a fountain, was named to him on the frontier, and he was desired to find the nearest path to a particular station, and to plant a stake in the place. [Footnote: Lafitau] They can, accordingly, trace a wild beast, or the human foot, over many leagues of a pathless forest, and find their way across a woody and uninhabited continent, by means of refined observations, which escape the traveller who has been accustomed to different aids. They steer in slender canoes, across stormy seas, with a dexterity equal to that of the most experienced pilot. [Footnote: Charlevoix.] They carry a penetrating eye for the thoughts and intentions of those with whom they have to deal; and when they mean to deceive, they cover themselves with arts which the most subtile can seldom elude. They harangue in their public councils with a nervous and a figurative elocution; and conduct themselves in the management of their treaties with a perfect discernment of their national interests. Thus being able masters in the detail of their own affairs, and well qualified to acquit themselves on particular occasions, they study no science, and go in pursuit of no general principles. They even seem incapable of attending to any distant consequences, beyond those they have experienced in hunting or war. They entrust the provision of every season to itself; consume the fruits of the earth in summer; and, in winter, are driven in quest of their prey, through woods, and over deserts covered with snow. They do not form in one hour those maxims which may prevent the errors of the next; and they fail in those apprehensions, which, in the intervals of passion, produce ingenuous shame, compassion, remorse, or a command of appetite. They are seldom made to repent of any violence; nor is a person, indeed, thought accountable in his sober mood, for what he did in the heat of a passion, or in a time of debauch. Their superstitions are groveling and mean; and did this happen among rude nations alone, we could not sufficiently admire the effects of politeness; but it is a subject on which few nations are entitled to censure their neighbours. When we have considered the superstitions of one people, we find little variety in those of another. They are but a repetition of similar weaknesses and absurdities, derived from a common source, a perplexed apprehension of invisible agents, that are supposed to guide all precarious events to which human foresight cannot extend. In what depends on the known or the regular course of nature, the mind trusts to itself; but in strange and uncommon situations, it is the dupe of its own perplexity, and, instead of relying on its prudence or courage, has recourse to divination, and a variety of observances, that, for being irrational, are always the more revered. Superstition being founded in doubts and anxiety, is fostered by ignorance and mystery. Its maxims, in the mean time, are not always confounded with those of common life; nor does its weakness or folly always prevent the watchfulness, penetration, and courage, men are accustomed to employ in the management of common affairs. A Roman consulting futurity by the pecking of birds, or a king of Sparta inspecting the entrails of a beast, Mithridates consulting his women on the interpretation of his dreams, are examples sufficient to prove, that a childish imbecility on this subject is consistent with the greatest military and political conduct. Confidence in the effect of charms is not peculiar to any age or nation. Few, even of the accomplished Greeks and Romans, were able to shake off this weakness. In their case, it was not removed by the highest measures of civilization. It has yielded only to the light of true religion, or to the study of nature, by which we are led to substitute a wise providence operating by physical causes, in the place of phantoms that terrify or amuse the ignorant. The principal point of honour among the rude nations of America, as indeed in every instance where mankind are not greatly corrupted, is fortitude. Yet their way of maintaining this point of honour, is very different from that of the nations of Europe. Their ordinary method of making war is by ambuscade; and they strive, by overreaching an enemy, to commit the greatest slaughter, or to make the greatest number of prisoners, with the least hazard to themselves. They deem it a folly to expose their own persons in assaulting an enemy, and do not rejoice in victories which are stained with the blood of their own people. They do not value themselves, as in Europe, on defying their enemy upon equal terms. They even boast, that they approach like foxes, or that they fly like birds, not less than they devour like lions. In Europe, to fall in battle is accounted an honour; among the natives of America it is reckoned disgraceful. [Footnote: Charlevoix.] They reserve their fortitude for the trials they abide when attacked by surprise, or when fallen into their enemies' hands; and when they are obliged to maintain their own honour, and that of their own nation, in the midst of torments that require efforts of patience more than of valour. On these occasions, they are far from allowing it to be supposed that they wish to decline the conflict. It is held infamous to avoid it, even by a voluntary death; and the greatest affront which can be offered to a prisoner, is to refuse him the honours of a man, in the manner of his execution. "Withhold," says an old man, in the midst of his torture, "the stabs of your knife; rather let me die by fire, that those dogs, your allies, from beyond the seas, may learn to suffer like men." [Footnote: Colden.] With terms of defiance, the victim, in those solemn trials, commonly excites the animosities of his tormentors, as well as his own; and whilst we suffer for human nature, under the effect of its errors, we must admire its force. The people with whom this practice prevailed, were commonly desirous of repairing their own losses, by adopting prisoners of war into their families; and even, in the last moment, the hand which was raised to torment, frequently gave the sign of adoption, by which the prisoner became the child or the brother of his enemy, and came to share in all the privileges of a citizen. In their treatment of those who suffered, they did not appear to be guided by principles of hatred or revenge; they observed the point of honour in applying as well as in bearing their torments; and, by a strange kind of affection and tenderness, were directed to be most cruel where they intend the highest respect; the coward was put to immediate death by the hands of women; the valiant was supposed to be entitled to all the trials of fortitude that men could invent or employ. "It gave me joy," says an old man to his captive, "that so gallant a youth was allotted to my share; I proposed to have placed you on the couch of my nephew, who was slain by your countrymen; to have transferred all my tenderness to you; and to have solaced my age in your company; but, maimed and mutilated as you now appear, death is better than life; prepare yourself therefore to die like a man." [Footnote: Charlevoix.] It is perhaps with a view to these exhibitions, or rather in admiration of fortitude, the principle from which they proceed, that the Americans are so attentive, in their earliest years, to harden their nerves. [Footnote: _Ib_. This writer says, that he has seen a boy and a girl, having bound their naked arms together, place a burning coal between them, to try who could endure it longest.] The children are taught to vie with each other in bearing the sharpest torments; the youth are admitted into the class of manhood, after violent proofs of their patience; and leaders are put to the test by famine, burning, and suffocation. [Footnote: Lafitau.] It might be apprehended, that among rude nations, where the means of subsistence are procured with so much difficulty, the mind could never raise itself above the consideration of this subject; and that man would, in this condition, give examples of the meanest and most mercenary spirit. The reverse, however, is true. Directed in this particular by the desires of nature, men, in their simplest state, attend to the objects of appetite no further than appetite requires; and their desires of fortune extend no further than the meal which gratifies their hunger: they apprehend no superiority of rank in the possession of wealth, such as might inspire any habitual principle of covetousness, vanity, or ambition: they can apply to no task that engages no immediate passion, and take pleasure in no occupation that affords no dangers to be braved, and no honours to be won. It was not among the ancient Romans alone that commercial arts, or a sordid mind, were held in contempt. A like spirit prevails in every rude and independent society. "I am a warrior, and not a merchant," said an American to the governor of Canada, who proposed to give him goods in exchange for some prisoners he had taken; "your clothes and utensils do not tempt me; but my prisoners are now in your power, and you may seize them: if you do, I must go forth and take more prisoners, or perish in the attempt; and if that chance should befal me, I shall die like a man; but remember, that our nation will charge you as the cause of my death." [Footnote: Charlevoix.] With these apprehensions, they have an elevation, and a stateliness of carriage, which the pride of nobility, where it is most revered by polished nations, seldom bestows. They are attentive to their persons, and employ much time, as well as endure great pain, in the methods they take to adorn their bodies, to give the permanent stains with which they are coloured, or preserve the paint, which they are perpetually repairing, in order to appear with advantage. Their aversion to every sort of employment which they hold to be mean, makes them pass great part of their time in idleness or sleep; and a man who, in pursuit of a wild beast, or to surprise his enemy, will traverse a hundred leagues on snow, will not, to procure his food, submit to any species of ordinary labour. "Strange," says Tacitus, "that the same person should be so much averse to repose, and so much addicted to sloth." [Footnote: Mira diversitas naturae, ut idem homines sic ament intertiam et oderint quietem.] Games of hazard are not the invention of polished ages; men of curiosity have looked for their origin in vain, among the monuments of an obscure antiquity; and it is probable that they belonged to times too remote and too rude even for the conjectures of antiquarians to reach. The very savage brings his furs, his utensils, and his beads, to the hazard table: he finds here the passions and agitations which the applications of a tedious industry could not excite; and while the throw is depending, he tears his hair, and beats his breast, with a rage which the more accomplished gamester has sometimes learned to repress: he often quits the party naked and stripped of all his possessions; or where slavery is in use, stakes his freedom to have one chance more to recover his former loss. [Footnote: Tacitus, Lafitau, Charlevoix.] With all these infirmities, vices, or respectable qualities, belonging to the human species in its rudest state; the love of society, friendship, and public affection, penetration, eloquence, and courage, appear to have been its original properties, not the subsequent effects of device or invention. If mankind are qualified to improve their manners, the materials to be improved were furnished by nature; and the effect of this improvement is not to inspire the sentiments of tenderness and generosity, nor to bestow the principal constituents of a respectable character, but to obviate the casual abuses of passion; and to prevent a mind, which feels the best dispositions in their greatest force, from being at times likewise the sport of brutal appetite, and of ungovernable violence. Were Lycurgus employed anew to find a plan of government for the people we have described, he would find them, in many important particulars, prepared by nature herself to receive his institutions. His equality in matters of property being already established, he would have no faction to apprehend from the opposite interests of the poor and the rich; his senate, his assembly of the people, is constituted; his discipline is in some measure adopted, and the place of his helots is supplied by the task allotted to one of the sexes. With all these advantages, he would still have had a very important lesson for civil society to teach, that by which a few learn to command, and the many are taught to obey: he would have all his precautions to take against the future intrusion of mercenary arts, the admiration of luxury, and the passion for interest: he would still perhaps have a more difficult task than any of the former, in teaching his citizens the command of appetite, and an indifference to pleasure, as well as a contempt of pain; in teaching them to maintain in the field the formality of uniform precautions, and as much to avoid being themselves surprised, as they endeavour to surprise their enemy. For want of these advantages, rude nations in general, though they are patient of hardship and fatigue, though they are addicted to war, and are qualified by their stratagem and valour to throw terror into the armies of a more regular enemy; yet, in the course of a continual struggle, always yield to the superior arts, and the discipline of more civilized nations. Hence the Romans were able to overrun the provinces of Gaul, Germany, and Britain; and hence the Europeans have a growing ascendancy over the nations of Africa and America. On the credit of a superiority which certain nations possess, they think that they have a claim to dominion; and even Caesar appears to have forgotten what were the passions, as well as the rights of mankind, when he complained, that the Britons, after having sent him a submissive message to Gaul, perhaps to prevent his invasion, still pretended to fight for their liberties, and to oppose his descent on their island. [Footnote: Caesar questus, quod quum ultro in continentem legatis missis pacem a se petissent, bellum sine causa intulissent. _Lib_. 4.] There is not, perhaps, in the whole description of mankind, a circumstance more remarkable than that mutual contempt and aversion which nations, under a different state of commercial arts, bestow on each other. Addicted to their own pursuits, and considering their own condition as the standard of human felicity, all nations pretend to the preference, and in their practice give sufficient proof of sincerity. Even the savage, still less than the citizen, can be made to quit that manner of life in which he is trained: he loves that freedom of mind which will not be bound to any task, and which owns no superior: however tempted to mix with polished nations, and to better his fortune, the first moment of liberty brings him back to the woods again; he droops and he pines in the streets of the populous city; he wanders dissatisfied over the open and the cultivated field; he seeks the frontier and the forest, where, with a constitution prepared to undergo the hardships and the difficulties of the situation, he enjoys a delicious freedom from care, and a seducing society, where no rules of behaviour are prescribed, but the simple dictates of the heart. SECTION III. OF RUDE NATIONS UNDER THE IMPRESSIONS OF PROPERTY AND INTEREST. It was a proverbial imprecation in use among the hunting nations on the confines of Siberia, that their enemy might be obliged to live like a Tartar, and have the folly of troubling himself with the charge of cattle. [Footnote: Abulgaze's Genealogical History of the Tartars] Nature, it seems, in their apprehension, by storing the woods and desert with game, rendered the task of the herdsman unnecessary, and left to man only the trouble of selecting and of seizing his prey. The indolence of mankind, or rather their aversion to any application in which they are not engaged by immediate instinct and passion, retards the progress of industry and of impropriation. It has been found, however, even while the means of subsistence are left in common, and the stock of the public is yet undivided, that property is apprehended in different subjects; that the fur and the bow belong to the individual; that the cottage, with its furniture, are appropriated to the family. When the parent begins to desire a better provision for his children than is found under the promiscuous management of many co-partners, when he has applied his labour and his skill apart, he aims at an exclusive possession, and seeks the property of the soil, as well as the use of its fruits. When the individual no longer finds among his associates the same inclination to commit every subject to public use, he is seized with concern for his personal fortune; and is alarmed by the cares which every person entertains for himself. He is urged as much by emulation and jealousy, as by the sense of necessity. He suffers considerations of interest to rest on his mind, and when every present appetite is sufficiently gratified, he can act with a view to futurity, or, rather finds an object of vanity in having amassed what is become a subject of competition, and a matter of universal esteem. Upon this motive, where violence is restrained, he can apply his hand to lucrative arts, confine himself to a tedious task, and wait with patience for the distant returns of his labour. Thus mankind acquire industry by many and by slow degrees. They are taught to regard their interest; they are restrained from rapine; and they are secured in the possession of what they fairly obtain; by these methods the habits of the labourer, the mechanic, and the trader, are gradually formed. A hoard, collected from the simple productions of nature, or a herd of cattle, are, in every rude nation, the first species of wealth. The circumstances of the soil, and the climate, determine whether the inhabitant shall apply himself chiefly to agriculture or pasture; whether he shall fix his residence, or be moving continually about with all his possessions. In the west of Europe; in America, from south to north, with a few exceptions; in the torrid zone, and every where within the warmer climates; mankind have generally applied themselves to some species of agriculture, and have been disposed to settlement. In the north and middle region of Asia, they depended entirely on their herds, and were perpetually shifting their ground in search of new pasture. The arts which pertain to settlement have been practised, and variously cultivated, by the inhabitants of Europe. Those which are consistent with perpetual migration, have, from the earliest accounts of history, remained nearly the same, with the Scythian or Tartar. The tent pitched on a moveable carriage, the horse applied to every purpose of labour, and of war, of the dairy, and of the butcher's stall, from the earliest to the latest accounts, have made up the riches and equipage of this wandering people. But in whatever way rude nations subsist, there are certain points in which, under the first impressions of property, they nearly agree. Homer either lived with a people in this stage of their progress, or found himself engaged to exhibit their character. Tacitus had made them the subject of a particular treatise; and if this be an aspect under which mankind deserve to be viewed, it must be confessed, that we have singular advantages in collecting their features. The portrait has already been drawn by the ablest hands, and gives, at one view, in the writings of these celebrated authors, whatever has been scattered in the relations of historians, or whatever we have opportunities to observe in the actual manners of men, who still remain in a similar state. In passing from the condition we have described, to this we have at present in view, mankind still retain many marks of their earliest character. They are still averse to labour, addicted to war, admirers of fortitude, and in the language of Tacitus, more lavish of their blood than of their sweat. [Footnote: Pigrum quin immo et iners videtur, sudore acquirere quod possis sanguine parare.] They are fond of fantastic ornaments in their dress, and endeavour to fill up the listless intervals of a life addicted to violence, with hazardous sports, and with games of chance. Every servile occupation they commit to women or slaves. But we may apprehend, that the individual having now found a separate interest, the bands of society must become less firm, and domestic disorders more frequent. The members of every community, being distinguished among themselves by unequal possessions, the ground of a permanent and palpable subordination is laid. These particulars accordingly take place among mankind, in passing from the savage to what may be called the barbarous state. Members of the same community enter into quarrels of competition or revenge. They unite in following leaders, who are distinguished by their fortunes, and by the lustre of their birth. They join the desire of spoil with the love of glory; and from an opinion, that what is acquired by force justly pertains to the victor, they become hunters of men, and bring every contest to the decision of the sword. Every nation is a band of robbers, who prey without restraint, or remorse, on their neighbours. Cattle, says Achilles, may be seized in every field; and the coasts of the Aegean were accordingly pillaged by the heroes of Homer, for no other reason than because those heroes chose to possess themselves of the brass and iron, the cattle, the slaves, and the women, which were found among the nations around them. A Tartar mounted on his horse, is an animal of prey, who only enquires where cattle are to be found, and how far he must go to possess them. The monk, who had fallen under the displeasure of Mangu Chan, made his peace, by promising, that the pope, and the Christian princes, should make a surrender of all their herds. [Footnote: Rubruquis.] A similar spirit reigned, without exception, in all the barbarous nations of Europe, Asia, and Africa. The antiquities of Greece and Italy, and the fables of every ancient poet, contain examples of its force. It was this spirit that brought our ancestors first into the provinces of the Roman empire; and that afterward, more perhaps than their reverence for the cross, led them to the east, to share with the Tartars in the spoils of the Saracen empire. From the descriptions contained in the last section, we may incline to believe, that mankind, in their simplest state; are on the eve of erecting republics. Their love of equality, their habit of assembling in public councils, and their zeal for the tribe to which they belong, are qualifications that fit them to act under that species of government; and they seem to have but a few steps to make in order to reach its establishment. They have only to define the numbers of which their councils shall consist, and to settle the forms of their meeting: they have only to bestow a permanent authority for repressing disorders, and to enact a few rules in favour of that justice they have already acknowledged, and from inclination so strictly observe. But these steps are far from being so easily made, as they appear on a slight or a transient view. The resolution of choosing, from among their equals, the magistrate to whom they give from thenceforward a right to control their own actions, is far from the thoughts of simple men; and no persuasion, perhaps, could make them adopt this measure, or give them any sense of its use. Even after nations have chosen a military leader, they do not entrust him with any species of civil authority. The captain among the Caribbees did not pretend to decide in domestic disputes; the terms _jurisdiction_ and _government_ were unknown in their tongue. [Footnote: History of the Caribbees.] Before this important change was admitted, men must be accustomed to the distinction of ranks; and before they are sensible that subordination is requisite, they must have arrived at unequal conditions by chance. In desiring property, they only mean to secure their subsistence; but the brave who lead in war, have likewise the largest share in its spoils. The eminent are fond of devising hereditary honours; and the multitude, who admire the parent, are ready to extend their esteem to his offspring. Possessions descend, and the lustre of family grows brighter with age. Hercules, who perhaps was an eminent warrior, became a god with posterity, and his race was set apart for royalty and sovereign power. When the distinctions of fortune and those of birth are conjoined, the chieftain enjoys a pre-eminence, as well at the feast as in the field. His followers take their place in subordinate stations; and instead of considering themselves as parts of a community, they rank as the followers of a chief, and take their designation from the name of their leader. They find a new object of public affection in defending his person, and in supporting his station; they lend of their substance to form his estate; they are guided by his smiles and his frowns; and court as the highest distinction, a share in the feast which their own contributions have furnished. As the former state of mankind seemed to point at democracy, this seems to exhibit the rudiments of monarchical government. But it is yet far short of that establishment which is known in after ages by the name of _monarchy_. The distinction between the leader and the follower, the prince and the subject, is still but imperfectly marked: their pursuits and occupations are not different; their minds are not unequally cultivated; they feed from the same dish; they sleep together on the ground; the children of the king, as well as those of the subject, are employed in tending the flock; and the keeper of the swine was a prime counsellor at the court of Ulysses. The chieftain, sufficiently distinguished from his tribe, to excite their admiration, and to flatter their vanity by a supposed affinity to his noble descent, is the object of their veneration, not of their envy: he is considered as the common bond of connection, not as their common master; is foremost in danger, and has a principal share in their troubles: his glory is placed in the number of his attendants, in his superior magnanimity and valour; that of his followers, in being ready to shed their blood in his service. [Footnote: Tacitus de moribus Germanorum.] The frequent practice of war tends to strengthen the bands of society, and the practice of depredation itself engages men in trials of mutual attachment and courage. What threatened to ruin and overset every good disposition in the human breast, what seemed to banish justice from the societies of men, tends to unite the species in clans and fraternities; formidable indeed, and hostile to one another, but, in the domestic society of each, faithful, disinterested, and generous. Frequent dangers, and the experience of fidelity and valour, awaken the love of those virtues, render them a subject of admiration, and endear their possessors. Actuated by great passions, the love of glory, and the desire of victory; roused by the menaces of an enemy, or stung with revenge; in suspense between the prospects of ruin or conquest, the barbarian spends every moment of relaxation in sloth. He cannot descend to the pursuits of industry or mechanical labour: the beast of prey is a sluggard; the hunter and the warrior sleeps, while women or slaves are made to toil for his bread. But shew him a quarry at a distance, he is bold, impetuous, artful, and rapacious; no bar can withstand his violence, and no fatigue can allay his activity. Even under this description, mankind are generous and hospitable to strangers, as well as kind, affectionate, and gentle, in their domestic society. [Footnote: Jean du Plan Carpen. Rubruquis, Caesar, Tacit.] Friendship and enmity are to them terms of the greatest importance: they mingle not their functions together; they have singled out their enemy, and they have chosen their friend. Even in depredation, the principal object is glory; and spoil is considered as the badge of victory. Nations and tribes are their prey: the solitary traveller, by whom they can acquire only the reputation of generosity, is suffered to pass unhurt, or is treated with splendid munificence. Though distinguished into small cantons under their several chieftains, and for the most part separated by jealousy and animosity; yet when pressed by wars and formidable enemies, they sometimes unite in greater bodies. Like the Greeks in their expedition to Troy, they follow some remarkable leader, and compose a kingdom of many separate tribes. But such coalitions are merely occasional; and even during their continuance, more resemble a republic than monarchy. The inferior chieftains reserve their importance, and intrude, with an air of equality, into the councils of their leader, as the people of their several clans commonly intrude upon them. [Footnote: Kolbe: Description of the Cape of Good Hope.] Upon what motive indeed could we suppose, that men who live together in the greatest familiarity, and amongst whom the distinctions of rank are so obscurely marked, would resign their personal sentiments and inclinations, or pay an implicit submission to a leader who can neither overawe nor corrupt? Military force must be employed to extort, or the hire of the venal to buy, that engagement which the Tartar comes under to his prince, when he promises, "That he will go where he shall be commanded; that he will come when he shall be called; that he will kill whoever is pointed out to him; and, for the future, that he will consider the voice of the King as a sword." [Footnote: Simon de St. Quintin.] These are the terms to which even the stubborn heart of the barbarian has been reduced, in consequence of a despotism he himself had established; and men have in that low state of the commercial arts, in Europe, as well as in Asia, tasted of political slavery. When interest prevails in every breast, the sovereign and his party cannot escape the infection: he employs the force with which he is intrusted to turn his people into a property, and to command their possessions for his profit or his pleasure. If riches are by any people made the standard of good or of evil, let them beware of the powers they intrust to their prince. "With the Suiones," says Tacitus, "riches are in high esteem; and this people are accordingly disarmed, and reduced to slavery." [Footnote: De moribus Germanorum.] It is in this woful condition that mankind, being slavish, interested, insidious, deceitful, and bloody, bear marks, if not of the least curable, surely of the most lamentable sort of corruption. [Footnote: Chardin's Travels.] Among them, war is the mere practice of rapine, to enrich the individual; commerce is turned into a system of snares and impositions; and government by turns oppressive or weak. It were happy for the human race, when guided by interest, and not governed by laws, that being split into nations of a moderate extent, they found in every canton some natural bar to its farther enlargement, and met with occupation enough in maintaining their independence, without being able to extend their dominion. There is not disparity of rank, among men in rude ages, sufficient to give their communities the form of legal monarchy; and in a territory of considerable extent, when united under one head, the warlike and turbulent spirit of its inhabitants seems to require the bridle of despotism and military force. Where any degree of freedom remains, the powers of the prince are, as they were in most of the rude monarchies of Europe, extremely precarious, and depend chiefly on his personal character: where, on the contrary, the powers of the prince are above the control of his people, they are likewise above the restrictions of justice. Rapacity and terror become the predominant motives of conduct, and form the character of the only parties into which mankind are divided; that of the oppressor, and that of the oppressed. This calamity threatened Europe for ages, under the conquest and settlement of its new inhabitants. [Footnote: See Hume's History of the Tudors. There seemed to be nothing wanting to establish a perfect despotism in that house, but a few regiments of troops under the command of the crown.] It has actually taken place in Asia, where similar conquests have been made; and even without the ordinary opiates of effeminacy, or a servile weakness, founded on luxury, it has surprised the Tartar on his wain, in the rear of his herds. Among this people, in the heart of a great continent, bold and enterprising warriors arose; they subdued by surprise, or superior abilities, the contiguous hordes; they gained, in their progress, accessions of numbers and of strength; and, like a torrent increasing as it descends, became too strong for any bar that could be opposed to their passage. The conquering tribe, during a succession of ages, furnished the prince with his guards; and while they themselves were allowed to share in its spoils, were the voluntary tools of oppression. In this manner has despotism and corruption found their way into regions so much renowned for the wild freedom of nature: a power which was the terror of every effeminate province is disarmed, and the nursery of nations is itself gone to decay. [Footnote: See the History of the Huns.] Where rude nations escape this calamity, they require the exercise of foreign wars to maintain domestic peace; when no enemy appears from abroad, they have leisure for private feud, and employ that courage in their dissentions at home, which in time of war is employed in defence of their country. "Among the Gauls," says Caesar, "there are subdivisions, not only in every nation, and in every district and village, but almost in every house, every one must fly to some patron for protection." [Footnote: De Bello Gallico, lib. 6.] In this distribution of parties, not only the feuds of clans, but the quarrels of families, even the differences and competitions of individuals, are decided by force. The sovereign, when unassisted by superstition, endeavours in vain to employ his jurisdiction, or to procure a submission to the decisions of law. By a people who are accustomed to owe their possessions to violence, and who despise fortune itself without the reputation of courage, no umpire is admitted but the sword. Scipio offered his arbitration to terminate the competition of two Spaniards in a disputed succession: "That," said they, "we have already refused to our relations: we do not submit our difference to the judgment of men; and even among the gods, we appeal to Mars alone." [Footnote: Livy.] It is well known that the nations of Europe carried this mode of proceeding to a degree of formality unheard of in other parts of the world: the civil and criminal judge could, in most cases, do no more than appoint the lists, and leave the parties to decide their cause by the combat: they apprehended that the victor had a verdict of the gods in his favour: and when they dropped in any instance this extraordinary form of process, they substituted in its place some other more capricious appeal to chance; in which they likewise thought that the judgment of the gods was declared. The fierce nations of Europe were even fond of the combat, as an exercise and a sport. In the absence of real quarrels, companions challenged each other to a trial of skill, in which one of them frequently perished. When Scipio celebrated the funeral of his father and his uncle, the Spaniards came in pairs to fight, and by a public exhibition of their duels, to increase the solemnity. [Footnote: Livy, lib. 3.] In this wild and lawless state, where the effects of true religion would have been so desirable, and so salutary, superstition frequently disputes the ascendant even with the admiration of valour; and an order of men, like the Druids among the ancient Gauls and Britons, [Footnote: Caesar.] or some pretender to divination, as at the Cape of Good Hope, finds, in the credit which is paid to his sorcery, a way to the possession of power: his magic wand comes in competition with the sword itself; and, in the manner of the Druids, gives the first rudiments of civil government to some, or, like the supposed descendant of the sun among the Natchez, and the Lama among the Tartars, to others, an early taste of despotism and absolute slavery. We are generally at a loss to conceive how mankind can subsist under customs and manners extremely different from our own; and we are apt to exaggerate the misery of barbarous times, by an imagination of what we ourselves should suffer in a situation to which we are not accustomed. But every age hath its consolations, as well as its sufferings. [Footnote: Priscus, when employed on an embassy to Attila, was accosted in Greek, by a person who wore the dress of a Scythian. Having expressed surprise, and being desirous to know the cause of his stay in so wild a company, was told, that this Greek had been a captive, and for some time a slave, till he obtained his liberty in reward of some remarkable action. "I live more happily here," says he, "than ever I did under the Roman government: for they who live with the Scythians, if they can endure the fatigues of war, have nothing else to molest them; they enjoy their possessions undisturbed; whereas you are continually a prey to foreign enemies, or to bad government; you are forbid to carry arms in your own defence; you suffer from the remissness and ill conduct of those who are appointed to protect you; the evils of peace are even worse than those of war; no punishment is ever inflicted on the powerful or the rich; no mercy is shown to the poor; although your institutions were wisely devised, yet, in the management of corrupted men, their effects are pernicious and cruel." _Excerpta de legationibus._] In the interval of occasional outrages, the friendly intercourse of men, even in their rudest condition, is affectionate and happy. [Footnote: D'Arvieux's History of the wild Arabs.] In rude ages the persons and properties of individuals are secure; because each has a friend, as well as an enemy; and if the one is disposed to molest, the other is ready to protect; and the very admiration of valour, which in some instances tends to sanctify violence, inspires likewise certain maxims of generosity and honour, that tend to prevent the commission of wrongs. Men bear with the defects of their policy, as they do with hardships and inconveniencies in their manner of living. The alarms and the fatigues of war become a necessary recreation to those who are accustomed to them, and who have the tone of their passions raised above less animating or trying occasions. Old men, among the courtiers of Attila, wept when they heard of heroic deeds, which they themselves could no longer perform. [Footnote: Ibid.] And among the Celtic nations, when age rendered the warrior unfit for his former toils, it was the custom, in order to abridge the languors of a listless and inactive life, to sue for death at the hands of his friends. [Footnote: Ubi transcendit florentes viribus annos, Impatiens aevi spernit novisse senectam. Silius, lib. i. 225.] With all this ferocity of spirit, the rude nations of the west were subdued by the policy and more regular warfare of the Romans. The point of honour which the barbarians of Europe adopted as individuals, exposed them to a peculiar disadvantage, by rendering them, even in their national wars, averse to assailing their enemy by surprise, or taking the benefit of stratagem; and though separately bold and intrepid, yet, like other rude nations, they were, when assembled in great bodies, addicted to superstition, and subject to panics. They were, from a consciousness of their personal courage and force, sanguine on the eve of battle; they were, beyond the bounds of moderation, elated on success, and dejected in adversity; and being disposed to consider every event as a judgment of the gods, they were never qualified by an uniform application or prudence to make the most of their forces, to repair their misfortunes, or to improve their advantages. Resigned to the government of affection and passion, they were generous and faithful where they had fixed an attachment; implacable, froward, and cruel, where they had conceived a dislike: addicted to debauchery, and the immoderate use of intoxicating liquors, they deliberated on the affairs of state in the heat of their riot; and in the same dangerous moments, conceived the designs of military enterprise, or terminated their domestic dissentions by the dagger or the sword. In their wars they preferred death to captivity. The victorious armies of the Romans, in entering a town by assault, or in forcing an encampment, have found the mother in the act of destroying her children, that they might not be taken; and the dagger of the parent, red with the blood of his family, ready to be plunged at last into his own breast. [Footnote: Liv. lib. xli. 11. Dio Cass.] In all these particulars, we perceive that vigour of spirit, which renders disorder itself respectable, and which qualifies men, if fortunate in their situation, to lay the basis of domestic liberty, as well as to maintain against foreign enemies their national independence and freedom. AN ESSAY ON THE HISTORY OF CIVIL SOCIETY * * * * * PART THIRD. OF THE HISTORY OF POLICY AND ARTS. * * * * * SECTION I. OF THE INFLUENCES OF CLIMATE AND SITUATION What we have hitherto observed on the condition and manners of nations, though chiefly derived from what has passed in the temperate climates, may, in some measure, be applied to the rude state of mankind In every part of the earth: but if we intend to pursue the history of our species in its further attainments, we may soon enter on subjects which will confine our observation to narrower limits. The genius of political wisdom, and of civil arts, appears to have chosen his seats in particular tracts of the earth, and to have selected his favourites in particular races of men. Man, in his animal capacity, is qualified to subsist in every climate. He reigns with the lion and the tyger under the equatorial heats of the sun, or he associates with the bear and the reindeer beyond the polar system. His versatile disposition fits him to assume the habits of either condition, or his talent for arts enables him to supply its defects. The intermediate climates, however, appear most to favour his nature; and in whatever manner we account for the fact, it cannot be doubted, that this animal has always attained to the principal honours of his species within the temperate zone. The arts, which he has on this scene repeatedly invented, the extent of his reason, the fertility of his fancy, and the force of his genius in literature, commerce, policy, and war, sufficiently declare either a distinguished advantage of situation, or a natural superiority of mind. The most remarkable races of men, it is true, have been rude before they were polished. They have in some cases returned to rudeness again; and it is not from the actual possession of arts, science, or policy, that we are to pronounce of their genius. There is a vigour, a reach of capacity, and a sensibility of mind, which may characterize as well the savage as the citizen, the slave as well as the master; and the same powers of the mind may be turned to a variety of purposes. A modern Greek, perhaps, is mischievous, slavish, and cunning, from the same animated temperament that made his ancestor ardent, ingenious, and bold, in the camp, or in the council of his nation. A modern Italian is distinguished by sensibility, quickness, and art, while he employs on trifles the capacity of an ancient Roman; and exhibits now, in the scene of amusement, and in the search of a frivolous applause, that fire, and those passions, with which Gracchus burned in the forum, and shook the assemblies of a severer people. The commercial and lucrative arts have been, in some climates, the principal object of mankind, and have been retained through every disaster; in others, even under all the fluctuations of fortune, they have still been neglected; while in the temperate climates of Europe and Asia, they have had their ages of admiration as well as contempt. In one state of society arts are slighted, from that very ardour of mind, and principle of activity, by which, in another, they are practised with the greatest success. While men are engrossed by their passions, heated and roused by the struggles and dangers of their country; while the trumpet sounds or the alarm of social engagement is rung, and the heart beats high, it were a mark of dulness, or of an abject spirit, to find leisure for the study of ease, or the pursuit of improvements, which have mere convenience or ease for their object. The frequent vicissitudes and reverses of fortune, which nations have experienced on that very ground where the arts have prospered, are probably the effects of a busy, inventive, and versatile spirit, by which men have carried every national change to extremes. They have raised the fabric of despotic empire to its greatest height, where they had best understood the foundations of freedom. They perished in the flames which they themselves had kindled; and they only, perhaps, were capable of displaying, by turns, the greatest improvements, or the lowest corruptions, to which the human mind can be brought. On this scene, mankind have twice, within the compass of history, ascended from rude beginnings to very high degrees of refinement. In every age, whether destined by its temporary disposition to build, or to destroy, they have left the vestiges of an active and vehement spirit. The pavement and the ruins of Rome are buried in dust, shaken from the feet of barbarians, who trod with contempt on the refinements of luxury, and spurned those arts, the use of which it was reserved for the posterity of the same people to discover and to admire. The tents of the wild Arab are even now pitched among the ruins of magnificent cities; and the waste fields which border on Palestine and Syria, are perhaps become again the nursery of infant nations. The chieftain of an Arab tribe, like the founder of Rome, may have already fixed the roots of a plant that is to flourish in some future period, or laid the foundations of a fabric, that will attain to its grandeur in some distant age. Great part of Africa has been always unknown; but the silence of fame, on the subject of its revolutions, is an argument, where no other proof can be found, of weakness in the genius of its people. The torrid zone, every where round the globe, however known to the geographer, has furnished few materials for history; and though in many places supplied with the arts of life in no contemptible degree, has no where matured the more important projects of political wisdom, nor inspired the virtues which are connected with freedom, and which are required in the conduct of civil affairs. It was indeed in the torrid zone that mere arts of mechanism and manufacture were found, among the inhabitants of the new world, to have made the greatest advance: it is in India, and in the regions of this hemisphere, which are visited by the vertical sun, that the arts of manufacture, and the practice of commerce, are of the greatest antiquity, and have survived, with the smallest diminution, the ruins of time, and the revolutions of empire. The sun, it seems, which ripens the pineapple and the tamarind, inspires a degree of mildness that can even assuage the rigours of despotical government: and such is the effect of a gentle and pacific disposition in the natives of the east, that no conquest, no irruption of barbarians, terminates, as they did among the stubborn natives of Europe, by a total destruction of what the love of ease and of pleasure had produced. Transferred, without any great struggle, from one master to another, the natives of India are ready, upon every change, to pursue their industry, to acquiesce in the enjoyment of life, and the hopes of animal pleasure: the wars of conquest are not prolonged to exasperate the parties engaged in them, or to desolate the land for which those parties contend: even the barbarous invader leaves untouched the commercial settlement which has not provoked his rage: though master of opulent cities, he only encamps, in their neighbourhood, and leaves to his heirs the option of entering, by degrees, on the pleasures, the vices, and the pageantries which his acquisitions afford: his successors, still more than himself, are disposed to foster the hive, in proportion as they taste more of its sweets; and they spare the inhabitant, together with his dwelling, as they spare the herd or the stall, of which they are become the proprietors. The modern description of India is a repetition of the ancient, and the present state of China is derived from a distant antiquity, to which there is no parallel in the history of mankind. The succession of monarchs has been changed; but no revolutions have affected the state. The African and the Samoiede are not more uniform in their ignorance and barbarity, than the Chinese and the Indian, if we may credit their own story, have been in the practice of manufacture, and in the observance of a certain police, which was calculated only to regulate their traffic, and to protect them in their application to servile or lucrative arts. If we pass from these general representations of what mankind have done, to the more minute description of the animal himself, as he has occupied different climates, and is diversified in his temper, complexion, and character, we shall find a variety of genius corresponding to the effects of his conduct, and the result of his story. Man, in the perfection of his natural faculties, is quick and delicate in his sensibility; extensive and various in his imaginations and reflections; attentive, penetrating, and subtile, in what relates to his fellow creatures; firm and ardent in his purposes; devoted to friendship or to enmity; jealous of his independence and his honour, which he will not relinquish for safety or for profit: under all his corruptions or improvements, he retains his natural sensibility, if not his force; and his commerce is a blessing or a curse, according to the direction his mind has received. But under the extremes of heat or of cold, the active range of the human soul appears to be limited; and men are of inferior importance, either as friends, or as enemies. In the one extreme, they are dull and slow, moderate in their desires, regular, and pacific in their manner of life; in the other, they are feverish in their passions, weak in their judgments, and addicted by temperament, to animal pleasure. In both the heart is mercenary, and makes important concessions for childish bribes: in both the spirit is prepared for servitude: in the one it is subdued by fear of the future; in the other it is not roused even by its sense of the present. The nations of Europe who would settle or conquer on the south or the north of their own happier climates, find little resistance: they extend their dominion at pleasure, and find no where a limit but in the ocean, and in the satiety of conquest. With few of the pangs and the struggles that precede the reduction of nations, mighty provinces have been successively annexed to the territory of Russia; and its sovereign, who accounts within his domain, entire tribes, with whom perhaps none of his emissaries have ever conversed, despatched a few geometers to extend his empire, and thus to execute a project, in which the Romans were obliged to employ their consuls and their legions. [Footnote: See Russian Atlas.] These modern conquerors complain of rebellion, where they meet with repugnance; and are surprised at being treated as enemies, where they come to impose their tribute. It appears, however, that on the shores of the Eastern sea, they have met with nations [Footnote: The Tchutzi.] who have questioned their title to reign, and who have considered the requisition of a tax as the demand of effects for nothing. Here perhaps may be found the genius of ancient Europe; and under its name of ferocity, the spirit of national independence; [Footnote: Notes to the Genealogical History of the Tartars, vouched by Strahlenberg.] that spirit which disputed its ground in the west with the victorious armies of Rome, and baffled the attempts of the Persian monarchs to comprehend the villages of Greece within the bounds of their extensive dominion. The great and striking diversities which obtain betwixt the inhabitants of climates far removed from each other, are, like the varieties of other animals in different regions, easily observed. The horse and the reindeer are just emblems of the Arab and the Laplander: the native of Arabia, like the animal for whose race his country is famed, whether wild in the woods, or tutored by art, is lively, active, and fervent in the exercise on which he is bent. This race of men, in their rude state, fly to the desert for freedom, and in roving bands alarm the frontiers of empire, and strike a terror in the province to which their moving encampments advance. [Footnote: D'Arvieux.] When roused by the prospect of conquest, or disposed to act on a plan, they spread their dominion, and their system of imagination, over mighty tracts of the earth: when possessed of property and of settlement, they set the example of a lively invention, and superior ingenuity, in the practice of arts, and the study of science. The Laplander, on the contrary, like the associate of his climate, is hardy, indefatigable, and patient of famine; dull rather than tame; serviceable in a particular tract; and incapable of change. Whole nations continue from age to age in the same condition, and, with immoveable phlegm, submit to the appellations of _Dane_, of _Swede_, or of _Muscovite_, according to the land they inhabit; and suffer their country to be severed like a common, by the line on which those nations have traced their limits of empire. It is not in the extremes alone that these varieties of genius may be clearly distinguished. Their continual change keeps pace with the variations of climate with which we suppose them connected: and though certain degrees of capacity, penetration, and ardour, are not the lot of entire nations, nor the vulgar properties of any people; yet their unequal frequency, and unequal measure, in different countries, are sufficiently manifest from the manners, the tone of conversation, the talent for business, amusement, and the literary composition, which predominate in each. It is to the southern nations of Europe, both ancient and modern, that we owe the invention and embellishment of that mythology, and those early traditions, which continue to furnish the materials of fancy, and the field of poetic allusion. To them we owe the romantic tales of chivalry, as well as the subsequent models of a more rational style, by which the heart and the imagination are kindled, and the understanding informed. The fruits of industry have abounded most in the north, and the study of science has here received its most solid improvements: the efforts of imagination and sentiment were most frequent and most successful in the south. While the shores of the Baltic became famed for the studies of Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, and Kepler, those of the Mediterranean were celebrated for giving birth to men of genius in all its variety, and for having abounded with poets and historians, as well as with men of science. On one side, learning took its rise from the heart and the fancy; on the other, it is still confined to the judgment and the memory. A faithful detail of public transactions, with little discernment of their comparative importance; the treaties and the claims of nations, the births and genealogies of princes, are, in the literature of northern nations, amply preserved; while the lights of the understanding, and the feelings of the heart, are suffered to perish. The history of the human character; the interesting memoir, founded no less on the careless proceedings of a private life, than on the formal transactions of a public station; the ingenious pleasantry, the piercing ridicule, the tender, pathetic, or the elevated strain of elocution, have been confined in modern, as well as ancient times, with a few exceptions, to the same latitudes with the fig and the vine. These diversities of natural genius, if real, must have great part of their foundation in the animal frame; and it has been often observed, that the vine flourishes, where, to quicken the ferments of the human blood, its aids are the least required. While spirituous liquors are, among southern nations, from a sense of their ruinous effects, prohibited; or from a love of decency, and the possession of a temperament sufficiently warm, not greatly desired; they carry in the north a peculiar charm, while they awaken the mind, and give a taste of that lively fancy and ardour of passion, which the climate is found to deny. The melting desires, or the fiery passions, which in one climate take place between the sexes, are in another changed into a sober consideration, or a patience of mutual disgust. This change is remarked in crossing the Mediterranean, in following the course of the Mississippi, in ascending the mountains of Caucasus, and in passing from the Alps and the Pyrenees to the shores of the Baltic. The female sex domineers on the frontier of Louisiana, by the double engine of superstition, and of passion. They are slaves among the native inhabitants of Canada, and are chiefly valued for the toils they endure, and the domestic service they yield. [Footnote: Charlevoix.] The burning ardours, and the torturing jealousies of the seraglio and the haram, which have reigned so long in Asia and Africa, and which, in the southern parts of Europe, have scarcely given way to the difference of religion and civil establishments, are found, however, with an abatement of heat in the climate, to be more easily changed in one latitude, into a temporary passion which engrosses the mind, without enfeebling it, and excites to romantic achievements: by a farther progress to the north, it is changed into a spirit of gallantry, which employs the wit and the fancy more than the heart; which prefers intrigue to enjoyment; and substitutes affectation and vanity where sentiment and desire have failed. As it departs from the sun, the same passion is farther composed into a habit of domestic connection, or frozen into a state of insensibility, under which the sexes at freedom scarcely choose to unite their society. These variations of temperament and character do not indeed correspond with the number of degrees that are measured from the equator to the pole; nor does the temperature of the air itself depend on the latitude. Varieties of soil and position, the distance or neighbourhood of the sea, are known to affect the atmosphere, and may have signal effects in composing the animal frame. The climates of America, though taken under the same parallel, are observed to differ from those of Europe. There, extensive marshes, great lakes, aged, decayed, and crowded forests, with the other circumstances that mark an uncultivated country, are supposed to replenish the air with heavy and noxious vapours, that give a double asperity to the winter; and during many months, by the frequency and continuance of fogs, snow, and frost, carry the inconveniencies of the frigid zone far into the temperate. The Samoiede and the Laplander, however, have their counterpart, though on a lower latitude, on the shores of America: the Canadian and the Iroquois bear a resemblance to the ancient inhabitants of the middling climates of Europe. The Mexican, like the Asiatic of India, being addicted to pleasure, was sunk in effeminacy; and in the neighbourhood of the wild and the free, had suffered to be raised on his weakness a domineering superstition, and a permanent fabric of despotical government. Great part of Tartary lies under the same parallels with Greece, Italy, and Spain; but the climates are found to be different; and while the shores, not only of the Mediterranean, but even those of the Atlantic, are favoured with a moderate change and vicissitude of seasons, the eastern parts of Europe, and the northern continent of Asia, are afflicted with all their extremes. In one season, we are told, that the plagues of an ardent summer reach almost to the frozen sea; and that the inhabitant is obliged to screen himself from noxious vermin in the same clouds of smoke in which he must, at a different time of the year, take shelter from the rigours of cold. When winter returns, the transition is rapid, and with an asperity almost equal in every latitude, lays waste the face of the earth, from the northern confines of Siberia, to the descents of Mount Caucasus and the frontier of India. With this unequal distribution of climate, by which the lot, as well as the national character, of the northern Asiatic may be deemed inferior to that of Europeans, who lie under the same parallels, a similar gradation of temperament and spirit, however, has been observed, in following the meridian on either tract; and the southern Tartar has over the Tonguses and the Sanmoiede the same pre-eminence, that certain nations of Europe are known to possess over their northern neighbours, in situations more advantageous to both. The southern hemisphere scarcely offers a subject of like observation. The temperate zone is there still undiscovered, or is only known in two promontories, the Cape of Good Hope and Cape Horn, which stretch into moderate latitudes on that side of the line. But the savage of South America, notwithstanding the interposition of the nations of Peru and of Mexico, is found to resemble his counterpart on the north; and the Hottentot, in many things, the barbarian of Europe: he is tenacious of freedom, has rudiments of policy, and a national vigour, which serve to distinguish his race from the other African tribes, who are exposed to the more vertical rays of the sun. While we have, in these observations, only thrown out what must present itself on the most cursory view of the history of mankind, or what may be presumed from the mere obscurity of some nations, who inhabit great tracts of the earth, as well as from the lustre of others, we are still unable to explain the manner in which climate may affect the temperament, or foster the genius of its inhabitant. That the temper of the heart, and the intellectual operations of the mind, are, in some measure, dependent on the state of the animal organs, is well known from experience. Men differ from themselves in sickness and in health; under a change of diet, of air, and of exercise: but we are, even in these familiar instances, at a loss how to connect the cause with its supposed effect: and though climate, by including a variety of such causes, may, by some regular influence, affect the characters of men, we can never hope to explain the manner of those influences till we have understood, what probably we shall never understand, the structure of those finer organs with which the operations of the soul are connected. When we point out, in the situation of a people, circumstances which, by determining their pursuits, regulate their habits, and their manner of life; and when, instead of referring to the supposed physical source of their dispositions, we assign their inducements to a determinate conduct; in this we speak of effects and of causes whose connection is more familiarly known. We can understand, for instance, why a race of men like the Samoiede, confined, during great part of the year, to darkness, or retired into caverns, should differ in their manners and apprehensions from those who are at liberty in every season; or who, instead of seeking relief from the extremities of cold, are employed in search of precautions against the oppressions of a burning sun. Fire and exercise are the remedies of cold; repose and shade the securities from heat. The Hollander is laborious and industrious in Europe; he becomes more languid and slothful in India. [Footnote: The Dutch sailors, who were employed in the siege of Malaco, tore or burnt the sail cloth which was given them to make tents, that they might not have the trouble of making or pitching them. _Voy. de Matelief._] Great extremities, either of heat or cold, are perhaps, in a moral view, equally unfavourable to the active genius of mankind, and by presenting alike insuperable difficulties to be overcome, or strong inducements to indolence and sloth, equally prevent the first applications of ingenuity, or limit their progress. Some intermediate degrees of inconvenience in the situation, at once excite the spirit, and, with the hopes of success, encourage its efforts. "It Is in the least favourable situations," says Mr. Rousseau, "that the arts have flourished the most. I could show them in Egypt, as they spread with the overflowing of the Nile; and in Attica, as they mounted up to the clouds, from a rocky soil and from barren sands; while on the fertile banks of the Eurotas, they were not able to fasten their roots." Where mankind from the first subsist by toil, and in the midst of difficulties, the defects of their situation are supplied by industry: and while dry, tempting, and healthful lands are left uncultivated, [Footnote: Compare the state of Hungary with that of Holland.] the pestilent marsh is drained with great labour, and the sea is fenced off with mighty barriers, the materials and the costs of which, the soil to be gained can scarcely afford, or repay. Harbours are opened, and crowded with shipping, where vessels of burden, if they are not constructed with a view to the situation, have not water to float. Elegant and magnificent edifices are raised on foundations of slime; and all the conveniencies of human life are made to abound, where nature does not seem to have prepared a reception for men. It is in vain to expect, that the residence of arts and commerce should be determined by the possession of natural advantages. Men do more when they have certain difficulties to surmount, than when they have supposed blessings to enjoy: and the shade of the barren oak and the pine are more favourable to the genius of mankind, than that of the palm or the tamarind. Among the advantages which enable nations to run the career of policy, as well as of arts, it may be expected, from the observations already made, that we should reckon every circumstance which enable them to divide and to maintain themselves in distinct and independent communities. The society and concourse of other men are not more necessary to form the individual, than the rivalship and competition of nations are to invigorate the principles of political life in a state. Their wars, and their treaties, their mutual jealousies, and the establishments which they devise with a view to each other, constitute more than half the occupations of mankind, and furnish materials for their greatest and most improving exertions. For this reason, clusters of islands, a continent divided by many natural barriers, great rivers, ridges of mountains, and arms of the sea, are best fitted for becoming the nursery of independent and respectable nations. The distinction of states being clearly maintained, a principle of political life is established in every division, and the capital of every district, like the heart of an animal body, communicates with ease the vital blood and the national spirit to its members. The most respectable nations have always been found, where at least one part of the frontier has been washed by the sea. This barrier, perhaps the strongest of all in the times of ignorance, does not, however, even then supersede the cares of a national defence; and in the advanced state of arts, gives the greatest scope and facility to commerce. Thriving and independent nations were accordingly scattered on the shores of the Pacific and the Atlantic. They surrounded the Red Sea, the Mediterranean, and the Baltic; while, a few tribes excepted, who retire among the mountains bordering on India and Persia, or who have found some rude establishment among the creeks and the shores of the Caspian and the Euxine, there is scarcely a people in the vast continent of Asia who deserves the name of a nation. The unbounded plain is traversed at large by hordes, who are in perpetual motion, or who are displaced and harassed by their mutual hostilities. Although they are never perhaps actually blended together in the course of hunting, or in the search of pasture, they cannot bear one great distinction of nations, which is taken from the territory, and which is deeply impressed by an affection to the native seat. They move in troops, without the arrangement or the concert of nations; they become easy accessions to every new empire among themselves, or to the Chinese and the Muscovite, with whom they hold a traffic for the means of subsistence, and the materials of pleasure. Where a happy system of nations is formed, they do not rely for the continuance of their separate names, and for that of their political independence, on the barriers erected by nature. Mutual jealousies lead to the maintenance of a balance of power; and this principle, more than the Rhine and the Ocean, than the Alps and the Pyrenees in modern Europe; more than the straits of Thermopylae, the mountains of Thrace, or the bays of Salamine and Corinth in ancient Greece, tended to prolong the separation, to which the inhabitants of these happy climates have owed their felicity as nations, the lustre of their fame, and their civil accomplishments. If we mean to pursue the history of civil society, our attention must be chiefly directed to such examples, and we must here bid farewell to those regions of the earth, on which our species, by the effects of situation or climate, appear to be restrained in their national pursuits, or inferior in the powers of the mind. SECTION II. THE HISTORY OF POLITICAL ESTABLISHMENTS. We have hitherto observed mankind, either united together on terms of equality, or disposed to admit of a subordination founded merely on the voluntary respect and attachment which they paid to their leaders; but, in both cases, without any concerted plan of government, or system of laws. The savage, whose fortune is comprised in his cabin, his fur, and his arms, is satisfied with that provision, and with that degree of security, he himself can procure. He perceives, in treating with his equal, no subject of discussion that should be referred to the decision of a judge; nor does he find in any hand the badges of magistracy, or the ensigns of a perpetual command. The barbarian, though induced by his admiration of personal qualities, the lustre of a heroic race, or a superiority of fortune, to follow the banners of a leader, and to act a subordinate part in his tribe, knows not, that what he performs from choice, is to be made a subject of obligation. He acts from affections unacquainted with forms; and when provoked, or when engaged in disputes, he recurs to the sword, as the ultimate means of decision, in all questions of right. Human affairs, in the mean time, continue their progress. What was in one generation a propensity to herd with the species, becomes in the ages which follow, a principle of natural union. What was originally an alliance for common defence, becomes a concerted plan of political force; the care of subsistence becomes an anxiety for accumulating wealth, and the foundation of commercial arts. Mankind, in following the present sense of their minds, in striving to remove inconveniencies, or to gain apparent and contiguous advantages, arrive at ends which even their imagination could not anticipate; and pass on, like other animals, in the track of their nature, without perceiving its end. He who first said; "I will appropriate this field; I will leave it to my heirs;" did not perceive, that he was laying the foundation of civil laws and political establishments. He who first ranged himself under a leader, did not perceive, that he was setting the example of a permanent subordination, under the pretence of which, the rapacious were to seize his possessions, and the arrogant to lay claim to his service. Men, in general, are sufficiently disposed to occupy themselves in forming projects and schemes; but he who would scheme and project for others, will find an opponent in every person who is disposed to scheme for himself. Like the winds that come we know not whence, and blow whithersoever they list, the forms of society are derived from an obscure and distant origin; they arise, long before the date of philosophy, from the instincts, not from the speculations of men. The crowd of mankind are directed, in their establishments and measures, by the circumstances in which they are placed; and seldom are turned from their way, to follow the plan of any single projector. Every step and every movement of the multitude, even in what are termed enlightened ages, are made with equal blindness to the future; and nations stumble upon establishments, which are indeed the result of human action, but not the execution of any human design. [Footnote: De Retz's Memoirs.] If Cromwell said, that a man never mounts higher, than when he knows not whither he is going; it may with more reason be affirmed of communities, that they admit of the greatest revolutions where no change is intended, and that the most refined politicians do not always know whither they are leading the state by their projects. If we listen to the testimony of modern history, and to that of the most authentic parts of the ancient; if we attend to the practice of nations in every quarter of the world, and in every condition, whether that of the barbarian or the polished, we shall find very little reason to retract this assertion. No constitution is formed by concert, no government is copied from a plan. The members of a small state contend for equality; the members of a greater, find themselves classed in a certain manner that lays a foundation for monarchy. They proceed from one form of government to another, by easy transitions, and frequently under old names adopt a new constitution. The seeds of every form are lodged in human nature; they spring up and ripen with the season. The prevalence of a particular species is often derived from an imperceptible ingredient mingled in the soil. We are therefore to receive, with caution, the traditionary histories of ancient legislators, and founders of states. Their names have long been celebrated; their supposed plans have been admired; and what were probably the consequences of an early situation, is, in every instance, considered as an effect of design. An author and a work, like cause and effect, are perpetually coupled together. This is the simplest form under which we can consider the establishment of nations: and we ascribe to a previous design, what came to be known only by experience, what no human wisdom could foresee, and what, without the concurring humour and disposition of his age, no authority could enable an individual to execute. If men, during ages of extensive reflection, and employed in the search of improvement, are wedded to their institutions; and, labouring under many acknowledged inconveniencies, cannot break loose from the trammels of custom; what shall we suppose their humour to have been in the times of Romulus and Lycurgus? They were not surely more disposed to embrace the schemes of innovators, or to shake off the impressions of habit: they were not more pliant and ductile, when their knowledge was less; not more capable of refinement, when their minds were more circumscribed. We imagine, perhaps, that rude nations must have so strong a sense of the defects under which they labour, and be so conscious that reformations are requisite in their manners, that they must be ready to adopt, with joy, every plan of improvement, and to receive every plausible proposal with implicit compliance. And we are thus inclined to believe, that the harp of Orpheus could effect, in one age, what the eloquence of Plato could not produce in another. We mistake, however, the characteristic of simple ages: mankind then appear to feel the fewest defects, and are then least desirous to enter on reformations. The reality, in the mean time, of certain establishments at Rome and at Sparta, cannot be disputed: but it is probable; that the government of both these states took its rise from the situation and genius of the people, not from the projects of single men; that the celebrated warrior and statesman, who are considered as the founders of those nations, only acted a superior part among numbers who were disposed to the same institutions; and that they left to posterity a renown, pointing them out as the inventors of many practices which had been already in use, and which helped to form their own manners and genius, as well as those of their countrymen. It has been formerly observed, that, in many particulars, the customs of simple nations coincide with what is ascribed to the invention of early statesmen; that the model of republican government, the senate, and the assembly of the people; that even the equality of property, or the community of goods, were not reserved to the invention or contrivance of singular men. If we consider Romulus as the founder of the Roman state, certainly he who killed his brother, that he might reign alone, did not desire to come under restraints from the controling power of the senate, nor to refer the councils of his sovereignty to the decision of a collective body. Love of dominion is, by its nature, averse to restraint; and this chieftain, like every leader in a rude age, probably found a class of men ready to intrude on his councils, and without whom he could not proceed. He met with occasions, on which, as at the sound of a trumpet, the body of the people assembled, and took resolutions, which any individual might in vain dispute, or attempt to control; and Rome, which commenced on the general plan of every artless society, found lasting improvements in the pursuit of temporary expedients, and digested her political frame in adjusting the pretensions of parties which arose in the state. Mankind, in very early ages of society, learn to covet riches, and to admire distinction: they have avarice and ambition, and are occasionally led by these passions to depredations and conquest: but in their ordinary conduct, are guided or restrained by different motives; by sloth or intemperance; by personal attachments, or personal animosities; which mislead from the attention to interest. These motives or habits render mankind, at times, remiss or outrageous: they prove the source of civil peace or of civil disorder, but disqualify those who are actuated by them, from maintaining any fixed usurpation; slavery and rapine, in the case of every community, are first threatened from abroad, and war, either offensive or defensive, is the great business of every tribe. The enemy occupy their thoughts; they have no leisure for domestic dissentions. It is the desire of every separate community, however, to secure itself; and in proportion as it gains this object, by strengthening its barrier, by weakening its enemy, or by procuring allies, the individual at home bethinks him of what he may gain or lose for himself: the leader is disposed to enlarge the advantages which belong to his station; the follower becomes jealous of rights which are open to encroachment; and parties who united before, from affection and habit, or from a regard to their common preservation, disagree in supporting their several claims to precedence or profit. When the animosities of faction are thus awakened at home, and the pretensions of freedom are opposed to those of dominion, the members of every society find a new scene upon which to exert their activity. They had quarrelled, perhaps, on points of interest; they had balanced between different leaders; but they had never united as citizens, to withstand the encroachments of sovereignty, or to maintain their common rights as a people. If the prince, in this contest, finds numbers to support, as well as to oppose his pretensions, the sword which was whetted against foreign enemies, may be pointed at the bosom of fellow subjects, and every interval of peace from abroad, be filled with domestic war. The sacred names of liberty, justice, and civil order, are made to resound in public assemblies; and, during the absence of other alarms, give to society, within itself, an abundant subject of ferment and animosity. If what is related of the little principalities which, in ancient times, were formed in Greece, in Italy, and over all Europe, agrees with the character we have given of mankind under the first impressions of property, of interest, and of hereditary distinctions; the seditions and domestic wars which followed in those very states, the expulsion of their kings, or the questions which arose concerning the prerogatives of the sovereign, or privilege of the subject, are agreeable to the representation which we now give of the first step toward political establishment, and the desire of a legal constitution. What this constitution may be in its earliest form, depends on a variety of circumstances in the condition of nations: it depends on the extent of the principality in its rude state; on the degree of disparity to which mankind had submitted before they begun to dispute the abuses of power: it depends likewise on what we term _accidents_, the personal character of an individual, or the events of a war. Every community is originally a small one. That propensity by which mankind at first unite, is not the principle from which they afterwards act in extending the limits of empire. Small tribes, where they are not assembled by common objects of conquest or safety, are even averse to a coalition. If, like the real or fabulous confederacy of the Greeks for the destruction of Troy, many nations combine in pursuit of a single object, they easily separate again, and act anew on the maxims of rival states. There is, perhaps a certain national extent, within which the passions of men are easily communicated from one, or a few, to the whole; and there are certain numbers of men who can be assembled, and act in a body. If, while the society is not enlarged beyond this dimension, and while its members are easily assembled, political contentions arise, the state seldom fails to proceed on republican maxims, and to establish democracy. In most rude principalities, the leader derived his prerogative from the lustre of his race, and from the voluntary attachment of his tribe: the people he commanded were his friends, his subjects, and his troops. If we suppose, upon any change in their manners, that they cease to revere his dignity, that they pretend to equality among themselves, or are seized with a jealousy of his assuming too much, the foundations of his power are already withdrawn. When the voluntary subject becomes refractory; when considerable parties, or the collective body, choose to act for themselves; the small kingdom, like that of Athens, becomes of course a republic. The changes of condition, and of manners, which, in the progress of mankind, raise up to nations a leader and a prince, create, at the same time, a nobility and a variety of ranks, who have, in a subordinate degree, their claim to distinction. Superstition, too, may create an order of men, who, under the title of priesthood, engage in the pursuit of a separate interest; who, by their union and firmness as a body, and by their incessant ambition, deserve to be reckoned in the list of pretenders to power. These different orders of men are the elements of whose mixture the political body is generally formed; each draws to its side some part from the mass of the people. The people themselves are a party upon occasion; and numbers of men, however classed and distinguished, become, by their jarring pretensions and separate views, mutual interruptions and checks; and have, by bringing to the national councils the maxims and apprehensions of a particular order, and by guarding a particular interest, a share in adjusting or preserving the political form of the state. The pretensions of any particular order, if not checked by some collateral power, would terminate in tyranny; those of a prince, in despotism; those of a nobility or priesthood, in the abuses of aristocracy; of a populace, in the confusions of anarchy. These terminations, as they are never the professed, so are they seldom even the disguised object of party: but the measures which any party pursues, if suffered to prevail, will lead, by degrees, to every extreme. In their way to the ascendant they endeavour to gain, and in the midst of interruptions which opposite interests mutually give, liberty may have a permanent or a transient existence; and the constitution may bear a form and a character as various as the casual combination of such multiplied parts can effect. To bestow on communities some degree of political freedom, it is perhaps sufficient, that their members, either singly, or as they are involved with their several orders, should insist on their rights; that under republics, the citizen should either maintain his own equality with firmness, or restrain the ambition of his fellow citizen within moderate bounds; that under monarchy, men of every rank should maintain the honours of their private or their public stations; and sacrifice neither to the impositions of a court, nor to the claims of a populace, those dignities which are destined, in some measure, independent of fortune, to give stability to the throne, and to procure a respect to the subject. Amidst the contentions of party, the interests of the public, even the maxims of justice and candour, are sometimes forgotten; and yet those fatal consequences which such a measure of corruption seems to portend, do not unavoidably follow. The public interest is often secure, not because individuals are disposed to regard it as the end of their conduct, but because each, in his place, is determined to preserve his own. Liberty is maintained by the continued differences and oppositions of numbers, not by their concurring zeal in behalf of equitable government. In free states, therefore, the wisest laws are never, perhaps, dictated by the interest and spirit of any order of men: they are moved, they are opposed, or amended, by different hands; and come at last to express that medium and composition which contending parties have forced one another to adopt. When we consider the history of mankind in this view, we cannot be at a loss for the causes which, in small communities, threw the balance on the side of democracy; which, in states more enlarged in respect to territory and number of people, gave the ascendant to monarchy; and which, in a variety of conditions and of different ages, enabled mankind to blend and unite the characters of different forms; and, instead of any of the simple constitutions we have mentioned, [Footnote: Part I. Sect. 10.] to exhibit a medley of all. In emerging from a state of rudeness and simplicity, men must be expected to act from that spirit of equality, or moderate subordination, to which they have been accustomed. When crowded together in cities, or within the compass of a small territory, they act by contagious passions, and every individual feels a degree of importance proportioned to his figure in the crowd, and the smallness of its numbers. The pretenders to power and dominion appear in too familiar a light to impose upon the multitude, and they have no aids at their call, by which they can bridle the refractory humours of a people who resist their pretensions. Theseus, king of Attica, we are told, assembled the inhabitants of its twelve cantons into one city. In this he took an effectual method to unite into one democracy, what were before the separate members of his monarchy, and to hasten the downfall of the regal power. The monarch of an extensive territory has many advantages in maintaining his station. Without any grievance to his subjects, he can support the magnificence of a royal estate, and dazzle the imagination of his people, by that very wealth which themselves have bestowed. He can employ the inhabitants of one district against those of another; and while the passions that lead to mutiny and rebellion, can at any one time seize only on a part of his subjects, he feels himself strong in the possession of a general authority. Even the distance at which he resides from many of those who receive his commands, augments the mysterious awe and respect which are paid to his government. With these different tendencies, accident and corruption, however, joined to a variety of circumstances, may throw particular states from their bias, and produce exceptions to every general rule. This has actually happened in some of the later principalities of Greece, and modern Italy, in Sweden, Poland, and the German Empire. But the united states of the Netherlands, and the Swiss cantons, are, perhaps, the most extensive communities, which, maintaining the union of nations, have, for any considerable time, resisted the tendency to monarchical government; and Sweden is the only instance of a republic established in a great kingdom on the ruins of monarchy. The sovereign of a petty district, or a single city, when not supported, as in modern Europe, by the contagion of monarchical manners, holds the sceptre by a precarious tenure, and is perpetually alarmed by the spirit of mutiny in his people, is guided by jealousy, and supports himself by severity, prevention, and force. The popular and aristocratical powers in a great nation, as in the case of Germany and Poland, may meet with equal difficulty in maintaining their pretensions; and, in order to avoid their danger on the side of kingly usurpation, are obliged to withhold from the supreme magistrate even the necessary trust of an executive power. The states of Europe, in the manner of their first settlement, laid the foundations of monarchy, and were prepared to unite under regular and extensive governments. If the Greeks, whose progress at home terminated in the establishment of so many independent republics, had under Agamemnon effected a conquest and settlement in Asia, it is probable that they might have furnished an example of the same kind. But the original inhabitants of any country, forming many separate cantons, come by slow degrees to that coalition and union into which conquering tribes, in effecting their conquests, or in securing their possessions, are hurried at once. Cæsar encountered some hundreds of independent nations in Gaul, whom even their common danger did not sufficiently unite. The German invaders, who settled in the lands of the Romans, made, in the same district, a number of separate establishments, but far more extensive than what the ancient Gauls, by their conjunction and treaties, or in the result of their wars, could, after many ages, have reached. The seeds of great monarchies, and the roots of extensive dominion, were every where planted with the colonies that divided the Roman empire. We have no exact account of the numbers, who, with a seeming concert, continued, during some ages, to invade and to seize this tempting prize. Where they expected resistance, they endeavoured to muster up a proportional force; and when they proposed to settle, entire nations removed to share in the spoil. Scattered over an extensive province, where they could not be secure, without maintaining their union, they continued to acknowledge the leader under whom they had fought; and, like an army sent by divisions into separate stations, were prepared to assemble whenever occasion should require their united operations or counsels. Every separate party had its post assigned, and every subordinate chieftain his possessions, from which he was to provide his own subsistence, and that of his followers. The model of government was taken from that of a military subordination, and a fief was the temporary pay of an officer proportioned to his rank. [Footnote: See Dr. Robertson's History of Scotland, B. 1.--Dalrymple's Hist. of Feudal Tenures.] There was a class of the people destined to military service, another to labour, and to cultivate lands for the benefit of their masters. The officer improved his tenure by degrees, first changing a temporary grant into a tenure for his life; and this also, upon the observance of certain conditions, into a grant including his heirs. The rank of the nobles became hereditary in every quarter, and formed a powerful and permanent order of men in every state. While they held the people in servitude, they disputed the claims of their sovereign; they withdrew their attendance upon occasion, or turned their arms against him. They formed a strong and insurmountable barrier against a general despotism in the state; but they were themselves, by means of their warlike retainers, the tyrants of every little district, and prevented the establishment of order, or any regular applications of law. They took the advantage of weak reigns or minorities, to push their encroachments on the sovereign; or having made the monarchy elective, they, by successive treaties and stipulations, at every election, limited or undermined the monarchical power. The prerogatives of the prince have been, in some instances, as in that of the German empire in particular, reduced to a mere title; and the national union itself preserved in the observance only of a few insignificant formalities. Where the contest of the sovereign, and of his vassals, under hereditary and ample prerogatives annexed to the crown, had a different issue, the feudal lordships were gradually stript of their powers, the nobles were reduced to the state of subjects, and, obliged to hold their honours, and exercise their jurisdictions, in a dependence on the prince. It was his supposed interest to reduce them to a state of equal subjection with the people, and to extend his own authority, by rescuing the labourer and the dependent from the oppressions of their immediate superiors. In this project the princes of Europe have variously succeeded. While they protected the people, and thereby encouraged the practice of commercial and lucrative arts, they paved the way for despotism in the state; and with the same policy by which they relieved the subject from many oppressions, they increased the powers of the crown. But where the people had, by the constitution, a representative in the government, and a head, under which they could avail themselves of the wealth they acquired, and of the sense of their personal importance, this policy turned against the crown; it formed a new power to restrain the prerogative, to establish the government of law, and to exhibit a spectacle new in the history of mankind; monarchy mixed with republic, and extensive territory governed, during some ages, without military force. Such were the steps by which the nations of Europe have arrived at their present establishments: in some instances they have come to the possession of legal constitutions; in others, to the exercise of a mitigated despotism; or they continue to struggle with the tendency which they severally have to these different extremes. The progress of empire, in the early ages of Europe, threatened to be rapid, and to bury the independent spirit of nations in a grave like that which the Ottoman conquerors found for themselves, and for the wretched race they had vanquished. The Romans had by slow degrees extended their empire; they had made every new acquisition in the result of a tedious war, and had been obliged to plant colonies, and to employ a variety of measures, to secure every new possession. But the feudal superior being animated, from the moment he gained an establishment, with a desire of extending his territory, and of enlarging the list of his vassals, procured, by merely bestowing investiture, the annexation of new provinces, and became the master of states, before independent, without making any material innovation in the form of their policy. Separate principalities were, like the parts of an engine, ready to be joined, and, like the wrought materials of a building, ready to be erected. They were in the result of their struggles put together or taken asunder with facility. The independence of weak states was preserved only by the mutual jealousies of the strong, or by the general attention of all to maintain a balance of power. The happy system of policy on which European states have proceeded in preserving this balance; the degree of moderation which is, in adjusting their treaties, become habitual even to victorious and powerful monarchies, does honour to mankind, and may give hopes of a lasting felicity, to be derived from a prepossession, never, perhaps, equally strong in any former period, or among any number of nations, that the first conquering people will ruin themselves, as well as their rivals. It is in such states, perhaps, as in a fabric of a large dimension, that we can perceive most distinctly the several parts of which a political body consists; and observe that concurrence or opposition of interests, which serve to unite or to separate different orders of men, and lead them, by maintaining their several claims, to establish a variety of political forms. The smallest republics, however, consist of parts similar to these, and of members who are actuated by a similar spirit. They furnish examples of government diversified by the casual combinations of parties, and by the different advantages with which those parties engage in the conflict. In every society there is a casual subordination, independent of its formal establishment, and frequently adverse to its constitution. While the administration and the people speak the language of a particular form, and seem to admit no pretensions to power, without a legal nomination in one instance, or without the advantage of hereditary honours in another, this casual subordination, possibly arising from the distribution of property, or from some other circumstance that bestows unequal degrees of influence, gives the state its tone, and fixes its character. The plebeian order at Rome having been long considered as of an inferior condition, and excluded from the higher offices of magistracy, had sufficient force, as a body, to get this invidious distinction removed; but the individual still acting under the impressions of a subordinate rank, gave in every competition his suffrage to a patrician, whose protection he had experienced; and whose personal authority he felt. By this means the ascendancy of the patrician families was, for a certain period, as regular as it could be made by the avowed maxims of aristocracy: but the higher offices of state being gradually shared by plebeians, the effects of former distinctions were prevented or weakened. The laws that were made to adjust the pretensions of different orders were easily eluded. The populace became a faction, and their alliance was the surest road to dominion. Clodius, by a pretended adoption into a plebeian family, was qualified to become tribune of the people; and Caesar, by espousing the cause of this faction, made his way to usurpation and tyranny. In such fleeting and transient scenes, forms of government are only modes of proceeding, in, which successive ages differ from one another. Faction is ever ready to seize all occasional advantages; and mankind, when in hazard from any party, seldom find a better protection than that of its rival. Cato united with Pompey in opposition to Caesar, and guarded against nothing so much as that reconciliation of parties, which was in effect to be a combination of different leaders against the freedom of the republic. This illustrious personage stood distinguished in his age like a man among children, and was raised above his opponents, as much by the justness of his understanding, and the extent of his penetration, as he was by the manly fortitude and disinterestedness with which he strove to baffle the designs of a vain and childish ambition, that was operating to the ruin of mankind. Although free constitutions of government seldom or never take their rise from the scheme of any single projector, yet are they often preserved by the vigilance, activity, and zeal of single men. Happy are they who understand and who choose this object of care; and happy it is for mankind when it is not chosen too late. It has been reserved to signalize the lives of a Cato or a Brutus, on the eve of fatal revolutions; to foster in secret the indignation of Thrasea and Helvidius; and to occupy the reflections of speculative men in times of corruption. But even in such late and ineffectual examples, it was happy to know, and to value, an object which is so important to mankind. The pursuit, and the love of it, however unsuccessful, has thrown its principal lustre on human nature. SECTION III. OF NATIONAL OBJECTS IN GENERAL, AND OF ESTABLISHMENTS AND MANNERS RELATING TO THEM. While the mode of subordination is casual, and forms of government take their rise, chiefly from the manner in which the members of a state have been originally classed, and from a variety of circumstances that procure to particular orders of men a sway in their country, there are certain objects that claim the attention of every government, that lead the apprehensions and the reasonings of mankind in every society, and that not only furnish an employment to statesmen, but in some measure direct the community to those institutions, under the authority of which the magistrate holds his power. Such are the national defence, the distribution of justice, the preservation and internal prosperity of the state. If these objects be neglected, we must apprehend that the very scene in which parties contend for power, for privilege, or equality, must disappear, and society itself no longer exist. The consideration due to these objects will be pleaded in every public assembly, and will produce, in every political contest, appeals to that common sense and opinion of mankind, which, struggling with the private views of individuals, and the claims of party, may be considered as the great legislator of nations. The measures required for the attainment of most national objects are connected together, and must be jointly pursued; they are often the same. The force which is prepared for defence against foreign enemies, may be likewise employed to keep the peace at home: the laws made to secure the rights and liberties of the people, may serve as encouragements to population and commerce; and every community, without considering how its objects may be classed or distinguished by speculative men, is, in every instance, obliged to assume or to retain that form which is best fitted to preserve its advantages, or to avert its misfortunes. Nations, however, like private men, have their favourite ends, and their principal pursuits, which diversify their manners, as well as their establishments. They even attain to the same ends by different means; and, like men who make their fortune by different professions, retain the habits of their principal calling in every condition at which they arrive. The Romans became wealthy in pursuing their conquests; and probably, for a certain period, increased the numbers of mankind, while their disposition to war seemed to threaten the earth with desolation. Some modern nations proceed to dominion and enlargement on the maxims of commerce; and while they only intend to accumulate riches at home, continue to gain an imperial ascendant abroad. The characters of the warlike and the commercial are variously combined: they are formed in different degrees by the influence of circumstances, that more or less frequently give rise to war, and excite the desire of conquest; of circumstances, that leave a people in quiet to improve their domestic resources, or to purchase, by the fruits of their industry, from foreigners, what their own soil and their climate deny. The members of every community are more or less occupied with matters of state, in proportion as their constitution admits them to share in the government, and summons up their attention to objects of a public nature. A people are cultivated or unimproved in their talents, in proportion as those talents are employed in the practice of arts, and in the affairs of society: they are improved or corrupted in their manners, in proportion as they are encouraged and directed to act on the maxims of freedom and justice, or as they as they are degraded into a state of meanness and servitude. But whatever advantages are obtained, or whatever evils are avoided, by nations, in any of these important respects, are generally considered as mere occasional incidents: they are seldom admitted among the objects of policy, or entered among the reasons of state. We hazard being treated with ridicule, when we require political establishments, merely to cultivate the talents of men, and to inspire the sentiments of a liberal mind: we must offer some motive of interest, or some hopes of external advantage, to animate the pursuits, or to direct the measures, of ordinary men. They would be brave, ingenious, and eloquent, only from necessity, or for the sake of profit: they magnify the uses of wealth, population, and the other resources of war; but often forget that these are of no consequence without the direction of able capacities, and without the supports of a national vigour. We may expect, therefore, to find among states the bias to a particular policy taken from the regards to public safety; from the desire of securing personal freedom or private property; seldom from the consideration of moral effects, or from a view to the real improvement of mankind. SECTION IV. OF POPULATION AND WEALTH. When we imagine what the Romans must have felt when the tidings came that the flower of their city had perished at Cannæ; when we think of what the orator had in his mind when he said, "That the youth among the people was like the spring among the seasons;" when we hear of the joy with which the huntsman and the warrior is adopted, in America, to sustain the honours of the family and the nation; we are made to feel the most powerful motives to regard the increase and preservation of our fellow citizens. Interest, affection, and views of policy, combine to recommend this object; and it is treated with entire neglect only by the tyrant who mistakes his own advantage, by the statesman who trifles with the charge committed to his care, or by the people who are become corrupted, and who consider their fellow subjects as rivals in interest, and competitors in their lucrative pursuits. Among rude societies, and among small communities in general, who are engaged in frequent struggles and difficulties, the preservation and increase of their members is a most important object. The American rates his defeat from the numbers of men he has lost, or he estimates his victory from the prisoners he has made; not from his having remained the master of a field, or being driven from a ground on which he encountered his enemy. A man with whom he can associate in all his pursuits, whom he can embrace as his friend; in whom he finds an object to his affections, and an aid in his struggles, is to him the most precious accession of fortune. Even where the friendship of particular men is out of the question, the society, being occupied in forming a party that may defend itself, or annoy its enemy, finds no object of greater moment than the increase of its numbers. Captives who may be adopted, or children of either sex who may be reared for the public, are accordingly considered as the richest spoil of an enemy. The practice of the Romans in admitting the vanquished to share in the privileges of their city, the rape of the Sabines, and the subsequent coalition with that people, were not singular or uncommon examples in the history of mankind. The same policy has been followed, and was natural and obvious wherever the strength of a state consisted in the arms of a few, and where men were valued in themselves, without regard to estate or fortune. In rude ages, therefore, while mankind subsist in small divisions, it should appear, that if the earth be thinly peopled, this defect does not arise from the negligence of those who ought to repair it. It is even probable, that the most effectual course that could be taken to increase the species, would be, to prevent the coalition of nations, and to oblige mankind to act in such small bodies as would make the preservation of their numbers a principal object of their care. This alone, it is true, would not be sufficient; we must probably add the encouragement for rearing families, which mankind enjoy under a favourable policy, and the means of subsistence which they owe to the practice of arts. The mother is unwilling to increase her offspring, and is ill provided to rear them, where she herself is obliged to undergo great hardships in the search of her food. In North America, we are told, that she joins to the reserves of a cold or a moderate temperament, the abstinencies to which she submits, from the consideration of this difficulty. In her apprehension, it is matter of prudence, and of conscience, to bring one child to the condition of feeding on venison, and of following on foot, before she will hazard a new burden in travelling the woods. In warmer latitudes, by the different temperament, perhaps, which the climate bestows, and by a greater facility in procuring subsistence, the numbers of mankind increase, while the object itself is neglected; and the commerce of the sexes, without any concern for population, is made a subject of mere debauch. In some places, we are told, it is even made the object of a barbarous policy, to defeat or to restrain the intentions of nature. In the island of Formosa, the males are prohibited to marry before the age of forty; and females, if pregnant before the age of thirty six, have an abortion procured by order of the magistrate, who employs a violence that endangers the life of the mother, together with that of the child. [Footnote: Collection of Dutch Voyages.] In China the permission given to parents to kill or to expose their children, was probably meant as a relief from the burden of a numerous offspring. But notwithstanding what we hear of a practice so repugnant to the human heart, it has not, probably, the effects in restraining population; which it seems to threaten; but, like many other institutions, has an influence the reverse of what it seemed to portend. The parents marry with this means of relief in their view, and the children are saved. However important the object of population may be held by mankind, it will be difficult to find, in the history of civil policy, any wise or effectual establishments, solely calculated to obtain it. The practice of rude or feeble nations is inadequate, or cannot surmount the obstacles which are found in their manner of life. The growth of industry, the endeavours of men to improve their arts, to extend their commerce, to secure their possessions, and to establish their rights, are indeed the most effectual means to promote population: but they arise from a different motive; they arise from regards to interest and personal safety. They are intended for the benefit of those who exist, not to procure the increase of their numbers. It is, in the mean time, of importance to know, that where a people are fortunate in their political establishments, and successful in the pursuits of industry, their population is likely to grow in proportion. Most of the other devices thought of for this purpose, only serve to frustrate the expectations of mankind or to mislead their attention. In planting a colony, in striving to repair the occasional wastes of pestilence or war, the immediate contrivance of statesmen may be useful; but if, in reasoning on the increase of mankind in general, we overlook their freedom and their happiness, our aids to population become weak and ineffectual. They only lead us to work on the surface, or to pursue a shadow, while we neglect the substantial concern; and in a decaying state, make us tamper with palliatives, while the roots of an evil are suffered to remain. Octavius revived or enforced the laws that related to population at Rome; but it may be said of him, and of many sovereigns in a similar situation, that they administer the poison, while they are devising the remedy; and bring a damp and a palsy on the principles of life, while they endeavour, by external applications to the skin; to restore the bloom of a decayed and sickly body. It is indeed happy for mankind, that this important object is not always dependent on the wisdom of sovereigns, or the policy of single men. A people intent on freedom, find for themselves a condition in which they may follow the propensities of nature with a more signal effect, than any which the councils of state could devise. When sovereigns, or projectors, are the supposed masters of this subject, the best they can do, is to be cautious of hurting an interest they cannot greatly promote, and of making breaches they cannot repair. "When nations were divided into small territories, and petty commonwealths, where each man had his house and his field to himself, and each county had its capital free and independent; what a happy situation for mankind," says Mr. Hume; "how favourable to industry and agriculture, to marriage and to population!" Yet here were, probably no schemes of the statesman, for rewarding the married, or for punishing the single; for inviting foreigners to settle, or for prohibiting the departure of natives. Every citizen finding a possession secure, and a provision for his heirs, was not discouraged by the gloomy fears of oppression or want; and where every other function of nature was free, that which furnished the nursery could not be restrained. Nature has required the powerful to be just; but she has not otherwise intrusted the preservation of her works to their visionary plans. What fuel can the statesman add to the fires of youth? Let him only not smother it, and the effect is secure. Where we oppress or degrade mankind with one hand, it is vain, like Octavius, to hold out in the other, the baits of marriage, or the whip to barrenness. It is vain to invite new inhabitants from abroad, while those we already possess are made to hold their tenure with uncertainty; and to tremble, not only under the prospect of a numerous family, but even under that of a precarious and doubtful subsistence for themselves. The arbitrary sovereign who has made this the condition of his subjects, owes the remains of his people to the powerful instincts of nature, not to any device of his own. Men will crowd where the situation is tempting, and, in a few generations, will people every country to the measure of its means of subsistence. They will even increase under circumstances that portend a decay. The frequent wars of the Romans, and of many a thriving community; even the pestilence, and the market for slaves, find their supply, if, without destroying the source, the drain become regular; and if an issue is made for the offspring, without unsettling the families from which they arise. Where a happier provision is made for mankind, the statesman, who by premiums to marriage, by allurements to foreigners, or by confining the natives at home, apprehends, that he has made the numbers of his people to grow, is often like the fly in the fable, who admired its success in turning the wheel, and in moving the carriage: he has only accompanied what was already in motion; he has dashed with his oar, to hasten the cataract; and waved with his fan, to give speed to the winds. Projects of mighty settlement, and of sudden population, however successful in the end, are always expensive to mankind. Above a hundred thousand peasants, we are told, were yearly driven, like so many cattle, to Petersburgh, in the first attempts to replenish that settlement, and yearly perished for want of subsistence. [Footnote: Strachlenberg.] The Indian only attempts to settle in the neighbourhood of the plantain, [Footnote: Dampier.] and while his family increases, he adds a tree to the walk. If the plantain, the cocoa, or the palm, were sufficient to maintain an inhabitant, the race of men in the warmer climates might become as numerous as the trees of the forest. But in many, parts of the earth, from the nature of the climate, and the soil, the spontaneous produce being next to nothing, the means of subsistence are the fruits only of labour and skill. If a people, while they retain their frugality, increase their industry, and improve their arts, their numbers must grow in proportion. Hence it is, that the cultivated fields of Europe are more peopled than the wilds of America, or the plains of Tartary. But even the increase of mankind which attends the accumulation of wealth, has its limits. The _necessary of life_ is a vague and a relative term: it is one thing in the opinion of the savage; another in that of the polished citizen: it has a reference to the fancy, and to the habits of living. While arts improve, and riches increase; while the possessions of individuals, or their prospects of gain, come up to their opinion of what is required to settle a family, they enter on its cares with alacrity. But when the possession, however redundant, falls short of the standard, and a fortune supposed sufficient for marriage is attained with difficulty, population is checked, or begins to decline. The citizen, in his own apprehension, returns to the state of the savage; his children, he thinks, must perish for want; and he quits a scene overflowing with plenty, because he has not the fortune which his supposed rank, or his wishes, require. No ultimate remedy is applied to this evil, by merely accumulating wealth; for rare and costly materials, whatever these are, continue to be sought; and if silks and pearl are made common, men will begin to covet some new decorations, which the wealthy alone can procure. If they are indulged in their humour, their demands are repeated; for it is the continual increase of riches, not any measure attained, that keeps the craving imagination at ease. Men are tempted to labour, and to practise lucrative arts, by motives of interest. Secure to the workman the fruit of his labour, give him the prospects of independence or freedom, the public has found a faithful minister in the acquisition of wealth, and a faithful steward in hoarding what he has gained. The statesman, in this, as in the case of population itself, can do little more than avoid doing mischief. It is well, if, in the beginnings of commerce, he knows how to repress the frauds to which it is subject. Commerce, if continued, is the branch in which men, committed to the effects of their own experience, are least apt to go wrong. The trader, in rude ages, is short sighted, fraudulent and mercenary; but in the progress and advanced state of his art, his views are enlarged, his maxims are established: he becomes punctual, liberal, faithful, and enterprising; and in the period of general corruption, he alone has every virtue, except the force to defend his acquisitions. He needs no aid from the state, but its protection; and is often in himself its most intelligent and respectable member. Even in China, we are informed, where pilfering, fraud, and corruption, are the reigning practice with all the other orders of men, the great merchant is ready to give, and to procure confidence: while his countrymen act on the plans, and under the restrictions, of a police adjusted to knaves, he acts on the reasons of trade, and the maxims of mankind. If population be connected with national wealth, liberty and personal security is the great foundation of both: and if this foundation be laid in the state, nature has secured the increase and industry of its members; the one by desires the most ardent in the human frame, the other by a consideration the most uniform and constant of any that possesses the mind. The great object of policy, therefore, with respect to both, is, to secure to the family its means of subsistence and settlement; to protect the industrious in the pursuit of his occupation; to reconcile the restrictions of police, and the social affections of mankind, with their separate and interested pursuits. In matters of particular profession, industry, and trade, the experienced practitioner is the master, and every general reasoner is a novice. The object in commerce is to make the individual rich; the more he gains for himself, the more he augments the wealth of his country. If a protection be required, it must be granted; if crimes and frauds be committed, they must be repressed; and government can pretend to no more. When the refined politician would lend an active hand, he only multiplies interruptions and grounds of complaint; when the merchant forgets his own interest to lay plans for his country, the period of vision and chimera is near, and the solid basis of commerce withdrawn. He might be told, that while he pursues his advantage, and gives no cause of complaint, the interest of commerce is safe. The general police of France, proceeding on a supposition, that the exportation of corn must drain the country where it has grown, had, till of late, laid that branch of commerce under a severe prohibition. The English landholder and the farmer had credit enough to obtain a premium for exportation, to favour the sale of their commodity; and the event has shown, that private interest is a better patron of commerce and plenty, than the refinements of state. One nation lays the refined plan of a settlement on the continent of North America, and trusts little to the conduct of traders and shortsighted men: another leaves men to find their own position in a state of freedom, and to think for themselves. The active industry and the limited views of the one, made a thriving settlement; the great projects of the other were still in idea. But I willingly quit a subject in which I am not much conversant, and still less engaged by the object for which I write. Speculations on commerce and wealth have been delivered by the ablest writers; and the public will probably soon be furnished with a theory of national economy, equal to what has ever appeared on any subject of science whatever. [Footnote: Mr. Smith, author of the Theory of Moral Sentiment] But in the view which I have taken of human affairs, nothing seems more important than the general caution which the authors to whom I refer so well understand, not to consider these articles as making the sum of national felicity, or the principal object of any state. In science we consider our objects apart; in practice it were an error not to have them all in our view at once. One nation, in search of gold and of precious metals, neglect the domestic sources of wealth; and become dependent on their neighbours for the necessaries of life: another so intent on improving their internal resources, and on increasing their commerce, that they become dependent on foreigners for the defence of what they acquire. It is even painful in conversation to find the interest of merchants give the tone to our reasonings, and to find a subject perpetually offered as the great business of national councils, to which any interposition of government is seldom, with propriety, applied, or never, beyond the protection it affords. We complain of a want of public spirit; but whatever may be the effect of this error in practice, in speculation it is none of our faults: we reason perpetually for the public; but the want of national views were frequently better than the possession of those we express: we would have nations, like a company of merchants, think of nothing but monopolies, and the profit of trade, and, like them too, intrust their protection to a force which they do not possess in themselves. Because men, like other animals, are maintained in multitudes, where the necessaries of life are amassed, and the store of wealth is enlarged, we drop our regards for the happiness, the moral and political character of a people; and, anxious for the herd we would propagate, carry our views no farther than the stall and the pasture. We forget that the few have often made a prey of the many; that to the poor there is nothing so enticing as the coffers of the rich; and that when the price of freedom comes to be paid, the heavy sword of the victor may fall into the opposite scale. Whatever be the actual conduct of nations in this matter, it is certain, that many of our arguments would hurry us, for the sake of wealth and of population, into a scene where mankind, being exposed to corruption, are unable to defend their possessions; and where they are, in the end, subject to oppression and ruin. We cut off the roots, while we would extend the branches, and thicken the foliage. It is possibly from an opinion that the virtues of men are secure, that some, who turn their attention to public affairs, think of nothing but the numbers and wealth of a people: it is from a dread of corruption, that others think of nothing but how to preserve the national virtues. Human society has great obligations to both. They are opposed to one another only by mistake; and even when united, have not strength sufficient to combat the wretched party, that refers every object to personal interest, and that cares not for the safety or increase of any stock but its own. SECTION V. OF NATIONAL DEFENCE AND CONQUEST. It is impossible to ascertain how much of the policy of any state has a reference to war, or to national safety. "Our legislator," says the Cretan in Plato, "thought that nations were by nature in a state of hostility: he took his measures accordingly; and observing that all the possessions of the vanquished pertain to the victor, he held it ridiculous to propose any benefit to his country, before he had provided that it should not be conquered." Crete, which is supposed to have been a model of military policy, is commonly considered as the original from which the celebrated laws of Lycurgus were copied. Mankind, it seems, in every instance, must have some palpable object to direct their proceedings, and must have a view to some point of external utility, even in the choice of their virtues. The discipline of Sparta was military; and a sense of its use in the field, more than the force of unwritten and traditionary laws, or the supposed engagement of the public faith obtained by the lawgiver, may have induced this people to persevere in the observance of many rules, which to other nations do not appear necessary, except in the presence of an enemy. Every institution of this singular people gave a lesson of obedience, of fortitude, and of zeal for the public: but it is remarkable that they chose to obtain, by their virtues alone, what other nations are fain to buy with their treasure; and it is well known, that, in the course of their history, they came to regard their discipline merely on account of its moral effects. They had experienced the happiness of a mind courageous, disinterested, and devoted to its best affections; and they studied to preserve this character in themselves, by resigning the interests of ambition, and the hopes of military glory, even by sacrificing the numbers of their people. It was the fate of Spartans who escaped from the field, not of those who perished with Cleombrotus at Leuctra, that filled the cottages of Lacedemon with mourning and serious reflection: [Footnote: Xenophon.] it was the fear of having their citizens corrupted abroad, by intercourse with servile and mercenary men, that made them quit the station of leaders in the Persian war, and leave Athens, during fifty years, to pursue, unrivalled, that career of ambition and profit, by which she made such acquisitions of power and of wealth. [Footnote: Thucydides, Book I.] We have had occasion to observe, that in every rude state the great business is war; and that in barbarous times, mankind being generally divided into small parties, are engaged in almost perpetual hostilities. This circumstance gives the military leader a continued ascendant in his country, and inclines every people, during warlike ages, to monarchical government. The conduct of an army can least of all subjects be divided: and we may be justly surprised to find that the Romans, after many ages of military experience, and after having recently felt the arms of Hannibal in many encounters, associated two leaders at the head of the same army, and left them to adjust their pretensions, by taking the command, each a day in his turn. The same people, however, on other occasions, thought it expedient to suspend the exercise of every subordinate magistracy, and in the time of great alarms, to intrust all the authority of the state in the hands of one person. Republics have generally found it necessary, in the conduct of war, to place great confidence in the executive branch of their government. When a consul at Rome had proclaimed his levies, and administered the military oath, he became from that moment master of the public treasury, and of the lives of those who were under his command. [Footnote: Polybius.] The axe and the rods were no longer a mere badge of magistracy, or an empty pageant, in the hands of the lictor; they were, at the command of the father, stained with the blood of his own children; and fell, without appeal, on the mutinous and disobedient of every condition. In every free state, there is a perpetual necessity to distinguish the maxims of martial law from those of the civil; and he who has not learned to give an implicit obedience, where the state has given him a military leader, and to resign his personal freedom in the field, from the same magnanimity with which he maintains it in the political deliberations of his country, has yet to learn the most important lesson of civil society, and is only fit to occupy a place in a rude, or in a corrupted state, where the principles of mutiny and of servility being joined, the one or the other is frequently adopted in the wrong place. From a regard to what is necessary in war, nations inclined to popular or aristocratical government, have had recourse to establishments that bordered on monarchy. Even where the highest office of the state was in common times administered by a plurality of persons, the whole power and authority belonging to it was, on particular occasions, committed to one; and upon great alarms, when the political fabric was shaken or endangered, a monarchical power has been applied, like a prop, to secure the state against the rage of the tempest. Thus were the dictators occasionally named at Rome, and the stadtholders in the United Provinces; and thus, in mixed governments, the royal prerogative is occasionally enlarged, by the temporary suspension of laws, [Footnote: In Britain, by the suspension of the _Habeas Corpus_.] and the barriers of liberty appear to be removed, in order to vest a dictatorial power in the hands of the king. Had mankind, therefore, no view but to warfare, it is probable that they would continue to prefer monarchical government to any other; or at least that every nation, in order to procure secret and united councils, would intrust the executive power with unlimited authority. But happily for civil society, men have objects of a different sort: and experience has taught, that although the conduct of armies requires an absolute and undivided command; yet a national force is best formed, where numbers of men are inured to equality; and where the meanest citizen may consider himself, upon occasion, as destined to command as well as to obey. It is here that the dictator finds a spirit and a force prepared to second his councils; it is here too that the dictator himself is formed, and that numbers of leaders are presented to the public choice; it is here that the prosperity of a state is independent of single men, and that a wisdom which never dies, with a system of military arrangements permanent and regular, can, even under the greatest misfortunes, prolong the national struggle. With this advantage the Romans, finding a number of distinguished leaders arise in succession, were at all times almost equally prepared to contend with their enemies of Asia or Africa; while the fortune of those enemies, on the contrary, depended on the casual appearance of singular men, of a Mithridates, or of a Hannibal. The soldier, we are told, has his point of honour, and a fashion of thinking, which he wears with his sword. This point of honour, in free and uncorrupted states, is a zeal for the public; and war to them is an operation of passions, not the mere pursuit of a calling. Its good and its ill effects are felt in extremes: the friend is made to experience the warmest proofs of attachment, the enemy the severest effects of animosity. On this system the celebrated nations of antiquity made war under their highest attainments of civility, and under their greatest degrees of refinement. In small and rude societies, the individual finds himself attacked in every national war; and none can propose to devolve his defence on another. "The king of Spain is a great prince," said an American chief to the governor of Jamaica, who was preparing a body of troops to join in an enterprise against the Spaniards: "Do you propose to make war upon so great a king with so small a force?" Being told that the forces he saw were to be joined by troops from Europe, and that the governor could then command no more: "Who are these then," said the American, "who form this crowd of spectators? Are they not your people? And why do you not all go forth to so great a war?" He was answered, that the spectators were merchants, and other inhabitants, who took no part in the service: "Would they be merchants still," continued this statesman, "if the king of Spain, was to attack you here? For my part, I do not think that merchants should be permitted to live in any country: when I go to war, I leave nobody at home but the women." It should seem that this simple warrior considered merchants as a kind of neutral persons, who took no part in the quarrels of their country; and that he did not know how much war itself may be made a subject of traffic; what mighty armies may be put in motion from behind the counter; how often human blood is, without any national animosity, bought and sold for bills of exchange; and how often the prince, the nobles, and the statesmen, in many a polished nation, might, in his account, be considered as merchants. In the progress of arts and of policy, the members of every state are divided into classes; and in the commencement of this distribution, there is no distinction more serious than that of the warrior and the pacific inhabitant; no more is required to place men in the relation of master and slave. Even when the rigours of an established slavery abate, as they have done in modern Europe, in consequence of a protection, and a property, allowed to the mechanic and labourer, this distinction serves still to separate the noble from the base, and to point out that class of men who are destined to reign and to domineer in their country. It was certainty never foreseen by mankind, that, in the pursuit of refinement, they were to reverse this order; or even that they were to place the government, and the military force of nations, in different hands. But is it equally unforeseen, that the former order may again take place? And that the pacific citizen, however distinguished by privilege and rank, must one day bow to the person with whom he has intrusted his sword? If such revolutions should actually follow, will this new master revive in his own order the spirit of the noble and the free? Will he renew the characters of the warrior and the statesman? Will he restore to his country the civil and military virtues? I am afraid to reply. Montesquieu observes, that the government of Rome, even under the emperors, became, in the hands of the troops, elective and republican: but the Fabii or the Bruti were heard of no more after the praetorian bands became the republic. We have enumerated some of the heads under which a people, as they emerge from barbarity, may come to be classed. Such are, the nobility, the people, the adherents of the prince; and even the priesthood have not been forgotten; when we arrive at times of refinement, the army must be joined to the list. The departments of civil government and of war being severed, and the pre-eminence being given to the statesman, the ambitious will naturally devolve the military service on those who are contented with a subordinate station. They who have the greatest share in the division of fortune, and the greatest interest in defending their country, having resigned the sword, must pay for what they have ceased to perform; and armies, not only at a distance from home, but in the very bosom of their country, are subsisted by pay. A discipline is invented to inure the soldier to perform, from habit, and from the fear of punishment, those hazardous duties, which the love of the public, or a national spirit, no longer inspire. When we consider the breach that such an establishment makes in the system of national virtues, it is unpleasant to observe, that most nations who have run the career of civil arts, have, in some degree, adopted this measure. Not only states, which either have wars to maintain, or precarious possessions to defend at a distance; not only a prince jealous of his authority, or in haste to gain the advantage of discipline, are disposed to employ foreign troops, or to keep standing armies; but even republics, with little of the former occasion, and none of the motives which prevail in monarchy, have been found to tread in the same path. If military arrangements occupy so considerable a place in the domestic policy of nations, the actual consequences of war are equally important in the history of mankind. Glory and spoil were the earliest subject of quarrels: a concession of superiority, or a ransom, were the prices of peace. The love of safety, and the desire of dominion, equally lead mankind to wish for accessions of strength. Whether as victors or as vanquished, they tend to a coalition; and powerful nations considering a province, or a fortress acquired on their frontier, as so much gained, are perpetually intent on extending their limits. The maxims of conquest are not always to be distinguished from those of self defence. If a neighbouring state be dangerous, if it be frequently troublesome, it is a maxim founded in the consideration of safety, as well as of conquest, that it ought to be weakened or disarmed: if, being once reduced, it be disposed to renew the contest, it must from thenceforward be governed in form. Rome never avowed any other maxims of conquest; and she every where sent her insolent armies under the specious pretence of procuring to herself and her allies a lasting peace, which she alone would reserve the power to disturb. The equality of those alliances which the Grecian states formed against each other, maintained, for a time, their independence and separation; and that time was the shining and the happy period of their story. It was prolonged more by the vigilance and conduct which they severally applied, than by the moderation of their councils, or by any peculiarities of domestic policy which arrested their progress. The victors were sometimes contented, with merely changing to a resemblance of their own forms, the government of the states they subdued. What the next step might have been in the progress of impositions, is hard to determine. But when we consider, that one party fought for the imposition of tributes, another for the ascendant in war, it cannot be doubted, that the Athenians, from a national ambition, and from the desire of wealth; and the Spartans, though they originally only meant to defend themselves, and their allies, were both, at last, equally willing to become the masters of Greece; and were preparing for each other at home that yoke, which both, together with their confederates, were obliged to receive from abroad. In the conquests of Philip, the desire of self-preservation and security seemed to be blended with the ambition natural to princes. He turned his arms successively to the quarters on which he found himself hurt, from which he had been alarmed or provoked; and when he had subdued the Greeks, he proposed to lead them against their ancient enemy of Persia. In this he laid the plan which was carried into execution by his son. The Romans, become the masters of Italy, and the conquerors of Carthage, had been alarmed on the side of Macedon, and were led to cross a new sea in search of a new field, on which to exercise their military force. In prosecution of their wars, from the earliest to the latest date of their history, without intending the very conquest they made, perhaps without foreseeing what advantage they were to reap from the subjection of distant provinces, or in what manner they were to govern their new acquisitions, they still proceeded to seize what came successively within their reach; and, stimulated by a policy which engaged them in perpetual wars, which led to perpetual victory and accessions of territory, they extended the frontier of a state, which, but a few centuries before, had been confined within the skirts of a village, to the Euphrates, the Danube, the Weser, the Forth, and the Ocean. It is vain to affirm that the genius of any nation is adverse to conquest. Its real interests indeed most commonly are so; but every state, which is prepared to defend itself, and to obtain victories, is likewise in hazard of being tempted to conquer. In Europe, where mercenary and disciplined armies are everywhere formed, and ready to traverse the earth, where, like a flood pent up by slender banks, they are only restrained by political forms, or a temporary balance of power; if the sluices should break, what inundations may we not expect to behold? Effeminate kingdoms and empires are spread from the sea of Corea to the Atlantic ocean. Every state, by the defeat of its troops, may be turned into a province; every army opposed in the field today may be hired to-morrow; and every victory gained, may give the accession of a new military force to the victor. The Romans, with inferior arts of communication by sea and land, maintained their dominion in a considerable part of Europe, Asia, and Africa, over fierce and intractable nations: what may not the fleets and armies of Europe, with the access they have by commerce to every part of the world, and the facility of their conveyance, effect, if that ruinous maxim should prevail, that the grandeur of a nation is to be estimated from the extent of its territory; or, that the interest of any particular people consists in reducing their neighbours to servitude? SECTION VI OF CIVIL LIBERTY If war, either for depredation or defence, were the principal object of nations, every tribe would, from its earliest state, aim at the condition of a Tartar horde; and in all its successes would hasten to the grandeur of a Tartar empire. The military leader would supersede the civil magistrate; and preparations to fly with all their possessions, or to pursue with all their forces, would in every society make the sum of their public arrangements. He who first, on the banks of the Wolga, or the Jenisca, had taught the Scythian to mount the horse, to move his cottage on wheels, to harass his enemy alike by his attacks and his flights, to handle at full speed the lance and the bow, and when beat from his ground, to leave his arrows in the wind to meet his pursuer; he who had taught his countrymen to use the same animal for every purpose of the dairy, the shambles, and the field of battle; would be esteemed the founder of his nation; or like Ceres and Bacchus among the Greeks, would be invested with the honours of a god, as the reward of his useful inventions. Amidst such institutions, the names and achievements of Hercules and Jason might have been transmitted to posterity; but those of Lycurgus or Solon, the heroes of political society, could have gained no reputation, either fabulous or real, in the records of fame. Every tribe of warlike barbarians may entertain among themselves the strongest sentiments of affection and honour, while they carry to the rest of mankind the aspect of banditti and robbers. [Footnote: D'Arvieux's History of the Arabs.] They may be indifferent to interest, and superior to danger; but our sense of humanity, our regard to the rights of nations, our admiration of civil wisdom and justice, even our effeminacy itself, make us turn away with contempt, or with horror, from a scene which exhibits so few of our good qualities, and which serves so much to reproach our weakness. It is in conducting the affairs of civil society, that mankind find the exercise of their best talents, as well as the object of their best affections. It is in being grafted on the advantages of civil society, that the art of war is brought to perfection; that the resources of armies, and the complicated springs to be touched in their conduct, are best understood. The most celebrated warriors were also citizens: opposed to a Roman, or a Greek, the chieftain of Thrace, of Germany, or Gaul, was a novice. The native of Pella learned the principles of his art from Epaminondas and Pelopidas. If nations, as hath been observed in the preceding section, must adjust their policy on the prospect of war from abroad, they are equally bound to provide for the attainment of peace at home. But there is no peace in the absence of justice. It may subsist with divisions, disputes, and contrary opinions; but not with the commission of wrongs. The injurious, and the injured, are, as implied in the very meaning of the terms, in a state of hostility. Where men enjoy peace, they owe it either to their mutual regards and affections, or to the restraints of law. Those are the happiest states which procure peace to their members by the first of these methods: but it is sufficiently uncommon to procure it even by the second. The first would withhold the occasions of war and of competition; the second adjusts the pretensions of men by stipulations and treaties. Sparta taught her citizens not to regard interest: other free nations secure the interest of their members, and consider this as a principal part of their rights. Law is the treaty to which members of the same community have agreed, and under which the magistrate and the subject continue to enjoy their rights, and to maintain the peace of society. The desire of lucre is the great motive to injuries: law therefore has a principal reference to property. It would ascertain the different methods by which property may be acquired, as by prescription, conveyance, and succession; and it makes the necessary provisions for rendering the possession of property secure. Beside avarice, there are other motives from which men are unjust; such as pride, malice, envy, and revenge. The law would eradicate the principles themselves, or at least prevent their effects. From whatever motive wrongs are committed, there are different particulars in which the injured may suffer. He may suffer in his goods, in his person, or in the freedom of his conduct. Nature has made him master of every action which is not injurious to others. The laws of his particular society entitle him perhaps to a determinate station, and bestow on, him a certain share in the government of his country. An injury, therefore, which in this respect puts him under any unjust restraint, may be called an infringement of his political rights. Where the citizen is supposed to have rights of property and of station, and is protected in the exercise of them, he is said to be free; and the very restraints by which he is hindered from the commission of crimes, are a part of his liberty. No person is free, where any person is suffered to do wrong with impunity. Even the despotic prince on his throne, is not an exception to this general rule. He himself is a slave, the moment he pretends that force should decide any contest. The disregard he throws on the rights of his people recoils on himself; and in the general uncertainty of all conditions, there is no tenure more precarious than his own. From the different particulars to which men refer, in speaking of liberty, whether to the safety of the person and the goods, the dignity of rank, or the participation of political importance, as well as from the different methods by which their rights are secured, they are led to differ in the interpretation of the very term; and every free nation is apt to suppose, that freedom is to be found only among themselves; they measure it by their own peculiar habits and system of manners. Some having thought, that the unequal distribution of wealth is a grievance, required a new division of property as the foundation of public justice. This scheme is suited to democratical government; and in such only it has been admitted with any degree of effect. New settlements, like that of the people of Israel, and singular establishments, like those of Sparta and Crete, have furnished examples of its actual execution; but in most other states, even the democratical spirit could attain no more than to prolong the struggle for Agrarian laws; to procure, on occasion, the expunging of debts; and to keep the people in mind, under all the distinctions of fortune, that they still had a claim to equality. The citizen at Rome, at Athens, and in many republics, contended for himself, and his order. The Agrarian law was moved and debated for ages: it served to awaken the mind; it nourished the spirit of equality, and furnished a field on which to exert its force; but was never established with any of its other and more formal effects. Many of the establishments which serve to defend the weak from oppression, contribute, by securing the possession of property, to favour its unequal division, and to increase the ascendant of those from whom the abuses of power may be feared. Those abuses were felt very early both at Athens and Rome. [Footnote: Plutarch in the Life of Solon. Livy.] It has been proposed to prevent the excessive accumulation of wealth in particular hands, by limiting the increase of private fortunes, by prohibiting entails, and by withholding the right of primogeniture in the succession of heirs. It has been proposed to prevent the ruin of moderate estates, and to restrain the use, and consequently the desire of great ones, by sumptuary laws. These different methods are more or less consistent with the interests of commerce, and may be adopted, in different degrees, by a people whose national object is wealth: and they have their degree of effect, by inspiring moderation, or a sense of equality, and by stifling the passions by which mankind are prompted to mutual wrongs. It appears to be, in a particular manner, the object of sumptuary laws, and of the equal division of wealth, to prevent the gratification of vanity, to check the ostentation of superior fortune, and, by this means, to weaken the desire of riches, and to preserve, in the breast of the citizen, that moderation and equity which ought to regulate his conduct. This end is never perfectly attained in any state where the unequal division of property is admitted, and where fortune is allowed to bestow distinction and rank. It is indeed difficult, by any methods whatever, to shut up this source of corruption. Of all the nations whose history is known with certainty, the design itself, and the manner of executing it, appear to have been understood in Sparta alone. There property was indeed acknowledged by law; but in consequence of certain regulations and practices, the most effectual, it seems, that mankind have hitherto found out. The manners that prevail among simple nations before the establishment of property, were in some measure preserved; [Footnote: See Part II. Sec. 2.] the passion for riches was, during many ages, suppressed; and the citizen was made to consider himself as the property of his country, not as the owner of a private estate. It was held ignominious either to buy or to sell the patrimony of a citizen. Slaves were, in every family, intrusted with the care of its effects, and freemen were strangers to lucrative arts; justice was established on a contempt of the ordinary allurement to crimes; and the preservatives of civil liberty applied by the state, were the dispositions that were made to prevail in the hearts of its members. The individual was relieved from every solicitude that could arise on the head of his fortune; he was educated, and he was employed for life in the service of the public; he was fed at a place of common resort, to which he could carry no distinction but that of his talents and his virtues; his children were the wards and the pupils of the state; he himself was thought to be a parent, and a director to the youth of his country, not the anxious father of a separate family. This people, we are told, bestowed some care in adorning their persons, and were known from afar by the red or the purple they wore; but could not make their equipage, their buildings, or their furniture, a subject of fancy, or what we call taste. The carpenter and the housebuilder were restricted to the use of the axe and the saw: their workmanship must have been simple, and probably, in respect to its form, continued for ages the same. The ingenuity of the artist was employed in cultivating his own nature, not in adorning the habitations of his fellow citizens. On this plan, they had senators, magistrates, leaders of armies, and ministers of state; but no men of fortune. Like the heroes of Homer, they distributed honours by the measure of the cup and the platter. A citizen who, in his political capacity, was the arbiter of Greece, thought himself honoured by receiving a double portion of plain entertainment at supper. He was active, penetrating, brave, disinterested, and generous; but his estate, his table, and his furniture might, in our esteem, have marred the lustre of all his virtues. Neighbouring nations, however, applied for commanders to this nursery of statesmen and warriors, as we apply for the practitioners of every art to the countries in which they excel; for cooks to France, and for musicians to Italy. After all, we are, perhaps, not sufficiently instructed in the nature of the Spartan laws and institutions, to understand in what manner all the ends of this singular state were obtained; but the admiration paid to its people, and the constant reference of contemporary historians to their avowed superiority, will not allow us to question the facts. "When I observed," says Xenophon, "that this nation, though not the most populous, was the most powerful state of Greece, I was seized with wonder, and with an earnest desire to know by what arts it attained its pre-eminence; but when I came to the knowledge of its institutions, my wonder ceased. As one man excels another, and as he who is at pains to cultivate his mind, must surpass the person who neglects it; so the Spartans should excel every, nation, being the only state in which virtue is studied as the object of government." The subjects of property, considered with a view to subsistence, or even to enjoyment, have little effect in corrupting mankind, or in awakening the spirit of competition and of jealousy; but considered with a view to distinction and honour, where fortune constitutes rank, they excite the most vehement passions, and absorb all the sentiments of the human soul: they reconcile avarice and meanness with ambition and vanity; and lead men through the practice of sordid and mercenary arts, to the possession of a supposed elevation and dignity. Where this source of corruption, on the contrary, is effectually stopped, the citizen is dutiful, and the magistrate upright; any form of government may be wisely, administered; places of trust are likely to be well supplied; and by whatever rule office and power are bestowed, it is likely that all the capacity and force that subsists in the state will come to be employed in its service: for on this supposition, experience and abilities are the only guides, and the only titles to public confidence; and if citizens be ranged into separate classes, they become mutual checks by the difference of their opinions, not by the opposition of their interested designs. We may easily account for the censures bestowed on the government of Sparta, by those who considered it merely on the side of its forms. It was not calculated to prevent the practice of crimes, by balancing against each other the selfish and partial dispositions of men; but to inspire the virtues of the soul, to procure innocence by the absence of criminal inclinations, and to derive its internal peace from the indifference of its members to the ordinary motives of strife and disorder. It were trifling to seek for its analogy to any other constitution of state, in which its principal characteristic and distinguishing feature is not to be found. The collegiate sovereignty, the senate, and the ephori, had their counterparts in other republics, and a resemblance has been found in particular to the government of Carthage: [Footnote: Aristotle.] but what affinity of consequence can be found between a state whose sole object was virtue, and another whose principal object was wealth; between a people whose associated kings, being lodged, in the same cottage, had no fortune but their daily food; and a commercial republic, in which a proper estate was required as a necessary qualification for the higher offices of state? Other petty commonwealths expelled kings, when they became jealous of their designs, or after having experienced their tyranny; here the hereditary succession of kings was preserved: other states were afraid of the intrigues and cabals of their members in competition for dignities; here solicitation was required as the only condition upon which a place in the senate was obtained. A supreme inquisitorial power was, in the persons of the ephori, safely committed to a few men, who were drawn by lot, and without distinction, from every order of the people: and if a contrast to this, as well as to many other articles of the Spartan policy, be required, it may be found in the general history of mankind. But Sparta, under every supposed error of its form, prospered for ages, by the integrity of its manners, and by the character of its citizens. When that integrity was broken, this people did not languish in the weakness of nations sunk in effeminacy. They fell into the stream by which other states had been carried in the torrent of violent passions, and in the outrage of barbarous times. They ran the career of other nations, after that of ancient Sparta was finished they built walls, and began to improve their possessions, after they ceased to improve their people; and on this new plan, in their struggle for political life, they survived the system of states that perished under the Macedonian dominion: they lived to act with another which arose in the Achæan league; and were the last community of Greece that became a village in the empire of Rome. If it should be thought we have dwelt too long on the history of this singular people, it may be remembered, in excuse, that they alone, in the language of Xenophon, made virtue an object of state. We must be contented to derive our freedom from a different source: to expect justice from the limits which are set to the powers of the magistrate, and to rely for protection on the laws which are made to secure the estate and the person of the subject. We live in societies, where men must be rich, in order to be great; where pleasure itself is often pursued from vanity; where the desire of a supposed happiness serves to inflame the worst of passions, and is itself the foundation of misery; where public justice, like fetters applied to the body, may, without inspiring the sentiments of candour and equity, prevent the actual commission of crimes. Mankind come under this description the moment they are seized with their passion for riches and power. But their description in every instance is mixed: in the best there is an alloy of evil; in the worst, a mixture of good. Without any establishments to preserve their manners, besides penal laws, and the restraints of police, they derive, from instinctive feelings, a love of integrity and candour, and from the very contagion of society itself, an esteem for what is honourable and praiseworthy. They derive, from their union and joint opposition to foreign enemies, a zeal for their own community, and courage to maintain its rights. If the frequent neglect of virtue, as a political object, tend to discredit the understandings of men, its lustre, and its frequency, as a spontaneous offspring of the heart, will restore the honours of our nature. In every casual and mixed state of the national manners, the safety of every individual, and his political consequence, depends much on himself, but more on the party to which he is joined. For this reason, all who feel a common interest, are apt to unite in parties; and, as far as that interest requires, mutually support each other. Where the citizens of any free community are of different orders, each order has a peculiar set of claims and pretensions: relatively to the other members of the state, it is a party; relatively to the differences of interest among its own members, it may admit of numberless subdivisions. But in every state there are two interests very readily apprehended; that of a prince and his adherents, that of a nobility, or of any temporary faction, opposed to the people. Where the sovereign power is reserved by the collected body, it appears unnecessary to think of additional establishments for securing the rights of the citizen. But it is difficult, if not impossible, for the collective body to exercise this power in a manner that supersedes the necessity of every other political caution. If popular assemblies assume every function of government; and if, in the same tumultuous manner in which they can, with great propriety, express their feelings, the sense of their rights, and their animosity to foreign or domestic enemies, they pretend to deliberate on points of national conduct, or to decide questions of equity and justice; the public is exposed to manifold inconveniencies; and popular governments would, of all others, be the most subject to errors in administration, and to weakness in the execution of public measures. To avoid these disadvantages, the people are always contented to delegate part of their power. They establish a senate to debate, and to prepare, if not to determine, questions that are brought to the collective body for a final resolution. They commit the executive power to some council of this sort, or to a magistrate who presides in their meetings. Under the use of this necessary and common expedient, even while democratical forms are most carefully guarded, there is one party of the few, another of the many. One attacks, the other defends; and they are both ready to assume in their turns. But though, in reality, a great danger to liberty arises on the part of the people themselves, who, in times of corruption, are easily made the instruments of usurpation and tyranny; yet, in the ordinary aspect of government, the executive carries an air of superiority, and the rights of the people seem always exposed to encroachment. Though, on the day that the Roman people were assembled, the senators mixed with the crowd, and the consul was no more than the servant of the multitude; yet, when this awful meeting was dissolved, the senators met to prescribe business for their sovereign, and the consul went armed with the axe and the rods, to teach every Roman, in his separate capacity, the submission which he owed to the state. Thus, even where the collective body is sovereign, they are assembled only occasionally; and though, on such occasions, they determine every question relative to their rights and their interests as a people, and can assert their freedom with irresistible force; yet they do not think themselves, nor are they in reality, safe, without a more constant and more uniform power operating in their favour. The multitude is every where strong; but requires, for the safety of its members, when separate as well as when assembled, a head to direct and to employ its strength. For this purpose, the ephori, we are told, were established at Sparta, the council of a hundred at Carthage, and the tribunes at Rome. So prepared, the popular party has, in many instances, been able to cope with its adversaries, and has even trampled on the powers, whether aristocratical or monarchical, with which it would have been otherwise unable to contend. The state, in such cases, commonly suffered by the delays, interruptions, and confusions, which popular leaders, from private envy, or a prevailing jealousy of the great, seldom failed to create in the proceedings of government. Where the people, as in some larger communities, have only a share in the legislature, they cannot overwhelm the collateral powers, who having likewise a share, are in condition to defend themselves: where they act only by their representatives, their force may be uniformly employed. And they may make a part in a constitution of government more lasting than any of those in which the people, possessing or pretending to the entire legislature, are, when assembled, the tyrants, and, when dispersed, the slaves of a distempered state. In governments properly mixed, the popular interest, finding a counterpoise in that of the prince or of the nobles, a balance is actually established between them, in which the public freedom and the public order are made to consist. From some such casual arrangement of different interests, all the varieties of mixed government proceed; and on that degree of consideration which every separate interest can procure to itself, depends the equity of the laws they enact, and the necessity they are able to impose, of adhering strictly to the terms of law in its execution. States are accordingly unequally qualified to conduct the business of legislation, and unequally fortunate in the completeness, and regular observance, of their civil code. In democratical establishments, citizens, feeling themselves possessed of the sovereignty, are not equally anxious, with the subjects of other governments, to have their rights explained, or secured, by actual statute. They trust to personal vigour, to the support of party, and to the sense of the public. If the collective body perform the office of judge, as well as of legislator, they seldom think of devising rules for their own direction, and are found still more seldom to follow any determinate rule, after it is made. They dispense, at one time, with what they enacted at another; and in their judicative, perhaps even more than in their legislative, capacity, are guided by passions and partialities that arise from circumstances of the case before them. But under the simplest governments of a different sort, whether aristocracy or monarchy, there is a necessity for law, and there are a variety of interests to be adjusted in framing every statute. The sovereign wishes to give stability and order to administration, by express and promulgated rules. The subject wishes to know the conditions and limits of his duty. He acquiesces or he revolts, according as the terms on which he is made to live with the sovereign, or with his fellow subjects, are, or are not, consistent with the sense of his rights. Neither the monarch, nor the council of nobles, where either is possessed of the sovereignty, can pretend to govern, or to judge at discretion. No magistrate, whether temporary or hereditary, can with safety neglect that reputation for justice and equity, from which his authority, and the respect that is paid to his person, are in a great measure derived. Nations, however, have been fortunate in the tenor, and in the execution of their laws, in proportion as they have admitted every order of the people, by representation or otherwise, to an actual share of the legislature. Under establishments of this sort, law is literally a treaty, to which the parties concerned have agreed, and have given their opinion in settling its terms. The interests to be affected by a law, are likewise consulted in making it. Every class propounds an objection, suggests an addition or an amendment of its own. They proceed to adjust, by statute, every subject of controversy: and while they continue to enjoy their freedom, they continue to multiply laws, and to accumulate volumes, as if they could remove every possible ground of dispute, and were secure of their rights, merely by having put them in writing. Rome and England, under their mixed governments, the one inclining to democracy, and the other to monarchy, have proved the great legislators among nations. The first has left the foundation, and great part of the superstructure of its civil code to the continent of Europe: the other, in its island, has carried the authority and government of law to a point of perfection, which they never before attained in the history of mankind. Under such favourable establishments, known customs, the practice and decisions of courts, as well as positive statutes, acquire the authority of laws; and every proceeding is conducted by some fixed and determinate rule. The best and most effectual precautions are taken for the impartial application of rules to particular cases; and it is remarkable, that, in the two examples we have mentioned, a surprising coincidence is found in the singular methods of their jurisdiction. The people in both reserved in a manner the office of judgment to themselves, and brought the decision of civil rights, or of criminal questions, to the tribunal of peers, who, in judging of their fellow citizens, prescribed a condition of life for themselves. It is not in mere laws, after all, that we are to look for the securities to justice, but in the powers by which these laws have been obtained, and without whose constant support they must fall to disuse. Statutes serve to record the rights of a people, and speak the intention of parties to defend what the letter of the law has expressed; but without the vigour to maintain what is acknowledged as a right, the mere record, or the feeble intention, is of little avail. A populace roused by oppression, or an order of men possessed of temporary advantage, have obtained many charters, concessions, and stipulations, in favour of their claims; but where no adequate preparation was made to preserve them, the written articles were often forgotten, together with the occasion on which they were framed. The history of England, and of every free country, abounds with the example of statutes enacted when the people or their representatives assembled, but never executed when the crown or the executive was left to itself. The most equitable laws on paper are consistent with the utmost despotism in administration. Even the form of trial by juries in England had its authority in law, while the proceedings of courts were arbitrary and oppressive. We must admire, as the key stone of civil liberty, the statute which forces the secrets of every prison to be revealed, the cause of every commitment to be declared, and the person of the accused to be produced, that he may claim his enlargement, or his trial, within a limited time. No wiser form was ever opposed to the abuses of power. But it requires a fabric no less than the whole political constitution of Great Britain, a spirit no less than the refractory and turbulent zeal of this fortunate people, to secure its effects. If even the safety of the person, and the tenure of property, which may be so well defined in the words of a statute, depend, for their preservation, on the vigour and jealousy of a free people, and on the degree of consideration which every order of the state maintains for itself; it is still more evident, that what we have called the political freedom, or the right of the individual to act in his station for himself and the public, cannot be made to rest on any other foundation. The estate may be saved, and the person released, by the forms of a civil procedure; but the rights of the mind cannot be sustained by any other force but its own. SECTION VII. OF THE HISTORY OF ARTS. We have already observed, that art is natural to man; and that the skill he acquires after many ages of practice, is only the improvement of a talent he possessed at the first. Vitruvius finds the rudiments of architecture in the form of a Scythian cottage. The armourer may find the first productions of his calling in the sling and the bow; and the shipwright of his in the canoe of the savage. Even the historian and the poet may find the original essays of their arts in the tale, and the song, which celebrate the wars, the loves, and the adventures of men in their rudest condition. Destined to cultivate his own nature, or to mend his situation, man finds a continual subject of attention, ingenuity, and labour. Even where he does not propose any personal improvement, his faculties are strengthened by those very exercises in which he seems to forget himself: his reason and his affections are thus profitably engaged in the affairs of society; his invention and his skill are exercised in procuring his accommodations and his food; his particular pursuits are prescribed to him by circumstances of the age, and of the country in which he lives: in one situation, he is occupied with wars and political deliberations; in another, with the care of his interest, of his personal ease, or conveniency. He suits his means to the ends he has in view; and, by multiplying contrivances, proceeds, by degrees, to the perfection of his arts. In every step of his progress, if his skill be increased, his desire must likewise have time to extend: and it would be as vain to suggest a contrivance of which he slighted the use, as it would be to tell him of blessings which he could not command. Ages are generally supposed to have borrowed from those who went before them, and nations to have received their portion of learning or of art from abroad. The Romans are thought to have learned from the Greeks, and the moderns of Europe from both. From a few examples of this sort, we learn to consider every science or art as derived, and admit of nothing original in the practice or manners of any people. The Greek was a copy of the Egyptian, and even the Egyptian was an imitator, though we have lost sight of the model on which he was formed. It is known, that men improve by example and intercourse; but in the case of nations, whose members excite and direct each other, why seek from abroad the origin of arts, of which every society, having the principles in itself, only requires a favourable occasion to bring them to light? When such occasion presents itself to any people, they generally seize it; and while it continues, they improve the inventions to which it gave rise among themselves, or they willingly copy from others: but they never employ their own invention, nor look abroad, for instruction on subjects that do not lie in the way of their common pursuits; they never adopt a refinement of which they have not discovered the use. Inventions, we frequently observe, are accidental; but it is probable, that an accident which escapes the artist in one age, may be seized by one who succeeds him, and who is better apprized of its use. Where circumstances are favourable, and where a people is intent on the objects of any art, every invention is preserved, by being brought into general practice; every model is studied, and every accident is turned to account. If nations actually borrow from their neighbours, they probably borrow only what they are nearly in a condition to have invented themselves. Any singular practice of one country, therefore, is seldom transferred to another, till the way be prepared by the introduction of similar circumstances. Hence our frequent complaints of the dulness or obstinacy of mankind, and of the dilatory communication of arts from one place to another. While the Romans adopted the arts of Greece, the Thracians and Illyrians continued to behold them with indifference. Those arts were, during one period, confined to the Greek colonies, and during another, to the Roman. Even where they were spread by a visible intercourse, they were still received by independent nations with the slowness of invention. They made a progress not more rapid at Rome than they had done at Athens; and they passed to the extremities of the Roman empire, only in company with new colonies, and joined to Italian policy. The modern race, who came abroad to the possession of cultivated provinces, retained the arts they had practised at home: the new master hunted the boar, or pastured his herds, where he might have raised a plentiful harvest; he built a cottage in the view of a palace; he buried, in one common ruin, the edifices, sculptures, paintings, and libraries, of the former inhabitant: he made a settlement upon a plan of his own, be said with assurance, that although the Roman and the modern literature savour alike of the Greek original, yet mankind, in either instance, would not have drank of this fountain, unless they had been hastening to open springs of their own. Sentiment and fancy, the use of the hand or the head, are not inventions of particular men; and the flourishing of arts that depend on them, are, in the case of any people, a proof rather of political felicity at home, than of any instruction received from abroad, or of any natural superiority in point of industry or talents. When the attentions of men are turned toward particular subjects, when the acquisitions of one age are left entire to the next, when every individual is protected in his place, and left to pursue the suggestion of his wants, inventions accumulate; and it is difficult to find the original of any art. The steps which lead to perfection are many; and we are at a loss on whom to bestow the greatest share of our praise; on the first, or on the last, who may have borne a part in the progress. SECTION VIII. OF THE HISTORY OF LITERATURE. If we may rely on the general observations contained in the last section, the literary, as well as mechanical arts, being a natural produce of the human mind, will rise spontaneously wherever men are happily placed; and in certain nations it is not more necessary to look abroad for the origin of literature, than it is for the suggestion of any of the pleasures or exercises in which mankind, under a state of prosperity and freedom, are sufficiently inclined to indulge themselves. We are apt to consider arts as foreign and adventitious to the nature of man; but there is no art that did not find its occasion in human life, and that was not, in some one or other of the situations in which our species is found, suggested as a means for the attainment of some useful end. The mechanic and commercial arts took their rise from the love of property, and were encouraged by the prospects of safety and of gain: the literary and liberal arts took their rise from the understanding, the fancy, and the heart. They are mere exercises of the mind in search of its peculiar pleasures and occupations; and are promoted by circumstances that suffer the mind to enjoy itself. Men are equally engaged by the past, the present, and the future, and are prepared for every occupation that gives scope to their powers. Productions, therefore, whether of narration, fiction, or reasoning, that tend to employ the imagination, or move the heart; continue for ages a subject of attention, and a source of delight. The memory of human transactions being preserved in tradition or writing, is the natural gratification of a passion that consists of curiosity, admiration, and the love of amusement. Before many books are written, and before science is greatly advanced, the productions of mere genius are sometimes complete: the performer requires not the aid of learning where his description of story relates to near and contiguous objects; where it relates to the conduct and characters of men with whom he himself has acted, and in whose occupations and fortunes he himself has borne a part. With this advantage, the poet is the first to offer the fruits of his genius, and to lead in the career of those arts by which the mind is destined to exhibit its imaginations, and to express its passions. Every tribe of barbarians have their passionate or historic rhymes, which contain the superstition, the enthusiasm, and the admiration of glory, with which the breasts of men, in the earliest state of society, are possessed. They delight in versification, either because the cadence of numbers is natural to the language of sentiment, or because, not having the advantage of writing, they are obliged to bring the ear in aid of the memory, in order to facilitate the repetition, and ensure the preservation of their works. When we attend to the language which savages employ on any solemn occasion, it appears that man is a poet by nature. Whether at first obliged by the mere defects of his tongue, and the scantiness of proper expressions, or seduced by a pleasure of the fancy in stating the analogy of its objects, he clothes every conception in image and metaphor. "We have planted the tree of peace," says an American orator; "we have buried the axe under its roots: we will henceforth repose under its shade; we will join to brighten the chain that binds our nations together." Such are the collections of metaphor which those nations employ in their public harangues. They have likewise already adopted those lively figures, and that daring freedom of language, which the learned have afterwards found so well fitted to express the rapid transitions of the imagination, and the ardours of a passionate mind. If we are required to explain, how men could be poets, or orators, before they were aided by the learning of the scholar and the critic? we may inquire, in our turn, how bodies could fall by their weight, before the laws of gravitation were recorded in books? Mind, as well as body, has laws, which are exemplified in the course of nature, and which the critic collects only after the example has shown what they are. Occasioned, probably, by the physical connection we have mentioned, between the emotions of a heated imagination, and the impressions received from music and pathetic sounds, every tale among rude nations is repeated in verse, and is made to take the form of a song. The early history of all nations is uniform in this particular. Priests, statesmen, and philosophers, in the first ages of Greece, delivered their instructions in poetry, and mixed with the dealers in music and heroic fable. It is not so surprising, however, that poetry should be the first species of composition in every nation, as it is that a style, apparently so difficult, and so far removed from ordinary use, should be almost as universally the first to attain its maturity. The most admired of all poets lived beyond the reach of history, almost of tradition. The artless song of the savage, the heroic legend of the bard, have sometimes a magnificent beauty, which no change of language can improve, and no refinements of the critic reform. [Footnote: See Translations of Gallic Poetry, by James McPherson.] Under the supposed disadvantage of a limited knowledge, and a rude apprehension, the simple poet has impressions that more than compensate the defects of his skill. The best subjects of poetry, the characters of the violent and the brave, the generous and the intrepid, great dangers, trials of fortitude and fidelity, are exhibited within his view, or are delivered in traditions which animate like truth, because they are equally believed. He is not engaged in recalling, like Virgil or Tasso, the sentiments or scenery of an age remote from his own; he needs not be told by the critic, [Footnote: See Longinus.] to recollect what another would have thought, or in what manner another would have expressed his conception. The simple passions, friendship, resentment, and love, are the movements of his own mind, and he has no occasion to copy. Simple and vehement in his conceptions and feelings, he knows no diversity of thought, or of style, to mislead or to exercise his judgment. He delivers the emotions of the heart, in words suggested by the heart; for he knows no other. And hence it is, that while we admire the judgment and invention of Virgil, and of other later poets, these terms appear misapplied to Homer. Though intelligent, as well as sublime, in his conceptions, we cannot anticipate the lights of his understanding, nor the movements of his heart; he appears to speak from inspiration, not from invention; and to be guided in the choice of his thoughts and expressions by a supernatural instinct, not by reflection. The language of early ages is, in one respect, simple and confined; in another, it is varied and free: it allows liberties, which, to the poet of after-times, are denied. In rude ages men are not separated by distinctions of rank or profession. They live in one manner, and speak one dialect. The bard is not to choose his expression among the singular accents of different conditions. He has not to guard his language from the peculiar errors of the mechanic, the peasant, the scholar, or the courtier, in order to find that elegant propriety, and just elevation, which is free from the vulgar of one class, the pedantic of the second, or the flippant of the third. The name of every object, and of every sentiment, is fixed; and if his conception has the dignity of nature, his expression will have a purity which does not depend on his choice. With this apparent confinement in the choice of his words, he is at liberty to break through the ordinary modes of construction; and in the form of a language not established by rules, may find for himself a cadence agreeable to the tone of his mind. The liberty he takes, while his meaning is striking, and his language is raised, appears an improvement, not a trespass on grammar. He delivers a style to the ages that follow, and becomes a model from which his posterity judge. But whatever may be the early disposition of mankind to poetry, or the advantages they possess in cultivating this species of literature; whether the early maturity of poetical compositions arise from their being the first studied, or from their having a charm to engage persons of the liveliest genius, who are best qualified to improve the eloquence of their native tongue; it is a remarkable fact, that, not only in countries where every vein of composition was original, and was opened in the order of natural succession; but even at Rome, and in modern Europe, where the learned began early to practise on foreign models, we have poets of every nation, who are perused with pleasure, while the prose writers of the same ages are neglected. As Sophocles and Euripides preceded the historians and moralists of Greece, not only Naevius and Ennius, who wrote the Roman history in verse, but Lucilius, Plautus, Terence, and we may add Lucretius, were prior to Cicero, Sallust, or Caesar. Dante and Petrarch went before any good prose writer in Italy; Corneille and Racine brought on the fine age of prose compositions in France; and we had in England, not only Chaucer and Spenser, but Shakspeare and Milton, while our attempts in history or science were yet in their infancy; and deserve our attention, only for the sake of the matter they treat. Hellanicus, who is reckoned among the first prose writers in Greece, and who immediately preceded, or was the contemporary of Herodotus, set out with declaring his intention to remove from history the wild representations, and extravagant fictions, with which it had been disgraced by the poets. [Footnote: Quoted by Demetrius Phalerius.] The want of records or authorities, relating to any distant transactions, may have hindered him, as it did his immediate successor, from giving truth all the advantage it might have reaped from this transition to prose. There are, however, ages in the progress of society, when such a proposition must be favourably received. When men become occupied on the subjects of policy, or commercial arts, they wish to be informed and instructed, as well as moved. They are interested by what was real in past transactions. They build on this foundation the reflections and reasonings they apply to present affairs, and wish to receive information on the subject of different pursuits, and of projects in which they begin to be engaged. The manners of men, the practice of ordinary life, and the form of society, furnish their subjects to the moral and political writer. Mere ingenuity, justness of sentiment, and correct representation, though conveyed in ordinary language, are understood to constitute literary merit, and by applying to reason more than to the imagination and passions, meet with a reception that is due to the instruction they bring. The talents of men come to be employed in a variety of affairs, and their inquiries directed to different subjects. Knowledge is important in every department of civil society, and requisite to the practice of every art. The science of nature, morals, politics, and history, find their, several admirers; and even poetry itself, which retains its former station in the region of warm imagination and enthusiastic passion, appears in a growing variety of forms. Matters have proceeded so far, without the aid of foreign examples, or the direction of schools. The cart of Thespis was changed into a theatre, not to gratify the learned, but to please the Athenian populace; and the prize of poetical merit was decided by this populace equally before and after the invention of rules. The Greeks were unacquainted with every language but their own; and if they became learned, it was only by studying what they themselves had produced: the childish mythology, which they are said to have copied from Asia, was equally of little avail in promoting their love of arts, or their success in the practice of them. When the historian is struck with the events he has witnessed, or heard; when he is excited to relate them by his reflections or his passions; when the statesman, who is required to speak in public, is obliged to prepare for every remarkable appearance in studied harangues; when conversation becomes extensive and refined; and when the social feelings and reflections of men are committed to writing, a system of learning may arise from the bustle of an active life. Society itself is the school, and its lessons are delivered in the practice of real affairs. An author writes from observations he has made on his subject, not from the suggestion of books; and every production carries the mark of his character as a man, not of his mere proficiency as a student or scholar. It may be made a question, whether the trouble of seeking for distant models, and of wading for instruction, through dark allusions and languages unknown, might not have quenched his fire, and rendered him a writer of a very inferior class. If society may thus be considered as a school for letters, it is probable that its lessons are varied in every separate state, and in every age. For a certain period, the severe applications of the Roman people to policy and war suppressed the literary arts, and appear to have stifled the genius even of the historian and the poet. The institutions of Sparta gave a professed contempt for whatever was not connected with the practical virtues of a vigorous and resolute spirit: the charms of imagination, and the parade of language, were by this people classed with the arts of the cook and the perfumer: their songs in praise of fortitude are mentioned by some writers; and collections of their witty sayings and repartees are still preserved: they indicate the virtues and the abilities of an active people, not their proficiency in science or literary taste. Possessed of what was essential to happiness in the virtues of the heart, they had a discernment of its value, unembarrassed by the numberless objects on which mankind in general are so much at a loss to adjust their esteem: fixed in their own apprehension, they turned a sharp edge on the follies of mankind. "When will you begin to practise it?" was the question of a Spartan to a person who, in an advanced age of life, was still occupied with questions on the nature of virtue. While this people confined their studies to one question, how to improve and to preserve the courage and disinterested affections of the human heart; their rivals, the Athenians, gave a scope to refinement on every object of reflection or passion. By the rewards, either of profit or of reputation, which they bestowed on every effort of ingenuity employed in ministering to the pleasure, the decoration, or the conveniency of life; by the variety of conditions in which their citizens were placed; by their inequalities of fortune, and their several pursuits in war, politics, commerce, and lucrative arts, they awakened whatever was either good or bad in the natural dispositions of men. Every road to eminence was opened: eloquence, fortitude, military skill, envy, detraction, faction, and treason, even the muse herself, was courted to bestow importance among a busy, acute, and turbulent people. From this example, we may safely conclude, that although business is sometimes a rival to study, retirement and leisure are not the principal requisites to the improvement, perhaps not even to the exercise, of literary talents. The most striking exertions of imagination and sentiment have a reference to mankind: they are excited by the presence and intercourse of men: they have most vigour when actuated in the mind by the operation of its principal springs, by the emulations, the friendships, and the oppositions which subsist among a forward and aspiring people. Amidst the great occasions which put a free, and even a licentious society in motion, its members become capable of every exertion; and the same scenes which gave employment to Themistocles and Thrasybulus, inspired, by contagion, the genius of Sophocles and Plato. The petulant and the ingenious find an equal scope to their talents; and literary monuments become the repositories of envy and folly, as well as of wisdom and virtue. Greece, divided into many little states, and agitated, beyond any spot on the globe, by domestic contentions and foreign wars, set the example in every species of literature. The fire was communicated to Rome; not when the state ceased to be warlike, and had discontinued her political agitations, but when she mixed the love of refinement and of pleasure with her national pursuits, and indulged an inclination to study in the midst of ferments, occasioned by the wars and pretensions of opposite factions. It was revived in modern Europe among the turbulent states of Italy, and spread to the north, together with the spirit which shook the fabric of the Gothic policy: it rose while men were divided into parties, under civil or religious denominations, and when they were at variance on subjects held the most important and sacred. We may be satisfied, from the example of many ages, that liberal endowments bestowed on learned societies, and the leisure with which they were furnished for study, are not the likeliest means to excite the exertions of genius: even science itself, the supposed offspring of leisure, pined in the shade of monastic retirement. Men at a distance from the objects of useful knowledge, untouched by the motives that animate an active and a vigorous mind, could produce only the jargon of a technical language, and accumulate the impertinence of academical forms. To speak or to write justly from an observation of nature, it is necessary to have felt the sentiments of nature. He who is penetrating and ardent in the conduct of life, will probably exert a proportional force and ingenuity in the exercise of his literary talents: and although writing may become a trade, and require all the application and study which are bestowed on any other calling; yet the principal requisites in this calling are, the spirit and sensibility of a vigorous mind. In one period, the school may take its light and direction from active life; in another, it is true, the remains of an active spirit are greatly supported by literary monuments, and by the history of transactions that preserve the examples and the experience of former and of better times. But in whatever manner men are formed for great efforts of elocution or conduct, it appears the most glaring of all deceptions, to look for the accomplishments of a human character in the mere attainments of speculation, whilst we neglect the qualities of fortitude and public affection, which are so necessary to render our knowledge an article of happiness or of use. PART FOURTH. OF CONSEQUENCES THAT RESULT FROM THE ADVANCEMENT OF CIVIL AND COMMERCIAL ARTS. * * * * * SECTION I. OF THE SEPARATION OF ARTS AND PROFESSIONS. It is evident, that, however urged by a sense of necessity, and a desire of convenience, or favoured by any advantages of situation and policy, a people can make no great progress in cultivating the arts of life, until they have separated, and committed to different persons, the several tasks which require a peculiar skill and attention. The savage, or the barbarian, who must build and plant, and fabricate for himself, prefers, in the interval of great alarms and fatigues, the enjoyments of sloth to the improvement of his fortune: he is, perhaps, by the diversity of his wants, discouraged from industry; or, by his divided attention, prevented from acquiring skill in the management of any particular subject. The enjoyment of peace, however, and the prospect of being able to exchange one commodity for another, turns, by degrees, the hunter and the warrior into a tradesman and a merchant. The accidents which distribute the means of subsistence unequally, inclination, and favourable opportunities, assign the different occupations of men; and a sense of utility leads them, without end, to subdivide their professions. The artist finds, that the more he can confine his attention to a particular part of any work, his productions are the more perfect, and grow under his hands in the greater quantities. Every undertaker in manufacture finds, that the more he can subdivide the tasks of his workmen, and the more hands he can employ on separate articles, the more are his expenses diminished, and his profits increased. The consumer too requires, in every kind of commodity, a workmanship more perfect than hands employed on a variety of subjects can produce; and the progress of commerce is but a continued subdivision of the mechanical arts. Every craft may engross the whole of a man's attention, and has a mystery which must be studied or learned by a regular apprenticeship. Nations of tradesmen come to consist of members, who, beyond their own particular trade, are ignorant of all human affairs, and who may contribute to the preservation and enlargement of their commonwealth, without making its interest an object of their regard or attention. Every individual is distinguished by his calling, and has a place to which he is fitted. The savage, who knows no distinction but that of his merit, of his sex, or of his species, and to whom his community is the sovereign object of affection, is astonished to find, that in a scene of this nature, his being a man does not qualify him for any station whatever: he flies to the woods with amazement, distaste, and aversion. By the separation of arts and professions, the sources of wealth are laid open; every species of material is wrought up to the greatest perfection, and every commodity is produced in the greatest abundance. The state may estimate its profits and its revenues by the number of its people. It may procure, by its treasure, that national consideration and power, which the savage maintains at the expense of his blood. The advantage gained in the inferior branches of manufacture by the separation of their parts, seem to be equalled by those which arise from a similar device in the higher departments of policy and war. The soldier is relieved from every care but that of his service; statesmen divide the business of civil government into shares; and the servants of the public, in every office, without being skilful in the affairs of state, may succeed, by observing forms which are already established on the experience of others. They are made, like the parts of an engine, to concur to a purpose, without any concert of their own: and equally blind with the trader to any general combination, they unite with him, in furnishing to the state its resources, its conduct, and its force. The artifices of the beaver, the ant, and the bee, are ascribed to the wisdom of nature. Those of polished nations are ascribed to themselves, and are supposed to indicate a capacity superior to that of rude minds. But the establishments of men, like those of every animal, are suggested by nature, and are the result of instinct, directed by the variety of situations in which mankind are placed. Those establishments arose from successive improvements that were made, without any sense of their general effect; and they bring human affairs to a state of complication, which the greatest reach of capacity with which human nature was ever adorned, could not have projected; nor even when the whole is carried into execution, can it be comprehended in its full extent. Who could anticipate, or even enumerate, the separate occupations and professions by which the members of any commercial state are distinguished; the variety of devices which are practised in separate cells, and which the artist, attentive to his own affair, has invented, to abridge or to facilitate his separate task? In coming to this mighty end, every generation, compared to its predecessors, may have appeared to be ingenious; compared to its followers, may have appeared to be dull: and human ingenuity, whatever heights it may have gained in a succession of ages, continues to move with an equal pace, and to creep in making the last, as well as the first, step of commercial or civil improvement. It may even be doubted, whether the measure of national capacity increases with the advancement of arts. Many mechanical arts, indeed, require no capacity; they succeed best under a total suppression of sentiment and reason; and ignorance is the mother of industry as well as of superstition. Reflection and fancy are subject to err; but a habit of moving the hand, or the foot, is independent of either. Manufactures, accordingly, prosper most where the mind is least consulted, and where the workshop may, without any great effort of imagination, be considered as an engine, the parts of which are men. The forest has been felled by the savage without the use of the axe, and weights have been raised without the aid of the mechanical powers. The merit of the inventor, in every branch, probably deserves a preference to that of the performer; and he who invented a tool, or could work without its assistance, deserved the praise of ingenuity in a much higher degree than the mere artist, who, by its assistance, produces a superior work. But if many parts in the practice of every art, and in the detail of every department, require no abilities, or actually tend to contract and to limit the views of the mind, there are others which lead to general reflections, and to enlargement of thought. Even in manufacture, the genius of the master, perhaps, is cultivated, while that of the inferior workman lies waste. The statesman may have a wide comprehension of human affairs, while the tools he employs are ignorant of the system in which they are themselves combined. The general officer may be a great proficient in the knowledge of war, while the skill of the soldier is confined to a few motions of the hand and the foot. The former may have gained what the latter has lost; and being occupied in the conduct of disciplined armies, may practise on a larger scale all the arts of preservation, of deception, and of stratagem, which the savage exerts in leading a small party, or merely in defending himself. The practitioner of every art and profession may afford matter of general speculation to the man of science; and thinking itself, in this age of separations, may become a peculiar craft. In the bustle of civil pursuits and occupations, men appear in a variety of lights, and suggest matter of inquiry and fancy, by which conversation is enlivened, and greatly enlarged. The productions of ingenuity are brought to the market; and men are willing to pay for whatever has a tendency to inform or amuse. By this means the idle, as well as the busy, contribute to forward the progress of arts, and bestow on polished nations that air of superior ingenuity, under which they appear to have gained the ends that were pursued by the savage in his forest, knowledge, order, and wealth. SECTION II. OF THE SUBORDINATION CONSEQUENT TO THE SEPARATION OF ARTS AND PROFESSIONS. There is one ground of subordination in the difference of natural talents and dispositions; a second in the unequal division of property; and a third, not less sensible, in the habits which are acquired by the practice of different arts. Some employments are liberal, others mechanic. They require different talents, and inspire different sentiments; and whether or not this be the cause of the preference we actually give, it is certainly reasonable to form our opinion of the rank that is due to men of certain professions and stations, from the influence of their manner of life in cultivating the powers of the mind, or in preserving the sentiments of the heart. There is an elevation natural to man, by which he would be thought, in his rudest state, however urged by necessity, to rise above the consideration of mere subsistence, and the regards of interest: he would appear to act only, from the heart, in its engagements of friendship or opposition; he would shew himself only upon occasions of danger or difficulty, and leave ordinary cares to the weak or the servile. The same apprehensions, in every situation, regulate his notions of meanness or of dignity. In that of polished society, his desire to avoid the character of sordid, makes him conceal his regard for what relates merely to his preservation or his livelihood. In his estimation, the beggar, who depends upon charity; the labourer, who toils that he may eat; the mechanic, whose art requires no exertion of genius, are degraded by the object they pursue, and by the means they employ to attain it. Professions requiring more knowledge and study; proceeding on the exercise of fancy, and the love of perfection; leading to applause as well as to profit, place the artist in a superior class, and bring him nearer to that station in which men, because they are bound to no task, because they are left to follow the disposition of the mind, and to take that part in society to which they are led by the sentiments of the heart, or by the calls of the public, are supposed to be highest. This last was the station, which, in the distinction betwixt freemen and slaves, the citizens of every ancient republic strove to gain, and to maintain for themselves. Women, or slaves, in the earliest ages, had been set apart for the purposes of domestic care, or bodily labour; and in the progress of lucrative arts, the latter were bred to mechanical professions, and were even intrusted with merchandise for the benefit of their masters. Freemen would be understood to have no object beside those of politics and war. In this manner, the honours of one half of the species were sacrificed to those of the other; as stones from the same quarry are buried in the foundation, to sustain the blocks which happen to be hewn for the superior parts of the pile. In the midst of our encomiums bestowed on the Greeks and the Romans, we are, by this circumstance, made to remember, that no human institution is perfect. In many of the Grecian states, the benefits arising to the free from this cruel distinction, were not conferred equally on all the citizens. Wealth being unequally divided, the rich alone were exempted from labour; the poor were reduced to work for their own subsistence: interest was a reigning passion in both, and the possession of slaves, like that of any other lucrative property, became an object of avarice, not an exemption from sordid attentions. The entire effects of the institution were obtained, or continued to be enjoyed for any considerable time, at Sparta alone. We feel its injustice; we suffer for the helot, under the severities and unequal treatment to which he was exposed: but when we think only of the superior order of men in this state; when we attend to that elevation and magnanimity of spirit, for which danger had no terror, interest no means to corrupt; when we consider them as friends, or as citizens, we are apt to forget, like themselves, that slaves have a title to be treated like men. We look for elevation of sentiment, and liberality of mind, among those orders of citizens, who, by their condition, and their fortunes, are relieved from sordid cares and attentions. This was the description of a free man at Sparta; and if the lot of a slave among the ancients was really more wretched than that of the indigent labourer and the mechanic among the moderns, it may be doubted whether the superior orders, who are in possession of consideration and honours, do not proportionally fail in the dignity which befits their condition. If the pretensions to equal justice and freedom should terminate in rendering every class equally servile and mercenary, we make a nation of helots, and have no free citizens. In every commercial state, notwithstanding any pretension to equal rights, the exaltation of a few must depress the many. In this arrangement, we think that the extreme meanness of some classes must arise chiefly from the defect of knowledge, and of liberal education; and we refer to such classes, as to an image of what our species must have been in its rude and uncultivated state. But we forget how many circumstances, especially in populous cities, tend to corrupt the lowest orders of men. Ignorance is the least of their failings. An admiration of wealth unpossessed, becoming a principle of envy, or of servility; a habit of acting perpetually with a view to profit, and under a sense of subjection; the crimes to which they are allured, in order to feed their debauch, or to gratify their avarice, are examples, not of ignorance, but of corruption and baseness. If the savage has not received our instructions, he is likewise unacquainted with our vices. He knows no superior, and cannot be servile; he knows no distinctions of fortune, and cannot be envious; he acts from his talents in the highest station which human society can offer, that of the counsellor, and the soldier of his country. Toward forming his sentiments, he knows all that the heart requires to be known; he can distinguish the friend whom he loves, and the public interest which awakens his zeal. The principal objections, to democratical or popular government, are taken from the inequalities which arise among men in the result of commercial arts. And it must be confessed, that popular assemblies, when composed of men whose dispositions are sordid, and whose ordinary applications are illiberal, however they may be intrusted with the choice of their masters and leaders, are certainly, in their own persons, unfit to command. How can he who has confined his views to his own subsistence or preservation, be intrusted with the conduct of nations? Such men, when admitted to deliberate on matters of state, bring to its councils confusion and tumult, or servility and corruption; and seldom suffer it to repose from ruinous factions, or the effect of resolutions ill formed or ill conducted. The Athenians retained their popular government under all these defects. The mechanic was obliged, under a penalty, to appear in the public market-place, and to hear debates on the subjects of war and of peace. He was tempted by pecuniary rewards, to attend on the trial of civil and criminal causes. But, notwithstanding an exercise tending so much to cultivate their talents, the indigent came always with minds intent upon profit, or with the habits of an illiberal calling. Sunk under the sense of their personal disparity and weakness, they were ready to resign themselves entirely to the influence of some popular leader, who flattered their passions, and wrought on their fears; or, actuated by envy, they were ready to banish from the state whomsoever was respectable and eminent in the superior order of citizens; and whether from their neglect of the public at one time, or their mal-administration at another, the sovereignty was every moment ready to drop from their hands. The people, in this case, are, in fact, frequently governed by one, or a few, who know how to conduct them. Pericles possessed a species of princely authority at Athens; Crassus, Pompey, and Caesar, either jointly or successively, possessed for a considerable period the sovereign direction at Rome. Whether in great or in small states, democracy is preserved with difficulty, under the disparities of condition, and the unequal cultivation of the mind, which attend the variety of pursuits, and applications, that separate mankind in the advanced state of commercial arts. In this, however, we do but plead against the form of democracy, after the principle is removed; and see the absurdity of pretensions to equal influence and consideration, after the characters of men have ceased to be similar. SECTION III. OF THE MANNERS OF POLISHED AND COMMERCIAL NATIONS. Mankind, when in their rude state, have a great uniformity of manners; but when civilized, they are engaged in a variety of pursuits; they tread on a larger field, and separate to a greater distance. If they be guided, however, by similar dispositions, and by like suggestions of nature, they will probably in the end, as well as in the beginning of their progress, continue to agree in many particulars; and while communities admit, in their members, that diversity of ranks and professions which we have already described as the consequence or the foundation of commerce, they will resemble each other in many effects of this distribution, and of other circumstances in which they nearly concur. Under every form of government, statesmen endeavour to remove the dangers by which they are threatened from abroad, and the disturbances which molest them at home. By this conduct, if successful, they in a few ages gain an ascendant for their country; establish a frontier at a distance from its capital; they find, in the mutual desires of tranquillity, which come to possess mankind, and in those public establishments which tend to keep the peace of society, a respite from foreign wars, and a relief from domestic disorders. They learn to decide every contest without tumult, and to secure, by the authority of law, every citizen in the possession of his personal rights. In this condition, to which thriving nations aspire, and which they in some measure attain, mankind having laid the basis of safety, proceed to erect a superstructure suitable to their views. The consequence is various in different states; even in different orders of men of the same community; and the effect to every individual corresponds with his station. It enables the statesman and the soldier to settle the forms of their different procedure; it enables the practitioner in every profession to pursue his separate advantage; it affords the man of pleasure a time for refinement, and the speculative, leisure for literary conversation or study. In this scene, matters that have little reference to the active pursuits of mankind, are made subjects of inquiry, and the exercise of sentiment and reason itself becomes a profession. The songs of the bard, the harangues of the statesman and the warrior, the tradition and the story of ancient times, are considered as the models, or the earliest production, of so many arts, which it becomes the object of different professions to copy or to improve. The works of fancy, like the subjects of natural history, are distinguished into classes and species; the rules of every particular kind are distinctly collected; and the library is stored, like the warehouse, with the finished manufacture of different artists, who, with the aids of the grammarian and the critic, aspire, each in his particular way, to instruct the head, or to move the heart. Every nation is a motley assemblage of different characters, and contains, under any political form, some examples of that variety, which the humours, tempers, and apprehensions of men, so differently employed, are likely to furnish. Every profession has its point of honour, and its system of manners; the merchant his punctuality and fair dealing; the statesman his capacity and address; the man of society his good breeding and wit. Every station has a carriage, a dress, a ceremonial, by which it is distinguished, and by which it suppresses the national character under that of the rank, or of the individual. This description may be applied equally to Athens and Rome, to London and Paris. The rude, or the simple observer, would remark the variety he saw in the dwellings and in the occupations, of different men, not in the aspect of different nations. He would find, in the streets of the same city, as great a diversity, as in the territory of a separate people. He could not pierce through the cloud that was gathered before him, nor see how the tradesman, mechanic, or scholar, of one country, should differ from those of another. But the native of every province can distinguish the foreigner; and when he himself travels, is struck with the aspect of a strange country, the moment he passes the bounds of his own. The air of the person, the tone of the voice, the idiom of language, and the strain of conversation, whether pathetic or languid, gay or severe, are no longer the same. Many such differences may arise among polished nations, from the effects of climate, or from sources of fashion, that are still more hidden or unobserved; but the principal distinctions on which we can rest, are derived from the part a people are obliged to act in their national capacity; from the objects placed in their view by the state; or from the constitution of government, which, prescribing the terms of society to its subjects, had a great influence in forming their apprehensions and habits. The Roman people, destined to acquire wealth by conquest, and by the spoil of provinces; the Carthaginians, intent on the returns of merchandise, and the produce of commercial settlements, must have filled the streets of their several capitals with men of a different disposition and aspect. The Roman laid hold of his sword when he wished to be great, and the state found her armies prepared in the dwellings of her people. The Carthaginian retired to his counter on a similar project; and, when the state was alarmed, or had resolved on a war, lent of his profits to purchase an army abroad. The member of a republic, and the subject of a monarchy, must differ; because they have different parts assigned to them by the forms of their country: the one destined to live with his equals, or to contend, by his personal talents and character, for pre-eminence; the other, born to a determinate station, where any pretence to equality creates a confusion, and where nought but precedence is studied. Each, when the institutions of his country are mature, may find in the laws a protection to his personal rights; but those rights themselves are differently understood, and with a different set of opinions, give rise to a different temper of mind. The republican must act in the state, to sustain his pretensions; he must join a party, in order to be safe; he must lead one, in order to be great. The subject of monarchy refers to his birth for the honour he claims; he waits on a court, to shew his importance; and holds out the ensigns of dependence and favour, to gain him esteem with the public. If national institutions, calculated for the preservation of liberty, instead of calling upon the citizen to act for himself, and to maintain his rights, should give a security, requiring, on his part, no personal attention or effort; this seeming perfection of government might weaken the bands of society, and, upon maxims of independence, separate and estrange the different ranks it was meant to reconcile. Neither the parties formed in republics, nor the courtly assemblies, which meet in monarchical governments, could take place, where the sense of a mutual dependence should cease to summon their members together. The resorts for commerce might be frequented, and mere amusement might be pursued in the crowd, while the private dwelling became a retreat for reserve, averse to the trouble arising from regards and attentions, which it might be part of the political creed to believe of no consequence, and a point of honour to hold in contempt. This humour is not likely to grow either in republics or monarchies: it belongs more properly to a mixture of both; where the administration of justice may be better secured; where the subject is tempted to look for equality, but where he finds only independence in its place; and where he learns, from a spirit of equality, to hate the very distinctions to which, on account of their real importance, he pays a remarkable deference. In either of the separate forms of republic or monarchy, or in acting on the principles of either, men are obliged to court their fellow citizens, and to employ parts and address to improve their fortunes, or even to be safe. They find in both a school for discernment and penetration; but in the one, are taught to overlook the merits of a private character for the sake of abilities that have weight with the public; and in the other to overlook great and respectable talents, for the sake of qualities engaging or pleasant in the scene of entertainment and private society. They are obliged, in both, to adapt themselves with care to the fashion and manners of their country. They find no place for caprice or singular humours. The republican must be popular, and the courtier polite. The first must think himself well placed in every company; the other must choose his resorts, and desire to be distinguished only where the society itself is esteemed. With his inferiors, he takes an air of protection; and suffers, in his turn, the same air to be taken with himself. It did not, perhaps, require in a Spartan, who feared nothing but a failure in his duty, who loved nothing but his friend and the state, so constant a guard on himself to support his character, as it frequently does in the subject of a monarchy, to adjust his expense and his fortune to the desires of his vanity, and to appear in a rank as high as his birth, or ambition, can possibly reach. There is no particular, in the mean time, in which we are more frequently unjust, than in applying to the individual the supposed character of his country; or more frequently misled; than in taking our notion of a people from the example of one, or a few of their members. It belonged to the constitution of Athens, to have produced a Cleon, and a Pericles; but all the Athenians were not, therefore, like Cleon, or Pericles. Themistocles and Aristides lived in the same age; the one advised what was profitable, the other told his country what was just. SECTION IV. THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED. The law of nature, with respect to nations, is the same that it is with respect to individuals: it gives to the collective body a right to preserve themselves; to employ undisturbed the means of life; to retain the fruits of labour; to demand the observance of stipulations and contracts. In the case of violence, it condemns the aggressor, and establishes, on the part of the injured, the right of defence, and a claim to retribution. Its applications, however, admit of disputes, and give rise to variety in the apprehension, as well as the practice of mankind. Nations have agreed universally, in distinguishing right from wrong; in exacting the reparation of injuries by consent or by force. They have always reposed, in a certain degree, on the faith of treaties; but have acted as if force were the ultimate arbiter in all their disputes, and the power to defend themselves, the surest pledge of their safety. Guided by these common apprehensions, they have differed from one another, not merely in points of form, but in points of the greatest importance, respecting the usage of war, the effects of captivity, and the rights of conquest and victory. When a number of independent communities have been frequently involved in wars, and have had their stated alliances and oppositions, they adopt customs which they make the foundation of rules, or of laws, to be observed, or alleged, in all their mutual transactions. Even in war itself, they would follow a system, and plead for the observance of forms in their very operations for mutual destruction. The ancient states of Greece and Italy derived their manners in war from the nature of their republican government; those of modern Europe, from the influence of monarchy, which, by its prevalence in this part of the world, has a great effect on nations, even where it is not the form established. Upon the maxims of this government, we apprehend a distinction between the state and its members, as that between the king and the people, which renders war an operation of policy, not of popular animosity. While we strike at the public interest, we would spare the private; and we carry a respect and consideration for individuals, which often stops the issues of blood in the ardour of victory, and procures to the prisoner of war a hospitable reception in the very city which he came to destroy. These practices are so well established, that scarcely any provocation on the part of an enemy, or any exigence of service, can excuse a trespass on the supposed rules of humanity, or save the leader who commits it from becoming an object of detestation and horror. To this, the general practice of the Greeks and the Romans was opposite. They endeavoured to wound the state by destroying its members, by desolating its territory, and by ruining the possessions of its subjects. They granted quarter only to enslave, or to bring the prisoner to a more solemn execution; and an enemy, when disarmed, was, for the most part, either sold in the market or killed, that he might never return to strengthen his party. When this was the issue of war, it was no wonder that battles were fought with desperation, and that every fortress was defended to the last extremity. The game of human life went upon a high stake, and was played with a proportional zeal. The term _barbarian_, in this state of manners, could not be employed by the Greeks or the Romans in that sense in which we use it: to characterize, a people regardless of commercial arts; profuse of their own lives, and those of others; vehement in their attachment to one society, and implacable in their antipathy to another. This, in a great and shining part of their history, was their own character, as well as that of some other nations, whom, upon this very account, we distinguish by the appellations of _barbarous_ or _rude._ It has been observed, that those celebrated nations are indebted, for a great part of their estimation, not to the matter of their history, but to the manner in which it has been delivered, and to the capacity of their historians, and other writers. Their story has been told by men who knew how to draw our attention on the proceedings of the understanding and of the heart, more than on external effects; and who could exhibit characters to be admired and loved, in the midst of actions which we should now universally hate or condemn. Like Homer, the model of Grecian literature, they could make us forget the horrors of a vindictive, cruel, and remorseless treatment of an enemy, in behalf of the strenuous conduct, the courage, and vehement affections, with which the hero maintained the cause of his friend and of his country. Our manners are so different, and the system upon which we regulate our apprehensions, in many things so opposite, that no less could make us endure the practice of ancient nations. Were that practice recorded by the mere journalist, who retains only the detail of events, without throwing any light on the character of the actors; who, like the Tartar historian, tells us only what blood was spilt in the field, and how many inhabitants were massacred in the city; we should never have distinguished the Greeks from their barbarous neighbours, nor have thought, that the character of civility pertained even to the Romans, till very late in their history, and in the decline of their empire. It would, no doubt, be pleasant to see the remarks of such a traveller as we sometimes send abroad to inspect the manners of mankind, left, unassisted by history, to collect the character of the Greeks from the state of their country, or from their practice in war. "This country," he might say, "compared to ours, has an air of barrenness and desolation. I saw upon the road troops of labourers, who were employed in the fields; but no where the habitations of the master and the landlord. It was unsafe, I was told, to reside in the country; and the people of every district crowded into towns to find a place of defence. It is, indeed, impossible, that they can be more civilized, till they have established some regular government, and have courts of justice to hear their complaints. At present every town, nay, I may say, every village, acts for itself, and the greatest disorders prevail. I was not indeed molested; for you must know, that they call themselves nations, and do all their mischief under the pretence of war. "I do not mean to take any of the liberties of travellers, nor to vie with the celebrated author of the voyage to Lilliput; but cannot help endeavouring to communicate what I felt on hearing them speak of their territory, their armies, their revenues, treaties, and alliances. Only imagine the church-wardens and constables of Highgate or Hampstead turned statesmen and generals, and you will have a tolerable conception of this singular country. I passed through one state, where the best house in the capital would not lodge the meanest of your labourers, and where your very beggars would not choose to dine with the king; and yet they are thought a great nation, and have no less than two kings. I saw one of them; but such a potentate! He had scarcely clothes to his back; and for his majesty's table, he was obliged to go to the eating-house with his subjects. They have not a single farthing of money; and I was obliged to get food at the public expense, there being none to be had in the market. You will imagine, that there must have been a service of plate, and great attendance, to wait on the illustrious stranger; but my fare was a mess of sorry pottage, brought me by a naked slave, who left me to deal with it as I thought proper: and even this I was in continual danger of having stolen from me by the children; who are as vigilant to seize opportunities, and as dexterous in snatching their food, as any starved greyhound you ever saw. The misery of the whole people, in short, as well as my own, while I staid there, was beyond description. You would think that their whole attention were to torment themselves as much as they can: they are even displeased with one of their kings for being well liked. He had made a present, while I was there, of a cow to one favourite, and of a waistcoat to another; [Footnote: Plutarch in the life of Agesilaus,] and it was publicly said, that this method of gaining friends was robbing the public. My landlord told me very gravely, that a man should come under no obligation that might weaken the love which he owes to his country; nor form any personal attachment beyond the mere habit of living with his friend, and of doing him a kindness when he can. "I asked him once, why they did not, for their own sakes, enable their kings to assume a little more state? Because, says he, we intend them the happiness of living with men. When I found fault with their houses, and said, in particular, that I was surprised they did not build better churches: What would you be then, says he, if you found religion in stone walls? This will suffice for a sample of our conversation; and sententious as it was, you may believe I did not stay long to profit by it. "The people of this place are not quite so stupid. There is a pretty large square of a market-place, and some tolerable buildings; and, I am told, they have some barks and lighters employed in trade, which they likewise, upon occasion, muster into a fleet, like my lord mayor's show. But what pleases me most is, that I am likely to get a passage from hence, and bid farewell to this wretched country. I have been at some pains to observe their ceremonies of religion, and to pick up curiosities. I have copied some inscriptions, as you will see when you come to peruse my journal, and will then judge, whether I have met with enough to compensate the fatigues and bad entertainment to which I have submitted. As for the people, you will believe, from the specimen I have given you, that they could not be very engaging company: though poor and dirty, they still pretend to be proud; and a fellow who is not worth a groat, is above working for his livelihood. They come abroad barefooted, and without any cover to the head, wrapt up in the coverlets under which you would imagine they had slept. They throw all off, and appear like so many naked cannibals, when they go to violent sports and exercises; at which they highly value feats of dexterity and strength. Brawny limbs, and muscular arms, the faculty of sleeping out all nights, of fasting long, and of putting up with any kind of food, are thought genteel accomplishments. They have no settled government that I could learn; sometimes the mob, and sometimes the better sort, do what they please: they meet in great crowds in the open air, and seldom agree in any thing. If a fellow has presumption enough, and a loud voice, he can make a great figure. There was a tanner here, some time ago, who, for a while, carried every thing before him. He censured so loudly what others had done, and talked so big of what might be performed, that he was sent out at last to make good his words, and to curry the enemy instead of his leather. [Footnote: Thucydides, lib. 4. Aristophanes] You will imagine, perhaps, that he was pressed for a recruit; no; he was sent to command the army. They are indeed seldom long of one mind, except in their readiness to harass their neighbours. They go out in bodies, and rob, pillage, and murder wherever they come." So far may we suppose our traveller to have written; and upon a recollection of the reputation which those nations have acquired at a distance, he might have added, perhaps, "That he could not understand how scholars, fine gentlemen, and even women, should combine to admire a people, who so little resemble themselves." To form a judgment of the character from which they acted in the field, and in their competitions with neighbouring nations, we must observe them at home. They were bold and fearless in their civil dissentions; ready to proceed to extremities, and to carry their debates to the decision of force. Individuals stood distinguished by their personal spirit and vigour, not by the valuation of their estates, or the rank of their birth. They had a personal elevation founded on the sense of equality, not of precedence. The general of one campaign was, during the next, a private soldier, and served in the ranks. They were solicitous to acquire bodily strength; because, in the use of their weapons, battles were a trial of the soldier's strength, as well as of the leader's conduct. The remains of their statuary shows a manly grace, an air of simplicity and ease, which being frequent in nature, were familiar to the artist. The mind, perhaps, borrowed a confidence and force, from the vigour and address of the body; their eloquence and style bore a resemblance to the carriage of the person. The understanding was chiefly cultivated in the practice of affairs. The most respectable personages were obliged to mix with the crowd, and derived their degree of ascendancy only from their conduct, their eloquence, and personal vigour. They had no forms of expression, to mark a ceremonious and guarded respect. Invective proceeded to railing, and the grossest terms were often employed by the most admired and accomplished orators. Quarrelling had no rules but the immediate dictates of passion, which ended in words of reproach, in violence and blows. They fortunately went always unarmed; and to wear a sword in times of peace, was among them the mark of a barbarian. When they took arms in the divisions of faction, the prevailing party supported itself by expelling their opponents, by proscriptions, and bloodshed. The usurper endeavoured to maintain his station by the most violent and prompt executions. He was opposed, in his turn, by conspiracies and assassinations, in which the most respectable citizens were ready to use the dagger. Such was the character of their spirit, in its occasional ferments at home; and it burst commonly with a suitable violence and force, against their foreign rivals and enemies. The amiable plea of humanity was little regarded by them in the operations of war. Cities were razed, or enslaved; the captive sold, mutilated, or condemned to die. When viewed on this side, the ancient nations have but a sorry plea for esteem with the inhabitants of modern Europe, who profess to carry the civilities of peace into the practice of war; and who value the praise of indiscriminate lenity at a higher rate than even that of military prowess, or the love of their country. And yet they have, in other respects, merited and obtained our praise. Their ardent attachment to their country; their contempt of suffering, and of death, in its cause; their manly apprehensions of personal independence, which rendered every individual, even under tottering establishments and imperfect laws, the guardian of freedom to his fellow citizens; their activity of mind; in short, their penetration, the ability of their conduct, and force of their spirit, have gained them the first rank among nations. If their animosities were great, their affections were proportionate; they, perhaps, loved, where we only pity; and were stern and inexorable, where we are not merciful, but only irresolute. After all, the merit of a man is determined by his candour and generosity to his associates, by his zeal for national objects, and by his vigour in maintaining political rights; not by moderation alone, which proceeds frequently from indifference to national and public interest, and which serves to relax the nerves on which the force of a private, as well as a public, character depends. When under the Macedonian and the Roman monarchies, a nation came to be considered as, the estate of a prince, and the inhabitants of a province to be regarded as a lucrative property, the possession of territory, not the destruction of its people, became the object of conquest. The pacific citizen had little concern in the quarrels of sovereigns; the violence of the soldier was restrained by discipline. He fought, because he was taught to carry arms, and to obey: he sometimes shed unnecessary blood in the ardour of victory; but, except in the case of civil wars, had no passions to excite his animosity beyond the field and the day of battle. Leaders judged of the objects of an enterprise, and they arrested the sword when these were obtained. In the modern nations of Europe, where extent of territory admits of a distinction between the state and its subjects, we are accustomed to think of the individual with compassion, seldom of the public with zeal. We have improved on the laws of war, and on the lenitives which have been devised to soften its rigours; we have mingled politeness with the use of the sword; we have learned to make war under the stipulations of treaties and cartels, and trust to the faith of an enemy whose ruin we meditate. Glory is more successfully obtained by saving and protecting, than by destroying the vanquished: and the most amiable of all objects is, in appearance, attained; the employing of force, only for the obtaining of justice, and for the preservation of national rights. This is, perhaps, the principal characteristic, on which, among modern nations, we bestow the epithets of _civilized_ or of _polished_. But we have seen, that it did not accompany the progress of sorts among the Greeks, nor keep pace with the advancement of policy, literature, and philosophy. It did not await the returns of learning and politeness among the moderns; it was found in an early period of our history, and distinguished, perhaps more than at present; the manners of the ages otherwise rude and undisciplined. A king of France, prisoner in the hands of his enemies, was treated, about four hundred years ago, with as much distinction and courtesy as a crowned head, in the like circumstances, could possibly expect in this age of politeness. [Footnote: Hume's History of England.] The prince of Conde, defeated and taken in the battle of Dreux, slept at night in the same bed with his enemy the duke of Guise. [Footnote: Davila.] If the moral of popular traditions, and the taste of fabulous legends, which are the productions or entertainment of particular ages, are likewise sure indications of their notions and characters, we may presume, that the foundation of what is now held to be the law of war, and, of nations, was laid in the manners of Europe, together with the sentiments which are expressed in the tales of chivalry, and of gallantry. Our system of war differs not more from that of the Greeks, than the favourite characters of our early romance differed from those of the Iliad, and of every ancient poem. The hero of the Greek fable, endued with superior force, courage, and address, takes every advantage of an enemy, to kill with safety to himself; and, actuated by a desire of spoil, or by a principle of revenge, is never stayed in his progress by interruptions of remorse or compassion. Homer, who, of all poets, knew best how to exhibit the emotions of a vehement affection, seldom attempts to excite commiseration. Hector falls unpitied, and his body is insulted by every Greek. Our modern fable, or romance, on the contrary, generally couples an object of pity, weak, oppressed, and defenceless, with an object of admiration, brave, generous, and victorious; or sends the hero abroad in search of mere danger, and of occasions to prove his valour. Charged with the maxims of a refined courtesy, to be observed even towards an enemy; and of a scrupulous honour, which will not suffer him to take any advantages by artifice or surprise; indifferent to spoil, he contends only for renown, and employs his valour to rescue the distressed, and to protect the innocent. If victorious, he is made to rise above nature as much in his generosity and gentleness, as in his military prowess and valour. It may be difficult, upon stating this contrast between the system of ancient and modern fable, to assign, among nations, equally rude, equally addicted to war, and equally fond of military glory, the origin of apprehensions on the point of honour, so different, and so opposite. The hero of Greek poetry proceeds on the maxims of animosity and hostile passion. His maxims in war are like those which prevail in the woods of America. They require him to be brave, but they allow him to practise against his enemy every sort of deception. The hero of modern romance professes a contempt of stratagem, as well as of danger, and unites in the same person, characters and dispositions seemingly opposite; ferocity with gentleness, and the love of blood with sentiments of tenderness and pity. The system of chivalry, when completely formed, proceeded on a marvellous respect and veneration to the fair sex, on forms of combat established, and on a supposed junction of the heroic and sanctified character. The formalities of the duel, and a kind of judicial challenge, were known among the ancient Celtic nations of Europe. [Footnote: Liv., lib. 28. c. 21.] The Germans, even in their native forests, paid a kind of devotion to the female sex. The Christian religion enjoined meekness and compassion to barbarous ages. These different principles combined together, may have served as the foundation of a system, in which courage was directed by religion and love, and the warlike and gentle were united together. When the characters of the hero and the saint were mixed, the mild spirit of Christianity, though often turned into venom by the bigotry of opposite parties, though it could not always subdue the ferocity of the warrior, nor suppress the admiration of courage and force, may have confirmed the apprehensions of men in what was to be held meritorious and splendid in the conduct of their quarrels. In the early and traditionary history of the Greeks and the Romans, rapes were assigned as the most frequent occasions of war; and the sexes were, no doubt, at all times, equally important to each other. The enthusiasm of love is most powerful in the neighbourhood of Asia and Africa; and beauty, as a possession, was probably more valued by the countrymen of Homer, than it was by those of Amadis de Gaul, or by the authors of modern gallantry. "What wonder," says the old Priam, when Helen appeared, "that nations should contend for the possession of so much beauty?" This beauty, indeed, was possessed by different lovers; a subject on which the modern hero had many refinements, and seemed to soar in the clouds. He adored at a respectful distance, and employed his valour to captivate the admiration, not to gain the possession of his mistress. A cold and unconquerable chastity was set up, as an idol to be worshipped, in the toils, the sufferings, and the combats of the hero and the lover. The feudal establishments, by the high rank to which they elevated certain families, no doubt, greatly favoured this romantic system. Not only the lustre of a noble descent, but the stately castle beset with battlements and towers, served to inflame the imagination, and to create a veneration for the daughter and the sister of gallant chiefs, whose point of honour it was to be inaccessible and chaste, and who could perceive no merit but that of the high minded and the brave, nor be approached in any other ascents than those of gentleness and respect. What was originally singular in these apprehensions, was, by the writer of romance, turned to extravagance; and under the title of chivalry was offered as a model of conduct, even in common affairs: the fortunes of nations were directed by gallantry; and human life, on its greatest occasions, became a scene of affectation and folly. Warriors went forth to realize the legends they had studied; princes and leaders of armies dedicated their most serious exploits to a real or to a fancied mistress. But whatever was the origin of notions, often so lofty and so ridiculous, we cannot doubt of their lasting effects on our manners. The point of honour, the prevalence of gallantry in our conversations, and on our theatres, many of the opinions which the vulgar apply even to the conduct of war; their notion, that the leader of an army, being offered battle upon equal terms, is dishonoured by declining it, are undoubtedly remains of this antiquated system: and chivalry, uniting with the genius of our policy, has probably suggested those peculiarities in the law of nations, by which modern states are distinguished from the ancient. And if our rule in measuring degrees of politeness and civilization is to be taken from hence, or from the advancement of commercial arts, we shall be found to have greatly excelled any of the celebrated nations of antiquity. AN ESSAY ON THE HISTORY OF CIVIL SOCIETY. * * * * * PART FIFTH. OF THE DECLINE OF NATIONS. * * * * * SECTION I. OF SUPPOSED NATIONAL EMINENCE, AND OF THE VICISSITUDES OF HUMAN AFFAIRS. No nation is so unfortunate as to think itself inferior to the rest of mankind: few are even willing to put up with the claim to equality. The greater part having chosen themselves, as at once, the judges and the models of what is excellent in their kind, are first in their own opinion, and give to others consideration or eminence, so far only as they approach to their own condition. One nation is vain of the personal character, or of the learning of a few of its members; another, of its policy, its wealth, its tradesmen, its gardens, and its buildings; and they who have nothing to boast are vain, because they are ignorant. The Russians, before the reign of Peter the Great, thought themselves possessed of every national honour, and held the _Nemei_, or _dumb nations_, the name which they bestowed on then western neighbours of Europe, in a proportional degree of contempt. [Footnote: Strahlenberg.] The map of the world, in China, was a square plate, the greater part of which was occupied by the provinces of this great empire, leaving on its skirts a few obscure corners, into which the wretched remainder of mankind were supposed to be driven. "If you have not the use of our letters, nor the knowledge of our books," said the learned Chinese to the European missionary, "what literature, or what science can you have?" [Footnote: Gemelli Carceri.] The term _polished_, if we may judge from its etymology, originally referred to the state of nations in respect to their laws and government; and men civilized were men practised in the duty of citizens. In its later applications, it refers no less to the proficiency of nations in the liberal and mechanical arts, in literature, and in commerce; and men civilized are scholars, men of fashion and traders. But whatever may be its application, it appears, that if there were a name still more respectable than this, every nation, even the most barbarous, or the most corrupted, would assume it; and bestow its reverse where they conceived a dislike, or apprehended a difference. The names of _alien_ or _foreigner_, are seldom pronounced without some degree of intended reproach. That of _barbarian_, in use with one arrogant people, and that of _gentile_, with another, only served to distinguish the stranger, whose language and pedigree differed from theirs. Even where we pretend to found our opinions on reason, and to justify our preference of one nation to another, we frequently bestow our esteem on circumstances which do not relate to national character, and which have little tendency to promote the welfare of mankind. Conquest, or great extent of territory, however peopled, and great wealth, however distributed or employed, are titles upon which we indulge our own, and the vanity of other nations, as we do that of private men on the score of their fortunes and honours. We even sometimes contend, whose capital is the most overgrown; whose king has the most absolute power; and at whose court the bread of the subject is consumed in the most senseless riot. These indeed are the notions of vulgar minds; but it is impossible to determine, how far the notions of vulgar minds may lead mankind. There have certainly, been very few examples of states, who have, by arts of policy, improved the original dispositions of human nature, or endeavoured, by wise and effectual precautions, to prevent its corruption. Affection, and force of mind, which are the band and the strength of communities, were the inspiration of God, and original attributes in the nature of man. The wisest policy of nations, except in a few instances, has tended, we may suspect, rather to maintain the peace of society, and to repress the external effects of bad passions, than to strengthen the disposition of the heart itself to justice and goodness. It has tended, by introducing a variety of arts, to exercise the ingenuity of men, and by engaging them in a variety of pursuits, inquiries, and studies, to inform, but frequently to corrupt the mind. It has tended to furnish matter of distinction and vanity; and by incumbering the individual with new subjects of personal care, to substitute the anxiety he entertains for a separate fortune, instead of the confidence and the affection with which he should unite with his fellow creatures, for their joint preservation. Whether this suspicion be just or no, we are come to point at circumstances tending to verify, or to disprove it: and if to understand the real felicity of nations be of importance, it is certainly so likewise, to know what are those weaknesses, and those vices, by which men not only mar this felicity, but in one age forfeit all the external advantages they had gained in a former. The wealth, the aggrandizement, and power of nations, are commonly the effects of virtue; the loss of these advantages is often a consequence of vice. Were we to suppose men to have succeeded in the discovery and application of every art by which states are preserved and governed; to have attained, by efforts of wisdom and magnanimity, the admired establishments and advantages of a civilized and flourishing people; the subsequent part of their history, containing, according to vulgar apprehension, a full display of those fruits in maturity, of which they had till then carried only the blossom, and the first formation, should, still more than the former, merit our attention, and excite our admiration. The event, however, has not corresponded to this expectation. The virtues of men have shone most during their struggles, not after the attainment of their ends. Those ends themselves, though attained by virtue, are frequently the causes of corruption and vice. Mankind, in aspiring to national felicity, have substituted arts which increase their riches, instead of those which improve their nature. They have entertained admiration of themselves, under the titles of _civilized_ and of _polished_, where they should have been affected with shame; and even where they have, for a while, acted on maxims tending to raise, to invigorate, and to preserve the national character, they have, sooner or later, been diverted from their object, and fallen a prey to misfortune, or to the neglects which prosperity itself had encouraged. War, which furnishes mankind with a principal occupation of their restless spirit, serves, by the variety of its events, to diversify their fortunes. While it opens to one tribe or society, the way to eminence, and leads to dominion, it brings another to subjection, and closes the scene of their national efforts. The celebrated rivalship of Carthage and Rome was, in both parties, the natural exercise of an ambitious spirit, impatient of opposition, or even of equality. The conduct and the fortune of leaders held the balance for some time in suspense; but to which ever side it had inclined, a great nation was to fall; a seat of empire, and of policy, was to be removed from its place; and it was then to be determined, whether the Syriac or the Latin should contain the erudition that was, in future ages, to occupy the studies of the learned. States have been thus conquered from abroad, before they gave any signs of internal decay, even in the midst of prosperity, and in the period of their greatest ardour for national objects. Athens, in the height of her ambition, and of her glory, received a fatal wound, in striving to extend her maritime power beyond the Grecian seas. And nations of every description, formidable by their rude ferocity, respected for their discipline and military experience, when advancing, as well as when declining, in their strength, fell a prey by turns to the ambition and arrogant spirit of the Romans. Such examples may excite and alarm the jealousy and caution of states; the presence of similar dangers may exercise the talents of politicians and statesmen; but mere reverses of fortune are the common materials of history, and must long since have ceased to create our surprise. Did we find, that nations advancing from small beginnings, and arrived at the possession of arts which lead to dominion, became secure of their advantages, in proportion as they were qualified to gain them; that they proceeded in a course of uninterrupted felicity, till they were broke by external calamities; and that they retained their force, till a more fortunate or vigorous power arose to depress them; the subject in speculation could not be attended with many difficulties, nor give rise to many reflections. But when we observe, among many nations, a kind of spontaneous return to obscurity and weakness; when, in spite of perpetual admonitions of the danger they run, they suffer themselves to be subdued, in one period, by powers which could not have entered into competition with them in a former, and by forces which they had often baffled and despised, the subject becomes more curious, and its explanation more difficult. (The fact itself is known in a variety of different examples. The empire of Asia was, more than once, transferred from the greater to the inferior power. The states of Greece, once so warlike, felt a relaxation of their vigour, and yielded the ascendant they had disputed with the monarchs of the east, to the forces of an obscure principality, become formidable in a few years, and raised to eminence under the conduct of a single man. The Roman empire, which stood alone for ages, which had brought every rival under subjection, and saw no power from whom a competition could be feared, sunk at last before an artless and contemptible enemy. Abandoned to inroad, to pillage, and at last to conquest, on her frontier, she decayed in all her extremities, and shrunk on every side. Her territory was dismembered, and whole provinces gave way, like branches fallen down with age, not violently torn by superior force. The spirit with which Marius had baffled and repelled the attacks of barbarians in a former age, the civil and military force with which the consul and his legions had extended this empire, were now no more. The Roman greatness, doomed to sink as it rose, by slow degrees, was impaired in every encounter. It was reduced to its original dimensions, within the compass of a single city; and depending for its preservation on the fortune of a siege, it was extinguished at a blow; and the brand, which had filled the world with its flames, sunk like a taper in the socket. Such appearances have given rise to a general apprehension, that the progress of societies to what we call the heights of national greatness, is not more natural, than their return to weakness and obscurity is necessary and unavoidable. The images of youth, and of old age, are applied to nations; and communities, like single men, are supposed to have a period of life, and a length of thread, which is spun by the fates in one part uniform and strong, in another weakened and shattered by use; to be cut, when the destined era is come, and to make way for a renewal of the emblem in the case of those who arise in succession. Carthage being so much older than Rome, had felt her decay, says Polybius, so much the sooner; and the survivor too, he foresaw, carried in her bosom the seeds of mortality. The image indeed is apposite, and the history of mankind renders the application familiar. But it must be obvious, that the case of nations, and that of individuals, are very different. The human frame has a general course: it has in every individual a frail contexture and limited duration; it is worn by exercise, and exhausted by a repetition of its functions: but in a society, whose constituent members are renewed in every generation, where the race seems to enjoy perpetual youth, and accumulating advantages, we cannot, by any parity of reason, expect to find imbecilities connected with mere age and length of days. The subject is not new, and reflections will crowd upon every reader. The notions, in the mean time, which we entertain, even in speculation, upon a subject so important, cannot be entirely fruitless to mankind; and however little the labours of the speculative may influence the conduct of men, one of the most pardonable errors a writer can commit, is to believe that he is about to do a great deal of good. But, leaving the care of effects to others, we proceed to consider the grounds of inconstancy among mankind, the sources of internal decay, and the ruinous corruptions to which nations are liable, in the supposed condition of accomplished civility. SECTION II. OF THE TEMPORARY EFFORTS AND RELAXATIONS OF THE NATIONAL SPIRIT. From what we have already observed on the general characteristics of human nature, it has appeared that man is not made for repose. In him every amiable and respectable quality, is an active power, and every subject of commendation an effort. If his errors and his crimes are the movements of an active being, his virtues and his happiness consist likewise in the employment of his mind; and all the lustre which he casts around him, to captivate or engage the attention of his fellow creatures, like the flame of a meteor, shines only while his motion continues; the moments of rest and obscurity are the same. We know, that the tasks assigned him frequently may exceed, as well as come short of, his powers; that he may be agitated too much, as well as too little; but cannot ascertain a precise medium between the situations in which he would be harassed, and those in which he would fall into languor. We know that he may be employed on a great variety of subjects, which occupy different passions; and that, in consequence of habit, he becomes reconciled to very different scenes. All we can determine in general is, that whatever be the subjects with which he is engaged, the frame of his nature requires him to be occupied, and his happiness requires him to be just. We are now to inquire, why nations cease to be eminent; and why societies which have drawn the attention of mankind by great examples of magnanimity, conduct, and national success, should sink from the height of their honours, and yield, in one age, the palm which they had won in a former. Many reasons will probably occur. One may be taken from the fickleness and inconstancy of mankind, who become tired of their pursuits and exertions, even while the occasions that gave rise to those pursuits; in some measure, continue; another, from the change of situations, and the removal of objects which served to excite their spirit. The public safety, and the relative interests of states; political establishments, the pretensions of party, commerce, and arts, are subjects which engage the attention of nations. The advantages gained in some of these particulars, determine the degree of national prosperity. The ardour and vigour with which they are at any one time pursued, is the measure of a national spirit. When those objects cease to animate, nations may be said to languish; when they are during a considerable time neglected, states must decline, and their people degenerate. In the most forward, enterprising, inventive, and industrious nations, this spirit is fluctuating; and they who continue longest to gain advantages, or to preserve them, have periods of remissness, as well as of ardour. The desire of public safety, is, at all times, a powerful motive of conduct; but it operates most when combined with occasional passions, when provocations inflame, when successes encourage, or mortifications exasperate. A whole people, like the individuals of whom they are composed, act under the influence of temporary humours, sanguine hopes, or vehement animosities. They are disposed, at one time, to enter on national struggles with vehemence; at another, to drop them from mere lassitude and disgust. In their civil debates and contentions at home, they are occasionally ardent or remiss. Epidemical passions arise or subside on trivial as well as important grounds. Parties are ready, at one time, to take their names and the pretence of their oppositions, from mere caprice or accident; at another time, they suffer the most serious occasions to pass in silence. If a vein of literary genius be casually opened, or a new subject of disquisition be started, real or pretended discoveries suddenly multiply, and every conversation is inquisitive and animated. If a new source of wealth be found, or a prospect of conquest be offered, the imaginations of men are inflamed, and whole quarters of the globe are suddenly engaged in ruinous or in successful adventures. Could we recall the spirit that was exerted, or enter into the views that were entertained, by our ancestors, when they burst, like a deluge, from their ancient seats, and poured into the Roman empire, we should probably, after their first success at least, find a ferment in the minds of men, for which no attempt was too arduous, no difficulties insurmountable. The subsequent ages of enterprise in Europe, were those in which the alarm of enthusiasm was rung, and the followers of the cross invaded the east, to plunder a country, and to recover a sepulchre; those in which the people in different states contended for freedom, and assaulted the fabric of civil or religious usurpation; that in which, having found means to cross the Atlantic, and to double the Cape of Good Hope, the inhabitants of one half the world were let loose on the other, and parties from every quarter, wading in blood, and at the expense of every crime, and of every danger, traversed the earth in search of gold. Even the weak and the remiss are roused to enterprise, by the contagion of such remarkable ages; and states, which have not in their form the principles of a continued exertion, either favourable or adverse to the welfare of mankind, may have paroxysms of ardour, and a temporary appearance of national vigour. In the case of such nations, indeed, the returns of moderation are but a relapse to obscurity, and the presumption of one age is turned to dejection in that which succeeds. But in the case of states that are fortunate in, their domestic policy, even madness itself may, in the result of violent convulsions, subside into wisdom; and a people return to their ordinary mood, cured of their follies, and wiser by experience; or, with talents improved, in conducting the very scenes which frenzy had opened, they may then appear best qualified to pursue with success the object of nations. Like the ancient republics, immediately after some alarming sedition, or like the kingdom of Great Britain, at the close of its civil wars, they retain the spirit of activity which was recently awakened, and are equally vigorous in every pursuit, whether of policy, learning, or arts. From having appeared on the brink of ruin, they pass to the greatest prosperity.) Men engage in pursuits with degrees of ardour not proportioned to the importance of their object. When they are stated in opposition, or joined in confederacy, they only wish for pretences to act. They forget, in the heat of their animosities, the subject of their controversy; or they seek, in their formal reasonings concerning it, only a disguise for their passions. When the heart is inflamed, no consideration can repress its ardour; when its fervour subsides, no reasoning can excite, and no eloquence awaken its former emotions. The continuance of emulation among states must depend on the degree of equality by which their forces are balanced; or on the incentives by which either party, or all, are urged to continue their struggles. Long intermissions of war, suffer, equally in every period of civil society, the military spirit to languish. (The reduction of Athens by Lysander, struck a fatal blow at the institutions of Lycurgus; and the quiet possession of Italy, happily perhaps for mankind, had almost put an end to the military progress of the Romans. After some years repose, Hannibal found Italy unprepared for his onset, and the Romans in a disposition likely to drop, on the banks of the Po, that martial ambition, which being roused by the sense of a new danger, afterwards, carried them to the Euphrates and the Rhine.) States, even distinguished for military prowess, sometimes lay down their arms from lassitude, and are weary of fruitless contentions; but if they maintain the station of independent communities, they will have frequent occasions to recall, and to exert their vigour. Even under popular governments, men sometimes drop the consideration of their political rights, and appear at times remiss or supine; but if they have reserved the power to defend themselves, the intermission of its exercise cannot be of long duration. Political rights, when neglected, are always invaded; and alarms from this quarter must frequently come to renew the attention of parties. The love of learning, and of arts, may change its pursuits, or droop for a season; but while men are possessed of freedom, and while the exercises of ingenuity are not superseded, the public may proceed, at different times, with unequal fervour; but its progress is seldom altogether discontinued, or the advantages gained in one age are seldom entirely lost to the following. If we would find the causes of final corruption, we must examine those revolutions of state that remove, or withhold, the objects of every ingenious study or liberal pursuit; that deprive the citizen of occasions to act as the member of a public; that crush his spirit; that debase his sentiments, and disqualify his mind for affairs. SECTION III. OF RELAXATIONS IN THE NATIONAL SPIRIT INCIDENT TO POLISHED NATIONS. Improving nations, in the course of their advancement, have to struggle with foreign enemies, to whom they bear an extreme animosity, and with whom, in many conflicts, they contend for their existence as a people. In certain periods, too, they feel in their domestic policy inconveniencies and grievances, which beget an eager impatience; and they apprehend reformations and new establishments, from which they have sanguine hopes of national happiness. In early ages, every art is imperfect, and susceptible of many improvements. The first principles of every science are yet secrets to be discovered, and to be successively published with applause and triumph. We may fancy to ourselves, that in ages of progress, the human race, like scouts gone abroad on the discovery of fertile lands, having the world open before them, are presented at every step with the appearance of novelty. They enter on every new ground with expectation and joy: they engage in every enterprise with the ardour of men, who believe they are going to arrive at national felicity, and permanent glory; and forget past disappointments amidst the hopes of future success. From mere ignorance, rude minds are intoxicated with every passion; and, partial to their own condition, and to their own pursuits, they think that every scene is inferior to that in which they are placed. Roused alike by success and by misfortune, they are sanguine, ardent, and precipitant; and leave, to the more knowing ages which succeed them, monuments of imperfect skill, and of rude execution of every art; but they leave likewise the marks of a vigorous and ardent spirit, which their successors are not always qualified to sustain, or to imitate. This may be admitted, perhaps, as a fair description of prosperous societies, at least during certain periods of their progress. The spirit with which they advance may be unequal in different ages, and may have its paroxysms and intermissions, arising from the inconstancy of human passions, and from the casual appearance or removal of occasions that excite them. But does this spirit, which for a time continues to carry on the project of civil and commercial arts, find a natural pause in the termination of its own pursuits? May the business of civil society be accomplished, and may the occasion of farther exertion be removed? Do continued disappointments reduce sanguine hopes, and familiarity with objects blunt the edge of novelty? Does experience itself cool the ardour of the mind? May the society be again compared to the individual? And may it be suspected, although the vigour of a nation, like that of a natural body, does not waste by a physical decay, that yet it may sicken for want of exercise, and die in the close of its own exertions? May societies, in the completion of all their designs, like men in years, who disregard the amusements, and are insensible to the passions of youth, become cold and indifferent to objects that used to animate in a ruder age? And may a polished community be compared to a man who, having executed his plan, built his house, and made his settlement; who having, in short, exhausted the charms of every subject, and wasted all his ardour, sinks into languor and listless indifference? If so, we have found at least another simile to our purpose. But it is probable, that here too the resemblance is imperfect; and the inference that would follow, like that of most arguments drawn from analogy, tends rather to amuse the fancy, than to give any real information on the subject to which it refers. The materials of human art are never entirely exhausted, and the applications of industry are never at an end. The national ardour is not, at any particular time, proportioned to the occasion there is for activity; nor the curiosity of the learned to the extent of subject that remains to be studied. The ignorant and the artless, to whom objects of science are new, and whose manner of life is most simple, instead of being more active and more curious, are commonly more quiescent, and less inquisitive, than those who are best furnished with knowledge and the conveniencies of life. When we compare the particulars which occupy mankind in the beginning and in the advanced age of commercial arts, these particulars will be found greatly multiplied and enlarged in the last. The questions we have put, however, deserve to be answered; and if, in the result of commerce, we do not find the objects of human pursuit removed, or greatly diminished, we may find them at least changed; and in estimating the national spirit, we may find a negligence in one part, but ill compensated by the growing attention which is paid to another. It is true, in general, that in all our pursuits, there is a termination of trouble, and a point of repose to which we aspire. We would remove this inconvenience, or gain that advantage, that our labours may cease. When I have conquered Italy and Sicily, says Pyrrhus, I shall then enjoy my repose. This termination is proposed in our national, as well as in our personal exertions; and, in spite of frequent experience to the contrary, is considered, at a distance, as the height of felicity. But nature has wisely, in most particulars, baffled our project; and placed no where within our reach this visionary blessing of absolute ease. The attainment of one end is but the beginning of a new pursuit; and the discovery of one art is but a prolongation of the thread by which we are conducted to further inquiries, and while we hope to escape from the labyrinth, are led to its most intricate paths. Among the occupations that may be enumerated, as tending to exercise the invention, and to cultivate the talents of men, are the pursuits of accommodation and wealth, including all the different contrivances which serve to increase manufactures, and to perfect the mechanical arts. But it must be owned, that as the materials of commerce may continue to be accumulated without any determinate limit, so the arts which are applied to improve them, may admit of perpetual refinements. No measure of fortune, or degree of skill, is found to diminish the supposed necessities of human life; refinement and plenty foster new desires, while they furnish the means, or practise the methods, to gratify them. In the result of commercial arts, inequalities of fortune are greatly increased, and the majority, of every people are obliged by necessity, or at least strongly incited by ambition and avarice; to employ every talent they possess. After a history of some thousand years employed in manufacture and commerce, the inhabitants of China are still the most laborious and industrious of any people on earth. Some part of this observation may be extended to the elegant and literary arts. They too have their materials which cannot be exhausted, and proceed from desires which cannot be satiated. But the respect paid to literary merit is fluctuating, and matter of transient fashion. When learned productions accumulate, the acquisition of knowledge occupies the time that might be bestowed on invention. The object of mere learning is attained with moderate or inferior talents, and the growing list of pretenders diminishes the lustre of the few who are eminent. When we only mean to learn what others have taught, it is probable that even our knowledge will be less than that of our masters. Great names continue to be repeated with admiration, after we have ceased to examine the foundations of our praise; and new pretenders are rejected, not because they fall short of their predecessors, but because they do not excel them; or because in reality we have, without examination, taken for granted the merit of the first, and cannot judge of either. After libraries are furnished, and every path of ingenuity is occupied, we are, in proportion to our admiration of what is already done, prepossessed against farther attempts. We become students and admirers, instead of rivals; and substitute the knowledge of books, instead of the inquisitive or animated spirit in which they were written. The commercial and the lucrative arts may continue to prosper, but they gain an ascendant at the expense of other pursuits. The desire of profit stifles the love of perfection. Interest cools the imagination, and hardens the heart; and, recommending employments in proportion as they are lucrative, and certain in their gains, it drives ingenuity, and ambition itself, to the counter and the workshop. But, apart from these considerations, the separation of professions, while it seems to promise improvement of skill, and is actually the cause why the productions of every art become more perfect as commerce advances; yet, in its termination and ultimate effects, serves, in some measure, to break the bands of society, to substitute mere forms and rules of art in place of ingenuity, and to withdraw individuals from the common scene of occupation, on which the sentiments of the heart, and the mind, are most happily employed. Under the _distinction_ of callings, by which the members of polished society are separated from each other, every individual is supposed to possess his species of talent, or his peculiar skill, in which the others are confessedly ignorant; and society is made to consist of parts, of which none is animated with the spirit that ought to prevail in the conduct of nations. "We see in the same persons," said Pericles, "an equal attention to private and to public affairs; and in men who have turned to separate professions, a competent knowledge of what relates to the community; for we alone consider those who are inattentive to the state, as perfectly insignificant." This encomium on the Athenians was probably offered under an apprehension, that the contrary was likely to be charged by their enemies, or might soon take place. It happened, accordingly, that the business of state, as well as of war, came to be worse administered at Athens, when these, as well as other applications, became the object of separate professions; and the history of this people abundantly shewed, that men ceased to be citizens, even to be good poets and orators, in proportion as they came to be distinguished by the profession of these, and other separate crafts. Animals less honoured than we, have sagacity enough to procure their food, and to find the means of their solitary pleasures; but it is reserved for man to consult, to persuade, to oppose, to kindle in the society of his fellow creatures, and to lose the sense of his personal interest or safety, in the ardour of his friendships and his oppositions. When we are involved in any of the divisions into which mankind are separated under the denominations of a country, a tribe, or an order of men any way affected by common interests, and guided by communicating passions, the mind recognises its natural station; the sentiments of the heart, and the talents of the understanding, find their natural exercise. Wisdom, vigilance, fidelity, and fortitude, are the characters requisite in such a scene, and the qualities which it tends to improve. In simple or barbarous ages, when nations are weak, and beset with enemies, the love of a country, of a party, or a faction, are the same. The public is a knot of friends, and its enemies are the rest of mankind. Death, or slavery, are the ordinary evils which they are concerned to ward off; victory and dominion, the objects to which they aspire. Under the sense of what they may suffer from foreign invasions, it is one object, in every prosperous society, to increase its force, and to extend its limits. In proportion as this object is gained, security increases. They who possess the interior districts, remote from the frontier, are unused to alarms from abroad. They who are placed on the extremities, remote from the seats of government, are unused to hear of political interests; and the public becomes an object perhaps too extensive for the conceptions of either. They enjoy the protection of its laws, or of its armies; and they boast of its splendour, and its power; but the glowing sentiments of public affection, which, in small states, mingle with the tenderness of the parent and the lover, of the friend and the companion, merely by having their object enlarged, lose great part of their force. The manners of rude nations require to be reformed. Their foreign quarrels, and domestic dissentions, are the operations of extreme and sanguinary passions. A state of greater tranquillity hath many happy effects. But if nations pursue the plan of enlargement and pacification, till their members can no longer apprehend the common ties of society, nor be engaged by affection in the cause of their country, they must err on the opposite side, and by leaving too little to agitate the spirits of men, bring on ages of languor, if not of decay. The members of a community may, in this manner, like the inhabitants of a conquered province, be made to lose the sense of every connection, but that of kindred or neighbourhood; and have no common affairs to transact, but those of trade: connections, indeed, or transactions, in which probity and friendship may still take place; but in which the national spirit, whose ebbs and flows we are now considering, cannot be exerted. What we observe, however, on the tendency of enlargement to loosen the bands of political union, cannot be applied to nations who, being originally narrow, never greatly extended their limits; nor to those who, in a rude state, had already the extension of a great kingdom. In territories of considerable extent, subject to one government, and possessed of freedom, the national union, in rude ages, is extremely imperfect. Every district forms a separate party; and the descendants of different families are opposed to each other, under the denomination of tribes or of clans: they are seldom brought to act with a steady concert; their feuds and animosities give more frequently the appearance of so many nations at war, than of a people united by connections of policy. They acquire a spirit, however, in their private divisions, and in the midst of a disorder, otherwise hurtful, of which the force, on many occasions, redounds to the power of the state. Whatever be the national extent, civil order, and regular government, are advantages of the greatest importance; but it does not follow, that every arrangement made to obtain these ends, and which may, in the making, exercise and cultivate the best qualities of men, is therefore of a nature to produce permanent effects, and to secure the preservation of that national spirit from which it arose. We have reason to dread the political refinements of ordinary men, when we consider that repose, or inaction itself, is in a great measure their object; and that they would frequently model their governments, not merely to prevent injustice and error, but to prevent agitation and bustle; and by the barriers they raise against the evil actions of men, would prevent them from acting at all. Every dispute of a free people, in the opinion of such politicians, amounts to disorder, and a breach of the national peace. What heart burnings? What delay to affairs? What want of secrecy and despatch? What defect of police? Men of superior genius sometimes seem to imagine, that the vulgar have no title to act, or to think. A great prince is pleased to ridicule the precaution by which judges in a free country are confined to the strict interpretation of law. [Footnote: Memoirs of Brandenburg.] We easily learn to contract our opinions of what men may, in consistence with public order, be safely permitted to do. The agitations of a republic, and the license of its members, strike the subjects of monarchy with aversion and disgust. The freedom with which the European is left to traverse the streets and the fields, would appear to a Chinese a sure prelude to confusion and anarchy. "Can men behold their superior and not tremble? Can they converse without a precise and written ceremonial? What hopes of peace, if, the streets are not barricaded at an hour? What wild disorder, if men are permitted in any thing to do what they please?" If the precautions which men thus take against each other, be necessary to repress their crimes, and do not arise from a corrupt ambition, or from cruel jealousy in their rulers, the proceeding itself must be applauded, as the best remedy of which the vices of men will admit. The viper must be held at a distance, and the tyger chained. But if a rigorous policy, applied to enslave, not to restrain from crimes, has an actual tendency to corrupt the manners, and to extinguish the spirit of nations; if its severities be applied to terminate the agitations of a free people, not to remedy their corruptions; if forms be often applauded as salutary, because they tend merely to silence the voice of mankind, or be condemned as pernicious, because they allow this voice to be heard; we may expect that many of the boasted improvements of civil society, will be mere devices to lay the political spirit at rest, and will chain up the active virtues more than the restless disorders of men. If to any people it be the avowed object of policy in all its internal refinements, to secure only the person and the property of the subject, without any regard to his political character, the constitution indeed may be free, but its members may likewise become unworthy of the freedom they possess, and unfit to preserve it. The effects of such a constitution may be to immerse all orders of men in their separate pursuits of pleasure, which they may on this supposition enjoy with little disturbance; or of gain, which they may preserve without any attention to the commonwealth. If this be the end of political struggles, the design, when executed, in securing to the individual his estate, and the means of subsistence, may put an end to the exercise of those very virtues that were required in conducting its execution. A man who, in concert with his fellow subjects, contends with usurpation in defence of his estate or his person, may in that very struggle have found an exertion of great generosity, and of a vigorous spirit; but he who, under political establishments, supposed to be fully confirmed, betakes him, because he is safe, to the mere enjoyment of fortune, has in fact turned to a source of corruption the advantages which the virtues of the other procured. Individuals, in certain ages, derive their protection chiefly from the strength of the party to which they adhere; but in tithes of corruption they flatter themselves; that they may continue to derive from the public that safety which, in former ages, they must have owed to their own vigilance and spirit, to the warm attachment of their friends, and to the exercise of every talent which could render them respected, feared, or beloved. In one period, therefore, mere circumstances serve to excite the spirit, and to preserve the manners of men; in another, great wisdom and zeal for the good of mankind on the part of their leaders, are required for the same purposes. Rome, it may be thought, did not die of a lethargy, nor perish by the remission of her political ardours at home. Her distemper appeared of a nature more violent and acute. Yet if the virtues of Cato and of Brutus found an exercise in the dying hour of the republic, the neutrality, and the cautious retirement of Atticus, found its security in the same tempestuous season; and the great body of the people lay undisturbed below the current of a storm, by which the superior ranks of men were destroyed. In the minds of the people the sense of a public was defaced; and even the animosity of faction had subsided: they only could share in the commotion, who were the soldiers of a legion, or the partisans of a leader. But this state fell not into obscurity for want of eminent men. If at the time of which we speak, we look only for a few names distinguished in the history of mankind, there is no period at which the list was more numerous. But those names became distinguished in the contest for dominion, not in the exercise of equal rights: the people was corrupted; so great an empire stood in need of a master. Republican governments, in general, are in hazard of ruin from the ascendant of particular factions, and from the mutinous spirit of a populace, who, being corrupted, are no longer fit to share in the administration of state. But under other establishments, where liberty may be more successfully attained if men are corrupted, the national vigour declines from the abuse of that very security which is procured by the supposed perfection of public order. A distribution of power and office; an execution of law, by which mutual encroachments and molestations are brought to an end; by which the person and the property are, without friends, without cabal, without obligation, perfectly secured to individuals, does honour to the genius of a nation; and could not have been fully established, without those exertions of understanding and integrity, those trials of a resolute and vigorous spirit, which adorn the annals of a people, and leave to future ages a subject of just admiration and applause. But if we suppose that the end is attained, and that men no longer act, in the enjoyment of liberty from liberal sentiments, or with a view to the preservation of public manners; if individuals think themselves secure without any attention or effort of their own; this boasted advantage may be found only to give them an opportunity of enjoying, at leisure, the conveniencies and necessaries of life; or, in the language of Cato, teach them to value their houses, their villas, their statues, and their pictures, at a higher rate than they do the republic. They may be found to grow tired in secret of a free constitution, of which they never cease to boast in their conversation, and which they always neglect in their conduct. The dangers to liberty are not the subject of our present consideration; but they can never be greater from any cause than they are from the supposed remissness of a people, to whose personal vigour every constitution, as it owed its establishment, so must continue to owe its preservation. Nor is this blessing ever less secure than it is in the possession of men who think that they enjoy it in safety, and who therefore consider the public only as it presents to their avarice a number of lucrative employments; for the sake of which, they may sacrifice those very rights which render themselves objects of management or of consideration. From the tendency of these reflections, then, it should appear, that a national spirit is frequently transient, not on account of any incurable distemper in the nature of mankind, but on account of their voluntary neglects and corruptions. This spirit subsisted solely, perhaps, in the execution of a few projects, entered into for the acquisition of territory or wealth; it comes, like a useless weapon, to be laid aside after its end is attained. Ordinary establishments terminate in a relaxation of vigour, and are ineffectual to the preservation of states; because they lead mankind to rely on their arts, instead of their virtues; and to mistake for an improvement of human nature, a mere accession of accommodation, or of riches. [Footnote: Adeo in quae laboramus sola crevimus Divitias luxuriamque. Liv. lib. vii. c. 25.] Institutions that fortify the mind, inspire courage, and promote national felicity, can never tend to national ruin. Is it not possible, amidst our admiration of arts, to find some place for these? Let statesmen, who are intrusted with the government of nations, reply for themselves. It is their business to shew, whether they climb into stations of eminence, merely to display a passion of interest, which they had better indulge in obscurity; and whether they have capacity to understand the happiness of a people, the conduct of whose affairs they are so willing to undertake. SECTION IV. THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED Men frequently, while they are engaged in what is accounted the most selfish of all pursuits, the improvement of fortune, then most neglect themselves; and while they reason for their country, forget the considerations that most deserve their attention. Numbers, riches, and the other resources of war, are highly important: but nations consist of men; and a nation consisting of degenerate and cowardly men, is weak; a nation consisting of vigorous, public spirited, and resolute men, is strong. The resources of war, where other advantages are equal, may decide a contest; but the resources of war, in hands that cannot employ them, are of no avail. Virtue is a necessary constituent of national strength: capacity, and a vigorous understanding, are no less necessary to sustain the fortune of states. Both are improved by discipline, and by the exercises in which men are engaged. We despise, or we pity the lot of mankind, while they lived under uncertain establishments, and were obliged to sustain in the same person, the character of the senator, the statesman, and the soldier. Commercial nations discover, that any one of these characters is sufficient in one person; and that the ends of each, when disjoined, are more easily accomplished. The first, however, were circumstances under which nations advanced and prospered; the second were those in which the spirit relaxed, and the nation went to decay. We may, with good reason, congratulate our species on their having escaped from a state of barbarous disorder and violence, into a state of domestic peace and regular policy; when they have sheathed the dagger, and disarmed the animosities of civil contention; when the weapons with which they contend are the reasonings of the wise, and the tongue of the eloquent. But we cannot, mean time, help to regret, that they should ever proceed, in search of perfection, to place every branch of administration behind the counter, and come to employ, instead of the statesman and warrior, the mere clerk and accountant. By carrying this system to its height, men are educated, who could copy for Caesar his military instructions, or even execute a part of his plans; but none who could act in all the different scenes for which the leader himself must be qualified, in the state and in the field, in times of order or of tumult, in times of division or of unanimity; none who could animate the council when deliberating on domestic affairs, or when alarmed by attacks from abroad. The policy of China is the most perfect model of an arrangement at which the ordinary refinements of government are aimed; and the inhabitants of that empire possess, in the highest degree, those arts on which vulgar minds make the felicity and greatness of nations to depend. The state has acquired, in a measure unequalled in the history of mankind, numbers of men, and the other resources of war. They have done what we are very apt to admire: they have brought national affairs to the level of the meanest capacity; they have broke them into parts, and thrown them into separate departments; they have clothed every proceeding with splendid ceremonies, and majestical forms; and where the reverence of forms cannot repress disorder, a rigorous and severe police, armed with every species of corporal punishment, is applied to the purpose. The whip, and the cudgel, are held up to all orders of men; they are at once employed, and they are dreaded, by every magistrate. A mandarine is whipped, for having ordered a pickpocket to receive too few or too many blows. Every department of state is made the object of a separate profession, and every candidate for office must have passed through a regular education; and, as in the graduations of the university, must have obtained by his proficiency, or his standing, the degree to which he aspires. The tribunals of state, of war, and of the revenue, as well as of literature, are conducted by graduates in their different studies; but while learning is the great road to preferment, it terminates in being able to read, and to write; and the great object of government consists in raising, and in consuming the fruits of the earth. With all these resources, and this learned preparation, which is made to turn these resources to use, the state is in reality weak; has repeatedly given the example which we seek to explain; and among the doctors of war or of policy, among the millions who are set apart for the military profession, can find none of its members who are fit to stand forth in the dangers of their country, or to form a defence against the repeated inroads of an enemy reputed to be artless and mean. It is difficult to tell how long the decay of states might be suspended, by the cultivation of arts on which their real felicity and strength depend; by cultivating in the higher ranks those talents for the council and the field, which cannot, without great disadvantage, be separated; and in the body of a people, that zeal for their country, and that military character, which enable them to take a share in defending its rights. Times may come, when every proprietor must defend his own possessions, and every free people maintain their own independence. We may imagine, that, against such an extremity, an army of hired troops is a sufficient precaution; but their own troops are the very enemy against which a people is sometimes obliged to fight. We may flatter ourselves, that extremities of this sort, in any particular case, are remote; but we cannot, in reasoning on the general fortunes of mankind, avoid putting the case, and referring to the examples in which it has happened. It has happened in every instance where the polished have fallen a prey to the rude, and where the pacific inhabitant has been reduced to subjection by military force. If the defence and government of a people be made to depend on a few, who make the conduct of state or of war their profession; whether these be foreigners or natives; whether they be called away of a sudden, like the Roman legion from Britain; whether they turn against their employers, like the army of Carthage; or be overpowered and dispersed by a stroke of fortune; the multitude of a cowardly and undisciplined people must, upon such an emergence; receive a foreign or a domestic enemy, as they would a plague or an earthquake, with hopeless amazement and terror, and by their numbers, only swell the triumphs, and enrich the spoil of a conqueror. Statesmen and leaders of armies, accustomed to the mere observance of forms, are disconcerted by a suspension of customary rules; and on slight grounds despair of their country. They were qualified only to go the rounds of a particular track; and when forced from their stations, are in reality unable to act with men. They only took part in formalities, of which they understood not the tendency; and together with the modes of procedure, even the very state itself, in their apprehension, has ceased to exist. The numbers, possessions, and resources of a great people, only serve, in their view, to constitute a scene of hopeless confusion and terror. In rude ages, under the appellations of _a community, a people_, or _a nation_, was understood a number of men; and the state, while its members remained, was accounted entire. The Scythians, while they fled before Darius, mocked at his childish attempt; Athens survived the devastations of Xerxes; and Rome, in its rude state, those of the Gauls. With polished and mercantile states, the case is sometimes reversed. The nation is a territory, cultivated and improved by its owners; destroy the possession, even while the master remains, the state is undone. The weakness and effeminacy of which polished nations are sometimes accused, has its place probably in the mind alone. The strength of animals, and that of man in particular, depends on his feeding; and the kind of labour to which he is used. Wholesome food, and hard labour, the portion of many in every polished and commercial nation, secure to the public a number of men endued with bodily strength, and inured to hardship and toil. Even delicate living, and good accommodation, are not found to enervate the body. The armies of Europe have been obliged to make the experiment; and the children of opulent families, bred in effeminacy, or nursed with tender care, have been made to contend with the savage. By imitating his arts, they have learned, like him, to traverse the forest; and, in every season, to subsist in the desert. They have, perhaps, recovered a lesson, which it has cost civilized nations many ages to unlearn, that the fortune of a man is entire while he remains possessed of himself. It may be thought, however, that few of the celebrated nations of antiquity, whose fate has given rise to so much reflection on the vicissitudes of human affairs, had made any great progress in those enervating arts we have mentioned; or made those arrangements from which the danger in question could be supposed to arise. The Greeks, in particular, at the time they received the Macedonian yoke, had certainly not carried the commercial arts to so great a height as is common with the most flourishing and prosperous nations of Europe. They had still retained the form of independent republics; the people were generally admitted to a share in the government; and not being able to hire armies, they were obliged, by necessity, to bear a part in the defence of their country. By their frequent wars and domestic commotions, they were accustomed to danger, and were familiar with alarming situations; they were accordingly still accounted the best soldiers and the best statesmen of the known world. The younger Cyrus promised himself the empire of Asia by means of their aid; and after his fall, a body of ten thousand, although bereft of their leaders, baffled, in their retreat, all the military force of the Persian empire. The victor of Asia did not think himself prepared for that conquest, till he had formed an army from the subdued republics of Greece. It is, however, true, that in the age of Philip, the military and political spirit of those nations appears to have been considerably impaired, and to have suffered, perhaps, from the variety of interests and pursuits, as well as of pleasures, with which their members came to be occupied; they even made a kind of separation between the civil and military character. Phocion, we are told by Plutarch, having observed that the leading men of his time followed different courses, that some applied themselves to civil, others to military affairs, determined rather to follow the examples of Themistocles, Aristides, and Pericles, the leaders of a former age, who were equally prepared for either. We find in the orations of Demosthenes, a perpetual reference to this state of manners. We find him exhorting the Athenians not only to declare war, but to arm themselves for the execution of their own military plans. We find that there was an order of military men, who easily passed from the service of one state to that of another; and who, when they were neglected from home, turned away to enterprises on their own account. There were not, perhaps, better warriors in any former age; but those warriors were not attached to any state; and the settled inhabitants of every city thought themselves disqualified for military service. The discipline of armies was perhaps improved; but the vigour of nations was gone to decay. When Philip, or Alexander, defeated the Grecian armies, which were chiefly composed of soldiers of fortune, they found an easy conquest with the other inhabitants; and when the latter, afterwards supported by those soldiers, invaded the Persian empire, he seems to have left little martial spirit behind him; and by removing the military men, to have taken precaution enough, in his absence, to secure his dominion over this mutinous and refractory people. The subdivision of arts and professions, in, certain examples, tends to improve the practice of them, and to promote their ends. By having separated the arts of the clothier and the tanner, we are the better supplied with shoes and with cloth. But to separate the arts which form the citizen and the statesman, the arts of policy and war, is an attempt to dismember the human character, and to destroy those very arts we mean to improve. By this separation, we in effect deprive a free people of what is necessary to their safety; or we prepare a defence against invasions from abroad, which gives a prospect of usurpation, and threatens the establishment of military government at home. We may be surprised to find the beginning of certain military instructions at Rome, referred to a time no earlier than that of the Cimbric war. It was then, we are told by Valerius Maximus, that Roman soldiers were made to learn from gladiators the use of a sword: and the antagonists of Pyrrhus and of Hannibal were, by the account of this writer, still in need of instruction in the first rudiments of their trade. They had already, by the order and choice of their encampments, impressed the Grecian invader with awe and respect; they had already, not by their victories, but by their national vigour and firmness, under repeated defeats, induced him to sue for peace. But the haughty Roman, perhaps, knew the advantage of order and of union, without having been broke to the inferior arts of the mercenary soldier; and had the courage to face the enemies of his country, without having practised the use of his weapon under the fear of being whipped. He could ill be persuaded that a time might come, when refined and intelligent nations would make the art of war to consist in a few technical forms; that citizens and soldiers might come to be distinguished as much as women and men; that the citizen would become possessed of a property which he would not be able, or required, to defend; that the soldier would be appointed to keep for another what he would be taught to desire, and what he alone would be enabled to seize and to keep for himself; that, in short, one set of men were to have an interest in the preservation of civil establishments, without the power to defend them; that the other were to have this power, without either the inclination or the interest. This people, however, by degrees came to put their military force on the very footing to which this description alludes. Marius made a capital change in the manner of levying soldiers at Rome: he filled his legions with the mean and the indigent, who depended on military pay for subsistence; he created a force which rested on mere discipline alone, and the skill of the gladiator; he taught his troops to employ their swords against the constitution of their country, and set the example of a practice which was soon adopted and improved by his successors. The Romans only meant by their armies to encroach on the freedom of other nations, while they preserved their own. They forgot, that in assembling soldiers of fortune, and in suffering any leader to be master of a disciplined army, they actually resigned their political rights, and suffered a master to arise for the state. This people, in short, whose ruling passion was depredation and conquest, perished by the recoil of an engine which they themselves had erected against mankind. The boasted refinements, then, of the polished age, are not divested of danger. They open a door, perhaps, to disaster, as wide and accessible as any of those they have shut. If they build walls and ramparts, they enervate the minds of those who are placed to defend them; if they form disciplined armies, they reduce the military spirit of entire nations; and by placing the sword where they have given a distaste to civil establishments, they prepare for mankind the government of force. It is happy for the nations of Europe, that the disparity between the soldier and the pacific citizen can never be so great as it became among the Greeks and the Romans. In the use of modern arms, the novice is made to learn, and to practise with ease, all that the veteran knows; and if to teach him were a matter of real difficulty, happy are they who are not deterred by such difficulties, and who can discover the arts which tend to fortify and preserve, not to enervate and ruin their country. SECTION V. OF NATIONAL WASTE. The strength of nations consists in the wealth, the numbers, and the character of their people. The history of their progress from a state of rudeness, is, for the most part, a detail of the struggles they have maintained, and of the arts they have practised, to strengthen, or to secure themselves. Their conquests, their population, and their commerce, their civil and military arrangements, their skill in the construction of weapons, and in the methods of attack and defence; the very distribution of tasks, whether in private business or in public affairs, either tend to bestow, or promise to employ with advantage the constituents of a national force, and the resources of war. If we suppose that, together with these advantages, the military character of a people remains, or is improved, it must follow, that what is gained in civilization, is a real increase of strength; and that the ruin of nations could never take its rise from themselves. Where states have stopped short in their progress, or have actually gone to decay, we may suspect, that however disposed to advance, they have found a limit, beyond which they could not proceed; or from a remission of the national spirit, and a weakness of character, were unable to make the most of their resources, and natural advantages. On this supposition, from being stationary, they may begin to relapse, and by a retrograde motion in a succession of ages, arrive at a state of greater weakness, than that which they quitted in the beginning of their progress; and with the appearance of better arts, and superior conduct, expose themselves to become a prey to barbarians, whom, in the attainment, or the height of their glory, they had easily baffled or despised. Whatever may be the natural wealth of a people, or whatever may be the limits beyond which they cannot improve on their stock, it is probable, that no nation has ever reached those limits, or has been able to postpone its misfortunes, and the effects of misconduct, until its fund of materials, and the fertility of its soil, were exhausted, or the numbers of its people were greatly reduced. The same errors in policy, and weakness of manners, which prevent the proper use of resources, likewise check their increase, or improvement. The wealth of the state consists in the fortune of its members. The actual revenue of the state is that share of every private fortune, which the public has been accustomed to demand for national purposes. This revenue cannot be always proportioned to what may be supposed redundant in the private estate, but to what is, in some measure, thought so by the owner; and to what he may be made to spare, without intrenching on his manner of living, and without suspending his projects of expense, or of commerce. It should appear, therefore, that any immoderate increase of private expense is a prelude to national weakness: government, even while each of its subjects consumes a princely estate, may be straitened in point of revenue, and the paradox be explained by example, that the public is poor while its members are rich. We are frequently led into error by mistaking money for riches; we think that a people cannot be impoverished by a waste of money which is spent among themselves. The fact is, that men are impoverished only in two ways; either by having their gains suspended, or by having their substance consumed; and money expended at home, being circulated, and not consumed, cannot, any more than the exchange of a tally, or a counter, among a certain number of hands, tend to diminish the wealth of the company among whom it is handed about. But while money circulates at home, the necessaries of life, which are the real constituents of wealth, may be idly consumed; the industry which might be employed to increase the stock of a people, may be suspended, or turned to abuse. Great armies, maintained either at home or abroad, without any national object, are so many mouths unnecessarily opened to waste the stores of the public, and so many hands withheld from the arts by which its profits are made. Unsuccessful enterprises are so many ventures thrown away, and losses sustained, proportioned to the capital employed in the service. The Helvetii, in order to invade the Roman province of Gaul, burnt their habitations, dropt their instruments of husbandry, and consumed in one year the savings of many. The enterprise failed of success, and the nation was undone. States have endeavoured, in some instances, by pawning their credit, instead of employing their capital, to disguise the hazards they ran. They have found, in the loans they raised, a casual resource, which encouraged their enterprises. They have seemed, by their manner of erecting transferable funds, to leave the capital for purposes of trade, in the hands of the subject, while it is actually expended by the government. They have, by these means, proceeded to the execution of great national projects, without suspending private industry, and have left future ages to answer, in part, for debts contracted with a view to future emolument. So far the expedient is plausible, and appears to be just. The growing burden too, is thus gradually laid; and if a nation be to sink in some future age, every minister hopes it may still keep afloat in his own. But the measure, for this very reason, is, with all its advantages, extremely dangerous, in the hands of a precipitant and ambitious administration, regarding only the present occasion, and imagining a state to be inexhaustible, while a capital can be borrowed, and the interest be paid. We are told of a nation who, during a certain period, rivalled the glories of the ancient world, threw off the dominion of a master armed against them with the powers of a great kingdom, broke the yoke with which they had been oppressed, and almost within the course of a century raised, by their industry and national vigour, a new and formidable power, which struck the former potentates of Europe with awe and suspense, and turned the badges of poverty with which they set out, into the ensigns of war and dominion. This end was attained by the great efforts of a spirit awakened by oppression, by a successful pursuit of national wealth, and by a rapid anticipation of future revenue. But this illustrious state is supposed not only, in the language of a former section, to have pre-occupied the business; they have sequestered the inheritance of many ages to come. Great national expense, however, does not imply the necessity of any national suffering. While revenue is applied with success to obtain some valuable end, the profits of every adventure, being more than sufficient to repay its costs, the public should gain, and its resources should continue to multiply. But an expense, whether sustained at home or abroad, whether a waste of the present, or an anticipation of future, revenue, if it bring no proper return, is to be reckoned among the causes of national ruin. AN ESSAY ON THE HISTORY OF CIVIL SOCIETY * * * * * PART SIXTH OF CORRUPTION AND POLITICAL SLAVERY. * * * * * SECTION I. OF CORRUPTION IN GENERAL. If the fortune of nations, and their tendency to aggrandizement, or to ruin, were to be estimated by merely balancing, on the principles of the last section, articles of profit and loss, every argument in politics would rest on a comparison of national expense with national gain; on a comparison of the numbers who consume, with those who produce or amass the necessaries of life. The columns of the industrious, and the idle, would include all orders of men; and the state itself, being allowed as many magistrates, politicians, and warriors, as were barely sufficient for its defence and its government, should place, on the side of its loss, every name that is supernumerary on the civil or the military list; all those orders of men, who, by the possession of fortune, subsist on the gains of others, and by the nicety of their choice, require a great expense of time and of labour, to supply their consumption; all those who are idly employed in the train of persons of rank; all those who are engaged in the professions of law, physic, or divinity, together with all the learned who do not, by their studies, promote or improve the practice of some lucrative trade. The value of every person, in short, should be computed from his labour; and that of labour itself, from its tendency to procure and amass the means of subsistence. The arts employed on mere superfluities should be prohibited, except when their produce could be exchanged with foreign nations, for commodities that might be employed to maintain useful men for the public. These appear to be the rules by which a miser would examine the state of his own affairs, or those of his country; but schemes of perfect corruption are at least as impracticable as schemes of perfect virtue. Men are not universally misers; they will not be satisfied with the pleasure of hoarding; they must be suffered to enjoy their wealth, in order that they may take the trouble of becoming rich. Property, in the common course of human affairs, is unequally divided: we are therefore obliged to suffer the wealthy to squander, that the poor may subsist: we are obliged to tolerate certain orders of men, who are above the necessity of labour, in order that, in their condition, there may be an object of ambition, and a rank to which the busy aspire. We are not only obliged to admit numbers, who, in strict economy, may be reckoned superfluous, on the civil, the military, and the political list; but because we are men, and prefer the occupation, improvement, and felicity of our nature, to its mere existence, we must even wish, that as many members as possible, of every community, may be admitted to a share of its defence and its government. Men, in fact, while they pursue in society different objects, or separate views, procure a wide distribution of power, and by a species of chance, arrive at a posture for civil engagements, more favourable to human nature than what human wisdom could ever calmly devise. If the strength of a nation, in the mean-time, consists in the men on whom it may rely, and who are fortunately or wisely combined for its preservation, it follows, that manners are as important as either numbers or wealth; and that corruption is to be accounted a principal cause of the national declension and ruin. Whoever perceives what are the qualities of man in his excellence, may easily, by that standard, distinguish his defects or corruptions. If an intelligent, a courageous, and an affectionate mind, constitutes the perfection of his nature, remarkable failings in any of those particulars must proportionally sink or debase his character. We have observed, that it is the happiness of the individual to make a right choice of his conduct; that this choice will lead him to lose in society the sense of a personal interest; and, in the consideration of what is due to the whole, to stifle those anxieties which relate to himself as a part. The natural disposition of man to humanity, and the warmth of his temper, may raise his character to this fortunate pitch. His elevation, in a great measure, depends on the form of his society; but he can, without incurring the charge of corruption, accommodate himself to great variations in the constitutions of government. The same integrity, and vigorous spirit, which, in democratical states, renders him tenacious of his equality, may, under aristocracy or monarchy, lead him to maintain the subordinations established. He may entertain, towards the different ranks of men with whom he is yoked in the state, maxims of respect and of candour: he may, in the choice of his actions, follow a principle of justice and of honour, which the considerations of safety, preferment, or profit, cannot efface. From our complaints of national depravity, it should, notwithstanding, appear, that whole bodies of men are sometimes infected with an epidemical weakness of the head, or corruption of heart, by which they become unfit for the stations they occupy, and threaten the states they compose, however flourishing, with a prospect of decay, and of ruin. A change of national manners for the worse, may arise from a discontinuance of the scenes in which the talents of men were happily cultivated, and brought into exercise; or from a change in the prevailing opinions relating to the constituents of honour or of happiness. When mere riches, or court favour, are supposed to constitute rank; the mind is misled from the consideration of qualities on which it ought to rely. Magnanimity, courage, and the love of mankind, are sacrificed to avarice and vanity; or suppressed under a sense of dependence. The individual considers his community so far only as it can be rendered subservient to his personal advancement or profit: he states himself in competition with his fellow creatures; and, urged by the passions of emulation, of fear and jealousy, of envy and malice, he follows the maxims of an animal destined to preserve his separate existence, and to indulge his caprice or his appetite, at the expense of his species. On this corrupt foundation, men become either rapacious, deceitful, and violent, ready to trespass on the rights of others; or servile, mercenary, and base, prepared to relinquish their own. Talents, capacity, and force of mind, possessed by a person of the first description, serve to plunge him the deeper in misery, and to sharpen the agony of cruel passions; which lead him to wreak on his fellow creatures the torments that prey on himself. To a person of the second, imagination, and reason itself, only serve to point out false objects of fear and desire, and to multiply the subjects of disappointment and of momentary joy. In either case, and whether we suppose that corrupt men are urged by covetousness, or betrayed by fear, and without specifying the crimes which from either disposition they are prepared to commit, we may safely affirm, with Socrates, "That every master should pray he may not meet with such a slave; and every such person, being unfit for liberty, should implore that he may meet with a merciful master." Man, under this measure of corruption, although he may be bought for a slave by those who know how to turn his faculties and his labour to profit; and although, when kept under proper restraints, his neighbourhood may be convenient or useful; yet is certainly unfit to act on the footing of a liberal combination or concert with his fellow creatures: his mind is not addicted to friendship or confidence; he is not willing to act for the preservation of others, nor deserves that any other should hazard his own safety for his. The actual character of mankind, mean time, in the worst as well as the best condition, is undoubtedly mixed: and nations of the best description are greatly obliged for their preservation, not only to the good disposition of their members, but likewise to those political institutions, by which the violent are restrained from the commission of crimes, and the cowardly, or the selfish, are made to contribute their part to the public defence or prosperity. By means of such institutions, and the wise precautions of government, nations are enabled to subsist, and even to prosper, under very different degrees of corruption, or of public integrity. So long as the majority of a people are supposed to act on maxims of probity, the example of the good, and even the caution of the bad, give a general appearance of integrity, and of innocence. Where men are to one another objects of affection and of confidence, where they are generally disposed not to offend, government may be remiss; and every person may be treated as innocent, till he is found to be guilty. As the subject, in this case, does not hear of the crimes, so he need not be told of the punishments inflicted on persons of a different character. But where the manners of a people are considerably changed for the worse, every subject must stand on his guard, and government itself must act on suitable maxims of fear and distrust. The individual, no longer fit to be indulged in his pretensions to personal consideration, independence, or freedom, each of which he would turn to abuse, must be taught, by external force, and from motives of fear, to counterfeit those effects of innocence, and of duty, to which he is not disposed: he must be referred to the whip, or the gibbet, for arguments in support of a caution, which the state now requires him to assume, on a supposition that he is insensible to the motives which recommend the practice of virtue. The rules of despotism are made for the government of corrupted men. They were indeed followed on some remarkable occasions, even under the Roman commonwealth; and the bloody axe, to terrify the citizen from his crimes, and to repel the casual and temporary irruptions of vice, was repeatedly committed to the arbitrary will of the dictator. They were finally established on the ruins of the republic itself, when either the people became too corrupted for freedom, or when the magistrate became too corrupted to resign his dictatorial power. This species of government comes naturally in the termination of a continued and growing corruption; but has, no doubt, in some instances, come too soon, and has sacrificed remains of virtue, that deserved a better fate, to the jealousy of tyrants, who were in haste to augment their power. This method of government cannot, in such cases, fail to introduce that measure of corruption, against whose external effects it is desired as a remedy. When fear is suggested as the only motive to duty, every art becomes rapacious or base. And this medicine, if applied to a healthy body, is sure to create the distemper; which in other cases it is destined to cure. This is the manner of government into which the covetous, and the arrogant, to satiate their unhappy desires, would hurry their fellow creatures: it is a manner of government to which the timorous and the servile submit at discretion; and when these characters of the rapacious and the timid divide mankind, even the virtues of Antoninus or Trajan can do no more than apply, with candour and with vigour, the whip and the sword; and endeavour, by the hopes of reward, or the fear of punishment, to find a speedy and a temporary cure for the crimes, or the imbecilities of men. Other states may be more or less corrupted: this has corruption for its basis. Here justice may sometimes direct the arm of the despotical sovereign; but the name of justice is most commonly employed to signify the interest or the caprice of a reigning power. Human society, susceptible of such a variety of forms, here finds the simplest of all. The toils and possessions of many are destined to assuage the passions of one or a few; and the only parties that remain among, mankind, are the oppressor who demands, and the oppressed who dare not refuse. Nations, while they were entitled to a milder fate, as in the case of the Greeks, repeatedly conquered, have been reduced to this condition by military force. They have reached it too in the maturity of their own depravations; when, like the Romans, returned from the conquest, and loaded with the spoils of the world, they give loose to faction, and to crimes too bold and too frequent for the correction of ordinary government; and when the sword of justice, dropping with blood, and perpetually required to suppress accumulating disorders on every side, could no longer await the delays and precautions of an administration fettered by laws. [Footnote: Sallust. Bell. Catalinarium.] It is, however, well known from the history of mankind, that corruption of this, or of any other degree, is not peculiar to nations in their decline, or in the result of signal prosperity, and great advances in the arts of commerce. The bands of society, indeed, in small and infant establishments, are generally strong; and their subjects, either by an ardent devotion to to their own tribe, or a vehement animosity against enemies, and by a vigorous courage founded on both, are well qualified to urge, or to sustain, the fortune of a growing community. But the savage and the barbarian have given, notwithstanding, in the case of entire nations, some examples of a weak and timorous character. [Footnote: The barbarous nations of Siberia, in general, are servile and timid.] They have, in more instances, fallen into that species of corruption which we have already described in treating of barbarous nations; they have made rapine their trade, not merely as a species of warfare, or with a view to enrich their community, but to possess, in property, what they learned to prefer even to the ties of affection or of blood. In the lowest state of commercial arts, the passions for wealth, and for dominion, have exhibited scenes of oppression or servility, which the most finished corruption of the arrogant, the cowardly, and the mercenary, founded on the desire of procuring, or the fear of losing, a fortune, could not exceed. In such cases, the vices of men, unrestrained by forms, and unawed by police, are suffered to riot at large, and to produce their entire effects. Parties accordingly unite, or separate, on the maxims of a gang of robbers; they sacrifice to interest the tenderest affections of human nature. The parent supplies the market for slaves, even by the sale of his own children; the cottage ceases to be a sanctuary for the weak and the defenceless stranger; and the rights of hospitality, often so sacred among nations in their primitive state, come to be violated, like every other tie of humanity, without fear or remorse. [Footnote: Chardin's travels through Mingrelia into Persia.] Nations which, in later periods of their history, became eminent for civil wisdom and justice, had, perhaps, in a former age, paroxysms of lawless disorder, to which this description might in part be applied. The very policy by which they arrived at their degree of national felicity, was devised as a remedy for outrageous abuse. The establishment of order was dated from the commission of rapes and murders; indignation, and private revenge, were the principles on which nations proceeded to the expulsion of tyrants, to the emancipation of mankind, and the full explanation of their political rights. Defects of government and of law may be, in some cases, considered as a symptom of innocence and of virtue. But where power is already established, where the strong are unwilling to suffer restraint, or the weak unable to find a protection, the defects of law are marks of the most perfect corruption. Among rude nations, government is often defective; both because men are not yet acquainted with all the evils for which polished nations have endeavoured to find a redress; and because, even where evils of the most flagrant nature have long afflicted the peace of society, they have not yet been able to apply the cure. In the progress of civilization, new distempers break forth, and new remedies are applied: but the remedy is not always applied the moment the distemper appears; and laws, though suggested by the commission of crimes, are not the symptom of a recent corruption, but of a desire to find a remedy that may cure, perhaps, some inveterate evil which has long afflicted the state. There are corruptions, however, under which men still possess the vigour and the resolution to correct themselves. Such are the violence and the outrage which accompany the collision of fierce and daring spirits, occupied in the struggles which sometimes precede the dawn of civil and commercial improvements. In such cases, men have frequently discovered a remedy for evils, of which their own misguided impetuosity, and superior force of mind, were the principal causes. But if to a depraved disposition, we suppose to be joined a weakness of spirit; if to an admiration and desire of riches, be joined an aversion to danger or business; if those orders of men whose valour is required by the public, cease to be brave; if the members of society in general have not those personal qualities which are required to fill the stations of equality, or of honour, to which they are invited by the forms of the state; they must sink to a depth from which their imbecility, even more than their depraved inclinations, may prevent their rise. SECTION, II OF LUXURY. We are far from being agreed on the application of the term _luxury_, or on that degree of its meaning which is consistent with national prosperity, or with the moral rectitude of our nature. It is sometimes employed to signify a manner of life which we think necessary to civilization, and even to happiness. It is, in our panegyric of polished ages, the parent of arts, the support of commerce, and the minister of national greatness, and of opulence. It is, in our censure of degenerate manners, the source of corruption, and the presage of national declension and ruin. It is admired, and it is blamed; it is treated as ornamental and useful, and it is proscribed as a vice. With all this diversity in our judgments, we are generally uniform in employing the term to signify that complicated apparatus which mankind devise for the ease and convenience of life. Their buildings, furniture, equipage, clothing, train of domestics, refinement of the table, and, in general, all that assemblage which is rather intended to please the fancy, than to obviate real wants, and which is rather ornamental than useful. When we are disposed, therefore, under the appellation of _luxury_, to rank the enjoyment of these things among the vices, we either tacitly refer to the habits of sensuality, debauchery, prodigality, vanity, and arrogance, with which the possession of high fortune is sometimes attended; or we apprehend a certain measure of what is necessary to human life, beyond which all enjoyments are supposed to be excessive and vicious. When, on the contrary, luxury is made an article of national lustre and felicity, we only think of it as an innocent consequence of the unequal distribution of wealth, and as a method by which different ranks are rendered mutually dependent, and mutually useful. The poor are made to practise arts, and the rich to reward them. The public itself is made a gainer by what seems to waste its stock, and it receives a perpetual increase of wealth, from the influence of those growing appetites, and delicate tastes, which seem to menace consumption and ruin. It is certain, that we must either, together with the commercial arts, suffer their fruits to be enjoyed, and even in some measure admired; or, like the Spartans, prohibit the art itself, while we are afraid of its consequences, or while we think that the conveniencies it brings exceed what nature requires. But we may propose to stop the advancement of arts at any stage of their progress, and still incur the censure of luxury from those who are not advanced so far. The housebuilder and the carpenter at Sparta were limited to the use of the axe and the saw; but a Spartan cottage might have passed for a palace in Thrace: and if the dispute were to turn on the knowledge of what is physically necessary to the preservation of human life, as the standard of what is morally lawful, the faculties of physic, as well as of morality, would probably divide on the subject, and leave every individual, as at present, to find some rule for himself. The casuist, for the most part, considers the practice of his own age and condition as a standard for mankind. If in one age or condition he condemn the use of a coach, in another he would have no less censured the wearing of shoes; and the very person who exclaims against the first, would probably not have spared the second, if it had not been already familiar in ages before his own. A censor born in a cottage, and accustomed to sleep upon straw, does not propose that men should return to the woods and the caves for shelter; he admits the reasonableness and the utility of what is already familiar; and apprehends an excess and corruption, only in the newest refinement of the rising generation. The clergy of Europe have preached successively against every new fashion, and every innovation in dress. The modes of youth are a subject of censure to the old; and modes of the last age, in their turn, a matter of ridicule to the flippant, and the young. Of this there is not always a better account to be given, than that the old are disposed to be severe, and the young to be merry. The argument against many of the conveniencies of life, drawn from the mere consideration of their not being necessary, was equally proper in the mouth of the savage, who dissuaded from the first applications of industry, as it is in that of the moralist, who insists on the vanity of the last. "Our ancestors," he might say, "found their dwelling under this rock; they gathered their food in the forest; they allayed their thirst from the fountain; and they were clothed in the spoils of the beast they had slain. Why should we indulge a false delicacy, or require from the earth fruits which she is not accustomed to yield? The bow of our father is already too strong for our arms; and the wild beast begins to lord it in the woods." Thus the moralist may have found, in the proceedings of every age, those topics of blame, from which he is so much disposed to arraign the manners of his own; and our embarrassment on the subject is, perhaps, but a part of that general perplexity which we undergo, in trying to define moral characters by external circumstances, which may, or may not, be attended with faults in the mind and the heart. One man finds a vice in the wearing of linen; another does not, unless the fabric be fine: and if, meantime, it be true, that a person may be dressed in manufacture either coarse or fine; that he may sleep in the fields, or lodge in a palace; tread upon carpet, or plant his foot on the ground; while the mind either retains, or has lost its penetration, and its vigour, and the heart its affection to mankind, it is vain, under any such circumstance, to seek for the distinctions of virtue and vice, or to tax the polished citizen with weakness for any part of his equipage, or for his wearing a fur, in which, perhaps, some savage was dressed before him. Vanity is not distinguished by any peculiar species of dress. It is betrayed by the Indian in the fantastic assortments of his plumes, his shells, his party coloured furs, and in the time he bestows at the glass and the toilet. Its projects in the woods and in the town are the same: in the one, it seeks, with the visage bedaubed, and with teeth artificially stained, for that admiration, which it courts in the other with a gilded equipage, and liveries of state. Polished nations, in their progress, often come to surpass the rude in moderation, and severity of manners. "The Greeks," says Thucydides, "not long ago, like barbarians, wore golden spangles in the hair, and went armed in times of peace." Simplicity of dress in this people, became a mark of politeness: and the mere materials with which the body is nourished or clothed, are probably of little consequence to any people. We must look for the characters of men in the qualities of the mind, not in the species of their food, or in the mode of their apparel. What are now the ornaments of the grave and severe; what is owned to be a real conveniency, were once the fopperies of youth, or were devised to please the effeminate. The new fashion, indeed, is often the mark of the coxcomb; but we frequently change our fashions without multiplying coxcombs, or increasing the measures of our vanity and folly. Are the apprehensions of the severe, therefore, in every age, equally groundless and unreasonable? Are we never to dread any error in the article of a refinement bestowed on the means of subsistence, or the conveniencies of life? The fact is, that men are perpetually exposed to the commission of error in this article, not merely where they are accustomed to high measures of accommodation, or to any particular species of food, but wherever these objects, in general, may come to be preferred to their character, to their country, or to mankind; they actually commit such error, wherever they admire paltry distinctions or frivolous advantages; wherever they shrink from small inconveniencies, and are incapable of discharging their duty with vigour. The use of morality on this subject, is not to limit men to any particular species of lodging, diet, or clothes; but to prevent their considering these conveniencies as the principal objects of human life. And if we are asked, where the pursuit of trifling accommodations should stop, in order that a man may devote himself entirely to the higher engagements of life? we may answer, that it should stop where it is. This was the rule followed at Sparta: the object of the rule was, to preserve the heart entire for the public, and to occupy men in cultivating their own nature, not in accumulating wealth, and external conveniencies. It was not expected otherwise, that the axe or the saw should be attended with greater political advantage, than the plane and the chisel. When Cato walked the streets of Rome without his robe, and without shoes, he did so, most probably, in contempt of what his countrymen were so prone to admire; not in hopes of finding a virtue in one species of dress, or a vice in another. Luxury, therefore, considered as a predilection in favour of the objects of vanity, and the costly materials of pleasure, is ruinous to the human character; considered as the mere use of accommodations and conveniencies which the age has procured, rather depends on the progress which the mechanical arts have made, and on the degree in which the fortunes of men are unequally parcelled, than on the dispositions of particular men either to vice or to virtue. Different measures of luxury are, however, variously suited to different constitutions of government. The advancement of arts supposes an unequal distribution of fortune; and the means of distinction they bring, serve to render the separation of ranks more sensible. Luxury is, upon this account, apart from all its moral effects, adverse to the form of democratical government; and, in any state of society, can be safely admitted in that degree only in which the members of a community are supposed of unequal rank, and constitute public order by the relations of superior and vassal. High degrees of it appear salutary, and even necessary, in monarchical and mixed governments; where, besides the encouragement to arts and commerce, it serves to give lustre to those hereditary or constitutional dignities which have a place of importance in the political system. Whether even here luxury leads to abuse peculiar to ages of high refinement and opulence, we shall proceed to consider in the following sections. SECTION III. OF THE CORRUPTION INCIDENT TO POLISHED NATIONS. Luxury and corruption are frequently coupled together, and even pass for synonymous terms. But, in order to avoid any dispute about words, by the first we may understand that accumulation of wealth, and that refinement on the ways of enjoying it, which are the objects of industry, or the fruits of mechanic and commercial arts: and by the second a real weakness, or depravity of the human character, which may accompany any state of those arts, and be found under any external circumstances or condition whatsoever. It remains to inquire, what are the corruptions incident to polished nations, arrived at certain measures of luxury, and possessed of certain advantages, in which they are generally supposed to excel? We need not have recourse to a parallel between the manners of entire nations, in the extremes of civilization and rudeness, in order to be satisfied, that the vices of men are not proportioned to their fortunes; or that the habits of avarice, or of sensuality, are not founded on any certain measures of wealth, or determinate kind of enjoyment. Where the situations of particular men are varied as much by their personal stations, as they can be by the state of national refinements, the same passions for interest, or pleasure, prevail in every condition. They arise from temperament, or an acquired admiration of property; not from any particular manner of life in which the parties are engaged, nor from any particular species of property which may have occupied their cares and their wishes. Temperance and moderation are, at least, as frequent among those whom we call the superior, as they are among the lower classes of men; and however we may affix the character of sobriety to mere cheapness of diet, and other accommodations with which any particular age, or rank of men, appear to be contented, it is well known, that costly materials are not necessary to constitute a debauch, nor profligacy less frequent under the thatched roof, than under the lofty ceiling. Men grow equally familiar with different conditions, receive equal pleasure, and are equally allured to sensuality in the palace and in the cave. Their acquiring in either, habits of intemperance or sloth, depends on the remission of other pursuits, and on the distaste of the mind to other engagements. If the affections of the heart be awake, and the passions of love, admiration, or anger, be kindled, the costly furniture of the palace, as well as the homely accommodations of the cottage, are neglected: and men, when roused, reject their repose; or, when fatigued, embrace it alike on the silken bed, or on the couch of straw. We are not, however, from hence to conclude, that luxury, with all its concomitant circumstances, which either serve to favour its increase, or which, in the arrangements of civil society, follow it as consequences, can have no effect to the disadvantage of national manners. If that respite from public dangers and troubles which gives a leisure for the practice of commercial arts, be continued, or increased, into a disuse of national efforts; if the individual, not called to unite with his country, be left to pursue his private advantage; we may find him become effeminate, mercenary, and sensual; not because pleasures and profits are become more alluring, but because he has fewer calls to attend to other objects; and because he has more encouragement to study his personal advantages, and pursue his separate interests. If the disparities of rank and fortune, which are necessary to the pursuit or enjoyment of luxury, introduce false grounds of precedency and estimation; if, on the mere considerations of being rich or poor, one order of men are, in their own apprehension, elevated, another debased; if one be criminally proud, another meanly dejected; and every rank in its place, like the tyrant, who thinks that nations are made for himself, be disposed to assume on the rights of mankind: although, upon the comparison, the higher order may be least corrupted; or from education, and a sense of personal dignity, have most good qualities remaining; yet the one becoming mercenary and servile; the other imperious and arrogant; both regardless of justice and of merit; the whole mass is corrupted, and the manners of a society changed for the worse, in proportion as its members cease to act on principles of equality, independence, or freedom. Upon this view, and considering the merits of men in the abstract, a mere change from the habits of a republic to those of a monarchy; from the love of equality, to the sense of a subordination founded on birth, titles, and fortune, is a species of corruption to mankind. But this degree of corruption is still consistent with the safety and prosperity of some nations; it admits of a vigorous courage, by which the rights of individuals, and of kingdoms, may be long preserved. Under the form of monarchy, while yet in its vigour, superior fortune is, indeed, one mark by which the different orders of men are distinguished; but there are some other ingredients, without which wealth is not admitted as a foundation of precedency, and in favour of which it is often despised, and lavished away. Such are birth and titles, the reputation of courage, courtly manners, and a certain elevation of mind. If we suppose that these distinctions are forgotten, and nobility itself only to be known by the sumptuous retinue which money alone may procure; and by a lavish expense, which the more recent fortunes can generally best sustain; luxury must then be allowed to corrupt the monarchical as much as the republican state, and to introduce a fatal dissolution of manners, under which men of every condition, although they are eager to acquire, or to display their wealth, have no remains of real ambition. They have neither the elevation of nobles, nor the fidelity of subjects; they have changed into effeminate vanity, that sense of honour which gave rules to the personal courage; and into a servile baseness that loyalty, which bound each in his place to his immediate superior, and the whole to the throne. Nations are most exposed to corruption from this quarter, when the mechanical arts, being greatly advanced, furnish numberless articles to be applied in ornament to the person, in furniture, entertainment, or equipage; when such articles as the rich alone can procure are admired; and when consideration, precedence, and rank, are accordingly made to depend on fortune. In a more rude state of the arts, although wealth be unequally divided, the opulent can amass only the simple means of subsistence: they can only fill the granary, and furnish the stall; reap from more extended fields, and drive their herds over a larger pasture. To enjoy their magnificence, they must live in a crowd; and to secure their possessions, they must be surrounded with friends that espouse their quarrels. Their honours, as well as their safety, consist in the numbers who attend them; and their personal distinctions are taken from their liberality, and supposed elevation of mind. In this manner, the possession of riches serves only to make the owner assume a character of magnanimity, to become the guardian of numbers, or the public object of respect and affection. But when the bulky constituents of wealth, and of rustic magnificence, can be exchanged for refinements; and when the produce of the soil may be turned into equipage, and mere decoration; when the combination of many is no longer required for personal safety; the master may become the sole consumer of his own estate: he may refer the use of every subject to himself; he may employ the materials of generosity to feed a personal vanity, or to indulge a sickly and effeminate fancy, which has learned to enumerate the trappings of weakness or folly among the necessaries of life. The Persian satrape, we are told, when he saw the king of Sparta at the place of their conference stretched on the grass with his soldiers, blushed at the provision he made for the accommodation of his own person; he ordered the furs and the carpets to be withdrawn; he felt his own inferiority; and recollected, that he was to treat with a man, not to vie with a pageant in costly attire and magnificence. When, amid circumstances that make no trial of the virtues or talents of men, we have been accustomed to the air of superiority which people of fortune derive from their retinue, we are apt to lose every sense of distinction arising from merit, or even from abilities. We rate our fellow citizens by the figure they are able to make; by their buildings, their dress, their equipage, and the train of their followers. All these circumstances make a part in our estimate of what is excellent; and if the master himself is known to be a pageant in the midst of his fortune, we nevertheless pay our court to his station, and look up with an envious, servile, or dejected mind, to what is, in itself, scarcely fit to amuse children; though, when it is worn as a badge of distinction, it inflames the ambition of those we call the great, and strikes the multitude with awe and respect. We judge of entire nations by the productions of a few mechanical arts, and think we are talking of men, while we are boasting of their estates, their dress, and their palaces. The sense in which we apply the terms, _great_, and _noble, high rank_, and _high life_, show that we have, on such occasions, transferred the idea of perfection from the character to the equipage; and that excellence itself is, in our esteem, a mere pageant, adorned at a great expense by the labours of many workmen. To those who overlook the subtile transitions of the imagination, it might appear, since wealth can do no more than furnish the means of subsistence, and purchase animal pleasures, that covetousness, and venality itself, should keep pace with our fears of want, or with our appetite for sensual enjoyments; and that where the appetite is satiated, and the fear of want is removed, the mind should be at ease on the subject of fortune. But they are not the mere pleasures that riches procure, nor the choice of viands which cover the board of the wealthy, that inflame the passions of the covetous and the mercenary. Nature is easily satisfied in all her enjoyments. It is an opinion of eminence, connected with fortune; it is a sense of debasement attending on poverty, which renders us blind to every advantage, but that of the rich; and insensible to every disgrace, but that of the poor. It is this unhappy apprehension, that occasionally prepares us for the desertion of every duty, for a submission to every indignity, and for the commission of every crime that can be accomplished in safety. Aurengzebe was not more renowned for sobriety in his private station, and in the conduct of a supposed dissimulation, by which he aspired to sovereign power, than he continued to be, even on the throne of Indostan. Simple, abstinent, and severe in his diet, and other pleasures, he still led the life of a hermit, and occupied his time with a seemingly painful application to the affairs of a great empire. [Footnote: Gemelli Careri.] He quitted a station in which, if pleasure had been his object, he might have indulged his sensuality without reserve; he made his way to a scene of disquietude and care; he aimed at the summit of human greatness, in the possession of imperial fortune, not at the gratifications of animal appetite, or the enjoyment of ease. Superior to sensual pleasure, as well as to the feelings of nature, he dethroned his father, and he murdered his brothers, that he might roll on a carriage incrusted with diamond and pearl; that his elephants, his camels, and his horses, on the march, might form a line extending many leagues; might present a glittering harness to the sun; and loaded with treasure, usher to the view of an abject and admiring crowd that awful majesty, in whose presence they were to strike the forehead on the ground, and be overwhelmed with the sense of his greatness, and with that of their own debasement. As these are the objects which prompt the desire of dominion, and excite the ambitious to aim at the mastery of their fellow creatures; so they inspire the ordinary race of men with a sense of infirmity and meanness, that prepares them to suffer indignities, and to become the property of persons, whom they consider as of a rank and a nature so much superior to their own. The chains of perpetual slavery, accordingly, appear to be riveted in the east, no less by the pageantry which is made to accompany the possession of power, than they are by the fears of the sword, and the terrors of a military execution. In the west, as well as the east, we are willing to bow to the splendid equipage, and stand at an awful distance from the pomp of a princely estate. We too may be terrified by the frowns, or won by the smiles, of those whose favour is riches and honour, and whose displeasure is poverty and neglect. We too may overlook the honours of the human soul, from an admiration of the pageantries that accompany fortune. The procession of elephants harnessed with gold might dazzle into slaves, the people who derive corruption and weakness from the effect of their own arts and contrivances, as well as those who inherit servility from their ancestors, and are enfeebled by their natural temperament, and the enervating charms of their soil and their climate. It appears, therefore, that although the mere use of materials which constitute luxury, may be distinguished from actual vice; yet nations under a high state of the commercial arts, are exposed to corruption, by their admitting wealth, unsupported by personal elevation and virtue, as the great foundation of distinction, and by having their attention turned on the side of interest, as the road to consideration and honour. With this effect, luxury may serve to corrupt democratical states, by introducing a species of monarchical subordination, without that sense of high birth and hereditary honours which render the boundaries of rank fixed and determinate, and which teach men to act in their stations with force and propriety. It may prove the occasion of political corruption, even in monarchical governments, by drawing respect towards mere wealth; by casting a shade on the lustre of personal qualities, or family distinctions; and by infecting all orders of men, with equal venality, servility, and cowardice. SECTION IV. The Same Subject Continued. The increasing regard with which men appear, in the progress of commercial arts, to study their profit, or the delicacy with which they refine on their pleasures; even industry itself, or the habit of application to a tedious employment, in which no honours are won, may, perhaps, be considered as indications of a growing attention to interest, or of effeminacy, contracted in the enjoyment of ease and conveniency. Every successive art, by which the individual is taught to improve on his fortune, is, in reality, an addition to his private engagements, and a new avocation of his mind from the public. Corruption, however, does not arise from the abuse of commercial arts alone; it requires the aid of political situation; and is not produced by the objects that occupy a sordid and a mercenary spirit, without the aid of circumstances that enable men to indulge in safety any mean disposition they have acquired. Providence has fitted mankind for the higher engagements which they are sometimes obliged to fulfil; and it is in the midst of such engagements that they are most likely to acquire or to preserve their virtues. The habits of a vigorous mind are formed in contending with difficulties, not in enjoying the repose of a pacific station; penetration and wisdom are the fruits of experience, not the lessons of retirement and leisure; ardour and generosity are the qualities of a mind roused and animated in the conduct of scenes that engage the heart, not the gifts of reflection or knowledge. The mere intermission of national and political efforts is, notwithstanding, sometimes mistaken for public good; and there is no mistake more likely to foster the vices, or to flatter the weakness, of feeble and interested men. If the ordinary arts of policy, or rather if a growing indifference to objects of a public nature, should prevail, and, under any free constitution, put an end to those disputes of party, and silence that noise of dissention which generally accompany the exercise of freedom, we may venture to prognosticate corruption to the national manners, as well as remissness to the national spirit. The period is come, when no engagement, remaining on the part of the public, private interest, and animal pleasure, become the sovereign objects of care. When men, being relieved from the pressure of great occasions, bestow their attention on trifles; and having carried what they are pleased to call _sensibility_ and _delicacy_, on the subject of ease or molestation, as far as real weakness or folly can go, have recourse to affectation, in order to enhance the pretended demands, and accumulate the anxieties, of a sickly fancy, and enfeebled mind. In this condition, mankind generally flatter their own imbecility under the name of _politeness_. They are persuaded, that the celebrated ardour, generosity, and fortitude of former ages bordered on frenzy, or were the mere effects of necessity, on men who had not the means of enjoying their ease, or their pleasure. They congratulate themselves on having escaped the storm which required the exercise of such arduous virtues; and with that vanity which accompanies the human race in their meanest condition, they boast of a scene of affectation, of languor, or of folly, as the standard of human felicity, and as furnishing the properest exercise of a rational nature. It is none of the least menacing symptoms of an age prone to degeneracy, that the minds of men become perplexed in the discernment of merit, as much as the spirit becomes enfeebled in conduct, and the heart misled in the choice of its objects: The care of mere fortune is supposed to constitute wisdom; retirement from public affairs, and real indifference to mankind, receive the applauses of moderation, and of virtue. Great fortitude, and elevation of mind, have not always, indeed, been employed in the attainment of valuable ends; but they are always respectable, and they are always necessary when we would act for the good of mankind, in any of the more arduous stations of life. While, therefore, we blame their misapplication, we should beware of depreciating their value. Men of a severe and sententious morality have not always sufficiently observed this caution; nor have they been duly aware of the corruptions they flattered, by the satire they employed against what is aspiring and prominent in the character of the human soul. It might have been expected, that, in an age of hopeless debasement, the talents of Demosthenes and Tully, even the ill governed magnanimity of a Macedonian, or the daring enterprise of a Carthaginian leader, might have escaped the acrimony of a satirist, [Footnote: Juvenal's tenth satire] who had so many objects of correction in his view, and who possessed the arts of declamation in so high a degree. I, demens, et saevos curre per Alpes, Ut pueris placeas, et declamatio fias, is part of the illiberal censure which is thrown by this poet on the person and action of a leader, who, by his courage and conduct, in the very service to which the satire referred, had well nigh saved his country from the ruin with which it was at last at last overwhelmed. Heroes are much the same, the point's agreed, From Macedonia's madman to the Swede, is a distich, in which another poet of beautiful talents has attempted to depreciate a name, to which, probably, few of his readers are found to aspire. If men must go wrong, there is a choice of their errors, as well as of their virtues. Ambition, the love of personal eminence, and the desire of fame, although they sometimes lead to the commission of crimes, yet always engage men in pursuits that require to be supported by some of the greatest qualities of the human soul; and if eminence is the principal object of pursuit, there is at least a probability, that those qualities may be studied on which a real elevation of mind is raised. But when public alarms have ceased, and contempt of glory is recommended as an article of wisdom, the sordid habits, and mercenary dispositions, to which, under a general indifference to national objects, the members of a polished or commercial state are exposed, must prove at once the most effectual suppression of every liberal sentiment, and the most fatal reverse of all those principles from which communities derive their strength and their hopes of preservation. It is noble to possess happiness and independence, either in retirement, or in public life. The characteristic of the happy, is to acquit themselves well in every condition; in the court, or in the village; in the senate, or in the private retreat. But if they affect any particular station, it is surely that in which their actions may be rendered most extensively useful. Our considering mere retirement, therefore, as a symptom of moderation and of virtue, is either a remnant of that system, under which monks and anchorets, in former ages, have been canonized; or proceeds from a habit of thinking, which appears equally fraught with moral corruption, from our considering public life as a scene for the gratification of mere vanity, avarice, and ambition; never as furnishing the best opportunity for a just and a happy engagement of the mind and the heart. Emulation, and the desire of power, are but sorry motives to public conduct; but if they have been, in any case, the principal inducements from which men have taken part in the service of their country, any diminution of their prevalence or force is a real corruption of national manners; and the pretended moderation assumed by the higher orders of men, has a fatal effect in the state. The disinterested love of the public is a principle, without which some constitutions of government cannot subsist: but when we consider how seldom this has appeared a reigning passion, we have little reason to impute the prosperity or preservation of nations, in every case, to its influence. It is sufficient, perhaps, under one form of government, that men should be fond of their independence; that they should be ready to oppose usurpation, and to repel personal indignities: under another, it is sufficient, that they should be tenacious of their rank, and of their honours; and instead of a zeal for the public, entertain a vigilant jealousy of the rights which pertain to themselves. When numbers of men retain a certain degree of elevation and fortitude, they are qualified to give a mutual check to their several errors, and are able to act in that variety of situations which the different constitutions of government have prepared for their members: but, under the disadvantages of a feeble spirit, however directed, and however informed, no national constitution is safe; nor can any degree of enlargement, to which a state has arrived, secure its political welfare. In states where property, distinction, and pleasure, are thrown out as baits to the imagination, and incentives to passion, the public seems to rely for the preservation of its political life, on the degree of emulation and jealousy with which parties mutually oppose and restrain each other. The desires of preferment and profit in the breast of the citizen, are the motives from which he excited to enter on public affairs, and are the considerations which direct his political conduct. The suppression, therefore, of ambition, of party animosity, and of public envy, is probably, in every such case, not a reformation, but a symptom of weakness, and a prelude to more sordid pursuits, and ruinous amusements. On the eve of such a revolution in manners, the higher ranks, in every mixed or monarchical government, have need to take care of themselves. Men of business, and of industry, in the inferior stations of life, retain their occupations, and are secured, by a kind of necessity, in the possession of those habits on which they rely for their quiet; and for the moderate enjoyments of life. But the higher orders of men, if they relinquish the state, if they cease to possess that courage and elevation of mind, and to exercise those talents which are employed in its defence and in its government, are, in reality, by the seeming advantages of their station, become the refuse of that society of which they once were the ornament; and from being the most respectable, and the most happy, of its members, are become the most wretched and corrupt. In their approach to this condition, and in the absence of every manly occupation, they feel a dissatisfaction and languor which they cannot explain: they pine in the midst of apparent enjoyment; or, by the variety and caprice of their different pursuits and amusements, exhibit a state of agitation, which, like the disquiet of sickness, is not a proof of enjoyment or pleasure, but of suffering and pain. The care of his buildings, his equipage, or his table, is chosen by one; literary amusement, or some frivolous study, by another. The sports of the country, and the diversions of the town; the gaming table, [Footnote: These different occupations differ from each other, in respect to their dignity and their innocence; but none of them are the schools from which men are brought to sustain the tottering fortune of nations; they are equally avocations from what ought to be the principal pursuit of man, the good of mankind.] dogs, horses, and wine, are employed to fill up the blank of a listless and unprofitable life. They speak of human pursuits, as if the whole difficulty were to find something to do; they fix on some frivolous occupation, as if there was nothing that deserved to be done: they consider what tends to the good of their fellow creatures, as a disadvantage to themselves: they fly from every scene in which any efforts of vigour are required, or in which they might be allured to perform any service to their country. We misapply our compassion in pitying the poor; it were much more justly applied to the rich, who become the first victims of that wretched insignificance, into which the members of every corrupted state, by the tendency of their weaknesses and their vices, are in haste to plunge themselves. It is in this condition, that the sensual invent all those refinements on pleasure, and devise those incentives to a satiated appetite, which tend to foster the corruptions of a dissolute age. The effects of brutal appetite, and the mere debauch, are more flagrant, and more violent, perhaps, in rude ages, than they are in the later periods of commerce and luxury: but that perpetual habit of searching for animal pleasure where it is not to be found, in the gratifications of an appetite that is cloyed, and among the ruins of an animal constitution, is not more fatal to the virtues of the soul, than it is even to the enjoyment of sloth, or of pleasure; it is not a more certain avocation from public affairs, or a surer prelude to national decay, than it is a disappointment to our hopes of private felicity. In these reflections, it has been the object not to ascertain a precise measure to which corruption has risen in any of the nations that have attained to eminence, or that have gone to decay; but to describe that remissness of spirit, that weakness of soul, that state of national debility, which is likely to end in political slavery; an evil which remains to be considered as the last object of caution, and beyond which there is no subject of disquisition, in the perishing fortunes of nations. SECTION V. OF CORRUPTION, AS IT TENDS TO POLITICAL SLAVERY. Liberty, in one sense, appears to be the portion of polished nations alone. The savage is personally free, because he lives unrestrained, and acts with the members of his tribe on terms of equality. The barbarian is frequently independent, from a continuance of the same circumstances, or because he has courage and a sword. But good policy alone can provide for the regular administration of justice, or constitute a force in the state, which is ready on every occasion to defend the rights of its members. It has been found, that, except in a few singular cases, the commercial and political arts have advanced together. These arts have been in modern Europe so interwoven, that we cannot determine which were prior in the order of time, or derived most advantage from the mutual influences with which they act and react on each other. It has been observed, that in some nations, the spirit of commerce, intent on securing its profits, has led the way to political wisdom. A people, possessed of wealth, and become jealous of their properties, have formed the project of emancipation, and have proceeded, under favour of an importance recently gained, still farther to enlarge their pretensions, and to dispute the prerogatives which their sovereign had been in use to employ. But it is in vain that we expect in one age, from the possession of wealth, the fruit which it is said to have borne in a former. Great accessions of fortune, when recent, when accompanied with frugality, and a sense of independence, may render the owner confident in his strength, and ready to spurn at oppression. The purse which is open, not to personal expense, or to the indulgence of vanity, but to support the interests of a faction, to gratify the higher passions of party, render the wealthy citizen formidable to those who pretend to dominion; but it does not follow, that in a time of corruption, equal, or greater, measures of wealth, should operate to the same effect. On the contrary, when wealth is accumulated only in the hands of the miser, and runs to waste from those of the prodigal; when heirs of family find themselves straitened and poor in the midst of affluence; when the cravings of luxury silence even the voice of party and faction; when the hopes of meriting the rewards of compliance, or the fear of losing what is held at discretion, keep men in a state of suspense and anxiety; when fortune, in short, instead of being considered as the instrument of a vigorous spirit, becomes the idol of a covetous or a profuse, of a rapacious or a timorous mind, the foundation on which freedom was built may serve to support a tyranny; and what, in one age, raised the pretensions, and fostered the confidence of the subject, may, in another, incline him to servility, and furnish the price to be paid for his prostitutions. Even those who, in a vigorous age, gave the example of wealth, in the hands of the people, becoming an occasion of freedom, may, in times of degeneracy, verify likewise the maxim of Tacitus, that the admiration of riches leads to despotical government. [Footnote: Est ápud illos et opibus honos; eoque unus imperitat, nullis jam exceptionibus, non precario jure parendi. Nec arms ut apud ceteros Germanos in promiscuo, sed clausa sub custode et quidem servo, &c. TACITUS _de Mor. Ger._ c.44.] Men who have tasted of freedom, and who have felt their personal rights, are not easily taught to bear with encroachments on either, and cannot, without some preparation, come to submit to oppression. They may receive this unhappy preparation under different forms of government, from different hands, and arrive at the same end by different ways. They follow one direction in republics, another in monarchies and in mixed governments. But wherever the state has, by means that do not preserve the virtue of the subject, effectually guarded his safety; remissness, and neglect of the public, are likely to follow; and polished nations of every description, appear to encounter a danger, on this quarter, proportioned to the degree in, which they have, during any continuance, enjoyed the uninterrupted possession of peace and prosperity. Liberty results, we say, from the government of laws; and we are apt to consider statutes, not merely as the resolutions and maxims of a people determined to be free, not as the writings by which their rights are kept on record; but as a power erected to guard them, and as a barrier which the caprice of man cannot transgress. When a basha, in Asia, pretends to decide every controversy by the rules of natural equity, we allow that he is possessed of discretionary powers. When a judge in Europe is left to decide, according to his own interpretation of written laws, is he in any sense more restrained than the former? Have the multiplied words of a statute an influence over the conscience and the heart, more powerful than that of reason and nature? Does the party, in any judicial proceeding, enjoy a less degree of safety, when his rights are discussed, on the foundation of a rule that is open to the understandings of mankind, than when they are referred to an intricate system, which it has become the object of a separate profession to study and to explain? If forms of proceeding, written statutes, or other constituents of law, cease to be enforced by the very spirit from which they arose; they serve only to cover, not to restrain, the iniquities of power: they are possibly respected even by the corrupt magistrate, when they favour his purpose; but they are contemned or evaded, when they stand in his way: and the influence of laws, where they have any real effect in the preservation of liberty, is not any magic power descending from shelves that are loaded with books, but is, in reality, the influence of men resolved to be free; of men who, having adjusted in writing the terms on which they are to live with the state, and with their fellow subjects, are determined, by their vigilance and spirit, to make these terms be fulfilled. We are taught, under every form of government, to apprehend usurpations, from the abuse, or from the extension of the executive power. In pure monarchies, this power is commonly hereditary, and made to descend in a determinate line. In elective monarchies, it is held for life. In republics, it is exercised during a limited time. Where men, or families, are called by election to the possession of temporary dignities, it is more the object of ambition to perpetuate, than to extend their powers. In hereditary monarchies, the sovereignty is already perpetual; and the aim of every ambitious prince is to enlarge his prerogative. Republics, and, in times of commotion, communities of every form, are exposed to hazard, not from those only who are formally raised to places of, trust, but from every person whatsoever, who is incited by ambition, and who is supported by faction. It is no advantage to a prince, or other magistrate, to enjoy more power than is consistent with the good of mankind; nor is it of any benefit to a man to be unjust: but these maxims are a feeble security against the passions and follies of men. Those who are intrusted with power in any degree, are disposed, from a mere dislike of constraint, to remove opposition. Not only the monarch who wears a hereditary crown, but the magistrate who holds his office for a limited time, grows fond of his dignity. The, very minister, who depends for his place on the momentary will of his prince, and whose personal interests are, in every respect, those of a subject, still has the weakness to take an interest in the growth of prerogative, and to reckon as gain to himself the encroachments he has made on the rights of a people, with whom he himself and his family are soon to be numbered. Even with the best intentions towards mankind, we are inclined to think that their welfare depends, not on the felicity of their own inclinations, or the happy employment of their own talents, but on their ready compliance with what we have devised for their good. Accordingly, the greatest virtue of which any sovereign has hitherto shown an example, is not a desire of cherishing in his people the spirit of freedom and of independence, but what is in itself sufficiently rare and highly meritorious, a steady regard to the distribution of justice in matters of property, a disposition to protect and to oblige, to redress the grievances, and to promote the interest of his subjects. It was from a reference to these objects, that Titus computed the value of his time, and judged of its application. But the sword, which in this beneficent hand was drawn to protect the subject, and to procure a speedy and effectual distribution of justice, was likewise sufficient, in the hands of a tyrant, to shed the blood of the innocent, and to cancel the rights of men. The temporary proceedings of humanity, though they suspended the exercise of oppression, did not break the national chains: the prince was even the better enabled to procure that species of good which he studied; because there was no freedom remaining, and because there was nowhere a force to dispute his decrees, or to interrupt their execution. Was it in vain that Antoninus became acquainted with the characters of Thrasea, Helvidius, Cato, Dion, and Brutus? Was it in vain, that he learned to understand the form of a free community, raised on the basis of equality and justice; or of a monarchy, under which the liberties of the subject were held the most sacred object of administration?[Footnote: M. Antoninus, lib. I.] Did he mistake the means of procuring to mankind what he points out as a blessing? Or did the absolute power with which he was furnished, in a mighty empire, only disable him from executing what his mind had perceived as a national good? In such a case, it were vain to flatter the monarch or his people. The first cannot bestow liberty without raising a spirit, which may, on occasion, stand in opposition to his own designs; nor the latter receive this blessing, while they own that it is in the right of a master to give or to withhold it. The claim of justice is firm and peremptory. We receive favours with a sense of obligation and kindness; but we would enforce our rights, and the spirit of freedom in this exertion cannot take the tone of supplication or of thankfulness, without betraying itself. "You have intreated Octavius," says Brutus to Cicero, "that he would spare those who stand foremost among the citizens of Rome. What if he will not? Must we perish? Yes; rather than owe our safety to him." Liberty is a right which every individual must be ready to vindicate for himself, and which he who pretends to bestow as a favour, has by that very act in reality denied. Even political establishments, though they appear to be independent of the will and arbitration of men, cannot be relied on for the preservation of freedom; they may nourish, but should not supersede that firm and resolute spirit, with which the liberal mind is always prepared to resist indignities, and to refer its safety to itself. Were a nation, therefore, given to be moulded by a sovereign, as the clay is put into the hands of the potter, this project of bestowing liberty on a people who are actually servile, is, perhaps, of all others the most difficult, and requires most to be executed in silence, and with the deepest reserve. Men are qualified to receive this blessing only in proportion as they are made to apprehend their own rights; and are made to respect the just pretensions of mankind; in proportion as they are willing to sustain, in their own persons, the burden of government, and of national defence; and are willing to prefer the engagements of a liberal mind to the enjoyment of sloth, or the delusive hopes of a safety purchased by submission and fear. I speak with respect, and, if I may be allowed the expression, even with indulgence, to those who are intrusted with high prerogatives in the political system of nations. It is, indeed, seldom their fault that states are enslaved. What should be expected from them, but that being actuated by human desires, they should be averse to disappointment, or even to delay; and in the ardour with which they pursue their object, that they should break through the barriers that would stop their career? If millions recede before single men, and senates are passive, as if composed of members who had no opinion or sense of their own; on whose side have the defences of freedom given way, or to whom shall we impute their fall? To the subject, who has deserted his station; or to the sovereign, who has only remained in his own, and who, if the collateral or subordinate members of government shall cease to question his power, must continue to govern without restraint? It is well known, that constitutions framed for the preservation of liberty, must consist of many parts; and that senates, popular assemblies, courts of justice, magistrates of different orders, must combine to balance each other, while they exercise, sustain, or check the executive power. If any part is struck out, the fabric must totter, or fall; if any member is remiss, the others must encroach. In assemblies constituted by men of different talents, habits, and apprehensions, it were something more than human that could make them agree in every point of importance; having different opinions and views, it were want of integrity to abstain from disputes: our very praise of unanimity, therefore, is to be considered as a danger to liberty. We wish for it at the hazard of taking in its place the remissness of men grown indifferent to the public; the venality of those who have sold the rights of their country; or the servility of others, who give implicit obedience to a leader, by whom their minds are subdued. The love of the public, and respect to its laws, are the points in which mankind are bound to agree; but if, in matters of controversy, the sense of any individual or party is invariably pursued, the cause of freedom is already betrayed. He whose office it is to govern a supine or an abject people, cannot, for a moment, cease to extend his powers. Every execution of law, every movement of the state, every civil and military operation, in which his power is exerted, must serve to confirm his authority, and present him to the view of the public as the sole object of consideration, fear, and respect. Those very establishments which were devised, in one age, to limit or to direct the exercise of an executive power, will serve, in another, to remove obstructions, and to smooth its way; they will point out the channels in which it may run, without giving offence, or without exciting alarms, and the very councils which were instituted to check its encroachments, will, in a time of corruption, furnish an aid to its usurpations. The passion for independence, and the love of dominion, frequently arise from a common source: there is, in both, an aversion to control; and he who, in one situation, cannot brook a superior, may, in another, dislike to be joined with an equal. What the prince, under a pure or limited monarchy, is, by the constitution of his country, the leader of a faction would willingly become in republican governments. If he attains to this envied condition, his own inclination, or the tendency of human affairs, seem to open before him the career of a royal ambition: but the circumstances in which he is destined to act, are very different from those of a king. He encounters with men who are unused to disparity; he is obliged, for his own security, to hold the dagger continually unsheathed. When he hopes to be safe, he possibly means to be just; but is hurried, from the first moment of his usurpation, into every exercise of despotical power. The heir of a crown has no such quarrel to maintain with his subjects: his situation is flattering; and the heart must be uncommonly bad that does not glow with affection to a people, who are at once his admirers, his support, and the ornaments of this reign. In him, perhaps, there is no explicit design of trespassing on the rights of his subjects; but the forms intended to preserve their freedom are not, on this account, always safe in his hands. Slavery has been imposed upon mankind in the wantonness of a depraved ambition, and tyrannical cruelties have been committed in the gloomy hours of jealousy and terror; yet these demons are not necessary to the creation, or to the support of an arbitrary power. Although no policy was ever more successful than that of the Roman republic in maintaining a national fortune; yet subjects, as well as their princes, frequently imagine that freedom is a clog on the proceedings of government: they imagine, that despotical power is best fitted to procure despatch and secrecy in the execution of public councils; to maintain what they are pleased to call _political order_, [Footnote: Our notion of order in civil society being taken from the analogy of subjects inanimate and dead, is frequently false; we consider commotion and action as contrary to its nature; we think that obedience, secrecy, and the silent passing of affairs through the hands of a few, are its real constituents. The good order of stones in a wall, is their being properly fixed in the places for which they are hewn; were they to stir, the building must fall: but the good order of men in society, is their being placed where they are properly qualified to act. The first is a fabric made of dead and inanimate parts, the second is made of living and active members. When we seek in society for the order of mere inaction and tranquillity, we forget the nature of our subject, and find the order of slaves, not that of freemen.] and to give a speedy redress of complaints. They even sometimes acknowledge, that if a succession of good princes could be found, despotical government is best calculated for the happiness of mankind. While they reason thus, they cannot blame a sovereign, who, in the confidence that he is to employ his power for good purposes, endeavours to extend its limits; and, in his own apprehension, strives only to shake off the restraints which stand in the way of reason, and which prevent the effect of his friendly intentions. Thus prepared for usurpation, let him, at the head of a free state, employ the force with which he is armed, to crush the seeds of apparent disorder in every corner of his dominions; let him effectually curb the spirit of dissention and variance among his people; let him remove the interruptions to government, arising from the refractory humours and the private interests of his subjects: let him collect the force of the state against its enemies, by availing himself of all it can furnish in the way of taxation and personal service: it is extremely probable that, even under the direction of wishes for the good of mankind, he may break through every barrier of liberty, and establish a despotism, while he flatters himself that he only follows the dictates of sense and propriety. When we suppose government to have bestowed a degree of tranquillity which we sometimes hope to reap from it, as the best of its fruits, and public affairs to proceed, in the several departments of legislation and execution, with the least possible interruption to commerce and lucrative arts; such a state, like that of China, by throwing affairs into separate offices, where conduct consists in detail, and in the observance of forms, by superseding all the exertions of a great or a liberal mind, is more akin to despotism than we are apt to imagine. Whether oppression, injustice, and cruelty, are the only evils which attend on despotical government, may be considered apart. In the mean time it is sufficient to observe, that liberty is never in greater danger than it is when we measure national felicity by the blessings which a prince may bestow, or by the mere tranquillity which may attend on equitable administration. The sovereign may dazzle with his heroic qualities; he may protect his subjects in the enjoyment of every animal advantage or pleasure: but the benefits arising from liberty are of a different sort; they are not the fruits of a virtue, and of a goodness, which operate in the breast of one man, but the communication of virtue itself to many; and such a distribution of functions in civil society, as gives to numbers the exercises and occupations which pertain to their nature. The best constitutions of government are attended with inconvenience; and the exercise of liberty may, on many occasions, give rise to complaints. When we are intent on reforming abuses, the abuses of freedom may lead us to encroach on the subject from which they are supposed to arise. Despotism itself has certain advantages, or at least, in times of civility and moderation, may proceed with so little offence, as to give no public alarm. These circumstances may lead mankind, in the very spirit of reformation, or by mere inattention, to apply or to admit of dangerous innovations in the state of their policy. Slavery, however, is not always introduced by mistake; it is sometimes imposed in the spirit of violence and rapine. Princes become corrupt as well as their people; and whatever may have been the origin of despotical government, its pretensions, when fully declared, give rise between the sovereign and his subjects to a contest which force alone can decide. These pretensions have a dangerous aspect to the person, the property, or the life of every subject; they alarm every passion in the human breast; they disturb the supine; they deprive the venal of his hire; they declare war on the corrupt as well as the virtuous; they are tamely admitted only by the coward; but even to him must be supported by a force that can work on his fears. This force the conqueror brings from abroad; and the domestic usurper endeavours to find in his faction at home. When a people is accustomed to arms, it is, difficult for a part to subdue the whole; or before the establishment of disciplined armies, it is difficult for any usurper to govern the many by the help of a few. These difficulties, however, the policy of civilized and commercial nations has sometimes removed; and by forming a distinction between civil and military professions, by committing the keeping and the enjoyment of liberty to different hands, has prepared the way for the dangerous alliance of faction with military power, in opposition to mere political forms and the rights of mankind. A people who are disarmed in compliance with this fatal refinement, have rested their safety on the pleadings of reason and of justice at the tribunal of ambition and of force. In such an extremity laws are quoted and senators are assembled in vain. They who compose a legislature, or who occupy the civil departments of state, may deliberate on the messages they receive from the camp or the court; but if the bearer, like the centurion who brought the petition of Octavius to the Roman senate, shew the hilt of his sword, [Footnote: Sueton.] they find that petitions are become commands, and that they themselves are become the pageants, not the repositories of sovereign power. The reflections of this section may be unequally applied to nations of unequal extent. Small communities, however corrupted, are not prepared for despotical government; their members, crowded together and contiguous to the seats of power, never forget their relation to the public; they pry, with habits of familiarity and freedom, into the pretensions of those who would rule; and where the love of equality, and the sense of justice, have failed, they act on motives of faction, emulation, and envy. The exiled Tarquin had his adherents at Rome; but if by their means he had recovered his station, it is probable that, in the exercise of his royalty, he must have entered on a new scene of contention with the very party that restored him to power. In proportion as territory is extended, its parts lose their relative importance to the whole. Its inhabitants cease to perceive their connection with the state, and are seldom united in the execution of any national, or even any factious designs. Distance from the seats of administration, and indifference to the persons who contend for preferment, teach the majority to consider themselves as the subjects of a sovereignty, not as the members of a political body. It is even remarkable, that enlargement of territory, by rendering the individual of less consequence to the public, and less able to intrude with his counsel, actually tends to reduce national affairs within a narrower compass, as well as to diminish the numbers who are consulted in legislation, or in other matters of government. The disorders to which a great empire is exposed, require speedy prevention, vigilance, and quick execution. Distant provinces must be kept in subjection by military force; and the dictatorial powers, which, in free states, are sometimes raised to quell insurrections, or to oppose other occasional evils, appear, under a certain extent of dominion, at all times equally necessary to suspend the dissolution of a body, whose parts were assembled, and must be cemented, by measures forcible, decisive, and secret. Among the circumstances, therefore, which, in the event of national prosperity, and in the result of commercial arts, lead to the establishment of despotism, there is none, perhaps, that arrives at this termination with so sure an aim, as the perpetual enlargement of territory. In every state, the freedom of its members depends on the balance and adjustment of its interior parts; and the existence of any such freedom among mankind, depends on the balance of nations. In the progress of conquest, those who are subdued are said to have lost their liberties; but from the history of mankind, to conquer, or to be conquered, has appeared, in effect, the same. SECTION VI. OF THE PROGRESS AND TERMINATION OF DESPOTISM. Mankind, when they degenerate, and tend to their ruin, as well as when they improve, and gain real advantages, frequently proceed by slow, and almost insensible steps. If, during ages of activity and vigour, they fill up the measure of national greatness to a height which no human wisdom could at a distance foresee; they actually incur, in ages of relaxation and weakness, many evils which their fears did not suggest, and which, perhaps, they had thought far removed by the tide of success and prosperity. We have already observed, that where men are remiss or corrupted, the virtue of their leaders, or the good intention of their magistrates, will not always secure them in the possession of political freedom. Implicit submission to any leader, or the uncontrolled exercise of any power, even when it is intended to operate for the good of mankind, may frequently end in the subversion of legal establishments. This fatal revolution, by whatever means it is accomplished, terminates in military government; and this, though the simplest of all governments, is rendered complete by degrees. In the first period of its exercise over men who have acted as members of a free community, it can have only laid the foundation, not completed the fabric, of a despotical policy. The usurper who has possessed, with an army, the centre of a great empire, sees around him, perhaps, the shattered remains of a former constitution; he may hear the murmurs of a reluctant and unwilling submission; he may even see danger in the aspect of many, from whose hands he may have wrested the sword, but whose minds he has not subdued, nor reconciled to his power. The sense of personal rights, or the pretension to privilege and honours, which remain among certain orders of men, are so many bars in the way of a recent usurpation. If they are not suffered to decay with age, and to wear away in the progress of a growing corruption, they must be broken with violence, and the entrance to every new accession of power must be stained with blood. The effect, even in this case, is frequently tardy. The Roman spirit, we know, was not entirely extinguished under a succession of masters, and under a repeated application of bloodshed and poison. The noble and respectable family still aspired to its original honours; the history of the republic, the writings of former times, the monuments of illustrious men, and the lessons of philosophy fraught with heroic conceptions, continued to nourish the soul in retirement, and formed those eminent characters, whose elevation, and whose fate, are, perhaps, the most affecting subjects of human story. Though unable to oppose the general bent to servility, they became, on account of their supposed inclinations, objects of distrust and aversion, and were made to pay with their blood, the price of a sentiment which they fostered in silence, and which glowed only in the heart. While despotism proceeds in its progress, by what principle is the sovereign conducted in the choice of measures that tend to establish his government? By a mistaken apprehension of his own good, sometimes even that of his people, and by the desire which he feels on every particular occasion, to remove the obstructions which impede the execution of his will. When he has fixed a resolution, whoever reasons or remonstrates against it is an enemy; when his mind is elated, whoever pretends to eminence, and is disposed to act for himself, is a rival. He would leave no dignity in the state, but what is dependent on himself; no active power, but what carries the expression of his momentary pleasure. [Footnote: Insurgere paulatim munia senatus, magistratuum, legum in se trahere.] Guided by a perception as unerring as that of instinct, he never fails to select the proper objects of his antipathy or of his favour. The aspect of independence repels him; that of servility attracts. The tendency of his administration is to quiet every restless spirit, and to assume every function of government to himself. [Footnote: It is ridiculous to hear men of a restless ambition, who would be the only actors in every scene, sometimes complain of a refractory spirit in mankind: as if the same disposition, from which they desire to usurp every office, did not incline every other person to reason and to act at least for himself.] When the power is adequate to the end, it operates as much in the hands of those who do not perceive the termination, as it does in the hands of others by whom it is best understood: the mandates of either, when just, should not be disputed; when erroneous or wrong, they are supported by force. You must die, was the answer of Octavius to every suit from a people that implored his mercy. It was the sentence which some of his successors pronounced against every citizen that was eminent for his birth or his virtues. But are the evils of despotism confined to the cruel and sanguinary methods, by which a recent dominion over a refractory and a turbulent people is established or maintained? And is death the greatest calamity which can afflict mankind under an establishment by which they are divested of all their rights? They are, indeed, frequently suffered to live; but distrust and jealousy, the sense of personal meanness, and the anxieties which arise from the care of a wretched interest, are made to possess the soul; every citizen is reduced to a slave; and every charm by which the community engaged its members, has ceased to exist. Obedience is the only duty that remains, and this is exacted by force. If, under such an establishment, it be necessary to witness scenes of debasement and horror, at the hazard of catching the infection, death becomes a relief; and the libation which Thrasea was made to pour from his arteries, is to be considered as a proper sacrifice of gratitude to Jove the Deliverer. [Footnote: Porrectisque utriusque brachii venis, postquam cruorem effudit, humum super spargens, proprius vocato Quaestore, _Libemus_, inquit, _Jovi Liberatori_. Specta juvenis; et omen quidem Dii prohibeant; ceterum in ea tempora natus es, quibus firmare animum deceat constantibus exemplis. _Tacit. Ann. lib._ 16.] Oppression and cruelty are not always necessary to despotical government; and even when present, are but a part of its evils. It is founded on corruption, and on the suppression of all the civil and the political virtues; it requires its subjects to act from motives of fear; it would assuage the passions of a few men at the expense of mankind; and would erect the peace of society itself on the ruins of that freedom and confidence from which alone the enjoyment, the force, and the elevation of the human mind, are found to arise. During the existence of any free constitution, and whilst every individual possessed his rank and his privilege, or had his apprehension of personal rights, the members of every community were, to one another, objects of consideration and of respect; every point to be carried in civil society required the exercise of talents, of wisdom, persuasion, and vigour, as well as of power. But it is the highest refinement of a despotical government, to rule by simple commands, and to exclude every art but that of compulsion. Under the influence of this policy, therefore, the occasions which employed and cultivated the understandings of men, which awakened their sentiments, and kindled their imaginations, are gradually removed; and the progress by which mankind attained to the honours of their nature, in being engaged to act in society upon a liberal footing, was not more uniform, or less interrupted, than that by which they degenerate in this unhappy condition. When we hear of the silence which reigns in the seraglio, we are made to believe, that speech itself is become unnecessary; and that the signs of the mute are sufficient to carry the most important mandates of government. No arts, indeed, are required to maintain an ascendant where terror alone is opposed to force, where the powers of the sovereign are delegated entire to every subordinate officer: nor can any station bestow a liberality of mind in a scene of silence and dejection, where every breast is possessed with jealousy and caution, and where no object, but animal pleasure, remains to balance the sufferings of the sovereign himself, or those of his subjects. In other states, the talents of men are sometimes improved by the exercises which belong to an eminent station; but here the master himself is probably the rudest and least cultivated animal of the herd; he is inferior to the slave whom he raises from a servile office to the first places of trust or of dignity in his court. The primitive simplicity which formed ties of familiarity and affection betwixt the sovereign and the keeper of his herds, [Footnote: See Odyssey.] appears, in the absence of all affections, to be restored, or to be counterfeited amidst the ignorance and brutality which equally characterize all orders of men, or rather which level the ranks, and destroy the distinction of persons in a despotical court. Caprice and passion are the rules of government with the prince. Every delegate of power is left to act by the same direction; to strike when he is provoked; to favour when he is pleased. In what relates to revenue, jurisdiction, or police, every governor of a province acts like a leader in an enemy's country; comes armed with the terrors of fire and sword; and instead of a tax, levies a contribution by force he ruins or spares as either may serve his purpose. When the clamours of the oppressed, or the reputation of a treasure amassed at the expense of a province, have reached the ears of the sovereign, the extortioner is indeed made to purchase impunity by imparting a share, or by forfeiting the whole of his spoil; but no reparation is made to the injured; nay, the crimes of the minister are first employed to plunder the people, and afterwards punished to fill the coffers of the sovereign. In this total discontinuance of every art that relates to just government and national policy, it is remarkable, that even the trade of the soldier is itself great neglected. Distrust and jealousy, on the part of the prince, come in aid of his ignorance and incapacity; and these causes operating together, serve to destroy the very foundation on which his power is established. Any undisciplined rout of armed men passes for an army, whilst a weak, dispersed, and unarmed people are sacrificed to military disorder, or exposed to depredation on the frontier from an enemy, whom the desire of spoil, or the hopes of conquest, may have drawn to their neighbourhood. The Romans extended their empire till they left no polished nation to be subdued, and found a frontier which was every where surrounded by fierce and barbarous tribes; they even pierced through uncultivated deserts, in order to remove to a greater distance the molestation of such troublesome neighbours, and in order to possess the avenues through which they feared their attacks. But this policy put the finishing hand to the internal corruption of the state. A few years of tranquillity were sufficient to make even the government forget its danger; and, in the cultivated province, prepared for the enemy a tempting prize and an easy victory. When by the conquest and annexation of every rich and cultivated province, the measure of empire is full, two parties are sufficient to comprehend mankind; that of the pacific and the wealthy, who dwell within the pale of empire; and that of the poor, the rapacious, and the fierce, who are inured to depredation and war. The last bear to the first nearly the same relation which the wolf and the lion bear to the fold; and they are naturally engaged in a state of hostility. Were despotic empire, meantime, to continue for ever unmolested from abroad, while it retains that corruption on which it was founded, it appears to have in itself no principle of new life, and presents no hope of restoration to freedom and political vigour. That which the despotical _master has sown, cannot quicken unless it die_; it must languish and expire by the effect of its own abuse, before the human spirit can spring up anew, or bear those fruits which constitute the honour and the felicity of human nature. In times of the greatest debasement, indeed, commotions are felt; but very unlike the agitations of a free people: they are either the agonies of nature, under the sufferings to which men are exposed; or mere tumults, confined to a few who stand in arms about the prince, and who, by, their conspiracies, assassinations, and murders, serve only to plunge the pacific inhabitants still deeper in the horrors of fear or despair. Scattered in the provinces, unarmed, unacquainted with the sentiments of union and confederacy, restricted by habit to a wretched economy, and dragging a precarious life on those possessions which the extortions of government have left; the people can nowhere, under these circumstances, assume the spirit of a community, nor form any liberal combination for their own defence. The injured may complain; and while he cannot obtain the mercy of government, he may implore the commiseration of his fellow subject. But that fellow subject is comforted, that the hand of oppression has not seized on himself: he studies his interest, or snatches his pleasure, under that degree of safety which obscurity and concealment bestow. The commercial arts, which seem to require no foundation in the minds of men, but the regard to interest; no encouragement, but the hopes of gain, and the secure possession of property, must perish under the precarious tenure of slavery, and under the apprehension of danger arising from the reputation of wealth. National poverty, however, and the suppression of commerce, are the means by which despotism comes to accomplish its own destruction. Where there are no longer any profits to corrupt, or fears to deter, the charm of dominion is broken, and the naked slave, as awake from a dream, is astonished to find he is free. When the fence is destroyed, the wilds are open, and the herd breaks loose. The pasture of the cultivated field is no longer preferred to that of the desert. The sufferer willingly flies where the extortions of government cannot overtake him; where even the timid and the servile may recollect they are men; where the tyrant may threaten, but where he is known to be no more than a fellow creature; where he can take nothing but life, and even this at the hazard of his own. Agreeably to this description, the vexations of tyranny have overcome, in many parts of the East, the desire of settlement. The inhabitants of a village quit their habitations, and infest the public ways; those of the valleys fly to the mountains, and, equipt for flight, or possessed of a strong hold, subsist by depredation, and by the war they make on their former masters. These disorders conspire with the impositions of government to render the remaining settlements still less secure: but while devastation and ruin appear on every side, mankind are forced anew upon those confederacies, acquire again that personal confidence and vigour, that social attachment, that use of arms, which, in former times, rendered a small tribe the seed of a great nation; and which may again enable the emancipated slave to begin the career of civil and commercial arts. When human nature appears in the utmost state of corruption, it has actually begun to reform. In this manner, the scenes of human life have been frequently shifted. Security and presumption forfeit the advantages of prosperity; resolution and conduct retrieve the ills of adversity; and mankind while they have nothing on which to rely but their virtue, are prepared to gain every advantage; and while they confide most in their good fortune, are most exposed to feel its reverse. We are apt to draw these observations into rule; and when we are no longer willing to act for our country, we plead, in excuse of our own weakness or folly, a supposed fatality in human affairs. The institutions of men, if not calculated for the preservation of virtue, are, indeed, likely to have an end as well as a beginning: but so long as they are effectual to this purpose, they have at all times an equal principle of life, which nothing but an external force can suppress; no nation ever suffered internal decay but from the vice of its members. We are sometimes willing to acknowledge this vice in our countrymen; but who was ever willing to acknowledge it in himself? It may be suspected, however, that we do more than acknowledge it, when we cease to oppose its effects, and when we plead a fatality, which, at least, in the breast of every individual, is dependent on himself. Men of real fortitude, integrity, and ability, are well placed in every scene; they reap, in every condition, the principal enjoyments of their nature; they are the happy instruments of Providence employed for the good of mankind; or, if we must change this language, they show, that while they are destined to live, the states they compose are likewise doomed by the fates to survive, and to prosper. THE END VALUABLE WORKS RECENTLY PUBLISHED, BY ANTHONY FINLEY, _Corner of Chesnut and Fourth Streets, Philadelphia._ THE THEORY OF MORAL SENTIMENTS; OR, AN ESSAY Towards an analysis of the principles by which men naturally judge concerning the conduct and character, first of their neighbours, and afterwards of themselves, To which is added, _A Dissertation on the Origin of Languages._ BY ADAM SMITH, LL.D. F.R.B. FIRST AMERICAN FROM THE TWELFTH EDINBURGH EDITION. * * * * * _Extract from "An Account of the Life and Writings of Dr. Adam Smith, by Dugald Stewart, F.R.S. Edinburgh."_ (Speaking of Dr. S.'s Theory of Moral Sentiments, he says) "No work, undoubtedly, can be mentioned, ancient or modern, which exhibits so complete a view of those facts, with respect to our moral perception, which it is one great object of this branch of science to refer to their general laws; and upon this account, it well deserves the careful study of all whose taste leads them to prosecute similar inquiries. These facts are indeed frequently expressed in a language which involves the author's peculiar theories; but they are always presented in the most happy and beautiful light; and it is easy for an attentive reader, by stripping them of hypothetical terms, to state them to himself with that logical precision, which, in such very difficult disquisitions, can alone conduct us with certainty to the truth. "It is proper to observe, farther, that, with the theoretical doctrines of the book, there are every where interwoven, with singular taste and address, the purest and most elevated maxims concerning the practical conduct of life; and that it abounds throughout with interesting and instructive delineations of characters and manners. A considerable part of it too is employed in collateral inquiries, which, upon every hypothesis that can be formed concerning the foundation of morals, are of equal importance. Of this kind is the speculation with respect to the influence of fortune on our moral sentiments; and another speculation no less valuable, with respect to the influence of custom and fashion on the same part of our constitution. "When the subject of this work leads the author to address the imagination and the heart: the variety and felicity of his illustrations--the richness and fluency of his eloquence--and the skill with which he wins the attention and commands the passions of his readers, leave him, among our English moralists, without a rival." TABLE OF CONTENTS. PART I. _Of the Propriety of Action_. Section I. _Of the Sense of Propriety_. Chap. I. Of Sympathy. Chap. II. Of the Pleasure of Mutual Sympathy. Chap. III. Of the manner in which we judge of the Propriety or Impropriety of the Affections of other Men, by their concord or dissonance with our own. Chap. IV. The same subject continued. Chap. V. Of the Amiable and Respectable Virtues. Section II. _Of the Degrees of the different Passions which are consistent with Propriety_. Introduction. Chap. I. Of the Passions which take their origin from the body. Chap. II. Of those Passions which take their origin from a particular turn or habit of the Imagination. Chap. III. Of the unsocial Passions. Chap. IV. Of the social Passions. Chap. V. Of the selfish Passions. Section III. _Of the Effects of Prosperity and Adversity upon the Judgment of Mankind with regard to the Propriety of Action; and why it is more easy to obtain their approbation in the one state than in the other_. Chap. I. That though our sympathy with sorrow is generally a more lively sensation than our sympathy with toy, it commonly falls much more short of the violence of what is naturally felt by the person principally concerned. Chap. II. Of the origin of Ambition, and of the distinction of Ranks. Chap. III. Of the corruption of our Moral Sentiments, which is occasioned by this disposition to admire the rich and the great, and to despise or neglect persons of poor and mean condition. PART II. _Of Merit and Demerit; or of the objects of reward and punishment_. Section I. _Of the Sense of Merit and Demerit_. Introduction. Chap. I. That whatever appears to be the proper object of gratitude, appears to deserve reward; and that, in the same manner, whatever appears to be the proper object of resentment, appears to deserve punishment. Chap. II. Of the proper objects of gratitude and resentment. Chap. III. That where there is no approbation of the conduct of the person who confers the benefit, there is little sympathy with the gratitude of him who receives it: and that on the contrary, where there is no disapprobation of the motives of the person who does the mischief, there is no sort of sympathy with the resentment of him who suffers it. Chap. IV. Recapitulation of the foregoing chapters. Chap. V. The Analysis of the sense of Merit and Demerit. SECTION II. _Of Justice and Beneficence._ Chap. I. Comparison of those two virtues. Chap. II. Of the sense of Justice, of Remorse, and of the consciousness of Merit. Chap. III. Of the utility of this constitution of Nature. SECTION III. _Of the Influence of Fortune upon the Sentiments of Mankind, with regard to the Merit or Demerit of Actions._ Introduction. Chap. I. Of the causes of this influence of Fortune. Chap. II. Of the extent of this influence of Fortune. Chap. III. Of the final cause of this irregularity of Sentiments. PART III. _Of the Foundation our Judgments concerning our own sentiments and conduct, and of the sense of Duty._ Chap. I. Of the principle of Self-approbation and of Self-disapprobation. Chap. II. Of the love of Praise, and of that of Praise-worthiness; and of the dread of Blame, and that of Blame-worthiness. Chap. III. Of the Influence and Authority of Conscience. Chap. IV. Of the nature of Self-deceit, and of the Origin and Use of general Rules. Chap. V. Of the Influence and Authority of the general Rules of Morality, and that they are justly regarded as the laws of the Deity. Chap. VI. In what cases the Sense of Duty ought to be the sole principle of our conduct; and in what cases it ought to concur with other motives. PART IV. _Of the Effect of Utility upon the Sentiment of Approbation._ Chap. I. Of the Beauty which the appearance of Utility bestows upon all the productions of Art, and of the extensive influence of this species of Beauty. Chap. II. Of the Beauty which the appearance of Utility bestows upon the characters and actions of men; and how far the perception of this beauty may be regarded as one of the original principles of approbation. PART V. _Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon the Sentiments of Moral Approbation and Disapprobation._ Chap. I. Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon our notions of Beauty and Deformity. Chap. II. Of the Influence of Custom and Fashion upon Moral Sentiments. PART VI. _Of the Character of Virtue._ Introduction. Section I. _Of the Character of the Individual, so far as it affects his own Happiness; or of Prudence_. Section II. _Of the Character of the Individual, so far as it can affect the happiness of other People_. Introduction. Chap. I. Of the order in which Individuals are recommended by nature to our care and attention. Chap. II. Of the order in which Societies are by nature recommended to our beneficence. Chap. III. Of Universal Benevolence. Section III. _Of Self-Command_. Conclusion of the Sixth Part. PART VII. _Of Systems of Moral Philosophy_. Section I. _Of the questions which ought to be examined in a Theory of Moral Sentiments_. Section II. _Of the different Accounts which have been given of the nature of Virtue_. Introduction. Chap. I. Of those systems which make Virtue consist in propriety. Chap. II. Of those systems which make Virtue consist in prudence. Chap. III. Of those systems which make Virtue consist in benevolence. Chap. IV. Of licentious Systems. Section III. _Of the different Systems which have been formed concerning the Principle of Approbation_. Introduction. Chap. I. Of those systems which deduce the principle of Approbation from Self-love. Chap. II. Of those systems which make Reason the principle of Approbation. Chap. III. Of those systems which make Sentiment the principle of Approbation. Section IV. _Of the manner in which different Authors have treated of the Practical Rules of Morality_. _Considerations concerning the first Formation of Languages, &c._ _An Epitome of Ancient Geography_, Sacred and Profane, being an abridgment of D'Anville's Geography, with improvements, from various other authors; by which the omissions of D'Anville are supplied, and his errors corrected. Accompanied with an account of the origin and migration of ancient nations.--By Robert Mayo, M. 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46455	----	[Illustration: LIFE IN THE MIDDLE AGES] Life on a Mediaeval Barony A Picture of a Typical Feudal Community in the Thirteenth Century By William Stearns Davis, Ph.D. _Professor of History in the University of Minnesota_ ILLUSTRATED [Illustration] Harper & Brothers Publishers New York and London MCMXXIII LIFE ON A MEDIÆVAL BARONY Copyright, 1922 By Harper & Brothers Printed in the U. S. A. _First Edition_ G-1 To Ephraim Emerton Master Interpreter of Mediæval History this book is dedicated by an ever-grateful pupil. Table of Contents Chapter Page I. The Fief of St. Aliquis; Its History and Denizens 1 II. The Castle of St. Aliquis 16 III. How the Castle Wakes. Baronial Hospitality 41 IV. Games and Diversions. Falconry and Hunting. The Baroness's Garden 51 V. The Family of the Baron. Life of the Women 70 VI. The Matter of Clothes. A Feudal Wedding 88 VII. Cookery and Mealtimes 113 VIII. The Jongleurs and Secular Literature and Poetry 132 IX. The Feudal Relationship. Doing Homage 146 X. Justice and Punishments 159 XI. The Education of a Feudal Nobleman 176 XII. Feudal Weapons and Horses. Dubbing a Knight 189 XIII. The Tourney 208 XIV. A Baronial Feud. The Siege of a Castle 224 XV. A Great Feudal Battle--Bouvines 241 XVI. The Life of the Peasants 253 XVII. Charity. Care of the Sick. Funerals 275 XVIII. Popular Religion. Pilgrimages. Superstitions. Relic Worship 286 XIX. The Monastery of St. Aliquis: Buildings, Organization. An Ill-Ruled Abbey 312 XX. The Monastery of St. Aliquis: The Activities of Its Inmates. Monastic Learning 330 XXI. The "Good Town" of Pontdebois: Aspect and Organization 343 XXII. Industry and Trade in Pontdebois. The Great Fair 357 XXIII. The Lord Bishop. The Canons. The Parish Clergy 373 XXIV. The Cathedral and Its Builders 393 Illustrations Life in the Middle Ages Frontispiece The Castle of St. Aliquis Page xiv Typical Castle of the Middle Ages " 17 View of the Court and the Donjon " 25 Upper Hall of the Donjon " 31 Interior of a Thirteenth-century Apartment Facing p. 36 A Thirteenth-century Bed Page 39 A Game of Chess " 54 A Game of Ball " 57 Lady with a Falcon on Her Wrist " 58 The Falcon Hunt " 59 Noble Holding a Falcon in Each Hand " 61 A Hunter " 63 The Stag Hunt " 66 Coiffure of a Noblewoman " 71 Cradle " 81 A King in the Twelfth Century Wearing Pellison " 90 Wreath Made of Metal Flowers Sewed on Braid " 91 Felt Shoe " 93 Winter Costume in the Twelfth Century " 94 Headdress of a Man " 95 Costume of a Nobleman " 96 Coiffure of a Woman " 97 A Royal Marriage in the Thirteenth Century " 99 Cooks " 114 Pork Butchers (Bourges) " 115 Servants Bringing the Food to the Table " 123 Young Girls of the Nobility Serving at the Table " 126 A Feast of Ceremony in the Twelfth Century Facing p. 128 Small Portable Organ of the Thirteenth Century Page 132 Acrobats Page 134 Dancer of the Twelfth Century " 137 Thirteenth-century Harp " 139 Listening to a Trouvère in a Château of the Thirteenth Century Facing p. 140 Banner of the Thirteenth Century Page 147 The Coat of Arms of the Dukes of Bretagne (Thirteenth Century) " 148 Seal of the Duke Jean of Bretagne (Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries) " 149 Homage in the Twelfth Century Facing p. 156 Costume of a Nobleman (Thirteenth Century) Page 177 Gothic Writing " 179 A Teacher Holding a Ferule in His Hand " 180 Maneuvering with a Lance in the Thirteenth Century " 185 A Knight at the End of the Thirteenth Century " 190 German Helmets of the Thirteenth Century " 192 A Thirteenth-century Shield " 193 Thirteenth-century Swords " 194 Horse Trappings " 196 A Knight of the Thirteenth Century " 198 A Thirteenth-century Knight " 199 A Thirteenth-century Knight " 200 A Beggar " 201 A Tournament in the Twelfth Century Facing p. 214 Knightly Combat on Foot Page 219 A Combat in the Twelfth Century " 221 A Catapult " 236 An Attack with the Aid of a Tower " 237 A Mantelet in Wood " 238 Attack on a Wall with the Aid of the Sap " 239 Group of Peasants and of Shepherds " 255 Peasants at Work " 260 A Laborer (Thirteenth Century) " 264 Peasant Shoes " 265 A Reaper " 265 A Marriage in the Thirteenth Century " 266 A Plow " 267 A Leper " 278 A Thirteenth-century Doctor " 281 A Thirteenth-century Burial Scene Page 284 A Group of Priests (Thirteenth Century) " 287 A Shrine in the Form of an Altar (Thirteenth Century) in the Cathedral at Rheims " 299 Richard Coeur de Lion Facing p. 302 View of an Abbey of the Thirteenth Century Page 313 The Galleries of the Cloister of the Abbey of Mont-Saint-Michel (Thirteenth Century) " 316 The Refectory at the Abbey of Mont-Saint-Michel (Thirteenth Century) " 318 A Benedictine Monk (Thirteenth Century) " 320 A Piece of Furniture Serving as a Seat and a Reading Desk " 335 Cloth Merchants " 358 A Commoner (Thirteenth Century) " 362 Money-changers (Chartres) " 365 A Fair in Champagne in the Thirteenth Century Facing p. 366 The Sale of Peltries (Bourges) Page 370 Episcopal Throne of the Thirteenth Century " 374 A Bishop of the Twelfth Century " 376 A Bishop of the Thirteenth Century " 379 A Deacon (Thirteenth Century) " 388 Notre Dame and the Bishop's Palace at the Beginning of the Thirteenth Century " 395 Thirteenth-century Window in the Cathedral of Chartres, Representing Saint Christopher Carrying Christ " 400 Preface This book describes the life of the Feudal Ages in terms of the concrete. The discussions center around a certain seigneury of St. Aliquis. If no such barony is easily identifiable, at least there were several hundred second-grade fiefs scattered over western Christendom which were in essential particulars extremely like it, and its Baron Conon and his associates were typical of many similar individuals, a little worse or a little better, who abounded in the days of Philip Augustus. No custom is described which does not seem fairly characteristic of the general period. To focus the picture a specific region, northern France, and a specific year, A.D. 1220, have been selected. Not many matters have been mentioned, however, which were not more or less common to contemporaneous England and Germany; nor have many usages been explained which would not frequently have been found as early as A.D. 1100 or as late as 1300. Northern France was _par excellence_ the homeland of Feudalism and hardly less so of Chivalry, while by general consent the years around 1220 mark one of the great turning epochs of the Middle Ages. We are at the time of the development of French kingship under Philip Augustus, of the climax and the beginning of the waning of the crusading spirit, of the highest development of Gothic architecture, of the full blossoming of the popular Romance literature, and of the beginning of the entirely dissimilar, but even more important, Friar movement. To make the life of the Middle Ages live again in its pageantry and its squalor, its superstition and its triumph of Christian art and love, is the object of this study. Many times has the author been reminded of the _intense contrasts_ between sublime good and extreme evil everywhere apparent in the Feudal Epoch. With every effort at impartiality, whether praising or condemning, it is dangerously easy to write in superlatives. Although the preparation of this book was not undertaken without that knowledge and investigation of those mediæval authors, ecclesiastics, and laymen upon which every significant study of this kind must rest, every scholar will recognize the author's debt to many modern specialists. To Th. Wright, Lacroix, Luchaire, Justin H. Smith, Viollet-le-Duc, and Chéruel the acknowledgments are very specific. To Leon Gautier they must be more specific still. It is a great misfortune that his masterpiece, _Le Chivalrie_, is no longer current in a good English translation. The words in quotation, sprinkled through the text, are usually from pertinent mediæval writers, except where they purport to be direct snatches of conversation. To my colleague in this university, Prof. August C. Krey, who has read and criticized the manuscript with friendly fidelity and professional alertness and acumen, there are due many hearty thanks. W. S. D. The University of Minnesota. Minneapolis, Minn. Life on a Mediaeval Barony [Illustration] Chapter I: The Fief of St. Aliquis: Its History and Denizens. In the duchy of Quelqueparte there lay, in the later days of the great King Philip Augustus, the barony of St. Aliquis. Perhaps you may have trouble in finding any such places upon the maps of Mediæval France. In that case, I must tell you that they did not lie so far from Burgundy, Champagne, and Blois that the duke and his vassal, the baron, could not have many brave feuds with the seigneurs of those principalities, nor so far from Paris that peddlers and pilgrims could not come hence or go thither pretty often, nor the baron of St. Aliquis sometimes journey to the king's court, to do his loyal devoir to his high suzerain, or to divert himself with many lordly pleasures. About A.D. 1220, when King Philip Augustus was near his end, there was exceptional peace in northern France, and conditions around St. Aliquis were entirely normal. We purpose, therefore (with the help of Our Lady, of holy St. Aliquis himself, and perhaps also of that very discreet _fée_ Queen Morgue, "the wife of Julius Cæsar and the mother of King Oberon"), to visit the aforesaid barony as it existed at that time. We shall look around us unseen by the inhabitants, but able to ask many questions and to get pertinent answers. Thereby shall we gather much knowledge, and that, too, not about St. Aliquis only; for this little world by itself is a cross-section, as it were, of a great part of France; nay, of all feudal Europe. It is fortunate that we are suffered, when we make this return journey to the Middle Ages, to arrive not long after the year 1200. A century or two earlier one might have found conditions decidedly more crude, semi-barbarous, disgusting; one would have indeed been tempted to doubt whether from so lawless and uncultivated a world any progressive civilization could really develop. On the other hand, had we postponed the excursion until, say, A.D. 1400, we would have found a society already becoming sophisticated and to no slight extent modernized. The true mediæval flavor would have been partially lost. But A.D. 1220 represents the epoch when the spirit of the Middle Ages had reached its full development. The world was still full of ignorance, squalor, and violence, yet there were now plenty of signs of a nobler day. France was still scattered with feudal castles and tales of baronial ruthlessness abounded, but the rise of the royal power and the growth of the chartered communal towns were promising a new political era. The bulk of the people were still illiterate peasants, and many of the nobility even felt very awkward when fumbling over books; but the monasteries had never been so full of worthy activities and of very genuine learning. Thousands of scholars were trudging to the University of Paris; and meantime, even in the more starving towns were rising Gothic churches and cathedrals, combining in their soaring fabrics not merely the results of supreme architectural genius, but a wealth of masterpieces of sculpture and of colored glass which were to draw visitors of later days from the very ends of the earth. The crusading fervor had somewhat waned, but around the castles there were still elderly knights who had once followed Richard the Lion Hearted or Philip Augustus upon the great Third Crusade to Palestine, likewise a good many younger cavaliers who had shared the military glory and moral disgrace of the Fourth Crusade, which had ended not with the recovery of Jerusalem, but the sack and seizure of Christian Constantinople. At Rome the great and magnanimous Pope Innocent III had hardly ceased to reign (1216); while the founders of the remarkable Friar movement--that new style of monasticism which was to carry the message of the Church closer to the people--St. Francis, the apostle of love, and St. Dominic, the apostle of learning, were still alive and active. The world, therefore, was looking forward. The Middle Ages were close to apogee. [Sidenote: The Fief of St. Aliquis] We purpose to tell what may be found on the barony of St. Aliquis, first at the castle itself and in the household of Messire the Seigneur, then in the villages of peasants round about; next in the abbey slightly removed; and lastly in the chartered town and cathedral seat of the bishop a few miles further off. But first one must ask about the origin of the principality and how there came to be any such barony at all, for St. Aliquis would have been an exceptional seigneury if it had not had considerable history behind it, and had not represented the growth of several different elements. The castle of St. Aliquis lies at the junction of two rivers. The smaller of these, the Rapide, tumbles down from some hills, cutting a gorge through the dense beech forest until it runs under a precipitous slope, then dashes into the greater, more placid current of the Claire. The Claire is an affluent, perhaps of the Seine, perhaps of the Loire. It is navigable for flat barges a good many miles above its junction with the Rapide, and the tolls upon this commerce swell the baron's revenue. At the triangle formed by the converging streams rises an abrupt rocky plateau practically inaccessible from the banks of either river and which can be approached only from the third side, where the land slopes gently away from the apex of the triangle. Here rise some jagged crags marking out the place as a natural fortress. Most castles which dot feudal Europe are thus located in the most advantageous spot in their respective regions. Possibly human habitations have existed upon this promontory ever since God drove Adam and Eve out of Eden. If we consult Brother Boniface, the librarian at the local monastery, the best-read person in the district, the good old man will tell us that long before the Romans came, the ancient Druids ("now in hell") had their pagan altars here, and sacrificed human victims under a great oak. Some chiseled masonry found on the spot also indicates an extensive settlement in Roman days, when Gaul was a province of the Cæsars. Of course, all the pious people know that under the persecuting Emperor Diocletian, the holy Aliquis himself, a centurion in the Legions, was shot to death with burning arrows because he preferred Christ to Jupiter, and that the place of his martyrdom is at the new abbey church about a league from the castle. [Sidenote: Founding of the Castle] Nevertheless, secular history is not precise until after the time of the mighty Charlemagne. Under his feeble successor, Charles the Bald, tradition affirms that the vikings, Scandinavian barbarians, came up the greater river, ascended the Claire in their long dragon ships; then on the site of the present castle they established a stockaded camp, whence they issued to ravage the country. This was about A.D. 870, but after a year they departed, leaving desolation behind them. About A.D. 880 another band of vikings came with similar foul intent, but they met a different reception. The saints had raised up a brave protector for the Christian folk of those lands. Very uncertain is the ancestry of the redoubtable warrior Heribert, who about A.D. 875 seized the rocky triangle at the mouth of the Rapide, and built the first castle of St. Aliquis. Perhaps he was descended from one of Charlemagne's famous Frankish "counts." He did, indeed, only what was then being done everywhere to check the Scandinavian hordes: he built a castle and organized the levies of the region, hitherto footmen, into an effective cavalry force. This castle was anything save the later majestic fortress. It was merely a great square tower of rough masonry, perched on the crag above the streams. Around it was a palisade of heavy timbers, strengthened on the landward side by a ditch. Inside this compound were huts for refugees, storehouses for fodder, and rude stalls for the cattle. To stop passage up the Claire a heavy chain of iron was stretched across the river and stone piers were sunk at shallow places, thus forcing boats to pass close under the fortress in range of descending missiles. Where the chain was landed there was built another smaller stone tower. All the crossing then had to be by skiffs, although somewhat later an unsteady bridge was thrown over the stream. The second expedition of vikings found that these precautions had ruined their adventure. They lost many men and a dragon ship when they tried to force the iron chain. Heribert's new cavalry cut off their raiding parties. Finally they departed with thinned numbers and scant spoils. Heribert was hailed as savior of the region, just as other champions, notably the great Count Odo at the siege of Paris, won similar successes elsewhere on a larger scale. The vikings had departed, but Heribert's tower remained. So began the castle of St. Aliquis. Heribert had taken possession ostensibly as the king's "man," claiming some royal commission, but as the power of Charlemagne's feeble rulers dwindled, Heribert's heirs presently forgot almost all their allegiance to their distant royal "master." This was merely as seemed the case about A.D. 900 all through the region then coming to be called "France." Castles were rising everywhere, sometimes to repel the vikings, sometimes merely to strengthen the power of some local chief. Once erected, the lords of those castles were really little princes, able to defy the very weak central authority. To capture a considerably less formidable fortalice than St. Aliquis implied a tedious siege, such as few kings would undertake save in an emergency. The result was that ere A.D. 1000 Heribert's great-grandsons had almost ceased to trouble about the king. The person they genuinely feared was the local Duke of Quelqueparte, another feudal seigneur with more followers and more castles than they. Partly from prudence, partly from necessity, they had "done homage" to him, become "his men," and as his vassals rode to his wars. The dukes, in turn, full of their own problems, and realizing the strength of St. Aliquis, seldom interfered in the fief, save on very serious occasions. The barons of St. Aliquis therefore acted very nearly like sovereign princes. They, of course, had their own gallows with power of life and death, waged their own personal wars, made treaties of peace, and even coined a little ill-shapen money with their own superscription.[1] "Barons by the Grace of God," they boasted themselves, which meant that they obeyed the duke and _his_ suzerain, the king, very little, and, we fear, God not a great deal. [Sidenote: Turbulent Barons] In the recent centuries, however, the barony had changed hands several times. About 1070 the lord had the folly to refuse his ordinary feudal duty to the Duke of Quelqueparte. The latter roused himself, enlisted outside aid, and blockaded and starved out the castle of St. Aliquis. The unfortunate baron--duly adjudged "traitor and felon" by his "peers," his fellow vassals--was beheaded. The duke then bestowed the fief, with the hand of the late owner's niece, upon Sire Rainulf, a younger son of a south-country viscount, who had visited the duke's court, bringing with him an effective battle-ax and fifty sturdy followers. Sire Rainulf, however, died while in the First Crusade. The reigning duke next tried to give the barony to another favorite warrior, but the son of the late baron proved himself of sturdy stuff. He fought off his suzerain and enlisted allies from Burgundy. The duke was forced, therefore, to leave him in peace. Presently, about 1140, another baron died, survived only by a daughter. Her uncles and cousins did their best to expel this poor lady and induced the suzerain duke to close his eyes to their deeds, but, fortunately, the new baroness had been very pious. The influence of the great St. Bernard of Clairvaux was exerted, thereby persuading King Louis VII to warn the duke that if he could not protect his vassals "the king would do justice." So the Lady Bertrada was given in marriage to a respectable Flemish cavalier Gui, who ruled the barony with only the usual wars. He left two sons, Garnier and Henri. Sire Henri, the younger, lived at the inferior castle of Petitmur, went on the Fourth Crusade (1203-04), and perished in the fighting around Constantinople ere the French and Venetians sacked the city. Garnier, the elder, received, of course, the great castle. He was the uncle of the Baron Conon III, the son of Henri, and the present lord of St. Aliquis. It is well said by the monks that the blessed feel joys in paradise all the keener because a little earlier they have escaped from the pangs and fires of purgatory. Certes, for all laymen and clerics on the St. Aliquis fiefs, there was purgatory enough in Baron Garnier's day to make the present "sage" rule of Baron Conon seem tenfold happy. The late seigneur ruled about twenty years, filled up with one round of local wars, oppression of the small, and contentions with the great. Baron Garnier was assuredly a mighty warrior. Never was he unhorsed in jousting or in mêlée. His face was one mass of scars and he had lost an ear. Plenty of landless knights and wolfish men at arms rioted around his donjon. His provosts and foresters knew how to squeeze the poor of the seigneury, and by this income and by the ransoms from numerous captives he was able to rebuild the castle of St. Aliquis according to the first military art of the day. [Sidenote: Crimes of Baron Garnier] But his sins were more than the hairs of his grizzled head. Having taken dislike to his wife, and the bishop refusing an annulment, he kept the poor Lady Ada mewed up in one chamber for years, and, according to many stories, loaded her with chains and spared not tortures, until in mercy she died. However, he had plenty of less regular consorts. The castle courts had swarmed with loud women, the favorites of himself and his familiars, and with their coarse, unacknowledged brats. No pretty peasant girl's honor was safe in those parts. As for the prisoners--after Messire Conon came into power it was a marvel the quantity of human bones, gnawed by the rats, which they took out of the lower dungeons, as well as how they released four wretches who had been incarcerated in the dark so long that they were blinded. Needless to say, the compartments of the gallows never lacked their swinging skeletons. Women still hush their squalling children with, "Be silent--or Baron Garnier will get you!" Yet with all these deeds this baron affected great hospitality. He kept a roaring hall, with ready welcome for any cavalier who enjoyed deep drinking and talking of horses, women, falcons, and forays; and a good many seigneurs found his alliance useful. So he continued his evil ways until (praised be Our Lady of Mercies) he came to a fit end. Thrice he had been excommunicated by the bishop. Thrice he had been readmitted to ghostly favor, thanks to large gifts toward the new cathedral at Pontdebois. Then he let his men murder a priest who was traveling with a precious chalice. So he was excommunicated a fourth time. While in this perilous state (though boasting that he would soon make his new terms with the Church) his companion in sin, Suger of the Iron Arm, quarreled with him over their cups and ran him through with a boar spear. The baron lived just long enough to see Suger hewn in pieces by his comrades. Then he died (priestless, of course, and unabsolved) cursing God and crying piteously for help from the devil. Christians cross themselves when they think of his fate hereafter. Garnier left no legitimate children. He was on very cold terms with his brother's widow, the Lady Odelina, who was rearing her two sons and daughter at Petitmur; but Odelina had faced her brother-in-law down and clung tightly to her own little fief. She had given her children a "courteous" and pious education, and induced a neighboring seigneur to take her eldest son, Conon, to "nourish" as his squire, and rear to be a knight. At length came her reward. The youth was knighted by the Count of Champagne three weeks before his evil uncle perished. Then the suzerain duke was glad to have St. Aliquis pass to so competent a vassal as young Sire Conon. This is a bare suggestion of the contentions, feuds, and downright wars of which the barony has been the scene, and yet St. Aliquis has probably been freer from such troubles than most of its neighbors. [Sidenote: Baronial Fiefs and Vassals] Although this castle is the center of Baron Conon's power, it is by no means his only strong place. He has three other smaller castles (besides Petitmur, which will go to his brother) that he sometimes inhabits, but which he ordinarily rules through castellans. In the twenty-odd villages upon the fief there are some ten thousand peasants whom he governs through his provosts.[2] Also, there depend on him his own "noble" vassals--about twelve "sires," petty nobles each with his own small castle or tower, hamlet of peasants, and right to "low justice." These vassals follow the St. Aliquis banner and otherwise contribute to the baron's glory. That seigneur himself is likewise "advocate" (secular guardian) of the neighboring Abbey of St. Aliquis--an honorable post involving delicate dealings with the lord abbot. Also, a few leagues away lies the "good town" of Pontdebois. The baron, as will be explained, has very important relations with that city. In addition he "holds" of the bishop there resident some farms with hunting and fishing rights. For this inferior fief he does homage, of course, not to the Duke of Quelqueparte, but to the Bishop of Pontdebois. Some years previous, when the duke and bishop were at war, the baron was obligated to send twenty knights to fight for the duke, but also six to fight for the bishop. The Scriptures warn us against trying "to serve two masters"; but the baron happily made shift to keep the two contingents of his little array from engaging with one another until his two overlords had made peace! In addition to all the above, Conon holds still another small castle at quite a distance, for which he does homage to the Duke of Burgundy--a fact promising more complications when Quelqueparte and Burgundy (as is most likely) go to war. Finally, he holds a large farm from his otherwise equal, the Baron of Harcourt. Here he is sure to cut his feudal devoir to a minimum, and leave the Lord of Harcourt to consider whether to pocket his pride, risk a "private war," or attempt a lawsuit before their mutual suzerain, the Duke of Quelqueparte.[3] The Baron Conon would gladly be the direct vassal of the king. The higher your suzerain the higher, on the whole, your own glory in the feudal firmament; but the duke would resent bitterly any attempt to get his vassals away and all the other first-class nobles would support him. Baron Conon must wait, therefore, perhaps until the present elderly duke is dead and the duchy falls under feeble heirs. Then he will find the astute king, if Philip Augustus is still reigning, only too willing and able to meet him halfway. At present, however, Conon is on good terms with the duke, although he is just as jealous himself to prevent his own sires from "holding" directly from the duke as the latter is to check the baron's going over to the king. Everywhere there is this friction over "subinfeudation." "The vassal of my vassal is _not_ my vassal": that is the angry comment daily. All in all, the seigneury of St. Aliquis thus covers three hundred square miles, whereof about one-third is controlled by the baron as his personal domain and the remainder by his vassals. Perhaps there are two hundred similar baronies and countships dotting France, some larger, some smaller, but in their histories, feudal relationships, and general problems much alike. This fief, however, is especially fortunate in that the baron possesses an old charter, wrung from some tottering Carolingian king, giving him the right to collect a sack of grain, a large truss of hay, or a similar quota in kind from every loaded barge traversing down the navigable Claire; also to levy a copper obol for every Christian foot passenger, and three obols for every mounted traveler or Jew (mounted or walking) crossing the very important bridge by the castle. These tolls give messire many fine suits of armor, buy silk gowns for the baroness, and make all the local seigneurs anxious to marry their daughters to the baron's sons as soon as the boys can be knighted. [Sidenote: A Superior Type of Baron] St. Aliquis, we have said, is happy in its present seigneur. Monks, villeins, and petty nobles agree in praising Baron Conon. When a seigneur is practically a sovereign, everything depends upon his character. If the saints desire to punish certain Christians for their sins, let them merely send them an evil, or only an inefficient, quarrelsome baron! Like the unlamented Garnier, he can soon make their lives into a perfect Gehenna. Conon III has now ruled for more than ten years. He has kept out of all private wars but one, a feat almost exceptional; but in that one war he struck so hard and so skillfully that his opponent, the Viscount of Foretvert, swore on the relics to a peace which cost him a village of peasants and the transfer of two petty sires to the St. Aliquis fealty. Conon fought also in the great battle of Beauvais so as to win the personal praise of the king himself. He compounded with the abbey over the division of the income of a farm in a manner which left him and the abbot firm friends--a singular piece of diplomacy. Better still, he held to his point about some hunting rights with the Bishop of Pontdebois, and finally won most of his claims without being even temporarily subjected to excommunication. His peasants pay their imposts loyally, for the baron not merely protects them from the raids of brigands and rival feudatories; he also represses worse pillagers still, his own seigneurial officers, who were ravaging harpies in all the little thatched villages through Baron Garnier's day. Therefore, Conon is called "a very gentle seigneur," which means that he is every inch a lord and which term does not prevent him from swinging a heavy sword, and from knocking down a villein with his own fist when there is need of teaching a lesson. [Sidenote: A Baronial Family] As for Conon's family, his good mother, Lady Odelina, is now resting under the stones of the abbey church; but she lived to see her first-born wedded to Adela, the daughter of a rich Picard sire, a dame of many virtues. The marriage has been blessed with two healthy sons, François and Anseau--the pampered tyrants of all the castle folk. The baron's household also includes his younger brother Aimery, who has just reached the age for knighthood, and his marriageable sister Alienor. So far the family had been marvelously harmonious. There has been none of those passages at arms between elder and younger brothers which often make a castle the antechamber to hell. Adela is "the very _gentle_ dame"--beloved of husband and revered by vassals and villeins, but whose "gentleness," like her husband's, by no means keeps her from flogging her maids when their sins deserve it. Alienor is already going to tourneys and has presented at least three young knights with her stockings to tie to their lances; but she knows that it is a brother's duty to find a husband for one's sister, and Conon has promised that whoever he selects will be young, brave, and kindly. Therefore Alienor is not borrowing trouble. As for Aimery, he is proud of being almost as good a hawker and jouster as his brother. He will soon be knighted and rule over Petitmur, but his head is full of a visit to the king's court, of winning vast favor, and finally of being given the only daughter and heiress of a great count--in short, of possessing a fief bigger than St. Aliquis. There, then, is the little world, ruled by persons perhaps a little more honorable and kindly than the run of North French barons, but by no means of impossible virtue. It is June, A.D. 1220. The sun is just rising. Let us enter St. Aliquis as the warders unbar the gates; for the castle is the heart of the feudal civilization. FOOTNOTES: [1] Long before the assigned date of this narrative, some king or other potentate had assuredly given the lords of St. Aliquis _immunity_--_i.e._, exemption from ordinary jurisdiction, taxation, etc., by outside powers, with corresponding privileges for the local seigneurs themselves. [2] On some fiefs, as on the royal domain at this time, there would be a higher seigneurial officer, the _bailli_, set over the provosts. [3] The Baron of St. Aliquis was fortunate if his feudal relationships, conflicting overlords, etc., were not even more complicated than here indicated. There was nothing "simple" about the composition of a feudal barony! Chapter II: The Castle of St. Aliquis. The castle makes the feudal ages possible. It is because western Europe is covered with thousands of strongholds, each of which can stand off a considerable army, that we have the secular institutions of the thirteenth century. To be the owner and lord of at least one castle is the dream of every nobleman, and in fact until he can hoist his own banner from his own donjon he hardly has a defined place in the feudal hierarchy. [Sidenote: The Castle of St. Aliquis] As we have seen, the castle of St. Aliquis is now nearly three hundred and fifty years old. Since it has been continuously inhabited by enterprising owners, its structure has been as continuously changing. However, if we had come to the barony only fifty years ago, we would have found a decidedly primitive structure. The general plan of Heribert's original stronghold was then still retained: first, on the landward side of the triangle above the two converging rivers there was a rather deep moat, next a parapet whereof the lower part was made of earth taken from this same moat, and upon the mound rose a strong palisade of tree trunks. Within the palisade were barns, outbuildings, and barracks for such of the baron's men as did not live in the inner stronghold. Then last of all was the donjon, the castle proper--a huge square tower built with little art, but which defied attack by mere solidity. The entrance to this grim tower was by a steep inclined plane leading to a small door in the second story. In case of danger, if the palisade were forced, the seigneur and his men retreated into the tower, knocked down the wooden gangway, and shouted defiance to the enemy. The mass and height of the donjon baffled any ordinary methods of attack save that of blockade and starvation--and there would be six months' supply of wheat, salt beef, and ale in the tower vaults. [Illustration: TYPICAL CASTLE OF THE MIDDLE AGES (Without large barbican court)] Nevertheless, this seemingly impenetrable fortress did not suffice. In the first place, superior methods of siege warfare were developing: the stoutest fortifications could be cracked.[4] In the next place, if the donjon were hard to enter, it was almost equally hard to sally forth from it. No rapid sortie could be made from the door in the second story; the defense must be wholly passive. Finally, this stark masonry tower was a most uncomfortable place, with its cavernous "halls" barely lighted by tiny loopholes, frigid in winter, stifling in summer, unsanitary--in short, almost intolerable for habitation by a large body of men. After the First Crusade (1094-99) numerous cavaliers came home with great tales of the fortresses of the Byzantines and the Saracens. During the twelfth century, consequently, castle architecture underwent a remarkable transformation. Richard the Lion Hearted built Château Gaillard in Normandy. His mighty rival, Philip Augustus, built the famous Louvre to dominate Paris, and erected other new-style castles with cylindrical towers at Montargis, Poissy, Dourges, and elsewhere. Already by 1220 the plans are being drawn for a great castle at Coucy (built between 1223 and 1230) which is to be almost a model for all subsequent fortress builders, until the advent of gunpowder. [Sidenote: Castle Rebuilt Scientifically] Baron Garnier, whatever his crimes, had certainly understood the art of war. He rebuilt St. Aliquis in a thoroughly scientific manner, employing a learned masterbuilder and "sage," an elderly Fleming who had seen the best fortifications of the Infidels and had lived long in those famous Syrian-Christian fortresses like Krak des Chevaliers, which by the mere excellence of construction had enabled small garrisons of western "Franks" to defy the full power of Saladin. Instead of a mere ditch, palisade, and then a single vast tower, St. Aliquis has consequently become a huge complex of defenses within defenses, each line of resistance a little harder to penetrate and with every outwork commanded by an inner fortification. If at last you come to the central donjon, it still looms up above you--defiant and formidable, and you can have your fill of desperate fighting, only perhaps to be bloodily repulsed in the end. Of course, the donjon can indeed be starved out, but it is not very often that any enemy of St. Aliquis will have resources and persistence enough to keep his troops together until the castle supplies are exhausted. He must either get possession pretty quickly or not at all--and Garnier's Fleming certainly took pains he should not get in quickly! In examining St. Aliquis or its rivals, one must remember that they are the creations of men who have devoted most of their thought to the problems of war. Every possible contingency has been anticipated. The architect and his employer have practically spent their lives studying "how can a castle be made to hold out as long as possible?" Being, despite their sins, highly intelligent men, it is not surprising that they produce remarkable results. We are approaching the castle as the morning mists are lifting from the Claire and the Rapide. Ahead of us, out of the dispersing fog, is rising what seems a bewildering mass of towers, walls, battlements gray and brown, with here and there a bit of green, where a little earth has been allowed to lodge and a few weeds shoot forth. High above all soars the mass of the great central tower, the donjon, from the summit of which Baron Conon's banner is now idly trailing. We come down a road that takes us over the toll bridge across the Rapide and find ourselves in a kind of parade ground where there are only a few cattle sheds and possibly a rude cabin or two for such of the baron's herdsmen as must sleep outside overnight. This open ground is the scene for martial exercises, rallyings of the vassals, and even for tournaments. Many people are headed toward the castle, mostly from the village of peasants just westward across the river; but there is also the subprior on a mule, riding over from the abbey, and also a messenger who has spurred down very early from Pontdebois with a communication from the bishop. As we near the castle its tower and inner and outer wards become more distinct. We readily believe that it took Garnier's architect three years to carry through the work; that all the peasants of the barony had been put to grievous _corvées_ (forced labor) digging, hewing and dragging stone, or working the great derricks; and that ten expert stonecutters and fully eighty less skilled masons had been hired in from Paris, Rheims, and Orléans, besides a master mason who demanded rewards that seemed outrageous for a mere villein and not for a belted knight. [Sidenote: The Barbican and Lists] These speculations end as we come, not to the castle, but to a semicircular palisade inclosing the regular gate on the landward side. This palisade is too high to scramble over; the piles are too sharply pointed and stout enough to stand considerable battering. This outwork is the barbican--the first of the long series of obstacles awaiting the foe. Of course, it could not be defended in a regular siege, but its purpose is to stop any surprise attack long enough to enable the garrison to rally, close the great gate, and man the walls. The whole crowd of folk now entering make for the heavy wooden barrier which is just being thrown open by a rather sleepy porter. Since it is a time of profound peace, he lets them all stream inside, merely requiring everyone to leave his weapons in his custody. We pass unchallenged, thanks to the kind _fée_ aforementioned, who has rendered us as invisible as the owner of Gyges's ring. If, however, we had been guests of noble rank, we would have proceeded onward to the inner gate and rung loudly on a heavy metal gong hanging there. One of the baron's squires would then have greeted us. If we had been the baron's equal or superior in the social scale, Conon himself would next have come down to lead us in; if somewhat inferior, we would have been conducted by the squire to the great hall, where we would have removed hood and gloves before the magnate presented himself. But we have much to examine ere we penetrate the seigneurial hall. Once inside the barbican, one discovers that between this extreme barrier and the fortress proper there is another open space with a road, and another place for equestrian exercises extending from the Claire straight over to the abrupt slopes of the Rapide. The palisades run all the way from river to river. This space within the barbican forms the lists, where two young sergeants are breaking in a balky stallion. The lists are a great convenience in peace time, but the real utility is in war, and they are even more important in the castles that have land on every side. They supply a good road by which men can be hurried round the castle circuit in reasonable safety. On the other hand, if the enemy suddenly forces the barriers, he finds himself most awkwardly in a limited space between the palisade and the castle moat, with all the arbalists (crossbows) playing on him from the walls above. Inside the lists and next to the masonry walls runs the moat. It is some twenty feet wide, partly filled now with scum-covered rain water. In the spring the varlets have great joy here hunting frogs, but as the year advances it assuredly breeds mosquitoes. It constitutes, however, another formidable barrier to an enemy, and that is its sole object. After crossing these lists, the path leads straight to the drawbridge. This has just been lowered by means of heavy counterpoises swung on a kind of trestle overhead, for even in peace times no seigneur will sleep soundly before the drawbridge is up. The portcullis, the frame of iron bars which is lowered whenever the bridge is raised, has also been hoisted in its groove by the gateway. The heavy oaken gates, faced with metal, have not been unbarred, however. A smaller door, just big enough for a horse, has been opened in one of them, admitting to the castle proper. Despite the earlier scrutiny at the barbican, one now catches a watchful eye at the small window in the turret close beside the portcullis. The chief porter has a very responsible position. Many a fortress has been lost because he has been careless or unfaithful. He would, in any case, be chargeable if he admitted unwelcome guests or idle rascals. Porters are often accused of being gruff, insolent, fat, and lazy, but part of their bad name comes because they have to repel bad characters. [Sidenote: The Bailey, Gates and Towers] And now we are about to enter the outer ward, or bailey, of the castle of St. Aliquis. The walls and towers of these outer defenses are less formidable than those of the inner ward; yet they seem of massive thickness and imposing altitude. There is a solid round tower covering either side of the gate; to about fifteen feet these twain rise above the moat naked and sheer, then are pierced with narrow slits intended, not to let in light, but to permit archers to cover every inch of the way from the barbican to the drawbridge. Even if the foe should cross the moat, shatter the portcullis, and split open the heavy doors, he would be merely at the beginning of terrible hours of ax- and sword-play. He would be in a narrow and low vaulted passage, with many loopholes on either side for archers, and also with slits in the ceiling for pouring down boiling oil, seething pitch, molten lead, and other pleasantries; and if he rushed past all these forms of death into the courts, there, behind him, capable still of very stout defense, would rise the two strong gate towers, rendering every attempt to re-enforce the original attacking party a dice-throwing with death, and making retreat equally dangerous. Few leaders, therefore, will be foolish enough to try to storm St. Aliquis simply by a desperate rush against the gate. From the two gate towers, right and left, there extends a considerable stretch of sheer wall terminating at either extremity with two more towers which mark the corners on the landward side of the fortress. These four towers, of course, by projecting far beyond this curtain wall, are posted so as to permit a steady fire of missiles on any enemy who may somehow ensconce himself close under the wall. The two sections of curtain wall themselves are some dozen feet thick, with a firm walk along their summit, protected by a stone parapet. To enable the defenders, however, to drop stones and other forms of destruction upon attackers who may be under the very base of the wall and defying the bolts from the towers, a structure of heavy timbers can be built out all along the wall overhanging the moat. These wooden hordings are strong enough to withstand many stones from the casting engines, but they can sometimes be set on fire. In a siege, therefore, they will be covered with raw hides. The same will also be put over the conical wooden roofs which cap the towers. Since this is a time of peace, however, the hordings stand weather-stained and bare. To cover the entire woodwork with hides will be one of the first tasks of the garrison in case of a serious alarm. As we survey the outer walls of the castle, it is clear that no enemy will try to batter down the towers. Even if he could penetrate their shells, he would merely find himself in a dark, cavernous, vaulted chamber, with the defenders flinging down death from above. He would then have to bore through the inner wall, nearest the court, under every disadvantage. The towers are built so completely of masonry that it is impossible to burn them. Winding stairs, leading up through the stonework, conduct from one stage to another; and these staircases are so narrow and tortuous that a single warrior with an ordinarily lively ax can stop a hundred men ascending.[5] The attack, therefore, must be on the curtain walls. But even here, supposing one has scaled the battlements, more troubles are awaiting. The only way downward from the curtain walls is through the towers at the end of the parapets. To leap into the court inside means broken bones. The gangways along the parapet are intercepted at several points by wooden bridges. These can be easily knocked away, leaving yawning gaps defying any leaper. If you reach the towers they are all barred, and the arbalists are shooting down on the captured gangways from a dozen loopholes. Finally, be it said, each tower is a little fortress by itself. It has its own cistern, fireplace for cooking, and storeroom. Even if isolated, its garrison can hold out stoutly. So much for the task of attacking merely the outer ward of St. Aliquis. [Illustration: VIEW OF THE COURT AND THE DONJON] [Sidenote: Inner Court and Donjon] The problems of the towers and the curtain wall detain one long, for they sum up the fundamental principles of thirteenth-century fortifications. But now before us opens the broad court of the bailey itself, the scene of much of the homely life of the castle; in fact, the place now swarms with people busy with all kinds of activities. The pavement is none too clean. There are large muck piles, and one sees hens and a few pigs and dogs foraging everywhere. A genuine village really exists inside the bailey. To the right of the gate is a rambling, thatched-roof stable where in a long row of stalls the fifty-odd horses of the seigneur are champing their morning fodder. Near the stables stand tall ricks of hay. Behind these are a second line of inelegant wooden structures: they are the barracks for the less favored castle servitors, and for a part of the heavy-handed men at arms whom Baron Conon keeps for instant duty. [Sidenote: Buildings and Life in the Bailey] On the left side of the gate are several more buildings. To be noted are a commodious carpenter shop where saw and hammer are already plying; a well-appointed smithy where at one ringing forge the baroness's white palfrey is being reshod, and at another the master armorer is putting a new link into a mail shirt. The castle smith's position is no sinecure. He has to keep a great quantity of weapons and armor in constant order; he has to do all the recurring small jobs around the great establishment; and in emergency to manufacture quantities of lance heads and arbalist bolts, as well as perhaps to provide the metal work for siege engines on which may rest the fate of the castle. Conon's first armorer is accordingly one of the most important and best rewarded of all the servitors. Besides these workshops there is a long storehouse, a repository for not merely the food, but all other kinds of supplies needful in a siege. Near by stands a smaller, shedlike structure, puzzling at first to strangers, but which explains itself by the shrill screams and cries issuing thence. It is the baron's hawk house, the mews, where the chief falconer is now feeding the raw meat to the great hawks and falcons in which his noble masters take delight. Close to these secular buildings, however, there rises somewhat incongruously an elegant Gothic chapel, with soaring pinnacles, a rose window at the end of the small nave, sculptured saints flanking the portal, and within one finds glorious stained glass, more saints' images and carvings, and a rich altar. This is the little castle church to which very many dwellers of St. Aliquis, including messire and madame, had repaired piously at gray dawn, and where now good Father Grégoire has just finished a rather hasty mass. The bailey, in short, is overrunning with activities. Horses are neighing, cows are being milked, an overladen donkey is braying. Yonder in one corner is a small building with a tall chimney. Here is the seigneur's great oven, whither not merely the castle folk, but a great number of the peasants, resort to bake their bread. In front of the chapel bubbles a little fountain, and chattering women, scantily attired, are filling their water pots. Children in various degrees of nakedness and dirtiness play everywhere. Noises of every kind blend in a hubbub. Lastly we notice, close to the inner drawbridge, another building again with a tall chimney. This is the castle cookhouse, where the dinners are prepared for the great hall within. A glance through the door shows the vast fireplace where one can roast a whole sheep or a small beef entire. The cookhouse is located here because of the danger of fire in the inner castle, and because the position is convenient for the great number of the servitors who must eat in their barracks. When it is mealtime, however, this arrangement compels a prodigious running to and fro all through the dinner hour between kitchen and hall on the part of the twenty-odd sergeants and squires who serve Baron Conon's guests and family. It bothers not the appetites of pious Christians that their food is cooked amid contending odors and that many of the doings near the cookhouse make its condition extraordinarily unsanitary. We have now crossed the bailey and its teeming life. Before us rises the inner ward of the castle. Here are the gate and the walls of the bailey over again, but far more pretentious and formidable. There is another moat filled with muddy water; another drawbridge larger than the outer one. The two gate towers are higher; their structures are thicker, more solid. The curtain walls are so lofty that arbalistiers thereon can pick off the enemy who may have gained the parapet of the outer defenses. Finally, between the gate towers and the towers at the end of the curtains, both to right and left, there is interposed an extra tower, making the flanking fire much more close and deadly. Consequently, the foe who could force his way into the bailey would thus probably find it merely a bloody cockpit. The retreating garrison would set fire to all the rude wooden buildings, and rake the outer court with their bows and engines. If it would cost dearly to win the bailey, what would it not cost to storm the castle proper? [Sidenote: Inner Court, Donjon and Palais] The gate to the inner ward is flung wide, but the portcullis still slides in its grooves, being dropped every night to make sure that low fellows from the barracks do not prowl around the seigneurial residence in the darkness. Just at present swarms of people are going to and fro between the two great sections of the castle, and jostling and laughing in the narrow passages. As we pass through to the inner ward we realize a certain touch of refinement. The pavement is cleaner. Most of the servitors are better dressed and better mannered. Before us opens the great court of the castle, set with stone flags and reasonably well swept. Here the baron and his brother will practice their martial exercises when the weather is bad and they must avoid the tilting grounds. Here the horses will be mounted when Conon, Adela, and all their noble friends assemble to ride out for hunting or hawking. On either side the stately towers set into the walls frown downward, but our gaze is ahead. Straight before one rises first a rather elegant stone building with large pointed windows and a high sloping roof, and then looming before that an enormous round citadel--one that dwarfs all the other towers. It stands at the apex of the triangle; on one side is the castle court, but to right and left the crags at its base are falling precipitously away to the Rapide and the Claire. The stone building is the _palais_, the actual residence of the baron. The giant tower is the donjon, the great keep of the castle, built on the site of Heribert's old stronghold, but twenty times as formidable. The _palais_ is nearest to us, but since the apartments of the seigneur are there, and we wish to examine these later, it is best to pass around one end thereof and visit the donjon first. Baron Garnier had built his donjon about one hundred and ten feet high and some fifty-five feet in diameter, with walls a dozen feet thick. This size is large, but not extraordinary. At Coucy they are planning a tower two hundred and twenty-five feet high and ninety-five feet in diameter. If Garnier had built a little earlier he would have made it square, like that pitiless tower at Loches, which is only one hundred feet high, but is seventy-six feet on its longest side. To enter the donjon we go over still another drawbridge, although the ditch below is dry, and on penetrating a small door in the masonry we wind up a passageway through the thick wall. Passing from the bright morning light of the court, one seems plunged into pitchy darkness. Strangers stumble up steep stairways, with here and there a twinkle of light from loopholes a couple of feet high, although barely wide enough at their openings to allow the free flight of an arrow. Far below may be caught glimpses of the twinkling, rushing Rapide, and of the bright green country stretching away in the distance. [Sidenote: The Donjon] When St. Aliquis was rebuilt by Baron Garnier's architect, although the donjon was greatly improved, much of the old masonry of the original tower was retained, as well as the general arrangement of the staircases, loopholes, and succession of _halls_, chambers, and lofts. We see what the castle resembled in Heribert's day. By a turn or two in the gaunt entrance we come to the original great hall of the castle. It is offensively dark; the windows are mere loopholes at the end of deep, cone-shaped passages let into the walls. Even on this balmy June morning the atmosphere is clammy. As our eyes adjust themselves, however, we see that we are in a huge vaulted chamber with a great fireplace, and with a kind of wooden gallery about eight feet above the floor, around the entire circuit. In this great chamber can be assembled a good fraction of the entire garrison. The seigneur or his spokesmen standing in the center or near the fireplace can give orders which every man present can understand. Directions can thus be given for any move needful for the defense of the castle. [Illustration: UPPER HALL OF THE DONJON] As we shall see, there is now a newer and better hall in the more modern and airy _palais_, but the older hall is still used at great feasts for the overflow of guests. Even now are standing long oaken tables, duly hacked by the trencher knives of many boisterous diners; and on the walls--blackened by the smoke from the great fireplace--are hanging venerable trophies of the chase, antlers, the head of a bear, great boar tusks, as well as an array of all kinds of hunting weapons used by departed generations. If we were to follow the staircase down from the hall we would come to an even darker vaulted apartment used sometimes as a supplementary dormitory for the humbler guests, but also (to the astonishment of later-day medical usage) with small rooms set off to be used as a kind of sick ward; because every physician, whether schooled at Salerno, Cordova, or Montpellier, will tell you that darkness is the friend of health and that few invalids can hope to get better unless they are kept as shaded and sequestered as possible. [Sidenote: The Prison and the Watch Tower] If we wished to pursue still lower, descending a black staircase with lanterns, the rocks would begin to drip dampness. We could hear the rushing of the Rapide against the base of the castle. The journey would end at a barred iron door. Within would be a fetid, reeking chamber lit only by two or three tiny chinks in the masonry, and with the bare rock for the floor. Here is Baron Conon's prison. He is counted a merciful seigneur, yet he thinks nothing of thrusting genuine offenders therein and keeping them for weeks, if not months, before releasing or hanging. Lucky if Maître Denis, the turnkey, remembers to bring down a coarse loaf each day, and if the rats do not devour the prisoners' toes; but we shall consider all such nice matters later[6]. It is alleged that from these lower vaults there is an underground passage leading from the castle to a secret sallyport at the foot of the precipice by the Rapide. If a passage exists, however, it is known only to Conon and a very few trusted retainers. But not all such stories are false; many castles have such secret passages; and at Coucy they are quietly planning to introduce a rather elaborate system of the same. Quite possibly St. Aliquis possesses something of this nature. Far pleasanter is it now to ascend from the main hall through a couple of stages of upper and airier chambers (now used as apartments by part of the castle folk) until by a dizzy ladder we reach the summit of the donjon itself. Here on one edge of the broad platform is a little round turret carrying us still higher. From the turret flutters the orange banner of St. Aliquis, with some kind of a black dragon (in memory, possibly, of the viking raid) broidered upon it, and the arrogant legend of the noble family, "Rather break than bend." To lower this banner were a horrid disgrace. Never is it to be struck unless the castle surrenders, when it will be sadly flung into the moat. Under the flagstaff is a stout projecting beam rigged with a pulley. Here is a gibbet in case the baron wishes to hang offenders as a warning for the countryside. Fortunately, however, Adela has a dislike to seeing the corpses dangling, and has persuaded Conon to order his recent hangings at the ordinary gallows across the Claire by the village. On the flag turret is always a watchman; day or night some peasant must take his turn, and even in peace he has no sinecure. He must blow on his great horn at sunrise, at "cover fire" at night, when the baron's hunt rides out and returns, and again when a strange retinue approaches the gate. The whole wide countryside spreads in a delightful panorama below him at present, but on winter nights, when every blast is howling around the donjon, the task is less grateful. No wonder that peasants impressed for this service complain that "watchmen have the lot of the damned." So back through the donjon and again to the castle court. The donjon is purely military. In times of peace it is a mere storehouse, prison, and supplementary barrack for the seigneur's people. In war it is the last position where the garrison can stand desperately at bay. A hundred years earlier Adela and her sister-in-law, Alienor, would have lived out most of their days in the cheerless dark chambers directly above the main hall. Now they are more fortunate. They dwell in the elegant Gothic arched _palais_. [Sidenote: Great Hall of the Palais] The _palais_ consists of a long, somewhat narrow building thrusting out into the inner court, and of other structures resting against the western curtain wall on one side, but with their larger inner windows looking also into the court. The rooms are high, with enormous fireplaces where great logs can warm the apartments in winter. The ceilings are ribbed and vaulted like a church, and some of the masonry is beautifully carved. Where the bare walls are exposed they are often covered with a stucco on which are sketched fresco scenes somewhat after the style of stiff Byzantine paintings, or the famous tapestry of Queen Mathilde at Bayeux. All the tints are flat red, yellow, or brown, without perspective or fine lines, and in a kind of demi-silhouette. Little touches of green, violet, and blue relieve the bareness, and despite many awkward outlines and other limitations many of the scenes are spirited as well as highly decorative. Some of the pictures are religious. We notice "Christ on the Cross" between the "Synagogue" and the "New Law," a "Last Judgment," an episode in the life of St. Aliquis himself; also many secular pictures based often on the jongleur's epics. Thus from the "Song of Roland" there is the tearing by wild horses of the traitor Ganelon. The windows in this _palais_ betray the luxury of the owner. They are not closed by wooden shutters, as are most other apertures in the castle. They are of glass, with very small panes set in lead. The panes in the smaller rooms are uncolored, although hardly of transparent whiteness, but in the huge dining hall they are richly colored as in a church, giving a jewel-set galaxy of patron saints (_e.g._, St. Martin, the warrior saint of France) and of knights and paladins from Charlemagne and King Artus down, gazing benignantly upon the feasters below. This new hall is, of course, the finest apartment in the castle. Here amid wood- and stone-work deeply carved the baron's household sits down to dinner. It is, however, more than a mere dining room. Great feudal ceremonies, such as the receiving of homage, here take place. Hither also in bad weather or on winter evenings nearly all the castle folk will resort. Messire will sit on the dais upon his canopied chair; everybody else will wedge in as closely as possible, and after infinite chatter, jesting, dice playing, and uproar the ever-popular jongleurs will take station near the fireplace, do their tricks, sing songs, or recite romances. The hall is, in short, the focus of the peaceful life of the castle. There are other rooms in the _palais_, but, considering the number of people who have to live therein, they seem rather few. There is little real privacy in St. Aliquis. The baron has a special closet indeed, where he can retire and hope that he is not overheard, but the great chamber for himself and the baroness is ordinarily full of servitors. Next to the chamber is a second room where the baron's sons sleep while they are little, and where honored guests can be lodged. Conon's brother and sister have each a large apartment, but there seems a singular lack of anterooms, boudoirs, and other retiring rooms. It is perfectly good manners to ask noble guests to share the same rooms with the family; and a couple of the baroness's maids will sleep on pallets within her chamber, with the baron's favorite squire just outside the door. As for the lesser folk at night, they often stretch unceremoniously on the tables or even on the floor in the main hall. The possession of a strictly private room is indeed a decided luxury; even a great noble is often able to go without it. [Illustration: INTERIOR OF A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY APARTMENT From the restoration by Viollet-Le-Duc. At the left the chair where sits the seigneur, the bed separated by a screen from the rest of the hall; at the back, between the two windows, a cupboard; opposite the fireplace, a large table. Tapestries ornament the walls.] [Sidenote: Tables, Rushes and Tapestries in Hall] The furniture of these apartments seems scanty, but it is at least very solid. In the hall there are lines of tables set upon trestles, faced by long backless seats. Here it is often needful to remove these tables to arrange for a feudal ceremony or for a dance; but at one end of the apartment is a raised dais, and at right angles to the others runs the ponderous oaken table of the master. Conon faces the hall from a high carved chair under a wooden canopy. The other seats on the dais have the luxury of backs and arms. The fireplace is an enormous construction, thrusting far into the room, where long logs on high andirons can heat the stonework so it will glow furiously for hours. To keep off the heat in winter there are fire screens of osier, but of course in summer these disappear. Every festival day the paved floors of the rooms in the _palais_ are strewn, if possible, with new rushes and flowers--roses and lilies, flags and mint, making a soft crackling mass under one's feet. They are fragrant and pleasant while fresh, and even through the winter are allowed to remain to protect against the chill of the floor. By springtime they are dried and are very filthy, for the diners throw their bones and bits of bread and meat into them, and the dogs and cats roaming about cannot devour all of such refuse. Certain seigneurs, indeed are introducing the use of "Saracen carpets," gorgeous rugs either imported from the East or made up in France after imported patterns; but these are an expensive innovation, and Conon as yet keeps to his river rushes. Of another luxury, however, he is rightly proud. Stowed away in carefully guarded cupboards is a quantity of admirable wall tapestries, some of the precious sendal (taffeta) silk, some of hardly less valuable Sicilian woolen stuff. Their designs are of blazing magnificence. There is one of great elaboration showing "The Seven Virtues and the Seven Vices," another giving a whole sequence of scenes concerning Charlemagne. But such precious ornaments must be kept for great occasions. The order, "Hang the tapestries," is a sign to the servitors that Conon contemplates a tourney or a great feast or a visit from the duke. For to-day the _palais_ contents itself with its simple fresco decoration. The bedroom furniture is equally simple. The chamber of the baron and his wife is lit by three windows with arched tops pierced into the masonry, overlooking the castle court. There is a little table by the fireplace holding a board of chessmen and there are a few backless stools and long narrow benches. In the window places are comfortably upholstered "She and I" seats facing one another. Opposite the fireplace is a chair of state for the baron, with high carved back and arms, a wooden canopy of equally heavy carving, and a footstool covered with red silk. There are several ponderous wardrobes, and especially a number of very massive iron-bound chests containing valuable garments, jewels, and the like. Bureaus and chests of drawers hardly exist in this age, and ordinary chests take their place. Indeed, no bedroom is fitted properly unless it has a solid chest at the foot of the bed for the prompt reception of any guest's belongings. When a castle is taken the cry, "Break open the chests!" is equivalent to calling to the victors, "Scatter and pillage!" Near one of the windows in the wall there is also a large crucifix carved of dark wood, and beneath it on a shelf is a small silver box richly chased with figures of saints and angels. This is a reliquary containing a trophy brought from the Holy Land by a crusader--a cluster of hair of St. Philip the Apostle, likewise some ravelings of the robe of St. Anna, mother of the Virgin. Before these sacred objects the baron and baroness kneel on red-silk cushions and say their prayers morning and night. [Illustration: A THIRTEENTH CENTURY BED Reconstructed by Viollet-Le-Duc, from a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale.] [Sidenote: Furniture and Beds] But the central object of the chamber is the bed. To have a fine bed for the master and mistress is the ambition of every feudal household. It stands under a great canopy, with heavy curtains of blue taffeta. The bed itself, a great mass of feather mattresses and gorgeously embroidered coverlets, projects its intricately carved footboard far into the room. The whole structure is set upon a platform. When the baron and baroness have retired, their attendants will pull the thick curtains and practically inclose them in their own secluded bedroom. The curtains cut off air, but that is no disadvantage, because every physician tells you that night air is most unhealthful. This nearly completes the furnishings of the chamber, save for various perches, wooden hooks, and racks set here and there for clothes and sometimes for the baroness's hunting hawks, and two bronze lamps swinging on chains, which give a very imperfect illumination. If more brilliance is needed (and if the great fireplace is not throwing out a glare) one can do as they do in the great hall for extra lighting--set resinous torches in metal holders along the walls. However, for ordinary purposes the baron and baroness prefer the less odorous wax candles. In fact, a very tall wax candle stands near to the bed and is allowed to burn all night. This keeps away pixies and the Devil, and makes things generally more cheerful for Christians. The other apartments of the castle are similarly furnished, although with less magnificence. Of course, in the barracks for the lower servitors and the men at arms each man is lucky if he has a large bag crammed with straw for a bed, a solid blanket, and a three-legged stool whereon to sit by day. Thus have been inspected exterior, the stone, and the wooden aspects of St. Aliquis. The task is next to see the doings of the people who give to the unyielding fortress its significance and life. FOOTNOTES: [4] See chap. xiv. [5] Often at dark turns in these towers the floor would be made of wooden scaffolding, easy to destroy; and the attacker would (if not wary) suddenly tumble to the cellar of the tower. [6] See ch. x. Chapter III: How the Castle Wakes. Baronial Hospitality. Whatever the sins of the men of the thirteenth century, they are not late risers. The lamps and candles are so poor that only rarely, when there is a great festival or imperative work to be performed, do persons remain about many hours after sunset. In winter the castle folks possibly spend nearly half of their entire time in bed; in summer, thanks to the long evenings, they would hardly get sufficient sleep save for a noon siesta. Some seigneurs will actually rise considerably before sunup, hear mass, mount their high turret, survey the landscape, then descend to order the washing horn to be blown. We hear, too, of ladies who rise at dusk, have chaplains chant matins while they are throwing on some clothes, then go to the regular chapel mass, next complete their toilet and take a walk in their garden, all before breakfast. There are, indeed, stories of noble folk sleeping even in summer right up to 6 A.M., but these backslidings follow only a deplorable carouse. Conon and Adela are neither indefatigable risers, nor among the slothful. They are seldom found in bed at cock-crow, and the baron is already warning his young sons that "he who sleeps too long in the morning becomes thin and lazy." So at gray dawn William, Conon's first body squire, has yawned on his pallet by the chamber door, tugged on his own clothes, then hastened to the great bed to assist his master to dress. This is one of a good squire's prime duties, but he need not divest his lord of any nightgown. Nightdresses are no more used in the thirteenth century than are table forks. Conon has been sleeping between the sheets, with only the clothing of a newborn babe, although, curiously enough, he wraps around his head a kind of napkin, precursor of the later nightcap. When the baron has donned a part of his clothes Gervais, the second squire, brings in a metal basin of water and a white towel. The age is one of great contradictions in matters of cleanliness. Baron Conon washes his face and hands carefully and frequently. He also takes complete baths pretty often, using large wooden tubs filled with hot perfumed water. Personally he seems an extraordinarily neat man, and so are all the higher-rank people. But the age has never heard of polluted wells and other breeding spots for malignant fevers. Flies are harmless annoyances. Numerous evil smells can hardly be prevented, any more than cold weather--the saints give us grace to bear them! In short, cleanliness stops with care of the person. Preventive sanitation is as unknown as are the lands which may lie across the storm-tossed Atlantic--"the Sea of Darkness." There is an old rhyme which is supposed to give the right times for the routine of the day: "Rise at five, dine at nine, Sup at five, to bed at nine, Is the way to live to be ninety and nine." Sometimes dinner came later than nine, but never, if possible, much after ten. People have sometimes become distressed because the meal had to be postponed until noon. This was natural, for everybody is stirring at daybreak and for breakfast probably has had only a few morsels of bread washed down with thin wine--a poor substitute even for the coffee and rolls of the later continental breakfast. [Sidenote: A Baron's Routine Business and Diversions] Having dressed and washed, the baron goes down to mass at the chapel. Attending daily mass is a duty for every really pious seigneur. One of Garnier's infamies had been his gross irregularity in this matter. If there had been no chapel in the bailey, the service could have been held in a vestibule to the hall of the _palais_. After mass is over, Conon is ready for business or pleasures. It is a time of peace; and, truth to tell, the baron would really be not a little glad of the excitement, bustle, and strenuous preparation which come with the outbreak of war. The list of things he can do to divert himself in times of public quiet seems limited: He can hunt, fish, fence, joust, play chess, eat and drink, listen to the songs of the jongleurs, hold his court, walk in the meadows, talk with the ladies, warm himself, have himself cupped and bled, and watch the snow fall. This last amusement is hardly practicable in June. Being bled is not commonly reckoned a regular sport in other ages! Neither can he hold court--receive his vassals and dispense justice--save at intervals. The jongleurs ordinarily reserve themselves for the evenings. Conon's secret hankering for a war is, therefore, somewhat explicable. If this is a fortunate day, however, the horn on the turret will blow, and then the gong at the bailey gate will reverberate. A visitor of noble rank has arrived. Nothing can ordinarily be more welcome in castle communities. Little isolated fractions of humanity as they are, with the remainder of the world seemingly at an extreme distance, the coming of a stranger means a chance to hear news of the king's court, of the doings of the Emperor Frederick II, of the chances of another crusade, of the latest fashions in armor, of the newest methods of training hawks, nay, possibly of rumors of another brave war like that which culminated in the glorious battle of Bouvines. Unknightly, indeed, is the seigneur who does not offer profuse hospitality to a noble visitor; and any priest, monk, or law-abiding merchant will be given a decent, though less ceremonious, welcome. No wonder the inns everywhere are so bad, when the lords of so many castles grow actually angry if a traveler will not tarry perhaps for days. [Sidenote: Hospitality to Guests] There are stories of knights who have deliberately caused the roads to be diverted to compel travelers to come close to their castles, where they can be politely waylaid and compelled to linger. Conon is not so absurd, but if to-day a guest of noble rank approaches the castle, all the ordinary routine ceases. At the outer gate the strangers are met by William, the first squire. If he reports that their chief is a baron, the visitors have the gates unbarred before them; they ride straight over both drawbridges to the inner court. Conon himself leads in the horse of his chief guest, and when the visiting nobleman dismounts he usually kisses him upon mouth and chin, although, if the strange knight is an elderly man, or of very exalted rank, he shows his respect by kissing only his shoulders. Adela and her maidens at once conduct the visitors to a chamber, where the best feather beds are piled high in their honor, and next skillfully take off their armor, bathe their feet,[7] and even assist them to don loose clean clothes--a kind of wrapper very pleasant for indoor wear. Meantime their horses are being stabled and given every attention. Only after the visitors are dressed, refreshed, bathed, and perhaps fed, will Conon courteously inquire for how long he is to enjoy their company and whether they are making St. Aliquis merely a stopping point or have come to him on business. Non-noble guests do not receive such ceremony, unless they are high churchmen--bishops, abbots, and their direct subordinates--but even a poor villein, if he appears on a fit errand, is welcome to a solid meal and a bed on the rushes in one of the halls.[8] A jongleur is always received heartily and entertained with the best; the payment will be in songs and tricks after supper. On most feast days, furthermore, the gates of St. Aliquis will open wide. Conon's servitors will say to everyone, "If you are hungry, eat what you please!" There will be simply enormous gorging and guzzling at the baron's expense. Yet if there are no outside guests the baron is far from being an idle man. Since he has been stirring at 4 A.M. he is able to accomplish a great deal during the morning. All the stables must be inspected; directions are given about a brood mare; the noisy falcon house is surveyed; various stewards, bailiffs, and provosts come in with reports about the peasants, the baron's farms, and especially the contention with a neighboring seigneur's woodcutters about the right to take timber in a disputed forest land--a case calling for major diplomacy to avoid a brisk private war. Then, too, although this is not a court day, the baron as the dispenser of justice has to order two brawling peasants to be clapped in the stocks until sundown, and to direct that an ill-favored lad who had been caught in an honest villein's corn bin shall have his ears cropped off. The castle is, in fact, an economic unit all by itself. If the baron is idle or preoccupied he leaves its management to deputies; but a good seigneur knows about everything. The estate has its own corn lands and pasture, its stacks of hay, its granaries and storehouses, its mills, cattle byres, slaughter houses, and salting sheds. Practically every scrap of food actually needed in the castle is grown locally. The innumerable women and varlets wear coarse woolen cloth made from wool raised, sheared, carded, spun and woven on the seigneury. The ordinary weapons and tools required in war are made at the smithy in the bailey. The result is that the castle people do very little buying and selling. Conon has a certain income in silver deniers, but, except for the important sums he is laying by for a tournament, his sister's marriage, perhaps a private war, and other like occasions, he spends it almost entirely on the finer articles of clothing, for superior weapons, for cookery spices, and for a few such luxuries as foreign wines. These can be bought from visiting packmen or by a visit to Pontdebois during the fair seasons.[9] St. Aliquis therefore presents what is to us a curious spectacle--a sizable community wherein many of its members seldom handle that thing called "money" from one month to another.[10] [Sidenote: Comradery and Organization of Castle Folk] Conon, on many mornings, is thus kept busy adjusting petty matters concerning the estate. The seigneur is the center, the disposing power for the whole seigneury, but he is not the despot. The castle is one huge family, and shares its joys and troubles together. The upper servitors hold their position by a kind of hereditary right. Guilbert, who presides over the smithy, is son of the smith before him. In similar case are the chief cook, the master huntsman, and many others. Even the dubious post of baronial executioner is transmitted by a kind of hereditary prerogative. For Conon to dismiss any of these subordinates save for very obvious reasons would be resented by all their fellows and produce a passive rebellion unwelcome to the most arbitrary seigneur. Even tyrannous Baron Garnier had to wait a suitable opportunity ere changing an unwelcome servitor. Every person has his own little sphere of influence and privilege. The successful baron respects all these "rights" and handles each inferior tactfully. The result is that there is a great deal of comradery and plain speaking. The baron and baroness must listen to flat contradictions every day. "You are absolutely wrong, Messire," says Herbert, the cowherd, to-day, when Conon directs him to wean certain calves. "I shall execute no such order." And the baron (who would have fought a mortal duel with a fellow noble ere accepting such language) wisely acquiesces, with a laugh. Herbert is "his man" and as such has his own sphere of action, and, besides, Herbert and all his fellows will fight for their seigneur to the last drop of their blood, and obey all strictly military orders with touching fidelity. Indeed, the St. Aliquis people are somewhat like grown-up children. They are often angry, turbulent, obstinate, contentious, even exchanging cuffs and blows. The women are almost as passionate as the men. But tempers cool with equal rapidity. Two varlets who almost drew knives this morning will be communing like twin brothers this afternoon. Furthermore, despite much apparent friction, the three-hundred-odd people who sleep behind the walls of St. Aliquis are fairly well organized. First of all the baron has his three squires, youths of friendly baronial families who are being "nourished" by Conon preparatory to knighthood and whose education will be described later.[11] They are, of course, "noble," and are looking forward to ruling their own castles. Noble, too, is Sire Eustace, the seneschal, the baron's old companion in arms, who carries the great gonfalon of St. Aliquis into battle, and who, in peace times, is chief factotum and superintendent of almost everything about the fief. The marshal who has charge of the stables is also "the son of a good house," and the chamberlain, who has oversight over all that interior economy which does not pertain to food, drink, and mealtimes, is an elderly, childless knight who became lamed in the service of the baron's father, and who really holds an honorable sinecure. There are, besides these, four other petty nobles, whose estates are so small that they find it pleasantest to live at St. Aliquis, ride in the baron's hunts, and command his men at arms. The remainder of the castle servants are indeed non-noble; but there is nothing dishonorable in personal service, provided you serve a lord higher than yourself. Conon would feel complimented if, on a visit to Paris, he were asked to carry a great pasty and set it before the queen. The importance of a baron is somewhat gauged by the number of his squires and noble servitors. Many a poor sire has to put up with only one squire, and perhaps a seneschal. As for Conon and Adela, they have a cherished ambition that in their sons' day, at least, the St. Aliquis butler, cellarer, dispenser, and even the master falconer should be of gentle blood also; but that would be putting their household practically on an equality with the duke's. [Sidenote: Dinner, Supper and Nightfall] When dinnertime comes there will be a great rush for the hall, but the ceremonies of the table will be told later.[12] Of course, on common days one will not expect a banquet--only one or two plates of meat, some fish, a few vegetables, bread, and common wine, but all in abundance. Hunger seldom troubles St. Aliquis. If the weather is fine, very likely dinner and supper will be served in the garden, outside the barbican, under pleasant shade trees, close to the purling Rapide. There will be long tables covered with linen dyed with Montpellier scarlet. The honored guests will have cushioned benches; the remainder will sit on almost anything.[13] Supper may be either in the hall or in the garden, according to circumstances. It is a long time between dinner and supper, and appetites are again keen. After supper, if by the presence of jongleurs there are excuses for torches and music, the castle folk join in diversions or even in dancing, until a large silver cup is solemnly handed to the baron. He drinks deeply. All his guests are similarly served. Then he rises and the company goes to bed. If there are honored visitors, Conon will escort them to their chambers himself, and take another sup of wine with them ere parting for the night. The seneschal meantime makes a careful round of the walls, to satisfy himself that the outer drawbridge is raised, the sentries posted, and that everything is safe. Then he will transmit the ponderous keys to be taken to the baron's room till dawn. The seigneur is undressed by his squires and reposes under an avalanche of feather beds thick enough to provide a vapor bath. Soon all the lights are extinguished throughout the whole black mass of the castle, save only the tall taper in the master's apartment. So the castle sleeps through the darkness, unbroken save for the occasional "All is well!" from the yawning sentry on the turret, until the thrushes and blackbirds begin their noise in the garden and in the trees by the rivers. Then again St. Aliquis resumes its daytime business. FOOTNOTES: [7] Hospitality sometimes went to such a point that we are told the ladies of the castle assisted a visiting knight to take a complete bath--a service quite innocently rendered and accepted. Similar customs, of course, obtained among the Greeks of the _Iliad_ and _Odyssey_. [8] See ch. xvii. [9] See ch. xxii. [10] Even when sums of money are mentioned in connection with peasants' dues, etc., one may guess that often payments in kind are really in question. [11] See ch. xi. [12] See ch. vii. [13] Mediæval men did not use the floor to the extent of the Chinese and Japanese, but they were certainly often willing to dispense with seats even indoors, and to sit on their haunches upon the pavement or rushes, "Turk fashion." Chapter IV: Games and Diversions. Falconry and Hunting. The Baroness' Garden. If Baron Conon has been fortunate enough to receive a noble guest, almost the first question is how to divert the stranger. The inevitable program will be to constrain the visitor to tarry at least long enough to cast hawks or to chase down a deer. If that is not possible, at least he will be courteously urged to attempt some game, and it will be most "ungentle" of him to refuse. Indoor games are in great demand where bad weather often makes open sports impossible and where bookish diversions are limited. The baron frequently plays with his own family when there are no outside guests, and all the household are more or less expert. To understand them is part of a gentle education for both sexes. Indeed, there is no better way for a noble dame and a cavalier to begin a romance than to sit through a long afternoon studying one another's faces no less than the gaming table. Some of these diversions are decidedly like those of a later age. For example, if all present are reasonably literate they can play "ragman's roll"! Burlesque verses--some suitable for men, some for women, and all often deplorably coarse--are written on slips of parchment wound in a roll. On each slip is a string with some sign showing for which sex it is intended. Everybody has to draw a roll, then open and read it aloud to the mirthful company. The verses are supposed to show the character of the person drawing the same. Also, even grown-up folk are not above "run around" games which are later reserved for children. High barons play blind-man's buff; seigneurs and dames sometimes join in the undignified "hot cockles." A blindfolded player kneels with his face on the knee of another and with his hands held out behind him. Other players in turn strike him on the hand, and he tries to guess who has hit him. If he is correct, the person last striking takes his place. Of course, a large part of the sport is to deliver very shrewd blows. The fact that such a game can be in vogue shows again that even the high and mighty are often like hot-blooded children abounding in animal spirits. These games Conon will not press upon his guests. He will urge on them backgammon, checkers, chess or, if they seem young and secular, perhaps dice. Backgammon is called "tables." It is a combination of dice playing plus the motion of pieces on a board which goes back to Roman times. The boards and methods of play are so like those of a later age that one need not comment thereon. Backgammon is a popular diversion, but hardly more so than checkers (Anglice "draughts") known in France as "dames." Here also is a game that hardly changes essentially from age to age. The checkermen at St. Aliquis are square, not round. Otherwise, no explanation is needed. [Sidenote: Backgammon, Checkers and Dice] What men like Conon really enjoy, however, are games of dice. Nevertheless, since the Church has often censured these cubes of ivory, he and his baroness do not dare to use them too often; besides, they realize the havoc often wrought among the young by dice throwing, and wish to keep their own sons from temptation. In parts of France there are laws reading: "Dice shall not be made in this dominion, and those using them shall be looked upon as suspicious characters."[14] All such enactments are usually dead letters, and a high justiciar can ordinarily punish merely the manufacture and use of loaded dice. Although church prelates rail vigorously, their complaints are not merely that games of chance are, _ipso facto_, sinful, but that the blasphemies constantly uttered by losing dice players form a means of populating hell. Dice playing assuredly is extremely common. It is even impiously called "the game of God," because the regulation of chance belongs to Providence. Did not the Holy Apostles cast lots between Justus and Matthias to select a successor to the wicked Judas; and can good Christians question means acceptable to St. John and St. Peter? So gamesters will quiet their consciences. Vainly does King Philip Augustus command that any person swearing over dice in his royal presence, no matter how high his rank, shall be cast into the river. Dice are everywhere--in the travelers' and pilgrims' wallets and in almost every castle, hut, or town dwelling. Let any three or four men come together for an idle hour and fortunate it is if a set of dice does not appear to while away the time. The thirteenth century is innocent of cards; dice form the substitute. The swearing is evil, but the gambling is worse. There are at least ten gambling games, some with three dice, some needing six. Adela has been warning François, her eldest son, concerning a recent instance of reckless playing. A young squire, whose father held lands of Conon, set forth to seek his fortune at the king's court. He halted at Pontdebois, where he met an older soldier of fortune at the tavern. The poor young man was induced "to try a few casts." Soon he had lost his travel money; next his horse; next his armor. In desperation he began pledging his ordinary vesture to the tavern keeper (who acted as a kind of pawnbroker). Ill luck still pursued, and he was reduced to his bare shirt[15] before a friend of his father's, chancing about the inn, recovered his necessary clothes between them and sent him home, utterly humiliated. Such calamities are constant. Dice are daily the ruin of countless nobles and villeins--but the accursed gaming continues. It is even rumored that in certain disorderly monasteries these tools of the devil often intrude further to demoralize the brethren. [Illustration: THE GAME OF CHESS An ivory plaque of the fourteenth century (Musée du Louvre).] [Sidenote: Chess in Great Esteem] No such ill odor, however, attends that game in which Conon delights most. To play at chess is part of an aristocratic education. In a jongleur's romance we hear of a young prince who was brought up "first to know his letters," and then "to play at tables (backgammon), and at chess; and soon he learned these games so well that no man in this world could 'mate' him." François and Anseau, the baron's sons, make no such boasts, but both know the moves, and François takes great pride in having lately forced a visiting knight to a stalemate. Great seigneurs and kings carry chessboards around with them on campaigns and are said to amuse themselves with chess problems immediately before or after desperate battles. Plenty of other anecdotes tell of short-tempered nobles who lost self-control when checkmated, broke the chessboards over their opponents' heads, and ended the contest in a regular brawl. This royal game has doubtless come from the Orient. Caliphs of the Infidels have long since boasted their skill in taking rooks and pawns, but in western lands about the first record comes from the time of Pope Alexander II (1061-73), to whom complaint was made that a bishop of Florence was "spending his evenings in the vanity of chess playing." The bishop's enemies alleged that this was forbidden by the canons prohibiting dice. But the bishop retorted that "dice and chess were entirely different things: the first sinful; the second a most honorable exercise for Christians." The Pope tactfully refrained from pressing the matter. Nevertheless, austere churchmen regarded the game as worldly, and impetuous religious reformers insisted on confounding it with games of chance. It was only in 1212 that a Council of Paris forbade French clerics to play chess, just as it (for about the thousandth time) forbade dice--despite which fact the Bishop of Pontdebois spent a whole afternoon over the chessboard the last time he visited the castle and could test his skill on the baron. As for the nobility, no one thinks of refusing to play, although naturally it is the older knights who have the patience for long contests. According to the _Song of Roland_, after Charlemagne's host had taken Cordova the Emperor and all his knights rested themselves in a shady garden. The more sedate leaders immediately played chess, although the younger champions selected the more exciting backgammon. The chessmen are often made of whalebone and imported from Scandinavia. They are models of warriors. The kings have their swords drawn; the knights are on horseback; in place of castles we have "warders," a kind of infantrymen; the bishops hold their croziers; and the queens upbear drinking horns like the great ladies in a northern house. Conon, however, has a fine ivory set made in the East; and Oriental models differ from the Norse. The Infidels, of course, have no bishops; instead there is a _phil_--a carved elephant; and since Moslems despise women, instead of a queen there is a _phrez_, or counselor. Chessboards are usually made of inlaid woods, or even metals, and Conon has an elegant one with squares of silver and gilt, the gift of a count whose life he once saved in battle. Needless to say, chess is a game in which the women can excel. Alienor is well able to defeat her brother, despite his boasting; and among the duties of the ladies of a castle is to teach the young squires who are being "nourished" by its lord how to say "check." Chess is supposed to be a game of such worth and intricacy as not to need the stimulus of wagering. But, alas! such is the old Adam in mankind that scandalous gambling often goes on around a chessboard. At festivals when nobles assemble, if two distinguished players match their skill, there is soon an excited, if decently silent, crowd around their table. Soon one spectator after another in whispers places wagers to support a contestant; the players themselves begin to bet on their own skill. The final result may leave them almost as poverty-stricken as the dicers in the tavern, as well as compromising salvation by awful oaths. [Illustration: A GAME OF BALL (STRUTT)] Young nobles also kill much time with out-of-door games resembling tennis and billiards. The tennis is played without rackets, by merely striking the ball with the open hand. The billiards require no tables, but are played on level ground with wooden balls struck with hooked sticks or mallets, somewhat resembling the hockey of another age. Here again reckless youths often wager and lose great sums. Lads and young maidens are fond, too, of guilles--a game resembling ninepins, although the pins are knocked down, not with balls, but with a stick thrown somewhat like a boomerang. Of course, they also enjoy tossing balls, and young ladies no less than their brothers practice often with the arbalist, shooting arrows with large heads for bringing down birds which take refuge in bushes when pursued by the hawks. [Sidenote: Hawking] But chess, dice and every other game indoors or outdoors pales before the pleasure of hawking or hunting. There is no peace-time sensation like the joy of feeling a fast horse whisk you over the verdant country, leaping fences, and crashing through thickets with some desperate quarry ahead. It is even a kind of substitute for the delights of war. If a visiting knight shows the least willingness, the baron will certainly urge him to tarry for a hunting party. It will then depend on the season, the desire of the guests, and reports from the kennels and mews and the forest whether the chase will be with hawks or with hounds. Master huntsmen and falconers are always at swords' points. Their noble employers also lose their tempers in the arguments as to venery and falconry, but the truth is that both sports are carried on simultaneously at every castle. If fresh meat is needed, if most of the riders are men, if time is abundant, probably the order is "bring out the dogs." If only the sport is wanted, and the ladies can ride out merely for an afternoon, the call is for the hawks. [Illustration: LADY WITH A FALCON ON HER WRIST From a thirteenth-century seal (Archives nationales).] Hunting hawks are everywhere. Last Sunday Adela and Alienor rode over to mass at the abbey church. The good brethren chanting the service were nowise disturbed when each of their high-born worshipers kept a great hooded hawk strapped to her wrist during the whole service.[16] It is well to take your hawks everywhere with you, especially when there are crowds of people, to accustom them to bustle and shouting; but we suspect another reason for always taking hawks about is that the carrying of a hunting bird on your wrist is a recognized method of saying, "I am of gentle blood and need not do any disagreeable work with my hands." [Sidenote: Complicated Art of Falconry] Falcons are counted "noble birds"; they rank higher in the social hierarchy of beasts than even eagles. If one cannot afford large hawks and falcons one can at least keep sparrow hawks; and "sparrow hawk" is the nickname for poor sires who only maintain birds large enough to kill partridges and quails. In short, the possession of a hawk of _some_ kind is almost as necessary for a nobleman as wearing a sword, even with knights who can seldom go out hunting. However, it takes a rich noble like Conon to possess a regular falconry with special birds, each trained for attacking a certain kind of game--hares, kites, herons--with the expert attendants to care for them. [Illustration: THE FALCON HUNT Thirteenth century; from a German manuscript in the Bibliothèque de Bruxelles.] Falconry has become a complicated art. Very possibly the good folk in St. Aliquis will have their bodies physicked or bled by physicians much less skillful in treating human ills than Conon's falconers are in treating birds. To climb high trees or crags and steal the young hawk out of the nest is itself no trifling undertaking.[17] Then the prizes must be raised to maturity, taught to obey whistles and calls, and to learn instantly to do the bidding of the master. In the baron's mews are more than a score of birds; gerfalcons, saker hawks, lanners, merlins, and little sparrow hawks squawk, peck, and squabble along with huge goshawks. The male birds are generally smaller than the female, and the latter are reserved for striking the swiftest game, such as herons. Some birds will return of their own accord to the hand of the master after taking game, but many, including all sparrow hawks, have to be enticed back by means of a lure of red cloth shaped like a bird. The falconer swings his lure by a string, and whistles, and, since the falcon is accustomed to find a bit of meat attached to the lure, he will fly down promptly and thus be secured. Conon's head falconer is only a villein, but he is such an expert that recently the Count of Champagne offered a hundred Paris livres for him. This important personage is himself the son of a falconer, for the science runs in families. He is a man of shrewd knowledge and a real wizard at breaking in young birds, teaching them to strike dummies and decoys, to remain contented in their cages or hooded on their perches, and yet not lose their hunting spirit. He has precise methods of feeding--so much meat, preferably poultry, and so much of vegetables, preferably fresh fruit. He takes long counsel with Conon how a recalcitrant goshawk can be induced to sit quietly on the baron's fist. He also teaches young François to carry his little sparrow hawk so it will not be incommoded by any horse motion or be beaten upon unpleasantly by the wind, and how to adjust its hood. [Sidenote: Professional Jargon of Falconry] There are few more acceptable presents to a nobleman or, better still, to a lady, than a really fine bird. Abbots send five or six superior hawks to the king when craving protection for their monasteries. Foreign ambassadors present His Royal Grace with a pair of birds as the opening wedge to negotiations. The "reception of hawks" is indeed a regular ceremony at the Paris court. Most of Conon's hawks have come from fellow cavaliers who craved his favor. The St. Aliquis gentry pride themselves on understanding all the professional jargon of falconry. Only peasant clowns would confess themselves ignorant thereof; yet even among nobles few speak it really well. The other day a pretentious knight dined at the castle. He put his gerfalcon on the perch provided in the hall for such use by the guests. But, thunder of heaven! how great seemed his foolishness when Conon courteously led the subject around to falconry! "He said: 'The _hand_ of the bird' instead of 'the talon'; 'the _talon_' instead of 'the claw'; 'the _claw_' instead of 'the nail.' It was most distressing to find such a man with a claim to courteous treatment!" [Illustration: NOBLE HOLDING A FALCON IN EACH HAND Thirteenth century; restored by Viollet-Le-Duc, from a manuscript in the Bibliothèque de Bruxelles.] Of course, at some excesses in falconry Conon draws the line. He considers impious his neighbor the Viscount of Foretvert, who sprinkles his hawks with holy water prior to every hunt, and says a prayer over them adjuring, "You, O Eagles, by the True God, the Holy Virgin, and the holy prophets, to leave the field clear for our birds and not to molest them in their flight." The church has never authorized this, though the viscount's worldly chaplain certainly condones the practice. Everything about falcons must be compatible with their nobility. The glove on which they are carried is embroidered with gold. The hood which keeps them blindfolded is likewise adorned with gold thread, pearls, and bright feathers. Every bird has attached to his legs two little bells engraved with his owner's name. High in the air they can be heard tinkling. If the bird is lost the peasants discovering it can return it to the owner--and woe to the villein who retains a falcon found in the forest! The local law provides that either he must pay a ruinous fine or let the falcon eat six ounces of flesh from his breast. As for stealing a hunting bird outright, there is hardly a speedier road to the gallows; it is what horse stealing some day will become in communities very far from France. Assuredly it is an exhilarating sight to see the castle folk go hawking on a fine morning. The baron, baroness, and all their older relatives and guests, each with bird on gauntlet, are on tall horses; the squires and younger people have sparrow hawks to send against the smaller prey, but the leaders of the sport will wait until they can strike a swift duck or heron. Dogs will race along to flush the game. Horns are blowing, young voices laughing, all the horses prancing. Conon gives the word. Away they go--racing over fences, field and fallow, thicket and brook, until fate sends to view a heron. Then all the hawks are unhooded together; there are shouts, encouragement, merry wagers, and helloing as the birds soar in the chase. The heron may meet his fate far in the blue above. Then follow more racing and scurrying to recover the hawks. So onward, covering many miles of country, until, with blood tingling, all canter back to St. Aliquis in a determined mood for supper. [Sidenote: Hunting Serious Business] Hunting is more serious business than falconry. The castle folk do not care much for beef and mutton; they prefer venison and boar's meat, and the great woods to the east of the castle supply food no less than diversion. Hunting is a pursuit quite allowable to pious laymen, and in moderation is even commended by the Church. By hunting one benefits one's soul, for thus we "avoid the sin of indolence, and, according to our faith, he who avoids the seven mortal sins will be saved; therefore, the good sportsmen will be saved." The huntsmen's saints--St. Germain, St. Martin, and above all St. Hubert of Liège, a renowned hunter of the eighth century[18]--are invoked in countless castles oftener, one fears, than such greater saints as St. Peter and St. Paul. [Illustration: A HUNTER From a seal of the thirteenth century (Archives nationales).] There are many dangerous beasts in the great forests spread over France. Charlemagne (the tale runs) was once nearly hugged to death by a hard-pressed bear. Every nobleman has met with very ugly boars and also powerful stags who fought desperately. As for the ladies (who, after all, are of one blood with their brothers) the hunt is almost the closest they can come to martial pleasures. Adela and her sister-in-law can wind horns, follow stags, control dogs almost as well as Conon and Aimery. Of course, they could ride from early girlhood. On occasion of ceremony they ride sidesaddle, but when hunting and hawking they go astride in wholly masculine manner. François has been riding now for years, and even little Anseau, barely seven, can cling to the back of a high steed and keep beside his mother, unless the hunt becomes extremely furious. The equipments for hunting are simple. The only real luxury is in the hunting horns, the great olifants whose piercing notes can ring a mile through the still forests. These horns are made of ivory, chased with gold, and swung from each important rider's neck by a cord of silk or fine leather. The hunters wear leather gauntlets and use a bow and arrows, a "Danish ax" (a kind of tomahawk), a boar spear (the favorite hunting weapon), and also a large knife for emergencies. As the party mounts in the castle court, around them are leaping and yelping the great pack of dogs--white in teeth, red tongues, straining the leashes and barely controlled by their keepers. Dogs are loved almost as much as falcons, and Conon has a large collection of greyhounds, staghounds, boarhounds, and even of terrible bloodhounds. The kennels are replenished constantly, for stags and old boars can kill many dogs ere they are finally run down and speared. The gift of a litter of fine puppies is, therefore, often as welcome as a cast of hawks. [Sidenote: Chasing Down a Great Boar] It is a happy day if a beater comes in with tidings of "a wild boar, the strongest of which anyone has ever heard tell, in the forest of Pevele and Vicogne near the free holdings of St. Bertin." The baron will call out all the castle folk, and, if time admits, will send to some favorite vassals a few miles away to join the sport. With ten pairs of hounds and at least fifteen huntsmen and beaters he will thus organize the pursuit. The hunt will start at dawn, and it will take much of the forenoon to reach the forest where the boar has been discovered. Then (recites a jongleur) will begin "the baying and the yelping of dogs. They are unleashed. They bound through the thicket and find the tracks where the boar has dug and rooted for worms." One of the keepers then unleashes Blanchart, the baron's best bloodhound. Conon pats his head and they put him on the track. The hound soon discovers the boar's lair. "It is a narrow place between the trunks of two uprooted oaks, near a spring. When the boar hears the baying of the hound he stands erect, spreads his enormous feet, and, disdaining flight, wheels around, until, judging himself within reaching distance of the good hound, he seizes it and fells it dead by his side. The baron would not have given Blanchart for one hundred deniers. Not hearing his barking he runs up, sword in hand; but he is too late; the boar is gone." After that there is nothing for it except to keep up the chase relentlessly until evening, with the whole company gradually scattering through the forest until Conon at last overtakes the chase. But the baron is now alone save for a few dogs. "The boar has finally come to bay in front of a thicket. He begins by refreshing himself in a pool; then, raising his brows, rolling his eyes, and snorting, he bares his tusks and dashes upon the dogs, and rips them open or tears them to pieces, one after another, all except three of the best greyhounds. Then Conon arrives, and first of all he sees his dogs stretched out dead. 'Oh, son of a sow,' cries he, 'it is you that have disemboweled my dogs, have separated me from my friends, and have brought me I know not where! You shall die!' He leaps from his steed. At his shout the boar, despite bushes and ditches, leaps upon him swift as an arrow. Conon lets him come straight on, and, holding the boar spear straight before him, strikes at his breast. The point pierces the heart and goes out at the shoulder blade. Mortally wounded, the boar swerves to one side, totters, and falls."[19] So the chase ends and the dogs are avenged. The baron has to blow his horn many times ere his party finds him. Luckily the boar has run back somewhat toward St. Aliquis. They are therefore able to get home in noisy triumph that night, and all the castle women are under the red torches outside the gate to "oh!" and "ah!" at the boar and to praise the prowess of their seigneur. [Illustration: THE STAG HUNT Twelfth century; from a window in the cathedral of Chartres.] Conon is fortunate in being able to return home without more adventures. His high suzerain, King Philip Augustus, while a young prince, once followed a boar until he was lost in the forest, and became justly anxious; but just as he was commending himself to God, the Virgin, and "St. Denis, the protector of the King of France," to his great relief he met "a charcoal burner, grim to behold, with a face black with charcoal, carrying a great ax on his shoulder." This honest peasant guided the prince to safety. [Sidenote: Hunting Across Peasants' Lands] One important part of the St. Aliquis population, however, regards all hunting parties with far less satisfaction. The chase often goes straight across the peasants' fields, with twenty horses beating down the newly seeded ground or even the standing crops. This is the baron's absolute privilege and any protest is treasonable. The villeins have not simply to submit to this, but if deer nibble or boars root upon their fields, they can merely try to scare the ravagers off. Their lord and his friends alone may use arrow, blade, or spear against the game. The St. Aliquis peasants bless the saints that this time the boar kept conveniently in the forest and did not sell his life dearly in a half-ripe cornfield. Hawking and hunting are two great out-of-door sports, always excepting martial exercises and downright war; although sometimes Aimery and other young men, for a tame diversion, take crossbows and try to shoot birds in the meadows. If Conon is naturally the master of the hunt, Adela is as invariably mistress of a very important place--the garden. Castles are disagreeable residences. Even with the newer _palais_ rising beside the grim donjon, they are usually dampish, illy lighted, and subject to uncanny odors. In northern France there is enough confining weather in any case. Therefore, the more reason there is, the moment the sun shines, for hastening where there are sweet air, bright flowers, and delightful greenness. The castle garden is outside the barbican, shut off by a dense hedge from the exercise ground. In it are not merely many beds of flowers, but fruit trees and a group of venerable elms much older than the First Crusade. Also, there is a broad, fine stretch of closely cropped grass, shaded by the trees for most of the day. Here all kinds of things can occur. At long tables the whole castle will dine and sup in fine weather. Here Conon will assemble his vassals for ceremonious council. Here will be played innumerable games of chess. And here especially, if a few jongleurs can be found to saw their viols on fête days, all the castle folk, noble and villein, will rapturously join in dances, not in stuffy hall under midnight lamps, but in bright daylight with the merry feet twinkling on God's soft green grass. [Sidenote: The Castle Garden] Adela has taken great pains with her garden, which fell into a bad condition during Baron Garnier's day. She often councils with Brother Sebastian at the abbey, a real botanist with a true love of plants and flowers. One side of the beds is adorned with roses, lilies, and marigolds. On the other grow useful herbs such as lettuce, cresses, mint, parsley, hyssop, sage, coriander, and fennel. With these, too, are also poppies, daffodils, and acanthus plants, while a vegetable garden supplies the castle with cucumbers, beets, mustard, and wormwood. The fruit trees yield a sizable crop of apples, quinces, peaches, and pears. There is a kind of hot-house in which the baroness has tried to raise figs, but with no great success; but, of course, there is no difficulty in maturing grapes and cherries; indeed, cherry festivals are among the most familiar and delightful holidays in all this part of France. "Life," say monkish writers, warning the thoughtless, "though perhaps pleasant, is transitory, 'even as is a cherry fair.'" "Crooked" Heman (the hunchbacked gardener) has considerable skill even without the teachings of Brother Sebastian. He practices grafting successfully, although his theories on the subject are absurd. He is trying to develop a new kind of plum and is tenderly raising some of the new "Agony" pears--a bitter variety for pickling. True, he believes that cherries can grow without stones if you have the right recipe, and that peach trees will bear pomegranates if only you can sprinkle them with enough goats' milk. This does not prevent large practical results. His tools are simple--an ax, a spade, a grafting knife, and a pruning hook; but, thanks to the unlimited number of peasant clowns which the baroness can put at his disposal, he keeps the garden and orchard in admirable order. Heman's office is the more important because the garden does not exist solely as a pleasure spot or for its fruits and vegetables. Flowers are in constant demand, whenever obtainable, for garlands and chaplets. Even as with the Greeks, no feast is complete without them. Wild flowers are in favor, and many a time Adela's maids are sent out to gather and wreathe woodbine or hawthorn; but, of course, such a supply is irregular. On every social occasion from early spring to the edge of winter the castle garden must, therefore, supply its garlands. It is, accordingly, one of the essential working units of St. Aliquis, along with the stables, the mews, and the armory. FOOTNOTES: [14] Such a law was actually enacted for the entire kingdom of France in 1256. [15] A mediæval manuscript contains a vivid picture of two gamesters, one of whom had only a shirt left; the other had been reduced to sheer nakedness. Their companions had evidently stripped them almost completely, leaving them to compete for one garment! [16] We hear scandalous stories of bishops and abbots who did not think it unfit to take their hawks to church. It is alleged that they would strap their precious charges to the altar rail while they were performing the holy offices. [17] By the thirteenth century a material fraction of the better falcons seem, however, to have been hatched and bred in captivity, thus avoiding this perilous exercise. [18] The story had it that he was converted to a religious life after meeting in the woods a stag bearing between his horns an image of the Saviour. St. Hubert's feast day was always faithfully celebrated by kings and nobles. [19] The quotations are from the story of the boar hunt in the romance _Garin le Lorrain_, with Baron Conon substituted for Duke Begoy in the original. Chapter V: The Family of the Baron. Life of the Women. Conon, we have said, has lived in great harmony with his baroness. Well he might. A short time ago a visiting cavalier, who had learned to string words after the South Country troubadour fashion, saw fit to praise Adela after this manner: "She has fair blond locks and a forehead whiter than the lilies. Her laughing eyes change color with her mood. Her nose is straight and firm. Her fresh face outvies the white and vermilion of the flowers. Her mouth is small and her teeth are white like snow on the wild rose. White are her fair hands, and the fingers are both smooth and slender." Also the baron is very proud of his sister, for whom he is planning a worthy marriage. A Breton jongleur, who found St. Aliquis's hospitality grateful, sang thus of Alienor: "Passing slim is the lady, sweet of bodice and slender of girdle. Her throat is whiter than snow on branch, and her eyes are like flowers set in the healthful pallor of her face. She has a witching mouth, a dainty nose, and an open brow. Her eyebrows are brown, and her golden hair is parted in two soft waves upon her forehead."[20] [Sidenote: Types of Beautiful Women] Both of these laudators exaggerate. Neither Adela nor Alienor has a monopoly of good looks; yet a life of eager exercise in the open has given them both a complexion which many a town-pent rival might envy. Their positions in the castle, as at once the gracious hostesses to equals and the unquestioned mistresses over hundreds of dependents, bestow on them dignity and "noble" assurance. Each lady rejoices in the good fortune of being blond, a first prerequisite to beauty--for in all the romances there is hardly one brunette maiden who comes in for praise. Their hair falls down the length of their arms, to the owners' great satisfaction, and is worn in two long braids, entwined with ribbons, or on gala days with gold thread, resting in front over their shoulders. Adela, at least, has long since become complaisant to all kinds of flatteries, though Alienor is still thrilled when a jongleur or sentimental knight assures her that she has "lips small as an infant's," "cheeks the color of peach bloom," "teeth of perfect regularity," "breath sweet as the censer swung above a church altar," and that "her beauty suddenly illuminates the whole castle." Both of the ladies are tall and slender, again the ideal type of femininity; and they have unconcealed pity for the poor Viscountess of Foretvert, who is short, plump, and afflicted with dark hair. [Illustration: COIFFURE OF A NOBLEWOMAN Twelfth century (cathedral of Chartres).] Alienor's mother is dead, but her sister-in-law is enough older to take her place somewhat and give much well-meant advice, which the younger damsel must take meekly. Adela often admonishes thus: "My fair sister, be courteous and meek, for nothing else so secures the favor of God and of mortals. Be friendly to small and great. I have seen a great duchess bow ceremoniously to an ironmonger. One of her followers was astonished. 'I prefer' replied she, 'to have been guilty of too great courtesy toward that man, than guilty of the least incivility toward a knight.' Also one must shun foreign fashions at festivals and tourneys, lest one become foolishly conspicuous; and above all beware of lofty headgear, lest you resemble stags who must lower their heads on entering a wood, and in order that you may not by your loud fashions make everyone stare at you as if you were a wild beast." Recently, too, Adela has been giving sisterly advice on how to walk becomingly: "Look straight before you, with your eyelids low and fixed, gazing forward at the ground six fathoms ahead, not changing your look from one place to another, nor laughing, nor stopping to chatter with anybody upon the highway." Conon, too, has beset poor Alienor, with all the superiority of an elder brother. He has commended the instructions of a certain _trouvère_ (North French minstrel) to a young noblewoman. She must not talk too much; especially she must not boast of the attentions paid by young knights. When going to church she must not "trot or run," but salute "debonairely" all persons she meets. She must not let men caress her with their hands or kiss her upon the mouth. They might misconstrue such familiarities. She must not go around with part of her body uncovered, undress in the presence of men, nor accept presents from any man not a kinsman nor her accepted lover. [Sidenote: Good Manners for Noblewomen] The _trouvère_ instructor also goes on to warn his fair pupils against scolding in public, against overeating, and against getting drunk, "whence much mischief might arise." Unless she is ugly or deformed, she should not cover her face coquettishly. "A lady who is pale faced or has not a good smell ought to breakfast early in the morning! for good wine gives a very good color, and she who eats and drinks well can heighten her complexion." To avoid bad breath eat aniseed and fennel for breakfast. Keep your hands clean and cut your nails so as not to retain dirt. When you are sharing the same dish at table with some one else (as is the custom) do not pick out all the best bits for yourself; and beware of swallowing too large or too hot a morsel of food. Also, wipe your mouth frequently, but on your napkin, and particularly not upon the tablecloth. Also, do not spill from your mouth or grease your hands too much. Young ladies also should keep from telling lies.--Alienor wishes the impertinent _trouvère_ in purgatory. But following Conon and Adela, Father Grégoire, the chaplain, and then even holy Brother Matthew, the prior of the abbey, takes her in hand. She must avoid sin by never letting her mantle trail disgracefully, lest she seem like a fox whose glory is in his tail. Her maids must avoid repeating gossip. She must never travel without proper retinue, lest she be caught in compromising situations. She must attend mass regularly and not be satisfied "merely with hearing low mass and hurrying two or three times through the Lord's Prayer and then going off to indulge herself with sweetmeats." Alienor should also avoid all games of chance, including backgammon (advice, indeed, at which Conon laughs) and not to waste too much time even at chess, nor to take indecent pleasure in the low songs and antics of the jongleurs. No wonder the poor girl vows she will perversely do these very things at first opportunity![21] Alienor tells herself, however, that she is fortunate she is not troubled by worse things than hortatory friends. Champions of "equality of sexes" from a later age can become horrified over the legal status of women in the feudal centuries. Females can never bear arms; they must remain perpetually as minors before the law. Even a great heiress will be under severe pressure to take a husband who will perform the military duties of her fief as soon as possible. If a baron dies, leaving only a young daughter, the suzerain can complain that he has been injured in one of his most important rights--his claim to armed service from the fief holder. Where now is the vassal to follow his banner? Perhaps a decent suzerain will wait until the heiress is twelve. Then he will "give" her to some battleworthy follower. She will not have any real choice, even if the bridegroom is old, ugly, and brutal. On the other hand, many a fatherless girl becomes terribly anxious to be married. Only married women have a fixed status in feudal society. Only a husband can keep an heiress's lands from shameless plunder. There is the familiar story of a young noblewoman who went straight before the king and said: "My father has been dead two months. I demand of you a husband." She never dreamed of suggesting any particular husband. _That_ was the suzerain's business; but to leave her in unprotected celibacy was an outrage which no lord had a right to inflict upon an orphan. [Sidenote: Position of Women in Castles] Legally and morally, husbands have the right to treat their wives harshly if the latter provoke them. Every girl around St. Aliquis knows the story of the silly wife who often contradicted her husband in public, and how, after he had vainly remonstrated, "one day raised his fist, knocked her down, and kicked her in the face while she was prostrate, and so broke her nose." The story conveys the plain lesson that she was directly to blame, "for it is only right that words of authority should belong to her lord, and the wife's duty requires that she should listen in peace and obedience." It is, indeed, repeated as something rather exceptional that Adela has recently boasted to certain relatives: "My husband since our marriage has never once laid hands on me." Not that all castellans are brutal--but after all, men will be men, lose their tempers, and treat their wives accordingly. Everybody knows the scene from an epic poem where a certain king is angered at a tactless remark by his queen, and therefore "shows his anger in his face, and strikes her in the nose so hard that he draws four drops of blood, at which the lady meekly says 'Many thanks. When it pleases you, you may do it again!'" Such submissiveness is the best way to disarm a husband's anger. Conon has been mildly ridiculed among his fellow knights because he takes counsel with his wife. Minstrels like to make fun of such cavaliers and to commend the baron who told his officious spouse: "Woman, go within and eat and drink with your maids. Busy yourself dyeing silks. Such is _your_ business. _Mine_ it is to strike with the sword of steel!"[22] Of course, many knights do worse things than to tell their wives not to meddle, and, if not obeyed, occasionally knock them down. It has been told how Baron Garnier imprisoned his unhappy consort. This was harsh, but not exceptional. Philip Augustus, the reigning king, kept his unlucky bride, Ingebord of Denmark, long years in captivity, notwithstanding the menaces of the Church; holding her tight in the gloomy Tower of Éstampes, where she complained she had not enough either to eat or to wear. Many nobles sometimes imitate their lord. Thus over in Burgundy, Gautier of Salins recently threw his wife into prison, whence, however, she contrived to escape to her parents. In any case, when, for the sake of her fiefs, a girl of twelve to eighteen is wedded to a husband of forty or fifty, all kinds of unhappy things can happen. The devil can fill the poor damsel's mind with love for a handsome squire. Her lord may neglect her scandalously until suddenly he finds himself required to avenge "his honor" by some deed of startling cruelty. Such things make the kind saints weep. Not without reason does Conon make discreet inquiries concerning a certain widower knight who has sought Alienor's hand: "Does he horsewhip his servants save for good cause? Did he leave his last wife to mope about the hall while he spent his months riotously at the king's court?" Nevertheless the chatelaines and baronesses of these parts are not always meek doves at the mercy of their husbands. Are they not sprung themselves from a domineering stock? Are they not reared around a castle, which is a great barrack, and where the talk is ever of feuds and forays, horses, lances, and armor? Many a noble lady can answer her husband's fist with a rousing box on the ear, and, if he is not a courageous man, make him quail and surrender before her passions. Her habits are likely to seem very masculine. If she can quarrel like a virago, she can also prove a she-wolf in times of danger. A knight will ride away to the wars, leaving his castle under the command of his wife and feel certain that it will be defended to the inner donjon. The rough men at arms will obey her orders as implicitly as her husband's. In short, the feudal noblewoman is, as might be expected, a compound of mortal weaknesses and excellencies, but all of these qualities are somewhat naïve and elemental. In any case the castle women cannot complain of being shut up in a harem. They have perfect freedom to meet strange men. If we accept the epic poems, when noble maidens believe a visiting knight to be very handsome they do not hesitate to tell him so to his face. In many love stories the first advances come from the lady, and not infrequently these advances are rather coldly received by the knight. Your average mail-clad cavalier is a man of strong passions, but he is often more interested in war and the chase than in fair maidens. He is seldom a philanderer. [Sidenote: Grossness of Castle Life] If we visited the castles around St. Aliquis and listened to typical jongleurs' tales, we should gather abundant material for monkish preachments. Noble ladies are said to make few difficulties about inviting male visitors to their chambers to sit on their beds while they are still within the same--or entering the room of a male guest and sitting on _his_ bed while conversing very familiarly. Women often meet strangers in scandalously insufficient garments. Ladies also talk with the uttermost freedom to men, quite as openly as young men will talk on ticklish matters among themselves. Many a story, jesting question, or "gab" which is utterly coarse, not to say worse, will be exchanged in mixed company. Young women are seldom well chaperoned. In place of the duenna there is the "waiting woman," herself apt to have her own lover and ready to help her mistress push matters with hers. If there is a sensual intrigue, all criticism ceases if there is, at the end, a formal marriage; but many romances (according to the current stories) in no wise end in marriages. A wedding is by no means the standard climax even to a happy love affair. The monks, of course, are scandalized at less harmful things than these. They assert that the fair sex, besides being sinful coquettes, are spendthrifts, ruining their husbands by their own extravagance. Women as a sex are inordinately fond of false hair, rouging, and other forms of giving a lie to the faces which God has vouchsafed. As for controlling them, Brother Guyot, of Provins, wrote in despair thus: "The wisest are astray when they wish to judge or correct a woman. She has never found her master, and who can flatter himself that he knows her? When her eyes weep her heart laughs. There are men who teach astronomy, necromancy, geometry, law, medicine, and music; but I have never known a person who was not a fool to take _woman_ for a subject of study." All the above seems true. Yet when due allowances are made, the number of noblewomen who lead happy, honorable lives is great; and if many barons are unkind to their wives, many others reckon them as their greatest treasures. If reasonable care has been taken not to force the mating of obviously uncongenial couples, a decent respect is likely to result, even after a marriage arranged wholly by outsiders. If, in many of the epics, sundry fair ladies seem unprudish, very many others are superlatively faithful, devoted to their husbands, foes to all evil thoughts and seducers, and know how to draw the line very sharply between those familiar attentions which courtesy demands and those where real sinfulness begins. Even a baron who will curse his wife roundly and switch her shoulders treats her also as his _juré_, the holder of his pledge, to whom he can trust his honor and leave the command of his castle when he rides to war. [Sidenote: Accomplishments of Castle Women] "A great deal depends upon the woman herself," Adela assures Alienor. Husbands and wives are shut up together in a castle often for weary months, and a clever wife can easily make herself indispensable to her husband, and then rule the whole barony. In short, in treatment of women, as in all things else, the Feudal Age is a jumble of contradictions. You can find the worst and the best. "A good woman suffices to illuminate a kingdom," a poet declares; while even a crusty monk writes that "we ought to love, serve, and honor woman, for out of her we all come." And what, in one sense, is the intense worship of the Virgin but a sign that woman is extraordinarily venerated and very powerful? "God, thou son of St. Mary"--is that not a standing invocation among the knights? As for the pursuits of the women, there is little about the castle to which they cannot devote themselves. Sometimes they have even to replace the men on armed expeditions. Adela is grateful that she has not had to imitate the great Countess Blanche of Champagne, who (while guardian of her young son) has recently, in 1218, conducted an invading army into Lorraine and burned Nancy, and then again, near Château-Villein, has led her knights in person and won a real pitched battle. Adela, however, understands all the technic of defending the castle in a siege, she can help her husband about the entire peace-time economy of the seigneury, check up the provosts's accounts, sift out the complaints of the peasants, arrange the alms to the poor, and, best of all, knows how to manage the local bishop and abbot, with a mingling of piety, harmless coquetry, and firmness--a great asset for the weal of the barony. Her greatest task, however, is to direct the perpetual weaving, knitting, embroidering, and sewing of the castle women. Even if some of the finer cloth is imported, nearly all the garments must be made up in St. Aliquis; and the ladies must set their maids as good an example with their needles as the baron must furnish to his men with his sword. The chambers of the _palais_, and even the garden in summer, seem given over to incessant cutting and sewing; and many a time can you watch the fair Alienor, like the girl in the romance, "seated in her brother's chambers, working a stole and 'amise' in silk and gold, right skillfully; and she made it with care, and many a little cross and many a little star she sets therein, singing all the while the 'Song of the Cloth'"--a gentle, lilting air suitable for the movements of her white hands and her needle. It was when so engaged that her brother, coming in early from the hounds, vowed he would not spare the dowry to get her a gallant husband; and that night he cast five deniers to the jongleur who praised her to her face before the applauding hall: She is the rose, the lily, too, The sweetest violet, and through Her noble beauty, stately mien, I think her now the finest queen Which mortal eyes have ever seen. Simple, yet coy, her eyes flash joy: God give her life without annoy And every bliss whereof I ween! [Sidenote: Customs at Births and Baptisms] Of course, the prime centers of Adela's life are the rearing of her children and the management of her servants. When little François and Anseau were being born, the castle bell, and that, too, of the village church, were all the time rung furiously to induce the saints to ease their mother's labor. Sensible Father Grégoire had to interpose his ghostly authority to check the midwife from at once plunging the feet of the newly born into icy water to toughen them to the cold, or rubbing their cheeks with a gold piece to make them rich. Of course, Conon was delighted each time they told him, "A sturdy son!" On François' advent he called all his vassals to a feast. "Be joyous!" he proclaimed. "There is born the seigneur from whom you will hold your lands. He will give you rich furs, white and gray, beautiful arms, and horses of price. Yes, in twenty years my son will be dubbed a knight!" [Illustration: CRADLE Thirteenth-century manuscript in the Cambridge Library (Green).] The young St. Aliquis barons were rocked in beautifully carved cradles. They were bathed before a great fire and wrapped, not merely in the usual long baby clothes, but in little robes of silk and furs, even of precious ermine, to proclaim their noble rank. They were, of course, baptized at first opportunity, because unbaptized children had very dubious chances in the next world. Adela had been unable to go to the ceremony for either, but there had been a great gathering of relatives and vassals; for a christening is the formal acknowledgment of the child's legitimacy and settles many claims to inheritance. A child must have three godparents, two of its own sex and one of the other. At the font, one of these holds the babe round the body, and each of the others grasps a leg. Then the priest dips the child completely in the water. "Bare as a babe at baptism," runs the saying. Of course, the higher the rank of the godparents, the luckier the infant. François is proud already because the Duke of Quelqueparte calls him "godson," and Anseau because he is styled the same by the high Countess of Blois. Up to seven the young boys were left to the care of their mother. Adela nursed her own sons, although wet nurses were the rule in many noble families; but at least three maids were constantly in attendance on each young sprig of St. Aliquis. Neither François nor Anseau is spared the wholesome diet of many blows. Monkish preachers are always warning against sparing the rod and spoiling the child, and every father and mother heeds this particular admonition. Truth to tell, conditions round a castle often tend to make boys little demons of rascality. All the hall has laughed at the epic "Daurel and Beton," in which a child at four was clever enough to steal his guardian's gloves, and at five to play chess and dice and to ride a tall horse. But François and Anseau are growing up reasonably honest, thanks to frequent dermal pain. They have enjoyed a great variety of toys, most of them of types as old as the Pyramids and which will be a delight in succeeding centuries. There are dolls with hempen wigs, carved wooden soldiers with helms and hauberks, windmills, all kinds of animals made of baked clay, wooden horses, and, of course, an armory of wooden weapons. The scores of children swarming the bailey are at their disposal as playfellows, with the sons of the higher officers preferred. There are innumerable games of the tag variety, but already François is learning to marshal his playmates in military companies. What greater delight than to defend some tower against their father's old foe, Foretvert? It will be lucky if they do not filch real arbalists and shoot deadly bolts at one another. [Sidenote: Education of Young Noblewomen] François is now being taken in hand by his father and taught many things needful for a baron's son to know before he is sent away to be "nourished" by some friendly seigneur. He has no sisters, but his aunt Alienor is just emerging from the usual education of a girl of family. If there had been a local nunnery she might have been sent to the convent school. As it was, Conon took in the daughter of a petty noble, a kind of sister under minor vows, who was half teacher, half attendant. This good soul has given Alienor rather more of bookish learning than François will probably obtain. The young lady has learned to read and write Romain (North French) and at least to read Latin. The result is that she devours every romance manuscript which she can borrow or can persuade her brother to buy. She has been taught arithmetic fairly well; she has learned the names of the chief stars and constellations and the legend about the "Way of St. Jacques" (the Milky Way). She has picked up a knowledge of healing herbs and is not afraid of the sight of blood, nor does she flinch when binding up a wound. Warfare and tourneys require that young girls should become expert nurses and even make shift to set shattered bones. Of course, she can ride, and at hawking or hunting upon her dear roan Marchegai can keep up with the best; and, like every fortunate maiden in France, her lips are perpetually light with songs--pious or secular, from quaint little chants in honor of the Virgin to the merry Easter time in April Sings each small bird gentle, "_Zo fricandés, zo, zo!_-- _Zo fricandés, zo!_" Assuredly, Father Grégoire and the monks have not neglected her religious education. She has learned many prayers, besides the Credo, Ave, and Paternoster, which every Christian child must memorize as soon as possible. Her brother one Easter gave her a finely illustrated psalter, and she has most of the chants by heart. By constant attendance at mass she knows practically the entire service and understands its symbolism. She has plenty of quaint little superstitions, but no degrading ones. At bedtime she repeats a prayer which is popular with all the girls of France: "I implore thee again, Virgin Mary, mayest thou, with all the saints and the elect of God, keep close to me and council me, and further all my prayers and desires: and be with me in all my sorrows and necessities, in all that I am called upon to do, to say, or to think; on all days, at all hours, through all the moments of my life." Her dolls, of course, have been much finer, and have been retained much longer, than those of François. In her chamber her pet falcon is seldom lacking from his perch--a fact which does not add to cleanliness. She has also a caged magpie which she is laboriously teaching to talk. At the last fair she longed vainly for a rare Eastern parrot, but has consoled herself with a very small lap dog presented by a friendly vassal. Cats abound in the bailey, but they are not pets for noblewomen. There is something plebeian about them. Ill-famed old crones always possess black cats, which possibly partake of the devil. The Church, however, does not support this last belief, because in most nunneries the sisters are forbidden to keep any animals except cats, which evidently belong less to this world than dogs, the companions of secular warriors. There is one thing which Alienor really loves even better than riding and hawking--_a long, hard dance_. The mania young people have for dancing is sinful. The Church vainly tries to restrain it. Preferably, Alienor would dance with a handsome knight or squire, yet if these lack, the most indifferent music and company will suffice. The truth is that her robust, vigorous body demands a violent outlet. It is vain for the graver Adela to tell her of the count who allowed so much dancing in his castle that finally at a _bal_ on Christmas Day so many joined the revel and all danced so violently that the floor of his great hall suddenly collapsed. The whole company were flung to the cellar, and the foolish count's own daughter was the first body to be taken out. At the time of the great Church festivals, of course, comes the delight of the mystery plays, and Alienor herself has participated therein, once as an angel and once also as Queen Esther at the Easter play arranged at Pontdebois by the cathedral clergy. She has hopes now that next Easter she can be Herodias's daughter--which is surely the best part open to women, except that of the Holy Virgin herself. [Sidenote: Castle Servants] While Adela is, on her part, graciously assisting her family, she is also more explicitly directing her servants. She need not reckon the lack of domestic help among her troubles; hundreds of young men and women from the peasants are only too glad to enter service in return for a straw pallet, a suit of clothes yearly, and a seat in the great hall after the regular diners have risen. Money wages need hardly be considered, although everybody expects a few obols at Christmas and Easter. The importance of a baron is partly indicated by the number of his dependents wearing his insignia, "eating his bread," and attending him and his lady everywhere. Conon is hardly less vain than his peers. The result is that St. Aliquis has twice as many servitors as are really required. The courtyards swarm with busy idlers, although there is a certain organization and hierarchy of service, and all but the least responsible lads and damsels enjoy the honor of having at least _one_ inferior whom they can afflict with cuffings and snappish orders. Adela commands some twenty young women. One or two of these are _pucelles_, daughters of petty nobles and entitled to a certain consideration, even as are the baron's squires. They dress their mistress and Alienor, accompany them, and discreetly share their pleasures. The others, strong-limbed Aiglentine, Jeanette, Martine, and their sisters, by their loose, sleeveless aprons betray peasant origin. They have been carefully selected by the baroness from thrice as many candidates. She has taken pains to learn whether they come of honest parents, are greedy or inclined to drink, are respectful, and whether they are accustomed merely to answer on receiving an order, "It shall be done pretty soon."[23] [Sidenote: Duties of Servants] These maids are trained to clean the apartments; next to wipe down all the stools and benches; next to feed the "chamber animals"--dogs and cage birds. After that the mistress must assign to them their task of weaving, cutting, sewing, etc. They are fed plentifully, "but only on one meat, and have only one kind of drink, nourishing but not heady, whether wine or otherwise." They must also eat promptly, "not reposing on their meal, or halting or leaning on their elbows," and "they must rise as soon as they begin to talk and lounge about." After supper they must go immediately to bed, unless with the remainder of the castle they sit up for a jongleur. So passes the routine of many days until at last the prospect dawns of an event which will tax the full administrative capacities of the baroness, and which sets Adela and Aimery each in a different kind of a flutter. Conon is about to give his sister in marriage and immediately after that to knight his brother. There will be a festival which will carry the name of St. Aliquis all over northern France. FOOTNOTES: [20] These quotations are from Arnaut de Maruelh and Marie de France, respectively. [21] All the above advice to noblewomen is from contemporary etiquette books or clerical writers. The trouvère quoted is Robert of Blois, a writer of the thirteenth century. [22] Students of the _Odyssey_ will recall a similar command which Telemachus addressed to his mother, Penelope. Homeric society and feudal society had many viewpoints in common. [23] The directions about engaging servants given in mediæval handbooks on domestic economy contain much practical common sense for any age. Chapter VI: The Matter of Clothes. A Feudal Wedding. Inasmuch as from time immemorial a wedding has seemed primarily a matter of clothes, what better place than this wherein to consider the costumes of the good folk of St. Aliquis? Assuredly, the Scripture warns us, "Take no thought saying ... 'Wherewithal shall we be clothed?'" but that admonition (so Adela tells the abbot) was doubtless intended only for the Holy Apostles, not for a Christian woman who must make a fair showing for her husband in the face of Heaven knows how many critical baronesses and countesses. Already Western folk have made that great change in their general style of costume which is to last for many generations later. The Greeks and Romans _wrapped on_ their garments; all of them were forms of slightly elaborated shawls, fastened with fibulæ or buckles, but devoid of buttons. Even as late as Frankish times the garments of Charlemagne's contemporaries seemed fairly loose, after the antique model. But with the Feudal Age has come elaborately made clothing which must be _put on_ and securely fastened. We have reached the epoch of the shirt, the stocking, and even of objects later to be styled "trousers." Perhaps the life constantly spent in the saddle requires this; also, the demand for garments easily worn under the hauberks, the great coats of mail.[24] The great transition has been made. The men of St. Aliquis wear garments strange enough to another epoch, but without those sartorial differences which will separate the twentieth century from the age of Nero. [Sidenote: Materials for Clothing] Another thing to observe is that nearly all garments are still made of wool, save, indeed, the leathern leggings and gauntlets of the hunters, and crude garments of skins for the peasants. Cotton and silk, if not quite unknown, have been rare, with linen not very common. The woolen fabrics have usually been coarse, home spun literally, made up in the castles or farmhouses. Such garments are warm and durable, but they are prone to collect dirt, hard to wash, and very irritating to the skin. Probably it is the general use of woolen clothing, along with the fact that much of the population possesses no other raiment than what it is wearing incessantly every day, which accounts for the number of skin diseases, from leprosy downward, which are direfully prevalent. Matters are improving, however. More flax is being spun up into fine linen. People of quality change their clothes pretty often. Cotton and silk are coming from the Levant at prices that permit the ordinarily rich to command them. Wash day is even developing into a fixed institution around most castles. All this makes for health and comfort. Still, the great majority of all garments are woolen; and, Holy saints! how the fleas jump out of a villein's doublets whenever you beat their wearer! Conon normally dons the following peace-time garments. First, his squire helps him into underdrawers of fine white linen; next come long hose which can be of various fabrics or colors. Upon a gala day he will proclaim himself to be a rich baron by wearing silk hose; otherwise they are of fine wool. Good taste forbids stockings of brilliant color, they should be black, brown, or, at most, black with red stripes. After that comes the chemise, a shirt of white linen, but _sans_ cuffs or collar. [Illustration: A KING IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY WEARING PELISSON Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc, from a manuscript of the Bibliothèque nationale.] The baron is now ready for his regular outer garments. He will put on his pelisson. This is a long fur-edged garment, very warm and pleasant in winter when the castle is a barnlike place. In summer it is often hot, and as substitute one wears the _cotte_ without fur and made of very thin stuff. Over the pelisson is thrown the bliaut, a tunic, fairly loose, which is pulled on over the head like a shirt. The best bliauts are of silk, but for common use one wears fustian or, perhaps, even cotton. Finally, if the baron is going abroad, he will swing his mantle over his shoulders. It is a semicircular cape, with a fur lining even in summer, and very likely ornamented by many silk tassels. The shoemakers are already masters of their art. Anybody can buy well-cobbled leather shoes or high boots, but if a nobleman wishes to dress in state he will wear cloth shoes, and display his wealth by having them plated with gold and embroidered with jewels; for good taste here permits elaborate ornaments. [Sidenote: Women's Garments] Conon's most variable garment is his headdress. In the house, or on state occasions, he wears a chaplet of flowers, or even a thin gold wreath of floreated design; outdoors he is likely to appear as do meaner men, in a cloth bonnet--a kind of Phrygian cap of bright color. If, however, the weather is bad, he will probably pull on a _chaperon_. This is a combination cap and cape which is drawn on over the head, and which sticks up or is pulled back in a kind of peak, at the same time covering cheeks and shoulders, while the face shows through a long slit cut in the upper part. [Illustration: WREATH MADE OF METAL FLOWERS SEWED ON BRAID Thirteenth century (church of St. Thibaut; Côte-d'Or).] These are the orthodox male garments, while the female dress is much the same, albeit with certain simplifications here and elaborations elsewhere. Adela's maids ordinarily put upon her a long linen chemise, preferably white, which descends to her knees. Over that comes the pelisson, again with the fur edging. It can be made of some very fine wool or silk, and falls over the chemise clear to her feet. Above this again is the bliaut, sometimes worn rather loosely, but more often close fitting and showing off the figure. The baroness's maids lace it tightly and take pains adjusting the long trailing sleeves. It is held in place by a girdle of woven cords, preferably of silk. The bliaut, of course, can be of very fine material, and ornamented with gold embroideries and pearl beadwork. Finally there is the mantle, a loose trailing cloak, often cut as a long semicircular cape and made, on gala occasions, of the richest stuffs available. Plenty of elegant fabrics can be had by the wealthy. You can bring back from the Champagne fairs figured silk, woven with silver and gold thread; also very heavy silks woven with large threads of white, green or red. This is the fair _samite_ whereof the poets delight to sing. But perhaps more useful is the thin, airy, shimmery sendal silks, useful both for delightful summer garments and for making those brilliant banners which noble ladies give to the knights of their choice. Naturally, too, there are plenty of Oriental silks, with strange Egyptian and Persian figures. For humbler wear (if homespun is not desired) you can buy all kinds of of honest woolens; Flemish and Picard, Champagne products, or those from Languedoc. They come in serges and rough goods, as excellent as anyone could ask. Linen is available bleached to a dazzling whiteness for those who have the price; but cotton cloth is still costly, although the mercers often spread out to the ladies "silk at a marvelously low price" which is really naught but cotton, woven up, perhaps, in Sicily. However, the finest samite and sendal cannot take the place of suitable furs. _Wearing furs is practically a sign of nobility_, like wearing a sword or carrying a hawk. Many a petty noble will cling to his frayed tippet of black lambskin, even in the hottest weather, merely to proclaim that he is not a villein. Fox- and wolf-skins and civet are, of course, common, but your high noble seeks something better. He will line his pelisson and other garments with red or white marten, black sable, with the gray of the beautiful northern squirrel, and especially (if his purse can compass it) with ermine, the precious fur of the white weasel. The choicest furs probably come from those dim countries called "Russia." You cannot make a noble friend a much more acceptable present than a fine ermine skin; and many a baron has pledged lands to the Jews merely to satisfy his wife's taste for miniver, a superior form of marten. In fact, there is more extravagance over furs than over jewelry, or even over falcons! [Sidenote: Luxurious Fashions] Fashions in dress do not change around St. Aliquis so rapidly as in other ages, yet there are constant innovations. For example, the surcoat is coming in. Originally it was a longish woman's garment, but recently a fine knight riding down from Rheims wore one cleverly adapted to masculine necessities. It was a close, sleeveless jacket cut short at the hips and made with big armholes for easy movement. Conon must have one very soon. Inevitably too, at the king's court all kinds of new fashions, luxuries and ornamentations are to be observed. Women cover themselves with gold embroidery, wear gold buttons, and gold girdles set alternately with agates and sapphires. They protect their hands with chamois-skin gloves, and swing a silken alms purse from silver chains at their belts. Fine cavaliers load themselves with a dozen buckles set with sardonyx, and pieces of enamel, and even wear small emeralds in the embroidery on their mantles. Pointed shoes are coming much into style, with the use of colored thongs to bind them to the feet. [Illustration: FELT SHOE Thirteenth century (various monuments).] Yet the St. Aliquis simplicity is hardly undermined. Except on fête days the seigneur is not much better clad than the upper servitors, and Adela never ceases to warn her sister-in-law against extravagance of dress. "Consider always your husband's rank and fortune, but never disgrace them by seeming to devote too much study to your costume or by constantly plunging into new fashions. Before leaving your room be sure your appearance is neat, and see especially to it that the collar of your gown is well adjusted and is not put on crooked."[25] The dress of the humbler folk is of the above nature, of course simplified, and of more sober hue. Blue is the color of the baronial house and nearly all its lord's followers wear bliauts of that color. This is their livery, because twice per year there is a distribution (a _livraison_) of garments to all whom Conon undertakes to clothe and feed. [Illustration: WINTER COSTUME IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY From a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale (Viollet-Le-Duc).] Noble folk thus display their rank by wearing furs. They also show it by their headdresses. When the baron wishes to put on dignity he assumes a velvet bonnet in place of the ordinary cloth one. On formal occasions, however, this bonnet will be embroidered with gold thread and become his "cap of presence." Sometimes these caps are elaborated and made with a flattened square top. These are the _mortiers_, and in generations later great lawyers and doctors will wear the mortar-board as a professional badge long after the high barons have absolutely discarded the fashion. As for the head covering of women, the thirteenth century is as yet rather innocent of those towering constructions of peaks and veils common in the succeeding age. Even noblewomen are usually content (as we have seen) with the long braids of their hair intertwined often with ribbons. If the sun is hot or the weather bad they will wear thin veils or solid woolen hoods, according to the seasons; and on gala days they will don either floral chaplets or genuine crowns of gold and pearls, according to the wealth of their fathers or husbands. [Illustration: HEADDRESS OF A MAN Popular in the thirteenth century (tomb of Saint-Denis).] [Sidenote: Hair Dressing and Beards] Conon's appearance differs from that of his grandsire's in one important particular. Until rather recently gentlemen had their hair cut short in front, although rather long behind, and wore beards, often divided into a great many little tufts which they might even wind with gold thread. By 1200, however, noblemen were usually smooth shaven, although the hair was allowed to grow to some length and sometimes was arranged in little curls. Thus ended a long struggle, for the Church has for generations disapproved of lengthy beards; many a bishop has warned that "they are the sign of the children of Belial," and the great Pope Gregory VII uttered a regular anathema against them. The reign of the barber is renewed, and the St. Aliquis tonsor twice or thrice per week scrapes over the chins of all the knightly males in the castle. For the servitors and villeins, however, there is no such luxury. All the humbler folk wear beards of great bushiness, as well as unsanitariness; and their hair is cut so seldom that often it can be almost braided like the women's. Every person of consequence wears a ring. Its signet device is often equivalent to a personal signature. All a man's friends know his ring and will give credence to messengers who produce the same. Women give rings to their lovers, as well, of course, as receiving rings in return. It is believed that many rings have charmed virtues. Conon's signet has been in the family at least since the First Crusade. It has a green Egyptian turquoise cut with a serpent, and is called "The Luck of St. Aliquis." The servitors profess confidence that so long as the baron keeps this ring the castle cannot be taken; and François has already had his head filled with such stories as that of the father who on his deathbed gave his son a ring, "the virtue of which was that whosoever should wear it should have the love of all men"; or the tale of Princess Rigmel, who gave to her lover a ring so potent that "whoever bore it upon him could not perish; he need not fear to die in fire or water, nor on the battlefield nor in the mêlées of the tournament." [Illustration: COSTUME OF A NOBLEWOMAN Thirteenth century; restored by Viollet-Le-Duc, from various monuments.] Such are the ordinary articles of costume and adornment. One need not dwell on the buckles and brooches, the golden pins and the jewel-set necklets which Adela treasures in her coffers. They come from Oriental, Byzantine, or Venetian workshops. Some are very beautiful, but fine jewelry, generally speaking, has changed comparatively little from age to age. [Sidenote: Cosmetics and False Hair] The baroness is not above certain frivolities of toilet herself, but Alienor's approaching marriage has given her fair opportunity to admonish the younger lady on the sins of false adornments. Indeed, these iniquities are thundered against nearly every Sunday at the churches, because the shrewd preachers know that all the men in the congregation will grin approval the fiercer the invectives become. Women are regularly accused "of turning their bodies out of their natural form" by means of laces and stays, of dyeing their hair, of painting their faces. It is affirmed that David was first impelled to desire Bathsheba because she combed her long hair at a window too openly, and all her sore troubles came justly upon her "for the overgreat attention which she sinfully gave to the ornamenting of her head." Then, in another sermon, there is approvingly repeated the sarcastic story by the monk Guyot of Provins, that the saints have brought suit at the Assize of God against the race of women because the latter have used so much color for their faces there is none left wherewith to paint the holy images in the churches! The noble ladies are told that when they smear on vermilion, saffron, or quicksilver, or apply poultices of mashed beans and mare's milk to improve their complexions, they are adding centuries to their durance in purgatory, if not taking chances of eternal damnation. [Illustration: COIFFURE OF A WOMAN Thirteenth century (cathedral of Rheims).] Lastly, there is the iniquity of false hair--as if the good God did not know the proper amount of herbage to grow from each female head! Once there was a holy man who could heal the sick. A young noblewoman suffered from grievous headaches. The miracle worker took one glance at her towering headpiece. "First," said he, "remove that scaffolding which surmounts your head. Then will I pray for you with great confidence." The sacrifice was too great, and she refused; yet erelong her anguish became unendurable and the holy man was recalled. He compelled her to cast away all her false hair and colored bands and swear never to resume them. Immediately then he began to pray--and, behold! her headache departed. These sermons and Adela's sisterly warnings produce as much result as such admonitions can. Alienor will go through life, now dreading for her comeliness and now for her soul, but never quite imperiling either. Yet she is surely less frivolous than the family rivals, the Foretvert dames--who (tasteless creatures!) could adorn a whole cathedral of saints' images with their paint pots. There are sometimes seen around St. Aliquis certain obnoxious people who are compelled to wear conspicuous garments in order that others may be warned and thus avoid physical or moral contamination. If you meet a man with a gray coat and a scarlet hat, pass at a distance--he is a leper. If he has a big circle of saffron cloth sewed on his breast, look to your money--he is a Jew. If he has a cross sewed on each side of his breast, say a prayer--he is a released heretic. Finally, if you go to Pontdebois and come upon sundry unveiled females in scarlet dresses, accost them not if you are a decent man--they are women of the town. At last we have seen the general nature of the garments which are to make gay Alienor's wedding. It is time for the wedding itself. Marriage, in noble families often does not mean the union of two souls, but of two fiefs. The average baron marries to extend his seigneury and to rear up sons to defend it. A wife represents an estate and a castle. Not many young men marry before they have been knighted. After that they are glad to enter into holy wedlock, for the normal way an aspiring young cavalier whose father is living can gain independence is through his wife's dowry, unless his father allows him a share of the barony. [Sidenote: Ages for Marriage] Since young men are not often knighted until late in their teens or even beyond twenty, weddings on their side seldom take place early. Girls, however, become marriageable sooner. South Country troubadours assert that love can begin to claim a girl when she is thirteen; she is then eligible for marriage. If she has not "given her heart" by the time she is twenty-one there is no hope for her, save in a nunnery; and old maids find no recognized place in society whether in castle, city, or peasant hut.[26] [Illustration: A ROYAL MARRIAGE IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY From a manuscript preserved in the British Museum (Green).] Of course, couples can marry younger than that. Not many years earlier Count Baldwin VI of Hainault was wedded to Countess Marie of Champagne. The bride was only twelve, the bridegroom only fourteen. Boys and girls are thus sometimes merely "so many pieces on a chessboard," to suit the ambitions of guardians. If a noblewoman's husband dies she need not expect to be a widow very long, for a man is required to manage her fief. It was one of the greatest proofs of Conon's mother's strong character and ability that when his father died she prevented Baron Garnier from forcing her into nuptials with one of his boon companions--a roistering daredevil who, as guardian of her children, would have ruined them, body and soul. Also, if an heiress's husband does not prove suitable to the prevailing powers, strange things can happen. In 1190, when the crown of Jerusalem became vacant, Isabella (the new queen) was forcibly separated from her husband, the Seigneur Onfroy, by the barons of the Crusaders' realm, and was given to a more powerful noble, Conrad of Montferrat. Twice the poor queen's husbands died, and twice her barons forced new spouses upon her. The wishes of Isabella herself, who sincerely cared for Onfroy, were in nowise consulted. In all the romances you can find stories of marriages consummated with amazing haste. There is, _e.g._, the tale of the old Baron Aimeri, who wished to find his son an heiress. The lad, unaware of what was to happen, was summoned into the presence of a duke, his father's friend. "Young sir," said the duke, "you are of high lineage. I am going to give you my pretty daughter." The boy stood silent while the pucelle was brought in. "Belle," said her father, "I have given you a husband." "Blessed be God!" she replied promptly. The next to come in was a bishop. The ceremony was immediately over; the young people were mated for life, seemingly before either could get his or her breath. Here, at least, the lad was as much the helpless tool of his elders as was the maid. A story in the "Lorraine" romance makes the proceedings hardly less precipitate. The Count of Flanders is resolved to give his bereaved sister to his valiant friend, Fromont. She had never seen this hero, but has heard much about him. Suddenly her brother takes her by the hand, saying, "My beautiful and dear sister, let us converse a little apart." Then he announces "to-morrow, you shall have a husband." The lady protests that she has been a widow only a month and has an infant son. "You will do this, however, my sister," insists the count. "He whom I give you is far richer than your first husband." Then he says much in praise of Fromont, whereupon the lady responds, "Sire brother, I will do according to your desires." Thereupon, runs the story, "They did not wait a day, they did not wait an hour. On the spot they proceeded to the church. Clerics and priests were notified. There they were blessed and married." [Sidenote: Church Control of Marriages] This is a strange state of things, but, fortunately, the Church comes partly to the rescue. It demands first that the maiden shall be at least fifteen years old (a point sometimes waived), that she shall not be too closely related to the man, and that she shall give her "free consent" (another matter not always investigated). The question of the "forbidden degrees" is, however, a bar to many projected alliances. The Church endeavored formerly to forbid the marriage of cousins up to the seventh degree, but that rule had proved unworkable, since god-parents were reckoned the same as relatives. The Lateran Council of 1215 has therefore ordained invalid marriages between cousins through the _fourth_ degree; and the saints know that this rule makes complications enough, considering how the great families are interrelated! Of course, the regulations are wise, otherwise heiresses would always be given in an outrageous manner to near kinsmen. On the other hand, the forbidden degrees are sometimes a little trenched upon to give the contracting parties an excuse for repudiating each other in case they get tired of their bargain--although here again is a practice which the Church treats with just anger.[27] The Church does not formally permit divorce, but it cannot thwart many of the currents of the age. Nobles frequently repudiate their wives for trivial reasons--mere ill health, for instance; and often the women take the initiative. There are worldly bishops who will give their help toward an annulment on grounds of "lack of inward consent." Again, if a very desirable marriage with a cousin comes in question, often a "dispensation" can be obtained from the same complaisant authorities. It is easy to become cynical if you study how easily the "holy bonds of matrimony" can be put on and off by the powerful, although sometimes a great pope like Innocent III will teach even a mighty king a lesson, as Philip Augustus learned when he tried to repudiate poor Ingeborg of Denmark. If a maiden has a father, a competent brother, or an uncle she is lucky. Otherwise, the bestowal of her hand belongs to her suzerain. This right to bestow heiresses or the widows of vassals on faithful retainers is one of the most precious privileges of a great seigneur. Many a knight is kept loyal by the hope that presently his lord will say: "One of my barons is dead without sons. I will give you his fiefs and his daughter"; or, "Take the widow of the late Sire X.... You may have the land along with the lady." Under feudal usage it is well-nigh impossible to deprive an heiress of her estates directly, but her marriage practically gives her husband the ownership of the property. No wonder the Duke of Quelqueparte is anxious to see whether the sickly Count of Greve is about to die and leave only a daughter, so that he can secure the desirable allegiance of the Baron of St. Saturnin, who has been a widower now these six months, yet has remained still "uncomforted" just in hope of this particular happening. [Sidenote: Scandalous Relationships] What wonder if under these conditions strange romances occur; if the lady gives "her love and kiss" to some young knight, not her husband; if South Country troubadours assert that "married couples cannot truly love;" and if barons sometimes bring irregular consorts straight into their castles, while perhaps winking at their wives' uncanny doings? All this is true. Yet, as stated before, not everything is bad. Girls are taught not to expect too much of their spouses. They usually accept the situation as they accept stormy or sunny weather. Besides, if some fathers or guardians are scandalously careless in disposing of their charges, many fathers and brothers are full of honest affection and accept the duty of marrying off their daughters or sisters as a solemn responsibility; and if they are wise custodians the results are usually happy. There is no need of pitying Alienor too much because she has not the right to elope. Conon has negotiated a most satisfactory marriage. He will give his sister to Sire Olivier, the eldest son of the Count of Perseigne. The Perseignes are a great Burgundian family with many castles, and counts think themselves a little higher in the social scale than do barons, but St. Aliquis is also a powerful fief, and its alliance will be useful to Perseigne when he has his expected war with the Vidame of Dijon. Conon will give the young couple his outlying Burgundian castle (not of great value to himself) and the alliance will enable him to talk roundly to his uncivil neighbors. A most excellent match; another sign that St. Aliquis has an extremely sage seigneur! Alienor is now nearly seventeen and has been thinking about a wedding since before she was fifteen. Her nurses have long since reviewed all the eligible cavaliers for her. Her great dread has been lest she have to wed some old and very stupid man--as befell her cousin Mabila, who had been sent away tearful and pouting to Picardy, the bride of a three-times widower. Who can measure her relief when Conon declared he would not give her to old St. Saturnin? It was all very well for the jongleurs to sing, "An old man who loves a young maiden is not merely old, but a fool!" The thing has happened so often! Her ideal is to have a "damoiseau (squire or young knight) just with his first beard"--one who is brave, valiant, and is, of course, courteous and handsome. She had once hoped that Conon would give a great tourney and award her to the conqueror; but this desire faded when she learned that the victor in the last tourney was ugly and brutal. She has been on very brotherly terms with William, Conon's first squire, but William is still too young, and it is not always honorable for a squire to push intrigues in the house of his lord. Thus she is in a very open state of mind when her brother says to her one day: "Fair sister, I have arranged your marriage with Olivier of Perseigne. He is a gallant cavalier. Any maiden might rejoice to have him. Consider well what I say because (here he adds a phrase which he hopes will not be taken too literally) I would not have you wed him against your wish." If Alienor has anything against Olivier, if her antipathy were violent and based on reason, Conon, as a genuinely affectionate brother, might give it weight; but in fact, though she has met Olivier only a few times at a tourney, at the Christmas fête at the Duke of Quelqueparte's court, and once when he stopped at the castle, she has not the least objection. He has certainly large blue eyes, blond hair, a large nose, and a merry laugh. He is reported to be kind to his servants, generous to a fault, and not overgiven to drinking or brawling. At the tourney he broke three lances fairly against a more experienced knight. His family is excellent and her brother's desires are obvious. She will not have to live too far from St. Aliquis. What more could be said? After a few hours of decent reflection she informs Adela that she will comply with Conon's wishes. After that the castle takes on a joyous activity. [Sidenote: Betrothal Ceremonies] Before the wedding had come the betrothal. It was a solemn ceremony, blessed by the Church. Sire Olivier visited the castle with a great following of relatives and met the shy and blushing Alienor. In the chapel, after suitable prayers by Father Grégoire, the pair had awkwardly enough exchanged their promises! "I will take you for my wife." "And I for my husband." After this there would have been great scandal had either side turned back. The Church affirms energetically, however, that betrothal is _not_ marriage. Otherwise the affianced pair might have considered themselves somewhat wedded on trial, only to repudiate their obligations later. Also, not merely the young couple, but their parents or guardians, had to be present and add their consent; and, of course, all the pledges were sworn to over the holiest relics available. Olivier, during all this happy time, has lodged at the castle of a friendly vassal of St. Aliquis, and he rides over frequently to visit his betrothed. He is excellently bred and knows everything expected of a prospective bridegroom of good family. The alliance has been largely negotiated by his parents, but he has been consulted, understands that Alienor is witty and beautiful, and he is wholly aware of the worldly advantages of being Conon's brother-in-law. At meals he and his beloved are allowed to sit together and above all to eat out of the same porringer, when he delicately leaves to his intended all the best morsels. He consults a competent jongleur, and with his aid produces suitable verses praising his fiancée's beauty. He gives her a gold ring with both his own name and hers engraved thereon. In return, besides a sleeve and a stocking to hang on his lances (gifts which she has already sent in mere friendship to other cavaliers), she bestows a lock of her hair set around a gold ring; likewise a larger lock which he may twine around his helmet. The happy pair are permitted to take long walks together, and to promenade up and down the garden, with Olivier holding his lady in the politest manner by one finger--the accepted method of showing intimacy.[28] We have said that Conon is resolved to knight his brother at the same time he gives his sister in marriage. This involves holding a tourney and many other proceedings really unnecessary for a wedding; but, of course, it will attract a much greater number of guests and advertise the prosperity of the baron of St. Aliquis to all northwestern France. The knighting and tourney will come after the bridal, however, and it is easier to explain the two things separately. We omit the gathering of the wedding guests--the coming of distant counts, barons, and sires; the erection around St. Aliquis of a real village of brilliant tents and pavilions; the ceremonious greetings; the frenzied efforts of the castle folk to make all ready; the inevitable despair, not once, but many times, of Adela, who directs everything. At last it is the morning of _the_ day, in midsummer. No rain and, blessed be St. Martin, not too much heat. Alienor is surrounded by a dozen women, old and young, arraying her for her wedding. [Sidenote: Dressing the Bride] There is no regular bridal costume. Alienor does not dress much differently from what she does on Easter or at some other major festival. Her two great braids of hair are weighted down over her breasts with an extra intertwining with gold thread. Her chemise is of very fine saffron-tinted linen. Her pelisson is completely fringed with magnificent ermine, the gift of the Countess of Perseigne, and the garment itself is made of two cloths sewed together, the inner of fine wool, the outer of beautiful bendal of reddish violet. The whole is laced tightly until Alienor can hardly breathe. Above this garment floats the elegant bliaut, of green silk with long sleeves, many folds, and a long train. There is more silk embroidery and elaborate flouncing. Fairest of all is the girdle, made of many pieces of gold and each set with a good-luck stone--agate to guard against fever, sardonyx to protect against malaria, and many similar. In the clasp are great sapphires which Baron Garnier originally "acquired" from a town merchant shortly before he hanged him. Finally, there is the mantle--again of silk intricately embroidered and dyed with a royal purple. Alienor's pointed shoes are of vermilion leather from Cordova, with still more of gold-thread embroidery. While one female minister is clasping these, her chief pucelle is putting on a small saffron-colored veil, circular, and held down by a golden circlet--a genuine crown; beautifully engraved and set with emeralds. Inevitably the whole process of dressing is prolonged. Alienor is too excited to feel hot or pinched, but her attendants find her very exacting. They bless the Virgin, however, that she is not as some noble brides, who fly into a passion if every hair in their eyebrows is not separately adjusted. Meantime, in a secluded part of the castle, the groom has been wrestling with a similar problem, assisted by his two squires, although requiring less of time and agony. His legs are covered with fine brown silk stockings from Bruges; but it is effeminate to wear a silk shirt--one of fine white linen will answer. His pelisson is like his bride's, although less tightly laced--of cloth and silk, trimmed with rich fur; and the outer color is pale red, inevitably with much gold embroidery around the neck and sleeves. His bliaut does not come below his knees, but it is of blue sendal silk; his mantle is also edged with fur and of the same color as his pelisson. Simple as it is, it must hang exactly right. Everybody will ask, "Did the groom wear his mantle like a great baron?" The squires take a long time adjusting it. Olivier's shoes are of very fine leather. On his crisply curled hair they set a golden chaplet set with flashing gems--very much like that worn by his bride. Hardly are the happy twain ready before the wedding procession forms in the bailey. So large a company could never crowd into the castle chapel. It will go across the bridge over the Claire to the parish church by the village--a Gothic structure sufficiently pretentious to suit the occasion. The Perseignes reckon a bishop among their cousins, and he is on hand to officiate. [Sidenote: Marriage Procession and Ceremony] So the procession forms. Ahead go a whole platoon of jongleurs puffing their cheeks for their flutes, twanging their harps, or rasping their viols. The Feudal Age delights in music, and does not mind if sometimes melody is exchanged merely for a joyous noise. Alienor comes next. She is on a black mule with extra long ears and a finely curried shining coat. His harness is of gold and his trappings of scarlet samite. She has been swung into the saddle by her eldest brother ("Alas! that her father, who should do this, is dead!" murmur all the women), and he as her guardian leads the mule. Olivier rides a tall white palfrey with a saddle of blue leather. His mother, Adela, and all the St. Aliquis and Perseignes female relatives follow on other mules, led by gayly dressed squires. Then come all the noble guests, the Duke of Quelqueparte at their head. No wonder there is no work being done in all the villages for miles around, and that all the villeins are lining the road, doffing caps, and cheering as the dazzling cortége sweeps past. The details at the church we pass over. Among other features to be noted is the fact that the bride is swung down from her mule upon a great truss of straw, that the bishop meets them at the sacred portal, and that outside the actual building Olivier and Alienor exchange those vows which form the essential part of the marriage ceremony. After that Conon's chief provost recites in loud voice all the estates, horses, fine garments, and servitors which the bride brings as her dowry. This customary publication may avert bitter disputes later. Next the happy pair scatter newly coined silver deniers among the swarm of ill-favored mendicants permitted to elbow and scramble among the more pretentious guests. Finally, the church is thrown open. The great nave opens mysterious and dark, but galaxies of candles are burning and the lofty stained-glass windows gleam like jewels. Olivier and Alienor occupy seats of honor in the choir, while the bishop says the very solemn mass of the Trinity and pronounces a special blessing over them. "Let this woman," intones the prelate, "be amiable as Rachel, wise as Rebecca, faithful as Sarah. Let her be sober through truth, venerable through modesty, and wise through the teaching of Heaven." So at last the mass ends. The "Agnus Dei" is chanted. The bridegroom advances to the altar and receives from the bishop the kiss of peace. Then he turns, and right at the foot of the great crucifix embraces his wife and transmits the kiss to her. This act completes the ceremony. Away the whole company go from the church. They have been condemned to silence for nearly two hours, and are glad now to chatter like magpies. When back at St. Aliquis they find the great hall has been swept, garnished, and decorated as never before. The walls of the hall are hung with the pictured tapestries or beautiful pieces of red and green silk. Your feet crush fresh roses and lilies scattered on the floor. Alienor almost bursts with delight at the number of high-born cavaliers and dames who press up to kiss and congratulate. All the remainder of her life she will match weddings with her friends: "I had so many counts and barons at my marriage." "But I had so many!" All these guests, however, expect to receive presents--bliauts, mantles, goblets, and other things, each suitable to the recipient. It is well that Conon has saved many livres in his strong box. The presenting of the gifts by the host is quite a ceremony; each article has to be accompanied by a well-turned speech. By the time this reception to the bride and groom is over the trumpets sound furiously. They tell that the feast is ready in the fragrant garden under the trees. There is a fine tent of blue silk for the bridal party and the more exalted guests. All the others must sit on long tables open to the glad sunshine. [Sidenote: The Marriage Feast] What Messire Conon's guests have to eat and drink is so serious a topic that we must tell thereof separately. We speak here merely concerning the festivities of the wedding. Olivier and Alienor are served by two barons as squires of state. The groom drinks from a great goblet, then sends it to his wife, who ceremoniously finishes the draught. In the bridal tent there is a reasonable amount of decorum, but elsewhere (Blessed martyrs!) what noise and tumult! All the villeins appear to be there, and burghers have even wandered up from Pontdebois. It will never do to have men say, "The bride was charming, but her brother stinted his hospitality." Enough food and drink is gorged and guzzled to stave off a famine next winter. The jongleurs keep quiet during the first part of the feast; later they earn their dinner by singing of the loves of Jourdain and Orabel or of Berte, who was the faithful wife of Girard of Roussillon through all of her lord's adversity. At many of the tables the jesting and horseplay become unspeakably ribald. After the wine circulates two petty nobles quarrel; one strikes the other with a drinking cup, but the sergeants pull them apart before they can whip out swords. After three hours of this some guests are sleeping stertorously under the trees; but those nobles who have kept their wits go to another large tent, and, despite their heavy meal, dance with vigor. The bride and groom are expected to dance together, and everybody is prepared to admire the beauty of one and the grace and strength of the other. As evening advances a priest appears. He solemnly blesses the nuptial couch strewn with roses, while the new couple piously kneel. The couch is then "censed" like an altar, and the women guests join in the bizarre usages of "putting the bride to bed." The morning after the marriage the newly wedded pair attend mass in the castle chapel. Here they are expected to make privately all kinds of vows of good conduct, and Alienor especially promises always to obey her husband, and call him dutifully "mon sire" and "mon baron." The festivities will last two weeks longer, and conclude with the dubbing of knights and the tournament, whereof more presently. After that Olivier and his wife will depart for their Burgundian castle without anything like a honeymoon to strange parts.... So they celebrate the wedding at St. Aliquis. Very far is it from being a love match of a later day; yet there is a decent hope of happiness for the two most deeply interested. A new spirit in the relations of men and women has been creeping into the world since Greek and Roman days, and if this spirit too often manifests itself in illicit romances it is something if romantic love can exist at all, and if, also, in many an instance (as the jongleurs already like to tell us), their story can run that "thus the twain were wedded, and forevermore lived together happily." It was as early as about 1160 that the South Country troubador, Bernart de Ventadoun, sang about the great motive which was coming to add beauty to the world: "For indeed I know Of no more subtle passion under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid; Not only to keep down the base within a man, But teach high thought and amiable words, And courtliness and the desire of fame And love of truth, and all that makes a man!" FOOTNOTES: [24] Of course, the northern climate and the fact that the Germanic tribes wore many garments of skins and leather were contributing factors. [25] From a mediæval _Treatise of Instructions to a Young Lady_. [26] Troubadour and romance love stories were thus likely to revolve around very young and flighty people. If they survived this critical period of youth they were likely to be staid and sober enough the rest of their lives. [27] How serious the problem of the "forbidden degrees" could be is shown by the case of the pious Louis VII of France, who put away his wife, the great heiress Eleanor of Aquitaine, because he was the fifth in descent from Hugh Capet, who had married a sister of the great-great-grandfather of Eleanor. Of course, the marriage had actually proved uncongenial before this point was raised. [28] Friends would seldom walk arm in arm. Two persons of the same sex or of different sexes would walk familiarly hand in hand, or, if especially friendly, one leading the other by a single finger. Chapter VII: Cookery and Mealtimes. Now it is as certain as that God reigns in heaven, that if one desires a wedding and a tournament, although the first thought must be of raiment, the second must be of food and drink. When Conon bids Adela make ready for the festivities, straightway that prudent dame sends for the butler and the cellarer and takes account of everything stowed away in the great vaults under the castle. Then she orders the chief huntsman muster all his beaters and course the forests, not for sport, but for victuals. At the same time nets are set out in the Claire; purveyors with their carts are ordered up from Pontdebois, and a messenger is even sent to Troyes to bring back a tun of rare Grecian wine. All available maids from the village are requisitioned to make great pasties, and a master cook is imported from Paris to prepare special cakes and pastries. In short, it is no light thing even for the huge St. Aliquis household to prepare to feed several thousands without aid of those miracles which caused five loaves and two fishes to suffice in the days of our Blessed Lord. For the baron's feast the great fireplace in the bailey cookhouse is insufficient. They build fires in the open out in the tilt yard or garden and all day perspiring varlets stand feeding on great logs over which roast long spits of chickens and geese, or boil caldrons of meat. In the cookhouse, where the finer dishes must be prepared, the master cook has a true arsenal of utensils--pots, trivets, mortar and pestle, a table for mincing herbs, pothooks, caldrons, frying pans and gridirons, saucepans, platters, a pepper mill, dressing board, scummer, ladle, and many things else. There is no lack of help in the kitchen. Half a dozen loutish boys gladly work there all day long (receiving, incidentally, many of the cook's hard knocks) in return for being allowed to lick the pans and gnaw the scraps, so cheap is human labor. [Illustration: COOKS From a manuscript in the Bodleian Library at Oxford (Wright).] [Sidenote: Cookery and Mealtimes] On ordinary days we would marvel at the quantity of boiled meat served at St. Aliquis. About the only way to preserve meat is to salt it (the vats of the castle are full of salted meat kept against winter or a siege), and this flesh must ordinarily be boiled. The result is that a great copper meat pot seems always in action, with a boy pumping the bellows to make the caldron bubble. But fowls and fresh meat are often boiled as well. Butcher's meat, however, is less welcome at feasts than is game. An ideal dish is a stag, roasted whole in the great fireplace, crisped and larded, then cut up into quarters and served on very large plates. Upon such dishes is poured a hot, steaming pepper sauce. Therefore a stag will be served at the wedding banquet besides many other kinds of choice game. [Illustration: PORK BUTCHERS (BOURGES)] Since there are no iceboxes, unsalted meat must be eaten soon after being killed, although your feudal epicure is not squeamish. Beef and mutton are often killed, cut up, and cooked almost on the spot. There is a story of a butcher who, coming late to a town, got a lodging at the priest's house, and to pay for his quarters killed the sheep which they ate for supper. But pork is probably the commonest meat. Conon has great droves of hogs fattening out in his oak forests, which supply abundant crops of acorns. Pigs seem to penetrate almost everywhere save into messire's and madame's chamber. They are the general scavengers and apparently replace plumbing and sewerage systems. They infest castle courts and the streets of towns. In 1131 the Crown Prince of France was killed in Paris by a pig which ran between the legs of his horse as he rode from the Hotel de Ville to the Church of St. Gervais. People will tell you that pork promotes leprosy, but, nevertheless, they devour it. Pork, too, is the main substance of those great sausages and black puddings in which everybody delights, especially on Easter, when you break your Lenten fast with as much heavy food as possible. Veal, too, is desirable, as is the flesh of kids; but lamb is by no means so much in favor. Almost all kinds of birds are counted edible. Herons, cranes, storks, cormorants, and such fowl as can be taken by hawks are in preference, but crows are considered very fair eating. The flock of stately swans by the mouth of the Rapide has just been depleted, for these elegant birds are kept for the kitchen rather than for ornament. As for small fowl--thrushes, starlings, blackbirds, quail, partridges, and cuckoos--the varlets can bring in as many as possible with their crossbows and snares. Young rabbits, likewise, are welcome, but older rabbits are too tough save for the diet of the least-considered villeins. Everybody knows the saying, "An old hare and an old goose are food for the devil!" There is plenty of poultry around St. Aliquis. Most Christians hold that birds are of aquatic origin, hence, like fish, can be eaten on fast days, although the Church opposes this opinion, and is slowly overcoming it. Chickens have been fattened for the feast by shutting them up in dark coops and gorging them. Droves of geese have been coming in from the fields, great honking armies, crowding the narrow way, hissing and biting, but all propelled steadily ahead by the cracking whips of the small goosegirls. Ducks are more commonly preferred in their wild stage; but out in the exercise ground several peacocks have been preening themselves, and at least two of these are now sacrificed to make a gala dish to serve the highest seigneurs, for peacocks are counted especial "food for the brave." Indeed, there is the old proverb that "thieves have as much taste for falsehood as a hungry man for a cooked peacock."[29] Fish is hardly in great request. One is likely to have too much of it on the numerous fast days. Still, out of the Claire they draw excellent barbel and eels; there are carp in a near-by pond, and splendid trout in the brooks that feed the Rapide. The lads bring in many. If you go to Paris you can eat salt herring taken in the North Sea. All through the spring, furthermore, the St. Aliquis folk have had their fill of frogs' legs from the castle moat and the numerous bogs, and Conon has a "snail bed" to provide snails for garnishings and salads during Lent and on Fridays. [Sidenote: Game Birds and Poultry] One cannot stay at the castle long and not discover the vast importance of soup. One partakes thereof at least twice per day: "dried peas and bacon water," watercress soup, cabbage soup, cheese soup, and "poor man's soup" (made up of odds and ends collected on short warning), and fish soups for Lent. All the better soups are spiced with marjoram, sage, and sweet basil, if not with the favorite condiment, pepper. But what are soups compared with meat pies? Whenever the castle cook is in doubt how to please their lordships he decides upon a noble pasty. Much thought has been concentrated upon this subject. There are little poems to be memorized by illiterate cooks explaining this triumph of their mystery--_e.g._, that they should use "three young partridges large and fat, not forgetting six quail put on their side"; add to these thrushes, some bacon, some sour grapes, and a little salt. Then if all is made aright, the crust nicely rolled of pure flour, and the "oven of proper heat with the bottom quite free from ashes," when all is baked enough "you will have a dish to feast on"! Other pasties can be made of chickens, venison, salmon, eels, pigeons, geese, and other kinds of meat. Probably, in fact, more energy goes into making the pasties than into any other one form of culinary effort. The St. Aliquis folk are not at all vegetarians, but they cannot eat meat forever, and the poorer peasants seldom touch flesh save on important feast days. The cooks have at their disposal onions and garlic, cabbages and beets, carrots and artichokes, lentils and both long and broad beans, peas, turnips, lettuce, parsley, water cress--in short, nearly all the vegetables of a different age save the all-important potato. Turnips are in favor, and figure in far more dietaries than they will do later. Cabbages, too, are in request: there are Roman white cabbages, huge Easter cabbages, and especially the Senlis cabbages, renowned for their excellent odor. Cucumbers are supposed to cause fever, but Herman raises some in the garden for the salads. As always, bread is the staff of life. Naturally, the villeins have to use flour that is very coarse and made of barley, rye, or oats--producing black bread, before which noble folk shudder. It is one of the signs of messire's prosperity that all his household are ordinarily fed on white bread. In the castle ovens they make a great variety of loaves--huge "pope's" or "knight's" loaves, smaller "squire's" loaves, and little "varlet's" loaves, or rolls. There is a soft bread made of milk and butter, a dog bread, and two-color bread of alternate layers of wheat and rye. Then there are the table loaves, sizable pieces of bread to be spread around the tables, from which courteous cavaliers will cut all the crust with their knives and pass the remainder to the ladies, their companions, to soak up in their soup. The servants have less select common bread, although it is still wheaten. Finally, there are twice-baked breads, or crackers. These are often used in monasteries, also in the provisioning of castles against a siege. [Sidenote: Breads, Pastries and Cheese] Fancy jellies, pastries, and sweet dishes are coming into vogue, although they have not reached the perfection to be attained by later French cookery; but for the St. Aliquis feast they are able to prepare great molded structures of lions and suns, made of white chicken and pink jelly. The quantity of spices used is simply enormous. To enjoy food thus charged, especially with pepper, is an acquired taste, which developed following the First Crusade. The cooks, too, use a liberal supply of mustard, and a favorite sauce is made from strong garlic. Fresh and pickled olives are sent up from Provence, likewise a good deal of olive oil; but the oil used in common cooking is often extracted from walnuts or even from poppies. Another favorite flavoring is with rose water. All through June you can see great basins of water filled with rose petals steeping in the sun. The liquor thus obtained will add zest to sauces for the next twelve months. There is also a certain whitish substance known as "sugar." It comes from the Levant, in small irregular lumps. Its flavoring qualities are delightful, but it is too expensive to use in cookery. A small quantity is passed about among Conon's higher guests, to be eaten as a confection. The ordinary sweetening is still that of the Greeks and Romans, honey, supplied from the well-kept hives of the bees belonging to the monastery. Cheeses hardly figure in feasts, but for everyday diet they are important. On feast days they often replace meat. Their varieties are legion--white, green, large, small, etc. Some places produce famous cheeses exported all over France, and in Paris one can hear the street venders shrilly chanting: "Buy my cheese from Champagne, Or my cheese from Brie!" As for eggs and butter, they are gifts of the kindly saints, to carry men through Lent and fast days. Theologians have said that hens were aquatic creatures, like other birds; that hence good Christians could eat their eggs freely. But butter (by some unaccountable notion) if eaten during times of abstinence, must be freshly churned. It must not be salted, nor used for cooking purposes. Passing next to beverages, be it said that the St. Aliquis denizens are fairly abstemious folk. All of them sometimes get tipsy, even Adela and Alienor, but only seldom. Conon's servants help him to bed once or twice per year. Down in the villages there are disgraceful guzzlings among the peasants, especially on saints' days. But the beverages are not very alcoholic--one must absorb a great deal to be really upset. The region grows its own wine for ordinary consumption, and a little thereof is shipped to Paris and even to Flanders and England, along with the more famous vintages of Gascony, Saintonge, Macon, Rheims, the Marne, and the Orleanais. The most desirable French wine is that of St. Pourcain, in Auvergne, and the baron has a carefully cherished tun of the same in his cellars. Poems, indeed, exist in praise of this St. Pourcain wine, "which you drink for the good of your health." On occasions of great state, however, imported wines will be produced, mainly because they are unusual and expensive. The St. Aliquis feasters are consequently offered heady Cyprian and Lesbian from the Levant, also Aquilian from Spain, and not a little Rhenish from the German lands, less distant. [Sidenote: Wine, Beer and Other Drinks] In the autumn when the apples and pears are falling, the peasants will make cider and perry, and get outrageously drunk when these beverages grow hard; but outside of Normandy such drink seldom appeals to castle folk. There are also in common use many substitute wines, really infusions of wormwood, hyssop, and rosemary, and taken mostly to clear the system; although "nectar" made of spices, Asiatic aromatics, and honey is really in request. The great competitor of wine is beer. In northern France we are in the dividing zone between the land of the winepress and the land of the brewhouse. Everybody drinks beer and makes beer. The castle has a great brewhouse; likewise the monastery. Beer is made of barley, and only late in the Middle Ages will hops be added to add to the zest. Really fine beer is _god-ale_ (from the German "good" and "ale") or "double beer." Common beer is "small beer." Since the Crusaders have returned from the East, spiced beer has been growing in favor--charged with juniper, resin, gentian, cinnamon, and the like, until the original taste has been wholly destroyed. The St. Aliquis folk do not, however disdain buttermilk. This they like to ferment, boil up with onions and garlic, then cool in a closed vessel. The product is _serat_, the enjoyment of which is surely difficult for a stranger. Another form of beverage is not quite unknown. Some physicians prescribe water of gold and allege it "prolongs health, dissipates superfluous matters, revives the spirits, and promotes youth." Also it "greatly assists the cure of colic, dropsy, paralysis, and ague." Of a surety, it aids the patient temporarily to forget his troubles. Yet this is hardly more than a costly medicine. Many years later it will become more common; but its name will be changed to "brandy." The usages even of a great dinner depend largely on the customs of everyday life. One cannot understand the splendors of the marriage feast of Sire Olivier and Alienor without knowing what goes on regularly in the hall of St. Aliquis. When the day is started we have seen how everybody arises to a very light breakfast of bread and wine, although sometimes, as in the epic of Doon of Mayence, when the work promises to be arduous, the baron's squire may bring him a favorite pasty because "eating early in the morning brings health and gives one greater courage and spirit." Dinner also, we have discovered, can begin as early as nine in the morning, and a good part of the day's business comes after this heavy meal. Sometimes when dinner is late you do not serve your guests any regular supper, but when they go to bed have the attendants bring cakes and fruits and wine. If you entertain guests, however, always it is proper to try to make them eat and drink as much as possible. There is a story of an overhospitable Count of Guines who not merely constrained any knight passing through his dominions to a feast, but kept quantities of white wine always on hand, so that if his visitors asked to have their red wine diluted with water, they might be hoodwinked by seeing a white liquid mixed in their goblets. In this way he once rendered the whole suite of a bishop gloriously intoxicated! The ingenious Bartolomes of Granvilla has laid down the following requisites for an ideal banquet: (1) a suitable hour, not too early nor too late; (2) a pleasant place; (3) a gracious and liberal host; (4) plenty to eat, so one may choose one's dishes; (5) the same as to things to drink; (6) willing servants; (7) agreeable company; (8) pleasant music; (9) plenty of light; (10) good cooking; (11) a seasonable conclusion; (12) quiet and repose afterward. A marriage feast and a tourney can hardly provide this twelfth desideratum, but they ought, with proper management, to supply everything else. [Illustration: SERVANTS BRINGING THE FOOD TO THE TABLE From a manuscript of the thirteenth century in the library of Munich (Schultz).] [Sidenote: Service at Table] The tables for the notables are laid and served by two classes of attendants; first by Conon's three squires, aided on this grand occasion by several young nobles who have actually received knighthood; second, by the older professional servitors of villein stock. The first class of attendants are resplendent in bliauts of colored silk with fur trimmings. Most of the dishes will be passed to them by the soberly clad villeins, then to be presented on bended knee by noble hands to noble guests. The whole process is under Sire Eustace, the old seneschal, who orders about his platoons of attendants with as much precision as he might command the men at arms for defense of the castle. It is part of a squire's education to learn to wait on table. One may have to do this for some superior all one's life, unless one be king or emperor! Conon's squires have been taught to stand at perfect ease; not to roll their eyes or stare blankly; not to laugh save when guests are laughing; to keep their finger nails clean and hands well washed. If they sit at table themselves they are models of propriety. They do not gobble down their food, but put a little from every plate into the basket of collected leavings for the poor; they do not chatter, nor fill their mouths too full, nor chew on both sides of the mouth at once, nor laugh or talk with a mouthful, nor make a noise by overeating, nor handle cats or dogs during mealtime, nor wipe their knives on the tablecloth, nor pick their teeth publicly, nor wipe their noses with their fingers, nor (last but not least) spit across the table or beyond it.[30] The tables are nearly always long and narrow. In the great hall they are fixed and of heavy oak planks, but there are plenty of light tables of boards to be set on horses, if the seneschal suddenly says, "The weather is fine; Messire will dine in the garden." The favored guests are provided with cushions, and, of course, in the hall the baron and his immediate friends and family sit on the long master-seat on the dais, facing the company, and with the baron's own chair under a canopy. This canopy is the sign of high seigneurial privilege. One will be set for Conon even when he sits in the garden; and he will never surrender his place save when he entertains a superior, like his suzerain the duke, or when, as at present, all other claims fade before those of a bridal couple. Indoors or outdoors, it is no mean art to lay the tables. Enormous tablecloths have to be spread out smoothly, and set with napkins neatly doubled; also at each place a suitable drinking vessel, and a knife and spoon. These articles, gold or silver, are carefully handed out by the seneschal. They represent a good fraction of the portable wealth of the castle and must be laboriously counted before and after use. The knives are sharp steel for serious business. The drinking cups are often of bizarre forms--lions, birds, and dragons, while for the humbler folk there are huge cups of wood and also large "jacks" of leather. At every place, too, there must be a good-sized cake of fine white flour, and between every two places there is a large porringer (pewter or silver) to be shared by each pair of guests. [Sidenote: Entering the Dining Hall] Feast day or fast day, it is the loud blast on trumpets which sends the mighty and the humble bustling toward the garden or the hall. Of course, at a wedding feast there is some little formality, but ordinarily in the St. Aliquis household the good-natured jostling and scampering is prodigious. Men and women live close to nature and are always conscious of rousing appetites. On ordinary days when you entered the baron's hall, you would take your turn at the lavatory close to the entrance. Here would be several little washstands with pitchers and basins, and everybody would fall in line in order of precedence: first, any visiting clergy; then visiting knights; then the seigneur's family, etc. The hand washing presents a great chance for flirtation among the young: Olivier and Alienor had great delight "passing the towel" to each other during their betrothal. But now at a great festival, when you enter the special banqueting tent you are met by two handsome varlets. The first holds a water jug and a small basin. Water is dexterously poured over your fingers, and as promptly wiped off by the second varlet, and each guest patiently waits until the persons ahead have enjoyed this courtesy. So they enter the tent, and the magnates make for the seats of honor. The placing of the company has been a matter of serious deliberation between Messire Conon and the sage Sire Eustace. Of course, to-day the bride and groom take the canopy. At Olivier's right must be the officiating bishop. At the bishop's right must be the suzerain Duke of Quelqueparte, and at Olivier's left must be the bride and the Count and Countess of Perseigne. All that is standardized. But how locate the dozen other counts and barons who, with their dames, have honored the bridal? Will the old rival Foretvert stomach it now if he is seated farther from the canopy than the Count of Maric, who is richer and of a more ancient house? Bloody feuds have started from failure to seat guests properly. It is a matter for supreme diplomacy. So far as possible, a lady is placed beside each cavalier. The two will use the same dish and the same goblet during the entire feast--obviously another case where one is compelled to test one's brains while selecting partners. [Illustration: YOUNG GIRLS OF THE NOBILITY SERVING AT THE TABLE From a thirteenth-century manuscript of the library of Munich (Schultz).] [Sidenote: Serving the Banquet] So the feast begins after grace by the bishop. An endless procession commences between the cookhouse and the banqueting place--boys running with great dishes which they commit to the more official servitors to pass to the guests. It is a solemn moment, followed by cheering, when into the bridal tent, with clash of cymbals and bray of trumpet, Sire Eustace in a bright scarlet bliaut enters, waving his white wand and followed by all the squires and upper servants, each carrying shoulder high a huge dish of some viand. A great haunch of the stag is set on the table. The baron's carver cuts ample slices, while two jongleurs blow at their flutes. He holds the meat "by two fingers and a thumb" (no fork), plying a great knife as a surgeon might his scalpel. Equal skill is demanded of the cup-bearers when they fill the flagons, not spilling a drop. Even the bride and groom are now hungry and ready for the venison. The banqueters have little need of plates. They take the loaves lying ready, hack them into thick slices, place the pieces of meat upon the same, then cut up the meat while it is resting on the bread. These "trenchers" (_tranchoirs_) will not ordinarily be eaten at the feast; they go into the great alms basket for the poor, along With the meat scraps. However, the higher guests to-day enjoy a luxury. Silver plates are placed under their bread trenchers. For most guests, however, the bare tablecloth is bottom enough for these substitutes for the porcelain of another day. Whatever does not go into the alms basket will be devoured by the baron's dogs, who attend every meal by prescriptive right. Indeed, early in the feast the Duke of Quelqueparte benevolently tosses a slice of venison to a fine boarhound. Time fails to repeat all the good things which Conon and Adela set before their guests. The idea is to tempt the appetite to utter satiety by forcing first one dish upon the feasters, and then another. There is not really a good sequence of courses. Most of the dishes are heavy; and inasmuch as vegetables are in great demand on common occasions, the average banquet seems one succession of varieties of meat. The noble folk in the bridal pavilion have at least a chance to eat their fill of these comestibles: [Sidenote: Typical Bills-of-Fare] First course: Slices of stag, boar's head larded with herb sauce, beef, mutton, legs of pork, swan, roasted rabbit, pastry tarts. Second course: Pottage of "drope and rose" mallard, pheasant and roast capon, pasties of small birds. Third course: Rabbits in gravy heavily spiced with onion and saffron; roasted teal, woodcock and snipe; patties filled with yolk of eggs, cheese, and cinnamon, and pork pies. No salads, no ices, no confectionery; nevertheless, some of the dishes are superb--notably the swan, which is brought once more on with music, prinked out as if he were alive and swimming, his beak gilt, his body silvered, resting on a mass of green pastry to represent a grass field, and with little banners around the dish, which is placed on a carpet of silk when they lay it on the table. The cooks might also serve a peacock with outspread plumage. Instead, toward the close of the repast, two squires tug in an enormous pasty. Amid an expectant hush Conon rises and slashes the pasty open with a dagger. Instantly out flutter a score of little birds which begin to dash about the tent; but immediately the baron's falconers stand grinning at the entrance. They unhood a second score of hawks which in a twinkling pounce after the wretched birds and kill them, to the shouts and delight of the feasters, right above the tables. Inevitably there is confusion, rustling by the ladies and merry scrambling, before the squawking hawks can be caught, hooded, and taken away. In fact, from the beginning the feast is extremely noisy. Everybody talks at once. The appearance of the stag has started innumerable hunting stories. The duke has to tell his loyal lieges how he slew a bear. Two of the baron's dogs get to fighting and almost upset the chair of a countess. Everything is very merry. [Illustration: A FEAST OF CEREMONY IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY It was the custom during the repast to bring in enormous pâtés which held little live birds: these flew about the hall when the crust of the pâté was broken; immediately the servants loosened falcons which gave chase. This part of the feast is represented here.] If an elaborate dinner had been required on a so-called fast day, the cooks could still have met the occasion and yet have kept within the commands of the Church; although not merely would there have been much fish, but also more vegetables. The guests could have been served with roast apples garnished with sorrel and rosemary; then might have come a rich soup made of trout, herring, eels salted twenty-four hours, and salt whiting soaked twelve hours, almonds, ginger, saffron, and cinnamon powder. If possible to bring them up from the ocean, there would have been soles, congers, turbots, and salmon--and in any case these can be had salted--the rivers in turn supply pike (preferably with roe), carp, and bream. For side dishes there can be lampreys, porpoise, mackerel, and shad served with juice of crab apples, rice, and fried almonds. Finally might come stewed or ripe fruits--figs, dates, grapes, and filberts; the whole washed down with spiced wine (hippocras). To the minds of men of a later age this fast-day dinner might seem only a little less gorging than the orthodox feast upon meats. But elaborate as is this wedding banquet, at last everybody has had his fill. The concluding baked pears, the peeled walnuts, dates, and figs have been passed. The noble dames have chewed their unfamiliar sugar plums. A last cup of spiced wine is handed around, but nobody has drunk too much to become worse than merrily talkative. Before rising the guests have all very properly "thought of the poor," called in the servitors and piled all the loose food upon great platters to be kept for the needy. To-day, in fact, all the indigent in the region are eating voraciously at the outer tables, but on the morrow of a festival day you will see a great collection of halt, sickly, and shiftless hanging around the barbican in just expectation that Conon and Adela will order a distribution.[31] At last the bishop returns thanks; basins, pitchers, and towels are again carried around. Then the guests rise, some to mingle with the less exalted visitors outside, some to repose under the shade trees, some to listen to the jongleurs who are now tuning their instruments, and many (especially the younger) to get ready for the thing we have seen they liked almost the best--extremely vigorous dancing. Outside of the state pavilion the service has naturally been less ceremonious and the fare less sumptuous, but all of the countryside has been welcome to wander into the castle gardens and to partake. Greasy, unkempt villeins have been elbowing up to the long tables, snatching joints of meat, bawling to the servitors to refill their leather flagons, and throwing bits of cheese and bread around in an outrageously wasteful manner. Thousands of persons, apparently many of whom will be happy if they can have black bread all through the winter, are trying to-day to avenge past hunger by devouring and drinking just as much as possible. Sire Eustace is continually calling; "Another tun of wine! Another vat of beer! Another quarter of beer!" These viands for the multitude are not select, but there are bread, flesh, and drink without stinting. Fortunate it is that Conon has not _two_ marriageable sisters, or there would be naught left to eat on the seigneury! [Sidenote: Wholesale Hospitality] As the shadows lengthen everybody seems satisfied. The villeins and petty nobles lay down their flagons. Groups of friends, if sufficiently sober, begin to sing songs in a round, each member improvising a doggerel verse, and the group thundering out the chorus. But many of the guests do not retain wits enough for recreations. While their noble hosts are dancing, the others throw themselves on the grass in companies to watch or listen to the jongleurs: then as the wedding dances finish, Olivier and Alienor come out of the great tent to take their seats on flower-wreathed chairs before the principal minstrels, and by their presence give some decorum to what threatens to become a disgracefully confused and coarse form of reveling. For a great feast the jongleurs seem, in fact, almost as indispensable as the cooks. We have now to ask the nature of North French minstrelsy.[32] FOOTNOTES: [29] Peacocks, as especially desirable poultry, practically took the place of the turkey of later days. [30] The existence of many of these prohibitions in the etiquette manuals shows that they were not unneeded. [31] See p. 275. [32] What actually was involved in the way of mere victuals for a public feast in the Middle Ages is shown by the following record of the hospitality dispensed by an archbishop of York, England, in 1466. There is no reason for believing such lavish "feeding of the multitude" was not fairly common also in France a little earlier. This festival required, by formal record, "300 quarters of wheat, 300 tuns of ale, 100 tuns of wine, 104 oxen, 100 sheep, 304 calves, 304 swine, 400 swans, 2,000 geese, 1,000 capons, 2,000 pigs, 100 dozen quails, 4,000 mallards and teal, 204 cranes, 204 kids, 2,000 ordinary chickens, 4,000 pigeons, and over 500 stags, bucks, and roes." In addition there were made up "4,000 cold venison pasties, 3,000 dishes of jelly, 4,000 baked tarts, 1,500 hot venison pasties, 2,000 hot custards" and proportionate quantities of spices, sweetened delicacies, and wafer cakes. Evidently the archbishop was deliberately planning to feast the entire population of a considerable area of England. Conon's hospitality herein depicted was, of course, nothing like this. Chapter VIII: The Jongleurs and Secular Literature and Poetry. The St. Aliquis folk delight in music. It is very desirable for a cavalier to have a rich voice and know how to twang a harp. Aimery, soon to be Sire Aimery, can sing and play as well as many minstrels. Adela spent many hours at her viol and at a little portable organ before family cares took up her time. Five or six of the servitors hold their places mainly because they can play so excellently at those impromptu dances which Conon gives on every possible occasion.[33] You cannot linger long around the castle without hearing the lutes, the flutes, and the castanets, and in confining weather in winter the music keeps up almost the whole day long. [Illustration: SMALL PORTABLE ORGAN OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY From a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale.] However, variety is the spice of life. It is a red-letter day when a new jongleur or, better still, a troupe of jongleurs arrive. They will teach new music, new songs, new tricks to the regular denizens, and break up that desperate monotony which sometimes causes the barons to fret with a pent-up energy and to precipitate new wars merely to get relief. As for a great fête like the present, obviously a large corps of entertainers must be mobilized. The mere news through the region that messire proposed a marriage feast and a tourney has been enough to start many such itinerant gentry toward St. Aliquis. Sire Eustace was overwhelmed with offers of assistance and has had to chase away some of the would-be entertainers almost by force. [Sidenote: Varieties of Dances] Jongleurs are versatile people, and each of them has his specialty. Their name, "jongleur," like "charity," covers a multitude of sins. Some of them are merely expert players upon the viol, and supply music for dancers. The dances of noble folk are simple: often enough fair dames and cavaliers merely take hold of one another's hands and whirl themselves furiously in a circle, while the music goes faster and faster until the revelers cease and almost sink of exhaustion. Then there are variations when the cavaliers decorously drop from the ring and bow to their ladies; or the "dance of the chaplet," at the end of which each cavalier ceremoniously kisses his lady on the cheek--kissing between equals being quite proper if it is not on the lips. It takes rather more skill, as at present, when young Aimery dances an intricate galliard with the daughter of the Baron of Bovri. The two performers stand opposite to each other, advancing, bowing, and retiring, every step made to music; then at last the cavalier makes his bow to the lady, takes her by the hand, thanks her, and leads her to her seat. After that another noble couple dances the _tourdion_, a similar performance, but faster and with more violent action. For all this competent musicians are indispensable. But a good jongleur is far more than a musician. He can dance himself, with intricate acrobatic figures impossible for the unprofessional; he can sing love songs, chant or recite romances; and, if he has companions, even present short farces and comedies. He is probably possessed also of series of tricks and sleight-of-hand accomplishments, which appeal more to the groundlings than do high-flown poetic recitals. If he can reach the summit of his profession he will be received at castles almost as the equal of the seigneur, and be able to retire rich, after having been showered with such gifts as palfreys, furs, jewels, mantles of red cloth, and, of course, with much money. Jongleurs recall with pride their fellow-minstrel Tallefer, who gallantly led the charge of the Normans at Hastings, trolling the Song of Roland as he tossed up his sword and caught it again in the very face of the English, and who fell in the battle only after making as much havoc among the foe as would a paladin. [Illustration: ACROBATS Reproductions by the English archæologist Strutt, from various fourteenth-century manuscripts in England.] [Sidenote: Depraved Mountebanks] There is a great distance, however, between such pretentious folk and the run of minstrels. A little while since a mountebank pair called at St. Aliquis. They called themselves by grotesque names, "Brise-Tête" and "Tue-Boeuf." When they had disposed of a pork pasty, the seneschal made it plain they had better pay for their dinner. Thereupon Tue-Boeuf produced a harp, and Brise-Tête leaped on the table, flung his arms and legs about, and showed himself a regular acrobat. After that his companions set the lads and girls to "ah-ing!" by swallowing knives and by apparently eating red brands right out of the fireplace. Next the twain joined in a witty dialogue presenting a clutching priest wheedling money out of a miserly burgher; and finally Tue-Boeuf began telling stories so outrageous that Adela (not more squeamish than most dames) bade her sister-in-law to retire. So the two kept the whole hall laughing through a rainy afternoon, and Conon contented his entertainers each with a denier.[34] They slept on the straw under the tables and were off early the next morning. Their repertory was probably exceedingly limited, and they must have spent their lives wandering from castle to castle, seldom tarrying anywhere more than a single night. Other jongleurs have appeared with trick dogs and monkeys, and who could themselves dance through hoops, perform such feats as tossing up two small apples and catching each simultaneously on the point of a knife held in each hand, or prove themselves genuine contortionists, as is declared in the old Latin poem: He folds himself, He unfolds himself, And in unfolding himself, He folds himself! It is often a question, indeed, to tell when a jongleur is really anything more than a roving scoundrel. Certes, they frequently seem full of thievishness, licentiousness, and lies. With them are frequently low jongleuresses, women capable of corrupting a whole monastery. The Church denounces this entire breed, male and female, as "ministers of the devil." All the vices which other ages impute to actors are charged against them, and there is an old jesting question, "Which would you rather be, a jongleur or a robber?" Answer: "A robber." Nevertheless, God knows that people must be amused, and jongleurs are almost indispensable. Besides, as we have seen, not all are of this sinful class. The higher grade of jongleurs sometimes travel in considerable companies. They bring an orchestra of music--viols,[35] guitars, and gigues--long, slim, stringed instruments shaped like a figure eight--and, of course, including flutes, harps, and even little portable organs on which you work the bellows with one hand and press the keys with the other, something like an accordion. Horns are not lacking, nor dulcimers, nor cymbals. The Feudal Ages miss the piano, but otherwise have plenty of sweet-toned instruments. [Sidenote: Superior Type of Jongleur] Each member of such a troupe has his specialty, and some of the feats are wonderful. There is usually a slim girl who can perform a "Herodias's daughter's dance" so magnificently that everybody can understand how the Palestinian princess took in the gullible king by her acrobatic feats. She can even dance on her hands and kick her feet in the air, to the great delight of all but the more sanctimonious guests. Vainly did the holy St. Bernard inveigh against the seigneurs who receive such troupes in their castles: "A man fond of jongleurs will soon possess a wife named Poverty. The tricks of jongleurs can never please God." Certain it is that at the wedding the bishop and his priests, after a few _pro forma_ coughings, seem laughing as loudly as do the barons at all the tricks of Conon's entertainers. [Illustration: DANCER OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc (Musée de Toulouse).] A great feast demands enough jongleurs to entertain many different circles. While one bold fellow is keeping the villeins roaring by the antics of his tame bear, while three others (including a woman) are dancing grossly upon a platform before other gaping hundreds, a superior member of their mystery is attracting again many noble guests to the banqueting tent. He is no common performer. Messire sent all the way to Chalons for him, promising ample reward. Maître Edmond boasts that he is a Christian--meaning he takes his profession as a kind of lay priesthood. He is on friendly terms with great prelates. He never recites the scurrilous little _fabliaux_ assailing the clergy. He knows by heart, however, nearly all the great epics and romances. His rich bliaut of green silk sets forth his impressive figure. His gestures are eloquent. He can work upon the imaginations of his audience and move it to tears, acclamations, or wild excitement. In a later age he would, in short, be a great actor or an equally great "reader"--causing all the parts of a drama to speak through one person. Maître Edmond has consulted Conon as to what romance or epic would please the best. There is a great collection of stories of heroes, usually in a kind of sing-song verse, and claiming very largely to have a Breton origin. One whole category revolves around the doings of Charlemagne and his peers; another deals with King Artus (Arthur) of Brittany (really Britain) and his Knights of the Round Table; still another cycle tells of the Trojan War, and Sire Hector, Sire Achilles, and Sire Ulysses, making the ancient Ilium into a North French castle besieged by decidedly feudal methods; while others rehearse the mighty deeds of Alexander. In all there are at least forty well-recognized epic _chansons de geste_ (songs of mighty deeds), most of them six thousand to eight thousand lines in length, besides many shorter romances. Maître Edmond knows a surprising number of them all. These bald figures give some idea of the richness of this type of feudal literature. Of course, the famous "Chanson de Roland" constitutes the most splendid narrative. Everybody knows the story of how Roland and Olivier, the favorite peers of Charlemagne, were betrayed to the Paynim in Spain by the foul traitor Ganelon; how they sold their lives right dearly after innumerable doughty deeds; how their souls ascended to heaven; and how later Charlemagne took terrific vengeance both on the Infidels and on Ganelon. It is an epic which in later days will be rated equal, if not superior, to its German rival, the "Nibelungenlied." But the "Song of Roland" is now nearly two centuries old and is very familiar. Besides, it is too long for one afternoon, and it is hard to pick out episodes. Maître Edmond proposes some scenes from the stories of Troy, but the baron thinks they are not sufficiently sentimental for the occasion. So they agree on the "Story of Tristan and Ysolt." This is fairly well known by the company, but is not threadbare; it gives plenty of opportunity for the women to weep, and the jongleur says that he has a new version not overlengthy. Maître Edmond, therefore, strides out into the bridal tent, accompanied by a handsome youth in a saffron mantle, who thrums a harp with silver frets. The high jongleur begins his story in an easy recitative which occasionally breaks into melodious arias. It is really a mingling of verse and prose, although the language never loses a certain meter and rhythm. [Illustration: THIRTEENTH-CENTURY HARP From sculpture in the cathedral of Chartres.] [Sidenote: Story of Tristan and Ysolt] The narrative runs along the conventional lines:--King Mark of Cornwall was a good man and wise prince. The beautiful Ysolt was his wife; the valiant and poetic Tristan his nephew. These last two, in all innocency, take a magic potion which compels them to fall in love, and any sinful deeds which follow are excused by the enchantment. King Mark suffers for long, trying to forgive, but at last, catching Tristan playing the lute in the queen's bower, smites him with a poisoned dart. The unhappy youth, mortally wounded, takes refuge in the house of his friend Dinas. While he is still alive, King Mark magnanimously says he is sorry for his act, while poor Ysolt announces that she will not survive her lover. So Tristan sends for his uncle and tells Mark that he bears him no ill will; while the king (realizing his nephew is not morally guilty) laments: "Alas, alas! Woe to me for having stabbed my nephew, the best cavalier in the whole world!" After that Mark and Ysolt visit Tristan and make lamentation over his dying state. He presently causes his sword to be drawn that he may see it for the last time. "Alas! good sword, what will become of you henceforth, without your trusty lord. I now take leave of knighthood, which I have honored. Alas! my friends, to-day Tristan is vanquished!" Then, with tears, he bequeathes his sword to his comrade in arms. Next he turns to the queen. "Very dear lady," he gasps, "what will you do when I die? Will you not die with me?" "Gentle friend," says Ysolt, "I call God to witness that nothing would afford me so much joy as to bear you company this day. Assuredly, if ever a woman could die of anguish or sorrow, I should have died already." "And would you like, then, to die with me?" asks Tristan. "God knows," replied the queen, "that never did I desire anything more sincerely." "Approach me, then," whispers the knight, "for I feel death coming upon me and I should like to breathe my last in your arms." Ysolt leans over Tristan, who embraces her and presses her so tightly that her heart bursts, and he expires with her, thus mingling their last sighs. Needless to say, by the time Maître Edmond (after much skillful prolongation and stirring of the feelings) has finished, all the noble dames are indulging in sobs, and, indeed, many of the barons blink hard. It is a delightfully tragic story! Although the minstrel is of too high a quality to cry "largesse!" when he concludes, like all the humbler jongleurs, there are many deniers thrown his way (which the harpist duly gathers), the duke tells him, "Come to my court at Christmas and recite the love of Launcelot and Guinevere--it shall be worth your while," and Conon orders that a good Aragonese mule be added to the money payment originally promised. [Sidenote: A Literary Baron] Maître Edmond, has, however, another line of business. His opportunity opens this way. Among Conon's guests is a baron of Harvengt. This rich seigneur has spent much time in the south country. He has learned the gay science of the troubadours. Superior minstrels are always welcome at his castle; in fact, he is something of a minstrel himself. Indeed, it is claimed he is too much interested in matters which are primarily only for villeins or at best for the women, and neglects his hawks, tourneys, and even his proper feuds with his neighbors. Nevertheless, Orri de Harvengt is an extremely "gentle" man. He possesses a considerable number of books in Latin--Virgil, Ovid, Lucan, and others--although a visiting monk has grumbled that nearly all the volumes are by questionable pagans, and that this baron has almost no parchments of saints' lives and Church fathers. However, Orri spends little time over the Latin. He holds that the classical language is best for religious matters, but that for telling of brave deeds and affairs of the heart nothing surpasses romance--the tongue of North France. A friend of Orri's was Geoffroi de Villehardouin, who has written in French an excellent history of the Fourth Crusade, in which he participated; and although the churchmen complain that "his abandonment of Latin means the ruin of all learning," the use of the vulgar tongue for all kinds of books is undoubtedly increasing. For the less formal kind of writings there is already a considerable French literature. Conon himself has a book of philosophers' proverbs, a collection of wise saws and maxims that are often attributed to such ancient worthies as Homer, Æsop, Moses, and Solomon, but which have a flavor extremely French. Here you can find many a saying that will long survive the thirteenth century, although it is doubtless much more ancient. "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush"; "All is not gold that glitters"; "God helps those who help themselves"; "A friend in need is a friend indeed"; "Still waters run deep"--all are threadbare wisdom around St. Aliquis, as well as such maxims as do not transmit so well, such as, "Among the blind, the one-eyed man is king"; and, "Famine drives the wolf out of the woods." But the bulk of this "vulgar" literature is in poetry. The epics (_chansons_) have been growing ever since a certain Turould is said to have composed the "Song of Roland" not very long after A.D. 1000. We have just seen what a wealth of romances Maître Edmond has at his disposal. The earlier of these tales are mere recitals of war and adventure; but in the later, though they continue in the North French dialect, the South French (troubadour) influence appears. We have stories turning about lawful or illicit love rather than about lance thrusts. The troubadours of the Langeudoc language find now compeers in the _trouvères_ of the northern Languedoil. Baron Orri is a _trouvère_ himself. He has tried his hand at making a _chanson_ on the adventures of the hero Renaud of Montauban; while composers of less exalted rank prepare the shorter _fabliaux_, _contes_, and _dits_ which abound with comedy and sarcasm, striking at all the vices and follies of society. [Sidenote: North French Epics and Romances] Baron Orri, however (who is not an original genius), is perhaps to be classed really as an _assembleur_--that is, he adapts old romances and puts them in a new setting. He changes over stories from the Languedoc or from the Breton to his North French dialect. To-day, at a quiet interval, Maître Edmond takes him aside. "Fair baron, you know that we master jongleurs seldom wish to set written copies of the poems we chant before strangers, but how can I deny anything to so liberal a seigneur as you? I have with me transcripts of a new song concerning Charlemagne's paladin, William of Orange, and another prepared by the great _trouvère_, Robert of Borron, concerning the finding of the Holy Grail by King Artus's knight, Sire Perceval. Would you have sight of them?" Baron Orri is only too pleased. Before he quits St. Aliquis he will have possessed himself of the precious parchments, and Maître Edmond becomes the richer by several Paris livres. A fine copy of a great _chanson_ is worth its weight in silver. The monks complain that the capital letters are as carefully elaborated in gold, and the miniature illustrations are as delicately executed, as those in a copy of the Gospel; and that the bindings of embossed leather make the books so heavy that they require reading stands, before which the ladies, nevertheless (neglecting holier things), seem willing to stand all day long. However, before the wedding guests end their happy day, another entertainer than Maître Edmond is asked to perform. It is Baron Orri himself. He has lived so long in the south country that he has caught the troubadour gallantries. Stories run that he has left three lady loves in three different castles; that he has had a most romantic duel with a jealous husband, which ended however, in a reconciliation on proof that the friendship had been only platonic; and that he is a past master in all the thirty-four different methods of rhyming and the seventy-four different kinds of stanzas with which the expert bards of southern France serve up their sentimental ditties. At a suitable moment just before the noble guests are gathering for the supper Adela addresses him: "We know, kind Sire Orri, that you are a practitioner of all the 'gay science' of the South. You can sing _chansons_, songs of love; _vers_, the poems of slower movement; _sirventes_, poems of praise or satire; and also are master of the _tenso_, the debate on some tender subject, carried on in courtly verse. Honor us with your skill; for our northern poetry is rude and uncourtly beside that of the Languedoc." Barron Orri makes an elegant bow: "Ah, gracious lady," he says, "I wish I could convince you that a good refusal were worth more than a poor gift, but doubtless you would think me rude; therefore, I will obey. Though many of you, I fear, do not speak the beautiful Languedoc tongue, yet in so noble a company I am sure most of you will at least understand me. What shall it be, a _tenso_ by Bernart de Ventadorn discussing most wittily, 'How does a lady show the greater affection--by enjoining her friend to win renown, or by urging him simply to love her?' or shall I attempt a short _chanson_ by that other high troubadour, Arnaut de Maruelh?" "The _chanson_--the love song!" cry the company. "Ah! very well, my gentle mistresses and lords," answers the minstrel--"you have chosen. And now I pray Queen Venus to inspire me. Here, boy, my harp!" He takes a small lute and touches the strings. His blue mantle floats back in statuesque folds as with clear, deep voice he sings: [Sidenote: South French Troubadour Songs] "Fair to me is April bearing Winds that o'er me softly blow; Nightingales their music airing While the stars serenely glow. All the birds as they have power While the dews of morning wait, Sing of joy in sky and bower, Each consorting with his mate. And as all the world is wearing New delights while new leaves grow, 'Twould be vain to try forswearing _Love_ which makes my joys o'erflow.... Helen were not worth comparing, Gardens no such beauty show, Teeth of pearl, the truth declaring, Blooming cheeks, a neck of snow, Tresses like a golden shower, Courtly charms, for baseness hate. God, who bade her thus o'ertower All the rest, her way made straight!"[36] And so through many similar stanzas. The Baron Orri's eyes are fixed mischievously on a certain countess with whom he had talked intimately all the afternoon. Her husband looks somewhat awkward, but at the end he joins in the warm applause. So the entertainment at the wedding feast ends; and the great secular literature, which is to be the priceless heritage of later civilization, is (despite much crudeness and false sentimentality) being born. Hitherto we have seen the life of St. Aliquis at peace; now we must gradually turn toward its grimmer aspects and the direct preparations for war. FOOTNOTES: [33] If St. Aliquis had been a slightly larger fief, its lord would probably have allowed himself the luxury of a professional minstrel in residence--half musician and half jester. [34] It was not unknown for jongleurs of this inferior grade to stop at an exciting part of the story they were narrating and say (as in the poem "Gui of Burgundy"): "Whoever wants to hear more of this recital must haste to open his purse; for now it is high time to give me something." The company would thus be straightway held up. Or the entertainer would announce, "It was too near vespers," or "He was too weary to finish that day," the result being that he could claim hospitality at the castle of his hosts another twenty-four hours until he could satisfy the general curiosity. [35] The viol was practically like a violin, although more round and more clumsy. It was played with a bow. [36] Translated by Justin H. Smith. Reprinted by kind permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons. Chapter IX: The Feudal Relationship. Doing Homage. Some days intervene between the wedding festivities of the sister of Messire Conon and the adubbement as knight of his brother with the tourney which follows this second ceremony. No baron can be rich enough to make presents to all the knights who frequent the tourney, if they were also guests at the wedding; on the other hand, numerous cavaliers who have no interest in the affairs of Olivier and Alienor are glad to come and break lances in the jousts and to shatter helmets in the mêlée. Most of the original guests at the wedding, however, stay on for the adubbement, and are joined by many others. Meantime there are hunts, hawkings, dances, garden feasts, and jongleur recitals. It is all one round of merry excitement. Yet gradually there creeps in a more martial note. Maître Edmond's chants have less to do with parted lovers and more to do with valiant deeds. The bride and groom recede from central gaze. Young Squire Aimery is thrust forward. While the lists are being prepared for the jousting, one can examine the public economy of the seigneury; discover how it is a military as well as a political unit; and learn the process of education which has enabled Aimery to claim the proud status of a knight--a _miles_--a first-class fighting man. [Illustration: BANNER OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY From a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale (Viollet-Le-Duc).] [Sidenote: Types and Privileges of Fief Holders] The status of St. Aliquis is typical of that of many baronies. Fiefs are not necessarily composed of real estate: for example, one of Conon's vassals does homage to him merely for the right to fish for a mile along the Claire, and another for the privilege of maintaining the baronial mill, with corresponding perquisites, in an outlying section of the seigneury.[37] Nevertheless, as a rule a "fief" means a section of land held by a person of noble family. He does not own this land by complete right, but pays a kind of rent to his suzerain in the form of military service, of sums of money in various emergencies determined upon, and of various other kinds of moral and material assistance. Ordinarily every feudal lordship will center round a castle; or, failing that, a fortalice, a strong tower capable of considerable defense, or a manor house not vulnerable to mere raiders. Every noble fief holder claims the right to have his own banner; to a seal to validate his documents; and of late there have been appearing insignia soon to be known as heraldic coats of arms, which will be used or displayed by everybody of "gentle condition." Many fief holders also claim the right to coin money, even when their lands are on a very modest scale; but suzerains are gradually curtailing this privilege, base-born merchants churlishly complain that the mints of the lesser seigneurs strike money too full of alloy and of vexatiously variable standards; and, indeed, there is even talk that this privilege of coining is likely to be monopolized by the king. [Illustration: THE COAT OF ARMS OF THE DUKES OF BRETAGNE (THIRTEENTH CENTURY)] Feudalism, if systematized, would seem an admirably articulated system, extending upward from the petty nobles to the king or even the emperor.[38] The little castellans would do homage to the barons, they to the viscounts, they to the counts, they to the dukes, and they to the supreme suzerain, His Grace Philip Augustus, at Paris. Actually, of course, nothing of the kind occurs. Not merely do many fief holders have several suzerains (as does Conon) and serve some of them very poorly, but there is no real gradation of feudal titles. Conon, a baron, feels himself equal to many counts and superior to most viscounts. The mighty Count of Champagne holds his head arrogantly as the equal of the Duke of Burgundy. Of late years, especially since Philip Augustus began to reign (1180), the kings of France have made it clear that they are the mightiest of the mighty, and deserve genuine obedience. Yet even now many seigneurs grumble, "These lords of Paris are only the Capetian dukes who began to call themselves kings some two hundred years ago. Let them wax not too proud or we will send them about their business as our forefathers sent the old Carolingians." In short, the whole feudal arrangement is utterly confused. "Organized anarchy," despairing scholars of a later age will call it. [Illustration: SEAL OF THE DUKE JEAN OF BRETAGNE (THIRTEENTH AND FOURTEENTH CENTURIES)] [Sidenote: Duties of Fief Holders] Yet there are some pretty definite rules about fief holding. Generally speaking a fief includes enough land to maintain at least one knight and his war horse. This warrior is obligated usually to lead out a number of armed villeins, proportionate to the number of knights. The conditions on which the estate can be held vary infinitely. The great obligation is military service. The average vassal is bound to follow his suzerain for forty days per year on summons to an offensive war. He is required to give much greater assistance in a strictly defensive war, and especially to aid in the defense of his lord's castle. He has to wait on the suzerain at times, when the latter may desire a great retinue to give prestige to his court. At such gatherings he must likewise assist his lord in dispensing justice--a matter sometimes involving considerable responsibility for the judges. When his seigneur marries off his eldest daughter, bestows knighthood on his eldest son, or needs ransom money, if held a prisoner, the vassals must contribute, and the St. Aliquis fief holders are blessing their patron saints that Alienor and Aimery are not their overlord's children--otherwise they would pay for most of the high festivities themselves. They must also, when their lord visits them, give him proper hospitality in their castles. Of course, they must never betray his secrets, adhere to his enemies, or repudiate the pledges made to him. To do so were "treason," the worst of all feudal crimes. We have seen that holding a fief usually implies military service, and that if the estate falls to a woman the suzerain can administer the property until the maid is of marriageable age, and then give her to some competent liegeman. It is about the same if the heir is a boy. The overlord can exercise guardianship over the fief until the lad is old enough to lead out his war band and otherwise to prove a desirable vassal. Even when the vassals are of satisfactory sex and age, the suzerain is entitled to a _relief_, a money payment, whenever an old knight dies and his battle-worthy son takes over the barony.[39] This is always a fairly heavy lump sum; and is still heavier if the fief goes not to the son, but to a collateral heir. Also, when the vassal wants to sell his fief to some stranger, not merely must the suzerain approve the change, but he is entitled to an extra large fee, often as much as three years' revenue from the entire holding. Nevertheless, when all is said, many fief holders act as if they were anything but humble vassals. Happy is many a suzerain when he is so exempt from squabbles with his feudal equals and his own overlord that he can compel his loyal lieges to execute all their promises, and when he can indulge in the luxury of dictating to them the manner whereby they must rule their lands. Some of the mottoes of the great baronial houses testify how little the feudal hierarchy counts with the lord of a few strong castles. Boast the mighty Rohans: "Dukes we disdain: Kings we can't be: _Rohans_ are we!" And still more arrogant is that of a seigneur whose magnificent fortress-château is in the process of erection; "No king am I, no prince, no duke: I'm just the Sire of Coucy." And to be "Sire of Coucy" means to dispose of such power that when the canons of Rheims complain to King Philip against his deeds of violence, the king can merely reply, "I can do no more for you than _pray_ the Sire of Coucy to leave you unmolested." Sometimes, in addition to money payments or personal or military service, a vassal is required to make symbolic gifts in token of loyal intentions. Thus annually Conon sends to the Duke of Quelqueparte three black horses; while for his holdings of the local abbey, every June he presents the abbot with a basket of roses and a bunch of lilies, and many other estates are burdened with some such peculiar duties.[40] [Sidenote: Barons Largely Independent] So long as he discharges his feudal obligations a seigneur can run his barony practically to suit himself. If he treats his own vassals and his peasants too outrageously they may cry out to the suzerain for justice, and sometimes the overlord will delight in an excuse to humble an arrogant feudatory. But the limits of interference are well marked. No seigneur should undermine a faithful vassal's hold on his own subjects. Every noble will feel his own rights threatened if a suzerain begins to meddle with a dependent, even if the reason for doing so is manifest. Many a baron can therefore play the outrageous tyrant if so the devil inspires him. He has (as we have seen) to observe the vested rights of his subordinates on the fief; otherwise he may provoke a dangerous mutiny within his own castle.[41] Baron Garnier of St. Aliquis, however, has been typical of many of his class. Prisoners, travelers, peasants are subject to unspeakably brutal treatment. As has been written concerning one such seigneur: "He was a very Pluto, Megæra, Cerberus, or anything you can conceive still more horrible. He preferred the slaughter of his captives to their ransom. He tore out the eyes of his own children, when in sport they hid their faces under his cloak. He impaled persons of both sexes on stakes. To butcher men in the most horrible manner was to him an agreeable feast." Of another such baron, the trembling monks record: "When anyone by force or fraud fell into his hands, the captive might truly say, 'The pains of hell have compassed me about.' Homicide was his passion and glory. He treated his wife in an unspeakably brutal manner. Men feared him, bowed down to him and worshiped him!"[42] [Sidenote: Types of Evil and Good Barons] Evidently, such outrageous seigneurs hold their lieges in a kind of fascinated obedience, just as do the emirs and atabegs among the Infidels. Of course, they treat merchants as merely so many objects for plunder. If they do not watch the roads themselves, they make bargains with professional robbers, allowing the latter to infest their seigneuries in return for an agreed share of their booty. Even noble folk are liable to be seized, imprisoned, and perhaps tortured to get a ransom. If you cannot find the deniers, you may leave your bones in a foul dungeon. Nevertheless, St. Michael and all angels be praised! this evil is abating. In the direct royal dominions such "men of sin" have been rooted out since old Louis VI's time. The Church is using its great influence against evil sires. The communal towns are waxing strong and sending civic armies to besiege their towers and protect the roads. The better class of seigneurs also unite against these disgraces to nobility. As for Baron Garnier, he died betimes, for his suzerain the duke (weary of complaints) was about to call out the levy of the duchy and attack St. Aliquis. In other words, law and order are gradually asserting themselves after the heyday of petty tyrannies, yet there are still queersome happenings on every seigneury, and the amount of arbitrary power possessed by the average baron is not good even for a conscientious and high-minded man. It is not the theoretical powers of a seigneur, but his actual mental and ofttimes physical ability, which determines the real extent of his power. Fiefs are anything but static. They are always growing or diminishing. A capable seigneur is always attracting new lands to himself. He ejects unfaithful vassals and adds their estates to his own personal domain land. He induces his vassal's vassals to transfer their allegiance directly to him. He wins land from his neighbors by direct conquest. He induces his neighbor's vassals to desert to the better protection of his suzerainty. He negotiates advantageous marriage treaties for his relatives which bring new baronies into his dynasty. When his own suzerain needs his military aid beyond the orthodox "forty days," he sells his assistance for cash, lands, or valuable privileges. Then, often when such an aggressive seigneur dies, his whole pretentious fief crumbles rapidly. His eldest son is entitled to the central castle, and the lion's share of the barony, but not to the whole. The younger lads each detach something, and the daughters cannot be denied a portion.[43] The suzerain presses all kinds of demands upon the weakened heir. So do neighboring seigneurs who are the new baron's feudal equals. One little quarrel after another has to be compounded after ruinous concessions. Worst of all, the direct vassals of the incoming baron refuse him homage, hunt up more congenial suzerains, or, if swearing fealty, nevertheless commit perjury by the treacherous way they execute their oaths. In a few years what has appeared a powerful fief, under a young or incapable baron seems on the very edge of ruin--its lord reduced to a single castle, with perhaps some question whether he can defend even that. [Sidenote: Accession to a Barony] Through such a peril Conon passed inevitably when, as a very youthful knight, he took over the estates of his unblessed uncle. Only the saints' favor, his mother's wise counsels, and his own high looks and strong arm kept the fief together. But after the vassal petty nobles had been duly impressed with the fact that, even if the new baron were less of a bloody tyrant than his predecessor, he could storm a defiant fortalice and behead its rebellious master, the barony settled down to relative peace. There was a meeting at St. Aliquis of all the vassals. Conon, clothed in full armor, then presented himself in the great hall. "Will you have Sire Conon, the nephew of your late lord, as your present undoubted baron and suzerain?" demanded Sire Eustace, the seneschal. "_Fiat! Fiat!_--So be it!" shouted all the knights. Whereat each in turn did homage; and Conon was now their liege lord by every Christian and feudal law. Next Conon himself visited the Duke of Quelqueparte, paid his relief, in turn did his own homage; and henceforth had his position completely recognized. From that time Conon had been obeyed by his vassals with reasonable fidelity. They had never refused military service; they had fought round his standard very faithfully at the great battle of Bouvines; they had given him no reason to doubt that if he were hard bestead they would discharge the other feudal duties of defending his person at the hazard of their lives, of resigning a horse to him that he might save himself in a battle, or even of going prisoner for him to secure his release, if he were captive. On the other hand, Conon had earned their love by proving himself a very honorable seigneur. When his vassal, Sire Leonard, had died, leaving only a minor son, he administered the lad's fief very wisely and gave it back a little richer, if anything, when the heir came of age. When another vassal had fallen into a feud with a neighboring sire, Conon had afforded military help, although it was not his direct quarrel. He had respected the wives and daughters of his petty nobles as though they had been his sisters. In short, on St. Aliquis had been almost realized that happy relation mentioned in the law books, "The seigneur owes faith and loyalty to his 'man' as much as the man to his seigneur." Nevertheless, Conon ("wise as a serpent, but _not_ harmless as a dove," as Father Grégoire says, pithily) takes nothing for granted. Twice he has somewhat formally made the circuit of his seigneury, stopping at each castle, allowing each little sire to show hospitality, and then receiving again his pledges. Homage can be done many times. The more often it is repeated the more likely it will be effective.[44] Your vassal who swore fealty last Christmas is much more likely to obey the _ban_ (the call to arms) than he who took his oath ten years ago. The St. Aliquis vassals have all performed this devoir quite recently, save one, Sire André of the sizable castle of Le Chenevert, whose father died last Lent, and who has waited for the present fêtes to take his vows and receive due investiture. This ceremony, therefore, takes place some day after the wedding feast. There is nothing humiliating therein for Sire André; on the contrary, he is glad to have many of the noble guests be witnesses--they will serve to confirm his title to his father's fief. [Sidenote: Ceremony of Homage] The great hall has been cleared. Messire Conon sits in his high chair under the canopy. He wears his ermine and his velvet cap of presence. Adela sits at his side, with many cavaliers on either hand. The other St. Aliquis vassals and the noble leaders of the castle men at arms, all in best armor, stand before the dais in a semicircle. Sire Eustace holds a lance with a small red pennon. Sire André, in silvered mail and helmet and his sword girded, comes forward, steps up to the dais, and kneels. Conon rises, extends both hands, and André takes one in each of his, then repeats clearly the formula dictated by Father Grégoire, now, as so often, acting as baronial chancellor: "Sire baron, _I enter into your homage and faith and become your man_, by mouth and hands, and I swear and promise to keep faith and loyalty to you against all others, saving only the just rights of the Baron of Braisne, from whom I hold two farms and certain hunting rights, and I swear to guard your rights with all my strength." [Illustration: HOMAGE IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY The future vassal has put his hands in those of his lord and pays him homage; a soldier holds the lance which the lord will give to his subject as a mark of investiture in the domain.] Whereupon Conon makes reply, "We do promise to you, vassal André, that we and our heirs will guarantee to you the lands held of us, to you and your heirs against every creature with all our power, to hold these lands in peace and quiet." Conon then bends, kisses André upon the mouth, and the latter rises to his feet. Father Grégoire holds out a small golden box flashing with jewels, a saint's reliquary. The vassal puts his right hand upon it and declares: "In the name of the Holy Trinity, and in reverence of these sacred relics, I, André, swear that I will truly keep the promise which I have taken, and will always remain faithful to Sire Conon, my seigneur." The first formula has technically been the "homage." The second is the "oath of fealty"; now comes the "investiture." Sire Eustace steps forward and gives to the vassal the lance, the symbolic token of the lawful transfer to him of the fief. In other places, local custom would make the article a glove, a baton, or even a bit of straw, but some symbol is always required. This act completes the ceremony. Sire André is now in possession of Le Chenevert and its lands, and cannot be ousted thence so long as he performs his feudal duties. Of course, if the fief had been granted out for the first time, or had been transferred to some one not a direct heir, there would be a deed of conveyance drafted in detail, and sealed by many ponderous lumps of wax attached to the parchment with strips of leather. In many cases however, no new document is needful, and, indeed, all through the Feudal Ages even important bargains are likely often to be determined merely by word of mouth--a reason for requiring many witnesses. There is little danger, however, of a quarrel between such congenial spirits as Baron Conon and Sire André. At its best, vassalship is not a state of unworthy dependence; it is a state of junior comradeship which, "without effacing distances, created a close relation of mutual devotion"; and if vassals are often rebellious, vassals again and again in history and in story have proved willing to lay down their lives for their lord. There are few sentiments the jongleurs can repeat in the average castle with surer hope of applause than when they recite once more from the "Epic of Garin," concerning the Duke of Belin, who declared that there was something more precious than all his riches and power; for "wealth consists neither in rich clothes, nor in money, nor in buildings, nor in horses, but is made from kinsmen and _friends_; the heart of one man is worth all the gold in a country!" FOOTNOTES: [37] The right to profit from certain beehives could constitute a fief, or to a fraction, say, of the tolls collected at a certain bridge. [38] The emperor of the Holy Roman Empire (Germany and Italy) was usually acknowledged as the social and titular superior of the king of France, but he was never conceded any practical power over Frenchmen. [39] Sometimes the relief was also payable when a new suzerain came in, not merely when the fief changed vassals. [40] In a South Country castle a certain seigneur was obligated, if his suzerain, the Duke of Aquitaine, visited him, to wait on the duke's table, wearing himself scarlet leggings with spurs of gold. He had to serve the duke and ten knights with a meal of pork, beef, cabbage, roast chickens, and mustard. Many other obligations for payments or rendering of hospitality which were equally curious could be recorded. [41] One might describe the situation by saying that many a baron who would order a stranger or captive to be executed in cold blood without form of trial, would hesitate to have him hanged or beheaded save by the hereditary executioner of the seigneury, who had a vested right to perform such nice matters. [42] What could go on in feudal families earlier, in the eleventh century, is illustrated by the tale of three brothers, noblemen of Angouleme, who quarreled. Two of them treacherously invited the third to their joint Easter festivities. They seized him in bed, put out his eyes, and cut out his tongue that he might not denounce them. The facts, however, leaked out. Their suzerain, the Duke of Aquitaine, ravaged their lands with fire and sword (thus ruining their innocent peasants), took the two criminals and cut out their own tongues and put out their eyes in retaliation. [43] The absence of a strict rule of primogeniture in France and other continental countries added much to the complexities of the whole feudal regime. [44] Homage may be likened somewhat to _vaccination_ in a later day--the more recently performed the greater its effectiveness. Chapter X: Justice and Punishments. One of the great duties of a high seigneur is to render justice. It is for that (say learned men) that God grants to him power over thousands of villeins and the right to obedience from nobles of the lower class. Indeed, it can be written most properly that a good baron "is bound to hear and determine the cause and pleas of his subjects, to ordain to every man his own, to put forth his shield of righteousness to defend the innocent against evildoers, and deliver small children and such as be orphans and widows from those that do overset them. He pursues robbers, raiders, thieves, and other evildoers. For this name 'lord' is a name of peace and surety. For a good lord ceaseth war, battle, and fighting, and reconciles men that are at strife. And so under a good, strong, and peaceable lord, men of the country are safe." The best of barons only measurably live up to this high standard. Yet Conon is not wholly exceptional in telling himself that a reputation for enforcing justice is in the end a surer glory than all the fêtes around St. Aliquis. Justice, of course, does not mean equality before the law. There is one legal measure for country villeins, another for citizens of the commune, another for petty nobles, another for greater nobles of Conon's own rank. The monks and priests can always "plead their clergy" and get their cases transferred to a special Church tribunal.[45] The question really is: Has a man been given everything due to others of his own class? If not, there is denial of justice. The laws enforced in the St. Aliquis region are the old customary laws in use ever since the Frankish barbarians' invasions. Many of these laws have never been reduced to writing--at least for local purposes--but sage men know them. There are no professional jurists in the barony. Sire Eustace, the seneschal, understands the regional law better than any other layman around the castle, though he in turn is surpassed by Father Grégoire. The latter has, indeed, a certain knowledge of the Canon law of the Church, far more elaborate than any local territorial system, and he has even turned over voluminous parchments of the old Roman law codified by the mighty Emperor Justinian. Up at Paris, round the king there are now trained lawyers, splitters of fine hairs, who say that this Roman law is far more desirable than any local "customary law," and they are even endeavoring (as the king extends his power) to make the Code of Justinian the basis for the entire law of France. But conditions on most baronies are still pretty simple, the questions to be settled call merely for common sense and a real love of fair play on the part of the judges. One can live prosperously and die piously under rough-and-ready laws administered with great informality. [Sidenote: High and Low Justice] Conon has "high justice" over his vassals and peasants. This means absolute power of life and death over any non-noble on the seigneury, unless, indeed, the baron should outrage merchants bound to a privileged free city, or some other wayfarers under the specific protection of the king or the Duke of Quelqueparte. If strange noblemen get into trouble, it will depend on circumstances whether Conon undertakes to handle their cases himself, or refers them to his suzerain, the duke. The right of seigneurs to powers of justice on their own lands even over high nobles is, however, tenaciously affirmed, and it is only with difficulty the duke and, above him, the king can get some cases remitted to their tribunals.[46] If, however, the alleged offender is a monk, he will be handed over to the local abbot or, if a priest, to the bishop of Pontdebois to be dealt with according to the law of the Church. Even the lesser sires have "low justice," with the privilege of clapping villeins in the stocks, flogging, and imprisoning for a considerable time for minor offenses; and robbers caught on their lands in the act of crime can be executed summarily. But serious cases have to go to the court of the baron as high justiciar, as well as all the petty cases which have arisen on that lord's personal dominions. If the litigants are peasants, the wheels of justice move very rapidly. There is a decided absence of formalities. A great many disputes go before the provost's court, presided over by Sire Macaire, a knight of the least exalted class, who is Conon's "first provost." We shall see later how the baron's provosts practically control the life of the peasants.[47] One of Sire Macaire's main duties is to chase down offenders, acting as a kind of sheriff, and after that to try them. Among the brawling, brutal peasantry there is always a deplorable amount of crime. The seigneury has been blessed with a comparative absence of bandits, but ever and anon a Pontdebois merchant gets stripped, a girl is carried off into the woods, or even the body of a traveler is found by the roadside. All this renders Sire Macaire's office no sinecure. Small penalties are handed down every day, but more serious matters must wait for those intervals when Messire Conon calls his noble vassals to his "plaids" or "assizes." Every fief holder is expected to come and to give his lord good counsel as to what ought to be done, especially if any of the litigants are noble, and also to give him material aid, if needs be, in executing the decision reached.[48] This last is very important, for if a fief holder is dissatisfied with a verdict, he has a technical right to declare the decision "unjust" and demand that it be settled by "ordeal of battle"--the duel not being between the defeated suitor and his adversary, but between this suitor and his judge! All men know of what happened (according to the "Song of Roland") in the case of the traitor Ganelon. This scoundrel, who had betrayed his suzerain Charlemagne and had caused the brave Roland's death, was seized by the emperor, but he demanded "judgment by his peers." Charlemagne could not deny this claim. He convoked the high barons, whereupon Lord Pinabel, Ganelon's kinsman, announced that "he would give the lie with the sword" to any seigneur who voted for punishment. All the barons were afraid. Pinabel was a mighty warrior. They reported an acquittal to Charlemagne. The mighty emperor raged, but felt helpless until he discovered the brave knight Thierry of Anjou, who boldly asserted that "Ganelon deserves death." [Sidenote: Ordeal by Battle] Instantly Pinabel strode forward and cried to the assize of nobles: "I say that Thierry has lied. I will fight!" and at once Charlemagne took pledges from both champions that they would stand the "ordeal." Each warrior then promptly went to mass, partook of the Sacrament, and bestowed great gifts on the monasteries. Next they met in mortal combat. After a desperate duel Thierry smote his foe "through the nasal of the helmet ... and therewith the brain of Pinabel went gushing from his head." There was no appeal from that verdict! Well content, Charlemagne immediately caused Ganelon to be pulled asunder by four fierce stallions. However, these noble usages are falling into decadence. Certes, it is an unknightly thing when both litigants are young cavaliers, evenly matched, and when the issue concerns honor rather than legal technicalities, for them to insist that the matter be settled merely by a peaceful verdict, as if they had been wrangling merchants. But the Church, the men of books, and the higher suzerains discourage this practice, especially when the cases are intricate, and one of the litigants cannot fight efficiently or provide a champion. As for challenging a judge after a disagreeable verdict, the thing is becoming dangerous, for all the other judges will feel bound to support him.[49] The most likely happening is for the defeated litigant to retire to his castle, summon his followers, and defy the court to enforce its verdict. This happened with a sire of the Court of Trabey, a neighbor of Conon's. Said sire, having been ordered by his peers to give up a manor he had been withholding from his young nephew, sent a pursuivant before their tribunal formally declaring war. The entire seigneury had to arm and actually storm his castle before he would submit. However, most St. Aliquis cases concern not the nobles, but only villeins, and with these (thanks be to Heaven!) short shrifts are permitted. The provost can handle the run of crimes when the baron is busy; but a good seigneur acts as his own judge if possible. Even during the festival period it is needful for Conon to put aside his pleasures one morning to mount the seat of justice. In wintertime the tribunal is, of course, in the great hall, but in such glorious weather a big shade tree in the garden is far preferable.[50] Here the baron occupies a high chair. Sire Eustace sits on a stool at his right, Sire André and another vassal at his left as "assessors," for no wise lord acts without council. Father Grégoire stands near by, ready to administer oaths on the box of relics; Sire Macaire, the provost, brings up the litigants and acts as a kind of state attorney. [Sidenote: Trial of Villeins] For the most part it is a sordid, commonplace business. Two villeins dispute the ownership of a yoke of oxen. A peddler from Pontdebois demands payment from a well-to-do farmer for some linen. An old man is resisting the demands of his eldest son that he be put under guardianship: the younger children say that their brother really covets the farm. If the court's decisions are not so wise as Solomon's, they are speedy and probably represent substantial justice. But there is more serious business in hand. The news of the fêtes at St. Aliquis has been bruited abroad. All the evil spirits of the region have discovered their chance. Certain discharged mercenary soldiers have actually invaded a village, stolen the peasants' corn, pigs, and chickens, insulted their women, and crowned their deeds by firing many cottages and setting upon three jongleurs bound for the tourney. They were in the very act of robbing them to their skin when a party of the provost's men, coming up, managed to seize two of these sturdy rascals. Sire Macaire has also arrested a young peasant who stabbed an older farmer painfully while they wrangled over a calf. This second case is settled summarily. The defendant is of bad reputation. He must stand all day in the pillory, and then to be branded on his forehead with a red-hot iron, that all men may beware of him. As for the alleged bandits, the case is not so simple. They keep a sullen silence and refuse to betray the lair of their comrades who have escaped. The provost intimates that they may be _halegrins_, and outlaws of the foulest type, said to violate tombs and devour human flesh. Very possibly they may have belonged to that notorious gang of brigands many of which King Philip lured inside the walls of Bourges, then closed the gates and slew them, thus capturing all their plunder. Such fellows are, of course, food for the crows, but they must not be allowed to get out of life too easily. "Let the baron command preparatory torture?" suggests Sire Macaire, with a sinister smile. Conon nods. The two beastlike wretches groan and strain at their fetters. Preparatory torture, they know well, is inflicted both to get a confession of guilt and also to extort details about accomplices. It is no pleasure to follow the provost, his guards, and his prisoners to a certain tower, where in a lower vaulted room there are various iron and wooden instruments. We are given to understand that torture is a pretty usual part of criminal proceedings, unless the defendant is a noble whose alleged crime does not touch the safety of the state. It is true that wise men have discouraged the practice. What seems clearer than that which Pope Nicholas I wrote A.D. 866? "A confession must be voluntary and not forced. By means of torture an innocent man may suffer to the uttermost without making any avowal--in such a case what a crime for the judge! Or a person may be subdued by pain, and acknowledge himself guilty, though he be innocent--which throws an equally great sin upon the tribunal." Nevertheless, the Church is said now to be allowing torture in her own ecclesiastical courts, and Sire Macaire would tell us cynically that "torture is a sovereign means wherewith to work miracles--to make the dumb speak." Torture at St. Aliquis is administered by a sober-faced man in a curious yellow dress. He is known as Maître Denis,[51] the baron's "sworn executioner." He acts as torturer, chief jailer, and also attends to beheadings and hangings. To be a professional hangman implies considerable ostracism. Hangmen's families have to marry among themselves, between fief and fief; hangmen's sons follow their fathers' calling. On the other hand, the position is an assured one, with good perquisites and not too much labor. Maître Denis is a quiet and pious man, who can exhort condemned criminals quite as sanctimoniously as a priest; but his piety never compels him to false mercy. [Sidenote: Varieties of Tortures] There are assuredly many ways of helping transgressors to make a complete confession. Forms of torture vary from region to region. In Brittany the culprit is often tied in an iron chair and gradually brought near to a blazing fire; but in Normandy the effect seems best when one thumb is squeezed by a kind of screw in the ordinary, and both thumbs in the extraordinary (doubly severe) torture. At Autun they have an ingenious method. After high boots of spongy leather have been put on the culprit's feet, he is tied near a large fire and boiling water is poured on the boots, which penetrates the leather, eats away the flesh, and vouchsafes a foretaste of the pangs of hell. At Orléans they have another method. The accused's hands are tied behind his back, and a ring fastened to them. By this ring the unhappy fellow is lifted from the floor and hung up in midair. If they then desire the "extraordinary" torture, weights of some two hundred and fifty pounds are attached to his feet. He is hoisted to the ceiling by a pulley, and presently allowed to fall with a jerk, dislocating his limbs.[52] There are, indeed, many simpler, more convenient methods of torture. You can inject boiling water, vinegar, or oil into the accused, apply hot pitch, place hot eggs under the armpits, thrust sharp-cornered dice between the skin and flesh, tie lighted candles to the hands so that they can be consumed simultaneously with the wax, or allow water to drip from a great height upon the stomach. This, curiously enough, is said to break down the most stubborn criminals, as will watering the soles of the feet with salted water, and allowing goats to lick the same. However, the ordinary method is the rack. Then the offender is laid on a wooden trestle, cords are bound to his limbs and then steadily tightened with winches. Baron Garnier in his day took great interest in obtaining a well-made rack. It now is put to proper use in "stretching" the two brigands. Happily, these culprits break down after the first of them has undergone a few turns before his limbs are dislocated; and to the provost's satisfaction they howl out sundry details as to how their comrades can be taken. The prisoners are therefore remanded to custody until their statements can be investigated. Woe to them if they have lied! In that event there are promised them much keener tortures to make them weary of life. While Sire Macaire is therefore leading his band after the remaining brigands, Maître Denis conducts the two captives back to prison. Really it is only a few feet from the great hall of state in the _palais_, to the cells under the old donjon. In their confinement the prisoners can hear the revelry of the baron's guests. Through their airholes drifts the jongleur's music. They can almost, at times, catch the swish and rustle of the rich dresses of the noblewomen. Conon is accounted a merciful custodian compared with his uncle, but he does not let offenders forget their sins because of kindness. [Sidenote: Prisoners and Dungeons] Noble prisoners are entitled to relatively comfortable quarters, to double rations of decent food, to give bail if their alleged offense is not a very heavy one, and to be released on reasonable ransom if they are captives of war. Villeins have no such privileges. They are fortunate if first they are not stripped naked as a pair of tongs before the lock rattles behind them. They are usually cast into filthy holes, sometimes with water running across the floor, and with reptiles breeding in the mire. In Paris, where the king is considered more tender-hearted than the average seigneur, we hear of a cell of only eleven by seven feet in which ten people have been thrust to spend the night. Of course, these were not great criminals. The latter might enjoy the _chausse d' hypocras_, where a man had his feet continually in water, or the _fosse_, a jug-shaped round chamber let into the bowels of the rock, into which prisoners must be lowered by a pulley from the ceiling;[53] or a Little-Ease chamber, where one could neither sit nor stand. If, however, you have money you can sometimes bribe the turnkeys into letting you have a cell more private and less noisome, with the luxury of bedding and a chair;[54] but in any case he who enters a feudal prison had better invoke his patron saint. Maître Denis has not treated the two brigands quite so badly as lay in his power. He has left them their clothes--since they are sure to be executed and he can get the raiment later. He has not put them in the _fosse_ (where Baron Garnier had sometimes dropped his victims) because of the trouble later of hoisting them out. He gives them coarse bread and some meat not unfit for dogs, at the same time advising them "on his word as a Christian" to confer with Father Grégoire. The miserable pair are not long uncertain about their fate. They have told the truth about the lair of their comrades. The provost's band surprises the spot. Six hardened rogues, in the very act of counting their plunder, are overpowered. But why weary Messire the Baron with the empty form of trying these robbers when there is no mortal doubt of their guilt and no new information is to be extracted from them? Their throats are therefore cut as unceremoniously as the cook's boy attends to pigeons. The next day, wholly casually, Sire Macaire reports his good success to his lord, and remarks, "I presume, fair Sire, that Denis can hang the two he has in the dungeon." Conon (just arranging a hawking party) rejoins: "As soon as the chaplain can shrive them." Why, again, should the prisoners complain? They are certainly allowed to prepare decently for the next world, a favor entirely denied their comrades. If there had been any real doubt as to the guilt of the two bandits, they might in desperation have tried to clear themselves by _ordeal_. If they could have picked a stone out of a caldron of boiling water, lifted and carried a red-hot iron, or even partaken of the Holy Sacrament (first calling on God to strike them dead if they were guilty), and after such a test seemed none the worse, they might have had some claim to go free. _Ordeals_ are an old Germanic usage. They seem to refer the decision to all-seeing God. But ever since Charlemagne's day they have been falling into disfavor. Great churchmen are ordinarily too intelligent to encourage them. Men learned in the law say that often they wrest justice. Brave knights declare the only ordeal worth having is a duel between two champions. [Sidenote: Ordeals, the Pillory and Flogging] Sometimes, instead of wrangling, clerics have undertaken to prove themselves right by "passing through fire"--walking down a narrow lane between two great piles of blazing fagots, and trusting that Heaven will guard them even as it did the three Hebrew children in Nebuchadnezzar's furnace. Such tests seldom are satisfactory. Men still dispute about the ordeal of the monk Peter Barthelmey during the First Crusade. He was accused of a pretended miracle and tried to vindicate himself by "passing through fire alive." All agreed that he emerged from the flames alive; yet in a few days he died. His foes said because he was sorely burned; his friends because, although unscathed by the fire, he was merely trampled upon by the crowd that rushed up to discover his fate! The only time one can ordinarily rely upon ordeals is in tests for witchcraft. If an old woman is so accused, she must be tied hand and foot and cast into the river. If she floats, the devil is aiding; draw her out, therefore, and burn her at the stake. If she sinks (as in a case recently at Pontdebois) she is innocent. Unfortunately, in this instance the poor wretch went to the bottom before they could determine that she was guiltless; but the saints know their own, and doubtless they have given recompense and rest to her soul. Naturally many petty offenses do not deserve death. The criminals are usually too poor to pay fines, and it is a waste of honest folk's bread to let them spend set terms in prison. For small misdemeanants it is often enough to drive the rascals around the neighboring villages in a cart, calling out their names amid hootings and showers of offal. But in the village beyond the Claire is located the pillory for a large class of rogues. It is a kind of high scaffold with several sets of chains and wooden collars, through which the offenders' arms and heads are thrust, while they stand for hours, in hot sun or winter cold, exposed to the jeerings and pebbles of the assembled idlers gathered beneath. The next stage of penalty is sometimes a public flogging. The prisoner is stripped to the waist and driven around the seigneury. At each crossroads his guards give so many blows over the shoulders with a knotted rope. We have seen how branding was ordered for one young miscreant to put on him an ineffaceable stigma; and not infrequently one can meet both men and women with a hand lopped off, or even an eye gouged out, as a merciful substitute for their true deserts upon the gallows. Old Baron Garnier once, when peculiarly incensed, ordered the "hot bowl"--namely, that a red-hot brazier should be passed before the eyes of his victim until sight was destroyed. But if a villein has committed a great crime he were best dismissed from an overtroubled world. Dead men never bother the provost twice. All over France you will find a gallows almost as common a sight in the landscape as a castle, an abbey, or a village. Many a fine spreading tree by the roadway has a skeleton be-dangling from one of its limbs. It is a lucky family of peasants which has not had some member thereof hanged, and even then plenty of rogues will die in their beds. Considering the general wickedness abroad, it seems as if there were a perpetual race between the criminals and the hangmen, with the criminals well to the fore.[55] [Sidenote: The Public Gallows] There are almost as many forms of execution as there are of torture. Fearful criminals, gross blasphemers, and the like might be killed by quartering: first their flesh might be nipped off by red-hot pinchers and hot lead poured into their wounds; then death comes as a release by attaching a strong horse to each arm and leg and tearing the victim into four parts. Witches, wizards, and heretics are, of course, burned, because they thus share the element of their patron, the devil. Most malefactors, however, find beheading or hanging the ordinary ending. Beheading is "honorable." It is the nobleman's expiation for misdeeds. The victim is not degraded and leaves no stigma upon his children. In England the headsman uses the ax, but in France he ordinarily swings a great two-handed sword. A skillful executioner does his business at one blow--a most merciful form of mortal exit. Hanging, however, is "dishonorable." Nobles who have especially exasperated their judges are sometimes subjected to it. Henceforth people will cry, "Their father was a felon," to their disgraced children. When a villein is ordered to die, he is ordinarily hanged, unless some other method is specified. In the village near St. Aliquis the gallows is near the pillory. It is not so large as that huge gallows at Montfaucon, near Paris, which sees the end of so many of the city offenders, and where there is a great series of stone piers with wooden crosspieces, arranged in two stories, making twenty-four compartments in all. There are permanent ladders fixed for dragging up the criminals. When all the compartments are full and additional room is needed for more executions, some of the skeletons are thrown into a deep, hideous pit in the center of the structure. The less pretentious St. Aliquis gallows has only four compartments. The structure stands close to the road, that all may learn how energetic are the baron's provosts. Two compartments are now empty, however, and Sire Macaire is glad of a chance to fill them. Because the two bandits made prompt confession they are not subjected now to a "previous" torture--that is, to a new racking as an extra punishment before execution. They are compelled, however, to perform the _amende honorable_. This involves being haled to the parish church in the village. A long candle is thrust in the hands of each victim. They are dragged forward by a noose, and at the door of the church cast themselves down and cry; "We have grievously sinned against Heaven. Our punishment is just. We beg pardon of God and man. May Heaven have mercy upon our souls!" Then they are forced back to the cart whereon they are being trundled to execution. "Riding the cart" is a familiar phrase for going to the gallows. For a noble prisoner to be compelled to take his last journey upon a cart, instead of cavalier-wise upon a horse, is the last touch of degradation. The two bandits, securely pinioned, are placed in a two-wheeled vehicle, attended by Maître Denis and an assistant, and with Father Grégoire repeating prayers. They seem followed by all the lewd fellows of the baser sort in the entire region, and even certain knights and dames, come for the tournament, are not above craning their necks and gazing after the noisy procession. A hanging is just infrequent enough in St. Aliquis to afford a little excitement. At the gallows Maître Denis acts with a fearful dexterity. First one, next the other, criminal is dragged up the ladder with the noose about his neck, then swung off into eternity with a merciful speed. A good hangman does not let his victims suffer long. Soon a great flock of crows will be flapping around the gallows, giving the last rites to the lawbreakers, and the ogling crowd will slink away. [Sidenote: Ceremonies at an Execution] The poor wretches are fortunate in that their anguish is not prolonged by such customs as obtain at Paris. There many death carts stop at the Convent of the Filles-Dieu, where the nuns are obligated to give every condemned criminal a glass of wine and three pieces of bread. This pathetic meal is seldom refused, and a great throng will stand gaping about until it is consumed. Father Grégoire, too, had mercifully refrained from a long public exhortation at the gallows as to how, literally, "the wages of sin is death," another custom ere offenders are turned off. But after the deed is over, confessor, executioner, and provost do not decline their perquisite after every such ceremony--a liberal banquet at the castle. These proceedings have been unpleasant but not unusual interludes between such happenings as the wedding and the adubbement. It is time to return to young Squire Aimery, and see how he has been educated and "nourished" preparatory to the greatest event in his life. FOOTNOTES: [45] See pp. 379, 380. [46] Of course, a seigneur who grossly molested a peaceable traveling knight, or, for that matter, a villein in lawful errand going through the barony, could be cited before his suzerain's own tribunal for "denial of justice," and might (in clear-cut cases) have his whole position put in jeopardy. [47] See p. 380. [48] On account of the expense and trouble involved in attending the suzerain's court, and because of the risks of acting as judge, this feudal obligation was often poorly discharged. [49] It was clearly recognized, also, that the "right of duel" was subject to abuses, and successful efforts were made to limit it to (1) very serious offenses; (2) cases where there was no direct evidence, but only circumstantial evidence, against the accused. [50] The case of Louis IX holding court under a great tree in the royal forest at Vincennes will be recalled as typical of this custom. [51] Outside the barony he would probably be known by the name of the seigneury he served--_e.g._, "Maître St. Aliquis." Down to the verge of the Revolution the chief hangman of the capital of France was "Monsieur Paris." [52] This method of torture by "squasations" seems to have been the one ordinarily used in the Inquisition, which began its unhappy history in the thirteenth century. [53] This was one of the famous _Oubliettes_ ("Chambers of Forgetfulness") or _Vade-in-pace_ (Depart-in-peace) cells where the prisoners could be left to starve in pitch darkness, or perhaps be fed by a few scraps flung down from the hole in the vaulting. [54] It was a great concession in the Paris prisons when the government ordered that the jailers in the more public wards should "keep large basins on the pavement, so that the prisoners might get water whenever they wished." [55] Of course, the terrible severity of the penalties made many persons who were guilty of relatively small offenses feel that they had sinned beyond pardon. They would, therefore, plunge into a career of great crimes, to "have their fling" ere the inevitable gallows. Chapter XI: The Education of a Feudal Nobleman. To the noble troubadour Bertran de Born, a congenial comrade of Richard the Lion Hearted, is attributed a little song which seems re-echoed in many a castle. Peace delights me not! War--be thou my lot! Law--I do not know Save a right good blow! [Sidenote: Nobles Delight in War] Even a seigneur who nods pious assent to all that the monks and priests affirm in praise of peace wishes in his heart that it were not sinful to pray for brisk fighting. To be a good warrior, to be able to take and give hard blows, to enjoy the delights of victory over doughty adversaries, and finally to die a warrior's death on "the field of honor," not a "cow's death" in one's bed--that is the ambition of nearly every noble worthy of his gentility. Bertran de Born has again expressed this brutal joy in still greater detail: I prize no meat or drink beside The cry, "On! On!" from throats that crack: The neighs when frightened steeds run wide, A riderless and frantic pack, And set the forest ringing:-- The calls, "Help! Help!"--the warriors laid Beside the moat with brows that fade To grass and stubble clinging:-- And then the bodies past all aid Still pierced with broken spear or blade.... Come barons, haste ye, bringing Your vassals for the daring raid;-- _Risk all--and let the game be played!_ Clearly other and supposedly more peaceful ages will find in the Feudal Epoch a very bloody world. There is at least this extenuation. Even in France the winters are cold, the days short, the nights long. Castles at best are chilly, musty barracks. Many people are living in a small space and are constantly jostling one another. Thanks to sheer ennui, many a baron becomes capricious and tyrannical. Even in summertime, hunts, hawking, jongleurs' lays, and tournaments grow stale. Often the average cavalier is in a receptive mood for war just because he is grievously bored. [Illustration: COSTUME OF A NOBLEMAN (THIRTEENTH CENTURY)] The countenances of the older warriors around St. Aliquis; the great scars on cheek, chin, and forehead; the mutilated noses and ears--tell how strenuous have been most of their lives. The scars are badges of honor. Aimery is nigh regretful that there are no slashes on his youthful countenance, although Sire Eustace, his mentor, grimly assures him "this trouble will pass with time." Aimery is now nineteen. His brother gave him a careful training, as becoming the cadet of a great house, and then arranged that he be "nourished"--that is, taken into the family and educated as squire--by a powerful count. Unfortunately, just as Aimery was about to demand knighthood of his lord, the latter suddenly died. He therefore returned to St. Aliquis and waited some months impatiently, until Conon could give him an adubbement worthy of the St. Aliquis name. From earliest youth Aimery has had success in arms held before him as the one thing worth living for. True, he has been taught to be pious. He understands it is well that God has created priests and monks, who may by their ceremonies and prayers enable the good warriors to enter into paradise. But the squire has never had the slightest desire to become a cleric himself. He thanks his divine patroness, St. Génevieve, that Conon has not treated him as so many younger brothers are treated, and forced him into the Church. What is it to become a lazy rich canon, or even a splendid lord bishop, beside experiencing even the modest joys of a common sire with a small castle, a fast horse, good hawks, and a few stout retainers? Aimery has learned to attend mass devoutly and to accept implicitly the teachings of the priests, but his moral training is almost entirely based on "courtesy," a very secular code indeed. Hence he acts on the advice given him while very young: "Honor all churchmen, but look well to your money." Another well-remembered warning is never to put trust in villeins. He cannot, indeed, refuse to deal with them. He must treat them ordinarily with decency, but never trust them as real friends. The ignoble are habitually deceitful. They cannot understand a cavalier's "honor." They are capable of all kinds of base villainies. A sage man will have comradeship only with his nobly born peers, and pride is no fault in a baron when dealing with inferiors. [Illustration: GOTHIC WRITING From a thirteenth-century chart.] [Sidenote: Literary Education of Young Nobles] Although he is to be a warrior, Aimery has been given a certain training in the science of letters. It is true that many seigneurs cannot read a word on the parchments which their scriveners interpret, draw up, or seal for them,[56] but this is really very inconvenient. Conon is genuinely thankful he is not thus at the mercy of Father Grégoire. Another reason for literacy is that delightful books of romantic adventure are multiplying. The younger brother has, therefore, been sent over to the school at the neighboring monastery, where (along with a few other sons of noblemen) he has had enough of the clerk's art switched into him to be able to read French with facility, to pick out certain Latin phrases, and to form letters clumsily on wax tablets--writing with a stylus something after the manner of the ancients.[57] Once possessed of this wonderful art of reading that Aimery had while yet a lad, he could delve into the wonderful parchments of romances which told him of the brave deeds done of old. Especially, he learned all about the Trojan War, which was one long baronial feud between North French cavaliers fighting for the fair Helen, imprisoned in a strong castle. His sympathy was excited for Hector as the under dog. He read of many exploits which had escaped the knowledge of Homer, but which were well known to Romance trouvères. He reveled in scenes of slaughter whereof the figures are very precise, it being clearly stated that 870,000 Greeks and 680,000 Trojans perished in the siege of that remarkable Trojan fortress. [Illustration: A TEACHER HOLDING A FERULE IN HIS HAND Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc from a thirteenth-century manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale.] Almost equally interesting was the history of Alexander, based on the version of the pseudo-Callisthenes. This was very unlike the accounts which other ages consider authentic. The names of the battles with Darius were altered, strange adventures with the Sirens crept into the narrative, and finally Alexander (the tale ran) died sorely lamenting that he could not conquer France and make Paris his capital. The story of Cæsar is also available, but it seems less romantic, although full of episodes of fairies and dwarfs. For the history of France, Aimery has learned that the country was originally settled by exiled Trojans; later the Romans came, and some time later one meets the great Emperor Charlemagne, whose exploits entwine themselves with Charles Martel's defeat of the Saracens. Charlemagne, we gather, conducted a crusade to the Holy Land and took Jerusalem, although later the Infidels regained it. Recent French history remains very mixed in the young noble's mind until the great Council of Clermont (1095), which launched the First Crusade. In the century after that great episode, however, the events stand out clearly, and of course he knows all the history of the local baronial houses down to the story of the petty feud forty years ago between two Burgundian counts. But what is monk's or jongleur's lore compared with the true business of a born cavalier? When he was only seven or eight, Aimery was fencing with a blunted sword. From ten onward he took more regular fencing lessons, first from Sire Eustace; then from a professional master, a keen Gascon, hired by Conon. Equally early he had his horse, his hawks, and his dogs; he was taught how to care for them entirely himself, and was soon allowed to go on long rides alone into the dense forest in order to develop his resourcefulness, sense of direction, and woodcraft. Then, as he grew taller, his brother began to deliver long lectures for his betterment, even as Adela had admonished Alienor. [Sidenote: Maxims for Youthful Cavaliers] One day Conon exhorted him in the style of the old Count Guy advising his son Doon in the epic, "Doon of Mayence." "Ask questions of good men whom you know, but never put trust in a stranger. Every day, fair brother, hear the holy mass; and whenever you have money give to the poor--for God will repay you double. Be liberal in gifts to all, for a cavalier who is sparing will lose all in the end and die in wretchedness; but wherever you can, give without promising to give again. When you come to a strange house, cough very loudly, for there may be something going on there which you ought not to see. When you are in noble company, play backgammon; you will be the more prized on that account. Never make a noise or jest in church; it is done only by unbelievers. If you would shun trouble, avoid meddling and pretend to no knowledge you do not possess. Do not treat your body servant as your equal--that is, let him sit by you at table or take him to bed with you; for the more honor you do a villein the more he will despise you. After you are married by no means tell a secret to your wife; for if you let her know it you will repent your act the first time you vex her." And with this shrewd thrust at Adela the flow of wisdom temporarily ceases. Before he was fifteen Aimery had thus learned to read and write, to ride and hawk, to play chess, checkers, and backgammon, to thrum a harp and sing with clear voice, to shoot with the arbalist, and to fence with considerable skill. He was also learning to handle a light lance and a shield while on horseback. Then came his first great adventure--his brother sent him to the gentle Count of Bernon to be "nourished." The higher the baron the greater his desire to have nobly born lads placed in his castle as _nourris_, to serve as his squires and be trained as cavaliers. Bernon had kept three squires simultaneously, as did Conon himself. It is a friendly courtesy to send word to an old comrade in arms (as these two seigneurs had been), saying: "You have a fine son (or brother); send him to be 'nourished' in my castle. When he is of ripe age I will give him furs and a charger and dub him knight." Of course, it was a high honor to be reared by a very great lord like the Duke of Quelqueparte; but younger sons or brothers did not often enjoy such good fortune. Petty nobles had to send their sons to the manors of poor sires of their own rank, who could keep only one squire. [Sidenote: Training of a Squire] Once enrolled as squire to a count, Aimery soon learned that his master was a kind of second father to him--rebuking and correcting him with great bluntness, but assuming an equal responsibility for his training. Hereafter, whatever happened, no ex-squire could fight against his former master without sheer impiety. The Emperor Charlemagne once, in a passion, smote the hero Roland in the face. Roland turned red. His fist clenched--then he remembered how Charlemagne had "nourished" him. He accepted an insult which to him no other mortal might proffer. It is held that no father or brother can enforce sufficient discipline over a growing lad, and that "it is proper he shall learn to obey before he governs, otherwise he will not appreciate the nobility of his rank when he becomes a knight." Aimery in the De Bernon castle surely received his full share of discipline, not merely from the count, but from the two older squires, who took pains at first to tyrannize over him unmercifully, until they became knighted, and he gained two new companions younger than himself, with whom he played the despot in turn. In his master's service Aimery became expert in the use of arms. First he was allowed to carry the count's great sword, lance, and shield, and to learn how the older nobles could handle them. Next he was given weapons and mail of his own, and began the tedious training of the tilt yard, discovering that a large part of his happiness in life would consist in being able to hold his lance steady while his horse was charging, to strike the point fairly on a hostile shield until either the tough lance snapped or his foe was flung from the saddle, and at the same time to pinch his own saddle tightly with his knees while with his own shield covering breast and head against a mortal blow. Couch, charge, recover--couch, charge, recover--he must practice it a thousand times. Meantime he was attending the count as a constant companion. He rose at gray dawn, went to the stables, and curried down his master's best horse; then back to the castle to assist his superior to dress. He waited on his lord and lady at table. He was responsible for receiving noble guests, preparing their chambers and generally attending to their comfort. On expeditions he led the count's great war charger when the seigneur rode his less fiery palfrey; and he would pass his lord his weapons as needed. At tournaments he stood at the edge of the lists, ready to rush in and rescue the count from under the stamping horses if he were dismounted. He was expected to fight only in emergencies, when his master was in great danger; but Bernon was a gallant knight, and repeatedly in hot forays Aimery had gained the chance to use his weapons. At the same time he was learning courtesy. He was intrusted with the escort of the countess and her daughters. He entertained with games, jests and songs noble dames visiting the castle. He learned all the details of his master's affairs. The count was supposed to treat him as a kind of younger self--intrust him with secrets, send him as confidential messenger on delicate business, allow him to carry his purse when he journeyed, and keep the keys to his coffers when at home. After Aimery became first squire he was expected also to assist the seneschal in a last round of the castle at night, to make sure everything was locked and guarded; then he would sleep at the door of the count's chamber. Beyond a doubt, since the count was an honorable and capable man, Aimery received thereby a training of enormous value. While still a lad he had large responsibilities thrust upon him, and learned how to transmit commands and to handle difficult situations. He was versed in all the ordinary occasions of a nobleman. When he became a knight himself, he would be no tyro in all the stern problems of feudal life. [Illustration: MANEUVERING WITH A LANCE IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc, from a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale.] Thus Conon's brother came within four years to be an admirable _damoiseau_ (little lord), an epithet decidedly more commendatory than its partial equivalent "squire" (_ecuyer_, shield bearer).[58] [Sidenote: Martial Exercises, the Quintain] Of course, his military training had proceeded apace. Soon he was allowed to tilt with his horse and lance at the _quintain_. This is a manikin covered with a coat of mail and a shield, and set on a post. The horseman dashes up against it at full gallop, and tries to drive his lance through shield and armor. There are many variations for making the sport harder. After Aimery could strike the _quintain_ with precision he took his first tilt against an older squire. Never will he forget the grinding shock of the hostile lance splintering upon his shield; the almost irresistible force that seemed smiting him out of the saddle; the dismay when he found his own lance glancing harmlessly off the shield of his opponent, slanted at a cunning angle. But practice makes perfect. When he finally returned to St. Aliquis his own brother was almost unhorsed when they tried a friendly course by the barbican. So Aimery completed his education. If he has failed to learn humility, humanity to villeins, and that high respect for women which treats them not merely as creatures to be praised and courted, but as one's moral and intellectual equals, he at least has learned a high standard of honor in dealing with his fellow nobles. The confidences his master has reposed in him have made it a fundamental conviction that it were better to perish a dozen times than to betray a trust. He believes that the word of a cavalier should be better than the oath of the ignoble. As for courage, it were better to die like Ganelon, torn by wild horses, than to show fear in the face of physical danger. He has been trained also to cultivate the virtue of generosity to an almost ruinous extent. Free giving is one of the marks of a true nobleman. Largess is praised by the minstrels almost as much as bravery. "He is not a true knight who is too covetous." Therefore money is likely to flow like water through Aimery's fingers all his life. The one redeeming fact will be that, though he will be constantly _giving_, he will always be as constantly _receiving_. Among the nobles there is an incessant exchanging of gifts--horses, armor, furs, hawks, and even money. All wealth really comes from the peasants, yet their lords dispose carelessly of it even though they do not create it. Even the villeins, however, will complain if their masters do not make the crowds scramble often for coppers--never realizing that these same coppers represent their own sweat and blood. [Sidenote: Demanding Knighthood] As already stated, Aimery's master had died (to his squire's sincere grief) shortly before the latter could have said to him according to the formula, "Fair Sire, I demand of you knighthood." The young man has accordingly returned to St. Aliquis, and waited for some action by his brother. Knighthood means for a noble youth the attainment of his majority. It involves recognition as a complete member of that aristocracy which was separated by a great gulf from the villeins. Very rarely can the base-born hope for that ceremonial buffet which admits them to the company of the gentle. If a peasant has exhibited remarkable courage and intelligence, and above all has rendered some extraordinary service to a duke or king, sometimes his villein blood may be forgotten officially. But even if he is knighted, all his life he can be treated as a social upstart, his dame despised and snubbed by noblewomen, and his very grandchildren reminded of the taint of their ancestor. True, indeed, not all men of nobility can become knights. Knighthood ordinarily implies having a minimum of landed property, and ability to live in aristocratic idleness. Many poor nobles, and especially the younger sons of poor nobles, remain bachelors, fretting upon their starving properties, or serving some seigneur as mercenaries, and hoping for a stroke of fortune so that they can demand knighthood. But they are likely to die in their poverty, jealous of the rich sires, yet utterly scornful of the peasants and thanking the saints they are above touching a plow, mattock, or other vulgar means of livelihood. On the other hand, there are many seigneurs who, although rich and dubbed as knights, nevertheless give the lie to their honors by their effeminacy and luxury. They are worse than the baron whom we saw as a _trouvère_ and collector of minstrels' romances, and who even read Latin books. The monkish preachers scold such weaklings and pretended gallants. "To-day our warriors are reared in luxury. See them leave for the campaign! Are their packs filled with iron, with lances, with swords? Not so, but with leathern bottles filled with wine, with cheeses, and spits for roasting. One would imagine that they were going to a feast in the gardens and not to a battle. They carry splendidly plated shields; but greatly they hope to bring them back undented."[59] Such unworthy knights unquestionably can be found, but they have not tainted the whole nobility. Your average cavalier has spent his entire life training for combat; he dreams of lance thrusts and forays; and the least of his sins is that he will shun deadly blows. At last the great day for which Aimery has waited is at hand. To-morrow Conon will dub him a knight. FOOTNOTES: [56] As late as about 1250 there was a "grand chamberlain of France" who seems to have been absolutely illiterate. [57] It is risky to generalize as to the extent of learning among the average nobles. Some modern students would probably represent them as being sometimes better lettered than were Conon and Aimery. [58] The sharp distinction between the young attendants known as "pages," and the older "squires," had hardly been worked out by A.D. 1220. Such young persons could also be called "varlets," but that name might be given as well to non-noble servitors. When chivalry was at its height the theory developed that a nobleman's son should spend his first to his seventh year at home with his mother, his eighth to his fifteenth in suitable training as a "page," and from that time till he was one-and-twenty serving as a squire. This precise demarcation of time was probably seldom adhered to. Many ambitious young nobles would serve much less than seven years as a squire. On the other hand, many petty nobles might remain squires all their lives, for lack of means to maintain themselves as self-respecting knights. [59] The words quoted are those of the Archdeacon Peter of Blois, haranguing about A.D. 1180. Chapter XII: Feudal Weapons and Horses. Dubbing a Knight. The thing which really separates a noble from a villein is the former's superiority in arms. True, God has made the average cavalier more honorable, courteous, and sage than the peasant; but, after all, his great advantage is material. The villeins, poor churls, spend their days with shovel, mattock, or in mechanic toil. Doubtless, they can grow wheat, raise pigs, weave cloth, or build houses better than their masters, but in the use of arms how utterly are they inferior. How can a plowman, though you give him weapons, hold his own against a man of gentility who has been trained in arms from early boyhood. As for the peasants with their ordinary weapons--flails, boar spears, great knives, scythes set on poles, bows and arrows--suppose ten of them meet one experienced cavalier in full panoply upon a reliable charger. His armor will turn their puny blows. He will, perhaps, have brained or pinked through four of them before the other six can run into the woods. No wonder nobles give the law to villeins! The noble is almost always a horseman. It is the great war steed that gives him much of his advantage, and a large part of the remainder comes from his magnificent armor, which enables him often to go through desperate contests unscathed, and which is so expensive that most non-nobles can never afford it. A good cavalier despises missile weapons, he loves to come to grips. Bowmen are despised as being always villeins. Says a poet, "Coward was he who was the first archer; he was a weakling and dared not come close to his foe." And many armies are reckoned by cavalry alone, even as sang another minstrel of a legendary host, "there were in it sixty thousand knights, not counting foot soldiers of whom no account is taken." [Illustration: A KNIGHT AT THE END OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc, from a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale. He wears on his shoulders small metal plaques called "ailettes."] Old warriors dislike arbalists, those terrible crossbows, wound up with a winch, which enable base-born infantrymen to send heavy bolts clear through shirts of mail. They are most unknightly things. In 1139 a Lateran Council actually forbade their use against Christians. Arbalists certainly are useful in sieges for clearing ramparts or repelling attack; but they take so long to wind up after every shot that their value in open battles is limited. Crossbowmen, unless carefully protected, can be ridden down by cavalry. So for another hundred years the mailed knight will hold his own. Then may come the English long-bow (far more rapid in its fire than the arbalist), and the day of the infantry will return. [Sidenote: Training to Fight in Armor] Knights are continually fighting, or at least are exercising most violently in tourneys; yet the proportion of contestants slain is not very great. This is because their armor makes them almost invulnerable. After a battle, if you count the dead, you find they are usually all from the poor villein infantry or the luckless camp followers. Yet this harness has inconveniences. It is so heavy that the knight is the prisoner of his own armor. He can hardly mount his horse unassisted. Once flung from the saddle, he can scarcely rise without help. The lightest suit of armor in common use weighs at least fifty-five pounds. Powerful knights often wear much heavier. Yet to be able to move about with reasonable freedom, to swing one's shield, to control one's horse, and finally to handle lance or sword with great strength and precision, doing it all in this ponderous clothing of metal, are what squires like Aimery must learn to a nicety ere claiming knighthood. Wearing such armor, it is not remarkable that noblemen always prefer horseback, and fight on foot only in emergencies. The prime unit in a suit of armor is the hauberk. He who has a fine hauberk, light (considering the material), pliable, and of such finely tempered steel as to be all but impenetrable, has something worth a small manor land. On this hauberk will often depend his life. In the olden days, before about A.D. 1000, the hauberk was a shirt of leather or quilted cloth, covered by overlapping metal plates like fishscales. Now, thanks to ideas probably gathered from the Saracens, it is a shirt of ring mails, a beautiful network of fine chains and links, in the manufacturing of which the armorers ("the worthiest folk among all villeins," declares Conon) can put forth remarkable skill. The double or triple links are all annealed. The metal is kept bright and "white" by constant polishing (a regular task for the squires), and Conon has one gala shirt of mail which has been silvered. These garments form an almost complete protection, thanks to long sleeves, a long skirt below the knees, and a hood coming right over the head and partly covering the cheeks. A few brightly colored threads are sometimes worked into the links for ornament, but the flashing sheen of a good hauberk is its sufficient glory. The widowed Countess of Bernon has sent to Aimery, as token of good will, a ring shirt belonging to her husband. The knight-to-be swears that he will never dishonor its former owner while he wears it. [Illustration: GERMAN HELMETS OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY] [Sidenote: Hauberks, Helmets and Shields] The next great unit in the armor is the helmet. Helmets have been steadily becoming more complicated, but most warriors still prefer a plain conical steel cap encircled with a band of metal which may be adorned with gilt enamel. It has also a "nasal," a metal bar to protect the nose. Helmets are usually laced to the hood of the hauberk by small leathern straps. Since even a light and well-tempered helmet is an uncomfortable thing, you seldom wear it until just before going into action. "Lace helmets!" is the order to get ready for a charge; and after a knight is wounded the first friendly act is to unlace his headpiece. By the early thirteenth century helmets are beginning to have closed visors to keep out missiles. But these visors are immovable without taking off the whole helm; and if they get displaced and the small eyeholes are shifted, the wearer is practically blind. The old-style open helm will therefore continue in vogue until the coming of the elaborate plate armor and the more manageable jointed helms of the fourteenth century. [Illustration: A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY SHIELD] The third great protection is the shield. These have been getting smaller as hauberks and helmets have been improving; but one cannot trust solely to the body armor. Besides, a shield is a kind of offensive weapon. A sharp thrust with its edge or a push with its broad surface may often knock your opponent over. Aimery's new shield is semioval and slightly pointed at the bottom. It covers its possessor from shoulder to knees while sitting on his horse. The stoutest kind of hide is used in making it, with a backing of light, tough wood, and a strong rim of metal. It curves inward slightly for the better protection of the body. In the center is a metal knob, usually of brilliant brass, and the name "buckler" comes from this strong "boss" (_boucle_). There is a big leather strap by which the shield is ordinarily carried about the neck; but when you go into action you run your left arm through two strong handles. A shield seems a simple object, but almost as much skill goes into compacting the wood, leather, and metal into one strong mass, not easily split or pierced, as into making the hauberk. The front, of course, is highly colored, and, although the heraldic "coat armor" has yet hardly developed, every cavalier will flaunt some design of a lion, eagle, dragon, cross, or floral scroll. As for the handling of the shield, it is nearly as great a science as the handling of the sword; indeed, the trained warrior knows how to make shield and sword, or shield and lance, strike or fend together almost as one weapon. [Illustration: THIRTEENTH-CENTURY SWORDS] Nevertheless, it is the strictly offensive weapons on which the noble warrior sets greatest store, and the weapon _par excellence_ is the sword. Barons often love their swords perhaps more than they love their wives. They treat them almost as if they are persons. They try to keep them through their entire lives. According to the epics, the hero Roland liked to talk to his sword "Durendal," and Ogier to his "Brans." Conon swears one of his fiercest oaths, "by my good sword 'Hautemise,'" and Aimery has named his new sword "Joyeuse," after the great blade of Charlemagne. [Sidenote: Swords and Lances] There are many fashions in swords. You can always revive a flagging conversation by asking whether your companion likes a tapering blade or one of uniform thickness and weight. But the average weapon is about three inches wide at the hilt, and some thirty-two inches long in blade, slightly tapering. The hilt should be adorned with gilt, preferably set with pearls, and at the end have a knob containing some small saints' relics placed behind a bit of crystal to reveal the holy objects. Conon's Hautemise thus contains some dried blood of St. Basil, several hairs of St. Maurice, and lint from the robe which St. Mary Magdalene wore after she repented. These relics are convenient, for whenever a promise must be authenticated, the oath taker merely claps his hand on his hilt, and his vow is instantly registered in heaven. The lance is the other great weapon of the cavalier. Normally you use it in the first combats, and resort to your sword only after the lance is broken. The average lance is not more than ten feet long.[60] It has a lozenge-shape head of fine Poitou or Castile steel. Care must be taken in selecting straight, tough, supple wood for the shaft and in drying it properly, for the life of the warrior may depend on the reliability of his lance shaft, and the amount of sudden strain which it can stand in a horse-to-horse encounter. Ashwood is ordinarily counted the best. As a rule there is no handle on the butt. The art of grasping the round wood firmly, of holding the long weapon level with the hip, and finally of making the sharp tip strike squarely on the foeman's shield (however he may slant the latter) is a matter of training for wrist and eye which possibly exceeds all skill in fencing. The whole body works together in lance play. The horse must be guided by the knees; the shield must be shifted with the left hand, the lance with the right; the eye and nerves must be under perfect control--and then, with man and horse fused into one flying weapon, away you go--what keener sport can there be in the world?[61] [Illustration: HORSE TRAPPINGS Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc, from a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale.] Yet there is something more important to the warrior than his panoply. What is a cavalier without his horse? Few, indeed, are the humans whom the best of barons will set above his favorite destrer. Your horses are comrades in hunt, tourney, and battle. By their speed and intelligence they save your life when squire or vassal avail not. When they fail, commend your soul to the saints--you will soon be in purgatory. From boyhood a cavalier has almost lived in the saddle. When in danger he knows all the capacities of his charger, and trusts him accordingly. Such a companion is to be treated with care. He is fed daintily; he is combed and tricked out like a delicate woman, and when ill he is physicked with more wisdom possibly than will be vouchsafed to most Christian denizens of a castle. Stories abound of how horses have succored their masters and stood watch over them while sleeping; and even one tale of how, when a knight returned after seven years, he was not recognized by his betrothed, but was by his faithful destrer. Another anecdote is how a knight answered, on being asked, "What will be your chief joy in paradise?" "To see Blanchart, my old horse." Such being the case, the greatest pains are taken with horse breeding. Rich seigneurs rejoice in valuable stallions, and even monasteries keep breeding stables. A fine horse is an even more acceptable gift to a potentate than a notable hawk. Many horses are called "Arabian," but probably these come from North Africa. In France are raised horses equal to the best, especially those powerful steeds not quite so swift as the Oriental, but better able to bear a knight in ponderous armor. Gascon horses are in particular demand, and Conon takes peculiar satisfaction in a brood mare from Bordeaux. To ride a mare, however, is regarded as unknightly--"the women to the women"--probably an old Teutonic prejudice. Aimery, while squire, found the care of the count's horses a prime duty. This was no trifle, for De Bernon, like every magnate, always kept several palfreys, handsome steeds of comfortable pace for peace-time riding, besides his special destrer--the great fierce war horse for battle. "To mount the high horse"--the destrer--is to show one's pride, not by vain boasting, but by displaying oneself in terrible weapons.[62] Of course, however, the haughty young squire did not have to bother about his lord's _roncins_, the ordinary steeds for the servants, or the _sommiers_ for the baggage, humbler creatures still. The favorite color for horses is white; after that dappled gray; after that bay or chestnut. Poets exhaust their skill in describing beautiful steeds, as if they were beautiful women. Wrote one bard about a Gascon horse: "His hair outshone the plumage of a peacock; his head was lean; his eye gray like a falcon; his breast large and square; his crupper broad; his thigh round; and rump tight. All beholding him exclaimed 'they had never seen a handsomer creature!'" [Illustration: A KNIGHT OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY From a bas-relief in the church of Saint-Nazaire at Carcassonne (Viollet-Le-Duc).] [Sidenote: The Great War Horses] Such precious beings have names of honor. Charlemagne's destrer was the great Tencendur. Roland charged on Veilantif. Carbonel, Palantamur, Grisart are familiar names; and Conon's dearly loved companion is Regibet, whom, with all his fierceness, the baron could ride safely without bit, bridle, or spurs. The harness of the war horse is still very simple. The elaborate trappings and armor belong to a later age, but the stirrups and high saddle can be gilded and even set with pearls. More noticeable still are the dozens of little bells on different parts of the harness, which jingle merrily like sleigh bells of another age, as the great steeds pound along. Aimery has lived where hauberks, helms, shields, swords, and lances have been the small coin of conversation since he has been able to talk. He has come to know horseflesh far better than he knows that other important mortal thing called "woman." He has now reached the age when he is extremely confident in his own abilities and equally confident that a fame like Roland's or Godfrey of Bouillon's is waiting him, provided the saints will assist. If he could have followed daydreaming, he would have been dubbed knight by the king himself after mighty deeds on the field of battle, while still covered with blood and grime; but such fair fortune comes only in the romances. At least, he is glad that he has a brother who is a brother indeed, and does not keep him in the background nor withhold from him his inheritance, as is the luck of so many younger sons. [Illustration: A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY KNIGHT From sculpture in the cathedral of Rheims.] [Sidenote: Candidates for Knighthood] It is a great grief that Aimery's father is not living to see his sons "come to knighthood." A good father always looks forward to that happy day; although in some disordered fiefs the seigneur will have to watch jealously lest the moment his offspring become full-fledged warriors they are not worked upon by disloyal vassals who will tell them, "Your father is old, and cannot rule the barony; seize it for yourselves." Even kings have to guard against this danger. Philip Augustus has knighted his heir, Prince Louis, only after the latter has taken a solemn oath not to enroll armed followers or perform other sovereign acts, save with his father's specific consent. Theoretically, any knight can grant adubbement to any person he thinks worthy; but actually a knight who dubs a villein, save in very exceptional circumstances, will jeopardize his own claim to nobility; and if he thrusts the honor on young, untried petty nobles, he will be laughed at, and their claims to the rank be promptly questioned. Fathers have often dubbed their sons, but better still, a young noble will seek the honor from his suzerain. Aimery learns with satisfaction that the Duke of Quelqueparte has consented to give the buffet of honor, for the higher the rank of the adubbing cavalier, the greater the glory of the ex-squire. [Illustration: A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY KNIGHT From a bas-relief at the cathedral of Rheims (Viollet-Le-Duc).] The adubbement of knights is still a decidedly secular ceremony. Doubtless, the custom can be somewhat traced back to the crude rites whereby Germanic youths were initiated into the ranks of first-class warriors. Beyond the vigil in the church and the hearing of mass, there is not much that is religious about it. Clerical customs are indeed intruding. Young nobles like to visit Rome and be dubbed by the Pope. Others now are beginning to kneel before bishops and crave knighthood as a kind of lay consecration. Opinion, however, still frowns on this. Adubbement is a military business and churchmen had better keep their place. It will be more than a hundred years before religion and sentimentality can intrude much into what has long been a distinctly martial affair. [Sidenote: Ceremonies Before Adubbement] Easter, Ascension Day, Pentecost and St. John's day are acceptable times for adubbements; but there are plenty of precedents for combining the ceremony with an important wedding, as it might be with the baptism of the heir to a barony. In the present case, moreover, as happens very often, Aimery, although the chief candidate for knighthood, is not alone. The duke will give the qualifying blow to five other young men, sons of the St. Aliquis vassals; and, indeed, twenty or more candidates are often knighted together at the king's court. [Illustration: A BEGGAR End of the twelfth century (from a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale).] The night before the ceremony the whole castle is in as great a stir as before the wedding. More guests, more feasting, more jongleurs, perpetual singing, music, noise. Upon the table in the great hall Adela and Alienor (as substitutes for Aimery's mother) have laid out for public admiration the costume which he will assume the next day. The articles are selected as carefully as for the bridal--especially the spotless white shirt, the costly robe of ermine, and the spurs of gold. A host of beggars swarm in the bailey, for this occasion calls for an unusual recklessness of almsgiving. Even the invited guests are throwing around coppers, thereby proving their nobility. As for Aimery, when the evening falls he and his five companions take a complete bath, not without considerable solemnity. This act has genuine significance. "It is to efface all villainies of the past life, that the bather may come out pure."[63] There are no boisterous splashing and merrymaking as the youths sit in the long wooden bathtubs. While they dress themselves, smiling sergeants appear with presents. Relatives, the suzerain, noble friends, have sent them articles of costly apparel, usually silken and fur-lined, to wear during their "vigil at arms." These are very much like the gifts that are showered upon a bride. It is about half a mile from St. Aliquis castle to the parish church. After their bath the six candidates go hither, attended by the youths who are to become their squires. The company is joyous, but not noisy; violent mirth were unbecoming. At the church the squires-to-be leave the others. The candidates enter the great dark building. On the high altar a lamp burns, and on the side altar of St. Martin, the warrior saint, is a blaze of candles before a picture showing the holy man in the costume of a knight giving half of his military cloak to a beggar. The new weapons and armor of the candidates have been laid upon this altar. Then the vigil begins. The six knights-elect must not converse. They can only stand, or kneel at preference, for the whole ten hours--a serious physical ordeal. During the solemn silence they are expected to pray to all their patron saints and make solemn vows to govern their whole life. It is a time for serious meditation, and Aimery beseeches, "Give to me honor," loyally adding, "and to my brother long life!" He does not ask "honor" for Conon also, for that would imply the mighty baron still needed it. Then at last dawn creeps through the storied windows. An old priest enters and says mass, which the candidates follow gravely. At six in the morning, with the summer air bright and beautiful around them, they are all going again to the castle, merry and talkative in reaction from the long constraint. [Sidenote: Dressing the Candidates] Back in the castle Aimery is glad of an unusually hearty breakfast. Not merely has the long vigil of standing wearied him, but he will need all his strength for the ordeal of the day. Next he goes to his chamber, where the stripling who is to be his squire, the son of a friendly baron, puts on his new master's gala dress. White is the predominant color--"whiter than the snow of the April flowers." Friends of his brother come in to witness the process, and compliment the candidate very openly upon his broad shoulders, healthy complexion, and hardened sinews. These congratulations become more pronounced when a bustling servitor announces that "all is ready." Aimery strides into the courtyard. The place seems crammed with knights and dames, old and young, all in their best. Everybody (partly from politeness, partly from genuine enthusiasm) begins to call out: "How fine he is! A true St. Aliquis! Right worthy of his brother!" Immediately two loud trumpets announce the ceremony. A great orchestra of jongleurs raises a clamor. The sight is magnificent. The castle court seems alive with color. The women are in striking costumes, with their long hair hanging braided on their shoulders. The knights wear either bliauts, green, blue, or red, or hauberks of dazzling brightness. The numerous priests present have on their finest robes. Even the monks seem less somber in their habits. All is noise, music, and animation. The six candidates, followed by the whole rejoicing company, cross the bailey and the lists and go forth to the exercise ground by the garden. Here there is a platform covered with fine Saracen carpets. The Duke of Quelqueparte stands thereon, a majestic elderly warrior in gilded armor. The six candidates form a semicircle at the foot of the platform; then Aimery, as the brother of the giver of the fête, is the first to mount. Immediately his "first sponsor" presents himself, a white-headed knight, a maternal uncle. Deliberately he kisses the candidate; then, kneeling, puts on his two golden spurs. As the uncle steps back, Conon and Olivier present themselves. They are the second and third sponsors. They pull a dazzling white steel hauberk over Aimery's head and adjust its cape. Upon this last they set the equally brilliant helmet, adorned with semiprecious stones. Then the fourth sponsor, the stately Count of Perseigne, girds on the candidate's sword, adding a few words of admonition how the younger man "must use it worthily"; to which the other responds by lifting the weapon and piously kissing the relics set in the hilt. [Sidenote: The Buffet of Knighthood] The four sponsors step back. The assembled jongleurs give a mighty crash of music. The duke lifts his clenched hand. "Bow the head!" he orders. "I will give you the blow." Aimery bows himself meekly to the greater lord, but his meekness is tested by the terrific stroke of his suzerain's fist, which sends him reeling. But the instant he recovers, the duke seizes him in comradely embrace. "Be brave, Sire Aimery. Recall that you are of a lineage famous both as seigneurs and as vassals, and do nothing base. Honor all knights. Give to the poor. Love God. Go!" The happy cavalier replies: "I thank you, fair lord, and may God hear you. Let me always serve and love him." Then he descends the platform, and each of the other candidates mounts in turn to be knighted with similar ceremonies, although the sponsors (drawn from relatives or connections) will be different. The crowd standing round follows the proceedings with the uttermost interest, joining in a mighty shout each time the blow of honor is given. Then Conon, as master of ceremonies, waves to his marshal. "Bring in the horses!" Immediately the new squires to the new knights appear, leading six steeds, faultlessly groomed and in beautiful harness--the gift of the baron to the candidates. The instant the horses are in front of the platform the new cavaliers break from their statuesque rigidity. Clothed as they are now in heavy hauberk and helmet, they run, each man to his horse, and try to leap to the saddle at one bound without touching foot to the stirrups. An anxious moment for them; an equally anxious moment for parents, brothers, or sisters. From the time a young nobleman is in his cradle his mother will discuss with his father, "Will he make the 'leap' when he is knighted?" It is one of the great tests of a martial education, and one that must be taken with the uttermost publicity. Truth to tell, Aimery and his friends have been practicing the feat with desperate energy for the last month. Done! All six have mounted fairly! Salvos of applause. His friends are congratulating Conon: "Such a brother!" The kinsfolk of the other young knights are similarly overwhelmed. [Sidenote: Concluding Exercises] Meantime the happy new cavaliers hold their horses motionless for an instant while their squires run to them with their lances and triangular shields. The lances have long bright pennons with three tails which float down upon their riders' helmets. This act performed, the riders put their steeds through all manner of gallops and caracoles, and next, "singing high with clear voice," away they go, flying toward a place on the exercise ground where the _quintain_--the wooden manikin warrior--has been set up.[64] To smash its shield and fling it to the ground with a single lance thrust is another unescapable test. This ordeal also is met by Aimery and his peers with tolerable glory for all. After this sport the new knights are expected to _behourder_--that is, to indulge in mock duels with blunted weapons. These were not counted serious contests, but often enough, if blood is high and rivalry keen, they can take on the form of vigorous combats. To-day, however, everybody is in too good humor for violent blows; besides, the real tournament begins to-morrow, and it is best to keep strength and weapons until then. The morning is now spent. Seigneurial appetites have been nobly whetted. The pavilions are again ready in the garden, and the cooks have prepared pasties, joints of meat, and great quantities of roast poultry, even as for the wedding feast. There is another round of gorging and guzzling, only this time the six new knights occupy the place of honor, and the master jongleur's story is not concerning sad Tristan, but about how brave Godfrey of Bouillon stormed Jerusalem. Everybody is commenting upon the admirable grace, modesty, and proficiency in arms of Sire Aimery. A count has approached Conon already before dinner. "Fair Baron, you have a brother who is a credit to your name. Is it true he is to receive Petitmur? I have a daughter in her fifteenth year; her dowry will be----" But Conon tactfully shrugs his shoulders. "Fair Count, my brother will indeed receive Petitmur; but to-day he is knighted and can speak for himself. Make your marriage proposals to him. I have no longer the right to control him." FOOTNOTES: [60] Lances grew longer and stouter in the later Middle Ages. In the fourteenth century they were about fifteen feet long and were a kind of battering rams designed to dash one's opponent out of the saddle, even if his armor were not pierced. [61] Another weapon not infrequently used was the mace, an iron-headed war club with a fairly long handle. In powerful hands such a weapon could fell the sturdiest opponent, however good his armor. The mace was somewhat the favorite of martial bishops, abbots, and other churchmen, who thus evaded the letter of the canon forbidding clerics to "smite with the edge of the sword," or to "shed blood." The mace merely smote your foe senseless or dashed out his brains, without piercing his lungs or breast! Another weapon especially common in the early Middle Ages was the battle ax. [62] The destrer was so called because it was supposed to be led at the knight's right hand (_dexter_) and ready for instant use, as he traveled on his less powerful palfrey. [63] As chivalry took on its later and more religious cast, all the acts of an adubbement became clothed with allegorical meaning--_e.g._ besides the bath, the candidate must lie down (at least for a moment) upon a bed, because "it was an emblem of the rest which God grants to His followers, the brave knights." The candidate's snow-white shirt is to show that "he must keep his flesh from every stain if he would hope to reach heaven." His scarlet robe shows that he "must be ready to pour out his blood for Holy Church." His trunk hose of brown silk "remind him by their somber hue he must die." His white girdle "warns him that his soul should be stainless." [64] See p. 185. Chapter XIII: The Tourney. When Conon decided to give a tourney as a climax to the wedding and adubbement festivities, he sent out several servitors of good appearance and loud voices to course the country for some twenty leagues around. These varlets bawled their proclamation at every crossroad, village, inn, and castle gate. "The Wednesday after St. Ancildus Day, good people! In the meadow at St. Aliquis by the Claire. The Wednesday after St. Ancildus day! Let all come who love to see or to join in deeds of valor!" This is "crying the tourney." As soon as the news spreads abroad, every petty sire takes council with his wife whether he can afford to go. The women begin to hunt up their best bliauts and furs; the men to furbish their armor. Soon various cavaliers, arranging with their friends, undertake to form challenge parties. They write on a scroll "At the castle of A---- there are seven knights who will be ready to joust with all comers to St. Aliquis." This they post on a tree by the wayside in order that other lordlings may organize similar parties to confront them. Tourneys are to be reckoned as "little wars themselves, and the apprenticeship for great ones." They have an inconceivably prominent place in feudal life. Vainly the Church objects to them. All nobles will tell you that without tourneys you can never train good warriors. [Sidenote: Early Tourneys Were Battles] Tourneys, however, bring profit and pleasure to all manner of people--no cause for unpopularity. The "joy women," who rush to ply their sinful wiles despite every attempt to restrict them; the common villeins, who drop their work to enjoy one grand holiday; and the merchants, who really hold a small fair near the lists, all are delighted. As for men of gentle blood, an English chronicler can state the case alike for France and England: "A knight cannot shine in war if he has not been prepared for it in tourneys. He must have seen his own blood flow, have had his teeth crackle under the blow of his adversary, have been dashed to the earth with such force as to feel the weight of his opponent, and disarmed twenty times; he must twenty times have retrieved his failures, more than ever set on combat." _Then_ he will be ready for actual war and can hope to conquer! In early feudal days tourneys differed from battles merely in that the time and the place were fixed in advance, and fair conditions arranged. According to the epics, at "Charlemagne's court" the nobles often got tired of ordinary sports and "demanded a tourney." The results were merely pitched battles in which many were slain and many more wounded. There was no luxury, pomp, or patronage by fair ladies at the earliest tourneys.[65] They were exceedingly violent pastimes in which "iron men" measured their strength and rejoiced in deadly blows. Since then tourneys have been getting less brutal. An important spectacular element is intruding. The rules of combat are becoming more elaborate, fewer knights are killed, and there is an appeal to something better than mere fighting instinct. On the other hand, in the thirteenth century jousts and mêlées are far from being mere displays of fine armor and fine manners. The military element is still uppermost. Furthermore, since the vanquished cavaliers are the prisoners of the victors and are subject to ransom, or at least their horses and armor are forfeit, certain formidable knights go from tourney to tourney deliberately seeking profit by taking prisoners. In short, so dangerous are tourneys even yet, that as recently as 1208, when Prince Louis, heir of King Philip, was knighted, his father made him swear he would merely watch them as spectator--for the life of a prince royal is too precious to risk in such affairs. The popes have long since denounced tourneys. Innocent II, Eugenius III, Alexander III, and finally the great and wise Innocent III have prohibited Christians from participating in the same under peril of their souls. But _cui bono_? Great barons who shudder at the thought of eating beef on Fridays defy the Church absolutely when it comes to a matter of "those creations of the devil" (to quote St. Bernard of Clairvaux) in which immortal souls are so often sped. When Conon decides to add a tourney as a climax to his fête, a score of carpenters are hired down from Pontdebois to help out the levy of peasants in preparing the lists and lodges. Some of the guests have already come to the wedding and the adubbement, but many more arrive merely for the knightly contests. For these, of course, the baron affords only limited hospitality--a good place to pitch their tents, water and forage, with perhaps an invitation to the castle hall at dinner time to certain leaders. Many visitors can get accommodation in the better houses in the village, or at the monastery; but, the weather being fine, the majority prefer to set out their pavilions by the Claire, and the night before the sports begin there seem to be tents enough for an army. [Sidenote: The Lists and the Lodges] The visitors come in their best bliauts and armor. Certain powerful counts collect as many lesser nobles as possible, even making up bands of twenty knights, twenty squires, a great number of ladies and waiting women, also some hundreds of ignoble servitors. Except for the presence of the women and the omission of military precautions, you might think them going to an ordinary muster for war. Meantime, in the wide exercise ground where Sire Aimery had been dubbed, the special lists are made ready. These are simple affairs, something like a race course of other days. Two pairs of strong wooden palisades are erected. The outer line is shoulder high; the inner is lower and has many openings. Between the two lines is the space for spare horses, squires, attendants, and heralds; also for privileged spectators. The humbler onlookers will peer standing over the outer palisade, but behind and above this rise the series of lodges, shaded with tentlike canopies, floored with carpets, and gay with pennons. In them will be stationed the ladies and the older, less martial knights. The space within the lists is some hundred yards long by fifty wide. That evening Conon and Sire Eustace survey the decorations, the forest of banners waving over the colored pavilions of the visitors, and listen complacently to the glad hum of voices and the jongleur's chants everywhere arising. "Ah, fair Baron," says the seneschal, "all France will talk of this spear breaking until Christmas! It will be a great day for St. Aliquis." At gray dawn the heralds from the castle go through the avenues of tents, calling, monotonously: "Let the jousters make ready! Let the jousters make ready!" Soon squires half dressed are seen running to and fro. There is a great saddling and girdling, neighing and stamping. A few pious knights and dames hurry to the castle chapel for a mass very hastily said, but the bulk of the company cross themselves and mutter: "We will be sinners to-day. The blessed saints are merciful!" Presently, by the time the sun is well above the trees, everybody is bound for the lists. The ladies, if possible, ride white mules and are dressed as splendidly as for their own weddings. Not in many a day will St. Aliquis see again such displays of marten, ermine, and vair, of sendal and samite, of gold thread and pearls. The common folk point and applaud loudly when an unusually handsomely clad dame sweeps by. What right have grand folk to claim the obedience of the lesser, if they cannot delight the public gaze by their splendors? As for the jongleurs, their name is legion. The whole affair is characterized by a "music" becoming deafening. While the dames and other noncombatants take seats in the lodges, the six camp marshals--distinguished knights in charge of the contests--appear in the lists. They advance on foot, wearing very brilliant bliauts. Conon, as giver of the festivities, is naturally at their head. Behind follow the humbler born heralds and pursuivants who will assist them, and encourage the combatants with such cries as: "Remember whose son you are!" "Be worthy of your ancestry!" There is also a large squad of varlets and sergeants to keep order, bring new lances, clear away broken weapons, and rescue fallen knights. Conon's keen eye sweeps the tilt yard. Everything is ready. The baron bows politely to his suzerain, the duke and duchess, in the central lodge; then he raises a white baton. "Bring in the jousters!" he commands. [Sidenote: Brilliant Procession of Jousters] Instantly there is a great blare of trumpets from the end of the lists farthest from the castle. Four gorgeously arrayed heralds lead the procession on foot. Then comes a jongleur on horseback, playing with his sword, tossing it high in the air and catching as it whirls downward. Next come the actual contestants, some eighty knights riding two by two. They go down one side of the lists and back the other. Some cavaliers turn deliberately to ogle the ladies in the lodges, and the gentle dames (old and young) are not backward in leaning forward and waving in reply. It is a sight to stir the blood--all the pageantry of war, without as yet its slaughter; the presence of gorgeously clad women in graceful attitudes; and the air charged with the excitement of brave deeds and of genuine perils to come. Suddenly all the knights begin to sing. The women catch up the chorus of some rousing melody which makes the lists shake. The cavaliers compel their horses to prance and curvet as they go by some lady of especial favor. From many lances are hanging bright streamers--not banners, but sleeves and stockings, the gifts of friendly dames. The younger knights are rejoiced by seeing damsels, whose eye they have taken, rise in the lodges and then and there, before the cheering hundreds, fling them "gages of love." It is so with young Sire Aimery as he modestly rides near the tail of the procession. The daughter of the approving count stands boldly and casts him a long red ribbon wherewith she had braided her hair. The other new knights receive similar tokens from unabashed admirers. This process will keep up through the games. The shrieking, excited ladies will presently cast into the lists gloves, girdles, and ribbons. Many will sit at the end with only their flying hair, and their pelissons and chemises for costume. Some combatants are intent on grim business. These are the professional jousters, determined to get as many ransoms as possible and to maintain their own proud reputation. Their armor is beautifully burnished; but it is quite plain. They have prepared for a regular battle. Other knights have painted their scabbards, lance butts, and shields with brilliant white, red, or black. On the crests of their helmets they have set outlandish figures--monsters, heads of birds, or of women. As in fancy balls of other days, their aim is to attract attention by the peculiarity of their costumes. Conon does not desire a bloody tourney and the funeral of several friendly knights as a climax to his gayety. Orders have therefore been given that all lance points are to be blunted, also that all sword edges and points be rounded. The tournament lances, too, are lighter than the battle lances and made of brittle wood.[66] Nevertheless, the blows struck will be terrible. The best leach from Pontdebois is already in the duke's lodge, and his services will be needed. Strictly speaking, a tourney falls into two parts--the jousting always comes first, with the mêlée, which is the real tourney proper, as the grand climax to the entire occasion. What follows might seem to men of other days somewhat monotonous after the novelty has worn away, although the first contests are exciting enough. The competing knights have been told off in pairs, partly by mutual consent, partly by the tactful arrangement of the camp marshals. After the procession around the lists, the contestants take their stations, some in the saddle, some dismounted in the spaces between the barriers. There is an awesome hush along the lodges and in the great standing throng of the vulgar. A herald calls in loud voice, "Let him come to joust who wishes to do battle!" Instantly two keen trumpets answer each other from opposite ends of the lists, and two pursuivants come forward. These worthies are really only jongleurs on less exciting days. They have now taken the deniers of two young barons who are anxious to make a brave appearance. The pursuivants are grotesquely dressed with bright parti-colored mantles and bliauts. Each begins bawling shrilly even while his rival is calling: "Here is the good cavalier and baron, Ferri of St. Potentin. A brave knight of a valorous house. He will teach a lesson to his enemies!" "Here is the good cavalier, Raoul, eldest son of the most puissant Count of Maurevay. Watch now his deeds, all you who love brave actions!" [Illustration: A TOURNAMENT IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY At the back are the galleries where the ladies sit; then, near the entrance to the lists, some cavaliers wait their turn to take part in the contest; in the center, some servants and others of the contestants pick up one of the combatants who has been thrown from his horse by his adversary.] Then each of the twain reviles the master of the other: "_He!_ Your Sire Raoul is the son of a crow. All his friends will this day be ashamed of him. Let him find his ransom money!" "Silence all boasts, you pursuivant of a caitiff master. Sire Ferri, if he outlives the shock, will have his spurs struck from his heels as being unworthy of knighthood!" Meantime the two champions, rigid as statues, suffer their squires to lead them upon their tall destrers to opposite ends of the lists. When they are facing and their squires have nodded that their masters are ready, a marshal waves his white baton, calling loudly, "In the name of God and St. Michael, do your battle!" [Sidenote: Lance Breaking in the Lists] All the dames, nobles, and base-born rise in the lodges and shout together when suddenly the two knights and their mighty horses spring to life. The ground quakes and the sod flies when they rush down the lists as if hurried toward each other by irresistible force. As they gallop, each bends low in the saddle--swings his shield to cover his body, lowers his helmet almost to the top of his shield, swerves his horse so as to pass his opponent on the right, and with sure grip drops his lance point before him. "Crash!" The splintering of wood can be heard through the din from the lodges. Both horses are thrown upon their haunches and are casting out great clods of earth. Each knight is flourishing the broken butt of a lance and across the shield of each there is a long jagged mark. "Fairly broken! Fairly broken! A noble course!" cries everyone. The two contestants wheel gracefully and canter back to their stations. Squires run up with fresh lances. Sire Raoul takes a new shield, the earlier one showing signs of splitting as well as being battered. Another course; another crash--and two more broken lances. But at the third shock Sire Ferri meets utter humiliation. He indeed meets Raoul's lance fairly on his shield and again the tough wood is splintered, but excitement, overconfidence, or the intervention of the devil makes his wrist a little unsteady. At the moment of collision Raoul swerves his body a trifle to the left. Ferri's lance misses his foe's shield entirely. It flies off in the air, and in the confusion escapes from his hand. There is hooting from the villeins; worse still, there is shrill derision from all the lodges. Sire Ferri rides back to his post, grinding his teeth and swearing blasphemously. He must now pay a ransom to Raoul for his horse and armor, despite the boastings of his pursuivant, and not even have the melancholy consolation of knowing that he was unhorsed in a fair collision. [Sidenote: A Bloody Duel] But the next duel has a more exciting ending. Two cavaliers who now engage are exceptionally experienced knights. At the first charge both horses sustain such a shock when the lances shiver that their masters can barely force them to their feet. At the second charge the more skillful rider holds his lance so squarely that, instead of its breaking, the opposing knight is fairly flung out of the saddle--dashed from his horse and sprawled headlong with a great clattering of armor. The heralds and squires run to him and find that, thanks to his hauberk, he has escaped dangerous wounds, though he coughs away several teeth. Great is the excitement in the lodges. Several duels after this end in honorable draws. The knights have agreed to "break three lances fairly for the love of the ladies," and gallantly do so. There are no victors or vanquished. Then it is proclaimed that two seigneurs from Champagne, Sire Emeri and Sire Lourent, having an especial desire to "debate together" (their original quarrel had been over dice) are resolved to fight until one cries "mercy," and will continue their battle on foot should either be unhorsed. Three times they break lances unscathed, but the fourth time Lourent's stirrup parts and he is pitched upon the sands. Instantly he is free from his snorting, plunging destrer and on his feet, flourishing his great sword. Emeri now might lawfully ride against him, but it is no chivalrous thing for a mounted knight to attack an unmounted one. Down he leaps also, making his blade dance above his head like a stream of light. Then to the infinite joy of the lodges the two cavaliers hack and feud with each other for a good ten minutes, till the blood streams down their faces, the bright paint on their shields is marred, and the crests of their helmets have vanished in dentings. At last Emeri flings his strength into a lucky blow. His sword is blunted, but by sheer weight of the stroke the blade smashes Lourent's shield asunder, descending like a smith's sledge upon his helmet. Lourent topples like a log. A great shout goes through the lodges. "Dead!" cry many; but, to the relief of the women, the word presently spreads that he is only soundly stunned, though the leech says that "he will not fight again till Christmas." The duels continue all through the morning. There is an interval while cakes and wine are passed through the lodges and loaves are thrown among the plebeians. Most duels seem decidedly similar, but each is followed with undiminishing delight. The ladies no less than their brothers and husbands grasp all the niceties of the contests--the methods whereby each champion holds his lance and shield and controls his horse are wisely discussed by a hundred pairs of pretty lips. Between each tilt the heralds, besides praising the valor of the next pair of combatants, keep up their cries, "Largesse, gallant knights! Largesse!" and now one, now another baron rises in the lodges to fling coins among villeins (whose rough scrambling causes much merriment), or even to toss money to the heralds themselves--which they never hesitate to pick up. [Sidenote: Contest at the Barriers] Many knights are content with a single passage at arms, but some who have been successful once tempt fortune a second time. These are likely to be the professional champions, and they give remarkable exhibitions of perfect horsemanship and lance play. As the afternoon advances, for variation, there is a fight at the barriers. A stout wooden bar about waist high is set across the middle of the lists, and seven knights from one seigneury and seven from another undertake to cross the same, while preventing the other party from advancing. They fight on foot with sword and mace. It is desperate work; and when at last one party has forced its way across, four of the defeated side have broken bones, despite their hauberks, and all-but-broken heads, despite their helmets. [Illustration: KNIGHTLY COMBAT ON FOOT (From an old print.)] Then a very arrogant baron who has already won three ransoms determines to increase his wealth. Stationing himself at the head of the lists, he bids his pursuivant challenge all comers. There is a long hush. Sire Paul has made such a trade of his prowess that assuredly there seems something mercantile about his valor, yet assuredly he is a terrible man. Suddenly the lodges begin to cry, "A St. Aliquis!" Sire Aimery himself (who earlier had broken three lances very neatly with a friend) is sending down his pursuivant. All the older knights mutter: "A fearful risk for the lad! Let him pray to his saints." Conon demands angrily of Olivier, "Could not you keep back the boy from this folly?" But does not Heaven favor the young and brave? Perhaps it is because Sire Paul has let himself become careless; perhaps because his squire has forgotten to tighten his saddle girths; perhaps because St. Génevieve cannot allow her votary to undergo disgrace thus early in his knighthood. In any case, results confound the wiseacres. "The pitcher that goes too often to the well is broken," dryly observes Father Grégoire, when at the first course Sire Paul is ignominiously flung from the saddle. _Hé!_ Sire Aimery will now have more sleeves, girdles, and stockings than can ever flutter from any one lance, and his kinsfolk are out of their wits for joy! No victory could ever be more praised and popular. So ends the jousting, and that night round St. Aliquis blaze the great camp fires of the company, all cooking most hearty suppers (after fasting almost all day), everybody visiting from tent to tent, fighting the day's contests over again, condoling with the defeated and praising the victors. Alliances, both military and matrimonial, are negotiated between consequential barons; the jongleurs produce tricks and songs; there is a great deal of dancing by the red firelight; and also, one fears, much hard drinking and most unseemly revelry. [Sidenote: The Great Mêlée] The next day there is the climax to the festival, the mêlée. Really, it is nothing less than a pitched battle on a small scale. The details have been arranged at a council of the more prominent seigneurs at the castle. About forty knights on a side are to fight under the leadership of the Viscount of Gemours and the Baron of Dompierre. The space in the lists is insufficient. They go to a broad, convenient meadow across the Claire, where the noncombatants can watch from a safe distance. The marshals array the two companies "at least a bowshot apart." Groups of friendly knights are set together and are placed opposite to groups of rivals with whom they are anxious to collide. The great banners of the houses of Gemours and Dompierre flutter in the center of each respective array, and all the little banderoles of the various knights wave with them. When all is ready, Conon gives the signal, "Charge them in God's name!" [Illustration: A COMBAT IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY From the manuscript of Herrade of Landsperg (Schultz).] Each baron is expected to charge a particular foe, but all are liable to be swerved in the great rush of men and horses. The two flashing squadrons of cavalry come together like thunderbolts. All the danger of the jousts is present, and another more terrible--that of being trampled to death, if once down, by the raging horses. There is no real leadership. Gemours and Dompierre merely try to set examples of valor and to push their banners forward as rallying points. At first the fighting is good-humored, but when the lances are broken and everyone is smiting one another with sword or mace, the contest becomes desperate. A fearful cloud of dust rises, almost blinding to the combatants, and rendering their blows more reckless. After the fight has progressed some time, certain of the less adventurous knights begin to drop out. The squires dive into the murk of warriors and horses and drag to safety now this, now another fallen cavalier. At last, just as Conon is considering whether he should not proclaim a "draw," the Gemours banner is observed to topple. A desperate attempt is made to right it, but it sinks again amid a rending shout from the victors. The uplifted hands fall. The frantic horses are brought under control. "A Dompierre! A Dompierre!" bawl all the heralds. And so the mêlée ends. No one, thanks to excellent armor, is dead, although one heir to a barony is in a desperate condition and several shoulders and thighs are broken. It is futile to count the shattered collar bones and ribs. "A very _gentle_ passage at arms!" says the Duke to Conon, congratulating his vassal on the fête and its climax. All the other seigneurs join in similar praises. That night there is another round of festivities and of visiting. The next dawn the whole company scatters. The jongleurs' music has ceased at last. There is no more dancing. After over two weeks of intensifying gayety St. Aliquis suddenly returns to sober, normal life. Alienor, after tearful farewells, departs with her husband for Burgundy. Aimery rides over to his little castle at Petitmur, which he will hold as his brother's vassal. Adela lectures her maids on the need of catching up with their weaving, while Conon holds anxious conferences with his chief provost on the costs of the celebration. [Sidenote: Vast Expense of Tourneys] Doubtless the affair has brought glory to the seigneury. More than a hundred knights and two hundred squires or unknighted nobles have attended, along with thousands of villeins. But how costly have been the furs, drinking cups and fine weapons presented the guests, the destrers given the new knights, above all the vast quantity of provisions devoured! Just God! If Conon had realized the entire expense he would hardly have embarked on the whole undertaking. The worst is that the peasants of the whole barony are so demoralized that it will be two weeks more ere they return to work. Money must be borrowed from Jew Simon in Pontdebois to tide over the crisis. The baron must give up his usual visit to the king's court at Paris. He must also dismiss certain cherished schemes of picking a quarrel with the Sire of Rideau and forcing a private war. Thanks be to Our Lady, however, François need not be knighted these ten years, when (being an eldest son) an "aide" can be levied on all the vassals to help cover the cost. FOOTNOTES: [65] The earliest recorded tourney is alleged to have been about A.D. 850. In Germany they long continued to be excessively brutal. As late as 1240 one was held near Cologne at which more than sixty persons perished. [66] Often sharp weapons were used in tournaments, especially between combatants who fought _à outrance_, to clear up some desperate personal grudge. Many noblemen were thus slain--_e.g._, in a tourney "in the French fashion" at London, the Earl of Essex was killed in 1216. Chapter XIV: A Baronial Feud. The Siege of a Castle. We have visited St. Aliquis in days of peace, and at peace the seigneury remains while we tarry. But peace and pageants no more deadly than tourneys are seldom the continuous state of things. "Rumors of wars" there are every day; actual wars every few years. Let the saints be praised if such contests are largely local, are not bitterly fought out, and are composed before they have caused worse things than the harrying of certain villages of helpless, innocent peasants. In spite of the efforts of clergy and of kings it will be truthfully written of feudal France that "war was practically a permanent scourge almost everywhere. _In the society of that day war was the normal state._" When these wars are waged by mighty kings one can at least take the comfort that perhaps they are settling long-standing questions concerning many people, and, however dreadful, may pave the way for lasting peace. Such a war has lately found its climax in the decisive battle of Bouvines, whereof more anon. But most of the wars are for miserably petty stakes. Time was when every insignificant sire holding a feeble tower considered that he had the right to declare war on any neighbor with whom he argued the rights to a trout stream. Yet the case is changing. Suzerains are insisting that the lower class of vassals arbitrate their quarrels and not embroil the neighborhood. Nevertheless, the superior type of barons still claim war as their "noble right." The amount of local fighting can hardly be computed. [Sidenote: Varieties of Baronial Wars] There is something abnormal about a powerful seigneur who (if blessed with a long lifetime) does not have at least _one_ war with each of his several suzerains, a war with the bishops and abbots with whom he has contact, a war with each neighboring noble of equal rank, unless their houses are unwontedly friendly, and a war with at least some of his own vassals. A war can start out of a dispute about a bit of land, an ill-defined boundary, or the exact obligations of a feudal tenure. Theoretically, the suzerain can interfere between wrangling vassals. Practically, he had better let them fight it out, at least till there seems real danger that their fiefs will be permanently injured. Then he can sometimes compel a truce. Unfortunately, however, God often permits the bitterest wars to be fought within the fief itself. Sons fight with fathers--"the Old Man" will not let his grown boys rule the seigneury to their liking.[67] Younger brothers battle with elder brothers over the inheritance. Nephews attack uncles who seem prolonging their guardianship. Sons even attack a widowed mother to seize her dower lands. These are only some of the things which make the devil rub his taloned fingers. Nevertheless, certain limitations are intruding, customs that have nearly the force of law.[68] For example, if a vassal attacks his suzerain, none but his own family (among his noble followers) can aid him. Also, in any case, at least a week's notice must be given ere the war is commenced. After the war does begin, forty days' respite must also be granted your foe's relatives ere attacking them. In the interval they are entitled to proclaim their neutrality and so to become safe. Again, one is supposed to respect priests and women and minors. Finally, if a truce is made the suzerain is bound to punish the violators. Such understandings rob warfare of part of its horrors, but do not prevent infinite blood and misery. As for that motive which prevails in other ages for waging wars--_patriotism_--often it does not seem to exist so vitally. Certainly Frenchmen ought to make a common front against Germans, Italians, English, etc., but lapses from this obligation are not always condemned as morally outrageous. Quite recently the Count of Boulogne, being at odds with King Philip, took money from both the King of England and the Emperor of Germany to raise up enemies against the King of France; and the count evidently felt that this was a proper measure against an obnoxious suzerain. The great significant tie is that of _personal loyalty_.[69] It is horrible to betray the prince to whom you have sworn fealty. A suzerain will call out his host by a summons to "my vassals," he will seldom think of appealing to "my fellow countrymen." [Sidenote: Few Battles and Little Strategy] We have said that wars are incessant; yet there is one strange thing about them--_pitched battles are very rare_. The campaigns abound in petty skirmishes--valorous duels, surprises of small castles, occasional clashes of cavalry, and, above all, in the pitiless ravaging of the lands, farms, and villages of the helpless peasantry. What better way to put pressure on your foe than to reduce his villeins to such misery that they can render him nothing in money or kind and that he thus be brought to poverty? If you have the weaker force you will not think of meeting an invader in battle. You will shut yourself up in your castles when you see the burning villages, stifle your pride, remain passive, and trust that after the "forty days' service" of your enemy's vassals is expired they will weary of the operations and not venture to besiege your strongholds. Then when the foe's army is beginning to disperse you can employ some neutral baron or abbot to negotiate peace. Even when kings are in the field, with really large armies, somehow the opposing forces seldom risk a decisive encounter. They maneuver, skirmish, and negotiate underhandedly with the uncertain elements in the hostile camp. The upshot often is that the invading army, having devoured all the provisions in the open country and not daring to besiege strong cities with a powerful enemy close at hand, retreats homeward. Of course, sometimes there are great battles with great results. Such in the eleventh century was Senlac, when Duke William the Norman won all England. Such, more recently, was the famous day at Bouvines. Such marked several of the Crusades against the Infidels, particularly the great and successful First Crusade, and the Third Crusade, when Richard the Lion Hearted seemed to come nearer than any other feudal general to being a really able tactician, if not a great strategist. These battles are few and far between--and even the mighty Richard's ideal style of fighting was rather that of a headlong cavalier followed by only fifteen knights and with his ponderous ax hewing a bloody lane through a host of Infidels, than that of a careful commander coolly directing a mighty army. Besides, most of the wars between second-class barons involve very small forces. They are only affairs for hundreds. If matters come to grips, the best captain is he who orders "Advance, banner bearer! Follow me, vassals!" and leads the headlong charge. Enormous pains have been taken in training the individual warrior. For personal prowess the French cavalier is as formidable an individual as ever shared the sins of mankind. But he is trained only in simple evolutions when maneuvering in companies. He dislikes taking orders. He wearies of long campaigns. His camps are very unhygienic and subject to pestilence. Wars, in short, are to him superb games, exciting, spiced with danger, and played for large stakes--which give the zest; but, save in the Crusades and certain other rare cases, the higher objects which supply wars with their sole justification escape him entirely. "Warfare," in the true scientific sense of the word, is something whereof your baron is usually in complete ignorance. Earlier in this recital it has been seen that Baron Conon, soon after he obtained the seigneury, engaged in a brisk feud with the Viscount of Foretvert. This was so like many other feuds in the region that it is well to obtain an authentic history thereof from Father Grégoire, who knows all the circumstances. [Sidenote: Beginning of a Feud] The origin of the quarrel (he tells us) was commonplace. Doubtless the viscount had a contemptuous opinion of his then young and untried neighbor. There was a wood betwixt the two seigneuries which had been haltingly claimed by Foretvert; but all through terrible Baron Garnier's time none but St. Aliquis peasants had been suffered to cut fagots there. Now suddenly Huon, one of the forester's helpers, appeared before Conon in a piteous plight. His thumbs had been hewn clean off. He had been chopping timber on the debatable land, had been seized by the viscount's men, haled before their master, and the latter had ordered this treatment, adding, with a grin: "This is the drink penny for touching a twig in my forests. Tell your young lord to spread these tidings among his villeins." When Conon had heard this taunt, his squires trembled at the workings of his face. Then and there he pulled out his sword, placed his hands on the hilt, pressing upon the reliquary, and swore "By God's eyes!"[70] that he would make the viscount and all the spawn of Foretvert swallow enough of their own blood to be drunk to damnation. "Certes," says Father Grégoire, "he could not as a Christian baron do less; for the lord who lets another seigneur oppress his villeins is no lord; and if he had failed to resent such an insult none of his vassals would have obeyed him." That same day one of Conon's squires rode to Foretvert. He bore a "cartel," a bunch of fur plucked from his master's pelisson.[71] He was only a young squire, but carried his head high. There was some danger in being such a messenger. The squire had to be as insolent as possible without actually provoking Foretvert to violate the protection due to a herald. Into the great hall of the offending seigneur strode said squire, carrying a bough of pine in his left hand, the bunch of fur in the right. His coming had been anticipated. The greetings, as he was led up to the dais where the viscount presided, were cold and ceremonious. Then the squire straightened his slim form and shook out his long mantle. "Sire Viscount, my master, the Baron of St. Aliquis, demands of you satisfaction. If you do not make good the wrongs you have done to him and his, I loyally defy you in his name." And down he flung the cartel. "It is fitting," returned the viscount, mockingly, "a mere boy should be a squire for a lad. Tell your very youthful master that I will soon teach him a lesson in the art of war." So with a few more such exchanges the squire rode homeward. Meantime at St. Aliquis things were stirring. The great bell on the donjon was ringing. Zealous hands were already affixing the raw hides to the projecting wooden hoardings upon the battlements. All the storehouses for weapons in the bailey were being opened for a distribution of arms. From the armory forge came a mighty clangor of tightening rivets. The destrers must have caught the news, they stamped so furiously in the stables. In the great hall Conon sat with Adela (a wise head in martial matters), Sire Eustace, and the other knights in serious debate. [Sidenote: Mustering the Vassals] Simultaneously, messengers were pricking away to all the little villages and to the fortalices of the vassals. To the villeins they cried: "The baron proclaims war with Foretvert. Bring your cattle and movables near to the castle for protection." To the vassals they announced, "Come with all the men you are bound in duty to lead, seven days from to-day, to St. Aliquis, armed and provisioned for service; and hereof fail not or we burn you." This right to burn the dwellings of vassals who failed to obey the summons to the ban was one of long standing in feudal lands. Other messengers proclaimed the ban by blowing the trumpet at every crossroads in the barony. To have disobeyed this call would have been the depth of feudal depravity. None of the vassals ventured to hesitate. On the contrary, most of them, like good liegemen, affected to show joy at this chance to follow their seigneur, crying at once, "My horse! My horse!" and ordering out all their retainers. The abbot of the monastery now, as duty bound, visited both leaders and vainly tried to negotiate peace. He met with courteous thanks and prompt refusals. While he was thus squaring with his conscience, Conon was notifying all his outlying relatives. He was also sending to several powerful barons who had received armed assistance from St. Aliquis in the past, and who were now tactfully reminded of this fact. He likewise sent an especially acceptable messenger to his suzerain the duke, to convince the latter that Foretvert was entirely wrong, and that the duke had better not interfere. Thanks to this energy and diplomacy, by the end of the week the whole countryside had been roused, the peasants had driven most of their cattle so close to St. Aliquis castle that they could be protected, and many villeins, deserting their hovels, were camping in the open (it being fine summer weather) in the space between the barbican and bailey. As for Conon, with pride he mustered his "array"--one hundred knights or battle worthy squires; two hundred sergeants--horsemen of non noble birth; and some seven hundred footmen--villeins with long knives, pikes, arbalists, big axes, etc.--of no great value in open battle, but sure to have their place in other work ahead. From Foretvert reports came in of similar preparation. But the viscount had quarreled with some of his relations. He had broken a promise he once made to help a certain sire in a feud. His immediate vassals responded to his call, but they felt that their lord ought to have consulted them ere provoking St. Aliquis so grossly. In a word, their zeal was not of the greatest. Nevertheless, the viscount, an impetuous and self-confident man, having hastily assembled his forces, the very day the week of intermission ended invaded Conon's territory. He expected to find his enemy's peasants still in the fields and the St. Aliquis retainers in the process of mustering. To his amazement, he discovered that the villages were almost empty and most of the cattle driven away. Nevertheless, he foolishly allowed his men to scatter in order to ravage everything left at their mercy. Soon hayricks were burning, standing crops were being trampled down, and the thatch on the forsaken huts was blazing. Here and there troopers were driving before their spears oafish peasants who had lingered too long. The hands of these wretches were tied behind their backs. Beside them trudged their weeping wives and children. Every sheep, pig, and chicken discoverable was, of course, seized.[72] The ravagers soon had enough booty to load their horses to such a degree that one of Foretvert's more experienced knights warned him his men were becoming dangerously encumbered in case of an encounter. [Sidenote: A Passage at Arms] The viscount laughed at these fears, yet was about to sound trumpets to recall the foraging parties; when, lo! down a wood road, through a forest that had been imperfectly scouted, came charging the whole St. Aliquis levy, with Conon's great banner racing on ahead. Half of the viscount's men were dispersed; the other half barely got into a kind of order when their enemies were upon them, thrusting, slashing, and laying about like fiends. Such being the case, Foretvert had cause to bless the Virgin that he got safely from the field. He only did so because his squire most gallantly stabbed the horse of Sire Eustace just as he was closing with the viscount. The squire himself was brained by the seneschal's mace an instant later. Five of the Foretvert knights were slain outright, despite their armor. Four more were pulled from their horses and dragged off as prisoners for ransom. Of the foraging parties, the leaders got home by putting their horses at speed, but the miserable footmen were intercepted by scores. Many of these were slain while dropping their sinful booty. About forty were taken prisoners, but, being only villeins (from whom no ransom was to be expected), Conon promptly hanged ten as a warning against further ravaging of his lands, and took the other thirty back to his castle to be hanged later in case this first hint should not prove effective.[73] This unusually decisive engagement ought, in the opinion of many, to have ended the war. Conon now invaded the Foretvert domains and with proper precautions sent out _his_ ravaging parties, who soon taught their foes a lesson as to how to devastate a countryside. But the viscount, although sorely shaken and deserted now by many, arrogantly refused to make those concessions which Conon declared "his honor required ere he could think of peace." The war thus promised not to terminate until, by incessant raids and counter-raids, the peasants of both seigneuries had been brought to the edge of starvation. The viscount, of course, reckoned that at the end of their ordinary "forty days' service" Conon's vassals and allies would leave him. Most feudal levies were wont thus to melt away, after a very short campaign, and leave their leader bereft of almost all save his immediate retainers. Foretvert could then regather his men and resume the contest. But the saints so ordered it that Conon had been a thrifty seigneur as well as a popular suzerain and neighbor. He now offered his allies and vassals good deniers if they would serve until the autumn rains. He also hired the services of some fifty horsemen and two hundred footmen, led from Lorraine by an iron-handed soldier of fortune, Ritter Rainulf of the Moselle, who would put his German mercenaries at the beck of about any baron offering good silver. Mercenaries did not serve for "forty days," but for as many months as they received steady wages--a great advantage. Conon likewise hired a base-born fellow, Maître Jerôme. The knights complained that the baron gave him too great pay and confidence, but Maître Jerôme had been one of the king's best engineers in the siege of the great castle, Château Gaillard, on the Seine, when Philip Augustus took that supposedly impregnable fortress from John of England in 1204. Now the castle of Foretvert itself was almost as strong as St. Aliquis, and no siege thereof was worth considering. But the viscount had a smaller fortalice, Tourfière, which lay closer to Conon's lands and was not so formidable. [Sidenote: Siege of a Castle] Tourfière consisted merely of a single curtain of walls around the courtyard of a central keep, with, of course, a palisaded barbican before the gate. There was a moat, but not deep, and flooded only in wet weather, and the foundations of this stronghold did not rest, apparently, on solid rock--a matter upon which Maître Jerôme laid great stress after a discreet reconnaissance. Suddenly, to the amazement of many, Conon with all his forces appeared before Tourfière and summoned its castellan, Sire Gauthier, the viscount's nephew, to surrender--a demand refused with derision. Sire Gauthier commanded some twenty knights, squires or sergeants, also at least ninety armed villeins--a sufficient force, it seemed, for a small castle, especially as the women in the place could drop stones, throw down burning pitch hoops, pour boiling water, and help twist back the casting engines. The defenders thus prepared to resist with energy, confident that Conon could not keep his heterogeneous levies together much longer and that the siege would break up ignominiously. But, despite his villein blood, Maître Jerôme ordered the siege in a marvelously skillful manner. No chess player could have moved his pieces better than did he. First he persuaded the baron to resist his impulse to attempt the walls by a sudden rush with scaling ladders, pointing out that Gauthier, besides his arbalists, had four great trenchbuts (stone-hurlers worked by counterweights) and also two catapults, giant bows mounted on standards and able to send a heavy arrow clean through a man in full armor. "We must take Tourfière by the crowbar and spade, and not by the sword, fair Seigneur," said Jerôme, smilingly; whereupon a great levy of Conon's serfs began cutting timber and building a palisade all around the besieged castle, to stop sorties or succoring parties. Meantime Jerôme was directing the making of trenchbuts and catapults for the besiegers. With these they soon smashed the wooden hoardings which had protected the battlements, making it impossible for the garrison to mount the walls, save at a few places or in great emergencies, lest they be picked off by the attackers' arbalists. The trenchbuts also cast small kegs of "Greek fire" (a compound of pitch, sulphur, and naphtha) inside the castle court. These terrible fire balls could not be quenched by water, but only by sand. By desperate efforts, indeed, the defenders prevented decisive harm, but some of the buildings in the courtyard were burned and Sire Gauthier's men became wearied in their efforts to fend off disaster. [Illustration: A CATAPULT A sort of sling which one tightened with the aid of a windlass and which threw heavy projectiles.] In bravado the defenders took two prisoners and hanged them on the highest tower. Conon retaliated by immediately hanging four prisoners just out of bowshot of the castle, and causing his largest trenchbut to fling a dead horse clear over the battlements and into the court. Meantime a remarkable energy of the assailants, just outside their palisades, was observable by Sire Gauthier. The castellan took counsel with his most experienced men, for the besiegers seemed shaping very many timbers. [Sidenote: Siege Engines and Towers] His advisers were divided in opinion. Some said that Conon was planning to build a _beffroi_. This was a most ambitious undertaking ordinarily used only in great sieges. A _beffroi_ was a movable tower built of heavy timbers and raised to at least the height of the wall attacked. Its front was covered by rawhides to repel arrows and fire-balls. It was worked forward on rollers or clumsy wheels until close to the hostile parapet. Then, when almost touching, a swinging bridge from the summit was flung across to the wall, a host of assailants swarmed up a ladder in the rear and over the bridge to the battlements. The defenders then needed all their valor to keep their castle from speedy capture. [Illustration: AN ATTACK WITH THE AID OF A TOWER (From Viollet-Le-Duc); the moat has been filled up, the tower covered with skins to protect it from fire and rolled up to the wall.] Others in the garrison, however, derided the idea that a _beffroi_ was projected. It would be winter ere such a complicated structure could be completed. They said that the baron was preparing battering rams and a "cat." The battering ram was simply a heavy timber with a metal head, swung by chains from a kind of wooden trestle. Set up close under a wall it was pulled back and forth by ropes, and by repeated blows knocked down the masonry. The "cat" was a long, narrow, tent-shaped structure of heavy timbers covered with hides or iron to turn missiles from the parapets. One end of this was built out until it came into contact with the walls, when skillful miners under its protection quarried their way through the masonry with pickaxes. [Illustration: A MANTELET IN WOOD] These methods were easier to prepare than the _beffroi_, although not so effective. The defenders felt sure they would be used when the attackers were seen making _mantelets_, large wooden shields mounted on small wheels, to protect the crossbowmen when they crept up to clear the walls--a needful preliminary to advancing either the cat or the ram. Their certainty increased when one night, by a sudden rush, Conon's men stormed through the weak palisade of the barbican and, forcing their way near to the walls, began filling up the moat with _fascines_--bundles of fagots. By using his trenchbuts and catapults to best advantage, Sire Gauthier felt confident, however, that he had prevented them from leveling the moat sufficiently to make a firm foundation for siege engines. The Tourfière men, therefore, shouted arrogantly: "Take your time, St. Aliquis hirelings! Your 'Madame Cat' will never gnaw our rats."[74] Presently, after a couple of weeks, the besiegers were seen in great activity, as if arraying themselves for an assault. Gauthier was convinced they were about, in desperation, to try to scale his walls with ladders. Then of a sudden a panic-stricken sergeant ran up to his watchtower. Wafts of smoke were escaping near the foundations of the curtain wall near the gate! [Sidenote: Undermining the Wall] Gauthier instantly realized what had happened, but it was too late. Under an elaborate feint with other preparations, Maître Jerôme had taken advantage of the soft ground beneath the castle and had driven a mine, beginning at a safe distance in the rear and cunningly concealing the entrance and the earth excavated until it was fairly under a vital section of the wall. Then a large chamber had been cleared and wooden posts soaked with tallow had been put under the masonry to keep it from falling on the miners. As the last of them retreated, a torch was set to the woodwork, the whole chamber having been crammed with inflammables. Presently the fire ate away the posts. With a thundering crash a vital section of the wall collapsed. [Illustration: ATTACK ON A WALL WITH THE AID OF THE SAP At the top of the wall the scaffolding can be seen (theoretical figure from Viollet-Le-Duc).] The besieged had not realized the situation in time to drive a countermine or to erect a second wall inside the danger point. The moment the St. Aliquis men saw the wall topple they rushed forward. The defenders met them bravely in the breach and there was bloody swordplay, but the thrust of numbers was irresistible. Gauthier and part of his men fled, indeed, to the donjon and barred the entrance, but they were utterly demoralized. All the women and children, packed into the tower, were shrilly lamenting the dead and were otherwise frantic. Most of the provisions had been in a storehouse outside the donjon. The end, therefore, was certain. At the end of the next day the garrison in the donjon surrendered on promise of life and limb for all, and courteous treatment for the knights. The storming of Tourfière ended the war. Conon might, indeed, have ruined Foretvert utterly, but now the duke intervened. It was not for his interests to have any vassal rendered unfit to meet his feudal obligations. Conon, however, was able to exact very high terms. For evacuating Tourfière he obtained the cession of a village whose peasants paid very large dues, and two of the viscount's best vassals also transferred their homage to St. Aliquis. The contending parties swore to peace upon the most precious relics at the abbey, and exchanged the kiss of amity. Henceforth Foretvert, a sadder and wiser seigneur, has been outwardly friendly with his powerful neighbor and even came as a sulky guest to Alienor's wedding. FOOTNOTES: [67] Primogeniture did not exist on the Continent as in England. The elder son was entitled to the largest share of the estate, but by no means to the whole. [68] They became formal law by about 1260, in the days of Louis IX. [69] French opinion, of course, condemned this count, not for being a traitor to his country, but for breach of fealty to his personal lord. [70] The terrible oath of Henry II of England and other great chieftains. [71] Later custom would probably have sent a fur-trimmed glove. [72] Such plunderings were common enough, though the best knightly sentiment was against participating directly in them. Says a bard, Geraud de Borneil, "O fie on the knight who drives off a flock of bleating sheep--and then appears before a lady!" [73] These prisoners were lucky if they finally escaped without at least mutilation. To "give your captives (of villein blood) the empty sleeve or the wooden leg" seems to have been direfully common in feudal wars. [74] Similar taunts were delivered at the well-known siege of Carcasonne in 1240. Chapter XV: A Great Feudal Battle--Bouvines. So ended the feud between St. Aliquis and Foretvert--a less exhausting and more decisive baronial war than were many, and causing correspondingly less misery to the helpless peasants. But it has also been Conon's fortune to fight in a really great battle, one that will hereafter be set down among the most famous engagements in the annals of France. It is a sunny afternoon. Young François and Anseau have wearied of hunting frogs beside the outer moat. Under the garden trees, Sire Eustace, tough old warrior, is meditating over a pot of hippocras. They demand of him once more the story of "the battle." For them there is only one battle--Bouvines. The seneschal, ever the slave of his youthful masters, after suitable urgings, begins. "Now you must know, my fair damoisieux, that all this took place six years since, in the year 1214, upon the seven-and-twentieth day of July. For our sins it was extremely hot that season, so that all of us have, I trust, obtained some remission from purgatory. God grant that next time we have a great battle it be in the pleasant spring or autumn, though otherwise the saints showed to us French a great mercy. But now to commence. "That year King John of England, having, by his evil rule and folly lost nearly all his Anjou and Norman lands to our good King Philip, sent large money and skillful ambassadors into Flanders and Germany to stir up trouble. The great counts of Flanders and Boulogne nursed grievances against their liege lord our king, and to them joined many other seigneurs of those parts, notably the Dukes of Brabant and Limburg, the Count of Holland, and chiefest of all the German Emperor Otto IV himself, who came with a huge levy of Saxons. With those rode the English Earl of Salisbury with a great band of Flemish mercenaries who took King John's ill-gained penny. Never since Duke Charles Martel smote back the Paynym had so terrible a host menaced our gentle France; and when at last, in July, the whole array under Emperor Otto came together at Valenciennes to take the road to Paris, even brave knights trembled for the king and kingdom. "Never had the call for the royal ban and rear ban gone out more urgently than that summer. The king's messenger came to St. Aliquis with the 'brief of summons' bidding Messire Conon ride with every man and lad that could stride a horse or trudge with a spear; and so went the command through all North France. But in the south country John was making a formidable diversion from his remaining dominions in Gascony, and we of the Languedoil lands had to meet the northern shock alone. "When Messire your Father received the summons, there was even greater furbishing than when old Foretvert defied us. Sire Conon had in the abbot and wrote his last wishes, arranged that if he fell he should be buried in the abbey church by the altar where St. Bernard had once said mass, and he left to the monks five hundred livres in return for perpetual masses for his soul. The remainder of us made vows according to ability. I say nothing of the parting, or how your mother bravely promised to guard the castle. [Sidenote: Mobilization of Feudal Army] "So the ban was answered all through the land, and the king's great host came together. Never again shall I see so fine a mustering of knights as gathered at Peronne. It far surpassed any tournament. Every hour the banners came in, to the sound of tabors, horns, and drums. There was an enormous baggage train, so that I believe there were more mules than horses, for many barons brought their great tents, with many coffers of extra arms and fine clothing. In the rear were gathered a second array of jongleurs, peddlers and very evil women, whom not all the commands of the king, somehow, could disperse. Verily in that army there were twice as many mouths to fill as there were men to fight; likewise, short as was the campaign, there was much sickness, thanks to bad food, bad water, and, so certain even averred, to overmuch filth. The comfort was that in Otto's camp matters were, if anything, much worse. "In any case those tumultuous days of assemblage were soon at an end. Tidings came that the Germans and Flemings were advancing, and on the twenty-fifth of July we marched into Tournai on the edge of Flanders. Messire Conon, who was at the royal council-tent, told me that the king's barons debated as to the purpose of the enemy. Would he offer fair battle in the plain near Cambrai, as we much desired, or would he strive to slip past our army and go straight toward Paris? I have been told of books concerning the ancient Roman captains, Julius Cæsar and his peers, and it would seem as if to them the moving of armies had been a business of deep sagacity, advancing your columns by careful rules, somewhat as you move your men on a gaming board. No one, however, is so sage as that to-day, and I think it was either mere fortune or (speaking as a Christian) the kind St. Denis, who guards our beautiful France, that brought the hosts together when and where they presently came. "It was at break of day on that seven-and-twentieth of July that we quitted Tournai, intending to pass the little river Marque, to get to the town of Bouvines and thereby to be covered by certain marshes so we might be protected from surprise, and yet be able to strike the foe's rear if he should take the road to Paris. But Otto and his lords, swollen with their German and Fleming pride and confident in their great host of infantry, were determined to attack, and so kept hard after us. It is only nine miles from Tournai to Bouvines, but our long trains of baggage crawled along like snails. Therefore it was almost noon when the sumpter mules and the infantry had crossed the bridge. We of the cavalry were still on the nearer side, covering the march, when our scouts came racing in. 'The Germans! The Germans!' And there assuredly, over the rolling slopes of the cornfields beyond Bouvines, we saw the long lines of horsemen flying in a great dust cloud. "Now there was with the king the Bishop Garin of Senlis. He was an old knight hospitaler, one of those holy brethren who, despite churchly vows, rejoice to fight in just causes, and Bishop Garin at once clapped spurs to his destrer to reconnoiter. Soon he dashed back, having discovered quite enough. He found our Lord Philip sitting under an ash tree close to the bridge eating dinner, with many great nobles, Messire Conon among them, sitting on the grass. 'Tidings, fair Sire!' cried Garin. 'The Germans will fight. Their knights are in panoply, and behind them march the infantry!' [Sidenote: Battle Array at Bouvines] "It was no pleasant moment for the king. His own infantry were beyond the river, but his cavalry were on this side. He could not get his horsemen across the single bridge without grievous loss; but there was, perchance, still time to bring back the foot. Therefore, with what speed we might, every man of us fell into the array, and some brave sergeants of Champagne made such charges upon Otto's vanguard that, though outnumbered and pressed back, they delayed the foe until our men could take their places and present a gallant front. As for the attackers, when they saw that we were ready to do battle, like prudent men they halted and arrayed their own lines. So for an hour both sides waited, just out of bowshot, many of us very nervous and cursing the delay--the more as the sun beat down pitilessly--although the more pious confessed hastily to the priests, who were always moving up and down the files, or at least we said our _mea culpas_ for our sins. "Presently you could see the whole array of the enemy spread out like some fair picture on a long tapestry. On their right, facing our Counts of Ponthieu and Dreux, were the mercenaries under Salisbury, and the men of that foul traitor Boulogne. On their left were the long lines of Flemish horsemen over against our cavaliers of Champagne and Burgundy. But we from Quelqueparte, with so many other companies, were in the center battle where flew King Philip's great oriflamme, a mighty scarlet banner of samite, surrounded by chosen cavaliers. We horsemen were in the rear. In front of us spread the French footmen--the burgher levies of the towns who answered the king's summons. 'Shame that burghers should stand before knights!' cried some of us; but the King and Bishop Garin, who seemed to know everything, understood their business, as you will see. "It is told that just before the hosts charged King Philip prayed aloud before his bodyguard: 'Lord, I am but a man, but I am also a king. Thine it is to guard the king. Thou wilt lose nothing thereby. Wherever thou wouldst go, I will follow thee!' Also I heard that close behind the king there stood, as long as he might, the royal chaplain, William the Breton, who all through the battle, with another clerk, kept singing psalms such as 'Blessed be the Lord my strength, who teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight.' But Bishop Garin sang no psalms. Up and down the lines of horsemen he rode, thundering: 'Extend yourselves, lest the enemy outflank you. One knight should not make another his shield!' So he put all our knights in the first line of the cavalry. In the rear lines he put the mounted sergeants. We had perhaps two thousand knights and five thousand sergeants. Our infantry were over five-and-twenty thousand, but the foe had even more footmen than we, though their horse was a little inferior. Thus the battle was very fair, two lines of men and horses a mile and a half long, and the fields smooth and open enough for a jousting. There never was better place for an honorable battle. "After we had sat in our saddles a long time, thinking of our sins and admiring in a fearsome way the splendor of the great press of the foe opposite, a party of our sergeants suddenly charged out on our right against the Flemings. Their attack was too weak, and the Flemings drove them back and charged in return, their leaders crying, 'Think on your ladies!' as if in a courteous mêlée. Whereat, nothing loath, our Burgundian and Champagnois knights dashed out on them, and long engaged in an uncertain battle, every cavalier selecting a foe and riding against him. Here one side prevailed and here another, and some warriors even dropped to the rear to recover breath and tighten harness, then spurred back to the charge. For a little while we of the center watched them thus; then nearer things engrossed us. [Sidenote: Defeat of the French Infantry] "I have told you that King Philip and his footmen, as well as many of our knights, held the center battle. Facing them was the dense array of Flemish and German infantry, with Emperor Otto himself, accompanied by chosen horsemen, in their rear, and we could see in the middle press the great imperial banner, a silken dragon, white and green, raised upon a pole capped with a golden eagle. It was not borne by a cavalier but flew from a tall car drawn by four horses. As we gazed at this vast hostile array, lo! the whole mass seemed surging forward against our infantry. Never was there a sight like it, spear points, hauberks, and helmets all flashing in the sun. The ground shook with the trample of thousands of feet. Countless war horns sounded, and we heard the deep '_Hoch! Hoch!_' of the German infantry coming down on us like thunder. "Then the emperor's great masses struck our footmen from the communes. Doubtless our poor knaves meant bravely, and always had plenty of courage when defending their walls, but never would France and King Philip have been saved by townsmen. Soon we saw all those base-born infantry breaking toward the rear, and for a moment our skies looked black. But, 'Open the ranks,' called Messire Conon and our other leaders, 'and let the villeins run through.' So we opened the lines in the cavalry and let these timid friends escape. Then came a last tightening of buckles and pushing down of helms. Right before us, thousands upon thousands, were surging the emperor's infantry. All together we raised the glad '_Montjoie St. Denis!_'[75] the royal battle cry of France. Whereupon followed such a coursing as never in all my life I can hope again to see. With our eyes on Otto's great banner, straight into that press of Germans and Flemings we French cavaliers rode like mad, the knights in front and all the squires and good sergeants raging behind us. The horses knew their hour. They flew at speed with no touch of spur. Though I am blessed with all the joys of paradise, never, after ten thousand years of bliss, shall I forget the wondrous rapture I felt when we struck that hostile line!" (Sire Eustace's eyes are gleaming now like sparks of fire. François and Anseau are hardly breathing as he speaks). [Sidenote: Charge of the French Knights] "Through that caitiff infantry we went as a hot knife cleaves through cheese. I had the St. Aliquis banner, and kept close behind Messire Conon with all our men hallooing and smiting behind. _Hé!_ what chance had those villein footmen against _gentle_ Frenchmen, who all had known horses and lance since they ceased from mother's milk? So one and all we charged, and, like castles rising out of the plain, soon you could see here, there, and yonder the banners and squadrons of our cavaliers on their tall horses, looming above the snarling, striking footmen, who closed in all around them, and yet could not keep our knights from charging forward, always forward. "After that, all the battle was broken up. For when Emperor Otto and his knights saw their infantry being cut down like sheep, they also charged, giving us the honest joy of crossing swords with men of nobility. So for a long time it was horse to horse and man to man. You have heard the jongleurs tell of the great deeds done. But as for us of St. Aliquis, just as we were close to hewing our way clear through the whole German line, lo! a great shouting rose on our left--"The King! The King!" And we saw the royal standard being tossed up and down, as in distress, by Sire Wado de Montigny, who bore it. Then back we charged, with many cavaliers more--just in time. For King Philip, while attacking gallantly like any other knight, had been separated from most of his friends, and a swarm of knavish Flemish pikemen had striven to drag him from his horse. His good armor turned their pikes, yet a soldier caught the hook of a halberd in the chain mail round his throat and pulled him to the ground. But the king sprang up as briskly as a young squire, and all the French knights at hand spurred to his aid. Then it was that Sire Peter Tristen leaped from his own horse and mounted his lord upon it; and Messire Conon, being among the very first to ride up and scatter or trample the Flemings, later received no small praise and thanks. "Therefore, in that part of the field God prospered us; and then came the signal mercy when Emperor Otto fled the field. For as our knights charged and his cavaliers gave way, our men slew Otto's horse, and when he fell they almost seized the emperor. However, his Saxons, selling their lives right dearly, got him another horse. But herein was the German emperor different from our good French king. For when Philip was remounted again he raised once more his clear '_Montjoie St. Denis!_' and pressed the charge; but Otto (nigh out of his wits, perhaps, and somewhat wounded) fled from the field with only three knights, leaving his great banner and all his brave vassals to their fate; and they say he never drew rein till he reached Valenciennes. [Sidenote: Rout of the Germans and Flemings] "The German knights, though deserted, still fought bravely, but the Netherlanders and Flemings soon were fleeing in droves. Besides, on the two wings of the conflict we Frenchmen were already proving victorious and from right and left our knights were charging in to help the center, cutting their way so far to the rear that when at last the German cavaliers knew that all was lost, and now began to flee, they often found themselves surrounded and were pulled from their horses and so made captive. "Thus ended the day's work, save on the right wing of the enemy. Here had fought the great rebel Reginald of Boulogne, who knew there was naught left for him save victory or ruin. He formed some seven hundred Brabantine infantry into a circle. With their pikes and axes they beat off for long the charges of our cavaliers. From behind this living wall Boulogne, with a few brave knights, time and again charged out, performing high deeds of valor, and then, as it were, retreating into their fortress to get breath. But now that the remainder of the field was cleared, King Philip brought up his whole power of cavalry. He formed three thousand of us into three great columns of mounted men and, charging in on every side, by sheer weight we broke the Brabantine circle down. So we dragged the Count of Boulogne from his horse, fighting to the last, and the king holds him close prisoner unto this day. "This was the last mêlée of a battle the like whereof has not been in France these many years. Of course, the slaughter of the footmen was great, some thousands of both ours and theirs. The field was a sorry sight that evening and the groans of the dying rang in my ears, for all that we were so happy. But it pleased the saints that, thanks to good armor, we cavaliers got off quite safely. I have heard that 'only three French knights were slain,' although I am sure that number is too few. Of the Germans and Flemings they say one hundred and seventy knights were killed outright; but better still, we took five German counts, twenty-five barons, and some hundred and six lesser knights as prisoners. It was the ransom of that Baron of Imgerfels whom we unhorsed which presently went far to pay for your aunt's wedding and uncle's knighting. "As for the manner in which we all returned to Paris joyous as the angels, and how the church bells rang and all the fat burghers hung the streets with tapestry, and with the clergy and scholars in the university we had seven days of illuminations, feastings, and rejoicings, which is a story repeated every day. But there will never be another Bouvines." So spoke the seneschal. If we would comment on his narrative, we would say that Philip manifestly conquered because his very unepiscopal chief of staff, Bishop Garin, drew up his army with greater skill than Otto's leaders arranged the German-Fleming host, and also because when at last the hosts engaged in a series of innumerable duels, the French knights on the average proved superior. King Philip, after the fight was started, showed himself a valiant cavalier personally, but hardly figured as a commander. Otto contributed to shake the morale of his men by premature flight, but his great host of footmen were almost worthless, despite their pikes and halberds, against the terrific shock of the French cavalry, charging on perfectly smooth ground, where mailed horsemen could fight at their best. Missile weapons played no part. When the English yew bow shall appear, the situation may change. Till then the mounted knight, in all his ponderous armor, charging with lance at rest or with his great sword dancing in his hands, will appear as the monarch of the battlefields. Bouvines has marked the apogée of the feudal cavalry. [Illustration: LISTENING TO A TROUVÈRE IN A CHÂTEAU OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY When a trouvère stopped in a château, the lord, his family, and his people assembled in the great hall; the trouvère recited some long poem, accompanying himself on a musical instrument, assisted by jugglers who entertained the audience while the poet rested.] FOOTNOTES: [75] This famous battle cry of French royalty probably meant "_Follow the banner of St. Denis!_" Its exact origin, however is obscure. In feudal battles, armies often used merely the names of their leaders, "_Burgundy!_" "_Coucy!_" "_Bourbon!_" etc. But many regions had a special war cry. Thus the Normans cried "_Dex ais!_" the Bretons, "_Malo! Malo!_" the Angevins "_Valée!_" Imperialists were likely to cry "_Rome!_" and Crusaders "_Holy Sepulcher!_" To "cry one's ensign" was a great object in all mediæval battles. Chapter XVI: The Life of the Peasants. Thus have been seen Messire Conon and his familiars in their pleasures, feasts, and wars. The gentle folk seem to monopolize all the life of the barony. Yet at best they number scarce one in a hundred of all the Christians who dwell therein. Assuredly the poor and humble seem much less interesting and command less attention. They have no splendors, no picturesque fêtes or feuds. A life of monotonous poverty seldom detains the chronicler; nevertheless, it is time to visit the village of huts so often seen spreading beyond the bridge to the west of the castle. The St. Aliquis peasants are told that they have naught whereof to complain. They have a kindly seigneur who "renders justice." Since the Foretvert feud, no war has ravaged them. The saints of late have sent neither short crops nor pestilence. To repine against their lot is ingratitude toward God. There is abundant class consciousness in the Feudal Ages. Clerks, knights, peasants--every man knows to which of the three great categories of humanity he belongs, and acts accordingly. A monkish preacher[76] pictures the world as a vast body whereof the clerics are the eyes, for they show to all men the way to safety; the noble knights the hands and arms, for God orders them to protect the Church and the weak and to promote peace and justice; finally the common people (_minores_) form the lower parts of the body--it is their business to nourish the eyes and limbs. More bluntly still, as long ago as about A.D. 1000, Bishop Adelberon of Laon had divided mankind into two great divisions--first, the clergy who prayed and the seigneurs who fought; second, the toilers; adding that "to furnish all with gold, food, and raiment--such is the obligation of the servile class." Since these classes are clearly ordained of Heaven, to rebel against one's status is manifestly questioning the justice of Providence--a damnable impiety. Few of the St. Aliquis peasants ever dream of being anything but villeins. They regard gentlefolk somewhat as good Christians regard angels--as beings of another sphere. All they hope for is kindly treatment and modest prosperity within the limits providentially assigned them. Therefore, they are not too unhappy. If we go up and down France we shall find the rural population decidedly dense.[77] One little village usually follows another closely and every collection of huts swarms with human bipeds. There are, indeed, vast forests and marshes which might with better management be put under the plow, but the extent of arable land is great. Heaven surely loves the peasants, it has made so many of them. Seemingly their number is limited merely by the question of food supply. [Sidenote: Danger of Great Famines] If the condition of the peasantry often seems bad, it is comforting to know that for the last two centuries it has been improving. Not for many years have matters in the St. Aliquis region been as they were in some parts of France during the terrible famine of 1030-32. At that time we are told that the poor devoured grass, roots and even white clay. Their faces were pale, their bodies lean, their stomachs bloated, "their voices thin and piping like the voice of birds." Wolves came out of forests and fed on children. Strangers and travelers were liable to be waylaid in solitary spots and killed simply that they might be eaten. Near Macon a "hermit" at last was seized who had lured wayfarers to share the hospitality of his cell. The skulls of forty-eight victims were there discovered, after which they burned the wretch alive. [Illustration: GROUP OF PEASANTS AND OF SHEPHERDS (Twelfth century), from a window in the cathedral of Chartres.] You can go on multiplying stories about famines--how human flesh at times was sold in markets; how starving children were lured by the offers of a bit of food to places where ghouls could kill and feast on them; how a measure of corn rose to sixty sous in gold; and how even the very rich "lost their color." These days, thanks be to the saints, seem disappearing; yet the danger of pinching hard times is still a real one, even in fortunate St. Aliquis.[78] The peasants of Messire Conon are free. The serfs of the barony had been manumitted about a hundred years earlier, by a baron who (after an extremely iniquitous life) was admonished on his deathbed by his confessor that he must do something extraordinary for the salvation of his soul.[79] As a result the St. Aliquis peasants were no longer bound to the soil and could quit the seigneury--as serfs assuredly could not do. They could also marry any women they wished without asking their lord's consent or paying him a fee. They could bequeath their goods without having him sequester an outrageous part. All this, of course, improved their status, yet they were still subject to numerous imposts in money and kind, and to various forms of forced labor. Although they had now the legal right to quit the barony, only with the greatest difficulty could they sell their little farms and chattels thereon, so they could take a decent share of their possessions elsewhere; and if they wandered to distant parts, the local authorities were likely to call them "masterless men" and assume that if they had forsaken their old lord they must somehow be criminals. [Sidenote: Exploitation of Villeins] Nevertheless, it is much better to be a free peasant than a serf. The majority of the French lower classes are now becoming free, although in other Christian lands, notably Germany, serfage will prevail for a weary day hereafter. But even though one becomes free, he is a villein still. The taint of ignoble blood clings like a shirt of pitch, even after achieving prosperity and wealth. Knightly opinion is expressed by that great troubadour, Bertran de Born: "I love to see the rich churl in distress if he dares to strive with nobles. I love to see him beg his bread in nakedness." Even a well-disposed lord looks on a peasant largely as a source of income. In time of peace the taxes and forced labor squeezed out of him yield that which presently turns into destrers, silvered hauberks, furs, hawks, fair dames' luxuries, dowries, adubbements, tourneys. In time of war he exists to be pillaged and massacred, in order to impoverish his master by ruining the latter's revenues. The burghers of the towns are a little more respected. Their industrial products are needful. They can better protect themselves. But the richest syndic of a commune cannot really hold up his head socially with the unknighted bachelor who drags out life in a tumble-down manor house. At every turn the peasant finds himself exploited. He must pay a direct tax supposedly proportioned to the size and yield of his farm. That is only the beginning. When his wife has bread to bake, it must be taken to the lord's oven. One loaf in so many goes as the fee. The flour must be ground up in the lord's mill--again for a fee. The grapes must be pressed out in the lord's winepress. The sheep must be driven into the lord's sheepfold every night, that he may get the manure. Every dispute must be arbitrated before the lord's provost or the great man himself--more fees. In short, the whole régime aims to compel the peasant to go to his seigneur for everything he needs, so that he will have extremely little business to transact away from the seigneury. Doubtless it is a convenience often to find things commonly needful always at hand. There is a certain return for many of the exactions. But the seigneur does not act out of benevolence. If the peasants wish, for example, to set up their own ovens, they must pay the seigneur the equivalent of the baker's fees of which he is deprived. If they then wish to bake their own bread, he is now quite indifferent. Besides the imposts and numerous fees (_banalités_) the peasants owe the _corvées_, payments by labor. A large part of every seigneury is "domain land"--for the lord's own personal use. The peasants are obliged to give a certain number of days to keep this plowed and tilled, mow the meadows, bring in the hay, dress the vines. They must also see that the castle has its firewood and fodder; clean out the moat; help keep the fortifications in repair; and assist on many extraordinary occasions.[80] For this they get no pay, although they may be given their rations during the days of labor. In time of war they do almost everything from helping to defend the castle to marching on offensive campaigns as part of the ban--serving, as we have seen, as grooms, baggage attendants, diggers, and engineers, and also as the despised, but sometimes useful, infantry pikemen. [Sidenote: Oppressive Seigneurial Officers] Such are the burdens of the St. Aliquis peasants. They burn holy candles of thankfulness, however, that Baron Conon does not multiply their troubles by intrusting the collection of his imposts and the administration of his forced labor to outrageous officers. Sire Macaire, the provost, is harsh toward real offenders and strict in exacting the last _sol_ or sheaf in just debts, but he is no blackmailer, as is Foretvert's general factotum. In old Baron Garnier's day, of course, there had been a provost who not merely levied abominable imposts, diverting a share thereof toward his own pocket, but who would accuse poor men falsely of theft and then take bribes for condoning their alleged offenses, all the time that he was dividing the profits of real bandits whom he protected. Even more obnoxious can be the forester who controls the hunting preserves and grazing grounds. He decides how the peasants' pigs may be turned out in the oak forests, how and when firewood may be cut, and he battles incessantly with the multitudinous poachers. A few years ago even Conon was deceived by a fellow in his employ, one Maître Crispin. He was "a very handsome man with fine carriage and well armed with bow and sword." No one could _congé_ more gracefully to Madame Adela, or do more to help messire to discover a great boar, but all the while he was filling his own chest. For example, he seized lame Georges' oxen on the pretext that he had cut three oaks and a birch in the seigneur's forest--yet he would forget the crime if Georges could find him one hundred sous! Fortunately Sire Macaire discovered the evil ways of his lieutenant, and Conon, exceedingly incensed, had the smooth Crispin turned over to Maître Denis and his halter after abrupt formalities. The present forester, taught by example, is more honest, although of course, all the real poachers curse him. [Illustration: PEASANTS AT WORK From a manuscript of the thirteenth century (Bibliothèque nationale).] A great part of the peasant's time is spent neither in working nor in resting, but in walking. Few are so lucky as to have all their land in a single compact plot. Even a rather poor peasant has his farm scattered in several tiny holdings, possibly at the four quarters of the neighborhood. When a peasant dies, his children all divide the paternal estate, and if a separate piece of ground cannot be provided for each heir, some lots must be subdivided smaller still. The St. Aliquis lands thus present a curious sight--innumerable little parcels scattered everywhere, each carefully fenced off and each growing its own separate crops. Meantime their owners begin in the morning toiling with their heavy mattocks, on one of their holdings, then on to the next, and so on until sundown. Thus they trudge several miles, and yet are seldom far from their village, whither they must all return at dusk. [Sidenote: Primitive Agricultural Methods] Men of more fortunate days will be astonished when they survey the agricultural methods of even the least stupid peasants. Everything is according to traditions--"so it was with our fathers." In the abbey library there are some Latin books about agriculture. They deal with conditions in ancient Italy, however, not feudal France. The most benevolent monk hardly dreamed of examining his Cato or Columella to learn how to better the lot of the peasantry, though in fairness it should be said that the abbey farms enjoy on the whole a much superior cultivation. Not all peasants can own plows; they borrow or hire from their neighbors, or break the ground with the clumsy mattocks. What plows exist have only wooden plowshares. The wheat in St. Aliquis is beaten out by flails, although a little farther south it is trodden out by cattle. The soil is often impoverished, and it is usual to leave one-third fallow all the time to recuperate. Such a thing as "rotation of crops" is still a matter of vague talk save on some of the monastery lands. Under these circumstances, even in the best of years, there is not much surplus of food. A short crop means misery. Men pessimistically expect a famine on the average of one in every four years. If there has not been one of late in St. Aliquis, it is because the saints are rich in mercy. "In 1197 a countless throng died of hunger," significantly wrote a chronicler in Rheims. Naturally, the villeins seldom get enough ahead to be able to learn the practices of thrift. If the year has been good, with an extra supply of corn in the barns, and plenty of pigs and chickens fattening, the winter will be spent in gorging and idleness. By spring the old crop is exhausted almost to the seed corn; then perhaps the new crop will be a failure. The next winter these same peasants may be glad to make a pottage of dead leaves. Lame Georges, who had his oxen sequestered, is, despite his misfortunes, one of the most prosperous peasants in the village. He limps because in his youth a retainer of Baron Garnier's twisted one of his feet while trying to extort money. Georges is really only forty-five years old, but to see his gray head, gnarled face, and bent back you would think him sixty. His wife Jeanne is four years younger than he, but looks as aged as her husband. "Old Jeanne," the children call her. The pair have been blessed with at least fifteen children, but four of these died in childbirth, and five more before they could grow up. The other six are, all but the youngest, married already and Jeanne has been a grandmother for several years. Georges' house stands near the center of the village. To reach it you pick your way down a lane usually deep in mud. In front of each fenced-in cottage there is an enormous dungheap, beloved by the hens and pigs, which roam about freely. Georges' one-story dwelling is an irregularly built, rambling structure of wood, wattles, and thatch, all of dirty brown. This "manse" stretches away in four parts. The rearmost contains the corn cribs, the next mows for hay and straw, then the cattle sheds; and nearest, and smallest, the house for the family. [Sidenote: A Peasant's House] Pushing back the heavy door, after lifting the wooden latch, one enters a single large room; the timbers and walls thereof are completely blackened by soot. There is really only one apartment. Here everything in the household life seems to go on. The floor is of earth pounded hard. Upon it are playing several very dirty, half-naked children, come over to visit "grandmother," and just now they are chasing two squealing little pigs under the great oak table near the center. One makes no account of a duck leading her goslings in at the door in hopes of scraps from the dinner. A hen is setting on eggs in a box near the great fireplace. Jeanne has just kindled a lively fire of vine branches and dry billets. She is proud that her house contains many convenient articles not found with all the neighbors. By the fireplace is an iron pot hanger, a shovel, large fire tongs, a copper kettle, and a meat hook. Next to the fireplace is an oven, in case she does not wish to use that at the castle and yet will pay the baron's fee. On the other side of the fireplace is an enormous bed, piled with a real mountain of feather mattresses--we do not discuss their immunity from vermin. In this one bed a goodly fraction of Georges' entire family, male and female, old and young, have been able to sleep; of course, with their heads usually pointing in opposite directions. If a stranger chances to spend the night, it will be hospitable to ask him to make "one more" in that selfsame bed! If the goodman takes us about his establishment we shall find that, in addition to various stools and benches, he owns a ladder, a mortar and pestle for braying corn, a mallet, some crudely shaped nails, a gimlet, a very imperfect saw, fishing lines, hooks, and a basket. He is fortunate enough also to own a plow, and, in addition, a scythe, an iron spade, a mattock, a pair of large shears, a handy knife, and a sharpening stone. He has replaced the stolen oxen with another pair and owns a two-wheeled wagon with a harness of thongs and ropes. Besides the oxen, there are three milch cows in his barn, and he has a hennery and pigpen. The place seems also to abound with long, lean cats, very wild, who gain a living by hunting the numerous rats and mice which lurk in the dense thatch of the roofs. Georges himself wears a blouse of dirt-colored cloth, or sometimes of sheepskin, fastened by a leathern belt. In cold weather he has a mantle of thick woolen homespun, now also dirt color, to his knees. He has a pair of very heavy leathern boots, although not seldom he goes on short walks barefoot. The lower part of his body is covered by a pair of loose woolen trousers which once were blue. Very seldom, save in storms, does he wear any headdress; then he produces a kind of cap of the same dirty woolen as his coat. As for gloves, he never wears them except when hedging. Jeanne's costume is much the same, with a few changes to make it suitable for women. In her chest she has, however, a green bliaut of Flanders wool made somewhat in imitation of those she has seen at the castle, and it even is beautified with red and purple embroidery. This bliaut she wears with pride on great festival days, and in it, despite the envious hopes of her daughters and daughters-in-law, she expects at last to be buried. [Illustration: A LABORER, THIRTEENTH CENTURY Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc, from the manuscript of Herrade of Landsberg.] [Sidenote: Very Poor Peasants] Georges' house is considerably better than many others. Some of his neighbors live in mere cabins that are barely weather tight. They are made of crossed laths stuffed with straw or grass, and have no chimney. The smoke from the hearth escapes through a small hole in the roof (where the thatch is very liable to take fire) or merely through the door. None of these houses has glass windows. Georges fastens his few openings with wooden shutters, but poor Alard near by has to close his apertures by stuffing them up with straw, if it is too cold to leave them open. Alard, too, is without a bed. His family sleep on thin pallets of straw laid on the ground, with a few ragged blankets. There are plenty of peasants who have not even the straw. [Illustration: PEASANT SHOES Twelfth century (abbey church of Vézelay)] [Illustration: A REAPER From the doorway of the cathedral of Amiens.] Alard inevitably has no cows, no oxen or cart, no plow, and only a few rude tools. He and his are barely able to satisfy the provost's men by grinding field labor, and have still enough grain laid up to carry them till the next harvest. If it is a little too dry, a little too wet, if, in short, any one of a number of untoward things happen, by next spring he, with his bent and bony wife and his five lean children, will all be standing at the castle or abbey gate with so many other mendicants to cry their "Bread! For the love of Christ, a little bread!" The peasants marry as early as do the nobility. Of the moral condition of many of them it is best to say little. Good Father Étienne, the parish priest, spends much of his time first in baptizing infants of unacknowledged paternity, and then in running down their presumptive fathers and forcing the latter to provide for their children's upkeep. But a girl can often indulge in amazing indiscretions and later find some self-respecting peasant willing to marry her. Every girl looks forward to her marriage as the climax of life. If she hopes to find a husband in the coming year, she will dance around a bonfire, then cast some pins into a bubbling fountain. If these are thrown to the surface it is a sign the right swain will come along. When drawing water from a well, if she can throw into it an egg cracked upon the head of some companion, she can see in the water the image of her future husband. As for the young men, when one of them decides he wishes to marry a certain girl, he often comes to her parents, presenting a leathern bottle of wine. If they drink of the same his suit is accepted. However, if he is uncertain of his reception by the maiden herself, he invites himself to dinner at her home. If at the end she serves him with a dish of walnuts, it is a clear token that he is rejected. He had better slink away. [Illustration: A MARRIAGE IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY From a manuscript of the Bibliothèque nationale (Bordier et Charton).] On the wedding day, if the bride has always been sage and modest, the neighbors present her with a white hen, but her mother gives her a piece of fine cloth, to make a gala dress which will serve ultimately for a shroud. At the ceremony itself the great question is, "How will the wedding ring slip on?" If easily the bride will be docile. If it goes on tightly she will rule her husband! [Illustration: A PLOW Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc, from a manuscript of the thirteenth century at the Seminary of Soissons.] [Sidenote: Hard Toil and Ignorance] The peasants need every kind of public and private holiday. On ordinary days toil begins at gray dawn and usually continues until dusk. There are no eight-hour laws; even the "nooning" is short, although sometimes there is time taken out in hot weather for a siesta during the afternoon. The women labor in the fields as hard as do the men. Children begin weeding, digging, and carrying when very little. Their help is so important that many peasants look on large families as assets of so much unpaid field labor, rather than as liabilities which they must clothe and feed until the children reach maturity. Education is almost unknown. One or two very bright boys from the village somehow have been caught by the churchmen and trained for the priesthood. There is even a story of a lad born in a neighboring seigneury who thus rose to be a bishop! But such cases are very exceptional. In the whole village by St. Aliquis, Father Étienne is the only person who understands the mysteries of reading and writing, except two assistants of the provost, who have to keep accounts for the baron. It is very hard for great folk to understand such teachings of the Church as that "all men are brethren." "Doubtless it is true," Adela and Alienor have often told each other, that "God created man in His own image," but how is it possible that God should have the image of most of the villeins on the seigneury? Are not so many of them like the peasant described in the epic "Garin"? "He had enormous hands and massive limbs. His eyes were separated from each other by a hand's breadth. His shoulders were large, his chest deep, his hair bristling, and his face black as a coal. He went six months without bathing. Nothing but rain water had ever touched his face." The manners of these people are equally repulsive. Countless ballads as well as monks' sermons and treatises represent your typical villein as incessantly discontented, scolding about the weather, which is always too wet or too dry, treating his wife like an animal, hauling her about by the hair. Lately at the castle a jongleur told this anecdote: "A certain peasant showered his wife with blows on principle. 'She must have some occupation,' said he, 'while I work in the field. If she is idle she will think of evil things. If I beat her she will weep the whole day through, and so will pass the time. Then when I return in the evening she will be more tender.'" According to other stories, however, many peasants are clever, aggressive, and insolent--well able to care for themselves. [Sidenote: Filthy Habits of Peasants] The castle folk and the burghers are none too careful in sanitary matters, but even to them the peasants are disgustingly filthy. They relate in Pontdebois this story: "Once a villein, leading some donkeys, went down the lane of the perfumer's shops. Instantly he fainted at the unaccustomed odor. They brought him to, however, by holding a shovel full of manure under his nose." Another story (told at the monastery) has it that the devil has refused to receive more villeins into hell because they smell so vilely! In the village you soon find many typical peasant characters, and nearly all of them are bad. There is the surly fellow who will not even tell a traveler the way. There is the malcontent villein who mutters enviously whenever he sees a knight riding out hawking; there is the mad fool who reviles God, saints, Church, and nobility; there is the talkative villein who is always arguing bad causes before the provost's court and inciting his neighbors to senseless litigation, there is the honest simpleton who wandered up to Pontdebois and got his pockets picked while gaping at the sculptures on the portal of the cathedral; finally, there are the misers, the petty speculators in grain (who pray for a famine), and all the tribe of poachers. Certainly there are also a great number of hard-working, honest folk who bow respectfully when Messire Conon rides by and who pay their taxes without grumbling. Such give prosperity to the seigneury; but it is the rascals who ever thrust themselves into prominence. The St. Aliquis villeins seem doltish and dirty enough, but they are nothing to those existing in Flanders. Some monks have recently returned thence after doing business for their order. They tell with horror that in summertime Flemish peasants are seen around their villages, taking their ease, with no more clothes on than when they were born. When the monks remonstrated, the rough answer was: "How is this your business? You make no laws for us." It is pitiful (say the monks) that any seigneur should tolerate such things on his fief, for the peasants are such sodden creatures they cannot of themselves be expected to know better. If the knights exploit the peasants, the clergy do so hardly less. It is notoriously hard for the bishop's tithe collector to secure the quota of pigs, hens, eggs, wheat, vegetables, etc., which everybody knows that the villein owes to the Church after or upon the same time he satisfies the collectors for the baron. Indeed, certain impious villeins complain, "The tithe is worse than the imposts and the _corvées_." The monkish preachers have to be constantly threatening these sinners who pay their tithes slowly. The Church tithe is the property of God. "It is the tax you owe to God, a sign of his universal dominion." Those who withhold it not merely imperil their souls, but God will send them "drought and famine," punishing them alike in this world and the next. Villeins too often wickedly insist on working on Sundays and holy days. The peasants complain there are so many saints' days that it is hard to keep track of them, but if only they would go to Church on Sundays when the priest announces the next holy days they could avoid this sin. Worse still are the peasants who, when they see their fellows going dutifully to mass, hide under the hedges, then slip away to rob the unguarded orchards. [Sidenote: Gross Oppression by Knights] It seems certain, therefore, that God has no such love for villeins as he has for gentle knights and their dames. The knights display their superiority by always reminding their peasants of their condition. With some barons, to flog their villein for most trifling offenses is about as common as for them to eat their dinners. Even Conon has plenty of use for his riding whip. Unless the blows are very brutal the average peasant takes this as all in the day's work. He merely trades out his own blows upon his wife and children. Indeed, it is commonly said that most villeins are so numb mentally they never can comprehend the simplest orders unless they are driven home with stripes. In time of war the fate of the peasants is, as we have seen, far worse than this. Whatever a feud means to the contending parties, to their villeins it means houses and crops burned, fruit trees girdled, young girls dragged off to a life of infamy, and probably the massacre of many peasants in cold blood. One of the reasons the nobles delight so in war is because it is seldom that they have to endure its real anguish and horror; but in the churches the non-nobles pray, "_Grant us to peace_" quite as fervently as they beseech, "Save us from famine"--and with equal justice. The monkish preachers who make a business of scolding sometimes denounce high-born oppressors of the villeins. One monk thus cries out, "All that the peasant amasses in one year of stubborn toil, the noble devours in an hour. Not content with his lawful revenues, he despoils them by illicit exactions. As wolves devour carrion while the crows croak overhead, awaiting their share of the feast, so when knights pillage their subjects the provosts (their agents) and others of the hellish crew rejoice at the prospect of devouring the remainder." Or again: "Ye nobles are ravening wolves; therefore shall ye howl in hell," for you "despoil your subjects and live on the blood and sweat of the poor." (Jacques of Vitry.) Nevertheless, the selfsame preachers accuse the peasants of the cardinal sins of avarice and of shunning labor. Only rarely are the villeins comforted by being told that if they work faithfully and bring up a proper family they are morally on equality "with a cleric who chants all day in a church." On the St. Aliquis fiefs, and, indeed, on many others, these grosser abuses do not obtain, but nowhere are the villeins exempt from one evil which they must meet with dumb resignation--the seigneurial hunts.[81] Conon and his guests never hesitate at going with horses and hawks or hounds straight across plowed and seeded fields or even over standing grain. This is the lord's absolute right, and protest is impossible. The hunters, too, are entitled, if far from home, to stop at the peasants' huts and demand food and fodder, perhaps for a large party. If payment is made, it is merely out of charity. Greater evils still may come from the depredations of the wild game, if the fields are close to the hunting preserves. Villeins cannot harm any deer nibbling the young sprouts. They can only scare them away--and the cunning creatures soon grow daring. A wild boar can root up a dozen little farm plots before the baron can find leisure to chase him down. Upon some fiefs the peasants can arrange to pay an extra fee to their lord, in return for which he keeps only rabbits near their fields; but the hunt of a single rabbit, if the flying wretch doubles in among the corn, may ruin a family. On the other hand, the penalties for poaching, for "killing messire's game," are terrible. It is probably safer on St. Aliquis'--as on any other fief--to risk killing a traveler than killing a fawn or even a hare. The law is pitilessly enforced by the foresters. Maître Denis will tell you he has hanged more stout fellows for poaching than for any other two crimes put together. [Sidenote: Futile Peasant Revolts] Do the villeins ever revolt? Sometimes, when they are driven to desperation by extreme misery; when they find a clever leader; when circumstances are peculiarly favorable. Then may come the sudden burning of manor houses and small fortalices; the massacre of their inmates; and other brutish deeds of tardy retaliation. The rebels are likely to boast, as did some insurgent peasants in Normandy in the eleventh century: "We have been weak and insane to bend our necks for so long. For we are strong-handed men, and solider and stouter limbed than the nobles will ever be. For everyone of them there are a hundred of us!" Such revolts always have a single end. The ignorant peasants submit to no discipline. They cannot use the knight's weapons if they capture them. They cannot organize. If they seize a castle, the liquor in the cellars lays them out helpless through a week of orgy. The seigneurs instantly rally and with their great horses hunt down the rebels as creatures worse than wolves. The vengeance then taken on the insurgents is such that every ear that hears thereof must tingle. Perhaps along a league of roadway a corpse will be swinging from every tree. Such measures effectively discourage rebellion save under most exceptional circumstances. Even with atrocious seigneurs it is usually best to bow to the will of God and merely to pray for deliverance. Georges' and Alard's mental horizons can be imagined. They have on rare occasions been as far as Pontdebois, although some of their neighbors have passed a lifetime without even that privilege. They have only the most limited, one might say only the most animal, hopes and fears. Their ideas of such things as the king's court, Paris, and the various Christian and Infidel lands are a jumble of absurd notions. "Religion" means a few prayers, a few saints' stories, as told in the church, the miracle plays at Christmas, and a fear lest by failing in proper respect to monks and priests they will be eternally tormented in worse torture chambers than old Baron Garnier's. The villeins, of course, have their own rustic holidays, full of rough sports--wrestling, throwing weights, archery, and also cockfighting and bull baiting. The best of entertainment is when two blindfolded men, each carrying a cudgel, try to kill a goose or pig let loose in an inclosure. The whole village roars to see them belabor each other. During the wedding festivities, to show their dutiful esteem for Alienor and Olivier, the peasants had arranged a special ceremony in their honor. Four blindfolded men were led about the neighborhood, preceded by two men, one playing an oboe, the other carrying a red banner whereon a pig was painted. After this noisy merrymaking a real pig was produced, and before an august company of most of the castle folk the four champions "attacked the pig." They hit one another so hard, that one was picked up almost dead. The pig became the property of the villein who had managed to pound the life out of the creature just as in mercy Alienor was about to beg that the contest end. Despite grievances and grumblings, the average peasants are loyal, somewhat after the manner of dumb dogs, to their seigneurs. Conon and Adela command the real affection of their villeins because of acts of charity, but even Baron Garnier had been treated with an astonishing faithfulness. Many a knight has owed his life or honor to humble dependents whom he has not treated so well as his horses or hounds. It is the toiling thousands in the little thatched huts that make possible the wedding feasts, the adubbements, the tourneys, and the spectacular battles. Some day the exploitation will cease--but not in the thirteenth century. FOOTNOTES: [76] This cleric, Jacques of Vitry, may have written a few years later than the presumable date of this narrative, but it represents entirely the orthodox viewpoint of A.D. 1220. [77] It has been estimated that the rural population of France in the thirteenth century was almost as great as in the twentieth. There was probably a decided falling off, in the fourteenth century, thanks to the Black Death (1348) and the ravages of the Hundred Years' War. [78] By 1220 these wholesale famines were really becoming matters of tradition, thanks to better transportation and better methods of agriculture. Very lean years, almost ruinous to the peasantry, remained, however, as extremely grim possibilities. [79] In Brittany, and, somewhat less generally in Normandy, most of the peasants at this time were free. In Champagne and central France there were still so many serfs that very possibly the peasants of St. Aliquis were more fortunate than the majority of the villeins on neighboring baronies. The advantages of the free peasants over the serfs have, however, been somewhat exaggerated. [80] The list of curious _corvées_ required of peasants on various seigneuries is a long one. On one fief they were expected to beat the water of the castle moat to stop the noise of the frogs whenever the mistress was sick. Or on certain specified occasions they had to perform some absurd service: to hop on one leg, to kiss the latch of the castle gate, go through some drunken horseplay in the lord's presence, or sing a broad song in the presence of his lady. [81] See page 67. Chapter XVII: Charity. Care of the Sick. Funerals. Even upon a well-ordered seigneury the number of the poor, disabled, and generally miserable is great. Despite the contempt displayed by the great for the lowly, the Feudal Age is not lacking in pretty abundant charity or rather in almsgiving. The haughtiest cavalier feels it his duty to scatter copper obols when he goes among the poor, though doubtless he tells his squire to fling the coins merely to "satisfy this hungry rabble." Among the virtues of Conon and Adela is the fact that they throw the money with their own gentle hands. This somehow adds to the donative's value. The present season is prosperous at St. Aliquis. Furthermore, there has just been such an open house at the castle that one would expect even the most luckless to be satiated for a while. Nevertheless, the very day after the guests have departed Adela is informed that there are more than thirty people before the drawbridge, chanting their "Alms! For the sake of Christ, alms!" The baroness, suppressing a sigh, quits her maids, to whom she is just assigning their weaving, and goes to the bailey. With her attends lay-brother Gensenius, an assistant to Father Grégoire, who acts as castle almoner. The crowd contains many familiar faces. Yonder old man on one leg, the blind woman led by a little girl, the lad with a withered arm, the woman disfigured by goiter, the widow whose husband was slain in a brawl, leaving her with eight children, the harmless idiot--all these Adela immediately recognizes. But the excitement of the fêtes has attracted others whom she and Brother Gensenius scan closely. This melancholy fellow on crutches possibly can run very fast if he sees that the provost's men are after him. His companion, who seems covered with sores and who claims to be on a pilgrimage to a healing shrine, is clearly a scamp and malingerer. Right before the baroness a strange woman falls down foaming at the mouth, as if she had epilepsy. Gensenius shakes his crafty head. "She is the same impostor," he whispers, "who tried her trick with a bit of soap yesterday in the village." So the sheep gradually are separated from the goats. Some of the charlatans are chased away. Some of those who receive loaves of bread and broken meat are perhaps no more deserving than the rejected. But dare one really be too critical? After all, the reason why great folk give to beggars is to cancel sins. If the beggars are undeserving, that hardly diminishes the credit with the saints for Conon and Adela. It would be calamitous if there were suddenly to be no poor, worthy or unworthy, for how then, by parting with some of their abundance, could the rich buy peace for their souls? Fortunately, however, there is no such danger. Our Lord has directly said, "The poor ye have always with you," a most comforting word of Scripture. Poverty, then, is a blessed institution even for the fortunate in this world; it enables them to procure entrance to heaven by acts of charity. As for persons who are needy, of course, if they bear their lot with Christian resignation they accumulate a blessed stock of indulgence which will cut short their durance in purgatory. [Sidenote: Physical Severity of Mediaeval Life] The morning dole is a regular feature at St. Aliquis, as at every other castle and monastery. The amount of food given away is really very great. But there is next to no attempt on the part of the average seigneury really to remedy this mendicancy--to devise honest work within the capacities of the blind or the lame; to give systematic relief to the widow; to put the idiot lad in some decent institution. Every premium is placed upon the idlers, the impostors, and the low-browed rogues who prefer anything to honest toil. In the times of real famine, even, the temptation to cease prematurely struggling against hard times and to lapse into beggardom is very dangerous. Despite, therefore, much genuine kindness on the part of many donors, charity in the Feudal Age is allowed more than ordinarily to cover a multitude of sins--alike those of the givers and the receivers. Upon the St. Aliquis barony there is an astonishing number of unabashed drones and parasites. These miserable folk, however, have some excuse. Conditions of life in the Feudal Age, even for the cavaliers, are very severe. Men and women begin the duties of life young, mature young, grow old young. Henry II of Anjou and England was only forty-seven when they began to call him "old." Philip Augustus was only fifteen when he was capable of assuming the actual duties of a responsible monarch. Many a baron is gray headed at forty. When he is fifty his sons may often be intriguing to supplant their superannuated father. If this is true of the nobility, what of the toiling peasantry? We have seen how Georges and Jeanne are aged before their time. Grinding toil by weakening the body, of course, leaves it exposed to many ordinary diseases. But certainly conditions in castle and village open the doors to extraordinary plagues as well. The age is happily ignorant of sanitary precautions which more sophisticated mortals will consider a matter of course. The peasants "almost live on the manure heap." The clergy (though not themselves so uncleanly) seldom preach the virtues of bathing; indeed, their discourses on "despising the body" apparently discourage the practice. It is hard to keep meat any length of time unless it is salted, and the vast amounts of salt meat consumed everywhere are direct promoters of scurvy and gangrene. We have seen that nearly all the clothing worn close to the body is woolen. This retains filth, is hard to wash, and irritates the skin, another cause for frequent dermal diseases--scrofula, the itch, and things even worse. [Illustration: A LEPER Holding in his hand the bones with which these unfortunates were compelled to signal their approach from a distance. From a window in the cathedral of Bourges (thirteenth century).] [Sidenote: Fearful Plagues and Mortality] Leprosy is a terrible scourge. Its nature is misunderstood. Often severe but curable cases of eczema are confounded therewith, and harmless victims are condemned to a death in life--perpetual banishment to filthy cabins in the woods. Cholera and smallpox every now and then break out in a neighborhood, and they are almost always fatal. Nothing really can be done to check them except to pray to the saints. Such diseases are (say the best informed) communicated "in the air"; consequently any ordinary isolation is useless. On the whole, they ravage the villages more than they do the castles, though hardly because the castle folk are able to take more effective physic. Yet often enough a baron and his entire family may be swept away. Very seldom is it suggested that pure water, cleanliness, and rational schemes of isolation can accomplish much to defeat the apparent desire of heaven to devastate an entire duchy. Other diseases are fearfully common. The sufferers from nervous complaints make up small armies. The general terrors and wars of the times, the brooding fears of the devil, hell, and the eternal torment, the spectacle of the fearful punishments, and, on the other hand, the sheer ennui of life in many castles and in certain ill-ruled convents, drive men and women out of their wits. Such sufferers are lucky if they are treated with kindness and are not, as being "possessed of devils," clapped in a dungeon. Finally, it should be said that lucky is the mother who does not have one-third to one-half of all her offspring die in the act of birth. Every entrance of a babe into the world is a dice throwing with death, even if the mid-wife is clever. Once born, the children are likely to be so injured in the initiatory process that they will be physically imperfect or dangerously weakened. This is true even in the royal families; how much more true in the peasant huts! It is not surprising that the average man of the Feudal Ages can give and sustain hard blows. Only the strongest have been able to survive the ordeals of birth and childhood. To fight these dangers, one must invoke both human and divine aid. Good Christians usually feel that the healing saints avail more than do physicians or wise women. If you have indigestion, invoke St. Christopher; if dropsy, St. Eutropius; if fever, St. Petronila; for the pest, St. Roch; for insanity, St. Mathurin; for kidney complaint, St. René; for cramps, St. Crampan--and so with many other ills. Nevertheless, one need not trust solely to prayers. Only great people, however, employ regular physicians (_mires_). Villeins commonly have in a "good woman," much better than a sorcerer. The breath of an ass drives poison from a body. The touch of a dead man's tooth cures toothache. If you have a nosebleed, seize the nose with two straws shaped like a cross. If the itch troubles you, roll yourself naked in a field of oats. Georges, the peasant, will tell you that such remedies seldom fail. A local professor of the healing art is Maître Denis, the executioner. Since he knows so well how to mutilate bodies, he ought to be able to understand the converse process of curing them. He has wide reputation as a healer of broken bones, and he often sells his patients a panacea for multifarious ills--"the fat of a man just hung." There is at least this to be said for the peasants: the science of _their_ healers will agree almost as much with that of later physicians as does that of the contemporary "physicians" themselves. The Church has not given any too great encouragement to medicine. The mighty St. Ambrose has said that the proper healing is by prayers and vigils. Only clerics of the inferior orders are allowed to study medical science, and the dissection of dead bodies is decidedly discountenanced.[82] At the castle the ordinary functionary to abate bodily ills is Maître Louis, the baron's barber. When not scraping chins, he was very likely giving the castle folk their monthly bleedings, without which it is very hard to keep one's health. The bleedings take place, if possible, in the great hall near the fire, and are undergone regularly by both sexes. When the St. Aliquis forces are called to war, Maître Louis goes with them as barber-surgeon, and he really has considerable skill in setting fractures and cauterizing and salving wounds, as well as with a few powerful drugs--mostly purgatives--which probably help those of his patients who have the strongest constitutions to recover. [Sidenote: Professional Physicians] When one of the baron's own family is seriously sick, it is usual to send to Pontdebois for a professional physician. About two years ago Conon himself fell into a fever. They brought to him Maître Payen, who claimed to have learned his art as _mire_ by travel among the schools of medicine--at Salerno in Sicily, at Montpellier in the Languedoc country, and even at Cordova among the Infidels, although the baron swore angrily (after he was gone) that he had never been nearer any of these places than Paris. [Illustration: A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY DOCTOR Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc, from a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale.] Maître Payen was sprucely dressed half as a priest, half as a rich burgher. He wore elegant furs. He talked very learnedly of "febrifuges" and "humors," and kept repeating, "Thus says Avincenna, the prince of Spanish physicians," or, "Thus says Albucasis, the infallible follower of Avincenna." If Conon had suffered from some easily discoverable malady, probably Maître Payen could have suggested a fairly efficient means of cure. He was not without shrewdness, and in his chest was a whole arsenal of herbs and drugs. He had also efficient salves, although he had never heard the word "antiseptic." But the baron had picked up one of those maladies which baffled easy diagnosis. Maître Payen, therefore, fussed about, clearly betraying his bewilderment, then struck a professional attitude and announced oracularly, "The obstruction to health is in the liver." "Nay," groaned the baron, "it is in the head that I feel so wretched." "That is foolish," retorted the _mire_, crushingly: "Beware of that word 'obstruction,' because you do not understand what it signifies."[83] He next muttered certain cabalistic words; said that the baron should be glad that his liver was affected, because that was the seat of honor, and that upon recovery his honor would be enlarged. The spleen was the seat of laughter, while the lungs fanned the heart. Payen then talked of remedies. Perhaps the urine of a dog would be best, or the blood of a hegoat; but these were only villein remedies. Messire, the patient, was a great noble and needed noble remedies, suitable for his rank. He would therefore (since the liver was affected) give him the dried and pulverized liver of a toad. And so he left his medicines, took a gold piece, and departed. That night Conon was delirious, but Adela, who, like every mistress of a castle, had perforce learned much of nursing, applied cold cloths to his body, while Father Grégoire prayed to the saints. The next morning, because of the cloths, the saints, or toad's liver, the fever abated. Perhaps it had merely run its natural course. After the baron recovered he would curse terribly at mention of Maître Payen. He would be ready enough to cry "amen!" to the saying of the monk Guy of Provins, "they (the physicians) kill numbers of the sick, and exhaust themselves to find maladies for everybody. Woe to him who falls into their power! I prefer a capon to all their mixtures!" The monk concedes, indeed, that certain physicians are useful, but that it is because of the confidence which they inspire rather than thanks to their medicines that they effect cures. [Sidenote: Healing Relics and Processions] When next Conon falls sick, he vows that he will trust simply to Maître Louis or even to Maître Denis, although he may consent to send for a Lazarist monk, a member of the great monastic order which makes a specialty of healing the sick. For although these truly noble monks (who combine worldly wisdom with an equal amount of piety) treat especially leprosy, they are gradually turning their attention to diseases in general. If he cannot get a Lazarist, he will be likely to hire in an astrologer to discover a remedy by consulting the stars; or Father Grégoire may organize a "healing procession" of all the monks, clerks, and pious laymen whom he can muster. With solemnity they will carry the whole stock of saints' relics in the neighborhood to the sick seigneur, and lay them devoutly upon his abdomen. This remedy was tried in Paris some time ago to cure Prince Louis, the king's heir, and he recovered promptly. Similar assistance is available for a great seigneur like Conon. Not always, indeed, will even the saints' relics avail. When the time had come for the good Lady Odelina, Conon's mother, they postponed extreme unction to the final moment, because after that ceremony the sick person has really no right to get well. The hair falls out and the natural heat is diminished. The moment breath quitted the noble dame's body, the servants ran furiously through the castle, emptying every vessel of water lest the departing soul should be drowned therein. The dead body was also watched carefully until burial, lest the devil should replace it in its coffin with a black cat, and likewise lest a dog or cat should run over the coffin and change the corpse into a vampire. Conon and Adela are not convinced of these notions, but do not dispute them with the servitors. [Illustration: A THIRTEENTH-CENTURY BURIAL SCENE From an English manuscript (Schultz).] Next the body was carefully embalmed. The heart was removed, to be buried at a nunnery whereof Lady Odelina had been the patroness. A waxen death mask was made of the face, and the body was laid out on a handsome bed with black hangings. A temporary altar was set up in the apartment that masses might be said there, and one or two of Conon's vassals or squires remained on guard night and day, fully armed, while round the bed blazed two or three scores of tall candles. [Sidenote: Funeral Customs] The interment took place in the abbey church, in the transept where rested so many of the St. Aliquis stock. They laid upon the Lady Odelina's breast a silver cross engraved with the words of absolution; and in the heavy stone casket also were buried four small earthen pots, each of which had contained some of the incense burned during the funeral ceremony. Finally, when the rites were over, Conon employed a cunning sculptor to make a life-size marble effigy of his mother, to rest upon the slab covering her tomb--an effigy which, by the dignity and genuine peace of form and face, was long to express how truly noble had been his gracious mother. Common folk cannot have marble caskets and effigies, but even poor peasants are graced with decidedly elaborate funerals. When a person of the least consequence in the village dies, a crier goes down all the lanes, ringing a bell and calling out the name of the deceased, adding, "Pray God for the dead." Peasants of quality are likely to be laid away in plaster coffins, although the poorest class of villeins are wrapped only in rags and tossed into shallow pits. Still worse is the fate of those who die excommunicated by the Church or of suicides. These unfortunates cannot even be buried in holy ground. Their bodies are often exposed, to be torn by the dogs and crows. Sometimes, however, a hardened sinner repents sufficiently on his deathbed to be restored to the graces of religion. But in this case his body is frequently burned, all laden with iron or brazen fetters. The idea is thus to mortify the body, even after the breath of life has departed, and so to abate those fires in purgatory assuredly awaiting for all save great saints, who can pass straight to heaven, or the numerous reprobates whose guilt requires not temporary, but eternal torment. FOOTNOTES: [82] As a result of this attitude, such a distinguished and genuinely learned scholar as Albert the Great is said to have confounded tendons and nerves. [83] A mediæval medical treatise deliberately advises the use of this argument to silence patients when the physicians cannot make a diagnosis, yet must say something. Chapter XVIII: Popular Religion. Pilgrimages. Superstitions. Relic Worship. All the folk of St. Aliquis are Christians. Nobody, far and wide, except a few Jews in Pontdebois, openly dissents from the Catholic religion, denies the validity of the creeds, or refuses a certain outward conformity to the Church practices. The age is not greatly interested in improving the general moral and social condition of the common people. The common people even are not always interested in this themselves. Each peasant prays for "just treatment" and for good luck. Otherwise, castle and village alike accept as a kind of natural law the immutability of society. God has established the various orders and gradations. All that one can ask is that each man shall accept the condition assigned to him and live in it efficiently and happily. [Sidenote: Religious Attitude of Knights] Conon, like every other knight, has no temptation to unbelief. The doctors of the Church know all about religion, just as the king's falconers know all about hawking. It is sensible to trust the expert. If you ask idle questions, you merely risk your soul, as do the followers of Mahound, the false prophet. The baron frequently denounces the arrogance and covetousness of the clergy and resists their pretentions, but he nevertheless trusts them to supply him with the Sacraments and bless his death and burial so that his soul may pass promptly through purgatory into paradise--where existence presumably is one grand admixture of a marriage feast in a fine garden and of a magnificent tournament. Plenty of knights are lax and blasphemous, but they hardly are deliberately unbelieving.[84] Good knights ought to hear mass every morning; venerate holy objects and places; hate Jews and Saracens; worship the Virgin and the saints; also keep most of the major fasts and other special occasions of the Church. Conon does all these things. He is "a good Christian." But he is exempted from any serious thinking for himself upon mysterious matters. [Illustration: A GROUP OF PRIESTS, THIRTEENTH CENTURY The one who is near the altar is wearing a chasuble and the second and third are clad in the dalmatica, or deacon's gown. The second carries the consecrated wafer and the third a sort of fan. (From a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale.)] When Conon prays in the morning, if not hurried he lies down with his head turned toward the east, and his arms stretched out like a cross. He recites the favors which God has shown him in the past, beseeches Heaven to continue favorable. Often he adds a Credo and a certain paraphrase of the Lord's Prayer then very common--"Our Father, who desirest that we all be saved, grant that we acquire Thy love even as have the angels who do thy pleasure on high; and give us our daily bread--for the soul the Holy Sacrament, and for the body its needful sustenance." Yet if his mood is not unusually humble and contrite, he is likely to conclude patronizingly, "And I confide also in the strength of my heart, which thou hast bestowed, in my good sword and my fleet horse, yet especially in Thee!" Many a cavalier breaks into blasphemies when things go wrong. Such men are like William Rufus of England, who cried, "God shall never see me a good man--I have suffered too much at His hands!" Or Henry II, who, on learning that his son Henry had revolted, cried aloud, "Since Thou, O God, hast taken away from me that which I prized the most, Thou shalt not have what Thou prizest most in me--my soul." And even Conon, once when hard beset, had exclaimed, like a certain crusading lord: "What king, O Lord, ever deserted thus his men? Who _now_ will trust in or fight for thee?" Nevertheless, one should deal mercifully with such sinful words, for, after all, is not the world very evil and the temptation to rail at God extremely great? It is true that things are not as they were in the year A.D. 1000, when even the wisest felt very sure the Last Day was at hand. Eclipses, comets and famines had then seemed foreshadowing this. People crowded the churches in agony, expecting to hear the Seven Trumpets announce Antichrist. Repeatedly since then, when the years have been calamitous, monks and old wives have stirred multitudes by vehement predictions that the plagues of the Apocalypse and the other preliminaries to the millennium are not to be delayed. As late as A.D. 1200 the monk Rigord, at the abbey of St. Denis, wrote: "The world is ill; it grows so old that it relapses into infancy. Common report has it that Antichrist has been born at Babylon and that the Day of Judgement is nigh." [Sidenote: A Fearful Excommunication] Fears like this restrain even reckless seigneurs and sodden peasants from proceeding to inconceivable crimes. The agonies of the damned will be so dreadful! The preachers understand very well that it is of little use to try to restrain the wicked by talking of "the love and mercy of God." If King Philip had only used love and mercy upon his vassals he would be now a king without a kingdom. It is the dread of the eternal burning which apparently keeps a large part of all Christendom tolerably obedient to the more essential mandates of morality and of the Church. When a great criminal deliberately defies the Church there is a ceremony which makes even the righteous inquire as to their own salvation. A few months ago a certain impious baron robbed a parish church of a chalice. Instantly at Pontdebois the bishop took action. The great bell of the cathedral tolled as for a funeral; and such it was, though of the soul, far more precious than merely the body. The bishop appeared in the chancel with all his clergy. Each cleric held a lighted candle. The building was hung with black tapestry. Amid a terrible hush the bishop announced the name of the offending knight to the crowded nave, then proclaimed in loud voice: "Let him be cursed in the city and cursed in the field; cursed in his granery, his harvest, and his children; as Dathan and Abiram were swallowed up by the gaping earth, so may hell swallow him; and even as to-day we quench these torches in our hands, so may the light of his life be quenched for all eternity, unless he do repent!" Whereat all the priests dashed their torches to the pavement and trampled them out. One could almost see that sacrilegious baron writhing in the flames of Gehenna. After a scene like this there is no reinstatement for the sinner save by some great act of penance and mortification. An excommunicated person is next door to an outlaw. He may find sundry companions in crime, but most people will shun him as they would a leper. This particular baron, after vain boasts and defiance, at last was so conscience-torn and forsaken that he made an abject peace with the bishop. First, he gave ruinously costly gifts to the cathedral; then he presented himself barefoot and in the robe of a pilgrim at the chancel. He prostrated himself and for a day and a night remained in prayer before the high altar, eating and drinking nothing. After that he knelt again while some three-score clerics and monks present each smote him with a rod, he crying aloud, "Just are Thy judgments, O Lord!" after every blow. Not till all this was accomplished did the bishop raise him, pronounce the absolution, and give him the kiss of peace. It was very dreadful.[85] For lesser offenses against the Church there are lesser but effective penalties. In Pontdebois there was once a religious procession in Lent. A certain woman marched therein with pretended devoutness, but then went home and in defiance of the fast-time dined upon some mutton and ham. The odor escaped into the street. The woman was seized, and the bishop condemned her to walk through the town with her quarter of mutton on the spit over her shoulder, the ham slung round her neck, and with a ribald crowd, of course, trailing behind. After that penance the fasts were well kept in Pontdebois. [Sidenote: Festive Side of Popular Religion] Yet one must not think of the religion of this Feudal Age as in general sad. On the contrary (by one of those abrupt contrasts now grown familiar) clergy and people get vast joy, not to say amusement, even out of the sacred ordinances. "Men go gayly along the road to salvation." For example, the great pilgrimages (pardons) are often festive reunions with merchants chaffering and jongleurs playing or doing their tricks while the whole company proceeds to some shrine. Even in the church building solemnity is not always maintained. The choir, indeed, belongs pretty strictly to worship, but in the nave all sorts of secular proceedings can go on, even the meetings of malcontent factions and of rioters. The church bells ring for markets, for musters, or for peaceful gatherings almost as often as they ring for the holy services. As for the sacred festivals, good bishops complain that they are so numerous that the secular element intrudes utterly, and disfigures them with idleness and carousing. The peasants may go to early mass; after that they will drink, chatter, sing, dance (in a very riotous fashion), and join in wrestlings, races, and archery contests until nightfall. Besides these ordinary abuses of holy things, every parish seems to have its own special Reign of Folly, although the name of the celebration varies from place to place. Even the younger clergy participate in such mock ceremonies. In Pontdebois the subdeacons elect a Pope of Buffoons, give him a silver tiara, and enthrone him with much dignity, electing at the same time several "cardinals" to help direct his revels. There are noisy processions, cavalcades, and even scandalous parodies of some of the most sacred services of the Church. The mock pope issues "bulls" enjoining all kinds of horseplay, and actually strikes a kind of lead money with such legends as "Live merrily and rejoice," or, "Fools are sometimes wise." It seems next to impossible to confine such proceedings to the streets, the market place and the church porch, although decent bishops fight against intrusions into the holy building. The canons of the cathedral have finally induced the junior clergy and the lay rabble to refrain from the more extreme parodies and from such pranks as stealing the church bells by giving the "Pope" and all his noisy rout a grand dinner. Pious churchmen groan on such days, but they comfort themselves by saying that these proceedings make religion popular and give an outlet for "the flesh," which if restrained too much, will succumb before even worse temptations of the devil. In St. Aliquis village the parish priest actually participates in a ceremony equally calculated to astonish another age. On a certain Sunday the folk celebrate the virtues of the ass which bore our Lord and the Holy Virgin when St. Joseph fled with them into Egypt. The peasants take the best ass in the neighborhood, caparison it gayly, and lead it through the streets to the church, all the children running along, waving flower wands and shouting, with the older folk almost equally demonstrative. At the holy portal the priest meets them and announces in Latin "This is a day of mirth. Let all sour lookers get themselves hence. Away with envy! Those who celebrate the Festival of the Ass desire jollity!" [Sidenote: Mass of the Ass] Then the ass is led straight up into the chancel and tethered to the altar rail. A solemn Prose, half Latin, half French, is chanted, setting forth the virtues of the faithful, stolid beast which enabled our Lord to escape the wicked Herod. Ever and anon the cantor stops and all the crowded church rings with the refrain, "_He! haw! sire ass--he! haw!_" everybody trying to pull down his nose and bray as lustily as possible. Finally, when the ass has been led decorously back to his stall, the choristers, with many friends, indulge in a bountiful repast. This Festival of the Ass is celebrated in very many French cities and villages. One must also comprehend that certain saints are the particular patrons of given regions. St. Martin is a potent saint through all France, but St. Denis is the especial guardian of the royal domains; St. Nicholas of Lorraine, St. Andre of Burgundy, and of course St. George of England. St. Michael, too, may assist French knights sooner than he will foreigners. There are also many local saints of incalculable sacredness in their own small regions, yet hardly heard of elsewhere. Thus, if you travel very far, you are likely to lose all trace of good St. Aliquis, and, indeed, peevish visitors have suggested that he has never been canonized at Rome or properly accepted by the Catholic Church. For all that, he is venerated locally, perhaps with greater fervor than any other holy one, saving always our Blessed Lady herself. There is no saint with whom it is possible to compare the Virgin. She is the "Lady of Heaven," the "Queen of the Holy City," the "_Dame débonnaire_." God the Father and God the Son seem perhaps to be inaccessible celestial emperors, but the Holy Virgin, who understands the needs of toiling men, will transmit their pleas and exert her vast influence in their behalf. Therefore, on her statues she is dressed like a feudal queen with rich stuffs, a crown glittering with jewels, and she bears a royal scepter and an orb of the world. All the saints are her vassals and do her liege homage. There is another set of joyous celebrations legitimate and uplifting. At Christmas time, on _Noël_ eve the good folk will install a heifer, an ox, and an ass in the parish church "to warm the holy babe with their breath." Torches are lighted everywhere and fires are lit upon the hills. Groups of people march about dressed like shepherds bound for the Christchild's manger and led by pipes and viols, while all sing joyously: "Good sirs, now hark ye!-- From far lands come we, For it is Noël." Then in the church are sung long responses, telling the story of Christmas in the vernacular and interspersed with comments by the animals in Latin, because (as says the hymn) All the beasts in other days Spoke French less well than Latin. So the cock crows out his satisfaction, the goat bleats, the calf bellows, the ox lows, the ass brays. It is all done simply, reverently, and for the benefit of simple, loving souls. In Pontdebois, however, they have a more elaborate performance. Twelve clerks, representing six Jews and six pagans, present themselves in the cathedral choir, declaring they wish to examine the evidence that the babe newly born is truly the Redeemer. Whereat appear in stately sequence all the prophets who have forewarned the coming of Christ, besides Moses with his horn, Balaam with his ass, the three Hebrew children of the fiery furnace, the pagan sybils, and the twelve apostles. Each responds with canticles in sonorous Latin, until the twelve doubters declare themselves satisfied and fall down to worship the Infant King. [Sidenote: Mystery Plays] At Easter there are other mystery plays telling the story of the divine Passion and of the Resurrection; and still others come at intervals through the year. Some of the participants are priests, but many others laymen, both men and women.[86] All the more important episodes in the Bible are acted out with considerable detail and with much comedy interspersed. The crowds howl with glee when Ananias, like a shrewd Jew, chaffers for the sale of his field, or when hideous devils leap up from hell to seize Herodias's daughter the instant she has accomplished her wicked will with John the Baptist. There is no attempt to represent ancient times. Herod is dressed like a feudal duke, and before him is carried a crucifix. The numerous devils are always black; the angels wear blue, red, and white; "God" appears wearing a papal tiara; and the "souls of the dead" appear covered with veils--white for the saved, red or black for the damned. It is a source of great delight for the people to take part in these plays, and even the great folk are not above joining in them. One need not comment on how completely such proceedings impress the imaginations of the unlearned with the stories of the Old and New Testaments. The Bible can be _read_ only by the few, but an essential part of it is _seen_ and reasonably comprehended by the many. So much for ordinary religious beliefs and occasions. But there are plenty of people who find their sins are so terrible that they must resort to some great penances, often consuming the remainder of their lives, in order to propitiate Heaven. Besides the monks and the nuns dwelling in convents, there exist a great many hermits and "religious solitaries," who abide in little huts in the woods, perhaps maintaining a tiny chapel for travelers, and being fed on the offerings of forest rangers and peasants. Not all these hermits live, however, in genuine solitude. Right in St. Aliquis village there is something everywhere common--a female recluse. Many years ago, a certain peasant woman, Elise, murdered her husband. She was promptly condemned to the gallows, but Baron Garnier, with unusual mercy, pardoned her on condition "that she be shut up within a small house in the cemetery, that she might there do penance and so end her days." A stone hut was accordingly built, and the unhappy woman conducted thither with a regular procession, two priests blessing the hut and giving Elise a kind of consecration. She was put inside. Every aperture was then built up except a narrow chink to admit air, a little light, and a small dole of food from her relatives. Elise has been vegetating in this hut for now twenty years--living in filth and darkness, but talking most piously to visitors standing outside. Seemingly, she does little except to mutter almost incessant prayers. Already her crime is forgotten. The peasants speak of her as "that holy woman" and even wonder whether, after she dies in her cell--for she will never leave it--she cannot be enrolled among the saints. There are many other much more innocent recluses, male and female, who have been walled up voluntarily--either out of piety or of sheer love of idleness, possibly because of both. [Sidenote: Recluses and Pilgrims] Nevertheless, ordinarily the best way to discharge the load of a guilty conscience is by pilgrimage. Confessors often impose this means of penance upon penitents, as the best way of winning the divine mercy. Since death is about the only judicial penalty for great crimes, a penance of pilgrimage for six, ten, or twelve years--going from shrine to shrine all over Christendom--is really a substitute for a term of imprisonment. Pilgrims of this pronounced type are required to go barefoot, with head shaved, to quit their families and wives, and to fast continually--that is, never to touch meat more than once a day. Even exalted nobles thus spend the remainder of a lifetime expiating their iniquities. Everyone has heard of Count Fulk the Black of Anjou, who heaped up misdeeds even to the murdering of his wife. Then at last he realized the awful peril to his soul. Three times he made the long pilgrimage to Jerusalem, the third time letting himself be dragged upon a hurdle through the streets of the Sacred City, while two varlets smote him with whips. Such great criminals often carry passports issued by bishops, certifying that they are expiating by pilgrimage specified evil deeds--and requesting Christian folk to give them lodging, food, and assistance. These penitents, if knights, are likely to wear chains upon their wrists and neck, forged of their own armor, as witnesses at once of their social position and their genuine repentance. Most pilgrims, however, have no such fearful things weighing down their souls. They are simply ordinary erring men who are moved by a genuine piety, possibly admixed with a willingness to find excuse for "seeing the world." Every day they appear at the gate of St. Aliquis castle to ask a share in the supper and a bed on the rushes in the hall, and they are respectfully treated, although Conon sometimes complains that their trailing robes of brown wool, heavy staffs, and sacks slung at belt are merely the disguises for so many wandering rogues. Unwashed and unkempt though many of them are, it never does to repulse them, lest you lose the Scriptural blessing for those who received strangers and so "have entertained angels unawares." Pilgrims, too, are good newsmongers. They supply you with tidings from Italy, Germany, Spain, or even the Holy Land. They will carry letters also to foreign parts and transmit verbal messages to kinsmen. They do not always travel alone, but by twos, fives, or even tens. Recently at Dunkirk, where the peasants revolted, the bishop laid upon twenty-five of their leaders the penance that they should spend a year going about in a body to different holy places and joining in religious processions "in twenty-six churches," wearing no clothing save their trousers, going barefoot, and carrying the rods with which they had been disciplined. Innumerable are the shrines where sinners can profit their souls by a visit. Every important abbey claims to be a pilgrimage resort, and the monks will tell of remarkable miracles wrought by all the saints whose relics they chance to treasure. Probably there are more than a thousand such places whose claims have been somewhat recognized by the Church. Many of these shrines have some famous image of the Madonna, frequently brought from the East by Crusaders, but often very old and, to carnal thinking, ugly, perhaps only a "black virgin," a clumsy doll carved of wood. This matters not, provided it is holy and efficacious. "Our Lady of the Fountain" at Samour, "Our Lady of the Osier" near Grenoble, "Our Lady of Good Hope" at Valenciennes, Our Lady of Chartres, of Liesse, of Rocamadour, of Auray, of Puy--these are merely examples. [Sidenote: Favorite Pilgrim Shrines] The greater the distance the pilgrim must go, the greater his merit ordinarily. Happy the pilgrim who can venerate the bones of an actual apostle, as at Rome. Happiest of all is he who can go to Jerusalem and pray at the Holy Sepulcher. Nevertheless, God has provided very efficacious shrines nearer home. Right at Paris there are the seats of St. Génevieve and the great St. Denis. You can pay your devout homage at Tours to the puissant St. Martin, the ideal of pious warriors. In Normandy, where Mont St. Michel looks across the sands to the tumbling ocean, one can pray best to the mighty archangel nearest to God. It avails much, also, to visit St. Martial of Limoges, St. Sernin of Toulouse, and more still to visit Spain and at Compostella beseech the intercession of St. James the Apostle. [Illustration: A SHRINE IN THE FORM OF AN ALTAR (THIRTEENTH CENTURY) IN THE CATHEDRAL AT RHEIMS] Assuredly, however, Rome is best (always barring Jerusalem), and on the way thither the pilgrim can lighten his spiritual load by visiting many excellent Italian shrines--such as "Our Guardian Lady" at Genoa, and, at Lucca, "Our Lady of the Rose." In the city of St. Peter itself, time fails to enumerate the three hundred churches worthy of a devout visit. Besides the majestic cathedral of the Prince of the Apostles and the tomb of St. Paul, even the most hurried pilgrim will not fail to repair to St. Maria Maggiore, where is the actual manger in which Christ was born; and St. John Lateran, where are the holy stairs Christ ascended while wearing the crown of thorns; St. Peter in Montorio, where Peter himself was crucified, St. Lawrence Without the Walls, where the blessed martyrs St. Stephen and St. Lawrence are buried; not to mention others. A man must be a master criminal if he cannot deliver his soul by suitable visits to these invaluable shrines in Rome. As is well known, the blessed saints both in this life and after death wrought many miracles through their relics. These wonders continue to-day, although the iniquities of mankind render them infrequent. Every now and then Heaven still permits some holy man to work undoubted miracles. Thus only recently it is said that when the venerable abbot of St. Germer preached the Fourth Crusade in England, he need only bless a fountain, lo! its waters made the dumb speak, the blind see, and the sick recover. Once (so a pilgrim related in the castle only the other day) when this abbot reached a village which wanted a supply of water, he gathered all the folk in the church. Right in the presence of the people he smote a stone with his staff and water flowed forth--not merely potable, but healing for all maladies. God also speaks to us in dreams as he did to Pharaoh and Nebuchadnezzar. He caused St. Thomas à Becket to visit the late king Louis VII and warn him to make a pilgrimage to St. Thomas's new shrine of Canterbury to pray for the recovery of his son Philip, later "Augustus." Henry II of England was Louis' foe, but the king made the solemn pilgrimage unimpeded, and the crown prince duly recovered. [Sidenote: Omens, Spirits and Monsters] Omens of calamity, too, appear often, although it is not always clear whether sent from God or the devil. A few years ago the wolves in the forest near the monastery of St. Aliquis howled steadily all through the day of the feast of St. Honore. "A clear sign of trouble," announced the prior; and four days later the feud began betwixt Conon and Foretvert, which convulsed the whole countryside. Many a man is warned to prepare for death by seeing a will-o-the-wisp in the marshes, a shooting star, or a vulture hovering above his house. If thirteen people chance to sit at one table, or if one chances to dream of a physician, it is proof positive some one in the house is about to die. The same is true if a man inadvertently puts on a clean white shirt on Friday; while if the left eye of a dead man will not close promptly the deceased will soon have company in purgatory. Any woman, also, who thoughtlessly washes her clothes in lye during the holy week is not long for this world. It is needless to explain how sinister are eclipses and comets. In July, 1198, there was a great comet visible. Sage people wagged their heads with melancholy satisfaction when Richard the Lion Hearted died very soon after. Time will fail to list all the strange beings, neither human, angel, nor exactly devil, that Providence permits to infest the world. These creatures possess no souls, and when they perish are gone like cattle, although they live long and are very hard to kill. Probably they are more numerous in wild and solitary places, yet towns and crowded castles are not free from them. Thus there are _fées_ (fairies) good and bad--creatures relatively like human beings; undines in the waters, who by their perfidious beauty lure unwary knights to destruction; ogres who lie in wait to devour small children; ghouls who disinter the dead and gnaw their bones; vampires who rise every night from the tombs and suck the blood; wolf-men (humans turned into beasts) who attack lonely travelers; dracs, who carry off little children to their subterranean realms; will-of-the-wisps in the marshes, who are the souls of unbaptized dead infants; also many rather friendly spirits such as the _soleves_, who sometimes overnight do a weary laborer's work for him. It needs much knowledge to tell the good spirits from the bad--to know, _e.g._, whether you are dealing with a goblin who will only display harmless antics, or an _estrie_, a real imp of darkness, who may hug you like a bear, to suffocation. The Church does not forbid the belief in these creatures, nor of such pagan monsters as giants, pygmies, cyclops, satyrs, tritons, sirens, etc., although it plainly teaches us that they are only ministers of the devil. The existence of the devil is as certain as that of the Holy Trinity. As has been said already, the fear of falling into his clutches has often a more excellent effect upon the sinner than the love of God. Countless legends and sculptures in the cathedrals tell all about the master-fiend. The monk in his convent, the peasant in his hut, yes (for all his brave words and his long sword), the baron in his castle, all tremble lest they meet him. The devil produces all kinds of misery, and he can actually take possession of the living bodies of men. It is affirmed that once, not far from St. Aliquis, a knight was sitting peaceably at table when suddenly the devil entered into him. The fiend spoke through the poor man's mouth. He raved and uttered blasphemies. The priest brought his book of exorcisms. When he recited them, the devil screamed horribly. Yet for some days he resisted the holy formulas, and then departed, leaving his victim utterly exhausted. [Illustration: RICHARD COEUR DE LION From Capefigue's _Histoire de Philippe-Auguste_] [Sidenote: Bargains with the Devil] It is much worse when you make a direct pact with the devil. Some time ago, it is affirmed, there was a young scholar at Paris. He was much troubled because he progressed slowly in his studies. Then Satan visited him, saying: "Do me homage. I will make you excel in wisdom!" He gave the youth a stone, asserting that, "So long as you hold this stone in your hand you will know everything." Soon the lad astonished the schools by his erudition, but, on falling sick, confessed his crime, threw away his stone, and at once forgot all his learning. Speedily he died. At once the devils began to torture his soul, but God promptly sent an angel ordering them "to let alone this soul which you have tormented." Immediately the soul flew back into the body, which sprang to life even as the Paris students were celebrating the funeral service. The revived scholar, however, at once entered a convent and took no more chances with carnal studies. Very many people, however, have compounded with the devil and been less fortunate. The fiend apparently will not come unless one is in a desperate plight and willing to promise everything. Then usually the unhappy mortal must deny the Christian faith, repudiate the saints, utter blasphemies, and, it is even asserted, kiss the arch fiend upon the buttocks. Next a horrid oath must be taken, standing inside of three magic circles and burning incense. After that the devil will, it is true, give his votary great worldly prosperity and especially riches through a long life, but in the end the fiend never fails to claim his soul for an eternal possession. It is even said that Satan made such a bargain with the great ecclesiastic Gerbert, who became Pope Sylvester II. He was very wise[87] or very wicked, probably both; and in the opinion of many he rose to be Pope by the aid of "a hierarchy of demons and a brass idol which uttered oracles." But on the day of his death (A.D. 1002) Satan demanded his own; and whenever a pope lies near his end the bones of Sylvester II rattle in the tomb. The Church discredits this scandalous story, but it is widely believed. Since the recent trial of a witch and a wizard before the bishop at Pontdebois, the folk near St. Aliquis have gained a much more precise knowledge of the black art. Magicians usually begin their ceremonies by creating a magic smoke of various inflammables and spices, also by burning such fiend-compelling ingredients as the brain of an eagle, the blood of a black cat, and plenty of hellebore. The smoke thus created is so dense and foul that uninitiated customers are readily convinced there are demons rising in the vapor and talking to the wizard. Thanks to such assistance, the magician, and his even more sinful wife, the witch, were able to instruct how to find a pot of gold and how to rob the house of a rich Jew, but especially they could prepare philters--some of them intended to inspire love and others hatred. Wives could buy fearful compounds made of substances from "the three domains of nature"--the entrails of animals, scales of fishes, parings of nails, human blood, pulverized load-stone, and such powerful drugs as mandragora--which, if duly brewed and beaten up together, then put in an unfaithful husband's goblet, would win back his affection. Other such potions, a little changed, however, would make sworn lovers separate. [Sidenote: Methods of Witchcraft] These dealers in the black art at Pontdebois could also sell magic rings which had power over demons, thereby protecting the wearer from sudden death, illness, or dangers of travel, and enabling him to drive good bargains. The witch and wizard also possessed, undoubtedly, the "evil eye"--which, if resolutely fixed on an ox or sheep, would cause it to perish and was almost as dangerous to human beings. However, the twain were presently ruined (thus showing how fickle a protector is the devil) because a certain silly nobleman got them to "overcast" a knightly enemy against whom he lacked the courage to press an honorable war. After the wizard had burned much incense, the witch had proceeded to shape a puppet of virgin wax as much like the victim as possible. Then, with a shameless parody of the baptismal service, she christened the doll with the name of her patron's enemy. Next the wizard placed the livers of swallows under the armpits and upon the place where the heart of the puppet ought to be. Finally, he and his wife pierced the wax image with red-hot needles, then cast it into a blazing fire, chanting all the while cabalistic words--probably beseeching the special help of the devil.[88] Inevitably, soon after this the knight thus assailed would have sickened and died had not, by the mercy of God, the whole proceeding been discovered. The knight was saved by the powerful exorcisms of the bishop. The wizard--after proper tortures to get confession--was buried alive. His wife, the witch, was burned. The foolish cavalier who had plotted murder saved his life, for he had powerful relatives, but was condemned to go on a pilgrimage to Rome. Certain fatuous women who had bought love philters were publicly rebuked in the church and spent an unhappy afternoon in the pillory. Good Christians hope that it will be a long day before the black art is again practiced so iniquitously in this part of France. Nevertheless, there are some forms of divining which the Church counts as innocent. Any time you desire you can consult the holy books. With proper prayer and circumspection you should open the Bible at random and note the tenor of the first passage that meets your eye. Is it favorable to your condition, or unfavorable? The pious Simon de Montfort thus consulted the "sacred lots" ere taking the cross for the Albigensian crusade. Chapters of canons use this method to see what the omens are concerning a candidate for a bishopric. According to jongleurs' tales, even popes thus seek for an oracle ere taking any important step in the government of the Church, although these stories are wisely doubted. A more precise method of augury is the "_Sortes Apostolorum_." Fifty-six sentences (expressing sentiments good or bad) are written on parchment; a string is attached to each and allowed to protrude while the sentences are covered up. You say a prayer, seize a string at random, then follow it down to read its sentiment. In this way the saints and not the devil will reveal the future to you. Undoubtedly the peasants carry their belief in bad omens or unlucky actions too far. Conon and Adela laugh heartily at some of their notions. To avoid bad luck, Georges, when weaning a calf, always pulls it away from its mother by the tail backward. He never begins plowing until he has walked thrice around the plow with a lighted candle. Jeanne never spins or sews on Thursdays or Fridays, lest she make the Virgin weep. In the springtime a bone from the head of a mare should be set out in the garden to drive off the caterpillars. Time fails to list these rustic beliefs; besides, they vary from village to village. But what peasant has not as many thereof as he has hairs in his head? [Sidenote: Universal Adoration of Relics] There is one pious matter shared in alike by great and humble and highly approved by the Church, although the wiser ecclesiastics deprecate some of its excesses--the worship of holy relics. Saints' relics abound. Where is the monastery, church, or even castle without them? Sometimes they rest in golden caskets in the very place where the holy personages departed this life. Sometimes they have been brought from Rome or Palestine by pious pilgrims; very often they come as gifts. The direct purchase of relics is somewhat sacrilegious, but you can present a king, duke, or great ecclesiastic with a good relic just as you give him some hawks or ermine skins--as a reward for favors past or expected. The Pope is always sending desirable relics to bishops and abbots whom he wishes to honor; and, as all know, after the Latins sacked Constantinople in 1204 there was hardly a shrine in all France which did not get the skull, a few ribs, or even the entire body of some Eastern saint. The booty in relics in fact, was almost as important as that of gold and jewels. Possessing relics is most desirable. Prayers said near them have extra efficacy. Oaths taken upon their caskets are doubly binding, but sometimes the holy objects are surreptitiously removed when the pledge is being given; it is then no perjury to break the promise. In dealing with slippery individuals one must, therefore, beware. On the other hand, who is ignorant of the manner in which William the Norman inveigled Harold the Anglo-Saxon into taking a great oath of fealty? The slow-witted Englishman swore to the pact, believing the casket on which he rested his hands contained relics of very inferior worthies, who could never punish him if he perjured himself; but the instant the words were said the priests opened the sacred box, showing it full of the bones of the most powerful saints imaginable. Harold turned pale with horror, realizing how he had been trapped. When later he broke his oath, beyond a doubt it was these angered saints who wrought his death at Hastings. Good relics also imply a source of income, provided that they are properly advertised so as to make the church or abbey possessing them a pilgrimage resort. Sometimes, indeed, one fears lest overzealous monks exaggerate the miracles wrought by the relics at their abbey church. The tale runs that when the Abbey of St. Vanne was deeply in debt, the abbot asserted: "Our debts will all be paid with the red tunic of St. Vanne (a relic). I never doubt it." The monks at St. Aliquis are proud of their collection, although by no means the largest in the region. They have two teeth of the prophet Amos; hairs of St. Martin and St. Leonard; finger-nail parings of the martyrs of the Theban legion; bits of the robe of St. Bernard; finger bones of Saints Saturnin, Sebastian, and of the Patriarch Jacob; a fifth rib of St. Amond; a skull of one of the Holy Innocents; a chip of the stone on which Christ stood when He ascended to heaven; the jaw bone of St. Sixtus; some of the hay from the manger of Bethlehem; and, last but not least, a fair-sized splinter of the true Cross. The mere adoration of such things cancels many grievous years in purgatory. It is advantageous to the whole region to have such a collection. If there is need of rain, the relics can be carried in procession around the thirsty country and relief is sure to follow. If there is a public assembly, the holy relics can be brought in before the contending knights or burghers--wise counsels will ensue. If you are going on a journey, a visit to a shrine with such relics almost guarantees a safe return. We have already seen how Conon (as did other knights) kept certain relics always in his sword hilt, to confirm his oaths and to lend efficacy to his actions. [Sidenote: Contests Over Relics] The enormous value of such sacred things often makes them the booty of thieves. Thus in 1219 a band of robbers stole the remains of St. Leocadia from the Abbey of Vic, and when pursued cast the holy bones into the Aisne, whence they were rescued with serious difficulty. We need not multiply records of similar crimes. Profligate noblemen will sometimes seize and keep very sacred relics in their castles, as talismans against long-delayed justice. Not less miraculous is the manner in which the relics have been preserved when less sacred objects have been lost. This is, indeed, a divine mystery, not lightly to be inquired into. When, however, two identical relics of the same saint are displayed in France, how are worldly questionings to be silenced? For surely the holy men of old had only one head and two arms apiece. Not long since, the monks of St. Étienne exhibited a skull of St. Denis. But the monks of St. Denis claimed _they_ had the skull of their own patron saint already. What lack of charity ensued! The backbiting did not cease till the great Pope Innocent III tactfully silenced the controversy without actually deciding which relic was the more authentic. Many say that such relics can miraculously duplicate themselves--so that _all_ are equally genuine; and undoubtedly God has worked far greater wonders than this. Nevertheless, such is the sinfulness of men that spurious relics are often imposed upon the faithful. Good churchmen do zealous work in exposing these sacrilegious frauds. Not long since, Father Grégoire had Conon give a terrific flogging to a pretended pilgrim who was trying to sell the credulous peasants "a bit of the sail of St. Peter's boat and a feather of the Angel Gabriel." It is more serious when a spurious shrine is set up. Near Lyons recently the peasant women insisted in venerating "the tomb of St. Guinefort." It was discovered to be only the spot where a lady had buried a favorite greyhound. In another case, many years ago, the great St. Martin found near Tours a chapel where the people worshiped a supposed martyr. The saint stood on the sepulcher and prayed, "Reveal unto me who is really here!" Soon a dark form arose and the specter confessed to Martin: "I am a robber. My soul is in hell, but my body is in this sepulcher." The saint, therefore, destroyed the chapel, and saved many from wasting their prayers and substance. It is a dangerous business, however, to be over-skeptical concerning popular relics. Even great churchmen, such as the late Bishop of Orléans, are liable to be mobbed if they call an alleged and much-venerated skull of St. Génevieve "the head of some old woman"--as once did that astute prelate. Nevertheless, the authorities try to do their duty. Pope Innocent III has issued a formal warning to the French clergy against accepting spurious relics, and the monks of every monastery never hesitate to dispute the authenticity of almost every kind of a relic provided only it is deposited in a neighboring and rival abbey! [Sidenote: "Translations" of Relics] If, however, relics are genuine, it is impossible to exaggerate their desirability. They are produced on numerous holidays; and often a special holiday is proclaimed when they are "translated." Then you may see the relics of some saint being carried through the streets of a village or town, the holy objects themselves borne in their golden boxes under a canopy, accompanied by all the local clergy, with perhaps the barons and the duke of the entire region being allowed to assist the highest prelates in carrying or at least in escorting the sacred casket. Thus has been explained certain features of the religion of the laity, humble and exalted. At length we can approach one of those great institutions which have built up the strength of Catholic Christianity. A league from the castle lies the other great center for the countryside--the monastery of St. Aliquis. FOOTNOTES: [84] In the well-known romance of _Aucassin and Nicolette_, Aucassin complains that if he cannot have his beloved he cares not to go to paradise. "For there go those aged priests, and those old cripples and the maimed, who, all day long and all night long, cough before the altars ... who are naked and barefoot and full of sores.... _But to hell will I go!_ For to hell go the fair clerks and the great warriors.... And there go the fair and courteous ladies, who have friends, two or three together with their wedded lords!" This was blasphemous enough, but it was not atheistical. [85] This was very much like the penance imposed on Henry II after the murder of Thomas à Becket at Canterbury. [86] These plays might be guild or even civic affairs, with the secular element predominating among the actors. [87] His real "wisdom" probably lay in a superior knowledge of mathematics. [88] This wizard and witch evidently used almost exactly the same means to "overcast" their victim as did Robert of Artois' wizard, when (in 1328) that great nobleman tried to destroy his aunt Mahaut. Chapter XIX: The Monastery of St. Aliquis[89]: Buildings. Organization. An Ill-Ruled Abbey. The great St. Bernard has written thus of the convent: "Good is it for us to dwell there--where man lives more purely, falls more rarely, rises more quickly, treads more cautiously, rests more securely, dies more happily, is absolved more easily, and is rewarded more plenteously." Every now and then they say in the castle of St. Aliquis: "Such and such a cavalier has become a monk!" Then there are cries of astonishment and probably slurring remarks, but even Conon in his heart wonders, "Has he not, after all, chosen the better part?" at the very moment when he storms about the "greedy monks" before his sons. The monastery is the great interrogation point thrust before the castle. The castle says: "The hunt, the tourney, the excitement of feudal war are the things for man. Who truly knows about the hereafter?" The monastery replies: "There is a kingdom not of this world, where baron and villein must spend the æons. Prepare ye for it!" Very probably the monastery is right. [Illustration: VIEW OF AN ABBEY OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY At the left of the structure the building for guests and in front of it the church; beyond the two cloisters the buildings reserved for the monks; in the foreground the gardens of the abbey and the outside wall.] The monastery of St. Aliquis has existed for centuries. It is a Benedictine monastery--that is to say, its rule (system of government and discipline) comes from the famous St. Benedict of Nursia, who lived in Italy in the sixth century. Many new orders of monks have been founded since then, but none more holy than the Benedictines when they really live up to the ideals of their founder. Barons of St. Aliquis and other rich people have endowed the monastery from time to time with ample lands. It is a passing wealthy institution. Ignorant folk of other ages may think of a monastery as a collection of idlers meditating on heaven and living on charity. Such groups once perhaps existed in Eastern lands, but never in a Benedictine monastery. Each is the scene of a very busy life. Many industries are carried on. The monks are almost self-supporting. The monastery, in fact, contributes more to the economic life of the region than does the castle; and Abbot Victor, its head, is hardly less important, even in a worldly sense, than Messire Conon, with whom, happily, he is now on cordial terms. [Sidenote: The Abbey Buildings] The monastery, however, is an establishment distinctly set off by itself. It is in the world, but not of it. As you travel from the castle, you presently enter fields unusually well cultivated. These are part of the abbey lands. Then you come to a small village, comparatively clean and well built, where the lay servitors of the monks live with their families. Then straight ahead there rises a strong battlemented wall of wide circuit surrounded by a water-filled moat. Beyond this wall appear the spires and pinnacles of pretentious buildings. The wall is needed to stand off attacks of bands of godless men who dream even of plundering convents. There are a drawbridge, portcullis, and strong gate. Inside you are within a little world. The center is not the donjon, but the new monastery church, an elegant pointed-arch structure almost equal to a small cathedral. Grouped around it are numerous buildings--usually long, high, and narrow. These are the dormitories, the refectory, the cloisters for the monks' walks and study, as well as many less handsome barns, storehouses and workhouses. There is a good-sized garden where rare herbs and flowers are tended with loving care, and an orchard where fruit trees are grafted with unusual skill. One even sees a slaughterhouse in a convenient corner, a tannery (at a safe distance from the garden!) and a building where the monks' garments can be spun and woven out of flax and wool produced on the abbey lands. The monks of St. Aliquis are, therefore, anything but droning hermits. Some monasteries really comprise small towns. The famous establishment at Cluny harbors four hundred monks; that at Clairvaux, seven hundred; that at Vezelay, eight hundred. St. Aliquis is content with one hundred and fifty brethren, but that number (plus the lay servitors) is enough for a busy community. As has been said, the focus for its entire life is the abbey church. Without a church building a monastery is almost impossible. The choir is constantly needed for the recitation of the canonical hours; many altars are required so that the monks who are in holy orders may celebrate mass frequently; while the great processions around the nave are part of the routine, especially on Sundays. Abbot Victor, like all his predecessors, is straining every nerve to gather funds to beautify his church. In it are deposited invaluable saints' relics. It is hard, however, to convince the laity that they are extremely sacred unless they are lodged in a splendid edifice. The monks of rival monasteries are always comparing their churches enviously. Victor has set his heart upon widening the transepts and putting in a new rose window. If only a certain pious heiress in Champagne would be called to heaven! [Illustration: THE GALLERIES OF THE CLOISTER OF THE ABBEY OF MONT-SAINT-MICHEL (THIRTEENTH CENTURY)] [Sidenote: The Abbey Cloisters] In the choir is a long array of stalls, one for each monk in order of seniority. The abbot sits in a chair of state on the southern side; the prior, his chief lieutenant, faces him on the north. Connected with one transept of the church is the cloister. It is a rectangular court. Its four walks are roofed in, the walls nearest the court being pierced with open arcades. The pillars upholding these arcades are beautifully carved with floreated capitals, each separate pillar forming an individual work of art, lovingly executed, and differing slightly from its neighbors. The three walks of the cloister which do not touch the church adjoin very needful buildings--the chapter house, where the brethren congregate, the refectory on the side opposite the church, and the dormitory. The walk nearest the church is where the monks are supposed to spend the time allotted for pious meditation. It faces the south, and the great structure behind cuts off the chilling winds. It is, therefore, a pleasant place in cold weather. On the inner side of this part of the cloister are many little alcoves let into the massive walls; here monks can study or even converse without annoying others. Looking down upon the cloister court is a remarkable object. If holy brethren did not possess it, the peasants would declare it was possessed by a devil, although these mechanisms are now becoming more common. It has a dial marking the twelve hours, and by an ingenious system of pulleys and weights indicates when it is noon or midnight without reference to the shifting of shadows or movement of the stars. It even has bells that ring every hour--a great convenience.[90] The monks are almost as proud of this device as of some of their less important saints' relics. The books which consume so much of the monks' time are kept in cupboards in the cloister alcoves, since this is not a Cistercian monastery, which always has a separate library. From the cloister one is naturally led to the chapter house. Almost as much care has been taken with this large oblong chamber as with the church. The ceiling is beautifully groined and vaulted. The abbot sits on a raised seat at the east end, with all his officers at right or left. The remainder of the brethren are on stone benches ranged around the walls, while in the center of the floor stands a desk, whence the daily "lection" is read from the lives of the martyrs, or the chapter (hence the name of the room) from St. Benedict's holy Rule--a document only a little less authoritative with the monks than the actual Scriptures. [Illustration: THE REFECTORY AT THE ABBEY OF MONT-SAINT-MICHEL (THIRTEENTH CENTURY)] Then come other rooms. The cloisters are _supposed_ to be extremely quiet for study and meditation. But sinful flesh requires an outlet. Go then to the parlor (the place of _parle_), a good-sized room where merchants can bring their wares. The subprior can discuss the sickness of certain pigs on the farms, and the saints know how much personal gossip can be tossed about. Next is the dormitory, a large open apartment with the beds of the monks standing against the walls between the numerous windows, so that the feet of the sleepers point in two long rows toward the center line of the room. A quiet place, but at night, with several score of brethren all snoring together, what repose is left for the stranger? In any case, there is very little privacy, for few of the monks have separate bedrooms. [Sidenote: Refectory, Kitchens and Infirmary] Close by the cloister is the refectory--an aisleless hall with a wooden roof. Across the east end is a high table for the officers--the whole place resembling the great hall in a castle. Most of the brethren sit at very long tables running up and down the apartment; and near the high table is a still higher pulpit mounted by a winding stair. Here a monk will droningly read a Latin homily while his associates are expected to eat and hearken in silence. The kitchen with its great fireplaces adjoins the refectory. At the entrance to the dining hall, just as in the castle, there is the lavatory, a great stone basin with many taps, convenient for washing the hands. Since some brethren are sure to be sick, there is a separate infirmary, a well-arranged suite with places for sleeping, dining, and even a little chapel for those too feeble to get to the church.[91] The abbot has lodgings of his own where he can entertain distinguished visitors, although he is expected to mingle freely with his fellow monks and not to assume solitary grandeur. The less exalted guests are put in a special _hospitium_ in the court. The monastery never turns away any decently behaving wayfarer; but the guest master, a canny old religious, naturally provides better quarters and supper for those likely to put a denier in the alms box than for those who may have just fled the provost. This is a bare summary of the important buildings of the establishment. If St. Aliquis had been a Cistercian convent, following the rule of St. Bernard of Clairvaux, its structures would have been extremely plain--no mosaics, stained glass, silken hangings, or floral carvings in the church; nor anything else calculated to distract the monks from thinking upon the heavenly mysteries. Said he, austerely: "Works of art are idols which lead away from God, and are good at best to edify feeble souls and the worldly." Bernard was a mighty saint, but all do not follow this hard doctrine. The monks of St. Aliquis, for their own part, are sure that the Heavenly Ones are rejoiced every time they add a new stone leaf to the unfading foliage about the cloister arches, or carve the story of David and Jonathan upon the great walnut back to the prior's seat in the chapter house. [Illustration: A BENEDICTINE MONK (THIRTEENTH CENTURY) From a manuscript in the Bibliothèque nationale. He is clad in a frock, a robe supplied with ample sleeves and a cowl.] The monks of St. Aliquis, being Benedictines, are "black monks." If they had been Cistercians they would have been "white monks"--that is, with white frocks and cowls. The cowl is a cumbersome garment enveloping the whole body, but it is worn only at ceremonies. Ordinarily the monks wear black scapularies, covering head and body less completely. They also have short mantle-style capes. New outer garments are issued to them every year, new day shoes every eighteen months, new boots once in five years, and a new pair of woolen shirts once in four years. They are also granted both a thin and a thick tunic, a fur-lined coat for cold weather, also undershirt and drawers--in short, no silly luxuries, but no absurd austerities. [Sidenote: The Abbot: Center of Monastic Life] The control of the whole community rests with the abbot. Under the monastic rule and vows the monks owe him implicit obedience. If he is a practical, efficient man, the whole establishment is happy and prosperous; if the reverse, it is soon in debt, the property is wasted, the monks live evilly or desert; and the whole place often is ruined. Abbeys resemble seigneuries--they are either growing or dwindling. Many church canons forbid abbots to abuse their office, to live luxuriously, to waste the abbey property, or to take important steps without consulting the older monks, but such decrees are hard to enforce. Fortunately, the head of St. Aliquis--Abbot Victor, is a moderate, kindly, yet withal a worldly wise man. He was the younger son of a petty noble and was thrust into the monastery somewhat because his worldly heritage would have been very small. The monastic life, however, agreed with him. He became popular with the brethren of peasant stock, yet never let them forget that his parents had been gentle. As prior he knew how to deal with Conon and other seigneurs. When the old leader died, there had been one cry from all the monks assembled in the chapter house. "Let Victor be our abbot!" Since then, despite inevitable grumblings, he has ruled acceptably, avoiding alike Cistercian severity and that lax rule which has made certain monasteries the hatching nests of scandal. Victor wears on ceremonial occasions a miter with gold fringe, although it cannot be adorned with pearls like a bishop's. He has also handsome gloves (especial emblems of his office), a crozer (a pastoral staff), and a ring. His administration is aided by a whole corps of officers. First of all is the prior, named by the abbot and the abbot's chief lieutenant, who is his superior's deputy and general man of affairs.[92] Next the subprior, the third in command; then the third and fourth priors, known as _circatores_ because they have to make frequent circuits of inspection; while below them come the _precentor_, in charge of the singing and chanting; the _sacristan_, responsible for the bells, lights, and ornaments of the church; and all the heads of the kitchen, storehouses, infirmary, and monastery finances. There is also the garnerer--a sagacious monk who collects the grain due from the abbey lands and either sells it profitably or turns it over to the storekeeper (_celerer_). [Sidenote: Routine of the Monks' Day] The activities of the monks are multifarious, but everything is really subordinate to the duty of chanting the holy offices in the church. The brethren go to bed, even in wintertime, at sunset. Then by the light of cressets, bowls of oil with floating wicks, they rise at midnight, put on their clothes, sit down on stone seats at either end of the dormitory, and next file in silent procession to the great, dark church. There they chant a long service, with the organ rumbling under the gloomy vaulting--a service made still longer by the prayers for the dead. As solemnly as before they file back to the dormitory and sleep until daybreak in winter, until actual sunrise in summer; whereupon they all rise again, go to the church, and chant Prime. Tierce follows about 9 A.M.; Sext at noon; Nones at 3 P.M.; and Vespers at about sundown. This continues every day through a long life. No wonder the monks all know by heart their offices for the day and night as given in the breviary. After Prime a meeting is held in the chapter house. A section is read from the Rule, the abbot or priors call off the work for each monk, individual complaints can be uttered, and corrections and public reproofs are given by the officers. At the Tierce service mass is said; then the morning work goes on until the Sext, after which the first regular meal is eaten, although some bread soaked with wine is allowed earlier to the weaker brethren. Talking during the meal is discouraged, but there is nevertheless much whispering while the reader (allowed to eat earlier) tries to center attention upon the pulpit. The brethren then rise and sing grace, ending up with the "Miserere," which is chanted in procession marching through the cloister. Everybody thereupon retires to the dormitory and enjoys a siesta until it is time for Nones. Work is next resumed until Vespers just before supper. After supper there is another meeting in the chapter house, with more reading from a pious book. Then once more to the church to chant Complines; after that (since St. Aliquis is a well-ordered monastery) all the monks are compelled to go straight to bed and do not sit up for carnal chatter. All the doors of the establishment are securely locked. The officers make the rounds to see that every monk is safe on his cot--and so the whole brotherhood settles for the night. Life in the monastery thus has a strict routine which soon becomes a perfect habit with most of the inmates. Of course, monks working in the fields are not required to come in for all the daytime offices--they can drop their tools when the great bell rings and pray in silence reverently standing. In nunneries about the same divisions of time are applied, although chaplains have to come in to say mass. The one thing impressing every visitor to a well-ruled monastery is the intense sense of order as compared with the tumult and coarse informality characteristic of even the better castle. To a certain type of mind this regularity is indescribably fascinating apart from any question of its advantages in religion. To ask how the different brethren of St. Aliquis come to enter its portals is to ask as many individual questions. The abbot is typical of many companions, who were placed there because worldly prospects were small and because they were decently urged by their relatives. Sometimes the pressure was not mild. There are a few brethren who seem discontented men without vocation, chafing against irrevocable vows taken practically under compulsion, and yearning to be back in the world. There is also one coarse, scar-visaged old man who was a robber knight. "Tonsure or the scaffold?" so the duke had put the question. To such a person the monastery is nothing but an honorable prison. There are, however, two or three other elderly ex-cavaliers here for a better reason--they have been overwhelmed with a consciousness of their crimes and are genuinely anxious to redeem their souls. A considerable proportion of the monks are gentle, although the majority are non-nobles. If of the latter class, however, they have been subjected to searching scrutiny before entrance, to make sure they will be useful members of the community. If they are mere clownish peasants, they are often taken only as _conversi_ (lay brethren), who learn a few prayers, but spend most of their time on the abbey farms and who do not sleep in the dormitory. [Sidenote: Reasons for Becoming Monks] The greater number of the monks have apparently joined voluntarily in early manhood--because they are repelled by the confusion and grubbing hardships of the world, because they have a hankering for an intellectual life, and because they are genuinely anxious to deliver their souls. After a round of fêtes, tournaments, and forays, many a young knight has suddenly turned from them all, announced to his companions: "What profit? Where will I spend eternity?" said farewell to his beloved destrer, and knocked at the convent door. Sometimes he has sickened too late of his choice. More often in this new world of chants, solemn offices, books, honest toil, gently spoken words, and quietness he has discovered a satisfaction not possessed by his brother who is still messire the seigneur. In the monastery there are, however, certain very young boys, who it is to be hoped will prove contented with their profession. Their parents or guardians have taken them to the abbot, and in their ward's behalf have uttered vows that bind the helpless children forever. "I offer this my son (reads the formula) to the Omnipotent God and to the Virgin Mary for the salvation of my soul and the souls of my parents.... And so shall he remain in this holy life all his days until his final breath." Earnestly do the wiser brethren pray that these practically orphaned boys do not become a source of sorrow to themselves and of discord to the community in future years.[93] St. Aliquis is a well-ordered monastery. Its monks, however, point with some pharisaical satisfaction at certain neighboring establishments. It is well said that "ten are the abuses in the cloister--costly living, choice food, noise in the cloister, strife in the chapter, disorder in the choir, a neglectful discipline, disobedient youths, lazy old men, headstrong monks, and worldly officers." It is alleged that all these evils and worse ones have existed in the monastery of St. Ausonne, five leagues away. This community had an excellent name for sanctity until twenty years ago. Then a foolish abbot admitted too many "younger sons" who were being forced in by their relatives. The duke, likewise, imprudently pardoned a whole gang of highwaymen on condition that "they should turn religious." Also, several self-seeking cavaliers deliberately entered the order, in sinful expectation that family influence could procure their election as abbots or bishops--posts of great worldly consequence. Thus it was that our old enemy, Satan, entered into St. Ausonne. All accounts are that he still refuses to be ejected. [Sidenote: A Disorderly Monastery] The evil tidings of this convent presently spread to Rome; and the Holy Father, deeply grieved, ordered the Bishop of Pontdebois to visit the establishment and restore discipline.[94] It was well that he took a troop of armed sergeants with him, or he would have been stoned by the furious inmates. The monks of St. Aliquis lift their hands in horror at the least of the stories told about his discoveries. Part of the bishop's report reads like this: "Brother Regnaud is accused of great uncleanness of life. Bartholomée, a cantor's assistant, often gets drunk and then does not get up for the matins service. Roger, the third prior, frequents taverns. Jean, the fourth prior, is an habitual tippler. Morell, another cantor's assistant, is given to striking and evil speaking. Firmin, in charge of the abbey lands, does the like, etc." These charges, however, are mere details. The real sorrow is that from the abbot down the whole organization of St. Ausonne has fallen utterly away from the monastic ideal of a "school for the Lord's service" (to quote St. Benedict). The abbot has been not merely very worldly, but very miserly. Recently a jongleur sought hospitality at St. Ausonne. The monks offered him merely black bread and water, although their own supper was far more sumptuous than the "two cooked dishes and half a pint of wine" allowed by the Benedictine rule. On leaving the abbey, the minstrel met the abbot returning from pushing his political fortunes at Paris. He profusely thanked the prelate for his monks' noble hospitality, because they had given him choice wine, rich dishes, and finally presented him with good shoes and a belt. The abbot returned home in a rage and caused his guest master to be flogged for squandering the monastery property. The minstrel, of course, spread the tale of his revenge, and so indirectly prompted the visitation of the establishment. In fine, the bishop reported that from St. Ausonne many monks ranged the country "with wandering feet"--as mere religious vagabonds, levying alms upon the peasantry, and sometimes bearing letters from their abbot allowing them to quit the cloister at pleasure. The abbot himself, defying the canons, would have elaborate hunting parties with hawks and hounds. The Church law merely permitted monks to kill rabbits and crows dangerous to the crops; but the bishop actually found a kennel of great dogs and a sheaf of boar spears within the holy compound. The dietary at St. Ausonne was fit for a castle. Venison was served on Friday, and the amount of wine consumed was astounding. Women are never supposed to set foot within the inner precincts of a monastery, but, to spare the Church further scandal, one conceals what the bishop discovered to be the practice at this establishment. The St. Ausonne monks, too, have cast reproaches upon their more honest brethren elsewhere. One of them, after visiting the St. Aliquis convent, is discovered to have complained: "One cannot talk in the refectory; and all night they 'bray' the offices in the church. The meals are very poor; they give us beans and unshelled eggs. The wine is too thin and too mixed with cows' drink (water). No--never will I get drunk on _that_ wine. At St. Aliquis it is better to die than to live!"[95] Another brother seems to have drifted round the duchy, visiting the more disorderly seigneurs, becoming their boon companion, cozening their women, and boasting that his ideal of life was "a big salmon at dinner time and sitting by a fountain with a friendly dame." With such monks sheer sacrilege in performing the sacred offices was possible. The story goes that at the morning office they were all very drowsy. Soon their heads would fall on the service books at the close of every line. The choir boys were expected to keep up the chant; but the latter, impious young mortals, soon learned how to begin quiet games the moment the last monk had fallen asleep. Then when the proper time has expired the boys would all call out loudly "Let us bless the Lord!" "Thanks be to God!" the monks would respond, awakening with a start; and then everybody would go comfortably away. [Sidenote: Discipline of Unruly Monks] The report of the bishop will probably produce one of two orders from Rome--either the Holy Father will appoint a new abbot strictly enjoined to rule the convent with a rod of iron and to restore discipline, or the whole establishment will be broken up as hopeless and its inmates distributed around among other and stricter monasteries. Cases as bad as St. Ausonne's are rare, but they breed infinite scandal and provide outrageous tales for the jongleurs. So long as monasticism exists there will be institutions afflicted with idleness and luxury--"the lust of the flesh and the lust of the eyes and the pride of life." Doubtless no monastery is exempt from evil thoughts and evil deeds, yet it is pitiful that the saints allow such institutions as St. Ausonne to exist to bring into contempt the tens of thousands of monks who are trying to serve God with sincerity. FOOTNOTES: [89] In these chapters the terms "monastery," "abbey" and "convent" are used synonymously. Of course, the term "convent" (from "conventus," or "meeting") might also be used for "nunnery." A "priory" was usually a smaller type of institution, ruled by a prior and not an abbot (see p. 322 note) and dependent on some greater "abbey." [90] Clocks run wholly by weights were known as early as Charlemagne's time, and the famous "magician" Pope Sylvester II (see p. 303) studied their mechanism. By the thirteenth century they were slowly coming into general use. Of course, at first they had only one hand--showing merely the hours. [91] By its very nature, a monastery would contain a disproportionately large number of doddering old men, or sick and helpless individuals. "_Stagnarii_" or "_stationarii_" they are significantly called. Besides, a monk was supposed to be bled for his health four or five times a year. While recovering from this operation he could stay in the infirmary. The Church usually rejected candidates for regular priesthood who labored under serious physical disabilities. The monasteries had to be less arbitrary. Thus they probably obtained more than their share of blind, semi-invalids, purblind, halt, deaf, etc. In 1161, at an abbey near Boulogne, there are said to have been so many lame, one-eyed, or one-armed monks that the abbot refused to admit any more defectives for thirty years. This was probably an extreme case. For similar reasons many women, unmarriageable through physical defects, seem to have been placed in nunneries. [92] In monasteries affiliated with the great abbey of Cluny the highest officer was the prior; the only abbot for the entire group of establishments was at Cluny. Various other small dependent monasteries had merely a prior, supposedly dependent on the abbot at a superior monastery. [93] While such children would be sometimes presented out of motives of genuine piety, to save their own souls or to redeem those of their relatives, often they were thrust into the convent merely to dispose of unwelcome heirs or to avoid the cost of rearing them. Wise abbots would, of course, sift out such cases carefully. [94] Bishops theoretically had themselves the right of inspection unless a monastery had a direct papal charter; but in any case the monks would probably resist episcopal interference vigorously unless the Pope gave the bishop specific orders to intervene. [95] These complaints are identical with those actually made by a worldly monk who visited the venerable abbey of Cluny. Chapter XX: The Monastery of St. Aliquis: The Activities of Its Inmates. Monastic Learning. After a monk has taken the great vow "renouncing my parents, my brothers, my friends, my possessions, and the vain and empty glory of this world ... and renouncing also my own will for the will of God, and accepting all the hardships of the monastic life," how is he to be employed? For, as St. Benedict with great sagacity has written, "_Idleness is the enemy of the soul_." The ancient hermits devoted their entire time to contemplation, hoping for visions of angels; but it is recorded too often that they had only visions of the devil. "Therefore," continues the holy Rule, "at fixed times the brothers ought to be employed with manual labor, and again at fixed times in sacred reading." Thus, in general, the monks of St. Aliquis are busied with two great things, _work_ in the fields and _study_, with the copying or actual writing of profitable books. [Sidenote: Bequests to Monasteries] The monastery being passing rich, its administration constitutes a great worldly care. Ever since the institution came into existence, about the time that Heribert rendered the region fairly safe by erecting his fortress, the monks have been adding to their property. Church foundations never die. Mortmain prevents them from crumbling. Income is obtainable from many sources, but probably the best lands have come to the abbey through the reception of new members. Few novices are received unless they make a grant of their entire possessions to the institution, and, while most younger sons and peasants have little enough to give, every now and then the abbey receives a person of considerable wealth. Besides such acquisitions, there is no better way for laymen to cancel arrears with the recording angel than by gifts of land or money to an abbey. Some of these gifts come during lifetime, sometimes on one's deathbed. Noblemen complain that the monks thus defraud them of their possessions. "When a man lies down to die," bewails the epic poem "Hervis de Metz," "he thinks not of his sons. He summons the black monks of St. Benedict and gives them his lands, his revenues, his ovens, and his mills. The men of this age are impoverished and the clerics daily grow richer." Often, too, a person when on his deathbed will actually "take the habit" and be enrolled as a monk, thus, of course, conveying to the abbey all his possessions. This, we are told, is "the sweetest way for a human conscience to settle its case with God." Property thus comes to an abbey from every direction. No gifts are refused as "tainted money." Giving to Heaven is invariably a pious deed, and ordinarily justifies whatever oblique means were used to get the donation. So the monks of St. Aliquis have been accumulating tillage lands, meadows, vineyards, and often the rentals for lands held by others. These rentals are payable in wheat, barley, oats, cattle and also in pasture rights. Some donations are given unconditionally, some strictly on condition that the income be used in providing alms for the poor, lodgings and comforts for the sick, or saying special masses for the repose of the soul of the benefactor. Abbot Victor has therefore to supervise many farms, forests, mills, etc., scattered for many miles about. He also receives the tithe (church tax) for five or six parish churches in the region, on condition that he appoint their priests and support them out of part of this income. For these lands the abbot owes feudal service, and over them he exercises feudal suzerainty, possessing, therefore, an overlord and also vassals, just as did the nobles who held these same fiefs before they passed to the abbey. He is, accordingly, a regular seigneur, receiving and doing homage, bound to do justice to his vassals, and able to call them to arms whenever the secular need arises. By church law he cannot, of course, lead them in person to battle, but has to accept Conon as his advocate; and it is as advocate (or, as called elsewhere, _vidame_) of the abbey of St. Aliquis, able to lead its numerous retainers into the field and act in military matters as the abbot's very self-sufficient lieutenant and champion, that the baron owes much of his own importance.[96] For example, he gets one third of all the fees payable to the abbey for enforcing justice among its dependents, and when he is himself in a feud he will sometimes attempt to call out the abbot's vassals to follow his personal banner, even if the quarrel is of not the least concern to the monks. Nevertheless, such an overpowerful champion is usually necessary to a monastery. Despite the fear of excommunication, unscrupulous lords frequently seize upon abbey lands or even pillage the sacred buildings, trusting to smooth over matters later by a gift or a pilgrimage. The temptation presented by a rich, helpless monastery is sometimes almost irresistible. [Sidenote: Monastic Industries and Almsgiving] In nonmilitary matters, however, the monks control everything. They direct the agriculture of hundreds of peasants. They maintain real industries, manufacturing far more in the way of church ornaments, vestments, elegant woolen tapestries, elaborate book covers, musical instruments, enameled reliquaries, as well as carvings in wood, bronze, and silver, than they can possibly use for their own church. All this surplus is sold, and the third prior has just returned from Pontdebois to report his success in disposing of a fine bishop's throne, which Brother Octavian, who has great skill with his chisel, has spent three whole years in making. The monks also maintain a school primarily for lads who expect to become clerics, but which is open also to the sons of nobles, and, indeed, of such peasants as can see any use in letting hulking boys who do not expect to enter the Church learn Latin and struggle with pothooks and hangers. The monks, too, have another great care and expense--the distribution of alms, even more lavishly than at the castle. The porter is bound always to keep small loaves of bread in his lodge, ready to give to the itinerant poor. Every night swarms of travelers, high and low, have to be lodged and fed by the guest master, with none turned away unless he demands quarters a second night--when questions will be asked.[97] In bad years the monasteries are somehow expected to feed the wretched by thousands. All this means a great drain upon the income, even if the monks themselves live sparely. There is often another heavy demand made on the abbot's revenues. Having so many and such varied parcels of land, he is almost always involved in costly lawsuits--with rival church establishments claiming the property, with the heirs of donors who refuse to give up their expected heritages, with creditors or debtors in the abbey's commercial transactions and with self-seeking neighboring seigneurs. "He who has land has trouble" is an old proverb to which Victor cheerfully subscribes. He is not so litigious as many abbots; but his time seems consumed with carnal matters which profit not the soul. The activities in a large, well-ordered monastery are ample enough to give scope to the individual genius of about all the brethren, although every abbey is likely to have its own special interests. Some South French monasteries make and export rare cordials and healing drugs. Others boast of their horticulture, the breeding of cattle, or the manufacture of various kinds of elegant articles, as already noted. However, the mere cultivation of the fields, where the brethren toil side by side with the lay helpers, although also acting as overseers, consumes the energies of much of the convent. The remainder of the time of most monks is devoted to forms of learning. The great establishment of Cluny sets the proper example. There every brother, at least while he is young, must practice humility by digging, pulling weeds, shelling beans, and making bread. But this work is largely for discipline.[98] If he has the least inclination he will soon be encouraged to devote himself to copying manuscripts, studying books, perfecting himself in Latin, and finally, in actually writing original Latin works himself. [Sidenote: Manuscript Copying and Study] All day long, save at the times for chanting the offices, the older brethren and many of the younger are in the little alcoves round the cloister, conning or copying huge volumes of parchment or vellum, or whispering together over some learned problem. All the formal literature is in Latin. It was, until recently, something of a disgrace to prove oneself unclerkly by using the vulgar tongue, "Romance" being accounted fit only for worldly noblemen and jongleurs.[99] [Illustration: A PIECE OF FURNITURE SERVING AS A SEAT AND A READING DESK Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc from a thirteenth-century manuscript. At the left of the writing table is placed an inkstand; near the seat is a circular lectern which holds the chandelier and can be turned at the will of the reader.] At St. Aliquis, as in every convent, monks still are wont to argue among themselves, "How far is it safe to study pagan rather than Christian writers?" Undoubtedly Horace, Ovid, and Livy are a delight to any student who can read Latin. What wealth of new ideas! What marvelous vigor of language! What vistas of a strange, wonderful world are opened to the imagination! Unfortunately, however, all these authors died worshiping demons; their souls are in hell, or at least in limbo, its uppermost and least painful compartment. Did not Pope Gregory I write to a bishop who was fond of classical studies, "It behooves not that a mouth consecrated to the praise of God should open for those of Jupiter"? Did not Odilon, abbot of Cluny, renounce his beloved Virgil (the most favored of all heathen writers) after a warning dream, beholding therein a wondrous antique vase, which as he reached to grasp it, proved full of writhing serpents? Nevertheless, the pagan authors are so seductive that the monks persist in studying them, although always with a guilty feeling that "stolen waters are sweet, and bread eaten in secret is pleasant." In the monastery school advanced instruction is given to the younger monks, as well as to the very few laymen who have been through the primary instruction in the _trivium_--grammar, rhetoric, and dialectics (the art of reasoning) all taught, of course, in Latin. Apt pupils are then encouraged to continue under one or two monks of superior learning in the _quadrivium_--astronomy, arithmetic, geometry, and music. Systematic instruction is hardly ever given in anything else, although odds and ends of certain other sciences can be absorbed around St. Aliquis. [Sidenote: Books of Learning] The fundamental textbooks are Donatus's grammar for instruction in Latin, and then for almost everything savoring of real learning, Latin translations of Master Aristotle. For a long time the monks have had to content themselves with the logical Works of the famous Grecian, explaining the processes of argumentation, but by 1200 they can enjoy the enormous advantage of using Latin versions of the Physics, the Metaphysics, and the Ethics--the great works of The Master of Those Who Know (to quote Dante, writing eighty years later). Some of these books have come directly from the Greek, but others have been distorted by passing through an Arabic version that in turn has been made over into Latin. There are also various Arabic commentaries of considerable value. Curious it doubtless is that Heaven, who has denied salvation alike to Greek and to Moslem, should suffer unbelievers to possess a worldly wisdom surpassing that of good Christians, but the Bible truly says, "The children of this world are in their generation wiser than the children of light." On all secular matters, indeed, Aristotle is a final authority. "Thus says Aristotle" is the best way to silence every hostile argument. Only very rarely can a man hope by his own cogitations to overthrow the dicta of this wonderful sage of Athens. A great deal of the monkish student's time is taken up with abstract problems of philology and logic. Nevertheless, the abbey contains many parchments widening to one's knowledge of the world. For example, you can read in Vincent de Beauvais's _Mirror of Nature_ a minute account of the universe and all things within it. You can learn the astonishing fact that the world is a kind of globe suspended at the center of the cosmos. Many other wonderful things are described--as, for example, lead can be transmuted into gold, and all kinds of wonders which defy ordinary experience, but which are not to be doubted, since God can, of course, do anything. Or one can turn to Hugues de St. Victor's treatise _On Beasts and Other Things_ and learn all about the habits of animals--concerning how stags can live nine hundred years and how the dove "with her right eye contemplates herself, and with her left eye God." There are books also on medicine, parts of which contain sober wisdom, worthy of attention by the murderous physicians, but elsewhere giving such directions as that since autumn is "the melancholy season," people should then eat more heartily than in summer and should refrain from love affairs. As for the more abstract sciences, in music the monks know the four principal and the four secondary sounds--the _do_, _re_, _mi_, of the scales, the seven modulations and the five strings of the viol. In geometry they can, with the aid of a stick, "lying on the ground find the height of walls and towers." In arithmetic they can multiply and divide with great facility and keep accounts like a king's treasurer. In astronomy they understand the motion of the planets and their qualities--Saturn, which is "proud, wise, and ambitious," and Mars, "malevolent and bad, provoking strife and battles," and how the sun is hung in the midst of the planets, three above and three below, and much more similar wisdom; although one must proceed carefully in astronomy, for its connection with astrology is close, and from astrology to the black art is not a long journey. [Sidenote: Scientific Studies and Chronicle Writing] The good monks have perhaps made their best progress in botany and geology. Some of the brethren have gathered collections of curious minerals, of herbs, and also of dried bird and animal skins; although the interest seems to be in the healing qualities of various substances rather than in the nature of the things themselves. Thus it is certain that figs are good for wounds and broken bones; aloes stops hair from falling; the root of mandrake will make women love you; and plenty of sage in a garden somehow protects the owner from premature death. As for geology, that consists of the collecting and arranging of curious stones. It is of course settled in Genesis that the world was made in a very few days. The infidel Avincenna has indeed advanced the theory that mountains are caused by the upheaval of the earth's crust and by action of water. One must hesitate, however, about believing this. It seems hardly compatible with Holy Writ. On the other hand, the books on animals unhesitatingly tell about remarkable creatures which are mentioned in Aristotle or in Pliny or by the Arabs. Unicorns, phoenixes, and dragons are well understood, likewise sea monsters, as, for example, great krakens, which drag down ships with their tentacles, sirens or mermaids, and finally "sea bishops" (probably a kind of seal) which piously "bless" their human victims before devouring them. Besides the study of these older books, the monks are writing certain books themselves. The most important is the great chronicle, begun some years ago by the learned Brother Emeri. It commences with the creation of the world and Adam and Eve, tells about the Greeks and Romans and Charlemagne and his heirs, and then in much greater detail gives the recent history of the Duchy of Quelqueparte, the happenings at the abbey, and also much about the barons of St. Aliquis. Emeri is now dead, but the chronicle is continued from year to year. It is really a compendium of varied learning. From it, for example, you learn all about the wars of Julius Cæsar, the Crusades, the great lawsuit of ten years ago over some of the abbey lands, the feud between Conon and Foretvert, and how in 1216 a two-headed calf was born on a neighboring barony, and in 1217 a meteor struck near Pontdebois. The Latin in this chronicle is, on the whole, very good, sometimes almost equal to Livy's, and the story is embellished by constant citations not merely of Virgil and Horace, but of Homer and Plato. One would suppose from this that the authors were familiar with Greek. Such, however, is by no means the case. All the quotations from Greek authors and many of their Latin ones are taken from commonplace books. Nevertheless, the narrative seems the more elegant for this borrowed learning. The monks are proud of their chronicle and never fail to boast how much more complete, accurate, and erudite it is than similar works compiled at the rival institutions. When the monks are not actually studying, they are often copying. St. Aliquis has more than two hundred volumes in its library. Parchment is very expensive, but very durable. When the abbot sees his way to procure material for another volume, he is likely to send to some friendly convent to borrow a book which his monks do not yet possess. Then some of the most skillful brethren are put to work making a copy, if possible more beautiful than the original. In from six months to a year the work will probably be finished, although, if a duplicate is to be made of a work already on hand, there will be less haste and the process may extend over years.[100] Copying is an excellent means of propitiating Heaven. St. Bernard said emphatically, "Every word which you write is a blow which smites the devil," and Cassiodorus, much earlier, asserted: "By the exercise of the mind upon the Holy Scriptures you convey to those who read a kind of moral instruction. You preach with the hand, converting the hand into an organ of speech--thus, as it were, fighting the arch-fiend with pen and ink." Parchment, we have said, is a costly article. To provide a single book scores of sheep must die. A new style of writing material, however, is just coming into vogue. Paper, a substance made of linen cloth, now is being produced in small quantities in France, although, as usual, it seems to have been an invention of the Arab Infidels. Some day, perhaps, paper will become so plentiful and cheap that books can be multiplied in vast numbers, but as yet practically everything has to be on parchment, which is certainly far less destructible than paper, whatever the cost.[101] [Sidenote: Elegant Manuscripts and Binding] In the cloister alcoves a dozen copyists are pursuing their task with infinite patience. Their question is not "how fast?" but "how well?"--for they are performing "a work unto God." As a rule, they write their sheets in two columns, making their characters either in roundish minuscule or in squarer Gothic. The initials are in bright colors--some with a background of gold. Here and there may be painted in a brilliant miniature illustration. The work of the best copyists is beautifully legible. The scribes put their heart and soul into their productions. They expect the volumes will be memorials to their faithfulness and piety scores of years after they are departed. When the sheets are completed, the book is bound in leather much the same as in other ages, although sometimes the sides are of wood. In any case, there are likely to be metal clasps and bosses of brass upon the covers. A few of the most precious volumes are adorned with plates of silver or carved ivory. So year by year the library grows. It need not be remarked that every copy is _read_ and _reread_ with devoted thoroughness. What the learning of the Feudal Age, therefore, lacks in breadth is somewhat compensated for by intensity. The older and more studious monks know almost by heart _all_ the facts in their entire collection. The younger brethren revere them as carrying in their own heads practically everything significant in the way of worldly wisdom.[102] Thus we catch some glimpse of the superficial and material side of a typical monastic establishment. Into its spiritual and intellectual atmosphere we cannot find time to penetrate. Our present duty is to "return to the world" and to examine the oft-mentioned but as yet unvisited Good Town of Pontdebois. FOOTNOTES: [96] Abbots and their advocates were continually having friction over their respective prerogatives. If Victor and Conon got along in fair harmony, they were somewhat exceptional both as prelate and as seigneur. [97] See also p. 319. [98] A great abbey like Cluny would have so many lay servitors that it could dispense with manual labor by the monks, save where personal aptitude was lacking for anything else. [99] The result was that French was able to develop as a very forceful, expressive language, unspoiled by pedantry, before many serious books were written in the vernacular. The same was somewhat true also of English, German, and other modern tongues. [100] This would be especially true of copies of the Bible, of which every abbey would have at least one example; and additional specimens would be prepared very deliberately with the intention of making the new work just as beautiful and permanent as possible. [101] The introduction of paper was, of course, absolutely necessary, if the invention of printing were to have any real value. [102] It is perhaps proper to say that Dante (1265-1321), a person, of course, of remarkable intellect, was able to master the _entire fund_ of learned information and science available in his time. This was not true of the next great mediæval scholar, Petrarch (1304-71). By his period the supply of human knowledge had become too vast for any one brain. Petrarch had to become a specialist. Chapter XXI: The Good Town of Pontdebois: Aspect and Organization. As the summer advances, Conon, his baroness, and his familiars make their annual visit to the great fair always held at this time at Pontdebois. Practically nothing except wheat, cattle, and a few like staples are ordinarily bought and sold in or around St. Aliquis. Of course, a messenger can be sent to the town for articles that are urgently needed, but, as a rule, the baron's family saves up all its important purchases until the fair, when many desirable things not ordinarily to be had in the city are put on sale. This present season the fair seems the more important because on account of the expensive fêtes Conon cannot afford to visit Paris and must make his purchases nearer home. It is only a few leagues to Pontdebois, but messire travels with a considerable retinue--at least twenty men at arms well equipped, besides body servants for himself and his wife, and a long string of sumpter beasts to bring back the desired commodities, for the castle must really stock itself for the year. The baron hardly fears an attack by robbers so near to his own castle and to a friendly town, but he takes no chances. The best of seigneurs disclaim any responsibility for the fate of travelers who proceed by night, and one sire who controls some miles of the way has possibly a quiet understanding with certain outlaws that they may lurk in his forests and watch the roads without too much questioning, provided they refrain from outrages upon important people and make him liberal presents at Christmas and Easter.[103] In any case, a number of merchants, packmen, and other humble travelers who had gone safely as far as St. Aliquis, are glad to complete the journey in the baron's formidable company. Conon in turn gladly protects them; it adds to his prestige to approach Pontdebois with a great following. The roads are no worse than elsewhere, yet they are abominable; trails and muddy ruts they seem most of the year, ordinarily passable only for horses and mules, although in the summer rude two-wheeled carts can bump along them. To cross the streams you must, in some places, depend on fords very dangerous in the springtime. One unfordable river, entering the Claire, is indeed crossed by a rude wooden bridge. The building of bridges is fostered by the Church. A great indulgence was proclaimed by the bishop some years ago when this bridge was constructed as a pious work, especially useful for pilgrims. Unfortunately, no one is responsible for its upkeep. It is falling into disrepair, and already is so tottering that as men pass over it they repeat those formulas, "commending their souls to God," which the Church provides for use whenever one is attempting unstable bridges. [Sidenote: Travelers and Inns] On the journey you meet many humble travelers obliged to trudge weary miles. There is a poor peasant seeking a farm now on a distant seigneury. He has a donkey to carry some of his household gear and one of the children. His wife is painfully carrying the youngest infant. The poor man himself staggers under a great sack. Travelers of more consequence ride horseback, with a large mail or leathern portmanteau tied on their beast's crupper. Their burdens are heavy because one often has to spend the night in abominable quarters, and consequently must, if possible, carry flint, steel, and tinder for making a fire, some kind of bedding, and very often a tent. Along the road, too, are any quantity of beggars, real or pretended cripples and other deformed persons, wandering about and living on charity; or blind men with staffs and dogs. The beggars' disguise is a favorite one for robbers. The wretches, too, who whine their, "Alms, Messire! Alms!" and hold up a wrist minus the hand, or point to where an eye has been gouged out, probably have suffered just punishments for crimes, although some of them may have mutilated themselves merely in order to work on the sympathies of the gullible. As the party approaches Pontdebois the houses become better and closer together, and just outside the gate is a group of taverns, available for those who prefer to carouse or lodge without rather than within the city walls. Conon is on terms of hospitality with a rich burgher who has found the baron's favor profitable, and he leads his company promptly inside the gates, but many of the humbler travelers turn off to these taverns. Adela gives an aristocratic sniff of disdain as they ride past such places. They are assuredly very dirty, and from them proceeds the smell of stale wine and poor cooking. The owners, smooth, smirking men, stand by the road as travelers come in sight and begin to praise their hostelries. "Within," one of them is calling out, "are all manner of comforts, painted chambers, and soft beds packed high with white straw under soft feather mattresses. Here is your hostel for love affairs. When you retire you will fall asleep on pillows of violets, after you have washed out your mouth and rinsed your hands with rose water!" His victims, however, will find themselves in a dirty public dining room, where men and women alike are drinking and dicing around the bare oaken tables. At night the guests will sleep in the few chambers, bed wedged by bed, or perhaps two in a bed, upon feathers anything but vermin-proof. In the rear of most inns, too, there is a garden where guests are urged to carouse with the unsavory females who haunt the establishments. The visitors will be lucky if they can get safely away without being made stupidly drunken and then robbed, or having the innkeeper seize their baggage or even their clothes on the pretense that they have not paid their reckoning. Leaving these taverns at one side, the St. Aliquis company rides straight onward. Before it the spires and walls of Pontdebois are rising. The circuit of gray curtain walls and turrets reaches down to the Claire, on which barges are swinging, and across which stretches the solid wooden bridge which gives the Good Town its name. Above the walls you can see the gabled roofs of the more pretentious houses, the great round donjon, the civic watchtower, and, above all else, the soaring fabric and stately mass of the cathedral with the scaffolding still around its unfinished towers. Several smaller parish churches are also visible. The baron's company is obliged to halt at the gate, such is the influx and efflux of rickety carts, sumpter beasts, and persons thrusting across the drawbridge. "Way, good people," Conon's squires cry. "Way for Messire of St. Aliquis!" and at last, not without a cracking of whips to make these mechanic crowds know their betters, the party forces a path down the narrow streets. [Sidenote: Entering a City] A visit to Pontdebois is no real novelty to the castle folk, yet they always experience a sense of bustle and vastness upon entering. Here are eight thousand, indeed, some assert ten thousand, people, all living together in a single community.[104] How confused even the saints must be when they peer from heaven and try to number this swarm of young and old, rich and poor, masters and apprentices, packed in behind one set of walls! To tell the truth, the circuit of Pontdebois is not very great; to render the walls as defensible as possible and to save expense, the fortifications have been made to inclose the smallest circumference that will answer. As a result, the land inside is precious. Houses are wedged closely together. Streets are extraordinarily narrow. People can hardly stir without colliding with others, and about the only real breathing spaces are the market place and some open ground around the cathedral. Behind the bishop's palace, also, there is a small walled-in garden. Otherwise, it appears almost as if not one green thing could grow in Pontdebois. The contrast with the open country whence the travelers have just come is therefore startling. Even the best of the streets are dark, tortuous, and filthy. There is almost no paving.[105] The waste water of the houses is flung from the windows. Horrid offal is thus cast out, as well as the blood and refuse from the numerous slaughterhouses. Pigs are privileged as scavengers, even in the market place. The streets are the darker because the second stories of the houses project considerably over the first, the third over the second, and also the fourth and fifth (which often exist) over those lower. Consequently, there is almost a roof formed over the lanes, cutting off rain, light and air. In the upper stories, neighbors not merely can gossip, but can actually shake hands with their friends across the street. All the thoroughfares, too, are amazingly crooked, as if everybody had once built his house where it pleased him, and afterward some kind of a bypath around it had been created! At night these twisting avenues are dark as pitch. No one can get about without a lantern, and even with one it were better, if possible, to stay at home. To prevent the easy flight of thieves, it is common to stretch many heavy chains across the streets at night. Notwithstanding, footpads often lurk in the covert of black corners. Pontdebois has few quiet residence sections. It is a community of almost nothing but little shops and little industries--the two being often combined under one roof. The shops generally open directly into the streets, with their stalls intruding on the public way like Oriental bazaars. The streets, in fact, seem to be almost the property of the merchants. Foot passengers can barely find a passage. Carts cannot traverse the town during business hours, and Conon's company on horseback might have found itself absolutely blocked had it not chanced to arrive almost precisely at noon, when the hum and bustle very suddenly cease and the worthy folk of Pontdebois forsake their counters and benches to enjoy hearty dinners. [Sidenote: A Rich Burgher's House] As it is, they reach the market place just as the city hangman has finished a necessary ceremony. One Lambert, a master woolen weaver, had been caught selling adulterated and dishonestly woven cloth, contrary to the statutes of his guild. The hangman has solemnly burned the offending bolts of cloth before a jeering crowd of apprentices, while Lambert's offense has been cried out with loud voice. The man is disgraced and ruined. He will have to become again a mere wage earner, or quit the city outright. His misfortune is the choice news of the hour. The smell of the burning cloth is still in the air when Conon's party rides by the pillory and halts at the house of the rich Othon Bouchaut, who is ready to receive them. Maître Othon is one of the principal burghers. He has grown rich by importing wares from Venice, Constantinople, and the lands of the Infidels. It is scandalous (say some nobles) how he, villein born, with hands only accustomed to hold a purse or a pen, is able to talk to a great seigneur without groveling as every good peasant ought. He and his wife even wear gold lace, pearls, and costly stuffs on fête days, as if they were nobles; and they are said actually to have broken the law forbidding non-nobles to wear furs. Very deplorable, but what can be done? Othon is so rich that he can stir up trouble even for the duke. Nothing remains but to speak him fair and accept his hospitality. This powerful merchant's house is in the marketplace. It rises five stories high, and is built of beams filled in with laths, mortar, and stucco. On the ground floor are storerooms for costly Oriental goods, and desks where the master's clerks seem forever busy with complicated accounts. On the next are the rooms for the family, and, although without the spacious magnificence of the great hall at St. Aliquis, Adela remarks a little enviously that her host's wife enjoys many comforts and luxuries hardly known in the castle. The upper stories are full of small chambers for Othon's family, his clerks, and the younger apprentices who are learning his business. Before the front door swings the ensign of the house--a gilded mortar (in token of the powdered spices which the owner sells). The houses of Pontdebois have no numbers. The ensigns serve to identify them. One of Othon's neighbors lives at the "Crouching Cat," another at the "Tin Pot," another at the "Silver Fish," and so on all through the town. The house of Othon also appears to be quite new, as do many others. This, however, is a doubtful sign of good fortune. Only a few years ago much of Pontdebois was burned down. The narrow streets, the thatched roofs, the absence of any means of checking a blaze save a line of buckets hastily organized, make great fires a standing menace to every city.[106] Othon complains that at any moment he may be reduced almost to beggary by the carelessness of some wretched scullery maid or tavern apprentice. He will also say that somehow in the pent-up city there is greater danger of the plague than in the country castles or even in the villages with their dungheaps. A dozen years ago Pontdebois lost a quarter of its population by an outbreak which spared neither rich nor poor, before which physicians and religious processions seemed alike helpless, and which demoralized the community before the saints mercifully halted the devastation. [Sidenote: The Communal Donjon] There are only a few stone houses in Pontdebois. Even the best houses of the citizens are usually of wood and mortar. Not yet have risen those magnificent stone city halls which later will be the glory of North France and Flanders. But on one side of the market place rises the communal donjon. The Good Town is like a seigneur (indeed, somewhat it _is_ a seigneur placed in commission): it has its walls and therefore its strong citadel. The donjon forms a high, solid, square tower dominating the public square. At its summit there is always a watchman ready, at first danger of fire or attack, to boom the alarm bell. The tower itself is large enough to have good-sized rooms in its base. Nearest the ground is the council chamber where the worshipful echevins can deliberate. Above that is the archive room, where the elaborate town records are kept. Directly under the council chamber, however, is the prison, where general offenders are mewed up no more comfortably than in the abysses of St. Aliquis. The soul of the communal donjon, however, hovers around its bells. There in the dark tower hang shrill Jacqueline, loud Carolus, and, deepest and mightiest of all, Holy Trinity, and several others. A peal of powerful bells pertains to every free town. Of course, they ring lustily and merrily on holidays; indeed, strangers to the city think they are rung too often for repose.[107] But if they all begin leaping and thundering together, that is probably a sign for a mass meeting of the citizens in the open plaza before the donjon. The magistrates may wish to harangue the populace from the balcony, just above the council room, descanting upon some public danger or deliver a peaceful explanation of some new municipal ordinance. In any case, a commune without its donjon and bells is like a ship without its rudder, and if ever Pontdebois succumbs to superior power, the first step of the conqueror will probably be to "take away the bells"--that will be the same thing as annulling the city liberties. Pontdebois has been a Good Town with a charter of privileges for about a hundred years. As early as Charlemagne's day a village existed upon the site. The location proved good for trade, but the inhabitants, despite success in commerce and industry and increasing numbers, were for a long time mere villeins dependent upon the lord bishop of the town and region, and with no more rights than the peasants of the fields had. However, in dealing with men who were steadily becoming richer, and who were picking up strange ideas by foreign intercourse, it proved much harder to keep them content with their station than it did the run of villeins. Besides, the dukes of Quelqueparte, although very loath to grant privileges to their own villeins, were not averse to having privileges given to the subjects of such independent and unreliable vassals as the bishops of Pontdebois. Consequently, when the townspeople about A.D. 1100 began raising the cry, "Commune! Commune!" in the episcopal presence, the bishop could not look to his suzerain for much support. Indeed, it was being realized by intelligent seigneurs that granting a charter to a town often meant a great increase of wealth, so that if the lord's fiscal rights were carefully safeguarded, he was actually the gainer by an apparent cession of part of his authority. The upshot was that about A.D. 1110, when a certain bishop needed a large purse to cover his travel to the Holy Land, for a round sum the townsfolk bought from him a charter--a precious document which practically raised them out of the status of villeins and protected them against those executions and tyrannies which the run of peasants had to accept resignedly, as they did bad winters. [Sidenote: Charter of a Commune] This charter read in part much as follows: "I, Henri, by the grace of God Bishop of Pontdebois, make known to all present and to come, that I have established the undermentioned rules for the inhabitants of my town of Pontdebois. Every male inhabitant of said town shall pay me every year twelve deniers and a bushel of oats as the price of his dwelling; and if he desires to hold land outside the walls four deniers per year for each acre. The houses, vines, and fields may be sold and alienated at the pleasure of the holder. The dwellers in this town shall go neither to the _ost_ (feudal levy) nor on any other expedition unless I lead the same in person. They are allowed six echevins to administer the ordinary business of the town and to assist my provost in his duties. I especially decree that no seigneur shall withdraw from this town any inhabitants for any reason, unless they are actually 'his men' or owe him arrears in taxes, etc."[108] After securing this charter, the men of Pontdebois began to hold up their heads in a manner grievous to the neighboring nobles, and even more grievous to the wealthy clergy, for prince-bishops were often the original suzerains of the towns, and their authority was the most seriously curtailed.[109] The books are full of the wrath of the ecclesiastics over the changed situation. "'Commune!' a name new and detestable!" pungently wrote Abbot Guibert of Nogent, even when the movement was young; while Bishop Ives of Chartres assured everybody that "compacts (with city folk) are binding on no one: they are contrary to the canon law and the decision of the holy fathers." Even as recently as 1213 a synod at Paris has denounced communes as the creations of "usurers and exactors" who have set up "diabolical usages, tending to overthrow the jurisdiction of the Church." However righteous the anger of these holy men, it has proved vain. The communes ever wax stronger, and annually some new seigneur is compelled to sell a charter or even to grant one for nothing. The kings watch complacently a movement which weakens their unruly feudatories. Sometimes the townsfolk have grown insolent and tried to defend their privileges by sheer violence. Once there was a very tyrannous bishop of Laon. He foolishly tried to cancel a charter granted the city, and boasted: "What can you expect these people to do by their commotions? If my negro boy John were to seize the most terrible of them by the nose, the fellow would not even growl. What they yesterday called a 'commune' I have forced them to give up--at least as long as I live!" The next day the yell, "Commune! Commune!" rang in the streets. A mob sacked the episcopal palace and found the bishop hiding in a cask at the bottom of the cellar. The howling populace dragged him into the street and killed him with a hatchet. Then, to add to this sacrilege upon an anointed bishop, they plundered most of the nobles who chanced to be in the town. After such deeds it is no wonder that the king went to Laon and re-established order with a strong hand. Nevertheless, some years later, a new charter was granted the town, and the succeeding bishops have had to walk warily, despite inward groanings. [Sidenote: Rule by Echevins and Rich Merchants] Fortunately, Pontdebois has been spared these convulsions. As a rule the local prelates have been reasonable and conciliatory. The bishop is still called "suzerain." He receives the fixed tax provided in the original agreement. He has jurisdiction over the citizens in spiritual matters, which include heresy, blasphemy, insults, and assaults upon priests and outrages to churches. Likewise much of what might be called "probate litigation"--touching the validity of marriages and children, and consequently the wills and property rights affected thereby. However, in most secular particulars the citizens have pretty complete control. They levy numerous imposts, direct taxes, tolls, and market dues; they enroll a militia to defend the walls and to take the field under their own officers and banner when the general levy of the region is called out; they pass many local ordinances; and they name their own magistrates who administer "high justice." They can even wage local wars if they have a grievance against neighboring barons, being themselves a kind of collective seigneur. The one thing they _cannot_ do is to coin money; that is a privilege carefully reserved to the king and to the superior nobility. Practically all these powers are exercised by the six echevins, with a higher dignitary, the mayor (_maire_), at their head.[110] There is little real democracy, however, in Pontdebois. The richer merchants, like Othon, and the more prosperous masters form practically an oligarchy, excluding the poor artisans and apprentices from any share in municipal affairs save that of paying taxes and listening to edicts by the magistrates. The same officers are re-elected year after year. They use the town money much as they see fit, refusing public reckoning and blandly announcing that "they render their accounts to one another." There are, therefore, certain discontented fellows who even murmur, "We 'free burghers' are worse taxed and oppressed than are Baron Conon's villeins at St. Aliquis." Nevertheless, there is often a great desire to become even a passive citizen of Pontdebois. If you can live there unmolested for "a year and a day," you escape the jurisdiction of the lord on whose estate you have been a villein. You are protected against those outrages which are possible on even the best seigneuries. Most of all, you gain a chance to become something more than a clodhopping plowman. Perhaps your grandchildren at least will become wealthy and powerful enough to receive a baron as their guest, even as does the rich Othon. So one may wander about the twisting streets of Pontdebois until nightfall, when the loud horns blow curfew--"cover fires." After that, the streets are deserted save for the occasional watchman rattling his iron-shod staff and calling through the darkness, "Pray for the dead!" FOOTNOTES: [103] Another abuse would be to levy a heavy toll on all travelers passing a castle, irrespective of whether there was any legal license to demand the same. [104] If Pontdebois really had as many as eight thousand permanent inhabitants, it was no mean community in feudal times. Many a city would have only two or three thousand, or even less. A place of ten thousand or more would rank as the most important center for a wide region. There were few of such size in France. [105] Even in Paris at this time the only paving was on the streets leading directly to the city gates. The remainder continued to be a mere slough, a choice breeding place for those contagious diseases against which precautions were assumed to be useless and to which men were bound to submit as to "the will of God." Supplications to some healing saint, like St. Firman or St. Antoine, usually seemed more efficacious than any real sanitary precautions. [106] Rouen had six severe fires between 1200 and 1225, and yet was not exceptionally unfortunate. If a city were close to a river, it was liable also to very serious freshets. Of course, every place was in fairly constant danger of being stormed, sacked, and burned down in war. [107] Modern travelers are to this day impressed by the amount of bellringing which goes on in such unspoiled mediæval-built Flemish towns as Bruges. [108] Of course, no two communal charters were ever alike, although many were run in a common mold. Many towns received not a full charter, but "rights of burgessy"--_e.g._, guaranties against various common forms of oppression, although the laws were still actually administered by officers named by the seigneur. [109] Bishops often had their cathedral and episcopal seat at the largest place in their dioceses--the very places most likely to demand charters. [110] The echevins were often known instead as "jurés" and their numbers were frequently much greater than six. The mayors might be called "provosts" or "rewards." Chapter XXII: Industry and Trade in Pontdebois. The Great Fair. The St. Aliquis folk have come to Pontdebois largely to attend the great fair soon to open, but the more ordinary articles they will purchase can be found on sale on any week day. The city is a beehive of industry. Notwithstanding much talk about commerce in the Feudal Ages, the means of communication and transport are so bad that it is only the luxuries--not the essentials--that can be exported very far. It takes thirty days in good weather to travel from Paris to Marseilles. It takes sometimes a week to go from Pontdebois to Paris; and there is no larger industrial city much nearer than Paris. The result is that almost everything ordinarily needed in a château, village, or even in a monastery, which cannot be made upon the spot, is manufactured and sold in this Good Town. Industrial life, however, seems to exist on a very small scale. There are no real factories. An establishment employing more than four or five persons, including the proprietor, is rare. Much commoner are petty workshops conducted by the owner alone or aided by only one youthful apprentice. This multiplicity of extremely small plants gives Pontdebois a show of bustle and activity which its actual population does not warrant. When you do business in a town, simply name your desires and you can be directed to a little winding street containing all the shops of a given industry. There is the Glass Workers' Street, the Tanners' Row, the Butchers' Lane, the Parchment Makers' Street (frequented by monkish commissioners from the abbeys), the Goldsmiths' Lane, etc. [Illustration: CLOTH MERCHANTS From a bas-relief in the cathedral of Rheims (thirteenth century).] [Sidenote: Shopkeepers Crying their Wares] As a rule the goods are made up in the rear of the shop and are sold over a small counter directly upon the street, where the customer stands while he drives his bargain. Written signs and price cards are practically unknown. The moment a possible purchaser comes in sight, all the attendants near the front of the shops begin a terrific uproar, each trying to bawl down his neighbor, praising his own wares and almost dragging in the visitor to inspect them. Trade etiquette permits shopkeepers to shout out the most derogatory things about their rivals. Father Grégoire, wishing to buy some shoes, is almost demoralized by the clamor, although this is by no means his first visit to Pontdebois. As he enters the Shoemakers' Lane it seems as if all the ill-favored apprentices are crowding around him. One plucks his cape. "Here, good Father! Exactly what you want!" "Hearken not to the thief," shouts another; "try on our shoes and name your own price!" A third tries to push him into yet another stall. "Good sirs," cries Grégoire, in dismay, "for God's sake treat me gently or I'll buy no shoes at all!" Only reluctantly do they let him make his choice, then conclude a bargain unmolested by outsiders. In the fish, bread, and wine markets the scenes can be even more riotous, while the phrases used by the hucksters in crying their wares are peculiar and picturesque. As always in trade, it is well that "the buyer should beware"; fixed prices are really unknown and inferior goods are inordinately praised. Nevertheless, the city and guild authorities try hard to protect purchasers from misrepresentation. The officers are always making unannounced rounds of inspection to see how the guild ordinances are being obeyed.[111] The fate of the rascally woolen maker has been noted. Heavy fines have also been imposed lately upon a rope maker who put linen in a hemp cord, and a cutler who put silver ornaments in a bone knife handle. This, however, was not to protect purchasers, but because they had gone outside the line of work permitted to members of their guild and trenched upon another set of craftsmen. Indeed, a very short residence in Pontdebois makes one aware that within the chartered commune the question is not, as in strictly feudal dominions, "Whose 'man' is he?" but "To what guild does he belong?" Everything apparently revolves around the trade and craft guilds. Some of these guilds, like that of the butchers, are alleged to be much older than the granting of the charter; but it is undeniable that the organizations have multiplied and grown in power since that precious document was obtained.[112] Each special industry goes to the seigneur (in this city to the bishop) for a special grant of privileges and for a fee he will usually satisfy the petitioners, especially as they desire the privileges mainly to protect them against their fellow craftsmen, not against himself. In Paris there are more than three hundred and fifty separate professions; in Pontdebois they are much fewer, yet the number seems high. Many guilds have only a few members apiece, but even the smallest is mortally jealous of its prerogatives. One "mystery" makes men's shoes, another women's, another children's. Some time ago the last mentioned sold some alleged "children's shoes" which seemed very large! Result--a bitter law suit brought by the women's shoemakers. Christian charity among the guildsmen has not been restored yet. In Paris they say that the tailors are pushing a case against the old-clothes dealers because the latter "repair their garments so completely as to make them practically new." There will soon be handsome fees for the kings' judges, if for nobody else.[113] [Sidenote: Division and Regulations of Guilds] Such friction arises, of course, because each guild is granted a strict monopoly of trade within certain prescribed limits. A saddle maker from a strange city who started a shop without being admitted to the proper guild would soon find his shop closed, his products burned, and his own feet in the stocks by the town donjon. The guilds are supposed to be under strict regulations, however, in return for these privileges. Their conditions of labor are laid down, as are the hours and days of working. The precise quality of their products is fixed, and sometimes even the size of the articles and the selling price. Night work, as a rule, is forbidden, because one cannot then see to produce perfect goods, although carpenters are allowed to make coffins after sunset. On days before festivals everyone must close by 3 P.M., and on feast days only pastry shops (selling cakes and sweetmeats) are allowed to be open. Violaters are subject to a fine, which goes partly to the guild corporation, partly to the town treasury; and these fines form a good part of the municipal revenue. The guilds are not labor unions. The controlling members are all masters--the employers of labor, although usually doing business on a very small scale. A guild is also a religious and benevolent institution. Every corporation has its patron saint, with a special chapel in some church where a priest is engaged to say masses for the souls of deceased members.[114] If a member falls into misfortune his guild is expected to succor him and especially, if he dies, to look after his widow and assist his orphans to learn their father's craft. Each organization also has its own banner, very splendid, hung ordinarily beside the guild's altar, but in the civic processions proudly carried by one of the syndics, the craft's officers. To be a syndic in an influential guild is the ordinary ambition of about every young industrialist. It means the acme of power and dignity attainable, short of being elected echevin. The road to full guild membership is a fairly difficult one, yet it can be traversed by lads of good morals and legitimate birth if they have application and intelligence. A master can have from one to three apprentices and also his own son, if he has one who desires to learn the trade. The apprentices serve from three to twelve years. [Illustration: A COMMONER (THIRTEENTH CENTURY) From a bas-relief in the cathedral of Rheims.] [Sidenote: Apprentices, Hired Workers and Masters] The more difficult the craft the longer the service; thus it takes a ten-year apprenticeship to become a qualified jeweler. The lads thus "bound out" cannot ordinarily quit their master under any circumstances before the proper time. If they run away they can be haled back and roundly punished. They are usually knocked about plentifully, are none too well clothed, sleep in cold garrets, are fed on the leavings from the master's table, and can seldom call a moment their own except on holidays. Their master may give them a little pocket money, but no regular wages. On the other hand, he is bound to teach them his trade and to protect them against evil influences. Often enough, of course, matters end by the favorite apprentice marrying his master's daughter and practically taking over the establishment. At the end of the apprenticeship the young industrialist becomes a hired worker, perhaps in his old master's shop, perhaps somewhere else.[115] He is engaged and paid by the week, and often changes employers many times while in this stage of his career. The guild protects him against gross exploitation, but his hours are long--from 5 A.M. to 7 P.M. during the summer months. Finally, if he has led a moral life, proved a good workman, and accumulated a small capital, he may apply to the syndics for admission as a full master himself. A kind of examination takes place. If, for example, he has been a weaver he must produce an extremely good bolt of cloth and show skill in actually making and adjusting the parts of his loom. This ordeal passed, he pays a fee (divisible between the city and the guild) and undergoes an initiation, full of horseplay and absurd allegory. Thus a candidate for the position of baker must solemnly present a "new pot full of walnuts and wafers" to the chief syndic; and upon the latter's accepting the contents, the candidate deliberately "breaks the pot against the wall"--a proclamation that he is now a full member of the guild. The last act is of course a grand feast--the whole fraternity guzzling down tankard after tankard at the expense of the new "brother." There is one quarter of the town which the St. Aliquis visitors hardly dare to enter. Thrust away in miserable hovels wedged against one angle of the walls live the "accursed race"--the Jews. Here are dark-haired, dark-eyed people with Oriental physiognomies. They are exceedingly obsequious to Christians, but the latter do not trust them. These bearded men with earrings, these women with bright kerchiefs of Eastern stuffs, all seem to be conducting little shops where can be bought the cheapest furniture, household utensils, and particularly old clothes in Pontdebois. In this quarter, too, is a small stone building which Conon and his followers wonder that the echevins suffer to exist--a very ancient synagogue, for the Jewish colony is as old as the town. The few Christians who have periled their souls by venturing inside say the windows are very small and that the dark, grimy interior is lighted by dim lamps. Here also are strange ancient books written in a character which no Gentile can interpret, but by whispered report containing fearful blasphemies against the Catholic faith. [Sidenote: The Jews and Money Lending] Why are such folk permitted in Pontdebois? Maître Othon has to explain that if God has consigned these Jews to eternal damnation he has permitted many of them while in this world to possess inordinate riches. Some of the most abject-looking of these persons, who are compelled by law to wear a saffron circle on their breasts, can actually find moneys sufficient to pay the costs of a duke's campaign. Every great seigneur has "his Jew," and the king has "the royal Jew" who will loan him money when no Christian will do so in order to wage his wars or to push more peaceful undertakings. The Jews are indeed hard to do without because the Church strictly forbids the loaning of money on usury, yet somehow it seems very difficult to borrow large sums simply upon the prospect of the bare repayment of the same. The Jews, with no fear for their souls, do not hesitate to lend on interest, sometimes graspingly demanding forty, fifty and even sixty per cent.[116] This is outrageous, but ofttimes money must be had, and what if no Christian will lend? There are certain worthy men, especially Lombards of North Italy, who say that it were well if the Church allowed lending at reasonable interest, and they are beginning to make loans accordingly. This suggestion, however, savors of heresy. In the meantime the Jews continue despised, maltreated, and mobbed every Good Friday, but nevertheless almost indispensable. [Illustration: MONEY-CHANGERS (CHARTRES)] The great object which brings so many visitors to Pontdebois is the annual fair held every August in the field by the river, just south of the town. Then can be purchased many articles so unusual that they are not regularly on sale in the city shops, or even at the more general market which is held in the square before the donjon upon each Thursday. The Pontdebois fair cannot, indeed, compete in extensiveness with the Rouen or Dijon fairs, the famous Lendit fair (near St. Denis and Paris), nor, above all, with the great Champagne fairs at Troyes and elsewhere, for these are the best places for buying and selling in all France. Nevertheless one must not despise a fair which attracts nearly all the good folk of Quelqueparte who are intent on gains or purchases. In some respects the fair has many features like the tourney at St. Aliquis. Long files of travelers on beasts or on foot are approaching, innumerable tents are flaunting bright pennons, and the same jongleurs who swarmed to make music or to exhibit tricks at Conon's festival are coming hither also. But the travelers are not, as a rule, knights in bright armor, but soberly clad merchants. Their attendants lead, not high-stepping destrers, but heavily laden sumpter mules; the tents are not given over to gallant feasting and gentle intrigues, but to vigorous chaffering for that thing which all knights affect to despise--good money. Therefore, although the bustle seems the same, the results are very different. There is a special complication at these fairs. In what kind of money shall we pay? The royal coinage is supposed to circulate everywhere and to represent the standard, but the king's power cannot suppress a whole swarm of local coinages. There are deniers of Anjou, Maine, Rouen, Touraine, Toulouse, Poitou, Bordeaux, and many other districts besides the good royal coins from Paris; also a plentiful circulation of Constantinople bezants, Venetian zechins, German groats, and English silver shillings, in addition to many outlandish infidel coins of very debatable value. To add to the trouble, there are varying standards for weights and measures. You have to make sure as to which one is used in every purchase.[117] [Illustration: A FAIR IN CHAMPAGNE IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY In the center of the picture, a commoner and his wife going to make more purchases; at the right, in front of a shop, cloth merchants and their customers; a shop boy on his knees unpacks the cloth, another carries the bales; at the left, a beggar; another establishment of a draper; a group of people having their money weighed by the money changer; farther back, a lord and his servants going through the crowd; at the left a parade of mountebanks; at the right, other shops; and in the background the walls, houses, church, etc.] [Sidenote: Heavy Tolls On Commerce] The "royal foot" is a pretty general measure, but sometimes it is split into ten, sometimes into twelve, inches. Still worse is the pound weight. A Paris pound divides into sixteen ounces, but that of Lyons into fourteen, that of Marseilles into only thirteen. Clearly one needs time, patience, and a level head to trade happily at this fair! When you consider the number of tolls levied everywhere upon commerce--a fee on about every load that crosses a bridge, traverses a stretch of river or highway, passes a castle, etc.--the wonder grows that it seems worth while to transport goods at all. The fees are small, but how they multiply even on a short journey! Along the Loire between Roanne and Nantes are about seventy-four places where something must be paid. Things are as bad by land. Clergy and knights are usually exempt, but merchants have to travel almost with one hand in their pockets to satisfy the collectors of the local seigneurs. The result is that almost nothing is brought from a distance which is not fairly portable and for which there is a demand not readily met by the local workshops. Nevertheless, a good fair is a profitable asset to an intelligent seigneur. The present fair was instituted seventy years ago by an unusually enterprising lord bishop. He induced the barons of the region to agree to treat visitors to the fair reasonably and to give them protection against robbers. He also established strict regulations to secure for every trader fair play when disposing of his wares, commissioned sergeants to patrol the grounds, and set up a competent provost's court right among the tents, so that persons falling into a dispute could get a quick decision without expensive litigation.[118] In return he laid a small tax on every article sold. The arrangement worked well. Succeeding bishops have been wise enough to realize that contented merchants are more profitable than those that have been plundered. "Hare! Hare!" cry the prelate's sergeants on the first day--announcing the opening--and then for about two weeks the trafficking, bargain driving, amusements, and thimble rigging will continue. [Sidenote: Numerous Commodities at Fairs] The time of a fair is carefully calculated. Many merchants spend all the warmer months journeying with their wares from one fair to another. Many of the traders at Pontdebois have spent half of June at Lendit, where "everything is for sale, from carts and horses to fine tapestries and silver cups." The wares at this present fair are almost equally extensive, although the selection may be a little less choice. Besides all kinds of French products, there are booths displaying wonderful silks from Syria, or possibly only from Venice; there are blazing Saracen carpets woven in Persia or even remoter lands, while local dyers and fullers can stock up with Eastern dyestuffs--lovely red from Damascus, indigo from Jerusalem, and many other colors. You can get beautiful glass vessels made in Syria or imitated from Oriental models in Venice. The monks will buy a quantity of the new paper while they purchase their year's supply of parchment; and Adela will authorize the St. Aliquis cook to obtain many deniers' worth of precious spices--pepper, cinnamon, clove, and the rest essential for seasoning all kinds of dishes, even if their cost is very dear. The spices are sold by a swarthy, hawk-visaged Oriental who speaks French in quaint gutturals, is uncouthly dressed, yet is hardly a Jew. It is whispered he is a downright miscreant--_i.e._, an outrageous Infidel, possibly not even a Mohammedan. Perhaps he is native to those lands close to the rising place of the sun whence come the spices. Ought one to deal with such people? Nevertheless, the spices are desirable and he sells them cheaper than anybody else. There are many other unfamiliar characters at the fair, including a negro mountebank, quite a few Germans from the Rhenish trading cities, and a scattering of so-called Italians, mostly money changers and venders of luxuries, who, however, seem to be really Jews that are concealing their unpopular religion for the sake of gain. After the fair commences, many articles are on sale daily; but others are exhibited only for a short time. Thus, following the custom at Troyes, for the first day or two cloths are displayed in special variety; after that leather goods and furs; then various bulk commodities, such as salt, medicinal drugs, herbs, raw wool, flax, etc.; next comes the excitement of a horse and cattle market, when Conon will be induced to buy for his oldest son a palfrey and for his farms a blooded bull;[119] and after that various general articles will hold the right of way. [Illustration: THE SALE OF PELTRIES (BOURGES)] The Pontdebois masters are required to close their shops and do all their business at the fair grounds in order that there may be no unjust competition with the visiting traders. Indeed, all business outside the fair grounds is strictly forbidden in order to prevent fraudulent transactions which the bishop's officers cannot suppress. Thus, besides the costly imported wares, you can get anything you ordinarily want from the curriers, shoemakers, coppersmiths, hardware, linen, and garment venders, and the dealers in fish, grain, and even bread. All this means a chaffering, chattering, and ofttimes a quarreling, which makes one ask, "Have the days of the Tower of Babel returned?" The sergeants are always flying about on foot or horseback among the winding avenues of tents and booths, and frequently drag off some vagabond for the pillory. They even seize a cut-purse red-handed and soon give the idlers the brutal pleasure of watching a hanging. There are a couple of tents where notaries are ready with wax and parchments to draw up and seal contracts and bargains. Flemish merchants are negotiating with their Bordeaux compeers to send the latter next year a consignment of solid linseys; while a Mayence wine dealer is trying to prove to a seigneur how much his cellars would be improved by a few tuns of Rheingold, shipped in to mellow after the next vintage. [Sidenote: Professional Entertainers at Fairs] Along with all this honest traffic proceed the amusements worthy and unworthy. There are several exhibitors of trick dogs and performing bears. In a cage there is a creature called a "lion," though it is certainly a sick, spiritless, and mangy one; there are also male and female rope dancers and acrobats, professional story tellers, professors of white magic, and, of course, jongleurs of varying quality sawing their viols, or reciting romances and merry _fabliaux_--clever tales, though often indescribably coarse. There are, in addition (let the sinful truth be told) perfect swarms of brazen women of an evil kind; and there is enough heady wine being consumed to fill a brook into the Claire. The sergeants continually have to separate drunkards who get to fighting, and to roll their "full brothers"--more completely overcome--into safe places where they can sleep off their liquor unkicked by horses and uncrushed by constantly passing carts. This bustle continues two weeks. By that time everybody who has come primarily to buy has spent all his money. If he has come to sell, presumably he is satisfied. The drunkards are at last sad and sober. "Hare! Hare!" cry the sergeants on the evening of the last day. The fair is over. The next morning the foreign merchants pack their wares, strike their tents, and wander off to another market fifty miles distant, while the Pontdebois traders and industrialists resume their normal activity. They have stocked up with necessary raw materials for the year, they have absorbed many new ideas as to how they can make better wares or trade to more advantage; yet probably most of them are grumbling against "those Germans and Flemings and Jews whom the bishop turns loose on us. Blessed saints! how much money they have taken out of the neighborhood!" But the bishop, when his provost reports the tax receipts, is extraordinarily well satisfied. FOOTNOTES: [111] These regulations for a long period were of marked value for insuring a high grade of workmanship according to traditional methods, but later they became a most serious impediment to any improvements in industrial processes. Originality, new designs, and labor-saving devices were practically prohibited, and some industries were destined to remain almost stagnant down to the French Revolution. [112] Among the oldest traceable guilds in Paris were the Master Chandlers and Oilmen, who received royal privileges in 1061. The butchers, tanners, shoemakers, drapers, furriers, and purse makers, were other old Parisian guilds. [113] The fullers were always suing the weavers. Could the latter, if they wished, dye the cloth which they themselves had woven? Bakers were always at law with keepers of small cookshops who baked their own bread, etc. [114] Certain saints would naturally be the patrons of certain particular crafts--_e.g._, St. Joseph of the carpenters, St. Peter of the fishmongers, etc. [115] A master could not employ more than one or two paid workers, lest he build up too big a business and ruin his competitors. The guild system seems deliberately contrived to perpetuate the existence of a great number of _very small_ industries. [116] The extreme difficulty of collecting loans made to powerful seigneurs went far to explain these astonishing rates of interest. The chances of an unfriended Jew being unable to collect any part of his loan were extremely great. As a rule his hopes lay in becoming the indispensable man of business and financier of a king or other great lord who would support him in recovering principal and interest from lesser debtors, in return for great favors to himself. Thus Richard I of England is alleged to have made the Jews settled in his realm furnish nearly _one third_ of his entire revenues, as recompense for allowing them to use his courts to collect from their private debtors. [117] Mediæval coinages varied to such an extreme extent that it is almost impossible to make correct general statements about their modern values. In the time of Philip Augustus, probably the North French money table was something like this: 1 pound (livre)--2 marks--20 (earlier 24) sous--240 deniers--4760 obols. A sou, merely a money of account, was equal to about 20 modern francs ($3.86 gold), and the denier, a regular coin, to about one franc (19.3 cents, gold). The copper obols were thus worth about one cent. But money in the Feudal Age had a purchasing power equal to at least ten times what it is to-day, and attempts at close estimating are decidedly futile. [118] The courts of Champagne took particular pains to assure merchants of honest treatment and protection, and their fairs were unusually successful. Champagne, of course, by its central location between the Seine and the Rhine, the Midi and Flemish lands, was exceedingly well placed to attract merchants. [119] Frequently, however, the cattle markets might be held at special seasons entirely apart from the general fairs. Chapter XXIII: The Lord Bishop. The Canons. The Parish Clergy. After Conon and his baroness have soiled their gentle blood by discreet trafficking at the Pontdebois fair, the seigneur must needs pay a ceremonious call upon the lord bishop. He might indeed have accepted lodgings at the episcopal palace, but it is well not to be put under too many obligations even to so conciliatory a prelate as Bishop Nivelon. Between the lay and ecclesiastical lords there are compliments, but little affection. Both unite in despising the villein and distrusting the monks, but there the harmony often ends. The lord bishop occupies almost the apex of the ecclesiastical power, barring only the Pope and his cardinals; and all the lay world ought to honor the clergy. A familiar story illustrates the recognition due even to the humbler churchmen. Once St. Martin was asked to sup with the emperor. He was offered the cup before it was passed to the sovereign. This was a great honor. He was supposed merely to touch the vessel to his lips, then hand it on to his Majesty. Instead, to the surprise yet admiration of all, he gave it to a poor priest standing behind him, thereby teaching the plain lesson that a servant of God, even of the lowest rank, deserves honor above the highest secular potentate. The clergy is divided into two great sections--the religious (the monks) and the secular clergy who are "in the world" and have the "cure of souls." The parish priests belong, of course, to this second class. They celebrate mass and administer the sacraments and consolations of religion. They are possibly reckoned by the laity a little less holy than the monks, but their power is incalculable. At their head in each diocese (ecclesiastical province) is the bishop. Since the wealth of the Church embraces at least one fifth of all the real estate of France[120] and the control of this vast property is largely vested in the bishops, it is easy to see what holding such an office implies. There is no seigneur in Quelqueparte so rich as Bishop Nivelon, barring only the duke himself--and the duke would justly hesitate, quite apart from feelings of piety, to force a quarrel with so great a spiritual lord. [Illustration: EPISCOPAL THRONE OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY Restored by Viollet-Le-Duc, from an ivory in the Louvre.] [Sidenote: Activities and Privileges of Clergy] It will be hard for other ages to realize the part that is played by the Church in the feudal centuries. The clergy are far more than spiritual guides. They are directors of education and maintain about all there is of intellectual life, science, and learning. They help the weak secular authorities to preserve law and order. They supply practically all the teachers, lawyers, and professional nonfeudal judges in Christendom, and very many of the physicians. As already stated, that multitude of legal cases known as "probate," involving the disposal of wide estates, often go directly to the Church Courts. If an ordinary man appears interested in literary matters, he is frequently set down as a "clerk," even if he does not openly claim to have received holy orders. It is indeed very desirable legally for a common person (not a privileged noble) to be barely literate. If he can do this and is arrested on any charge, he can often "plead his clergy." The test is not to produce a certificate showing that he is a priest or monk, but to be able to read a few lines from the Bible or other sacred book. If he can read these fateful "neck verses," he may sometimes escape a speedy interview with the hangman. He is then ordinarily handed over to the bishop or the bishop's official (judicial officer) and tried according to the merciful and scientific canon law, which, whatever the offense, will seldom or never order the death penalty, save for heresy.[121] The worst to be feared is a long imprisonment in the uncomfortable dungeon under the bishop's palace. With conditions like this, what wonder if very worldly elements keep intruding into the secular clergy. Many a baron's son balances in his mind--which is better, the seigneur's "cap of presence" or the bishop's miter? The bishop, indeed, cannot marry; but the Church is not always very stern in dealing with other forms of social enjoyment. Sometimes a powerful reforming Pope will make the prelates affect a monkish austerity--but the next Pope may prove too busy to be insistent concerning "sins of the flesh." A great fraction of all the bishops are the sons of noble houses. Merely becoming tonsured has not made them into saints. They are the children of fighting sires, and they bring into the Church much of the turbulence of their fathers and brothers in the castles. [Illustration: A BISHOP OF THE TWELFTH CENTURY From an enameled plaque representing Ulger, bishop of Angers (1125-1149). He wears the albe, the dalmatica, the chasuble, the amice, and the miter. He blesses with the right hand, an attitude in which bishops are often represented.] [Sidenote: Election of Bishops] Certainly, men of humble birth can become prelates. It is one of the glories of the Church that, thanks to her, the children of poor villeins can receive the homage of the great in this world. Pope Sylvester II was the son of a mere shepherd of Aurillac. Suger, the mighty abbot of St. Denis and vice gerent for Louis VI, was the son of an actual serf. Pope Hadrian IV, the only Englishman who has ever mounted the throne of St. Peter, seems to have had an origin hardly more exalted. All this shows what fortune can sometimes await bright and lucky boys who enter betimes the convent schools instead of following the plow.[122] But Heaven seldom reverses the natural order. As a rule, when a noble enters the church, family influence and the social prestige of his caste will get behind him. He is far more likely to be elected bishop and to enjoy the seats of glory than are his fellow clerics, learned and devout, who have no such backing. Nivelon of Pontdebois is an example of the average bishop of the superior kind. He was the second son of a sire of moderate means. Family influence secured him, while fairly young, the appointment as canon at the cathedral. The old bishop conveniently happened to die at a time when both the duke and his suzerain, the king, thought well of the young canon and were anxious to conciliate his relatives. Nivelon, too, had displayed sufficient grasp on business affairs, along with real piety, to make men say that he would prove a worthy "prince spiritual." The canons (with whom the choice nominally lay) made haste to elect him after a broad hint from both the duke and the king. Confirmation was obtained from Rome after negotiations and possibly some money transfers.[123] Since then Nivelon has ruled his diocese well. He has been neither a great theologian nor a man of letters, as are certain contemporaneous bishops, nor a self-seeking politician and a mitered warrior like others. There have been no scandalous luxuries at his palace, and he has never neglected his duties--which none can deny are numerous. There is plenty of excuse for Nivelon if he allows religious tasks to be swamped by secular ones. He apparently differs largely from a seigneur in that his interests and obligations are more complex. On his direct domains are parish churches, abbeys, farms, peasant villages, and forests which he must rule by his officials and provosts just as Conon rules St. Aliquis. He has many noble fiefs which owe him homage and regular feudal duties in peace and war. His knightly vassals wait on him, as do regular lieges, and are bound on state occasions to carry him through his cathedral city seated on his episcopal throne. He does not himself do ordinary homage to the king, but he must take to him a solemn oath of fealty, and assist with armed levies on proper summons. There are many clergy around his palace, but also a regular baronial household--seneschal, steward, chamberlain, marshal, and equerry, though not, as with the laxer prelates, a master of the hawks. So much for Monseigneur Nivelon's temporal side; but, since he is a self-respecting prelate, his ecclesiastical office is no sinecure. He has to ordain and control all the parish priests (curés), and spends much of his time inspecting the rural churches and listening to complaints against offending priests, suspending and punishing the guilty. Indeed, his days are consumed by a curious mixture of duties. Just before Conon ceremoniously calls upon him he has been listening first to a complaint from a castellan about the need of new trenchbuts for the defense of a small castle pertaining to the bishopric, and then to the report of his "official" concerning a disorderly priest accused of blaspheming the Trinity while in his cups in a tavern. [Sidenote: Ecclesiastical Duties of Bishops] Once a year Nivelon has to hold a synod in the choir of his cathedral. All the nonmonastic clergy of the diocese are supposed to be present, and he has to preach before them, stating home truths about Christian conduct and administering public reprimands and discipline. Often his routine is interrupted by the commands of the king that he, as a well-versed man of the world, shall come to Paris to give counsel, or even go to England or Flanders as the royal ambassador. If the king does not demand his time, the Pope is likely to be using him to investigate some disorderly abbey,[124] or as arbiter between two wrangling fellow ecclesiastics. It would be lucky if a summons did not presently come, ordering the bishop to take the very tedious and expensive journey to Rome to assist at some council (such as the Lateran Council of 1215) or be party to some long-drawn litigation. [Illustration: A BISHOP OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY From the tomb of Evrard de Frouilloy, bishop of Amiens, died in 1229 and was buried in the cathedral of that city. He wears beneath the albe, the chasuble.] A conscientious bishop can, indeed, be no idler. If he has any spare time he can always spend it sitting as judge in cases which if he is compelled to be absent he deputes to his official. The canon law is far more scientific than local customs. Nivelon, or his deputy, has also a clear understanding of issues which will leave even so well-meaning a seigneur as Conon hopelessly befuddled. The Church courts refuse to settle cases by duels. As a rule, too, they discourage ordeals, despite the alleged intervention of God therein. Trials in the bishop's court betake of inquests based on firm evidence taken before experienced judges. The result is that many honest suitors try to get their cases before the Church tribunals--and, as stated, the jurisdiction of the Church is very wide. A bishop, therefore, if he wishes, can put in almost his whole time playing the Solomon; or, if he prefer, he can almost always find the estates of the diocese enmeshed in financial problems which it will tax his best energies to disentangle. All these things Nivelon is supposed to do or must get done. What wonder (considering mortal frailty) that many men who seek the episcopate for temporal advantage often bring their great office into contempt? It is true that sometimes very worldly young clerics, when once elected, are sobered by their responsibilities and become admirable prelates. There is a story of a college of canons which decided to elect to the vacant bishopric a fellow member "who was excellent in mother wit," but who, when they sought him to tell of his honor, was actually dicing in a tavern. Forth they dragged him, "weeping and struggling," to the cathedral, and thrust him into the episcopal chair. Once enthroned, however, he proved sober and capable, thus proving how, despite his original sins, "the free gift of virtue which had come upon him (by consecration) shaped the possibilities of an excellent nature." [Sidenote: Evil and Luxurious Prelates] This is all very well, but the sacred honor does not always work such reformation. The monks never conceal the faults of the rival branch of the clergy. A monkish preacher has lately declaimed: "The bishops surpass as wolves and foxes. They bribe and flatter in order to extort. Instead of being protectors of the Church, they are its ravishers." Or again, "Jesus wore hair cloth; they silken vestments. They care not for souls, but for falcons; not for the poor, but for hunting dogs. The churches from being holy places have become market places and haunts for brigands." Most of this is mere rhetoric, and such sweeping generalizations are unjust. If the majority of bishops are not ascetics, neither are they rapacious libertines. Nevertheless, even as one ill-ruled abbey brings contempt on many austere establishments, so a few faithless bishops bring scandal on the whole episcopate. Some years ago Pope Innocent III had to denounce a South French bishop as "serving no other God but money, and having a purse in place of a heart." This wretch was charged with selling Church offices, or leaving them vacant in order to seize their incomes, while the monks and canons under him (says the Pope) "were laying aside the habit, taking wives, living by usury, and becoming lawyers, jongleurs, or doctors."[125] Acts like these have forced the Council of Paris in 1212 to forbid bishops to wear laymen's garments or luxurious furs; to use decorated saddles or golden horse bits, to play games of chance, to go hunting, to swear or let their servants swear, to hear matins while still in bed, or excommunicate innocent people out of mere petulance. Bishops, too, are not supposed to bear arms, but we have seen how they sometimes compromise on "bloodless" heavy maces. Nivelon occasionally lets a secular advocate or vidame lead his feudal levy, but at times he will ride in person. A bishop, of course, was King Philip's chief of staff at Bouvines,[126] although in excuse it should be said he had been the member of a military monastic order; but Bishop Odo of Bayeux fought at Hastings (1066) before any such authorized champions of the Church existed. One need not multiply examples. That bishops shall genuinely refrain from warfare is really a "pious wish" not easily in this sinful world to be granted. A bishop can, however, justify this assertion of the Church militant. He must fight to maintain the rights of the bishopric against the encroaching nobility. Around the royal domain conditions are reasonably secure, but here in Quelqueparte, as elsewhere in the average feudal principalities, it is useless to ask the suzerain to do very much to defend his local bishop, the two are so likely to be very unfriendly themselves. Anathemas cannot check the more reckless seigneurs. In 1208 the Bishop of Verdun was killed in a riot by a lance thrust, and in this very year 1220 the Bishop of Puy (in the south of France) has been slain by noblemen whom he had excommunicated. The murderers have doubtless lost their souls, but this fact does not recall the dead! Jongleurs (who echo baronial prejudices) are always making fun of bishops, in their epics alleging that they lead scandalous lives and are extraordinarily avaricious, even when summoned to contribute for a war against the Infidels. The truth is, the bishops, being often recruited from the nobility, frequently keep all their old fighting spirit. The bishop opposes a neighboring viscount, just as the viscount will oppose his other neighbor, a baron. Frequently enough the war between a bishop and a lay seigneur differs in no respect from a normal feud between two seigneurs who have never been touched by tonsure and chrism. [Sidenote: Friction with Abbots and Barons] There are other frictions less bloody, but even more distressing to the Church. If there is an exempt abbey in the diocese--independent of the bishop and taking orders from only the Pope--the abbot and the bishop are often anything but "brethren." Each is continually complaining about the other to the Vatican. However, even if the local abbey is not directly under the Pope, its head is likely to defy the bishop as much as possible. Abbots are always trying to put themselves on equality with bishops and intriguing at Rome for the right to wear episcopal sandals, a miter, etc. So the strength of the Church is wasted, to the great joy of the devil. It is counted a sign that the Bishop of Pontdebois and the Abbot of St. Aliquis are both superior prelates, that their relations are reasonably harmonious. However, it is with the nobles that Nivelon has his main troubles. One of the reasons why Conon wishes to see the bishop is to complain of how certain St. Aliquis peasants are being induced to settle on the Church lands. Villeins somehow feel that they are better treated by a bishop or abbot than by the most benevolent of seigneurs. "There is good living under the cross," runs the proverb. Also, the baron wishes to urge the bishop not to excommunicate a fellow noble who is at issue with the prelate over some hunting rights. It is all very well for the bishop to devote to the evil one and the eternal fire a really sacrilegious criminal. The fact remains that many nobles allege that they are excommunicated, and unless reinstated lose their very hopes of heaven, merely because they have differed from great churchmen as to extremely secular property questions. The fearful ceremony of excommunication is liable to fall into contempt except when used in the most undoubted cases. A resolute baron, sure of his cause, can defy the anathema and, if his followers stand by him, may hold out until he forces a compromise. If the struggle is bitter, however, the bishop has another weapon. He can put the offending seigneur's lands and castles under the Interdict. Doubtless it is a harsh thing to deny all religious services and sacraments, save the last unction to the dying, to thousands of innocent persons merely because their lord persists in some worldly policy. Yet this is done frequently, and is, of course, of great efficacy in getting pious people, and especially the womenfolk, to put pressure upon their seigneur to come to terms with the Church. Sometimes an "intermittent" interdict is established. Thus, for a long time the Count and the Bishop of Auxerre were at enmity. The count, a hardened scoffer, was no wise troubled by excommunication. Then the bishop ordained that as soon as the count entered the city of Auxerre all the offices of religion, except baptism and last unction, should be suspended. The moment he and his men departed the church bells rang and religious life resumed. The instant he returned there was more bell ringing--whereat the churches were closed. The count did not dare to stay very long in the city, because of popular murmurs; yet he and the bishop kept up this unedifying war for fifteen years until the Pope induced the king to induce the count to submit to the Church by a humiliating penance. Excommunication and interdict are thus weapons which a lord spiritual can use against a lord temporal, to supplement crossbows and lances. Unfortunately they have fewer terrors against foes which all bishops, including Nivelon, have within their own household--the chapters of canons at the cathedrals. [Sidenote: A Chapter of Canons] To be a canon is almost equal to enjoying the perquisites of some less valuable bishopric without the grievous cares of the episcopal office. The chapter of canons constitutes the privileged body of ecclesiastics who maintain the worship at the cathedral. As you go through Pontdebois you see the great gray mass of the new episcopal church rising ahead of you. Presently a solid wall is reached, protected by a gate and towers. This is the cathedral "close," a separate compound next to the majestic church and communicating with it by a special entrance. Within this close one passes under strictly ecclesiastical jurisdiction. Here is a pretentious residence, the bishop's palace, and a pleasant garden, and here is also a group of smaller houses--the habitations of the canons. These last form the chapter of canons who enjoy as a corporate body a quantity of lands, seigneurial rights, officers, and goodly income quite separate from the bishops. Supposedly they are controlled by a Rule, but it is a rule far less severe than that of most monks. The chapter here, as elsewhere, is largely recruited from the local noble houses. Church law nominally forbids it, but the fact remains that many, if not most, canons are practically nominated, whenever there is a vacancy in the chapter, by this or that powerful seigneur. To get a relative a prebend (income from endowment) as canon is often equivalent to providing for life for a kinsman to whom you might otherwise have to cede a castle. It is well understood that since years ago a baron of St. Aliquis endowed with large gifts a certain prebend, his successors have the naming of its occupants, as often as it falls vacant. After Conon has visited the bishop, he will pay a friendly call on "his canon," not without a certain desire to verify the reports that this elderly cleric is in poor health and not long for the present world. If such rumors are correct, the baron must consider whether a certain remote cousin feels summoned to endure the hardships of a religious life, and what substantial favors this ambitious cousin and his father could give Conon for the privilege. A canon who performs _all_ his duties is hardly idle. He is supposed to take part in the incessant and often extraordinarily elaborate services at every cathedral. He should possess a good physical presence, and intone the offices with elegance and precision. Every week day he has to chant through five services, and on Sunday through nine. On certain great feasts and holidays there are still more. Anthems, responses, psalms, prayers, hymns, also public processions should keep him turning leaves of the ponderous ordinaries and manuals until he knows every chant therein by heart. [Sidenote: Worldliness of Canons] It is possible, however, to find substitutes in all the less important services. There are plenty of humbly born poor priests hovering around every cathedral, glad of a pittance to act as the lordly canon's deputies. A worldly minded canon therefore does not feel this duty of chanting to be very arduous. Of course, if he is absent too often, or from very important ceremonies, there is comment, scandal, and a reprimand from the bishop; but a wise bishop does not interfere with his canons except on grave provocation. They form an independent corporation with well-intrenched privileges. Their head, the dean, is entirely conscious that he is the second cleric in the diocese and that he need not look to the bishop for dignity and glory. The bishop himself has been to a certain extent chosen by these very canons. It will depend considerably upon their attitude toward him whether his dying moments are not embittered by the knowledge that his dearest enemy is not to be elected his successor. Finally, a chapter of canons can make a bishop's life a Gehenna by filing complaints against him with the archbishop (always glad to interfere), or directly at Rome. When men say that Nivelon has got along tolerably with his chapter as well as with his neighboring abbot and seigneurs, they prove again that he is an unusually tactful prelate. It is a fine thing, therefore, to be one of the dozen-odd canons, young or old, who inhabit the sacred close at Pontdebois. They can be identified by their special costume, the loose surplice of linen with wide sleeves covering the cassock, and by the "amice," a headdress of thick black stuff with a flat top and terminating on each corner in a kind of horn. Baron Conon points out to his sons these well-fed men of florid complexion, contented and portly, moving with slow dignity about the cathedral close. "How would you enjoy being a canon?" he asks of small Anseau, his youngest boy. "There are no better dinners than those in the chapter refectory; and remember that your brother will have to get the castle." Anseau shakes his head and scowls: "I might be a monk, yes," he rejoined; "monks save their souls and go to heaven--but a canon--ugh! They must weary God by their idleness. François may have St. Aliquis; but let him give me a good destrer and good armor. I will seek my fortune and win new lands." "The saints bless your words," cries his father, "there spoke a true St. Aliquis! And remember this: When cavalier or jongleur rails hardest against worthless churchmen, it is not bishop, priest, or monk whom half the time they have in their pates, but slothful canons. Yet I must see the Revered Father Flavien, and learn if his cough _is_ really as bad as they say!" Nivelon secures peace by letting his canons largely alone--to their great content. Fortunately, the good laymen of Quelqueparte do not depend entirely upon their spiritual administrations. The "cure of souls" rests with the parish priests. These are scattered all through the diocese. Their management takes up a large part of the bishop's crowded time. [Illustration: A DEACON (THIRTEENTH CENTURY) He wears an albe, the dalmatica, the amice, the stole, and the maniple. From a statue in the cathedral of Chartres.] [Sidenote: Appointment of Parish Priests] Every church requires at least one priest in residence to say mass and afford religious comfort to the laity. If competent bishops could always have appointed this clergy, much sorrow would have been eliminated. Unfortunately, the bishop can only name a fraction. Practically every noncathedral church has its patron, the heir or beneficiary of the wealthy personage who once endowed the local establishment. This patron may be the bishop himself, but often the honor may be enjoyed by an abbey, or a chapter of canons, or, in a majority of cases, by some very secular seigneur. Conon will say. "I hold the patronage of eight churches," just as he will say, "I hold St. Aliquis castle." The patron is entitled to a share of the tithe (tax for religious purposes) and other income of the parish, before turning the remainder over to the officiating priest. He can, in addition, "present to the living"--that is, name the new curé for the parish upon every vacancy. The bishop is supposed, indeed, to confirm the candidate, and should not do so without investigation as to the other's fitness, but he will hesitate to offend the patron by refusal to proceed with the ceremony unless the impediment is gross and patent. The candidate is asked to decline a Latin noun, to conjugate a simple verb, to chant a few familiar psalms with fair voice--that is probably about all the test for learning. To make matters worse, if the candidate fears his own bishop, he can go to another diocese and probably get a licence from a less exacting prelate. A bishop is obliged to honor the certificate issued by his equal. He can seldom then refuse after that to invest the priest with the parish. The last stage of scandal comes when the patron actually takes money for presenting a candidate. This is, of course, a terrible crime against the Church: it is simony--after the fashion of the accursed Simon Magnus, who was guilty of trying to purchase "the gift of God with money." Nivelon has just had to induct into a parish an ill-taught, worldly fellow, the son of a rich peasant, who somehow persuaded the Viscount of Foretvert that he was fit to have the spiritual conduct of five hundred Christians. The bishop has heard ugly rumors about "two hundred deniers," yet for lack of real proof is helpless. It is feared these scandals are frequent, but many times, if candidate and seigneur are willing to imperil their souls, what can be done? As a rule, however, conscientious patrons name well-reputed lads from their barony, the sons of thrifty peasants or of petty nobles, who have been to the school attached to a convent or cathedral, and who have developed an aptitude for saying masses rather than for plowing or fighting. The favor is bestowed rather as a reward for faithful service by the youth's family or to insure the same in the future, than for any direct money consideration. To be a parish priest is not a very high honor. After the patron has taken his share of the tithe, and the bishop another share, the curé is likely to be left with barely enough income to put him among the better class of peasants. Yet, after all, he is now caught up into the great body politic of the Church. The latter will not let him starve. It will give him a decent old age. It will protect him against those gross cruelties which seigneurs may inflict on any peasant. It will make him the most important individual in the average village--often the only person therein understanding the mysteries of parchments. If he is a worthy man, his influence as counselor, friend, and arbiter will be almost boundless. He will receive a personal respect almost equal to that due to a cavalier. Finally, there is always the chance that he may win some magnate's favor, and by good luck or merit rise to greater things. Father Grégoire, Conon's chaplain, although nominally only a poor priest, is probably more influential in St. Aliquis than Sire Eustace, the seneschal--Conon sometimes complains good naturedly that he is more powerful than Conon himself. So then, apart from any desire for strictly religious leadership, it is no bad thing for a lad of humble origin to be appointed parish priest. [Sidenote: Evil and Faithful Priests] If, however, to receive a parish means not a holy trust, but a sordid opportunity, what a chance for making the fiends rejoice! Every jongleur, when he runs out of more legitimate stories, chatters about godless priests. Charges against the parish clergy are the small coin of filthy gossip--how they violate their vows of celibacy in a shameless manner; how they frequent taverns, take part in low brawls, drink "up to their throats," and lie torpid in the fields; how they fight with their parishioners; how they sell strong drink like tapsters; how they play dice, gamble and often cheat their opponents, etc. Another set of charges is that if their means admit, they wear armor like nobles, or dress like foppish laymen, and ride out with hawks or dogs. More familiar still are the accusations of extreme covetousness; of the outrageous exaction of fees for administering the sacraments, even to the dying; of performing shameless marriages for money; of refusing burial services until they have been bribed; and, in short, of converting themselves into financial harpies. All this is undeniable. Yet it must be remembered that the number of parish clergy is very great, and the proportion of evildoers is (considering their manner of appointment) no more than might be expected. Many of the parish priests are true ministers of God who counsel the simple, persuade the erring, comfort the sorrowing, and leave the world better than they found it. A few, too, spend their leisure in genuine pursuit of learning, like that Father Lambert of Ardes (in Flanders) who is deeply read in old Latin authors and Christian fathers and who has composed an excellent local chronicle--worthy to rank with the best produced in the monasteries. Taken, therefore, at large, despite much dross, the men of the Church do not cast away their great opportunity. If alms and charity relieve the wretched, if letters and science have a genuine power, if the world retains other ideals than those of the tourney, the feud, and the foray, if villeins are taught that they, too, are men with immortal souls no less than are the barons, the glory belongs surely not to the castle, but to the monastery and to the parish. And when a good churchman dies, especially, of course, if he has been an effective and benignant bishop, all the region knows its loss. When the late Bishop of Auxerre departed, it was written, "It would be impossible to tell how great was the mourning throughout the entire city, and with what groaning and lamentations sorrow was shown by all who followed his funeral." While of the great and good Bishop Maurice of Paris, builder of Notre Dame, it was recorded, when he passed in 1196, that "he was a vessel of affluence, a fertile olive tree in the house of the Lord. He shone by his knowledge, his preaching, his many alms, and his good deeds." Like every other institution, the Church of the Feudal Age is entitled to be judged by its best and not by its worst. FOOTNOTES: [120] _One third_ of the real estate of Germany was alleged to have belonged to the church. Of course, much of this belonged to monasteries, to the endowments of canons (cathedral clergy), or of the parish priests, etc., but the bishops assuredly enjoyed or at least controlled the lion's share. [121] In the case of heretics, the Church did not execute the offenders by its own officers. It merely "relaxed" them to secular officials, who at once put the old civil laws against misbelievers in force. Of course, the Church could not secure the immunity of traitors and great criminals, yet even those were usually treated more tenderly if they could claim ecclesiastical jurisdiction. [122] One could go on multiplying such cases. For example, Maurice of Sully, who was bishop of Paris under Philip Augustus, was the son of a poor peasant. He managed his diocese admirably and bequeathed not merely considerable wealth to his relatives, but large properties to two abbeys and also funds for poor relief. [123] The question of the technical relations at this time of both Papacy and royalty to the appointment and investiture of French bishops is one that must be left for more detailed and learned volumes. [124] Some abbeys would be directly under the bishop and liable to visitation and discipline by him at any time. Others would be supposed to be directly under the authority of the Pope (see p. 326) but the Vatican would often send orders to a competent bishop to investigate and act on charges against them. [125] Manasses (a great cleric, chancellor of the chapter of Amiens) caused himself to be represented on his seal not holding a pious book, as was usual, but in hunting costume on horseback, a bird on his wrist and a dog following. He was evidently a worldly noble "who had the tastes of his class and led a noble's life." [126] See p. 244. Chapter XXIV: The Cathedral and Its Builders. Baron Conon and Adela had still another duty ere they returned to St. Aliquis. They were fain to go with their sons, and each burn a tall candle before the altar of Our Lady in the cathedral. All dwellers near Pontdebois are intensely proud of their great church. It has been building now these forty years. At last it is fairly complete, although the left tower has still to be carried up to the belfry, and very many niches lack the sculptured saints presently to occupy them. A worthy cathedral, like a worthy character, is growing continually. Probably the Feudal Age will end before Notre Dame de Pontdebois is completed as its pious designers have intended.[127] The cathedral is the center for a large group of buildings whereof most are in the noble pointed (Gothic) style of architecture. As just explained, in the sacred close there is the bishop's palace and the houses of the canons; there are also a cloister for promenading, a school (much like that at the monastery), a room for a library, and a synodal hall for meetings of the canons and where the bishop can conduct litigation. There is, in addition, a hospital for sick clerics. The whole forms a little world sequestered from the uproar and sordid bustle of the marts and workshops of Pontdebois. As you enter the cathedral compound, exterior cares are suddenly left behind you--a great sense of peace is realized. One hears the wind softly whistling through the soaring tracery of the massive right tower. There is a whirring flutter of doves from their homes under the flying buttresses. Through a section opened in the floral tracery of a great window comes the rumbling of an organ and the deep Gregorian chant of some hymn from the psalter. Utter contrast it all is either to the hammering and chaffering of the city, or the equally worldly clatter of the castle court! The vast tower pointing upward speaks even to the thoughtless, "Fortress and city, trade and tourney endure only for the instant--the things of the Spirit abide forever." The cathedral, by its vast and soaring bulk, completely dwarfs the comparatively small and mean houses of the town. They are of thatch and wood. It is of stone. They lack even a tawdry magnificence. The cathedral could gaze with contempt on royal palaces. This fact teaches even more clearly than words the enormous place occupied by the Church in the Feudal Age. It is not by its literature and learning (though these are not to be despised), but _by its sacred architecture and sculpture_ that the spirit of this era displays its power and originality. In contemplating so magnificent a fabric, it is best to remember that it is the work of men of ardent faith, profoundly convinced that in the church building there dwells continually upon the high altar God himself, invisible but ever present. Squalid dwellings may suffice for man, but not for the Creator. And since God actually takes his abode in such an edifice, every art must contribute to its splendor. Architects, sculptors, painters, jewelers, all perform their best, each rendering his homage to the Eternal. The cathedral, therefore, sums up all that is noblest in the art of the time when it is erected. [Illustration: NOTRE DAME AND THE BISHOP'S PALACE AT THE BEGINNING OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY From the restoration of M. Hoffbauer. At the left the Petit-Pont and the buildings of the archbishop's palace, destroyed in 1831; the cathedral, of which the choir and the south transept were finished only at this date; behind the cathedral, on the ground occupied to-day by a public garden, was the church of Saint-Denis du Pas, built previous to the cathedral and destroyed in 1813.] Since the nave of such a church often can be used for secular mass meetings without fear of impiety, and since a whole countryside will claim the right to throng the edifice on great festival days, a cathedral has to be far larger than an ancient pagan temple.[128] It must possess an interior meet for elaborate processions, stopping often at each of twenty-odd altars lining its walls. To erect a building like this is an undertaking in which a whole countryside can be asked to join. About forty years ago the old cathedral, built in the ancient Romanesque (round-arched) style with a wooden roof, was falling into disrepair, and the new pointed, stone-vaulted architecture was developing through all France. People from regions round made remarks about the "impiety" of the clergy and folk near Pontdebois in "dishonoring heaven." Various prelates taunted the ruling Bishop Thibaut with his mean cathedral. This Thibaut, however, had been an energetic as well as a devout man. By prudent administration of the diocese he had saved considerable money. He next persuaded his canons to curtail their luxuries and to contribute generously. Means, too, were taken to lure money from the faithful. The holy relics were exhibited. Indulgence from purgatory was promised to donors. Conscience-stricken barons were urged to atone for their crimes by liberal gifts to the new enterprise. Civic pride and excited piety won the deniers from the Pontdebois trade and industrial masters. A rich countess left a notable legacy on condition that the canons should always pray for her soul on the anniversary of her death. So between coaxing and religious feeling a goodly fund was collected--and, as was wisely said, "the new cathedral has saved many souls"--meaning that many sinful people were happily moved to redeeming acts of generosity. There were even gifts, it is said, from brigands and evil women, likewise a good many less debatable presents in kind, as when a baron gave both the necessary oak and the pay of the carvers for making the magnificent choir stalls, besides presenting the great stained-glass rose window. Whatever the source, no donation was denied, the bishop counting it fortunate if even the booty of thieves could be turned to the glory of God. [Sidenote: Building the Cathedral] Bishop Thibaut found a skillful architect, a Norman, half cleric, half layman, who had assisted on one of the great churches at Rouen. The plans this man drew up were very elaborate, but he did not live to see them more than half executed. Even if workmen and money failed not, it was dangerous to rush the erection of the great piers, buttresses, and vaulted ceilings. At Auxerre, where they tried to hasten the work, much of the choir suddenly collapsed "like a crash of thunder," though Heaven mercifully prevented the loss of life. At Noyon they began to build in 1152. Their cathedral was nearly finished by 1200. Notre Dame de Paris was begun in 1163, and the choir was fairly completed by 1177; but the great towers and façade certainly cannot be finished before 1225. Rheims was begun in 1211, but undoubtedly even the work on the choir cannot be ended under thirty years from that date. If Pontdebois is reasonably complete after forty years of effort it is therefore being built more expeditiously than the average cathedral. Indeed, many wiseacres shake their heads. "Too much haste," they mutter; "when one builds for God and in order to last till His Judgment Day, it is very sinful to hurry." First the choir was finished with all energy possible, for here the canons must constantly chant their offices. The nave, which was more for popular gatherings, waited till later. There was great rejoicing when at last the main portal was so far completed that a very fine and tenderly carved statue of Christ could be set above the same. "_Our beautiful God!_" the people lovingly call the image; and from that time, year by year, the work went forward, every member or ornament that was added seeming to suggest something additional, as if the achieving of perfection were to be a work for eternity. [Sidenote: Cathedral a Natural Growth] To erect the main structure of his cathedral, Thibaut had called in a traveling fraternity of workmen, the Lodging-House Keepers of the Good God, who obeyed the Master of the Work--_i.e._, an architect. They would stay for years in one place, recruiting new members as old ones died, then moving elsewhere when no longer needed. This fraternity erected the main structure of the building; then Thibaut passed away, money failed, and enthusiasm somewhat lapsed. However, twenty years later, a new fraternity were put to work on the façade and towers. This was more delicate work, involving a great deal of skillful carving. They were obliged to stop again before completion had been attained. Probably a score of years hence, still another such fraternity will raise the second tower. Meantime, every year, a few skillful craftsmen, sustained by donations, add a statue here and a gargoyle yonder, put richly painted glass into another window, or complete the intricate carving around the railing to the pulpit stairs. Now and then there is a special exhibition of relics to attract worshipers and their alms.[129] One of the results is that the style of the different parts of the cathedral differs subtly according to the respective periods of their construction. There is not a contradiction, but only a pleasing variety. One feels that _the cathedral is something living_. It has come into being, not by arbitrary creation, but by a natural growth; like a mighty, comfort-spreading tree. [Illustration: THIRTEENTH-CENTURY WINDOW IN THE CATHEDRAL OF CHARTRES, REPRESENTING SAINT CHRISTOPHER CARRYING CHRIST] As we wander about this glorious fabric, with its hundreds of statues,[130] its blazing windows, its vaulted roof which hangs its massive weight of stone so safely above our heads, all attempts at detailed description become futile. Let them be left for other books and other moods. Later generations doubtless will record at great length that about the middle of the twelfth century a great activity in church building, as a surpassing work of Christian piety, began to manifest itself especially in northern France. This activity was not to spend itself for more than a hundred years.[131] It absorbed much of the best thought and energy of the time. In addition, it developed a genuinely new type of architecture, a real innovation upon those models traceable back to the pagan Greek. We come to the reign of the pointed arch which adapts itself to endless curves and varieties. We have, too, the grouped columns which uphold the groins of the lofty vaulting, their members radiating outward like the boughs of a stately forest. These columns and piers can be made amazingly light, thanks to the daring use of flying buttresses, an invention not merely of great utility, but of great beauty. Thanks also to these grouped pillars, groins, and buttresses, the walls between the bays (intervals between the columns) are in no wise needed to uphold the roof of stone; and as a result these bays can be filled up with thin curtain walls crowned above with enormous windows which are filled with a delicate tracery and a stained glass that throws down upon the pavement of the church all the rainbow tints of heaven. Each bay is likely to contain a separate chapel or at least an altar to some particular saint. Over the portal, where the main entrance gives access to the long nave, radiates the mighty rose window, the final triumph of the glass and tracery. And so through all the vast structure--huge in proportions, yet, as it were, a harmonious mass of fair carving and jewel work, until (even as says Holy Writ) "the whole body fitly joined together, and compacted by that which every joint supplyeth, according to the effectual working in every part, maketh increase of the body unto the edifying of itself in love." [Sidenote: Magnificent Dimensions of Cathedrals] So the apostle of the making of a Christian man, so, too, of the making of the august church. And after saying this, what profit to add that this cathedral has a length of about four hundred feet, that the ceiling of the nave rises at least one hundred feet above the pavement, that the rose window is nearly forty feet in diameter, that the higher tower is much more than two hundred?[132] Numbers are for sordid traffic, they are not for a work wrought out of a passionate love of man toward God. We cannot stay to linger over the symbolism which they tell us is in every part of the church; how the "Communion of Saints" is proclaimed by the chapels clustering around the choir and nave; how the delicate spire which rises at the center of the transepts teaches that "vanquishing earthly desire we should also ascend in heart and mind"; how the triple breadth of the nave and two aisles, likewise the triple stretch of the choir, transepts and nave, proclaim the Holy Trinity; and how the serried armies of piers and columns announce the Prophets and Apostles who uphold the fabric of the Church; while font, altar, crucifix, and crosses innumerable attest the earthly pilgrimage and redeeming passion of Jesus Christ. But the cathedral is more than a great collection of allegories. Everywhere in stained glass, and still more in the multitudinous images, is told the Bible story. The characters are not clothed in Hebraic fashion. "Baron Abraham" and "Sire David" appear in ring mail like doughty cavaliers. The history of the good warrior Judas Maccabæus perhaps is told in greater detail than that of prophets like Isaiah and Jeremiah. But very few important stories are omitted, and, above all, the great pageant of the life of Jesus is worked out in loving detail. The child, who is brought time and again to visit the cathedral, knows almost every essential Bible narrative, albeit he may never learn to read even French, much less to con the Latin of the Vulgate. Likewise, in the cathedral rest the tombs of brave seigneurs and worthy bishops, each covered either with an effigy showing his armor and his beloved hunting dogs couched at his feet, or in his pontificals; and the tombs also of noble women, sculptured as richly clad, who have made life beautiful by their worthy living, and who now rest securely until God's great Judgment. So the cathedral is both a temple for the hopes of the present, and an inspiration from the remote and nearer past.[133] [Sidenote: Stained Glass and Sculptures] After he had prayed beside his father and mother, little Anseau stole away from the altar and wandered timidly about the church. In a corner of a transept he found a stone craftsman completing a small image of St. Elizabeth to adorn some niche. The sculptor was polishing the back of the statue no less carefully than the front. "Why such trouble?" asked the boy curiously. "No one can see the back." "Ah, my fair damoiseau," replied the other, smiling, "no man, of course; _but God can see_. This is for the Cathedral; and is God 'no one'?" The next day, having spent all their money and become wearied of the mechanic bustle of Pontdebois, Baron Conon and his company rode back to St. Aliquis. After they had traveled for miles, the great mass of the cathedral was still visible behind them. The Feudal Age has produced very much that is evil--it has also produced the Gothic church and its builders. By which ought the epoch be judged? Seven hundred years afterward the donjon of St. Aliquis is an ivy-covered ruin. Vanished is the monastery; vanished, too, the peasants' huts. In the smoky industrial city on the site of Pontdebois not one ancient stone seems left upon another. But, hold! Soaring high above ugly roof and factory chimney, with its airy pinnacles denouncing a life of materialism and doubt, visited by admiring pilgrims from beyond the Sea of Darkness, the great fabric of the gray cathedral remains. FOOTNOTES: [127] Few or no cathedrals were _really_ completed at any time, in the sense that all the details of their design were brought to perfection. [128] For example, Notre Dame de Paris covered four times the floor area of the Parthenon at Athens (a decidedly large Greek temple) with its nave thrice as high as the older building. Of course, a Greek temple was primarily for housing a holy image; the great sacrifices and the throng of worshippers would be outside the edifice in the open, unlike a Christian church. [129] One device was to take an extra-precious relic and intrust it to monks, who would place it in a cart and drive through a wide region haranguing the faithful and holding out a purse for them to fill. At Rouen one of the cathedral towers was known as the "Butter Tower," because it was largely built with money given for permission to eat butter in Lent. [130] At Rheims, prior to the German bombardment of 1914, there were more than two thousand statues. [131] During this period there were built in France some eighty cathedrals and more than five hundred large and superior churches in this Gothic style. [132] Such figures would indicate that Pontdebois Cathedral was somewhat smaller than Notre Dame de Paris. It could rank up well among the great churches of France, yet not at all in the first class. [133] St. John of Damascus, writing in the Orient in the eighth century, gave what amounted to the standard justification of holy images and pictures in churches and for the veneration of the same: "I am too poor to possess books, I have no leisure for reading. I enter the church choked with the cares of the world; the glowing colors attract my sight like a flowery meadow; and the glory of God steals imperceptibly into my soul. I gaze on the fortitude of the martyr and the crown with which he is rewarded, and the fire of holy emulation is kindled within me. I fall down and worship God _through_ the martyr; and I receive salvation." Index A Abbey, see Monastery. Abbot, election and powers of, 321, 322. sometimes profligate, 327. Adubbement, see Knighthood. Advocates, of monasteries, 332. Alexander, romances of, 180. Alms, collected at feasts, 129; see Charity. Apprentices, 362. Arbalists, 190. Architecture, military, improved by Crusader, 18. Aristotle, authority of, 336. Armor, 191 ff. Assembleur, a literary, 143. B Backgammon, 52. Bailey of Castle, 22. buildings and scene inside, 26. Baillis, seigneurial officers, 10 nt. _Banalités_, 258. Banner, of baronial castle, 33. Baptism, customs at, 81. Barbican, 21. Baronial family, of superior type, 14. Baron, usual rights of, 7. cruel and outrageous, 8, 9, 152. typical feuds and neighbors, 13. superior type of, 153. Baronial feuds, 224 ff. Barony, composition and government of, 10, 11. Bath, before adubbement, 202. Battle cries, 248. Battle, Bouvines, typical of Feudal warfare, 241 ff. mobilization for, 243. preliminaries of, 244. array of the armies, 245. engagement of the infantry, 247, 248. the battle cries, 248 nt. charge of French cavalry, 248, 249. flight of Otto IV, 250. rout of Germans and Flemings, 251. tactics and strategy employed, 251, 252. Beards, shaved by noblemen, 95. Beds, great feather, 39. Bedrooms, furniture of, 38 ff. Beer, 121. Beffroi, in sieges, 237. Bells, of communal donjon, 351. Bertran de Born, war songs by, 176. Betrothals, 105. Beverages, 120, 121. Bill of fare, at feasts, 128. on fast days, 129. Billiards, game of, 57. Birth, customs at, 81. Bishop, 373 ff. honors of, 373. wealth and power of, 374. desirability of office, 376. how elected, 377. vast secular duties, 378. employed by king or pope, 379. wrote ecclesiastical duties, 380. worldly types of, 380, 381. forbidden secular luxuries, 381. participates in warfare, 382. friction with abbots and barons, 383. abuse right to excommunicate, 383, 384. interdict by, 384. relations with canons, 385 ff. relations with parish priests, 388 ff. Bishops, visit disorderly monasteries, 326. Books, elegant copies of, 341. Brandy, 121. Bread, varieties of, 118. Bride, costume of, 107. Bridegroom, costume of, 108. Bridges, state of, 344. Bridge tolls, baronial, 12. Buffet of knighthood, 204, 205. C Camps, in feudal warfare, 243. Canons, elect bishops, 377, 380. nature of office, 385. duties of, 386. worldly and gross, 387. Carpets of rushes, and "Saracen," 37. Cartel of defiance, 229. Carver, at feast, 127. Castle, position of between rivers, 4. built to resist Vikings, 5. famous specimens of, 18. siege of, 234 ff. Castle, of St. Aliquis, original plan of, 16. primitive tower of, 17; disadvantages of early type, 18. rebuilt on improved model, 19. palisade before, 20. barbican outer barrier, 21. lists before bailey, 21. bailey, gates and porters, 22. walls and parapet, 23. great difficulty of attacking, 24. scene in the bailey, 26. buildings in the bailey, 26, 27. cookhouse in bailey, 28. inner ward of, 28. inner gate, 29. main court yard of, 29. donjon of, 30. halls of, 30 ff. prison under donjon, 33. summit of great tower, 33. watchman on tower, 34. palais, main residential building, 34, 35. furniture in hall and chambers, 36 ff. Castle building, era of, 6. Castle folk, one huge family, 46. intimate relations between, 47, 48. organization of, 48. "Cat," siege engine, 237. Cats, 84. Cathedral, numerous uses of, 393. express the best spirit of the age, 394. erection a regional undertaking, 396. initial stages of building, 397. fraternity of builders, 398. building a natural growth, 399. use of arches, columns and buttresses, 400. stately dimensions required, 401. magnificent stained glass, 402. every part a work of piety, 403. Chambers, of baronial castle, 36. Chansons de geste, 138 ff., 142. Charity, 275 ff. motives for, 276. alms very customary, 277. given by monasteries, 333. Charter, communal, 352, 353. Checkers, game of, 52. Cheese, varieties of, 119. Chess, in great acceptance, 54. history of game, 55. chessmen, 56. Children, rearing of, 80 ff. early education of, 82. Christmas celebrations and plays, 294. Church, endeavors to regulate marriages, 101, 102. resists divorces, 102. vast wealth of, 374 nt. See Bishop, Abbey, Monastery, Canons, Priests, etc. City, entrance to, 346. crowded streets, 347. lack of air and sanitation, 348. population of, 347 nt. great burghers of, 349. burgher mansion, 349. danger from fires, 350. the civic donjons, 351. communal charger, 352. See Commune. Cleanliness, personal, among upper classes, 42. lack of, in woolen clothing, 89. Clergy, legal privileges of, 159, 375. see Bishop, Canons, Priests, Monks. Clerk, see clergy, Church, etc. Cloisters, of abbey, 317. Clothing, of peasants, 264. Coinage, confusion in, 366. Commerce, see Shops, Industries, Fairs. Commune, charter of, 352, 353. privileges of inhabitants, 353. clergy rail at Commune, 354. communal insurrections, 354. jurisdiction of bishop, 355. rule by echevins and rich merchants, 355, 356. Corvées, 258. Courtesy, training in, 184. Cowls, 320. Clothing, male and female, 88 ff. materials used, 89. garments of noblemen, 90. headdress for men, 91. garments of noblewomen, 91. use of silks and furs, 92. rapid changes in fashions, 93. dress of lower classes, 94. headdress of women, 95. conspicuous costumes to indicate evil characters, 98. Cookery and foods, 113 ff. implements in cookhouse, 114. meat frequently boiled, 114. game especially desired, 114, 115. butcher's meat, 115. poultry, 116. fish, 117. soups, 117. meat pies, 117. Cookhouse, in a castle, 28. Cosmetics, use of by women, 97. Cross bows, 190. Crusades, on wane in XIII century, 3. improve military architecture, 18. D Dais, in castle hall, 36. Damoiseau, 185. Dances, varieties of, 133. Dancing, passion for, 84, 85. Dean, of canons, 386. Devil, belief in, 302. assists wizards and witches, 303. Dice, games with, 52. sinfulness of, 53, 54. Dinners, menu at castle in ordinary days, 49. Divining, 306. Divorces, resisted by Church, 102. Dogs, very desirable for hunting, 64. Donjon, of castle, 30 ff. of a commune, 351. Dinner customs, 122 ff. See Feast. Drawbridges, of castle, 22, 28. Dress, see Clothing. E Echevins, in commune, 355. Economic self-sufficiency, of a well-ruled barony, 46. Education, of young nobleman, 176 ff. ideals inculcated, 178. training in letters, 179. reading of romances, 180. training in riding, fencing and hawking, 181. maxims inculcated, 181, 182. placed out as squire, 182. training as squire, 182-184. taught jousting, 183. learns "courtesy," 184. good side of training, 186. premium on prodigality, 186, 187. demanding knighthood, 187. Effeminate knights, 188. Emancipation, of villeins, 256. Ensigns, before city houses, 350. Epics, North French, 142, 143. Excommunication, of a lawless baron, 9. a public declaration of, 289. abuse of, by bishops, 383, 384. Executions, varieties of, 170 ff, 173. beheading honorable penalty, 173. hanging, usual method, 173,174. ceremonies at gallows, 174, 175. F Fairs, 365 ff. attended by great multitudes, 366. very profitable to founders, 368. numerous commodities on sale, 369. regulation of traffic, 370. amusements at, 371. Falconry, see Hawking. Family life in a castle, 70. Famines, among peasantry, 255. Fealty, oath of, 157. Feast, formal, arrangement of guests, 126. beginning of dinner, 126. serving the meats, 127. typical bill of fare, 128. on a fast day, 129. closing ceremonies, 130. vast plenty and carousing, 130, 131. Feudal civilization, reaches climax in XIII century, 2. Feudalism, 146 ff. nature of, 147. absence of true gradations in, 148. duties of fief holders, 149. military service usually essential, 150. arrogance of many barons, 151, 152. outrageous baronial tyrants, 152. better types of barons, 153. how fiefs are expanded, 154. accession to a barony, 154, 155. doing homage, 156. oath of fealty, 157. vassalage honorable, 158. Feuds, baronial, 224 ff. frequency of, 225. waged within families, 225. limitations upon baronial, 226. pitched battles infrequent, 226. absence of strategy, 227. great valor of warriors, 228. origins of a typical feud, 229. delivering the "cartel," 229. assembling the vassals, 230. a baronial "array," 231. ravaging of noncombatants, 232. a petty battle, 233. use of mercenaries, 234. siege of a castle, 235 ff. Fiefs, varieties of, 147. duties of fief holders, 149. Fish, demand for, 117. use of, 129. Flowers, garden, 68, 69. Foods, see Cookery. Foresters, seigneurial, 259. France, in full mediæval bloom in XIII century, 2. French, rise of as literary language, 141. Frescoes, in castle, 35. Friendship, tokens of, 106. Fruit trees, 68, 69. Funeral customs, 284 ff. caskets and interments, 285. Furniture, of castle halls, 36, 37. of bedrooms, 38 ff. Furs, wearing of, 92. G Gambling, with dice, 53, 54. Game, wild, cannot be killed by peasants, 67. greatly desired at feasts, 114. varieties of game birds, 116. Game Laws, oppressive, 272. Games and amusements, 51 ff. Garden of a castle, 67 ff. frequent place for gatherings, 68. herbs and vegetables in, 68. constant demand for flowers, 69. Generosity, virtues of nobles, 186. Gifts, constantly exchanged among nobles, 187. Girls, noble, education of young, 83 ff. are devoted to hawks and dancing, 84. Glass, used for windows in castle, 35. Guilds, 360 ff. great subdivisions of, 360. friction between, 360, 361. regulations of, 361. management of, by syndics, 362. apprentices, 362. hired workers, 363. masters in guilds, 363. H Handwashing before meals, 125. Hangmen, 166 ff. burns dishonest cloth, 349. Hair, customs of wearing, 95. false hair used by women, 97. Halls of castle, 30 ff. very murky in donjon, 32. more elegant in palais, 35. Hauberks, 191. Hawking, vast delight in, 57. hawks always exhibited, 58. varieties of hawks and falcons, 59. complicated art of "Falconry," 59. training of hawks, 60. good falconers precious, 60. professional jargon of, 61. prayers over hawks, 61. excellent sport with, 62. Heralds, at tourneys, 212 ff. Hermits, 296. "Herodias's daughter," dance of, 136, 137. Homage, ceremony of, 156. Hospitality, baronial, 43 ff. ceremony of receiving guests, 44. Heiresses, given in marriage by suzerain, 102. Helmets, 192. Horses, indispensable in war, 196. varieties of, 197. trappings of, 198. presentation to new knights, 205. Hot cockles, game of, 52. Houses, of peasants, 263. huts of the very poor, 265. dwelling of rich burghers, 344. seldom of stone, 351. Hunting, serious business, 63. many wild animals, 63. equipment of hunters, 64. dogs essential for, 64. chasing down a great boar, 64 ff. return from the hunt, 66, 67. hunting across peasants' lands, 67. I "Immunity," possessed by barons, 7 nt. Imposts, on peasants, 258. Infantry, in battle, 245, 247, 248. Inns, 345, 346. Industries, in towns, 357 ff. trades in special streets, 358. shopkeepers, 359. regulation by officials, 359. See Guilds. Interest, on money, taken by Jews, 365. Interdict, 384. Isabella, Queen, forced by her barons to change husbands, 100. J Jews, in cities, 364, 365. Jongleurs, 132 ff. varieties of, 133. trick performers, 134. depraved montebanks, 135. jongleurs in great demand, 136. troupes of, 136, 137. a superior type of jongleur, 138. gives a recitation, 139 ff. Jousting, training in, 184. See Tourneys. Justice, administration of, 159 ff. no equality before the law, 159, 160. judicial powers of a baron, 160. "low justice" pertains to petty nobles, 161. laws enforced by the provosts, 161, 162. formal assizes, 162. ordeal by battle, 162. checks upon such ordeals, 163. summary treatment of villeins, 164. types of peasant litigation, 165. fate of condemned bandits, 165 ff. K King, seeks as many vassals as possible, 12. Knighthood, who can demand, 187. by whom bestowed, 200. nature of an adubbement, 200, 201. vigil at arms, 201, 202. dressing the candidates, 203. ceremony of adubbement, 204. presentation of horses, 205. exercises of new knights, 206. Knights, effeminate types of, 188. L Lances, 195. Last Day, fear of, 288. Lighting of halls and bedrooms, 39. Lists, before castle, 21. Lovers, presents between, 106. M Manners, for young ladies, 71 ff. Marriage ceremony, 109, 110. Marriage, 98 ff. usual reasons for marriages, 99. ages for, 99. heiresses compelled to marry, 100. very sudden marriages, 101. attempts of Church to regulate, 101-102. young girls wedded to aged barons, 103. negotiation of a marriage treaty, 103, 104. desirable qualities in a bridegroom, 104. betrothal ceremonies, 105. intercourse of betrothed couple, 105, 106. preparation for wedding, 106. wedding proceedings, 107 ff. customs of peasants, 266. Marshall, of a castle, 48. "Mass of the Ass," 292. Masters, in guilds, 363. Mealtimes and dinner customs, 42, 122. Meats, abundance and varieties of at feasts, 128. Medical Art, 280 ff. conducted by executioners and barkers, 280, 281. use of bleedings, 281. professional physicians, 281 ff. their jargon, 282. healing relics and processions, 283. Mêlée, climax to tourneys, 221. Mercenaries, use of, 234. Merchants, see Shops, Fairs, etc. Mining, in sieges, 239. Minstrels, see Jongleurs. Miracles, belief in, 300. Moats of castle, 22, 28. Mobilization, for battle, 242, 243. Monastery, 312 ff. Benedictine foundations, 314. land and buildings, 314, 315. abbey church, 316. cloisters, 317. dormitory, 318. refectory, 319. adornments of buildings, 320. costume of monks, 320, 321. discipline and organization, 321. duties and occupations of monks, 322, 323. persons becoming monks, 324. a disorderly monastery, 326. specimen abuses, 327. struggle against idleness in, 330. bequests to, 331. secular "advocates" of, 332. agriculture and industries in, 333. almsgiving by, 333. manual labor by monks, 334. copying of books, 335. study of pagan authors, 335. curriculum of study, 336. authority of Aristotle, 336. scientific works, 337. study of botany and geology, 338. writing chronicles, 339. piety of book copying, 340. beautiful manuscripts, 341. Monasticism, see Monastery and Monks. Money, hardly necessary on an average barony, 46. varieties of coinage, 366. Monks, many sick or infirm, 319 nt. costume of, 320. discipline of, 321 ff. persons becoming monks, 324. See Monastery. Montebanks, 135. _Montjoie St. Denis_, 248 nt. Morality, of castle life, 77-78. Music, delight in, 132. Mystery plays, 294, 295. N Needlework, by castle women, 80. Night, closing castle for, 49. Nightdresses, not used in feudal ages, 42. Nobles, employed around a castle, 48. O Omens, belief in, 300, 301. Ordeal, by battle, 162. by fire, 170, 171. Oriflamme, royal standard, 245. Otto IV, see Battle, Bouvines. P Palisade, before a castle, 20. Passions, hot and childish in feudal ages, 47, 48. Patrons, of parish churches, 388, 389. Peasants, forbidden to kill game, 67. inferior weapons of, 189. life of, 253 ff. always considered inferior, 254. population dense, 254. in danger from famines, 255. frequently emancipated from serfdom, 256. status of free "villeins," 257. constantly exploited, 258. lands much divided, 259. primitive agricultural methods, 261. calamity of short crops, 261, 262. a peasant family, 262. its house and furniture, 263. clothing of peasants, 264. very poor peasants, 265. villein marriage customs, 266. long hours of toil, 267. lack of education, 267, 268. filthy habits, 269. sullen and impious characters, 270. gross oppression by knights, 271. severe game laws, 272. futile peasant revolts, 273. popular village sports, 274. Pellison, 90, 91. Penance, public, 290. Philip Augustus, see Battle, Bouvines. Physicians, see Medical Art. Pilgrimage, as penance, 297. shrines frequented, 298. sacredness of Rome, 299. Pillory, 171. Pleasures, usual, of a baron, 43. Pork, demand for, 115. Porters of castle, 22. Poultry, 116. Priests, parish, 388 ff. how appointed, 388, 389. scandalous appointments, 389, 390. status of, in villages, 390. charges against, 391. many faithful and learned, 391, 392. Prior, of abbey, 322. Prison, sometimes under donjon, 33. treatment of inmates, 168, 169. fearful dungeons in, 169. Privacy, absence of in baronial castle, 36. Provosts, 8, 10. enforce law on barony, 161 ff, 259. Q _Quadrivium_, 336. _Quintain_, 185. R Ragman's roll, 51. Ransoms, sought in tourneys, 220. Recluses, 296. Reign of Folly, 291. Relics, holy, used for healing, 282, 283. saints, 307 ff. collections of, 308. great value of, 309. often spurious, 310. "translations" of, 311. Religion, popular, 286 ff. attitude of knights, 287. fear of Last Day, 288. Excommunications, 289. public penance, 290. festive side of religion, 291. "Reign of Folly," 291. Mass of the Ass, 292. Worship of the Virgin, 293. Christmas celebrations, 294. mystery plays, 295. hermits and recluses, 296. pilgrims, 297 ff. belief in spirits, 301 ff. Rings, customs with, 95, 96. Rising, early hour for, 41. Roads, evil state of, 344. Roland, Chanson de, 138. ordeal by battle in, 162. Romances, North French, 142, 143. read by young nobles, 180. Roman Law, returning to vogue, 160. Rome, resort for pilgrims, 299. Routine of the day, for a baron, 43. Rushes for carpets in castle halls, 37. S Sanitation, lacking in castle cookhouses, 28. not sufficiently guarded even by nobility, 42. Scientific studies, in monasteries, 337 ff. Seigneurial officers, 259. Self-sufficiency of a well-ruled barony, 46. Seneschal, of a castle, 48. Serfdom, 256. Service, personal, honorable for nobles, 48. Servants, abundant in castles, 85. organization and duties of, 86. Service, at table, 123. Shields, 193. Shopkeepers, 358, 359. Shoes, 90. Shrines, sought by pilgrims, 298. Sickness, frequent in Middle Ages, 277. leprosy and other plagues, 278. great losses in childbirth, 279. healing saints, 279, 280. mediæval medicine, 280 ff. Siege of a castle, 234 ff. varieties of siege engines, 236, 237. the beffroi, 237. mantelets, 238. undermining a wall, 239. Silks, for apparel, 92. _Sortes Apostolorum_, 306. Soups, 117. Spirits, supernatural, belief in, 301. Squires, taught to serve at table, 123. training and duties of, 182-184. Subinfeudation, 12. Superstitions, of peasants, 306. See Witchcraft, Devil, etc. Surcoat, introduction of, 93. Suzerains, see Feudualism. Swords, 194. Syndics, of guilds, 362. Syria, famous castles in, 19. T Tables, at dinner, 124. Tapestries, in castles, 37, 38. Taverns, 345. Tennis, game of, 57. Thirteenth Century: height of the Middle Ages, 2. Tilting, see Tourneys. Times for meals, 42. Tolls, on commerce, 367. Tortures, 165 ff. vainly discouraged by Pope Nicholas I, 166. methods of, 167 ff. Tolls, at a baron's bridge, 12. Towers of castle, 23. Trade, in towns, 358 ff. See Fairs. Travelers, usually welcomed at castles, 44. Travel, 343-345. Trenchers, at feast, 127. Tristan and Ysolt, story of, 139. _Trivium_, 336. Trojan War, romances of, 179. Troubadour songs, 144, 145. Tourneys, 208 ff. "crying" the tourney, 208. people attracted to them, 209. early tourneys were battles, 209, 210. denounced by Church, 210. arrangements for, 210, 211. lists and lodges, 211. opening ceremonies, 212. procession of jousters, 213. armor and bizarre costumes worn, 214. jousting by pairs, 215. art of lance-breaking, 216. a bloody duel, 217. defending a barrier, 218, 219. dueling for ransoms, 220. the mêlée, 221, 222. vast expense of tourneys, 223. Trouvéres, 142 ff. Tyranny, of outrageous barons, 8, 9. V Vassals, can have two or more seigneurs, 11. desire to hold from the king, 12. summons of, to war, 230. see Feudalism, Homage, etc. Vegetables, 68, 118. Vigil before knighthood, 202. Vikings, castles built to resist them, 5. Villeins, subject to summary justice, 164. See Peasants. Virgin, The, popular worship of, 293. W Walls of castle, 23. Wars, nobles delight in, 176. almost incessant, 224. varieties of, 225. See Feuds. Watchman, on castle tower, 34. Weapons, give superiority to nobles, 189. arms preferred by them, 189, 190. missile weapons non-noble, 191. armor, 191 ff. hauberks and helmets, 192. shields, 193. swords, 194. lances, 195. Wedding proceedings, 106 ff. bridal procession, 109. ceremony at church, 109, 110. presents at wedding, 110. great feast at wedding, 111. Windows, glass in castle, 35. stained glass in churches, 402. Wine, 120. Witchcraft, 303 ff. casting a spell, 305. lawful forms of divining, 306. Witches, 303-305. Wizards, 303-305. Women, noble, praised for beauty by minstrels, 70. types of female beauty, 71. taught good manners, 72, 73. married off against their will, 74. can be harshly treated, 74, 75. sometimes grossly neglected, 76. often extremely coarse, 77. alleged shortcomings of, 78. accomplishments of, 79. manage children and household, 80 ff. Woolens, generally used for garments, 89. _Books of Art and Artcraft_ HISTORY OF ART By Elie Faure Volume I--_Ancient Art_ _Translated from the French by Walter Pach_ No History of Art fills the place of this one. It shows art to be the expression of the race, not an individual expression of the artist. It tells _why_ and _how_ man constructs works of art. _Nearly 200 unusual and beautiful illustrations selected by the author._ DEVELOPMENT OF EMBROIDERY IN AMERICA By Candace Wheeler A history of embroidery from the quill and beadwork of the American Indians to the artistic achievement of the present. A book to delight the collector and to serve as a guide for the art student, designer, and practical worker. _32 pages of illustrations--some in full color._ HOW FRANCE BUILT HER CATHEDRALS By Elizabeth Boyle O'Reilly The Boston _Herald_ writes: "It is a monumental work, of living interest alike to the erudite devotee of the arts and to the person who simply enjoys, in books or his travels, the wonderful and beautiful things that have come from the hand of man ... the story of the French cathedrals against a human background--of the great men and women of the time." _With 31 illustrations in tint._ PRACTICAL ILLUSTRATION By John D. Whiting For artists who wish to sell their work, for publishers and advertisers who buy it, and for those responsible for mechanical reproduction. It will give the artist a full knowledge of trade requirements. It will teach the art buyer what to look for and provide against in originals. It will help the photo-engraver and photographer to eliminate defects in mechanical reproduction. _The author illustrates his points in 25 page plates, many in full color._ HARPER & BROTHERS Franklin Square New York _Humor and Drama_ By Distinguished Authors THE MAN FROM HOME By Booth Tarkington and Harry Leon Wilson The scene takes place in Italy, and the American humor shows up brilliantly against the foreign background. _Illustrated._ MONNA VANNA By Maurice Maeterlinck One of the Belgian poet's most powerful dramas. The scenes are laid at Pisa, Italy, at the end of the fifteenth century. _Portrait._ L'AIGLON By Edmond Rostand This, the only English edition published of the story of the great Napoleon's unfortunate son, was translated by Louis N. Parker. It is illustrated with pictures of Miss Maude Adams in the character of the Duke of Reichstadt. _Illustrated._ PARTING FRIENDS By William Dean Howells A farcical scene on an outgoing steamer, when two sweethearts can find neither time nor place for tender farewells. Readers who like brilliant conversation, unrestrained fun, and amusing character portrayal will find in these farces a rich treat. _Illustrated._ THE MOUSE-TRAP By William Dean Howells This volume contains in compact form four of Howells's most popular farces, which have been both read and acted with complete enjoyment and success. The farces in this volume are: The Garroters, Five-o'Clock Tea, The Mouse-Trap, A Likely Story. _Illustrated._ HARPER & BROTHERS Franklin Square New York * * * * * TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES Minor punctuation errors repaired. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ The image "Listening to a Trouvère in a Château of the Thirteenth Century" is shown in the list of Illustrations as "Facing p. 140" It is actually placed between p251 and p252 in the original. The position in the original has been retained, but its placement may be a printer's error. p60 "along with hugh goshawks" replaced with "along with huge goshawks" p73 "she will peversely do these very things" replace with "she will perversely do these very things" p91 "simplifications here and elaborations elsewere" replaced with "simplifications here and elaborations elsewhere" "oramented with gold embroideries" replaced with "ornamented with gold embroideries" p94 "veils common in the succeeding age" replaced with "veils common in the suceeding age" p100 "the crown of Jersualem became vacant" replaced with "the crown of Jerusalem became vacant" p106 "praising his finacée's beauty." replaced with "praising his fiancée's beauty." p143 "another entertainer than Maitre Edmond" replaced with "another entertainer than Maître Edmond" p148 "as our forefathers sent the old Carrolingians." replaced with "as our forefathers sent the old Carolingians." p153 "for his suzerian the duke" replaced with "for his suzerain the duke" p156 "as Father Grégorie says, pithily" replaced with "as Father Grégoire says, pithily" Footnote 55: "feel that they had sinnned beyond pardon." replaced with "feel that they had sinned beyond pardon." p206 "montionless for an instant" replaced with "motionless for an instant" p207 "he is knighted and can speak for hmself" replaced with "he is knighted and can speak for himself" p212 "sendel and samite," replaced with "sendal and samite," p213 "They do down one side" replaced with "They go down one side" "This process will keep up though the games." replaced with "This process will keep up through the games." p235 "said Jerome, smilingly" replaced with "said Jerôme, smilingly" p268 "Father Etienne is the only person" replaced with "Father Étienne is the only person" p292 "bishops fight against instrusions" replaced with "bishops fight against intrusions" p319 "too feeble to to get to the church." replaced with "too feeble to get to the church." p371 "while the Pointdebois traders" replaced with "while the Pontdebois traders" p378 "differs largely from a seigneur n that" replaced with "differs largely from a seigneur in that" p384 "the Church by a humiliating penace" replaced with "the Church by a humiliating penance" p394 "by the Church in the Fuedal Age" replaced with "by the Church in the Feudal Age" Footnote 128 "and the throng of worshipers" replaced with "and the throng of worshippers" p405 "Advocates, of monastries" replaced with "Advocates, of monasteries" p413 "Suzerains, see Feudualism" replaced with "Suzerains, see Feudalism" 
31345	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has Volume II of this two-volume work. See http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34051 HISTORY OF THE INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT OF EUROPE. by JOHN WILLIAM DRAPER, M.D., LL.D., Professor of Chemistry in the University of New York, Author of a "Treatise on Human Physiology," "Civil Policy of America," "History of the American Civil War," &c. REVISED EDITION, IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. [Illustration] New York: Harper & Brothers, Publishers, Franklin Square. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by Harper & Brothers, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. PREFACE. At the meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, held at Oxford in 1860, I read an abstract of the physiological argument contained in this work respecting the mental progress of Europe, reserving the historical evidence for subsequent publication. This work contains that evidence. It is intended as the completion of my treatise on Human Physiology, in which man was considered as an individual. In this he is considered in his social relation. But the reader will also find, I think, that it is a history of the progress of ideas and opinions from a point of view heretofore almost entirely neglected. There are two methods of dealing with philosophical questions--the literary and the scientific. Many things which in a purely literary treatment of the subject remain in the background, spontaneously assume a more striking position when their scientific relations are considered. It is the latter method that I have used. Social advancement is as completely under the control of natural law as is bodily growth. The life of an individual is a miniature of the life of a nation. These propositions it is the special object of this book to demonstrate. No one, I believe, has hitherto undertaken the labour of arranging the evidence offered by the intellectual history of Europe in accordance with physiological principles, so as to illustrate the orderly progress of civilization, or collected the facts furnished by other branches of science with a view of enabling us to recognize clearly the conditions under which that progress takes place. This philosophical deficiency I have endeavoured in the following pages to supply. Seen thus through the medium of physiology, history presents a new aspect to us. We gain a more just and thorough appreciation of the thoughts and motives of men in successive ages of the world. In the Preface to the second edition of my Physiology, published in 1858, it was mentioned that this work was at that time written. The changes that have been since made in it have been chiefly with a view of condensing it. The discussion of several scientific questions, such as that of the origin of species, which have recently attracted public attention so strongly, has, however remained untouched, the principles offered being the same as presented in the former work in 1856. _New York, 1861._ PREFACE TO THE REVISED EDITION. Many reprints of this work having been issued, and translations published in various foreign languages, French, German, Russian, Polish, Servian, &c., I have been induced to revise it carefully, and to make additions wherever they seemed to be desirable. I therefore hope that it will commend itself to the continued approval of the public. _November, 1875._ CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. ON THE GOVERNMENT OF NATURE BY LAW. _The subject of this Work proposed.--Its difficulty._ _Gradual Acquisition of the Idea of Natural Government by Law.--Eventually sustained by Astronomical, Meteorological, and Physiological Discoveries.--Illustrations from Kepler's Laws, the Trade-winds, Migrations of Birds, Balancing of Vegetable and Animal Life, Variation of Species and their Permanence._ _Individual Man is an Emblem of Communities, Nations, and Universal Humanity.--They exhibit Epochs of Life like his, and, like him, are under the Control of Physical Conditions, and therefore of Law._ _Plan of this Work.--The Intellectual History of Greece.--Its Five characteristic Ages.--European Intellectual History._ _Grandeur of the Doctrine that the World is governed by Law._ Page 1 CHAPTER II. OF EUROPE: ITS TOPOGRAPHY AND ETHNOLOGY. ITS PRIMITIVE MODES OF THOUGHT, AND THEIR PROGRESSIVE VARIATIONS, MANIFESTED IN THE GREEK AGE OF CREDULITY. _Description of Europe: its Topography, Meteorology, and secular Geological Movements.--Their Effect on its Inhabitants._ _Its Ethnology determined through its Vocabularies._ _Comparative Theology of Greece; the Stage of Sorcery, the Anthropocentric Stage.--Becomes connected with false Geography and Astronomy.--Heaven, the Earth, the Under World.--Origin, continuous Variation and Progress of Greek Theology.--It introduces Ionic Philosophy._ _Decline of Greek Theology, occasioned by the Advance of Geography and Philosophical Criticism.--Secession of Poets, Philosophers, Historians.--Abortive public Attempts to sustain it.--Duration of its Decline.--Its Fall._ 23 CHAPTER III. DIGRESSION ON HINDU THEOLOGY AND EGYPTIAN CIVILIZATION. _Comparative Theology of India; its Phase of Sorcery; its Anthropocentric Phase._ VEDAISM _the Contemplation of Matter, or Adoration of Nature, set forth in the Vedas and Institutes of Menu.--The Universe is God.--Transmutation of the World.--Doctrine of Emanation.--Transmigration.--Absorption.--Penitential Services.--Happiness in Absolute Quietude._ BUDDHISM _the Contemplation of Force.--The supreme impersonal Power.--Nature of the World--of Man.--The Passage of every thing to Nonentity.--Development of Buddhism into a vast monastic System marked by intense Selfishness.--Its practical Godlessness._ EGYPT _a mysterious Country to the old Europeans.--Its History, great public Works, and foreign Relations.--Antiquity of its Civilization and Art.--Its Philosophy, hieroglyphic Literature, and peculiar Agriculture._ _Rise of Civilization in rainless Countries.--Geography, Geology, and Topography of Egypt.--The Inundations of the Nile lead to Astronomy._ _Comparative Theology of Egypt.--Animal Worship, Star Worship.--Impersonation of Divine Attributes.--Pantheism.--The Trinities of Egypt.--Incarnation.--Redemption.--Future Judgment.--Trial of the Dead.--Rituals and Ceremonies._ 56 CHAPTER IV. GREEK AGE OF INQUIRY. RISE AND DECLINE OF PHYSICAL SPECULATION. IONIAN PHILOSOPHY, _commencing from Egyptian Ideas, identifies in Water, or Air, or Fire, the First Principle.--Emerging from the Stage of Sorcery, it founds Psychology, Biology, Cosmogony, Astronomy, and ends in doubting whether there is any Criterion of Truth._ ITALIAN PHILOSOPHY _depends on Numbers and Harmonies.--It reproduces the Egyptian and Hindu Doctrine of Transmigration._ ELEATIC PHILOSOPHY _presents a great Advance, indicating a rapid Approach to Oriental Ideas.--It assumes a Pantheistic Aspect._ RISE OF PHILOSOPHY IN EUROPEAN GREECE.--_Relations and Influence of the Mediterranean Commercial and Colonial System.--Athens attains to commercial Supremacy.--Her vast Progress in Intelligence and Art.--Her Demoralization.--She becomes the Intellectual Centre of the Mediterranean._ _Commencement of the Athenian higher Analysis.--It is conducted by_ THE SOPHISTS, _who reject Philosophy, Religion, and even Morality, and end in Atheism._ _Political Dangers of the higher Analysis.--Illustration from the Middle Ages._ 94 CHAPTER V. THE GREEK AGE OF FAITH. RISE AND DECLINE OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. SOCRATES _rejects Physical and Mathematical Speculations, and asserts the Importance of Virtue and Morality, thereby inaugurating an Age of Faith.--His Life and Death.--The schools originating from his Movement teach the Pursuit of Pleasure and Gratification of Self._ PLATO _founds the Academy.--His three primal Principles.--The Existence of a personal God.--Nature of the World and the Soul.--The ideal Theory, Generals or Types.--Reminiscence.--Transmigration.--Plato's political Institutions.--His Republic.--His Proofs of the Immortality of the Soul.--Criticism on his Doctrines._ RISE OF THE SCEPTICS, _who conduct the higher Analysis of Ethical Philosophy.--Pyrrho demonstrates the Uncertainty of Knowledge.--Inevitable Passage into tranquil Indifference, Quietude, and Irreligion, as recommended by Epicurus.--Decomposition of the Socratic and Platonic Systems in the later Academies.--Their Errors and Duplicities.--End of the Greek Age of Faith._ 143 CHAPTER VI. THE GREEK AGE OF REASON. RISE OF SCIENCE. THE MACEDONIAN CAMPAIGN.--_Disastrous in its political Effects to Greece, but ushering in the Age of Reason._ ARISTOTLE _founds the Inductive Philosophy.--His Method the Inverse of that of Plato.--Its great power.--In his own hands it fails for want of Knowledge, but is carried out by the Alexandrians._ ZENO.--_His Philosophical Aim is the Cultivation of Virtue and Knowledge.--He is in the Ethical Branch the Counterpart of Aristotle in the Physical._ FOUNDATION OF THE MUSEUM OF ALEXANDRIA.--_The great Libraries, Observatories, Botanical Gardens, Menageries, Dissecting Houses.--Its Effect on the rapid Development of exact Knowledge.--Influence of Euclid, Archimedes, Eratosthenes, Apollonius, Ptolemy, Hipparchus, on Geometry, Natural Philosophy, Astronomy, Chronology, Geography._ _Decline of the Greek Age of Reason._ 171 CHAPTER VII. THE GREEK AGE OF INTELLECTUAL DECREPITUDE. THE DEATH OF GREEK PHILOSOPHY. _Decline of Greek Philosophy: it becomes Retrospective, and in Philo the Jew and Apollonius of Tyana leans on Inspiration, Mysticism, Miracles._ NEO-PLATONISM _founded by Ammonius Saccas, followed by Plotinus, Porphyry, Iamblicus, Proclus.--The Alexandrian Trinity.--Ecstasy.--Alliance with Magic, Necromancy._ _The Emperor Justinian closes the philosophical Schools._ _Summary of Greek Philosophy.--Its four Problems: 1. Origin of the World; 2. Nature of the Soul; 3. Existence of God; 4. Criterion of Truth.--Solution of these Problems in the Age of Inquiry--in that of Faith--in that of Reason--in that of Decrepitude._ _Determination of the Law of Variation of Greek Opinion.--The Development of National Intellect is the same as that of Individual._ _Determination of the final Conclusions of Greek Philosophy as to God, the World, the Soul, the Criterion of Truth.--Illustrations and Criticisms on each of these Points._ 207 CHAPTER VIII. DIGRESSION ON THE HISTORY AND PHILOSOPHICAL INFLUENCES OF ROME. PREPARATION FOR RESUMING THE EXAMINATION OF THE INTELLECTUAL PROGRESS OF EUROPE. _Religious Ideas of the primitive Europeans.--The Form of their Variations is determined by the Influence of Rome.--Necessity of Roman History in these Investigations._ _Rise and Development of Roman Power, its successive Phases, territorial Acquisitions.--Becomes Supreme in the Mediterranean.--Consequent Demoralization of Italy.--Irresistible Concentration of Power.--Development of Imperialism.--Eventual Extinction of the true Roman Race._ _Effect on the intellectual, religious, and social Condition of the Mediterranean Countries.--Produces homogeneous Thought.--Imperialism prepares the Way for Monotheism.--Momentous Transition of the Roman World in its religious Ideas._ _Opinions of the Roman Philosophers.--Coalescence of the new and old Ideas.--Seizure of Power by the Illiterate, and consequent Debasement of Christianity in Rome._ 239 CHAPTER IX. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF INQUIRY. THE PROGRESSIVE VARIATION OF OPINIONS CLOSED BY THE INSTITUTION OF COUNCILS AND THE CONCENTRATION OF POWER IN A PONTIFF. RISE, EARLY VARIATIONS, CONFLICTS, AND FINAL ESTABLISHMENT OF CHRISTIANITY. _Rise of Christianity.--Distinguished from ecclesiastical Organization.--It is demanded by the deplorable Condition of the Empire.--Its brief Conflict with Paganism.--Character of its first Organization.--Variations of Thought and Rise of Sects: their essential Difference in the East and West.--The three primitive Forms of Christianity: the Judaic Form, its End--the Gnostic Form, its End--the African Form, continues._ _Spread of Christianity from Syria.--Its Antagonism to Imperialism; their Conflicts.--Position of Affairs under Diocletian.--The Policy of Constantine.--He avails himself of the Christian Party, and through it attains supreme Power.--His personal Relations to it._ _The Trinitarian Controversy.--Story of Arius.--The Council of Nicea._ _The Progress of the Bishop of Rome to Supremacy.--The Roman Church; its primitive subordinate Position.--Causes of its increasing Wealth, Influence, and Corruptions.--Stages of its Advancement through the Pelagian, Nestorian, and Eutychian Disputes.--Rivalry of the Bishops of Constantinople, Alexandria, and Rome._ _Necessity of a Pontiff in the West and ecclesiastical Councils in the East.--Nature of those Councils and of pontifical Power._ _The Period closes at the Capture and Sack of Rome by Alaric.--Defence of that Event by St. Augustine.--Criticism on his Writings._ _Character of the Progress of Thought through this Period.--Destiny of the three great Bishops._ 266 CHAPTER X. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF FAITH. AGE OF FAITH IN THE EAST. _Consolidation of the Byzantine System, or the Union of Church and State.--The consequent Paganization of Religion and Persecution of Philosophy._ _Political Necessity for the enforcement of Patristicism, or Science of the Fathers.--Its peculiar Doctrines._ _Obliteration of the Vestiges of Greek Knowledge by Patristicism.--The Libraries and Serapion of Alexandria.--Destruction of the latter by Theodosius.--Death of Hypatia.--Extinction of Learning in the East by Cyril, his Associates and Successors._ 308 CHAPTER XI. PREMATURE END OF THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE EAST. THE THREE ATTACKS, VANDAL, PERSIAN, ARAB. THE VANDAL ATTACK _leads to the Loss of Africa.--Recovery of that Province by Justinian after great Calamities._ THE PERSIAN ATTACK _leads to the Loss of Syria and Fall of Jerusalem.--The true Cross carried away as a Trophy.--Moral Impression of these Attacks._ THE ARAB ATTACK.--_Birth, Mission, and Doctrines of Mohammed.--Rapid Spread of his Faith in Asia and Africa.--Fall of Jerusalem.--Dreadful Losses of Christianity to Mohammedanism.--The Arabs become a learned Nation._ _Review of the Koran.--Reflexions on the Loss of Asia and Africa by Christendom._ 326 CHAPTER XII. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST. _The Age of Faith in the West is marked by Paganism.--The Arabian military Attacks produce the Isolation and permit the Independence of the Bishop of Rome._ GREGORY THE GREAT _organizes the Ideas of his Age, materializes Faith, allies it to Art, rejects Science, and creates the Italian Form of Religion._ _An Alliance of the Papacy with France diffuses that Form.--Political History of the Agreement and Conspiracy of the Frankish Kings and the Pope.--The resulting Consolidation of the new Dynasty in France, and Diffusion of Roman Ideas.--Conversion of Europe._ _The Value of the Italian Form of Religion determined from the papal Biography._ 349 CHAPTER XIII. DIGRESSION ON THE PASSAGE OF THE ARABIANS TO THEIR AGE OF REASON. INFLUENCE OF MEDICAL IDEAS THROUGH THE NESTORIANS AND JEWS. _The intellectual Development of the Arabians is guided by the Nestorians and the Jews, and is in the Medical Direction.--The Basis of this Alliance is theological._ _Antagonism of the Byzantine System to Scientific Medicine.--Suppression of the Asclepions.--Their Replacement by Miracle-cure.--The resulting Superstition and Ignorance._ _Affiliation of the Arabians with the Nestorians and Jews._ _1st. The Nestorians, their Persecutions, and the Diffusion of their Sectarian Ideas.--They inherit the old Greek Medicine._ _Sub-digression on Greek Medicine.--The Asclepions.--Philosophical Importance of Hippocrates, who separates Medicine from Religion.--The School of Cnidos.--Its Suppression by Constantine._ _Sub-digression on Egyptian Medicine.--It is founded on Anatomy and Physiology.--Dissections and Vivisections.--The Great Alexandrian Physicians._ _2nd. The Jewish Physicians.--Their Emancipation from Superstition.--They found Colleges and promote Science and Letters._ _The contemporary Tendency to Magic, Necromancy, the Black Art.--The Philosopher's Stone, Elixir of Life, etc._ _The Arabs originate scientific Chemistry.--Discover the strong Acids, Phosphorus, etc.--Their geological Ideas.--Apply Chemistry to the Practice of Medicine.--Approach of the Conflict between the Saracenic material and the European supernatural System._ 383 CHAPTER XIV. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST--(_Continued_). IMAGE-WORSHIP AND THE MONKS. _Origin of_ IMAGE-WORSHIP.--_Inutility of Images discovered in Asia and Africa during the Saracen Wars.--Rise of Iconoclasm._ _The Emperors prohibit Image-worship.--The Monks, aided by court Females, sustain it.--Victory of the latter._ _Image-worship in the West sustained by the Popes.--Quarrel between the Emperor and the Pope.--The Pope, aided by the Monks, revolts and allies himself with the Franks._ THE MONKS.--_History of the Rise and Development of Monasticism.--Hermits and Coenobites.--Spread of Monasticism from Egypt over Europe.--Monk Miracles and Legends.--Humanization of the monastic Establishments.--They materialize Religion, and impress their Ideas on Europe._ 413 THE INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT OF EUROPE. CHAPTER I. ON THE GOVERNMENT OF NATURE BY LAW. _The subject of this Work proposed.--Its difficulty._ _Gradual Acquisition of the Idea of Natural Government by Law.--Eventually sustained by Astronomical, Meteorological, and Physiological Discoveries.--Illustrations from Kepler's Laws, the Trade-winds, Migrations of Birds, Balancing of Vegetable and Animal Life, Variation of Species and their Permanence._ _Individual Man is an Emblem of Communities, Nations, and Universal Humanity.--They exhibit Epochs of Life like his, and, like him are under the Control of Physical Conditions, and therefore of Law._ _Plan of this Work.--The Intellectual History of Greece.--Its Five characteristic Ages.--European Intellectual History._ _Grandeur of the Doctrine that the World is governed by Law._ [Sidenote: The subject proposed.] I intend, in this work, to consider in what manner the advancement of Europe in civilization has taken place, to ascertain how far its progress has been fortuitous, and how far determined by primordial law. Does the procession of nations in time, like the erratic phantasm of a dream, go forward without reason or order? or, is there a predetermined, a solemn march, in which all must join, ever moving, ever resistlessly advancing, encountering and enduring an inevitable succession of events? [Sidenote: Its difficulty and grandeur.] In a philosophical examination of the intellectual and political history of nations, an answer to these questions is to be found. But how difficult it is to master the mass of facts necessary to be collected, to handle so great an accumulation, to place it in the clearest point of view; how difficult it is to select correctly the representative men, to produce them in the proper scenes, and to conduct successfully so grand and complicated a drama as that of European life! Though in one sense the subject offers itself as a scientific problem, and in that manner alone I have to deal with it; in another it swells into a noble epic--the life of humanity, its warfare and repose, its object and its end. Man is the archetype of society. Individual development is the model of social progress. Some have asserted that human affairs are altogether determined by the voluntary action of men, some that the Providence of God directs us in every step, some that all events are fixed by Destiny. It is for us to ascertain how far each of these affirmations is true. [Sidenote: Individual life of a mixed kind.] The life of individual man is of a mixed nature. In part he submits to the free-will impulses of himself and others, in part he is under the inexorable dominion of law. He insensibly changes his estimate of the relative power of each of these influences as he passes through successive stages. In the confidence of youth he imagines that very much is under his control, in the disappointment of old age very little. As time wears on, and the delusions of early imagination vanish away, he learns to correct his sanguine views, and prescribes a narrower boundary for the things he expects to obtain. The realities of life undeceive him at last, and there steals over the evening of his days an unwelcome conviction of the vanity of human hopes. The things he has secured are not the things he expected. He sees that a Supreme Power has been using him for unknown ends, that he was brought into the world without his own knowledge, and is departing from it against his own will. [Sidenote: It foreshadows social life.] Whoever has made the physical and intellectual history of individual man his study, will be prepared to admit in what a surprising manner it foreshadows social history. The equilibrium and movement of humanity are altogether physiological phenomena. Yet not without hesitation may such an opinion be frankly avowed, since it is offensive to the pride, and to many of the prejudices and interests of our age. An author who has been disposed to devote many years to the labour of illustrating this topic, has need of the earnest support of all who prize the truth; and, considering the extent and profundity of his subject, his work, at the best, must be very imperfect, requiring all the forbearance, and even the generosity of criticism. * * * * * [Sidenote: First opinions of savage life.] In the intellectual infancy of a savage state, Man transfers to Nature his conceptions of himself, and, considering that every thing he does is determined by his own pleasure, regards all passing events as depending on the arbitrary volition of a superior but invisible power. He gives to the world a constitution like his own. His tendency is necessarily to superstition. Whatever is strange, or powerful, or vast, impresses his imagination with dread. Such objects are only the outward manifestations of an indwelling spirit, and therefore worthy of his veneration. After Reason, aided by Experience, has led him forth from these delusions as respects surrounding things, he still clings to his original ideas as respects objects far removed. In the distance and irresistible motions of the stars he finds arguments for the supernatural, and gives to each of those shining bodies an abiding and controlling genius. The mental phase through which he is passing permits him to believe in the exercise of planetary influences on himself. [Sidenote: Fetichism displaced by star-worship.] But as reason led him forth from fetichism, so in due time it again leads him forth from star-worship. Perhaps not without regret does he abandon the mythological forms he has created; for, long after he has ascertained that the planets are nothing more than shining points, without any perceptible influence on him, he still venerates the genii once supposed to vivify them, perhaps even he exalts them into immortal gods. [Sidenote: The idea of government by law.] Philosophically speaking, he is exchanging by ascending degrees his primitive doctrine of arbitrary volition for the doctrine of law. As the fall of a stone, the flowing of a river, the movement of a shadow, the rustling of a leaf, have been traced to physical causes, to like causes at last are traced the revolutions of the stars. In events and scenes continually increasing in greatness and grandeur, he is detecting the dominion of law. The goblins, and genii, and gods who successively extorted his fear and veneration, who determined events by their fitful passions or whims, are at last displaced by the noble conception of one Almighty Being, who rules the universe according to reason, and therefore according to law. [Sidenote: Its application to the solar system.] In this manner the doctrine of government by law is extended, until at last it embraces all natural events. It was thus that, hardly two centuries ago, that doctrine gathered immense force from the discovery of Newton that Kepler's laws, under which the movements of the planetary bodies are executed, issue as a mathematical necessity from a very simple material condition, and that the complicated motions of the solar system cannot be other than they are. Few of those who read in the beautiful geometry of the 'Principia' the demonstration of this fact, saw the imposing philosophical consequences which must inevitably follow this scientific discovery. And now the investigation of the aspect of the skies in past ages, and all predictions of its future, rest essentially upon the principle that no arbitrary volition ever intervenes, the gigantic mechanism moving impassively in accordance with a mathematical law. [Sidenote: And to terrestrial events.] And so upon the earth, the more perfectly we understand the causes of present events, the more plainly are they seen to be the consequences of physical conditions, and therefore the results of law. To allude to one example out of many that might be considered, the winds, how proverbially inconstant, who can tell whence they come or whither they go! If any thing bears the fitful character of arbitrary volition, surely it is these. But we deceive ourselves in imagining that atmospheric events are fortuitous. Where shall a line be drawn between that eternal trade-wind, which, originating in well-understood physical causes, sweeps, like the breath of Destiny, slowly, and solemnly, and everlastingly over the Pacific Ocean, and the variable gusts into which it degenerates in more northerly and southerly regions--gusts which seem to come without any cause, and to pass away without leaving any trace? In what latitude is it that the domain of the physical ends, and that of the supernatural begins? All mundane events are the results of the operation of law. Every movement in the skies or upon the earth proclaims to us that the universe is under government. But if we admit that this is the case, from the mote that floats in the sunbeam to multiple stars revolving round each other, are we willing to carry our principles to their consequences, and recognise a like operation of law among living as among lifeless things, in the organic as well as the inorganic world? What testimony does physiology offer on this point? [Sidenote: And to the organic world.] Physiology, in its progress, has passed through the same phases as physics. Living beings have been considered as beyond the power of external influences, and, conspicuously among them, Man has been affirmed to be independent of the forces that rule the world in which he lives. Besides that immaterial principle, the soul, which distinguishes him from all his animated companions, and makes him a moral and responsible being, he has been feigned, like them, to possess another immaterial principle, the vital agent, which, in a way of its own, carries forward all the various operations in his economy. [Sidenote: Especially to man.] But when it was discovered that the heart of man is constructed upon the recognised rules of hydraulics, and with its great tubes is furnished with common mechanical contrivances, valves; when it was discovered that the eye has been arranged on the most refined principles of optics, its cornea, and humours, and lens properly converging the rays to form an image--its iris, like the diaphragm of a telescope or microscope, shutting out stray light, and also regulating the quantity admitted; when it was discovered that the ear is furnished with the means of dealing with the three characteristics of sound--its tympanum for intensity, its cochlea for pitch, its semicircular canals for quality; when it was seen that the air brought into the great air-passages by the descent of the diaphragm, calling into play atmospheric pressure, is conveyed upon physical principles into the ultimate cells of the lungs, and thence into the blood, producing chemical changes throughout the system, disengaging heat, and permitting all the functions of organic life to go on; when these facts and very many others of a like kind were brought into prominence by modern physiology, it obviously became necessary to admit that animated beings do not constitute the exception once supposed, and that organic operations are the result of physical agencies. If thus, in the recesses of the individual economy, these natural agents bear sway, must they not operate in the social economy too? [Sidenote: In social as well as individual life.] Has the great shadeless desert nothing to do with the habits of the nomade tribes who pitch their tents upon it--the fertile plain no connection with flocks and pastoral life--the mountain fastnesses with the courage that has so often defended them--the sea with habits of adventure? Indeed, do not all our expectations of the stability of social institutions rest upon our belief in the stability of surrounding physical conditions? From the time of Bodin, who nearly three hundred years ago published his work 'De Republica,' these principles have been well recognized: that the laws of Nature cannot be subordinated to the will of Man, and that government must be adapted to climate. It was these things which led him to the conclusion that force is best resorted to for northern nations, reason for the middle, and superstition for the southern. [Sidenote: Effects of the seasons on animals and plants.] In the month of March the sun crosses the equator, dispensing his rays more abundantly over our northern hemisphere. Following in his train, a wave of verdure expands towards the pole. The luxuriance is in proportion to the local brilliancy. The animal world is also affected. Pressed forward, or solicited onward by the warmth, the birds of passage commence their annual migration, keeping pace with the developing vegetation beneath. As summer declines, this orderly advance of light and life is followed by an orderly retreat, and in its turn the southern hemisphere presents the same glorious phenomenon. Once every year the life of the earth pulsates; now there is an abounding vitality, now a desolation. But what is the cause of all this? It is only mechanical. The earth's axis of rotation is inclined to the plane of her orbit of revolution round the sun. Let that wonderful phenomenon and its explanation be a lesson to us; let it profoundly impress us with the importance of physical agents and physical laws. They intervene in the life and death of man personally and socially. External events become interwoven in our constitution; their periodicities create periodicities in us. Day and night are incorporated in our waking and sleeping; summer and winter compel us to exhibit cycles in our life. [Sidenote: Individual existence depends on physical conditions.] They who have paid attention to the subject have long ago ascertained that the possibility of human existence on the earth depends on conditions altogether of a material kind. Since it is only within a narrow range of temperature that life can be maintained, it is needful that our planet should be at a definite mean distance from the source of light and heat, the sun; and that the form of her orbit should be so little eccentric as to approach closely to a circle. If her mass were larger or less than it is, the weight of all living and lifeless things on her surface would no longer be the same; but absolute weight is one of the primary elements of organic construction. A change in the time of her diurnal rotation, as affecting the length of the day and night, must at once be followed by a corresponding modification of the periodicities of the nervous system of animals; a change in her orbitual translation round the sun, as determining the duration of the year, would, in like manner, give rise to a marked effect. If the year were shorter, we should live faster and die sooner. [Sidenote: Animal and vegetable life interbalanced by material conditions.] In the present economy of our globe, natural agents are relied upon as the means of regulation and of government. Through heat, the distribution and arrangement of the vegetable tribes are accomplished; through their mutual relations with the atmospheric air, plants and animals are interbalanced, and neither permitted to obtain a superiority. Considering the magnitude of this condition, and its necessity to general life, it might seem worthy of incessant Divine intervention, yet it is in fact accomplished automatically. [Sidenote: And also appearances and extinctions determined.] Of past organic history the same remark may be made. The condensation of carbon from the air, and its inclusion in the strata, constitute the chief epoch in the organic life of the earth, giving a possibility for the appearance of the hot-blooded and more intellectual animal tribes. That great event was occasioned by the influence of the rays of the sun. And as such influences have thus been connected with the appearance of organisms, so likewise have they been concerned in the removal. Of the myriads of species which have become extinct, doubtless every one has passed away through the advent of material conditions incompatible with its continuance. Even now, a fall of half-a-dozen degrees in the mean temperature of any latitude would occasion the vanishing of the forms of warmer climates, and the advent of those of the colder. An obscuration of the rays of the sun for a few years would compel a redistribution of plants and animals all over the earth; many would totally disappear, and everywhere new comers would be seen. [Sidenote: Permanence of organisms due to immobility of external conditions.] The permanence of organic forms is altogether dependent on the invariability of the material conditions under which they live. Any variation therein, no matter how insignificant it might be, would be forthwith followed by a corresponding variation in the form. The present invariability of the world of organization is the direct consequence of the physical equilibrium, and so it will continue as long as the mean temperature, the annual supply of light, the composition of the air, the distribution of water, oceanic and atmospheric currents, and other such agencies remain unaltered; but if any one of these, or of a hundred other incidents that might be mentioned, should suffer modification, in an instant the fanciful doctrine of the immutability of species would be brought to its true value. The organic world appears to be in repose, because natural influences have reached an equilibrium. A marble may remain for ever motionless upon a level table; but let the surface be a little inclined, and the marble will quickly run off. What should we say of him, who, contemplating it in its state of rest, asserted that it was impossible for it ever to move? [Sidenote: Orderly sequence of conditions is followed by orderly organic changes.] They who can see no difference between the race-horse and the Shetland pony, the bantam and the Shanghai fowl, the greyhound and the poodle dog, who altogether deny that impressions can be made on species, and see in the long succession of extinct forms, the ancient existence of which they must acknowledge, the evidences of a continuous and creative intervention, forget that mundane effects observe definite sequences, event following event in the necessity of the case, and thus constituting a chain, each link of which hangs on a preceding, and holds a succeeding one. Physical influences thus following one another, and bearing to each other the inter-relation of cause and effect, stand in their totality to the whole organic world as causes, it representing the effect, and the order of succession existing among them is perpetuated or embodied in it. Thus, in those ancient times to which we have referred, the sunlight acting on the leaves of plants disturbed the chemical constitution of the atmosphere, gave rise to the accumulation of a more energetic element therein, diminished the mechanical pressure, and changed the rate of evaporation from the sea, a series of events following one another so necessarily that we foresee their order, and, in their turn, making an impression on the vegetable and animal economy. The natural influences, thus varying in an orderly way, controlled botanical events, and made them change correspondingly. The orderly procedure of the one must be imitated in the orderly procedure of the other. And the same holds good in the animal kingdom; the recognized variation in the material conditions is copied in the organic effects, in vigour of motion, energy of life, intellectual power. When, therefore, we notice such orderly successions, we must not at once assign them to a direct intervention, the issue of wise predeterminations of a voluntary agent; we must first satisfy ourselves how far they are dependent on mundane or material conditions, occurring in a definite and necessary series, ever bearing in mind the important principle that an orderly sequence of inorganic events necessarily involves an orderly and corresponding progression of organic life. [Sidenote: Universal control of physical agents over organisms.] To this doctrine of the control of physical agencies over organic forms I acknowledge no exception, not even in the case of man. The varied aspects he presents in different countries are the necessary consequences of those influences. [Sidenote: The case of man.] He who advocates the doctrine of the unity of the human race is plainly forced to the admission of the absolute control of such agents over the organization of man, since the originally-created type has been brought to exhibit very different aspects in different parts of the world, apparently in accordance with the climate and other purely material circumstances. To those circumstances it is scarcely necessary to add manner of life, for that itself arises from them. The doctrine of unity demands as its essential postulate an admission of the paramount control of physical agents over the human aspect and organization, else how could it be that, proceeding from the same stock, all shades of complexion in the skin, and variety in the form of the skull, should have arisen? Experience assures us that these are changes assumed only by slow degrees, and not with abruptness; they come as a cumulative effect. They plainly enforce the doctrine that national type is not to be regarded as a definite or final thing, a seeming immobility in this particular being due to the attainment of a correspondence with the conditions to which the type is exposed. Let those conditions be changed, and it begins forthwith to change too. I repeat it, therefore, that he who receives the doctrine of the unity of the human race, must also accept, in view of the present state of humanity on various parts of the surface of our planet, its necessary postulate, the complete control of physical agents, whether natural, or arising artificially from the arts of civilization and the secular progress of nations toward a correspondence with the conditions to which they are exposed. To the same conclusion also must he be brought who advocates the origin of different races from different centres. It comes to the same thing, whichever of those doctrines we adopt. Each brings us to the admission of the transitory nature of typical forms, to their transmutations and extinctions. [Sidenote: Human variations.] Variations in the aspect of men are best seen when an examination is made of nations arranged in a northerly and southerly direction; the result is such as would ensue to an emigrant passing slowly along a meridional track; but the case would be quite different if the movement were along a parallel of latitude. In this latter direction the variations of climate are far less marked, and depend much more on geographical than on astronomical causes. In emigrations of this kind there is never that rapid change of aspect, complexion, and intellectual power which must occur in the other. Thus, though the mean temperature of Europe increases from Poland to France, chiefly through the influence of the great Atlantic current transferring heat from the Gulf of Mexico and tropical ocean, that rise is far less than would be encountered on passing through the same distance to the south. By the arts of civilization man can much more easily avoid the difficulties arising from variations along a parallel of latitude than those upon a meridian, for the simple reason that in that case those variations are less. [Sidenote: Their political result.] But it is not only complexion, development of the brain, and, therefore, intellectual power, which are thus affected. With difference of climate there must be differences of manners and customs, that is, differences in the modes of civilization. These are facts which deserve our most serious attention, since such differences are inevitably connected with political results. If homogeneousness be an element of strength, an empire that lies east and west must be more powerful than one that lies north and south. I cannot but think that this was no inconsiderable cause of the greatness and permanence of Rome and that it lightened the task of the emperors, often hard enough, in government. There is a natural tendency to homogeneousness in the east and west direction, a tendency to diversity and antagonism in the north and south, and hence it is that government under the latter circumstances will always demand the highest grade of statesmanship. [Sidenote: Nature of transitional forms.] The transitional forms which an animal type is capable of producing on a passage north and south are much more numerous than those it can produce on a passage east and west. These, though they are truly transitional as respects the type from which they have proceeded, are permanent as regards the locality in which they occur, being, in fact, the incarnation of its physical influences. As long, therefore, as those influences remain without change the form that has been produced will last without any alteration. For such a permanent form in the case of man we may adopt the designation of an ethnical element. [Sidenote: Conditions of change in an ethnical element.] An ethnical element is therefore necessarily of a dependent nature; its durability arises from its perfect correspondence with its environment. Whatever can affect that correspondence will touch its life. [Sidenote: Progress of nations like that of individuals.] Such considerations carry us from individual man to groups of men or nations. There is a progress for races of men as well marked as the progress of one man. There are thoughts and actions appertaining to specific periods in the one case as in the other. Without difficulty we affirm of a given act that it appertains to a given period. We recognize the noisy sports of boyhood, the business application of maturity, the feeble garrulity of old age. We express our surprise when we witness actions unsuitable to the epoch of life. As it is in this respect in the individual, so it is in the nation. The march of individual existence shadows forth the march of race-existence, being, indeed, its representative on a little scale. [Sidenote: Communities, like families, exhibit members in different stages of advance.] Groups of men, or nations, are disturbed by the same accidents, or complete the same cycle as the individual. Some scarcely pass beyond infancy, some are destroyed on a sudden, some die of mere old age. In this confusion of events, it might seem altogether hopeless to disentangle the law which is guiding them all, and demonstrate it clearly. Of such groups, each may exhibit, at the same moment, an advance to a different stage, just as we see in the same family the young, the middle-aged, the old. It is thus that Europe shows in its different parts societies in very different states--here the restless civilization of France and England, there the contentment and inferiority of Lapland. This commingling might seem to render it difficult to ascertain the true movement of the whole continent, and still more so for distant and successive periods of time. In each nation, moreover, the contemporaneously different classes, the educated and illiterate, the idle and industrious, the rich and poor, the intelligent and superstitious, represent different contemporaneous stages of advancement. One may have made a great progress, another scarcely have advanced at all. How shall we ascertain the real state of the case? Which of these classes shall we regard as the truest and most perfect type? Though difficult, this ascertainment is not impossible. The problem is to be dealt with in the same manner that we should estimate a family in which there are persons of every condition from infancy to old age. Each member of it tends to pursue a definite course, though some, cut off in an untimely manner, may not complete it. One may be enfeebled by accident, another by disease; but each, if his past and present circumstances be fully considered, will illustrate the nature of the general movement that all are making. To demonstrate that movement most satisfactorily, certain members of such a family suit our purpose better than others, because they more closely represent its type, or have advanced farthest in their career. [Sidenote: The intellectual class the true representative of a community.] So in a family of many nations, some are more mature, some less advanced, some die in early life, some are worn out by extreme old age; all show special peculiarities. There are distinctions among kinsmen, whether we consider them intellectually or corporeally. Every one, nevertheless, illustrates in his own degree the march that all are making, but some do it more, some less completely. The leading, the intellectual class, is hence always the true representative of a state. It has passed step by step through the lower stages, and has made the greatest advance. [Sidenote: Interstitial change and death the condition of individual life.] In an individual, life is maintained only by the production and destruction of organic particles, no portion of the system being in a state of immobility, but each displaying incessant change. Death is, therefore, necessarily the condition of life, and the more energetic the function of a part--or, if we compare different animals with one another--the more active the mode of existence, correspondingly, the greater the waste and the more numerous the deaths of the interstitial constituents. [Sidenote: Particles in the individual answer to persons in the state.] To the death of particles in the individual answers the death of persons in the nation, of which they are the integral constituents. In both cases, in a period of time quite inconsiderable, a total change is accomplished without the entire system, which is the sum of these separate parts, losing its identity. Each particle or each person comes into existence, discharges an appropriate duty, and then passes away, perhaps unnoticed. The production, continuance, and death of an organic molecule in the person answers to the production, continuance, and death of a person in the nation. Nutrition and decay in one case are equivalent to well-being and transformation in the other. [Sidenote: Epochs in national the same as in individual life.] In the same manner that the individual is liable to changes through the action of external agencies, and offers no resistance thereto, nor any indication of the possession of a physiological inertia, but submits at once to any impression, so likewise it is with aggregates of men constituting nations. A national type pursues its way physically and intellectually through changes and developments answering to those of the individual, and being represented by Infancy, Childhood, Youth, Manhood, Old Age, and Death respectively. [Sidenote: Disturbance through emigration.] But this orderly process may be disturbed exteriorly or interiorly. If from its original seats a whole nation were transposed to some new abode, in which the climate, the seasons, the aspect of nature were altogether different, it would appear spontaneously in all its parts to commence a movement to come into harmony with the new conditions--a movement of a secular nature, and implying the consumption of many generations for its accomplishment. During such a period of transmutation there would, of course, be an increased waste of life, a risk, indeed, of total disappearance or national death; but the change once completed, the requisite correspondence once attained, things would go forward again in an orderly manner on the basis of the new modification that had been assumed. When the change to be accomplished is very profound, involving extensive anatomical alterations not merely in the appearance of the skin, but even in the structure of the skull, long periods of time are undoubtedly required, and many generations of individuals are consumed. [Sidenote: And through blood admixture.] Or, by interior disturbance, particularly by blood admixture, with more rapidity may a national type be affected, the result plainly depending on the extent to which admixture has taken place. This is a disturbance capable of mathematical computation. If the blood admixture be only of limited amount, and transient in its application, its effect will sensibly disappear in no very great period of time, though never, perhaps, in absolute reality. This accords with the observation of philosophical historians, who agree in the conclusion that a small tribe intermingling with a larger one will only disturb it in a temporary manner, and, after the course of a few years, the effect will cease to be perceptible. Nevertheless, the influence must really continue much longer than is outwardly apparent; and the result is the same as when, in a liquid, a drop of some other kind is placed, and additional quantities of the first liquid then successively added. Though it might have been possible at first to detect the adulteration without trouble, it becomes every moment less and less possible to do so, and before long it cannot be done at all. But the drop is as much present at last as it was at first: it is merely masked; its properties overpowered. Considering in this manner the contamination of a numerous nation, a trifling amount of foreign blood admixture would appear to be indelible, and the disturbance, at any moment, capable of computation by the ascertained degree of dilution that has taken place. But it must not be forgotten that there is another agency at work, energetically tending to bring about homogeneity: it is the influence of external physical conditions. The intrusive adulterating element possesses in itself no physiological inertia, but as quickly as may be is brought into correspondence with the new circumstances to which it is exposed, herein running in the same course as the element with which it had mingled had itself antecedently gone over. National homogeneity is thus obviously secured by the operation of two distinct agencies: the first, gradual but inevitable dilution; the second, motion to come into harmony with the external natural state. The two conspire in their effects. [Sidenote: Secular variations of nations.] [Sidenote: Their institutions must correspondingly change.] We must therefore no longer regard nations or groups of men as offering a permanent picture. Human affairs must be looked upon as in continuous movement, not wandering in an arbitrary manner here and there, but proceeding in a perfectly definite course. Whatever may be the present state, it is altogether transient. All systems of civil life are therefore necessarily ephemeral. Time brings new external conditions; the manner of thought is modified; with thought, action. Institutions of all kinds must hence participate in this fleeting nature, and, though they may have allied themselves to political power, and gathered therefrom the means of coercion, their permanency is but little improved thereby; for, sooner or later, the population on whom they have been imposed, following the external variations, spontaneously outgrows them, and their ruin, though it may have been delayed, is none the less certain. For the permanency of any such system it is essentially necessary that it should include within its own organization a law of change, and not of change only, but change in the right direction--the direction in which the society interested is about to pass. It is in an oversight of this last essential condition that we find an explanation of the failure of so many such institutions. Too commonly do we believe that the affairs of men are determined by a spontaneous action or free will; we keep that overpowering influence which really controls them in the background. In individual life we also accept a like deception, living in the belief that every thing we do is determined by the volition of ourselves or of those around us; nor is it until the close of our days that we discern how great is the illusion, and that we have been swimming--playing and struggling--in a stream which, in spite of all our voluntary motions, has silently and resistlessly borne us to a predetermined shore. In the foregoing pages I have been tracing analogies between the life of individuals and that of nations. There is yet one point more. [Sidenote: The death of nations.] Nations, like individuals, die. Their birth presents an ethnical element; their death, which is the most solemn event that we can contemplate, may arise from interior or from external causes. Empires are only sand-hills in the hour-glass of Time; they crumble spontaneously away by the process of their own growth. A nation, like a man, hides from itself the contemplation of its final day. It occupies itself with expedients for prolonging its present state. It frames laws and constitutions under the delusion that they will last, forgetting that the condition of life is change. Very able modern statesmen consider it to be the grand object of their art to keep things as they are, or rather as they were. But the human race is not at rest; and bands with which, for a moment, it may be restrained, break all the more violently the longer they hold. No man can stop the march of destiny. [Sidenote: There is nothing absolute in time.] Time, to the nation as to the individual, is nothing absolute; its duration depends on the rate of thought and feeling. For the same reason that to the child the year is actually longer than to the adult, the life of a nation may be said to be no longer than the life of a person, considering the manner in which its affairs are moving. There is a variable velocity of existence, though the lapses of time may be equable. [Sidenote: Nations are only transitional forms.] The origin, existence, and death of nations depend thus on physical influences, which are themselves the result of immutable laws. Nations are only transitional forms of humanity. They must undergo obliteration as do the transitional forms offered by the animal series. There is no more an immortality for them than there is an immobility for an embryo in any one of the manifold forms passed through in its progress of development. [Sidenote: Their course is ever advancing, never retrograde.] [Sidenote: Variable rapidity of national life.] The life of a nation thus flows in a regular sequence, determined by invariable law, and hence, in estimating different nations, we must not be deceived by the casual aspect they present. The philosophical comparison is made by considering their entire manner of career or cycle of progress, and not their momentary or transitory state. Though they may encounter disaster, their absolute course can never be retrograde; it is always onward, even if tending to dissolution. It is as with the individual, who is equally advancing in infancy, in maturity, in old age. Pascal was more than justified in his assertion that "the entire succession of men, through the whole course of ages, must be regarded as one man, always living and incessantly learning." In both cases, the manner of advance, though it may sometimes be unexpected, can never be abrupt. At each stage events and ideas emerge which not only necessarily owe their origin to preceding events and ideas, but extend far into the future and influence it. As these are crowded together, or occur more widely apart, national life, like individual, shows a variable rapidity, depending upon the intensity of thought and action. But, no matter how great that energy may be, or with what rapidity modifications may take place--since events are emerging as consequences of preceding events, and ideas from preceding ideas--in the midst of the most violent intellectual oscillations, a discerning observer will never fail to detect that there exists a law of continuous variation of human opinions. [Sidenote: Plan of this work.] [Sidenote: Selection among European communities.] In the examination of the progress of Europe on which we now enter, it is, of course, to intellectual phenomena that we must, for the most part, refer; material aggrandisement and political power offering us less important though still valuable indications, and serving our purpose rather in a corroborative way. There are five intellectual manifestations to which we may resort--philosophy, science, literature, religion, government. Our obvious course is, first, to study the progress of that member of the European family, the eldest in point of advancement, and to endeavour to ascertain the characteristics of its mental unfolding. We may reasonably expect that the younger members of the family, more or less distinctly, will offer us illustrations of the same mode of advancement that we shall thus find for Greece; and that the whole continent, which is the sum of these different parts, will, in its secular progress, comport itself in like manner. [Sidenote: Our investigation limited to the intellectual, and commencing with Greece.] [Sidenote: From thence we pass to the examination of all Europe.] Of the early condition of Europe, since we have to consider it in its prehistoric times, our information must necessarily be imperfect. Perhaps, however, we may be disposed to accept that imperfection as a sufficient token of its true nature. Since history can offer us no aid, our guiding lights must be comparative theology and comparative philology. Proceeding from those times, we shall, in detail, examine the intellectual or philosophical movement first exhibited in Greece, endeavouring to ascertain its character at successive epochs, and thereby to judge of its complete nature. Fortunately for our purpose, the information is here sufficient, both in amount and distinctness. It then remains to show that the mental movement of the whole continent is essentially of the same kind, though, as must necessarily be the case, it is spread over far longer periods of time. Our conclusions will constantly be found to gather incidental support and distinctness from illustrations presented by the aged populations of Asia, and the aborigines of Africa and America. [Sidenote: The five ages of European life.] The intellectual progress of Europe being of a nature answering to that observed in the case of Greece, and this, in its turn, being like that of an individual, we may conveniently separate it into arbitrary periods, sufficiently distinct from one another, though imperceptibly merging into each other. To these successive periods I shall give the titles of--1, the Age of Credulity; 2, the Age of Inquiry; 3, the Age of Faith; 4, the Age of Reason; 5, the Age of Decrepitude; and shall use these designations in the division of my subject in its several chapters. * * * * * [Sidenote: The world is ruled by law.] From the possibility of thus regarding the progress of a continent in definite and successive stages, answering respectively to the periods of individual life--infancy, childhood, youth, maturity, old age--we may gather an instructive lesson. It is the same that we have learned from inquiries respecting the origin, maintenance, distribution, and extinction of animals and plants, their balancing against each other; from the variations of aspect and form of an individual man as determined by climate; from his social state, whether in repose or motion; from the secular variations of his opinions, and the gradual dominion of reason over society: this lesson is, that the government of the world is accomplished by immutable law. Such a conception commends itself to the intellect of man by its majestic grandeur. It makes him discern the eternal in the vanishing of present events and through the shadows of time. From the life, the pleasures, the sufferings of humanity, it points to the impassive; from our wishes, wants, and woes, to the inexorable. Leaving the individual beneath the eye of Providence, it shows society under the finger of law. And the laws of Nature never vary; in their application they never hesitate nor are wanting. [Sidenote: And yet there is free-will for man.] But in thus ascending to primordial laws, and asserting their immutability, universality, and paramount control in the government of this world, there is nothing inconsistent with the free action of man. The appearance of things depends altogether on the point of view we occupy. He who is immersed in the turmoil of a crowded city sees nothing but the acts of men, and, if he formed his opinion from his experience alone, must conclude that the course of events altogether depends on the uncertainties of human volition. But he who ascends to a sufficient elevation loses sight of the passing conflicts, and no longer hears the contentions. He discovers that the importance of individual action is diminishing, as the panorama beneath him is extending. And if he could attain to the truly philosophical, the general point of view, disengaging himself front all terrestrial influences and entanglements, rising high enough to see the whole globe at a glance, his acutest vision would fail to discover the slightest indication of man, his free-will, or his works. In her resistless, onward sweep, in the clock-like precision of her daily and nightly revolution, in the well-known pictured forms of her continents and seas, now no longer dark and doubtful, but shedding forth a planetary light, well might he ask what had become of all the aspirations and anxieties, the pleasures and agony of life. As the voluntary vanished from his sight, and the irresistible remained, and each moment became more and more distinct, well might he incline to disbelieve his own experience, and to question whether the seat of so much undying glory could be the place of so much human uncertainty, whether beneath the vastness, energy, and immutable course of a moving world, there lay concealed the feebleness and imbecility of man. Yet it is none the less true that these contradictory conditions co-exist--Free-will and Fate, Uncertainty and Destiny, It is only the point of view that has changed, but on that how much has depended! A little nearer we gather the successive ascertainments of human inquiry, a little further off we realize the panoramic vision of the Deity. A Hindu philosopher has truly remarked, that he who stands by the banks of a flowing stream sees, in their order, the various parts as they successively glide by, but he who is placed on an exalted station views, at a glance, the whole as a motionless silvery thread among the fields. To the one there is the accumulating experience and knowledge of man in time, to the other there is the instantaneous the unsuccessive knowledge of God. [Sidenote: Changeability of forms and unchangeability of law.] Is there an object presented to us which does not bear the mark of ephemeral duration? As respects the tribes of life, they are scarcely worth a moment's thought, for the term of the great majority of them is so brief that we may say they are born and die before our eyes. If we examine them, not as individuals, but as races, the same conclusion holds good, only the scale is enlarged from a few days to a few centuries. If from living we turn to lifeless nature, we encounter again the evidence of brief continuance. The sea is unceasingly remoulding its shores; hard as they are, the mountains are constantly yielding to frost and to rain; here an extensive tract of country is elevated, there depressed. We fail to find any thing that is not undergoing change. Then forms are in their nature transitory, law is everlasting. If from visible forms we turn to directing law how vast is the difference. We pass from the finite, the momentary, the incidental, the conditioned--to the illimitable, the eternal, the necessary, the unshackled. [Sidenote: The object of this book is to assert the control of law in human affairs.] It is of law that I am to speak in this book. In a world composed of vanishing forms I am to vindicate the imperishability, the majesty of law, and to show how man proceeds, in his social march, in obedience to it. I am to lead my reader, perhaps in a reluctant path, from the outward phantasmagorial illusions which surround us, and so ostentatiously obtrude themselves on our attention, to something that lies in silence and strength behind. I am to draw his thoughts from the tangible to the invisible, from the limited to the universal, from the changeable to the invariable, from the transitory to the eternal; from the expedients and volitions so largely amusing the life of man, to the predestined and resistless issuing from the fiat of God. Chapter II. OF EUROPE: ITS TOPOGRAPHY AND ETHNOLOGY. ITS PRIMITIVE MODES OF THOUGHT, AND THEIR PROGRESSIVE VARIATIONS, MANIFESTED IN THE GREEK AGE OF CREDULITY. _Description of Europe: its Topography, Meteorology, and secular Geological Movements.--Their Effect on its Inhabitants._ _Its Ethnology determined through its Vocabularies._ _Comparative Theology of Greece; the Stage of Sorcery, the Anthropocentric Stage.--Becomes connected with false Geography and Astronomy.--Heaven, the Earth, the Under World.--Origin, continuous Variation and Progress of Greek Theology.--It introduces Ionic Philosophy._ _Decline of Greek Theology, occasioned by the Advance of Geography and Philosophical Criticism.--Secession of Poets, Philosophers, Historians.--Abortive public Attempts to sustain it.--Duration of its Decline.--Its Fall._ Europe is geographically a peninsula, and historically a dependency of Asia. [Sidenote: Description of Europe.] [Sidenote: The great path-zone.] It is constructed on the western third of a vast mountain axis, which reaches in a broken and irregular course from the Sea of Japan to the Bay of Biscay. On the flanks of this range, peninsular slopes are directed toward the south, and extensive plateaus to the north. The culminating point in Europe is Mont Blanc, 16,000 feet above the level of the sea. The axis of elevation is not the axis of figure; the incline to the south is much shorter and steeper than that to the north. The boundless plains of Asia are prolonged through Germany and Holland. An army may pass from the Pacific to the Atlantic Ocean, a distance of more than six thousand miles, without encountering any elevation of more than a few hundred feet. The descent from Asia into Europe is indicated in a general manner by the mean elevation of the two continents above the level of the sea; that for Asia being 1132 feet, that for Europe 671. Through the avenue thus open to them, the Oriental hordes have again and again precipitated themselves on the West. With an abundance of springs and head-waters, but without any stream capable of offering a serious obstacle, this tract has a temperature well suited to military movements. It coincides generally with the annual isothermal line of 50°, skirting the northern boundary beyond which the vine ceases to grow, and the limiting region beyond which the wild boar does not pass. [Sidenote: Exterior and interior accessibility.] Constructed thus, Europe is not only easily accessible from Asia, a fact of no little moment in its ancient history, but it is also singularly accessible interiorly, or from one of its parts to another. Still more, its sea-line is so broken, it has so many intrusive gulfs and bays, that, its surface considered, its maritime coast is greater than that of any other continent. In this respect it contrasts strikingly with Africa. Europe has one mile of coast-line for every 156 square miles of surface, Africa has only one for every 623. This extensive maritime contact adds, of course, greatly to its interior as well as exterior accessibility. [Sidenote: Distribution of heat in Europe.] The mean annual temperature of the European countries on the southern slope of the mountain axis is from 60° to 70° F., but of those to the north the heat gradually declines, until, at the extreme limit on the shores of Zembla, the ground is perpetually frozen. As on other parts of the globe, the climate does not correspond to the latitude, but is disturbed by several causes, among which may be distinguished the great Atlantic current--the Gulf Stream coming from America--and the Sahara Desert. The latter gives to the south of Europe an unduly high heat, and the former to Ireland, England, and the entire west a genial temperature. Together they press into higher latitudes the annual isothermal lines. If in Europe there are no deserts, there are none of those impenetrable forests seen in tropical countries. From the westerly shores of Portugal, France, and Ireland, the humidity diminishes as we pass to the east, and, indeed, if we advance into Asia, it disappears in the desert of Gobi. There are no vast homogeneous areas as in Asia, and therefore there is no widespread uniformity in the races of men. [Sidenote: And the quantity of rain.] But not only is the temperature of the European continent elevated by the Gulf Stream and the south-west wind, its luxuriance of vegetation depends on them; for luxuriance of vegetation is determined, among other things, by the supply of rain. A profusion of water gives to South America its amazing forests; a want inflicts on Australia its shadeless trees, with their shrunken and pointed leaves. With the diminished moisture the green gardens of France are replaced in Gobi by ligneous plants covered with a gray down. Physical circumstances control the vegetable as well as the animal world. The westerly regions of Europe, through the influence of the south-west wind, the Gulf Stream, and their mountain ranges, are supplied with abundant rains, and have a favourable mean annual temperature; but as we pass to the eastern confines the number of rainy days diminishes, the absolute annual quantity of rain and snow is less, and the mean annual temperature is lower. On the Atlantic face of the mountains of Norway it is perpetually raining: the annual depth of water is there 82 inches; but on the opposite side of those mountains is only 21 inches. For similar reasons, Ireland is moist and green, and in Cornwall the laurel and camellia will bear a winter exposure. There are six maximum points of rain--Norway, Scotland, South-western Ireland and England, Portugal, North-eastern Spain, Lombardy. They respectively correspond to mountains. In general, the amount of rain diminishes from the equator toward the poles; but it is greatly controlled by the disturbing influence of elevated ridges, which in many instances far more than compensate for the effects of latitude. The Alps exercise an influence over the meteorology of all Europe. [Sidenote: The number of rainy days;] Not only do mountains thus determine the absolute quantity of rain, they also affect the number of rainy days in a year. The occurrence of a rainy season depends on the amount of moisture existing in the air; and hence its frequency is greater at the Atlantic sea-board than in the interior, where the wind arrives in a drier state, much of its moisture having been precipitated by the mountains forcing it to a great elevation. Thus, on the eastern coast of Ireland it rains 208 days in a year; in England, about 150; at Kazan, 90; and in Siberia only 60 days. [Sidenote: and of snowy days.] When the atmospheric temperature is sufficiently low, the condensed water descends under the form of snow. In general, the annual depth of snow and the number of snowy days increase toward the north. In Rome the snowy days are 1-1/2; in Venice, 5-1/2; in Paris, 12; in St. Petersburgh, 171. Whatever causes interfere with the distribution of heat must influence the precipitation of snow; among such are the Gulf Stream and local altitude. Hence, on the coast of Portugal, snow is of infrequent occurrence; in Lisbon it never snowed from 1806 to 1811. Such facts teach us how many meteorological contrasts Europe presents, how many climates it contains. Necessarily it is full of modified men. [Sidenote: Vibrations of the isothermal lines.] If we examine the maps of monthly isothermals, we observe how strikingly those lines change, becoming convex to the north as summer approaches, and concave as winter. They by no means observe a parallelism to the mean, but change their flexures, assuming new sinuosities. In their absolute transfer they move with a variable velocity, and through spaces far from insignificant. The line of 50° F., which in January passes through Lisbon and the south of the Morea, in July has travelled to the north shore of Lapland, and incloses the White Sea. As in some grand musical instrument, the strings of which vibrate, the isothermal lines of Europe and Asia beat to and fro, but it takes a year for them to accomplish one pulsation. [Sidenote: Europe is full of meteorological contrasts, and therefore of modified men.] All over the world physical circumstances control the human race. They make the Australian a savage; incapacitate the negro, who can never invent an alphabet or an arithmetic, and whose theology never passes beyond the stage of sorcery. They cause the Tartars to delight in a diet of milk, and the American Indian to abominate it. They make the dwarfish races of Europe instinctive miners and metallurgists. An artificial control over temperature by dwellings, warm for the winter and cool for the summer; variations of clothing to suit the season of the year, and especially the management of fire, have enabled man to maintain himself in all climates. The invention of artificial light has extended the available term of his life; by giving the night to his use, it has, by the social intercourse it encourages, polished his manners and refined his tastes, perhaps as much as any thing else has aided in his intellectual progress. Indeed, these are among the primary conditions that have occasioned his civilization. Variety of natural conditions gives rise to different national types, artificial inventions occasion renewed modifications. Where there are many climates there will be many forms of men. Herein, as we shall in due season discover, lies the explanation of the energy of European life, and the development of its civilization. Would any one deny the influence of rainy days on our industrial habits and on our mental condition even in a civilized state? With how much more force, then, must such meteorological incidents have acted on the ill-protected, ill-clad, and ill-housed barbarian! Would any one deny the increasing difficulty with which life is maintained as we pass from the southern peninsulas to the more rigorous climates of the north? There is a relationship between the mean annual heat of a locality and the instincts of its inhabitants for food. The Sicilian is satisfied with a light farinaceous repast and a few fruits; the Norwegian requires a strong diet of flesh; to the Laplander it is none the less acceptable if grease of the bear, or train oil, or the blubber of whales be added. Meteorology to no little extent influences the morals; the instinctive propensity to drunkenness is a function of the latitude. Food, houses, clothing, bear a certain relation to the isothermal lines. [Sidenote: But, through artificial inventions, it tends to homogeneousness in modern times.] For similar reasons, the inhabitants of Europe each year tend to more complete homogeneity. Climate and meteorological differences are more and more perfectly equalized by artificial inventions; nor is it alone a similarity of habits, a similarity of physiological constitution also ensues. The effect of such inventions is to equalize the influences to which men are exposed; they are brought more closely to the mean typical standard, and--especially is it to be remembered--with this closer approach to each other in conformation, comes a closer approach in feelings and habits, and even in the manner of thinking. [Sidenote: The Mediterranean peninsulas.] On the southern slope of the mountain axis project the historic peninsulas, Greece, Italy, Spain. To the former we trace unmistakably the commencement of European civilization. The first Greeks patriotically affirmed that their own climate was the best suited for man; beyond the mountains to the north there reigned a Cimmerian darkness, an everlasting winter. It was the realm of Boreas, the shivering tyrant. In the early ages man recognized cold as his mortal enemy. Physical inventions have enabled him to overcome it, and now he maintains a more difficult and doubtful struggle with heat. [Sidenote: The Mediterranean Sea.] Beyond these peninsulas, and bounding the continent on the south, is the Mediterranean, nearly two thousand miles in length, isolating Europe from Africa socially, but uniting them commercially. The Black Sea and that of Azof are dependencies of it. It has, conjointly with them, a shore-line of 13,000 miles, and exposes a surface of nearly a million and a quarter of square miles. It is subdivided into two basins, the eastern and western, the former being of high interest historically, since it is the scene of the dawn of European intelligence; the western is bounded by the Italian peninsula, Sicily, and the African promontory of Cape Bon on one side, and at the other has as its portal the Straits of Gibraltar. The temperature is ten or twelve degrees higher than the Atlantic, and, since much of the water is removed by evaporation, it is necessarily more saline than that ocean. Its colour is green where shallow, blue where deep. [Sidenote: Secular geological movement of Europe and Asia, and its social consequences.] For countless centuries Asia has experienced a slow upward movement, not only affecting her own topography, but likewise that of her European dependency. There was a time when the great sandy desert of Gobi was the bed of a sea which communicated through the Caspian with the Baltic, as may be proved not only by existing geographical facts, but also from geological considerations. It is only necessary, for this purpose, to inspect the imperfect maps that have been published of the Silurian and even tertiary periods. The vertical displacement of Europe, during and since the latter period, has indisputably been more than 2000 feet in many places. The effects of such movements on the flora and fauna of a region must, in the course of time, be very important, for an elevation of 350 feet is equal to one degree of cold in the mean annual temperature, or to sixty miles on the surface northward. Nor has this slow disturbance ended. Again and again, in historic times, have its results operated fearfully on Europe, by forcibly precipitating the Asiatic nomades along the great path-zone; again and again, through such changes of level, have they been rendered waterless, and thus driven into a forced emigration. Some of their rivers, as the Oxus and Jaxartes, have, within the records of history, been dry for several years. To these topographical changes, rather than to political influences, we must impute many of the most celebrated tribal invasions. It has been the custom to refer these events to an excessive overpopulation periodically occurring in Central Asia, or to the ambition of warlike chieftains. Doubtless those regions are well adapted to human life, and hence liable to overpopulation, considering the pursuits man there follows, and doubtless there have been occasions on which those nations have been put in motion by their princes; but the modern historian cannot too carefully bear in mind the laws which regulate the production of men, and also the body of evidence which proves that the crust of the earth is not motionless, but rising in one place and sinking in another. The grand invasions of Europe by Asiatic hordes have been much more violent and abrupt than would answer to a steady pressure resulting from overpopulation, and too extensive for mere warlike incitement; they answer more completely to the experience of some irresistible necessity arising from an insuperable physical cause, which could drive in hopeless despair from their homes the young and the old, the vigorous and feeble, with their cattle, and waggons, and flocks. Such a cause is the shifting of the soil and disturbance of the courses of water. The tribes compelled to migrate were forced along the path-zone, their track being, therefore, on a parallel of latitude, and not on a meridian; and hence, for the reasons set forth in the preceding chapter, their movements and journey of easier accomplishment. [Sidenote: Rate and extent of these movements.] These geological changes then enter as an element in human history, not only for Asia, of which the great inland sea has dwindled away to the Caspian, and lost its connection with the Baltic, but for Europe also. The traditions of ancient deluges, which are the primitive facts of Greek history, refer to such movements, perhaps the opening of the Thracian Bosphorus was one of them. In much later times we are perpetually meeting with incidents depending on geological disturbances; the caravan trade of Asia Minor was destroyed by changes of level and the accumulation of sands blown from the encroaching deserts; the Cimbri were impelled into Italy by the invasion of the sea on their possessions. There is not a shore in Europe which does not give similar evidence; the mouths of the Rhine, as they were in the Roman times, are obliterated; the eastern coast of England has been cut away for miles. In the Mediterranean the shore-line is altogether changed; towns, once on the coast, are far away inland; others have sunk beneath the sea. Islands, like Rhodes, have risen from the bottom. The North Adriatic, once a deep gulf, has now become shallow; there are leaning towers and inclining temples that have sunk with the settling of the earth. On the opposite extremity of Europe, the Scandinavian peninsula furnishes an instance of slow secular motion, the northern part rising gradually above the sea at the rate of about four feet in a century. This elevation is observed through a space of many hundred miles, increasing toward the north. The southern extremity, on the contrary, experiences a slow depression. These slow movements are nothing more than a continuation of what has been going on for numberless ages. Since the tertiary period two-thirds of Europe have been lifted above the sea. The Norway coast has been elevated 600 feet, the Alps have been upheaved 2000 or 3000, the Apennines 1000 to 2000 feet. The country between Mont Blanc and Vienna has been thus elevated since the adjacent seas were peopled with existing animals. Since the Neolithic age, the British Islands have undergone a great change of level, and, indeed, have been separated from the continent through the sinking of England and the rising of Scotland. [Sidenote: Early inhabitants of Europe.] At the earliest period Europe presents us with a double population. An Indo-Germanic column had entered it from the east, and had separated into two portions the occupants it had encountered, driving one to the north, the other to the south-west. These primitive tribes betray, physiologically, a Mongolian origin; and there are indications of considerable weight that they themselves had been, in ancient times, intruders, who, issuing from their seats in Asia, had invaded and dislocated the proper autochthons of Europe. In the Pleistocene age there existed in Central Europe a rude race of hunters and fishers, closely allied to the Esquimaux. Man was contemporary with the cave bear, the cave lion, the amphibious hippopotamus, the mammoth. Caves that have been examined in France or elsewhere have furnished for the stone age, axes, knives, lance and arrow points, scrapers, hammers. The change from what has been termed the chipped, to the polished stone period, was very gradual. It coincides with the domestication of the dog, an epoch in hunting life. The appearance of arrow heads indicates the invention of the bow, and the rise of man from a defensive to an offensive mode of life. The introduction of barbed arrows shows how inventive talent was displaying itself; bone and horn tips, that the huntsman was including smaller animals, and perhaps birds, in his chase; bone whistles, his companionship with other huntsmen, or with his dog. The scraping knives of flint, indicate the use of skin for clothing, and rude bodkins and needles, its manufacture. Shells perforated for bracelets and necklaces, prove how soon a taste for personal adornment was acquired, the implements necessary for the preparation of pigments suggest the painting of the body, and perhaps, tattooing; and batons of rank bear witness to the beginning of a social organization. We have thus as our starting-point a barbarian population, believers in sorcery, and, in some places, undoubtedly cannibals, maintaining, in the central and northern parts of Europe, their existence with difficulty by reason of the severity of the climate. In the southern, more congenial conditions permitted a form of civilization to commence, of which the rude Cyclopean structures here and there met with, such as the ruins of Orchomenos, the lion gate of Mycenæ, the tunnel of Lake Copais, are perhaps the vestiges. [Sidenote: Their social condition.] At what period this intrusive Indo-Germanic column made its attack cannot be ascertained. The national vocabularies of Europe, to which we must resort for evidence, might lead us to infer that the condition of civilization of the conquering people was not very advanced. They were acquainted with the use of domestic animals, farming implements, carts, and yokes; they were also possessed of boats, the rudder, oars, but were unacquainted with the movement of vessels by sails. These conclusions seem to be established by the facts that words equivalent to boat, rudder, oar, are common to the languages of the offshoots of the stock, though located very widely asunder; but those for mast and sails are of special invention, and differ in adjacent nations. [Sidenote: Their civil state deduced from their vocabularies.] In nearly all the Indo-Germanic tongues, the family names, father, mother, brother, sister, daughter, are the same respectively. A similar equivalence may be observed in a great many familiar objects, house, door, town, path. It has been remarked, that while this holds good for terms of a peaceful nature, many of those connected with warfare and the chase are different in different languages. Such facts appear to prove that the Asiatic invaders followed a nomadic and pastoral life. Many of the terms connected with such an avocation are widely diffused. This is the case with ploughing, grinding, weaving, cooking, baking, sewing, spinning; with such objects as corn, flesh, meat, vestment; with wild animals common to Europe and Asia, as the bear and the wolf. So, too, of words connected with social organization, despot, rex, queen. The numerals from 1 to 100 coincide in Sanscrit, Greek, Latin, Lithuanian, Gothic; but this is not the case with 1000, a fact which has led comparative philologists to the conclusion that, though at the time of the emigration a sufficient intellectual advance had been made to invent the decimal system, perhaps from counting upon the fingers, yet that it was very far from perfection. To the inhabitants of Central Asia the sea was altogether unknown; hence the branches of the emigrating column, as they diverged north and south, gave it different names. But, though unacquainted with the sea, they were familiar with salt, as is proved by the recurrence of its name. Nor is it in the vocabularies alone that these resemblances are remarked; the same is to be said of the grammar. M. Max Müller shows that in Sanscrit, Zend, Lithuanian, Doric, Slavonic, Latin, Gothic, the forms of the auxiliary verb _to be_ are all varieties of one common type, and that "the coincidences between the language of the Veda and the dialect spoken at the present day by the Lithuanian recruits at Berlin are greater by far than between French and Italian, and that the essential forms of grammar had been fully framed and established before the first separation of the Aryan family took place." But it should not be overlooked that such interesting deductions founded on language, its vocabularies and grammar, must not be pressed too closely. The state of civilization of the Indo-Germanic column, as thus ascertained, must needs have been inferior to that of the centre from which it issued forth. Such we observe to be the case in all migratory movements. It is not the more intellectual or civilized portions of a community which voluntarily participate therein, but those in whom the physical and animal character predominates. There may be a very rough offshoot from a very polished stock. Of course, the movement we are here considering must have taken place at a period chronologically remote, yet not so remote as might seem to be indicated by the state of civilization of the invaders, used as an indication of the state of civilization of the country from which they had come. In Asia, social advancement, as far back as we can discover, has ever been very slow; but, at the first moment that we encounter the Hindu race historically or philologically, it is dealing with philosophical and theological questions of the highest order, and settling, to its own satisfaction, problems requiring a cultivated intellect even so much as to propose. All this implies that in its social advancement there must have already been consumed a very long period of time. [Sidenote: Commingling of blood and of ideas.] But what chiefly interests us is the relation which must have been necessarily maintained between the intrusive people and those whom they thus displaced, the commingling of the ideas of the one with those of the other, arising from their commingling of blood. It is because of this that we find coexisting in the pre-Hellenic times the sorcery of the Celt and the polytheism of the Hindu. There can be no doubt that many of the philosophical lineaments displayed by the early European mythology are not due to indigenous thought, but were derived from an Asiatic source. [Sidenote: Climate-modification of Asiatic intruders.] Moreover, at the earliest historic times, notwithstanding the disturbance which must have lasted long after the successful and perhaps slow advance of the Asiatic column, things had come to a state of equilibrium or repose, not alone socially, but also physiologically. It takes a long time for the conqueror and conquered to settle together, without farther disturbance or question, into their relative positions; it takes a long time for the recollection of conflicts to die away. But far longer does it take for a race of invaders to come into unison with the climate of the countries they have seized, the system of man accommodating itself only through successive generations, and therefore very slowly, to new physical conditions. It takes long before the skin assumes its determinate hue, and the skull its destined form. A period amply sufficient for all such changes to be accomplished in Europe had transpired at the very dawn of history, and strands of population in conformity with meteorological and geographical influences, though of such origin as has been described, were already distributed upon it. A condition of ethnical equilibrium had been reached. Along each isothermal or climatic band were its correspondingly modified men, spending their lives in avocations dictated by their environment. These strands of population were destined to be dislocated, and some of them to become extinct, by inventing or originating among themselves new and unsuitable artificial physical conditions. [Sidenote: First gleams of civilization] Already Europe was preparing a repetition of those events of which Asia from time immemorial has been the scene. Already among the nations bordering on the Mediterranean, inhabitants of a pleasant climate, in which life could be easily maintained--where the isothermal of January is 41° F., and of July 73-1/2° F.--civilization was commencing. There was an improving agriculture, an increasing commerce, and, the necessary consequence thereof, germs of art, the accumulation of wealth. The southern peninsulas were offering to the warlike chieftains of middle Europe a tempting prize. [Sidenote: and first religious opinions.] Under such influences Europe may be considered as emerging from the barbarian state. It had lost all recollection of its ancient relations with India, which have only been disclosed to us by a study of the vocabularies and grammar of its diverse tongues. Upon its indigenous sorcery an Oriental star-worship had been ingrafted, the legends of which had lost their significance. What had at first been feigned of the heavenly bodies had now assumed an air of personality, and had become attributed to heroes and gods. The negro under the equinoctial line, the dwarfish Laplander beyond the Arctic Circle--man everywhere, in his barbarous state, is a believer in sorcery, witchcraft, enchantments; he is fascinated by the incomprehensible. Any unexpected sound or sudden motion he refers to invisible beings. Sleep and dreams, in which one-third of his life is spent, assure him that there is a spiritual world. He multiplies these unrealities; he gives to every grotto a genius; to every tree, spring, river, mountain, a divinity. [Sidenote: Localization of the invisible.] Comparative theology, which depends on the law of continuous variation of human thought, and is indeed one of its expressions, universally proves that the moment man adopts the idea of an existence of invisible beings, he recognizes the necessity of places for their residence, all nations assigning them habitations beyond the boundaries of the earth. A local heaven and a local hell are found in every mythology. In Greece, as to heaven, there was a universal agreement that it was situated above the blue sky; but as to hell, much difference of opinion prevailed. There were many who thought that it was a deep abyss in the interior of the earth, to which certain passages, such as the Acherusian cave in Bithynia, led. But those who with Anaximenes considered the earth to be like a broad leaf floating in the air, and who accepted the doctrine that hell was divided into a Tartarus, or region of night on the left, and an Elysium, or region of dawn on the right, and that it was equally distant from all parts of the upper surface, were nearer to the original conception, which doubtless placed it on the under or shadowy side of the earth. The portals of descent were thus in the west, where the sun and stars set, though here and there were passages leading through the ground to the other side, such as those by which Hercules and Ulysses had gone. The place of ascent was in the east, and the morning twilight a reflection from the Elysian Fields. [Sidenote: The anthropocentric stage of thought.] The picture of Nature thus interpreted has for its centre the earth; for its most prominent object, man. Whatever there is has been made for his pleasure, or to minister to his use. To this belief that every thing is of a subordinate value compared with himself, he clings with tenacity even in his most advanced mental state. Not without surprise do we trace the progress of the human mind. The barbarian, as a believer in sorcery, lives in incessant dread. All Nature seems to be at enmity with him and conspiring for his hurt. Out of the darkness he cannot tell what alarming spectre may emerge; he may, with reason, fear that injury is concealed in every stone, and hidden behind every leaf. How wide is the interval from this terror-stricken condition to that state in which man persuades himself of the human destiny of the universe! Yet, wonderful to be said, he passes that interval at a single step. In the infancy of the human race, geographical and astronomical ideas are the same all over the world, for they are the interpretation of things according to outward appearances, the accepting of phenomena as they are presented, without any of the corrections that reason may offer. This universality and homogeneity is nothing more than a manifestation of the uniform mode of action of human organization. [Sidenote: From homogeneous ideas the comparative sciences emerge.] But such homogeneous conclusions, such similar pictures, are strictly peculiar to the infancy of humanity. The reasoning faculty at length inevitably makes itself felt, and diversities of interpretation ensue. Comparative geography, comparative astronomy, comparative theology thus arise, homogeneous at first, but soon exhibiting variations. [Sidenote: Introduction of personified forms.] To that tendency for personification which marks the early life of man are due many of the mythologic conceptions. It was thus that the Hours, the Dawn, and Night with her black mantle bespangled with stars, received their forms. Many of the most beautiful legends were thus of a personified astronomical origin; many were derived from terrestrial or familiar phenomena. The clouds were thus made to be animated things; a moving spirit was given to the storm, the dew, the wind. The sun setting in the glowing clouds of the west became Hercules in the fiery pile; the morning dawn extinguished by the rising sun was embodied in the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. These legends still survive in India. [Sidenote: The gradual and affiliated advance of Greek theological ideas.] [Sidenote: The composite nature of the resulting mythology.] But it must not be supposed that all Greek mythology can be thus explained. It is enough for us to examine the circumstances under which, for many ages, the European communities had been placed, to understand that they had forgotten much that their ancestors had brought from Asia. Much that was new had also spontaneously arisen. The well-known variations of their theogony are not merely similar legends of different localities, they are more frequently the successive improvements of one place. The general theme upon which they are based requires the admission of a primitive chaotic disturbance of incomprehensible gigantic powers, brought into subjection by Divine agency, that agency dividing and regulating the empire it had thus acquired in a harmonious way. To this general conception was added a multitude of adventitious ornaments, some of which were of a rude astronomical, some of a moral, some, doubtless, of a historical kind. The primitive chaotic conflicts appear under the form of the war of the Titans; their end is the confinement of those giants in Tartarus; whose compulsory subjection is the commencement of order: thus Atlas, the son of Iapetos, is made to sustain the vault of heaven in its western verge. The regulation of empire is shadowed forth in the subdivision of the universe between Zeus and his brothers, he taking the heavens, Poseidon the sea, and Hades the under world, all having the earth as their common theatre of action. The moral is prefigured by such myths as those of Prometheus and Epimetheus, the fore-thinker and the after-thinker; the historical in the deluge of Deucalion, the sieges of Thebes and of Troy. A harmony with human nature is established through the birth and marriage of the gods, and likewise by their sufferings, passions, and labours. The supernatural is gratified by Centaurs, Gorgons, Harpies, and Cyclops. It would be in vain to attempt the reduction of such a patchwork system to any single principle, astronomical or moral, as some have tried to do--a system originating from no single point as to country or to time. The gradual growth of many ages, its diversities are due to many local circumstances. Like the romances of a later period, it will not bear an application of the ordinary rules of life. It recommended itself to a people who found pleasure in accepting without any question statements no matter how marvellous, impostures no matter how preposterous. Gods, heroes, monsters, and men might figure together without any outrage to probability when there was no astronomy, no geography, no rule of evidence, no standard of belief. But the downfall of such a system was inevitable as soon as men began to deal with facts; as soon as history commenced to record, and philosophy to discuss. Yet not without reluctance was the faith of so many centuries given up. The extinction of a religion is not the abrupt movement of a day, it is a secular process of many well-marked stages--the rise of doubt among the candid; the disapprobation of the conservative; the defence of ideas fast becoming obsolete by the well-meaning, who hope that allegory and new interpretations may give renewed probability to what is almost incredible. But dissent ends in denial at last. [Sidenote: Primitive astronomy and geography.] [Sidenote: The under world and its spectres.] Before we enter upon the history of that intellectual movement which thus occasioned the ruin of the ancient system, we must bring to ourselves the ideas of the Greek of the eighth century before Christ, who thought that the blue sky is the floor of heaven, the habitation of the Olympian gods; that the earth, man's proper abode, is flat and circularly extended like a plate beneath the starry canopy. On its rim is the circumfluous ocean, the source of the rivers, which all flow to the Mediterranean, appropriately in after ages so called, since it is in the midst, in the centre of the expanse of the land. "The sea-girt disk of the earth supports the vault of heaven." Impelled by a celestial energy, the sun and stars, issuing forth from the east, ascend with difficulty the crystalline dome, but down its descent they more readily hasten to their setting. No one can tell what they encounter in the land of shadows beneath, nor what are the dangers of the way. In the morning the dawn mysteriously appears in the east, and swiftly spreads over the confines of the horizon; in the evening the twilight fades gradually away. Besides the celestial bodies, the clouds are continually moving over the sky, for ever changing their colours and their shape. No one can tell whence the wind comes or whither it goes; perhaps it is the breath of that invisible divinity who launches the lightning, or of him who rests his bow against the cloud. Not without delight men contemplated the emerald plane, the sapphire dome, the border of silvery water, ever tranquil and ever flowing. Then, in the interior of the solid earth, or perhaps on the other side of its plane--under world, as it was well termed--is the realm of Hades or Pluto, the region of Night. From the midst of his dominion, that divinity, crowned with a diadem of ebony, and seated on a throne framed out of massive darkness, looks into the infinite abyss beyond, invisible himself to mortal eyes, but made known by the nocturnal thunder which is his weapon. The under world is also the realm to which spirits retire after death. At its portals, beneath the setting sun, is stationed a numerous tribe of spectres--Care, Sorrow, Disease, Age, Want, Fear, Famine, War, Toil, Death and her half-brother Sleep--Death, to whom it is useless for man to offer either prayers or sacrifice. In that land of forgetfulness and shadows there is the unnavigable lake Avernus, Acheron, Styx, the groaning Cocytus, and Phlegethon, with its waves of fire. There are all kinds of monsters and forms of fearful import: Cerberus, with his triple head; Charon, freighting his boat with the shades of the dead; the Fates, in their garments of ermine bordered with purple; the avenging Erinnys; Rhadamanthus, before whom every Asiatic must render his account; �acus, before whom every European; and Minos, the dread arbiter of the judgment-seat. There, too, are to be seen those great criminals whose history is a warning to us: the giants, with dragons' feet extended in the burning gulf for many a mile; Phlegyas, in perpetual terror of the stone suspended over him, which never falls; Ixion chained to his wheel; the daughters of Danaus still vainly trying to fill their sieve; Tantalus, immersed in water to his chin, yet tormented with unquenchable thirst; Sisyphus despairingly labouring at his ever-descending stone. Warned by such examples, we may learn not to contemn the gods. Beyond these sad scenes, extending far to the right, are the plains of pleasure, the Elysian Fields; and Lethe, the river of oblivion, of which whoever tastes, though he should ascend to the eastern boundary of the earth, and return again to life and day, forgets whatever he has seen. [Sidenote: The Argonautic voyage.] If the interior or the under side of the earth is thus occupied by phantoms and half-animated shades of the dead, its upper surface, inhabited by man, has also its wonders. In its centre is the Mediterranean Sea, as we have said, round which are placed all the known countries, each full of its own mysteries and marvels. Of these how many we might recount if we followed the wanderings of Odysseus, or the voyage of Jason and his heroic comrades in the ship _Argo_, when they went to seize the golden fleece of the speaking ram. We might tell of the Harpies, flying women-birds of obscene form; of the blind prophet; of the Symplegades, self-shutting rocks, between which, as if by miracle, the Argonauts passed, the cliffs almost entrapping the stern of their vessel, but destined by fate from that portentous moment never to close again; of the country of the Amazons, and of Prometheus groaning on the rock to which he was nailed, of the avenging eagle for ever hovering and for ever devouring; of the land of �êtes, and of the bulls with brazen feet and flaming breath, and how Jason yoked and made them plough, of the enchantress Medea, and the unguent she concocted from herbs that grew where the blood of Prometheus had dripped; of the field sown with dragons' teeth, and the mail-clad men that leaped out of the furrows; of the magical stone that divided them into two parties, and impelled them to fight each other; of the scaly dragon that guarded the golden fleece, and how he was lulled with a charmed potion, and the treasure carried away; of the River Phasis, through whose windings the _Argo_ sailed into the circumfluous sea, of the circumnavigation round that tranquil stream to the sources of the Nile; of the Argonauts carrying their sentient, self-speaking ship on their shoulders through the sweltering Libyan deserts, of the island of Circe, the enchantress; of the rock, with its grateful haven, which in the height of a tempest rose out of the sea to receive them; of the arrow shot by Apollo from his golden bow; of the brazen man, the work of Hephæstos, who stood on the shore of Crete, and hurled at them as they passed vast fragments of stone; of their combat with him and their safe return to Iolcos; and of the translation of the ship _Argo_ by the goddess Athene to heaven. [Sidenote: Union of the geographical and the marvellous.] Such were some of the incidents of that celebrated voyage, the story of which enchanted all Greece before the Odyssey was written. I have not space to tell of the wonders that served to decorate the geography of those times. On the north there was the delicious country of the Hyperboreans, beyond the reach of winter; in the west the garden of the Hesperides, in which grew apples of gold; in the east the groves and dancing-ground of the sun; in the south the country of the blameless Ethiopians, whither the gods were wont to resort. In the Mediterranean itself the Sirens beguiled the passers-by with their songs near where Naples now stands; adjoining were Scylla and Charybdis; in Sicily were the one-eyed Cyclops and cannibal Læstrygons. In the island of Erytheia the three-headed giant Geryon tended his oxen with a double-headed dog. I need not speak of the lotus-eaters, whose food made one forget his native country; of the floating island of �olus; of the happy fields in which the horses of the sun were grazing; of bulls and dogs of immortal breed; of hydras, gorgons, and chimeras; of the flying man Dædalus, and the brazen chamber in which Danae was kept. There was no river, no grotto that had not its genius; no island, no promontory without its legend. [Sidenote: Earliest Greek theological ideas indicate a savage state.] It is impossible to recall these antique myths without being satisfied that they are, for the most part, truly indigenous, truly of European growth. The seed may have been brought, as comparative philologists assert, from Asia, but it had luxuriantly germinated and developed under the sky of Europe. Of the legends, many are far from answering to their reputed Oriental source; their barbarism and indelicacy represent the state of Europe. The outrage of Kronos on his father Uranos speaks of the savagism of the times; the story of Dionysos tells of man-stealing and piracy; the rapes of Europa and Helen, of the abduction of women. The dinner at which Itys was served up assures us that cannibalism was practised; the threat of Laomedon that he would sell Poseidon and Apollo for slaves shows how compulsory labour might be obtained. The polygamy of many heroes often appears in its worst form under the practice of sister-marriage, a crime indulged in from the King of Olympus downward. Upon the whole, then, we must admit that Greek mythology indicates a barbarian social state, man-stealing, piracy, human sacrifice, polygamy, cannibalism, and crimes of revenge that are unmentionable. A personal interpretation, such as man in his infancy resorts to, is embodied in circumstances suitable to a savage time. It was not until a later period that allegorical phantasms, such as Death, and Sleep, and Dreams were introduced, and still later when the whole system was affected by Lydian, Phrygian, Assyrian, and Egyptian ideas. [Sidenote: Their gradual improvement in the historic times.] [Sidenote: The inevitable tendency is to the Ionic philosophy.] Not only thus from their intrinsic nature, but also from their recorded gradual development, are we warranted in imputing to the greater part of the myths an indigenous origin. The theogony of Homer is extended by Hesiod in many essential points. He prefixes the dynasty of Uranos, and differs in minor conceptions, as in the character of the Cyclops. The Orphic theogony is again another advance, having new fictions and new personages, as in the case of Zagreus, the horned child of Jupiter by his own daughter Persephone. Indeed, there is hardly one of the great and venerable gods of Olympus whose character does not change with his age, and, seen from this point of view, the origin of the Ionic philosophy becomes a necessary step in the advance. That philosophy, as we shall soon find, was due not only to the expansion of the Greek intellect and the necessary improvement of Greek morals; an extraneous cause, the sudden opening of the Egyptian ports, 670 B.C., accelerated it. European religion became more mysterious and more solemn. European philosophy learned the error of its chronology, and the necessity of applying a more strict and correct standard of evidence for ancient events. It was an ominous circumstance that the Ionian Greeks, who first began to philosophize, commenced their labours by depersonifying the elements, and treating not of Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades, but of Air, Water, Fire. The destruction of theological conceptions led irresistibly to the destruction of religious practices. To divinities whose existence he denied, the philosopher ceased to pray. Of what use were sacrificial offerings and entreaties directed to phantasms of the imagination? but advantages might accrue from the physical study of the impersonal elements. [Sidenote: Inevitable destruction of Greek religious ideas] Greek religion contained within itself the principles of its own destruction. It is for the sake of thoroughly appreciating this that I have been led into a detail of what some of my readers may be disposed to regard as idle and useless myths. Two circumstances of inevitable occurrence insured the eventual overthrow of the whole system; they were geographical discovery and the rise of philosophical criticism. Our attention is riveted by the fact that, two thousand years later, the same thing again occurred on a greater scale. [Sidenote: by geographical discovery.] As to the geographical discovery, how was it possible that all the marvels of the Mediterranean and Black Seas, the sorcerers, enchanters, giants, and monsters of the deep, should survive when those seas were daily crossed in all directions? How was it possible that the notion of a flat earth, bounded by the horizon and bordered by the circumfluous ocean, could maintain itself when colonies were being founded in Gaul, and the Phoenicians were bringing tin from beyond the Pillars of Hercules? Moreover, it so happened that many of the most astounding prodigies were affirmed to be in the track which circumstances had now made the chief pathway of commerce. Not only was there a certainty of the destruction of mythical geography as thus presented on the plane of the earth looking upward to day; there was also an imminent risk, as many pious persons foresaw and dreaded, that what had been asserted as respects the interior, or the other face looking downward into night, would be involved in the ruin too. Well, therefore, might they make the struggle they did for the support of the ancient doctrine, taking the only course possible to them, of converting what had been affirmed to be actual events into allegories, under which, they said, the wisdom of ancient times had concealed many sacred and mysterious things. But it is apparent that a system forced to this necessity is fast hastening to its end. [Sidenote: Fictitious marvels replaced by grand actualities.] Nor was it maritime discovery only that thus removed fabulous prodigies and gave rise to new ideas. In due course of time the Macedonian expedition opened a new world to the Greeks and presented them with real wonders; climates in marvellous diversity, vast deserts, mountains covered with eternal snow, salt seas far from the ocean, colossal animals, and men of every shade of colour and every form of religion. The numerous Greek colonies founded all over Asia gave rise to an incessant locomotion, and caused these natural objects to make a profound and permanent impression on the Hellenic mind. If through the Bactrian empire European ideas were transmitted to the far East, through that and other similar channels Asiatic ideas found their way to Europe. [Sidenote: Development of Mediterranean commerce.] At the dawn of trustworthy history, the Phoenicians were masters of the Mediterranean Sea. Europe was altogether barbarous. On the very verge of Asiatic civilization the Thracians scalped their enemies and tattooed themselves; at the other end of the continent the Britons daubed their bodies with ochre and woad. Contemporaneous Egyptian sculptures show the Europeans dressed in skins like savages. It was the instinct of the Phoenicians everywhere to establish themselves on islands and coasts, and thus, for a long time, they maintained a maritime supremacy. By degrees a spirit of adventure was engendered among the Greeks. In 1250 B.C. they sailed round the Euxine, giving rise to the myth of the Argonautic voyage, and creating a profitable traffic in gold, dried fish, and corn. They had also become infamous for their freebooting practices. From every coast they stole men, women, and children, thereby maintaining a considerable slave-trade, the relic of which endures to our time in the traffic for Circassian women. Minos, King of Crete, tried to suppress these piracies. His attempts to obtain the dominion of the Mediterranean were imitated in succession by the Lydians, Thracians, Rhodians, the latter being the inventors of the first maritime code, subsequently incorporated into Roman law. The manner in which these and the inhabitants of other towns and islands supplanted one another shows on what trifling circumstances the dominion of the eastern basin depended. Meantime Tyrian seamen stealthily sailed beyond the Pillars of Hercules, visiting the Canaries and Azores, and bringing tin from the British Islands. They used every precaution to keep their secret to themselves. The adventurous Greeks followed those mysterious navigators step by step; but in the time of Homer they were so restricted to the eastern basin that Italy may be said to have been to them an unknown land. The Phocæans first explored the western basin; one of their colonies built Marseilles. At length Coleus of Samos passed through the frowning gateway of Hercules into the circumfluous sea, the Atlantic Ocean. No little interest attaches to the first colonial cities; they dotted the shores from Sinope to Saguntum, and were at once trading depôts and foci of wealth. In the earliest times the merchant was his own captain, and sold his commodities by auction at the place to which he came. The primitive and profitable commerce of the Mediterranean was peculiar--it was for slaves, mineral products, and articles of manufacture; for, running coincident with parallels of latitude, its agricultural products were not very varied, and the wants of its populations the same. But tin was brought from the Cassiterides, amber from the Baltic, and dyed goods and worked metals from Syria. Wherever these trades centred, the germs of taste and intelligence were developed; thus the Etruscans, in whose hands was the amber trade across Germany, have left many relics of their love of art. Though a mysterious, they were hardly a gloomy race, as a great modern author has supposed, if we may judge from their beautiful remains. [Sidenote: Effect of philosophical criticism.] Added to the effect of geographical discovery was the development of philosophical criticism. It is observed that soon after the first Olympiad the Greek intellect very rapidly expanded. Whenever man reaches a certain point in his mental progress, he will not be satisfied with less than an application of existing rules to ancient events. Experience has taught him that the course of the world to-day is the same as it was yesterday; he unhesitatingly believes that this will also hold good for to-morrow. He will not bear to contemplate any break in the mechanism of history; he will not be satisfied with a mere uninquiring faith, but insists upon having the same voucher for an old fact that he requires for one that is new. Before the face of History Mythology cannot stand. [Sidenote: Secession of literary men from the public faith.] The operation of this principle is seen in all directions throughout Greek literature after the date that has been mentioned, and this the more strikingly as the time is later. The national intellect became more and more ashamed of the fables it had believed in its infancy. Of the legends, some are allegorized, some are modified, some are repudiated. The great tragedians accept the myths in the aggregate, but decline them in particulars; some of the poets transform or allegorize them; some use them ornamentally, as graceful decorations. It is evident that between the educated and the vulgar classes a divergence is taking place, that the best men of the times see the necessity of either totally abandoning these cherished fictions to the lower orders, or of gradually replacing them with something more suitable. Such a frittering away of sacred things was, however, very far from meeting with public approbation in Athens itself, although so many people in that city had reached that state of mental development in which it was impossible for them to continue to accept the national faith. They tried to force themselves to believe that there must be something true in that which had been believed by so many great and pious men of old, which had approved itself by lasting so many centuries, and of which it was by the common people asserted that absolute demonstration could be given. But it was in vain; intellect had outgrown faith. They had come into that condition to which all men are liable--aware of the fallacy of their opinions, yet angry that another should remind them thereof. When the social state no longer permitted them to take the life of a philosophical offender, they found means to put upon him such an invisible pressure as to present him the choice of orthodoxy or beggary. Thus they disapproved of Euripides permitting his characters to indulge in any sceptical reflections, and discountenanced the impiety so obvious in the 'Prometheus Bound' of �schylus. It was by appealing to this sentiment that Aristophanes added no little to the excitement against Socrates. They who are doubting themselves are often loudest in public denunciations of a similar state in others. [Sidenote: Secession of the philosophers.] If thus the poets, submitting to common sense, had so rapidly fallen away from the national belief, the philosophers pursued the same course. It soon became the universal impression that there was an intrinsic opposition between philosophy and religion, and herein public opinion was not mistaken; the fact that polytheism furnished a religious explanation for every natural event made it essentially antagonistic to science. It was the uncontrollable advance of knowledge that overthrew Greek religion. Socrates himself never hesitated to denounce physics for that tendency; and the Athenians extended his principles to his own pursuits, their strong common sense telling them that the philosophical cultivation of ethics must be equally bad. He was not loyal to science, but sought to support his own views by exciting a theological odium against his competitors--a crime that educated men ought never to forgive. In the tragedy that ensued the Athenians only paid him in his own coin. The immoralities imputed to the gods were doubtless strongly calculated to draw the attention of reflecting men, but the essential nature of the pursuit in which the Ionian and Italian schools were engaged bore directly on the doctrine of a providential government of the world. It not only turned into a fiction the time-honoured dogma of the omnipresence of the Olympian divinities--it even struck at their very existence, by leaving them nothing to do. For those personifications it introduced impersonal nature or the elements. Instead of uniting scientific interpretations to ancient traditions, it modified and moulded the old traditions to suit the apparent requirements of science. We shall subsequently see what was the necessary issue of this--the Divinity became excluded from the world he had made, the supernatural merged in natural agency; Zeus was superseded by the air, Poseidon by the water; and while some of the philosophers received in silence the popular legends, as was the case with Socrates, or, like Plato, regarded it as a patriotic duty to accept the public faith, others, like Xenophanes, denounced the whole as an ancient blunder, converted by time into a national imposture. [Sidenote: Antagonism of science and polytheism.] As I shall have occasion to speak of Greek philosophy in a detailed manner, it is unnecessary to enter into other particulars here. For the present purpose it is enough to understand that it was radically opposed to the national faith in all countries and at all times, from its origin with Thales down to the latest critic of the Alexandrian school. [Sidenote: Secession of historians.] As it was with philosophers, so it was with historians; the rise of true history brought the same result as the rise of true philosophy. In this instance there was added a special circumstance which gave to the movement no little force. Whatever might be the feigned facts of the Grecian foretime, they were altogether outdone in antiquity and wonder by the actual history of Egypt. What was a pious man like Herodotus to think when he found that, at the very period he had supposed a superhuman state of things in his native country, the ordinary passage of affairs was taking place on the banks of the Nile? And so indeed it had been for untold ages. To every one engaged in recording recent events, it must have been obvious that a chronology applied where the actors are superhuman is altogether without basis, and that it is a delusion to transfer the motives and thoughts of men to those who are not men. Under such circumstances there is a strong inducement to decline traditions altogether; for no philosophical mind will ever be satisfied with different tests for the present and the past, but will insist that actions and their sequences were the same in the foretime as now. [Sidenote: Universal disbelief of the learned.] Thus for many ages stood affairs. One after another, historians, philosophers, critics, poets, had given up the national faith, and lived under a pressure perpetually laid upon them by the public, adopting generally, as their most convenient course, an outward compliance with the religious requirements of the state. Herodotus cannot reconcile the inconsistencies of the Trojan War with his knowledge of human actions; Thucydides does not dare to express his disbelief of it; Eratosthenes sees contradictions between the voyage of Odysseus and the truths of geography; Anaxagoras is condemned to death for impiety, and only through the exertions of the chief of the state is his sentence mercifully commuted to banishment. Plato, seeing things from a very general point of view, thinks it expedient, upon the whole, to prohibit the cultivation of the higher branches of physics. Euripides tries to free himself from the imputation of heresy as best he may. �schylus is condemned to be stoned to death for blasphemy, and is only saved by his brother Aminias raising his mutilated arm--he had lost his hand in the battle of Salamis. Socrates stands his trial, and has to drink hemlock. Even great statesmen like Pericles had become entangled in the obnoxious opinions. No one has anything to say in explanation of the marvellous disappearance of demigods and heroes, why miracles are ended, or why human actions alone are now to be seen in the world. An ignorant public demands the instant punishment of every suspected man. In their estimation, to distrust the traditions of the past is to be guilty of treason to the present. [Sidenote: Attempts at a reformation.] But all this confusion and dissent did not arise without an attempt among well-meaning men at a reformation. Some, and they were, perhaps, the most advanced intellectually, wished that the priests should abstain from working any more miracles; that relics should be as little used as was consistent with the psychical demands of the vulgar, and should be gradually abandoned; that philosophy should no longer be outraged with the blasphemous anthropomorphisms of the Olympian deities. Some, less advanced, were disposed to reconcile all difficulties by regarding the myths as allegorical; some wished to transform them so as to bring them into harmony with the existing social state; some would give them altogether new interpretations. With one, though the fact of a Trojan War is not to be denied, it was only the eidolon of Helen whom Paris carried away; with another expressions, perhaps once intended to represent actual events, are dwindled into mere forms of speech. Unwilling to reject the attributes of the Olympian divinities, their human passions and actions, another asserts that they must once have all existed as men. While one denounces the impudent atheists who find fault with the myths of the Iliad, ignorant of its allegorical meaning, another resolves all its heroes into the elements; and still another, hoping to reconcile to the improved moral sense of the times the indecencies and wickednesses of the gods, imputes them all to demons; an idea which found much favour at first, but became singularly fatal to polytheism in the end. [Sidenote: Inveterate superstition of the vulgar.] [Sidenote: Their jealous intolerance of doubts.] In apparent inconsistency with this declining state of belief in the higher classes, the multitude, without concern, indulged in the most surprising superstitions. With them it was an age of relics, of weeping statues, and winking pictures. The tools with which the Trojan horse was made might still be seen at Metapontum, the sceptre of Pelops was still preserved at Chæroneia, the spear of Achilles at Phaselis, the sword of Memnon at Nicomedia; the Tegeates could still show the hide of the Calydonian boar, very many cities boasted their possession of the true palladium from Troy. There were statues of Athene that could brandish spears, paintings that could blush, images that could sweat, and numberless shrines and sanctuaries at which miracle-cures were performed. Into the hole through which the deluge of Deucalion receded the Athenians still poured a customary sacrifice of honey and meal. He would have been an adventurous man who risked any observation as to its inadequate size. And though the sky had been proved to be only space and stars, and not the firm floor of Olympus, he who had occasion to refer to the flight of the gods from mountain tops into heaven would find it to his advantage to make no astronomical remark. No adverse allusions to the poems of Homer, Arctinus, or Lesches were tolerated; he who perpetrated the blasphemy of depersonifying the sun went in peril of death. It was not permitted that natural phenomena should be substituted for Zeus and Poseidon; whoever was suspected of believing that Helios and Selene were not gods, would do well to purge himself to public satisfaction. The people vindicated their superstition in spite of all geographical and physical difficulties, and, far from concerning themselves with the contradictions which had exerted such an influence on the thinking classes, practically asserted the needlessness of any historical evidence. [Sidenote: Slowness of the decline and fall of Polytheism.] [Sidenote: The secondary causes of its downfall.] It is altogether erroneous to suppose that polytheism maintained its ground as a living force until the period of Constantine and Julian. Its downfall commenced at the time of the opening of the Egyptian ports. Nearly a thousand years were required for its consummation. The change first occurred among the higher classes, and made its way slowly through the middle ranks of society. For many centuries the two agencies--geographical discovery, arising from increasing commerce and the Macedonian expedition, and philosophical criticism--silently continued their incessant work, and yet it does not appear that they could ever produce a change in the lowest and most numerous division of the social grade. In process of time, a third influence was added to the preceding two, enabling them to address themselves even to the humblest rank of life; this influence was the rise of the Roman power. It produced a wonderful activity all over the Mediterranean Sea and throughout the adjoining countries. It insured perpetual movements in all directions. Where there had been only a single traveller there were now a thousand legionaries, merchants, government officials, with their long retinues of dependents and slaves. Where formerly it was only the historian or philosopher in his retirement who compared or contrasted the laws and creeds, habits and customs of different nations incorrectly reported, now the same things were vividly brought under the personal observation of multitudes. The crowd of gods and goddesses congregated in Rome served only to bring one another into disrepute and ridicule. [Sidenote: The alarm of good and religious men.] [Sidenote: Plato's remedy for the evil.] Long, therefore, previous to the triumph of Christianity, paganism must be considered as having been irretrievably ruined. Doubtless it was the dreadful social prospect before them--the apparent impossibility of preventing the whole world from falling into a totally godless state, that not only reconciled so many great men to give their support to the ancient system, but even to look without disapprobation on that physical violence to which the uneducated multitude, incapable of judging, were so often willing to resort. They never anticipated that any new system could be introduced which should take the place of the old, worn-out one; they had no idea that relief in this respect was so close at hand; unless, perhaps, it might have been Plato, who, profoundly recognizing that, though it is a hard and tedious process to change radically the ideas of common men, yet that it is easy to persuade them to accept new names if they are permitted to retain old things, proposed that a regenerated system should be introduced, with ideas and forms suited to the existing social state, prophetically asserting that the world would very soon become accustomed to it, and give to it an implicit adhesion. [Sidenote: The Greek movement has been repeated on a greater scale by all Europe.] In this description of the origin and decline of Greek religion I have endeavoured to bring its essential features into strong relief. Its fall was not sudden, as many have supposed, neither was it accomplished by extraneous violence. There was a slow, and, it must be emphatically added, a spontaneous decline. But, if the affairs of men pass in recurring cycles--if the course of events with one individual has a resemblance to the course of events with another--if there be analogies in the progress of nations, and circumstances reappear after due periods of time, the succession of events thus displayed before us in the intellectual history of Greece may perhaps be recognised again in grander proportions on the theatre of all Europe. If there is for the human mind a predetermined order of development, may we not reasonably expect that the phenomena we have thus been noticing on a small scale in a single nation will reappear on the great scale in a continent; that the philosophical study of this history of the past will not only serve as an interpretation of many circumstances in the history of Europe in the Dark and Middle Ages, but will also be a guide to us in pointing out future events as respects all mankind? For, though it is true that the Greek intellectual movement was anticipated, as respects its completion, by being enveloped and swallowed up in the slower but more gigantic movements of the southern European mind, just as a little expanding circle upon the sea may be obliterated and borne away by more imposing and impetuous waves, so even the movement of a continent may be lost in the movement of a world. It was criticism and physical discovery, and intellectual activity, arising from political concentration, that so profoundly affected the modes of Grecian thought, and criticism and discovery have within the last four hundred years done the same in all Europe. To one who forms his expectations of the future from the history of the past--who recalls the effect produced by the establishment of the Roman empire, in permitting free personal intercommunication among all the Mediterranean nations, and thereby not only destroying the ancient forms of thought which for centuries had resisted all other means of attack, but also replacing them by a homogeneous idea--it must be apparent that the wonderfully increased facilities for locomotion, the inventions of our own age, are the ominous precursors of a vast philosophical revolution. [Sidenote: The organization of hypocrisy.] Between that period during which a nation has been governed by its imagination and that in which it submits to reason, there is a melancholy interval. The constitution of man is such that, for a long time after he has discovered the incorrectness of the ideas prevailing around him, he shrinks from openly emancipating himself from their dominion, and, constrained by the force of circumstances, he becomes a hypocrite, publicly applauding what his private judgment condemns. Where a nation is making this passage, so universal do these practices become that it may be truly said hypocrisy is organized. It is possible that whole communities might be found living in this deplorable state. Such, I conceive, must have been the case in many parts of the Roman empire just before the introduction of Christianity. Even after ideas have given way in public opinion, their political power may outlive their intellectual vigour, and produce the disgraceful effect we here consider. It is not to be concealed, however, that, to some extent, this evil is incident to the position of things. Indeed, it would be unfortunate if national hypocrisy could not find a better excuse for itself than in that of the individual. In civilized life, society is ever under the imperious necessity of moving onward in legal forms, nor can such forms be avoided without the most serious disasters ensuing. To absolve communities too abruptly from the restraints of ancient ideas is not to give them liberty, but to throw them into political vagabondism, and hence it is that great statesmen will authorize and even compel observances the essential significance of which has disappeared, and the intellectual basis of which has been undermined. Truth reaches her full action by degrees, and not at once; she first operates upon the reason, the influence being purely intellectual and individual; she then extends her sphere, exerting a moral control, particularly through public opinion; at last she gathers for herself physical and political force. It is in the time consumed in this gradual passage that organized hypocrisy prevails. To bring nations to surrender themselves to new ideas is not the affair of a day. CHAPTER III. DIGRESSION ON HINDU THEOLOGY AND EGYPTIAN CIVILIZATION. _Comparative Theology of India; its Phase of Sorcery; its Anthropocentric Phase._ VEDAISM _the Contemplation of Matter, or Adoration of Nature, set forth in the Vedas and Institutes of Menu.--The Universe is God.--Transmutation of the World.--Doctrine of Emanation.--Transmigration.--Absorption.--Penitential Services.--Happiness in Absolute Quietude._ BUDDHISM _the Contemplation of Force.--The supreme impersonal Power.--Nature of the World--of Man.--The Passage of every thing to Nonentity.--Development of Buddhism into a vast monastic System marked by intense Selfishness.--Its practical Godlessness._ EGYPT _a mysterious Country to the old Europeans.--Its History, great public Works, and foreign Relations.--Antiquity of its Civilization and Art.--Its Philosophy, hieroglyphic Literature, and peculiar Agriculture._ _Rise of Civilization in rainless Countries.--Geography, Geology, and Topography of Egypt--The Inundations of the Nile lead to Astronomy._ _Comparative Theology of Egypt.--Animal Worship, Star Worship.--Impersonation of Divine Attributes--Pantheism.--The Trinities of Egypt.--Incarnation.--Redemption.--Future Judgment.--Trial of the Dead.--Rituals and Ceremonies._ At this stage of our examination of European intellectual development, it will be proper to consider briefly two foreign influences--Indian and Egyptian--which affected it. [Sidenote: Of Hindu philosophy.] From the relations existing between the Hindu and European families, as described in the preceding chapter, a comparison of their intellectual progress presents no little interest. The movement of the elder branch indicates the path through which the younger is travelling, and the goal to which it tends. In the advanced condition under which we live we notice Oriental ideas perpetually emerging in a fragmentary way from the obscurities of modern metaphysics--they are the indications of an intellectual phase through which the Indo-European mind must pass. And when we consider the ready manner in which these ideas have been adopted throughout China and the entire East, we may, perhaps, extend our conclusion from the Indo-European family to the entire human race. From this we may also infer how unphilosophical and vain is the expectation of those who would attempt to restore the aged populations of Asia to our state. Their intellectual condition has passed onward, never more to return. It remains for them only to advance as far as they may in their own line and to die, leaving their place to others of a different constitution and of a renovated blood. In life there is no going back; the morose old man can never resume the genial confidence of maturity; the youth can never return to the idle and useless occupations, the frivolous amusements of boyhood; even the boy is parted by a long step from the innocent credulity of the nursery. [Sidenote: The phase of sorcery, and anthropocentric phase.] The earlier stages of the comparative theology of India are now inaccessible. At a time so remote as to be altogether prehistoric the phase of sorcery had been passed through. In the most ancient records remaining the Hindu mind is dealing with anthropocentric conceptions, not, however, so much of the physical as of the moral kind. Man had come to the conclusion that his chief concern is with himself. "Thou wast alone at the time of thy birth, thou wilt be alone in the moment of death; alone thou must answer at the bar of the inexorable Judge." [Sidenote: Comparative theology advances in two directions--Matter, Force.] [Sidenote: Vedaism contemplates matter, Buddhism force.] From this point there are two well-marked steps of advance. The first reaches the consideration of material nature; the second, which is very grandly and severely philosophical, contemplates the universe under the conceptions of space and force alone. The former is exemplified in the Vedas and Institutes of Menu, the latter in Buddhism. In neither of these stages do the ideas lie idle as mere abstractions; they introduce a moral plan, and display a constructive power not equalled even by the Italian papal system. They take charge not only of the individual, but regulate society, and show their influence in accomplishing political organizations, commanding our attention from their prodigious extent, and venerable for their antiquity. I shall, therefore, briefly refer, first, to the older, Vedaism, and then to its successor, Buddhism. [Sidenote: Vedaism is the adoration of Nature.] Among a people possessing many varieties of climate, and familiar with some of the grandest aspects of Nature--mountains the highest upon earth, noble rivers, a vegetation incomparably luxuriant, periodical rains, tempestuous monsoons, it is not surprising that there should have been an admiration for the material, and a tendency to the worship of Nature. These spectacles leave an indelible impression on the thoughts of man, and, the more cultivated the mind, the more profoundly are they appreciated. [Sidenote: The Vedas and their doctrines.] [Sidenote: The Veda doctrine of God,] [Sidenote: and of the world.] The Vedas, which are the Hindu Scriptures, and of which there are four, the Rig, Yagust, Saman and Atharvan, are asserted to have been revealed by Brahma. The fourth is, however, rejected by some authorities and bears internal evidence of a later composition, at a time when hierarchical power had become greatly consolidated. These works are written in an obsolete Sanscrit, the parent of the more recent idiom. They constitute the basis of an extensive literature, Upavedas, Angas, &c., of connected works and commentaries. For the most part they consist of hymns suitable for public and private occasions, prayers, precepts, legends, and dogmas. The Rig, which is the oldest, is composed chiefly of hymns, the other three of liturgical formulas. They are of different periods and of various authorship, internal evidence seeming to indicate that if the later were composed by priests, the earlier were the production of military chieftains. They answer to a state of society advanced from the nomad to the municipal condition. They are based upon an acknowledgment of a universal Spirit pervading all things. Of this God they therefore necessarily acknowledge the unity: "There is in truth but one Deity, the Supreme Spirit, the Lord of the universe, whose work is the universe." "The God above all gods, who created the earth, the heavens, the waters." The world, thus considered as an emanation of God, is therefore a part of him; it is kept in a visible state by his energy, and would instantly disappear if that energy were for a moment withdrawn. Even as it is, it is undergoing unceasing transformations, every thing being in a transitory condition. The moment a given phase is reached, it is departed from, or ceases. In these perpetual movements the present can scarcely be said to have any existence, for as the Past is ending the Future has begun. [Sidenote: Its transformation.] In such a never-ceasing career all material things are urged, their forms continually changing, and returning as it were, through revolving cycles to similar states. For this reason it is that we may regard our earth, and the various celestial bodies, as having had a moment of birth, as having a time of continuance, in which they are passing onward to an inevitable destruction, and that after the lapse of countless ages similar progresses will be made, and similar series of events will occur again and again. [Sidenote: It is the visi-semblance of God.] But in this doctrine of universal transformation there is something more than appears at first. The theology of India is underlaid with Pantheism. "God is One because he is All." The Vedas, in speaking of the relation of nature to God, make use of the expression that he is the Material as well as the Cause of the universe, "the Clay as well as the Potter." They convey the idea that while there is a pervading spirit existing everywhere of the same nature as the soul of man, though differing from it infinitely in degree, visible nature is essentially and inseparably connected therewith; that as in man the body is perpetually undergoing changes, perpetually decaying and being renewed, or, as in the case of the whole human species, nations come into existence and pass away, yet still there continues to exist what may be termed the universal human mind, so for ever associated and for ever connected are the material and the spiritual. And under this aspect we must contemplate the Supreme Being, not merely as a presiding intellect, but as illustrated by the parallel case of man, whose mental principle shows no tokens except through its connexion with the body; so matter, or nature, or the visible universe, is to be looked upon as the corporeal manifestation of God. [Sidenote: The nature of mundane changes.] Secular changes taking place invisible objects, especially those of an astronomical kind, thus stand as the gigantic counterparts both as to space and time of the microscopic changes which we recognize as occurring in the body of man. However, in adopting these views of the relations of material nature and spirit, we must continually bear in mind that matter "has no essence independent of mental perception; that existence and perceptibility are convertible terms; that external appearances and sensations are illusory, and would vanish into nothing if the divine energy which alone sustains them were suspended but for a moment." [Sidenote: Of the soul of man.] [Sidenote: Its final absorption in God.] [Sidenote: Of purifying penances,] [Sidenote: and transmigration of souls.] As to the relation between the Supreme Being and man, the soul is a portion or particle of that all-pervading principle, the Universal Intellect or Soul of the World, detached for a while from its primitive source, and placed in connexion with the bodily frame, but destined by an inevitable necessity sooner or later to be restored and rejoined--as inevitably as rivers run back to be lost in the ocean from which they arose. "That Spirit," says Varuna to his son, "from which all created beings proceed, in which, having proceeded, they live, toward which they tend, and in which they are at last absorbed, that Spirit study to know: it is the Great One." Since a multitude of moral considerations assure us of the existence of evil in the world, and since it is not possible for so holy a thing as the spirit of man to be exposed thereto without undergoing contamination, it comes to pass that an unfitness may be contracted for its rejoining the infinitely pure essence from which it was derived, and hence arises the necessity of its undergoing a course of purification. And as the life of man is often too short to afford the needful opportunity, and, indeed, its events, in many instances, tend rather to increase than to diminish the stain, the season of purification is prolonged by perpetuating a connexion of the sinful spirit with other forms, and permitting its transmigration to other bodies, in which, by the penance it undergoes, and the trials to which it is exposed, its iniquity may be washed away, and satisfactory preparation be made for its absorption in the ocean of infinite purity. Considering thus the relation in which all animated nature stands to us, being a mechanism for purification, this doctrine of the transmigration of the soul leads necessarily to other doctrines of a moral kind, more particularly to a profound respect for life under every form, human, animal, or insect. [Sidenote: The religious use of animal life.] The forms of animal life, therefore, furnish a grand penitential mechanism for man. Such, on these principles, is their teleological explanation. In European philosophy there is no equivalent or counterpart of this view. With us animal life is purposeless. Hereafter we shall find that in Egypt, though the doctrine of transmigration must of course have tended to similar suggestions, it became disturbed in its practical application by the base fetich notions of the indigenous African population. Hence the doctrine was cherished by the learned for philosophical reasons, and by the multitude for the harmony of its results with their idolatries. [Sidenote: Of proper modes of devotion.] From such theological dogmas a religious system obviously springs having for its object to hasten the purification of the soul, that it may the more quickly enter on absolute happiness, which is only to be found in absolute rest. The methods of shortening its wanderings and bringing it to repose are the exercises of a pious life, penance, and prayer, and more especially a profound contemplation of the existence and attributes of the Supreme Being. In this profound contemplation many holy men have passed their lives. [Sidenote: Minor Vedic doctrine.] Such is a brief statement of Vedic theology, as exhibited in the connected doctrines of the Nature of God, Universal Animation, Transmutation of the World, Emanation of the Soul, Manifestation of Visible Things, Transmigration, Absorption, the uses of Penitential Services, and Contemplation for the attainment of Absolute Happiness in Absolute Rest. The Vedas also recognize a series of creatures superior to man, the gods of the elements and stars; they likewise personify the attributes of the Deity. The three Vedic divinities, Agni, Indra, and Surya, are not to be looked upon as existing independently, for all spirits are comprehended in the Universal Soul. The later Hindu trinity, Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, is not recognized by them. They do not authorize the worship of deified men, nor of images, nor of any visible forms. They admit the adoration of subordinate spirits, as those of the planets, or of the demigods who inhabit the air, the waters, the woods; these demigods are liable to death. They inculcate universal charity--charity even to an enemy: "The tree doth not withdraw its shade from the woodcutter." Prayers are to be made thrice a day, morning, noon, evening; fasting is ordained, and ablution before meals; the sacrificial offerings consist of flowers, fruits, money. Considered as a whole their religious tendency is selfish: it puts in prominence the baser motives, and seeks the gratification of the animal appetites, as food, pleasure, good fortune. They suggest no proselyting spirit, but rather adopt the principle that all religions must be equally acceptable to God, since, if it were otherwise, he would have instituted a single one, and, considering his omnipotence, none other could have possibly prevailed. They contain no authorization of the division of castes, which probably had arisen in the necessities of antecedent conquests, but which have imposed a perpetual obstacle to any social progress, keeping each class of society in an immovable state, and concentrating knowledge and power in a hierarchy. Neither in them, nor, it is affirmed, in the whole Indian literature, is there a single passage indicating a love of liberty. The Asiatics cannot understand what value there is in it. They have balanced Freedom against Security; they have deliberately preferred the latter, and left the former for Europe to sigh for. Liberty is alone appreciated in a life of action; but the life of Asia is essentially passive, its desire is for tranquillity. Some have affirmed that this imbecility is due to the fact that that continent has no true temperate zone, and that thus, for ages, the weak nations have been in contact with the strong, and therefore the hopeless aspirations for personal freedom have become extinct. But nations that are cut off from the sea, or that have accepted the dogma that to travel upon it is unholy, can never comprehend liberty. From the general tenor of the Vedas, it would appear that the condition of women was not so much restrained as it became in later times, and that monogamy was the ordinary state. From the great extent of these works, their various dates and authorship, it is not easy to deduce from them consistent principles, and their parts being without any connexion, complete copies are very scarce. They have undergone mutilation and restoration, so that great discordances have arisen. [Sidenote: The Institutes of Menu.] In the Institutes of Menu, a code of civil and religious law, written about the ninth century before Christ, though, like the Vedas, betraying a gradual origin, the doctrine of the Divine unity becomes more distinctly mixed up with Pantheistic ideas. They present a description of creation, of the nature of God, and contain prescribed rules for the duty of man in every station of life from the moment of birth to death. Their imperious regulations in all these minute details are a sufficient proof of the great development and paramount power to which the priesthood had now attained, but their morality is discreditable. They indicate a high civilization and demoralization, deal with crimes and a policy such as are incident to an advanced social condition. Their arbitrary and all-reaching spirit reminds one of the papal system; their recommendations to sovereigns, their authorization of immoralities, recall the state of Italian society as reflected in the works of Machiavelli. They hold learning in the most signal esteem, but concede to the prejudices of the illiterate in a worship of the gods with burnt-offerings of clarified butter and libations of the juices of plants. As respects the constitution of man, they make a distinction between the soul and the vital principle, asserting that it is the latter only which expiates sin by transmigration. They divide society into four castes--the priests, the military, the industrial, the servile. They make a Brahmin the chief of all created things, and order that his life shall be divided into four parts, one to be spent in abstinence, one in marriage, one as an anchorite, and one in profound meditation; he may then "quit the body as a bird leaves the branch of a tree." They vest the government of society in an absolute monarch, having seven councillors, who direct the internal administration by a chain of officials, the revenue being derived from a share of agricultural products, taxes on commerce, imposts on shopkeepers, and a service of one day in the month from labourers. [Sidenote: Both the Vedas and Institutes are pantheistic.] In their essential principles the Institutes therefore follow the Vedas, though, as must be the case in every system intended for men in the various stages of intellectual progress from the least advanced to the highest, they show a leaning toward popular delusions. Both are pantheistic, for both regard the universe as the manifestation of the Creator; both accept the doctrine of Emanation, teaching that the universe lasts only for a definite period of time, and then, the Divine energy being withdrawn, absorption of everything, even of the created gods, takes place, and thus, in great cycles of prodigious duration, many such successive emanations and absorptions of universe occur. [Sidenote: Disappearance of the philosophical classes, and consequent prominence of anthropocentric ideas.] The changes that have taken place among the orthodox in India since the period of the Institutes are in consequence of the diminution or disappearance of the highly philosophical classes, and the comparative predominance of the vulgar. They are stated by Mr. Elphinstone as a gradual oblivion of monotheism, the neglect of the worship of some gods and the introduction of others, the worship of deified mortals. The doctrine of human deification is carried to such an extent that Indra and other mythological gods are said to tremble lest they should be supplanted by men. This introduction of polytheism and use of images has probably been connected with the fact that there have been no temples to the Invisible God, and the uneducated mind feels the necessity of some recognizable form. In this manner the Trinitarian conception of Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, with fourteen other chief gods, has been introduced. Vishnu and Siva are never mentioned in the Institutes, but they now engross the public devotions; besides these there are angels, genii, penates, and lares, like the Roman. Brahma has only one temple in all India, and has never been much worshipped. Chrishna is the great favourite of the women. The doctrine of incarnation has also become prevalent; the incarnations of Vishnu are innumerable. The opinion has also been spread that faith in a particular god is better than contemplation, ceremonial, or good works. A new ritual, instead of the Vedas, has come into use, these scriptures being the eighteen Puranas, composed between the eighth and sixteenth centuries. They contain theogonies, accounts of the creation, philosophical speculations, fragmentary history, and may be brought to support any sectarian view, having never been intended as one general body, but they are received as incontrovertible authority. In former times great efficacy was attached to sacrifice and religious austerities, but the objects once accomplished in that way are now compassed by mere faith. In the Baghavat Gita, the text-book of the modern school, the sole essential for salvation is dependence on some particular teacher, which makes up for everything else. The efficacy which is thus ascribed to faith, and the facility with which sin may be expiated by penance, have led to great mental debility and superstition. Force has been added to the doctrine of a material paradise of trees, flowers, banquets, hymns; and to a hell, a dismal place of flames, thirst, torment, and horrid spectres. [Sidenote: The philosophical schools.] If such has been the gradual degradation of religion, through the suppression or disappearance of the most highly cultivated minds, the tendency of philosophy is not less strikingly marked. It is said that even in ancient times not fewer than six distinct philosophical schools may be recognized: 1, the prior Mimansa; 2, the later Mimansa, or Vedanta, founded by Vyasa about 1400 B.C. having a Vedanta literature of prodigious extent; 3, the Logical school, bearing a close resemblance to that of Aristotle, even in its details; 4, the Atomic school of Canade; 5, the Atheistical school of Capila; 6, the Theistical school of Patanjali. [Sidenote: The rise of Buddhism.] This great theological system, enforced by a tyrannical hierarchy, did not maintain itself without a conflict. Buddhism arose as its antagonist. By an inevitable necessity, Vedaism must pass onward to Buddhism. The prophetic foresight of the great founder of this system was justified by its prodigious, its unparalleled and enduring success--a success that rested on the assertion of the dogma of the absolute equality of all men, and this in a country that for ages had been oppressed by castes. If the Buddhist admits the existence of God, it is not as a Creator, for matter is equally eternal; and since it possesses a property of inherent organization, even if the universe should perish, this quality would quickly restore it, and carry it on to new regenerations and new decays without any external agency. It also is endued with intelligence and consciousness. The Buddhists agree with the Brahmins in the doctrine of Quietism, in the care of animal life, in transmigration. They deny the Vedas and Puranas, have no castes, and, agreeably to their cardinal principle, draw their priests from all classes like the European monks. They live in monasteries, dress in yellow, go barefoot, their heads and beards being shaved; they have constant services in their chapels, chanting, incense, and candles; erect monuments and temples over the relics of holy men. They place an especial merit in celibacy; renounce all the pleasures of sense; eat in one hall; receive alms. To do these things is incident to a certain phase of human progress. [Sidenote: Life of Arddha Chiddi.] Buddhism arose about the tenth century before Christ, its founder being Arddha Chiddi, a native of Capila, near Nepaul. Of his epoch there are, however, many statements. The Avars, Siamese, and Cingalese fix it B.C. 600; the Cashmerians, B.C. 1332; the Chinese, Mongols, and Japanese, B.C. 1000. The Sanscrit words occurring in Buddhism attest its Hindu origin, Buddha itself being the Sanscrit for intelligence. After the system had spread widely in India, it was carried by missionaries into Ceylon, Tartary, Thibet, China, Japan, Burmah, and is now professed by a greater portion of the human race than any other religion. Until quite recently, the history of Arddha Chiddi and the system he taught have, notwithstanding their singular interest, been very imperfectly known in Europe. He was born in affluence and of a royal family. In his twenty-ninth year he retired from the world, the pleasures of which he had tasted, and of which he had become weary. The spectacle of a gangrened corpse first arrested his thoughts. Leaving his numerous wives, he became a religious mendicant. It is said that he walked about in a shroud, taken from the body of a female slave. Profoundly impressed with the vanity of all human affairs, he devoted himself to philosophical meditation, by severe self-denial emancipating himself from all worldly hopes and cares. When a man has brought himself to this pass he is able to accomplish great things. For the name by which his parents had called him he substituted that of Gotama, or "he who kills the senses," and subsequently Chakia Mouni, or the Penitent of Chakia. Under the shade of a tree Gotama was born; under the shade of a tree he overcame the love of the world and the fear of death; under the shade of a tree he preached his first sermon in the shroud; under the shade of a tree he died. In four months after he commenced his ministry he had five disciples; at the close of the year they had increased to twelve hundred. In the twenty-nine centuries that have passed since that time, they have given rise to sects counting millions of souls, outnumbering the followers of all other religious teachers. The system still seems to retain much of its pristine vigour; yet religions are perishable. There is no country, except India, which has the same religion now that it had at the birth of Christ. [Sidenote: The organization of Buddhism.] Gotama died at the advanced age of eighty years; his corpse was burnt eight days subsequently. But several years before this event his system must be considered as thoroughly established. It shows how little depends upon the nature of a doctrine, and how much upon effective organization, that Buddhism, the principles of which are far above the reach of popular thought, should have been propagated with so much rapidity, for it made its converts by preaching, and not, like Mohammedanism, by the sword. Shortly after Gotama's death, a council of five hundred ecclesiastics assembled for the purpose of settling the religion. A century later a second council met to regulate the monastic institution; and in B.C. 241, a third council, for the expulsion of fire-worshippers. Under the auspices of King Asoka, whose character presents singular points of resemblance to that of the Roman emperor who summoned the Council of Nicea, for he, too, was the murderer of his own family, and has been handed down to posterity, because of the success of the policy of his party, as a great, a virtuous, and a pious sovereign--under his auspices missionaries were sent out in all directions, and monasteries richly endowed were everywhere established. The singular efficacy of monastic institutions was rediscovered in Europe many centuries subsequently. [Sidenote: Contest between the Brahmans and Buddhists.] In proclaiming the equality of all men in this life, the Buddhists, as we have seen, came into direct collision with the orthodox creed of India, long carried out into practice in the institution of castes--a collision that was embittered by the abhorrence the Buddhists displayed for any distinction between the clergy and laity. To be a Brahmin a man must be born one, but a Buddhist priest might voluntarily come from any rank--from the very dregs of society. In the former system marriage was absolutely essential to the ecclesiastical caste; in the latter it was not, for the priestly ranks could be recruited without it. And hence there followed a most important advantage, that celibacy and chastity might be extolled as the greatest of all the virtues. The experience of Europe, as well as of Asia, has shown how powerful is the control obtained by the hierarchy in that way. In India there was, therefore, no other course for the orthodox than to meet the danger with bloody persecutions, and in the end, the Buddhists, expelled from their native seats, were scattered throughout Eastern Asia. Persecution is the mother of proselytes. [Sidenote: Buddhism is founded on the conception of Power or Force.] [Sidenote: It does not recognize a personal God,] The fundamental principle of Buddhism is that there is a supreme power, but no Supreme Being. From this it might be inferred that they who adopt such a creed cannot be pantheists, but must be atheists. It is a rejection of the idea of Being, an acknowledgment of that of Force. If it admits the existence of God, it declines him as a Creator. It asserts an impelling power in the universe, a self-existent and plastic principle, but not a self-existent, an eternal, a personal God. It rejects inquiry into first causes as being unphilosophical, and considers that phenomena alone can be dealt with by our finite minds. Not without an air of intellectual majesty, it tolerates the Asiatic time-consecrated idea of a trinity, pointing out one not of a corporeal, but of an impersonal kind. Its trinity is the Past, the Present, the Future. For the sake of aiding our thoughts, it images the Past with his hands folded, since he has attained to rest, but the others with their right hands extended in token of activity. Since he has no God, the Buddhist cannot expect absorption; the pantheistic Brahmin looks forward to the return of his soul to the Supreme Being as a drop of rain returns to the sea. The Buddhist has no religion, but only a ceremonial. How can there be a religion where there is no God? [Sidenote: nor a providential government,] [Sidenote: but refers all events to resistless law.] [Sidenote: Doubts the actual existence of the visible world.] In all this it is plain that the impersonal and immaterial predominates, and that Gotama is contemplating the existence of pure Force without any association of Substance. He necessarily denies the immediate interposition of any such agency as Providence, maintaining that the system of nature, once arising, must proceed irresistibly according to the laws which brought it into being, and that from this point of view the universe is merely a gigantic engine. To the Brahman priesthood such ideas were particularly obnoxious; they were hostile to any philosophical system founded on the principle that the world is governed by law, for they suspected that its tendency would be to leave them without any mediatory functions, and therefore without any claims on the faithful. Equally does Gotama deny the existence of chance, saying that that which we call chance is nothing but the effect of an unknown, unavoidable cause. As to the external world, we cannot tell how far it is a phantasm, how far a reality, for our senses possess no trustworthy criterion of truth. They convey to the mind representations of what we consider to be external things, by which it is furnished with materials for its various operations; but, unless it acts in conjunction with the senses, the operation is lost, as in that absence which takes place in deep contemplation. It is owing to our inability to determine what share these internal and external conditions take in producing a result that the absolute or actual state of nature is incomprehensible by us. Nevertheless, conceding to our mental infirmity the idea of a real existence of visible nature, we may consider it as offering a succession of impermanent forms, and as exhibiting an orderly series of transmutations, innumerable universes in periods of inconceivable time emerging one after another, and creations and extinctions of systems of worlds taking place according to a primordial law. [Sidenote: Of the nature of man.] [Sidenote: Of transmigration and penance,] [Sidenote: and the passage to nonentity.] Such are his doctrines of a Supreme Force, and of the origin and progress of the visible world. With like ability Gotama deals with his inquiry into the nature of man. With Oriental imagery he bids us consider what becomes of a grain of salt thrown into the sea; but, lest we should be deceived herein, he tells us that there is no such thing as individuality or personality--that the Ego is altogether a nonentity. In these profound considerations he brings to bear his conception of force, in the light thereof asserting that all sentient beings are homogeneous. If we fail to follow him in these exalted thoughts, bound down to material ideas by the infirmities of the human constitution, and inquire of him how the spirit of man, which obviously displays so much energy, can be conceived of as being without form, without a past, without a future, he demands of us what has become of the flame of a lamp when it is blown out, or to tell him in what obscure condition it lay before it was kindled. Was it a nonentity? Has it been annihilated? By the aid of such imagery he tries to depict the nature of existence, and to convey a vivid idea of the metamorphoses it undergoes. Outward things are to him phantasms; the impressions they make on the mind are phantasms too. In this sense he receives the doctrine of transmigration, conceiving of it very much as we conceive of the accumulation of heat successively in different things. In one sense it may be the same heat which occupies such objects one after another, but in another, since heat is force and not matter, there can be no such individuality. Viewed, however, in the less profound way, he is not unwilling to adopt the doctrine of the transmigration of the soul through various forms, admitting that there may accumulate upon it the effect of all those influences, whether of merit or demerit, of good or of evil, to which it has been exposed. The vital flame is handed down from one generation to another, it is communicated from one animated form to another. He thinks it may carry with it in these movements the modifications which may have been impressed on it, and require opportunity for shaking them off and regaining its original state. At this point the doctrine of Gotama is assuming the aspect of a moral system, and is beginning to suggest means of deliverance from the accumulated evil and consequent demerit to which the spirit has been exposed. He will not, however, recognize any vicarious action. Each one must work out for himself his own salvation, remembering that death is not necessarily a deliverance from worldly ills, it may be only a passage to new miseries. But yet, as the light of the taper must come at last to an end, so there is at length, though it may be after many transmigrations, an end of life. That end he calls Nirwana, a word that has been for nearly three thousand years of solemn import to countless millions of men;--Nirwana, the end of successive existences, that state which has no relation to matter, or space, or time, to which the departing flame of the extinguished taper has gone. It is the supreme end, Nonentity. The attaining of this is the object to which we ought to aspire, and for that purpose we should seek to destroy within ourselves all cleaving to existence, weaning ourselves from every earthly object, from every earthly pursuit. We should resort to monastic life, to penance, to self-denial, self-mortification, and so gradually learn to sink into perfect quietude or apathy, in imitation of that state to which we must come at last, and to which, by such preparation, we may all the more rapidly approach. The pantheistic Brahman expects absorption in God; the Buddhist, having no God, expects extinction. [Sidenote: Philosophical estimate of Buddhism.] India has thus given to the world two distinct philosophical systems: Vedaism, which takes as its resting-point the existence of matter, and Buddhism, of which the resting-point is force. The philosophical ability displayed in the latter is very great; indeed it may be doubted whether Europe has produced its metaphysical equivalent. And yet, if I have correctly presented its principles, it will probably appear that its primary conception is not altogether consistently carried out in the development of the details. Great as was the intellectual ability of its author--so great as to extort our profoundest, though it may be reluctant admiration--there are nevertheless moments in which it appears that his movement is becoming wavering and unsteady--that he is failing to handle his ponderous weapon with self-balanced power. This is particularly the case in that point at which he is passing from the consideration of pure force to the unavoidable consideration of visible nature, the actual existence of which he seems to be obliged to deny. But then I am not sure that I have caught with precision his exact train of thought, or have represented his intention with critical correctness. Considering the extraordinary power he elsewhere displays, it is more probable that I have failed to follow his meaning, than that he has been, on the points in question, incompetent to deal with his task. The works of Gotama, under the title of "Verbal Instructions," are published by the Chinese government in four languages--Thibetan, Mongol, Mantchou, Chinese--from the imperial press at Pekin, in eight hundred large volumes. They are presented to the Lama monasteries--a magnificent gift. [Sidenote: Displacement of its higher ideas by base ones.] [Sidenote: Its anthropocentric phase remains, its philosophical declining.] In speaking of Vedaism, I have mentioned the manner in which its more elevated conceptions were gradually displaced by those of a base grade coming into prominence; and here it may be useful in like manner to speak of the corresponding debasement of Buddhism. Its practical working was the introduction of an immense monastic system, offering many points of resemblance to the subsequent one of Europe. Since its object was altogether of a personal kind, the attainment of individual happiness, it was not possible that it should do otherwise than engender extreme selfishness. It impressed on each man to secure his own salvation, no matter what became of all others. Of what concern to him were parents, wife, children, friends, country, so long as he attained Nirwana! [Sidenote: Its legends and miracles.] Long before Buddhism had been expelled from India by the victorious Brahmins, it had been overlaid with popular ornaments. It had its fables, legends, miracles. Its humble devotees implicitly believed that Mahamia, the mother of Gotama, an immaculate virgin, conceived him through a divine influence, and that thus he was of the nature of God and man conjoined; that he stood upon his feet and spoke at the moment of his birth; that at five months of age he sat unsupported in the air; that at the moment of his conversion he was attacked by a legion of demons, and that in his penance-fasting he reduced himself to the allowance of one pepper-pod a day; that he had been incarnate many times before, and that on his ascension through the air to heaven he left his footprint on a mountain in Ceylon; that there is a paradise of gems, and flowers, and feasts, and music for the good, and a hell of sulphur, and flames, and torment for the wicked; that it is lawful to resort to the worship of images, but that those are in error who deify men, or pay respect to relics; that there are spirits, and goblins, and other superhuman forms; that there is a queen of heaven; that the reading of the Scriptures is in itself an actual merit, whether its precepts are followed or not; that prayer may be offered by saying a formula by rote, or even by turning the handle of a mill from which invocations written on paper issue forth; that the revealer of Buddhism is to be regarded as the religious head of the world. The reader cannot fail to remark the resemblance of these ideas to some of those of the Roman Church. When a knowledge of the Oriental forms of religion was first brought into Europe, and their real origin was not understood, it was supposed that this coincidence had arisen through the labours of Nestorian, or other ancient missionaries from the West, and hopes were entertained that the conversion of Eastern Asia would be promoted thereby. But this expectation was disappointed, and that which many good men regarded as a preparation for Christianity proved to be a stumbling-block in its way. It is not improbable that the pseudo-Christianity of the Chinese revolters, of which so much has recently been said, is of the same nature, and will end with the same result. [Sidenote: The great diffusion of Buddhism.] [Sidenote: Its practical godlessness.] Decorated with these extraneous but popular recommendations, Buddhism has been embraced by two-fifths of the human race. It has a prodigious literature, great temples, many monuments. Its monasteries are scattered from the north of Tartary almost to the equinoctial line. In these an education is imparted not unlike that of the European monasteries of the Middle Ages. It has been estimated that in Tartary one-third of the population are Lamas. There are single convents containing more than two thousand individuals; the wealth of the country voluntarily pours into them. Elementary education is more widely diffused than in Europe: it is rare to meet with a person who cannot read. Among the priests there are many who are devout, and, as might be expected, many who are impostors. It is a melancholy fact that, in China, Buddhism has led the entire population not only into indifferentism, but into absolute godlessness. They have come to regard religion as merely a fashion, to be followed according to one's own taste; that as professed by the state it is a civil institution necessary for the holding of office, and demanded by society, but not to be regarded as of the smallest philosophical importance; that a man is entitled to indulge his views on these matters just as he is entitled to indulge his taste in the colour and fashion of his garments; that he has no more right, however, to live without some religious profession than he has a right to go naked. The Chinese cannot comprehend how there should be animosities arising on matters of such doubtful nature and trivial concern. The formula under which they live is: "Religions are many; reason is one; we are brothers." They smile at the credulity of the good-natured Tartars, who believe in the wonders of miracle-workers, for they have miracle-workers who can perform the most supernatural cures, who can lick red-hot iron, who can cut open their bowels, and, by passing their hand over the wound, make themselves whole again--who can raise the dead. In China, these miracles, with all their authentications, have descended to the conjurer, and are performed for the amusement of children. The common expressions of that country betray the materialism and indifferentism of the people, and their consequent immorality. "The prisons," they say, "are locked night and day, but they are always full; the temples are always open, and yet there is nobody in them." Of the dead they say, with an exquisite refinement of euphemism, "He has saluted the world." The Lazarist Huc, on whose authority many of these statements are made, testifies that they die, indeed, with incomparable tranquillity, just as animals die; and adds, with a bitter, and yet profoundly true sarcasm, they are what many in Europe are wanting to be. * * * * * From the theology of India I turn, in the next place, to the civilization of Egypt. [Sidenote: Egypt a mysterious country to Europe.] [Sidenote: Its reported wonders.] The ancient system of isolation which for many thousand years had been the policy of Egypt was overthrown by Psammetichus about B.C. 670. Up to that time the inhabitants of that country had been shut out from all Mediterranean or European contact by a rigorous exclusion exceeding that until recently practised in China and Japan. As from the inmates of the happy valley, in Rasselas, no tidings escaped to the outer world, so, to the European, the valley of the Nile was a region of mysteries and marvels. At intervals of centuries, individuals, like Cecrops and Danaus, had fled to other countries, and had attached the gratitude of posterity to their memories for the religion, laws, or other institutions of civilization they had conferred. The traditions connected with them served only to magnify those uncertain legends met with all over Asia Minor, Greece, Italy, Sicily, of the prodigies and miracles that adventurous pirates reported they had actually seen in their stealthy visits to the enchanted valley--great pyramids covering acres of land, their tops rising to the heavens, yet each pyramid nothing more than the tombstone of a king; colossi sitting on granite thrones, the images of Pharaohs who lived in the morning of the world, still silently looking upon the land which thousands of years before they had ruled; of these, some obedient to the sun, sainted his approach when touched by his morning rays; obelisks of prodigious height, carved by superhuman skill from a single block of stone, and raised by superhuman power erect on their everlasting pedestals, their faces covered with mysterious hieroglyphs, a language unknown to the vulgar, telling by whom and for what they had been constructed; temples, the massive leaning and lowering walls of which were supported by countless ranges of statues; avenues of sphinxes, through the shadows of which, grim and silent, the portals of fanes might be approached; catacombs containing the mortal remains of countless generations, each corpse awaiting, in mysterious embalmment, a future life; labyrinths of many hundred chambers and vaults, into which whoso entered without a clue never again escaped, but in the sameness and solitude of those endless windings found his sepulchre. It is impossible for us to appreciate the sentiment of religious awe with which the Mediterranean people looked upon the enchanted, the hoary, the civilized monarchy on the banks of the Nile. As Bunsen says, "Egypt was to the Greeks a sphinx with an intellectual human countenance." [Sidenote: Its history: the old empire; the Hycksos; the new empire.] [Sidenote: Opening of the Egyptian ports.] Her solitude, however, had not been altogether unbroken. After a duration of 1076 years, and the reign of thirty-eight kings, illustrated by the production of the most stupendous works ever accomplished by the hand of man, some of which, as the Pyramids, remain to our times, the old empire, which had arisen from the union of the upper and lower countries, had been overthrown by the Hycksos, or shepherd kings, a race of Asiatic invaders. These, in their turn, had held dominion for more than five centuries, when an insurrection put an end to their power, and gave birth to the new empire, some of the monarchs of which, for their great achievements, are still remembered. In the middle period of this new empire those events in early Hebrew history took place--the visit of Abram and the elevation of Joseph--which are related with such simplicity in the Holy Scriptures. With varied prosperity, the new empire continued until the time of Psammetichus, who, in a civil war, having attained supreme power by the aid of Greek mercenaries, overthrew the time-honoured policy of all the old dynasties, and occasioned the first grand impulse in the intellectual life of Europe by opening the ports of Egypt, and making that country accessible to the blue-eyed and red-haired barbarians of the North. [Sidenote: This compels Egypt to become a maritime state,] [Sidenote: and brings on collisions with the Babylonians.] [Sidenote: Opening of the Suez Canal.] [Sidenote: Circumnavigation of Africa.] [Sidenote: History of the Great Canal.] It is scarcely possible to exaggerate the influence of this event upon the progress of Europe. An immense extension of Greek commerce by the demand for the products of the Euxine as well as of the Mediterranean was the smallest part of the advantage. As to Egypt herself, it entailed a complete change in her policy, domestic and foreign. In the former respect, the employment of the mercenaries was the cause of the entire emigration of the warrior caste, and in the latter it brought things to such a condition, that, if Egypt would continue to exist, she must become a maritime state. Her geographical position for the purposes of commerce was excellent; with the Red Sea on the east and the Mediterranean on the north, she was the natural entrepôt between Asia and Europe, as was shown by the prosperity of Alexandria in later ages. But there was a serious difficulty in the way of her becoming a naval power; no timber suitable for ship-building grew in the country--indeed, scarcely enough was to be found to satisfy the demands for the construction of houses and coffins for the dead. The early Egyptians, like the Hindus, had a religious dread of the sea, but their exclusiveness was, perhaps, not a little dependent on their want of material for ship-building. Egypt was therefore compelled to enter on a career of foreign conquest, and at all hazards possess herself of the timber-growing districts of Syria. It was this urgent necessity which led to her collisions with the Mesopotamian kings, and drew in its train of consequence the sieges, sacks, and captivities of Jerusalem, the metropolis of a little state lying directly between the contending powers, and alternately disturbed by each. Of the necessity of this course of policy in the opinion of the Egyptian kings, we can have no better proof than the fact that Psammetichus himself continued the siege of Azotus for twenty-nine years; that his son Necho reopened the canal between the Nile at Bubastes and the Red Sea at Suez--it was wide enough for two ships to pass--and on being resisted therein by the priests, who feared that it might weaken the country strategically, attempted the circumnavigation of Africa, and actually accomplished it. In those times such expeditions were not undertaken as mere matters of curiosity. Though this monarch also despatched investigators to ascertain the sources of the Nile, and determine the causes of its rise, it was doubtless in the hope of making such knowledge of use in a material or economical point of view, and therefore it may be supposed that the circumnavigation of Africa was undertaken upon the anticipated or experienced failure of the advantages expected to arise from the reopening of the canal; for the great fleets which Necho and his father had built could not be advantageously handled unless they could be transferred as circumstances required, either by the circumnavigation or by the canal, from one sea to the other. The time occupied in passing round the continent, which appears to have been three years, rendered the former method of little practical use. But the failure experienced, so far from detracting from the estimation in which we must hold those kings who could thus display such a breadth of conception and vigour of execution, must even enhance it. They resumed the policy of the conqueror Rameses II., who had many centuries before possessed the timber-growing countries, and whose engineers originally cut the canal from the Nile to the Red Sea, though the work cost 120,000 lives and countless treasuries of money. The canal of Rameses, which, in the course of so many centuries, has become filled up with sand, was thus cleaned out, as it was again in the reign of the Ptolemies, and again under the khalifs, and galleys passed from sea to sea. The Persians, under Darius Hystaspes, also either repaired it, or, as some say, attempted a new work of the kind; but their engineering must have been very defective, for they were obliged to abandon their enterprise after carrying it as far as the bitter lakes, finding that salt water would be introduced into the Delta. The Suez mouth of the canal of Rameses was protected by a system of hydraulic works, to meet difficulties arising from the variable levels of the water. It was reserved for the French engineer Lesseps in the nineteenth century to cut the direct canal from the Mediterranean to the Red Sea, an exploit which the Pharaohs and Ptolemies had considered to be impossible. [Sidenote: Attempts of the Asiatics on the south Mediterranean shore.] [Sidenote: Egypt overthrown by Cambyses.] The Egyptian policy continued by Pharaoh Hophra, who succeeded in the capture of Sidon, brought on hostilities with the Babylonian kings, who were now thoroughly awakened to what was going on in Egypt--a collision which occasioned the expulsion of the Egyptians from Syria, and the seizure of the lower country by Nebuchadnezzar, who also took vengeance on King Zedekiah for the assistance Jerusalem had rendered to the Africans in their projects: that city was razed to the ground, the eyes of the king put out, and the people carried captive to Babylon, B.C. 568. It is a striking exemplification of the manner in which national policy will endure through changes of dynasties, that after the overthrow of Babylon by the Medes, and the transference of power to the Persians, the policy of controlling the Mediterranean was never for an instant lost sight of. Attempts were continually made, by operating alternately on the southern and northern shores, to push westward. The subsequent history of Rome shows what would have been the consequences of an uncontrolled possession of the Mediterranean by a great maritime power. On the occasion of a revolt of Egypt, the Persian King Cambyses so utterly crushed and desolated it, that from that day to this, though twenty-four centuries have intervened, it has never been able to recover its independence. The Persian advance on the south shore toward Carthage failed because of the indisposition of the Phoenicians to assist in any operations against that city. We must particularly remark that the ravaging of Egypt by Cambyses was contemporaneous with the cultivation of philosophy in the southern Italian towns--somewhat more than five hundred years before Christ. [Sidenote: The Fall of Tyre.] Among the incidents occurring during the struggles between the Egyptian and Babylonian kings there is one deserving to be brought into conspicuous prominence, from the importance of its consequences in European history. It was the taking of Tyre by Nebuchadnezzar. So long as that city dominated in the Mediterranean, it was altogether impossible for Greek maritime power to be developed. The strength of Tyre is demonstrated by her resistance to the whole Babylonian power for thirteen years, "until every head was bald and every shoulder peeled." The place was, in the end, utterly destroyed. It was made as bare as the top of a rock on which the fisherman spreads his nets. The blow thus struck at the heart of Tyrian commerce could not but be felt at the utmost extremities. "The isles of the sea were troubled at her departure." It was during this time that Greece fairly emerged as a Mediterranean naval power. Nor did the inhabitants of New Tyre ever recover the ancient position. Their misfortunes had given them a rival. A re-establishment in an island on the coast was not a restoration of their supremacy. Carrying out what Greece instinctively felt to be her national policy, one of the first acts of Alexander's Asiatic campaign, two hundred and fifty years subsequently, was the siege of the new city, and, after almost superhuman exertions, its capture, by building a mole from the mainland. He literally levelled the place to the ground; a countless multitude was massacred, two thousand persons were crucified, and Tyrian influence disappeared for ever. [Sidenote: Foreign epochs in Greek history.] In early Greek history there are, therefore, two leading foreign events: 1st, the opening of the Egyptian ports, B.C. 670; 2nd, the downfall of Old Tyre, 573. The effect of the first was chiefly intellectual; that of the second was to permit the commencement of commercial prosperity and give life to Athens. [Sidenote: Antiquity of civilization and art in Egypt.] At the dawn of European civilization, Egypt was, therefore, in process of decadence, gradually becoming less and less able to resist its own interior causes of destruction, or the attempts of its Asiatic rivals, who eventually brought it to ruin. At the first historical appearance of the country of the Nile it is hoary and venerable with age. The beautiful Scripture pictures of the journey of Abram and Sarai, in the famine, the going down of Joseph, the exodus of the Israelites, all point to a long-settled system, a tranquil and prosperous state. Do we ask any proof of the condition of art to which the Egyptians had attained at the time of their earliest monuments? The masonry of the Great Pyramid, built thirty-four hundred years before Christ, has never yet been surpassed. So accurately was that wonder of the world planned and constructed, that at this day the variation of the compass may actually be determined by the position of its sides; yet, when Jacob went into Egypt, that pyramid had been built as many centuries as have intervened from the birth of Christ to the present day. If we turn from the monuments to their inscriptions, there are renewed evidences of antiquity. The hieroglyphic writing had passed through all its stages of formation; its principles had become ascertained and settled long before we gain the first glimpse of it; the decimal and duodecimal systems of arithmetic were in use; the arts necessary in hydraulic engineering, massive architecture, and the ascertainment of the boundaries of land, had reached no insignificant degree of perfection. Indeed, there would be but very little exaggeration in affirming that we are practically as near the early Egyptian ages as was Herodotus himself. Well might the Egyptian priests say to the earliest Greek philosophers, "You Greeks are mere children, talkative and vain; you know nothing at all of the past." [Sidenote: Prehistoric life of Egypt.] Traces of the prehistoric, premonumental life of Egypt are still preserved in the relics of its language, and the well-known principles of its religion. Of the former, many of the words are referable to Indo-Germanic roots, an indication that the country at an early period must have been conquered from its indigenous African possessors by intrusive expeditions from Asia; and this is supported by the remarkable principles of Egyptian religion. The races of Central Asia had at a very early time attained to the psychical stage of monotheism. Africa is only now emerging from the basest fetichism; the negro priest is still a sorcerer and rain-maker. The Egyptian religion, as is well known, provided for the vulgar a suitable worship of complex idolatry, but for those emancipated from superstition it offered true and even noble conceptions. The coexistence of these apparent incompatibilities in the same faith seems incapable of any other explanation than that of an amalgamation of two distinct systems, just as occurred again many ages subsequently under Ptolemy Soter. [Sidenote: Influence of Egypt on the knowledge and art of Europe.] As a critical attention is being bestowed by modern scholars upon Egyptian remains, we learn more truly what is the place in history of that venerable country. It is their boast that the day is not distant when there will be no more difficulty in translating a page of hieroglyphics than in translating one of Latin or Greek. Even now, what a light has been thrown on all branches of ancient literature, science, art, mythology, domestic life, by researches which it may be said commenced only yesterday! From Egypt, it now appears, were derived the prototypes of the Greek architectural orders, and even their ornaments and conventional designs; thence came the models of the Greek and Etruscan vases; thence came many of the ante-Homeric legends--the accusation of the dead, the trial before the judges of hell; the reward and punishment of every man, from the Pharaoh who had descended from his throne to the slave who had escaped from his chain; the dog Cerberus, the Stygian stream, the Lake of Oblivion, the piece of money, Charon and his boat, the fields of Aahlu or Elysium, and the islands of the blessed; thence came the first ritual for the dead, litanies to the sun, and painted or illuminated missals; thence came the dogma of a queen of heaven. What other country can offer such noble and enduring edifices to the gods; temples with avenues of sphinxes; massive pylons adorned with obelisks in front, which even imperial Rome and modern Paris have not thought it beneath them to appropriate; porticoes and halls of columns, on which were carved the portraits of kings and effigies of the gods? On the walls of the tombs still remain Pthah, the creator, and Neph, the divine spirit, sitting at the potters wheel, turning clay to form men; and Athor, who receives the setting sun into her arms; and Osiris, the judge of the dead. The granite statues have outlived the gods! [Sidenote: The hieroglyphics.] Moreover, the hieroglyphics furnish intrinsic evidence that among this people arose the earliest attempts at the perpetuation and imparting of ideas by writing. Though doubtless it was in the beginning a mere picture-writing, like that of the Mexicans, it had already, at the first moment we meet with it, undergone a twofold development--ideographic and phonetic; the one expressing ideas, the other sounds. Under the Macedonian kings the hieroglyphics had become restricted to religious uses, showing conclusively that the old priesthood had never recovered the terrible blows struck against it by Cambyses and Ochus. From that time forth they were less and less known. It is said that one of the Roman emperors was obliged to offer a reward for the translation of an obelisk. To the early Christian the hieroglyphic inscription was an abomination, as full of the relics of idolatry, and indicating an inspiration of the devil. He defaced the monuments wherever he could make them yield; and in many cases has preserved them for us by plastering them over to hide them from his sight. In those enigmatical characters an extensive literature once existed, of which the celebrated books of Hermes were perhaps a corruption or a relic; a literature embracing compositions on music, astronomy, cosmogony, geography, medicine, anatomy, chemistry, magic, and many other subjects that have amused the curiosity of man. Yet of those characters the most singular misconceptions have been entertained almost to our own times. Thus, in 1802, Palin thought that the papyri were the Psalms of David done into Chinese, Lenoir that they were Hebrew documents; it was even asserted that the inscriptions in the temple of Denderah were the 100th Psalm, a pleasant ecclesiastical conceit, reminding one who has seen in Egyptian museums old articles of brass and glass, of the stories delivered down from hand to hand, that brass was first made at the burning of Corinth, and glass first discovered by shipwrecked mariners, who propped their kettle, while it boiled, on pieces of nitre. [Sidenote: Antiquity of the Egyptian monarchy.] [Sidenote: Causes of the rise of civilization.] Thousands of years have passed since the foundation of the first Egyptian dynasty. The Pyramids have seen the old empire, the Hycksos monarchs, the New Empire, the Persian, the Macedonian, the Roman, the Mohammedan. They have stood while the heavens themselves have changed. They were already "five hundred years old when the Southern Cross disappeared from the horizon of the countries of the Baltic." The pole-star itself is a newcomer to them. Humboldt, referring to these incidents, remarks that "the past seems to be visibly nearer to us when we thus connect its measurement with great and memorable events." No country has had such a varied history as this birthplace of European civilization. Through the darkness of fifty centuries we may not be able to discern the motives of men, but through periods very much longer we can demonstrate the conditions of Nature. If nations, in one sense, depend on the former, in a higher sense they depend on the latter. It was not without reason that the Egyptians took the lead in Mediterranean civilization. The geographical structure of their country surpasses even its hoary monuments in teaching us the conditions under which that people were placed. Nature is a surer guide than the traces of man, whose works are necessarily transitory. The aspect of Egypt has changed again and again; its structure, since man has inhabited it, never. The fields have disappeared, but the land remains. Why was it that civilization thus rose on the banks of the Nile, and not upon those of the Danube or Mississippi? Civilization depends on climate and agriculture. In Egypt the harvests may ordinarily be foretold and controlled. Of few other parts of the world can the same be said. In most countries the cultivation of the soil is uncertain. From seed-time to harvest, the meteorological variations are so numerous and great, that no skill can predict the amount of yearly produce. Without any premonition, the crops may be cut off by long-continued droughts, or destroyed by too much rain. Nor is it sufficient that a requisite amount of water should fall; to produce the proper effect, it must fall at particular periods. The labour of the farmer is at the mercy of the winds and clouds. With difficulty, therefore, could a civilized state originate under such circumstances. So long as life is a scene of uncertainty, the hope of yesterday blighted by the realities of to day, man is the maker of expedients, but not of laws. In his solicitude as to his approaching lot, he has neither time nor desire to raise his eyes to the heavens to watch and record their phenomena; no leisure to look upon himself, and consider what and where he is. In the imperious demand for a present support, he dares not venture on speculative attempts at ameliorating his state; he is doomed to be a helpless, isolated, spell-bound savage, or, if not isolated, the companion of other savages as care-worn as himself. Under such circumstances, however, if once the preliminary conditions and momentum of civilization be imparted to him, the very things which have hitherto tended to depress him produce an opposite effect. Instead of remaining in sameness and apathy, the vicissitudes to which he is now exposed urge him onward; and thus it is that, though the civilization of Europe depended for its commencement on the sameness and stability of an African climate, the conquests of Nature which mark its more advanced stage have been made in the trying life of the temperate zone. [Sidenote: Agriculture in a rainless country.] There is a country in which man is not the sport of the seasons, in which he need have no anxieties for his future well-being--a country in which the sunshines and heats vary very little from year to year. In the Thebaid heavy rain is said to be a prodigy. But, at the time when the Dog-star rises with the sun, the river begins to swell; a tranquil inundation by degrees covering the land, at once watering and enriching it. If the Nilometer which measures the height of the flood indicates eight cubits, the crops will be scanty; but if it reaches fourteen cubits, there will be a plentiful harvest. In the spring of the year it may be known how the fields will be in the autumn. Agriculture is certain in Egypt, and there man first became civilized. The date-tree, moreover, furnishes to Africa a food almost without expense. The climate renders it necessary to use, for the most part, vegetable diet, and but little clothing is required. [Sidenote: Rainless countries of the West.] The American counterpart of Egypt in this physical condition is Peru, the coast of which is also a rainless district. Peru is the Egypt of civilization of the Western continent. There is also a rainless strand on the Pacific coast of Mexico. It is an incident full of meaning in the history of human progress, that, in regions far apart, civilization thus commenced in rainless countries. In Upper Egypt, the cradle of civilization, the influence of atmospheric water is altogether obliterated, for, in an agricultural point of view, the country is rainless. Variable meteorological conditions are there eliminated. [Sidenote: Inundations of the Nile.] [Sidenote: Gradual rise of the whole country.] Where the Nile breaks through the mountain gate at Essouan, it is observed that its waters begin to rise about the end of the month of May, and in eight or nine weeks the inundation is at its height. This flood in the river is due to the great rains which have fallen in the mountainous countries among which the Nile takes its rise, and which have been precipitated from the trade-winds that blow, except where disturbed by the monsoons, over the vast expanse of the tropical Indian Ocean. Thus dried, the east wind pursues its solemn course over the solitudes of Central Africa, a cloudless and a rainless wind, its track marked by desolation and deserts. At first the river becomes red, and then green, because the flood of its great Abyssinian branch, the Blue Nile, arrives first; but, soon after, that of the White Nile makes its appearance, and from the overflowing banks not only water, but a rich and fertilizing mud, is discharged. It is owing to the solid material thus brought down that the river in countless ages has raised its own bed, and has embanked itself with shelving deposits that descend on either side toward the desert. For this reason it is that the inundation is seen on the edge of the desert first, and, as the flood rises, the whole country up to the river itself is laid under water. By the middle of September the supply begins to fail and the waters abate; by the end of October the stream has returned to its usual limits. The fields are left covered with a fertile deposit, the maximum quantity of which is about six inches thick in a hundred years. It is thought that the bed of the river rises four feet in a thousand years, and the fertilized land in its width continually encroaches on the desert. Since the reign of Amenophis III. it has increased by one-third. He lived B.C. 1430. There have accumulated round the pedestal of his Colossus seven feet of mud. [Sidenote: Geological age of Egypt.] In the recent examinations made by the orders of the Viceroy of Egypt, close by the fallen statue of Rameses II., at Memphis, who reigned, according to Lepsius, from B.C. 1394 to B.C. 1328, a shaft was sunk to more than 24 feet. The water which then infiltrated compelled a resort to boring, which was continued until 41 feet 4-1/2 inches were reached. The whole consisted of Nile deposits, alternate layers of loam and sand of the same composition throughout. From the greatest depth a fragment of pottery was obtained. Ninety-five of these borings were made in various places, but on no occasion was solid rock reached. The organic remains were all recent; not a trace of an extinct fossil occurred, but an abundance of the residues of burnt bricks and pottery. In their examination from Essouan to Cairo, the French estimated the mud deposit to be five inches for each century. From an examination of the results at Heliopolis, Mr. Horner makes it 3·18 inches. The Colossus of Rameses II. is surrounded by a sediment nine feet four inches deep, fairly estimated. Its date of erection was about 3215 years ago, which gives 3-1/2 inches per century. But beneath it similar layers continue to the depth of 30 feet, which, at the same rate, would give 13,500 years, to A.D. 1854, at which time the examination was made. Every precaution seems to have been taken to obtain accurate results. [Sidenote: Its geography and topography.] The extent of surface affected by the inundations of the Nile is, in a geographical point of view, altogether insignificant; yet, such as it was, it constituted Egypt. Commencing at the Cataract of Essouan, at the sacred island of Philæ, on which to this day here and there the solitary palm-tree looks down, it reached to the Mediterranean Sea, from 24° 3´ N. to 31° 37´ N. The river runs in a valley, bounded on one side by the eastern and on the other by the Libyan chain of mountains, and of which the average breadth is about seven miles, the arable land, however, not averaging more than five and a half. At the widest place it is ten and three-quarters, at the narrowest two. The entire surface of irrigated and fertile land in the Delta is 4500 square miles; the arable land of Egypt, 2255 square miles; and in the Fyoom, 340 square miles, an insignificant surface, yet it supported seven millions of people. Here agriculture was so precise that it might almost be pronounced a mathematical art. The disturbances arising from atmospheric conditions were eliminated, and the variations, as connected with the supply of river-water, ascertained in advance. The priests proclaimed how the flood stood on the Nilometer, and the husbandman made corresponding preparations for a scanty or an abundant harvest. In such a state of things, it was an obvious step to improve upon the natural conditions by artificial means; dykes, and canals, and flood-gates, with other hydraulic apparatus, would, even in the beginning of society, unavoidably be suggested, that in one locality the water might be detained longer; in another, shut off when there was danger of excess; in another, more abundantly introduced. [Sidenote: Control of agriculture by the government.] There followed, as a consequence of this condition of things, the establishment of a strong government, having a direct control over the agriculture of the state by undertaking and supporting these artificial improvements, and sustaining itself by a tax cheerfully paid, and regulated in amount by the quantity of water supplied from the river to each estate. Such, indeed, was the fundamental political system of the country. The first king of the old empire undertook to turn the river into a new channel he made for it, a task which might seem to demand very able engineering, and actually accomplished it. It is more than five thousand years since Menes lived. There must have preceded his times many centuries, during which knowledge and skill had been increasing, before such a work could even have been contemplated. [Sidenote: Topographical changes occasioned by the Nile.] I shall not indulge in any imaginary description of the manner in which, under such favourable circumstances, the powers of the human mind were developed and civilization arose. In inaccessible security, the inhabitants of this valley were protected on the west by a burning sandy desert, on the east by the Red Sea. Nor shall I say anything more of those remote geological times when the newly-made river first flowed over a rocky and barren desert on its way to the Mediterranean Sea; nor how, in the course of ages, it had by degrees laid down a fertile stratum, embanking itself in the rich soil it had borne from the tropical mountains. Yet it is none the less true that such was the slow construction of Egypt as a habitable country; such were the gradual steps by which it was fitted to become the seat of man. The pulse of its life-giving artery makes but one beat in a year; what, then, are a few hundreds of centuries in such a process? [Sidenote: The inundations lead to the study of astronomy.] The Egyptians had, at an early period, observed that the rising of the Nile coincided with the heliacal rising of Sirius, the Dog-star, and hence they very plausibly referred it to celestial agencies. Men are ever prone to mistake coincidences for causes; and thus it came to pass that the appearance of that star on the horizon at the rising of the sun was not only viewed as the signal, but as the cause of the inundations. Its coming to the desired position might, therefore, be well expected, and it was soon observed that this took place with regularity at periods of about 360 days. This was the first determination of the length of the year. It is worthy of remark, as showing how astronomy and religious rites were in the beginning connected, that the priests of the mysterious temple of Philæ placed before the tomb of Osiris every morning 360 vases of milk, each one commemorating one day, thus showing that the origin of that rite was in those remote ages when it was thought that the year was 360 days long. It was doubtless such circumstances that led the Egyptians to the cultivation of historical habits. In this they differed from the Hindus, who kept no records. [Sidenote: The philosophy of star-worship.] The Dog-star Sirius is the most splendid star in the heavens; to the Egyptian the inundation was the most important event upon earth. Mistaking a coincidence for a cause, he was led to the belief that when that brilliant star emerged in the morning from the rays of the sun, and began to assert its own inherent power, the sympathetic river, moved thereby, commenced to rise. A false inference like this soon dilated into a general doctrine; for if one star could in this way manifest a direct control over the course of terrestrial affairs, why should not another--indeed, why should not all? Moreover, it could not have escaped notice that the daily tides of the Red Sea are connected with the movements and position of the sun and moon, following those luminaries in the time of their occurrence, and being determined by their respective position as to amount at spring and at neap. But the necessary result of such a view is no other than the admission of the astrological influence of the heavenly bodies; first, as respects inanimate nature, and then as respects the fortune and fate of men. It is not until the vast distance of the starry bodies is suspected that man begins to feel the necessity of a mediator between him and them, and star-worship passes to its second phase. To what part of the world could the Egyptian travel without seeing in the skies the same constellations? Far from the banks of the Nile, in the western deserts, in Syria, in Arabia, the stars are the same. They are omnipresent; for we may lose sight of the things of the earth, but not of those of the heavens. The air of fate-like precision with which their appointed movements are accomplished, their solemn silence, their incomprehensible distances, might satisfy an observer that they are far removed from the influences of all human power, though, perhaps, they may be invoked by human prayer. [Sidenote: Principles of Egyptian theology.] Thus star-worship found for itself a plausible justification. The Egyptian system, at its highest development, combined the adoration of the heavenly bodies--the sun, the moon, Venus, &c., with the deified attributes of God. The great and venerable divinities, as Osiris, Pthah, Amun, were impersonations of such attributes, just as we speak of the Creator, the Almighty. It was held that not only has God never appeared upon earth in the human form, but that such is altogether an impossibility, since he is the animating principle of the entire universe, visible nature being only a manifestation of him. [Sidenote: God. Trinities and their persons.] These impersonated attributes were arranged in various trinities, in each of which the third member is a procession from the other two, the doctrine and even expressions in this respect being full of interest to one who studies the gradual development of comparative theology in Europe. Thus from Amun by Maut proceeds Khonso, from Osiris by Isis proceeds Horus, from Neph by Saté proceeds Anouké. While, therefore, it was considered unlawful to represent God except by his attributes, these trinities and their persons offered abundant means of idolatrous worship for the vulgar. It was admitted that there had been terrestrial manifestations of these divine attributes for the salvation of men. Thus Osiris was incarnate in the flesh: he fell a sacrifice to the evil principle, and, after his death and resurrection, became the appointed judge of the dead. In his capacity of President of the West, or of the region of the setting stars, he dwells in the under world, which is traversed by the sun at night. [Sidenote: Incarnations; fall of man; redemption.] [Sidenote: The future judgment.] The Egyptian priests affirmed that nothing is ever annihilated; to die is therefore only to assume a new form. Herodotus says that they were the first to discover that the soul is immortal, their conception of it being that it is an emanation from or a particle of the universal soul, which in a less degree animates all animals and plants, and even inorganic things. Their dogma that there had been divine incarnations obliged them to assert that there had been a fall of man, this seeming to be necessary to obtain a logical argument in justification of prodigies so great. For the relief of the guilty soul, they prescribed in this life fasts and penances, and in the future a transmigration through animals for purification. At death, the merits of the soul were ascertained by a formal trial before Osiris in the shadowy region of Amenti--the under world--in presence of the four genii of that realm, and of forty-two assessors. To this judgment the shade was conducted by Horus, who carried him past Cerberus, a hippopotamus, the gaunt guardian of the gate. He stood by in silence while Anubis weighed his heart in the scales of justice. If his good works preponderated, he was dismissed to the fields of Aahlu--the Elysian Fields; if his evil, he was condemned to transmigration. [Sidenote: The trial of the dead.] [Sidenote: Origin of the Greek Hades.] But that this doctrine of a judgment in another world might not decline into an idle legend, it was enforced by a preparatory trial in this--a trial of fearful and living import. From the sovereign to the meanest subject, every man underwent a sepulchral inquisition. As soon as any one died, his body was sent to the embalmers, who kept it forty days, and for thirty-two in addition the family mourned, the mummy, in its coffin, was placed erect in an inner chamber of the house. Notice was then sent to the forty-two assessors of the district; and on an appointed day, the corpse was carried to the sacred lake, of which every nome, and, indeed, every large town, had one toward the west. Arrived on its shore, the trial commenced; any person might bring charges against the deceased, or speak in his behalf; but woe to the false accuser. The assessors then passed sentence according to the evidence before them: if they found an evil life, sepulture was denied, and, in the midst of social disgrace, the friends bore back the mummy to their home, to be redeemed by their own good works in future years; or, if too poor to give it a place of refuge, it was buried on the margin of the lake, the culprit ghost waiting and wandering for a hundred years. On these Stygian shores the bones of some are still dug up in our day: they have remained unsepulchred for more than thirty times their predestined century. Even to wicked kings a burial had thus been denied. But, if the verdict of the assessors was favourable, a coin was paid to the boatman Charon for ferriage; a cake was provided for the hippopotamus Cerberus; they rowed across the lake in the baris, or death-boat, the priest announcing to Osiris and the unearthly assessors the good deeds of the deceased. Arriving on the opposite shore, the procession walked in solemn silence, and the mummy was then deposited in its final resting-place--the catacombs. [Sidenote: Ceremonies, creeds, oracles, prophecy.] From this it may be gathered that the Egyptian religion did not remain a mere speculative subject, but was enforced on the people by the most solemn ceremonies. Moreover, in the great temples, grand processional services were celebrated, the precursors of some that still endure. There were sacrifices of meat-offerings, libations, incense. The national double creed, adapted in one branch to the vulgar, in the other to the learned, necessarily implied mysteries; some of these were avowedly transported to Greece. The machinery of oracles was resorted to. The Greek oracles were of Egyptian origin. So profound was the respect paid to their commands that even the sovereigns were obliged to obey them. It was thus that a warning from the oracle of Amun caused Necho to stop the construction of his canal. For the determination of future events, omens were studied, entrails inspected, and nativities were cast. CHAPTER IV. GREEK AGE OF INQUIRY. RISE AND DECLINE OF PHYSICAL SPECULATION. IONIAN PHILOSOPHY, _commencing from Egyptian Ideas, identifies in Water, or Air, or Fire, the First Principle.--Emerging from the Stage of Sorcery, it founds Psychology, Biology, Cosmogony, Astronomy, and ends in doubting whether there is any Criterion of Truth._ ITALIAN PHILOSOPHY _depends on Numbers and Harmonies.--It reproduces the Egyptian and Hindu Doctrine of Transmigration._ ELEATIC PHILOSOPHY _presents a great Advance, indicating a rapid Approach to Oriental Ideas.--It assumes a Pantheistic Aspect._ RISE OF PHILOSOPHY IN EUROPEAN GREECE.--_Relations and Influence of the Mediterranean Commercial and Colonial System.--Athens attains to commercial Supremacy.--Her vast Progress in Intelligence and Art.--Her Demoralization.--She becomes the Intellectual Centre of the Mediterranean._ _Commencement of the Athenian higher Analysis.--It is conducted by_ THE SOPHISTS, _who reject Philosophy, Religion, and even Morality, and end in Atheism._ _Political Dangers of the higher Analysis.--Illustration from the Middle Ages._ [Sidenote: Origin of Greek philosophy.] In Chapter II. I have described the origin and decline of Greek Mythology; in this, I am to relate the first European attempt at philosophizing. The Ionian systems spring directly out of the contemporary religious opinions, and appear as a phase in Greek comparative theology. [Sidenote: Its imperfections.] Contrasted with the psychical condition of India, we cannot but be struck with the feebleness of these first European efforts. They correspond to that period in which the mind has shaken off its ideas of sorcery, but has not advanced beyond geocentral and anthropocentral conceptions. As is uniformly observed, as soon as man has collected what he considers to be trustworthy data, he forthwith applies them to a cosmogony, and develops pseudo-scientific systems. It is not until a later period that he awakens to the suspicion that we have no absolute knowledge of truth. The reader, who might, perhaps, be repelled by the apparent worthlessness of the succession of Greek opinions now to be described, will find them assume an interest, if considered in the aggregate, or viewed as a series of steps or stages of European approach to conclusions long before arrived at in Egypt and India. Far in advance of anything that Greece can offer, the intellectual history of India furnishes systems at once consistent and imposing--systems not remaining useless speculations, but becoming inwoven in social life. [Sidenote: Commences in Asia Minor.] Greek philosophy is considered as having originated with Thales, who, though of Phoenician descent, was born at Miletus, a Greek colony in Asia Minor, about B.C. 640. At that time, as related in the last chapter, the Egyptian ports had been opened to foreigners by Psammetichus. In the civil war which that monarch had been waging with his colleagues, he owed his success to Ionian and other Greek mercenaries whom he had employed; but, though proving victor in the contest, his political position was such as to compel him to depart from the maxims followed in his country for so many thousand years, and to permit foreigners to have access to it. Hitherto the Europeans had been only known to the Egyptians as pirates and cannibals. [Sidenote: Doctrine of Thales] [Sidenote: is derived from Egypt.] [Sidenote: Importance of water in Egypt.] From the doctrine of Thales, it may be inferred that, though he had visited Egypt, he had never been in communication with its sources of learning, but had merely mingled among the vulgar, from whom he had gathered the popular notion that the first principle is water. The state of things in Egypt suggests that this primitive dogma of European philosophy was a popular notion in that country. With but little care on the part of men the fertilizing Nile-water yielded those abundant crops which made Egypt the granary of the Old World. It might therefore be said, both philosophically and facetiously, that the first principle of all things is water. The harvests depended on it, and, through them, animals and man. The government of the country was supported by it, for the financial system was founded on a tax paid by the proprietors of the land for the use of the public sluices and aqueducts. There was not a peasant to whom it was not apparent that water is the first principle of all things, even of taxation; and, since it was not only necessary to survey lands to ascertain the surface that had been irrigated, but to redetermine their boundaries after the subsidence of the flood, even the scribes and surveyors might concede that geometry itself was indebted for its origin to water. [Sidenote: Thales asserts that water is the first principle.] If, therefore, in any part of the Old World, this doctrine had both a vulgar and a philosophical significance, that country was Egypt. We may picture to ourselves the inquisitive but ill-instructed Thales carried in some pirate-ship or trading-bark to the mysterious Nile, respecting which Ionia was full of legends and myths. He saw the aqueducts, canals, flood-gates, the great Lake Moeris, dug by the hand of man as many ages before his day as have elapsed from his day to ours; he saw on all sides the adoration paid to the river, for it had actually become deified; he learned from the vulgar, with whom alone he came in contact, their universal belief that all things arise from water--from the vulgar alone, for, had he ever been taught by the priests, we should have found traces in his system of the doctrines of emanation, transmigration, and absorption, which were imported into Greece in later times. We may interpret the story of Thales on the principles which would apply in the case of some intelligent Indian who should find his way to the outposts of a civilized country. Imperfectly acquainted with the language, and coming in contact with the lower class alone, he might learn their vulgar philosophy, and carry back the fancied treasure to his home. As to the profound meaning which some have been disposed to extract from the dogma of Thales, we shall, perhaps, be warranted in rejecting it altogether. It has been affirmed that he attempted to concentrate all supernatural powers in one; to reduce all possible agents to unity; in short, out of polytheism to bring forth monotheism; to determine the invariable in the variable; and to ascertain the beginning of things: that he observed how infinite is the sea; how necessary moisture is to growth; nay, even how essential it was to the well-being of himself; "that without moisture his own body would not have been what it was, but a dry husk falling to pieces." Nor can we adopt the opinion that the intention of Thales was to establish a coincidence between philosophy and the popular theology as delivered by Hesiod, who affirms that Oceanus is one of the parent-gods of Nature. The imputation of irreligion made against him shows at what an early period the antagonism of polytheism and scientific inquiry was recognized. But it is possible to believe that all things are formed out of one primordial substance, without denying the existence of a creative power. Or, to use the Indian illustration, the clay may not be the potter. [Sidenote: Other doctrines of Thales.] Thales is said to have predicted the solar eclipse which terminated a battle between the Medes and Lydians, but it has been suggestively remarked that it is not stated that he predicted the day on which it should occur. He had an idea that warmth originates from or is nourished by humidity, and that even the sun and stars derived their aliment out of the sea at the time of their rising and setting. Indeed, he regarded them as living beings; obtaining an argument from the phenomena of amber and the magnet, supposed by him to possess a living soul, because they have a moving force. Moreover, he taught that the whole world is an insouled thing, and that it is full of dæmons. Thales had, therefore, not completely passed out of the stage of sorcery. His system obtained importance not only from its own plausibility, but because it was introduced under favourable auspices and at a favourable time. It came into Asia Minor as a portion of the wisdom of Egypt, and therefore with a prestige sufficient to assure for it an attentive reception. But this would have been of little avail had not the mental culture of Ionia been advanced to a degree suitable for offering to it conditions of development. Under such circumstances the Egyptian dogma formed the starting-point for a special method of philosophizing. [Sidenote: They constitute the starting-point of Ionian philosophy.] The manner in which that development took place illustrates the vigour of the Grecian mind. In Egypt a doctrine might exist for thousands of years, protected by its mere antiquity from controversy or even examination, and hence sink with the lapse of time into an ineffectual and lifeless state; but the same doctrine brought into a young community full of activity would quickly be made productive and yield new results. As seeds taken from the coffins of mummies, wherein they have been shut up for thousands of years, when placed under circumstances favourable for development in a rich soil, and supplied with moisture, have forthwith, even in our own times, germinated, borne flowers, and matured new seeds, so the rude philosophy of Thales passed through a like development. Its tendency is shown in the attempt it at once made to describe the universe, even before the parts thereof had been determined. [Sidenote: Anaximenes asserts that air is the first principle.] [Sidenote: It is also the soul.] [Sidenote: The air is God.] But it is not alone the water or ocean that seems to be infinite, and capable of furnishing a supply for the origin of all other things. The air, also, appears to reach as far as the stars. On it, as Anaximenes of Miletus remarks, "the very earth itself floats like a broad leaf." Accordingly, this Ionian, stimulated doubtless by the hope of sharing in or succeeding to the celebrity that Thales had enjoyed for a century, proposed to substitute for water, as the primitive source of things, atmospheric air. And, in truth, there seem to be reasons for bestowing upon it such a pre-eminence. To those who have not looked closely into the matter, it would appear that water itself is generated from it, as when clouds are formed, and from them rain-drops, and springs, and fountains, and rivers, and even the sea. He also attributes infinity to it, a dogma scarcely requiring any exercise of the imagination, but being rather the expression of an ostensible fact; for who, when he looks upward, can discern the boundary of the atmosphere. Anaximenes also held that even the human soul itself is nothing but air, since life consists in inhaling and exhaling it, and ceases as soon as that process stops. He taught also that warmth and cold arise from mere rarefaction and condensation, and gave as a proof the fact that when we breathe with the lips drawn together the air is cold, but it becomes warm when we breathe through the widely-opened mouth. Hence he concluded that, with a sufficient rarefaction, air might turn into fire, and that this probably was the origin of the sun and stars, blazing comets, and other meteors; but if by chance it should undergo condensation, it would turn into wind and clouds, or, if that operation should be still more increased, into water, snow, hail, and, at last, even into earth itself. And since it is seen from the results of breathing that the air is a life-giving principle to man, nay, even is actually his soul, it would appear to be a just inference that the infinite air is God and that the gods and goddesses have sprung from it. Such was the philosophy of Anaximenes. It was the beginning of that stimulation of activity by rival schools which played so distinguished a part in the Greek intellectual movement. Its superiority over the doctrine of Thales evidently consists in this, that it not only assigns a primitive substance, but even undertakes to show by observation and experiment how others arise from it, and transformations occur. As to the discovery of the obliquity of the ecliptic by the aid of a gnomon attributed to Anaximenes, it was merely a boast of his vainglorious countrymen, and altogether beyond the scientific grasp of one who had no more exact idea of the nature of the earth than that it was "like a broad leaf floating in the air." [Sidenote: Diogenes asserts that air is the soul of the world.] The doctrines of Anaximenes received a very important development in the hands of Diogenes of Apollonia, who asserted that all things originate from one essence, which, undergoing continual changes, becoming different at different times, turns back again to the same state. He regarded the entire world as a living being, spontaneously evolving and transforming itself, and agreed with Anaximenes that the soul of man is nothing but air, as is also the soul of the world. From this it follows that the air must be eternal, imperishable, and endowed with consciousness. "It knows much; for without reason it would be impossible for all to be arranged so duly and proportionately as that all should maintain its fitting measure, winter and summer, night and day, the rain, the wind, and fair weather; and whatever object we consider will be found to have been ordered in the best and most beautiful manner possible." "But that which has knowledge is that which men call air; it is it that regulates and governs all, and hence it is the use of air to pervade all, and to dispose all, and to be in all, for there is nothing that has not part in it." [Sidenote: Difficulty of rising above fetichism.] [Sidenote: Astronomy and chemistry have passed beyond the fetich stage.] The early cultivator of philosophy emerges with difficulty from fetichism. The harmony observed among the parts of the world is easily explained on the hypothesis of a spiritual principle residing in things, and arranging them by its intelligent volition. It is not at once that he rises to the conception that all this beauty and harmony are due to the operation of law. We are so prone to judge of the process of external things from the modes of our own personal experience, our acts being determined by the exercise of our wills, that it is with difficulty we disentangle ourselves from such notions in the explanation of natural phenomena. Fetichism may be observed in the infancy of many of the natural sciences. Thus the electrical power of amber was imputed to a soul residing in that substance, a similar explanation being also given of the control of the magnet over iron. The movements of the planetary bodies, Mercury, Venus, Mars, were attributed to an intelligent principle residing in each, guiding and controlling the motions, and ordering all things for the best. It was an epoch in the history of the human mind when astronomy set an example to all other sciences of shaking off its fetichism, and showing that the intricate movements of the heavenly bodies are all capable not only of being explained, but even foretold, if once was admitted the existence of a simple, yet universal, invariable, and eternal law. Not without difficulty do men perceive that there is nothing inconsistent between invariable law and endlessly varying phenomena, and that it is a more noble view of the government of this world to impute its order to a penetrating primitive wisdom, which could foresee consequences throughout a future eternity, and provide for them in the original plan at the outset, than to invoke the perpetual intervention of an ever-acting spiritual agency for the purpose of warding off misfortunes that might happen, and setting things to rights. Chemistry furnishes us with a striking example--an example very opportune in the case we are considering--of the doctrine of Diogenes of Apollonia, that the air is actually a spiritual being; for, on the discovery of several of the gases by the earlier experimenters, they were not only regarded as of a spiritual nature, but actually received the name under which they pass to this day, gheist or gas, from a belief that they were ghosts. If a labourer descended into a well and was suffocated, as if struck dead by some invisible hand; if a lamp lowered down burnt for a few moments with a lurid flame, and was then extinguished; if, in a coal mine, when the unwary workman exposed a light, on a sudden the place was filled with flashing flames and thundering explosions, tearing down the rocks and destroying every living thing in the way, often, too, without leaving on the dead any marks of violence; what better explanation could be given of such catastrophes than to impute them to some supernatural agent? Nor was there any want, in those times, of well-authenticated stories of unearthly faces and forms seen in such solitudes. [Sidenote: Origin of psychology.] The modification made by Diogenes in the theory of Anaximenes, by converting it from a physical into a psychological system, is important, as marking the beginning of the special philosophy of Greece. The investigation of the intellectual development of the universe led the Greeks to the study of the intellect itself. In his special doctrine, Diogenes imputed the changeability of the air to its mobility; a property in which he thought it excelled all other substances, because it is among the rarest or thinnest of the elements. It is, however, said by some, who are disposed to transcendentalize his doctrine, that he did not mean the common atmospheric air, but something more attenuated and warm; and since, in its purest state, it constitutes the most perfect intellect, inferior degrees of reason must be owing to an increase of its density and moisture. Upon such a principle, the whole earth is animated by the breath of life; the souls of brutes, which differ from one another so much in intelligence, are only air in its various conditions of moisture and warmth. He explained the production of the world through condensation of the earth from air by cold, the warmth rising upward and forming the sun; in the stars he thought he recognized the respiratory organs of the world. From the preponderance of moist air in the constitution of brutes, he inferred that they are like the insane, incapable of thought, for thickness of the air impedes respiration, and therefore quick apprehension. From the fact that plants have no cavities wherein to receive the air, and are altogether unintelligent, he was led to the principle that the thinking power of man arises from the flowing of that substance throughout the body in the blood. He also explained the superior intelligence of men from their breathing a purer air than the beasts, which carry their nostrils near the ground. In these crude and puerile speculations we have the beginning of mental philosophy. [Sidenote: Modern discoveries as to the relations of the air.] [Sidenote: Inter-dependence of animals and plants.] [Sidenote: Agency of the sun.] I cannot dismiss the system of the Apollonian without setting in contrast with it the discoveries of modern science respecting the relations of the air. Toward the world of life it stands in a position of wonderful interest. Decomposed into its constituents by the skill of chemistry, it is no longer looked upon as a homogeneous body; its ingredients have not only been separated, but the functions they discharge have been ascertained. From one of these, carbonic acid, all the various forms of plants arise; that substance being decomposed by the rays of the sun, and furnishing to vegetables carbon, their chief solid ingredient. All those beautifully diversified organic productions, from the mosses of the icy regions to the palms characteristic of the landscapes of the tropics--all those we cast away as worthless weeds, and those for the obtaining of which we expend the sweat of our brow--all, without any exception, are obtained from the atmosphere by the influence of the sun. And since without plants the life of animals could not be maintained, they constitute the means by which the aërial material, vivified, as it may be said, by the rays of the sun, is conveyed even into the composition of man himself. As food, they serve to repair the waste of the body necessarily occasioned in the acts of moving and thinking. For a time, therefore, these ingredients, once a part of the structure of plants, enter as essential constituents in the structure of animals. Yet it is only in a momentary way, for the essential condition of animal activity is that there shall be unceasing interstitial death; not a finger can be lifted without the waste of muscular material; not a thought arise without the destruction of cerebral substance. From the animal system the products of decay are forthwith removed, often by mechanisms of the most exquisite construction; but their uses are not ended, for sooner or later they find their way back again into the air, and again serve for the origination of plants. It is needless to trace these changes in all their details; the same order or cycle of progress holds good for the water, the ammonia; they pass from the inorganic to the living state, and back to the inorganic again; now the same particle is found in the air next aiding in the composition of a plant, then in the body of an animal, and back in the air once more. In this perpetual revolution material particles run, the dominating influence determining and controlling their movement being in that great centre of our system, the sun. From him, in the summer days, plants receive, and, as it were, store up that warmth which, at a subsequent time, is to reappear in the glow of health of man, or to be rekindled in the blush of shame, or to consume in the burning fever. Nor is there any limit of time. The heat we derive from the combustion of stubble came from the sun as it were only yesterday; but that with which we moderate the rigour of winter when we burn anthracite or bituminous coal was also derived from the same source in the ultra-tropical climate of the secondary times, perhaps a thousand centuries ago. In such perpetually recurring cycles are the movements of material things accomplished, and all takes place under the dominion of invariable law. The air is the source whence all organisms have come; it is the receptacle to which they all return. Its parts are awakened into life, not by the influence of any terrestrial agency or principle concealed in itself, as Diogenes supposed, but by a star which is ninety millions of miles distant, the source, direct or indirect, of every terrestrial movement, and the dispenser of light and life. [Sidenote: Heraclitus asserts that fire is the first principle.] [Sidenote: The fictitious permanence of successive forms.] To Thales and Diogenes, whose primordial elements were water and air respectively, we must add Heraclitus of Ephesus, who maintained that the first principle is fire. He illustrated the tendency which Greek philosophy had already assumed of opposition to Polytheism and the idolatrous practices of the age. It is said that in his work, ethical, political, physical, and theological subjects were so confused, and so great was the difficulty of understanding his meaning, that he obtained the surname of "the Obscure." In this respect he has had among modern metaphysicians many successors. He founds his system, however, upon the simple axiom that "all is convertible into fire, and fire into all." Perhaps by the term fire he understood what is at present meant by heat, for he expressly says that he does not mean flame, but something merely dry and warm. He considered that this principle is in a state of perpetual activity, forming and absorbing every individual thing. He says, "All is, and is not; for though it does in truth come into being, yet it forthwith ceases to be." "No one has ever been twice on the same stream, for different waters are constantly flowing down. It dissipates its waters and gathers them again; it approaches and recedes, overflows and fails." And to teach us that we ourselves are changing and have changed, he says, "On the same stream we embark and embark not, we are and we are not." By such illustrations he implies that life is only an unceasing motion, and we cannot fail to remark that the Greek turn of thought is fast following that of the Hindu. But Heraclitus totally fails to free himself from local conceptions. He speaks of the motion of the primordial principle in the upward and downward directions, in the higher and lower regions. He says that the chief accumulation thereof is above, and the chief deficiency below: and hence he regards the soul of a man as a portion of fire migrated from heaven. He carries his ideas of the transitory nature of all phenomena to their last consequences, and illustrates the noble doctrine that all which appears to us to be permanent is only a regulated and self-renewing concurrence of similar and opposite motions by such extravagances as that the sun is daily destroyed and renewed. [Sidenote: Physical and physiological doctrines of Heraclitus.] In the midst of many wild physical statements many true axioms are delivered. "All is ordered by reason and intelligence, though all is subject to Fate." Already he perceived what the metaphysicians of our own times are illustrating, that "man's mind can produce no certain knowledge from its own interior resources alone." He regarded the organs of sense as being the channels through which the outer life of the world, and therewith truth, enters into the mind, and that in sleep, when the organs of sense are closed, we are shut out from all communion with the surrounding universal spirit. In his view every thing is animated and insouled, but to different degrees, organic objects being most completely or perfectly so. His astronomy may be anticipated from what has been said respecting the sun, which he moreover regarded as being scarcely more than a foot in diameter, and, like all other celestial objects, a mere meteor. His moral system was altogether based upon the physical, the fundamental dogma being the excellence of fire. Thus he accounted for the imbecility of the drunkard by his having a moist soul, and drew the inference that a warm or dry soul is the wisest and best; with justifiable patriotism asserting that the noblest souls must belong to a climate that is dry, intending thereby to indicate that Greece is man's fittest and truest country. There can be no doubt that in Heraclitus there is a strong tendency to the doctrine of a soul of the world. If the divinity is undistinguishable from heat, whither can we go to escape its influences? And in the restless activity and incessant changes it produces in every thing within our reach, do we not recognize the tokens of the illimitable and unshackled? [Sidenote: The puerility of Ionian philosophy.] I have lingered on the chief features of the early Greek philosophy as exhibited in the physical school of Ionia. They serve to impress upon us its intrinsic imperfection. It is a mixture of the physical, metaphysical, and mystical which, upon the whole, has no other value than this, that it shows how feeble were the beginnings of our knowledge--that we commenced with the importation of a few vulgar errors from Egypt. In presence of the utilitarian philosophy of that country and the theology of India, how vain and even childish are these germs of science in Greece! Yet this very imperfection is not without its use, since it warns us of the inferior position in which we stand as respects the time of our civilization when compared with those ancient states, and teaches us to reject the assertion which so many European scholars have wearied themselves in establishing, that Greece led the way to all human knowledge of any value. Above all, it impresses upon us more appropriate, because more humble views of our present attainments and position, and gives us to understand that other races of men not only preceded us in intellectual culture, but have equalled, and perhaps surpassed every thing that we have yet done in mental philosophy. [Sidenote: Anaximander's doctrine of the Infinite.] [Sidenote: Origin of cosmogony.] [Sidenote: Origin of biology.] Of the other founders of Ionic sects it may be observed that, though they gave to their doctrines different forms, the method of reasoning was essentially the same in them all. Of this a better illustration could not be given than in the philosophy of Anaximander of Miletus, who was contemporary with Thales. He started with the postulate that things arose by separation from a universal mixture of all: his primordial principle was therefore chaos, though he veiled it in the metaphysically obscure designation "The Infinite." The want of precision in this respect gave rise to much difference of opinion as to his tenets. To his chaos he imputed an internal energy, by which its parts spontaneously separated from each other; to those parts he imputed absolute unchangeability. He taught that the earth is of a cylindrical form, its base being one-third of its altitude; it is retained in the centre of the world by the air in an equality of distance from all the boundaries of the universe; that the fixed stars and planets revolved round it, each being fastened to a crystalline ring; and beyond them, in like manner, the moon, and, still farther off, the sun. He conceived of an opposition between the central and circumferential regions, the former being naturally cold, and the latter hot; indeed, in his opinion, the settling of the cold parts to the centre, and the ascending of the hot, gave origin, respectively, to the formation of the earth and shining celestial bodies, the latter first existing as a complete shell or sphere, which, undergoing destruction, broke up into stars. Already we perceive the tendency of Greek philosophy to shape itself into systems of cosmogony, founded upon the disturbance of the chaotic matter by heat and cold. Nay, more, Anaximander explained the origin of living creatures on like principles, for the sun's heat, acting upon the primal miry earth, produced filmy bladders or bubbles, and these, becoming surrounded with a prickly rind, at length burst open, and, as from an egg, animals came forth. At first they were ill-formed and imperfect, but subsequently elaborated and developed. As to man, so far from being produced in his perfect shape, he was ejected as a fish, and under that form continued in the muddy water until he was capable of supporting himself on dry land. Besides "the Infinite" being thus the cause of generation, it was also the cause of destruction: "things must all return whence they came, according to destiny, for they must all, in order of time, undergo due penalties and expiations of wrong-doing." This expression obviously contains a moral consideration, and is an exemplification of the commencing feeble interconnection between physical and moral philosophy. As to the more solid discoveries attributed to this philosopher, we may dispose of them in the same manner that we have dealt with the like facts in the biographies of his predecessors--they are idle inventions of his vainglorious countrymen. That he was the first to make maps is scarcely consistent with the well-known fact that the Egyptians had cultivated geometry for that express purpose thirty centuries before he was born. As to his inventing sun-dials, the shadow had gone back on that of Ahaz a long time before. In reality, the sun-dial was a very ancient Oriental invention. And as to his being the first to make an exact calculation of the size and distance of the heavenly bodies, it need only be remarked that those who have so greatly extolled his labours must have overlooked how incompatible such discoveries are with a system which assumes that the earth is cylindrical in shape, and kept in the midst of the heavens by the atmosphere; that the sun is farther off than the fixed stars; and that each of the heavenly bodies is made to revolve by means of a crystalline wheel. The philosopher whose views we have next to consider is Anaxagoras of Clazomene, the friend and master of Pericles, Euripides, and Socrates. Like several of his predecessors, he had visited Egypt. Among his disciples were numbered some of the most eminent men of those times. [Sidenote: Anaxagoras teaches the unchangeability of the universe.] [Sidenote: The primal intellect.] [Sidenote: Cosmogony of Anaxagoras.] The fundamental principle of his philosophy was the recognition of the unchangeability of the universe as a whole, the variety of forms that we see being produced by new arrangements of its constituent parts. Such a doctrine includes, of course, the idea of the eternity of matter. Anaxagoras says, "Wrongly do the Greeks suppose that aught begins or ceases to be, for nothing comes into being or is destroyed, but all is an aggregation or secretion of pre-existent things, so that all becoming might more correctly be called becoming-mixed, and all corruption becoming-separate." In such a statement we cannot fail to remark that the Greek is fast passing into the track of the Egyptian and the Hindu. In some respects his views recall those of the chaos of Anaximander, as when he says, "Together were all things infinite in number and smallness; nothing was distinguishable. Before they were sorted, while all was together, there was no quality noticeable." To the first moving force which arranged the parts of things out of the chaos, he gave the designation of "the Intellect," rejecting Fate as an empty name, and imputing all things to Reason. He made no distinction between the Soul and Intellect. His tenets evidently include a dualism indicated by the moving force and the moved mass, an opposition between the corporeal and mental. This indicated that for philosophy there are two separate routes, the physical and intellectual. While Reason is thus the prime mover in his philosophy, he likewise employed many subordinate agents in the government of things--for instance, air, water, and fire, being evidently unable to explain the state of nature in a satisfactory way by the operation of the Intellect alone. We recognize in the details of his system ideas derived from former ones, such as the settling of the cold and dense below, and the rising of the warm and light above. In the beginning the action of Intellect was only partial; that which was primarily moved was only imperfectly sorted, and contained in itself the capability of many separations. From this point his system became a cosmogony, showing how the elements and fogs, stones, stars, and the sea, were produced. These explanations, as mighty be anticipated, have no exactness. Among his primary elements are many incongruous things, such as cold, colour, fire, gold, lead, corn, marrow, blood, &c. This doctrine implied that in compound things there was not a formation, but an arrangement. It required, therefore, many elements instead of a single one. Flesh is made of fleshy particles, bones of bony, gold of golden, lead of leaden, wood of wooden, &c. These analogous constituents are homoeomeriæ. Of an infinite number of kinds, they composed the infinite all, which is a mixture of them. From such conditions Anaxagoras proves that all the parts of an animal body pre-exist in the food, and are merely collected therefrom. As to the phenomena of life, he explains it on his doctrine of dualism between mind and matter; he teaches that sleep is produced by the reaction of the latter on the former. Even plants he regards as only rooted animals, motionless, but having sensations and desires; he imputes the superiority of man to the mere fact of his having hands. He explains our mental perceptions upon the hypothesis that we have naturally within us the contraries of all the qualities of external things; and that, when we consider an object, we become aware of the preponderance of those qualities in our mind which are deficient in it. Hence all sensation is attended with pain. His doctrine of the production of animals was founded on the action of the sunlight on the miry earth. The earth he places in the centre of the world, whither it was carried by a whirlwind, the pole being originally in the zenith; but, when animals issued from the mud, its position was changed by the Intellect, so that there might be suitable climates. In some particulars his crude guesses present amusing anticipations of subsequent discoveries. Thus he maintained that the moon has mountains, and valleys like the earth; that there have been grand epochs in the history of our globe, in which it has been successively modified by fire and water; that the hills of Lampsacus would one day be under the sea, if time did not too soon fail. [Sidenote: Doubts whether we have any criterion of truth.] As to the nature of human knowledge, Anaxagoras, asserted that by the Intellect alone do we become acquainted with the truth, the senses being altogether untrustworthy. He illustrated this by putting a drop of coloured liquid into a quantity of clear water, the eye being unable to recognize any change. Upon such principles also he asserted that snow is not white, but black, since it is composed of water, of which the colour is black; and hence he drew such conclusions as that "things are to each man according as they seem to him." It was doubtless the recognition of the unreliability of the senses that extorted from him the well-known complaint: "Nothing can be known; nothing can be learned; nothing can be certain; sense is limited; intellect is weak; life is short." [Sidenote: Anaxagoras is persecuted.] The biography of Anaxagoras is not without interest. Born in affluence, he devoted all his means to philosophy, and in his old age encountered poverty and want. He was accused by the superstitious Athenian populace of Atheism and impiety to the gods, since he asserted that the sun and moon consist of earth and stone, and that the so-called divine miracles of the times were nothing more than common natural effects. For these reasons, and also because of the Magianism of his doctrine--for he taught the antagonism of mind and matter, a dogma of the detested Persians--he was thrown into prison, condemned to death, and barely escaped through the influence of Pericles. He fled to Lampsacus, where he ended his days in exile. His vainglorious countrymen, however, conferred honour upon his memory in their customary exaggerated way, boasting that he was the first to explain the phases of the moon, the nature of solar and lunar eclipses, that he had the power of foretelling future events, and had even predicted the fall of a meteoric stone. From the biography of Anaxagoras, as well as of several of his contemporaries and successors, we may learn that a popular opposition was springing up against philosophy, not limited to a mere social protest, but carried out into political injustice. The antagonism between learning and Polytheism was becoming every day more distinct. Of the philosophers, some were obliged to flee into exile, some suffered death. The natural result of such a state of things was to force them to practise concealment and mystification, as is strikingly shown in the history of the Pythagoreans. [Sidenote: Pythagoras, biography of.] Of Pythagoras, the founder of this sect, but little is known with certainty; even the date of his birth is contested, probably he was born at Samos about B.C. 540. If we were not expressly told so, we should recognize from his doctrines that he had been in Egypt and India. Some eminent scholars, who desire on all occasions to magnify the learning of ancient Europe, depreciate as far as they can the universal testimony of antiquity that such was the origin of the knowledge of Pythagoras, asserting that the constitution of the Egyptian priesthood rendered it impossible for a foreigner to become initiated. They forget that the ancient system of that country had been totally destroyed in the great revolution which took place more than a century before those times. If it were not explicitly stated by the ancients that Pythagoras lived for twenty-two years in Egypt, there is sufficient internal evidence in his story to prove that he had been there a long time. As a connoisseur can detect the hand of a master by the style of a picture, so one who has devoted attention to the old systems of thought sees, at a glance, the Egyptian in the philosophy of Pythagoras. He passed into Italy during the reign of Tarquin the Proud, and settled at Crotona, a Greek colonial city on the Bay of Tarentum. At first he established a school, but, favoured by local dissensions, he gradually organized from the youths who availed themselves of his instructions a secret political society. Already it had passed into a maxim among the learned Greeks that it is not advantageous to communicate knowledge too freely to the people--a bitter experience in persecutions seemed to demonstrate that the maxim was founded on truth. The step from a secret philosophical society to a political conspiracy is but short. Pythagoras appears to have taken it. The disciples who were admitted to his scientific secrets after a period of probation and process of examination constituted a ready instrument of intrigue against the state, the issue of which, after a time, appeared in the supplanting of the ancient senate and the exaltation of Pythagoras and his club to the administration of government. The actions of men in all times are determined by similar principles; and as it would be now with such a conspiracy, so it was then; for, though the Pythagorean influence spread from Crotona to other Italian towns, an overwhelming reaction soon set in, the innovators were driven into exile, their institutions destroyed, and their founder fell a victim to his enemies. The organization attempted by the Pythagoreans is an exception to the general policy of the Greeks. The philosophical schools had been merely points of reunion for those entertaining similar opinions; but in the state they can hardly be regarded as having had any political existence. [Sidenote: His miracles.] It is difficult, when the political or religious feelings of men have been engaged, to ascertain the truth of events in which they have been concerned; deception, and falsehood, seem to be licensed. In the midst of the troubles befalling Italy as the consequence of these Pythagorean machinations, it is impossible to ascertain facts with certainty. One party exalts Pythagoras to a superhuman state; it pictures him majestic and impassive, clothed in robes of white, with a golden coronet around his brows, listening to the music of the spheres, or seeking relaxation in the more humble hymns of Homer, Hesiod, and Thales; lost in the contemplation of Nature, or rapt in ecstasy in his meditations on God; manifesting his descent from Apollo or Hermes by the working of miracles, predicting future events, conversing with genii in the solitude of a dark cavern, and even surpassing the wonder of speaking simultaneously in different tongues, since it was established, by the most indisputable testimony, that he had accomplished the prodigy of being present with and addressing the people in several different places at the same time. It seems not to have occurred to his disciples that such preposterous assertions cannot be sustained by any evidence whatsoever; and that the stronger and clearer such evidence is, instead of supporting the fact for which it is brought forward, it the more serves to shake our confidence in the truth of man, or impresses on us the conclusion that he is easily lead to the adoption of falsehood, and is readily deceived by imposture. [Sidenote: His character.] By his opponents he was denounced as a quack, or, at the best, a visionary mystic, who had deluded the young with the mummeries of a free-masonry; had turned the weak-minded into shallow enthusiasts and grim ascetics; and as having conspired against a state which had given him an honourable refuge, and brought disorder and bloodshed upon it. Between such contradictory statements, it is difficult to determine how much we should impute to the philosopher and how much to the trickster. In this uncertainty, the Pythagoreans reap the fruit of one of their favourite maxims, "Not unto all should all be made known." Perhaps at the bottom of these political movements lay the hope of establishing a central point of union for the numerous Greek colonies of Italy, which, though they were rich and highly civilized, were, by reason of their isolation and antagonism, essentially weak. Could they have been united in a powerful federation by the aid of some political or religious bond, they might have exerted a singular influence on the rising fortunes of Rome, and thereby on humanity. [Sidenote: Pythagoras asserts that number is the first principle.] The fundamental dogma of the Pythagoreans was that "number is the essence or first principle of things." This led them at once to the study of the mysteries of figures and of arithmetical relations, and plunged them into the wildest fantasies when it took the absurd form that numbers are actually things. The approval of the doctrines of Pythagoras so generally expressed was doubtless very much due to the fact that they supplied an intellectual void. Those who had been in the foremost ranks of philosophy had come to the conclusion that, as regard external things, and even ourselves, we have no criterion of truth; but in the properties of numbers and their relations, such a criterion does exist. [Sidenote: Pythagorean philosophy.] It would scarcely repay the reader to pursue this system in its details; a very superficial representation of it is all that is necessary for our purpose. It recognizes two species of numbers, the odd and even; and since one, or unity, must be at once both odd and even, it must be the very essence of number, and the ground of all other numbers; hence the meaning of the Pythagorean expression, "All comes from one;" which also took form in the mystical allusion, "God embraces all and actuates all, and is but one." To the number ten extraordinary importance was imputed, since it contains in itself, or arises from the addition of, 1, 2, 3, 4--that is, of even and odd numbers together; hence it received the name of the grand tetractys, because it so contains the first four numbers. Some, however, assert that that designation was imposed on the number thirty-six. To the triad the Pythagoreans likewise attached much significance, since it has a beginning, a middle, and an end. To unity, or one, they gave the designation of the even-odd, asserting that it contained the property both of the even and odd, as is plain from the fact that if one be added to an even number it becomes odd, but if to an odd number it becomes even. They arranged the primary elements of nature in a table of ten contraries, of which the odd and even are one, and light and darkness another. They said that "the nature and energy of number may be traced not only in divine and dæmonish things, but in human works and words everywhere, and in all works of art and in music." They even linked their arithmetical views to morality, through the observation that numbers never lie; that they are hostile to falsehood; and that, therefore, truth belongs to their family: their fanciful speculations led them to infer that in the limitless or infinite, falsehood and envy must reign. From similar reasoning, they concluded that the number one contained not only the perfect, but also the imperfect; hence it follows that the most good, most beautiful, and most true are not at the beginning, but that they are in the process of time evolved. They held that whatever we know must have had a beginning, a middle, and an end, of which the beginning and end are the boundaries or limits; but the middle is unlimited, and, as a consequence, may be subdivided _ad infinitum_. They therefore resolved corporeal existence into points, as is set forth in their maxim that "all is composed of points or spacial units, which, taken together, constitute a number." Such being their ideas of the limiting which constitutes the extreme, they understood by the unlimited the intermediate space or interval. By the aid of these intervals they obtained a conception of space; for, since the units, or monads, as they were also called, are merely geometrical points, no number of them could produce a line, but by the union of monads and intervals conjointly a line can arise, and also a surface, and also a solid. As to the interval thus existing between monads, some considered it as being mere aërial breath, but the orthodox regarded it as a vacuum; hence we perceive the meaning of their absurd affirmation that all things are produced by a vacuum. As it is not to be overlooked that the monads are merely mathematical points, and have no dimensions or size, substances actually contain no matter, and are nothing more than forms. [Sidenote: Pythagorean cosmogony.] [Sidenote: Modern Pythagorisms in chemistry.] The Pythagoreans applied these principles to account for the origin of the world, saying that, since its very existence is an illusion, it could not have any origin in time, but only seemingly so to human thought. As to time itself, they regarded it as "existing only by the distinction of a series of different moments, which, however, are again restored to unity by the limiting moments." The diversity of relations we find in the world they supposed to be occasioned by the bond of harmony. "Since the principles of things are neither similar nor congenerous, it is impossible for them to be brought into order except by the intervention of harmony, whatever may have been the manner in which it took place. Like and homogeneous things, indeed, would not have required harmony; but, as to the dissimilar and unsymmetrical, such must necessarily be held together by harmony if they are to be contained in a world of order." In this manner they confused together the ideas of number and harmony, regarding the world not only as a combination of contraries, but as an orderly and harmonical combination thereof. To particular numbers they therefore imputed great significance, asserting that "there are seven chords or harmonies, seven pleiads, seven vowels, and that certain parts of the bodies of animals change in the course of seven years." They carried to an extreme the numerical doctrine, assigning certain numbers as the representatives of a bird, a horse, a man. This doctrine may be illustrated by facts familiar to chemists, who, in like manner, attach significant numbers to the names of things. Taking hydrogen as unity, 6 belongs to carbon, 8 to oxygen, 16 to sulphur. Carrying those principles out, there is no substance, elementary or compound, inorganic or organic, to which an expressive number does not belong. Nay, even an archetypal form, as of man or any other such composite structure, may thus possess a typical number, the sum of the numbers of its constituent parts. It signifies nothing what interpretation we give to these numbers, whether we regarded them as atomic weights, or, declining the idea of atoms, consider them as the representatives of force. As in the ancient philosophical doctrine, so in modern science, the number is invariably connected with the name of a thing, of whatever description the thing may be. [Sidenote: Pythagorean physics and psychology.] The grand standard of harmonical relation among the Pythagoreans was the musical octave. Physical qualities, such as colour and tone, were supposed to appertain to the surface of bodies. Of the elements they enumerated five--earth, air, fire, water, and ether, connecting therewith the fact that man has five organs of sense. Of the planets they numbered five, which, together with the sun, moon, and earth, are placed apart at distances determined by a musical law, and in their movements through space give rise to a sound, the harmony of the spheres, unnoticed by us because we habitually hear it. They place the sun in the centre of the system, round which, with the other planets, the earth revolves. At this point the geocentric doctrine is being abandoned and the heliocentric takes its place. As the circle is the most perfect of forms, the movements of the planets are circular. They maintained that the moon is inhabited, and like the earth, but the people there are taller than men, in the proportion as the moon's periodic rotation is greater than that of the earth. They explained the Milky Way as having been occasioned by the fall of a star, or as having been formerly the path of the sun. They asserted that the world is eternal, but the earth is transitory and liable to change, the universe being in the shape of a sphere. They held that the soul of man is merely an efflux of the universal soul, and that it comes into the body from without. From dreams and the events of sickness they inferred the existence of good and evil dæmons. They supposed that souls can exist without the body, leading a kind of dream-life, and identified the motes in the sunbeam with them. Their heroes and dæmons were souls not yet become embodied, or who had ceased to be so. The doctrine of transmigration which they had adopted was in harmony with such views, and, if it does not imply the absolute immortality of the soul, at least asserts its existence after the death of the body, for the disembodied spirit becomes incarnate again as soon as it finds a tenement which fits it. To their life after death the Pythagoreans added a doctrine of retributive rewards and punishments, and, in this respect, what has been said of animals forming a penitential mechanism in the theology of India and Egypt, holds good for the Pythagoreans too. Of their system of politics nothing can now with certainty be affirmed beyond the fact that its prime element was an aristocracy; of their rule of private life, but little beyond its including a recommendation of moderation in all things, the cultivation of friendship, the observance of faith, and the practice of self-denial, promoted by ascetic exercises. It was a maxim with them that a right education is not only of importance to the individual, but also to the interests of the state. Pythagoras himself, as is well known, paid much attention to the determination of extension and gravity, the ratios of musical tones, astronomy, and medicine. He directed his disciples, in their orgies or secret worship, to practise gymnastics, dancing, music. In correspondence with his principle of imparting to men only such knowledge as they were fitted to receive, he communicated to those who were less perfectly prepared exoteric doctrines, reserving the esoteric for the privileged few who had passed five years in silence, had endured humiliation, and been purged by self-denial and sacrifice. [Sidenote: The Eleatic philosophy.] We have now reached the consideration of the Eleatic philosophy. It differs from the preceding in its neglect of material things, and its devotion to the supra-sensible. It derives its name from Elea, a Greek colonial city of Italy, its chief authors being Xenophanes, Parmenides, and Zeno. [Sidenote: Xenophanes represents a great philosophical advance.] Xenophanes was a native of Ionia, from which having been exiled, he appears to have settled at last in Elea, after leading for many years the life of a wandering rhapsodist. He gave his doctrines a poetical form for the purpose of more easily diffusing them. To the multitude he became conspicuous from his opposition to Homer, Hesiod, and other popular poets, whom he denounced for promoting the base polytheism of the times, and degrading the idea of the divine by the immoralities they attributed to the gods. He proclaimed God as an all-powerful Being, existing from eternity, and without any likeness to man. A strict monotheist, he denounced the plurality of gods as an inconceivable error, asserting that of the all-powerful and all-perfect there could not, in the nature of things, be more than one; for, if there were only so many as two, those attributes could not apply to one of them, much less, then, if there were many. This one principle or power was to him the same as the universe, the substance of which, having existed from all eternity, must necessarily be identical with God; for, since it is impossible that there should be two Omnipresents, so also it is impossible that there should be two Eternals. It therefore may be said that there is a tincture of Orientalism in his ideas, since it would scarcely be possible to offer a more succinct and luminous exposition of the pantheism of India. [Sidenote: He approaches the Indian ideas.] The reader who has been wearied with the frivolities of the Ionian philosophy, and lost in the mysticisms of Pythagoras, cannot fail to recognize that here we have something of a very different kind. To an Oriental dignity of conception is added an extraordinary clearness and precision of reasoning. [Sidenote: Theology of Xenophanes.] To Xenophanes all revelation is a pure fiction; the discovery of the invisible is to be made by the intellect of man alone. The vulgar belief which imputes to the Deity the sentiments, passions, and crimes of man, is blasphemous and accursed. He exposes the impiety of those who would figure the Great Supreme under the form of a man, telling them that if the ox or the lion could rise to a conception of the Deity, they might as well embody him under their own shape; that the negro represents him with a flat nose and black face; the Thracian with blue eyes and a ruddy complexion. "There is but one God; he has no resemblance to the bodily form of man, nor are his thoughts like ours." He taught that God is without parts, and throughout alike; for, if he had parts, some would be ruled by others, and others would rule, which is impossible, for the very notion of God implies his perfect and thorough sovereignty. Throughout he must be Reason, and Intelligence, and Omnipotence, "ruling the universe without trouble by Reason and Insight." He conceived that the Supreme understands by a sensual perception, and not only thinks, but sees and hears throughout. In a symbolical manner he represented God as a sphere, like the heavens, which encompass man and all earthly things. [Sidenote: His physical views.] In his natural philosophy it is said that he adopted the four elements, Earth, Air, Fire, Water; though by some it is asserted that, from observing fossil fish, on the tops of mountains, he was led to the belief that the earth itself arose from water; and generally, that the phenomena of nature originate in combinations of the primary elements. From such views he inferred that all things are necessarily transitory, and that men, and even the earth itself, must pass away. As to the latter, he regarded it as a flat surface, the inferior region of which extends indefinitely downward, and so gives a solid foundation. His physical views he, however, held with a doubt almost bordering on scepticism: "No mortal man ever did, or ever shall know God and the universe thoroughly; for, since error is so spread over all things, it is impossible for us to be certain even when we utter the true and the perfect." It seemed to him hopeless that man could ever ascertain the truth, since he has no other aid than truthless appearances. [Sidenote: Some of his thoughts reappear in Newton.] I cannot dismiss this imperfect account of Xenophanes, who was, undoubtedly, one of the greatest of the Greek philosophers, without an allusion to his denunciation of Homer, and other poets of his country, because they had aided in degrading the idea of the Divinity; and also to his faith in human nature, his rejection of the principle of concealing truth from the multitude, and his self-devotion in diffusing it among all at a risk of liberty and life. He wandered from country to country, withstanding polytheism to its face, and imparting wisdom in rhapsodies and hymns, the form, above all others, calculated most quickly in those times to spread knowledge abroad. To those who are disposed to depreciate his philosophical conclusions, it may be remarked that in some of their most striking features they have been reproduced in modern times, and I would offer to them a quotation from the General Scholium at the end of the third book of the Principia of Newton: "The Supreme God exists necessarily, and by the same necessity he exists _always_ and _everywhere_. Whence, also, he is all similar, all eye, all ear, all brain, all arm, all power to perceive, to understand, and to act, but in a manner not at all human, not at all corporeal; in a manner utterly unknown to us. As a blind man has no idea of colours, so have we no idea of the manner by which the all-wise God perceives and understands all things. He is utterly void of all body and bodily figure, and can therefore neither be seen, nor heard, nor touched, nor ought to be worshipped under the representation of any corporeal thing. We have ideas of his attributes, but what the real substance of anything is we know not." [Sidenote: Parmenides on reason and opinion.] [Sidenote: Philosophy becoming Pantheism.] To the Eleatic system thus originating with Xenophanes is to be attributed the dialectic phase henceforward so prominently exhibited by Greek philosophy. It abandoned, for the most part, the pursuits which had occupied the Ionians--the investigation of visible nature, the phenomena of material things, and the laws presiding over them; conceiving such to be merely deceptive, and attaching itself to what seemed to be the only true knowledge--an investigation of Being and of God. By the Eleats, since all change appeared to be an impossibility, the phenomena of succession presented by the world were regarded as a pure illusion, and they asserted that Time, and Motion, and Space are phantasms of the imagination, or vain deceptions of the senses. They therefore separated reason from opinion, attributing to the former conceptions of absolute truth, and to the latter imperfections arising from the fictions of sense. It was on this principle that Parmenides divided his work on "Nature" into two books, the first on Reason, the second on Opinion. Starting from the nature of Being, the uncreated and unchangeable, he denied altogether the idea of succession in time, and also the relations of space, and pronounced change and motion, of whatever kind they may be, mere illusions of opinion. His pantheism appears in the declaration that the All is thought and intelligence; and this, indeed, constitutes the essential feature of his doctrine, for, by thus placing thought and being in parallelism with each other, and interconnecting them by the conception that it is for the sake of being that thought exists, he showed that they must necessarily be conceived of as one. Such profound doctrines occupied the first book of the poem of Parmenides; in the second he treated of opinion, which, as we have said, is altogether dependent on the senses, and therefore untrustworthy, not, however, that it must necessarily be absolutely false. It is scarcely possible for us to reconstruct from the remains of his works the details of his theory, or to show his approach to the Ionian doctrines by the assumption of the existence in nature of two opposite species--ethereal fire and heavy night; of an equal proportion of which all things consist, fire being the true, and night the phenomenal. From such an unsubstantial and delusive basis it would not repay us, even if we had the means of accomplishing it, to give an exposition of his physical system. In many respects it degenerated into a wild vagary; as, for example, when he placed an overruling dæmon in the centre of the phenomenal world. Nor need we be detained by his extravagant reproduction of the old doctrine of the generation of animals from miry clay, nor follow his explanation of the nature of man, who, since he is composed of light and darkness, participates in both, and can never ascertain absolute truth. By other routes, and upon far less fanciful principles, modern philosophy has at last come to the same melancholy conclusion. [Sidenote: Doctrines of Parmenides carried out by Zeno;] The doctrines of Parmenides were carried out by Zeno the Eleatic, who is said to have been his adopted son. He brought into use the method of refuting error by the _reductio ad absurdum_. His compositions were in prose, and not in poetry, as were those of his predecessors. As it had been the object of Parmenides to establish the existence of "the One," it was the object of Zeno to establish the non-existence of "the Many." Agreeably to such principles, he started from the position that only one thing really exists, and that all others are mere modifications or appearances of it. He denied motion, but admitted the appearance of it; regarding it as a name given to a series of conditions, each of which is necessarily rest. This dogma against the possibility of motion he maintained by four arguments; the second of them is the celebrated Achilles puzzle. It is thus stated: "Suppose Achilles to run ten times as fast as a tortoise, yet, if the tortoise has the start, Achilles can never overtake him; for, if they are separated at first by an interval of a thousand feet, when Achilles has run these thousand feet the tortoise will have run a hundred, and when Achilles has run these hundred the tortoise will have got on ten, and so on for ever; therefore Achilles may run for ever without overtaking the tortoise." Such were his arguments against the existence of motion; his proof of the existence of One, the indivisible and infinite, may thus be stated: "To suppose that the one is divisible is to suppose it finite. If divisible, it must be infinitely divisible. But suppose two things to exist, then there must necessarily be an interval between those two--something separating and limiting them. What is that something? It is some _other_ thing. But then if not the _same_ thing, _it also_ must be separated and limited, and so on _ad infinitum_. Thus only one thing can exist as the substratum for all manifold appearances." Zeno furnishes us with an illustration of the fallibility of the indications of sense in his argument against Protagoras. It may be here introduced as a specimen of his method: "He asked if a grain of corn, or the ten thousandth part of a grain, would, when it fell to the ground, make a noise. Being answered in the negative, he further asked whether, then, would a measure of corn. This being necessarily affirmed, he then demanded whether the measure was not in some determinate ratio to the single grain; as this could not be denied, he was able to conclude, either, then, the bushel of corn makes no noise on falling, or else the very smallest portion of a grain does the same." [Sidenote: and by Melissus of Samos.] To the names already given as belonging to the Eleatic school may be added that of Melissus of Samos, who also founded his argument on the nature of Being, deducing its unity, unchangeability, and indivisibility. He denied, like the rest of his school, all change and motion, regarding them as mere illusions of the senses. From the indivisibility of being he inferred its incorporeality, and therefore denied all bodily existence. [Sidenote: Biography of Empedocles.] The list of Eleatic philosophers is doubtfully closed by the name of Empedocles of Agrigentum, who in legend almost rivals Pythagoras. In the East he learned medicine and magic, the art of working miracles, of producing rain and wind. He decked himself in priestly garments, a golden girdle, and a crown, proclaiming himself to be a god. It is said by some that he never died, but ascended to the skies in the midst of a supernatural glory. By some it is related that he leaped into the crater of Etna, that, the manner of his death being unknown, he might still continue to pass for a god--an expectation disappointed by an eruption which cast out one of his brazen sandals. [Sidenote: He mingles mysticism with philosophy.] Agreeably to the school to which he belonged, he relied on Reason and distrusted the Senses. From his fragments it has been inferred that he was sceptical of the guidance of the former as well as of the latter, founding his distrust on the imperfection the soul has contracted, and for which it has been condemned to existence in this world, and even to transmigration from body to body. Adopting the Eleatic doctrine that like can be only known by like, fire by fire, love by love, the recognition of the divine by man is sufficient proof that the Divine exists. His primary elements were four--Earth, Air, Fire, and Water; to these he added two principles, Love and Hate. The four elements he regarded as four gods, or divine eternal forces, since out of them all things are made. Love he regards as the creative power, the destroyer or modifier being Hate. It is obvious, therefore, that in him the strictly philosophical system of Xenophanes had degenerated into a mixed and mystical view, in which the physical, the metaphysical, and the moral were confounded together; and that, as the necessary consequence of such a state, the principles of knowledge were becoming unsettled, a suspicion arising that all philosophical systems were untrustworthy, and a general scepticism was already setting in. To this result also, in no small degree, the labours of Democritus of Abdera tended. He had had the advantages derived from wealth in the procurement of knowledge, for it is said that his father was rich enough to be able to entertain the Persian King Xerxes, who was so gratified thereby that he left several Magi and Chaldæans to complete the education of the youth. On his father's death, Democritus, dividing with his brothers the estate, took as his portion the share consisting of money, leaving to them the lands, that he might be better able to devote himself to travelling. He passed into Egypt, Ethiopia, Persia, and India, gathering knowledge from all those sources. [Sidenote: Democritus asserts the untrustworthiness of knowledge.] According to Democritus, "Nothing is true, or, if so, is not certain to us." Nevertheless, as, in his system sensation constitutes thought, and, at the same time, is but a change in the sentient being, "sensations are of necessity true;" from which somewhat obscure passage we may infer that, in the view of Democritus, though sensation is true subjectively, it is not true objectively. The sweet, the bitter, the hot, the cold, are simply creations of the mind; but in the outer object to which we append them, atoms and space alone exist, and our opinion of the properties of such objects is founded upon images emitted by them falling upon the senses. Confounding in this manner sensation with thought, and making them identical, he, moreover, included Reflexion as necessary for true knowledge, Sensation by itself being untrustworthy. Thus, though Sensation may indicate to us that sweet, bitter, hot, cold, occur in bodies, Reflexion teaches us that this is altogether an illusion, and that, in reality, atoms and space alone exist. [Sidenote: He introduces the atomic theory.] [Sidenote: Destiny, Fate and resistless law.] Devoting his attention, then, to the problem of perception--how the mind becomes aware of the existence of external things--he resorted to the hypothesis that they constantly throw off images of themselves, which are assimilated by the air through which they have to pass, and enter the soul by pores in its sensitive organs. Hence such images, being merely of the superficial form, are necessarily imperfect and untrue, and so, therefore, must be the knowledge yielded by them. Democritus rejected the one element of the Eleatics, affirming that there must be many; but he did not receive the four of Empedocles, nor his principles of Love and Hate, nor the homoeomeriæ of Anaxagoras. He also denied that the primary elements had any sensible qualities whatever. He conceived of all things as being composed of invisible, intangible, and indivisible particles or atoms, which, by reason of variation in their configuration, combination, or position, give rise to the varieties of forms: to the atom he imputed self-existence and eternal duration. His doctrine, therefore, explains how it is that the many can arise from the one, and in this particular he reconciled the apparent contradictions of the Ionians and Eleatics. The theory of chemistry, as it now exists, essentially includes his views. The general formative principle of Nature he regarded as being Destiny or Fate; but there are indications that by this he meant nothing more than irreversible law. [Sidenote: Is led to atheism.] A system thus based upon severe mathematical considerations, and taking as its starting-point a vacuum and atoms--the former actionless and passionless; which considers the production of new things as only new aggregations, and the decay of the old as separations; which recognizes in compound bodies specific arrangements of atoms to one another; which can rise to the conception that even a single atom may constitute a world--such a system may commend itself to our attention for its results, but surely not to our approval, when we find it carrying us to the conclusions that even mathematical cognition is a mere semblance; that the soul is only a finely-constituted form fitted into the grosser bodily frame; that even for reason itself there is an absolute impossibility of all certainty; that scepticism is to be indulged in to that degree that we may doubt whether, when a cone has been cut asunder, its two surfaces are alike; that the final result of human inquiry is the absolute demonstration that man is incapable of knowledge; that, even if the truth be in his possession, he can never be certain of it; that the world is an illusive phantasm, and that there is no God. [Sidenote: Legends of Democritus.] I need scarcely refer to the legendary stories related of Democritus, as that he put out his eyes with a burning-glass that he might no longer be deluded with their false indications, and more tranquilly exercise his reason--a fiction bearing upon its face the contemptuous accusation of his antagonists, but, by the stolidity of subsequent ages, received as an actual fact instead of a sarcasm. As to his habit of so constantly deriding the knowledge and follies of men that he universally acquired the epithet of the laughing philosopher, we may receive the opinion of the great physician Hippocrates, who being requested by the people of Abdera to cure him of his madness, after long discoursing with him, expressed himself penetrated with admiration, and even with the most profound veneration for him, and rebuked those who had sent him with the remark that they themselves were the more distempered of the two. [Sidenote: Rise of philosophy in European Greece.] [Sidenote: Commercial communities favourable to new ideas.] Thus far European Greece had done but little in the cause of philosophy. The chief schools were in Asia Minor, or among the Greek colonies of Italy. But the time had now arrived when the mother country was to enter upon a distinguished career, though, it must be confessed, from a most unfavourable beginning. This was by no means the only occasion on which the intellectual activity of the Greek colonies made itself felt in the destinies of Europe. The mercantile character in a community has ever been found conducive to mental activity and physical adventure; it holds in light esteem prescriptive opinion, and puts things at the actual value they at the time possess. If the Greek colonies thus discharged the important function of introducing and disseminating speculative philosophy, we shall find them again, five hundred years later, occupied with a similar task on the advent of that period in which philosophical speculation was about to be supplanted by religious faith. For there can be no doubt that, humanly speaking, the cause of the rapid propagation of Christianity, in its first ages, lay in the extraordinary facilities existing among the commercial communities scattered all around the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, from the ports of the Levant to those of France and Spain. An incessant intercourse was kept up among them during the five centuries before Christ; it became, under Roman influence, more and more active, and of increasing political importance. Such a state of things is in the highest degree conducive to the propagation of thought, and, indeed, to its origination, through the constant excitement it furnishes to intellectual activity. Commercial communities, in this respect, present a striking contrast to agricultural. By their aid speculative philosophy was rapidly disseminated everywhere, as was subsequently Christianity. But the agriculturists steadfastly adhered with marvellous stolidity to their ancestral traditions and polytheistic absurdities, until the very designation--paganism--under which their system passes was given as a nickname derived from themselves. [Sidenote: Philosophical influence of the Greek colonies.] The intellectual condition of the Greek colonies of Italy and Sicily has not attracted the attention of critics in the manner it deserves. For, though its political result may appear to those whose attention is fixed by mere material aggrandizement to have been totally eclipsed by the subsequent power of the Roman republic, to one who looks at things in a mere general way it may be a probable inquiry whether the philosophy cultivated in those towns has not, in the course of ages, produced as solid and lasting results as the military achievements of the Eternal City. The relations of the Italian peninsula to the career of European civilization are to be classified under three epochs, the first corresponding to the philosophy generated in the southern Greek towns: this would have attained the elevation long before reached in the advanced systems of India had it not been prevented by the rapid development of Roman power; the second presents the military influence of republican and imperial Rome; to the third belongs the agency of ecclesiastical Rome--for the production of the last we shall find hereafter that the preceding two conspire. The Italian effect upon the whole has therefore been philosophical, material, and mixed. We are greatly in want of a history of the first, for which doubtless many facts still remain to a painstaking and enlightened inquirer. [Sidenote: Origin of the Greek colonial system.] It was on account of her small territory and her numerous population that Greece was obliged to colonize. To these motives must be added internal dissensions, and particularly the consequences of unequal marriages. So numerous did these colonies and their offshoots become, that a great Greek influence pervaded all the Mediterranean shores and many of the most important islands, attention more particularly being paid to the latter, from their supposed strategical value; thus, in the opinion of Alexander the Great, the command of the Mediterranean lay in the possession of Cyprus. The Greek colonists were filibusters; they seized by force the women wherever they settled, but their children were taught to speak the paternal language, as has been the case in more recent times with the descendants of the Spaniards in America. The wealth of some of these Greek colonial towns is said to have been incredible. Crotona was more than twelve miles in circumference; and Sybaris, another of the Italiot cities, was so luxurious and dissipated as even to give rise to a proverb. The prosperity of these places was due to two causes: they were not only the centres of great agricultural districts, but carried on also an active commerce in all directions, the dense population of the mother country offering them a steady and profitable market; they also maintained an active traffic with all the Mediterranean cities; thus, if they furnished Athens with corn, they also furnished Carthage with oil. In the Greek cities connected with this colonial system, especially in Athens, the business of ship-building and navigation was so extensively prosecuted as to give a special character to public life. In other parts of Greece, as in Sparta, it was altogether different. In that state the laws of Lycurgus had abolished private property; all things were held in common; savage life was reduced to a system, and therefore there was no object in commerce. But in Athens, commerce was regarded as being so far from dishonourable that some of the most illustrious men, whose names have descended to us as philosophers, were occupied with mercantile pursuits. Aristotle kept a druggist's shop in Athens, and Plato sold oil in Egypt. [Sidenote: Carthaginian supremacy in the Mediterranean.] It was the intention of Athens, had she succeeded in the conquest of Sicily, to make an attempt upon Carthage, foreseeing therein the dominion of the Mediterranean, as was actually realized subsequently by Rome. The destruction of that city constituted the point of ascendancy in the history of the Great Republic. Carthage stood upon a peninsula forty-five miles round, with a neck only three miles across. Her territory has been estimated as having a sea-line of not less than 1400 miles, and containing 300 towns; she had also possessions in Spain, in Sicily, and other Mediterranean islands, acquired, not by conquest, but by colonization. In the silver mines of Spain she employed not less than forty thousand men. In these respects she was guided by the maxims of her Phoenician ancestry, for the Tyrians had colonized for depôts, and had forty stations of that kind in the Mediterranean. Indeed, Carthage herself originated in that way, owing her development to the position she held at the junction of the east and west basins. The Carthaginian merchants did not carry for hire, but dealt in their commodities. This implied an extensive system of depôts and bonding. They had anticipated many of the devices of modern commerce. They effected insurances, made loans on bottomry, and it has been supposed that their leathern money may have been of the nature of our bank notes. [Sidenote: Attempts of the Persians at dominion in the Mediterranean.] [Sidenote: Contest between them and the Greeks.] [Sidenote: The fifty years' war, and eventual supremacy of Athens.] In the preceding chapter we have spoken of the attempts of the Asiatics on Egypt and the south shore of the Mediterranean; we have now to turn to their operations on the north shore, the consequences of which are of the utmost interest in the history of philosophy. It appears that the cities of Asia Minor, after their contest with the Lydian kings, had fallen an easy prey to the Persian power. It remained, therefore, only for that power to pass to the European continent. A pretext is easily found where the policy is so clear. So far as the internal condition of Greece was concerned, nothing could be more tempting to an invader. There seemed to be no bond of union between the different towns, and, indeed, the more prominent ones might be regarded as in a state of chronic revolution. In Athens, since B.C. 622, the laws of Draco had been supplanted by those of Solon; and again and again the government had been seized by violence or gained through intrigue by one adventurer after another. Under these circumstances the Persian king passed an army into Europe. The military events of both this and the succeeding invasion under Xerxes have been more than sufficiently illustrated by the brilliant imagination of the lively Greeks. It was needless, however, to devise such fictions as the million of men who crossed into Europe, or the two hundred thousand who lay dead upon the field after the battle of Platæa. If there were not such stubborn facts as the capture and burning of Athens, the circumstance that these wars lasted for fifty years would be sufficient to inform us that all the advantages were not on one side. Wars do not last so long without bringing upon both parties disasters as well as conferring glories; and had these been as exterminating and overwhelming as classical authors have supposed, our surprise may well be excited that the Persian annals have preserved so little memory of them. Greece did not perceive that, if posterity must take her accounts as true, it must give the palm of glory to Persia, who could, with unfaltering perseverance, persist in attacks illustrated by such unparalleled catastrophes. She did not perceive that the annals of a nation may be more splendid from their exhibiting a courage which could bear up for half a century against continual disasters, and extract victory at last from defeat. In pursuance of their policy, the Persians extended their dominion to Cyrene and Barca on the south, as well as to Thrace and Macedonia on the north. The Persian wars gave rise to that wonderful development in Greek art which has so worthily excited the admiration of subsequent ages. The assertion is quite true that after those wars the Greeks could form in sculpture living men. On the part of the Persians, these military undertakings were not of the base kind so common in antiquity; they were the carrying out of a policy conceived with great ability, their object being to obtain countries for tribute and not for devastation. The great critic Niebuhr, by whose opinions I am guided in the views I express of these events, admits that the Greek accounts, when examined, present little that was possible. The Persian empire does not seem to have suffered at all; and Plato, whose opinion must be considered as of very great authority, says that, on the whole, the Persian wars reflect extremely little honour on the Greeks. It was asserted that only thirty-one towns, and most of them small ones, were faithful to Greece. Treason to her seems for years in succession to have infected all her ablest men. It was not Pausanias alone who wanted to be king under the supremacy of Persia. Such a satrap would have borne about the same relation to the great king as the modern pacha does to the grand seignior. However, we must do justice to those able men. A king was what Greece in reality required; had she secured one at this time strong enough to hold her conflicting interests in check, she would have become the mistress of the world. Her leading men saw this. [Sidenote: The consequence is her vast intellectual progress.] [Sidenote: Her progress in art.] The elevating effect of the Persian wars was chiefly felt in Athens. It was there that the grand development of pure art, literature, and science took place. As to Sparta, she remained barbarous as she had ever been; the Spartans continuing robbers and impostors, in their national life exhibiting not a single feature that can be commended. Mechanical art reached its perfection at Corinth; real art at Athens, finding a multitude not only of true, but also of new expressions. Before Pericles the only style of architecture was the Doric; his became at once the age of perfect beauty. It also became the age of freedom in thinking and departure from the national faith. In this respect the history of Pericles and of Aspasia is very significant. His, also, was the great age of oratory, but of oratory leading to delusion, the democratical forms of Athens being altogether deceptive, power ever remaining in the hands of a few leading men, who did everything. The true popular sentiment, as was almost always the case under those ancient republican institutions, could find for itself no means of expression. The great men were only too prone to regard their fellow-citizens as a rabble, mere things to be played off against one another, and to consider that the objects of life are dominion and lust, that love, self-sacrifice, and devotion are fictions; that oaths are only good for deception. [Sidenote: The treaty with Persia.] Though the standard of statesmanship, at the period of the Persian wars, was very low, there can be no doubt that among the Greek leaders were those who clearly understood the causes of the Asiatic attack; and hence, with an instinct of self-preservation, defensive alliances were continually maintained with Egypt. When their valour and endurance had given to the Greeks a glorious issue to the war, the articles contained in the final treaty manifest clearly the motives and understandings of both parties. No Persian vessel was to appear between the Cyanean Rocks and Chelidonian Islands; no Persian army to approach within three days' journey of the Mediterranean Sea, B.C. 449. [Sidenote: She becomes the centre of policy and philosophy.] To Athens herself the war had given political supremacy. We need only look at her condition fifty years after the battle of Platæa. She was mistress of more than a thousand miles of the coast of Asia Minor; she held as dependencies more than forty islands; she controlled the straits between Europe and Asia; her fleets ranged the Mediterranean and the Black Seas; she had monopolized the trade of all the adjoining countries; her magazines were full of the most valuable objects of commerce. From the ashes of the Persian fire she had risen up so supremely beautiful that her temples, her statues, her works of art, in their exquisite perfection, have since had no parallel in the world. Her intellectual supremacy equalled her political. To her, as to a focal point, the rays of light from every direction converged. The philosophers of Italy and Asia Minor directed their steps to her as to the acknowledged centre of mental activity. As to Egypt, an utter ruin had befallen her since she was desolated by the Persian arms. Yet we must not therefore infer that though, as conquerors, the Persians had trodden out the most aged civilization on the globe, as sovereigns they were haters of knowledge, or merciless as kings. We must not forget that the Greeks of Asia Minor were satisfied with their rule, or, at all events, preferred rather to remain their subjects than to contract any permanent political connexions with the conquering Greeks of Europe. In this condition of political glory, Athens became not only the birthplace of new and beautiful productions of art, founded on a more just appreciation of the true than had yet been attained to in any previous age of the world (which, it may be added, have never been surpassed, if, indeed, they have been equalled since), she also became the receptacle for every philosophical opinion, new and old. Ionian, Italian, Egyptian, Persian, all were brought to her, and contrasted and compared together. Indeed, the philosophical celebrity of Greece is altogether due to Athens. The rest of the country participated but little in the cultivation of learning. It is a popular error that Greece, in the aggregate, was a learned country. [Sidenote: State of philosophy at this juncture.] We have already seen how the researches of individual inquirers, passing from point to point, had conducted them, in many instances, to a suspicion of the futility of human knowledge; and looking at the results reached by the successive philosophical schools, we cannot fail to remark that there was a general tendency to scepticism. We have seen how, from the material and tangible beginnings of the Ionians, the Eleatics land us not only in a blank atheism, but in a disbelief of the existence of the world. And though it may be said that these were only the isolated results of special schools, it is not to be forgotten that they were of schools the most advanced. The time had now arrived when the name of a master was no more to usurp the place of reason, as had been hitherto the case; when these last results of the different methods of philosophizing were to be brought together, a criticism of a higher order established, and conclusions of a higher order deduced. [Sidenote: Commencement of the higher analysis.] Thus it will ever be with all human investigation. The primitive philosophical elements from which we start are examined, first by one and then by another, each drawing his own special conclusions and deductions, and each firmly believing in the truth of his inferences. Each analyst has seen the whole subject from a particular point of view, without concerning himself with the discordances, contradictions, and incompatibilities obvious enough when his conclusions come to be compared with those of other analysts as skilful as himself. In process of time, it needs must be that a new school of examiners will arise, who, taking the results at which their predecessors have arrived from an examination of the primary elements, will institute a secondary comparison; a comparison of results with results; a comparison of a higher order, and more likely to lead to absolute truth. [Sidenote: Illustration from subsequent Roman history.] Perhaps I cannot better convey what I here mean by this secondary and higher analysis of philosophical questions than by introducing, as an illustration, what took place subsequently in Rome, through her policy of universal religious toleration. The priests and followers of every god and of every faith were permitted to pursue without molestation their special forms of worship. Of these, it may be supposed that nearly all were perfectly sincere in their adherence to their special divinity, and, if the occasion had arisen, could have furnished unanswerable arguments in behalf of his supremacy and of the truth of his doctrines. Yet it is very clear that, by thus bringing these several primary systems into contact, a comparison of a secondary and of a higher order, and therefore far more likely to approach to absolute truth, must needs be established among them. It is very well known that the popular result of this secondary examination was the philosophical rejection of polytheism. [Sidenote: The Sophists.] [Sidenote: They reject philosophy, and even morality.] So, in Athens the result of the secondary examination of philosophical systems and deductions was scepticism as regards them all, and the rise of a new order of men--the Sophists--who not only rejected the validity of all former philosophical methods, but carried their infidelity to a degree plainly not warranted by the facts of the case, in this, that they not only denied that human reason had thus far succeeded in ascertaining anything, but even affirmed that it is incapable, from its very nature, as dependent on human organization, or the condition under which it acts, of determining the truth at all; nay, that even if the truth is actually in its possession, since it has no criterion by which to recognize it, it cannot so much as be certain that it is in such possession of it. From these principles it follows that, since we have no standard of the true, neither can we have any standard of the good, and that our ideas of what is good and what is evil are altogether produced by education or by convention. Or, to use the phrase adopted by the Sophists, "it is might that makes right." Right and wrong are hence seen to be mere fictions created by society, having no eternal or absolute existence in nature. The will of a monarch, or of a majority in a community, declares what the law shall be; the law defines what is right and what is wrong; and these, therefore, instead of having an actual existence, are mere illusions, owing their birth to the exercise of force. It is might that has determined and defined what is right. And hence it follows that it is needless for a man to trouble himself with the monitions of conscience, or to be troubled thereby, for conscience, instead of being anything real, is an imaginary fiction, or, at the best, owes its origin to education, and is the creation of our social state. Hence the wise will give himself no concern as to a meritorious act or a crime, seeing that the one is intrinsically neither better nor worse than the other; but he will give himself sedulous concern as respects his outer or external relations--his position in society; conforming his acts to that standard which it in its wisdom or folly, but in the exercise of its might, has declared shall be regarded as right. Or, if his occasions be such as to make it for his interest to depart from the social rule, let him do it in secrecy; or, what is far better, let him cultivate rhetoric, that noble art by which the wrong may be made to appear the right; by which he who has committed a crime may so mystify society as to delude it into the belief that he is worthy of praise; and by which he may prove that his enemy, who has really performed some meritorious deed, has been guilty of a crime. Animated by such considerations, the Sophists passed from place to place, offering to sell for a sum of money a knowledge of the rhetorical art, and disposed of their services in the instruction of the youth of wealthy and noble families. What shall we say of such a system and of such a state of things? Simply this: that it indicated a complete mental and social demoralization--mental demoralization, for the principles of knowledge were sapped, and man persuaded that his reason was no guide; social demoralization, for he was taught that right and wrong, virtue and vice, conscience, and law, and God, are imaginary fictions; that there is no harm in the commission of sin, though there may be harm, as assuredly there is folly, in being detected therein; that it is excellent for a man to sell his country to the Persian king, provided that the sum of money he receives is large enough, and that the transaction is so darkly conducted that the public, and particularly his enemies, can never find it out. Let him never forget that patriotism is the first delusion of a simpleton, and the last refuge of a knave. [Sidenote: They reject the national religion.] [Sidenote: Spread of their opinions among the highest classes.] [Sidenote: They end in blank atheism.] Such were the results of the first attempt to correct the partial philosophies, by submitting them to the measure of a more universal one; such the manner in which, instead of only losing their exclusiveness and imperfections by their contact with one another, they were wrested from their proper object, and made subservient to the purpose of deception. Nor was it science alone that was affected; already might be discerned the foreshadowings of that conviction which many centuries later occasioned the final destruction of polytheism in Rome. Already, in Athens, the voice of philosophers was heard, that among so many gods and so many different worships it was impossible for a man to ascertain what is true. Already, many even of the educated were overwhelmed with the ominous suggestion that, if ever it had been the will of heaven to reveal any form of faith to the world, such a revelation, considering its origin, must necessarily have come with sufficient power to override all opposition; that if there existed only as many as two forms of faith synchronous and successful in the world, that fact would of itself demonstrate that neither of them is true, and that there never had been any revelation from an all-wise and omnipotent God. Nor was it merely among the speculative men that these infidelities were cherished; the leading politicians and statesmen had become deeply infected with them. It was not Anaxagoras alone who was convicted of atheism; the same charge was made against Pericles, the head of the republic--he who had done so much for the glory of Athens--the man who, in practical life, was, beyond all question, the first of his age. With difficulty he succeeded, by the use of what influence remained to him, in saving the life of the guilty philosopher his friend, but in the public estimation he was universally viewed as a participator in his crime. If the foundations of philosophy and those of religion were thus sapped, the foundations of law experienced no better fate. The Sophists, who were wandering all over the world, saw that each nation had its own ideas of merit and demerit, and therefore its own system of law; that even in different towns there were contrary conceptions of right and wrong, and therefore opposing codes. It is evident that in such examinations they applied the same principles which had guided them in their analysis of philosophy and religion, and that the result could be no other than it was, to bring them to the conclusion that there is nothing absolute in justice or in law. To what an appalling condition society has arrived, when it reaches the positive conclusion that there is no truth, no religion, no justice, no virtue in the world; that the only object of human exertion is unrestrained physical enjoyment; the only standard of a man's position, wealth; that, since there is no possibility of truth, whose eternal principles might serve for an uncontrovertible and common guide, we should resort to deception and the arts of persuasion, that we may dupe others for our purposes; that there is no sin in undermining the social contract; no crime in blasphemy, or rather there is no blasphemy at all, since there are no gods; that "man is the measure of all things," as Protagoras teaches, and that "he is the criterion of existence;" that "thought is only the relation of the thinking subject to the object thought of, and that the thinking subject, the soul, is nothing more than the sum of the different moments of thinking." It is no wonder that that Sophist who was the author of such doctrines should be condemned to death to satisfy the clamours of a populace who had not advanced sufficiently into the depths of this secondary, this higher philosophy, and that it was only by flight that he could save himself from the punishment awaiting the opening sentiment of his book: "Of the gods I cannot tell whether they are or not, for much hinders us from knowing this--both the obscurity of the subject and the shortness of life." It is no wonder that the social demoralization spread apace, when men like Gorgias, the disciple of Empedocles, were to be found, who laughed at virtue, made an open derision of morality, and proved, by metaphysical demonstration, that nothing at all exists. [Sidenote: Political dangers of the higher analysis.] [Sidenote: Illustrations from the Middle Ages.] [Sidenote: Danger of intellect outgrowing formulas of faith.] [Sidenote: Absolute necessity of preparing communities for these changes.] From these statements respecting the crisis at which ancient philosophy had arrived, we might be disposed to believe that the result was unmitigated evil, for it scarcely deserves mention that the quibbles and disputes of the Sophists occasioned an extraordinary improvement of the Greek language, introducing precision into its terms, and a wonderful dialectical skill into its use. For us there may be extracted from these melancholy conclusions at least one instructive lesson--that it is not during the process of decomposition of philosophies, and especially of religions, that social changes occur, for such breakings-up commonly go on in an isolated, and therefore innocuous way; but if by chance the fragments and decomposed portions are brought together, and attempts are made by fusion to incorporate them anew, or to extract from them, by a secondary analysis, what truth they contain, a crisis is at once brought on, and--such is the course of events--in the catastrophe that ensues they are commonly all absolutely destroyed. It was doubtless their foresight of such consequences that inspired the Italian statesmen of the Middle Ages with a resolute purpose of crushing in the bud every encroachment on ecclesiastical authority, and every attempt at individual interpretation of religious doctrines. For it is not to be supposed that men of clear intellect should be insensible to the obvious unreasonableness of many of the dogmas that had been consecrated by authority. But if once permission were accorded to human criticism and human interpretation, what other issue could there be than that doctrine upon doctrine, and sect upon sect should arise; that theological principles should undergo a total decomposition, until two men could scarcely be found whose views coincided; nay, even more than that, that the same man should change his opinion with the changing incidents of the different periods of his life. No matter what might be the plausible guise of the beginning, and the ostensibly cogent arguments for its necessity, once let the decomposition commence, and no human power could arrest it until it had become thorough and complete. Considering the prestige, the authority, and the mass of fact to be dealt with, it might take many centuries for this process to be finished, but that that result would at length be accomplished no enlightened man could doubt. The experience of the ancient European world had shown that in the act of such decompositions there is but little danger, since, for the time being, each sect, and, indeed, each individual, has a guiding rule of life. But as soon as the period of secondary analysis is reached a crisis must inevitably ensue, in all probability involving not only religion, but also the social contract. And though, by the exercise of force on the part of the interests that are disturbed, aided by that popular sentiment which is abhorrent of anarchy, the crisis might, for a time, be put off, it could not be otherwise than that Europe should be left in that deplorable state which must result when the intellect of a people has outgrown its formulas of faith. A fearful condition to contemplate, for such a dislocation must also affect political relations, and necessarily implies revolt against existing law. Nations plunged in the abyss of irreligion must necessarily be nations in anarchy. For a time their tendency to explosion may be kept down by the firm application of the hand of power; but this is simply an antagonism, it is no cure. The social putrefaction proceeds, working its way downward into classes that are lower and lower, until at length it involves the institutions that are relied on for its arrest. Armies, the machinery of compression, once infected, the end is at hand, but no human foresight can predict what the event shall be, especially if the contemporaneous ruling powers have either ignorantly or wilfully neglected to prepare society for the inevitable trial it is about to undergo. It is the most solemn of all the duties of governments, when once they have become aware of such a momentous condition, to prepare the nations for its fearful consequences. For this it may, perhaps, be lawful for them to dissemble in a temporary manner, as it is sometimes proper for a physician to dissemble with his patient; it may be lawful for them even to resort to the use of force, but never should such measures of doubtful correctness be adopted without others directed to a preparation of the mass of society for the trials through which it is about to pass. Such, doubtless, were the profound views of the great Italian statesmen of the Middle Ages; such, doubtless, were the arguments by which they justified to themselves resistance against the beginning of the evil--a course for which Europe has too often and unfairly condemned them. [Sidenote: Summary of the preceding theories.] It remains for us now to review the details presented in the foregoing pages for the purpose of determining the successive phases of development through which the Greek mind passed. It is not with the truth or fallacy of these details that we have to do, but with their order of occurrence. They are points enabling us to describe graphically the curve of Grecian intellectual advance. The starting point of Greek philosophy is physical and geocentral. The earth is the grand object of the universe, and, as the necessary result, erroneous ideas are entertained as to the relations and dimensions of the sea and air. This philosophy was hardly a century old before it began to cosmogonize, using the principles it considered itself sure of. Long before it was able to get rid of local ideas, such as upward and downward in space, it undertook to explain the origin of the world. But, as advances were made, it was recognized that creation, in its various parts, displays intention and design, the adaptation of means to secure proposed ends. This suggested a reasoning and voluntary agency, like that of man, in the government of the world; and from a continual reference to human habits and acts, Greek philosophy passed through its stage of anthropoid conceptions. A little farther progress awakened suspicions that the mind of man can obtain no certain knowledge; and the opinion at last prevailed that we have no trustworthy criterion of truth. In the scepticism thus setting in, the approach to Oriental ideas is each successive instant more and more distinct. [Sidenote: Approach to Oriental ideas.] This period of doubt was the immediate forerunner of more correct cosmical opinions. The heliocentric mechanism of the planetary system was introduced, the earth deposed to a subordinate position. The doctrines, both physical and intellectual, founded on geocentric ideas, were necessarily endangered, and, since these had connected themselves with the prevailing religious views, and were represented by important material interests, the public began to practise persecution and the philosophers hypocrisy. Pantheistic notions of the nature of the world became more distinct, and, as their necessary consequence, the doctrines of Emanation, Transmigration, and Absorption were entertained. From this it is but a step to the suspicion that matter, motion, and time are phantasms of the imagination--opinions embodied in the atomic theory, which asserts that atoms and space alone exist; and which became more refined when it recognized that atoms are only mathematical points; and still more so when it considered them as mere centres of force. The brink of Buddhism was here approached. As must necessarily ever be the case where men are coexisting in different psychical stages of advance, some having made a less, some a greater intellectual progress, all these views which we have described successively, were at last contemporaneously entertained. At this point commenced the action of the Sophists, who, by setting the doctrines of one school in opposition to those of another, and representing them all as of equal value, occasioned the destruction of them all, and the philosophy founded on physical speculation came to an end. [Sidenote: Uniformity in the manner of intellectual progress.] Of this phase of Greek intellectual life, if we compare the beginning with the close, we cannot fail to observe how great is the improvement. The thoughts dealt with at the later period are intrinsically of a higher order than those at the outset. From the puerilities and errors with which we have thus been occupied, we learn that there is a definite mode of progress for the mind of man; from the history of later times we shall find that it is ever in the same direction. CHAPTER V. THE GREEK AGE OF FAITH. RISE AND DECLINE OF ETHICAL PHILOSOPHY. SOCRATES _rejects Physical and Mathematical Speculations, and asserts the Importance of Virtue and Morality, thereby inaugurating an Age of Faith.--His Life and Death.--The schools originating from his Movement teach the Pursuit of Pleasure and Gratification of Self._ PLATO _founds the Academy.--His three primal Principles.--The Existence of a personal God.--Nature of the World and the Soul.--The ideal Theory, Generals or Types.--Reminiscence.--Transmigration.--Plato's political Institutions.--His Republic.--His Proofs of the Immortality of the Soul.--Criticism on his Doctrines._ RISE OF THE SCEPTICS, _who conduct the higher Analysis of Ethical Philosophy.--Pyrrho demonstrates the Uncertainty of Knowledge.--Inevitable Passage into tranquil Indifference, Quietude, and Irreligion, as recommended by Epicurus.--Decomposition of the Socratic and Platonic Systems in the later Academies.--Their Errors and Duplicities.--End of the Greek Age of Faith._ [Sidenote: Greek philosophy on the basis of ethics.] The Sophists had brought on an intellectual anarchy. It is not in the nature of humanity to be contented with such a state. Thwarted in its expectations from physics, the Greek mind turned its attention to morals. In the progress of life, it is but a step from the age of Inquiry to the age of Faith. [Sidenote: Socrates: his mode of teaching.] [Sidenote: The doctrines of Socrates.] [Sidenote: Opposes mathematics and physics.] Socrates, who led the way in this movement, was born B.C. 469. He exercised an influence in some respects felt to our times. Having experienced the unprofitable results arising from physical speculation, he set in contrast there with the solid advantages to be enjoyed from the cultivation of virtue and morality. His life was a perpetual combat with the Sophists. His manner of instruction was by conversation, in which, according to the uniform testimony of all who heard him, he singularly excelled. He resorted to definitions, and therefrom drew deductions, conveying his argument under the form of a dialogue. Unlike his predecessors, who sought for truth in the investigation of outward things, he turned his attention inward, asserting the supremacy of virtue and its identity with knowledge, and the necessity of an adherence to the strict principles of justice. Considering the depraved condition to which the Sophists had reduced society, he insisted on a change in the manner of education of youth, so as to bring it in accordance with the principle that happiness is only to be found in the pursuit of virtue and goodness. Thus, therefore, he completely substituted the moral for the physical, and in this essentially consists the philosophical revolution he effected. He had no school, properly speaking, nor did he elaborate any special ethical system; to those who inquired how they should know good from evil and right from wrong, he recommended the decisions of the laws of their country. It does not appear that he ever entered on any inquiry respecting the nature of God, simply viewing his existence as a fact of which there was abundant and incontrovertible proof. Though rejecting the crude religious ideas of his nation, and totally opposed to anthropomorphism, he carefully avoided the giving of public offence by improper allusions to the prevailing superstition; nay, even as a good citizen, he set an example of conforming to its requirements. In his judgment, the fault of the Sophists consisted in this, that they had subverted useless speculation, but had substituted for it no scientific evidence. Nevertheless, if man did not know, he might believe, and demonstration might be profitably supplanted by faith. He therefore insisted on the great doctrines of the immortality of the soul and the government of the world by Providence; but it is not to be denied that there are plain indications, in some of his sentiments, of a conviction that the Supreme Being is the soul of the world. He professed that his own chief wisdom consisted in the knowledge of his own ignorance, and dissuaded his friends from the cultivation of mathematics and physics, since he affirmed that the former leads to vain conclusions, the latter to atheism. In his system everything turns on the explanation of terms; but his processes of reasoning are often imperfect, his conclusions, therefore, liable to be incorrect. In this way, he maintained that no one would knowingly commit a wrong act, because he that knew a thing to be good would do it; that it is only involuntarily that the bad are bad; that he who knowingly tells a lie is a better man than he who tells a lie in ignorance; and that it is right to injure one's enemies. [Sidenote: Superficiality of his views.] From such a statement of the philosophy of Socrates, we cannot fail to remark how superficial it must have been; it perpetually mistakes differences of words for distinctions of things; it also possessed little novelty. The enforcement of morality cannot be regarded as anything new, since probably there has never been an age in which good men were not to be found, who observed, as their rule of life, the maxims taught by Socrates; and hence we may reasonably inquire what it was that has spread over the name of this great man such an unfading lustre, and why he stands out in such extraordinary prominence among the benefactors of his race. [Sidenote: Causes of the celebrity of Socrates.] Socrates was happy in two things: happy in those who recorded his life, and happy in the circumstances of his death. It is not given to every great man to have Xenophon and Plato for his biographers; it is not given to every one who has overpassed the limit of life, and, in the natural course of events, has but a little longer to continue, to attain the crown of martyrdom in behalf of virtue and morality. In an evil hour for the glory of Athens, his countrymen put him to death. It was too late when they awoke and saw that they could give no answer to the voice of posterity, demanding why they had perpetrated this crime. With truth Socrates said, at the close of his noble speech to the judges who had condemned him, "It is now time that we depart--I to die, you to live; but which has the better destiny is unknown to all except God." The future has resolved that doubt. For Socrates there was reserved the happier lot. [Sidenote: The ostensible accusations against him.] No little obscurity still remains as respects the true nature of this dark transaction. The articles of accusation were three: he rejects the gods of his country; he introduces new ones; he perverts the education of youth. With truth might his friends say it was wonderful that he should be accused of impiety, the whole tenor of whose life was reverence for God--a recognition not only of the divine existence, but of the divine superintendence. "It is only a madman," he would say, "who imputes success in life to human prudence;" and as to the necessity of a right education for the young, "It is only the wise who are fit to govern men." We must conclude that the accusations were only ostensible or fictitious, and that beneath them lay some reality which could reconcile the Athenians to the perpetration of so great a crime. Shall we find in his private life any explanation of this mystery? Unfortunately, the details of it which have descended to us are few. To the investigations of classical criticism we can scarcely look with any hope, for classical criticism has hitherto been in a state of singular innocence, so far as the actual affairs of life are concerned. It regards Athenians and Romans not as men and women like ourselves, but as the personages presented by fictitious literature, whose lives are exceptions to the common laws of human nature; who live in the midst of scenes of endless surprises and occurrences ever bordering on the marvellous. [Sidenote: The character of Socrates in Athens.] [Sidenote: Xantippe his wife.] [Sidenote: He is really the victim of political animosity.] If we examine the case according to everyday principles, we cannot fail to remark that the Socrates of our imagination is a very different man from the Socrates of contemporaneous Athenians. To us he appears a transcendent genius, to whom the great names of antiquity render their profound homage; a martyr in behalf of principles, of which, if society be devoid, life itself is scarcely of any worth, and for the defence of which it is the highest glory that a man should be called upon to die. To them Socrates was no more than an idle lounger in the public places and corners of the streets; grotesque, and even repulsive in his person; affecting in the oddities of his walking and in his appearance many of the manners of the mountebank. Neglecting the pursuit of an honest calling, for his trade seems to have been that of a stone-cutter, he wasted his time in discoursing with such youths as his lecherous countenance and satyr-like person could gather around him, leading them astray from the gods of his country, the flimsy veil of his hypocrisy being too transparent to conceal his infidelity. Nevertheless, he was a very brave soldier, as those who served with him testify. It does not appear that he was observant of those cares which by most men are probably considered as paramount, giving himself but little concern for the support of his children and wife. The good woman Xantippe is, to all appearance, one of those characters who are unfairly judged of by the world. Socrates married her because of her singular conversational powers; and though he himself, according to universal testimony, possessed extraordinary merits in that respect, he found to his cost, when too late, so commanding were her excellencies, that he was altogether her inferior. Among the amusing instances related of his domestic difficulties were the consequences of his invitations to persons to dine with him when there was nothing in the house wherewith to entertain them, a proceeding severely trying to the temper of Xantippe, whose cause would unquestionably be defended by the matrons of any nation. It was nothing but the mortification of a high-spirited woman at the acts of a man who was too shiftless to have any concern for his domestic honour. He would not gratify her urgent entreaties by accepting from those upon whom he lavished his time the money that was so greatly needed at home. After his condemnation, she carried her children with her to his prison, and was dismissed by him, as he told his friends, from his apprehension of her deep distress. To the last we see her bearing herself in a manner honourable to a woman and a wife. There is surely something wrong in a man's life when the mother of his children is protesting against his conduct, and her complaints are countenanced by the community. In view of all the incidents of the history of Socrates, we can come to no other conclusion than that the Athenians regarded him as an unworthy, and perhaps troublesome member of society. There can be no doubt that his trial and condemnation were connected with political measures. He himself said that he should have suffered death previously, in the affair of Leon of Salamis, had not the government been broken up. His bias was toward aristocracy, not toward democracy. In common with his party, he had been engaged in undertakings that could not do otherwise than entail mortal animosities; and it is not to be overlooked that his indictment was brought forward by Anytus, who was conspicuous in restoring the old order of things. The mistake made by the Athenians was in applying a punishment altogether beyond the real offence, and in adding thereto the persecution of those who had embraced the tenets of Socrates by driving them into exile. Not only admiration for the memory of their master, but also a recollection of their own wrongs, made these men eloquent eulogists. Had Socrates appeared to the Athenians as he appears to us, it is not consistent with human proceedings that they should have acted in so barbarous and totally indefensible a manner. [Sidenote: The Dæmon of Socrates.] If by the Dæmon to whose suggestions Socrates is said to have listened anything more was meant than conscience, we must infer that he laboured under that mental malady to which those are liable who, either through penury or designedly, submit to extreme abstinence, and, thereby injuring the brain, fall into hallucination. Such cases are by no means of infrequent occurrence. Mohammed was affected in that manner. [Sidenote: The Megaric school. The wise should be insensible to pain.] After the death of Socrates there arose several schools professing to be founded upon his principles. The divergences they exhibited when compared with one another prove how little there was of precision in those principles. Among these imitators is numbered Euclid of Megara, who had been in the habit of incurring considerable personal risk for the sake of listening to the great teacher, it being a capital offence for a native of Megara to be found in Athens. Upon their persecution, Plato and other disciples of Socrates fled to Euclid, and were well received by him. His system was a mixture of the Eleatic and Socratic, the ethical preponderating in his doctrine. He maintained the existence of one Being, the Good, having various aspects--Wisdom, God, Reason, and showed an inclination to the tendency afterward fully developed by the Cynical school in his dogma that the wise man should be insensible to pain. [Sidenote: The Cyrenaic school. Pleasure is the object of life.] With the Megaric school is usually classified the Cyrenaic founded by Aristippus. Like Socrates, he held in disdain physical speculations, and directed his attention to the moral. In his opinion, happiness consists in pleasure; and, indeed, he recognized in pleasure and pain the criteria of external things. He denied that we can know anything with certainty, our senses being so liable to deceive us; but, though we may not perceive things truly, it is true that we perceive. With the Cyrenaic school, pleasure was the great end and object of life. [Sidenote: The Cynical school: a contempt for others and gratification of self.] [Sidenote: Antisthenes.] To these may be added the Cynical school, founded by Antisthenes, whose system is personal and ferocious: it is a battle of the mind against the body; it is a pursuit of pleasure of a mental kind, corporeal enjoyment being utterly unworthy of a man. Its nature is very well shown in the character of its founder, who abandoned all the conveniences and comforts of life, voluntarily encountering poverty and exposure to the inclemency of the seasons. His garments were of the meanest kind, his beard neglected, his person filthy, his diet bordering on starvation. To the passers-by this ragged misanthrope indulged in contemptuous language, and offended them by the indecency of his gestures. Abandoned at last by every one except Diogenes of Sinope, he expired in extreme wretchedness. It had been a favourite doctrine with him that friendship and patriotism are altogether worthless; and in his last agony, Diogenes asking him whether he needed a friend, "Will a friend release me from this pain?" he inquired. Diogenes handed him a dagger, saying, "This will." "I want to be free from pain, but not from life." Into such degradation had philosophy, as represented by the Cynical school, fallen, that it may be doubted whether it is right to include a man like Antisthenes among those who derive their title from their love of wisdom--a man who condemned the knowledge of reading and writing, who depreciated the institution of marriage, and professed that he saw no other advantage in philosophy than that it enabled him to keep company with himself. [Sidenote: Diogenes of Sinope.] [Sidenote: His irreverence.] The wretched doctrines of Cynicism were carried to their utmost application by Diogenes of Sinope. In early life he had been accustomed to luxury and ease; but his father, who was a wealthy banker, having been convicted of debasing the coinage, Diogenes, who in some manner shared in the disgrace, was in a very fit state of mind to embrace doctrines implying a contempt for the goods of the world and for the opinions of men. He may be considered as the prototype of the hermits of a later period in his attempts at the subjugation of the natural appetites by means of starvation. Looking upon the body as a mere clog to the soul, he mortified it in every possible manner, feeding it on raw meat and leaves, and making it dwell in a tub. He professed that the nearer a man approaches to suicide the nearer he approaches to virtue. He wore no other dress than a scanty cloak; a wallet, a stick, and a drinking-cup completed his equipment: the cup he threw away as useless on seeing a boy take water in the hollow of his hand. It was his delight to offend every idea of social decency by performing all the acts of life publicly, asserting that whatever is not improper in itself ought to be done openly. It is said that his death, which occurred in his ninetieth year, was in consequence of devouring a neat's foot raw. From his carrying the Socratic notions to an extreme, he merits the designation applied to him, "the mad Socrates." His contempt for the opinions of others, and his religious disbelief, are illustrated by an incident related of him, that, having in a moment of weakness made a promise to some friends that he would offer a sacrifice to Diana, he repaired the next day to her temple, and, taking a louse from his head, cracked it upon her altar. [Sidenote: Decline of morality.] What a melancholy illustration of the tendency of the human mind do these facts offer. What a quick, yet inevitable descent from the morality of Socrates. Selfishness is enthroned; friendship and patriotism are looked upon as the affairs of a fool; happy is the man who stands in no need of a friend; still happier he who has not one. No action is intrinsically bad; even robbery, adultery, sacrilege, are only crimes by public agreement. The sage will take care how he indulges in the weakness of gratitude or benevolence, or any other such sickly sentiment. If he can find pleasure, let him enjoy it; if pain is inflicted on him, let him bear it; but, above all, let him remember that death is just as desirable as life. If the physical speculations of Greece had ended in sophistry and atheism, ethical investigations, it thus appears, had borne no better fruit. Both systems, when carried to their consequences, had been found to be not only useless to society, but actually prejudicial to its best interests. As far as could be seen, in the times of which we are speaking, the prospects for civilization were dark and discouraging; nor did it appear possible that any successful attempts could be made to extract from philosophy anything completely suitable to the wants of man. Yet, in the midst of these discreditable delusions, one of the friends and disciples of Socrates--indeed, it may be said, his chief disciple, Plato, was laying the foundation of another system, which, though it contained much that was false and more that was vain, contained also some things vigorous enough to descend to our times. [Sidenote: Birth of Plato.] Plato was born about B.C. 426. Antiquity has often delighted to cast a halo of mythical glory around its illustrious names. The immortal works of this great philosopher seemed to entitle him to more than mortal honours. A legend, into the authenticity of which we will abstain from inquiring, asserted that his mother Perictione, a pure virgin, suffered an immaculate conception through the influences of Apollo. The god declared to Ariston, to whom she was about to be married, the parentage of the child. The wisdom of this great writer may justify such a noble descent, and, in some degree, excuse the credulity of his admiring and affectionate disciples, who gave a ready ear to the impossible story. [Sidenote: His education and teaching.] To the knowledge acquired by Plato during the eight or ten years he had spent with Socrates, he added all that could be obtained from the philosophers of Egypt, Cyrene, Persia, and Tarentum. With every advantage arising from wealth and an illustrious parentage, if even it was only of an earthly kind, for he numbered Solon among his ancestors, he availed himself of the teaching of the chief philosophers of the age, and at length, returning to his native country, founded a school in the grove of Hecademus. Thrice during his career as a teacher he visited Sicily on each occasion returning to the retirement of his academy. He attained the advanced age of eighty-three years. It has been given to few men to exercise so profound an influence on the opinions of posterity, and yet it is said that during his lifetime Plato had no friends. He quarrelled with most of those who had been his fellow-disciples of Socrates; and, as might be anticipated from the venerable age to which he attained, and the uncertain foundation upon which his doctrines reposed, his opinions were very often contradictory, and his philosophy exhibited many variations. To his doctrines we must now attend. [Sidenote: The doctrines of Plato. The three primary principles.] It was the belief of Plato that matter is coeternal with God, and that, indeed, there are three primary principles--God, Matter, Ideas; all animate and inanimate things being fashioned by God from matter, which, being capable of receiving any impress, may be designated with propriety the Mother of Forms. He held that intellect existed before such forms were produced, but not antecedently to matter. To matter he imputed a refractory or resisting quality, the origin of the disorders and disturbances occurring in the world; he also regarded it us the cause of evil, accounting thereby for the preponderance of evil, which must exceed the good in proportion as matter exceeds ideas. It is not without reason, therefore, that Plato has been accused of Magianism. These doctrines are of an Oriental cast. [Sidenote: He asserts the existence of a personal God.] [Sidenote: Nature of the soul.] The existence of God, an independent and personal maker of the world, he inferred from proofs of intelligence and design presented by natural objects. "All in the world is for the sake of the rest, and the places of the single parts are so ordered as to subserve to the preservation and excellency of the whole; hence all things are derived from the operation of a Divine intellectual cause." From the marks of unity in that design he deduced the unity of God, the Supreme Intelligence, incorporeal, without beginning, end, or change. His god is the fashioner and father of the universe, in contradistinction to impersonal Nature. In one sense, he taught that the soul is immortal and imperishable; in another, he denied that each individual soul either has had or will continue to have an everlasting duration. From what has been said on a former page, it will be understood that this psychological doctrine is essentially Indian. His views of the ancient condition of and former relations of the soul enabled Plato to introduce the celebrated doctrine of Reminiscence, and to account for what have otherwise been termed innate ideas. They are the recollections of things with which the soul was once familiar. [Sidenote: Plato's Ideal theory.] [Sidenote: Exemplars or types.] The reason of God contemplates and comprehends the exemplars or original models of all natural forms, whatever they may be; for visible things are only fleeting shadows, quickly passing away; ideas or exemplars are everlasting. With so much power did he set forth this theory of ideas, and, it must be added, with so much obscurity, that some have asserted his belief in an extramundane space in which exist incorporeal beings, the ideas or original exemplars of all organic and inorganic forms. An illustration may remove some of the obscurity of these views. Thus all men, though they may present different appearances when compared with each other, are obviously fashioned upon the same model, to which they all more or less perfectly conform. All trees of the same kind, though they may differ from one another, are, in like manner, fashioned upon a common model, to which they more or less perfectly conform. To such models, exemplars, or types, Plato gave the designation of Ideas. Our knowledge thereof is clearly not obtained from the senses, but from reflection. Now Plato asserted that these ideas are not only conceptions of the mind, but actually perceptions or entities having a real existence; nay, more, that they are the only real existences. Objects are thus only material embodiments of ideas, and in representation are not exact; for correspondence between an object and its model is only so far as circumstances will permit. Hence we can never determine all the properties or functions of the idea from an examination of its imperfect material representation, any more than we can discover the character or qualities of a man from pictures of him, no matter how excellent those pictures may be. [Sidenote: Doctrine of Reminiscence.] [Sidenote: Recollections during transmigration.] The Ideal theory of Plato, therefore, teaches that, beyond this world of delusive appearances, this world of material objects, there is another world, invisible, eternal, and essentially true; that, though we cannot trust our senses for the correctness of the indications they yield, there are other impressions upon which we may fall back to aid us in coming to the truth, the reminiscences or recollections still abiding in the soul of the things it formerly knew, either in the realm of pure ideas, or in the states of former life through which it has passed. For Plato says that there are souls which, in periods of many thousand years, have successively transmigrated through bodies of various kinds. Of these various conditions they retain a recollection, more faintly or vividly, as the case may be. Ideas seeming to be implanted in the human mind, but certainly never communicated to us by the senses, are derived from those former states. If this recollection of ancient events and conditions were absolutely precise and correct, then man would have an innate means for determining the truth. But such reminiscences being, in their nature, imperfect and uncertain, we never can attain to absolute truth. With Plato, the Beautiful is the perfect image of the true. Love is the desire of the soul for Beauty, the attraction of like for like, the longing of the divinity within us for the divinity beyond us; and the Good, which is beauty, truth, justice, is God--God in his abstract state. [Sidenote: God is the sum of ideas.] [Sidenote: The nature of the world and of the gods.] [Sidenote: Triple constitution of the soul.] [Sidenote: Transmigration and future rewards and punishments.] [Sidenote: The physiology of Plato.] From the Platonic system it therefore followed that science is impossible to man, and possible only to God; that, however, recollecting our origin, we ought not to despair, but elevate our intellectual aim as high as we may; that all knowledge is not attributable to our present senses; for, if that were the case, all men would be equally wise, their senses being equal in acuteness; but a very large portion, and by far the surest portion, is derived from reminiscence of our former states; that each individual soul is an idea; and that, of ideas generally, the lower are held together by the higher, and hence, finally by one which is supreme; that God is the sum of ideas, and is therefore eternal and unchangeable, the sensuous conditions of time and space having no relation to him, and being inapplicable in any conception of his attributes; that he is the measure of all things, and not man, as Protagoras supposed; that the universe is a type of him; that matter itself is an absolute negation, and is the same as space; that the forms presented by our senses are unsubstantial shadows, and no reality; that, so far from there being an infinity of worlds, there is but one, which, as the work of God, is neither subject to age nor decay, and that it consists of a body and a soul; in another respect it may be said to be composed of fire and earth, which can only be made to cohere through the intermedium of air and water, and hence the necessity of the existence of the four elements; that of geometrical forms, the pyramid corresponds to fire, the cube to earth, the octahedron to air, these forms being produced from triangles connected by certain numerical ratios; that the entire sum of vitality is divided by God into seven parts, answering to the divisions of the musical octave, or to the seven planets; that the world is an animal having within it a soul; for man is warm, and so is the world; man is made of various elements, and so is the world; and, as the body of man has a soul, so too must the world have one; that there is a race of created, generated, and visible gods, who must be distinguished from the eternal, their bodies being composed for the most part of fire, their shape spherical; that the earth is the oldest and first of the starry bodies, its place being in the centre of the universe, or in the axis thereof, where it remains, balanced by its own equilibrium; that perhaps it is an ensouled being and a generated god; that the mortal races are three, answering to Earth, Air, and Water; that the male man was the first made of mortals, and that from him the female, and beasts, and birds, and fishes issued forth; that the superiority of man depends upon his being a religious animal; that each mortal consists of two portions, a soul and a body--their separation constitutes death; that of the soul there are two primitive component parts, a mortal and an immortal, the one being made by the created gods, and the other by the Supreme; that, for the purpose of uniting these parts together, it is necessary that there should be an intermedium, and that this is the dæmonic portion or spirit; that our mental struggles arise from this triple constitution of Appetite, Spirit, and Reason; that Reason alone is immortal, and the others die; that the number of souls in the universe is invariable or constant; that the sentiment of pre-existence proves the soul to have existed before the body; that, since the soul is the cause of motion, it can neither be produced nor decay, else all motion must eventually cease; that, as to the condition of departed souls, they hover as shades around the graves, pining for restoration to their lifeless bodies, or migrating through various human or brute shapes, but that an unembodied life in God is reserved for the virtuous philosopher; that valour is nothing but knowledge, and virtue a knowledge of good; that the soul, on entering the body, is irrational or in a trance, and that the god, the star who formed its created part, influences its career, and hence its fortunes may be predicted by astrological computations; that there are future rewards and punishments, a residence being appointed for the righteous in his kindred star; for those whose lives have been less pure there is a second birth under the form of a woman, and, if evil courses are still persisted in, successive transmigrations through various brutes are in reserve--the frivolous passing into birds, the unphilosophical into beasts, the ignorant into fishes; that the world undergoes periodical revolutions by fire and water, its destructions and reproductions depending upon the coincidences of the stars. Of Plato's views of human physiology I can offer no better statement than the following from Ritter: "All in the human body is formed for the sake of the Reason, after certain determinate ends. Accordingly, first of all, a seat must be provided for the god-like portion of the soul, the head, viz., which is round, and similar to the perfect shape of the whole, furnished with the organs of cognition, slightly covered with flesh, which impedes the senses. To the head is given the direction of the whole frame, hence its position at the top; and, since the animal creation possesses all the six irregular motions, and the head ought not to roll upon the ground, the human form is long, with legs for walking and arms for serving the body, and the anterior part is fashioned differently from the posterior. Now, the reason being seated in the head, the spirit or irascible soul has its seat in the breast, under the head, in order that it may be within call and command of the Reason, but yet separated from the head by the neck, that it might not mix with it. The concupiscible has likewise its particular seat in the lower part of the trunk, the abdomen, separated by the diaphragm from that of the irascible, since it is destined, being separate from both, to be governed and held in order both by the spirit and the Reason. For this end God has given it a watch, the liver, which is dense, smooth, and shining, and, containing in combination both bitter and sweet, is fitted to receive and reflect, as a mirror, the images of thoughts. Whenever the Reason disapproves, it checks inordinate desires by its bitterness, and, on the other hand, when it approves, all is soothed into gentle repose by its sweetness; moreover, in sleep, in sickness, or in inspiration it becomes prophetic, so that even the vilest portion of the body is in a certain degree participant of truth. In other respects the lower portion of the trunk is fashioned with equal adaptation for the ends it has to serve. The spleen is placed on the left side of the liver, in order to secrete and carry off the impurities which the diseases of the body might produce and accumulate. The intestines are coiled many times, in order that the food may not pass too quickly through the body, and so occasion again an immoderate desire for more; for such a constant appetite would render the pursuit of philosophy impossible, and make man disobedient to the commands of the divinity within him." [Sidenote: His ethical ideas.] The reader will gather from the preceding paragraph how much of wisdom and of folly, of knowledge and of ignorance, the doctrines of Plato present. I may be permitted to continue this analysis of his writings a little farther, with the intention of exhibiting the manner in which he carried his views into practice; for Plato asserted that, though the supreme good is unattainable by our reason, we must try to resemble God as far as it is possible for the changeable to copy the eternal; remembering that pleasure is not the end of man, and, though the sensual part of the soul dwells on eating and drinking, riches and pleasure, and the spiritual on worldly honours and distinctions, the reason is devoted to knowledge. Pleasure, therefore, cannot be attributed to the gods, though knowledge may; pleasure, which is not a good in itself, but only a means thereto. Each of the three parts of the soul has its own appropriate virtue, that of reason being wisdom; that of the spirit, courage; that of the appetite, temperance; and for the sake of perfection, justice is added for the mutual regulation of the other three. [Sidenote: His proposed political institutions.] [Sidenote: The Republic of Plato.] In carrying his ethical conceptions into practice, Plato insists that the state is everything, and that what is in opposition to it ought to be destroyed. He denies the right of property; strikes at the very existence of the family, pressing his doctrines to such an extreme as to consider women as public property, to be used for the purposes of the state; he teaches that education should be a governmental duty, and that religion must be absolutely subjected to the politician; that children do not belong to their parents, but to the state; that the aim of government should not be the happiness of the individual, but that of the whole; and that men are to be considered not as men, but as elements of the state, a perfect subject differing from a slave only in this, that he has the state for his master. He recommends the exposure of deformed and sickly infants, and requires every citizen to be initiated into every species of falsehood and fraud. Distinguishing between mere social unions and true polities, and insisting that there should be an analogy between the state and the soul as respects triple constitution, he establishes a division of ruler, warriors, and labourers, preferring, therefore, a monarchy reposing on aristocracy, particularly of talent. Though he considers music essential to education, his opinion of the fine arts is so low that he would admit into his state painters and musicians only under severe restrictions, or not at all. It was for the sake of having this chimerical republic realized in Sicily that he made a journey to Dionysius; and it may be added that it was well for those whom he hoped to have subjected to the experiment that his wild and visionary scheme was never permitted to be carried into effect. In our times extravagant social plans have been proposed, and some have been attempted; but we have witnessed nothing so absurd as this vaunted republic of Plato. It shows a surprising ignorance of the acts and wants of man in his social condition. Some of the more important doctrines of Plato are worthy of further reflection. I shall therefore detain the reader a short time to offer a few remarks upon them. [Sidenote: Grandeur of Plato's conceptions of God] It was a beautiful conception of this philosophy that ideas are connected together by others of a higher order, and these, in their turn, by others still higher, their generality and power increasing as we ascend, until finally a culminating point is reached--a last, a supreme, an all-ruling idea, which is God. Approaching in this elevated manner to the doctrine of an Almighty Being, we are free from those fallacies we are otherwise liable to fall into when we mingle notions derived from time and space with the attributes of God; we also avoid those obscurities necessarily encountered when we attempt the consideration of the illimitable and eternal. [Sidenote: and of the soul.] [Sidenote: The sentiment of pre-existence.] Plato's views of the immortality of the soul offer a striking contrast to those of the popular philosophy and superstition of his time. They recall, in many respects, the doctrines of India. In Greece, those who held the most enlarged views entertained what might be termed a doctrine of semi-immortality. They looked for a continuance of the soul in an endless futurity, but gave themselves no concern about the eternity which is past. But Plato considered the soul as having already eternally existed, the present life being only a moment in our career; he looked forward with an undoubting faith to the changes through which we must hereafter pass. As sparks issue forth from a flame, so doubtless to his imagination did the soul of man issue forth from the soul of the world. Innate ideas and the sentiment of pre-existence indicate our past life. By the latter is meant that on some occasion perhaps of trivial concern, or perhaps in some momentous event, it suddenly occurs to us that we have been in like circumstances, and surrounded by the things at that instant present on some other occasion before; but the recollection, though forcibly impressing us with surprise, is misty and confused. With Plato shall we say it was in one of our prior states of existence, and the long-forgotten transactions are now suddenly flashing upon us? [Sidenote: But this arises from the anatomical construction of the brain.] But Plato did not know the double structure and the double action of the brain of man; he did not remember that the mind may lose all recognition of the lapse of time, and, with equal facility, compress into the twinkling of an eye events so numerous that for their occurrence days and even years would seem to be required; or, conversely, that it can take a single, a simple idea, which one would suppose might be disposed of in a moment, and dwell upon it, dilating or swelling it out, until all the hours of a long night are consumed. Of the truth of these singular effects we have not only such testimony as that offered by those who have been restored from death by drowning, who describe the flood of memory rushing upon them in the last moment of their mortal agony, the long train of all the affairs in which they have borne a part seen in an instant, as we see the landscape, with all its various objects, by a flash of lightning at night, and that with appalling distinctness, but also from our own experience in our dreams. It is shown in my Physiology how the phenomena of the sentiment of pre-existence may, upon these principles, be explained, each hemisphere of the brain thinking for itself, and the mind deluded as respects the lapse of time, mistaking these simultaneous actions for successive ones, and referring one of the two impressions to an indistinct and misty past. To Plato such facts as these afforded copious proofs of the prior existence of the soul, and strong foundations for a faith in its future life. [Sidenote: The double immortality, past and future.] Thus Plato's doctrine of the immortality of the soul implies a double immortality; the past eternity, as well as that to come, falls within its scope. In the national superstition of his time, the spiritual principle seemed to arise without author or generator, finding its chance residence in the tabernacle of the body, growing with its growth and strengthening with its strength, acquiring for each period of life a correspondence of form and of feature with its companion the body, successively assuming the appearance of the infant, the youth, the adult, the white-bearded patriarch. The shade who wandered in the Stygian fields, or stood before the tribunal of Minos to receive his doom, was thought to correspond in aspect with the aspect of the body at death. It was thus that Ulysses recognized the forms of Patroclus and Achilles, and other heroes of the ten years' siege; it was thus that the peasant recognized the ghost of his enemy or friend. As a matter of superstition, these notions had their use, but in a philosophical sense it is impossible to conceive anything more defective. [Sidenote: Relations of the past and future to man.] Man differs from a lifeless body or a brute in this, that it is not with the present moment alone that he has to deal. For the brute the past, when gone, is clean gone for ever; and the future, before it approaches, is as if it were never to be. Man, by his recollection, makes the past a part of the present, and his foreknowledge adds the future thereto, thereby uniting the three in one. [Sidenote: Criticism on the Ideal theory.] Some of the illustrations commonly given of Plato's Ideal theory may also be instructively used for showing the manner in which his facts are dealt with by the methods of modern science. Thus Plato would say that there is contained in every acorn the ideal type of an oak, in accordance with which as soon as suitable circumstances occur, the acorn will develop itself into an oak, and into no other tree. In the act of development of such a seed into its final growth there are, therefore, two things demanding attention, the intrinsic character of the seed and the external forces acting upon it. The Platonic doctrine draws such a distinction emphatically; its essential purpose is to assert the absolute existence and independence of that innate type and its imperishability. Though it requires the agency of external circumstances for its complete realization, its being is altogether irrespective of them. There are, therefore, in such a case, two elements concerned--an internal and an external. A like duality is perceived in many other physiological instances, as in the relationship of mind and matter, thought and sensation. It is the aim of the Platonic philosophy to magnify the internal at the expense of the external in the case of man, thereby asserting the absolute supremacy of intellect; this being the particular in which man is distinguished from the brutes and lower organisms, in whom the external relatively predominates. The development of any such organism, be it plant or animal, is therefore nothing but a manifestation of the Divine idea of Platonism. Many instances of natural history offer striking illustrations, as when that which might have been a branch is developed into a flower, the parts thereof showing a disposition to arrange themselves by fives or by threes. The persistency with which this occurs in organisms of the same species, is, in the Platonic interpretation, a proof that, though individuals may perish, the idea is immortal. How else, in this manner, could the like extricate itself from the unlike; the one deliver itself from, and make itself manifest among the many? Such is an instance of Plato's views; but the very illustration, thus serving to bring them so explicitly before us, may teach us another, and, perhaps, a more correct doctrine. For, considering the duality presented by such cases, the internal and external, the immortal hidden type and the power acting upon it without, the character and the circumstances, may we not pertinently inquire by what authority does Plato diminish the influence of the latter and enhance the value of the former? Why are facts to be burdened with such hypothetical creations, when it is obvious that a much simpler explanation is sufficient? Let us admit, as our best physiological views direct, that the starting-point of every organism, low or high, vegetable or animal, or whatever else, is a simple cell, the manner of development of which depends altogether on the circumstances and influences to which it is exposed; that, so long as those circumstances are the same the resulting form will be the same, and that as soon as those circumstances differ the resulting form differs too. The offspring is like its parent, not because it includes an immortal typical form, but because it is exposed in development to the same conditions as was its parent. Elsewhere I have endeavoured to show that we must acknowledge this absolute dominion of physical agents over organic forms as the fundamental principle in all the sciences of organization; indeed, the main object of my work on Physiology was to enforce this very doctrine. But such a doctrine is altogether inconsistent with the Ideal theory of Platonism. It is no latent imperishable type existing from eternity that is dominating in such developments, but they take place as the issue of a resistless law, variety being possible under variation of environment. Hence we may perhaps excuse ourselves from that suprasensual world in which reside typical forms, universals, ideas of created things, declining this complex machinery of Platonism, and substituting for it a simple notion of law. Nor shall we find, if from this starting-point we direct our thoughts upward, as Plato did from subordinate ideas to the first idea, anything incompatible with the noble conclusion to which he eventually came, anything incompatible with the majesty of God, whose existence and attributes may be asserted with more precision and distinctness from considerations of the operation of immutable law than they can be from the starting-point of fantastic, imaginary, ideal forms. [Sidenote: Rise of the Sceptics.] We have seen how the pre-Socratic philosophy ended in the Sophists; we have now to see how the post-Socratic ended in the Sceptics. Again was repeated the same result exhibited in former times, that the doctrines of the different schools, even those supposed to be matters of absolute demonstration, were not only essentially different, but in contradiction to one another. Again, therefore, the opinion was resumed that the intellect of man possesses no criterion of truth, being neither able to distinguish among the contradictions of the impressions of the senses, nor to judge of the correctness of philosophical deductions, nor even to determine the intrinsic morality of acts. And, if there be no criterion of truth, there can be no certain ground of science, and there remains nothing for us but doubt. Such was the conclusion to which Pyrrho, the founder of the Sceptics, came. He lived about B.C. 300. His philosophical doctrine of the necessity of suspending or refusing our assent from want of a criterion of judgment led by a natural transition to the moral doctrine that virtue and happiness consist in perfect quiescence or freedom from all mental perturbation. This doctrine, it is said, he had learned in India from the Brahmans, whither he had been in the expedition of Alexander. On his return to Europe he taught these views in his school at Elis; but Greek philosophy, in its own order of advancement, was verging on the discovery of these conclusions. [Sidenote: Secondary analysis of ethical philosophy.] The Sceptical school was thus founded on the assertion that man can never ascertain the true among phenomena, and therefore can never know whether things are in accordance or discordance with their appearances, for the same object appears differently to us in different positions and at different times. Doubtless it also appears differently to various individuals. Among such appearances, how shall we select the true one, and, if we make a selection, how shall we be absolutely certain that we are right? Moreover, the properties we impute to things, such as colour, smell, taste, hardness, and the like, are dependent upon our senses; but we very well know that our senses are perpetually yielding to us contradictory indications, and it is in vain that we expect Reason to enable us to distinguish with correctness, or furnish us a criterion of the truth. The Sceptical school thus made use of the weapon which the Sophists had so destructively employed, directing it, however, chiefly against ethics. But let us ascend a step higher. If we rely upon Reason, how do we know that Reason itself is trustworthy? Do we not want some criterion for it? And, even if such a criterion existed, must we not have for it, in its turn, some higher criterion? The Sceptic thus justified his assertion that to man there is no criterion of truth. [Sidenote: The doctrines of Pyrrho.] [Sidenote: No certainty in knowledge.] In accordance with these principles, the Sceptics denied that we can ever attain to a knowledge of existence from a knowledge of phenomena. They carried their doubt to such an extreme as to assert that we can never know the truth of anything that we have asserted, no, not even the truth of this very assertion itself. "We assert nothing," said they; "no, not even that we assert nothing." They declared that the system of induction is at best only a system of probability, for an induction can only be certain when every one and all of the individual things have been examined and demonstrated to agree with the universal. If one single exception among myriads of examples be discovered, the induction is destroyed. But how shall we be sure, in any one case, that we have examined all the individuals? therefore we must ever doubt. As to the method of definitions, it is clear that it is altogether useless; for, if we are ignorant of a thing, we cannot define it, and if we know a thing, a definition adds nothing to our knowledge. In thus destroying definitions and inductions they destroyed all philosophical method. [Sidenote: The doctrines of Epicurus.] [Sidenote: Tranquil indifference is best for man.] But if there be this impossibility of attaining knowledge, what is the use of man giving himself any trouble about the matter? Is it not best to accept life as it comes, and enjoy pleasure while he may? And this is what Epicurus, B.C. 342, had already advised men to do. Like Socrates, he disparages science, and looks upon pleasure as the main object of life and the criterion of virtue. Asserting that truth cannot be determined by Reason alone, he gives up philosophy in despair, or regards it as an inferior or ineffectual means of contributing to happiness. In his view the proper division of philosophy is into Ethics, Canonic, and Physics, the two latter being of very little importance compared with the first. The wise man or sage must seek in an Oriental quietism for the chief happiness of life, indulging himself in a temperate manner as respects his present appetite, and adding thereto the recollection of similar sensual pleasures that are past, and the expectation of new ones reserved for the future. He must look on philosophy as the art of enjoying life. He should give himself no concern as to death or the power of the gods, who are only a delusion; none as respects a future state, remembering that the soul, which is nothing more than a congeries of atoms, is resolved into those constituents at death. There can be no doubt that such doctrines were very well suited to the times in which they were introduced; for so great was the social and political disturbance, so great the uncertainty of the tenure of property, that it might well be suggested what better could a man do than enjoy his own while it was yet in his possession? nor was the inducement to such a course lessened by extravagant dissipations when courtesans and cooks, jesters and buffoons, splendid attire and magnificent appointments had become essential to life. Demetrius Poliorcetes, who understood the condition of things thoroughly, says, "There was not, in my time, in Athens, one great or noble mind." In such a social state, it is not at all surprising that Epicurus had many followers, and that there were many who agreed with him in thinking that happiness is best found in a tranquil indifference, and in believing that there is nothing in reality good or bad; that it is best to decide upon nothing, but to leave affairs to chance; that there is, after all, little or no difference between life and death: that a wise man will regard philosophy as an activity of ideas and arguments which may tend to happiness; that its physical branch is of no other use than to correct superstitious fancies as to death, and remove the fear of meteors, prodigies, and other phenomena by explaining their nature; that the views of Democritus and Aristotle may be made to some extent available for the procurement of pleasure; and that we may learn from the brutes, who pursue pleasure and avoid pain, what ought to be our course. Upon the whole, it will be found that there is a connexion between pleasure and virtue, especially if we enlarge our views and seek for pleasure, not in the gratification of the present moment, but in the aggregate offered by existence. The pleasures of the soul all originate in the pleasures of the flesh; not only those of the time being, but also those recollected in the past and anticipated in the future. The sage will therefore provide for all these, and, remembering that pain is in its nature transient, but pleasure is enduring, he will not hesitate to encounter the former if he can be certain that it will procure him the latter; he will dismiss from his mind all idle fears of the gods and of destiny, for these are fictions beneficial only to women and the vulgar; yet, since they are the objects of the national superstition, it is needless to procure one's self disfavour by openly deriding them. It will therefore be better for the sage to treat them with apparent solemnity, or at least with outward respect, though he may laugh at the imposition in his heart. As to the fear of death, he will be especially careful to rid himself from it, remembering that death is only a deliverer from the miseries of life. [Sidenote: Imperfections of the Canonic of Epicurus,] Under the title of Canonic Epicurus delivers his philosophical views; they are, however, of a very superficial kind. He insists that our sensuous impressions are the criterion of truth, and that even the sensations of a lunatic and a dreamer are true. But, besides the impressions of the moment, memory is also to be looked upon as a criterion--memory, which is the basis of experience. [Sidenote: and contradictions of his Physics.] [Sidenote: His irreligion.] In his Physics he adopts the Atomic theory of Democritus, though in many respects it ill accords with his Ethics or Canonic; but so low is his esteem of its value that he cares nothing for that. Though atoms and a void are in their nature imperceptible to the senses, he acknowledges their existence, asserting the occurrence of an infinite number of atoms of different kinds in the infinite void, which, because of their weight, precipitate themselves perpendicularly downward with an equable motion; but some of them, through an unaccountable internal force, have deviated from their perpendicular path, and, sticking together after their collision, have given rise to the world. Not much better than these vague puerilities are his notions about the size of the sun, the nature of eclipses, and other astronomical phenomena; but he justifies his contradictions and superficiality by asserting that it is altogether useless for a man to know such things, and that the sage ought to give himself no trouble about them. As to the soul, he says that it must be of a material or corporeal nature, for this simple reason, that there is nothing incorporeal but a vacuum; he inclines to the belief that it is a rarefied body, easily movable, and somewhat of the nature of a vapour; he divides it into four activities, corresponding to the four elements entering into its constitution; and that, so far from being immortal, it is decomposed into its integral atoms, dying when the body dies. With the atomic doctrines of Democritus, Epicurus adopts the notions of that philosopher respecting sensation, to the effect that eidola or images are sloughed off from all external objects, and find access to the brain through the eye. In his theology he admits, under the circumstances we have mentioned, anthropomorphic gods, pretending to account for their origin in the chance concourse of atoms, and suggesting that they display their quietism and blessedness by giving themselves no concern about man or his affairs. By such derisive promptings does Epicurus mock at the religion of his country--its rituals, sacrifices, prayers, and observances. He offers no better evidence of the existence of God than that there is a general belief current among men in support of such a notion; but, when brought to the point, he does not hesitate to utter his disbelief in the national theology, and to declare that, in his judgment, it is blind chance that rules the world. [Sidenote: Epicureans of modern times.] Such are the opinions to which the name of Epicurus has been attached; but there were Epicureans ages before that philosopher was born, and Epicureans there will be in all time to come. They abound in our own days, ever characterized by the same features--an intense egoism in their social relations, superficiality in their philosophical views, if the term philosophical can be justly applied to intellects so narrow; they manifest an accordance often loud and particular with the religion of their country, while in their hearts and in their lives they are utter infidels. These are they who constitute the most specious part of modern society, and are often the self-proclaimed guardians of its interests. They are to be found in every grade of life; in the senate, in the army, in the professions, and especially in commercial pursuits, which, unhappily, tend too frequently to the development of selfishness. It is to them that society is indebted for more than half its corruptions, all its hypocrisy, and more than half its sins. It is they who infuse into it falsehood as respects the past, imposture as respects the present, fraud as respects the future; who teach it by example that the course of a man's life ought to be determined upon principles of selfishness; that gratitude and affection are well enough if displayed for effect, but that they should never be felt; that men are to be looked upon not as men, but as things to be used; that knowledge and integrity, patriotism and virtue, are the delusions of simpletons; and that wealth is the only object which is really worthy of the homage of man. [Sidenote: The Middle Academy of Arcesilaus.] [Sidenote: The New Academy of Carneades.] [Sidenote: The duplicity of the later Academicians.] [Sidenote: The fourth and fifth Academies.] It now only remains in this chapter to speak of the later Platonism. The Old Academy, of which Plato was the founder, limited its labours to the illustration and defence of his doctrines. The Middle Academy, originating with Arcesilaus, born B.C. 316, maintained a warfare with the Stoics, developed the doctrine of the uncertainty of sensual impressions and the nothingness of human knowledge. The New Academy was founded by Carneades, born B.C. 213, and participated with the preceding in many of its fundamental positions. On the one side Carneades leans to scepticism, on the other he accepts probability as his guide. This school so rapidly degenerated that at last it occupied itself with rhetoric alone. The gradual increase of scepticism and indifference throughout this period is obvious enough; thus Arcesilaus said that he knew nothing, not even his own ignorance, and denied both intellectual and sensuous knowledge. Carneades, obtaining his views from the old philosophy, found therein arguments suitable for his purpose against necessity, God, soothsaying; he did not admit that there is any such thing as justice in the abstract, declaring that it is a purely conventional thing; indeed, it was his rhetorical display, alternately in praise of justice and against it, on the occasion of his visit to Rome, that led Cato to have him expelled from the city. Though Plato had been the representative of an age of faith, a secondary analysis of all his works, implying an exposition of their contradictions, ended in scepticism. If we may undertake to determine the precise aim of a philosophy whose representatives stood in such an attitude of rhetorical duplicity, it may be said to be the demonstration that there is no criterion of truth in this world. Persuaded thus of the impossibility of philosophy, Carneades was led to recommend his theory of the probable. "That which has been most perfectly analyzed and examined, and found to be devoid of improbability, is the most probable idea." The degeneration of philosophy now became truly complete, the labours of so many great men being degraded to rhetorical and artistic purposes. It was seen by all that Plato had destroyed all trust in the indications of the senses, and substituted for it the Ideal theory. Aristotle had destroyed that, and there was nothing left to the world but scepticism. A fourth Academy was founded by Philo of Larissa, a fifth by Antiochus of Ascalon. It was reserved for this teacher to attach the Porch to the Academy, and to merge the doctrines of Plato in those of the Stoics. Such a heterogeneous mixture demonstrates the pass to which speculative philosophy had come, and shows us clearly that her disciples had abandoned her in despair. [Sidenote: End of the Greek age of Faith.] So ends the Greek age of Faith. How strikingly does its history recall the corresponding period of individual life--the trusting spirit and the disappointment of youth. We enter on it full of confidence in things and men, never suspecting that the one may disappoint, the other deceive. Our early experiences, if considered at all, afford only matter of surprise that we could ever have been seriously occupied in such folly, or actuated by motives now seeming so inadequate. It never occurs to us that, in our present state, though the pursuits may have changed, they are none the less vain, the objects none the less delusive. The second age of Greek philosophy ended in sophism, the third in scepticism. Speculative philosophy strikes at last upon a limit which it can not overpass. This is its state even in our own times. It reverberates against the wall that confines it without the least chance of making its way through. CHAPTER VI. THE GREEK AGE OF REASON. RISE OF SCIENCE. THE MACEDONIAN CAMPAIGN.--_Disastrous in its political Effects to Greece, but ushering in the Age of Reason._ ARISTOTLE _founds the Inductive Philosophy.--His Method the Inverse of that of Plato.--Its great power.--In his own hands it fails for want of Knowledge, but is carried out by the Alexandrians._ ZENO.--_His Philosophical Aim is the Cultivation of Virtue and Knowledge.--He is in the Ethical Branch the Counterpart of Aristotle in the Physical._ FOUNDATION OF THE MUSEUM OF ALEXANDRIA.--_The great Libraries, Observatories, Botanical Gardens, Menageries, Dissecting Houses.--Its Effect on the rapid Development of exact Knowledge.--Influence of Euclid, Archimedes, Eratosthenes, Apollonius, Ptolemy, Hipparchus, on Geometry, Natural Philosophy, Astronomy, Chronology, Geography._ _Decline of the Greek Age of Reason._ [Sidenote: The Greek invasion of Persia.] The conquest of Persia by Alexander the Great is a most important event in European history. That adventurer, carrying out the intentions of his father Philip, commenced his attack with apparently very insignificant means, having, it is said, at the most, only thirty-four thousand infantry, four thousand cavalry, and seventy talents in money. The result of his expedition was the ruin of the Persian empire, and also the ruin of Greece. It was not without reason that his memory was cursed in his native country. Her life-blood was drained away by his successes. In view of the splendid fortunes to be made in Asia, Greece ceased to be the place for an enterprising man. To such an extent did military emigration go, that Greek recruits were settled all over the Persian empire; their number was sufficient to injure irreparably the country from which they had parted, but not sufficient to Hellenize the dense and antique populations among whom they had settled. [Sidenote: Its ruinous effect on Greece.] [Sidenote: Injury to Athens from the founding of Alexandria.] Not only was it thus by the drain of men that the Macedonian expedition was so dreadfully disastrous to Greece, the political consequences following those successful campaigns added to the baneful result. Alexander could not have more effectually ruined Athens had he treated her as he did Thebes, which he levelled with the ground, massacring six thousand of her citizens, and selling thirty thousand for slaves. The founding of Alexandria was the commercial end of Athens, the finishing stroke to her old colonial system. It might have been well for her had he stopped short in his projects with the downfall of Tyre, destroyed, not from any vindictive reasons, as is sometimes said, but because he discovered that that city was an essential part of the Persian system. It was never his intention that Athens should derive advantage from the annihilation of her Phoenician competitor; his object was effectually carried out by the building and prosperity of Alexandria. [Sidenote: Scientific tendency of the Macedonian campaigns.] [Sidenote: Origin of the influence of Aristotle through Alexander.] Though the military celebrity of this great soldier may be diminished by the history of the last hundred years, which shows a uniform result of victory when European armies are brought in contact with Asiatic, even under the most extraordinary disadvantages, there cannot be denied to him a profound sagacity and statesmanship excelled by no other conqueror. Before he became intoxicated with success, and, unfortunately, too frequently intoxicated with wine, there was much that was noble in his character. He had been under the instruction of Aristotle for several years, and, on setting out on his expedition, took with him so many learned men as almost to justify the remark applied to it, that it was as much a scientific as a military undertaking. Among those who thus accompanied him was Callisthenes, a relative and pupil of Aristotle, destined for an evil end. Perhaps the assertion that Alexander furnished to his master 250,000_l._ and the services of several thousand men, for the purpose of obtaining and examining the specimens required in the composition of his work on the "History of Animals" may be an exaggeration, but there can be no doubt that in these transactions was the real beginning of that policy which soon led to the institution of the Museum at Alexandria. The importance of this event, though hitherto little understood, admits of no exaggeration, so far as the intellectual progress of Europe is concerned. It gave to the works of Aristotle their wonderful duration; it imparted to them not only a Grecian celebrity, but led to their translation into Syriac by the Nestorians in the fifth century, and from Syriac by the Arabs into their tongue four hundred years later. They exercised a living influence over Christians and Mohammedans indifferently, from Spain to Mesopotamia. [Sidenote: Scientific training and undertakings of Alexander.] [Sidenote: His unbridled passions and iniquities.] If the letter quoted by Plutarch as having been written by Alexander to Aristotle be authentic, it not only shows how thoroughly the pupil had been indoctrinated into the wisdom of the master, but warns us how liable we are to be led astray in the exposition we are presently to give of the Aristotelian philosophy. There was then, as unfortunately there has been too often since, a private as well as a public doctrine. Alexander upbraids the philosopher for his indiscretion in revealing things that it was understood should be concealed. Aristotle defends himself by asserting that the desired concealment had not been broken. By many other incidents of a trifling kind the attachment of the conqueror to philosophy is indicated; thus Harpalus and Nearchus, the companions of his youth, were the agents employed in some of his scientific undertakings, the latter being engaged in sea explorations, doubtless having in the main a political object, yet full of interest to science. Had Alexander lived, Nearchus was to have repeated the circumnavigation of Africa. Harpalus, while governor of Babylon, was occupied in the attempt to exchange the vegetation of Europe and Asia; he intertransplanted the productions of Persia and Greece, succeeding, as is related, in his object of making all European plants that he tried, except the ivy, grow in Mesopotamia. The journey to the Caspian Sea, the expedition into the African deserts, indicate Alexander's personal taste for natural knowledge; nor is it without significance that, while on his death-bed, and, indeed, within a few days of his decease, he found consolation and amusement in having Nearchus by his side relating the story of his voyages. Nothing shows more strikingly how correct was his military perception than the intention he avowed of equipping a thousand ships for the conquest of Carthage, and thus securing his supremacy in the Mediterranean. Notwithstanding all this, there were many points of his character, and many events of his life, worthy of the condemnation with which they have been visited; the drunken burning of Persepolis, the prisoners he slaughtered in honour of Hephæstion, the hanging of Callisthenes, were the results of intemperance and unbridled passion. Even so steady a mind as his was incapable of withstanding the influence of such enormous treasures as those he seized at Susa; the plunder of the Persian empire; the inconceivable luxury of Asiatic life; the uncontrolled power to which he attained. But he was not so imbecile as to believe himself the descendant of Jupiter Ammon; that was only an artifice he permitted for the sake of influencing those around him. We must not forget that he lived in an age when men looked for immaculate conceptions and celestial descents. These Asiatic ideas had made their way into Europe. The Athenians themselves were soon to be reconciled to the appointment of divine honours to such as Antigonus and Demetrius, adoring them as gods--saviour gods--and instituting sacrifices and priests for their worship. [Sidenote: The Greek age of Reason ushered in.] [Sidenote: Its inability to accomplish the civilization of Europe.] Great as were the political results of the Macedonian expedition, they were equalled by the intellectual. The times were marked by the ushering in of a new philosophy. Greece had gone through her age of Credulity, her age of Inquiry, her age of Faith; she had entered on her age of Reason, and, had freedom of action been permitted to her, she would have given a decisive tone to the forthcoming civilization of Europe. As will be seen in the following pages, that great destiny did not await her. From her eccentric position at Alexandria she could not civilize Europe. In her old age, the power of Europe, concentrated in the Roman empire, overthrew her. There are very few histories of the past of more interest to modern times, and none, unfortunately, more misunderstood, than this Greek age of Reason manifested at Alexandria. It illustrates, in the most signal manner, that affairs control men more than men control affairs. The scientific associations of the Macedonian conqueror directly arose from the contemporaneous state of Greek philosophy in the act of reaching the close of its age of faith, and these influences ripened under the Macedonian captain who became King of Egypt. As it was, the learning of Alexandria, though diverted from its most appropriate and desirable direction by the operation of the Byzantine system, in the course of a few centuries acting forcibly upon it, was not without an influence on the future thought of Europe. Even at this day Europe will not bear to be fully told how great that influence has been. [Sidenote: The writings of Aristotle are its prelude.] The age of Reason, to which Aristotle is about to introduce us, stands in striking contrast to the preceding ages. It cannot escape the reader that what was done by the men of science in Alexandria resembles what is doing in our own times; their day was the foreshadowing of ours. And yet a long and dreary period of almost twenty centuries parts us from them. Politically, Aristotle, through his friendship with Alexander and the perpetuation of the Macedonian influence in Ptolemy, was the connecting link between the Greek age of Faith and that of Reason, as he was also philosophically by the nature of his doctrines. He offers us an easy passage from the speculative methods of Plato to the scientific methods of Archimedes and Euclid. The copiousness of his doctrines, and the obscurity of many of them, might, perhaps, discourage a superficial student, unless he steadily bears in mind the singular authority they maintained for so many ages, and the brilliant results in all the exact parts of human knowledge to which they so quickly led. The history of Aristotle and his philosophy is therefore our necessary introduction to the grand, the immortal achievements of the Alexandrian school. [Sidenote: Biography of Aristotle.] Aristotle was born at Stagira, in Thrace, B.C. 384. His father was an eminent author of those times on subjects of Natural History; by profession he was a physician. Dying while his son was yet quite young, he bequeathed to him not only very ample means, but also his own tastes. Aristotle soon found his way to Athens, and entered the school of Plato, with whom it is said he remained for nearly twenty years. During this period he spent most of his patrimony, and in the end was obliged to support himself by the trade of a druggist. At length differences arose between them, for, as we shall soon find, the great pupil was by no means a blind follower of the great master. In a fortunate moment, Philip, the King of Macedon, appointed him preceptor to his son Alexander, an incident of importance in the intellectual history of Europe. It was to the friendship arising through this relation that Aristotle owed the assistance he received from the conqueror during his Asiatic expedition for the composition of "the Natural History," and also gained that prestige which gave his name such singular authority for more than fifteen centuries. He eventually founded a school in the Lyceum at Athens, and, as it was his habit to deliver his lectures while walking, his disciples received the name of Peripatetics, or walking philosophers. These lectures were of two kinds, esoteric and exoteric, the former being delivered to the more advanced pupils only. He wrote a very large number of works, of which about one-fourth remain. [Sidenote: He founds the inductive philosophy.] The philosophical method of Aristotle is the inverse of that of Plato, whose starting-point was universals, the very existence of which was a matter of faith, and from these he descended to particulars or details. Aristotle, on the contrary, rose from particulars to universals, advancing to them by inductions; and his system, thus an inductive philosophy, was in reality the true beginning of science. [Sidenote: His method compared with that of Plato.] Plato therefore trusts to the Imagination, Aristotle to Reason. The contrast between them is best seen by the attitude in which they stand as respects the Ideal theory. Plato regards universals, types, or exemplars as having an actual existence; Aristotle declares that they are mere abstractions of reasoning. For the fanciful reminiscences derived from former experience in another life by Plato, Aristotle substitutes the reminiscences of our actual experience in this. These ideas of experience are furnished by the memory, which enables us not only to recall individual facts and events witnessed by ourselves, but also to collate them with one another, thereby discovering their resemblances and their differences. Our induction becomes the more certain as our facts are more numerous, our experience larger. "Art commences when, from a great number of experiences, one general conception is formed which will embrace all similar cases." "If we properly observe celestial phenomena, we may demonstrate the laws which regulate them." With Plato, philosophy arises from faith in the past; with Aristotle, reason alone can constitute it from existing facts. Plato is analytic, Aristotle synthetic. The philosophy of Plato arises from the decomposition of a primitive idea into particulars, that of Aristotle from the union of particulars into a general conception. The former is essentially an idealist, the latter a materialist. [Sidenote: The results of Platonism and Aristotelism.] From this it will be seen that the method of Plato was capable of producing more splendid, though they were necessarily more unsubstantial results; that of Aristotle was more tardy in its operation, but much more solid. It implied endless labour in the collection of facts, the tedious resort to experiment and observation, the application of demonstration. In its very nature it was such that it was impossible for its author to carry by its aid the structure of science to completion. The moment that Aristotle applies his own principles we find him compelled to depart from them through want of a sufficient experience and sufficient precision in his facts. The philosophy of Plato is a gorgeous castle in the air, that of Aristotle is a solid structure, laboriously, and, with many failures, founded on the solid rock. [Sidenote: Aristotle's logic] Under Logic, Aristotle treats of the methods of arriving at general propositions, and of reasoning from them. His logic is at once the art of thinking and the instrument of thought. The completeness of our knowledge depends on the extent and completeness of our experience. His manner of reasoning is by the syllogism, an argument consisting of three propositions, such that the concluding one follows of necessity from the two premises, and of which, indeed, the whole theory of demonstration is only an example. Regarding logic as the instrument of thought, he introduces into it, as a fundamental feature, the ten categories. These predicaments are the genera to which everything may be reduced, and denote the most general of the attributes which may be assigned to a thing. [Sidenote: and metaphysics.] His metaphysics overrides all the branches of the physical sciences. It undertakes an examination of the postulates on which each one of them is founded, determining their truth or fallacy. Considering that all science must find a support for its fundamental conditions in an extensive induction from facts, he puts at the foundation of his system the consideration of the individual; in relation to the world of sense, he regards four causes as necessary for the production of a fact--the material cause, the substantial cause, the efficient cause, the final cause. [Sidenote: Temporary failure of his system.] [Sidenote: The Peripatetic philosophy.] [Sidenote: Substance, Motion, Space, Time.] [Sidenote: The world.] [Sidenote: Organic beings.] [Sidenote: Physiological conclusions.] But as soon as we come to the Physics of Aristotle we see at once his weakness. The knowledge of his age does not furnish him facts enough whereon to build, and the consequence is that he is forced into speculation. It will be sufficient for our purpose to allude to a few of his statements, either in this or in his metaphysical branch, to show how great is his uncertainty and confusion. Thus he asserts that matter contains a triple form--simple substance, higher substance, which is eternal, and absolute substance, or God himself; that the universe is immutable and eternal, and, though in relation with the vicissitudes of the world, it is unaffected thereby; that the primitive force which gives rise to all the motions and changes we see is Nature; it also gives rise to Rest; that the world is a living being, having a soul; that, since every thing is for some particular end, the soul of man is the end of his body; that Motion is the condition of all nature; that the world has a definite boundary and a limited magnitude; that Space is the immovable vessel in which whatever is may be moved; that Space, as a whole, is without motion, though its parts may move; that it is not to be conceived of as without contents; that it is impossible for a vacuum to exist, and hence there is not beyond and surrounding the world a void which contains the world; that there could be no such thing as Time unless there is a soul, for time being the number of motion, number is impossible except there be one who numbers; that, perpetual motion in a finite right line being impossible, but in a curvilinear path possible, the world, which is limited and ever in motion, must be of a spherical form; that the earth is its central part, the heavens the circumferential: hence the heaven is nearest to the prime cause of motion; that the orderly, continuous, and unceasing movement of the celestial bodies implies an unmoved mover, for the unchangeable alone can give birth to uniform motion; that unmoved existence is God; that the stars are passionless beings, having attained the end of existence, and worthy above other things of human adoration; that the fixed stars are in the outermost heaven, and the sun, moon, and planets beneath: the former receive their motion from the prime moving cause, but the planets are disturbed by the stars; that there are five elements--earth, air, fire, water, and ether; that the earth is in the centre of the world, since earthy matter settles uniformly round a central point; that fire seeks the circumferential region, and intermediately water floats upon the earth, and air upon water; that the elements are transmutable into one another, and hence many intervening substances arise; that each sphere is in interconnection with the others; the earth is agitated and disturbed by the sea, the sea by the winds, which are movements of the air, the air by the sun, moon, and planets. Each inferior sphere is controlled by its outlying or superior one, and hence it follows that the earth, which is thus disturbed by the conspiring or conflicting action of all above it, is liable to the most irregularities; that, since animals are nourished by the earth, it needs must enter into their composition, but that water is required to hold the earthy matters together; that every element must be looked upon as living, since it is pervaded by the soul of the world; that there is an unbroken chain from the simple element through the plant and animal up to man, the different groups merging by insensible shades into one another: thus zoophytes partake partly of the vegetable and partly of the animal, and serve as an intermedium between them; that plants are inferior to animals in this, that they do not possess a single principle of life or soul, but many subordinate ones, as is shown by the circumstance that, when they are cut to pieces, each piece is capable of perfect or independent growth or life. Their inferiority is likewise betrayed by their belonging especially to the earth to which they are rooted, each root being a true mouth; and this again displays their lowly position, for the place of the mouth is ever an indication of the grade of a creature: thus in man, who is at the head of the scale, it is in the upper part of the body; that in proportion to the heat of an animal is its grade higher; thus those that are aquatic are cold, and therefore of very little intelligence, and the same maybe said of plants; but of man, whose warmth is very great, the soul is much more excellent; that the possession of locomotion by an organism always implies the possession of sensation; that the senses of taste and touch indicate the qualities of things in contact with the organs of the animal, but that those of smell, hearing, and sight extend the sphere of its existence, and indicate to it what is at a distance: that the place of reception of the various sensations is the soul, from which issue forth the motions; that the blood, as the general element of nutrition, is essential to the support of the body, though insensible itself: it is also essential to the activity of the soul; that the brain is not the recipient of sensations: that function belongs to the heart; all the animal activities are united in the last; it contains the principle of life, being the principle of motion: it is the first part to be formed and the last to die; that the brain is a mere appendix to the heart, since it is formed after the heart, is the coldest of the organs and is devoid of blood; that the soul is the reunion of all the functions of the body: it is an energy or active essence; being neither body nor magnitude, it cannot have extension, for thought has no parts, nor can it be said to move in space; it is as a sailor, who is motionless in a ship which is moving; that, in the origin of the organism, the male furnishes the soul and the female the body; that the body being liable to decay, and of a transitory nature, it is necessary for its well-being that its disintegration and nutrition should balance one another; that sensation may be compared to the impression of a seal on wax, the wax receiving form only, but no substance or matter; that imagination arises from impressions thus made, which endure for a length of time, and that this is the origin of memory; that man alone possesses recollection, but animals share with him memory--memory being unintentional or spontaneous, but recollection implying voluntary exertion or a search; that recollection is necessary for acting with design. It is doubtful whether Aristotle believed in the immortality of the soul, no decisive passage to that effect occurring in such of his works as are extant. [Sidenote: Causes of Aristotle's success and failure.] Aristotle, with a correct and scientific method, tried to build up a vast system when he was not in possession of the necessary data. Though a very learned man, he had not sufficient knowledge; indeed, there was not sufficient knowledge at that time in the world. For many of the assertions I have quoted in the preceding paragraph there was no kind of proof; many of them also, such as the settling of the heavy and the rise of the light, imply very poor cosmic ideas. It is not until he deals with those branches, such as comparative anatomy and natural history, of which he had a personal and practical knowledge, that he begins to write well. Of his physiological conclusions, some are singularly felicitous; his views of the connected chain of organic forms, from the lowest to the highest, are very grand. His metaphysical and physical speculations--for in reality they are nothing but speculations--are of no kind of value. His successful achievements, and also his failures, conspicuously prove the excellence of his system. He expounded the true principles of science, but failed to apply them merely for want of materials. His ambition could not brook restraint. He would rather attempt to construct the universe without the necessary means than not construct it at all. Aristotle failed when he abandoned his own principles, and the magnitude of his failure proves how just his principles were; he succeeded when he adhered to them. If anything were wanting to vindicate their correctness and illustrate them, it is supplied by the glorious achievements of the Alexandrian school, which acted in physical science as Aristotle had acted in natural history, laying a basis solidly in observation and experiment, and accomplishing a like durable and brilliant result. [Sidenote: Biography of Zeno.] From Aristotle it is necessary to turn to Zeno, for the Peripatetics and Stoics stand in parallel lines. The social conditions existing in Greece at the time of Epicurus may in some degree palliate his sentiments, but virtue and honour will make themselves felt at last. Stoicism soon appeared as the antagonist of Epicureanism, and Epicurus found in Zeno of Citium a rival. The passage from Epicurus to Zeno is the passage from sensual gratification to self-control. The biography of Zeno may be dismissed in a few words. Born about B.C. 300, he spent the early part of his life in the vocation of his father, who was a merchant, but, by a fortunate shipwreck, happily losing his goods during a voyage he was making to Athens, he turned to philosophy for consolation. Though he had heretofore been somewhat acquainted with the doctrines of Socrates, he became a disciple of the Cynics, subsequently studying in the Megaric school, and then making himself acquainted with Platonism. After twenty years of preparation, he opened a school in the stoa or porch in Athens, from which his doctrine and disciples have received their name. He presided over his school for fifty-eight years, numbering many eminent men among his disciples. When nearly a hundred years old he chanced to fall and break his finger, and, receiving this as an admonition that his time was accomplished, he forthwith strangled himself. The Athenians erected to his memory a statue of brass. His doctrines long survived him, and, in times when there was no other consolation for man, offered a support in their hour of trial, and an unwavering guide in the vicissitudes of life, not only to many illustrious Greeks, but also to some of the great philosophers, statesmen, generals, and emperors of Rome. [Sidenote: Intention of Stoicism.] It was the intention of Zeno to substitute for the visionary speculations of Platonism a system directed to the daily practices of life, and hence dealing chiefly with morals. To make men virtuous was his aim. But this is essentially connected with knowledge, for Zeno was persuaded that if we only know what is good we shall be certain to practise it. He therefore rejected Plato's fancies of Ideas and Reminiscences, leaning to the common-sense doctrines of Aristotle, to whom he approached in many details. With him Sense furnishes the data of knowledge, and Reason combines them: the soul being modified by external things, and modifying them in return, he believed that the mind is at first, as it were, a blank tablet, on which sensation writes marks, and that the distinctness of sensuous impressions is the criterion of their truth. The changes thus produced in the soul constitute ideas; but, with a prophetic inspiration, he complained that man will never know the true essence of things. [Sidenote: The Physics of Zeno.] In his Physics Zeno adopted the doctrine of Strato, that the world is a living being. He believed that nothing incorporeal can produce an effect, and hence that the soul is corporeal. Matter and its properties he considered to be absolutely inseparable, a property being actually a body. In the world there are two things, matter and God, who is the Reason of the world. Essentially, however, God and matter are the same thing, which assumes the aspect of matter from the passive point of view, and God from the active; he is, moreover, the prime moving force, Destiny, Necessity, a life-giving Soul, evolving things as the vital force evolves a plant out of a seed; the visible world is thus to be regarded as the material manifestation of God. The transitory objects which it on all sides presents will be reabsorbed after a season of time, and reunited in him. The Stoics pretended to indicate, even in a more definite manner, the process by which the world has arisen, and also its future destiny; for, regarding the Supreme as a vital heat, they supposed that a portion of that fire, declining in energy, became transmuted into matter, and hence the origin of the world; but that that fire, hereafter resuming its activity, would cause a universal conflagration, the end of things. During the present state everything is in a condition of uncertain mutation, decays being followed by reproductions, and reproductions by decays; and, as a cataract shows from year to year an invariable form, though the water composing it is perpetually changing, so the objects around us are nothing more than a flux of matter offering a permanent form. Thus the visible world is only a moment in the life of God, and after it has vanished away like a scroll that is burned, a new period shall be ushered in, and a new heaven and a new earth, exactly like the ancient ones, shall arise. Since nothing can exist without its contrary, no injustice unless there was justice, no cowardice unless there was courage, no lie unless there was truth, no shadow unless there was light, so the existence of good necessitates that of evil. The Stoics believed that the development of the world is under the dominion of paramount law, supreme law, Destiny, to which God himself is subject, and that hence he can only develop the world in a predestined way, as the vital warmth evolves a seed into the predestined form of a plant. [Sidenote: Exoteric philosophy of the Stoics.] The Stoics held it indecorous to offend needlessly the religious ideas of the times, and, indeed, they admitted that there might be created gods like those of Plato; but they disapproved of the adoration of images and the use of temples, making amends for their offences in these particulars by offering a semi-philosophical interpretation of the legends, and demonstrating that the existence, and even phenomenal display of the gods was in accordance with their principles. Perhaps to this exoteric philosophy we must ascribe the manner in which they expressed themselves as to final causes--expressions sometimes of amusing quaintness--thus, that the peacock was formed for the sake of his tail, and that a soul was given to the hog instead of salt, to prevent his body from rotting; that the final cause of plants is to be food for brutes, of brutes to be food for men, though they discreetly checked their irony in its ascending career, and abstained from saying that men are food for the gods, and the gods for all. [Sidenote: Their opinions of the nature of the soul.] The Stoics concluded that the soul is mere warm breath, and that it and the body mutually interpervade one another. They thought that it might subsist after death until the general conflagration, particularly if its energy were great, as in the strong spirits of the virtuous and wise. Its unity of action implies that it has a principle of identity, the I, of which the physiological seat is the heart. Every appetite, lust, or desire is an imperfect knowledge. Our nature and properties are forced upon us by Fate, but it is our duty to despise all our propensities and passions, and to live so that we may be free, intelligent, and virtuous. [Sidenote: Their ethical rules of wisdom.] This sentiment leads us to the great maxim of Stoical Ethics, "Live according to Reason;" or, since the world is composed of matter and God, who is the Reason of the world, "Live in harmony with Nature." As Reason is supreme in Nature, it ought to be so in man. Our existence should be intellectual, and all bodily pains and pleasures should be despised. A harmony between the human will and universal Reason constitutes virtue. The free-will of the sage should guide his actions in the same irresistible manner in which universal Reason controls nature. Hence the necessity of a cultivation of physics, without which we cannot distinguish good from evil. The sage is directed to remember that Nature, in her operations, aims at the universal, and never spares individuals, but uses them as means for accomplishing her ends. It is for him, therefore, to submit to his destiny, endeavouring continually to establish the supremacy of Reason, and cultivating, as the things necessary to virtue, knowledge, temperance, fortitude, justice. He is at liberty to put patriotism at the value it is worth when he remembers that he is a citizen of the world; he must train himself to receive in tranquillity the shocks of Destiny, and to be above all passion and all pain. He must never relent and never forgive. He must remember that there are only two classes of men, the wise and the fools, as "sticks can only either be straight or crooked, and very few sticks in this world are absolutely straight." * * * * * [Sidenote: Rise of Greek science.] [Sidenote: Political position of the Ptolemies.] [Sidenote: They co-ordinate Egyptian idolatry and Greek scepticism.] From the account I have given of Aristotle's philosophy, it may be seen that he occupied a middle ground between the speculation of the old philosophy and the strict science of the Alexandrian school. He is the true connecting link, in the history of European intellectual progress, between philosophy and science. Under his teaching, and the material tendencies of the Macedonian campaigns, there arose a class of men in Egypt who gave to the practical a development it had never before attained; for that country, upon the breaking up of Alexander's dominion, B.C. 323, falling into the possession of Ptolemy, that general found himself at once the depositary of spiritual and temporal power. Of the former, it is to be remembered that, though the conquest by Cambyses had given it a severe shock, it still not only survived, but displayed no inconsiderable tokens of strength. Indeed, it is well known that the surrender of Egypt to Alexander was greatly accelerated by hatred to the Persians, the Egyptians welcoming the Macedonians as their deliverers. In this movement we perceive at once the authority of the old priesthood. It is hard to tear up by the roots an ancient religion, the ramifications of which have solidly insinuated themselves among a populace. That of Egypt had already been the growth of more than three thousand years. The question for the intrusive Greek sovereigns to solve was how to co-ordinate this hoary system with the philosophical scepticism that had issued as the result of Greek thought. With singular sagacity, they saw that this might be accomplished by availing themselves of Orientalism, the common point of contact of the two systems; and that, by its formal introduction and development, it would be possible not only to enable the philosophical king, to whom all the pagan gods were alike equally fictitious and equally useful, to manifest respect even to the ultra-heathenish practices of the Egyptian populace, but, what was of far more moment, to establish an apparent concord between the old sacerdotal Egyptian party--strong in its unparalleled antiquity; strong in its reminiscences; strong in its recent persecutions; strong in its Pharaonic relics, regarded by all men with a superstitious or reverent awe--and the free-thinking and versatile Greeks. The occasion was like some others in history, some even in our own times; a small but energetic body of invaders was holding in subjection an ancient and populous country. [Sidenote: The Museum of Alexandria.] [Sidenote: Establishment of the worship of Serapis.] To give practical force to this project, a grand state institution was founded at Alexandria. It became celebrated as the Museum. To it, as to a centre, philosophers from all parts of the world converged. It is said that at one time not less than fourteen thousand students were assembled there. Alexandria, in confirmation of the prophetic foresight of the great soldier who founded it, quickly became an immense metropolis, abounding in mercantile and manufacturing activity. As is ever the case with such cities, its higher classes were prodigal and dissipated, its lower only to be held in restraint by armed force. Its public amusements were such as might be expected--theatrical shows, music, horse-racing. In the solitude of such a crowd, or in the noise of such dissipation, anyone could find a retreat--atheists who had been banished from Athens, devotees from the Ganges, monotheistic Jews, blasphemers from Asia Minor. Indeed, it has been said that in this heterogeneous community blasphemy was hardly looked upon as a crime; at the worst, it was no more than an unfortunate, and, it might be, an innocent mistake. But, since uneducated men need some solid support on which their thoughts may rest, mere abstract doctrines not meeting their wants, it became necessary to provide a corporeal representation for this eclectic philosophical Pantheism, and hence the Ptolemies were obliged to restore, or, as some say, to import the worship of the god Serapis. Those who affirm that he was imported say that he was brought from Sinope; modern Egyptian scholars, however, give a different account. As setting forth the Pantheistic doctrine of which he was the emblem, his image, subsequently to attain world-wide fame, was made of all kinds of metals and stones. "All is God." But still the people, with that instinct which other nations and ages have displayed, hankered after a female divinity, and this led to the partial restoration of the worship of Isis. It is interesting to remark how the humble classes never shake off the reminiscences of early life, leaning rather to the maternal than to the paternal attachment. Perhaps it is for that reason that they expect a more favourable attention to their supplications from a female divinity than a god. Accordingly, the devotees of Isis soon out-numbered those of Serapis, though a magnificent temple had been built for him at Rhacotis, in the quarter adjoining the Museum, and his worship was celebrated with more than imperial splendour. In subsequent ages the worship of Serapis diffused itself throughout the Roman empire, though the authorities--consuls, senate, emperors--knowing well the idea it foreshadowed, and the doctrine it was meant to imply, used their utmost power to put it down. [Sidenote: The Alexandrian libraries.] [Sidenote: Botanical gardens; menageries; dissecting-houses; observatories.] [Sidenote: Life in the Museum.] The Alexandrian Museum soon assumed the character of a University. In it those great libraries were collected, the pride and boast of antiquity. Demetrius Phalareus was instructed to collect all the writings in the world. So powerfully were the exertions of himself and his successors enforced by the government that two immense libraries were procured. They contained 700,000 volumes. In this literary and scientific retreat, supported in ease and even in luxury--luxury, for allusions to the sumptuous dinners have descended to our times--the philosophers spent their time in mental culture by study, or mutual improvement by debates. The king himself conferred appointments to these positions; in later times, the Roman emperors succeeded to the patronage, the government thereby binding in golden chains intellect that might otherwise have proved troublesome. At first, in honour of the ancient religion, the presidency of the establishment was committed to an Egyptian priest; but in the course of time that policy was abandoned. It must not, however, be imagined that the duties of the inmates were limited to reading and rhetorical display; a far more practical character was imparted to them. A botanical garden, in connection with the Museum, offered an opportunity to those who were interested in the study of the nature of plants; a zoological menagerie afforded like facilities to those interested in animals. Even these costly establishments were made to minister to the luxury of the times: in the zoological garden pheasants were raised for the royal table. Besides these elegant and fashionable appointments, another, of a more forbidding and perhaps repulsive kind, was added; an establishment which, in the light of our times, is sufficient to confer immortal glory on those illustrious and high-minded kings, and to put to shame the ignorance and superstition of many modern nations: it was an anatomical school, suitably provided with means for the dissection of the human body, this anatomical school being the basis of a medical college for the education of physicians. For the astronomers Ptolemy Euergetes placed in the Square Porch an equinoctial and a solstitial armil, the graduated limbs of these instruments being divided into degrees and sixths. There were in the observatory stone quadrants, the precursors of our mural quadrants. On the floor a meridian line was drawn for the adjustment of the instruments. There were also astrolabes and dioptras. Thus, side by side, almost in the king's palace, were noble provisions for the cultivation of exact science and for the pursuit of light literature. Under the same roof were gathered together geometers, astronomers, chemists, mechanicians, engineers. There were also poets, who ministered to the literary wants of the dissipated city--authors who could write verse, not only in correct metre, but in all kinds of fantastic forms--trees, hearts, and eggs. Here met together the literary dandy and the grim theologian. At their repasts occasionally the king himself would preside, enlivening the moment with the condescensions of royal relaxation. Thus, of Philadelphus it is stated that he caused to be presented to the Stoic Sphærus a dish of fruit made of wax, so beautifully coloured as to be undistinguishable from the natural, and on the mortified philosopher detecting too late the fraud that had been practised upon him, inquired what he now thought of the maxim of his sect that "the sage is never deceived by appearances." Of the same sovereign it is related that he received the translators of the Septuagint Bible with the highest honours, entertaining them at his table. Under the atmosphere of the place their usual religious ceremonial was laid aside, save that the king courteously requested one of the aged priests to offer an extempore prayer. It is naively related that the Alexandrians present, ever quick to discern rhetorical merit, testified their estimation of the performance with loud applause. But not alone did literature and the exact sciences thus find protection. As if no subjects with which the human mind has occupied itself can be unworthy of investigation, in the Museum were cultivated the more doubtful arts, magic and astrology. Philadelphus, who, toward the close of his life, was haunted with an intolerable dread of death, devoted himself with intense assiduity to the discovery of the elixir of life and to alchemy. Such a comprehensive organization for the development of human knowledge never existed in the world before, and, considering the circumstances, never has since. To be connected with it was the passport to the highest Alexandrian society and to court favour. [Sidenote: The Septuagint translators.] To the Museum, and, it has been asserted, particularly to Ptolemy Philadelphus, the Christian world is thus under obligation for the ancient version of the Hebrew Scriptures--the Septuagint. Many idle stories have been related respecting the circumstances under which that version was made, as that the seventy-two translators by whom it was executed were confined each in a separate cell, and, when their work was finished, the seventy-two copies were found identically the same, word for word, from this it was supposed that the inspiration of this translation was established. If any proof of that kind were needed, it would be much better found in the fact that whenever occasion arises in the New Testament of quoting from the Old, it is usually done in the words of the Septuagint. The story of the cells underwent successive improvements among the early fathers, but is now rejected as a fiction; and, indeed, it seems probable that the translation was not made under the splendid circumstances commonly related, but merely by the Alexandrian Jews for their own convenience. As the Septuagint grew into credit among the Christians, it lost favour among the Jews, who made repeated attempts in after years to supplant it by new versions, such as those of Aquila, of Theodotion, of Symmachus, and others. From the first the Syrian Jews had looked on it with disapproval; they even held the time of its translation as a day of mourning, and with malicious grief pointed out its errors, as, for instance, they affirmed that it made Methusaleh live until after the Deluge. Ptolemy treated all those who were concerned in providing books for the library with consideration, remunerating his translators and transcribers in a princely manner. [Sidenote: Lasting influence of the Museum, theological and scientific.] But the modern world is not indebted to these Egyptian kings only in the particular here referred to. The Museum made an impression upon the intellectual career of Europe so powerful and enduring that we still enjoy its results. That impression was twofold, theological and physical. The dialectical spirit and literary culture diffused among the Alexandrians prepared that people, beyond all others, for the reception of Christianity. For thirty centuries the Egyptians had been familiar with the conception of a triune God. There was hardly a city of any note without its particular triad. Here it was Amun, Maut, and Khonso; there Osiris, Isis, and Horus. The apostolic missionaries, when they reached Alexandria, found a people ready to appreciate the profoundest mysteries. But with these advantages came great evils. The Trinitarian disputes, which subsequently deluged the world with blood, had their starting-point and focus in Alexandria. In that city Arius and Athanasius dwelt. There originated that desperate conflict which compelled Constantine the Great to summon the Council of Nicea, to settle, by a formulary or creed, the essentials of our faith. But it was not alone as regards theology that Alexandria exerted a power on subsequent ages; her influence was as strongly marked in the impression it gave to science. Astronomical observatories, chemical laboratories, libraries, dissecting-houses, were not in vain. There went forth from them a spirit powerful enough to tincture all future times. Nothing like the Alexandrian Museum was ever called into existence in Greece or Rome, even in their palmiest days. It is the unique and noble memorial of the dynasty of the Ptolemies, who have thereby laid the whole human race under obligations, and vindicated their title to be regarded as a most illustrious line of kings. The Museum was, in truth, an attempt at the organization of human knowledge, both for its development and its diffusion. It was conceived and executed in a practical manner worthy of Alexander. And though, in the night through which Europe has been passing--a night full of dreams and delusions--men have not entertained a right estimate of the spirit in which that great institution was founded, and the work it accomplished, its glories being eclipsed by darker and more unworthy things, the time is approaching when its action on the course of human events will be better understood, and its influences on European civilization more clearly discerned. [Sidenote: The Museum was the issue of the Macedonian campaigns.] Thus, then, about the beginning of the third century before Christ, in consequence of the Macedonian campaign, which had brought the Greeks into contact with the ancient civilization of Asia, a great degree of intellectual activity was manifested in Egypt. On the site of the village of Rhacotis, once held as an Egyptian post to prevent the ingress of strangers, the Macedonians erected that city which was to be the entrepôt of the commerce of the East and West, and to transmit an illustrious name to the latest generations. Her long career of commercial prosperity, her commanding position as respects the material interests of the world, justified the statesmanship of her founder, and the intellectual glory which has gathered round her has given an enduring lustre to his name. There can be no doubt that the philosophical activity here alluded to was the direct issue of the political and military event to which we have referred it. The tastes and genius of Alexander were manifested by his relations to Aristotle, whose studies in natural history he promoted by the collection of a menagerie; and in astronomy, by transmitting to him, through Callisthenes, the records of Babylonian observations extending over 1903 years. His biography, as we have seen, shows a personal interest in the cultivation of such studies. In this particular other great soldiers have resembled him; and perhaps it may be inferred that the practical habit of thought and accommodation of theory to the actual purposes of life pre-eminently required by their profession, leads them spontaneously to decline speculative uncertainties, and to be satisfied only with things that are real and exact. [Sidenote: The great men it produced.] Under the inspiration of the system of Alexander, and guided by the suggestions of certain great men who had caught the spirit of the times, the Egyptian kings thus created, under their own immediate auspices, the Museum. State policy, operating in the manner I have previously described, furnished them with an additional theological reason for founding this establishment. In the Macedonian campaign a vast amount of engineering and mathematical talent had been necessarily stimulated into existence, for great armies cannot be handled, great marches cannot be made, nor great battles fought without that result. When the period of energetic action was over, and to the military operations succeeded comparative repose and temporary moments of peace, the talent thus called forth found occupation in the way most congenial to it by cultivating mathematical and physical studies. In Alexandria, itself a monument of engineering and architectural skill, soon were to be found men whose names were destined for futurity--Apollonius, Eratosthenes, Manetho. Of these, one may be selected for the remark that, while speculative philosophers were occupying themselves with discussions respecting the criterion of truth, and, upon the whole, coming to the conclusion that no such thing existed, and that, if the truth was actually in the possession of man, he had no means of knowing it, Euclid of Alexandria was writing an immortal work, destined to challenge contradiction from the whole human race, and to make good its title as the representative of absolute and undeniable truth--truth not to be gainsaid in any nation or at any time. We still use the geometry of Euclid in our schools. [Sidenote: The writings of Euclid.] It is said that Euclid opened a geometrical school in Alexandria about B.C. 300. He occupied himself not only with mathematical, but also with physical investigation. Besides many works of the former class supposed to have been written by him, as on Fallacies, Conic Sections, Divisions, Porisms, Data, there are imputed to him treatises on Harmonics, Optics, and Catoptrics, the two latter subjects being discussed, agreeably to the views of those times, on the hypothesis of rays issuing from the eye to the object, instead of passing, as we consider them to do, from the object to the eye. It is, however, on the excellencies of his Elements of Geometry that the durable reputation of Euclid depends; and though the hypercriticism of modern mathematicians has perhaps successfully maintained such objections against them as that they might have been more precise in their axioms, that they sometimes assume what might be proved, that they are occasionally redundant, and their arrangement sometimes imperfect, yet they still maintain their ground as a model of extreme accuracy, of perspicuity, and as a standard of exact demonstration. They were employed universally by the Greeks, and, in subsequent ages, were translated and preserved by the Arabs. [Sidenote: The writings and works of Archimedes.] Great as is the fame of Euclid, it is eclipsed by that of Archimedes the Syracusan, born B.C. 287, whose connection with Egyptian science is not alone testified by tradition, but also by such facts as his acknowledged friendship with Conon of Alexandria, and his invention of the screw still bearing his name, intended for raising the waters of the Nile. Among his mathematical works, the most interesting, perhaps, in his own estimation, as we may judge from the incident that he directed the diagram thereof to be engraved on his tombstone, was his demonstration that the solid content of a sphere is two-thirds that of its circumscribing cylinder. It was by this mark that Cicero, when Quæstor of Sicily, discovered the tomb of Archimedes grown over with weeds. This theorem was, however, only one of a large number of a like kind, which he treated of in his two books on the sphere and cylinder in an equally masterly manner, and with equal success. His position as a geometer is perhaps better understood from the assertion made respecting him by a modern mathematician, that he came as near to the discovery of the Differential Calculus as can be done without the aid of algebraic transformations. Among the special problems he treated of may be mentioned the quadrature of the circle, his determination of the ratio of the circumference to the diameter being between: 3·1428 and 3·1408, the true value, as is now known, being 3·1416 nearly. He also wrote on Conoids and Spheroids, and upon that spiral still passing under his name, the genesis of which had been suggested to him by Conon. In his work entitled "Psammites" he alludes to the astronomical system subsequently established by Copernicus, whose name has been given to it. He also mentions the attempts which had been made to measure the size of the earth; the chief object of the work being, however, to prove not only that the sands upon the sea-shore can be numbered, but even those required to fill the entire space within the sphere of the fixed stars; the result being, according to our system of arithmetic, a less number than is expressed by unity followed by 63 ciphers. Such a book is the sport of a geometrical giant wantonly amusing himself with his strength. Among his mathematical investigations must not be omitted the quadrature of the parabola. His fame depends, however, not so much on his mathematical triumphs as upon his brilliant discoveries in physics and his mechanical inventions. How he laid the foundation of Hydrostatics is familiar to everyone, through the story of Hiero's crown. A certain artisan having adulterated the gold given him by King Hiero to form a crown, Archimedes discovered while he was accidentally stepping into a bath, that the falsification might be detected, and thereby invented the method for the determination of specific gravity. From these investigations he was naturally led to the consideration of the equilibrium of floating bodies; but his grand achievement in the mechanical direction was his discovery of the true theory of the lever: his surprising merit in these respects is demonstrated by the fact that no advance was made in theoretical mechanics during the eighteen centuries intervening between him and Leonardo da Vinci. Of minor matters not fewer than forty mechanical inventions have been attributed to him. Among these are the endless screw, the screw pump, a hydraulic organ, and burning mirrors. His genius is well indicated by the saying popularly attributed to him, "Give me whereon to stand, and I will move the earth," and by the anecdotes told of his exertions against Marcellus during the siege of Syracuse; his invention of catapults and other engines for throwing projectiles, as darts and heavy stones, claws which, reaching over the walls, lifted up into the air ships and their crews, and then suddenly dropped them into the sea; burning mirrors, by which, at a great distance, the Roman fleet was set on fire. It is related that Marcellus, honouring his intellect, gave the strictest orders that no harm should be done to him at the taking of the town, and that he was killed, unfortunately, by an ignorant soldier--unfortunately, for Europe was not able to produce his equal for nearly two thousand years. [Sidenote: The writings and works of Eratosthenes.] Eratosthenes was contemporary with Archimedes. He was born at Cyrene, B.C. 276. The care of the library appears to have been committed to him by Euergetes; but his attention was more specially directed to mathematical, astronomical, geographical, and historical pursuits. The work entitled "Catasterisms," doubtfully imputed to him, is a catalogue of 475 of the principal stars; but it was probably intended for nothing more than a manual. He also is said to have written a poem upon terrestrial zones. Among his important geographical labours may be mentioned his determination of the interval between the tropics. He found it to be eleven eighty-thirds of the circumference. He also attempted the measurement of the size of the earth by ascertaining the distance between Alexandria and Syene, the difference of latitude between which he had found to be one-fiftieth of the earth's circumference. It was his object to free geography from the legends with which the superstition of ages had adorned and oppressed it. In effecting this he well deserves the tribute paid to him by Humboldt, the modern who of all others could best appreciate his labours. He considered the articulation and expansion of continents; the position of mountain chains; the action of clouds; the geological submersion of lands; the elevation of ancient sea-beds; the opening of the Dardanelles and of the Straits of Gibraltar; the relations of the Euxine Sea; the problem of the equal level of the circumfluous ocean; and the necessary existence of a mountain chain running through Asia in the diaphragm of Dicæarchus. What an advance is all this beyond the meditations of Thales! Herein we see the practical tendencies of the Macedonian wars. In his astronomical observations he had the advantage of using the armils and other instruments in the Observatory. He ascertained that the direction of terrestrial gravity is not constant, but that the verticals converge. He composed a complete systematic description of the earth in three books--physical, mathematical, historical--accompanied by a map of all the parts then known. Of his skill as a geometer, his solution of the problem of two mean proportionals, still extant, offers ample evidence; and it is only of late years that the fragments remaining of his Chronicles of the Theban Kings have been properly appreciated. He hoped to free history as well as geography from the myths that deform it, a task which the prejudices and interests of man will never permit to be accomplished. Some amusing anecdotes of his opinions in these respects have descended to us. He ventured to doubt the historical truth of the Homeric legends. "I will believe in it when I have been shown the currier who made the wind-bags which Ulysses on his homeward voyage received from �olus." It is said that, having attained the age of eighty years, he became weary of life, and put an end to himself by voluntary starvation. [Sidenote: Chronology of Eratosthenes.] I shall here pause to make a few remarks suggested by the chronological and astronomical works of Eratosthenes. Our current chronology was the offspring of erroneous theological considerations, the nature of which required not only a short historical term for the various nations of antiquity, but even for the existence of man upon the globe. This necessity appears to have been chiefly experienced in the attempt to exalt certain facts in the history of the Hebrews from their subordinate position in human affairs, and, indeed, to give the whole of that history an exaggerated value. This was done in a double way: by elevating Hebrew history from its true grade, and depreciating or falsifying that of other nations. Among those who have been guilty of this literary offence, the name of the celebrated Eusebius, the Bishop of Cæsarea in the time of Constantine, should be designated, since in his chronography and synchronal tables he purposely "perverted chronology for the sake of making synchronisms" (Bunsen). It is true, as Niebuhr asserts, "He is a very dishonest writer." To a great extent, the superseding of the Egyptian annals was brought about by his influence. It was forgotten, however, that of all things chronology is the least suited to be an object of inspiration; and that, though men may be wholly indifferent to truth for its own sake, and consider it not improper to wrest it unscrupulously to what they may suppose to be a just purpose, yet that it will vindicate itself at last. It is impossible to succeed completely in perverting the history of a nation which has left numerous enduring records. Egypt offers us testimonials reaching over five thousand years. As Bunsen remarks, from the known portion of the curve of history we may determine the whole. The Egyptians, old as they are, belong to the middle ages of mankind, for there is a period antecedent to monumental history, or indeed, to history of any kind, during which language and mythology are formed, for these must exist prior to all political institutions, all art, all science. Even at the first moment that we gain a glimpse of the state of Egypt she had attained a high intellectual condition, as is proved by the fact that her system of hieroglyphics was perfected before the fourth dynasty. It continued unchanged until the time of Psammetichus. A stationary condition of language and writing for thousands of years necessarily implies a long and very remote period of active improvement and advance. It was doubtless such a general consideration, rather than a positive knowledge of the fact, which led the Greeks to assert that the introduction of geometry into Egypt must be attributed to kings before the times of Menes. Not alone do her artificial monuments attest for that country an extreme antiquity; she is herself her own witness; for, though the Nile raises its bed only four feet in a thousand years, all the alluvial portion of Egypt has been deposited from the waters of that river. A natural register thus re-enforces the written records, and both together compose a body of evidence not to be gainsaid. Thus the depth of muddy silt accumulated round the pedestals of monuments is an irreproachable index of their age. In the eminent position he occupied, Eusebius might succeed in perverting the received book-chronology; but he had no power to make the endless trade-wind that sweeps over the tropical Pacific blow a day more or a day less; none to change the weight of water precipitated from it by the African mountains; none to arrest the annual mass of mud brought down by the river. It is by collating such different orders of evidence together--the natural and the monumental, the latter gaining strength every year from the cultivation of hieroglyphic studies--that we begin to discern the true Egyptian chronology, and to put confidence in the fragments that remain of Eratosthenes and Manetho. [Sidenote: Astronomy of Eratosthenes.] [Sidenote: Attempts of Aristarchus to find the distance of the sun.] At the time of which we are speaking--the time of Eratosthenes--general ideas had been attained to respecting the doctrine of the sphere, its poles, axis, the equator, arctic and antarctic circles, equinoctial points, solstices, colures, horizon, etc. No one competent to form an opinion any longer entertained a doubt respecting the globular form of the earth, the arguments adduced in support of that fact being such as are still popularly resorted to--the different positions of the horizon at different places, the changes in elevation of the pole, the phenomena of eclipses, and the gradual disappearance of ships as they sail from us. As to eclipses, once looked upon with superstitious awe, their true causes had not only been assigned, but their periodicities so well ascertained that predictions of their occurrence could be made. The Babylonians had thus long known that after a cycle of 223 lunations the eclipses of the moon return. The mechanism of the phases of that satellite was clearly understood. Indeed, Aristarchus of Samos attempted to ascertain the distance of the sun from the earth on the principle of observing the moon when she is dichotomized, a method quite significant of the knowledge of the time, though in practice untrustworthy; Aristarchus thus finding that the sun's distance is eighteen times that of the moon, whereas it is in reality 400. In like manner, in a general way, pretty clear notions were entertained of the climatic distribution of heat upon the earth, exaggerated, however, in this respect, that the torrid zone was believed to be too hot for human life, and the frigid too cold. Observations, as good as could be made by simple instruments, had not only demonstrated in a general manner the progressions, retrogradations and stations of the planets, but attempts had been made to account for, or rather to represent them, by the aid of epicycles. [Sidenote: Biography of the Ptolemies.] It was thus in Alexandria, under the Ptolemies, that modern astronomy arose. Ptolemy Soter, the founder of this line of kings, was not only a patron of science, but likewise an author. He composed a history of the campaigns of Alexander. Under him the collection of the library was commenced, probably soon after the defeat of Antigonus at the battle of Ipsus, B.C. 301. The museum is due to his son Ptolemy Philadelphus, who not only patronized learning in his own dominions, but likewise endeavoured to extend the boundaries of human knowledge in other quarters. Thus he sent an expedition under his admiral Timosthenes as far as Madagascar. Of the succeeding Ptolemies, Euergetes and Philopator were both very able men, though the later was a bad one; he murdered his father, and perpetrated many horrors in Alexandria. Epiphanes, succeeding his father when only five years old, was placed by his guardians under the protection of Rome, thus furnishing to the ambitious republic a pretence for interfering in the affairs of Egypt. The same policy was continued during the reign of his son Philometor, who, upon the whole, was an able and good king. Even Physcon, who succeeded in B.C. 146, and who is described as sensual, corpulent, and cruel--cruel, for he cut off the head, hands, and feet of his son, and sent them to Cleopatra his wife--could not resist the inspirations to which the policy of his ancestors, continued for nearly two centuries, had given birth, but was an effective promoter of literature and the arts, and himself the author of an historical work. A like inclination was displayed by his successors, Lathyrus and Auletes, the name of the latter indicating his proficiency in music. The surnames under which all these Ptolemies pass were nicknames, or titles of derision imposed upon them by their giddy and satirical Alexandrian subjects. The political state of Alexandria was significantly said to be a tyranny tempered by ridicule. The dynasty ended in the person of the celebrated Cleopatra, who, after the battle of Actium, caused herself, as is related in the legends, to be bitten by an asp. She took poison that she might not fall captive to Octavianus, and be led in his triumph through the streets of Rome. If we possessed a complete and unbiased history of these Greek kings, it would doubtless uphold their title to be regarded as the most illustrious of all ancient sovereigns. Even after their political power had passed into the hands of the Romans--a nation who had no regard to truth and to right--and philosophy, in its old age, had become extinguished or eclipsed by the faith of the later Cæsars, enforced by an unscrupulous use of their power, so strong was the vitality of the intellectual germ they had fostered, that, though compelled to lie dormant for centuries, it shot up vigorously on the first occasion that favouring circumstances allowed. [Sidenote: They patronize literature as well as science.] This Egyptian dynasty extended its protection and patronage to literature as well as to science. Thus Philadelphus did not consider it beneath him to count among his personal friends the poet Callimachus, who had written a treatise on birds, and honourably maintained himself by keeping a school in Alexandria. The court of that sovereign was, moreover, adorned by a constellation of seven poets, to which the gay Alexandrians gave the nickname of the Pleiades. They are said to have been Lycophron, Theocritus, Callimachus, Aratus, Apollonius Rhodius, Nicander, and Homer the son of Macro. Among them may be distinguished Lycophron, whose work, entitled Cassandra, still remains; and Theocritus, whose exquisite bucolics prove how sweet a poet he was. [Sidenote: The writings of Apollonius.] To return to the scientific movement. The school of Euclid was worthily represented in the time of Euergetes by Apollonius Pergæus, forty years later than Archimedes. He excelled both in the mathematical and physical department. His chief work was a treatise on Conic Sections. It is said that he was the first to introduce the words ellipse and hyperbola. So late as the eleventh century his complete works were extant in Arabic. Modern geometers describe him as handling his subjects with less power than his great predecessor Archimedes, but nevertheless displaying extreme precision and beauty in his methods. His fifth book, on Maxima and Minima, is to be regarded as one of the highest efforts of Greek geometry. As an example of his physical inquiries may be mentioned his invention of a clock. [Sidenote: The writings of Hipparchus.] [Sidenote: The theory of epicycles and eccentrics.] Fifty years after Apollonius, B.C. 160-125, we meet with the great astronomer Hipparchus. He does not appear to have made observations himself in Alexandria, but he uses those of Aristyllus and Timochares of that place. Indeed, his great discovery of the precession of the equinoxes was essentially founded on the discussion of the Alexandrian observations on Spica Virginis made by Timochares. In pure mathematics he gave methods for solving all triangles plane and spherical: he also constructed a table of chords. In astronomy, besides his capital discovery of the precession of the equinoxes just mentioned, he also determined the first inequality of the moon, the equation of the centre, and all but anticipated Ptolemy in the discovery of the evection. To him also must be attributed the establishment of the theory of epicycles and eccentrics, a geometrical conception for the purpose of resolving the apparent motions of the heavenly bodies, on the principle of circular movement. In the case of the sun and moon, Hipparchus succeeded in the application of that theory, and indicated that it might be adapted to the planets. Though never intended as a representation of the actual motions of the heavenly bodies, it maintained its ground until the era of Kepler and Newton, when the heliocentric doctrine, and that of elliptic motions, were incontestably established. Even Newton himself, in the 37th proposition of the third book of the "Principia," availed himself of its aid. Hipparchus also undertook to make a register of the stars by the method of alineations--that is, by indicating those which were in the same apparent straight line. The number of stars catalogued by him was 1,080. If he thus depicted the aspect of the sky for his times, he also endeavoured to do the same for the surface of the earth by marking the position of towns and other places by lines of latitude and longitude. [Sidenote: The writings of Ptolemy.] [Sidenote: His great work: the mechanical construction of the heavens.] Subsequently to Hipparchus, we find the astronomers Geminus and Cleomedes; their fame, however, is totally eclipsed by that of Ptolemy, A.D. 138, the author of the great work "Syntaxis," or the mathematical construction of the heavens--a work fully deserving the epithet which has been bestowed upon it, "a noble exposition of the mathematical theory of epicycles and eccentrics." It was translated by the Arabians after the Mohammedan conquest of Egypt; and, under the title of Almagest, was received by them as the highest authority on the mechanism and phenomena of the universe. It maintained its ground in Europe in the same eminent position for nearly fifteen hundred years, justifying the encomium of Synesius on the institution which gave it birth, "the divine school of Alexandria." The Almagest commences with the doctrine that the earth is globular and fixed in space; it describes the construction of a table of chords and instruments for observing the solstices, and deduces the obliquity of the ecliptic. It finds terrestrial latitudes by the gnomon; describes climates; shows how ordinary may be converted into sidereal time; gives reasons for preferring the tropical to the sidereal year; furnishes the solar theory on the principle of the sun's orbit being a simple eccentric; explains the equation of time; advances to the discussion of the motions of the moon; treats of the first inequality, of her eclipses, and the motion of the node. It then gives Ptolemy's own great discovery--that which has made his name immortal--the discovery of the moon's evection or second inequality, reducing it to the epicyclic theory. It attempts the determination of the distances of the sun and moon from the earth, with, however, only partial success, since it makes the sun's distance but one-twentieth of the real amount. It considers the precession of the equinoxes, the discovery of Hipparchus, the full period for which is twenty-five thousand years. It gives a catalogue of 1,022 stars; treats of the nature of the Milky Way; and discusses, in the most masterly manner, the motions of the planets. This point constitutes Ptolemy's second claim to scientific fame. His determination of the planetary orbits was accomplished by comparing his own observations with those of former astronomers, especially with those of Timochares on Venus. [Sidenote: His geography.] To Ptolemy we are also indebted for a work on Geography used in European schools as late as the fifteenth century. The known world to him was from the Canary Islands eastward to China, and from the equator northward to Caledonia. His maps, however, are very erroneous; for, in the attempt to make them correspond to the spherical figure of the earth, the longitudes are too much to the east; the Mediterranean Sea is twenty degrees too long. Ptolemy's determinations are, therefore, inferior in accuracy to those of his illustrious predecessor Eratosthenes, who made the distance from the sacred promontory in Spain to the eastern mouth of the Ganges to be seventy thousand stadia. Ptolemy also wrote on Optics, the Planisphere, and Astrology. It is not often given to an author to endure for so many ages; perhaps, indeed, few deserve it. The mechanism of the heavens, from his point of view, has however, been greatly misunderstood. Neither he nor Hipparchus ever intended that theory as anything more than a geometrical fiction. It is not to be regarded as a representation of the actual celestial motions. And, as might be expected, for such is the destiny of all unreal abstractions, the theory kept advancing in complexity as facts accumulated, and was on the point of becoming altogether unmanageable, when it was supplanted by the theory of universal gravitation, which has ever exhibited the inalienable attribute of a true theory--affording an explanation of every new fact as soon as it was discovered, without requiring to be burdened with new provisions, and prophetically foretelling phenomena which had not as yet been observed. [Sidenote: The later Alexandrian geometers.] [Sidenote: Decline of the Greek age of Reason.] From the time of the Ptolemies the scientific spirit of the Alexandrian school declined; for though such mathematicians as Theodosius, whose work on Spherical Geometry was greatly valued by the Arab geometers; and Pappus, whose mathematical collections, in eight books, still for the most part remain; and Theon, doubly celebrated for his geometrical attainments, and as being the father of the unfortunate Hypatia, A.D. 415, lived in the next three centuries, they were not men like their great predecessors. That mental strength which gives birth to original discovery had passed away. The commentator had succeeded to the philosopher. No new development illustrated the physical sciences; they were destined long to remain stationary. Mechanics could boast of no trophy like the proposition of Archimedes on the equilibrium of the lever; no new and exact ideas like those of the same great man on statical and hydrostatical pressure; no novel and clear views like those developed in his treatise on floating bodies; no mechanical invention like the first of all steam-engines--that of Hero. Natural Philosophy had come to a stop. Its great, and hitherto successfully cultivated department, Astronomy, exhibited no farther advance. Men were content with what had been done, and continued to amuse themselves with reconciling the celestial phenomena to a combination of equable circular motions. To what are we to attribute this pause? Something had occurred to enervate the spirit of science. A gloom had settled on the Museum. [Sidenote: Causes of that decline.] There is no difficulty in giving an explanation of this unfortunate condition. Greek intellectual life had passed the period of its maturity, and was entering on old age. Moreover, the talent which might have been devoted to the service of science was in part allured to another pursuit, and in part repressed. Alexandria had sapped Athens, and in her turn Alexandria was sapped by Rome. From metropolitan pre-eminence she had sunk to be a mere provincial town. The great prizes of life were not so likely to be met with in such a declining city as in Italy or, subsequently, in Constantinople. Whatever affected these chief centres of Roman activity, necessarily influenced her; but, such is the fate of the conquered, she must await their decisions. In the very institutions by which she had once been glorified, success could only be attained by a conformity to the manner of thinking fashionable in the imperial metropolis, and the best that could be done was to seek distinction in the path so marked out. Yet even with all this restraint Alexandria asserted her intellectual power, leaving an indelible impress on the new theology of her conquerors. During three centuries the intellectual atmosphere of the Roman empire had been changing. Men were unable to resist the steadily increasing pressure. Tranquillity could only be secured by passiveness. Things had come to such a state that the thinking of men was to be done for them by others, or, if they thought at all, it must be in accordance with a prescribed formula or rule. Greek intellect was passing into decrepitude, and the moral condition of the European world was in antagonism to scientific progress. CHAPTER VII. THE GREEK AGE OF INTELLECTUAL DECREPITUDE. THE DEATH OF GREEK PHILOSOPHY. _Decline of Greek Philosophy: it becomes Retrospective, and in Philo the Jew and Apollonius of Tyana leans on Inspiration, Mysticism, Miracles._ NEO-PLATONISM _founded by Ammonius Saccas, followed by Plotinus, Porphyry, Iamblicus, Proclus.--The Alexandrian Trinity.--Ecstasy.--Alliance with Magic, Necromancy._ _The Emperor Justinian closes the philosophical Schools._ _Summary of Greek Philosophy.--Its four Problems: 1. Origin of the World; 2. Nature of the Soul; 3. Existence of God; 4. Criterion of Truth.--Solution of these Problems in the Age of Inquiry--in that of Faith--in that of Reason--in that of Decrepitude._ _Determination of the Law of Variation of Greek Opinion.--The Development of National Intellect is the same as that of Individual._ _Determination of the final Conclusions of Greek Philosophy as to God, the World, the Soul, the Criterion of Truth.--Illustrations and Criticisms on each of these Points._ [Sidenote: Decline of Greek philosophy.] In this chapter it is a melancholy picture that I have to present--the old age and death of Greek philosophy. The strong man of Aristotelism and Stoicism is sinking into the superannuated dotard; he is settling "Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange, eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion-- Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." He is full of admiration for the past and of contemptuous disgust at the present; his thoughts are wandering to the things that occupied him in his youth, and even in his infancy. Like those who are ready to die, he delivers himself up to religious preparation, without any farther concern whether the things on which he is depending are intrinsically true or false. In this, the closing scene, no more do we find the vivid faith of Plato, the mature intellect of Aristotle, the manly self-control of Zeno. Greek philosophy is ending in garrulity and mysticism. It is leaning for help on the conjurer, juggler, and high-priest of Nature. There are also new-comers obtruding themselves on the stage. The Roman soldier is about to take the place of the Greek thinker, and assert his claim to the effects of the intestate--to keep what suits him, and to destroy what he pleases. The Romans, advancing towards their age of Faith, are about to force their ideas on the European world. Under the shadow of the Pyramids Greek philosophy was born; after many wanderings for a thousand years round the shores of the Mediterranean, it came back to its native place, and under the shadow of the Pyramids it died. [Sidenote: It becomes retrospective.] [Sidenote: Has arrived at Oriental ideas.] From the period of the New Academy the decline of Greek philosophy was uninterrupted. Inventive genius no longer existed; its place was occupied by the commentator. Instead of troubling themselves with inquiries after absolute truth, philosophers sought support in the opinions of the ancient times, and the real or imputed views of Pythagoras, Plato, or Aristotle were received as a criterion. In this, the old age of philosophy, men began to act as though there had never been such things as original investigation and discovery among the human race, and that whatever truth there was in the world was not the product of thought, but the remains of an ancient and now all but forgotten revelation from heaven--forgotten through the guilt and fall of man. There is something very melancholy in this total cessation of inquiry. The mental impetus, which one would have expected to continue for a season by reason of the momentum that had been gathered in so many ages, seems to have been all at once abruptly lost. So complete a pause is surprising: the arrow still flies on after it has parted from the bow; the potter's wheel runs round though all the vessels are finished. In producing this sudden stoppage, the policy of the early Cæsars greatly assisted. The principle of liberty of thought, which the very existence of the divers philosophical schools necessarily implied, was too liable to make itself manifest in aspirations for political liberty. While through the emperors the schools of Greece, of Alexandria, and Rome were depressed from that supremacy to which they might have aspired, and those of the provinces, as Marseilles and Rhodes, were relatively exalted, the former, in a silent and private way, were commencing those rivalries, the forerunners of the great theological struggles between them in after ages for political power. Christianity in its dawn was attended by a general belief that in the East there had been preserved a purer recollection of the ancient revelation, and that hence from that quarter the light would presently shine forth. Under the favouring influence of such an expectation, Orientalism, to which, as we have seen, Grecian thought had spontaneously arrived, was greatly re-enforced. [Sidenote: Philo the Jew thinks he is inspired.] [Sidenote: His mystical philosophy.] In this final period of Greek philosophy, the first to whom we must turn is Philo the Jew, who lived in the time of the Emperor Caligula. In harmony with the ideas of his nation, he derives all philosophy and useful knowledge from the Mosaic record, not hesitating to wrest Scripture to his use by various allegorical interpretations, asserting that man has fallen from his primitive wisdom and purity; that physical inquiry is of very little avail, but that an innocent life and a burning faith are what we must trust to. He persuaded himself that a certain inspiration fell upon him while he was in the act of writing, somewhat like that of the penmen of the Holy Scriptures. His readers may, however, be disposed to believe that herein he was self-deceived, judging both from the character of his composition and the nature of his doctrine. As respects the former, he writes feebly, is vacillating in his views, and, when watched in his treatment of a difficult point, is seen to be wavering and unsteady. As respects the latter, among other extraordinary things he teaches that the world is the chief angel or first son of God; he combines all the powers of God into one force, the Logos or holy Word, the highest powers being creative wisdom and governing mercy. From this are emitted all the mundane forces; and, since God cannot do evil, the existence of evil in the world must be imputed to these emanating forces. It is very clear, therefore, that though Philo declined Oriental pantheism, he laid his foundation on the Oriental theory of Emanation. [Sidenote: Apollonius of Tyana.] [Sidenote: Is a miracle-worker and prophet.] As aiding very greatly in the popular introduction of Orientalism, Apollonius of Tyana must be mentioned. Under the auspices of the Empress Julia Domna, in a biographical composition, Philostratus had the audacity to institute a parallel between this man and our Saviour. He was a miracle-worker, given to soothsaying and prophesying, led the life of an ascetic, his raiment and food being of the poorest. He attempted a reformation of religious rites and morals; denied the efficacy of sacrifice, substituting for it a simple worship and a pure prayer, scarce even needing words. He condemned the poets for propagating immoral fables of the gods, since they had thereby brought impurity into religion. He maintained the doctrine of transmigration. [Sidenote: Plutarch leans to patronizing Orientalism.] [Sidenote: Numenius inclines to a trinitarian philosophy.] Plutarch, whose time reaches to the Emperor Hadrian, has exercised an influence, through certain peculiarities of his style, which has extended even to us. As a philosopher he is to be classed among the Platonists, yet with a predominance of the prevailing Orientalism. His mental peculiarities seem to have unfitted him for an acceptance of the national faith, and his works commend themselves rather by the pleasant manner in which he deals with the topic on which he treats than by a deep philosophy. In some respects an analogy may be discerned between his views and those of Philo, the Isis of the one corresponding to the Word of the other. This disposition to Orientalism occurs still more strongly in succeeding writers; for example, Lucius Apuleius the Numidian, and Numenius: the latter embracing the opinion that had now become almost universal--that all Greek philosophy was originally brought from the East. In his doctrine a trinity is assumed, the first person of which is reason; the second the principle of becoming, which is a dual existence, and so gives rise to a third person, these three persons constituting, however, only one God. Having indicated the occurrence of this idea, it is not necessary for us to inquire more particularly into its details. As philosophical conceptions, none of the trinities of the Greeks will bear comparison with those of ancient Egypt, Amun, Maut, and Khonso, Osiris, Isis, and Horus; nor with those of India, Brahma, Vishnu, and Siva, the Creator, Preserver, and Destroyer, or, the Past, the Present, and the Future of the Buddhists. [Sidenote: Ammonius Saccas founds Neo-Platonism.] The doctrines of Numenius led directly to those of Neo-Platonism, of which, however, the origin is commonly imputed to Ammonius Saccas of Alexandria, toward the close of the second century after Christ. The views of this philosopher do not appear to have been committed to writing. They are known to us through his disciples Longinus and Plotinus chiefly. Neo-Platonism, assuming the aspect of a philosophical religion, is distinguished for the conflict it maintained with the rising power of Christianity. Alexandria was the scene of this contest. The school which there arose lasted for about 300 years. Its history is not only interesting to us from its antagonism to that new power which soon was to conquer the Western world, but also because it was the expiring effort of Grecian philosophy. [Sidenote: Plotinus, a Mystic. Reunion with God.] Plotinus, an Egyptian, was born about A.D. 204. He studied at Alexandria, and is said to have spent eleven years under Ammonius Saccas. He accompanied the expedition of the Emperor Gordian to Persia and India, and, escaping from its disasters, opened a philosophical school in Rome. In that city he was held in the highest esteem by the Emperor Gallienus; the Empress Salonina intended to build a city, in which Plotinus might inaugurate the celebrated Republic of Plato. The plan was not, however, carried out. With the best intention for promoting the happiness of man, Plotinus is to be charged with no little obscurity and mysticism. Eunapius says truly that the heavenly elevation of his mind and his perplexed style make him very tiresome and unpleasant. His repulsiveness is, perhaps, in a measure due to his want of skill in the art of composition, for he did not learn to write till he was fifty years old. He professed a contempt for the advantages of life and for its pursuits. He disparaged patriotism. An ascetic in his habits, eating no flesh and but little bread, he held his body in utter contempt, saying that it was only a phantom and a clog to his soul. He refused to remember his birthday. As has frequently been the case with those who have submitted to prolonged fasting and meditation, he believed that he had been privileged to see God with his bodily eye, and on six different occasions had been reunited to him. In such a mental condition, it may well be supposed that his writings are mysterious, inconsequent and diffuse. An air of Platonism mingled with many Oriental ideas and ancient Egyptian recollections, pervades his works. [Sidenote: The trinity of Plotinus.] [Sidenote: Ecstasy; communion with the invisible.] Like many of his predecessors, Plotinus recognized a difference between the mental necessities of the educated and the vulgar, justifying mythology on the ground that it was very useful to those who were not yet emancipated from the sensible. Aristotle, in his Metaphysics, referring to mythology and the gods in human form, had remarked, "Much has been mythically added for the persuasion of the multitude, and also on account of the laws and for other useful ends." But Plotinus also held that the gods are not to be moved by prayer, and that both they and the dæmons occasionally manifest themselves visibly; that incantations may be lawfully practised, and are not repugnant to philosophy. In the body he discerns a penitential mechanism for the soul. He believes that the external world is a mere phantom--a dream--and the indications of the senses altogether deceptive. The union with the divinity of which he speaks he describes as an intoxication of the soul which, forgetting all external things, becomes lost in the contemplation of "the One." The doctrinal philosophy of Plotinus presents a trinity in accordance with the Platonic idea. (1.) The One, or Prime essence. (2.) The Reason. (3.) The Soul. Of the first he declares that it is impossible to speak fully, and in what he says on this point there are many apparent contradictions, as when he denies oneness to the one. His ideas of the trinity are essentially based on the theory of emanation. He describes how the second principle issues by emanation out of the first, and the third out of the second. The mechanism of this process may be illustrated by recalling how from the body of the sun issues forth light, and from light emerges heat. In the procession of the third from the second principle it is really Thought arising from Reason; but Thought is the Soul. The mundane soul he considers as united to nothing; but on these details he falls into much mysticism, and it is often difficult to see clearly his precise meaning, as when he says that Reason is surrounded by Eternity, but the Soul is surrounded by Time. He carries Idealism to its last extreme, and, as has been said, looks upon the visible world as a semblance only, deducing from his doctrine moral reflections to be a comfort in the trials of life. Thus he says that "sensuous life is a mere stage-play; all the misery in it is only imaginary, all grief a mere cheat of the players." "The soul is not in the game; it looks on, while nothing more than the external phantom weeps and laments." "Passive affections and misery light only on the outward shadow of man." The great end of existence is to draw the soul from external things and fasten it in contemplation on God. Such considerations teach us a contempt for virtue as well as for vice: "Once united with God, man leaves the virtues, as on entering the sanctuary he leaves the images of the gods in the ante-temple behind." Hence we should struggle to free ourselves from everything low and mean: to cultivate truth, and devote life to intimate communion with God, divesting ourselves of all personality, and passing into the condition of ecstasy, in which the soul is loosened from its material prison, separated from individual consciousness, and absorbed in the infinite intelligence from which it emanated. "In ecstasy it contemplates real existence; it identifies itself with that which it contemplates." Our reminiscence passes into intuition. In all these views of Plotinus the tincture of Orientalism predominates; the principles and practices are altogether Indian. The Supreme Being of the system is the "unus qui est omnia;" the intention of the theory of emanation is to find a philosophical connexion between him and the soul of man; the process for passing into ecstasy by sitting long in an invariable posture, by looking steadfastly at the tip of the nose, or by observing for a long time an unusual or definite manner of breathing, had been familiar to the Eastern devotees, as they are now to the impostors of our own times; the result is not celestial, but physiological. The pious Hindus were, however, assured that, as water will not wet the lotus, so, though sin may touch, it can never defile the soul after a full intuition of God. [Sidenote: Porphyry--his writings destroyed;] [Sidenote: resorts to magic and necromancy.] The opinions of Plotinus were strengthened and diffused by his celebrated pupil Porphyry, who was born at Tyre A.D. 233. After the death of Plotinus he established a school in Rome, attaining great celebrity in astronomy, music, geography, and other sciences. His treatise against Christianity was answered by Eusebius, St. Jerome, and others; the Emperor Theodosius the Great, however, silenced it more effectually by causing all the copies to be burned. Porphyry asserts his own unworthiness when compared with his master, saying that he had been united to God but once in eighty-six years, whereas Plotinus had been so united six times in sixty years. In him is to be seen all the mysticism, and, it may be added, all the piety of Plotinus. He speaks of dæmons shapeless, and therefore invisible; requiring food, and not immortal; some of which rule the air, and may be propitiated or restrained by magic: he admits also the use of necromancy. It is scarcely possible to determine how much this inclination of the Neo-Platonists to the unlawful art is to be regarded as a concession to the popular sentiment of the times, for elsewhere Porphyry does not hesitate to condemn soothsaying and divination, and to dwell upon the folly of invoking the gods in making bargains, marriages, and such-like trifles. He strenuously enjoins a holy life in view of the fact that man has fallen both from his ancient purity and knowledge. He recommends a worship in silence and pure thought, the public worship being of very secondary importance. He also insists on an abstinence from animal food. [Sidenote: Iamblicus a wonder-worker.] The cultivation of magic and the necromantic art was fully carried out in Iamblicus, a Coelo-Syrian, who died in the reign of Constantine the Great. It is scarcely necessary to relate the miracles and prodigies he performed, though they received full credence in those superstitious times; how, by the intensity of his prayers, he raised himself unsupported nine feet above the ground; how he could make rays of a blinding effulgence play round his head; how, before the bodily eyes of his pupils, he evoked two visible dæmonish imps. Nor is it necessary to mention the opinions of �desius, Chrysanthus, or Maximus. [Sidenote: Proclus unites emanation with mysticism.] For a moment, however, we may turn to Proclus, who was born in Constantinople A.D. 412. When Vitalian laid siege to Constantinople, Proclus is said to have burned his ships with a polished brass mirror. It is scarcely possible for us to determine how much truth there is in this, since similar authority affirms that he could produce rain and earthquakes. His theurgic propensities are therefore quite distinct. Yet, notwithstanding these superhuman powers, together with special favours displayed to him by Apollo, Athene, and other divinities, he found it expedient to cultivate his rites in secret, in terror of persecution by the Christians, whose attention he had drawn upon himself by writing a work in opposition to them. Eventually they succeeded in expelling him from Athens, thereby teaching him a new interpretation of the moral maxim he had adopted, "Live concealed." It was the aim of Proclus to construct a complete theology, which should include the theory of emanation, and be duly embellished with mysticism. The Orphic poems and Chaldæan oracles were the basis upon which he commenced; his character may be understood from the dignity he assumed as "high priest of the universe." He recommended to his disciples the study of Aristotle for the sake of cultivating the reason, but enjoined that of Plato, whose works he found to be full of sublime allegories suited to his purpose. He asserted that to know one's own mind is to know the whole universe, and that that knowledge is imparted to us by revelations and illuminations of the gods. [Sidenote: Justinian puts an end to philosophy.] He speculates on the manner in which absorption is to take place; whether the last form can pass at once into the primitive, or whether it is needful for it to resume, in a returning succession, the intervening states of its career. From such elevated ideas, considering the mystical manner in which they were treated, there was no other prospect for philosophy than to end as Neo-Platonism did under Damasius. The final days were approaching. The Emperor Justinian prohibited the teaching of philosophy, and closed its schools in Athens A.D. 529. Its last representatives, Damasius, Simplicius, and Isidorus, went as exiles to Persia, expecting to find a retreat under the protection of the great king, who boasted that he was a philosopher and a Platonist. Disappointed, they were fain to return to their native land; and it must be recorded to the honour of Chosroes that, in his treaty of peace with the Romans, he stipulated safety and toleration for these exiles, vainly hoping that they might cultivate their philosophy and practise their rites without molestation. So ends Greek philosophy. She is abandoned, and preparation made for crowning Faith in her stead. The inquiries of the Ionians, the reasoning of the Eleatics, the labours of Plato, of Aristotle, have sunk into mysticism and the art of the conjurer. As with the individual man, so with philosophy in its old age: when all else had failed it threw itself upon devotion, seeking consolation in the exercises of piety--a frame of mind in which it was ready to die. The whole period from the New Academy shows that the grand attempt, every year becoming more and more urgent, was to find a system which should be in harmony with that feeling of religious devotion into which the Roman empire had fallen--a feeling continually gathering force. An air of piety, though of a most delusive kind, had settled upon the whole pagan world. [Sidenote: Summary of Greek philosophy.] From the long history of Greek philosophy presented in the foregoing pages, we turn, 1st, to an investigation of the manner of progress of the Greek mind; and, 2nd, to the results to which it attained. The period occupied by the events we have been considering extends over almost twelve centuries. It commences with Thales, B.C. 636, and ends A.D. 529. [Sidenote: Age of Inquiry--its solutions.] [Sidenote: First problem. Origin of the world.] 1st. Greek philosophy commenced on the foundation of physical suggestions. Its first object was the determination of the origin and manner of production of the world. The basis upon which it rested was in its nature unsubstantial, for it included intrinsic errors due to imperfect and erroneous observations. It diminished the world and magnified man, accepting the apparent aspect of Nature as real, and regarding the earth as a flat surface, on which the sky was sustained like a dome. It limited the boundaries of the terrestrial plane to an insignificant extent, and asserted that it was the special and exclusive property of man. The stars and other heavenly bodies it looked upon as mere meteors or manifestations of fire. With superficial simplicity, it received the notions of absolute directions in space, up and down, above and below. In a like spirit is adopted, from the most general observation, the doctrine of four elements, those forms of substance naturally presented to us in a predominating quantity--earth, water, air, fire. From these slender beginnings it made its first attempt at a cosmogony, or theory of the mode of creation, by giving to one of these elements a predominance or superiority over the other three, and making them issue from it. With one teacher the primordial element was water; with another, air; with another, fire. Whether a genesis had thus taken place, or whether all four elements were co-ordinate and equal, the production of the world was of easy explanation; for, by calling in the aid of ordinary observation, which assures us that mud will sink to the bottom of water, that water will fall through air, that it is the apparent nature of fire to ascend, and, combining these illusory facts with the erroneous notion of up and down in space, the arrangement of the visible world became clear--the earth down below, the water floating upon it, the air above, and, still higher, the region of fire. Thus it appears that the first inquiry made by European philosophy was, Whence and in what manner came the world? [Sidenote: Its irreligious solution thereof.] The principles involved in the solution of this problem evidently led to a very important inference, at this early period betraying what was before long to become a serious point of dispute. It is natural for man to see in things around him visible tokens of divinity, continual providential dispensations. But in this, its very first act, Greek philosophy had evidently excluded God from his own world. This settling of the heavy, this ascending of the light, was altogether a purely physical affair; the limitless sea, the blue air, and the unnumbered shining stars, were set in their appropriate places, not at the pleasure or by the hand of God, but by innate properties of their own. Popular superstition was in some degree appeased by the localization of deities in the likeness of men in a starry Olympus above the sky, a region furnishing unsubstantial glories and a tranquil abode. And yet it is not possible to exclude altogether the spiritual from this world. The soul, ever active and ever thinking, asserts its kindred with the divine. What is that soul? Such was the second question propounded by Greek philosophy. [Sidenote: Second problem. What is the soul?] [Sidenote: Its material solution thereof.] A like course of superficial observation was resorted to in the solution of this inquiry. To breathe is to live; then the breath is the life. If we cease to breathe we die. Man only becomes a living soul when the breath of life enters his nostrils; he is a senseless and impassive form when the last breath is expired. In this life-giving principle, the air, must therefore exist all those noble qualities possessed by the soul. It must be the source from which all intellect arises, the store to which all intellect again returns. The philosophical school whose fundamental principle was that the air is the primordial element thus brought back the Deity into the world, though under a material form. Yet still it was in antagonism to the national polytheism, unless from that one god, the air, the many gods of Olympus arose. [Sidenote: Third problem. What is God?] But who is that one God? This is the third question put forth by Greek philosophy. Its answer betrays that in this, its beginning, it is tending to Pantheism. In all these investigations the starting-point had been material conceptions, depending on the impressions or information of the senses. Whatever the conclusion arrived at, its correctness turned on the correctness of that information. When we put a little wine into a measure of water, the eye may no longer see it, but the wine is there. When a rain-drop falls on the leaves of a distant forest, we cannot hear it, but the murmur of many drops composing a shower is audible enough. But what is that murmur except the sum of the sounds of all the individual drops? [Sidenote: Fourth problem. Has man a criterion of truth?] And so it is plain our senses are prone to deceive us. Hence arises the fourth great question of Greek philosophy: Have we any criterion of truth? [Sidenote: Importance of the views of Pythagoras.] The moment a suspicion that we have not crosses the mind of man, he realizes what may be truly termed intellectual despair. Is this world an illusion, a phantasm of the imagination? If things material and tangible, and therefore the most solid props of knowledge, are thus abruptly destroyed, in what direction shall we turn? Within a single century Greek philosophy had come to this pass, and it was not without reason that intelligent men looked on Pythagoras almost as a divinity upon earth when he pointed out to them a path of escape; when he bid them reflect on what it was that had thus taught them the fallibility of sense. For what is it but reason that has been thus warning us, and, in the midst of delusions, has guided us to the truth--reason, which has objects of her own, a world of her own? Though the visible and audible may deceive, we may nevertheless find absolute truth in things altogether separate from material nature, particularly in the relations of numbers and properties of geometrical forms. There is no illusion in this, that two added to two make four; or in this, that any two sides of a triangle taken together are greater than the third. If, then, we are living in a region of deceptions, we may rest assured that it is surrounded by a world of truth. [Sidenote: Influence of the Eleatic school and the Sophists.] From the material basis speculative philosophy gradually disengaged itself through the labours of the Eleatic school, the controversy as to the primary element receding into insignificance, and being replaced by investigations as to Time, Motion, Space, Thought, Being, God. The general result of these inquiries brought into prominence the suspicion of the untrustworthiness of the senses, the tendency of the whole period being manifested in the hypothesis at last attained, that atoms and space alone exist; and, since the former are mere centres of force, matter is necessarily a phantasm. When, therefore, the Athenians themselves commenced the cultivation of philosophy, it was with full participation in the doubt and uncertainty thus overspreading the whole subject. As Sophists, their action closed this speculative period, for, by a comparison of all the partial sciences thus far known, they arrived at the conclusion that there is no conscience, no good or evil, no philosophy, no religion, no law, no criterion of truth. [Sidenote: Age of faith--its solutions.] [Sidenote: Its continuation by Plato, and its end by the Sceptics.] But man cannot live without some guiding rule. If his speculations in Nature will yield him nothing on which he may rely, he will seek some other aid. If there be no criterion of truth for him in philosophy, he will lean on implicit, unquestioning faith. If he cannot prove by physical arguments the existence of God, he will, with Socrates, accept that great fact as self evident and needing no demonstration. He will, in like manner, take his stand upon the undeniable advantages of virtue and good morals, defending the doctrine that pleasure should be the object of life--pleasure of that pure kind which flows from a cultivation of ennobling pursuits, or instinctive, as exhibited in the life of brutes. But when he has thus cast aside demonstration as needless for his purposes, and put his reliance in this manner on faith, he has lost the restraining, the guiding principle that can set bounds to his conduct. If he considers, with Socrates, who opens the third age of Greek development--its age of faith--the existence of God as not needing any proof, he may, in like manner, add thereto the existence of matter and ideas. To faith there will be no difficulty in such doctrines as those of Reminiscence, the double immortality of the soul, the actual existence of universals; and, if such faith, unrestrained and unrestricted, be directed to the regulation of personal life, there is nothing to prevent a falling into excess and base egoism. For ethics, in such an application, ends either in the attempt at the procurement of extreme personal sanctity or the obtaining of individual pleasure--the foundation of patriotism is sapped, the sentiment of friendship is destroyed. So it was with the period of Grecian faith inaugurated by Socrates, developed by Plato, and closed by the Sceptics. Antisthenes and Diogenes of Sinope, in their outrages on society and their self-mortifications, show to what end a period of faith, unrestrained by reason, will come; and Epicurus demonstrated its tendency when guided by self. Thus closes the third period of Greek philosophical development. [Sidenote: Age of Reason--its solutions.] In introducing us to a fourth, Aristotle insists that, though we must rely on reason, Reason itself must submit to be guided by Experience; and Zeno, taking up the same thought, teaches us that we must appeal to the decisions of common sense. He disposes of all doubt respecting the criterion of truth by proclaiming that the distinctness of our sensuous impressions is a sufficient guide. In all this, the essential condition involved is altogether different from that of the speculative ages, and also of the age of faith. Yet, though under the ostensible guidance of reason, the human mind ever seeks to burst through such self-imposed restraints, attempting to ascertain things for which it possesses no suitable data. Even in the age of Aristotle, the age of Reason in Greece, philosophy resumed such questions as those of the creation of the world, the emanation of matter from God, the existence and nature of evil, the immortality, or, alas! it might perhaps be more truly said, judging from its conclusions, the death of the soul, and this even after the Sceptics had, with increased force, denied that we have any criterion of truth, and showed to their own satisfaction that man, at the best, can do nothing but doubt; and, in view of his condition here upon earth, since it has not been permitted him to know what is right and what is wrong, what is true and what is false, his wisest course is to give himself no concern about the matter, but tranquilly sink into a state of complete indifference and quietism. How uniformly do we see that through such variations of opinion individual man approaches his end. For Greek philosophy, what other prospect was there but decrepitude, with its contempt for the present, its attachment to the past, its distrust of man, its reliance on the mysterious--the unknown? And this imbecility how plainly we witness before the scene finally is closed. [Sidenote: Duration of these ages.] If now we look back upon this career of the Grecian mind, we find that after the legendary prehistoric period--the age of credulity--there came in succession an age of speculative inquiry, an age of faith, an age of reason, an age of decrepitude--the first, the age of credulity, was closed by geographical discovery; the second by the criticism of the Sophists; the third by the doubts of the Sceptics; the fourth, eminently distinguished by the greatness of its results, gradually declined into the fifth, an age of decrepitude, to which the hand of the Roman put an end. In the mental progress of this people we therefore discern the foreshadowing of a course like that of individual life, its epochs answering to Infancy, Childhood Youth, Manhood, Old Age; and which, on a still grander scale, as we shall hereafter find, has been repeated by all Europe in its intellectual development. [Sidenote: Boundaries of these ages.] In a space of 1150 years, ending about A.D. 529, the Greek mind had completed its philosophical career. The ages into which we have divided that course pass by insensible gradations into each other. They overlap and intermingle, like a gradation of colours, but the characteristics of each are perfectly distinct. [Sidenote: Determination of the law of variations of opinions.] [Sidenote: Philosophical conclusions finally arrived at by the Greeks.] 2nd. Having thus determined the general law of the variation of opinions, that it is the same in this nation as in an individual, I shall next endeavour to disentangle the final results attained, considering Greek philosophy as a whole. To return to the illustration, to us more than an empty metaphor, though in individual life there is a successive passage through infancy, childhood, youth, and manhood to old age, a passage in which the characteristics of each period in their turn disappear, yet, nevertheless, there are certain results in another sense permanent, giving to the whole progress its proper individuality. A critical eye may discern in the successive stages of Greek philosophical development decisive and enduring results. These it is for which we have been searching in this long and tedious discussion. There are four grand topics in Greek philosophy: 1st, the existence and attributes of God; 2nd, the origin and destiny of the world; 3rd, the nature of the human soul; 4th, the possibility of a criterion of truth. I shall now present what appear to me to be the results at which the Greek mind arrived on each of these points. [Sidenote: As to God--His unity.] (1.) Of the existence and attributes of God. On this point the decision of the Greek mind was the absolute rejection of all anthropomorphic conceptions, even at the risk of encountering the pressure of the national superstition. Of the all-powerful, all-perfect, and eternal there can be but one, for such attributes are absolutely opposed to anything like a participation, whether of a spiritual or material nature; and hence the conclusion that the universe itself is God, and that all animate and inanimate things belong to his essence. In him they live, and move, and have their being. It is conceivable that God may exist without the world, but it is inconceivable that the world should exist without God. We must not, however, permit ourselves to be deluded by the varied aspect of things; for, though the universe is thus God, we know it not as it really is, but only as it appears. God has no relations to space and time. They are only the fictions of our finite imagination. [Sidenote: But their solution is Pantheism.] But this ultimate effort of the Greek mind is Pantheism. It is the same result which the more aged branch of the Indo-European family had long before reached. "There is no God independent of Nature; no other has been revealed by tradition, perceived by the sense, or demonstrated by argument." Yet never will man be satisfied with such a conclusion. It offers him none of that aspect of personality which his yearnings demand. This infinite, and eternal, and universal is no intellect at all. It is passionless, without motive, without design. It does not answer to those lineaments of which he catches a glimpse when he considers the attributes of his own soul. He shudderingly turns from Pantheism, this final result of human philosophy, and, voluntarily retracing his steps, subordinates his reason to his instinctive feelings; declines the impersonal as having nothing in unison with him, and asserts a personal God, the Maker of the universe and the Father of men. [Sidenote: As to the world--a manifestation of God.] (2.) Of the origin and destiny of the world. In an examination of the results at which the Greek mind arrived on this topic, our labour is rendered much lighter by the assistance we receive from the decision of the preceding inquiry. The origin of all things is in God, of whom the world is only a visible manifestation. It is evolved by and from him, perhaps, as the Stoics delighted to say, as the plant is evolved by and from the vital germ in the seed. It is an emanation of him. On this point we may therefore accept as correct the general impression entertained by philosophers, Greek, Alexandrian, and Roman after the Christian era, that, at the bottom, the Greek and Oriental philosophies were alike, not only as respects the questions they proposed for solution, but also in the decisions they arrived at. As we have said, this impression led to the belief that there must have been in the remote past a revelation common to both, though subsequently obscured and vitiated by the infirmities and wickedness of man. This doctrine of emanation, reposing on the assertion that the world existed eternally in God, that it came forth into visibility from him, and will be hereafter absorbed into him, is one of the most striking features of Veda theology. It is developed with singular ability by the Indian philosophers as well as by the Greeks, and is illustrated by their poets. [Sidenote: This solution identical with the Oriental.] The following extract from the Institutes of Menu will convey the Oriental conclusion: "This universe existed only in the first divine idea, yet unexpanded, as if involved in darkness; imperceptible, undefinable, undiscoverable by reason, and undiscovered by revelation, as if it were wholly immersed in sleep. Then the sole self-existing power, himself undiscerned, but making this world discernible, with five elements and other principles of nature, appeared with undiminished glory, expanding his idea, or dispelling the gloom. He whom the mind alone can perceive, whose essence eludes the external organs, who has no visible parts, who exists from eternity--even He, the soul of all beings, whom no being can comprehend, shone forth in person. He, having willed to produce various beings from his own divine substance, first with a thought created the waters. The waters are so called (nárá) because they were the production of _Nara_, or the spirit of God; and, since they were his first _ayaná_ or place of motion, he thence is named Narayana, or moving on the waters. From that which is the first cause, not the object of sense existing everywhere in substance, not existing to our perception, without beginning or end, was produced the divine male. He framed the heaven above, the earth beneath, and in the midst placed the subtle ether, the light regions, and the permanent receptacle of waters. He framed all creatures. He gave being to time and the divisions of time--to the stars also and the planets. For the sake of distinguishing actions, he made a total difference between right and wrong. He whose powers are incomprehensible, having created this universe, was again absorbed in the spirit, changing the time of energy for the time of repose." [Sidenote: Illustrations of the origins, duration, and absorption of the world.] From such extracts from the sacred writings of the Hindus we might turn to their poets, and find the same conceptions of the emanation, manifestation, and absorption of the world illustrated. "The Infinite being is like the clear crystal, which receives into itself all the colours and emits them again, yet its transparency or purity is not thereby injured or impaired." "He is like the diamond, which absorbs the light surrounding it, and glows in the dark from the emanation thereof." In similes of a less noble nature they sought to convey their idea to the illiterate "Thou hast seen the spider spin his web, thou hast seen its excellent geometrical form, and how well adapted it is to its use; thou hast seen the play of tinted colours making it shine like a rainbow in the rays of the morning sun. From his bosom the little artificer drew forth the wonderful thread, and into his bosom, when it pleases him, he can withdraw it again. So Brahm made, and so will he absorb the world." In common the Greek and Indian asserted that being exists for the sake of thought, and hence they must be one; that the universe is a thought in the mind of God, and is unaffected by the vicissitudes of the worlds of which it is composed. In India this doctrine of emanation had reached such apparent precision that some asserted it was possible to demonstrate that the entire Brahm was not transmuted into mundane phenomena, but only a fourth part; that there occur successive emanations and absorptions, a periodicity in this respect being observed; that, in these considerations, we ought to guard ourselves from any deception arising from the visible appearance of material things, for there is reason to believe that matter is nothing more than forces filling space. Democritus raised us to the noble thought that, small as it is, a single atom may constitute a world. The doctrine of Emanation has thus a double interpretation. It sets forth the universe either as a part of the substance of God, or as an unsubstantial something proceeding from him: the former a conception more tangible and readily grasped by the mind; the latter of unapproachable sublimity, when we recall the countless beautiful and majestic forms which Nature on all sides presents. This visible world is only the shadow of God. In the further consideration of this doctrine of the issue forthcoming, or emanation of the universe from God, and its return into or absorption by him, an illustration may not be without value. Out of the air, which may be pure and tranquil, the watery vapour often comes forth in a visible form, a misty fleece, perhaps no larger than the hand of a man at first, but a great cloud in the end. The external appearance the forthcoming form presents is determined by the incidents of the times; it may have a pure whiteness or a threatening blackness; its edges may be fringed with gold. In the bosom of such a cloud the lightning may be pent up, from it the thunder may be heard; but, even if it should not offer these manifestations of power, if its disappearance should be as tranquil as its formation, it has not existed in vain. No cloud ever yet formed on the sky without leaving an imperishable impression on the earth, for while it yet existed there was not a plant whose growth was not delayed, whose substance was not lessened. And of such a cloud the production of which we have watched, how often has it happened to us to witness its melting away into the untroubled air. From the untroubled air it came, and to the pure untroubled air it has again returned. Now such a cloud is made up of countless hosts of microscopic drops, each maintaining itself separate from the others, and each, small though it may be, having an individuality of its own. The grand aggregate may vary its colour and shape; it may be the scene of unceasing and rapid interior movements of many kinds, yet it presents its aspect unchanged, or changes tranquilly and silently, still glowing in the light that falls on it, still casting its shadow on the ground. It is an emblem of the universe according to the ancient doctrine, showing us how the visible may issue from the invisible, and return again thereto; that a drop too small for the unassisted eye to see may be the representative of a world. The spontaneous emergence and disappearance of a cloud is the emblem of a transitory universe issuing forth and disappearing, again to be succeeded by other universes, other like creations in the long lapse of time. [Sidenote: As to the soul--a part of the divinity.] (3.) Of the nature of the soul. From the material quality assigned to the soul by the early Ionian schools, as that it was air, fire, or the like, there was a gradual passage to the opinion of its immateriality. To this, precision was given by the assertion that it had not only an affinity with, but even is a part of God. Whatever were the views entertained of the nature and attributes of the Supreme Being, they directly influenced the conclusions arrived at respecting the nature of the soul. [Sidenote: Its immortality and final absorption.] Greek philosophy, in its highest state of development, regarded the soul as something more than the sum of the moments of thinking. It held it to be a portion of the Deity himself. This doctrine is the necessary corollary of Pantheism. It contemplated a past eternity, a future immortality. It entered on such inquiries as whether the number of souls in the universe is constant. As upon the foregoing point, so upon this: there was a complete analogy between the decision arrived at in Grecian and that in Indian philosophy. Thus the latter says, "I am myself an irradiated manifestation of the supreme BRAHM." "Never was there a time in which I was not, nor thou, nor these princes of the people, and never shall I not be; henceforth we all are." Viewing the soul as merely a spectator and stranger in this world, they regarded it as occupying itself rather in contemplation than in action, asserting that in its origin it is an immediate emanation from the Divinity--not a modification nor a transformation of the Supreme, but a portion of him; "its relation is not that of a servant to his master, but of a part to the whole." It is like a spark separated from a flame; it migrates from body to body, sometimes found in the higher, then in the lower, and again in the higher tribes of life, occupying first one, then another body, as circumstances demand. And, as a drop of water pursues a devious career in the cloud, in the rain, in the river, a part of a plant, or a part of an animal, but sooner or later inevitably finds its way back to the sea from which it came, so the soul, however various its fortunes may have been, sinks back at last into the divinity from which it emanated. Both Greeks and Hindus turned their attention to the delusive phenomena of the world. Among the latter many figuratively supposed that what we call visible nature is a mere illusion befalling the soul, because of its temporary separation from God. In the Buddhist philosophy the world is thus held to be a creature of the imagination. But among some in those ancient, as among others in more modern times, it was looked upon as having a more substantial condition, and the soul as a passive mirror in which things reflected themselves, or perhaps it might, to some extent, be the partial creator of its own forms. However that may be, its final destiny is a perfect repose after its absorption in the Supreme. [Sidenote: Illustration of the nature of the soul.] On this third topic of ancient philosophy an illustration may not be without use. As a bubble floats upon the sea, and, by reason of its form, reflects whatever objects may be present, whether the clouds in the sky, or the stationary and moving things on the shore, nay, even to a certain extent depicts the sea itself on which it floats, and from which it arose, offering these various forms not only in shapes resembling the truth in the proper order of light and shade, the proper perspective, the proper colours, but, in addition thereto, tincturing them all with a play of hues arising from itself, so it is with the soul. From a boundless and unfathomable sea the bubble arose. It does not in any respect differ in nature from its source. From water it came, and mere water it ever is. It gathers its qualities, so far as external things are concerned, only from its form, and from the environment in which it is placed. As the circumstances to which it is exposed vary, it floats here and there, merging into other bubbles it meets, and emerging from the collected foam again. In such migrations it is now larger, now smaller; at one moment passing into new shapes, at another lost in a coalescence with those around it. But whatever these its migrations, these its vicissitudes, there awaits it an inevitable destiny, an absorption, a re-incorporation with the ocean. In that final moment, what is it that is lost? what is it that has come to an end? Not the essential substance, for water it was before it was developed, water it was during its existence, and water it still remains, ready to be re-expanded. Nor does the resemblance fail when we consider the general functions discharged while the bubble maintained its form. In it were depicted in their true shapes and relative magnitudes surrounding things. It hence had a relation to Space. And, if it was in motion, it reflected in succession the diverse objects as they passed by. Through such successive representations it maintained a relation to Time. Moreover, it imparted to the images it thus produced a coloration of its own, and in all this was an emblem of the Soul. For Space and Time are the outward conditions with which it is concerned, and it adds thereto abstract ideas, the product of its own nature. [Sidenote: Its continued existence--its Nirwana.] But when the bubble bursts there is an end of all these relations. No longer is there any reflection of external forms, no longer any motion, no longer any innate qualities to add. In one respect the bubble is annihilated, in another it still exists. It has returned to that infinite expanse in comparison with which it is altogether insignificant and imperceptible. Transitory, and yet eternal: transitory, since all its relations of a special and individual kind have come to an end; eternal in a double sense--the sense of Platonism--since it was connected with a past of which there was no beginning, and continues in a future to which there is no end. [Sidenote: As to the criterion of truth--sense-delusions.] (4.) Of the possibility of a criterion of truth. An absolute criterion of truth must at once accredit itself, as well as other things. At a very early period in philosophy the senses were detected as being altogether untrustworthy. On numberless occasions, instead of accrediting, they discredit themselves. A stick, having a spark of fire at one end, gives rise to the appearance of a circle of light when it is turned round quickly. The rainbow seems to be an actually existing arch until the delusion is detected by our going to the place over which it seems to rest. Nor is it alone as respects things for which there is an exterior basis or foundation, such as the spark of fire in one of these cases, and the drops of water in the other. Each of our organs of sense can palm off delusions of the most purely fictitious kind. The eye may present apparitions as distinct as the realities among which they place themselves; the ear may annoy us with the continual repetition of a murmuring sound, or parts of a musical strain, or articulate voices, though we well know that it is all a delusion; and in like manner, in their proper way, in times of health, and especially in those of sickness, will the other senses of taste, and touch, and smell practise upon us their deceptions. This being the case, how shall we know that any information derived from such unfaithful sources is true? Pythagoras rendered a great service in telling us to remember that we have within ourselves a means of detecting fallacy and demonstrating truth. What is it that assures us of the unreality of the fiery circle, the rainbow, the spectre, the voices, the crawling of insects upon the skin? Is it not reason? To reason may we not then trust? [Sidenote: Uncertainties in philosophizing.] With such facts before us, what a crowd of inquiries at once presses upon our attention--inquiries which even in modern times have occupied the thoughts of the greatest metaphysicians. Shall we begin our studies by examining sensations or by examining ideas? Shall we say with Descartes that all clear ideas are true? Shall we inquire with Spinoza whether we have any ideas independent of experience? With Hobbes, shall we say that all our thoughts are begotten by and are the representatives of objects exterior to us; that our conceptions arise in material motions pressing on our organs, producing motion in them, and so affecting the mind; that our sensations do not correspond with outward qualities; that sound and noise belong to the bell and the air, and not to the mind, and, like colour, are only agitations occasioned by the object in the brain; that imagination is a conception gradually dying away after the act of sense, and is nothing more than a decaying sensation; that memory is the vestige of former impressions, enduring for a time; that forgetfulness is the obliteration of such vestiges; that the succession of thought is not indifferent, at random, or voluntary, but that thought follows thought in a determinate and predestined sequence; that whatever we imagine is finite, and hence we cannot conceive of the infinite, nor think of anything not subject to sense? Shall we say with Locke that there are two sources of our ideas, sensation and reflection; that the mind cannot know things directly, but only through ideas? Shall we suggest with Leibnitz that reflection is nothing more than attention to what is passing in the mind, and that between the mind and the body there is a sympathetic synchronism? With Berkeley shall we assert that there is no other reason for inferring the existence of matter itself than the necessity of having some synthesis for its attributes; that the objects of knowledge are ideas and nothing else; and that the mind is active in sensation? Shall we listen to the demonstration of Hume, that, if matter be an unreal fiction, the mind is not less so, since it is no more than a succession of impressions and ideas; that our belief in causation is only the consequence of habit; and that we have better proof that night is the cause of day, than of thousands of other cases in which we persuade ourselves that we know the right relation of cause and effect; that from habit alone we believe the future will resemble the past? Shall we infer with Condillac that memory is only transformed sensation, and comparison double attention; that every idea for which we cannot find an exterior object is destitute of significance; that our innate ideas come by development, and that reasoning and running are learned together. With Kant shall we conclude that there is but one source of knowledge, the union of the object and the subject--but two elements thereof, space and time; and that they are forms of sensibility, space being a form of internal sensibility, and time both of internal and external, but neither of them having any objective reality; and that the world is not known to us as it is, but only as it appears? [Sidenote: Remarks on the criterion.] I admit the truth of the remark of Posidonius that a man might as well be content to die as to cease philosophizing; for, if there are contradictions in philosophy, there are quite as many in life. In the light of this remark, I shall therefore not hesitate to offer a few suggestions respecting the criterion of human knowledge, undiscouraged by the fact that so many of the ablest men have turned their attention to it. In this there might seem to be presumption, were it not that the advance of the sciences, and especially of human physiology has brought us to a more elevated point of view, and enabled us to see the state of things much more distinctly than was possible for our predecessors. [Sidenote: Defective information of the old philosophy.] [Sidenote: Necessity of a more general conception as to man.] [Sidenote: The whole cycle must be included,] [Sidenote: and also his race connexions.] I think that the inability of ancient philosophers to furnish a true solution of this problem was altogether owing to the imperfect, and, indeed, erroneous idea they had of the position of man. They gave too much weight to his personal individuality. In the mature period of his life they regarded him as isolated, independent, and complete in himself. They forgot that this is only a momentary phase in his existence, which, commencing from small beginnings, exhibits a continuous expansion or progress. From a single cell, scarcely more than a step above the inorganic state, not differing, as we may infer both from the appearance it offers and the forms through which it runs in the earlier stages of life, from the cell out of which any other animal or plant, even the humblest, is derived, a passage is made through form after form in a manner absolutely depending upon surrounding physical conditions. The history is very long, and the forms are very numerous, between the first appearance of the primitive trace and the hoary aspect of seventy years. It is not correct to take one moment in this long procession and make it a representative of the whole. It is not correct to say, even if the body of the mature man undergoes unceasing changes to an extent implying the reception, incorporation, and dismissal of nearly a ton and a half of material in the course of a year, that in this flux of matter there is not only a permanence of form, but, what is of infinitely more importance, an unchangeableness in his intellectual powers. It is not correct to say this; indeed, it is wholly untrue. The intellectual principle passes forward in a career as clearly marked as that in which the body runs. Even if we overlook the time antecedent to birth, how complete is the imbecility of his early days! The light shines upon his eyes, he sees not; sounds fall upon his ear, he hears not. From these low beginnings we might describe the successive re-enforcements through infancy, childhood, and youth to maturity. And what is the result to which all this carries us? Is it not that, in the philosophical contemplation of man, we are constrained to reject the idea of personality, of individuality, and to adopt that of a cycle of progress; to abandon all contemplation of his mere substantial form, and consider his abstract relation? All organic forms, if compared together and examined from one common point of view, are found to be constructed upon an identical scheme. It is as in some mathematical expression containing constants and variables; the actual result changes accordingly as we assign successively different values to the variables, yet in those different results, no matter how numerous they may be, the original formula always exists. From such a universal conception of the condition and career of man, we rise at once to the apprehension of his relations to others like himself--that is to say, his relations as a member of society. We perceive, in this light, that society must run a course the counterpart of that we have traced for the individual, and that the appearance of isolation presented by the individual is altogether illusory. Each individual man drew his life from another, and to another man he gives rise, losing, in point of fact, his aspect of individuality when these his race connexions are considered. One epoch in life is not all life. The mature individual cannot be disentangled from the multitudinous forms through which he has passed; and, considering the nature of his primitive conception and the issue of his reproduction, man cannot be separated from his race. By the aid of these views of the nature and relationship of man, we can come to a decision respecting his possession of a criterion of truth. In the earliest moments of his existence he can neither feel nor think, and the universe is to him as though it did not exist. Considering the progress of his sensational powers--his sight, hearing, touch, etc.--these, as his cycle advances to its maximum, become, by nature or by education, more and more perfect; but never, at the best, as the ancient philosophers well knew, are they trustworthy. And so of his intellectual powers. They, too, begin in feebleness and gradually expand. The mind alone is no more to be relied on than the organs of sense alone. If any doubt existed on this point, the study of the phenomena of dreaming is sufficient to remove it, for dreaming manifests to us how wavering and unsteady is the mind in its operations when it is detached from the solid support of the organs of sense. How true is the remark of Philo the Jew, that the mind is like the eye; for, though it may see all other objects, it cannot see itself, and therefore cannot judge of itself. And thus we may conclude that neither are the senses to be trusted alone, nor is the mind to be trusted alone. In the conjoint action of the two, by reason of the mutual checks established, a far higher degree of certainty is attained to, yet even in this, the utmost vouchsafed to the individual, there is not, as both Greeks and Indians ascertained, an absolute sureness. It was the knowledge of this which extorted from them so many melancholy complaints, which threw them into an intellectual despair, and made them, by applying the sad determination to which they had come to the course of their daily life, sink down into indifference and infidelity. But yet there is something more in reserve for man. Let him cast off the clog of individuality, and remember that he has race connexions--connexions which, in this matter of a criterion of truth, indefinitely increase his chances of certainty. If he looks with contempt on the opinions of his childhood, with little consideration on those of his youth, with distrust on those of his manhood, what will he say about the opinions of his race? Do not such considerations teach us that, through all these successive conditions, the criterion of truth is ever advancing in precision and power, and that its maximum is found in the unanimous opinion of the whole human race? [Sidenote: Though no absolute criterion exists, a practical one does.] [Sidenote: The maximum of certainty in the human race.] Upon these principles I believe that, though we have not philosophically speaking, any absolute criterion of truth, we rise by degrees to higher and higher certainties along an ascending scale which becomes more and more exact. I think that metaphysical writers who have treated of this point have been led into error from an imperfect conception of the true position of man; they have limited their thoughts to a single epoch of his course, and have not taken an enlarged and philosophical view. In thus declining the Oriental doctrine that the individual is the centre from which the universe should be regarded, and transferring our stand-point to a more comprehensive and solid foundation, we imitate, in metaphysics, the course of astronomy when it substituted the heliocentric for the geocentric point of view, and the change promises to be equally fertile in sure results. If it were worth while, we might proceed to enforce this doctrine by an appeal to the experience of ordinary life. How often, when we distrust our own judgment, do we seek support in the advice of a friend. How strong is our persuasion that we are in the right when public opinion is with us. For this even the Church has not disdained to call together Councils, aiming thereby at a surer means of arriving at the truth. The Council is more trustworthy than an individual, whoever he may be. The probabilities increase with the number of consenting intellects, and hence I come to the conclusion that in the unanimous consent of the entire human race lies the human criterion of truth--a criterion, in its turn, capable of increased precision with the diffusion of enlightenment and knowledge. For this reason, I do not look upon the prospects of humanity in so cheerless a light as they did of old. On the contrary, ever thing seems full of hope. Good auguries may be drawn for philosophy from the great mechanical and material inventions which multiply the means of intercommunication, and, it may be said, annihilate terrestrial distances. In the intellectual collisions that must ensue, in the melting down of opinions, in the examinations and analyses of nations, truth will come forth. Whatever cannot stand that ordeal must submit to its fate. Lies and imposture, no matter how powerfully sustained, must prepare to depart. In that supreme tribunal man may place implicit confidence. Even though, philosophically, it is far from absolute, it is the highest criterion vouchsafed to him, and from its decision he has no appeal. In delivering thus emphatically my own views on this profound topic perhaps I do wrong. It is becoming to speak with humility on that which has been glorified by the great writers of Greece, of India, of Alexandria, and, in later times, of Europe. [Sidenote: Complete analogy between Greek and Indian process of thought.] In conclusion, I would remark that the view here presented of the results of Greek philosophy is that which offers itself to me after a long and careful study of the subject. It is, however, the affirmative, not the negative result; for we must not forget that if, on the one hand, the pantheistic doctrines of the Nature of God, Universal Animation, the theory of Emanation, Transmutation, Absorption, Transmigration, etc., were adopted, on the other there was by no means an insignificant tendency to atheism and utter infidelity. Even of this negative state a corresponding condition occurred in the Buddhism of India, of which I have previously spoken; and, indeed, so complete is the parallel between the course of mental evolution in Asia and Europe, that it is difficult to designate a matter of minor detail in the philosophy of the one which cannot be pointed out in that of the other. It was not without reason, therefore, that the Alexandrian philosophers, who were profoundly initiated in the detail of both systems, came to the conclusion that such surprising coincidences could only be accounted for upon the admission that there had been an ancient revelation, the vestiges of which had descended to their time. In this, however, they judged erroneously; the true explanation consisting in the fact that the process of development of the intellect of man, and the final results to which he arrives in examining similar problems, are in all countries the same. [Sidenote: Variation of practical application explained.] It does not fall within my plan to trace the application of these philosophical principles to practice in daily life, yet the subject is of such boundless interest that perhaps the reader will excuse a single paragraph. It may seem to superficial observation that, whatever might be the doctrinal resemblances of these philosophies, their application was very different. In a general way, it may be asserted that the same doctrines which in India led to the inculcation of indifference and quietism, led to Stoic activity in Greece and Italy. If the occasion permitted, I could, nevertheless, demonstrate in this apparent divergence an actual coincidence; for the mode of life of man is chiefly determined by geographical conditions, his instinctive disposition to activity increasing with the latitude in which he lives. Under the equinoctial line he has no disposition for exertion, his physiological relations with the climate making quietism most agreeable to him. The philosophical formula which, in the hot plains of India, finds its issue in a life of tranquillity and repose, will be interpreted in the more bracing air of Europe by a life of activity. Thus, in later ages, the monk of Africa, willingly persuading himself that any intervention to improve Nature is a revolt against the providence of God, spent his worthless life in weaving baskets and mats, or in solitary meditation in the caves of the desert of Thebais; but the monk of Europe encountered the labours of agriculture and social activity, and thereby aided, in no insignificant manner, in the civilization of England, France, and Germany. These things, duly considered, lead to the conclusion that human life, in its diversities, is dependent upon and determined by primary conditions in all countries and climates essentially the same. CHAPTER VIII. DIGRESSION ON THE HISTORY AND PHILOSOPHICAL INFLUENCES OF ROME. PREPARATION FOR RESUMING THE EXAMINATION OF THE INTELLECTUAL PROGRESS OF EUROPE. _Religious Ideas of the primitive Europeans.--The Form of their Variations is determined by the Influence of Rome.--Necessity of Roman History in these Investigations._ _Rise and Development of Roman Power, its successive Phases, territorial Acquisitions.--Becomes Supreme in the Mediterranean.--Consequent Demoralization of Italy.--Irresistible Concentration of Power.--Development of Imperialism.--Eventual Extinction of the true Roman Race._ _Effect on the intellectual, religious, and social Condition of the Mediterranean Countries.--Produces homogeneous Thought.--Imperialism prepares the Way for Monotheism.--Momentous Transition of the Roman World in its religious Ideas._ _Opinions of the Roman Philosophers.--Coalescence of the new and old Ideas.--Seizure of Power by the Illiterate, and consequent Debasement of Christianity in Rome._ [Sidenote: Transition from Greece to Europe.] From the exposition of the intellectual progress of Greece given in the preceding pages, we now turn, agreeably to the plan laid down, to an examination of that of all Europe. The movement in that single nation is typical of the movement of the entire continent. [Sidenote: European age of Inquiry.] The first European intellectual age--that of Credulity--has already, in part, been considered in Chapter II., more especially so far as Greece is concerned. I propose now, after some necessary remarks in conclusion of that topic, to enter on the description of the second European age--that of Inquiry. For these remarks, what has already been said of Greece prepares the way. Mediterranean Europe was philosophically and socially in advance of the central and northern countries. The wave of civilization passed from the south to the north; in truth, it has hardly yet reached its extreme limit. The adventurous emigrants who in remote times had come from Asia left to the successive generations of their descendants a legacy of hardship. In the struggle for life, all memory of an Oriental parentage was lost; knowledge died away; religious ideas became debased; and the diverse populations sank into the same intellectual condition that they would have presented had they been proper autochthons of the soil. [Sidenote: Religion of the old Europeans.] The religion of the barbarian Europeans was in many respects like that of the American Indians. They recognized a Great Spirit--omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent. In the earliest times they made no representation of him under the human form, nor had they temples; but they propitiated him by sacrifices, offering animals, as the horse, and even men, upon rude altars. Though it was believed that this Great Spirit might sometimes be heard in the sounds of the forests at night, yet, for the most part, he was too far removed from human supplication, and hence arose, from the mere sorcerous ideas of a terrified fancy, as has been the case in so many other countries, star worship--the second stage of comparative theology. The gloom and shade of dense forests, a solitude that offers an air of sanctity, and seems a fitting resort for mysterious spirits, suggested the establishment of sacred groves and holy trees. Throughout Europe there was a confused idea that the soul exists after the death of the body; as to its particular state there was a diversity of belief. As among other people, also, the offices of religion were not only directed to the present benefit of individuals, but also to the discovery of future events by various processes of divination and augury practised among the priests. [Sidenote: Their priesthood,] Although the priests had thus charge of the religious rites, they do not seem to have been organized in such a manner as to be able to act with unanimity or to pursue a steady system of policy. A class of female religious officials--prophetesses--joined in the ceremonials. These holy women, who were held in very great esteem, prepared the way for the reception of Mariolatry. Instead of temples--rock-altars, cromlechs, and other rustic structures were used among the Celtic nations by the Druids, who were at the same time priests, magicians, and medicine-men. Their religious doctrines, which recall in many particulars those of the Rig-Veda, were perpetuated from generation to generation by the aid of songs. [Sidenote: and objects of adoration.] [Sidenote: Influence of Roman Christianity upon them.] The essential features of this system were its purely local form and its want of a well-organized hierarchy. Even the Celts offer no exception, though they had a subordination from the Arch-Druid downward. This was the reason of the weakness of the old faith and eventually the cause of its fall. When the German nations migrated to the south in their warlike expeditions, they left behind them their consecrated groves and sacred oaks, hallowed by immemorial ages. These objects the devotee could not carry with him, and no equivalent substitute could be obtained for them. In the civilized countries to which they came they met with a very different state of things; a priesthood thoroughly organized and modelled according to the ancient Roman political system; its objects of reverence tied to no particular locality; its institutions capable of universal action; its sacred writings easy of transportation anywhere; its emblems moveable to all countries--the cross on the standards of its armies, the crucifix on the bosom of its saints. In the midst of the noble architecture of Italy and the splendid remains of those Romans who had once given laws to the world, in the midst of a worship distinguished by the magnificence of its ceremonial and the solemnity of its mysteries, they found a people whose faith taught them to regard the present life as offering only a transitory occupation, and not for a moment to be weighed against the eternal existence hereafter--an existence very different from that of the base transmigration of Druidism or the Drunken Paradise of Woden, where the brave solace themselves with mead from cups made of the skulls of their enemies killed in their days upon earth. [Sidenote: Importance of Roman history in this investigation.] The European age of inquiry is therefore essentially connected with Roman affairs. It is distinguished by the religious direction it took. In place of the dogmas of rival philosophical schools, we have now to deal with the tenets of conflicting sects. The whole history of those unhappy times displays the organizing and practical spirit characteristic of Rome. Greek democracy, tending to the decomposition of things, led to the Sophists and Sceptics. Roman imperialism, ever constructive, sought to bring unity out of discords, and draw the line between orthodoxy and heresy by the authority of councils like that of Nicea. Following the ideas of St. Augustine in his work, "The City of God," I adopt, as the most convenient termination of this age, the sack of Rome by Alaric. This makes it overlap the age of Faith, which had, as its unmistakable beginning, the foundation of Constantinople. Greek intellectual life displays all its phases completely, but not so was it with that of the Romans, who came to an untimely end. They were men of violence, who disappeared in consequence of their own conquests and crimes. The consumption of them by war bore, however, an insignificant proportion to that fatal diminution, that mortal adulteration occasioned by their merging in the vast mass of humanity with which they came in contact. [Sidenote: Great difficulty of treating it.] I approach the consideration of Roman affairs, which is thus the next portion of my task, with no little diffidence. It is hard to rise to a point of view sufficiently elevated and clear, where the extent of dominion is so great geographically, and the reasons of policy are obscured by the dimness and clouds of so many centuries. Living in a social state the origin of which is in the events now to be examined, our mental vision can hardly free itself from the illusions of historical perspective, or bring things into their just proportions and position. Of a thousand acts, all of surpassing interest and importance, how shall we identify the master ones? How shall we discern with correctness the true relation of the parts of this wonderful phenomenon of empire, the vanishing events of which glide like dissolving views into each other? Warned by the example of those who have permitted the shadows of their own imagination to fall upon the scene, and have mistaken them for a part of it, I shall endeavour to apply the test of common sense to the facts of which it will be necessary to treat; and, believing that man has ever been the same in his modes of thought and motives of action, I shall judge of past occurrences in the same way as of those of our own times. [Sidenote: Triple form of Roman power.] In its entire form the Roman power consists of two theocracies, with a military domination intercalated. The first of these theocracies corresponds to the fabulous period of the kings; the military domination to the time of the republic and earlier Cæsars; the second theocracy to that of the Christian emperors and the Popes. [Sidenote: The first theocracy and legendary times.] [Sidenote: Early Roman history.] The first theocracy is so enveloped in legends and fictions that it is impossible to give a satisfactory account of it. The biographies of the kings offer such undeniable evidence of being mere romances, that, since the time of Niebuhr, they have been received by historians in that light. But during the reigns of the pagan emperors it was not safe in Rome to insinuate publicly any disbelief in such honoured legends as those of the wolf that suckled the foundlings; the ascent of Romulus into heaven; the nymph Egeria; the duel of the Horatii and Curiatii; the leaping of Curtius into the gulf on his horse; the cutting of a flint with a razor by Tarquin; the Sibyl and her books. The modern historian has, therefore, only very little reliable material. He may admit that the Romans and Sabines coalesced; that they conquered the Albans and Latins; that thousands of the latter were transplanted to Mount Aventine and made plebeians; these movements being the origin of the castes which long afflicted Rome, the vanquished people constituting a subordinate class; that at first the chief occupation was agriculture, the nature of which is not only to accustom men to the gradations of rank, such as the proprietor of the land, the overseer, the labourer, but also to the cultivation of religious sentiment, and even the cherishing of superstition; that, besides the more honourable occupations in which the rising state was engaged, she had, from the beginning, indulged in aggressive war, and was therefore perpetually liable to reprisal--one of her first acts was the founding of the town of Ostia, at the mouth of the Tiber, on account of piracy; that, through some conspiracy in the army, indicated in the legend of Lucretia, since armies have often been known to do such things, the kings were expelled, and a military domination fancifully called a republic, but consisting of a league of some powerful families, arose. Throughout the regal times, and far into the republican, the chief domestic incidents turn on the strife of the upper caste or patricians with the lower or plebeians, manifesting itself by the latter asserting their right to a share in the lands conquered by their valour; by the extortion of the Valerian law; by the admission of the Latins and Hernicans to conditions of equality; by the transference of the election of tribunes from the centuries to the tribes; by the repeal of the law prohibiting the marriage of plebeians with patricians and by the eventual concession to the former of the offices of consul, dictator, censor, and prætor. [Sidenote: The domestic necessity for foreign war.] In these domestic disputes we see the origin of the Roman necessity for war. The high caste is steadily diminishing in number, the low caste as steadily increasing. In imperious pride, the patrician fills his private jail with debtors and delinquents; he usurps the lands that have been conquered. Insurrection is the inevitable consequence, foreign war the only relief. As the circle of operations extends, both parties see their interest in a cordial coalescence on equal terms, and jointly tyrannize exteriorly. [Sidenote: Gradual spread of Roman influence to the south.] [Sidenote: Rome builds a navy,] [Sidenote: and invades Africa.] [Sidenote: Results of the first Punic War.] [Sidenote: Results of the second Punic War.] [Sidenote: Rome invades Greece,] [Sidenote: and compels the cession of all the European provinces of Antiochus.] [Sidenote: Revolt of Perses.] [Sidenote: Dreadful social effects on Rome.] [Sidenote: Plunder of Greece and annexation of Spain.] [Sidenote: Seizure of Asia Minor.] [Sidenote: The Servile and Social wars.] [Sidenote: Gradual convergence of power.] [Sidenote: Cæsar the master of the world.] The geographical dominion of Rome was extended at first with infinite difficulty. Up to the time of the capture of the city by the Gauls a doubtful existence was maintained in perpetual struggles with the adjacent towns and chieftains. There is reason to believe that in the very infancy of the republic, in the contest that ensued upon the expulsion of the kings, the city was taken by Porsenna. The direction in which her influence first spread was toward the south of the peninsula. Tarentum, one of the southern states, brought over to its assistance Pyrrhus the Epirot. He did little in the way of assisting his allies--he only saw Rome from the Acropolis of Præneste; but from him the Romans learned the art of fortifying camps, and caught the idea of invading Sicily. Here the rising republic came in contact with the Carthaginians, and in the conflict that ensued discovered the military value of Spain and Gaul, from which the Carthaginians drew an immense supply of mercenaries and munitions of war. The advance to greatness which Rome now made was prodigious. She saw that everything turned on the possession of the sea, and with admirable energy built a navy. In this her expectations were more than realized. The assertion is quite true that she spent more time in acquiring a little earth in Italy than was necessary for subduing the world after she had once obtained possession of the Mediterranean. From the experience of Agathocles she learned that the true method of controlling Carthage was by invading Africa. The principles involved in the contest, and the position of Rome at its close, are shown by the terms of the treaty of the first Punic War--that Carthage should evacuate every island in the Mediterranean, and pay a war-fine of six hundred thousand pounds. In her devotion to the acquisition of wealth Carthage had become very rich; she had reached a high state of cultivation of art; yet her prosperity, or rather the mode by which she had attained it, had greatly weakened her, as also had the political anomaly under which she was living, for it is an anomaly that an Asiatic people should place itself under democratic forms. Her condition in this respect was evidently the consequence of her original subordinate position as a Tyrian trading station, her rich men having long been habituated to look to the mother city for distinction. As in other commercial states, her citizens became soldiers with reluctance, and hence she had often to rely on mercenary troops. From her the Romans received lessons of the utmost importance. She confirmed them in the estimate they had formed of the value of naval power; taught them how to build ships properly and handle them; how to make military roads. The tribes of Northern Italy were hardly included in the circle of Roman dominion when a fleet was built in the Adriatic, and, under the pretence of putting down piracy, the sea power of the Illyrians was extinguished. From time immemorial the Mediterranean had been infested with pirates; man-stealing had been a profitable occupation, great gains being realized by ransoms of captives, or by selling them at Delos or other slave-markets. At this time it was clear that the final mastery of the Mediterranean turned on the possession of Spain, the great silver-producing country. The rivalry for Spain occasioned the second Punic War. It is needless to repeat the well-known story of Hannibal, how he brought Rome to the brink of ruin. The relations she maintained with surrounding communities had been such that she could not trust to them. Her enemy found allies in many of the Greek towns in the south of Italy. It is enough for us to look at the result of that conflict in the treaty that closed it. Carthage had to give up all her ships of war except ten triremes, to bind herself to enter into no war without the consent of the Roman people, and to pay a war-fine of two millions of pounds. Rome now entered, on the great scale, on the policy of disorganizing states for the purpose of weakening them. Under pretext of an invitation from the Athenians to protect them from the King of Macedon, the ambitious republic secured a footing in Greece, the principle developed in the invasion of Africa of making war maintain war being again resorted to. There may have been truth in the Roman accusation that the intrigues of Hannibal with Antiochus, king of Syria, occasioned the conflict between Rome and that monarch. Its issue was a prodigious event in the material aggrandizement of Rome--it was the cession of all his possessions in Europe and those of Asia north of Mount Taurus, with a war-fine of three millions of pounds. Already were seen the effects of the wealth that was pouring into Italy in the embezzlement of the public money by the Scipios. The resistance of Perses, king of Macedon, could not restore independence to Greece; it ended in the annexation of that country, Epirus and Illyricum. The results of this war were to the last degree pernicious to the victors and the vanquished; the moral greatness of the former is truly affirmed to have disappeared, and the social ruin of the latter was so complete that for long marriage was replaced by concubinage. The policy and practices of Rome now literally became infernal; she forced a quarrel upon her old antagonist Carthage, and the third Punic War resulted in the utter destruction of that city. Simultaneously her oppressions in Greece provoked revolt, which was ended by the sack and burning of Corinth, Thebes, Chalcis, and the transference of the plundered statues, paintings, and works of art to Italy. There was nothing now in the way of the conquest of Spain except the valour of its inhabitants. After the assassination of Viriatus, procured by the Consul Cæpio, and the horrible siege of Numantia, that country was annexed as a province. Next we see the gigantic republic extending itself over the richest parts of Asia Minor, through the insane bequest of Attalus, king of Pergamus. The wealth of Africa, Spain, Greece, and Asia, was now concentrating in Italy, and the capital was becoming absolutely demoralized. In vain the Gracchi attempted to apply a remedy. The Roman aristocracy was intoxicated, insatiate, irresistible. The middle class was gone; there was nothing but profligate nobles and a diabolical populace. In the midst of inconceivable corruption, the Jugurthine War served only to postpone for a moment an explosion which was inevitable. The Servile rebellion in Sicily broke out; it was closed by the extermination of a million of those unhappy wretches: vast numbers of them were exposed, for the popular amusement, to the wild beasts in the arena. It was followed closely by the revolt of the Italian allies, known as the Social War--this ending, after the destruction of half a million of men, with a better result, in the extortion of the freedom of the city by several of the revolting states. Doubtless it was the intrigues connected with these transactions that brought the Cimbri and Teutons into Italy, and furnished an opening for the rivalries of Marius and Sylla, who, in turn, filled Rome with slaughter. The same spirit broke out under the gladiator Spartacus: it was only checked for a time by resorting to the most awful atrocities, such as the crucifixion of prisoners, to appear under another form in the conspiracy of Catiline. And now it was plain that the contest for supreme power lay between a few leading men. It found an issue in the first triumvirate--a union of Pompey, Crassus, and Cæsar, who usurped the whole power of the senate and people, and bound themselves by oath to permit nothing to be done without their unanimous consent. Affairs then passed through their inevitable course. The death of Crassus and the battle of Pharsalia left Cæsar the master of the world. At this moment nothing could have prevented the inevitable result. The dagger of Brutus merely removed a man, but it left the fact. The battle of Actium reaffirmed the destiny of Rome, and the death of the republic was illustrated by the annexation of Egypt. The circle of conquest around the Mediterranean was complete; the function of the republic was discharged: it did not pass away prematurely. [Sidenote: Ancient necessity for slave-wars.] From this statement of the geographical career of Rome, we may turn to reflect on the political principles which inspired her. From a remote antiquity wars had been engaged in for the purpose of obtaining a supply of labour, the conqueror compelling those whom he had spared to cultivate his fields and serve him as slaves. Under a system of transitory military domination, it was more expedient to exhaust a people at once by the most unsparing plunder than to be content with a tribute periodically paid, but necessarily uncertain in the vicissitudes of years. These elementary principles of the policy of antiquity were included by the Romans in their system with modifications and improvements. [Sidenote: Depopulation of countries after Roman conquest.] [Sidenote: Atrocity of the Roman slave-laws.] [Sidenote: Social effects of the Roman slave-system.] The republic, during its whole career, illustrates the observation that the system on which it was founded included no conception of the actual relations of man. It dealt with him as a thing, not as a being endowed with inalienable rights. Recognizing power as its only measure of value, it could never accept the principle of the equality of all men in the eye of the law. The subjugation of Sicily, Africa, Greece, was quickly followed by the depopulation of those countries, as Livy, Plutarch, Strabo, and Polybius testify. Can there be a more fearful instance than the conduct of Paulus �milius, who, at the conquest of Epirus, murdered or carried into slavery 150,000 persons? At the taking of Thebes whole families were thus disposed of, and these not of the lower, but of the respectable kind, of whom it has been significantly said that they were transported into Italy to be melted down. In Italy itself the consumption of life was so great that there was no possibility of the slaves by birth meeting the requirement, and the supply of others by war became necessary. To these slaves the laws were atrociously unjust. Tacitus has recorded that on the occasion of the murder of Pedanius, after a solemn debate in the senate, the particulars of which he furnishes, the ancient laws were enforced, and four hundred slaves of the deceased were put to death, when it was obvious to every one that scarcely any of them had known of the crime. The horrible maxim that not only the slaves within a house in which a master was murdered, but even those within a circle supposed to be measured by the reach of his voice, should be put to death, shows us the small value of the life of these unfortunates, and the facility with which they could be replaced. Their vast numbers necessarily made every citizen a soldier; the culture of the land and the manufacturing processes, the pursuits of labour and industry, were assigned to them with contempt. The relation of the slave in such a social system is significantly shown by the fact that the courts estimated the amount of any injury he had received by the damage his master had thereby sustained. To such a degree had this system been developed, that slave labour was actually cheaper than animal labour, and, as a consequence, much of the work that we perform by cattle was then done by men. The class of independent hirelings, which should have constituted the chief strength of the country, disappeared, labour itself becoming so ignoble that the poor citizen could not be an artisan, but must remain a pauper--a sturdy beggar, expecting from the state bread and amusements. The personal uncleanness and shiftless condition of these lower classes were the true causes of the prevalence of leprosy and other loathsome diseases. Attempts at sanitary improvement were repeatedly made, but they so imperfectly answered the purpose that epidemics, occurring from time to time, produced a dreadful mortality. Even under the Cæsars, after all that had been done, there was no essential amendment. The assertion is true that the Old World never recovered from the great plague in the time of M. Antoninus, brought by the army from the Parthian War. In the reign of Titus ten thousand persons died in one day in Rome. The slave system bred that thorough contempt for trade which animated the Romans. They never grudged even the Carthaginians a market. It threw them into the occupation of the demagogue, making them spend their lives, when not engaged in war, in the intrigues of political factions, the turbulence of public elections, the excitement of lawsuits. They were the first to discover that the privilege of interpreting laws is nearly equal to that of making them; and to this has been rightly attributed their turn for jurisprudence, and the prosperity of advocates among them. The disappearance of the hireling class was the immediate cause of the downfall of the republic and the institution of the empire, for the aristocracy were left without any antagonist, and therefore without any restraint. They broke up into factions, involving the country in civil war by their struggles with each other for power. [Sidenote: The war system.] The political maxims of the republic, for the most part, rejected the ancient system of devastating a vanquished state by an instant, unsparing, and crushing plunder, which may answer very well where the tenure is expected to be brief, but does not accord with the formula subdue, retain, advance. Yet depopulation was the necessary incident. Italy, Sicily, Asia Minor, Gaul, Germany, were full of people, but they greatly diminished under Roman occupation. Her maxims were capable of being realized with facility through her military organization, particularly that of the legion. In some nations colonies are founded for commercial purposes, in others for getting rid of an excess of population: the Roman colony implies the idea of a garrison and an active military intent. Each legion was, in fact, so constructed as to be a small but complete army. In whatever country it might be encamped, it was in quick communication with the head-quarters at Rome; and this not metaphorically, but materially, as was shown by the building of the necessary military roads. The idea of permanent occupation, which was thus implied, did not admit the expediency of devastating a country, but, on the contrary, led to the encouragement of provincial prosperity, because the greater the riches the greater the capacity for taxation. Such principles were in harmony with the conditions of solidity and security of the Roman power, which proverbially had not risen in a single day--was not the creation of a single fortunate soldier, but represented the settled policy of many centuries. In the act of conquest Rome was inhuman; she tried to strike a blow that there would never be any occasion to repeat; no one was spared who by possibility might inconvenience her; but, the catastrophe once over, as a general thing, the vanquished had no occasion to complain of her rule. Of course, in the shadow of public justice, private wrong and oppression were often concealed. Through injustice and extortion, her officers accumulated enormous fortunes, which have never since been equalled in Europe. Sometimes the like occurred in times of public violence; thus Brutus made Asia Minor pay five years' tribute at once, and shortly after Antony compelled it to do it again. The extent to which recognized and legitimate exactions were carried is shown by the fact that upon the institution of the empire the annual revenues were about forty millions of pounds sterling. [Sidenote: Value of gold and silver.] The comparative value of metals in Rome is a significant political indication. Bullion rapidly increased in amount during the Carthaginian wars. At the opening of the first Punic War silver and copper were as 1 to 960; at the second Punic War the ratio had fallen, and was 1 to 160; soon after there was another fall, and it became 1 to 128. The republic debased the coinage by reducing its weight, the empire by alloying it. [Sidenote: Connexion between debasement of coinage and political decline.] The science, art, and political condition of nations are often illustrated by their coinage. An interesting view of the progress of Europe might be obtained from a philosophical study of its numismatic remains. The simplicity of the earlier ages is indicated by the pure silver, such as that coined at Crotona, B.C. 600--that of the reign of Philip of Macedon by the native unalloyed gold. A gradual decline in Roman prosperity is more than shadowed forth by the gradual deterioration of its money; for, as evil times befell the state, the emperors were compelled to utter a false coinage. Thus, under Vespasian, A.D. 69, the silver money contained about one fourth of its weight of copper; under Antoninus Pius, A.D. 138, more than one third; under Commodus, A.D. 180, nearly one half; under Gordian, A.D. 236, there was added to the silver more than twice its weight of copper. Nay, under Gallienus, a coinage was issued of copper, tin and silver, in which the first two metals exceed the last by more than two hundred times its weight. It shows to what a hopeless condition the state had come. The Roman demagogues, as is the instinct of their kind, made political capital by attacking industrial capital. They lowered the rate of interest, prohibited interest, and often attempted the abolition of debts. [Sidenote: Indescribable depravity in the Roman decline.] [Sidenote: Dissoluteness of the women, and avoidance of marriage.] The concentration of power and increase of immorality proceeded with an equal step. In its earlier ages, the Roman dominion was exercised by a few thousand persons; then it passed into the hands of some score families; then it was sustained for a moment by individuals, and at last was seized by one man, who became the master of 120 millions. As the process went on, the virtues which had adorned the earlier times disappeared, and in the end were replaced by crimes such as the world had never before witnessed and never will again. An evil day is approaching when it becomes recognized in a community that the only standard of social distinction is wealth. That day was soon followed in Rome by its unavoidable consequence, a government founded upon two domestic elements, corruption and terrorism. No language can describe the state of that capital after the civil wars. The accumulation of power and wealth gave rise to a universal depravity. Law ceased to be of any value. A suitor must deposit a bribe before a trial could be had. The social fabric was a festering mass of rottenness. The people had become a populace; the aristocracy was demoniac; the city was a hell. No crime that the annals of human wickedness can show was left unperpetrated--remorseless murders; the betrayal of parents, husbands, wives, friends; poisoning reduced to a system; adultery degenerating into incests, and crimes that cannot be written. Women of the higher class were so lascivious, depraved, and dangerous, that men could not be compelled to contract matrimony with them; marriage was displaced by concubinage; even virgins were guilty of inconceivable immodesties; great officers of state and ladies of the court, of promiscuous bathings and naked exhibitions. In the time of Cæsar it had become necessary for the government to interfere, and actually put a premium on marriage. He gave rewards to women who had many children; prohibited those who were under forty-five years of age, and who had no children, from wearing jewels and riding in litters, hoping by such social disabilities to correct the evil. It went on from bad to worse, so that Augustus, in view of the general avoidance of legal marriage and resort to concubinage with slaves, was compelled to impose penalties on the unmarried--to enact that they should not inherit by will except from relations. Not that the Roman women refrained from the gratification of their desires; their depravity impelled them to such wicked practices as cannot be named in a modern book. They actually reckoned the years, not by the consuls, but by the men they had lived with. To be childless, and therefore without the natural restraint of a family, was looked upon as a singular felicity. Plutarch correctly touched the point when he said that the Romans married to be heirs and not to have heirs. Of offences that do not rise to the dignity of atrocity, but which excite our loathing, such as gluttony and the most debauched luxury, the annals of the times furnish disgusting proofs. It was said, "They eat that they may vomit, and vomit that they may eat." At the taking of Perusium, three hundred of the most distinguished citizens were solemnly sacrificed at the altar of Divus Julius by Octavian! Are these the deeds of civilized men, or the riotings of cannibals drunk with blood? [Sidenote: The whole system is past cure.] The higher classes on all sides exhibited a total extinction of moral principle; the lower were practical atheists. Who can peruse the annals of the emperors without being shocked at the manner in which men died, meeting their fate with the obtuse tranquillity that characterizes beasts? A centurion with a private mandate appears, and forthwith the victim opens his veins and dies in a warm bath. At the best, all that was done was to strike at the tyrant. Men despairingly acknowledged that the system itself was utterly past cure. [Sidenote: Testimony of Tacitus.] That in these statements I do not exaggerate, hear what Tacitus says: "The holy ceremonies of religion were violated; adultery reigning without control; the adjacent islands filled with exiles; rocks and desert places stained with clandestine murders, and Rome itself a theatre of horrors, where nobility of descent and splendour of fortune marked men out for destruction; where the vigour of mind that aimed at civil dignities, and the modesty that declined them, were offences without distinction; where virtue was a crime that led to certain ruin; where the guilt of informers and the wages of their iniquity were alike detestable; where the sacerdotal order, the consular dignity, the government of provinces, and even the cabinet of the prince, were seized by that execrable race as their lawful prey; where nothing was sacred, nothing safe from the hand of rapacity; where slaves were suborned, or by their own malevolence excited against their masters; where freemen betrayed their patrons, and he who had lived without an enemy died by the treachery of a friend." [Sidenote: Effects in the provinces. Free trade.] [Sidenote: Intellectual advancements.] But, though these were the consequences of the concentration of power and wealth in the city of Rome, it was otherwise in the expanse of the empire. The effect of Roman domination was the cessation of all the little wars that had heretofore been waged between adjacent peoples. They exchanged independence for peace. Moreover, and this, in the end, was of the utmost importance to them all, unrestricted commerce ensued, direct trade arising between all parts of the empire. The Mediterranean nations were brought closer to each other, and became common inheritors of such knowledge as was then in the world. Arts, sciences, improved agriculture, spread among them; the most distant countries could boast of noble roads, aqueducts, bridges, and great works of engineering. In barbarous places, the legions that were intended as garrisons proved to be foci of civilization. For the provinces, even the wickedness of Rome was not without some good. From one quarter corn had to be brought; from another, clothing; from another, luxuries; and Italy had to pay for it all in coin. She had nothing to export in return. By this there was a tendency to equalization of wealth in all parts of the empire, and a perpetual movement of money. Nor was the advantage altogether material; there were conjoined intellectual results of no little value. Superstition and the amazing credulity of the old times disappeared. In the first Punic War, Africa was looked upon as a land of monsters; it had serpents large enough to stop armies, it had headless men. Sicily had its Cyclops, giants, enchantresses; golden apples grew in Spain; the mouth of Hell was on the shores of the Euxine. The marches of the legions and the voyages of merchants made all these phantasms vanish. [Sidenote: Disappearance of the Roman ethnical element.] It was the necessary consequence of her military aggrandizement that the ethnical element which really constituted Rome should expire. A small nucleus of men had undertaken to conquer the Mediterranean world, and had succeeded. In doing this they had diffused themselves over an immense geographical surface, and necessarily became lost in the mass with which they mingled. On the other hand, the deterioration of Italy was insured by the slave system, and the ruin of Rome was accomplished before the barbarians touched it. Whoever inquires the cause of the fall of the Roman empire will find his answer in ascertaining what had become of the Romans. [Sidenote: Roman conquest produces homogeneous thought,] The extinction of prodigies and superstitious legends was occasioned by increased travel, through the merging of many separate nations into one great empire. Intellectual communication attends material communication. The spread of Roman influence around the borders of the Mediterranean produced a tendency to homogeneous thought eminently dangerous to the many forms of faith professed by so many different people. [Sidenote: and revolutionizes religious ideas.] After Tarquin was expelled the sacerdotal class became altogether subordinate to the military, whose whole history shows that they regarded religion as a mere state institution, without any kind of philosophical significance, and chiefly to be valued for the control it furnished over vulgar minds. It presented itself to them in the light of a branch of industry, from which profit might be made by those who practised it. They thought no more of concerning themselves individually about it than in taking an interest in any other branch of lucrative trade. As to any examination of its intellectual basis, they were not sophists, but soldiers, blindly following the prescribed institutions of their country with as little question as its military commands. For these reasons, throughout the time of the republic, and also under the early emperors, there never was much reluctance to the domestication of any kind of worship in Rome. Indeed, the gods of the conquered countries were established there to the gratification of the national vanity. From this commingling of worship in the city, and intercommunication of ideas in the provinces, the most important events arose. [Sidenote: Imperialism prepares the way for monotheism.] For it very soon was apparent that the political unity which had been established over so great a geographical surface was the forerunner of intellectual, and therefore religious unity. Polytheism became practically inconsistent with the Roman empire, and a tendency arose for the introduction of some form of monotheism. Apart from the operations of Reason, it is clear that the recognition by so many nations of one emperor must soon be followed by the acknowledgment of one God. There is a disposition to uniformity among people who are associated by a common political bond. Moreover, the rivalries of a hundred priesthoods imparted to polytheism an intrinsic weakness; but monotheism implies centralization, an organized hierarchy, and therefore concentration of power. The different interests and collisions of multitudinous forms of religion sapped individual faith; a diffusion of practical atheism, manifested by a total indifference to all ceremonies, except so far as they were shows, was the result, the whole community falling into an unbelieving and godless state. The form of superstition through which the national mind had passed was essentially founded upon the recognition of an incessant intervention of many divinities determining human affairs; but such a faith became extinct by degrees among the educated. How was it possible that human reason should deal otherwise with all the contradictions and absurdities of a thousand indigenous and imported deities, each asserting his inconsistent pretensions. A god who in his native grove or temple has been paramount and unquestioned, sinks into insignificance when he is brought into a crowd of compeers. In this respect there is no difference between gods and men. Great cities are great levellers of both. He who has stood forth in undue proportions in the solitude of the country, sinks out of observation in the solitude of a crowd. [Sidenote: Roman philosophy.] [Sidenote: Varro. Lucretius.] [Sidenote: Cicero.] The most superficial statement of philosophy among the Romans, if philosophy it can be called, shows us how completely religious sentiment was effaced. The presence of sceptical thought is seen in the explanations of Terentius Varro, B.C. 110, that the anthropomorphic gods are to be received as mere emblems of the forces of matter; and the general tendency of the times may be gathered from the poem of Lucretius: his recommendations that the mind should be emancipated from the fear of the gods; his arguments against the immortality of the soul; his setting forth Nature as the only God to be worshipped. In Cicero we see how feeble and wavering a guide to life in a period of trouble philosophy had become, and how one who wished to stand in the attitude of chief thinker of his times was no more than a servile copyist of Grecian predecessors, giving to his works not an air of masculine and independent thought, but aiming at present effect rather than a solid durability; for Cicero addresses himself more to the public than to philosophers, exhibiting herein his professional tendency as an advocate. Under a thin veil he hides an undisguised scepticism, and, with the instinct of a placeman, leans rather to the investigation of public concerns than to the profound and abstract topics of philosophy. As is the case with superficial men, he sees no difference between the speculative and the exact, confusing them together. He feels that it is inexpedient to communicate truth publicly, especially that of a religious kind. Doubtless herein we shall agree when we find that he believes God to be nothing more than the soul of the world; discovers many serious objections to the doctrine of Providence; insinuates that the gods are only poetical creations; is uncertain whether the soul be immortal, but is clear that popular doctrine of punishment in the world to come is only an idle fable. [Sidenote: Quintus Sextius. Seneca.] [Sidenote: Epictetus. Antoninus.] [Sidenote: Maximus Tyrius]. [Sidenote: Alexander of Aphrodisias.] It was the attribute of the Romans to impress upon every thing a practical character. In their philosophy we continually see this displayed, along with a striking inferiority in original thought. Quintus Sextius admonishes us to pursue a virtuous life, and, as an aid thereto, enjoins an abstinence from meat. In this opinion many of the Cynical school acquiesced, and some it is said, even joined the Brahmans. In the troublous times of the first Cæsars, men had occasion to derive all the support they could from philosophy; there was no religion to sustain them. Among the Stoics there were some, as Seneca, to whom we can look back with pleasure. Through his writings he exercised a considerable influence on subsequent ages, though, when we attentively read his works, we must attribute this not so much to their intrinsic value as to their happening to coincide with the prevalent tone of religious thought. He enforces the necessity of a cultivation of good morals, and yet he writes against the religion of his country, its observances, and requirements. Of a far higher grade was Epictetus, at once a slave and a philosopher, though scarcely to be classed as a true Stoic. He considers man as a mere spectator of God and his works, and teaches that every one who can no longer bear the miseries of life is upon just deliberation, and a conscientious belief that the gods will not disapprove, free to commit suicide. His maxim is that all have a part to play, and he has done well who has done his best--that he must look to conscience as his guide. If Seneca said that time alone is our absolute and only possession, and that nothing else belongs to man, Epictetus taught that his thoughts are all that man has any power over, every thing else being beyond his control. M. Aurelius Antoninus, the emperor, did not hesitate to acknowledge his thankfulness to Epictetus, the slave, in his attempt to guide his life according to the principles of the Stoics. He recommends every man to preserve his dæmon free from sin, and prefers religious devotions to the researches of physics, in this departing to some extent from the original doctrines of the sect; but the evil times on which men had fallen led them to seek support in religious consolations rather than in philosophical inquiries. In Maximus Tyrius, A.D. 146, we discover a corresponding sentiment, enveloped, it is true, in an air of Platonism, and countenancing an impression that image worship and sanctuaries are unnecessary for those who have a lively remembrance of the view they once enjoyed of the divine, though excellent for the vulgar, who have forgotten their past. Alexander of Aphrodisias exhibits the tendency, which was becoming very prevalent, to combine Plato and Aristotle. He treats upon Providence, both absolute and contingent; considers its bearings upon religion, and shows a disposition to cultivate the pious feelings of the age. [Sidenote: Ancient Physicians.] Galen, the physician, asserts that experience is the only source of knowledge; lays great stress on the culture of mathematics and logic, observing that he himself should have been a Pyrrhonist had it not been for geometry. In the teleological doctrine of physiology he considers that the foundations of a true theology must be laid. The physicians of the times exerted no little influence on the promotion of such views; for the most part they embraced the Pantheistic doctrine. As one of them, Sextus Empiricus may be mentioned; his works, still remaining, indicate to us the tendency of this school to materialism. [Sidenote: Philosophical atheism among the educated.] Such was the tone of thought among the cultivated Romans; and to this philosophical atheism among them was added an atheism of indifference among the vulgar. But, since man is so constituted that he cannot live for any length of time without a form of worship, it is evident that there was great danger, whenever events should be ripe for the appearance of some monotheistic idea, that it might come in a base aspect. At a much later period than that we are here considering, one of the emperors expressed himself to the effect that it would be necessary to give liberty for the exercise of a sound philosophy among the higher classes, and provide a gorgeous ceremonial for the lower; he saw how difficult it is, by mere statesmanship to co-ordinate two such requirements, in their very nature contradictory. Though polytheism had lost all intellectual strength, the nations who had so recently parted with it could not be expected to have ceased from all disposition to an animalization of religion and corporealization of God. In a certain sense the emperor was only a more remote and more majestic form of the conquered and vanished kings, but, like them, he was a man. There was danger that the theological system, thus changing with the political, would yield only expanded anthropomorphic conceptions. [Sidenote: Principles, to be effective, must coincide with existing tendencies.] History perpetually demonstrates that nations cannot be permanently modified except by principles or actions conspiring with their existing tendency. Violence perpetrated upon them may pass away, leaving, perhaps in a few generations, no vestige of itself. Even Victory is conquered by Time. Profound changes only ensue when the operating force is in unison with the temper of the age. International peace among so many people once in conflict--peace under the auspices of a great overshadowing power; the unity of sentiment and brotherhood of feeling fast finding its way around the Mediterranean shores; the interests of a vast growing commerce, unfettered through the absorption of so many little kingdoms into one great republic, were silently bringing things to a condition that political force could be given to any religious dogma founded upon sentiments of mutual regard and interest. Nor could it be otherwise than that among the great soldiers of those times one would at last arise whose practical intellect would discover the personal advantages that must accrue from putting himself in relation with the universally prevailing idea. How could he better find adherents from the centre to the remotest corner of the empire? And, even if his own personal intellectual state should disable him from accepting in its fulness the special form in which the idea had become embodied, could there be any doubt, if he received it, and was true to it as a politician, though he might decline it as a man, of the immense power it would yield him in return--a power sufficient, if the metropolis should resist, or be otherwise unsuited to his designs, to enable him to found a rival to her in a more congenial place, and leave her to herself, "the skeleton of so much glory and of so much guilt." [Sidenote: The coming Monotheism must be bounded by the limits of Roman influence.] Thus, after the event, we can plainly see that the final blow to Polytheism was the suppression of the ancient independent nationalities around the Mediterranean Sea; and that, in like manner, Monotheism was the result of the establishment of an imperial government in Rome. But the great statesmen of those times, who were at the general point of view, must have foreseen that, in whatever form the expected change came, its limits of definition would inevitably be those of the empire itself, and that wherever the language of Rome was understood the religion of Rome would prevail. In the course of ages, an expansion beyond those limits might ensue wherever the state of things was congenial. On the south, beyond the mere verge of Africa, nothing was to be hoped for--it is the country in which man lives in degradation and is happy. On the east there were great unsubdued and untouched monarchies, having their own types of civilization, and experiencing no want in a religious respect. But on the north there were nations who, though they were plunged in hideous barbarism, filthy in an equal degree in body and mind, polygamists, idolaters, drunkards out of their enemies' skulls, were yet capable of an illustrious career. For these there was a glorious participation in store. [Sidenote: The new ideas coalesce with the old.] Except the death of a nation, there is no event in human history more profoundly solemn than the passing away of an ancient religion, though religious ideas are transitory, and creeds succeed one another with a periodicity determined by the law of continuous variation of human thought. The intellectual epoch at which we have now arrived has for its essential characteristic such a change--the abandonment of a time-honoured but obsolete system, the acceptance of a new and living one; and, in the incipient stages, opinion succeeding opinion in a well-marked way, until at length, after a few centuries of fusion and solution, there crystallized on the remnant of Roman power, as on a nucleus, a definite form, which, slowly modifying itself into the Papacy, served the purposes of Europe for more than a thousand years throughout its age of Faith. [Sidenote: Conduct of the Roman educated men at this period.] In this abandonment, the personal conduct of the educated classes very powerfully assisted. They outwardly conformed to the ceremonial of the times, reserving their higher doctrines to themselves, as something beyond vulgar comprehension. Considering themselves as an intellectual aristocracy, they stood aloof, and, with an ill-concealed smile, consented to the transparent folly around them. It had come to an evil state when authors like Polybius and Strabo apologized to their compeers for the traditions and legends they ostensibly accepted, on the ground that it is inconvenient and needless to give popular offence, and that those who are children in understanding must, like those who are children in age, be kept in order by bugbears. It had come to an evil state when the awful ceremonial of former times had degenerated into a pageant, played off by an infidel priesthood and unbelieving aristocracy; when oracles were becoming mute, because they could no longer withstand the sly wit of the initiated; when the miracles of the ancients were regarded as mere lies, and of contemporaries as feats of legerdemain. It had come to an evil pass when even statesmen received it as a maxim that when the people have advanced in intellectual culture to a certain point, the sacerdotal class must either deceive them or oppress them, if it means to keep its power. [Sidenote: Religious condition of the intellectual classes in Rome.] In Rome, at the time of Augustus, the intellectual classes--philosophers and statesmen--had completely emerged from the ancient modes of thought. To them, the national legends, so jealously guarded by the populace, had become mere fictions. The miraculous conception of Rhea Sylvia by the god Mars, an event from which their ancestors had deduced with pride the celestial origin of the founder of their city, had dwindled into a myth; as a source of actual reliance and trust, the intercession of Venus, that emblem of female loveliness, with the father of the gods in behalf of her human favourites, was abandoned; the Sibylline books, once believed to contain all that was necessary for the prosperity of the republic, were suspected of an origin more sinister than celestial; nor were insinuations wanting that from time to time they had been tampered with to suit the expediency of passing interests, or even that the true ones were lost and forgeries put in their stead. The Greek mythology was to them, as it is to us, an object of reverence, not because of any inherent truth, but because of the exquisite embodiments it can yield in poetry, in painting, in marble. The existence of those illustrious men who, on account of their useful lives or excellent example, had, by the pious ages of old, been sanctified or even deified, was denied, or, if admitted, they were regarded as the exaggerations of dark and barbarous times. It was thus with �sculapius, Bacchus, and Hercules. And as to the various forms of worship, the multitude of sects into which the pagan nations were broken up offered themselves as a spectacle of imbecile and inconsistent devotion altogether unworthy of attention, except so far as they might be of use to the interests of the state. [Sidenote: Their irresolution.] Such was the position of things among the educated. In one sense they had passed into liberty, in another they were in bondage. Their indisposition to encounter those inflictions with which their illiterate contemporaries might visit them may seem to us surprizing: they acted as if they thought that the public was a wild beast that would bite if awakened too abruptly from its dream; but their pusillanimity, at the most, could only postpone for a little an inevitable day. The ignorant classes, whom they had so much feared, awoke in due season spontaneously, and saw in the clear light how matters stood. [Sidenote: Surrender of affairs in the illiterate classes,] [Sidenote: and consequent debasement of Christianity in Rome.] Of the Roman emperors there were some whose intellectual endowments were of the highest kind; yet, though it must have been plain to them, as to all who turned their attention to the matter, in what direction society was drifting, they let things take their course, and no one lifted a finger to guide. It may be said that the genius of Rome manifested itself rather in physical than in intellectual operations; but in her best days it was never the genius of Rome to abandon great events to freedmen, eunuchs, and slaves. By such it was that the ancient gods were politically cast aside, while the government was speciously yielding a simulated obedience to them, and hence it was not at all surprizing that, soon after the introduction of Christianity, its pure doctrines were debased by a commingling with ceremonies of the departing creed. It was not to be expected that the popular mind could spontaneously extricate itself from the vicious circle in which it was involved. Nothing but philosophy was competent to deliver it, and philosophy failed of its duty at the critical moment. The classical scholar need scarcely express his surprize that the Feriæ Augusti were continued in the Church as the Festival St. Petri in Vinculis; that even to our own times an image of the holy Virgin was carried to the river in the same manner as in the old times was that of Cybele, and that many pagan rites still continue to be observed in Rome. Had it been in such incidental particulars only that the vestiges of paganism were preserved, the thing would have been of little moment; but, as all who have examined the subject very well know, the evil was far more general, far more profound. When it was announced to the Ephesians that the Council of that place, headed by Cyril, had decreed that the Virgin should be called "the Mother of God," with tears of joy they embraced the knees of their bishop; it was the old instinct peeping out; their ancestors would have done the same for Diana. If Trajan, after ten centuries, could have revisited Rome, he would, without difficulty, have recognized the drama, though the actors and scenery had all changed; he would have reflected how great a mistake had been committed in the legislation of his reign, and how much better it is, when the intellectual basis of a religion is gone, for a wise government to abstain from all compulsion in behalf of what has become untenable, and to throw itself into the new movement so as to shape the career by assuming the lead. Philosophy is useless when misapplied in support of things which common sense has begun to reject; she shares in the discredit which is attaching to them. The opportunity of rendering herself of service to humanity once lost, ages may elapse before it occurs again. Ignorance and low interests seize the moment, and fasten a burden on man, which the struggles of a thousand years may not suffice to cast off. Of all the duties of an enlightened government, this of allying itself with Philosophy in the critical moment in which society is passing through so serious a metamorphosis of its opinions as is involved in the casting off of its ancient investiture of Faith, and its assumption of a new one, is the most important, for it stands connected with things that outlast all temporal concerns. CHAPTER IX. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF INQUIRY. THE PROGRESSIVE VARIATION OF OPINIONS CLOSED BY THE INSTITUTION OF COUNCILS AND THE CONCENTRATION OF POWER IN A PONTIFF. RISE, EARLY VARIATIONS, CONFLICTS, AND FINAL ESTABLISHMENT OF CHRISTIANITY. _Rise of Christianity.--Distinguished from ecclesiastical Organization.--It is demanded by the deplorable Condition of the Empire.--Its brief Conflict with Paganism.--Character of its first Organization.--Variations of Thought and Rise of Sects: their essential Difference in the East and West.--The three primitive Forms of Christianity: the Judaic Form, its End--the Gnostic Form, its End--the African Form, continues._ _Spread of Christianity from Syria.--Its Antagonism to Imperialism; their Conflicts.--Position of Affairs under Diocletian.--The Policy of Constantine.--He avails himself of the Christian Party, and through it attains supreme Power.--His personal Relations to it._ _The Trinitarian Controversy.--Story of Arius.--The Council of Nicea._ _The Progress of the Bishop of Rome to Supremacy.--The Roman Church; its primitive subordinate Position.--Causes of its increasing Wealth, Influence, and Corruptions.--Stages of its Advancement through the Pelagian, Nestorian, and Eutychian Disputes.--Rivalry of the Bishops of Constantinople, Alexandria, and Rome._ _Necessity of a Pontiff in the West and ecclesiastical Councils in the East.--Nature of those Councils and of pontifical Power._ _The Period closes at the Capture and Sack of Rome by Alaric.--Defence of that Event by St. Augustine.--Criticism on his Writings._ _Character of the Progress of Thought through this Period.--Destiny of the three great Bishops._ [Sidenote: Subject of the chapter.] From the decay of Polytheism and the decline of philosophy, from the moral and social disorganization of the Roman empire, I have now to turn to the most important of all events, the rise of Christianity. I have to show how a variation of opinion proceeded and reached its culmination; how it was closed by the establishment of a criterion of truth, under the form of ecclesiastical councils, and a system developed which supplied the intellectual wants of Europe for nearly a thousand years. [Sidenote: Introduction to the study of Christianity.] The reader, to whom I have thus offered a representation of the state of Roman affairs, must now prepare to look at the consequences thereof. Together we must trace out the progress of Christianity, examine the adaptation of its cardinal principles to the wants of the empire, and the variations it exhibited--a task supremely difficult, for even sincerity and truth will sometimes offend. For my part, it is my intention to speak with veneration on this great topic, and yet with liberty, for freedom of thought and expression is to me the first of all earthly things. [Sidenote: Distinction between Christianity and ecclesiastical organizations.] But, that I may not be misunderstood, I here, at the outset, emphatically distinguish between Christianity and ecclesiastical organizations. The former is the gift of God; the latter are the product of human exigencies and human invention, and therefore open to criticism, or, if need be, to condemnation. [Sidenote: Moral state of the world at this period.] From the condition of the Roman empire may be indicated the principles of any new system adapted to its amelioration. In the reign of Augustus, violence paused only because it had finished its work. Faith was dead; morality had disappeared. Around the shores of the Mediterranean the conquered nations looked at one another--partakers of a common misfortune, associates in a common lot. Not one of them had found a god to help her in her day of need. Europe, Asia, and Africa were tranquil, but it was the silence of despair. [Sidenote: Unpitying tyranny of Rome.] Rome never considered man as an individual, but only as a thing. Her way to political greatness was pursued utterly regardless of human suffering. If advantages accrued to the conquered under her dominion, they arose altogether from incident, and never from her purposed intent. She was no self-conscious, deliberate civilizer. Conquest and rapine, the uniform aim of her actions, never permitted her, even at her utmost intellectual development, to comprehend the equal rights of all men in the eye of the law. Unpitying in her stern policy, few were the occasions when, for high state reasons, she stayed her uplifted hand. She might in the wantonness of her power, stoop to mercy; she never rose to benevolence. [Sidenote: Prepares the way for the recognition of the equality of all men.] When Syria was paying one third of its annual produce in taxes, is it surprising that the Jewish peasant sighed for a deliverer, and eagerly listened to the traditions of his nation that a temporal Messiah, "a king of the Jews" would soon come? When there was announced the equality of all men before God, "who maketh his sun to shine on the good and the evil, and sendeth his rain on the just and the unjust," is it surprising that men looked for equal rights before the law? Universal equality means universal benevolence; it substitutes for the impersonal and easily-eluded commands of the state the dictates of an ever-present conscience; it accepts the injunction, "Do unto others as you would they should do to you." [Sidenote: Attitude of Paganism.] In the spread of a doctrine two things are concerned--its own intrinsic nature, and the condition of him on whom it is intended to act. The spread of Christianity is not difficult to be understood. Its antagonist, Paganism, presented inherent weakness, infidelity, and a cheerless prospect; a system, if that can be called so, which had no ruling idea, no principles, no organization; caring nothing for proselytes; its rival pontiffs devoted to many gods, but forming no political combination; occupying themselves with directing public worship and foretelling future events, but not interfering in domestic life; giving itself no concern for the lowly and unfortunate; not recognizing, or, at the best, doubtfully admitting a future life; limiting the hopes and destiny of man to this world; teaching that temporal prosperity may be selfishly gained at any cost, and looking to suicide as the relief of the brave from misfortune. [Sidenote: Attitude of Christianity.] On the other side was Christianity, with its enthusiasm and burning faith; its rewards in this life, and everlasting happiness or damnation in the next; the precise doctrines it by degrees gathered of sin, repentance, pardon; the efficacy of the blood of the Son of God; its proselytizing spirit; its vivid dogmas of a resurrection from the dead, the approaching end of the world, the judgment-day. Above all, in a worldly point of view, the incomparable organization it soon attained, and its preaching in season and out of season. To the needy Christian the charities of the faithful were freely given; to the desolate, sympathy. In every congregation there were prayers to God that he would listen to the sighing of the prisoner and captive, and have mercy on those who were ready to die. For the slave and his master there was one law and one hope, one baptism, one Saviour, one Judge. In times of domestic bereavement the Christian slave doubtless often consoled his pagan mistress with the suggestion that our present separations are only for a little while, and revealed to her willing ear that there is another world--a land in which we rejoin our dead. How is it possible to arrest the spread of a faith which can make the broken heart leap with joy? [Sidenote: Its first organization.] At its first organization Christianity embodied itself in a form of communism, the merging of the property of the disciples into a common stock, from which the necessary provision for the needy was made. Such a system, carried out rigorously, is, however, only suited to small numbers and a brief period. In its very nature it is impracticable on a great scale. Scarcely had it been resorted to before such troubles as that connected with the question of the Hebrew and Greek widows showed that it must be modified. By this relief or maintenance out of the funds of the Church, the spread of the faith among the humbler classes was greatly facilitated. In warm climates, where the necessities of life are small, an apparently insignificant sum will accomplish much in this way. But, as wealth accumulated, besides this inducement for the poor, there were temptations for the ambitious: luxurious appointments and a splendid maintenance, the ecclesiastical dignitaries becoming more than rivals to those of the state. [Sidenote: Gradual sectarian divergences.] From the modification which the primitive organization thus underwent, we may draw the instructive conclusion that the special forms of embodiment which the Christian principle from time to time has assumed, and of which many might be mentioned, were, in reality, of only secondary importance. The sects of the early ages have so totally died away that we hardly recall the meaning of their names, or determine their essential dogmas. From fasting, penance, and the gift of money, things which are of precise measurement, and therefore well suited to intellectual infancy, there may be perceived an advancing orthodoxy up to the highest metaphysical ideas. Yet it must not be supposed that new observances and doctrines, as they emerged, were the disconnected inventions of ambitious men. If rightly considered, they are, in the aggregate, the product of the uniform progression of human opinions. [Sidenote: Early variation of opinions.] [Sidenote: Eastern theology tends to Divinity,] [Sidenote: Western to Humanity.] Authors who have treated of the sects of earlier times will point out to the curious reader how, in the beginning, the Church was agitated by a lingering attachment to the Hebrew rites, and with difficulty tore itself away from Judaism, which for the first ten years was paramount in it; how then, for several centuries, it became engrossed with disputes respecting the nature of Christ, and creed after creed arose therefrom; to the Ebionites he was a mere man; to the Docetes, a phantasm; to the Jewish Gnostic, Cerinthus, possessed of a twofold nature; how, after the spread of Christianity, in succeeding ages, all over the empire, the intellectual peculiarities of the East and West were visibly impressed upon it--the East filled with speculative doctrines, of which the most important were those brought forward by the Platonists of Alexandria, for the Platonists, of all Philosophical sects, furnished most converts; the West, in accordance with its utilitarian genius, which esteems the practical and disparages the intellectual, singularly aided by propitious opportunity, occupying itself with material aggrandizement and territorial power. The vanishing point of all Christian sectarian ideas of the East was in God, of those of the West in Man. Herein consists the essential difference between them. The one was rich in doctrines respecting the nature of the Divinity, the other abounded in regulations for the improvement and consolation of humanity. For long there was a tolerance, and even liberality toward differences of opinion. Until the Council of Nicea, no one was accounted a heretic if only he professed his belief in the Apostles' Creed. [Sidenote: Foreign modifications of Christianity.] A very astute ecclesiastical historian, referring to the early contaminations of Christianity, makes this remark: "A clear and unpolluted fountain fed by secret channels with the dew of Heaven, when it grows a large river, and takes a long and winding course, receives a tincture from the various soils through which it passes." Thus influenced by circumstances, the primitive modifications of Christianity were three--Judaic Christianity, Gnostic Christianity, African Christianity. [Sidenote: Judaic Christianity.] Of these, the first consisted of contaminations from Judaism, from which true Christianity disentangled itself with extreme difficulty, at the cost of dissensions among the Apostles themselves. From the purely Hebrew point of view of the early disciples, who surrendered with reluctance their expectation that the Saviour was the long-looked-for temporal Messiah, the King of the Jews, under which name he suffered, the faith gradually expanded, including successively proselytes of the Gate, the surrounding Gentiles, and at last the whole world, irrespective of nation, climate, or colour. With this truly imperial extension, there came into view the essential doctrines on which it was based. But Judaic Christianity, properly speaking, soon came to an untimely end. It was unable to maintain itself against the powerful apostolic influences in the bosom of the Church, and the violent pressure exerted by the unbelieving Jews, who exhibited toward it an inflexible hatred. Moreover, the rapid advance of the new doctrines through Asia Minor and Greece offered a tempting field for enthusiasm. The first preachers in the Roman empire were Jews; for the first years circumcision and conformity to the law of Moses were insisted on; but the first council determined that point, at Jerusalem, probably about A.D. 49, in the negative. The organization of the Church, originally modelled upon that of the Synagogue, was changed. In the beginning the creed and the rites were simple; it was only necessary to profess belief in the Lord Jesus Christ, and baptism marked the admission of the convert into the community of the faithful. James, the brother of our Lord, as might, from his relationship, be expected, occupied the position of headship in the Church. The names of the bishops of the church of Jerusalem, as given by Eusebius, succeed to James, the brother of Christ, in the following order: Simeon, Justus, Zaccheus, Tobias, Benjamin, John, Matthew, Philip, Simeon, Justus, Levi, Ephraim, Joseph, and Judas. The names are indicative of the nationality. It was the boast of this Church that it was not corrupted with any heresy until the last Jewish bishop, a boast which must be received with some limitation, for very early we find traces of two distinct parties in Jerusalem--those who received the account of the miraculous conception and those who did not. The Ebionites, who were desirous of tracing our Saviour's lineage up to David, did so according to the genealogy given in the Gospel of St. Mathew, and therefore they would not accept what was said respecting the miraculous conception, affirming that it was apocryphal, and in obvious contradiction to the genealogy in which our Saviour's line was traced up through Joseph, who, it would thus appear, was not his father. They are to be considered as the national or patriotic party. [Sidenote: Causes of the arrest of Jewish conversion.] Two causes seem to have been concerned in arresting the spread of conversion among the Jews: the first was their disappointment as respects the temporal power of the Messiah; the second, the prominence eventually given to the doctrine of the Trinity. Their jealousy of anything that might touch the national doctrine of the unity of God became almost a fanaticism. Judaic Christianity may be said to have virtually ended with the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans; its last trace, however, was the dispute respecting Easter, which was terminated by the Council of Nicea. The conversion of the Jews had ceased before the reign of Constantine. [Sidenote: Gnostic Christianity.] The second form, Gnostic Christianity, had reached its full development within a century after the death of Christ; it maintained an active influence through the first four centuries, and gave birth, during that time, to many different subordinate sects. It consisted essentially in ingrafting Christianity upon Magianism. It made the Saviour an emanated intelligence, derived from the eternal, self-existing mind; this intelligence, and not the Man-Jesus, was the Christ, who thus, being an impassive phantom, afforded to Gnosticism no idea of an expiatory sacrifice, none of an atonement. It was arrested by the reappearance of pure Magianism in the Persian empire under Ardeschir Babhegan; not, however, without communicating to orthodox Christianity an impression far more profound than is commonly supposed, and one of which indelible traces may be perceived in our day. [Sidenote: Platonic Christianity.] The third form, African or Platonic Christianity, arose in Alexandria. Here was the focus of those fatal disputes respecting the Trinity, a word which does not occur in the Holy Scriptures, and which, it appears, had been first introduced by Theophilus, the Bishop of Antioch, the seventh from the apostles. In the time of Hadrian, Christianity had become diffused all over Egypt, and had found among the Platonizing philosophers of the metropolis many converts. These men modified the Gnostic idea to suit their own doctrines, asserting that the principle from which the universe originated was something emitted from the Supreme Mind, and capable of being drawn into it again, as they supposed was the case with a ray and the sun. This ray, they affirmed, was permanently attached to our Saviour, and hence he might be considered as God. Thus, therefore, there were in his person three parts, a body, a soul, and the logos; hence he was both God and man. But, as a ray is inferior to the sun, it seemed to follow that the Christ must be inferior to the Father. [Sidenote: The Logos.] In all this it is evident that there is something transcendental, and the Platonizing Christians, following the habit of the Greek philosophers, considered it as a mysterious doctrine; they spoke of it as "meat for strong men," but the popular current doctrine was "milk for babes." Justin Martyr, A.D. 132, who had been a Platonic philosopher, believed that the divine ray, after it was attached to Christ, was never withdrawn from him, and never separated from its source. He offers two illustrations of his idea. As speech (logos), going forth from one man, enters into another, conveying to him meaning, while the same meaning remains in the person who speaks, thus the logos of the Father continues unimpaired in himself, though imparted to the Christ; or, as from one lamp another may be lighted without any loss of splendour, so the divinity of the Father is transferred to the Son. This last illustration subsequently became very popular, and was adopted into the Nicene Creed. "God of God, Light of Light." It is obvious that the intention of this reasoning was to preserve intact, the doctrine of the unity of God, for the great body of Christians were at this time monarchists, the word being used in its theological acceptation. [Sidenote: Permanence of Alexandrian ideas.] Thus the Jewish and Gnostic forms both died out, but the African, Platonic, or Alexandrian, was destined to be perpetuated. The manner in which this occurred, can only be understood by a study of the political history of the times. To such facts as are needful for the purpose, I shall therefore with brevity allude. [Sidenote: Spread of Christianity from Syria.] [Sidenote: Modifications of organization become necessary.] [Sidenote: Becomes antagonistic to Imperialism.] [Sidenote: Persecution consolidates it.] From its birthplace in Judea, Christianity advanced to the conquest of the Roman world. In its primitive form it received an urgency from the belief that the end of all things was close at hand, and that the earth was on the point of being burnt up by fire. From the civil war it waged in Judea, it emerged to enter on a war of invasion and foreign annexation. In succession, Cyprus, Phrygia, Galatia, and all Asia Minor, Greece, and Italy, were penetrated. The persecutions of Nero, incident on the burning of Rome, did not for a moment retard its career; during his reign it rapidly spread, and in every direction Petrine and Pauline, or Judaizing and Hellenizing churches were springing up. The latter gained the superiority, and the former passed away. The constitution of the churches changed, the congregations gradually losing power, which became concentrated in the bishop. By the end of the first century the episcopal form was predominant, and the ecclesiastical organization so imposing as to command the attention of the emperors, who now began to discover the mistake that had hitherto been made in confounding the new religion with Judaism. Their dislike to it, soon manifested in measures of repression, was in consequence of the peculiar attitude it assumed. As a body, the Christians not only kept aloof from all the amusements of the times, avoiding theatres and public rejoicings, but in every respect constituted themselves an empire within the empire. Such a state of things was altogether inconsistent with the established government, and its certain inconveniences and evils were not long in making themselves felt. The triumphant march of Christianity was singularly facilitated by free intercommunication over the Mediterranean, in consequence of that sea being in the hands of one sovereign power. The Jewish and Greek merchants afforded it a medium; their trading towns were its posts. But it is not to be supposed that its spread was without resistance; for at least the first century and a half the small farmers and land labourers entertained a hatred to it, looking upon it as a peculiarity of the trading communities, whom they ever despised. They persuaded themselves that the earthquakes, inundations and pestilences were attributable to it. To these incitements was added a desire to seize the property of the faithful confiscated by the law. Of this the early Christians unceasingly and bitterly complained. But the rack, the fire, wild beasts were unavailingly applied. Out of the very persecutions themselves advantages arose. Injustice and barbarity bound the pious but feeble communities together, and repressed internal dissent. [Sidenote: Defiant air of the young churches.] [Sidenote: Opposition of the emperors.] In several instances, however, there can be no doubt that persecution was brought on by the defiant air the churches assumed as they gathered strength. To understand this, we have only to peruse such documents as the address of Tertullian to Scapula. Full of intolerant spirit, it accuses the national religion of being the cause of all the public calamities, the floods, the fires, the eclipses; it denounces the vengeance of God on the national idolatry. As was the opinion of the Christians at that time, it acknowledges the reality of the pagan gods, whom it stigmatizes as demons, and proclaims its determination to expel them. It warns its opponents that they may be stricken blind, devoured by worms, or visited with other awful calamities. Such a sentiment of scorn and hatred, gathering force enough to make itself politically felt, was certain to provoke persecution. That of Decius, A.D. 250, was chiefly aimed against the clergy, not even the bishops of Jerusalem, Antioch, and Rome escaping. Eight years afterwards occurred that in which Sextus, the Bishop of Rome, and Cyprian of Carthage perished. [Sidenote: Position of things under Diocletian.] [Sidenote: Imperial persecutions.] [Sidenote: Their great political consequences.] [Sidenote: Successful policy of Constantine.] Under Diocletian it had become apparent that the self-governed Christian corporations everywhere arising were altogether incompatible with the imperial system. If tolerated much longer, they would undoubtedly gain such strength as to become politically quite formidable. There was not a town, hardly a village in the empire--nay, what was indeed far more serious, there was not a legion in which these organizations did not exist. The uncompromising and inexorable spirit animating them brought on necessarily a triple alliance of the statesmen, the philosophers, and the polytheists. These three parties, composing or postponing their mutual disputes, cordially united to put down the common enemy before it should be too late. It so fell out that the conflict first broke out in the army. When the engine of power is affected, it behoves a prince to take heed. The Christian soldiers in some of the legions refused to join in the time-honoured solemnities for propitiating the gods. It was in the winter A.D. 302-3. The emergency became so pressing that a council was held by Diocletian and Galerius to determine what should be done. The difficulty of the position may perhaps be appreciated when it is understood that even the wife and daughter of Diocletian himself were adherents of the new religion. He was a man of such capacity and enlarged political views that, at the second council of the leading statesmen and generals, he would not have been brought to give his consent to repression if it had not been quite clear that a conflict was unavoidable. His extreme reluctance to act is shown by the express stipulation he made that there should be no sacrifice of life. It is scarcely necessary to relate the events which ensued; how the Church of Nicomedia was razed to the ground; how, in retaliation, the imperial palace was set on fire; how an edict was openly insulted and torn down; how the Christian officers in the army were compelled to resign; and, as Eusebius, an eye-witness, relates, a vast number of martyrs soon suffered in Armenia, Syria, Mauritania, Egypt, and elsewhere. So resistless was the march of events that not even the emperor himself could stop the persecution. The Christians were given over to torture, the fire, wild beasts, beheading; many of them, in the moment of condemnation, simply returning thanks to God that he had thought them worthy to suffer. The whole world was filled with admiration. The greatness of such holy courage could have no other result. An internecine conflict between the disputants seemed to be inevitable. But, in the dark and bloody policy of the times, the question was settled in an unexpected way. To Constantine, who had fled from the treacherous custody of Galerius, it naturally occurred that if he should ally himself to the Christian party, conspicuous advantages must forthwith accrue to him. It would give him in every corner of the empire men and women ready to encounter fire and sword; it would give him partisans, not only animated by the traditions of their fathers, but--for human nature will even in the religious assert itself--demanding retribution for the horrible barbarities and injustice that had been inflicted on themselves; it would give him, and this was the most important of all, unwavering adherents in every legion of the army. He took his course. The events of war crowned him with success. He could not be otherwise than outwardly true to those who had given him power, and who continued to maintain him on the throne. But he never conformed to the ceremonial requirements of the Church till the close of his evil life. The attempt to make an alliance with this great and rapidly growing party was nothing new. Maximin tried it, but was distrusted. Licinius, foreseeing the policy that Constantine would certainly pursue, endeavoured to neutralize it by feebly reviving the persecution, A.D. 316, thinking thereby to conciliate the pagans. The aspirants for empire at this moment so divided the strength of the state that, had the Christian party been weaker than it actually was, it so held the balance of power as to be able to give a preponderance to the candidate of its choice. Much more, therefore, was it certain to prevail, considering its numbers, its ramifications, its compactness. Force, argument, and persuasion had alike proved ineffectual against its strength. [Sidenote: Influence of the reign of Constantine.] To the reign of Constantine the Great must be referred the commencement of those dark and dismal times which oppressed Europe for a thousand years. It is the true close of the Roman empire, the beginning of the Greek. The transition from one to the other is emphatically and abruptly marked by a new metropolis, a new religion, a new code, and, above all, a new policy. An ambitious man had attained to imperial power by personating the interests of a rapidly growing party. The unavoidable consequences were a union between the Church and State; a diverting of the dangerous classes from civil to ecclesiastical paths, and the decay and materialization of religion. This, and not the reign of Leo the Isaurian, as some have said, is the true beginning of the Byzantine empire; it is also the beginning of the age of Faith in Europe, though I consider the age of Inquiry as overlapping this epoch, and as terminating with the military fall of Rome. Ecclesiastical authors have made everything hinge on the conversion of Constantine and the national establishment of Christianity. The medium through which they look distorts the position of objects, and magnifies the subordinate and the collateral into the chief. Events had been gradually shaping themselves in such a way that the political fall of the city of Rome was inevitable. The Romans, as a people, had disappeared, being absorbed among other nations; the centre of power was in the army. One after another, the legions put forth competitors for the purple--soldiers of fortune, whose success could never remove low habits due to a base origin, the coarseness of a life of camps--who found no congeniality in the elegance and refinement of those relics of the ancient families which were expiring in Rome. They despised the military decrepitude of the superannuated city; her recollections they hated. To such men the expediency of founding a new capital was an obvious device; or, if indisposed to undertake so laborious a task, the removal of the imperial residence to some other of the great towns was an effectual substitute. It was thus that the residence of Diocletian at Nicomedia produced such disastrous consequences in a short time to Rome. [Sidenote: He resolves on removing the metropolis.] After Constantine had murdered his son Crispus, his nephew Licinius, and had suffocated in a steam-bath his wife Fausta, to whom he had been married twenty years, and who was the mother of three of his sons, the public abhorrence of his crimes could no longer be concealed. A pasquinade, comparing his reign to that of Nero, was affixed to the palace gate. The guilty emperor, in the first burst of anger, was on the point of darkening the tragedy, if such a thing had been possible, by a massacre of the Roman populace who had thus insulted him. It is said that his brothers were consulted on this measure of vengeance. The result of their counsel was even more deadly, for it was resolved to degrade Rome to a subordinate rank, and build a metropolis elsewhere. [Sidenote: He is a protector, but not a convert.] Political conditions thus at once suggested and rendered possible the translation of the seat of government: the temporary motive was the vengeance of a great criminal. Perhaps, also, in the mental occupation incident to such an undertaking, the emperor found a refuge from the accusations of conscience. But it is altogether erroneous to suppose that either at this time, or for many years subsequently, he was a Christian. His actions are not those of a devout convert; he was no proselyte, but a protector; never guiding himself by religious principles, but now giving the most valuable support to his new allies, now exhibiting the impartiality of a statesman for both forms of faith. In his character of Pontifex Maximus he restored pagan temples, and directed that the haruspices should be consulted. On the festival of the birthday of the new city he honoured the statue of Fortune. The continued heathen sacrifices and open temples seemed to indicate that he intended to do no more than place the new religion on a level with the old. His recommendation to the Bishop of Alexandria and to Arius of the example of the philosophers, who never debated profound questions before ignorant audiences, and who could differ without hating one another, illustrates the indifferentism of his personal attitude, and yet he clearly recognized his obligations to the party that had given him power. [Sidenote: His tendencies to Paganism.] This conclusion is confirmed by the works of Constantine himself. They must be regarded as far better authority than the writings of religious polemics. A medal was struck, on which was impressed his title of "God," together with the monogram of Christ. Another represented him as raised by a hand from the sky while seated in the chariot of the Sun. But more particularly the great porphyry pillar, a column 120 feet in height, exhibited the true religious condition of the founder of Constantinople. The statue on its summit mingled together the Sun, the Saviour, and the Emperor. Its body was a colossal image of Apollo, whose features were replaced by those of Constantine, and round the head, like rays, were fixed the nails of the cross of Christ recently discovered in Jerusalem. [Sidenote: His relations to the Church.] The position of a patron assumed by Constantine may be remarked in many of the incidents of his policy. The edict of Milan gave liberty both to Pagans and Christians; but his necessity for showing in some degree a preponderance of favour for the latter obliged him to issue a rescript exempting the clergy from civil offices. It was this also which led him to conciliate the bishops by the donation of large sums of money for the restoration of their churches and other purposes, and to exert himself, often by objectionable means, for destroying that which they who were around him considered to be heresy. A better motive, perhaps, led him to restore those Christians who had been degraded; to surrender to the legal heirs the confiscated estates of martyrs, or, if no heirs were to be found, to convey them to the Church; to set at liberty those who had been condemned to the mines; to recall those who had been banished. If, as a tribute to the Christians, who had sustained him politically, he made the imperial treasury responsible for many of their losses; if he caused costly churches to be built not only in the great cities, but even in the Holy Land; if he vindicated the triumphant position of his supporters by forbidding any Jew to have a Christian slave; if he undertook to enforce the decisions of councils by means of the power of the state; if he forbade all schism in the Church, himself determining the degrees of heresy under the inspirations of his ecclesiastical entourage, his vacillations show how little he was guided by principle, how much by policy. After the case of the Donatists had been settled by repeated councils, he spontaneously recalled them from banishment; after he had denounced Arius as "the very image of the Devil," he, through the influence of court females, received him again into favour; after the temple of �sculapius at �gæ had been demolished, and the doors and roofs of others removed, the pagans were half conciliated by perceiving that no steady care was taken to enforce the obnoxious decrees, and that, after all, the Christians would have to accept the declarations of the emperor for deeds. [Sidenote: Consequences of building a new metropolis.] In a double respect the removal of the seat of empire was important to Christianity. It rendered possible the assumption of power by the bishops of Rome, who were thereby secluded from imperial observation and inspection, and whose position, feeble at first, under such singularly auspicious circumstances was at last developed into papal supremacy. In Constantinople, also, there were no pagan recollections and interests to contend with. At first the new city was essentially Roman, and its language Latin; but this was soon changed for Greek, and thus the transference of the seat of government tended in the end to make Latin a sacred tongue. [Sidenote: The policy of Constantine.] Constantine knew very well where Roman power had for many years lain. His own history, from the time of his father's death and his exaltation by the legions at York, had taught him that, for the perpetuation of his dynasty and system, those formidable bodies must be disposed of. It was for this reason, and that no future commander might do what himself and so many of his predecessors had done, that he reduced the strength of the legion from 6000 to 1500 or 1000 men. For this reason, too, he opened to ambition the less dangerous field of ecclesiastical wealth and dignity, justly concluding that, since the clergy came from every class of society, the whole people would look to the prosperity of the Church. By exempting the priesthood from burdensome municipal offices, such as the decurionate, he put a premium on apostacy from paganism. The interest he personally took in the Trinitarian controversy encouraged the spreading of theological disputation from philosophers and men of capacity to the populace. Under the old polytheism heresy was impossible, since every man might select his god and his worship; but under the new monotheism it was inevitable--heresy, a word that provokes and justifies a black catalogue of crimes. Occupied in those exciting pursuits, men took but little heed of the more important political changes that were in progress. The eyes of the rabble were easily turned from the movements of the government by horse-racing, theatres, largesses. Yet already this diversion of ambition into new fields gave tokens of dangers to the state in future times. The Donatists, whom Constantine had attempted to pacify by the Councils of Rome, Arles, and Milan, maintained a more than religious revolt, and exhibited the bitterness that may be infused among competitors for ecclesiastical spoils. These enthusiasts assumed to themselves the title of God's elect, proclaimed that the only true apostolic succession was in their bishops, and that whosoever denied the right of Donatus to be Bishop of Carthage should be eternally damned. They asked, with a truth that lent force to their demand, "What has the emperor to do with the Church, what have Christians to do with kings, what have bishops to do at court?" Already the Catholic party, in preparation of its commencing atrocities, ominously inquired, "Is the vengeance of God to be defrauded of its victims?" Already Constantine, by bestowing on the Church the right of receiving bequests, had given birth to that power which, reposing on the influence that always attaches to the possession of land, becomes at last overwhelming when it is held by a corporation which may always receive and can never alienate, which is always renewing itself and can never die. It was by no miraculous agency, but simply by its organization, that the Church attained to power; an individual who must die, and a family which must become extinct, had no chance against a corporation whose purposes were ever unchanged, and its life perpetual. But it was not the state alone which thus took detriment from her connection with the Church; the latter paid a full price for the temporal advantages she received in admitting civil intervention in her affairs. After a retrospect of a thousand years, the pious Fratricelli loudly proclaimed their conviction that the fatal gift of a Christian emperor had been the doom of true religion. [Sidenote: His conversion and death.] From the rough soldier who accepted the purple at York, how great the change to the effeminate emperor of the Bosphorus, in silken robes stiffened with threads of gold, a diadem of sapphires and pearls, and false hair stained of various tints; his steps stealthily guarded by mysterious eunuchs flitting through the palace, the streets full of spies, and an ever-watchful police! The same man who approaches us as the Roman imperator retires from us as the Asiatic despot. In the last days of his life, he put aside the imperial purple, and, assuming the customary white garment, prepared for baptism, that the sins of his long and evil life might all be washed away. Since complete purification can thus be only once obtained, he was desirous to procrastinate that ceremony to the last moment. Profoundly politic, even in his relations with heaven, he thenceforth reclined on a white bed, took no further part in worldly affairs, and, having thus insured a right to the continuance of that prosperity in a future life which he had enjoyed in this, expired, A.D. 337. [Sidenote: The Trinitarian controversy.] In a theological respect, among the chief events of this emperor's reign are the Trinitarian controversy and the open materialization of Christianity. The former, commencing among the Platonizing ecclesiastics of Alexandria, continued for ages to exert a formidable influence. From time immemorial, as we have already related, the Egyptians had been familiar with various trinities, different ones being worshipped in different cities, the devotees of each exercising a peaceful toleration toward those of others. But now things were greatly changed. It was the settled policy of Constantine to divert ambition from the state to the Church, and to make it not only safer, but more profitable to be a great ecclesiastic than a successful soldier. A violent competition, for the chief offices was the consequence--a competition, the prelude of that still greater one for episcopal supremacy. We are now again brought to a consideration of the variations of opinion which marked this age. It would be impossible to give a description of them all. I therefore propose to speak only of the prominent ones. They are a sufficient guide in our investigation; and of the Trinitarian controversy first. [Sidenote: Prelude of sectarian dissent.] For some time past dissensions had been springing up in the Church. Even out of persecution itself disunion had arisen. The martyrs who had suffered for their faith, and the confessors who had nobly avowed it, gained a worthy consideration and influence, becoming the intermedium of reconciliation of such of their weaker brethren as had apostatized in times of peril by authoritative recommendations to "the peace of the Church." From this abuses arose. Martyrs were known to have given the use of their names to "a man and his friends;" nay, it was even asserted that tickets of recommendation had been bought for money; and as it was desirable that a uniformity of discipline should obtain in all the churches, so that he who was excommunicated from one should be excommunicated from all, it was necessary that these abuses should be corrected. In the controversies that ensued, Novatus founded his sect on the principle that penitent apostates should, under no circumstances, be ever again received. Besides this dissent on a question of discipline, already there were abundant elements of dispute, such as the time of observance of Easter, the nature of Christ, the millennium upon earth, and rebaptism. Already, in Syria, Noetus, the Unitarian, had foreshadowed what was coming; already there were Patripassians; already Sabellianism existed. [Sidenote: Arius, his doctrines.] [Sidenote: Constantine attempts to check the controversy,] [Sidenote: and summons the Council of Nicea.] But it was in Alexandria that the tempest burst forth. There lived in that city a presbyter of the name of Arius, who, on occasion of a vacancy occurring, desired to be appointed bishop. But one Alexander supplanted him in the coveted dignity. Both relied on numerous supporters, Arius counting among his not less than seven hundred virgins of the Mareotic nome. In his disappointment he accused his successful antagonist of Sabellianism, and, in retaliation, was anathematized. It was no wonder that, in such an atmosphere, the question quickly assumed a philosophical aspect. The point of difficulty was to define the position of the Son in the Holy Trinity. Arius took the ground that there was a time when, from the very nature of sonship, the Son did not exist, and a time at which he commenced to be, asserting that it is the necessary condition of the filial relation that a father must be older than his son. But this assertion evidently might imply subordination or inequality among the three persons of the Holy Trinity. The partisans of Alexander raised up their voices against such a blasphemous lowering of the Redeemer; the Arians answered them that, by exalting the Son in every respect to an equality with the Father, they impugned the great truth of the unity of God. The new bishop himself edified the giddy citizens, and perhaps, in some degree, justified his appointment to his place by displaying his rhetorical powers in public debates on the question. The Alexandrians, little anticipating the serious and enduring results soon to arise, amused themselves, with characteristic levity, by theatrical representations of the contest upon the stage. The passions of the two parties were roused; the Jews and Pagans, of whom the town was full, exasperated things by their mocking derision. The dissension spread: the whole country became convulsed. In the hot climate of Africa, theological controversy soon ripened into political disturbance. In all Egypt there was not a Christian man, and not a woman, who did not proceed to settle the nature of the unity of God. The tumult rose to such a pitch that it became necessary for the emperor to interfere. Doubtless, at first, he congratulated himself on such a course of events. It was better that the provinces should be fanatically engaged in disputes than secretly employed in treason against his person or conspiracies against his policy. A united people is an inconvenience to one in power. Nevertheless, to compose the matter somewhat, he sent Hosius, the Bishop of Cordova, to Alexandria; but, finding that the remedy was altogether inadequate, he was driven at last to the memorable expedient of summoning the Council of Nicea, A.D. 325. It attempted a settlement of the trouble by a condemnation of Arius, and the promulgation of authoritative articles of belief as set forth in the Nicene Creed. As to the main point, the Son was declared to be of the same substance with the Father--a temporizing and convenient, but, as the event proved, a disastrous ambiguity. The Nicene Council, therefore, settled the question by evading it, and the emperor enforced the decision by the banishment of Arius. [Sidenote: The fortunes of Arius.] "I am persecuted," Arius plaintively said, "because I have taught that the Son had a beginning and the Father had not." It was the influence of the court theologians that had made the emperor his personal enemy. Constantine, as we have seen, had looked upon the dispute, in the first instance, as altogether frivolous, if he did not, in truth, himself incline to the assertion of Arius, that, in the very nature of the thing, a father must be older than his son. The theatrical exhibitions at Alexandria in mockery of the question were calculated to confirm him in his opinion: his judgment was lost in the theories that were springing up as to the nature of Christ; for on the Ebionitish, Gnostic, and Platonic doctrines, as well as on the new one that "the logos" was made out of nothing, it equally followed that the current opinion must be erroneous, and that there was a time before which the Son did not exist. [Sidenote: His condemnation as a heretic.] [Sidenote: The Nicene Creed.] But, as the contest spread through churches and even families, Constantine had found himself compelled to intervene. At first he attempted the position of a moderator, but soon took ground against Arius, advised to that course by his entourage at Constantinople. It was at this time that the letter was circulated in which he denounced Arius as the image of the Devil. Arius might now have foreseen what must certainly occur at Nicea. Before that council was called everything was settled. No contemporary for a moment supposed that this was an assembly of simple-hearted men, anxious by a mutual comparison of thought, to ascertain the truth. Its aim was not to compose such a creed as would give unity to the Church, but one so worded that the Arians would be compelled to refuse to sign it, and so ruin themselves. To the creed was attached an anathema precisely defining the point of dispute, and leaving the foreordained victims no chance of escape. The original Nicene Creed differed in some essential particulars from that now current under that title. Among other things, the fatal and final clause has been dropped. Thus it ran: "The Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church anathematizes those who say that there was a time when the Son of God was not; and that before he was begotten he was not, and that he was made out of nothing, or out of another substance or essence, and is created, or changeable, or alterable." The emperor enforced the decision of the council by the civil power; he circulated letters denouncing Arius, and initiated those fearful punishments unhappily destined in future ages to become so frequent, by ordaining that whoever should find one of the books of Arius and not burn it should actually be put to death. [Sidenote: Arius received again into court favour,] [Sidenote: and is poisoned.] It might be thought that, after such a decisive course, it would be impossible to change, and yet in less than ten years Constantine is found agreeing with the convict Arius. A presbyter in the confidence of Constantia, the emperor's sister, had wrought upon him. Athanasius, now Bishop of Alexandria, the representative of the other party, is deposed and banished. Arius is invited to Constantinople. The emperor orders Alexander, the bishop of that city, to receive him into communion to-morrow. It is Saturday. Alexander flees to the church, and, falling prostrate, prays to God that he will interpose and save his servant from being forced into this sin, even if it should be by death. That same evening Arius was seized with a sudden and violent illness as he passed along the street, and in a few moments he was found dead in a house, whither he had hastened. In Constantinople, where men were familiar with Asiatic crimes, there was more than a suspicion of poison. But when Alexander's party proclaimed that his prayer had been answered, they forgot what then that prayer must have been, and that the difference is little between praying for the death of a man and compassing it. [Sidenote: Constantine prepares for a new creed.] The Arians affirmed that it was the intention of Constantine to have called a new council, and have the creed rectified according to his more recent ideas; but, before he could accomplish this, he was overtaken by death. So little efficacy was there in the determination of the Council of Nicea, that for many years afterward creed upon creed appeared. What Constantine's new creed would have been may be told from the fact that the Consubstantialists had gone out of power, and from what his son Constantius soon after did at the Council of Ariminium. [Sidenote: Spread of theological disputes.] [Sidenote: Athanasius rebels against the emperor.] [Sidenote: Steady aggression of the Church and crimes of ecclesiastics.] So far, therefore, from the Council of Nicea ending the controversies afflicting religion, they continued with increasing fury. The sons and successors of Constantine set an example of violence in these disputes; and, until the barbarians burst in upon the empire, the fourth century wore away in theological feuds. Even the populace, scarcely emerged from paganism, set itself up for a judge on questions from their very nature incapable of being solved; and to this the government gave an impetus by making the profits of public service the reward of sectarian violence. The policy of Constantine began to produce its results. Mental activity and ambition found their true field in ecclesiastical affairs. Orthodoxy triumphed, because it was more in unison with the present necessity of the court, while asserting the predominance of Christianity, to offend as little as might be the pagan party. The heresy of Arius, though it might suit the monotheistic views of the educated, did not commend itself to that large mass who had been so recently pagan. Already the elements of dissension were obvious enough; on one side there was an illiterate, intolerant, unscrupulous, credulous, numerous body, on the other a refined, better-informed, yet doubting sect. The Emperor Constantius, guided by his father's latest principles, having sided with the Arian party, soon found that under the new system a bishop would, without hesitation, oppose his sovereign. Athanasius, the Bishop of Alexandria, as the head of the orthodox party, became the personal antagonist of the emperor, who attempted, after vainly using physical compulsion, to resort to the celestial weapons in vogue by laying claim to Divine inspiration. Like his father, he had a celestial vision; but, as his views were Arian, the orthodox rejected without scruple his supernatural authority, and Hilary of Poictiers wrote a book to prove that he was Antichrist. The horrible bloodshed and murders attending these quarrels in the great cities, and the private life of persons both of high and low degree, clearly showed that Christianity, through its union with politics, had fallen into such a state that it could no longer control the passions of men. The biography of the sons of Constantine is an awful relation of family murders. Religion had disappeared, theology had come in its stead. Even theology had gone mad. But in the midst of these disputes worldly interests were steadily kept in view. At the Council of Ariminium, A.D. 359, an attempt was made to have the lands belonging to the churches exempt from all taxation; to his credit, the emperor steadfastly refused. Macedonius, the Bishop of Constantinople, who had passed over the slaughtered bodies of three thousand people to take possession of his episcopal throne, exceeded in heresy even Arius himself, by not only asserting the inferiority of the Son to the Father, but by absolutely denying the divinity of the Holy Ghost. [Sidenote: Two results of these events.] As the fruits of these broils, two facts appear: 1st, that there is a higher law, which the faithful may obey, in opposition to the law of the land, when it suits their views; the law of God, as expounded by the bishop, who can eternally punish the soul, must take precedence of the law of Cæsar, who can only kill the body and seize the goods; 2d, that there is a supremacy in the Bishop of Rome, to whom Athanasius, the leader of the orthodox, by twice visiting that city, submitted his cause. The significance of these facts becomes conspicuous in later ages. Things were evidently shaping themselves for a trial of strength between the imperial and ecclesiastical powers, heretofore allied. They were about to quarrel over their booty. [Sidenote: History of Papal supremacy.] We have now to consider this asserted supremacy of the Bishop of Rome, and how it came to be established as a political fact. We must also turn from the Oriental variations of opinion to those of the West. Except by thus enlarging the field to be traversed, we can gain no perfect conception of the general intellectual tendency. [Sidenote: Hellenized Christianity.] For long after its introduction to Western Europe, Christianity was essentially a Greek religion. Its Oriental aspect had become Hellenized. Its churches had, in the first instance, a Greek organization, conducted their worship in that tongue, and composed their writings in it. Though it retained much of this foreign aspect so long as Rome continued to be the residence, or was more particularly under the eye of the emperors, it was gradually being affected by the influences to which it was exposed. On Western Europe, the questions which had so profoundly agitated the East, such as the nature of God, the Trinity, the cause of evil, had made but little impression, the intellectual peculiarity of the people being unsuited to such exercises. The foundation of Constantinople, by taking off the political pressure, permitted native peculiarities to manifest themselves, and Latin Christianity emerged in contradistinction to Greek. [Sidenote: Modified by Africanism.] Yet still it cannot be said that Europe owes its existing forms of Christianity to a Roman origin. It is indebted to Africa for them. We live under African domination. I have now with brevity to relate the progress of this interesting event; how African conceptions were firmly established in Rome, and, by the time that Greek Christianity had lost its expansive power and ceased to be aggressive, African Christianity took its place, extending to the North and West, and obtaining for itself an organization copied from that of the Roman empire; sacerdotal prætors, proconsuls, and a Cæsar; developing its own jurisprudence, establishing its own magistracy, exchanging the Greek tongue it had hitherto used for the Latin, which, soon becoming a sacred language, conferred upon it the most singular advantages. [Sidenote: Subordinate position of the early Roman Church.] The Greek churches were of the nature of confederated republics; the Latin Church instinctively tended to monarchy. Far from assuming an attitude of conspicuous dignity, the primitive bishops of Rome led a life of obscurity. In the earliest times, the bishops of Jerusalem, of whom James, the brother of our Lord, was the first, are spoken of as the heads of the Church, and so regarded even in Rome itself. The controversy respecting Easter, A.D. 109, shows, however, how soon the disposition for Western supremacy was exhibited, Victor, the Bishop of Rome, requiring the Asiatic bishops to conform to the view of his Church respecting the time at which the festival of Easter should be observed, and being resisted therein by Polycrates, the Bishop of Ephesus, on behalf of the Eastern churches, the feud continuing until the determination of the Council of Nicea. It was not in Asia alone that the growth of Roman supremacy was resisted. There is no difficulty in selecting from ecclesiastical history proofs of the same feeling in many other quarters. Thus, when the disciples of Montanus, the Phrygian, who pretended to be the Paraclete, had converted to their doctrines and austerities the Bishop of Rome and Tertullian the Carthaginian, on the former backsliding from that faith, the latter denounced him as a Patripassian heretic. Yet, for the most part, a good understanding obtained not only between Rome and Carthage, but also among the Gallic and Spanish churches, who looked upon Rome as conspicuous and illustrious, though as no more than equal to themselves. At the Council of Carthage St. Cyprian said, "None of us ought to set himself up as a bishop of bishops, or pretend tyrannically to restrain his colleagues, because each bishop has a liberty and power to act as he thinks fit, and can no more be judged by another bishop than he can judge another. But we must all wait for the judgment of Jesus Christ, to whom alone belongs the power to set us over the Church, and to judge of our actions." [Sidenote: Its gradual increase in wealth and influence,] Rome by degrees emerged from this equality, not by the splendid talents of any illustrious man, for among her early bishops none rose above mediocrity, but partly from her political position, partly from the great wealth she soon accumulated, and partly from the policy she happened to follow. Her bishop was not present at the Council of Nicea, A.D. 325, nor at that of Sardica, A.D. 345; perhaps on these occasions, as on others of a like kind subsequently, the immediate motive of his standing aloof was the fear that he might not receive the presidency. Soon, however, was discerned the advantage of the system of appearing by representatives. Such an attitude, moreover, offered the opportunity of frequently holding the balance of power in the fierce conflicts that soon arose, made Rome a retreat for the discomfited ecclesiastic, and her bishop, apparently, an elevated and unbiased arbiter on his case. It was thus that Athanasius, in his contests with the emperor, found a refuge and protector. With this elevated position in the esteem of strangers came also domestic dignity. The prodigal gifts of the rich Roman ladies had already made the bishopric to be sought after by those who esteem the ease and luxuries of life, as well as by the ambitious. Fierce contests arose on the occurrence of vacancies. At the election of Damasus, one hundred and thirty of the slain lay in the basilica of Sisinnius: the competitors had called in the aid of a rabble of gladiators, charioteers, and other ruffians; nor could the riots be ended except by the intervention of the imperial troops. [Sidenote: and early corruptions.] It was none too soon that Jerome introduced the monastic system at Rome--there was need of a change to austerity; none too soon that legacy-hunting on the part of the clergy was prohibited by law--it had become a public scandal; none too soon that Jerome struggled for the patronage of the rich Roman women; none too soon that this stern fanatic denounced the immorality of the Roman clergy, when even the Bishop Damasus himself was involved in a charge of adultery. It became clear, if the clergy would hold their ground in public estimation against their antagonists the monks, that celibacy must be insisted on. The doctrine of the pre-eminent value of virginity was steadily making progress; but it cost many years of struggle before the monks carried their point, and the celibacy of the clergy became compulsory. [Sidenote: Necessity for an apostolic head.] It had long been seen by those who hoped for Roman supremacy that there was a necessity for the establishment of a definite and ascertained doctrine--a necessity for recognizing some apostolic man, who might be the representative of a criterion of truth. The Eastern system of deciding by councils was in its nature uncertain. The councils themselves had no ascertained organization. Experience had shown that they were too much under the control of the court at Constantinople. [Sidenote: Necessity for Councils or a pontiff.] This tendency to accept the republican decisions of councils in the East, and monarchical ones by a supreme pontiff in the West, in reality, however, depended on a common sentiment entertained by reflecting men everywhere. Something must be done to check the anarchy of opinion. To show how this tendency was satisfied, it will be sufficient to select, out of the numberless controversies of the times, a few leading ones. A clear light is thrown upon the matter by the history of the Pelagian, Nestorian, and Eutychian heresies. Their chronological period is from about A.D. 400 to A.D. 450. [Sidenote: The Pelagian controversy]. [Sidenote: Effect of Pelagianism on papal superiority.] Pelagius was the assumed name of a British monk, who, about the first of those dates, passed through Western Europe and Northern Africa, teaching the doctrines that Adam was by nature mortal, and that, if he had not sinned, he nevertheless would have died; that the consequences of his sin were confined to himself, and did not affect his posterity; that new-born infants are in the same condition as Adam before his fall; that we are at birth as pure as he was; that we sin by our own free will, and in the same manner may reform, and thereby work out our own salvation; that the grace of God is given according to our merits. He was repelled from Africa by the influence of St. Augustine, and denounced in Palestine from the cell of Jerome. He specially insisted on this, that it is not the mere act of baptizing by water that washes away sin, sin can only be removed by good works. Infants are baptized before it is possible that they could have sinned. On the contrary, Augustine resisted these doctrines, resting himself on the words of Scripture that baptism is for the remission of sins. The case of children compelled that father to introduce the doctrine of original sin as derived from Adam, notwithstanding the dreadful consequences if they die unbaptized. In like manner also followed the doctrines of predestination, grace, atonement. Summoned before a synod at Diospolis, Pelagius was unexpectedly acquitted of heresy--an extraordinary decision, which brought Africa and the East into conflict. Under these circumstances, perhaps without a clear foresight of the issue, the matter was referred to Rome as arbiter or judge. [Sidenote: Settlement of the Pelagian question by the Africans.] In his decision, Innocent I., magnifying the dignity of the Roman see and the advantage of such a supreme tribunal, determined in favour of the African bishops. But scarcely had he done this when he died, and his successor, Zosimus, annulled his judgment, and declared the opinions of Pelagius to be orthodox. Carthage now put herself in an attitude of resistance. There was danger of a metaphysical or theological Punic war. Meantime the wily Africans quietly procured from the emperor an edict denouncing Pelagius as a heretic. Through the influence of Count Valerius the faith of Europe was settled; the heresiarchs and their accomplices were condemned to exile and forfeiture of their estates; the contested doctrine that Adam was created without any liability to death was established by law; to deny it was a state crime. Thus it appears that the vacillating papacy was not yet strong enough to exalt itself above its equals, and the orthodoxy of Europe was for ever determined by an obscure court intrigue. [Sidenote: The Nestorian controversy.] Scarcely was the Pelagian controversy disposed of when a new heresy appeared. Nestorius, the Bishop of Antioch, attempted to distinguish between the divine and human nature of Christ; he considered that they had become too much confounded, and that "the God" ought to be kept separate from "the Man." Hence it followed that the Virgin Mary should not be regarded as the "Mother of God," but only the "Mother of Christ--the God-man." Called by the Emperor Theodosius the Younger to the episcopate of Constantinople, A.D. 427, Nestorius was very quickly plunged by the intrigues of a disappointed faction of that city into disputes with the populace. [Sidenote: The doctrines of Nestorius.] Let us hear the Bishop of Constantinople himself; he is preaching in the great metropolitan church, setting forth, with all the eloquence of which language is capable, the attributes of the illimitable, the everlasting, the Almighty God. "And can this God have a mother? The heathen notion of a god born of a mortal mother is directly confuted by St. Paul, who declares the Lord to be without father and without mother. Could a creature bear the uncreated?" He thus insisted that what was born of Mary was human, and the divine was added afterwards. At once the monks raised a riot in the city, and Cyril, the Bishop of Alexandria, espoused their cause. Beneath the outraged orthodoxy of Cyril lay an ill-concealed motive, the desire of the Bishop of Alexandria to humble the Bishop of Constantinople. The uproar commenced with sermons, epistles, addresses. Instigated by the monks of Alexandria, the monks of Constantinople took up arms in behalf of "the Mother of God." Again we remark the eminent position of Rome. Both parties turn to her as an arbiter. Pope Celestine assembles a synod. The Bishop of Constantinople is ordered by the Bishop of Rome to recant, or hold himself under excommunication, Italian supremacy is emerging through Oriental disputes, yet not without a struggle. Relying on his influence at court, Nestorius resists, excommunicates Cyril, and the emperor summons a council to meet at Ephesus. [Sidenote: Overthrow of Nestorianism by the Africans.] [Sidenote: Worship of the Virgin Mary.] To that council Nestorius repaired, with sixteen bishops and some of the city populace. Cyril collected fifty, together with a rabble of sailors, bath-men, and women of the baser sort. The imperial commissioner with his troops with difficulty repressed the tumult of the assembly. The rescript was fraudulently read before the arrival of the Syrian bishops. In one day the matter was completed; the Virgin's party triumphed, and Nestorius was deposed. On the arrival of the Syrian ecclesiastics, a meeting of protest was held by them. A riot, with much bloodshed, occurred in the Cathedral of St. John. The emperor was again compelled to interfere; he ordered eight deputies from each party to meet him at Chalcedon. In the meantime court intrigues decided the matter. The emperor's sister was in after times celebrated by the party of Cyril as having been the cause of the discomfiture of Nestorius: "the Holy Virgin of the court of Heaven had found an ally of her own sex in the holy virgin of the emperor's court." But there were also other very efficient auxiliaries. In the treasury of the chief eunuch, which some time after there was occasion to open, was discovered an acknowledgment of many pounds of gold received by him from Cyril, through Paul, his sister's son. Nestorius was abandoned by the court, and eventually exiled to an Egyptian oasis. An edifying legend relates that his blasphemous tongue was devoured by worms, and that from the heats of an Egyptian desert he escaped only into the hotter torments of Hell. So, again, in the affair of Nestorius as in that of Pelagius, Africa triumphed, and the supremacy of Rome, her ally or confederate, was becoming more and more distinct. [Sidenote: The Eutychian controversy.] A very important result in this gradual evolution of Roman supremacy arose from the affair of Eutyches, the Archimandrite of a convent of monks at Constantinople. He had distinguished himself as a leader in the riots occurring at the time of Nestorius and in other subsequent troubles. Accused before a synod held in Constantinople of denying the two natures of Christ, of saying that if there be two natures there must be two Sons, Eutyches was convicted, and sentence of excommunication passed upon him. This was, however, only the ostensible cause of his condemnation; the true motive was connected with a court intrigue. The chief eunuch, who was his godson, was occupied in a double movement to elevate Eutyches to the see of Constantinople, and to destroy the authority of Pulcheria, the emperor's sister, by Eudocia, the emperor's wife. On his condemnation, Eutyches appealed to the emperor, who summoned, at the instigation of the eunuch, a council to meet at Ephesus. This was the celebrated "Robber Synod," as it was called. It pronounced in favour of the orthodoxy of Eutyches, and ordered his restoration, deposing the Bishop of Constantinople, Flavianus, who was his rival, and at the synod had been his judge and also Eusebius, who had been his accuser. A riot ensued, in which the Bishop of Constantinople was murdered by the Bishop of Alexandria and one Barsumas, who beat him with their fists amid cries of "Kill him! kill him!" The Italian legates made their escape from the uproar with difficulty. The success of these movements was mainly due to Dioscorus, the Bishop of Alexandria, who thus accomplished the overthrow of his rivals of Antioch and Constantinople. An imperial edict gave force to the determination of the council. At this point the Bishop of Rome intervened, refusing to acknowledge the proceedings. It was well that Alexandria and Constantinople should be perpetually struggling, but it was not well that either should become paramount. Dioscorus thereupon broke off communion with him. Rome and Alexandria were at issue. [Sidenote: Another advance of Rome to power through Eutychianism.] In a fortunate moment the emperor died; his sister, the orthodox Pulcheria, the friend of Leo, married Marcian, and made him emperor. A council was summoned at Chalcedon. Leo wished it to be in Italy, where no one could have disputed his presidency. As it was, he fell back on the ancient policy, and appeared by representatives. Dioscorus was overthrown, and sentence pronounced against him, in behalf of the council, by one of the representatives of Leo. It set forth that "Leo, therefore, by their voice, and with the authority of the council, in the name of the Apostle Peter, the Rock and foundation of the Church, deposes Dioscorus from his episcopal dignity, and excludes him from all Christian rites and privileges." [Sidenote: The rivalry of Constantinople.] But, perhaps that no permanent advantage might accrue to Rome from the eminent position she was attaining in these transactions, when most of the prelates had left the council, a few, who were chiefly of the diocese of Constantinople, passed, among other canons, one to the effect that the supremacy of the Roman see was not in right of its descent from St. Peter, but because it was the bishopric of an imperial city. It assigned, therefore, to the Bishop of Constantinople equal civil dignity and ecclesiastical authority. Rome ever refused to recognize the validity of this canon. [Sidenote: Rivalries of the three great bishops.] In these contests of Rome, Constantinople, and Alexandria for supremacy--for, after all, they were nothing more than the rivalries of ambitious placemen for power--the Roman bishop uniformly came forth the gainer. And it is to be remarked that he deserved to be so; his course was always dignified, often noble; theirs exhibited a reckless scramble for influence, an unscrupulous resort to bribery, court intrigue, murder. [Sidenote: Nature of ecclesiastical councils.] Thus the want of a criterion of truth, and a determination to arrest a spirit of inquiry that had become troublesome, led to the introduction of councils, by which, in an authoritative manner, theological questions might be settled. But it is to be observed that these councils did not accredit themselves by the coincidence of their decisions on successive occasions, since they often contradicted one another; nor did they sustain those decisions only with a moral influence arising from the understanding of man, enlightened by their investigations and conclusions. Their human character is clearly shown by the necessity under which they laboured of enforcing their arbitrary conclusions by the support of the civil power. The same necessity which, in the monarchical East, led thus to the republican form of a council, led in the democratic West to the development of the autocratic papal power: but in both it was found that the final authority thus appealed to had no innate or divinely derived energy. It was altogether helpless except by the aid of military or civil compulsion against any one disposed to resist it. No other opinion could be entertained of the character of these assemblages by men of practical ability who had been concerned in their transactions. Gregory of Nazianzen, one of the most pious and able men of his age, and one who, during a part of its sittings, was president of the Council of Constantinople, A.D. 381, refused subsequently to attend any more, saying that he had never known an assembly of bishops terminate well; that, instead of removing evils, they only increased them, and that their strifes and lust of power were not to be described. A thousand years later, �neas Sylvius, Pope Pius II., speaking of another council, observes that it was not so much directed by the Holy Ghost as by the passions of men. [Sidenote: Progressive variation of human thought manifested by these councils.] [Sidenote: Pontifical power sustained by physical force.] Notwithstanding the contradictions and opposition they so frequently exhibit, there may be discerned in the decisions of these bodies the traces of an affiliation indicating the continuous progression of thought. Thus, of the four oecumenical councils that were concerned with the facts spoken of in the preceding pages, that of Nicea determined the Son to be of the same substance with the Father; that of Constantinople, that the Son and Holy Spirit are equal to the Father; that of Ephesus, that the two natures of Christ make but one person; and that of Chalcedon, that these natures remain two, notwithstanding their personal union. But that they failed of their object in constituting a criterion of truth is plainly demonstrated by such simple facts as that, in the fourth century alone, there were thirteen councils adverse to Arius, fifteen in his favour, and seventeen for the semi-Arians--in all, forty-five. From such a confusion, it was necessary that the councils themselves must be subordinate to a higher authority--a higher criterion, able to give to them or refuse to them authenticity. That the source of power, both for the council in the East and the papacy in the West, was altogether political, is proved by almost every transaction in which they were concerned. In the case of the papacy, this was well seen in the contest between Hilary the Bishop of Arles, and Leo, on which occasion an edict was issued by the Emperor Valentinian denouncing the contumacy of Hilary, and setting forth that "though the sentence of so great a pontiff as the Bishop of Rome did not need imperial confirmation, yet that it must now be understood by all bishops that the decrees of the apostolic see should henceforth be law, and that whoever refused to obey the citation of the Roman pontiff should be compelled to do so by the Moderator of the province." Herein we see the intrinsic nature of Papal power distinctly. It is allied with physical force. [Sidenote: The fall of Rome.] In the midst of these theological disputes occurred that great event which I have designated as marking the close of the age of Inquiry. It was the fall of Rome. [Sidenote: Spread of the barbarians.] [Sidenote: Capture and sack of Rome by Alaric.] In the Eastern empire the Goths had become permanently settled, having laws of their own, a magistracy of their own, paying no taxes, but contributing 40,000 men to the army. The Visigoths were spreading through Greece, Spain, Italy. In their devastations of the former country, they had spared Athens, for the sake of her souvenirs. The Eleusinian mysteries had ceased. From that day Greece never saw prosperity again. Alaric entered Italy. Stilicho, the imperial general, forced him to retreat. Rhadogast made his invasion. Stilicho compelled him to surrender at discretion. The Burgundians and Vandals overflowed Gaul; the Suevi, Vandals, and Alans overflowed Spain. Stilicho, a man worthy of the old days of the republic, though a Goth, was murdered by the emperor his master. Alaric appeared before Rome. It was 619 years since she had felt the presence of a foreign enemy, and that was Hannibal. She still contained 1780 senatorial palaces, the annual income of some of the owners of which was 160,000_l._ The city was eighteen miles in circumference, and contained above a million of people--of people, as in old times clamorous for distributions of bread, and wine, and oil. In its conscious despair, the apostate city, it is said, with the consent of the pope, offered sacrifice to Jupiter, its repudiated, and, as it now believed, its offended god. 200,000_l._, together with many costly goods, were paid as a ransom. The barbarian general retired. He was insulted by the emperor from his fastness at Ravenna. Altercations and new marches ensued; and at last, for the third time, Alaric appeared before Rome. At midnight on the 24th of April, A.D. 410, eleven hundred and sixty-three years from the foundation of the city, the Salarian gate was opened to him by the treachery of slaves; there was no god to defend her in her dire extremity, and Rome was sacked by the Goths. [Sidenote: Accusations of the Pagans against the Christians.] Has the Eternal City really fallen! was the universal exclamation throughout the empire when it became known that Alaric had taken Rome. Though paganism had been ruined in a national sense, the true Roman ethnical element had never given it up, but was dying out with it, a relic of the population of the city still adhering to the ancient faith. Among this were not wanting many of the aristocratic families and philosophers, who imputed the disaster to the public apostasy, and in their shame and suffering loudly proclaimed that the nation was justly punished for its abandonment of the gods of its forefathers, the gods who had given victory and empire. It became necessary for the Church to meet this accusation, which, while it was openly urged by thousands, was doubtless believed to be true by silent, and timid, and panic-stricken millions. With the intention of defending Christianity, St. Augustine, one of the ablest of the fathers, solemnly devoted thirteen years of his life to the composition of his great work entitled "The City of God." It is interesting for us to remark the tone of some of these replies of the Christians to their pagan adversaries. [Sidenote: The Christian reply.] "For the manifest deterioration of Roman manners, and for the impending dissolution of the state, paganism itself is responsible. Our political power is only of yesterday; it is in no manner concerned with the gradual development of luxury and wickedness, which has been going on for the last thousand years. Your ancestors made war a trade; they laid under tribute and enslaved the adjacent nations, but were not profusion, extravagance, dissipation, the necessary consequences of conquest? was not Roman idleness the inevitable result of the filling of Italy with slaves? Every hour rendered wider that bottomless gulf which separates immense riches from abject poverty. Did not the middle class, in which reside the virtue and strength of a nation, disappear, and aristocratic families remain in Rome, whose estates in Syria or Spain, Gaul or Africa, equalled, nay, even exceeded in extent and revenue illustrious kingdoms, provinces for the annexation of which the republic of old had decreed triumphs? Was there not in the streets a profligate rabble living in total idleness, fed and amused at the expense of the state? We are not answerable for the grinding oppression perpetrated on the rural populations until they have been driven to despair, their numbers so diminishing as to warn us that there is danger of their being extinguished. We did not suggest to the Emperor Trajan to abandon Dacia, and neglect that policy which fixed the boundaries of the empire at strong military posts. We did not suggest to Caracalla to admit all sorts of people to Roman citizenship, nor dislocate the population by a wild pursuit of civil offices or the discharge of military duties. We did not crowd Italy with slaves, nor make those miserable men more degraded than the beasts of the field, compelling them to labours which are the business of the brutes. We have taught and practised a very different doctrine. We did not nightly put into irons the population of provinces and cities reduced to bondage. We are not responsible for the inevitable insurrections, poisonings, assassinations, vengeance. We did not bring on that state of things in which a man having a patrimony found it his best interest to abandon it without compensation and flee. We did not demoralize the populace by providing them food, games, races, theatres; we have been persecuted because we would not set our feet in a theatre. We did not ruin the senate and aristocracy by sacrificing everything, even ourselves, for the Julian family. We did not neutralize the legions by setting them to fight against one another. We were not the first to degrade Rome. Diocletian, who persecuted us, gave the example by establishing his residence at Nicomedia. As to the sentiment of patriotism of which you vaunt, was it not destroyed by your own emperors? When they had made Roman citizens of Gauls and Egyptians, Africans and Huns, Spaniards and Syrians, how could they expect that such a motley crew would remain true to the interests of an Italian town, and that town their hated oppressor. Patriotism depends on concentration; it cannot bear diffusion. Something more than such a worldly tie was wanted to bind the diverse nations together; they have found it in Christianity. A common language imparts community of thought and feeling; but what was to be expected when Greek is the language of one half of the ruling classes, and Latin of the other? we say nothing of the thousand unintelligible forms of speech in use throughout the Roman world. The fall of the senate preceded, by a few years, the origin of Christianity; you surely will not say that we were the inciters of the usurpations of the Cæsars? What have we had to do with the army, that engine of violence, which, in ninety-two years gave you thirty-two emperors and twenty-seven pretenders to the throne? We did not suggest to the Prætorian Guards to put up the empire to auction. "Can you really wonder that all this should come to an end? We do not wonder; on the contrary, we thank God for it. It is time that the human race had rest. The sighing of the prisoner, the prayer of the captive, are heard at last. Yet the judgment has been tempered with mercy. Had the pagan Rhadogast taken Rome, not a life would have been spared, no stone left on another. The Christian Alaric, though a Goth, respects his Christian brethren, and for their sakes you are saved. As to the gods, those dæmons in whom you trust, did they always save you from calamity? How long did Hannibal insult them? Was it a goose or a god that saved the Capitol from Brennus? Where were the gods in all the defeats, some of them but recent, of the pagan emperors? It is well that the purple Babylon has fallen, the harlot who was drunk with the blood of nations. "In the place of this earthly city, this vaunted mistress, of the world, whose fall closes a long career of superstition and sin, there shall arise "the City of God." The purifying fire of the barbarian shall remove her heathenish defilements, and make her fit for the kingdom of Christ. Instead of a thousand years of that night of crime, to which in your despair you look back, there is before her the day of the millennium, predicted by the prophets of old. In her regenerated walls there shall be no taint of sin, but righteousness and peace; no stain of the vanities of the world, no conflicts of ambition, no sordid hunger for gold, no lust after glory, no desire for domination, but holiness to the Lord." [Sidenote: St. Augustine's "City of God."] Of those who in such sentiments defended the cause of the new religion St. Augustine was the chief. In his great work, "the City of God," which may be regarded as the ablest specimen of the early Christian literature, he pursues this theme, if not in the language, at least in the spirit here presented, and through a copious detail of many books. On the later Christianity of the Western churches he has exerted more influence than any other of the fathers. To him is due much of the precision of our views on original sin, total depravity, grace, predestination, election. [Sidenote: Life and writings of St. Augustine.] In his early years St. Augustine had led a frivolous and evil life, plunging into all the dissipations of the gay city of Carthage. Through the devious paths of Manichæism, astrology, and scepticism, he at last arrived at the truth. It was not, however, the Fathers, but Cicero, to whom the good change was due; the writings of that great orator won him over to a love of wisdom, weaning him from the pleasures of the theatre, the follies of divination and superstition. From his Manichæan errors, he was snatched by Ambrose, the Bishop of Milan, who baptized him, together with his illegitimate son Adeodatus. In his writings we may, without difficulty, recognize the vestiges of Magianism, not as regards the duality of God, but as respects the division of mankind--the elect and lost; the kingdoms of grace and perdition, of God and the devil; answering to the Oriental ideas of the rule of light and darkness. From Ambrose, St. Augustine learned those high Trinitarian doctrines which were soon enforced in the West. In his philosophical disquisitions on Time, Matter, Memory, this far-famed writer is, however, always unsatisfactory, often trivial. His doctrine that Scripture, as the word of God, is capable of a manifold meaning, led him into many delusions, and exercised, in subsequent ages, a most baneful influence on true science. Thus he finds in the Mosaic account of the creation proofs of the Trinity; that the firmament spoken of therein is the type of God's word; and that there is a correspondence between creation itself and the Church. His numerous books have often been translated, especially his Confessions, a work that has delighted and edified fifty generations, but which must, after all, yield the palm, as a literary production, to the writings of Bunyan, who, like Augustine, gave himself up to all the agony of unsparing personal examination and relentless self-condemnation, anatomizing his very soul, and dragging forth every sin into the face of day. The ecclesiastical influence of St. Augustine has so completely eclipsed his political biography, that but little attention has been given to his conduct in the interesting time in which he lived. Sismondi recalls to his disadvantage that he was the friend of Count Boniface, who invited Genseric and his Vandals into Africa; the bloody consequences of that conspiracy cannot be exaggerated. It was through him that the count's name has been transmitted to posterity without infamy. Boniface was with him when he died, at Hippo, August 28th, A.D. 440. [Sidenote: Propitious effect of Alaric's siege.] When Rome thus fell before Alaric, so far from the provincial Christians bewailing her misfortune, they actually gloried in it. They critically distinguished between the downfall of the purple pagan harlot and the untouched city of God. The vengeance of the Goth had fallen on the temples, but the churches had been spared. Though in subsequent and not very distant calamities of the city these triumphant distinctions could scarcely be maintained, there can be no doubt that that catastrophe singularly developed papal power. The abasement of the ancient aristocracy brought into relief the bishop. It has been truly said that, as Rome rose from her ruins, the bishop was discerned to be her most conspicuous man. Most opportunely, at this period Jerome had completed his Latin translation of the Bible. The Vulgate henceforth became the ecclesiastical authority of the West. The influence of the heathen classics, which that austere anchorite had in early life admired, but had vainly attempted to free himself from by unremitting nocturnal flagellations, appears in this great version. It came at a critical moment for the West. In the politic non-committalism of Rome, it was not expedient that a pope should be an author. The Vulgate was all that the times required. Henceforth the East might occupy herself in the harmless fabrication of creeds and of heresies; the West could develop her practical talent in the much more important organization of ecclesiastical power. [Sidenote: The fate of the three great bishops.] Doubtless not without interest will the reader of these pages remark how closely the process of ecclesiastical events resembles that of civil. In both there is an irresistible tendency to the concentration of power. As in Roman history we have seen a few families, and, indeed, at last, one man grasp the influence which in earlier times was disseminated among the people, so in the Church the congregations are quickly found in subordination to their bishops, and these, in their turn, succumbing to a perpetually diminishing number of their compeers. In the period we are now considering, the minor episcopates, such as those of Jerusalem, Antioch, Carthage, had virtually lost their pristine force, everything having converged into the three great sees of Constantinople, Alexandria, and Rome. The history of the time is a record of the desperate struggles of the three chief bishops for supremacy. In this conflict Rome possessed many advantages; the two others were more immediately under the control of the imperial government, the clashing of interests between them more frequent, their rivalry more bitter. The control of ecclesiastical power was hence perpetually in Rome, though she was, both politically and intellectually, inferior to her competitors. As of old, there was a triumvirate in the world destined to concentrate into a despotism. And, as if to remind men that the principles involved in the movements of the Church are of the same nature as those involved in the movements of the state, the resemblances here pointed out are sometimes singularly illustrated in trifling details. The Bishop of Alexandria was not the first triumvir who came to an untimely end on the banks of the Nile; the Roman pontiff was not the first who consolidated his power by the aid of Gallic legions. CHAPTER X. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF FAITH. AGE OF FAITH IN THE EAST. _Consolidation of the Byzantine System, or the Union of Church and State.--The consequent Paganization of Religion and Persecution of Philosophy._ _Political Necessity for the enforcement of Patristicism, or Science of the Fathers.--Its peculiar Doctrines._ _Obliteration of the Vestiges of Greek Knowledge by Patristicism.--The Libraries and Serapion of Alexandria.--Destruction of the latter by Theodosius.--Death of Hypatia.--Extinction of Learning in the East by Cyril, his Associates and Successors._ [Sidenote: The age of Faith.] The policy of Constantine the Great inevitably tended to the paganization of Christianity. An incorporation of its pure doctrines with decaying pagan ideas was the necessary consequence of the control that had been attained by unscrupulous politicians and placemen. The faith, thus contaminated, gained a more general and ready popular acceptance, but at the cost of a new lease of life to those ideas. So thorough was the adulteration, that it was not until the Reformation, a period of more than a thousand years, that a separation of the true from the false could be accomplished. [Sidenote: Subdivision of the subject.] Considering how many nations were involved in these events, and the length of time over which they extend, a clear treatment of the subject requires its subdivision. I shall therefore speak, 1st, of the Age of Faith in the East; 2nd, of the Age of Faith in the West. The former was closed prematurely by the Mohammedan conquest; the latter, after undergoing slow metamorphosis, passed into the European Age of Reason during the pontificate of Nicholas V. In this and the following chapter I shall therefore treat of the age of Faith in the East, and of the catastrophe that closed it. I shall then turn to the Age of Faith in the West--a long but an instructive story. * * * * * [Sidenote: The paganization of Christianity.] [Sidenote: Discovery of the true cross and nails.] The paganization of religion was in no small degree accomplished by the influence of the females of the court of Constantinople. It soon manifested all the essential features of a true mythology and hero-worship. Helena, the empress-mother, superintended the building of monumental churches over the reputed places of interest in the history of our Saviour--those of his birth, his burial, his ascension. A vast and ever-increasing crowd of converts from paganism, who had become such from worldly considerations, and still hankered after wonders like those in which their forefathers had from time immemorial believed, lent a ready ear to assertions which, to more hesitating or better-instructed minds, would have seemed to carry imposture on their very face. A temple of Venus, formerly erected on the site of the Holy Sepulchre, being torn down, there were discovered, in a cavern beneath, three crosses, and also the inscription written by Pilate. The Saviour's cross, being by miracle distinguished from those of the thieves, was divided, a part being kept at Jerusalem and a part sent to Constantinople, together with the nails used in the crucifixion, which were also fortunately found. These were destined to adorn the head of the emperor's statue on the top of the porphyry pillar. The wood of the cross, moreover, displayed a property of growth, and hence furnished an abundant supply for the demands of pilgrims, and an unfailing source of pecuniary profit to its possessors. In the course of subsequent years there was accumulated in the various churches of Europe, from this particular relic, a sufficiency to have constructed many hundred crosses. The age that could accept such a prodigy, of course found no difficulty in the vision of Constantine and the story of the Labarum. [Sidenote: Political causes of paganization.] Such was the tendency of the times to adulterate Christianity with the spirit of paganism, partly to conciliate the prejudices of worldly converts, partly in the hope of securing its more rapid spread. There is a solemnity in the truthful accusation which Faustus makes to Augustine: "You have substituted your agapæ for the sacrifices of the pagans; for their idols your martyrs, whom you serve with the very same honours. You appease the shades of the dead with wine and feasts; you celebrate the solemn festivals of the Gentiles, their calends and their solstices; and as to their manners, those you have retained without any alteration. Nothing distinguishes you from the pagans except that you hold your assemblies apart from them." [Sidenote: Relative action of faith and philosophy.] [Sidenote: The emperors resist their ecclesiastical allies.] As we have seen in the last chapter, the course of political affairs had detached the power of the state from the philosophical and polytheistic parties. Joined to the new movement, it was not long before it gave significant proofs of the sincerity of its friendship by commencing an active persecution of the remnant of philosophy. It is to be borne in mind that the direction of the proselytism, which was thus leading to important results, was from below upward through society. As to philosophy, its action had been in the other direction; its depository in the few enlightened, in the few educated; its course, socially, from above downward. Under these circumstances, it was obvious enough that the prejudices of the ignorant populace would find, in the end, a full expression; that learning would have no consideration shown to it, or would be denounced as mere magic; that philosophy would be looked upon as a vain, and therefore sinful pursuit. When once a political aspirant has bidden with the multitude for power, and still depends on their pleasure for effective support, it is no easy thing to refuse their wishes or hold back from their demands. Even Constantine himself felt the pressure of the influence to which he was allied, and was compelled to surrender his friend Sopater, the philosopher, who was accused of binding the winds in an adverse quarter by the influence of magic, so that the corn-ships could not reach Constantinople; and the emperor was obliged to give orders for his decapitation to satisfy the clamours in the theatre. Not that such requisitions were submitted to without a struggle, or that succeeding sovereigns were willing to make their dignity tacitly subordinate to ecclesiastical domination. It was the aim of Constantine to make theology a branch of politics; it was the hope of every bishop in the empire to make politics a branch of theology. Already, however, it was apparent that the ecclesiastical party would, in the end, get the upper hand, and that the reluctance of some of the emperors to obey its behests was merely the revolt of individual minds, and therefore ephemeral in its nature, and that the popular wishes would be abundantly gratified as soon as emperors arose who not merely, like Constantine, availed themselves of Christianity, but absolutely and sincerely adopted it. [Sidenote: The Emperor Julian.] [Sidenote: Persecutions of his successors.] Julian, by his brief but ineffectual attempt to restore paganism, scarcely restrained for a moment the course of the new doctrines now strengthening themselves continually in public estimation by incorporating ideas borrowed from paganism. Through the reign of Valentinian, who was a Nicenist, and of Valens, who was an Arian, things went on almost as if the episode of Julian had never occurred. The ancient gods, whose existence no one seems ever to have denied, were now thoroughly identified with dæmons; their worship was stigmatized as the practice of magic. Against this crime, regarded by the laws as equal to treason, a violent persecution arose. Persons resorting to Rome for the purposes of study were forbidden to remain there after they were twenty-one years of age. The force of this persecution fell practically upon the old religion, though nominally directed against the black art, for the primary function of paganism was to foretell future events in this world, and hence its connexion with divination and its punishment as magic. [Sidenote: Necessity of learning to the bishops.] [Sidenote: Growth of bigotry and superstition.] But the persecution, though directed at paganism, struck also at what remained of philosophy. A great party had attained to power under circumstances which compelled it to enforce the principle on which it was originally founded. That principle was the exaction of unhesitating belief, which, though it will answer very well for the humbler and more numerous class of men, is unsuited for those of a higher intellectual grade. The policy of Constantine had opened a career in the state, through the Church, for men of the lowest rank. Many of such had already attained to the highest dignities. A burning zeal rather than the possession of profound learning animated them. But eminent position once attained, none stood more in need of the appearance of wisdom. Under such circumstances, they were tempted to set up their own notions as final and unimpeachable truth, and to denounce as magic, or the sinful pursuit of vain trifling, all the learning that stood in the way. In this the hand of the civil power assisted. It was intended to cut off every philosopher. Every manuscript that could be seized was forthwith burned. Throughout the East, men in terror destroyed their libraries, for fear that some unfortunate sentence contained in any of the books should involve them and their families in destruction. The universal opinion was that it was right to compel men to believe what the majority of society had now accepted as the truth, and, if they refused, it was right to punish them. No one in the dominating party was heard to raise his voice in behalf of intellectual liberty. The mystery of things above reason was held to be the very cause that they should be accepted by Faith; a singular merit was supposed to appertain to that mental condition in which belief precedes understanding. [Sidenote: Fanaticism of Theodosius.] The death-blow to paganism was given by the Emperor Theodosius, a Spaniard, who, from the services he rendered in this particular, has been rewarded with the title of "The Great." From making the practice of magic and the inspection of the entrails of animals capital offences, he proceeded to prohibit sacrifices, A.D. 391, and even the entering of temples. He alienated the revenues of many temples, confiscated the estates of others, some he demolished. The vestal virgins he dismissed, and any house profaned by incense he declared forfeited to the imperial exchequer. When once the property of a religious establishment has been irrevocably taken away, it is needless to declare its worship a capital crime. But not only did the government thus constitute itself a thorough auxiliary of the new religion; it also tried to secure it from its own dissensions. Apostates were deprived of the right of bequeathing their own property. Inquisitors of faith were established; they were at once spies and judges, the prototypes of the most fearful tribunal of modern times. Theodosius, to whom the carrying into effect of these measures was due, found it, however, more expedient for himself to institute living emblems of his personal faith than to rely on any ambiguous creed. He therefore sentenced all those to be deprived of civil rights, and to be driven into exile, who did not accord with the belief of Damasus, the Bishop of Rome, and Peter, the Bishop of Alexandria. Those who presumed to celebrate Easter on the same day as the Jews he condemned to death. "We will," says he, in his edict, "that all who embrace this creed be called catholic Christians"--the rest are heretics. [Sidenote: Responsibility of the clergy in these events.] [Sidenote: Massacre at Thessalonica.] Impartial history is obliged to impute the origin of these tyrannical and scandalous acts of the civil power to the influence of the clergy, and to hold them responsible for the crimes. The guilt of impure, unscrupulous women, eunuchs, parasites, violent soldiers in possession of absolute power, lies at their door. Yet human nature can never, in any condition of affairs, be altogether debased. Though the system under which men were living pushed them forward to these iniquities, the individual sense of right and wrong sometimes vindicated itself. In these pages we shall again and again meet this personal revolt against the indefensible consequences of system. It was thus that there were bishops who openly intervened between the victim and his oppressor, who took the treasures of the Church to redeem slaves from captivity. For this a future age will perhaps excuse Ambrose the Archbishop of Milan, the impostures he practised, remembering that, face to face, he held Theodosius the Great to accountability for the massacre of seven thousand persons, whom, in a fit of vengeance, he had murdered in the circus of Thessalonica, A.D. 390, and inexorably compelled the imperial culprit, to whom he and all his party were under such obligations, to atone for his crime by such penance as may be exacted in this world, teaching his sovereign "that though he was of the Church and in the Church, he was not above the Church;" that brute force must give way to intellect, and that even the meanest human being has rights in the sight of God. [Sidenote: Introduction of Patristicism.] Political events had thus taken a course disastrous to human knowledge. A necessity had arisen that they to whom circumstances had given the control of public faith should also have the control of public knowledge. The moral condition of the world had thus come into antagonism with scientific progress. As had been the case many ages before in India, the sacred writings were asserted to contain whatever was necessary or useful for man to know. Questions in astronomy, geography, chronology, history, or any other branch which had hitherto occupied or amused the human mind, were now to be referred to a new tribunal for solution, and there remained nothing to be done by the philosopher. A revelation of science is incompatible with any farther advance; it admits no employment save that of the humble commentator. [Sidenote: Apology of the fathers for Patristicism.] The early ecclesiastical writers, or Fathers, as they are often called, came thus to be considered not only as surpassing all other men in piety, but also as excelling them in wisdom. Their dictum was looked upon as final. This eminent position they held for many centuries; indeed, it was not until near the period of the Reformation that they were deposed. The great critics who appeared at that time, by submitting the Patristic works to a higher analysis, comparing them with one another and showing their mutual contradictions, brought them all to their proper level. The habit of even so much as quoting them went out of use, when it was perceived that not one of these writers could present the necessary credentials to entitle him to speak with authority on any scientific fact. Many of them had not scrupled to express their contempt of the things they thus presumed to judge. Thus Eusebius says: "It is not through ignorance of the things admired by philosophers, but through contempt of such useless labour, that we think so little of these matters, turning our souls to the exercise of better things." In such a spirit Lactantius holds the whole of philosophy to be "empty and false." Speaking in reference to the heretical doctrine of the globular form of the earth, he says: "Is it possible that men can be so absurd as to believe that the crops and the trees on the other side of the earth hang downward, and that men have their feet higher than their heads? If you ask them how they defend these monstrosities? how things do not fall away from the earth on that side? they reply that the nature of things is such, that heavy bodies tend toward the centre like the spokes of a wheel, while light bodies, as clouds, smoke, fire, tend from the centre to the heavens on all sides. Now I am really at a loss what to say of those who, when they have once gone wrong, steadily persevere in their folly, and defend one absurd opinion by another." On the question of the antipodes, St. Augustine asserts that "it is impossible there should be inhabitants on the opposite side of the earth, since no such race is recorded by Scripture among the descendants of Adam." [Sidenote: The doctrines of Patristicism.] Patristicism, or the science of the Fathers, was thus essentially founded on the principle that the Scriptures contain all knowledge permitted to man. It followed, therefore, that natural phenomena may be interpreted by the aid of texts, and that all philosophical doctrines must be moulded to the pattern of orthodoxy. It asserted that God made the world out of nothing, since to admit the eternity of matter leads to Manichæism. It taught that the earth is a plane, and the sky a vault above it, in which the stars are fixed, and the sun, moon, and planets perform their motions, rising and setting; that these bodies are altogether of a subordinate nature, their use being to give light to man; that still higher and beyond the vault of the sky is heaven, the abode of God and the angelic hosts; that in six days the earth, and all that it contains, were made; that it was overwhelmed by a universal deluge, which destroyed all living things save those preserved in the ark, the waters being subsequently dried up by the wind; that man is the moral centre of the world; for him all things were created and are sustained; that, so far as his ever having shown any tendency to improvement, he has fallen both in wisdom and worth, the first man, before his sin, having been perfect in body and soul: hence Patristicism ever looked backward, never forward; that through that sin death came into the world; not even any animal had died previously, but all had been immortal. It utterly rejected the idea of the government of the world by law, asserting the perpetual interference of an instant Providence on all occasions, not excepting the most trifling. It resorted to spiritual influences in the production of natural effects, assigning to angels the duty of moving the stars, carrying up water from the sea to form rain, and managing eclipses. It affirmed that man had existed but a few centuries upon earth, and that he could continue only a little longer, for that the world itself might every moment be expected to be burned up by fire. It deduced all the families of the earth from one primitive pair, and made them all morally responsible for the sin committed by that pair. It rejected the doctrine that man can modify his own organism as absolutely irreligious, the physician being little better than an atheist, but it affirmed that cures may be effected by the intercession of saints, at the shrines of holy men, and by relics. It altogether repudiated the improvement of man's physical state; to increase his power or comfort was to attempt to attain what Providence denied; philosophical investigation was an unlawful prying into things that God had designed to conceal. It declined the logic of the Greeks, substituting miracle-proof for it, the demonstration of an assertion being supposed to be given by a surprising illustration of something else. A wild astronomy had thus supplanted the astronomy of Hipparchus; the miserable fictions of Eusebius had subverted the chronology of Manetho and Eratosthenes; the geometry of Euclid and Apollonius was held to be of no use; the geography of Ptolemy a blunder; the great mechanical inventions of Archimedes incomparably surpassed by the miracles worked at the shrines of a hundred saints. [Sidenote: Intrinsic weakness of the Patristic system.] Of such a mixture of truth and of folly was Patristicism composed. Ignorance in power had found it necessary to have a false and unprogressive science, forgetting that sooner or later the time must arrive when it would be impossible to maintain stationary ideas in a world of which the affairs are ever advancing. A failure to include in the system thus imposed upon men any provision for intellectual progress was the great and fatal mistake of those times. Each passing century brought its incompatibilities. A strain upon the working of the system soon occurred, and perpetually increased in force. It became apparent that, in the end, the imposition would be altogether unable to hold together. On a future page we shall see what were the circumstances under which it at last broke down. [Sidenote: It commences by extinguishing Greek science.] The wonder-worker who prepares to exhibit his phantasmagoria upon the wall, knows well how much it adds to the delusion to have all lights extinguished save that which is in his own dark lantern. I have now to relate how the last flickering rays of Greek learning were put out; how Patristicism, aided by her companion Bigotry, attempted to lay the foundations of her influence in security. [Sidenote: Acts of the Emperor Theodosius.] [Sidenote: Alexandrian libraries.] [Sidenote: Library of Pergamus transferred to Egypt.] In the reign of Theodosius the Great, the pagan religion and pagan knowledge were together destroyed. This emperor was restrained by no doubts, for he was very ignorant and, it must be admitted, was equally sincere and severe. Among his early measures we find an order that if any of the governors of Egypt so much as entered a temple he should be fined fifteen pounds of gold. He followed this by the destruction of the temples of Syria. At this period the Archbishopric of Alexandria was held by one Theophilus, a bold, bad man, who had once been a monk of Nitria. It was about A.D. 390. The Trinitarian conflict was at the time composed, one party having got the better of the other. To the monks and rabble of Alexandria the temple of Serapis and its library were doubly hateful, partly because of the Pantheistic opposition it shadowed forth against the prevailing doctrine, and partly because within its walls sorcery, magic, and other dealings with the devil had for ages been going on. We have related how Ptolemy Philadelphus commenced the great library in the aristocratic quarter of the city named Bruchion, and added various scientific establishments to it. Incited by this example, Eumenes, King of Pergamus, established out of rivalry a similar library in his metropolis. With the intention of preventing him from excelling that of Egypt, Ptolemy Epiphanes prohibited the exportation of papyrus, whereupon Eumenes invented the art of making parchment. The second great Alexandrian library was that established by Ptolemy Physcon at the Serapion, in the adjoining quarter of the town. The library in the Bruchion, which was estimated to contain 400,000 volumes, was accidentally, or, as it has been said, purposely burned during the siege of the city by Julius Cæsar, but that in the Serapion escaped. To make amends for this great catastrophe, Marc Antony presented to Cleopatra the rival library, brought for that purpose from Pergamus. It consisted of 200,000 volumes. It was with the library in the Bruchion that the Museum was originally connected; but after its conflagration, the remains of the various surviving establishments were transferred to the Serapion, which therefore was, at the period of which we are speaking, the greatest depository of knowledge in the world. [Sidenote: The temple of Serapis.] The pagan Roman emperors had not been unmindful of the great trust they had thus inherited from the Ptolemies. The temple of Serapis was universally admitted to be the noblest religious structure in the world, unless perhaps the patriotic Roman excepted that of the Capitoline Jupiter. It was approached by a vast flight of steps; was adorned with many rows of columns; and in its quadrangular portico--a matchless work of skill--were placed most exquisite statues. On the sculptured walls of its chambers, and upon ceilings, were paintings of unapproachable excellence. Of the value of these works of art the Greeks were no incompetent judges. [Sidenote: Quarrel between the Christians and pagans in Alexandria.] [Sidenote: Theodosius orders the Serapion to be destroyed.] [Sidenote: Statue of Serapis is destroyed.] [Sidenote: Persecutions of Theophilus.] The Serapion, with these its precious contents, perpetually gave umbrage to the Archbishop Theophilus and his party. To them it was a reproach and an insult. Its many buildings were devoted to unknown, and therefore unholy uses. In its vaults and silent chambers the populace believed that the most abominable mysteries were carried on. There were magical brazen circles and sun-dials for fortune-telling in its porch; every one said that they had once belonged to Pharaoh or the conjurors who strove with Moses. Alas! no one of the ferocious bigots knew that with these Eratosthenes had in the old times measured the size of the earth, and Timocharis had determined the motions of the planet Venus. The temple, with its pure white marble walls, and endless columns projected against a blue and cloudless Egyptian sky, was to them a whited sepulchre full of rottenness within. In the very sanctuary of the god it was said that the priests had been known to delude the wealthiest and most beautiful Alexandrian women, who fancied that they were honoured by the raptures of the god. To this temple, so well worthy of their indignation, Theophilus directed the attention of his people. It happened that the Emperor Constantius had formerly given to the Church the site of an ancient temple of Osiris, and, in digging the foundation for the new edifice, the obscene symbols used in that worship chanced to be found. With more zeal than modesty, Theophilus exhibited them to the derision of the rabble in the market-place. The old Egyptian pagan party rose to avenge the insult. A riot ensued, one Olympius, a philosopher, being the leader. Their head-quarters were in the massive building of the Serapion, from which issuing forth they seized whatever Christians they could, compelled them to offer sacrifice, and then killed them on the altar. The dispute was referred to the emperor, in the meantime the pagans maintaining themselves in the temple-fortress. In the dead of night, Olympius, it is said, was awe-stricken by the sound of a clear voice chanting among the arches and pillars the Christian Alleluia. Either accepting, like a heathen, the omen, or fearing a secret assassin, he escaped from the temple and fled for his life. On the arrival of the rescript of Theodosius the pagans laid down their arms, little expecting the orders of the emperor. He enjoined that the building should forthwith be destroyed, intrusting the task to the swift hands of Theophilus. His work was commenced by the pillage and dispersal of the library. He entered the sanctuary of the god--that sanctuary which was the visible sign of the Pantheism of the East, the memento of the alliance between hoary primeval Egypt and free-thinking Greece, the relic of the statesmanship of Alexander's captains. In gloomy silence the image of Serapis confronted its assailants. It is in such a moment that the value of a religion is tried; the god who cannot defend himself is a convicted sham. Theophilus, undaunted, commands a veteran to strike the image with his battle-axe. The helpless statue offers no resistance. Another blow rolls the head of the idol on the floor. It is said that a colony of frightened rats ran forth from its interior. The kingcraft, and priestcraft, and solemn swindle of seven hundred years are exploded in a shout of laughter; the god is broken to pieces, his members dragged through the streets. The recesses of the Serapion are explored. Posterity is edified by discoveries of frauds by which the priests maintain their power. Among other wonders, a car with four horses is seen suspended near the ceiling by means of a magnet laid on the roof, which being removed by the hand of a Christian, the imposture fell to the pavement. The historian of these events, noticing the physical impossibility of such things, has wisely said that it is more easy to invent a fictitious story than to support a practical fraud. But the gold and silver contained in the temple were carefully collected, the baser articles being broken in pieces or cast into the fire. Nor did the holy zeal of Theophilus rest until the structure was demolished to its very foundations--a work of no little labour--and a church erected in the precincts. It must, however, have been the temple more particularly which experienced this devastation. The building in which the library had been contained must have escaped, for, twenty years subsequently, Orosius expressly states that he saw the empty cases or shelves. The fanatic Theophilus pushed forward his victory. The temple at Canopus next fell before him, and a general attack was made on all similar edifices in Egypt. Speaking of the monks and of the worship of relics, Eunapius says: "Whoever wore a black dress was invested with tyrannical power; philosophy and piety to the gods were compelled to retire into secret places, and to dwell in contented poverty and dignified meanness of appearance. The temples were turned into tombs for the adoration of the bones of the basest and most depraved of men, who had suffered the penalty of the law, and whom they made their gods." Such was the end of the Serapion. Its destruction stands forth a token to all ages of the state of the times. [Sidenote: St. Cyril.] [Sidenote: Determines on supremacy in Alexandria.] [Sidenote: Riots in that city.] In a few years after this memorable event the Archbishop Theophilus had gone to his account. His throne was occupied by his nephew, St. Cyril, who had been expressly prepared for that holy and responsible office by a residence of five years among the monks of Nitria. He had been presented to the fastidious Alexandrians with due precautions, and by them acknowledged to be an effective and fashionable preacher. His pagan opponents, however, asserted that the clapping of hands and encores bestowed on the more elaborate passages of his sermons were performed by persons duly arranged in the congregation, and paid for their trouble. If doubt remains as to his intellectual endowments, there can be none respecting the qualities of his heart. The three parties into which the population of the city was divided--Christian, Heathen, and Jewish--kept up a perpetual disorder by their disputes. Of the last it is said that the number was not less than forty thousand. The episcopate itself had become much less a religious than an important civil office, exercising a direct municipal control through the Parabolani, which, under the disguise of city missionaries, whose duty it was to seek out the sick and destitute, constituted in reality a constabulary force, or rather actually a militia. The unscrupulous manner in which Cyril made use of this force, diverting it from its ostensible purpose, is indicated by the fact that the emperor was obliged eventually to take the appointments to it out of the archbishop's hands, and reduce the number to five or six hundred. Some local circumstances had increased the animosity between the Jews and the Christians, and riots had taken place between them in the theatre. These were followed by more serious conflicts in the streets; and the Jews, for the moment having the advantage over their antagonists, outraged and massacred them. It was, however, but for a moment; for, the Christians arousing themselves under the inspirations of Cyril, a mob sacked the synagogues, pillaged the houses of the Jews, and endeavoured to expel those offenders out of the city. The prefect Orestes was compelled to interfere to stop the riot; but the archbishop was not so easily disposed of. His old associates, the Nitrian monks, now justified the prophetic forecast of Theophilus. Five hundred of those fanatics swarmed into the town from the desert. The prefect himself was assaulted, and wounded in the head by a stone thrown by Ammonius, one of them. The more respectable citizens, alarmed at the turn things were taking, interfered, and Ammonius, being seized, suffered death at the hands of the lictor. Cyril, undismayed, caused his body to be transported to the Cæsareum, laid there in state, and buried with unusual honours. He directed that the name of the fallen zealot should be changed from Ammonius to Thaumasius, or "the Wonderful," and the holy martyr received the honours of canonization. [Sidenote: Hypatia.] [Sidenote: The city of Alexandria.] In these troubles there can be no doubt that the pagans sympathized with the Jews, and therefore drew upon themselves the vengeance of Cyril. Among the cultivators of Platonic philosophy whom the times had spared, there was a beautiful young woman, Hypatia, the daughter of Theon the mathematician, who not only distinguished herself by her expositions of the Neo-Platonic and Peripatetic doctrines, but was also honoured for the ability with which she commented on the writings of Apollonius and other geometers. Every day before her door stood a long train of chariots; her lecture-room was crowded with the wealth and fashion of Alexandria. Her aristocratic audiences were more than a rival to those attending upon the preaching of the archbishop, and perhaps contemptuous comparisons were instituted between the philosophical lectures of Hypatia and the incomprehensible sermons of Cyril. But if the archbishop had not philosophy, he had what on such occasions is more valuable--power. It was not to be borne that a heathen sorceress should thus divide such a metropolis with a prelate; it was not to be borne that the rich, and noble, and young should thus be carried off by the black arts of a diabolical enchantress. Alexandria was too fair a prize to be lightly surrendered. It could vie with Constantinople itself. Into its streets, from the yellow sand-hills of the desert, long trains of camels and countless boats brought the abundant harvests of the Nile. A ship-canal connected the harbour of Eunostos with Lake Mareotis. The harbour was a forest of masts. Seaward, looking over the blue Mediterranean, was the great lighthouse, the Pharos, counted as one of the wonders of the world; and to protect the shipping from the north wind there was a mole three quarters of a mile in length, with its drawbridges, a marvel of the skill of the Macedonian engineers. Two great streets crossed each other at right angles--one was three, the other one mile long. In the square where they intersected stood the mausoleum in which rested the body of Alexander. The city was full of noble edifices--the palace, the exchange, the Cæsareum, the halls of justice. Among the temples, those of Pan and Neptune were conspicuous. The visitor passed countless theatres, churches, temples, synagogues. There was a time before Theophilus when the Serapion might have been approached on one side by a slope for carriages, on the other by a flight of a hundred marble steps. On these stood the grand portico with its columns, its chequered corridor leading round a roofless hall, the adjoining porches of which contained the library, and from the midst of its area arose a lofty pillar visible afar off at sea. On one side of the town were the royal docks, on the other the Hippodrome, and on appropriate sites the Necropolis, the market-places, the gymnasium, its stoa being a stadium long; the amphitheatre, groves, gardens, fountains, obelisks, and countless public buildings with gilded roofs glittering in the sun. Here might be seen the wealthy Christian ladies walking in the streets, their dresses embroidered with Scripture parables, the Gospels hanging from their necks by a golden chain, Maltese dogs with jewelled collars frisking round them, and slaves with parasols and fans trooping along. There might be seen the ever-trading, ever-thriving Jew, fresh from the wharves, or busy negotiating his loans. But, worst of all, the chariots with giddy or thoughtful pagans hastening to the academy of Hypatia, to hear those questions discussed which have never yet been answered, "Where am I?" "What am I?" "What can I know?"--to hear discourses on antenatal existence, or, as the vulgar asserted, to find out the future by the aid of the black art, soothsaying by Chaldee talismans engraved on precious stones, by incantations with a glass and water, by moonshine on the walls, by the magic mirror, the reflection of a sapphire, a sieve, or cymbals; fortune-telling by the veins of the hand, or consultations with the stars. [Sidenote: Murder of Hypatia by Cyril.] Cyril at length determined to remove this great reproach, and overturn what now appeared to be the only obstacle in his way to uncontrolled authority in the city. We are reaching one of those moments in which great general principles embody themselves in individuals. It is Greek philosophy under the appropriate form of Hypatia; ecclesiastical ambition under that of Cyril. Their destinies are about to be fulfilled. As Hypatia comes forth to her academy, she is assaulted by Cyril's mob--an Alexandrian mob of many monks. Amid the fearful yelling of these bare-legged and black-cowled fiends she is dragged from her chariot, and in the public street stripped naked. In her mortal terror she is haled into an adjacent church, and in that sacred edifice is killed by the club of Peter the Reader. It is not always in the power of him who has stirred up the worst passions of a fanatical mob to stop their excesses when his purpose is accomplished. With the blow given by Peter the aim of Cyril was reached, but his merciless adherents had not glutted their vengeance. They outraged the naked corpse, dismembered it, and incredible to be said, finished their infernal crime by scraping the flesh from the bones with oyster-shells, and casting the remnants into the fire. Though in his privacy St. Cyril and his friends might laugh at the end of his antagonist, his memory must bear the weight of the righteous indignation of posterity. [Sidenote: Suppression of Alexandrian science.] Thus, in the 414th year of our era, the position of philosophy in the intellectual metropolis of the world was determined; henceforth science must sink into obscurity and subordination. Its public existence will no longer be tolerated. Indeed, it may be said that from this period for some centuries it altogether disappeared. The leaden mace of bigotry had struck and shivered the exquisitely tempered steel of Greek philosophy. Cyril's acts passed unquestioned. It was now ascertained that throughout the Roman world there must be no more liberty of thought. It had been said that these events prove Greek philosophy to have been a sham, and, like other shams, it was driven out of the world when detected, and that it could not withstand the truth. Such assertions might answer their purposes very well, so long as the victors maintained their power in Alexandria, but they manifestly are of inconvenient application after the Saracens had captured the city. However this may be, an intellectual stagnation settled upon the place, an invisible atmosphere of oppression, ready to crush down, morally and physically, whatever provoked its weight. And so for the next two dreary and weary centuries things remained, until oppression and force were ended by a foreign invader. It was well for the world that the Arabian conquerors avowed their true argument, the scimitar, and made no pretensions to superhuman wisdom. They were thus left free to pursue knowledge without involving themselves in theological contradictions, and were able to make Egypt once more illustrious among the nations of the earth--to snatch it from the hideous fanaticism, ignorance, and barbarism into which it had been plunged. On the shore of the Red Sea once more a degree of the earth's surface was to be measured, and her size ascertained--but by a Mohammedan astronomer. In Alexandria the memory of the illustrious old times was to be recalled by the discovery of the motion of the sun's apogee by Albategnius, and the third inequality of the moon, the variation, by Aboul Wefa; to be discovered six centuries later in Europe by Tycho Brahe. The canal of the Pharaohs from the Nile to the Red Sea, cleared out by the Ptolemies in former ages, was to be cleared from its sand again. The glad desert listened once more to the cheerful cry of the merchant camel-driver instead of the midnight prayer of the monk. CHAPTER XI. PREMATURE END OF THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE EAST. THE THREE ATTACKS, VANDAL, PERSIAN, ARAB. THE VANDAL ATTACK _leads to the Loss of Africa.--Recovery of that Province by Justinian after great Calamities._ THE PERSIAN ATTACK _leads to the Loss of Syria and Fall of Jerusalem.--The true Cross carried away as a Trophy.--Moral Impression of these Attacks._ THE ARAB ATTACK.--_Birth, Mission, and Doctrines of Mohammed.--Rapid Spread of his Faith in Asia and Africa.--Fall of Jerusalem.--Dreadful Losses of Christianity to Mohammedanism.--The Arabs become a learned Nation._ _Review of the Koran.--Reflexions on the Loss of Asia and Africa by Christendom._ [Sidenote: Three attacks made upon the Byzantine system.] I have now to describe the end of the age of Faith in the East. The Byzantine system, out of which it had issued, was destroyed by three attacks: 1st, by the Vandal invasion of Africa; 2nd, by the military operations of Chosroes, the Persian king; 3rd, by Mohammedanism. Of these three attacks, the Vandal may be said, in a military sense, to have been successfully closed by the victories of Justinian; but, politically, the cost of those victories was the depopulation and ruin of the empire, particularly in the south and west. The second, the Persian attack, though brilliantly resisted in its later years by the Emperor Heraclius, left, throughout the East, a profound moral impression, which proved final and fatal in the Mohammedan attack. [Sidenote: The Vandal attack.] [Sidenote: Conquest of Africa.] No heresy has ever produced such important political results as that of Arius. While it was yet a vital doctrine, it led to the infliction of unspeakable calamities on the empire, and, though long ago forgotten, has blasted permanently some of the fairest portions of the globe. When Count Boniface, incited by the intrigues of the patrician �tius, invited Genseric, the King of the Vandals, into Africa, that barbarian found in the discontented sectaries his most effectual aid. In vain would he otherwise have attempted the conquest of the country with the 50,000 men he landed from Spain, A.D. 429. Three hundred Donatist bishops, and many thousand priests, driven to despair by the persecutions inflicted by the emperor, carrying with them that large portion of the population who were Arian, were ready to look upon him as a deliverer, and therefore to afford him support. The result to the empire was the loss of Africa. [Sidenote: The reign of Justinian.] It was nothing more than might have been expected that Justinian, when he found himself firmly seated on the throne of Constantinople, should make an attempt to retrieve these disasters. The principles which led him to his scheme of legislation; to the promotion of manufacturing interests by the fabrication of silk; to the reopening of the ancient routes to India, so as to avoid transit through the Persian dominions; to his attempt at securing the carrying trade of Europe for the Greeks, also suggested the recovery of Africa. To this important step he was urged by the Catholic clergy. In a sinister but suitable manner, his reign was illustrated by his closing the schools of philosophy at Athens, ostensibly because of their affiliation to paganism, but in reality on account of his detestation of the doctrines of Aristotle and Plato; by the abolition of the consulate of Rome; by the extinction of the Roman senate, A.D. 552; by the capture and recapture five times of the Eternal City. The vanishing of the Roman race was thus marked by an extinction of the instruments of ancient philosophy and power. [Sidenote: His reconquest of Africa.] The indignation of the Catholics was doubtless justly provoked by the atrocities practised in the Arian behalf by the Vandal kings of Africa, who, among other cruelties, had attempted to silence some bishops by cutting out their tongues. To carry out Justinian's intention of the recovery of Africa, his general Belisarius sailed at midsummer, A.D. 533, and in November he had completed the reconquest of the country. [Sidenote: Dreadful calamities produced by him.] This was speedy work, but it was followed by fearful calamities; for in this, and the Italian wars of Justinian, likewise undertaken at the instance of the orthodox clergy, the human race visibly diminished. It is affirmed that in the African campaign five millions of the people of that country were consumed; that during the twenty years of the Gothic War Italy lost fifteen millions; and that the wars, famines, and pestilences of the reign of Justinian diminished the human species by the almost incredible number of one hundred millions. [Sidenote: The Persian attack.] [Sidenote: Fall and pillage of Jerusalem.] [Sidenote: Triumphs of Chosroes.] It is therefore not at all surprising that in such a deplorable condition men longed for a deliverer, in their despair totally regardless who he might be or from what quarter he might come. Ecclesiastical partisanship had done its work. When Chosroes II., the Persian monarch, A.D. 611, commenced his attack, the persecuted sectaries of Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt followed the example of the African Arians in the Vandal invasion, and betrayed the empire. The revenge of an oppressed heretic is never scrupulous about its means of gratification. As might have been expected, the cities of Asia fell before the Persians. They took Jerusalem by assault, and with it the cross of Christ; ninety thousand Christians were massacred; and in its very birthplace Christianity was displaced by Magianism. The shock which religious men received through this dreadful event can hardly now be realized. The imposture of Constantine bore a bitter fruit; the sacred wood which had filled the world with its miracles was detected to be a helpless counterfeit, borne off in triumph by deriding blasphemers. All confidence in the apostolic powers of the Asiatic bishops was lost; not one of them could work a wonder for his own salvation in the dire extremity. The invaders overran Egypt as far as Ethiopia; it seemed as if the days of Cambyses had come back again. The Archbishop of Alexandria found it safer to flee to Cyprus than to defend himself by spiritual artifices or to rely on prayer. The Mediterranean shore to Tripoli was subdued. For ten years the Persian standards were displayed in view of Constantinople. At one time Heraclius had determined to abandon that city, and make Carthage the metropolis of the empire. His intention was defeated by the combination of the patriarch, who dreaded the loss of his position; of the aristocracy, who foresaw their own ruin; and of the people, who would thus be deprived of their largesses and shows. Africa was more truly Roman than any other of the provinces; it was there that Latin was last used. But when the vengeance of the heretical sects was satisfied, they found that they had only changed the tyrant without escaping the tyranny. The magnitude of their treason was demonstrated by the facility with which Heraclius expelled the Persians as soon as they chose to assist him. [Sidenote: The moral impression of these events.] In vain, after these successes, what was passed off as the true cross was restored again to Jerusalem--the charm was broken. The Magian fire had burnt the sepulchre of Christ, and the churches of Constantine and Helena; the costly gifts of the piety of three centuries were gone into the possession of the Persian and the Jew. Never again was it possible that faith could be restored. They who had devoutly expected that the earth would open, the lightning descend, or sudden death arrest the sacrilegious invader of the holy places, and had seen that nothing of the kind ensued, dropped at once into dismal disbelief. Asia and Africa were already morally lost. The scimitar of the Arabian soon cut the remaining tie. [Sidenote: Birth of Mohammed.] Four years after the death of Justinian, A.D. 569, was born at Mecca, in Arabia, the man who, of all men, has exercised the greatest influence upon the human race--Mohammed, by Europeans surnamed "the Impostor." He raised his own nation from Fetichism, the adoration of a meteoric stone, and from the basest idol-worship; he preached a monotheism which quickly scattered to the winds the empty disputes of the Arians and Catholics, and irrevocably wrenched from Christianity more than half, and that by far the best half of her possessions, since it included the Holy Land, the birthplace of our faith, and Africa, which had imparted to it its Latin form. That continent, and a very large part of Asia, after the lapse of more than a thousand years, still remain permanently attached to the Arabian doctrine. With the utmost difficulty, and as if by miracle, Europe itself escaped. [Sidenote: His preaching,] [Sidenote: and title to apostleship.] Mohammed possessed that combination of qualities which more than once has decided the fate of empires. A preaching soldier, he was eloquent in the pulpit, valiant in the field. His theology was simple: "There is but one God." The effeminate Syrian, lost in Monothelite and Monophysite mysteries; the Athanasian and Arian, destined to disappear before his breath, might readily anticipate what he meant. Asserting that everlasting truth, he did not engage in vain metaphysics, but applied himself to improving the social condition of his people by regulations respecting personal cleanliness, sobriety, fasting, prayer. Above all other works he esteemed almsgiving and charity. With a liberality to which the world had of late become a stranger, he admitted the salvation of men of any form of faith provided they were virtuous. To the declaration that there is but one God, he added, "and Mohammed is his Prophet." Whoever desires to know whether the event of things answered to the boldness of such an announcement, will do well to examine a map of the world in our own times. He will find the marks of something more than an imposture. To be the religious head of many empires, to guide the daily life of one-third of the human race, may perhaps justify the title of a messenger of God. [Sidenote: His delusions.] Like many of the Christian monks, Mohammed retired to the solitude of the desert, and, devoting himself to meditation, fasting, and prayer, became the victim of cerebral disorder. He was visited by supernatural appearances, mysterious voices accosting him as the Prophet of God; even the stones and trees joined in the whispering. He himself suspected the true nature of his malady, and to his wife Chadizah he expressed a dread that he was becoming insane. It is related that as they sat alone, a shadow entered the room. "Dost thou see aught?" said Chadizah, who, after the manner of Arabian matrons, wore her veil. "I do," said the prophet. Whereupon she uncovered her face and said, "Dost thou see it now?" "I do not." "Glad tidings to thee, O Mohammed!" exclaimed Chadizah: "it is an angel, for he has respected my unveiled face; an evil spirit would not." As his disease advanced, these spectral illusions became more frequent; from one of them he received the divine commission. "I," said his wife, "will be thy first believer;" and they knelt down in prayer together. Since that day nine thousand millions of human beings have acknowledged him to be a prophet of God. [Sidenote: His gradual antagonism to Christianity.] [Sidenote: Institution of polygamy.] Though, in the earlier part of his career, Mohammed exhibited a spirit of forbearance toward the Christians, it was not possible but that bitter animosity should arise, as the sphere of his influence extended. He appears to have been unable to form any other idea of the Trinity than that of three distinct gods; and the worship of the Virgin Mary, recently introduced, could not fail to come into irreconcilable conflict with his doctrine of the unity of God. To his condemnation of those Jews who taught that Ezra was the Son of God, he soon added bitter denunciations of the Oriental churches because of their idolatrous practices. The Koran is full of such rebukes: "Verily, Christ Jesus, the Son of Mary, is the apostle of God." "Believe, therefore, in God and his apostles, and say not that there are three gods. Forbear this; it will be better for you. God is but one God. Far be it from Him that he should have a son." "In the last day, God shall say unto Jesus, O Jesus, son of Mary! hast thou ever said to men, Take me and my mother for two gods beside God? He shall say, Praise be unto thee, it is not for me to say that which I ought not." Mohammed disdained all metaphysical speculations respecting the nature of the Deity, or of the origin and existence of sin, topics which had hitherto exercised the ingenuity of the East. He cast aside the doctrine of the superlative value of chastity, asserting that marriage is the natural state of man. To asceticism he opposed polygamy, permitting the practice of it in this life and promising the most voluptuous means for its enjoyment in Paradise hereafter, especially to those who had gained the crowns of martyrdom or of victory. [Sidenote: Results of his life.] Too often, in this world, success is the criterion of right. The Mohammedan appeals to the splendour and rapidity of his career as a proof of the divine mission of his apostle. It may, however, be permitted to a philosopher, who desires to speak of the faith of so large a portion of the human race with profound respect, to examine what were some of the secondary causes which led to so great a political result. From its most glorious seats Christianity was for ever expelled: from Palestine, the scene of its most sacred recollections; from Asia Minor, that of its first churches; from Egypt, whence issued the great doctrine of Trinitarian orthodoxy; from Carthage, who imposed her belief on Europe. [Sidenote: Causes of his success.] It is altogether a misconception that the Arabian progress was due to the sword alone. The sword may change an acknowledged national creed, but it cannot affect the consciences of men. Profound though its argument is, something far more profound was demanded before Mohammedanism pervaded the domestic life of Asia and Africa, before Arabic became the language of so many different nations. [Sidenote: Civil weakness produced by ecclesiastical demoralization.] The explanation of this political phenomenon is to be found in the social condition of the conquered countries. The influences of religion in them had long ago ceased; it had become supplanted by theology--a theology so incomprehensible that even the wonderful capabilities of the Greek language were scarcely enough to meet its subtle demands; the Latin and the barbarian dialects were out of the question. How was it possible that unlettered men, who with difficulty can be made to apprehend obvious things, should understand such mysteries? Yet they were taught that on those doctrines the salvation or damnation of the human race depended. They saw that the clergy had abandoned the guidance of the individual life of their flocks; that personal virtue or vice were no longer considered; that sin was not measured by evil works but by the degrees of heresy. They saw that the ecclesiastical chiefs of Rome, Constantinople, and Alexandria were engaged in a desperate struggle for supremacy, carrying out their purposes by weapons and in ways revolting to the conscience of man. What an example when bishops were concerned in assassinations, poisonings, adulteries, blindings, riots, treasons, civil war; when patriarchs and primates were excommunicating and anathematizing one another in their rivalries for earthly power, bribing eunuchs with gold, and courtesans and royal females with concessions of episcopal love, and influencing the decisions of councils asserted to speak with the voice of God by those base intrigues and sharp practices resorted to by demagogues in their packed assemblies! Among legions of monks, who carried terror into the imperial armies and riot into the great cities, arose hideous clamours for theological dogmas, but never a voice for intellectual liberty or the outraged rights of man. In such a state of things, what else could be the result than disgust or indifference? Certainly men could not be expected, if a time of necessity arose, to give help to a system that had lost all hold on their hearts. When, therefore, in the midst of the wrangling of sects, in the incomprehensible jargon of Arians, Nestorians, Eutychians, Monothelites, Monophysites, Mariolatrists, and an anarchy of countless disputants, there sounded through the world, not the miserable voice of the intriguing majority of a council, but the dread battle-cry, "There is but one God," enforced by the tempest of Saracen armies, is it surprising that the hubbub was hushed? Is it surprising that all Asia and Africa fell away? In better times patriotism is too often made subordinate to religion; in those times it was altogether dead. [Sidenote: Conquest of Africa.] Scarcely was Mohammed buried when his religion manifested its inevitable destiny of overpassing the bounds of Arabia. The prophet himself had declared war against the Roman empire, and, at the head of 30,000 men, advanced toward Damascus, but his purpose was frustrated by ill health. His successor Abu-Bekr, the first khalif, attacked both the Romans and the Persians. The invasion of Egypt occurred A.D. 638, the Arabs being invited by the Copts. In a few months the Mohammedan general Amrou wrote to his master, the khalif, "I have taken Alexandria, the great city of the West." Treason had done its work, and Egypt was thoroughly subjugated. To complete the conquest of Christian Africa, many attacks were nevertheless required. Abdallah penetrated nine hundred miles to Tripoli, but returned. Nothing more was done for twenty years, because of the disputes that arose about the succession to the khalifate. Then Moawiyah sent his lieutenant, Akbah, who forced his way to the Atlantic, but was unable to hold the long line of country permanently. Again operations were undertaken by Abdalmalek, the sixth of the Ommiade dynasty, A.D. 698; his lieutenant, Hassan, took Carthage by storm and destroyed it, the conquest being at last thoroughly completed by Musa, who enjoyed the double reputation of a brave soldier and an eloquent preacher. And thus this region, distinguished by its theological acumen, to which modern Europe owes so much, was for ever silenced by the scimitar. It ceased to preach and was taught to pray. In this political result--the Arabian conquest of Africa--there can be no doubt that the same element which exercised in the Vandal invasion so disastrous an effect, came again into operation. But, if treason introduced the enemy, polygamy secured the conquest. In Egypt the Greek population was orthodox, the natives were Jacobites, more willing to accept the Monotheism of Arabia than to bear the tyranny of the orthodox. The Arabs, carrying out their policy of ruining an old metropolis and erecting a new one, dismantled Alexandria; and thus the patriarchate of that city ceased to have any farther political existence in the Christian system, which for so many ages had been disturbed by its intrigues and violence. The irresistible effect of polygamy in consolidating the new order of things soon became apparent. In little more than a single generation all the children of the north of Africa were speaking Arabic. [Sidenote: Conquest of Syria and Persia.] [Sidenote: The fall of Jerusalem.] During the khalifates of Abu-Bekr and Omar, and within twelve years after the death of Mohammed, the Arabians had reduced thirty-six thousand cities, towns, and castles in Persia, Syria, Africa, and had destroyed four thousand churches, replacing them with fourteen hundred mosques. In a few years they had extended their rule a thousand miles east and west. In Syria, as in Africa, their early successes were promoted in the most effectual manner by treachery. Damascus was taken after a siege of a year. At the battle of Aiznadin, A.D. 633, Kalid, "the Sword of God," defeated the army of Heraclius, the Romans losing fifty thousand men; and this was soon followed by the fall of the great cities Jerusalem, Antioch, Aleppo, Tyre, Tripoli. On a red camel, which carried a bag of corn and one of dates, a wooden dish, and a leather water-bottle, the Khalif Omar came from Medina to take formal possession of Jerusalem. He entered the Holy City riding by the side of the Christian patriarch Sophronius, whose capitulation showed that his confidence in God was completely lost. The successor of Mohammed and the Roman emperor both correctly judged how important in the eyes of the nations was the possession of Jerusalem. A belief that it would be a proof of the authenticity of Mohammedanism led Omar to order the Saracen troops to take it at any cost. The conquest of Syria and the seizure of the Mediterranean ports gave to the Arabs the command of the sea. They soon took Rhodes and Cyprus. The battle of Cadesia and sack of Ctesiphon, the metropolis of Persia, decided the fate of that kingdom. Syria was thus completely reduced under Omar, the second khalif; Persia under Othman, the third. [Sidenote: The Arabs become a learned nation.] If it be true that the Arabs burned the library of Alexandria, there was at that time danger that their fanaticism would lend itself to the Byzantine system; but it was only for a moment that the khalifs fell into this evil policy. They very soon became distinguished patrons of learning. It has been said that they overran the domains of science as quickly as they overran the realms of their neighbours. It became customary for the first dignities of the state to be held by men distinguished for their erudition. Some of the maxims current show how much literature was esteemed. "The ink of the doctor is equally valuable with the blood of the martyr." "Paradise is as much for him who has rightly used the pen as for him who has fallen by the sword." "The world is sustained by four things only: the learning of the wise, the justice of the great, the prayers of the good, and the valour of the brave." Within twenty-five years after the death of Mohammed, under Ali, the fourth khalif, the patronage of learning had become a settled principle of the Mohammedan system. Under the khalifs of Bagdad this principle was thoroughly carried out. The cultivators of mathematics, astronomy, medicine, and general literature abounded in the court of Almansor, who invited all philosophers, offering them his protection, whatever their religious opinions might be. His successor, Alraschid, is said never to have travelled without a retinue of a hundred learned men. This great sovereign issued an edict that no mosque should be built unless there was a school attached to it. It was he who confided the superintendence of his schools to the Nestorian Masué. His successor, Almaimon, was brought up among Greek and Persian mathematicians, philosophers, and physicians. They continued his associates all his life. By these sovereigns the establishment of libraries was incessantly prosecuted, and the collection and copying of manuscripts properly organized. In all the great cities schools abounded; in Alexandria there were not less than twenty. As might be expected, this could not take place without exciting the indignation of the old fanatical party, who not only remonstrated with Almaimon, but threatened him with the vengeance of God for thus disturbing the faith of the people. However, what had thus been commenced as a matter of profound policy soon grew into a habit, and it was observed that whenever an emir managed to make himself independent, he forthwith opened academies. [Sidenote: Rapidity of their intellectual development.] The Arabs furnish a striking illustration of the successive phases of national life. They first come before us as fetich worshippers, having their age of credulity, their object of superstition being the black stone in the temple at Mecca. They pass through an age of inquiry, rendering possible the advent of Mohammed. Then follows their age of faith, the blind fanaticism of which quickly led them to overspread all adjoining countries; and at last comes their period of maturity, their age of reason. The striking feature of their movement is the quickness with which they passed through these successive phases, and the intensity of their national life. [Sidenote: Causes of the spread of Mohammedanism.] This singular rapidity of national life was favoured by very obvious circumstances. The long and desolating wars between Heraclius and Chosroes had altogether destroyed the mercantile relations of the Roman and Persian empires, and had thrown the entire Oriental and African trade into the hands of the Arabs. As a merchant Mohammed himself makes his first appearance. The first we hear in his history are the journeys he has made as the factor of the wealthy Chadizah. In these expeditions with the caravans to Damascus and other Syrian cities, he was brought in contact with Jews and men of business, who, from the nature of their pursuits, were of more enlarged views than mere Arab chieftains or the petty tradesmen of Arab towns. Through such agency the first impetus was given. As to the rapid success, its causes are in like manner so plain as to take away all surprise. It is no wonder that in fifty years, as Abderrahman wrote to the khalif, not only had the tribute from the entire north of Africa ceased, through the population having become altogether Mohammedan, but that the Moors boasted an Arab descent as their greatest glory. For, besides the sectarian animosities on which I have dwelt as facilitating the first conquest of the Christians, and the dreadful shock that had been given by the capture of the Holy City, Jerusalem, the insulting and burning the sepulchre of our Saviour, and the carrying away of his cross as a trophy by the Persians, there were other very powerful causes. For many years the taxation imposed by the Emperors of Constantinople on their subjects in Asia and Africa had been not only excessive and extortionate, but likewise complicated. This the khalifs replaced by a simple well-defined tribute of far less amount. Thus, in the case of Cyprus, the sum paid to the khalif was only half of what it had been to the emperor; and, indeed, the lower orders were never made to feel the bitterness of conquest; the blows fell on the ecclesiastics, not on the population, and between them there was but little sympathy. In the eyes of the ignorant nations the prestige of the patriarchs and bishops was utterly destroyed by their detected helplessness to prevent the capture and insult of the sacred places. On the payment of a trifling sum the conqueror guaranteed to the Christian and the Jew absolute security for their worship. An equivalent was given for a price. Religious freedom was bought with money. Numerous instances might be given of the scrupulous integrity with which the Arab commanders complied with their part of the contract. The example set by Omar on the steps of the Church of the Resurrection was followed by Moawiyah, who actually rebuilt the church of Edessa for his Christian subjects; and by Abdulmalek, who, when he had commenced converting that of Damascus into a mosque, forthwith desisted on finding that the Christians were entitled to it by the terms of the capitulation. If these things were done in the first fervour of victory, the principles on which they depended were all the more powerful after the Arabs had become tinctured with Nestorian and Jewish influences, and were a learned nation. It is related of Ali, the son-in-law of Mohammed, and the fourth successor in the khalifate, that he gave himself up to letters. Among his sayings are recorded such as these: "Eminence in science is the highest of honours;" "He dies not who gives life to learning;" "The greatest ornament of a man is erudition." When the sovereign felt and expressed such sentiments, it was impossible but that a liberal policy should prevail. Besides these there were other incentives not less powerful. To one whose faith sat lightly upon him, or who valued it less than the tribute to be paid, it only required the repetition of a short sentence acknowledging the unity of God and the divine mission of the prophet, and he forthwith became, though a captive or a slave, the equal and friend of his conquerer. Doubtless many thousands were under these circumstances carried away. As respects the female sex, the Arab system was very far from being oppressive; some have even asserted that "the Christian women found in the seraglios a delightful retreat." But above all, polygamy acted most effectually in consolidating the conquests; the large families that were raised--some are mentioned of more than one hundred and eighty children--compressed into the course of a few years events that would otherwise have taken many generations for their accomplishment. These children gloried in their Arab descent, and, being taught to speak the language of their conquering fathers, became to all intents and purposes Arabs. This diffusion of the language was sometimes expedited by the edicts of the khalifs; thus Alwalid I. prohibited the use of Greek, directing Arabic to be employed in its stead. [Sidenote: Causes of the arrest of Mohammedanism.] [Sidenote: Necessary disintegration of the Arabian system.] If thus without difficulty we recognise the causes which led to the rapid diffusion of Arab power, we also without difficulty recognise those which led to its check and eventual dissolution. Arab conquest implied, from the scale on which it was pursued, the forthgoing of the whole nation. It could only be accomplished, and in a temporary manner sustained, by an excessive and incessant drain of the native Arab population. That immobility, or, at best, that slow progress the nation had for so many ages displayed, was at an end, society was moved to its foundations, a fanatical delirium possessed it, the greatest and boldest enterprises were entered upon without hesitation, the wildest hopes or passions of men might be speedily gratified, wealth and beauty were the tangible rewards of valour in this life, to say nothing of Paradise in the next. But such an outrush of a nation in all directions implied the quick growth of diverse interests and opposing policies. The necessary consequence of the Arab system was subdivision and breaking up. The circumstances of its growth rendered it certain that a decomposition would take place in the political, and not, as was the case of the ecclesiastical Roman system, in the theological direction. All this is illustrated both in the earlier and later Saracenic history. [Sidenote: Effect on the low Arab class.] War makes a people run through its phases of existence fast. It would have taken the Arabs many thousand years to have advanced intellectually as far as they did in a single century, had they, as a nation, remained in profound peace. They did not merely shake off that dead weight which clogs the movement of a nation--its inert mass of common people; they converted that mass into a living force. National progress is the sum of individual progress; national immobility the result of individual quiescence. Arabian life was run through with rapidity, because an unrestrained career was opened to every man; and yet, quick as the movement was, it manifested all those unavoidable phases through which, whether its motion be swift or slow, humanity must unavoidably pass. [Sidenote: Review of the Koran.] [Sidenote: Its asserted homogeneousness and completeness.] [Sidenote: The characters it ought, therefore, to have presented.] Arabian influence, thus imposing itself on Africa and Asia by military successes, and threatening even Constantinople, rested essentially on an intellectual basis, the value of which it is needful for us to consider. The Koran, which is that basis, has exercised a great control over the destinies of mankind, and still serves as a rule of life to a very large portion of our race. Considering the asserted origin of this book--indirectly from God himself--we might justly expect that it would bear to be tried by any standard that man can apply, and vindicate its truth and excellence in the ordeal of human criticism. In our estimate of it we must constantly bear in mind that it does not profess to be successive revelations made at intervals of ages and on various occasions, but a complete production delivered to one man. We ought, therefore, to look for universality, completeness, perfection. We might expect that it would present us with just views of the nature and position of this world in which, we live, and that, whether dealing with the spiritual or the material, it would put to shame the most celebrated productions of human genius, as the magnificent mechanism of the heavens and the beautiful living forms of the earth are superior to the vain contrivances of man. Far in advance of all that has been written by the sages of India, or the philosophers of Greece, on points connected with the origin, nature, and destiny of the universe, its dignity of conception and excellence of expression should be in harmony with the greatness of the subject with which it is concerned. We might expect that it should propound with authority, and definitively settle those all-important problems which have exercised the mental powers of the ablest men of Asia and Europe for so many centuries, and which are at the foundation of all faith and all philosophy; that it should distinctly tell us in unmistakable language what is God, what is the world, what is the soul, and whether man has any criterion of truth; that it should explain to us how evil can exist in a world the Maker of which is omnipotent and altogether good; that it should reveal to us in what the affairs of men are fixed by Destiny, in what by free-will; that it should teach us whence we came, what is the object of our continuing here, what is to become of us hereafter. And, since a written work claiming a divine origin must necessarily accredit itself even to those most reluctant to receive it, its internal evidences becoming stronger and not weaker with the strictness of the examination to which they are submitted, it ought to deal with those things that may be demonstrated by the increasing knowledge and genius of man, anticipating therein his conclusions. Such a work, noble as may be its origin, must not refuse, but court the test of natural philosophy, regarding it not as an antagonist, but as its best support. As years pass on, and human science becomes more exact and more comprehensive, its conclusions must be found in unison therewith. When occasion arises, it should furnish us at least the foreshadowings of the great truths discovered by astronomy and geology, not offering for them the wild fictions of earlier ages, inventions of the infancy of man. It should tell us how suns and worlds are distributed in infinite space, and how, in their successions, they come forth in limitless time. It should say how far the dominion of God is carried out by law, and what is the point at which it is his pleasure to resort to his own good providence or his arbitrary will. How grand the description of this magnificent universe written by the Omnipotent hand! Of man it should set forth his relations to other living beings, his place among them, his privileges, and responsibilities. It should not leave him to grope his way through the vestiges of Greek philosophy, and to miss the truth at last; but it should teach him wherein true knowledge consists, anticipating the physical science, physical power, and physical well-being of our own times, nay, even unfolding for our benefit things that we are still ignorant of. The discussion of subjects, so many and so high, is not outside the scope of a work of such pretensions. Its manner of dealing with them is the only criterion it can offer of its authenticity to succeeding times. [Sidenote: Defects of the Koran.] [Sidenote: Its God.] [Sidenote: Its views of man.] Tried by such a standard, the Koran altogether fails. In its philosophy it is incomparably inferior to the writings of Chakia Mouni, the founder of Buddhism; in its science it is absolutely worthless. On speculative or doubtful things it is copious enough; but in the exact, where a test can be applied to it, it totally fails. Its astronomy, cosmogony, physiology, are so puerile as to invite our mirth if the occasion did not forbid. They belong to the old times of the world, the morning of human knowledge. The earth is firmly balanced in its seat by the weight of the mountains; the sky is supported over it like a dome, and we are instructed in the wisdom and power of God by being told to find a crack in it if we can. Ranged in stories, seven in number, are the heavens, the highest being the habitation of God, whose throne--for the Koran does not reject Assyrian ideas--is sustained by winged animal forms. The shooting-stars are pieces of red-hot stone thrown by angels at impure spirits when they approach too closely. Of God the Koran is full of praise, setting forth, often in not unworthy imagery, his majesty. Though it bitterly denounces those who give him any equals, and assures them that their sin will never be forgiven; that in the judgment-day they must answer the fearful question, "Where are my companions about whom ye disputed?" though it inculcates an absolute dependence on the mercy of God, and denounces as criminals all those who make a merchandise of religion, its ideas of the Deity are altogether anthropomorphic. He is only a gigantic man living in a paradise. In this respect, though exceptional passages might be cited, the reader rises from a perusal of the 114 chapters of the Koran with a final impression that they have given him low and unworthy thoughts; nor is it surprising that one of the Mohammedan sects reads it in such a way as to find no difficulty in asserting that, "from the crown of the head to the breast God is hollow, and from the breast downward he is solid; that he has curled black hair, and roars like a lion at every watch of the night." The unity asserted by Mohammed is a unity in special contradistinction to the Trinity of the Christians, and the doctrine of a divine generation. Our Saviour is never called the Son of God, but always the son of Mary. Throughout there is a perpetual acceptance of the delusion of the human destiny of the universe. As to man, Mohammed is diffuse enough respecting a future state, speaking with clearness of a resurrection, the judgment-day, Paradise, the torment of hell, the worm that never dies, the pains that never end; but, with all this precise description of the future, there are many errors as to the past. If modesty did not render it unsuitable to speak of such topics here, it might be shown how feeble is his physiology when he has occasion to allude to the origin or generation of man. He is hardly advanced beyond the ideas of Thales. One who is so untrustworthy a guide as to things that are past, cannot be very trustworthy as to events that are to come. [Sidenote: Its literary inferiority compared with the Bible.] Of the literary execution of his work, it is, perhaps, scarcely possible to judge fairly from a translation. It is said to be the oldest prose composition among the Arabs, by whom Mohammed's boast of the unapproachable excellence of his work is almost universally sustained; but it must not be concealed that there have been among them very learned men who have held it in light esteem. Its most celebrated passages, as those on the nature of God, in Chapters II., XXIV., will bear no comparison with parallel ones in the Psalms and Book of Job. In the narrative style, the story of Joseph, in Chapter XII., compared with the same incidents related in Genesis, shows a like inferiority. Mohammed also adulterates his work with many Christian legends, derived probably from the apocryphal gospel of St. Barnabas; he mixes with many of his own inventions the scripture account of the temptation of Adam, the Deluge, Jonah and the whale, enriching the whole with stories like the later Night Entertainments of his country, the seven sleepers, Gog and Magog, and all the wonders of genii, sorcery, and charms. [Sidenote: Causes of its surprising influence.] An impartial reader of the Koran may doubtless be surprised that so feeble a production should serve its purpose so well. But the theory of religion is one thing, the practice another. The Koran abounds in excellent moral suggestions and precepts; its composition is so fragmentary that we cannot turn to a single page without finding maxims of which all men must approve. This fragmentary construction yields texts, and mottoes, and rules complete in themselves, suitable for common men in any of the incidents of life. There is a perpetual insisting on the necessity of prayer, an inculcation of mercy, almsgiving, justice, fasting, pilgrimage, and other good works; institutions respecting conduct, both social and domestic, debts, witnesses, marriage, children, wine, and the like; above all, a constant stimulation to do battle with the infidel and blasphemer. For life as it passes in Asia, there is hardly a condition in which passages from the Koran cannot be recalled suitable for instruction, admonition, consolation, encouragement. To the Asiatic and to the African, such devotional fragments are of far more use than any sustained theological doctrine. The mental constitution of Mohammed did not enable him to handle important philosophical questions with the well-balanced ability of the great Greek and Indian writers, but he has never been surpassed in adaptation to the spiritual wants of humble life, making even his fearful fatalism administer thereto. A pitiless destiny is awaiting us; yet the prophet is uncertain what it may be. "Unto every nation a fixed time is decreed. Death will overtake us even in lofty towers, but God only knoweth the place in which a man shall die," After many an admonition of the resurrection and the judgment-day, many a promise of Paradise and threat of hell, he plaintively confesses, "I do not know what will be done with you or me hereafter." [Sidenote: Its true nature.] The Koran thus betrays a human, and not a very noble intellectual origin. It does not, however, follow that its author was, as is so often asserted, a mere impostor. He reiterates again and again, I am nothing more than a public preacher. He defends, not always without acerbity, his work from those who, even in his own life, stigmatized it as a confused heap of dreams, or, what is worse, a forgery. He is not the only man who has supposed himself to be the subject of supernatural and divine communications, for this is a condition of disease to which any one, by fasting and mental anxiety, may be reduced. In what I have thus said respecting a work held by so many millions of men as a revelation from God, I have endeavoured to speak with respect, and yet with freedom, constantly bearing in mind how deeply to this book Asia and Africa are indebted for daily guidance, how deeply Europe and America for the light of science. [Sidenote: Popular Mohammedanism.] As might be expected, the doctrines of the Koran have received many fictitious additions and sectarian interpretations in the course of ages. In the popular superstition angels and genii largely figure. The latter, being of a grosser fabric, eat, drink, propagate their kind, are of two sorts, good and bad, and existed long before men, having occupied the earth before Adam. Immediately after death, two greenish, livid angels, Monkir and Nekkar, examine every corpse as to its faith in God and Mohammed; but the soul, having been separated from the body by the angel of death, enters upon an intermediate state, awaiting the resurrection. There is, however, much diversity of opinion as to its precise disposal before the judgment-day: some think that it hovers near the grave; some, that it sinks into the well Zemzem; some, that it retires into the trumpet of the Angel of the Resurrection; the difficulty apparently being that any final disposal before the day of judgment would be anticipatory of that great event, if, indeed, it would not render it needless. As to the resurrection, some believe it to be merely spiritual, others corporeal; the latter asserting that the os coccygis, or last bone of the spinal column, will serve, as it were, as a germ, and that, vivified by a rain of forty days, the body will sprout from it. Among the signs of the approaching resurrection will be the rising of the sun in the West. It will be ushered in by three blasts of a trumpet: the first, known as the blast of consternation, will shake the earth to its centre, and extinguish the sun and stars; the second, the blast of extermination, will annihilate all material things except Paradise, hell, and the throne of God. Forty years subsequently, the angel Israfil will sound the blast of resurrection. From his trumpet there will be blown forth the countless myriads of souls who have taken refuge therein or lain concealed. The day of judgment has now come. The Koran contradicts itself as to the length of this day; in one place making it a thousand, in another fifty thousand years. Most Mohammedans incline to adopt the longer period, since angels, genii, men, and animals have to be tried. As to men, they will rise in their natural state, but naked; white winged camels, with saddles of gold, awaiting the saved. When the partition is made, the wicked will be oppressed with an intolerable heat, caused by the sun, which, having been called into existence again, will approach within a mile, provoking a sweat to issue from them, and this, according to their demerits, will immerse them from the ankles to the mouth; but the righteous will be screened by the shadow of the throne of God. The judge will be seated in the clouds, the books open before him, and everything in its turn called on to account for its deeds. For greater dispatch, the angel Gabriel will hold forth his balance, one scale of which hangs over Paradise and one over hell. In these all works are weighed. As soon as the sentence is delivered, the assembly, in a long file, will pass over the bridge Al-Sirat. It is as sharp as the edge of a sword, and laid over the mouth of hell. Mohammed and his followers will successfully pass the perilous ordeal; but the sinners, giddy with terror, will drop into the place of torment. The blessed will receive their first taste of happiness at a pond which is supplied by silver pipes from the river Al-Cawthor. The soil of Paradise is of musk. Its rivers tranquilly flow over pebbles of rubies and emeralds. From tents of hollow pearls, the Houris, or girls of Paradise, will come forth, attended by troops of beautiful boys. Each Saint will have eighty thousand servants and seventy-two girls. To these, some of the more merciful Mussulmans add the wives they have had upon earth; but the grimly orthodox assert that hell is already nearly filled with women. How can it be otherwise since they are not permitted to pray in a mosque upon earth? I have not space to describe the silk brocades, the green clothing, the soft carpets, the banquets, the perpetual music and songs. From the glorified body all impurities will escape, not as they did during life, but in a fragrant perspiration of camphor and musk. No one will complain I am weary; no one will say I am sick. [Sidenote: The Mohammedan sects.] From the contradictions, puerilities, and impossibilities indicated in the preceding paragraphs, it may be anticipated that the faith of Mohammed has been broken into many sects. Of such it is said that not less than seventy-three may be numbered. Some, as the Sonnites, are guided by traditions; some occupy themselves with philosophical difficulties, the existence of evil in the world, the attributes of God, absolute predestination and eternal damnation, the invisibility and non-corporeality of God, his capability of local motion: these and other such topics furnish abundant opportunity for sectarian dispute. As if to show how the essential principles of the Koran may be departed from by those who still profess to be guided by it, there are, among the Shiites, those who believe that Ali was an incarnation of God; that he was in existence before the creation of things; that he never died, but ascended to heaven, and will return again in the clouds to judge the world. But the great Mohammedan philosophers, simply accepting the doctrine of the Oneness of God as the only thing of which man can be certain, look upon all the rest as idle fables, having, however, this political use, that they furnish contention, and therefore occupation to disputatious sectarians, and consolation to illiterate minds. * * * * * [Sidenote: Effect of Mohammedanism on Christianity.] Thus settled on the north of Africa the lurid phantom of the Arabian crescent, one horn reaching to the Bosphorus and one pointing beyond the Pyrenees. For a while it seemed that the portentous meteor would increase to the full, and that all Europe would be enveloped. Christianity had lost for ever the most interesting countries over which her influence had once spread, Africa, Egypt, Syria, the Holy Land, Asia Minor, Spain. She was destined, in the end, to lose in the same manner the metropolis of the East. In exchange for these ancient and illustrious regions, she fell back on Gaul, Germany, Britain, Scandinavia. In those savage countries, what were there to be offered as substitutes for the great capitals, illustrious in ecclesiastical history, for ever illustrious in the records of the human race--Carthage, Alexandria, Jerusalem, Antioch, Constantinople? It was an evil exchange. The labours, intellectual and physical, of which those cities had once been the scene; the preaching, and penances, and prayers so lavishly expended in them, had not produced the anticipated, the asserted result. In theology and morality the people had pursued a descending course. Patriotism was extinct. They surrendered the state to preserve their sect; their treason was rewarded by subjugation. [Sidenote: Reflexions on the course of historic events.] From these melancholy events we may learn that the principles on which the moral world is governed are analogous to those which obtain in the physical. It is not by incessant divine interpositions, which produce breaches in the continuity of historic action; it is not by miracles and prodigies that the course of events is determined; but affairs follow each other in the relation of cause and effect. The maximum development of early Christianity coincided with the boundaries of the Roman empire; the ecclesiastical condition depended on the political, and, indeed, was its direct consequence and issue. The loss of Africa and Asia was, in like manner, connected with the Arabian movement, though it would have been easy to prevent that catastrophe, and to preserve those continents to the faith by the smallest of those innumerable miracles of which Church history is full, and which were often performed on unimportant and obscure occasions. But not even one such miracle was vouchsafed, though an angel might have worthily descended. I know of no event in the history of our race on which a thoughtful man may more profitably meditate than on this loss of Africa and Asia. It may remove from his mind many erroneous ideas, and lead him to take a more elevated, a more philosophical, and, therefore, more correct view of the course of earthly affairs. CHAPTER XII. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST. _The Age of Faith in the West is marked by Paganism.--The Arabian military Attacks produce the Isolation and permit the Independence of the Bishop of Rome._ GREGORY THE GREAT _organizes the Ideas of his Age, materializes Faith, allies it to Art, rejects Science, and creates the Italian Form of Religion._ _An Alliance of the Papacy with France diffuses that Form.--Political History of the Agreement and Conspiracy of the Frankish Kings and the Pope.--The resulting Consolidation of the new Dynasty in France, and Diffusion of Roman Ideas.--Conversion of Europe._ _The Value of the Italian Form of Religion determined from the papal Biography._ [Sidenote: The Age of Faith in the West.] From the Age of Faith, in the East, I have now to turn to the Age of Faith in the West. The former, as we have seen, ended prematurely, through a metamorphosis of the populations by military operations, conquests, polygamy; the latter, under more favourable circumstances, gradually completed its predestined phases, and, after the lapse of many centuries, passed into the Age of Reason. If so many recollections of profound interest cluster round Jerusalem, "the Holy City" of the East, many scarcely inferior are connected with Rome, "the Eternal City" of the West. [Sidenote: Is essentially marked by the paganization of religion.] The Byzantine system, which, having originated in the policy of an ambitious soldier struggling for supreme power, and in the devices of ecclesiastics intolerant of any competitors, had spread itself all over the eastern and southern portions of the Roman empire, and with its hatred of human knowledge and degraded religious ideas and practices, had been adopted at last even in Italy. Not by the Romans, for they had ceased to exist, but by the medley of Goths and half-breeds, the occupants of that peninsula. Gregory the Great is the incarnation of the ideas of this debased population. That evil system, so carefully nurtured by Constantine and cherished by all the Oriental bishops, had been cut down by the axe of the Vandal, the Persian, the Arab, in its native seats, but the offshoot of it that had been planted in Rome developed spontaneously with unexpected luxuriance, and cast its dark shadow over Europe for many centuries. He who knew what Christianity had been in the apostolic days, might look with boundless surprise on what was now ingrafted upon it, and was passing under its name. [Sidenote: Effects of the loss of Africa on events in Italy.] In the last chapter we have seen how, through the Vandal invasion, Africa was lost to the empire--a dire calamity, for, of all the provinces, it had been the least expensive and the most productive; it yielded men, money, and, what was perhaps of more importance, corn for the use of Italy. A sudden stoppage of the customary supply rendered impossible the usual distributions in Rome, Ravenna, Milan. A famine fell upon Italy, bringing in its train an inevitable diminution of the population. To add to the misfortunes, Attila, the King of the Huns, or, as he called himself, "the Scourge of God," invaded the empire. The battle of Chalons, the convulsive death-throe of the Roman empire, arrested his career, A.D. 451. [Sidenote: Fall and pillage of Rome.] Four years after this event, through intrigues in the imperial family, Genseric, the Vandal king, was invited from Africa to Rome. The atrocities which of old had been practised against Carthage under the auspices of the senate were now avenged. For fourteen days the Vandals sacked the city, perpetrating unheard-of cruelties. Their ships, brought into the Tiber, enabled them to accomplish their purpose of pillage far more effectually than would have been possible by any land expedition. The treasures of Rome, with multitudes of noble captives, were transported to Carthage. In twenty-one years after this time, A.D. 476, the Western Empire became extinct. [Sidenote: Effects of the wars of Justinian.] Thus the treachery of the African Arians not only brought the Vandals into the most important of all the provinces, so far as Italy was concerned; it also furnished an instrument for the ruin of Rome. But hardly had the Emperor Justinian reconquered Africa when he attempted the subjugation of the Goths now holding possession of Italy. His general, Belisarius, captured Rome, Dec. 10, A.D. 556. In the military operations ensuing with Vitiges, Italy was devastated, the population sank beneath the sword, pestilence, famine. In all directions the glorious remains of antiquity were destroyed; statues, as those of the Mole of Hadrian, were thrown upon the besiegers of Rome. These operations closed by the surrender of Vitiges to Belisarius at the capture of Ravenna. But, as soon as the military compression was withdrawn, revolt broke out. Rome was retaken by the Goths; its walls were razed; for forty days it was deserted by its inhabitants, an emigration that in the end proved its ruin. Belisarius, who had been sent back by the emperor, re-entered it, but was too weak to retain it. During four years Italy was ravaged by the Franks and the Goths. At last Justinian sent the eunuch Narses with a well-appointed army. The Ostrogothic monarchy was overthrown, and the emperor governed Italy by his exarchs at Ravenna. [Sidenote: Debased ideas of the incoming Age of Faith.] But what was the cost of all this? We may reject the statement previously made, that Italy lost fifteen millions of inhabitants, on the ground that such computations were beyond the ability of the survivors, but, from the asserted number we may infer that there had been a horrible catastrophe. In other directions the relics of civilization were fast disappearing; the valley of the Danube had relapsed into a barbarous state; the African shore had become a wilderness; Italy a hideous desert; and the necessary consequence of the extermination of the native Italians by war, and their replacement by barbarous adventurers, was the falling of the sparse population of that peninsula into a lower psychical state. It was ready for the materialized religion that soon ensued. An indelible aspect was stamped on the incoming Age of Faith. The East and the West had equally displayed the imbecility of ecclesiastical rule. Of both, the Holy City had fallen; Jerusalem had been captured by the Persian and the Arab, Rome had been sacked by the Vandal and the Goth. [Sidenote: Steady progress of the papacy to supremacy.] But, for the proper description of the course of affairs, I must retrace my steps a little. In the important political events coinciding with the death of Leo the Great, and the constitution of the kingdom of Italy by the barbarian Odoacer, A.D. 476-490, the bishops of Rome seem to have taken but little interest. Doubtless, on one side, they perceived the transitory nature of such incidents, and, on the other, clearly saw for themselves the road to lasting spiritual domination. The Christians everywhere had long expressed a total carelessness for the fate of old Rome; and in the midst of her ruins the popes were incessantly occupied in laying deep the foundations of their power. Though it mattered little to them who was the temporal ruler of Italy, they were vigilant and energetic in their relations with their great competitors, the bishops of Constantinople and Alexandria. It had become clear that Christendom must have a head; and that headship, once definitely settled, implied the eventual control over the temporal power. Of all objects of human ambition, that headship was best worth struggling for. [Sidenote: Its attitude toward the emperor.] Steadily pursuing every advantage as it arose, Rome inexorably insisted that her decisions should be carried out in Constantinople itself. This was the case especially in the affair of Acacius, the bishop of that city, who, having been admonished for his acts by Felix, the bishop of Rome, was finally excommunicated. A difficulty arose as to the manner in which the process should be served; but an adventurous monk fastened it to the robe of Acacius as he entered the church. Acacius, undismayed, proceeded with his services, and, pausing deliberately, ordered the name of Felix, the Bishop of Rome, to be struck from the roll of bishops in communion with the East. Constantinople and Rome thus mutually excommunicated one another. It is in reference to this affair that Pope Gelasius, addressing the emperor, says; "There are two powers which rule the world, the imperial and pontifical. You are the sovereign of the human race, but you bow your neck to those who preside over things divine. The priesthood is the greater of the two powers; it has to render an account in the last day for the acts of kings." This is not the language of a feeble ecclesiastic, but of a pontiff who understands his power. [Sidenote: The Gothic conquest gives the pope an Arian master.] The conquest of Italy by Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, A.D. 493, gave to the bishops of Rome an Arian sovereign, and presented to the world the anomaly of a heretic appointing God's vicar upon earth. There was a contested election between two rival candidates, whose factions, emulating the example of the East, filled the city with murder. The Gothic monarch ordered that he who had most suffrages, and had been first consecrated, should be acknowledged. In this manner Symmachus became pope. [Sidenote: The emperor and pope conspire against him.] [Sidenote: The Gothic king detects them.] Hormisdas, who succeeded Symmachus, renewed the attempt to compel the Eastern emperor, Anastasius, to accept the degradation of Acacius and his party, and to enforce the assent of all his clergy thereto, but in vain. On the accession of Justin to the imperial throne, Rome at last carried her point; all her conditions were admitted; the schism was ended in the humiliation of the Bishop of Constantinople, it was said, through the orthodoxy of the emperor. But very soon began to appear unmistakable indications that for this religious victory a temporal equivalent had been given. Conspiracies were detected in Rome against Theodoric, the Gothic king; and rumours were whispered about that the arms of Constantinople would before long release Italy from the heretical yoke of the Arian. There can be no doubt that Theodoric detected the treason. It was an evil reward for his impartial equity. At once he disarmed the population of Rome. From being a merciful sovereign, he exhibited an awful vengeance. It was in these transactions that Boethius, the philosopher, and Symmachus, the senator, fell victims to his wrath. The pope John himself was thrown into prison, and there miserably died. In his remonstrances with Justin, the great barbarian monarch displays sentiments far above his times, yet they were the sentiments that had hitherto regulated his actions. "To pretend to a dominion over the conscience is to usurp the prerogative of God. By the nature of things, the power of sovereigns is confined to political government. They have no right of punishment but over those who disturb the public peace. The most dangerous heresy is that of a sovereign who separates himself from part of his subjects because they believe not according to his belief." [Sidenote: The conspiracy matures.] [Sidenote: Subjugation of the pope by the emperor.] Theodoric had been but a few years dead--his soul was seen by an orthodox hermit carried by devils into the crater of the volcano of Lipari, which was considered to be the opening into hell--when the invasion of Italy by Justinian showed how well-founded his suspicions had been. Rome was, however, very far from receiving the advantages she had expected; the inconceivable wickedness of Constantinople was brought into Italy. Pope Sylverius, who was the son of Pope Hormisdas, was deposed by Theodora, the emperor's wife. This woman, once a common prostitute, sold the papacy to Vigilius for two hundred pounds of gold. Her accomplice, Antonina, the unprincipled wife of Belisarius, had Sylverius stripped of his robes and habited as a monk. He was subsequently banished to the old convict island of Pandataria, and there died. Vigilius embraced Eutychianism and, it was said, murdered one of his secretaries, and caused his sister's son to be beaten to death. He was made to feel what it is for a bishop to be in the hands of an emperor; to taste of the cup so often presented to prelates at Constantinople; to understand in what estimation his sovereign held the vicar of God upon earth. Compelled to go to that metropolis to embrace the theological views which Justinian had put forth, thrice he agreed to them, and thrice he recanted; he excommunicated the Patriarch of Constantinople, and was excommunicated by him. In his personal contests with the imperial officials, they dragged him by his feet from a sanctuary with so much violence that a part of the structure was pulled down upon him; they confined him in a dungeon and fed him on bread and water. Eventually he died an outcast in Sicily. The immediate effect of the conquest of Italy was the reduction of the popes to the degraded condition of the patriarchs of Constantinople. Such were the bitter fruits of their treason to the Gothic king. The success of Justinian's invasion was due to the clergy; in the ruin they brought upon their country, and the relentless tyranny they drew upon themselves, they had their reward. [Sidenote: The paganization of religion proceeds.] In the midst of this desolation and degradation the Age of Faith was gradually assuming distinctive lineaments in Italy. Paganization, which had been patronized as a matter of policy in the East, became a matter of necessity in the West. To a man like Gregory the Great, born in a position which enabled him to examine things from a very general point of view, it was clear that the psychical condition of the lower social stratum demanded concessions in accordance with its ideas. The belief of the thoughtful must be alloyed with the superstition of the populace. [Sidenote: Division of the subjects to be treated of.] Accordingly, that was what actually occurred. For the clear understanding of these events I shall have to speak, 1st, of the acts of Pope Gregory the Great, by whom the ideas of the age were organized and clothed in a dress suited to the requirements of the times; 2d, of the relations which the papacy soon assumed with the kings of France, by which the work of Gregory was consolidated, upheld, and diffused all over Europe. It adds not a little to the interest of these things that the influences thus created have outlasted their original causes, and, after the lapse of more than a thousand years, though moss-covered and rotten, are a stumbling-block to the progress of nations. [Sidenote: Gregory the Great.] Gregory the Great was the grandson of Pope Felix. His patrician parentage and conspicuous abilities had attracted in early life the attention of the Emperor Justin, by whom he was appointed prefect of Rome. Withdrawn by the Church from the splendours of secular life, he was sent, while yet a deacon, as nuncio to Constantinople. Discharging the duties that had been committed to him with singular ability and firmness, he resumed the monastic life on his return, with daily increasing reputation. Elected to the papacy by the clergy, the senate, and people of Rome, A.D. 590, with well dissembled resistance he implored the emperor to reject their choice, and, on being refused, escaped from the city hidden in a basket. It is related that the retreat in which he was concealed was discovered by a celestial hovering light that settled upon it, and revealed to the faithful their reluctant pope. This was during a time of pestilence and famine. Once made supreme pontiff, this austere monk in an instant resumed the character he had displayed at Constantinople, and exhibited the qualities of a great statesman. He regulated the Roman liturgy, the calendar of festivals, the order of processions, the fashions of sacerdotal garments; he himself officiated in the canon of the mass, devised many solemn and pompous rites, and invented the chant known by his name. He established schools of music, administered the Church revenues with precision and justice, and set an example of almsgiving and charity; for such was the misery of the times that even Roman matrons had to accept the benevolence of the Church. He authorized the alienation of Church property for the redemption of slaves, laymen as well as ecclesiastics. An insubordinate clergy and a dissolute populace quickly felt the hand that now held the reins. He sedulously watched the inferior pastors, dealing out justice to them, and punishing all who offended with rigorous severity. He compelled the Italian bishops to acknowledge him as their metropolitan. He extended his influence to Greece; prohibited simony in Gaul; received into the bosom of the Church Spain, now renouncing her Arianism; sent out missionaries to Britain, and converted the pagans of that country; extirpated heathenism from Sardinia; resisted John, the Patriarch of Constantinople, who had dared to take the title of universal bishop; exposed to the emperor the ruin occasioned by the pride, ambition, and wickedness of the clergy, and withstood him on the question of the law prohibiting soldiers from becoming monks. It was not in the nature of such a man to decline the regulation of political affairs; he nominated tribunes, and directed the operations of troops. [Sidenote: His superstition.] [Sidenote: He materializes religion.] [Sidenote: His hatred of learning,] [Sidenote: and expulsion of classical authors.] No one can shake off the system that has given him power; no one can free himself from the tincture of the times of which he is the representative. Though in so many respects Gregory was far in advance of his age, he was at once insincere and profoundly superstitious. With more than Byzantine hatred he detested human knowledge. His oft-expressed belief that the end of the world was at hand was perpetually contradicted by his acts, which were ceaselessly directed to the foundation of a future papal empire. Under him was sanctified that mythologic Christianity destined to become the religion of Europe for many subsequent centuries, and which adopted the adoration of the Virgin by images and pictures; the efficacy of the remains of martyrs and relics; stupendous miracles wrought at the shrines of saints; the perpetual interventions of angels and devils in sublunary affairs; the truth of legends far surpassing in romantic improbability the stories of Greek mythology; the localization of heaven a few miles above the air, and of hell in the bowels of the earth, with its portal in the crater of Lipari. Gregory himself was a sincere believer in miracles, ghosts, and the resurrection of many persons from the grave, but who, alas! had brought no tidings of the secret wonders of that land of deepest shade. He made these wild fancies the actual, the daily, the practical religion of Europe. Participating in the ecclesiastical hatred of human learning, and insisting on the maxim that "Ignorance is the mother of devotion," he expelled from Rome all mathematical studies, and burned the Palatine library founded by Augustus Cæsar. It was valuable for the many rare manuscripts it contained. He forbade the study of the classics, mutilated statues, and destroyed temples. He hated the very relics of classical genius; pursued with vindictive fanaticism the writings of Livy, against whom he was specially excited. It has truly been said that "he was as inveterate an enemy to learning as ever lived;" that "no lucid ray ever beamed on his superstitious soul." He boasted that his own works were written without regard to the rules of grammar, and censured the crime of a priest who had taught that subject. It was his aim to substitute for the heathen writings others which he thought less dangerous to orthodoxy; and so well did he succeed in rooting out of Italy her illustrious pagan authors, that when one of his successors, Paul I., sent to Pepin of France "what books he could find," they were "an antiphonal, a grammar, and the works of Dionysius the Areopagite." He was the very incarnation of the Byzantine principle of ignorance. [Sidenote: Gradual preparation for the debasement of religion.] [Sidenote: Corruption of Christianity.] If thus the misfortunes that had fallen on Italy had given her a base population, whose wants could only be met by a paganized religion, the more fortunate classes all over the empire had long been tending in the same direction. Whoever will examine the progress of Christian society from the earlier ages, will find that there could be no other result than a repudiation of solid learning and an alliance with art. We have only to compare the poverty and plainness of the first disciples with the extravagance reached in a few generations. Cyprian complains of the covetousness, pride, luxury, and worldly-mindedness of Christians, even of the clergy and confessors. Some made no scruple to contract matrimony with heathens. Clement of Alexandria bitterly inveighs against "the vices of an opulent and luxurious Christian community--splendid dresses, gold and silver vessels, rich banquets, gilded litters and chariots, and private baths. The ladies kept Indian birds, Median peacocks, monkeys, and Maltese dogs, instead of maintaining widows and orphans; the men had multitudes of slaves." The dipping three times at baptism, the tasting of honey and milk, the oblations for the dead, the signing of the cross on the forehead on putting on the clothes or the shoes, or lighting a candle, which Tertullian imputes to tradition without the authority of Scripture, foreshadowed a thousand pagan observances soon to be introduced. As time passed on, so far from the state of things improving, it became worse. Not only among the frivolous class, but even among historic personages, there was a hankering after the ceremonies of the departed creed, a lingering attachment to the old rites, and, perhaps, a religious indifference to the new. To the age of Justinian these remarks strikingly apply. Boethius was, at the best, only a pagan philosopher; Tribonian, the great lawyer, the author of the Justinian Code, was suspected of being an atheist. [Sidenote: Episcopal splendour and wickedness.] [Sidenote: Paganisms of Christianity.] [Sidenote: It allies itself to art,] In the East, the splendour of the episcopal establishments extorted admiration even from those who were familiar with the imperial court. The well-ordered trains of attendants and the magnificent banquets in the bishops' palaces are particularly praised. Extravagant views of the pre-eminent value of celibacy had long been held among the more devout, who conceded a reluctant admission even for marriage itself. "I praise the married state, but chiefly for this, that it provides virgins," had been the more than doubtful encomium of St. Jerome. Among the clergy, who under the force of this growing sentiment found it advisable to refrain from marriage, it had become customary, as we learn from the enactments and denunciations against the practice, to live with "sub-introduced women," as they were called. These passed as sisters of the priests, the correctness of whose taste was often exemplified by the remarkable beauty of their sinful partners. A law of Honorius put an end to this iniquity. The children arising from these associations do not appear to have occasioned any extraordinary scandal. At weddings it was still the custom to sing hymns to Venus. The cultivation of music at a very early period attracted the attention of many of the great ecclesiastics--Paul of Samosata, Arius, Chrysostom. In the first congregations probably all the worshippers joined in the hymns and psalmody. By degrees, however, more skilful performers had been introduced, and the chorus of the Greek tragedy made available under the form of antiphonal singing. The Ambrosian chant was eventually exchanged for the noble Roman chant of Gregory the Great, which has been truly characterised as the foundation of all that is grand and elevated in modern music. [Sidenote: and rejects learning.] With the devastation that Italy had suffered the Latin language was becoming extinct. But Roman literature had never been converted to Christianity. Of the best writers among the Fathers, not one was a Roman; all were provincials. The literary basis was the Hebrew Scriptures and the New Testament, the poetical imagery being, for the most part, borrowed from the prophets. In historical compositions there was a want of fair dealing and truthfulness almost incredible to us; thus Eusebius naïvely avows that in his history he shall omit whatever might tend to the discredit of the Church, and magnify whatever might conduce to her glory. The same principle was carried out in numberless legends, many of them deliberate forgeries, the amazing credulity of the times yielding to them full credit, no matter how much they might outrage common sense. But what else was to be expected of generations who could believe that the tracks of Pharaoh's chariot-wheels were still impressed on the sands of the Red Sea, and could not be obliterated either by the winds or the waves? He who ventured to offend the public taste for these idle fables brought down upon himself the wrath of society, and was branded as an infidel. In the interpretation of the Scriptures, and, indeed, in all commentaries on authors of repute, there was a constant indulgence in fanciful mystification and the detection of concealed meanings, in the extracting of which an amusing degree of ingenuity and industry was often shown; but these hermeneutical writings, as well as the polemical, are tedious beyond endurance; with regard to the latter, the energy of their vindictive violence is not sufficient to redeem them from contempt. [Sidenote: Painting and sculpture.] [Sidenote: Adopts a typical model of the Saviour,] The relation of the Church to the sister arts, painting and sculpture, was doubtless fairly indicated at a subsequent time by the second Council of Nicea, A.D. 787; their superstitious use had been resumed. Sculpture has, however, never forgotten the preference that was shown to her sister. To this day she is a pagan, emulating in this the example of the noblest of the sciences, Astronomy, who bears in mind the great insults she has received from the Church, and tolerates the name of no saint in the visible heavens; the new worlds she discovers are dedicated to Uranus, or Neptune, or other Olympian divinities. Among the ecclesiastics there had always been many, occasionally some of eminence, who set their faces against the connexion of worship with art; thus Tertullian of old had manifested his displeasure against Hermogenes, on account of the two deadly sins into which he had fallen, painting and marriage; but Gnostic Christianity had approved, as Roman Christianity was now to approve, of their union. To the Gnostics we owe the earliest examples of our sacred images. The countenance of our Saviour, along with those of Pythagoras, Plato, Aristotle, appears on some of their engraved gems and seals. Among the earlier fathers--Justin Martyn and Tertullian--there was an impression that the personal appearance of our Lord was ungainly; that he was short of stature; and, at a later period Cyril says, mean of aspect "even beyond the ordinary race of men." But these unsuitable delineations were generally corrected in the fourth century, it being then recognised that God could not dwell in a humble form or low stature. The model eventually received was perhaps that described in the spurious epistle of Lentulus to the Roman senate: "He was a man of tall and well-proportioned form; his countenance severe and impressive, so as to move the beholders at once with love and awe. His hair was of an amber colour, reaching to his ears with no radiation, and standing up from his ears clustering and bright, and flowing down over his shoulders, parted on the top according to the fashion of the Nazarenes. The brow high and open; the complexion clear, with a delicate tinge of red; the aspect frank and pleasing; the nose and mouth finely formed; the beard thick, parted, and of the colour of the hair; the eyes blue, and exceedingly bright." Subsequently the oval countenance assumed an air of melancholy, which, though eminently suggestive, can hardly be considered as the type of manly beauty. [Sidenote: and of the Virgin.] At first the cross was without any adornment; it next had a lamb at the foot; and eventually became the crucifix, sanctified with the form of the dying Saviour. Of the Virgin Mary, destined in later times to furnish so many beautiful types of female loveliness, the earliest representations are veiled. The Egyptian sculptors had thus depicted Isis; the first form of the Virgin and child was the counterpart of Isis and Horus. St. Augustine says her countenance was unknown; there appears, however, to have been a very early Christian tradition that in complexion she was a brunette. Adventurous artists by degrees removed the veil, and next to the mere countenance added a full-grown figure like that of a dignified Roman matron; then grouped her with the divine child, the wise men, and other suggestions of Scripture. [Sidenote: Consolidation of papal power in the West.] [Sidenote: Roman Church anthropomorphized,] [Sidenote: and necessarily becoming intolerant.] While thus the papacy was preparing for an alliance with art, it did not forget to avail itself of the vast advantages within its reach by interfering in domestic life--an interference which the social demoralization of the time more than ever permitted. A prodigious step in power was made by assuming the cognizance of marriage, and the determination of the numberless questions connected with it. Once having discovered the influence thus gained, the papacy never surrendered it; some of the most important events in later history have been determined by its action in this matter. Perhaps even a greater power accrued from its assumption of the cognizance of wills, and of questions respecting the testamentary disposal of property. Though in many respects, at the time we are now considering, the papacy had separated itself from morality, had become united to monachism, and was preparing for a future alliance with political influences and military power; though its indignation and censures were less against personal wickedness than heresy of opinion, toward which it was inexorable and remorseless, a good effect arose from these assumptions upon domestic life, particularly as regards the elevation of the female sex. The power thus arising was re-enforced by a continually-increasing rigour in the application of penitential punishments. As in the course of years the intellectual basis on which that power rested became more doubtful, and therefore more open to attack, the papacy became more sensitive and more exacting. Pushed on by the influence of the lower population, it fell into the depths of anthropomorphism, asserting for the Virgin and the saints such attributes as omniscience, omnipresence, omnipotence. Everywhere present, they could always listen to prayer, and, if necessary, control or arrest the course of Nature. As it was certain that such doctrines must in the end be overthrown, the inevitable day was put off by an instant and vindictive repression of any want of conformity. Despotism in the State and despotism in the Church were upheld by despotism over thought. [Sidenote: Origin of the alliance of the papacy and France.] From the acts of Pope Gregory the Great, and his organization of the ideas of his age, the paganization of religion in Italy and its alliance with art, I have now to turn to the second topic to which this chapter is devoted--the relations assumed by the papacy with the kings of France, by which the work of Gregory was consolidated and upheld, and diffused all over Europe. [Sidenote: Military results of the Arabian wars.] The armies of the Saracens had wrested from Christendom the western, southern, and eastern countries of the Mediterranean; their fleets dominated in that sea. Ecclesiastical policy had undergone a revolution. Carthage, Alexandria, Jerusalem, Antioch, had disappeared from the Christian system; their bishops had passed away. Alone, of the great episcopal seats, Constantinople and Rome were left. To all human appearance, their fall seemed to be only a question of time. [Sidenote: Independence of the pope.] The disputes of the Bishop of Rome with his African and Asiatic rivals had thus come to an untimely end. With them nothing more remained to be done; his communications with the emperor at Constantinople were at the sufferance of the Mohammedan navies. The imperial power was paralysed. The pope was forced by events into isolation; he converted it into independence. But independence! how was that to be asserted and maintained. In Italy itself the Lombards seemed to be firmly seated, but they were Arian heretics. Their presence and power were incompatible with his. Already, in a political sense, he was at their mercy. One movement alone was open to him; and, whether he rightly understood his position or not, the stress of events forced him to make it. It was an alliance with the Franks, who had successfully resisted the Mohammedan power, and who were orthodox. [Sidenote: Conditions of his alliance with the Franks.] An ambitious Frank officer had resolved to deprive his sovereign of the crown if the pope would sanctify the deed. They came to an understanding. The usurpation was consummated by the one and consecrated by the other. It was then the interest of the intrusive line of monarchs to magnify their Italian confederate. In the spread of Roman principles lay the consolidation of the new Frankish power. It became desirable to compel the ignorant German tribes to acknowledge in the pope the vicegerent of God, even though the sword must be applied to them for that purpose for thirty years. The pope revolted against his Byzantine sovereign on the question of images; but that was a fictitious issue. He did not revolt against his new ally, who fell into the same heresy. He broke away from a weak and cruel master, and attached himself on terms of equality to a confederate. But from the first his eventual ascendancy was assured. The representative of a system which is immortal must finally gain supremacy over individuals and families, who must die. [Sidenote: The conversion of Europe.] Though we cannot undervalue the labours of the monks, who had already nominally brought many portions of Europe to Christianity, the passage of the centre of the Continent to its Age of Faith, was, in an enlarged political sense, the true issue of the empire of the Franks. The fiat of Charlemagne put a stamp upon it which it bears to this day. He converted an ecclesiastical fiction into a political fact. [Sidenote: Three points for consideration.] To understand this important event, it is necessary to describe, 1st, the psychical state of Central Europe; 2nd, the position of the pontiff and his compact with the Franks. It is also necessary to determine the actual religious value of the system he represents, and this is best done through, 3rd, the biography of the popes. [Sidenote: The psychical change of Europe.] 1st. As with the Arabs, so with the barbarians of Europe. They pass from their Age of Credulity to their Age of Faith without dwelling long in the intermediate state of Inquiry. An age of inquiry implies self-investigation, and the absence of an authoritative teacher. But the Arabs had had the Nestorians and the Jews, and to the Germans the lessons of the monk were impressively enforced by the convincing argument of the sword of Charlemagne. [Sidenote: Labours and successes of the monks.] [Sidenote: Influence of devout women.] [Sidenote: Conversion of Europe.] The military invasions of the south by the barbarians were retaliated by missionary invasions of the north. The aim of the former was to conquer, that of their antagonists to convert, if antagonists those can be called who sought to turn them from their evil ways. The monk penetrated through their most gloomy forests unarmed and defenceless; he found his way alone to their fortresses. Nothing touches the heart of a savage so profoundly as the greatness of silent courage. Among the captives taken from the south in war were often high-born women of great beauty and purity of mind, and sometimes even bishops, who, true to their religious principles, did not fail to exert a happy and a holy influence on the tribes among whom their lot was cast. One after another the various nations submitted: the Vandals and Gepidæ in the fourth century; the Goths somewhat earlier; the Franks at the end of the fifth; the Alemanni and Lombards at the beginning of the sixth; the Bavarians, Hessians, and Thuringians in the seventh and eighth. Of these, all embraced the Arian form except the Franks, who were converted by the Catholic clergy. In truth, however, these nations were only Christianized upon the surface, their conversion being indicated by little more than their making the sign of the cross. In all these movements women exercised an extraordinary influence: thus Clotilda, the Queen of the Franks, brought over to the faith her husband Clovis. Bertha, the Queen of Kent, and Gisella, the Queen of Hungary, led the way in their respective countries; and under similar influences were converted the Duke of Poland and the Czar Jarislaus. To women Europe is thus greatly indebted, though the forms of religion at the first were nothing more than the creed and the Lord's prayer. It has been truly said that for these conversions three conditions were necessary--a devout female of the court, a national calamity, and a monk. As to the people, they seem to have followed the example of their rulers in blind subserviency, altogether careless as to what the required faith might be. The conversion of the ruler is naïvely taken by historians as the conversion of the whole people. As might be expected, a faith so lightly assumed at the will or whim of the sovereign was often as lightly cast aside; thus the Swedes, Bohemians, and Hungarians relapsed into idolatry. [Sidenote: Conversion of England.] Among such apostasies it is interesting to recall that of the inhabitants of Britain, to whom Christianity was first introduced by the Roman legions, and who might boast in Constantine the Great, and his mother Helena, if they were really natives of that country, that they had exercised no little influence on the religion of the world. The biography of Pelagius shows with what acuteness theological doctrines were considered in those remote regions; but, after the decline of Roman affairs, this promising state of things was destroyed, and the clergy driven by the pagan invaders to the inaccessible parts of Wales, Scotland, and Ireland. The sight of some English children exposed for sale in the slave-market at Rome suggested to Gregory the Great the attempt of reconverting the island. On his assuming the pontificate he commissioned the monk Augustine for that purpose; and after the usual exertion of female influence in the court of King Ethelbert by Bertha, his Frankish princess, and the usual vicissitudes of backsliding, the faith gradually won its way throughout the whole country. A little opposition occurred on the part of the ancient clergy, who retained in their fastnesses the traditions of the old times, particularly in regard to Easter. But this at length disappeared; an intercourse sprang up with Rome, and it became common for the clergy and wealthy nobles to visit that city. [Sidenote: Irish and British missionaries.] Displaying the same noble quality which in our own times characterises it, British Christianity did not fail to exert a proselytizing spirit. As, at the end of the sixth century, Columban, an Irish monk of Banchor, had gone forth as a missionary, passing through France, Switzerland, and beyond the confines of the ancient Roman empire, so about a century later Boniface, an Englishman of Devonshire, repaired to Germany, under a recommendation from the pope and Charles Martel, and laboured among the Hessians and Saxons, cutting down their sacred oaks, overturning their altars, erecting churches, founding bishoprics, and gaining at last, from the hands of the savages, the crown of martyrdom. In the affinity of their language to those of the countries to which they went, these missionaries from the West found a very great advantage. It is the glory of Pope Formosus, the same whose body underwent a posthumous trial, that he converted the Bulgarians, a people who came from the banks of the Volga. The fact that this event was brought about by a picture representing the judgment-day shows on what trifling circumstances these successes turned. The Slavians were converted by Greek missionaries, and for them the monk Cyril invented an alphabet, as Ulphilas had done for the Goths. The predatory Normans, who plundered the churches in their forays, embraced Christianity on settling in Normandy, as the Goths, in like circumstances, had elsewhere done. The Scandinavians were converted by St. Anschar. [Sidenote: Influence of Charlemagne on these events.] Thus, partly by the preaching of missionaries, partly by the example of monks, partly by the influence of females, partly by the sword of the Frankish sovereigns, partly by the great name of Rome, Europe was at last nominally converted. The so-called religious wars of Charlemagne, which lasted more than thirty years, and which were attended by the atrocities always incident to such undertakings, were doubtless as much, so far as he was concerned, of a political as of a theological nature. They were the embodiment of the understanding that had been made with Rome by Pepin. Charlemagne clearly comprehended the position and functions of the Church; he never suffered it to intrude unduly on the state. Regarding it as furnishing a bond for uniting not only the various nations and tribes of his empire, but even families and individuals together, he ever extended to it a wise and liberal protection. His mental condition prevented him from applying its doctrines to the regulation of his own life, which was often blemished by acts of violence and immorality. From the point of view he occupied, he doubtless was led to the conclusion that the maxims of religion are intended for the edification and comfort of those who occupy a humbler sphere, but that for a prince it is only necessary to maintain appropriate political relations with the Church. To him baptism was the sign, not of salvation, but of the subjugation of people; and the foundation of churches and monasteries, the institution of bishoprics, and increase of the clergy, a more trustworthy means of government than military establishments. A priest must necessarily lean on him for support, a lieutenant might revolt. [Sidenote: Reflex action of converted Europe.] If thus Europe, by its conversion, received from Rome an immense benefit, it repaid the obligation at length by infusing into Latin Christianity what was sadly needed--a higher moral tone. Earnestness is the attribute of savage life. That divorce between morality and faith which the southern nations had experienced was not possible among these converts. If, by communicating many of their barbarous and pagan conceptions to the Latin faith, they gave it a tendency to develop itself in an idolatrous form, their influence was not one of unmitigated evil, for while they lowered the standard of public belief, they elevated that of private life. In truth, the contamination they imparted is often over-rated. The infusion of paganism into religion was far more due to the people of the classical countries. The inhabitants of Italy and Greece were never really alienated from the idolatries of the old times. At the best, they were only Christianized on the surface. With many other mythological practices, they forced image-worship on the clergy. But Charlemagne, who, in this respect, may be looked upon as a true representative of Frankish and German sentiment, totally disapproved of that idolatry. [Sidenote: The conspiracy of the papacy and the Franks.] 2nd. From this consideration of the psychical revolution that had occurred in Central Europe, I turn to an investigation of the position of the papacy and its compact with the Franks. [Sidenote: Position of the Franks and Saracens.] [Sidenote: Relations of Charles Martel to the Church.] Scarcely had the Arabs consolidated their conquest of Africa when they passed into Spain, and quickly, as will be related in a subsequent chapter, subjugating that country, prepared to overwhelm Europe. It was their ambition and their threat to preach the unity of God in Rome. They reached the centre of France, but were beaten in the great battle of Tours by Charles Martel, the Duke of the Franks, A.D. 732. That battle fixed the religious destiny of Europe. The Saracens did not, however, give up their attempt. Three years afterward they returned into Provence, and Charles was himself repulsed. But by this time their power had expanded too extensively for consolidation. It was already giving unmistakable tokens of decomposition. Scarcely, indeed, had Musa, the conqueror of Spain, succeeded in his expedition, when he was arrested at the head of his army, and ordered to give an account of his doings at Damascus. It was the occurrence of such disputes among the Saracens in Spain that constituted the true check to their conquest of France. Charles Martel had permitted Chilperic II. and Thierry IV. to retain the title of king; but his foresight of approaching events seems to be indicated by the circumstance that after the death of the latter he abstained from appointing any successor. He died A.D. 741, leaving a memory detested by the Church of his own country on account of his having been obliged to appropriate from its property sufficient for the payment of his army. He had taken a tithe from the revenues of the churches and convents for that purpose. The ignorant clergy, alive only to their present temporal interests, and not appreciating the great salvation he had wrought out for them, could never forgive him. Their inconceivable greed could not bear to be taxed even in its own defence. "It is because Prince Charles," says the Council of Kiersi to one of his descendants, "was the first of all the kings and princes of the Franks who separated and dismembered the goods of the Church; it is for that sole cause that he is eternally damned. We know, indeed, that St. Eucherius, Bishop of Orleans, being in prayer, was carried up into the world of spirits, and that among the things which the Lord showed to him, he beheld Charles tormented in the lowest depths of hell. The angel who conducted him, being interrogated on this matter, answered him that, in the judgment to come, the soul and body of him who has taken, or who has divided the goods of the Church, shall be delivered over, even before the end of the world, to eternal torments by the sentence of the saints, who shall sit together with the Lord to judge him. This act of sacrilege shall add to his own sins the accumulated sins of all those who thought that they had purchased their redemption by giving for the love of God their goods to holy places, to the lights of divine worship, and to the alms of the servants of Christ." This amusing but instructive quotation strikingly shows how quickly the semi barbarian Frankish clergy had caught the methods of Rome in the defence of temporal possessions. [Sidenote: The epoch of Pepin.] [Sidenote: His conspiracy with the pope.] [Sidenote: Its results.] Pepin, the son of Charles Martel, introduces us to an epoch and a policy resembling in many respects that of Constantine the Great; for he saw that by an alliance with the Church it would be possible for him to displace his sovereign and attain to kingly power. A thorough understanding was entered upon between Pepin and the pope. Each had his needs. One wanted the crown of France, the other liberation from Constantinople and the Lombards. Pepin commenced by enriching the clergy with immense gifts, and assigning to the bishops seats in the assembly of the nation. In thus consolidating ecclesiastical power he occasioned a great social revolution, as was manifested by the introduction of the Latin and the disuse of the Frankic on those occasions, and by the transmuting of military reviews into theological assemblies. Meantime Pope Zachary, on his part, made ready to accomplish his engagement, the chaplain of Pepin being the intermedium of negotiation. On the demand being formally made, the pope decided that "he should be king who really possessed the royal power." Hereupon, in March, A.D. 752, Pepin caused himself to be raised by his soldiers on a buckler and proclaimed King of the Franks. To give solemnity to the event, he was anointed by the bishops with oil. The deposed king, Childeric III., was shut up in the convent of St. Omer. Next year Pope Stephen III., driven to extremity, applied to Pepin for assistance against the Lombards. It was during these transactions that he fell upon the device of enforcing his demand by a letter which he feigned had been written by St. Peter to the Franks. And now, visiting France, the pope, as an earnest of his friendship, and as the token of his completion of the contract, in the monastery of St. Denis, placed, with his own hands, the diadem on Pepin's brow, and anointed him, his wife, and children, with "the holy oil," thereby reviving the Jewish system of creating kings by anointment, and imparting to his confederate "a divine right." Pepin now finally defeated the Lombards, and assigned a part of the conquered territory to the pope. Thus, by a successful soldier, two important events had been accomplished--a revolution in France, attended by a change of dynasty, and a revolution in Christendom--the Bishop of Rome had become a temporal sovereign. To the hilt of the sword of France the keys of St. Peter were henceforth so firmly bound that, though there have been great kings, and conquerors, and statesmen who have wielded that sword, not one to this day has been able, though many have desired, to wrench the encumbrance away. [Sidenote: The reign of Charlemagne.] Charlemagne, on succeeding his father Pepin, thoroughly developed his policy. At the urgent entreaty of Pope Stephen III. he entered Italy, subjugated the Lombards, and united the crown of Lombardy to that of France. Upon the pagan Saxons burning the church of Deventer, he commenced a war with them which lasted thirty-three years, and ended in their compulsory Christianization. As the circle of his power extended, he everywhere founded churches and established bishoprics, enriching them with territorial possessions. To the petty sovereigns, as they successively succumbed, he permitted the title of counts. True to his own and his father's understanding with the pope, he invariably insisted on baptism as the sign of submission, punishing with appalling barbarity any resistance, as on the occasion of the revolt, A.D. 782, when, in cold blood, he beheaded in one day 4500 persons at Verden. Under such circumstances, it is not to be wondered at that clerical influence extended so fast; yet, rapid as was its development, the power of Charlemagne was more so. [Sidenote: He is crowned Emperor of the West,] In the church of St. Peter at Rome, on Christmas-day, A.D. 800, Pope Leo III., after the celebration of the holy mysteries, suddenly placed on the head of Charlemagne a diadem, amid the acclamations of the people, "Long life and victory to Charles, the most pious Augustus, crowned by God, the great and pacific Emperor of the Romans." His head and body were anointed with the holy oil, and, as was done in the case of the Cæsars, the pontiff himself saluted or adored him. In the coronation oath Charlemagne promised to maintain the privileges of the Church. [Sidenote: and carries out his compact with the papacy.] The noble title of "Emperor of the West" was not inappropriate, for Charlemagne ruled in France, Spain, Italy, Germany, Hungary. An inferior dignity would not have been equal to his deserts. His princely munificence to St. Peter was worthy of the great occasion, and even in his minor acts he exhibited a just appreciation of his obligations to the apostle. He proceeded to make in his dominions such changes in the Church organization as the Italian policy required, substituting, for instance, the Gregorian for the Ambrosian chant, and, wherever his priests resisted, he took from them by force their antiphonaries. As an example to insubordinates he, at the request of the pope, burnt some of the singers along with their books. [Sidenote: He declines image-worship,] [Sidenote: but permits relic-worship.] [Sidenote: His policy as respects slavery.] The rapid growth of the power of Charlemagne, his overshadowing pre-eminence, and the subordinate position of the pope, who had really become his Italian lieutenant, are strikingly manifested by the event of image-worship in the West. On this, as we shall in another chapter see, the popes had revolted from their iconoclastic sovereigns of Constantinople. The second Council of Nicea had authorized image-worship, but the good sense of Charlemagne was superior to such idolatry. He openly expressed his disapproval, and even dictated a work against it--the Carolinian books. The pope was therefore placed in a singular dilemma, for not only had image-worship been restored at Constantinople, and the original cause of the dispute removed, but the new protector, Charlemagne, had himself embraced iconoclasm. However, it was not without reason that the pope at this time avoided the discussion, for a profitable sale of bones and relics, said to be those of saints but in reality obtained from the catacombs of Rome, had arisen. To the barbarian people of the north these gloomy objects proved more acceptable than images of wood, and the traffic, though contemptible, was more honourable than the slave-trade in vassals and peasant children which had been carried on with Jews and Mohammedans. Like all the great statesmen of antiquity, who were unable to comprehend the possibility of a highly civilized society without the existence of slavery, Charlemagne accepted that unfortunate condition as a political necessity, and attempted to draw from it as much benefit as it was capable of yielding to the state. From certain classes of slaves he appointed, by a system of apprenticeship, those who should be devoted to the mechanical arts and to trade. It was, however, slavery and warfare which, during his own life, by making the possession of property among small proprietors an absolute disadvantage, prepared the way for that rapid dissolution of his empire so quickly occurring after his death. [Sidenote: The European slave-trade.] Yet, though Charlemagne thus accepted the existence of slavery as a necessary political evil, the evidences are not wanting that he was desirous to check its abuses wherever he could. When the Italian dukes accused Pope Adrian of selling his vassals as slaves to the Saracens, Charlemagne made inquiry into the matter, and, finding that transactions of the kind had occurred in the port of Civita Vecchia, though he did not choose to have so infamous a scandal made public, he ever afterwards withdrew his countenance from that pope. At that time a very extensive child slave-trade was carried on with the Saracens through the medium of the Jews, ecclesiastics as well as barons selling the children of their serfs. [Sidenote: Improvements of the physical state of the people.] [Sidenote: State of the clergy.] Though he never succeeded in learning how to write, no one appreciated better than Charlemagne the value of knowledge. He laboured assiduously for the elevation and enlightenment of his people. He collected together learned men; ordered his clergy to turn their attention to letters; established schools of religious music; built noble palaces, churches, bridges; transferred, for the adornment of his capital, Aix-la-Chapelle, statues from Italy; organized the professions and trades of his cities, and gave to his towns a police. Well might he be solicitous that his clergy should not only become more devout, but more learned. Very few of them knew how to read, scarcely any to write. Of the first half of the eighth century, a period of great interest, since it includes the invasion of France by the Saracens, and their expulsion, there is nothing more than the most meagre annals; the clergy understood much better the use of the sword than that of the pen. The schools of Charlemagne proved a failure, not through any fault of his, but because the age had no demand for learning, and the Roman pontiffs and their clergy, as far as they troubled themselves with any opinion about the matter, thought that knowledge was of more harm than good. [Sidenote: Private life of Charlemagne.] [Sidenote: His relations with the Saracens.] The private life of Charlemagne was stained with great immoralities and crimes. He indulged in a polygamy scarcely inferior to that of the khalifs, solacing himself with not less than nine wives and many concubines. He sought to increase the circle of the former, or perhaps it should be said, considering the greatness of his statesmanship, to unite the Eastern and Western empires together by a marriage with the Empress Irene. This was that Irene who put out the eyes of her own son in the porphyry chamber at Constantinople. His fame extended into Asia. The Khalif Haroun al Raschid, A.D. 801, sent him from Bagdad the keys of our Saviour's sepulchre as a mark of esteem from the Commander of the Faithful to the greatest of Christian kings. However, there was doubtless as much policy as esteem in this, for the Asiatic khalifs perceived the advantage of a good understanding with the power that could control the emirs of Spain. Always bearing in mind his engagement with the papacy, that Roman Christianity should be enforced upon Europe wherever his influence could reach, he remorselessly carried into execution the penalty of death that he had awarded to the crimes of, 1, refusing baptism; 2, false pretence of baptism; 3, relapse to idolatry; 4, the murder of a priest or bishop; 5, human sacrifice; 6, eating meat in Lent. To the pagan German his sword was a grim, but a convincing missionary. To the last he observed a savage fidelity to his bond. He died A.D. 814. [Sidenote: Course of events after the death of Charlemagne.] [Sidenote: Social condition of Europe.] Such was the compact that had been established between the Church and the State. As might be expected, the succeeding transactions exhibit an alternate preponderance of one and of the other, and the degradation of both in the end. Scarcely was Charlemagne dead ere the imbecile character of his son and successor, Louis the Pious, gave the Church her opportunity. By the expulsion of his father's numerous concubines and mistresses, the scandals of the palace were revealed. I have not the opportunity to relate in detail how this monarch disgracefully humiliated himself before the Church; how, under his weak government, the slave-trade greatly increased; how every shore, and, indeed, every country that could be reached through a navigable river, was open to the ravages of pirates, the Northmen extending their maraudings even to the capture of great cities; how, in strong contrast with the social decomposition into which Europe was falling, Spain, under her Mohammedan rulers, was becoming rich, populous, and great; how, on the east, the Huns and Avars, ceasing their ravages, accepted Christianity, and, under their diversity of interests the nations that had been bound together by Charlemagne separated into two divisions--French and German--and civil wars between them ensued; how, through the folly of the clergy, who vainly looked for protection from relics instead of the sword, the Saracens ranged uncontrolled all over the south, and came within an hair's-breadth of capturing Rome itself; how France, at this time, had literally become a theocracy, the clergy absorbing everything that was worth having; how the pope, trembling at home, nevertheless maintained an external power by interfering with domestic life, as in the quarrel with King Lothaire II. and his wife; how Italy, France, and Germany became, as Africa and Syria had once been, full of miracles; how, through these means the Church getting the advantage, John VIII. thought it expedient to assert his right of disposing of the imperial crown in the case of Charles the Bald (the imperial supremacy that Charlemagne had obtained in reality implied the eventual supremacy of the pope); how an opportunity which occurred for reconstructing the empire of the West under Charles the Fat was thwarted by the imbecility of that sovereign, an imbecility so great that his nobles were obliged to depose him; how, thereupon, a number of new kingdoms arose, and Europe fell, by an inevitable necessity, into a political chaos; how, since there was thus no protecting government, each great landowner had to protect himself, and the rightfulness of private war became recognised; how, through this evil state, the strange consequence ensued of a great increase in the population, it becoming the interest of every lord to raise as many peasants as he could, offering his lands on personal service, the value of an estate being determined by the number of retainers it could furnish, and hence arose the feudal system; how the monarchical principle, once again getting the superiority, asserted its power in Germany in Henry the Fowler and his descendants, the three Othos; how, by these great monarchs, the subjection of Italy was accomplished, and the morality of the German clergy vindicated by their attempts at the reformation of the papacy, which fell to the last degree of degradation, becoming, in the end, an appanage of the Counts of Tusculum, and, shameful to be said, in some instances given by prostitutes to their paramours or illegitimates, in some, to mere boys of precociously dissolute life; before long, A.D. 1045, it was actually to be sold for money. We have now approached the close of a thousand years from the birth of Christ; the evil union of the Church and State, their rivalries, their intrigues, their quarrels, had produced an inevitable result, doing the same in the West that they had done in the East; disorganizing the political system, and ending in a universal social demoralization. The absorption of small properties into large estates steadily increased the number of slaves; where there had once been many free families, there was now found only a rich man. Even of this class the number diminished by the same process of absorption, until there were sparsely scattered here and there abbots and counts with enormous estates worked by herds of slaves, whose numbers, since sometimes one man possessed more than 20,000 of them, might deceive us, if we did not consider the vast surface over which they were spread. Examined in that way, the West of Europe proves to have been covered with forests, here and there dotted with a convent or a town. From those countries, once full of the splendid evidences of Roman civilization, mankind was fast disappearing. There was no political cause, until at a later time, when the feudal system was developed, for calling men into existence. Whenever there was a partial peace, there was no occasion for the multiplication of men beyond the intention of extracting from them the largest possible revenue, a condition implying their destruction. Soon even the necessity for legislation ceased; events were left to take their own course. Through the influence of the monks the military spirit declined; a vile fetichism of factitious relics, which were working miracles in all directions, constituted the individual piety. Whoever died without bequeathing a part of his property to the Church, died without confession and the sacraments, and forfeited Christian burial. Trial by battle, and the ordeals of fire and boiling water, determined innocence or guilt in those accused of crimes. Between places at no great distance apart intercommunication ceased, or, at most, was carried on as in the times of the Trojan War, by the pedlar travelling with his packs. [Sidenote: Expected end of the world, A.D. 1000.] [Sidenote: Effects of the union of Church and state.] In these deplorable days there was abundant reason to adopt the popular expectation that the end of all things was at hand, and that the year 1000 would witness the destruction of the world. Society was dissolving, the human race was disappearing, and with difficulty the melancholy ruins of ancient civilization could be traced. Such was the issue of the second attempt at the union of political and ecclesiastical power. In a former chapter we saw what it had been in the East, now we have found what it was in the West. Inaugurated in selfishness, it strengthens itself by violence, is perpetuated by ignorance, and yields as its inevitable result, social ruin. And while things were thus going to wreck in the state, it was no better in the Church. The ill-omened union between them was bearing its only possible fruit, disgrace to both--a solemn warning to all future ages. [Sidenote: Value of the new system estimated from the lives of the popes.] 3d. This brings me to the third and remaining topic I proposed to consider in this chapter, to determine the actual religious value of the system in process of being forced upon Europe, using, for the purpose, that which must be admitted as the best test--the private lives of the popes. [Sidenote: Apology for referring to the biography of the popes.] To some it might seem, considering the interests of religion alone, desirable to omit all biographical reference to the popes; but this cannot be done with justice to the subject. The essential principle of the papacy, that the Roman pontiff is the vicar of Christ upon earth, necessarily obtrudes his personal relations upon us. How shall we understand his faith unless we see it illustrated in his life? Indeed, the unhappy character of those relations was the inciting cause of the movements in Germany, France, and England, ending in the extinction of the papacy as an actual political power, movements to be understood only through a sufficient knowledge of the private lives and opinions of the popes. It is well, as far as possible, to abstain from burdening systems with the imperfections of individuals. In this case they are inseparably interwoven. The signal peculiarity of the papacy is that, though its history may be imposing, its biography is infamous. I shall, however, forbear to speak of it in this latter respect more than the occasion seems necessarily to require; shall pass in silence some of those cases which would profoundly shock my religious reader, and therefore restrict myself to the ages between the middle of the eighth and the middle of the eleventh centuries, excusing myself to the impartial critic by the apology that these were the ages with which I have been chiefly concerned in this chapter. [Sidenote: The popes from A.D. 757.] On the death of Pope Paul I., who had attained the pontificate A.D. 757, the Duke of Nepi compelled some bishops to consecrate Constantine, one of his brothers, as pope; but more legitimate electors subsequently, A.D. 768, choosing Stephen IV., the usurper and his adherents were severely punished; the eyes of Constantine were put out; the tongue of the Bishop Theodorus was amputated, and he was left in a dungeon to expire in the agonies of thirst. The nephews of Pope Adrian seized his successor, Pope Leo III., A.D. 795, in the street, and, forcing him into a neighbouring church, attempted to put out his eyes and cut out his tongue; at a later period, this pontiff trying to suppress a conspiracy to depose him, Rome became the scene of rebellion, murder, and conflagration. His successor, Stephen V., A.D. 816, was ignominiously driven from the city; his successor, Paschal I., was accused of blinding and murdering two ecclesiastics in the Lateran Palace; it was necessary that imperial commissioners should investigate the matter, but the pope died, after having exculpated himself by oath before thirty bishops. John VIII., A.D. 872, unable to resist the Mohammedans, was compelled to pay them tribute; the Bishop of Naples, maintaining a secret alliance with them, received his share of the plunder they collected. Him John excommunicated, nor would he give him absolution unless he would betray the chief Mohammedans and assassinate others himself. There was an ecclesiastical conspiracy to murder the pope; some of the treasures of the Church were seized; and the gate of St. Pancrazia was opened with false keys, to admit the Saracens into the city. Formosus, who had been engaged in these transactions, and excommunicated as a conspirator for the murder of John, was subsequently elected pope, A.D. 891; he was succeeded by Boniface VI., A.D. 896, who had been deposed from the diaconate, and again from the priesthood, for his immoral and lewd life. By Stephen VII., who followed, the dead body of Formosus was taken from the grave, clothed in the papal habiliments, propped up in a chair, tried before a council, and the preposterous and indecent scene completed by cutting off three of the fingers of the corpse and casting it into the Tiber; but Stephen himself was destined to exemplify how low the papacy had fallen: he was thrown into prison and strangled. In the course of five years, from A.D. 896 to A.D. 900, five popes were consecrated. Leo V., who succeeded in A.D. 904, was in less than two months thrown into prison by Christopher, one of his chaplains, who usurped his place, and who, in his turn, was shortly expelled from Rome by Sergius III., who, by the aid of a military force, seized the pontificate, A.D. 905. This man, according to the testimony of the times, lived in criminal intercourse with the celebrated prostitute Theodora, who, with her daughters Marozia and Theodora, also prostitutes, exercised an extraordinary control over him. The love of Theodora was also shared by John X.: she gave him first the archbishopric of Ravenna, and then translated him to Rome, A.D. 915, as pope. John was not unsuited to the times; he organized a confederacy which perhaps prevented Rome from being captured by the Saracens, and the world was astonished and edified by the appearance of this warlike pontiff at the head of his troops. By the love of Theodora, as was said, he had maintained himself in the papacy for fourteen years; by the intrigues and hatred of her daughter Marozia he was overthrown. She surprised him in the Lateran Palace; killed his brother Peter before his face; threw him into prison, where he soon died, smothered, as was asserted, with a pillow. After a short interval Marozia made her own son pope as John XI., A.D. 931. Many affirmed that Pope Sergius was his father, but she herself inclined to attribute him to her husband Alberic, whose brother Guido she subsequently married. Another of her sons, Alberic, so called from his supposed father, jealous of his brother John, cast him and their mother Marozia into prison. After a time Alberic's son was elected pope, A.D. 956; he assumed the title of John XII., the amorous Marozia thus having given a son and a grandson to the papacy. John was only nineteen years old when he thus became the head of Christendom. His reign was characterized by the most shocking immoralities, so that the Emperor Otho I. was compelled by the German clergy to interfere. A synod was summoned for his trial in the Church of St. Peter, before which it appeared that John had received bribes for the consecration of bishops, that he had ordained one who was but ten years old, and had performed that ceremony over another in a stable; he was charged with incest with one of his father's concubines, and with so many adulteries that the Lateran Palace had become a brothel; he put out the eyes of one ecclesiastic and castrated another, both dying in consequence of their injuries; he was given to drunkenness, gambling, and the invocation of Jupiter and Venus. When cited to appear before the council, he sent word that "he had gone out hunting;" and to the fathers who remonstrated with him, he threateningly remarked "that Judas, as well as the other disciples, received from his master the power of binding and loosing, but that as soon as he proved a traitor to the common cause, the only power he retained was that of binding his own neck." Hereupon he was deposed, and Leo VIII. elected in his stead, A.D. 963; but subsequently getting the upper hand, he seized his antagonists, cut off the hand of one, the nose, finger, tongue of others. His life was eventually brought to an end by the vengeance of a man whose wife he had seduced. [Sidenote: The papacy bought at auction A.D. 1045, by Gregory VI.] After such details it is almost needless to allude to the annals of succeeding popes: to relate that John XIII. was strangled in prison; that Boniface VII. imprisoned Benedict VII., and killed him by starvation; that John XIV. was secretly put to death in the dungeons of the Castle of St. Angelo; that the corpse of Boniface was dragged by the populace through the streets. The sentiment of reverence for the sovereign pontiff, nay, even of respect, had become extinct in Rome; throughout Europe the clergy were so shocked at the state of things, that, in their indignation, they began to look with approbation on the intention of the Emperor Otho to take from the Italians their privilege of appointing the successor of St. Peter, and confine it to his own family. But his kinsman, Gregory V., whom he placed on the pontifical throne, was very soon compelled by the Romans to fly; his excommunications and religious thunders were turned into derision by them; they were too well acquainted with the true nature of those terrors; they were living behind the scenes. A terrible punishment awaited the Anti-pope John XVI. Otho returned into Italy, seized him, put out his eyes, cut off his nose and tongue, and sent him through the streets mounted on an ass, with his face to the tail, and a wine-bladder on his head. It seemed impossible that things could become worse; yet Rome had still to see Benedict IX., A.D. 1033, a boy of less than twelve years, raised to the apostolic throne. Of this pontiff, one of his successors, Victor III., declared that his life was so shameful, so foul, so execrable, that he shuddered to describe it. He ruled like a captain of banditti rather than a prelate. The people at last, unable to bear his adulteries, homicides, and abominations any longer, rose against him. In despair of maintaining his position, he put up the papacy to auction. It was bought by a presbyter named John, who became Gregory VI., A.D. 1045. [Sidenote: Conclusion respecting this biography.] More than a thousand years had elapsed since the birth of our Saviour, and such was the condition of Rome. Well may the historian shut the annals of those times in disgust; well may the heart of the Christian sink within him at such a catalogue of hideous crimes. Well may he ask, Were these the vicegerents of God upon earth--these, who had truly reached that goal beyond which the last effort of human wickedness cannot pass? [Sidenote: The philosophical conclusion at last attained.] [Sidenote: The evils imputed to the nature of papal election.] Not until several centuries after these events did public opinion come to the true and philosophical conclusion--the total rejection of the divine claims of the papacy. For a time the evils were attributed to the manner of the pontifical election, as if that could by any possibility influence the descent of a power which claimed to be supernatural and under the immediate care of God. The manner of election was this. The Roman ecclesiastics recommended a candidate to the College of Cardinals; their choice had to be ratified by the populace of Rome, and, after that, the emperor must give his approval. There were thus to be brought into agreement the machinations of the lower ecclesiastics, the intrigues of the cardinals, the clamours of the rabble of Rome, and the policy of the emperor. Such a system must inevitably break to pieces with its own incongruities. Though we may wonder that men failed to see that it was merely a human device, we cannot wonder that the emperors perceived the necessity of taking the appointments into their own hands, and that Gregory VII. was resolved to confine it to the College of Cardinals, to the exclusion of the emperor, the Roman people, and even of the rest of Christendom--an attempt in which he succeeded. [Sidenote: Human origin of the papacy.] No one can study the development of the Italian ecclesiastical power without discovering how completely it depended on human agency, too often on human passion and intrigues; how completely wanting it was of any mark of the Divine construction and care--the offspring of man, not of God, and therefore bearing upon it the lineaments of human passions, human virtues, and human sins. CHAPTER XIII. DIGRESSION ON THE PASSAGE OF THE ARABIANS TO THEIR AGE OF REASON. INFLUENCE OF MEDICAL IDEAS THROUGH THE NESTORIANS AND JEWS. _The intellectual Development of the Arabians is guided by the Nestorians and the Jews, and is in the Medical Direction.--The Basis of this Alliance is theological._ _Antagonism of the Byzantine System to Scientific Medicine.--Suppression of the Asclepions.--Their Replacement by Miracle-cure.--The resulting Superstition and Ignorance._ _Affiliation of the Arabians with the Nestorians and Jews._ _1st. The Nestorians, their Persecutions, and the Diffusion of their Sectarian Ideas.--They inherit the old Greek Medicine._ _Sub-digression on Greek Medicine.--The Asclepions.--Philosophical Importance of Hippocrates, who separates Medicine from Religion.--The School of Cnidos.--Its Suppression by Constantine._ _Sub-digression on Egyptian Medicine.--It is founded on Anatomy and Physiology.--Dissections and Vivisections.--The Great Alexandrian Physicians._ _2nd. The Jewish Physicians.--Their Emancipation from Superstition.--They found Colleges and promote Science and Letters._ _The contemporary Tendency to Magic, Necromancy, the Black Art.--The Philosopher's Stone, Elixir of Life, etc._ _The Arabs originate scientific Chemistry.--Discover the strong Acids, Phosphorus, etc.--Their geological Ideas.--Apply Chemistry to the Practice of Medicine.--Approach of the Conflict between the Saracenic material and the European supernatural System._ [Sidenote: Importance of the influence of the Arabians.] The military operations of the Arabians, described in Chapter XI., overthrew the Byzantine political system, prematurely closing the Age of Faith in the East; their intellectual procedure gave rise to an equally important result, being destined, in the end, to close the Age of Faith in the West. The Saracens not only destroyed the Italian offshoot, they also impressed characteristic lineaments on the Age of Reason in Europe. Events so important make it necessary for me to turn aside from the special description of European intellectual advancement, and offer a digression on the passage of the Arabians to their Age of Reason. It is impossible for us to understand their action in the great drama about to be performed unless we understand the character they had assumed. [Sidenote: Their intellectual progress.] In a few centuries the fanatics of Mohammed had altogether changed their appearance. Great philosophers, physicians, mathematicians, astronomers, alchemists, grammarians, had arisen among them. Letters and science, in all their various departments, were cultivated. [Sidenote: Their teachers were the Nestorians and Jews.] A nation stirred to its profoundest depths by warlike emigration, and therefore ready to make, as soon as it reaches a period of repose, a rapid intellectual advance, may owe the path in which it is about to pass to those who are in the position of pointing it out, or of officiating as teachers. The teachers of the Saracens were the Nestorians and the Jews. [Sidenote: Their scientific progress was through medicine.] It has been remarked that Arabian science emerged out of medicine, and that in its cultivation physicians took the lead, its beginnings being in the pursuit of alchemy. In this chapter I have to describe the origin of these facts, and therefore must consider the state of Greek and Egyptian medicine, and relate how, wherever the Byzantine system could reach, true medical philosophy was displaced by relic and shrine-curing; and how it was, that while European ideas were in all directions reposing on the unsubstantial basis of the supernatural, those of the Saracens were resting on the solid foundation of a material support. When the Arabs conquered Egypt, their conduct was that of bigoted fanatics; it justified the accusation made by some against them, that they burned the Alexandrian library for the purpose of heating the baths. But scarcely were they settled in their new dominion when they exhibited an extraordinary change. At once they became lovers and zealous cultivators of learning. [Sidenote: Causes of their union with Nestorians and Jews.] The Arab power had extended in two directions, and had been submitted to two influences. In Asia it had been exposed to the Nestorians, in Africa to the Jews, both of whom had suffered persecution at the hands of the Byzantine government, apparently for the same opinion as that which had now established itself by the sword of Mohammed. The doctrine of the unity of God was their common point of contact. On this they could readily affiliate, and hold in common detestation the trinitarian power at Constantinople. He who is suffering the penalties of the law as a heretic, or who is pursued by judicial persecution as a misbeliever, will readily consort with others reputed to cherish similar infidelities. Brought into unison in Asia with the Nestorians, and in Africa with the Alexandrian Jews, the Arabians became enthusiastic admirers of learning. [Sidenote: Medicine becomes their neutral ground.] Not that there was between the three parties thus coalescing a complete harmony of sentiment in the theological direction; for, though the Nestorians and the Jews were willing to accept one-half of the Arabian dogma, that there is but one God, they could not altogether commit themselves to the other, that Mohammed is his Prophet. Perhaps estrangement on this point might have arisen, but fortunately a remarkable circumstance opened the way for a complete understanding between them. Almost from the beginning the Nestorians had devoted themselves to the study of medicine, and had paid much attention to the structure and diseases of the body of man; the Jews had long produced distinguished physicians. These medical studies presented, therefore, a neutral ground on which the three parties could intellectually unite in harmony; and so thoroughly did the Arabians affiliate with these their teachers, that they acquired from them a characteristic mental physiognomy. Their physicians were their great philosophers; their medical colleges were their foci of learning. While the Byzantines obliterated science in theology, the Saracens illuminated it by medicine. [Sidenote: Byzantine suppression of medicine.] [Sidenote: Substitution of public charities.] When Constantine the Great and his successors, under ecclesiastical influence, had declared themselves the enemies of worldly learning, it became necessary for the clergy to assume the duty of seeing to the physical as well as the religious condition of the people. It was unsuited to the state of things that physicians, whose philosophical tendencies inclined them to the pagan party, should be any longer endured. Their education in the Asclepions imparted to them ideas in opposition to the new policy. An edict of Constantine suppressed those establishments, ample provision being, however, made for replacing them by others more agreeable to the genius of Christianity. Hospitals and benevolent organizations were founded in the chief cities, and richly endowed with money and lands. In these merciful undertakings the empress-mother, Helena, was distinguished, her example being followed by many high-born ladies. The heart of women, which is naturally open to the desolate and afflicted, soon gives active expression to its sympathies when it is sanctified by Christian faith. In this, its legitimate direction, Christianity could display its matchless benevolence and charities. Organizations were introduced upon the most extensive and varied scale; one had charge of foundlings, another of orphans, another of the poor. We have already alluded to the parabolani or visitors, and of the manner in which they were diverted from their original intent. [Sidenote: Gradual fall into miracle-cure.] But, noble as were these charities, they laboured under an essential defect in having substituted for educated physicians well-meaning but unskilful ecclesiastics. The destruction of the Asclepions was not attended by any suitably extensive measures for insuring professional education. The sick who were placed in the benevolent institutions were, at the best, rather under the care of kind nurses than under the advice of physicians; and the consequences are seen in the gradually increasing credulity and imposture of succeeding ages, until, at length, there was an almost universal reliance on miraculous interventions. Fetiches, said to be the relics of saints, but no better than those of tropical Africa, were believed to cure every disorder. To the shrines of saints crowds repaired as they had at one time to the temples of �sculapius. The worshippers remained, though the name of the divinity was changed. [Sidenote: Closing of the schools of medicine and philosophy.] Scarcely were the Asclepions closed, the schools of philosophy prohibited, the libraries dispersed or destroyed, learning branded as magic or punished as treason, philosophers driven into exile and as a class exterminated, when it became apparent that a void had been created which it was incumbent on the victors to fill. Among the great prelates, who was there to stand in the place of those men whose achievements had glorified the human race? Who was to succeed to Archimedes, Hipparchus, Euclid, Herophilus, Eratosthenes? who to Plato and Aristotle? The quackeries of miracle-cure, shrine-cure, relic-cure, were destined to eclipse the genius of Hippocrates, and nearly two thousand years to intervene between Archimedes and Newton, nearly seventeen hundred between Hipparchus and Kepler. A dismal interval of almost twenty centuries parts Hero, whose first steam-engine revolved in the Serapion, from James Watt, who has revolutionized the industry of the world. What a fearful blank! Yet not a blank, for it had its products--hundreds of patristic folios filled with obsolete speculation, oppressing the shelves of antique libraries, enveloped in dust, and awaiting the worm. [Sidenote: Its deplorable results.] [Sidenote: Insecurity of the Byzantine system.] Never was a more disastrous policy adopted than the Byzantine suppression of profane learning. It is scarcely possible now to realize the mental degradation produced when that system was at its height. Many of the noblest philosophical and scientific works of antiquity disappeared from the language in which they had been written, and were only recovered, for the use of later and better ages, from translations which the Saracens had made into Arabic. The insolent assumption of wisdom by those who held the sword crushed every intellectual aspiration. Yet, though triumphant for a time, this policy necessarily contained the seeds of its own ignominious destruction. A day must inevitably come when so grievous a wrong to the human race must be exposed, and execrated, and punished--a day in which the poems of Homer might once more be read, the immortal statues of the Greek sculptors find worshippers, and the demonstrations of Euclid a consenting intellect. But that unfortunate, that audacious policy of usurpation once entered upon, there was no going back. He who is infallible must needs be immutable. In its very nature the action implied compulsion, compulsion implied the possession of power, and the whole policy insured an explosion the moment that the means of compression should be weak. [Sidenote: Bigotry of the first Saracens.] [Sidenote: The nobler policy soon pursued.] It is said that when the Saracens captured Alexandria, their victorious general sent to the khalif to know his pleasure respecting the library. The answer was in the spirit of the age. "If the books be confirmatory of the Koran, they are superfluous; if contradictory, they are pernicious. Let them be burnt." At this moment, to all human appearance, the Mohammedan autocrat was on the point of joining in the evil policy of the Byzantine sovereign. But fortunately it was but the impulse of a moment, rectified forthwith, and a noble course of action was soon pursued. The Arab incorporated into his literature the wisdom of those he had conquered. In thus conceding to knowledge a free and unembarrassed career, and, instead of repressing, encouraging to the utmost all kinds of learning did the Koran take any harm? It was a high statesmanship which, almost from the beginning of the impulse from Mecca, bound down to a narrow, easily comprehended, and easily expressed dogma the exacted belief, and in all other particulars let the human mind go free. [Sidenote: The true causes of the preceding events.] In the preceding paragraphs I have criticized the course of events, condemning or applauding the actions and the actors as circumstances seem to require, herein following the usual course, which implies that men can control affairs, and that the agent is to be held responsible for his deed. We have, however, only to consider the course of our own lives to be satisfied to how limited an extent such is the case. We are, as we often say, the creatures of circumstances. In that expression there is a higher philosophy than might at first sight appear. Our actions are not the pure and unmingled results of our desires; they are the offspring of many various and mixed conditions. In that which seems to be the most voluntary decision there enters much that is altogether involuntary--more, perhaps, than we generally suppose. And, in like manner, those who are imagined to have exercised an irresponsible and spontaneous influence in determining public policy, and thereby fixing the fate of nations, will be found, when we understand their position more correctly, to have been the creatures of circumstances altogether independent and irrespective of them--circumstances which they never created, of whose influence they only availed themselves. They were placed in a current which drifted them irresistibly along. From this more accurate point of view we should therefore consider the course of these events, recognizing the principle that the affairs of men pass forward in a determinate way, expanding and unfolding themselves. And hence we see that the things of which we have spoken as though they were matters of choice were, in reality, forced upon their apparent authors by the necessity of the times. But, in truth, they should be considered as the presentations of a certain phase of life which nations in their onward course sooner or later assume. In the individual, how well we know that a sober moderation of action, an appropriate gravity of demeanour, belong to the mature period of life; a change from the wanton wilfulness of youth, which may be ushered in, or its beginning marked, by many accidental incidents: in one perhaps by domestic bereavements, in another by the loss of fortune, in a third by ill health. We are correct enough in imputing to such trials the change of character, but we never deceive ourselves by supposing that it would have failed to take place had those incidents not occurred. There runs an irresistible destiny in the midst of all these vicissitudes. [Sidenote: Succession of affairs determined by law.] We may therefore be satisfied that, whatever may have been the particular form of the events of which we have had occasion to speak, their order of succession was a matter of destiny, and altogether beyond the reach of any individual. We may condemn the Byzantine monarchs, or applaud the Arabian khalifs--our blame and our praise must be set at their proper value. Europe was passing from its Age of Inquiry to its Age of Faith. In such a transition the predestined underlies the voluntary. There are analogies between the life of a nation and that of an individual, who, though he may be in one respect the maker of his own fortunes for happiness or for misery, for good or for evil, though he remains here or goes there, as his inclinations prompt, though he does this or abstains from that as he chooses, is nevertheless held fast by an inexorable fate--a fate which brought him into the world involuntarily so far as he was concerned, which presses him forward through a definite career, the stages of which are absolutely invariable--infancy, childhood, youth, maturity, old age, with all their characteristic actions and passions, and which removes him from the scene at the appointed time, in most cases against his will. So also it is with nations; the voluntary is only the outward semblance, covering, but hardly hiding the predetermined. Over the events of life we may have control, but none whatever over the law of its progress. There is a geometry that applies to nations, an equation of their curve of advance. That no mortal man can touch. [Sidenote: Arabian science in its stage of sorcery.] We have now to examine in what manner the glimmering lamp of knowledge was sustained when it was all but ready to die out. By the Arabians it was handed down to us. The grotesque forms of some of those who took charge of it are not without interest. They exhibit a strange mixture of the Neo-platonist, the Pantheist, the Mohammedan, the Christian. In such untoward times, it was perhaps needful that the strongest passions of men should be excited and science stimulated by inquiries for methods of turning lead into gold, or of prolonging life indefinitely. We have now to deal with the philosopher's stone, the elixir vitæ, the powder of projection, magical mirrors, perpetual lamps, the transmutation of metals. In smoky caverns under ground, where the great work is stealthily carried on, the alchemist and his familiar are busy with their alembics, cucurbites, and pelicans, maintaining their fires for so many years that salamanders are asserted to be born in them. Experimental science was thus restored, though under a very strange aspect, by the Arabians. Already it displayed its connexion with medicine--a connexion derived from the influence of the Nestorians and the Jews. It is necessary for us to consider briefly the relations of each, and of the Nestorians first. * * * * * [Sidenote: The Nestorians.] [Sidenote: They deny the virginity of the queen of heaven.] [Sidenote: They begin to cultivate medicine.] [Sidenote: The Arabs affiliate with them.] In Chapter IX. we have related the rivalries of Cyril, the Bishop of Alexandria, and Nestorius, the Bishop of Constantinople. The theological point of their quarrel was whether it is right to regard the Virgin Mary as the mother of God. To an Egyptian still tainted with ancient superstition, there was nothing shocking in such a doctrine. His was the country of Isis. St. Cyril, who is to be looked upon as a mere ecclesiastical demagogue, found his purposes answered by adopting it without any scruple. But in Greece there still remained traces of the old philosophy. A recollection of the ideas of Plato had not altogether died out. There were some by whom it was not possible for the Egyptian doctrine to be received. Such, perhaps, was Nestorius, whose sincerity was finally approved by an endurance of persecutions, by his sufferings, and his death. He and his followers, insisting on the plain inference of the last verse of the first chapter of St. Matthew, together with the fifty-fifth and fifty-sixth verses of the thirteenth of the same Gospel, could never be brought to an acknowledgment of the perpetual virginity of the new queen of heaven. We have described the issue of the Council of Ephesus: the Egyptian faction gained the victory, the aid of court females being called in, and Nestorius, being deposed from his office, was driven, with his friends into exile. The philosophical tendency of the vanquished was soon indicated by their actions. While their leader was tormented in an African oasis, many of them emigrated to the Euphrates, and founded the Chaldæan Church. Under its auspices the college at Edessa, with several connected schools, arose. In these were translated into Syriac many Greek and Latin works, as those of Aristotle and Pliny. It was the Nestorians who, in connexion with the Jews, founded the medical college of Djondesabour, and first instituted a system of academical honours which has descended to our times. It was the Nestorians who were not only permitted by the khalifs the free exercise of their religion, but even intrusted with the education of the children of the great Mohammedan families, a liberality in striking contrast to the fanaticism of Europe. The Khalif Alraschid went so far as even to place all his public schools under the superintendence of John Masué, one of that sect. Under the auspices of these learned men the Arabian academies were furnished with translations of Greek authors, and vast libraries were collected in Asia. [Sidenote: Their great spread in the East,] Through this connexion with the Arabs, Nestorian missionaries found means to disseminate their form of Christianity all over Asia, as far as Malabar and China. The successful intrigues of the Egyptian politicians at Ephesus had no influence in those remote countries, the Asiatic churches of the Nestorian and Jacobite persuasions outnumbering eventually all the European Christians of the Greek and Roman churches combined. In later times the papal government has made great exertions to bring about an understanding with them, but in vain. [Sidenote: and persecutions in the West.] The expulsion of this party from Constantinople was accomplished by the same persons and policy concerned in destroying philosophy in Alexandria. St. Cyril was the representative of an illiterate and unscrupulous faction that had come into the possession of power through intrigues with the females of the imperial court, and bribery of eunuchs and parasites. The same spirit that had murdered Hypatia tormented Nestorius to death. Of the contending parties, one was respectable and had a tincture of learning, the other ignorant, and not hesitating at the employment of brute force, deportation, assassination. Unfortunately for the world, the unscrupulous party carried the day. [Sidenote: They inherit the old Greek medicine.] By their descent, the Nestorians had become the depositaries of the old Greek medical science. Its great names they revered. They collected, with the utmost assiduity, whatever works remained on medical topics, whether of a Greek or Alexandrian origin, from the writings of Hippocrates, called, with affectionate veneration by his successors, "The Divine Old Man," down to those of the Ptolemaic school. [Sidenote: Origin of Greek medicine--Asclepions.] [Sidenote: Hippocrates destroys the theological theory of disease.] Greek medicine arose in the temples of �sculapius, whither the sick were in the habit of resorting for the assistance of the god. It does not appear that any fee was exacted for the celestial advice; but the gratitude of the patient was frequently displayed by optional gifts, and votive tablets presented to the temple, setting forth the circumstances of the case, were of value to those disposed to enter on medical studies. The Asclepions thus became both hospitals and schools. They exercised, from their position, a tendency to incorporate medical and ecclesiastical pursuits. At this time it was universally believed that every sickness was due to the anger of some offended god, and especially was this supposed to be the case in epidemics and plagues. Such a paralyzing notion was necessarily inconsistent with any attempt at the relief of communities by the exercise of sanitary measures. In our times it is still difficult to remove from the minds of the illiterate classes this ancient opinion, or to convince them that under such visitations we ought to help ourselves, and not expect relief by penance and supplications, unless we join therewith rigorous personal, domestic, municipal cleanliness, fresh air, and light. The theological doctrine of the nature of disease indicated its means of cure. For Hippocrates was reserved the great glory of destroying them both, replacing them by more practical and material ideas, and, from the votive tablets, traditions, and other sources, together with his own admirable observations, compiling a body of medicine. The necessary consequence of his great success was the separation of the pursuits of the physician from those of the priest. Not that so great a revolution, implying the diversion of profitable gains from the ancient channel, could have been accomplished without a struggle. We should reverence the memory of Hippocrates for the complete manner in which he effected that object. [Sidenote: Writings of Hippocrates.] Of the works attributed to Hippocrates, many are doubtless the production of his family, his descendants, or his pupils. The inducements to literary forgery in the times of the Ptolemies, who paid very high prices for books of reputation, have been the cause of much difficulty among critics in determining such questions of authorship. The works indisputably written by Hippocrates display an extent of knowledge answering to the authority of his name; his vivid descriptions have never been excelled, if indeed they have ever been equalled. The Hippocratic face of the dying is still retained in our medical treatises in the original terms, without any improvement. [Sidenote: His opinions.] In his medical doctrine, Hippocrates starts with the postulate that the body is composed of the four elements. From these are formed the four cardinal humours. He thinks that the humours are liable to undergo change; that health consists in their right constitution and proper adjustment as to quantity; disease, in their impurities and inequalities; that the disordered humours undergo spontaneous changes or coction, a process requiring time, and hence the explanation of critical days and critical discharges. The primitive disturbance of the humours he attributed to a great variety of causes, chiefly to the influence of physical circumstances, such as heat, cold, air, water. Unlike his contemporaries, he did not impute all the afflictions of man to the anger of the gods. Along with those influences of an external kind, he studied the special peculiarities of the human system, how it is modified by climate and manner of life, exhibiting different predispositions at different seasons of the year. He believed that the innate heat of the body varies with the period of life, being greatest in infancy and least in old age, and that hence morbific agents affect us with greater or less facility at different times. For this reason it is that the physician should attend very closely to the condition of those in whom he is interested as respects their diet and exercise, for thereby he is able not only to regulate their general susceptibility, but also to exert a control over the course of their diseases. Referring diseases in general to the condition or distribution of the humours, for he regards inflammation as the passing of blood into parts not previously containing it, he considers that so long as those liquids occupy the system in an unnatural or adulterated state, disease continues; but as they ferment or undergo coction, various characteristic symptoms appear, and, when their elaboration is completed, they are discharged by perspiration or other secretions, by alvine dejections, etc. But where such a general relief of the system is not accomplished, the peccant humours may be localized in some particular organ or special portion, and erysipelatous inflammation, mortification, or other such manifestations ensue. It is in aiding this elimination from the system that the physician may signally manifest his skill. His power is displayed much more at this epoch than by the control he can exert over the process of coction. Now may he invoke the virtues of the hellebores, the white and the black, now may he use elaterium. The critical days which answer to the periods of the process of coction are to be watched with anxiety, and the correspondence of the state of the patient with the expected condition which he ought to show at those epochs ascertained. Hence the physician may be able to predict the probable course of the disease during the remainder of its career, and gather true notions as to the practice it would be best for him to pursue to aid Nature in her operations. [Sidenote: The character of his practice.] It thus appears that the practice of medicine in the hands of Hippocrates had reference rather to the course or career of disease than to its special nature. Nothing more than this masterly conception is wanted to impress us with his surprizing scientific power. He watches the manner in which the humours are undergoing their fermenting coction, the phenomena displayed in the critical days, the aspect and nature of the critical discharges. He does not attempt to check the process going on, but simply to assist the natural operation. When we consider the period at which Hippocrates lived, B.C. 400, and the circumstances under which he had studied medicine, we cannot fail to admire the very great advance he made. His merit is conspicuous in rejecting the superstitious tendency of his times by teaching his disciples to impute a proper agency to physical causes. He altogether discarded the imaginary influences then in vogue. For the gods he substituted, with singular felicity, Impersonal Nature. It was the interest of those who were connected with the temples of �sculapius to refer all the diseases of men to supernatural agency; their doctrine being that every affliction should be attributed to the anger of some offended god, and restoration to health most certainly procured by conciliating his power. So far, then, as such interests were concerned, any contradiction of those doctrines, any substitution of the material for the supernatural, must needs have met with reprehension. Yet such opposition seems in no respect to have weighed with this great physician, who developed his theory and pursued his practice without giving himself any concern in that respect. He bequeathed an example to all who succeeded him in his noble profession, and taught them not to hesitate in encountering the prejudices and passions of the present for the sake of the truth, and to trust for their reward in the just appreciation of a future age. [Sidenote: His doctrine is truly scientific.] With such remarks we may assert that the medical philosophy of Hippocrates is worthy of our highest admiration, since it exhibits the scientific conditions of deduction and induction. The theory itself is compact and clear; its lineaments are completely Grecian. It presents, to one who will contemplate it with due allowance for its times, the characteristic quick-sightedness, penetration, and power of the Greek mind, fully vindicating for its author the title which has been conferred upon him by his European successors--the Father of Medicine--and perhaps inducing us to excuse the enthusiastic assertion of Galen, that we ought to reverence the words of Hippocrates as the voice of God. [Sidenote: The school of Cnidos.] [Sidenote: Is destroyed by Constantine.] [Sidenote: Classes of physicians.] The Hippocratic school of Cos found a rival in the school of Cnidos, which offered not only a different view of the nature of disease, but also taught a different principle for its cure. The Cnidians paid more particular attention to the special symptoms in individual cases, and pursued a less active treatment, declining, whenever they could, a resort to drastic purgatives, venesection, or other energetic means. As might be expected, the professional activity of these schools called into existence many able men, and produced many excellent works: thus Philiston wrote on the regimen for persons in health; Diocles on hygiene and gymnastics; Praxagoras on the pulse, showing that it is a measure of the force of disease. The Asclepion of Cnidos continued until the time of Constantine, when it was destroyed along with many other pagan establishments. The union between the priesthood and the profession was gradually becoming less and less close; and, as the latter thus separated itself, divisions or departments arose in it, both as regards subjects, such as pharmacy, surgery, etc., and also as respects the position of its cultivators, some pursuing it as a liberal science, and some as a mere industrial occupation. In those times, as in our own, many who were not favoured with the gifts of fortune were constrained to fall into the latter ranks. Thus Aristotle, than whom few have ever exerted a greater intellectual influence upon humanity, after spending his patrimony in liberal pursuits, kept an apothecary's shop at Athens. Aristotle the druggist, behind his counter, selling medicines to chance customers, is Aristotle the great writer, whose dictum was final with the schoolmen of the Middle Ages. As a general thing, however, the medical professors were drawn from the philosophical class. Outside of these divisions, and though in all ages continually repudiated by the profession, yet continually hovering round it, was a host of impostors and quacks, as there will always be so long as there are weak-minded and shallow men to be deluded, and vain and silly women to believe. [Sidenote: Egyptian medicine. The Museum.] [Sidenote: Philadelphus founds medicine on anatomy.] [Sidenote: He authorizes dissection and human vivisection.] [Sidenote: Physicians of the Alexandrian school.] When the Alexandrian Museum was originated by Ptolemy Philadelphus, its studies were arranged in four faculties--literature, mathematics, astronomy, medicine. These divisions are, however, to be understood comprehensively: thus, under the faculty of medicine were included such subjects as natural history. The physicians who received the first appointments were Cleombrotus, Herophilus, and Erasistratus; among the subordinate professors was Philo-Stephanus, who had charge of natural history, and was directed to write a book on Fishes. The elevated ideas of the founder cannot be better illustrated than by the manner in which he organized his medical school. It was upon the sure basis of anatomy. Herophilus and his colleagues were authorized to resort to the dissection of the dead, and to ascertain, by that only trustworthy method, the true structure of the human body. The strong hand of Ptolemy resolutely carried out his design, though in a country where popular sentiment was strongly opposed to such practices. To touch a corpse in Egypt was an abomination. Nor was it only this great man's intention to ascertain the human structure; he also took measures to discover the mode in which its functions are carried forward, the manner in which it works. To this end he authorized his anatomists to make vivisections both of animals, and also of criminals who had been condemned to death, herein finding for himself that royal road in physiology which Euclid once told him, at a dinner in the Museum, did not exist in geometry, and defending the act from moral criticism by the plea that, as the culprits had already forfeited their lives to the law, it was no injury to make them serviceable to the interests of humanity. Herophilus had been educated at Cos; his pathological views were those known as humouralism; his treatment active, after the manner of Hippocrates, upon whose works he wrote commentaries. His original investigations were numerous; they were embodied, with his peculiar views, in treatises on the practice of medicine; on obstetrics; on the eye; on the pulse, which he properly referred to contractions of the heart. He was aware of the existence of the lacteals, and their anatomical relation to the mesenteric glands. Erasistratus, his colleague, was a pupil of Theophrastus and Chrysippus: he, too, cultivated anatomy. He described the structure of the heart, its connexions with the arteries and veins, but fell into the mistake that the former vessels were for the conveyance of air, the latter for that of blood. He knew that there are two kinds of nerves, those of motion and those of sensation. He referred all fevers to inflammatory states, and in his practice differed from the received methods of Hippocrates by observing a less active treatment. [Sidenote: Improvements in surgery and pharmacy.] By these physicians the study of medicine in Alexandria was laid upon the solid foundation of anatomy. Besides them there were many other instructors in specialties; and, indeed, the temple of Serapis was used for a hospital, the sick being received into it, and persons studying medicine admitted for the purpose of familiarizing themselves with the appearance of disease, precisely as in similar institutions at the present time. Of course, under such circumstances, the departments of surgery and pharmacy received many improvements, and produced many able men. Among these improvements may be mentioned new operations, for lithotomy, instruments for crushing calculi, for reducing dislocations, etc. The active commerce of Egypt afforded abundant opportunity for extending the materia medica by the introduction of a great many herbs and drugs. [Sidenote: Decline of Alexandrian medicine.] The medical school of Alexandria, which was thus originally based upon dissection, in the course of time lost much of its scientific spirit. But the influence of the first teachers may be traced through many subsequent ages. Thus Galen divides the profession in his time into Herophilians and Erasistratians. Various sects had arisen in the course of events, as the Dogmatists, who asserted that diseases can only be treated correctly by the aid of a knowledge of the structure and functions, the action of drugs, and the changes induced in the affected parts; they insisted, therefore, upon the necessity of anatomy, physiology, therapeutics, and pathology. They claimed a descent from Hippocrates. Their antagonists, the Empirics, ridiculed such knowledge as fanciful or unattainable, and relied on experience alone. These subdivisions were not limited to sects; they may also be observed under the form of schools. Even Erasistratus himself, toward the close of his life, through some dispute or misunderstanding, appears to have left the Museum and established a school at Smyrna. The study of the various branches of medicine was also pursued by others out of the immediate ranks of the profession. Mithridates, king of Pontus, thus devoted himself to the examination of poisons and the discovery of antidotes. What a fall from this scientific medicine to the miracle-cure which soon displaced it! What a descent from Hippocrates and the great Alexandrian physicians to the shrines of saints and the monks! * * * * * [Sidenote: The Jewish physicians.] To the foregoing sketch of the state of Greek medicine in its day of glory, I must add an examination of the same science among the Jews subsequently to the second century; it is necessary for the proper understanding of the origin of Saracen learning. [Sidenote: Their emancipation from the supernatural.] In philosophy the Jews had been gradually emancipating themselves from the influence of ancient traditions; their advance in this direction is shown by the active manner in which they aided in the development of Neo-platonism. After the destruction of Jerusalem all Syria and Mesopotamia were full of Jewish schools; but the great philosophers, as well as the great merchants of the nation, were residents of Alexandria. Persecution and dispersion, if they served no other good purpose, weakened the grasp of the ecclesiastic. Perhaps, too, repeated disappointments in an expected coming of a national temporal Messiah had brought those who were now advanced in intellectual progress to a just appreciation of ancient traditions. In this mental emancipation their physicians took the lead. For long, while their pursuits were yet in infancy, a bitter animosity had been manifested toward them by the Levites, whose manner of healing was by prayer, expiatory sacrifice, and miracle; or, if they descended to less supernatural means, by an application of such remedies as are popular with the vulgar everywhere. Thus, to a person bitten by a mad dog, they would give the diaphragm of a dog to eat. As examples of a class of men soon to take no obscure share in directing human progress may be mentioned Hannina, A.D. 205, often spoken of by his successors as the earliest of Jewish physicians; Samuel, equally distinguished as an astronomer, accoucheur, and oculist, the inventor of a collyrium which bore his name; Rab, an anatomist, who wrote a treatise on the structure of the body of man as ascertained by dissections, thereby attaining such celebrity that the people, after his death, used the earth of his grave as a medicine; Abba Oumna, whose study of insanity plainly shows that he gave a material interpretation to the national doctrine of possession by devils, and replaced that strange delusion by the scientific explanation of corporeal derangement. This honourable physician made it a rule never to take a fee from the poor, and never to make any difference in his assiduous attention between them and the rich. These men may be taken as a type of their successors to the seventh century, when the Oriental schools were broken up in consequence of the Arab military movements. In the Talmudic literature there are all the indications of a transitional state, so far as medicine is concerned; the supernatural seems to be passing into the physical, the ecclesiastical is mixed up with the exact: thus a rabbi may cure disease by the ecclesiastical operation of laying on of hands; but of febrile disturbances, an exact, though erroneous explanation is given, and paralysis of the hind legs of an animal is correctly referred to the pressure of a tumour on the spinal cord. Some of its aphorisms are not devoid of amusing significance: "Any disease, provided the bowels remain open; any kind of pain, provided the heart remain unaffected; any kind of uneasiness, provided the head be not attacked; all manner of evils, except it be a bad woman." [Sidenote: The Arabs affiliate with them.] [Sidenote: Rise of Jewish physicians to influence.] [Sidenote: They found medical colleges,] [Sidenote: and promote science and literature.] At first, after the fall of the Alexandrian school, it was all that the Jewish physicians could do to preserve the learning that had descended to them. But when the tumult of Arabic conquest was over, we find them becoming the advisers of crowned heads, and exerting, by reason of their advantageous position, their liberal education, their enlarged views, a most important influence on the intellectual progress of humanity. Maser Djaivah, physician to the Khalif Moawiyah, was distinguished at once as a poet, a critic, a philosopher; Haroun, a physician of Alexandria, whose Pandects, a treatise unfortunately now lost, are said to have contained the first elaborate description of the small-pox and method of its treatment. Isaac Ben Emran wrote an original treatise on poisons and their symptoms, and others followed his example. The Khalif Al Raschid, who maintained political relations with Charlemagne by means of Jewish envoys, set that monarch an example by which indeed he was not slow to profit, in actively patronising the medical college at Djondesabour, and founding a university at Bagdad. He prohibited any person from practising medicine until after a satisfactory examination before one of those faculties. In the East the theological theory of disease and of its cure was fast passing away. Of the school at Bagdad, Joshua ben Nun is said to have been the most celebrated professor, the school itself actively promoting the translation of Greek works into Arabic--not alone works of a professional, but also those of a general kind. In this manner the writings of Plato and Aristotle were secured; indeed, it is said that almost every day camels laden with volumes were entering the gates of Bagdad. To add to the supply, the Emperor Michael III. was compelled by treaty to furnish Greek books. The result of this intellectual movement could be no other than a diffusion of light. Schools arose in Bassora, Ispahan, Samarcand, Fez, Morocco, Sicily, Cordova, Seville, Granada. [Sidenote: Intermingling of magic and sorcery.] [Sidenote: Dedication of portions of matter and time to the supernatural.] [Sidenote: Origin of the week.] Through the Nestorians and the Jews the Arabs thus became acquainted with the medical science of Greece and Alexandria; but to this was added other knowledge of a more sinister kind, derived from Persia, or perhaps remotely from Chaldee sources, the Nestorians having important Church establishments in Mesopotamia, and the Jews having been long familiar with that country; indeed, from thence their ancestors originally came. More than once its ideas had modified their national religion. This extraneous knowledge was of an astrological or magical nature, carried into practice by incantations, amulets, charms, and talismans. Its fundamental principle was that the planetary bodies exercise an influence over terrestrial things. As seven planets and seven metals were at that time known--the sun, the moon, Mars, Mercury, Jupiter, Venus, Saturn, being the planets of astrology--a due allotment was made. Gold was held sacred to the sun, silver to the moon, iron to Mars, etc. Even the portions of time were in like manner dedicated; the seven days of the week were respectively given to the seven planets of astrology. The names imposed on those days, and the order in which they occur, are obviously connected with the Ptolemaic hypothesis of astronomy, each of the planets having an hour assigned to it in its order of occurrence, and the planet ruling first the hour of each day giving its name to that day. Thus arranged, the week is a remarkable instance of the longevity of an institution adapted to the wants of man. It has survived through many changes of empire, has forced itself on the ecclesiastical system of Europe, which, unable to change its idolatrous aspect, has encouraged the vulgar error that it owes its authenticity to the Holy Scriptures, an error too plainly betrayed by the pagan names that the days bear, and also by their order of occurrence. These notions of dedicating portions of matter or of time to the supernatural were derived from the doctrine of a universal spirit or soul of the world, extensively believed in throughout the East. It underlies, as we have seen in Chapter III., all Oriental theology, and is at once a very antique and not unphilosophical conception. Of this soul the spirit of man was by many supposed to be a particle like a spark given off from a flame. All other things, animate or inanimate, brutes, plants, stones, nay, even natural forms, rivers, mountains, cascades, grottoes, have each an indwelling and animating spirit. [Sidenote: Alexandrian necromancy.] Amulets and charms, therefore, did not derive their powers from the material substance of which they consisted, but from this indwelling spirit. In the case of man, his immaterial principle was believed to correspond to his personal bodily form. Of the two great sects into which the Jewish nation had been divided, the Pharisees accepted the Assyrian doctrine; but the Sadducees, who denied the existence of any such spirit, boasted that theirs was the old Mosaic faith, and denounced their antagonists as having been contaminated at the time of the Babylonian captivity, before which catastrophe, according to them, these doctrines were unheard of in Jerusalem. In Alexandria, among the leading men there were many adherents to these opinions. Thus Plotinus wrote a book on the association of dæmons with men, and his disciple Porphyry proved practically the possibility of such an alliance; for, repairing to the temple of Isis along with Plotinus and a certain Egyptian priest, the latter, to prove his supernatural power, offered to raise up the spirit of Plotinus himself in a visible form. A magical circle was drawn on the ground, surrounded with the customary astrological signs, the invocation commenced, the spirit appeared, and Plotinus stood face to face with his own soul. In this successful experiment it is needless to inquire how much the necromancer depended upon optical contrivances, and how much upon an alarmed imagination. But if thus the spirit of a living man could be called up, how much more likely the souls of the dead. [Sidenote: These ideas originate in Pantheism.] In reality, these wild doctrines were connected with Pantheism, which was secretly believed in everywhere; for, though, in a coarse mode of expression, a distinction seemed thus to be made between matter and spirit, or body and soul, it was held by the initiated that matter itself is a mere shadow of the spirit, and the body a delusive semblance of the soul. [Sidenote: The black art.] In the eighth century, many natural facts of a surprising and unaccountable description, well calculated to make a profound impression upon those who witnessed them, had accumulated. They were such as are now familiar to chemists. Vessels tightly closed were burst open when tormented in the fire, apparently by some invisible agency; intangible vapours condensed into solids; from colourless liquids gaudy precipitates were suddenly called into existence; flames were disengaged without any adequate cause; explosions took place spontaneously. So much that was unexpected and unaccountable justified the title of "the occult science," "the black art." From being isolated marvels unconnected with one another, these facts had been united. The Chaldee notions of a soul of the world, and of indwelling spirits, had furnished a thread on which all these pearls, for such they proved to be, might be strung. [Sidenote: The Arabians fall into these delusions,] With avidity--for there is ever a charm in the supernatural--did the Arabs receive from their Nestorian and Jewish medical instructors these mystical interpretations along with true knowledge. And far from resting satisfied with what their masters had thus delivered, they proceeded forthwith to improve and extend it for themselves. They submitted all kinds of substances to all kinds of operations, greatly improving the experimental process they had been taught. By exposing various bodies to the fire, they found it possible to extract from them more refined portions, which seemed to concentrate in themselves the qualities pertaining in a more diffuse way to the substances from which they had been drawn. These, since they were often invisible at their first disengagement, yet capable of bursting open the strongest vessels, and sometimes of disappearing in explosions and flames, they concluded must be the indwelling spirit or soul of the body, from which the fire had driven them forth. It was the Chaldee doctrine realized. Thus they obtained the spirit of wine, the spirit of salt, the spirit of nitre. We still retain in commerce these designations, though their significance is lost. When first introduced they had a strictly literal meaning. Alchemy, with its essences, quintessences, and spirits, was Pantheism materialized. God was seen to be in everything, in the abstract as well as the concrete, in numbers as well as realities. [Sidenote: and the Christians also.] Anticipating what will have hereafter to be considered in detail, I may here remark that it was not the Mohammedan alone who delivered himself up to these mystic delusions; Christendom was prepared for them also. In its opinion, the earth, the air, the sea, were full of invisible forms. With more faith than even by paganism itself was the supernatural power of the images of the gods accepted, only it was imputed to the influence of devils. The lunatic was troubled by a like possession. If a spring discharged its waters with a periodical gushing of carbonic acid gas, it was agitated by an angel; if an unfortunate descended into a pit and was suffocated by the mephitic air, it was by some dæmon who was secreted; if the miner's torch produced an explosion, it was owing to the wrath of some malignant spirit guarding a treasure, and whose solitude had been disturbed. There was no end to the stories, duly authenticated by the best human testimony, of the occasional appearance of such spirits under visible forms; there was no grotto or cool thicket in which angels and genii had not been seen, no cavern without its dæmons. Though the names were not yet given, it was well understood that the air had its sylphs, the earth its gnomes, the fire its salamanders, the water its undines; to the day belonged its apparitions, to the night its fairies. The foul air of stagnant places assumed the visible form of dæmons of abominable aspect; the explosive gases of mines took on the shape of pale-faced, malicious dwarfs, with leathery ears hanging down to their shoulders, and garments of grey cloth. Philosophical conceptions can never be disentangled from social ideas; the thoughts of man will always gather a tincture from the intellectual medium in which he lives. In Christendom, however, the chief application of these doctrines was to the relics of martyrs and saints. As with the amulets and talismans of Mesopotamia, these were regarded as possessing supernatural powers. They were a sure safeguard against evil spirits, and an unfailing relief in sickness. [Sidenote: Transmutation of metals--Alchemy.] [Sidenote: Philosopher's stone.] A singular force was given to these mystic ideas by the peculiar direction they happened to take. As there are veins of water in the earth, and apertures through which the air can gain access, an analogy was inferred between its structure and that of an animal, leading to an inference of a similarity of functions. From this came the theory of the development of metals in its womb under the influence of the planets, the pregnant earth spontaneously producing gold and silver from baser things after a definite number of lunations. Already, however, in the doctrine of the transmutation of metals, it was perceived that to Nature the lapse of time is nothing--to man it is everything. To Nature, when she is transmuting a worthless into a better metal, what signify a thousand years? To man, half a century embraces the period of his intellectual activity. The aim of the cultivator of the sacred art should be to shorten the natural term; and, since we observe the influence of heat in hastening the ripening of fruits, may we not reasonably expect that duly regulated degrees of fire will answer the purpose? by an exposure of base material in the furnace for a proper season, may we not anticipate the wished for event? The Emperor Caligula, who had formerly tried to make gold from orpiment by the force of fire, was only one of a thousand adepts pursuing a similar scheme. Some trusted to the addition of a material substance in aiding the fire to purge away the dross of the base body submitted to it. From this arose the doctrine of the powder of projection and the philosopher's stone. [Sidenote: Transmutation and transubstantiation.] This doctrine of the possibility of transmuting things into forms essentially different steadily made its way, leading, in the material direction, to alchemy, the art of making gold and silver out of baser metals, and in theology to transubstantiation. Transmutation and transubstantiation were twin sisters, destined for a world-wide celebrity; one became allied to the science of Mecca, the other to the theology of Rome. [Sidenote: The elixir of life.] [Sidenote: Potable gold.] [Sidenote: Chemical waters.] While thus the Arabs joined in the pursuit of alchemy, their medical tendencies led them simultaneously to cultivate another ancient delusion, the discovery of a universal panacea or elixir which could cure all diseases and prolong life for ever. Mystical experimenters for centuries had been ransacking all nature, from the yellow flowers which are sacred to the sun, and gold his emblem and representative on earth, down to the vilest excrements of the human body. As to gold, there had been gathered round that metal many fictitious excellences in addition to its real values; it was believed that in some preparation of it would be found the elixir vitæ. This is the explanation of the unwearied attempts at making potable gold, for it was universally thought that if that metal could be obtained in a dissolved state, it would constitute the long-sought panacea. Nor did it seem impossible so to increase the power of water, as to impart to it new virtues, and thereby enable it to accomplish the desired solution. Were there not natural waters of very different properties? were there not some that could fortify the memory, others destroy it; some re-enforce the spirits, some impart dulness, and some, which were highly prized, that could secure a return of love? It had been long known that both natural and artificial waters can permanently affect the health, and that instruments may be made to ascertain their qualities. Zosimus, the Panopolitan, had described in former times the operation of distillation, by which water may be purified; the Arabs called the apparatus for conducting that experiment an alembic. His treatise on the virtues and composition of waters was conveyed under the form of a dream, in which there flit before us fantastically white-haired priests sacrificing before the altar; cauldrons of boiling water, in which there are walking about men a span long; brazen-clad warriors in silence reading leaden books, and sphinxes with wings. In such incomprehensible fictions knowledge was purposely, and ignorance conveniently concealed. [Sidenote: The Arabs originate scientific chemistry.] The practical Arabs had not long been engaged in these fascinating but wild pursuits, when results of very great importance began to appear. In a scientific point of view, the discovery of the strong acids laid the true foundation of chemistry; in a political point of view, the invention of gunpowder revolutionized the world. [Sidenote: Gunpowder and fireworks.] There were several explosive mixtures. Automatic fire was made from equal parts of sulphur, saltpetre, and sulphide of antimony, finely pulverized and mixed into a paste, with equal parts of juice of the black sycamore and liquid asphaltum, a little quick-lime being added. It was directed to keep the material from the rays of the sun, which would set it on fire. [Sidenote: Incombustible men.] Of liquid or Greek fire we have not a precise description, since the knowledge of it was kept at Constantinople as a state secret. There is reason, however, to believe that it contained sulphur and nitrate of potash mixed with naphtha. Of gunpowder, Marcus Græcus, whose date is probably to be referred to the close of the eighth century, gives the composition explicitly. He directs us to pulverize in a marble mortar one pound of sulphur, two of charcoal, and six of saltpetre. If some of this powder be tightly rammed in a long narrow tube closed at one end, and then set on fire, the tube will fly through the air: this is clearly the rocket. He says that thunder may be imitated by folding some of the powder in a cover and tying it up tightly: this is the cracker. It thus appears that fireworks preceded fire-arms. To the same author we are indebted for prescriptions for making the skin incombustible, so that we may handle fire without being burnt. These, doubtless, were received as explanations of the legends of the times, which related how miracle-workers had washed their hands in melted copper, and sat at their ease in flaming straw. [Sidenote: Arabian chemists.] Among the Saracen names that might be mentioned as cultivators of alchemy, we may recall El-Rasi, Ebid Durr, Djafar or Geber, Toghragé, who wrote an alchemical poem, and Dschildegi, one of whose works bears the significant title of "The Lantern." The definition of alchemy by some of these authors is very striking: the science of the balance, the science of weight, the science of combustion. [Sidenote: Djafar discovers nitric acid and aqua regia,] [Sidenote: and that oxidation increases weight.] [Sidenote: He solves the problem of potable gold.] To one of these chemists, Djafar, our attention may for a moment be drawn. He lived toward the end of the eighth century, and is honoured by Rhazes, Avicenna, and Kalid, the great Arabic physicians, as their master. His name is memorable in chemistry, since it marks an epoch in that science of equal importance to that of Priestley and Lavoisier. He is the first to describe nitric acid and aqua regia. Before him no stronger acid was known than concentrated vinegar. We cannot conceive of chemistry as not possessing acids. Roger Bacon speaks of him as the magister magistrorum. He has perfectly just notions of the nature of spirits or gases, as we call them; thus he says, "O son of the doctrine, when spirits fix themselves in bodies, they lose their form; in their nature they are no longer what they were. When you compel them to be disengaged again, this is what happens: either the spirit alone escapes with the air, and the body remains fixed in the alembic, or the spirit and body escape together at the same time." His doctrine respecting the nature of the metals, though erroneous, was not without a scientific value. A metal he considers to be a compound of sulphur, mercury, and arsenic, and hence he infers that transmutation is possible by varying the proportion of those ingredients. He knows that a metal, when calcined, increases in weight, a discovery of the greatest importance, as eventually brought to bear in the destruction of the doctrine of Phlogiston of Stahl, and which has been imputed to Europeans of a much later time. He describes the operations of distillation, sublimation, filtration, various chemical apparatus, water-baths, sand-baths, cupels of bone-earth, of the use of which he gives a singularly clear description. A chemist reads with interest Djafar's antique method of obtaining nitric acid by distilling in a retort Cyprus vitriol, alum, and saltpetre. He sets forth its corrosive power, and shows how it may be made to dissolve even gold itself, by adding a portion of sal ammoniac. Djafar may thus be considered as having solved the grand alchemical problem of obtaining gold in a potable state. Of course, many trials must have been made on the influence of this solution on the animal system, respecting which such extravagant anticipations had been entertained. The disappointment that ensued was doubtless the reason that the records of these trials have not descended to us. [Sidenote: Rhazes discovers sulphuric acid.] [Sidenote: Bechil discovers phosphorus.] With Djafar may be mentioned Rhazes, born A.D. 860, physician-in-chief to the great hospital at Bagdad. To him is due the first description of the preparation and properties of sulphuric acid. He obtained it, as the Nordhausen variety is still made, by the distillation of dried green vitriol. To him are also due the first indications of the preparation of absolute alcohol, by distilling spirit of wine from quick-lime. As a curious discovery made by the Saracens may be mentioned the experiment of Achild Bechil, who, by distilling together the extract of urine, clay, lime, and powdered charcoal, obtained an artificial carbuncle, which shone in the dark "like a good moon." This was phosphorus. [Sidenote: Geological views of Avicenna.] [Sidenote: His works indicate the attainment of the times.] And now there arose among Arabian physicians a correctness of thought and breadth of view altogether surprising. It might almost be supposed that the following lines were written by one of our own contemporaries; they are, however, extracted from a chapter of Avicenna on the origin of mountains. This author was born in the tenth century. "Mountains may be due to two different causes. Either they are effects of upheavals of the crust of the earth, such as might occur during a violent earthquake, or they are the effect of water, which, cutting for itself a new route, has denuded the valleys, the strata being of different kinds, some soft, some hard. The winds and waters disintegrate the one, but leave the other intact. Most of the eminences of the earth have had this latter origin. It would require a long period of time for all such changes to be accomplished, during which the mountains themselves might be somewhat diminished in size. But that water has been the main cause of these effects is proved by the existence of fossil remains of aquatic and other animals on many mountains." Avicenna also explains the nature of petrifying or incrusting waters, and mentions ærolites, out of one of which a sword-blade was made, but he adds that the metal was too brittle to be of any use. A mere catalogue of some of the works of Avicenna will indicate the condition of Arabian attainment. 1. On the Utility and Advantage of Science; 2. Of Health and Remedies; 3. Canons of Physic; 4. On Astronomical Observations; 5. Mathematical Theorems; 6. On the Arabic Language and its Properties; 7. On the Origin of the Soul and Resurrection of the Body; 8. Demonstration of Collateral Lines on the Sphere; 9. An Abridgment of Euclid; 10. On Finity and Infinity; 11. On Physics and Metaphysics; 12. An Encyclopædia of Human Knowledge, in 20 vols., etc., etc. The perusal of such a catalogue is sufficient to excite profound attention when we remember the contemporaneous state of Europe. [Sidenote: Effect of the search for the elixir on practical medicine.] The pursuit of the elixir made a well-marked impression upon Arab experimental science, confirming it in its medical application. At the foundation of this application lay the principle that it is possible to relieve the diseases of the human body by purely material means. As the science advanced it gradually shook off its fetichisms, the spiritual receding into insignificance, the material coming into bolder relief. Not, however, without great difficulty was a way forced for the great doctrine that the influence of substances on the constitution of man is altogether of a material kind, and not at all due to any indwelling or animating spirit; that it is of no kind of use to practise incantations over drugs, or to repeat prayers over the mortar in which medicines are being compounded, since the effect will be the same, whether this has been done or not; that there is no kind of efficacy in amulets, no virtue in charms; and that, though saint-relics may serve to excite the imagination of the ignorant, they are altogether beneath the attention of the philosopher. [Sidenote: Medical conflict between Europe and Africa.] It was this last sentiment which brought Europe and Africa into intellectual collision. The Saracen and Hebrew physicians had become thoroughly materialized. Throughout Christendom the practice of medicine was altogether supernatural. It was in the hands of ecclesiastics; and saint relics, shrines, and miracle-cures were a source of boundless profit. On a subsequent page I shall have to describe the circumstances of the conflict that ensued between material philosophy on one side, and supernatural jugglery on the other; to show how the Arab system gained the victory, and how, out of that victory, the industrial life of Europe arose. The Byzantine policy inaugurated in Constantinople and Alexandria was, happily for the world, in the end overthrown. To that future page I must postpone the great achievements of the Arabians in the fulness of their Age of Reason. When Europe was hardly more enlightened than Caffraria is now, the Saracens were cultivating and even creating science. Their triumphs in philosophy, mathematics, astronomy, chemistry, medicine, proved to be more glorious, more durable, and therefore more important than their military actions had been. CHAPTER XIV. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST--(_Continued_). IMAGE-WORSHIP AND THE MONKS. _Origin of_ IMAGE-WORSHIP.--_Inutility of Images discovered in Asia and Africa during the Saracen Wars.--Rise of Iconoclasm._ _The Emperors prohibit Image-worship.--The Monks, aided by court Females, sustain it.--Victory of the latter._ _Image-worship in the West sustained by the Popes.--Quarrel between the Emperor and the Pope.--The Pope, aided by the Monks, revolts and allies himself with the Franks._ THE MONKS.--_History of the Rise and Development of Monasticism.--Hermits and Coenobites.--Spread of Monasticism from Egypt over Europe.--Monk Miracles and Legends.--Humanization of the monastic Establishments.--They materialize Religion, and impress their Ideas on Europe._ [Sidenote: Influence of the Arabians.] The Arabian influence, allying itself to philosophy, was henceforth productive of other than military results. To the loss of Africa and Asia was now added a disturbance impressed on Europe itself, ending in the decomposition of Christianity into two forms, Greek and Latin, and in three great political events--the emancipation of the popes from the emperors of Constantinople, the usurpation of power by a new dynasty in France, the reconstruction of the Roman empire in the West. The dispute respecting the worship of images led to those great events. The acts of the Mohammedan khalifs and of the iconoclastic or image-breaking emperors occasioned that dispute. [Sidenote: Worship of relics and images.] [Sidenote: Its rapid spread in Christendom.] Nothing could be more deplorable than the condition of southern Europe when it first felt the intellectual influence of the Arabians. Its old Roman and Greek populations had altogether disappeared; the races of half-breeds and mongrels substituted for them were immersed in fetichism. An observance of certain ceremonials constituted a religious life. A chip of the true cross, some iron filings from the chain of St. Peter, a tooth or bone of a martyr, were held in adoration; the world was full of the stupendous miracles which these relics had performed. But especially were painted or graven images of holy personages supposed to be endowed with such powers. They had become objects of actual worship. The facility with which the Empress Helena, the mother of Constantine the Great, had given an aristocratic fashion to this idolatry, showed that the old pagan ideas had never really died out, and that the degenerated populations received with approval the religious conceptions of their great predecessors. The early Christian fathers believed that painting and sculpture were forbidden by the Scriptures, and that they were therefore wicked arts; and, though the second Council of Nicea asserted that the use of images had always been adopted by the Church, there are abundant facts to prove that the actual worship of them was not indulged in until the fourth century, when, on the occasion of its occurrence in Spain, it was condemned by the Council of Illiberis. During the fifth century the practice of introducing images into churches increased, and in the sixth it had become prevalent. The common people, who had never been able to comprehend doctrinal mysteries, found their religious wants satisfied in turning to these effigies. With singular obtuseness, they believed that the saint is present in his image, though hundreds of the same kind were in existence, each having an equal and exclusive right to the spiritual presence. The doctrine of invocation of departed saints, which assumed prominence in the fifth century, was greatly strengthened by these graphic forms. Pagan idolatry had reappeared. [Sidenote: Simple fetiches replaced by images.] [Sidenote: Bleeding and winking images.] At first the simple cross was used as a substitute for the amulets and charms of remoter times; it constituted a fetich able to expel evil spirits, even Satan himself. This Being, who had become singularly debased from what he was in the noble Oriental fictions, was an imbecile and malicious though not a malignant spirit, affrighted not only at pieces of wood framed in the shape of a cross, but at the form of it made by the finger in the air. A subordinate dæmon was supposed to possess every individual at his birth, but he was cast out by baptism. When, in the course of time, the cross became a crucifix, offering a representation of the dying Redeemer, it might be supposed to have gathered increased virtue; and soon, in addition to that adorable form, were introduced images of the Virgin, the apostles, saints, and martyrs. The ancient times seemed to have come again, when these pictures were approached with genuflexions, luminaries, and incense. The doctrine of the more intelligent was that these were aids to devotion, and that, among people to whom the art of reading was unknown, they served the useful purpose of recalling sacred events in a kind of hieroglyphic manner. But among the vulgar, and monks, and women, they were believed to be endowed with supernatural power. Of some, the wounds could bleed; of others, the eyes could wink; of others, the limbs could be raised. In ancient times, the statues of Minerva could brandish spears, and those of Venus could weep. [Sidenote: Idolatry never extinguished in Greece and Italy.] In truth, the populations of the Greek and Latin countries were no more than nominally converted and superficially Christianized. The old traditions and practices had never been forgotten. A tendency to idolatry seemed to be the necessary incident of the climate. Not without reason have the apologists of the clergy affirmed that image-worship was insisted on by the people, and that the Church had to admit ideas that she had never been able to eradicate. After seven hundred years of apostolic labour, it was found that the populace of Greece and Italy were apparently in their old state, and that actually nothing at all had been accomplished; the new-comers had passed into the track of their predecessors. It is often said that the restoration of image-worship was owing to the extinction of civilization by the Northern barbarians. But this is not true. In the blood of the German nations the taint of idolatry is but small. In their own countries they gave it little encouragement, and, indeed, hastened quickly to its total rejection. The sin lay not with them, but with the Mediterranean people. [Sidenote: Influence of the barbarians.] Nor are those barbarians to be held accountable for the so-called extinction of civilization in Italy. The true Roman race had prematurely died; it came to an untimely end in consequence of its dissolute, its violent life. Its civilization would have spontaneously died with it had no barbarian been present; and, if these intruders produced a baneful effect at first, they compensated for it in the end. As, when fresh coal is added to a fire that is burning low, a still further diminution will ensue, perhaps there may be a risk of entirely putting it out; but in due season, if all goes well, the new material will join in the contagious blaze. The savages of Europe, thrown into the decaying foci of Greek and Roman light, did perhaps for a time reduce the general heat; but, by degrees, it spread throughout their mass, and the bright flame of modern civilization was the result. Let those who lament the intrusion of these men into the classical countries, reflect upon the result which must otherwise have ensued--the last spark would soon have died out, and nothing but ashes have remained. [Sidenote: Origin of Iconoclasm.] Three causes gave rise to Iconoclasm, or the revolt against image-worship: 1st, the remonstrances and derision of the Mohammedans; 2nd, the good sense of a great sovereign, Leo the Isaurian, who had risen by his merit from obscurity, and had become the founder of a new dynasty at Constantinople; 3rd, the detected inability of these miracle-working idols and fetiches to protect their worshippers or themselves against an unbelieving enemy. Moreover, an impression was gradually making its way among the more intelligent classes that religion ought to free itself from such superstitions. So important were the consequences of Leo's actions, that some have been disposed to assign to his reign the first attempt at making policy depend on theology; and to this period, as I have elsewhere remarked, they therefore refer the commencement of the Byzantine empire. Through one hundred and twenty years, six emperors devoted themselves to this reformation. But it was premature. They were overpowered by the populace and the monks, by the bishops of Rome, and by a superstitious and wicked woman. [Sidenote: Inutility of miraculous images discovered in the Arab invasions.] [Sidenote: Destruction and sale of idols by the Arabs.] It had been a favourite argument against the pagans how little their gods could do for them when the hour of calamity came, when their statues and images were insulted and destroyed, and hence how vain was such worship, how imbecile such gods. When Africa and Asia, full of relics and crosses, pictures and images, fell before the Mohammedans, those conquerors retaliated the same logic with no little effect. There was hardly one of the fallen towns that had not some idol for its protector. Remembering the stern objurgations of the prophet against this deadly sin, prohibited at once by the commandment of God and repudiated by the reason of man, the Saracen khalifs had ordered all the Syrian images to be destroyed. Amid the derision of the Arab soldiery and the tears of the terror-stricken worshippers, these orders were remorselessly carried into effect, except in some cases where the temptation of an enormous ransom induced the avengers of the unity of God to swerve from their duty. Thus the piece of linen cloth on which it was feigned that our Saviour had impressed his countenance, and which was the palladium of Edessa, was carried off by the victors at the capture of that town, and subsequently sold to Constantinople at the profitable price of twelve thousand pounds of silver. This picture, and also some other celebrated ones, it was said, possessed the property of multiplying themselves by contact with other surfaces, as in modern times we multiply photographs. Such were the celebrated images "made without hands." [Sidenote: The Emperor prohibits image-worship.] [Sidenote: The monks sustain it.] It was currently asserted that the immediate origin of Iconoclasm was due to the Khalif Yezed, who had completed the destruction of the Syrian images, and to two Jews, who stimulated Leo the Isaurian to his task. However that may be, Leo published an edict, A.D. 726, prohibiting the worship of images. This was followed by another directing their destruction, and the whitewashing of the walls of churches ornamented with them. Hereupon the clergy and the monks rebelled; the emperor was denounced as a Mohammedan and a Jew. He ordered that a statue of the Saviour in that part of the city called Chalcopratia should be removed, and a riot was the consequence. One of his officers mounted a ladder and struck the idol with an axe upon its face; it was an incident like that enacted centuries before in the temple of Serapis at Alexandria. The sacred image, which had often arrested the course of Nature and worked many miracles, was now found to be unable to protect or to avenge its own honour. A rabble of women interfered in its behalf; they threw down the ladder and killed the officer; nor was the riot ended until the troops were called in and a great massacre perpetrated. The monks spread the sedition in all parts of the empire; they even attempted to proclaim a new emperor. Leo was everywhere denounced as a Mohammedan infidel, an enemy of the Mother of God; but with inflexible resolution he persisted in his determination as long as he lived. [Sidenote: They accuse the emperor of atheism.] His son and successor, Constantine, pursued the same iconoclastic policy. From the circumstance of his accidentally defiling the font at which he was being baptized, he had received the suggestive name of Copronymus. His subsequent career was asserted by the monks to have been foreshadowed by his sacrilegious beginnings. It was publicly asserted that he was an atheist. In truth, his biography, in many respects, proves that the higher classes in Constantinople were largely infected with infidelity. The patriarch deposed upon oath that Copronymus had made the most irreligious confessions to him, as that our Saviour, far from being the Son of God, was, in his opinion, a mere man, born of his mother in the common way. The truth of these accusations was perhaps, in a measure, sustained by the revenge that the emperor took on the patriarch for his indiscreet revelations. He seized him, put out his eyes, caused him to be led through the city mounted on an ass, with his face to the tail, and then, as if to show his unutterable contempt for all religion, with an exquisite malice, appointed him to his office again. [Sidenote: Council of Constantinople prohibits image-worship.] If such was the religious condition of the emperor, the higher clergy were but little better. A council was summoned by Constantine, A.D. 754, at Constantinople, which was attended by 388 bishops. It asserted for itself the position of the seventh general council. It unanimously decreed that all visible symbols of Christ, except in the Eucharist, are blasphemous or heretical; that image-worship is a corruption of Christianity and a renewed form of paganism; it directed all statues and paintings to be removed from the churches and destroyed, it degraded every ecclesiastic and excommunicated every layman who should be concerned in setting them up again. It concluded its labours with prayers for the emperor who had extirpated idolatry and given peace to the Church. [Sidenote: Uproar among the monks.] [Sidenote: The emperor retaliates.] But this decision was by no means quietly received. The monks rose in an uproar; some raised a clamour in their caves, some from the tops of their pillars; one, in the church of St. Mammas, insulted the emperor to his face, denouncing him as a second apostate Julian. Nor could he deliver himself from them by the scourging, strangling, and drowning of individuals. In his wrath, Copronymus, plainly discerning that it was the monks on one side and the government on the other, determined to strike at the root of the evil, and to destroy monasticism itself. He drove the holy men out of their cells and cloisters; made the consecrated virgins marry; gave up the buildings for civil uses; burnt pictures, idols, and all kinds of relics; degraded the patriarch from his office, scourged him, shaved off his eyebrows, set him for public derision in the circus in a sleeveless shirt, and then beheaded him. Already he had consecrated a eunuch in his stead. Doubtless these atrocities strengthened the bishops of Rome in their resolve to seek a protector from such a master among the barbarian kings of the West. [Sidenote: Re-establishment of image-worship by Irene the murderess.] Constantine Copronymus was succeeded by his son, Leo the Chazar, who, during a short reign of five years, continued the iconoclastic policy. On his death his wife Irene seized the government, ostensibly in behalf of her son. This woman, pre-eminently wicked and superstitious beyond her times, undertook the restoration of images. She caused the patriarch to retire from his dignity, appointed one of her creatures, Tarasius, in his stead, and summoned another council. In this second Council of Nicea that of Constantinople was denounced as a synod of fools and atheists, the worship of images was pronounced agreeable to Scripture and reason, and in conformity to the usages and traditions of the Church. Irene, saluted as the second Helena, and set forth by the monks as an exemplar of piety, thus accomplished the restoration of image-worship. In a few years this ambitious woman, refusing to surrender his rightful dignity to her son, caused him to be seized, and, in the porphyry chamber in which she had borne him, put out his eyes. Constantinople, long familiar with horrible crimes, was appalled at such an unnatural deed. [Sidenote: Resumption of Iconoclasm by the succeeding emperors.] [Sidenote: Their Saracenic tastes.] During the succeeding reigns to that of Leo the Armenian, matters remained without change; but that emperor resumed the policy of Leo the Isaurian. By an edict he prohibited image-worship, and banished the Patriarch of Constantinople, who had admonished him that the apostles had made images of the Saviour and the Virgin, and that there was at Rome a picture of the Transfiguration, painted by order of St. Peter. After the murder of Leo, his successor, Michael the Stammerer, showed no encouragement to either party. It was affirmed that he was given to profane jesting, was incredulous as to the resurrection of the dead, disbelieved the existence of the devil, was indifferent whether images were worshipped or not, and recommended the patriarch to bury the decrees of Constantinople and Nicea equally in oblivion. His successor and son, however, observed no such impartiality. To Saracenic tastes, shown by his building a palace like that of the khalif; to a devotion for poetry, exemplified by branding some of his own stanzas on his image-worshipping enemies; to the composition of music and its singing by himself as an amateur in the choir; to mechanical knowledge, displayed by hydraulic contrivances, musical instruments, organs, automatic singing-birds sitting in golden trees, he added an abomination of monks and a determined iconoclasm. Instead of merely whitewashing the walls of the churches, he adorned them with pictures of beasts and birds. Iconoclasm had now become a struggle between the emperors and the monks. [Sidenote: Final restoration of image-worship by the Empress Theodora.] Again, on the death of Theophilus, image-worship triumphed, and triumphed in the same manner as before. His widow, Theodora, alarmed by the monks for the safety of the soul of her husband, purchased absolution for him at the price of the restoration of images. Such was the issue of Iconoclasm in the East. The monks proved stronger than the emperors, and, after a struggle of 120 years, the images were finally restored. In the West far more important consequences followed. [Sidenote: Image-worship in the West.] [Sidenote: It is sustained by the pope,] To image-worship Italy was devoutly attached. When the first edict of Leo was made known by the exarch, it produced a rebellion, of which Pope Gregory II. took advantage to suspend the tribute paid by Italy. In letters that he wrote to the emperor he defended the popular delusion, declaring that the first Christians had caused pictures to be made of our Lord, of his brother James, of Stephen, and all the martyrs, and had sent them throughout the world; the reason that God the Father had not been painted was that his countenance was not known. These letters display a most audacious presumption of the ignorance of the emperor respecting common Scripture incidents, and, as some have remarked, suggest a doubt of the pope's familiarity with the sacred volume. He points out the difference between the statues of antiquity, which are only the representations of phantoms, and the images of the Church, which have approved themselves, by numberless miracles, to be the genuine forms of the Saviour, his mother, and his saints. Referring to the statue of St. Peter, which the emperor had ordered to be broken to pieces, he declares that the Western nations regard that apostle as a god upon earth, and ominously threatens the vengeance of the pious barbarians if it should be destroyed. In this defence of images Gregory found an active coadjutor in a Syrian, John of Damascus, who had witnessed the rage of the khalifs against the images of his own country, and whose hand, having been cut off by those tyrants, had been miraculously rejoined to his body by an idol of the Virgin to which he prayed. [Sidenote: and by the Lombard king.] But Gregory was not alone in his policy, nor John of Damascus in his controversies. The King of the Lombards, Luitprand, also perceived the advantage of putting himself forth as the protector of images, and of appealing to the Italians, for their sake, to expel the Greeks from the country. The pope acted on the principle that heresy in a sovereign justifies withdrawal of allegiance, the Lombard that it excuses the seizure of possessions. Luitprand accordingly ventured on the capture of Ravenna. An immense booty, the accumulation of the emperors, the Gothic kings, and the exarchs, which was taken at the storming of the town, at once rewarded his piety, stimulated him to new enterprises of a like nature, and drew upon him the attention of his enemy the emperor, whom he had plundered, and of his confederate the pope, whom he had overreached. [Sidenote: Position of affairs at this time.] [Sidenote: The Saracens dominate in the Mediterranean.] [Sidenote: Causes of the alliance of the popes and the Franks.] This was the position of affairs. If the Lombards, who were Arians, and therefore heretics, should succeed in extending their sway all over Italy, the influence and prosperity of the papacy must come to an end; their action on the question of the images was altogether of an ephemeral and delusive kind, for all the northern nations preferred a simple worship like that of primitive times, and had never shown any attachment to the adoration of graven forms. If, on the other hand, the pope should continue his allegiance to Constantinople, he must be liable to the atrocious persecutions so often and so recently inflicted on the patriarchs of that city by their tyrannical master; and the breaking of that connexion in reality involved no surrender of any solid advantages, for the emperor was too weak to give protection from the Lombards. Already had been experienced a portentous difficulty in sending relief from Constantinople, on account of the naval superiority of the Saracens in the Mediterranean. For the taxes paid to the sovereign no real equivalent was received; but Rome, in ignominy, was obliged to submit, like an obscure provincial town, to the mandates of the Eastern court. Moreover, in her eyes, the emperor, by reason of his iconoclasm, was a heretic. But if alliance with the Lombards and allegiance to the Greeks were equally inexpedient, a third course was possible. A mayor of the palace of the Frankish kings had successfully led his armies against the Arabs from Spain, and had gained the great victory of Tours. If the Franks, under the influence of their climate or the genius of their race, had thus far shown no encouragement to images, in all other respects they were orthodox, for they had been converted by Catholic missionaries; their kings, it was true, were mere phantoms, but Charles Martel had proved himself a great soldier; he was, therefore, an ambitious man. There was Scripture authority for raising a subordinate to sovereign power; the prophets of Israel had thus, of old, with oil anointed kings. And if the sword of France was gently removed from the kingly hand that was too weak to hold it, and given to the hero who had already shown that he could smite terribly with it--if this were done by the authority of the pope, acting as the representative of God, how great the gain to the papacy! A thousand years might not be enough to separate the monarchy of France from the theocracy of Italy. [Sidenote: Revolt of the pope from the emperor.] [Sidenote: Alliance of the pope and the Franks.] The resistance which had sprung up to the imperial edict for the destruction of images determined the course of events. The pope rebelled, and attempts were made by the emperor to seize or assassinate him. A fear that the pontiff might be carried to Constantinople, and the preparations making to destroy the images in the churches, united all Italy. A council was held at Rome, which anathematized the Iconoclasts. In retaliation, the Sicilian and other estates of the Church were confiscated. Gregory III., who in the meantime succeeded to the papacy, continued the policy of his predecessor. The emperor was defied. A fleet, fitted out by him in support of the exarch, was lost in a storm. With this termination of the influence of Constantinople in Italy came the imminent danger that the pope must acknowledge the supremacy of the Lombards. In his distress Gregory turned to Charles Martel. He sent him the keys of the sepulchre of St. Peter, and implored his assistance. The die was cast. Papal Rome revolted from her sovereign, and became indissolubly bound to the barbarian kingdoms. To France a new dynasty was given, to the pope temporal power, and to the west of Europe a fictitious Roman empire. * * * * * [Sidenote: The monks.] The monks had thus overcome the image-breaking emperors, a result which proves them to have already become a formidable power in the state. It is necessary, for a proper understanding of the great events with which henceforth they were connected, to describe their origin and history. [Sidenote: Their first position] In the iconoclastic quarrel they are to be regarded as the representatives of the common people in contradistinction to the clergy; often, indeed, the representatives of the populace, infected with all its instincts of superstition and fanaticism. They are the upholders of miracle-cures, invocation of saints, worship of images, clamorous asserters of a unity of faith in the Church--a unity which they never practised, but which offered a convenient pretext for a bitter persecution of heresy and paganism, though they were more than half pagan themselves. [Sidenote: and subsequent improvement.] It was their destiny to impress on the practical life of Europe that mixture of Christianity and heathenism engendered by political events in Italy and Greece. Yet, while they thus co-operated in great affairs, they themselves exhibited, in the most signal manner, the force of that law of continuous variation of opinion and habits to which all enduring communities of men must submit. Born of superstition, obscene in their early life, they end in luxury, refinement, learning. Theirs is a history to which we may profitably attend. [Sidenote: The first hermits.] [Sidenote: Their self-denial.] From very early times there had been in India zealots who, actuated by a desire of removing themselves from the temptations of society and preparing for another life, retired into solitary places. Such also were the Essenes among the Jews, and the Therapeutæ in Egypt. Pliny speaks of the blameless life of the former when he says, "They are the companions of palms;" nor does he hide his astonishment at an immortal society in which no one is ever born. Their example was not lost upon more devout Christians, particularly after the influence of Magianism began to be felt. Though it is sometimes said that the first of these hermits were Anthony and Paulus, they doubtless are to be regarded as only having rendered themselves more illustrious by their superior sanctity among a crowd of worthies who had preceded them or were their contemporaries. As early as the second and third centuries the practice of retirement had commenced among Christians; soon afterwards it had become common. The date of Hilarion is about A.D. 328, of Basil A.D. 360. Regarding prayer as the only occupation in which man may profitably engage, they gave no more attention to the body than the wants of nature absolutely demanded. A little dried fruit or bread for food, and water for drink, were sufficient for its support; occasionally a particle of salt might be added, but the use of warm water was looked upon as betraying a tendency to luxury. The incentives to many of their rules of life might excite a smile, if it were right to smile at the acts of earnest men. Some, like the innocent Essenes, who would do nothing whatever on the Sabbath, observed the day before as a fast, rigorously abstaining from food and drink, that nature might not force them into sin on the morrow. For some, it was not enough, by the passive means of abstinence, to refrain from fault or reduce the body to subjection, though starvation is the antidote for desire; the more active, and, perhaps, more effectual operation of periodical flagellations and bodily torture were added. Ingenuity was taxed to find new means of personal infliction. A hermit who never permitted himself to sleep more than an hour without being awakened endured torments not inferior to those of the modern fakir, who crosses his arms on the top of his head and keeps them there for years, until they are wasted to the bone, or suspends himself to a pole by means of a hook inserted in the flesh of his back. [Sidenote: Profound contemplation of God.] [Sidenote: Aerial martyrs. Holy birds.] Among the Oriental sects there are some who believe that the Supreme Being is perpetually occupied in the contemplation of himself, and that the nearer man can approach to a state of total inaction the more will he resemble God. For many years the Indian sage never raises his eyes from his navel; absorbed in the profound contemplation of it, his perennial reverie is unbroken by any outward suggestions, the admiring by-standers administering, as chance offers, the little food and water that his wants require. Under the influence of such ideas, in the fifth century, St. Simeon Stylites, who in his youth had often been saved from suicide, by ascending a column he had built, sixty feet in height, and only one foot square at the top, departed as far as he could from earthly affairs, and approached more closely to heaven. On this elevated retreat, to which he was fastened by a chain, he endured, if we may believe the incredible story, for thirty years the summer's sun and the winter's frost. Afar off the passer-by was edified by seeing the motionless figure of the holy man with outstretched arms like a cross, projected against the sky, in his favourite attitude of prayer, or expressing his thankfulness for the many mercies of which he supposed himself to be the recipient by rapidly striking his forehead against his knees. Historians relate that a curious spectator counted twelve hundred and forty-four of these motions, and then abstained through fatigue from any farther tally, though the unwearied exhibition was still going on. This "most holy aerial martyr," as Evagrius calls him, attained at last his reward, and Mount Telenissa witnessed a vast procession of devout admirers accompanying to the grave his mortal remains. [Sidenote: The monks insist on celibacy.] More commonly, however, the hermit declined the conspicuous notoriety of these "holy birds," as they were called by the profane, and, retiring to some cave in the desert, despised the comforts of life, and gave himself up to penance and prayer. Among men who had thus altogether exalted themselves above the wants of the flesh, there was no toleration for its lusts. The sinfulness of the marriage relation, and the pre-eminent value of chastity, followed from their principles. If it was objected to such practices that by their universal adoption the human species would soon be extinguished, and no man would remain to offer praises to God, these zealots, remembering the temptations from which they had escaped, with truth replied that there would always be sinners enough in the world to avoid that disaster, and that out of their evil works good would be brought. St. Jerome offers us the pregnant reflection that, though it may be marriage that fills the earth, it is virginity that replenishes heaven. [Sidenote: Grazing hermits.] If they were not recorded by many truthful authors, the extravagances of some of these enthusiasts would pass belief. Men and women ran naked upon all fours, associating themselves with the beasts of the field. In the spring season, when the grass is tender, the grazing hermits of Mesopotamia went forth to the plains, sharing with the cattle their filth, and their food. Of some, notwithstanding a weight of evidence, the stupendous biography must tax their admirers' credulity. It is affirmed that St. Ammon had never seen his own body uncovered; that an angel carried him on his back over a river which he was obliged to cross; that at his death he ascended to heaven through the skies, St. Anthony being an eye-witness of the event--St. Anthony, who was guided to the hermit Paulus by a centaur; that Didymus never spoke to a human being for ninety years. [Sidenote: Insane hermits.] From the Jewish anchorites, who of old sought a retreat beneath the shade of the palms of Engaddi, who beguiled their weary hours in the chanting of psalms by the bitter waters of the Dead Sea; from the philosophic Hindu, who sought for happiness in bodily inaction and mental exercise, to these Christian solitaries, the stages of delusion are numerous and successive. It would not be difficult to present examples of each step in the career of debasement. To one who is acquainted with the working and accidents of the human brain, it will not be surprizing that an asylum for hermits who had become hopelessly insane was instituted at Jerusalem. [Sidenote: Causes of hallucinations.] The biographies of these recluses, for ages a source of consolation to the faithful in their temptations, are not to be regarded as mere works of fiction, though they abound in supernatural occurrences, and are the forerunners of the dæmonology of the Middle Ages. The whole world was a scene of dæmoniac adventures, of miracles and wonders. So far from being mere impostures, they relate nothing more than may be witnessed at any time under similar conditions. In the brain of man, impressions of whatever he has seen or heard, of whatever has been made manifest to him by his other senses, nay, even the vestiges of his former thoughts, are stored up. These traces are most vivid at first, but, by degrees, they decline in force, though they probably never completely die out. During our waking hours, while we are perpetually receiving new impressions from things that surround us, such vestiges are overpowered, and cannot attract the attention of the mind. But in the period of sleep, when external influences cease, they present themselves to our regard, and the mind submitting to the delusion, groups them into the fantastic forms of dreams. By the use of opium and other drugs which can blunt our sensibility to passing events, these phantasms may be made to emerge. They also offer themselves in the delirium of fevers and in the hour of death. [Sidenote: Supernatural appearances.] It is immaterial in what manner or by what agency our susceptibility to the impressions of surrounding objects is benumbed, whether by drugs, or sleep, or disease, as soon as their force is no greater than that of forms already registered in the brain, those forms will emerge before us, and dreams or apparitions are the result. So liable is the mind to practise deception on itself, that with the utmost difficulty it is aware of the delusion. No man can submit to long-continued and rigorous fasting without becoming the subject of these hallucinations; and the more he enfeebles his organs of sense, the more vivid is the exhibition, the more profound the deception. An ominous sentence may perhaps be incessantly whispered in his ear; to his fixed and fascinated eye some grotesque or abominable object may perpetually present itself. To the hermit, in the solitude of his cell, there doubtless often did appear, by the uncertain light of his lamp, obscene shadows of diabolical import; doubtless there was many an agony with fiends, many a struggle with monsters, satyrs, and imps, many an earnest, solemn, and manful controversy with Satan himself, who sometimes came as an aged man, sometimes with a countenance of horrible intelligence, and sometimes as a female fearfully beautiful. St. Jerome, who, with the utmost difficulty, had succeeded in extinguishing all carnal desires, ingenuously confesses how sorely he was tried by this last device of the enemy, how nearly the ancient flames were rekindled. As to the reality of these apparitions, why should a hermit be led to suspect that they arose from the natural working of his own brain? Men never dream that they are dreaming. To him they were terrible realities; to us they should be the proofs of insanity, not of imposture. [Sidenote: Delusions created by the mind.] If, in the prison discipline of modern times, it has been found that solitary confinement is a punishment too dreadful for the most hardened convict to bear, and that, if persisted in, it is liable to lead to insanity, how much more quickly must that unfortunate condition have been induced when the trials of religious distress and the physical enfeeblement arising from rigorous fastings and incessant watchings were added? To the dreadful ennui which precedes that state, one of the ancient monks pathetically alludes when he relates how often he went forth and returned to his cell, and gazed on the sun as if he hastened too slowly to his setting. And yet such fearful solitude is of but brief duration. Even though we flee to the desert we cannot be long alone. Cut off from social converse, the mind of man engenders companions for itself--companions like the gloom from which they have emerged. It was thus that to St. Anthony appeared the Spirit of Fornication, under the form of a lascivious negro boy; it was thus that multitudes of dæmons of horrible aspect cruelly beat him nearly to death, the brave old man defying them to the last, and telling them that he did not wish to be spared one of their blows; it was thus that in the night, with hideous laughter, they burst into his cell, under the form of lions, serpents, scorpions, asps, lizards, panthers, and wolves, each attacking him in own way; thus that when, in his dire extremity, he lifted his eyes for help, the roof disappeared, and amid beams of light the Saviour looked down; thus it was with the enchanted silver dish that Satan gave him, which, being touched, vanished in smoke; thus with the gigantic bats and centaurs, and the two lions that helped him to scratch a grave for Paul. [Sidenote: Important religious results of cerebral sight.] [Sidenote: A future world.] [Sidenote: Immortality of the soul.] The images that may thus emerge from the brain have been classed by physiologists among the phenomena of inverse vision, or cerebral sight. Elsewhere I have given a detailed investigation of their nature (Human Physiology, chap, xxi.), and, persuaded that they have played a far more important part in human affairs than is commonly supposed, have thus expressed myself: "Men in every part of the world, even among nations the most abject and barbarous, have an abiding faith not only in the existence of a spirit that animates us, but also in its immortality. Of these there are multitudes who have been shut out from all communion with civilized countries, who have never been enlightened by revelation, and who are mentally incapable of reasoning out for themselves arguments in support of those great truths. Under such circumstances, it is not very likely that the uncertainties of tradition, derived from remote ages, could be any guide to them, for traditions soon disappear except they be connected with the wants of daily life. Can there be, in a philosophical view, anything more interesting than the manner in which these defects have been provided for by implanting in the very organization of every man the means of constantly admonishing him of these facts--of recalling them with an unexpected vividness before even after they have become so faint as almost to die out? Let him be as debased and benighted a savage as he may, shut out from all communion with races whom Providence has placed in happier circumstances, he has still the same organization, and is liable to the same physiological incidents, as ourselves. Like us, he sees in his visions the fading forms of landscapes which are perhaps connected with some of his most grateful recollections, and what other conclusion can he possibly derive from these unreal pictures than that they are the foreshadowings of another land beyond that in which his lot is cast. Like us, he is revisited at intervals by the resemblances of those whom he has loved or hated while they were alive, nor can he ever be so brutalized as not to discern in such manifestations suggestions which to him are incontrovertible proofs of the existence and immortality of the soul. Even in the most refined social conditions we are never able to shake off the impressions of these occurrences, and are perpetually drawing from them the same conclusions that our uncivilized ancestors did. Our more elevated condition of life in no respect relieves us from the inevitable consequences of our own organization, any more than it relieves us from infirmities and disease. In these respects, all over the globe we are on an equality. Savage or civilized, we carry within us a mechanism intended to present to us mementoes of the most solemn facts with which we can be concerned, and the voice of history tells us that it has ever been true to its design. It wants only moments of repose or sickness, when the influence of external things is diminished, to come into full play, and these are precisely the moments when we are best prepared for the truths it is going to suggest. Such a mechanism is in keeping with the manner in which the course of nature is fulfilled, and bears in its very style the impress of invariability of action. It is no respecter of persons. It neither permits the haughtiest to be free from its monitions, nor leaves the humblest without the consolation of a knowledge of another life. Liable to no mischances, open to no opportunities of being tampered with by the designing or interested, requiring no extraneous human agency for its effect, but always present with each man wherever he may go, it marvellously extracts from vestiges of the impressions of the past overwhelming proofs of the reality of the future, and gathering its power from what would seem to be a most unlikely source, it insensibly leads us, no matter who or where we may be, to a profound belief in the immortal and imperishable, from phantoms that have scarcely made their appearance before they are ready to vanish away." [Sidenote: Amelioration of monasticism.] [Sidenote: Its final corruptions.] From such beginnings the monastic system of Europe arose--that system which presents us with learning in the place of ferocious ignorance, with overflowing charity to mankind in the place of malignant hatred of society. The portly abbot on his easy going palfrey, his hawk upon his fist, scarce looks like the lineal descendant of the hermit starved into insanity. How wide the interval between the monk of the third and the monk of the thirteenth century--between the caverns of Thebais and majestic monasteries cherishing the relics of ancient learning, the hopes of modern philosophy--between the butler arranging his well-stocked larder, and the jug of cold water and crust of bread. A thousand years had turned starvation into luxury, and alas! if the spoilers of the Reformation are to be believed, had converted visions of loveliness into breathing and blushing realities, who exercised their charms with better effect than of old their phantom sisters had done. [Sidenote: The modifications of eremitism.] [Sidenote: Number of anchorites.] The successive stages to this end may be briefly described. Around the cell of some eremite like Anthony, who fixed his retreat on Mount Colzim, a number of humble imitators gathered, emulous of his austerities and of his piety. A similar sentiment impels them to observe stated hours of prayer. Necessity for supporting the body indicates some pursuit of idle industry, the plaiting of mats or making of baskets. So strong is the instinctive tendency of man to association, that even communities of madmen may organize. Hilarion is said to have been the first who established a monastic community. He went into the desert when he was only fifteen years old. Eremitism thus gave birth to Coenobitism, and the evils of solitude were removed. Yet still there remained rigorous anchorites who renounced their associated brethren as these had renounced the world, and the monastery was surrounded by their circle of solitary cells--a Laura, it was called. In Egypt, the sandy deserts on each side of the rich valley of the river offered great facilities for such a mode of life: that of Nitria was full of monks, the climate being mild and the wants of man easily satisfied. It is said that there were at one time in that country of these religious recluses not fewer than seventy-six thousand males and twenty-seven thousand females. With countless other uncouth forms, under the hot sun of that climate they seemed to be spawned from the mud of the Nile. As soon as from some celebrated hermitage a monastery had formed, the associates submitted to the rules of brotherhood. Their meal, eaten in silence, consisted of bread and water, oil, and a little salt. The bundle of papyrus which had served the monk for a seat by day, while he made his baskets or mats, served him for a pillow by night. Twice he was roused from his sleep by the sound of a horn to offer up his prayers. The culture of superstition was compelled by inexorable rules. A discipline of penalties, confinement, fasting, whipping, and, at a later period even mutilation, was inflexibly administered. [Sidenote: Spread of monasticism from Egypt.] [Sidenote: Increase of the religious houses.] From Egypt and Syria monachism spread like an epidemic. It was first introduced into Italy by Athanasius, assisted by some of the disciples of Anthony; but Jerome, whose abode was in Palestine, is celebrated for the multitude of converts he made to a life of retirement. Under his persuasion, many of the high-born ladies of Rome were led to the practice of monastic habits, as far as was possible, in secluded spots near that city, on the ruins of temples, and even in the Forum. Some were induced to retreat to the Holy Land, after bestowing their wealth for pious purposes. The silent monk insinuated himself into the privacy of families for the purpose of making proselytes by stealth. Soon there was not an unfrequented island in the Mediterranean, no desert shore, no gloomy valley, no forest, no glen, no volcanic crater, that did not witness exorbitant selfishness made the rule of life. There were multitudes of hermits on the desolate coasts of the Black Sea. They abounded from the freezing Tanais to the sultry Tabenné. In rigorous personal life and in supernatural power the West acknowledged no inferiority to the East; his admiring imitators challenged even the desert of Thebais to produce the equal of Martin of Tours. The solitary anchorite was soon supplanted by the coenobitic establishment, the monastery. It became a fashion among the rich to give all that they had to these institutions for the salvation of their own souls. There was now no need of basket-making or the weaving of mats. The brotherhoods increased rapidly. Whoever wanted to escape from the barbarian invaders, or to avoid the hardships of serving in the imperial army--whoever had become discontented with his worldly affairs, or saw in those dark times no inducements in a home and family of his own, found in the monastery a sure retreat. The number of these religious houses eventually became very great. They were usually placed on the most charming and advantageous sites, their solidity and splendour illustrating the necessity of erecting durable habitations for societies that were immortal. It often fell out that the Church laid claim to the services of some distinguished monk. It was significantly observed that the road to ecclesiastical elevation lay through the monastery porch, and often ambition contentedly wore for a season the cowl, that it might seize more surely the mitre. [Sidenote: Difference of the Eastern and Western monk.] [Sidenote: Legends of Western saints.] Though the monastic system of the East included labour, it was greatly inferior to that of the West in that particular. The Oriental monk, at first making selfishness his rule of life, and his own salvation the grand object, though all the world else should perish, in his maturer period occupied his intellectual powers in refined disputations of theology. Too often he exhibited his physical strength in the furious riots he occasioned in the streets of the great cities. He was a fanatic and insubordinate. On the other hand, the Occidental monk showed far less disposition for engaging in the discussion of things above reason, and expended his strength in useful and honourable labour. Beneath his hand the wilderness became a garden. To a considerable extent this difference was due to physiological peculiarity, and yet it must not be concealed that the circumstances of life in the two cases were not without their effects. The old countries of the East, with their worn-out civilization and worn-out soil, offered no inducements comparable with the barbarous but young and fertile West, where to the ecclesiastic the most lovely and inviting lands were open. Both, however, coincided in this, that they regarded the affairs of life as presenting perpetual interpositions of a providential or rather supernatural kind--angels and devils being in continual conflict for the soul of every man, who might become the happy prize of the one or the miserable prey of the other. These spiritual powers were perpetually controlling the course of nature and giving rise to prodigies. The measure of holiness in a saint was the number of miracles he had worked. Thus, in the life of St. Benedict, it is related that when his nurse Cyrilla let fall a stone sieve, her distress was changed into rejoicing by the prayer of the holy child, at which the broken parts came together and were made whole; that once on receiving his food in a basket, let down to his otherwise inaccessible cell, the devil vainly tried to vex him by breaking the rope; that once Satan, assuming the form of a blackbird, nearly blinded him by the flapping of his wings; that once, too, the same tempter appeared as a beautiful Roman girl, to whose fascinations, in his youth, St. Benedict had been sensible, and from which he now hardly escaped by rolling himself among thorns. Once, when his austere rules and severity excited the resentment of the monastery over which he was abbot, the brethren--for monks have been known to do such things--attempted to poison him, but the cup burst asunder as soon as he took it into his hands. When the priest Florentius, being wickedly disposed, attempted to perpetrate a like crime by means of an adulterated loaf, a raven carried away the deadly bread from the hand of St. Benedict. Instructed by the devil, the same Florentius drove from his neighbourhood the holy man, by turning into the garden of his monastery seven naked girls; but scarcely had the saint taken to flight, when the chamber in which his persecutor lived fell in and buried him beneath its ruins, though the rest of the house was uninjured. Under the guidance of two visible angels, who walked before him, St. Benedict continued his journey to Monte Casino, where he erected a noble monastery; but even here miracles did not cease; for Satan bewitched the stones, so that it was impossible for the masons to move them until they were released by powerful prayers. A boy, who had stolen from the monastery to visit his parents was not only struck dead by God for his offence, but the consecrated ground threw forth his body when they attempted to bury it; nor could it be made to rest until consecrated bread was laid upon it. Two garrulous nuns, who had been excommunicated by St. Benedict for their perverse prating, chanced to be buried in the church. On the next administration of the sacrament, when the deacon commanded all those who did not communicate to depart, the corpses rose out of their graves and walked forth from the church. [Sidenote: The character of these miracles.] Volumes might be filled with such wonders, which edified the religious for centuries, exacting implicit belief, and being regarded as of equal authority with the miracles of the Holy Scriptures. [Sidenote: Rise and progress of monastic orders.] Though monastic life rested upon the principle of social abnegation, monasticism, in singular contradiction thereto, contained within itself the principle of organization. As early as A.D. 370, St. Basil, the Bishop of Cæsarea, incorporated the hermits and coenobites of his diocese into one order, called after him the Basilian. One hundred and fifty years later, St. Benedict, under a milder rule, organised those who have passed under his name, and found for them occupation in suitable employments of manual and intellectual labour. In the ninth century, another Benedict revised the rule of the order, and made it more austere. Offshoots soon arose, as those of Clugni, A.D. 900; the Carthusians, A.D. 1084; the Cistercians, A.D. 1098. A favourite pursuit among them being literary labour, they introduced great improvements in the copying of manuscripts; and in their illumination and illustration are found the germs of the restoration of painting and the invention of cursive handwriting. St. Benedict enjoined his order to collect books. It has been happily observed that he forgot to say anything about their character, supposing that they must all be religious. The Augustinians were founded in the eleventh century. They professed, however, to be a restoration of the society founded ages before by St. Augustine. [Sidenote: The Benedictines.] The influence to which monasticism attained may be judged of from the boast of the Benedictines that "Pope John XXII., who died in 1334, after an exact inquiry, found that, since the first rise of the order, there had been of it 24 popes, near 200 cardinals, 7000 archbishops, 15,000 bishops, 15,000 abbots of renown, above 4000 saints, and upward of 37,000 monasteries. There have been likewise, of this order, 20 emperors and 10 empresses, 47 kings and above 50 queens, 20 sons of emperors, and 48 sons of kings; about 100 princesses, daughters of kings and emperors; besides dukes, marquises, earls, countesses, etc., innumerable. The order has produced a vast number of authors and other learned men. Their Rabanus set up the school of Germany. Their Alcuin founded the University of Paris. Their Dionysius Exiguus perfected ecclesiastical computation. Their Guido invented the scale of music; their Sylvester, the organ. They boasted to have produced Anselm, Ildefonsus, and the Venerable Bede." [Sidenote: Civilization of Europe by the monks.] [Sidenote: Their later intellectual influence.] We too often date the Christianization of a community from the conversion of its sovereign, but it is not in the nature of things that that should change the hearts of men. Of what avail is it if a barbarian chieftain drives a horde of his savages through the waters of a river by way of extemporaneous or speedy baptism? Such outward forms are of little moment. It was mainly by the monasteries that to the peasant class of Europe was pointed out the way of civilization. The devotions and charities; the austerities of the brethren; their abstemious meal; their meagre clothing, the cheapest of the country in which they lived; their shaven heads, or the cowl which shut out the sight of sinful objects; the long staff in their hands; their naked feet and legs; their passing forth on their journeys by twos, each a watch on his brother; the prohibitions against eating outside of the wall of the monastery, which had its own mill, its own bakehouse, and whatever was needed in an abstemious domestic economy; their silent hospitality to the wayfarer, who was refreshed in a separate apartment; the lands around their buildings turned from a wilderness into a garden, and, above all, labour exalted and ennobled by their holy hands, and celibacy, for ever, in the eye of the vulgar, a proof of separation from the world and a sacrifice to heaven--these were the things that arrested the attention of the barbarians of Europe, and led them on to civilization. In our own material age, the advocates of the monastery have plaintively asked, Where now shall we find an asylum for the sinner who is sick of the world--for the man of contemplation in his old age, or for the statesman who is tired of affairs? It was through the leisure procured by their wealth that the monasteries produced so many cultivators of letters, and transmitted to us the literary relics of the old times. It was a fortunate day when the monk turned from the weaving of mats to the copying of manuscripts--a fortunate day when he began to compose those noble hymns and strains of music which will live for ever. From the "Dies Iræ" there rings forth grand poetry even in monkish Latin. The perpetual movements of the monastic orders gave life to the Church. The Protestant admits that to a resolute monk the Reformation was due. [Sidenote: Their materialization of religion.] With these pre-eminent merits, the monastic institution had its evils. Through it was spread that dreadful materialization of religion which, for so many ages, debased sacred things; through it that worse than pagan apotheosis, which led to the adoration--for such it really was--of dead men; through it were sustained relics and lying miracles, a belief in falsehoods so prodigious as to disgrace the common sense of man. The apostles and martyrs of old were forgotten; nay, even the worship of God was forsaken for shrines that could cure all diseases, and relics that could raise the dead. Through it was developed that intense selfishness which hesitated at no sacrifice either of the present or the future, so far as this life is concerned, in order to insure personal happiness in the next--a selfishness which, in the delusion of the times, passed under the name of piety; and the degree of abasement from the dignity of a man was made the measure of the merit of a monk. END OF VOL. I. 
37115	----	+---------------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | | Text transliterated from Greek is enclosed by tilde | | characters (~transliterated Greek~). | | | | Text that was in small capitals has been converted to | | all upper case. | | | | The oe ligature has been removed from words such as | | Boeotia and foetus. | | | | A list of corrections is at the end of this e-book. | +---------------------------------------------------------+ THE MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL DIVERSITY OF RACES. With Particular Reference to Their Respective Influence in the Civil and Political History Of Mankind. From the French of COUNT A. DE GOBINEAU: With an Analytical Introduction and Copious Historical Notes. By H. Hotz. To Which Is Added an Appendix Containing a Summary of the Latest Scientific Facts Bearing upon the Question of Unity or Plurality of Species. By J. C. Nott, M. D., of Mobile. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1856. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by J. B. Lippincott & Co., in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. TO THE STATESMEN OF AMERICA, THIS WORK, THE FIRST ON THE RACES OF MEN CONTEMPLATED FROM THE POINT OF VIEW OF THE STATESMAN AND HISTORIAN RATHER THAN THE NATURALIST, IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AMERICAN EDITOR. EDITOR'S PREFACE. It has been truly observed that a good book seldom requires, and a bad one never deserves, a long preface. When a foreign book, however, is obtruded on the notice of the public, it is but just that the reasons for so doing should be explained; and, in the present case, this is the more necessary, as the title of the work might lead many to believe that it was intended to re-agitate the question of unity or plurality of the human species--a question which the majority of readers consider satisfactorily and forever settled by the words of Holy Writ. Such, however, is not the purpose of either the author or the editor. The design of this work is, to contribute toward the knowledge of the leading mental and moral characteristics of the various races of men which have subsisted from the dawn of history to the present era, and to ascertain, if possible, the degree to which they are susceptible of improvement. The annals of the world demonstrate beyond a doubt, that the different branches of the human family, like the individual members of a community, are endowed with capacities, different not only in degree but in kind, and that, in proportion to these endowments, they have contributed, and still contribute to that great march of progress of the human race, which we term civilization. To portray the nature of these endowments, to estimate the influence of each race in the destinies of all, and to point out the effects of mixture of races in the rise and fall of great empires, has been the task to the accomplishment of which, though too extensive for one man, the author has devoted his abilities. The troubles and sufferings of his native country, from sudden political gyrations, led him to speculate upon their causes, which he believes are to be traced to the great variety of incongruous ethnical elements composing the population of France. The deductions at which he arrived in that field of observation he subjected to the test of universal history; and the result of his studies for many years, facilitated by the experiences of a diplomatic career, are now before the American public in a translation. That a work, on so comprehensive a subject, should be exempt from error, cannot be expected, and is not pretended; but the aim is certainly a noble one, and its pursuit cannot be otherwise than instructive to the statesman and historian, and no less so to the general reader. In this country, it is peculiarly interesting and important, for not only is our immense territory the abode of the three best defined varieties of the human species--the white, the negro, and the Indian--to which the extensive immigration of the Chinese on our Pacific coast is rapidly adding a fourth, but the fusion of diverse nationalities is nowhere more rapid and complete; nowhere is the great problem of man's perfectibility being solved on a grander scale, or in a more decisive manner. While, then, nothing can be further removed from our intentions, or more repugnant to our sentiments, than to wage war on religion, or throw ridicule on the labors of the missionary and philanthropist, we thought it not a useless undertaking to lay before our countrymen the opinions of a European thinker, who, without straining or superseding texts to answer his purposes, or departing in any way from the pure spirit of Christianity, has reflected upon questions which with us are of immense moment and constant recurrence. H. H. PHILADELPHIA, _Nov. 1, 1855_. CONTENTS. ANALYTICAL INTRODUCTION. The discussion of the moral and intellectual diversity of races totally independent of the question of unity or plurality of origin--Leading propositions of this volume, with illustrations and comments. CHAPTER I. POLITICAL CATASTROPHES. Perishable condition of all human societies--Ancient ideas concerning this phenomenon--Modern theories 105 CHAPTER II. ALLEGED CAUSES OF POLITICAL CATASTROPHES EXAMINED. FANATICISM--Aztec Empire of Mexico.--LUXURY--Modern European States as luxurious as the ancient.--Corruption of morals--The standard of morality fluctuates in the various periods of a nation's history: example, France--Is no higher in youthful communities than in old ones--Morality of Paris.--IRRELIGION--Never spreads through all ranks of a nation--Greece and Rome--Tenacity of Paganism 114 CHAPTER III. INFLUENCE OF GOVERNMENT UPON THE LONGEVITY OF NATIONS. Misgovernment defined--Athens, China, Spain, Germany, Italy, etc.--Is not in itself a sufficient cause for the ruin of nations. 138 CHAPTER IV. DEFINITION OF THE WORD DEGENERACY--ITS CAUSE. Skeleton history of a nation--Origin of castes, nobility, etc.--Vitality of nations not necessarily extinguished by conquest--China, Hindostan--Permanency of their peculiar civilizations. 146 CHAPTER V. THE MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL DIVERSITY OF RACES IS NOT THE RESULT OF POLITICAL INSTITUTIONS. Antipathy of races--Results of their mixture--The scientific axiom of the absolute equality of men, but an extension of the political--Its fallacy--Universal belief in unequal endowment of races--The moral and intellectual diversity of races not attributable to institutions--Indigenous institutions are the expression of popular sentiments; when foreign and imported, they never prosper--Illustrations: England and France--Roman Empire--European Colonies--Sandwich Islands--St. Domingo--Jesuit missions in Paraguay 172 CHAPTER VI. THIS DIVERSITY IS NOT THE RESULT OF GEOGRAPHICAL SITUATION. America--Ancient empires--Phenicians and Romans--Jews--Greece and Rome--Commercial cities of Europe--Isthmus of Darien 201 CHAPTER VII. INFLUENCE OF CHRISTIANITY UPON MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL DIVERSITY OF RACES. The term Christian civilization examined--Reasons for rejecting it--Intellectual diversity no hindrance to the universal diffusion of Christianity--Civilizing influence of Christian religion by elevating and purifying the morals, etc.; but does not remove intellectual disparities--Various instances--Cherokees--Difference between imitation and comprehension of civilized life 215 INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO CHAPTERS VIII. AND IX. Rapid survey of the populations comprised under the appellation "Teutonic"--Their present ethnological area, and leading characteristics--Fondness for the sea displayed by the Teutonic tribes of Northwestern Europe, and perceptible in their descendants 234 CHAPTER VIII. CIVILIZATION. Mr. Guizot's and Mr. W. von Humboldt's definitions examined. Its elements 246 CHAPTER IX. ELEMENTS OF CIVILIZATION--CONTINUED. Definition of the term--Specific differences of civilizations--Hindoo, Chinese, European, Greek, and Roman civilizations--Universality of Chinese civilization--Superficiality of ours--Picture of the social condition of France 272 CHAPTER X. QUESTION OF UNITY OR PLURALITY OF RACES. Systems of Camper, Blumenbach, Morton, Carus--Investigations of Owen, Vrolik, Weber--Prolificness of hybrids, the great scientific stronghold of the advocates of unity of species 312 CHAPTER XI. PERMANENCY OF TYPES. The language of Holy Writ in favor of common origin--The permanency of their characteristics separates the races of men as effectually as if they were distinct creations--Arabs, Jews--Prichard's argument about the influence of climate examined--Ethnological history of the Turks and Hungarians 336 CHAPTER XII. CLASSIFICATION OF RACES. Primary varieties--Test for recognizing them; not always reliable--Effects of intermixture--Secondary varieties--Tertiary varieties--Amalgamation of races in large cities--Relative scale of beauty in various branches of the human family--Their inequality in muscular strength and powers of endurance 368 NOTE TO THE PRECEDING CHAPTER. The position and treatment of woman among the various races of men a proof of their moral and intellectual diversity 384 CHAPTER XIII. PERFECTIBILITY OF MAN. Imperfect notions of the capability of savage tribes--Parallel between our civilization and those that preceded it--Our modern political theories no novelty--The political parties of Rome--Peace societies--The art of printing a means, the results of which depend on its use--What constitutes a "living" civilization--Limits of the sphere of intellectual acquisitions 391 CHAPTER XIV. MUTUAL RELATIONS OF DIFFERENT MODES OF INTELLECTUAL CULTURE. Necessary consequences of a supposed equality of all races--Uniform testimony of history to the contrary--Traces of extinct civilizations among barbarous tribes--Laws which govern the adoption of a state of civilization by conquered populations--Antagonism of different modes of culture; the Hellenic and Persian, European and Arab, etc. 414 CHAPTER XV. MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL CHARACTERISTICS OF THE THREE GREAT VARIETIES. Impropriety of drawing general conclusions from individual cases--Recapitulatory sketch of the leading features of the Negro, the Yellow, and the White races--Superiority of the latter--Conclusion of volume the first 439 APPENDIX. BY J. C. NOTT, M. D. A.--Dr. Morton's later tables 461 B.--Species; varieties. Latest experiments upon the laws of hybridity 473 C.--Biblical connections of the question of unity or plurality of species 504 ANALYTICAL INTRODUCTION. Before departing on one's travels to a foreign country, it is well to cast a glance on the map, and if we expect to meet and examine many curiosities, a correct itinerary may not be an inconvenient travelling companion. In laying before the public the present work of Mr. Gobineau, embracing a field of inquiry so boundless and treating of subjects of such vast importance to all, it has been thought not altogether useless or inappropriate to give a rapid outline of the topics presented to the consideration of the reader--a ground-plan, as it were, of the extensive edifice he is invited to enter, so that he may afterwards examine it at leisure, and judge of the symmetry of its parts. This, though fully sensible of the inadequacy of his powers to the due execution of the task, the present writer has endeavored to do, making such comments on the way, and using such additional illustrations as the nature of the subject seemed to require. * * * * * Whether we contemplate the human family from the point of view of the naturalist or of the philosopher, we are struck with the marked dissimilarity of the various groups. The obvious physical characteristics by which we distinguish what are termed different races, are not more clearly defined than the psychical diversities observable among them. "If a person," says the learned vindicator of the unity of the human species,[1] "after surveying some brilliant ceremony or court pageant in one of the splendid cities of Europe, were suddenly carried into a hamlet in Negro-land, at the hour when the sable tribes recreate themselves with dancing and music; or if he were transported to the saline plains over which bald and tawny Mongolians roam, differing but little in hue from the yellow soil of their steppes, brightened by the saffron flowers of the iris and tulip; if he were placed near the solitary dens of the Bushman, where the lean and hungry savage crouches in silence, like a beast of prey, watching with fixed eyes the birds which enter his pitfall, or greedily devouring the insects and reptiles which chance may bring within his grasp; if he were carried into the midst of an Australian forest, where the squalid companions of kangaroos may be seen crawling in procession, in imitation of quadrupeds, would the spectator of such phenomena imagine the different groups which he had surveyed to be the offspring of one family? And if he were led to adopt that opinion, how would he attempt to account for the striking diversities in their aspect and manner of existence?" These diversities, so graphically described by Mr. Prichard, present a problem, the solution of which has occupied the most ingenious minds, especially of our times. The question of unity or plurality of the human species has of late excited much animated discussion; great names and weighty authorities are enlisted on either side, and a unanimous decision appears not likely to be soon agreed upon. But it is not my purpose, nor that of the author to whose writings these pages are introductory, to enter into a contest which to me seems rather a dispute about words than essentials. The distinguishing physical characteristics of what we term races of man are recognized by all parties, and whether these races are _distinct species_ or _permanent varieties_[2] only of the same, cannot affect the subject under investigation. In whatever manner the diversities among the various branches of the human family may have originated, whether they are primordial or were produced by external causes, their permanency is now generally admitted. "The Ethiopian cannot change his skin." If there are, or ever have been, external agencies that could change a white man into a negro, or _vice versa_, it is obvious that such causes have either ceased to operate, or operate only in a lapse of time so incommensurable as to be imponderable to our perceptions, for the races which now exist can be traced up to the dawn of history, and no well-authenticated instance of a transformation under any circumstances is on record. In human reasoning it is certainly legitimate to judge of the future by the experiences of the past, and we are, therefore, warranted to conclude that if races have preserved their identity for the last two thousand years, they will not lose it in the next two thousand. It is somewhat singular, however, that while most writers have ceased to explain the physical diversities of races by external causes, such as climate, food, etc., yet many still persist in maintaining the absolute equality of all in other respects, referring such differences in character as are undeniable, solely to circumstances, education, mode of life, etc. These writers consider all races as merely in different stages of development, and pretend that the lowest savage, or at least his offspring, may, by judicious training, and in course of time, be rendered equal to the civilized man. Before mentioning any facts in opposition to this doctrine, let us examine the reasoning upon which it is based. "Man is the creature of circumstances," is an adage extended from individuals to races, and repeated by many without considering its bearing. The celebrated author of _Wealth of Nations_[3] says, "that the difference between the most dissimilar characters, between a philosopher and a common street porter, for example, arises, not so much from nature, but from habit and education." That a mind, which, with proper nurture, might have graced a philosopher, should, under unfavorable circumstances, remain forever confined in a narrow and humble sphere, does not, indeed, seem at all improbable; but Dr. Smith certainly does not mean to deny the existence of natural talents, of innate peculiar capacities for the accomplishment of certain purposes. This is what they do who ascribe the mental inequality of the various branches of the human family to external circumstances only. "The intellectual qualities of man," say they, "are developed entirely by education. The mind is, at first, a perfect blank, fitted and ready to receive any kind of impressions. For these, we are dependent on the political, civil, and religious institutions under which we live, the persons with whom we are connected, and the circumstances in which we are placed in the different periods of life. Wholly the creatures of association and habit, the characters of men are formed by the instruction, conversation, and example of those with whom they mix in society, or whose ideas they imbibe in the course of their reading and studies."[4] Again: "As all men, in all nations, are of the same species, are endowed with the same senses and feelings, and receive their perceptions and ideas through similar organs, the difference, whether physical or moral, that is observed in comparing different races or assemblages of men, can arise only from external and adventitious circumstances."[5] The last position is entirely dependent on the first; if we grant the first, relating to individuals, the other follows as a necessary consequence. For, if we assume that the infinite intellectual diversities of individuals are owing solely to external influences, it is self-evident that the same diversities in nations, which are but aggregations of individuals, must result from the same causes. But are we prepared to grant this first position--to assert that man is but an automaton, whose wheelwork is entirely without--the mere buffet and plaything of accident and circumstances? Is not this the first step to gross materialism, the first argument laid down by that school, of which the great Locke has been stigmatized as the father, because he also asserts that the human mind is at first a blank tablet. But Locke certainly could not mean that all these tablets were the same and of equal value. A tablet of wax receives an impression which one of marble will not; on the former is easily effaced what the other forever retains. We do not deny that circumstances have a great influence in moulding both moral and intellectual character, but we do insist that there is a primary basis upon which the degree of that influence depends, and which is the work of God and not of man or chance. What agriculturist could be made to believe that, with the same care, all plants would thrive equally well in all soils? To assert that the character of a man, whether good or wicked, noble or mean, is the aggregate result of influences over which he has no control, is to deny that man is a free agent; it is infinitely worse than the creed of the Buddhist, who believes that all animated beings possess a detached portion of an all-embracing intelligence, which acts according to the nature and capacity of the machine of clay that it, for the time, occupies, and when the machine is worn out or destroyed, returns, like a rivulet to the sea, to the vast ocean of intelligence whence it came, and in which again it is lost. In the name of common sense, daily observation, and above all, of revelation, we protest against a doctrine which paves the road to the most absurd as well as anti-religious conclusions. In it we recognize the fountain whence flow all the varied forms and names under which Atheism disguises itself. But it is useless to enter any further upon the refutation of an argument which few would be willing seriously to maintain. It is one of those plausible speculations which, once admitted, serve as the basis of so many brilliant, but airy, theories that dazzle and attract those who do not take the trouble of examining their solidity. Once we admit that circumstances, though they may impede or favor the development of powers, cannot give them; in other words, that they can call into action, but cannot create, moral and intellectual resources; no argument can be drawn from the unity of species in favor of the mental equality of races. If two men, the offspring of the same parents, can be the one a dunce, the other a genius, why cannot different races, though descended of the same stock, be different also in intellectual endowments? We should laugh at, or rather, pity the man who would try to persuade us that there is no difference in color, etc., between the Scandinavian and the African, and yet it is by some considered little short of heresy to affirm, that there is an imparity in their minds as well as in their bodies. We are told--and the objection seems indeed a grave one--that if we admit psychical as well as physical gradations in the scale of human races, the lowest must be so hopelessly inferior to the higher, their perceptions and intellectual capacities so dim, that even the light of the gospel cannot illumine them. Were it so, we should at once abandon the argument as one above human comprehension, rather than suppose that God's mercy is confined to any particular race or races. But let us earnestly investigate the question. On so vital a point the sacred record cannot but be plain and explicit. To it let us turn. Man--even the lowest of his species--has a soul. However much defaced God's image, it is vivified by His breath. To save that soul, to release it from the bondage of evil, Christ descended upon earth and gave to mankind, not a complicated system of philosophy which none but the learned and intellectual could understand, but a few simple lessons and precepts, comprehensible to the meanest capacity. He did not address himself to the wise of this world, but bade them be like children if they would come unto him. The learned Pharisees of Judea jeered and ridiculed him, but the poor woman of Canaan eagerly picked up the precious crumbs of that blessed repast which they despised. His apostles were chosen from among the lowly and simple, his first followers belonged to that class. He himself hath said:[6] "I thank thee, O Father, Lord of Heaven and earth, because thou hast hid these things from the wise and prudent, and hast revealed them unto babes." How then shall we judge of the degree of intellect necessary to be a follower of Jesus? Are the most intellectual, the best informed men generally the best Christians? Or does the word of God anywhere lead us to suppose that at the great final judgment the learned prelate or ingenious expositor of the faith will be preferred to the humble, illiterate savage of some almost unknown coast, who eagerly drinks of the living water whereof whosoever drinketh shall never thirst again? This subject has met with the attention which its importance deserves, at the hands of Mr. Gobineau, and he also shows the fallacy of the idea that Christianity will remove the mental inequality of races. True religion, among all nations who are blessed with it and sincerely embrace it, will purify their morals, and establish friendly relations between man and his fellow-man. But it will not make an _intellectually_ inferior race equal to a superior one, because it was not designed to bestow talents or to endow with genius those who are devoid of it. Civilization is essentially the result of man's intellectual gifts, and must vary in its character and degree like them. Of this we shall speak again in treating of the _specific differences of civilization_, when the term _Christian civilization_ will also be examined. One great reason why so many refuse to recognize mental as well as physical differences among races, is the common and favorite belief of our time in the infinite perfectibility of man. Under various forms this development-theory, so flattering to humanity, has gained an incredible number of adherents and defenders. We believe ourselves steadily marching towards some brilliant goal, to which every generation brings us nearer. We look with a pity, almost amounting to contempt, upon those who preceded us, and envy posterity, which we expect to surpass us in a ratio even greater than we believe ourselves to surpass our ancestors. It is indeed a beautiful and poetic idea that civilization is a vast and magnificent edifice of which the first generation laid the corner-stone, and to which each succeeding age contributes new materials and new embellishments. It is our tower of Babel, by which we, like the first men after the flood, hope to reach heaven and escape the ills of life. Some such idea has flattered all ages, but in ours it has assumed a more definite form. We point with pride to our inventions, annihilating--we say--time and distance; our labor-saving machines refining the mechanic and indirectly diffusing information among all classes, and confidently look forward to a new era close at hand, a millennium to come. Let us, for a moment, divest ourselves of the conceit which belongs to every age, as well as to every country and individual; and let us ask ourselves seriously and candidly: In what are we superior to our predecessors? We have inventions that they had not, it is true, and these inventions increase in an astonishing ratio; we have clearer ideas of the laws which govern the material world, and better contrivances to apply these laws and to make the elements subservient to our comfort. But has the human mind really expanded since the days of Pythagoras and Plato? Has the thinker of the nineteenth century faculties and perceptions which they had not? Have we one virtue more or one vice less than former generations? Has human nature changed, or has it even modified its failings? Though we succeed in traversing the regions of air as easily and swifter than we now do broad continents and stormy seas; though we count all the worlds in the immensity of space; though we snatch from nature her most recondite secrets, shall we be aught but men? To the true philosopher these conquests over the material world will be but additional proofs of the greatness of God and man's littleness. It is the vanity and arrogance of the creature of clay that make him believe that by his own exertions he can arrive at God-like perfection. The insane research after the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life may be classed among the many other futile attempts of man to invade the immutable decree: "Thus far, and no farther." To escape from the moral and intellectual imperfections of his nature, there is but one way; the creature must humbly and devoutly cast himself into the ever-open arms of the Creator and seek for knowledge where none knocketh in vain. This privilege he has enjoyed in all ages, and it is a question which I would hesitate to answer whether the progress of physical science has not, in many cases at least, rather the effect of making him self-sufficient and too confident in his own powers, than of bringing him nearer to the knowledge of the true God. It is one of the fatal errors of our age in particular, to confound the progress of physical science with a supposed moral progress of man. Were it so, the Bible would have been a revelation of science as well as of religion, and that it is not is now beginning to be conceded, though by no means so generally as true theology would require; for the law of God was intended for every age, for every country, for every individual, independent of the state of science or a peculiar stage of civilization, and not to be modified by any change which man might make in his material existence. With due deference, then, to those philosophers who assert that the moral nature of the human species has undergone a change at various periods of the world's history; and those enthusiasts who dream of an approaching millennium, we hold, that human nature has always been the same and always will be the same, and that no inventions or discoveries, however promotive of his material well-being, can effect a moral change or bring him any nearer to the Divine essence than he was in the beginning of his mundane existence. Science and knowledge may indeed illumine his earthly career, but they can shed no light upon the path he is to tread to reach a better world. Christ himself has recognized the diversity of intellectual gifts in his parable of the talents, from which we borrow the very term to designate those gifts; and if, in a community of pure and faithful Christians, there still are many degrees and kinds of talents, is it reasonable to suppose that in that millennium--the only one I can imagine--when all nations shall call on His name with hope and praise, all mental imparities of races will be obliterated? There are, at the present time, nations upon whom we look down as being inferior in civilization to ourselves, yet they are as good--if, indeed, not better--Christians than we are as a people. The progress of physical science, by facilitating the intercourse between distant parts of the world, tends, indeed, to diffuse true religion, and in this manner--and this manner only--promotes the moral good of mankind. But here it is only an instrument, and not an agent, as the machines which the architect uses to raise his building materials do not erect the structure. One more reason why the unity of the human species cannot be considered a proof of equal intellectual capability of races. It is a favorite method of naturalists to draw an analogy between man and the brute creation; and, so far as he belongs to the animal kingdom, this method is undoubtedly correct and legitimate. But, with regard to man's higher attributes, there is an impassable barrier between him and the brute, which, in the heat of argument, contending parties have not always sufficiently respected. The great Prichard himself seems sometimes to have lost sight of it.[7] Thus, he speaks of "psychological" diversities in varieties of the same undoubted species of animal, though it is obvious that animals can have no psychological attributes. But I am willing to concede to Mr. Prichard all the conclusions he derives from this analogy in favor of unity of the human species. All dogs, he believes, are derived from one pair; yet, there are a number of varieties of dogs, and these varieties are different not only in external appearance, but in what Mr. Prichard would call psychological qualities. No shepherd expects to train a common cur to be the intelligent guardian of a flock; no sportsman to teach his hounds, or their unmixed progeny, to perform the office of setters. That the characteristics of every variety of dogs are permanent so long as the breed remains pure, every one knows, and that their distinctive type remains the same in all countries and through all time, is proved by the mural paintings of Egypt, which show that, 2,000 years B. C., they were as well known as in our day.[8] If, then, this permanency of "psychological" (to take Mr. Prichard's ground) diversity is compatible with unity of origin in the dog, why not in the case of man? I am far from desiring to call into question the unity of our species, but I contend that the rule must work both ways, and if "psychological" diversities can be permanent in the branches of the same species of animals, they can be permanent also in the branches of the human family. In the preceding pages, I have endeavored to show that the unity of species is no proof of equal intellectual capability of races, that mental imparities do not conflict with the universality of the gospel tidings, and that the permanency of these imparities is consistent with the reasoning of the greatest expounder of the unity theory. I shall now proceed to state the facts which prove the intellectual diversities among the races of man. In doing so, it is important to guard against an error into which so many able writers have fallen, that of comparing individuals rather than masses. What we term national character, is the aggregate of the qualities preponderating in a community. It is obvious that when we speak of the artistic genius of the Greeks, we do not mean that every native of Hellas and Ionia was an artist; and when we call a nation unwarlike or valorous, we do not thereby either stigmatize every individual as a coward, or extol him as a hero. The same is the case with races. When, for example, we assert that the black race is intellectually inferior to the white, it is not implied that the most intelligent negro should still be more obtuse than the most stupid white man. The maximum intellect and capacity of one race may greatly exceed the minimum of another, without placing them on an equality. The testimony of history, and the results of philanthropic experiment, are the data upon which the ethnologist must institute his inquiries, if he would arrive at conclusions instructive to humanity. Let us take for illustration the white and the black races, supposed by many to represent the two extremes of the scale of gradation. The whole history of the former shows an uninterrupted progress; that of the latter, monotonous stagnation. To the one, mankind owes the most valuable discoveries in the domain of thought, and their practical application; to the other, it owes nothing. For ages plunged in the darkest gloom of barbarism, there is not one ray of even temporary or borrowed improvement to cheer the dismal picture of its history, or inspire with hope the disheartened philanthropist. At the boundary of its territory, the ever-encroaching spirit of conquest of the European stops powerless.[9] Never, in the history of the world, has a grander or more conclusive experiment been tried than in the case of the negro race. We behold them placed in immediate possession of the richest island in the richest part of the globe, with every advantage that climate, soil, geographical situation, can afford; removed from every injurious contact, yet with every facility for constant intercourse with the most polished nations of the earth; inheriting all that the white race had gained by the toil of centuries in science, politics, and morals; and what is the result? As if to afford a still more irrefragable proof of the mental inequality of races, we find separate divisions of the same island inhabited, one by the pure, the other by a half-breed race; and the infusion of the white blood in the latter case forms a population incontestably and avowedly superior. In opposition to such facts, some special pleader, bent upon establishing a preconceived notion, ransacks the records of history to find a few isolated instances where an individual of the inferior race has displayed average ability, and from such exceptional cases he deduces conclusions applicable to the whole mass! He points with exultation to a negro who calculates, a negro who is an officer of artillery in Russia, a few others who are employed in a counting-house. And yet he does not even tell us whether these _raræ aves_ are of pure blood or not, as is often the case.[10] Moreover, these instances are proclaimed to the world with an air of triumph, as if they were drawn at random from an inexhaustible arsenal of facts, when in reality they are all that the most anxious research could discover, and form the stock in trade of every declaimer on the absolute equality of races. Had it pleased the Creator to endow all branches of the human family equally, all would then have pursued the same career, though, perhaps, not all with equal rapidity. Some, favored by circumstances, might have distanced others in the race; a few, peculiarly unfortunately situated, would have lagged behind. Still, the progress of all would have been in the same direction, all would have had the same stages to traverse. Now is this the case? There are not a few who assert it. From our earliest infancy we are told of the savage, barbarous, semi-civilized, civilized, and enlightened states. These we are taught to consider as the steps of the ladder by which man climbs up to infinite perfection, we ourselves being near the top, while others are either a little below us, or have scarcely yet firmly established themselves upon the first rounds. In the beautiful language of Schiller, these latter are to us a mirror in which we behold our own ancestors, as an adult in the children around him re-witnesses his own infancy. This is, in a measure, true of nations of the same race, but is it true with regard to different races? It is little short of presumption to venture to combat an idea perhaps more extensively spread than any of our time, yet this we shall endeavor to do. Were the differences in civilization which we observe in various nations of the world, differences of degree only, and not of kind, it is obvious that the most advanced individual in one degree must closely approach the confines of a higher. But this is not the case. The highest degree of culture known to Hindoo or Chinese civilization, approaches not the possessor one step nearer to the ideas and views of the European. The Chinese civilization is as perfect, in its own way, as ours, nay more so.[11] It is not a mere child, or even an adult not yet arrived at maturity; it is rather a decrepit old man. It too has its degrees; it too has had its periods of infancy, of adult age, of maturity. And when we contemplate its fruits, the immense works which have been undertaken and completed under its ægis, the systems of morals and politics to which it gave rise, the inventions which signalized its more vigorous periods, we cannot but admit that it is entitled in a high degree to our veneration and esteem.[12] Moreover it has excellencies which our civilization as yet has not; it pervades all classes, ours not. In the whole Chinese empire, comprising, as it does, one-third of the human race, we find few individuals unable to read and write; in China proper, none. How many European countries can pretend to this? And yet, because Chinese civilization has a different tendency from ours, because its course lies in another direction, we call it a semi-civilization. At what time of the world's history then have we--the _civilized_ nations--passed through this stage of semi-civilization? The monuments of Sanscrit literature, the magnificent remains of palaces and temples, the great number of ingenious arts, the elaborate systems of metaphysics, attest a state of intellectual culture, far from contemptible, among the Hindoos. Yet their civilization, too, we term a semi-civilization, albeit it is as little like the Chinese as it is like anything ever seen in Europe. Few who will carefully investigate and reflect upon these facts, will doubt that the terms Hindoo, Chinese, European civilization, are not indicative of degrees only, but mean the respective development of powers essentially different in their nature. We may consider our civilization the best, but it is both arrogant and unphilosophical to consider it as the only one, or as the standard by which to measure all others. This idea, moreover, is neither peculiar to ourselves nor to our age. The Chinese even yet look upon us as barbarians; the Hindoos probably do the same. The Greeks considered all extra-Hellenic peoples as barbarians. The Romans ascribed the same pre-excellency to themselves, and the predilections for these nations, which we imbibe already in our academic years from our classical studies, cause us to share the same opinion, and to view with their prejudices nations less akin to us than they. The Persians, for instance, whom the Greeks self-complacently styled outside-barbarians, were, in reality, a highly cultivated people, as no one can deny who will examine the facts which modern research has brought to light. Their arts, if not Hellenic, still attained a high degree of perfection. Their architecture, though not of Grecian style, was not inferior in magnificence and splendor. Nay, I for one am willing to render myself obnoxious to the charge of classical heresy, by regarding the pure Persians as a people, in some respects at least, superior to the Greeks. Their religious system seems to me a much purer, nobler one than the inconsistent, immoral mythology of our favorites. Their ideas of a good and an evil power in perpetual conflict, and of a mediator who loves and protects the human race; their utter detestation of every species of idolatry, have to me something that prepossesses me in their favor. I have now alleged, in a cursory manner, my principal reasons for considering civilizations as specifically distinct. To further dilate upon the subject, though I greatly desire to do so, would carry me too far; not, indeed, beyond the scope of the inquiries proposed in this volume, but beyond the limited space assigned for my introduction. I shall add only, that--assuming the intellectual equality of all branches of the human family--we can assign no causes for the differences of _degree only_ of their development. Geographical position cannot explain them, because the people who have made the greatest advance, have not always been the most favorably situated. The greatest geographical advantages have been in possession of others that made no use of them, and became of importance only by changing owners. To cite one of a thousand similar instances. The glorious Mississippi Valley, with its innumerable tributary streams, its unparalleled fertility and mineral wealth, seems especially adapted by nature for the abode of a great agricultural and commercial nation. Yet, the Indians roamed over it, and plied their canoes on its rivers, without ever being aware of the advantages they possessed. The Anglo-Saxon, on the contrary, no sooner perceived them than he dreamed of the conquest of the world. We may therefore compare such and other advantages to a precious instrument which it requires the skill of the workman to use. To ascribe differences of civilizations to the differences of laws and political institutions, is absolutely begging the question, for such institutions are themselves an effect and an inherent portion of the civilization, and when transplanted into foreign soils, never prosper. That the moral and physical well-being of a nation will be better promoted when liberty presides over her councils than when stern despotism sits at the helm, no one can deny; but it is obvious that the nation must first be prepared to receive the blessings of liberty, lest they prove a curse. Here is the place for a few remarks upon the epithet Christian, applied to our civilization. Mr. Gobineau justly observes, that he knows of no social or political order of things to which this term may fitly be said to belong. We may justly speak of a Brahminic, Buddhistic, Pagan, Judaic civilization, because the social or political systems designated by these appellations were intimately connected with a more or less exclusive theocratical formula. Religion there prescribed everything: social and political laws, government, manners, nay, in many instances, dress and food. But one of the distinguishing characteristics of Christianity is its universality. Right at the beginning it disclaimed all interference in temporal affairs. Its precepts may be followed under every system of government, in every path of life, every variety of modes of existence. Such is, in substance, Mr. Gobineau's view of the subject. To this I would add a few comments of my own. The error is not one of recent date. Its baneful effects have been felt from almost the first centuries of the establishment of the Church down to our times. Human legislation ought, indeed, to be in strict accordance with the law of God, but to commend one system as Christian, and proscribe another as unchristian, is opening the door to an endless train of frightful evils. This is what, virtually, they do who would call a civilization Christian, for civilization is the aggregate social and political development of a nation, or a race, and the political is always in direct proportion to the social progress; both mutually influence each other. By speaking of a Christian civilization, therefore, we assert that some particular political as well as social system, is most conformable to the spirit of our religion. Hence the union of church and State, and the influence of the former in temporal affairs--an influence which few enlightened churchmen, at least of our age, would wish to claim. Not to speak of the danger of placing into the hands of any class of men, however excellent, the power of declaring what legislation is Christian or not, and thus investing them with supreme political as well as spiritual authority; it is sufficient to point out the disastrous effects of such a system to the interests of the church itself. The opponents of a particular political organization become also the opponents of the religion which advocates and defends it. The indifferentism of Germany, once so zealous in the cause of religion, is traceable to this source. The people are dissatisfied with their political machinery, and hate the church which vindicates it, and stigmatizes as impious every attempt at change. Indeed, one has but to read the religious journals of Prussia, to understand the lukewarmness of that people. Mr. Brace, in his _Home Life in Germany_, says that many intelligent natives of that country had told him: Why should we go to church to hear a sermon that extols an order of things which we know to be wicked, and in the highest degree detestable? How can a religion be true which makes adherence to such an order a fundamental article of its creed? One of the features of our constitution which Mr. De Tocqueville most admires, is the utter separation of church and State. Mere religious toleration practically prevails in most European countries, but this total disconnection of the religious from the civil institutions, is peculiar to the United States, and a lesson which it has given to the rest of the world. I do not mean that every one who makes use of the word Christian civilization thereby implies a union of church and State, but I wish to point out the principle upon which this expression is based, viz: that a certain social and political order of things is more according to the spirit of the Christian religion than another; and the consequences which must, or at least may, follow from the practical acceptation of this principle. Taking my view of the subject, few, I think, will dispute that the term Christian civilization is a misnomer. Of the civilizing influence of Christianity, I have spoken before, but this influence would be as great in the Chinese or Hindoo civilizations, without, in the least, obliterating their characteristic features. Few terms of equal importance are so vaguely defined as the term CIVILIZATION; few definitions are so difficult. In common parlance, the word civilization is used to designate that moral, intellectual, and material condition at which the so-called European race, whether occupying the Eastern or the Western continent, has arrived in the nineteenth century. But the nations comprised in this race differ from one another so extensively, that it has been found necessary to invent a new term: _enlightenment_. Thus, Great Britain, France, the United States, Switzerland, several of the States of the German Confederacy, Sweden, and Denmark, are called enlightened; while Russia, Spain, Portugal, Italy, Brazil, and the South American republics are merely civilized. Now, I ask, in what does the difference consist? Is the diffusion of knowledge by popular education to be the test? Then Great Britain and France would fall far below some countries now placed in the second, or even third rank. Denmark and China would be the most civilized countries in the world; nay, even Thibet, and the rest of Central Asia, would take precedence before the present champions of civilization. The whole of Germany and Switzerland would come next, then the eastern and middle sections of the United States, then the southern and western; and, after them, Great Britain and France. Still retaining the same scale, Russia would actually be ranked above Italy, the native clime of the arts. In Great Britain itself, Scotland would far surpass England in civilization[13]. Is the perfection to which the arts are carried, the test of civilization? Then Bavaria and Italy are the most civilized countries. Then are we far behind the Greeks in civilization. Or, are the useful arts to carry the prize? Then the people showing the greatest mechanical genius is the most civilized. Are political institutions to be the test? Then the question, "Which is the best government?" must first be decided. But the philosophic answer would be: "That which is best adapted to the genius of the people, and therefore best answers the purposes for which all government is instituted." Those who believe in the abstract superiority of any governmental theory, may be compared to the tailor who would finish some beau-ideal of a coat, without taking his customer's measure. We could afford to laugh at such theorists, were not their schemes so often recorded in blood in the annals of the world. Besides, if this test be admitted, no two could agree upon what was a civilized community. The panegyrist of constitutional monarchy would call England the only civilized country; the admirer of municipal liberty would point to the Hanse towns of the Middle Ages, and their miserable relics, the present free cities of Germany; the friend of sober republicanism would exclude from the pale of civilization all but the United States and Switzerland; the lover of pure democracy would contend that mankind had retrograded since the time of Athens, and deplore that civilization was now confined to some few rude mountain or nomadic tribes with few and simple wants; finally, the defender of a paternal autocracy would sigh for the days of Trajan or Marcus Aurelius, and hesitate whether, in our age, Austria or Russia deserved the crown. Neither pre-eminence in arts and sciences, nor in popular instruction, nor in government, can singly be taken as the test of civilization. Pre-eminence in all, no country enjoys. Yet all these are signs of civilization--the only ones by which we distinguish and recognize it. How, then, shall we define this term? I would suggest a simple and, I think, sufficiently explicit definition: Civilization is the continuous development of man's moral and intellectual powers. As the aggregate of these differs in different nations, so differs the character of their civilization. In one, civilization manifests itself in the perfection of the arts, either useful or polite; in another, in the cultivation of the sciences; in a third; in the care bestowed upon politics, or, in the diffusion of knowledge among the masses. Each has its own merits, each its own defects; none combines the excellencies of all, but whichever combines the most with fewest defects, may be considered the best, or most perfect. It is because not keeping this obvious truth in view that John Bull laughs (or used to laugh) self-complacently at Monsieur Crapaud, and that we ourselves sometimes laugh at his political capers, forgetting that the thinkers of his nation have, for the last century at least, led the van in science and politics--yes, even in politics.[14] It is, for the same reason, that the Frenchman laughs at the German, or the Dutchman; that the foreigner cannot understand that there is an _American civilization_ as well, and, bringing his own country's standard along with him, finds everything either too little or too great; or, that the American, going to the native soil of the ripest scholars in the world, and seeing brick and mortar carried up by hand to the fourth story of a building in process of erection,[15] or seeing five men painfully perform a job which his youngest son would have accomplished without trouble by the simplest, perhaps self-invented, contrivance, revolves in his own mind how it is possible that these people--when the schoolmaster is abroad, too--are still so many centuries "behind the time." Thus each nation has its own standard by which it judges its neighbors; but when extra-European nations, such as the Chinese or Hindoos, are to be judged, all unite in voting them _outside barbarians_. Here, then, we have indubitable proofs of moral and intellectual diversities, not only in what are generally termed different races, but even in nations apparently belonging to the same race. Nor do I see in this diversity ought that can militate against our ideas of universal brotherhood. Among individuals, diversity of talent does not preclude friendly intercourse; on the contrary, it promotes it, for rivals seldom are friends. Neither does superior ability exempt us from the duties which we owe to our fellow-man. I have repeatedly made use of the analogy between societies and the individuals that compose them. I cannot more clearly express my idea of civilization than by recurring to it again. Civilization, then, is to nations what the development of his physical and intellectual powers is to an individual; indeed, it is nothing but the aggregate result of all these individual powers; a common reservoir to which each contributes a share, whether large or small. The analogy may be extended further. Nations may be considered as themselves members of societies, bearing the same relations to each other and to the whole, as individuals. Thus, all the nations of Europe contribute, each in its own manner and degree, to what has been called the _European_ civilization. And, in the same manner, the nations of Asia form distinct systems of civilizations. But all these systems ultimately tend to one great aim--the general welfare of mankind. I would therefore carefully distinguish between the civilizations of particular nations, of clusters of nations, and of the whole of our species. To borrow a metaphor from the mechanism of the universe, the first are like the planets of a solar system, revolving--though in different orbits, and with different velocities--around the same common centre; but the solar systems again--with all their planets--revolve round another, more distant point. Let us take two individuals of undoubted intellect. One may be a great mathematician, the other a great statesman. Place the first at the head of a cabinet, the second in an observatory, and the mathematician will as signally fail in correctly observing the changes in the political firmament, as the other in noting those in the heavenly. Yet, who would decide which had the superior intellect? This diversity of gifts is not the result of education. No training, however ingenious, could have changed an Arago into a Pitt, or _vice versa_. Raphael could under no circumstances have become a Handel, or either of them a Milton. Nay, men differ in following the same career. Can any one conceive that Michael Angelo could ever have painted Vandyke's pictures, Shakspeare written Milton's verses, Mozart composed Rossini's music, or Jefferson followed Hamilton's policy? Here, then, we have excellencies, perhaps of equal degree, but of very different kinds. Nature, from her inexhaustible store, has not only unequally, but variously, bestowed her favors, and this infinite variety of gifts, as infinite as the variety of faces, God has doubtless designed for the happiness of men, and for their more intimate union, in making them dependent one on another. As each creature sings his Maker's praise in his own voice and cadence, the sparrow in his twitter, the nightingale in her warble, so each human being proclaims the Almighty's glory by the rightful use of his talents, whether great or small, for the promotion of his fellow-creatures' happiness; one may raise pious emotion in the breast by the tuneful melody of his song; another by the beauty and vividness of his images on canvas or in verse; a third discovers new worlds--additional evidences of His omnipotence who made them--and, by his calculations, demonstrates, even to the sceptic, the wonderful mechanism of the universe; to another, again, it is given to guide a nation's councils, and, by His assistance, to avert danger, or correct evils. Fie upon those who would raise man's powers above those of God, and ascribe diversity of talents to education and accident, rather than to His wisdom and design. Can we not admire the Almighty as well in the variety as in a fancied uniformity of His works? Harmony consists in the union of different sounds; the harmony of the universe, in the diversity of its parts. What is true of a society composed of individuals, is true of that vast political assemblage composed of nations. That each has a career to run through, a destiny to fulfil, is my firm and unwavering belief. That each must be gifted with peculiar qualities for that purpose, is a mere corollary of the proposition. This has been the opinion of all ages: "The men of Boeotia are noted for their stolidity, those of Attica for their wit." Common parlance proves that it is now, to-day, the opinion of all mankind, whatever theorists may say. Many affect to deride the idea of "manifest destiny" that possesses us Anglo-Americans, but who in the main doubts it? Who, that will but cast one glance on the map, or look back upon our history of yesterday only, can think of seriously denying that great purposes have been accomplished, will still be accomplished, and that these purposes were designed and guided by something more than blind chance? Unroll the page of history--of the great chain of human events, it is true, we perceive but few links; like eternity, its beginning is wrapt in darkness, its end a mystery above human comprehension--but, in the vast drama presented to us, in which nations form the cast, we see each play its part, then disappear. Some, as Mr. Gobineau has it, act the kings and rulers, others are content with inferior roles. As it is incompatible with the wisdom of the Creator, to suppose that each nation was not specially fitted[16] for the part assigned to it, we may judge of what they were capable of by what they have accomplished. History, then, must be our guide; and never was epoch more propitious, for never has her lamp shone brighter. The study of this important science, which Niebuhr truly calls the _magistra vitæ_, has received within our days an impulse such as it never had before. The invaluable archæological treasures which the linguists and antiquarians of Europe have rescued from the literature and monuments of the great nations of former ages, bring--as it were--back to life again the mouldered generations of the dim past. We no longer content ourselves with chronological outlines, mere names, and unimportant accounts of kings and their quarrels; we seek to penetrate into the inner life of those multitudes who acted their part on the stage of history, and then disappeared, to understand the modes of thought, the feelings, ideas, _instincts_, which actuated them, and made them what they were. The hoary pyramids of the Nile valley are forced to divulge their age, the date of a former civilization; the temples and sepulchres, to furnish a minute account of even the private life of their builders;[17] the arrow-headed characters on the disinterred bricks of the sites of Babylon and Nineveh, are no longer a secret to the indefatigable orientalists; the classic writers of Hindostan and China find their most zealous scholiasts, and profoundest critics, in the capitals of Western Europe. The dross of childish fables, which age after age has transmitted to its successor under the name of history, is exposed to the powerful furnace of reason and criticism, and the pure ore extracted, by such men as Niebuhr, Heeren, Ranke, Gibbon, Grote. The enthusiastic lover of ancient Rome now sees her early history in clearer, truer colors than did her own historians. But, if history is indispensable to ethnology, the latter is no less so to a true understanding of history. The two sciences mutually shed light on one another's path, and though one of them is as yet in its infancy, its wonderful progress in so short a time, and the almost unparalleled attention which it has excited at all hands, are bright omens for the future. It will be obvious that, by _ethnology_, we do not mean _ethnography_, with which it has long been synonymous. Their meaning differs in the same manner, they bear almost the same relation to one another as _geology_ and _geography_. While ethnography contents herself with the mere description and classification of the races of man, ethnology, to borrow the expressive language of the editor of the _London Ethnological Journal_, "investigates the mental and physical differences of mankind, and the organic laws upon which they depend; seeks to deduce from these investigations principles of human guidance, in all the important relations of social and national existence."[18] The importance of this study cannot be better expressed than in the words of a writer in the _North British Review_ for August, 1849: "No one that has not worked much in the element of history, can be aware of the immense importance of clearly keeping in view the differences of race that are discernible among the nations that inhabit different parts of the world.... In speculative history, in questions relating to the past career and the future destinies of nations, _it is only by a firm and efficient handling of this conception of our species, as broken up into so many groups or masses, physiologically different to a certain extent, that any progress can be made, or any available conclusions accurately arrived at_."[19] But in attempting to divide mankind into such groups, an ethnologist is met by a serious and apparently insurmountable difficulty. The gradation of color is so imperceptible from the clearest white to the jettest black; and even anatomical peculiarities, normal in one branch, are found to exist, albeit in exceptional cases, in many others; so that the ethnographers scarce know where to stop in their classification, and while some recognize but three grand varieties, others contend for five, for eleven, or even for a much greater number. This difficulty arises, in my estimation, mainly from the attempt to class mankind into different species, that is, groups who have a separate origin; and also, from the proneness to draw deductions from individual instances, by which almost any absurdity can be sustained, or truth refuted. As we have already inveighed against the latter error, and shall therefore try to avoid falling into it; and as we have no desire to enter the field of discussion about unity or plurality of species, we hope, in a great measure, to obviate the difficulties that beset the path of so many inquirers. By the word _race_[20] we mean, both here and in the body of the work, such branches of the human family as are distinguished in the aggregate by certain well-defined physical or mental peculiarities, independent of the question whether they be of identical or diverse origin. For the sake of simplicity, these races are arranged in several principal classes, according to their relative affinities and resemblances. The most popular system of arrangement is that of Blumenbach, who recognizes five grand divisions, distinguished by appellations descriptive either of color or geographical position, viz: the White, Circassian, or European; the Yellow, Altaic, Asiatic, or Mongolian; the Red, American, or Indian; the Brown, or Malay; and, lastly, the Black, African, or negro. This division, though the most commonly adopted, has no superior claims above any other. Not only are its designations liable to very serious objections, but it is, in itself, entirely arbitrary. The Hottentot differs as much from the negro as the latter does from the Malay; and the Polynesian from the Malay more than the American from the Mongolian. Upon the same principle, then, the number of classes might be indefinitely extended. Mr. Gobineau thought three classes sufficient to answer every purpose, and these he calls respectively the white, yellow, and black. Mr. Latham,[21] the great ethnographer, adopts a system almost precisely similar to our author's, and upon grounds entirely different. Though, for my own part, I should prefer a greater number of primary divisions, I confess that this coincidence of opinion in two men, pursuing, independent of, and unknown to each other, different paths of investigation, is a strong evidence of the correctness of their system, which, moreover, has the merit of great simplicity and clearness. It must be borne in mind that the races comprised under these divisions, are by no means to be considered equal among themselves. We should lay it down as a general truth, that while the entire groups differ principally in _degree_ of intellectual capacity, the races comprised in each differ among themselves rather in kind. Thus, we assert upon the testimony of history, that the white races are superior to the yellow; and these, in turn, to the black. But the Lithuanian and the Anglo-Saxon both belong to the same group of races, and yet, history shows that they differ; so do the Samoyede and the Chinese, the negro of Lower Guinea, and the Fellah. These differences, observable among nations classed under the same head, as, for instance, the difference between the Russians and Italians (both white), we express in every day's language by the word "genius." Thus, we constantly hear persons speak of the artistic, administrative, nautical genius of the Greeks, Romans, and Phenicians, respectively; or, such phrases as these, which I borrow from Mr. Gobineau: "Napoleon rightly understood the _genius_ of his nation when he reinstated the Church, and placed the supreme authority on a secure basis; Charles I. and his adviser did not, when they attempted to bend the neck of Englishmen under the yoke of absolutism." But, as the word _genius_ applied to the capacities or tendencies of a nation, in general implies either too much or too little, it has been found convenient, in this work, to substitute for it another term--_instinct_. By the use of this word, it was not intended to assimilate man to the brute, to express aught differing from intellect or the reasoning capacity; but only to designate the peculiar manner in which that intellect or reasoning capacity manifests itself; in other words, the special adaptation of a nation for the part assigned to it in the world's history; and, as this part is performed involuntarily and, for the most part, unconsciously, the term was deemed neither improper nor inappropriate. I do not, however, contend for its correctness, though I could cite the authority of high names for its use in this sense; I contend merely for its convenience, for we thereby gain an easy method of making distinctions of _kind_ in the mental endowments of races, in cases where we would hesitate to make distinctions of _degree_. In fact, it is saying of multitudes only what we say of an individual by speaking of his _talent_; with this difference, however, that by talent we understand excellency of a certain order, while instinct applies to every grade. Two persons of equal intellectual calibre may have, one a talent for mathematics, the other for literature; that is, one can exhibit his intellect to advantage only in calculation, the other only in writing. Thus, of two nations standing equally high in the intellectual scale, one shall be distinguished for the high perfection attained in the fine arts, the other for the same perfection in the useful. At the risk of wearying the reader with my definitions, I must yet inflict on him another which is essential to the right understanding of the following pages. In common parlance, the terms _nation_ and _people_ have become strictly synonymous. We speak indifferently of the French people, or the French nation; the English people, or the English nation. If we make any distinction at all, we perhaps designate by the first expression the masses; by the second, rather the sovereignty. Thus, we say the French people are versatile, the French nation is at war with Russia. But even this distinction is not always made. My purpose is to restore the word nation to its original signification, in which it expresses the same as the word race, including, besides, the idea of some sort of political organization. It is, in fact, nothing but the Latin equivalent of that word, and was applied, like tribe, to a collection of individuals not only living under the same government, but also claiming a closer consanguinity to one another than to their neighbors. It differs from tribe only in this respect, that it is applied to greater multitudes, as for instance to a coalescence of several closely-allied tribes, which gives rise to more complicated political forms. It might therefore be defined by an ethnologist as _a population consisting of homogeneous ethnical elements_. The word _people_, on the contrary, when applied to an aggregation of individuals living under the same government, implies no immediate consanguineous ties among them. _Nation_ does not necessarily imply political unity; _people_, always. Thus, we speak of the Greek _nation_, though the Greeks were divided into a number of independent and very dissimilar sovereignties; but, we say the Roman _people_, though the whole population of the empire obeyed the same supreme head. The Russian empire contains within its limits, besides the Russians proper, an almost equal number of Cossacks, Calmucks, Tartars, Fins, and a number of other races, all very different from one another and still more so from the Russians, not only in language and external appearance, but in manners, modes of thinking: in one word, in instincts. By the expression Russian people I should therefore understand the whole population of that empire; by Russian nation, only the dominant race to which the Czar belongs. It is hardly possible to exaggerate the importance of keeping in view this distinction, as I shall prove by another instance. The Hungarian people are very nearly equally divided (exclusive of about one million Germans) into two nations, the Magyars and the Sclaves. Not only have these two, though for centuries occupying the same soil, remained unmixed and distinct, but the most intense antipathy exists between them, which only requires an occasion to display itself in acts of bloodshed and relentless cruelty, that would make the tenants of hell shudder. Such an occasion was the recent revolution, in which, while the Magyars fought like lions for their independence, the Sclaves, knowing that they would not participate in any advantage the others might gain, proved more formidable opponents than the Austrians.[22] If I have been successful in my discrimination between the two words, it follows plainly that a member of one nation, strictly speaking, can no more become a member of another by process of law, than a man, by adopting a child, can make it the fruit of his loins. This rule, though correct in the abstract, does not always apply to individual cases; but these, as has already been remarked, cannot be made the groundwork of general deductions. In conclusion of this somewhat digressional definition, I would observe that, owing to the great intermixture of the European populations, produced by their various and intimate mutual relations, it does not apply with the same force to them as to others, and this I regard as the reason why the signification of the word has become modified. If we will carefully examine the history of great empires, we shall be able, in almost every instance, to trace their beginning to the activity of what, in the strictest sense of the word, may be called a nation. Gradually, as the sphere of that nation expands, it incorporates, and in course of time amalgamates with foreign elements. Nimrod, we learn from sacred history, established the Assyrian empire. At first, this consisted of but little more than the city of Babylon, and must necessarily have contained a very homogeneous population, if from no other cause than its narrow geographical limits. At the dawn of profane history, however, we find this empire extending over boundless tracts, and uniting under one rule tribes and nations of the most dissimilar manners and tongues. The Assyrian empire fell, and that of the Medes rose on its ruins. The Median monarchy had an humble beginning. Dejoces, says tradition, united the independent tribes of the Medes. Later, we find them ruling nations whose language they did not understand, whose manners they despised. The Persian empire exceeded in grandeur its mighty predecessors. Originating in a rebellion of a few liberty-loving tribes, concerted and successfully executed by a popular leader (Cyrus), two generations of rulers extended its boundaries to the banks of the Nile. In Alexander's time, it was a conglomeration of a countless number of nations, many of whom remained under their hereditary rulers while rendering allegiance, and paying tribute to the great king. I pass over the Macedonian empire, as of too short a duration to be a fair illustration. The germ of the Roman empire consisted of a coalescence of very closely allied tribes: Romulus's band of adventurers (who must have come from neighboring communities), the Sabines, Albans, and Latins. At the period of its downfall, it ruled, at least nominally, over every then known race. In all these instances, the number of which might be further increased, we find homogeneousness of population at first, ethnical mixture and confusion at the end. "But what does this prove? will be asked. That too great an extension of territory is the cause of weakness? The idea is old, and out of date in our times, when steam and electricity bring the outskirts of the largest empire in closer proximity than formerly were the frontiers of the humblest sovereignty." Extension of territory does not itself prove a cause of weakness and ruin. The largest empire in the world is that of China, and, without steam or electricity, it has maintained itself for 4,000 years, and bids fair, spite of the present revolution, to last a good long while yet. But, when extension of territory is attended with the incorporation of heterogeneous masses, having different interests, different instincts, from the conqueror, then indeed the extension must be an element of weakness, and not of strength. The armies which Xerxes led into Greece were not Persians; but a small fragment of that motley congregation, the _élite_, the leaven of the whole mass, was composed of the king's countrymen. Upon this small body he placed his principal reliance, and when, at the fatal battle of Salamis, he beheld the slaughter of that valiant and noble band, though he had hundreds of thousands yet at his command, he rent his garments and fled a country which he had well-nigh conquered. Here is the difference between the armies of Cyrus and those of Xerxes and Darius. The rabbles which obeyed the latter, perhaps contained as much valor as the ranks of the enthusiastic followers of the first, though the fact of their fighting under Persian standards might be considered as a proof of their inferiority. But what interest had they in the success of the great king? To forge still firmer their own fetters? Could the name of Cyrus, the remembrance of the storming of Sardis, the siege of Babylon, the conquest of Egypt, fire them with enthusiasm? Perhaps, in some of those glorious events, their forefathers became slaves to the tyrants they now serve, tyrants whose very language they do not understand. The last armies of tottering Rome were drafted from every part of her boundless dominions, and of the men who were sent to oppose the threatening barbarians of the north, some, it might be, felt the blood of humbled Greece in their veins; some had been torn from a distant home in Egypt, or Libya; others, perhaps, remembered with pride how their ancestors had fought the Romans in the times of Juba, or Mithridates; others, again, boiled with indignation at the oppression of their Gallic brethren;--could those men respect the glorious traditions of Rome, could they be supposed to emulate the former legions of the proud city? It is not, then, an extensive territory that ruins nations; it is a diversity of instincts, a clashing of interests among the various parts of the population. When each province is isolated in feelings and interests from every other, no external foe is wanted to complete the ruin. Ambitious and adroit men will soon arise who know how to play upon these interests, and employ them for the promotion of their own schemes. Nations, in the various stages of their career, have often been compared to individuals. They have, it is said, their period of infancy, of youth, of manhood, of old age. But the similitude, however striking, is not extended further, and, while individuals die a natural death, nations are supposed always to come to a violent end. Probably, we do not like to concede that all nations, like all individuals, must ultimately die a natural death, even though no disease anticipates it; because we dislike to recognize a rule which must apply to us as well. Each nation fancies its own vitality imperishable. When we are young, we seldom seriously think of death; in the same manner, societies in the period of their youthful vigor and energy, cannot conceive the possibility of their dissolution. In old age and decrepitude, they are like the consumptive patient, who, while fell disease is severing the last thread that binds him to the earth, is still forming plans for years to come. Falling Rome dreamed herself eternal. Yet, the mortality of nations admits of precisely the same proof as that of individuals--universal experience. The great empires that overshadowed the world, where are they? The memory of some is perpetuated in the hearts of mankind by imperishable monuments; of others, the slightest trace is obliterated, the vaguest remembrance vanished. As the great individual intelligences, whose appearance marks an era in the history of human thought, live in the minds of posterity, even though no gorgeous tombstone points out the resting-place of their hull of clay; while the mausoleum of him whose grandeur was but temporary, whose influence transient only, carries no meaning on its sculptured surface to after ages; even so the ancient civilizations which adorned the globe, if their monuments be not in the domain of thought, their gigantic vestiges serve but to excite the wonder of the traveller and antiquary, and perplex the historian. Their sepulchres, however grand, are mute.[23] Many have been the attempts to detect the causes why nations die, in order to prevent that catastrophe; as the physicians of the Middle Ages, who thought death was always the consequence of disease, sought for the panacea that was to cure all ills and thus prolong life forever. But nations, like individuals, often survive the severest attacks of the most formidable disease, and die without sickness. In ancient times, those great catastrophes which annihilated the political existence of millions, were regarded as direct interpositions of Providence, visiting in its wrath the sins of a nation, and erecting a warning example for others; just as the remarkable destruction of a noted individual, or the occurrence of an unusual phenomenon was, and by many is even now, ascribed to the same immediate agency. But when philosophy discovered that the universe is governed by pre-established, immutable laws, and refused to credit miracles not sanctioned by religion; then the dogma gained ground that punishment follows the commission of sin, as effect does the cause; and national calamities had to be explained by other reasons. It was then said, nations die of luxury, immorality, bad government, irreligion, etc. In other words, success was made the test of excellency and failure of crime. If, in individual life, we were to lay it down as an infallible rule, that he who commits no excesses lives forever, or at least very long; and he who does, will immediately die; that he who is honest in his dealings, will always prosper more than he who is not; we should have a very fluctuating standard of morality, since it has pleased God to sometimes try the good by severe afflictions, and let the wicked prosper. We should therefore be often called upon to admire what is deserving of contempt or punishment, and to seek for guilt in the innocent. This is what we do in nations. Wicked institutions have been called good, because they were attended with success; good ones have been pronounced bad, because they failed. A more critical study of history has demonstrated the fallibility of this theory, which is now in a great measure discarded, and another adopted in its stead. It is argued that, at a certain period in its existence, a nation infallibly becomes degenerated, and thus falls. But, asks Mr. Gobineau, what is degeneracy? A nation is said to be degenerated when the virtues of its ancestry are lost. But why are they lost? Because the nation is degenerated. Is not this like the reasoning in the child's story-book: Why is Jack a bad boy? Because he disobeys his parents. Why does he disobey his parents? Because he is a bad boy. It is necessary, then, to show what degeneracy is. This step in advance, Mr. Gobineau attempts to make. He shows that each race is distinguished by certain capabilities, which, if its civilizing genius is sufficiently strong to enable it to assume a rank among the nations of the world, determine the character of its social and political development. Like the Phenicians, it may become the merchant and barterer of the world; or, like the Greeks, the teacher of future generations; or, like the Romans, the model-giver of laws and forms. Its part in the drama of history may be an humble one or a proud, but it is always proportionate to its powers. These powers, and the instincts or aspirations which spring from them, never change as long as the race remains pure. They progress and develop themselves, but never alter their nature. The purposes of the race are always the same. It may arrive at great perfection in the useful arts, but, without infiltration of a different element, will never be distinguished for poetry, painting, sculpture, etc.; and _vice versa_. Its nature may be belligerent, and it will always find causes for quarrel; or it may be pacific, and then it will manage to live at peace, or fall a prey to a neighbor. In the same manner, the government of a race will be in accordance with its instincts, and here I have the weighty authority of the author of _Democracy in America_, in my favor, and the author's whom I am illustrating. "A government," says De Tocqueville,[24] "retains its sway over a great number of citizens, far less by the voluntary and rational consent of the multitude, than by that _instinctive_, and, to a certain extent, involuntary agreement, which results from similarity of feelings, and resemblances of opinions. I will never admit that men constitute a social body, simply because they obey the same head and the same laws. A society can exist only when a great number of men consider a great number of things in the same point of view; when they hold the same opinions upon many subjects, and when the same occurrences suggest the same thoughts and impressions to their minds." The laws and government of a nation are always an accurate reflex of its manners and modes of thinking. "If, at first, it would appear," says Mr. Gobineau, "as if, in some cases, they were the production of some superior individual intellect, like the great law-givers of antiquity; let the facts be more carefully examined, and it will be found that the law-giver--if wise and judicious--has contented himself with consulting the genius of his nation, and giving a voice to the common sentiment. If, on the contrary, he be a theorist like Draco, his system remains a dead letter, soon to be superseded by the more judicious institutions of a Solon who aims to give to his countrymen, not the best laws possible, but the best he thinks them capable of receiving." It is a great and a very general error to suppose that the sense of a nation will always decide in favor of what we term "popular" institutions, that is to say, such in which each individual shares more or less immediately in the government. Its genius may tend to the establishment of absolute authority, and in that case the autocrat is but an impersonation of the _vox populi_, by which he must be guided in his policy. If he be too deaf or rash to listen to it, his own ruin will be the inevitable consequence, but the nation persists in the same career. The meaning of the word degeneracy is now obvious. This inevitable evil is concealed in the very successes to which a nation owes its splendor. Whether, like the Persians, Romans, &c., it is swallowed up and absorbed by the multitudes its arms have subjected, or whether the ethnical mixture proceeds in a peaceful manner, the result is the same. Even where no foreign conquests add suddenly hundreds of thousands of a foreign population to the original mass, the fertility of uncultivated fields, the opulence of great commercial cities, and all the advantages to be found in the bosom of a rising nation, accomplish it, if in a less perceptible, in a no less certain manner. The two young nations of the world are now the United States and Russia. See the crowds which are thronging over the frontiers of both. Both already count their foreign population by millions. As the original population--the initiatory element of the whole mass--has no additions to its numbers but its natural increase, it follows that the influent elements must, in course of time, be of equal strength, and the influx still continuing, finally absorb it altogether. Sometimes a nation establishes itself upon the basis of a much more numerous conquered population, as in the case of the Frankish conquerors of Gaul; then the amalgamation of ranks and classes produces the same results as foreign immigration. It is clear that each new ethnical element brings with it its own characteristics or instincts, and according to the relative strength of these will be the modifications in government, social relations, and the whole tendencies of the race. The modifications may be for the better, they may be for the worse; they may be very gradual, or very sudden, according to the merit and power of the foreign influence; but in course of time they will amount to radical, positive changes, and then the original nation has ceased to exist. This is the natural death of human societies. Sometimes they expire gently and almost imperceptibly; oftener with a convulsion and a crash. I shall attempt to explain my meaning by a familiar simile. A mansion is built which in all respects suits the taste and wants of the owner. Succeeding generations find it too small, too dark, or otherwise ill adapted to their purposes. Respect for their progenitor, and family association, prevent, at first, very extensive changes, still each one makes some; and as these associations grow fainter, the changes become more radical, until at last nothing of the old house remains. But if it had previously passed into the hands of a stranger, who had none of these associations to venerate and respect, he would probably have pulled it down at once and built another. An empire, then, falls, when the vitalizing principle which gave it birth is exhausted; when its parts are connected by none but artificial ties, and artificial ties are all those which unite races possessed of different instincts. This idea is expressed in the beautiful image of the inspired prophet, when he tells the mighty king that great truth, which so many refuse to believe, that all earthly kingdoms must perish until "the God of Heaven set up a kingdom which shall never be destroyed."[25] "Thou, O king, sawest, and behold a great image. This great image, whose brightness was excellent, stood before thee, and the form thereof was terrible. This image's head was of fine gold, his breast and his arms of silver, his belly and his thighs of brass, his legs of iron, his feet part of iron and part of clay. Thou sawest till that a stone was cut without hands, which smote the image upon his feet that were of iron and clay, and brake them to pieces. Then was the iron, the clay, the brass, the silver, and the gold, broken to pieces together, and became like the chaff of the summer threshing-floors; and the wind carried them away, that no place was found for them."[26] I have now illustrated, to the best of my abilities, several of the most important propositions of Mr. Gobineau, and attempted to sustain them by arguments and examples different from those used by the author. For a more perfect exposition I must refer the reader to the body of the work. My purpose was humbly to clear away such obstacles as the author has left in the path, and remove difficulties that escaped his notice. The task which I have set myself, would, however, be far from accomplished, were I to pass over what I consider a serious error on his part, in silence and without an effort at emendation. Civilization, says Mr. Gobineau, arises from the combined action and mutual reaction of man's moral aspirations, and the pressure of his material wants. This, in a general sense, is obviously true. But let us see the practical application. I shall endeavor to give a concise abstract of his views, and then to point out where and why he errs. In some races, says he, the spiritual aspirations predominate over their physical desires, in others it is the reverse. In none are either entirely wanting. According to the relative proportion and intensity of either of these influences, which counteract and yet assist each other, the tendency of the civilization varies. If either is possessed in but a feeble degree, or if one of them so greatly outweighs the other as to completely neutralize its effects, there is no civilization, and never can be one until the race is modified by intermixture with one of higher endowments. But if both prevail to a sufficient extent, the preponderance of either one determines the character of the civilization. In the Chinese, it is the material tendency that prevails, in the Hindoo the other. Consequently we find that in China, civilization is principally directed towards the gratification of physical wants, the perfection of material well-being. In other words, it is of an eminently utilitarian character, which discourages all speculation not susceptible of immediate practical application. This well describes the Chinese, and is precisely the picture which M. Huc, who has lived among them for many years, and has enjoyed better opportunities for studying their genius than any other writer, gives of them in his late publication.[27] Hindoo culture, on the contrary, displays a very opposite tendency. Among that nation, everything is speculative, nothing practical. The toils of human intellect are in the regions of the abstract where the mind often loses itself in depths beyond its sounding. The material wants are few and easily supplied. If great works are undertaken, it is in honor of the gods, so that even their physical labor bears homage to the invisible rather than the visible world. This also is a tolerably correct picture. He therefore divides all races into these two categories, taking the Chinese as the type of the one and the Hindoos as that of the other. According to him, the yellow races belong pre-eminently to the former, the black to the latter, while the white are distinguished by a greater intensity and better proportion of the qualities of both. But this division, and no other is consistent with the author's proposition, by assuming that in the black races the moral preponderates over the physical tendency, comes in direct conflict not only with the plain teachings of anatomy, but with all we know of the history of those races. I shall attempt to show wherein Mr. Gobineau's error lies, an error from the consequences of which I see no possibility for him to escape, and suggest an emendation which, so far from invalidating his general position, tends rather to confirm and strengthen it. In doing so, I am actuated by the belief that even if I err, I may be useful by inviting others more capable to the task of investigation. Suggestions on important subjects, if they serve no other purpose than to provoke inquiry, are never useless. The alchemists of the Middle Ages, in their frivolous pursuit of impossibilities, discovered many invaluable secrets of nature and laid the foundation of that science which, by explaining the intimate mutual action of all natural bodies, has become the indispensable handmaiden of almost every other. The error, it seems to me, lies in the same confusion of distinct ideas, to which I had already occasion to advert. In ordinary language, we speak of the physical and moral nature of man, terming physical whatever relates to his material, and moral what relates to his immaterial being. Again, we speak of _mind_, and though in theory we consider it as a synonyme of soul, in practical application it has a very different signification. A person may cultivate his mind without benefiting his soul, and the term _a superior mind_, does not necessarily imply moral excellency. That mental qualifications or acquisitions are in no way connected with sound morality or true piety, I have pointed out before. Should any further illustrations be necessary, I might remark that the greatest monsters that blot the page of history, have been, for the most part, men of what are called superior minds, of great intellectual attainments. Indeed, wickedness is seldom very dangerous, unless joined to intellect, as the common sense of mankind has expressed in the adage that a fool is seldom a knave. We daily see men perverting the highest mental gifts to the basest purposes, a fact which ought to be carefully weighed by those who believe that education consists in the cultivation of the intellect only. I therefore consider the moral endowments of man as practically different from the mental or intellectual, at least in their manifestations, if not in their essence. To define my idea more clearly, let me attempt to explain the difference between what I term the moral and the intellectual nature of man. I am aware of the dangerous nature of the ground I am treading, but shall nevertheless make the attempt to show that it is in accordance with the spirit of religion to consider what in common parlance is called the moral attributes of man, and which would be better expressed by the word _psychical_, as divisible into two, the strictly moral, and the intellectual. The former is what leads man to look beyond his earthly existence, and gives even the most brutish savage some vague idea of a Deity. I am making no rash or unfounded assertion when I declare, Mr. Locke's weighty opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, that no tribe has ever been discovered in which some notion of this kind, however rude, was wanting, and I consider it innate--a yearning, as it were, of the soul towards the regions to which it belongs. The feeling of religion is implanted in our breast; it is not a production of the intellect, and this the Christian church confirms when it declares that _faith_ we owe to the grace of God. Intellect is that faculty of soul by which it takes cognizance of, classes and compares the facts of the _material_ world. As all perceptions are derived through the senses, it follows that upon the nicety of these its powers must in a great measure depend. The vigor and delicacy of the nerves, and the size and texture of the brain in which they all centre, form what we call native intellectual gifts. Hence, when the body is impaired, the mind suffers; "mens sana in corpore sano;" hence, a fever prostrates, and may forever destroy, the most powerful intellect; a glass of wine may dim and distort it. Here, then, is the grand distinction between soul and mind. The latter, human wickedness may annihilate; the former, man killeth not. I should wish to enter more fully upon this investigation, not new, indeed, in speculative science, yet new in the application I purpose to make of it, were it not for fear of wearying my reader, to whom my only apology can be, that the discussion is indispensable to the proper investigation of the moral and intellectual diversities of races. When I say moral diversities, I do not mean that man's moral endowments, strictly speaking, are unequal. This assertion I am not prepared to make, because--as religion is accessible and comprehensible to them all--it may be supposed that these are in all cases equal. But I mean that the manifestation of these moral endowments varies, owing to causes which I am now about to consider. I have said that the moral nature of man leads him to look beyond the confines of the material world. This, when not assisted by revelation, he attempts to do by means of his intellect. The intellect is, as it were, the visual organ by which the soul scans the abyss between the present and the future existence. According to the dimness or brightness of this mental eye, are his perceptions. If the intellectual capacity is weak, he is content with a grovelling conception of the Deity; if powerful, he erects an elaborate fabric of philosophical speculations. But, as the Almighty has decreed that human intellect, even in its sublimest flight, cannot soar to His presence; it follows that the most elaborate fabric of the philosopher is still a _human_ fabric, that the most perfect human theology is still _human_, and hence--the necessity of revelation. This divine light, which His mercy has vouchsafed us, dispenses with, and eclipses, the feeble glimmerings of human intellect. It illumines as well the soul of the rude savage as of the learned theologian; of the illiterate as of the erudite. Nay, very often the former has the advantage, for the erudite philosopher is prone to think his own lamp all-sufficient. If it be objected that a highly cultivated mind, if directed to rightful purposes, will assist in gaining a _nobler_ conception of the Deity, I shall not contradict, for in the study of His works, we learn still more to admire the Maker. But I insist that true piety can, and does exist without it, and let those who trust so much in their own powers beware lest they lean upon a broken staff. The strictly moral attributes of man, therefore, those attributes which enable him to communicate with his Maker, are common--probably in equal degree--to all men, and to all races of men. But his communications with the external world depend on his physical conformation. The body is the connecting link between the spirit and the material world, and, by its intimate relations to both, specially adapted to be the means of communication between them. There seems to me nothing irrational or irreligious in the doctrine that, according to the perfectness of this means of communication, must be the intercourse between the two. A person with dull auditory organs can never appreciate music, and whatever his talents otherwise may be, can never become a Meyerbeer or a Mozart. Upon quickness of perception, power of analysis and combination, perseverance and endurance, depend our intellectual faculties, both in their degree and their kind; and are not they blunted or otherwise modified in a morbid state of the body? I consider it therefore established beyond dispute, that a certain general physical conformation is productive of corresponding mental characteristics. A human being, whom God has created with a negro's skull and general _physique_, can never equal one with a Newton's or a Humboldt's cranial development, though the soul of both is equally precious in the eyes of the Lord, and should be in the eyes of all his followers. There is no tendency to materialism in this idea; I have no sympathy with those who deny the existence of the soul, because they cannot find it under the scalpel, and I consider the body not the mental agent, but the servant, the tool. It is true that science has not discovered, and perhaps never will discover, what physical differences correspond to the differences in individual minds. Phrenology, starting with brilliant promises, and bringing to the task powers of no mean order, has failed. But there is a vast difference between the characteristics by which we distinguish individuals of the same race, and those by which we distinguish races themselves. The former are not strictly--at least not immediately--hereditary, for the child most often differs from both parents in body and mind, because no two individuals, as no two leaves of one tree, are precisely alike. But, although every oak-leaf differs from its fellow, we know the leaf of the oak-tree from that of the beech, or every other; and, in the same manner, races are distinguished by peculiarities which are hereditary and permanent. Thus, every negro differs from every other negro, else we could not tell them apart; yet all, if pure blood, have the same characteristics in common that distinguish them from the white. I have been prolix, but intentionally so, in my discrimination between individual distinction and those of race, because of the latter, comparative anatomy takes cognizance; the former are left to phrenology, and I wished to remove any suspicion that in the investigation of moral and intellectual diversities of races, recourse must be had to the ill-authenticated speculations of a dubious science. But, from the data of comparative anatomy, attained by a slow and cautious progress, we deduce that races are distinguished by certain permanent physical characteristics; and, if these physical characteristics correspond to the mental, it follows as an obvious conclusion that the latter are permanent also. History ratifies the conclusion, and the common sense of mankind practically acquiesces in it. To return, then, to our author. I would add to his two elements of civilization a third--intellect _per se_; or rather, to speak more correctly, I would subdivide one of his elements into two, of which one is probably dependent on physical conformation. The combinations will then be more complex, but will remove every difficulty. I remarked that although we may consider all races as possessed of equal moral endowments, we yet may speak of moral diversities; because, without the light of revelation, man has nothing but his intellect whereby to compass the immaterial world, and the manifestation of his moral faculties must therefore be in proportion to the clearness of his intellectual, and their preponderance over the animal tendencies. The three I consider as existing about in the following relative proportions in the three great groups under which Mr. Gobineau and Mr. Latham[28] have arranged the various races--a classification, however, which, as I already observed, I cannot entirely approve. BLACK RACES, OR YELLOW RACES, OR WHITE RACES, OR ATLANTID�.[29] MONGOLID�.[29] JAPETID�.[29] INTELLECT Feeble Mediocre Vigorous. ANIMAL } PROPENSITIES } Very strong Moderate Strong. MORAL } Partially Comparatively Highly MANIFESTATIONS } latent developed cultivated. But the races comprised in each group vary among themselves, if not with regard to the relative proportion in which they possess the elements of civilization, at least in their intensity. The following formulas will, I think, apply to the majority of cases, and, at the same time, bring out my idea in a clearer light:-- If the animal propensities are strongly developed, and not tempered by the intellectual faculties, the moral conceptions must be exceedingly low, because they necessarily depend on the clearness, refinement, and comprehensiveness of the ideas derived from the material world through the senses. The religious cravings will, therefore, be contented with a gross worship of material objects, and the moral sense degenerate into a grovelling superstition. The utmost elevation which a population, so constituted, can reach, will be an unconscious impersonation of the good aspirations and the evil tendencies of their nature under the form of a good and an evil spirit, to the latter of which absurd and often bloody homage is paid. Government there can be no other than the right which force gives to the strong, and its forms will be slavery among themselves, and submissiveness of all to a tyrannical absolutism. When the same animal propensities are combined with intellect of a higher order, the moral faculties have more room for action. The penetration of intellect will not be long in discovering that the gratification of physical desires is easiest and safest in a state of order and stability. Hence a more complex system of legislation both social and political. The conceptions of the Deity will be more elevated and refined, though the idea of a future state will probably be connected with visions of material enjoyment, as in the paradise of the Mohammedans. Where the animal propensities are weak and the intellect feeble, a vegetating national life results. No political organization, or of the very simplest kind. Few laws, for what need of restraining passions which do not exist. The moral sense content with the vague recognition of a superior being, to whom few or no rites are rendered. But when the animal propensities are so moderate as to be subordinate to an intellect more or less vigorous, the moral aspirations will yearn towards the regions of the abstract. Religion becomes a system of metaphysics, and often loses itself in the mazes of its own subtlety. The political organization and civil legislation will be simple, for there are few passions to restrain; but the laws which regulate social intercourse will be many and various, and supposed to emanate directly from the Deity. Strong animal passions, joined to an intellect equally strong, allow the greatest expanse for the moral sense. Political organizations the most complex and varied, social and civil laws the most studied, will be the outward character of a society composed of such elements. Internally we shall perceive the greatest contrasts of individual goodness and wickedness. Religion will be a symbolism of human passions and the natural elements for the many, an ingenious fabric of moral speculations for the few. I have here rapidly sketched a series of pictures from nature, which the historian and ethnographer will not fail to recognize. Whether the features thus cursorily delineated are owing to the causes to which I ascribe them, I must leave for the reader to decide. My space is too limited to allow of my entering into an elaborate argumentation. But I would observe that, by taking this view of the subject, we can understand why all human--and therefore false--religions are so intimately connected with the social and political organization of the peoples which profess them, and why they are so plainly mapped out on the globe as belonging to certain races, to whom alone they are applicable, and beyond whose area they cannot extend: while Christianity knows no political or social forms, no geographical or ethnological limits. The former, being the productions of human intellect, must vary with its variation, and perish in its decay, while revelation is universal and immutable, like the Intelligence of which it is the emanation. It is time now to conclude the task, the accomplishment of which has carried me far beyond the limits I had at first proposed to myself. If I have so long detained the reader on the threshold of the edifice, it was to facilitate his after progress, and to give him a chart, that he may not lose himself in the vast field it covers. There he may often meet me again, and if I be sometimes deemed officious with my proffered explanations, he will at least give me credit for good intentions, and he may, if he chooses, pass me without recognition. Both this introduction and notes in the body of the work were thought necessary for several reasons. First, the subject is in some measure a new one, and it was important to guard against misconception, and show, right at the beginning, what was attempted to be proved, and in what manner. Secondly, the author wrote for a European public, and many allusions are made, or positions taken, upon an assumed knowledge of facts, of which the general reader on this side of the ocean can be supposed to have but a slight and vague apprehension. Thirdly, the author has, in many cases, contented himself with abstract reasoning, and therefore is sometimes chargeable with obscureness, on which account familiar illustrations have been supplied. Fourthly, the volume now presented to the reader is one of a series of four, the remainder of which, if this meets the public approbation, may in time appear in an English garb. But it was important to make this, as much as possible, independent of the others and complete in itself. The discussion of the moral and intellectual diversities of the various groups of the human family, is, as I have before shown, totally independent of the question of unity or diversity of species; yet, as it increases the interest attached to the solution of that question, which has been but imperfectly discussed by the author, my esteemed friend, Dr. J. C. Nott, who has so often and so ably treated the subject, has promised to furnish, in notes and an appendix, such additional facts pertaining to his province as a naturalist, as may assist the reader in arriving at a correct opinion. With regard to the translation, it must be observed that it is not a _literal_ rendering of the original. The translator has aimed rather at giving the meaning, than the exact words or phraseology of the author, at no time, however, departing from the former. He has, in some instances, condensed or omitted what seemed irrelevant, or useless to the discussion of the question in this country, and in a few cases, he has transposed a sentence to a different part of the paragraph, where it seemed more in its place, and more effective. To explain and justify these alterations, we must remind our readers that the author wrote for a public essentially different from that of the translator; that continental writers on grave subjects are in general more intent upon vindicating their opinions than the form in which they express them, and seldom devote that attention to style which English or American readers expect; to which may be added that Count Gobineau wrote in the midst of a multiplicity of diplomatic affairs, and had no time, even if he had thought it worth his while, to give his work that literary finish which would satisfy the fastidious. Had circumstances permitted, this translation would have been submitted to his approbation, but at the time of its going to press he is engaged in the service of his country at the court of Persia. * * * * * For obtruding the present work on the notice of the American public, no apology will be required. The subject is one of immense importance, and especially in this country, where it can seldom be discussed without adventitious circumstances biassing the inquirers. To the philanthropist, the leading idea of the book, "that different races, like different individuals, are specially fitted for special purposes, for the fulfilment of which they are accountable in the measure laid down in Holy Writ: 'To whom much is given, from him much will be asked,' and that they are _equal_ only when they truly and faithfully perform the duties of their station"--to the philanthropist, this idea must be fraught with many valuable suggestions. So far from loosening the ties of brotherhood, it binds them closer, because it teaches us not to despise those who are endowed differently from us; and shows us that they, too, may have excellencies which we have not. To the statesman, the student of history, and the general reader, it is hoped that this volume will not be altogether useless, and may assist to a better understanding of many of the problems that have so long puzzled the philosopher. The greatest revolutions in national relations have been accomplished by the migrations of races, the most calamitous wars that have desolated the globe have been the result of the hostility of races. Even now, a cloud is lowering in the horizon. The friend of peace and order watches it with silent anxiety, lest he hasten its coming. The spirit of mischief exults in its approach, but fears to betray his plans. Thus, western and central Europe now present the spectacle of a lull before the storm. Monarchs sit trembling on their thrones, while nations mutter curses. Nor have premonitory symptoms been wanting. Three times, within little more than half a century, have the eruptions of that ever-burning political volcano--France--shaken the social and political system of the civilized world, and shown the amount of combustible materials, which all the efforts of a ruling class cannot always protect from ignition. The grand catastrophe may come within our times. And, is it the result of any particular social condition, the action of any particular class in the social scale, the diffusion of any particular political principles? No, because the revolutionary tendencies are various, and even opposite; if republican in one place, monarchical in another; if democratic in France, aristocratic in Poland. Nor is it a particular social class wherein the revolutionary principle flourishes, for the classes which, in one country, wish subversion, in another, are firmly attached to the established order of things. The poor in Germany are proletarians and revolutionists; in Spain, Portugal, and Italy, the enthusiastic lovers of their king. The better classes in the former country are mostly conservative; in the latter, they are the makers, or rather attempters, of revolutions. Nor is it any particular social condition, for no class is so degraded as it has been; never was poverty less, and prosperity greater in Europe than in the present century; and everywhere the political institutions are more liberal than ever before. Whence, then, this gathering storm? Does it exist only in the minds of the visionary, or is it a mere bugbear of the timorous? Ask the prudent statesman, the traveller who pierces the different strata of the population; look behind the grates of the State-prisons; count--if this be possible--the number of victims of military executions in Germany and Austria, in 1848 and 1849; read the fearful accounts of the taking of Vienna, of Rome, of Ancona, of Venice, during the same short space of time. Everywhere the same cry: Nationality. It is not the temporary ravings of a mob rendered frantic by hunger and misery. It is a question of nationality, a war of races. Happy we who are removed from the immediate scene of the struggle, and can be but remotely affected by it. Yet, while I write, it seems as though the gales of the Atlantic had blown to our peaceful shores some taints of the epidemic that rages in the Old World. May it soon pass over, and a healthy atmosphere again prevail! H. H. MOBILE, Aug. 20, 1855. FOOTNOTES: [1] _Researches into the Physical History of Mankind_. By James Cowles Prichard, M. D., London, 1841. Vol. i. p. 1. [2] "Mr. Prichard's _permanent variety_, from his own definition, is to all intents and purposes _a species_."--_Kneeland's Introduction to Hamilton Smith's Natural History of the Human Species_, p. 84. [3] Smith's Wealth of Nations, Amer. ed., vol. i. p. 29. [4] _Vide_ Bigland's Effects of Physical and Moral Causes on the Character and Circumstances of Nations. London, 1828, p. 282. [5] _Op. cit._, p. 7. [6] St. Matthew, ch. xi. v. 25. [7] _Vide_ Prichard's _Natural History of Man_, p. 66, _et passim_. "His theory," says Van Amringe, "required that animals should be analogous to man. It was therefore highly important that, as he was then laying the foundation for all his future arguments and conclusions, he should elevate animals to the proper eminence, to be analogous; rather than, as Mr. Lawrence did, sink man to the level of brutes. It was an ingenious contrivance by which he could gain all the advantages, and escape the censures of the learned lecturer. It is so simple a contrivance, too--merely substituting the word 'psychological' for 'instinctive characteristics,' and the whole animal kingdom would instantly rise to the proper platform, to be the types of the human family. To get the psychology of men and animals thus related, without the trouble of philosophically accomplishing so impossible a thing, by the mere use of a word, was an ingenious, though not an ingenuous achievement. It gave him a specious right to use bees and wasps, rats and dogs, sheep, goats, and rabbits--in short, the whole animal kingdom--as human psychical analogues, which would be amazingly convenient when conclusions were to be made."--_Natural History of Man_, by W. F. VAN AMRINGE. 1848, p. 459. [8] This fact is considered by Dr. Nott as a proof of _specific_ difference among dogs.--_Types of Mankind._ Phila., 1854. [9] In 1497, Vasco di Gama sailed around Cape Good Hope; even previous to that, Portuguese vessels had coasted along the western shores of Africa. Since that time the Europeans have subjected the whole of the American continents, southern Asia and the island world of the Pacific, while Africa is almost as unknown as it ever was. The Cape Colony is not in the original territory of the negro. Liberia and Sierra Leone contain a half-breed population, and present experiments by no means tested. It may be fairly asserted that nowhere has the power and intelligence of the white race made less impression, produced fewer results, than in the domain of the negro. [10] Roberts, the president of the Liberian Republic, boasts of but a small portion of African blood in his veins. Sequoyah, the often-cited inventor of the Cherokee alphabet, so far from being a pure Indian, was the son of a white man. [11] For the great perfection to which the Chinese have carried the luxuries and amenities of life, see particularly M. Huc's _Travels in China_. He lived among them for years, and, what few travellers do, spoke their language so fluently and perfectly that he was enabled, during a considerable number of years, to discharge the duties of a missionary, disguised as a native. [12] It would be useless to remind our readers of the famous Great Wall, the Imperial Canals, that largest of the cities of the world--Pekin. The various treatises of the Chinese on morals and politics, especially that of Confucius, have been admired by all European thinkers. _Consult Pauthier's elaborate work on China._ It is equally well known that the Chinese knew the art of printing, gunpowder and its uses, the mariner's compass, etc., centuries before we did. For the general diffusion of elementary knowledge among the Chinese, see _Davis's Sketches_, and other authors. Those who may think me a biassed panegyrist of the Chinese, I refer to the following works as among the most reliable of the vast number written on the subject:-- _Description Historique, Géographique, et Littéraire de la Chine._ Par M. G. PAUTHIER. Paris, 1839. _China Opened._ By REV. CHS. GUTZLAFF. London, 1838. _China, Political, Commercial, and Social._ By R. MONTGOMERY MARTIN. London, 1847. _Sketches of China._ By JOHN F. DAVIS. London, 1841. And above all, for amusing and instructive reading, _Journey through the Chinese Empire._ By M. HUC. New York, 1855; and _Mélanges Asiatiques._ Par ABEL REMUSAT. Paris, 1835. [13] Unwilling to introduce statistic pedantry into a composition of so humble pretensions as an introduction, I have refrained to give the figures--not always very accurate, I admit--upon which the preceding gradation is based, viz: the number of persons able to read and write in each of the above-named countries. How far England and France are behindhand in this respect, compared either with ourselves, or with other European nations, is tolerably well known; but the fact that not only in China proper, but in Thibet, Japan, Anam, Tonquin, etc., few can be found devoid of that acquirement, will probably meet with many incredulous readers, though it is mentioned by almost every traveller. (See _J. Mohl's Annual Report to the Asiatic Society_, 1851.) But, it may be safely asserted that, in the whole of that portion of Asia lying south of the Altai Mountains, including Japan, altogether the most populous region of the globe, the percentage of males unable to read and write is by far smaller than in the entire population of Europe. Be it well understood, that I do not, therefore, claim any superiority for the inhabitants of the former region over those of the latter. "In China," says M. Huc, "there are not, as in Europe, public libraries and reading-rooms; but those who have a taste for reading, and a desire to instruct themselves, can satisfy their inclinations very easily, as books are sold here at a lower price than in any other country. Besides, the Chinese find everywhere something to read; they can scarcely take a step without seeing some of the characters of which they are so proud. One may say, in fact, that all China is an immense library; for inscriptions, sentences, moral precepts, are found in every corner, written in letters of all colors and all sizes. The façades of the tribunals, the pagodas, the public monuments, the signs of the shops, the doors of the houses, the interior of the apartments, the corridors, all are full of fine quotations from the best authors. Teacups, plates, vases, fans, are so many selections of poems, often chosen with much taste, and prettily printed. A Chinese has no need to give himself much trouble in order to enjoy the finest productions of his country's literature. He need only take his pipe, and walk out, with his nose in the air, through the principal streets of the first town he comes to. Let him enter the poorest house in the most wretched village; the destitution may be complete, things the most necessary will be wanting; but he is sure of finding some fine maxims written out on strips of red paper. Thus, if those grand large characters, which look so terrific in our eyes, though they delight the Chinese, are really so difficult to learn, at least the people have the most ample opportunities of studying them, almost in play, and of impressing them ineffaceably on their memories."--_A Journey through the Chinese Empire_, vol. i. pp. 327-328. [14] Is it necessary to call to the mind of the reader, that the most prominent physicians, the greatest chemists, the best mathematicians, were French, and that to the same nation belong the Comptes, the De Maistres, the Guizots, the De Tocquevilles; or that, notwithstanding its political extravaganzas, every liberal theory was first fostered in its bosom? The father of our democratic party was the pupil of French governmental philosophy, by the lessons of which even his political opponents profited quite as much as by its errors. [15] Brace, in his _Home Life in Germany_, mentions an instance of this kind, but not having the volume at hand, I cannot cite the page. To every one, however, that has travelled in Europe, or has not, such facts are familiar. It is well known, for instance, that in some of the most polished European countries, the wooden ploughshare is still used; and that, in Paris, that metropolis of arts and fashion, every drop of water must be carried, in buckets, from the public fountains to the Dutchess' _boudoir_ in the first, and to the Grisette's garret in the seventh story. Compare this with the United States, where--not to mention Fairmount and Croton--the smallest town, almost, has her water-works, if required by her topography. Are we, then, so infinitely more civilized than France? [16] Since writing the above, I lit upon the following striking confirmation of my idea by Dr. Pickering, whose analogism here so closely resembles mine, as almost to make me suspect myself of unconscious plagiarism. "While admitting the general truth, that mankind are essentially alike, no one doubts the existence of character, distinguishing not only individuals, but communities and nations. I am persuaded that there is, besides, a character of race. It would not be difficult to select epithets; such as 'amphibious, enduring, insititious;' or to point out as accomplished by one race of men, that which seemed beyond the powers of another. Each race possessing its peculiar points of excellence, and, at the same time, counterbalancing defects, it may be that union was required to attain the full measure of civilization. In the organic world, each field requires a new creation; each change in circumstances going beyond the constitution of a plant or animal, is met by a new adaptation, until the whole universe is full; while, among the immense variety of created beings, two kinds are hardly found fulfilling the same precise purpose. Some analogy may possibly exist in the human family; and it may even be questioned, whether any one of the races existing singly would, up to the present day, have extended itself over the whole surface of the globe."--_The Races of Man, and their Geographical Distribution._ By CHARLES PICKERING, M. D. Boston, 1811. (_U. S. Exploring Expedition_, vol. ix. p. 200.) [17] Since Champollion's fortunate discovery of the Rosetta stone, which furnished the key to the hieroglyphics, the deciphering of these once so mysterious characters has made such progress, that Lepsius, the great modern Egyptologist, declares it possible to write a minute court gazette of the reign of Ramses II., the Sesostris of the Greeks, and even of monarchs as far back as the IVth dynasty. To understand that this is no vain boast, the reader must remember that these hieroglyphics mostly contain records of private or royal lives, and that the mural paintings in the temples and sepulchral chambers, generally represent scenes illustrative of trades, or other occupations, games, etc., practised among the people of that early day. [18] _Ethnological Journal_, edited by Luke Burke, London, 1848; June 1, No. 1, from _Types of Mankind_. By NOTT and GLIDDON, p. 49. [19] From _Types of Mankind_. By NOTT and GLIDDON, p. 52. [20] The term "race" is of relative meaning, and, though often erroneously used synonymously with _species_, by no means signifies the same. The most strenuous advocates of sameness of species, use it to designate well-defined groups, as the white and black. If we consider ourselves warranted by the language of the Bible, to believe in separate origins of the human family, then, indeed, it may be considered as similar in meaning to species; otherwise, it must signify but subdivisions of one. We may therefore speak of ten or a hundred races of man, without impugning their being descended from the same stock. All that is here contended for is, that the distinctive features of such races, in whatever manner they may have originated, are now persistent. Two men may, the one arrive at the highest honors of the State, the other, with every facility at his command, forever remain in mediocrity. Yet, these two men may be brothers. That the question of species, when disconnected from any theological bearing, is one belonging exclusively to the province of the naturalist, and in which the metaphysician can have but a subordinate part, may be illustrated by a homely simile. Diversity of talent in the same family involves no doubt of parentage; but, if one child be born with a black skin and woolly hair, questions about the paternity might indeed arise. [21] _Natural History of the Varieties of Man._ By ROBERT GORDON LATHAM. London, 1850. [22] The collision between these two nationalities, only a few years ago, was attended by scenes so revolting--transcending even the horrors of the Corcyrian sedition, the sack of Magdeburg, or the bloodiest page in the French Revolution--that, for the honor of human nature, I would gladly disbelieve the accounts given of them. But the testimony comes from neutral sources, the friends of either party being interested in keeping silence. I shall have occasion to allude to this subject again, and therefore reserve further details for a note in the body of the work. [23] Even the historians of ancient Greece wondered at those gigantic ruins, of which many are still extant. Of these cyclopean remains, as they were often called, no one knew the builders or the history, and they were considered as the labors of the fabulous heroes of a traditional epoch. For an account of these memorials of an _ante-hellenic civilization in Greece, of which we have no record_, particularly the ruins of Orchomonos, Tirgus, Mycene, and the tunnels of Lake Copais, see _Niebuhr's Ancient History_, vol. i. p. 241, _et passim_. [24] Democracy in America, vol. ii. ch. xviii. p. 424. [25] Daniel ii. 44. [26] Daniel ii. 31 to 35. [27] Among many passages illustrative of the ultra utilitarianism of the Chinese, I can find space but for one, and that selected almost at random. After speaking of the exemplary diffusion of primary instruction among the masses, he says that, though they all read, and frequently, yet even their reading is of a strictly utilitarian character, and never answers any but practical purposes or temporary amusement. The name of the author is seldom known, and never inquired after. "That class are, in their eyes, only idle persons, who pass their time in making prose or verse. They have no objection to such a pursuit. A man may, they say, 'amuse himself with his pen as with his kite, if he likes it as well--it is all a matter of taste.' The inhabitants of the celestial empire would never recover from their astonishment if they knew to what extent intellectual labor may be in Europe a source of honor and often wealth. If they were told that a person among us may obtain great glory by composing a drama or a novel, they would either not believe it, or set it down as an additional proof of our well-known want of common sense. How would it be if they should be told of the renown of a dancer or a violin player, and that one cannot make a bound, nor the other draw a bow anywhere without thousands of newspapers hastening to spread the important news over all the kingdoms of Europe! "The Chinese are too decided utilitarians to enter into our views of the arts. In their opinion, a man is only worthy of the admiration of his fellow-creatures when he has well fulfilled the social duties, and especially if he knows better than any one else how to get out of a scrape. You are regarded as a man of genius if you know how to regulate your family, make your lands fruitful, traffic with ability, and realize great profits. This, at least, is the only kind of genius that is of any value in the eyes of these eminently practical men."--_Voyages en Chine_, par M. Huc, Amer. trans., vol. i. pp. 316 and 317. [28] Nat. Hist. of the Varieties of Man. London. [29] According to Latham's classification, _op. cit._ DIVERSITY OF RACES. CHAPTER I. POLITICAL CATASTROPHES. Perishable condition of all human societies--Ancient ideas concerning this phenomenon--Modern theories. The downfall of civilizations is the most striking, and, at the same time, the most obscure of all the phenomena of history. If the sublime grandeur of this spectacle impresses the mind with awe, the mystery in which it is wrapped presents a boundless field for inquiry and meditation to a reflecting mind. The study of the birth and growth of nations is, indeed, fraught with many valuable observations: the gradual development of human societies, their successes, conquests, and triumphs, strike the imagination in a lively manner, and excite an ever increasing interest. But these phenomena, however grand and interesting, seem susceptible of an easy explanation. We consider them as the necessary consequences of the intellectual and moral endowments of man. Once we admit the existence of these endowments, their results will no longer surprise us. But we perceive that, after a period of glory and strength, all societies formed by man begin to totter and fall; all, I said, because there is no exception. Scattered over the surface of our globe, we see the vestiges of preceding civilizations, many of which are known to us only by name, or have not left behind them even that faint memorial, and are recorded only by the mute stones in the depths of primeval forests.[30] If we glance at our modern States, we are forced to the conclusion that, though their date is but of yesterday, some of them already exhibit signs of old age. The awful truth of prophetic language about the instability of all things human, applies with equal force to political bodies and to individuals, to nations and their civilizations. Every association of men for social and political purposes, though protected by the most ingenious social and political ties and contrivances, conceals among the very elements of its life, the germ of inevitable destruction, contracted the day it was formed. This terrible fact is proved by the history of all ages as well as of our own. It is owing to a natural law of death which seems to govern societies as well as individuals; but, does this law operate alike in all cases? is it uniform like the result it brings about, and do all civilizations perish from the same pre-existing cause? A superficial glance at the page of history would tempt us to answer in the negative, for the apparent causes of the downfall of the great empires of antiquity were very different in each case. Yet, if we pierce below the surface, we find in this very necessity of decay, which weighs so imperiously upon all societies without exception, the evidence of the existence of some general, though concealed, cause, producing a natural death, even where no external causes anticipate it by violent destruction. We also discover that all civilizations, after a short duration, exhibit, to the acute observer, certain intimate disturbances, difficult to define, but whose existence is undeniable; and that these present in all cases an analogous character. Finally, if we distinguish the ruin of civilizations from that of States (for we sometimes see the same culture subsist in a country under foreign domination, and survive the destruction of the political body which gave it birth; while, again, comparatively slight misfortunes cause it to be transformed, or to disappear altogether), we become more and more confirmed in the idea that this principle of death in all societies is not only a necessary condition of their life, independent, in a great measure, of external causes, but is also uniform in all. To fix and determine this principle, and to trace its effects in the lives of those nations, of whom history has left us records, has been my object and endeavor in the studies, the results of which I now lay before the reader. The fact that every human agglomeration, and the peculiar culture resulting from it, is doomed to perish, was not known to the ancients. Even in the epochs immediately preceding ours, it was not believed. The religious spirit of Asiatic antiquity looked upon the great political catastrophes in the same light that they did upon the sudden destruction of an individual: as a demonstration of Divine wrath, visiting a nation or an individual whose sins had marked them out for signal punishment, which would serve as an example to those criminals whom the rod had as yet spared. The Jews, misunderstanding the meaning of the promise, believed their empire imperishable. Rome, at the very moment when the threatening clouds lowered in the horizon of her grandeur, entertained no doubt as to the eternity of hers.[31] But our generation has profited by experience; and, as no one presumes to doubt that all men must die, because all who came before us have died; so we are firmly convinced, that the days of nations, as of individuals, however many they be, are numbered. The wisdom of the ancients, therefore, will afford us but little assistance in the unravelling of our subject, if we except one fundamental maxim: that the finger of Divine Providence is always visible in the conduct of the affairs of this world. From this solid basis we shall not depart, accepting it in the full extent that it is recognized by the church. It cannot be contested that no civilization will perish without the will of God, and to apply to the mortal condition of all societies, the sacred axiom by which the ancients explained certain remarkable, and, in their opinion, isolated cases of destruction, is but proclaiming a truth of the first order, of which we must never lose sight in our researches after truths of secondary importance. If it be further added that societies perish by their sins, I willingly accede to it; it is but drawing a parallel between them and individuals who also find their death, or accelerate it, by disobedience to the laws of the Creator. So far, there is nothing contradictory to reason, even when unassisted by Divine light; but these two truths once admitted and duly weighed, the wisdom of the ancients, I repeat, affords no further assistance. They did not search into the ways by which the Divine will effected the ruin of nations; on the contrary, they were rather inclined to consider these ways as essentially mysterious, and above comprehension. Seized with pious terror at the aspect of the wrecks, they easily imagined that Providence had specially interfered thus to strike and completely destroy once powerful states. Where a miracle is recorded by the Sacred Scriptures, I willingly submit; but where that high testimony is wanting, as it is in the great number of cases, we may justly consider the ancient theory as defective, and not sufficiently enlightened. We may even conclude, that as Divine Justice watches over nations unremittingly, and its decrees were pronounced ere the first human society was formed, they are also enforced in a predeterminate manner, and according to the unalterable laws of the universe, which govern both animated nature and the inorganic world. If we have cause to reproach the philosophers of the earlier ages, for having contented themselves, in attempting to fathom the mystery, with the vindication of an incontestable theological truth, but which itself is another mystery; at least, they have not increased the difficulties of the question by making it a theme for a maze of errors. In this respect, they rank highly above the rationalist schools of various epochs. The thinkers of Athens and Rome established the doctrine, which has retained its ground to our days, that states, nations, civilizations, perished only through luxury, enervation, bad government, corruption of morals, fanaticism. All these causes, either singly or combined, were supposed to account for the downfall of civilizations. It is a necessary consequence of this doctrine, that where neither of these causes are in operation, no destructive agency is at work. Societies would therefore possess this advantage over individuals, that they could die no other but a violent death; and, to establish a body politic as durable as the globe itself, nothing further would be necessary than to elude the dangers which I enumerated above. The inventors of this thesis did not perceive its bearing. They considered it as an excellent means for illustrating the doctrine of morality, which, as is well known, was the sole aim of their historical writings. In their narratives of events, they were so strongly preoccupied with showing the happy rewards of virtue, and the disastrous results of crime and vice, that they cared little for what seemed to furnish no illustration. This erroneous and narrow-minded system often operated contrary to the intention of the authors, for it applied, according to occasion, the name of virtue and vice in a very arbitrary manner; still, to a great extent, the severe and laudable sentiment upon which it was based, excuses it. If the genius of a Plutarch or a Tacitus could draw from history, studied in this manner, nothing but romances and satires, yet the romances were sublime, and the satires generous. I wish I could be equally indulgent to the writers of the eighteenth century, who made their own application of the same theory; but there is, between them and their teachers, too great a difference. While the ancients were attached to the established social system, even to a fault, our moderns were anxious for destruction, and greedy of untried novelties. The former exerted themselves to deduce useful lessons from their theory; the latter have perverted it into a fearful weapon against all rational principles of government, which they stigmatized by every term that mankind holds in horror. To save societies from ruin, the disciples of Voltaire would destroy religion, law, industry, commerce; because, if we believe them, religion is fanaticism; laws, despotism; industry and commerce, luxury and corruption. I have not the slightest intention of entering the field of polemics; I wished merely to direct attention to the widely diverging results of this principle, when applied by Thucydides, or the Abbé Raynal. Conservative in the one, cynically aggressive in the other, it is erroneous in both. The causes to which the downfall of nations is generally ascribed are not the true ones, and whilst I admit that these evils may be rifest in the last stages of dissolution of a people, I deny that they possess in themselves sufficient strength, and so destructive an energy, as to produce the final, irremediable catastrophe. FOOTNOTES: [30] A. de Humboldt, Examen Critique de l'Histoire de la Géographie du Nouveau Continent. Paris. [31] Amadée Thierry, _La Gaule sous l'Administration Romaine_, vol. i. p. 244. CHAPTER II. ALLEGED CAUSES OF POLITICAL CATASTROPHES EXAMINED. FANATICISM--Aztec Empire of Mexico.--LUXURY--Modern European States as luxurious as the ancient.--Corruption of morals--The standard of morality fluctuates in the various periods of a nation's history: example, France--Is no higher in youthful communities than in old ones--Morality of Paris.--IRRELIGION--Never spreads through all ranks of a nation--Greece and Rome--Tenacity of Paganism. Before entering upon my reasons for the opinion expressed at the end of the preceding chapter, it will be necessary to explain and define what I understand by the term society. I do not apply this term to the more or less extended circle belonging to a distinct sovereignty. The republic of Athens is not, in my sense of the word, a society; neither is the kingdom of Magadha, the empire of Pontus, or the caliphat of Egypt in the time of the Fatimites. These are fragments of societies, which are transformed, united, or subdivided, by the operation of those primordial laws into which I am inquiring, but whose existence or annihilation does not constitute the existence or annihilation of a society. Their formation is, for the most part, a transient phenomenon, which exerts but a limited, or even indirect influence upon the civilization that gave it birth. By the term society, I understand an association of men, actuated by similar ideas, and possessed of the same general instincts. This association need by no means be perfect in a political sense, but must be complete from a social point of view. Thus, Egypt, Assyria, Greece, India, China, have been, or are still, the theatres upon which distinct societies have worked out their destinies, to which the perturbations in their political relations were merely secondary. I shall, therefore, speak of the fractions of these societies only when my reasoning applies equally to the whole. I am now prepared to proceed to the examination of the question before us, and I hope to prove that fanaticism, luxury, corruption of morals, and irreligion, do not _necessarily_ occasion the ruin of nations. All these maladies, either singly or combined, have attacked, and sometimes with great virulence, nations which nevertheless recovered from them, and were, perhaps, all the more vigorous afterward. The Aztec empire, in Mexico, seemed to flourish for the especial glory and exaltation of fanaticism. What can there be more fanatical than a social and political system, based on a religion which requires the incessant and profuse shedding of the blood of fellow-beings?[32] Our remote ancestors, the barbarous nations of Northern Europe, did indeed practise this unholy rite, but they never chose for their sacrifices innocent victims,[33] or, at least, such as they considered so: the shipwrecked and prisoners of war, were not considered innocent. But, for the Mexicans, all victims were alike; with that ferocity, which a modern physiologist[34] recognizes as a characteristic of the races of the New World, they butchered their own fellow-citizens indiscriminately, and without remorse or pity. And yet, this did not prevent them from being a powerful, industrious, and wealthy nation, who might long have continued to blaspheme the Deity by their dark creed, but for Cortez's genius and the bravery of his companions. In this instance, then, fanaticism was not the cause of the downfall.[35] Nor are luxury or enervation more powerful in their effects. These vices are almost always peculiar to the higher classes, and seldom penetrate the whole mass of the population. But I doubt whether among the Greeks, the Persians, or the Romans, whose downfall they are said to have caused, luxury and enervation, albeit in a different form, had risen to a higher pitch than we see them to-day in some of our modern States, in France, Germany, England, and Russia, for instance. The two last countries are especially distinguished for the luxury prevalent among the higher classes, and yet, these two countries seem to be endued with a vitality much more vigorous and promising than most other European States. In the Middle Ages, the Venetians, Genoese, Pisanese, accumulated in their magazines the treasures and luxuries of the world; yet, the gorgeous magnificence of their palaces, and the splendid decorations of their vessels, did certainly not diminish their power, or subvert their dominion.[36] Even the corruption of morals, this most terrible of all scourges, is not necessarily a cause of national ruin. If it were, the prosperity of a nation, its power and preponderance, would be in a direct ratio to the purity of its manners; and it is hardly necessary to say that this is not the case. The odd fashion of ascribing all sorts of imaginary virtues to the first Romans, is now pretty much out of date.[37] Few would now dare to hold up as models of morality those sturdy patricians of the old school, who treated their women as slaves, their children as cattle, and their creditors like wild beasts. If there should still be some who would defend so bad a cause, their reasoning could easily be refuted, and its want of solidity shown. Abuse of power, in all epochs, has created equal indignation; there were deeper reasons for the abolition of royalty than the rape of Lucretia, for the expulsion of the decemvirs than the outrage of Appius; but these pretexts for two important revolutions, sufficiently demonstrate the public sentiment with regard to morals. It is a great mistake to ascribe the vigor of a young nation to its superior virtues; since the beginning of historical times, there has not been a community, however small, among which all the reprehensible tendencies of human nature were not visible, notwithstanding which, it has increased and prospered. There are even instances where the splendor of a state was owing to the most abominable institutions. The Spartans are indebted for their renown, and place in history, to a legislation fit only for a community of bandits.[38] So far from being willing to accord to youthful communities any superiority in regard to morals, I have no doubt that, as nations advance in age and consequently approach their period of decay, they present to the eyes of the moralist a far more satisfactory spectacle.[39] Manners become milder; men accommodate themselves more readily to one another; the means of subsistence become, if not easier, at least more varied; reciprocal obligations are better defined and understood; more refined theories of right and wrong gain ground. It would be difficult to show that at the time when the Greek arms conquered Darius, or when Greek liberty itself fled forever from the battle-field of Chæronæa, or when the Goths entered Rome as victors; that the Persian monarchy, Athens, or the imperial city, in those times of their downfall, contained a smaller proportion of honest and virtuous people than in the most glorious epochs of their national existence. But we need not go so far back for illustrations. If any one were required to name the place where the spirit of our age displayed itself in the most complete contrast with the virtuous ages of the world (if such there were), he would most certainly point out Paris. Yet, many learned and pious persons have assured me, that nowhere, and in no epoch, could more practical virtue, solid piety, greater delicacy of conscience, be found than within the precincts of this great and corrupt city. The ideal of goodness is as exalted, the duties of a Christian as well understood, as by the most brilliant luminaries of the Church in the seventeenth century. I might add, that these virtues are divested of the bitterness and severity from which, in those times, they were not always exempt; and that they are more united with feelings of toleration and universal philanthropy.[40] Thus we find, as if to counterbalance the fearful aberrations of our own epoch, in the principal theatre of these aberrations, contrasts more numerous and more striking, than probably blessed the sight of the faithful in preceding ages. I cannot even perceive that great men are wanting in those periods of corruption and decay; on the contrary, these periods are often signalized by the appearance of men remarkable for energy of character and stern virtue.[41] If we look at the catalogue of Roman emperors, we find a great number of them as exalted in merit as in rank; we meet with names like those of Trajan, Antoninus Pius, Septimius Severus, Alexander Severus, Jovian; and if we glance beneath the throne, we see a glorious constellation of great doctors of our faith, of martyrs, and apostles of the primitive church; not to consider the number of virtuous pagans. Active, firm, and valorous minds filled the camps and the forums, so that it may reasonably be doubted whether Rome, in the times of Cincinnatus, possessed so great a number of eminent men in every department of human activity. Many other examples might be alleged, to prove that senile and tottering communities, so far from being deficient in men of virtue, talent, and action, possess them probably in greater number than young and rising states; and that their general standard of morals is often higher. Public morality, indeed, varies greatly at different periods of a nation's history. The history of the French nation, better than any other, illustrates this fact. Few will deny that the Gallo-Romans of the fifth and sixth centuries, though a subject race, were greatly superior in point of morals to their heroic conquerors.[42] Individually taken, they were often not inferior to the latter in courage and military virtue.[43] The intermixture of the two races, during the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries, reduced the standard of morals among the whole nation to a disgraceful level. In the three succeeding centuries, the picture brightens again. Yet, this period of comparative light was succeeded by the dark scenes of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, when tyranny and debauchery ran riot over the land, and infected all classes of society, not excepting the clergy; when the nobles robbed their vassals, and the commonalty sold their country to a foreign foe. This period, so distinguished for the total absence of patriotism, and every honest sentiment, was emphatically one of decay; the state was shaken to its very foundation, and seemed ready to bury under its ruins so much shame and dishonor. But the crisis passed; foreign and intestine foes were vanquished; the machinery of government reconstructed on a firmer basis; the state of society improved. Notwithstanding its bloody follies, the sixteenth century dishonors less the annals of the nation than its predecessors, and it formed the transition period to the age of those pure and ever-brilliant lights, Fenelon, Bossuet, Montausier, and others. This period, again, was succeeded by the vices of the regency, and the horrors of the Revolution. Since that time, we have witnessed almost incredible fluctuations of public morality every decade of years. I have sketched rapidly, and merely pointed out the most prominent changes. To do even this properly, much more to descend to details, would require greater space than the limits and designs of this work permit. But I think what I have said is sufficient to show that the corruption of public morals, though always a great, is often a transient evil, a malady which may be corrected or which corrects itself, and cannot, therefore, be the sole cause of national ruin, though it may hasten the catastrophe. The corruption of public morals is nearly allied to another evil, which has been assigned as one of the causes of the downfall of empires. It is observed of Athens and Rome, that the glory of these two commonwealths faded about the same time that they abandoned their national creeds. These, however, are the only examples of such a coincidence that can be cited. The religion of Zoroaster was never more flourishing in the Persian empire, than at the time of its downfall. Tyre, Carthage, Judea, the Mexican and Peruvian empires expired at the moment when they embraced their altars with the greatest zeal and devotion. Nay, I do not believe that even at Athens and Rome, the ancient creed was abandoned until the day when it was replaced in every conscience, by the complete triumph of Christianity. I am firmly convinced that, politically speaking, irreligion never existed among any people, and that none ever abandoned the faith of their forefathers, except in exchange for another. In other words, there never was such a thing as a religious interregnum. The Gallic Teutates gave way to the Jupiter of the Romans; the worship of Jupiter, in its turn, was replaced by Christianity. It is true that, in Athens, not long before the time of Pericles, and in Rome, towards the age of the Scipios, it became the fashion among the higher classes, first to reason upon religious subjects, next to doubt them, and finally to disbelieve them altogether, and to pride themselves upon scepticism. But though there were many who joined in the sentiment of the ancient "freethinker" who dared the augurs to look at one another without laughing, yet this scepticism never gained ground among the mass of the people. Aspasia at her evening parties, and Lelius among his intimates, might ridicule the religious dogmas of their country, and amuse themselves at the expense of those that believed them. But at both these epochs, the most brilliant in the history of Greece and Rome, it would have been highly dangerous to express such sentiments publicly. The imprudence of his mistress came near costing Pericles himself dearly, and the tears which he shed before the tribunal, were not in themselves sufficiently powerful to save the fair sceptic. The poets of the times, Aristophanes, Sophocles, and afterwards �schylus, found it necessary, whatever were their private sentiments, to flatter the religious notions of the masses. The whole nation regarded Socrates as an impious innovator, and would have put to death Anaxagoras, but for the strenuous intercession of Pericles. Nor did the philosophical and sceptical theories penetrate the masses at a later period. Never, at any time, did they extend beyond the sphere of the elegant and refined. It may be objected that the opinion of the rest, the mechanics, traders, the rural population, the slaves, etc., was of little moment, as they had no influence in the policy of the state. If this were the case, why was it necessary, until the last expiring throb of Paganism, to preserve its temples and pay the hierophants? Why did men, the most eminent and enlightened, the most sceptical in their religious notions, not only don the sacerdotal robe, but even descend to the most repugnant offices of the popular worship? The daily reader of Lucretius[44] had to snatch moments of leisure from the all-absorbing game of politics, to compose a treatise on haruspicy. I allude to the first Cæsar.[45] And all his successors, down to Constantine, were compelled to unite the pontificial with the imperial dignity. Even Constantine himself, though as a Christian prince he had far better reasons for repugnance to such an office than any of his predecessors, was compelled to compromise with the still powerful ancient religion of the nation.[46] This is a clear proof of the prevalence of the popular sentiment over the opinion of the higher and more enlightened classes. They might appeal to reason and common sense, against the absurdities of the masses, but the latter would not, could not, renounce one faith until they had adopted another, confirming the old truth, that in the affairs of this world, the positive ever takes precedent over the negative. The popular sentiment was so strong that, in the third century, it infected even the higher classes to some extent, and created among them a serious religious reaction, which did not entirely subside until after the final triumph of Christianity. The revolution of ideas which gradually diffused true religion among all classes, is highly interesting, and it may not be altogether irrelevant to my subject, to point out the principal causes which occasioned it. In the latter stages of the Roman empire, the armies had acquired such undue political preponderance, that from the emperor, who inevitably was chosen by them, down to the pettiest governor of a district, all the functionaries of the government issued from the ranks. They had sprung from those popular masses, of whose passionate attachment to their faith I have already spoken, and upon attaining their elevated stations, came in contact with the former rulers of the country, the old distinguished families, the municipal dignitaries of cities, in fact those classes who took pride and delight in sceptical literature. At first there was hostility between these latter and the real rulers of the state, whom they would willingly have treated as upstarts, if they had dared. But as the court gave the tone, and all the minor military chiefs were, for the most part, devout and fanatic, the sceptics were compelled to disguise their real sentiments, and the philosophers set about inventing systems to reconcile the rationalistic theories with the state religion. This revival of pagan piety caused the greater number of the persecutions. The rural populations, who had suffered their faith to be outraged by the atheists so long as the higher classes domineered over them, now, that the imperial democracy had reduced all to the same level, were panting for revenge; but, mistaking their victims, they directed their fury against the Christians. The real sceptics were such men as King Agrippa, who wishes to hear St. Paul[47] from mere curiosity; who hears him, debates with him, considers him a fool, but never thinks of persecuting him because he differs in opinion; or Tacitus, the historian, who, though full of contempt for the believers in the new religion, blames Nero for his cruelties towards them. Agrippa and Tacitus were pagan sceptics. Diocletian was a politician, who gave way to the clamors of an incensed populace. Decius and Aurelian were fanatics, like the masses they governed, and from whom they had sprung. Even after the Christian religion had become the religion of the state, what immense difficulties were experienced in attempting to bring the masses within its pale! So hopeless was in some places the contest with the local divinities, that in many instances conversion was rather the result of address, than the effect of persuasion. The genius of the holy propagators of our religion was reduced to the invention of pious frauds. The divinities of the groves, fields, and fountains, were still worshipped, but under the name of the saints, the martyrs, and the Virgin. After being for a time misdirected, these homages would finally find the right way. Yet such is the obstinacy with which the masses cling to a faith once received, that there are traces of it remaining in our day. There are still parishes in France, where some heathenish superstition alarms the piety, and defies the efforts of the minister. In Catholic Brittany, even in the last centuries, the bishop in vain attempted to dehort his flock from the worship of an idol of stone. The rude image was thrown into the water, but rescued by its obstinate adorers; and the assistance of the military was required to break it to pieces. Such was, and such is the longevity of paganism. I conclude, therefore, that no nation, either in ancient or modern times, ever abandoned its religion without having duly and earnestly embraced another, and that, consequently, none ever found itself, for a moment, in a state of irreligion, which could have been the cause of its ruin. Having denied the destructive effects of fanaticism, luxury, and immorality, and the political possibility of irreligion, I shall now speak of the effects of bad government. This subject is well worthy of an entire chapter. FOOTNOTES: [32] See Prescott's _History of the Conquest of Mexico_. [33] C. F. Weber, _M. A. Lucani Pharsalia_. Leipzig, 1828, vol. i. pp. 122-123, _note_. [34] Prichard, _Natural History of Man_.--Dr. Martius is still more explicit. (See _Martius and Spix_, _Reise in Brasilien_. Munich, vol. i. pp. 379-380.) Mr. Gobineau quotes from M. Roulin's French translation of Prichard's great work, and as I could not always find the corresponding pages in the original, I have sometimes been obliged to omit the citation of the page, that in the French translation being useless to English readers.--_Transl._ [35] I greatly doubt whether the fanaticism of even the ancient Mexicans could exceed that displayed by some of our not very remote ancestors. Who, that reads the trials for witchcraft in the judicial records of Scotland, and, after smiling at the frivolous, inconsistent testimony against the accused, comes to the cool, uncommented marginal note of the reporter: "Convicta et combusta," does not feel his heart leap for horror? But, if he comes to an entry like the following, he feels as though lightning from heaven could but inflict too mild a punishment on the perpetrators of such unnatural crimes. "1608, Dec. 1.--The Earl of Mar declared to the council, that some women were taken in Broughton as witches, and being put to an assize, and convicted, albeit they persevered constant in their denial to the end, they were burnt quick (alive), after such a cruel manner, that some of them died in despair, renouncing and blaspheming God; and _others, half-burned, brak out of the fire, and were cast in it again, till they were burned to death_." Entry in Sir Thomas Hamilton's _Minutes of Proceedings in the Privy Council_. (From W. Scott's _Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft_, p. 315.) Really, I do not believe that the Peruvians ever carried fanaticism so far. Yet, a counterpart to this horrible picture is found in the history of New England. A man, named Cory, being accused of witchcraft, and refusing to plead, was accordingly pressed to death. And when, in the agony of death, the unfortunate man thrust out his tongue, the sheriff, without the least emotion, crammed it back into the mouth with his cane. (See Cotton Mather's _Magnalia Christi Americana_, Hardford. _Thau. Pneu_, c. vii. p. 383, _et passim_.) Did the ferocity of the most brutish savages ever invent any torture more excruciating than that in use in the British Isles, not much more than two centuries ago, for bringing poor, decrepit old women to the confession of a crime which never existed but in the crazed brain of bigots. "The nails were torn from the fingers with smith's pincers; pins driven into the places which the nails defended; the knees were crushed in the _boots_, the finger-bones splintered in the _pilniewinks_," etc. (Scott, _op. cit._, p. 312.) But then, it is true, they had a more _gentle_ torture, which an English Lord (Eglington) had the honor and humanity to invent! This consisted in placing the legs of a poor woman in the stocks, and then _loading the bare shins with bars of iron_. Above thirty stones of iron were placed upon the limbs of an unfortunate woman before she could be brought to the confession which led her to the stake. (Scott, _op. cit._, pp. 321, 324, 327, etc. etc.) As late as 1682, not yet 200 years ago, three women were hanged, in England, for witchcraft; and the fatal statute against it was not abolished until 1751, when the rabble put to death, in the most horrible manner, an old pauper woman, and very nearly killed another. And, in the middle of last century, eighty-five persons were burnt, or otherwise executed, for witchcraft, at Mohra, in Sweden. Among them were fifteen young children. If God had ordained that fanaticism should be punished by national ruin, were not these crimes, in which, in most cases, the whole nation participated, were not they horrible enough to draw upon the perpetrators the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah? Surely, if fanaticism were the cause of national decay, most European nations had long since been swept from the face of the globe, "so that their places could nowhere be found."--H. [36] There seem, at first sight, to be exceptions to the truth of the assertion, that luxury, in itself, is not productive of national ruin. Venice, Genoa, Pisa, etc., were _aristocratic_ republics, in which, as in monarchies, a high degree of luxury is not only compatible with, but may even be greatly conducive to the prosperity of the state. But the basis of a _democratic_ republic is a more or less perfect equality among its citizens, which is often impaired, and, in the end, subverted by too great a disparity of wealth. Yet, even in them, glaring contrasts between extravagant luxury and abject poverty are rather the sign than the cause, of the disappearance of democratic principles. Examples might be adduced from history, of democracies in which great wealth did not destroy democratic ideas and a consequent simplicity of manners. These ideas must first be forgotten, before wealth can produce luxury, and luxury its attendant train of evils. Though accelerating the downfall of a democratic republic, it is therefore not the primary cause of that downfall.--H. [37] Balzac, _Lettre à Madame la Duchesse de Montausier_. [38] That this stricture is not too severe will be obvious to any one who reflects on the principles upon which this legislation was based. Inculcating that war was the great business of life, and to be terrible to one's enemies the only object of manly ambition, the Spartan laws sacrificed the noblest private virtues and domestic affections. They deprived the female character of the charms that most adorn it--modesty, tenderness, and sensibility; they made men brutal, coarse, and cruel. They stunted individual talents; Sparta has produced but few great men, and these, says Macaulay, only became great when they ceased to be Lacedemonians. Much unsound sentimentality has been expended in eulogizing Sparta, from Xenophon down to Mitford, yet the verdict of the unbiassed historian cannot differ very widely from that of Macaulay: "The Spartans purchased for their government a prolongation of its existence by the sacrifice of happiness at home, and dignity abroad. They cringed to the powerful, they trampled on the weak, they massacred their helots, they betrayed their allies, they contrived to be a day too late for the battle of Marathon, they attempted to avoid the battle of Salamis, they suffered the Athenians, to whom they owed their lives and liberties, to be a second time driven from their country by the Persians, that they might finish their own fortifications on the Isthmus; they attempted to take advantage of the distress to which exertions in their cause had reduced their preservers, in order to make them their slaves; they strove to prevent those who had abandoned their walls to defend them, from rebuilding them to defend themselves; they commenced the Peloponnesian war in violation of their engagements with their allies; they gave up to the sword whole cities which had placed themselves under their protection; they bartered for advantages confined to themselves the interests, the freedom, and the lives of those who had served them most faithfully; they took, with equal complacency, and equal infamy, the stripes of Elis and the bribes of Persia; they never showed either resentment or gratitude; they abstained from no injury, and they revenged none. Above all, they looked on a citizen who served them well as their deadliest enemy."--_Essays_, iii. 389.--H. [39] The horrid scenes of California life, its lynch laws, murders, and list of all possible crimes, are still ringing in our ears, and have not entirely ceased, though their number is lessened, and they are rapidly disappearing before lawful order. Australia offered, and still offers, the same spectacle. Texas, but a few years ago, and all newly settled countries in our day, afford another striking illustration of the author's remark. Young communities ever attract a great number of lawless and desperate men; and this has been the case in all ages. Rome was founded by a band of fugitives from justice, and if her early history be critically examined, it will be found to reveal a state of society, with which the Rome described by the Satirists, and upbraided by the Censors, compares favorably. Any one who will cast a glance into Bishop Potter's _Antiquities_, can convince himself that the state of morals, in Athens, was no better in her most flourishing periods than at the time of her downfall, if, indeed, as good; notwithstanding the glowing colors in which Isocrates and his followers describe the virtues of her youthful period, and the degeneracy of the age. Who can doubt that public morality has attained a higher standard in England, at the present day when her strength seems to have departed from her, than it had at any previous era in her history. Where are the brutal fox-hunting country squires of former centuries? the good old customs, when hospitality consisted in drinking one's guest underneath the table? What audience could now endure, or what police permit, the plays of Congreve and of Otway? Even Shakspeare has to be pruned by the moral censor, before he can charm our ears. Addison himself, than whom none contributed more to purify the morals of his age, bears unmistakable traces of the coarseness of the time in which he wrote. It will be objected that we are only more prudish, no better at the bottom. But, even supposing that the same vices still exist, is it not a great step in advance, that they dare no longer parade themselves with unblushing impudence? Many who derive their ideas of the Middle Ages, of chivalry, etc., from the accounts of romance writers, have very erroneous notions about the manners of that period. "It so happens," says Byron, "that the good old times when '_l'amour du bon vieux temps, l'amour antique_' flourished, were the most profligate of all possible centuries. Those who have any doubts on the subject may consult St. Palay, particularly vol. ii. p. 69. The vows of chivalry were no better kept than any other vows whatever, and the songs of the troubadour were not more decent, and certainly much less refined, than those of Ovid. The 'cours d'amour, parlements d'amour, ou de courtoisie et de gentilesse,' had much more of love than of courtesy and gentleness. (See Roland on the same subject with St. Palay.)" _Preface to Childe Harold._ I should not have quoted the authority of a poet on historical matters, were I not convinced, from my own investigations, that his pungent remarks are perfectly correct. As a further confirmation, I may mention that a few years ago, in rummaging over the volumes of a large European library, I casually lit upon a record of judicial proceedings during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, in a little commonwealth, whose simplicity of manners, and purity of public morals, especially in that period, has been greatly extolled by historians. There, I found a list of crimes, to which the most corrupt of modern great cities can furnish no parallel. In horror and hellish ingenuity, they can be faintly approached only by the punishment which followed them. Of many, our generation ignores even the name, and, of others, dares not utter them.--H. [40] This assertion may surprise those who, in the words of a piquant writer on Parisian life, "have thought of Paris only under two aspects--one, as the emporium of fashion, fun, and refinement; the abode of good fellows somewhat dissipated, of fascinating ladies somewhat over-kind; of succulent dinners, somewhat indigestible; of pleasures, somewhat illicit;--the other, as the place _par excellence_, of revolutions, _émeutes_, and barricades." Yet, all who have pierced below the brilliant surface, and penetrated into the recesses of destitution and crime, have seen the ministering angel of charity on his errand, and can bear witness to the truth of the author's remark. No city can show a greater number of benevolent institutions, none more active and practical _private_ charity, which inquires not after the country or creed of its object.--H. [41] Tottering, falling Greece, gave birth to a Demosthenes, a Phocian; the period of the downfall of the Roman republic was the age of Cicero, Brutus, and Cato.--H. [42] The subjoined picture of the manners of the Frankish conquerors of Gaul, is selected on account of the weighty authority from which it comes, from among a number of even darker ones. "The history of Gregory of Tours shows us on the one hand, a fierce and barbarous nation; and on the other, kings of as bad a character. These princes were bloody, unjust, and cruel, because all the nation was so. If Christianity seemed sometimes to soften them, it was only by the terror which this religion imprints in the guilty; the church supported herself against them by the miracles and prodigies of her saints. The kings were not sacrilegious, because they dreaded the punishments inflicted on sacrilegious people: but this excepted, they committed, either in their passion or cold blood, all manner of crimes and injustice, because in these the avenging hand of the Deity did not appear so visible. The Franks, as I have already observed, bore with bloody kings, because they were fond of blood themselves; they were not affected with the wickedness and extortion of their princes, because this was their own character. There had been a great many laws established, but the kings rendered them all useless by the practice of issuing _preceptions_, a kind of decrees, after the manner of the rescripts of the Roman emperors. These preceptions were orders to the judges to do, or to tolerate, things contrary to law. They were given for illicit marriages, and even those with consecrated virgins; for transferring successions, and depriving relations of their rights; for putting to death persons who had not been convicted of any crime, and not been heard in their defence, etc."--MONTESQUIEU, _Esprit des Lois_, b. 31, c. 2.--H. [43] Augustin Thierry, _Récit des Temps Mérovingiens_. (See particularly the _History of Mummolus_.) [44] Lucretius was the author of _De Rerum Natura_, and one of the most distinguished of pagan "free-thinkers." He labored to combine the philosophy of Epicurus, Evhenius, and others, into a sort of moral religion, much after the fashion of some of the German mystics and Platonists of our times.--H. [45] Cæsar, whose private opinions were both democratical and sceptical, found it convenient to speak very differently in public, as the funeral oration in honor of his aunt proves. "On the maternal side, said he, my aunt Julia is descended from the kings; on the paternal, from the immortal gods. For my aunt's mother was of the family of the Martii, who are descended from King Ancus Martius; and the Julii, to which stock our family belongs, trace their origin to Venus. Thus, in her blood was blended the majesty of kings, the most powerful of men, and the sanctity of the gods, who have even the kings in their power."--_Suetonius_, _Julius_, 5. Are not these sentiments very monarchical for a democrat; very religious for an atheist? [46] It is well known that Constantine did not receive the rite of baptism until within the last hours of his life, although he professed to be a sincere believer. The coins, also, struck during his reign, all bore pagan emblems.--H. [47] Acts xxvi. 24, 28, 31. CHAPTER III. INFLUENCE OF GOVERNMENT UPON THE LONGEVITY OF NATIONS. Misgovernment defined--Athens, China, Spain, Germany, Italy, etc.--Is not in itself a sufficient cause for the ruin of nations. I am aware of the difficulty of the task I have undertaken in attempting to establish a truth, which by many of my readers will be regarded as a mere paradox. That good laws and good government exert a direct and powerful influence upon the well-being and prosperity of a nation, is an indisputable fact, of which I am fully convinced; but I think that history proves that they are not absolute conditions of the existence of a community; or, in other words, that their absence is not necessarily productive of ruin. Nations, like individuals, are often preyed upon by fearful diseases, which show no outward traces of the ravages within, and which, though dangerous, are not always fatal. Indeed, if they were, few communities would survive the first few years of their formation, for it is precisely during that period that the government is worst, the laws most imperfect, and least observed. But here the comparison between the body political and the human organization ceases, for while the latter dreads most the attack of disease during infancy, the former easily overcomes it at that period. History furnishes innumerable examples of successful contest on the part of young communities with the most formidable and most devastating political evils, of which none can be worse than ill-conceived laws, administered in an oppressive or negligent manner.[48] Let us first define what we understand by bad government. The varieties of this evil are as various as nations, countries, and epochs. It were impossible to enumerate them all. Yet, by classing them under four principal categories, few varieties will be omitted. A government is bad, when imposed by foreign influence. Athens experienced this evil under the thirty tyrants. Yet she shook off the odious yoke, and patriotism, far from expiring, gained renewed vigor by the oppression. A government is bad, when based upon absolute and unconditional conquest. Almost the whole extent of France in the fourteenth century, groaned under the dominion of England. The ordeal was passed, and the nation rose from it more powerful and brilliant than before. China was overrun and conquered by the Mongol hordes. They were ejected from its territories, after having previously undergone a singular transformation. It next fell into the hands of the Mantchoo conquerors, but though they already count the years of their reign by centuries, they are now at the eve of experiencing the same fate as their Mongol predecessors. A government is especially bad, when the principles upon which it was based are disregarded or forgotten. This was the fate of the Spanish monarchy. It was based upon the military spirit of the nation, and upon its municipal freedom, and declined soon after these principles came to be forgotten. It is impossible to imagine greater political disorganization than this country represented. Nowhere was the authority of the sovereign more nominal and despised; nowhere did the clergy lay themselves more open to censure. Agriculture and industry, following the same downward impulse, were also involved in the national marasmus. Yet Spain, of whom so many despaired, at a moment when her star seemed setting forever, gave the glorious example of heroic and successful resistance to the arms of one who had hitherto experienced no check in his career of conquest. Since that, the better spirit of the nation has been roused, and there is, probably, at this time, no European state with more promising prospects, and stronger vitality.[49] A government is also very bad, when, by its institutions, it authorizes an antagonism either between the supreme power and the nation, or among the different classes of which it is composed. This was the case in the Middle Ages, when the kings of France and England were at war with their great vassals, and the peasants in perpetual feud with the lords. In Germany, the first effects of the liberty of thought, were the civil wars of the Hussites, Anabaptists, and other sectaries. Italy, at a more remote period, was so distracted by the division of the supreme authority for which emperor, pope, nobles, and municipalities contended, that the masses, not knowing whom to obey, in many instances finished by obeying neither. Yet in the midst of all these troubles, Italian nationality did not perish. On the contrary, its civilization was at no time more brilliant, its industry never more productive, its foreign influence never greater. If communities have survived such fearful political tempests, it cannot well be said that national ruin is a necessary cause of misgovernment. Besides, wise and happy reigns are few and far between, in the history of every nation; and these few are not considered such by all. Historians are not unanimous in their praise of Elizabeth, nor do they all consider the reign of William and Mary as an epoch of prosperity for England. Truly this science of statesmanship, the highest and most complicated of all, is so disproportionate to the capacity of man,[50] and so various are the opinions concerning it, that nations have early and frequent opportunities of learning to accommodate themselves to misgovernment, which, in its worst forms, is still preferable to anarchy. It is a well-proved fact, which even a superficial study of history will clearly demonstrate, that communities often perish under the best government of a long series that came before.[51] FOOTNOTES: [48] It will be understood that I speak here, not of the political existence of a centre of sovereignty, but of the life of an entire nation, the prosperity of a civilization. Here is the place to apply the definition given above, page 114. [49] This assertion will appear paradoxical to those who are in the habit of looking upon Spain as the type of hopeless national degradation. But whoever studies the history of the last thirty years, which is but a series of struggles to rise from this position, will probably arrive at the same conclusions as the author. The revolution of 1820 redeems the character of the nation. "The Spanish Constitution" became the watchword of the friends of constitutional liberty in the South of Europe, and ere thirteen months had fully passed, it had become the fundamental law of three other countries--Portugal, Naples, and Sardinia. At the mere sound of those words, two kings had resigned their crowns. These revolutions were not characterized by excesses. They were, for the most part, accomplished peacefully, quietly, and orderly. They were not the result of the temporary passions of an excited mob. The most singular feature of these countries is that the lowest dregs of the population are the most zealous adherents of absolutism. No, these revolutions were the work of the best elements in the population, the most intelligent classes, of people who knew what they wanted, and how to get it. And then, when Spain had set that ever glorious example to her neighbors, the great powers, with England at the head, concluded to re-establish the former state of things. In those memorable congresses of plenipotentiaries, the most influential was the representative of England, the Duke of Wellington. And by his advice, or, at least, with his sanction, an Austrian army entered Sardinia, and abolished the new constitution; an Austrian army entered Naples and abolished the new constitution; English vessels of war threatened Lisbon, and Portugal abolished her new constitution; and finally a French army entered Spain, and abolished the new constitution. So Naples and Portugal regained their tyrants, and Spain her imbecile dynasty. For years the Spaniards have tried to shake it off, and English influence alone has maintained on a great nation's throne, a wretch that would have disgraced the lowest walks of private life. But the day of Spanish liberty and Spanish _independence_ will dawn, and perhaps already has dawned. The efforts of the last Cortes were wisely directed, and their proceedings marked with a manliness, a moderation, and a firmness that augur well for the future weal of Spain.--H. [50] Who is not reminded of Oxenstierna's famous saying to his son: "Cum parva sapientiâ mundus gubernatur."--H. [51] It is obvious that so long as the vitality of a nation remains unimpaired, misgovernment can be but a temporary ill. The regenerative principle will be at work to remove the evil and heal the wounds it has inflicted; and though the remedy be sometimes violent, and throw the state into fearful convulsions, it will seldom be found ineffectual. So long as the spirit of liberty prevailed among the Romans, the Tarquiniuses and Appiuses were as a straw before the storm of popular indignation; but the death of Cæsar could but substitute a despot in the stead of a mild and generous usurper. The first Brutus might save the nation, because he was the expression of the national sentiment; the second could not, because he was one man opposed to millions. It is a common error to ascribe too much to individual exertions, and whimsical philosophers have amused themselves to trace great events to petty causes; but a deeper inquiry will demonstrate that the great catastrophes which arrest our attention and form the landmarks of history, are but the inevitable result of all the whole chain of antecedent events. Julius Cæsar and Napoleon Bonaparte were, indeed, especially gifted for their great destinies, but the same gifts could not have raised them to their exalted positions at any other epoch than the one in which each lived. Those petty causes are but the drop which causes the measure to overflow, the pretext of the moment; or as the small fissure in the dyke which produces the _crevasse_: the wall of waters stood behind. No man can usurp supreme power, unless the prevailing tendency of the nation favors it; no man can long persist in hurrying a nation along in a course repulsive to it; and in this sense, therefore, not with regard to its abstract justness, it is undoubtedly true, that the voice of the nation is the voice of God. It is the expression of what shall and must be.--H. CHAPTER IV. DEFINITION OF THE WORD DEGENERACY--ITS CAUSE. Skeleton history of a nation--Origin of castes, nobility, etc.--Vitality of nations not necessarily extinguished by conquest--China, Hindostan--Permanency of their peculiar civilizations. If the spirit of the preceding pages has been at all understood, it will be seen that I am far from considering these great national maladies, misgovernment, fanaticism, irreligion, and immorality, as mere trifling accidents, without influence or importance. On the contrary, I sincerely pity the community which is afflicted by such scourges, and think that no efforts can be misdirected which tend to mitigate or remove them. But I repeat, that unless these disorganizing elements are grafted upon another more destructive principle, unless they are the consequences of a greater, though concealed, evil; we may rest assured that their ravages are not fatal, and that society, after a shorter or longer period of suffering, will escape their toils, perhaps with renewed vigor and youth. The examples I have alleged seem to me conclusive; their number, if necessary, might be increased to any extent. But the conviction has already gained ground, that these are but secondary evils, to which an undue importance has hitherto been attached, and that the law which governs the life and death of societies must be sought for elsewhere, and deeper. It is admitted that the germ of destruction is inherent in the constitution of communities; that so long as it remains latent, exterior dangers are little to be dreaded; but when it has once attained full growth and maturity, the nation must die, even though surrounded by the most favorable circumstances, precisely as a jaded steed breaks down, be the track ever so smooth. Degeneracy was the name given to this cause of dissolution. This view of the question was a great step towards the truth, but, unfortunately, it went no further; the first difficulty proved insurmountable. The term was certainly correct, etymologically and in every other respect, but how is it with the definition. A people is said to be degenerated, when it is badly governed, abuses its riches, is fanatical, or irreligious; in short, when it has lost the characteristic virtues of its forefathers. This is begging the question. Thus, communities succumb under the burden of social and political evils only when they are degenerate, and they are degenerate only when such evils prevail. This circular argument proves nothing but the small progress hitherto made in the science of national biology. I readily admit that nations perish from degeneracy, and from no other cause; it is when in that wretched condition, that foreign attacks are fatal to them, for then they no longer possess the strength to protect themselves against adverse fortune, or to recover from its blows. They die, because, though exposed to the same perils as their ancestors, they have not the same powers of overcoming them. I repeat it, the term _degeneracy_ is correct; but it is necessary to define it, to give it a real and tangible meaning. It is necessary to say how and why this vigor, this capacity of overcoming surrounding dangers, are lost. Hitherto, we have been satisfied with a mere word, but the thing itself is as little known as ever.[52] The step beyond, I shall attempt to make. In my opinion, a nation is degenerate, when the blood of its founders no longer flows in its veins, but has been gradually deteriorated by successive foreign admixtures; so that the nation, while retaining its original name, is no longer composed of the same elements. The attenuation of the original blood is attended by a modification of the original instincts, or modes of thinking; the new elements assert their influence, and when they have once gained perfect and entire preponderance, the degeneration may be considered as complete. With the last remnant of the original ethnical principle, expires the life of the society and its civilization. The masses, which composed it, have thenceforth no separate, independent, social and political existence; they are attracted to different centres of civilization, and swell the ranks of new societies having new instincts and new purposes. In attempting to establish this theorem, I am met by a question which involves the solution of a far more difficult problem than any I have yet approached. This question, so momentous in its bearings, is the following:-- Is there, in reality, a serious and palpable difference in the capacity and intrinsic worth of different branches of the human family? For the sake of clearness, I shall advance, _à priori_, that this difference exists. It then remains to show how the ethnical character of a nation can undergo such a total change as I designate by the term _degeneracy_. Physiologists assert that the human frame is subject to a constant wear and tear, which would soon destroy the whole machine, but for new particles which are continually taking the form and place of the old ones. So rapid is this change said to be, that, in a few years, the whole framework is renovated, and the material identity of the individual changed. The same, to a great extent, may be said of nations, only that, while the individual always preserves a certain similarity of form and features, those of a nation are subject to innumerable and ever-varying changes. Let us take a nation at the moment when it assumes a political existence, and commences to play a part in the great drama of the world's stage. In its embryo, we call it a tribe. The simplest and most natural political institution is that of tribes. It is the only form of government known to rude and savage nations. Civilization is the result of a great concentration of powerful physical and intellectual forces,[53] which, in small and scattered fragments, is impossible. The first step towards it is, therefore, undoubtedly, the union of several tribes by alliance or conquest. Such a coalescence is what we call a nation or empire. I think it admits of an easy demonstration, that in proportion as a human family is endowed with the capacity for intellectual progress, it exhibits a tendency to enlarge the circle of its influence and dominion. On the contrary, where that capacity is weak, or wanting, we find the population subdivided into innumerable small fragments, which, though in perpetual collision, remain forever detached and isolated. The stronger may massacre the weaker, but permanent conquest is never attempted; depredatory incursions are the sole object and whole extent of warfare. This is the case with the natives of Polynesia, many parts of Africa, and the Arctic regions. Nor can their stagnant condition be ascribed to local or climatical causes. We have seen such wretched hordes inhabiting, indifferently, temperate as well as torrid or frigid zones; fertile prairies and barren deserts; river-shores and coasts as well as inland regions. It must therefore be founded upon an inherent incapacity of progress. The more civilizable a race is, the stronger is the tendency for aggregation of masses. Complex political organizations are not so much the effect as the cause of civilization.[54] A tribe with superior intellectual and physical endowments, soon perceives that, to increase its power and prosperity, it must compel its neighbors to enter into the sphere of its influence. Where peaceful means fail, war is resorted to. Territories are conquered, a division into classes established between the victorious and the subjugated race; in one word, a nation has made its appearance upon the theatre of history. The impulse being once given, it will not stop short in the career of conquest. If wisdom and moderation preside in its councils, the tracks of its armies will not be marked by wanton destruction and bloodshed; the monuments, institutions, and manners of the conquered will be respected; superior creations will take the place of the old, where changes are necessary and useful;--a great empire will be formed.[55] At first, and perhaps for a long time, victors and vanquished will remain separated and distinct. But gradually, as the pride of the conqueror becomes less obtrusive, and the bitterness of defeat is forgotten by the conquered; as the ties of common interest become stronger, the boundary line between them is obliterated. Policy, fear, or natural justice, prompts the masters to concessions; intermarriages take place, and, in the course of time, the various ethnical elements are blended, and the different nations composing the state begin to consider themselves as one. This is the general history of the rise of all empires whose records have been transmitted to us.[56] An inferior race, by falling into the hands of vigorous masters, is thus called to share a destiny, of which, alone, it would have been incapable. Witness the Saxons by the Norman conquest.[57] But, if there is a decided disparity in the capacity of the two races, their mixture, while it ennobles the baser, deteriorates the nobler; a new race springs up, inferior to the one, though superior to the other, and, perhaps, possessed of peculiar qualities unknown to either. The modification of the ethnical character of the nation, however, does not terminate here. Every new acquisition of territory, by conquest or treaty, brings an addition of foreign blood. The wealth and splendor of a great empire attract crowds of strangers to its capital, great inland cities, or seaports. Apart from the fact that the conquering race--that which founds the empire, and supports and animates it--is, in most cases, inferior in numbers to the masses which it subdued and assimilated; the conspicuous part which it takes in the affairs of the state, renders it more directly exposed to the fatal results of battles, proscriptions, and revolts.[58] In some instances, also, it happens that the substratum of native populations are singularly prolific--witness the Celts and Sclaves. Sooner or later, therefore, the conquering race is absorbed by the masses which its vigor and superiority have aggregated. The very materials of which it erected its splendor, and upon which it based its strength, are ultimately the means of its weakness and destruction. But the civilization which it has developed, may survive for a limited period. The forward impulse, once imparted to the mass, will still propel it for a while, but its force is continually decreasing. Manners, laws, and institutions remain, but the spirit which animated them has fled; the lifeless body still exhibits the apparent symptoms of life, and, perhaps, even increases, but the real strength has departed; the edifice soon begins to totter, at the slightest collision it will crumble, and bury beneath its ruins the civilization which it had developed. If this definition of degeneracy be accepted, and its consequences admitted, the problem of the rise and fall of empires no longer presents any difficulty. A nation lives so long as it preserves the ethnical principle to which it owes its existence; with this principle, it loses the _primum mobile_ of its successes, its glory, and its civilization: it must therefore disappear from the stage of history. Who can doubt that if Alexander had been opposed by real Persians, the men of the Arian stock, whom Cyrus led to victory, the issue of the battle of Arbela would have been very different. Or if Rome, in her decadence, had possessed soldiers and senators like those of the time of Fabius, Scipio, and Cato, would she have fallen so easy a prey to the barbarians of the North? It will be objected that, even had the integrity of the original blood remained intact, a time must have come when they would find their masters. They would have succumbed under a series of well-combined attacks, a long-continued overwhelming pressure, or simply by the chances of a lost battle. The political edifice might have been destroyed in this manner, not the civilization, not the social organization. Invasion and defeat would have been reverses, sad ones, indeed, but not irremediable. There is no want of facts to confirm this assertion. In modern times, the Chinese have suffered two complete conquests. In each case they have imposed their manners and their institutions upon the conquerors; they have given them much, and received but little in return. The first invaders, after having undergone this change, were expelled; the same fate is now threatening the second.[59] In this case the vanquished were intellectually and numerically superior to their victors. I shall mention another case where the victors, though intellectually superior, are not possessed of sufficient numerical strength to transform the intellectual and moral character of the vanquished. The political supremacy of the British in Hindostan is perfect, yet they exert little or no moral influence over the masses they govern. All that the utmost exertion of their power can effect upon the fears of their subjects, is an outward compliance. The notions of the Hindoo cannot be replaced by European ideas--the spirit of Hindoo civilization cannot be conquered by any power, however great, of the law. Political forms may change, and do change, without materially affecting the basis upon which they rest; Hyderabad, Lahore, and Delhi may cease to be capitals: Hindoo society will subsist, nevertheless. A time must come, sooner or later, when India will regain a separate political existence, and publicly proclaim those laws of her own, which she now secretly obeys, or of which she is tacitly left in possession. The mere accident of conquest cannot destroy the principle of vitality in a people. At most, it may suspend for a time the exterior manifestations of that vitality, and strip it of its outward honors. But so long as the blood, and consequently the culture of a nation, exhibit sufficiently strong traces of the initiatory race, that nation exists; and whether it has to deal, like the Chinese, with conquerors who are superior only materially; or whether, like the Hindoos, it maintains a struggle of patience against a race much superior in every respect; that nation may rest assured of its future--independence will dawn for it one day. On the contrary, when a nation has completely exhausted the initiatory ethnical element, defeat is certain death; it has consumed the term of existence which Heaven had granted it--its destiny is fulfilled.[60] I, therefore, consider the question as settled, which has been so often discussed, as to what would have been the result, if the Carthaginians, instead of succumbing to the fortune of Rome, had conquered Italy. As they belonged to the Phenician family, a stock greatly inferior to the Italian in political capacity, they would have been absorbed by the superior race after the victory, precisely as they were after the defeat. The final result, therefore, would have been the same in either case. The destiny of civilizations is not ruled by accident; it depends not on the issue of a battle, a thrust of a sword, the favors or frowns of fickle fortune. The most warlike, formidable, and triumphant nations, when they were distinguished for nothing but bravery, strategical science, and military successes, have never had a nobler fate than that of learning from their subjects, perhaps too late, the art of living in peace. The Celts, the nomad hordes of Central Asia, are memorable illustrations of this truth. The whole of my demonstration now rests upon one hypothesis, the proof of which I have reserved for the succeeding chapters: THE MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL DIVERSITIES OF THE VARIOUS BRANCHES OF THE HUMAN FAMILY. FOOTNOTES: [52] The author has neglected to advert to one very clear explanation of this word, which, from its extensive popularity, seems to me to deserve some notice. It is said, and very commonly believed, that there is a physical degeneracy in mankind; that a nation cultivating for a long time the arts of peace, and enjoying the fruits of well-directed industry, loses the capacity for warfare; in other words becomes effeminate, and, consequently, less capable of defending itself against ruder, and, therefore, more warlike invaders. It is further said, though with less plausibility, that there is a general degeneracy of the human race--that we are inferior in physical strength to our ancestors, etc. If this theory could be supported by incontestable facts--and there are many who think it possible--it would give to the term degeneracy that real and tangible meaning which the author alleges to be wanting. But a slight investigation will demonstrate that it is more specious than correct. In the first place, to prove that an advance in civilization does not lessen the material puissance of a nation, but rather increases it, we may point to the well-known fact that the most civilized nations are the most formidable opponents in warfare, because they have brought the means of attack and defence to the greatest perfection. But that for this strength they are not solely indebted to artificial means, is proved by the history of modern civilized states. The French now fight with as much martial ardor and intrepidity, and with more success than they did in the times of Francis I. or Louis XIV., albeit they have since both these epochs made considerable progress in civilization, and this progress has been most perceptible in those classes which form the bulk and body of armies. England, though, perhaps, she could not muster an army as large as in former times, has hearts as stout, and arms as strong as those that gained for her imperishable glory at Agincourt and Poitiers. The charge at Balaklava, rash and useless as it may be termed, was worthy of the followers of the Black Prince. A theory to be correct, must admit of mathematical demonstration. The most civilized nations, then, would be the most effeminate; the most barbarous, the most warlike. And, descending from nations to individuals, the most cultivated and refined mind would be accompanied by a deficiency in many of the manly virtues. Such an assertion is ridiculous. The most refined and fastidious gentleman has never, as a class, displayed less courage and fortitude than the rowdy and fighter by profession. Men sprung from the bosom of the most polished circles in the most civilized communities, have surpassed the most warlike barbarians in deeds of hardihood and heroic valor. Civilization, therefore, produces no degeneracy; the cultivation of the arts of peace, no diminution of manly virtues. We have seen the peaceful burghers of free cities successfully resist the trained bands of a superior foe; we have seen the artisans and merchants of Holland invincible to the veteran armies of the then most powerful prince of Christendom, backed as he was by the inexhaustible treasures of a newly discovered hemisphere; we have seen, in our times, troops composed of volunteers who left their hearthstones to fight for their country, rout incredible odds of the standing armies of a foe, who, for the last thirty years, has known no peace. I believe that an advanced state of civilization, accompanied by long peace, gives rise to a certain _domestication_ of man, that is to say, it lays on a polish over the more ferocious or pugnacious tendencies of his nature; because it, in some measure deprives him of the opportunities of exercising them, but it cannot deprive him of the power, should the opportunity present itself. Let us suppose two brothers born in some of our great commercial cities, one to enter a counting-house, the other to settle in the western wilderness. The former might become a polished, elegant, perhaps even dandified young gentleman; the other might evince a supreme contempt for all the amenities of life, be ever ready to draw his bowie-knife or revolver, however slight the provocation. The country requires the services of both; a great principle is at stake, and in some battle of Matamoras or Buena Vista, the two brothers fight side by side; who will be the braver? I believe that both individual and national character admit of a certain degree of pressure by surrounding circumstances; the pressure removed, the character at once regains its original form. See with what kindliness the civilized descendant of the wild Teuton hunter takes to the hunter's life in new countries, and how soon he learns to despise the comforts of civilized life and fix his abode in the solitary wilderness. The Normans had been settled over six centuries in the beautiful province of France, to which they gave their name; their nobles had frequented the most polished court in Europe, adapted themselves to the fashions and requirements of life in a luxurious metropolis; they themselves had learned to plough the soil instead of the wave; yet in another hemisphere they at once regained their ancient habits, and--as six hundred years before--became the most dreaded pirates of the seas they infested; the savage buccaneers of the Spanish main. I can see no difference between Lolonnois and his followers, and the terrible men of the north (his lineal ancestors) that ravaged the shores of the Seine and the Rhine, and whose name is even yet mentioned with horror every evening, in the other hemisphere, by thousands of praying children: "God preserve us from the Northmen." Morgan, the Welch buccaneer, who, with a thousand men, vanquished five times as many well-equipped Spaniards, took their principal cities, Porto Bello and Panama; who tortured his captives to make them reveal the hiding-place of their treasure; Morgan might have been--sixteen centuries notwithstanding--a tributary chief to Caractacus, or one of those who opposed Cæsar's landing in Britain. To make the resemblance still more complete, the laws and regulations of these lawless bands were a precise copy of those to which their not more savage ancestors bound themselves. I regret that my limited space precludes me from entering into a more elaborate exposition of the futility of the theory that civilization, or a long continued state of peace, can produce physical degeneracy or inaptitude for the ruder duties of the battle-field; but I believe that what I have said will suffice to suggest to the thoughtful reader numerous confirmations of my position; and I may, therefore, now refer him to Mr. Gobineau's explanation of the term degeneracy.--H. [53] "Nothing but the great number of citizens in a state can occasion the flourishing of the arts and sciences. Accordingly, we see that, in all ages, it was great empires only which enjoyed this advantage. In these great states, the arts, especially that of agriculture, were soon brought to great perfection, and thus that leisure afforded to a considerable number of men, which is so necessary to study and speculation. The Babylonians, Assyrians, and Egyptians, had the advantage of being formed into regular, well-constituted states."--_Origin of Laws and Sciences, and their Progress among the most Ancient Nations._ By President DE GOGUET. Edinburgh, 1761, vol. i. pp. 272-273.--H. [54] "Conquests, by uniting many nations under one sovereign, have formed great and powerful empires, out of the ruins of many petty states. In these great empires, men began insensibly to form clearer views of politics, juster and more salutary notions of government. Experience taught them to avoid the errors which had occasioned the ruin of the nations whom they had subdued, and put them upon taking measures to prevent surprises, invasions, and the like misfortunes. With these views they fortified cities, secured such passes as might have admitted an enemy into their country, and kept a certain number of troops constantly on foot. By these precautions, several States rendered themselves formidable to their neighbors, and none durst lightly attack powers which were every way so respectable. The interior parts of such mighty monarchies were no longer exposed to ravages and devastations. War was driven far from the centre, and only infected the frontiers. The inhabitants of the country, and of the cities, began to breathe in safety. The calamities which conquests and revolutions had occasioned, disappeared; but the blessings which had grown out of them, remained. Ingenious and active spirits, encouraged by the repose which they enjoyed, devoted themselves to study. _It was in the bosom of great empires the arts were invented, and the sciences had their birth._"--_Op. cit._, vol. i. Book 5, p. 326.--H. [55] The history of every great empire proves the correctness of this remark. The conqueror never attempted to change the manners or local institutions of the peoples subdued, but contented himself with an acknowledgment of his supremacy, the payment of tribute, and the rendering of assistance in war. Those who have pursued a contrary course, may be likened to an overflowing river, which, though it leaves temporary marks of its destructive course behind, must, sooner or later, return to its bed, and, in a short time, its invasions are forgotten, and their traces obliterated.--H. [56] The most striking illustration of the correctness of this reasoning, is found in Roman history, the earlier portion of which is--thanks to Niebuhr's genius--just beginning to be understood. The lawless followers of Romulus first coalesced with the Sabines; the two nations united, then compelled the Albans to raze their city to the ground, and settle in Rome. Next came the Latins, to whom, also, a portion of the city was allotted for settlement. These two conquered nations were, of course, not permitted the same civil and political privileges as the conquerors, and, with the exception of a few noble families among them (which probably had been, from the beginning, in the interests of the conquerors), these tribes formed the _plebs_. The distinction by nations was forgotten, and had become a distinction of _classes_. Then began the progress which Mr. Gobineau describes. The Plebeians first gained their _tribunes_, who could protect their interests against the one-sided legislation of the dominant class; then, the right of discussing and deciding certain public questions in the _comitia_, or public assembly. Next, the law prohibiting intermarriage between the Patricians and Plebeians was repealed; and thus, in course of time, the government changed from an oligarchical to a democratic form. I might go into details, or, I might mention other nations in which the same process is equally manifest, but I think the above well-known facts sufficient to bring the author's idea into a clear light, and illustrate its correctness. The history of the Middle Ages, the establishment of serfdom and its gradual abolition, also furnish an analogue. Wherever we see an hereditary aristocracy (whether called class or caste), it will be found to originate in a race, which, if no longer _dominant_, was once conqueror. Before the Norman conquest, the English aristocracy was _Saxon_, there were no nobles of the ancient British blood, east of Wales; after the conquest, the aristocracy was _Norman_, and nine-tenths of the noble families of England to this day trace, or pretend to trace, their origin to that stock. The noble French families, anterior to the Revolution, were almost all of _Frankish_ or _Burgundian_ origin. The same observation applies everywhere else. In support of my opinion, I have Niebuhr's great authority: "Wherever there are castes, they are the consequence of foreign conquest and subjugation; it is impossible for a nation to submit to such a system, unless it be compelled by the calamities of a conquest. By this means only it is, that, contrary to the will of a people, circumstances arise which afterwards assume the character of a division into classes or castes."--_Lect. on Anc. Hist._ (In the English translation, this passage occurs in vol. i. p. 90.) In conclusion, I would observe that, whenever it becomes politic to flatter the mass of the people, the fact of conquest is denied. Thus, English writers labored hard to prove that William the Norman did not, in reality, conquer the Saxons. Some time before the French Revolution, the same was attempted to be proved in the case of the Germanic tribes in France. L'Abbé du Bos, and other writers, taxed their ingenuity to disguise an obvious fact, and to hide the truth under a pile of ponderous volumes.--H. [57] "It has been a favorite thesis with many writers, to pretend that the Saxon government was, at the time of the conquest, by no means subverted; that William of Normandy legally acceded to the throne, and, consequently, to the engagements of the Saxon kings.... But, if we consider that the manner in which the public power is formed in a state, is so very essential a part of its government, and that a thorough change in this respect was introduced into England by the conquest, we shall not scruple to allow that a _new government_ was established. Nay, as almost the whole landed property in the kingdom was, at that time, transferred to other hands, a new system of criminal justice introduced, and the language of the law moreover altered, the revolution may be said to have been such as is not, perhaps, to be paralleled in the history of any other country."--DE LOLME'S _English Constitution_, c. i., _note_ c.--"The battle of Hastings, and the events which followed it, not only placed a Duke of Normandy on the English throne, but gave up the whole population of England to the tyranny of the Norman race. The subjugation of a nation has seldom, even in Asia, been more complete."--MACAULAY'S _History of England_, vol. i. p. 10.--H. [58] This assertion seems self-evident; it may, however, be not altogether irrelevant to the subject, to direct attention to a few facts in illustration of it. Great national calamities like wars, proscriptions, and revolutions, are like thunderbolts, striking mostly the objects of greatest elevation. We have seen that a conquering race generally, for a long time even after the conquest has been forgotten, forms an aristocracy, which generally monopolizes the prominent positions. In great political convulsions, this aristocracy suffers most, often in numbers, and always in proportion. Thus, at the battle of Cannæ, from 5,000 to 6,000 Roman knights are said to have been slain, and, at all times, the officer's dress has furnished the most conspicuous, and at the same time the most important target for the death-dealing stroke. In those fearful proscriptions, in which Sylla and Marius vied with each other in wholesale slaughter, the number of victims included two hundred senators and thirty-three ex-consuls. That the major part of the rest were prominent men, and therefore patricians, is obvious from the nature of this persecution. Revolutions are most often, though not always, produced by a fermentation among the mass of the population, who have a heavy score to settle against a class that has domineered and tyrannized over them. Their fury, therefore, is directed against this aristocracy. I have now before me a curious document (first published in the _Prussian State-Gazette_, in 1828, and for which I am indebted to a little German volume, _Das Menschengeschlecht auf seinem Gegenwärtigen Standpuncte_, by SMIDT-PHISELDECK), giving a list of the victims that fell under the guillotine by sentence of the revolutionary tribunal, from August, 1792, to the 27th of July, 1794, in a little less than two years. The number of victims there given is 2,774. Of these, 941 are of rank unknown. The remaining 1,833 may be divided in the following proportions:-- 1,084 highest nobility (princes, dukes, marshals of France, generals, and other officers, etc. etc.) 636 of the gentry (members of Parliament, judges, etc. etc.) 113 of the bourgeoisie (including non-commissioned officers and soldiers.) ----- 1,833 Such facts require no comments.--H. [59] The recent insurrection in China has given rise to a great deal of speculation, and various are the opinions that have been formed respecting it. But it is now pretty generally conceded that it is a great national movement, and, therefore, must ultimately be successful. The history of this insurrection, by Mr. Callery and Dr. Ivan (one the interpreter, and the other the physician of the French embassy in China, and both well known and reliable authorities) leaves no doubt upon the subject. One of the most significant signs in this movement is the cutting off the tails, and letting the hair grow, which is being practised, says Dr. Ivan, in all the great cities, and in the very teeth of the mandarins. (_Ins. in China_, p. 243.) Let not the reader smile at this seemingly puerile demonstration, or underrate its importance. Apparently trivial occurrences are often the harbingers of the most important events. Were I to see in the streets of Berlin or Vienna, men with long beards or hats of a certain shape, I should know that serious troubles are to be expected; and in proportion to the number of such men, I should consider the catastrophe more or less near at hand, and the monarch's crown in danger. When the Lombard stops smoking in the streets, he meditates a revolution; and France is comparatively safe, even though every street in Paris is barricaded, and blood flows in torrents; but when bands march through the streets singing the _ça ira_, we know that to-morrow the _Red Republic_ will be proclaimed. All these are silent, but expressive demonstrations of the prevalence of a certain principle among the masses. Such a one is the cutting off of the tail among the Chinese. Nor is this a mere emblem. The shaved crown and the tail are the brands of conquest, a mark of degradation imposed by the Mantchoos on the subjugated race. The Chinese have never abandoned the hope of one day expelling their conquerors, as they did already once before. "Ever since the fall of the Mings," says Dr. Ivan, "and the accession of the Mantchoo dynasty, clandestine associations--these intellectual laboratories of declining states--have been incessantly in operation. The most celebrated of these secret societies, that of the Triad, or the _three principles_, commands so extensive and powerful an organization, that its members may be found throughout China, and wherever the Chinese emigrate; so that there is no great exaggeration in the Chinese saying: 'When three of us are together, the Triad is among us.'" (_Hist. of the Insur. in Ch._, p. 112.) Again, the writer says: "The revolutionary impetus is now so strong, the affairs of the pretender or chief of the insurrection in so prosperous a condition, that the success of his cause has nothing to fear from the loss of a battle. It would require a series of unprecedented reverses to ruin his hopes" (p. 243 and 245). I have written this somewhat lengthy note to show that Mr. Gobineau makes no rash assertion, when he says that the Mantchoos are about to experience the same fate as their Tartar predecessors.--H. [60] The author might have mentioned Russia in illustration of his position. The star of no nation that we are acquainted with has suffered an eclipse so total and so protracted, nor re-appeared with so much brilliancy. Russia, whose history so many believe to date from the time of Peter the Great only, was one of the earliest actors on the stage of modern history. Its people had adopted Christianity when our forefathers were yet heathens; its princes formed matrimonial alliances with the monarchs of Byzantine Rome, while Charlemagne was driving the reluctant Saxon barbarians by thousands into rivers to be baptized _en masse_. Russia had magnificent cities before Paris was more than a collection of hovels on a small island of the Seine. Its monarchs actually contemplated, and not without well-founded hopes, the conquest of Constantinople, while the Norman barges were devastating the coasts and river-shores of Western Europe. Nay, to that far-off, almost polar region, the enterprise of the inhabitants had attracted the genius of commerce and its attendants, prosperity and abundance. One of the greatest commercial cities of the first centuries after Christ, one of the first of the Hanse-Towns, was the great city of Novogorod, the capital of a republic that furnished three hundred thousand fighting men. But the east of Europe was not destined to outstrip the west in the great race of progress. The millions of Tartars, that, locust-like--but more formidable--marked their progress by hopeless devastation, had converted the greater portion of Asia into a desert, and now sought a new field for their savage exploits. Russia stood the first brunt, and its conquest exhausted the strength of the ruthless foe, and saved Western Europe from overwhelming ruin. In the beginning of the thirteenth century, five hundred thousand Tartar horsemen crossed the Ural Mountains. Slow, but gradual, was their progress. The Russian armies were trampled down by this countless cavalry. But the resistance must have been a brave and vigorous one, for few of the invaders lived long enough to see the conquest. Not until after a desperate struggle of fifty years, did Russia acknowledge a Tartar master. Nor were the conquerors even then allowed to enjoy their prize in peace. For two centuries more, the Russians never remitted their efforts to regain their independence. Each generation transmitted to its posterity the remembrance of that precious treasure, and the care of reconquering it. Nor were their efforts unsuccessful. Year after year the Tartars saw the prize gliding from their grasp, and towards the end of the fifteenth century, we find them driven to the banks of the Volga, and the coasts of the Black Sea. Russia now began to breathe again. But, lo! during the long struggle, Pole and Swede had vied with the Tartar in stripping her of her fairest domains. Her territory extended scarce two hundred miles, in any direction from Moscow. Her very name was unknown. Western Europe had forgotten her. The same causes that established the feudal system there, had, in the course of two centuries and a half, changed a nation of freemen into a nation of serfs. The arts of peace were lost, the military element had gained an undue preponderance, and a band of soldiers, like the Pretorian Guards of Rome, made and deposed sovereigns, and shook the state to its very foundations. Yet here and there a vigorous monarch appeared, who controlled the fierce element, and directed it to the weal of the state. Smolensk, the fairest portion of the ancient Russian domain, was re-conquered from the Pole. The Swede, also, was forced to disgorge a portion of his spoils. But it was reserved for Peter the Great and his successors to restore to Russia the rank she had once held, and to which she was entitled. I will not further trespass on the patience of the reader, now that we have arrived at that portion of Russian history which many think the first. I would merely observe that not only did Peter add to his empire no territory that had not formerly belonged to it, but even Catharine, at the first partition of Poland (I speak not of the subsequent ones), merely re-united to her dominion what once were integral portions. The rapid growth of Russia, since she has reassumed her station among the nations of the earth, is well known. Cities have sprung up in places where once the nomad had pitched his tent. A great capital, the handsomest in the world, has risen from the marsh, within one hundred and fifty years after the founder, whose name it perpetuates, had laid the first stone. Another has risen from the ashes, within less than a decade of years from the time when--a holocaust on the altar of patriotism--its flames announced to the world the vengeance of a nation on an intemperate aggressor. Truly, it seems to me, that Mr. Gobineau could not have chosen a better illustration of his position, that the mere accident of conquest can not annihilate a nation, than this great empire, in whose history conquest forms so terrible and so long an episode, that the portion anterior to it is almost forgotten to this day.--H. CHAPTER V. THE MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL DIVERSITY OF RACES IS NOT THE RESULT OF POLITICAL INSTITUTIONS. Antipathy of races--Results of their mixture--The scientific axiom of the absolute equality of men, but an extension of the political--Its fallacy--Universal belief in unequal endowment of races--The moral and intellectual diversity of races not attributable to institutions--Indigenous institutions are the expression of popular sentiments; when foreign and imported, they never prosper--Illustrations: England and France--Roman Empire--European Colonies--Sandwich Islands--St. Domingo--Jesuit missions in Paraguay. The idea of an innate and permanent difference in the moral and mental endowments of the various groups of the human species, is one of the most ancient, as well as universally adopted, opinions. With few exceptions, and these mostly in our own times, it has formed the basis of almost all political theories, and has been the fundamental maxim of government of every nation, great or small. The prejudices of country have no other cause; each nation believes in its own superiority over its neighbors, and very often different parts of the same nation regard each other with contempt. There seems to exist an instinctive antipathy among the different races, and even among the subdivisions of the same race, of which none is entirely exempt, but which acts with the greatest force in the least civilized or least civilizable. We behold it in the characteristic suspiciousness and hostility of the savage; in the isolation from foreign influence and intercourse of the Chinese and Japanese; in the various distinctions founded upon birth in more civilized communities, such as castes, orders of nobility and aristocratic privileges.[61] Not even a common religion can extinguish the hereditary aversion of the Arab[62] to the Turk, of the Kurd to the Nestorian of Syria; or the bitter hostility of the Magyar and Sclave, who, without intermingling, have inhabited the same country for centuries. But as the different types lose their purity and become blended, this hostility of race abates; the maxim of absolute and permanent inequality is first discussed, then doubted. A man of mixed race or caste will not be apt to admit disparity in his double ancestry. The superiority of particular types, and their consequent claims to dominion, find fewer advocates. This dominion is stigmatized as a tyrannical usurpation of power.[63] The mixture of castes gives rise to the political axiom that all men are equal, and, therefore, entitled to the same rights. Indeed, since there are no longer any distinct hereditary classes, none can justly claim superior merit and privileges. But this assertion, which is true only where a complete fusion has taken place, is applied to the whole human race--to all present, past, and future generations. The political axiom of equality which, like the bag of �olus, contains so many tempests, is soon followed by the scientific. It is said--and the more heterogeneous the ethnical elements of a nation are, the more extensively the theory gains ground--that, "all branches of the human family are endowed with intellectual capacities of the same nature, which, though in different stages of development, are all equally susceptible of improvement." This is not, perhaps, the precise language, but certainly the meaning. Thus, the Huron, by proper culture, might become the equal of the Englishman and Frenchman. Why, then, I would ask, did he never, in the course of centuries, invent the art of printing or apply the power of steam; why, among the warriors of his tribe, has there never arisen a Cæsar or a Charlemagne, among his bards and medicine-men, a Homer or a Hippocrates? These questions are generally met by advancing the influence of climate, local circumstances, etc. An island, it is said, can never be the theatre of great social and political developments in the same measure as a continent; the natives of a southern clime will not display the energy of those of the north; seacoasts and large navigable rivers will promote a civilization which could never have flourished in an inland region;--and a great deal more to the same purpose. But all these ingenious and plausible hypotheses are contradicted by facts. The same soil and the same climate have been visited, alternately, by barbarism and civilization. The degraded fellah is charred by the same sun which once burnt the powerful priest of Memphis; the learned professor of Berlin lectures under the same inclement sky that witnessed the miseries of the savage Finn. What is most curious is, that while the belief of equality may influence institutions and manners, there is not a nation, nor an individual but renders homage to the contrary sentiment. Who has not heard of the distinctive traits of the Frenchman, the German, the Spaniard, the English, the Russ. One is called sprightly and volatile, but brave; the other is sober and meditative; a third is noted for his gravity; a fourth is known by his coldness and reserve, and his eagerness of gain; a fifth, on the contrary, is notorious for reckless expense. I shall not express any opinion upon the accuracy of these distinctions, I merely point out that they are made daily and adopted by common consent. The same has been done in all ages. The Roman of Italy distinguished the Roman of Greece by the epithet _Græculus_, and attributed to him, as characteristic peculiarities, want of courage and boastful loquacity. He laughed at the colonist of Carthage, whom he pretended to recognize among thousands by his litigious spirit and bad faith. The Alexandrians passed for wily, insolent, and seditious. Yet the doctrine of equality was as universally received among the Romans of that period as it is among ourselves. If, then, various nations display qualities so different; if some are eager for war and glory; others, lovers of their ease and comfort, it follows that their destinies must be very diverse. The strongest will act in the great tragedy of history the roles of kings and heroes, the weaker will be content with the humbler parts. I do not believe that the ingenuity of our times has succeeded in reconciling the universally adopted belief in the special character of each nation with the no less general conviction that they are all equal. Yet this contradiction is very flagrant, the more so as its partisans are not behindhand in extolling the superiority of the Anglo-Saxons of North America over all the other nations of the same continent. It is true that they ascribe that superiority to the influence of political institutions. But they will hardly contest the characteristic aptitude of the countrymen of Penn and Washington, to establish wherever they go liberal forms of government, and their still more valuable ability to preserve them, when once established. Is not this a very high prerogative allotted to that branch of the human family? the more precious, since so few of the groups that have ever inhabited the globe possessed it. I know that my opponents will not allow me an easy victory. They will object to me the immense potency of manners and institutions; they will show me how much the spirit of the government, by its inherent and irresistible force, influences the development of a nation; how vastly different will be its progress when fostered by liberty or crushed by despotism. This argument, however, by no means invalidates my position. Political institutions can have but two origins: either they emanate from the people which is to be governed by them, or they are the invention of a foreign nation, by whom they are imposed, or from whom they are copied. In the former case, the institutions are necessarily moulded upon the instincts and wants of the people; and if, through carelessness or ignorance, they are in aught incompatible with either, such defects will soon be removed or remedied. In every independent community the law may be said to emanate from the people; for though they have not apparently the power of promulgating it, it cannot be applicable to them unless it is consonant with their views and sentiments: it must be the reflex of the national character.[64] The wise law-giver, to whose superior genius his countrymen seem solely indebted, has but given a voice to the wants and desires of all. The mere theorist, like Draco, finds his code a dead letter, and destined soon to give place to the institutions of the more judicious philosopher who would give to his compatriots "not the best laws possible, but such only as they were capable of receiving." When Charles I., guided by the fatal counsels of the Earl of Strafford, attempted to curb the English nation under the yoke of absolutism, king and minister were treading the bloody quagmire of theories. But when Ferdinand the Catholic ordered those terrible, but, in the then condition of the nation, politically necessary persecutions of the Spanish Moors, or when Napoleon re-established religion and authority in France, and flattered the military spirit of the nation--both these potentates had rightly understood the genius of their subjects, and were building upon a solid and practical foundation. False institutions, often beautiful on paper, are those which are not conformed to the national virtues _or failings_, and consequently unsuitable to the country, though perhaps perfectly practicable and highly useful in a neighboring state. Such institutions, were they borrowed from the legislation of the angels, will produce nothing but discord and anarchy. Others, on the contrary, which the theorist will eschew, and the moralist blame in many points, or perhaps throughout, may be the best adapted to the community. Lycurgus was no theorist; his laws were in strict accordance with the spirit and manners of his countrymen.[65] The Dorians of Sparta were few in number, valiant, and rapacious; false institutions would have made them but petty villains--Lycurgus changed them into heroic brigands.[66] The influence of laws and political institutions is certainly very great; they preserve and invigorate the genius of a nation, define its objects, and help to attain them; but though they may develop powers, they cannot create them where they do not already exist. They first receive their imprint from the nation, and then return and confirm it. In other words, it is the nation that fashions the laws, before the laws, in turn, can fashion the nation. Another proof of this fact are the changes and modifications which they undergo in the course of time. I have already said above, that in proportion as nations advance in civilization, and extend their territory and power, their ethnical character, and, with it, their instincts, undergo a gradual alteration. New manners and new tendencies prevail, and soon give rise to a series of modifications, the more frequent and radical as the influx of blood becomes greater and the fusion more complete. England, where the ethnical changes have been slower and less considerable than in any other European country, preserves to this day the basis of the social system of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The municipal organization of the times of the Plantagenets and the Tudors flourishes in almost all its ancient vigor. There is the same participation of the nobility in the government, and the same manner of composing that nobility; the same respect for ancient families, united to an appreciation of those whose merits raise them above their class. Since the accession of James I., and still more since the union, in Queen Anne's reign, there has indeed been an influx of Scotch and Irish blood; foreign nations have also, though imperceptibly, furnished their contingent to the mixture; alterations have consequently become more frequent of late, but without, as yet, touching the original spirit of the constitution. In France, the ethnical elements are much more numerous, and their mixtures more varied; and there it has repeatedly happened that the principal power of the state passed suddenly from the hands of one race to those of another. Changes, rather than modifications, have therefore taken place in the social and political system; and the changes were abrupt or radical, in proportion as these races were more or less dissimilar. So long as the north of France, where the Germanic element prevailed, preponderated in the policy of the country, the fabric of feudalism, or rather its inform remains, maintained their ground. After the expulsion of the English in the fifteenth century, the provinces of the centre took the lead. Their efforts, under the guidance of Charles VII., had recently restored the national independence, and the Gallo-Roman blood naturally predominated in camp and council. From this time dates the introduction of the taste for military life and foreign conquests, peculiar to the Celtic race, and the tendency to concentrate and consolidate the sovereign authority, which characterized the Roman. The road being thus prepared, the next step towards the establishment of absolute power was made at the end of the sixteenth century, by the Aquitanian followers of Henry IV., who had still more of the Roman than of the Celtic blood in their veins. The centralization of power, resulting from the ascendency of the southern populations, soon gave Paris an overweening preponderance, and finally made it, what it now is, the sovereign of the state. This great capital, this modern Babel, whose population is a motley compound of all the most varied ethnical elements, no longer had any motive to love or respect any tradition or peculiar tendency, and, coming to a complete rupture with the past, hurried France into a series of political and social experiments of doctrines the most remote from, and repulsive to, the ancient customs and traditional tendencies of the realm. These examples seem to me sufficient to prove that political institutions, when not imposed by foreign influence, take their mould from the national character, not only in the first place, but throughout all subsequent changes. Let us now examine the second case, when a foreign code is, _nolens volens_, forced upon a nation by a superior power. There are few instances of such attempts. Indeed, they were never made on a grand scale, by any truly sagacious governments of either ancient or modern times. The Romans were too politic to indulge in such hazardous experiments. Alexander, before them, had never ventured it, and his successors, convinced, either by reason or instinct, of the futility of such efforts, had been contented to reign, like the conqueror of Darius, over a vast mosaic of nations, each of which retained its own habits, manners, laws, and administrative forms, and, at least so long as it preserved its ethnical identity, resembled its fellow-subjects in nothing but submission to the same fiscal and military regulations. There were, it is true, among the nations subdued by the Romans, some whose codes contained practices so utterly repugnant to their masters, that the latter could not possibly have tolerated them. Such were the human sacrifices of the Druids, which were, indeed, visited with the severest penalties. But the Romans, with all their power, never succeeded in completely extirpating this barbarous rite. In the Narbonnese, the victory was easy, for the Gallic population had been almost completely replaced by Roman colonists; but the more intact tribes of the interior provinces made an obstinate resistance; and, in the peninsula of Brittany, where, in the fourth century, a British colony re-imported the ancient instincts with the ancient blood, the population, in spite of the Romans, continued, either from patriotism or veneration for their ancient traditions, to butcher fellow-beings on their altars, as often as they could elude the vigilance of their masters. All revolts began with the restoration of this fearful feature of the national creed, and even Christianity could not entirely efface its traces, until after protracted and strenuous efforts. As late as the seventeenth century, the shipwrecked were murdered, and wrecks plundered in all the maritime provinces where the Kimric blood had preserved itself unmixed. These barbarous customs were in accordance with the manners of a race which, not being yet sufficiently admixed, still remained true to its irrepressible instincts. One characteristic of European civilization is its intolerance. Conscious of its pre-eminence, we are prone to deny the existence of any other, or, at least, to consider it as the standard of all. We look with supreme contempt upon all nations that are not within its pale, and when they fall under our influence, we attempt to convert them to our views and modes of thinking. Institutions which we know to be good and useful, but which persuasion fails to propagate among nations to whose instincts they are foreign, we force upon them by the power of our arms. Where are the results? Since the sixteenth century, when the European spirit of discovery and conquest penetrated to the east, it does not seem to have operated the slightest change in the manners and mode of existence of the populations which it subjected. I have already adduced the example of British India. All the other European possessions present the same spectacle. The aborigines of Java, though completely subjugated by the Dutch, have not yet made the first step towards embracing the manners of their conquerors. Java, at this day, preserves the social regulations of the time of its independence. In South America, where Spain ruled with unrestrained power for centuries, what effect has it produced? The ancient empires, it is true, are no longer; their traces, even, are almost obliterated. But while the native has not risen to the level of his conqueror, the latter has been degraded by the mixture of blood.[67] In the North, a different method has been pursued, but with results equally negative; nay, in the eyes of philanthropy, more deplorable; for, while the Spanish Indians have at least increased in numbers,[68] and even mixed with their masters, to the Red-Man of the North, the contact with the Anglo-Saxon race has been death. The feeble remnants of these wretched tribes are fast disappearing, and disappearing as uncivilized, as uncivilizable, as their ancestors. In Oceanica, the same observation holds good. The number of aborigines is daily diminishing. The European may disarm them, and prevent them from doing him injury, but change them he cannot. Where-ever he is master, they no longer eat one another, but they fill themselves with firewater, and this novel species of brutishness is all they learn of European civilization. There are, indeed, two governments framed by nations of a different race, after our models: that of the Sandwich Islands, and that of St. Domingo. A glance at these two countries will complete the proof of the futility of any attempts to give to a nation institutions not suggested by its own genius. In the Sandwich Islands, the representative system shines with full lustre. We there find an Upper House, a Lower House, a ministry who govern, and a king who reigns; nothing is wanted. Yet all this is mere decoration; the wheel-work that moves the whole machine, the indispensable motive power, is the corps of missionaries. To them alone belongs the honor of finding the ideas, of presenting them, and carrying them through, either by their personal influence over their neophytes, or, if need be, by threats. It may be doubted, however, whether the missionaries, if they had no other instruments but the king and chambers, would not, after struggling for a while against the inaptitude of their pupils, find themselves compelled to take a more direct, and, consequently, more apparent part in the management of affairs. This difficulty is obviated by the establishment of a ministry composed of Europeans, or half-bloods. Between them and the missionaries, all public affairs are prearranged; the rest is only for show. King Kamehameha III. is, it seems, a man of ability. For his own account, he has abandoned tattooing, and although he has not yet succeeded in dissuading all his courtiers from this agreeable practice, he enjoys the satisfaction of seeing their countenances adorned with comparatively slight designs. The mass of the nation, the country nobility and common people, persist upon this as all other points, in the ancient ideas and customs.[69] Still, a variety of causes tend to daily increase the European population of the Isles. The proximity of California makes them a point of great interest to the far-seeing energy of our nations. Runaway sailors, and mutineers, are no longer the only white colonists; merchants, speculators, adventurers of all sorts, collect there in considerable numbers, build houses, and become permanent settlers. The native population is gradually becoming absorbed in the mixture with the whites. It is highly probable that, ere long, the present representative form of government will be superseded by an administration composed of delegates from one or all of the great maritime powers. Of one thing I feel firmly convinced, that these imported institutions will take firm root in the country, but the day of their final triumph, by a necessary synchronism, will be that of the extinction of the native race. In St. Domingo, national independence is intact. There are no missionaries exercising absolute, though concealed, control, no foreign ministry governing in the European spirit; everything is left to the genius and inspiration of the population. In the Spanish part of the island, this population consists of mulattoes. I shall not speak of them. They seem to imitate, in some fashion, the simplest and easiest features of our civilization. Like all half-breeds, they have a tendency to assimilate with that branch of their genealogy which does them most honor. They are, therefore, capable of practising, in some degree, our usages. The absolute question of the capacity of races cannot be studied among them. Let us cross the mountain ridge which separates the republic of Dominica from the empire of Hayti. There we find institutions not only similar to ours, but founded upon the most recent maxims of our political wisdom. All that, since sixty years, the voice of the most refined liberalism has proclaimed in the deliberative assemblies of Europe, all that the most zealous friends of the freedom and dignity of man have written, all the declarations of rights and principles, have found an echo on the banks of Artibonite. No trace of Africa remains in the _written_ laws, or the _official_ language; the recollections of the land of Ham are _officially_ expunged from every mind; once more, the institutions are completely European. Let us now examine how they harmonize with the manners. What a contrast! The manners are as depraved, as beastly, as ferocious as in Dahomey[70] or the country of the Fellatahs. The same barbarous love of ornament, combined with the same indifference to form; beauty consists in color, and provided a garment is of gaudy red, and adorned with imitation gold, taste is little concerned with useless attention to materials or fitness; and as for cleanliness, this is a superfluity for which no one cares. You desire an audience with some high functionary: you are ushered into the presence of an athletic negro, stretched on a wooden bench, his head wrapped in a dirty, tattered handkerchief, and surmounted by a three-cornered hat, profusely decorated with gold. The general apparel consists of an embroidered coat (without suitable nether-garments), a huge sword, and slippers. You converse with this mass of flesh, and are anxious to discover what ideas can occupy a mind under so unpromising an exterior. You find an intellect of the lowest order combined with the most savage pride, which can be equalled only by as profound and incurable a laziness. If the individual before you opens his mouth, he will retail all the hackneyed common-places that the papers have wearied you with for the last half century. This barbarian knows them by heart; he has very different interests, different instincts; he has no ideas of his own. He will talk like Baron Holbach, reason like Grimm, and at the bottom has no serious care except chewing tobacco, drinking spirits, butchering his enemies, and propitiating his sorcerers. The rest of the time he sleeps. The state is divided into two factions, not separated by incompatibility of politics, but of color--the negroes and the mulattoes. The latter, doubtless, are superior in intelligence, as I have already remarked with regard to the Dominicans. The European blood has modified the nature of the African, and in a community of whites, with good models constantly before their eyes, these men might be converted into useful members of society. But, unfortunately, the superiority of numbers belongs at present to the negroes, and these, though removed from Africa by several generations, are the same as in their native clime. Their supreme felicity is idleness; their supreme reason, murder. Among the two divisions of the island the most intense hatred has always prevailed. The history of independent Hayti is nothing but a long series of massacres: massacres of mulattoes by the negroes, when the latter were strongest; of the negroes by the mulattoes, when the power was in their hands. The institutions, with all their boasted liberality and philanthropy, are of no use whatever. They sleep undisturbedly and impotently upon the paper on which they were written, and the savage instincts of the population reign supreme. Conformably to the law of nature which I pointed out before, the negro, who belongs to a race exhibiting little aptitude for civilization, entertains the most profound horror for all other races. Thus we see the Haytien negroes energetically repel the white man from their territory, and forbid him even to enter it; they would also drive out the mulattoes, and contemplate their ultimate extermination. Hostility to the foreigner is the _primum mobile_ of their local policy. Owing to the innate laziness of the race, agriculture is abandoned, industry not known even by name, commerce drivelling; misery prevents the increase of the population, while continual wars, insurrections, and military executions diminish it continually. The inevitable and not very remote consequence of such a condition of things is to convert into a desert a country whose fertility and natural resources enriched generations of planters, which in exports and commercial activity surpassed even Cuba.[71] These examples of St. Domingo and the Sandwich Islands seem to me conclusive. I cannot, however, forbear, before definitely leaving the subject, from mentioning another analogous fact, the peculiar character of which greatly confirms my position. I allude to the attempts of the Jesuit missionaries to civilize the natives of Paraguay.[72] These missionaries, by their exalted intelligence and self-sacrificing courage, have excited universal admiration; and the most decided enemies of their order have never refused them an unstinted tribute of praise. If foreign institutions have ever had the slightest chance of success with a nation, these assuredly had it, based as they were upon the power of religious feelings, and supported and applied with a tact as correct as it was refined. The fathers were of the pretty general opinion that barbarism was to nations what childhood is to the individual, and that the more savage and untutored we find a people, the younger we may conclude them to be. To educate their neophytes to adolescence, they therefore treated them like children. Their government was as firm in its views and commands as it was mild and affectionate in its forms. The aborigines of the American continent have generally a tendency to republicanism; a monarchy or aristocracy is rarely found among them, and then in a very restricted form. The Guaranis of Paraguay did not differ, in this respect, from their congeners. By a happy circumstance, however, these tribes displayed rather more intelligence and less ferocity than their neighbors, and seemed capable, to some extent, of conceiving new wants and adopting new ideas. About one hundred and twenty thousand souls were collected in the villages of the missions, under the guidance of the fathers. All that experience, daily study, and active charity could teach the Jesuits, was employed for the benefit of their pupils; incessant efforts were made to hasten success, without hazarding it by rashness. In spite of all these cares, however, it was soon felt that the most absolute authority over the neophytes could hardly constrain them to persist in the right path, and occasions were not wanting that revealed the little real solidity of the edifice.[73] When the measures of Count Aranda deprived Paraguay of its pious and skilful civilizers, the sad truth appeared in complete light. The Guaranis, deprived of their spiritual guides, refused all confidence in the lay directors sent them by the Spanish crown. They showed no attachment to their new institutions. Their taste for savage life revived, and at present there are but thirty-seven little villages still vegetating on the banks of the Parana, the Paraguay, and Uraguay, and these contain a considerable nucleus of half-breed population. The rest have returned to the forest, and live there in as savage a state as the western tribes of the same stock, the Guaranis and Cirionos. I will not say that the deserters have readopted their ancient manners completely, but there is little trace left of the pious missionaries' labors, and this because it is given to no human race to be oblivious of its instincts, nor to abandon the path in which the Creator has placed them. It may be supposed, had the Jesuits continued to direct their missions in Paraguay, that their efforts, assisted by time, would have been crowned with better success. I am willing to concede this, but on one condition only, always the same: that a group of Europeans would gradually have settled in the country under the protection of the Jesuit directors. These would have modified, and finally completely transformed the native blood, and a state would have been formed, bearing probably an aboriginal name, whose inhabitants might have prided themselves upon descending from autochthonic ancestors, though as completely belonging to Europe as the institutions by which they might be governed. FOOTNOTES: [61] The author of _Democracy in America_ (vol. ii. book 3, ch. 1), speculating upon the total want of sympathy among the various classes of an aristocratic community, says: "Each caste has its own opinions, feelings, rights, manners, and mode of living. The members of each caste do not resemble the rest of their fellow-citizens; they do not think and feel in the same manner, and believe themselves a distinct race.... When the chroniclers of the Middle Ages, who all belonged to the aristocracy by birth and education, relate the tragical end of a noble, their grief flows apace; while they tell, with the utmost indifference, of massacres and tortures inflicted on the common people. In this they were actuated by an _instinct_ rather than by a passion, for they felt no habitual hatred or systematic disdain for the people: war between the several classes of the community was not yet declared." The writer gives extracts from Mme. de Sevigné's letters, displaying, to use his own words, "a cruel jocularity which, in our day, the harshest man writing to the most insensible person of his acquaintance would not venture to indulge in; and yet Madame de Sevigné was not selfish or cruel; she was passionately attached to her children, and ever ready to sympathize with her friends, and she treated her servants and vassals with kindness and indulgence." "Whence does this arise?" asks M. De Tocqueville; "have we really more sensibility than our forefathers?" When it is recollected, as has been pointed out in a previous note, that the nobility of France were of Germanic, and the peasantry of Celtic origin, we will find in this an additional proof of the correctness of our author's theory. Thanks to the revolution, the barriers that separated the various ranks have been torn down, and continual intermixture has blended the blood of the Frankish noble and of the Gallic boor. Wherever this fusion has not yet taken place, or but imperfectly, M. De Tocqueville's remarks still apply.--H. [62] The spirit of clanship is so strong in the Arab tribes, and their instinct of ethnical isolation so powerful, that it often displays itself in a rather odd manner. A traveller (Mr. Fulgence Fresnel, if I am not mistaken) relates that at Djidda, where morality is at a rather low ebb, the same Bedouine who cannot resist the slightest pecuniary temptation, would think herself forever dishonored, if she were joined in lawful wedlock to the Turk or European, to whose embrace she willingly yields while she despises him. [63] The man Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. Power, like a desolating pestilence, Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, Makes slaves of man, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton. SHELLEY, _Queen Mab_. [64] Montesquieu expresses a similar idea, in his usual epigrammatic style. "The customs of an enslaved people," says he, "are a part of their servitude; those of a free people, a part of their liberty."--_Esprit des Lois_, b. xix. c. 27.--H. [65] "A great portion of the peculiarities of the Spartan constitution and their institutions was assuredly of ancient Doric origin, and must have been rather given up by the other Dorians, than newly invented and instituted by the Spartans."--_Niebuhr's Ancient History_, vol. i. p. 306.--H. [66] See note on page 121. [67] The amalgamation of races in South America must indeed be inconceivable. "I find," says Alex. von Humboldt, in 1826, "by several statements, that if we estimate the population of the whole of the Spanish colonies at fourteen or fifteen millions of souls, there are, in that number, at most, _three_ millions of pure whites, including about 200,000 Europeans." (_Pers. Nar._, vol. i. p. 400.) Of the progress which this mongrel population have made in civilization, I cannot give a better idea than by an extract from Dr. Tschudi's work, describing the mode of ploughing in some parts of Chili. "If a field is to be tilled, it is done by two natives, who are furnished with long poles, pointed at one end. The one thrusts his pole, pretty deeply, and in an oblique direction, into the earth, so that it forms an angle with the surface of the ground. The other Indian sticks his pole in, at a little distance, and also obliquely, and he forces it beneath that of his fellow-laborer, so that the first pole lies, as it were, upon the second. The first Indian then presses on his pole, and makes it work on the other, as a lever on its fulcrum, and the earth is thrown up by the point of the pole. Thus they gradually advance, until the whole field is furrowed by this laborious process." (_Dr. Tschudi, Travels in Peru, during the years 1838-1842._ London, 1847, p. 14.) I really do not think that a counterpart to this could be found, except, perhaps, in the manner of working the mines all over South America. Both Darwin and Tschudi speak of it with surprise. Every pound of ore is brought out of the shafts on men's shoulders. The mines are drained of the water accumulating in them, in the same manner, by means of water-tight bags. Dr. Tschudi describes the process employed for the amalgamation of the quicksilver with the silver ore. It is done by causing them to be trodden together by horses', or human feet. Not only is this method attended with incredible waste of material, and therefore very expensive, but it soon kills the horses employed in it, while the men contract the most fearful, and, generally, incurable diseases! (_Op. cit._, p. 331-334.)--H. [68] A. von Humboldt, _Examen critique de l'Histoire et de la Géographie du N. C._, vol. ii. p. 129-130. The same opinion is expressed by Mr. Humboldt in his _Personal Narrative_. London, 1852, vol. i. p. 296.--H. [69] Speaking of the habit of tattooing among the South Sea Islanders, Mr. Darwin says that even girls who had been brought up in missionaries' houses, could not be dissuaded from this practice, though in everything else, they seemed to have forgotten the savage instincts of their race. "The wives of the missionaries tried to prevent them, but a famous operator having arrived from the South, they said: 'We really must have just a few lines on our lips, else, when we grow old, we shall be so ugly.'"--_Journal of a Naturalist_, vol. ii. p. 208.--H. [70] For the latest details, see Mr. Gustave d'Alaux's articles in the _Revue des Deux Mondes_, 1853. [71] The subjoined comparison of the exports of Haytien staple products may not be uninteresting to many of our readers, while it serves to confirm the author's assertion. I extract it from a statistical table in Mackenzie's report to the British government, upon the condition of the then republic (now empire). Mr. Mackenzie resided there as special _envoyé_ several years, for the purpose of collecting authentic information for his government, and his statements may therefore be relied upon. (_Notes on Hayti_, vol. ii. note FF. London, 1830.) SUGAR. COTTON. COFFEE. lbs. lbs. lbs. 1789 141,089,831 7,004,274 76,835,219 1826 32,864 620,972 32,189,784 It will be perceived, from these figures, that the decrease is greatest in that staple which requires the most laborious cultivation. Thus, sugar requires almost unremitting toil; coffee, comparatively little. All branches of industry have fearfully decreased; some of them have ceased entirely; and the small and continually dwindling commerce of that wretched country consists now mainly of articles of spontaneous growth. The statistics of imports are in perfect keeping with those of exports. (_Op. cit._, vol. ii. p. 183.) As might be expected from such a state of things, the annual expenditure in 1827 was estimated at a little more than _double_ the amount of the annual revenue! (_Ibid._, "Finance.") That matters have not improved under the administration of that Most Gracious, Most Christian monarch, the Emperor Faustin I., will be seen by reference to last year's _Annuaire de la Revue del deux Mondes_, "Haiti," p. 876, _et seq._, where some curious details about his majesty and his majesty's sable subjects will be found. [72] Upon this subject, consult Prichard, d'Orbigny, and A. de Humboldt. [73] I recollect having read, several years ago, in a Jesuit missionary journal (I forget its name and date, but am confident that the authority is a reliable one), a rather ludicrous account of an instance of this kind. One of the fathers, who had a little isolated village under his charge, had occasion to leave his flock for a time, and his place, unfortunately, could not be replaced by another. He therefore called the most promising of his neophytes, and committed to their care the domestic animals and agricultural implements with which the society had provided the newly-converted savages, then left them with many exhortations and instructions. His absence being prolonged beyond the period anticipated, the Indians thought him dead, and instituted a grand funeral feast in his honor, at which they slaughtered all the oxen, and roasted them by fires made of the ploughs, hoe-handles, etc.; and he arrived just in time to witness the closing scenes of this mourning ceremony.--H. CHAPTER VI. THIS DIVERSITY IS NOT THE RESULT OF GEOGRAPHICAL SITUATION. America--Ancient empires--Phenicians and Romans--Jews--Greece and Rome--Commercial cities of Europe--Isthmus of Darien. It is impossible to leave entirely out of the question the influence which climate, the nature of the soil, and topographical circumstances, exert upon the development of nations. This influence, so much overrated by many of the learned, I shall investigate more fully, although I have rapidly glanced at it already, in another place. It is a very common opinion that a nation living under a temperate sky, not too warm to enervate the man, nor too cold to render the soil unproductive; on the shores of large rivers, affording extensive and commodious means of communication; in plains and valleys adapted to varied cultivation; at the foot of mountains pregnant with the useful and precious ores--that a nation thus favored by nature, would soon be prompted to cast off barbarism, and progress rapidly in civilization.[74] On the other hand, and by the same reasoning, it is easily admitted that tribes, charred by an ardent sun, or benumbed by unceasing cold, and having no territory save sterile rocks, would be much more liable to remain in a state of barbarism. According to this hypothesis, the intellectual powers of man could be developed only by the aid of external nature, and all his worth and greatness are not implanted in him, but in the objects without and around. Specious as is this opinion at first sight, it has against it all the numerous facts which observation furnishes. Nowhere, certainly, is there a greater variety of soil and climate than in the extensive Western Continent. Nowhere are there more fertile regions, milder skies, larger and more numerous rivers. The coasts are indented with gulfs and bays; deep and magnificent harbors abound; the most valuable riches of the mineral kingdom crop out of the ground; nature has lavished on the soil her choicest and most variegated vegetable productions, and the woods and prairies swarm with alimentary species of animals, presenting still more substantial resources. And yet, the greater part of these happy countries is inhabited, and has been for a series of centuries, by tribes who ignore the most mediocre exploration of all these treasures. Several of them seem to have been in the way of doing better. A meagre culture, a rude knowledge of the art of working metals, may be observed in more than one place. Several useful arts, practised with some ingenuity, still surprise the traveller. But all this is really on a very humble scale, and never formed what might be termed a civilization. There certainly has existed at some very remote period, a nation which inhabited the vast region extending from Lake Erie to the Mexican Gulf. There can be no doubt that the country lying between the Alleghany and the Rocky Mountains, and extending from Lake Erie to the Gulf of Mexico, was, at some very remote epoch, inhabited by a nation that has left remarkable traces of its existence behind.[75] The remains of buildings, inscriptions on rocks, the tumuli,[76] and mummies which they inclose, indicate a high degree of intellectual culture. But there is no evidence that between this mysterious people and the tribes now wandering over its tombs, there is any very near affinity. However this may be, if by inheritance or slavish imitation the now existing aborigines derive their first knowledge of the arts which they now rudely practise, from the former masters of the soil, we cannot but be struck by their incapacity of perfecting what they had been taught; and I see in this a new motive for adhering to my opinion, that a nation placed amid the most favorable geographical circumstances, is not, therefore, destined to arrive at civilization. On the contrary, there is between the propitiousness of soil and climate and the establishment of civilization, a complete independence. India was a country which required fertilization; so was Egypt.[77] Here we have two very celebrated centres of human culture and development. China, though very productive in some parts, presented in others difficulties of a very serious character. The first events recorded in its history are struggles with rivers that had burst their bonds; its heroes are victors over the ruthless flood; the ancient emperors distinguished themselves by excavating canals and draining marshes. The country of the Tigris and Euphrates, the theatre of Assyrian splendor and hallowed by our most sacred traditions, those regions where, Syncellus says, wheat grew spontaneously, possess a soil so little productive, when unassisted by art, that only a vast and laborious system of irrigation can render it capable of giving the means of subsistence to its inhabitants. Now that the canals are filled up or obstructed, sterility has reassumed its former dominion. I am, therefore, inclined to think that nature had not so greatly favored these countries as is usually supposed. Yet, I shall not discuss this point. I am willing to admit that China, Egypt, India, and Mesopotamia were regions perfectly adapted in every respect to the establishment of great empires, and the consequent development of brilliant civilizations. But it cannot be disputed that these nations, to profit by these superior advantages, must have previously brought their social system to a high degree of perfection. Before the great watercourses became the highways of commerce, industry, or at least agriculture, must have flourished to some extent. The great advantages accorded to these countries presuppose, therefore, in the nations that have profited by them, a peculiar intellectual vocation, and even a certain anterior degree of civilization. But from these specially favored regions let us glance elsewhere. When the Phenicians migrated from the southeast, they fixed their abode on an arid, rocky coast, inclosed by steep and ragged mountains. Such a geographical situation would appear to preclude a people from any expansion, and force them to remain forever dependent on the produce of their fisheries for sustenance. The utmost that could be expected of them was to see them petty pirates. They were pirates, indeed, but on a magnificent scale; and, what is more, they were bold and successful merchants and speculators. They planted colonies everywhere, while the barren rocks of the mother country were covered with the palaces and temples of a wealthy and luxurious community. Some will say, that "the very unpropitiousness of external circumstances forced the founders of Tyre and Sidon to become what they were. Necessity is the mother of invention; their misery spurred them on to exertion; had they inhabited the plains of Damascus, they would have been content with the peaceful products of agriculture, and would probably never have become an illustrious nation."[78] And why does not misery spur on other nations placed under similar circumstances? The Kabyles of Morocco are an ancient race; they have had sufficient time for reflection, and, moreover, every possible inducement for mere imitation; yet they have never imagined any other method for alleviating their wretched lot except petty piracy. The unparalleled facilities for commerce afforded by the Indian archipelago and the island clusters of the Pacific, have never been improved by the natives; all the peaceful and profitable relations were left in the hands of foreign races--the Chinese, Malays, and Arabs; where commerce has fallen into the hands of a semi-indigenous or half-breed population, it has instantly commenced to languish. What conclusions can we deduce from these observations than that pressing wants are not sufficient for inciting a nation to profit by the natural facilities of its coasts and islands, and that some special aptitude is needed for establishing a commercial state even in localities best adapted for that purpose. But I shall not content myself with proving that the social and political aptitudes of races are not dependent on geographical situations, whether these be favorable or unfavorable; I shall, moreover, endeavor to show that these aptitudes have no sort of relation with any exterior circumstances. The Armenians, in their almost inaccessible mountains, where so many other nations have vegetated in a state of barbarism from generation to generation, and without any access to the sea, attained, already at a remote period, a high state of civilization. The Jews found themselves in an analogous position; they were surrounded by tribes who spoke kindred dialects, and who, for the most part, were nearly related to them in blood. Yet, they excelled all these groups. They were warriors, agriculturists, and merchants. Under a government in which theocracy, monarchy, patriarchal authority, and popular will, were singularly complicated and balanced, they traversed centuries of prosperity and glory. The difficulties which the narrow limits of their patrimonial domain opposed to their expansion, were overcome by an intelligent system of emigration. What was this famous Canaan? Modern travellers bear witness to the laborious and well-directed efforts by which the Jewish agriculturists maintained the factitious fertility of their soil. Since the chosen race no longer inhabits these mountains and plains, the wells where Jacob's flocks drank are dried up; Naboth's vineyard is invaded by the desert, Achab's palace-gardens filled with thistles. In this miserable corner of the world, what were the Jews? A people dextrous in all they undertook, a free, powerful, intelligent people, who, before losing bravely, and against a much superior foe, the title of independent nation, had furnished to the world almost as many doctors as merchants.[79] Let us look at Greece. Arcadia was the paradise of the shepherd, and Boeotia, the favored land of Ceres and Triptolemus: yet, Arcadia and Boeotia play but a very inferior part in history. The wealthy Corinth, the favorite of Plutus and Venus, also appears in the second rank. To whom pertains the glory of Grecian history? To Attica, whose whitish, sandy soil afforded a scanty sustenance to puny olive-trees; to Athens, whose principal commerce consisted in books and statues. Then to Sparta, shut up in a narrow valley between masses of rocks, where victory went in search of it. Who would dare to assert that Rome owed her universal empire to her geographical position? In the poor district of Latium, on the banks of a tiny stream emptying its waters on an almost unknown coast, where neither Greek nor Phenician vessel ever landed, except by accident, the future mistress of the world was born. So soon as the nations of the earth obeyed the Roman standard, politicians found the metropolis ill-placed, and the eternal city was neglected: even abandoned. The first emperors, being chiefly occupied with the East, resided in Greece almost continually. Tiberius chose Caprea, in the centre of his empire. His successors went to Antioch. Several lived at Trebia. Finally, a decree deprived Rome of the very name of capital, and gave it to Milan. If the Romans have conquered the world, it is certainly in spite of the locality whence issued forth their first armies, and not on account of its advantages. In modern history, the proofs of the correctness of my position are so abundant, that I hardly know how to select. I see prosperity abandoning the coasts of the Mediterranean, evidence that it was not dependent on them. The great commercial cities of the Middle Ages rise where no theorist of a preceding age could have predicted them. Novogorod flourishes in an almost arctic region, Bremen on a coast nearly as cold. The Hanse-towns of Germany rise in a country where civilization has scarcely dawned; Venice appears at the head of a long, narrow gulf. Political preponderance belongs to places before unknown. Lyons, Toulouse, Narbonne, Marseilles, Bordeaux, lose the importance assigned them by the Romans, and Paris becomes the metropolis--Paris, then a third-rate town, too far from the sea for commerce, too near it for the Norman barges. In Italy, cities formerly obscure, surpass the capital of the popes. Ravenna rises in the midst of marshes; Amalfi, for a long time, enjoys extensive dominion. It must be observed, that in all these changes accident has no part: they all are the result of the presence of a victorious and preponderating race. It is not the place which determines the importance of a nation, it is the nation which gives to the place its political and economical importance. I do not, however, deny the importance of certain situations for commercial depots, or for capitals. The observations made with regard to Alexandria and Constantinople, are incontestable.[80] There are, upon our globe, various points which may be called the keys of the world. Thus, it is obvious that a city, built on the proposed canal which is to pierce the Isthmus of Darien, would act an important part in the affairs of the world. But, such a part a nation may act well or badly, or even not at all, according to its merits. Aggrandize Chagres, and let the two oceans unite under her walls, the destiny of the city would depend entirely on the race by which it was peopled. If this race be worthy of their good fortune, they will soon discover whether Chagres be the point whence the greatest benefits can be derived from the union of the two oceans; and, if it is not, they will leave it, and then, untrammelled, develop elsewhere their brilliant destinies.[81] FOOTNOTES: [74] Consult, among others, Carus: _Uber ungleiche Befähigung der vershiedenen Menschen-stämme für höhere geistige Entwickelung._ Leipzig, 1849, p. 96 _et passim_. [75] Prichard, _Natural History of Man_, vol. ii. See particularly the recent researches of E. G. Squier, published in 1847, under the title: _Observations on the Aboriginal Monuments of the Mississippi Valley_, and also in various late reviews and other periodicals. [76] The very singular construction of these tumuli, and the numerous utensils found in them, occupy at this moment the penetration and talent of American antiquaries. I shall have occasion, in a subsequent volume, to express an opinion as to their value in the inquiries about a former civilization; at present, I shall only say that their almost incredible antiquity cannot be called in question. Mr. Squier is right in considering this proved by the fact merely, that the skeletons exhumed from these tumuli crumble into dust as soon as exposed to the atmosphere, although the condition of the soil in which they lie, is the most favorable possible; while the human remains under the British cromlichs, and which have been interred for at least eighteen centuries, are perfectly solid. It is easily conceived, therefore, that between the first possessors of the American soil and the Lenni-Lenape and other tribes, there is no connection. Before concluding this note, I cannot refrain from praising the industry and skill manifested by American scholars in the study of the antiquities of their immense continent. To obviate the difficulties arising from the excessive fragility of the exhumed skulls, many futile attempts were made, but the object was finally accomplished by pouring into them a bituminous preparation which instantly solidifies and thus preserves the osseous parts. This process, which requires many precautions, and as much skill as promptitude, is said to be generally successful. [77] Ancient India required, on the part of its first white colonists, immense labor of cultivation and improvement. (See Lassen, _Indische Alterthumskunde_, vol. i.) As to Egypt, see what Chevalier Bunsen, _�gypten's Stelle in der Weltgeschichte_, says of the fertilization of the Fayoum, that gigantic work of the earliest sovereigns. [78] "Why have accidental circumstances always prevented some from rising, while they have only stimulated others to higher attainments?"--_Dr. Kneeland's Introd. to Hamilton Smith's Nat. Hist. of Man_, p. 95.--H. [79] Salvador, _Histoire des Juifs_. [80] M. Saint-Marc Girardin, _Revue des Deux Mondes_. [81] See, upon this often-debated subject, the opinion--somewhat acerbly expressed--of a learned historian and philologist:-- "A great number of writers have suffered themselves to be persuaded that the country made the nation; that the Bavarians and Saxons were predestined, by the nature of their soil, to become what they are to-day; that Protestantism belonged not to the regions of the south; and that Catholicism could not penetrate to those of the north; and many similar things. Men who interpret history according to their own slender knowledge, their narrow hearts, and near-sighted minds, would, by the same reasoning, make us believe that the Jews had possessed such and such qualities--more or less clearly understood--because they inhabited Palestine, and not India or Greece. But, if these philosophers, so dextrous in proving whatever flatters their notions, were to reflect that the Holy Land contained, in its limited compass, peoples of the most dissimilar religions and modes of thinking, that between them, again, and their present successors, there is the utmost difference conceivable, although the country is still the same; they would understand how little influence, upon the character and civilization of a nation has the country they inhabit."--EWALD, _Geschichte des Volkes Israel_, vol. i. p. 259. CHAPTER VII. INFLUENCE OF CHRISTIANITY UPON MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL DIVERSITY OF RACES. The term Christian civilization examined--Reasons for rejecting it--Intellectual diversity no hindrance to the universal diffusion of Christianity--Civilizing influence of Christian religion by elevating and purifying the morals, etc.; but does not remove intellectual disparities--Various instances--Cherokees--Difference between imitation and comprehension of civilized life. By the foregoing observations, two facts seem to me clearly established: first, that there are branches of the human family incapable of spontaneous civilization, so long as they remain unmixed; and, secondly, that this innate incapacity cannot be overcome by external agencies, however powerful in their nature. It now remains to speak of the civilizing influence of Christianity, a subject which, on account of its extensive bearing, I have reserved for the last, in my consideration of the instruments of civilization. The first question that suggests itself to the thinking mind, is a startling one. If some races are so vastly inferior in all respects, can they comprehend the truths of the gospel, or are they forever to be debarred from the blessing of salvation? In answer, I unhesitatingly declare my firm conviction, that the pale of salvation is open to them all, and that all are endowed with equal capacity to enter it. Writers are not wanting who have asserted a contrary opinion. They dare to contradict the sacred promise of the Gospel, and deny the peculiar characteristic of our faith, which consists in its accessibility to all men. According to them, religions are confined within geographical limits which they cannot transgress. But the Christian religion knows no degrees of latitude or longitude. There is scarcely a nation, or a tribe, among whom it has not made converts. Statistics--imperfect, no doubt, but, as far as they go, reliable--show them in great numbers in the remotest parts of the globe: nomad Mongols, in the steppes of Asia, savage hunters in the table-lands of the Andes; dark-hued natives of an African clime; persecuted in China;[82] tortured in Madagascar; perishing under the lash in Japan. But this universal capacity of receiving the light of the gospel must not be confounded, as is so often done, with a faculty of entirely different character, that of social improvement. This latter consists in being able to conceive new wants, which, being supplied, give rise to others, and gradually produce that perfection of the social and political system which we call civilization. While the former belongs equally to all races, whatever may be their disparity in other respects, the latter is of a purely intellectual character, and the prerogative of certain privileged groups, to the partial or even total exclusion of others. With regard to Christianity, intellectual deficiencies cannot be a hindrance to a race. Our religion addresses itself to the lowly and simple, even in preference to the great and wise of this earth. Intellect and learning are not necessary to salvation. The most brilliant lights of our church were not always found among the body of the learned. The glorious martyrs, whom we venerate even above the skilful and erudite defender of the dogma, or the eloquent panegyrist of the faith, were men who sprang from the masses of the people; men, distinguished neither for worldly learning, nor brilliant talents, but for the simple virtues of their lives, their unwavering faith, their self-devotion. It is exactly in this that consists one great superiority of our religion over the most elaborate and ingenious systems devised by philosophers, that it is intelligible to the humblest capacity as well as to the highest. The poor Esquimaux of Labrador may be as good and as pure a Christian as the most learned prelate in Europe. But we now come to an error which, in its various phases, has led to serious consequences. The utilitarian tendency of our age renders us prone to seek, even in things sacred, a character of material usefulness. We ascribe to the influence of Christianity a certain order of things, which we call _Christian civilization_. To what political or social condition this term can be fitly applied, I confess myself unable to conceive. There certainly is a Pagan, a Brahmin, and Buddhistic, a Judaic civilization. There have been, and still are, societies so intimately connected with a more or less exclusive theological formula, that the civilizations peculiar to them, can only be designated by the name of their creed. In such societies, religion is the sole source of all political forms, all civil and social legislation; the groundwork of the whole civilization. This union of religious and temporal institutions, we find in the history of every nation of antiquity. Each country had its own peculiar divinity, which exercised a more or less direct influence in the government,[83] and from which laws and civilization were said to be immediately derived. It was only when paganism began to wane, that the politicians of Rome imagined a separation of temporal and religious power, by attempting a fusion of the different forms of worship, and proclaiming the dogma of legal toleration. When paganism was in its youth and vigor, each city had its Jupiter, Mercury, or Venus, and the local deity recognized neither in this world nor the next any but compatriots. But, with Christianity, it is otherwise. It chooses no particular people, prescribes no form of government, no social system. It interferes not in temporal matters, has naught to do with the material world, "its kingdom is of another." Provided it succeeds in changing the interior man, external circumstances are of no import. If the convert fervently embraces the faith, and in all his actions tries to observe its prescriptions, it inquires not about the built of his dwelling, the cut of his garments, or the materials of which they are composed, his daily occupations, the regulations of his government, the degree of despotism, or of freedom, which pervades his political institutions. It leaves the Chinese in his robes, the Esquimaux in his seal-skins; the former to his rice, the latter to his fish-oil; and who would dare to assert that the prayers of both may not breathe as pure a faith as those of the _civilized_ European? No mode of existence can attract its preference, none, however humble, its disdain. It attacks no form of government, no social institution; prescribes none, because it has adopted none. It teaches not the art of promoting worldly comforts, it teaches to despise them. What, then, can we call a Christian civilization? Had Christ, or his disciples, prescribed, or even recommended any particular political or social forms,[84] the term would then be applicable. But his law may be observed under all--of whatever nature--and is therefore superior to them all. It is justly and truly called the _Catholic_, or Universal. And has Christianity, then, no civilizing influence? I shall be asked. Undoubtedly; and a very great one. Its precepts elevate and purify the soul, and, by their purely spiritual nature, disengage the mind from worldly things, and expand its powers. In a merely human point of view, the material benefits it confers on its followers are inestimable. It softens the manners, and facilitates the intercourse between man and his fellow-man; it mitigates violence, and weans him from corrosive vices. It is, therefore, a powerful promoter of his worldly interests. But it only expands the mind in proportion to the susceptibility of the mind for being expanded. It does not give intellect, or confer talents, though it may exalt both, and render them more useful. It does not create new capacities, though it fosters and develops those it finds. Where the capacities of an individual, or a race, are such as to admit an improvement in the mode of existence, it tends to produce it; where such capacities are not already, it does not give them. As it belongs to no particular civilization, it does not compel a nation to change its own. In fine, as it does not level all individuals to the same intellectual standard, so it does not raise all races to the same rank in the political assemblage of the nations of the earth. It is wrong, therefore, to consider the equal aptitude of all races for the true religion, as a proof of their intellectual equality. Though having embraced it, they will still display the same characteristic differences, and divergent or even opposite tendencies. A few examples will suffice to set my idea in a clearer light. The major portion of the Indian tribes of South America have, for centuries, been received within the pale of the church, yet the European civilization, with which they are in constant contact, has never become their own.[85] The Cherokees, in the northern part of the same continent, have nearly all been converted by the Methodist missionaries. At this I am not surprised, but I should be greatly so, if these tribes, without mixing with the whites, were ever to form one of the States, and exercise any influence in Congress. The Moravians and Danish Lutheran missionaries in Labrador and Greenland, have opened the eyes of the Esquimaux to the light of religion; but their neophytes have remained in the same social condition in which they vegetated before. A still more forcible illustration is afforded by the Laplanders of Sweden, who have not emerged from the state of barbarism of their ancestors, though the doctrine of salvation was preached to them, and believed by them, centuries ago. I sincerely believe that all these peoples may produce, and, perhaps, already have produced, persons remarkable for piety and pure morals; but I do not expect ever to see among them learned theologians, great statesmen, able military leaders, profound mathematicians, or distinguished artists;--any of those superior minds, whose number and perpetual succession are the cause of power in a preponderating race; much less those rare geniuses whose meteor-like appearance is productive of permanent good only when their countrymen are so constituted as to be able to understand them, and to advance under their direction. We cannot, therefore, call Christianity a promoter of civilization in the narrow and purely material sense of some writers. Many of my readers, while admitting my observations in the main to be correct, will object that the modifying influence of religion upon the manners must produce a corresponding modification of the institutions, and finally in the whole social system. The propagators of the gospel, they will say, are almost always--though not necessarily--from a nation superior in civilization to the one they visit. In their personal intercourse, therefore, with their neophytes, the latter cannot but acquire new notions of material well-being. Even the political system may be greatly influenced by the relations between instructor and pupil. The missionary, while he provides for the spiritual welfare of his flock, will not either neglect their material wants. By his teaching and example, the savage will learn how to provide against famine, by tilling the soil. This improvement in his condition once effected, he will soon be led to build himself a better dwelling, and to practise some of the simpler useful arts. Gradually, and by careful training, he may acquire sufficient taste for things purely intellectual, to learn the alphabet, or even, as in the case of the Cherokees, to invent one himself. In course of time, if the missionaries' labors are crowned with success, they may, perhaps, so firmly implant their manners and mode of living among this formerly savage tribe, that the traveller will find among them well-cultivated fields, numerous flocks, and, like these same Cherokees, and the Creeks on the southern banks of the Arkansas, black slaves to work on their plantations. Let us see how far facts correspond with this plausible argument. I shall select the two nations which are cited as being the furthest advanced in European civilization, and their example will, it seems to me, demonstrate beyond a doubt, how impossible it is for any race to pursue a career in which their own nature has not placed them. The Cherokees and Creeks are said to be the remnants or descendants of the Alleghanian Race, the supposed builders of those great monuments of which we still find traces in the Mississippi Valley. If this be the case, these two nations may lay claim to a natural superiority over the other tribes of North America. Deprived of their hereditary dominions by the American government, they were forced--under a treaty of transplantation--to emigrate to regions selected for them by the latter. There they were placed under the superintendence of the Minister of War, and of Protestant missionaries, who finally succeeded in persuading them to embrace the mode of life they now lead. Mr. Prichard,[86] my authority for these facts, and who derives them himself from the great work of Mr. Gallatin,[87] asserts that, while all the other Indian tribes are continually diminishing, these are steadily increasing in numbers. As a proof of this, he alleges that when Adair visited the Cherokee tribes, in 1762, the number of their warriors was estimated at 2,300; at present, their total population amounts to 15,000 souls, including about 1,200 negroes in their possession. When we consider that their schools, as well as churches, are directed by white missionaries; that the greater number of these missionaries--being Protestants--are probably married and have children and servants also white, besides, very likely, a sort of retinue of clerks and other European employees;--the increase of the aboriginal population becomes extremely doubtful,[88] while it is easy to conceive the pressure of the white race upon its pupils. Surrounded on all sides by the power of the United States, incommensurable to their imagination; converted to the religion of their masters, which they have, I think, sincerely embraced; treated kindly and judiciously by their spiritual guides; and exposed to the alternation of working or of starving in their contracted territory;--I can understand that it was possible to make them tillers of the earth. It would be underrating the intelligence of the humblest, meanest specimen of our kind, to express surprise at such a result, when we see that, by dexterously and patiently acting upon the passions and wants of animals, we succeed in teaching them what their own instincts would never have taught them. Every village fair is filled with animals which are trained to perform the oddest tricks, and is it to be wondered at that men submitted to a rigorous system of training, and deprived of the means of escaping from it, should, in the end, be made to perform certain mechanical functions of civilized life; functions which, even in the savage state, they are capable of understanding, though they have not the will to practise them? This were placing human beings lower in the scale of creation than the learned pig, or Mr. Leonard's domino-playing dogs.[89] Such exultation on the part of the believers in the equality of races is little flattering to those who excite it. I am aware that this exaggeration of the intellectual capacity of certain races is in a great measure provoked by the notions of some very learned and distinguished men, who pretend that between the lowest races of men, and the highest of apes there was but a shade of distinction. So gross an insult to the dignity of man, I indignantly reject. Certainly, in my estimation, the different races are very unequally endowed, both physically and mentally; but I should be loath to think that in any, even in the most degraded, the unmistakable line of demarcation between man and brute were effaced. I recognize no link of gradation which would connect man mentally with the brute creation. But does it follow, that because the lowest of the human species is still unmistakably human, that all of that species are capable of the same development? Take a Bushman, the most hideous and stupid of human families, and by careful training you may teach him, or if he is already adult, his son, to learn and practise a handicraft, even one that requires a certain degree of intelligence. But are we warranted thence to conclude that the nation to which this individual belongs, is susceptible of adopting our civilization? There is a vast difference between mechanically practising handicrafts and arts, the products of an advanced civilization, and that civilization itself. Let us suppose that the Cherokee tribes were suddenly cut off from all connection with the American government, the traveller, a few years hence, would find among them very unexpected and singular institutions, resulting from their mixture with the whites, but partaking only feebly of the character of European civilization. We often hear of negroes proficient in music, negroes who are clerks in counting-rooms, who can read, write, talk like the whites. We admire, and conclude that the negroes are capable of everything that whites are. Notwithstanding this admiration and these hasty conclusions, we express surprise at the contrast of Sclavonian civilization with ours. We aver that the Russian, Polish, Servish nations, are civilized only at the surface, that none but the higher classes are in possession of our ideas, and this, thanks to their intermixture with the English, French, and German stock; that the masses, on the contrary, evince a hopeless inaptitude for participating in the forward movement of Western Europe, although these masses have been Christians for centuries, many of them while our ancestors were heathens. Are the negroes, then, more closely allied to our race than the Sclavonic nations? On the one hand, we assert the intellectual equality of the white and black races; on the other, a disparity among subdivisions of our own race. There is a vast difference between imitation and comprehension. The imitation of a civilization does not necessarily imply an eradication of the hereditary instincts. A _nation_ can be said to have adopted a civilization, only when it has the power to progress in it unprompted, and without guidance. Instead of extolling the intelligence of savages in handling a plough, after being shown; in spelling and reading, after they have been taught; let a single example be alleged of a tribe in any of the numerous countries in contact with Europeans, which, with our religion, has also made the ideas, institutions, and manners of a European nation so completely its own, that the whole social and political machinery moves forward as easily and naturally as in our States. Let an example be alleged of an extra-European nation, among whom the art of printing produces effects analogous to those it produces among us; where new applications of our discoveries are attempted; where our systems of philosophy give birth to new systems; where our arts and sciences flourish. But, no; I will be more moderate in my demands. I shall not ask of that nation to adopt, together with our faith, all in which consists our individuality. I shall suppose that it rejects it totally, and chooses one entirely different, adapted to its peculiar genius and circumstances. When the eyes of that nation open to the truths of the Gospel, it perceives that its earthly course is as encumbered and wretched as its spiritual life had hitherto been. It now begins the work of improvement, collects its ideas, which had hitherto remained fruitless, examines the notions of others, transforms them, and adapts them to its peculiar circumstances; in fact, erects, by its own power, a social and political system, a civilization, however humble. Where is there such a nation? The entire records of all history may be searched in vain for a single instance of a nation which, together with Christianity, adopted European civilization, or which--by the same grand change in its religious ideas--was led to form a civilization of its own, if it did not possess one already before. On the contrary, I will show, in every part of the world, ethnical characteristics not in the least effaced by the adoption of Christianity. The Christian Mongol and Tartar tribes lead the same erratic life as their unconverted brethren, and are as distinct from the Russian of the same religion, who tills the soil, or plies his trade in their midst, as they were centuries ago. Nay, the very hostilities of race survive the adoption of a common religion, as we have already pointed out in a preceding chapter. The Christian religion, then, does not equalize the intellectual disparities of races. FOOTNOTES: [82] Although the success of the Chinese missions has not been proportionate to the self-devoting zeal of its laborers, there yet are, in China, a vast number of believers in the true faith. M. Huc tells us, in the relation of his journey, that, in almost every place where he and his fellow-traveller stopped, they could perceive, among the crowds that came to stare at the two "Western devils" (as the celestials courteously call us Europeans), men making furtively, and sometimes quite openly, the sign of the cross. Among the nomadic hordes of the table-lands of Central Asia, the number of Christians is much greater than among the Chinese, and much greater than is generally supposed. (See _Annals of the Propagation of the Faith_, No. 135, et seq.)--H. [83] The tutelary divinity was generally a typification of the national character. A commercial or maritime nation, would worship Mercury or Neptune; an aggressive and warlike one, Hercules or Mars; a pastoral one, Pan; an agricultural one, Ceres or Triptolemus; one sunk in luxury, as Corinth, would render almost exclusive homage to Venus. As the author observes, all ancient governments were more or less theocratical. The regulations of castes among the Hindoos and Egyptians were ascribed to the gods, and even the most absolute monarch dared not, and could not, transgress the limits which the immortals had set to his power. This so-called divine legislation often answered the same purpose as the charters of modern constitutional monarchies. The authority of the Persian kings was confined by religious regulations, and this has always been the case with the sultans of Turkey. Even in Rome, whose population had a greater tendency for the positive and practical, than for the things of another world, we find the traces of theocratical government. The sibylline books, the augurs, etc., were something more than a vulgar superstition; and the latter, who could stop or postpone the most important proceedings, by declaring the omens unpropitious, must have possessed very considerable political influence, especially in the earlier periods. The rude, liberty-loving tribes of Scandinavia, Germany, Gaul, and Britain, were likewise subjected to their druids, or other priests, without whose permission they never undertook any important enterprise, whether public or private. Truly does our author observe, that Christianity came to deliver mankind from such trammels, though the mistaken or interested zeal of some of its servants, has so often attempted, and successfully, to fasten them again. How ill adapted Christianity would be, even in a political point of view, for a theocratical formula, is well shown by Mr. Guizot, in his _Hist. of Civilization_, vol. i. p. 213.--H. [84] I have already pointed out, in my introduction (p. 41-43), some of the fatal consequences that spring from that doctrine. It may not, however, be out of place here to mention another. The communists, socialists, Fourrierites, or whatever names such enemies to our social system assume, have often seduced the unwary and weak-minded, by the plausible assertion that they wished to restore the social system of the first Christians, who held all goods in common, etc. Many religious sectaries have created serious disturbances under the same pretence. It seems, indeed, reasonable to suppose, that if Christianity had given its exclusive sanction to any particular social and political system, it must have been that which the first Christian communities adopted.--H. [85] See note on page 188.--H. [86] _Natural History of Man_, p. 390. London, 1843. [87] _Synopsis of the Indian Tribes of North America._ [88] Had I desired to contest the accuracy of the assertions upon which Mr. Prichard bases his arguments in this case, I should have had in my favor the weighty authority of Mr. De Tocqueville, who, in speaking of the Cherokees, says: "What has greatly promoted the introduction of European habits among these Indians, is the presence of so great a number of half-breeds. The man of mixed race--participating as he does, to a certain extent, in the enlightenment of the father, without, however, entirely abandoning the savage manner of the mother--forms the natural link between civilization and barbarism. As the half-breeds increase among them, we find savages modify their social condition, and change their manners." (_Dem. in Am._, vol. i. p. 412.) Mr. De Tocqueville ends by predicting that the Cherokees and Creeks, albeit they are half-breeds, and not, as Mr. Prichard affirms, pure aborigines, will, nevertheless, disappear before the encroachments of the whites. [89] "When four pieces of cards were laid before them, each having a number pronounced _once_ in connection with it, they will, after a re-arrangement of the pieces, select any one named by its number. They also play at domino, and with so much skill as to triumph over biped opponents, whining if the adversary plays a wrong piece, or if they themselves are deficient in the right one."--_Vest. of Cr._, p. 236.--H. INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO CHAPTERS VIII. AND IX. Rapid survey of the populations comprised under the appellation "Teutonic"--Their present ethnological area, and leading characteristics--Fondness for the sea displayed by the Teutonic tribes of Northwestern Europe, and perceptible in their descendants. Several of the ideas expressed by the author in the course of the two next following chapters, seemed to the annotator of this volume to call for a few remarks on his part, which could not conveniently be condensed within the limited space of foot-notes. Besides, the text is already sufficiently encumbered with them, and any increase in their length or number could not but be displeasing to the eye, while it would divert attention from the main subject. He has, therefore, taken the liberty--an unwarranted one, perhaps--of introducing his remarks in this form and place. * * * * * The leading proposition in this volume is, that the civilization originated and developed by a race, is the clearest index of its character--the mirror in which its principal features are truthfully reflected. In other words, that every race, capable of developing a civilization, will develop one peculiar to itself, and impossible to every other. This the author illustrates by the actual state of our civilization, which he asserts to be originated by the Teutonic race, but modified in proportion to the admixture of that race with a different blood. To clearly comprehend his idea, and to appreciate the value of his arguments, it is, therefore, necessary for the reader to take a rapid survey of the populations comprised under the appellation _Teutonic_, and to examine into the present geographical extension of that race. This I shall endeavor to do, not, indeed, by entering into an elaborate ethnological disquisition--a task greatly beyond my powers, and the due performance of which would require a space much larger than the whole of this volume--but by merely grouping together well-known facts, in such a manner as to set the author's idea in a clearer light. The words _Teutonic_ and _Germanic_ are generally used synonymously, and we shall not depart from this custom. Strict accuracy, however, would probably require that the term Teutonic should be used as the general appellation of all those swarms of northern warriors, who, under various names, harassed and finally subverted the overgrown dominion of ancient Rome, while the term Germanic would apply to a portion of them only. The Northern Barbarians, as the Romans contemptuously styled them, all claimed to belong to the "_Thiudu_," or the nation _par excellence_, and from that word the term Teutonic is supposed to be derived. Many of their descendants still retain the name: _Teutsch_ or _Deutsch_ (German). The Romans called them _Germanes_, from the boastful title of "the warlike," or "the men of war," which the first invading tribes had given themselves. These _Germanes_ of the Romans were again divided into two classes, the Saxon tribes, and the Suevic; terms expressive of their mode of life, the former having fixed habitations and inclosed farms, the latter cultivating the fields by turn, and being prone to change their abodes. The first class comprised many other tribes besides those who figure in history, under the name of Saxons, as the invaders and conquerors of Britain. But as I desire to avoid all not well-authorized distinctions, I shall use the terms Teutonic and Germanic indiscriminately. The Germans appear to have been at all times an eminently warlike and courageous race. History first speaks of them as warriors alarming, nay, terrifying, the arrogant Romans, and that not in the infancy of Rome's power, when the Samnites and Volscians were formidable antagonists, but in the very fulness of its strength, in the first vigor of youthful manhood, when Italy, Spain, part of Gaul, the northern coasts of Africa, Greece, Syria, and Asia Minor, were subdued to the republican yoke. Then it was that the Cimbri and Teutones invaded and harassed Italy, chilling the mistress of the world with fear. The Germans next meet us in Cæsar's Commentaries. The principal resistance which the future usurper experienced in subduing Gaul, appears to have been offered, not by the Gallic population, but either by German tribes, settled in that country, or German armies from the right banks of the Rhine, who longed to dispute the tempting prize with the Romans. The great general twice crossed the Rhine, but probably more for the _éclat_ of such an exploit, than with the hope of making permanent conquests. The temporary successes gained by his imperial successors were amply counterbalanced by the massacre of the flower of the Roman armies. At the end of the first five centuries after Christ, nothing was left of the great Roman empire but ruins. Every country in Northern, Western, and Southern Europe acknowledged German masters. The tribes of the extreme north had entered Russia, and there established a powerful republic; the tribes of the northwest (the Angles and Saxons) had conquered Britain; a confederation of the southern tribes, under the name of Franks, had conquered Gaul; the various Gothic tribes of the east, the Heruli, the Longobardi, Ostrogoths, etc., had subjected Italy to their arms, and disputed its possession among themselves. Other Gothic tribes (the Visigoths, Burgundians, and Vandals) had shared with the Franks the beautiful tracts of Gaul, or had carried their victorious arms to Spain, and the northern coasts of Africa. The three most beautiful and most fertile countries of Europe, to this day, retain the name of their conquerors--England, France, Lombardy. It is impossible now to determine with accuracy the amount of German blood in the populations of the various states founded by the Teutonic tribes. Yet certain general results are easily arrived at in this interesting investigation. Thus, we know that Germany, notwithstanding its name, contains by no means a pure Germanic population. The fierce Scythian hordes, whom Attila led on to the work of devastation, after the death of their leader, incorporated themselves with various of the Teutonic tribes. They form one of the ethnical elements of the population of Italy, but especially of the south and southeast of Germany. While, therefore, the population of Northern Germany is comparatively pure Teutonic, that of the southern and eastern portion is a mixture of Teutonic and Sclavonian elements. The Danes, Swedes, and Norwegians, are probably the most Germanic nations of continental Europe. In Spain, the Visigoths were, in a great measure, absorbed by the native population, consisting of the aboriginal Celtiberians and the numerous Roman colonists. In the tenth century, an amalgamation began with the eastern blood brought by the Arab conquerors. Italy, already at the time of the downfall of Rome, contained an extremely mixed population, drawn thither by the all-absorbing vortex of the Eternal City. In the north, the Germanic element had time to engraft itself in some measure; but the south, passing into the hands of the Byzantine emperors, received an addition of the already mixed Greek blood of the east. Gaul, at the time of the Frankish conquest, was an extremely populous country. Beside the aboriginal Gauls, the population consisted of numerous Roman colonists. The Mediterranean coast of Gaul had, from the earliest times, received Phenician, Carthaginian, and Greek settlers, who founded there large and prosperous cities. The original differences in the population of Gaul are to this day perceptible. The Germanic element preponderates in the north, where already, in Cæsar's time, the Germans had succeeded in making permanent settlements, and in the northeast, where the Burgundians had well-nigh extirpated and completely supplanted the Gallic natives.[90] But everywhere else,[91] the Germanic element forms but a small portion of the population, and this is well illustrated by the striking resemblance of the character of the modern French to that of the ancient Gauls. But though vastly inferior in numbers, the descendants of the German conquerors, for one thousand years, were the dominant race in France. Until the fifteenth century, all the higher nobility were of Frankish or Burgundian origin. But, after the Celtic and Celto-Roman provinces south of the Loire had rallied around a youthful king, to reconquer their capital and best territories from the English foe, the Frankish blood ruled with less exclusive sway in all the higher offices of the state; and the distinction was almost entirely lost by the accession of the first southern dynasty, that of the Bourbons, towards the end of the sixteenth century. The corresponding variations in the national policy and the exterior manifestations of the national character, Mr. Gobineau has rapidly pointed out elsewhere.[92] While the population of France presents so great a mixture of various different races, and but a slight infusion of German blood, that of England, on the contrary, is almost purely Teutonic. The original inhabitants of the country were, for the most part, driven into the mountain fastnesses of Wales by the German invaders, where they preserve, to this day, their original language. Every subsequent great addition to the population of England was by the German race. The Danes, and, after them, the Normans, were tribes of the same stock as the Saxons, and all came from very nearly the same portion of Europe. It is obvious, therefore, that England, even after the Norman conquest, when, for a time, the upper and the lower classes spoke different languages, contained a more homogeneous population than France did at the same, or any subsequent epoch. In England, from the Saxon yeoman up to the proudest Norman lord, all belonged to the great German race; in France, only the nobility, while the peasants were Gauls. The wars between the two countries afford a striking proof of the difference of these two races. The battles of Cressy, of Poitiers, and of Agincourt, which will never be forgotten so long as English poetry can find an echo in an English breast, were won by the English against greatly superior numbers. "Victories, indeed, they were," says Macaulay, "of which a nation may justly be proud; for they are to be attributed to the moral superiority of the victors, _a superiority which was most striking in the lowest ranks_. The knights of England found worthy rivals in the knights of France. Chandos encountered an equal foe in Du Guesclin. But France had no infantry that dared to face the English bows and bills." The Celt has probably, at no time, been inferior to the Teuton in valor; in martial enthusiasm, he exceeds him. But, at a time when bodily strength decided the combat, the difference between the sturdy Saxon and the small, slight--though active--Gaul, must have been great. In this rapid and necessarily imperfect sketch, I have endeavored to show the relative proportion of the Teutonic blood in the population of the various countries of Europe. I have endeavored to direct the reader's attention to the fact, that though it forms an element in the population of all, it exists in perfect purity in but few, and that England presents a happy fusion of some of the most distinguished branches of the German family. If we now glance at the United States, we shall there find--at least in the first years of her national existence--a pendant to what has been asserted of England. The elements of the population of the original thirteen States, were almost exclusively of English, Lowland Scotch, Dutch, and Swedish blood; that is to say, decidedly Germanic. Ireland was as yet slightly represented. France had made but inconsiderable contributions to the population. Since we have assumed a rank among the great powers of the earth, every portion of the inhabited globe has sent us its contingent of blood, yet even now, the great body of the nation belongs to the Teutonic race. Much has been said of the effects of ethnical mixture. Many consider it as decidedly beneficial, others as decidedly deleterious. It seems to me susceptible of mathematical demonstration, that when a very inferior race amalgamates with one of higher order, the compound--though superior to the one, must be inferior to the other. In that case, therefore, mixture is injurious. But when various branches of the same race, or nearly cognate races mix, as in the case of the Saxons, Angles, Danes, and Normans, the mixture cannot but be beneficial. For, while none of the higher qualities are lost, the compound presents a felicitous combination of some of the virtues peculiar to each. If our civilization received its tone and character from the Teutonic race, as Mr. Gobineau asserts, this character must be most strikingly displayed wherever that race forms the preponderating element of the population. Before investigating this question, we must cast a glance on the manners and modes of thinking that characterized this race in the earliest times. Unfortunately, but few records are left to assist us in forming a judgment. Tacitus's celebrated treatise was, probably, more an imaginary sketch, which he wished to hold up to a people sunk in luxury and vice, as were his countrymen. In our times, the North American Indian has often been held up as a model of uncorrupted simplicity, and many touching romances have been written on the theme, now rather hackneyed and out of fashion. But though the noble Roman may have highly colored the picture, the incorruptible love of truth, which shines so brilliantly in all his works, assures us of the truth of its outlines. Of one thing we can entertain no doubt, viz: that history nowhere shows us our Germanic forefathers in the same state of barbarism that we find other races--many of the American Indians, the South-Sea Islanders, and others. In the earliest times they practised agriculture, they cultivated rye, barley, oats and wheat. Many of the tribes had regular farms, which were inclosed. They knew how to work iron, an art which even the most civilized of the American Indians had never learned. They had extensive and complicated political relations, often forming themselves in vast confederacies. But, above all, they were an eminently chaste people; they respected woman,[93] and assigned to her her legitimate place in the social circle. Marriage with them was a sacred institution. The greatest point of superiority of our civilization, over all preceding and contemporaneous ones--a point which Mr. Gobineau has omitted to mention--is the high rank which woman occupies in the modern structure of society. The boasted civilizations of Greece and Rome, if superior in others, are vastly inferior to us in this respect. And this glorious superiority we owe to the pure and chaste manners of our forefathers. Representative government, trial by jury, and all the discoveries in political science upon which we pride ourselves most, are the necessary development of their simple institutions, to which, indeed, they can be distinctly traced. I have purposely selected these two characteristics of the German races--respect for woman, and love of liberty, or, what is more, a capacity for establishing and preserving liberal institutions. The question now resolves itself into this: Does woman occupy the highest rank, do liberal institutions best flourish where the Germanic race is most pure? I will not answer the question, but beg the reader to compare the more Germanic countries with those that are less so--England, Holland, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and Northern Germany, with France, Spain, Italy, Greece, and Russia; the United States and Canada, with Mexico and the South American republics. Mr. Gobineau speaks of the utilitarian character of the Germanic races, but furnishes no proofs of his assertion. I shall therefore endeavor to supply the deficiency. Those countries which ethnology tells us contain the most Germanic populations, viz: England, the northern States of Europe, including Holland, and the United States, have the entire commerce, and nearly all the manufacture of the whole world in their hands. They have given to mankind all the great inventions which shed an everlasting lustre over our era. They, together, possess nine-tenths of all the railroads built in the world, and the greater part of the remaining tenth was built by _their_ enterprise and capital. Whatever perfection in the useful arts one of these countries attains, is readily adopted by all; slowly only, and sometimes never by any of the others. On the other hand, we find that the polite arts do not meet, in these countries, with a very congenial soil. Artists may flock thither, and, perhaps, reap a harvest of gold; but they seldom stay. The admiration which they receive is oftenest the mere dictate of fashion. It is true that England, Denmark, Holland, Sweden, and the United States, have produced some eminent artists, but the mass of the population do not exhibit that innate taste, that passionate fondness for the arts, which we find among all classes in Italy, Spain, and to some extent in France and Southern Germany. * * * * * Before I conclude this hasty sketch, for which I crave the reader's indulgence, I wish to draw attention to a striking instance of the permanency of ethnical characteristics. The nations that most fondly and most successfully plough the briny main, are the English, the Americans, the Swedes, Danes, Dutch. Notwithstanding the littleness of these latter, they have successfully competed in maritime discovery with larger nations; and even now, own considerable and far distant colonial possessions. The Dutch, for a time, were the greatest maritime power in the world, and to this day carry on an extensive and profitable commerce. History tells us that the forefathers of these nations were distinguished by the same nautical genius. The real Saxons--the invaders of England--are mentioned already in the middle of the second century, by Ptolemy, as skilful sailors. In the fourth and fifth century, they became dreaded from their piracies. They and their confederates, the Angles, originally inhabited the present Holstein, and the islands in the vicinity of the Baltic coast. Their neighbors, the Danes, were equally famous for maritime exploits. Their celebrated vykings still live in song and tale. Their piratical incursions and settlements in England, are known to every schoolboy. How familiar the Normans were with the watery element, is abundantly proved by history. They ascended the Rhine, and other rivers, for hundreds of miles, marking their landing-place by devastation. Of the Angle, the Saxon, the Dane, and the Norman, the present Englishman and his adventurous brother of Massachusetts, are lineal descendants. The best sailors in our commercial navy, next to the native sailors, are the Danes and the Swedes. Normandy, to this day, furnishes the best for the French service.--H. FOOTNOTES: [90] In those portions of the present France, over one million and a half of the inhabitants speak German. The pure Gauls in the Landes have not yet learned the French language, and speak a peculiar--probably their original--_patois_. [91] With the exception of Normandy. [92] See p. 183. [93] I am not aware that any writer has ever presumed to doubt this fact except Mr. Guizot, who dismisses it with a sneer. Fortunately, a sneer is not an argument, though it often has more weight. CHAPTER VIII. CIVILIZATION. Mr. Guizot's and Mr. W. von Humboldt's definitions examined. Its elements. The reader will here pardon me an indispensable digression. I make use at almost every moment of a term comprising in its extensive signification a collection of ideas which it is important to define accurately: _civilization_. The greater or less degree in which this term is applicable to the social condition of various nations, is my only standard for the comparative merit of races. I also speak of a _European_ civilization, in contradistinction to others of a different character. It is the more necessary to avoid the least vagueness, as I am under the disagreeable necessity of differing from a celebrated writer, who has assumed the special task of determining the meaning and comprehensiveness of this expression. Mr. Guizot, in his _History of Civilization in Modern Europe_, makes use of a term which seems to me to give rise to a serious confusion of ideas, and lead to positive errors. He says that civilization is a _fact_. Now, either the word fact must here be understood in a sense much less strict and precise than common usage requires, a sense so indistinct--I might almost say elastic--as has never pertained to it, or what we comprehend under the term civilization cannot be expressed by the word fact. Civilization is not _a fact_; it is a _series_, a _concatenation of facts_, more or less logically united, and resulting from ideas often sufficiently diverse: ideas and facts continually reproduce each other. Civilization is a term applied to a certain state or condition in which a society exists--a condition which is of its own creation, bears its character, and, in turn, reacts upon it. This condition is of so variable a nature, that it cannot be called a fact; for a fact cannot be variable without ceasing to be a fact. In other words, there is more than one civilization: there are various kinds. Thus, a civilization may flourish under every form of government, and it does not cease to exist when civil commotions destroy or alter that form. Let it not be understood that I esteem governmental forms of little importance. Their choice is intimately connected with the prosperity of the society: if judicious, promoting and developing it; if unpractical, endangering its destruction. But I speak not here of the temporary prosperity or misery of a society. I speak of its civilization; and this is a phenomenon whose causes must be sought elsewhere, and deeper than in transient political forms. Its character, its growth, fecundity, or barrenness, depends upon elementary principles of far greater importance. But, in Mr. Guizot's opinion, civilization is a fact, a unity; and it is of an essentially political character. Let us see how he defines it. He has chosen a series of hypotheses, describing society in various conditions, and then asks if the state so described is, in the general opinion of mankind, the state of a people advancing in civilization--if it answers to the signification which mankind generally attaches to this word.[94] "First imagine a people whose outward circumstances are easy and agreeable; few taxes; few hardships; justice is fairly administered; in a word, physical existence, taken altogether, is satisfactorily and happily regulated. But, with all this, the moral and intellectual energies of this people are studiously kept in a state of torpor and inertness. It can hardly be called oppression; its tendency is not of that character--it is rather compression. We are not without examples of this state of society. There have been a great number of little aristocratic republics, in which the people have been thus treated like a flock of sheep, carefully tended, physically happy, but without the least intellectual and moral activity. Is this civilization? Do we recognize here a people in a state of moral and social advancement?" I know not whether such a people is in a state of advancement, but it certainly may be in a very advanced state of civilization, else we should find ourselves compelled to class among the savages or barbarians all those aristocratic republics of ancient and modern times, which answer Mr. Guizot's description. But the common sense of mankind would never ratify a method which ejected from within the pale of civilization not only the Phenicians, Carthaginians, and Lacedæmonians, but even Venice, Genoa, Pisa, the free cities of Germany--in fact, all the powerful municipalities of the last centuries. But, besides this mode of proceeding being too paradoxical and restrictive, it seems to me to encounter another difficulty. Those little aristocratic states, to whom, on account of their form of government, Mr. Guizot denies the aptitude for civilization, have, for the most part, never been in possession of a special culture peculiar to themselves. Powerful as many of them have been, they assimilated, in this respect, with nations differently governed, but of consanguineous affinity; they formed a fragment only of a greater and more general civilization. Thus, the Carthaginians and Phenicians, though at a great distance from one another, had a similar mode of culture, the type of which must be sought in Assyria. The Italian republics participated in the same ideas and opinions which developed themselves in the bosom of neighboring monarchies. The imperial cities of Thuringia and Suabia, although perfectly independent in a political point of view, were nevertheless intimately united with the general progressive or retrogressive movement of the whole German race. Mr. Guizot, therefore, by assigning to the people of different countries degrees of merit proportionate to the degree and form of their liberty, creates unjustifiable subdivisions in the same race, and makes distinctions without a difference. A lengthy discussion is not in its place here, and I shall therefore proceed rapidly. If, however, it were necessary to enter into a controversy, might we not justly protest against recognizing any inferiority in the case of Genoa, Pisa, Venice, and others, when compared with countries like Milan, Naples, or Rome? Mr. Guizot has himself foreseen this difficulty, and removed the objection. If he does not recognize a state of civilization among a people "mildly governed, but in a state of compression," neither does he accord this prerogative to another, "whose outward circumstances are less favorable and agreeable, although supportable, but whose intellectual and moral cravings have not been entirely neglected; among whom pure and elevated sentiments have been cultivated, and religious and moral notions reached a certain degree of improvement, but among whom the desire of liberty has been stifled; where a certain portion of truth is doled out to each, but no one permitted to seek for it himself. This is the condition to which most of the populations of Asia are sunk, because theocratical governments there restrain the progress of mankind; such, for instance, is the state of the Hindoos." Thus, besides the aristocratic nations of the earth, we must moreover exclude from the pale of civilization the Hindoos, Egyptians, Etruscans, Peruvians, Thibetans, Japanese--nay, even modern Rome and her territories. I omit the last two hypotheses, because, thanks to the first two, the state of civilization is already restricted within boundaries so contracted that scarce any people on the globe is justified in pretending to it. A nation, then, can be called civilized only when it enjoys institutions happily blending popular liberty and the requisite strength of authority for maintaining order; when its progress in material well-being and its moral development are co-ordinate in a certain manner, and no other; where religion, as well as government, is confined within limits accurately defined, which neither ever transgresses; where each individual possesses clearly determinate and inalienable rights. According to this formula, no nation can be civilized unless its political institutions are of the constitutional and representative form, and consequently it is impossible to save many European nations from the reproach of barbarism. Then, measuring the _degree_ of civilization by the perfection of this same and only political form, we are compelled to place in a second rank all those constitutional states which have ill employed the engine of parliament, to reserve the crown exclusively for those who know how to make good use of it. By this reasoning, I am forced to consider as truly civilized, in the past as well as the present, none but the single English nation.[95] I sincerely respect and admire that great people, whose victories, industry, and universal commerce have left no portion of our globe ignorant of its puissance and the prodigies it has performed. But still, I do not feel disposed to respect and admire in the world no other: it would seem to me too humiliating and cruel to humanity to confess that, since the beginning of time, it has never succeeded in producing a civilization anywhere but upon a small island of the Western Ocean, has never discovered the laws and forms which produce this state until the reign of William and Mary. Such a conception of civilization might seem to many rather a little too narrow and restrictive. But there is another objection. If we attach the idea of civilization to a political form, reason, observation, and science will soon lose their vote in the decision of the question, which must thenceforth be left to the passions and prejudices of parties. There will be some whose preferences will lead them stoutly to deny that the institutions of the British Isles are the "perfection of human reason:" their enthusiasm, perchance, will be expended in praising the order established in St. Petersburg or in Vienna. Many, again, and perhaps the greater number of all living between the Rhine and the Pyrenees, will sustain to the last that, notwithstanding a few blemishes, the most polished, the most civilized country of the world is _la belle France_. The moment that the decision of the degree of intellectual culture becomes a matter of preference, a question of sentiment, to come to an understanding is impossible. Each one will think him the man most advanced in civilization who shall coincide with his views about the respective duties of the governing and the governed; while those who are unfortunate enough to differ, will be set down as men behind the age, little better than barbarians, mere "old fogies," whose visual organs are too weak for the dazzling lights of the epoch; or else as daring, incendiary innovators, who wish to destroy all established order, and sap the very foundation of civilization. I think few will differ from me in considering Mr. Guizot's definition as defective, and the source from which he derives civilization as not the real one. Let us now examine Baron W. Von Humboldt's definition. "Civilization," says that celebrated statesman, "is the humanization of nations in their outward institutions, in their manners, and in the inward feelings upon which these depend."[96] Here we meet with a defect of the very opposite kind to that which I took the liberty to point out in Mr. Guizot's definition. The formula is too vague, the boundary lines too indistinct. If civilization consists in a softening of manners, more than one untutored tribe, some extremely low in the scale of races, might take precedence over several European nations whose character contains more acerbity. There are in the South Sea Islands, and elsewhere, very inoffensive populations, of exceedingly gentle manners, and kind, accommodating dispositions; yet, though we may praise them, no one would think of placing them, in the scale of civilization, above the rough Norwegians, or even above the ferocious Malays, who, dressed in brilliant garments of their own fabric, and upon skilfully constructed vessels of their own making, traverse the Indian seas, at the same time the terror and scourge of maritime commerce, and its most successful votaries. This observation could not escape so great a mind as William Von Humboldt's; and he therefore imagines, besides civilization, a higher degree of development, which he calls _culture_, and by which he declares that nations gain, above their gentle manners, "_science and the arts_."[97] When the world shall have arrived at this higher state, it will be peopled by _affectionate_ and _sympathetic_ beings, very erudite, poetic, and artistic, but, by reason of this same reunion of qualities, ignoring the grosser wants of existence: strangers to the necessity of war, as well as those of rude mechanical toil. When we reflect upon the limited leisure that the mass of even those can enjoy whose lot is cast in the happiest epoch, to abandon themselves to purely intellectual occupations--when we consider how incessant and arduous must ever be the strife of man with nature and the elements to insure the mere means of subsistence, it will soon be perceived that the philosopher of Berlin aimed less at depicting realities than at drawing from the domain of abstraction certain entities which appeared to him beautiful and sublime, and which are so, indeed, and at causing them to act and move in a sphere as ideal as themselves. If any doubts should still remain in this respect, they are soon dispelled when we arrive at the culminating point of the system, consisting of a third and last degree superior to the two others. This greatest point of perfection is that upon which stands the _finished_ man (_der Gebildete_); that is to say, the man who, in his nature, possesses "something higher and more inward or essential; a clear and comprehensive faculty of seeing all things in their true light; a recognition and appreciation of the ultimate goal of man's moral and intellectual aspirations, which diffuses itself harmoniously over all his feelings and his character."[98] We here have a regular gradation from man in a civilized or "humanized" state, to the man of cultivation--the philosopher, the poet, the artist; and thence still higher to the _finished_, the _perfect_ man, who has attained the greatest elevation possible to our species; a man who, if I seize rightly Mr. Humboldt's idea, had his living counterpart in Goethe, as that towering mind is described to us in its olympic serenity. This theory rests upon no other basis than Mr. Von Humboldt's perception of the immense difference between the civilization of a nation and the comparative height of perfection attained by great, isolated individualities. This difference is so great that civilizations different from ours, and perhaps inferior to it, have produced men in some respects superior to those we admire most. Upon this point I fully coincide with the great philosopher whose theory I am unfolding. It is perfectly correct, that our state of development--what we call the European civilization--produces neither the profoundest nor the sublimest thinkers, nor the greatest poets, nor the most skilful artists. Yet I venture to differ from the illustrious philologist in believing that to give a practical meaning to the word civilization, it is necessary to divest one's self, if but for a moment, from the prejudices or prepossessions resulting from the examination of mere details in any particular civilization. We must take the aggregate result of the whole, and not make the requisites too few, as in the case of the man of the first degree, whom I persist in not acknowledging as civilized merely because his manners are gentle; nor too many, as in the case of the sage of the third, for then the development of human faculties would be limited to a few individuals, and would produce results purely isolated and typical. The Baron Von Humboldt's system, however, does honor to that exquisite and generous sensibility, that grand sublimity which was the dominant characteristic of this great mind; and in its purely abstract nature may be compared to the fragile worlds of Brahmin philosophy. Born from the brain of a slumbering god, they rise in the air like the irised bubbles that the child blows from the suds, bursting and succeeding one another as the dreams that amuse the celestial sleeper. But the character of my researches permits me not to indulge in mere abstractions, however brilliant and attractive; I must arrive at results tangible to practical sense and common experience. I do not wish, like Mr. Guizot, to investigate the conditions more or less favorable to the prosperity of societies, nor, like Mr. William Von Humboldt, to speculate upon the isolated elevation of individual intelligences; my purpose is to encompass, if possible, the aggregate power, moral as well as material, which is developed in great masses of men. It is not without trepidation that I engage in a path in which two of the most admired men of our century have lost themselves; and to avoid the errors into which they have fallen, I shall descend to first principles, and define civilization by first investigating from what causes it results. If the reader, then, will follow me patiently and attentively through the mazes into which I am forced to enter, I shall endeavor to throw as much light as I am capable of, upon this inherently obscure and abstruse subject. There is no human being so degraded, so brutish, in whom a twofold instinct, if I may be permitted so to call it, is not manifest; the instinct which incites to the gratification of material wants, and that which leads to higher aspirations. The degree of intensity of either of these two is the first and principal measure of the differences among races. In none, not even in the lowest tribes, are the two instincts precisely balanced. Among some, the physical wants or animal propensities preponderate; in others, these are subordinate to the speculative tendencies--the cravings for the abstract, the supernatural. Thus, the lowest of the yellow races seem to me to be dominated rather by the first, the physical instinct, without, however, being absolutely deprived of all capacity for abstractions. On the contrary, among the majority of the black races of corresponding rank, the habits are less active than pensive; imagination there attaches greater value to the things of the invisible than to those of the visible world. I do not thence deduce any conclusion of superior capacity for civilization on the part of those latter races over the former, for history demonstrates that both are equally insusceptible to attain it. Centuries, thousands of years, have passed by without either of them doing aught to ameliorate their condition, because they have never been able to associate a sufficient number of ideas with the same number of facts, to begin the march of progress. I wish merely to draw attention to the fact, that even among the lowest races we find this double current differently constituted. I shall now follow the ascending scale. Above the Samoyedes on the one hand, and the Fidas and Pelagian negroes on the other, we must place those tribes who are not content with a mere hut of branches, and a social condition based upon force only, but who are capable of comprehending and aspiring to a better condition. These are one degree above the most barbarous. If they belong to the first category of races--those who act more than they think, among whom the material tendency predominates over that for the abstract--their development will display itself in a greater perfection of their instruments of labor, and of war, in a greater care and skill in their ornaments, etc. In government, the warriors will take precedence over the priests; in their intercourse with others, they will show a certain aptitude and readiness for trafficking. Their wars, though still characterized by cruelty, will originate rather in a love of gain, than in the mere gratification of vindictive passions. In one word, material well-being, physical enjoyments, will be the main pursuit of each individual. I find this picture realized among several of the Mongol races, and also, to some extent, among the Quichuas and Azmaras of Peru. On the other hand, if they belong to the second category--to those who have a predominating tendency for the speculative, the abstract--less care will be bestowed upon the material interests; the influence of the priests will preponderate in the government; in fact, we perceive a complete antithesis to the condition above described. The Dahomees, of Western Africa, and the Caffres of the south, are examples of this state. Leaving those races whose progressive tendency is not sufficiently vigorous to enable them to extend their influence over great multitudes,[99] we come to those of a higher order, in whom this tendency is so vigorous that they are capable of incorporating, and bringing within their sphere of action, all those they come in contact with. They soon ingraft their own social and political system upon immense multitudes, and impose upon vast countries the dominion of that combination of facts and ideas--more or less co-ordinate--which we call a _civilization_. Among these races, again, we find the same difference, the same division, that I already pointed out in those of inferior merit--in some the speculative, in others the more materially active tendency predominates. It is, indeed, among these races only, that this difference has important consequences, and is clearly perceptible. When a tribe, by incorporating with it great multitudes, has become a people, has founded a vast dominion, we find that these two currents or tendencies have augmented in strength, according to the character of the populations which enter into the combination, and there become blended. Whatever tendency prevails among these populations, they will proportionably modify the character of the whole. It will be remarked, moreover, that at different periods of the life of a people, and in strict accordance with the mixture of blood and the fusion of different elements, the oscillation between the two tendencies becomes more violent, and it may happen that their relative proportion changes altogether; that one, at first subordinate, in time becomes predominant. The results of this mobility are important, as they influence, in a sensible manner, the character of a civilization, and its stability.[100] For the sake of simplicity, I shall distinguish the two categories of races by designations expressive of the tendency which predominates in them, and shall call them accordingly, either _speculative_ or _utilitarian_.[101] As I have before observed, these terms imply neither praise nor blame. I use them merely for convenience, to designate the leading characteristic, without thereby expressing a total absence of the other. Thus, the most utilitarian of the speculative races would closely approximate to the most speculative of the utilitarian. At the head of the utilitarian category, as its type, I place the Chinese; at the head, and as the type of the other, the Hindoos. Next to the Chinese I would put the majority of the populations of ancient Italy, the first Romans of the time of the republic, and the Germanic tribes. On the opposite side, among the speculative races, I would range next to the Hindoos, the Egyptians, and the nations of the Assyrian empire. I have said already that the oscillations of the two principles or tendencies sometimes result in the preponderance of one, which before was subordinate, and thus the character of the civilization is changed. Minor modifications, the history of almost every people presents. Thus, even the materialistic utilitarian tendency of the Chinese has been somewhat modified by their amalgamation with tribes of another blood, and a different tendency. In the south, the Yunnan particularly, where this population prevailed, the inhabitants are much less exclusively utilitarian than in the north, where the Chinese element is more pure. If this admixture of blood operated so slight a change in the genius of that immense nation, that its effects have ceased, or make themselves perceptible only in an exceedingly slow manner, it is because its quantity was so extremely small, compared to the utilitarian population by which it was absorbed. Into the actual populations of Europe, the Germanic tribes infused a strong utilitarian tendency, and in the north, this has been continually recruited by new accessions of the same ethnical element; but in the south (with some exceptions, Piedmont, and the North of Spain, for example), the Germanic element forms not so great a portion of the whole mass, and the utilitarian tendency has there been overweighed by the opposite genius of the native populations. Among the speculative races we have signalized the Hindoos. They are endowed in a high degree with the tendency for the supernatural, the abstract. Their character is more meditative than active and practical. As their ancient conquests incorporated with them races of a similar disposition, the utilitarian element has never prevailed sufficiently to produce decided results. While, therefore, their civilization has arrived at a high degree of perfection in other respects, it has lagged far behind in all that promotes material comfort, in all that is strictly useful and practical. Rome, at first strictly utilitarian, changed its character gradually as the fusion with Greek, Asiatic, and African elements proceeded, and when once the ancient utilitarian population was absorbed in this ethnical inundation, the practical character of Rome was lost. * * * * * From the consideration of these and similar facts, I arrive at the conclusion, that all intellectual or moral activity results from the combined action and mutual reaction of these two tendencies, and that the social system can arrive at that development which entitles it to the name of civilization, only in races which possess, in a high degree, either of the two, without being too much deficient in the other. I now proceed to the examination of other points also deserving of notice. FOOTNOTES: [94] Hazlitt's translation, vol. i. p 21. New York, 1855.--H. [95] A careful comparison of Mr. Guizot's views with those expressed by Count Gobineau upon this interesting subject convinced me that the differences of opinion between these two investigators required a more careful and minute examination than the author has thought necessary. With this view, I subjoin further extracts from the celebrated "_History of Civilization in Europe_," from which, I think, it will appear that few of the great truths comprised in the definition of _civilization_ have escaped the penetration and research of the illustrious writer, but that, being unable to divest himself of the idea of _unity_ of civilization, he has necessarily fallen into an error, with which a great metaphysician justly charges so many reasoners. "It is hard," says Locke, speaking of the abuse of words, "to find a discourse written on any subject, especially of controversy, wherein one shall not observe, if he read with attention, the same words (and those commonly the most material in the discourse, and upon which the argument turns) used sometimes for one collection of simple ideas, and sometimes for another.... A man, in his accompts with another, might with as much fairness, make the characters of numbers stand sometimes for one, and sometimes for another collection of units (_e. g._, this character, 3, stand sometimes for three, sometimes for four, and sometimes for eight), as, in his discourse or reasoning, make the same words stand for different collections of simple ideas." * * * * * Mr. Guizot opens his first lecture by declaring his intention of giving a "general survey of the history of _European civilization_, of its _origin_, its _progress_, its _end_, its _character_. I say European civilization, because there is evidently so striking a uniformity in the civilization of the different states of Europe, as fully to warrant this appellation. Civilization has flowed to them all from sources so much alike, it is so connected in them all--notwithstanding the great differences of time, of place, and circumstances--by the same principles, and it tends in them all to bring about the same results, that no one will doubt of there being _a civilization essentially European_." Here, then, Mr. Guizot acknowledges one great truth contended for in this volume; he virtually recognizes the fact that there may be other civilizations, having different origins, a different progress, different characters, different ends. "At the same time, it must be observed, that this civilization cannot be found in--its history cannot be collected from--the history of any single state of Europe. However similar in its general appearance throughout the whole, its variety is not less remarkable, nor has it ever yet developed itself completely in any particular country. Its characteristic features are widely spread, and we shall be obliged to seek, as occasion may require, in England, in France, in Germany, in Spain, for the elements of its history." This is precisely the idea expressed in my introduction, that according to the character of a nation, its civilization manifests itself in various ways; in some, by perfection in the arts, useful or polite; in others, by development of political forms, and their practical application, etc. If I had then wished to support my opinion by a great authority, I should, assuredly, have quoted Mr. Guizot, who, a few pages further on, says:-- "Wherever the exterior condition of man becomes enlarged, quickened, and improved; wherever the intellectual nature of man distinguishes itself by its energy, brilliancy, and its grandeur; wherever these signs occur, notwithstanding the gravest imperfections in the social system, there man proclaims and applauds a civilization." "_Notwithstanding the gravest imperfections in the social system_," says Mr. Guizot, yet in the series of hypotheses, quoted in the text, in which he attempts a negative definition of civilization, by showing what civilization is _not_, he virtually makes a political form the test of civilization. In another passage, again, he says that civilization "is a course for humanity to run--a destiny for it to accomplish. Nations have transmitted, from age to age, something to their successors which is never lost, but which grows, and continues as a common stock, and will thus be carried on to the end of all things. For my part (he continues), I feel assured that human nature has such a destiny; that a general civilization pervades the human race; that at every epoch it augments; and that there, consequently, is a universal history of civilization to be written." It must be obvious to the reader who compares these extracts, that Mr. Guizot expresses a totally distinct idea or collection of ideas in each. First, the civilization of a particular nation, which exists "wherever the intellectual nature of man distinguishes itself by its energy, brilliancy, and grandeur." Such a civilization may flourish, "notwithstanding the greatest imperfections in the social system." Secondly, Mr. Guizot's _beau-idéal_ of the best, most perfect civilization, where the political forms insure the greatest happiness, promote the most rapid--yet well-regulated--progress. Thirdly, a great system of particular civilizations, as that of Europe, the various elements of which "are connected by the same principles, and tend all to bring about the same general results." Fourthly, a supposed general progress of the whole human race toward a higher state of perfection. To all these ideas, provided they are not confounded one with another, I have already given my assent. (See _Introduction_, p. 51.) With regard to the latter, however, I would observe that it by no means militates against a belief in the intellectual imparity of races, and the permanency of this imparity. As in a society composed of individuals, all enjoy the fruits of the general progress, though all have not contributed to it in equal measure, and some not at all: so, in that society, of which we may suppose the various branches of the human family to be the members, even the inferior participate more or less in the benefits of intellectual labor, of which they would have been incapable. Because I can transport myself with almost the swiftness of a bird from one place to another, it does not follow that--though I profit by Watt's genius--I could have invented the steam-engine, or even that I understand the principles upon which that invention is based.--H. [96] W. Von Humboldt, _Ueber die Kawi-Sprache auf der Insel Java; Einleitung_, vol. i. p. 37. Berlin. "Die _Civilization_ ist die Vermenschlichung der Völker in ihren äusseren Einrichtungen und Gebräuchen, und der darauf Bezug habenden inneren Gesinnung." [97] William Von Humboldt. "Die Kultur fügt dieser Veredlung des gesellschaftlichen Zustandes Wissenschaft und Kunst hinzu." [98] W. Von Humboldt, _op. cit._, p. 37: "Wenn wir in unserer Sprache _Bildung_ sagen, so meinen wir damit etwas zugleich Höheres und mehr Innerlicheres, nämlich die Sinnesart, die sich aus der Erkenntniss und dem Gefühle des gesammten geistigen und sittlichen Streben harmonish auf die Empfindung und den Charakter ergiesst." As nothing can exceed the difficulty of rendering an abstract idea from the French into English, except to transmit the same from German into French, and as if _all_ these processes must be undergone, the identity of the idea is greatly endangered, I have thought proper to translate at once from the original German, and therefore differ somewhat from Mr. Gobineau, who gives it thus: "L'homme formé, c'est-à-dire, l'homme qui, dans sa nature, possède quelque chose de plus haut, de plus intime à la fois, c'est-à-dire, une façon de comprendre qui répand harmonieusement sur la sensibilité et le charactère les impressions qu'elle reçoit de l'activité intellectuelle et morale dans son ensemble." I have taken great pains to express clearly Mr. Von Humboldt's idea, and have therefore amplified the word _Sinnesart_, which has not its precise equivalent in English.--TRANS. [99] See page 154. [100] Mr. Klemm (_Allgemeine Culturgeschichte der Menschheit_, Leipzig, 1849) adopts, also, a division of all races into two categories, which he calls respectively the _active_ and the _passive_. I have not had the advantage of perusing his book, and cannot, therefore, say whether his idea is similar to mine. It would not be surprising that, in pursuing the same road, we should both have stumbled over the same truth. [101] The translator has here permitted himself a deviation from the original. Mr. Gobineau, to express his idea, borrows from the symbolism of the Hindoos, where the feminine principle is represented by Prakriti, and the masculine by Purucha, and calls the two categories of races respectively feminine and masculine. But as he "thereby wishes to express nothing but a mutual fecundation, without ascribing any superiority to either," and as the idea seems fully rendered by the words used in the translation, the latter have been thought preferable, as not so liable to misrepresentation and misconception.--H. CHAPTER IX. ELEMENTS OF CIVILIZATION--CONTINUED. Definition of the term--Specific differences of civilizations--Hindoo, Chinese, European, Greek, and Roman civilizations--Universality of Chinese civilization--Superficiality of ours--Picture of the social condition of France. When a tribe, impelled by more vigorous instincts than its neighbors, succeeds in collecting the hitherto scattered and isolated fragments into a compact whole, the first impetus of progress is thus given, the corner-stone of a civilization laid. But, to produce great and lasting results, a mere political preponderance is not sufficient. The dominant race must know how to lay hold of the feelings of the masses it has aggregated, to assimilate their individual interests, and to concentrate their energies to the same purposes. When the different elements composing the nation are thus blended into a more or less homogeneous mass, certain principles and modes of thinking become general, and form the standard around which all rally. These principles and modes of thinking, however, cannot be arbitrarily imposed, and must be resulting from, and in the main consonant with, pre-existing sentiments and desires.[102] They will be characterized by a utilitarian or a speculative tendency, according to the degree in which either instinct predominates in the constituent elements of the nation. This harmony of views and interests is the first essential to civilization; the second is stability, and is a natural consequence of the first. The general principles upon which the political and social system rests, being based upon instincts common to all, are by all regarded with the most affectionate veneration, and firmly believed to be perpetual. The purer a race remains, the more conservative will it be in its institutions, for its instincts never change. But the admixture of foreign blood produces proportionate modifications in the national ideas. The new-comers introduce instincts and notions which were not calculated upon in the social edifice. Alterations therefore become necessary, and these are often wholesome, especially in the youthful period of the society, when the new ethnical elements have not as yet acquired an undue preponderance. But, as the empire increases, and comprises elements more and more heterogeneous, the changes become more radical, and are not always for the better. Finally, as the initiatory and conservative element disappears, the different parts of the nation are no longer united by common instincts and interests; the original institutions are not adapted to their wants; sudden and total transformations become common, and a vain phantom of stability is pursued through endless experiments. But, while thus vacillating betwixt conflicting interests, and changing its purpose every hour, the nation imagines itself advancing to some imaginary goal of perfection. Firmly convinced of its own perpetuity, it holds fast to the doctrine which its daily acts disprove, that one of the principal features of a civilization is God-like immutability. And though each day brings forth new discontents and new changes equally futile, the apprehensions of the day are quieted with the expectations of to-morrow. I have said that the conditions necessary for the development of a civilization are--the aggregation of large masses, and stable institutions resulting from common views and interests. The sociable inclinations of man, and the less noble attributes of his nature, perform the rest. While the former bring him in intimate and varied connections with his fellow-men, the latter give rise to continual contests and emulation. In a large community, a strong fist is no longer sufficient to insure protection and give distinction, and the resources of the mind are applied and developed. Intellect continually seeks and finds new fields for exertion, either in the regions of the abstract, or in the material world. By its productions in either, we recognize an advanced state of society. The most common source of error in judging foreign nations, is that we are apt to look merely at the exterior demonstrations of their civilization, and because, in this respect, their civilization does not resemble ours, we hastily conclude that they are barbarous, or, at least, greatly inferior to us. A conclusion, drawn from such premises, must needs be very superficial, and therefore ought to be received with caution. I believe myself now prepared to express my idea of a civilization, by defining it as _A state of comparative stability, in which a large collection of individuals strive, by peaceful means, to satisfy their wants, and refine their intelligence and manners._ This definition includes, without exception, all the nations which I have mentioned as being civilized. But, as these nations have few points of resemblance, the question suggests itself: Do not, then, all civilizations tend to the same results? I think not; for, as the nations called to the noble task of accomplishing a civilization, are endowed with the utilitarian and speculative tendencies in various degrees and proportions, their paths must necessarily lie in very divergent directions. What are the material wants of the Hindoo? Rice and butter for his nourishment, and a piece of cotton cloth for his garment. Nor can this abstemiousness be accounted for by climate, for the native of Thibet, under a much more rigorous sky, displays the same quality. In these peoples, the imaginative faculty greatly predominates, their intellectual efforts are directed to abstractions, and the fruits of their civilization are therefore seldom of a practical or utilitarian character. Magnificent temples are hewn out of mountains of solid rock at an expense of labor and time that terrifies the imagination; gigantic constructions are erected;--all this in honor of the gods, while nothing is done for man's benefit, unless it be tombs. By the side of the miracles wrought by the sculptor's chisel, we admire the finished masterpieces of a literature full of vigor, and as ingenious and subtle in theology and metaphysics, as beautiful in its variety: in speculative efforts, human thought descends without trepidation to immeasurable depths; its lyric poetry challenges the admiration of all mankind. But if we leave the domain of idealistic reveries, and seek for inventions of practical utility, and for the sciences that are their theoretical basis, we find a deplorable deficiency. From a dazzling height, we suddenly find ourselves descended to a profound and darksome abyss. Useful inventions are scarce, of a petty character, and, being neglected, remain barren of results. While the Chinese observed and invented a great deal, the Hindoos invented but little, and of that little took no care; the Greeks, also, have left us much information, but little worthy of their genius; and the Romans, once arrived at the culminating point of their history, could no longer make any real progress, for the Asiatic admixture in which they were absorbed with surprising rapidity, produced a population incapable of the patient and toilsome investigation of stern realities. Their administrative genius, however, their legislation, and the useful monuments with which they provided the soil of their territories, attest sufficiently the practical character which, at one time, so eminently characterized that people; and prove that if the South of Europe had not been so rapidly submerged with colonists from Asia and the North of Africa, positive science would have been the gainer, and less would have been left to be accomplished by the Germanic races, which afterward gave it a renewed impulse. The Germanic conquerors of the fifth century were characterized by instincts of a similar kind to those of the Chinese, but of a higher order. While they possessed the utilitarian tendency as strongly, if not stronger, they had, at the same time, a much greater endowment of the speculative. Their disposition presented a happy blending of these two mainsprings of activity. Where-ever the Teutonic blood predominates, the utilitarian tendency, ennobled and refined by the speculative, is unmistakable. In England, North America, and Holland, this tendency governs and preponderates over all the other national instincts. It is so, in a lesser degree, in Belgium, and even in the North of France, where everything susceptible of practical application is understood with marvellous facility. But as we advance further south, this predisposition is less apparent, and, finally, disappears altogether. We cannot attribute this to the action of the sun, for the Piedmontese live in a much warmer climate than the Provençals and the inhabitants of the Languedoc; it is the effect of blood. The series of speculative races, or those rendered so by admixture, occupies the greater portion of the globe, and this observation is particularly applicable to Europe. With the exception of the Teutonic family, and a portion of the Sclavonic, all other groups of our part of the world are but slightly endowed with the faculty for the useful and practical; or, having already acted their part in the world's history, will not be able to recommence it. All these races, from the Gaul to the Celtiberian, and thence to the variegated compounds of the Italian populations, present a descending scale from a utilitarian point of view. Not that they are devoid of all the aptitudes of that tendency, but they are wanting in some of the most essential. The union of the Germanic tribes with the races of the ancient world, this engrafting of a vigorous utilitarian principle upon the ideas of that variegated compound, produced our civilization; the richness, diversity, and fecundity of our state of culture is the natural result of that combination of so many different elements, which each contributed their part, and which the practical vigor of our Germanic ancestors, succeeded in blending into a more or less harmonious whole. Wherever our state of civilization extends, it is characterized by two traits; the first, that the population contains a greater or less admixture of Teutonic blood; the other, that it is Christian. This last feature, however, as I said before, though the most obvious and striking, is by no means essential, because many nations are Christian, and many more may become so, without participating in our civilization. But the first feature is positive, decisive. Wherever the Germanic element has not penetrated, our civilization cannot flourish.[103] This leads me to the investigation of a serious and important question: "Can it be asserted that all the European nations are really and thoroughly civilized?" Do the ideas and facts which rise upon the surface of our civilization, strike root in the basis of our social and political structure, and derive their vitality from that source? Are the results of these ideas and facts such as are conformable to the instincts, the tendencies, of the masses? Or, in other words, have the lowest strata of our populations the same direction of thought and action as the highest--that direction which we may call the spirit or genius of our progressive movement? To arrive at a true and unbiassed solution of this question, let us examine other civilizations, different from ours, and then institute a comparison. The similarity of views and ideas, the unity of purpose, which characterized the whole body of citizens in the Grecian states, during the brilliant period of their history, has been justly admired. Upon every essential point, the opinions of every individual, though often conflicting, were, nevertheless, derived from the same source, emanated from the same general views and sentiments; individuals might differ in politics, one wishing a more oligarchical, another a more democratic government; or they might differ in religion, one worshipping, by preference, the Eleusinian Ceres, another the Minerva of the Parthenon; or in matters of taste, one might prefer �schylus to Sophocles, Alceus to Pindar. At the bottom, the disputants all participated in the same views and ideas, ideas which might well be called national. The question was one of degree, not of kind.[104] Rome, previous to the Punic wars, presented the same spectacle; the civilization of the country was uniform, and embraced all, from the master to the slave.[105] All might not participate in it to the same extent, but all participated in it and in no other. But in Rome, after the Punic wars, and in Greece, soon after Pericles, and especially after Philip of Macedon, this character of homogeneity began to disappear. The greater mixture of nations produced a corresponding mixture of civilizations, and the compound thus formed exceeded in variety, elegance, refinement, and learning, the ancient mode of culture. But it had this capital inconvenience, both in Hellas and in Italy, that it belonged exclusively to the higher classes. Its nature, its merits, its tendencies, were ignored by the sub-strata of the population. Let us take the civilization of Rome after the Asiatic wars. It was a grand, magnificent monument of human genius. It had a cosmopolitan character: the rhetoricians of Greece contributed to it the transcendental spirit, the jurists and publicists of Syria and Alexandria gave it a code of atheistic, levelling, and monarchical laws--each part of the empire furnished to the common store some portion of its ideas, its sciences, and its character. But whom did this civilization embrace? The men engaged in the public administration or in great monetary enterprises, the people of wealth and of leisure. It was merely submitted to, not adopted by the masses. The populations of Europe understood nothing of those Asiatic and African contributions to the civilization; the inhabitants of Egypt, Numidia, or Asia, were equally uninterested in what came from Gaul and Spain, countries with which they had nothing in common. But a small minority of the Roman people stood on the pinnacle, and being in possession of the secret, valued it. The rest, those not included in the aristocracy of wealth and position, preserved the civilization peculiar to the land of their birth, or, perhaps, had none at all. Here, then, we have an example of a great and highly perfected civilization, dominating over untold millions, but founding its reign not in their desires or convictions, but in their exhaustion, their weakness, their listlessness. A very different spectacle is presented in China. The boundless extent of that empire includes, indeed, several races markedly distinct, but I shall speak at present only of the national race, the Chinese proper. One spirit animates the whole of this immense multitude, which is counted by hundreds of millions. Whatever we think of their civilization, whether we admire or censure the principles upon which it is based, the results which it has produced, and the direction which it takes; we cannot deny that it pervades all ranks, that every individual takes in it a definite and intelligent part. And this is not because the country is free, in our sense of the word: there is no democratic principle which secures, by law, to every one the position which his efforts may attain, and thus spurs him on to exertions. No; I discard all Utopian pictures. The peasant and the man of the middle classes, in the Celestial Empire, are no better assured of rising by their own merit only, than they are elsewhere. It is true that, in theory, public honors are solely the reward of merit, and every one is permitted to offer himself as a candidate;[106] but it is well known that, in reality, the families of great functionaries monopolize all lucrative offices, and that the scholastic diplomas often cost more money than efforts of study. But disappointed or hopeless ambition never leads the possessor to imagine a different system; the aim of the reformer is to remedy the abuses of the established organization, not to substitute another. The masses may groan under ills and abuses, but the fault is charged, not to the social and political system, which to them is an object of unqualified admiration, but to the persons to whose care the performance of its duties is committed. The head of the government, or his functionaries, may become unpopular, but the form itself, the government, never. A very remarkable feature of the Chinese is that among them primary instruction is so universal; it reaches classes whom we hardly imagine to have any need of it. The cheapness of books, the immense number and low price of the schools, enable even the poorest to acquire the elements of knowledge, reading and writing.[107] The laws, their spirit and tendency, are well known and understood by all classes, and the government prides itself upon facilitating the study of this useful science.[108] The instinct of the masses is decidedly averse to all political convulsions. Mr. Davis, who was commissioner of H. B. Majesty in China, and who studied its affairs with the assiduity of a man who is interested in understanding them well, says that the character of the people cannot be better expressed than by calling them "a nation of steady conservatives."[109] Here, then, we have a most striking contrast to the civilization of Rome in her latter days, when governmental changes occurred in fearfully rapid succession, until the arrival of the nations of the north. In every portion of that vast empire, there were whole populations that had no interest in the preservation of established order, and were ever ready to second the maddest schemes, to embark in any enterprise that seemed to promise advantage, or that was represented in seductive colors by some ambitious demagogue. During that long period of several centuries, no scheme was left untried: property, religion, the sanctity of family relations, were all called in question, and innovators in every portion of the empire, found multitudes ever disposed to carry their theories into practice by force. Nothing in the Greco-Roman world rested on a solid basis, not even the imperial unity, so indispensable, it would seem, to the mere self-preservation of such a state of society. It was not only the armies, with their swarm of _improvisto_ Cæsars, that undertook the task of shaking this palladium of national safety; the emperors themselves, beginning with Diocletian, had so little faith in monarchy, that they willingly made the experiment of dualism in the government, and finally found four at a time not too many for governing the empire.[110] I repeat it, not one institution, not one principle, was stable in that wretched state of society, which continued to preserve some outward form, merely from the physical impossibility of assuming any others, until the men of the north came to assist in its demolition. Between these two great societies, then, the Roman empire, and that of China, we perceive the most complete contrast. By the side of the civilization of Eastern Asia, I may mention that of India, Thibet, and other portions of Central Asia, which is equally universal, and diffused among all ranks and classes. As in China there is a certain level of information to which all attain, so in Hindostan, every one is animated by the same spirit; each individual knows precisely what his caste requires him to learn, to think, to believe. Among the Buddhists of Thibet, and the table-lands of Asia, nothing is rarer than to find a peasant who cannot read, and there everybody has the same convictions upon important subjects. Do we find this homogeneity in European nations? It is scarce worth while to put the question. Not even the Greco-Roman empire presents incongruities so strange, or contrasts so striking, as are to be found among us; not only among the various nationalities of Europe, but in the bosom of the same sovereignty. I shall not speak of Russia, and the states that form the Austrian empire; the demonstration of my position would there be too facile. Let us turn to Germany; to Italy, Southern Italy in particular; to Spain, which, though in a less degree, presents a similar picture; or to France. I select France. The difference of manners, in various parts of this country, has struck even the most superficial observer, and it has long since been observed that Paris is separated from the rest of France by a line of demarcation so decided and accurately defined, that at the very gates of the capital, a nation is found, utterly different from that within the walls. Nothing can be more true: those who attach to our political unity the idea of similarity of thoughts, of character--in fine, of nationality, are laboring under a great delusion. There is not one principle that governs society and is connected with our civilization, which is understood in the same manner in all our departments. I do not speak here merely of the peculiarities that characterize the native of Normandy, of Brittany, Angevin, Limousin, Gascony, Provence. Every one knows how little alike these various populations are,[111] and how they differ in their tendencies and modes of thinking. I wish to draw attention to the fact, that while in China, Thibet, India, the most essential ideas upon which the civilization is based, are common to all classes, participated in by all, it is by no means so among us. The very rudiments of our knowledge, the most elementary and most generally accessible portion of it, remain an impenetrable mystery to our rural populations, among whom but few individuals are found acquainted with reading and writing. This is not for want of opportunities--it is because no value is attached to these acquisitions, because their utility is not perceived. I speak from my own observation, and that of persons who had ample facilities, and brought extensive information and great judgment to the task of investigation. Government has made the most praiseworthy efforts to remedy the evil, to raise the peasantry from the sink of ignorance in which they vegetate. But the wisest laws, and the most carefully calculated institutions have proved abortive. The smallest village affords ample opportunities for common education; even the adult, when conscription forces him into the army, finds in the regimental schools every facility for acquiring the most necessary branches of knowledge. Compulsion is resorted to--every one who has lived in the provinces knows with what success. Parents send their children to school with undisguised repugnance, for they regret the time thus spent as wasted, and, therefore, eagerly seize the most trifling pretext for withdrawing them, and never suffer them to exceed the legal term of attendance. So soon as the young man leaves school, or the soldier has served his time, they hasten to forget what they were compelled to learn, and what they are heartily ashamed of. They return forever after to the local _patois_[112] of their birthplace, and pretend to have forgotten the French language, which, indeed, is but too often true. It is a painful conclusion, but one which many and careful observations have forced upon me, that all the generous private and public endeavors to instruct our rural population, are absolutely futile, and can tend no further than to enforce an outward compliance. They care not for the knowledge we wish to give them--they will not have it, and this not from mere negligence or apathy, but from a feeling of positive hostility to our civilization. This is a startling assertion, but I have not yet adduced all the proofs in support of it. In those parts of the country where the laboring classes are employed in manufactures principally, and in the great cities, the workmen are easily induced to learn to read and write. The circumstances with which they are surrounded, leave them no doubt as to the practical advantages accruing to them from these acquisitions. But so soon as these men have sufficiently mastered the first elements of knowledge, to what use do they, for the most part, apply them? To imbibe or give vent to ideas and sentiments the most subversive of all social order. The instinctive, but passive hostility to our civilization, is superseded by a bitter and active enmity, often productive of the most fearful calamities. It is among these classes that the projectors of the wildest, most incendiary schemes readily recruit their partisans; that the advocates of socialism, community of goods and wives, all, in fact, who, under the pretext of removing the ills and abuses that afflict the social system, propose to tear it down, find ready listeners and zealous believers. There are, however, portions of the country to which this picture does not apply; and these exceptions furnish me with another proof in favor of my proposition. Among the agricultural and manufacturing populations of the north and northeast, information is general; it is readily received, and, once received, retained and productive of good fruits. These people are intelligent, well-informed, and orderly, like their neighbors in Belgium and the whole of the Netherlands. And these, also, are the populations most closely akin to the Teutonic race, the race which, as I said in another place, gave the initiative to our civilization. The aversion to our civilization, of which I spoke, is not the only singular feature in the character of our rural populations. If we penetrate into the privacy of their thoughts and beliefs, we make discoveries equally striking and startling. The bishops and parish clergy have to this day, as they had one, five, or fifteen centuries ago, to battle with mysterious superstitions, or hereditary tendencies, some of which are the more formidable as they are seldom openly avowed, and can, therefore, be neither attacked nor conquered. There is no enlightened priest, that has the care of his flock at heart, but knows from experience with what deep cunning the peasant, however devout, knows how to conceal in his own bosom some fondly cherished traditional idea or belief, which reveals itself only at long intervals, and without his knowledge. If he is spoken to about it, he denies or evades the discussion, but remains unshaken in his convictions. He has unbounded confidence in his pastor, unbounded except upon this one subject, that might not inappropriately be called his secret religion. Hence that taciturnity and reserve which, in all our provinces, is the most marked characteristic of the peasant, and which he never for a moment lays aside towards the class he calls _bourgeois_; that impassable barrier between him and even the most popular and well-intentioned landed proprietor of his district. It must not be supposed that this results merely from rudeness and ignorance. Were it so, we might console ourselves with the hope that they will gradually improve and assimilate with the more enlightened classes. But these people are precisely like certain savages; at a superficial glance they appear unreflecting and brutish, because their exterior is humble, and their character requires to be studied. But so soon as we penetrate, however little, into their own circle of ideas, the feelings that govern their private life, we discover that in their obstinate isolation from our civilization, they are not actuated by a feeling of degradation. Their affections and antipathies do not arise from mere accidental circumstances, but, on the contrary, are in accordance with logical reasoning based upon well-defined and clearly conceived ideas.[113] In speaking of their religious notions awhile ago, I should have remarked what an immense distance there is between our doctrines of morals and those of the peasantry, how widely different are their ideas from those which we attach to the same word.[114] With what pertinacious obstinacy they continue to look upon every one not peasant like themselves, as the people of remote antiquity looked upon a foreigner. It is true they do not kill him, thanks to the singular and mysterious terror which the laws, in the making of which they have no part, inspire them; but they hate him cordially, distrust him, and if they can do so without too great a risk, fleece him without scruple and with immense satisfaction. Yet they are not wicked or ill-disposed. Among themselves they are kind-hearted, charitable, and obliging. But then they regard themselves as a distinct race--a race, they tell you--that is weak, oppressed, and that must resort to cunning and stratagem to gain their due, but which, nevertheless, preserves its pride and contempt for all others. In many of our provinces, the laborer believes himself of much better stock than his former lord or present employer. The family pride of many of our peasants is, to say the least, as great as that of the nobility during the Middle Ages.[115] It cannot be doubted that the lower strata of the population of France have few features in common with the higher. Our civilization penetrates but little below the surface. The great mass is indifferent--nay, positively hostile to it. The most tragic events have stained the country with torrents of blood, unparalleled convulsions have destroyed every ancient fabric, both social and political. Yet the agricultural populations have never been roused from their apathetic indifference,[116] have never taken any other part but that to which they were forced. When their own personal and immediate interests were not at stake, they allowed the tempests to blow by without concern, without even passive sympathy on one side or the other. Many persons, frightened and scandalized at this spectacle, have declared the peasantry as irreclaimably perverse. This is at the same time an injustice, and a very false appreciation of their character. The peasants regard us almost as their enemies. They comprehend nothing of our civilization, contribute nothing to it of their own accord, and they think themselves authorized to profit by its disasters, whenever they can. Apart from this antagonism, which sometimes displays itself in an active, but oftener in a passive manner, it cannot be doubted that they possess moral qualities of a high order, though often singularly applied. Such is the state of civilization in France. It may be asserted that of a population of thirty-six millions, ten participate in the ideas and mode of thinking upon which our civilization is based, while the remaining twenty-six altogether ignore them, are indifferent and even hostile to them, and this computation would, I think, be even more flattering than the real truth. Nor is France an exception in this respect. The picture I have given applies to the greater part of Europe. Our civilization is suspended, as it were, over an unfathomable gulf, at the bottom of which there slumber elements which may, one day, be roused and prove fearfully, irresistibly destructive. This is an awful, an ominous truth. Upon its ultimate consequences it is painful to reflect. Wisdom may, perhaps, foresee the storm, but can do little to avert it. But ignored, despised, or hated as it is by the greater number of those over whom it extends its dominion, our civilization is, nevertheless, one of the grandest, most glorious monuments of the human mind. In the inventive, initiatory quality it does not surpass, or even equal some of its predecessors, but in comprehensiveness it surpasses all. From this comprehensiveness arise its powers of appropriation, of conquest; for, to comprehend is to seize, to possess. It has appropriated all their acquisitions, and has remodelled, reconstructed them. It did not create the exact sciences, but it has given them their exactitude, and has disembarrassed them from the divagations from which, by a singular paradox, they were anciently less free than any other branch of knowledge. Thanks to its discoveries, the material world is better known than at any other epoch. The laws by which nature is governed, it has, in a great measure, succeeded in unveiling, and it has applied them so as to produce results truly wonderful. Gradually, and by the clearness and correctness of its induction, it has reconstructed immense fragments of history, of which the ancients had no knowledge; and as it recedes from the primitive ages of the world, it penetrates further into the mist that obscures them. These are great points of superiority, and which cannot be contested. But these being admitted, are we authorized to conclude--as is so generally assumed as a matter of course--that the characteristics of our civilization are such as to entitle it to the pre-eminence among all others? Let us examine what are its peculiar excellencies. Thanks to the prodigious number of various elements that contributed to its formation, it has an eclectic character which none of its predecessors or contemporaries possess. It unites and combines so many various qualities and faculties, that its progress is equally facile in all directions; and it has powers of analysis and generalization so great, that it can embrace and appropriate all things, and, what is more, apply them to practical purposes. In other words, it advances at once in a number of different directions, and makes valuable conquests in all, but it cannot be said that it advances at the same time _furthest_ in all. Variety, perhaps, rather than great intensity, is its characteristic. If we compare its progress in any one direction with what has been done by others in the same, we shall find that in few, indeed, can our civilization claim pre-eminence. I shall select three of the most striking features of every civilization; the art of government, the state of the fine arts, and refinement of manners. In the art of government, the civilization of Europe has arrived at no positive result. In this respect, it has been unable to assume a definite character. It has laid down no principles. In every country over which its dominion extends, it is subservient to the exigencies of the various races which it has aggregated, but not united. In England, Holland, Naples, and Russia, political forms are still in a state of comparative stability, because either the whole population, or the dominant portion of it, is composed of the same or homogeneous elements. But everywhere else, especially in France, Central Italy, and Germany, where the ethnical diversity is boundless, governmental theories have never risen to the dignity of recognized truth; political science consisted in an endless series of experiments. Our civilization, therefore, being unable to assume a definite political feature, is devoid, in this respect, of that stability which I comprised as an essential feature in my definition of a civilization. This impotency is not found in many other civilizations which we deem inferior. In the Celestial Empire, in the Buddhistic and Brahminical societies, the political feature of the civilization is clearly enounced, and clearly understood by each individual member. In matters of politics all think alike; under a wise administration, when the secular institutions produce beneficent fruits, all rejoice; when in unskilled or malignant hands, they endanger the public welfare, it is a misfortune to be regretted as we regret our own faults; but no circumstance can abate the respect and admiration with which they are regarded. It may be desirable to correct abuses that have crept into them, but never to replace them by others. It cannot be denied that these civilizations, therefore, whatever we may think of them in other respects, enjoy a guarantee of durability, of longevity, in which ours is sadly wanting. With regard to the arts, our civilization is decidedly inferior to others. Whether we aim at the grand or the beautiful, we cannot rival either the imposing grandeur of the civilization of Egypt, of India, or even of the ancient American empires, nor the elegant beauty of that of Greece. Centuries hence--when the span of time allotted to us shall have been consumed, when our civilization, like all that preceded it, shall have sunk in the dim shades of the past, and have become a matter of inquiry only to the historical student--some future traveller may wander among the forests and marshes on the banks of the Thames, the Seine, or the Rhine, but he will find no glorious monuments of our grandeur; no sumptuous or gigantic ruins like those of Philæ, of Nineveh, of Athens, of Salsetta, or of Tenochtitlan. A remote posterity may venerate our memory as their preceptors in exact sciences. They may admire our ingenuity, our patience, the perfection to which we have carried inductive reasoning--not so our conquests in the regions of the abstract. In poesy we can bequeath them nothing. The boundless admiration which we bestow upon the productions of foreign civilizations both past and present, is a positive proof of our own inferiority in this respect.[117] Perhaps the most striking features of a civilization, though not a true standard of its merit, is the degree of refinement which it has attained. By refinement I mean all the luxuries and amenities of life, the regulations of social intercourse, delicacy of habits and tastes. It cannot be denied that in all these we do not surpass, nor even equal, many former as well as contemporaneous civilizations. We cannot rival the magnificence of the latter days of Rome, or of the Byzantine empire; we can but imagine the gorgeous luxury of Eastern civilizations; and in our own past history we find periods when the modes of living were more sumptuous, polished intercourse regulated by a higher and more exacting standard, when taste was more cultivated, and habits more refined. It is true, that we are amply compensated by a greater and more general diffusion of the comforts of life; but in its exterior manifestations, our civilization compares unfavorably with many others, and might almost be called shabby. * * * * * Before concluding this digression upon civilization, which has already extended perhaps too far, it may not be unnecessary to reiterate the principal ideas which I wished to present to the mind of the reader. I have endeavored to show that every civilization derives its peculiar character from the race which gave the initiatory impulse. The alteration of this initiatory principle produces corresponding modifications, and even total changes, in the character of the civilization. Thus our civilization owes its origin to the Teutonic race, whose leading characteristic was an elevated utilitarianism. But as these races ingrafted their mode of culture upon stocks essentially different, the character of the civilization has been variously modified according to the elements which it combined and amalgamated. The civilization of a nation, therefore, exhibits the kind and degree of their capabilities. It is the mirror in which they reflect their individuality. I shall now return to the natural order of my deductions, the series of which is yet far from being complete. I commenced by enouncing the truth that the existence and annihilation of human societies depended upon immutable and uniform laws. I have proved the insufficiency of adventitious circumstances to produce these phenomena, and have traced their causes to the various capabilities of different human groups; in other words, to the moral and intellectual diversity of races. Logic, then, demands that I should determine the meaning and bearing of the word race, and this will be the object of the next chapter. FOOTNOTES: [102] See a quotation from De Tocqueville to the same effect, p. 77. [103] One striking observation, in connection with this fact, Mr. Gobineau has omitted to make, probably not because it escaped his sagacity, but because he is himself a Roman Catholic. Wherever the Teutonic element in the population is predominant, as in Denmark, Sweden, Holland, England, Scotland, Northern Germany, and the United States, Protestantism prevails; wherever, on the contrary, the Germanic element is subordinate, as in portions of Ireland, in South America, and the South of Europe, Roman Catholicism finds an impregnable fortress in the hearts of the people. An ethnographical chart, carefully made out, would indicate the boundaries of each in Christendom. I do not here mean to assert that the Christian religion is accessible only to certain races, having already emphatically expressed my opinion to the contrary. I feel firmly convinced that a Roman Catholic may be as good and pious a Christian as a member of any other Christian Church whatever, but I see in this fact the demonstration of that leading characteristic of the Germanic races--independence of thought, which incites them to seek for truth, even in religion, for themselves; to investigate everything, and take nothing upon trust. I have, moreover, in favor of my position, the high authority of Mr. Macaulay: "The Reformation," says that distinguished essayist and historian, "was a national as well as a moral revolt. It had been not only an insurrection of the laity against the clergy, but _also an insurrection of the great German race against an alien domination_. It is a most significant circumstance, that no large society of which the tongue is not Teutonic, has ever turned Protestant, and that, wherever a language derived from ancient Rome is spoken, the religion of modern Rome to this day prevails." (_Hist. of England_, vol. i. p. 53.)--H. [104] Thus Sparta and Athens, respectively, stood at the head of the oligarchic and democratic parties, and the alternate preponderance of either of the two often inundated each state with blood. Yet Sparta and Athens, and the partisans of each in every state, possessed the spirit of liberty and independence in an equal degree. Themistocles and Aristides, the two great party leaders of Athens, vied with each other in patriotism. This uniformity of general views and purpose, Mr. De Tocqueville found in the United States, and he correctly deduces from it the conclusion that "though the citizens are divided into 24 (31) distinct sovereignties, they, nevertheless, constitute a single nation, and form more truly a state of society, than many peoples of Europe, living under the same legislation, and the same prince." (Vol. i. p. 425.) This is an observation which Europeans make last, because they do not find it at home; and in return, it prevents the American from acquiring a clear conception of the state of Europe, because he thinks the disputes there involve no deeper questions than the disputes around him. In certain fundamental principles, all Americans agree, to whatever party they may belong; certain general characteristics belong to them all, whatever be the differences of taste, and individual preferences; it is not so in Europe--England, perhaps, excepted, and Sweden and Denmark. But I will not anticipate the author.--H. [105] It is well known that, in both Greece and Rome, the education of the children of wealthy families was very generally intrusted to slaves. Some of the greatest philosophers of ancient Greece were bondsmen.--H. [106] China has no hereditary nobility. The class of mandarins is composed of those who have received diplomas in the great colleges with which the country abounds. A decree of the Emperor JIN-TSOUNG, who reigned from 1023 to 1063, regulated the modes of examination, to which all, indiscriminately, are admitted. The candidates are examined more than once, and every precaution is taken to prevent frauds. Thus, the son of the poorest peasant may become a mandarin, but, as he afterwards is dependent on the emperor for office or employment, this dignity is often of but little practical value. Still, there are numerous instances on record, in the history of China, of men who have risen from the lowest ranks to the first offices of the State, and even to the imperial dignity. (See _Pauthier's Histoire de la Chine_.)--H. [107] John F. Davis, _The Chinese_. London, 1840, p. 274. "Three or four volumes of any ordinary work of the octavo size and shape, may be had for a sum equivalent to two shillings. A Canton bookseller's manuscript catalogue marked the price of the four books of Confucius, including the commentary, at a price rather under half a crown. The cheapness of their common literature is occasioned partly by the mode of printing, but partly also by the low price of paper." These are Canton prices; in the interior of the empire, books are still cheaper, even in proportion to the value of money in China. Their classic works are sold at a proportionably lower price than the very refuse of our literature. A pamphlet, or small tale, may be bought for a sapeck, about the seventeenth part of a cent; an ordinary novel, for a little more or less than one cent.--H. [108] There are certain offences for which the punishment is remitted, if the culprit is able to explain lucidly the nature and object of the law respecting them. (See _Huc's Trav. in China_, vol. ii. p. 252.) In the same place, Mr. Huc bears witness to the correctness of our author's assertion. "Measures are taken," says he, "not only to enable the magistrates to understand perfectly the laws they are called upon to apply, but also to diffuse a knowledge of them among the people at large. All persons in the employment of the government, are ordered to make the code their particular study; and a special enactment provides, that at certain periods, all officers, in all localities, shall be examined upon their knowledge of the laws by their respective superiors; and if their answers are not satisfactory, they are punished, the high officials by the retention of a month's pay; the inferior ones by forty strokes of the bamboo." It must not be imagined that Mr. Huc speaks of the Chinese in the spirit of a panegyrist. Any one who reads this highly instructive and amusing book (now accessible to English readers by a translation), will soon be convinced of the contrary. He seldom speaks of them to praise them.--H. [109] Op. cit., p. 100. [110] The reader will remember that DIOCLETIAN, who, the son of a slave, rose from the rank of a common soldier, to the throne of the empire of the world, associated with himself in the government, his friend MAXIMIAN, A. D. 286. After six years of this joint reign, they took two other partners, GALERIUS and CONSTANTIUS. Thus, the empire, though nominally one sovereignty, had in reality four supreme heads. Under Constantine the Great, the imperial unity was restored; but at his decease, the purple was again parcelled out among his sons and nephews. A permanent division of the empire, however, was not effected until the death of Theodosius the Great, who for sixteen years had enjoyed undivided power. [111] It is not universally known that the various populations of France differ, not only in character, but in physical appearance. The native of the southern departments is easily known from the native of the central and northern. The average stature in the north is said to be an inch and a half more than in the south. This difference is easily perceptible in the regiments drawn from either.--H. [112] Many of these patois bear but little resemblance to the French language: the inhabitants of the Landes, for example, speak a tongue of their own, which, I believe, has roots entirely different. For the most part, they are unintelligible to those who have not studied them. Over a million and a half of the population of France speak German or German dialects.--H. [113] Mr. Gobineau's remarks apply with equal, and, in some cases, with greater force, to other portions of Europe, as I had myself ample means for observing. I have always considered the character of the European peasantry as the most difficult problem in the social system of those countries. Institutions cannot in all cases account for it. In Germany, for instance, education is general and even compulsory: I have never met a man under thirty that could not read and write. Yet, each place has its local _patois_, which no rustic abandons, for it would be deemed by his companions a most insufferable affectation. I have heard ministers in the pulpit use local dialects, of which there are over five hundred in Germany alone, and most of them widely different. Together with their _patois_, the rustics preserve their local costumes, which mostly date from the Middle Ages. But the peculiarity of their manners, customs, and modes of thinking, is still more striking. Their superstitions are often of the darkest, and, at best, of the most pitiable nature. I have seen hundreds of poor creatures, males and females, on their pilgrimage to some far distant shrine in expiation of their own sins or those of others who pay them to go in their place. On these expeditions they start in great numbers, chanting _Aves_ on the way the whole day long, so that you can hear a large band of them for miles. Each carries a bag on the back or head, containing their whole stock of provisions for a journey of generally from one to two weeks. At night, they sleep in barns, or on stacks of hay in the fields. If you converse with them, you will find them imbued with superstitions absolutely idolatrous. Yet they all know how to read and write. The perfect isolation in which these creatures live from the world, despite that knowledge, is altogether inconceivable to an American. As Mr. Gobineau says of the French peasants, they believe themselves a distinct race. There is little or no discontent among them; the revolutionary fire finds but scanty fuel among these rural populations. But they look upon those who govern and make the laws as upon different beings, created especially for that purpose; the principles which regulate their private conduct, the whole sphere of their ideas, are peculiar to themselves. In one word, they form, not a class, but a caste, with lines of demarcation as clearly defined as the castes of India. I have said before that this is not from want of education; nor can any other explanation of the mystery be found. It is not poverty, for among these rustics there are many wealthy people, and, in general, they are not so poor as the lower classes in cities. Nor do the laws restrain them within the limits of a caste. In Germany, hereditary aristocracy is almost obsolete. The ranks of the actual aristocracy are daily recruited from the burgher classes. The highest offices of the various states are often found in possession of untitled men, or men with newly created titles. The colleges and universities are open to all, and great facilities are afforded even to the poorest. Yet these differences between various parts of the population remain, and this generally in those localities which the ethnographer describes as strongly tinctured with non-Teutonic elements.--H. [114] A nurse from Tours had put a bird into the hands of her little ward, and was teaching him to pull out the feathers and wings of the poor creature. When the parents reproached her for giving him this lesson of wickedness, she answered: "C'est pour le rendre _fier_."--(It is to make him fierce or high-spirited.) This answer of 1847 is in strict accordance with the most approved maxims of education of the nurse's ancestors in the times of Vercingetorix. [115] A few years ago, a church-warden was to be elected in a very small and very obscure parish of French Brittany, that part of the former province which the real Britons used to call the _pays Gallais_, or Gallic land. The electors, who were all peasants, deliberated two days without being able to agree upon a selection, because the candidate, a very honest, wealthy, and highly respected man and a good Christian, was a _foreigner_. Now, this _foreigner_ was born in the locality, and his father had resided there before him, and had also been born there, but it was recollected that his grandfather, who had been dead many years, and whom no one in the assembly had known, came from somewhere else. [116] This is no exaggeration, as every one acquainted with French history knows. In the great revolution of the last century, the peasantry of France took no interest and no part. In the Vendée, indeed, they fought, and fought bravely, for the ancient forms, their king, and their feudatory lords. Everywhere else, the rural districts remained in perfect apathy. The revolutions since then have been decided in Paris. The _émeutes_ seldom extended beyond the walls of the great cities. It is a well-known fact, that in many of the rural districts, the peasants did not hear of the expulsion of the Bourbon dynasty, until years afterwards, and even then had no conception of the nature of the change. Bourbon, Orleans, Republic, are words, to them, of no definite meaning. The only name that can rouse them from their apathy, is "Napoleon." At that sound, the Gallic heart thrills with enthusiasm and thirst for glory. Hence the unparalleled success with which the present emperor has appealed to universal suffrage.--H. [117] It is not generally appreciated how much we are indebted to Oriental civilizations for our lighter and more graceful literature. Our first works of fiction were translations or paraphrases of Eastern tales introduced into Western Europe by the returning crusaders. The songs of the troubadour, the many-tomed romances of the Middle Ages--those ponderous sires of modern novels--all emanated from that source. The works of Dante, Tasso, Ariosto, Boccacio, and nearer home, of Chaucer and Spenser, are incontestable proofs of this fact. Even Milton himself drew from the inexhaustible stores of Eastern legends and romances. Our fairy tales, and almost all of our most graceful lyric poesy, that is not borrowed from Greece, is of Persian origin. Almost every popular poet of England and the continent has invoked the Oriental muse, none more successfully than Southey and Moore. It would be useless to allude to the immense popularity of acknowledged versions of Oriental literature, such as the _Thousand and One Nights_, the Apologues, Allegories, &c. What we do not owe to the East, we have taken from the Greeks. Even to this day, Grecian mythology is the never-failing resource of the lyric poet, and so familiar has that graceful imagery become to us, that we introduce it, often _mal-à-propos_, even in our colloquial language. In metaphysics, also, we have confessedly done little more than revive the labors of the Greeks.--H. CHAPTER X. QUESTION OF UNITY OR PLURALITY OF SPECIES. Systems of Camper, Blumenbach, Morton, Carus--Investigations of Owen, Vrolik, Weber--Prolificness of hybrids, the great scientific stronghold of the advocates of unity of species. It will be necessary to determine first the physiological bearing of the word _race_. In the opinion of many scientific observers, who judge from the first impression, and take extremes[118] as the basis of their reasoning, the groups of the human family are distinguished by differences so radical and essential, that it is impossible to believe them all derived from the same stock. They, therefore, suppose several other genealogies besides that of Adam and Eve. According to this doctrine, instead of but one species in the genus _homo_, there would be three, four, or even more, entirely distinct ones, whose commingling would produce what the naturalists call _hybrids_. General conviction is easily secured in favor of this theory, by placing before the eyes of the observer instances of obvious and striking dissimilarities among the various groups. The critic who has before him a human subject with a skin of olive-yellow; black, straight, and thin hair; little, if any beard, eyebrows, and eyelashes; a broad and flattened face, with features not very distinct; the space between the eyes broad and flat; the orbits large and open; the nose flattened; the cheeks high and prominent; the opening of the eyelids narrow, linear, and oblique, the inner angle the lowest; the ears and lips large; the forehead low and slanting, allowing a considerable portion of the face to be seen when viewed from above; the head of somewhat a pyramidal form; the limbs clumsy; the stature humble; the whole conformation betraying a marked tendency to obesity:[119] the critic who examines this specimen of humanity, at once recognizes a well characterized and clearly defined type, the principal features of which will readily be imprinted in his memory. Let us suppose him now to examine another individual: a negro, from the western coast of Africa. This specimen is of large size, and vigorous appearance. The color is a jetty black, the hair crisp, generally called _woolly_; the eyes are prominent, and the orbits large; the nose thick, flat, and confounded with the prominent cheeks; the lips very thick and everted; the jaws projecting, and the chin receding; the skull assuming the form called prognathous. The low forehead and muzzle-like elongation of the jaws, give to the whole being an almost animal appearance, which is heightened by the large and powerful lower-jaw, the ample provision for muscular insertions, the greater size of cavities destined for the reception of the organs of smell and sight, the length of the forearm compared with the arm, the narrow and tapering fingers, etc. "In the negro, the bones of the leg are bent outwards; the tibia and fibula are more convex in front than in the European; the calves of the legs are very high, so as to encroach upon the hams; the feet and hand, but particularly the former, are flat; the os calcis, instead of being arched, is continued nearly in a straight line with the other bones of the foot, which is remarkably broad."[120] In contemplating a human being so formed, we are involuntarily reminded of the structure of the ape, and we feel almost inclined to admit that the tribes of Western Africa are descended from a stock which bears but a slight and general resemblance to that of the Mongolian family. But there are some groups, whose aspect is even less flattering to the self-love of humanity than that of the Congo. It is the peculiar distinction of Oceanica to furnish about the most degraded and repulsive of those wretched beings, who seem to occupy a sort of intermediate station between man and the mere brute. Many of the groups of that latest-discovered world, by the excessive leanness and starveling development of their limbs;[121] the disproportionate size of their heads; the excessive, hopeless stupidity stamped upon their countenances; present an aspect so hideous and disgusting, that--contrasted with them--even the negro of Western Africa gains in our estimation, and seems to claim a less ignoble descent than they. We are still more tempted to adopt the conclusions of the advocates for the plurality of species, when, after having examined types taken from every quarter of the globe, we return to the inhabitants of Europe and Southern and Western Asia. How vast a superiority these exhibit in beauty, correctness of proportion, and regularity of features! It is they who enjoy the honor of having furnished the living models for the unrivalled masterpieces of ancient sculpture. But even among these races there has existed, since the remotest times, a gradation of beauty, at the head of which the European may justly be placed, as well for symmetry of limbs as for vigorous muscular development. Nothing, then, would appear more reasonable than to pronounce the different types of mankind as foreign to each other as are animals of different species. Such, indeed, was the conclusion arrived at by those who first systematized their observations, and attempted to establish a classification; and so far as this classification depended upon general facts, it seemed incontestable. _Camper_ took the lead. He was not content with deciding upon merely superficial appearances, but wished to rest his demonstrations upon a mathematical basis, by defining, anatomically, the distinguishing characteristics of different types. If he succeeded in this, he would thereby establish a strict and logical method of treating the subject, preclude all doubt, and give to his opinions that rigorous precision without which there is no true science. I borrow from Mr. Prichard,[122] Camper's own account of his method. "The basis on which the distinction of nations[123] is founded, says he, may be displayed by two straight lines; one of which is to be drawn through the _meatus auditorius_ (the external entrance of the ear) to the base of the nose; and the other touching the prominent centre of the forehead, and falling thence on the most prominent part of the upper jaw-bone, the head being viewed in profile. In the angle produced by these two lines, may be said to consist, not only the distinctions between the skulls of the several species of animals, but also those which are found to exist between different nations; and it might be concluded that nature has availed herself of this angle to mark out the diversities of the animal kingdom, and at the same time to establish a scale from the inferior tribes up to the most beautiful forms which are found in the human species. Thus it will be found that the heads of birds display the smallest angle, and that it always becomes of greater extent as the animal approaches more nearly to the human figure. Thus, there is one species of the ape tribe, in which the head has a facial angle of forty-two degrees; in another animal of the same family, which is one of those simiæ most approximating in figure to mankind, the facial angle contains exactly fifty degrees. Next to this is the head of an African negro, which, as well as that of the Kalmuc, forms an angle of seventy degrees; while the angle discovered in the heads of Europeans contains eighty degrees. On this difference of ten degrees in the facial angle, the superior beauty of the European depends; while that high character of sublime beauty, which is so striking in some works of ancient statuary, as in the head of Apollo, and in the Medusa of Sisocles, is given by an angle which amounts to one hundred degrees." This method was seductive from its exceeding simplicity. Unfortunately, facts were against it, as happens to a good many theories. The curious and interesting discoveries of Prof. Owen have proved beyond dispute, that Camper, as well as other anatomists since him, founded all their observations on orangs of immature age, and that, while the jaws become enlarged, and lengthened with the increase of the maxillary apparatus, and the zygomatic arch is extended, no corresponding increase of the brain takes place. The importance of this difference of age, with respect to the facial angle, is very great in the simiæ. Thus, while Camper, measuring the skull of young apes, has found the facial angle even as much as sixty-four degrees; in reality, it never exceeds, in the most favored specimen, from thirty to thirty-five. Between this figure and the seventy degrees of the negro and Kalmuc, there is too wide a gap to admit of the possibility of Camper's ascending series. The advocates of phrenological science eagerly espoused the theory of the Dutch _savant_. They imagined that they could detect a development of instincts corresponding to the rank which the animal occupied in his scale. But even here facts were against them. It was objected that the elephant--not to mention numerous other instances--whose intelligence is incontestably superior to that of the orang, presents a much more acute facial angle than the latter. Even among the ape tribes, the most intelligent, those most susceptible of education, are by no means the highest in Camper's scale. Besides these great defects, the theory possessed another very weak point. It did not apply to all the varieties of the human species. The races with pyramidal skulls found no place in it. Yet this is a sufficiently striking characteristic. Camper's theory being refuted, _Blumenbach_ proposed another system. He called his invention _norma verticalis_, the vertical method. According to him,[124] the comparison of the breadth of the head, particularly of the vertex, points out the principal and most strongly marked differences in the general configuration of the cranium. He adds that the whole cranium is susceptible of so many varieties in its form, the parts which contribute more or less to determine the national character displaying such different proportions and directions, that it is impossible to subject all these diversities to the measurement of any lines and angles. In comparing and arranging skulls according to the varieties in their shape, it is preferable to survey them in that method which presents at one view the greatest number of characteristic peculiarities. "The best way of obtaining this end is to place a series of skulls, with the cheek-bones on the same horizontal line, resting on the lower jaws, and then, viewing them from behind, and fixing the eye on the vertex of each, to mark all the varieties in the shape of parts that contribute most to the national character, whether they consist in the direction of the maxillary and malar bones, in the breadth or narrowness of the oval figure presented by the vertex, or in the flattened or vaulted form of the frontal bone." The results which Blumenbach deduced from this method, were a division of mankind into five grand categories, each of which was again subdivided into a variety of families and types. This classification, also, is liable to many objections. Like Camper's, it left out several important characteristics. _Owen_ supposed that these objections might be obviated by measuring the basis of the skull instead of the summit. "The relative proportions and extent," says Prichard, "and the peculiarities of formation of the different parts of the cranium, are more fully discovered by this mode of comparison, than by any other." One of the most important results of this method was the discovery of a line of demarcation between man and the anthropoid apes, so distinct, and clearly drawn, that it becomes thenceforward impossible to find between the two genera the connecting link which Camper supposed to exist. It is, indeed, sufficient to cast one glance at the bases of two skulls, one human, and the other that of an orang, to perceive essential and decisive differences. The antero-posterior diameter of the basis of the skull is, in the orang, very much longer than in man. The zygoma is situated in the middle region of the skull, instead of being included, as in all races of men, and even human idiots, in the anterior half of the basis cranii; and it occupies in the basis just one-third part of the entire length of its diameter. Moreover, the position of the great occipital foramen is very different in the two skulls; and this feature is very important, on account of its relations to the general character of structure, and its influence on the habits of the whole being. This foramen, in the human head, is very near the middle of the basis of the skull, or, rather, it is situated immediately behind the middle transverse diameter; while, in the adult chimpantsi, it is placed in the middle of the posterior third part of the basis cranii.[125] Owen certainly deserves great credit for his observations, but I should prefer the most recent, as well as ingenious, of cranioscopic systems, that of the learned American, Dr. Morton, which has been adopted by Mr. Carus.[126] The substance of this theory is, that individuals are superior in intellect in proportion as their skulls are larger.[127] Taking this as the general rule, Dr. Morton and Mr. Carus proceed thereby to demonstrate the difference of races. The question to be decided is, whether all types of the human race have the same craniological development. To elucidate this fact, Dr. Morton took a certain number of skulls, belonging to the four principal human families--Whites, Mongolians, Negroes, and North American Indians--and, after carefully closing every aperture, except the _foramen magnum_, he measured their capacity by filling them with well dried grains of pepper. The results of this measurement are exhibited in the subjoined table.[128] -------------------------+-----------+----------+----------+---------- | Number | | | | of skulls | Average | Maximum. | Minimum. | measured. | capacity.| | -------------------------|-----------|----------|----------|---------- White races | 52 | 87 | 109 | 75 Yellow races {Mongolians| 10 | 83 | 93 | 69 {Malays | 18 | 81 | 89 | 64 Copper-colored races | 147 | 82 | 100 | 60 Negroes | 29 | 78 | 94 | 65 -------------------------+-----------+----------+----------+---------- The results given in the first two columns are certainly very curious, but to those in the last two I attach little value. These two columns, giving the maximum and minimum capacities, differ so greatly from the second, which shows the average, that they could be of weight only if Mr. Morton had experimented upon a much greater number of skulls, and if he had specified the social position of the individuals to whom they belonged. Thus, for his specimens of the white and copper-colored races, he might select skulls that had belonged to individuals rather above the common herd.[129] But the Blacks and Mongolians were not represented by the skulls of their great chiefs and mandarins. This explains why Dr. Morton could ascribe the figure 100 to an aboriginal of America, while the most intelligent Mongolian that he examined did not exceed 93, and is surpassed even by the negro, who reaches 94. Such results are entirely incomplete, fortuitous, and of no scientific value. In questions of this kind, too much care cannot be taken to reject conclusions which are based upon the examination of individualities. I am, therefore, unable to accept the second half of Dr. Morton's calculations. I am also disposed to doubt one of the details in the other half. The figures 100, 83, and 78, respectively indicating the average capacity of the skull of the white, Mongolian, and negro, follow a clear and evident gradation. But the figures 83, 81, and 82, given for the Mongol, the Malay, and the red-skin, are conflicting; the more so, as Mr. Carus does not hesitate to comprise the Mongols and Malays into one and the same race, and thus unites the figures 83 and 81--by which he receives, as the average capacity of the yellow race, 82, or the same as that of the red-skins. Wherefore, then, take the figure 82 as the characteristic of a distinct race, and thus create, quite arbitrarily, a fourth great subdivision of our species. This anomaly supports the weak side of Mr. Carus's system. The learned Saxon amuses himself by supposing that, just as we see our planet pass through the four stages of day, night, morning twilight, and evening twilight, so there _must_ be four subdivisions of the human species, corresponding to these variations of light. He perceives in this a symbol,[130] which is always a dangerous temptation to a mind of refined susceptibilities. The white races are to him the nations of day; the black, those of night; the yellow, those of morning; the red, those of evening. It will be perceived how many ingenious analogies may be brought forward in support of this fanciful invention. Thus, the European nations, by the brilliancy of their scientific discoveries and their superior civilization, are in an enlightened state, while the blacks are plunged in the gloomy darkness of ignorance. The Eastern nations live in a sort of twilight, which affords them an incomplete, though powerful, social existence. And as for the Indians of the Western World, who are rapidly disappearing, what more beautiful image of their destiny can be found than the setting sun? Unfortunately, parables are no arguments, and Mr. Carus has somewhat injured his beautiful theory by unduly abandoning himself to this poetical current. Moreover, what I have said with regard to all other ethnological theories--those of Camper, Blumenbach, and Owen--holds good of this: Mr. Carus does not succeed in systematizing regularly the whole of the physiological diversities observable in races.[131] The advocates for unity of species have not failed to take advantage of this inability on the part of their opponents to find a system which will include the many varieties of the human family; and they pretend that, as the observations upon the conformation of the skull cannot be reduced to a system which demonstrates the original separation of types, the different varieties must be regarded as simple divergencies occasioned by adventitious and secondary causes, and which do not prove a difference of origin. This is crying victory too soon. The difficulty of finding a method does not always prove that none can be found. But the believers in the unity of species did not admit this reserve. To set off their theory, they point to the fact that certain tribes, belonging to the same race, instead of presenting the same physical type, diverge from it very considerably. They cite the different groups of the mixed Malay-Polynesian family; and, without paying attention to the proportion of the elements which compose the mixtures, they say that if groups of the same origin can assume such totally different craniological and facial forms, the greatest diversities of that kind do not prove the primary plurality of origins.[132] Strange as it may be to European eyes, the distinct types of the negro and the Mongolian are not then demonstrative of difference of species; and the differences among the human family must be ascribed simply to certain local causes operating during a greater or less lapse of time.[133] The advocates for the plurality of races, being met with so many objections, good as well as bad, have attempted to enlarge the circle of their arguments, and, ceasing to make the skull their only study, have proceeded to the examination of the entire individual. They have rightly shown that the differences do not exist merely in the aspect of the face and formation of the skull, but, what is no less important, they exist also in the shape of the pelvis, the relative proportion of the limbs, and the nature of the pilous system. Camper and other naturalists had long since perceived that the pelvis of the negro presented certain peculiarities. Dr. Vrolik extended his researches further, and observed that in the European race the differences between the male and female pelvis are much less distinctly marked, while the pelvis of the negro, of either sex, partakes in a very striking degree of the animal character. The Amsterdam _savant_, starting from the idea that the formation of the pelvis necessarily influences that of the foetus, concludes that there must be difference of origin.[134] Mr. Weber has attacked this theory with but little success. He was obliged to allow that certain formations of the pelvis occur more frequently in one race than in another; and all he could do, was to show that the rule is not without exceptions, and that some individuals of the American, African, or Mongol race presented the forms common among the European. This is not proving a great deal, especially as it never seems to have occurred to Mr. Weber that these exceptions might be owing to a mixture of blood. The adversaries of the unity doctrine pretend that the European is better proportioned. They are answered that the excessive leanness of the extremities among those nations which subsist principally on vegetable diet, or whose alimentation is imperfect, is not at all surprising; and this reply is certainly valid. But a much less conclusive reply is made to the argument drawn from the excessive development of bust among the mountaineers of Peru (Quichuas) by those who are unwilling to recognize it as a specific characteristic; for to pretend, as they do, that it can be explained by the elevation of the Andes, is not advancing a very serious reason.[135] There are in the world many mountain populations who are constituted very differently from the Quichuas.[136] The color of the skin is another argument for diversity of origin. But the opposite party refuse to accept this as a specific characteristic, for two reasons: first, because, they say, this coloration depends upon climatic circumstances, and is not permanent--which is, to say the least of it, a very bold assertion; secondly, because color is liable to indefinite gradations, by which white insensibly passes into yellow, yellow into black, so that it is impossible to find a line of demarcation sufficiently decided. This fact simply proves the existence of innumerable hybrids; an observation to which the advocates for unity are constantly inattentive. With regard to the specific differences in the formation of the pile, Mr. Flourens brings his great authority in favor of the original unity of race.[137] I have now passed rapidly in review the more or less inconsistent arguments of the advocates of unity; but their strongest one still remains. It is of great force, and I therefore reserved it for the last--the facility with which the different branches of the human family produce hybrids, and the fecundity of these hybrids themselves. The observations of naturalists seem to have well established the fact that half-breeds can spring only from nearly related species, and that even in that case they are condemned to sterility. It has been further observed that, even among closely allied species, where fecundation is possible, copulation is repugnant, and obtained, generally, either by force or ruse, which would lead us to suppose that, in a state of nature, the number of hybrids is even more limited than that obtained by the intervention of man. It has, therefore, been concluded that, among the number of specific characteristics, we must place the faculty of producing prolific offspring. As nothing authorizes us to believe that the human race are exempt from this law, so nothing has hitherto been able to shake the strength of this objection,[138] which, more than all the others, holds the advocates for plurality in check. It is, indeed, affirmed that, in certain portions of Oceanica, indigenous women, after having brought forth a half-breed European child, can no longer be fecundated by compatriots. If this assertion be admitted as correct, it might serve as a starting point for further investigations; but at present it could not be used to invalidate the admitted principles of science upon the generation of hybrids--against the deductions drawn from these it proves nothing. FOOTNOTES: [118] M. Flourens, _Eloge de Blumenbach, Mémoires de l'Académie des Sciences_. Paris, 1847, p. xiii. This _savant_ justly protests against such a method. [119] For the description of types in this and other portions of this chapter, I am indebted to M. WILLIAM LAWRENCE, _Lect. on the Nat. Hist. of Man_. London, 1844. But especially to the learned JAMES COWLES PRICHARD, _Nat. Hist. of Man_. London, 1848. [120] Prichard, _op. cit._, p. 129. [121] It is impossible to conceive an idea of the scarce human form of these creatures, without the aid of pictorial representations. In Prichard's _Natural History of Man_ will be found a plate (No. 23, p. 355) from M. d'Urville's atlas, which may assist the reader in gaining an idea of the utmost hideousness that the human form is capable of. I cannot but believe that the picture there given is considerably exaggerated, but with all due allowance in this respect, enough ugliness will be left to make us almost ashamed to recognize these beings as belonging to our kind.--H. [122] _Op. cit._, p. 111. [123] It will be observed that Prichard and Camper, and further on Blumenbach, here use the word _nation_ as synonymous to _race_. See my introduction, p. 65.--H. [124] Prichard, _op. cit._, p. 115. [125] _Op. cit._, p. 117. [126] Carus, _Ueber ungleiche Befähigung_, etc., p. 19. [127] _Op. cit._, p. 20. [128] As Mr. Gobineau has taken the facts presented by Dr. Morton at second hand, and, moreover, had not before him Dr. Morton's later tables and more matured deductions, Dr. Nott has given an abstract of the result arrived at by the learned craniologist, as published by himself in 1849. This abstract, and the valuable comments of Dr. Nott himself, will be found in the Appendix, under A.--H. [129] I fear that our author has here fallen into an error which his own facts disprove, and which is still everywhere received without examination, viz: that cultivation can change the form or size of the head, either of individuals or races; an opinion, in support of which, no facts whatever can be adduced. The heads of the barbarous races of Europe were precisely the same as those of civilized Europe in our day; this is proven by the disinterred crania of ancient races, and by other facts. Nor do we see around us among the uneducated, heads inferior in form and size to those of the more privileged classes. Does any one pretend that the nobility of England, which has been an educated class for centuries, have larger heads, or more intelligence than the ignoble? On the contrary, does not most of the talent of England spring up from plebeian ranks? Wherever civilization has been brought to a population of the white race, they have accepted it at once--their heads required no development. Where, on the contrary, it has been carried to Negroes, Mongols, and Indians, they have rejected it. Egyptians and Hindoos have small heads, but we know little of the early history of their civilization. Egyptian monuments prove that the early people and language of Egypt were strongly impregnated with Semitic elements. Latham has shown that the Sanscrit language was carried _from_ Europe to India, and probably civilization with it. I have looked in vain for twenty years for evidence to prove that cultivation could enlarge a _brain_, while it expands the mind. The head of a boy at twelve is as large as it ever is.--N. [130] Carus, _op. cit._, p. 12. [131] There are some very slight ones, which nevertheless are very characteristic. Among this number I would class a certain enlargement on each side of the lower lip, which is found among the English and Germans. I find this indication of Germanic origin in several paintings of the Flemish school, in the _Madonna_ of Rubens, in the museum of Dresden, in the _Satyrs_ and _Nymphs_ of the same collection, in a _Lute-player_ of Miéris, etc. No cranioscopic method whatever could embrace such details, which, however, are not without value in the great mixture of races which Europe presents. [132] Prichard, _op. cit._, p. 329. [133] Job Ludolf, whose facilities of observation must necessarily have been very defective when compared with those we enjoy at the present day, nevertheless combats in very forcible language, and with arguments--so far as concerns the negro--invincible, the opinion here adopted by Mr. Prichard. I cannot refrain from quoting him in this place, not for any novelty contained in his arguments, but to show their very antiquity: "De nigredine �thiopum hic agere nostri non est instituti, plerique ardoribus solis atquæ zonæ torridæ id tribuant. Verum etiam intra solis orbitam populi dantur, si non plane albi, saltem non prorsus nigri. Multi extra utrumque tropicum a media mundi linea longius absunt quam Persæ aut Syri, veluti pramontorii Bonæ Spei habitantes, et tamen iste sunt nigerrimi. Si Africæ tantum et Chami posteris id inspectari velis, Malabares et Ceilonii aliique remotiores Asiæ populi æque nigri excipiendi erunt. Quod si causam ad coeli solique naturam referas, non homines albi in illis regionibus renascentes non nigrescunt? Aut qui ad occultas qualitates confugiunt, melius fecerint si sese nescire fateantur."--JOBUS LUDOLFUS, _Commentarium ad Historiam �thiopicam_, fol. Norimb. p. 56. [134] Prichard, _op. cit._, p. 124. [135] Prichard, _op. cit._, p. 433. [136] Neither the Swiss, nor the Tyrolese, nor the Highlanders of Scotland, nor the Sclaves of the Balkan, nor the tribes of the Himaleh, nor any other mountaineers whatever, present the monstrous appearance of the Quichuas. [137] The distinguished microscopist, Dr. Peter A. Browne, of Philadelphia, has published the most elaborate observations on hair, of any author I have met with; and he asserts that the pile of the negro is _wool_, and not hair. He has gone so far as to distinguish the leading races of men by the direction, shape, and structure of the hair. The reader is referred to his works for much very curious, new, and valuable matter.--N. To those of our readers who may not have the inclination or opportunity of consulting Mr. Browne's work, the following concise and excellent synopsis of his views, which I borrow from Dr. Kneeland's _Introduction to Hamilton Smith's Natural History of Man_, may not be unacceptable: "There are, on microscopical examination, three prevailing forms of the transverse section of the filament, viz: the cylindrical, the oval, and the eccentrically elliptical. There are also three directions in which it pierces the epidermis. The straight and lank, the flowing or curled, and the crisped or frizzled, differ respectively as to the angle which the filament makes with the skin on leaving it. The cylindrical and oval pile has an oblique angle of inclination. The eccentrically elliptical pierces the epidermis at right angles, and lies perpendicularly in the dermis. The hair of the white man is oval; that of the Choctaw, and some other American Indians, is cylindrical; that of the negro is eccentrically elliptical or flat. The hair of the white man has, beside its cortex and intermediate fibres, a central canal, which contains the coloring matter when present. The pile of the negro has no central canal, and the coloring matter is diffused, when present, either throughout the cortex or the intermediate fibres. Hair, according to these observations, is more complex in its structure than wool. In hair, the enveloping scales are comparatively few, with smooth surfaces, rounded at their points, and closely embracing the shaft. In wool, they are numerous, rough, sharp-pointed, and project from the shaft. _Hence, the hair of the white man will not felt, that of the negro will._ In this respect, therefore, it comes near to true wool"--pp. 88, 89.--H. [138] A full answer to this objection will be found in our Appendix, under _B_.--N. CHAPTER XI. PERMANENCY OF TYPES. The language of Holy Writ in favor of common origin--The permanency of their characteristics separates the races of men as effectually as if they were distinct creations--Arabs, Jews--Prichard's argument about the influence of climate examined--Ethnological history of the Turks and Hungarians. The believers in unity of race affirm that types are different in appearance only; that, in fact, the differences existing among them are owing to local circumstances still in operation, or to an accidental peculiarity of conformation in the progenitor of a branch, and that, though they all, more or less, diverge from the original prototype, they all are capable of again returning to it. According to this, then, the negro, the North American savage, the Tungoose of North Siberia, might, under favorable circumstances, gain all the physical and mental attributes which now distinguish the European. Such a theory is inadmissible. We have shown above that the only solid scientific stronghold of the believers in unity of species is the prolificness of human hybrids. This fact, which seems at present so difficult to refute, may not always present the same difficulties, and would not, by itself, suffice to arrest my conclusions, were it not supported by another argument which, I confess, appears to me of greater moment: Scripture is said to declare against difference of origin. If the text is clear, peremptory, and indisputable, we must submit; the most serious doubts must disappear; human reason, in its imperfection, must bow to faith. Better to let the veil of obscurity cover a point of erudition, than to call in question so high and incontestable an authority. If the Bible declares that mankind are descended from the same common stock, all that goes to prove the contrary is mere semblance, unworthy of consideration. But is the Bible really explicit on this point? The sacred writings have a much higher purpose than the elucidation of ethnological problems; and if it be admitted that they may have been misunderstood in this particular, and that without straining the text, it may be interpreted otherwise, I return to my first impression. The Bible evidently speaks of Adam as the progenitor of the white race, because from him are descended generations which--it cannot be doubted--were white. But nothing proves that at the first redaction of the Adamite genealogies the colored races were considered as forming part of the species. There is not a word said about the yellow nations, and I hope to prove, in my second volume, that the pretended black color of the patriarch Ham rests upon no other basis than an arbitrary interpretation. At a later period, doubtless, translators and commentators, who affirmed that Adam was the father of all beings called men, were obliged to bring in as descendants of the sons of Noah all the different varieties with whom they were acquainted. In this manner, Japheth was considered the progenitor of the European nations, while the inhabitants of the greater portion of Asia were looked upon as the descendants of Shem; and those of Africa, of Ham. This arrangement answers admirably for one portion of the globe. But what becomes of the population of the rest of the world, who are not included in this classification? I will not, at present, particularly insist upon this idea. I dislike the mere appearance of impugning even simple interpretations if they have the sanction of the church, and wish merely to intimate that their authority might, perhaps, be questioned without transgressing the limits established by the church.[139] If this is not the case, and we must accept, in the main, the opinions of the believers in unity, I still do not despair that the facts may be explained in a manner different from theirs, and that the principal physical and moral differences among the branches of the human family may exist, with all their necessary consequences, independently of unity or plurality of origin. The specific identity of all canines is acknowledged,[140] but who would undertake the difficult task of proving that all these animals, to whatever variety they may belong, were possessed of the same shapes, instincts, habits, qualities? The same is the case with many other species, the equine, bovine, ursine, etc. Here we find perfect identity of origin, and yet diversity in every other respect, and a diversity so radical, that even intermixture can not produce a real identity of character in the several types. On the contrary, so long as each type remains pure, their distinctive features are permanent, and reproduced, without any sensible deviation, in each successive generation.[141] This incontestable fact has led to the inquiry whether in those species which, by domestication, have lost their original habits, and contracted others, the forms and instincts of the primitive stock were still discernible. I think this highly improbable, and can hardly believe that we shall ever be able to determine the shape and characteristics of the prototype of each species, and how much or how little it is approached by the deviations now before our eyes. A very great number of vegetables present the same problem, and with regard to man, whose origin it is most interesting and important for us to know, the inquiry seems to be attended with the greatest and most insurmountable difficulties. Each race is convinced that its progenitor had precisely the characteristics which now distinguish it. This is the only point upon which their traditions perfectly agree. The white races represent to themselves an Adam and Eve, whom Blumenbach would at once have pronounced Caucasians; the Mohammedan negroes, on the contrary, believe the first pair to have been black; these being created in God's own image, it follows that the Supreme Being, and also the angels, are of the same color, and the prophet himself was certainly too greatly favored by his Sender to display a pale skin to his disciples.[142] Unfortunately, modern science has as yet found no clue to this maze of opinions. No admissible theory has been advanced which affords the least light upon the subject, and, in all probability, the various types differ as much from their common progenitor--if they possess one--as they do among themselves. The causes of these deviations are exceedingly difficult to ascertain. The believers in the unity of origin pretend to find them, as I remarked before, in various local circumstances, such as climate, habits, &c. It is impossible to coincide with such an opinion, for, although these circumstances have always existed, they have not, within historical times, produced such alterations in the races which were exposed to their influence as to make it even probable that they were the causes of so vast and radical a dissimilarity as we now see before us. Suppose two tribes, not yet departed from the primitive type, to inhabit, one an alpine region in the interior of a continent, the other some isolated isle in the immensity of the ocean. Their atmospheric and alimentary conditions would, of course, be totally different. If we further suppose one of these tribes to be abundantly provided with nourishment, and the other possessing but precarious means of subsistence; one to inhabit a cold latitude, and the other to be exposed to the action of a tropical sun; it seems to me that we have accumulated the most essential local contrasts. Allowing these physical causes to operate a sufficient lapse of time, the two groups would, no doubt, ultimately assume certain peculiar characteristics, by which they might be distinguished from each other. But no imaginable length of time could bring about any essential, organic change of conformation; and as a proof of this assertion, I would point to the populations of opposite portions of the globe, living under physical conditions the most widely different, who, nevertheless, present a perfect resemblance of type. The Hottentots so strongly resemble the inhabitants of the Celestial Empire, that it has even been supposed, though without good reasons, that they were originally a Chinese colony. A great similarity exists between the ancient Etruscans, whose portraits have come down to us, and the Araucanians of South America. The features and outlines of the Cherokees seem to be perfectly identical with those of several Italian populations, the Calabrians, for instance. The inhabitants of Auvergne, especially the female portion, much more nearly resemble in physiognomy several Indian tribes of North America than any European nation. Thus we see that in very different climes, and under conditions of life so very dissimilar, nature can reproduce the same forms. The peculiar characteristics which now distinguish the different types cannot, therefore, be the effects of local circumstances such as now exist.[143] Though it is impossible to ascertain what physical changes different branches of the human family may have undergone anterior to the historic epoch, yet we have the best proofs that since then, no race has changed its peculiar characteristics. The historic epoch comprises about one half of the time during which our earth is supposed to have been inhabited, and there are several nations whom we can trace up to the verge of ante-historic ages; yet we find that the races then known have remained the same to our days, even though they ceased to inhabit the same localities, and consequently were no longer exposed to the influence of the same external conditions. Witness the Arabs. As they are represented on the monuments of Egypt, so we find them at present, not only in the arid deserts of their native land, but in the fertile regions and moist climate of Malabar, Coromandel, and the islands of the Indian Ocean. We find them again, though more mixed, on the northern coasts of Africa, and, although many centuries have elapsed since their invasion, traces of Arab blood are still discernible in some portions of Roussillon, Languedoc, and Spain. Next to the Arabs I would instance the Jews. They have emigrated to countries in every respect the most dissimilar to Palestine, and have not even preserved their ancient habits of life. Yet their type has always remained peculiar and the same in every latitude and under every physical condition. The warlike Rechabites in the deserts of Arabia present to us the same features as our own peaceable Jews. I had occasion not long since to examine a Polish Jew. The cut of his face, and especially his eyes, perfectly betrayed his origin. This inhabitant of a northern zone, whose direct ancestors for several generations had lived among the snows and ice of an inhospitable clime, seemed to have been tanned but the day before, by the ardent rays of a Syrian sun. The same Shemitic face which the Egyptian artist represented some four thousand or more years ago, we recognize daily around us; and its principal and really characteristic features are equally strikingly preserved under the most diverse climatic circumstances. But the resemblance is not confined to the face only, it extends to the conformation of the limbs and the nature of the temperament. German Jews are generally smaller and more slender in stature than the European nations among whom they have lived for centuries; and the age of puberty arrives earlier with them than with their compatriots of another race.[144] This is, I am aware, an assertion diametrically opposed to Mr. Prichard's opinions. This celebrated physiologist, in his zeal to prove the unity of species, attempts to prove that the age of puberty in both sexes is the same everywhere and among all races. His arguments are based upon the precepts of the Old Testament and the Koran, by which the marriageable age of women is fixed at fifteen, and even eighteen, according to Abou-Hanifah.[145] I hardly think that biblical testimony is admissible in matters of this kind, because the Scriptures often narrate facts which cannot be accounted for by the ordinary laws of nature. Thus, the pregnancy of Sarah at an extreme old age, and when Abraham himself was a centenarian, is an event upon which no ordinary course of reasoning could be based. As for the precepts of the Mohammedan law, I would observe that they were intended to insure not merely the physical aptitude for marriage, but also that degree of mental maturity and education which befit a woman about to enter on the duties of so serious a station. The prophet makes it a special injunction that the religious education of young women should be continued to the time of their marriage. Taking this view, the law-giver would naturally incline to delay the period of marriage as long as possible, in order to afford time for the development of the reasoning faculties, and he would therefore be less precipitate in his authorizations than nature in hers. But there are some other proofs which I would adduce against Mr. Prichard's grave arguments, which, though of less weighty character, are not the less conclusive, and will settle the question, I think, in my favor. Poets, in their tales of love, are mainly solicitous of exhibiting their heroines in the first bloom of beauty, without caring much about their moral and mental development. Accordingly, we find that oriental poets have always made their lovers much younger than the age prescribed by the Koran. Zelika and Leila are not, surely, fourteen years old. In India, this difference is still more striking. Sacontala, in Europe, would be quite a small girl, a mere child. The spring-time of life for a Hindoo female is from the age of nine to that of twelve. In the Chinese romance, _Yu-Kiao-li_, the heroine is sixteen; and her father is in great distress, and laments pathetically that at so advanced an age she should still be unmarried. The Roman writers, following in the footsteps of their Greek preceptors, took fifteen as the period of bloom of a woman's life; our own authors for a long time adhered to these models, but since the ideas of the North have begun to exert their influence upon our literature, the heroines of our novels are full-grown young ladies of eighteen, and very often more.[146] But arguments of a more serious character are by no means wanting. Besides what I said of the precocity of the Jews in Germany, I may point out the reverse as a peculiarity of the population of many portions of Switzerland. Among them the physical development is so slow, that the age of puberty is not always attained at twenty. The Zingaris, or gypsies, display the same physical precocity as their Hindoo ancestry, and, under the austere sky of Russia and Moldavia, they preserve, together with their ancient notions and habits, the general aspect of face and form of the Pariahs.[147] I do not, however, wish to attack Mr. Prichard upon all points. There is one of his conclusions which I readily adopt, viz.: "_that the difference of climate occasions very little, if any, important diversity as to the periods of life and the physical changes to which the human constitution is subject_."[148] This conclusion is very well founded, and I shall not seek to invalidate it; but it appears to me that it contradicts a little the principles so ably advocated by the learned physiologist and antiquary. The reader must have perceived that the discussion turns solely upon permanency of type. If it can be proved that the different branches of the human family are each possessed of a certain individuality which is independent of climate and the lapse of ages, and can be effaced only by intermixture, the question of origin is reduced to little importance; for, in that case, the different types are no less completely and irrevocably separated than if their specific differences arose from diversity of origin. That such is the case, we have already proved by the testimony of Egyptian sculptures with regard to the Arabs, and by our observations upon the Jews and gypsies. Should any further proofs be needed, we would mention that the paintings in the temples and subterraneous buildings of the Nile valley as indubitably attest the permanence of the negro type. There we see the same crisped hair, prognathous skull, and thick lips. The recent discovery of the bas-reliefs of Khorsabad[149] has removed beyond doubt the conclusions previously formed from the figured monuments of Persepolis, viz.: that the present Assyrian nations are physiologically identical with those who formerly inhabited the same regions. If similar investigations could be made upon a greater number of existing races, the results would be the same. We have established the fact of permanence of types in all cases where investigation is possible, and the burden of proof, therefore, falls upon the dissenting party. Their arguments, indeed, are in direct contradiction to the most obvious facts. Thus they allege, although the most ordinary observation shows the contrary, that climate _has_ produced alterations in the Jewish type, inasmuch as many light-haired, blue-eyed Jews are found in Germany. For this argument to be of any weight in their position, the advocates for unity of race must recognize climate to be the sole, or at least principal, cause of this phenomenon. But the adherents of that doctrine elsewhere assert that the color of the eyes, hair, and skin, no ways depends upon geographical situation or the action of heat and cold.[150] As an evidence of this, they justly cite the Cinghalese, who have blue eyes and light hair;[151] they even observe among them a very considerable difference of complexion, varying from a light brown to black. Again, they admit that the Samoiedes and Tungusians, though living on the borders of the Frozen Ocean,[152] have an exceedingly swarthy complexion. If, therefore, climate exerts no influence upon the complexion and color of hair and eyes, these marks must be considered as of no importance, or as pertaining to race. We know that red hair is not at all uncommon in the East, and at no time has been so; it cannot, therefore, create much surprise if we occasionally find it among the Jews of Germany. This fact cannot be adduced as evidence either in favor of, or against, the permanence of types. The advocates for unity are no less unfortunate in their historical arguments. They furnish but two; the Turks and the Magyars. The Asiatic origin of the former is supposed to be established beyond doubt, as well as of their intimate relationship with the Finnic branches of the Laplanders and Ostiacs. It follows from this that they must originally have displayed the yellow skin, projecting cheek bones, and low stature of the Mongolian races. This point being settled, we are told to look at the Turks of our day, who exhibit all the characteristics of the European type. Types, then, are not permanent, it is victoriously concluded, because the Turks have undergone such a transformation. "It is true," say the adherents of the unity school, "that some pretend there had been an admixture of Greek, Georgian, and Circassian blood. But this admixture can have taken place only to a very limited extent; all Turks are not rich enough to buy their wives in the Caucasus, or to have seraglios filled with white slaves; on the other hand, the hatred which the Greeks cherish for their conquerors, and the religious antipathies of both nations, were not favorable to alliances between them, and consequently we see them--though inhabiting the same country--as distinct at this day as at the time of the conquest."[153] These arguments are more specious than solid. In the first place, I am greatly disposed to doubt the Finnic origin of the Turkish race, because the only evidence that has hitherto been produced in favor of this supposition is affinity of language, and I shall hereafter give my reasons for believing this argument--when unsupported by any other--as extremely unreliable, and open to doubt. But even if we suppose the ancestors of the Turkish nation to belong to the yellow race, it is easy to show why their descendants have so widely departed from that type. Centuries elapsed from the time of the first appearance of the Turanian hordes to the day which saw them the masters of the city of Constantine, and during that period, multifarious events took place; the fortune of the Western Turks has been a checkered one. Alternately conquerors or conquered, masters or slaves, they have become incorporated with various nationalities. According to the annalists,[154] their Orghuse ancestors, who descended from the Altai Mountains, inhabited in Abraham's time the immense steppes of Upper Asia which extend from Katai to the sea of Aral, from Siberia to Thibet, and which, as has recently been proved--were then the abode of numerous Germanic tribes.[155] It is a singular circumstance, that the first mentioning by Oriental writers of the tribes of Turkestan is in celebrating them for their beauty of face and form.[156] The most extravagant hyperboles are lavished on them without reserve, and as these writers had before their eyes the handsomest types of the old world with which to compare them, it is not probable that they should have wasted their enthusiasm on creatures so ugly and repulsive as are generally the races of pure Mongolian blood. Thus, notwithstanding the dicta of philology, I think serious doubts might be raised on that point.[157] But I am willing to admit that the Turcomannic tribes were, indeed, as is supposed, of Finnic origin. Let us come down to a later period--the Mohammedan era. We then find these tribes under various denominations and in equally various situations, dispersed over Persia and Asia Minor. The Osmanli were not yet existing at that time, and their predecessors, the Seldjuks, were already greatly mixed with the races that had embraced Islamism. We see from the example of Ghaïased-din-Keikosrew, who lived in 1237, that the Seljuk princes were in the habit of frequently intermarrying with Arab women. They must have gone still further, for we find that Aseddin, the mother of one of the Seljuk dynasties, was a Christian. It is reasonable to suppose, that if the chiefs of the nation, who everywhere are the most anxious to preserve the purity of their genealogy, showed themselves so devoid of prejudice, their subjects were still less scrupulous on that point. Their constant inroads in which they ranged over vast districts, gave them ample opportunities for capturing slaves, and there is every reason to believe that already in the 13th century, the ancient Orghuse branch was strongly tinctured with Shemitic blood. To this branch belonged Osman, the son of Ortoghrul, and father of the Osmanli. But few families were collected around his tent. His army was, at first, little better than a band of adventurers, and the same expedient which swelled the ranks of the first builders of Rome, increased the number of adherents of this new Romulus of the Steppes. Every desperate adventurer or fugitive, of whatever nation, was welcome among them, and assured of protection. I shall suppose that the downfall of the Seljuk empire brought to their standards a great number of their own race. But we have already said that this race was very much mixed; and besides, this addition was insufficient, as is proved by the fact that, from that time, the Turks began to capture slaves for the avowed purpose of repairing, by this means, the waste which constant warfare made in their own ranks. In the beginning of the 14th century, the sultan Orkhan, following the advice of his vizier, Khalil Tjendereli, surnamed the Black, instituted the famous military body called Janissaries.[158] They were composed entirely of Christian children captured in Poland, Germany, Italy, or the Bizantine Empire, who were educated in the Mohammedan religion and the practice of arms. Under Mohammed IV., their number had increased to 140,000 men. Here, then, we find an influx of at least half a million male individuals of European blood in the course of four centuries. But the infusion of European blood was not limited to this. The piracy which was carried on, on so large a scale, in the whole basin of the Mediterranean, had for one of its principal objects the replenishment of the harems. Every victory gained increased the number of believers in the Prophet. A great number of the prisoners of war abjured Christianity, and were henceforth counted among the true believers. The localities adjacent to the field of battle supplied as many females as the marauding victors could lay hold of. In some cases, this sort of booty was so plentiful that it became inconvenient to dispose of. Hammer relates[159] that, on one occasion, the handsomest female captive was bartered for _one boot_. When we consider that the Turkish population of the whole Ottoman empire never exceeded twelve millions, it becomes apparent that the history of so amalgamated a nation affords no arguments, either for or against, the permanency of type. We will now proceed to the second historic argument advanced by the believers in unity. "The Magyars," they say, "are of Finnic origin, nearly related to the Laplanders, Samoiedes, and Esquimaux, all of which are people of low stature, with big faces, projecting cheek-bones, and yellowish or dirty brown complexion. Yet the Magyars are tall, well formed, and have handsome features. The Finns have always been feeble, unintelligent, and oppressed; the Magyars, on the contrary, occupy a distinguished rank among the conquerors of the earth, and are noted for their love of liberty and independence. As they are so immensely superior, both physically and morally, to all the collateral branches of the Finnic stock, it follows that they have undergone an enormous transformation."[160] If such a transformation had ever taken place, it would, indeed, be astonishing and inexplicable even to those who ascribe the least stability to types, for it must have occurred within the last 800 years, during which we know that the compatriots of St. Stephen[161] mixed but little with surrounding nations. But the whole course of reasoning is based upon false premises, for the Hungarians are most assuredly not of Finnic origin. Mr. A. De Gérando[162] has placed this fact beyond doubt. He has proved, by the authority of Greek and Arab historians, as well as Hungarian annalists and by indisputable philological arguments, that the Magyars are a fragment of that great inundation of nations which swept over Europe under the denomination of Huns. It will be objected that this is merely giving the Hungarians another parentage, but which connects them no less intimately with the yellow race. Such is not the case. The designation of Huns applies not only to a nation, but is also a collective appellation of a very heterogeneous mass. Among the tribes which rallied around the standards of Attila and his ancestors, there were some which have at all times been distinguished from the rest by the term _white Huns_. Among them the Germanic blood predominated.[163] It is true, that the close contact with the yellow race somewhat adulterated the breed; but this very fact is singularly exhibited in the somewhat angular and bony facial conformation of the Hungarians. I conclude, therefore, that the Magyars were _white Huns_, and of Germanic origin, though slightly mixed with the Mongolian stock. The philological difficulty of their speaking a non-Germanic dialect is not insurmountable. I have already alluded to the Mongolian Scyths who yet spoke an Arian tongue;[164] I might, moreover, cite the Norman settlers in France who, not many years after their conquest, exchanged their Scandinavian dialect, in a great measure, for the Celto-Latin of their subjects,[165] whence sprang that singular compound called Norman-French, which the followers of William the Conqueror imported into England, and which now forms an element of the English language. There is, therefore, no reason to suppose that the agency of climate and change of habits have transformed a Laplander, or an Ostiak, or a Tunguse, or a Permian, into a St. Stephen or a Kossuth. Having thus, I think, refuted the only two historical instances which the believers in unity of species adduce, of a pretended alteration of type by local circumstances and change of habits, and having, moreover, instanced several cases where these causes could produce no alteration; the fact of permanency of type seems to me to be incontestably established.[166] Thus, whichever side we take, whether we believe in original unity, or original diversity, is immaterial; the several groups of the human species are, at present, so perfectly separated from each other, that no exterior influence can efface their distinctive peculiarities. The permanency of these differences, so long as there is no intermixture, produces precisely the same physical and moral results as if the groups were so many distinct and separate creations. In conclusion, I shall repeat what I have said above, that I have very serious doubts as to the unity of origin. These doubts, however, I am compelled to repress, because they are in contradiction to a scientific fact which I cannot refute--the prolificness of half-breeds; and secondly, what is of much greater weight with me, they impugn a religious interpretation sanctioned by the church. FOOTNOTES: [139] For the arguments which may be deduced from the language of Holy Writ, in favor of plurality of origins, see Appendix _C_.--H. [140] Among others, FR�D�RIC CUVIER, _Annales du Muséum_, vol. xi. p. 458. [141] The reader will be struck by the remarkable illustration of the truth of this remark, which the equine species affords. The vast difference between the swift courser, who excites the enthusiasm of admiring multitudes, and the common hack, need not be pointed out, and it is as well known that either, if the breed be preserved unmixed, will perpetuate their distinctive qualities to a countless progeny.--H. [142] A free mulatto, who had received a very good education in France, once seriously undertook to prove to me that the Saviour's earthly form partook, at the same time, of the characteristics of the white and the black races; in other words, was that of a half-breed. The arguments by which he supported this singular hypothesis were drawn from theology, as well as Scriptural ethnology, and were remarkably plausible and ingenious. I am convinced that if the real opinion of colored Christians on this subject could be collected, a vast majority would be found to agree with my informant.--H. [143] Our author here gives evidence of a want of critical study of races--the resemblances he has traced do not exist. There is no type in Africa south of the equator, or among the aborigines of America, that bears any resemblance to any race in Europe or Asia.--N. [144] Müller, _Handbuch der Physiologie des Menschen_, vol. ii. p. 639. [145] Prichard, _op. cit._, pp. 484, 485. [146] An exception, however, must be made in the case of Shakspeare, while painting on an Italian canvas. In _Romeo and Juliet_, Capulet says:-- "My child is yet a stranger in the world, She hath not seen the change of fourteen years; Let two more summers wither in their pride, Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride." To which Paris answers:-- "Younger than she are happy mothers made." [147] According to M. Krapff, a Protestant minister in Eastern Africa, among the Wanikos both sexes marry at the age of twelve. (_Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft_, vol. iii. p. 317.) In Paraguay, the Jesuits had established the custom, which subsists to this day, of marrying their neophytes, the girls at the age of ten, the boys at that of thirteen. It is not rare to find, in that country, widowers and widows eleven and twelve years old. (A. D'ORBIGNY, _L'Homme Américain_, vol. i. p. 40.) In Southern Brazil, females marry at the age of ten and eleven. Menstruation there begins also at a very early age, and ceases equally early. (MARTIUS and SPIX, _Reise in Brasilien_, vol. i. p. 382.) I might increase the number of similar quotations indefinitely. [148] Prichard, _op. cit._, p. 486. [149] Botta, _Monumens de Ninive_. Paris, 1850. [150] _Edinburgh Review_, "Ethnology, or the Science of Races," Oct. 1844, p. 144, _et passim_. "There is probably no evidence of original diversity of race which is so generally and unhesitatingly relied upon as that derived from the _color of the skin_ and the _character of the hair_; ... but it will not, we think, stand the test of serious examination.... Among the Kabyles of Algiers and Tunis, the Tuarites of Sahara, the Shelahs or mountaineers of Southern Morocco, and other people of the same race, there are very considerable differences of complexion." (p. 448.) [151] _Ibid._, _loc. cit._, p. 453. "The Cinghalese are described by Dr. Davy as varying in color from light brown to black, the prevalent hue of their hair and eyes is black, but hazel eyes and brown hair are not very uncommon; gray eyes and red hair are occasionally seen, though rarely, and sometimes the light-blue or red eye and flaxen hair of the albino." [152] _Ibid._, _loc. cit._ "The Samoiedes, Tungusians, and others living on the borders of the Icy Sea, have a dirty-brown or swarthy complexion." [153] Edinburgh Review, p. 439. [154] Hammer, _Geschichte des Osmanischen Reiches_, vol. i. p. 2. (_History of the Ottoman Empire._) [155] Ritter, _Erdkunde Asien_, vol. i. p. 433, et passim, p. 1115, etc. Lassen, _Zeitschrift für die Kunde des Morgenlandes_, vol. ii. p. 65. Benfey, _Encyclopædie_, by Ersch and Gruber, _Indien_, p. 12. Alexander Von Humboldt, speaking of this fact, styles it one of the most important discoveries of our times. (_Asie Centrale_, vol. ii. p. 649.) With regard to its bearings upon historical science, nothing can be more true. [156] Nouschirwan, whose reign falls in the first half of the sixth century of our era, married Scharouz, the daughter of the Khakan of the Turks. She was the most beautiful woman of her time. (Haneberg, _Zeitschr. f. d. K. des Morgenl._, vol. i. p. 187.) This is by no means an isolated instance; Schahnameh furnishes a number of similar ones. [157] The Scythes, though having adopted a language of the Arian classes, were, nevertheless, a Mongolian nation; there would, therefore, be nothing very surprising if the Orghuses had been an Arian nation, though speaking a Finnic dialect. This hypothesis is singularly corroborated by a passage in the relations of the traveller Rubruquis, who was sent by St. Louis as ambassador to the sovereign of the Mongols. "I was struck," says the worthy monk, "with the prince's resemblance to the deceased _M. John de Beaumont_, whose complexion was equally fresh and colored." Alexander Von Humboldt, justly interested by this remark, adds: "This physiognomical observation acquires importance, when we recollect that the monarch here spoken of belonged to the family of Tchinguiz, who were really of Turkish, not of Mogul origin." And pursuing this trace, the great _savant_ finds another corroborating fact: "The absence of Mongolian features," says he, "strikes us also in the portraits which we possess of the Baburides, the conquerors of India." (_Asie Centrale_, vol. i. p. 248, and note.) [158] It will be seen that Mr. Gobineau differs, in the date he gives of the institution of the Janissaries, from all other European writers, who unanimously ascribe the establishment of this corps to Mourad I., the third prince of the line of Othman. This error, into which Gibbon himself has fallen, originated with Cantemir: but the concurrent testimony of every Turkish historian fixes the epoch of their formation and consecration by the Dervish Hadji-Becktash, to the reign of Orkhan, the father of Mourad, who, in 1328, enrolled a body of Christian youths as soldiers under this name (which signifies, "new regulars"), by the advice of his cousin Tchenderli, to whose councils the wise and simple regulations of the infant empire are chiefly attributed. Their number was at first only a thousand; but it was greatly augmented when Mourad, in 1361, appropriated to this service, by an edict, the _imperial fifth_ of the European captives taken in the war--a measure which has been generally confounded with the first enrolment of the corps. At the accession of Soliman the Magnificent, their effective strength had reached 40,000; and under Mohammed IV., in the middle of the seventeenth century, that number was more than doubled. But though the original composition of the Janissaries is related by every writer who has treated of them, it has not been so generally noticed that for more than two centuries and a half not a single native Turk was admitted into their ranks, which were recruited, like those of the Mamelukes, solely by the continual supply of Christian slaves, at first captives of tender age taken in war, and afterwards, when this source proved inadequate to the increased demand, by an annual levy among the children of the lower orders of Christians throughout the empire--a dreadful tax, frequently alluded to by Busbequius, and which did not finally cease till the reign of Mohammed IV. At a later period, when the Krim Tartars became vassals of the Porte, the yearly inroads of the fierce cavalry of that nation into the southern provinces of Russia, were principally instrumental in replenishing this nursery of soldiers; and Fletcher, who was ambassador from Queen Elizabeth to Ivan the Terrible, describes, in his quaint language, the method pursued in these depredations: "The chief bootie the Tartars seeke for in all their warres, is to get store of captives, specially young boyes and girles, whom they sell to the Turkes, or other, their neighbours. To this purpose, they take with them great baskets, made like bakers' panniers, _to carrie them tenderly_; and if any of them happens to tyre, or bee sicke on the way, they dash him against the ground, or some tree, and so leave him dead." (_Purchas's Pilgrims_, vol. iii. p. 441.) The boys, thus procured from various quarters, were assembled at Constantinople, where, after a general inspection, those whose personal advantages or indications of superior talent distinguished them from the crowd, were set aside as pages of the seraglio or Mamelukes in the households of the pashas and other officers, whence in due time they were promoted to military commands or other appointments: but the remaining multitude were given severally in charge to peasants or artisans of Turkish race, principally in Anatolia, by whom they were trained up, till they approached the age of manhood, in the tenets of the Moslem faith, and inured to all the privations and toils of a hardy and laborious life. After this severe probation, they were again transferred to the capital, and enrolled in the different _odas_ or regiments; and here their military education commenced.--H. [159] _Erdkunde, Asien_, vol. i. p. 448. [160] _Ethnology_, etc., p. 439: "The Hungarian nobility ... is proved by historical and philological evidence to have been a branch of the great Northern Asiatic stock, closely allied in blood to the stupid and feeble Ostiaks, and the untamable Laplander." [161] St. Stephen reigned about the year 1000, nearly one century and a half after the first invasion of the Magyars, under their leaders, Arpad and Zulta. He introduced Christianity among his people, on which account he was canonized, and is now the tutelary saint of his nation. It may not be known to the generality of our readers, that the Magyars, though they have now resided nearly one thousand years in Hungary, have, with few exceptions, never applied themselves to the tillage of the soil. Agriculture, to this day, remains almost exclusively in the hands of the original (the Slowack or Sclavonian) population. The Magyar's wealth consists in his herds, or, if he owns land, it is the Slowacks that cultivate it for him. It is a singular phenomenon that these two races, though professing the same religion, have remained almost entirely unmixed, and each still preserves its own language.--H. [162] _Essai Historique sur l'Origine des Hongrois._ Paris, 1844. [163] It appears that we shall be compelled henceforward to considerably modify our usually received opinions with regard to the nations of Central Asia. It cannot now be any longer doubted that many of these populations contain a very considerable admixture of white blood, a fact of which our predecessors in the study of history had not the slightest apprehension. Alexander Von Humboldt makes a very important remark upon this subject, in speaking of the Kirghis-Kazakes, mentioned by Menander of Byzant, and Constantine Porphyrogenetus; and he shows conclusively that the Kirghis (~cherchis~) concubine spoken of by the former writer as a present of the Turkish chief Dithubùl to Zemarch, the ambassador of Justinian II., in A. D. 569, was a girl of mixed blood--partly white. She is the precise counterpart of those beautiful Turkish girls, whose charms are so much extolled by Persian writers, and who did not belong, any more than she, to the Mongolian race. (Vide _Asie Centrale_, vol. i. p. 237, _et passim_, and vol. ii. pp. 130, 131.) [164] Schaffarick, _Slawische Alterthümer_, vol. i. p. 279, _et passim_. [165] Aug. Thierry, _Histoire de la Conquite de l'Angleterre_. Paris, 1846, vol. i. p. 155. [166] In my introductory note to Chapters VIII. and IX. (see p. 244), I have mentioned a remarkable instance of the permanency of characteristics, even in branches of the same race. An equally, if not more striking illustration of this fact is given by Alex. Von Humboldt. It is well known that Spain contains a population composed of very dissimilar ethnical elements, and that the inhabitants of its various provinces differ essentially, not only in physical appearance, but still more in mental characteristics. As in all newly-settled countries, immigrants from the same locality are apt to select the same spot, the extensive Spanish possessions on this continent were colonized, each respectively, by some particular province in the mother country. Thus the Biscayans settled Mexico; the Andalusians and natives of the Canary Islands, Venezuela; the Catalonians, Buenos Ayres; the Castillians, Peru, etc. Although centuries have elapsed since these original settlements, and although the character of the Spanish Americans must have been variously modified by the physical nature of their new homes, whether situated in the vicinity of coasts, or of mining districts, or in isolated table-lands, or in fertile valleys; notwithstanding all this, the great traveller and experienced observer still clearly recognizes in the character of the various populations of South America, the distinctive peculiarities of the original settlers. Says he: "The Andalusians and Canarians of Venezuela, the Mountaineers and the Biscayans of Mexico, the Catalonians of Buenos Ayres, evince considerable differences in their aptitude for agriculture, for the mechanical arts, for commerce, and for all objects connected with intellectual development. _Each of these races has preserved, in the new, as in the old world, the shades that constitute its national physiognomy_; its asperity or mildness of character; its freedom from sordid feelings, or its excessive love of gain; its social hospitality, or its taste of solitude.... In the inhabitants of Caracas, Santa Fé, Quito, and Buenos Ayres, we still recognize the features that belong to the race of the first settlers."--_Personal Narrative_, Eng. Trans., vol. i. p. 395.--H. CHAPTER XII. CLASSIFICATION OF RACES. Primary varieties--Test for recognizing them; not always reliable--Effects of intermixture--Secondary varieties--Tertiary varieties--Amalgamation of races in large cities--Relative scale of beauty in various branches of the human family--Their inequality in muscular strength and powers of endurance. [In supervising the publication of this work, I have thought proper to omit, in this place, a portion of the translation, because containing ideas and suggestions which--though they might be novel to a French public--have often been laid before English readers, and as often proven untenable. This omission, however, embraces no essential feature of the book, no link of the chain of argumentation. It extends no further than a digressional attempt of the author to account for the diversities observable in the various branches of the human family, by imagining the existence of cosmogonal causes, long since effete, but operating for a time soon after the creation of man, when the globe was still in a nascent and chaotic state. It must be obvious that all such speculations can never bridge over the wide abyss which separates _hypotheses_ from _facts_. They afford a boundless field for play to a fertile imagination, but will never stand the test of criticism. Even if we were to suppose that such causes had effected diversities in the human family in primeval times, the types thus produced must all have perished in the flood, save that to which Noah and his family belonged. If these writers, however, should be disposed to deny the universality of the deluge, they would evidently do greater violence to the language of Holy Writ, than by at once supposing a plurality of origins for mankind. The legitimate field of human science is the investigation of the laws _now_ governing the material world. Beyond this it may not go. Whatever is recognized as not coming within the scope of action of these laws, belongs not to its province. We have proved, and I think it is generally admitted, that the actual varieties of the human family are _permanent_; that there are no causes _now in operation_, which can transform them. The investigation of those causes, therefore, cannot properly be said to belong to the province of human science. In regard to their various systems of classification, naturalists may be permitted to dispute about unity or plurality of species, because the use of the word species is more or less arbitrary; it is an expedient to secure a convenient arrangement. But none, I hope, presume ever to be able to fathom the mysteries of Creative Power--to challenge the fiat of the Almighty, and inquire into his _means_.--H.] In the investigation of the moral and intellectual diversities of races, there is no difficulty so great as an accurate classification. I am disposed to think a separation into three great groups sufficient for all practical purposes. These groups I shall call primary varieties, not in the sense of distinct creations, but as offering obvious and well-defined distinguishing characteristics. I would designate them respectively by the terms white, yellow, and black. I am aware of the inaccuracy of these appellations, because the complexion is not always the distinctive feature of these groups: other and more important physiological traits must be taken into consideration. But as I have not the right to invent new names, and am, therefore, compelled to select among those already in use, I have chosen these because, though by no means correct, they seemed preferable to others borrowed from geography or history, and not so apt as the latter to add to the confusion which already sufficiently perplexes the investigator of this subject. To obviate any misconception here and hereafter, I wish it to be distinctly understood that by "white" races I mean those usually comprised under the name of Caucasian, Shemitic, Japhetic; by "black," the Hamitic, African, etc.; by "yellow," the Altaic, Mongolian, Finnic, and Tartar. These I consider to be the three categories under which all races of the human family can be placed. I shall hereafter explain my reasons for not recognizing the American Indians as a separate variety, and for classing them among the yellow races.[167] It is obvious that each of these groups comprises races very dissimilar among themselves, each of which, besides the general characteristics belonging to the whole group, possesses others peculiar to itself. Thus, in the group of black races we find marked distinctions: the tribes with prognathous skull and woolly hair, the low-caste Hindoos of Kamaoun and of Dekhan, the Pelagian negroes of Polynesia, etc. In the yellow group, the Tungusians, Mongols, Chinese, etc. There is every reason to believe that these sub-varieties are coeval; that is, the same causes which produced one, produced at the same time all the others. It is, moreover, extremely difficult to determine the typical character of each variety. In the white, and also in the yellow group, the mixture of the sub-varieties is so great, that it is impossible to fix upon the type. In the black group, the type is perhaps discernible; at least, it is preserved in its greatest purity. To ascertain the relative purity or mixture of a race, a criterion has been adopted by many, who consider it infallible: this is resemblance of face, form, constitution, etc. It is supposed that the purer a race has preserved itself, the greater must be the exterior resemblances of all the individuals composing it. On the contrary, considerable and varied intermixtures would produce an infinite diversity of appearance among individuals. This fact is incontestable, and of great value in ethnological science, but I do not think it quite so reliable as some suppose. Intermixture of races does, indeed, produce at first individual dissemblances, for few individuals belong in precisely the same degree to either of the races composing the mixture. But suppose that, in course of time, the fusion has become complete--that every individual member of the mixed race had precisely the same proportion of mixed blood as every other--he could not then differ greatly from his neighbor. The whole mass, in that case, must present the same general homogeneity as a pure race. The perfect amalgamation of two races of the same group would, therefore, produce a new type, presenting a fictitious appearance of purity, and reproducing itself in succeeding generations. I imagine it possible, therefore, that a "secondary" type may in time assume all the characteristics of a "primary" one, viz: resemblance of the individuals composing it. The lapse of time to produce this complete fusion would necessarily be commensurate to the original diversity of the constituent elements. Where two races belonging to different groups combine, such a complete fusion would probably never be possible. I can illustrate this by reference to individuals. Parents of widely different nations generally have children but little resembling each other--some apparently partaking more of the father's type, some more of the mother's. But if the parents are both of the same, or at least of homogeneous stocks, their offspring exhibits little or no variety; and though the children might resemble neither of the parents, they would be apt to resemble one another. To distinguish the varieties produced by a fusion of proximate races from those which are the effect of intermixture between races belonging to different groups, I shall call the latter _tertiary_ varieties. Thus the woolly-headed negro and the Pelagian are both "primary" varieties belonging to the same group; their offspring I would call a "secondary" variety; but the hymen of either of them with a race belonging to the white or yellow groups, would produce a "tertiary" variety. To this last, then, belong the mulatto, or cross between white and black, and the Polynesian, who is a cross between the black and the yellow.[168] Half-breeds of this kind display, in various proportions and degrees, the special characteristics of both the ancestral races. But a complete fusion, as in the case of branches of the same group, probably never results from the union of two widely dissimilar races, or, at least, would require an incommensurable lapse of time. If a tertiary type is again modified by intermixture with another, as is the case in a cross between a mulatto and a Mongolian, or between a Polynesian and a European, the ethnical mixture is too great to permit us, in the present state of the science, to arrive at any general conclusions. It appears that every additional intermixture increases the difficulty of complete fusion. In a population composed of a great number of dissimilar ethnical elements, it would require countless ages for a thorough amalgamation; that is to say, so complete a mixture that each individual would have precisely the kind and relative proportion of mixed blood as every other. It follows, therefore, that, in a population so constituted, there is an infinite diversity of form and features among individuals, some pertaining more to one type than another. In other words, there being no equilibrium between the various types, they crop out here and there without any apparent reason. We find this spectacle among the great civilized nations of Europe, especially in their capitals and seaports. In these great vortexes of humanity, every possible variety of our species has been absorbed. Negro, Chinese, Tartar, Hottentot, Indian, Malay, and all the minor varieties produced by their mixture, have contributed their contingent to the population of our large cities. Since the Roman domination, this amalgamation has continually increased, and is still increasing in proportion as our inventions bring in closer proximity the various portions of the globe. It affects all classes to some extent, but more especially the lowest. Among them you may see every type of the human family more or less represented. In London, Paris, Cadiz, Constantinople, in any of the greater marts and thoroughfares of the world, the lower strata of the _native_ population exhibit every possible variety, from the prognathous skull to the pyramidal: you shall find one man with hair as crisp as a negro's; another, with the eyes of an ancient German, or the oblique ones of a Chinese; a third, with a thoroughly Shemitic countenance; yet all three may be close relations, and would be greatly surprised were they told that any but the purest white blood flows in their veins. In these vast gathering places of humanity, if you could take the first comer--a native of the place--and ascend his genealogical tree to any height, you would probably be amazed at the strange ancestry at the top. It may now be asked whether, for all the various races of which I have spoken, there is but one standard of beauty, or whether each has one of its own. Helvetius, in his _De l'Esprit_, maintains that the idea of beauty is purely conventional and variable. This assertion found many advocates in its time, but it is at present superseded by the more philosophical theory that the conception of the beautiful is an absolute and invariable idea, and can never have a merely optional application. Believing the latter view to be correct, I do not hesitate to compare the various races of man in point of beauty, and to establish a regular scale of gradation. Thus, if we compare the various races, from the ungainly appearance of the Pelagian or Pecherai up to the noble proportions of a Charlemagne, the expressive regularity of features of a Napoleon, or the majestic countenance of a Louis XIV., we shall find in the lowest on the scale a sort of rudimentary development of the beauty which attracts us in the highest; and in proportion to the perfectness of that development, the races rise in the scale of beauty.[169] Taking the white race as the standard of beauty, we perceive all the others more or less receding from that model. There is, then, an inequality in point of beauty among the various races of men, and this inequality is permanent and indelible.[170] The next question to be decided is, whether there is also an inequality in point of physical strength. It cannot be denied that the American Indians and the Hindoos are greatly inferior to us in this respect. Of the Australians, the same may safely be asserted. Even the negroes possess less muscular vigor.[171] It is necessary, however, to distinguish between purely muscular force--that which exerts itself suddenly at a given moment--and the force of resistance or capacity for endurance. The degree of the former is measured by its intensity, that of the other by its duration. Of the two, the latter is the typical--the standard by which to judge of the capabilities of races. Great muscular strength is found among races notoriously weak. Among the lowest of the negro tribes, for instance, it would not be difficult to find individuals that could match an experienced European wrestler or English boxer. This is equally true of the Lascars and Malays. But we must take the masses, and judge according to the amount of long-continued, persevering toil and fatigue they are capable of. In this respect, the white races are undoubtedly entitled to pre-eminence. But there are differences, again, among the white races, both in beauty and in strength, which even the extensive ethnical mixture, that European nations present, has not entirely obliterated. The Italians are handsomer than the French and the Spaniards, and still more so than the Swiss and Germans. The English also present a high degree of corporeal beauty; the Sclavonian nations a comparatively humble one. In muscular power, the English rank far above all other European nations; but the French and Spaniards are greatly superior in power of endurance: they suffer less from fatigue, from privations, and the rigors and changes of climate. This question has been settled beyond dispute by the fatal campaign in Russia. While the Germans, and other troops from the North, who yet were accustomed to severe cold, were almost totally annihilated, the French regiments, though paying fearfully dear for their retreat, nevertheless saved the greatest number of men. Some have attempted to explain this by a supposed superiority on the part of the French in martial education and military spirit. But the German officers had certainly as high a conception of a soldier's duty, as elevated a sentiment of honor, as our soldiers; yet they perished in incredibly greater numbers. I think it can hardly be disputed that the masses of the population of France possess a superiority in certain physical qualities, which enables them to defy with greater impunity than most other nations the freezing snows of Russia and the burning sands of Egypt. FOOTNOTES: [167] I have already alluded to the classification adopted by Mr. Latham, the great ethnographer, which, though different in the designations, is precisely similar to that of Mr. Gobineau. Hamilton Smith also comes to the conclusion that, "as there are only three varieties who attain the typical standard, we have in them the foundation of that number being exclusively aboriginal." He therefore divides the races of men into three classes, which he calls "typical forms," and which nearly correspond to Mr. Gobineau's and Mr. Latham's "primary varieties." But, notwithstanding this weight of authorities against me, I cannot entirely agree as to the correctness of this classification. Fewer objections seem to me to lie against that proposed by Van Amringe, which I recommend to the consideration of the reader, and, though perhaps out of place in a mere foot-note, subjoin at full length. It must be remembered that the author of this system, though he uses the word species to distinguish the various groups, is one of the advocates for _unity of origin_. (The words _Japhetic_ and _Shemitic_ are also employed in a sense somewhat different from that which common usage has assigned them.) THE SHEMITIC SPECIES. _Psychical or Spiritual Character_, viz:-- All the Physical Attributes developed harmoniously.--Warlike, but not cruel, or destructive. _Temperament._--Strenuous. _Physical Character_, viz:-- A high degree of sensibility; fair complexion; copious, soft, flowing hair, often curled, or waving; ample beard; small, oval, perpendicular face, with features very distinct; expanded forehead; large and elevated cranium; narrow elevated nose, distinct from the other features; small mouth, and thin lips; chin, round, full, and somewhat prominent, generally equal with the lips. VARIETIES. The Israelites, Greeks, Romans, Teutones, Sclavons, Celts, &c., and many sub-varieties. THE JAPHETIC SPECIES. _Psychical or Spiritual Character_, viz: Attributes unequally developed. Moderately mental--originative, inventive, but not speculative. Not warlike, but destructive. _Temperament._--Passive. _Physical Character_, viz:-- Medium sensibility; olive yellow complexion; hair thin, coarse, and black; little or no beard; broad, flattened, and triangular face; high, pyramidal, and square-shaped skull; forehead small and low; wide and small nose, particularly broad at the root; linear and highly arched eyebrows; very oblique eyes, broad, irregular, and half-closed, the upper eyelid extending a little beyond the lower; thick lips. VARIETIES. The Chinese, Mongolians, Japanese, Chin Indians, &c., and probably the Esquimaux, Toltecs, Aztecs, Peruvians. THE ISHMAELITIC SPECIES. _Psychical or Spiritual Character_, viz:-- Attributes generally equally developed. Moderately mental; not originative, or inventive, but speculative; roving, predatory, revengeful, and sensual. Warlike and highly destructive. _Temperament._--Callous. _Physical Character._--Sub-medium sensibility; dark skin, more or less red, or of a copper-color tinge; hair black, straight, and strong; face broad, immediately under the eyes; high cheek-bones; nose prominent and distinct, particularly in profile; mouth and chin, European. VARIETIES. Most of the Tartar and Arabian tribes, and the whole of the American Indians, unless those mentioned in the second species should be excepted. THE CANAANITIC SPECIES. _Psychical or Spiritual Character_, viz:-- Attributes equally undeveloped. Inferiorly mental; not originative, inventive, or speculative; roving, revengeful, predatory, and highly sensual; warlike and destructive. _Temperament._--Sluggish. _Physical Character._--Sluggish sensibility, approaching to torpor; dark or black skin; hair black, generally woolly; skull compressed on the sides, narrow at the forehead, which slants backwards; cheek-bones very prominent; jaws projecting; teeth oblique, and chin retreating, forming a muzzle-shaped profile; nose broad, flat, and confused with the face; eyes prominent; lips thick. VARIETIES. The Negroes of Central Africa, Hottentots, Cafirs, Australasian Negroes, &c.; and probably the Malays, &c. _Nat. Hist. of Man_, p. 73 _et passim_. If the reader will carefully examine the psychical characteristics of these groups, as given in the above extract, he will find them to accord better with the whole of Mr. Gobineau's theories, than Mr. Gobineau's own classification.--H. [168] It is probably a typographical error, that makes Mr. Flourens (_Eloge de Blumenbach_, p. 11) say that the Polynesian race was "a mixture of two others, the _Caucasian_ and the Mongolian." The Black and the Mongolian is undoubtedly what the learned Academician wished to say. [169] This may be so in our eyes. It is natural for us to think those the most pleasing in appearance, that closest resemble our own type. But were an African to institute a comparative scale of beauty, would he not place his own race highest, and declare that "all races rose in the scale of beauty in proportion to the perfectness of the development" of African features? I think it extremely probable--nay, positively certain. Mr. Hamilton Smith takes the same side as the author. "It is a mistaken notion," says he, "to believe that the standard contour of beauty and form differs materially in any country. Fashion may have the influence of setting up certain deformities for perfections, both at Pekin and at Paris, but they are invariably apologies which national pride offers for its own defects. The youthful beauty of Canton would be handsome (?) in London," etc. Mr. Van Amringe, on the contrary, after a careful examination of the facts brought to light by travellers and other investigators, comes to the conclusion that "the standard of beauty in the different species (see p. 371, _note_) of man is wholly different, physically, morally, and intellectually. Consequently, that taste for personal beauty in each species is incompatible with the perception of sexual beauty out of the species." (_Op. cit._, p. 656.) "A difference of taste for sexual beauty in the several races of men is the great natural law which has been instrumental in separating them, and keeping them distinct, more effectually than mountains, deserts, or oceans. This separation has been perfect for the whole historic period, and continues to be now as wide as it is or has been in any distinct species of animals. Why has this been so? Did prejudice operate four thousand years ago exactly as it does now? If it did not, how came the races to separate into distinct masses at the very earliest known period, and, either voluntarily or by force, take up distinct geographical abodes?" (_Ibid._, pp. 41 and 42.)--H. [170] This inequality is not the less great, nor the less permanent, if we suppose each type to have its own standard. Nay, if the latter be true, it is a sign of a more _radical_ difference among races.--H. [171] Upon the aborigines of America, consult Martius and Spix, _Reise in Brasilien_, vol. i. p. 259; upon the negroes, Pruner, _Der Neger, eine aphoristische Skizze aus der medicinischen Topographie von Cairo_. In regard to the superiority in muscular vigor over all other races, see Carus, _Ueber ungl. Bef._, p. 84. NOTE TO THE PRECEDING CHAPTER. The position and treatment of woman among the various races of men a proof of their moral and intellectual diversity. The reader will pardon me if to Mr. Gobineau's scale of gradation in point of beauty and physical strength, I add another as accurate, I think, if not more so, and certainly as interesting. I allude to the manner in which the weaker sex is regarded and treated among the various races of men. In the words of Van Amringe, "from the brutal New Hollander, who secures his wife by knocking her down with a club and dragging the prize to his cave, to the polished European, who, fearfully, but respectfully and assiduously, spends a probation of months or years for his better half, the ascent may be traced with unfailing precision and accuracy." The same writer correctly argues that if any principle could be inferred from analogy to animals, it would certainly be a uniform treatment of the female sex among all races of man; for animals are remarkably uniform in the relations of the male and female in the same species. Yet among some races of men _polygamy has always prevailed, among others never_. Would not any naturalist consider as distinct species any animals of the same genus so distinguished? This subject has not yet met with due attention at the hands of ethnologists. "When we hear of a race of men," says the same author, "being subjected to the tyranny of another race, either by personal bondage or the more easy condition of tribute, our sympathies are enlisted in their favor, and our constant good wishes, if not our efforts, accompany them. But when we hear of hundreds of millions of the truest and most tender-hearted of human creatures being trodden down and trampled upon in everything that is dear to the human heart, our sympathies, which are so freely expended on slighter occasions or imaginary evils, are scarcely awakened to their crushing woes." With the writer from whom I have already made copious extracts, I believe that the _moral and intellectual diversity_ of the races of men cannot be thoroughly and accurately investigated without taking into consideration the relations which most influence individual as well as national progress and development, and which result from the position occupied by woman towards man. This truth has not escaped former investigators--it would be singular if it had--but they have contented themselves with asserting that the condition of the female sex was indicative of the degree of civilization. Had they said, of the intrinsic worth of various races, I should cheerfully assent. But the elevation or degradation of woman in the social scale is generally regarded as a _result_, not a _cause_. It is said that all barbarians treat their women as slaves; but, as they progress in civilization, woman gradually rises to her legitimate rank. For the sake of the argument, I shall assume that all now civilized nations at first treated their women as the actual barbarians treat theirs. That this is not so, I hope to place beyond doubt; but, assuming it to be the case, might not the fact that some left off that treatment, while others did not, be adduced as a proof of the inequality of races? "The law of the relation of the sexes," says Van Amringe, "is more deeply engraven upon human nature than any other; because, whatever theories may be adopted in regard to the origin of society, languages, etc., no doubt can be entertained that the _influence of woman must have been anterior to any improvements of the original condition of man_. Consequently it was antecedent and superior to education and government. That these relations were powerfully instrumental in the origin of development, to give it a direction and character according to the natures operating and operated upon, cannot be doubted by any one who has paid the slightest attention to domestic influences, from and under which education, customs, and government commenced." But I totally deny that all races, in their first state of development, treated their women equally. There is not only no historical testimony to prove that _any_ of the white races were ever in such a state of barbarity and in such moral debasement as most of the dark races are to this day, and have always been, but there is positive evidence to show that our barbarous ancestors assigned to woman the same position we assign her now: she was the companion, and not the slave, of man. I have already alluded to this in a previous note on the Teutonic races; I cannot, however, but revert to it again. As I have not space for a lengthy discussion, I shall mention but one fact, which I think conclusive, and which rests upon incontrovertible historical testimony. "To a German mind," says Tacitus (Murphy's transl., vol. vii. 8), "the idea of a woman led into captivity is insupportable. In consequence of this prevailing sentiment, the states which deliver as hostages the daughters of illustrious families are bound by the most effectual obligations." Did this assertion rest on the authority of Tacitus only, it might perhaps be called in question. It might be said that the illustrious Roman had drawn an ideal picture, etc. But Cæsar dealt with realities, not idealities; he was a shrewd, practical statesman, and an able general; yet Cæsar _did_ take females as hostages from the German tribes, in preference to men. Suppose Cæsar had made war against the King of Ashantee, and taken away some of his three thousand three hundred and thirty-three wives, the mystical number being thus forcibly disturbed, might have alarmed the nation, whose welfare is supposed to depend on it; but the misfortune would soon have been remedied. But it is possible to demonstrate not only that all races did not treat their women equally in their first stage of development, but also that no race which assigned to woman in the beginning an inferior position ever raised her from it in any subsequent stage of development. I select the Chinese for illustration, because they furnish us with an example of a long-continued and regular intellectual progress,[172] which yet never resulted in an alteration of woman's position in the social structure. The decadent Chinese of our day look upon the female half of their nation as did the rapidly advancing Chinese of the seventh and eighth centuries; and the latter in precisely the same manner as their barbarous ancestors, the subjects of the Emperor _Fou_, more than twenty centuries before. I repeat it, the relations of the sexes, in various races, are equally dissimilar in every stage of development. The state of society may change, the tendency of a race never. Faculties may be developed, but never lost. As the mothers and wives of our Teutonic ancestors were near the battle-field, to administer refreshments to the wearied combatants, to stanch the bleeding of their wounds, and to inspire with renewed courage the despairing, so, in modern times, matrons and maidens of the highest rank--worthy daughters of a heroic ancestry--have been found by thousands ready to sacrifice the comforts and quiet of home for the horrors of a hospital.[173] As the rude warrior of a former age won his beloved by deeds of valor, so, to his civilized descendant, the hand of his mistress is the prize and reward of exertion. The wives and mothers of the ancient Germans and Celts were the counsellors of their sons and husbands in the most important affairs; our wives and mothers are our advisers in our more peaceful pursuits. But the Arab, when he had arrived at the culminating point of his civilization, and when he had become the teacher of our forefathers of the Middle Ages in science and the arts, looked upon his many wives in the same light as his roaming brother in the desert had done before, and does now. I do not ask of all these races that they should assign to their women the same rank that we do. If intellectual progress and social development among them showed the slightest tendency to produce ultimately an alteration in woman's position towards her lord, I might be content to submit to the opinion of those who regard that position as the effect of such a progress and such a development. But I cannot, in the history of those races, perceive the slightest indication of such a result, and all my observations lead me to the conclusion that the relations between the sexes are a cause, and not an effect. The character of the women of different races differs in essential points. What a vast difference, for instance, between the females of the rude crusaders who took possession of Constantinople, and the more civilized Byzantine Greeks whom they so easily conquered; between the heroic matron of barbarous Germany and the highly civilized Chinese lady! These differences cannot be entirely the effect of education, else we are forced to consider the female sex as mere automatons. They must be the result of diversity of character. And why not, in the investigation of the moral and intellectual diversity of races and the natural history of man, take into consideration the peculiarities that characterize the female portion of each race, a portion--I am forced to make this trite observation, because so many investigators seem to forget it--which comprises at least one-half of the individuals to be described?--H. FOOTNOTES: [172] Because we now find the Chinese apparently stationary, many persons unreflectingly conclude that they were always so; which would presuppose that the Chinese were placed upon earth with the faculty of making porcelain, gunpowder, paper, etc., somewhat after the manner in which bees make their cells. But in the annals of the Chinese empire, the date of many of their principal inventions is distinctly recorded. There was a long period of vigorous intellectual activity among that singular people, a period during which good books were written, and ingenious inventions made in rapid succession. This period has ceased, but the Chinese are not therefore stationary. They are _retrograding_. No Chinese workman can now make porcelain equal to that of former ages, which consequently bears an exorbitant price as an object of _virtû_. The secret of many of their arts has been lost, the practice of all is gradually deteriorating. No book of any note has been written these hundreds of years in that great empire. Hence their passionate attachment to everything old, which is not, as is so generally presumed, the _cause_ of their stagnation: it is the _sign_ of intellectual decadence, and the brake which prevents a still more rapid descent. Whenever a nation begins to extravagantly prize the productions of preceding ages, it is a confession that it can no longer equal them: it has begun to retrograde. But the very retrogression is a proof that there once was an opposite movement. [173] The fearful scenes of blood which the beginning of our century witnessed, had crowded the hospitals with wounded and dying. Professional nurses could afford little help after battles like those of Jena, of Eylau, of Feldbach, or of Leipsic. It was then that, in Northern Germany, thousands of ladies of the first families sacrificed their health, and, in too many instances, their lives, to the Christian duty of charity. Many of the noble houses still mourn the loss of some fair matron or maiden, who fell a victim to her self-devotion. In the late war between Denmark and Prussia, the Danish ladies displayed an equal zeal. Scutari also will be remembered in after ages as a monument of what the women of our race can do. But why revert to the past, and to distant scenes? Have we not daily proofs around us that the heroic virtues of by-gone ages still live in ours? CHAPTER XIII. PERFECTIBILITY OF MAN. Imperfect notions of the capability of savage tribes--Parallel between our civilization and those that preceded it--Our modern political theories no novelty--The political parties of Rome--Peace societies--The art of printing a means, the results of which depend on its use--What constitutes a "living" civilization--Limits of the sphere of intellectual acquisitions. To understand perfectly the differences existing among races, in regard to their intellectual capacity, it is necessary to ascertain the lowest degree of stupidity that humanity is capable of. The inferior branches of the human family have hitherto been represented, by a majority of scientific observers, as considerably more abased than they are in reality. The first accounts of a tribe of savages almost always depict them in exaggerated colors of the darkest cast, and impute to them such utter intellectual and reasoning incapacity, that they seem to sink to the level of the monkey, and below that of the elephant. There are, indeed, some contrasts. Let a navigator be well received in some island--let him succeed in persuading a few of the natives to work, however little, with the sailors, and praises are lavished upon the fortunate tribe: they are declared susceptible of every improvement; and perhaps the eulogist will go so far as to assert that he has found among them minds of a very superior order. To both these judgments we must object--the one being too favorable, the other too severe. Because some natives of Tahiti assisted in repairing a whaler, or some inhabitant of Tonga Tabou exhibited good feelings towards the white strangers who landed on his isle, it does not follow that either are capable of receiving our civilization, or of being raised to a level with us. Nor are we warranted in classing among brutes the poor naturals of a newly-discovered coast, who greet their first visitors with a shower of stones and arrows, or who are found making a dainty repast on raw lizards and clods of clay. Such a meal does not, indeed, indicate a very superior intelligence, or very refined manners. But even in the most repulsive cannibal there lies latent a spark of the divine flame, and reason may be awakened to a certain extent. There are no tribes so very degraded that they do not reason in some degree, whether correctly or otherwise, upon the things which surround them. This ray of human intelligence, however faint it may be, is what distinguishes the most degraded savage from the most intelligent brute, and capacitates him for receiving the teachings of religion. But are these mental faculties, which every individual of our species possesses, susceptible of indefinite development? Have all men the same capacity for intellectual progress? In other words, can cultivation raise all the different races to the same intellectual standard? and are no limits imposed to the perfectibility of our species? My answer to these questions is, that all races are capable of improvement, but all cannot attain the same degree of perfection, and even the most favored cannot exceed a certain limit. The idea of infinite perfection has gained many partisans in our times, because we, like all who came before us, pride ourselves upon possessing advantages and points of superiority unknown to our predecessors. I have already spoken of the distinguishing features of our civilization, but willingly revert to this subject again. It may be said, that in all the departments of science we possess clearer and more correct notions; that, upon the whole, our manners are more polished, and our code of morals is preferable to that of the ancients. It is further asserted, as the principal proof of our superiority, that we have better defined, juster and more tolerant ideas with regard to political liberty. Sanguine theorists are not wanting, who pretend that our discoveries in political science and our enlightened views of the rights of man will ultimately lead us to that universal happiness and harmony which the ancients in vain sought in the fabled garden of Hesperides. These lofty pretensions will hardly bear the test of severe historical criticism. If we surpass preceding generations in scientific knowledge, it is because we have added our share to the discoveries which they bequeathed to us. We are their heirs, their pupils, their continuators, just as future generations will be ours. We achieve great results by the application of the power of steam; we have solved many great problems in mechanics, and pressed the elements as submissive slaves into our service. But do these successes bring us any nearer to omniscience. At most, they may enable us ultimately to fathom all the secrets of the material world. And when we shall have achieved that grand conquest, for which so much requires still to be done that is not yet commenced, nor even anticipated; have we advanced a single step beyond the simple exposition of the laws which govern the material world? We may have learned to direct our course through the air, to approach the limits of the respirable atmosphere; we may discover and elucidate several interesting astronomical problems; we may have greater powers for controlling nature and compelling her to minister to our wants, but can all this knowledge make us better, happier beings? Suppose we had counted all the planetary systems and measured the immense regions of space, would we know more of the grand mystery of existence than those that came before us? Would this add one new faculty to the human mind, or ennoble human nature by the eradication of one bad passion? Admitting that we are more enlightened upon some subjects, in how many other respects are we inferior to our more remote ancestors? Can it be doubted, for instance, that in Abraham's times much more was known of primordial traditions than the dubious beams which have come down to us? How many discoveries which we owe to mere accident, or which are the fruits of painful efforts, were the lost possessions of remote ages? How many more are not yet restored? What is there in the most splendid of our works that can compare with those wonders by which Egypt, India, Greece, and America still attest the grandeur and magnificence of so many edifices which the weight of centuries, much more than the impotent ravages of man, has caused to disappear? What are our works of art by the side of those of Athens; our thinkers by the side of those of Alexandria or India; our poets by the side of a Valmiki, Kalidasa, Homer, Pindar? The truth is, we pursue a different direction from that of the human societies whose civilization preceded ours. We apply our mind to different purposes and different investigations; but while we clear and cultivate new lands, we are compelled to neglect and abandon to sterility those to which they devoted their attention. What we gain in one direction we lose in another. We cannot call ourselves superior to the ancients, unless we had preserved at least the principal acquisitions of preceding ages in all their integrity, and had succeeded in establishing by the side of these, the great results which they as well as we sought after. Our sciences and arts superadded to theirs have not enabled us to advance one step nearer the solution of the great problems of existence, the mysteries of life and death. "I seek, but find not," has always been, will ever be, the humiliating confession of science when endeavoring to penetrate into the secrets concealed by the veil that it is not given to mortal to lift. In criticism[174] we are, undoubtedly, much in advance of our predecessors; but criticism implies classification, not acquisition. Nor can we justly pride ourselves upon any superiority in regard to political ideas. Political and social theories were as rife in Athens after the age of Pericles as they are in our days. To be convinced of this, it is necessary only to study Aristophanes, whose comedies Plato recommends to the perusal of whoever wishes to become acquainted with the public morals of the city of Minerva. It has been pretended that our present structure of society, and that of the ancients, admit of no comparison, owing to the institution of slavery which formed an element of the latter. But the only real difference is that demagogism had then an even more fertile soil in which to strike root. The slaves of those days find their precise counterpart in our working classes and proletarians.[175] The Athenian people propitiating their servile class after the battle of Arginuses, might be taken for a picture of the nineteenth century. Look at Rome. Open Cicero's letters. What a specimen of the moderate Tory that great Roman orator was; what a similarity between his republic and our constitutional bodies politic, with regard to the language of parties and parliamentary debates! There, too, the background of the picture was occupied by degraded masses of a servile and prædial population, always eager for change, and ready to rise in actual rebellion. Let us leave those dregs of the population, whose civil existence the law ignored, and who counted in politics but as the formidable tool of designing individuals of free birth. But does not the free population of Rome afford a perfect analogue to a modern body politic? There is the mob crying for bread, greedy of shows, flattery, gratuitous distributions, and amusements; the middle classes (_bourgeoisie_) monopolizing and dividing among themselves the public offices; the hereditary aristocracy, continually assailed at all points, continually losing ground, until driven in mere self-defence to abjure all superior claims and stipulate for equal rights to all. Are not these perfect resemblances? Among the boundless variety of opinions that make themselves heard in our day, there is not one that had not advocates in Rome. I alluded a while ago to the letters written from the villa of Tusculum; they express the sentiments of the Roman conservative _Progressist_ party. By the side of Sylla, Pompey and Cicero were Radicals.[176] Their notions were not sufficiently radical for Cæsar; too much so for Cato. At a later period we find in Pliny the younger a mild royalist, a friend of quiet, even at some cost. Apprehensive of too much liberty, yet jealous of power too absolute; very practical in his views, caring but little for the poetical splendor of the age of the Fabii, he preferred the more prosaic administration of Trajan. There were others not of his opinion, good people who feared an insurrection headed by some new Spartacus, and who, therefore, thought that the Emperor could not hold the reins too tight. Then there were others, from the provinces, who obstreperously demanded and obtained what would now be called "constitutional guaranties." Again, there were the socialists, and their views found no less an expounder than the Gallic Cæsar, C. Junius Posthumus, who exclaims: "Dives et pauper, inimici," the rich and the poor are enemies born. Every man who had any pretensions to participate in the lights of the day, declaimed on the absolute equality of all men, their "inalienable rights," the manifest necessity and ultimate universality of the Greco-Latin civilization, its superiority, its mildness, its future progress, much greater even than that actually made, and above all its perpetuity. Nor were those ideas merely the pride and consolation of the pagans; they were the firm hopes and expectations of the earliest and most illustrious Fathers of the Church, whose sentiments found so eloquent an interpreter in Tertullian. * * * * * And as a last touch, to complete the picture, let us not forget those people who, then as now, formed the most numerous of all parties: those that belonged to none--people who are too weak-minded, or indifferent, or apprehensive, or disgusted, to lay hold of a truth, from among the midst of contradictory theories that float around them--people who are content with order when it exists, submit passively in times of disorder and confusion; who admire the increase of conveniences and comforts of life unknown to their ancestors, and who, without thinking further, centre their hope in the future and pride in the present, in the reflection: "What wonderful facilities we enjoy now-a-days." There would be some reason for believing in an improvement in political science, if we had invented some governmental machinery which had hitherto been unknown, or at least never carried into practice. This glory we cannot arrogate to ourselves. Limited monarchies were known in every age. There are even some very curious examples of this form of government found among certain Indian tribes who, nevertheless, have remained savages. Democratic and aristocratic republics of every form, and balanced in the most varied manner, flourished in the new world as well as the old. Tlascala is as complete a model of this kind as Athens, Sparta, or Mecca before Mohammed's times. And even supposing that we have applied to governmental science some secondary principle of our own invention, does this justify us in our exaggerated pretension to unlimited perfectibility? Let us rather be modest, and say with the wisest of kings: "_Nil novi sub sole._"[177] It is said that our manners are milder than those of the other great human societies; this assertion also is very open to criticism. There are some philanthropists who would induce nations no longer to resort to armies in settling their quarrels. The idea is borrowed from Seneca. Some of the Eastern sages professed the same principles in this respect as the Moravian Brethren. But assuming that the members of the Peace Congress succeed in disgusting Europe with the turmoil and miseries of warfare, they would still have the difficult task left of forever transforming the human passions. Neither Seneca nor the Eastern sages have been able to accomplish this, and it may reasonably be doubted whether this grand achievement is reserved for our generation. We possess pure and exalted principles, I admit, but are they carried into practice? Look at our fields, the streets of our cities--the bloody traces of contests as fierce as any recorded in history are scarcely yet effaced. Never since the beginning of our civilization has there been an interval of peace of fifty years, and we are, in this respect, far behind ancient Italy, which, under the Romans, once enjoyed two centuries of perfect tranquillity. But even so long a repose would not warrant us in concluding that the temple of Janus was thenceforth to be forever closed. The state of our civilization does not, therefore, prove the unlimited perfectibility of man. If he have learned many things, he has forgotten others. He has not added another to his senses; his soul is not enriched by one new faculty. I cannot too much insist upon the great though sad truth, that whatever we gain in one direction is counterbalanced by some loss in another; that, limited as is our intellectual domain, we are doomed never to possess its whole extent at once. Were it not for this fatal law, we might imagine that at some period, however distant, man, finding himself in possession of the experience of successive ages, and having acquired all that it is in his power to acquire, would have learned at last to apply his acquisitions to his welfare--to live without battling against his kind, and against misery; to enjoy a state, if not of unalloyed happiness, at least of abundance and peace. But even so limited a felicity is not promised us here below, for in proportion as man learns he unlearns; whatever he acquires, is at the cost of some previous acquisition; whatever he possesses he is always in danger of losing. We flatter ourselves with the belief that our civilization is imperishable, because we possess the art of printing, gunpowder, the steam engine, &c. These are valuable means to accomplish great results, but the accomplishment depends on their use. The art of printing is known to many other nations beside ourselves, and is as extensively used by them as by us.[178] Let us see its fruits. In Tonquin, Anam, Japan, books are plentiful, much cheaper than with us--so cheap that they are within the reach of even the poorest--and even the poorest read them. How is it, then, that these people are so enervated, so degraded, so sunk in sloth and vice[179]--so near that stage in which even civilized man, having frittered away his physical and mental powers, may sink infinitely below the rude barbarian, who, at the first convenient opportunity, becomes his master? Whence this result? Precisely because the art of printing is a means, and not an agent. So long as it is used to diffuse sound, sterling ideas, to afford wholesome and refreshing nutriment to vigorous minds, a civilization never decays. But when it becomes the vile caterer to a depraved taste, when it serves only to multiply the morbid productions of enervated or vitiated minds, the senseless quibbles of a sectarian theology instead of religion, the venomous scurrility of libellists instead of politics, the foul obscenities of licentious rhymers instead of poesy--how and why should the art of printing save a civilization from ruin? It is objected that the art of printing contributes to the preservation of a civilization by the facility with which it multiplies and diffuses the masterpieces of the human mind, so that, even in times of intellectual sterility, when they can no longer be emulated, they still form the standard of taste, and by their clear and steady light prevent the possibility of utter darkness. But it should be remembered that to delve in the hoarded treasures of thought, and to appropriate them for purposes of mental improvement, presupposes the possession of that greatest of earthly goods--an enlightened mind. And in epochs of intellectual degeneracy, few care about those monuments of lost virtues and powers; they are left undisturbed on their dusty shelves in libraries whose silence is but seldom broken by the tread of the anxious, painstaking student. The longevity which Guttenberg's invention assures to the productions of genius is much exaggerated. There are a few works that enjoy the honor of being reproduced occasionally; with this exception, books die now precisely as formerly did the manuscripts. Works of science, especially, disappear with singular rapidity from the realms of literature. A few hundred copies are struck off at first, and they are seldom, and, after a while, never heard of more. With considerable trouble you can find them in some large collection. Look what has become of the thousands of excellent works that have appeared since the first printed page came from the press. The greater portion are forgotten. Many that are still spoken of, are never read; the titles even of others, that were carefully sought after fifty years ago, are gradually disappearing from every memory. So long as a civilization is vigorous and flourishing, this disappearance of old books is but a slight misfortune. They are superseded; their valuable portions are embodied in new ones; the seed exists no longer, but the fruit is developing. In times of intellectual degeneracy it is otherwise. The weakened powers cannot grapple with the solid thought of more vigorous eras; it is split up into more convenient fragments--rendered more portable, as it were; the strong beverage that once was the pabulum of minds as strong, must be diluted to suit the present taste; and innumerable dilutions, each weaker than the other, immediately claim public favor; the task of learning must be lightened in proportion to the decreasing capacity for acquiring; everything becomes superficial; what costs the least effort gains the greatest esteem; play upon words is accounted wit; shallowness, learning; the surface is preferred to the depth. Thus it has ever been in periods of decay; thus it will be with us when we have once reached that point whence every movement is retrogressive. Who knows but we are near it already?--and the art of printing will not save us from it. To enhance the advantages which we derive from that art, the number and diffusion of manuscripts have been too much underrated. It is true that they were scarce in the epoch immediately preceding; but in the latter periods of the Roman empire they were much more numerous and much more widely diffused than is generally imagined. In those times, the facilities for instruction were by no means of difficult access; books, indeed, were quite common. We may judge so from the extraordinary number of threadbare grammarians with which even the smallest villages swarmed; a sort of people very much like the petty novelists, lawyers, and editors of modern times, and whose loose morals, shabbiness, and passionate love for enjoyments, are described in Pretronius's Satyricon. Even when the decadence was complete, those who wished for books could easily procure them. Virgil was read everywhere; so much so, that the illiterate peasantry, hearing so much of him, imagined him to be some dangerous and powerful sorcerer. The monks copied him; they copied Pliny, Dioscorides, Plato, and Aristotle; they copied Catullus and Martial. These books, then, cannot have been very rare. Again, when we consider how great a number has come down to us notwithstanding centuries of war and devastation--notwithstanding so many conflagrations of monasteries, castles, libraries, &c.--we cannot but admit that, in spite of the laborious process of transcription, literary productions must have been multiplied to a very great extent. It is possible, therefore, to greatly exaggerate the obligations under which science, poetry, morality, and true civilization lie to the typographic art; and I repeat it, that art is a marvellous instrument, but if the arm that wields it, and the head that directs the arm, are not, the instrument cannot be, of much service. Some people believe that the possession of gunpowder exempts modern societies from many of the dangers that proved fatal to the ancient. They assert that it abates the horrors of warfare, and diminishes its frequency, bidding fair, therefore, to establish, in time, a state of universal peace. If such be the beneficial results attendant on this accidental invention, they have not as yet manifested themselves. Of the various applications of steam, and other industrial inventions, I would say, as of the art of printing, that they are great means, but their results depend upon the agent. Such arts might be practised by rote long after the intellectual activity that produced them had ceased. There are innumerable instances of processes which continue in use, though the theoretical secret is lost. It is therefore not unreasonable to suppose, that the practice of our inventions might survive our civilization; that is, it might continue when these inventions were no longer possible, when no further improvements were to be hoped for. Material well-being is but an external appendage of a civilization; intellectual activity, and a consequent progress, are its life. A state of intellectual torpor, therefore, cannot be a state of civilization, even though the people thus stagnating, have the means of transporting themselves rapidly from place to place, or of adorning themselves and their dwellings. This would only prove that they were the _heirs_ of a former civilization, but not that they actually possessed one. I have said, in another place, that a civilization may thus preserve, for a time, every appearance of life: the effect may continue after the cause has ceased. But, as a continuous change seems to be the order of nature in all things material and immaterial, a downward tendency is soon manifest. I have before compared a civilization to the human body. While alive, it undergoes a perpetual modification: every hour has wrought a change; when dead, it preserves, for a time, the appearance of life, perhaps even its beauty; but gradually, symptoms of decay become manifest, and every stage of dissolution is more precipitate than the one before, as a stone thrown up in the air, poises itself there for an inappreciable fraction of time, then falls with continually increasing velocity, more and more swiftly as it approaches the ground. Every civilization has produced in those who enjoyed its fruits, a firm conviction of its stability, its perpetuity. When the palanquins of the Incas travelled rapidly on the smooth, magnificent causeways which still unite Cuzco and Quito, a distance of fifteen hundred miles, with what feelings of exultation must they have contemplated the conquests of the present, what magnificent prospects of the future must have presented themselves to their imaginations! Stern time, with one blow of his gigantic wings, hurled their empire into the deepest depths of the abyss of oblivion. These proud sovereigns of Peru--they, too, had their sciences, their mechanical inventions, their powerful machines: the works they accomplished we contemplate with amazement, and a vain effort to divine the means employed. How were those blocks of stone, thirty-five feet long and eighteen thick, raised one upon another? How were they transported the vast distance from the quarries where they were hewn? By what contrivance did the engineers of that people hoist those enormous masses to a dizzy height? It is indeed a problem--a problem, too, which we will never solve. Nor are the ruins of Tihuanaco unparalleled by the remains of European civilizations of ante-historic times. The cyclopean walls with which Southern Europe abounds, and which have withstood the all-destroying tooth of time for thousands upon thousands of years--who built them? Who piled these monstrous masses, which modern art could scarcely move? Let us not mistake the results of a civilization for its causes. The causes cease, the results subsist for a while, then are lost. If they again bear fruit, it is because a new spirit has appropriated them, and converted them to purposes often very different from those they had at first. Human intelligence is finite, nor can it ever reign at once in the whole of its domain:[180] it can turn to account one portion of it only by leaving the other bare; it exalts what it possesses, esteems lightly what it has lost. Thus, every generation is at the same time superior and inferior to its predecessors. Man cannot, then, surpass himself: man's perfectibility is not infinite. FOOTNOTES: [174] The word _criticism_ has here been used by the translator in a sense somewhat unusual in the English language, where it is generally made to signify "the art of judging of literary or artistic productions." In a more comprehensive sense, it means _the art of discriminating between truth and error_, or rather, perhaps, between _the probable and the improbable_. In this sense, the word is often used by continental metaphysicians, and also, though less frequently, by English writers. As the definition is perfectly conformable to etymology, I have concluded to let the above passage stand as it is.--H. [175] It will be remembered that Mr. Gobineau speaks of Europe.--H. [176] The term "Radical" is used on the European continent to designate that party who desire thorough, uncompromising reform: the plucking out of evils by the _root_.--H. [177] The principles of government applied to practice at the formation of our Constitution, Mr. Gobineau considers as identical with those laid down at the beginning of every society founded by the Germanic race. In his succeeding volumes he mentions several analogues.--H. [178] M. J. Mohl, _Rapport Annuel à la Société Asiatique_, 1851, p. 92: "The Indian book trade of indigenous productions is extremely lively, and consists of a number of works which are never heard of in Europe, nor ever enter a European's library even in India. Mr. Springer asserts in a letter, that in the single town of Luknau there are thirteen lithographical establishments exclusively occupied with multiplying books for the schools, and he gives a list of considerable length of books, none of which have probably ever reached Europe. The same is the case in Delhi, Agra, Cawnpour, Allahabad, and other cities." [179] The Siamese are probably the most debased in morals of any people on earth. They belong to the remotest outskirts of the Indo-Chinese civilization; yet among them every one knows how to read and write. (Ritter, _Erdkunde, Asien_, vol. iii. p. 1152.) [180] No individual can encompass the whole circle of human knowledge: no civilization comprise at once all the improvements possible to humanity.--H. CHAPTER XIV. MUTUAL RELATIONS OF DIFFERENT MODES OF INTELLECTUAL CULTURE. Necessary consequences of a supposed equality of all races--Uniform testimony of history to the contrary--Traces of extinct civilizations among barbarous tribes--Laws which govern the adoption of a state of civilization by conquered populations--Antagonism of different modes of culture; the Hellenic and Persian, European and Arab, etc. Had it been the will of the Creator to endow all the branches of the human family with equal intellectual capacities, what a glorious tableau would history not unfold before us. All being equally intelligent, equally aware of their true interests, equally capable of triumphing over obstacles, a number of simultaneous and flourishing civilizations would have gladdened every portion of the inhabited globe. While the most ancient Sanscrit nations covered Northern India with harvests, cities, palaces, and temples; and the plains of the Tigris and Euphrates shook under the trampling of Nimrod's cavalry and chariots, the prognathous tribes of Africa would have formed and developed a social system, sagaciously constructed, and productive of brilliant results. Some luckless tribes, whose lot fortune had cast in inhospitable climes, burning sands, or glacial regions, mountain gorges, or cheerless steppes swept by the piercing winds of the north, would have been compelled to a longer and severer struggle against such unpropitious circumstances, than more fortunate nations. But being not inferior in intelligence and sagacity, they would not have been long in discovering the means of bettering their condition. Like the Icelanders, the Danes, and Norwegians, they would have forced the reluctant soil to afford them sustenance; if inhabitants of mountainous regions, they would, like the Swiss, have enjoyed the advantages of a pastoral life, or like the Cashmerians, resorted to manufacturing industry. But if their geographical situation had been so unfavorable as to admit of no resource, they would have reflected that the world was large, contained many a pleasant valley and fertile plain, where they might seek the fruits of intelligent activity, which their stepmotherly native land refused them. Thus all the nations of the earth would have been equally enlightened, equally prosperous; some by the commerce of maritime cities, others by productive agriculture in inland regions, or successful industry in barren and Alpine districts. Though they might not exempt themselves from the misfortunes to which the imperfections of human nature give rise--transitory dissensions, civil wars, seditions, etc.--their individual interests would soon have led them to invent some system of relative equiponderance. As the differences in their civilizations resulted merely from fortuitous circumstances, and not from innate inequalities, a mutual interchange would soon have assimilated them in all essential points. Nothing could then prevent a universal confederation, that dream of so many centuries; and the inhabitants of the most distant parts of the globe would have been as members of one great cosmopolite people. Let us contrast this fantastic picture with the reality. The first nations worthy of the name, owed their formation to an instinct of aggregation, which the barbarous tribes near them not only did not feel then, but never afterward. These nations spread beyond their original boundaries, and forced others to submit to their power. But the conquered neither adopted nor understood the principles of the civilization imposed upon them. Nor has the force of example been of avail to those in whom innate capacity was wanting. The native populations of the Spanish peninsula, and of Transalpine and Ligurian Gaul, saw Phenicians, Greeks, and Carthaginians, successively establish flourishing cities on their coasts, without feeling the least incitement to imitate the manners or forms of government of these prosperous merchants. What a glorious spectacle do not the Indians of North America witness at this moment. They have before their eyes a great and prosperous nation, eminent for the successful practical application of modern theories and sciences to political and social forms, as well as to industrial art. The superiority of this foreign race, which has so firmly established itself upon his former patrimony, is evident to the red man. He sees their magnificent cities, their thousands of vessels upon the once silent rivers, their successful agriculture; he knows that even his own rude wants, the blanket with which he covers himself, the weapon with which he slays his game, the ardent spirits he has learned to love so well, can be supplied only by the stranger. The last feeble hope to see his native soil delivered from the presence of the conqueror's race, has long since vanished from his breast; he feels that the land of his fathers is not his own. Yet he stubbornly refuses to enter the pale of this civilization which invites him, solicits him, tries to entice him with superior advantages and comforts. He prefers to retreat from solitude to solitude, deeper and deeper into the primitive forest. He is doomed to perish, and he knows it; but a mysterious power retains him under the yoke of his invincible repugnances, and while he admires the strength and superiority of the whites, his conscience, his whole nature, revolts at the idea of assimilating to them. He cannot forget or smother the instincts of his race. The aborigines of Spanish America are supposed to evince a less unconquerable aversion. It is because the Spanish metropolitan government had never attempted to civilize them. Provided they were Christians, at least in name, they were left to their own usages and habits, and, in many instances, under the administration of their Caziques. The Spaniards colonized but little, and when the conquest was completed and their sanguinary appetites glutted by those unparalleled atrocities which brand them with indelible disgrace, they indulged in a lazy toleration, and directed their tyranny rather against individuals than against modes of thinking and living. The Indians have, in a great measure, mixed with their conquerors, and will continue to live while their brethren in the vicinity of the Anglo-Saxon race are inevitably doomed to perish. But not only savages, even nations of a higher rank in the intellectual scale are incapable of adopting a foreign civilization. We have already alluded to the failure of the English in India and of the Dutch in Java, in trying to import their own ideas into their foreign dependencies. French philanthropy is at this moment gaining the same experience in the new French possession of Algeria. There can be no stronger or more conclusive proof of the various endowments of different races. If we had no other argument in proof of the innate imparity of races than the actual condition of certain barbarous tribes, and the supposition that they had always been in that condition, and, consequently, always would be, we should expose ourselves to serious objections. For many barbarous nations preserve traces of former cultivation and refinement. There are some tribes, very degraded in every other respect, who yet possess traditional regulations respecting the marriage celebration, the forms of justice and the division of inheritances, which evidently are remnants of a higher state of society, though the rites have long since lost all meaning. Many of the Indian tribes who wander over the tracts once occupied by the Alleghanian race, may be cited as instances of this kind. The natives of the Marian Islands, and many other savages, practise mechanically certain processes of manufacture, the invention of which presupposes a degree of ingenuity and knowledge utterly at variance with their present stupidity and ignorance. To avoid hasty and erroneous conclusions concerning this seeming decadence, there are several circumstances to be taken into consideration. Let us suppose a savage population to fall within the sphere of activity of a proximate, but superior race. In that case they may gradually learn to conform externally to the civilization of their masters, and acquire the technicalities of their arts and inventions. Should the dominant race disappear either by expulsion or absorption, the civilization would expire, but some of its outward forms might be retained and perpetuated. A certain degree of mechanical skill might survive the scientific principles upon which it was based. In other words, practice might long continue after the theory was lost. History furnishes us a number of examples in support of this assertion. Such, for instance, was the attitude of the Assyrians toward the civilization of the Chaldeans; of the Iberians, Celts, and Illyrians towards that of the Romans. If, then, the Cherokees, the Catawbas, Muskogees, Seminoles, Natchez and other tribes, still preserve a feeble impress of the Alleghanian civilization, I should not thence conclude that they are the pure and direct descendants of the initiatory element of that people, which would imply that a race may once have been civilized, and be no longer so. I should say, on the contrary, that the Cherokees, if at all ethnically connected with the ancient dominant type, are so by only a collateral tie of consanguinity, else they could never have relapsed into a state of barbarism. The other tribes which exhibit little or no vestiges of the former civilization are probably the descendants of a different conquered population which formed no constituent element of the society, but served rather as the substratum upon which the edifice was erected. It is no matter of surprise, if this be the case, that they should preserve--without understanding them and with a sort of superstitious veneration--customs, laws, and rites invented by others far more intelligent than themselves. The same may be said of the mechanical arts. The aborigines of the Carolines are about the most interesting of the South Sea islanders. Their looms, sculptured canoes, their taste for navigation and commerce show them vastly superior to the Pelagian negroes, their neighbors. It is easy to account for this superiority by the well-authenticated admixture of Malay blood. But as this element is greatly attenuated, the inventions which it introduced have not borne indigenous fruits, but, on the contrary, are gradually, but surely, disappearing. The preceding observations will, I think, suffice to show that the traces of civilization among a barbarous tribe are not a necessary proof that this tribe itself has ever been really civilized. It may either have lived under the domination of a superior but consanguineous race, or living in its vicinity, have, in an humble and feeble degree, profited by its lessons. This result, however, is possible only when there exists between the superior and the inferior race a certain ethnical affinity; that is to say, when the former is either a noble branch of the same stock, or ennobled by intermixture with another. When the disparity between races is too great and too decided, and there is no intermediate link to connect them, the contact is always fatal to the inferior race, as is abundantly proved by the disappearance of the aborigines of North America and Polynesia. I shall now speak of the relations arising from the contact of different civilizations. The Persian civilization came in contact with the Grecian; the Egyptian with the Grecian and Roman; the Roman with the Grecian; and finally the modern civilization of Europe with all those at present subsisting on the globe, and especially with the Arabian. The contact of Greek intelligence with the culture of the Persians was as frequent as it was compulsory. The greater portion of the Hellenic population, and the wealthiest, though not the most independent, was concentrated in the cities of the Syrian coast, the Greek colonies of Asia Minor, and on the shores of the Euxine, all of which formed a part of the Persian dominions. Though these colonies preserved their own local laws and politics, they were under the authority of the satraps of the great king. Intimate relations, moreover, were maintained between European Greece and Asia. That the Persians were then possessed of a high degree of civilization is proved by their political organization and financial administration, by the magnificent ruins which still attest the splendor and grandeur of their cities. But the principles of government and religion, the modes and habits of life, the genius of the arts, were very differently understood by the two nations; and, therefore, notwithstanding their constant intercourse, neither made the slightest approach toward assimilation with the other. The Greeks called their puissant neighbors barbarians, and the latter, no doubt, amply returned the compliment. In Ecbatana no other form of government could be conceived than an undivided hereditary authority, limited only by certain religious prescriptions and a court ceremonial. The genius of the Greeks tended to an endless variety of governmental forms; subdivided into a number of petty sovereignties. Greek society presented a singular mosaic of political structures; oligarchical in Sparta, democratical in Athens, tyrannical in Sicyon, monarchical in Macedonia, the forms of government were the same in scarcely two cities or districts. The state religion of the Persians evinced the same tendency to unity as their politics, and was more of a metaphysical and moral than a material character. The Greeks, on the contrary, had a symbolical system of religion, consisting in the worship of natural objects and influences, which gradually changed into a perfect prosopopoeia, representing the gods as sentient beings, subject to the same passions, and engaged in the same pursuits and occupations as the inhabitants of the earth. The worship consisted principally in the performance of rites and demonstrations of respect to the deities; the conscience was left to the direction of the civil laws. Besides, the rites, as well as the divinities and heroes in whose honor they were practised, were different in every place. As for the manners and habits of life, it is unnecessary to point out how vastly different they were from those of Persia. Public contempt punished the young, wealthy, pleasure-loving cosmopolitan, who attempted to live in Persian style. Thus, until the time of Alexander, when the power of Greece had arrived at its culminating point, Persia, with all her preponderance, could not convert Hellas to her civilization. In the time of Alexander, this incompatibility of dissimilar modes of culture was singularly demonstrated. When the empire of Darius succumbed to the Macedonian phalanxes, it was expected, for a time, that a Hellenic civilization would spread over Asia. There seemed the more reason for this belief when the conqueror, in a moment of aberrancy, treated the monuments of the land with such aggressive violence as seemed to evince equal hatred and contempt. But the wanton incendiary of Persepolis soon changed his mind, and so completely, that his design became apparent to simply substitute himself in the room of the dynasty of Achæmenes, and rule over Persia like a Persian king, with Greece added to his estates. Great as was Alexander's power, it was insufficient for the execution of such a project. His generals and soldiers could not brook to see their commander assume the long flowing robes of the eastern kings, surround himself with eunuchs, and renounce the habits and manners of his native land. Though after his death some of his successors persisted in the same system, they were compelled greatly to mitigate it. Where the population consisted of a motley compound of Greeks, Syrians, and Arabs, as in Egypt and the coast of Asia Minor, a sort of compromise between the two civilizations became thenceforth the normal state of the country; but where the races remained unmixed, the national manners were preserved. In the latter periods of the Roman empire, the two civilizations had become completely blended in the whole East, including continental Greece; but it was tinged more with the Asiatic than the Greek tendencies, because the masses belonged much more to the former element than to the latter. Hellenic forms, it is true, still subsisted, but it is not difficult to discover in the ideas of those periods and countries the Oriental stock upon which the scions of the Alexandrian school had been engrafted. The respective influence of the various elements was in strict proportion to the quantity of blood; the intellectual preponderance belonged to that which had contributed the greatest share. The same antagonism which I pointed out between the intellectual culture of the Greeks and that of the Persians, will be found to result from the contact of all other widely different civilizations. I shall mention but one more instance: the relations between the Arab civilization[181] and our own. There was a time when the arts and sciences, the muses and their train, seemed to have forsaken their former abodes, to rally around the standard of Mohammed. That our forefathers were not blind to the excellencies of the Arab civilization is proved by their sending their sons to the schools of Cordova. But not a trace of the spirit of that civilization has remained in Europe, save in those countries which still retain a portion of Ishmaelitic blood. Nor has the Arab civilization found a more congenial soil in India over which, also, its dominion extended. Like those portions of Europe which were subjected to Moslem masters, that country has preserved its own modes of thinking intact. But if the pressure of the Arab civilization, at the time of its greatest splendor and our greatest ignorance, could not affect the modes of thinking of the races of Western Europe, neither can we, at present, when the positions are reversed, affect in the slightest degree the feeble remnants of that once so flourishing civilization. Our action upon these remnants is continuous--the pressure of our intellectual activity upon them immense; we succeed only in destroying, not in transforming or remodelling.[182] Yet this civilization was not even original, and might, therefore, be supposed to have a less obstinate vitality. The Arab nation, it is well known, based its empire and its intellectual culture upon fragments of races which it had aggregated by the weight of the sword. A variegated compound like the Islamitic populations, could not but develop a civilization of an equally variegated character, to which each ethnical element contributed its share. These elements it is not difficult to determine and point out. The nucleus, around which aggregated those countless multitudes, was a small band of valiant warriors who unfurled in their native deserts the standard of a new creed. They were not, before Mohammed's time, a new or unknown people. They had frequently come in contact with the Jews and Phenicians, and had in their veins the blood of both these nations. Taking advantage of their favorable situation for commerce, they had performed the carrier trade of the Red Sea, and the eastern coast of Africa and India, for the most celebrated nations of ancient times, the Jews and the Phenicians, later still, for the Romans and Persians. They had the same traditions in common with the Shemitic and Hamitic families from which they sprung.[183] They had even taken an active part in the political life of neighboring nations. Under the Arsacides and the sons of Sassan, some of their tribes exerted great influence in the politics of the Persian empire. One of their adventurers[184] had become Emperor of Rome; one of their princes protected the majesty of Rome against a conqueror before whom the whole east trembled, and shared the imperial purple with the Roman sovereign;[185] one of their cities had become, under Zenobia, the centre and capital of a vast empire that rivalled and even threatened Rome.[186] It is evident, therefore, that the Arab nation had never ceased, from the remotest antiquity, to entertain intimate relations with the most powerful and celebrated ancient societies. It had taken part in their political and intellectual[187] activity; and it might not inappropriately be compared to a body half-plunged into the water, and half exposed to the sun, as it partook at the same time of an advanced state of civilization and of complete barbarism. Mohammed invented the religion most conformable to the ideas of a people, among whom idolatry had still many zealous adherents, but where Christianity, though having made numerous converts, was losing favor on account of the endless schisms and contentions of its followers.[188] The religious dogma of the Koreishite prophet was a skilful compromise between the various contending opinions. It reconciled the Jewish dispensation with the New Law better than could the Church at that time, and thus solved a problem which had disquieted the consciences of many of the earlier Christians, and which, especially in the east, had given rise to many heretical sects. This was in itself a very tempting bait, and, besides, any theological novelty had decided chances of success among the Syrians and Egyptians.[189] Moreover, the new religion appeared with sword in hand, which in those times of schismatical propagandism seemed a warrant of success more relied upon by the masses to whom it addressed itself, than peaceful persuasion. Thus arrayed, Islamism issued from its native deserts. Arrogant, and possessed but in a very slight degree of the inventive faculty, it developed no civilization peculiar to itself, but it had adopted, as far as it was capable of doing, the bastard Greco-Asiatic civilization already extant. As its triumphant banners progressed on the east and south of the Mediterranean, it incorporated masses imbued with the same tendencies and spirit. From each of these it borrowed something. As its religious dogmas were a patchwork of the tenets of the Church, those of the Synagogue, and of the disfigured traditions of Hedjaz and Yemen, so its code of laws was a compound of the Persian and the Roman, its science was Greco-Syrian[190] and Egyptian, its administration from the beginning tolerant like that of every body politic that embraces many heterogeneous elements. It has caused much useless surprise, that Moslem society should have made such rapid strides to refinement of manners. But the mass of the people over whom its dominion extended, had merely changed the name of their creed; they were old and well-known actors on the stage of history, and have simply been mistaken for a new nation when they undertook to play the part of apostles before the world. These people gave to the common store their previous refinement and luxury; each new addition to the standard of Islamism, contributed some portion of its acquisitions. The vitalizing principle of the society, the motive power of this cumbrous mass, was the small nucleus of Arab tribes that had come forth from the heart of the peninsula. They furnished, not artists and learned men, but fanatics, soldiers, victors, and masters. The Arab civilization, then, is nothing but the Greco-Syrian civilization, rejuvenated and quickened, for a time, with a new and energetic, but short-lived, genius. It was, besides, a little renovated and a little modified, by a slight dash of Persian civilization. Yet, motley and incongruous as are the elements of which it is composed, and capable of stretching and accommodating itself as such a compound must be, it cannot adapt itself to any social structure erected by other elements than its own. In other words, many as are the races that contributed to its formation, it is suited to none that have _not_ contributed to it. This is what the whole course of history teaches us. Every race has its own modes of thinking; every race, capable of developing a civilization, develops one peculiar to itself, and which it cannot engraft upon any other, except by amalgamation of blood, and then in but a modified degree. The European cannot win the Asiatic to his modes of thinking; he cannot civilize the Australian, or the Negro; he can transmit but a portion of his intelligence to his half-breed offspring of the inferior race; the progeny of that half-breed and the nobler branch of his ancestry, is but one degree nearer, but not equal to that branch in capacity: the proportions of blood are strictly preserved. I have adduced illustrations of this truth from the history of various branches of the human family, of the lowest as well as of the higher in the scale of intellectual progress. Are we not, then, authorized to conclude that the diversity observable among them is constitutional, innate, and not the result of accident or circumstances--that there is an absolute inequality in their intellectual endowments? FOOTNOTES: [181] The word _Arab_ is here used instead of the more common, but less correct, term _Saracen_, which was the general appellation bestowed on the first propagators of the Islam by the Greeks and Latins. The Arab civilization reached its culminating point about the reign of Harun al Rashid. At that time, it comprised nearly all that remained of the arts and sciences of former ages. The splendor and magnificence for which it was distinguished, is even yet the theme of romancers and poets; and may be discerned to this day in the voluptuous and gorgeous modes of life among the higher classes in those countries where it still survives, as well as in the remains of Arab architecture in Spain, the best preserved and most beautiful of which is the well-known Alhambra. Though the Arab civilization had a decidedly sensual tendency and character, it was not without great benefits to mankind. From it our forefathers learned some valuable secrets of agriculture, and the first lessons in horticulture. The peach, the pear, the apricot, the finer varieties of apples and plums, and nearly all of our most valued fruits were brought into Western and Central Europe by the returning crusaders from the land of the Saracens. Many valuable processes of manufacture, and especially of the art of working metals, are derived from the same source. In the science of medicine, the Arabs laid the foundation of that noble structure we now admire. Though they were prevented by religious scruples from dissecting the human body, and, therefore, remained in ignorance of the most important facts of anatomy, they brought to light innumerable secrets of the healing powers in the vegetable kingdom; they first practised the art of distillation and of chemical analysis. They were the beginners of the science of Chemistry, to which they gave its name, and in which many of the commonest technical terms (such as alkali, alembic, alcohol, and many others), still attest their labors. In mathematical science they were no less industrious. To them we owe that simple and useful method which so greatly facilitates the more complex processes of calculation, without which, indeed, some of them would be impossible, and which still retains its Arabic name--Algebra. But what is more, to them we owe our system of notation, so vastly superior to that of the Greeks and Romans, so admirable in its efficacy and simplicity, that it has made arithmetic accessible to the humblest understanding; at the present time, the whole Christian world uses Arabic numerals.--H. [182] It is supposed by many that Turkey will ultimately be won to our civilization, and, as a proof of this, great stress is laid upon the efforts of the present Sultan, as well as his predecessor, to "Europeanize" the Turks. Whoever has carefully and unbiassedly studied the present condition of that nation, knows how unsuccessful these efforts, backed, though they were, by absolute authority, and by the immense influence of the whole of Western Europe, have hitherto been and always will be. It is a notorious fact, that the Turks fight less well in their semi-European dress and with their European tactics, of which so much was anticipated, than they did with their own. The Moslem now regards the Christian with the same feelings that he did in the zenith of his power, and these feelings are not the less bitter, because they can no longer be so ostentatiously displayed.--H. [183] The Arabs believed themselves the descendants of Ishmael, the son of Hagar. This belief, even before Mohammed's time, had been curiously blended with the idolatrous doctrines of some of their tribes.--H. [184] _Philip_, an Arabian adventurer who was prefect of the prætorian guards under the third Gordian, and who, through his boldness and ability, succeeded that sovereign on the throne in A. D. 244.--H. [185] _Odenathus_, senator of Palmyra, after Sapor, the King of Persia, had taken prisoner the Emperor of Rome, and was devastating the empire, met the ruthless conqueror with a body of Palmyrians, and several times routed his much more numerous armies. Being the only one who could protect the Eastern possessions of the Roman empire against the aggressions of the Persians, he was appointed _Cæsar_, or coadjutor to the emperor by Gallienus, the son of Valerian, the captive sovereign.--H. [186] The history of _Zenobia_, the Queen of the East, as she styled herself, and one of the most interesting characters in history, is well known. As in the preceding notes, I shall, therefore, merely draw attention to familiar facts, with a view to refresh the reader's memory, not to instruct him. The famous Arabian queen was the widow of Odenathus, of Palmyra, who bequeathed to her his dignity as _Cæsar_, or protector of the Eastern dominions of Rome. It soon, however, became apparent that she disdained to owe allegiance to the Roman emperors, and aimed at establishing a new great empire for herself and her descendants. Though the most accomplished, as well as the most beautiful woman of her time, she led her armies in person, and was so eminently successful in her military enterprises that she soon extended her dominion from the Euphrates to the Nile. Palmyra thus became the centre and capital of a vast empire, which, as Mr. Gobineau observes, rivalled and even threatened Rome itself. She was, however, defeated by Aurelian, and, in A. D. 273, graced the triumph of her conqueror on his return to Rome. The former splendor of the now deserted Palmyra is attested by the magnificent ruins which still form an inexhaustible theme for the admiration of the traveller and antiquarian.--H. [187] Though the mass of the nation were ignorant of letters, the Arabs had already before Mohammed's times some famous writers. They had even made voyages of discovery, in which they went as far as China. The earliest, and, as modern researches have proved, the most truthful, account of the manners and customs of that country is by Arab writers.--H. [188] At the time of the appearance of the false prophet, Arabia contained within its bosom every then known religious sect. This was owing not only to the central position of that country, but also to the liberty which was then as now a prerogative of the Arab. Among them every one was free to select or compose for himself his own private religion. While the adjacent countries were shaken by the storms of conquest and tyranny, the persecuted sects fled to the happy land where they might profess what they thought, and practice what they professed. A religious persecution had driven from Persia many who professed the religion of the ancient Magi. The Jews also were early settlers in Arabia. Seven centuries before the death of Mohammed they had firmly established themselves there. The destruction of Jerusalem brought still greater numbers of these industrious exiles, who at once erected synagogues, and to protect the wealth they rapidly acquired, built and garrisoned strongly fortified towns in various portions of the wilderness. The Bible had at an early day been translated into the Arabic tongue. Christian missionaries were not wanting, and their active zeal was eminently successful. Several of the Arab tribes had become converts. There were Christian churches in Yemen; the states of Hira and Gassan were under the jurisdiction of Jacobite and Nestorian bishops. The various heretical sects found shelter and safety among the hospitable Arabs. But this very fact proved detrimental to the progress of the Christian religion, and opened the path for the creed of Mohammed. So many and various were the Christian sects that crowded together in that country, and so widely departed from the true spirit of Christianity were some of them, that bitter hostilities sprung up among them, and their religion fell into contempt. The Eastern Christians of the seventh century had insensibly relapsed into a semblance of paganism, one of the sects (the Collyridian heretics) had even gone so far as to invest the virgin Mary with the name and honors of a goddess. This is what the author alludes to in saying that Christianity was losing favor in Arabia at the time of the appearance of Mohammed.--H. [189] The student of ecclesiastical history knows what a number of sects had sprung up about that time to distress and harass the Church. It is not so generally appreciated, however, that for the first hundred years, the progress of Islamism was almost exclusively at the expense of Christianity. The whole of the present Ottoman empire, and almost the whole northern coast of Africa were previously Christian countries. Whether the loss is greatly to be regretted, I know not, for the Syrians and Egyptians, from being very indifferent Christians, became good Mohammedans. These populations were to the Christian Church like a cankered limb, the lopping off of which may have been ordained by an all-wise Providence for the salvation of what was yet sound in the body.--H. [190] W. Von Humboldt. _Ueber die Karo-Sprache, Einleitung_, p. 243. "Durch die Richtung auf diese Bildung und durch innere Stammes-verwandschaft wurden sie wirklich für griechischen Geist und griechische Sprache empfänglich, da die Araber vorzugsweise nur an den wissenschaftlichen Resultaten griechischer Forschung hiengen." CHAPTER XV. MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL CHARACTERISTICS OF THE THREE GREAT VARIETIES. Impropriety of drawing general conclusions from individual cases--Recapitulatory sketch of the leading features of the Negro, the Yellow, and the White races--Superiority of the latter--Conclusion of volume the first. In the preceding pages, I have endeavored to show that, though there are both scientific and religious reasons for not believing in a plurality of origins of our species, the various branches of the human family are distinguished by permanent and irradicable differences, both mentally and physically. They are unequal in intellectual capacity,[191] in personal beauty, and in physical strength. Again I repeat, that in coming to this conclusion, I have totally eschewed the method which is, unfortunately for the cause of science, too often resorted to by ethnologists, and which, to say the least of it, is simply ridiculous. The discussion has not rested upon the moral and intellectual worth of isolated individuals. With regard to moral worth, I have proved that all men, to whatever race they may belong, are capable of receiving the lights of true religion, and of sufficiently appreciating that blessing to work out their own salvation. With regard to intellectual capacity, I emphatically protest against that mode of arguing which consists in saying, "every negro is a dunce;" because, by the same logic, I should be compelled to admit that "every white man is intelligent;" and I shall take good care to commit no such absurdity. I shall not even wait for the vindicators of the absolute equality of all races, to adduce to me such and such a passage in some missionary's or navigator's journal, wherefrom it appears that some Yolof has become a skilful carpenter, that some Hottentot has made an excellent domestic, that some Caffre plays well on the violin, or that some Bambarra has made very respectable progress in arithmetic. I am prepared to admit--and to admit without proof--anything of that sort, however remarkable, that may be related of the most degraded savages. I have already denied the excessive stupidity, the incurable idiotcy of even the lowest on the scale of humanity. Nay, I go further than my opponents, and am not in the least disposed to doubt that, among the chiefs of the rude negroes of Africa, there could be found a considerable number of active and vigorous minds, greatly surpassing in fertility of ideas and mental resources, the average of our peasantry, and even of some of our middle classes. But the unfairness of deductions based upon a comparison of the most intelligent blacks and the least intelligent whites, must be obvious to every candid mind. Once for all, such arguments seem to me unworthy of real science, and I do not wish to place myself upon so narrow and unsafe a ground. If Mungo Park, or the brothers Lander, have given to some negro a certificate of superior intelligence, who will assure us that another traveller, meeting the same individual, would not have arrived at a diametrically opposite conclusion concerning him? Let us leave such puerilities, and compare, not the individuals, but the masses. When we shall have clearly established of what the latter are capable, by what tendencies they are characterized, and by what limits their intellectual activity and development are circumscribed, whether, since the beginning of the historic epoch, they have acted upon, or been acted upon by other groups--when we shall have clearly established these points, we may then descend to details, and, perhaps, one day be able to decide why the greatest minds of one group are inferior to the most brilliant geniuses of another, in what respects the vulgar herds of all types assimilate, and in what others they differ, and why. But this difficult and delicate task cannot be accomplished until the relative position of the whole mass of each race shall have been nicely, and, so to say, mathematically defined. I do not know whether we may hope ever to arrive at results of such incontestable clearness and precision, as to be able to no longer trust solely to general facts, but to embrace the various shades of intelligence in each group, to define and class the inferior strata of every population and their influence on the activity of the whole. Were it possible thus to divide each group into certain strata, and compare these with the corresponding strata of every other: the most gifted of the dominant with the most gifted of the dominated races, and so on downwards, the superiority of some in capacity, energy, and activity would be self-demonstrated. After having mentioned the facts which prove the inequality of various branches of the human family, and having laid down the method by which that proof should be established, I arrived at the conclusion that the whole of our species is divisible into three great groups, which I call primary varieties, in order to distinguish them from others formed by intermixture. It now remains for me to assign to each of these groups the principal characteristics by which it is distinguished from the others. The dark races are the lowest on the scale. The shape of the pelvis has a character of animalism, which is imprinted on the individuals of that race ere their birth, and seems to portend their destiny. The circle of intellectual development of that group is more contracted than that of either of the two others. If the negro's narrow and receding forehead seems to mark him as inferior in reasoning capacity, other portions of his cranium as decidedly point to faculties of an humbler, but not the less powerful character. He has energies of a not despicable order, and which sometimes display themselves with an intensity truly formidable. He is capable of violent passions, and passionate attachments. Some of his senses have an acuteness unknown to the other races: the sense of taste, and that of smell, for instance. But it is precisely this development of the animal faculties that stamps the negro with the mark of inferiority to other races. I said that his sense of taste was acute; it is by no means fastidious. Every sort of food is welcome to his palate; none disgusts[192] him; there is no flesh nor fowl too vile to find a place in his stomach. So it is with regard to odor. His sense of smell might rather be called greedy than acute. He easily accommodates himself to the most repulsive. To these traits he joins a childish instability of humor. His feelings are intense, but not enduring. His grief is as transitory as it is poignant, and he rapidly passes from it to extreme gayety. He is seldom vindictive--his anger is violent, but soon appeased. It might almost be said that this variability of sentiments annihilates for him the existence of both virtue and vice. The very ardency to which his sensibilities are aroused, implies a speedy subsidence; the intensity of his desire, a prompt gratification, easily forgotten. He does not cling to life with the tenacity of the whites. But moderately careful of his own, he easily sacrifices that of others, and kills, though not absolutely bloodthirsty, without much provocation or subsequent remorse.[193] Under intense suffering, he exhibits a moral cowardice which readily seeks refuge in death, or in a sort of monstrous impassivity.[194] With regard to his moral capacities, it may be stated that he is susceptible, in an eminent degree, of religious emotions; but unless assisted by the light of the Gospel, his religious sentiments are of a decidedly sensual character. Having demonstrated the little intellectual and strongly sensual[195] character of the black variety, as the type of which I have taken the negro of Western Africa, I shall now proceed to examine the moral and intellectual characteristics of the second in the scale--the yellow. This seems to form a complete antithesis to the former. In them, the skull, instead of being thrown backward, projects. The forehead is large, often jutting out, and of respectable height. The facial conformation is somewhat triangular, but neither chin nor nose has the rude, animalish development that characterizes the negro. A tendency to obesity is not precisely a specific feature, but it is more often met with among the yellow races than among any others. In muscular vigor, in intensity of feelings and desires, they are greatly inferior to the black. They are supple and agile, but not strong. They have a decided taste for sensual pleasures, but their sensuality is less violent, and, if I may so call it, more vicious than the negro's, and less quickly appeased. They place a somewhat greater value upon human life than the negro does, but they are more cruel for the sake of cruelty. They are as gluttonous as the negro, but more fastidious in their choice of viands, as is proved by the immoderate attention bestowed on the culinary art among the more civilized of these races. In other words, the yellow races are less impulsive than the black. Their will is characterized by obstinacy rather than energetic violence; their anger is vindictive rather than clamorous; their cruelty more studied than passionate; their sensuality more refinedly vicious than absorbing. They are, therefore, seldom prone to extremes. In morals, as in intellect, they display a mediocrity: they are given to grovelling vices rather than to dark crimes; when virtuous, they are so oftener from a sense of practical usefulness than from exalted sentiments. In regard to intellectual capacity, they easily understand whatever is not very profound, nor very sublime; they have a keen appreciation of the useful and practical, a great love of quiet and order, and even a certain conception of a slight modicum of personal or municipal liberty. The yellow races are practical people in the narrowest sense of the word. They have little scope of imagination, and therefore invent but little: for great inventions, even the most exclusively utilitarian, require a high degree of the imaginative faculty. But they easily understand and adopt whatever is of practical utility. The _summum bonum_ of their desires and aspirations is to pass smoothly and quietly through life. It is apparent from this sketch, that they are superior to the blacks in aptitude and intellectual capacity. A theorist who would form some model society, might wish such a population to form the substratum upon which to erect his structure; but a society, composed entirely of such elements, would display neither great stamina nor capacity for anything great and exalted. We are now arrived at the third and last of the "primary" varieties--the white. Among them we find great physical vigor and capacity of endurance; an intensity of will and desire, but which is balanced and governed by the intellectual faculties. Great things are undertaken, but not blindly, not without a full appreciation of the obstacles to be overcome, and with a systematic effort to overcome them. The utilitarian tendency is strong, but is united with a powerful imaginative faculty, which elevates, ennobles, idealizes it. Hence, the power of invention; while the negro can merely imitate, the Chinese only utilize, to a certain extent, the practical results attained by the white, the latter is continually adding new ones to those already gained. His capacity for combination of ideas leads him perpetually to construct new facts from the fragments of the old; hurries him along through a series of unceasing modifications and changes. He has as keen a sense of order as the man of the yellow race, but not, like him, from love of repose and inertia, but from a desire to protect and preserve his acquisitions. At the same time, he has an ardent love of liberty, which is often carried to an extreme; an instinctive aversion to the trammels of that rigidly formalistic organization under which the Chinese vegetates with luxurious ease; and he as indignantly rejects the haughty despotism which alone proves a sufficient restraint for the black races. The white man is also characterized by a singular love of life. Perhaps it is because he knows better how to make use of it than other races, that he attaches to it a greater value and spares it more both in himself and in others. In the extreme of his cruelty, he is conscious of his excesses; a sentiment which it may well be doubted whether it exist among the blacks. Yet though he loves life better than other races, he has discovered a number of reasons for sacrificing it or laying it down without murmur. His valor, his bravery, are not brute, unthinking passions, not the result of callousness or impassivity: they spring from exalted, though often erroneous, sentiments, the principal of which is expressed by the word "honor." This feeling, under a variety of names and applications, has formed the mainspring of action of most of the white races since the beginning of historical times. It accommodates itself to every mode of existence, to every walk of life. It is as puissant in the pulpit and at the martyr's stake, as on the field of battle; in the most peaceful and humble pursuits of life as in the highest and most stirring. It were impossible to define all the ideas which this word comprises; they are better felt than expressed. But this feeling--we might call it instinctive--is unknown to the yellow, and unknown to the black races: while in the white it quickens every noble sentiment--the sense of justice, liberty, patriotism, love, religion--it has no name in the language, no place in the hearts, of other races. This I consider as the principal reason of the superiority of our branch of the human family over all others; because even in the lowest, the most debased of our race, we generally find some spark of this redeeming trait, and however misapplied it may often be, and certainly is, it prevents us, even in our deepest errors, from falling so fearfully low as the others. The extent of moral abasement in which we find so many of the yellow and black races is absolutely impossible even to the very refuse of our society. The latter may equal, nay, surpass them in crime; but even they would shudder at that hideous abyss of corrosive vices, which opens before the friend of humanity on a closer study of these races.[196] Before concluding this picture, I would add that the immense superiority of the white races in all that regards the intellectual faculties, is joined to an inferiority as strikingly marked, in the intensity of sensations. Though his whole structure is more vigorous, the white man is less gifted in regard to the perfection of the senses than either the black or the yellow, and therefore less solicited and less absorbed by animal gratifications. * * * * * I have now arrived at the historical portion of my subject. There I shall place the truths enounced in this volume in a clearer light, and furnish irrefragable proofs of the fact, which forms the basis of my theory, that nations degenerate only in consequence and in proportion to their admixture with an inferior race--that a society receives its death-blow when, from the number of diverse ethnical elements which it comprises, a number of diverse modes of thinking and interests contend for predominance; when these modes of thinking, and these interests have arisen in such multiplicity that every effort to harmonize them, to make them subservient to some great purpose, is in vain; when, therefore, the only natural ties that can bind large masses of men, homogeneity of thoughts and feelings, are severed, the only solid foundation of a social structure sapped and rotten. To furnish the necessary details for this assertion, to remove the possibility of even the slightest doubt, I shall take up separately, every great and independent civilization that the world has seen flourish. I shall trace its first beginnings, its subsequent stages of development, its decadence and final decay. Here, then, is the proper test of my theory; here we can see the laws that govern ethnical relations in full force on a magnificent scale; we can verify their inexorably uniform and rigorous application. The subject is immense, the panorama spread before us the grandest and most imposing that the philosopher can contemplate, for its tableaux comprise the scene of action of every instance where man has really worked out his mission "to have dominion over the earth." The task is great--too great, perhaps, for any one's undertaking. Yet, on a more careful investigation, many of the apparently insuperable difficulties which discouraged the inquirer will vanish; in the gorgeous succession of scenes that meet his glance, he will perceive a uniformity, an intimate relation and connection which, like Ariadne's thread, will enable the undaunted and persevering student to find his way through the mazes of the labyrinth: we shall find that every civilization owes its origin, its development, its splendors, to the agency of the white races. In China and in India, in the vast continent of the West, centuries ere Columbus found it--it was one of the group of white races that gave the impetus, and, so long as it lasted, sustained it. Startling as this assertion may appear to a great number of readers, I hope to demonstrate its correctness by incontrovertible historical testimony. Everywhere the white races have taken the initiative, everywhere they have _brought_ civilization to the others--everywhere they have sown the seed: the vigor and beauty of the plant depended on whether the soil it found was congenial or not. The migrations of the white race, therefore, afford us at once a guide for our historical researches, and a clue to many apparently inexplicable mysteries: we shall learn to understand why, in a vast country, the development of civilization has come to a stand, and been superseded by a retrogressive movement; why, in another, all but feeble traces of a high state of culture has vanished without apparent cause; why people, the lowest in the scale of intellect, are yet found in possession of arts and mechanical processes that would do honor to a highly intellectual race. Among the group of white races, the noblest, the most highly gifted in intellect and personal beauty, the most active in the cause of civilization, is the Arian[197] race. Its history is intimately associated with almost every effort on the part of man to develop his moral and intellectual powers. It now remains for me to trace out the field of inquiry into which I propose to enter in the succeeding volumes. The list of great, independent civilizations is not long. Among all the innumerable nations that "strutted their brief hour on the stage" of the world, ten only have arrived at the state of complete societies, giving birth to distinct modes of intellectual culture. All the others were imitators or dependents; like planets they revolved around, and derived their light from the suns of the systems to which they belonged. At the head of my list I would place:-- 1. The Indian civilization. It spread among the islands of the Indian Ocean, towards the north, beyond the Himalaya Mountains, and towards the east, beyond the Brahmapootra. It was originated by a white race of the Arian stock. 2. The Egyptian civilization comes next. As its satellites may be mentioned the less perfect civilizations of the Ethiopians, Nubians, and several other small peoples west of the oasis of Ammon. An Arian colony from India, settled in the upper part of the Nile valley, had established this society. 3. The Assyrians, around whom rallied the Jews, Phenicians, Lydians, Carthaginians, and Hymiarites, were indebted for their social intelligence to the repeated invasions of white populations. The Zoroastrian Iranians, who flourished in Further Asia, under the names of Medes, Persians, and Bactrians, were all branches of the Arian family. 4. The Greeks belonged to the same stock, but were modified by Shemitic elements, which, in course of time, totally transformed their character. 5. China presents the precise counterpart of Egypt. The light of civilization was carried thither by Arian colonies. The substratum of the social structure was composed of elements of the yellow race, but the white civilizers received reinforcements of their blood at various times. 6. The ancient civilization of the Italian peninsula (the Etruscan civilization), was developed by a mosaic of populations of the Celtic, Iberian, and Shemitic stock, but cemented by Arian elements. From it emerged the civilization of Rome. 7. Our civilization is indebted for its tone and character to the Germanic conquerors of the fifth century. They were a branch of the Arian family. 8, 9, 10. Under these heads I class the three civilizations of the western continent, the Alleghanian, the Mexican, and the Peruvians. This is the field I have marked out for my investigations, the results of which will be laid before the reader in the succeeding volumes. The first part of my work is here at an end--the vestibule of the structure I wish to erect is completed. FOOTNOTES: [191] I do not hesitate to consider as an unmistakable mark of intellectual inferiority, the exaggerated development of instincts that characterizes certain savages. The perfection which some of their senses acquire, cannot but be at the expense of the reasoning faculties. See, upon this subject, the opinions of Mr. Lesson des Papous, in a memoir inserted in the tenth volume of the _Annales des Sciences Naturelles_. [192] "The negro's sense of smell and of taste is as powerful as it is unselecting. He eats everything, and I have good reasons for asserting, that odors the most disagreeable to us, are positively pleasant to him." (Pruner, _Op. cit._, vol. i. p. 133.) Mr. Pruner's assertions would, I think, be corroborated by every one who has lived much among the negroes. It is a notorious fact that the blacks on our southern plantations eat every animal they can lay hold of. I have seen them discuss a piece of fox, or the still more strongly flavored pole-cat, with evident relish. Nay, on one occasion, I have known a party of negroes feast on an alligator for a whole week, during which time they bartered their allowance of meat for trinkets. Upon my expressing surprise at so strange a repast, I was assured that it was by no means uncommon; that it was a favorite viand of the negroes in their native country, and that even here they often killed them with the prospect of a savory roast or stew. I am aware that some persons north of the Mason's & Dixon's line might be disposed to explain this by asserting that _hunger_ drove them to such extremities; but I can testify, from my own observation, that this is not the case. In the instances I have mentioned, and in many others which are too repulsive to be committed to paper, the banqueters were well fed, and evidently made such a feast from choice. There are, in the Southern States, many of the poor white population who are neither so well clothed nor so well fed as these negroes were, and yet I never heard of their resorting to such dishes. In regard to the negro's fondness for odors, I am less qualified to speak from my own observations, but nearly every description of the manners of his native climes that I have read, mentioned the fact of their besmearing themselves with the strong musky fluid secreted by many animals--the alligator, for instance. And I remember having heard woodsmen in the South say, that while the white man shuns the polecat more than he does the rattlesnake, and will make a considerable circuit to get out of its way, the negro is but little afraid of this formidable animal and its nauseous weapon.--H. [193] This is illustrated by many of their practices in their natural state. For instance, the well-known custom of putting to death, at the demise of some prince or great man, a number--corresponding with the rank of the deceased--of his slaves, in order that they may wait upon him in the other world. Hundreds of poor creatures are often thus massacred at the funeral celebrations in honor of some king or ruler. Yet it would be unjust to call the negro ferocious or cruel. It merely proves the slight estimation in which he holds human life.--H. [194] There is a callousness in the negro, which strikingly distinguishes him from the whites, though it is possessed in perhaps an equal degree by other races. I borrow from Mr. Van Amringe's _Nat. Hist. of Man_, a few remarks on this subject by Dr. Mosely, in his _Treatise on Tropical Diseases_: "Negroes," says the Doctor, "whatever the cause may be, are devoid of sensibility (physical) to a surprising degree. They are not subject to nervous diseases. They sleep sound in every disease, nor does any mental disturbance ever keep them awake. They bear chirurgical operations much better than white people, and what would be the cause of insupportable pain to a white man, a negro would almost disregard. I have amputated the legs of many negroes, who have held the upper part of the limb themselves." Every southern planter, and every physician of experience in the South, could bear witness to these facts.--H. [195] Thinking that it might not be uninteresting to some of our readers to see the views concerning the negro of another European writer besides Mr. Gobineau, I subjoin the following extract from Mr. Tschudi's _Travels in South America_. Mr. Tschudi is a Swiss naturalist of undoubted reputation, an experienced philosophic observer, and a candid seeker for truth. His opinion is somewhat harsher than would be that of a man who had resided among that class all his life, but it nevertheless contains some valuable truths, and is, at least, curious on account of the source whence it comes. "In Lima, and, indeed, throughout the whole of Peru, the free negroes are a plague to society. Too indolent to support themselves by laborious industry, they readily fall into any dishonest means of getting money. Almost all the robbers that infest the roads on the coast of Peru are free negroes. Dishonesty seems to be a part of their very nature; and, moreover, all their tastes and inclinations are coarse and sensual. Many warm defenders excuse these qualities by ascribing them to the want of education, the recollection of slavery, the spirit of revenge, etc. But I here speak of free-born negroes, who are admitted into the houses of wealthy families, who, from their early childhood, have received as good an education as falls to the share of many of the white Creoles--who are treated with kindness and liberally remunerated, and yet they do not differ from their half-savage brethren who are shut out from these advantages. If the negro has learned to read and write, and has thereby made some little advance in education, he is transformed into a conceited coxcomb, who, instead of plundering travellers on the highway, finds in city life a sphere for the indulgence of his evil propensities.... My opinion is, that the negroes, in respect to capability for mental improvement, are far behind the Europeans; and that, considered in the aggregate, they will not, even with the advantages of careful education, attain a very high degree of cultivation. This is apparent from the structure of the skull, on which depends the development of the brain, and which, in the negro, approximates closely to the animal form. The imitative faculty of the monkey is highly developed in the negro, who readily seizes anything merely mechanical, whilst things demanding intelligence are beyond his reach. Sensuality is the impulse which controls the thoughts, the acts, the whole existence of the negroes. To them, freedom can be only nominal, for if they conduct themselves well, it is because they are compelled, not because they are inclined to do so. Herein lie at once the cause of, and the apology for, their bad character." (_Travels in Peru_, London, 1848, p. 110, _et passim_.)--H. [196] The sickening moral degradation of some of the branches of our species is well known to the student of anthropology, though, for obvious reasons, details of this kind cannot find a place in books destined for the general reader.--H. [197] As many of the terms of modern ethnography have not yet found their way into the dictionaries, I shall offer a short explanation of the meaning of this word, for the benefit of those readers who have not paid particular attention to that science. The word "Arian" is derived from _Aryas_ or ~Arioi~, respectively the indigenous and the Greek designation of the ancient Medes, and is applied to a race, or rather a family of races, whose original ethnological area is not as yet accurately defined, but who have gradually spread from the centre of Asia to the mouth of the Ganges, to the British Isles, and the northern extremities of Scandinavia. To this family of races belong, among others, the ancient Medes and Persians, the white conquerors of India (now forming the caste of the Brahmins), _and the Germanic races_. The whole group is often called Indo-European. The affinities between the Greek and the German languages had long been an interesting question to philologists; but Schlegel, I believe, was the first to discover the intimate relations between these two and the Sanscrit, and he applied to the whole three, and their collateral branches, the name of _Indo-Germanic_ languages. The discovery attracted the attention both of philologists and ethnographers, and it is now indubitably proved that the civilizers of India, and the subverters of the Roman Empire are descended from the same ethnical stock. It is known that the Sanscrit is as unlike all other Indian languages, as the high-caste Brahmins are unlike the Pariahs and all the other aboriginal races of that country; and Latham has lately come to the conclusion that it has actually been _carried to India from Europe_. It will be seen from this that Mr. Gobineau, in his view of the origin of various civilizations, is supported in at least several of the most important instances. It is a familiar saying that _civilization travels westward_: if we believe ethnologists, the Arian races have _always migrated in that direction_--from Central Asia to India, to Asia Minor, to Egypt, to Greece, to Western Europe, to the western coasts of the Atlantic, and the same impulse of migration is now carrying them to the Pacific.--H. APPENDIX. BY J. C. NOTT, M. D., MOBILE, ALABAMA. APPENDIX. I have seldom perused a work which has afforded me so much pleasure and instruction as the one of Count Gobineau, "_Sur l'Inégalité des Races Humaines_," and regard most of his conclusions as incontrovertible. There are, however, a few points in his argument which should not be passed without comment, and others not sufficiently elaborated. My original intention was to say much, but, fortunately for me, my colleague, Mr. Hotz, has so fully and ably anticipated me, in his Introduction and Notes, as to leave me little of importance to add. The essay of Count Gobineau is eminently practical and useful in its design. He views the various races of men rather as a historian than a naturalist, and while he leaves open the long mooted question of _unity_ of origin, he so fully establishes the _permanency_ of the actual moral, intellectual, and physical diversities of races as to leave no ground for antagonists to stand upon. Whatever _remote causes_ may be assigned, there is no appeal from the conclusion that white, black, Mongol, and other races were fully developed in nations some 3000 years before Christ, and that no physical causes, during this long course of time, have been in operation, to change one type of man into another. Count Gobineau, therefore, accepts the _existing_ diversity of races as at least an _accomplished fact_, and draws lessons of wisdom from the plain teachings of history. Man with him ceases to be an abstraction; each race, each nation, is made a separate study, and a fertile but unexplored field is opened to our view. Our author leans strongly towards a belief in the _original diversity_ of races, but has evidently been much embarrassed in arriving at conclusions by religious scruples and by the want of accurate knowledge in that part of natural history which treats of the designation of _species_, and the laws of _hybridity_; he has been taught to believe that two distinct species cannot produce perfectly prolific offspring, and therefore concludes that all races of men _must_ be of one origin, because they are prolific _inter se_. My appendix will therefore be devoted mainly to this question of species. A. Our author has taken the facts of Dr. Morton at second hand, and, moreover, had not before him Dr. Morton's later tables and more matured deductions; I shall therefore give an abstract of his results as published by himself in 1849, with some comments of my own. The figures represent the internal capacity of the skull in cubic inches, and were obtained by filling the cavity with shot and afterwards pouring them into an accurately graduated measure. It must be admitted that the collection of Morton is not sufficiently full in all its departments to enable us to arrive at the absolute capacity of crania in the different races; but it is sufficiently complete to establish beyond cavil, the fact that the crania of the white are much larger than those of the dark races. His table is very incomplete in Mongol, Malays, and some others; but in the white races of Europe, the black races, and the American, the results are substantially correct. I have myself had ample opportunities for examining the heads of living negroes and Indians of America, as well as a considerable number of crania, and can fully indorse Dr. Morton's results. It will be seen that his skulls of American aborigines amount to 338. _Table, showing the Size of the Brain in Cubic Inches, as obtained by the Measurement of 623 Crania of various Races and Families of Man._ ----------------------------------------------------------------------- | No. of | Largest | Smallest | | RACES AND FAMILIES. | skulls.| internal | internal | Mean.| Mean. | | capacity.| capacity.| | ----------------------------------------------------------------------- MODERN CAUCASIAN GROUP. | | | | | TEUTONIC FAMILY | | | | | Germans | 18 | 114 | 70 | 90 } English | 5 | 105 | 91 | 96 } 92 Anglo-Americans | 7 | 97 | 82 | 90 } PELASGIC FAMILY | | | | | Persians } | | | | Armenians } 10 | 94 | 75 | 84 | Circassians } | | | | CELTIC FAMILY | | | | | Native Irish | 6 | 97 | 78 | 87 | INDOSTANIC FAMILY | | | | | Bengalees, &c. | 32 | 91 | 67 | 80 | SHEMITIC FAMILY | | | | | Arabs | 3 | 98 | 84 | 89 | NILOTIC FAMILY | | | | | Fellahs | 17 | 96 | 66 | 80 | | | | | | ANCIENT CAUCASIAN GROUP.| | | | | PELASGIC FAMILY | | | | | Greco-Egyptians | 18 | 97 | 74 | 88 | (from Catacombs) | | | | | NILOTIC FAMILY | | | | | Egyptians | 55 | 96 | 68 | 80 | (from Catacombs) | | | | | | | | | | MONGOLIAN GROUP. | | | | | CHINESE FAMILY | 6 | 91 | 70 | 82 | | | | | | MALAY GROUP. | | | | | MALAYAN FAMILY | 20 | 97 | 68 | 86 } POLYNESIAN FAMILY | 8 | 84 | 82 | 83 } 85 | | | | | AMERICAN GROUP. | | | | | TOLTECAN FAMILY | | | | | Peruvians | 155 | 101 | 58 | 75 } Mexicans | 22 | 92 | 67 | 79 } BARBAROUS TRIBES | | | | } Iroquois } | | | } 79 Lenapè } | | | } Cherokee } 161 | 104 | 70 | 84 } Shoshonè, &c. } | | | | | | | | | NEGRO GROUP. | | | | | NATIVE AFRICAN FAMILY | 62 | 99 | 65 | 83 } AMERICAN-BORN NEGROES | 12 | 89 | 73 | 82 } 83 HOTTENTOT FAMILY | 3 | 83 | 68 | 75 | ALFOREAN FAMILY | | | | | Australians | 8 | 83 | 63 | 75 | ----------------------------------------------------------------------- Dr. Morton's mind, it will be seen by this table, had not yet freed itself from the incubus of artificial and unnatural classifications. Like Tiedemann and others, he has grouped together races which have not the slightest affinity in physical, moral, or linguistic characters. In the _Caucasian_ group, for example, are placed the Teutonic, Indostanic, Shemitic, and Nilotic families, each of which, it can be shown, has existed utterly distinct for 5000 years, not to mention many subdivisions. The table of Dr. Morton affords some curious results. His ancient Pelasgic heads and those of the modern white races, give the same size of brain, viz: 88 cubic inches; and his ancient Egyptians and their modern representatives, the Fellahs, yield the same mean, 80 cubic inches; the difference between the two groups being 8 cubic inches. These facts have a strong bearing on the question of _permanence_ of types. The small-headed Hindoos present the same cranial capacity as the Egyptians, and though these races have each been the repository of early civilization, it is a question whether either was the originator of civilization. The Egyptian race, from the earliest monumental dawn, exhibits Shemitic adulteration; and Latham proves that the Sanscrit language was not indigenous to India, but was carried there from Northern Europe in early ages by conquerors. Again, in the negro group, while it is absolutely shown that certain African races, whether born in Africa, or of the tenth descent in America, give a cranial capacity almost identical, 83 cubic inches; we see, on the contrary, the Hottentot and Australian yielding a mean of but 75 inches, thereby showing a like difference of eight cubic inches. In the American group, also, the same parallel holds good. The Toltecan family, the most civilized race, exhibit a mean of but 77 inches, while the barbarous tribes give 84, that is, a difference of 7 inches in favor of the savage. While, however, the Toltecans have the smaller heads, they are, according to Combe, much more developed in the anterior or _intellectual_ lobes, which may serve to explain this apparent paradox. When we compare the highest and lowest races with each other, the contrast becomes still more striking, viz: the Teutonic with the Hottentot and Australian. The former family gives a mean capacity of 92 inches, while the latter two yield but 75, or a difference of _17 cubic inches_ between the skulls of these types! Now, as far back as history and monuments carry us, as well as crania and other testimonies, these various types have been _permanent_; and most of them we can trace back several thousand years. If such permanence of type through thousands of years, and in defiance of all climatic influences, does not establish _specific_ characters, then is the naturalist at sea without a compass to guide him. These facts determine clearly the arbitrary nature of all classifications heretofore adopted; the Teuton, the Jew, the Hindoo, the Egyptian, &c., have all been included under the term _Caucasian_; and yet they have, as far as we know, been through all time as distinct in physical and moral characters from each other, as they have from the negro races of Africa and Oceanica. The same diversity of types is found among all the other groups, or arbitrary divisions of the human family. Rich and rare as is the collection of Dr. Morton, it is very defective in many of its divisions, and it occurred to me that this deficiency might to some degree be supplied by the hat manufacturers of various nations; notwithstanding that the information derived from this source could give but one measurement, viz: the _horizontal periphery_. Yet this one measurement alone, on an extended scale, would go far towards determining the general size of the brain. I accordingly applied to three hat dealers in Mobile, and a large manufacturer in New Jersey, for statements of the relative number of hats of each size sold to adult males; their tables agree so perfectly as to leave no doubt as to the circumference of the heads of the white population of the United States. The three houses together dispose of about 15,000 hats annually. The following table was obligingly sent me by Messrs. Vail & Yates, of Newark; and they accompanied it with the remark, that their hats were sent principally to our Western States, where there is a large proportion of German population; also that the sizes of these hats were a little larger (about one fourth of an inch) than those sold in the Southern States. This remark was confirmed by the three dealers in Mobile. Our table gives, 1st. The number or size of the hat. 2d. The circumference of the head corresponding. 3d. The circumference of the hat; and lastly, the relative proportion of each No. sold out of 12 hats. Size--inches. Circum. Circum. Relative of head. of hat. prop. in 12. 6-7/8 21-5/8 22-3/8 1 7 22 22-3/4 2 7-1/8 22-3/8 23-1/8 3 7-1/4 22-3/4 23-1/2 3 7-3/8 23-1/8 23-7/8 2 7-1/2 23-1/2 24-1/4 1 All hats larger than these are called "extra sizes." The average size, then, of the crania of white races in the United States, is about 22-1/2 inches circumference, including the hair and scalp, for which about 1-1/2 inches should be deducted, leaving a mean horizontal periphery, for adult males, of 21 inches. The measurements of the purest Teutonic races in Germany and other countries, would give a larger mean; and I have reason to believe that the population of France, which is principally Celtic, would yield a smaller mean. I hope that others will extend these observations. Dr. Morton's measurements of aboriginal American races, give a mean of but 19-1/2 inches; and this statement is greatly strengthened by the fact that the Mexicans and other Indian races wear much smaller hats than our white races. (See _Types of Mankind_, p. 289 and 453.) Prof. Tiedemann, of Heidelberg, asserts that the head of the negro is as large as that of the white man, but this we have shown to be an error. (_Types of Mankind_, p. 453.) Tiedemann adopted the vulgar error of grouping together under the term _Caucasian_, all the Indo-Germanic, Shemitic, and Nilotic races; also all the black and dark races of Africa under the term _Negro_. Now I have shown that the Hindoo and Egyptian races possess about 12 cubic inches less of brain than the Teutonic; and the Hottentots about 8 inches less than the Negro proper. I affirm that no valid reason has ever been assigned why the Teuton and Hindoo, or Hottentot and Negro, should be classed together in their cranial measurements. I can discover no facts which can assign a greater age to one of these races than another; and unless Professor Tiedemann can overcome these difficulties, he has no right to assume identity for the various races he is pleased to group under each of his arbitrary divisions. Mummies from the catacombs, and portraits on the monuments, show that the heads of races on both sides of the Red Sea have remained unchanged 4000 years. As Dr. Morton tabulated his skulls on the same arbitrary basis, I abandon his arrangement and present his facts as they stand in nature, allowing the reader to compare and judge for himself. The following table gives the _internal capacity_ in cubic inches, and it will be seen that the measurements arrange themselves in a sliding scale of 17 cubic inches from the Teuton down to the Hottentot and Australian. _Internal Capacity of Brain in Cubic Inches._ RACES. Internal Internal capacity. capacity. Mean. Mean. MODERN WHITE RACES-- Teutonic group 92 92 Pelasgic " 84 } Celtic " 87 } 88 Shemitic " 89 } ANCIENT PELASGIC 88 MALAYS 85 } 83-1/2 CHINESE 82 } NEGROES (AFRICAN) 83 83 INDOSTANESE 80 } FELLAHS (modern Egyptians) 80 } 80 EGYPTIANS (ancient) 80 } AMERICAN GROUP-- Toltecan family 77 } 79 Barbarous tribes 84 } HOTTENTOTS 75 } 75 AUSTRALIANS 75 } Such has been, through several thousand years, the incessant commingling of races, that we are free to admit that absolute accuracy in measurements of crania cannot now be attained. Yet so constant are the results in contrasting groups, that no unprejudiced mind can deny that there is a wide and well-marked disparity in the cranial developments of races. B. As the discussion stands at the present day, we may assume that the scientific world is pretty equally divided on the question of unity of the human family, and the point is to be settled by facts, and not by names. Natural history is a comparatively new and still rapidly progressing science, and the study of man has been one of the last departments to attract serious attention. Blumenbach and Prichard, who may be regarded among the early explorers in this vast field, have but recently been numbered with the dead; and we may safely assert that the last ten years have brought forth materials which have shed an entirely new light on this subject. Mr. Agassiz, Dr. Morton, Prof. Leidy, and many other naturalists of the United States, contend for an original diversity in the races of men, and we shall proceed to give some of the reasons why we have adopted similar views. Two of the latest writers of any note on the opposite side are the Rev. Dr. Bachman, of Charleston, and M. Flourens, of Paris; and as these gentlemen have very fully travelled over the argument opposed to us, we shall take the liberty, in the course of our remarks, to offer some objections to their views. The great difficulty in this discussion is, to define clearly what meaning should be attached to the term _species_; and to the illustration of this point, mainly, will our labors be confined. _Genera_ are, for the most part, well defined by _anatomical_ characters, and little dispute exists respecting them; but no successful attempt has yet been made to designate _species_ in this way, and it is by their _permanency of type alone_, as ascertained from written or monumental records, that our decision can be guided. SPECIES. The following definitions of species have been selected by Dr. Bachman, and may be received as unexceptionable as any others; but we shall show that they fall far short of the true difficulties of the case. "We are under the necessity of admitting the existence of certain forms, which have perpetuated themselves, from the beginning of the world, without exceeding the limits prescribed: all the individuals belonging to one of these forms constitute a _species_."--CUVIER. "We unite under the designation species all those individuals who mutually bear to each other so close a resemblance as to allow of our supposing that they may have proceeded originally from a single being, or a single pair."--DE CANDOLLE. "The name species is applied to an assemblage of individuals which bear a strong resemblance to each other, and which are perpetuated with the same essential qualities. Thus man, the dog, the horse, constitute to the zoologist so many distinct species."--MILNE EDWARDS and ACHILLE COMPTE. We have no objection to this definition, but the examples cited are points in dispute, and not received by many of the leading naturalists of the day. "Species are fixed and permanent forms of being, exhibiting indeed certain modes of variation, of which they may be more or less susceptible, but maintaining throughout those modifications a sameness of structural essentials, transmitted from generation to generation, and never lost by the influence of causes which otherwise produce obvious effects. _Varieties_ are either accidental or the result of the care and culture of man."[198]--MARTIN. Dr. Bachman gives another, substantially the same, from Agassiz; and also one of his own, to which he appends, as an additional test of species, the production of "_fertile offspring by association_." In this definition the doctor _assumes_ one of the main points in dispute. "_Varieties_," says Dr. Bachman, "are those that are produced within the limits of particular species, and have not existed from its origin. They sometimes originate in wild species, especially those that have a wide geographical range, and are thus exposed to change of climate and temperature," &c. * * * "_Permanent varieties_ are such as, having once taken place, are propagated in perpetuity, and do not change their characteristics unless they breed with other varieties." We may remark that the existence of such _permanent varieties_ as here described is also in dispute. The same author continues:-- "On comparing these definitions, as given by various naturalists, each in his own language, it will be perceived that there is no essential difference in the various views expressed in regard to the characters by which a species is designated. They all regard it as 'the lowest term to which we descend, with the exception of _varieties_, such as are seen in domestic animals.' They are, to examine the external and internal organization of the animal or plant--they are, to compare it with kindred species, and if by this examination they are found to possess _permanent characters differing from those of other species, it proves itself to be a distinct species_. When this fact is satisfactorily ascertained, and the specimen is not found a domestic species, in which varieties always occur, presumptive evidence is afforded of its having had a primordial existence. We infer this from the fact that no species is the production of blind chance, and that within the _knowledge of history_ no true species, but _varieties_ only, whose origin can be _distinctly traced to existing and well-known species_, have made their appearance in the world. This, then, is the only means within the knowledge of man by which any species of plant or animal _can be shown_ to be primordial. The peculiar form and characters designated the species, and its origin was a necessary inference derived from the characters stamped on it by the hand of the Creator." To all the positions thus far taken by Dr. Bachman, we most cheerfully subscribe; they are strictly scientific, and by such criteria alone do we desire to test the unity of the human family; but we must enter a decided demurrer to the assertion which follows, viz: that, "according to the universally received definition of species, all the individuals of the human race are proved to be of one species." When it shall be shown that all the races of men, dogs, horses, cattle, wolves, foxes, &c., are "varieties only, _whose origin can be distinctly traced to existing and well-known species_," we may then yield the point; but we must be permitted to say that Dr. Bachman is the only naturalist, as far as we know, who has assumed to know these original types. Now, if the reader will turn back and review carefully all the definitions of species cited, he will perceive that they are not based upon _anatomical characters_, but simply on the _permanency_ of certain organic forms, and that this permanence of form is determined by its _history_ alone. Professor Owen, of London, has thrown the weight of his great name into the scale, and tells us that "man is the sole species of his genus, the sole representative of his order." But proving that man is not a monkey, as the professor has done in the lecture alluded to, does not prove that men are all of _one_ species, according to any definition yet received: he has made the assertion, but has assigned no scientific reasons to sustain it. No one would be more rejoiced than ourselves, to see the great talent and learning of Professor Owen brought fully to bear on this point; but, like most naturalists, he has overlooked one of the most important points in this discussion--_the monumental history of man_. Will Professor Owen or Dr. Bachman tell us wherein the lion and tiger--the dog, wolf, fox, and jackal--the fossil horse, and living species--the Siberian mammoth and the Indian elephant, differ more from each other than the white man and the negro? Are not all these regarded by naturalists as distinct species, and yet who pretends to be able to distinguish the skeleton of one from the other by specific characters? The examples just cited, of living species, have been decided upon simply from their permanency of type, as derived from their history; and we say that, by the same process of reasoning, the races of men depicted on the monuments of Egypt, five thousand years ago, and which have maintained their types through all time and all climates since, are _distinct species_. Dr. Morton defines species--"a primordial organic form," and determines these forms by their permanence through all human records; and Mr. Agassiz, who adopts this definition, adds: "Species are thus distinct forms of organic life, the origin of which is lost in the primitive establishment of the state of things now existing; and varieties are such modification of the species as may return to the typical form under temporary influences." Dr. Bachman objects very strongly to this definition, and declares it a "cunning device, and, to all intents, an _ex post facto_ law," suddenly conjured up during a controversy, to avoid the difficulties of the case; but we have serious doubts whether these gentlemen are capable of such subterfuge in matters of science, and confess that we cannot see any substantial difference between their definition and those given by Dr. Bachman. Morton and Agassiz determine a form to be "_primordial_" by its permanency, as proved by history, and the other definitions assign no other test. Professor Leidy, who has not only studied the "lower departments of zoology," like Mr. Agassiz, but also the "higher forms of animal life," says that "too much importance has been attached to the term species," and gives the following definition: "A species of plant or animal may be defined to be an immutable organic form, whose characteristic distinctions may always be recognized by _a study of its history_."[199] M. Jourdain, under the head "Espèce," in his _Dictionnaire des Termes des Sciences Naturelles_, after citing a long list of definitions from leading authors, concludes with the following remarks, which, as the question now stands before the world, places the term species just where it should be:-- "It is evident that we can, among organized bodies, regard as a _species_ only such a collection of beings as resemble each other more than they resemble others, and which, by a consent more or less unanimous, it is agreed to designate by a common name; for a _species_ is but a simple _abstraction of the mind_, and not a group, exactly determined by nature herself, as ancient as she is, and of which she has irrevocably traced the limits. It is in the definition of species that we recognize how far the influence of ideas adopted without examination in youth is powerful in obscuring the most simple ideas of general physics." Although not written with the expectation of publication, I will take the liberty of publishing the following private letter just received from Prof. Leidy. He has not appeared at all in this controversy before the public, and we may safely say that no one can be better qualified than he is to express an opinion on this question of species. "With all the contention about the question of what constitutes a _species_, there appears to be almost no difficulty, comparatively, in its practical recognition. Species of plants and animals are daily determined, and the characters which are given to distinguish them are viewed by the great body of naturalists as sufficient. All the definitions, however, which have been given for a species, are objectionable. Morton says: 'A species is a primordial organic form.' But how shall we distinguish the latter? How can it be proved that any existing forms primordially were distinct? In my attempted definition, I think, I fail, for I only direct how species are discovered. "According to the practical determination of a species by naturalists, in a late number of the _Proceedings_ of our Academy (vol. vii. p. 201), I observe: 'A species is a mere convenient word with which naturalists empirically designate groups of organized beings possessing characters of comparative constancy, as far as historic experience has guided them in giving due weight to such constancy.' "According to this definition, the races of men are evidently distinct species. But it may be said that the definition is given to suit the circumstances. So it is, and so it should be; or, if not, then all characterized species should conform to an arbitrary definition. The species of gypætus, haliætus, tanagra, and of many other genera of birds, are no more distinguishable than the species of men; and, I repeat, the anatomy of one species of haliætus, or of any other genus, will answer for that of all the other species of the same genus. The same is the case with mammals. One species of felis, ursus, or equus will give the exact anatomy of all the other species in each genus, just as you may study the anatomy of the white man upon the black man. While Prof. Richard Owen will compare the orang with man, and therefore deduce all races of the latter to be of one species, he divides the genus cervus into several other genera, and yet there is no difference in their internal anatomy; while he considers the horse and the ass as two distinct genera, and says that a certain fossil horse-tooth, carefully compared with the corresponding tooth of the recent horse, showed no differences, excepting in being a little more curved, he considers it a distinct species, under the name of equus curvidens; and yet, with differences of greater value in the jaws of the negro and white man, he considers them the same. "In the restricted genera of vertebrata of modern naturalists, the specific characters are founded on the external appendages, for the most part--differences in the scales, horns, antlers, feathers, hairs, or bills. Just as you separate the black and white man by the difference in the color of the skin and the character of the hair, so do we separate the species of bears, or cats, &c. "PHILADELPHIA, _April 18, 1855_." We might thus go on and multiply, to the extent of an octavo volume, evidence to show how vague and unsettled is the term species among naturalists, and that, when we abandon historical records, we have no reliable guide left. Moreover, were we able to establish perfectly reliable landmarks between species, we still have no means of determining whether they were originally created in one pair, or many pairs. The latter is certainly the most rational supposition: there is every reason to believe that the earth and the sea brought forth "_abundantly_" of each species. It must be clear to the reader, from the evidence above adduced, that Dr. Bachman claims far too much when he asserts that-- "Naturalists can be found, in Europe and America, who, without any _vain boast_, can distinguish every species of bird and quadruped on their separate continents; and the characters which distinguish and separate the several species are as distinct and infallible as are those which form the genera."[200] And, again, when he says:-- "From the opportunities we have enjoyed in the examination of the varieties and species of domesticated quadrupeds and birds, we have never found any difficulty in deciding on the species to which these varieties belong." Those of us who are still groping in darkness certainly have a right to ask who are the authorities alluded to, and what are those "characters which distinguish and separate species" as distinctly and infallibly as "genera?" They are certainly not in print. The doctor must pardon us for reminding him that there is printed evidence that his own mind is not always free from doubts. In the introduction of Audubon and Bachman's _Quadrupeds of America_, p. vii., it is said:-- "Although _genera_ may be easily ascertained by the forms and dental arrangements peculiar to each, many _species_ so nearly approach each other in size, while they are so variable in color, that it is exceedingly difficult to separate them with positive certainty." Again, in speaking of the genus _vulpes_ (foxes), the same work says:-- "The characters of this genus differ so slightly from those of the genus _canis_, that we are induced to pause before removing it from the sub-genus in which it had so long remained. As a general rule, we are obliged to _admit that a large fox is a wolf, and a small wolf may be termed a fox_. So inconveniently large, however, is the list of species in the old genus _canis_, that it is, we think, advisable to separate into distinct groups such species as possess any characters different from true wolves." Speaking of the origin of the domestic dog, Dr. Bachman, in his work on _Unity of Races_, p. 63, says:-- "Notwithstanding all these difficulties--and we confess we are not free from some doubts in regard to their identity (dog and wolf)--if we were called upon to decide on any wild species as the progenitor of our dogs, we would sooner fix upon the large wolf than on any other dog, hyena, or jackal," &c. The doctor is unable, here at least (and we can point out many other cases), to "designate species;" and the recent investigations of Flourens, at the _Jardin des Plantes_, prove him wrong as regards the origin of the dog. The dog is not derived from the "large wolf," but, with it, produces hybrids, sterile after the third generation. The dog forms a genus apart. We repeat, then, that in a large number of _genera_, the species cannot be separated by any anatomical characters, and that it is from their history alone naturalists have arrived at those minute divisions now generally received. We may, without the fear of contradiction, go a step further, and assert that several of the races of men are as widely separated in physical organization, physiological and psychological characters, as are the canidæ, equidæ, felines, elephants, bears and others. When the white races of Europe, the Mongols of Asia, the aborigines of America, the black races of Africa and Oceanica are placed beside each other, they are marked by stronger differences than are the species of the genera above named. It has been objected that these gaps are filled by intermediate links which make the chain complete from one extremity to the other. The admission of the fact does not invalidate our position, for we have shown elsewhere (see _Types of Mankind_) _gradation_ is the law of nature. The extreme types, we have proven, have been distinct for more than 5000 years, and no existing causes during that time have transformed one type into another. The well-marked negro type, for example, stands face to face with the white type on the monuments of Egypt; and they differ more from each other than the dog and wolf, ass and _Equis Hemionus_, lion and tiger, &c. The hair and skin, the size and shape of head, the pelvis, the extremities, and other points, separate certain African and Oceanican negroes more widely than the above species. This will not be questioned, whatever difference of opinion may exist with regard to the permanency of these forms. In the language of Prof. Leidy, "the question to be determined is, whether the differences in the races of men are as permanent and of as much value as those which characterize species in the lower genera of animals." These races of men too are governed by the same laws of geographical distribution, as the species of the lower genera; they are found, as far back as history can trace them, as widely separated as possible, and surrounded by local Floræ and Faunæ. VARIETIES. This term is very conveniently introduced to explain all the difficulties which embarrass this discussion. Dr. Bachman insists that all the races of men are mere _varieties_, and sustains the opinion by a repetition of those analogies which have been so often drawn from the animal kingdom by Prichard and his school. It is well known that those animals which have been domesticated undergo, in a few generations, very remarkable changes in color, form, size, habits, &c. For example, all the hogs, black, white, brown, gray, spotted, &c., now found scattered over the earth, have, it is said, their parentage in one pair of wild hogs. "This being admitted," says Dr. B. "we invite the advocates of plurality in the human species to show wherein these varieties are less striking than their eight (alluding to Agassiz) originally created nations." Again-- "And how has the discovery been made that all the permanent races are mere varieties, and not 'originally created' species, or 'primitive varieties?' Simply because the naturalists of Germany, finding that the original wild hog still exists in their forests, have, in a thousand instances, reclaimed them from the woods. By this means they have discovered that their descendants, _after a few generations_, lose their ferocity, assume all colors," &c. The same reasoning is applied to horses, cattle, goats, sheep, &c., while many, if not most of the best naturalists of the day deny that we know anything of the origin of our domestic animals. Geoffroy St. Hilaire, in his work, just out, denies it in toto. We are, however, for the sake of argument, willing to admit all the examples, and all he claims with regard to the origin of endless varieties in domesticated animals.[201] Let us, on the other hand, "invite the advocates of _unity_ of the human species" to say when and where such varieties have sprung up in the human family. We not only have the written history of man for 2000 years, but his monumental history for 2000 more; and yet, while the naturalists of Germany are catching wild hogs, and recording in a thousand instances "after a few generations" these wonderful changes, no one has yet pointed out anything analogous in the human family; the porcupine family in England, a few spotted Mexicans, &c., do not meet the case; history records the origin of no permanent variety. No race of men has in the same country turned black, brown, gray, white, and spotted. The negroes in America have not in ten generations turned to all colors, though fully _domesticated_, like pigs and turkeys. The Jews in all countries for 2000 years are still Jews. The gypsies are everywhere still gypsies. In India, the different castes, of different colors, have been living together several thousand years, and are still distinct, &c. &c. Nor does domestication affect all animals and fowls equally; compare the camel, ass, and deer, with the hog and dog; the Guinea fowl, pea fowl, and goose, with pigeons, turkeys, and common fowls. In fact, no one animal can be taken as an analogue for another: each has its own physiological laws; each is influenced differently and in different degrees by the same external influences. How, then, can an animal be taken as an analogue for man? We have also abundant authority to show that all wild species do not present the same uniformity in external characters. "All packs of American wolves usually consist of various shades of color, and varieties nearly black have been occasionally found in every part of the United States.... In a gang of wolves which existed in Colleton District, South Carolina, a few years ago (sixteen of which were killed by hunters in eighteen months), we were informed that about one-fifth were black, and the others of every shade of color, from black to dusky gray and yellowish white."--AUDUBON & BACHMAN, 2d Amer. ed., vol. ii. pp. 130-1. Speaking of the white American wolf, the same authors say:-- "Their gait and movements are precisely the same as those of the common dog, and their mode of copulating and number of young brought forth at a litter, are about the same." (It might have been added that their number of bones, teeth, whole anatomical structure are the same.) "The diversity of their size and color is remarkable, no two being quite alike."... "The wolves of the prairies ... produce from six to eleven at a birth, of which there are very seldom two alike in color."--_Op. cit._, p. 159. "The common American wolf, Richardson observes, sometimes shows remarkable diversity of color. On the banks of the Mackenzie River I saw five young wolves leaping and tumbling over each other with all the playfulness of the puppies of the domestic dog, and it is not improbable they were all of one litter. One of them was pied, another black, and the rest showed the colors of the common gray wolves." The same diversity is seen in the prairie wolf, and naturalists have been much embarrassed in classifying the various wolves on account of colors, size, &c. All this is independent of _domestication_, and shows the uncertainty of analogues; and still it is remarkable that though considerable variety exists in the native dogs of America in color and size, they do not run into the thousand grotesque forms seen on the old continent, where a much greater mixture exists. The dogs of America, like the aboriginal races of men, are comparatively uniform. In the East, where various races have come together, the men, like the dogs, present endless varieties, Egypt, Assyria, India, &c. Let us suppose that one variety of hog had been discovered in Africa, one in Asia, one in Europe, one in Australia, another in America, as well marked as those Dr. B. describes; that these varieties had been transferred to other climates as have been Jews, gypsies, negroes, &c., and had remained for ages without change of form or color, would they be considered as distinct species or not?--can any one doubt? The rule must work both ways, or the argument falls to the ground. In fact the Dr. himself makes admissions which fully refute his whole theory. "Whilst," says he, "we are willing to allow some weight to the argument advanced by President Smyth, who endeavors to account for the varieties in man from the combined influences of three causes, 'climate, the state of society, and manner of living,' we are free to admit that it is impossible to account for the varieties in the human family from the causes which he has assigned."[202] The Dr. further admits, in the same work, that the races have been _permanent_ since the time of the old Egyptian empire, and _supposes_ that at some extremely remote time, of which we have no record, that "they were more susceptible of producing varieties than at a later period." These suppositions answer a very good purpose in theology, but do not meet the requirements of science. HYBRIDITY. Having shown the insufficiency of all the other arguments in establishing the landmarks of _species_, let us now turn to those based on _hybridity_, which seems to be the last stronghold of the unity party. On this point hang all the difficulties of M. Gobineau, and had he been posted up to date here, his doubts would all have vanished. The last twelve months have added some very important facts to those previously published, and we shall, with as little detail as possible, present the subject in its newest light. It is contended that when two animals of distinct species, or, in other words, of distinct origin, are bred together, they produce a hybrid which is _infertile_, or which at least becomes sterile in a few generations if preserved free from admixture with the parent stocks. It is assumed that unlimited prolificness is a certain test of community of origin. We, on the contrary, contend that there is no abrupt line of demarcation; that no complete laws of hybridity have yet been established; that there is a _regular gradation_ in the prolificness of the species, and that, according to the best lights we now possess, there is a continued series from perfect sterility to perfect prolificacy. The degrees may be expressed in the following language:-- 1. That in which hybrids never reproduce; in other words, where the mixed progeny begins and ends with the first cross. 2. That in which the hybrids are incapable of producing _inter se_, but multiply by union with the parent stock. 3. That in which animals of unquestionably distinct species produce a progeny which are prolific _inter se_, but have a tendency to run out. 4. That which takes place between closely proximate species; among mankind, for example, and among those domestic animals most essential to human wants and happiness; here the prolificacy is unlimited. It seems to be a law that in those genera where several or many species exist, there is a certain gradation which is shown in degrees of hybridity; some having greater affinity than others. Experiments are still wanting to make our knowledge perfect, but we know enough to establish our points. There are many points we have not space to dwell on, as the relative influence of the male and female on the offspring; the tendency of one species to predominate over another; the tendency of types to "crop out" after lying dormant for many generations; the fact that in certain species some of the progeny take after one parent and some after the other, while in other cases the offspring presents a medium type, &c. The genus _Equus_ (Horse) comprises six species, of which three belong to Asia, and three to Africa. The Asiatic species are the _Equus Caballus_ (Horse), _Equus Hemionus_ (Dzigguetai), and _Equus Asinus_ (Ass). Those of Africa are the _Equus Zebra_ (Zebra), _Equus Montanus_ (Daw), and the _Equus Quaccha_ (Quagga). The horse and ass alone have been submitted to domestication from time immemorial; the others have remained wild. It is well known that the horse and ass produce together an unprolific mule, and as these two species are the furthest removed from each other in their physical structure, Dr. Morton long since suggested that intermediate species bred together would show a higher degree of prolificness, and this prediction has been vindicated by experiments recently made in the Garden of Plants at Paris, where the ass and dzigguetai have been bred together for the last ten years. "What is very remarkable, these hybrids differ considerably from each other; some resemble much more closely the dzigguetai, others the ass." In regard to the product of the male dzigguetai and the jenny, Mr. Geoffroy St. Hilaire says:[203]-- "Another fact, not less worthy of interest, is the fecundity, if not of all the mules, at least the firstborn among them; with regard to this, the fact is certain; he has produced several times with Jennies, and once with the female dzigguetai, the only one he has covered."[204] At a meeting of the "Société Zoologique d'Acclimation," M. Richard (du Cantal) "parle des essais de croisements de l'hémione avec l'anesse, et dit qu'ils ont donnè un mulet beaucoup _plus ardent_ que l'âne. Il asserte que les produits de l'hémione avec l'âne, sont féconds, et que le métis, nommé Polka, à déja produit." To what extent the prolificness of these two species will go is yet to be determined, and there is an unexplored field still open among the other species of this genus; it is highly probable that a gradation may be established from sterility, up to perfect prolificacy. Not only do the female ass and the male onager breed together, but a male offspring of this cross, with a mare, produces an animal more docile than either parent, and combining the best physical qualities, such as strength, speed, &c.; whence the ancients preferred the onager to the ass, for the production of mules.[205] Mr. Gliddon, who lived upwards of twenty years in Egypt and other eastern countries, informs me this opinion is still prevalent in Egypt, and is acted upon more particularly in Arabia, Persia, &c., where the _gour_, or wild ass, still roams the desert. The zebra has also been several times crossed with the horse. The genus _canis_ contains a great many species, as domestic dogs, wolves, foxes, jackals, &c., and much discussion exists as to which are really species and which mere varieties. In this genus experiments in crossing have been carried a step further than in the _Equidæ_, but there is much yet to be done. All the species produce prolific offspring, but how far the prolificness might extend in each instance is not known; there is reason to believe that every grade would be found except that of absolute sterility which is seen in the offspring of the horse and ass. The following facts are given by M. Flourens, and are the result of his own observations at the _Jardin des Plantes_. "The hybrids of the dog and wolf are sterile after the _third_ generation; those of the jackal and dog, are so after the _fourth_. "Moreover, if one of these hybrids is bred with one of the primitive species, they soon return, completely and totally, to this species. "My experiments on the crossing of species have given me opportunities of making a great many observations of this kind. "The union of the dog and jackal produces a hybrid--a mixed animal, an animal partaking almost equally of the two, but in which, however, the type of the _jackal_ predominates over that of the _dog_. "I have remarked, in fact, in my experiments, that all types are not equally dominant and persistent. The type of the dog is more persistent than that of the wolf--that of the jackal more than that of the dog; that of the horse is less than that of the ass, &c. The hybrid of the dog and the wolf partakes more of the dog than the wolf; the hybrid of the jackal and dog, takes more after the jackal than dog; the hybrid of the horse and the ass partakes less of the horse than the ass; it has the ears, back, rump, voice of the ass; the horse neighs, the ass brays, and the mule brays like the ass, &c. "The hybrid of the dog and jackal, then, partakes more of the jackal than dog--it has straight ears, hanging tail, does not bark, and is wild--it is more jackal than dog. "So much for the FIRST cross product of the dog with the jackal. I continue to unite, from generation to generation, the successive products with one of the two primitive stocks--with that of the dog, for example. The hybrid of the _second generation_ does not yet bark, but has already the ears pendent at the ends, and is less savage. The hybrid of the third generation barks, has the ears pendent, the tail turned up, and is no longer wild. The hybrid of the _fourth generation_ is entirely a dog. "Four generations, then, have sufficed to re-establish one of the two primitive types--the type of the dog; and four generations suffice, also, to bring back the other type."[206] From the foregoing facts, M. Flourens deduces, without assigning a reason, the following _non sequitur_:-- "Thus, then, either hybrids, born of the union of two distinct species, unite and soon become sterile, or they unite with one of the parent stocks, and soon return to this type--they in no case give what may be called a new species, that is to say, an intermediate durable species."[207] The dog also produces hybrids with the fox and hyena, but to what extent has not yet been determined. The hybrid fox is certainly prolific for several generations. There are also bovine, camelline, caprine, ovine, feline, deer with the ram, and endless other hybrids, running through the animal kingdom, but they are but repetitions of the above facts, and experiments are still far from being complete in establishing the _degrees_ which attach to each two species. We have abundant proofs, however, of the three first degrees of hybridity. 1st. Where the hybrid is infertile. 2d. Where it produces with the parent stock. 3d. Where it is prolific for one, two, three, or four generations, and then becomes sterile. Up to this point there is no diversity of opinion. Let us now inquire what evidence there is of the existence of the 4th degree, in which hybrids may form a new and permanent race. To show how slow has been our progress in this question, and what difficulties beset our path, we need only state that the facts respecting the dog, wolf, and jackal, quoted above from Flourens, have only been published within the last twelve months. The identity of the dog and wolf has heretofore been undetermined, and the _degrees_ of hybridity of the dog with the wolf and jackal were before unknown. These experiments do not extend beyond one species of wolf. M. Flourens says:-- "_Les espèces ne s'altèrent point, ne changent point, ne passent point de l'une à l'autre; les espèces sont_ FIX�S." "If species have a tendency to transformation, to pass one into another, why has not time, which, in everything, effects all that can happen, ended by disclosing, by betraying, by implying this tendency. "But time, they may tell me, is wanting. It is not wanting. It is 2000 years since Aristotle wrote, and we recognize in our day all the animals which he describes; and we recognize them by the characters which he assigns.... Cuvier states that the history of the elephant is more exact in Aristotle than in Buffon. They bring us every day from Egypt, the remains of animals which lived there two or three thousand years ago--the ox, crocodiles, ibis, &c. &c., which are the same as those of the present day. We have under our eyes _human mummies_--the skeleton of that day is identical with that of the Egyptian of our day." (M. Flourens might have added that the mummies of the white and black races show them to have been as distinct then as now, and that the monumental drawings represent the different races more than a thousand years further back.) "Thus, then, through three thousand years, no species has changed. An experiment which continues through three thousand years, is not an experiment to be made--it is an experiment _made_. Species do not change."[208] _Permanence of type_, then, is the only test which he can adduce for the designation of species, and he here comes back plainly to the position we have taken. Let us now test the races of men by this rule. The white Asiatic races, the Jew, the Arab, the Egyptian, the negro, at least, are distinctly figured on the monuments of Egypt and Assyria, as distinct as they are now, and _time_ and change of climate have not transformed any one type into another. In whatever unexplored regions of the earth the earliest voyagers have gone, they have found races equally well marked. These races are all prolific _inter se_, and there is every reason to believe that we here find the fourth and last degree of hybridity. Whether the prolificacy is _unlimited_ between all the races or species of men is still an unsettled point, and experiments have not yet been fully and fairly made to determine the question. The dog and wolf become sterile at the _third_. The dog and jackal at the fourth generation, and who can tell whether the law of hybridity might not show itself in man, after a longer succession of generations. There are no observations yet of this kind in the human family. It is a common belief in our Southern States, that mulattoes are less prolific, and attain a less longevity than the parent stocks. I am convinced of the truth of this remark, when applied to the mulatto from the strictly white and black races, and I am equally convinced, from long personal observation, that the _dark_-skinned European races, as Spaniards, Portuguese, Italians, Basques, &c., mingle much more perfectly with the negroes than do fair races, thus carrying out the law of gradation in hybridity. If the mulattoes of New Orleans and Mobile be compared with those of the Atlantic States, the fact will become apparent. The argument in favor of unlimited prolificacy between species may be strongly corroborated by an appeal to the history of our domestic animals, whose history is involved in the same impenetrable mystery as that of man. M. Geoffroy St. Hilaire very justly remarks that we know nothing of the origin of our domestic animals; because we find wild hogs, goats, sheep, &c., in certain parts of Europe, several thousand years subsequent to the early migrations of man, this does not prove that the domestic come from these wild ones. The reverse may be the case.[209] We have already made some general observations on the _genus canis_, whose natural history is most closely allied to that of man. Let us now inquire whether the domestic dog is but one species, or whether under this head have been included many proximate species of unlimited prolificacy. If we try the question by _permanency of type_, like the races of men, and all well-marked species, the doubt must be yielded. There are strong reasons given by Dr. Morton and other naturalists, for supposing that our common dogs, independent of mixtures of _their_ various races, may also have an infusion of the blood of foxes, wolves, jackals, and even the hyena; thus forming, as we see every day around us, _curs_ of every possible grade; but setting aside all this, we have abundant evidence to show that each zoological province has its original dog, and, perhaps, not unfrequently several. In one chapter on hybridity in the "_Types of Mankind_," it is shown that our Indian dogs in America present several well-marked types, unlike any in the Old World, and which are indigenous to the soil. For example, the Esquimaux dog, the Hare Indian dog, the North American dog, and several others. We have not space here to enter fully into the facts, but they will be found at length in the work above mentioned. These dogs, too, are clearly traced to wild species of this continent. In other parts of the world we find other species equally well marked, but we shall content ourselves with the facts drawn from the ancient monuments of Egypt. It is no longer a matter of dispute that as far back, at least, as the twelfth dynasty, about 2300 years before Christ, we find the common small dog of Egypt, the greyhound, the staghound, the turnspit, and several other types which do not correspond with any dogs that can now be identified.[210] We find, also, the mastiff admirably portrayed on the monuments of Babylon, which dog was first brought from the East to Greece by Alexander the Great, 300 years B. C. The museums of natural history, also, everywhere abound in the remains of _fossil_ dogs, which long antedate all living species. The wolf, jackal, and hyena are also found distinctly drawn on the early monuments of Egypt, and a greyhound, exactly like the English greyhound, with semi-pendent ears, is seen on a statue in the Vatican, at Rome. It is clear, then, that the leading types of dogs of the present day (and probably all) existed more than four thousand years ago, and it is equally certain that the type of a dog, when kept pure, will endure in opposite climates for ages. Our staghounds, greyhounds, mastiffs, turnspits, pointers, terriers, &c., are bred for centuries, not only in Egypt and Europe without losing their types, but in any climate which does not destroy them. No one denies that climate influences these animals greatly, but the greyhound, staghound, or bulldog can never be transformed into each other. The facts above stated cannot be questioned, and it is admitted that these species are all prolific without limit _inter se_. The llama affords another strong argument in favor of the fourth degree of hybridity. Cuvier admits but two species--the llama (_camelus llacma_), of which he regards the _alpaca_ as a variety, and the vigogne (_camelus vicunna_). More recent naturalists regard the alpaca as a distinct species, among whom is M. Geoffroy St. Hilaire.[211] At all events, it seems settled that they _all_ breed together without limit. "A son tour, après la vigogne, viendra bientôt l'alpavigogne, fruit du croisement de l'alpaca avec la vigogne. Don Francisco de Theran, il ya quarante ans, et M. de Castelnau, avaient annoncé déjà que ce métis est fécond, et qu'il porte une laine presque aussi longue que celle de l'alpaca, presque aussi fine que celle de la vigogne.... M. Weddell a mis tout récemment l'Académie des Sciences à même de voir et d'admirer cette admirable toison. Il a confirmé en même temps un fait que n'avait trouvé que des incrédules parmi les naturalists--la fécondité de l'alpaca-vigogne: l'abbé Cabrera, curé de la petite ville de Macusani, a obtenu une race qui se perpétue et dont il possède déjà tout un troupeau. C'est, donc, pour ainsi dire, une nouvelle espèce créée par l'homme; et si paradoxal qu' ait pu sembler ce résultat, il est, fort heureusement pour l'industrie, _définitivement acquis à la science_. "Ce résultat n'aurait rien de paradoxal, si l'alpaca n'était, comme l'ont pensé plusieurs auteurs, qu'une race domestique et três modifiée de la vigogne. Cette objection contre le pretendu principe de l'infécondite des mulets ne serait d'ailleurs levée que pour faire place à une autre; _l'alpa-llama_ serait alors un mulet, issu de deux espèces distincts, et l'alpa-llama est fécond comme l'alpa-vigogne."[212] We have recently seen exhibited in Mobile a beautiful hybrid of the alpaca and common sheep, and the owner informed us that he had a flock at home, which breed perfectly. Dr. Bachman confesses that he has not examined the drawings given in the works of Lepsius, Champollion, Rossellini, and other Egyptologists, of various animals represented on the monuments, and ridicules the idea of their being received as authority in matters of natural history. Although many of the drawings are rudely done, most of them, in outline, are beautifully executed, and Dr. B. is the first, so far as we know, to call the fact in question. Dr. Chas. Pickering is received by Dr. B. as high authority in scientific matters--he has not only examined these drawings, but their originals. Lepsius, Champollion, Rossellini, Wilkinson, and all the Egyptologists, have borne witness to the reliability of these drawings, and have enumerated hundreds of animals and plants which are perfectly identified. Martin, the author of the work on "_Man and Monkeys_," is certainly good authority. He says:-- "Now we have in modern Egypt and Arabia, and also in Persia, varieties of greyhound closely resembling those of the ancient remains of art, and it would appear that two or three varieties exist--one smooth, another long haired, and another smooth with long-haired ears, resembling those of the spaniel. In Persia, the greyhound, to judge from specimens we have seen, is silk-haired, with a fringed tail. They are of a black color; but a fine breed, we are informed, is of a slate or ash color, as are some of the smooth-haired greyhounds depicted in the Egyptian paintings. In Arabia, a large, rough, powerful race exists; and about Akaba, according to Laborde, a breed of slender form, fleet, with a long tail, very hairy, in the form of a brush, with the ears erect and pointed, closely resembling, in fact, many of those figured by the ancient Egyptians."[213] He goes on to quote Col. Sykes, and others, for other varieties of greyhound in the east, unlike any in Europe. Dr. Pickering, after enumerating various objects identified on the monuments of the third and fourth dynasties, as Nubians, white races, the ostrich, ibis, jackal, antelope, hedgehog, goose, fowls, ducks, bullock, donkey, goats, dog-faced ape, hyena, porcupine, wolves, foxes, &c. &c., when he comes down to the twelfth dynasty, says:-- "The paintings on the walls represent a vast variety of subjects; including, most unexpectedly, the greater part of the _arts_ and _trades_ practised among civilized nations at the present day; also birds, quadrupeds, fishes, and insects, amounting to an _extended treatise on zoology_, well deserving the attention of naturalists. The date accompanying these representations has been astronomically determined by Biot, at about B. C. 2200 (Champollion-Figeac, _Egyp. Arc._); and Lepsius's chronological computation corresponds."[214] Dr. P. gives us a fauna and flora of Egypt, running further back than Usher's date for the creation, and it cannot be doubted that the drawings are as reliable as those in any modern work on natural history. FOOTNOTES: [198] Natural History of Man and Monkeys. [199] Fauna and Flora within Living Animals, p. 9. [200] Doctrine of the Unity of the Human Race, p. 10. [201] We are told that the pigs in one department of France are all black, in another, all white, and local causes are assigned! When I was a boy, my father introduced what was then called the China hog into the Union District, South Carolina; they were black, with white faces. On a visit to that district about twelve years ago, I found the whole country for 40 miles covered with them. On a visit one year ago, I found they had been supplanted entirely by other breeds of different colors: the old familiar type had disappeared. [202] _Op. cit._, p. 177. [203] _Domestication et Naturalization des Animaux utiles_, par M. Isadore Geoffroy St. Hilaire, p. 71, Paris, 1854. [204] Ibid. [205] Columbia, p. 135. [206] _De la Longevité Humaine_, &c., par P. Flourens, Paris, 1855. [207] M. Flourens here, perhaps, speaks too positively. The blood of the apparently lost species will show itself from time to time for many, if not endless generations. [208] _Op. cit._ [209] _Op. cit._, p. 122. [210] It has been objected, that the drawings cannot be relied on, as some of these types are no longer to be found. But there are several well-marked types of domestic animals on the old monuments that no longer exist, because they have been supplanted by better breeds. In this country several varieties of the Indian dogs are rapidly disappearing for the same reason. The llama must give place, in the same way, to the cow and the horse. Many other instances may be cited. [211] _Op. cit._, p. 29. 1854. [212] _Op. cit._, p. 101. [213] _Op. cit._, p. 53. [214] _Geographical Dist._, p. 17. This work, I believe, is not yet issued, but Dr. Pickering has kindly sent me the first 150 pages, as printed. C. Mr. Gobineau remarks (p. 367), that he has very serious doubts as to the unity of origin. "These doubts, however," he continues, "I am compelled to repress, because they are in contradiction to a scientific fact, which I cannot refute--the prolificness of half-breeds; and secondly, what is of much greater weight with me, they impugn a religious interpretation sanctioned by the church." With regard to the prolificness of half-breeds, I have already mentioned such facts as might have served to dispel the learned writer's doubts, had he been acquainted with them. In reference to the other, more serious, obstacle to his admission of the plurality of origins, he himself intimates (p. 339) that the authority of this interpretation might, perhaps, be questioned without transgressing the limits imposed by the church. Believing this view to be correct, I shall venture on a few remarks upon this last scruple of the author, which is shared by many investigators of this interesting subject. "The strict rule of scientific scrutiny," says the most learned and formidable opponent in the adversary's camp,[215] "exacts, according to modern philosophers, in matters of inductive reasoning, an exclusive homage. It requires that we should close our eyes against all presumptive and exterior evidence, and _abstract our minds from all considerations not derived from the matters of fact which bear immediately on the question_. The maxim we have to follow in such controversies is 'fiat justitia, ruat coelum.' _In fact, what is actually true, it is always desirous to know, whatever consequences may arise from its admission._" To this sentiment I cheerfully subscribe: it has always been my maxim. Yet I find it necessary, in treating of this subject, to touch on its _biblical_ connections, for although we have great reason to rejoice at the improved tone of toleration, or even liberality which prevails in this country, the day has not come when science can be severed from theology, and the student of nature can calmly follow her truths, no matter whither they may lead. What a mortifying picture do we behold in the histories of astronomy, geology, chronology, cosmogony, geographical distribution of animals, &c.; they have been compelled to fight their way, step by step, through human passion and prejudice, from their supposed contradiction to Holy Writ. But science has been vindicated--their great truths have been established, and the Bible stands as firmly as it did before. The last great struggle between science and theology is the one we are now engaged in--the _natural history of man_--it has now, for the first time, a fair hearing before Christendom, and all any question should ask is "_daylight and fair play_." The Bible should not be regarded as a text-book of natural history. On the contrary, it must be admitted that none of the writers of the Old or New Testament give the slightest evidence of knowledge in any department of science beyond that of their profane contemporaries; and we hold that the natural history of man is a department of science which should be placed upon the same footing with others, and its facts dispassionately investigated. What we require for our guidance in this world is truth, and the history of science shows how long it has been stifled by bigotry and error. It was taught for ages that the sun moved around the earth; that there had been but one creation of organized beings; that our earth was created but six thousand years ago, and that the stars were made to shed light upon it; that the earth was a plane, with sides and ends; that all the animals on earth were derived from Noah's ark, &c. But what a different revelation does science give us? We now know that the earth revolves around the sun, that the earth is a globe which turns on its own axis, that there has been a succession of destructions and creations of living beings, that the earth has existed countless ages, and that there are stars so distant as to require millions of years for their light to reach us; that instead of one, there are many centres of creation for existing animals and plants, &c. If so many false readings of the Bible have been admitted among theologians, who has authority or wisdom to say to science--"thus far shalt thou go, and no further?" The doctrine of _unity_ for the human family may be another great error, and certainly a denial of its truth does no more, nay, less violence to the language of the Bible, than do the examples above cited. It is a popular error, and one difficult to eradicate, that all the species of animals now dwelling on the earth are descendants of pairs and septuples preserved in Noah's ark, and certainly the language of Genesis on this point is too plain to admit of any quibble; it does teach that every living being perished by the flood, except those alone which were saved in the ark. Yet no living naturalist, in or out of the church, believes this statement to be correct. The centres of creation are so numerous, and the number of animals so great that it is impossible it should be so. On the other hand, the first chapter of Genesis gives an account entirely in accordance with the teachings of science. "And God said, let the earth bring forth _grass_, the herb yielding seed, and the fruit tree yielding fruit, after his kind, whose seed is in itself upon the earth; and it was so." _Gen._ i. 11. "And God said, let the waters bring forth _abundantly_, the moving creature that hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven." v. 20. "And God created great _whales_, and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth _abundantly_," &c. v. 21. "And God said, let the earth bring forth the living creature after his kind, cattle and creeping thing, and beast of the earth after his kind, and it was so." v. 24. "God created _man_ in his own image; _male_ and _female_ created he _them_." In the language above quoted, nothing is said about one seed or one blade of grass; about one fruit tree, or about _single pairs_ of animals or human beings. On the contrary, this chapter closes with the distinct impression on the mind that everything was created _abundantly_. The only difficulty arises with regard to the human family, and we are here confused by the contradictory statements of the first and second chapters. In the first chapter, man was created _male and female_, on the sixth day--in the second chapter, woman was not created until after Adam was placed in the Garden of Eden. Commentators explain this discrepancy by the difference in style of the two chapters, and the inference that Genesis is a compilation made up by Moses from two or three different writers; but it is not our purpose here to open these theological discussions. Both sides are sustained by innumerable authorities. From what we have before shown, it is clear that the inspired writers possessed no knowledge of physical sciences, and as little respecting the natural history of man, as of any other department. Their _moral_ mission does not concern our subject, and we leave that to theologians, to whom it more properly belongs. On the other hand, we ask to be let alone in our study of the physical laws of the universe. The theologian and the naturalist have each an ample field without the necessity of interfering with each other. The Bible is here viewed only in its relations with physical science. We have already alluded to the fact that in astronomy, geology, &c., the authors of the Bible possessed no knowledge beyond that of their profane contemporaries, and a dispassionate examination of the text from Genesis to Revelation will show that the writers had but an imperfect knowledge of contemporary races, and did not design to teach the doctrine of unity of mankind, or rather origin from a single pair. The writer of the _Pentateuch_ could attach little importance to such an idea, as he nowhere alludes to a future existence, or rewards and punishments--all good and evil, as far as the human race is concerned, with him, were merely temporal. This idea of a future state does not distinctly appear in the Jewish writings until after their return from the Babylonish captivity. The extent of the surface of the globe, known even to the writers of the New Testament, formed but a small fraction of it--little beyond the confines of the Roman empire. No allusion is even made to Southern and Eastern Asia; Africa, south of the Desert; Australia, America, &c.; all of which were inhabited long before the time of Moses; and of the races of men inhabiting these countries, and their languages, they certainly knew nothing. The Chinese and Indian empires, at least, are beyond dispute. The early Hebrews were a pastoral people; had little commercial or other intercourse with the rest of the world, and were far from being "learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians." The Egyptian empire was fully developed--arts and science as flourishing--pyramids and gorgeous temples built, not only before the time of Moses, but long prior to that of the Patriarch Abraham, who, with Sarah, went to Egypt to buy corn of the reigning Pharaoh. What is remarkable, too, the Egyptians had their ethnographers, and had already classified the human family into four races, and depicted them on the monuments, viz: the black, white, yellow, and red.[216] In fact, nothing can be more incomplete, contradictory, and unsatisfactory than the ethnography of Genesis. We see Cain going into a foreign land and taking a wife before there were any women born of his parent stock. Cities are seen springing up in the second and third generations, in every direction, &c. All this shows that we have in Genesis no satisfactory history of the human family, and that we can rely no more upon its ethnography than upon its geography, astronomy, cosmogony, geology, zoology, &c. We have already alluded to the fact that the writers of the New Testament give no evidence of additional knowledge in such matters. The sermon from the Mount comes like a light from Heaven, but this volume is mute on all that pertains to the physical laws of the universe. If the common origin of man were such an important point in the eyes of the Almighty as we have been taught to believe, is it reasonable to suppose it would have been left by the inspired writers in such utter confusion and doubt? The coming of Christ changed the whole question, and we should expect, at least in the four Gospels, for some authority that would settle this vital point; but strange as the assertion may seem, there is not a single passage here to be found, which, by any distortion, can be made to sustain this _unity_; and on searching diligently the New Testament, from one end to the other, we were not a little surprised to find but a single text that seemed to bear directly upon it, viz: the oft quoted one in Acts xvii. 26: "And hath made of _one blood_ all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth," &c. Being astonished at the fact that this great question of common origin of man should thus be made to hang so much upon a single verse, it occurred to me that there might be some error, some interpolation in the text, and having no material at hand for such an investigation in Mobile, I wrote to a competent friend in Philadelphia, to examine for me all the Greek texts and old versions, and his reply confirmed fully my suspicions. The word _blood_ is an interpolation, and not to be found in the original texts. The word _blood_ has been rejected by the Catholic Church, from the time of St. Jerome to the present hour. The text of Tischendorf is regarded, I believe, generally as the most accurate Greek text known, and in this the word blood does not appear. I have at hand a long list of authorities to the same effect, but as it is presumed no competent authority will call our assertion in question, it is needless to cite them. The verse above alluded to in Acts should, therefore, read:-- "And hath made of _one_ all races (genus) of men," &c. The word _blood_ is a gloss, and we have just as much right to interpolate _one form_, _one substance_, _one nature_, _one responsibility_, or anything else, as _blood_. These remarks on the ethnography of the Bible might be greatly extended, but my object here is simply to show that the Bible, to say the least, leaves the field open, and that I have entered it soberly, discreetly, and advisedly. FOOTNOTES: [215] Prichard, _Nat. Hist. of Man_, p. 8. London, 1843. [216] See "_Types of Mankind_," by Nott and Gliddon. +-------------------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: | | | | Inconsistent use of law-giver vs. lawgiver was made | | consistent as "law-giver". | | | | Page 476: Corrected typographical error "criterea". | | | | Footnote 39: Placement of quotation marks has been | | made consistent. | | | | Footnote 59: Added missing closing quotation mark "...'When| | three of us are together, the Triad is among us.'" | | | | Footnote 85: I believe the editor meant "page 187". | | | | Footnote 195: Added dash to sign-off "--H." to conform to | | other footnotes. | | | | All other inconsistencies, variant spellings, and a large | | number of mis-quoted references have been preserved. | +-------------------------------------------------------------+ 
4557	----	THE IDEA OF PROGRESS AN INQUIRY INTO ITS ORIGIN AND GROWTH By J. B. Bury Regius Professor Of Modern History, And Fellow Of King's College, In The University Of Cambridge Dedicated to the memories of Charles Francois Castel de Saint-Pierre, Marie Jean Antoine Nicolas Caritat de Condorcet, Auguste Comte, Herbert Spencer, and other optimists mentioned in this volume. Tantane uos generis tenuit fiducia uestri? PREFACE We may believe in the doctrine of Progress or we may not, but in either case it is a matter of interest to examine the origins and trace the history of what is now, even should it ultimately prove to be no more than an idolum saeculi, the animating and controlling idea of western civilisation. For the earthly Progress of humanity is the general test to which social aims and theories are submitted as a matter of course. The phrase CIVILISATION AND PROGRESS has become stereotyped, and illustrates how we have come to judge a civilisation good or bad according as it is or is not progressive. The ideals of liberty and democracy, which have their own ancient and independent justifications, have sought a new strength by attaching themselves to Progress. The conjunctions of "liberty and progress," "democracy and progress," meet us at every turn. Socialism, at an early stage of its modern development, sought the same aid. The friends of Mars, who cannot bear the prospect of perpetual peace, maintain that war is an indispensable instrument of Progress. It is in the name of Progress that the doctrinaires who established the present reign of terror in Russia profess to act. All this shows the prevalent feeling that a social or political theory or programme is hardly tenable if it cannot claim that it harmonises with this controlling idea. In the Middle Ages Europeans followed a different guiding star. The idea of a life beyond the grave was in control, and the great things of this life were conducted with reference to the next. When men's deepest feelings reacted more steadily and powerfully to the idea of saving their souls than to any other, harmony with this idea was the test by which the opportuneness of social theories and institutions was judged. Monasticism, for instance, throve under its aegis, while liberty of conscience had no chance. With a new idea in control, this has been reversed. Religious freedom has thriven under the aegis of Progress; monasticism can make no appeal to it. For the hope of an ultimate happy state on this planet to be enjoyed by future generations--or of some state, at least, that may relatively be considered happy--has replaced, as a social power, the hope of felicity in another world. Belief in personal immortality is still very widely entertained, but may we not fairly say that it has ceased to be a central and guiding idea of collective life, a criterion by which social values are measured? Many people do not believe in it; many more regard it as so uncertain that they could not reasonably permit it to affect their lives or opinions. Those who believe in it are doubtless the majority, but belief has many degrees; and one can hardly be wrong in saying that, as a general rule, this belief does not possess the imaginations of those who hold it, that their emotions react to it feebly, that it is felt to be remote and unreal, and has comparatively seldom a more direct influence on conduct than the abstract arguments to be found in treatises on morals. Under the control of the idea of Progress the ethical code recognised in the Western world has been reformed in modern times by a new principle of far-reaching importance which has emanated from that idea. When Isocrates formulated the rule of life, "Do unto others," he probably did not mean to include among "others" slaves or savages. The Stoics and the Christians extended its application to the whole of living humanity. But in late years the rule has received a vastly greater extension by the inclusion of the unborn generations of the future. This principle of duty to posterity is a direct corollary of the idea of Progress. In the recent war that idea, involving the moral obligation of making sacrifices for the sake of future ages, was constantly appealed to; just as in the Crusades, the most characteristic wars of our medieval ancestors, the idea of human destinies then in the ascendant lured thousands to hardship and death. The present attempt to trace the genesis and growth of the idea in broad outline is a purely historical inquiry, and any discussion of the great issue which is involved lies outside its modest scope. Occasional criticisms on particular forms which the creed of Progress assumed, or on arguments which were used to support it, are not intended as a judgment on its general validity. I may, however, make two observations here. The doubts which Mr. Balfour expressed nearly thirty years ago, in an Address delivered at Glasgow, have not, so far as I know, been answered. And it is probable that many people, to whom six years ago the notion of a sudden decline or break-up of our western civilisation, as a result not of cosmic forces but of its own development, would have appeared almost fantastic, will feel much less confident to-day, notwithstanding the fact that the leading nations of the world have instituted a league of peoples for the prevention of war, the measure to which so many high priests of Progress have looked forward as meaning a long stride forward on the road to Utopia. The preponderance of France's part in developing the idea is an outstanding feature of its history. France, who, like ancient Greece, has always been a nursing-mother of ideas, bears the principal responsibility for its growth; and if it is French thought that will persistently claim our attention, this is not due to an arbitrary preference on my part or to neglect of speculation in other countries. J. B. BURY. January, 1920. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I SOME INTERPRETATIONS OF UNIVERSAL HISTORY: BODIN AND LE ROY CHAPTER II UTILITY THE END OF KNOWLEDGE: BACON CHAPTER III CARTESIANISM CHAPTER IV THE DOCTRINE OF DEGENERATION: THE ANCIENTS AND MODERNS CHAPTER V THE PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE: FONTENELLE CHAPTER VI THE GENERAL PROGRESS OF MAN: ABBE DE SAINT-PIERRE CHAPTER VII NEW CONCEPTIONS OF HISTORY: MONTESQUIEU, VOLTAIRE, TURGOT CHAPTER VIII THE ENCYCLOPAEDISTS AND ECONOMISTS CHAPTER IX WAS CIVILISATION A MISTAKE? ROUSSEAU, CHASTELLUX CHAPTER X THE YEAR 2440 CHAPTER XI THE FRENCH REVOLUTION: CONDORCET CHAPTER XII THE THEORY OF PROGRESS IN ENGLAND CHAPTER XIII GERMAN SPECULATIONS ON PROGRESS CHAPTER XIV CURRENTS OF THOUGHT IN FRANCE AFTER THE REVOLUTION CHAPTER XV THE SEARCH FOR A LAW OF PROGRESS: I. SAINT-SIMON CHAPTER XVI SEARCH FOR A LAW OF PROGRESS: II. COMTE CHAPTER XVII "PROGRESS" IN THE FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT (1830-1851) CHAPTER XVIII MATERIAL PROGRESS: THE EXHIBITION OF 1851 CHAPTER XIX PROGRESS IN THE LIGHT OF EVOLUTION EPILOGUE APPENDIX: NOTES TO THE TEXT [Proofreaders note: these notes have been interspersed in the main text as Footnotes] INTRODUCTION When we say that ideas rule the world, or exercise a decisive power in history, we are generally thinking of those ideas which express human aims and depend for their realisation on the human will, such as liberty, toleration, equality of opportunity, socialism. Some of these have been partly realised, and there is no reason why any of them should not be fully realised, in a society or in the world, if it were the united purpose of a society or of the world to realise it. They are approved or condemned because they are held to be good or bad, not because they are true or false. But there is another order of ideas that play a great part in determining and directing the course of man's conduct but do not depend on his will--ideas which bear upon the mystery of life, such as Fate, Providence, or personal immortality. Such ideas may operate in important ways on the forms of social action, but they involve a question of fact and they are accepted or rejected not because they are believed to be useful or injurious, but because they are believed to be true or false. The idea of the progress of humanity is an idea of this kind, and it is important to be quite clear on the point. We now take it so much for granted, we are so conscious of constantly progressing in knowledge, arts, organising capacity, utilities of all sorts, that it is easy to look upon Progress as an aim, like liberty or a world-federation, which it only depends on our own efforts and good-will to achieve. But though all increases of power and knowledge depend on human effort, the idea of the Progress of humanity, from which all these particular progresses derive their value, raises a definite question of fact, which man's wishes or labours cannot affect any more than his wishes or labours can prolong life beyond the grave. This idea means that civilisation has moved, is moving, and will move in a desirable direction. But in order to judge that we are moving in a desirable direction we should have to know precisely what the destination is. To the minds of most people the desirable outcome of human development would be a condition of society in which all the inhabitants of the planet would enjoy a perfectly happy existence. But it is impossible to be sure that civilisation is moving in the right direction to realise this aim. Certain features of our "progress" may be urged as presumptions in its favour, but there are always offsets, and it has always been easy to make out a case that, from the point of view of increasing happiness, the tendencies of our progressive civilisation are far from desirable. In short, it cannot be proved that the unknown destination towards which man is advancing is desirable. The movement may be Progress, or it may be in an undesirable direction and therefore not Progress. This is a question of fact, and one which is at present as insoluble as the question of personal immortality. It is a problem which bears on the mystery of life. Moreover, even if it is admitted to be probable that the course of civilisation has so far been in a desirable direction, and such as would lead to general felicity if the direction were followed far enough, it cannot be proved that ultimate attainment depends entirely on the human will. For the advance might at some point be arrested by an insuperable wall. Take the particular case of knowledge, as to which it is generally taken for granted that the continuity of progress in the future depends altogether on the continuity of human effort (assuming that human brains do not degenerate). This assumption is based on a strictly limited experience. Science has been advancing without interruption during the last three or four hundred years; every new discovery has led to new problems and new methods of solution, and opened up new fields for exploration. Hitherto men of science have not been compelled to halt, they have always found means to advance further. But what assurance have we that they will not one day come up against impassable barriers? The experience of four hundred years, in which the surface of nature has been successfully tapped, can hardly be said to warrant conclusions as to the prospect of operations extending over four hundred or four thousand centuries. Take biology or astronomy. How can we be sure that some day progress may not come to a dead pause, not because knowledge is exhausted, but because our resources for investigation are exhausted--because, for instance, scientific instruments have reached the limit of perfection beyond which it is demonstrably impossible to improve them, or because (in the case of astronomy) we come into the presence of forces of which, unlike gravitation, we have no terrestrial experience? It is an assumption, which cannot be verified, that we shall not soon reach a point in our knowledge of nature beyond which the human intellect is unqualified to pass. But it is just this assumption which is the light and inspiration of man's scientific research. For if the assumption is not true, it means that he can never come within sight of the goal which is, in the case of physical science, if not a complete knowledge of the cosmos and the processes of nature, at least an immeasurably larger and deeper knowledge than we at present possess. Thus continuous progress in man's knowledge of his environment, which is one of the chief conditions of general Progress, is a hypothesis which may or may not be true. And if it is true, there remains the further hypothesis of man's moral and social "perfectibility," which rests on much less impressive evidence. There is nothing to show that he may not reach, in his psychical and social development, a stage at which the conditions of his life will be still far from satisfactory, and beyond which he will find it impossible to progress. This is a question of fact which no willing on man's part can alter. It is a question bearing on the mystery of life. Enough has been said to show that the Progress of humanity belongs to the same order of ideas as Providence or personal immortality. It is true or it is false, and like them it cannot be proved either true or false. Belief in it is an act of faith. The idea of human Progress then is a theory which involves a synthesis of the past and a prophecy of the future. It is based on an interpretation of history which regards men as slowly advancing--pedetemtim progredientes--in a definite and desirable direction, and infers that this progress will continue indefinitely. And it implies that, as The issue of the earth's great business, a condition of general happiness will ultimately be enjoyed, which will justify the whole process of civilisation; for otherwise the direction would not be desirable. There is also a further implication. The process must be the necessary outcome of the psychical and social nature of man; it must not be at the mercy of any external will; otherwise there would be no guarantee of its continuance and its issue, and the idea of Progress would lapse into the idea of Providence. As time is the very condition of the possibility of Progress, it is obvious that the idea would be valueless if there were any cogent reasons for supposing that the time at the disposal of humanity is likely to reach a limit in the near future. If there were good cause for believing that the earth would be uninhabitable in A.D. 2000 or 2100 the doctrine of Progress would lose its meaning and would automatically disappear. It would be a delicate question to decide what is the minimum period of time which must be assured to man for his future development, in order that Progress should possess value and appeal to the emotions. The recorded history of civilisation covers 6000 years or so, and if we take this as a measure of our conceptions of time-distances, we might assume that if we were sure of a period ten times as long ahead of us the idea of Progress would not lose its power of appeal. Sixty thousand years of HISTORICAL time, when we survey the changes which have come to pass in six thousand, opens to the imagination a range vast enough to seem almost endless. This psychological question, however, need not be decided. For science assures us that the stability of the present conditions of the solar system is certified for many myriads of years to come. Whatever gradual modifications of climate there may be, the planet will not cease to support life for a period which transcends and flouts all efforts of imagination. In short, the POSSIBILITY of Progress is guaranteed by the high probability, based on astro-physical science, of an immense time to progress in. It may surprise many to be told that the notion of Progress, which now seems so easy to apprehend, is of comparatively recent origin. It has indeed been claimed that various thinkers, both ancient (for instance, Seneca) and medieval (for instance, Friar Bacon), had long ago conceived it. But sporadic observations--such as man's gradual rise from primitive and savage conditions to a certain level of civilisation by a series of inventions, or the possibility of some future additions to his knowledge of nature--which were inevitable at a certain stage of human reflection, do not amount to an anticipation of the idea. The value of such observations was determined, and must be estimated, by the whole context of ideas in which they occurred. It is from its bearings on the future that Progress derives its value, its interest, and its power. You may conceive civilisation as having gradually advanced in the past, but you have not got the idea of Progress until you go on to conceive that it is destined to advance indefinitely in the future. Ideas have their intellectual climates, and I propose to show briefly in this Introduction that the intellectual climates of classical antiquity and the ensuing ages were not propitious to the birth of the doctrine of Progress. It is not till the sixteenth century that the obstacles to its appearance definitely begin to be transcended and a favourable atmosphere to be gradually prepared. [Footnote: The history of the idea of Progress has been treated briefly and partially by various French writers; e.g. Comte, Cours de philosophie positive, vi. 321 sqq.; Buchez, Introduction a la science de l'histoire, i. 99 sqq. (ed. 2, 1842); Javary, De l'idee de progres (1850); Rigault, Histoire de la querelle des Anciens et des Modernes (1856); Bouillier, Histoire de la philosophie cartesienne (1854); Caro, Problemes de la morale sociale (1876); Brunetiere, La Formation de l'idee de progres, in Etudes critiques, 5e serie. More recently M. Jules Delvaille has attempted to trace its history fully, down to the end of the eighteenth century. His Histoire de l'idee de progres (1910) is planned on a large scale; he is erudite and has read extensively. But his treatment is lacking in the power of discrimination. He strikes one as anxious to bring within his net, as theoriciens du progres, as many distinguished thinkers as possible; and so, along with a great deal that is useful and relevant, we also find in his book much that is irrelevant. He has not clearly seen that the distinctive idea of Progress was not conceived in antiquity or in the Middle Ages, or even in the Renaissance period; and when he comes to modern times he fails to bring out clearly the decisive steps of its growth. And he does not seem to realise that a man might be "progressive" without believing in, or even thinking about, the doctrine of Progress. Leonardo da Vinci and Berkeley are examples. In my Ancient Greek Historians (1909) I dwelt on the modern origin of the idea (p. 253 sqq.). Recently Mr. R. H. Murray, in a learned appendix to his Erasmus and Luther, has developed the thesis that Progress was not grasped in antiquity (though he makes an exception of Seneca),--a welcome confirmation.] I It may, in particular, seem surprising that the Greeks, who were so fertile in their speculations on human life, did not hit upon an idea which seems so simple and obvious to us as the idea of Progress. But if we try to realise their experience and the general character of their thought we shall cease to wonder. Their recorded history did not go back far, and so far as it did go there had been no impressive series of new discoveries suggesting either an indefinite increase of knowledge or a growing mastery of the forces of nature. In the period in which their most brilliant minds were busied with the problems of the universe men might improve the building of ships, or invent new geometrical demonstrations, but their science did little or nothing to transform the conditions of life or to open any vista into the future. They were in the presence of no facts strong enough to counteract that profound veneration of antiquity which seems natural to mankind, and the Athenians of the age of Pericles or of Plato, though they were thoroughly, obviously "modern" compared with the Homeric Greeks, were never self-consciously "modern" as we are. 1. The indications that human civilisation was a gradual growth, and that man had painfully worked his way forward from a low and savage state, could not, indeed, escape the sharp vision of the Greeks. For instance, Aeschylus represents men as originally living at hazard in sunless caves, and raised from that condition by Prometheus, who taught them the arts of life. In Euripides we find a similar recognition of the ascent of mankind to a civilised state, from primitive barbarism, some god or other playing the part of Prometheus. In such passages as these we have, it may be said, the idea that man has progressed; and it may fairly be suggested that belief in a natural progress lay, for Aeschylus as well as for Euripides, behind the poetical fiction of supernatural intervention. But these recognitions of a progress were not incompatible with the widely-spread belief in an initial degeneration of the human race; nor did it usually appear as a rival doctrine. The old legend of a "golden age" of simplicity, from which man had fallen away, was generally accepted as truth; and leading thinkers combined it with the doctrine of a gradual sequence of social and material improvements [Footnote: In the masterly survey of early Greek history which Thucydides prefixed to his work, he traces the social progress of the Greeks in historical times, and finds the key to it in the increase of wealth.] during the subsequent period of decline. We find the two views thus combined, for instance, in Plato's Laws, and in the earliest reasoned history of civilisation written by Dicaearchus, a pupil of Aristotle. [Footnote: Aristotle's own view is not very clear. He thinks that all arts, sciences, and institutions have been repeatedly, or rather an infinite number of times (word in Greek) discovered in the past and again lost. Metaphysics, xi. 8 ad fin.; Politics, iv. 10, cp. ii. 2. An infinite number of times seems to imply the doctrine of cycles.] But the simple life of the first age, in which men were not worn with toil, and war and disease were unknown, was regarded as the ideal State to which man would lie only too fortunate if he could return. He had indeed at a remote time ill the past succeeded in ameliorating some of the conditions of his lot, but such ancient discoveries as fire or ploughing or navigation or law-giving did not suggest the guess that new inventions might lead ultimately to conditions in which life would be more complex but as happy as the simple life of the primitive world. But, if some relative progress might be admitted, the general view of Greek philosophers was that they were living in a period of inevitable degeneration and decay--inevitable because it was prescribed by the nature of the universe. We have only an imperfect knowledge of the influential speculations of Heraclitus, Pythagoras, and Empedocles, but we may take Plato's tentative philosophy of history to illustrate the trend and the prejudices of Greek thought on this subject. The world was created and set going by the Deity, and, as his work, it was perfect; but it was not immortal and had in it the seeds of decay. The period of its duration is 72,000 solar years. During the first half of this period the original uniformity and order, which were impressed upon it by the Creator, are maintained under his guidance; but then it reaches a point from which it begins, as it were, to roll back; the Deity has loosened his grip of the machine, the order is disturbed, and the second 36,000 years are a period of gradual decay and degeneration. At the end of this time, the world left to itself would dissolve into chaos, but the Deity again seizes the helm and restores the original conditions, and the whole process begins anew. The first half of such a world-cycle corresponds to the Golden Age of legend in which men lived happily and simply; we have now unfortunately reached some point in the period of decadence. Plato applies the theory of degradation in his study of political communities. [Footnote: Plato's philosophy of history. In the myth of the Statesman and the last Books of the Republic. The best elucidation of these difficult passages will be found in the notes and appendix to Book viii. in J. Adam's edition of the Republic (1902).] He conceives his own Utopian aristocracy as having existed somewhere towards the beginning of the period of the world's relapse, when things were not so bad, [Footnote: Similarly he places the ideal society which he describes in the Critias 9000 years before Solon. The state which he plans in the Laws is indeed imagined as a practicable project in his own day, but then it is only a second-best. The ideal state of which Aristotle sketched an outline (Politics, iv. v.) is not set either in time or in place.] and exhibits its gradual deterioration, through the successive stages of timocracy, oligarchy, democracy, and despotism. He explains this deterioration as primarily caused by a degeneration of the race, due to laxity and errors in the State regulation of marriages, and the consequent birth of biologically inferior individuals. The theories of Plato are only the most illustrious example of the tendency characteristic of Greek philosophical thinkers to idealise the immutable as possessing a higher value than that which varies. This affected all their social speculations. They believed in the ideal of an absolute order in society, from which, when it is once established, any deviation must be for the worse. Aristotle, considering the subject from a practical point of view, laid down that changes in an established social order are undesirable, and should be as few and slight as possible. [Footnote: Politics, ii. 5.] This prejudice against change excluded the apprehension of civilisation as a progressive movement. It did not occur to Plato or any one else that a perfect order might be attainable by a long series of changes and adaptations. Such an order, being an embodiment of reason, could be created only by a deliberate and immediate act of a planning mind. It might be devised by the wisdom of a philosopher or revealed by the Deity. Hence the salvation of a community must lie in preserving intact, so far as possible, the institutions imposed by the enlightened lawgiver, since change meant corruption and disaster. These a priori principles account for the admiration of the Spartan state entertained by many Greek philosophers, because it was supposed to have preserved unchanged for an unusually long period a system established by an inspired legislator. 2. Thus time was regarded as the enemy of humanity. Horace's verse, Damnosa quid non imminuit dies? "time depreciates the value of the world," expresses the pessimistic axiom accepted in most systems of ancient thought. The theory of world-cycles was so widely current that it may almost be described as the orthodox theory of cosmic time among the Greeks, and it passed from them to the Romans. [Footnote: Plato's world-cycle. I have omitted details not essential; e.g. that in the first period men were born from the earth and only in the second propagated themselves. The period of 36,000 years, known as the Great Platonic Year, was probably a Babylonian astronomical period, and was in any case based on the Babylonian sexagesimal system and connected with the solar year conceived as consisting of 360 days. Heraclitus seems to have accepted it as the duration of the world between his periodic universal conflagrations. Plato derived the number from predecessors, but based it on operations with the numbers 3, 4, 5, the length of the sides of the Pythagorean right-angled triangle. The Great Year of the Pythagorean Philolaus seems to have been different, and that of the Stoics was much longer (6,570,000 years). I may refer here to Tacitus, Dialogus c. 16, as an appreciation of historical perspective unusual in ancient writers: "The four hundred years which separate us from the ancients are almost a vanishing quantity if you compare them with the duration of the ages." See the whole passage, where the Magnus Annus of 12,954 years is referred to.] According to some of the Pythagoreans [Footnote: See Simplicius, Phys. 732, 26.] each cycle repeated to the minutest particular the course and events of the preceding. If the universe dissolves into the original chaos, there appeared to them to be no reason why the second chaos should produce a world differing in the least respect from its predecessor. The nth cycle would be indeed numerically distinct from the first, but otherwise would be identical with it, and no man could possibly discover the number of the cycle in which he was living. As no end seems to have been assigned to the whole process, the course of the world's history would contain an endless number of Trojan Wars, for instance; an endless number of Platos would write an endless number of Republics. Virgil uses this idea in his Fourth Eclogue, where he meditates a return of the Golden Age: Alter erit tum Tiphys, et altera quae uehat Argo Delectos heroas; erunt etiam altera bella, Atque iterum ad Troiam magnus mittetur Achilles. The periodic theory might be held in forms in which this uncanny doctrine of absolute identity was avoided; but at the best it meant an endless monotonous iteration, which was singularly unlikely to stimulate speculative interest in the future. It must be remembered that no thinker had any means of knowing how near to the end of his cycle the present hour might be. The most influential school of the later Greek age, the Stoics, adopted the theory of cycles, and the natural psychological effect of the theory is vividly reflected in Marcus Aurelius, who frequently dwells on it in his Meditations. "The rational soul," he says, "wanders round the whole world and through the encompassing void, and gazes into infinite time, and considers the periodic destructions and rebirths of the universe, and reflects that our posterity will see nothing new, and that our ancestors saw nothing greater than we have seen. A man of forty years, possessing the most moderate intelligence, may be said to have seen all that is past and all that is to come; so uniform is the world." [Footnote: xi. I. The cyclical theory was curiously revived in the nineteenth; century by Nietzsche, and it is interesting to note his avowal that it took him a long time to overcome the feeling of pessimism which the doctrine inspired.] 3. And yet one Stoic philosopher saw clearly, and declared emphatically, that increases in knowledge must be expected in the future. "There are many peoples to-day," Seneca wrote, "who are ignorant of the cause of eclipses of the moon, and it has only recently been demonstrated among ourselves. The day will come when time and human diligence will clear up problems which are now obscure. We divide the few years of our lives unequally between study and vice, and it will therefore be the work of many generations to explain such phenomena as comets. One day our posterity will marvel at our ignorance of causes so clear to them. "How many new animals have we first come to know in the present age? In time to come men will know much that is unknown to us. Many discoveries are reserved for future ages, when our memory will have faded from men's minds. We imagine ourselves initiated in the secrets of nature; we are standing on the threshold of her temple." [Footnote: The quotations from Seneca will be found in Naturales Quaestiones, vii. 25 and 31. See also Epist. 64. Seneca implies continuity in scientific research. Aristotle had stated this expressly, pointing out that we are indebted not only to the author of the philosophical theory which we accept as true, but also to the predecessors whose views it has superseded (Metaphysics, i. ii. chap. 1). But he seems to consider his own system as final.] But these predictions are far from showing that Seneca had the least inkling of a doctrine of the Progress of humanity. Such a doctrine is sharply excluded by the principles of his philosophy and his profoundly pessimistic view of human affairs. Immediately after the passage which I have quoted he goes on to enlarge on the progress of vice. "Are you surprised to be told that human knowledge has not yet completed its whole task? Why, human wickedness has not yet fully developed." Yet, at least, it may be said, Seneca believed in a progress of knowledge and recognised its value. Yes, but the value which he attributed to it did not lie in any advantages which it would bring to the general community of mankind. He did not expect from it any improvement of the world. The value of natural science, from his point of view, was this, that it opened to the philosopher a divine region, in which, "wandering among the stars," he could laugh at the earth and all its riches, and his mind "delivered as it were from prison could return to its original home." In other words, its value lay not in its results, but simply in the intellectual activity; and therefore it concerned not mankind at large but a few chosen individuals who, doomed to live in a miserable world, could thus deliver their souls from slavery. For Seneca's belief in the theory of degeneration and the hopeless corruption of the race is uncompromising. Human life on the earth is periodically destroyed, alternately by fire and flood; and each period begins with a golden age in which men live in rude simplicity, innocent because they are ignorant not because they are wise. When they degenerate from this state, arts and inventions promote deterioration by ministering to luxury and vice. Interesting, then, as Seneca's observations on the prospect of some future scientific discoveries are, and they are unique in ancient literature, [Footnote: They are general and definite. This distinguishes them, for instance, from Plato's incidental hint in the Republic as to the prospect of the future development of solid geometry.] they were far from adumbrating a doctrine of the Progress of man. For him, as for Plato and the older philosophers, time is the enemy of man. [Footnote: The quotations and the references here will be found in Nat. Quaest. i. Praef.; Epist. 104, Sec. 16 (cp. 110, Sec. 8; 117, Sec. 20, and the fine passage in 65, Sec. 16-21); Nat. Quaest. iii. 28-30; and finally Epist. 90, Sec. 45, cp. Sec. 17. This last letter is a criticism on Posidonius, who asserted that the arts invented in primitive times were due to philosophers. Seneca repudiates this view: omnia enim ista sagacitas hominum, non sapientia inuenit. Seneca touches on the possibility of the discovery of new lands beyond the ocean in a passage in his Medea (374 sqq.) which has been often quoted: uenient annis secula seris, quibus oceanus uincula rerum laxet et ingens pateat tellus Tiphysque novos detegat orbes,... nec sit terris ultima Thule.] 4. There was however a school of philosophical speculation, which might have led to the foundation of a theory of Progress, if the historical outlook of the Greeks had been larger and if their temper had been different. The Atomic theory of Democritus seems to us now, in many ways, the most wonderful achievement of Greek thought, but it had a small range of influence in Greece, and would have had less if it had not convinced the brilliant mind of Epicurus. The Epicureans developed it, and it may be that the views which they put forward as to the history of the human race are mainly their own superstructure. These philosophers rejected entirely the doctrine of a Golden Age and a subsequent degeneration, which was manifestly incompatible with their theory that the world was mechanically formed from atoms without the intervention of a Deity. For them, the earliest condition of men resembled that of the beasts, and from this primitive and miserable condition they laboriously reached the existing state of civilisation, not by external guidance or as a consequence of some initial design, but simply by the exercise of human intelligence throughout a long period. [Footnote: Lucretius v. 1448 sqq. (where the word PROGRESS is pronounced): Usus et impigrae simul experientia mentis Paulatim docuit pedetemtim progredientis. Sic unum quicquid paulatim protrahit aetas In medium ratioque in luminis erigit oras. Namque alid ex alio clarescere et ordine debet Artibus, ad summum donee uenere cacumen.] The gradual amelioration of their existence was marked by the discovery of fire and the use of metals, the invention of language, the invention of weaving, the growth of arts and industries, navigation, the development of family life, the establishment of social order by means of kings, magistrates, laws, the foundation of cities. The last great step in the amelioration of life, according to Lucretius, was the illuminating philosophy of Epicurus, who dispelled the fear of invisible powers and guided man from intellectual darkness to light. But Lucretius and the school to which he belonged did not look forward to a steady and continuous process of further amelioration in the future. They believed that a time would come when the universe would fall into ruins, [Footnote: Ib. 95.] but the intervening period did not interest them. Like many other philosophers, they thought that their own philosophy was the final word on the universe, and they did not contemplate the possibility that important advances in knowledge might be achieved by subsequent generations. And, in any case, their scope was entirely individualistic; all their speculations were subsidiary to the aim of rendering the life of the individual as tolerable as possible here and now. Their philosophy, like Stoicism, was a philosophy of resignation; it was thoroughly pessimistic and therefore incompatible with the idea of Progress. Lucretius himself allows an underlying feeling of scepticism as to the value of civilisation occasionally to escape. [Footnote: His eadem sunt omnia semper (iii. 945) is the constant refrain of Marcus Aurelius.] Indeed, it might be said that in the mentality of the ancient Greeks there was a strain which would have rendered them indisposed to take such an idea seriously, if it had been propounded. No period of their history could be described as an age of optimism. They were never, by their achievements in art or literature, in mathematics or philosophy, exalted into self-complacency or lured into setting high hopes on human capacity. Man has resourcefulness to meet everything--[words in Greek],--they did not go further than that. This instinctive pessimism of the Greeks had a religious tinge which perhaps even the Epicureans found it hard entirely to expunge. They always felt that they were in the presence of unknown incalculable powers, and that subtle dangers lurked in human achievements and gains. Horace has taken this feeling as the motif of a criticism on man's inventive powers. A voyage of Virgil suggests the reflection that his friend's life would not be exposed to hazards on the high seas if the art of navigation had never been discovered--if man had submissively respected the limits imposed by nature. But man is audacious: Nequiquam deus abscidit Prudens oceano dissociabili Terras. In vain a wise god sever'd lands By the dissociating sea. Daedalus violated the air, as Hercules invaded hell. The discovery of fire put us in possession of a forbidden secret. Is this unnatural conquest of nature safe or wise? Nil mortalibus ardui est: Man finds no feat too hard or high; Heaven is not safe from man's desire. Our rash designs move Jove to ire, He dares not lay his thunder by. The thought of this ode [Footnote: i. 3.] roughly expresses what would have been the instinctive sense of thoughtful Greeks if the idea of Progress had been presented to them. It would have struck them as audacious, the theory of men unduly elated and perilously at ease in the presence of unknown incalculable powers. This feeling or attitude was connected with the idea of Moira. If we were to name any single idea as generally controlling or pervading Greek thought from Homer to the Stoics, [Footnote: The Stoics identified Moira with Pronoia, in accordance with their theory that the universe is permeated by thought.] it would perhaps be Moira, for which we have no equivalent. The common rendering "fate" is misleading. Moira meant a fixed order in the universe; but as a fact to which men must bow, it had enough in common with fatality to demand a philosophy of resignation and to hinder the creation of an optimistic atmosphere of hope. It was this order which kept things in their places, assigned to each its proper sphere and function, and drew a definite line, for instance, between men and gods. Human progress towards perfection--towards an ideal of omniscience, or an ideal of happiness, would have been a breaking down of the bars which divide the human from the divine. Human nature does not alter; it is fixed by Moira. 5. We can see now how it was that speculative Greek minds never hit on the idea of Progress. In the first place, their limited historical experience did not easily suggest such a synthesis; and in the second place, the axioms of their thought, their suspiciousness of change, their theories of Moira, of degeneration and cycles, suggested a view of the world which was the very antithesis of progressive development. Epicurean, philosophers made indeed what might have been an important step in the direction of the doctrine of Progress, by discarding the theory of degeneration, and recognising that civilisation had been created by a series of successive improvements achieved by the effort of man alone. But here they stopped short. For they had their eyes fixed on the lot of the individual here and now, and their study of the history of humanity was strictly subordinate to this personal interest. The value of their recognition of human progress in the past is conditioned by the general tenor and purpose of their theory of life. It was simply one item in their demonstration that man owed nothing to supernatural intervention and had nothing to fear from supernatural powers. It is however no accident that the school of thought which struck on a path that might have led to the idea of Progress was the most uncompromising enemy of superstition that Greece produced. It might be thought that the establishment of Roman rule and order in a large part of the known world, and the civilising of barbarian peoples, could not fail to have opened to the imagination of some of those who reflected on it in the days of Virgil or of Seneca, a vista into the future. But there was no change in the conditions of life likely to suggest a brighter view of human existence. With the loss of freedom pessimism increased, and the Greek philosophies of resignation were needed more than ever. Those whom they could not satisfy turned their thoughts to new mystical philosophies and religions, which were little interested in the earthly destinies of human society. II 1. The idea of the universe which prevailed throughout the Middle Ages, and the general orientation of men's thoughts were incompatible with some of the fundamental assumptions which are required by the idea of Progress. According to the Christian theory which was worked out by the Fathers, and especially by St. Augustine, the whole movement of history has the purpose of securing the happiness of a small portion of the human race in another world; it does not postulate a further development of human history on earth. For Augustine, as for any medieval believer, the course of history would be satisfactorily complete if the world came to an end in his own lifetime. He was not interested in the question whether any gradual amelioration of society or increase of knowledge would mark the period of time which might still remain to run before the day of Judgment. In Augustine's system the Christian era introduced the last period of history, the old age of humanity, which would endure only so long as to enable the Deity to gather in the predestined number of saved people. This theory might be combined with the widely-spread belief in a millennium on earth, but the conception of such a dispensation does not render it a theory of Progress. Again, the medieval doctrine apprehends history not as a natural development but as a series of events ordered by divine intervention and revelations. If humanity had been left to go its own way it would have drifted to a highly undesirable port, and all men would have incurred the fate of everlasting misery from which supernatural interference rescued the minority. A belief in Providence might indeed, and in a future age would, be held along with a belief in Progress, in the same mind; but the fundamental assumptions were incongruous, and so long as the doctrine of Providence was undisputedly in the ascendant, a doctrine of Progress could not arise. And the doctrine of Providence, as it was developed in Augustine's "City of God," controlled the thought of the Middle Ages. There was, moreover, the doctrine of original sin, an insuperable obstacle to the moral amelioration of the race by any gradual process of development. For since, so long as the human species endures on earth, every child will be born naturally evil and worthy of punishment, a moral advance of humanity to perfection is plainly impossible. [Footnote: It may be added that, as G. Monod observed, "les hommes du moyen age n'avaient pas conscience des modifications successives que le temps apporte avec lui dans les choses humaines" (Revue Historique, i. p. 8).] 2. But there are certain features in the medieval theory of which we must not ignore the significance. In the first place, while it maintained the belief in degeneration, endorsed by Hebrew mythology, it definitely abandoned the Greek theory of cycles. The history of the earth was recognised as a unique phenomenon in time; it would never occur again or anything resembling it. More important than all is the fact that Christian theology constructed a synthesis which for the first time attempted to give a definite meaning to the whole course of human events, a synthesis which represents the past as leading up to a definite and desirable goal in the future. Once this belief had been generally adopted and prevailed for centuries men might discard it along with the doctrine of Providence on which it rested, but they could not be content to return again to such views as satisfied the ancients, for whom human history, apprehended as a whole, was a tale of little meaning. [Footnote: It may be observed that Augustine (De Civ. Dei, x. 14) compares the teaching (recta eruditio) of the people of God, in the gradual process of history, to the education of an individual. Prudentius has a similar comparison for a different purpose (c. Symmachum, ii. 315 sqq.): Tardis semper processibus aucta Crescit vita hominis et longo proficit usu. Sic aevi mortalis habet se mobilis ordo, Sic variat natura vices, infantia repit, etc. Floras (Epitome, ad init.) had already divided Roman history into four periods corresponding to infancy, adolescence, manhood, and old age.] They must seek for some new synthesis to replace it. Another feature of the medieval theory, pertinent to our inquiry, was an idea which Christianity took over from Greek and Roman thinkers. In the later period of Greek history, which began with the conquests of Alexander the Great, there had emerged the conception of the whole inhabited world as a unity and totality, the idea of the whole human race as one. We may conveniently call it the ecumenical idea--the principle of the ecumene or inhabited world, as opposed to the principle of the polis or city. Promoted by the vast extension of the geographical limits of the Greek world resulting from Alexander's conquests, and by his policy of breaking down the barriers between Greek and barbarian, the idea was reflected in the Stoic doctrine that all men are brothers, and that a man's true country is not his own particular city, but the ecumene. [Footnote: Plutarch long ago saw the connection between the policy of Alexander and the cosmopolitan teaching of Zeno. De Alexandri Magni virtute, i. Sec. 6.] It soon became familiar, popularised by the most popular of the later philosophies of Greece; and just as it had been implied in the imperial aspiration and polity of Alexander, so it was implied, still more clearly, in the imperial theory of Rome. The idea of the Roman Empire, its theoretical justification, might be described as the realisation of the unity of the world by the establishment of a common order, the unification of mankind in a single world-embracing political organism. The term "world," orbis (terrarum), which imperial poets use freely in speaking of the Empire, is more than a mere poetical or patriotic exaggeration; it expresses the idea, the unrealised ideal of the Empire. There is a stone from Halicarnassus in the British Museum, on which the idea is formally expressed from another point of view. The inscription is of the time of Augustus, and the Emperor is designated as "saviour of the community of mankind." There we have the notion of the human race apprehended as a whole, the ecumenical idea, imposing upon Rome the task described by Virgil as regere imperio populos, and more humanely by Pliny as the creation of a single fatherland for all the peoples of the world. [Footnote: Pliny, Nat. Hist. iii. 6. 39.] This idea, which in the Roman Empire and in the Middle Ages took the form of a universal State and a universal Church, passed afterwards into the conception of the intercohesion of peoples as contributors to a common pool of civilisation--a principle which, when the idea of Progress at last made its appearance in the world, was to be one of the elements in its growth. 3. One remarkable man, the Franciscan friar Roger Bacon, [Footnote: c. A.D. 1210-92. Of Bacon's Opus Majus the best and only complete edition is that of J. H. Bridges, 2 vols. 1897 (with an excellent Introduction). The associated works, Opus Minus and Opus Tertium, have been edited by Brewer, Fr. Rogeri Bacon Opera Inedita, 1859.]who stands on an isolated pinnacle of his own in the Middle Ages, deserves particular consideration. It has been claimed for him that he announced the idea of Progress; he has even been compared to Condorcet or Comte. Such claims are based on passages taken out of their context and indulgently interpreted in the light of later theories. They are not borne out by an examination of his general conception of the universe and the aim of his writings. His aim was to reform higher education and introduce into the universities a wide, liberal, and scientific programme of secular studies. His chief work, the "Opus Majus," was written for this purpose, to which his exposition of his own discoveries was subordinate. It was addressed and sent to Pope Clement IV., who had asked Bacon to give him an account of his researches, and was designed to persuade the Pontiff of the utility of science from an ecclesiastical point of view, and to induce him to sanction an intellectual reform, which without the approbation of the Church would at that time have been impossible. With great ingenuity and resourcefulness he sought to show that the studies to which he was devoted--mathematics, astronomy, physics, chemistry--were indispensable to an intelligent study of theology and Scripture. Though some of his arguments may have been urged simply to capture the Pope's good-will, there can be no question that Bacon was absolutely sincere in his view that theology was the mistress (dominatrix) of the sciences and that their supreme value lay in being necessary to it. It was, indeed, on this principle of the close interconnection of all branches of knowledge that Bacon based his plea and his scheme of reform. And the idea of the "solidarity" of the sciences, in which he anticipated a later age, is one of his two chief claims to be remembered. [Footnote: Cp. Opus Tertium, c. iv. p. 18, omnes scientiae sunt connexae et mutuis se fovent auxiliis sicut partes ejusdem totius, quarum quaelibet opus suum peragit non solum propter se sed pro aliis.] It is the motif of the Opus Majus, and it would have been more fully elaborated if he had lived to complete the encyclopaedic work, Scriptum Principale, which he had only begun before his death. His other title to fame is well-known. He realised, as no man had done before him, the importance of the experimental method in investigating the secrets of nature, and was an almost solitary pioneer in the paths to which his greater namesake, more than three hundred years later, was to invite the attention of the world. But, although Roger Bacon was inspired by these enlightened ideas, although he cast off many of the prejudices of his time and boldly revolted against the tyranny of the prevailing scholastic philosophy, he was nevertheless in other respects a child of his age and could not disencumber himself of the current medieval conception of the universe. His general view of the course of human history was not materially different from that of St. Augustine. When he says that the practical object of all knowledge is to assure the safety of the human race, he explains this to mean "things which lead to felicity in the next life." [Footnote: Opus Majus, vii. p. 366.] It is pertinent to observe that he not only shared in the belief in astrology, which was then universal, but considered it one of the most important parts of "mathematics." It was looked upon with disfavour by the Church as a dangerous study; Bacon defended its use in the interests of the Church itself. He maintained, like Thomas Aquinas, the physiological influence of the celestial bodies, and regarded the planets as signs telling us what God has decreed from eternity to come to pass either by natural processes or by acts of human will or directly at his own good pleasure. Deluges, plagues, and earthquakes were capable of being predicted; political and religious revolutions were set in the starry rubric. The existence of six principal religions was determined by the combinations of Jupiter with the other six planets. Bacon seriously expected the extinction of the Mohammedan religion before the end of the thirteenth century, on the ground of a prediction by an Arab astrologer. [Footnote: Ib. iv. p. 266; vii. p. 389.] One of the greatest advantages that the study of astrological lore will bring to humanity is that by its means the date of the coming of Anti-Christ may be fixed with certainty, and the Church may be prepared to face the perils and trials of that terrible time. Now the arrival of Anti-Christ meant the end of the world, and Bacon accepted the view, which he says was held by all wise men, that "we are not far from the times of Anti-Christ." Thus the intellectual reforms which he urged would have the effect, and no more, of preparing Christendom to resist more successfully the corruption in which the rule of Anti-Christ would involve the world. "Truth will prevail," by which he meant science will make advances, "though with difficulty, until Anti-Christ and his forerunners appear;" and on his own showing the interval would probably be short. The frequency with which Bacon recurs to this subject, and the emphasis he lays on it, show that the appearance of Anti-Christ was a fixed point in his mental horizon. When he looked forward into the future, the vision which confronted him was a scene of corruption, tyranny, and struggle under the reign of a barbarous enemy of Christendom; and after that, the end of the world. [Footnote: (1) His coming may be fixed by astrology: Opus Majus, iv. p. 269 (inveniretur sufficiens suspicio vel magis certitudo de tempore Antichristi; cp. p. 402). (2) His coming means the end of the world: ib. p. 262. (3) We are not far from it: ib. p. 402. One of the reasons which seem to have made this view probable to Bacon was the irruption of the Mongols into Europe during his lifetime; cp. p. 268 and vii. p. 234. Another was the prevalent corruption, especially of the clergy, which impressed him deeply; see Compendium studii philosophiae, ed. Brewer, p. 402. (4) "Truth will prevail," etc.: Opus Majus, i. pp. 19, 20. He claimed for experimental science that it would produce inventions which could be usefully employed against Antichrist: ib. vii. p. 221.] It is from this point of view that we must appreciate the observations which he made on the advancement of knowledge. "It is our duty," he says, "to supply what the ancients have left incomplete, because we have entered into their labours, which, unless we are asses, can stimulate us to achieve better results"; Aristotle corrected the errors of earlier thinkers; Avicenna and Averroes have corrected Aristotle in some matters and have added much that is new; and so it will go on till the end of the world. And Bacon quotes passages from Seneca's "Physical Inquiries" to show that the acquisition of knowledge is gradual. Attention has been already called to those passages, and it was shown how perverse it is, on the strength of such remarks, to claim Seneca as a teacher of the doctrine of Progress. The same claim has been made for Bacon with greater confidence, and it is no less perverse. The idea of Progress is glaringly incongruous with his vision of the world. If his programme of revolutionising secular learning had been accepted--it fell completely dead, and his work was forgotten for many ages,--he would have been the author of a progressive reform; but how many reformers have there been before and after Bacon on whose minds the idea of Progress never dawned? [Footnote: Bacon quotes Seneca: See Opus Majus, i. pp. 37, 55, 14. Much has been made out of a well-known passage in his short Epistle de secretis operibus artis et naturae et de militate magiae, c. iv. (ed. Brewer, p. 533), in which he is said to PREDICT inventions which have been realised in the locomotives, steam navigation, and aeroplanes of modern times. But Bacon predicts nothing. He is showing that science can invent curious and, to the vulgar, incredible things without the aid of magic. All the inventions which he enumerates have, he declares, been actually made in ancient times, with the exception of a flying-machine (instrumentum volandi quod non vidi nec hominem qui vidisset cognovi, sed sapientem qui hoc artificium excogitavit explere cognosco). Compare the remarks of S. Vogl, Die Physik Roger Bacos (1906), 98 sqq.] 4. Thus Friar Bacon's theories of scientific reform, so far from amounting to an anticipation of the idea of Progress, illustrate how impossible it was that this idea could appear in the Middle Ages. The whole spirit of medieval Christianity excluded it. The conceptions which were entertained of the working of divine Providence, the belief that the world, surprised like a sleeping household by a thief in the night, might at any moment come to a sudden end, had the same effect as the Greek theories of the nature of change and of recurring cycles of the world. Or rather, they had a more powerful effect, because they were not reasoned conclusions, but dogmas guaranteed by divine authority. And medieval pessimism as to man's mundane condition was darker and sterner than the pessimism of the Greeks. There was the prospect of happiness in another sphere to compensate, but this, engrossing the imagination, only rendered it less likely that any one should think of speculating about man's destinies on earth. III 1. The civilised countries of Europe spent about three hundred years in passing from the mental atmosphere of the Middle Ages into the mental atmosphere of the modern world. These centuries were one of the conspicuously progressive periods in history, but the conditions were not favourable to the appearance of an idea of Progress, though the intellectual milieu was being prepared in which that idea could be born. This progressive period, which is conveniently called the Renaissance, lasted from the fourteenth into the seventeenth century. The great results, significant for our present purpose, which the human mind achieved at this stage of its development were two. Self-confidence was restored to human reason, and life on this planet was recognised as possessing a value independent of any hopes or fears connected with a life beyond the grave. But in discarding medieval naivete and superstition, in assuming a freer attitude towards theological authority, and in developing a new conception of the value of individual personality, men looked to the guidance of Greek and Roman thinkers, and called up the spirit of the ancient world to exorcise the ghosts of the dark ages. Their minds were thus directed backwards to a past civilisation which, in the ardour of new discovery, and in the reaction against medievalism, they enthroned as ideal; and a new authority was set up, the authority of ancient writers. In general speculation the men of the Renaissance followed the tendencies and adopted many of the prejudices of Greek philosophy. Although some great discoveries, with far-reaching, revolutionary consequences, were made in this period, most active minds were engaged in rediscovering, elaborating, criticising, and imitating what was old. It was not till the closing years of the Renaissance that speculation began to seek and feel its way towards new points of departure. It was not till then that a serious reaction set in against the deeper influences of medieval thought. 2. To illustrate the limitations of this period let us take Machiavelli, one of the most original thinkers that Italy ever produced. There are certain fundamental principles underlying Machiavelli's science of politics, which he has indicated incidentally in his unsystematic way, but which are essential to the comprehension of his doctrines. The first is that at all times the world of human beings has been the same, varying indeed from land to land, but always presenting the same aspect of some societies advancing towards prosperity, and others declining. Those which are on the upward grade will always reach a point beyond which they cannot rise further, but they will not remain permanently on this level, they will begin to decline; for human things are always in motion and therefore must go up or down. Similarly, declining states will ultimately touch bottom and then begin to ascend. Thus a good constitution or social organisation can last only for a short time. [Footnote: Machiavelli's principle of advance and decline: Discorsi, ii. Introduction; Istorie fiorentine, v. ad init. For the cycle of constitutions through which all states tend to move see Discorsi, ii. 2 (here we see the influence of Polybius).] It is obvious that in this view of history Machiavelli was inspired and instructed by the ancients. And it followed from his premisses that the study of the past is of the highest value because it enables men to see what is to come; since to all social events at any period there are correspondences in ancient times. "For these events are due to men, who have and always had the same passions, and therefore of necessity the effects must be the same." [Footnote: Discorsi, iii. 43.] Again, Machiavelli follows his ancient masters in assuming as evident that a good organisation of society can be effected only by the deliberate design of a wise legislator. [Footnote: Ib. iii. 1. The lawgiver must assume for his purposes that all men are bad: ib. i. 3. Villari has useful remarks on these principles in his Machiavelli, Book ii. cap. iii.] Forms of government and religions are the personal creations of a single brain; and the only chance for a satisfactory constitution or for a religion to maintain itself for any length of time is constantly to repress any tendencies to depart from the original conceptions of its creator. It is evident that these two assumptions are logically connected. The lawgiver builds on the immutability of human nature; what is good for one generation must be good for another. For Machiavelli, as for Plato, change meant corruption. Thus his fundamental theory excluded any conception of a satisfactory social order gradually emerging by the impersonal work of successive generations, adapting their institutions to their own changing needs and aspirations. It is characteristic, and another point of resemblance with ancient thinkers that he sought the ideal state in the past--republican Rome. These doctrines, the sameness of human nature and the omnipotent lawgiver, left no room for anything resembling a theory of Progress. If not held afterwards in the uncompromising form in which Machiavelli presented them, yet it has well been pointed out that they lay at the root of some of the most famous speculations of the eighteenth century. [Footnote: Villari, loc. cit.] Machiavelli's sameness of human nature meant that man would always have the same passions and desires, weaknesses and vices. This assumption was compatible with the widely prevailing view that man had degenerated in the course of the last fifteen hundred years. From the exaltation of Greek and Roman antiquity to a position of unattainable superiority, especially in the field of knowledge, the degeneration of humanity was an easy and natural inference. If the Greeks in philosophy and science were authoritative guides, if in art and literature they were unapproachable, if the Roman republic, as Machiavelli thought, was an ideal state, it would seem that the powers of Nature had declined, and she could no longer produce the same quality of brain. So long as this paralysing theory prevailed, it is manifest that the idea of Progress could not appear. But in the course of the sixteenth century men began here and there, somewhat timidly and tentatively, to rebel against the tyranny of antiquity, or rather to prepare the way for the open rebellion which was to break out in the seventeenth. Breaches were made in the proud citadel of ancient learning. Copernicus undermined the authority of Ptolemy and his predecessors; the anatomical researches of Vesalius injured the prestige of Galen; and Aristotle was attacked on many sides by men like Telesio, Cardan, Ramus, and Bruno. [Footnote: It has been observed that the thinkers who were rebelling against the authority of Aristotle--the most dangerous of the ancient philosophers, because he was so closely associated with theological scholasticism and was supported by the Church--frequently attacked under the standard of some other ancient master; e.g. Telesio resorted to Parmenides, Justus Lipsius to the Stoics, and Bruno is under the influence of Plotinus and Plato (Bouillier, La Philosophie cartesienne, vol. i. p. 5). The idea of "development" in Bruno has been studied by Mariupolsky (Zur Geschichte des Entwicklungsbegriffs in Berner Studien, Bd. vi. 1897), who pointed out the influence of Stoicism on his thought.] In particular branches of science an innovation was beginning which heralded a radical revolution in the study of natural phenomena, though the general significance of the prospect which these researches opened was but vaguely understood at the time. The thinkers and men of science were living in an intellectual twilight. It was the twilight of dawn. At one extremity we have mysticism which culminated in the speculations of Bruno and Campanella; at the other we have the scepticism of Montaigne, Charron, and Sanchez. The bewildered condition of knowledge is indicated by the fact that while Bruno and Campanella accepted the Copernican astronomy, it was rejected by one who in many other respects may claim to be reckoned as a modern--I mean Francis Bacon. But the growing tendency to challenge the authority of the ancients does not sever this period from the spirit which informed the Renaissance. For it is subordinate or incidental to a more general and important interest. To rehabilitate the natural man, to claim that he should be the pilot of his own course, to assert his freedom in the fields of art and literature had been the work of the early Renaissance. It was the problem of the later Renaissance to complete this emancipation in the sphere of philosophical thought. The bold metaphysics of Bruno, for which he atoned by a fiery death, offered the solution which was most unorthodox and complete. His deification of nature and of man as part of nature involved the liberation of humanity from external authority. But other speculative minds of the age, though less audacious, were equally inspired by the idea of freely interrogating nature, and were all engaged in accomplishing the programme of the Renaissance--the vindication of this world as possessing a value for man independent of its relations to any supermundane sphere. The raptures of Giordano Bruno and the sobrieties of Francis Bacon are here on common ground. The whole movement was a necessary prelude to a new age of which science was to be the mistress. It is to be noted that there was a general feeling of complacency as to the condition of learning and intellectual pursuits. This optimism is expressed by Rabelais. Gargantua, in a letter to Pantagruel, studying at Paris, enlarges to his son on the vast improvements in learning and education which had recently, he says, been brought about. "All the world is full of savants, learned teachers, large libraries; and I am of opinion that neither in the time of Plato nor of Cicero nor of Papinian were there such facilities for study as one sees now." It is indeed the study of the ancient languages and literatures that Gargantua considers in a liberal education, but the satisfaction at the present diffusion of learning, with the suggestion that here at least contemporaries have an advantage over the ancients, is the significant point. [Footnote: Rabelais, Book ii. chap. 8.] This satisfaction shines through the observation of Ramus that "in one century we have seen a greater progress in men and works of learning than our ancestors had seen in the whole course of the previous fourteen centuries." [Footnote: Praefat. Scholarum Mathematicarum, maiorem doctorum hominum et operum proventum seculo uno vidimus quam totis antea 14 seculis maiores nostri viderent. (Ed. Basel, 1569.)] [Footnote 1. Guillaume Postel observed in his De magistratibus Atheniensium liber (1541) that the ages are always progressing (secula semper proficere), and every day additions are made to human knowledge, and that this process would only cease if Providence by war, or plague, or some catastrophe were to destroy all the accumulated stores of knowledge which have been transmitted from antiquity in books (Praef., B verso). What is known of the life of this almost forgotten scholar has been collected by G. Weill (De Gulielmi Postelli vita et indole, 1892). He visited the East, brought back oriental MSS., and was more than once imprisoned on charges of heresy. He dreamed of converting the Mohammedans, and of uniting the whole world under the empire of France.] In this last stage of the Renaissance, which includes the first quarter of the seventeenth century, soil was being prepared in which the idea of Progress could germinate, and our history of it origin definitely begins with the work of two men who belong to this age, Bodin, who is hardly known except to special students of political science, and Bacon, who is known to all the world. Both had a more general grasp of the significance of their own time than any of their contemporaries, and though neither of them discovered a theory of Progress, they both made contributions to thought which directly contributed to its subsequent appearance. CHAPTER I. SOME INTERPRETATIONS OF UNIVERSAL HISTORY: BODIN AND LE ROY 1. It is a long descent from the genius of Machiavelli to the French historian, Jean Bodin, who published his introduction to historical studies [Footnote: Methodus ad facilem historiarum cognitionem, 1566.] about forty years after Machiavelli's death. His views and his method differ widely from those of that great pioneer, whom he attacks. His readers were not arrested by startling novelties or immoral doctrine; he is safe, and dull. But Bodin had a much wider range of thought than Machiavelli, whose mind was entirely concentrated on the theory of politics; and his importance for us lies not in the political speculations by which he sought to prove that monarchy is the best form of government [Footnote: Les six livres de la Republique, 1576.], but in his attempt to substitute a new theory of universal history for that which prevailed in the Middle Ages. He rejected the popular conception of a golden age and a subsequent degeneration of mankind; and he refuted the view, generally current among medieval theologians, and based on the prophecies of Daniel, which divided the course of history into four periods corresponding to the Babylonian Persian, Macedonian, and Roman monarchies, the last of which was to endure till the day of Judgement. Bodin suggests a division into three great periods: the first, of about two thousand years, in which the South-Eastern peoples were predominant; the second, of the same duration, in which those whom he calls the Middle (Mediterranean) peoples came to the front; the third, in which the Northern nations who overthrew Rome became the leaders in civilisation. Each period is stamped by the psychological character of the three racial groups. The note of the first is religion, of the second practical sagacity, of the third warfare and inventive skill. This division actually anticipates the synthesis of Hegel. [Footnote: Hegel's division is (1) the Oriental, (2) a, the Greek, b, the Roman, and (3) the Germanic worlds.] But the interesting point is that it is based on anthropological considerations, in which climate and geography are taken into account; and, notwithstanding the crudeness of the whole exposition and the intrusion of astrological arguments, it is a new step in the study of universal history. [Footnote: Climates and geography. The fullest discussion will be found in the Republique, Book v. cap. i. Here Bodin anticipated Montesquieu. There was indeed nothing new in the principle; it had been recognised by Hippocrates, Plato, Aristotle, Polybius, and other Greeks, and in a later age by Roger Bacon. But Bodin first developed and applied it methodically. This part of his work was ignored, and in the eighteenth century Montesquieu's speculations on the physical factors in history were applauded as a new discovery.] I have said that Bodin rejected the theory of the degeneration of man, along with the tradition of a previous age of virtue and felicity. [Footnote: See especially Methodus, cap. v. pp. 124, 130, 136.] The reason which he alleged against it is important. The powers of nature have always been uniform. It is illegitimate to suppose that she could at one time produce the men and conditions postulated by the theory of the golden age, and not produce them at another. In other words, Bodin asserts the principle of the permanent and undiminishing capacities of nature, and, as we shall see in the sequel, this principle was significant. It is not to be confounded with the doctrine of the immutability of human things assumed by Machiavelli. The human scene has vastly changed since the primitive age of man; "if that so-called golden age could be revoked and compared with our own, we should consider it iron." [Footnote: Methodus, cap. VII. p. 353.] For history largely depends on the will of men, which is always changing; every day new laws, new customs, new institutions, both secular and religious, come into being, and new errors. [Footnote: Ib. cap. I. p. 12.] But in this changing scene we can observe a certain regularity, a law of oscillation. Rise is followed by fall, and fall by rise; it is a mistake to think that the human race is always deteriorating. [Footnote: Ib. cap. VII. p. 361: "cum aeterna quadam lege naturae conversio rerum omnium velut in orbem redire videatur, ut aeque vitia virtutibus, ignoratio scientiae, turpe honesto consequens sit, atque tenebrae luci, fallunt qui genus hominum semper deterius seipso evadere putant."] If that were so, we should long ago have reached the lowest stage of vice and iniquity. On the contrary, there has been, through the series of oscillations, a gradual ascent. In the ages which have been foolishly designated as gold and silver men lived like the wild beasts; and from that state they have slowly reached the humanity of manners and the social order which prevail to-day. [Footnote: Ib. p. 356.] Thus Bodin recognises a general progress in the past. That is nothing new; it was the view, for instance, of the Epicureans. But much had passed in the world since the philosophy of Epicurus was alive, and Bodin had to consider twelve hundred years of new vicissitudes. Could the Epicurean theory be brought up to date? 2. Bodin deals with the question almost entirely in respect to human knowledge. In definitely denying the degeneration of man, Bodin was only expressing what many thinkers of the sixteenth century had been coming to feel, though timidly and obscurely. The philosophers and men of science, who criticised the ancients in special departments, did not formulate any general view on the privileged position of antiquity. Bodin was the first to do so. Knowledge, letters, and arts have their vicissitudes, he says; they rise, increase, and nourish, and then languish and die. After the decay of Rome there was a long fallow period; but this was followed by a splendid revival of knowledge and an intellectual productivity which no other age has exceeded. The scientific discoveries of the ancients deserve high praise; but the moderns have not only thrown new light on phenomena which they had incompletely explained, they have made new discoveries of equal or indeed greater importance. Take, for instance, the mariner's compass which has made possible the circumnavigation of the earth and a universal commerce, whereby the world has been changed, as it were, into a single state. [Footnote: Cardan had already signalised the compass, printing, and gunpowder as three modern inventions, to which "the whole of antiquity has nothing equal to show." He adds, "I pass over the other inventions of this age which, though wonderful, form rather a development of ancient arts than surpass the intellects of our ancestors." De subtilitate, lib. 3 ad init. (Opera, iii. p. 609).] Take the advances we have made in geography and astronomy; the invention of gunpowder; the development of the woollen and other industries. The invention of printing alone can be set against anything that the ancients achieved. [Footnote: Methodus, cap. VII., pp. 359-61. Bodin also points out that there was an improvement, in some respects, in manners and morals since the early Roman Empire; for instance, in the abolition of gladiatorial spectacles (p. 359).] An inference from all this, obvious to a modern reader, would be that in the future there will be similar oscillations, and new inventions and discoveries as remarkable as any that have been made in the past. But Bodin does not draw this inference. He confines himself to the past and present, and has no word to say about the vicissitudes of the future. But he is not haunted by any vision of the end of the world, or the coming of Antichrist; three centuries of humanism lay between him and Roger Bacon. 3. And yet the influence of medievalism, which it had been the work of those three centuries to overcome, was still pervasively there. Still more the authority of the Greeks and Romans, which had been set up by the revival of learning, was, without their realising it, heavy even upon thinkers like Bodin, who did not scruple freely to criticise ancient authors. And so, in his thoughtful attempt to find a clew to universal history, he was hampered by theological and cosmic theories, the legacy of the past. It is significant of the trend of his mind that when he is discussing the periodic decline of science and letters, he suggests that it may be due to the direct action of God, punishing those who misapplied useful sciences to the destruction of men. But his speculations were particularly compromised by his belief in astrology, which, notwithstanding the efforts of humanists like Petrarch, Aeneas Sylvius, and Pico to discredit it, retained its hold over the minds of many eminent, otherwise emancipated, thinkers throughout the period of the Renaissance. [Footnote: Bodin was also a firm believer in sorcery. His La Demonomanie (1578) is a monument of superstition.] Here Bodin is in the company of Machiavelli and Lord Bacon. But not content with the doctrine of astral influence on human events, he sought another key to historical changes in the influence of numbers, reviving the ideas of Pythagoras and Plato, but working them out in a way of his own. He enumerates the durations of the lives of many famous men, to show that they can be expressed by powers of 7 and 9, or the product of these numbers. Other numbers which have special virtues are the powers of 12, the perfect number [Footnote: I.e. a number equal to the sum of all its factors.] 496, and various others. He gives many examples to prove that these mystic numbers determine the durations of empires and underlie historical chronology. For instance, the duration of the oriental monarchies from Ninus to the Conquest of Persia by Alexander the Great was 1728 (= 12 cubed) years. He gives the Roman republic from the foundation of Rome to the battle of Actium 729 (=9 cubed) years. [Footnote: Methodus, cap. v. pp. 265 sqq.] 4. From a believer in such a theory, which illustrates the limitations of men's outlook on the world in the Renaissance period, we could perhaps hardly expect a vision of Progress. The best that can be said for it is that, both here and in his astrological creed, Bodin is crudely attempting to bring human history into close connection with the rest of the universe, and to establish the view that the whole world is built on a divine plan by which all the parts are intimately interrelated. [Footnote: Cp. Baudrillart, J. Bodin et son temps, p. 148 (1853). This monograph is chiefly devoted to a full analysis of La Republique.] He is careful, however, to avoid fatalism. He asserts, as we have seen, that history depends largely on the will of men. And he comes nearer to the idea of Progress than any one before him; he is on the threshold. For if we eliminate his astrological and Pythagorean speculations, and various theological parentheses which do not disturb his argument, his work announces a new view of history which is optimistic regarding man's career on earth, without any reference to his destinies in a future life. And in this optimistic view there are three particular points to note, which were essential to the subsequent growth of the idea of Progress. In the first place, the decisive rejection of the theory of degeneration, which had been a perpetual obstacle to the apprehension of that idea. Secondly, the unreserved claim that his own age was fully equal, and in some respects superior, to the age of classical antiquity, in respect of science and the arts. He leaves the ancients reverently on their pedestal, but he erects another pedestal for the moderns, and it is rather higher. We shall see the import of this when we come to consider the intellectual movement in which the idea of Progress was afterwards to emerge. In the third place, he had a conception of the common interest of all the peoples of the earth, a conception which corresponded to the old ecumenical idea of the Greeks and Romans, [Footnote: See above, p. 23.] but had now a new significance through the discoveries of modern navigators. He speaks repeatedly of the world as a universal state, and suggests that the various races, by their peculiar aptitudes and qualities, contribute to the common good of the whole. This idea of the "solidarity" of peoples was to be an important element in the growth of the doctrine of Progress. [Footnote: Republique, Book v. cap. 1 (p. 690; ed. 1593); Methodus, cap. vi. p. 194; cap. vii. p. 360.] These ideas were in the air. Another Frenchman, the classical scholar, Louis Le Roy, translator of Plato and Aristotle, put forward similar views in a work of less celebrity, On the Vicissitude or Variety of the Things in the Universe. [Footnote: De la vicissitude ou variete des choses en l'univers, 1577, 2nd ed. (which I have used), 1584.] It contains a survey of great periods in which particular peoples attained an exceptional state of dominion and prosperity, and it anticipates later histories of civilisation by dwelling but slightly on political events and bringing into prominence human achievements in science, philosophy, and the arts. Beginning with the advance of man from primitive rudeness to ordered society--a sketch based on the conjectures of Plato in the Protagoras--Le Roy reviews the history, and estimates the merits, of the Egyptians, Assyrians and Persians, the Greeks, Romans and Saracens, and finally of the modern age. The facts, he thinks, establish the proposition that the art of warfare, eloquence, philosophy, mathematics, and the fine arts, generally flourish and decline together. But they do decline. Human things are not perpetual; all pass through the same cycle--beginning, progress, perfection, corruption, end. This, however, does not explain the succession of empires in the world, the changes of the scene of prosperity from one people or set of peoples to another. Le Roy finds the cause in providential design. God, he believes, cares for all parts of the universe and has distributed excellence in arms and letters now to Asia, now to Europe, again to Africa, letting virtue and vice, knowledge and ignorance travel from country to country, that all in their turn may share in good and bad fortune, and none become too proud through prolonged prosperity. But what of the modern age in Western Europe? It is fully the equal, he assevers, of the most illustrious ages of the past, and in some respects it is superior. Almost all the liberal and mechanical arts of antiquity, which had been lost for about 1200 years, have been restored, and there have been new inventions, especially printing, and the mariner's compass, and "I would give the third place to gunnery but that it seems invented rather for the ruin than for the utility of the human race." In our knowledge of astronomy and cosmography we surpass the ancients. "We can affirm that the whole world is now known, and all the races of men; they can interchange all their commodities and mutually supply their needs, as inhabitants of the same city or world-state." And hence there has been a notable increase of wealth. Vice and suffering, indeed, are as grave as ever, and we are afflicted by the trouble of heresies; but this does not prove a general deterioration of morals. If that inveterate complaint, the refrain chanted by old men in every age, were true, the world would already have reached the extreme limit of wickedness, and integrity would have disappeared utterly. Seneca long ago made the right criticism. Hoc maiores nostri questi sunt, hoc nos querimur, hoc posteri nostri querentur, eversos esse mores.... At ista stant loco eodem. Perhaps Le Roy was thinking particularly of that curious book the Apology for Herodotus, in which the eminent Greek scholar, Henri Estienne, exposed with Calvinistic prejudice the iniquities of modern times and the corruption of the Roman Church. [Footnote: L'Introduction au traite de la conformite des merveilles anciennes avec les modernes, ou traite preparatif a l'Apologie pour Herodote, ed. Ristelhuber, 2 vols., 1879. The book was published in 1566.] But if we are to judge by past experience, does it not follow that this modern age must go the same way as the great ages of the past which it rivals or even surpasses? Our civilisation, too, having reached perfection, will inevitably decline and pass away: is not this the clear lesson of history? Le Roy does not shirk the issue; it is the point to which his whole exposition has led and he puts it vividly. "If the memory of the past is the instruction of the present and the premonition of the future, it is to be feared that having reached so great excellence, power, wisdom, studies, books, industries will decline, as has happened in the past, and disappear--confusion succeeding to the order and perfection of to-day, rudeness to civilisation, ignorance to knowledge. I already foresee in imagination nations, strange in form, complexion, and costume, overwhelming Europe--like the Goths, Huns, Vandals, Lombards, Saracens of old--destroying our cities and palaces, burning our libraries, devastating all that is beautiful. I foresee in all countries wars, domestic and foreign, factions and heresies which will profane all things human and divine; famines, plagues, and floods; the universe approaching an end, world-wide confusion, and the return of things to their original chaos." [Footnote: It is characteristic of the age that in the last sentence the author goes beyond the issue and contemplates the possibility which still haunted men's minds that the end of the world might not be far off.] But having conducted us to this pessimistic conclusion Le Roy finds it repugnant, and is unwilling to acquiesce in it. Like an embarrassed dramatist he escapes from the knot which he has tied by introducing the deus ex machina. "However much these things proceed according to the fatal law of the world, and have their natural causes, yet events depend principally on Divine Providence which is superior to nature and alone knows the predetermined times of events." That is to say, it depends, after all, on Providence whether the argument from past experience is valid. Who knows whether the modern age may not prove the exception to the law which has hitherto prevailed? Let us act as if it would. This is the practical moral that Le Roy enforces in the last book of his dissertation. We must not allow ourselves to be paralysed or dismayed by the destinies of past civilisations, but must work hard to transmit to posterity all that has been achieved, and augment the discoveries of the past by new researches. For knowledge is inexhaustible. "Let us not be so simple as to believe that the ancients have known and said everything and left nothing to their successors. Or that nature gave them all her favours in order to remain sterile ever after." Here Le Roy lays down Bodin's principle which was to be asserted more urgently in the following century--the permanence of natural forces. Nature is the same now as always, and can produce as great intellects as ever. The elements have the same power, the constellations keep their old order, men are made of the same material. There is nothing to hinder the birth in this age of men equal in brains to Plato, Aristotle, or Hippocrates. Philosophically, Le Roy's conclusion is lame enough. We are asked to set aside the data of experience and act on an off-chance. But the determination of the optimist to escape from the logic of his own argument is significant. He has no conception of an increasing purpose or underlying unity in the history of man, but he thinks that Providence--the old Providence of St. Augustine, who arranged the events of Roman history with a view to the coming of Christ--may, for some unknown reason, prolong indefinitely the modern age. He is obeying the instinct of optimism and confidence which was already beginning to create the appropriate atmosphere for the intellectual revolution of the coming century. His book was translated into English, but neither in France nor in England had it the same influence as the speculations of Bodin. But it insinuated, as the reader will have observed, the same three views which Bodin taught, and must have helped to propagate them: that the world has not degenerated; that the modern age is not inferior to classical antiquity; and that the races of the earth form now a sort of "mundane republic." CHAPTER II. UTILITY THE END OF KNOWLEDGE: BACON 1. Among the great precursors of a new order of thought Francis Bacon occupies a unique position. He drew up a definite programme for a "great Renovation" of knowledge; he is more clearly conscious than his contemporaries of the necessity of breaking with the past and making a completely new start; and his whole method of thought seems intellectually nearer to us than the speculations of a Bruno or a Campanella. Hence it is easy to understand that he is often regarded, especially in his own country, as more than a precursor, as the first philosopher, of the modern age, definitely within its precincts. [Footnote: German critics have been generally severe on Bacon as deficient in the scientific spirit. Kuno Fischer, Baco van Verulam (1856). Liebig, Ueber Francis Bacon van Verulam und die Methode der Naturforschung (1863). Lange (Geschichte des Materialismus, i. 195) speaks of "die aberglaubische und eitle Unwissenschaftlichkeit Bacos."] It is not indeed a matter of fundamental importance how we classify these men who stood on the border of two worlds, but it must be recognised that if in many respects Bacon is in advance of contemporaries who cannot be dissociated from the Renaissance, in other respects, such as belief in astrology and dreams, he stands on the same ground, and in one essential point--which might almost be taken as the test of mental progress at this period--Bruno and Campanella have outstripped him. For him Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo worked in vain; he obstinately adhered to the old geocentric system. It must also be remembered that the principle which he laid down in his ambitious programme for the reform of science--that experiment is the key for discovering the secrets of nature--was not a new revelation. We need not dwell on the fact that he had been anticipated by Roger Bacon; for the ideas of that wonderful thinker had fallen dead in an age which was not ripe for them. But the direct interrogation of nature was already recognised both in practice and in theory in the sixteenth century. What Bacon did was to insist upon the principle more strongly and explicitly, and to formulate it more precisely. He clarified and explained the progressive ideas which inspired the scientific thought of the last period of the European Renaissance, from which he cannot, I think, be dissociated. But in clearing up and defining these progressive ideas, he made a contribution to the development of human thought which had far-reaching importance and has a special significance for our present subject. In the hopes of a steady increase of knowledge, based on the application of new methods, he had been anticipated by Roger Bacon, and further back by Seneca. But with Francis Bacon this idea of the augmentation of knowledge has an entirely new value. For Seneca the exploration of nature was a means of escaping from the sordid miseries of life. For the friar of Oxford the principal use of increasing knowledge was to prepare for the coming of Antichrist. Francis Bacon sounded the modern note; for him the end of knowledge is utility. [Footnote; The passages specially referred to are: De Aug. Sc. vii. i; Nov. Org. i. 81 and 3.] 2. The principle that the proper aim of knowledge is the amelioration of human life, to increase men's happiness and mitigate their sufferings--commodis humanis inservire--was the guiding star of Bacon in all his intellectual labour. He declared the advancement of "the happiness of mankind" to be the direct purpose of the works he had written or designed. He considered that all his predecessors had gone wrong because they did not apprehend that the finis scientarum, the real and legitimate goal of the sciences, is "the endowment of human life with new inventions and riches"; and he made this the test for defining the comparative values of the various branches of knowledge. The true object, therefore, of the investigation of nature is not, as the Greek philosophers held, speculative satisfaction, but to establish the reign of man over nature; and this Bacon judged to be attainable, provided new methods of attacking the problems were introduced. Whatever may be thought of his daring act in bringing natural science down from the clouds and assigning to her the function of ministering to the material convenience and comfort of man, we may criticise Bacon for his doctrine that every branch of science should be pursued with a single eye towards practical use. Mathematics, he thought, should conduct herself as a humble, if necessary, handmaid, without any aspirations of her own. But it is not thus that the great progress in man's command over nature since Bacon's age has been effected. Many of the most valuable and surprising things which science has succeeded in doing for civilisation would never have been performed if each branch of knowledge were not guided by its own independent ideal of speculative completeness. [Footnote: This was to be well explained by Fontenelle, Preface sur l'utilite des mathematiques, in Oeuvres (ed. 1729), iii, I sqq.] But this does not invalidate Bacon's pragmatic principle, or diminish the importance of the fact that in laying down the utilitarian view of knowledge he contributed to the creation of a new mental atmosphere in which the theory of Progress was afterwards to develop. 3. Bacon's respect for the ancients and his familiarity with their writings are apparent on almost every page he wrote. Yet it was one of his principal endeavours to shake off the yoke of their authority, which he recognised to be a fatal obstacle to the advancement of science. "Truth is not to be sought in the good fortune of any particular conjuncture of time"; its attainment depends on experience, and how limited was theirs. In their age "the knowledge both of time and of the world was confined and meagre; they had not a thousand years of history worthy of that name, but mere fables and ancient traditions; they were not acquainted with but a small portion of the regions and countries of the world." [Footnote: Nov. Org. i. 84; 56, 72, 73, 74.] In all their systems and scientific speculation "there is hardly one single experiment that has a tendency to assist mankind." Their theories were founded on opinion, and therefore science has remained stationary for the last two thousand years; whereas mechanical arts, which are founded on nature and experience, grow and increase. In this connection, Bacon points out that the word "antiquity" is misleading, and makes a remark which will frequently recur in writers of the following generations. Antiquitas seculi iuventus mundi; what we call antiquity and are accustomed to revere as such was the youth of the world. But it is the old age and increasing years of the world--the time in which we are now living--that deserves in truth to be called antiquity. We are really the ancients, the Greeks and Romans were younger than we, in respect to the age of the world. And as we look to an old man for greater knowledge of the world than from a young man, so we have good reason to expect far greater things from our own age than from antiquity, because in the meantime the stock of knowledge has been increased by an endless number of observations and experiments. Time is the great discoverer, and truth is the daughter of time, not of authority. Take the three inventions which were unknown to the ancients-printing, gunpowder, and the compass. These "have changed the appearance and state of the whole world; first in literature, then in warfare, and lastly in navigation; and innumerable changes have been thence derived, so that no empire, sect, or star appears to have exercised a greater power or influence on human affairs than these mechanical discoveries." [Footnote: Nov. Org. 129. We have seen that these three inventions had already been classed together as outstanding by Cardan and Le Roy. They also appear in Campanella. Bodin, as we saw, included them in a longer list.] It was perhaps the results of navigation and the exploration of unknown lands that impressed Bacon more than all, as they had impressed Bodin. Let me quote one passage. "It may truly be affirmed to the honour of these times, and in a virtuous emulation with antiquity, that this great building of the world had never through-lights made in it till the age of us and our fathers. For although they [the ancients] had knowledge of the antipodes... yet that mought be by demonstration, and not in fact; and if by travel, it requireth the voyage but of half the earth. But to circle the earth, as the heavenly bodies do, was not done nor enterprised till these later times: and therefore these times may justly bear in their word... plus ultra in precedence of the ancient non ultra.... And this proficience in navigation and discoveries may plant also an expectation of the further proficience and augmentation of all sciences, because it may seem that they are ordained by God to be coevals, that is, to meet in one age. For so the prophet Daniel, speaking of the latter times foretelleth, Plurimi pertransibunt, et multiplex erit scientia: as if the openness and through-passage of the world and the increase of knowledge were appointed to be in the same ages; as we see it is already performed in great part: the learning of these later times not much giving place to the former two periods or returns of learning, the one of the Grecians, the other of the Romans." [Footnote: Advancement of Learning, ii. 13, 14.] In all this we have a definite recognition of the fact that knowledge progresses. Bacon did not come into close quarters with the history of civilisation, but he has thrown out some observations which amount to a rough synthesis. [Footnote: Advancement, ii. 1, 6; Nov. Org. i. 78, 79, 85.] Like Bodin, he divided, history into three periods--(1) the antiquities of the world; (2) the middle part of time which comprised two sections, the Greek and the Roman; (3) "modern history," which included what we now call the Middle Ages. In this sequence three particular epochs stand out as fertile in science and favourable to progress--the Greek, the Roman, and our own--"and scarcely two centuries can with justice be assigned to each." The other periods of time are deserts, so far as philosophy and science are concerned. Rome and Greece are "two exemplar States of the world for arms, learning, moral virtue, policy, and laws." But even in those two great epochs little progress was made in natural philosophy. For in Greece moral and political speculation absorbed men's minds; in Rome, meditation and labour were wasted on moral philosophy, and the greatest intellects were devoted to civil affairs. Afterwards, in the third period, the study of theology was the chief occupation of the Western European nations. It was actually in the earliest period that the most useful discoveries for the comfort of human life were made, "so that, to say the truth, when contemplation and doctrinal science began, the discovery of useful works ceased." So much for the past history of mankind, during which many things conspired to make progress in the subjugation of nature slow, fitful, and fortuitous. What of the future? Bacon's answer is: if the errors of the past are understood and avoided there is every hope of steady progress in the modern age. But it might be asked. Is there not something in the constitution of things which determines epochs of stagnation and vigour, some force against which man's understanding and will are impotent? Is it not true that in the revolutions of ages there are floods and ebbs of the sciences, which flourish now and then decline, and that when they have reached a certain point they can proceed no further? This doctrine of Returns or ricorsi [Footnote: Bodin's conversiones.] is denounced by Bacon as the greatest obstacle to the advancement of knowledge, creating, as it does, diffidence or despair. He does not formally refute it, but he marshals the reasons for an optimistic view, and these reasons supply the disproof The facts on which the fatalistic doctrine of Returns is based can be explained without resorting to any mysterious law. [Footnote: Nov. Org. i. 92 sqq.] Progress has not been steady or continuous on account of the prejudices and errors which hindered men from setting to work in the right way. The difficulties in advancing did not arise from things which are not in our power; they were due to the human understanding, which wasted time and labour on improper objects. "In proportion as the errors which have been committed impeded the past, so do they afford reason to hope for the future." 4. But will the new period of advance, which Bacon expected and strove to secure, be of indefinite duration? He does not consider the question. His view that he lived in the old age of the world implies that he did not anticipate a vast tract of time before the end of mankind's career on earth. And an orthodox Christian of that time could hardly be expected to predict. The impression we get is that, in his sanguine enthusiasm, he imagined that a "prudent interrogation" of nature could extort all her secrets in a few generations. As a reformer he was so engaged in the immediate prospect of results that his imagination did not turn to the possibilities of a remoter future, though these would logically follow from his recognition of "the inseparable propriety of time which is ever more and more to disclose truth." He hopes everything from his own age in which learning has made her third visitation to the world, a period which he is persuaded will far surpass that of Grecian and Roman learning. [Footnote: Advancement, ii. 24.] If he could have revisited England in 1700 and surveyed what science had performed since his death his hopes might have been more than satisfied. But, animated though he was with the progressive spirit, as Leonardo da Vinci had been before him, all that he says of the prospects of an increase of knowledge fails to amount to the theory of Progress. He prepares the way, he leads up to it; but his conception of his own time as the old age of humanity excludes the conception of an indefinite advance in the future, which is essential if the theory is to have significance and value. And in regard to progress in the past, though he is clearer and more emphatic than Bodin, he hardly adds anything to what Bodin had observed. The novelty of his view lies not in his recognition of the advance of knowledge and its power to advance still further, but in the purpose which he assigned to it. [Footnote: Campanella held its purpose to be the contemplation of the wisdom of God; cp., for instance, De sensu rerum, Bk. iv. epilogus, where the world is described as statua Dei altissimi (p. 370; ed. 1620).] The end of the sciences is their usefulness to the human race. To increase knowledge is to extend the dominion of man over nature, and so to increase his comfort and happiness, so far as these depend on external circumstances. To Plato or Seneca, or to a Christian dreaming of the City of God, this doctrine would seem material and trivial; and its announcement was revolutionary: for it implied that happiness on earth was an end to be pursued for its own sake, and to be secured by co-operation for mankind at large. This idea is an axiom which any general doctrine of Progress must presuppose; and it forms Bacon's great contribution to the group of ideas which rendered possible the subsequent rise of that doctrine. Finally, we must remember that by Bacon, as by most of his Elizabethan contemporaries, the doctrine of an active intervening Providence, the Providence of Augustine, was taken as a matter of course, and governed more or less their conceptions of the history of civilisation. But, I think, we may say that Bacon, while he formally acknowledged it, did not press it or emphasise it. [Footnote: See Advancement, iii. II. On the influence of the doctrine on historical writing in England at the beginning of the seventeenth century see Firth, Sir Walter Raleigh's History of the World (Proc. of British Academy, vol. viii., 1919), p. 8.] 5. Bacon illustrated his view of the social importance of science in his sketch of an ideal state, the New Atlantis. He completed only a part of the work, and the fragment was published after his death. [Footnote: In 1627. It was composed about 1623. It seems almost certain that he was acquainted with the Christianopolis of Johann Valentin Andreae (1586-1654), which had appeared in Latin in 1614, and contained a plan for a scientific college to reform the civilised world. Andreae, who was acquainted both with More and with Campanella, placed his ideal society in an island which he called Caphar Salama (the name of a village in Palestine). Andreae's work had also a direct influence on the Nova Solyma of Samuel Gott (1648). See the Introduction of F. E. Held to his edition of Christianopolis (1916). In Macaria, another imaginary state of the seventeenth century (A description of the famous Kingdoms of Macaria, 1641, by Hartlib), the pursuit of science is not a feature.] It is evident that the predominating interest that moved his imagination was different from that which guided Plato. While Plato aimed at securing a permanent solid order founded on immutable principles, the design of Bacon was to enable his imaginary community to achieve dominion over nature by progressive discoveries. The heads of Plato's city are metaphysicians, who regulate the welfare of the people by abstract doctrines established once for all; while the most important feature in the New Atlantis is the college of scientific investigators, who are always discovering new truths which may alter the conditions of life. Here, though only in a restricted field, an idea of progressive improvement, which is the note of the modern age, comes in to modify the idea of a fixed order which exclusively prevailed in ancient speculation. On the other hand, we must not ignore the fact that Bacon's ideal society is established by the same kind of agency as the ideal societies of Plato and Aristotle. It has not developed; it was framed by the wisdom of an original legislator Solamona. In this it resembles the other imaginary commonwealths of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. The organisation of More's Utopia is fixed initially once for all by the lawgiver Utopus. The origin of Campanella's Civitas Solis is not expressly stated, but there can be no doubt that he conceived its institutions as created by the fiat of a single lawgiver. Harrington, in his Oceana, argues with Machiavelli that a commonwealth, to be well turned, must be the work of one man, like a book or a building. [Footnote: Harrington, Oceana, pp. 77-8, 3rd ed. (1747).] What measure of liberty Bacon would have granted to the people of his perfect state we cannot say; his work breaks off before he comes to describe their condition. But we receive the impression that the government he conceived was strictly paternal, though perhaps less rigorous than the theocratic despotism which Campanella, under Plato's influence, set up in the City of the Sun. But even Campanella has this in common with More--and we may be sure that Bacon's conception would have agreed here--that there are no hard-and-fast lines between the classes, and the welfare and happiness of all the inhabitants is impartially considered, in contrast with Plato's scheme in the Laws, where the artisans and manual labourers were an inferior caste existing less for their own sake than for the sake of the community as a whole. [Footnote: This however does not apply to the Republic, as is so commonly asserted. See the just criticisms of A. A. Trever, A History of Greek Economic Thought (Chicago, 1916), 49 sqq.] It may finally be pointed out that these three imaginary commonwealths stand together as a group, marked by a humaner temper than the ancient, and also by another common characteristic which distinguishes them, on one hand, from the ideal states of Plato and, on the other, from modern sketches of desirable societies. Plato and Aristotle conceived their constructions within the geographical limits of Hellas, either in the past or in the present. More, Bacon, and Campanella placed theirs in distant seas, and this remoteness in space helped to create a certain illusion, of reality. [Footnote: Civitas Solis, p. 461 (ed. 1620). Expectancy of end of world: Ib. p. 455.] The modern plan is to project the perfect society into a period of future time. The device of More and his successors was suggested by the maritime explorations of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; the later method was a result of the rise of the idea of Progress. [Footnote: Similarly the ideal communistic states imagined by Euemerus and Iambulus in the southern seas owed their geographical positions to the popular interest in seafaring in the Indian Ocean in the age after Alexander. One wonders whether Campanella knew the account of the fictitious journey of Iambulus to the Islands of the Sun, in Diodorus Siculus, ii. 55-60.] 6. A word or two more may be said about the City of the Sun. Campanella was as earnest a believer in the interrogation of nature as Bacon, and the place which science and learning hold in his state (although research is not so prominent as in the New Atlantis), and the scientific training of all the citizens, are a capital feature. The progress in inventions, to which science may look forward, is suggested. The men of the City of the Sun "have already discovered the one art which the world seemed to lack--the art of flying; and they expect soon to invent ocular instruments which will enable them to see the invisible stars and auricular instruments for hearing the harmony of the spheres." Campanella's view of the present conditions and prospects of knowledge is hardly less sanguine than that of Bacon, and characteristically he confirms his optimism by astrological data. "If you only knew what their astrologers say about the coming age. Our times, they assert, have more history in a hundred years than the whole world in four thousand. More books have been published in this century than in five thousand years before. They dwell on the wonderful inventions of printing, of artillery, and of the use of the magnet,--clear signs of the times--and also instruments for the assembling of the inhabitants of the world into one fold," and show that these discoveries were conditioned by stellar influences. But Campanella is not very sure or clear about the future. Astrology and theology cause him to hesitate. Like Bacon, he dreams of a great Renovation and sees that the conditions are propitious, but his faith is not secure. The astronomers of his imaginary state scrutinise the stars to discover whether the world will perish or not, and they believe in the oracular saying of Jesus that the end will come like a thief in the night. Therefore they expect a new age, and perhaps also the end of the world. The new age of knowledge was about to begin. Campanella, Bruno, and Bacon stand, as it were, on the brink of the dividing stream, tenduntque manus ripae ulterioris amore. CHAPTER III. CARTESIANISM If we are to draw any useful lines of demarcation in the continuous flux of history we must neglect anticipations and announcements, and we need not scruple to say that, in the realm of knowledge and thought, modern history begins in the seventeenth century. Ubiquitous rebellion against tradition, a new standard of clear and precise thought which affects even literary expression, a flow of mathematical and physical discoveries so rapid that ten years added more to the sum of knowledge than all that had been added since the days of Archimedes, the introduction of organised co-operation to increase knowledge by the institution of the Royal Society at London, the Academy of Sciences at Paris, Observatories--realising Bacon's Atlantic dream--characterise the opening of a new era. For the ideas with which we are concerned, the seventeenth century centres round Descartes, whom an English admirer described as "the grand secretary of Nature." [Footnote: Joseph Glanvill, Vanity of Dogmatising, p. 211, 64] Though his brilliant mathematical discoveries were the sole permanent contribution he made to knowledge, though his metaphysical and physical systems are only of historical interest, his genius exercised a more extensive and transforming influence on the future development of thought than any other man of his century. Cartesianism affirmed the two positive axioms of the supremacy of reason, and the invariability of the laws of nature; and its instrument was a new rigorous analytical method, which was applicable to history as well as to physical knowledge. The axioms had destructive corollaries. The immutability of the processes of nature collided with the theory of an active Providence. The supremacy of reason shook the thrones from which authority and tradition had tyrannised over the brains of men. Cartesianism was equivalent to a declaration of the Independence of Man. It was in the atmosphere of the Cartesian spirit that a theory of Progress was to take shape. 1. Let us look back. We saw that all the remarks of philosophers prior to the seventeenth century, which have been claimed as enunciations of the idea of Progress, amount merely to recognitions of the obvious fact that in the course of the past history of men there have been advances and improvements in knowledge and arts, or that we may look for some improvements in the future. There is not one of them that adumbrates a theory that can be called a theory of Progress. We have seen several reasons why the idea could not emerge in the ancient or in the Middle Ages. Nor could it have easily appeared in the period of the Renaissance. Certain preliminary conditions were required, and these were not fulfilled till the seventeenth century. So long as men believed that the Greeks and Romans had attained, in the best days of their civilisation, to an intellectual plane which posterity could never hope to reach, so long as the authority of their thinkers was set up as unimpeachable, a theory of degeneration held the field, which excluded a theory of Progress. It was the work of Bacon and Descartes to liberate science and philosophy from the yoke of that authority; and at the same time, as we shall see, the rebellion began to spread to other fields. Another condition for the organisation of a theory of Progress was a frank recognition of the value of mundane life and the subservience of knowledge to human needs. The secular spirit of the Renaissance prepared the world for this new valuation, which was formulated by Bacon, and has developed into modern utilitarianism. There was yet a third preliminary condition. There can be no certainty that knowledge will continually progress until science has been placed on sure foundations. And science does not rest for us on sure foundations unless the invariability of the laws of nature is admitted. If we do not accept this hypothesis, if we consider it possible that the uniformities of the natural world may be changed from time to time, we have no guarantee that science can progress indefinitely. The philosophy of Descartes established this principle, which is the palladium of science; and thus the third preliminary condition was fulfilled. 2. During the Renaissance period the authority of the Greeks and Romans had been supreme in the realm of thought, and in the interest of further free development it was necessary that this authority should be weakened. Bacon and others had begun the movement to break down this tyranny, but the influence of Descartes was weightier and more decisive, and his attitude was more uncompromising. He had none of Bacon's reverence for classical literature; he was proud of having forgotten the Greek which he had learned as a boy. The inspiration of his work was the idea of breaking sharply and completely with the past, and constructing a system which borrows nothing from the dead. He looked forward to an advancement of knowledge in the future, on the basis of his own method and his own discoveries, [Footnote: Cf. for instance his remarks on medicine, at the end of the Discours de la methode.] and he conceived that this intellectual advance would have far-reaching effects on the condition of mankind. The first title he had proposed to give to his Discourse on Method was "The Project of a Universal Science which can elevate our Nature to its highest degree of Perfection." He regarded moral and material improvement as depending on philosophy and science. The justification of an independent attitude towards antiquity, on the ground that the world is now older and more mature, was becoming a current view. [Footnote: Descartes wrote: Non est quod antiquis multum tribuamus propter antiquitatem, sed nos potius iis seniores dicendi. Jam enim senior est mundus quam tune majoremque habemus rerum experientiam. (A fragment quoted by Baillet, Vie de Descartes, viii. 10.) Passages to the same effect occur in Malebranche, Arnauld, and Nicole. (See Bouillier, Histoire de la philosophie cartesienne, i. 482-3.) A passage in La Mothe Le Vayer's essay Sur l'opiniatrete in Orasius Tubero (ii. 218) is in point, if, as seems probable, the date of that work is 1632-33. "Some defer to the ancients and allow themselves to be led by them like children; others hold that the ancients lived in the youth of the world, and it is those who live to-day who are really the ancients, and consequently ought to carry most weight." See Rigault, Histoire de la querelle des Anciens et des Modernes, p. 52. The passage of Pascal occurs in the Fragment d'un traite du vide, not published till 1779 (now included in the Pensees, Premiere Partie, Art. I), and therefore without influence on the origination of the theory of progress. It has been pointed out that Guillaume Colletet had in 1636 expressed a similar view (Brunetiere, Etudes critiques, v. 185-6).] Descartes expressed it like Bacon, and it was taken up and repeated by many whom Descartes influenced. Pascal, who till 1654 was a man of science and a convert to Cartesian ideas, put it in a striking way. The whole sequence of men (he says) during so many centuries should be considered as a single man, continually existing and continually learning. At each stage of his life this universal man profited by the knowledge he had acquired in the preceding stages, and he is now in his old age. This is a fuller, and probably an independent, development of the comparison of the race to an individual which we found in Bacon. It occurs in a fragment which remained unpublished for more than a hundred years, and is often quoted as a recognition, not of a general progress of man, but of a progress in human knowledge. To those who reproached Descartes with disrespect towards ancient thinkers he might have replied that, in repudiating their authority, he was really paying them the compliment of imitation and acting far more in their own spirit than those who slavishly followed them. Pascal saw this point. "What can be more unjust," he wrote, "than to treat our ancients with greater consideration than they showed towards their own predecessors, and to have for them this incredible respect which they deserve from us only because they entertained no such regard for those who had the same advantage (of antiquity) over them?" [Footnote: Pensees, ib.] At the same time Pascal recognised that we are indebted to the ancients for our very superiority to them in the extent of our knowledge. "They reached a certain point, and the slightest effort enables us to mount higher; so that we find ourselves on a loftier plane with less trouble and less glory." The attitude of Descartes was very different. Aspiring to begin ab integro and reform the foundations of knowledge, he ignored or made little of what had been achieved in the past. He attempted to cut the threads of continuity as with the shears of Atropos. This illusion [Footnote: He may be reproached himself with scholasticism in his metaphysical reasoning.] hindered him from stating a doctrine of the progress of knowledge as otherwise he might have done. For any such doctrine must take account of the past as well as of the future. But a theory of progress was to grow out of his philosophy, though he did not construct it. It was to be developed by men who were imbued with the Cartesian spirit. 3. The theological world in France was at first divided on the question whether the system of Descartes could be reconciled with orthodoxy or not. The Jesuits said no, the Fathers of the Oratory said yes. The Jansenists of Port Royal were enthusiastic Cartesians. Yet it was probably the influence of the great spiritual force of Jansenism that did most to check the immediate spread of Cartesian ideas. It was preponderant in France for fifty years. The date of the Discourse of Method is 1637. The Augustinus of Jansenius was published in 1640, and in 1643 Arnauld's Frequent Communion made Jansenism a popular power. The Jansenist movement was in France in some measure what the Puritan movement was in England, and it caught hold of serious minds in much the same way. The Jesuits had undertaken the task of making Christianity easy, of finding a compromise between worldliness and religion, and they flooded the world with a casuistic literature designed for this purpose. Ex opinionum varietate jugum Christi suavius deportatur. The doctrine of Jansenius was directed against this corruption of faith and morals. He maintained that there can be no compromise with the world; that casuistry is incompatible with morality; that man is naturally corrupt; and that in his most virtuous acts some corruption is present. Now the significance of these two forces--the stern ideal of the Jansenists and the casuistry of the Jesuit teachers--is that they both attempted to meet, by opposed methods, the wave of libertine thought and conduct which is a noticeable feature in the history of French society from the reign of Henry IV. to that of Louis XV. [Footnote: For the prevalence of "libertine" thought in France at the beginning of the seventeenth century see the work of the Pere Garasse, La Doctrine curieuse des beaux esprits de ce temps ou pretendus tels, etc. (1623). Cp. also Brunetiere's illuminating study, "Jansenistes et Cartesiens" in Etudes critiques, 4me serie.] This libertinism had its philosophy, a sort of philosophy of nature, of which the most brilliant exponents were Rabelais and Moliere. The maxim, "Be true to nature," was evidently opposed sharply to the principles of the Christian religion, and it was associated with sceptical views which prevailed widely in France from the early years of the seventeenth century. The Jesuits sought to make terms by saying virtually: "Our religious principles and your philosophy of nature are not after all so incompatible in practice. When it comes to the application of principles, opinions differ. Theology is as elastic as you like. Do not abandon your religion on the ground that her yoke is hard." Jansenius and his followers, on the other hand, fought uncompromisingly with the licentious spirit of the time, maintaining the austerest dogmas and denouncing any compromise or condescension. And their doctrine had a wonderful success, and penetrated everywhere. Few of the great literary men of the reign of Louis XIV. escaped it. Its influence can be traced in the Maximes of La Rochefoucauld and the Caracteres of La Bruyere. It was through its influence that Moliere found it difficult to get some of his plays staged. It explains the fact that the court of Louis XIV., however corrupt, was decorous compared with the courts of Henry IV. and Louis XV.; a severe standard was set up, if it was not observed. The genius of Pascal made the fortunes of Jansenism. He outlived his Cartesianism and became its most influential spokesman. His Provinciales (1656) rendered abstruse questions of theology more or less intelligible, and invited the general public to pronounce an opinion on them. His lucid exposition interested every one in the abstruse problem, Is man's freedom such as not to render grace superfluous? But Pascal perceived that casuistry was not the only enemy that menaced the true spirit of religion for which Jansenism stood. He came to realise that Cartesianism, to which he was at first drawn, was profoundly opposed to the fundamental views of Christianity. His Pensees are the fragments of a work which he designed in defence of religion, and it is easy to see that this defence was to be specially directed against the ideas of Descartes. Pascal was perfectly right about the Cartesian conception of the Universe, though Descartes might pretend to mitigate its tendencies, and his fervent disciple, Malebranche, might attempt to prove that it was more or less reconcilable with orthodox doctrine. We need not trouble about the special metaphysical tenets of Descartes. The two axioms which he launched upon the world--the supremacy of reason, and the invariability of natural laws--struck directly at the foundations of orthodoxy. Pascal was attacking Cartesianism when he made his memorable attempt to discredit the authority of reason, by showing that it is feeble and deceptive. It was a natural consequence of his changed attitude that he should speak (in the Pensees) in a much less confident tone about the march of science than he had spoken in the passage which I quoted above. And it was natural that he should be pessimistic about social improvement, and that, keeping his eyes fixed on his central fact that Christianity is the goal of history, he should take only a slight and subsidiary interest in amelioration. The preponderant influence of Jansenism only began to wane during the last twenty years of the seventeenth century, and till then it seems to have been successful in counteracting the diffusion of the Cartesian ideas. Cartesianism begins to become active and powerful when Jansenism is beginning to decline. And it is just then that the idea of Progress begins definitely to emerge. The atmosphere in France was favourable for its reception. 4. The Cartesian mechanical theory of the world and the doctrine of invariable law, carried to a logical conclusion, excluded the doctrine of Providence. This doctrine was already in serious danger. Perhaps no article of faith was more insistently attacked by sceptics in the seventeenth century, and none was more vital. The undermining of the theory of Providence is very intimately connected with our subject; for it was just the theory of an active Providence that the theory of Progress was to replace; and it was not till men felt independent of Providence that they could organise a theory of Progress. Bossuet was convinced that the question of Providence was the most serious and pressing among all the questions of the day that were at issue between orthodox and heretical thinkers. Brunetiere, his fervent admirer, has named him the theologian of Providence, and has shown that in all his writings this doctrine is a leading note. It is sounded in his early sermons in the fifties, and it is the theme of his most ambitious work, the Discourse on Universal History, which appeared in 1681. [Footnote; It has been shown that on one hand he controverts Spinoza's Tractatus theologico-politicus, and on the other the dangerous methods of Richard Simon, one of the precursors of modern biblical criticism. Brunetiere, op. cit. 74-85.] This book, which has received high praise from those who most heartily dissent from its conclusions, is in its main issue a restatement of the view of history which Augustine had worked out in his memorable book. The whole course of human experience has been guided by Providence for the sake of the Church; that is, for the sake of the Church to which Bossuet belonged. Regarded as a philosophy of history the Discourse may seem little more than the theory of the De Civitate Dei brought up to date; but this is its least important aspect. We shall fail to understand it unless we recognise that it was a pragmatical, opportune work, designed for the needs of the time, and with express references to current tendencies of thought. One main motive of Bossuet in his lifelong concern for Providence was his conviction that the doctrine was the most powerful check on immorality, and that to deny it was to remove the strongest restraint on the evil side of human nature. There is no doubt that the free-living people of the time welcomed the arguments which called Providence in question, and Bossuet believed that to champion Providence was the most efficient means of opposing the libertine tendencies of his day. "Nothing," he declared in one of his sermons (1662), "has appeared more insufferable to the arrogance of libertines than to see themselves continually under the observation of this ever-watchful eye of Providence. They have felt it as an importunate compulsion to recognise that there is in Heaven a superior force which governs all our movements and chastises our loose actions with a severe authority. They have wished to shake off the yoke of this Providence, in order to maintain, in independence, an unteachable liberty which moves them to live at their own fancy, without fear, discipline, or restraint." [Passage from Bossuet, quoted by Brunetiere, op. cit. 58.] Bossuet was thus working in the same cause as the Jansenists. He had himself come under the influence of Descartes, whose work he always regarded with the deepest respect. The cautiousness of the master had done much to disguise the insidious dangers of his thought, and it was in the hands of those disciples who developed his system and sought to reconcile it at all points with orthodoxy that his ideas displayed their true nature. Malebranche's philosophy revealed the incompatibility of Providence--in the ordinary acceptation--with immutable natural laws. If the Deity acts upon the world, as Malebranche maintained, only by means of general laws, His freedom is abolished, His omnipotence is endangered, He is subject to a sort of fatality. What will become of the Christian belief in the value of prayers, if God cannot adapt or modify, on any given occasion, the general order of nature to the needs of human beings? These are some of the arguments which we find in a treatise composed by Fenelon, with the assistance of Bossuet, to demonstrate that the doctrine of Malebranche is inconsistent with piety and orthodox religion. They were right. Cartesianism was too strong a wine to be decanted into old bottles. [Footnote: Fenelon's Refutation of Malebranche's Traite de la nature et de la grace was not published till 1820. This work of Malebranche also provoked a controversy with Arnauld, who urged similar arguments.] Malebranche's doctrine of what he calls divine Providence was closely connected with his philosophical optimism. It enabled him to maintain the perfection of the universe. Admitting the obvious truth that the world exhibits many imperfections, and allowing that the Creator could have produced a better result if he had employed other means, Malebranche argued that, in judging the world, we must take into account not only the result but the methods by which it has been produced. It is the best world, he asserts, that could be framed by general and simple methods; and general and simple methods are the most perfect, and alone worthy of the Creator. Therefore, if we take the methods and the result together, a more perfect world is impossible. The argument was ingenious, though full of assumptions, but it was one which could only satisfy a philosopher. It is little consolation to creatures suffering from the actual imperfections of the system into which they are born to be told that the world might have been free from those defects, only in that case they would not have the satisfaction of knowing that it was created and conducted on theoretically superior principles. Though Malebranche's conception was only a metaphysical theory, metaphysical theories have usually their pragmatic aspects; and the theory that the universe is as perfect as it could be marks a stage in the growth of intellectual optimism which we can trace from the sixteenth century. It was a view which could appeal to the educated public in France, for it harmonised with the general spirit of self-complacency and hopefulness which prevailed among the higher classes of society in the reign of Louis XIV. For them the conditions of life under the new despotism had become far more agreeable than in previous ages, and it was in a spirit of optimism that they devoted themselves to the enjoyment of luxury and elegance. The experience of what the royal authority could achieve encouraged men to imagine that one enlightened will, with a centralised administration at its command, might accomplish endless improvements in civilisation. There was no age had ever been more glorious, no age more agreeable to live in. The world had begun to abandon the theory of corruption, degeneration, and decay. Some years later the optimistic theory of the perfection of the universe found an abler exponent in Leibnitz, whom Diderot calls the father of optimism. [Footnote: See particularly Monadologie, ad fin. published posthumously in German 1720, in Latin 1728; Theodicee, Section 341 (1710); and the paper, De rerum originatione radicali, written in 1697, but not published till 1840 (Opera philosophica, ed. Erdmann, p. 147 sqq).] The Creator, before He acted, had considered all possible worlds, and had chosen the best. He might have chosen one in which humanity would have been better and happier, but that would not have been the best possible, for He had to consider the interests of the whole universe, of which the earth with humanity is only an insignificant part. The evils and imperfections of our small world are negligible in comparison with the happiness and perfection of the whole cosmos. Leibnitz, whose theory is deduced from the abstract proposition that the Creator is perfect, does not say that now or at any given moment the universe is as perfect as it could be; its merit lies in its potentialities; it will develop towards perfection throughout infinite time. The optimism of Leibnitz therefore concerns the universe as a whole, not the earth, and would obviously be quite consistent with a pessimistic view of the destinies of humanity. He does indeed believe that it would be impossible to improve the universal order, "not only for the whole, but for ourselves in particular," and incidentally he notes the possibility that "in the course of time the human race may reach a greater perfection than we can imagine at present." But the significance of his speculation and that of Malebranche lies in the fact that the old theories of degeneration are definitely abandoned. CHAPTER IV. THE DOCTRINE OF DEGENERATION: THE ANCIENTS AND MODERNS 1. Outside the circle of systematic thinkers the prevalent theory of degeneration was being challenged early in the seventeenth century. The challenge led to a literary war, which was waged for about a hundred years in France and England; over the comparative merits of the ancients and the moderns. It was in the matter of literature, and especially poetry, that the quarrel was most acrimonious, and that the interest of the public was most keenly aroused, but the ablest disputants extended the debate to the general field of knowledge. The quarrel of the Ancients and Moderns used commonly to be dismissed as a curious and rather ridiculous episode in the history of literature. [Footnote: The best and fullest work on the subject is Rigault's "Histoire de la querelle des Anciens et des Modernes" (1856).] Auguste Comte was, I think, one of the first to call attention to some of its wider bearings. The quarrel, indeed, has considerable significance in the history of ideas. It was part of the rebellion against the intellectual yoke of the Renaissance; the cause of the Moderns, who were the aggressors, represented the liberation of criticism from the authority of the dead; and, notwithstanding the perversities of taste of which they were guilty, their polemic, even on the purely literary side, was distinctly important, as M. Brunetiere has convincingly shown, [Footnote: See his "L'evolution des genres dans l'histoire de la litterature."] in the development of French criticism. But the form in which the critical questions were raised forced the debate to touch upon a problem of greater moment. The question, Can the men of to-day contend on equal terms with the illustrious ancients, or are they intellectually inferior? implied the larger issue, Has nature exhausted her powers; is she no longer capable of producing men equal in brains and vigour to those whom she once produced; is humanity played out, or are her forces permanent and inexhaustible? The assertion of the permanence of the powers of nature by the champions of the Moderns was the direct contradiction of the theory of degeneration, and they undoubtedly contributed much towards bringing that theory into discredit. When we grasp this it will not be surprising to find that the first clear assertions of a doctrine of progress in knowledge were provoked by the controversy about the Ancients and Moderns. Although the great scene of the controversy was France, the question had been expressly raised by an Italian, no less a person than Alessandro Tassoni, the accomplished author of that famous ironical poem, "La Secchia rapita," which caricatured the epic poets of his day. He was bent on exposing the prejudices of his time and uttering new doctrine, and he created great scandal in Italy by his attacks on Petrarch, as well as on Homer and Aristotle. The earliest comparison of the merits of the ancients and the moderns will be found in a volume of Miscellaneous Thoughts which he published in 1620. [Footnote: Dieci libri di pensieri diversi (Carpi, 1620). The first nine books had appeared in 1612. The tenth contains the comparison. Rigault was the first to connect this work with the history of the controversy.] He speaks of the question as a matter of current dispute, [Footnote: It was incidental to the controversy which arose over the merits of Tasso's Jerusalem Delivered. That the subject had been discussed long before may be inferred from a remark of Estienne in his Apology for Herodotus, that while some of his contemporaries carry their admiration of antiquity to the point of superstition, others depreciate and trample it underfoot.] on which he proposes to give an impartial decision by instituting a comprehensive comparison in all fields, theoretical, imaginative, and practical. He begins by criticising the a priori argument that, as arts are brought to perfection by experience and long labour, the modern age must necessarily have the advantage. This reasoning, he says, is unsound, because the same arts and studies are not always uninterruptedly pursued by the most powerful intellects, but pass into inferior hands, and so decline or are even extinguished, as was the case in Italy in the decrepitude of the Roman Empire, when for many centuries the arts fell below mediocrity. Or, to phrase it otherwise, the argument would be admissible only if there were no breaches of continuity. [Footnote: Tassoni argues that a decline in all pursuits is inevitable when a certain point of excellence has been reached, quoting Velleius Paterculus (i. 17): difficilisque in perfecto mora est naturaliterque quod procedere non potest recedit.] In drawing his comparison Tassoni seeks to make good his claim that he is not an advocate. But while he awards superiority here and there to the ancients, the moderns on the whole have much the best of it. He takes a wide enough survey, including the material side of civilisation, even costume, in contrast with some of the later controversialists, who narrowed the field of debate to literature and art. Tassoni's Thoughts were translated into French, and the book was probably known to Boisrobert, a dramatist who is chiefly remembered for the part he took in founding the Academie francaise. He delivered a discourse before that body immediately after its institution (February 26, 1635), in which he made a violent and apparently scurrilous attack on Homer. This discourse kindled the controversy in France, and even struck a characteristic note. Homer--already severely handled by Tassoni--was to be the special target for the arrows of the Moderns, who felt that, if they could succeed in discrediting him, their cause would be won. Thus the gauntlet was flung--and it is important to note this--before the appearance of the Discourse of Method (1637); but the influence of Descartes made itself felt throughout the controversy, and the most prominent moderns were men who had assimilated Cartesian ideas. This seems to be true even of Desmarets de Saint Sorlin, who, a good many years after the discourse of Boisrobert, opened the campaign. Saint Sorlin had become a fanatical Christian; that was one reason for hating the ancients. [Footnote: For the views of Saint Sorlin see the Preface to his Clovis and his Traite pour juger des poefes grecs, latins, et francais, chap. iv. (1670). Cp. Rigault, Hist. de la querelle, p. 106. The polemic of Saint Sorlin extended over about five years (1669-73).] He was also, like Boisrobert, a bad poet; that was another. His thesis was that the history of Christianity offered subjects far more inspiring to a poet than those which had been treated by Homer and Sophocles, and that Christian poetry must bear off the palm from pagan. His own Clovis and Mary Magdalene or the Triumph of Grace were the demonstration of Homer's defeat. Few have ever heard of these productions; how many have read them? Curiously, about the same time an epic was being composed in England which might have given to the foolish contentions of Saint Sorlin some illusory plausibility. But the literary dispute does not concern us here. What does concern us is that Saint Sorlin was aware of the wider aspects of the question, though he was not seriously interested in them. Antiquity, he says, was not so happy or so learned or so rich or so stately as the modern age, which is really the mature old age, and as it were the autumn of the world, possessing the fruits and the spoils of all the past centuries, with the power to judge of the inventions, experiences, and errors of predecessors, and to profit by all that. The ancient world was a spring which had only a few flowers. Nature indeed, in all ages, produces perfect works but it is not so with the creations of man, which require correction; and the men who live latest must excel in happiness and knowledge. Here we have both the assertion of the permanence of the forces of nature and the idea, already expressed by Bacon and others, that the modern age has advantages over antiquity comparable to those of old age over childhood. 2. How seriously the question between the Moderns and the Ancients--on whose behalf Boileau had come forward and crossed swords with Saint Sorlin--was taken is shown by the fact that Saint Sorlin, before his death, solemnly bequeathed the championship of the Moderns to a younger man, Charles Perrault. We shall see how he fulfilled the trust. It is illustrated too by a book which appeared in the seventies, Les Entretiens d'Ariste et Eugene, by Bouhours, a mundane and popular Jesuit Father. In one of these dialogues the question is raised, but with a curious caution and evasiveness, which suggests that the author was afraid to commit himself; he did not wish to make enemies. [Footnote: Rigault notes that he makes one contribution to the subject, the idea that the torch of civilisation has passed from country to country, in different ages, e.g. from Greece to Rome, and recently from Italy to France. In the last century the Italians were first in doctrine and politesse. The present century is for France what the last was for Italy: "We have all the esprit and all the science, all other countries are barbarous in comparison" (p. 239, ed. 1782, Amsterdam). But, as we shall see, he had been anticipated by Hakewill, whose work was unknown to Rigault.] The general atmosphere in France, in the reign of Louis XIV., was propitious to the cause of the Moderns. Men felt that it was a great age, comparable to the age of Augustus, and few would have preferred to have lived at any other time. Their literary artists, Corneille, and then Racine and Moliere, appealed so strongly to their taste that they could not assign to them any rank but the first. They were impatient of the claims to unattainable excellence advanced for the Greeks and Romans. "The ancients," said Moliere, "are the ancients, we are the people of to-day." This might be the motto of Descartes, and it probably expressed a very general feeling. It was in 1687 that Charles Perrault--who is better remembered for his collection of fairy-tales than for the leading role which he played in this controversy--published his poem on "The Age of Louis the Great." The enlightenment of the present age surpasses that of antiquity,--this is the theme. La docte Antiquite dans toute sa duree A l'egal de nos jours ne fut point eclairee. Perrault adopts a more polite attitude to "la belle antiquite" than Saint Sorlin, but his criticism is more insidious. Greek and Roman men of genius, he suggests, were all very well in their own times, and might be considered divine by our ancestors. But nowadays Plato is rather tiresome; and the "inimitable Homer" would have written a much better epic if he had lived in the reign of Louis the Great. The important passage, however, in the poem is that in which the permanent power of nature to produce men of equal talent in every age is affirmed. A former les esprits comme a former les corps La Nature en tout temps fait les mesmes efforts; Son etre est immuable, et cette force aisee Dont elle produit tout ne s'est point epuisee; ..... De cette mesme main les forces infinies Produisent en tout temps de semblables genies. The "Age of Louis the Great" was a brief declaration of faith. Perrault followed it up by a comprehensive work, his Comparison of the Ancients and the Moderns (Parallele des Anciens et des Modernes), which appeared in four parts during the following years (1688-1696). Art, eloquence, poetry the sciences, and their practical applications are all discussed at length; and the discussion is thrown into the form of conversations between an enthusiastic champion of the modern age, who conducts the debate, and a devotee of antiquity, who finds it difficult not to admit the arguments of his opponent, yet obstinately persists in his own views. Perrault bases his thesis on those general considerations which we have met incidentally in earlier writers, and which were now almost commonplaces among those who paid any attention to the matter. Knowledge advances with time and experience; perfection is not necessarily associated with antiquity; the latest comers have inherited from their predecessors and added new acquisitions of their own. But Perrault has thought out the subject methodically, and he draws conclusions which have only to be extended to amount to a definite theory of the progress of knowledge. A particular difficulty had done much to hinder a general admission of progressive improvement in the past. The proposition that the posterior is better and the late comers have the advantage seemed to be incompatible with an obvious historical fact. We are superior to the men of the dark ages in knowledge and arts. Granted. But will you say that the men of the tenth century were superior to the Greeks and Romans? To this question--on which Tassoni had already touched--Perrault replies: Certainly not. There are breaches of continuity. The sciences and arts are like rivers, which flow for part of their course underground, and then, finding an opening, spring forth as abundant as when they plunged beneath the earth. Long wars, for instance, may force peoples to neglect studies and throw all their vigour into the more urgent needs of self-preservation; a period of ignorance may ensue but with peace and felicity knowledge and inventions will begin again and make further advances. [Footnote: The passages in Perrault's Parallele specially referred to in the text will be found in vol. i. pp. 35-7, 60-61, 67, 231-3.] It is to be observed that he does not, claim any superiority in talents or brain power for the moderns. On the contrary, he takes his stand on the principle which he had asserted in the "Age of Louis the Great," that nature is immutable. She still produces as great men as ever, but she does not produce greater. The lions of the deserts of Africa in our days do not differ in fierceness from those the days of Alexander the Great, and the best men of all times are equal in vigour. It is their work and productions that are unequal, and, given equally favourable conditions, the latest must be the best. For science and the arts depend upon the accumulation of knowledge, and knowledge necessarily increases as time goes on. But could this argument be applied to poetry and literary art, the field of battle in which the belligerents, including Perrault himself, were most deeply interested? It might prove that the modern age was capable of producing poets and men of letter no less excellent than the ancient masters, but did it prove that their works must be superior? The objection did not escape Perrault, and he answers it ingeniously. It is the function of poetry and eloquence to please the human heart, and in order to please it we must know it. Is it easier to penetrate the secrets of the human heart than the secrets of nature, or will it take less time? We are always making new discoveries about its passions and desires. To take only the tragedies of Corneille you will find there finer and more delicate reflections on ambition, vengeance, and jealousy than in all the books of antiquity. At the close of his Parallel, however, Perrault, while he declares the general superiority of the moderns, makes a reservation in regard to poetry and eloquence "for the sake of peace." The discussion of Perrault falls far short of embodying a full idea of Progress. Not only is he exclusively concerned with progress in knowledge--though he implies, indeed, without developing, the doctrine that happiness depends on knowledge--but he has no eyes for the future, and no interest in it. He is so impressed with the advance of knowledge in the recent past that he is almost incapable of imagining further progression. "Read the journals of France and England," he says, "and glance at the publications of the Academies of these great kingdoms, and you will be convinced that within the last twenty or thirty years more discoveries have been made in natural science than throughout the period of learned antiquity. I own that I consider myself fortunate to know the happiness we enjoy; it is a great pleasure to survey all the past ages in which I can see the birth and the progress of all things, but nothing which has not received a new increase and lustre in our own times. Our age has, in some sort, arrived at the summit of perfection. And since for some years the rate of the progress is much slower and appears almost insensible--as the days seem to cease lengthening when the solstice is near--it is pleasant to think that probably there are not many things for which we need envy future generations." Indifference to the future, or even a certain scepticism about it, is the note of this passage, and accords with the view that the world has reached its old age. The idea of the progress of knowledge, which Perrault expounds, is still incomplete. 3. Independently of this development in France, the doctrine of degeneration had been attacked, and the comparison of the ancients with the moderns incidentally raised, in England. A divine named George Hakewill published in 1627 a folio of six hundred pages to confute "the common error touching Nature's perpetual and universal decay." [Footnote: An Apologie or Declaration of the Power and Providence of God in the Government of the World, consisting in an Examination and Censure of the common Errour, etc. (1627, 1630, 1635).] He and his pedantic book, which breathes the atmosphere of the sixteenth century, are completely forgotten; and though it ran to three editions, it can hardly have attracted the attention of many except theologians. The writer's object is to prove that the power and providence of God in the government of the world are not consistent with the current view that the physical universe, the heavens and the elements, are undergoing a process of decay, and that man is degenerating physically, mentally, and morally. His arguments in general are futile as well as tedious. But he has profited by reading Bodin and Bacon, whose ideas, it would appear, were already agitating theological minds. A comparison between the ancients and the moderns arises in a general refutation of the doctrine of decay, as naturally as the question of the stability of the powers of nature arises in a comparison between the ancients and moderns. Hakewill protests against excessive admiration of antiquity, just because it encourages the opinion of the world's decay. He gives his argument a much wider scope than the French controversialists. For him the field of debate includes not only science, arts, and literature, but physical qualities and morals. He seeks to show that mentally and physically there has been no decay, and that the morals of modern Christendom are immensely superior to those of pagan times. There has been social progress, due to Christianity; and there has been an advance in arts and knowledge. Multa dies uariusque labor mutabilis aeui Rettulit in melius. Hakewill, like Tassoni, surveys all the arts and sciences, and concludes that the moderns are equal to the ancients in poetry, and in almost all other things excel them. [Footnote: Among modern poets equal to the ancients, Hakewill signalises Sir Philip Sidney, Spenser, Marot, Ronsard, Ariosto, Tasso (Book iii. chap. 8, Section 3).] One of the arguments which he urges against the theory of degeneration is pragmatic--its paralysing effect on human energy. "The opinion of the world's universal decay quails the hopes and blunts the edge of men's endeavours." And the effort to improve the world, he implies, is a duty we owe to posterity. "Let not then the vain shadows of the world's fatal decay keep us either from looking backward to the imitation of our noble predecessors or forward in providing for posterity, but as our predecessors worthily provided, for us, so let our posterity bless us in providing for them, it being still as uncertain to us what generations are still to ensue, as it was to our predecessors in their ages." We note the suggestion that history may be conceived as a sequence of improvements in civilisation, but we note also that Hakewill here is faced by the obstacle which Christian theology offered to the logical expansion of the idea. It is uncertain what generations are still to ensue. Roger Bacon stood before the same dead wall. Hakewill thinks that he is living in the last age of the world; but how long it shall last is a question which cannot be resolved, "it being one of those secrets which the Almighty hath locked up in the cabinet of His own counsel." Yet he consoles himself and his readers with a consideration which suggests that the end is not yet very near. [Footnote: See Book i. chap. 2, Section 4, p. 24.] "It is agreed upon all sides by Divines that at least two signs forerunning the world's end remain unaccomplished--the subversion of Rome and the conversion of the Jews. And when they shall be accomplished God only knows, as yet in man's judgment there being little appearance of the one or the other." It was well to be assured that nature is not decaying or man degenerating. But was the doctrine that the end of the world does not "depend upon the law of nature," and that the growth of human civilisation may be cut off at any moment by a fiat of the Deity, less calculated to "quail the hopes and blunt the edge of men's endeavours?" Hakewill asserted with confidence that the universe will be suddenly wrecked by fire. Una dies dabit exitio. Was the prospect of an arrest which might come the day after to-morrow likely to induce men to exert themselves to make provision for posterity? The significance of Hakewill lies in the fact that he made the current theory of degeneration, which stood in the way of all possible theories of progress, the object of a special inquiry. And his book illustrates the close connection between that theory and the dispute over the Ancients and Moderns. It cannot be said that he has added anything valuable to what may be found in Bodin and Bacon on the development of civilisation. The general synthesis of history which he attempts is equivalent to theirs. He describes the history of knowledge and arts, and all things besides, as exhibiting "a kind of circular progress," by which he means that they have a birth, growth, nourishing, failing and fading, and then within a while after a resurrection and reflourishing. [Footnote: Book iii. chap. 6, Section i, p. 259.] In this method of progress the lamp of learning passed from one people to another. It passed from the Orientals (Chaldeans and Egyptians) to the Greeks; when it was nearly extinguished in Greece it began to shine afresh among the Romans; and having been put out by the barbarians for the space of a thousand years it was relit by Petrarch and his contemporaries. In stating this view of "circular progress," Hakewill comes perilously near to the doctrine of Ricorsi or Returns which had been severely denounced by Bacon. In one point indeed Hakewill goes far beyond Bodin. It was suggested, as we saw, by the French thinker that in some respects the modern age is superior in conduct and morals to antiquity, but he said little on the matter. Hakewill develops the suggestion at great length into a severe and partial impeachment of ancient manners and morals. Unjust and unconvincing though his arguments are, and inspired by theological motives, his thesis nevertheless deserves to be noted as an assertion of the progress of man in social morality. Bacon, and the thinkers of the seventeenth century generally, confined their views of progress in the past to the intellectual field. Hakewill, though he overshot the mark and said nothing actually worth remembering, nevertheless anticipated the larger problem of social progress which was to come to the front in the eighteenth century. 4. During the forty years that followed the appearance of Hakewill's book much had happened in the world of ideas, and when we take up Glanvill's Plus ultra, or the Progress and Advancement of Knowledge since the days of Aristotle, [Footnote: The title is evidently suggested by a passage in Bacon quoted above, p. 55.] we breathe a different atmosphere. It was published in 1668, and its purpose was to defend the recently founded Royal Society which was attacked on the ground that it was inimical to the interests of religion and sound learning. For the Aristotelian tradition was still strongly entrenched in the English Church and Universities, notwithstanding the influence of Bacon; and the Royal Society, which realised "the romantic model" of Bacon's society of experimenters, repudiated the scholastic principles and methods associated with Aristotle's name. Glanvill was one of those latitudinarian clergymen, so common in the Anglican Church in the seventeenth century, who were convinced that religious faith must accord with reason, and were unwilling to abate in its favour any of reason's claims. He was under the influence of Bacon, Descartes, and the Cambridge Platonists, and no one was more enthusiastic than he in following the new scientific discoveries of his time. Unfortunately for his reputation he had a weak side. Enlightened though he was, he was a firm believer in witchcraft, and he is chiefly remembered not as an admirer of Descartes and Bacon, and a champion of the Royal Society, but as the author of Saducismus Triumphatus, a monument of superstition, which probably contributed to check the gradual growth of disbelief in witches and apparitions. His Plus ultra is a review of modern improvements of useful knowledge. It is confined to mathematics and science, in accordance with its purpose of justifying the Royal Society; and the discoveries of the past sixty years enable the author to present a far more imposing picture of modern scientific progress than was possible for Bodin or Bacon. [Footnote: Bacon indeed could have made out a more impressive picture of the new age if he had studied mathematics and taken the pains to master the evidence which was revolutionising astronomy. Glanvill had the advantage of comprehending the importance of mathematics for the advance of physical science.] He had absorbed Bacon's doctrine of utility. His spirit is displayed in the remark that more gratitude is due to the unknown inventor of the mariners' compass "than to a thousand Alexanders and Caesars, or to ten times the number of Aristotles. And he really did more for the increase of knowledge and the advantage of the world by this one experiment than the numerous subtile disputers that have lived ever since the erection of the school of talking." Glanvill, however, in his complacency with what has already been accomplished, is not misled into over-estimating its importance. He knows that it is indeed little compared with the ideal of attainable knowledge. The human design, to which it is the function of the Royal Society to contribute, is laid as low, he says, as the profoundest depths of nature, and reaches as high as the uppermost storey of the universe, extends to all the varieties of the great world, and aims at the benefit of universal mankind. Such a work can only proceed slowly, by insensible degrees. It is an undertaking wherein all the generations of men are concerned, and our own age can hope to do little more than to remove useless rubbish, lay in materials, and put things in order for the building. "We must seek and gather, observe and examine, and lay up in bank for the ages that come after." These lines on "the vastness of the work" suggest to the reader that a vast future will be needed for its accomplishment. Glanvill does not dwell on this, but he implies it. He is evidently unembarrassed by the theological considerations which weighed so heavily on Hakewill. He does not trouble himself with the question whether Anti-Christ has still to appear. The difference in general outlook between these two clergymen is an indication how the world had travelled in the course of forty years. Another point in Glanvill's little book deserves attention. He takes into his prospect the inhabitants of the Transatlantic world; they, too, are to share in the benefits which shall result from the subjugation of nature. "By the gaining that mighty continent and the numerous fruitful isles beyond the Atlantic, we have obtained a larger field of nature, and have thereby an advantage for more phenomena, and more helps both for knowledge and for life, which 'tis very like that future ages will make better use of to such purposes than those hitherto have done; and that science also may at last travel into those parts and enrich Peru with a more precious treasure than that of its golden mines, is not improbable." Sprat, the Bishop of Rochester, in his interesting History of the Royal Society, so sensible and liberal--published shortly before Glanvill's book,--also contemplates the extension of science over the world. Speaking of the prospect of future discoveries, he thinks it will partly depend on the enlargement of the field of western civilisation "if this mechanic genius which now prevails in these parts of Christendom shall happen to spread wide amongst ourselves and other civil nations, or if by some good fate it shall pass farther on to other countries that were yet never fully civilised." This then being imagin'd, that there may some lucky tide of civility flow into those lands which are yet salvage, then will a double improvement thence arise both in respect of ourselves and them. For even the present skilful parts of mankind will be thereby made more skilful, and the other will not only increase those arts which we shall bestow upon them, but will also venture on new searches themselves. He expects much from the new converts, on the ground that nations which have been taught have proved more capable than their teachers, appealing to the case of the Greeks who outdid their eastern masters, and to that of the peoples of modern Europe who received their light from the Romans but have "well nigh doubled the ancient stock of trades delivered to their keeping." 5. The establishment of the Royal Society in 1660 and the Academy of Sciences in 1666 made physical science fashionable in London and Paris. Macaulay, in his characteristic way, describes how "dreams of perfect forms of government made way for dreams of wings with which men were to fly from the Tower to the Abbey, and of double-keeled ships which were never to founder in the fiercest storm. All classes were hurried along by the prevailing sentiment. Cavalier and Roundhead, Churchman and Puritan were for once allied. Divines, jurists, statesmen, nobles, princes, swelled the triumph of the Baconian philosophy." The seeds sown by Bacon had at last begun to ripen, and full credit was given to him by those who founded and acclaimed the Royal Society. The ode which Cowley addressed to that institution might have been entitled an ode in honour of Bacon, or still better--for the poet seized the essential point of Bacon's labours--a hymn on the liberation of the human mind from the yoke of Authority. Bacon has broke that scar-crow Deity. Dryden himself, in the Annus Mirabilis, had turned aside from his subject, the defeat of the Dutch and England's mastery of the seas, to pay a compliment to the Society, and to prophesy man's mastery of the universe. Instructed ships shall sail to rich commerce, By which remotest regions are allied; Which makes one city of the universe, Where some may gain and all may be supplied. Then we upon our globe's last verge shall go, And view the ocean leaning on the sky, From thence our rolling neighbours we shall know, And on the lunar world securely pry. [Footnote: It may be noted that John Wilkins (Bishop of Chester) published in 1638 a little book entitled Discovery of a New World, arguing that the moon is inhabited. A further edition appeared in 1684. He attempted to compose a universal language (Sprat, Hist. of Royal Society, p. 251). His Mercury or the Secret and Swift Messenger (1641) contains proposals for a universal script (chap. 13). There is also an ingenious suggestion for the communication of messages by sound, which might be described as an anticipation of the Morse code. Wilkins and another divine, Seth Ward, the Bishop of Salisbury, belonged to the group of men who founded the Royal Society.] Men did not look far into the future; they did not dream of what the world might be a thousand or ten thousand years hence. They seem to have expected quick results. Even Sprat thinks that "the absolute perfection of the true philosophy" is not far off, seeing that "this first great and necessary preparation for its coming"--the institution of scientific co-operation--has been accomplished. Superficial and transient though the popular enthusiasm was, it was a sign that an age of intellectual optimism had begun, in which the science of nature would play a leading role. CHAPTER V. THE PROGRESS OF KNOWLEDGE: FONTENELLE 1. Nine months before the first part of Perrault's work appeared a younger and more brilliant man had formulated, in a short tract, the essential points of the doctrine of the progress of knowledge. It was Fontenelle. Fontenelle was an anima naturaliter moderna. Trained in the principles of Descartes, he was one of those who, though like Descartes himself, too critical to swear by a master, appreciated unreservedly the value of the Cartesian method. Sometimes, he says, a great man gives the tone to his age; and this is true of Descartes, who can claim the glory of having established a new art of reasoning. He sees the effects in literature. The best books on moral and political subjects are distinguished by an arrangement and precision which he traces to the esprit geometrique characteristic of Descartes. [Footnote: Sur l'utilite des mathematiques el de la physique (Oeuvres, iii. p. 6, ed. 1729).] Fontenelle himself had this "geometrical mind," which we see at its best in Descartes and Hobbes and Spinoza. He had indeed a considerable aptitude for letters. He wrote poor verses, and could not distinguish good poetry from bad. That perhaps was the defect of l'esprit geometrique. But he wrote lucid prose. There was an ironical side to his temper, and he had an ingenious paradoxical wit, which he indulged, with no little felicity, in his early work, Dialogues of the Dead. These conversations, though they show no dramatic power and are simply a vehicle for the author's satirical criticisms on life, are written with a light touch, and are full of surprises and unexpected turns. The very choice of the interlocutors shows a curious fancy, which we do not associate with the geometrical intellect. Descartes is confronted with the Third False Demetrius, and we wonder what the gourmet Apicius will find to say to Galileo. 2. In the Dialogues of the Dead, which appeared in 1683, the Ancient and Modern controversy is touched on more than once, and it is the subject of the conversation between Socrates and Montaigne. Socrates ironically professes to expect that the age of Montaigne will show a vast improvement on his own; that men will have profited by the experience of many centuries; and that the old age of the world will be wiser and better regulated than its youth. Montaigne assures him that it is not so, and that the vigorous types of antiquity, like Pericles, Aristides, and Socrates himself, are no longer to be found. To this assertion Socrates opposes the doctrine of the permanence of the forces of Nature. Nature has not degenerated in her other works; why should she cease to produce reasonable men? He goes on to observe that antiquity is enlarged and exalted by distance: "In our own day we esteemed our ancestors more than they deserved, and now our posterity esteems us more than we deserve. There is really no difference between our ancestors, ourselves, and our posterity. C'est toujours la meme chose." But, objects Montaigne, I should have thought that things were always changing; that different ages had their different characters. Are there not ages of learning and ages of ignorance, rude ages and polite? True, replies Socrates, but these are only externalities. The heart of man does not change with the fashions of his life. The order of Nature remains constant (l'ordre general de la Nature a l'air bien constant). This conclusion harmonises with the general spirit of the Dialogues. The permanence of the forces of Nature is asserted, but for the purpose of dismissing the whole controversy as rather futile. Elsewhere modern discoveries, like the circulation of the blood and the motions of the earth, are criticised as useless; adding nothing to the happiness and pleasures of mankind. Men acquired, at an early period, a certain amount of useful knowledge, to which they have added nothing; since then they have been slowly discovering things that are unnecessary. Nature has not been so unjust as to allow one age to enjoy more pleasures than another. And what is the value of civilisation? It moulds our words, and embarrasses our actions; it does not affect our feelings. [Footnote: See the dialogues of Harvey with Erasistratus (a Greek physician of the third century B.C.); Galileo with Apicius; Montezuma with Fernando Cortez.] One might hardly have expected the author of these Dialogues to come forward a few years later as a champion of the Moderns, even though, in the dedicatory epistle to Lucian, he compared France to Greece. But he was seriously interested in the debated question, as an intellectual problem, and in January 1688 he published his Digression on the Ancients and Moderns, a short pamphlet, but weightier and more suggestive than the large work of his friend Perrault, which began to appear nine months later. 3. The question of pre-eminence between the Ancients and Moderns is reducible to another. Were trees in ancient times greater than to-day? If they were, then Homer, Plato, and Demosthenes cannot be equalled in modern times; if they were not, they can. Fontenelle states the problem in this succinct way at the beginning of the Digression. The permanence of the forces of Nature had been asserted by Saint Sorlin and Perrault; they had offered no proof, and had used the principle rather incidentally and by way of illustration. But the whole inquiry hinged on it. If it can be shown that man has not degenerated, the cause of the Moderns is practically won. The issue of the controversy must be decided not by rhetoric but by physics. And Fontenelle offers what he regards as a formal Cartesian proof of the permanence of natural forces. If the Ancients had better intellects than ours, the brains of that age must have been better arranged, formed of firmer or more delicate fibres, fuller of "animal spirits." But if such a difference existed, Nature must have been more vigorous; and in that case the trees must have profited by that superior vigour and have been larger and finer. The truth is that Nature has in her hands a certain paste which is always the same, which she is ever turning over and over again in a thousand ways, and of which she forms men, animals, and plants. She has not formed Homer, Demosthenes, and Plato of a finer or better kneaded clay than our poets, orators, and philosophers. Do not object that minds are not material. They are connected by a material bond with the brain, and it is the quality of this material bond that determines intellectual differences. But although natural processes do not change from age to age, they differ in their effects in different climates. "It is certain that as a result of the reciprocal dependence which exists between all parts of the material world, differences of climate, which so clearly affect the life of plants, must also produce some effect on human brains." May it not be said then that, in consequence of climatic conditions, ancient Greece and Rome produced men of mental qualities different from those which could be produced in France? Oranges grow easily in Italy; it is more difficult to cultivate them in France. Fontenelle replies that art and cultivation exert a much greater influence on human brains than on the soil; ideas can be transported more easily from one country to another than plants; and as a consequence of commerce and mutual influence, peoples do not retain the original mental peculiarities due to climate. This may not be true of the extreme climates in the torrid and glacial zones, but in the temperate zone we may discount entirely climatic influence. The climates of Greece and Italy and that of France are too similar to cause any sensible difference between the Greeks or Latins and the French. Saint Sorlin and Perrault had argued directly from the permanence of vigour in lions or trees to the permanence of vigour in man. If trees are the same as ever, brains must also be the same. But what about the minor premiss? Who knows that trees are precisely the same? It is an indemonstrable assumption that oaks and beeches in the days of Socrates and Cicero were not slightly better trees than the oaks and beeches of to-day. Fontenelle saw the weakness of this reasoning. He saw that it was necessary to prove that the trees, no less than human brains, have not degenerated. But his a priori proof is simply a statement of the Cartesian principle of the stability of natural processes, which he put in a thoroughly unscientific form. The stability of the laws of nature is a necessary hypothesis, without which science would be impossible. But here it was put to an illegitimate use. For it means that, given precisely the same conditions, the same physical phenomena will occur. Fontenelle therefore was bound to show that conditions had not altered in such a way as to cause changes in the quality of nature's organic productions. He did not do this. He did not take into consideration, for instance, that climatic conditions may vary from age to age as well as from country to country. 4. Having established the natural equality of the Ancients and Moderns, Fontenelle inferred that whatever differences exist are due to external conditions--(1) time; (2) political institutions and the estate of affairs in general. The ancients were prior in time to us, therefore they were the authors of the first inventions. For that, they cannot be regarded as our superiors. If we had been in their place we should have been the inventors, like them; if they were in ours, they would add to those inventions, like us. There is no great mystery in that. We must impute equal merit to the early thinkers who showed the way and to the later thinkers who pursued it. If the ancient attempts to explain the universe have been recently replaced by the discovery of a simple system (the Cartesian), we must consider that the truth could only be reached by the elimination of false routes, and in this way the numbers of the Pythagoreans, the ideas of Plato, the qualities of Aristotle, all served indirectly to advance knowledge. "We are under an obligation to the ancients for having exhausted almost all the false theories that could be formed." Enlightened both by their true views and by their errors, it is not surprising that we should surpass them. But all this applies only to scientific studies, like mathematics, physics, and medicine, which depend partly on correct reasoning and partly on experience. Methods of reasoning improve slowly, and the most important advance which has been made in the present age is the method inaugurated by Descartes. Before him reasoning was loose; he introduced a more rigid and precise standard, and its influence is not only manifest in our best works on physics and philosophy, but is even discernible in books on ethics and religion. We must expect posterity to excel us as we excel the Ancients, through improvement of method, which is a science in itself--the most difficult and least studied of all--and through increase of experience. Evidently the process is endless (il est evident que tout cela n'a point de fin), and the latest men of science must be the most competent. But this does not apply to poetry or eloquence, round which the controversy has most violently raged. For poetry and eloquence do not depend on correct reasoning. They depend principally on vivacity of imagination, and "vivacity of imagination does not require a long course of experiments, or a great multitude of rules, to attain all the perfection of which it is capable." Such perfection might be attained in a few centuries. If the ancients did achieve perfection in imaginative literature, it follows that they cannot be surpassed; but we have no right to say, as their admirers are fond of pretending, that they cannot be equalled. 5. Besides the mere nature of time, we have to take into account external circumstances in considering this question. If the forces of nature are permanent, how are we to explain the fact that in the barbarous centuries after the decline of Rome--the term Middle Ages has not yet come into currency--ignorance was so dense and deep? This breach of continuity is one of the plausible arguments of the advocates of the Ancients. Those ages, they say, were ignorant and barbarous because the Greek and Latin writers had ceased to be read; as soon as the study of the classical models revived there was a renaissance of reason and good taste. That is true, but it proves nothing. Nature never forgot how to mould the head of Cicero or Livy. She produces in every age men who might be great men; but the age does not always allow them to exert their talents. Inundations of barbarians, universal wars, governments which discourage or do not favour science and art, prejudices which assume all variety of shapes--like the Chinese prejudice against dissecting corpses--may impose long periods of ignorance or bad taste. But observe that, though the return to the study of the ancients revived, as at one stroke, the aesthetic ideals which they had created and the learning which they had accumulated, yet even if their works had not been preserved we should, though it would have cost us many long years of labour, have discovered for ourselves "ideas of the true and the beautiful." Where should we have found them? Where the ancients themselves found them, after much groping. 6. The comparison of the life of collective humanity to the life of a single man, which had been drawn by Bacon and Pascal, Saint Sorlin and Perrault, contains or illustrates an important truth which bears on the whole question. Fontenelle puts it thus. An educated mind is, as it were, composed of all the minds of preceding ages; we might say that a single mind was being educated throughout all history. Thus this secular man, who has lived since the beginning of the world, has had his infancy in which he was absorbed by the most urgent needs of life; his youth in which he succeeded pretty well in things of imagination like poetry and eloquence, and even began to reason, but with more courage than solidity. He is now in the age of manhood, is more enlightened, and reasons better; but he would have advanced further if the passion for war had not distracted him and given him a distaste for the sciences to which he has at last returned. Figures, if they are pressed, are dangerous; they suggest unwarrantable conclusions. It may be illuminative to liken the development of humanity to the growth of an individual; but to infer that the human race is now in its old age, merely on the strength of the comparison, is obviously unjustifiable. That is what Bacon and the others had done. The fallacy was pointed out by Fontenelle. From his point of view, an "old age" of humanity, which if it meant anything meant decay as well as the wisdom of experience, was contrary to the principle of the permanence of natural forces. Man, he asserts, will have no old age. He will be always equally capable, of achieving the successes of his youth; and he will become more and more expert in the things which become the age of virility. Or "to drop metaphor, men will never degenerate." In ages to come we may be regarded--say in America--with the same excess of admiration with which we regard the ancients. We might push the prediction further. In still later ages the interval of time which divides us from the Greeks and Romans will appear so relatively small to posterity that they will classify us and the ancients as virtually contemporary; just in the same way as we group together the Greeks and Romans, though the Romans in their own day were moderns in relation to the Greeks. In that remote period men will be able to judge without prejudice the comparative merits of Sophocles and Corneille. Unreasonable admiration for the ancients is one of the chief obstacles to progress (le progres des choses). Philosophy not only did not advance, but even fell into an abyss of unintelligible ideas, because, through devotion to the authority of Aristotle, men sought truth in his enigmatic writings instead of seeking it in nature. If the authority of Descartes were ever to have the same fortune, the results would be no less disastrous. 7. This memorable brochure exhibits, without pedantry, perspicuous arrangement and the "geometrical" precision on which Fontenelle remarked as one of the notes of the new epoch introduced by Descartes. It displays too the author's open-mindedness, and his readiness to follow where the argument leads. He is able already to look beyond Cartesianism; he knows that it cannot be final. No man of his time was more open-minded and free from prejudice than Fontenelle. This quality of mind helped him to turn his eyes to the future. Perrault and his predecessors were absorbed in the interest of the present and the past. Descartes was too much engaged in his own original discoveries to do more than throw a passing glance at posterity. Now the prospect of the future was one of the two elements which were still needed to fashion the theory of the progress of knowledge. All the conditions for such a theory were present. Bodin and Bacon, Descartes and the champions of the Moderns--the reaction against the Renaissance, and the startling discoveries of science--had prepared the way; progress was established for the past and present. But the theory of the progress of knowledge includes and acquires its value by including the indefinite future. This step was taken by Fontenelle. The idea had been almost excluded by Bacon's misleading metaphor of old age, which Fontenelle expressly rejects. Man will have no old age; his intellect will never degenerate; and "the sound views of intellectual men in successive generations will continually add up." But progress must not only be conceived as extending indefinitely into the future; it must also be conceived as necessary and certain. This is the second essential feature of the theory. The theory would have little value or significance, if the prospect of progress in the future depended on chance or the unpredictable discretion of an external will. Fontenelle asserts implicitly the certainty of progress when he declares that the discoveries and improvements of the modern age would have been made by the ancients if they exchanged places with the moderns; for this amounts to saying that science will progress and knowledge increase independently of particular individuals. If Descartes had not been born, some one else would have done his work; and there could have been no Descartes before the seventeenth century. For, as he says in a later work, [Footnote: Preface des elemens de la geometrie de l'infini (OEuvres, x. p. 40, ed. 1790).] "there is an order which regulates our progress. Every science develops after a certain number of preceding sciences have developed, and only then; it has to await its turn to burst its shell." Fontenelle, then, was the first to formulate the idea of the progress, of knowledge, as a complete doctrine. At the moment the import and far-reaching effects of the idea were not realised, either by himself or by others, and his pamphlet, which appeared in the company of a perverse theory of pastoral poetry, was acclaimed merely as an able defence of the Moderns. 8. If the theory of the indefinite progress of knowledge is true, it is one of those truths which were originally established by false reasoning. It was established on a principle which excluded degeneration, but equally excluded evolution; and the whole conception of nature which Fontenelle had learned from Descartes is long since dead and buried. But it is more important to observe that this principle, which seemed to secure the indefinite progress of knowledge, disabled Fontenelle from suggesting a theory of the progress of society. The invariability of nature, as he conceived it, was true of the emotions and the will, as well as of the intellect. It implied that man himself would be psychically always the same--unalterable, incurable. L'ordre general de la Nature a Fair bien constant. His opinion of the human race was expressed in the Dialogues of the Dead, [Footnote: It may be seen too in the Plurality of Worlds.] and it never seems to have varied. The world consists of a multitude of fools, and a mere handful of reasonable men. Men's passions will always be the same and will produce wars in the future as in the past. Civilisation makes no difference; it is little more than a veneer. Even if theory had not stood in his way, Fontenelle was the last man who was likely to dream dreams of social improvement. He was temperamentally an Epicurean, of the same refined stamp as Epicurus himself, and he enjoyed throughout his long life--he lived to the age of a hundred--the tranquillity which was the true Epicurean ideal. He was never troubled by domestic cares, and his own modest ambition was satisfied when, at the age of forty, he was appointed permanent Secretary of the Academy of Sciences. He was not the man to let his mind dwell on the woes and evils of the world; and the follies and perversities which cause them interested him only so far as they provided material for his wit. It remains, however, noteworthy that the author of the theory of the progress of knowledge, which was afterwards to expand into a general theory of human Progress, would not have allowed that this extension was legitimate; though it was through this extension that Fontenelle's idea acquired human value and interest and became a force in the world. 9. Fontenelle did a good deal more than formulate the idea. He reinforced it by showing that the prospect of a steady and rapid increase of knowledge in the future was certified. The postulate of the immutability of the laws of nature, which has been the indispensable basis for the advance of modern science, is fundamental with Descartes. But Descartes did not explicitly insist on it, and it was Fontenelle, perhaps more than any one else, who made it current coin. That was a service performed by the disciple; but he seems to have been original in introducing the fruitful idea of the sciences as confederate and intimately interconnected [Footnote: Roger Bacon, as we saw, had a glimpse of this principle.]; not forming a number of isolated domains, as hitherto, but constituting a system in which the advance of one will contribute to the advance of the others. He exposed with masterly ability the reciprocal relations of physics and mathematics. No man of his day had a more comprehensive view of all the sciences, though he made no original contributions to any. His curiosity was universal, and as Secretary of the Academy he was obliged, according to his own high standard of his duty, to keep abreast of all that was being done in every branch of knowledge. That was possible then; it would be impossible now. In the famous series of obituary discourses which he delivered on savants who were members of the Academy, Fontenelle probably thought that he was contributing to the realisation of this ideal of "solidarity," for they amounted to a chronicle of scientific progress in every department. They are free from technicalities and extraordinarily lucid, and they appealed not only to men of science, but to those of the educated public who possessed some scientific curiosity. This brings us to another important role of Fontenelle--the role of interpreter of the world of science to the world outside. It is closely related to our subject. For the popularisation of science, which was to be one of the features of the nineteenth century, was in fact a condition of the success of the idea of Progress. That idea could not insinuate itself into the public mind and become a living force in civilised societies until the meaning and value of science had been generally grasped, and the results of scientific discovery had been more or less diffused. The achievements of physical science did more than anything else to convert the imaginations of men to the general doctrine of Progress. Before the later part of the seventeenth century, the remarkable physical discoveries of recent date had hardly escaped beyond academic circles. But an interest in these subjects began to become the fashion in the later years of Louis XIV. Science was talked in the salons; ladies studied mechanics and anatomy. Moliere's play, Les Femmes savantes, which appeared in 1672, is one of the first indications. In 1686 Fontenelle published his Conversations on the Plurality of Worlds, in which a savant explains the new astronomy to a lady in the park of a country house. [Footnote: The Marquise of the Plurality of Worlds is supposed to be Madame de la Mesangere, who lived near Rouen, Fontenelle's birthplace. He was a friend and a frequent visitor at her chateau. See Maigron, Fontenelle, p. 42. The English translation of 1688 was by Glanvill. A new translation was published at Dublin as late as 1761.] It is the first book--at least the first that has any claim to be remembered--in the literature of popular science, and it is one of the most striking. It met with the success which it deserved. It was reprinted again and again, and it was almost immediately translated into English. The significance of the Plurality of Worlds is indeed much greater than that of a pioneer work in popularisation and a model in the art of making technical subjects interesting. We must remember that at this time the belief that the sun revolves round the earth still prevailed. Only the few knew better. The cosmic revolution which is associated with the names of Copernicus, Kepler, and Galileo was slow in producing its effects. It was rejected by Bacon; and the condemnation of Galileo by the Church made Descartes, who dreaded nothing so much as a collision with the ecclesiastical authorities unwilling to insist on it. [Footnote: Cp. Bouillier, Histoire de la philosophie cartesienne, i. p. 42-3.] Milton's Raphael, in the Eighth Book of Paradise Lost (published 1667), does not venture to affirm the Copernican system; he explains it sympathetically, but leaves the question open. [Footnote: Masson (Milton's Poetical Works, vol. 2) observes that Milton's life (1608-74) "coincides with the period of the struggle between the two systems" (p. 90). Milton's friends, the Smectymnians, in answer to Bishop Hall's Humble Remonstrance (1641), "had cited the Copernican doctrine as an unquestionable instance of a supreme absurdity." Masson has some apposite remarks on the influence of the Ptolemaic system "upon the thinkings and imaginations of mankind everywhere on all subjects whatsoever till about two hundred years ago."] Fontenelle's book was an event. It disclosed to the general public a new picture of the universe, to which men would have to accustom their imaginations. We may perhaps best conceive all that this change meant by supposing what a difference it would make to us if it were suddenly discovered that the old system which Copernicus upset was true after all, and that we had to think ourselves back into a strictly limited universe of which the earth is the centre. The loss of its privileged position by our own planet; its degradation, from a cosmic point of view, to insignificance; the necessity of admitting the probability that there may be many other inhabited worlds--all this had consequences ranging beyond the field of astronomy. It was as if a man who dreamed that he was living in Paris or London should awake to discover that he was really in an obscure island in the Pacific Ocean, and that the Pacific Ocean was immeasurably vaster than he had imagined. The Marquise, in the Plurality of Worlds, reacts to the startling illumination: "Voila l'univers si grand que je m'y perds, je ne sais plus ou je suis; je ne suis plus rien.--La terre est si effroyablement petite!" Such a revolution in cosmic values could not fail to exert a penetrating influence on human thought. The privileged position of the earth had been a capital feature of the whole doctrine, as to the universe and man's destinies, which had been taught by the Church, and it had made that doctrine more specious than it might otherwise have seemed. Though the Churches could reform their teaching to meet the new situation, the fact remained that the Christian scheme sounded less plausible when the central importance of the human race was shown to be an illusion. Would man, stripped of his cosmic pretensions, and finding himself lost in the immensities of space, invent a more modest theory of his destinies confined to his own little earth--si effroyablement petite? The eighteenth century answered this question by the theory of Progress. 10. Fontenelle is one of the most representative thinkers of that period--we have no distinguishing name for it--which lies between the characteristic thinkers of the seventeenth century and the characteristic thinkers of the eighteenth. It is a period of over sixty years, beginning about 1680, for though Montesquieu and Voltaire were writing long before 1740, the great influential works of the "age of illumination" begin with the Esprit des lois in 1748. The intellectual task of this intervening period was to turn to account the ideas provided by the philosophy of Descartes, and use them as solvents of the ideas handed down from the Middle Ages. We might almost call it the Cartesian period for, though Descartes was dead, it was in these years that Cartesianism performed its task and transformed human thought. When we speak of Cartesianism we do not mean the metaphysical system of the master, or any of his particular views such as that of innate ideas. We mean the general principles, which were to leave an abiding impression on the texture of thought: the supremacy of reason over authority, the stability of the laws of Nature, rigorous standards of proof. Fontenelle was far from accepting all the views of Descartes, whom he does not scruple to criticise; but he was a true Cartesian in the sense that he was deeply imbued with these principles, which generated, to use an expression of his own, "des especes de rebelles, qui conspiraient contre l'ignorance et les prejuges dominants." [Footnote: Eloge de M. Lemery.] And of all these rebels against ruling prejudices he probably did more than any single man to exhibit the consequences of the Cartesian ideas and drive them home. The Plurality of Worlds was a contribution to the task of transforming thought and abolishing ancient error; but the History of Oracles which appeared in the following year was more characteristic. It was a free adaptation of an unreadable Latin treatise by a Dutchman, which in Fontenelle's skilful hands becomes a vehicle for applying Cartesian solvents to theological authority. The thesis is that the Greek oracles were a sacerdotal imposture, and not, as ecclesiastical tradition said, the work of evil spirits, who were stricken silent at the death of Jesus Christ. The effect was to discredit the authority of the early Fathers of the Church, though the writer has the discretion to repudiate such an intention. For the publication was risky; and twenty years later a Jesuit Father wrote a treatise to confute it, and exposed the secret poison, with consequences which might have been disastrous for Fontenelle if he had not had powerful friends among the Jesuits themselves. Fontenelle had none of the impetuosity of Voltaire, and after the publication of the History of Oracles he confined his criticism of tradition to the field of science. He was convinced that "les choses fort etablies ne peuvent etre attaquees que par degrez." [Footnote: Eloge de M. Lemery.] The secret poison, of which Fontenelle prepared this remarkable dose with a touch which reminds us of Voltaire, was being administered in the same Cartesian period, and with similar precautions, by Bayle. Like Fontenelle, this great sceptic, "the father of modern incredulity" as he was called by Joseph de Maistre, stood between the two centuries and belonged to both. Like Fontenelle, he took a gloomy view of humanity; he had no faith in that goodness of human nature which was to be a characteristic dogma of the age of illumination. But he was untouched by the discoveries of science; he took no interest in Galileo or Newton; and while the most important work of Fontenelle was the interpretation of the positive advances of knowledge, Bayle's was entirely subversive. The principle of unchangeable laws in nature is intimately connected with the growth of Deism which is a note of this period. The function of the Deity was virtually confined to originating the machine of nature, which, once regulated, was set beyond any further interference on His part, though His existence might be necessary for its conservation. A view so sharply opposed to the current belief could not have made way as it did without a penetrating criticism of the current theology. Such criticism was performed by Bayle. His works were a school for rationalism for about seventy years. He supplied to the thinkers of the eighteenth century, English as well as French, a magazine of subversive arguments, and he helped to emancipate morality both from theology and from metaphysics. This intellectual revolutionary movement, which was propagated in salons as well as by books, shook the doctrine of Providence which Bossuet had so eloquently expounded. It meant the enthronement of reason--Cartesian reason--before whose severe tribunal history as well as opinions were tried. New rules of criticism were introduced, new standards of proof. When Fontenelle observed that the existence of Alexander the Great could not be strictly demonstrated and was no more than highly probable, [Footnote: Plurality des mondes, sixieme soir.] it was an undesigned warning that tradition would receive short shrift at the hands of men trained in analytical Cartesian methods. 11. That the issue between the claims of antiquity and the modern age should have been debated independently in England and France indicates that the controversy was an inevitable incident in the liberation of the human spirit from the authority of the ancients. Towards the end of the century the debate in France aroused attention in England and led to a literary quarrel, less important but not less acrimonious than that which raged in France. Sir William Temple's Essay, Wotton's Reflexions, and Swift's satire the Battle of the Books are the three outstanding works in the episode, which is however chiefly remembered on account of its connection with Bentley's masterly exposure of the fabricated letters of Phalaris. The literary debate in France, indeed, could not have failed to reverberate across the Channel; for never perhaps did the literary world in England follow with more interest, or appreciate more keenly the productions of the great French writers of the time. In describing Will's coffee-house, which was frequented by Dryden and all who pretended to be interested in polite letters, Macaulay says, "there was a faction for Perrault and the moderns, a faction for Boileau and the ancients." In the discussions on this subject a remarkable Frenchman who had long lived in England as an exile, M. de Saint Evremond, must have constantly taken part. The disjointed pieces of which Saint Evremond's writings consist are tedious and superficial, but they reveal a mind of much cultivation and considerable common sense. His judgement on Perrault's Parallel is that the author "has discovered the defects of the ancients better than he has made out the advantage of the moderns; his book is good and capable of curing us of abundance of errors." [Footnote: In a letter to the Duchess of Mazarin, Works, Eng. tr., iii. 418.] He was not a partisan. But his friend, Sir William Temple, excited by the French depreciations of antiquity, rushed into the lists with greater courage than discretion. Temple was ill equipped for the controversy, though his Essay on Ancient and Modern Learning (1690) is far from deserving the disdain of Macaulay, who describes its matter as "ludicrous and contemptible to the last degree." [Footnote: The only point in it which need be noted here is that the author questioned the cogency of Fontenelle's argument, that the forces of nature being permanent human ability is in all ages the same. "May there not," he asks, "many circumstances concur to one production that do not to any other in one or many ages?" Fontenelle speaks of trees. It is conceivable that various conditions and accidents "may produce an oak, a fig, or a plane-tree, that shall deserve to be renowned in story, and shall not perhaps be paralleled in other countries or times. May not the same have happened in the production, growth, and size of wit and genius in the world, or in some parts or ages of it, and from many more circumstances that contributed towards it than what may concur to the stupendous growth of a tree or animal?"] And it must be confessed that the most useful result of the Essay was the answer which it provoked from Wotton. For Wotton had a far wider range of knowledge, and a more judicious mind, than any of the other controversialists, with the exception of Fontenelle; and in knowledge of antiquity he was Fontenelle's superior. His inquiry stands out as the most sensible and unprejudiced contribution to the whole debate. He accepts as just the reasoning of Fontenelle "as to the comparative force of the geniuses of men in the several ages of the world and of the equal force of men's understandings absolutely considered in all times since learning first began to be cultivated amongst mankind." But this is not incompatible with the thesis that in some branches the ancients excelled all who came after them. For it is not necessary to explain such excellence by the hypothesis that there was a particular force of genius evidently discernible in former ages, but extinct long since, and that nature is now worn out and spent. There is an alternative explanation. There may have been special circumstances "which might suit with those ages which did exceed ours, and with those things wherein they did exceed us, and with no other age nor thing besides." But we must begin our inquiry by sharply distinguishing two fields of mental activity--the field of art, including poetry, oratory, architecture, painting, and statuary; and the field of knowledge, including mathematics, natural science, physiology, with all their dependencies. In the case of the first group there is room for variety of opinion; but the superiority of the Greeks and Romans in poetry and literary style may be admitted without prejudice to the mental equality of the moderns, for it may be explained partly by the genius of their languages and partly by political circumstances--for example, in the case of oratory, [Footnote: This had been noted by Fontenelle in his Digression.] by the practical necessity of eloquence. But as regards the other group, knowledge is not a matter of opinion or taste, and a definite judgement is possible. Wotton then proceeds to review systematically the field of science, and easily shows, with more completeness and precision than Perrault, the superiority of modern methods and the enormous strides which had been made. As to the future, Wotton expresses himself cautiously. It is not easy to say whether knowledge will advance in the next age proportionally to its advance in this. He has some fears that there may be a falling away, because ancient learning has still too great a hold over modern books, and physical and mathematical studies tend to be neglected. But he ends his Reflexions by the speculation that "some future age, though perhaps not the next, and in a country now possibly little thought of, may do that which our great men would be glad to see done; that is to say, may raise real knowledge, upon foundations laid in this age, to the utmost possible perfection to which it may be brought by mortal men in this imperfect state." The distinction, on which Wotton insisted, between the sciences which require ages for their development and the imaginative arts which may reach perfection in a short time had been recognised by Fontenelle, whose argument on this point differs from that of his friend Perrault. For Perrault contended that in literature and art, as well as in science, later generations can, through the advantage of time and longer experience, attain to a higher excellence than their predecessors. Fontenelle, on the other hand, held that poetry and eloquence have a restricted field, and that therefore there must be a time at which they reach a point of excellence which cannot be exceeded. It was his personal opinion that eloquence and history actually reached the highest possible perfection in Cicero and Livy. But neither Fontenelle nor Wotton came into close quarters with the problem which was raised--not very clearly, it is true--by Perrault. Is there development in the various species of literature and art? Do they profit and enrich themselves by the general advance of civilisation? Perrault, as we have seen, threw out the suggestion that increased experience and psychological study enabled the moderns to penetrate more deeply into the recesses of the human soul, and therefore to bring to a higher perfection the treatment of the character, motives, and passions of men. This suggestion admits of being extended. In the Introduction to his Revolt of Islam, Shelley, describing his own intellectual and aesthetic experiences, writes: The poetry of ancient Greece and Rome, and modern Italy, and our own country, has been to me like external nature, a passion and an enjoyment.... I have considered poetry in its most comprehensive sense; and have read the poets and the historians and the metaphysicians whose writings have been accessible to me--and have looked upon the beautiful and majestic scenery of the earth--as common sources of those elements which it is the province of the Poet to embody and combine. And he appends a note: In this sense there may be such a thing as perfectibility in works of fiction, notwithstanding the concession often made by the advocates of human improvement, that perfectibility is a term applicable only to science. In other words, all the increases of human experience, from age to age, all the speculative adventures of the intellect, provide the artist, in each succeeding generation, with more abundant sources for aesthetic treatment. As years go on, life in its widest sense offers more and more materials "which it is the province of the Poet to embody and combine." This is evidently true; and would it not seem to follow that literature is not excluded from participating in the common development of civilisation? One of the latest of the champions of the Moderns, the Abbe Terrasson, maintained that "to separate the general view of the progress of the human mind in regard to natural science, and in regard to belles-lettres, would be a fitting expedient to a man who had two souls, but it is useless to him who has only one." [Footnote: Abbe Terrasson, 1670-1750. His Philosophie applicable a tons les objets de l'esprit et de la raison was issued posthumously in 1754. His Dissertation critique sur l'Iliade appeared in 1715.]He put the matter in too abstract a way to carry conviction; but the nineteenth century was to judge that he was not entirely wrong. For the question was, as we shall see, raised anew by Madame de Stael, and the theory was finally to emerge that art and literature, like laws and institutions, are an expression of society and therefore inextricably linked with the other elements of social development--a theory, it may be observed, which while it has discredited the habit of considering works of art in a vacuum, dateless and detached, as they were generally considered by critics of the seventeenth century, leaves the aesthetic problem much where it was. Perrault's suggestion as to the enrichment of the material of the artist by new acquisitions would have served to bring literature and art into the general field of human development, without compromising the distinction on which Wotton and others insisted between the natural sciences and the aesthetic arts. But that distinction, emphatically endorsed by Voltaire, had the effect of excluding literature and art from the view of those who in the eighteenth century recognised progress in the other activities of man. 12. It is notable that in this literary controversy the Moderns, even Fontenelle, seem curiously negligent of the import of the theory which they were propounding of the intellectual progress of man. They treat it almost incidentally, as part of the case for the defence, not as an immensely important conclusion. Its bearings were more definitely realised by the Abbe Terrasson, whom I have just named. A geometer and a Cartesian, he took part in the controversy in its latest stage, when La Motte and Madame Dacier were the principal antagonists. The human mind, he said, has had its infancy and youth; its maturity began in the age of Augustus; the barbarians arrested its course till the Renaissance; in the seventeenth century, through the illuminating philosophy of Descartes, it passed beyond the stage which it had attained in the Augustan age, and the eighteenth century should surpass the seventeenth. Cartesianism is not final; it has its place in a development. It was made possible by previous speculations, and it will be succeeded by other systems. We must not pursue the analogy of humanity with an individual man and anticipate a period of old age. For unlike the individual, humanity "being composed of all ages," is always gaining instead of losing. The age of maturity will last indefinitely, because it is a progressive, not a stationary, maturity. Later generations will always be superior to the earlier, for progress is "a natural and necessary effect of the constitution of the human mind." CHAPTER VI. THE GENERAL PROGRESS OF MAN: ABBE DE SAINT-PIERRE The revolutionary speculations on the social and moral condition of man which were the outstanding feature of the eighteenth century in France, and began about 1750, were the development of the intellectual movement of the seventeenth, which had changed the outlook of speculative thought. It was one continuous rationalistic movement. In the days of Racine and Perrault men had been complacently conscious of the enlightenment of the age in which they were living, and as time went on, this consciousness became stronger and acuter; it is a note of the age of Voltaire. In the last years of Louis XIV., and in the years which followed, the contrast between this mental enlightenment and the dark background--the social evils and miseries of the kingdom, the gross misgovernment and oppression--began to insinuate itself into men's minds. What was the value of the achievements of science, and the improvement of the arts of life, if life itself could not be ameliorated? Was not some radical reconstruction possible, in the social fabric, corresponding to the radical reconstruction inaugurated by Descartes in the principles of science and in the methods of thought? Year by year the obscurantism of the ruling powers became more glaring, and the most gifted thinkers, towards the middle of the century, began to concentrate their brains on the problems of social science and to turn the light of reason on the nature of man and the roots of society. They wrought with unscrupulous resolution and with far-reaching effects. With the extension of rationalism into the social domain, it came about naturally that the idea of intellectual progress was enlarged into the idea of the general Progress of man. The transition was easy. If it could be proved that social evils were due neither to innate and incorrigible disabilities of the human being nor to the nature of things, but simply to ignorance and prejudices, then the improvement of his state, and ultimately the attainment of felicity, would be only a matter of illuminating ignorance and removing errors, of increasing knowledge and diffusing light. The growth of the "universal human reason"--a Cartesian phrase, which had figured in the philosophy of Malebranche--must assure a happy destiny to humanity. Between 1690 and 1740 the conception of an indefinite progress of enlightenment had been making its way in French intellectual circles, and must often have been a topic of discussion in the salons, for instance, of Madame de Lambert, Madame de Tencin, and Madame Dupin, where Fontenelle was one of the most conspicuous guests. To the same circle belonged his friend the Abbe de Saint-Pierre, and it is in his writings that we first find the theory widened in its compass to embrace progress towards social perfection. [Footnote: For his life and works the best book is J. Drouet's monograph, L'Abbe de Saint-Pierre: l'homme et l'oeuvre (1912), but on some points Goumy's older study (1859) is still worth consulting. I have used the edition of his works in 12 volumes published during his lifetime at Rotterdam, 1733-37.] 1. He was brought up on Cartesian principles, and he idealised Descartes somewhat as Lucretius idealised Epicurus. But he had no aptitude for philosophy, and he prized physical science only as far as it directly administered to the happiness of men. He was a natural utilitarian, and perhaps no one was ever more consistent in making utility the criterion of all actions and theories. Applying this standard he obliterated from the roll of great men most of those whom common opinion places among the greatest. Alexander, Julius Caesar, Charlemagne receive short shrift from the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. [Footnote: Compare Voltaire, Lettres sur les Anglais, xii., where Newton is acclaimed as the greatest man who ever lived.] He was superficial in his knowledge both of history and of science, and his conception of utility was narrow and a little vulgar. Great theoretical discoverers like Newton and Leibnitz he sets in a lower rank than ingenious persons who used their scientific skill to fashion some small convenience of life. Monuments of art, like Notre Dame, possessed little value in his eyes compared with a road, a bridge, or a canal. Like most of his distinguished contemporaries he was a Deist. On his deathbed he received the usual rites of the Church in the presence of his household, and then told the priest that he did not believe a word of all that. His real views are transparent in some of his works through the conventional disguises in which prudent writers of the time were wont to wrap their assaults on orthodoxy. To attack Mohammedanism by arguments which are equally applicable to Christianity was a device for propagating rationalism in days when it was dangerous to propagate it openly. This is what the Abbe did in his Discourse against Mohammedanism. Again, in his Physical Explanation of an Apparition he remarks: "To diminish our fanatical proclivities, it would be useful if the Government were to establish an annual prize, to be awarded by the Academy of Sciences, for the best explanation, by natural laws, of the extraordinary effects of imagination, of the prodigies related in Greek and Latin literature, and of the pretended miracles told by Protestants, Schismatics, and Mohammedans." The author carefully keeps on the right side of the fence. No Catholic authorities could take exception to this. But no intelligent reader could fail to see that all miracles were attacked. The miracles accepted by the Protestants were also believed in by the Catholics. He was one of the remarkable figures of his age. We might almost say that he was a new type--a nineteenth century humanitarian and pacifist in an eighteenth century environment. He was a born reformer, and he devoted his life to the construction of schemes for increasing human happiness. He introduced the word bienfaisance into the currency of the French language, and beneficence was in his eyes the sovran virtue. There were few departments of public affairs in which he did not point out the deficiencies and devise ingenious plans for improvement. Most of his numerous writings are projets--schemes of reform in government, economics, finance, education, all worked out in detail, and all aiming at the increase of pleasure and the diminution of pain. The Abbe's nimble intelligence had a weak side, which must have somewhat compromised his influence. He was so confident in the reasonableness of his projects that he always believed that if they were fairly considered the ruling powers could not fail to adopt them in their own interests. It is the nature of a reformer to be sanguine, but the optimism of Saint-Pierre touched naivete. Thousands might have agreed with his view that the celibacy of the Catholic clergy was an unwholesome institution, but when he drew up a proposal for its abolition and imagined that the Pope, unable to resist his arguments, would immediately adopt it, they might be excused for putting him down as a crank who could hardly be taken seriously. The form in which he put forward his memorable scheme for the abolition of war exhibits the same sanguine simplicity. All his plans, Rousseau observed, showed a clear vision of what their effects would be, "but he judged like a child of means to bring them about." But his abilities were great, and his actual influence was considerable. It would have been greater if he had possessed the gift of style. 2. He was not the first to plan a definite scheme for establishing a perpetual peace. Long ago Emeric Cruce had given to the world a proposal for a universal league, including not only the Christian nations of Europe, but the Turks, Persians, and Tartars, which by means of a court of arbitration sitting at Venice should ensure the settlement of all disputes by peaceful means. [Footnote: Le Nouveau Cynee (Paris, 1623). It has recently been reprinted with an English translation by T. W. Balch, Philadelphia (1909).] The consequence of universal peace, he said, will be the arrival of "that beautiful century which the ancient theologians promise after there have rolled by six thousand years. For they say that then the world will live happily and in repose. Now it happens that that time has nearly expired, and even if it is not, it depends only on the Princes to give beforehand this happiness to their peoples." Later in the century, others had ventilated similar projects in obscure publications, but the Abbe does not refer to any of his predecessors. He was not blinded by the superficial brilliancy of the reign of Louis XIV. to the general misery which the ambitious war-policy of that sovran brought both upon France and upon her enemies. His Annales politiques are a useful correction to the Siecle de Louis Quatorze. It was in the course of the great struggle of the Spanish Succession that he turned his attention to war and came to the conclusion that it is an unnecessary evil and even an absurdity. In 1712 he attended the congress at Utrecht in the capacity of secretary to Cardinal de Polignac, one of the French delegates. His experiences there confirmed his optimistic mind in the persuasion that perpetual peace was an aim which might readily be realised; and in the following year he published the memoir which he had been preparing, in two volumes, to which he added a third four years later. Though he appears not to have known the work of Cruce he did not claim originality. He sheltered his proposal under an august name, entitling it Project of Henry the Great to render Peace Perpetual, explained by the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. The reference is to the "great design" ascribed to Henry IV. by Sully, and aimed at the abasement of the power of Austria: a federation of the Christian States of Europe arranged in groups and under a sovran Diet, which would regulate international affairs and arbitrate in all quarrels. [Footnote: It is described in Sully's Memoires, Book XXX.] Saint-Pierre, ignoring the fact that Sully's object was to eliminate a rival power, made it the text for his own scheme of a perpetual alliance of all the sovrans of Europe to guarantee to one another the preservation of their states and to renounce war as a means of settling their differences. He drew up the terms of such an alliance, and taking the European powers one by one demonstrated that it was the plain interest of each to sign the articles. Once the articles were signed the golden age would begin. [Footnote: For Sully's grand Design compare the interesting article of Sir Geoffrey Butler in the Edinburgh Review, October 1919.] It is not to our present purpose to comment on this plan which the author with his characteristic simplicity seriously pressed upon the attention of statesmen. It is easy to criticise it in the light of subsequent history, and to see that, if the impossible had happened and the experiment had been tried and succeeded, it might have caused more suffering than all the wars from that day to this. For it was based on a perpetuation of the political status quo in Europe. It assumed that the existing political distribution of power was perfectly satisfactory and conformable to the best interests of all the peoples concerned. It would have hindered the Partition of Poland, but it would have maintained the Austrian oppression of Italians. The project also secured to the sovrans the heritage of their authority and guarded against civil wars. This assumed that the various existing constitutions were fundamentally just. The realisation of the scheme would have perpetuated all the evils of autocratic governments. Its author did not perceive that the radical evil in France was irresponsible power. It needed the reign of Louis XV. and the failure of attempts at reform under his successor to bring this home. The Abbe even thought that an increase of the despotic authority of the government was desirable, provided this were accompanied by an increase in the enlightenment and virtue of its ministers. In 1729 he published an abridgment of his scheme, and here he looks beyond its immediate results to its value for distant posterity. No one, he says, can imagine or foresee the advantages which such an alliance of European states will yield to Europe five hundred years after its establishment. Now we can see the first beginnings, but it is beyond the powers of the human mind to discern its infinite effects in the future. It may produce results more precious than anything hitherto experienced by man. He supports his argument by observing that our primitive ancestors could not foresee the improvements which the course of ages would bring in their rudimentary arrangements for securing social order. 3. It is characteristic that the Abbe de Saint-Pierre's ideas about Progress were a by-product of his particular schemes. In 1773 he published a Project to Perfect the Government of States, and here he sketched his view of the progressive course of civilisation. The old legend of the golden age, when men were perfectly happy, succeeded by the ages of silver, bronze, and iron, exactly reverses the truth of history. The age of iron came first, the infancy of society, when men were poor and ignorant of the arts; it is the present condition of the savages of Africa and America. The age of bronze ensued, in which there was more security, better laws, and the invention of the most necessary arts began. There followed the age of silver, and Europe has not yet emerged from it. Our reason has indeed reached the point of considering how war may be abolished, and is thus approaching the golden age of the future; but the art of government and the general regulation of society, notwithstanding all the improvements of the past, is still in its infancy. Yet all that is needed is a short series of wise reigns in our European states to reach the age of gold or, in other words, a paradise on earth. A few wise reigns. The Abbe shared the illusion of many that government is omnipotent and can bestow happiness on men. The imperfections of governments were, he was convinced, chiefly due to the fact that hitherto the ablest intellects had not been dedicated to the study of the science of governing. The most essential part of his project was the formation of a Political Academy which should do for politics what the Academy of Sciences did for the study of nature, and should act as an advisory body to ministers of state on all questions of the public welfare. If this proposal and some others were adopted, he believed that the golden age would not long be delayed. These observations--hardly more than obiter dicta--show that Saint-Pierre's general view of the world was moulded by a conception of civilisation progressing towards a goal of human happiness. In 1737 he published a special work to explain this conception: the Observations on the Continuous Progress of Universal Reason. He recurs to the comparison of the life of collective humanity to that of an individual, and, like Fontenelle and Terrasson, accentuates the point where the analogy fails. We may regard our race as composed of all the nations that have been and will be--and assign to it different ages. For instance, when the race is ten thousand years old a century will be what a single year is in the life of a centenarian. But there is this prodigious difference. The mortal man grows old and loses his reason and happiness through the enfeeblement of his bodily machine; whereas the human race, by the perpetual and infinite succession of generations, will find itself at the end of ten thousand years more capable of growing in wisdom and happiness than it was at the end of four thousand. At present the race is apparently not more than seven or eight thousand years old, and is only "in the infancy of human reason," compared with what it will be five or six thousand years hence. And when that stage is reached, it will only have entered on what we may call its first youth, when we consider what it will be when it is a hundred thousand years older still, continually growing in reason and wisdom. Here we have for the first time, expressed in definite terms, the vista of an immensely long progressive life in front of humanity. Civilisation is only in its infancy. Bacon, like Pascal, had conceived it to be in its old age. Fontenelle and Perrault seem to have regarded it as in its virility; they set no term to its duration, but they did not dwell on future prospects. The Abbe was the first to fix his eye on the remote destinies of the race and name immense periods of time. It did not occur to him to consider that our destinies are bound up with those of the solar system, and that it is useless to operate with millennial periods of progress unless you are assured of a corresponding stability in the cosmic environment. As a test of the progress which reason has already made, Saint-Pierre asserts that a comparison of the best English and French works on morals and politics with the best works of Plato and Aristotle proves that the human race has made a sensible advance. But that advance would have been infinitely greater were it not that three general obstacles retarded it and even, at some times and in some countries, caused a retrogression. These obstacles were wars, superstition, and the Jealousy of rulers who feared that progress in the science of politics would be dangerous to themselves. In consequence of these impediments it was only in the time of Bodin and Bacon that the human race began to start anew from the point which it had reached in the days of Plato and Aristotle. Since then the rate of progress has been accelerated, and this has been due to several causes. The expansion of sea commerce has produced more wealth, and wealth means greater leisure, and more writers and readers. In the second place, mathematics and physics are more studied in colleges, and their tendency is to liberate us from subjection to the authority of the ancients. Again, the foundation of scientific Academies has given facilities both for communicating and for correcting new discoveries; the art of printing provides a means for diffusing them; and, finally, the habit of writing in the vulgar tongue makes them accessible. The author might also have referred to the modern efforts to popularise science, in which his friend Fontenelle had been one of the leaders. He proceeds, in this connection, to lay down a rather doubtful principle, that in any two countries the difference in enlightenment between the lowest classes will correspond to the difference between the most highly educated classes. At present, he says, Paris and London are the places where human wisdom has reached the most advanced stage. It is certain that the ten best men of the highest class at Ispahan or Constantinople will be inferior in their knowledge of politics and ethics to the ten most distinguished sages of Paris or London. And this will be true in all classes. The thirty most intelligent children of the age of fourteen at Paris will be more enlightened than the thirty most intelligent children of the same age at Constantinople, and the same proportional difference will be true of the lowest classes of the two cities. But while the progress of speculative reason has been rapid, practical reason--the distinction is the Abbe's--has made little advance. In point of morals and general happiness the world is apparently much the same as ever. Our mediocre savants know twenty times as much as Socrates and Confucius, but our most virtuous men are not more virtuous than they. The growth of science has added much to the arts and conveniences of life, and to the sum of pleasures, and will add more. The progress in physical science is part of the progress of the "universal human reason," whose aim is the augmentation of our happiness. But there are two other sciences which are much more important for the promotion of happiness--Ethics and Politics--and these, neglected by men of genius, have made little way in the course of two thousand years. It is a grave misfortune that Descartes and Newton did not devote themselves to perfecting these sciences, so incomparably more useful for mankind than those in which they made their great discoveries. They fell into a prevailing error as to the comparative values of the various domains of knowledge, an error to which we must also ascribe the fact that while Academies of Sciences and Belles-Lettres exist there are no such institutions for Politics or Ethics. By these arguments he establishes to his own satisfaction that there are no irremovable obstacles to the Progress of the human race towards happiness, no hindrances that could not be overcome if governments only saw eye to eye with the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. Superstition is already on the decline; there would be no more wars if his simple scheme for permanent peace were adopted. Let the State immediately found Political and Ethical Academies; let the ablest men consecrate their talents to the science of government; and in a hundred years we shall make more progress than we should make in two thousand at the rate we are moving. If these things are done, human reason will have advanced so far in two or three millenniums that the wisest men of that age will be as far superior to the wisest of to-day as these are to the wisest African savages. This "perpetual and unlimited augmentation of reason" will one day produce an increase in human happiness which would astonish us more than our own civilisation would astonish the Kaffirs. 4. The Abbe de Saint-Pierre was indeed terribly at ease in confronting the deepest and most complex problems which challenge the intellect of man. He had no notion of their depth and complexity, and he lightly essayed them, treating human nature, as if it were an abstraction, by a method which he would doubtless have described as Cartesian. He was simply operating with the ideas which were all round him in a society saturated with Cartesianism,--supremacy of human reason, progressive enlightenment, the value of this life for its own sake, and the standard of utility. Given these ideas and the particular bias of his own mind, it required no great ingenuity to advance from the thought of the progress of science to the thought of progress in man's moral nature and his social conditions. The omnipotence of governments to mould the destinies of peoples, the possibility of the creation of enlightened governments, and the indefinite progress of enlightenment--all articles of his belief--were the terms of an argument of the sorites form, which it was a simple matter to develop in his brief treatise. But we must not do him injustice. He was a much more considerable thinker than posterity for a long time was willing to believe. It is easy to ridicule some of his projets, and dismiss him as a crank who was also somewhat of a bore. The truth, however, is that many of his schemes were sound and valuable. His economic ideas, which he thought out for himself, were in advance of his time, and he has even been described by a recent writer as "un contemporain egare au xviii siecle." Some of his financial proposals were put into practice by Turgot. But his significance in the development of the revolutionary ideas which were to gain control in the second half of the eighteenth century has hardly been appreciated yet, and it was imperfectly appreciated by his contemporaries. It is easy to see why. His theories are buried in his multitudinous projets. If, instead of working out the details of endless particular reforms, he had built up general theories of government and society, economics and education, they might have had no more intrinsic value, but he would have been recognised as the precursor of the Encyclopaedists. For his principles are theirs. The omnipotence of government and laws to mould the morals of peoples; the subordination of all knowledge to the goddess of utility; the deification of human reason; and the doctrine of Progress. His crude utilitarianism led him to depreciate the study of mathematical and physical sciences--notwithstanding his veneration for Descartes--as comparatively useless, and he despised the fine arts as waste of time and toil which might be better spent. He had no knowledge of natural science and he had no artistic susceptibility. The philosophers of the Encyclopaedia did not go so far, but they tended in this direction. They were cold and indifferent towards speculative science, and they were inclined to set higher value on artisans than on artists. In his religious ideas the Abbe differed from Voltaire and the later social philosophers in one important respect, but this very difference was a consequence of his utilitarianism. Like them he was a Deist, as we saw; he had imbibed the spirit of Bayle and the doctrine of the English rationalists, which were penetrating French society during the later part of his life. His God, however, was more than the creator and organiser of the Encyclopaedists, he was also the "Dieu vengeur et remunerateur" in whom Voltaire believed. But here his faith was larger than Voltaire's. For while Voltaire referred the punishments and rewards to this life, the Abbe believed in the immortality of the soul, in heaven and hell. He acknowledged that immortality could not be demonstrated, that it was only probable, but he clung to it firmly and even intolerantly. It is clear from his writings that his affection for this doctrine was due to its utility, as an auxiliary to the magistrate and the tutor, and also to the consideration that Paradise would add to the total of human happiness. But though his religion had more articles, he was as determined a foe of "superstition" as Voltaire, Diderot, and the rest. He did not go so far as they in aggressive rationalism--he belonged to an older generation--but his principles were the same. The Abbe de Saint-Pierre thus represents the transition from the earlier Cartesianism, which was occupied with purely intellectual problems, to the later thought of the eighteenth century, which concentrated itself on social problems. He anticipated the "humanistic" spirit of the Encyclopaedists, who were to make man, in a new sense, the centre of the world. He originated, or at least was the first to proclaim, the new creed of man's destinies, indefinite social progress. CHAPTER VII. NEW CONCEPTIONS OF HISTORY: MONTESQUIEU, VOLTAIRE, TURGOT The theory of human Progress could not be durably established by abstract arguments, or on the slender foundations laid by the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. It must ultimately be judged by the evidence afforded by history, and it is not accidental that, contemporaneously with the advent of this idea, the study of history underwent a revolution. If Progress was to be more than the sanguine dream of an optimist it must be shown that man's career on earth had not been a chapter of accidents which might lead anywhere or nowhere, but is subject to discoverable laws which have determined its general route, and will secure his arrival at the desirable place. Hitherto a certain order and unity had been found in history by the Christian theory of providential design and final causes. New principles of order and unity were needed to replace the principles which rationalism had discredited. Just as the advance of science depended on the postulate that physical phenomena are subject to invariable laws, so if any conclusions were to be drawn from history some similar postulate as to social phenomena was required. It was thus in harmony with the general movement of thought that about the middle of the eighteenth century new lines of investigation were opened leading to sociology, the history of civilisation, and the philosophy of history. Montesquieu's De l'esprit des lois, which may claim to be the parent work of modern social science, Voltaire's Essai sur les moeurs, and Turgot's plan of a Histoire universelle begin a new era in man's vision of the past. 1. Montesquieu was not among the apostles of the idea of Progress. It never secured any hold upon his mind. But he had grown up in the same intellectual climate in which that idea was produced; he had been nurtured both on the dissolving, dialectic of Bayle, and on the Cartesian enunciation of natural law. And his work contributed to the service, not of the doctrine of the past, but of the doctrine of the future. For he attempted to extend the Cartesian theory to social facts. He laid down that political, like physical, phenomena are subject to general laws. He had already conceived this, his most striking and important idea, when he wrote the Considerations on the Greatness and Decadence of the Romans (1734), in which he attempted to apply it: It is not Fortune who governs the world, as we see from the history of the Romans. There are general causes, moral or physical, which operate in every monarchy, raise it, maintain it, or overthrow it; all that occurs is subject to these causes; and if a particular cause, like the accidental result of a battle, has ruined a state, there was a general cause which made the downfall of this state ensue from a single battle. In a word, the principal movement (l'allure principale) draws with it all the particular occurrences. But if this excludes Fortune it also dispenses with Providence, design, and final causes; and one of the effects of the Considerations which Montesquieu cannot have overlooked was to discredit Bossuet's treatment of history. The Esprit des lois appeared fourteen years later. Among books which have exercised a considerable influence on thought few are more disappointing to a modern reader. The author had not the gift of what might be called logical architecture, and his work produces the effect of a collection of ideas which he was unable to co-ordinate in the clarity of a system. A new principle, the operation of general causes, is enthroned; but, beyond the obvious distinction of physical and moral, they are not classified. We have no guarantee that the moral causes are fully enumerated, and those which are original are not distinguished from those which are derived. The general cause which Montesquieu impresses most clearly on the reader's mind is that of physical environment--geography and climate. The influence of climate on civilisation was not a new idea. In modern times, as we have seen, it was noticed by Bodin and recognised by Fontenelle. The Abbe de Saint-Pierre applied it to explain the origin of the Mohammedan religion, and the Abbe Du Bos in his Reflexions on Poetry and Painting maintained that climate helps to determine the epochs of art and science. Chardin in his Travels, a book which Montesquieu studied, had also appreciated its importance. But Montesquieu drew general attention to it, and since he wrote, geographical conditions have been recognised by all inquirers as an influential factor in the development of human societies. His own discussion of the question did not result in any useful conclusions. He did not determine the limits of the action of physical conditions, and a reader hardly knows whether to regard them as fundamental or accessory, as determining the course of civilisation or only perturbing it. "Several things govern men," he says, "climate, religion, laws, precepts of government, historical examples, morals, and manners, whence is formed as their result a general mind (esprit general)." This co-ordination of climate with products of social life is characteristic of his unsystematic thought. But the remark which the author went on to make, that there is always a correlation between the laws of a people and its esprit general, was important. It pointed to the theory that all the products of social life are closely interrelated. In Montesquieu's time people were under the illusion that legislation has an almost unlimited power to modify social conditions. We have seen this in the case of Saint-Pierre. Montesquieu's conception of general laws should have been an antidote to this belief. It had however less effect on his contemporaries than we might have expected, and they found more to their purpose in what he said of the influence of laws on manners. There may be something in Comte's suggestion that he could not give his conception any real consistency or vigour, just because he was himself unconsciously under the influence of excessive faith in the effects of legislative action. A fundamental defect in Montesquieu's treatment of social phenomena is that he abstracted them from their relations in time. It was his merit to attempt to explain the correlation of laws and institutions with historical circumstances, but he did not distinguish or connect stages of civilisation. He was inclined to confound, as Sorel has observed, all periods and constitutions. Whatever be the value of the idea of Progress, we may agree with Comte that, if Montesquieu had grasped it, he would have produced a more striking work. His book announces a revolution in the study of political science, but in many ways belongs itself to the pre-Montesquieu era. 2. In the same years in which Montesquieu was busy on the composition of the Esprit des lois, Voltaire was writing his Age of Louis XIV. and his Essay on the Manners and Mind of Nations, and on the Principal Facts of History from Charlemagne to the Death of Louis XIII. The former work, which everybody reads still, appeared in 1751. Parts of the Essay, which has long since fallen into neglect, were published in the Mercure de France between 1745 and 1751; it was issued complete in 1756, along with the Age of Louis XIV., which was its continuation. If we add the Precis of the Reign of Louis XV. (1769), and observe that the Introduction and first fourteen chapters of the Essay sketch the history of the world before Charlemagne, and that China, India, and America are included in the survey, Voltaire's work amounts to a complete survey of the civilisation of the world from the earliest times to his own. If Montesquieu founded social science, Voltaire created the history of civilisation, and the Essay, for all its limitations, stands out as one of the considerable books of the century. In his Age of Louis XIV. he announced that his object was "to paint not the actions of a single man, but the mind of men (l'esprit des hommes) in the most enlightened age that had ever been," and that "the progress of the arts and sciences" was an essential part of his subject. In the same way he proposed in the Essay to trace "l'histoire de l'esprit humain," not the details of facts, and to show by what steps man advanced "from the barbarous rusticity" of the times of Charlemagne and his successors "to the politeness of our own." To do this, he said, was really to write the history of opinion, for all the great successive social and political changes which have transformed the world were due to changes of opinion. Prejudice succeeded prejudice, error followed error; "at last, with time men came to correct their ideas and learn to think." The motif of the book is, briefly, that wars and religions have been the great obstacles to the progress of humanity, and that if they were abolished, with the prejudices which engender them, the world would rapidly improve. "We may believe," he says, "that reason and industry will always progress more and more; that the useful arts will be improved; that of the evils which have afflicted men, prejudices, which are not their least scourge, will gradually disappear among all those who govern nations, and that philosophy, universally diffused, will give some consolation to human nature for the calamities which it will experience in all ages." This indeed is not the tone of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. Voltaire's optimism was always tempered with cynicism. But the idea of Progress is there, though moderately conceived. And it is based on the same principle--universal reason implanted in man, which "subsists in spite of all the passions which make war on it, in spite of all the tyrants who would drown it in blood, in spite of the imposters who would annihilate it by superstition." And this was certainly his considered view. His common sense prevented him from indulging in Utopian speculations about the future; and his cynicism constantly led him to use the language of a pessimist. But at an early stage of his career he had taken up arms for human nature against that "sublime misanthrope" Pascal, who "writes against human nature almost as he wrote against the Jesuits"; and he returned to the attack at the end of his life. Now Pascal's Pensees enshrined a theory of life--the doctrine of original sin, the idea that the object of life is to prepare for death--which was sternly opposed to the spirit of Progress. Voltaire instinctively felt that this was an enemy that had to be dealt with. In a lighter vein he had maintained in a well-known poem, Le Mondain, [Footnote: 1756.] the value of civilisation and all its effects, including luxury, against those who regretted the simplicity of ancient times, the golden age of Saturn. O le bon temps que ce siecle de fer! Life in Paris, London, or Rome to-day is infinitely preferable to life in the garden of Eden. D'un bon vin frais ou la mousse ou la seve Ne gratta point le triste gosier d'Eve. La soie et l'or ne brillaient point chez eux. Admirez-vous pour cela nos aieux? Il leur manquait l'industrie et l'aisance: Est-ce vertu? c'etait pure ignorance. To return to the Essay, it flung down the gage of battle to that conception of the history of the world which had been brilliantly represented by Bossuet's Discours sur l'histoire universelle. This work was constantly in Voltaire's mind. He pointed out that it had no claim to be universal; it related only to four or five peoples, and especially the little Jewish nation which "was unknown to the rest of the world or justly despised," but which Bossuet made the centre of interest, as if the final cause of all the great empires of antiquity lay in their relations to the Jews. He had Bossuet in mind when he said "we will speak of the Jews as we would speak of Scythians or Greeks, weighing probabilities and discussing facts." In his new perspective the significance of Hebrew history is for the first time reduced to moderate limits. But it was not only in this particular, though central, point that Voltaire challenged Bossuet's view. He eliminated final causes altogether, and Providence plays no part on his historical stage. Here his work reinforced the teaching of Montesquieu. Otherwise Montesquieu and Voltaire entirely differed in their methods. Voltaire concerned himself only with the causal enchainment of events and the immediate motives of men. His interpretation of history was confined to the discovery of particular causes; he did not consider the operation of those larger general causes which Montesquieu investigated. Montesquieu sought to show that the vicissitudes of societies were subject to law; Voltaire believed that events were determined by chance where they were not consciously guided by human reason. The element of chance is conspicuous even in legislation: "almost all laws have been instituted to meet passing needs, like remedies applied fortuitously, which have cured one patient and kill others." On Voltaire's theory, the development of humanity might at any moment have been diverted into a different course; but whatever course it took the nature of human reason would have ensured a progress in civilisation. Yet the reader of the Essay and Louis XIV. might well have come away with a feeling that the security of Progress is frail and precarious. If fortune has governed events, if the rise and fall of empires, the succession of religions, the revolutions of states, and most of the great crises of history were decided by accidents, is there any cogent ground for believing that human reason, the principle to which Voltaire attributes the advance of civilisation, will prevail in the long run? Civilisation has been organised here and there, now and then, up to a certain point; there have been eras of rapid progress, but how can we be sure that these are not episodes, themselves also fortuitous? For growth has been followed by decay, progress by regress; can it be said that history, authorises the conclusion that reason will ever gain such an ascendancy that the play of chance will no longer be able to thwart her will? Is such a conclusion more than a hope, unsanctioned by the data of past experience, merely one of the characteristics of the age of illumination? Voltaire and Montesquieu thus raised fundamental questions of great moment for the doctrine of Progress, questions which belong to what was soon to be known as the Philosophy of History, a name invented by Voltaire, though hardly meant by him in the sense which it afterwards assumed. 3. Six years before Voltaire's Essay was published in its complete form a young man was planning a work on the same subject. Turgot is honourably remembered as an economist and administrator, but if he had ever written the Discourses on Universal History which he designed at the age of twenty-three his position in historical literature might have overshadowed his other claims to be remembered. We possess a partial sketch of its plan, which is supplemented by two lectures he delivered at the Sorbonne in 1750; so that we know his general conceptions. He had assimilated the ideas of the Esprit des lois, and it is probable that he had read the parts of Voltaire's work which had appeared in a periodical. His work, like Voltaire's, was to be a challenge to Bossuet's view of history; his purpose was to trace the fortunes of the race in the light of the idea of Progress. He occasionally refers to Providence but this is no more than a prudent lip-service. Providence has no functions in his scheme. The part which it played in Bossuet is usurped by those general causes which he had learned from Montesquieu. But his systematic mind would have organised and classified the ideas which Montesquieu left somewhat confused. He criticised the inductions drawn in the Esprit des lois concerning the influence of climate as hasty and exaggerated; and he pointed out that the physical causes can only produce their effects by acting on "the hidden principles which contribute to form our mind and character." It follows that the psychical or moral causes are the first element to consider, and it is a fault of method to try to evaluate physical causes till we have exhausted the moral, and are certain that the phenomena cannot be explained by these alone. In other words, the study of the development of societies must be based on psychology; and for Turgot, as for all his progressive contemporaries, psychology meant the philosophy of Locke. General necessary causes, therefore, which we should rather call conditions, have determined the course of history--the nature of man, his passions, and his reason, in the first place; and in the second, his environment,--geography and climate. But its course is a strict sequence of particular causes and effects, "which bind the state of the world (at a given moment) to all those which have preceded it." Turgot does not discuss the question of free-will, but his causal continuity does not exclude "the free action of great men." He conceives universal history as the progress of the human race advancing as an immense whole steadily, though slowly, through alternating periods of calm and disturbance towards greater perfection. The various units of the entire mass do not move with equal steps, because nature is not impartial with her gifts. Some men have talents denied to others, and the gifts of nature are sometimes developed by circumstances, sometimes left buried in obscurity. The inequalities in the march of nations are due to the infinite variety of circumstances; and these inequalities may be taken to prove that the world had a beginning, for in an eternal duration they would have disappeared. But the development of human societies has not been guided by human reason. Men have not consciously made general happiness the end of their actions. They have been conducted by passion and ambition and have never known to what goal they were moving. For if reason had presided, progress would soon have been arrested. To avoid war peoples would have remained in isolation, and the race would have lived divided for ever into a multitude of isolated groups, speaking different tongues. All these groups would have been limited in the range of their ideas, stationary in science, art, and government, and would never have risen above mediocrity. The history of China is an example of the results of restricted intercourse among peoples. Thus the unexpected conclusion emerges, that without unreason and injustice there would have been no progress. It is hardly necessary to observe that this argument is untenable. The hypothesis assumes that reason is in control among the primitive peoples, and at the same time supposes that its power would completely disappear if they attempted to engage in peaceful intercourse. But though Turgot has put his point in an unconvincing form, his purpose was to show that as a matter of fact "the tumultuous and dangerous passions" have been driving-forces which have moved the world in a desirable direction till the time should come for reason to take the helm. Thus, while Turgot might have subscribed to Voltaire's assertion that history is largely "un ramas de crimes, de folies, et de malheurs," his view of the significance of man's sufferings is different and almost approaches the facile optimism of Pope--"whatever is, is right." He regards all the race's actual experiences as the indispensable mechanism of Progress, and does not regret its mistakes and calamities. Many changes and revolutions, he observes, may seem to have had most mischievous effects; yet every change has brought some advantage, for it has been a new experience and therefore has been instructive. Man advances by committing errors. The history of science shows (as Fontenelle had pointed out) that truth is reached over the ruins of false hypotheses. The difficulty presented by periods of decadence and barbarism succeeding epochs of enlightenment is met by the assertion that in such dark times the world has not stood still; there has really been a progression which, though relatively inconspicuous, is not unimportant. In the Middle Ages, which are the prominent case, there were improvements in mechanical arts, in commerce, in some of the habits of civil life, all of which helped to prepare the way for happier times. Here Turgot's view of history is sharply opposed to Voltaire's. He considers Christianity to have been a powerful agent of civilisation, not a hinderer or an enemy. Had he executed his design, his work might well have furnished a notable makeweight to the view held by Voltaire, and afterwards more judicially developed by Gibbon, that "the triumph of barbarism and religion" was a calamity for the world. Turgot also propounded two laws of development. He observed that when a people is progressing, every step it takes causes an acceleration in the rate of progress. And he anticipated Comte's famous "law" of the three stages of intellectual evolution, though without giving it the extensive and fundamental significance which Comte claimed for it. "Before man understood the causal connection of physical phenomena, nothing was so natural as to suppose they were produced by intelligent beings, invisible and resembling ourselves; for what else would they have resembled?" That is Comte's theological stage. "When philosophers recognised the absurdity of the fables about the gods, but had not yet gained an insight into natural history, they thought to explain the causes of phenomena by abstract expressions such as essences and faculties." That is the metaphysical stage. "It was only at a later period, that by observing the reciprocal mechanical action of bodies hypotheses were formed which could be developed by mathematics and verified by experience." There is the positive stage. The observation assuredly does not possess the far-reaching importance which Comte attached to it; but whatever value it has, Turgot deserves the credit of having been the first to state it. The notes which Turgot made for his plan permit us to conjecture that his Universal History would have been a greater and more profound work than the Essay of Voltaire. It would have embodied in a digested form the ideas of Montesquieu to which Voltaire paid little attention, and the author would have elaborated the intimate connection and mutual interaction among all social phenomena--government and morals, religion, science, and arts. While his general thesis coincided with that of Voltaire--the gradual advance of humanity towards a state of enlightenment and reasonableness,--he made the idea of Progress more vital; for him it was an organising conception, just as the idea of Providence was for St. Augustine and Bossuet an organising conception, which gave history its unity and meaning. The view that man has throughout been blindly moving in the right direction is the counterpart of what Bossuet represented as a divine plan wrought out by the actions of men who are ignorant of it, and is sharply opposed to the views, of Voltaire and the other philosophers of the day who ascribed Progress exclusively to human reason consciously striving against ignorance and passion. CHAPTER VIII. THE ENCYCLOPAEDISTS AND ECONOMISTS 1. The intellectual movement which prepared French opinion for the Revolution and supplied the principles for reconstituting society may be described as humanistic in the sense that man was the centre of speculative interest. "One consideration especially that we ought never to lose from sight," says Diderot, "is that, if we ever banish a man, or the thinking and contemplative being, from above the surface of the earth, this pathetic and sublime spectacle of nature becomes no more than a scene of melancholy and silence... It is the presence of man that gives its interest to the existence of other beings... Why should we not make him a common centre?... Man is the single term from which we ought to set out." [Footnote: The passage from Diderot's article Encyclopedie is given as translated by Morley, Diderot, i, 145.] Hence psychology, morals, the structure of society, were the subjects which riveted attention instead of the larger supra-human problems which had occupied Descartes, Malebranche, and Leibnitz. It mattered little whether the universe was the best that could be constructed; what mattered was the relation of man's own little world to his will and capacities. Physical science was important only in so far as it could help social science and minister to the needs of man. The closest analogy to this development of thought is not offered by the Renaissance, to which the description HUMANISTIC has been conventionally appropriated, but rather by the age of illumination in Greece in the latter half of the fifth century B.C., represented by Protagoras, Socrates, and others who turned from the ultimate problems of the cosmos, hitherto the main study of philosophers, to man, his nature and his works. In this revised form of "anthropo-centrism" we see how the general movement of thought has instinctively adapted itself to the astronomical revolution. On the Ptolemaic system it was not incongruous or absurd that man, lord of the central domain in the universe, should regard himself as the most important cosmic creature. This is the view, implicit in the Christian scheme, which had been constructed on the old erroneous cosmology. When the true place of the earth was shown and man found himself in a tiny planet attached to one of innumerable solar worlds, his cosmic importance could no longer be maintained. He was reduced to the condition of an insect creeping on a "tas de boue," which Voltaire so vividly illustrated in Micromegas. But man is resourceful; [words in Greek]. Displaced, along with his home, from the centre of things, he discovers a new means of restoring his self-importance; he interprets his humiliation as a deliverance. Finding himself in an insignificant island floating in the immensity of space, he decides that he is at last master of his own destinies; he can fling away the old equipment of final causes, original sin, and the rest; he can construct his own chart and, bound by no cosmic scheme, he need take the universe into account only in so far as he judges it to be to his own profit. Or, if he is a philosopher, he may say that, after all, the universe for him is built out of his own sensations, and that by virtue of this relativity "anthropo-centrism" is restored in a new and more effective form. Built out of his own sensations: for the philosophy of Locke was now triumphant in France. I have used the term Cartesianism to designate, not the metaphysical doctrines of Descartes (innate ideas, two substances, and the rest), but the great principles which survived the passing of his metaphysical system--the supremacy of reason, and the immutability of natural laws, not subject to providential interventions. These principles still controlled thought, but the particular views of Descartes on mental phenomena were superseded in France by the psychology of Locke, whose influence was established by Voltaire and Condillac. The doctrine that all our ideas are derived from the senses lay at the root of the whole theory of man and society, in the light of which the revolutionary thinkers, Diderot, Helvetius, and their fellows, criticised the existing order and exposed the reigning prejudices. This sensationalism (which went beyond what Locke himself had really meant) involved the strict relativity of knowledge and led at once to the old pragmatic doctrine of Protagoras, that man is the measure of all things. And the spirit of the French philosophers of the eighteenth century was distinctly pragmatic. The advantage of man was their principle, and the value of speculation was judged by its definite service to humanity. "The value and rights of truth are founded on its utility," which is "the unique measure of man's judgements," one thinker asserts; another declares that "the useful circumscribes everything," l'utile circonscrit tout; another lays down that "to be virtuous is to be useful; to be vicious is to be useless or harmful; that is the sum of morality." Helvetius, anticipating Bentham, works out the theory that utility is the only possible basis of ethics. Bacon, the utilitarian, was extolled like Locke. [Footnote: The passages quoted on utility are from d'Holbach, Systems de la nature, i. c. 12, p. 224; c. 15, p. 312; Diderot, De I'interpretation de la nature in OEuvres, ii. p. 13; Raynal, Histoire des deux Indes, vii. p. 416. The effectiveness of the teaching may be illustrated from the Essay on Man, by Antoine Rivarol, whom Burke called the Tacitus of the Revolution. "The virtues are only virtues because they are useful to the human race." OEuvres choisis (ed. de Lescure), i. p. 211.] As, a hundred years before, his influence had inspired the foundation of the Royal Society, so now his name was invoked by the founders of the Encyclopaedia. [Footnote: See d'Alembert's tribute to him in the Discours preliminaire.] Beneath all philosophical speculation there is an undercurrent of emotion, and in the French philosophers of the eighteenth century this emotional force was strong and even violent. They aimed at practical results. Their work was a calculated campaign to transform the principles and the spirit of governments and to destroy sacerdotalism. The problem for the human race being to reach a state of felicity by its own powers, these thinkers believed that it was soluble by the gradual triumph of reason over prejudice and knowledge over ignorance. Violent revolution was far from their thoughts; by the diffusion of knowledge they hoped to create a public opinion which would compel governments to change the tenor of their laws and administration and make the happiness of the people their guiding principle. The optimistic confidence that man is perfectible, which means capable of indefinite improvement, inspired the movement as a whole, however greatly particular thinkers might differ in their views. Belief in Progress was their sustaining faith, although, occupied by the immediate problems of amelioration, they left it rather vague and ill-defined. The word itself is seldom pronounced in their writings. The idea is treated as subordinate to the other ideas in the midst of which it had grown up: Reason, Nature, Humanity, Illumination (lumieres). It has not yet entered upon an independent life of its own and received a distinct label, though it is already a vital force. In reviewing the influences which were forming a new public opinion during the forty years before the Revolution, it is convenient for the present purpose to group together the thinkers (including Voltaire) associated with the Encyclopaedia, who represented a critical and consciously aggressive force against traditional theories and existing institutions. The constructive thinker Rousseau was not less aggressive, but he stands apart and opposed, by his hostility to modern civilisation. Thirdly, we must distinguish the school of Economists, also reformers and optimists, but of more conservative temper than the typical Encyclopaedists. 2. The Encyclopaedia (1751-1765) has rightly been pronounced the central work of the rationalistic movement which made the France of 1789 so different from the France of 1715. [Footnote: The general views which governed the work may be gathered from d'Alembert's introductory discourse and from Diderot's article Encyclopedie. An interesting sketch of the principal contributors will be found in Morley's Diderot, i. chap. v. Another modern study of the Encyclopaedic movement is the monograph of L. Ducros, Les Encyclopidistes (1900). Helvetius has recently been the subject of a study by Albert Keim (Helvetius, sa vie et son oeuvre, 1907). Among other works which help the study of the speculations of this age from various points of view may be mentioned: Marius Roustan, Les Philosophes et la societe francaise au xviii siecle(1906); Espinas, La Philosophie sociale du xviii siecle et la Revolution (1898); Lichtenberger, Le Socialisme au xviii siecle(1895). I have not mentioned in the text Boullanger (1722-1758), who contributed to the Encyclopaedia the article on Political Economy (which has nothing to do with economics but treats of ancient theocracies); the emphasis laid on his views on progress by Buchez (op. cit. i. III sqq.) is quite excessive.] It was the organised section of a vast propaganda, speculative and practical, carried on by men of the most various views, most of whom were associated directly with it. As has well been observed, it did for the rationalism of the eighteenth century in France much what the Fortnightly Review, under the editorship of Mr. Morley (from 1868 to 1882) did for that of the nineteenth in England, as an organ for the penetrating criticism of traditional beliefs. If Diderot, who directed the Encyclopaedia with the assistance of d'Alembert the mathematician, had lived a hundred years later he would probably have edited a journal. We saw that the "solidarity" of the sciences was one of the conceptions associated with the theory of intellectual progress, and that the popularisation of knowledge was another. Both these conceptions inspired the Encyclopaedia, which was to gather up and concentrate the illumination of the modern age. It was to establish the lines of communication among all departments, "to enclose in the unity of a system the infinitely various branches of knowledge." And it was to be a library of popular instruction. But it was also intended to be an organ of propaganda. In the history of the intellectual revolution it is in some ways the successor of the Dictionary of Bayle, which, two generations before, collected the material of war to demolish traditional doctrines. The Encyclopaedia carried on the campaign against authority and superstition by indirect methods, but it was the work of men who were not sceptics like Bayle, but had ideals, positive purposes, and social hopes. They were not only confident in reason and in science, but most of them had also a more or less definite belief in the possibility of an advance of humanity towards perfection. As one of their own band afterwards remarked, they were less occupied in enlarging the bounds of knowledge than in spreading the light and making war on prejudice. [Footnote: Condorcet, Esquisse, p. 206 (ed. 1822).] The views of the individual contributors differed greatly, and they cannot be called a school, but they agreed so far in common tendencies that they were able to form a co-operative alliance. The propaganda of which the Encyclopaedia was the centre was reinforced by the independent publications of some of the leading men who collaborated or were closely connected with their circle, notably those of Diderot himself, Baron d'Holbach, and Helvetius. 3. The optimism of the Encyclopaedists was really based on an intense consciousness of the enlightenment of their own age. The progressiveness of knowledge was taken as axiomatic, but was there any guarantee that the light, now confined to small circles, could ever enlighten the world and regenerate mankind? They found the guarantee they required, not in an induction from the past experience of the race, but in an a priori theory: the indefinite malleability of human nature by education and institutions. This had been, as we saw, assumed by the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. It pervaded the speculation of the age, and was formally deduced from the sensational psychology of Locke and Condillac. It was developed, in an extreme form, in the work of Helvetius, De l'esprit (1758). In this book, which was to exert a large influence in England, Helvetius sought, among other things, to show that the science of morals is equivalent to the science of legislation, and that in a well-organised society all men are capable of rising to the highest point of mental development. Intellectual and moral inequalities between man and man arise entirely from differences in education and social circumstances. Genius itself is not a gift of nature; the man of genius is a product of circumstances--social, not physical, for Helvetius rejects the influence of climate. It follows that if you change education and social institutions you can change the character of men. The error of Helvetius in ignoring the irremovable physical differences between individuals, the varieties of cerebral organisation, was at once pointed out by Diderot. This error, however, was not essential to the general theory of the immeasurable power of social institutions over human character, and other thinkers did not fall into it. All alike, indeed, were blind to the factor of heredity. But the theory in its collective application contains a truth which nineteenth century critics, biassed by their studies in heredity, have been prone to overlook. The social inheritance of ideas and emotions to which the individual is submitted from infancy is more important than the tendencies physically transmitted from parent to child. The power of education and government in moulding the members of a society has recently been illustrated on a large scale in the psychological transformation of the German people in the life of a generation. It followed from the theory expounded by Helvetius that there is no impassable barrier between the advanced and the stationary or retrograde races of the earth. [Footnote: The most informing discussion of the relations between the Advanced and Backward races is Bryce's Romanes Lecture (1902).] "True morality," Baron d'Holbach wrote, "should be the same for all the inhabitants of the globe. The savage man and the civilised; the white man, the red man, the black man; Indian and European, Chinaman and Frenchman, Negro and Lapp have the same nature. The differences between them are only modifications of the common nature produced by climate, government, education, opinions, and the various causes which operate on them. Men differ only in the ideas they form of happiness and the means which they have imagined to obtain it." Here again the eighteenth century theorists held a view which can no longer be dismissed as absurd. Some are coming round to the opinion that enormous differences in capacity which seem fundamental are a result of the differences in social inheritance, and that these again are due to a long sequence of historical circumstances; and consequently that there is no people in the world doomed by nature to perpetual inferiority or irrevocably disqualified by race from playing a useful part in the future of civilisation. 4. This doctrine of the possibility of indefinitely moulding the characters of men by laws and institutions--whether combined or not with a belief in the natural equality of men's faculties--laid a foundation on which the theory of the perfectibility of humanity could be raised. It marked, therefore, an important stage in the development of the doctrine of Progress. It gave, moreover, a new and larger content to that doctrine by its applicability, not only to the peoples which are at present in the van of civilisation, but also to those which have lagged far behind and may appear irreclaimably barbarous--thus potentially including all humanity in the prospect of the future. Turgot had already conceived "the total mass of the human race moving always slowly forward"; he had declared that the human mind everywhere contains the germs of progress and that the inequality of peoples is due to the infinite variety of their circumstances. This enlarging conception was calculated to add strength to the idea of Progress, by raising it to a synthesis comprehending not merely the western civilised nations but the whole human world. Interest in the remote peoples of the earth, in the unfamiliar civilisations of the East, in the untutored races of America and Africa, was vivid in France in the eighteenth century. Everyone knows how Voltaire and Montesquieu used Hurons or Persians to hold up the glass to Western manners and morals, as Tacitus used the Germans to criticise the society of Rome. But very few ever look into the seven volumes of the Abbe Raynal's History of the Two Indies which appeared in 1772. It is however, one of the remarkable books of the century. Its immediate practical importance lay in the array of facts which it furnished to the friends of humanity in the movement against negro slavery. But it was also an effective attack on the Church and the sacerdotal system. The author's method was the same which his greater contemporary Gibbon employed on a larger scale. A history of facts was a more formidable indictment than any declamatory attack. Raynal brought home to the conscience of Europeans the miseries which had befallen the natives of the New World through the Christian conquerors and their priests. He was not indeed an enthusiastic preacher of Progress. He is unable to decide between the comparative advantages of the savage state of nature and the most highly cultivated society. But he observes that "the human race is what we wish to make it," that the felicity of man depends entirely on the improvement of legislation; and in the survey of the history of Europe to which the last Book of his work is devoted, his view is generally optimistic. [Footnote: cp. Raynal, Histoire, vii. 214, 256. This book was first published anonymously; the author's name appeared in the edition of 1780.] 5. Baron d'Holbach had a more powerful brain than Helvetius, but his writings had probably less influence, though he was the spiritual father of two prominent Revolutionaries, Hebert and Chaumette. His System of Nature (1770) develops a purely naturalistic theory of the universe, in which the prevalent Deism is rejected: there is no God; material Nature stands out alone, self-sufficing, dominis privata superbis. The book suggests how the Lucretian theory of development might have led to the idea of Progress. But it sent a chilly shock to the hearts of many and probably convinced few. The effective part was the outspoken and passionate indictment of governments and religions as causes of most of the miseries of mankind. It is in other works, especially in his Social System, that his views of Progress are to be sought. Man is simply a part of nature; he has no privileged position, and he is born neither good nor bad. Erras, as Seneca said, si existumas vitia nobiscum esse: supervenerunt, ingesta sunt. [Footnote: Seneca, Ep. 124.] We are made good or bad by education, public opinion, laws, government; and here the author points to the significance of the instinct of imitation as a social force, which a modern writer, M. Tarde, has worked into a system. The evils, which are due to the errors of tyranny and superstition, the force of truth will gradually diminish if it cannot completely banish them; for our governments and laws may be perfected by the progress of useful knowledge. But the process will be a long one: centuries of continuous mental effort in unravelling the causes of social ill-being and repeated experiments to determine the remedies (des experiences reiterees de la societe). In any case we cannot look forward to the attainment of an unchangeable or unqualified felicity. That is a mere chimera "incompatible with the nature of a being whose feeble machine is subject to derangement and whose ardent imagination will not always submit to the guidance of reason. Sometimes to enjoy, sometimes to suffer, is the lot of man; to enjoy more often than to suffer is what constitutes well-being." D'Holbach was a strict determinist; he left no room for freewill in the rigorous succession of cause and effect, and the pages in which he drives home the theory of causal necessity are still worth reading. From his naturalistic principles he inferred that the distinction between nature and art is not fundamental; civilisation is as rational as the savage state. Here he was at one with Aristotle. All the successive inventions of the human mind to change or perfect man's mode of existence and render it happier were only the necessary consequence of his essence and that of the existences which act upon him. All we do or think, all we are or shall be, is only an effect of what universal nature has made us. Art is only nature acting by the aid of the instruments which she has fashioned. [Footnote: The passages of d'Holbach specially referred to are: Systeme social, i. 1, p. 13; Syst. de la nature, i. 6, p. 88; Syst. soc. i. 15, p. 271; Syst. de la n. i. 1, p. 3.] Progress, therefore, is natural and necessary, and to criticise or condemn it by appealing to nature is only to divide the house of nature against itself. If d'Holbach had pressed his logic further, he would have taken a more indulgent and calmer view of the past history of mankind. He would have acknowledged that institutions and opinions to which modern reason may give short shrift were natural and useful in their day, and would have recognised that at any stage of history the heritage of the past is no less necessary to progress than the solvent power of new ideas. Most thinkers of his time were inclined to judge the past career of humanity anachronistically. All the things that had been done or thought which could not be justified in the new age of enlightenment, were regarded as gratuitous and inexcusable errors. The traditions, superstitions, and customs, the whole "code of fraud and woe" transmitted from the past, weighed then too heavily in France to allow the school of reform to do impartial justice to their origins. They felt a sort of resentment against history. D'Alembert said that it would be well if history could be destroyed; and the general tendency was to ignore the social memory and the common heritage of past experiences which mould a human society and make it something very different from a mere collection of individuals. Belief in Progress, however, took no extravagant form. It did not beguile d'Holbach or any other of the leading thinkers of the Encyclopaedia epoch into optimistic dreams of the future which might await mankind. They had a much clearer conception of obstacles than the good Abbe de Saint-Pierre. Helvetius agrees with d'Holbach that progress will be slow, and Diderot is wavering and sceptical of the question of indefinite social improvement. [Footnote: De l'esprit, Disc. ii. cc. 24, 25.] 6. The reformers of the Encyclopaedia group were not alone in disseminating the idea of Progress. Another group of thinkers, who widely differed in their principles, though some of them had contributed articles to the Encyclopaedia, [Footnote: Quesnay and Turgot, who, though not professedly a Physiocrat, held the same views as the sect.] also did much to make it a power. The rise of the special study of Economics was one of the most significant facts in the general trend of thought towards the analysis of civilisation. Economical students found that in seeking to discover a true theory of the production, distribution, and employment of wealth, they could not avoid the consideration of the constitution and purpose of society. The problems of production and distribution could not be divorced from political theory: production raises the question of the functions of government and the limits of its intervention in trade and industry; distribution involve questions of property, justice, and equality. The employment of riches leads into the domain of morals. The French Economists or "Physiocrats," as they were afterwards called, who formed a definite school before 1760--Quesnay the master, Mirabeau, Mercier de la Riviere, and the rest--envisaged their special subject from a wide philosophical point of view; their general economic theory was equivalent to a theory of human society. They laid down the doctrine of a Natural Order in political communities, and from it they deduced their economic teaching. They assumed, like the Encyclopaedists, that the end of society is the attainment of terrestrial happiness by its members, and that this is the sole purpose of government. The object of a treatise by Mercier de la Riviere [Footnote: L'ordre naturel et essentiel des societes politiqes, 1767.] (a convenient exposition of the views of the sect) is, in his own words, to discover the natural order for the government of men living in organised communities, which will assure to them temporal felicity: an order in which everything is well, necessarily well, and in which the interests of all are so perfectly and intimately consolidated that all are happy, from the ruler to the least of his subjects. But in what does this happiness consist? His answer is that "humanly speaking, the greatest happiness possible for us consists in the greatest possible abundance of objects suitable to our enjoyment and in the greatest liberty to profit by them." And liberty is necessary not only to enjoy them but also to produce them in the greatest abundance, since liberty stimulates human efforts. Another condition of abundance is the multiplication of the race; in fact, the happiness of men and their numbers are closely bound up together in the system of nature. From these axioms may be deduced the Natural Order of a human society, the reciprocal duties and rights whose enforcement is required for the greatest possible multiplication of products, in order to procure to the race the greatest sum of happiness with the maximum population. Now, individual property is the indispensable condition for full enjoyment of the products of human labour; "property is the measure of liberty, and liberty is the measure of property." Hence, to realise general happiness it is only necessary to maintain property and consequently liberty in all their natural extent. The fatal error which has made history what it is has been the failure to recognise this simple fact; for aggression and conquest, the causes of human miseries, violate the law of property which is the foundation of happiness. The practical inference was that the chief function of government was to protect property and that complete freedom should be left to private enterprise to exploit the resources of the earth. All would be well if trade and industry were allowed to follow their natural tendencies. This is what was meant by Physiocracy, the supremacy of the Natural Order. If rulers observed the limits of their true functions, Mercier thought that the moral effect would be immense. "The public system of government is the true education of moral man. Regis ad exemplum totus componitur orbis." [Footnote: The particulars of the Physiocratic doctrine as to the relative values of agriculture and commerce which Adam Smith was soon to criticise do not concern us; nor is it necessary to repeat the obvious criticisms on a theory which virtually reduced the science of society to a science of production and distribution.] While they advocated a thorough reform of the principles which ruled the fiscal policy of governments, the Economists were not idealists, like the Encyclopaedic philosophers; they sowed no seeds of revolution. Their starting-point was that which is, not that which ought to be. And, apart from their narrower point of view, they differed from the philosophers in two very important points. They did not believe that society was of human institution, and therefore they did not believe that there could be any deductive science of society based simply on man's nature. Moreover, they held that inequality of condition was one of its immutable features, immutable because it is a consequence of the inequality of physical powers. But they believed in the future progress of society towards a state of happiness through the increase of opulence which would itself depend on the growth of justice and "liberty"; and they insisted on the importance of the increase and diffusion of knowledge. Their influence in promoting a belief in Progress is vouched for by Condorcet, the friend and biographer of Turgot. As Turgot stands apart from the Physiocrats (with whom indeed he did not identify himself) by his wider views on civilisation, it might be suspected that it is of him that Condorcet was chiefly thinking. Yet we need not limit the scope of his statement when we remember that as a sect the Economists assumed as their first principle the eudaemonic value of civilisation, declared that temporal happiness is attainable, and threw all their weight into the scales against the doctrine of Regress which had found a powerful advocate in Rousseau. 7. By liberty the Economists meant economic liberty. Neither they nor the philosophers nor Rousseau, the father of modern democracy, had any just conception of what political liberty means. They contributed much to its realisation, but their own ideas of it were narrow and imperfect. They never challenged the principle of a despotic government, they only contended that the despotism must be enlightened. The paternal rule of a Joseph or a Catherine, acting under the advice of philosophers, seemed to them the ideal solution of the problem of government; and when the progressive and disinterested Turgot, whom they might regard as one of themselves, was appointed financial minister on the accession of Louis XVI., it seemed that their ideal was about to be realised. His speedy fall dispelled their hopes, but did not teach them the secret of liberty. They had no quarrel with the principle of the censorship, though they writhed under its tyranny; they did not want to abolish it. They only complained that it was used against reason and light, that is against their own writings; and, if the Conseil d'Etat or the Parlement had suppressed the works of their obscurantist opponents, they would have congratulated themselves that the world was marching quickly towards perfection. [Footnote: The principle that intolerance on the part of the wise and strong towards the ignorant and weak is a good thing is not alien to the spirit of the French philosophers, though I do not think any of them expressly asserted it. In the following century it was formulated by Colins, a Belgian (author of two works on social science, 1857-60), who believed that an autocratic government suppressing liberty of conscience is the most effective instrument of Progress. It is possible that democracy may yet try the experiment.] CHAPTER IX. WAS CIVILISATION A MISTAKE? ROUSSEAU, CHASTELLUX. 1. The optimistic theory of civilisation was not unchallenged by rationalists. In the same year (1750) in which Turgot traced an outline of historical Progress at the Sorbonne, Rousseau laid before the Academy of Dijon a theory of historical Regress. This Academy had offered a prize for the best essay on the question whether the revival of sciences and arts had contributed to the improvement of morals. The prize was awarded to Rousseau. Five years later the same learned body proposed another subject for investigation, the origin of Inequality among men. Rousseau again competed but failed to win the prize, though this second essay was a far more remarkable performance. The view common to these two discourses, that social development has been a gigantic mistake, that the farther man has travelled from a primitive simple state the more unhappy has his lot become, that civilisation is radically vicious, was not original. Essentially the same issue had been raised in England, though in a different form, by Mandeville's Fable of the Bees, the scandalous book which aimed at proving that it is not the virtues and amiable qualities of man that are the cement of civilised society, but the vices of its members which are the support of all trades and employments. [Footnote: The expanded edition was published in 1723.] In these vices, he said, "we must look for the true origin of all arts and sciences"; "the moment evil ceases the society must be spoiled, if not totally dissolved." The significance of Mandeville's book lay in the challenge it flung to the optimistic doctrines of Lord Shaftesbury, that human nature is good and all is for the best in this harmonious world. "The ideas he had formed," wrote Mandeville, "of the goodness and excellency of our nature were as romantic and chimerical as they are beautiful and amiable; he laboured hard to unite two contraries that can never be reconciled together, innocence of manners and worldly greatness." Of these two views Rousseau accepted one and rejected the other. He agreed with Shaftesbury as to the natural goodness of man; he agreed with Mandeville that innocence of manners is incompatible with the conditions of a civilised society. He was an optimist in regard to human nature, a pessimist in regard to civilisation. In his first Discourse he begins by appreciating the specious splendour of modern enlightenment, the voyages of man's intellect among the stars, and then goes on to assever that in the first place men have lost, through their civilisation, the original liberty for which they were born, and that arts and science, flinging garlands of flowers on the iron chains which bind them, make them love their slavery; and secondly that there is a real depravity beneath the fair semblance and "our souls are corrupted as our sciences and arts advance to perfection." Nor is this only a modern phenomenon; "the evils due to our vain curiosity are as old as the world." For it is a law of history that morals fall and rise in correspondence with the progress and decline of the arts and sciences as regularly as the tides answer to the phases of the moon. This "law" is exemplified by the fortunes of Greece, Rome, and China, to whose civilisations the author opposes the comparative happiness of the ignorant Persians, Scythians, and ancient Germans. "Luxury, dissoluteness, and slavery have been always the chastisement of the ambitious efforts we have made to emerge from the happy ignorance in which the Eternal Wisdom had placed us." There is the theological doctrine of the tree of Eden in a new shape. Rousseau's attempt to show that the cultivation of science produces specific moral evils is feeble, and has little ingenuity; it is a declamation rather than an argument; and in the end he makes concessions which undo the effect of his impeachment. The essay did not establish even a plausible case, but it was paradoxical and suggestive, and attracted more attention than Turgot's thoughtful discourse in the Sorbonne. D'Alembert deemed it worthy of a courteous expression of dissent; [Footnote: In the Disc. Prel. to the Encyclopaedia.] and Voltaire satirised it in his Timon. 2. In the Discourse on Inequality Rousseau dealt more directly with the effect of civilisation on happiness. He proposed to explain how it came about that right overcame the primitive reign of might, that the strong were induced to serve the weak, and the people to purchase a fancied tranquillity at the price of a real felicity. So he stated his problem; and to solve it he had to consider the "state of nature" which Hobbes had conceived as a state of war and Locke as a state of peace. Rousseau imagines our first savage ancestors living in isolation, wandering in the forests, occasionally co-operating, and differing from the animals only by the possession of a faculty for improving themselves (la faculte de se perfectionner). After a stage in which families lived alone in a more or less settled condition, came the formation of groups of families, living together in a definite territory, united by a common mode of life and sustenance, and by the common influence of climate, but without laws or government or any social organisation. It is this state, which was reached only after a long period, not the original state of nature, that Rousseau considers to have been the happiest period of the human race. This period of the development of human faculties, holding a just mean between the indolence of the primitive state and the petulant activity of our self-love, must be the happiest and most durable epoch. The more we reflect on it, the more we find that this state was the least exposed to revolutions and the best for man; and that he can have left it only through some fatal chance which, for the common advantage, should never have occurred. The example of the savages who have almost all been found in this state seems to bear out the conclusion that humanity was made to remain in it for ever, that it was the true youth of the world, and that all further progresses have been so many steps, apparently towards the perfection of the individual, and really towards the decrepitude of the species. He ascribes to metallurgy and agriculture the fatal resolution which brought this Arcadian existence to an end. Agriculture entailed the origin of property in land. Moral and social inequality were introduced by the man who first enclosed a piece of land and said, This is mine, and found people simple enough to believe him. He was the founder of civil society. The general argument amounts to this: Man's faculty of improving himself is the source of his other faculties, including his sociability, and has been fatal to his happiness. The circumstances of his primeval life favoured the growth of this faculty, and in making man sociable they made him wicked; they developed the reason of the individual and thereby caused the species to deteriorate. If the process had stopped at a certain point, all would have been well; but man's capacities, stimulated by fortuitous circumstances, urged him onward, and leaving behind him the peaceful Arcadia where he should have remained safe and content, he set out on the fatal road which led to the calamities of civilisation. We need not follow Rousseau in his description of those calamities which he attributes to wealth and the artificial conditions of society. His indictment was too general and rhetorical to make much impression. In truth, a more powerful and comprehensive case against civilised society was drawn up about the same time, though with a very different motive, by one whose thought represented all that was opposed to Rousseau's teaching. Burke's early work, A Vindication of Natural Society, [Footnote: A.D. 1756.] was written to show that all the objections which Deists like Bolingbroke urged against artificial religion could be brought with greater force against artificial society, and he worked out in detail a historical picture of the evils of civilisation which is far more telling than Rousseau's generalities. [Footnote: In his admirable edition of The Political Writings of Jean-Jacques Rousseau (1915), p. 89, Vaughan suggests that in Rousseau's later works we may possibly detect "the first faint beginnings" of a belief in Progress, and attributes this to the influence of Montesquieu.] 3. If civilisation has been the curse of man, it might seem that the logical course for Rousseau to recommend was its destruction. This was the inference which Voltaire drew in Timon, to laugh the whole theory out of court. But Rousseau did not suggest a movement to destroy all the libraries and all the works of art in the world, to put to death or silence all the savants, to pull down the cities, and burn the ships. He was not a mere dreamer, and his Arcadia was no more than a Utopian ideal, by the light of which he conceived that the society of his own day might be corrected and transformed. He attached his hopes to equality, democracy, and a radical change in education. Equality: this revolutionary idea was of course quite compatible with the theory of Progress, and was soon to be closely associated with it. But it is easy to understand that the two ideas should first have appeared in antagonism to each other. The advance of knowledge and the increase of man's power over nature had virtually profited only a minority. When Fontenelle or Voltaire vaunted the illumination of their age and glorified the modern revolution in scientific thought, they took account only of a small class of privileged people. Higher education, Voltaire observed, is not for cobblers or kitchenmaids; "on n'a jamais pretendu eclairer les cordonniers et les servantes." The theory of Progress had so far left the masses out of account. Rousseau contrasted the splendour of the French court, the luxury of the opulent, the enlightenment of those who had the opportunity of education, with the hard lot of the ignorant mass of peasants, whose toil paid for the luxury of many of the idle enlightened people who amused themselves at Paris. The horror of this contrast, which left Voltaire cold, was the poignant motive which inspired Rousseau, a man of the people, in constructing his new doctrine. The existing inequality seemed an injustice which rendered the self-complacency of the age revolting. If this is the result of progressive civilisation, what is progress worth? The next step is to declare that civilisation is the causa malorum and that what is named progress is really regress. But Rousseau found a way of circumventing pessimism. He asked himself, cannot equality be realised in an organised state, founded on natural right? The Social Contract was his answer, and there we can see the living idea of equality detaching itself from the dead theory of degradation. [Footnote: The consistency of the Social Contract with the Discourse on Inequality has been much debated. They deal with two distinct problems, and the Social Contract does not mark any change in the author's views. Though it was not published till 1762 he had been working at it since 1753.] Arcadianism, which was thus only a side-issue for Rousseau, was the extreme expression of tendencies which appear in the speculations of other thinkers of the day. Morelly and Mably argued in favour of a reversion to simpler forms of life. They contemplated the foundation of socialistic communities by reviving institutions and practices which belonged to a past period of social evolution. Mably, inspired by Plato, thought it possible by legislation to construct a state of antique pattern. [Footnote: For Mably's political doctrines see Guerrier's monograph, L'Abbe de Mably (1886), where it is shown that among "the theories which determined in advance the course of the events of 1789" the Abbe's played a role which has not been duly recognised.] They ascribed evils of civilisation to inequality arising from the existence of private property, but Morelly rejected the view of the "bold sophist" Rousseau that science and art were to blame. He thought that aided by science and learning man might reach a state based on communism, resembling the state of nature but more perfect, and he planned an ideal constitution in his romance of the Floating Islands. [Footnote: Naufrage des isles flottantes ou Basiliade du celebre Pilpai (1753). It begins: "je chante le regne aimable de la Verite et de la Nature." Morelly's other work, Code de la Nature, appeared in 1755.] Different as these views were, they represent the idea of regress; they imply a condemnation of the tendencies of actual social development and recommend a return to simpler and more primitive conditions. Even Diderot, though he had little sympathy with Utopian speculations, was attracted by the idea of the simplification of society, and met Rousseau so far as to declare that the happiest state was a mean between savage and civilised life. "I am convinced," he wrote, "that the industry of man has gone too far and that if it had stopped long ago and if it were possible to simplify the results, we should not be the worse. I believe there is a limit in civilisation, a limit more conformable to the felicity of man in general and far less distant from the savage state than is imagined; but how to return to it, having left it, or how to remain in it, if we were there? I know not." [Footnote: Refutation de l'ouvrage d'Helvetius in OEuvres ii. p. 431. Elsewhere (p. 287) he argues that in a community without arts and industries there are fewer crimes than in a civilised state, but men are not so happy.] His picture of the savages of Tahiti in the Supplement au voyage de Bougainville was not seriously meant, but it illustrates the fact that in certain moods he felt the fascination of Rousseau's Arcadia. D'Holbach met all these theories by pointing out that human development, from the "state of nature" to social life and the ideas and commodities of civilisation, is itself natural, given the innate tendency of man to improve his lot. To return to the simpler life of the forests--or to any bygone stage--would be denaturer l'homme, it would be contrary to nature; and if he could do so, it would only be to recommence the career begun by his ancestors and pass again through the same successive phases of history. [Footnote: Syst. soc. i. 16, p. 190.] There was, indeed, one question which caused some embarrassment to believers in Progress. The increase of wealth and luxury was evidently a salient feature in modern progressive states; and it was clear that there was an intimate connection between the growth of knowledge and the growth of commerce and industrial arts, and that the natural progress of these meant an ever-increasing accumulation of riches and the practice of more refined luxury. The question, therefore, whether luxury is injurious to the general happiness occupied the attention of the philosophers. [Footnote: D'Holbach, ib. iii. 7; Diderot, art. Luxe in the Encylopaedia; Helvetius, De l'esprit, i. 3.] If it is injurious, does it not follow that the forces on which admittedly Progress depends are leading in an undesirable direction? Should they be obstructed, or is it wiser to let things follow their natural tendency (laisser aller les choses suivant leur pente naturelle)? Voltaire accepted wealth with all its consequences. D'Holbach proved to his satisfaction that luxury always led to the ruin of nations. Diderot and Helvetius arrayed the arguments which could be urged on both sides. Perhaps the most reasonable contribution to the subject was an essay of Hume. 4. It is obvious that Rousseau and all other theorists of Regress would be definitely refuted if it could be proved by an historical investigation that in no period in the past had man's lot been happier than in the present. Such an inquiry was undertaken by the Chevalier de Chastellux. His book On Public Felicity, or Considerations on the lot of Men in the various Epochs of History, appeared in 1772 and had a wide circulation. [Footnote: There was a new edition in 1776 with an important additional chapter.] It is a survey of the history of the western world and aims at proving the certainty of future Progress. It betrays the influence both of the Encyclopaedists and of the Economists. Chastellux is convinced that human nature can be indefinitely moulded by institutions; that enlightenment is a necessary condition of general happiness; that war and superstition, for which governments and priests are responsible, are the principal obstacles. But he attempted to do what none of his masters had done, to test the question methodically from the data of history. Turgot, and Voltaire in his way, had traced the growth of civilisation; the originality of Chastellux lay in concentrating attention on the eudaemonic issue, in examining each historical period for the purpose of discovering whether people on the whole were happy and enviable. Has there ever been a time, he inquired, in which public felicity was greater than in our own, in which it would have been desirable to remain for ever, and to which it would now be desirable to return? He begins by brushing away the hypothesis of an Arcadia. We know really nothing about primitive man, there is not sufficient evidence to authorise conjectures. We know man only as he has existed in organised societies, and if we are to condemn modern civilisation and its prospects, we must find our term of comparison not in an imaginary golden age but in a known historical epoch. And we must be careful not to fall into the mistakes of confusing public prosperity with general happiness, and of considering only the duration or aggrandisement of empires and ignoring the lot of the common people. His survey of history is summary and superficial enough. He gives reasons for believing that no peoples from the ancient Egyptians and Assyrians to the Europeans of the Renaissance can be judged happy. Yet what about the Greeks? Theirs was an age of enlightenment. In a few pages he examines their laws and history, and concludes, "We are compelled to acknowledge that what is called the bel age of Greece was a time of pain and torture for humanity." And in ancient history, generally, "slavery alone sufficed to make man's condition a hundred times worse than it is at present." The miseries of life in the Roman period are even more apparent than in the Greek. What Englishman or Frenchman would tolerate life as lived in ancient Rome? It is interesting to remember that four years later an Englishman who had an incomparably wider and deeper knowledge of history declared it to be probable that in the age of the Antonines civilised Europe enjoyed greater happiness than at any other period. Rome declined and Christianity came. Its purpose was not to render men happy on earth, and we do not find that it made rulers less avaricious or less sanguinary, peoples more patient or quiet, crimes rarer, punishments less cruel, treaties more faithfully observed, or wars waged more humanely. The conclusion is that it is only those who are profoundly ignorant of the past who can regret "the good old times." Throughout this survey Chastellux does not, like Turgot, make any attempt to show that the race was progressing, however slowly. On the contrary, he sets the beginning of continuous Progress in the Renaissance--here agreeing with d'Alembert and Voltaire. The intellectual movement, which originated then and resulted in the enlightenment of his own day, was a condition of social progress. But alone it would not have been enough, as is proved by the fact that the intellectual brilliancy of the great age of Greece exerted no beneficent effects on the well-being of the people. Nor indeed was there any perceptible improvement in the prospect of happiness for the people at large during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, notwithstanding the progress of science and the arts. But the terrible wars of this period exhausted Europe, and this financial exhaustion has supplied the requisite conditions for attaining a measure of felicity never realised in the past. Peace is an advantageous condition for the progress of reason, but especially when it is the result of the exhaustion of peoples and their satiety of fighting. Frivolous ideas disappear; political bodies, like organisms, have the care of self-preservation impressed upon them by pain; the human mind, hitherto exercised on agreeable objects, falls back with more energy on useful objects; a more successful appeal can be made to the rights of humanity; and princes, who have become creditors and debtors of their subjects, permit them to be happy in order that they may be more solvent or more patient. This is not very lucid or convincing; but the main point is that intellectual enlightenment would be ineffective without the co-operation of political events, and no political events would permanently help humanity without the progress of knowledge. Public felicity consists--Chastellux follows the Economists--in external and domestic peace, abundance and liberty, the liberty of tranquil enjoyment of one's own; and ordinary signs of it are flourishing agriculture, large populations, and the growth of trade and industry. He is at pains to show the superiority of modern to ancient agriculture, and he avails himself of the researches of Hume to prove the comparatively greater populousness of modern European countries. As for the prospect of peace, he takes a curiously optimistic view. A system of alliances has made Europe a sort of confederated republic, and the balance of power has rendered the design of a universal monarchy, such as that which Louis XIV. essayed, a chimera. [Footnote: So Rivarol, writing in 1783 (OEuvres, i. pp. 4 and 52): "Never did the world offer such a spectacle. Europe has reached such a high degree of power that history has nothing to compare with it. It is virtually a federative republic, composed of empires and kingdoms, and the most powerful that has ever existed."] All the powerful nations are burdened with debt. War, too, is a much more difficult enterprise than it used to be; every campaign of the king of Prussia has been more arduous than all the conquests of Attila. It looks as if the Peace of 1762-3 possessed elements of finality. The chief danger he discerns in the overseas policy of the English--auri sacra fames. Divination of this kind has never been happy; a greater thinker, Auguste Comte, was to venture on more dogmatic predictions of the cessation of wars, which the event was no less utterly to belie. As for equality among men, Chastellux admits its desirability, but observes that there is pretty much the same amount of happiness (le bonheur se compense assez) in the different classes of society. "Courtiers and ministers are not happier than husbandmen and artisans." Inequalities and disportions in the lots of individuals are not incompatible with a positive measure of felicity. They are inconveniences incident to the perfectibility of the species, and they will be eliminated only when Progress reaches its final term. The best that can be done to remedy them is to accelerate the Progress of the race which will conduct it one day to the greatest possible happiness; not to restore a state of ignorance and simplicity, from which it would again escape. The general argument of the book may be resumed briefly. Felicity has never been realised in any period of the past. No government, however esteemed, set before itself to achieve what ought to be the sole object of government, "the greatest happiness of the greatest number of individuals." Now, for the first time in human history, intellectual enlightenment, other circumstances fortunately concurring, has brought about a condition of things, in which this object can no longer be ignored, and there is a prospect that it will gradually gain the ascendant. In the meantime, things have improved; the diffusion of knowledge is daily ameliorating men's lot, and far from envying any age in the past we ought to consider ourselves much happier than the ancients. We may wonder at this writer's easy confidence in applying the criterion of happiness to different societies. Yet the difficulty of such comparisons was, I believe, first pointed out by Comte. [Footnote: Cours de philosophie positive, iv. 379.] It is impossible, he says, to compare two states of society and determine that in one more happiness was enjoyed than in the other. The happiness of an individual requires a certain degree of harmony between his faculties and his environment. But there is always a natural tendency towards the establishment of such an equilibrium, and there is no means of discovering by argument or by direct experience the situation of a society in this respect. Therefore, he concludes, the question of happiness must be eliminated from any scientific treatment of civilisation. Chastellux won a remarkable success. His work was highly praised by Voltaire, and was translated into English, Italian, and German. It condensed, on a single issue, the optimistic doctrines of the philosophers, and appeared to give them a more solid historical foundation than Voltaire's Essay on Manners had supplied. It provided the optimists with new arguments against Rousseau, and must have done much to spread and confirm faith in perfectibility. [Footnote: Soon after the publication of the book of Chastellux--though I do not suggest any direct connection--a society of Illuminati, who also called themselves the Perfectibilists, was founded at Ingoldstadt, who proposed to effect a pacific transformation of humanity. See Javary, De l'idee de progres, p. 73.] CHAPTER X. THE YEAR 2440 1. The leaders of thought in France did not look far forward into the future or attempt to trace the definite lines on which the human race might be expected to develop. They contented themselves with principles and vague generalities, and they had no illusions as to the slowness of the process of social amelioration; a rational morality, the condition of improvement, was only in its infancy. A passage in a work of the Abbe Morellet probably reflects faithfully enough the comfortable though not extravagant optimism which was current. [Footnote: Reflexions sur les avantages d'ecrire et d'imprimer sur les matieres de l'administration (1764); in Melanges, vol. iii. p. 55. Morellet held, like d'Holbach, that society is only the development and improvement of nature itself (ib. p. 6).] Let us hope for the amelioration of man's lot as a consequence of the progress of the enlightenment (des lumieres) and labours of the educated (des gens instruits); let us trust that the errors and even the injustices of our age may not rob us of this consoling hope. The history of society presents a continuous alternation of light and darkness, reason and extravagance, humanity and barbarism; but in the succession of ages we can observe good gradually increasing in ever greater proportion. What educated man, if he is not a misanthrope or misled by vain declamations, would really wish he had lived in the barbarous and poetical time which Homer paints in such fair and terrifying colours? Who regrets that he was not born at Sparta among those pretended heroes who made it a virtue to insult nature, practised theft, and gloried in the murder of a Helot; or at Carthage, the scene of human sacrifices, or at Rome amid the proscriptions or under the rule of a Nero or a Caligula? Let as agree that man advances, though slowly, towards light and happiness. But though the most influential writers were sober in speculating about the future, it is significant of their effectiveness in diffusing the idea of Progress that now for the first time a prophetic Utopia was constructed. Hitherto, as I have before observed, ideal states were either projected into the remote past or set in some distant, vaguely-known region, where fancy could build freely. To project them into the future was a new thing, and when in 1770 Sebastien Mercier described what human civilisation would be in A.D. 2440, it was a telling sign of the power which the idea of Progress was beginning to exercise. 2. Mercier has been remembered, or rather forgotten, as an inferior dramatist. He was a good deal more, and the researches of M. Beclard into his life and works enable us to appreciate him. If it is an overstatement to say that his soul reflected in miniature the very soul of his age, [Footnote: L. Beclard, Sebastien Mercier, sa vie, son oeuvre, son temps (1903), p. vii.] he was assuredly one of its characteristic products. He reminds us in some ways of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre, who was one of his heroes. All his activities were urged by the dream of a humanity regenerated by reason, all his energy devoted to bringing about its accomplishment. Saint-Pierre's idea of perpetual peace inspired an early essay on the scourge of war. The theories of Rousseau exercised at first an irresistible attraction, but modern civilisation had too strong a hold on him; he was too Parisian in temper to acquiesce for long in the doctrine of Arcadianism. He composed a book on The Savage to illustrate the text that the true standard of morality is the heart of primitive man, and to prove that the best thing we could do is to return to the forest; but in the process of writing it he seems to have come to the conclusion that the whole doctrine was fallacious. [Footnote: Mercier's early essay: Des malheurs de la guerre et des avantages de la paix (1766). On the savage: L'homme sauvage (1767). For the opposite thesis see the Songes philosophiques (1768). He describes a state of perfect happiness in a planet where beings live in perpetual contemplation of the infinite. He appreciates the work of philosophers from Socrates to Leibnitz, and describes Rousseau as standing before the swelling stream, but cursing it. It may be suspected that the writings of Leibnitz had much to do with Mercier's conversion.] The transformation of his opinions was the work of a few months. He then came forward with the opposite thesis that all events have been ordered for man's felicity, and he began to work on an imaginary picture of the state to which man might find his way within seven hundred years. L'an 2440 was published anonymously at Amsterdam in 1770. [Footnote: The author's name first appeared in the 3rd ed., 1799. A German translation, by C. F. Weisse, was published in London in 1772. The English version, by Dr. Hooper, appeared in the same year, and a new edition in 1802; the translator changed the title to Memoirs of the year Two thousand five hundred.] Its circulation in France was rigorously forbidden, because it implied a merciless criticism of the administration. It was reprinted in London and Neuchatel, and translated into English and German. 3. As the motto of his prophetic vision Mercier takes the saying of Leibnitz that "the present is pregnant of the future." Thus the phase of civilisation which he imagines is proposed as the outcome of the natural and inevitable march of history. The world of A.D. 2440 in which a man born in the eighteenth century who has slept an enchanted sleep awakes to find himself, is composed of nations who live in a family concord rarely interrupted by war. But of the world at large we hear little; the imagination of Mercier is concentrated on France, and particularly Paris. He is satisfied with knowing that slavery has been abolished; that the rivalry of France and England has been replaced by an indestructible alliance; that the Pope, whose authority is still august, has renounced his errors and returned to the customs of the primitive Church; that French plays are performed in China. The changes in Paris are a sufficient index of the general transformation. The constitution of France is still monarchical. Its population has increased by one half; that of the capital remains about the same. Paris has been rebuilt on a scientific plan; its sanitary arrangements have been brought to perfection; it is well lit; and every provision has been made for the public safety. Private hospitality is so large that inns have disappeared, but luxury at table is considered a revolting crime. Tea, coffee, and tobacco are no longer imported. [Footnote: In the first edition of the book commerce was abolished.] There is no system of credit; everything is paid for in ready money, and this practice has led to a remarkable simplicity in dress. Marriages are contracted only through mutual inclination; dowries have been abolished. Education is governed by the ideas of Rousseau, and is directed, in a narrow spirit, to the promotion of morality. Italian, German, English, and Spanish are taught in schools, but the study of the classical languages has disappeared; Latin does not help a man to virtue. History too is neglected and discouraged, for it is "the disgrace of humanity, every page being crowded with crimes and follies." Theatres are government institutions, and have become the public schools of civic duties and morality. [Footnote: In 1769 Mercier began to carry out his programme of composing and adapting plays for instruction and edification. His theory of the true functions of the theatre he explained in a special treatise, Du theatre ou Nouvel Essai sur l'art dramatique (1773).] The literary records of the past had been almost all deliberately destroyed by fire. It was found expedient to do away with useless and pernicious books which only obscured truth or contained perpetual repetitions of the same thing. A small closet in the public library sufficed to hold the ancient books which were permitted to escape the conflagration, and the majority of these were English. The writings of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre were placed next those of Fenelon. "His pen was weak, but his heart was sublime. Seven ages have given to his great and beautiful ideas a just maturity. His contemporaries regarded him as a visionary; his dreams, however, have become realities." The importance of men of letters as a social force was a favourite theme of Mercier, and in A.D. 2440 this will be duly recognised. But the State control which weighed upon them so heavily in 1770 is not to be entirely abolished. There is no preventive censorship to hinder publication, but there are censors. There are no fines or imprisonment, but there are admonitions. And if any one publishes a book defending principles which are considered dangerous, he is obliged to go about in a black mask. There is a state religion, Deism. There is probably no one who does not believe in God. But if any atheist were discovered, he would be put through a course of experimental physics. If he remained obdurate in his rejection of a "palpable and salutary truth," the nation would go into mourning and banish him from its borders. Every one has to work, but labour no longer resembles slavery. As there are no monks, nor numerous domestics, nor useless valets, nor work-men employed on the production of childish luxuries, a few daily hours of labour are sufficient for the public wants. Censors inquire into men's capacities, assign tasks to the unemployed, and if man be found fit for nothing but the consumption of food he is banished from the city. These are some of the leading features of the ideal future to which Mercier's imagination reached. He did not put it forward as a final term. Later ages, he said, will go further, for "where can the perfectibility of man stop, armed with geometry and the mechanical arts and chemistry?" But in his scanty prophecies of what science might effect he showed curiously little resource. The truth is that this had not much interest for him, and he did not see that scientific discoveries might transmute social conditions. The world of 2440, its intolerably docile and virtuous society, reflects two capital weaknesses in the speculation of the Encyclopaedist period: a failure to allow for the strength of human passions and interests, and a deficient appreciation of the meaning of liberty. Much as the reformers acclaimed and fought for toleration, they did not generally comprehend the value of the principle. They did not see that in a society organised and governed by Reason and Justice themselves, the unreserved toleration of false opinions would be the only palladium of progress; or that a doctrinaire State, composed of perfectly virtuous and deferential people, would arrest development and stifle origiality, by its ungenial if mild tyranny. Mercier's is no exception to the rule that ideal societies are always repellent; and there are probably few who would not rather be set down in Athens in the days of the "vile" Aristophanes, whose works Mercier condemned to the flames, than in his Paris of 2440. 4. That Bohemian man of letters, Restif de la Bretonne, whose unedifying novels the Parisians of 2440 would assuredly have rejected from their libraries, published in 1790 a heroic comedy representing how marriages would be arranged in "the year 2000," by which epoch he conceived that all social equalities would have disappeared in a fraternal society and twenty nations be allied to France under the wise supremacy of "our well-beloved monarch Louis Francois XXII." It was the Revolution that converted Restif to the conception of Progress, for hitherto his master had been Rousseau; but it can hardly be doubted that the motif and title of his play were suggested by the romance of Mercier. L'an 2440 and L'an 2000 are the first examples of the prophetic fiction which Mr. Edward Bellamy's Looking Backward was to popularise a hundred years later. The Count de Volney's Ruins was another popular presentation of the hopes which the theory of Progress had awakened in France. Although the work was not published till after the outbreak of the Revolution, [Footnote: Les Ruines des empires, 1789. An English translation ran to a second edition (1795).] the plan had been conceived some years before. Volney was a traveller, deeply interested in oriental and classical antiquities, and, like Louis Le Roy, he approached the problem of man's destinies from the point of view of a student of the revolutions of empires. The book opens with melancholy reflections amid the ruins of Palmyra. "Thus perish the works of men, and thus do nations and empires vanish away... Who can assure us that desolation like this will not one day be the lot of our own country?" Some traveller like himself will sit by the banks of the Seine, the Thames, or the Zuyder Zee, amid silent ruins, and weep for a people inurned and their greatness changed into an empty name. Has a mysterious Deity pronounced a secret malediction against the earth? In this disconsolate mood he is visited by an apparition, who unveils the causes of men's misfortunes and shows that they are due to themselves. Man is governed by natural invariable laws, and he has only to study them to know the springs of his destiny, the causes of his evils and their remedies. The laws of his nature are self-love, desire of happiness, and aversion to pain; these are the simple and prolific principles of everything that happens in the moral world. Man is the artificer of his own fate. He may lament his weakness and folly; but "he has perhaps still more reason to be confident in his energies when he recollects from what point he has set out and to what heights he has been capable of elevating himself." The supernatural visitant paints a rather rosy picture of the ancient Egyptian and Assyrian kingdoms. But it would be a mistake to infer from their superficial splendour that the inhabitants generally were wise or happy. The tendency of man to ascribe perfection to past epochs is merely "the discoloration of his chagrin." The race is not degenerating; its misfortunes are due to ignorance and the mis-direction of self-love. Two principal obstacles to improvement have been the difficulty of transmitting ideas from age to age, and that of communicating them rapidly from man to man. These have been removed by the invention of printing. The press is "a memorable gift of celestial genius." In time all men will come to understand the principles of individual happiness and public felicity. Then there will be established among the peoples of the earth an equilibrium of forces; there will be no more wars, disputes will be decided by arbitration, and "the whole species will become one great society, a single family governed by the same spirit and by common laws, enjoying all the felicity of which human nature is capable." The accomplishment of this will be a slow process, since the same leaven will have to assimilate an enormous mass of heterogeneous elements, but its operation will be effectual. Here the genius interrupts his prophecy and exclaims, turning toward the west, "The cry of liberty uttered on the farther shores of the Atlantic has reached to the old continent." A prodigious movement is then visible to their eyes in a country at the extremity of the Mediterranean; tyrants are overthrown, legislators elected, a code of laws is drafted on the principles of equality, liberty, and justice. The liberated nation is attacked by neighbouring tyrants, but her legislators propose to the other peoples to hold a general assembly, representing the whole world, and weigh every religious system in the balance. The proceedings of this congress follow, and the book breaks off incomplete. It is not an arresting book; to a reader of the present day it is positively tedious; but it suited contemporary taste, and, appearing when France was confident that her Revolution would renovate the earth, it appealed to the hopes and sentiments of the movement. It made no contribution to the doctrine of Progress, but it undoubtedly helped to popularise it. CHAPTER XI. THE FRENCH REVOLUTION: CONDORCET I. The authority which the advanced thinkers of France gained among the middle classes during the third quarter of the eighteenth century was promoted by the influence of fashion. The new ideas of philosophers, rationalists, and men of science had interested the nobles and higher classes of society for two generations, and were a common subject of discussion in the most distinguished salons. Voltaire's intimacy with Frederick the Great, the relations of d'Alembert and Diderot with the Empress Catherine, conferred on these men of letters, and on the ideas for which they stood, a prestige which carried great weight with the bourgeoisie. Humbler people, too, were as amenable as the great to the seduction of theories which supplied simple keys to the universe [Footnote: Taine said of the Contrat Social that it reduces political science to the strict application of an elementary axiom which renders all study unnecessary (La Revolution, vol. i. c. iv. Sec. iii.).] and assumed that everybody was capable of judging for himself on the most difficult problems. As well as the Encyclopaedia, the works of nearly all the leading thinkers were written for the general public not merely for philosophers. The policy of the Government in suppressing these dangerous publications did not hinder their diffusion, and gave them the attraction of forbidden fruit. In 1770 the avocat general (Seguier) acknowledged the futility of the policy. "The philosophers," he said, "have with one hand sought to shake the throne, with the other to upset the altars. Their purpose was to change public opinion on civil and religious institutions, and the revolution has, so to speak, been effected. History and poetry, romances and even dictionaries, have been infected with the poison of incredulity. Their writings are hardly published in the capital before they inundate the provinces like a torrent. The contagion has spread into workshops and cottages." [Footnote: Rocquain, L'Esprit revolutionnaire avant la Revolution, p. 278.] The contagion spread, but the official who wrote these words did not see that it was successful because it was opportune, and that the minds of men were prepared to receive the seed of revolutionary ideas by the unspeakable corruption of the Government and the Church. As Voltaire remarked about the same time, France was becoming Encyclopaedist, and Europe too. 2. The influence of the subversive and rationalistic thinkers in bringing about the events of 1789 has been variously estimated by historians. The truth probably lies in the succinct statement of Acton that "the confluence of French theory with American example caused the Revolution to break out" when it did. The theorists aimed at reform, not at political revolution; and it was the stimulus of the Declaration of Rights of 1774 and the subsequent victory of the Colonies that precipitated the convulsion, at a time when the country had a better prospect of improvement than it ever had before 1774, when Louis XVI. came to the throne. But the theories had prepared France for radical changes, and they guided the phases of the Revolution. The leaders had all the optimism of the Encyclopaedists; yet the most powerful single force was Rousseau, who, though he denied Progress and blasphemed civilisation, had promulgated the doctrine of the sovereignty of the people, giving it an attractive appearance of mathematical precision; and to this doctrine the revolutionaries attached their optimistic hopes. [Footnote: It is interesting to observe how Robespierre, to whom the doctrines of Rousseau were oracles, could break out into admiration of the progress of civilised man, as he did in the opening passage of his speech of 7th May 1794. proposing the decree for the worship of the Supreme Being (see the text in Stephen, Orators of the French Revolution, ii. 391-92).] The theory of equality seemed no longer merely speculative; for the American constitution was founded on democratic equality, whereas the English constitution, which before had seemed the nearest approximation to the ideal of freedom, was founded on inequality. The philosophical polemic of the masters was waged with weapons of violence by the disciples. Chaumette and Hebert, the followers of d'Holbach, were destroyed by the disciples of Rousseau. In the name of the creed of the Vicaire Savoyard the Jacobin Club shattered the bust of Helvetius. Mably and Morelly had their disciples in Babeuf and the socialists. A naive confidence that the political upheaval meant regeneration and inaugurated a reign of justice and happiness pervaded France in the first period of the Revolution, and found a striking expression in the ceremonies of the universal "Federation" in the Champ-de-Mars on 14th July 1790. The festival was theatrical enough, decreed and arranged by the Constituent Assembly, but the enthusiasm and optimism of the people who gathered to swear loyalty to the new Constitution were genuine and spontaneous. Consciously or subconsciously they were under the influence of the doctrine of Progress which leaders of opinion had for several decades been insinuating into the public mind. It did not occur to them that their oaths and fraternal embraces did not change their minds or hearts, and that, as Taine remarked, they remained what ages of political subjection and one age of political literature had made them. The assumption that new social machinery could alter human nature and create a heaven upon earth was to be swiftly and terribly confuted. Post uarios casus et tot discrimina rerum uenimus in Latium, but Latium was to be the scene of sanguinary struggles. Another allied and fundamental fallacy, into which all the philosophers and Rousseau had more or less fallen, was reflected and exposed by the Revolution. They had considered man in vacuo. They had not seen that the whole development of a society is an enormous force which cannot be talked or legislated away; they had ignored the power of social memory and historical traditions, and misvalued the strength of the links which bind generations together. So the Revolutionaries imagined that they could break abruptly with the past, and that a new method of government, constructed on mathematical lines, a constitution (to use words of Burke) "ready made and ready armed, mature in its birth, a perfect goddess of wisdom and of war, hammered by our blacksmith midwives out of the brain of Jupiter himself," would create a condition of idyllic felicity in France, and that the arrival of the millennium depended only on the adoption of the same principles by other nations. The illusions created by the Declaration of the Rights of Man on the 4th of August died slowly under the shadow of the Terror; but though the hopes of those who believed in the speedy regeneration of the world were belied, some of the thoughtful did not lose heart. There was one at least who did not waver in his faith that the movement was a giant's step on the path of man towards ultimate felicity, however far he had still to travel. Condorcet, one of the younger Encyclopaedists, spent the last months of his life, under the menace of the guillotine, in projecting a history of human Progress. 3. Condorcet was the friend and biographer of Turgot, and it was not unfitting that he should resume the design of a history of civilisation, in the light of the idea of Progress, for which Turgot had only left luminous suggestions. He did not execute the plan, but he completed an elaborate sketch in which the controlling ideas of the scheme are fully set forth. His principles are to be found almost entirely in Turgot. But they have a new significance for Condorcet. He has given them wings. He has emphasised, and made deductions. Turgot wrote in the calm spirit of an inquirer. Condorcet spoke with the verve of a prophet. He was prophesying under the shadow of death. It is amazing that the optimistic Sketch of a Historical Picture of the Progress of the Human Mind should have been composed when he was hiding from Robespierre in 1793. [Footnote: Published in 1795.] Condorcet was penetrated with the spirit of the Encyclopaedists, of whom he had been one, and his attitude to Christianity was that of Voltaire and Diderot. Turgot had treated the received religion respectfully. He had acknowledged Providence, and, though the place which he assigned to Providence was that of a sort of honorary President of the development of civilisation who might disappear without affecting the proceedings, there was a real difference between his views and those of his friend as to the role of Christianity and the civilisation of the Middle Ages. A more important difference between the two thinkers is connected with the different circumstances in which they wrote. Turgot did not believe in the necessity of violent changes; he thought that steady reforms under the existing regime would do wonders for France. Before the Revolution Condorcet had agreed, but he was swept away by its enthusiasm. The victory of liberty in America and the increasing volume of the movement against slavery--one of the causes which most deeply stirred his heart--had heightened his natural optimism and confirmed his faith in the dogma of Progress. He felt the exhilaration of the belief that he was living through "one of the greatest revolutions of the human race," and he deliberately designed his book to be opportune to a crisis of mankind, at which "a picture of revolutions of the past will be the best guide." Feeling that he is personally doomed, he consoles himself with brooding on the time, however remote, when the sun will shine "on an earth of none but freemen, with no master save reason; for tyrants and slaves, priests and their stupid or hypocritical tools, will all have disappeared." He is not satisfied with affirming generally the certainty of an indefinite progress in enlightenment and social welfare. He sets himself to think out its nature, to forecast its direction, and determine its goal, and insists, as his predecessors had never done, on the prospects of the distant future. 4. His ambitious design is, in his own words, to show "the successive changes in human society, the influence which each instant exerts on the succeeding instant, and thus, in its successive modifications, the advance of the human species towards truth or happiness." Taken literally, this is an impossible design, and to put it forward as a practical proposition is as if a man were to declare his intention of writing a minute diary of the life of Julius Caesar from his birth to his death. By stating his purpose in such terms, Condorcet reveals that he had no notion of the limitations which confine our knowledge of the past, and that even if he had conceived a more modest and practicable programme he would have been incapable of executing it. His formula, however, is worth remembering. For the unattainable ideal which it expresses reminds us how many periods and passages of human experience must always remain books with seven seals. Condorcet distinguished ten periods of civilisation, of which the tenth lies in the future, but he has not justified his divisions and his epochs are not co-ordinate in importance. Yet his arrangement of the map of history is remarkable as an attempt to mark its sections not by great political changes but by important steps in knowledge. The first three periods--the formation of primitive societies, followed by the pastoral age, and the agricultural age--conclude with the invention of alphabetic writing in Greece. The fourth is the history of Greek thought, to the definite division of the sciences in the time of Aristotle. In the fifth knowledge progresses and suffers obscuration under Roman rule, and the sixth is the dark age which continues to the time of the Crusades. The significance of the seventh period is to prepare the human mind for the revolution which would be achieved by the invention of printing, with which the eighth period opens. Some of the best pages of the book develop the vast consequences of this invention. The scientific revolution effected by Descartes begins a new period, which is now closed by the creation of the French Republic. The idea of the progress of knowledge had created the idea of social Progress and remained its foundation. It was therefore logical and inevitable that Condorcet should take advance in knowledge as the clew to the march of the human race. The history of civilisation is the history of enlightenment. Turgot had justified this axiom by formulating the cohesion of all modes of social activity. Condorcet insists on "the indissoluble union" between intellectual progress and that of liberty, virtue, and the respect for natural rights, and on the effect of science in the destruction of prejudice. All errors in politics and ethics have sprung, he asserts, from false ideas which are closely connected with errors in physics and ignorance of the laws of nature. And in the new doctrine of Progress he sees an instrument of enlightenment which is to give "the last blow to the tottering edifice of prejudices." It would not be useful to analyse Condorcet's sketch or dwell on his obsolete errors and the defects of his historical knowledge. His slight picture of the Middle Ages reflects the familiar view of all the eighteenth century philosophers. The only contribution to social amelioration which he can discover in a period of nearly a millennium is the abolition of domestic slavery. And so this period appears as an interruption of the onward march. His inability to appreciate the historical role of the Roman Empire exhibits more surprising ignorance and prejudice. But these particular defects are largely due to a fundamental error which runs through his whole book and was inherent in the social speculations of the Encyclopaedists. Condorcet, like all his circle, ignored the preponderant part which institutions have played in social development. So far as he considered them at all, he saw in them obstacles to the free play of human reason; not the spontaneous expression of a society corresponding to its needs or embodying its ideals, but rather machinery deliberately contrived for oppressing the masses and keeping them in chains. He did not see that if the Progress in which he believed is a reality, its possibility depends on the institutions and traditions which give to societies their stability. In the following generation, it would be pointed out that he fell into a manifest contradiction when he praised the relative perfection reached in some European countries in the eighteenth century, and at the same time condemned as eminently retrograde all the doctrines and institutions which had been previously in control. [Footnote: Comte. Cours de philosophie positive, iv. 228.] This error is closely connected with the other error, previously noticed, of conceiving man abstracted from his social environment and exercising his reason in vacuo. 5. The study of the history of civilisation has, in Condorcet's eyes, two uses. It enables us to establish the fact of Progress, and it should enable us to determine its direction in the future, and thereby to accelerate the rate of progression. By the facts of history and the arguments they suggest, he undertakes to show that nature has set no term to the process of improving human faculties, and that the advance towards perfection is limited only by the duration of the globe. The movement may vary in velocity, but it will never be retrograde so long as the earth occupies its present place in the cosmic system and the general laws of this system do not produce some catastrophe or change which would deprive the human race of the faculties and resources which it has hitherto possessed. There will be no relapse into barbarism. The guarantees against this danger are the discovery of true methods in the physical sciences, their application to the needs of men, the lines of communication which have been established among them, the great number of those who study them, and finally the art of printing. And if we are sure of the continuous progress of enlightenment, we may be sure of the continuous improvement of social conditions. It is possible to foresee events, if the general laws of social phenomena are known, and these laws can be inferred from the history of the past. By this statement Condorcet justifies his bold attempt to sketch his tenth period of human history which lies in the future; and announces the idea which was in the next generation to be worked out by Comte. But he cannot be said to have deduced himself any law of social development. His forecast of the future is based on the ideas and tendencies of his own age. [Footnote: It is interesting to notice that the ablest of medieval Arabic historians, Ibn Khaldun (fourteenth century), had claimed that if history is scientifically studied future events may be predicted.] Apart from scientific discoveries and the general diffusion of a knowledge of the laws of nature on which moral improvement depends, he includes in his prophetic vision the cessation of war and the realisation of the less familiar idea of the equality of the sexes. If he were alive to-day, he could point with triumph to the fact that of these far-reaching projects one is being accomplished in some of the most progressive countries and the other is looked upon as an attainable aim by statesmen who are not visionaries. The equality of the sexes was only a logical inference from the general doctrine of equality to which Condorcet's social theory is reducible. For him the goal of political progress is equality; equality is to be the aim of social effort--the ideal of the Revolution. For it is the multitude of men that must be considered--the mass of workers, not the minority who live on their labours. Hitherto they have been neglected by the historian as well as by the statesman. The true history of humanity is not the history of some men. The human race is formed by the mass of families who subsist almost entirely on the fruits of their own work, and this mass is the proper subject of history, not great men. You may establish social equality by means of laws and institutions, yet the equality actually enjoyed may be very incomplete. Condorcet recognises this and attributes it to three principal causes: inequality in wealth; inequality in position between the man whose means of subsistence are assured and can be transmitted to his family and the man whose means depend on his work and are limited by the term of his own life [Footnote: He looked forward to the mitigation of this inequality by the development of life insurance which was then coming to the front.]; and inequality in education. He did not propose any radical methods for dealing with these difficulties, which he thought would diminish in time, without, however, entirely disappearing. He was too deeply imbued with the views of the Economists to be seduced by the theories of Rousseau, Mably, Babeuf, and others, into advocating communism or the abolition of private property. Besides equality among the individuals composing a civilised society, Condorcet contemplated equality among all the peoples of the earth,--a uniform civilisation throughout the world, and the obliteration of the distinction between advanced and retrograde races. The backward peoples, he prophesied, will climb up to the condition of France and the United States of America, for no people is condemned never to exercise its reason. If the dogma of the perfectibility of human nature, unguarded by any restrictions, is granted, this is a logical inference, and we have already seen that it was one of the ideas current among the philosophers. Condorcet does not hesitate to add to his picture adventurous conjectures on the improvement of man's physical organisation, and a considerable prolongation of his life by the advance of medical science. We need only note this. More interesting is the prediction that, even if the compass of the human being's cerebral powers is inalterable, the range, precision, and rapidity of his mental operations will be augmented by the invention of new instruments and methods. The design of writing a history of human civilisation was premature, and to have produced a survey of any durable value would have required the equipment of a Gibbon. Condorcet was not even as well equipped as Voltaire. [Footnote: But as he wrote without books the Sketch was a marvellous tour de force.] The significance of his Sketch lies in this, that towards the close of an intellectual movement it concentrated attention on the most important, though hitherto not the most prominent, idea which that movement had disseminated, and as it were officially announced human Progress as the leading problem that claimed the interest of mankind. With him Progress was associated intimately with particular eighteenth century doctrines, but these were not essential to it. It was a living idea; it survived the compromising theories which began to fall into discredit after the Revolution, and was explored from new points of view. Condorcet, however, wedded though his mind was to the untenable views of human nature current in his epoch and his circle, did not share the tendency of leading philosophers to regard history as an unprofitable record of folly and crime which it would be well to obliterate or forget. He recognised the interpretation of history as the key to human development, and this principle controlled subsequent speculations on Progress in France. 6. Cabanis, the physician, was Condorcet's literary executor, and a no less ardent believer in human perfectibility. Looking at life and man from his own special point of view, he saw in the study of the physical organism the key to the intellectual and moral improvement of the race. It is by knowledge of the relations between his physical states and moral states that man can attain happiness, through the enlargement of his faculties and the multiplication of enjoyments, and that he will be able to grasp, as it were, the infinite in his brief existence by realising the certainty of indefinite progress. His doctrine was a logical extension of the theories of Locke and Condillac. If our knowledge is wholly derived from sensations, our sensations depend on our sensory organs, and mind becomes a function of the nervous system. The events of the Revolution quenched in him as little as in Condorcet the sanguine confidence that it was the opening of a new era for science and art, and thereby for the general Progress of man. "The present is one of those great periods of history to which posterity will often look back" with gratitude. [Footnote: Picavet, Les Ideologues, p. 203. Cabanis was born in 1757 and died in 1808.] He took an active part in the coup d'etat of the 18th of Brumaire (1799) which was to lead to the despotism of Napoleon. He imagined that it would terminate oppression, and was as enthusiastic for it as he and Condorcet had been for the Revolution ten years before. "You philosophers," he wrote, [Footnote: Ib. p. 224.] "whose studies are directed to the improvement and happiness of the race, you no longer embrace vain shadows. Having watched, in alternating moods of hope and sadness, the great spectacle of our Revolution, you now see with joy the termination of its last act; you will see with rapture this new era, so long promised to the French people, at last open, in which all the benefits of nature, all the creations of genius, all the fruits of time, labour, and experience will be utilised, an era of glory and prosperity in which the dreams of your philanthropic enthusiasm should end by being realised." It was an over-sanguine and characteristic greeting of the eighteenth to the nineteenth century. Cabanis was one of the most important of those thinkers who, living into the new period, took care that the ideas of their own generation should not be overwhelmed in the rising flood of reaction. CHAPTER XII. THE THEORY OF PROGRESS IN ENGLAND 1. The idea of Progress could not help crossing the Channel. France and England had been at war in the first year of the eighteenth century, they were at war in the last, and their conflict for supremacy was the leading feature of the international history of the whole century. But at no period was there more constant intellectual intimacy or more marked reciprocal influence between the two countries. It was a commonplace that Paris and London were the two great foci of civilisation, and they never lost touch of each other in the intellectual sphere. Many of the principal works of literature that appeared in either country were promptly translated, and some of the French books, which the censorship rendered it dangerous to publish in Paris, were printed in London. It was not indeed to be expected that the theory should have the same kind of success, or exert the same kind of effect in England as in France. England had her revolution behind her, France had hers before her. England enjoyed what were then considered large political liberties, the envy of other lands; France groaned under the tyranny of worthless rulers. The English constitution satisfied the nation, and the serious abuses which would now appear to us intolerable were not sufficient to awaken a passionate desire for reforms. The general tendency of British thought was to see salvation in the stability of existing institutions, and to regard change with suspicion. Now passionate desire for reform was the animating force which propagated the idea of Progress in France. And when this idea is translated from the atmosphere of combat, in which it was developed by French men of letters, into the calm climate of England, it appears like a cold reflection. Again, English thinkers were generally inclined to hold, with Locke, that the proper function of government is principally negative, to preserve order and defend life and property, not to aim directly at the improvement of society, but to secure the conditions in which men may pursue their own legitimate aims. Most of the French theorists believed in the possibility of moulding society indefinitely by political action, and rested their hopes for the future not only on the achievements of science, but on the enlightened activity of governments. This difference of view tended to give to the doctrine of Progress in France more practical significance than in England. But otherwise British soil was ready to receive the idea. There was the same optimistic temper among the comfortable classes in both countries. Shaftesbury, the Deist, had struck this note at the beginning of the century by his sanguine theory, which was expressed in Pope's banal phrase: "Whatever is, is right," and was worked into a system by Hutcheson. This optimism penetrated into orthodox circles. Progress, far from appearing as a rival of Providence, was discussed in the interests of Christianity by the Scotch theologian, Turnbull. [Footnote: The Principles of Modern Philosophy, 1740.] 2. The theory of the indefinite progress of civilisation left Hume cold. There is little ground, he argued, to suppose that "the world" is eternal or incorruptible. It is probably mortal, and must therefore, with all things in it, have its infancy, youth, manhood, and old age; and man will share in these changes of state. We must then expect that the human species should, when the world is in the age of manhood, possess greater bodily and mental vigour, longer life, and a stronger inclination and power of generation. But it is impossible to determine when this stage is reached. For the gradual revolutions are too slow to be discernible in the short period known to us by history and tradition. Physically and in mental powers men have been pretty much the same in all known ages. The sciences and arts have flourished now and have again decayed, but when they reached the highest perfection among one people, the neighbouring peoples were perhaps wholly unacquainted with them. We are therefore uncertain whether at present man is advancing to his point of perfection or declining from it. [Footnote: Essay on the Populousness of Ancient Nations, ad init. ] The argument is somewhat surprising in an eighteenth century thinker like Hume, but it did not prevent him from recognising the superiority of modern to ancient civilisation. This superiority forms indeed the minor premiss in the general argument by which he confuted the commonly received opinion as to the populousness of ancient nations. He insisted on the improvements in art and industry, on the greater liberty and security enjoyed by modern men. "To one who considers coolly on the subject," he remarked, "it will appear that human nature in general really enjoys more liberty at present in the most arbitrary government of Europe than it ever did during the most flourishing period of ancient times." [Footnote: The justification of this statement was the abolition of slavery in Europe.] He discussed many of the problems of civilisation, especially the conditions in which the arts and sciences flourish, [Footnote: Essay on the Rise of Arts and Sciences.] and drew some general conclusions, but he was too sceptical to suppose that any general synthesis of history is possible, or that any considerable change for the better in the manners of mankind is likely to occur. [Footnote: Cf. Essay on the Idea of a Perfect Commonwealth, ad init.] The greatest work dealing with social problems, that Britain produced in the eighteenth century, was Adam Smith's Wealth of Nations, and his luminous exposition of the effects of the division of labour was the most considerable contribution made by British thinkers of the age to the study of human development. It is much more than a treatise on economic principles; it contains a history of the gradual economic progress of human society, and it suggests the expectation of an indefinite augmentation of wealth and well-being. Smith was entirely at one with the French Economists on the value of opulence for the civilisation and happiness of mankind. But it was indirectly perhaps that his work contributed most effectively to the doctrine of the Progress of collective mankind. [Footnote: It has been observed by Mr. Leslie Stephen that the doctrine of the rights of man lies in the background of Adam Smith's speculations.] His teaching that the free commercial intercourse of all the peoples of the world, unfettered by government policies, was to the greatest advantage of each, presented an ideal of the economic "solidarity" of the race, which was one element in the ideal of Progress. And this principle soon began to affect practice. Pitt assimilated it when he was a young man, and it is one of the distinctions of his statesmanship that he endeavoured to apply the doctrines of his master so far as the prevailing prejudices would allow him. 3. A few writers of less weight and fame than Hume or Smith expressly studied history in the light of Progress. It would not help us, in following the growth of the idea, to analyse the works of Ferguson, Dunbar, or Priestley. [Footnote: In his Essay on the History of Civil Society Adam Ferguson treated the growth of civilisation as due to the progressive nature of man, which insists on carrying him forward to limits impossible to ascertain. He formulated the process as a movement from simplicity to complexity, but contributed little to its explanation.] But I will quote one passage from Priestley, the most eminent of the three, and the most enthusiastic for the Progress of man. As the division of labour--the chief principle of organised society--is carried further he anticipates that ... nature, including both its materials and its laws, will be more at our command; men will make their situation in this world abundantly more easy and comfortable; they will probably prolong their existence in it and will grow daily more happy.... Thus, whatever was the beginning of this world, the end will be glorious and paradisiacal beyond what our imaginations can now conceive. Extravagant as some people may suppose these views to be, I think I could show them to be fairly suggested by the true theory of human nature and to arise from the natural course of human affairs. [Footnote: This passage of Priestley occurs in his Essay on the First Principles of Government and on the Nature of Political, Civil, and Religious Liberty (1768, 2nd ed. 1771), pp. 2-4. His Lectures on History and General Policy appeared in 1788. Priestley was a strict utilitarian, who held that there is nothing intrinsically excellent in justice and veracity apart from their relation to happiness. The degree of public happiness is measured by the excellence of religion, science, government, laws, arts, commerce, conveniences of life, and especially by the degrees of personal security and personal liberty. In all these the ancients were inferior, and therefore they enjoyed less happiness. The present state of Europe is vastly preferable to what it was in any former period. And "the plan of this divine drama is opening more and more." In the future, Knowledge will increase and accumulate and diffuse itself to the lower ranks of society, who, by degrees, will find leisure for speculation; and looking beyond their immediate employment, they will consider the complex machine of society, and in time understand it better than those who now write about it. See his Lectures, pp. 371, 388 sqq., 528-53. The English thinker did not share all the views of his French masters. As a Unitarian, he regarded Christianity as a "great remedy of vice and ignorance," part of the divine plan; and he ascribed to government a lesser role than they in the improvement of humanity. He held, for instance, that the state should not interfere in education, arguing that this art was still in the experimental stage, and that the intervention of the civil power might stereotype a bad system. Not less significant, though less influential, than the writings of Priestley and Ferguson was the work of James Dunbar, Professor of Philosophy at Aberdeen, entitled Essays on the History of Mankind in Rude and Cultivated Ages (2nd ed., 1781). He conceived history as progressive, and inquired into the general causes which determine the gradual improvements of civilisation. He dealt at length with the effects of climate and local circumstances, but unlike the French philosophers did not ignore heredity. While he did not enter upon any discussion of future developments, he threw out incidentally the idea that the world may be united in a league of nations. Posterity, he wrote, "may contemplate, from a concurrence of various causes and events, some of which are hastening into light, the greater part, or even the whole habitable globe, divided among nations free and independent in all the interior functions of government, forming one political and commercial system" (p. 287). Dunbar's was an optimistic book, but his optimism was more cautious than Priestley's. These are his final words: If human nature is liable to degenerate, it is capable of proportionable improvement from the collected wisdom of ages. It is pleasant to infer from the actual progress of society, the glorious possibilities of human excellence. And, if the principles can be assembled into view, which most directly tend to diversify the genius and character of nations, some theory may be raised on these foundations that shall account more systematically for past occurrences and afford some openings and anticipations into the eventual history of the world.] The problem of dark ages, which an advocate of Progress must explain, was waved away by Priestley in his Lectures on History with the observation that they help the subsequent advance of knowledge by "breaking the progress of authority." [Footnote: This was doubtless suggested to him by some remarks of Hume in The Rise of Arts and Sciences.] This is not much of a plea for such periods viewed as machinery in a Providential plan. The great history of the Middle Ages, which in the words of its author describes "the triumph of barbarism and religion," had been completed before Priestley's Lectures appeared, and it is remarkable that he takes no account of it, though it might seem to be a work with which a theory of Progress must come to terms. Yet the sceptical historian of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, who was more at home in French literature than any of his fellow-countrymen, was not opposed to the theory of Progress, and he even states it in a moderate form. Having given reasons for believing that civilised society will never again be threatened by such an irruption of barbarians as that which oppressed the arms and institutions of Rome, he allows us to "acquiesce in the pleasing conclusion that every age of the world has increased, and still increases, the real wealth, the happiness, the knowledge and perhaps the virtue of the human race." "The discoveries of ancient and modern navigators, and the domestic history or tradition of the most enlightened nations, represent the HUMAN SAVAGE, naked both in mind and body, and destitute of laws, of arts, of ideas, and almost of language. From this abject condition, perhaps the primitive and universal state of man, he has gradually arisen to command the animals, to fertilise the earth, to traverse the ocean, and to measure the heavens. His progress in the improvement and exercise of his mental and corporeal faculties has been irregular and various, infinitely slow in the beginning, and increasing by degrees with redoubled velocity; ages of laborious ascent have been followed by a moment of rapid downfall; and the several climates of the globe have felt the vicissitudes of light and darkness. Yet the experience of four thousand years should enlarge our hopes and diminish our apprehensions; we cannot determine to what height the human species may aspire in their advances towards perfection; but it may safely be presumed that no people, unless the face of nature is changed, will relapse into their original barbarism." [Footnote: Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, ch. xxxviii. ad fin.] But Gibbon treats the whole subject as a speculation, and he treats it without reference to any of the general principles on which French thinkers had based their theory. He admits that his reasons for holding that civilisation is secure against a barbarous cataclysm may be considered fallacious; and he also contemplates the eventuality that the fabric of sciences and arts, trade and manufacture, law and policy, might be "decayed by time." If so, the growth of civilisation would have to begin again, but not ab initio. For "the more useful or at least more necessary arts," which do not require superior talents or national subordination for their exercise, and which war, commerce, and religious zeal have spread among the savages of the world, would certainly survive. These remarks are no more than obiter dicta but they show how the doctrine of Progress was influencing those who were temperamentally the least likely to subscribe to extravagant theories. 4. The outbreak of the French Revolution evoked a sympathetic movement among English progressive thinkers which occasioned the Government no little alarm. The dissenting minister Dr. Richard Price, whose Observations on Civil Liberty (1776), defending the action of the American colonies, had enjoyed an immense success, preached the sermon which provoked Burke to write his Reflections; and Priestley, no less enthusiastic in welcoming the Revolution, replied to Burke. The Government resorted to tyrannous measures; young men who sympathised with the French movement and agitated for reforms at home were sent to Botany Bay. Paine was prosecuted for his Rights of Man, which directly preached revolution. But the most important speculative work of the time, William Godwin's Political Justice, escaped the censorship because it was not published at a popular price. [Footnote: Godwin had helped to get Paine's book published in 1791, and he was intimate with the group of revolutionary spirits who were persecuted by the Government. A good account of the episode will be found in Brailsford's Shelley, Godwin, and their Circle.] The Enquiry concerning Political Justice, begun in 1791, appeared in 1793. The second edition, three years later, shows the influence of Condorcet's Sketch, which had appeared in the meantime. Godwin says that his original idea was to produce a work on political science to supersede Montesquieu. The note of Montesquieu's political philosophy was respect for social institutions. Godwin's principle was that social institutions are entirely pernicious, that they perpetuate harmful prejudices, and are an almost insuperable obstacle to improvement. If he particularly denounced monarchical government, he regarded all government as evil, and held that social progress would consist, not in the reformation of government, but in its abolition. While he recognised that man had progressed in the past, he considered history mainly a sequence of horrors, and he was incapable of a calm survey of the course of civilisation. In English institutions he saw nothing that did not outrage the principles of justice and benevolence. The present state of humanity is about as bad as it could be. It is easy to see the deep influence which the teaching of Rousseau exercised on Godwin. Without accepting the theory of Arcadia Godwin followed him in unsparing condemnation of existing conditions. Rousseau and Godwin are the two great champions in the eighteenth century of the toiling and suffering masses. But Godwin drew the logical conclusion from Rousseau's premisses which Rousseau hesitated to draw himself. The French thinker, while he extolled the anarchical state of uncivilised society, and denounced government as one of the sources of its corruption, nevertheless sought the remedy in new social and political institutions. Godwin said boldly, government is the evil; government must go. Humanity can never be happy until all political authority and social institutions disappear. Now the peculiarity of Godwin's position as a doctrinaire of Progress lies in the fact that he entertained the same pessimistic view of some important sides of civilisation as Rousseau, and at the same time adopted the theories of Rousseau's opponents, especially Helvetius. His survey of human conditions seems to lead inevitably to pessimism; then he turns round and proclaims the doctrine of perfectibility. The explanation of this argument was the psychological theory of Helvetius. He taught, as we saw, and Godwin developed the view in his own way, that the natures and characters of men are moulded entirely by their environment--not physical, but intellectual and moral environment, and therefore can be indefinitely modified. A man is born into the world without innate tendencies. His conduct depends on his opinions. Alter men's opinions and they will act differently. Make their opinions conformable to justice and benevolence, and you will have a just and benevolent society. Virtue, as Socrates taught, is simply a question of knowledge. The situation, therefore, is not hopeless. For it is not due to the radical nature of man; it is caused by ignorance and prejudice, by governments and institutions, by kings and priests. Transform the ideas of men, and society will be transformed. The French philosopher considered that a reformed system of educating children would be one of the most powerful means for promoting progress and bringing about the reign of reason; and Condorcet worked out a scheme of universal state education. This was entirely opposed to Godwin's principles. State schools would only be another instrument of power in the hands of a government, worse even than a state Church. They would strengthen the poisonous influence of kings and statesmen, and establish instead of abolishing prejudices. He seems to have relied entirely on the private efforts of enlightened thinkers to effect a gradual conversion of public opinion. In his study of the perfectibility of man and the prospect of a future reign of general justice and benevolence, Godwin was even more visionary than Condorcet, as in his political views he was more radical than the Revolutionists. Condorcet had at least sought to connect his picture of the future with a reasoned survey of the past, and to find a chain of connection, but the perfectibility of Godwin hung in the air, supported only by an abstract theory of the nature of man. It can hardly be said that he contributed anything to the theoretical problem of civilisation. His significance is that he proclaimed in England at an opportune moment, and in a more impressive and startling way than a sober apostle like Priestley, the creed of progress taught by French philosophers, though considerably modified by his own anarchical opinions. 5. Perfectibility, as expounded by Condorcet and Godwin, encountered a drastic criticism from Malthus, whose Essay on the Principle of Population appeared in its first form anonymously in 1798. Condorcet had foreseen an objection which might be raised as fatal to the realisation of his future state. Will not the progress of industry and happiness cause a steady increase in population, and must not the time come when the number of the inhabitants of the globe will surpass their means of subsistence? Condorcet did not grapple with this question. He contented himself with saying that such a period must be very far away, and that by then "the human race will have achieved improvements of which we can now scarcely form an idea." Similarly Godwin, in his fancy picture of the future happiness of mankind, notices the difficulty and shirks it. "Three-fourths of the habitable globe are now uncultivated. The parts already cultivated are capable of immeasurable improvement. Myriads of centuries of still increasing population may pass away and the earth be still found sufficient for the subsistence of its inhabitants." Malthus argued that these writers laboured under an illusion as to the actual relations between population and the means of subsistence. In present conditions the numbers of the race are only kept from increasing far beyond the means of subsistence by vice, misery, and the fear of misery. [Footnote: This observation had been made (as Hazlitt pointed out) before Malthus by Robert Wallace (see A Dissertation on the Numbers of Mankind, p. 13, 1753). It was another book of Wallace that suggested the difficulty to Godwin.] In the conditions imagined by Condorcet and Godwin these checks are removed, and consequently the population would increase with great rapidity, doubling itself at least in twenty-five years. But the products of the earth increase only in an arithmetical progression, and in fifty years the food supply would be too small for the demand. Thus the oscillation between numbers and food supply would recur, and the happiness of the species would come to an end. Godwin and his adherents could reply that one of the checks on over-population is prudential restraint, which Malthus himself recognised, and that this would come more extensively into operation with that progress of enlightenment which their theory assumed. [Footnote: This is urged by Hazlitt in his criticism of Malthus in the Spirit of the Age.] But the criticisms of Malthus dealt a trenchant blow to the doctrine that human reason, acting through legislation and government, has a virtually indefinite power of modifying the condition of society. The difficulty, which he stated so vividly and definitely, was well calculated to discredit the doctrine, and to suggest that the development of society could be modified by the conscious efforts of man only within restricted limits. [Footnote: The recent conclusions of Mr. Knibbs, statistician to the Commonwealth of Australia, in vol. i. of his Appendix to the Census of the Commonwealth, have an interest in this connection. I quote from an article in the Times of August 5, 1918: "An eminent geographer, the late Mr. E. G. Ravenstein, some years ago, when the population of the earth was estimated at 1400 million, foretold that about the middle of this century population would have reached a limit beyond which increase would be disastrous. Mr. Knibbs is not so pessimistic and is much more precise; though he defers the disastrous culmination, he has no doubt as to its inevitability. The limits of human expansion, he assures us, are much nearer than popular opinion imagines; the difficulty of food supplies will soon be most grave; the exhaustion of sources of energy necessary for any notable increase of population, or advance in the standards of living, or both combined, is perilously near. The present rate of increase in the world's population cannot continue for four centuries."] 6. The Essay of Malthus afterwards became one of the sacred books of the Utilitarian sect, and it is interesting to notice what Bentham himself thought of perfectibility. Referring to the optimistic views of Chastellux and Priestley on progressive amelioration he observed that "these glorious expectations remind us of the golden age of poetry." For perfect happiness "belongs to the imaginary region of philosophy and must be classed with the universal elixir and the philosopher's stone." There will always be jealousies through the unequal gifts of nature and of fortune; interests will never cease to clash and hatred to ensue; "painful labour, daily subjection, a condition nearly allied to indigence, will always be the lot of numbers"; in art and poetry the sources of novelty will probably be exhausted. But Bentham was far from being a pessimist. Though he believes that "we shall never make this world the abode of happiness," he asserts that it may be made a most delightful garden "compared with the savage forest in which men so long have wandered." [Footnote: Works, vol. i. p. 193 seq.] 7. The book of Malthus was welcomed at the moment by all those who had been thoroughly frightened by the French Revolution and saw in the "modern philosophy," as it was called, a serious danger to society. [Footnote: Both Hazlitt and Shelley thought that Malthus was playing to the boxes, by sophisms "calculated to lull the oppressors of mankind into a security of everlasting triumph" (Revolt of Islam, Preface). Bentham refers in his Book of Fallacies (Works, ii. p. 462) to the unpopularity of the views of Priestley, Godwin, and Condorcet: "to aim at perfection has been pronounced to be utter folly or wickedness."] Vice and misery and the inexorable laws of population were a godsend to rescue the state from "the precipice of perfectibility." We can understand the alarm occasioned to believers in the established constitution of things, for Godwin's work--now virtually forgotten, while Malthus is still appealed to as a discoverer in social science--produced an immense effect on impressionable minds at the time. All who prized liberty, sympathised with the downtrodden, and were capable of falling in love with social ideals, hailed Godwin as an evangelist. "No one," said a contemporary, "was more talked of, more looked up to, more sought after; and wherever liberty, truth, justice was the theme, his name was not far off." Young graduates left the Universities to throw themselves at the feet of the new Gamaliel; students of law and medicine neglected their professional studies to dream of "the renovation of society and the march of mind." Godwin carried with him "all the most sanguine and fearless understandings of the time." [Footnote: Hazlitt, Spirit of the Age: article on Godwin (written in 1814).] The most famous of his disciples were the poets Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, and afterwards Shelley. Wordsworth had been an ardent sympathiser with the French Revolution. In its early days he had visited Paris: An emporium then Of golden expectations and receiving Freights every day from a new world of hope. He became a Godwinian in 1795, when the Terror had destroyed his faith in Revolutionary France. Southey, who had come under the influence of Rousseau, was initiated by Coleridge into Godwin's theories, and in their utopian enthusiasm they formed the design of founding a "pantisocratic" settlement in America, to show how happiness could be realised in a social environment in which duty and interest coincide and consequently all are virtuous. The plan anticipated the experiments of Owen and Cabet; but the pantisocrats did not experience the disappointments of the socialists, for it was never carried out. Coleridge and Southey as well as Wordsworth soon abandoned their Godwinian doctrines. [Footnote: In letters of 1797 and 1798 Coleridge repudiated the French doctrines and Godwin's philosophy. See Cestre, La Revolution francaise et les poetes anglais (1789-1809), pp. 389, 414.] They had, to use a phrase of Hazlitt, lost their way in Utopia, and they gave up the abstract and mechanical view of society which the French philosophy of the eighteenth century taught, for an organic conception in which historic sentiment and the wisdom of our ancestors had their due place. Wordsworth could presently look back and criticise his Godwinian phase as that of A proud and most presumptuous confidence In the transcendent wisdom of the age And its discernment. [Footnote: Excursion, Book ii.] He and Southey became conservative pillars of the state. Yet Southey, reactionary as he was in politics, never ceased to believe in social Progress. [Footnote: See his Colloquies; and Shelley, writing in 1811, says that Southey "looks forward to a state when all shall be perfected and matter become subjected to the omnipotence of mind" (Dowden, Life of Shelley, i. p. 212). Compare below, p. 325.] Amelioration was indeed to be effected by slow and cautious reforms, with the aid of the Church, but the intellectual aberrations of his youth had left an abiding impression. While these poets were sitting at Godwin's feet, Shelley was still a child. But he came across Political Justice at Eton; in his later life he reread it almost every year; and when he married Godwin's daughter he was more Godwinian than Godwin himself. Hazlitt, writing in 1814, says that Godwin's reputation had "sunk below the horizon," but Shelley never ceased to believe in his theory, though he came to see that the regeneration of man would be a much slower process than he had at first imagined. In the immature poem Queen Mab the philosophy of Godwin was behind his description of the future, and it was behind the longer and more ambitious poems of his maturer years. The city of gold, of the Revolt of Islam, is Godwin's future society, and he describes that poem as "an experiment on the temper of the public mind as to how far a thirst for a happier condition of moral and political society survives, among the enlightened and refined, the tempests which have shaken the age in which we live." As to Prometheus Unbound his biographer observes: [Footnote: Dowden, ib. ii. p. 264. Elsewhere Dowden remarks on the singular insensibility of Shelley's mind "to the wisdom or sentiment of history" (i. p. 55).] All the glittering fallacies of "Political Justice"--now sufficiently tarnished--together with all its encouraging and stimulating truths, may be found in the caput mortuum left when the critic has reduced the poetry of the "Prometheus" to a series of doctrinaire statements. The same dream inspired the final chorus of Hellas. Shelley was the poet of perfectibility. 8. The attraction of perfectibility reached beyond the ranks of men of letters, and in Robert Owen, the benevolent millowner of Lanark, it had an apostle who based upon it a very different theory from that of Political Justice and became one of the founders of modern socialism. The success of the idea of Progress has been promoted by its association with socialism. [Footnote: The word was independently invented in England and France. An article in the Poor Man's Guardian (a periodical edited by H. Hetherington, afterwards by Bronterre O'Brien), Aug. 24, 1833, is signed "A Socialist"; and in 1834 socialisme is opposed to individualism by P. Leroux in an article in the Revue Encyclopedique. The word is used in the New Moral World, and from 1836 was applied to the Owenites. See Dolleans, Robert Owen (1907), p. 305.] The first phase of socialism, what has been called its sentimental phase, was originated by Saint-Simon in France and Owen in England at about the same time; Marx was to bring it down from the clouds and make it a force in practical politics. But both in its earlier and in its later forms the economical doctrines rest upon a theory of society depending on the assumption, however disguised, that social institutions have been solely responsible for the vice and misery which exist, and that institutions and laws can be so changed as to abolish misery and vice. That is pure eighteenth century doctrine; and it passed from the revolutionary doctrinaires of that period to the constructive socialists of the nineteenth century. Owen learned it probably from Godwin, and he did not disguise it. His numerous works enforce it ad nauseam. He began the propagation of his gospel by his "New View of Society, or Essays on the formation of the human character, preparatory to the development of a plan for gradually ameliorating the condition of mankind," which he dedicated to the Prince Regent. [Footnote: 3rd ed. 1817. The Essays had appeared separately in 1813-14.] Here he lays down that "any general character, from the best to the worst, may be given to any community, even to the world at large, by the application of proper means; which means are to a great extent at the command and under the control of those who have influence in the affairs of men." [Footnote: P. 19.] The string on which he continually harps is that it is the cardinal error in government to suppose that men are responsible for their vices and virtues, and therefore for their actions and characters. These result from education and institutions, and can be transformed automatically by transforming those agencies. Owen founded several short-lived journals to diffuse his theories. The first number of the New Moral World (1834-36) [Footnote: This was not a journal, but a series of pamphlets which appeared in 1836-1844. Other publications of Owen were: Outline of the Rational System of Society (6th ed., Leeds, 1840); The Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race, or the coming change from Irrationality to Rationality (1849); The Future of the Human Race, or a great, glorious and peaceful Revolution, near at hand, to be effected through the agency of departed spirits of good and superior men and women (1853); The New Existence of Man upon Earth, Parts i.-viii., 1854-55.] proclaimed the approach of an ideal society in which there will be no ignorance, no poverty, and no charity--a system "which will ensure the happiness of the human race throughout all future ages," to replace one "which, so long as it shall be maintained, must produce misery to all." His own experimental attempt to found such a society on a miniature scale in America proved a ludicrous failure. It is to be observed that in these socialist theories the conception of Progress as indefinite tends to vanish or to lose its significance. If the millennium can be brought about at a stroke by a certain arrangement of society, the goal of development is achieved; we shall have reached the term, and shall have only to live in and enjoy the ideal state--a menagerie of happy men. There will be room for further, perhaps indefinite, advance in knowledge, but civilisation in its social character becomes stable and rigid. Once man's needs are perfectly satisfied in a harmonious environment there is no stimulus to cause further changes, and the dynamic character of history disappears. Theories of Progress are thus differentiating into two distinct types, corresponding to two radically opposed political theories and appealing to two antagonistic temperaments. The one type is that of constructive idealists and socialists, who can name all the streets and towers of "the city of gold," which they imagine as situated just round a promontory. The development of man is a closed system; its term is known and is within reach. The other type is that of those who, surveying the gradual ascent of man, believe that by the same interplay of forces which have conducted him so far and by a further development of the liberty which he has fought to win, he will move slowly towards conditions of increasing harmony and happiness. Here the development is indefinite; its term is unknown, and lies in the remote future. Individual liberty is the motive force, and the corresponding political theory is liberalism; whereas the first doctrine naturally leads to a symmetrical system in which the authority of the state is preponderant, and the individual has little more value than a cog in a well-oiled wheel: his place is assigned; it is not his right to go his own way. Of this type the principal example that is not socialistic is, as we shall see, the philosophy of Comte. CHAPTER XIII. GERMAN SPECULATIONS ON PROGRESS 1. The philosophical views current in Germany during the period in which the psychology of Locke was in fashion in France and before the genius of Kant opened a new path, were based on the system of Leibnitz. We might therefore expect to find a theory of Progress developed there, parallel to the development in France though resting on different principles. For Leibnitz, as we saw, provided in his cosmic optimism a basis for the doctrine of human Progress, and he had himself incidentally pointed to it. This development, however, was delayed. It was only towards the close of the period--which is commonly known as the age of "Illumination"--that Progress came to the front, and it is interesting to observe the reason. Wolf was the leading successor and interpreter of Leibnitz. He constrained that thinker's ideas into a compact logical system which swayed Germany till Kant swept it away. In such cases it usually happens that some striking doctrines and tendencies of the master are accentuated and enforced, while others are suffered to drop out of sight. So it was here. In the Wolfian system, Leibnitz's conception of development was suffered to drop out of sight, and the dynamic element which animated his speculation disappeared. In particular, he had laid down that the sum of motive forces in the physical world is constant. His disciples proceeded to the inference that the sum of morality in the ethical world is constant. This dogma obviously eliminates the possibility of ethical improvement for collective humanity. And so we find Mendelssohn, who was the popular exponent of Wolf's philosophy, declaring that "progress is only for the individual; but that the whole of humanity here below in the course of time shall always progress and perfect itself seems to me not to have been the purpose of Providence." [Footnote: See Bock, Jakob Wegelin als Geschichtstheoretiker, in Leipsiger Studien, ix. 4, pp. 23-7 (1902).] The publication of the Nouveaux Essais in 1765 induced some thinkers to turn from the dry bones of Wolf to the spirit of Leibnitz himself. And at the same time French thought was penetrating. In consequence of these influences the final phase of the German "Illumination" is marked by the appearance of two or three works in which Progress is a predominating idea. We see this reaction against Wolf and his static school in a little work published by Herder in 1774--"a philosophy of history for the cultivation of mankind." There is continuous development, he declares, and one people builds upon the work of another. We must judge past ages, not by the present, but relatively to their own particular conditions. What exists now was never possible before, for everything that man accomplishes is conditioned by time, climate, and circumstances. Six years later Lessing's pamphlet on the Education of the Human Race appeared, couched in the form of aphoristic statements, and to a modern reader, one may venture to say, singularly wanting in argumentative force. The thesis is that the drama of history is to be explained as the education of man by a progressive series of religions, a series not yet complete, for the future will produce another revelation to lift him to a higher plane than that to which Christ has drawn him up. This interpretation of history proclaimed Progress, but assumed an ideal and applied a measure very different from those of the French philosophers. The goal is not social happiness, but a full comprehension of God. Philosophy of religion is made the key to the philosophy of history. The work does not amount to more than a suggestion for a new synthesis, but it was opportune and arresting. Herder meanwhile had been thinking, and in 1784 he gave the German world his survey of man's career--Ideas of the Philosophy of the History of Humanity. In this famous work, in which we can mark the influence of French thinkers, especially Montesquieu, as well as of Leibnitz, he attempted, though on very different lines, the same task which Turgot and Condorcet planned, a universal history of civilisation. The Deity designed the world but never interferes in its process, either in the physical cosmos or in human history. Human history itself, civilisation, is a purely natural phenomenon. Events are strictly enchained; continuity is unbroken; what happened at any given time could have happened only then, and nothing else could have happened. Herder's rigid determinism not only excludes Voltaire's chance but also suppresses the free play of man's intelligent will. Man cannot guide his own destinies; his actions and fortunes are determined by the nature of things, his physical organisation and physical environment. The fact that God exists in inactive ease hardly affects the fatalistic complexion of this philosophy; but it is perhaps a mitigation that the world was made for man; humanity is its final cause. The variety of the phases of civilisation that have appeared on earth is due to the fact that the possible manifestations of human nature are very numerous and that they must all be realised. The lower forms are those in which the best, which means the most human, faculties of our nature are undeveloped. The highest has not yet been realised. "The flower of humanity, captive still in its germ, will blossom out one day into the true form of man like unto God, in a state of which no terrestrial man can imagine the greatness and the majesty." [Footnote: Ideen, v. 5.] Herder is not a systematic thinker--indeed his work abounds in contradictions--and he has not made it clear how far this full epiphany results from the experiences of mankind in preceding phases. He believes that life is an education for humanity (he has taken the phrase of Lessing), that good progressively develops, that reason and justice become more powerful. This is a doctrine of Progress, but he distinctly opposes the hypothesis of a final and unique state of perfection as the goal of history, which would imply that earlier generations exist for the sake of the later and suffer in order to ensure the felicity of remote posterity--a theory which offends his sense of justice and fitness. On the contrary, man can realise happiness equally in every stage of civilisation. All forms of society are equally legitimate, the imperfect as well as the perfect; all are ends in themselves, not mere stages on the way to something better. And a people which is happy in one of these inferior states has a perfect right to remain in it. Thus the Progress which Herder sees is, to use his own geometrical illustration, a sequence of unequal and broken curves, corresponding to different maxima and minima. Each curve has its own equation, the history of each people is subject to the laws of its own environment; but there is no general law controlling the whole career of humanity. [Footnote: Ib. xv. 3. The power of ideas in history, which Herder failed to appreciate, was recognised by a contemporary savant from whom he might have learned. Jakob Wegelin, a Swiss, had, at the invitation of Frederick the Great, settled in Berlin, where he spent the last years of his life and devoted his study to the theory of history. His merit was to have perceived that "external facts are penetrated and governed by spiritual forces and guiding ideas, and that the essential and permanent in history is conditioned by the nature and development of ideas." (Dierauer, quoted by Bock, op. cit. p. 13.) He believed in the progressive development of mankind as a whole, but as his learned brochures seem to have exerted no influence, it would be useless here to examine more closely his views, which are buried in the transactions of the Prussian Academy of Science. In Switzerland he came under the influence of Rousseau and d'Alembert. After he moved to Berlin (1765) he fell under that of Leibnitz. It may be noted (1) that he deprecated attempts at writing a universal history as premature until an adequate knowledge of facts had been gained, and this would demand long preliminary labours; (2) that he discussed the question whether history is an indefinite progression or a series of constant cycles, and decided for the former view. (Memoire sur le cours periodique, 1785). Bock's monograph is the best study of Wegelin; but see also Flint's observations in Philosophy of History, vol. i. (1874).] Herder brought down his historical survey only as far as the sixteenth century. It has been suggested [Footnote: Javary, De l'idee de progres, p. 69.] that if he had come down further he might have comprehended the possibility of a deliberate transformation of societies by the intelligent action of the human will--an historical force to which he does not do justice, apparently because he fancied it incompatible with strict causal sequence. The value of his work does not lie in the philosophical principles which he applied. Nor was it a useful contribution to history; of him it has been said, as of Bossuet, that facts bent like grass under his feet. [Footnote: Jouffroy, Melanges, p. 81.] But it was a notable attempt to do for human phenomena what Leibnitz in his Theodicy sought to do for the cosmos, and it pointed the way to the rationalistic philosophies of history which were to be a feature of the speculations of the following century. 2. The short essay of Kant, which he clumsily called the Idea of a Universal History on a Cosmopolitical Plan, [Footnote: 1784. This work of Kant was translated by De Quincey (Works, vol. ix. 428 sqq., ed. Masson), who is responsible for cosmopolitical as the rendering of weltburgerlich.] approaches the problems raised by the history of civilisation from a new point of view. He starts with the principle of invariable law. On any theory of free will, he says, human actions are as completely under the control of universal-laws of nature as any other physical phenomena. This is illustrated by statistics. Registers of births, deaths, and marriages show that these events occur with as much conformity to laws of nature as the oscillations of the weather. It is the same with the great sequence of historical events. Taken alone and individually, they seem incoherent and lawless; but viewed in their connection, as due to the action not of individuals but of the human species, they do not fail to reveal "a regular stream of tendency." Pursuing their own often contradictory purposes, individual nations and individual men are unconsciously promoting a process to which if they perceived it they would pay little regard. Individual men do not obey a law. They do not obey the laws of instinct like animals, nor do they obey, as rational citizens of the world would do, the laws of a preconcerted plan. If we look at the stage of history we see scattered and occasional indications of wisdom, but the general sum of men's actions is "a web of folly, childish vanity, and often even of the idlest wickedness and spirit of destruction." The problem for the philosopher is to discover a meaning in this senseless current of human actions, so that the history of creatures who pursue no plan of their own may yet admit of a systematic form. The clew to this form is supplied by the predispositions of human nature. I have stated this problem almost in Kant's words, and as he might have stated it if he had not introduced the conception of final causes. His use of the postulate of final causes without justifying it is a defect in his essay. He identifies what he well calls a stream of tendency with "a natural purpose." He makes no attempt to show that the succession of events is such that it cannot be explained without the postulate of a purpose. His solution of the problem is governed by this conception of finality, and by the unwarranted assumption that nature does nothing in vain. He lays down that all the tendencies to which any creature is predisposed by its nature must in the end be developed perfectly and agreeably to their final purpose. Those predispositions in man which serve the use of his reason are therefore destined to be fully developed. This destiny, however, cannot be realised in the individual; it can only be realised in the species. For reason works tentatively, by progress and regress. Each man would require an inordinate length of time to make a perfect use of his natural tendencies. Therefore, as life is short, an incalculable series of generations is needed. The means which nature employs to develop these tendencies is the antagonism which in man's social state exists between his gregarious and his antigregarious tendencies. His antigregarious nature expresses itself in the desire to force all things to comply to his own humour. Hence ambition, love of honour, avarice. These were necessary to raise mankind from the savage to the civilised state. But for these antisocial propensities men would be gentle as sheep, and "an Arcadian life would arise, of perfect harmony and mutual love, such as must suffocate and stifle all talents in their very germs." Nature, knowing better than man what is good for the species, ordains discord. She is to be thanked for competition and enmity, and for the thirst of power and wealth. For without these the final purpose of realising man's rational nature would remain unfulfilled. This is Kant's answer to Rousseau. The full realisation of man's rational nature is possible only in a "universal civil society" founded on political justice. The establishment of such a society is the highest problem for the human species. Kant contemplates, as the political goal, a confederation of states in which the utmost possible freedom shall be united with the most rigorous determination of the boundaries of freedom. Is it reasonable to suppose that a universal or cosmopolitical society of this kind will come into being; and if so, how will it be brought about? Political changes in the relations of states are generally produced by war. Wars are tentative endeavours to bring about new relations and to form new political bodies. Are combinations and recombinations to continue until by pure chance some rational self-supporting system emerges? Or is it possible that no such condition of society may ever arrive, and that ultimately all progress may be overwhelmed by a hell of evils? Or, finally, is Nature pursuing her regular course of raising the species by its own spontaneous efforts and developing, in the apparently wild succession of events, man's originally implanted tendencies? Kant accepts the last alternative on the ground that it is not reasonable to assume a final purpose in particular natural processes and at the same time to assume that there is no final purpose in the whole. Thus his theory of Progress depends on the hypothesis of final causes. It follows that to trace the history of mankind is equivalent to unravelling a hidden plan of Nature for accomplishing a perfect civil constitution for a universal society; since a universal society is the sole state in which the tendencies of human nature can be fully developed. We cannot determine the orbit of the development, because the whole period is so vast and only a small fraction is known to us, but this is enough to show that there is a definite course. Kant thinks that such a "cosmopolitical" history, as he calls it, is possible, and that if it were written it would give us a clew opening up "a consolatory prospect into futurity, in which at a remote distance we shall discover the human species seated upon an eminence won by infinite toil, where all the germs are unfolded which nature has implanted and its own destination upon this earth accomplished." 3. But to see the full bearing of Kant's discussion we must understand its connection with his ethics. For his ethical theory is the foundation and the motive of his speculation on Progress. The progress on which he lays stress is moral amelioration; he refers little to scientific or material progress. For him morality was an absolute obligation founded in the nature of reason. Such an obligation presupposes an end to be attained, and this end is a reign of reason under which all men obeying the moral law mutually treat each other as ends in themselves. Such an ideal state must be regarded as possible, because it is a necessary postulate of reason. From this point of view it may be seen that Kant's speculation on universal history is really a discussion whether the ideal state, which is required as a subjective postulate in the interest of ethics, is likely to be realised objectively. Now, Kant does not assert that because our moral reason must assume the possibility of this hypothetical goal civilisation is therefore moving towards it. That would be a fallacy into which he was incapable of falling. Civilisation is a phenomenon, and anything we know about it can only be inferred from experience. His argument is that there are actual indications of progress in this desirable direction. He pointed to the contemporary growth of civil liberty and religious liberty, and these are conditions of moral improvement. So far his argument coincides in principle with that of French theorists of Progress. But Kant goes on to apply to these data the debatable conception of final causes, and to infer a purpose in the development of humanity. Only this inference is put forward as a hypothesis, not as a dogma. It is probable that what hindered Kant from broaching his theory of Progress with as much confidence as Condorcet was his perception that nothing could be decisively affirmed about the course of civilisation until the laws of its movement had been discovered. He saw that this was a matter for scientific investigation. He says expressly that the laws are not yet known, and suggests that some future genius may do for social phenomena what Kepler and Newton did for the heavenly bodies. As we shall see, this is precisely what some of the leading French thinkers of the next generation will attempt to do. But cautiously though he framed the hypothesis Kant evidently considered Progress probable. He recognised that the most difficult obstacle to the moral advance of man lies in war and the burdens which the possibility of war imposes. And he spent much thought on the means by which war might be abolished. He published a philosophical essay on Perpetual Peace, in which he formulated the articles of an international treaty to secure the disappearance of war. He considered that, while a universal republic would be the positive ideal, we shall probably have to be contented with what he calls a negative substitute, consisting in a federation of peoples bound by a peace-alliance guaranteeing the independence of each member. But to assure the permanence of this system it is essential that each state should have a democratic constitution. For such a constitution is based on individual liberty and civil equality. All these changes should be brought about by legal reforms; revolutions--he was writing in 1795---cannot be justified. We see the influence of Rousseau's Social Contract and that of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre, with whose works Kant was acquainted. There can be little doubt that it was the influence of French thought, so powerful in Germany at this period, that turned Kant's mind towards these speculations, which belong to the latest period of his life and form a sort of appendix to his philosophical system. The theory of Progress, the idea of universal reform, the doctrine of political equality--Kant examined all these conceptions and appropriated them to the service of his own highly metaphysical theory of ethics. In this new association their spirit was changed. In France, as we saw, the theory of Progress was generally associated with ethical views which could find a metaphysical basis in the sensationalism of Locke. A moral system which might be built on sensation, as the primary mental fact, was worked out by Helvetius. But the principle that the supreme law of conduct is to obey nature had come down as a practical philosophy from Rabelais and Montaigne through Moliere to the eighteenth century. It was reinforced by the theory of the natural goodness of man. Jansenism had struggled against it and was defeated. After theology it was the turn of metaphysics. Kant's moral imperative marked the next stage in the conflict of the two opposite tendencies which seek natural and ultra-natural sanctions for morality. Hence the idea of progress had a different significance for Kant and for its French exponents, though his particular view of the future possibly in store for the human species coincided in some essential points with theirs. But his theory of life gives a different atmosphere to the idea. In France the atmosphere is emphatically eudaemonic; happiness is the goal. Kant is an uncompromising opponent of eudaemonism. "If we take enjoyment or happiness as the measure, it is easy," he says, "to evaluate life. Its value is less than nothing. For who would begin one's life again in the same conditions, or even in new natural conditions, if one could choose them oneself, but of which enjoyment would be the sole end?" There was, in fact, a strongly-marked vein of pessimism in Kant. One of the ablest men of the younger generation who were brought up on his system founded the philosophical pessimism--very different in range and depth from the sentimental pessimism of Rousseau--which was to play a remarkable part in German thought in the nineteenth century. [Footnote: Kant's pessimism has been studied at length by von Hartmann, in Zur Geschichte und Begrundung des Pessimismus (1880).] Schopenhauer's unpleasant conclusion that of all conceivable worlds this is the worst, is one of the speculations for which Kant may be held ultimately responsible. [Footnote: Schopenhauer recognised progress social, economic, and political, but as a fact that contains no guarantee of happiness; on the contrary, the development of the intelligence increases suffering. He ridiculed the optimistic ideals of comfortable, well-regulated states. His views on historical development have been collected by G. Sparlinsky, Schopenhauers Verhaltnis zur Geschichte, in Berner Studien s. Philosophie, Bd. lxxii. (1910).] 4. Kant's considerations on historical development are an appendix to his philosophy; they are not a necessary part, wrought into the woof of his system. It was otherwise with his successors the Idealists, for whom his system was the point of departure, though they rejected its essential feature, the limitation of human thought. With Fichte and Hegel progressive development was directly deduced from their principles. If their particular interpretations of history have no permanent value, it is significant that, in their ambitious attempts to explain the universe a priori, history was conceived as progressive, and their philosophies did much to reinforce a conception which on very different principles was making its way in the world. But the progress which their systems involved was not bound up with the interest of human happiness, but stood out as a fact which, whether agreeable or not, is a consequence of the nature of thought. The process of the universe, as it appeared to Fichte, [Footnote: Fichte's philosophy of history will be found in Die Grundzuge des gegenwartigen Zeitalters (1806), lectures which he delivered at Berlin in 1804-5.] tends to a full realisation of "freedom"; that is its end and goal, but a goal that always recedes. It can never be reached; for its full attainment would mean the complete suppression of Nature. The process of the world, therefore, consists in an indefinite approximation to an unattainable ideal: freedom is being perpetually realised more and more; and the world, as it ascends in this direction, becomes more and more a realm of reason. What Fichte means by freedom may be best explained by its opposition to instinct. A man acting instinctively may be acting quite reasonably, in a way which any one fully conscious of all the implications and consequences of the action would judge to be reasonable. But in order that his actions should be free he must himself be fully conscious of all those implications and consequences. It follows that the end of mankind upon earth is to reach a state in which all the relations of life shall be ordered according to reason, not instinctively but with full consciousness and deliberate purpose. This end should govern the ethical rules of conduct, and it determines the necessary stages of history. It gives us at once two main periods, the earliest and the latest: the earliest, in which men act reasonably by instinct, and the latest, in which they are conscious of reason and try to realise it fully. But before reaching this final stage they must pass through an epoch in which reason is conscious of itself, but not regnant. And to reach this they must have emancipated themselves from instinct, and this process of emancipation means a fourth epoch. But they could not have wanted to emancipate themselves unless they had felt instinct as a servitude imposed by an external authority, and therefore we have to distinguish yet another epoch wherein reason is expressed in authoritarian institutions to which men blindly submit. In this way Fichte deduces five historical epochs: two in which progress is blind, two in which it is free, and an intermediate in which it is struggling to consciousness. [Footnote: First Epoch: that of instinctive reason; the age of innocence. Second: that of authoritarian reason. Third: that of enfranchisement; the age of scepticism and unregulated liberty. Fourth: that of conscious reason, as science. Fifth: that of regnant reason, as art.] But there are no locked gates between these periods; they overlap and mingle; each may have some of the characteristics of another; and in each there is a vanguard leading the way and a rearguard lagging behind. At present (1804) we are in the third age; we have broken with authority, but do not yet possess a clear and disciplined knowledge of reason. [Footnote: Three years later, however, Fichte maintained in his patriotic Discourses to the German Nation (1807) that in 1804 man had crossed the threshold of the fourth epoch. He asserted that the progress of "culture" and science will depend henceforward chiefly on Germany.] Fichte has deduced this scheme purely a priori without any reference to actual experience. "The philosopher," he says, "follows the a priori thread of the world-plan which is clear to him without any history; and if he makes use of history, it is not to prove anything, since his theses are already proved independently of all history." Historical development is thus presented as a necessary progress towards a goal which is known but cannot be reached. And this fact as to the destiny of the race constitutes the basis of morality, of which the fundamental law is to act in such a way as to promote the free realisation of reason upon earth. It has been claimed by a recent critic that Fichte was the first modern philosopher to humanise morals. He completely rejected the individualistic conception which underlay Kantian as well as Christian ethics. He asserted that the true motive of morality is not the salvation of the individual man but the Progress of humanity. In fact, with Fichte Progress is the principle of ethics. That the Christian ideal of ascetic saintliness detached from society has no moral value is a plain corollary from the idea of earthly Progress. [Footnote: X. Leon, La Philosophie de Fichte (1902), pp. 477-9.] One other point in Fichte's survey of history deserves notice--the social role of the savant. It is the function of the savant to discover the truths which are a condition of moral progress; he may be said to incarnate reason in the world. We shall see how this idea played a prominent part in the social schemes of Saint-Simon and Comte. [Footnote: Fichte, Ueber die Bestimmung des Gelehrten (1794).] 5. Hegel's philosophy of history is better known than Fichte's. Like Fichte, he deduced the phases a priori from his metaphysical principles, but he condescended to review in some detail the actual phenomena. He conceived the final cause of the world as Spirit's consciousness of its own freedom. The ambiguous term "freedom" is virtually equivalent to self-consciousness, and Hegel defines Universal History as the description of the process by which Spirit or God comes to the consciousness of its own meaning. This freedom does not mean that Spirit could choose at any moment to develop in a different way; its actual development is necessary and is the embodiment of reason. Freedom consists in fully recognising the fact. Of the particular features which distinguish Hegel's treatment, the first is that he identifies "history" with political history, the development of the state. Art, religion, philosophy, the creations of social man, belong to a different and higher stage of Spirit's self-revelation. [Footnote: The three phases of Spirit are (1) subjective; (2) objective; (3) absolute. Psychology, e.g., is included in (1), law and history in (2), religion in (3).] In the second place, Hegel ignores the primitive prehistoric ages of man, and sets the beginning of his development in the fully-grown civilisation of China. He conceives the Spirit as continually moving from one nation to another in order to realise the successive stages of its self-consciousness: from China to India, from India to the kingdoms of Western Asia; then from the Orient to Greece, then to Rome, and finally to the Germanic world. In the East men knew only that ONE is free, the political characteristic was despotism; in Greece and Rome they knew that SOME are free, and the political forms were aristocracy and democracy; in the modern world they know that ALL are free, and the political form is monarchy. The first period, he compared to childhood, the second to youth (Greece) and manhood (Rome), the third to old age, old but not feeble. The third, which includes the medieval and modern history of Europe, designated by Hegel as the Germanic world--for "the German spirit is the spirit of the modern world"--is also the final period. In it God realises his freedom completely in history, just as in Hegel's own absolute philosophy, which is final, God has completely understood his own nature. And here is the most striking difference between the theories of Fichte and Hegel. Both saw the goal of human development in the realisation of "freedom," but, while with Fichte the development never ends as the goal is unattainable, with Hegel the development is already complete, the goal is not only attainable but has now been attained. Thus Hegel's is what we may call a closed system. History has been progressive, but no path is left open for further advance. Hegel views this conclusion of development with perfect complacency. To most minds that are not intoxicated with the Absolute it will seem that, if the present is the final state to which the evolution of Spirit has conducted, the result is singularly inadequate to the gigantic process. But his system is eminently inhuman. The happiness or misery of individuals is a matter of supreme indifference to the Absolute, which, in order to realise itself in time, ruthlessly sacrifices sentient beings. The spirit of Hegel's philosophy, in its bearing on social life, was thus antagonistic to Progress as a practical doctrine. Progress there had been, but Progress had done its work; the Prussian monarchical state was the last word in history. Kant's cosmopolitical plan, the liberalism and individualism which were implicit in his thought, the democracies which he contemplated in the future, are all cast aside as a misconception. Once the needs of the Absolute Spirit have been satisfied, when it has seen its full power and splendour revealed in the Hegelian philosophy, the world is as good as it can be. Social amelioration does not matter, nor the moral improvement of men, nor the increase of their control over physical forces. 6. The other great representative of German idealism, who took his departure from Kant, also saw in history a progressive revelation of divine reason. But it was the processes of nature, not the career of humanity, that absorbed the best energies of Schelling, and the elaboration of a philosophical idea of organic evolution was the prominent feature of his speculation. His influence--and it was wide, reaching even scientific biologists--lay chiefly in diffusing this idea, and he thus contributed to the formation of a theory which was afterwards to place the idea of Progress on a more imposing base. [Footnote: Schelling's views notoriously varied at various stages of his career. In his System of Transcendental Idealism (1800) he distinguished three historical periods, in the first of which the Absolute reveals itself as Fate, in the second as Nature, in the third as Providence, and asserted that we are still living in the second, which began with the expansion of Rome (Werke, i. 3, p. 603). In this context he says that the conception of an infinite "progressivity" is included in the conception of "history," but adds that the perfectibility of the race cannot be directly inferred. For it may be said that man has no proper history but turns round on a wheel of Ixion. The difficulty of establishing the fact of Progress from the course of events lies in discovering a criterion. Schelling rejects the criterion of moral improvement and that of advance in science and arts as unpractical or misleading. But if we see the sole object of history in a gradual realisation of the ideal state, we have a measure of Progress which can be applied; though it cannot be proved either by theory or by experience that the goal will be attained. This must remain an article of faith (ib. 592 sqq.).] Schelling influenced, among others, his contemporary Krause, a less familiar name, who worked out a philosophy of history in which this idea is fundamental. Krause conceived history, which is the expression of the Absolute, as the development of life; society as an organism; and social growth as a process which can be deduced from abstract biological principles. [Footnote: Krause divided man's earthly career into three Ages--infancy, growth, and maturity. The second of these falls into three periods characterised by (1) polytheism, (2) monotheism (Middle Ages), (3) scepticism and liberty, and we are now in the third of these periods. The third Age will witness the union of humanity in a single social organism, and the universal acceptance of "panentheism" (the doctrine of the unity of all in God), which is the principle of Krause's philosophy and religion. But though this will be the final stage on the earth, Krause contemplates an ulterior career of humanity in other solar systems. Krause never attracted attention in England, but he exerted some influence in France and Spain, and especially in Belgium, notwithstanding the grotesque jargon in which he obscured his thoughts. See Flint, Philosophy of History, pp. 474-5. Flint's account of his speculations is indulgent. The main ideas of his philosophy of history will be found in the Introduction a la philosophie (ed. 2, 1880) of G. Tiberghien, a Belgian disciple.] All these transcendent speculations had this in common that they pretended to discover the necessary course of human history on metaphysical principles, independent of experience. But it has been rightly doubted whether this alleged independence was genuine. We may question whether any of them would have produced the same sequence of periods of history, if the actual facts of history had been to them a sealed book. Indeed we may be sure that they were surreptitiously and subconsciously using experience as a guide, while they imagined that abstract principles were entirely responsible for their conclusions. And this is equivalent to saying that their ideas of progressive movement were really derived from that idea of Progress which the French thinkers of the eighteenth century had attempted to base on experience. The influence, direct and indirect, of these German philosophers reached far beyond the narrow circle of the bacchants or even the wandbearers of idealism. They did much to establish the notion of progressive development as a category of thought, almost as familiar and indispensable as that of cause and effect. They helped to diffuse the idea of "an increasing purpose" in history. Augustine or Bossuet might indeed have spoken of an increasing purpose, but the "purpose" of their speculations was subsidiary to a future life. The purpose of the German idealists could be fulfilled in earthly conditions and required no theory of personal immortality. This atmosphere of thought affected even intelligent reactionaries who wrote in the interest of orthodox Christianity and the Catholic Church. Progressive development is admitted in the lectures on the Philosophy of History of Friedrich von Schlegel. [Footnote: Translated into English in 2 vols., 1835.] He denounced Condorcet, and opposed to perfectibility the corruptible nature of man. But he asserted that the philosophy of history is to be found in "the principles of social progress." [Footnote: Op. cit. ii, p. 194, sqq.] These principles are three: the hidden ways of Providence emancipating the human race; the freewill of man; and the power which God permits to the agents of evil,--principles which Bossuet could endorse, but the novelty is that here they are arrayed as forces of Progress. In fact, the point of von Schlegel's pretentious, unilluminating book is to rehabilitate Christianity by making it the key to that new conception of life which had taken shape among the enemies of the Church. 7. As biological development was one of the constant preoccupations of Goethe, whose doctrine of metamorphosis and "types" helped to prepare the way for the evolutionary hypothesis, we might have expected to find him interested in theories of social progress, in which theories of biological development find a logical extension. But the French speculations on Progress did not touch his imagination; they left him cool and sceptical. Towards the end of his life, in conversation with Eckermann, he made some remarks which indicate his attitude. [Footnote: Gesprache mit Goethe, 23 Oktober 1828.] "'The world will not reach its goal so quickly as we think and wish. The retarding demons are always there, intervening and resisting at every point, so that, though there is an advance on the whole, it is very slow. Live longer and you will find that I am right.' "'The development of humanity,' said Eckermann, 'appears to be a matter of thousands of years.' "'Who knows?' Goethe replied, 'perhaps of millions. But let humanity last as long as it will, there will always be hindrances in its way, and all kinds of distress, to make it develop its powers. Men will become more clever and discerning, but not better nor happier nor more energetic, at least except for limited periods. I see the time coming when God will take no more pleasure in the race, and must again proceed to a rejuvenated creation. I am sure that this will happen and that the time and hour in the distant future are already fixed for the beginning of this epoch of rejuvenation. But that time is certainly a long way off, and we can still for thousands and thousands of years enjoy ourselves on this dear old playing-ground, just as it is.'" That is at once a plain rejection of perfectibility, and an opinion that intellectual development is no highroad to the gates of a golden city. CHAPTER XIV. CURRENTS OF THOUGHT IN FRANCE AFTER THE REVOLUTION 1. The failure of the Revolution to fulfil the visionary hopes which had dazzled France for a brief period--a failure intensified by the horrors that had attended the experiment--was followed by a reaction against the philosophical doctrines and tendencies which had inspired its leaders. Forces, which the eighteenth century had underrated or endeavoured to suppress, emerged in a new shape, and it seemed for a while as if the new century might definitely turn its back on its predecessor. There was an intellectual rehabilitation of Catholicism, which will always be associated with the names of four thinkers of exceptional talent, Chateaubriand, De Maistre, Bonald, and Lamennais. But the outstanding fame of these great reactionaries must not mislead us into exaggerating the reach of this reaction. The spirit and tendencies of the past century still persisted in the circles which were most permanently influential. Many eminent savants who had been imbued with the ideas of Condillac and Helvetius, and had taken part in the Revolution and survived it, were active under the Empire and the restored Monarchy, still true to the spirit of their masters, and commanding influence by the value of their scientific work. M. Picavet's laborious researches into the activities of this school of thinkers has helped us to understand the transition from the age of Condorcet to the age of Comte. The two central figures are Cabanis, the friend of Condorcet, [Footnote: He has already claimed our notice, above, p. 215.] and Destutt de Tracy. M. Picavet has grouped around them, along with many obscurer names, the great scientific men of the time, like Laplace, Bichat, Lamarck, as all in the direct line of eighteenth century thought. "Ideologists" he calls them. [Footnote: Ideology is now sometimes used to convey a criticism; for instance, to contrast the methods of Lamarck with those of Darwin.] Ideology, the science of ideas, was the word invented by de Tracy to distinguish the investigation of thought in accordance with the methods of Locke and Condillac from old-fashioned metaphysics. The guiding principle of the ideologists was to apply reason to observed facts and eschew a priori deductions. Thinkers of this school had an influential organ, the Decade philosophique, of which J. B. Say the economist was one of the founders in 1794. The Institut, which had been established by the Convention, was crowded with "ideologists," and may be said to have continued the work of the Encyclopaedia. [Footnote: Picavet, op. cit. p. 69. The members of the 2nd Class of the Institut, that of moral and political science, were so predominantly Ideological that the distrust of Napoleon was excited, and he abolished it in 1803, distributing its members among the other Classes.] These men had a firm faith in the indefinite progress of knowledge, general enlightenment, and "social reason." 2. Thus the ideas of the "sophists" of the age of Voltaire were alive in the speculative world, not withstanding political, religious, and philosophical reaction. But their limitations were to be transcended, and account taken of facts and aspects which their philosophy had ignored or minimised. The value of the reactionary movement lay in pressing these facts and aspects on the attention, in reopening chambers of the human spirit which the age of Voltaire had locked and sealed. The idea of Progress was particularly concerned in the general change of attitude, intellectual and emotional, towards the Middle Ages. A fresh interest in the great age of the Church was a natural part of the religious revival, but extended far beyond the circle of ardent Catholics. It was a characteristic feature, as every one knows, of the Romantic movement. It did not affect only creative literature, it occupied speculative thinkers and stimulated historians. For Guizot, Michelet, and Auguste Comte, as well as for Chateaubriand and Victor Hugo, the Middle Ages have a significance which Frenchmen of the previous generation could hardly have comprehended. We saw how that period had embarrassed the first pioneers who attempted to trace the course of civilisation as a progressive movement, how lightly they passed over it, how unconvincingly they explained it away. At the beginning of the nineteenth century the medieval question was posed in such a way that any one who undertook to develop the doctrine of Progress would have to explore it more seriously. Madame de Stael saw this when she wrote her book on Literature considered in its Relation to Social Institutions (1801). She was then under the influence of Condorcet and an ardent believer in perfectibility, and the work is an attempt to extend this theory, which she testifies was falling into discredit, to the realm of literature. She saw that, if man regressed instead of progressing for ten centuries, the case for Progress was gravely compromised, and she sought to show that the Middle Ages contributed to the development of the intellectual faculties and to the expansion of civilisation, and that the Christian religion was an indispensable agent. This contention that Progress was uninterrupted is an advance on Condorcet and an anticipation of Saint-Simon and Comte. A more eloquent and persuasive voice was raised in the following year from the ranks of reaction. Chateaubriand's Genie du Christianisme appeared in 1802, "amidst the ruins of our temples," as the author afterwards said, when France was issuing from the chaos of her revolution. It was a declaration of war against the spirit of the eighteenth century which had treated Christianity as a barbarous system whose fall was demanded in the name of Progress. But it was much more than polemic. Chateaubriand arrayed arguments in support of orthodox dogmas, original sin, primitive degeneration, and the rest; but the appeal of the book did not lie in its logic, it lay in the appreciation of Christianity from a new point of view. He approached it in the spirit of an artist, as an aesthete, not as a philosopher, and so far as he proved anything he proved that Christianity is valuable because it is beautiful, not because it is true. He aimed at showing that it can "enchanter l'ame aussi divinement que les dieux de Virgile et d'Homere." He might call to his help the Fathers of the Church, but it was on Dante, Milton, Racine that his case was really based. The book is an apologia, from the aesthetic standpoint of the Romantic school. "Dieu ne defend pas les routes fleuries quand elles servent a revenir a lui." It was a matter of course that the defender of original sin should reject the doctrine of perfectibility. "When man attains the highest point of civilisation," wrote Chateaubriand in the vein of Rousseau, "he is on the lowest stair of morality; if he is free, he is rude; by civilising his manners, he forges himself chains. His heart profits at the expense of his head, his head at the expense of his heart." And, apart from considerations of Christian doctrine, the question of Progress had little interest for the Romantic school. Victor Hugo, in the famous Preface to his Cromwell (1827), where he went more deeply than Chateaubriand into the contrasts between ancient and modern art, revived the old likeness of mankind to an individual man, and declared that classical antiquity was the time of its virility and that we are now spectators of its imposing old age. From other points of view powerful intellects were reverting to the Middle Ages and eager to blot out the whole development of modern society since the Reformation, as the Encyclopaedic philosophers had wished to blot out the Middle Ages. The ideal of Bonald, De Maistre, and Lamennais was a sacerdotal government of the world, and the English constitution was hardly less offensive to their minds than the Revolution which De Maistre denounced as "satanic." Advocates as they were of the dead system of theocracy, they contributed, however, to the advance of thought, not only by forcing medieval institutions on the notice of the world but also by their perception that society had been treated in the eighteenth century in too mechanical a way, that institutions grow, that the conception of individual men divested of their life in society is a misleading abstraction. They put this in extravagant and untenable forms, but there was a large measure of truth in their criticism, which did its part in helping the nineteenth century to revise and transcend the results of eighteenth century speculation. In this reactionary literature we can see the struggle of the doctrine of Providence, declining before the doctrine of Progress, to gain the upper-hand again. Chateaubriand, Bonald, De Maistre, Lamennais firmly held the dogma of an original golden age and the degradation of man, and denounced the whole trend of progressive thought from Bacon to Condorcet. These writers were unconsciously helping Condorcet's doctrine to assume a new and less questionable shape. [Footnote: Bonald indeed in his treatise De pouvoir adopted the idea of development and applied it to religion (as Newman did afterwards) for the purpose of condemning the Reformation as a retrograde movement.] 3. Along with the discovery of the Middle Ages came the discovery of German literature. In the intellectual commerce between the two countries in the age of Frederick the Great, France had been exclusively the giver, Germany the recipient. It was due, above all, to Madame de Stael that the tide began to flow the other way. Among the writers of the Napoleonic epoch, Madame de Stael is easily first in critical talent and intellectual breadth. Her study of the Revolution showed a more dispassionate appreciation of that convulsion than any of her contemporaries were capable of forming. But her chef-d'oeuvre is her study of Germany, De l'Allemagne, [Footnote: A.D. 1813.] which revealed the existence of a world of art and thought, unsuspected by the French public. Within the next twenty years Herder and Lessing, Kant and Hegel were exerting their influence at Paris. She did in France what Coleridge was doing in England for the knowledge of German thought. Madame de Stael had raised anew the question which had been raised in the seventeenth century and answered in the negative by Voltaire: is there progress in aesthetic literature? Her early book on Literature had clearly defined the issue. She did not propose the thesis that there is any progress or improvement (as some of the Moderns had contended in the famous Quarrel) in artistic form. Within the limits of their own thought and emotional experience the ancients achieved perfection of expression, and perfection cannot be surpassed. But as thought progresses, as the sum of ideas increases and society changes, fresh material is supplied to art, there is "a new development of sensibility" which enables literary artists to compass new kinds of charm. The Genie du Christianisme embodied a commentary on her contention, more arresting than any she could herself have furnished. Here the reactionary joined hands with the disciple of Condorcet, to prove that there is progress in the domain of art. Madame de Stael's masterpiece, Germany, was a further impressive illustration of the thesis that the literature of the modern European nations represents an advance on classical literature, in the sense that it sounds notes which the Greek and Roman masters had not heard, reaches depths which they had not conjectured, unlocks chambers which to them were closed,--as a result of the progressive experiences of the human soul. [Footnote: German literature was indeed already known, in some measure, to readers of the Decade philosophique, and Kant had been studied in France long before 1813, the year of the publication of De l'Allemagne. See Picavet, Les Ideologues, p. 99.] [Footnote: We can see the effect of her doctrine in Guizot's remarks (Histoire de la civilisation en Europe, 2e lecon) where he says of modern literatures that "sous le point de vue du fond des sentiments et des idees elles sont plus fortes et plus riches [than the ancient]. On voit que l'ame humaine a ete remuee sur un plus grand nombre de points a une plus grande profondeur"--and to this very fact he ascribes their comparative imperfection in form.] This view is based on the general propositions that all social phenomena closely cohere and that literature is a social phenomenon; from which it follows that if there is a progressive movement in society generally, there is a progressive movement in literature. Her books were true to the theory; they inaugurated the methods of modern criticism, which studies literary works in relation to the social background of their period. 4. France, then, under the Bourbon Restoration began to seek new light from the obscure profundities of German speculation which Madame de Stael proclaimed. Herder's "Ideas" were translated by Edgar Quinet, Lessing's Education by Eugene Rodrigues. Cousin sat at the feet of Hegel. At the same time a new master, full of suggestiveness for those who were interested in the philosophy of history, was discovered in Italy. The "Scienza nuova" of Vico was translated by Michelet. The book of Vico was now a hundred years old. I did not mention him in his chronological place, because he exercised no immediate influence on the world. His thought was an anachronism in the eighteenth century, it appealed to the nineteenth. He did not announce or conceive any theory of Progress, but his speculation, bewildering enough and confused in its exposition, contained principles which seemed predestined to form the basis of such a doctrine. His aim was that of Cabanis and the ideologists, to set the study of society on the same basis of certitude which had been secured for the study of nature through the work of Descartes and Newton. [Footnote: Vico has sometimes been claimed as a theorist of Progress, but incorrectly. See B. Croce, The Philosophy of Giambattista Vico (Eng. tr., 1913), p. 132--an indispensable aid to the study of Vico. The first edition of the Scienza nuova appeared in 1725; the second, which was a new work, in 1730. Vico influenced Ballanche, a writer who enjoyed a considerable repute in his day. He taught the progressive development of man towards liberty and equality within the four corners of the Christian religion, which he regarded as final. His Palingenesie sociale appeared in 1823-30.] His fundamental idea was that the explanation of the history of societies is to be found in the human mind. The world at first is felt rather than thought; this is the condition of savages in the state of nature, who have no political organisation. The second mental state is imaginative knowledge, "poetical wisdom"; to this corresponds the higher barbarism of the heroic age. Finally, comes conceptual knowledge, and with it the age of civilisation. These are the three stages through which every society passes, and each of these types determines law, institutions, language, literature, and the characters of men. Vico's strenuous researches in the study of Homer and early Roman history were undertaken in order to get at the point of view of the heroic age. He insisted that it could not be understood unless we transcended our own abstract ways of thinking and looked at the world with primitive eyes, by a forced effort of imagination. He was convinced that history had been vitiated by the habit of ignoring psychological differences, by the failure to recapture the ancient point of view. Here he was far in advance of his own times. Concentrating his attention above all on Roman antiquity, he adopted--not altogether advantageously for his system--the revolutions of Roman history as the typical rule of social development. The succession of aristocracy (for the early kingship of Rome and Homeric royalty are merely forms of aristocracy in Vico's view), democracy, and monarchy is the necessary sequence of political governments. Monarchy (the Roman Empire) corresponds to the highest form of civilisation. What happens when this is reached? Society declines into an anarchical state of nature, from which it again passes into a higher barbarism or heroic age, to be followed once more by civilisation. The dissolution of the Roman Empire and the barbarian invasions are followed by the Middle Ages, in which Dante plays the part of Homer; and the modern period with its strong monarchies corresponds to the Roman Empire. This is Vico's principle of reflux. If the theory were sound, it would mean that the civilisation of his day must again relapse into barbarism and the cycle begin again. He did not himself state this conclusion directly or venture on any prediction. It is obvious how readily his doctrine could be adapted to the conception of Progress as a spiral movement. Evidently the corresponding periods in his cycles are not identical or really homogeneous. Whatever points of likeness may be discovered between early Greek or Roman and medieval societies, the points of unlikeness are still more numerous and manifest. Modern civilisation differs in fundamental and far-reaching ways from Greek and Roman. It is absurd to pretend that the general movement brings man back again and again to the point from which he started, and therefore, if there is any value in Vico's reflux, it can only mean that the movement of society may be regarded as a spiral ascent, so that each stage of an upward progress corresponds, in certain general aspects, to a stage which has already been traversed, this correspondence being due to the psychical nature of man. A conception of this kind could not be appreciated in Vico's day or by the next generation. The "Scienza nuova" lay in Montesquieu's library, and he made no use of it. But it was natural that it should arouse interest in France at a time when the new idealistic philosophies of Germany were attracting attention, and when Frenchmen, of the ideological school, were seeking, like Vico himself, a synthetic principle to explain social phenomena. Different though Vico was in his point of departure as in his methods from the German idealists, his speculations nevertheless had something in common with theirs. Both alike explained history by the nature of mind which necessarily determined the stages of the process; Vico as little as Fichte or Hegel took eudaemonic considerations into account. The difference was that the German thinkers sought their principle in logic and applied it a priori, while Vico sought his in concrete psychology and engaged in laborious research to establish it a posteriori by the actual data of history. But both speculations suggested that the course of human development corresponds to the fundamental character of mental processes and is not diverted either by Providential intervention or by free acts of human will. 5. These foreign influences co-operated in determining the tendencies of French speculation in the period of the restored monarchy, whereby the idea of Progress was placed on new basements and became the headstone of new "religions." Before we consider the founders of sects, we may glance briefly at the views of some eminent savants who had gained the ear of the public before the July Revolution--Jouffroy, Cousin, and Guizot. Cousin, the chief luminary in the sphere of pure philosophy in France in the first half of the nineteenth century, drew his inspiration from Germany. He was professedly an eclectic, but in the main his philosophy was Hegelian. He might endow God with consciousness and speak of Providence, but he regarded the world-process as a necessary evolution of thought, and he saw, not in religion but in philosophy, the highest expression of civilisation. In 1828 he delivered a course of lectures on the philosophy of history. He divided history into three periods, each governed by a master idea: the first by the idea of the infinite (the Orient); the second by that of the finite (classical antiquity); the third by that of the relation of finite to infinite (the modern age). As with Hegel, the future is ignored, progress is confined within a closed system, the highest circle has already been reached. As an opponent of the ideologists and the sensational philosophy on which they founded their speculations, Cousin appealed to the orthodox and all those to whom Voltairianism was an accursed thing, and for a generation he exercised a considerable influence. But his work--and this is the important point for us--helped to diffuse the idea, which the ideologists were diffusing on very different lines--that human history has been a progressive development. Progressive development was also the theme of Jouffroy in his slight but suggestive introduction to the philosophy of history (1825), [Footnote: "Reflexions sur la philosophie de l'histoire," in Melanges philosophiques, 2nd edition, 1838.] in which he posed the same problem which, as we shall see, Saint-Simon and Comte were simultaneously attempting to solve. He had not fallen under the glamour of German idealism, and his results have more affinity with Vico's than with Hegel's. He begins with some simple considerations which conduct to the doubtful conclusion that all the historical changes in man's condition are due to the operation of his intelligence. The historian's business is to trace the succession of the actual changes. The business of the philosopher of history is to trace the succession of ideas and study the correspondence between the two developments. This is the true philosophy of history: "the glory of our age is to understand it." Now it is admitted to-day, he says, that the human intelligence obeys invariable laws, so that a further problem remains. The actual succession of ideas has to be deduced from these necessary laws. When that deduction is effected--a long time hence--history will disappear; it will be merged in science. Jouffroy then presented the world with what he calls the FATALITY OF INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT, to take the place of Providence or Destiny. It is a fatality, he is careful to explain, which, so far from compromising, presupposes individual liberty. For it is not like the fatality of sensual impulse which guides the brute creation. What it implies is this: if a thousand men have the same idea of what is good, this idea will govern their conduct in spite of their passions, because, being reasonable and free, they are not blindly submissive to passion, but can deliberate and choose. This explanation of history as a necessary development of society corresponding to a necessary succession of ideas differs in two important points from the explanations of Hegel and Cousin. The succession of ideas is not conceived as a transcendent logic, but is determined by the laws of the HUMAN mind and belongs to the domain of psychology. Here Jouffroy is on the same ground as Vico. In the second place, it is not a closed system; room remains for an indefinite development in the future. 6. While Cousin was discoursing on philosophy at Paris in the days of the last Bourbon king, Guizot was drawing crowded audiences to his lectures on the history of European civilisation, [Footnote: Histoire de la civilisation en Europe.] and the keynote of these lectures was Progress. He approached it with a fresh mind, unencumbered with any of the philosophical theories which had attended and helped its growth. Civilisation, he said, is the supreme fact so far as man is concerned, "the fact par excellence, the general and definite fact in which all other facts merge." And "civilisation" means progress or development. The word "awakens, when it is pronounced, the idea of a people which is in motion, not to change its place but to change its state, a people whose condition is expanding and improving. The idea of progress, development, seems to me to be the fundamental idea contained in the word CIVILISATION." There we have the most important positive idea of eighteenth century speculation, standing forth detached and independent, no longer bound to a system. Fifty years before, no one would have dreamed of defining civilisation like that and counting on the immediate acquiescence of his audience. But progress has to be defined. It does not merely imply the improvement of social relations and public well-being. France in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was behind Holland and England in the sum and distribution of well-being among individuals, and yet she can claim that she was the most "civilised" country in those ages. The reason is that civilisation also implies the development of the individual life, of men's private faculties, sentiments, and ideas. The progress of man therefore includes both these developments. But they are intimately connected. We may observe how moral reformers generally recommend their proposals by promising social amelioration as a result, and that progressive politicians maintain that the progress of society necessarily induces moral improvement. The connection may not always be apparent, and at different times one or other kind of progress predominates. But one is followed by the other ultimately, though it may be after a long interval, for "la Providence a ses aises dans le temps." The rise of Christianity was one of the crises of civilisation, yet it did not in its early stages aim at any improvement of social conditions; it did not attack the great injustices which were wrought in the world. It meant a great crisis because it changed the beliefs and sentiments of individuals; social effects came afterwards. The civilisation of modern Europe has grown through a period of fifteen centuries and is still progressing. The rate of progress has been slower than that of Greek civilisation, but on the other hand it has been continuous, uninterrupted, and we can see "the vista of an immense career." The effects of Guizot's doctrine in propagating the idea of Progress were all the greater for its divorce from philosophical theory. He did not touch perplexing questions like fatality, or discuss the general plan of the world; he did not attempt to rise above common-sense; and he did not essay any premature scheme of the universal history of man. His masterly survey of the social history of Europe exhibited progressive movement as a fact, in a period in which to the thinkers of the eighteenth century it had been almost invisible. This of course was far from proving that Progress is the key to the history of the world and human destinies. The equation of civilisation with progress remains an assumption. For the question at once arises: Can civilisation reach a state of equilibrium from which no further advance is possible; and if it can, does it cease to be civilisation? Is Chinese civilisation mis-called, or has there been here too a progressive movement all the time, however slow? Such questions were not raised by Guizot. But his view of history was effective in helping to establish the association of the two ideas of civilisation and progress, which to-day is taken for granted as evidently true. 7. The views of these eminent thinkers Cousin, Jouffroy, and Guizot show that--quite apart from the doctrines of ideologists and of the "positivists," Saint-Simon and Comte, of whom I have still to speak--there was a common trend in French thought in the Restoration period towards the conception of history as a progressive movement. Perhaps there is no better illustration of the infectiousness of this conception than in the Historical Studies which Chateaubriand gave to the world in 1831. He had learned much, from books as well as from politics, since he wrote the GENIUS OF CHRISTIANITY. He had gained some acquaintance with German philosophy and with Vico. And in this work of his advanced age he accepts the idea of Progress, so far as it could be accepted by an orthodox son of the Church. He believes that the advance of knowledge will lead to social progress, and that society, if it seems sometimes to move backward, is always really moving forward. Bossuet, for whom he had no word of criticism thirty years before, he now convicts of "an imposing error." That great man, he writes, "has confined historical events in a circle as rigorous as his genius. He has imprisoned them in an inflexible Christianity--a terrible hoop in which the human race would turn in a sort of eternity, without progress or improvement." The admission from such a quarter shows eloquently how the wind was setting. The notions of development and continuity which were to control all departments of historical study in the later nineteenth century were at the same time being independently promoted by the young historical school in Germany which is associated with the names of Eichhorn, Savigny, and Niebuhr. Their view that laws and institutions are a natural growth or the expression of a people's mind, represents another departure from the ideas of the eighteenth century. It was a repudiation of that "universal reason" which desired to reform the world and its peoples indiscriminately without taking any account of their national histories. CHAPTER XV. THE SEARCH FOR A LAW OF PROGRESS: I. SAINT-SIMON Amid the intellectual movements in France described in the last chapter the idea of Progress passed into a new phase of its growth. Hitherto it had been a vague optimistic doctrine which encouraged the idealism of reformers and revolutionaries, but could not guide them. It had waited like a handmaid on the abstractions of Nature and Reason; it had hardly realised an independent life. The time had come for systematic attempts to probe its meaning and definitely to ascertain the direction in which humanity is moving. Kant had said that a Kepler or a Newton was needed to find the law of the movement of civilisation. Several Frenchmen now undertook to solve the problem. They did not solve it; but the new science of sociology was founded; and the idea of Progress, which presided at its birth, has been its principal problem ever since. 1. The three thinkers who claimed to have discovered the secret of social development had also in view the practical object of remoulding society on general scientific principles, and they became the founders of sects, Fourier, Saint-Simon, and Comte. They all announced a new era of development as a necessary sequel of the past, an inevitable and desirable stage in the march of humanity, and delineated its features. Comte was the successor of Saint-Simon, as Saint-Simon himself was the successor of Condorcet. Fourier stands quite apart. He claimed that he broke entirely new ground, and acknowledged no masters. He regarded himself as a Newton for whom no Kepler or Galileo had prepared the way. The most important and sanest part of his work was the scheme for organising society on a new principle of industrial co-operation. His general theory of the universe and man's destinies which lay behind his practical plans is so fantastic that it sounds like the dream of a lunatic. Yet many accepted it as the apocalypse of an evangelist. Fourier was moved by the far-reaching effects of Newton's discovery to seek a law which would coordinate facts in the moral world as the principle of gravitation had co-ordinated facts in the physical world, and in 1808 he claimed to have found the secret in what he called the law of Passional Attraction. [Footnote: Theorie des quatre mouvements et des destinees generales. General accounts of his theories will be found in Charles Fourier, sa vie et sa theorie, by his disciple Dr. Ch. Pellarin (2nd ed., 1843), and in Flint, Hist. of Philosophy of History in France, etc., pp. 408 sqq.] The human passions have hitherto been sources of misery; the problem for man is to make them sources of happiness. If we know the law which governs them, we can make such changes in our environment that none of the passions will need to be curbed, and the free indulgence of one will not hinder or compromise the satisfaction of the others. His worthless law for harmonising the passions without restraining them need not detain us. The structure of society, by which he proposed to realise the benefits of his discovery, was based on co-operation, but was not socialistic. The family as a social unit was to be replaced by a larger unit (PHALANGE), economically self-sufficing, and consisting of about 1800 persons, who were to live together in a vast building (PHALANSTERE), surrounded by a domain sufficient to produce all they required. Private property is not abolished; the community will include both rich and poor; all the products of their work are distributed in shares according to the labour, talents, and capital of each member, but a fixed minimum is assured to every one. The scheme was actually tried on a small scale near the forest of Rambouillet in 1832. This transformation of society, which is to have the effect of introducing harmony among the passions, will mark the beginning of a new epoch. The duration of man's earthly career is 81,000 years, of which 5000 have elapsed. He will now enter upon a long period of increasing harmony, which will be followed by an equal period of decline--like the way up and the way down of Heraclitus. His brief past, the age of his infancy, has been marked by a decline of happiness leading to the present age of "civilisation" which is thoroughly bad--here we see the influence of Rousseau--and from it Fourier's discovery is the clue to lead humanity forth into the epoch in which harmony begins to emerge. But men who have lived in the bad ages need not be pitied, and those who live to-day need not be pessimistic. For Fourier believed in metempsychosis, and could tell you, as if he were the private secretary of the Deity calculating the arithmetical details of the cosmic plan, how many very happy, tolerably happy, and unhappy lives fall to the lot of each soul during the whole 81,000 years. Nor does the prospect end with the life of the earth. The soul of the earth and the human souls attached to it will live again in comets, planets, and suns, on a system of which Fourier knew all the particulars. [Footnote: Details will be found in the Theorie de l'unite universelle, originally published under the title Association domestique-agricole in 1822.] These silly speculations would not deserve even this slight indication of their purport were it not that Fourier founded a sect and had a considerable body of devoted followers. His "discovery" was acclaimed by Beranger: Fourier nous dit: Sors de la fange, Peuple en proie aux deceptions, Travaille, groupe par phalange, Dans un cercle d'attractions; La terre, apres tant de desastres, Forme avec le ciel un hymen, Et la loi qui regit les astres, Donne la paix au genre humain. Ten years after his death (1837) an English writer tells us that "the social theory of Fourier is at the present moment engrossing the attention and exciting the apprehensions of thinking men, not only in France but in almost every country in Europe." [Footnote: R. Blakey, History of the Philosophy of Mind, vol. iv. p. 293 (1848). Fourier, born 1772, died in 1837. His principal disciple was Victor Considerant.] Grotesque as was the theoretical background of his doctrines, he helped to familiarise the world with the idea of indefinite Progress. 2. "The imagination of poets has placed the golden age in the cradle of the human race. It was the age of iron they should have banished there. The golden age is not behind us, but in front of us. It is the perfection of social order. Our fathers have not seen it; our children will arrive there one day, and it is for us to clear the way for them." The Comte de Saint-Simon, who wrote these words in 1814, was one of the liberal nobles who had imbibed the ideas of the Voltairian age and sympathised with the spirit of the Revolution. In his literary career from 1803 to his death in 1825 he passed through several phases of thought, [Footnote: They are traced in G. Weill's valuable monograph, Saint-Simon et son oeuvre, 1894.] but his chief masters were always Condorcet and the physiologists, from whom he derived his two guiding ideas that ethics and politics depend ultimately on physics and that history is progress. Condorcet had interpreted history by the progressive movement of knowledge. That, Saint-Simon said, is the true principle, but Condorcet applied it narrowly, and committed two errors. He did not understand the social import of religion, and he represented the Middle Ages as a useless interruption of the forward movement. Here Saint-Simon learned from the religious reaction. He saw that religion has a natural and legitimate social role and cannot be eliminated as a mere perversity. He expounded the doctrine that all social phenomena cohere. A religious system, he said, always corresponds to the stage of science which the society wherein it appears has reached; in fact, religion is merely science clothed in a form suitable to the emotional needs which it satisfies. And as a religious system is based on the contemporary phase of scientific development, so the political system of an epoch corresponds to the religious system. They all hang together. Medieval Europe does not represent a temporary triumph of obscurantism, useless and deplorable, but a valuable and necessary stage in human progress. It was a period in which an important principle of social organisation was realised, the right relation of the spiritual and temporal powers. It is evident that these views transformed the theory of Condorcet into a more acceptable shape. So long as the medieval tract of time appeared to be an awkward episode, contributing nothing to the forward movement but rather thwarting and retarding it, Progress was exposed to the criticism that it was an arbitrary synthesis, only partly borne out by historical facts and supplying no guarantees for the future. And so long as rationalists of the Encyclopaedic school regarded religion as a tiresome product of ignorance and deceit, the social philosophy which lay behind the theory of Progress was condemned as unscientific; because, in defiance of the close cohesion of social phenomena, it refused to admit that religion, as one of the chief of those phenomena, must itself participate and co-operate in Progress. Condorcet had suggested that the value of history lies in affording data for foreseeing the future. Saint-Simon raised this suggestion to a dogma. But prevision was impossible on Condorcet's unscientific method. In order to foretell, the law of the movement must be discovered, and Condorcet had not found or even sought a law. The eighteenth century thinkers had left Progress a mere hypothesis based on a very insufficient induction; their successors sought to lift it to the rank of a scientific hypothesis, by discovering a social law as valid as the physical law of gravitation. This was the object both of Saint-Simon and of Comte. The "law" which Saint-Simon educed from history was that epochs of organisation or construction, and epochs of criticism or revolution, succeed each other alternately. The medieval period was a time of organisation, and was followed by a critical, revolutionary period, which has now come to an end and must be succeeded by another epoch of organisation. Having discovered the clew to the process, Saint-Simon is able to predict. As our knowledge of the universe has reached or is reaching a stage which is no longer conjectural but POSITIVE in all departments, society will be transformed accordingly; a new PHYSICIST religion will supersede Christianity and Deism; men of science will play the role of organisers which the clergy played in the Middle Ages. As the goal of the development is social happiness, and as the working classes form the majority, the first step towards the goal will be the amelioration of the lot of the working classes. This will be the principal problem of government in reorganising society, and Saint-Simon's solution of the problem was socialism. He rejected the watchwords of liberalism--democracy, liberty, and equality--with as much disdain as De Maistre and the reactionaries. The announcement of a future age of gold, which I quoted above, is taken from a pamphlet which he issued, in conjunction with his secretary, Augustin Thierry the historian, after the fall of Napoleon. [Footnote: De la reorganisation de la societe europeenne, p. 111 (1814).] In it he revived the idea of the Abbe de Saint-Pierre for the abolition of war, and proposed a new organisation of Europe more ambitious and Utopian than the Abbe's league of states. At this moment he saw in parliamentary government, which the restored Bourbons were establishing in France, a sovran remedy for political disorder, and he imagined that if this political system were introduced in all the states of Europe a long step would have been taken to the perpetuation of peace. If the old enemies France and England formed a close alliance there would be little difficulty in creating ultimately a European state like the American Commonwealth, with a parliamentary government supreme over the state governments. Here is the germ of the idea of a "parliament of man." 3. Saint-Simon, however, did not construct a definite system for the attainment of social perfection. He left it to disciples to develop the doctrine which he sketched. In the year of his death (1825) Olinde Rodrigues and Enfantin founded a journal, the Producteur, to present to humanity the one thing which humanity, in the opinion of their master, then most needed, a new general doctrine. [Footnote: The best study of the Saint-Simonian school is that of G. Weill, L'Ecole saint-simonienne, son histoire, son influence jusqu'a nos jours (1896), to which I am much indebted.] History shows that peoples have been moving from isolation to union, from war to peace, from antagonism to association. The programme for the future is association scientifically organised. The Catholic Church in the Middle Ages offered the example of a great social organisation resting on a general doctrine. The modern world must also be a social organisation, but the general doctrine will be scientific, not religious. The spiritual power must reside, not in priests but in savants, who will direct the progress of science and public education. Each member of the community will have his place and duties assigned to him. Society consists of three classes of workers--industrial workers, savants, and artists. A commission of eminent workers of each class will determine the place of every individual according to his capacities. Complete equality is absurd; inequality, based on merit, is reasonable and necessary. It is a modern error to distrust state authority. A power directing national forces is requisite, to propose great ideas and to make the innovations necessary for Progress. Such an organisation will promote progress in all domains: in science by co-operation, in industry by credit, and in art too, for artists will learn to express the ideas and sentiments of their own age. There are signs already of a tendency towards something of this kind; its realisation must be procured, not by revolution but by gradual change. In the authoritarian character of the organisation to which these apostles of Progress wished to entrust the destinies of man we may see the influence of the great theocrat and antagonist of Progress, Joseph de Maistre. He taught them the necessity of a strong central power and the danger of liberty. But the fullest exposition of the Saint-Simonian doctrine of development was given by Bazard, one of the chief disciples, a few years later. [Footnote: Exposition de la doctrine saint-simonienne, 2 vols., 1830-1.] The human race is conceived as a collective being which unfolds its nature in the course of generations, according to a law--the law of Progress--which may be called the physiological law of the human species, and was discovered by Saint-Simon. It consists in the alternation of ORGANIC and CRITICAL epochs. [Footnote: In the Globe, which became an organ of Saint-Simonism in 1831, Enfantin announced a new principle (Weill, op. cit. 107). He defined the law of history as "the harmony, ceaselessly progressive, of flesh and spirit, of industry and science, of east and west, of woman and man." The role of woman played a large part in the teaching of the sect. Saint-Simon's law of organic and critical ages was definitely accepted by H. de Ferron, a thinker who did not belong to the school, as late as 1867. See his Theorie du progres, vol. ii. p. 433.] In an organic epoch men discern a destination and harmonise all their energies to reach it. In a critical epoch they are not conscious of a goal, and their efforts are dispersed and discordant. There was an organic period in Greece before the age of Socrates. It was succeeded by a critical epoch lasting to the barbarian invasions. Then came an organic period in the homogeneous societies of Europe from Charlemagne to the end of the fifteenth century, and a new critical period opened with Luther and has lasted till to-day. Now it is time to prepare the advent of the organic age which must necessarily follow. The most salient fact observable in history is the continual extension of the principle of association, in the series of family, city, nation, supernational Church. The next term must be a still vaster association comprehending the whole race. In consequence of the incompleteness of association, the exploitation of the weak by the strong has been a capital feature in human societies, but its successive forms exhibit a gradual mitigation. Cannibalism is followed by slavery, slavery by serfdom, and finally comes industrial exploitation by the capitalist. This latest form of the oppression of the weak depends on the right of property, and the remedy is to transfer the right of inheriting the property of the individual from the family to the state. The society of the future must be socialistic. The new social doctrine must not only be diffused by education and legislation, it must be sanctioned by a new religion. Christianity will not serve, for Christianity is founded on a dualism between matter and spirit, and has laid a curse on matter. The new religion must be monistic, and its principles are, briefly: God is one, God is all that is, all is God. He is universal love, revealing itself as mind and matter. And to this triad correspond the three domains of religion, science, and industry. In combining their theory with a philosophical religion the Saint-Simonian school was not only true to its master's teaching but obeying an astute instinct. As a purely secular movement for the transformation of society, their doctrine would not have reaped the same success or inspired the same enthusiasm. They were probably influenced too by the pamphlet of Lessing to which Madame de Stael had invited attention, and which one of Saint-Simon's disciples translated. The fortunes of the school, the life of the community at Menilmontant under the direction of Enfantin, the persecution, the heresies, the dispersion, the attempt to propagate the movement in Egypt, the philosophical activity of Enfantin and Lemonnier under the Second Empire, do not claim our attention; the curious story is told in M. Weill's admirable monograph. [Footnote: It may be noticed that Saint-Simonians came to the front in public careers after the revolution of 1848; e.g. Carnot, Reynaud, Charton.] The sect is now extinct, but its influence was wide in its day, and it propagated faith in Progress as the key to history and the law of collective life.[Footnote: Two able converts to the ideas of Saint-Simon seceded from the school at an early stage in consequence of Enfantin's aberrations: Pierre Leroux, whom we shall meet again, and P. J. B. Buchez, who in 1833 published a thoughtful "Introduction a la science de l'histoire," where history is defined as "a science whose end is to foresee the social future of the human species in the order of its free activity" (vol. i. p. 60,. ed. 2, 1842).] CHAPTER XVI. THE SEARCH FOR A LAW OF PROGRESS: II. COMTE 1. Auguste Comte did more than any preceding thinker to establish the idea of Progress as a luminary which could not escape men's vision. The brilliant suggestions of Saint-Simon, the writings of Bazard and Enfantin, the vagaries of Fourier, might be dismissed as curious rather than serious propositions, but the massive system wrought out by Comte's speculative genius--his organic scheme of human knowledge, his elaborate analysis of history, his new science of sociology--was a great fact with which European thought was forced to reckon. The soul of this system was Progress, and the most important problem he set out to solve was the determination of its laws. His originality is not dimmed by the fact that he owed to Saint-Simon more than he afterwards admitted or than his disciples have been willing to allow. He collaborated with him for several years, and at this time enthusiastically acknowledged the intellectual stimulus he received from the elder savant. [Footnote: Comte collaborated with Saint-Simon from 1818-1822. The final rupture came in 1824. The question of their relations is cleared up by Weill (Saint-Simon, chap. xi.). On the quarrel see also Ostwald, Auguste Comte (1914), 13 sqq.] But he derived from Saint-Simon much more than the stimulation of his thoughts in a certain direction. He was indebted to him for some of the characteristic ideas of his own system. He was indebted to him for the principle which lay at the very basis of his system, that the social phenomena of a given period and the intellectual state of the society cohere and correspond. The conception that the coming age was to be a period of organisation like the Middle Ages, and the idea of the government of savants, are pure Saint-Simonian doctrine. And the fundamental idea of a POSITIVE philosophy had been apprehended by Saint-Simon long before he was acquainted with his youthful associate. But Comte had a more methodical and scientific mind, and he thought that Saint-Simon was premature in drawing conclusions as to the reformation of societies and industries before the positive philosophy had been constructed. He published--he was then only twenty-two--in 1822 a "Plan of the scientific operations necessary for the re-organisation of society," which was published under another title two years later by Saint-Simon, and it was over this that the friends quarrelled. This work contains the principles of the positive philosophy which he was soon to begin to work out; it announces already the "law of the Three Stages." The first volume of the "Cours de philisophie positive" appeared in 1830; it took him twelve years more to complete the exposition of his system. [Footnote: With vol. vi., 1842.] 2. The "law of Three Stages" is familiar to many who have never read a line of his writings. That men first attempted to explain natural phenomena by the operation of imaginary deities, then sought to interpret them by abstractions, and finally came to see that they could only be understood by scientific methods, observation, and experiment--this was a generalisation which had already been thrown out by Turgot. Comte adopted it as a fundamental psychological law, which has governed every domain of mental activity and explains the whole story of human development. Each of our principal conceptions, every branch of knowledge, passes successively through these three states which he names the theological, the metaphysical, and the positive or scientific. In the first, the mind invents; in the second, it abstracts; in the third, it submits itself to positive facts; and the proof that any branch of knowledge has reached the third stage is the recognition of invariable natural laws. But, granting that this may be the key to the history of the sciences, of physics, say, or botany, how can it explain the history of man, the sequence of actual historical events? Comte replies that history has been governed by ideas; "the whole social mechanism is ultimately based on opinions." Thus man's history is essentially a history of his opinions; and these are subject to the fundamental psychological law. It must, however, be observed that all branches of knowledge are not in the same stage simultaneously. Some may have reached the metaphysical, while others are still lagging behind in the theological; some may have become scientific, while others have not passed from the metaphysical. Thus the study of physical phenomena has already reached the positive stage; but the study of social phenomena has not. The central aim of Comte, and his great achievement in his own opinion, was to raise the study of social phenomena from the second to the third stage. When we proceed to apply the law of the three stages to the general course of historical development, we are met at the outset by the difficulty that the advance in all the domains of activity is not simultaneous. If at a given period thought and opinions are partly in the theological, partly in the metaphysical, and partly in the scientific state, how is the law to be applied to general development? One class of ideas, Comte says, must be selected as the criterion, and this class must be that of social and moral ideas, for two reasons. In the first place, social science occupies the highest rank in the hierarchy of sciences, on which he laid great stress. [Footnote: Cours de phil. pos. v. 267. Law of consensus: op. cit. iv. 347 sqq., 364, 505, 721, 735.] In the second, those ideas play the principal part for the majority of men, and the most ordinary phenomena are the most important to consider. When, in other classes of ideas, the advance is at any time more rapid, this only means an indispensable preparation for the ensuing period. The movement of history is due to the deeply rooted though complex instinct which pushes man to ameliorate his condition incessantly, to develop in all ways the sum of his physical, moral, and intellectual life. And all the phenomena of his social life are closely cohesive, as Saint-Simon had pointed out. By virtue of this cohesion, political, moral, and intellectual progress are inseparable from material progress, and so we find that the phases of his material development correspond to intellectual changes. The principle of consensus or "solidarity," which secures harmony and order in the development, is as important as the principle of the three stages which governs the onward movement. This movement, however, is not in a right line, but displays a series of oscillations, unequal and variable, round a mean motion which tends to prevail. The three general causes of variation, according to Comte, are race, climate, and deliberate political action (such as the retrograde policies of Julian the Apostate or Napoleon). But while they cause deflections and oscillation, their power is strictly limited; they may accelerate or retard the movement, but they cannot invert its order; they may affect the intensity of the tendencies in a given situation, but cannot change their nature. 3. In the demonstration of his laws by the actual course of civilisation, Comte adopts what he calls "the happy artifice of Condorcet," and treats the successive peoples who pass on the torch as if they were a single people running the race. This is "a rational fiction," for a people's true successors are those who pursue its efforts. And, like Bossuet and Condorcet, he confined his review to European civilisation; he considered only the ELITE or advance guard of humanity. He deprecated the introduction of China or India, for instance, as a confusing complication. He ignored the ROLES of Brahmanism, Buddhism, Mohammedanism. His synthesis, therefore, cannot claim to be a synthesis of universal history; it is only a synthesis of the movement of European history. In accordance with the law of the three stages, the development falls into three great periods. The first or Theological came to an end about A.D. 1400, and the second or Metaphysical is now nearing its close, to make way for the third or Positive, for which Comte was preparing the way. The Theological period has itself three stages, in which Fetishism, Polytheism, and Monotheism successively prevail. The chief social characteristics of the Polytheistic period are the institution of slavery and the coincidence or "confusion" of the spiritual and temporal powers. It has two stages: the theocratic, represented by Egypt, and the military, represented by Rome, between which Greece stands in a rather embarrassing and uneasy position. The initiative for the passage to the Monotheistic period came from Judaea, and Comte attempts to show that this could not have been otherwise. His analysis of this period is the most interesting part of his survey. The chief feature of the political system corresponding to monotheism is the separation of the spiritual and temporal powers; the function of the spiritual power being concerned with education, and that of the temporal with action, in the wide senses of those terms. The defects of this dual system were due to the irrational theology. But the theory of papal infallibility was a great step in intellectual and social progress, by providing a final jurisdiction, without which society would have been troubled incessantly by contests arising from the vague formulae of dogmas. Here Comte had learned from Joseph de Maistre. But that thinker would not have been edified when Comte went on to declare that in the passage from polytheism to monotheism the religious spirit had really declined, and that one of the merits of Catholicism was that it augmented the domain of human wisdom at the expense of divine inspiration. [Footnote: Cours de philosophic positive, vi. 354.] If it be said that the Catholic system promoted the empire of the clergy rather than the interests of religion, this was all to the good; for it placed the practical use of religion in "the provisional elevation of a noble speculative corporation eminently able to direct opinions and morals." But Catholic monotheism could not escape dissolution. The metaphysical spirit began to operate powerfully on the notions of moral philosophy, as soon as the Catholic organisation was complete; and Catholicism, because it could not assimilate this intellectual movement, lost its progressive character and stagnated. The decay began in the fourteenth century, where Comte dates the beginning of the Metaphysical period--a period of revolution and disorder. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries the movement is spontaneous and unconscious; from the sixteenth till to-day it has proceeded under the direction of a philosophical spirit which is negative and not constructive. This critical philosophy has only accelerated a decomposition which began spontaneously. For as theology progresses it becomes less consistent and less durable, and as its conceptions become less irrational, the intensity of the emotions which they excite decreases. Fetishism had deeper roots than polytheism and lasted longer; and polytheism surpassed monotheism in vigour and vitality. Yet the critical philosophy was necessary to exhibit the growing need of solid reorganisation and to prove that the decaying system was incapable of directing the world any longer. Logically it was very imperfect, but it was justified by its success. The destructive work was mainly done in the seventeenth century by Hobbes, Spinoza, and Bayle, of whom Hobbes was the most effective. In the eighteenth all prominent thinkers participated in developing this negative movement, and Rousseau gave it the practical stimulus which saved it from degenerating into an unfruitful agitation. Of particular importance was the great fallacy, which Helvetius propagated, that human intellects are equal. This error was required for the full development of the critical doctrine. For it supported the dogmas of popular sovranty and social equality, and justified the principle of the right of private judgement. These three principles--popular sovranty, equality, and what he calls the right of free examination--are in Comte's eyes vicious and anarchical.[Footnote #1 Op. cit. iv. 36-38.] But it was necessary that they should be promulgated, because the transition from one organised social system to another cannot be direct; it requires an anarchical interregnum. Popular sovranty is opposed to orderly institutions and condemns all superior persons to dependence on the multitude of their inferiors. Equality, obviously anarchical in its tendency, and obviously untrue (for, as men are not equal or even equivalent to one another, their rights cannot be identical), was similarly necessary to break down the old institutions. The universal claim to the right of free judgement merely consecrates the transitional state of unlimited liberty in the interim between the decline of theology and the arrival of positive philosophy. Comte further remarks that the fall of the spiritual power had led to anarchy in international relations, and if the spirit of nationality were to prevail too far, the result would be a state of things inferior to that of the Middle Ages. But Comte says for the metaphysical spirit in France that with all its vices it was more disengaged from the prejudices of the old theological regime, and nearer to a true rational positivism than either the German mysticism or the English empiricism of the same period. The Revolution was a necessity, to disclose the chronic decomposition of society from which it resulted, and to liberate the modern social elements from the grip of the ancient powers. Comte has praise for the Convention, which he contrasts with the Constituent Assembly with its political fictions and inconsistencies. He pointed out that the great vice in the "metaphysics" of the crisis--that is, in the principles of the revolutionaries--lay in conceiving society out of relation to the past, in ignoring the Middle Ages, and borrowing from Greek and Roman society retrograde and contradictory ideals. Napoleon restored order, but he was more injurious to humanity than any other historical person. His moral and intellectual nature was incompatible with the true direction of Progress, which involves the extinction of the theological and military regime of the past. Thus his work, like Julian the Apostate's, exhibits an instance of deflection from the line of Progress. Then came the parliamentary system of the restored Bourbons which Comte designates as a political Utopia, destitute of social principles, a foolish attempt to combine political retrogression with a state of permanent peace. 4. The critical doctrine has performed its historical function, and the time has come for man to enter upon the Positive stage of his career. To enable him to take this step forward, it is necessary that the study of social phenomena should become a positive science. As social science is the highest in the hierarchy of sciences, it could not develop until the two branches of knowledge which come next in the scale, biology and chemistry, assumed a scientific form. This has recently been achieved, and it is now possible to found a scientific sociology. This science, like mechanics and biology, has its statics and its dynamics. The first studies the laws of co-existence, the second those of succession; the first contains the theory of order, the second that of progress. The law of consensus or cohesion is the fundamental principle of social statics; the law of the three stages is that of social dynamics. Comte's survey of history, of which I have briefly indicated the general character, exhibits the application of these sociological laws. The capital feature of the third period, which we are now approaching, will be the organisation of society by means of scientific sociology. The world will be guided by a general theory, and this means that it must be controlled by those who understand the theory and will know how to apply it. Therefore society will revive the principle which was realised in the great period of Monotheism, the distinction of a spiritual and a temporal order. But the spiritual order will consist of savants who will direct social life not by theological fictions but by the positive truths of science. They will administer a system of universal education and will draw up the final code of ethics. They will be able, more effectively than the Church, to protect the interests of the lower classes. Comte's conviction that the world is prepared for a transformation of this kind is based principally on signs of the decline of the theological spirit and of the military spirit, which he regarded as the two main obstacles to the reign of reason. Catholicism, he says, is now no more than "an imposing historical ruin." As for militarism, the epoch has arrived in which serious and lasting warfare among the ELITE nations will totally cease. The last general cause of warfare has been the competition for colonies. But the colonial policy is now in its decadence (with the temporary exception of England), so that we need not look for future trouble from this source. The very sophism, sometimes put forward to justify war, that it is an instrument of civilisation, is a homage to the pacific nature of modern society. We need not follow further the details of Comte's forecast of the Positive period, except to mention that he did not contemplate a political federation. The great European nations will develop each in its own way, with their separate "temporal" organisations. But he contemplated the intervention of a common "spiritual" power, so that all nationalities "under the direction of a homogeneous speculative class will contribute to an identical work, in a spirit of active European patriotism, not of sterile cosmopolitanism." Comte claimed, like Saint-Simon, that the data of history, scientifically interpreted, afford the means of prevision. It is interesting to observe how he failed himself as a diviner; how utterly he misapprehended the vitality of Catholicism, how completely his prophecy as to the cessation of wars was belied by the event. He lived to see the Crimean war. [Footnote: He died in 1857.] As a diviner he failed as completely as Saint-Simon and Fourier, whose dream that the nineteenth century would see the beginning of an epoch of harmony and happiness was to be fulfilled by a deadly struggle between capitalism and labour, the civil war in America, the war of 1870, the Commune, Russian pogroms, Armenian massacres, and finally the universal catastrophe of 1914. 5. For the comprehension of history we have perhaps gained as little from Comte's positive laws as from Hegel's metaphysical categories. Both thinkers had studied the facts of history only slightly and partially, a rather serious drawback which enabled them to impose their own constructions with the greater ease. Hegel's method of a PRIORI synthesis was enjoined by his philosophical theory; but in Comte we also find a tendency to a PRIORI treatment. He expressly remarks that the chief social features of the Monotheistic period might almost be constructed a PRIORI. The law of the Three Stages is discredited. It may be contended that general Progress depends on intellectual progress, and that theology, metaphysics, and science have common roots, and are ultimately identical, being merely phases in the movement of the intelligence. But the law of this movement, if it is to rank as a scientific hypothesis, must be properly deduced from known causes, and must then be verified by a comparison with historical facts. Comte thought that he fulfilled these requirements, but in both respects his demonstration was defective. [Footnote: Criticism of Comte's assumption that civilisation begins with animism: Weber's criticisms from this point of view are telling (Le Rythme du progres, 73-95). He observes that if Comte had not left the practical and active side of intelligence in the shade and considered only its speculative side, he could not have formulated the law of the Three Stages. He would have seen that "the positive explanation of phenomena has played in every period a preponderant role, though latent, in the march of the human mind." Weber himself suggests a scheme of two states (corresponding to the two-sidedness of the intellect), technical and speculative, practical and theoretical, through the alternation of which intellectual progress has been effected. The first stage was probably practical (he calls it proto-technic). It is to be remembered that when Comte was constructing his system palaeontology was in its infancy.] The gravest weakness perhaps in his historical sketch is the gratuitous assumption that man in the earliest stage of his existence had animistic beliefs and that the first phase of his progress was controlled by fetishism. There is no valid evidence that fetishism is not a relatively late development, or that in the myriads of years stretching back beyond our earliest records, during which men decided the future of the human species by their technical inventions and the discovery of fire, they had any views which could be called religious or theological. The psychology of modern savages is no clew to the minds of the people who wrought tools of stone in the world of the mammoth and the RHINOCEROS TICHIRHINUS. If the first stage of man's development, which was of such critical importance for his destinies, was pre-animistic, Comte's law of progress fails, for it does not cover the ground. In another way, Comte's system may be criticised for failing to cover the ground, if it is regarded as a philosophy of history. In accordance with "the happy artifice of Condorcet," he assumes that the growth of European civilisation is the only history that matters, and discards entirely the civilisations, for instance, of India and China. This assumption is much more than an artifice, and he has not scientifically justified it. [Footnote: A propos of the view that only European civilisation matters it has been well observed that "human history is not unitary but pluralistic": F. J. Teggart, The Processes of History, p. 24 (1918).] The reader of the PHILOSOPHIE POSITIVE will also observe that Comte has not grappled with a fundamental question which has to be faced in unravelling the woof of history or seeking a law of events. I mean the question of contingency. It must be remembered that contingency does not in the least affect the doctrine of determinism; it is compatible with the strictest interpretation of the principle of causation. A particular example may be taken to show what it implies. [Footnote: On contingency and the "chapter of accidents" see Cournot, Considerations sur la marche des idees et des evenements dans les temps modernes (1872), i. 16 sqq. I have discussed the subject and given some illustrations in a short paper, entitled "Cleopatra's Nose," in the Annual of the Rationalist Press Association for 1916.] It may plausibly be argued that a military dictatorship was an inevitable sequence of the French Revolution. This may not be true, but let us assume it. Let us further assume that, given Napoleon, it was inevitable that he should be the dictator. But Napoleon's existence was due to an independent causal chain which had nothing whatever to do with the course of political events. He might have died in his boyhood by disease or by an accident, and the fact that he survived was due to causes which were similarly independent of the causal chain which, as we are assuming, led necessarily to an epoch of monarchical government. The existence of a man of his genius and character at the given moment was a contingency which profoundly affected the course of history. If he had not been there another dictator would have grasped the helm, but obviously would not have done what Napoleon did. It is clear that the whole history of man has been modified at every stage by such contingencies, which may be defined as the collisions of two independent causal chains. Voltaire was perfectly right when he emphasised the role of chance in history, though he did not realise what it meant. This factor would explain the oscillations and deflections which Comte admits in the movement of historical progression. But the question arises whether it may not also have once and again definitely altered the direction of the movement. Can the factor be regarded as virtually negligible by those who, like Comte, are concerned with the large perspective of human development and not with the details of an episode? Or was Renouvier right in principle when he maintained "the real possibility that the sequence of events from the Emperor Nerva to the Emperor Charlemagne might have been radically different from what it actually was"? [Footnote: He illustrated this proposition by a fanciful reconstruction of European history from 100 to 800 A.D. in his UCHRONIE, 1876. He contended that there is no definite law of progress: "The true law lies in the equal possibility of progress or regress for societies as for individuals."] 6. It does not concern us here to examine the defects of Comte's view of the course of European history. But it interests us to observe that his synthesis of human Progress is, like Hegel's, what I have called a closed system. Just as his own absolute philosophy marked for Hegel the highest and ultimate term of human development, so for Comte the coming society whose organisation he adumbrated was the final state of humanity beyond which there would be no further movement. It would take time to perfect the organisation, and the period would witness a continuous increase of knowledge, but the main characteristics were definitely fixed. Comte did not conceive that the distant future, could he survive to experience it, could contain any surprises for him. His theory of Progress thus differed from the eighteenth century views which vaguely contemplate an indefinite development and only profess to indicate some general tendencies. He expressly repudiated this notion of INDEFINITE progress; the data, he said, justify only the inference of CONTINUOUS progress, which is a different thing. A second point in which Comte in his view of Progress differed from the French philosophers of the preceding age is this. Condorcet and his predecessors regarded it exclusively from the eudaemonic point of view. The goal of Progress for them was the attainment of human felicity. With felicity Comte is hardly more concerned than Hegel. The establishment of a fuller harmony between men and their environment in the third stage will no doubt mean happiness. But this consideration lies outside the theory, and to introduce it would only intrude an unscientific element into the analysis. The course of development is determined by intellectual ideas, and he treats these as independent of, and indifferent to, eudaemonic motives. A third point to be noted is the authoritarian character of the regime of the future. Comte's ideal state would be as ill to live in for any unfortunate being who values personal liberty as a theocracy or any socialistic Utopia. He had as little sympathy with liberty as Plato or as Bossuet, and less than the eighteenth century philosophers. This feature, common to Comte and the Saint-Simonians, was partly due to the reaction against the Revolution, but it also resulted from the logic of the man of science. If sociological laws are positively established as certainly as the law of gravitation, no room is left for opinion; right social conduct is definitely fixed; the proper functions of every member of society admit of no question; therefore the claim to liberty is perverse and irrational. It is the same argument which some modern exponents of Eugenics use to advocate a state tyranny in the matter of human breeding. When Comte was writing, the progressive movement in Europe was towards increase of liberty in all its forms, national, civic, political, and economical. On one hand there was the agitation for the release of oppressed nationalities, on the other the growth of liberalism in England and France. The aim of the liberalism of that period was to restrict the functions of government; its spirit was distrust of the state. As a political theory it was defective, as modern Liberals acknowledge, but it was an important expression of the feeling that the interests of society are best furthered by the free interplay of individual actions and aims. It thus implicitly contained or pointed to a theory of Progress sharply opposed to Comte's: that the realisation of the fullest possible measure of individual liberty is the condition of ensuring the maximum of energy and effectiveness in improving our environment, and therefore the condition of attaining public felicity. Right or wrong, this theory reckons with fundamental facts of human nature which Comte ignored. 7. Comte spent the later years of his life in composing another huge work, on social reorganisation. It included a new religion, in which Humanity was the object of worship, but made no other important addition to the speculations of his earlier manhood, though he developed them further. The Course of Positive Philosophy was not a book that took the public by storm. We are told by a competent student of social theories in France that the author's name was little known in his own country till about 1855, when his greatness began to win recognition, and his influence to operate. [Footnote: Weill, Hist. du mouvement social, p. 21.] Even then his work can hardly have been widely read. But through men like Littre and Taine, whose conceptions of history were moulded by his teaching, and men like Mill, whom he stimulated, as well as through the disciples who adopted Positivism as a religion, his leading principles, detached from his system, became current in the world of speculation. [Footnote: The influence of Comte. The manner in which ideas filter through, as it were, underground and emerge oblivious of their source is illustrated by the German historian Lamprecht's theory of historical development. He surveyed the history of a people as a series of what he called typical periods, each of which is marked by a collective psychical character expressing itself in every department of life. He named this a diapason. Lamprecht had never read Comte, and he imagined that this principle, on which he based his kulturhistorische Methode, was original. But his psychical diapason is the psychical consensus of Comte, whose system, as we have seen, depended on the proposition that a given social organisation corresponds in a definite way to the contemporary stage of mental development; and Comte had derived the principle from Saint-Simon. Cf. his pamphlet Die kulturhistorische Methode (1900). The succession of "typical period" was worked out for Germany in his History of the German People.] He laid the foundations of sociology, convincing many minds that the history of civilisation is subject to general laws, or, in other words, that a science of society is possible. In England this idea was still a novelty when Mill's System of Logic appeared in 1843. The publication of this work, which attempted to define the rules for the investigation of truth in all fields of inquiry and to provide tests for the hypotheses of science, was a considerable event, whether we regard its value and range or its prolonged influence on education. Mill, who had followed recent French thought attentively and was particularly impressed by the system of Comte, recognised that a new method of investigating social phenomena had been inaugurated by the thinkers who set out to discover the "law" of human progression. He proclaimed and welcomed it as superior to previous methods, and at the same time pointed out its limitations. Till about fifty years ago, he said, generalisations on man and society have erred by implicitly assuming that human nature and society will for ever revolve in the same orbit and exhibit virtually the same phenomena. This is still the view of the ostentatiously practical votaries of common sense in Great Britain; whereas the more reflective minds of the present age, analysing historical records more minutely, have adopted the opinion that the human race is in a state of necessary progression. The reciprocal action between circumstances and human nature, from which social phenomena result, must produce either a cycle or a trajectory. While Vico maintained the conception of periodic cycles, his successors have universally adopted the idea of a trajectory or progress, and are endeavouring to discover its law. [Footnote: Philosophical writers in England in the middle of the century paid more attention to Cousin than to Comte or Saint-Simon. J. D. Morell, in his forgotten History and Critical View of Speculative Philosophy (1846), says that eclecticism is the philosophy of human progress (vol. ii. 635, 2nd ed.). He conceived the movement of humanity as that of a spiral, ever tending to a higher perfection (638).] But they have fallen into a misconception in imagining that if they can find a law of uniformity in the succession of events they can infer the future from the past terms of the series. For such a law would only be an "empirical law"; it would not be a causal law or an ultimate law. However rigidly uniform, there is no guarantee that it would apply to phenomena outside those from which it was derived. It must itself depend on laws of mind and character (psychology and ethology). When those laws are known and the nature of the dependence is explained, when the determining causes of all the changes constituting the progress are understood, then the empirical law will be elevated to a scientific law, then only will it be possible to predict. Thus Mill asserted that if the advanced thinkers who are engaged on the subject succeed in discovering an empirical law from the data of history, it may be converted into a scientific law by deducing it a priori from the principles of human nature. In the meantime, he argued that what is already known of those principles justifies the important conclusion that the order of general human progression will mainly depend on the order of progression in the intellectual convictions of mankind. Throughout his exposition Mill uses "progress" in a neutral sense, without implying that the progression necessarily means improvement. Social science has still to demonstrate that the changes determined by human nature do mean improvement. But in warning the reader of this he declares himself to be personally an optimist, believing that the general tendency, saving temporary exceptions, is in the direction of a better and happier state. 8. Twenty years later [Footnote: In later editions of the Logic.] Mill was able to say that the conception of history as subject to general laws had "passed into the domain of newspaper and ordinary political discussion." Buckle's HISTORY OF CIVILISATION IN ENGLAND [Footnote: 2 Vol. i. appeared in 1857, vol. ii. in 1861.] which enjoyed an immediate success, did a great deal to popularise the idea. In this stimulating work Buckle took the fact of Progress for granted; his purpose was to investigate its causes. Considering the two general conditions on which all events depend, human nature and external nature, he arrived at two conclusions: (1) In the early stage of history the influence of man's external environment is the more decisive factor; but as time goes on the roles are gradually inverted, and now it is his own nature that is principally responsible for his development. (2) Progress is determined, not by the emotional and moral faculties, but by the intellect; [Footnote: This was the view of Jouffroy, Comte, and Mill; Buckle popularised it.] the emotional and moral faculties are stationary, and therefore religion is not a decisive influence in the onward movement of humanity. "I pledge myself to show that the progress Europe has made from barbarism to civilisation is entirely due to its intellectual activity.... In what may be called the innate and original morals of mankind there is, so far as we are aware, no progress." [Footnote: Buckle has been very unjustly treated by some critics, but has found an able defender in Mr. J.M. Robertson (Buckle and his Critics (1895)). The remarks of Benn (History of Rationalism in the Nineteenth Century, ii. 182 sqq.) are worth reading.] Buckle was convinced that social phenomena exhibit the same undeviating regularity as natural phenomena. In this belief he was chiefly influenced by the investigations of the Belgian statistician Quetelet (1835). "Statistics," he said, "has already thrown more light on the study of human nature than all the sciences put together." From the regularity with which the same crimes recur in the same state of society, and many other constant averages, he inferred that all actions of individuals result directly from the state of society in which they live, and that laws are operating which, if we take large enough numbers into account, scarcely undergo any sensible perturbation. [Footnote: Kant had already appealed to statistics in a similar sense; see above, p. 243.] Thus the evidence of statistics points to the conclusion that progress is not determined by the acts of individual men, but depends on general laws of the intellect which govern the successive stages of public opinion. The totality of human actions at any given time depends on the totality of knowledge and the extent of its diffusion. There we have the theory that history is subject to general laws in its most unqualified form, based on a fallacious view of the significance of statistical facts. Buckle's attempt to show the operation of general laws in the actual history of man was disappointing. When he went on to review the concrete facts of the historical process, his own political principles came into play, and he was more concerned with denouncing the tendencies of which he did not approve than with extricating general laws from the sequence of events. His comments on religious persecution and the obscurantism of governments and churches were instructive and timely, but they did not do much to exhibit a set of rigid laws governing and explaining the course of human development. The doctrine that history is under the irresistible control of law was also popularised by an American physiologist, J. W. Draper, whose HISTORY OF THE INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT OF EUROPE appeared in 1864 and was widely read. His starting-point was a superficial analogy between a society and an individual. "Social advancement is as completely under the control of natural law as a bodily growth. The life of an individual is a miniature of the life of a nation," and "particles" in the individual organism answer to persons in the political organism. Both have the same epochs--infancy, childhood, youth, manhood, old age--and therefore European progress exhibits five phases, designated as Credulity, Inquiry, Faith, Reason, Decrepitude. Draper's conclusion was that Europe, now in the fourth period, is hastening to a long period of decrepitude. The prospect did not dismay him; decrepitude is the culmination of Progress, and means the organisation of national intellect. That has already been achieved in China, and she owes to it her well-being and longevity. "Europe is inevitably hastening to become what China is. In her we may see what we shall be like when we are old." Judged by any standard, Draper's work is much inferior to Buckle's, but both these books, utterly different though they were in both conception and treatment, performed a similar function. Each in its own way diffused the view which had originated in France, that civilisation is progression and, like nature, subject to general laws. CHAPTER XVII. "PROGRESS" IN THE FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY MOVEMENT (1830-1851) 1. In 1850 there appeared at Paris a small book by M. A. Javary, with the title DE L'IDEE DU PROGRES. Its interest lies in the express recognition that Progress was the characteristic idea of the age, ardently received by some, hotly denounced by others. [Footnote: Lamartine denounced in his monthly journal Le Conseiller du peuple, vol. i. (1849), all the progressive gospels of the day, socialist, communist, Saint-Simonian, Fourierist, Icarian--in fact every school of social reform since the First Republic--as purely materialistic, sprung from the "cold seed of the century of Helvetius" (pp. 224, 287).] "If there is any idea," he says, "that belongs properly to one century, at least by the importance accorded to it, and that, whether accepted or not, is familiar to all minds, it is the idea of Progress conceived as the general law of history and the future of humanity." He observes that some, intoxicated by the spectacle of the material improvements of modern civilisation and the results of science, set no limits to man's power or his hopes; while others, unable to deny the facts, say that this progress serves only the lower part of human nature, and refuse to look with complacency on a movement which means, they assert, a continuous decadence of the nobler part. To which it is replied that, If moral decadence is a fact, it is only transient; it is a necessary phase of a development which means moral progress in the end, for it is due to the process by which the beliefs, ideas, and institutions of the past disappear and make way for new and better principles. And Javary notes a prevailing tendency in France to interpret every contemporary movement as progressive, while all the social doctrinaires justify their particular reforms by invoking the law of Progress. It was quite true that during the July monarchy nearly all serious speculations on society and history were related to that idea. It was common to Michelet and Quinet, who saw in the march of civilisation the gradual triumph of liberty; to Leroux and Cabet, who preached humanitarian communism; to Louis Blanc and to Proudhon; to the bourgeois, who were satisfied with the regime of Louis Philippe and grew rich, following the precept of Guizot, as well as to the workers who overthrew it. It is significant that the journal of Louis Blanc, in which he published his book on the ORGANISATION OF WORK (1839), was entitled REVUS DES PROGRES. The political question as to the due limits between government and individual freedom was discussed in terms of Progress: is personal liberty or state authority the efficient means of progressing? The metaphysical question of necessity and freewill acquired a new interest: is Progress a fatality, independent of human purposes, determined by general, ineluctable, historical laws? Quinet and Michelet argued vigorously against the optimism of Cousin, who with Hegel held that history is just what it ought to be and could not be improved. 2. Among the competing theories of the time, and sharply opposed to the views of Comte, was the idea, derived from the Revolution, that the world is moving towards universal equality and the obliteration of class distinctions, that this is the true direction of Progress. This view, represented by leaders of the popular movement against the bourgeois ascendency, derived powerful reinforcement from one of the most enlightened political thinkers of the day. The appearance of de Tocqueville's renowned study of American democracy was the event of 1834. He was convinced that he had discovered on the other side of the Atlantic the answer to the question whither the world is tending. In American society he found that equality of conditions is the generating fact on which every other fact depends. He concluded that equality is the goal of humanity, providentially designed. "The gradual development of equality of conditions has the principal characteristics of a providential fact. It is universal, it is permanent, it eludes human power; all events and all men serve this development.... This whole book has been written under the impression of a sort of religious terror produced in the author's soul by the view of this irresistible revolution which for so many centuries has been marching across all obstacles, and which is to-day seen still advancing in the midst of the ruins it has made.... If the men of our time were brought to see that the gradual and progressive development of equality is at once the past and the future of their history, this single discovery would give that development the sacred character of the will of the sovran master." Here we have a view of the direction of Progress and the meaning of history, pretending to be based upon the study of facts and announced with the most intense conviction. And behind it is the fatalistic doctrine that the movement cannot be arrested or diverted; that it is useless to struggle against it; that men, whatever they may do, cannot deflect the clock-like motion regulated by a power which de Tocqueville calls Providence but to which his readers might give some other name. 3. It has been conjectured, [Footnote: Georges Sorel, Les Illusions du progres, pp. 247-8 (1908).] and seems probable enough, that de Tocqueville's book was one of the influences which wrought upon the mind of Proudhon. The speculations of this remarkable man, who, like Saint-Simon and Comte, sought to found a new science of society, attracted general attention in the middle of the century. [Footnote: Compare the appreciation by Weill in Histoire du mouvement social en France 1852-1910 (1911, ed. 2), p. 41: "Le grande ecrivain revolutionnaire et anarchiste n'etait au fond ni un revolutionnaire ni un anarchiste, mais un reformateur pratique et modere qui a fait illusion par le ton vibrant de ses pamphlets centre la societe capitaliste."]His hostility to religion, his notorious dictum that "property is theft," his gospel of "anarchy," and the defiant, precipitous phrases in which he clothed his ideas, created an impression that he was a dangerous anti-social revolutionary. But when his ideas are studied in their context and translated into sober language, they are not so unreasonable. Notwithstanding his communistic theory of property and his ideal of equality, he was a strong individualist. He held that the future of civilisation depends on the energy of individuals, that liberty is a condition of its advance, and that the end to be kept in view is the establishment of justice, which means equality. He saw the difficulty of reconciling liberty with complete equality, but hoped that the incompatibility would be overcome by a gradual reduction of the natural differences in men's capacities. He said, "I am an anarchist," but his anarchy only meant that the time would come when government would be superfluous, when every human being could be trusted to act wisely and morally without a restraining authority or external sanctions. Nor was he a Utopian. He comprehended that such a transformation of society would be a long, slow process, and he condemned the schools of Saint-Simon and Fourier for imagining that a millennium might be realised immediately by a change of organisation. He tells us that all his speculations and controversial activities are penetrated with the idea of Progress, which he described as "the railway of liberty"; and his radical criticism on current social theories, whether conservative or democratic, was that they did not take Progress seriously though they invoked it. "What dominates in all my studies, what forms their beginning and end, their summit and their base, their reason, what makes my originality as a thinker (if I have any), is that I affirm Progress resolutely, irrevocably, and everywhere, and deny the Absolute. All that I have ever written, all I have denied or affirmed, I have written, denied or affirmed in the name of one unique idea, Progress. My adversaries, on the other hand, are all partisans of the Absolute, IN OMNI GENERE, CASU, ET NUMERO, to use the phrase of Sganarelle." [Footnote: Philosophie du progres, Premiere lettre (1851).] 4. A vague confidence in Progress had lain behind and encouraged the revolution of 1789, but in the revolution of 1848 the idea was definitely enthroned as the regnant principle. It presided over the session of the Committee which drew up the Constitution of the second Republic. Armand Marrast, the most important of the men who framed that document, based the measure of universal suffrage upon "the invisible law which rules societies," the law of progress which has been so long denied but which is rooted in the nature of man. His argument was this: Revolutions are due to the repression of progress, and are the expression and triumph of a progress which has been achieved. But such convulsions are an undesirable method of progressing; how can they be avoided? Only by organising elastic institutions in which new ideas of amelioration can easily be incorporated, and laws which can be accommodated without struggle or friction to the rise of new opinions. What is needed is a flexible government open to the penetration of ideas, and the key to such a government is universal suffrage. [Footnote: Marrast, "the invisible law"; "Oui," he continues, "toute societe est progressive, parce que tout individu est educable, perfectible; on peut mesurer, limiter, peut-etre les facultes d'un individu; on ne saurait limiter, mesurer ce que peuvent, dans l'ordre des idees, les intelligences dont les produits ne s'ajoutent pas seulement mais se fecondent et se multiplient dans une progression indefinie." No. 393 Republique francoise. Assemblee nationale. Projet de Constitution... precede par un rapport fait au nom de la Commission par le citoyen Armand Marrast. Seance du 30 aout, 1848.] Universal suffrage was practical politics, but the success of the revolution fluttered agreeably all the mansions of Utopia, and social reformers of every type sought to improve the occasion. In the history of the political struggles of 1848 the names are written of Proudhon, of Victor Considerant the disciple of Fourier, of Pierre Leroux the humanitarian communist, and his devoted pupil George Sand. The chief title of Leroux to be remembered is just his influence over the soul of the great novelist. Her later romances are pervaded by ideas derived from his teaching. His communism was vague and ineffectual, but he was one of the minor forces in the thought of the period, and there are some features in his theory which deserve to be pointed out. Leroux had begun as a member of the Saint-Simonian school, but he diverged into a path of his own. He reinstated the ideal of equality which Saint-Simon rejected, and made the approach to that ideal the measure of Progress. The most significant process in history, he held, is the gradual breaking down of caste and class: the process is now approaching its completion; "today MAN is synonymous with EQUAL." In order to advance to the city of the future we must have a force and a lever. Man is the force, and the lever is the idea of Progress. It is supplied by the study of history which displays the improvement of our faculties, the increase of our power over nature, the possibility of organising society more efficaciously. But the force and the lever are not enough. A fulcrum is also required, and this is to be found in the "solidarity" of the human race. But this conception meant for Leroux something different from what is ordinarily meant by the phrase, a deeper and even mystical bond. Human "solidarity" was a corollary from the pantheistic religion of the Saint-Simonians, but with Leroux, as with Fourier, it was derived from the more difficult doctrine of palingenesis. We of this generation, he believed, are not merely the sons and descendants of past generations, we are the past generations themselves, which have come to birth again in us. Through many pages of the two volumes [Footnote: De l'humanite, 1840 (dedicated to Beranger).] in which he set forth his thesis, Leroux expended much useless learning in endeavouring to establish this doctrine, which, were it true, might be the central principle in a new religion of humanity, a transformed Pythagoreanism. It is easy to understand the attractiveness of palingenesis to a believer in Progress: for it would provide a solution of the anomaly that generations after generations are sacrificed for the sake of posterity, and so appear to have no value in themselves. Believers in Progress, who are sensitive to the sufferings of mankind, past and present, need a stoical resolution to face this fact. We saw how Herder refused to accept it. A pantheistic faith, like that of the Saint-Simonian Church, may help some, it cannot do more, to a stoical acquiescence. The palingenesis of Leroux or Fourier removes the radical injustice. The men of each generation are sacrificed and suffer for the sake of their descendants, but as their descendants are themselves come to life again, they are really suffering in their own interests. They will themselves reach the desirable state to which the slow, painful process of history is tending. But palingenesis, notwithstanding all the ancient opinions and traditions that the researches of Leroux might muster, could carry little conviction to those who were ceasing to believe in the familiar doctrine of a future life detached from earth, and Madame Dudevant was his only distinguished convert. 5. The ascendency of the idea of Progress among thoughtful people in France in the middle of the last century is illustrated by the work which Ernest Renan composed under the immediate impression of the events of 1848. He desired to understand the significance of the current revolutionary doctrines, and was at once involved in speculation on the future of humanity. This is the purport of L'AVENIR DE LA SCIENCE. [Footnote: L'Avenir de la science--Pensees de (1848). Published in 1890.] [Footnote: The ascendency of the idea of Progress at this epoch may be further illustrated by E. Pelletan's Profession de foi du dix-neuvieme siecle, 1852 (4th ed., 1857), where Progress is described as the general law of the universe; and by Jean Reynaud's Philosophie religieuse: Terre et ciel (3rd ed., 1858), a religious but not orthodox book, which acclaims the "sovran principle of perfectibility" (cp. p. 138). I may refer also to the rhetorical pages of E. Vacherot on the Doctrine du progres, printed (as part of an essay on the Philosophy of History) in his Essais de philosophie critique (1864).] The author was then convinced that history has a goal, and that mankind tends perpetually, though in an oscillating line, towards a more perfect state, through the growing dominion of reason over instinct and caprice. He takes the French Revolution as the critical moment in which humanity first came to know itself. That revolution was the first attempt of man to take the reins into his own hands. All that went before we may call, with Owen, the irrational period of human existence. We have now come to a point at which we must choose between two faiths. If we despair of reason, we may find a refuge from utter scepticism in a belief in the external authority of the Roman Church. If we trust reason, we must accept the march of the human mind and justify the modern spirit. And it can be justified only by proving that it is a necessary step towards perfection. Renan affirmed his belief in the second alternative, and felt confident that science--including philology, on the human bearings of which he enlarged,--philosophy, and art would ultimately enable men to realise an ideal civilisation, in which all would be equal. The state, he said, is the machine of Progress, and the Socialists are right in formulating the problem which man has to solve, though their solution is a bad one. For individual liberty, which socialism would seriously limit, is a definite conquest, and ought to be preserved inviolate. Renan wrote this work in 1848 and 1849, but did not publish it at the time. He gave it to the world forty years later. Those forty years had robbed him of his early optimism. He continues to believe that the unfortunate conditions of our race might be ameliorated by science, but he denounces the view that men can ever be equal. Inequality is written in nature; it is not only a necessary consequence of liberty, but a necessary postulate of Progress. There will always be a superior minority. He criticises himself too for having fallen into the error of Hegel, and assigned to man an unduly important place in the universe. [Footnote: Renan, speaking of the Socialists, paid a high tribute to Bazard (L'Avenir de la science, p. 104). On the other hand, he criticised Comte severely (p. 149). Renan returned to speculation on the future in 1863, in a letter to M. Marcellin-Berthelot (published in Dialogues et fragments philosophiques, 1876): "Que sera Ie monde quand un million de fois se sera reproduit ce qui s'est passe depuis 1763 quand la chimie, au lieu de quatre-vingt ans de progres, en aura cent millions?" (p. 183). And again in the Dialogues written in 1871 (ib.), where it is laid down that the end of humanity is to produce great men: "le grand oeuvre s'accomplira par la science, non par la democratic. Rien sans grands hommes; le salut se fera par des grands hommes" (p. 103).] In 1890 there was nothing left of the sentimental socialism which he had studied in 1848; it had been blown away by the cold wind of scientific socialism which Marx and Engels created. And Renan had come to think that in this new form socialism would triumph. [Footnote: He reckoned without the new forces, opposed to socialism as well as to parliamentary democracy, represented by Bakunin and men like Georges Sorel.] He had criticised Comte for believing that "man lives exclusively by science, or rather little verbal tags, like geometrical theorems, dry formulae." Was he satisfied by the concrete doctrine of Marx that all the phenomena of civilisation at a given period are determined by the methods of production and distribution which then prevail? But the future of socialism is a minor issue, and the ultimate goal of humanity is quite uncertain. "Ce qu'il y a de consolant, c'est qu'on arrive necessairement quelque part." We may console ourselves with the certainty that we must get somewhere. 6. Proudhon described the idea of Progress as the railway of liberty. It certainly supplied motive power to social ideals which were repugnant and alarming to the authorities of the Catholic Church. At the Vatican it was clearly seen that the idea was a powerful engine driven by an enemy; and in the famous SYLLABUS of errors which Pope Pius IX. flung in the face of the modern world at the end of 1864, Progress had the honour of being censured. The eightieth error, which closes the list, runs thus: Romanus Pontifex potest ac debet cum progressu, cum liberalismo et cum recenti civilitate sese reconciliare et componere. "The Roman Pontiff can, and ought to, be reconciled and come to terms with progress, with liberalism, and with modern civilisation." No wonder, seeing that Progress was invoked to justify every movement that offended the nostrils of the Vatican--liberalism, toleration, democracy, and socialism. And the Roman Church well understood the intimate connection of the idea with the advance of rationalism. CHAPTER XVIII. MATERIAL PROGRESS: THE EXHIBITION OF 1851 1. It is not easy for a new idea of the speculative order to penetrate and inform the general consciousness of a community until it has assumed some external and concrete embodiment or is recommended by some striking material evidence. In the case of Progress both these conditions were fulfilled in the period 1820 to 1850. In the Saint-Simonian Church, and in the attempts of Owen and Cabet to found ideal societies, people saw practical enterprises inspired by the idea. They might have no sympathy with these enterprises, but their attention was attracted. And at the same time they were witnessing a rapid transformation of the external conditions of life, a movement to the continuation of which there seemed no reason for setting any limit in the future. The spectacular results of the advance of science and mechanical technique brought home to the mind of the average man the conception of an indefinite increase of man's power over nature as his brain penetrated her secrets. This evident material progress which has continued incessantly ever since has been a mainstay of the general belief in Progress which is prevalent to-day. England was the leader in this material progress, of which the particulars are familiar and need not be enumerated here. The discovery of the power of steam and the potentialities of coal revolutionised the conditions of life. Men who were born at the beginning of the century had seen, before they had passed the age of thirty, the rapid development of steam navigation, the illumination of towns and houses by gas, the opening of the first railway. It was just before this event, the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester railway, which showed how machinery would abbreviate space as it had SIR THOMAS MORE, OR COLLOQUIES ON THE PROGRESS OF SOCIETY (1829). There we see the effect of the new force on his imagination. "Steam," he says, "will govern the world next,... and shake it too before its empire is established." The biographer of Nelson devotes a whole conversation to the subject of "steam and war." But the theme of the book is the question of moral and social progress, on which the author inclines to the view that "the world will continue to improve, even as it has hitherto been continually improving; and that the progress of knowledge and the diffusion of Christianity will bring about at last, when men become Christian in reality as well as in name, something like that Utopian state of which philosophers have loved to dream." This admission of Progress, cautious though it was, circumscribed by reserves and compromised by hesitations, coming from such a conservative pillar of Church and State as Southey, is a notable sign of the times, when we remember that the idea was still associated then with revolution and heresy. It is significant too that at the same time an octogenarian mathematician of Aberdeen was composing a book on the same subject. Hamilton's PROGRESS OF SOCIETY is now utterly forgotten, but it must have contributed in its day to propagating the same moderate view of Progress, consistent with orthodoxy, which Southey held. "The belief of the perfectibility of human nature and the attainment of a golden age in which vice and misery have no place, will only be entertained by an enthusiast; but an inquiry into the means of improving our nature and enlarging our happiness is consistent with sober reason, and is the most important subject, merely human, that can engage the mind of man." [Footnote: P. 13. The book was published posthumously by Murray in 1830, a year after the author's death.] [Footnote: "Progress of Society." The phrase was becoming common; e.g. Russell's History of Modern Europe (1822) has the sub-title A view of the Progress of Society, etc. The didactic poem of Payne Knight, The Progress of Civil Society (1796), a very dull performance, was quite unaffected by the dreams of Priestley or Godwin. It was towards the middle of the nineteenth century that Progress, without any qualifying phrase, came into use.] 2. We have been told by Tennyson that when he went by the first train from Liverpool to Manchester (1830) he thought that the wheels ran in grooves. "Then I made this line: Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change." [Footnote: See Tennyson, Memoir by his Son, vol. i. p. 195.] LOCKSLEY HALL, which was published in 1842, illustrates how the idea of Progress had begun to creep into the imagination of Englishmen. Though subsidiary to a love story, it is the true theme of the poem. The pulsation of eager interest in the terrestrial destinies of humanity, the large excitement of living in a "wondrous Mother-age," dreams of the future, quicken the passion of the hero's youth. His disappointment in love disenchants him; he sees the reverse side of civilisation, but at last he finds an anodyne for his palsied heart in a more sober version of his earlier faith, a chastened belief in his Mother-age. He can at least discern an increasing purpose in history, and can be sure that "the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns." The novelty of the poem lay in finding a cathartic cure for a private sorrow, not in religion or in nature, but in the modern idea of Progress. It may be said to mark a stage in the career of the idea. The view of civilisation which Tennyson took as his MOTIF had no revolutionary implications, suggested no impatience or anger with the past. The startling prospect unfolding itself before "the long result of time," and history is justified by the promise of to-day: The centuries behind me like a fruitful land reposed. Very different was the spirit in which another great poet composed, nearly twenty years later, a wonderful hymn of Progress. Victor Hugo's PLEIN CEIL, in his epic LA LEGENDE DES SIECLES,[Footnote: A.D. 1859.] announces a new era of the world in which man, the triumphant rebel, delivered from his past, will move freely forward on a glorious way. The poet is inspired not by faith in a continuous development throughout the ages, but by the old spirit of the Revolution, and he sees in the past only a heavy chain which the race at last flings off. The horrible past has gone, not to return: "ce monde est mort"; and the poem is at once a paean on man's victorious rebellion against it and a dithyramb on the prospect of his future. Man is imagined as driving through the heavens an aerial car to which the four winds are harnessed, mounting above the clouds, and threatening to traverse the ether. Superbe, il plane, avec un hymne en ses agres; Et l'on voit voir passer la strophe du progres. Il est la nef, il est le phare! L'homme enfin prend son sceptre et jette son baton. Et l'on voit s'envoler le calcul de Newton Monte sur l'ode de Pindare. But if this vision foreshadows the conquest of the air, its significance is symbolic rather than literal, and, like Pindar checking the steeds of his song, Hugo returns to earth: Pas si loin! pas si haut! redescendons. Restons L'homme, restons Adam; mais non l'homme a tatons, Mais non l'Adam tombe! Tout autre reve altere L'espece d'ideal qui convient a la terre. Contentons-nous du mot: meilleur! ecrit partout. Dawn has appeared, after six thousand years in the fatal way, and man, freed by "the invisible hand" from the weight of his chains, has embarked for new shores: Ou va-t-il ce navire? II va, de jour vetu, A l'avenir divin et pur, a la vertu, A la science qu'on voit luire, A la mort des fleaux, a l'oubli genereux, A l'abondance, au caime, au rire, a l'homme heureux, Il va, ce glorieux navire. Oh! ce navire fait le voyage sacre! C'est l'ascension bleue a son premier degre; Hors de l'antique et vil decombre, Hors de la pesanteur, c'est l'avenir fonde; C'est le destin de l'homme a la fin evade, Qui leve l'ancre et sort de l'ombre! The union of humanity in a universal commonwealth, which Tennyson had expressed as "the Parliament of Man, the Federation of the World," the goal of many theorists of Progress, becomes in Hugo's imagination something more sublime. The magic ship of man's destiny is to compass the cosmopolis of the Stoics, a terrestrial order in harmony with the whole universe. Nef magique et supreme! elle a, rien qu'eri marchant, Change le cri terrestre en pur et joyeux chant, Rajeuni les races fletries, Etabli l'ordre vrai, montre le chemin sur, Dieu juste! et fait entrer dans l'homme tant d'azur Qu'elle a supprime les patries! Faisant a l'homme avec le ciel une cite, Une pensee avec toute l'immensite, Elle abolit les vieilles regles; Elle abaisse les monts, elle annule les tours; Splendide, elle introduit les peuples, marcheurs lourds, Dans la communion des aigles. 3. Between 1830 and 1850 railway transport spread throughout Great Britain and was introduced on the Continent, and electricity was subdued to man's use by the invention of telegraphy. The great Exhibition of London in 1851 was, in one of its aspects, a public recognition of the material progress of the age and the growing power of man over the physical world. Its aim, said a contemporary, was "to seize the living scroll of human progress, inscribed with every successive conquest of man's intellect."[Footnote: Edinburgh Review (October 1851), p. 562, in a review of the Official Catalogue of the Exhibition.] The Prince Consort, who originated the Exhibition, explained its significance in a public speech: "Nobody who has paid any attention to the peculiar features of our present era will doubt for a moment that we are living at a period of most wonderful transition, which tends rapidly to accomplish that great end to which indeed all history points--THE REALISATION OF THE UNITY OF MANKIND.... The distances which separated the different nations and parts of the globe are rapidly vanishing before the achievements of modern invention, and we can traverse them with incredible ease; the languages of all nations are known, and their acquirements placed within the reach of everybody; thought is communicated with the rapidity, and even by the power, of lightning. On the other hand, the GREAT PRINCIPLE OF DIVISION OF LABOUR, which may be called the moving power of civilisation, is being extended to all branches of science, industry, and art... Gentlemen, the Exhibition of 1851 is to give us a true test and a living picture of the point of development at which the whole of mankind has arrived in this great task, and a new starting-point from which all nations will be able to direct their further exertions." [Footnote: Martin, Life of the Prince Consort (ed. 3), iii. p. 247. The speech was delivered at a banquet at the Mansion House on March 21, 1850.] The point emphasised here is the "solidarity" of the world. The Exhibition is to bring home to men's consciousness the community of all the inhabitants of the earth. The assembled peoples, wrote Thackeray, in his "May-day Ode," [Footnote: Published in the Times, April 30, 1851. The Exhibition was opened on May I.] See the sumptuous banquet set, The brotherhood of nations met Around the feast. And this was the note struck in the leading article of the Times on the opening day: "The first morning since the creation that all peoples have assembled from all parts of the world and done a common act." It was claimed that the Exhibition signified a new, intelligent, and moral movement which "marks a great crisis in the history of the world," and foreshadows universal peace. England, said another writer, produced Bacon and Newton, the two philosophers "who first lent direction and force to the stream of industrial science; we have been the first also to give the widest possible base to the watch-tower of international progress, which seeks the formation of the physical well-being of man and the extinction of the meaner jealousies of commerce."[Footnote: Edinburgh Review, loc. cit.] These quotations show that the great Exhibition was at the time optimistically regarded, not merely as a record of material achievements, but as a demonstration that humanity was at last well on its way to a better and happier state, through the falling of barriers and the resulting insight that the interests of all are closely interlocked. A vista was suggested, at the end of which far-sighted people might think they discerned Tennyson's "Federation of the World." 4. Since the Exhibition, western civilisation has advanced steadily, and in some respects more rapidly than any sober mind could have predicted--civilisation, at least, in the conventional sense, which has been not badly defined as "the development of material ease, of education, of equality, and of aspirations to rise and succeed in life." [Footnote: B. Kidd, Social Evolution, p. 368.] The most striking advance has been in the technical conveniences of life--that is, in the control over natural forces. It would be superfluous to enumerate the discoveries and inventions since 1850 which have abridged space, economised time, eased bodily suffering, and reduced in some ways the friction of life, though they have increased it in others. This uninterrupted series of technical inventions, proceeding concurrently with immense enlargements of all branches of knowledge, has gradually accustomed the least speculative mind to the conception that civilisation is naturally progressive, and that continuous improvement is part of the order of things. So far the hopes of 1851 have been fulfilled. But against all this technical progress, with the enormous expansion of industry and commerce, dazzling to the man in the market-place when he pauses to reflect, have to be set the exploitation and sufferings of industrial workers, the distress of intense economic competition, the heavier burdens of preparation for modern war. The very increase of "material ease" seemed unavoidably to involve conditions inconsistent with universal happiness; and the communications which linked the peoples of the world together modified the methods of warfare instead of bringing peace. "Toutes nos merveilleuses inventions sont aussi puissantes pour le mal que pour le bien." [Footnote: H. de Ferron, Theorie du progres (1867), ii. 439.] One fact indeed might be taken as an index that humanity was morally advancing--the abolition of slavery in America at the price of a long and sanguinary war. Yet some triumphs of philanthropy hardly seemed to endanger the conclusion that, while knowledge is indefinitely progressive, there is no good reason for sanguine hopes that man is "perfectible" or that universal happiness is attainable. A thoughtful writer observed, discussing Progress in 1864, that the innumerable individual steps in the growth of knowledge and business organisation have not been combined, so far, to produce a general advance in the happiness of life; each step brings increase of pressure. [Footnote: Lotze, Microcosmus (Eng. tr.), vol. ii. p. 396.] Yet in spite of all adverse facts and many eminent dissenters the belief in social Progress has on the whole prevailed. This triumph of optimism was promoted by the victory of a revolutionary hypothesis in another field of inquiry, which suddenly electrified the world. [Footnote: Against Lotze we might set many opinions which do not seem to have been influenced by the doctrine of evolution. For instance, the optimism of M. Marcellin-Berthelot in a letter to Renan in 1863. He says (Renan, Dialogues, p. 233) that one of the general results of historical study is "the fact of the incessant progress of human societies in science, in material conditions, and in morality, three correlatives.... Societies become more and more civilised, and I will venture to say more and more virtuous. The sum of good is always increasing, and the sum of evil diminishing, in the same measure as the sum of truth increases and the sum of ignorance diminishes." In 1867 Emerson delivered an address at Harvard on the "Progress of Culture" (printed in his Letters and Social Aims), in which he enumerates optimistically the indications of social advance: "the new scope of social science; the abolition of capital punishment and of imprisonment for debt: the improvement of prisons; the efforts for the suppression of intemperance, vice, etc.," and asks: "Who would live in the stone age, or the bronze, or the iron, or the lacustrine? Who does not prefer the age of steel, of gold, of coal, petroleum, cotton, steam, electricity, and the spectroscope?" The discursive Thoughts on the Future of the Human Race, published in 1866, by W. Ellis (1800-81), a disciple of J. S. Mill, would have been remarkable if it had appeared half a century earlier. He is untouched by the theory of evolution, and argues on common-sense grounds that Progress is inevitable.] CHAPTER XIX. PROGRESS IN THE LIGHT OF EVOLUTION 1. In the sixties of the nineteenth century the idea of Progress entered upon the third period of its history. During the FIRST period, up to the French Revolution, it had been treated rather casually; it was taken for granted and received no searching examination either from philosophers or from historians. In the SECOND period its immense significance was apprehended, and a search began for a general law which would define and establish it. The study of sociology was founded, and at the same time the impressive results of science, applied to the conveniences of life, advertised the idea. It harmonised with the notion of "development" which had become current both in natural science and in metaphysics. Socialists and other political reformers appealed to it as a gospel. By 1850 it was a familiar idea in Europe, but was not yet universally accepted as obviously true. The notion of social Progress had been growing in the atmosphere of the notion of biological development, but this development still seemed a highly precarious speculation. The fixity of species and the creation of man, defended by powerful interests and prejudices, were attacked but were not shaken. The hypothesis of organic evolution was much in the same position as the Copernican hypothesis in the sixteenth century. Then in 1859 Darwin intervened, like Galileo. The appearance of the ORIGIN OF SPECIES changed the situation by disproving definitely the dogma of fixity of species and assigning real causes for "transformism." What might be set aside before as a brilliant guess was elevated to the rank of a scientific hypothesis, and the following twenty years were enlivened by the struggle around the evolution of life, against prejudices chiefly theological, resulting in the victory of the theory. The ORIGIN OF SPECIES led to the THIRD stage of the fortunes of the idea of Progress. We saw how the heliocentric astronomy, by dethroning man from his privileged position in the universe of space and throwing him back on his own efforts, had helped that idea to compete with the idea of a busy Providence. He now suffers a new degradation within the compass of his own planet. Evolution, shearing him of his glory as a rational being specially created to be the lord of the earth, traces a humble pedigree for him. And this second degradation was the decisive fact which has established the reign of the idea of Progress. 2. Evolution itself, it must be remembered, does not necessarily mean, applied to society, the movement of man to a desirable goal. It is a neutral, scientific conception, compatible either with optimism or with pessimism. According to different estimates it may appear to be a cruel sentence or a guarantee of steady amelioration. And it has been actually interpreted in both ways. In order to base Progress on Evolution two distinct arguments are required. If it could be shown that social life obeys the same general laws of evolution as nature, and also that the process involves an increase of happiness, then Progress would be as valid a hypothesis as the evolution of living forms. Darwin had concluded his treatise with these words: As all the living forms of life are the lineal descendants of those which lived long before the Silurian epoch, we may feel certain that the ordinary succession by generation has never once been broken, and that no cataclysm has desolated the whole world. Hence we may look with some confidence to a secure future of equally inappreciable length. And as natural selection works solely by and for the good of each being, all corporeal and mental environments will tend to progress towards perfection. Here the evolutionist struck the note of optimism. And he suggested that laws of Progress would be found in other quarters than those where they had hitherto been sought. The ablest and most influential development of the argument from evolution to Progress was the work of Spencer. He extended the principle of evolution to sociology and ethics, and was the most conspicuous interpreter of it in an optimistic sense. He had been an evolutionist long before Darwin's decisive intervention, and in 1851 he had published his Social Statics, which, although he had not yet worked out the evolutionary laws which he began to formulate soon afterwards and was still a theist, exhibits the general trend of his optimistic philosophy. Progress here appears as the basis of a theory of ethics. The title indicates the influence of Comte, but the argument is sharply opposed to the spirit of Comte's teaching, and sociology is treated in a new way. [Footnote: Social Statics, or the Conditions Essential to Human Happiness specified, and the first of them developed, is the full title.] Spencer begins by arguing that the constancy of human nature, so frequently alleged, is a fallacy. For change is the law of all things, of every single object as well as of the universe. "Nature in its infinite complexity is ever growing to a new development." It would be strange if, in this universal mutation, man alone were unchangeable, and it is not true. "He also obeys the law of indefinite variation." Contrast the houseless savages with Newtons and Shakespeares; between these extremes there are countless degrees of difference. If then humanity is indefinitely variable, perfectibility is possible. In the second place, evil is not a permanent necessity. For all evil results from the non-adaptation of the organism to its conditions; this is true of everything that lives. And it is equally true that evil perpetually tends to disappear. In virtue of an essential principle of life, this non-adaptation of organisms to their conditions is ever being rectified, and one or both continue to be modified until the adaptation is perfect. And this applies to the mental as well as to the physical sphere. In the present state of the world men suffer many evils, and this shows that their characters are not yet adjusted to the social state. Now the qualification requisite for the social state is that each individual shall have such desires only as may fully be satisfied without trenching upon the ability of others to obtain similar satisfaction. This qualification is not yet fulfilled, because civilised man retains some of the characteristics which were suitable for the conditions of his earlier predatory life. He needed one moral constitution for his primitive state, he needs quite another for his present state. The resultant is a process of adaptation which has been going on for a long time, and will go on for a long time to come. Civilisation represents the adaptations which have already been accomplished. Progress means the successive steps of the process. That by this process man will eventually become suited to his mode of life, Spencer has no doubts. All excess and deficiency of suitable faculties must disappear; in other words, all imperfection. "The ultimate development of the ideal man is logically certain--as certain as any conclusion in which we place the most implicit faith; for instance, that all men will die." Here is the theory of perfectibility asserted, on new grounds, with a confidence not less assured than that of Condorcet or Godwin. Progress then is not an accident, but a necessity. Civilisation is a part of nature, being a development of man's latent capabilities under the action of favourable circumstances which were certain at some time or other to occur. Here Spencer's argument assumes a final cause. The ultimate purpose of creation, he asserts, is to produce the greatest amount of happiness, and to fulfil this aim it is necessary that each member of the race should possess faculties enabling him to experience the highest enjoyment of life, yet in such a way as not to diminish the power of others to receive like satisfaction. Beings thus constituted cannot multiply in a world tenanted by inferior creatures; these, therefore, must be dispossessed to make room; and to dispossess them aboriginal man must have an inferior constitution to begin with; he must be predatory, he must have the desire to kill. In general, given an unsubdued earth, and the human being "appointed" to overspread and occupy it, then, the laws of life being what they are, no other series of changes than that which has actually occurred could have occurred. The argument might be put in a form free from the assumption of a final cause, and without introducing the conception of a divine Providence which in this work Spencer adopted, though in his later philosophy it was superseded by the conception of the Unknowable existing behind all phenomena. But the ROLE of the Divine ruler is simply to set in motion immutable forces to realise his design. "In the moral as in the material world accumulated evidence is gradually generating the conviction that events are not at bottom fortuitous, but that they are wrought out in a certain inevitable way by unchanging forces." The optimism of Spencer's view could not be surpassed. "After patient study," he writes, "this chaos of phenomena into the midst of which he [man] was born has begun to generalise itself to him"; instead of confusion he begins to discern "the dim outlines of a gigantic plan. No accidents, no chance, but everywhere order and completeness One by one exceptions vanish, and all becomes systematic." Always towards perfection is the mighty movement--towards a complete development and a more unmixed good; subordinating in its universality all petty irregularities and fallings back, as the curvature of the earth subordinates mountains and valleys. Even in evils the student learns to recognise only a struggling beneficence. But above all he is struck with the inherent sufficingness of things. But the movement towards harmony, the elimination of evil, will not be effected by idealists imposing their constructions upon the world or by authoritarian governments. It means gradual adaptation, gradual psychological change, and its life is individual liberty. It proceeds by the give and take of opposed opinions. Guizot had said, "Progress, and at the same time resistance." And Spencer conceives that resistance is beneficial, so long as it comes from those who honestly think that the institutions they defend are really the best and the proposed innovations absolutely wrong. It will be observed that Spencer's doctrine of perfectibility rests on an entirely different basis from the doctrine of the eighteenth century. It is one thing to deduce it from an abstract psychology which holds that human nature is unresistingly plastic in the hands of the legislator and the instructor. It is another to argue that human nature is subject to the general law of change, and that the process by which it slowly but continuously tends to adapt itself more and more to the conditions of social life--children inheriting the acquired aptitudes of their parents--points to an ultimate harmony. Here profitable legislation and education are auxiliary to the process of unconscious adaptation, and respond to the psychological changes in the community, changes which reveal themselves in public opinion. 3. During the following ten years Spencer was investigating the general laws of evolution and planning his Synthetic Philosophy which was to explain the development of the universe. [Footnote: In an article on "Progress: its Law and Cause," in the Westminster Review, April 1857, Spencer explained that social progress, rightly understood, is not the increase of material conveniences or widening freedom of action, but changes of structure in the social organism which entail such consequences, and proceeded to show that the growth of the individual organism and the growth of civilisation obey the same law of advance from homogeneity to heterogeneity of structure. Here he used progress in a neutral sense; but recognising that a word is required which has no teleological implications (Autobiography, i. 500), he adopted evolution six months later in an article on "Transcendental Physiology" (National Review, Oct. 1857). In his study of organic laws Spencer was indirectly influenced by the ideas of Schelling through von Baer.] He aimed at showing that laws of change are discoverable which control all phenomena alike, inorganic, biological, psychical, and social. In the light of this hypothesis the actual progression of humanity is established as a necessary fact, a sequel of the general cosmic movement and governed by the same principles; and, if that progression is shown to involve increasing happiness, the theory of Progress is established. The first section of the work, FIRST PRINCIPLES, appeared in 1862. The BIOLOGY, the PSYCHOLOGY, and finally the SOCIOLOGY, followed during the next twenty years; and the synthesis of the world-process which these volumes lucidly and persuasively developed, probably did more than any other work, at least in England, both to drive home the significance of the doctrine of evolution and to raise the doctrine of Progress to the rank of a commonplace truth in popular estimation, an axiom to which political rhetoric might effectively appeal. Many of those who were allured by Spencer's gigantic synthesis hardly realised that his theory of social evolution, of the gradual psychical improvement of the race, depends upon the validity of the assumption that parents transmit to their children faculties and aptitudes which they have themselves acquired. On this question experts notoriously differ. Some day it will probably be definitely decided, and perhaps in Spencer's favour. But the theory of continuous psychical improvement by a process of nature encounters an obvious difficulty, which did not escape some critics of Spencer, in the prominent fact of history that every great civilisation of the past progressed to a point at which instead of advancing further it stood still and declined, to become the prey of younger societies, or, if it survived, to stagnate. Arrest, decadence, stagnation has been the rule. It is not easy to reconcile this phenomenon with the theory of mental improvement. The receptive attitude of the public towards such a philosophy as Spencer's had been made possible by Darwin's discoveries, which were reinforced by the growing science of palaeontology and the accumulating material evidence of the great antiquity of man. By the simultaneous advances of geology and biology man's perspective in time was revolutionised, just as the Copernican astronomy had revolutionised his perspective in space. Many thoughtful and many thoughtless people were ready to discern--as Huxley suggested--in man's "long progress through the past, a reasonable ground of faith in his attainment of a nobler future." and Winwood Reade, a young African traveller, exhibited it in a vivid book as a long-drawn-out martyrdom. But he was a disciple of Spencer, and his hopes for the future were as bright as his picture of the past was dark. THE MARTYRDOM OF MAN, published in 1872, was so widely read that it reached an eighth edition twelve years later, and may be counted as one of the agencies which popularised Spencer's optimism. That optimism was not endorsed by all the contemporary leaders of thought. Lotze had asserted emphatically in 1864 that "human nature will not change," and afterwards he saw no reason to alter his conviction. Never one fold and one shepherd, never one uniform culture for all mankind, never universal nobleness. Our virtue and happiness can only flourish amid an active conflict with wrong. If every stumbling-block were smoothed away, men would no longer be like men, but like a flock of innocent brutes, feeding on good things provided by nature as at the very beginning of their course. [Footnote: Microcosmus, Bk. vii. 5 ad fin. (Eng. trans. p. 300). The first German edition (three vols.) appeared in 1856-64, the third, from which the English translation was made, in 1876. Lotze was optimistic as to the durability of modern civilisation: "No one will profess to foreknow the future, but as far as men may judge it seems that in our days there arc greater safeguards than there were in antiquity against unjustifiable excesses and against the external forces which might endanger the continued existence of civilisation."] But even if we reject with Spencer the old dictum, endorsed by Lotze as by Fontenelle, that human nature is immutable, the dictum of ultimate harmony encounters the following objection. "If the social environment were stable," it is easy to argue, "it could be admitted that man's nature, variable EX HYPOTHESI, could gradually adapt itself to it, and that finally a definite equilibrium would be established. But the environment is continually changing as the consequence of man's very efforts to adapt himself; every step he takes to harmonise his needs and his conditions produces a new discord and confronts him with a new problem. In other words, there is no reason to believe that the reciprocal process which goes on in the growth of society between men's natures and the environment they are continually modifying will ever reach an equilibrium, or even that, as the character of the discords changes, the suffering which they cause diminishes." In fact, upon the neutral fact of evolution a theory of pessimism may be built up as speciously as a theory of optimism. And such a theory was built up with great power and ability by the German philosopher E. von Hartmann, whose PHILOSOPHY OF THE UNCONSCIOUS appeared in 1869. Leaving aside his metaphysics and his grotesque theory of the destiny of the universe, we see here and in his subsequent works how plausibly a convinced evolutionist could revive the view of Rousseau that civilisation and happiness are mutually antagonistic, and that Progress means an increase of misery. Huxley himself, [Footnote: See Agnosticism in Nineteenth Century (Feb. 1889); Government: Anarchy or Regimentation, ib. (May 1890); Essays on Evolution and Ethics (1894).] one of the most eminent interpreters of the doctrine of evolution, did not, in his late years at least, entertain very sanguine views of mankind. "I know of no study which is so saddening as that of the evolution of humanity as it is set forth in the annals of history.... Man is a brute, only more intelligent than other brutes"; and "even the best of modern civilisations appears to me to exhibit a condition of mankind which neither embodies any worthy ideal nor even possesses the merit of stability." There may be some hope of a large improvement, but otherwise he would "welcome a kindly comet to sweep the whole affair away." And he came to the final conclusion that such an improvement could only set in by deliberately resisting, instead of co-operating with, the processes of nature. "Social progress means the checking of the cosmic process at every step and the substitution for it of another which may be called the ethical process." [Footnote: Huxley considers progress exclusively from an ethical, not from an eudaemonic point of view.] How in a few centuries can man hope to gain the mastery over the cosmic process which has been at work for millions of years? "The theory of evolution encourages no millennial anticipations." I have quoted these views to illustrate that evolution lends itself to a pessimistic as well as to an optimistic interpretation. The question whether it leads in a desirable direction or not is answered according to the temperament of the inquirer. In an age of prosperity and self-complacency the affirmative answer was readily received, and the term evolution attracted to itself in common speech the implications of value which belong to Progress. It may be noticed that the self-complacency of the age was promoted by the popularisation of scientific knowledge. A rapidly growing demand (especially in England) for books and lectures, making the results of science accessible and interesting to the lay public, is a remarkable feature of the second half of the nineteenth century; and to supply this demand was a remunerative enterprise. This popular literature explaining the wonders of the physical world was at the same time subtly flushing the imaginations of men with the consciousness that they were living in an era which, in itself vastly superior to any age of the past, need be burdened by no fear of decline or catastrophe, but trusting in the boundless resources of science might securely defy fate. 4. [It was said in 1881 by an American writer (who strongly dissented from Spencer's theory) that the current view was "fatalistic." See Henry George, Progress and Poverty. But it may be doubted whether those of the general public who optimistically accepted evolution without going very deeply into the question really believed that the future of man is taken entirely out of his hands and is determined exclusively by the nature of the cosmic process. Bagehot was a writer who had a good deal of influence in his day; and in Physics and Politics (1872), where he discusses Progress, there is no suggestion of fatalism. In France, the chief philosophical writers who accepted Progress as a fact protested against a fatalistic interpretation (Renouvier, Cournot, Caro; and cf. L. Carrau's article on Progress in the Revue des deux Mondes (Oct. 1875)). Progress was discussed by Fiske in his Outlines of Cosmic Philosophy (1874), vol. ii. 192 sqq. For him (p. 201) "the fundamental characteristic of social progress is the continuous weakening of selfishness and the continuous strengthening of sympathy."] Thus in the seventies and eighties of the last century the idea of Progress was becoming a general article of faith. Some might hold it in the fatalistic form that humanity moves in a desirable direction, whatever men do or may leave undone; others might believe that the future will depend largely on our own conscious efforts, but that there is nothing in the nature of things to disappoint the prospect of steady and indefinite advance. The majority did not inquire too curiously into such points of doctrine, but received it in a vague sense as a comfortable addition to their convictions. But it became a part of the general mental outlook of educated people. When Mr. Frederic Harrison delivered in 1889 at Manchester an eloquent discourse on the "New Era," in which the dominant note is "the faith in human progress in lieu of celestial rewards of the separate soul," his general argument could appeal to immensely wider circles than the Positivists whom he was specially addressing. The dogma--for a dogma it remains, in spite of the confidence of Comte or of Spencer that he had made it a scientific hypothesis--has produced an important ethical principle. Consideration for posterity has throughout history operated as a motive of conduct, but feebly, occasionally, and in a very limited sense. With the doctrine of Progress it assumes, logically, a preponderating importance; for the centre of interest is transferred to the life of future generations who are to enjoy conditions of happiness denied to us, but which our labours and sufferings are to help to bring about. If the doctrine is held in an extreme fatalistic form, then our duty is to resign ourselves cheerfully to sacrifices for the sake of unknown descendants, just as ordinary altruism enjoins the cheerful acceptance of sacrifices for the sake of living fellow-creatures. Winwood Reade indicated this when he wrote, "Our own prosperity is founded on the agonies of the past. Is it therefore unjust that we also should suffer for the benefit of those who are to come?" But if it is held that each generation can by its own deliberate acts determine for good or evil the destinies of the race, then our duties towards others reach out through time as well as through space, and our contemporaries are only a negligible fraction of the "neighbours" to whom we owe obligations. The ethical end may still be formulated, with the Utilitarians, as the greatest happiness of the greatest number; only the greatest number includes, as Kidd observed, "the members of generations yet unborn or unthought of." This extension of the moral code, if it is not yet conspicuous in treatises on Ethics, has in late years been obtaining recognition in practice. 5. Within the last forty years nearly every civilised country has produced a large literature on social science, in which indefinite Progress is generally assumed as an axiom. But the "law" whose investigation Kant designated as the task for a Newton, which Saint-Simon and Comte did not find, and to which Spencer's evolutionary formula would stand in the same relation as it stands to the law of gravitation, remains still undiscovered. To examine or even glance at this literature, or to speculate how theories of Progress may be modified by recent philosophical speculation, lies beyond the scope of this volume, which is only concerned with tracing the origin of the idea and its growth up to the time when it became a current creed. Looking back on the course of the inquiry, we note how the history of the idea has been connected with the growth of modern science, with the growth of rationalism, and with the struggle for political and religious liberty. The precursors (Bodin and Bacon) lived at a time when the world was consciously emancipating itself from the authority of tradition and it was being discovered that liberty is a difficult theoretical problem. The idea took definite shape in France when the old scheme of the universe had been shattered by the victory of the new astronomy and the prestige of Providence, CUNCTA SUPERCILIO MOUENTIS, was paling before the majesty of the immutable laws of nature. There began a slow but steady reinstatement of the kingdom of this world. The otherworldly dreams of theologians, ceux qui reniaient la terre pour patrie, which had ruled so long lost their power, and men's earthly home again insinuated itself into their affections, but with the new hope of its becoming a place fit for reasonable beings to live in. We have seen how the belief that our race is travelling towards earthly happiness was propagated by some eminent thinkers, as well as by some "not very fortunate persons who had a good deal of time on their hands." And all these high-priests and incense-bearers to whom the creed owes its success were rationalists, from the author of the Histoire des oracles to the philosopher of the Unknowable. EPILOGUE In achieving its ascendency and unfolding its meaning, the Idea of Progress had to overcome a psychological obstacle which may be described as THE ILLUSION OF FINALITY. It is quite easy to fancy a state of society, vastly different from ours, existing in some unknown place like heaven; it is much more difficult to realise as a fact that the order of things with which we are familiar has so little stability that our actual descendants may be born into a world as different from ours as ours is from that of our ancestors of the pleistocene age. The illusion of finality is strong. The men of the Middle Ages would have found it hard to imagine that a time was not far off in which the Last Judgement would have ceased to arouse any emotional interest. In the sphere of speculation Hegel, and even Comte, illustrate this psychological limitation: they did not recognise that their own systems could not be final any more than the system of Aristotle or of Descartes. It is science, perhaps, more than anything else--the wonderful history of science in the last hundred years--that has helped us to transcend this illusion. But if we accept the reasonings on which the dogma of Progress is based, must we not carry them to their full conclusion? In escaping from the illusion of finality, is it legitimate to exempt that dogma itself? Must not it, too, submit to its own negation of finality? Will not that process of change, for which Progress is the optimistic name, compel "Progress" too to fall from the commanding position in which it is now, with apparent security, enthroned? [words in Greek]... A day will come, in the revolution of centuries, when a new idea will usurp its place as the directing idea of humanity. Another star, unnoticed now or invisible, will climb up the intellectual heaven, and human emotions will react to its influence, human plans respond to its guidance. It will be the criterion by which Progress and all other ideas will be judged. And it too will have its successor. In other words, does not Progress itself suggest that its value as a doctrine is only relative, corresponding to a certain not very advanced stage of civilisation; just as Providence, in its day, was an idea of relative value, corresponding to a stage somewhat less advanced? Or will it be said that this argument is merely a disconcerting trick of dialectic played under cover of the darkness in which the issue of the future is safely hidden by Horace's prudent god? 
27948	----	+------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note | | | | Obvious typographical errors have been corrected in | | this text. For a complete list, please see the bottom of | | this document. | | Text printed using the Greek alphabet in the original book | | is shown as follows: [Greek: logos] | +------------------------------------------------------------+ PROGRESS AND HISTORY _ESSAYS ARRANGED AND EDITED_ BY F. S. MARVIN LATE SENIOR SCHOLAR OF ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD AUTHOR OF 'THE LIVING PAST' EDITOR OF 'THE UNITY OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION' 'Tanta patet rerum series et omne futurum Nititur in lucem.' LUCAN. _THIRD IMPRESSION_ HUMPHREY MILFORD OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON EDINBURGH GLASGOW NEW YORK TORONTO MELBOURNE CAPE TOWN BOMBAY 1919 PRINTED IN ENGLAND AT THE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS PREFACE This volume is a sequel to _The Unity of Western Civilization_ published last year and arose in the same way, from a course of lectures given at the Woodbrooke Settlement, Birmingham. The former book attempted to describe some of the permanent unifying factors which hold our Western civilization together in spite of such catastrophic divisions as the present war. This book attempts to show these forces in growth. The former aimed rather at a statical, the present at a dynamical view of the same problem. Both are historical in spirit. It is hoped that these courses may serve as an introduction to a series of cognate studies, of which clearly both the supply and the scope are infinite, for under the general conception of 'Progress in Unity' all great human topics might be embraced. One subject has been suggested for early treatment which would have especial interest at the present time, viz. 'Recent Progress in European Thought'. We are by the war brought more closely than before into contact with other nations of Europe who are pursuing with inevitable differences the same main lines of evolution. To indicate these in general, with stress on the factor of betterment, is the aim of the present volume. F.S.M. CONTENTS PAGE I. THE IDEA OF PROGRESS 7 By F. S. MARVIN. II. PROGRESS IN PREHISTORIC TIMES 27 By R. R. MARETT, Reader in Social Anthropology, Oxford. III. PROGRESS AND HELLENISM 48 By F. MELIAN STAWELL, late Lecturer at Newnham College, Cambridge. IV. PROGRESS IN THE MIDDLE AGES 72 By the Rev. A. J. CARLYLE, Tutor and Lecturer at University College, Oxford. V. PROGRESS IN RELIGION 96 By BARON FRIEDRICH VON HÜGEL. VI. MORAL PROGRESS 134 By L. P. JACKS, Principal of Manchester New College, Oxford. VII. GOVERNMENT 151 By A. E. ZIMMERN, late Fellow of New College, Oxford. VIII. INDUSTRY 189 By A. E. ZIMMERN. IX. ART 224 By A. CLUTTON BROCK. X. SCIENCE 248 By F. S. MARVIN. XI. PHILOSOPHY 273 By J. A. SMITH, Waynflete Professor of Mental and Moral Philosophy, Oxford. XII. PROGRESS AS AN IDEAL OF ACTION 295 By J. A. SMITH. I THE IDEA OF PROGRESS F. S. MARVIN The editor of these essays was busy in the autumn of last year collating the opinions attached by different people to the word 'progress'. One Sunday afternoon he happened to be walking with two friends in Oxford, one a professor of philosophy, the other a lady. The professor of philosophy declared that to him human progress must always mean primarily the increase of knowledge; the editor urged the increase of power as its most characteristic feature, but the lady added at once that to her progress had always meant, and could only mean, increase in our appreciation of the humanity of others. The first two thoughts, harmonized and directed by the third, may be taken to cover the whole field, and this volume to be merely a commentary upon them. What we have to consider is, when and how this idea of progress, as a general thing affecting mankind as a whole, first appeared in the world, how far it has been realized in history, and how far it gives us any guidance and hope for the future. In the midst of a catastrophe which appears at first sight to be a deadly blow to the ideal, such an inquiry has a special interest and may have some permanent value. Words are the thought of ages crystallized, or rather embodied with a constantly growing soul. The word 'Progress', like the word 'Humanity', is one of the most significant. It is a Latin word, not used in its current abstract sense until after the Roman incorporation of the Mediterranean world. It contains Greek thought summed up and applied by Roman minds. Many of the earlier Greek thinkers, Xenophanes and Empedocles as well as Plato and Aristotle, had thought and spoken of a steady process in things, including man himself, from lower to higher forms; but the first writer who expounds the notion with sufficient breadth of view and sufficiently accurate and concrete observation to provide a preliminary sketch, was the great Roman poet who attributed all the best that was in him to the Greeks and yet has given us a highly original picture of the upward tendency of the world and of human society upon it. He, too, so far as one can discover, was the first to use the word 'progress' in the sense of our inquiry. The passage in Lucretius at the end of his fifth book on the Nature of Things is so true and brilliant and anticipates so many points in later thought that it is worth quoting at some length, and the poet's close relation with Cicero, the typical Greco-Roman thinker, gives his ideas the more weight as an historical document. He begins by describing a struggle for existence in which the less well-adapted creatures died off, those who wanted either the power to protect themselves or the means of adapting themselves to the purposes of man. In this stage, however, man was a hardier creature than he afterwards became. He lived like the beasts of the field and was ignorant of tillage or fire or clothes or houses. He had no laws or government or marriage, and though he did not fear the dark, he feared the real danger of fiercer beasts. Men often died a miserable death, but not in multitudes on a single day as they do now by battle or shipwreck. The next stage sees huts and skins and fire which softened their bodies, and marriage and the ties of family which softened their tempers. And tribes began to make treaties of alliance with other tribes. Speech arose from the need which all creatures feel to exercise their natural powers, just as the calf will butt before his horns protrude. Men began to apply different sounds to denote different things, just as brute beasts will do to express different passions, as any one must have noticed in the cases of dogs and horses and birds. No one man set out to invent speech. Fire was first learnt from lightning and the friction of trees, and cooking from the softening and ripening of things by the sun. Then men of genius invented improved methods of life, the building of cities and private property in lands and cattle. But gold gave power to the wealthy and destroyed the sense of contentment in simple happiness. It must always be so whenever men allow themselves to become the slaves of things which should be their dependants and instruments. They began to believe in and worship gods, because they saw in dreams shapes of preterhuman strength and beauty and deemed them immortal; and as they noted the changes of the seasons and all the wonders of the heavens, they placed their gods there and feared them when they spoke in the thunder. Metals were discovered through the burning of the woods, which caused the ores to run. Copper and brass came first and were rated above gold and silver. And then the metals took the place of hands, nails, teeth, and clubs, which had been men's earliest arms and tools. Weaving followed the discovery of the use of iron. Sowing, planting, and grafting were learnt from nature herself, and gradually the cultivation of the soil was carried farther and farther up the hills. Men learnt to sing from the birds, and to blow on pipes from the whistling of the zephyr through the reeds: and those simple tunes gave as much rustic jollity as our more elaborate tunes do now. Then, in a summary passage at the end, Lucretius enumerates all the chief discoveries which men have made in the age-long process--ships, agriculture, walled cities, laws, roads, clothes, songs, pictures, statues, and all the pleasures of life--and adds, 'these things practice and the experience of the unresting mind have taught mankind gradually as they have progressed from point to point'.[1] It is the first definition and use of the word in literature. If we accept it as a typical presentation of the Greco-Roman view, seen by a man of exceptional genius and insight at the climax of the period, there are two or three points which must arrest our attention. Lucretius is thinking mainly of progress in the arts, and especially of the arts as they affect man's happiness. There is no mention of increase in knowledge or in love. As in the famous parallel passage in Sophocles' _Antigone_, it is man's strength and skill which most impressed the poet, and his skill especially as exhibited in the arts. Compared with what we shall see as typical utterances of later times, it is an external view of the subject. The absence of love as an element of progress carries with it the absence of the idea of humanity. There is no conception here, nor anywhere in classical thought before the Stoics, of a world-wide Being which has contributed to the advance and should share fully in its fruits. Still less do we find any hint of the possibilities of an infinite progress. The moral, on the contrary, is that we should limit our desires, banish disturbing thoughts, and settle down to a quiet and sensible enjoyment of the good things that advancing skill has provided for us. It is, of course, true that thoughts can be found in individual writers, especially in Plato and Aristotle, which would largely modify this view. Yet it can hardly be questioned that Lucretius here represents the prevalent tone of thoughtful men of his day. They had begun to realize the fact of human progress, but envisaged it, as was natural in a first view, mainly on the external side, and, above all, had no conception of its infinite possibilities. When we turn to typical utterances of the next great age in history the contrast is striking. Catholic doctrine had absorbed much that was congenial to it from the Stoics, from Plato and Aristotle, but it added a thing that was new in the world, a passionate love and an overpowering desire for personal moral improvement. This is so clear in the greatest figures of the Middle Ages, men such as St. Bernard and St. Francis, and it is so unlike anything that we know in the world before, that we are justified in treating it as characteristic of the age. To some of us, indeed, it will appear as the most important element in the general notion of progress which we are tracing. It so appeared to Comte.[2] Of numberless passages that might be quoted from fathers and doctors of the Church, a few words from Nicholas of Cusa must suffice. He was a divine of the early fifteenth century, true to the faith, but anxious to improve the discipline of the Church. To him progress took an entirely spiritual form. 'To be able to understand more and more without end is the type of eternal wisdom.... Let a man desire to understand better what he does understand and to love more what he does love and the whole world will not satisfy him.' Here is a point of view so different from the last that we find some difficulty in fitting it into the same scheme of things. Yet both are essential elements in Western civilization; both have been developed by the operations of similar forces in the world civilized and incorporated by Greece and Rome. The Catholic divine looks entirely inward for his idea of progress, and his conception contains elements of real and permanent validity, of which our present notions are full. His eyes are turned towards the future and there is no limit to his vision. And though the progress contemplated is within the soul of the individual believer, it rests on the two fundamental principles of knowledge and love which are both essentially social. The believer may isolate himself from the world to develop his higher nature, but the knowledge and the love which he carries with him into his solitude are themselves fruits of that intercourse with his fellows from which an exclusive religious ideal temporarily cuts him off. Nor must we forget that Catholic doctrine and discipline, though aiming at this perfection of the individual rather than of the race, was embodied in an organization which carried farther than the Roman Empire the idea of a united civilization and furnished to many thinkers, Bossuet as well as Dante, a first sketch of the progress of mankind. But it is clear that this construction was provisional only, either on the side of personal belief and practice, or of ecclesiastical organization; provisional, that is, if we are looking for real unity in the mind of mankind. For we need a doctrine, a scheme of knowledge, into which all that we discover about the world and our own nature may find its place; we need principles of action which will guide us in attaining a state of society more congruent with our knowledge of the possibilities of the world and human nature, more thoroughly inspired by human love, love of man for man as a being living his span of life here and now, under conditions which call for a concentration of skill and effort to realize the best. The breaking of the old Catholic synthesis, narrow but admirable within its limits, took place at what we call the Renascence and Reformation; the linking up of a new one is the task of our own and many later generations. Let it not be thought that such a change involves the destruction of any vital element in the idea of progress already achieved; if true and vital, every element must survive. But it does involve an acceptance of the fact that progress, or humanity, or the evolution of the divine within us--however we prefer to phrase it--is a larger thing than any one organization or any one set of carefully harmonized doctrines. The truth, and the organ in which we enshrine it, must grow with the human minds who are collectively producing it. The new unity is itself progress. It must give us confidence in facing such a prospect to observe that at each remove from the first appearance of the idea of progress in the world man's use of the word has carried more meaning and, though sometimes quieter in tone, as in recent times, is better grounded in the facts of life and history. Such an advance in our conceptions took place after the Renascence. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, when the art and science of the ancient world had been recovered, the word and the idea of progress started on a fresh course of unexampled vigour. The lines were closer to those of the pre-Christian than of the Catholic world, but it would be by no means true to call them pagan. When Bacon and Descartes begin to sound the modern note of progress, they think primarily of an advance in the arts and sciences, but there is a spiritual and human side to their ideal which could not be really paralleled in classical thought. The Spirit of Man is now invoked, and this, not in the sense of an élite, the builders of the Greek State or the rulers of the Roman Empire, but of mankind as a whole. This is Christian, or perhaps we should say, Stoical-Christian. Thus Descartes tells us that he looks to science to furnish us ultimately with an art which will make us 'masters and possessors of nature ... and this not solely for the pleasure of enjoying with ease the good things of the world, but principally for the preservation and improvement of human health which is both the foundation of all other goods and the means of strengthening the spirit itself' ('Discours de la Méthode'). It is significant that the two words Progress and Humanity come into use in their modern sense side by side. The latter is the basis and the ideal of the former. But the new thing which had come into the world at this point, and gives a fresh impulse and content to the idea of progress, is the development of science. The Greeks had founded it and, as we shall see in a later chapter, it was the recovery of the Greek thread which gave the moderns their clue. But no one before the sixteenth century, before the marvels revealed by Galileo's telescope and knit up by Newton's synthetic genius, could have conceived the visions of human regeneration by science which light up the pioneers of the seventeenth century and are the gospel of the eighteenth. We turn to the eighteenth century, and primarily to the school of thinkers called 'philosophes' in France, for the fullest and most enthusiastic statement of progress as a gospel. It is, of course, European, as all the greatest advances of thought have been; and German thinkers, as well as English, stand with the French in the vanguard. Kant and Herder, from different points of view, thought it out perhaps more thoroughly than any one else at that time; but the French believed in it as a nation and were willing to stake their lives and souls on the belief. Thus Turgot, before the Revolution, declared that 'the total mass of the human race marches continually though sometimes slowly towards an ever-increasing perfection'. And Condorcet, in the midst of the Revolution, while himself under its ban, painted a picture 'of the human race, freed from its chains, and marching with a firm tread on the road of truth and virtue and happiness'. Here is the gospel in its purest and simplest form, and when we are inclined to think that the crimes and the partial failure of the Revolution discredit its principles, it is well to remember that the man who believed in them most systematically, expounded his belief with perfect calmness and confidence as he lay under sentence of death from a revolutionary tribunal. If this enthusiasm is madness, we might all well wish to be possessed. The true line of criticism is different. At the Revolution, as before at the Renascence, the leaders of the new movement could not see all their debt to the past. Like the Renascence, they idealized certain features in classical antiquity, but they had not yet gained the notion of historical continuity; above all, they did not realize the value of the religious development of the Middle Ages. It was left for the nineteenth century and for us, its successors, to attempt the supreme task of seeing things steadily and seeing them whole. For in spite of the capital contributions of the Renascence to progress and the idea of progress, especially by its scientific constructions, it is undeniable that a bias was then given to the course of Western civilization from which it has suffered ever since, and which it is now our urgent duty to correct. Two aspects of this may be specified. The old international unity which Rome had achieved, at least superficially, in the Mediterranean world, and which the Catholic Church had extended and deepened, was broken up in favour of a system of sovereign and independent states controlling religion and influencing education on lines calculated to strengthen the national forces and the national forces alone. They even believed that, at any rate in trade and commerce, the interests of these independent states were rather rival than co-operative. The Revolution struck the note of human association clearly enough, but we have not yet learnt to set all our other tunes in accord with it. Another, and perhaps even more fundamental, weakness of the Renascence tradition was the stress it laid on the material, mechanical, external side of progress. On the one hand, the spiritual side of life tended to be identified with that system of thought and discipline which had been so rudely disrupted. On the other hand, the new advance in science brought quickly after it a corresponding growth of wealth and mechanical inventions and material comforts. The spirit of man was for the time impeded and half suffocated by its own productions. The present war seems to many of us the supreme struggle of our better nature to gain the mastery over these obstructions, and freedom for its proper growth. Now if this analysis be anywhere near the truth, it is clear that our task for the future is one of synthesis on the lines of social progress. Knowledge, power, wealth, increase of skill, increase of health, we have them all in growing measure, and Mr. Clutton Brock will tell us in his chapter in this volume that we may be able by an exercise of will to achieve even a new renascence in art. But we certainly do not yet possess these things fairly distributed or in harmony of mind. The connexion therefore between progress as we now envisage it, and unity, both in ourselves and in society at large, becomes apparent. At each of the previous great moments in the history of the West development has been secured by emphasis on one side of our nature at the expense of the rest. Visions of mankind in common progress have flashed on individual thinkers, a Roman Emperor, a Catholic Schoolman, a Revolutionary prophet. But the thing achieved has been one-sided, and the needed correction has been given by another movement more one-sided still. The greatest hope of the present day lies in the fact that in all branches of life, in government as well as in philosophy, in science as in social reform, in religion and in international politics, men are now striving with determination to bind the threads together. There is no necessary opposition between the rival forces which have so often led to conflict. In all our controversies harmony can be reached and has often been reached by the application of patience, knowledge, and goodwill. And goodwill implies here the readiness to submit the particular issue to the arbitration of the general good. The international question has been so fully canvassed in these days that it would be superfluous to discuss it here. The moral is obvious, and abundant cases throughout the world illustrate the truth that well-organized nationalities contain in themselves nothing contrary to the ideal of international peace.[3] Nor is the still more persistent and universal opposition of capital and labour really less amenable to reconciliation, because in this case also the two factors in the problem are equally necessary to social progress, and we shall not enter on the various practical solutions--co-operation, co-partnership, partial state-socialism, &c.--which have been proposed for a problem which no one believes to be insoluble. The conflict in our own souls between the things of matter and sense and the life of the spirit, is more closely germane to the present argument, because ultimately this has to be resolved, if not in every mind yet in the dominant mind of Europe, before the more practical questions can be generally settled. Harmony here is at the root of a sound idea of progress. When the concluding chapters of this volume are reached it will be seen how fully the recent developments both in science and philosophy corroborate the line which is here suggested for the reconciliation of conflicts and the establishment of a stronger and more coherent notion of what we may rightly pursue as progress. For both in science and still more in philosophy attention is being more and more closely concentrated on the meaning of life itself, which science approaches by way of its physical concomitants, and philosophy from the point of view of consciousness. And while science has been analysing the characteristics of a living organism, philosophy finds in our consciousness just that element of community with others which an organic conception of progress demands. The only progress of which we can be certain, the philosopher tells us, is progress in our own consciousness, which becomes constantly fuller, more knowing, and more social, as time unfolds. This, he tells us, must endure, though the storms of passion and nature may fall upon us. On such a firm basis we would all gladly build our faith. No unity can be perfect except that which we achieve in our own souls, and no progress can be relied on except that which we can know within, and can develop from, our own consciousness and our own powers. But we cannot rest in this. We are bound to look outside our own consciousness for some objective correspondence to that progress which our own nature craves; and history supplies this evidence. It is from history that we derive the first idea and the accumulating proofs of the reality of progress. Lucretius's first sketch is really his summary of social history up to that point. The Catholic thinker had a wider scope. He was able to see that the whole course of Greco-Roman civilization was, from his point of view, a preparation for the Church which had the care of the spiritual life of man while on earth. And in the next stage, that in which we now live, we see all the interests of life taken back again into the completeness of human progress, and can trace that complete being, labouring slowly but unmistakably to a higher state, outside us in the world, as well as within our own consciousness, which is ready to expand if we will give it range. On such lines we may sketch the historical aspect of progress on which the personal is based; and it is of the utmost importance to keep the two aspects before us concurrently, because reliance on the growing fullness of the individual life to the neglect of the social evolution is likely to empty that life itself of its true content, to leave the self-centred visionary absorbed in the contemplation of some ideal perfection within himself, while the world outside him from which he ultimately derives his notions, is toiling and suffering from the want of those very elements which he is best able to supply. The succeeding chapters of this book will, it is hoped, supply some evidence of the concrete reality of progress, as well as of the tendency to greater coherence and purity in the ideal itself. It would have been easy to accumulate evidence; some sides of life are hardly touched on at all. The collective and the intellectual sides are fully dealt with both in this and in the volume on _The Unity of Western Civilization_. But if we make our survey over a sufficient space, coming down especially to our own days, our conclusion as to the advance made in the physical and moral well-being of mankind, will be hardly less emphatic. Our average lives are longer and continue to lengthen, and they are unquestionably spent with far less physical suffering than was generally the case at any previous period. We are bound to give full weight to this, however much we rightly deplore the deadening effect of monotonous and mechanical toil on so large a part of the population. And even for these the opportunities for a free and improving life are amazingly enlarged. We groan and chafe at what remains to be done because of the unexampled size of the modern industrial populations with which we have to deal. But we know in some points very definitely what we want, and we are now all persuaded with John Stuart Mill that the remedy is in our own hands, 'that all the great sources of human suffering are in a great degree, many of them entirely, conquerable by human care and effort.' This conviction is perhaps the greatest step of all that we have gained. In morality some pertinent and necessary questions are raised in Chap. VI, but the general progress would be doubted by very few who have had the opportunity of comparing the evidence as to any previous state of morals, say in the Middle Ages or in the Elizabethan age--the crown of the Renascence in England--with that of the present day. The capital advance in morality, which by itself would be sufficient to justify our thesis, is the increase in the consciousness and the obligation of the 'common weal', that conception of which Government, increasingly better organized, is the most striking practical realization. It has its drawback in the spread of what we feel as a debasing 'vulgarity', but the general balance is overwhelmingly on the side of good. And in all such discussions we are apt to allow far too little weight to the change which the New World, and especially the United States, has brought about. In matters of personal prosperity and a high general standard of intellectual and moral competence, what has been achieved there would outweigh a good deal of our Old World defects when we come to drawing up a world's balance-sheet. It will be seen therefore that we dismiss altogether any doctrine of an 'illusion of progress' as a necessary decoy to progressive action. Progress is a fact as well as an ideal, and the ideal, though it springs from an objective reality, will always be in advance of it. So it is with all man's activities when he comes to man's estate. In science he has always an ideal of a more perfect knowledge before him though he becomes scientific by experience. In art he is always striving to idealize fresh things, though he first becomes an artist from the pure spontaneous pleasure of expressing what is in him. The deliberate projection of the ideal into the future, seeing how far it will take us and whether we are journeying in the right direction, is a late stage. As to progress, the largest general ideal which can affect man's action, it is only recently that mankind as a whole has been brought to grips with the conception, also enlarged to the full. He was standing, somewhat bewildered, somewhat dazzled, before it, when the war, like an eclipse of the sun, came suddenly and darkened the view. But an eclipse has been found an invaluable time for studying some of the problems of the sun's nature and of light itself. One of the most acute critics of the mid-Victorian prophets of progress, Dr. John Grote, did very well in disentangling the ideal element which is inherent in every sound doctrine of progress as a guide to conduct. He took the theory of a continuous inevitable progress in human affairs, and showed how this by itself might lead to a weakening of the will, on which alone in his view progress in the proper sense depends. He took the mechanical theory of utilitarianism and subjected it to a similar analysis. We cannot evaluate progress as an increase in a sum-total of happiness. This is incapable of calculation, and if we aim directly at it, we are likely to lose the higher things on which it depends, and which are capable of being made the objects of that direct striving which is essential to progress. Dr. Grote's analysis has long since passed into current philosophical teaching, but he will always be well worth reading for his fresh and vigorous reasoning and for the way in which he builds up his own position without denying the solid contributions of those whom he criticizes. Complete truth in the matter seems to us to involve a larger share for the historical element than Dr. Grote explicitly allows. We grant fully the paramount necessity for an ideal of progress and for constantly revising, purifying, and strengthening it. But in its formation we should trace more than he does to the collective forces of mankind as expressed in history. These have given us the ideal and will carry us on towards it by a force which is greater than, and in one sense independent of, any individual will. This is the cardinal truth of sociology, and is obvious if we consider how in matters of everyday experience we are all compelled by some social force not ourselves, as for instance in actions tending to maintain the family or in a national crisis such, as the war. This general will is not, of course, independent of all the wills concerned, but it acts more or less as an outside compelling force in the case of every one. Moreover our selves are composite as well as wholes, and parts of us are active in forming the general will, parts acquiesce and parts are overborne. Thus it is clear that a general tendency to progress in the human race may be well established--as we hold it to be--and yet go on in ways capable of infinite variation and at very various speed. We are all, let us suppose, being carried onward by one mighty and irresistible stream. We may combine our strength and skill and make the best use of the surrounding forces. This is working and steering to the chosen goal. Or we may rest on our oars and let the stream take us where it will. This is drifting, and we shall certainly be carried on somewhere; but we may be badly bruised or even shipwrecked in the process, and in any case we shall have contributed nothing to the advance. Some few may even waste their strength in trying to work backwards against the stream. We seem to have reached the point in history when for the first time we are really conscious of our position, and the problem is now a possible and an urgent one to mark the goal clearly and unitedly and bend our common efforts to attaining it. If this be so, the work of synthesis may be thought to have a higher practical value for the moment than the analysis which has prevailed in European thought for the last forty or fifty years. In the earlier part of the nineteenth century the great formative ideas which had been gathering volume and enthusiasm during the revolutionary period, took shape in complete systems of religious and philosophic truth--Kant, Hegel, Spencer, Comte. They have been followed by a period of criticism which has left none of them whole, but on the other hand has produced a mass of contradictions and specialisms highly confusing and even hopeless to the public mind and veiling the more important and profound agreements which have been growing all the time beneath. There are now abundant signs of a reaction towards unity and construction of a broad and solid kind. In no respect is such a knitting up more desirable than in this idea of progress itself. Are we to say that there is no such thing as all-round continuous progress, but only progress in definite branches of thought and activity, progress in science or in particular arts, social progress, physical progress, progress in popular education and the like, but that any two or more branches only coincide occasionally and by accident, and that when working at one we can and should have no thought of working at them all? This is no doubt a prevalent view and we may hope that some things said in this book may modify it. Another school of critical thinkers, approaching the question from the point of view of the ultimate object of action, asks what is the one thing for which all others are to be pursued as means? Is increase of knowledge the absolute good or increase of happiness? Or if it is increase of love, is it quite indifferent what we love? A few words on this may fitly conclude this chapter. The task of mankind, and of every one of us so far as he is able to enter into it, is to bring together these various aspects of human excellence, to see them as parts of one ideal and labour to approach it. This approach is progress, and if you say 'progress of what, and to what end', the answer can only be, the progress of humanity, and the end further progress. Some of the writers in this book will indicate the point at which in their view this progress is in contact with the infinite, with something not given in history; but, whatever our view of the transcendental problem may be, it is of the utmost importance for all of us to realize that we have given to us in the actual process of time, in concrete history, a development of humanity, a growth from a lower to a higher state of being, which may be most perfectly realized in the individual consciousness, fully awake and fully socialized, but is also clearly traceable in the doings of the human race as a whole. Such is in fact the uniting thread of these essays, and when we proceed to the converse of this truth and apply this ideal which we have shown to be the course of realization, as a governing motive in our lives, it is even more imperative to strive constantly to keep the whole together, and not to regard either knowledge or power or beauty or even love as an ultimate and supreme thing to which all other ends are merely means. The end is a more perfect man, developed by the perfecting of all mankind. Such a conception embraces all the separate aspects of our nature each in its place, and each from its own angle supreme. Love and knowledge inseparable and fundamental, freedom and happiness essential conditions of healthy growth, personality developed with the development of the greater personality in which we all live and grow. This greater personality is at its highest immeasurably above us, and has no assignable limits in time or in capacity to know, to love, or to enjoy. We cannot fix its origin at any known point in the birth of planets, nor does the cooling of our sun nor of all the suns seem to put any limit in our imagination to the continuous unfolding of life like our own. While thus practically infinite, the ideal of human nature is revealed to us concretely in countless types of goodness and truth and beauty which we may know and love and imitate. To all it is open to study the lineaments of this ideal in the records and figures of the past; to most it is revealed in some fellow beings known in life. From these, the human spirits which embody the strivings, the hopes, the conquered failings of the past, we may form our better selves and build the humanity of the future. There is a famous and magnificent passage in Dante's _Purgatorio_ which Catholic commentators interpret in sacramental terms but we may well apply in a wider sense to the progress of the human spirit towards the ideal. It occurs at that crucial point where the ascending poet leaves the circles of sad repentance to reach the higher regions of growing light. 'And when we came there, to the first step, it was of white marble, so polished that I could see myself just as I am. 'And the second was coloured dark, a rugged stone, cracked lengthwise and across. And the third piled above it was flaming porphyry, red like the blood from a vein. 'Above this one was the angel of God, sitting on the threshold, bright as a diamond. 'Up the three steps my master led me with goodwill and then he said, "Beg humbly that he unlock the door."'[4] Like this, the path man has to tread is not an easy progress. But he is rising all the time and he rises on steps of his own past. He sees reflected in them the image of himself, and he sees too the deep faults in his nature, and the rough surface of his path through time. The last step, tinged by his own blood, gives access to a higher dwelling, firm and bright and leading higher still. But it is open only after a long ascent, and to the human spirit that has worked faithfully, with love for his comrades and leaders, and reverence for the laws which bind both the world and him. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE John Grote, _Examination of Utilitarian Philosophy_. Kant, _Principles of Politics_ (translated by Hastie and published by Clark) contains his smaller works on Universal History, Perpetual Peace, and the Principle of Progress. See also the _Essay on Herder_. Comte's _Positive Polity_, vols. i. and ii, passim. FOOTNOTES: [1] 'usus et impigrae simul experientia mentis paulatim docuit pedetemtim progredientes.' [2] Comte, _Positive Polity_, ii 116. [3] See Delisle Burns, _Morality of Nations_, and _The Unity of Western Civilization_, passim. [4] _Purgatorio_, ix. 94-108. II PROGRESS IN PREHISTORIC TIMES R. R. MARETT If I am unable to deliver this lecture in person, it will be because I have to attend in Jersey to the excavation of a cave once occupied by men of the Glacial Epoch. Now these men knew how to keep a good fire burning within their primitive shelter; their skill in the chase provided them with a well-assorted larder; their fine strong teeth were such as to make short work of their meals; lastly, they were clever artisans and one may even say artists in flint and greenstone, not only having the intelligence to make an economic use of the material at their disposal, but likewise having enough sense of form to endow their implements with more than a touch of symmetry and beauty. All this we know from what they have left behind them; and the rest is silence. And now let us imagine ourselves possessed of one of those time-machines of which Mr. H. G. Wells is the inventor. Transported by such means to the Europe of that distant past, could we undertake to beat the record of those cave-men? Clearly, all will depend on how many of us, and how much of the apparatus of civilization, our time-machine is able to accommodate. If it were simply to drop a pair of us, naked and presumably ashamed, into the midst of the rigours of the great Ice Age, the chances surely are that the unfortunate immigrants must perish within a week. Adam could hardly manage to kindle a fire without the help of matches. Eve would be no less sorely troubled to make clothes without the help of a needle. On the other hand, if the time-machine were as capacious as Noah's Ark, the venture would undoubtedly succeed, presenting no greater difficulty than, let us say, the planting of a settlement in Labrador or on the Yukon. Given numbers, specialized labour, tools, weapons, books, domesticated animals and plants, and so forth, the civilized community would do more than hold its own with the prehistoric cave-man, devoid of all such aids to life. Indeed, it is tolerably certain that, willingly or unwillingly, our colonists would soon drive the ancient type of man clean out of existence. On the face of it, then, it would seem that we, as compared with men of Glacial times, have decidedly 'progressed'. But it is not so easy to say off-hand in what precisely such progress consists. Are we happier? As well ask whether the wild wolf or the tame dog is the happier animal. The truth would seem to be that wolf and dog alike can be thoroughly happy each in its own way; whereas each would be as thoroughly miserable, if forced to live the life of the other. In one of his most brilliant passages Andrew Lang, after contrasting the mental condition of one of our most distant ancestors with yours or mine, by no means to our disadvantage, concludes with these words: 'And after all he was probably as happy as we are; it is not saying much.'[5] But, if not happier, are we nobler? If I may venture to speak as a philosopher, I should reply, confidently, 'Yes.' It comes to this, that we have and enjoy more soul. On the intellectual side, we see farther afield. On the moral side, our sympathies are correspondingly wider. Imaginatively, and even to no small extent practically, we are in touch with myriads of men, present and past. We participate in a world-soul; and by so doing are advanced in the scale of spiritual worth and dignity as members of the human race. Yet this common soul of mankind we know largely and even chiefly as something divided against itself. Not only do human ideals contradict each other; but the ideal in any and all of its forms is contradicted by the actual. So it is the discontent of the human world-soul that is mainly borne in upon him who shares in it most fully. A possibility of completed good may glimmer at the far end of the quest; but the quest itself is experienced as a bitter striving. Bitter though it may be, however, it is likewise ennobling. Here, then, I find the philosophic, that is, the ultimate and truest, touchstone of human progress, namely, in the capacity for that ennobling form of experience whereby we become conscious co-workers and co-helpers in an age-long, world-wide striving after the good. But to-day I come before you, not primarily as a philosopher, but rather as an anthropologist, a student of prehistoric man. I must therefore define progress, not in the philosophic or ultimate way, but simply as may serve the strictly limited aims of my special science. As an anthropologist, I want a workable definition--one that will set me working and keep me working on promising lines. I do not ask ultimate truth of my anthropological definition. For my science deals with but a single aspect of reality; and the other aspects of the real must likewise be considered on their merits before a final account can be rendered of it. Now anthropology is just the scientific history of man; and I suppose that there could be a history of man that did without the idea of human progress altogether. Progress means, in some sense, change for the better. But, strictly, history as such deals with fact; and is not concerned with questions of better or worse--in a word, with value. Hence, it must always be somewhat arbitrary on the part of an historian to identify change in a given direction with a gain or increase in value. Nevertheless, the anthropologist may do so, if he be prepared to take the risk. He sees that human life has on the whole grown more complex. He cannot be sure that it will continue to grow more complex. Much less has he a right to lay it down for certain that it ought to grow more complex. But so long as he realizes that he is thereby committing himself by implication to a prophetic and purposive interpretation of the facts, he need not hesitate to style this growth of complexity progress so far as man is concerned. For if he is an anthropologist, he is also a man, and cannot afford to take a wholly external and impartial view of the process whereby the very growth of his science is itself explained. Anthropologists though we be, we run with the other runners in the race of life, and cannot be indifferent to the prize to be won. Progress, then, according to the anthropologist, is defined as increase in complexity, with the tacit assumption that this somehow implies betterment, though it is left with the philosopher to justify such an assumption finally and fully. Whereas in most cases man would seem to have succeeded in the struggle for existence by growing more complex, though in some cases survival has been secured by way of simplification, anthropology concentrates its attention on the former set of cases as the more interesting and instructive even from a theoretical point of view. Let biology by all means dispense with the notion of progress, and consider man along with the other forms of life as subject to mere process. But anthropology, though in a way it is a branch of biology, has a right to a special point of view. For it employs special methods involving the use of a self-knowledge that in respect to the other forms of life is inevitably wanting. Anthropology, in short, like charity, begins at home. Because we know in ourselves the will to progress, we go on to seek for evidences of progress in the history of mankind. Nor need we cease to think of progress as something to be willed, something that concerns the inner man, even though for scientific purposes we undertake to recognize it by some external sign, as, for instance, by the sign of an increasing complexity, that is, such differentiation as likewise involves greater cohesion. All history, and more especially the history of early man, must deal primarily with externals. Thence it infers the inner life; and thereby it controls the tendency known as 'the psychologist's fallacy', namely, that of reading one's own mind into that of another man without making due allowance for differences of innate capacity and of acquired outlook. In what follows, then, let us, as anthropologists, be content to judge human progress in prehistoric times primarily by its external and objective manifestations; yet let us at no point in our inquiries forget that these ancient men, some of whom are our actual ancestors, were not only flesh of our flesh, but likewise spirit of our spirit. * * * * * A rapid sketch such as this must take for granted on the part of the audience some general acquaintance with that succession of prehistoric epochs which modern research has definitely established. Pre-history, as distinguished from proto-history, may, in reference to Europe as a whole, be made coextensive with the Stone Age. This divides into the Old Stone Age and the New. The Old Stone Age, or Palaeolithic Period, yields three well-marked subdivisions, termed Early, Middle, and Late. The New Stone Age, or Neolithic Period, includes two sub-periods, the Earlier or Transitional, and the Later or Typical. Thus our historical survey will fall naturally into five chapters. There are reasons, however, why it will be more convenient to move over the whole ground twice. The material on which our judgements must be founded is not all of one kind. Anthropology is the joint work of two departments, which are known as Physical Anthropology and Cultural Anthropology respectively. The former, we may say, deals with man as an organism, the latter with him as an organizer. Here, then, are very different standpoints. For, in a broad way of speaking, nature controls man through his physical organization, whereas through his cultural organization man controls nature. From each of these standpoints in turn, then, let us inquire how far prehistoric man can be shown to have progressed. First, did the breed improve during the long course of the Stone Age in Europe? Secondly, did the arts of life advance, so that by their aid man might establish himself more firmly in his kingdom? Did the breed improve during prehistoric times? I have said that, broadly speaking, nature controls man as regards his physical endowment. Now in theory one must admit that it might be otherwise. If Eugenics were to mature on its purely scientific side, there is no reason why the legislator of the future should not try to make a practical application of its principles; and the chances are that, of many experiments, some would prove successful. But that conscious breeding was practised in prehistoric times is out of the question. The men of those days were one and all what we are ourselves--nature's mongrels, now broken up into varieties by casual isolation, and now by no less casual intermixture recompounded in a host of relatively unstable forms. Whatever progress, therefore, may have occurred in this respect has been unconscious. Man cannot take the credit for it, except in so far as it is indirectly due to that increase and spread of the race which have been promoted by his achievements in the way of culture. The barest outline of the facts must suffice. For the Early Pleistocene, apart from the Java fossil, _Pithecanthropus erectus_, a veritable 'missing link', whom we may here disregard as falling altogether outside our world of Europe, there are only two individuals that can with certainty be referred to this distant period. These are the Piltdown and the Heidelberg specimens. The former consists of a fragmentary brain-case, thick-boned and narrow-fronted, but typically human in its general characters, and of the greater part of a lower jaw, which, as regards both its own elongated and curiously flanged structure, and that of the teeth it contained, including an enormous pointed canine, is conversely more appropriate to an ape-like being than to a man. The latter consists only of a lower jaw, of which the teeth, even the canines, are altogether human, whereas the jaw itself is hardly less simian than that of the Sussex skull. If we add the Java example to the list of very primitive forms, it is remarkable to note how, though differing widely from each other, all alike converge on the ape. Nevertheless, even in Pithecanthropus, the brute is passing into the man. We note the erect attitude, to be inferred from his thigh-bone, and the considerably enlarged, though even so hardly human, brain. The Piltdown individual, on the other hand, has crossed the Rubicon. He has a brain-capacity entitling him to rank as a man and an Englishman. Such a brain, too, implies a cunning hand, which doubtless helped him greatly to procure his food, even if his massive jaw enabled him to dispose of the food in question without recourse to the adventitious aids of knife and fork. For the matter of that, if our knowledge made it possible to correlate these rare finds of bones more exactly with the innumerable flint implements ascribable to this period (and, indeed, not without analogies among the spoil from the Piltdown gravels), it might turn out that even the equivalent of knife and fork was not wanting to the Early Pleistocene supper-party, or, at any rate, that the human hand was already advanced from the status of labourer to the more dignified position of superintendent of the tool. The Middle Pleistocene Epoch belongs to the men of the Neanderthal type. Some thirty specimens, a few of them more or less complete, have come down to us, and we can form a pretty clear notion of the physical appearance of the race. Speaking generally, we may say that it marks a stage of progress as compared with the Piltdown type; though, if the jaw, heavy and relatively chinless as it is, has become less simian, the protruding brow-ridge lends a monstrous look to the face, while the forehead is markedly receding--a feature which turns out, however, to be not incompatible with a weight of brain closely approaching our own average. Whether this type has disappeared altogether from the earth, or survives in certain much modified descendants, is an open question. The fact remains that during the last throes of the Glacial Epoch this rough-hewn kind of man apparently had Northern Europe as his exclusive province; and it is by no means evident what _Homo Sapiens_, the supposed highly superior counterpart and rival of _Homo Neanderthalensis_, was doing with himself in the meantime. Moreover, not only in respect of space does the population of that frozen world show remarkable homogeneity; but also in respect of time must we allow it an undisputed sway extending over thousands of years, during which the race bred true. The rate of progress, whether reckoned in physical terms or otherwise, is so slow as to be almost imperceptible. A type suffices for an age. Whereas in the life-history of an individual there is rapid development during youth, and after maturity a steadying down, it is the other way about in the life-history of the race. Man, so to speak, was born old and accommodated to a jog-trot. We moderns are the juveniles, and it is left for us to go the pace. Yet Late Pleistocene Period introduces us to more diversity in the way of human types. Only one race, however, that named after the rock-shelter of Crô-Magnon in the Dordogne, is represented by a fair number of specimens, namely, about a dozen. At this point we come suddenly and without previous warning on as pretty a kind of man as ever walked this earth. In his leading characters he is remarkably uniform. Six feet high and long-legged, he likewise possessed a head well stocked with brains and a face that, if rather broad and short, was furnished by way of compensation with a long and narrow nose. If the present world can show nothing quite like him, it at least cannot produce anything more shapely in the way of the 'human form divine'. Apart from the Crô-Magnons, the remains of an old woman and a youth found at the lowest level of the Grotte des Enfants at Mentone are usually held to belong to a distinct stock known as the Grimaldi. The physical characters of the pair are regarded as negroid, verging on the Pygmy; but if we could study an adult male of the same stock, it might possibly turn out not to be so very divergent from the Crô-Magnon. Again, a single specimen does duty for the so-called Chancelade race. The skeleton is of comparatively low stature, and is deemed to show close affinities to the type of the modern Eskimo. Without being unduly sceptical, one may once more wonder if the Crô-Magnon stock may not have produced this somewhat aberrant form. Even on such a theory, however--and it is hardly orthodox--diversity of physical structure would seem to be on the increase. On the other hand, there are reasons of considerable cogency for referring to the end of this period skeletons of what Huxley termed the 'River-bed type', the peculiarity of which consists in the fact that they are more or less indistinguishable from the later Neolithic men and indeed from any of those slight-built, shortish, long-headed folk who form the majority in the crowded cities of to-day. Some authorities would ascribe a far greater antiquity to this type, but, I venture to think, on the strength of doubtful evidence. The notorious Galley Hill skeleton, for instance, found more or less intact in an Early Pleistocene bed in which the truly contemporary animals are represented by the merest battered remnants, to my mind reeks of modernity. Be these things as they may, however, when we come to Neolithic times a race of similar physical characters has Europe to itself, though it would seem to display minor variations in a way that suggests that the reign of the mongrel has at length begun. And here we may close our enumeration of the earliest known branches of our family tree, since the coming of the broad-heads pertains to the history of the Bronze Age, and hence falls outside the scope of the present survey. Now what is the bearing of these somewhat scanty data on the question of progress? It is not easy to extract from them more than the general impression that, as time went on, the breed made persistent headway as regards both the complexity of its organization and the profusion of its forms. After all, we must not expect too much from this department of the subject. For one thing, beyond the limits of North-western Europe the record is almost blank; and yet we can scarcely hope to discover the central breeding-place of man in what is, geographically, little more than a blind alley. In the next place, Physical Anthropology, not only in respect to human palaeontology, but in general, is as barren of explanations as it is fertile in detailed observations. The systematic study of heredity as it bears on the history of the human organism has hardly begun. Hence, it would not befit one who is no expert in relation to such matters to anticipate the verdict of a science that needs only public encouragement in order to come into its own. Suffice it to suggest here that nature as she presides over organic evolution, that is, the unfolding of the germinal powers, may be conceived as a kindly but slow-going and cautious liberator. One by one new powers, hitherto latent, are set free as an appropriate field of exercise is afforded them by the environment. At first divergency is rarely tolerated. A given type is extremely uniform. On the other hand, when divergency is permitted, it counts for a great deal. The wider variations occur nearest the beginning, each for a long time breeding true to itself. Later on, such uncompromising plurality gives way to a more diffused multiplicity begotten of intermixture. Mongrelization has set in. Not but what there may spring up many true-breeding varieties among the mongrels; and these, given suitable conditions, will be allowed to constitute lesser types possessed of fairly uniform characters. Such at least is in barest outline the picture presented by the known facts concerning the physical evolution of man, if one observe it from outside without attempting to explore the hidden causes of the process. Some day, when these causes are better understood, man may take a hand in the game, and become, in regard to the infinite possibilities still sleeping in the transmitted germ, a self-liberator. Nature is but a figurative expression for the chances of life, and the wise man faces no more chances than he needs must. Scientific breeding is no mere application of the multiplication table to a system of items. We must make resolutely for the types that seem healthy and capable, suppressing the defectives in a no less thorough, if decidedly more considerate, way than nature has been left to do in the past. Here, then, along physical lines is one possible path of human progress, none the less real because hitherto pursued, not by the aid of eyes that can look and choose, but merely in response to painful proddings at the tail-end. Our remaining task is to take stock of that improvement in the arts of life whereby man has come gradually to master an environment that formerly mastered him. For the Early Palaeolithic Period our evidence in respect of its variety, if not of its gross quantity, is wofully disappointing. Not to speak of man's first and rudest experiments in the utilization of stone, which are doubtless scattered about the world in goodly numbers if only we could recognize them clearly for what they are, the Chellean industry by its wide distribution leads one to suppose that mankind in those far-off days was only capable of one idea at a time--a time, too, that lasted a whole age. Yet the succeeding Acheulean style of workmanship in flint testifies to the occurrence of progress in one of its typical forms, namely, in the form of what may be termed 'intensive' progress. The other typical form I might call 'intrusive' progress, as happens when a stimulating influence is introduced from without. Now it may be that the Acheulean culture came into being as a result of contact between an immigrant stock and a previous population practising the Chellean method of stone-work. We are at present far too ill-informed to rule out such a guess. But, on the face of it, the greater refinement of the Acheulean handiwork looks as if it had been literally hammered out by steadfastly following up the Chellean pattern into its further possibilities. Explain it as we will, this evolution of the so-called _coup-de-poing_ affords almost the sole proof that the human world of that remote epoch was moving at all. If we could see their work in wood, we might discern a more diversified skill or we might not. As it is, we can but conclude in the light of our very imperfect knowledge that in mind no less than in body mankind of Early Palaeolithic times displayed a fixity of type almost amounting to that of one of the other animal species. During Middle Palaeolithic times the Mousterian culture rules without a rival. The cave-period has begun; and, thanks to the preservation of sundry dwelling-places together with a goodly assortment of their less perishable contents, we can frame a fairly adequate notion of the home-life of Neanderthal man. I have already alluded to my excavations in Jersey, and need not enter into fuller details here. But I should like to put on record the opinion borne in upon me by such first-hand experience as I have had that cultural advance in Mousterian days was almost as portentously slow as ever it had been before. The human deposits in the Jersey cave are in some places about ten feet thick, and the fact that they fall into two strata separated by a sterile layer that appears to consist of the dust of centuries points to a very long process of accumulation. Yet though there is one kind of elephant occurring amid the bone refuse at the bottom of the bed, and another and, it would seem, later kind at the top, one and the same type of flint instrument is found at every level alike; and the only development one can detect is a certain gain in elegance as regards the Mousterian 'point', the reigning substitute for the former _coup-de-poing_. Once more there is intensive progress only, so far at least as most of the Jersey evidence goes. One _coup-de-poing_, however, and that hardly Acheulean in conception but exactly what a hand accustomed to the fashioning of the Mousterian 'point' would be likely to make by way of an imitation of the once fashionable pattern, lay at lowest floor-level; as if to remind one that during periods of transition the old is likely to survive by the side of the new, and may even survive in it as a modifying element. As a matter of fact, the _coup-de-poing_ is frequent in the earliest Mousterian sites; so that we cannot but ask ourselves how it came to be in the end superseded. Whether the Mousterians were of a different race from the Acheuleans is not known. Certain it is, on the other hand, that the industry that makes its first appearance in their train represents a labour-saving device. The Mousterian had learned how to break up his flint-nodule into flakes, which simply needed to be trimmed on one face to yield a cutting edge. The Acheulean had been content to attain this result more laboriously by pecking a pebble on both faces until what remained was sharp enough for his purpose. Here, then, we are confronted with that supreme condition of progress, the inventor's happy thought. One of those big-brained Neanderthal men, we may suppose, had genius; nature, the liberator, having released some latent power in the racial constitution. Given such a culture-hero, the common herd was capable of carrying on more or less mechanically for an aeon or so. And so it must ever be. The world had better make the most of its geniuses; for they amount to no more than perhaps a single one in a million. Anyway, Neanderthal man never produced a second genius, so far as we can tell; and that is why, perhaps, his peculiar type of brow-ridge no longer adorns the children of men. Before we leave the Mousterians, another side of their culture deserves brief mention. Not only did they provide their dead with rude graves, but they likewise furnished them with implements and food for use in a future life. Herein surely we may perceive the dawn of what I do not hesitate to term religion. A distinguished scholar and poet did indeed once ask me whether the Mousterians, when they performed these rites, did not merely show themselves unable to grasp the fact that the dead are dead. But I presume that my friend was jesting. A sympathy stronger than death, overriding its grisly terror, and converting it into the vehicle of a larger hope--that is the work of soul; and to develop soul is progress. A religious animal is no brute, but a real man with the seed of genuine progress in him. If Neanderthal man belonged to another species, as the experts mostly declare and I very humbly beg leave to doubt, we must even so allow that God made him also after his own image, brow-ridges and all. The presence of soul in man is even more manifest when we pass on to the Late Palaeolithic peoples. They are cave-dwellers; they live by the chase; in a word, they are savages still. But they exhibit a taste and a talent for the fine arts of drawing and carving that, as it were, enlarge human existence by a new dimension. Again a fresh power has been released, and one in which many would seem to have participated; for good artists are as plentiful during this epoch as ever they were in ancient Athens or mediaeval Florence. They must have married-in somewhat closely, one would think, for this special aptitude to have blossomed forth so luxuriantly. I cannot here dwell at length on the triumphs of Aurignacian and Magdalenian artistry. Indeed, what I have seen with my own eyes on the walls of certain French caves is almost too wonderful to be described. The simplicity of the style does not in the least detract from the fullness of the charm. On the contrary, one is tempted to doubt whether the criterion of complexity applies here--whether, in fact, progress has any meaning in relation to fine art--since, whether attained by simple or by complex means, beauty is always beauty, and cannot further be perfected. Shall we say, then, with Plato that beauty was revealed to man from the first in its absolute nature, so that the human soul might be encouraged to seek for the real in its complementary forms of truth and goodness, such as are less immediately manifest? For the rest, the soul of these transcendently endowed savages was in other respects more imperfectly illuminated; as may be gathered from the fact that they carved and drew partly from the love of their art, but partly also, and, perhaps, even primarily, for luck. It seems that these delineations of the animals on which they lived were intended to help them towards good hunting. Such is certainly the object of a like custom on the part of the Australian aborigines; there being this difference, however, that the art of the latter considered as art is wholly inferior. Now we know enough about the soul of the Australian native, thanks largely to the penetrating interpretations of Sir Baldwin Spencer, to greet and honour in him the potential lord of the universe, the harbinger of the scientific control of nature. It is more than half the battle to have willed the victory; and the picture-charm as a piece of moral apparatus is therefore worthy of our deepest respect. The chariot of progress, of which the will of man is the driver, is drawn by two steeds, namely, Imagination and Reason harnessed together. Of the pair, Reason is the more sluggish, though serviceable enough for the heavy work. Imagination, full of fire as it is, must always set the pace. So the soul of the Late Palaeolithic hunter, having already in imagination controlled the useful portion of the animal world, was more than half-way on the road to its domestication. But in so far as he mistook the will for the accomplished deed, he was not getting the value out of his second horse; or, to drop metaphor, the scientific reason as yet lay dormant in his soul. But his dream was to come true presently. The Neolithic Period marks the first appearance of the 'cibi-cultural' peoples. The food-seekers have become food-raisers. But the change did not come all at once. The earlier Neolithic culture is at best transitional. There may even have been one of those set-backs in culture which we are apt to ignore when we are narrating the proud tale of human advance. Europe had now finally escaped from the last ravages of an Arctic climate; but there was cruel demolition to make good, and in the meantime there would seem, as regards man, to have been little doing. Life among the kitchen-middens of Denmark was sordid; and the Azilians who pushed up from Spain as far as Scotland did not exactly step into a paradise ready-made. Somewhere, however, in the far south-east a higher culture was brewing. By steps that have not yet been accurately traced legions of herdsmen and farmer-folk overspread our world, either absorbing or driving before them the roving hunters of the older dispensation. We term this, the earliest of true civilizations, 'neolithic', as if it mattered in the least whether your stone implement be chipped or polished to an edge. The real source of increased power and prosperity lay in the domestication of food-animals and food-plants. The man certainly had genius and pluck into the bargain who first trusted himself to the back of an unbroken horse. It needed hardly less genius to discover that it is no use singing charms over the seed-bearing grass in order to make it grow, unless some of the seed is saved to be sowed in due season. Society possibly brained the inventor--such is the way of the crowd; but, as it duly pocketed the invention, we have perhaps no special cause to complain. By way of appreciating the conditions prevailing in the Later Neolithic Age, let us consider in turn the Lake-dwellers of Switzerland and the Dolmen-builders of our Western coast-lands. I was privileged to assist, on the shore of the Lake of Neuchâtel, in the excavation of a site where one Neolithic village of pile-dwellings had evidently been destroyed by fire, and at some later date, just falling within the Stone Age, had been replaced by another. Here we had lighted on a crucial instance of the march of cultural progress. The very piles testified to it, those of the older settlement being ill-assorted and slight, whereas the later structure was regularly built and heavily timbered. It was clear, too, that the first set of inhabitants had lived narrow lives. All their worldly goods were derived from strictly local sources. On the other hand, their successors wore shells from the Mediterranean and amber beads from the Baltic among their numerous decorations; while for their flint they actually went as far afield as Grand Pressigny in West-Central France, the mines of which provided the butter-like nodules that represented the _ne plus ultra_ of Neolithic luxury. Commerce must have been decidedly flourishing in those days. No longer was it a case of the so-called 'silent trade', which the furtive savage prosecutes with fear and trembling, placing, let us say, a lump of venison on a rock in the stream dividing his haunts from those of his dangerous neighbours, and stealing back later on to see if the red ochre for which he pines has been deposited in return on the primitive counter. The Neolithic trader, on the other side, must have pushed the science of barter to the uttermost limits short of the invention of a circulating medium, if indeed some crude form of currency was not already in vogue. When we turn to the Dolmen-builders, and contemplate their hoary sanctuaries, we are back among the problems raised by the philosophic conception of progress as an advance in soul-power. Is any religion better than none? Does it make for soul-power to be preoccupied with the cult of the dead? Does the imagination, which in alliance with the scientific reason achieves such conquests over nature, give way at times to morbid aberration, causing the chill and foggy loom of an after-life to obscure the honest face of the day? I can only say for myself that the deepening of the human consciousnesses due to the effort to close with the mystery of evil and death, and to extort therefrom a message of hope and comfort, seems to me to have been worth the achievement at almost any cost of crimes and follies perpetrated by the way. I do not think that progress in religion is progress towards its ultimate abolition. Rather, religion, if regarded in the light of its earlier history, must be treated as the parent source of all the more spiritual activities of man; and on these his material activities must depend. Else the machine will surely grind the man to death; and his body will finally stop the wheels that his soul originally set in motion. The panorama is over. It has not been easy, at the rate of about a millennium to a minute, to present a coherent account of the prehistoric record, which at best is like a jig-saw puzzle that has lost most of the pieces needed to reconstitute the design. But, even on this hasty showing, it looks as if the progressive nature of man were beyond question. There is manifest gain in complexity of organization, both physical and cultural; and only less manifest, in the sense that the inwardness of the process cannot make appeal to the eye, is the corresponding gain in realized power of soul. In short, the men of the Stone Age assuredly bore their full share in the work of race-improvement; and the only point on which there may seem to be doubt is whether we of the age of metal are as ready and able to bear our share. But let us be optimistic about ourselves. As long as we do not allow our material achievements to blind us to the need of an education that keeps the spiritual well to the fore, then progress is assured so far as it depends on culture. Yet if we could likewise breed for spirituality, humanity's chances, I believe, would be bettered by as much again or more. But how is this to be done? Science must somehow find out. To leave it to nature is treason to the mind. Man may be an ass on the whole, but nature is even more of an ass, especially when it stands for human nature minus its saving grace of imaginative, will-directed intelligence. So let us hope that one day people will marry intelligently, and that the best marriages will be the richest in offspring. I believe that the spiritual is not born of the sickly; and at any rate should be prepared to make trial of such a working principle in my New Republic. So much for the practical corollaries suggested by our flying visit to Prehistoric Europe. But, even if any detailed lessons to be drawn from such fragmentary facts have to be received with caution, you need not hesitate to pursue this branch of study for its own sake as part of the general training of the mind. Accustom yourselves to a long perspective. Cultivate the eagle's faculty of spacious vision. It is only thus that one can get the values right--see right and wrong, truth and error, beauty and ugliness in their broad and cumulative effects. Analytic studies, as they are termed, involving the exploration of the meaning of received ideas, must come first in any scheme of genuine education. We must learn to affirm before we can go on to learn how to criticize. But historical studies are a necessary sequel. Other people's received ideas turn out in the light of history to have sometimes worked well, and sometimes not so well; and we are thereupon led to revise our own opinions accordingly. Now the history of man has hitherto stood almost exclusively for the history of European civilization. Being so limited, it loses most of its value as an instrument of criticism. For how can a single phase of culture criticize itself? How can it step out of the scales and assess its own weight? Anthropology, however, will never acquiesce in this parochial view of the province of history. History worthy of the name must deal with man universal. So I would have you all become anthropologists. Let your survey of human progress be age-long and world-wide. You come of a large family and an ancient one. Learn to be proud of it, and then you will seek likewise to be worthy of it. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE W. J. Sollas, _Ancient Hunters and their Modern Representatives_, 2nd edition, 1915. E. A. Parkyn, _Introduction to the study of Prehistoric Art_. R. R. Marett, _Anthropology_ (Home University Library). J. L. Myres, _Dawn of History_ (Home University). FOOTNOTES: [5] Presidential Address to the International Folk-Lore Congress, 1891, p. 9. III PROGRESS AND HELLENISM F. MELIAN STAWELL To speak the truth about national characteristics it is often necessary to speak in paradoxes, for of all unities on earth nothing contains so many contradictions as a nation. So it is here: it may be said quite truly that the Greeks had at once the most profound conceptions about Progress and no faith in it: that they were at once the most hopeful and the most despairing of peoples. Let me try to explain. When we speak of a faith in Progress, whatever else we mean, we must mean, I take it, that there is a real advance in human welfare throughout time from the Past to the Future, that 'the best is yet to be', and that the good wine is kept to the last. But if we are to have a philosophy underlying that faith we must be able to say something more. What, in the first place, do we mean by 'a real advance'? Or by 'human welfare'? Progress, yes, but progress towards what? What is the standard? And if we cannot indicate a standard, what right have we to say that one life is any better than another? The life of the scientific man any better than the life of the South Sea Islander--content if only he has enough bananas to eat? Or than the life of a triumphant conqueror, a Zenghis Khan or a Tamberlaine--exultant if he has enough human heads before him? Or, indeed, any of these rather than the blank of Nirvana or the life of a vegetable? Our first need, then, is the need of a standard for good over and above the conflicting opinions of men, and some idea as to what that standard implies. And the next question is, why we should hold that any of this good is going to be realized in human life at all? If it is, there must be some connexion of cause and effect between goodness and human existence. What is the nature of that connexion? Finally, why should we hope that this goodness is realized more and more fully as time goes on? The Greeks faced these questions, as they faced so many, with extraordinary daring and penetration and with an intimate mixture of sadness and hope. They themselves, of all nations known to us in history, had made the greatest progress in the shortest space of time. A long course of preparation, it is true, underlay that marvellous growth. The classical Greeks,--and when I speak of Hellenism I mean the flower of classical Greek culture,--the classical Greeks entered into the labours of the island peoples, who, whether kindred to them or not, had built up from neolithic times a great civilization, the major part of which they could, and did, assimilate. They found the soil already worked. None the less it is to their own original genius that we owe those great discoveries of the spirit which, to quote a recent writer, 'created a new world of science and art, established an ideal of the sane mind in the sane body and the perfect man in the perfect society, cut out a new line of progress between anarchy and despotism, and made moral ends supreme over national in the State.'[6] But these practical achievements of theirs have been already summed up by Professor J. A. Smith in his lecture[7] at this school last year, and it is to that lecture that I would refer you. I will take it as a basis and proceed for my own purposes to discuss the Greek conceptions about progress. Those conceptions were complex, and, speaking roughly, we may say this: if belief in real progress implies belief in three things, namely, (1) an absolute standard apprehended, however dimly, by man, (2) a causal connexion between existence and perfection, and (3) a persistent advance through time, then the Greeks held to the first two and doubted, or even denied, the third. Their two great thinkers, Plato and Aristotle, worked out systems based on the conviction that there really was an absolute standard of perfection, that man could really apprehend something of this perfection, and that the effort towards it was essential to the very existence of the world, part of the stuff, as it were, that made the universe. These systems have had an effect not to be exaggerated on the whole movement of thought since their day. Moreover, many of their fundamental conceptions are being revived in modern science and metaphysics. And the convictions that underlie them are calculated, one would say, to lead at once to a buoyant faith in progress. But with Plato, and Aristotle, and the Greeks generally, they did not so lead. The Greeks could not feel sure that this effort towards perfection, though it is part of existence, is strong enough to deliver man in this world from the web of evil in which also he is involved, nor even that he makes any approach on the whole towards the loosening of the toils. The spectre of world-destruction, as Whitman says of Carlyle, was always before them. And I wish to ask later on if we may not surmise definite reasons in their own history for this recurring note of discouragement. But let us first look at the positive side, and first in Plato. Plato came to his system by several lines of thought, and to understand it we ought to take account of all. 1. In the first place no thinker, I suppose, ever felt more keenly than he felt the desire for an absolute standard of truth, especially in matters of right and wrong, if only to decide between the disputes of men. And, in Greece men disputed so boldly and so incessantly that there was no possibility of forgetting the clash of opinion in any 'dogmatic slumber'. Thus Plato is always asking, like Robert Browning in 'Rabbi Ben Ezra',-- Now, who shall arbitrate? Ten men love what I hate, Shun what I follow, slight what I receive; Ten who in ears and eyes Match me: we all surmise, They this thing, and I that; whom shall my soul believe? In one of his very earliest dialogues, the 'Euthyphro', Plato puts the question almost in so many words. What is it, he asks (7 A-E), that men quarrel over most passionately when they dispute? Is it not over the great questions of justice and injustice, of beauty, goodness, and the like? They do not quarrel thus over a question of physical size, simply because they can settle such a dispute by reference to an unquestioned standard, a standard measure, let us say. If there is no corresponding standard for right and wrong, if each man is really the judge and the measure for himself, then there is no sense, Plato feels, in claiming that one man is wiser than another in conduct, or indeed any man wiser than a dog-faced baboon (_Theaet._ 161 C-E). 2. Again, Plato feels most poignantly the inadequacy of all the goodness and beauty we have ever actually seen in this world of space and time, compared with the ideal we have of them in their perfection. How can we have this sense of deficiency, he asks, unless somehow we apprehend something supreme, over and above all the approaches to it that have as yet appeared? (_Phaedo_, 74 E). This vision of an absolute perfection, as yet unrealized on earth, so dominates all his thinking, and has such peculiar features of its own, that even familiar quotations must be quoted here. You will find an exquisite translation of a typical passage in our Poet Laureate's Anthology, _The Spirit of Man_ (No. 37). Specially to be noted here is the stress on the unchanging character of this eternal perfection and the suggestion that it cannot be fully realized in the world. At the same time, Plato is equally sure that it is only through the study of this world that our apprehension of that perfection is awakened at all:-- 'He who has thus been instructed in the science of Love, and has been led to see beautiful things in their due order and rank, when he comes toward the end of his discipline, will suddenly catch sight of a wondrous thing, beautiful with the absolute Beauty ... he will see a Beauty eternal, not growing or decaying, not waxing or waning, nor will it be fair here and foul there ... as if fair to some and foul to others ... but Beauty absolute, separate, simple, and everlasting; which lending of its virtue to all beautiful things that we see born to decay, itself suffers neither increase nor diminution, nor any other change' (_Symp._ 211). All beautiful things remind man, Plato tells us in his mythological fashion, of this perfect Beauty, because we had seen it once before in another life, before our souls were born into this world, 'that blissful sight and spectacle' (_Phaedrus_, 250 B) when we followed Zeus in his winged car and all the company of the gods, and went out into the realm beyond the sky, a realm 'of which no mortal poet has ever sung or ever will sing worthily'. 3. But, beside this passion for the ideal, Plato was intensely interested in our knowledge of the actual world of appearances around us. And one of the prime questions with which he was then concerned was the question, what we mean when we talk about the nature or character of the things we see, a plant, say, or an animal, or a man. We must mean something definite, otherwise we could not recognize, for example, that a plant _is_ a plant through all its varieties and all the different stages of its growth. Plato's answer was, that in all natural things there is a definite principle that copies, as it were, a definite Type or Form, and this Type he calls an Idea. Thus in some sense it is this Type, this Idea, this Form, that brings the particular thing into being. 4. But it was not enough for Plato to say that every natural thing had in some sense a certain type for its basis, unless he could believe that this type was good, and that all the types were harmonious with each other. He could only be satisfied with the world, in short, if he could feel that it came about through a movement towards perfection. He makes his Socrates say that in asking about 'the causes of things, what it is that makes each thing come into being', it was not enough for him if he could only see that the thing was there because something had put it there: he also wanted to see that it was good for it to be there. Socrates tells us that what he needed he thought he had found in a book by Anaxagoras, which announced 'that Mind was the disposer and cause of all' because, 'I said to myself, If this be so--if Mind is the orderer, it will have all in order, and put every single thing in the place that is best for it'.[8] It is the same feeling as that which underlies the words of Genesis about the Creation, 'And God saw that it was good'. And there is no doubt that such a view of the world would be supremely satisfying if we could count it true. There may be considerable intellectual satisfaction, no doubt, in merely solving a puzzle as to how things come about, but it is as nothing compared to the joy there would be in contemplating their goodness. 5. But is it true? Can we possibly say so in view of the hideous imperfection round us? The writers of Genesis spoke of a Fall. Plato, in his own way, speaks of a Fall himself. He never gives up the belief in an Absolute Perfection, a system of Perfect Types somehow--he does not say exactly how--influencing the structure of things in this world. But he holds that on earth this perfection is always thwarted by a medium which prevents its full manifestation. This medium is the medium of Space and Time, and therefore the medium of history--and therefore history is always and inevitably a record of failure. 'While we are in the body,' Plato writes, 'and while the soul is contaminated with its evils, our desire will never be thoroughly satisfied.'[9] 'The body is a tomb,' he writes elsewhere, quoting a current phrase. This is sad enough: yet if we put against it Plato's vision of what Man might be, we get as inspiring words as ever were written: 'We have spoken of Man', he says at the end of the _Republic_, 'as he appears to us now, but now he looks as Glaucus looked after he had been cast into the sea, and his original nature was scarcely to be discerned, for his limbs were broken and crushed and defaced by the waters, and strange things had grown round him, shells and seaweed and stones, so that he was more like a beast than a man. That is how the soul looks to us now encompassed by all her evils. It is elsewhere, my friend, that we ought to look.' Where? asks Plato's friend, and Plato answers, 'We should look to her love of wisdom and realize what she clings to, what company she desires, for she is akin to the Divine and Immortal and Eternal, and we should understand what she would become if she followed after it, with all her strength, and were lifted by that effort out of the sea where she now lies.... Then we should understand her real nature.' (_Republic_, 611.) Somewhere, Plato believes, this true nature of man may be realized. The Principle of Good is something active, not a dead helpless thing, with no effect on the rest of the universe (_Sophist_, 248, 249); it is a living power, which desires that everything everywhere should be as glorious as possible (_Tim._ 29 D). There is no envy, Plato says, in the Divine, that grudging spirit has no part in the heavenly company. Only it is not on earth that the glory can be realized. It is towards the life after death that Plato's real hopes are directed. None the less, and this is important, this world does not cease to be significant for him. He does not turn aside,--as some souls, intoxicated with the Divine, have done,--from this world altogether. Because he holds that man can only advance by struggling to make this world better. Man's ordinary life may be like the life in a cave, as he says in his famous myth, but the true philosopher who has once risen out of the cave must go back into it again and teach the prisoners there what the universe really is (_Republic_, Book vi, _fin._; vii, _init._). The very passage that I quoted about man's real nature comes at the end of the _Republic_. Now the _Republic_ is a Utopia, and no one writes a Utopia unless he believes that the effort to reach it is of prime importance to man and helps him to advance. Only, for Plato, the advance is not marked in the successive stages of history, as the modern faith in progress asserts. The life on earth, for Plato, is like a school through which men pass and in which they may learn and grow, but the school itself does not go on growing. It is not that he does not envisage change in history, but what he seems to hope for at the best is nothing more hopeful than recurring cycles of better and worse. He tells a fable, in his dialogue 'The Statesman', of how at one time the world is set spinning in the right direction by God and then all goes well, and again how God ceases to control it, and then it gradually forgets the divine teaching and slips from good to bad and from bad to worse, until at last God takes pity on it once more to save it from utter destruction (_Polit._ 269 ff.). No doubt in this idea of cycles Plato is influenced by the popular thought of his time: this feeling that there had been a lost Golden Age in the past was deeply rooted in Greek mythology. We get it long before Plato, in Hesiod, and there are similar touches in Homer, and once men believe that they have sunk from glory, there is always the dread that if ever they recover it they will lose it again. And with Plato this dread is reinforced by his sense of something incurable in the world, the thwarting influence of spatial and temporal matter (_Theaet._ 176 A). It is strange that, though he is always thinking of the individual soul as learning through experience in its passage from one life to another, Plato does not seem to have the idea of mankind learning by the lessons of history, of knowledge being handed down from one age to another, and growing in the process. That is one of the most inspiring ideas in modern thought: a German writer has spoken of history as the long Odyssey of the human spirit, the common mind of Man coming at last through its wanderings to find out what it really wants, and where its true home lies. And here, significantly enough, we find we are brought back in our modern way to something very like Plato's own conception of an eternal unchanging Reality. There are endless problems in the whole conception of the Eternal that I am quite unable even to attempt; but this much at least seems clear to me, that the whole idea of mankind learning by the experience of History, implies something of permanent value running through that experience. The very thought of continued progress implies that man can look back at the successive stages of the Past and say of each: In that lay values which I, to-day and always, can recognize as good, although I believe we have more good now. Seeley speaks in a noble passage of how religion might conceive a progressive revelation which was, in a sense, the same through all its stages, and yet was a growing thing:--'each new revelation asserts its own superiority to those which went before,' but the superiority is 'not of one thing to another thing--but of the developed thing to the undeveloped'. 'It is thus', he writes, 'that the ages should behave to one another.' This is the true 'understanding and concert with time'.[10] And though Plato does not live in the thought of historic progress, yet such a conception of progress which recognizes at different stages different expressions, more or less adequate, of one eternal value, such a way of thinking is entirely Platonic. When we look back at history in this mood we think not only of grasping the right principles for the Future, but of rejoicing in the definite achievements of the Past, and we feel this most poignantly, I think, of the achievements won by the spirit of Beauty. Great works of Art we are accustomed actually to call immortal, and we mean by this not merely that we think they will always be famous, but that there is something in them that makes it impossible for them ever to be superseded. In themselves they are inexhaustible: if they cease to interest us, it is our fault and not theirs. We may want more, we do want more, where they came from, but we never want to lose them, any more than we could bear to lose our old friends, though we may desire to make new ones. Of all the divine Ideas, said Plato, Beauty is the one that shows itself most plainly in the world of sense and speaks to us most plainly of the eternal realities. This, however, is perhaps trenching on the subject of Progress in Art, and I should like to return to the general Greek conception of the tendency in all nature towards the Good, the perfect realization of perfect types. Plato does not expressly insist that this tendency is of the nature of effort, though I think that is involved in his view. But Aristotle does. Following Plato in essentials, he makes bold to say outright that every natural thing in its own way longs for the divine and desires to share in the divine life, so far as it can.[11] Every such thing in this world of space and time has to cope with difficulties and is imperfect, but everything struggles towards the good. That good is in the life of God, a thinking life, an activity of thought, existing in some sense beyond this imperfect world; and this life is so supremely desirable that it makes everything else struggle to reach it. It moves the whole world, Aristotle says, in a famous passage, because it is loved. It is the world's desire.[12] Now this idea of effort--or of something analogous to effort--constituting the inner nature of every natural thing reappears, with pregnant consequences, in modern thought, though seldom with these vast theological consequences. The idea of an upward effort through nature lies at the base of our most hopeful theories of evolution, and forms the true support of our modern faith in progress. Broadly speaking, our evolutionists are now divided into two schools: the adherents of the one believe that variations are purely accidental, and may occur in any direction whatsoever, the useful ones being preserved only because they happen to be useful for the life of the species, while the adherents of the other--the school that I would call the school of hope--believe that accident, even with natural selection to aid it, is utterly inadequate to account for the ordered beauty and harmony that we do see in natural things. They admit, as Plato and Aristotle admit, imperfection and difficulty in the world, but they insist on a movement towards value: in short, they conceive an order emerging that is brought about, to quote a modern writer, both in nature and in society, by 'a principle of movement and progress conflicting with a principle of inertia.'[13] Aristotle, in words that are strikingly modern, raises the very question at issue here.[14] He asks whether we can suppose that nature does not aim at the good at all, but that variations arise by chance and are preserved just because they are useful, and he scouts the idea that chance could do more, as Zeller says, than 'bring about isolated and abnormal results'. He chooses instead the conception of purpose and effort, and this in spite of the difficulties in conceiving a purpose and an effort that are not definitely conscious. The sort of thing that is in Aristotle's mind when he speaks of nature aiming at the good, comes out in a passage by Edward Carpenter in his little book _The Art of Creation_. Carpenter plunges boldly and compares the principle that makes a tree grow and propagate its kind with the impulse that makes a man express himself. Man, he says, has a Will and Purpose, a Character, which, do what you will, tends to push outwards towards expression. You put George Fox in prison, you flog and persecute him, but the moment he has a chance he goes and preaches just the same as before.... But take a Tree and you notice exactly the same thing. A dominant Idea informs the life of the Tree; persisting, it forms the tree. You may snip the leaves as much as you like to a certain pattern, but they will only grow in their own shape. Finally, you may cut the tree down root and branch and burn it, but, if there is left a single seed, within that seed ... lurks the formative ideal, which under proper conditions will again spring into life and expression.[15] Aristotle would have endorsed almost every word of this. In his pithy way, speaking of the distinction between natural and artificial objects, he says himself that if you planted a wooden bed and the wood could still grow, it would grow up, not a bed, but a tree.[16] He would not have gone so far as to talk about the _Will_ of a tree, but he would have admitted that what made the tree grow was the same sort of thing as Will. And in one respect he goes farther than Edward Carpenter does. For he considers that not only growth but even the movement of natural things through space is somehow an expression of a tendency towards the good and the divine, a tendency which, when consciousness supervenes, we can call effort, an activity, even though, at its best, only an imperfect activity. He looks up at the splendour of the circling stars and asks if it is possible that so glorious an order can be anything but a manifestation of something akin to the divine. Here indeed he is speaking of movements made by existences he reckoned among the highest in the world, for he thought the stars were living beings higher than man. But he recognized a rudimentary form of such activity even in what we now call inanimate matter. Here we come to a leading conception of Aristotle's, and one most important for our purpose: the conception of a hierarchy of natural existences, all of them with some value, less or more. When Aristotle is truest to himself, he will tell us not to be afraid of studying the meanest forms of natural existence, because in everything there is something marvellous and divine. He quotes with much satisfaction the story of Heracleitus, who welcomed his friends into the bakehouse with the saying that 'there were gods in the bakehouse too'.[17] Thus, at the lowest end of the scale, we have what we call inanimate matter, which Aristotle thinks of much as we do, namely, as something occupying space, the different parts of it being endowed with different powers of movement, and with different properties, such as warmth or coldness, wetness or dryness. A natural thing, he says, is a thing that has a principle of activity in itself, something that makes it act in a definite way, whenever it is not interfered with by anything else.[18] Aristotle speaks, for example, of fire having a natural tendency to mount up, much as we might speak of solids having a natural tendency to gravitate towards one another. Go back as far as we like, and, Aristotle thinks, we still find certain primitive differences which constitute what we call the primitive elements. This, I imagine, is much the point of view of modern science. And these primitive elements in Aristotle's view influence each other, unite with each other, or change into each other. As a rule, however, they exhibit no new powers. But given a happy concurrence of qualities, say a certain union of heat and cold, and a new power does become manifest: the power of life. Thus, in a sense, Aristotle does envisage the spontaneous generation of life; and he knows, roughly, what he means by life. The living thing can go through far more changes than the non-living, while yet remaining recognizably the same thing. For example, it shows in itself a greater advance to richness and also a decline, it uses other things to foster this advance, and it sends out fresh things, like itself, but independent of itself: in short, it grows, decays, feeds itself, and propagates its kind.[19] As I understand Aristotle, for him there is not an entire and absolute difference between ordinary matter and living things, and yet there is a real difference, and one not to be explained away, for there is a new manifestation of active energy. And if we consider life of more value than mere motion, then we are right in saying there is a higher energy. The quality of growth is a quality which could not be deduced from the quality of warmth or from the quality of mere movement in space, and yet all three qualities are alike in this, that they are all manifestations of an energy which is somehow inherent in things, and not merely imposed on them from without. The manifestations of life are started, in a sense, by the different movements, 'mechanical', if you like to call them so, in the rudimentary forms of matter, the elements meeting each other in space. The process of life could not have begun without such movements. But neither could it have begun if the elements, just as they appear, had been all there was. There had to be latent, that is, the possibility of a different and higher mode of action. This higher mode of action Aristotle calls a higher Form, a higher Idea. And I think it is true to him to say that he believes the lower Forms, the lower Ideas, do their most perfect work when they bring about the conditions under which the higher ones can operate. For when he speaks of that concurrence of elements that conditions life he speaks of the 'warmth and cold' as 'having mastered the matter'.[20] In any case he conceives a whole series of higher and lower Forms, the higher coming nearer and nearer to that full and glorious activity which he conceives to be the life of God. Above the power of the thing to grow as a plant grows appears the power of sensation as it is present in animals, and above that again the power, first seen in man, of living the life of thought, perceiving what is beautiful and true in the 'forms', the characters, of all the things around him, and with this that further power of setting consciously before himself what he really wants to be and to do, the power of moral action strictly so-called. Throughout this series, in every higher stage the lower is present as a kind of basis. In the man who thinks there is active not only the power of thought, but also the power of sensation, the faculty of growth, and the physical properties of the body. It would seem that Aristotle has only to take one step, and he would be a thoroughgoing evolutionist. He has only to say that the different stages are successive in time, the lower regularly preceding the higher. But this step he hesitates to take. He often comes very near it. He speaks of nature passing gradually from inanimate things through living things to living animals. He speaks of what is first in itself, first inherently, 'prior' in the logical sense because it is the goal and the completion of the thing, as appearing later in time. For instance, he believes that man can only find his real happiness and develop his real nature in the State, but the State appears later in time than the primitive associations of the household and the family.[21] What came earlier in history were barbarous communities such as those of the Cyclopes, where 'each man laid down the law for his wife and children and obeyed no other law'. But Aristotle does not go on from this belief to the belief in a universal upward process throughout all history. The developed State, it is true, may always have been preceded by a lower form, but that lower form may itself have been preceded by a higher. Aristotle, in short, is haunted, like Plato, by the idea of cycles, alternations, decline and progress, progress and decline. He feels this both in the life of States and in the whole life of the world. He speaks of the same discoveries being made over and over again, an infinite number of times, in the history of civilization. And his words recall the sad passage in Plato's _Laws_ (676) referring to the numberless nations and states, ten thousand times ten thousand, that had risen and fallen all over the world, passing from worse to better and from better to worse. Similarly Aristotle will speak of degraded animal forms, and sometimes write as though the animal world could sink back into the vegetable altogether. Admitting, however, something like progress within the different cycles, we must ask a little more about the kind of progress which Aristotle would have desired. (I take Aristotle again as a typical Greek.) Man at his best, he clearly holds, in trying to realize his true nature should aim at a happiness which involves a harmony of all his faculties, a harmony inspired and led by the highest faculty of all, the Reason which rejoices in the contemplation of what is at once true and good and beautiful. Now in this aim, we must ask, does a man need other men and other creatures, and in what sense does he need them? Here, I think, we come on two inconsistent tendencies in Aristotle's thought, connected with two different ways of regarding the hierarchy of existences. We say that one existence is higher than another. Does this mean that what we call the lower are only so many blundering attempts to reach the higher? That every creature, for example, which is not a thinking man is, on the whole, a mistake? Aristotle often does speak like that. Woman, he says in one passage, is only a mutilated male.[22] The principle which ought to develop into the active power of thought could not, he explains, in women master the recalcitrant element which is always thwarting perfection, and thus woman is man _manqué_. On these lines of thought it is easy to slip into looking on all other forms of existence as merely valuable in so far as they serve the direct purposes of men, and indeed only of a few men, those namely who are able to think as philosophers. This is the kind of view according to which, as the satirist suggests, cork-trees only grow in order to make corks for champagne-bottles, and the inferior races of mankind only exist to furnish slaves for the higher. And Aristotle does, on occasion, lend himself to such a view: he justifies a slavery in which, as he says, some men are to be treated merely as living tools. And yet on his own principles every man ought to aim at realizing his own end, and not merely the ends of others. But there is a widely different view, also present in Aristotle, and truer to the essence of his thought. It is a view instinct with that reverence for all existence of which I spoke at first, and it holds that all the different natural types, high or low, could all be united in one harmony, like an ordered army, as Aristotle himself would say, in which the divine spirit was present even as the spirit of a general is present in his men. The greatest thing in man, Aristotle thinks, is the godlike power of apprehending the different characters of all the things around him, and this of itself suggests the belief that all these characters have a value of their own, unique and indispensable, each aiming at a distinct aspect of the Divine, each, if it fulfilled its inner nature, finding, as Plato might have said, the place where it was best for it to be. Again, it is clear from Aristotle's whole treatment of the State, that when he wrote his famous phrase, 'Man is by nature a political animal', he meant that man, as we should say, is essentially social. It is part of man's goal to live with others; it is not merely a means to the goal. His highest happiness lies in the contemplation of the good, and the good, Aristotle says, can be contemplated far better in others than in ourselves. This is a profound saying, and from this thought springs the deep significance of friendship in Aristotle's system. The crown of the civic life he takes to be the community of friends who recognize the good in each other, and enjoy each other through this. The wider this community, then, we must surely say, the better. For Aristotle then, man's perfection ought to mean the perfection of every individual, and progress, so far as he conceives it, involve progress towards this end. This should lead on to belief in the supreme importance of the individual soul, and to Kant's great principle that we should always treat each man as an end in himself. Thus, if we concentrate on the hopeful elements in Plato and Aristotle, we may fairly say, I think, that we can see outlined in their philosophies something like the following belief: every natural thing in this world, and every natural creature, so far as it is good,--and all are more or less good,--tends to express some distinct aspect of a perfect harmony: we human beings are the first on earth to be definitely conscious of such a tendency, the first to be able definitely to direct it to its true goal, and our business in life is therefore threefold: to make actual our own function in this harmony, to help other creatures to actualize theirs, and to contemplate every such manifestation, in men or in things, with reverence and rejoicing. The harmony, if complete, would be a manifestation of a divine reality, and thus the love of God, the love of our neighbour, the love of nature, self-development, political life, scientific study, poetic contemplation, and philosophic speculation, would all unite in one comprehensive and glorious task. This, surely, is hopeful enough. But the Greek hope faltered and sank. Could this harmony ever be realized? Would not the thwarting element in the world always drag it down again and again, and drag some men down always, so that after all progress was impossible, and for some men should not even be attempted? As a matter of fact, Plato and Aristotle do limit their exhortations to a narrow circle of cultured Greeks, and even with them they doubt of success. Now this despondency came partly, I think, through the very sensitiveness of the Hellenic nature. The spectacle of the ever-baffled struggle in Nature and Man they felt at times almost intolerable. Aristotle saw that this perpetual failure in the heart of glorious good made the very essence of tragedy. The tragic hero is the man of innate nobleness who yet has some one defect that lays him open to ruin. Man is set in a world full of difficulties, a world much of which is dark and strange to him: his action and those of others have results which he did not, and in his ignorance could not, foresee; he is not strong enough for his great task. All the Greek poets have this deep sadness. Homer has it, in and through his intense feeling for the beauty and energy of life. There has never been such war-poetry as Homer's, and yet there has never been any which felt more poignantly the senselessness in war. 'And I must come here', Achilles says to his noble enemy at the close, 'to torture you and your children.' In the next place, the sadness of the world could not be lightened for the Greeks by the vision that the modern theory of evolution has opened up to us of the long advance in the history of life on the planet. Even their knowledge of history in the strict sense was scanty, and it is only a long view of history that is likely to be comforting. What history they did know could bring them little comfort. In the first place it showed them a series of great civilizations, rising and falling, and those that had fallen seemed at least as good as those that followed them. A Greek like Plato knew of the Homeric civilization, simpler indeed, but fresher and purer than his own. And he believed, what we now know to be the fact, that even before the Homeric there had been a wonderful island-culture, what we call the Minoan, flourishing before the Homeric. 'There had been kings before Agamemnon.' And behind Minos and Agamemnon lay the great, and by that time the ossifying, kingdom of Egypt, compared to which the Greeks were, and felt themselves to be, but children. Plato had seen, finally, the degeneration of the Persian Empire--once so magnificent and mighty. This fact of recurrent decay is one of the heaviest that the human spirit can shoulder. Any theory of progress must come to terms with it, for Progress through history is certainly not an uninterrupted ascent; a spiral is the better image. And the weight must lie most heavily on a generation which feels its own self to be in peril of decay. Now Plato and Aristotle lived at such a period. Greece had gone through the bitter experiences of the Peloponnesian War, and the shadow of it lay on them, as on its historian Thucydides. In that fratricidal conflict Greece tore herself to pieces. It was a struggle between the two leaders of the then civilized world, and it has a terrible likeness to the struggle that is going on now. From its devastating influence Greece never recovered. Historians still dispute, and always will, as to the exact proportion of praise and blame between the two. But Thucydides himself, a true-hearted Athenian, brings out the tyrannical side in the Athenian temper. Not indeed towards her own people, but towards all who were not of her own immediate stock. Because Athens thought herself the fairest city in the world, as indeed she was, because she thought herself menaced by Sparta, and menaced she was, she allowed herself to tyrannize and lightly took up the burden of war between brethren. There are few passages in history more stately than the Funeral Oration of Pericles in which he calls Athens the School of Hellas, but even in it there is a certain deadly coldness of heart. And few things are more terrible than the coarsening of temper which Thucydides depicts as the war goes on and Pericles is succeeded by his caricature Cleon, the man who means to prosecute the war vigorously, and by vigour means ruthlessness. Nor was there ever a sterner indictment of aggression than that given in the dialogue between the spokesmen of Melos, the little island that desired to stand out of the conflict, and the Athenian representatives who were determined to force her into their policy. And after that dialogue comes, in Thucydides' great drama, the fall of Athens. The city recovered in some measure from her fall, but only to face another disaster. If she sinned in the Peloponnesian War through the spirit of aggression, she sinned in the struggle with Macedon through slackness and cowardice. In the one struggle she lost comradeship; in the other she lost liberty. And with the loss of the two she lost buoyancy. In a deeper sense than Pericles used the phrase, 'the springtime went out of her year'. Ultimately, perhaps, we cannot explain why this should be so. Other nations have had as disheartening experiences and yet risen above them. Some of the most inspired prophecies in the Hebrew writings came after the tiny state of Judaea had been torn in pieces by the insensate conflict between North and South, and after the whole people had been swept into captivity. But whatever the ultimate reason, Athens did not recover. We must not end, however, on a note of despair. Far from it. The work of Aristotle and Plato and of the Greeks generally, was cramped for lack of sympathy and lack of hope, and, strangely enough, it was after they had passed and their glory with them that sympathy grew in the world, and after sympathy grew, hope returned. For it is exactly in those failing years, when the Hellenic gave way to the Hellenistic, that men first grasped, and grasped so firmly that it could hardly be lost again, one of the fundamental principles on which the whole fabric of our later civilization has rested, or ought to rest, the great principle of personal equality, the claim of every individual to transcendent value, irrespective of race and creed and endowment. The conquering rule of Alexander, whatever else it did, broke down the barriers of the little city-states and made men of different races feel themselves members of mankind. There rose among the Stoics the conviction that all men do belong together and are all made for each other. And with the advent of Christianity came the belief that every man, however mean and unworthy, can receive a power that will make him all he ought to be. The highest is within his reach. There is no reason now why the glorious life that Hellenism conceived for a few should not lie open to all men. Finally, we might say, and truly, that the vast political organization built up by Rome gave us Europeans, once and for all, the vision of a united Europe. That dream has never left it. Even to-day, here and now, in spite of our disasters, our blunders, and our crimes, let us not forget it, that dream which is 'not all a dream', the dream of once again constructing a system in which we might, all of us, all nations and all men and women, make progress together in the common task. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE G. L. Dickinson, _The Greek View of Life_. Zeller, _Aristotle and the Earlier Peripatetics_. Edited by Evelyn Abbott, _Hellenica_. Bury, _History of Greece_. Davies and Vaughan, _Plato's Republic_. Welldon, _Aristotle's Politics_. Peters, _Aristotle's Ethics_. Bridges, _The Spirit of Man_. FOOTNOTES: [6] G. H. Perris, _History of War and Peace_, p. 54. [7] 'The Unity of Western Civilization,' c. III. [8] _The Spirit of Man_, 40; _Phaedo_, 96. [9] _The Spirit of Man_, 16; _Phaedo_, 66. [10] _Natural Religion_, part ii, c. 5. [11] _De An._ ii. 4, 415, p. 35. [12] _The Spirit of Man_, 39; Aristotle, _Met._ 10. [13] T. W. Rolleston, _Parallel Paths_. [14] _Phys._ ii. 8, 198 16-34. [15] Pp. 28-9. [16] _Phys._ ii, c. I. [17] _De Part. An._, Bk. i, c. 5. [18] _Phys._ ii. I, _init._ [19] _De Anima_, _init._ [20] _Meteor_, iv. 1. 378. See Zeller's _Aristotle_, vol. i, _fin._ [21] _Polit._ 1253 a; _Eth._ 1162 a. [22] _Gen. An._ ii. 3. 737. IV PROGRESS IN THE MIDDLE AGES A. J. CARLYLE There still survives, not indeed among students of history, but among some literary persons, the notion that the civilization of the Middle Ages was fixed and unprogressive; that the conditions of these centuries were wholly different from those of the ancient world and of modern time; that there was little continuity with the ancient world, and little connexion with the characteristic aspects of progress in the modern world. The truth is very different. It may be doubted whether at any other time, except perhaps in those two marvellous centuries of the flower of Greek civilization, there has been a more rapid development of the most important elements of civilization than in the period from the end of the tenth to the end of the thirteenth centuries. While it is true that much was lost in the ruin of the ancient world, much also survived, and there was a real continuity of civilization; indeed some of the greatest conceptions of the later centuries of the ancient world are exactly those upon which mediaeval civilization was built. And again, it was in the Middle Ages that the foundations were laid upon which the most characteristic institutions of the modern world have grown. Indeed this notion that the civilization of the Middle Ages was fixed and unprogressive is a mere literary superstition, and its origin is to be found in the ignorance and perversity of the men of the Renaissance; and hardly less, it must be added, in the foolishness of many of the conceptions of the Romantic revival. There are, indeed, excuses for these mistakes and confusions. The Renaissance represents, among other things, a great and necessary movement of revolt against a religious and intellectual civilization which had once been living and moving, but had tended from the latter years of the thirteenth century to grow stiff and rigid. It was probably a real misfortune that the great thinkers and scholars of the thirteenth century, like Alexander of Hales and Thomas Aquinas, had embarked upon what was a premature attempt at the systematization of all knowledge; they made the same mistake as the Encyclopaedists of the eighteenth century or Herbert Spencer in the nineteenth, but with more disastrous results. For this work unhappily encouraged the mediaeval Church in its most fatal mistake, its tendency to suspect and oppose the apprehensions of new aspects of truth. The men of the Renaissance had to break the forms under which the schoolmen had thought to express all truth, they had to carry forward the great enterprise and adventure of the discovery of truth, and they had to do this in the teeth of a violent resistance on the part of those who thought themselves the representatives of the mediaeval civilization. There are, therefore, excuses for them in their contempt for the intellectual life of the past; but there is no real excuse for them in their contempt for mediaeval art and literature. When they turned their back upon the immediate past, and endeavoured pedantically to reproduce the ancient world, they were guilty of an outrageous ignorance and stupidity, a stupidity which is expressed in that unhappy phrase of Pope, the 'Gothic night'. Happily neither the great artists of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries nor the great poets of England and Spain were much affected by the classical pedantry of which unhappily Petrarch was the begetter. It is this foolishness of the Renaissance which is the best excuse for the foolishness of the Romantic revival; the new classical movement had in such a degree interrupted the continuity of European art that it was very difficult for men in the eighteenth century to recover the past, and we must make allowance for the often ludicrous terms and forms of the new mediaevalism. Indeed it is a strange and often absurd art--the half-serious, half-parodying imitations of Thomson and Walpole and Wieland, this ludicrous caricature Gothic of Strawberry Hill and All Souls, the notion of Gothic architecture as a mass of crockets, battlements, crypts, and dungeons--and all in ruins. Indeed, the Romantic conception of the Middle Ages was often as absurd as that of the Renaissance, and if we are to get at the truth, if we are to make any serious attempt to understand the Middle Ages, we must clear our minds of two superstitions; the one, which we derive from the Renaissance, that mediaeval civilization was sterile, ignorant, and content to be ignorant; the other, which survives from the Romantic movement, that it was essentially religious, chivalrous and adventurous, that men spent their time in saying their prayers, making reverent love to their ladies, or carving the heads of the infidel. What I should desire to do is to persuade you that the more you study the Middle Ages the more you will see that these men and women were really very much like ourselves, ignorant, no doubt, of much which is to us really or superficially important, gifted on the other hand with some qualities which for the time we seem to have in a large measure lost, but substantially very like ourselves, neither very much better nor very much worse. Let me illustrate this by considering for a moment the figure which to us is typical of the Middle Ages. What was the mediaeval knight? We think of him as a courteous, chivalrous person of a romantic and adventurous temper, whose business it was to fight for his lady or in the service of religion against the infidel. In reality he was usually a small landowner, who held his land on condition of military service to some lord; the title 'knight' means in its Latin form (_miles_), simply a soldier, in its Germanic form a servant, and distinguishes him from the older type of landowner who held his land in absolute ownership and free of all service except of a national kind. In virtue of his holding a certain amount of land he had to present himself for military service on those occasions and for those periods for which he could be legally summoned. But even this description implies a wholly wrong emphasis, for he was not primarily a soldier, but a small landowner and cultivator, very much what we should call a squireen. He was normally much more concerned about his crops, his cattle and pigs, than about his lord's affairs and his lord's quarrels. He was ignorant, often rather brutal, and turbulent, very ready for a quarrel with his neighbour, but with no taste for national wars, and the prolonged absence from his home which they might involve, unless indeed there was a reasonable prospect of plunder. Indeed, he was a very matter-of-fact person, with very little sense of romance, and little taste for adventure unless there was something to be got out of it. We must dismiss from our minds the pretty superstitions of romance from Chaucer and Spenser to the time of the Romantic revival, and we must understand that the people of the Middle Ages were very much like ourselves; the times were rougher, more disorderly, there was much less security, but on the whole the character of human life was not very different. What was it, then, that happened with the end of the ancient world? Well, the civilization of the Roman Empire was overthrown by our barbarous ancestors, the old order, and tranquillity, and comfort disappeared, and the world fell back into discomfort and turbulence, and disorder; the roads fell into disrepair and were not mended, the drains were neglected, and the towns dwindled and shrank. We must remember, however, that this great civilization was dying out, was failing by some internal weakness, and that the barbarians only hastened the process. Much of the achievement of Greece and Rome was lost, much both material and intellectual, but not all, and the new civilization which began rapidly to grow up on the ruins of the old was in many respects continuous with it. In order, however, that we may understand this we must remember that the form of civilization with which the Middle Ages were continuous was the Graeco-Roman civilization of the later Empire, and not the great Hellenic civilization itself. What the Middle Ages knew was primarily that which the Christian Fathers like St. Augustine and St. Gregory the Great, St. Basil and St. Gregory of Nazianzus learned at their schools and universities. Some of these Fathers were educated at the great universities, like Athens, others at comparatively humble provincial institutions; some of them were men of powerful intellect, while others were more commonplace. What they learned was the general intellectual system of the late Empire, and what they learned they handed on to the Middle Ages; but it was not the great intellectual culture of Greece. We have still too strong an inclination to think of the ancient world as one and homogeneous; we have not yet sufficiently apprehended the great changes both in the form and in the temper of that world. And yet the varieties, the changes, are very diverse, the outlook, the artistic methods of the Homeric poetry are very different from the emotional and intellectual modernity of Euripides. The philosophy of Plato and Aristotle is very different from that of the Stoics and Neoplatonists. In that picturesque but perhaps not very felicitous phrase which Mr. Murray has borrowed from Mr. Cornford, there was a 'failure of nerve' which separates the earlier from the later stages of the moral and intellectual culture of the ancient world. However this may be, and we shall have more to say about this presently, the civilization of the Middle Ages was made up on the one hand of elements drawn from the later Empire, and on the other of characteristics and principles which seem to have belonged to the Barbarian races themselves. With the end of the sixth century the ancient world had passed away and the mediaeval world had begun, and we have to consider the nature and movement of the new order, or rather we have to consider some of its elements, and their development, especially during the period from the end of the tenth century to the end of the thirteenth, during which it reached its highest level. We have to pass over the great attempt of the ninth century, for we can only deal with a small part of a large subject, and we shall only deal with a few aspects of it, and chiefly with the development of the spiritual conception of life which we call religion, with the reconstruction of the political order of society, with the beginning of a new intellectual life and the pursuit of truth, and with the development under new forms of the passion for beauty. * * * * * I have been compelled to warn you against the romantic superstition that the Middle Ages were specifically religious, and yet it is quite true that the first aspect of mediaeval life which compels our attention is exactly the development of the sense of the significance of the spiritual quality of life. This was the first great task of the men of the Middle Ages, and this was in a real sense their achievement; but not as contradicting the characteristic developments of the Hellenic civilization, but rather as completing and fulfilling it. It is indeed a singular superstition that the Hellenic world was lacking in spiritual insight, but I need only refer you to Miss Stawell's lecture, as serving to show you how great and how real this was. It really was not a mistake when an honest but rather stupid man like Justin Martyr, and the more acute and penetrating minds of the Alexandrian Fathers like Clement and Origen, thought that they heard the authentic accents of the 'Word' of God in the great philosophers of Greece, and especially in Plato. The apprehension of the spiritual element in human experience was not wanting in Hellenic civilization, but it needed a further development and especially in relation to those new apprehensions of personality and individuality, whose appearance we can trace both in the post-Aristotelian philosophy, and in the later Hebrew prophets and poets, which Christianity found in the world, and to which in its conception of the human in the Divine, and the Divine in the human, it gave a new force and breath. It is easy for us to smile at what may well be the over-rhetorical phrases of Seneca when he speaks of the self-sufficingness ([Greek: autarkeia]) of the wise man, or when he says that the wise man is, but for his mortality, like God himself; and yet these rhetorical phrases are, after all, the forms of an apprehension which has changed and is changing the world. And, it must be remembered that to understand the full significance of these phrases, we must bear in mind that the men of the Graeco-Roman civilization had put aside once and for all the 'natural' distinction between the 'Greek' and the 'Barbarian', had recognized that men were equal and alike, not different and unequal, that all men were possessed of reason, and all were capable of virtue,[23] or, in the Christian terms, all men are the children of God and capable of communion with Him. It is this new apprehension of life for which the Middle Ages found a new form in the great organization of the Church, and it is this which justifies our sense of the great and permanent significance of the tremendous conflict of the Papacy and the Empire. It is true that at times some of the representatives of the Church seem to have fallen into the mistake of aiming at a tyranny of the Church over the State, which would have been in the end as disastrous to the Church itself as to the State. But the normal principle of the Church was that which was first fully stated by Pope Gelasius I in the fifth century, that the two great authorities, the spiritual and the temporal, are each divine, each draws its authority ultimately from God himself, each is supreme and independent in its own sphere, while each recognizes the authority of the other within its proper sphere. It is, indeed, the freedom of the spiritual life which the mediaeval Church was endeavouring to defend; it was the apprehension that there was some ultimate quality in human nature which stands and must stand outside of the direct or coercive control of society, which lies behind all the confused clamour of the conflicts of Church and State. It is true that in this great and generous effort to secure the freedom of the human soul men in some measure lost their way. They demanded and in a measure they succeeded in asserting the freedom of the religious organization, as against the temporal organization, but in doing this they went perilously near to denying the freedom of the individual spiritual experience. They went perilously near to denying it, but they never wholly forgot it. The Church claimed and exercised an immense authority in religion, so immense an authority that it might easily seem as though there were no place left for the freedom of the individual judgement and conscience. And yet that was not the case. The theory of excommunication that is set out in the canonical literature of the Middle Ages has generally been carelessly studied and imperfectly understood. It was the greatest and most masterful of the Popes, Innocent III, who laid down in memorable phrases which are embodied in the great collection of the Decretals, that if a Christian man or woman is convinced in his own mind and conscience that it would be a mortal sin to do or to leave undone some action, he must follow his own conscience even against the command of the authorities of the Church, and must submit patiently to Church censures and even excommunication; for it may well happen that the Church may condemn him whom God approves, or approve him whom God condemns.[24] This is no isolated or exceptional opinion, but is the doctrine which is constantly laid down in the canonical literature.[25] It is, I think, profoundly true to say that when men at last revolted against what seemed to them the exaggerated claims of the Church, when they slowly fought their way towards toleration and religious freedom, they were only asserting and carrying out its one most vital principle, the principle of the independence or autonomy of the spiritual life; the modern world is only fulfilling the Middle Ages. I do not continue to develop this aspect of the progress of western civilization, not because it is unimportant, for indeed it is perhaps the greatest and most significant aspect of mediaeval life, but because it is well known to you, and indeed, it has generally been insisted on to such a degree as to obscure the other aspects of progress in the Middle Ages, with which we must deal. * * * * * And first I would ask you to observe that it was in these centuries that there were laid over again the foundations of the social and political order of civilization, and that there were devised those forms of the political order upon which the structure of modern society is founded. We are familiar with the conception of the divine nature of political authority, the normal and fundamental mediaeval view of the State. If we translate this into more general terms we shall find that its meaning is that the State has an ethical or moral purpose or function; the State exists to secure and to maintain justice. You must not, indeed, confuse this great conception with that foolish perversion of it which was suggested, I think, by some characteristically reckless phrases of St. Augustine, stated in set terms by St. Gregory the Great, almost forgotten in the Middle Ages, and unhappily revived by the perversity of some Anglicans and Gallicans in the seventeenth century. This foolish perversion, which we know as the theory of the 'Divine Right of Kings', is indeed the opposite of the great Pauline and mediaeval conception of the divine nature of political authority, for to St. Paul, to the more normal Fathers like St. Ambrose, and to the political theory of the Middle Ages authority is divine just because, and only in so far as, its aim and purpose is the attainment and maintenance of justice. Indeed, it is not only the notion of the 'Divine Right' which was inconsistent with the mediaeval conception of the State, but the notion of an absolute sovereignty inherent in the State, that notion with which some eccentric or ignorant modern political theorists, ignorant of Rousseau as well as of Aristotle, have played, to the great danger of society; we have, indeed, got beyond the theory of the sovereignty of the king, but we are in some danger of being hag-ridden by the imposture of the sovereignty of the majority. Whatever mistakes the people of the Middle Ages may have made, they were, with rare exceptions, clear that there was no legitimate authority which was not just, and which did not make for justice. It is here that we find the real meaning of the second great political principle of the Middle Ages, that is the supremacy of law; that it is the law which is the supreme authority in the State, the law which is over every person in the State. When John of Salisbury, the secretary of Thomas à Becket, wishes to distinguish between the prince and the tyrant, he insists that the prince is one who rules according to law, while the tyrant is one who ignores and violates the law.[26] And in a memorable phrase, Bracton, the great English jurist of the latter part of the thirteenth century, lays it down dogmatically that the king has two superiors, God and the law.[27] There is an absurd notion still current among more ignorant persons--I have even heard some theologians fall into the mistake--that men in the Middle Ages thought of authority as something arbitrary and unintelligible, while the truth is that such a conception was wholly foreign to the temper of that time. It is quite true that the political life of the Middle Ages seems constantly to oscillate between anarchy and despotism, but this is not because the men of those days did not understand the meaning of law and of freedom, but because they were only slowly working out the organization through which these can be secured. The supreme authority in the mediaeval state was the law, and it was supreme because it was taken by them to be the embodiment of justice. It is again out of this principle that there arose another great conception which is still often thought to be modern, but which is really mediaeval, the conception that the authority of the ruler rests upon and is conditioned by an agreement or contract between him and the people. For this agreement was not an abstract conception, but was based upon the mutual oaths of the mediaeval coronation ceremony, the oath of the king to maintain the law, and to administer justice, and the oath of the people to serve and obey the king whom they had recognized or elected. The people do, indeed, owe the king honour and loyal service, but only on the condition that he holds inviolable his oath. The ruler who breaks this is a tyrant, and for him there was no place in mediaeval political theory. This conception was expressed in very plain and even crude terms by Manegold in the eleventh century when he said that the king was in the same relation to the community as the man who is hired to keep the pigs to his master. If the swineherd fails to do his work the master turns him off and finds another. And if the king or prince refuses to fulfil the conditions on which he holds his power he must be deposed.[28] John of Salisbury in the twelfth century expressed this in even stronger terms when he said that if the prince became a tyrant and violated the laws, he had no rights, and should be removed, and if there were no other way to do it, it was lawful for any citizen to slay him.[29] These are, no doubt, extreme forms of the mediaeval conception, but the principle that the authority of the ruler was conditioned by his faithful discharge of his obligations is the normal doctrine of the Middle Ages, is maintained by the compilers of the feudal law-books of the Kingdom of Jerusalem, by the great English jurist Bracton, by St. Thomas Aquinas, and even by some of the most representative of the Roman jurists of Bologna, like Azo. These were the fundamental principles of the conception of the nature of political authority whose development we can trace in the Middle Ages, and it is out of these conceptions that there grew the system of the control of the common affairs of the community by means of the representation of the community. For it should be more clearly understood than it is, that the representative system was the creation of the mediaeval political genius, it was these men--to whom even yet the more ignorant would deny the true political instinct--it was these men who devised that method upon which the structure of modern civilized government has been built up. There is, however, yet another aspect of the development of political civilization which deserves our attention if we are to understand the nature of political progress in the Middle Ages. It was in these centuries that there were created the elementary forms of the administrative system of government. And indeed, there is perhaps no clearer distinction between a barbarian and a civilized government than this, that while the barbarian government hangs precariously on the life of the capable king, the civilized government is carried on continuously by an organized civil service. It would be impossible here to discuss the earlier forms of this in the organization of government by Charles the Great, or the very interesting developments of the royal or imperial chapel as the nucleus of a civil service in Germany, it is enough here to remind ourselves that it is the creation of this organized administration by Henry I and Henry II of England which laid the foundations of our national order. Enough has, I think, been said to illustrate the reality and significance of the progressive reconstruction of the political order of Western society in the Middle Ages. * * * * * It may, however, be said that this may all be true, but that in all this we have after all only an example of the preoccupation of the Middle Ages with conduct and religion. I must, therefore, ask you to consider the character and development of the intellectual movement of the Middle Ages. And here, fortunately, we can find the best of guidance in Dr. Rashdall's great work on _The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages_, and in Dr. R. L. Poole's _Illustrations of Mediaeval Thought_. Indeed I could wish that a little more attention was given to the history and character of the intellectual movement which the Universities represent, and perhaps a little less to reading and discussing the great scholastic works of the thirteenth century, which are almost impossible to understand except in relation to the intellectual movements of the twelfth century. The new intellectual movement came very suddenly in the last years of the eleventh century; why it should have come then is hard to determine, but it seems reasonable to say that it represents the reawakening of the desire for knowledge which had been in abeyance during the stormy centuries after the fall of the Roman Empire in the West, when men had little leisure for anything but the constant labour to secure a little decent order and peace. For a few years, indeed, in the ninth century the genius of Charlemagne had almost restored the order of civilization, and even in those few years the human mind reasserted itself, and for a moment the learning and culture which had been preserved mainly by the Irish and their pupils in Britain, and in Central Europe, flowered and bore fruit; but with his death Western Europe plunged again into anarchy and misery, and it was only slowly that the genius of the great German emperors in Central Europe, and of the Norman settlers in France and England, rebuilt the commonwealth of European civilization. By the end of the eleventh century the work was not indeed done, but was being done, and men had again a little leisure, and the desire for knowledge reawakened, but indeed it was no mere gentle desire, but a veritable passion which possessed the men of the twelfth century, and it was this spontaneous passion which produced the universities. The first thing, indeed, which we must observe about the oldest universities of Europe, especially Bologna, Paris, and Oxford, is just this, that they were not made by any external authority, that they did not derive their being from Church or State, from pope or king, but that they were formed by the enthusiasm and passion which drew men from every quarter of Europe to sit at the feet of some man or another who could give them the knowledge which they desired, and, in their turn, to become teachers. It is quite true that as time went on, and they found that popes and kings were friendly and interested, these groups of students procured for themselves bulls and charters of recognition and protection, but while later universities may trace their foundation to these respectable patrons, the older universities recognize them indeed as benefactors and friends, but not as founders, but rather claim that they grew out of men's desire for knowledge, and that they were recognized by the general consent of the civilized world. In the second place it is important, and especially I think in these days, to understand that the men who thus created the universities in their eagerness to learn, were of every class and condition, rich and poor, noble and simple, and they lived as they could, in comfortable quarters if they were wealthy men, or in the garrets and cellars of the citizens if they were poor, and for the most part they were poor; but neither poverty nor riches could destroy their noble thirst for knowledge. The life of the universities was indeed turbulent and disorderly, the students were always at war with the citizens, and, when they were not breaking the heads of the citizens or having their heads broken by them, they were at war with each other, the men of the north with the southerners, the western with the eastern; for the universities were not local or national institutions, but were made up of a cosmopolitan crowd of men of every nation in Europe, intelligible to each other, as unhappily we are not, by the universal knowledge and use of that mediaeval Latin, which might distress the Ciceronian ears of a pedant of the Renaissance, but was a good, useful, and adaptable language. It was a turbulent, disorderly, brutal, profligate, and drunken world, for the students were as hard drinkers as the citizens, but it was animated, it was made alive by a true passion for knowledge, by an unwearied and never satisfied intellectual curiosity. But it will be asked, what did they learn? Well, the only answer that one can give is that they learned whatever there was to learn. Our literary friends have often still the impression that in the Middle Ages men spent their whole time in learning theology, and were afraid of other forms of knowledge, but this is a singular delusion. As the universities developed a system, their studies were arranged in the main under four heads, the general studies of what came to be called the Faculty of Arts, and the professional studies of the three superior Faculties of Law, Medicine, and Theology, but the student was not normally allowed to study in the three superior Faculties until he had spent some years in the studies of the Faculty of Arts. It is therefore with this latter that we are primarily occupied. The studies in the Faculty of Arts consisted, to use our modern terminology, of literature, philosophy, and science, and the accomplished mediaeval student was expected to know whatever there was to know. And this means--what is strangely often forgotten--that the studies of the mediaeval universities were primarily based upon the literature which had survived from the ancient world. The Latin poets and orators were their models of literary art, the surviving treatises of the ancients their text-books in medicine, and the Greek philosophers in Latin translations, or in Latin works founded on them, their masters in thought. To understand the extent of the influence and the knowledge of antiquity of a twelfth-century scholar we need only turn again to John of Salisbury, and we shall find him as familiar as any Renaissance scholar with Latin literature, and possessing a very considerable acquaintance with Greek literature so far as it could be obtained through the Latin.[30] Indeed, so much is he possessed by the literature of antiquity that in works like the _Policraticus_ he can hardly write two lines together without a quotation from some classical author. This type of literary scholarship has been too much overlooked, and, as I said before, too exclusive an attention has been given to the thirteenth-century schoolmen, who are neither from a literary nor from a philosophical point of view as representative of mediaeval scholars, and philosophically they are often really unmediaeval, for the general quality of mediaeval thought is its Platonism: the Aristotelian logic was indeed known to the Middle Ages through Boethius, but the other Aristotelian works were not known till towards the middle of the thirteenth century. It would be impossible here, even if I were competent, which I am not, to discuss the character of mediaeval thought, but one thing we can observe, one aspect of the intellectual method which may serve to clear away some confusion. The great intellectual master of the Middle Ages was Abelard, and the method which he elaborated in his _Sic et Non_ is the method which imposed itself upon all aspects of mediaeval thought. It has often been supposed that mediaeval thinkers were in such a sense the creatures of authority that it was impossible for them to exercise any independent judgement; how far this may have been true of the decadent scholasticism of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries I do not pretend to say, but such a judgement is a ludicrous caricature of the living and active thought of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and a little consideration of the critical method which Abelard developed is sufficient to correct this. This is as follows: first some general principle is enunciated for consideration, then all the authorities which may seem to support it are cited, then all the authorities against, and finally the writer delivers his own judgement, criticizing and explaining the opinions which may seem contrary to it. The method has its defects and its limitations, but its characteristic is rather that of scepticism than of credulity. And it is on this method that the most important systems of knowledge of the Middle Ages are constructed. It was applied by Gratian in his _Decretum_, the first great reasoned treatise on Church law, and leads there often to somewhat unexpected conclusions, such as that even the legislative authority of the Pope is limited by the consenting custom of the Christian people;[31] and it is this method upon which the great systematic treatises, like the _Suma Theologica_ of St. Thomas Aquinas, were constructed in the thirteenth century. Whatever its defects may be the method cannot fairly be accused of ignoring difficulties and of a submission to authority which leaves no place for the critical reason. I have, I hope, said enough to make it clear that there was a real and living intellectual movement in the Middle Ages, and that even in those days men had resumed the great adventure of the pursuit of truth. * * * * * We can only for a moment consider the significance and the character of mediaeval civilization as it expresses itself in Art, and we must begin by noticing a distinction between mediaeval art and mediaeval learning, which is of the first importance. The intellectual movement of the Middle Ages was related to the ancient world, both in virtue of that continuity which was mediated by the Christian Fathers, whose education was that of the later Empire, and also in virtue of the intense and eager care with which mediaeval scholars studied all that they possessed of ancient literature. The relation of the art of the Middle Ages to the ancient world was quite different. There was no continuity between the vernacular poetry of the Middle Ages and that of the ancient world, and while there was a certain continuity in architecture and in mosaic painting, this amounted to little more than that the mediaeval artists took the formal structure or method as the starting-point of their own independent and original work. For the western art of the third and fourth centuries was conventional and decadent, and had apparently lost its power of recovery, while the art of the centuries which followed was at first rude and imperfect, but was full of new life, determined in its reality and dominated by some intimate sense of beauty; it was in no sense imitative of ancient art, but grew and changed under the terms of its own inherent life and power. Mediaeval art, whatever else is to be said about it, was new and independent, and it had all the variety, the audacious experiments, characteristic of a living art. Nothing is so foolish as to imagine that it was uniform and unchanging. Indeed, from the historical point of view, the interest of the study of it is curiously contrasted with that of the art of the ancient world. There we have only an imperfect and fragmentary knowledge of the earlier and ruder form; its history, as we know it, might almost be said to begin with the perfection of the sixth and fifth centuries, and what we know after that is the history of a long decadence, not indeed without new developments of importance, as for instance in the architectural structure of Roman building, and perhaps in the sculpture of the Early Empire on one side, and in certain aspects of Latin literature on another. The history of mediaeval art is the history of the long development from what are generally rude forms to the highly developed art of the thirteenth century, a development full of incidents and experiments and variety. I have called the early form rude, but the phrase is not very happy, as those who know either the early mosaic or the early epic will understand. There are still some people, I suppose, who think that mediaeval poetry was all of one kind, cast in one mould, but the truth is that it is of every form and character. It ranges from the bold imaginative realism of the Epic of England, Iceland, Germany, and France, to the exquisite and gracious but somewhat artificial allegory of the _Romance of the Rose_. It includes the first great emotional poetry of the modern world--the sense of the greatness and tragedy of human passion has perhaps never been expressed in more moving terms than in the _Tristan and Iseult_ of Thomas or Beroul--but it also includes the mordant satire of the Renard poetry and of Jean de Meun, and the gross realistic humour of the Fabliaux. The mediaeval drama, in whose complex development we have to trace many strands, probably represents in its oldest forms the coarse farcical buffoonery which may be related to the last fashions of the ancient world; it received a new impulse from the dramatization of scripture history in the twelfth century; but in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, at least in France, it had already become substantially a drama of romantic or contemporary life, as we can see in Jean Bodel's _Jeu de St. Nicholas_, in Adam de la Halle's _Jeu de la Feuillée_ and _Robin et Marion_, and in dramas like the _Empress of Rome_ or the _Otho_. Whatever criticism we might want to make on mediaeval literature, at least we cannot say that it was of one type and of one mood. It is hardly necessary to point out the movement and changes in the other forms of art in the Middle Ages; it is only necessary to remind ourselves that, while we can see that the artists were often hampered by inadequate technical knowledge, they were not conventional or merely imitative. It would be impossible here to consider the history of mosaic painting, and its development from the decadent Graeco-Roman work of Santa Pudenziana in Rome, to the magnificent and living decorations of St. Mark's in Venice, or of the cathedral of Monreale. It is enough to remind ourselves of the immense interval which lies between the rude but living sculpture of the ninth century, and the exquisite grace of Chester or Wells, and of that development of architecture which culminates in the majesty of Durham, and in the beauty of Chartres and Westminster Abbey. It is doubtful if we have yet at all fully or correctly appreciated the nature of mediaeval art; there has been a good deal of foolish talk about 'primitives', which usually goes with a singular ignorance of mediaeval civilization; the one thing which is already clear, and which grows clearer, is that the men of those ages had an instinct and a passion for beauty which expressed itself in almost every thing that they touched; and, whatever we have gained, we have in a large measure lost this. * * * * * The mediaeval world was then a living growing world, neither cut off from the past, nor unrelated to the future. It was a rough and turbulent world, our ancestors were dogged, quarrelsome, and self-assertive, and the first task of civilization was to produce some sort of decent order. The world was a long way off from the firm urbanity of the English policeman. And yet the men of the Middle Ages never fell into that delusion which, as it would seem, has ruined other civilizations; the great effort for order was not in their mind to be fulfilled by any mere mechanical discipline, by any system imposed from outside, the only system of order which they were prepared to accept was one which should express the character, the tradition, and finally the will of the whole community. The great phrase of Edward I's summons to Parliament, 'Quod omnes tangit, ab omnibus approbetur' (That which concerns all, must be approved by all), was not a mere tag, as some foolish people have thought, but expressed the character and the genius of a living political civilization. And this rough turbulent world was inspired by a great breath of spiritual and intellectual and artistic life and freedom. It might well seem as though the Church and religion were merely a new bondage, and in part that is true, but it is not the whole truth. With all its mistakes the religion of the Middle Ages meant the growing apprehension of the reality of that 'love which moves the sun and other stars', it meant the growth of reverence for that which is beyond and above humanity and which is also within it. For it is the last truth of the Christian faith that we know God only under the terms of human life and nature. And with all the cruelty and brutality of the Middle Ages they taught men love as well as obedience. Again, it was in these ages, as soon as the confusion of the outer world was a little reduced, that the passion for knowledge awoke again in men's hearts. It is true that some were afraid lest the eager inquiry of men's minds should destroy the foundations of that order which men were slowly achieving, but still the passionate pursuit of knowledge has rarely been more determined. And once again the world was rough, but these men had an instinct, a passion for beauty which expressed itself in almost everything which they touched. They had not, indeed, the almost miraculous sense and mastery of the great artists of Greece, that did not come again till the time of the great Italian artists of the fifteenth century. But they were free from pedantry, from formalism, they left the dying art of the ancient world and made their own way. Their sense of colour was almost infallible, as those who have seen the mosaics of the older Roman basilicas and of St. Mark's in Venice will know; but, indeed, we have only to look at the illuminated manuscripts which are to be found in all our libraries. And in that great art in which, above all perhaps, they expressed themselves, in their great architecture, we see the growth of a constructive genius which is only overshadowed by the superb beauty of its form. A rough, disorderly, turbulent, greedy, cruel world, but it knew the human soul, and it knew the human heart. The ancient world had ended in a great destruction, but the sadness and emptiness of its last days compel us to feel that it was well that it should end. And the new world was a world of life, of crude force and restless energy, and from it we have received the principles and the forms of a great civilization, and the temper which is never satisfied, for there is no end to life. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE H. W. C. Davis, _Mediaeval Europe_ (Home University Library). Lord Bryce, _History of Roman Empire_. Rashdall, _Universities of Empire in the Middle Ages_. R. L. Poole, _Illustrations of Mediaeval Thought_. Gierke, _Political Theories of the Middle Ages_. W. P. Ker, _Epic and Romance_. FOOTNOTES: [23] Cf. Cicero, _De Legibus_, i. 10-12; and Seneca, _De Beneficiis_, iii. 18. [24] Cf. Decretals, v. 39. 44, 28. [25] Cf. Carlyle, _Mediaeval Political Theory_, vol. ii. pp. 244-9. [26] Cf. John of Salisbury, _Policraticus_, iv. 1. [27] Cf. Bracton, _De Legibus et Consuetudinibus_, i. 8, 5. [28] Cf. Manegold, _Ad Gebehardum_, c. XXX. [29] Cf. John of Salisbury, _Policraticus_, iii. 15, viii. 17, 18, 20. [30] Cf. C. C. J. Webb's edition of John of Salisbury's _Policraticus_, introduction. [31] Cf. Gratian, _Decretum_, D. iv. c. 3. V PROGRESS IN RELIGION BARON FRIEDRICH VON HÜGEL The difficulties are deep and delicate which confront any man at all well acquainted with the fuller significance of Religion and of Progress, who attempts clearly and shortly to describe or define the ultimate relations between these two sets of fact and conviction. It is plain that Religion is the deeper and richer of the two terms; and that we have here, above all, to attempt to fathom the chief elements and forces of Religion as such, and then to see whether Progress is really traceable in Religion at all. And again it is clear that strongly religious souls will, as such, hold that Religion answers to, and is occasioned by, the action, within our human life and needs, of great, abiding, living non-human Realities; and yet, if such souls are at all experienced and sincere, they will also admit--as possibly the most baffling of facts--that the human individuals, families, races, are relatively rare in whom this sense and need of Religion is strongly, sensitively active. Thus the religion of most men will either all but completely wither or vanish before the invasion of other great facts and interests of human life--Economics or Politics or Ethics, or again, Science, Art, Philosophy; or it will, more frequently, become largely assimilated, in its conception, valuation, and practice, to the quite distinct, and often subtly different, conceptions, valuations, and practices pertaining to such of these other ranges and levels of human life as happen here to be vigorously active. And such assimilations are, of course, effected with a particular Philosophy or Ethic, mostly some passing fashion of the day, which does not reach the deepest laws and standards even of its own domain, and which, if taken as Religion, will gravely numb and mar the power and character of such religious perception as may still remain in this particular soul. I will, then, first attempt some discriminations in certain fundamental questions concerning the functioning of our minds, feelings, wills. I will next attempt short, vivid descriptions of the chief stages in the Jewish and Christian Religions, with a view to tracing here what may concern their progress; and will very shortly illustrate the main results attained by the corresponding main peculiarities of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Mohammedanism. And I will finally strive to elucidate and to estimate, as clearly as possible, the main facts in past and present Religion which concern the question of religious 'Progressiveness'. I I begin with insisting upon some seven discriminations which, even only forty years ago, would have appeared largely preposterous to the then fashionable philosophy. First, then, our Knowledge is always wider and deeper than is our Science. I know my mother, I know my dog, I know my favourite rose-tree; and this, although I am quite ignorant of the anatomical differences between woman and man; of the psychological limits between dog and human being; or of the natural or artificial botanical order to which my rose-plant belongs. Any kind or degree of consciousness on my part as to these three realities is a knowledge of their content. 'Knowledge is not simply the reduction of phenomena to law and their resolution into abstract elements; since thus the unknowable would be found well within the facts of experience itself, in so far as these possess a concrete character which refuses translation into abstract relations.' So Professor Aliotta urges with unanswerable truth.[32] And next, this spontaneous awareness of other realities by myself, the reality Man, contains always, from the first, both matter and form, and sense, reason, feeling, volition, all more or less in action. Sir Henry Jones insists finely: 'The difference between the primary and elementary data of thought on the one hand, and the highest forms of systematized knowledge on the other, is no difference in kind, analogous to a mere particular and a mere universal; but it is a difference of articulation.'[33] Thirdly, direct, unchallengeable Experience is always only experience of a particular moment; only by means of Thought, and trust in Thought, can such Experience be extended, communicated, utilized. The sceptic, to be at all effective, practises this trust as really as does his opponent. Thought, taken apart from Experience, is indeed artificial and arid; but Experience without Thought, is largely an orderless flux. Philosophers as different as the Neo-Positivist Mach and the Intuitionist Bergson, do indeed attempt to construct systems composed solely of direct Experience and pure Intuition; and, at the same time, almost ceaselessly insist upon the sheer novelty, the utter unexpectedness of all direct Experience, and the entire artificiality of the constructions of Thought--constructions which alone adulterate our perceptions of reality with the non-realities repetition, uniformity, foreseeableness. Yet the amazing success of the application of such constructions to actual Nature stares us all in the face. 'It is, indeed, strange,' if that contention be right, 'that facts behave as if they too had a turn for mathematics.' Assuredly 'if thought, with its durable and coherent structure, were not the reflection of some order of stable relations in the nature of things, it would be worthless as an organ of life'.[34] Fourthly, both Space and Time are indeed essential constituents of all our perceptions, thoughts, actions, at least in this life. Yet Time is perhaps the more real, and assuredly the richer, constituent of the two. But this rich reality applies only to Concrete or Filled Time, Duration, in which our experiences, although always more or less successive, interpenetrate each other in various degrees and ways, and are thus more or less simultaneous. An absolutely even flow of equal, mutually exclusive moments, on the contrary, exists only for our theoretical thinking, in Abstract, Empty, or Clock time. Already, in 1886, Professor James Ward wrote: 'In time, conceived as physical, there is no trace of intensity; in time, as psychically experienced, duration is primarily an intensive magnitude.'[35] And in 1889 Professor Bergson, in his _Essai sur les Données Immédiates de la Conscience_, gave us exquisite descriptions of time as we really experience it, of 'duration strictly speaking', which 'does not possess moments that are identical or exterior to each other'.[36] Thus all our real soul life, in proportion to its depth, moves in Partial Simultaneity; and it apprehends, requires and rests, at its deepest, in an overflowingly rich Pure Simultaneity. Fifthly, Man is Body as well as Soul, and the two are closely interrelated. The sensible perception of objects, however humble, is always necessary for the beginning, and (in the long run) for the persistence and growth, of the more spiritual apprehensions of man. Hence Historical Persons and Happenings, Institutions, affording Sensible Acts and Contacts, and Social Corporations, each different according to the different ranges and levels of life, can hardly fail to be of importance for man's full awakening--even ethical and spiritual. Professor Ernst Troeltsch, so free from natural prejudice in favour of such a Sense-and-Spirit position, has become perhaps the most adequate exponent of this great fact of life, which is ever in such danger of evaporation amidst the intellectual and leading minority of men. Sixthly, the cultivated modern man is still largely arrested and stunted by the spell of Descartes, with his insistence upon immediate unity of outlook and perfect clearness of idea as the sole, universal tests, indeed constituents, of truth. 'I judged that I could take for my general rule that the things which we conceive very clearly and very distinctly are all true'--these and these alone.[37] Thus thenceforth Mathematics and Mechanics have generally been held to be the only full and typical sciences, and human knowledge to be co-extensive with such sciences alone. Yet Biology and Psychology now rightly claim to be sciences, each with its own special methods and tests distinct from those of Mathematics and Mechanics. Indeed, the wisest and most fruitful philosophy is now coming to see that 'Reality generally eludes our thought, when thought is reduced to mathematical formulas'.[38] Concrete thought, contrariwise, finds full room also for History, Philosophy, Religion, for each as furnishing rich subject-matters for Knowledge or Science, of a special but true kind. Seventhly. Already Mathematics and Mechanics absolutely depend, for the success of their applications to actual Nature, upon a spontaneous correspondence between the human reason and the Rationality of Nature. The immensity of this success is an unanswerable proof that this rationality is not imposed, but found there, by man. But Thought without a Thinker is an absurd proposition. Thus faith in Science is faith in God. Perhaps the most impressive declaration of this necessary connexion between Knowledge and Theism stands at the end of that great work, Christoph Sigwart's _Logik_. 'As soon as we raise the question as to the real _right_', the adequate reason, 'of our demands for a correspondence, within our several sciences, between the principles and the objects of the researches special to each, there emerges the need for the Last and Unconditional Reason. And the actual situation is not that this Reason appears only on the horizon of our finite knowledge,' as Kant would have it. 'Not in thus merely extending our knowledge lies the significance of the situation, but in the fact that this Unconditional Reason constitutes the presupposition without which no desire for Knowledge (in the proper and strict sense of the word) is truly thinkable.'[39] And lastly, all this and more points to philosophical Agnosticism as an artificial system, and one hopelessly inadequate to the depths of human experience. Assuredly Bossuet is right: 'man knows not the whole of anything'; and mystery, in this sense, is also of the essence of all higher religion. But what man knows of anything is that thing manifested, not essentially travestied, in that same thing's appearances. We men are most assuredly realities forming part of a real world-whole of various realities; those other realities continuously affect our own reality; we cannot help thinking certain things about these other realities; and these things, when accepted and pressed home by us in action or in science, turn out, by our success in this their utilization, to be rightly apprehended by us, as parts of interconnected, objective Nature. Thus our knowledge of Reality is real as far as it goes, and philosophical Agnosticism is a _doctrinaire_ position. We can say with Herbert Spencer, in spite of his predominant Agnosticism, that 'the error' committed by philosophers intent upon demonstrating the limits and conditions of consciousness 'consists in assuming that consciousness contains _nothing but_ limits and conditions, to the entire neglect of that which is limited and conditioned'. In reality 'there is some thing which alike forms the raw material of definite thought and remains after the definiteness, which thinking gave to it, has been destroyed'.[40] II Let us next consider five of the most ancient and extensively developed amongst the still living Religions: the Israelitish-Jewish and the Christian religions shall, as by far the best known to us and as the most fully articulated, form the great bulk of this short account; the Confucian, Buddhist, and Mohammedan religions will be taken quite briefly, only as contrasts to, or elucidations of, the characteristics found in the Jewish and Christian faiths. All this in view of the question concerning the relations between Religion and Progress. 1. We can roughly divide the Israelitish-Jewish religion into three long periods; in each the points that specially concern us will greatly vary in clearness, importance, and richness of content. The first period, from the time of the founder Moses and the Jewish exodus out of Egypt to the appearance of the first great prophet Elijah (say 1300 B.C. to about 860 B.C.) is indeed but little known to us; yet it gives us the great historical figure of the initial lawgiver, the recipient and transmitter of deep ethical and religious experiences and convictions. True, the code of King Hammurabi of Babylon (in 1958 to 1916 B.C.; or, according to others, in about 1650) anticipates many of the laws of the _Book of the Covenant_ (Exod. xx, 22-xxiii. 33), the oldest amongst the at all lengthy bodies of laws in the Pentateuch; and, again, this covenant appears to presuppose the Jewish settlement in Canaan (say in 1250 B.C.) as an accomplished fact. And, indeed, the Law and the books of Moses generally have undoubtedly passed through a long, deep, wide, and elaborate development, of which three chief stages, all considerably subsequent to the Covenant-Book, have, by now, been established with substantial certainty and precision. The record of directly Mosaic sayings and writings is thus certainly very small. Yet it is assuredly a gross excess to deny the historical reality of Moses, as even distinguished scholars such as Edward Meyer and Bernhard Stade have done. Far wiser here is Wellhausen, who finds, in the very greatness and fixity of orientation of the development in the Law and in the figure of the Lawgiver, a conclusive proof of the rich reality and greatness of the Man of God, Moses. Yet it is Hermann Gunkel, I think, who has reached the best balanced judgement in this matter. With Gunkel we can securely hold that Moses called God Yahweh, and proclaimed Him as the national God of Israel; that Moses invoked Him as 'Yahweh is my banner'--the divine leader of the Israelites in battle (Exod. xvii. 15); and that Yahweh is for Moses a God of righteousness--of the right and the law which he, Moses, brought down from Mount Sinai and published at its foot. Fierce as may now appear to us the figure of Yahweh, thus proclaimed, yet the soul's attitude towards Him is already here, from the first, a religion of the will: an absolute trust in God ('Yahweh shall fight for you, and ye shall hold your peace,' Exod. xiv. 14), and a terrible relentlessness in the execution of His commands--as when Moses orders the sons of Levi to go to and fro in the camp, slaying all who, as worshippers of the Golden Calf, had not been 'on Yahweh's side' (Exod. xxxii. 25-29); and when the chiefs, who had joined in the worship of Baal-Peor, are 'hung up unto Yahweh before the sun' (Num. xxv. 1-5). Long after Moses the Jews still believed in the real existence of the gods of the heathen; and the religion of Moses was presumably, in the first instance, 'Monolatry' (the adoration of One God among many); but already accompanied by the conviction that Yahweh was mightier than any other god--certainly Micah, 'Who is like Yahweh?,' is a very ancient Israelitish name. And if Yahweh is worshipped by Moses on a mountain (Sinai) and His law is proclaimed at a spring, if Moses perhaps himself really fashioned the brazen serpent as a sensible symbol of Yahweh, Yahweh nevertheless remains without visible representation in or on the Ark; He is never conceived as the sheer equivalent of natural forces; and all mythology is absent here--the vehement rejection of the calf-worship shows this strikingly. Michael Angelo, himself a soul of fire, understood Moses well, Gunkel thinks.[41] The second period, from Elijah's first public appearance (about 860 B.C.) to the Dedication of the Second Temple (516 B.C.), and on to the public subscription to the Law of Moses, under Ezra (in 444 B.C.), is surpassed, in spiritual richness and importance, only by the classical times of Christianity itself. Its beginning, its middle, and its end each possess distinctive characters. The whole opens with Elijah, 'the grandest heroic figure in all the Bible,' as it still breathes and burns in the First Book of Kings. 'For Elijah there existed not, in different regions, forces possessed of equal rights and equal claims to adoration, but everywhere only one Holy Power that revealed Itself, not like Baal, in the life of Nature, but like Yahweh, in the moral demands of the Spirit' (Wellhausen). And then (in about 750 B.C.) appears Amos, the first of the noble 'storm-birds' who herald the coming national destructions and divine survivals. 'Yahweh was for these prophets above all the god of justice, and God of Israel only in so far as Israel satisfied His demands of justice. And yet the special relation of Yahweh to Israel is still recognized as real; the ethical truth, which now stood high above Israel, had, after all, arisen within Israel and could still only be found within it.' The two oldest lengthy narrative documents of the Pentateuch--the Yahwist (J) and the Ephraemite (E)--appear to have been composed, the first in Judah in the time of Elijah, the second in Israel in the time of Amos. J gives us the immortal stories of Paradise and the Fall, Cain and Abel, Noah and the Flood; E, Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac; and the documents conjointly furnish the more naïve and picturesque parts of the grand accounts of the Patriarchs generally--the first great narrative stage of the Pentateuch. God here gives us some of His most exquisite self-revelations through the Israelitish peasant-soul. And Isaiah of Jerusalem, successful statesman as well as deep seer, still vividly lives for us in some thirty-six chapters of that great collection the 'Book of Isaiah' (i-xii, xv-xx, xxii-xxxix). There is his majestic vocation in about 740 B.C., described by himself, without ambiguity, as a precise, objective revelation (chap. vi); and there is the divinely impressive close of his long and great activity, when he nerves King Hezekiah to refuse the surrender of the Holy City to the all-powerful Sennacherib, King of Assyria: that Yahweh would not allow a single arrow to be shot against it, and would turn back the Assyrian by the way by which he came--all which actually happens as thus predicted (chap. xxxvii). The middle of this rich second period is filled by a great prophet-priest's figure, and a great prophetical priestly reform. Jeremiah is called in 628 B.C., and dies obscurely in Egypt in about 585 B.C.; and the Deuteronomic Law and Book is found in the Temple, and is solemnly proclaimed to, and accepted by, the people, under the leadership of the High Priest Hilkiah and King Josiah, 'the Constantine of the Jewish Church,' in 628 B.C. Jeremiah and Deuteronomy (D) are strikingly cognate in style, temper, and injunctions; and especially D contrasts remarkably in all this with the documents J and E. We thus have here the second great development of the Mosaic Law. Both Jeremiah and Deuteronomy possess a deeply interior, tenderly spiritual, kernel and a fiercely polemical husk--they both are full of the contrast between the one All-Holy God to be worshipped in the one Holy Place, Jerusalem, and the many impure heathen gods worshipped in so many places by the Jewish crowd. Thus in Jeremiah Yahweh declares: 'This shall be my covenant that I will make with the house of Israel: I will write my law in their hearts: and they shall all know me, from the least to the greatest: for I will remember their sin no more' (xxxi. 33, 34). And Yahweh exclaims: 'My people have committed two evils: they have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters, and have hewn out cisterns that can hold no water.' 'Lift up thine eyes unto the high places ... thou hast polluted the land with thy wickedness.' 'Wilt thou not from this time cry unto me: My Father, thou art the guide of my youth?' (ii. 13, iii. 2, 4). And Deuteronomy teaches magnificently: 'This commandment which I command you this day, is not too hard for thee, neither is it far off. It is not in heaven, neither is it beyond the sea, that thou shouldest say: Who shall go up for us to heaven or over the sea, and bring it unto us? But the word is very nigh unto thee, in thy mouth and in thy heart, that thou mayest do it' (xxx. 11-14). And there are here exquisite injunctions--to bring back stray cattle to their owners; to spare the sitting bird, where eggs or fledglings are found; to leave over, at the harvest, some of the grain, olives, grapes, for the stranger, the orphan, the widow; and not to muzzle the ox when treading out the corn (xxii. 1, 6, 7; xxiv. 19; xxv. 4). Yet the same Deuteronomy ordains: 'If thine own brother, son, daughter, wife, or bosom friend entice thee secretly, saying, let us go and serve other gods, thine hand shall be first upon him to put him to death.' Also 'There shall not be found with thee any consulter with a familiar spirit ... or a necromancer. Yahweh thy God doth drive them out before thee.' And, finally, amongst the laws of war, 'of the cities of these people (Hittite, Amorite, Canaanite, Perizzite, Hivite, Jebusite) thou shalt save alive nothing that breatheth, as Yahweh thy God hath commanded thee' (xii. 2-5; xiii. 6, 9; xviii. 10-13; xx. 16, 17). Here we must remember that the immorality of these Canaanitish tribes and cults was of the grossest, indeed largely unnatural, kind; that it had copiously proved its terrible fascination for their kinsmen, the Jews; that these ancient Easterns, e.g. the Assyrians, were ruthlessly cruel at the storming of enemy cities; and especially that the morality and spirituality, thus saved for humanity from out of a putrid flood, was (in very deed) immensely precious. One point here is particularly far-sighted--the severe watchfulness against all animism, spiritualism, worship of the dead, things in which the environing world of the Jews' fellow Semites was steeped. The Israelitish-Jewish prophetic movement did not first attain belief in a Future Life, and then, through this, belief in God; but the belief in God, strongly hostile to all those spiritualisms, only very slowly, and not until the danger of any infusion of those naturalisms had become remote, led on the Jews to a realization of the soul's survival with a consciousness at least equal to its earthly aliveness. The Second Book of Kings (chaps. xxii, xxiii) gives a graphic account of King Josiah's rigorous execution of the Deuteronomic law. The end of this most full second period is marked by the now rapid predominance of a largely technical priestly legislation and a corresponding conception of past history; by the inception of the Synagogue and the religion of the Book; but also by writings the most profound of any in the Old Testament, all presumably occasioned by the probing experiences of the Exile. In 597 and 586 B.C. Jerusalem is destroyed and the majority of the Jews are taken captives to Babylon; and in between (in 593) occurs the vocation of the prophet-priest Ezekiel, and his book is practically complete by 573 B.C. Here the prophecies as to the restoration are strangely detailed and schematic--already somewhat like the apocalyptic writers. Yet Ezekiel reveals to us deathless truths--the responsibility of the individual soul for its good and its evil, and God Himself as the Good Shepherd of the lost and the sick (xviii. 20-32; xxxiv. 1-6); he gives us the grand pictures of the resurrection unto life of the dead bones of Israel (chap. xxxvii), and of the waters of healing and of life which flow forth, ever deeper and wider, from beneath the Temple, and by their sweetness transform all sour waters and arid lands that they touch (xlvii. 1-12). A spirit and doctrine closely akin to those of Ezekiel produced the third, last, and most extensive development of the Pentateuchal legislation and doctrinal history--in about 560 B.C., the Law of Holiness (Lev., chaps. xvii-xxvi); and in about 500 B.C., the Priestly Code. As with Ezekiel's look forward, so here with these Priests' look backward, we have to recognize much schematic precision of dates, genealogies, and explanations instinct with technical interests. The unity of sanctuary and the removal from the feasts and the worship of all traces of naturalism, which in Jeremiah, Deuteronomy, and the Second Book of Kings appear still as the subject-matters of intensest effort and conflict, are here assumed as operative even back to patriarchal times. Yet it can reasonably be pleaded that the life-work of Moses truly involved all this development; and even that Monotheism (at least, for the times and peoples here concerned) required some such rules as are assumed by P throughout. And P gives us the great six days' Creation Story with its splendid sense of rational order pervasive of the Universe, the work of the all-reasonable God--its single parts good, its totality very good; and man and woman springing together from the Creator's will. But the writer nowhere indicates that he means long periods by the 'days'; each creation appears as effected in an instant, and these instants as separated from each other by but twenty-four hours. In between Deuteronomy and the Priestly Code, or a little later still, lies probably the composition of three religious works full, respectively, of exultant thanksgiving, of the noblest insight into the fruitfulness of suffering, and of the deepest questionings issuing in childlike trust in God. For an anonymous writer composes (say, in 550 B.C.) the great bulk of the magnificent chapters forty to fifty-five of our Book of Isaiah--a paean of spiritual exultation over the Jews' proximate deliverance from exile by the Persian King Cyrus. In 538 B.C. Cyrus issues the edict for the restoration to Judaea, and in 516 the Second Temple is dedicated. Within this great Consolation stand (xlii. 1-4; xlix. 1-6; l. 4-9; lii. 13-liii. 12) the four poems on the Suffering Servant of Yahweh--the tenderest revelation of the Old Testament--apparently written previously in the Exile, say in 570-560 B.C. The Old Law here reaches to the very feet of the New Law--to the Lamb of God who taketh away the sins of the world. And the Book of Job, in its chief constituents (chaps. i-xxxi, xxxviii-xlii), was probably composed when Greek influences began--say in about 480 B.C., the year of the battle of Thermopylae. The canonization of this daringly speculative book indicates finely how sensitive even the deepest faith and holiness can remain to the apparently unjust distribution of man's earthly lot. Our second period ends in 444 B.C., when the priest and scribe Ezra solemnly proclaims, and receives the public subscription to, the Book of the Law of Moses--the Priestly Code, brought by him from Babylon. The Jewish last period, from Ezra's Proclamation 444 B.C. to the completion of the Fourth Book of Ezra, about A.D. 95, is (upon the whole) derivative. Amos, Isaiah, Jeremiah were absorbed in the realities of their own epoch-making times, and of God's universal governance of the world past and future; Daniel now, with practically all the other Apocalyptic writers in his train, is absorbed in those earlier prophecies, and in ingenious speculations and precise computations as to the how and the when of the world's ending. The Exile had given rise to the Synagogue, and had favoured the final development and codifying of the Mosaic law; the seventy years intermission of the Temple sacrifices and symbolic acts had turned the worship, which had been so largely visible, dramatic, social, into the praying, singing, reading, preaching of extant texts, taken as direct and final rules for all thought and action, and as incapable of additions or interpretations equal in value to themselves. Yet thus priceless treasures of spiritual truth and light were handed down to times again aglow with great--the greatest religious gifts and growths; and indeed this literature itself introduced various conceptions or images destined to form a largely fitting, and in the circumstances attractive, garment for the profound further realities brought by Christianity. In the Book of Daniel (written somewhere between 163 and 165 B.C.) all earthly events appear as already inscribed in the heavenly books (vii. 10), and the events which have still really to come consist in the complete and speedy triumph of the Church-State Israel against King Antiochus Epiphanes. But here we get the earliest clear proclamation of a heightened life beyond death--though not yet for all (xii. 2). The noble vision of the four great beasts that came up from the sea, and of one like unto a Son of Man that came with the clouds of heaven (chap. vii), doubtless here figures the earthly kingdoms, Babel, Media, Persia, Greece (Alexander), and God's kingdom Israel. The Psalter appears to have been closed as late as 140 B.C.; some Psalms doubtless date back to 701--a few perhaps to David himself, about 1000 B.C. The comminatory Psalms, even if spoken as by representatives of God's Church and people, we cannot now echo within our own spiritual life; any heightened consciousness after death is frequently denied (e.g. vi. 5: 'in the grave who shall give thee thanks?' and cxv. 17: 'the dead praise not the Lord')--we have seen the impressive reason of this; and perhaps a quarter of the Psalms are doubles, or pale imitations of others. But, for the rest, the Psalter remains as magnificently fresh and powerful as ever: culminating in the glorious self-commitment (Ps. lxxiii), 'I was as a beast before Thee. Nevertheless I am continually with Thee. Whom have I in heaven but Thee, and there is none upon earth that I desire beside Thee.' The keen sense, present throughout this amazingly rich collection, of the reality, prevenience, presence, protection--of the central importance for man, of God, the All-Abiding, finds thus its full, deathless articulation. Religiously slighter, yet interesting as a preparation for Christian theology, are the writings of Philo, a devout, Greek-trained Jew of Alexandria, who in A.D. 40 appeared before the Emperor Caligula in Rome. Philo does not feel his daringly allegorical sublimations as any departures from the devoutest Biblical faith. Thus 'God never ceases from action; as to burn is special to fire, so is action to God'--this in spite of God's rest on the seventh day (Gen. ii. 2). 'There exist two kinds of men: the heavenly man and the earthly man.'[42] The long Life of Moses[43] represents him as the King, Lawgiver, High Priest, Prophet, Mediator. The Word, the Logos (which here everywhere hovers near, but never reaches, personality) is 'the firstborn son of God', 'the image of God'[44]; its types are 'the Rock', the Manna, the High Priest's Coat; it is 'the Wine Pourer and Master of the Drinking Feast of God'.[45] The majority of the Jews, who did not accept Jesus as the Christ, soon felt they had no need for so much allegory, and dropped it, with advantage upon the whole, to the Jewish faith. But already St. Paul and the Fourth Gospel find here noble mental raiment for the great new facts revealed by Jesus Christ. 2. The Christian Religion we will take, as to our points, at four stages of its development--Synoptic, Johannine, Augustinian, Thomistic. The Synoptic material here specially concerned we shall find especially in Mark i. 1 to xv. 47; but also in Matt. iii. 1 to xxvii. 56, and in Luke iii. 1 to xxiii. 56. Within the material thus marked off, there is no greater or lesser authenticity conferred by treble, or double, or only single attestation; for this material springs from two original sources--a collection primarily of doings and sufferings, which our Mark incorporates with some expansions; and a collection primarily of discourses, utilized especially by Matthew and Luke in addition to the original Mark. Both these sources contain the records of eyewitnesses, probably Saints Peter and Matthew. The chronological order and the special occasions of the growths in our Lord's self-manifestation, or in the self-consciousness of His human soul, are most carefully given by Mark and next by Luke. Matthew largely ignores the stages and occasions of both these growths, and assumes, as fully explicit from the beginning of the Ministry, what was manifested only later on or at the last; and he already introduces ecclesiastical and Christological terms and discriminations which, however really implicit as to their substance in Jesus's teaching, or inevitable (as to their particular form) for the maintenance and propagation of Christianity in the near future, are nevertheless still absent from the accounts of Mark and Luke. The chief rules for the understanding of the specific character of our Lord's revelation appear to be the following. The life and teaching must be taken entire; and, within this entirety, each stage must be apprehended in its own special peculiarities. The thirty years in the home, the school, the synagogue, the workshop at Nazareth, form a profoundly important constituent of His life and teaching--impressively contrasted, as they are, with the probably not full year of the Public Ministry, even though we are almost completely bereft of all details for those years of silent preparation. The Public Ministry, again, consists of two strongly contrasted stages, divided by the great scene of Jesus with the Apostles alone at Caesarea Philippi (Mark viii. 27-33; Luke ix. 18-22; Matt. xvi. 13-23). The stage before is predominantly expansive, hopeful, peacefully growing; the stage after, is concentrated, sad, in conflict, and in storm. To the first stage belong the plant parables, full of exquisite sympathy with the unfolding of natural beauty and of slow fruitfulness; to the second stage belong the parables of keen watchfulness and of the proximate, sudden second coming. Both movements are essential to the physiognomy of our Lord. And they are not simply differences in self-manifestation; they represent a growth, a relatively new element, in His human soul's experience and outlook. The central doctrine in the teaching is throughout the Kingdom of God. But in the first stage this central doctrine appears as especially upheld by Jesus's fundamental experience--the Fatherhood of God. In the second stage the central doctrine appears as especially coloured by Jesus's other great experience--of Himself as the Son of Man. In the earlier stage the Kingdom is presented more in the spirit of the ancient prophets, as predominantly ethical, as already come in its beginnings, and as subject to laws analogous to those obtaining in the natural world. In the second stage the coming of the Kingdom is presented more with the form of the apocalyptic writers, in a purely religious, intensely transcendent, and dualistic outlook--especially this also in the Parables of Immediate Expectation--as not present but future (Matt. xix. 28); not distant but imminent (Matt. xvi. 28; xxiv. 33; xxvi. 64); not gradual but sudden (Matt. xxiv. 27, 39, 43); not at all achieved by man but purely given by God (so still in Rev. xxi. 10). To the earlier stage belongs the great Rejoicing of Jesus (Matt. xi. 25-30; Luke x. 21, 22). The splendid opening, 'I thank Thee, Father--for so it hath seemed good in Thy sight', and the exquisite close, special to Matthew, 'Come unto Me--and my burthen is light', raise no grave difficulty. But the intermediate majestic declaration, 'All things are delivered unto Me by the Father--neither knoweth any man the Father save the Son and he to whomsoever the Son will reveal him', causes critical perplexities. I take this declaration to be modelled upon actual words of Jesus, which genuinely implied rather than clearly proclaimed a unique relation between the Father and Himself. Numerous other words and acts involve such a relation and Jesus's full consciousness of it. His first public act, His baptism, is clearly described by Mark as a personal experience, 'He saw the heavens opened' and heard a heavenly voice 'Thou art my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased' (i. 10, 11). Already in the first stage Jesus declares the Baptist to be 'more than a prophet' (Matt. xi. 9), yet claims superiority over him and over Solomon (xi. 11; xii. 42). His doctrine is new wine requiring new bottles (Mark ii. 22); indeed His whole attitude towards the law is that of a superior, who most really exhorts all, 'Learn of Me'. And soon after Caesarea Philippi He insists to the people: 'Whosoever shall be ashamed of Me in this generation, of him also shall the Son of Man be ashamed, when He cometh in the glory of the Father' (Mark viii. 38). The most numerous cures, physical, psychical, moral, certainly performed by Him, appear as the spontaneous effect of a unique degree and kind of spiritual authority; and the sinlessness attributed to Him throughout by the apostolic community (2 Cor. v. 21; Heb. iv. 15; John viii. 46; 1 John ii. 29) entirely corresponds to the absence, in the records of Him, of all traits indicating troubles of conscience and the corresponding fear of God. And this His unique Sonship is conjoined, in the earliest picture of Him, with an endless variety and combination of all the joys, admirations, affections, disappointments, desolations, temptations possible to such a stainless human soul and will. We thus find here a comprehensiveness unlike the attitude of the Baptist or St. Paul, and like, although far exceeding, the joy in nature and the peace in suffering of St. Francis of Assisi. The Second Stage opens with the great scene at Caesarea Philippi and its sequel (given with specially marked successiveness in Mark viii. 27-x. 45), when, for the first time in a manner beyond all dispute, Mark represents Jesus as adopting the designation 'the Son of Man' in a Messianic and eschatological sense. For our Lord here promptly corrects Peter's conception of 'Messiah' by repeated insistence upon 'the Son of Man'--His glory yet also His sufferings. Thus Jesus adopts the term of Daniel vii. 13 (which already the Apocalypse of Enoch had understood of a personal Messiah) as a succinct description of His specific vocation--its heavenly origin and difference from all earthly Messianism; its combination of the depths of human weakness, dereliction, sufferings with the highest elevation in joy, power and glory; and its connexion of that pain with this triumph as strictly interrelated--only with and through the Cross, was there here the offer and acceptance of the Crown. As to the Passion and Death, and the Risen Life, four points appear to be central and secured. Neither the Old Testament nor Jewish Theology really knew of a Suffering Messiah. Jesus Himself clearly perceived, accepted, and carried out this profound new revelation. This suffering and death were conceived by Him as the final act and crown of His service--so in Mark x. 44, 45 and Luke xxii. 24-7. (All this remains previous to, and independent of, St. Paul's elaborated doctrine as to the strictly vicarious and juridical character of the whole.) And the Risen Life is an objectively real, profoundly operative life--the visions of the Risen One were effects of the truly living Jesus, the Christ. The Second Christian Stage, the Johannine writings, are fully understandable only as posterior to St. Paul--the most enthusiastic and influential, indeed, of all our Lord's early disciples, but a convert, from the activity of a strict persecuting Pharisee, not to the earthly Jesus, of soul and body, whom he never knew, but to the heavenly Spirit-Christ, whom he had so suddenly experienced. Saul, the man of violent passions and acute interior conflicts, thus abruptly changed in a substantially _pneumatic_ manner, is henceforth absorbed, not in the past Jewish Messiah, but in the present universal Christ; not in the Kingdom of God, but in Pneuma, the Spirit. Christ, the second Adam, is here a life-giving Spirit, an element that surrounds and penetrates the human spirit; we are baptized, dipped, into Christ, Spirit; we can drink Christ, the Spirit. And this Christ-Spirit effects and maintains the universal brotherhood of mankind, and articulates in particular posts and functions the several human spirits, as variously necessary members of the one Christian society and Church. Now the Johannine Gospel indeed utilizes considerable Synoptic materials, and does not, as St. Paul, restrict itself to the Passion and Resurrection. Yet it gives us, substantially, the Spirit-Christ, the Heavenly Man; and the growth, prayer, temptation, appeal for sympathy, dereliction, agony, which, in the Synoptists, are still so real for the human soul of Jesus Himself, appear here as sheer condescensions, in time and space, of Him who, as all things good, descends from the Eternal Above, so that we men here below may ascend thither with Him. On the other hand, the Church and the Sacraments, still predominantly implicit in the Synoptists, and the subjects of costly conflict and organization in the Pauline writings, here underlie, as already fully operative facts, practically the entire profound work. The great dialogue with Nicodemus concerns Baptism; the great discourse in the synagogue at Capernaum, the Holy Eucharist--in both cases, the strict need of these Sacraments. And from the side of the dead Jesus flow blood and water, as those two great Sacraments flow from the everliving Christ; whilst at the Cross's foot He leaves His seamless coat, symbol of the Church's indivisible unity. The Universalism of this Gospel is not merely apparent: 'God so loved the world' (iii. 16), 'the Saviour of the world' (iv. 42)--this glorious teaching is traceable in many a passage. Yet Christ here condemns the Jews--in the Synoptists only the Pharisees; He is from above, they are from below; all those that came before Him were thieves and robbers; He will not pray for the world--'ye shall die in your sins' (xvii. 9; viii. 24); and the commandment, designated here by Jesus as His own and as new, to 'love one another', is for and within the community to which He gives His 'example' (xv. 12; xiii. 34)--in contrast with the great double commandment of love proclaimed by Him, in the Synoptists, as already formulated in the Mosaic Law (Mark xii. 28-34), and as directly applicable to every fellow-man--indeed, a schismatic Samaritan is given as the pattern of such perfect love (Luke x. 25-37). Deuteronomy gained its full articulation in conflict with Canaanite impurity; the Johannine writings take shape during the earlier battles of the long war with Gnosticism--the most terrible foe ever, so far, encountered by the Catholic Church, and conquered by her in open and fair fight. Also these writings lay much stress upon Knowing and the Truth: 'this is life eternal, to know Thee, the only true God and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent' (xvii. 3); symbolism and mysticism prevail very largely; and, in so far as they are not absorbed in an Eternal Present, the reception of truth and experience is not limited to Christ's earthly sojourn--'the Father will give you another Helper, the spirit of truth who will abide with you forever' (xiv. 16). Yet here the knowing and the truth are also deeply ethical and social: 'he who doeth the truth cometh to the light' (iii. 21); and Christ has a fold, and other sheep not of this fold--them also He must bring, there will be one fold, one Shepherd; indeed, ministerial gradations exist in this one Church (so in xiii. 5-10; xx. 3-8; xxi. 7-19). And the Mysticism here is but an emotional intuitive apprehension of the great historical figure of Jesus, and of the most specifically religious of all facts--of the already overflowing operative existence, previous to all our action, of God, the Prevenient Love. 'Not we loved God (first), but He (first) loved us,' 'let us love Him, because He first loved us,' 'no man can come to Me, unless the Father draw him'--a drawing which awakens a hunger and thirst for Christ and God (1 John iv. 10, 19; John vi. 44; iv. 14; vi. 35). The Third Stage we can find in St. Augustine, who, born a North African Roman (A.D. 354) and a convert from an impure life and Manichaeism, with its spatially extended God (A.D. 386), wrote his _Confessions_ in 397, lived to experience the capture and sack of Rome by Alaric the Goth, 410, composed his great work, _The City of God_, amidst the clear dissolution of a mighty past and the dim presage of a problematical future, and died at Hippo, his episcopal city, in 430, whilst the Vandals were besieging it. St. Augustine is more largely a convert and a rigorist even than St. Paul when St. Paul is most incisive. But here he shall testify only to the natures of Eternity and of real time, a matter in which he remains unequalled in the delicate vividness and balance of his psychological analysis and religious perception. 'Thou, O God, precedest all past times by the height of Thine ever-present Eternity; and Thou exceedest all future times, since they _are_ future, and, once they have come, will be past times. All thy years abide together, because they abide; but these our years will all be, only when they all will have ceased to be. Thy years are but One Day--not every day, but To-Day. This Thy To-Day is Eternity'.[46] The human soul, even in this life, has moments of a vivid apprehension of Eternity, as in the great scene of Augustine and Monica at the window in Ostia.[47] And this our sense of Eternity, Beatitude, God, proceeds at bottom from Himself, immediately present in our lives; the succession, duration of man is sustained by the Simultaneity, the Eternity of God: 'this day of ours _does_ pass within Thee, since all these things' of our deeper experience 'have no means of passing unless, somehow, Thou dost contain them all'. 'Behold, Thou wast within, and I was without ... Thou wast with me, but I was not with Thee.' 'Is not the blessed life precisely _that_ life which all men desire? Even those who only hope to be blessed would not, unless they in some manner already possessed the blessed life, desire to be blessed, as, in reality, it is most certain that they desire to be.'[48] Especially satisfactory is the insistence upon the futility of the question as to what God was doing in Time before He created. Time is only a quality inherent in all creatures; it never existed of itself.[49] And our fourth, last Christian Stage shall be represented by St. Thomas Aquinas (A.D. 1225-74), in the one great question where this Norman-Italian Friar Noble, a soul apparently so largely derivative and abstractive, is more complete and balanced, and penetrates to the specific genius of Christianity more deeply, than Saints Paul and Augustine with all their greater directness and intensity. We saw how the deepest originality of our Lord's teaching and temper consisted in His non-rigoristic earnestness, in His non-Gnostic detachment from things temporal and spatial. The absorbing expectation of the Second Coming, indeed the old, largely effete Graeco-Roman world, had first to go, the great Germanic migrations had to be fully completed, the first Crusades had to pass, before--some twelve centuries after Nazareth and Calvary--Christianity attained in Aquinas a systematic and promptly authoritative expression of this its root-peculiarity and power. No one has put the point better than Professor E. Troeltsch: 'The decisive point here is the conception, peculiar to the Middle Ages, of what is Christian as Supernatural, or rather the full elaboration of the consequences involved in the conception of the Supernatural. The Supernatural is now recognized not only in the great complicated miracle of man's redemption from out of the world corrupted by original sin. But the Supernatural now unfolds itself as an autonomous principle of a logical, religious and ethical kind. The creature, even the perfect creature, is only Natural--is possessed of only natural laws and ends; God alone is Supernatural. Hence the essence of Christian Supernaturalism consists in the elevation of the creature, above this creature's co-natural limitations, to God's own Supernature'. The distinction is no longer, as in the Ancient Church, between two kinds (respectively perfect and relative) of the one sole Natural Law; the distinction here is between Natural Law in general and Supernature generally. 'The Decalogue, in strictness, is not yet the Christian Ethic. "Biblical" now means revealed, but not necessarily Christian; for the Bible represents, according to Aquinas, a process of development which moves through universal history and possesses various stages. The Decalogue is indeed present in the legislation of Christ, but as a stage preliminary to the specifically Christian Ethic. The formula, on the contrary, for the specifically Christian Moral Law is here the Augustinian definition of the love of God as the highest and absolute, the entirely simple, Moral end--an end which contains the demand of the love of God in the stricter sense (self-sanctification, self-denial, contemplation) and the demand of the love of our neighbour (the active relating of all to God, the active interrelating of all in God, and the most penetrating, mutual self-sacrifice for God). This Ethic, a mystical interpretation of the Evangelical Preaching, forms indeed a strong contrast to the This-World Ethic of the Natural Law, Aristotle, the Decalogue and Natural Prosperity; but then this cannot fail to be the case, given the entire fundamental character of the Christian Ethic'.[50] Thus the widest and most primitive contrasts here are, not Sin and Redemption (though these, of course, remain) but Nature (however good in its kind) and Supernature. The State becomes the complex of that essentially good thing, Nature; the Church the complex of that different, higher good, Supernature; roughly speaking, where the State leaves off, the Church begins. It lasted not long, before the Canonists and certain ruling Churchmen helped to break up, in the consciousness of men at large, this noble perception of the two-step ladder from God to man and from man to God. And the Protestant Reformers, as a whole, went even beyond Saints Paul and Augustine in exclusive preoccupation with Sin and Redemption. Henceforth the single-step character of man's call now more than ever predominates. The Protestant Reformation, like the French Revolution, marks the existence of grave abuses, the need of large reforms, and, especially on this point, the all but inevitable excessiveness of man once he is aroused to such 'reforming' action. Certainly, to this hour, Protestantism as such has produced, within and for religion specifically, nothing that can seriously compare, in massive, balanced completeness, with the work of the short-lived golden Middle Ages of Aquinas and Dante. Hence, for our precise present purpose, we can conclude our Jewish and Christian survey here. 3. Only a few words about Confucianism, Buddhism, Mohammedanism, as these, in some of their main outlines, illustrate the points especially brought out by the Jewish Christian development. Confucianism admittedly consists, at least as we have it, in a greatly complicated system of the direct worship of Nature (Sun, Moon, Stars especially) and of Ancestors, and of a finely simple system of ethical rules for man's ordinary social intercourse. That Nature-worship closely resembles what the Deuteronomic reform fought so fiercely in Israel; and the immemorial antiquity and still vigorous life of such a worship in China indicates impressively how little such Nature-worship tends, of itself, to its own supersession by a definite Theism. And the Ethical Rules, and their very large observance, illustrate well how real can be the existence, and the goodness in its own kind, of Natural, This-World morality, even where it stands all but entirely unpenetrated or supplemented by any clear and strong supernatural attraction or conviction. Buddhism, in its original form, consisted neither in the Wheel of Reincarnation alone, nor in _Nirvana_ alone, but precisely in the combination of the two; for that ceaseless flux of reincarnation was there felt with such horror, that the _Nirvana_--the condition in which that flux is abolished--was hailed as a blessed release. The judgement as to the facts--that all human experience is of sheer, boundless change--was doubtless excessive; but the value-judgement--that if life be such pure shiftingness, then the cessation of life is the one end for man to work and pray for--was assuredly the authentic cry of the human soul when fully normal and awake. This position thus strikingly confirms the whole Jewish and Christian persistent search for permanence in change--for a Simultaneity, the support of our succession. And Mohammedanism, both in its striking achievements and in its marked limitations, indeed also in the presentations of it by its own spokesmen, appears as a religion primarily not of a special pervasive spirit and of large, variously applicable maxims, but as one of precise, entirely immutable rules. Thus we find here something not all unlike, but mostly still more rigid than, the post-Exilic Jewish religion--something doubtless useful for certain times and races, but which could not expand and adapt itself to indefinite varieties of growths and peoples without losing that interior unity and self-identity so essential to all living and powerful religion. III Let us now attempt, in a somewhat loose and elastic order, a short allocation and estimate of the facts in past and present religion which mainly concern the question of Religion and Progress. We West Europeans have apparently again reached the fruitful stage when man is not simply alive to this or that physical or psychic need, nor even to the practical interest and advantage of this or that Art, Science, Sociology, Politics, Ethics; but when he awakens further to the question as to why and how these several activities, all so costly where at all effectual, can deserve all this sacrifice--can be based in anything sufficiently abiding and objective. The history of all the past efforts, and indeed all really adequate richness of immediate outlook, combine, I think, to answer that only the experience and the conviction of an Objective Reality distinct from, and more than, man, or indeed than the whole of the world apprehended by man as less than, or as equal to, man himself, can furnish sufficiently deep and tenacious roots for our sense and need of an objective supreme Beauty, Truth, and Goodness--of a living Reality already overflowing that which, in lesser degrees and ways, we small realities cannot altogether cease from desiring to become. It is Religion which, from first to last, but with increasing purity and power, brings with it this evidence and conviction. Its sense of the Objective, Full Reality of God, and its need of Adoration are quite essential to Religion, although considerable systems, which are largely satisfactory in the more immediate questions raised by Aesthetics and even by Ethics, and which are sincerely anxious to do justice also to the religious sense, are fully at work to explain away these essential characteristics of all wideawake Religion. Paul Natorp, the distinguished Plato-scholar in Germany, the short-lived pathetically eloquent M. Guyau in France, and, above all, Benedetto Croce, the large encyclopaedic mind in Italy, have influenced or led much of this movement, which, in questions of Religion, has assuredly not reached the deepest and most tenacious teachings of life. The intimations as to this deepest Reality certainly arise within my own mind, emotion, will; and these my faculties cannot, upon the whole, be constrained by my fellow mortals; indeed, as men grow more manysidedly awake, all attempts at any such constraint only arrest or deflect the growth of these intimations. Yet the dispositions necessary for the sufficient apprehension of these religious intimations--sincerity, conscientiousness, docility--are not, even collectively, already Religion, any more than they are Science or Philosophy. With these dispositions on our part, objective facts and living Reality can reach us--and, even so, these facts reach us practically always, at first, through human teachers already experienced in these things. The need of such facts and such persons to teach them are, in the first years of every man, and for long ages in the history of mankind, far more pressing than any question of toleration. Even vigorous persecution or keen exclusiveness of feeling have--_pace_ Lord Acton--saved for mankind, at certain crises of its difficult development, convictions of priceless worth--as in the Deuteronomic Reform and the Johannine Writings. In proportion as men become more manysidedly awake, they acquire at least the capacity for greater sensitiveness concerning the laws and forces intrinsic to the various ranges and levels of life; and, where such sensitiveness is really at work, it can advantageously replace, by means of the spontaneous acceptance of such objective realities, the constraints of past ages--constraints which now, in any case, have become directly mischievous for such minds. None the less will men, after this change as before, require the corporate experience and manifestation of religion as, in varying degrees and ways, a permanent necessity for the vigorous life of religion. Indeed, such corporate tradition operates strongly even where men's spiritual sense seems most individual, or where, with the retention of some ethical nobility of outlook, they most keenly combat all and every religious institution. So with George Fox's doctrine of the Divine Enlightenment of every soul separately and without mediation of any kind, a doctrine derived by him from that highly ecclesiastical document, the Gospel of St. John; and with many a Jacobin's fierce proclamation of the rights of Man, never far away from reminiscences of St. Paul. This permanent necessity of Religious Institutions is primarily a need for men to teach and exemplify, not simply Natural, This-World Morality, but a Supernatural, Other-World Ethic; and not simply that abstraction, Religion in General or a Religious Hypothesis, but that rich concretion, this or that Historical Religion. In proportion as such an Historical Religion is deep and delicate, it will doubtless contain affinities with all that is wholesome and real within the other extant historical religions. Nevertheless, all religions are effectual through their special developments, where these developments remain true at all. As well deprive a flower of its 'mere details' of pistil, stamen, pollen, or an insect of its 'superfluous' antennae, as simplify any Historical Religion down to the sorry stump labelled 'the religion of every honest man'. We shall escape all bigotry, without lapsing into such most unjust indifferentism, if we vigorously hold and unceasingly apply the doctrine of such a Church theologian as Juan de Lugo. De Lugo (A.D. 1583-1660), Spaniard, post-Reformation Roman Catholic, Jesuit, Theological Professor, and a Cardinal writing in Rome under the eyes of Pope Urban VIII, teaches that the members of the various Christian sects, of the Jewish and Mohammedan communions, and of the heathen religions and philosophical schools, who achieve their salvation, do so, ordinarily, simply through the aid afforded by God's grace to their good faith in its instinctive concentration upon, and in its practice of, those elements in their respective community's worship and teaching, which are true and good and originally revealed by God.[51] Thus we escape all undue individualism and all unjust equalization of the (very variously valuable) religious and philosophical bodies; and yet we clearly hold the profound importance of the single soul's good faith and religious instinct, and of the worship or school, be they ever so elementary and imperfect, which environ such a soul. A man's religion, in proportion to its depth, will move in a Concrete Time which becomes more and more a Partial Simultaneity. And these his depths then more and more testify to, and contrast with, the Fully Simultaneous, God. Because man thus lives, not in an ever-equal chain of mutually exclusive moments, in Clock Time, but in Duration, with its variously close interpenetrations of the successive parts; and because these interpenetrations are close in proportion to the richness and fruitfulness of the durations he lives through; he can, indeed he must, conceive absolutely perfect life as absolutely simultaneous. God is thus not Unending, but Eternal; the very fullness of His life leaves no room or reason for succession and our poor need of it. Dr. F. C. S. Schiller has admirably drawn out this grand doctrine, with the aid of Aristotle's Unmoving Action, in _Humanism_, 1903, pp. 204-27. We need only persistently apprehend this Simultaneity as essential to God, and Succession as varyingly essential to all creatures, and there remains no difficulty--at least as regards the Time-element--in the doctrine of Creation. For only with the existence of creatures does Time thus arise at all--it exists only in and through them. And assuredly all finite things, that we know at all, bear traces of a history involving a beginning and an end. Professor Bernardino Varisco, in his great _Know Thyself_, has noble pages on this large theme.[52] In any case we must beware of all more or less Pantheistic conceptions of the simultaneous life of God and the successive life of creatures as but essential and necessary elements of one single Divine-Creaturely existence, in the manner, e.g., of Professor Josiah Royce, in his powerful work _The World and the Individual_, 2nd series, 1901. All such schemes break down under an adequate realization of those dread facts error and evil. A certain real independence must have been left by God to reasonable creatures. And let it be noted carefully: the great difficulty against all Theism lies in the terrible reality of Evil; and the deepest adequacy of this same Theism, especially of Christianity, consists in its practical attitude towards, and success against, this most real Evil. But Pantheism increases, whilst seeming to surmount, the theoretical difficulty, since the world as it stands, and not an Ultimate Reality behind it, is held to be perfect; and it entirely fails really to transmute Evil in practice. Theism, no more than any other outlook, really explains Evil; but it alone, in its fullest, Jewish-Christian forms, has done more, and better, than explain Evil: it has fully faced, it has indeed greatly intensified, the problem, by its noble insistence upon the reality and heinousness of Sin; and it has then overcome all this Evil, not indeed in theory, but in practice, by actually producing in the midst of deep suffering, through a still deeper faith and love, souls the living expression of the deepest beatitude and peace. The fully Simultaneous Reality awakens and satisfies man's deepest, most nearly simultaneous life, by a certain adaptation of its own intrinsic life to these human spirits. In such varyingly 'incarnational' acts or action the non-successive God Himself condescends to a certain successiveness; but this, in order to help His creatures to achieve as much simultaneity as is compatible with their several ranks and calls. We must not wonder if, in the religious literature, these condescensions of God largely appear as though they themselves were more or less non-successive; nor, again, if the deepest religious consciousness tends usually to conceive God's outward action, if future, then as proximate, and, if present, then as strictly instantaneous. For God in Himself is indeed Simultaneous; and if we try to picture Simultaneity by means of temporal images at all, then the instant, and not any period long or short, is certainly nearest to the truth--as regards the form and vehicle of the experience. The greater acts of Divine Condescension and Self-Revelation, our Religious _Accessions_, have mostly occurred at considerable intervals, each from the other, in our human history. After they have actually occurred, these several acts can be compared and arranged, according to their chief characteristics, and even in a series of (upon the whole) growing content and worth--hence the Science of Religion. Yet such Science gives us no power to produce, or even to foresee, any further acts. These great Accessions of Spiritual Knowledge and Experience are not the simple result of the conditions obtaining previously in the other levels of life, or even in that of religion itself; they often much anticipate, they sometimes greatly lag behind, the rise or decline of the other kinds of life. And where (as with the great Jewish Prophets, and, in some degree, with John the Baptist and Our Lord) these Accessions do occur at times of national stress, these several crises are, at most, the occasion for the demand, not the cause of the supply. The mostly long gaps between these Accessions have been more or less filled up, amongst the peoples concerned, by varyingly vigorous and valuable attempts to articulate and systematize, to apply in practice, and rightly to place (within the other ranges of man's total life) these great, closely-packed masses of spiritual fact; or to elude, to deflect, or directly to combat them, or some of their interpretations or applications. Now fairly steady improvement is possible, desirable, and largely actual, in the critical sifting and appraisement, as to the dates and the actual reality, of the historical documents and details of these Accessions; in the philosophical articulation of their doctrinal and evidential content; in the finer understanding and wider application of their ethical demands; and in the greater adequacy (both as to firmness and comprehensiveness) of the institutional organs and incorporations special to these same Accessions. All this can and does progress, but mostly slowly, intermittently, with short violent paroxysms of excess and long sleepy reactions of defect, with one-sidedness, travesties, and--worst of all--with worldly indifference and self-seeking. The grace and aid of the Simultaneous Richness are here also always necessary; nor can these things ever really progress except through a deep religious sense--all mere scepticism and all levelling down are simply so much waste. Still, we can speak of progress in the Science of Religion more appropriately than we can of progress in the Knowledge of Religion. The Crusades, the Renaissance, the Revolution, no doubt exercised, in the long run, so potent a secularizing influence, because men's minds had become too largely other-worldly--had lost a sufficient interest in this wonderful world; and hence all those new, apparently boundless outlooks and problems were taken up largely as a revolt and escape from what looked like a prison-house--religion. Yet through all these violent oscillations there persisted, in human life, the supernatural need and call. In this God is the great central interest, love and care of the soul. We must look to it that both these interests and Ethics are kept awake, strong and distinct within a costingly rich totality of life: the Ethic of the honourable citizen, merchant, lawyer--of Confucius and Socrates; and the Ethic of the Jewish Prophets at their deepest, of the Suffering Servant, of our Lord's Beatitudes, of St. Paul's great eulogy of love, of Augustine and Monica at the window in Ostia, of Father Damian's voluntarily dying a leper amidst the lepers. The Church is the born incorporation of this pole, as the State is of the other. The Church indeed should, at its lower limit, also encourage the This-world Stage; the State, at its higher limit, can, more or less consciously, prepare us for the Other-World Stage. Both spring from the same God, at two levels of His action; both concern the same men, at two stages of their response and need. Yet the primary duty of the State is turned to this life; the primary care of the Church, to that life--to life in its deepest depths. Will men, after this great war, more largely again apprehend, love, and practise this double polarity of their lives? Only thus will the truest progress be possible in the understanding, the application, and the fruitfulness of Religion, with its great central origin and object, God, the beginning and end of all our true progress, precisely because He Himself already possesses immeasurably more than all He helps us to become,--He Who, even now already, is our Peace in Action, our Joy even in the Cross. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE I. 1. Oswold Külpe, _The Philosophy of the Present in Germany_, English translation. London: George Allen, 1913, _3s. 6d._ net. 2. J. McKeller Stewart, _A Critical Exposition of Bergon's Philosophy_. London: Macmillan, 1913, _6s._ net. II. 1. R. H. Charles, _A Critical History of the Doctrine of a Future Life_. London: A. & C. Black, 1899, _10s. 6d._ net. 2. Ernest T. Scott, _The Fourth Gospel_. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark, 1906, _6s._ net. III. 1. Aliotta, _The Idealistic Reaction against Science_. English translation. Macmillan, 1914, _12s._ net. 2. F. C. Schiller, _Humanism_, Macmillan, 1903, _7s. 6d._ net. 3. C. C. J. Webb, _Group Theories of Religion and the Individual_, Allen and Unwin, 1916, _5s._ net. FOOTNOTES: [32] _The Idealistic Reaction against Science_, Engl. tr. 1914, pp. 6, 7. [33] _A Critical Account of the Philosophy of Lotze_, 1895, p. 104. [34] Aliotta, op. cit., pp. 89, 187. [35] _Encyl. Brit._, 'Psychology,' 11th ed., p. 577. [36] Ed. 1898, p. 90. [37] _Discours sur la Méthode_, 1637, IVe Partie. [38] Aliotta, op. cit., p. 408. [39] Ed. 1893, vol. ii, p. 759. [40] _First Principles_, 6th ed., 1900, vol. i, p. 67. [41] Article, 'Moses,' in _Die Religion in Geschichte und Gegenwart_, 1913. [42] Ed. Mangey, vol. i, pp. 44, 49. [43] Ibid., pp. 80-179. [44] Ibid., pp. 308, 427. [45] Ibid., pp. 213, 121, 562, 691. [46] _Conf._ x, 13, 2. [47] Autumn, 387. [48] _Conf._ 1, 6, 3; x, 27; x, 20. [49] _Conf._ xi, 13. [50] _Die Soziallehren der christlichen Kirchen und Gruppen_, 1912, pp. 263-5. [51] _De Fide_, Disp. xix, 7, 10; xx, 107, 194. [52] _Cognosci Te Stesso_, 1912, pp. 144-7. VI MORAL PROGRESS L. P. JACKS From the syllabus of all the lectures in this course I gather that every lecturer on the programme is dealing with the question of moral progress. This is inevitable. Each lecturer must show that the particular sort of progress he is dealing with is real or genuine progress, and this it cannot be unless it is moral. That is itself a significant fact and throws a valuable light on our subject. It shows that progress, as it is studied throughout the course, is not progress in the abstract, whatever that may mean, but progress _for us_ constituted as we are; and since our constitution is essentially moral all progress that we can recognize as such must be moral also. Science, Industry, Government, might all claim progress on their own ground and in their own nature, but this would not prove progress as we understand the word, unless it could be shown further that these things contribute to human betterment in the highest sense of the word. _Their_ progress might conceivably involve _our_ regress. To believe in moral progress as an historical fact, as a process that has begun, and is going on, and will be continued--that is one thing, and it is my own position. To believe that this progress is far advanced is another thing, and is not my position. While believing in Moral Progress as a fact, I also believe that we are much nearer to the beginnings of it than the end. We should do well to accustom ourselves to this thought. Many of our despairs, lamentations, and pessimisms are disappointments which arise from our extravagant notions of the degree of progress already attained. There has been a great deal of what I have called philosophic pharisaism. Perhaps it would be better called aeonic pharisaism. I mean the spirit in the present age which seems to say 'I thank thee, O God, that I am not as former ages: ignorant, barbaric, cruel, unsocial; I read books, ride in aeroplanes, eat my dinner with a knife and fork, and cheerfully pay my taxes to the State; I study human science, talk freely about humanity, and spend much of my time in making speeches on social questions'. Now there is truth in all this, but not the kind of truth which should lead us to self-flattery. A good rule for optimists would be this: 'Believe in moral progress, but do not believe in too much of it.' I think there would be more optimists in the world, more cheerfulness, more belief in moral progress, if we candidly faced the fact that morally considered we are still in a neolithic age, not brutes indeed any longer, and yet not so far outgrown the brutish stage as to justify these trumpetings. One of the beneficent lessons of the present war has been to moderate our claims in this respect. It has revealed us to ourselves as nothing else in history has ever done, and it has revealed, among other things, that moral progress is not nearly so advanced as we thought it was. It has been a terrible blow to the pharisaism of which I have just spoken. It has not discredited science, nor philosophy, nor government, nor anything else that we value, but it has shown that these things have not brought us as far as we thought. That very knowledge, when you come to think of it, is itself a very distinct step in moral progress. Before the war we were growing morally conceited; we thought ourselves much better, more advanced in morality, than we really were, and this conceit was acting as a real barrier to our farther advance. A sharp lesson was needed to take this conceit out of us--to remind us that as yet we are only at the bare beginnings of moral advance--and not, as some of us fondly imagined, next door to the goal. This sudden awakening to the truth is full of promise for the future. And now what is the cause of these exaggerated notions which so many of us have entertained? I think they arise from our habit of letting ourselves be guided by words rather than by realities, by what men are _saying_ rather than by what they are _doing_, by what teachers are teaching than by what learners are learning. If you take your stand in the realm of words, of doctrines, of theories, of philosophies, of books, preachings, and uttered ideals, you might make out a strong case for a high degree of moral progress actually attained. But if you ask how much of this has been learnt by mankind at large, and learnt in such a way as to issue in practice, you get a different story. We have attached too much importance to the first story and too little to the second. There has been a great deal of false emphasis in consequence. This false emphasis is especially prominent in the education controversy which is now going on--and the question of moral progress, by the way, is the question of education in the widest and highest sense of the term. People seem quite content so long as they can get the right thing taught. They don't always see that unless the right thing is taught by the right people and in the right way it will not be _learnt_. Now education is ultimately a question of what is being _learnt_, not of what is being _taught_. The process of learning is a very curious and complicated one, and it often happens that what goes in at the teacher's end comes out at the pupil's end in a wholly different form and with a wholly different value; and we have the highest authority for believing that what really counts is not so much that which goeth into a man but that which cometh out of him. That applies to all education--especially moral education. So that if you argue from what has gone into the human race in the way of moral teaching you may be greatly surprised and perhaps disappointed when you compare it with what has come out of the human race in the meantime. What has been taught is not what has been learnt. It has suffered a sea change in the process. Nor is the question wholly one of learning. There is the further question of remembering. I believe that a candid examination of the facts would convince us that the human race has proved itself a forgetful pupil. It has not always retained what it has learnt. Emerson has said that no account of the Holy Ghost has been lost. But how did Emerson find that out? The only accents Emerson knew of were those which the world happened to have remembered. If any had been lost in the meantime Emerson naturally would not know of their existence. I have heard of a functionary, whose precise office I am not able to define, called 'the Lord's Remembrancer'. It would be a great help to Moral Progress if we had in modern life a People's Remembrancer. His place is occupied to some extent by the study of history, and for that reason one could wish for the sake of Moral Progress that the study of history were universal. For my own part I seldom open a book of history without recovering what for me is a lost account of the Holy Ghost. Next to conceit I reckon forgetfulness as the greatest enemy of Moral Progress. I suppose Rudyard Kipling had something of this in mind when he wrote his poem-- Lord God of Hosts be with us yet, Lest we forget, lest we forget. Another cause of our over-estimate of Moral Progress is that we have thought too much of the abstract State and too little of the actual States now in being. Our devotion to 'the' State as an ideal has led us to overlook the fact that many actual States represent a form of morality so low that it is doubtful if it can be called morality at all. In their relations _with one another_ they display qualities which would disgrace the brutes. And the worst of it is that at times these States drag down to their own low level the morality of the individuals belonging to them. Thus at the present moment we see quite decent Englishmen and quite decent Germans tearing one another to pieces like mad dogs, a thing they would never dream of doing as between man and man, and which they do only because they are in the grip of forces alien to their own nature. We have overestimated Progress by thinking only of what is happening inside each of the States. We have forgotten to consider the bearing of the States to one another, which remains on a level lower than that of individuals. The impression has gone abroad that the nations of the world need to take _only one step_ from the position where they now stand to accomplish the final unity of all mankind. Taking any one of these nations--our own for example--we can trace the steps by which the warring elements within it have become reconciled, until finally there has emerged that vast unitary corporation--the British Empire. So with all the others. What more is required therefore than one step further in the same direction, to join up all the States into a single world State. But I am bound to think we are too hasty in treating the unity of mankind as needing only one step more. It is not so easy as all that. When you study the process by which unity has been brought about in the various European communities you find that motives of conquest and corresponding motives of defence have had a great deal to do with it. Germany, for example, was built up and now holds together as a fighting unit. Whether Germany and the other States would still maintain their cohesion when they were no longer fighting units, and when the motives of conquest and defence were no longer in operation, is a question on which I should not like to dogmatize either way. Certainly we have no right to assume offhand that the unifying process which has given the nations the mass cohesion and efficiency they require for holding their own against enemy States would still remain in full power when there were no longer any enemy States to be considered. But what do we mean by Progress? Progress may be defined as that process by which a thing advances from a less to a more complete state of itself. Now whether this process is a desirable one or not obviously depends on the nature of the thing which is progressing. Take the largest and most inclusive of all things--the whole world. And now suppose philosophy to have proved that the world, the whole world, is advancing from a less to a more complete state of itself--which as a matter of fact is what the doctrine of evolution claims to have proved. Ought I to rejoice in this discovery? Will it give me satisfaction? That clearly depends on the nature of the world. If I am antecedently assured that the world is good, I shall naturally rejoice on hearing that it is advancing from a less to a more complete state of itself. But if the nature of the world is evil, what reason can I possibly have for rejoicing in its evolution? Assuming the world to be evil in its essential nature, I for my part, if I were consulted in the matter, would certainly give my vote against its being allowed to advance from a less to a more complete state of itself. The less such a world progresses the easier it will be for moral beings to live in it. Our interest lies in its remaining as undeveloped as possible. Obvious as this seems there are some evolutionists who take a rather different view. They seem to think that any sort of world, no matter what its nature might be, would ultimately become a good world if it were allowed to develop its nature far enough. It is just the fact of its continually becoming more of itself that makes it good. But this would compel us to abandon our definition that progress is the advance of a thing from a less to a more complete state of _itself_. For if itself were a bad self to begin with all such advance of _itself_ would only make it worse. It is possible that an essentially bad man like Iago might be converted into a good one, but not by advancing from a less to a more complete state of _himself_ as he originally was--unless indeed we change the hypothesis and suppose that he was not essentially bad to begin with. So with the world at large. Our nature being what it is, namely moral, we must first be convinced that the world is in principle good before we can derive the least satisfaction from knowing that it is advancing from a less to a more complete state of _itself_. The alternative doctrine makes a breach in the doctrine of progress which is inconsistent with its original form. A thing develops by retaining its essential nature--that is the original form. But a bad world which develops into a good one doesn't retain its essential nature. There comes a point somewhere when the next step of progress can be achieved only by the thing dropping its original nature--a point at which the thing is no longer becoming more of its former self, which was bad, but is ceasing to be its former self altogether and becoming something else, which is good. Let us apply this to progress in three specific directions--Science, the Mechanical Arts, and Government. We find that the progress of science has enormously increased man's power over the forces of nature. Is it a good thing that man's power over the forces of nature should be increased? That surely depends on the manner in which this power is used, and this depends again on the moral nature of man. When we observe, as we may truly observe, especially at the present time, that of all the single applications which man has made of science, the most extensive and perhaps the most efficient is that of devising implements for destroying his brother man, it is at least permissible to raise the question whether the progress of science has contributed on the whole to the progress of humanity. Had it not been for the progress of science, which has enormously increased the wealth of the world, it is doubtful if this war, which is mainly a war about wealth, would have taken place at all. Or if a war had broken out, it would not have involved the appalling destruction of human life and property we are now witnessing--such that, within a space of two years, about six million human beings have been killed, thirty-five millions wounded, and wealth destroyed to the extent of about fifteen thousand millions sterling--though some say it is very much more. Science taught us to make this wealth: science has also taught us how to destroy it. When one thinks of how much of this is attributable to the progress of science, I say it is _permissible to raise the question_ whether man is a being who can safely be entrusted with that control over the forces of nature which science gives him. What if he uses this power, as he plainly can do, for his own undoing? To ask this, as we can hardly help asking, is to transfer the question of scientific progress into the sphere of morality. It is conceivable that the progress of science might involve for us no progress at all. It might be, and some have feared that it may become, a step towards the self-destruction of the human race. Take the mechanical arts. The chief effects of progress in the mechanical arts have been an enormous increase in the material wealth of mankind, and, partly consequent upon this, a parallel growth of population in the industrial countries of the world. It is by no means clear that either of these things constitutes a definite step in human progress. Consider the growth of population--the immense increase in the total bulk and volume of the human race. Whether this constitutes a clear gain to humanity obviously cannot be answered without reference to moral considerations. To increase the arithmetical quantity of life in the world can be counted a gain only if the general tendencies of life are in the right direction. If they are in the wrong direction, then the more lives there are to yield to these tendencies the less reason has the moralist to be satisfied with what is happening. No one, so far as I know, has ever seriously maintained that the end and aim of progress is to increase the number of human beings up to the limit which the planet is able to support; though some doctrines if pressed to their conclusion would lead to that, notably the doctrine that all morality rests ultimately on the instinct for the preservation and the reproduction of life. We have first to be convinced that the human race is not on the wrong road before we can look with complacency on the increase of its numbers. We may note in this connexion that mankind possesses no sort of collective control over its own mass or volume. The mass or total number of lives involved is determined by forces which are not subject to the unitary direction of any existing human will either individual or collective. This applies not only to the human race as a whole, but to particular communities. Their growth is unregulated. They just come to be what they are in point of size. This fact seems to me a very important one to bear in mind when we talk of the progress of science giving us control over the forces of nature. So far no state, no government, no community has won any effective control over that group of the forces of nature which determine the total size of the community in question. It is an aspect of human destiny which appears to be left to chance; and yet when we consider what it means, is there any aspect of human destiny on which such tremendous consequences depend? And ought we not to consider this before claiming, as we so often claim, that the progress of science has given us control of the forces of nature? It is strange that this point has not been more considered, especially by thinkers who are fond of the word 'humanity'--'the good of humanity'--or the 'greatest happiness of the greatest number'. Humanity has an arithmetical or quantitative side, and the good of humanity surely depends, to some extent, on how much humanity there is. I can imagine many things which might be good for a Greek city state of 10,000 souls which would not be good, or not good in the same sense, for a community of 100,000,000 souls. Surely it needs no reasoning to prove that our power to do our duty to others is affected by the number of others to whom duty has to be done--it makes a difference where there are 10,000 of men or 100,000,000. Similarly with the greatest happiness of the greatest number. What is the _greatest_ number? A great deal that has been said about this would not have been said if we had considered that the _greatest number_ itself is left at the disposal of forces outside the present scope of our own will. Even the proposal to sell our goods and give the proceeds to the poor would surely be affected, from the moral point of view, by the number of the poor who were to receive the distribution. Were this so small that the poor would get five pounds apiece it would be one question; were it so large that they would receive a halfpenny apiece it would be another question. Thus we may conclude that the progress of the mechanical arts with the consequent increase in the bulk of the human race has not solved the problem of moral progress, but only placed that problem in a new and more perplexing context. A similar conclusion would meet us if we were to consider the parallel increase of the wealth of the world. The moral question is not about the amount of wealth the world possesses, but about the way men spend it and the use they make of it. Industrially speaking, the human race has made its fortune during the last hundred years. But has it made up its mind what to do with the fortune? And has its mind been made up in the right way? To raise these questions is to see that progress from the economic point of view may be the reverse of progress from the moral. But I shall not further enlarge upon this--the theme being too familiar. The third question which relates itself to moral progress is that of Government. Now Government, I need hardly say, is not an end in itself. It is a device which man has set up to help him in attaining the true end of his life. To make up our minds how we ought to be governed is therefore impossible unless we have previously made up our minds how we ought to live. What might be a good government for a people whose end is industrial success might be a very bad one for a people who had some other end in view. Well, then, are we well governed at the present time? Are we better governed than we were? Has progress taken place in this department? Plainly we cannot answer these questions unless we have chosen our end in life and are morally satisfied with it. In the history of modern states we discover a tendency, more strongly marked in some quarters than in others, towards that form of democracy which is called responsible self-government. Government of the people, for the people, by the people. The people are going to govern themselves. But they may do so in a thousand different ways--each of which has a different moral value. A people may go wrong just as fatally in governing itself as in being governed by some external authority. I confess that nothing I can learn from the history of government entirely reassures me on this point. I see everywhere progress towards organization, but then one is bound to ask on what ulterior end is this organization directed? I see everywhere a growing subordination of the individual to the State. This may or may not be a very good thing. What _kind of State_ is it to which the individual is becoming subordinated? There are great differences among them--some seem to me, one in particular at the present time, thoroughly bad, and I cannot see that the individual gains morally by being subordinated to such a State--at least if he gains in one direction he loses more in another. Even the social unity which Governments are capable of achieving must not be too hastily translated into moral progress. We are entitled to ask several questions before the one can be equated with the other. To begin with, do men know what they want to achieve by their unified life? And if they do know what they want, have we not still the right to criticize its moral value and say 'this is right' or this is wrong? Should the time ever come when the common will of mankind should get itself expressed by the decrees of a universal democracy, would moral criticism be at an end so far as the said decrees were concerned? For my part I cannot see that it would. Perhaps it were truer to say that only then would moral criticism effectively begin. As things now are, we are prevented from criticizing the common will because none of us knows what exactly the common will demands. But if it could get itself expressed and defined by the decrees of a perfect democracy we should know. Those decrees would reveal the human community to itself, and it is possible that the revelation would not be altogether agreeable to our moral sense. We might then discover that the common will is capable of being grossly immoral. So far it has been impossible for us to make this discovery because no organ exists for expressing the common will on the human scale, and even those which express it on the national scale are not perfect. I am far from saying the discovery would be made; but I know of no line of argument which rules it out as impossible. Meanwhile we are scarcely justified in regarding the common will as necessarily moral until we know more than we do of what precisely it is that the common will aims at and intends to achieve. To back the common will through thick and thin, as some of our philosophers seem disposed to do, is a dangerous speculation--it might perhaps be described as putting your money on a dark horse. This leads me to say a word concerning a phrase which has been much in use of late--the Collective Wisdom of Mankind, or the Collective Wisdom of the State. Progress is sometimes defined as a gradual approach to a state of things where this collective wisdom rules the course of events. And collective wisdom is sometimes represented as vastly wiser than that possessed by any individual, even the wisest. Now if this really is so it seems pretty obvious that, when the collective wisdom speaks, no individual can have the right of appeal. What are you, what am I, that either of us should set up our private intelligence against the intelligence of forty million of our fellow citizens? That surely would be a preposterous claim. The collective wisdom must know best: at least it knows much better than you or I. But is the collective wisdom of the State so immensely superior to that of the individual, and of necessity so? Have we any means of bringing the matter to the test? It is extremely difficult to do so. Not until we make the experiment do we find how rare are the occasions of which we can say that then and there the collective wisdom of the community fairly and fully expressed itself. Acts of Parliament are not good examples. They usually represent not the collective wisdom of the whole community, but the wisdom of the majority after it has been checked, modified, and perhaps nullified by the opposing wisdom of an almost equal minority. Take as an example the history of the Irish Question. How difficult it is to put one's finger on any moment in that tangled story and say that then and there the collective wisdom of the community knew what it wanted to do and did it! So with almost everything else. Now if there be such a thing as the collective wisdom of the State I suppose that the moment when we are most likely to find it in action is the moment when one State has dealings with another State. That surely is a fair test. If States possess collective wisdom they ought to show its existence and measure when they confront one another _as States_--when State calls to State across the great deeps of international policy. What should we say of any State which claimed collective wisdom only when dealing with its own individual members--with you and me--but dropped the claim when the question was one of reasonable intercourse with another State similarly endowed? This we should say is a very dubious claim. Well, how stands the matter when this test is applied? The present war provides the answer. The war arose out of a type of quarrel which, had it occurred between half a dozen individuals of average intelligence, would have been amicably settled, by reasonable human intercourse, in twenty minutes. Does not this afford a rough measure of the collective wisdom of such States as at present exist in this world? Does it not suggest that they have little faculty of reasonable intercourse with one another? And when you say _that_ of any being, or any collection of beings, do you not put it pretty low down in the scale of intelligence? It is literally true that these States do not understand one another. Thus we are driven back upon a plain alternative; either the States do not represent collective wisdom, or else this collective wisdom is one of the lowest forms of wisdom now extant on this planet. In either case we must be very cautious in our use of the phrase. We must not infer moral progress from the reign of collective wisdom until we are assured that collective wisdom is really as wise as some of its devotees assume it to be. About the idea of moral progress, which is only another name for the idea of progress in its widest form, I need say little, the question having been adequately treated by other lecturers. But I will add this. Belief in moral progress is a belief which no man can live without, and, at the same time, a belief which cannot be proved by any appeal to human experience. We cannot live without it, because life is just the process of reaching forward to a better form of itself. Were a man to say that since the world began no moral progress has taken place he would thereby show his latent belief in moral progress. For no man would take the trouble to deny moral progress unless he believed that the world would in some way be made better by his denial. He would not even trouble to come to a private conclusion in the matter unless he believed that his private conclusion was something to the good. In that sense perhaps we may say that moral progress is proved, for the best proof of any belief is that it remains indispensable to the life we have to live. But the appeal to experience would not prove it--and for this reason. A progressive world is a world which not only makes gains, but _keeps_ its gains when they are made. If the Kingdom of Heaven were to become a fact to-morrow, that of itself would not prove progress, if you admit the possibility that the world might hereafter retreat from the position it had won. That possibility you could never rule out--except by an appeal to faith. A world which attained the goal and then lost it would be a greater failure, from the point of view of moral progress, than one which never attained the goal at all. The doctrine that the gains of morality can never be lost is widely held; but it does not rest on a philosophic or a scientific basis. As Hume taught long ago, you cannot infer an infinite conclusion from finite data--and in this case the conclusion is infinite and the data are finite. They are not only finite but various: some pointing one way, some another. Finally we cannot prove moral progress by appeal to any objective standard, such as the amount of happiness existing in the world at successive dates. Suppose you were able to show that, up to date, the amount of happiness in the world has shown a steady increase until it has reached the grand sum total now existing. Now suppose that you were transferred to another planet where the conditions were the exact opposite: where the inhabitants ages ago started with the happiness we now possess, and gradually declined until, at the present moment, they are no happier than the human race was at the first stage of its career. Now add together the totals of happiness for both your worlds, the ascending world which starts with the minimum and ends with the maximum, the declining world which starts with the maximum and ends with the minimum. The grand totals in both cases are exactly the same. So far as the total result is concerned, the declining world has just as much to show for itself as the ascending. Valued in terms of happiness, the one world would be worth as much as the other. And yet we know that the value of these two worlds is not the same. The ascending is worth a lot more than the descending. Why? I leave you with that conundrum. Answer it, and you have the key to the meaning of Moral Progress. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE T. H. Green, _Prolegomena to Ethics_, Book III, ch. 3. Lecky, _History of European Morals_, ch. 1. Spencer, _Data of Ethics_, ch. 13 to 14. VII PROGRESS IN GOVERNMENT A. E. ZIMMERN When I was asked to speak to you on the subject of Progress in Government I gladly accepted, for it is a subject on which I have reflected a good deal. But when I came to think over what I should say, I saw that you had asked me for the impossible. For what is Government? I do not know whether there are any here for whom Government means no more than a policeman, or a ballot-box, or a list of office-holders. The days of such shallow views are surely over. Government is the work of ordering the external affairs and relationships of men. It covers all the activities of men as members of a community--social, industrial, and religious as well as political in the narrower sense. It is concerned, as the ancients had it, with 'that which is public or common', what the Greeks called [Greek: to koinon] and the Romans _res publica_. The Old English translation of these classical terms is 'The Commonwealth' or Common Weal; and I do not see that we can do better than adopt that word, with its richness of traditional meaning and its happy association of the two conceptions, too often separated in modern minds, of Wealth and Welfare. Our subject then is the Progress of the Commonwealth or, in other words, the record of the course of the common life of mankind in the world. It is a theme which really underlies all the other subjects of discussion at this week's meetings: for it is only the existence of the Commonwealth and its organized efforts to preserve and sustain the life of the individuals composing it, which have made possible the achievements of mankind in the various separate fields of effort which are claiming your attention. Lord Acton spent a lifetime collecting material for a History of Liberty. He never wrote it: but, if he had, it would have been a History of Mankind. A History of Government or of the Commonwealth would be nothing less. Such is the nature of the invitation so kindly given to me and so cheerfully accepted. If you could wait a lifetime for the proper treatment of the subject I would gladly give the time; for, in truth, it is worth it. What is the nature of this common life of mankind and with what is it concerned? The subjects of its concern are as wide as human nature itself. We cannot define them in a formula: for human nature overleaps all formulas. Whenever men have tried to rule regions of human activity and aspiration out of the common life of mankind, and to hedge them round as private or separate or sacred or by any other kind of taboo, human nature has always ended by breaking through the hedges and invading the retreat. Man is a social animal. If he retires to a monastery he finds he has carried problems of organization with him, as the promoters of this gathering would confess you have brought with you here. If he shuts himself up in his home as a castle, or in a workshop or factory as the domain of his own private power, social problems go with him thither, and the long arm of the law will follow after. If he crosses the seas like the Pilgrim Fathers, to worship God unmolested in a new country, or, like the merchant-venturers, to fetch home treasure from the Indies, he will find himself unwittingly the pioneer of civilization and the founder of an Empire or a Republic. In the life of our fellows, in the Common Weal, we live and move and have our being. Let us recall some wise words on this subject from the Master of Balliol's book on the Middle Ages. 'The words "Church" and "State"', he writes, represent what ought to be an alliance, but is, in modern times, at best a dualism and often an open warfare.... The opposition of Church and State expresses an opposition between two sides of human nature which we must not too easily label as good and evil, the heavenly and the earthly, the sacred and the profane. For the State, too, is divine as well as the Church, and may have its own ideals and sacramental duties and its own prophets, even its own martyrs. The opposition of Church and State is to be regarded rather as the pursuit of one great aim, pursued by contrasted means. The ultimate aim of all true human activity must be in the noble words of Francis Bacon 'the glory of God and the relief of man's estate'.[53] Bacon's words form a fitting starting-point for our reflections: for they bring vividly before us both the idealism which should inspire all who labour at the task of government and the vastness and variety of the field with which they are concerned. Looked at in this broad light, the history of man's common life in the world will, I think, show two great streams of progress--the progress of man over Nature, or, as we say to-day, in the control of his environment, and the progress of man in what is essentially a moral task--the art of living together with his fellows. These two aspects of human activity and effort are in constant contact and interaction. Studied together, they reveal an advance which, in spite of man's ever-present moral weakness, may be described as an advance from Chaos to Cosmos in the organization of the world's common life; yet they are so distinct in method and spirit that they can best be described separately. Let us first, then, consider the history of Government, as a record of the progress of man's power over Nature. Human history, in this sphere, is the story of man making himself at home in the world. When human history begins we find men helpless, superstitious, ignorant, the plaything of blind powers in the natural and animal world. Superstitious because he was helpless, helpless because he was ignorant, he eked out a bare existence rather by avoiding than controlling the forces in the little world by which he found himself surrounded. Human life in its earliest stages is, as Hobbes described it, nasty, brutish, and short. Man was the slave of his environment. He has risen to become its master. The world, as the prophetic eye of Francis Bacon foretold, has become 'The Kingdom of Man'. How complete this conquest is, can best be realized perhaps by considering man's relation to the lower animals. When history opens, the animals are in their element; it is man who is the interloper. Two thousand years ago it was not the Society of Friends but wolves and wild boars who felt themselves at home on the site of Bournville Garden Village. To-day we are surprised when we read that in remote East Africa lions and giraffes venture occasionally to interfere in the murderous warfare between man and man. Man has imposed himself on the animals, by dint of his gradual accumulation of knowledge and his consequent power of organization and government. He has destroyed the conditions under which the animals prospered. He has, as we might say, destroyed their home life, exposing them to dangers of his own making against which they are now as powerless as he was once against them. 'It is a remarkable thing,' writes Sir E. Ray Lankester, which possibly may be less generally true than our present knowledge seems to suggest--that the adjustment of organisms to their surroundings is so severely complete in Nature apart from Man, that diseases are unknown as constant and normal phenomena under those conditions. It is no doubt difficult to investigate this matter, since the presence of Man as an observer itself implies human intervention. But it seems to be a legitimate view that every disease to which animals (and probably plants also) are liable, excepting as a transient and very exceptional occurrence, is due to Man's interference. The diseases of cattle, sheep, pigs, and horses are not known except in domesticated herds and those wild creatures to which Man's domesticated productions have communicated them. The trypanosome lives in the blood of wild game and of rats without producing mischief. The hosts have become tolerant of the parasite. It is only when man brings his unselected, humanly-nurtured races of cattle and horses into contact with the parasite, that it is found to have deadly properties. The various cattle-diseases which in Africa have done so much harm to native cattle, and have in some regions exterminated big game, have _per contra_ been introduced by man through his importation of diseased animals of his own breeding from Europe. Most, if not all, animals in extra-human conditions, including the minuter things such as insects, shellfish, and invisible aquatic organisms, have been brought into a condition of 'adjustment' to their parasites as well as to the other conditions in which they live: it is this most difficult and efficient balance of Nature which Man everywhere upsets.[54] And Sir E. Ray Lankester goes on to point out the moral to be drawn from this development. He points out that civilized man has proceeded so far in his interference with extra-human nature, has produced for himself and the living organisms associated with him such a special state of things by his rebellion against natural selection and his defiance of Nature's pre-human dispositions, that he must either go on and acquire firmer control of the conditions, or perish miserably by the vengeance certain to fall on the half-hearted meddler in great affairs. We may indeed compare civilized man to a successful rebel against Nature, who, by every step forward, renders himself liable to greater and greater penalties, and so cannot afford to pause or fail in one single step. Or again we may think of him as the heir to a vast and magnificent kingdom, who has been finally educated so as to take possession of his property, and is at length left alone to do his best; he has wilfully abrogated, in many important respects, the laws of his mother Nature by which the kingdom was hitherto governed; he has gained some power and advantage by so doing, but is threatened on every hand by dangers and disasters hitherto restrained: no retreat is possible--his only hope is to control, as he knows that he can, the sources of these dangers and disasters. The time will come, not too long hence, as I believe, when men have realized, with the scientists, that the world is one kingdom not many, and these problems of man's relation to his non-human environment will be the first concern of statesmen and governors. In some of our tropical colonies they have, perforce, become so already. If you live on the Gold Coast, the war against malaria cannot help seeming more important to you than the war against German trade: and in parts of Central Africa the whole possibility of continued existence centres round the presence or absence of the tsetse fly which is the carrier of sleeping sickness. Some day, when means have been adopted for abating our fiercer international controversies, we shall discover that in these and kindred matters lies the real province of world-politics. When that day comes the chosen representatives of the human race will see their constituents, as only philosophers see them now, as the inheritors of a great tradition of service and achievement, and as trustees for their successors of the manifold sources of human happiness which the advance of knowledge has laid open to us. If the first and most important of these sources is the discovery of the conditions of physical well-being, the second is the discovery of means of communication between the widely separate portions of man's kingdom. The record of the process of bringing the world under the control of the organized government of man is largely the record of the improvement of communications. Side by side with the unending struggle of human reason against cold and hunger and disease we can watch the contest against distance, against ocean and mountain and desert, against storms and seasons. There can be few subjects more fascinating for a historian to study than the record of the migrations of the tribes of men. He might begin, if he wished, with the migrations of animals and describe the westward progress of the many species whose course can be traced by experts along the natural highways of Western Europe. Some of them, so the books tell us, reached the end of their journey while Britain was still joined to the continent. Others arrived too late and were cut off by the straits of Dover. I like to form an imaginary picture, which the austerity of the scientific conscience will, I know, repudiate with horror, of the unhappy congregation, mournfully assembled bag and baggage on the edge of the straits and gazing wistfully across at the white cliffs of England, which they were not privileged to reach--_tendentesque manus ripae ulterioris amore_, 'stretching out their paws in longing for the further bank.' Our historian would then go on to describe the early 'wanderings of peoples' (_Völkerwanderungen_) how whole tribes would move off in the spring-time in the search for fresh hunting-grounds or pasture. He would trace the course of that westward push which, starting from somewhere in Asia, brought its impact to bear on the northern provinces of the Roman Empire and eventually loosened its whole fabric. He would show how Europe, as we know it, was welded into unity by the attacks of migratory warriors on three flanks--the Huns and the Tartars, a host of horsemen riding light over the steppes of Russia and Hungary: the Arabs, bearing Islam with them on their camels as they moved westward along North Africa and then pushing across into Spain: and the Northmen of Scandinavia, those carvers of kingdoms and earliest conquerors of the open sea, who left their mark on England and northern France, on Sicily and southern Italy, on the Balkan Peninsula, on Russia, on Greenland, and as far as North America. Then, passing to Africa and Asia, he would describe the life of the pack-saddle and the caravan, the long and mysterious inland routes from the Mediterranean to Nubia and Nigeria, or from Damascus with the pilgrims to Medina, and the still longer and more mysterious passage through the ancient oases of Turkestan, now buried in sand, along which, as recent discoveries have shown us, Greece and China, Christianity and Buddhism, exchanged their arts and ideas and products. Then he would tell of the great age of maritime discovery, of the merchant-adventurers and buccaneers, of their gradual transformation into trading companies, in the East and in the West, from companies to settlements, from settlements to colonies. Then perhaps he would close by casting a glimpse at the latest human migration of all, that which takes place or took place up to 1914, at the rate of a million a year from the Old World into the United States. He would take the reader to Ellis Island in New York harbour, where the immigrants emerge from the steerage to face the ordeal of the Immigration Officer. He would show how the same causes, hunger, fear, persecution, restlessness, ambition, love of liberty, which set the great westward procession in motion in the early days of tribal migration, are still alive and at work to-day among the populations of Eastern Europe. He would look into their minds and read the story of the generations of their nameless fore-runners; and he would ask himself whether rulers and statesmen have done all that they might to make the world a home for all its children, for the poor as for the rich, for the Jew as for the Gentile, for the yellow and dark-skinned as for the white. Let us dwell for a moment more closely on one phase of this record of the conquest of distance. The crucial feature in that struggle was the conquest of the sea. The sea-surface of the world is far greater than its land-surface, and the sea, once subdued, is a far easier and more natural means of transport and communication. For the sea, the uncultivable sea, as Homer calls it, is itself a road, whereas on earth, whether it be mountain or desert or field, roads have first painfully to be made. Man's definitive conquest of the sea dates from the middle of the fifteenth century when, by improvements in the art of sailing and by the extended use of the mariner's compass, it first became possible to undertake long voyages with assurance. These discoveries are associated with the name of Prince Henry of Portugal, whose life-long ambition it was, to quote the words engraved on his monument at the southern extremity of Portugal, 'to lay open the regions of West Africa across the sea, hitherto not traversed by man, that thence a passage might be made round Africa to the most distant parts of the East.' The opening of the high seas which resulted from Prince Henry's activities is one of the most momentous events in human history. Its effect was, sooner or later, to unite the scattered families of mankind, to make the problems of all the concern of all: to make the world one place. Prince Henry and his sailors were, in fact, the pioneers of internationalism, with all the many and varied problems that internationalism brings with it. 'In 1486,' says the most recent history of this development, Bartholomew Dias was carried by storm beyond the sight of land, round the southern point of Africa, and reached the Great Fish River, north of Algoa Bay. On his return journey he saw the promontory which divides the oceans, as the narrow waters of the Bosphorus divide the continents, of the East and West. As in the crowded streets of Constantinople, so here, if anywhere, at this awful and solitary headland the elements of two hemispheres meet and contend. As Dias saw it, so he named it, 'The Cape of Storms'. But his master, John II, seeing in the discovery a promise that India, the goal of the national ambition, would be reached, named it with happier augury 'The Cape of Good Hope'. No fitter name could have been given to that turning-point in the history of mankind. Europe, in truth, was on the brink of achievements destined to breach barriers, which had enclosed and diversified the nations since the making of the World, and commit them to an intercourse never to be broken again so long as the World endures. That good rather than evil may spring therefrom is the greatest of all human responsibilities.[55] The contrast between Constantinople and the Cape, so finely drawn in these lines, marks the end of the age when land-communications and land-power were predominant over sea-power. The Roman Empire was, and could only be, a land-power. It is no accident that the British Commonwealth is, as the American Commonwealth is fast becoming, predominantly a sea-power. How was 'the greatest of all human responsibilities', arising from this new intercourse of races, met? Knowledge, alas, is as much the devil's heritage as the angels': it may be used for ill, as easily as for good. The first explorers, and the traders who followed them, were not idealists but rough adventurers. Breaking in, with the full tide of western knowledge and adaptability, to the quiet backwaters of primitive conservatism, they brought with them the worse rather than the better elements of the civilization, the control of environment, of which they were pioneers. To them Africa and the East represented storehouses of treasure, not societies of men; and they treated the helpless natives accordingly. England and Holland as well as the Latin monarchies treated the natives of Africa as chattels without rights and as instruments for their own ends, and revived slavery in a form and upon a scale more cruel than any practised by the ancients. The employment of slaves on her own soil has worked the permanent ruin of Portugal. The slave trade with America was an important source of English wealth, and the philosopher John Locke did not scruple to invest in it. There is no European race which can afford to remember its first contact with the subject peoples otherwise than with shame, and attempts to assess their relative degrees of guilt are as fruitless as they are invidious. The question of real importance is how far these various states were able to purge themselves of the poison, and rise to a higher realization of their duty towards their races whom they were called by the claims of their own superior civilization to protect. The fate of that civilization itself hung upon the issue.[56] The process by which the Western peoples have risen to a sense of their duty towards their weaker and more ignorant fellow citizens is indeed one of the chief stages in that progress of the common life of mankind with which we are concerned. How is that duty to be exercised? The best way in which the strong can help the weak is by making them strong enough to help themselves. The white races are not strong because they are white, or virtuous because they are strong. They are strong because they have acquired, through a long course of thought and work, a mastery over Nature and hence over their weaker fellow men. It is not virtue but knowledge to which they owe their strength. No doubt much virtue has gone to the making of that knowledge--virtues of patience, concentration, perseverance, unselfishness, without which the great body of knowledge of which we are the inheritors could never have been built up. But we late-born heirs of the ages have it in our power to take the knowledge of our fathers and cast away any goodness that went to its making. We have come into our fortune: it is ours to use it as we think best. We cannot pass it on wholesale, and at one step, to the more ignorant races, for they have not the institutions, the traditions, the habits of mind and character, to enable them to use it. Those too we must transmit or develop together with the treasure of our knowledge. For the moment we stand in the relation of trustees, teachers, guides, governors, but always in their own interest and not ours, or rather, in the interest of the commonwealth of which we and they, since the opening of the high seas, form an inseparable part. It has often been thought that the relation of the advanced and backward races should be one purely of philanthropy and missionary enterprise rather than of law and government. It is easy to criticize this by pointing to the facts of the world as we know it--to the existing colonial empires of the Great Powers and to the vast extension of the powers of civilized governments which they represent. But it may still be argued that the question is not Have the civilized powers annexed large empires? but Ought they to have done so? Was such an extension of governmental authority justifiable or inevitable? Englishmen in the nineteenth century, like Americans in the twentieth, were slow to admit that it was; just as the exponents of _laissez-faire_ were slow to admit the necessity for State interference with private industry at home. But in both cases they have been driven to accept it by the inexorable logic of facts. What other solution of the problem, indeed, is possible? 'Every alternative solution', as a recent writer remarks,[57] breaks down in practice. To stand aside and do nothing under the plea that every people must be left free to manage its own affairs, and that intervention is wicked, is to repeat the tragic mistake of the Manchester School in the economic world which protested against any interference by the State to protect workmen ... from the oppression and rapacity of employers, on the ground that it was an unwarranted interference with the liberty of the subject and the freedom of trade and competition. To prevent adventurers from entering the territory is impossible, unless there is some civilized authority within it to stop them through its police. To shut off a backward people from all contact with the outside world by a kind of blockade is not only unpracticable, but is artificially to deny them the chances of education and progress. The establishment of a genuine government by a people strong enough and liberal enough to ensure freedom under the law and justice for all is the only solution.... They must undertake this duty, not from any pride of dominion, or because they wish to exploit their resources, but in order to protect them alike from oppression and corruption, by strict laws and strict administration, which shall bind the foreigner as well as the native, and then they must gradually develop, by education and example, the capacity in the natives to manage their own affairs. Thus we see that the progress in knowledge and in the control of their environment made by the civilized peoples has, in fact and inevitably, led to their leadership in government also, and given them the predominant voice in laying down the lines along which the common life of mankind is to develop. If we are to look for the mainspring of the world's activities, for the place where its new ideas are thought out, its policies framed, its aspirations cast into practical shape, we must not seek it in the forests of Africa or in the interior of China, but in those busy regions of the earth's surface where the knowledge, the industries, and all the various organizations of government and control find their home. Because organization is embodied knowledge, and because knowledge is power, it is the Great Powers, as we truly name them,[58] who are predominantly responsible for the government of the world and for the future of the common life of mankind. In the exercise of this control the world has already, in many respects, become a single organism. The conquest of distance in the fifteenth century was the beginning of a process which led, slowly but inevitably, to the widening of the boundaries of government. Two discoveries made about the same time accentuated the same tendency. By the invention of gunpowder the people of Europe were given an overwhelming military superiority over the dwellers in other continents. By the invention of printing, knowledge was internationalized for all who had the training to use it. Books are the tools of the brain-worker all the world over; but, unlike the file and the chisel, the needle and the hammer, books not only create, but suggest. A new idea is like an electric current set running throughout the world, and no man can say into what channels of activity it may not be directed. But neither travel nor conquest nor books and the spread of ideas caused so immense a transformation in the common life of mankind as the process beginning at the end of the eighteenth century which is known to historians as the Industrial Revolution. As we have spoken of the conquest of distance perhaps a better name for the Industrial Revolution would be the Conquest of Organization. For it was not the discovery of the steam-engine or the spinning-jenny which constituted the revolution: it was the fact that men were now in a position to apply these discoveries to the organization of industry. The ancient Greeks played with the idea of the steam-engine: it was reserved for eighteenth-century England to produce a generation of pioneers endowed with the knowledge, the power, the foresight, and the imagination to make use of the world-transforming potentialities of the idea. The Industrial Revolution, with its railways and steamships, telegraphs and telephones, and now its airships and submarines and wireless communication, completed the conquest of distance. Production became increasingly organized on international lines. Men became familiar with the idea of an international market. Prices and prospects, booms and depressions, banking and borrowing, became international phenomena. The organization of production led to an immensely rapid increase of wealth in Western Europe. The application of that wealth to the development of the world's resources in and outside Europe led to a correspondingly huge advance in trade and intercourse. The breakfast-table in an ordinary English home to-day is a monument to the achievements of the Industrial Revolution and to the solid reality of the economic internationalism which resulted from it. There is still poverty in Western Europe, but it is preventable poverty. Before the Industrial Revolution, judged by a modern standard, there was nothing but poverty. The satisfying physical and economic condition which we describe by the name of comfort did not exist. The Italian historian Ferrero, in one of his essays, recommends those who have romantic yearnings after the good old times to spend one night on what our forefathers called a bed. Mr. Coulton, in his books on the Middle Ages, has used some very plain language on the same text. And Professor Smart, in his recently published posthumous work, pointing a gentle finger of rebuke at certain common Socialist fantasies, remarks: There never was a golden age of equality of wealth: there was rather a leaden one of inequality of poverty.... We should speak more guardedly of the riches of the old world. A careful examination of any old book would show that the most splendid processions of pomp and luxury in the Middle Ages were poor things compared to the parade of a modern circus on its opening day.[59] Such prosperity as we enjoy to-day, such a scene as we can observe on these smiling outskirts of Birmingham, is due to man's Conquest of Organization and to the consequent development and linking-up, by mutual intercourse and exchange, of the economic side of the world's life. So far we have been watching the progress of man in his efforts to 'make himself at home' in the world. We have seen him becoming more skilful and more masterful century by century, till in these latter days the whole world is, as it were, at his service. He has planted his flag at the two poles: he has cut a pathway for his ships between Asia and Africa, and between the twin continents of America: he has harnessed torrents and cataracts to his service: he has conquered the air and the depths of the sea: he has tamed the animals: he has rooted out pestilence and laid bare its hidden causes: and he is penetrating farther and ever farther in the discovery of the causes of physical and mental disease. He has set his foot on the neck of Nature. But the last and greatest conquest is yet before him. He has yet to conquer himself. Victorious against Nature, men are still at war, nay, more than ever at war, amongst themselves. How is it that the last century and a half, which have witnessed so unparalleled an advance in the organization of the common life of man on the material side, should have been an age of wars and rumours of wars, culminating in the vastest and most destructive conflict that this globe of ours has ever witnessed? What explanation could we give of this to a visitor from the moon or to those creatures of inferior species whom, as Sir E. Ray Lankester has told us, it is our function, thanks to our natural superiority, to command and control? This brings us to the second great branch of our subject--the progress of mankind in the art of living together in the world. Government, as we have seen, covers the whole social life of man: for the principles that regulate human association are inherent in the nature of man. But in what follows we shall perforce confine ourselves mainly to the sphere of what is ordinarily called politics, that is to the recognized and authoritative form of human association called the State, as opposed to the innumerable subordinate or voluntary bodies and relationships, which pervade every department of man's common life. The progress of Government in this second sphere may be defined as the deepening and extension of man's duty towards his neighbour. It is to be reckoned, not in terms of knowledge and organization, but of character. The ultimate goal of human government, in the narrower sense, as of all social activity--let us never forget it--is liberty, to set free the life of the spirit. 'Liberty,' said Lord Acton, who could survey the ages with a wealth of knowledge to which no other man, perhaps, ever attained, 'Liberty is not a means to a higher political end. It is itself the highest political end. It is not for the sake of a good public administration that it is required but for security in the pursuit of the highest objects of civil society and of private life.'[60] Government is needed in order to enable human life to become, not efficient or well-informed or well-ordered, but simply good; and Lord Acton believed, as the Greeks and generations of Englishmen believed before him, that it is only in the soil of liberty that the human spirit can grow to its full stature, and that a political system based upon any other principle than that of responsible self-government acts as a bar at the outset to the pursuit of what he called 'the highest objects of civil society or of private life'. For though a slave, or a man living under a servile political system, may develop many fine qualities of character: yet such virtues will, in Milton's words, be but 'fugitive and cloistered', 'unexercised and unbreathed'. For liberty, and the responsibilities that it involves, are the school of character and the appointed means by which men can best serve their neighbours. A man deprived of such opportunities, cut off from the quickening influence of responsibility, has, as Homer said long ago 'lost half his manhood'. He may be a loyal subject, a brave soldier, a diligent and obedient workman: but he will not be a full-grown man. Government will have starved and stunted him in that which it is the supreme object of government to develop and set free. It is idle, then, to talk in general terms about the extension of government as a good thing, whether in relation to the individual citizen or to the organization of the world into an international State. We have always first to ask: What kind of Government? On what principles will it be based? What ideal will it set forth? What kind of common life will it provide or allow to its citizens? If the whole world were organized into one single State, and that State, supreme in its control over Nature, were armed with all the knowledge and organization that the ablest and most farseeing brains in the world could supply, yet mankind might be worse off under its sway, in the real essentials of human life, than if they were painted savages. 'Though I have the gift of prophecy and understand all mysteries and all knowledge: and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing.' Government may be the organization of goodness, or the organization of evil. It may provide the conditions by which the common life of society can develop along the lines of man's spiritual nature: or it may take away the very possibility of such a development. Till we know what a Government stands for, do not let us judge it by its imposing externals of organization. The Persian Empire was more imposing than the Republics of Greece: Assyria and Babylon than the little tribal divisions of Palestine: the Spanish Empire than the cities of the Netherlands. There is some danger that, in our new-found sense of the value of knowledge in promoting happiness, we should forget what a tyrant knowledge, like wealth, can become. No doubt, just as we saw that moral qualities, patience and the like, are needed for the advancement of knowledge, so knowledge is needed, and greatly needed, in the task of extending and deepening the moral and spiritual life of mankind. But we cannot measure that progress in terms of knowledge or organization or efficiency or culture. We need some other standard by which to judge between Greece and Persia, between Israel and Babylon, between Spain and the Netherlands, between Napoleon and his adversaries, and between contending powers in the modern world. What shall that standard be? It must be a similar standard--let us boldly say it--to that by which we judge between individuals. It must be a standard based on our sense of right and wrong. But right and wrong in themselves will not carry us very far, any more than they will carry the magistrate on the bench or the merchant in his counting-house. Politics, like business, is not the whole of life--though some party politicians and some business men think otherwise--but a department of life: both are means, not ends; and as such they have developed special rules and codes of their own, based on experience in their own special department. In so far as they are framed in accordance with man's spiritual nature and ideals these rules may be considered to hold good and to mark the stage of progress at which Politics and Business have respectively arrived in promoting the common weal in their own special sphere. With the rules of business, or what is called Political Economy, we have at the moment no concern. It is the rules of politics, or the working experience of rulers, crystallized in what is called Political Science or Political Philosophy, to which we must devote a few moments' attention. We are all of us, of course, political philosophers. Whether we have votes or not, whether we are aware of it or not, we all have views on political philosophy and we are all constantly making free use of its own peculiar principles and conceptions. Law, the State, Liberty, Justice, Democracy are words that are constantly on our lips. Let us try to form a clear idea of the place which these great historic ideals occupy in the progress of mankind. The great political thinkers of the world have always been clear in their own minds as to the ultimate goal of their own particular study. Political thought may be said to have originated with the Jewish prophets, who were the first to rebuke kings to their faces and to set forth the spiritual aims of politics--to preach Righteousness and Mercy as against Power and Ambition and Self-interest. Their soaring imagination, less systematic than the Greek intellect, was wider in its sweep and more farseeing in its predictions. 'As the earth bringeth forth her bud and as the garden causeth the things sown in it to spring forth', says Isaiah, in magnificent anticipation of the doctrine of Natural Law, 'so the Lord God will cause righteousness and praise to spring forth before all the nations.' 'Peace, peace, to him that is far off, and to him that is near, saith the Lord, and I will heal him: but the wicked are like the troubled sea when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt. There is no peace, saith my God, for the wicked.' 'Out of Zion shall go forth the Law and the word of the Lord from Jerusalem. And he shall judge between the nations and shall reprove many peoples; and they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks: nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more.'[61] It was, however, Plato and Aristotle who first made politics a branch of separate study: and, unlike many of their modern successors, they pursued it throughout in close connexion with the kindred studies of ethics and psychology. Their scope was, of course, confined to the field of their own experience, the small self-contained City-States of Greece, and it did not fall within their province to foreshadow, like the Jewish Prophets, the end of warfare, or to speculate on the ultimate unity of mankind. Their task was to interpret the work of their own fellow-countrymen on the narrow stage of Greek life. Their lasting achievement is to have laid down for mankind what a State is, as compared with other forms of human association, and to have proclaimed, once and for all, in set terms, that its object is to promote the 'good life' of its members. 'Every State', says Aristotle in the opening words of his _Politics_, 'is a community of some kind.' That is to say, States belong to the same _genus_, as it were, as political parties, trade unions, cricket clubs, business houses, or such gatherings as ours. What, then, is the difference between a State and a political party? 'If all communities', he goes on, 'aim at some good, the State or political community, which is the highest of all and which embraces all the rest, aims, and in a greater degree than any other, at the highest good.' Why is the State the highest of all forms of association? Why should our citizenship, for instance, take precedence of our trade unionism or our business obligations? Aristotle replies, and in spite of recent critics I think the reply still holds good: because, but for the existence of the State and the reign of law maintained by it, none of these associations could have been formed or be maintained. 'He who first founded the State was the greatest of benefactors. For man, when protected, is the best of animals, but when separated from law and righteousness, he is the worst of all.' Or, to put it in the resounding Elizabethan English of Hooker: 'The public power of all societies is above every soul contained in the same societies. And the principal use of that power is to give laws to all that are under it; which laws, in such case, we must obey, unless there be reason showed which may necessarily enforce that the law of Reason or of God doth enjoin the contrary. Because except our own private and probable resolutions be by the law of public determinations overruled, we take away all possibility of social life in the world.'[62] The Greeks did not deny, as the example of Socrates shows, the right of private judgement on the question of obedience to law, or the duty of respect for what Hooker calls the Law of Reason or of God. Against the authentic voice of conscience no human authority can or should prevail. But Aristotle held, with Hooker, that obedience to law and faithful citizenship are themselves matters normally ordained by the law of Reason or of God and that, as against those of any other association ([Greek: koinônia]), the claims of the State are paramount. In other words, he would deny what is sometimes loosely called the _right_ of rebellion, whilst not closing the door to that _duty_ of rebellion which has so often advanced the cause of liberty. When Aristotle speaks of the State, moreover, he does not mean a sovereign authority exercising arbitrary power, as in Persia or Babylon: he means an authority administering Law and Justice according to recognized standards: and he is thinking of Law and Justice, not simply as part of the apparatus of government but as based upon moral principles. 'Righteousness', he says, 'is the bond of men in States and the administration of Justice, which is the determination of what is righteous, is the principle of order in political society.' 'Of Law', says Hooker,[63] here as elsewhere echoing the ancients, 'there can be no less acknowledged than that her seat is the bosom of God, her voice the harmony of the world.' The State takes precedence of the party or the trade union because, however idealistic in their policy these latter may be, the State covers all, not merely a section of the community, and is able not merely to proclaim but to enforce the rule of law and justice. Put in modern language, one might define the Greek idea of the State as the Organization of Mutual Aid. The Greek States did not remain true to this high ideal. Faced with the temptations of power they descended almost to the level of the oriental monarchies with which they were contrasted. But even had they remained faithful to their philosophers' ideal of public service they would not have survived. Unable to transcend the limits of their own narrow State-boundaries and to merge their ideals with those of their neighbours, they were helpless in the face of the invader. First Macedonia and then Rome swept over them, and political idealism slumbered for many centuries. Rome gave the world, what it greatly needed, centuries of peace and order and material prosperity: it built up an enduring fabric of law on principles of Reason and Humanity: it did much to give men, what is next to the political sense, the social sense. It made men members of one another from Scotland to Syria and from Portugal to Baghdad. But it did not give them 'the good life' in its fullness: for it did not, perhaps it could not, give them liberty. Faced with the choice between efficiency and the diffusion of responsibility, the rulers of the Roman Empire unhesitatingly chose efficiency. But the atrophy of responsibility proved the canker at the heart of the Empire. Deprived of the stimulus that freedom and the habit of responsibility alone can give, the Roman world sank gradually into the morass of Routine. Life lost its savour and grew stale, flat and unprofitable, as in an old-style Government office. 'The intolerable sadness inseparable from such a life', says Renan, 'seemed worse than death.' And when the barbarians came and overturned the whole fabric of bureaucracy, though it seemed to educated men at the time the end of civilization, it was in reality the beginning of a new life. Amid the wreckage of the Roman Empire, one governing institution alone remained upright--the Christian Church with its organization for ministering to the spiritual needs of its members. With the conversion of the barbarians to Christianity the governing functions and influence of the Church became more and more important; and it was upon the basis of Church government that political idealism, so long in abeyance, was reawakened. The thinkers who took up the work of Plato and Aristotle on the larger stage of the Holy Roman Empire boldly looked forward to the time when mankind should be united under one government and that government should embody the highest ideals of mankind. Such an ideal seemed indeed to many one of the legacies of the Founder of Christianity. The familiar petition in the Lord's Prayer: _thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven_ sounded, in the ears of Dante and Thomas Aquinas and innumerable theologians and canonists, as a prayer and a pledge for the ultimate political unity of mankind on the basis of Christian Law. Such a belief was indeed the bedrock of mediaeval political thought. To devout Christians, brought up in the oecumenical traditions of the Roman Empire, 'every ordering of a human community must appear as a component part of that ordering of the world which exists because God exists, and every earthly group must appear as an organic member of that _Civitas Dei_, that God-State, which comprehends the heavens and the earth.[1] ... Thus the Theory of Human Society must accept the divinely created organization of the Universe as a prototype of the first principles which govern the construction of human communities.... Therefore, in all centuries of the Middle Age, Christendom, which in destiny is identical with Mankind, is set before us as a single, universal Community, founded and governed by God Himself. Mankind is one "mystical body"; it is one single and internally connected "people" or "folk"; it is an all-embracing corporation, which constitutes that Universal Realm, spiritual and temporal, which may be called the Universal Church, or, with equal propriety, the Commonwealth of the Human Race. Therefore, that it may attain its one purpose, it needs One Law and One Government.'[64] But the mediaeval ideal, like the Greek, broke down in practice. 'Where the Middle Ages failed', says the Master of Balliol, continuing a passage already quoted, 'was in attempting ... to make politics the handmaid of religion, to give the Church the organization and form of a political State, that is, to turn religion from an indwelling spirit into an ecclesiastical machinery.' In other words, the mediaeval attempt broke down through neglecting the special conditions and problems of the political department of life, through declining, as it were, to specialize. While men were discussing the Theory of the Two Swords, whether the Emperor derived his power directly from God or indirectly through the Pope, or whether the sword should be used at all, the actual work of government in laying the foundations of the good life was neglected. Not only Liberty but Justice and Order were largely in abeyance and the range of State action which we to-day describe as 'social legislation' was not even dreamed of. Absorbed in theory or wrapped in ignorance, men forget the practical meaning of Statehood and its responsibilities. Central Europe languished for centuries, under a sham Empire, in the unprogressive anarchy of feudalism. 'The feudal system', it has been said,[65] 'was nothing more nor less than the attempt of a society which had failed to organize itself as a State, to make contract do the work of patriotism.' It is the bitter experience which Germany went through under the anarchy of feudalism and petty governments, lasting to well within living memory, which by a natural reaction has led the German people, under Prussian tutelage, to cling to the conception of the State as Power and nothing more. The study of politics had to become secular before it could once more become practical, and, by being practical, ministering to practical ideals and enlisting practical devotion, become, as it were, sacred once more. Where the well-being of our fellow men is concerned it is not enough to be well-meaning. Government is an art, not an aspiration: and those who are concerned with it, whether as rulers or voters, should have studied its problems, reflected on its possibilities and limitations, and fitted themselves to profit by its accumulated experience. Since the close of the Middle Ages, when politics became secular, the art of government has advanced by giant strides. Invention has followed invention, and experiment experiment, till to-day skilled specialists in the Old World and the New are at hand to watch and to record the latest devices for dealing with a hundred difficult special problems--whether it be the administration of justice or patronage, the organization of political parties, the fixing of Cabinet responsibility, the possibilities and limits of federalism, the prevention of war. There has, indeed, been as great an advance in the political art in the last four centuries and particularly in the last century, as in the very kindred art of medicine. The wonderful concentration of energy which the various belligerent powers have been able to throw into the present war is at once the best and the most tragic illustration of this truth. Man's common life in the State is more real, more charged with meaning and responsibility, more potent for good or for ill than it has ever been before--than our predecessors even in the time of Napoleon could have dreamed of. The greatest inventors and most skilful practitioners of the political art in the modern world have been the English, for it is the English who, of all nations, have held closest to the ideal of freedom in its many and various manifestations. Superficially regarded, the English are a stupid people, and so their continental neighbours have often regarded them. But their racial heritage and their island situation seem to have given them just that combination of experience and natural endowment necessary to success in the task of government. Taken as a whole, the English are not brilliant, but they are clear-headed: they are not far-sighted, but they can see the fact before their eyes: they are ill equipped with theoretical knowledge, but they understand the working of institutions and have a good eye for judging character: they have little constructive imagination of the more grandiose sort, but they have an instinct for the 'next step' which has often set them on paths which have led them far further than they dreamed; above all, they have a relatively high standard of individual character and public duty, without which no organization involving the free co-operation of man and man can hope to be effective. It is this unique endowment of moral qualities and practical gifts, coupled with unrivalled opportunities, which has made the English the pioneers in modern times in the art of human association. Englishmen, accustomed to what eighteenth-century writers used to call 'the peculiar felicity of British freedom', do not always remember how far their own experience has carried them on the road of political progress. They do not realize how many problems they have solved and abolished, as the art of medicine has abolished diseases. When they hear speak of the eternal conflict between Nationality and Nationality, they often forget that a war between England and Scotland has long since become unthinkable and that the platitudes of St. Andrew's Day are still paradoxes in Central and Eastern Europe. When they are told of States where the spontaneous manifestations of group-life, non-conforming sects, workmen's associations, and ordinary social clubs, are driven underground and classed as dangerous secret societies, they should realize how precious a thing is that freedom of association which is one of the dearest attributes of English liberty. So too when they read of monarchical and military supremacy in a country like Germany, which is still politically speaking in the stage of England under the Tudors, or of Russian autocracy, or of the struggle over the King's prerogative which has been taking place in Greece. If we believe, as we must, in the cause of liberty, let us not be too modest to say that nations which have not yet achieved responsible self-government, whether within or without the British Commonwealth, are politically backward, and let us recall the long stages of political invention by which our own self-government has been achieved. Representation, trial by jury, an independent judiciary, equality before the law, habeas corpus, a limited monarchy, the practice of ministerial responsibility, religious toleration, the freedom of printing and association, colonial autonomy--all these are distinctly English inventions, but time has shown that most of them are definite additions to the universal art of government. We can survey the Balkans, for instance, and say with confidence that one thing, amongst others, that those nations are in need of is toleration, both in the sphere of nationality and of religion: or declare of the United States that their industrial future will be menaced till they have freed Trade Unionism from the threat of the so-called law of Conspiracy: or ask of our own so-called self-governing Dominions whether they are content with a system that concedes them no responsible control over the issues of peace and war. This is not to say that our own governmental machinery is perfect. Far from it. It was never in greater need of overhauling. It is only to reaffirm the belief, which no temporary disillusionment can shake, that it is founded on enduring principles which are not political but moral. To compare a system which aims at freedom and seeks to attain that aim through the working of responsible self-government with systems, however logically perfect or temporarily effective, which set no value on either, is, as it were, to compare black with white. It is to go back on the lessons of centuries of experience and to deny the cause, not of liberty alone, but of that progress of the spirit of man which it is the highest object of liberty to promote. We have no time here to discuss in detail the various English inventions in the art of politics, but we must pause to consider two of the most important, because they are typical of British methods. The first is the invention called the Principle of Representation. Representation is a device by which, and by which alone, the area of effective government can be extended without the sacrifice of liberty. It is a device by which the scattered many can make their will prevail over the few at the centre. Under any non-representative system, whether in a State or a Church or a Trade Union or any other association, men always find themselves set before the inexorable dilemma between freedom and weakness on the one hand and strength and tyranny on the other. Either the State or the association has to be kept small, so that the members themselves can meet and keep in touch with all that goes on. Or it is allowed to expand and grow strong, in which case power becomes concentrated at the centre and the great body of members loses all effective control. The ancient world saw no way out of this dilemma. The great Oriental monarchies never contemplated even the pretence of popular control. The city-states of Greece, where democracy originated, set such store in consequence by the personal liberty of the individual citizen, that they preferred to remain small, and suffered the inevitable penalty of their weakness. Rome, growing till she overshadowed the world, sacrificed liberty in the process. Nor was the Christian Church, when it became a large-scale organization, able to overcome the dilemma. It was not till thirteenth-century England that a way out was found. Edward I in summoning two burgesses from each borough and two knights from each shire to his model Parliament in 1295, hit on a method of doing business which was destined to revolutionize the art of government. He stipulated that the men chosen by their fellows to confer with him must come, to quote the exact words of the summons, armed with 'full and sufficient power for themselves and for the community of the aforesaid county, and the said citizens and burgesses for themselves and the communities of the aforesaid cities and boroughs separately, there and then, for doing what shall then be ordained according to the Common Council in the premises, so that the aforesaid business shall not remain unfinished in any way for defect of this power'. In other words, the members were to come to confer with the king not as individuals speaking for themselves alone, but as representatives. Their words and acts were to bind those on whose behalf they came, and those who chose them were to do so in the full knowledge that they would be so bound. In choosing them the electors deliberately surrendered their own share of initiative and sovereignty and combined to bestow it on a fellow citizen whom they trusted. In this way, and in this way alone, the people of Cornwall and of Northumberland could bring their wishes to bear and play their part, together with the people at the centre, in the government of a country many times the size of a city-state of ancient Greece. There had been assemblies before in all ages of history: but this was something different. It was a Parliament. Representation seems to us such an obvious device that we often forget how comparatively modern it is and what a degree of responsibility and self-control it demands both in the representative and in those whom he represents. It is very unpleasant to hear of things done or acquiesced in by our representatives of which we disapprove, and to have to remember that it is our own fault for not sending a wiser or braver man to Westminster in his place. It is still more unpleasant for a representative to feel, as he often must, that his own honest opinion and conscience draw him one way on a matter of business and the opinions of most of his constituents another. But these are difficulties inherent in the system, and for which there is no remedy but sincerity and patience. It is part of the bargain that a constituency should not be able to disavow a representative: and that a representative should feel bound to use his own best judgement on the issues put before him. To turn the representative, as there is a tendency to do in some quarters, into a mere mouthpiece with a mandate, is to ignore the very problem which made representation necessary, and to presume that a local mass-meeting can be as well informed or take as wide a view as those who have all the facts before them at the centre. The ancient Greeks, who had a strong sense of individuality, were loth to believe that any one human being could make a decision on behalf of another. In the deepest sense of course they were right. But government, as has been said, is at best a rough business. Representation is no more than a practical compromise: but it is a compromise which has been found to work. It has made possible the extension of free government to areas undreamed of. It has enabled the general sense of the inhabitants of the United States, an area nearly as large as Europe, to be concentrated at Washington, and it may yet make it possible to collect the sense of self-governing Dominions in four continents in a Parliament at London. All this lay implicit in the practical instructions sent by the English king to his sheriffs; but its development would only have been possible in a community where the general level of character was a high one and where men were, therefore, in the habit of placing implicit trust in one another. The relationship of confidence between a member of Parliament and his constituents, or a Trade Union leader and his rank and file, is a thing of which public men are rightly proud: for it reflects honour on both parties and testifies to an underlying community of purpose which no passing disagreement on details can break down. Representation paved the way for the modern development of responsible self-government. But it is important to recognize that the two are not the same thing. Responsible self-government, in its modern form, is a separate and more complex English invention in the art of government. A community may be decked out with a complete apparatus of representative institutions and yet remain little better than an autocracy. Modern Germany is a case in point. The parliamentary suffrage for the German Reichstag is more representative than that for the British House of Commons. The German workman is better represented in his Parliament than the British workman is in ours. But the German workman has far less power to make his will effective in matters of policy than the British, because the German constitution does not embody the principle of responsible self-government. Sovereignty still rests with the Kaiser as it rested in the thirteenth century with Edward I. The Imperial Chancellor is not responsible to the Reichstag but to the Kaiser, by whom he is appointed and whose personal servant he remains. The Reichstag can discuss the actions of the Chancellor: it can advise him, or protest to him, or even pass votes of censure against him; but it cannot make its will effective. We can observe the working of similar representative institutions in different parts of the British Commonwealth. The provinces of India and many British Colonies have variously composed representative assemblies, but in all cases without the power to control their executives. The self-governing Dominions, on the other hand, do enjoy responsible self-government, but in an incomplete form, because the most vital of all issues of policy are outside their control. On questions of foreign policy, and the issues of war and peace, the Parliaments of the Dominions, and the citizens they represent, are, constitutionally speaking, as helpless as the most ignorant native in the humblest dependency. Representative institutions in themselves thus no more ensure real self-government than the setting up of a works committee of employees in a factory would ensure that the workmen ran the factory. The distinction between representation and effective responsibility is so simple that it seems a platitude to mention it. Yet it is constantly ignored, both in this country by those who speak of Colonial self-government as though the Dominions really enjoyed the same self-government as the people of these islands, and by the parties in Germany whose programme it is, not to make Germany a truly constitutional country, but to assimilate the retrograde Prussian franchise to the broader representation of the Reichstag. Wherein does the transition from representation to full responsibility consist? It came about in England when Parliament, instead of merely being consulted by the sovereign, felt itself strong enough to give orders to the sovereign. The sovereign naturally resisted, as the Kaiser and the Tsar will resist in their turn; but in this country the battle was fought and won in the seventeenth century. Since that time, with a few vacillations, Parliament has been the sovereign power. But once this transfer of sovereignty has taken place, a new problem arises. A Parliament of several hundred members, even though it meets regularly, is not competent to transact the multitudinous and complex and highly specialized business of a modern State. The original function of Parliament was to advise, to discuss, and to criticize. It is not an instrument fit for the work of execution and administration. Having become sovereign, its first business must be to create out of its own members an instrument which should carry out its own policy and be responsible to itself for its actions. Hence arose the Cabinet. The Cabinet is, as it were, a distillation of Parliament, just as Parliament itself is a distillation of the country. It consists of members of Parliament and it is in constant touch with Parliament; but its methods are not the methods of Parliament but of the older, more direct, organs of government which Parliament superseded. It meets in secret: it holds all the strings of policy: it has almost complete control of political and legislative initiative: it decides what is to be done and when and how: it has its own staff of agents and confidential advisers in the Departments and elsewhere whose acts are largely withdrawn from the knowledge and criticism of Parliament. A modern Cabinet in fact is open to the charge of being autocracy in a new guise. Such a charge would, of course, be a gross overstatement. But there is no doubt that the increasing complexity in the tasks of government has led to a corresponding growth of power and organization at the centre which has strengthened the Cabinet immeasurably of recent years at the expense of the direct representatives of the people. There are, however, powerful influences at work in the opposite direction, towards decentralization and new forms of representation, which there is no space to touch on here. Suffice it to say that here, as elsewhere, the price of liberty is eternal vigilance. England, then, and all who enjoy the full privileges of British citizenship have been placed by the progress of events in a position of peculiar responsibility. The twentieth century finds us the centre of the widest experiment of self-government which the world has ever seen; for the principles of liberty, first tested in this island, have approved themselves on the soil of North America, Australasia, and South Africa. It finds us also responsible for the government and for the training in responsibility of some 350,000,000 members of the more politically inexperienced and backward races of mankind, or about one-fifth of the human race. The growth of the British Commonwealth, about which so astonishingly little is known either by ourselves or by other peoples, is not a mere happy or unhappy accident. It is one of the inevitable and decisive developments in the history of mankind. It is the direct result of that widening of intercourse, that internationalizing of the world, to which reference has already been made. It represents the control of law and organized government over the blind and selfish forces of exploitation. In the exercise of this control we have often ourselves been blind and sometimes selfish. But 'the situation of man', as Burke finely said of our Indian Empire, 'is the preceptor of his duty'. The perseverance of the British character, its habit of concentration on the work that lies to hand, and the influence of our traditional social and political ideals, have slowly brought us to a deeper insight, till to-day the Commonwealth is becoming alive to the real nature of its task--the extension and consolidation of liberty. If it has thus taken up, in part, the work of the mediaeval Empire and has had a measure of success where the other failed, it is because of the character of its individual citizens, because despite constant and heart-breaking failures in knowledge and imagination, we are a people who, in the words of a stern, if friendly, critic, 'with great self-assertion and a bull-dog kind of courage, have yet a singular amount of gentleness and tenderness'.[66] * * * * * We have come to the end of our long survey. Some of you may feel that I have fetched too wide a compass and given too wide an extension to the meaning of government. But if I have sinned I have sinned of set purpose. I refuse to confine government within the limits of what is ordinarily called politics, or to discuss the association called the State in isolation from other sides of man's community life. To do so, I feel, is to lay oneself open to one of two opposite errors: the error of those for whom the State is the Almighty, and who invest it with a superhuman morality and authority of its own; and the error of those who draw in their skirts in horror from the touch of what Nietzsche called this 'cold monster' and take refuge in monastic detachment from the political responsibilities of their time. We must be able to see politics as a part of life before we can see it steadily and see it whole. We must be able to see it in relation to the general ordering of the world and to connect it once more, as in the Middle Ages, with religion and morality. No thinking man can live through such a time as this and preserve his faith unless he is sustained by the belief that the clash of States which is darkening our generation is not a mere blind collision of forces, but has spiritual bearings which affect each individual living soul born or to be born in the world. It is not for us to anticipate the verdict of history. But what we can do is to bear ourselves worthily, in thought and speech, like our soldiers in action, of the times in which we live--to testify, as it were, in our own lives, to that for which so many of our friends have laid down theirs. We are met at a culminating moment of human fate--when, so far as human judgement can discern, the political destinies of this planet are being settled for many generations to come--perhaps for good. If the task of leadership in the arts of government remains with us, let us face the responsibility conscious of the vast spiritual issues which it involves, and let us so plan and act that history, looking back on these years of blood, may date from them a new birth of freedom and progress, not for ourselves in this country alone but throughout that kingdom of Man which must one day, as we believe, become in very truth the kingdom of God. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE 1. _Man's Control over Nature_: Ray Lankester, _The Kingdom of Man_, and other essays. 1912. Demolins, _Comment la route crée le type social_. Curtis (ed. by), _The Commonwealth of Nations_. Vol. i, 1916. Murphy, _The Basis of Ascendancy_. 1909. _Introduction to the Study of International Relations_ (Greenwood and others). 1916. 2. _Political Ideals_: _The Jews_: Todd, _Politics and Religion in Ancient Israel_. 1904. _Greece_: _Aristotle's Politics_, translated by B. Jowett. 1908. Dickinson, _The Greek View of Life_. 1909. Barker, _The Political thought of Plato and Aristotle_. 1908. _Rome_: H. Stuart Jones, _The Roman Empire_. (Story of the Nations.) 1908. Warde Fowler, _Rome_ (Home University Series). _The Middle Ages_: A. L. Smith, _Church and State in the Middle Ages_. 1911. Gierke, _Political Theories of the Middle Ages_ (introduction by Maitland). 1900. _Miscellaneous_: Wallas, _Human Nature in Politics_. 1908. Acton, _The History of Freedom_, and other essays. 1909. Lowell, _The Government of England_. Bülow, _Imperial Germany_. 1916. FOOTNOTES: [53] A. L. Smith, _Church and State in the Middle Ages_, pp. 207-8. [54] Lankester, _Nature and Man_, Romanes Lecture, 1905, pp. 27-9. [55] _The Commonwealth of Nations_, edited by L. Curtis, Part I, p. 130. [56] Ibid., p. 166. [57] P. H. Kerr in _An Introduction to the Study of International Relations_, 1915, p. 149. [58] A still better name would be the Great Responsibilities. [59] _Second Thoughts of an Economist_, 1916, pp. 17-18, 22. [60] _Freedom and other Essays_, p. 22. [61] Isaiah lxvi. 2; lvii. 19, 21; ii. 3, 4. [62] _Ecclesiastical Polity_, Book I, ch. xvi. 5. [63] End of Book I of the _Ecclesiastical Polity_. [64] Gierke, _Political Theories of the Middle Age_, pp. 8 and 10. [65] _The Commonwealth of Nations_, Part I, p. 73. [66] _Memoirs and letters of Sir Robert Morier_, ii. 276. VIII PROGRESS IN INDUSTRY A. E. ZIMMERN In our study of Government we traced the upward course of the common life of mankind in the world. We saw it in the increasing control of Man over his physical environment, and we saw it also in his clearer realization of the ultimate ideal of government--the ordering of the world's affairs on the basis of liberty. We have now to turn aside from this main stream of social development to watch one particular branch of it--to survey man's record in the special department of economics. We shall no longer be studying human history, or the history of human society, as a whole, but what is known as economic or industrial history. It is important to be clear at the outset that economic or industrial history _is_ a tributary stream and not the main stream: for there are a number of people who are of the contrary opinion. There has been an increasing tendency of recent years to write human history in terms of economic or industrial progress. 'Tell me what men ate or wore or manufactured,' say historians of this school, 'and we will tell you what stage of civilization he had reached. We will place him in his proper pigeonhole in our arrangement of the record of human progress.' Did he use flint implements or fight with nothing but a bow and arrow? Did he use a canoe with a primitive pole which he had not even the sense to flatten so as to make it into a serviceable paddle? Then our sociologist will put him very low down on his list of the stages of human progress. For the modern sociologist is a confirmed plutocrat. He measures the character of men and races by their wealth. Just as old-fashioned people still think of the society of our own country as a hierarchy, in which the various classes are graded according to their social prestige and the extent of their possessions: so students of primitive civilization classify races according to their material equipment, and can hardly help yielding to the temptation of reckoning their stage of progress as a whole by the only available test. Thus it is common, especially in Germany and the United States, to find histories of what purports to be the progress of mankind which show man first as a hunter and a fisherman, then as a shepherd, then as a tiller of the soil, and then work upwards to the complicated industrial system of to-day. We are asked to accept the life of Abraham or David among the sheepfolds as the bottom of the ladder, and the life of a modern wage-earner under the smoky sky of a manufacturing area as the top; and when we complain and say, as men like William Morris and Stephen Graham are always saying, that we would far prefer to live in David's world, in spite of all its discomforts, we are told that we have no right to quarrel with the sacred principle of Evolution. To interpret human history in this way is, of course, to deny its spiritual meaning, to deny that it is a record of the progress of the human _spirit_ at all. It is to read it as a tale of the improvement, or rather the increasing complication, of _things_, rather than of the advance of man. It is to view the world as a Domain of Matter, not as the Kingdom of Man--still less, as the Kingdom of God. It is to tie us helplessly to the chariot wheels of an industrial Juggernaut which knows nothing of moral values. Let the progress of industry make life noisy and ugly and anxious and unhappy: let it engross the great mass of mankind in tedious and uncongenial tasks and the remainder in the foolish and unsatisfying activities of luxurious living; let it defile the green earth with pits and factories and slag-heaps and the mean streets of those who toil at them, and dim the daylight with exhalations of monstrous vapour. It is not for us to complain or to resist: for we are in the grip of a Power which is greater than ourselves, a Power to which mankind in all five continents has learnt to yield--that Economic Process which is, in truth, the God, or the Devil, of the modern world. No thinking man dare acquiesce in such a conclusion or consent to bow the head before such fancied necessities. The function of industry, he will reply, is to serve human life not to master it: to beautify human life not to degrade it: to set life free not to enslave it. Economics is not the whole of life: and when it transgresses its bounds and exceeds its functions it must be controlled and thrust back into its place by the combined activities of men. The soul is higher than the body, and life is more than housekeeping. Liberty is higher than Riches, and the welfare of the community more important than its economic and material progress. These great processes, which the increase of man's knowledge has set in motion, are not impersonal inhuman forces: Men originated them: men administer them: and men must control them. Against economic necessity let us set political necessity: and let the watchword of that political necessity, here as always, be the freedom and the well-being of mankind. With this caution in mind, then, let us approach our subject. What is Economics? Economics is simply the Greek for 'house-keeping'. If writers and thinkers on the subject had only kept this simple fact in mind, or used the English word instead of the Greek, the world would have been saved much misery and confusion. Political economy is not, what Mill and other writers define it to be, 'the Science of Wealth'. It is the art of community-housekeeping, and community-housekeeping, as every woman knows, is a very important if subsidiary branch of the art of community-management or government. Housekeeping, of course, is not a selfish but a social function. Housewives do not lay in bread and cheese simply to gratify their own desire to be possessors of a large store, but for the sake of their household. The true housekeeper or economic man is the man who is consciously ministering to the real needs of the community. Like the ruler or minister in the political sphere, he is a man who is performing a public service. This is equally true whether the housekeeper has a monopoly of the purchase of bread and cheese for the household, or whether he or she has to compete with others as to which is to be allowed to serve the public in that particular transaction. Just as, under the party system, which seems to be inseparable from the working of democratic institutions, men stand for Parliament and compete for the honour of representing their neighbours, so in most systems of industry men compete for the honour of supplying the public. Competition in industry is practically as old as industry. In the earliest picture that has come down to us of Greek village life we read of the competition between potter and potter and between minstrel and minstrel--a competition as keen and as fierce, we may be sure, as that between rival shopkeepers to-day. For the opposite of competition, as has been truly said, is not co-operation but monopoly or bureaucracy: and there is no short and easy means of deciding between the rival systems. Sometimes the community is better served by entrusting one department wholly to one purveyor or one system of management--as in the Postal Service, or the Army and Navy. Sometimes it is clearly better to leave the matter open to competition. Nobody, for instance, would propose to do with only one minstrel, and seal the lips of all poets but the Poet Laureate. Sometimes, as in the case of the organized professions and the liquor trade, a strictly regulated system of competition has been considered best. No doubt the tendency at the present time is setting strongly against competition and towards more unified and more closely organized systems of doing business. But it is important to make quite clear that there is nothing immoral or anti-social about the fact of competition itself, and nothing inconsistent with the idea of service and co-operation which should underlie all social and economic activity. It is not competition itself, as people often wrongly think, which is the evil, but the shallow and selfish motives and the ruthless trampling down of the weak that are too often associated with it. When we condemn the maxim 'the Devil take the hindmost', it is not because we think we ought to treat the hindmost as though he were the foremost--to buy cracked jars or patronize incapable minstrels. It is because we feel that there is a wrong standard of reward among those who have pushed to the front, and that the community as a whole cannot ignore its responsibility towards its less fortunate and capable members. It is, indeed, quite impossible to abolish competition for the patronage of the household without subjecting its members to tyranny or tying them down to an intolerable uniformity--forcing them to suppress their own temporary likes or dislikes and to go on taking in the same stuff in the same quantities world without end. For the most serious and permanent competition is not that between rival purveyors of the same goods, between potter and potter and minstrel and minstrel, but between one set of goods and another: between the potter and the blacksmith, the minstrel and the painter. If we abolished competition permanently between the British railways we could not make sure that the public would always use them as it does now. People would still be at liberty to walk or to drive or to bicycle or to fly, or, at the very worst, to stay at home. Competition, as every business man knows, sometimes arises from the most unexpected quarters. The picture-house and the bicycle have damaged the brewer and the publican. Similarly the motor-car and the golf links have spoilt the trade in the fine china ornaments such as used to be common in expensively furnished drawing-rooms. People sit less in their rooms, so spend less on decorating them. The members of the household always retain ultimate control over their economic life, if they care to exercise it. 'Whoso has sixpence,' as Carlyle said, 'is sovereign (to the length of sixpence), over all men; commands Cooks to feed him, Philosophers to teach him, Kings to mount guard over him,'--to the length of sixpence. Passive resistance and the boycott are always open to the public in the last resort against any of their servants who has abused the powers of his position. A good instance of this occurred in the events which led to the so-called Tobacco riots in Milan in 1848. The Austrians thought they could force the Italians in their Lombard provinces to pay for a government they hated by putting a heavy tax on tobacco. But the Italians, with more self-control than we have shown in the present war, with one accord gave up smoking. Here was a plain competition between a monopoly and the consumer, between tobacco and patriotism: between a united household and an unpopular servant: and the household won, as it always can unless its members are incapable of combined action or have been deprived by governmental tyranny of all power to associate and to organize. We are faced then with a community or household which has certain wants that need to be supplied. The individual members of the community are justified, within the limits of general well-being,[67] in deciding what are their own wants and how to satisfy them. They claim the right to _demand_, as the economists put it, the goods and services they require, bread and cheese, poetry, tobacco, motor-bicycles, china ornaments. In order to meet those demands, which are stable in essentials but subject to constant modification in detail, there is ceaseless activity, rivalry, competition, on the part of the purveyors--on the side of what economists call _supply_. The business of housekeeping, or what is called the economic process, is that of bringing this demand and this supply into relation with one another. If the members of the household said they wanted to eat the moon instead of sugar, their demand would not be an economic demand: for no housekeeper could satisfy it. Similarly on the supply side: if the baker insisted on bringing round bad epics instead of bread and the grocer bad sonatas instead of sugar, the supply, however good it might seem to the baker and the grocer, and however much satisfaction they might personally have derived from their work, would not be an economic supply: for the housekeeper, acting on behalf of the household, would not take it in. But if the demand was for something not yet available, but less impossibly remote than the moon, the housekeeper might persuade the purveyors to cudgel their brains till they had met the need. For, as we know, Necessity, which is another word for Demand, is the mother of invention. Similarly, if a purveyor supplied something undreamed of by the household, but otherwise good of its kind, he might succeed in persuading the household to like it--in other words, in creating a demand. The late Sir Alfred Jones, by putting bananas cheap on the market, persuaded us that we liked them. Similarly Mr. Marvin, who deals in something better than bananas, has persuaded us all to come here, though most of us would never have thought of it unless he had created the demand in us. Economic Progress, then, is progress both on the side of demand and on the side of supply. It is a progress in wants as well as in their means of satisfaction: a progress in the aspirations of the household as well as in the contrivances of its purveyors: a progress in the sense of what life might be, as well as in the skill and genius and organizing powers of those to whom the community looks for help in the realization of its hopes. It is important that this double aspect of our subject should be realized, for in what follows we shall have no opportunity to dwell further upon it. Space compels us to leave the household and its wants and aspirations out of account and to direct our attention solely to the side of supply; although it must always be remembered that no real and permanent progress in the organization of production is possible without improvements in the quality and reduction in the number of the requirements of what is called civilization.[68] What we have to watch, in our study of progress in industry, is the history of man as a purveyor of the household: in other words, as a producer of goods and services: from the days of the primitive savage with his bark canoe to the gigantic industrial enterprises of our own time. We can best do so by dividing our subject into two on somewhat similar lines to the division in our study of government. Let us consider industry, first as an activity involving a relationship between man and Nature; secondly, as involving what may be called a problem of industrial government, a problem arising out of the co-operation between man and man in industrial work. In the first of these aspects we shall see man as a maker, an inventor, an artist; in the second as a subject or a citizen, a slave or a free man, in the Industrial Commonwealth. Man as a maker or producer carries us back to the dawn of history. Man is a tool-using animal and the early stages of human history are a record of the elaboration of tools. The flint axes in our museums are the earliest monuments of the activity of the human spirit. We do not know what the cave men of the Old Stone Age said or thought, or indeed whether they did anything that we should call speaking or thinking at all; but we know what they made. Centuries and millenniums elapsed between them and the first peoples of whom we have any more intimate record--centuries during which the foundations of our existing industrial knowledge and practice were being steadily laid. 'One may say in general,' says Mr. Marvin,[69] that most of the fruitful practical devices of mankind had their origin in prehistoric times, many of them existing then with little essential difference. Any one of them affords a lesson in the gradual elaboration of the simple. A step minute in itself leads on and on, and so all the practical arts are built up, a readier and more observant mind imitating and adapting the work of predecessors, as we imagined the first man making his first flint axe. The history of the plough goes back to the elongation of a bent stick. The wheel would arise from cutting out the middle of a trunk used as a roller. House architecture is the imitation with logs and mud of the natural shelters of the rocks, and begins its great development when men have learnt to make square corners instead of a rough circle. And so on with all the arts of life or pleasure, including clothing, cooking, tilling, sailing, and fighting. How did this gradual progress come about? Mr. Marvin himself supplies the answer. Through the action of the 'readier and more observant minds'--in other words, through specialization and the division of labour. As far back as we can go in history we find a recognition that men are not all alike, that some have one gift and some another, and that it is to the advantage of society to let each use his own gift in the public service. Among primitive peoples there has indeed often been a belief that men are compensated for physical weakness and disability by peculiar excellence in some sphere of their own. Hephaestos among the Greek gods was lame: so he becomes a blacksmith and uses his arms. Homer is blind: so instead of fighting he sings of war. They would not go so far as to maintain that all lame men must be good blacksmiths or all blind men good poets: but at least they recognized that there was room in the community for special types and that the blacksmith and the poet were as useful as the ordinary run of cultivators and fighting men. The Greek word for craftsman--[Greek: dêmiourgos]--'worker for the people,' shows how the Greeks felt on this point. To them poetry and craftsmanship were as much honourable occupations or, as we should say, professional activities as fighting and tilling. Whether Homer took to poetry because he could not fight or because he had an overwhelming poetic gift, he had justified his place in the community. Specialization is the foundation of all craftsmanship and therefore the source of all industrial progress. We recognize this, of course, in common speech. 'Practice makes perfect,' 'Genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains,' are only different ways of saying that it is not enough to be 'ready' and 'observant', but that continued activity and concentration are necessary. A perfect industrial community would not be a community where everybody was doing the same thing: nor would it be a community where every one was doing just what he liked at the moment: it would be a community where every one was putting all his strength into the work which he was by nature best qualified to do--where, in the words of Kipling: No one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame, But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star, Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the God of Things as They Are. Progress in industry, then, on this side, consists in increasing specialization and in the perfection of the relationship between the workman and his work. Man in this world is destined to labour, and labour is often described as the curse of Adam. But in reality, as every one knows who has tried it, or observed the habits of those who have, idleness is far more of a curse than labour. Few men--at any rate in the temperate zone--can be consistently idle and remain happy. The born idler is almost as rare as the born poet. Most men, and, it must be added, most women, are happier working. If holidays were the rule and work the exception the world would be a much less cheerful place than it is even to-day. Purposeful activity is as natural to man as playing is to a kitten. From a purely natural point of view, no one has ever given a better definition of happiness than Aristotle when he defined it as _an activity of the soul in the direction of excellence in an unhampered life_. By excellence, of course, in this famous definition, Aristotle does not mean simply virtue: he means excellence in work. It is impossible, as we all know, to be good in the abstract. We must be good in some particular directions, _at_ some particular thing. And the particular thing that we are good at is _our_ work, our craft, our art--or, to use our less aesthetic English word, for which there is no equivalent in Greek, our duty. If happiness is to be found in doing one's duty, it does not result from doing that duty badly, but from doing it well--turning out, as we say, a thoroughly good piece of work, whether a day's work or a life work. There is a lingering idea, still held in some quarters, that the more unpleasant an activity is the more virtuous it is. This is a mere barbarous survival from the days of what Nietzsche called slave-morality. We are each of us born with special individual gifts and capacities. There is, if we only knew it, some particular kind or piece of work which we are pre-eminently fitted to do--some particular activity or profession, be it held in high or in low repute in the world of to-day, in which we can win the steady happiness of purposeful labour. Shall we then say that it ministers to human progress and to the glory of God deliberately to bury our talent out of sight and to seek rather work which, because it is irksome and unpleasant to us, we can never succeed in doing either easily or really well? No one who knows anything of education or of the training of the young, no one, indeed, who has any love for children, would dare to say that we should. Our State educational system, miserably defective though it is in this regard, is based upon the idea of ministering to the special gifts of its pupils--of trying by scholarships, by Care Committees, by the institution of schools with a special 'bias', to meet the needs of different kinds of young people and to set them in the path on which they are best fitted to travel. In doing this the modern State is only trying to carry out the principle laid down in the greatest book ever written on education--Plato's _Republic_. Plato's object was to train every citizen to fill the one position where he could lead the best life for the good of the State. His aim was not to make his citizens happy but to promote goodness; but he had enough faith in human nature--and who can be an educational thinker without having faith in human nature?--to be convinced that to enable men to 'do their bit', as we say to-day, was to assure them of the truest happiness. We of this generation know how abundantly that faith has been confirmed. And indeed we can appeal in this matter not only to the common sense of Education Authorities or to the philosophy of the ancients, but to the principles of the Christian religion. The late Professor Smart, who was not only a good economist but a good man; has some very pertinent words on this subject. 'If for some reason that we know not of,' he remarks,[70] this present is merely the first stage in being; if we are all at school, and not merely pitched into the world by chance to pick up our living as best we can ... it seems to me that we have reason enough to complain of the existing economic system.... I imagine that many of our churchgoing people, if they ever get to the heaven they sing about, will find themselves most uncomfortable, if it be a place for which they have made no preparation but in the 'business' in which they have earned their living.... A man's daily work is a far greater thing towards the development of the God that is in him than his wealth. And, however revolutionary the idea is, I must say that all our accumulations of wealth are little to the purpose of life if they do not tend towards the giving to all men the opportunity of such work as will have its reward _in the doing_. And of his own particular life-work, teaching, he remarks, in words that testify to his own inner peace and happiness, that 'some of us have got into occupations which almost seem to guarantee immortality'. Let us, then, boldly lay it down that the best test of progress in industry and the best measure of success in any industrial system is the degree to which it enables men to 'do their bit' and so to find happiness in their daily work, or if you prefer more distinctively religious language, the degree to which it enables men to develop the God that is in them. Let us have the courage to say that in the great battle which Ruskin and William Morris fought almost single-handed against all the Philistines of the nineteenth century, Ruskin and Morris, however wrong they may have been on points of practical detail, were right in principle. Let us make up our minds that a world in which men have surrendered the best hours of the day to unsatisfying drudgery, and banished happiness to their brief periods of tired leisure, is so far from civilized that it has not even made clear to itself wherein civilization consists. And when we read such a passage as the following from a leading modern economist, let us not yield to the promptings of our lower nature and acquiesce in its apparent common sense, but remember that economists, like all workmen, are bounded by the limits of their own particular craft or study. 'The greater part of the world's work,' says Professor Taussig,[71] the leading exponent of Economics at Harvard, is not in itself felt to be pleasurable. Some reformers have hoped to reach a social system under which all work would be in itself a source of satisfaction. It is probable that such persons are made optimistic by the nature of their own doings. They are writers, schemers, reformers; they are usually of strongly altruistic character, and the performance of any duty or set task brings to them the approval of an exacting conscience; and they believe that all mankind can be brought to labour in their own spirit. The world would be a much happier place if their state of mind could be made universal. But the great mass of men are of a humdrum sort, not born with any marked bent or any loftiness of character. Moreover, most of the world's work for the satisfaction of our primary wants must be of a humdrum sort, and often of a rough and coarse sort. There must be ditching and delving, sowing and reaping, hammering and sawing, and all the severe physical exertion which, however lightened by tools and machinery, yet can never be other than labour in the ordinary sense of the word. When Professor Taussig assures us that 'the great mass of men are of a humdrum sort, not born with any marked bent or loftiness of character' he is simply denying the Christian religion. To argue the point with him would carry us too far. We will do no more here than remind him that the people to whom the Founder of Christianity preached, and even those who were chosen to be its first disciples, were, like this audience, distinctly humdrum, and that assuredly the American Professor would not have discerned in them promising material for a world-transforming religious movement. What people see in others is often a mirror of themselves. Perhaps Professor Taussig, in spite of his excellent book, is rather a humdrum person himself. When, however, Professor Taussig declares that 'the greater part of the world's work is not in itself felt to be pleasurable' he is saying what, under existing conditions, we must all recognize to be true. A year or two ago Mr. Graham Wallas made an investigation into this very question, the results of which confirmed the general impression that modern workmen find little happiness in their work.[72] But two of the conclusions which he reached conflict in a rather curious way with the statement of Professor Taussig. Mr. Wallas's evidence, which was largely drawn from students of Ruskin College, led him to the conclusion 'that there is less pleasantness or happiness in work the nearer it approaches the fully organized Great Industry'. The only workman who spoke enthusiastically of his work was an agricultural labourer who 'was very emphatic with regard to the pleasure to be obtained from agricultural work'. Professor Taussig, on the other hand, selects four agricultural occupations, ditching, delving, sowing, and reaping, as characteristically unpleasant and looks to machinery and the apparatus of the Industrial Revolution to counteract this unpleasantness. But the most interesting evidence gathered by Mr. Wallas was that relating to women workers. He had an opportunity of collecting the views of girls employed in the laundries and poorer kind of factories in Boston. 'The answers', he says,[73] 'surprised me greatly. I expected to hear those complaints about bad wages, hard conditions and arbitrary discipline which a body of men working at the same grade of labour would certainly have put forward. But it was obvious that the question "Are you happy?" meant to the girls "Are you happier than you would have been if you had stayed at home instead of going to work?" And almost every one of them answered "Yes".' Why were they unhappy at home? Let Professor Taussig reflect on the answer. Not because they had 'rough' or 'coarse' or 'humdrum' work to do, as in a factory or laundry, but because they had nothing to do, and they had found idleness unbearable. 'One said that work "took up her mind", she had been awfully discontented'. Another that 'you were of some use'. Another thought 'it was because the hours went so much faster. At home one could read, but only for a short time, there was the awful lonesome afternoon ahead of you.' 'Asked a little girl with dyed hair but a good little heart. She enjoyed her work. It made her feel she was worth something.' And Mr. Wallas concludes that it is just because 'everything that is interesting, even though it is laborious, in the women's arts of the old village is gone': because 'clothes are bought ready-made, food is bought either ready-cooked, like bread and jam and fish, or only requiring the simplest kind of cooking': in fact just because physical exertion has been lightened by books and machinery, that 'there results a mass of inarticulate unhappiness whose existence has hardly been indicated by our present method of sociological enquiry'. It would seem then that the task of associating modern industrial work with happiness is not impossible, if we would only set ourselves to the task. And the task is a two-fold one. It is, first, to make it possible for people to follow the employment for which they are by nature best fitted; and secondly, to study much more closely than heretofore, from the point of view of happiness, the conditions under which work is done. The first task involves a very considerable reversal of current educational and social values. It does not simply mean paving the way for the son of an engine-driver to become a doctor or a lawyer or a cavalryman. It means paving the way for the son of a duke to become, without any sense of social failure, an engine-driver or a merchant seaman or a worker on the land--and to do so not, as to-day, in the decent seclusion of British Columbia or Australia, but in our own country and without losing touch, if he desires it, with his own natural circle of friends. The ladder is an old and outworn metaphor in this connexion. Yet it is still worth remembering that the Angels whom Jacob observed upon it were both ascending and descending. It is one of the fallacies of our social system to believe that a ladder should only be used in one direction--and that the direction which tends to remove men from contact and sympathy with their fellows. But in truth we need to discard the metaphor of the ladder altogether, with its implied suggestion that some tasks of community-service are more honourable and involve more of what the world calls 'success' than others. We do not desire a system of education which picks out for promotion minds gifted with certain kinds of capacity and stimulates them with the offer of material rewards, while the so-called humdrum remainder are left, with their latent talents undiscovered and undeveloped. Recent educational experiments,[74] and not least that most testing of all school examinations, the war, have shown us that we must revise all our old notions as to cleverness and stupidity. We know now that, short of real mental deficiency, there is or ought to be no such personage as the dunce. Just as the criminal is generally a man of unusual energy and mental power directed into wrong channels, so the dunce is a pupil whose special powers and aptitudes have not revealed themselves in the routine of school life. And just as the criminal points to serious defects in our social system, so the dunce points to serious defects in our educational system. The striking record of our industrial schools and reformatories in the war shows what young criminals and dunces can do when they are given a fair field for their special gifts. One of the chief lessons to be drawn from the war is the need for a new spirit and outlook in our national education from the elementary school to the University. We need a system which treats every child, rich or poor, as a living and developing personality, which enables every English boy and girl to stay at school at least up to the time when his or her natural bent begins to disclose itself, which provides for all classes of the community skilled guidance in the choice of employment based upon psychological study of individual gifts and aptitude,[75] which sets up methods of training and apprenticeship in the different trades--or, as I would prefer to call them the different professions--such as to counteract the deadening influence of premature specialization, and which ensures good conditions and a sense of self-respect and community-service to all in their self-chosen line of life, whether their bent be manual or mechanical or commercial or administrative, or for working on the land or for going to sea, or towards the more special vocations of teaching or scholarship or the law or medicine or the cure of souls. No one can estimate how large a share of the unhappiness associated with our existing social system is due to the fact that, owing to defects in our education and our arrangements for the choice of employment, there are myriads of square pegs in round holes. This applies with especial force to women, to whom many of the square holes are still inaccessible, not simply owing to the lack of opportunities for individuals, but owing to the inhibitions of custom and, in some cases, to narrow and retrograde professional enactments. The war has brought women their chance, not only in the office and the workshop, but in higher administrative and organizing positions, and not the least of its results is the revelation of undreamt-of capacities in these directions. In the second task, that of perfecting the adaptation between men and their tools, we have much to learn from the industrial history of the past. It is natural for men to enjoy 'talking shop', and this esoteric bond of union has existed between workmen in all ages. We may be sure that there were discussions amongst connoisseurs in the Stone Age as to the respective merits of their flint axes, just as there are to-day between golfers about niblicks and putters, and between surgeons as to the technique of the extraction of an appendix. A good workman loves his tools. He is indeed inseparable from them, as our law acknowledges by forbidding a bankrupt's tools to be sold up. Give a good workman, in town or country, a sympathetic listener and he is only too ready to expatiate on his daily work. This sense of kinship between men and their tools and material is so little understood by some of our modern expert organizers of industry that it is worth while illustrating it at some length. I make no apology, therefore, for quoting a striking passage from an essay by Mr. George Bourne, who is not a trade unionist or a student of Labour politics but an observer of English village life, who has taken the trouble to penetrate the mind of what is commonly regarded as the stupidest and most backward--as it is certainly the least articulate--class of workmen in this country, the agricultural labourer in the southern counties. 'The men', he writes, are commonly too modest about their work, and too unconscious that it can interest an outsider, to dream of discussing it. What they have to say would not therefore by itself go far in demonstration of their acquirements in technique. Fortunately, for proof of that we are not dependent on talk. Besides talk there exists another kind of evidence open to every one's examination, and the technical skill exercised in country labours may be purely deduced from the aptness and singular beauty of sundry country tools. The beauty of tools is not accidental, but inherent and essential. The contours of a ship's sail bellying in the wind are not more inevitable, nor more graceful, than the curves of an adze-head or of a plough-share. Cast in iron or steel, the gracefulness of a plough-share is more indestructible than the metal, yet pliant (in the limits of its type) as a line of English blank verse. It changes for different soils: it is widened out or narrowed; it is deep-grooved or shallow; not because of caprice at the foundry or to satisfy an artistic fad, but to meet the technical demands of the expert ploughman. The most familiar example of beauty indicating subtle technique is supplied by the admired shape of boats, which, however, is so variable (the statement is made on the authority of an old coast-guardsman) that the boat best adapted for one stretch of shore may be dangerous, if not entirely useless, at another stretch ten miles away. And as technique determines the design of a boat, or of a waggon, or of a plough-share, so it controls absolutely the fashioning of tools, and is responsible for any beauty of form they may possess. Of all tools none, of course, is more exquisite than a fiddle-bow. But the fiddle-bow never could have been perfected, because there would have been no call for its tapering delicacy, its calculated balance of lightness and strength, had not the violinist's technique reached such marvellous fineness of power. For it is the accomplished artist who is fastidious as to his tools; the bungling beginner can bungle with anything. The fiddle-bow, however, affords only one example of a rule which is equally well exemplified by many humbler tools. Quarryman's peck, coachman's whip, cricket-bat, fishing-rod, trowel, all have their intimate relation to the skill of those who use them; and like animals and plants, adapting themselves each to its own place in the universal order, they attain to beauty by force of being fit. That law of adaptation which shapes the wings of a swallow and prescribes the poise and elegance of the branches of trees is the same that demands symmetry in the corn-rick and convexity in the beer-barrel; the same that, exerting itself with matchless precision through the trained senses of haymakers and woodmen, gives the final curve to the handles of their scythes and the shafts of their axes. Hence the beauty of a tool is an unfailing sign that in the proper handling of it technique is present ... 'It is not the well-informed and those eager to teach', he says in another passage, who know the primitive necessary lore of civilization; it is the illiterate. In California, Louis Stevenson found men studying the quality of vines grown on different pockets of earth, just as the peasants of Burgundy and the Rhine have done for ages. And even so the English generations have watched the produce of their varying soils. When or how was it learnt--was it at Oxford or at Cambridge?--that the apples of Devonshire are so specially fit for cider? Or how is it that hops are growing--some of them planted before living memory--all along the strip of green sand which encircles the Weald--that curious strip to which text-books at last point triumphantly as being singularly adapted for hops? Until it got into the books, this piece of knowledge was not thought of as learning; it had merely been acted upon during some centuries. But such knowledge exists, boundless, in whatever direction one follows it: the knowledge of fitting means to ends: excellent rule-of-thumb knowledge, as good as the chemist uses for analyzing water. When the peculiar values of a plot of land have been established--as, for instance, that it is a clay 'too strong' for bricks--then further forms of localized knowledge are brought to supplement this, until at last the bricks are made. Next, they must be removed from the field; and immediately new problems arise. The old farm-cart, designed for roots or manure, has not the most suitable shape for brick-carting. Probably, too, its wide wheels, which were intended for the softness of ploughed land, are needlessly clumsy for the hard road. Soon, therefore, the local wheelwright begins to lighten his spokes and felloes, and to make the wheels a trifle less 'dished'; while his blacksmith binds them in a narrower but thicker tyre, to which he gives a shade more tightness. For the wheelwright learns from the carter--that ignorant fellow--the answer to the new problems set by a load of bricks. A good carter, for his part, is able to adjust his labour to his locality. A part of his duty consists in knowing what constitutes a fair load for his horse in the district where he is working. So many hundred stock bricks, so many more fewer of the red or wire-cut, such and such a quantity of sand, or timber, or straw, or coal, or drain-pipes, or slates, according to their kinds and sizes, will make as much as an average horse can draw in this neighbourhood; but in London the loads are bigger and the vehicles heavier; while in more hilly parts (as you may see any day in the West Country) two horses are put before a cart and load which the London carter would deem hardly too much for a costermonger's donkey. So it goes throughout civilization: there is not an industry but produces its own special knowledge relating to unclassified details of adjustment.[76] It is this craft-knowledge and common professional feeling which is at the basis of all associations of workpeople, from the semi-religious societies of ancient times, which met in secret to worship their patron-god--Hephaestos, the god of the metal-workers, or Asclepios, the god of the doctors--through the great guilds of the Middle Ages to the trade unions and professional organizations of to-day. Trade unions do not exist simply to raise wages or to fight the capitalist, any more than the British Medical Association exists simply to raise fees and to bargain with the Government. They exist to serve a professional need: to unite men who are doing the same work and to promote the welfare and dignity of that work. It is this which renders so difficult the problems of adjustment which arise owing to the introduction of new and unfamiliar processes. Professional associations are, and are bound to be, conservative: their conservatism is honourable and to their credit: for they are the transmitters of a great tradition. The problem in every case is to ensure the progress necessary to the community without injury to that sense of 'fellowship in the mystery' on which the social spirit of the particular class of workmen depends. It is from this point of view that recent American proposals in the direction of 'scientific management' are most open to criticism: for they involve the break-up of the craft-spirit without setting anything comparable in its place. In fact, Mr. F. W. Taylor, one of the inventors of what is called the 'system' of scientific management, frankly ignores or despises the craft-spirit and proposes to treat the workman as a being incapable of understanding the principles underlying the practice of his art. He goes so far as to lay it down as a general principle that 'in almost all the mechanic arts the science which underlies each act of each workman is so great and amounts to so much that the workman who is best suited to actually doing the work is incapable of fully understanding this science, without the guidance and help of those who are working with him or over him, either through lack of education or through insufficient mental capacity'.[77] Along the lines of this philosophy no permanent industrial advance is possible. It may improve the product for a time, but only at the cost of degrading the producer. If we are to make happiness our test, and to stand by our definition of happiness as involving free activity, such a system, destructive as it is of any real or intense relationship between the workman and his work, stands self-condemned. If we are looking for _real_ industrial progress it is elsewhere that we must turn. This leads us naturally on to the second great division of our subject: progress in the methods of co-operation between man and man in doing industrial work. For if man is a social animal his power to do his bit and his consequent happiness must be derived, in part at least, from his social environment. The lonely craftsman perfecting his art in the solitude of a one-man workshop does not correspond with our industrial ideal any more than the hermit or the monk corresponds with our general religious ideal. It was the great apostle of craftsmanship, William Morris, who best set forth the social ideal of industry in his immortal sentence: 'Fellowship is Life and lack of Fellowship is Death.' Our study of the workman, then, is not complete when we have seen him with his tools: we must see him also among his workmates. We must see industry not simply as a process of production but as a form of association; and we must realize that the association of human beings for the purpose of industrial work involves what is just as much a problem of government as their association in the great political community which we call the State. It is difficult to see the record of the progress of industrial government in clear perspective for the simple reason that the world is still so backward as regards the organization of this side of its common life. The theory and practice of industrial government is generations, even centuries, behind the theory and practice of politics. We are still accustomed in industry to attitudes of mind and methods of management which the political thought of the Western World has long since discarded as incompatible with its ideals. Two instances must suffice to illustrate this. It is constantly being said, both by employers and by politicians, and even by writers in sympathy with working-class aspirations, that all that the workman needs in his life is security. Give him work under decent conditions, runs the argument, with reasonable security of tenure and adequate guarantees against sickness, disablement and unemployment, and all will be well. This theory of what constitutes industrial welfare is, of course, when one thinks it out, some six centuries out of date. It embodies the ideal of the old feudal system, but without the personal tie between master and man which humanized the feudal relationship. Feudalism, as we saw in our study of political government, was a system of contract between the lord and the labourer by which the lord and master ran the risks, set on foot the enterprises (chiefly military), and enjoyed the spoils, incidental to mediaeval life, while the labourer stuck to his work and received security and protection in exchange. Feudalism broke down because it involved too irksome a dependence, because it was found to be incompatible with the personal independence which is the birthright of a modern man. So it is idle to expect that the ideal of security will carry us very far by itself towards the perfect industrial commonwealth. Take a second example of the wide gulf that still subsists between men's ideas of politics and men's ideas of industry. It is quite common, even in these latter days, and among those who have freely sacrificed their nearest and dearest to the claims of the State, to hear manufacturers and merchants say that they have a 'right to a good profit'. The President of the Board of Trade remarked openly in the House of Commons after many months of war that it was more than one could expect of human nature for coal-owners not to get the highest price they could. Such a standpoint is not merely indecent: it is hopelessly out-of-date. Looked at from the political point of view it is a pure anachronism. There used to be times when men made large fortunes out of the service of government, as men still make them out of the service of the community in trade and industry to-day. In the days of St. Matthew, when tax-gathering was let out by contract, the apostle's partners would probably have declared, as Mr. Runciman does to-day, that it was more than one could expect of human nature that a publican who had a government contract for the collection of the taxes should not get all he could out of the tax-payer. It is, indeed, little more than a century ago since it was a matter of course in this country to look upon oversea colonies merely as plantations--that is, as business investments rather than as communities of human beings. The existence of Chartered Company government marks a survival of this habit of mind. The old colonial system, which embodied this point of view, proved demoralizing not only to the home government but to the colonists, as a similar view is to the working class, and it led to the loss of the American colonies as surely as a similar attitude on the part of employers leads to unrest and rebellion among workpeople to-day. We have thus a long way to travel before the ideals of politics have been assimilated into the industrial life of the community and have found fitting embodiment in its kindred and more complex problems. But at least we have reached a point where we can see what the problem of industrial government is. We can say with assurance that a system which treats human beings purely as instruments or as passive servants, and atrophies their self-determination and their sense of individual and corporate responsibility, is as far from perfection in industry as the Roman Empire was in politics. Renan's words about 'the intolerable sadness' incidental to such a method of organization apply with redoubled force to occupations which take up the best part of the day of the mass of the working population. The bleak and loveless buildings, with their belching chimneys, which arrest the eye of the thoughtful traveller in the industrial districts of England are not prisons or workhouses. But they often look as if they were, and they resemble them in this--that they too often stand for similarly authoritarian ideas of government and direction. Industry is still an autocracy, as politics was in the days before the supremacy of Parliament. Power still descends from above instead of springing from below. It is a power limited no doubt by trade union action and parliamentary and administrative control: but it is in essence as autocratic as the government of England used to be before the transference of sovereignty from the monarch to the representatives of his subjects. It was recently announced in the press that Lord Rhondda had bought a group of Welsh collieries for 2 millions, and that as a result 'Lord Rhondda now controls over 3-1/2 millions of capital, pays 2-1/2 millions in wages every year, and is virtually the dictator of the economic destiny of a quarter of a million miners. Rumours are also current', the extract continues, 'that Lord Rhondda is extending his control over the press of Wales'.[78] The existence of such power in this twentieth century in the hands of single individuals, not selected from the mass for their special wisdom or humanity, is a stupendous fact which must give pause to any one who is inclined to feel complacent about modern industrial progress. In days gone by political power was as irresponsible as the economic power wielded to-day by Lord Rhondda; and it descended from father to son by hereditary right in the same way as the control over the lives of countless American workers descends to-day as a matter of course from John D. Rockefeller senior to John D. Rockefeller junior. If there is any reality at all in our political faith we must believe that a similar development towards self-government can and must take place in industry. It may be that generations will elapse before the problems of industrial government find a final and satisfactory constitutional solution. But at least we can say that there is only one basis for that solution which is compatible with a sound ideal of government, or indeed with any reasoned view of morality or religion--the basis of individual and corporate freedom with its corresponding obligations of responsibility and self-respect. No nation, as Abraham Lincoln said, can remain half-slave and half-free: and it was a greater than Lincoln who warned us that we cannot serve both God and Mammon. It is this underlying conflict of ideals in the organization of our existing economic system which is the real cause of the 'Labour unrest' of which we have heard so much in recent years. With this warning in our minds as to the imperfections of our modern industrial organization, let us briefly survey the record of the forms of economic association which preceded it. The earliest form of industrial grouping is, of course, the family; and the family, as we all know, still retains its primitive character in some occupations as a convenient form of productive association. This is particularly the case in agriculture in communities where peasant holdings prevail. But the family is so much more than an industrial group that it hardly falls to us to consider it further here. Outside the family proper, industrial work among primitive peoples is often carried on by slaves. It was a step forward in human progress when primitive man found that it was more advantageous to capture his enemies than to kill or eat them; and it was a still greater step forward when he found that there was more to be got out of slaves by kind treatment than by compulsion. This is not the place in which to go into the vexed questions connected with various forms of slavery. Suffice it to say that it is a profound mistake to dismiss the whole system in one undiscriminating condemnation. Slavery involves the denial of freedom, and as such it can never be good. But other systems besides slavery implicitly involve the denial of freedom. Some of the finest artistic work in the world has been done by slaves--and by slaves not working under compulsion but in the company of free men and on terms of industrial equality with them. This should serve to remind us that, in judging of systems of industry, we must look behind the letter of the law to the spirit of the times and of social institutions. Slavery at its best merges insensibly into wage-labour at its lower end. Many of the skilled slaves of ancient Greece and Rome are hardly distinguishable in status from a modern workman bound by an unusually long and strict indenture and paid for his work not only in money but partly in truck. In order to stimulate their productive capacity it was found necessary in Greece and Rome to allow skilled slaves to earn and retain money--although in the eye of the law they were not entitled to do so; and they were thus frequently in a position to purchase their own freedom and become independent craftsmen. Slavery in the household and in small workshops is open to many and serious dangers, which need not be particularized here; but the worst abuses of slavery have always taken place where slaves have been easily recruited, as in the early days of European contact with Africa, and when there were large openings for their employment in gangs on work of a rough and unskilled character. The problem of slavery in its worse forms is thus at bottom a cheap-labour problem analogous to that which confronts North America and South Africa to-day; and there is an essential difference which is often ignored between the educated slave in a Roman Government office who did the work of a First Division Civil Servant for his imperial master and his compeer working in the fields of South Italy: and between the household servants of a Virginian family and the plantation-slaves of the farther South. Let us remember, in passing judgement on what is admittedly an indefensible system, that during the war which resulted in the freeing of the American slaves the slaveholders of the South trusted their household slaves to protect the women and children during their absence from home and that that trust was nowhere betrayed. There is another side to _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ as surely as there is another side to Mr. Carnegie's paean of modern industrialism in his _Triumphant Democracy_. Systems of serfdom or caste which bind the workman to his work without permitting him to be sold like a slave may be regarded as one step higher than slavery proper. Such systems are common in stable and custom-bound countries, and persisted throughout the European Middle Ages. We need not describe how the rising tide of change gradually broke up the system in this country and left the old-time villein a free but often a landless and property less man. The transition from serfdom to the system of wage-labour which succeeded it was a transition from legal dependence to legal freedom, and as such it marked an advance. But it was also a transition from a fixed and, as it were, a professional position of service to the community to a blind and precarious individualism. It was a transition, as Sir Henry Maine put it, from status to contract. This famous nineteenth-century aphorism is eloquent of the limitations of that too purely commercial age. Every thinking man would admit to-day that status at its best is a better thing than contract at its best--that the soldier is a nobler figure than the army contractor, and that corporate feeling and professional honour are a better stimulus to right action than business competition and a laudable keenness to give satisfaction to a valuable customer. We have always suffered from the temptation in this country of adapting business methods and ideals to politics rather than political ideals and methods to business. Our eighteenth-century thinkers explained citizenship itself, not as a duty to our neighbours but as the fulfilment of an unwritten contract. Our nineteenth-century legal writers elevated the idea of free contract almost to an industrial ideal; while, in somewhat the same spirit, the gutter journalists of to-day, when they are at a loss for a popular watchword, call for a business government. Such theories and battle-cries may serve for a 'nation of shopkeepers'; but that opprobrious phrase has never been true of the great mass of the English people, and it was never less true than to-day. The idea of industrial work as the fulfilment of a contract, whether freely or forcibly made, is thus essentially at variance with the ideal of community service. It is difficult for a man who makes his livelihood by hiring himself out as an individual for what he can get out of one piece of work after another to feel the same sense of community service or professional pride as the man who is serving a vocation and has dedicated his talents to some continuous and recognized form of work. It is this which makes the system of wage-labour so unsatisfactory in principle compared with the guilds of the town workmen in the Middle Ages and with the organized professions of to-day; and it is this which explains why trade unions of recent years have come to concern themselves more and more with questions of status rather than of wages and to regard the occupation which they represent more and more as a profession rather than a trade. No one has laid bare the deficiencies of the wage-system more clearly than Adam Smith in the famous chapter in which he foreshadows the principle of collective bargaining. 'What are the common wages of labour', he there remarks,[79] 'depends everywhere upon the contract usually made between those two parties, whose interests are by no means the same. The workmen desire to get as much, the masters to give as little, as possible. The former are disposed to combine in order to raise, the latter in order to lower, the wages of labour.... We rarely hear, it has been said, of the combinations of masters, though frequently of those of workmen. But whoever imagines, upon this account, that masters rarely combine is as ignorant of the world as of the subject. Masters are always and everywhere in a sort of tacit but constant and uniform combination not to raise the wages of labour above their actual rate. To violate this combination is everywhere a most unpopular action and a sort of reproach to a master among his neighbours and equals. We seldom, indeed, hear of this combination, because it is the usual, and one may say, the natural state of things which nobody ever hears of. Masters, too, sometimes enter into particular combinations to sink the wages of labour even below this rate. These are always conducted with the utmost secrecy till the moment of execution; and, when the workmen yield, as they sometimes do without resistance, though severely felt by them, they are never heard of by other people. Such combinations, however, are frequently resisted by a contrary defensive combination of the workmen, who sometimes, too, without any provocation of this kind, combine of their own accord to raise the price of labour. Their usual pretences are, sometimes the high price of provisions, sometimes the great profit which their masters make by their work.' These words were written 140 years ago, but, as we all know, they are still true of the working of the system to-day. Indeed the war has served to emphasize their truth by showing us how deeply entrenched are the habits of bargaining and of latent antagonism which the working of the wage-system has engendered. It is the defect of the wage-system, as Adam Smith makes clear to us, that it lays stress on just those points in the industrial process where the interests of employers and workpeople run contrary to one another, whilst obscuring those far more important aspects in which they are partners and fellow-workers in the service of the community. This defect cannot be overcome by strengthening one party to the contract at the expense of the other, by crushing trade unions or dissolving employers' combinations, or even by establishing the principle of collective bargaining. It can only be overcome by the recognition on both sides that industry is in essence not a matter of contract and bargaining at all, but of mutual interdependence and community service: and by the growth of a new ideal of status, a new sense of professional pride and corporate duty and self-respect among all who are engaged in the same function. No one can say how long it may take to bring about such a fundamental change of attitude, especially among those who have most to lose, in the material sense, by an alteration in the existing distribution of economic power. But the war has cleared away so much of prejudice and set so much of our life in a new light that the dim ideals of to-day may well be the realities of to-morrow. This at least we can say: that no country in the world is in a better position than we are to redeem modern industry from the reproach of materialism and to set it firmly upon a spiritual basis, and that the country which shall first have had the wisdom and the courage to do so will be the pioneer in a vast extension of human liberty and happiness and will have shown that along this road and no other lies the industrial progress of mankind. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE 1. _Economics_: H. Clay, _Economics for the General Reader_. 1916. Ruskin, _Unto this last_. Smart, _Second Thoughts of an Economist_. 1916. 2. _Man and his Tools_: Marvin, _The Living Past_. 1913. F. W. Taylor, _The Principles of Scientific Management_. 1911. Hoxie, _Scientific Management and Labour_. 1916. 3. _Industrial Government_: Aristotle, _Politics_ (Book I, chapters on Slavery). Zimmern, _The Greek Commonwealth_ (chapters on Slavery). 1911. Ashley, _The Economic Organization of England_. 1914. Unwin, _Industrial Organization in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries_. S. and B. Webb, _The History of Trade Unionism_. Macgregor, _The Evolution of Industry_ (Home University Library). Wallas, _The Great Society_. 1914. G. D. H. Cole, _The World of Labour_. 1915. _Round Table, June 1916 (Article on the Labour Movement and the Future of British Industry)._ FOOTNOTES: [67] Including the well-being of the producers--a point which is too often overlooked. [68] On this point see _Poverty and Waste_, by Hartley Withers, 1914, written before the war, which has driven its lessons home. [69] _The Living Past_, pp. 20, 21. [70] _Second Thoughts of an Economist_, p. 89. [71] _Principles of Economics_, vol. i, p. 11. It is interesting to note that in his latest book, _Inventors and Money-making, lectures on some relations between Economics and Psychology_ (1915), Professor Taussig to some extent goes back upon the point of view of the extract given above. [72] A similar inquiry on a much larger scale was made by Adolf Levinstein in his book _Die Arbeiterfrage_ (Munich, 1910). He examined 4,000 workpeople, consisting of coalminers, cotton operatives, and engineers. With the exception of a few turners and fitters almost all replied that they found little or no pleasure in their work. [73] _The Great Society_, p. 363. [74] Especially the wonderful results obtained from the young criminals at the Little Commonwealth in Dorsetshire. [75] See _Readings in Vocational Guidance_ by Meyer Bloomfield (Boston, 1915). [76] _Lucy Bettesworth_, pp. 178-80, and 214-16. [77] This sentence is practically an unconscious paraphrase of a passage from Aristotle's defence of slavery. [78] _The Welsh Outlook_, August 1916, p. 272. [79] _Wealth of Nations_, Book I, ch. viii. IX PROGRESS IN ART A. CLUTTON BROCK It is often said that there can be no such thing as progress in art. At one time the arts flourish, at another they decay: but, as Whistler put it, art happens as men of genius happen; and men cannot make it happen. They cannot discover what circumstances favour art, and therefore they cannot attempt to produce those circumstances. There are periods of course in which the arts, or some one particular art, progress. One generation may excel the last; through several generations an art may seem to be rushing to its consummation. This happened with Greek sculpture and the Greek drama in the sixth and fifth centuries; with architecture and all kindred arts in western Europe in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and at the same time with many arts in China. It happened with painting and sculpture in Italy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, with literature in England in the sixteenth century, with music in Germany in the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth. But in all these cases there followed a decline, often quite unconscious at the time and one of which we cannot discover the causes. Attempts are made by historians of the arts to state the causes; but they satisfy only those who make them, for they are, in fact, only statements of the symptoms of decline. They tell us what happened, not why it happened. And they all seem to point to two conclusions about the course of the arts, both of which would make us despair of any settled progress in them. The first is that the practice of any art by any particular people always follows a certain natural course of growth, culmination, and decay. At least it always follows this course where an art is practised naturally and therefore with success. Art in fact, in its actual manifestations, is like the life of an individual human being and subject to inexorable natural laws. It is born, as men are born, without the exercise of will; and in the same way it passes through youth, maturity, and old age. The second conclusion follows from this, and it is that one nation or age cannot take up an art where another has left it. That is where art seems to differ from science. The mass of knowledge acquired in one country can, if that country loses energy to apply or increase it, be utilized by another. But we cannot so make use of the art of the Greeks or of the Italian Renaissance or of our own Middle Ages. In the Gothic revival we tried to make use of the art of the Middle Ages and we failed disastrously. We imitated without understanding, and we could not understand because we were not ourselves living in the Middle Ages. Art, in fact, is always a growth of its own time which cannot be transplanted, and no one can tell why it grows in one time and among one people and not in another. That is what we are always told, and yet we never quite believe all of it. For, as art is a product of the human mind, it must also be a product of the human will, unless it is altogether unconscious like a dream. But that it is not; for men produce it in their waking hours and with the conscious exercise of their faculties. If a man paints a picture he does so because he wants to paint one. He exercises will and choice in all his actions, and the man who buys a picture does the same. We talk of inspiration in the arts as something that cannot be commanded, but there is also inspiration in the sciences. No man can make a scientific discovery by the pure exercise of his will. It jumps into one mind and not into another just like an artistic inspiration. And further we are taught and trained in the arts as in the sciences; and success in both depends a great deal upon the nature of the training. In both good training will not give genius or inspiration to those who are without it; but it will enable those who possess it to make the most of it; and, what is more, it will enable even the mediocre to produce work of some value. What strikes us most about the Florentine school of painting of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries is the fact that its second-rate painters are so good, that we can enjoy their works even when they are merely imitative. But the Florentine school excelled all others of the time in its teaching; most painters of other schools in Italy learnt from Florence; and the inspiration came to them from Florence, they were quickened from Florence, however much their art kept its own natural character. But this school which had the best teaching also produced the most painters of genius. Its level was higher and its heights were higher; and for this reason, that the whole Florentine intellect went both into the teaching and into the practice of painting and sculpture. The Florentine was able to put all his mind, the scientific faculties as well as the aesthetic, into his art. He never relied merely on his temperament or his mood. He was eager for knowledge. It was not enough for him to paint things as he saw them; he tried to discover how they were made, what were the laws of their growth and construction; and his knowledge of these things changed the character of his vision, made him see the human body, for instance, as no mediaeval artist had ever seen it; made him see it as an engineer sees a machine. Just as an engineer sees more in a machine than a man who does not understand its working, so the Florentine saw more in the human body than a mediaeval artist. He saw it with a scientific as well as an aesthetic passion, and all this science of his enriched his art so that there has never since been drawing like the Florentine, drawing at once so logical and so expressive. The Florentines in fact did exercise their will upon their art more than any other modern artists, more, perhaps, than any other artists known to us, and their painting and sculpture were the greatest of the modern world. Yet the fact remains that Florentine art declined suddenly and irresistibly, and that all the Florentine intellect, which still remained remarkable and produced men of science like Galileo, could not arrest that decline. Indeed the Florentines themselves seem not to have been conscious of it. They thought that the dull imitators of Michelangelo were greater than his great predecessors. As we say, their taste became bad, their values were perverted; and with that perversion all their natural genius for the arts was wasted. To this day Carlo Dolci is the favourite painter of the ordinary Florentine. He was a man of some ability, and he painted pictures at once feeble and revolting because he himself and his public liked such pictures. There is no accounting for tastes, we say, and in saying that we despair of progress in the arts. For it is ultimately this unaccountable thing called taste, and not the absence or presence of genius, which determines whether the arts shall thrive or decay in any particular age or country. People often say that they know nothing about art, but that they do know what they like; and what they imply is that there is nothing to be known about art except your own likes and dislikes, and further that no man can control those. The Florentines of the seventeenth century happened to like Carlo Dolci, where the Florentines of the fifteenth had liked Botticelli. That is the only explanation we can give of the decline of Florentine painting. It is of course no explanation; and because no explanation beyond it has been given, we are told that there can be no such thing as progress in the arts. That is the lesson of history. We are far beyond the Egyptians in science, but certainly not beyond them in art. Indeed one might say that there has been a continual slow decline in all the arts of Europe, except music, since the year 1500, and that music itself has been slowly declining since the death of Beethoven. But with this slow inexorable decline of the arts there has been a great advance in nearly everything else, in knowledge, in power, even in morality. Upon everything man has been able to exercise his will except upon the arts. Where he has really wished for progress there he has got it, except in this one case. Therefore it seems that upon the arts he cannot exercise his will, and that they alone of all his activities are not capable of progress. What do we mean by progress except the successful exercise of the human will in a right direction? That is what distinguishes progress from natural growth; that alone can preserve it from natural processes of decay. There are people who say that it does not exist, that everything which happens to man is a natural process of growth or decay. Whether that is so or not, we do mean by progress something different from these natural processes. When we speak of it we do imply the exercise of the human will, man's command over circumstances; and those who deny progress altogether deny that man has any will or any command over circumstances. For them things happen to man and that is all, it is not man's will that makes things happen. But if we use the word progress at all, we imply that it is man's will that makes things happen. And since man is evidently liable to decline as well as progress, it follows that if we believe man to be capable of exercising his will in a right direction we must also believe that he can and does exercise it in a wrong direction. I assume that man has this power both for good and for evil. If I did not, I should not be addressing you upon the question whether man is capable of progress in the arts, but upon the question whether he is capable of progress at all. And I should be trying to prove that he is not. As it is, the question I have to discuss is whether he has the power of exercising for good or evil his will upon the arts as upon other things; and hitherto I have been giving you certain facts in the history of the arts which seem to prove that he is not. They all amount to this--that man has not hitherto succeeded in exercising his will upon the arts; that he has not produced good art because he wished to produce it. We, for instance, wish to excel in the arts; we have far more power than the ancient Greeks or Egyptians; but we have not been able to apply that power to the arts. In them we are conscious of a strange impotence. We cannot build like our forefathers of the Middle Ages, we cannot make furniture like our great-grandfathers of the eighteenth century. Go into an old churchyard and look at the tombstones of the past and present. You will see that the lettering is always fine up to the first generation of the nineteenth century. In that generation there is a rapid decline; and since about 1830 there has been no decent lettering upon tombstones except what has been produced in the last ten years or so by the conscious effort of a few individual artists of great natural talent and high training. If I want good lettering on a tombstone I have to employ one of these artists and to pay him a high price for his talent and his training. But that is only one example of a universal decline in all the arts of use, a decline which happened roughly between the years 1800 and 1830. And the significant fact about it is that when it happened no one was aware of it. So far as I know, this artistic catastrophe, far the swiftest and most universal known to us in the whole course of history, was never even mentioned in contemporary literature. The poets, the lovers of beauty, did not speak of it. They talked about nature, not about art. There is not a hint of it in the letters of Shelley or Keats. There is just a hint of it in some sayings of Blake; but that is all. One would suppose that such a catastrophe would have filled the minds of all men who were not entirely occupied with the struggle for life, that all would have seen that a glory was passing away from the earth, and would have made some desperate struggle to preserve it. But, as I say, they saw nothing of it. They were not aware that a universal ugliness was taking the place of beauty in all things made by man; and therefore the new ugliness must have pleased them as much as the old beauty. So it appears once again that there is no accounting for tastes, and no test that we can apply to them. When science declines, men at least know that they have less power. They are more subject to pestilence when they forget medicine and sanitation; their machines become useless to them when they no longer know how to work them; there is anarchy when they lose their political goodwill. But when their taste decays they do not know that it has decayed. And with it decays their artistic capacity, so that, quite complacently, they lose the power of doing decently a thousand things that their fathers did excellently. But here suddenly I am brought to a stop by a new fact in human history. The arts have declined, but our complacency over their decline has ceased. The first man who disturbed it was Ruskin. It was he who saw the catastrophe that had happened. Suddenly he was aware of it; suddenly he escaped from the universal tyranny of the bad taste of his time. He was the first to deny that there was no accounting for tastes; the first to deny, indeed, that the ordinary man did know what he liked. And he was followed with more knowledge and practical power, in fact with more science, by William Morris. What both of these great men really said was that taste is not unaccountable; that the mass of men do not know what they like, that they do not apply their intellect and will to what they suppose to be their likes and dislikes, and that they could apply their intellect and will to these things if they chose. When we say that there is no accounting for tastes we imply that tastes are always real, that, whether good or bad, they happen to men without any exercise of their will. But Ruskin and Morris implied that we must exercise our will and our intelligence to discover what our tastes really are; that this discovery is not at all easy, but that, if we do not make it, we are at the mercy, not of our own real tastes, but of an unreal thing which is called the public taste, or of equally unreal reactions against it. We think that we like what we suppose other people to like, and these other people too think that they like what no one really likes. Or in mere blind reaction we think that we dislike what the mob likes. But in either case our likes and dislikes are not ours at all and, what is more, they are no one's. Taste in fact is bad because it is not any one's taste, because no one's will is exercised in it or upon it. When it is good, it is always real taste, that is to say some real person's taste. In the work of art the artist does what he really likes to do and expresses some real passion of his own, not some passion which he believes that he, as an artist, ought to express. Art, said Morris, is the expression of the workman's pleasure in his work. It cannot be real art unless it is a real pleasure. And so the public will not demand real art unless they too take a real pleasure in it. If they do not know what they really like, they will not demand of the artist what they really like or what he really likes. They will demand something tiresome and insincere, and by the tyranny of their demand will set him to produce it. That was what happened at the beginning of the nineteenth century in nearly all the arts and especially in the arts of use. It had happened before in different ages and countries, especially in painting, sculpture, architecture, and the arts of use as they were patronized by the vulgar rich, such as the court of Louis XV. But now it happened suddenly and universally to all arts. There were no longer vulgar rich only but also vulgar poor and vulgar middle-classes. Everywhere there spread a kind of aesthetic snobbery which obscured real tastes. Of this I will give one simple and homely example. The beautiful flowers of the cottage garden were no longer grown in the gardens of the well-to-do, because they were the flowers of the poor. Instead were grown lobelias, geraniums, and calceolarias, combined in a hideous mixture, not because any one thought them more beautiful, but because, since they were grown in green-houses, they implied the possession of green-houses and so of wealth. They did not, of course, even do that, since they could be bought very cheaply from nurserymen. They implied only the bad taste of snobbery which is the absence of all real taste. For it is physically impossible for any one to like such a combination of plants better than larkspurs and lilies and roses. What they did enjoy was not the flowers themselves but their association with gentility. But so strong was the contagion of this association that cottagers themselves began to throw away their beautiful cottage-garden flowers and to grow these plants, so detestable in combination. And to this day one can see often in cottage gardens pathetic imitations of a taste that never was real and which now is discredited among the rich, so that a border of lobelias, calceolarias, and geraniums has become a mark of social inferiority as it was once one of social superiority. But what it never was and never could be was an expression of a genuine liking. Now I owe the very fact that I am able to give this account of a simple perversion of taste to Ruskin and Morris. It was they who first made the world aware that its taste was perverted and that most of its art was therefore bad. It was they who filled us with the conviction of artistic sin, and who also in a manner entirely scientific tried to discover what was the nature of this sin and how it had come about. First Ruskin tentatively, and afterwards Morris systematically and out of his own vast artistic experience, connected this decay of the arts with certain social conditions. It was not merely that taste had decayed or that the arts had developed to a point beyond which there was nothing for them but decline. Morris insisted that there were causes for the decay of taste and the decline of the arts, causes as much subject to the will of man as the causes of any kind of social decay or iniquity. He insisted that a work of art is not an irrational mystery, not something that happens and may happen well or ill; but that all art is intimately connected with the whole of our social well-being. It is in fact an expression of what we value, and if we value noble things it will be noble, if we pretend to value base things it will be base. Whistler said that this was not so. He insisted that genius is born, not made, and that some peoples have artistic capacity, some have not. Now it is true that nations vary very much in their artistic capacity and in the strength of their desire to produce art. But even the nations which have little artistic capacity and little desire to produce art have in their more primitive state produced charming works of real art. Whistler gave the case of the Swiss as an excellent people with little capacity for art. But the old Swiss chalets are full of character and beauty, and there are churches in Switzerland which have all the beauty of the Middle Ages. The cuckoo clocks and other Swiss articles of commerce which Whistler despised are contemptible, not because they are Swiss, but because they are tourist trash produced by workmen who express no pleasure of their own in them for visitors who buy them only because they think they are characteristic of Switzerland. They are, in fact, not the expression of any genuine taste or liking whatever, like the tourist trash that is sold in the Rue de Rivoli. Probably the Swiss would never be capable of producing works of art like Chartres Cathedral or Don Giovanni, but they have in the past possessed a genuine and delightful art of their own like nearly every European nation in the Middle Ages. So, though genius is born, it is also made, and though nations differ in artistic capacity, they all have some artistic capacity so long as they know what they like and express only their own liking in their art, so long as they are not infected with artistic snobbism or commercialism. This we know now, and we have developed a new and remarkable power of seeing and enjoying all the genuine art of the past. This power is part of the historical sense which is itself modern. In the past, until the nineteenth century, very few people could see any beauty or meaning in any art of the past that did not resemble the art of their own time and country. The whole art of the Middle Ages, for instance, was thought to be merely barbarous until the Gothic revival, and so was the art of all the past so far as it was known, except the later art of Greece and Rome. For our ancestors' taste did indeed happen as art happened, and they could not escape from the taste which circumstances imposed on them; any art that was not according to that taste was for them as it were in an unknown tongue. But we have made this great progress in taste, at least, if not in the production of art, that we can understand nearly all artistic languages, and that what used to be called classical art has lost its old superstitious prestige for us. Not only can we enjoy the art of our own Middle Ages; but many of us can enjoy and understand just as well the great art of Egypt and China, and can see as clearly when that art is good or bad as if it were of our own time. We have, in fact, in the matter of artistic appreciation gained the freedom of all the ages, and this is a thing that has never, so far as we know, happened before in the history of the human mind. But still this freedom of all the ages has not enabled us to produce a great art of our own. There are some, indeed, who think that it has hindered us from doing so, that we are becoming merely universal connoisseurs who can criticize anything and produce nothing. We have the most wonderful museums that ever were, and the most wonderful power of enjoying all that is in them, but, with all our riches from the past, our present is barren; and it is barren because our rich men would rather pay great prices for past treasures than encourage artists to produce masterpieces now. If that is so, if that is all that is coming to us from our freedom of all the ages, there is certainly not progress in it. Better that we should produce and enjoy the humblest genuine art of our own than that we should continue in this learned impotence. But this power of enjoying the art of all ages, though it certainly has had some unfortunate results, must be good in itself. It is sympathy, and that is always better than indifference or antipathy. It is knowledge, and that is always better than ignorance. And we have to remember that it has existed only for a short time and is, therefore, not yet to be judged by its fruits. We are still gasping at all the artistic treasures of the past that have been revealed to us like a new world; and still they are being revealed to our new perceptions. Only in the last ten years, for instance, have we discovered that Chinese painting is the rival of Italian, or that the golden age of Chinese pottery was centuries before the time of that Chinese porcelain which we have hitherto admired so much. The knowledge, the delight, is still being gathered in with both hands. It is too soon to look for its effects upon the mind of Europe. But it is not the result of mere barren connoisseurship or scholasticism. Rather it is a new renaissance, a new effort of the human spirit, and an effort after what? An effort to exert the human will in the matter of art far more consciously than it has exerted ever before. It is to be noted that Morris himself, the man who first told us that we must exert our wills in art, was also himself eager in the discovery and enjoyment of all kinds of art in the past. He had his prejudices, the prejudices of a very wilful man and a working artist. 'What can I see in Rome,' he said, 'that I cannot see in Whitechapel?' But he enjoyed the art of most ages and countries more than he enjoyed his prejudices. He had the historical sense in art to a very high degree. He knew what the artist long dead meant by his work as if it were a poem in his own language, and from the art of the past which he loved he saw what was wrong with the art of our time. So did Ruskin and so do many now. Further we are not in the least content to admire the art of the past without producing any of our own. There is incessant restless experiment, incessant speculation about aesthetics, incessant effort to apply them to the actual production of art, in fact to exert the conscious human will upon art as it has never been exerted before. So, if one wished in a sentence to state the peculiarity of the last century in the history of art, one would say that it is the first age in which men have rebelled against the process of decadence in art, in which they have been completely conscious of that process and have tried to arrest it by a common effort of will. We cannot yet say that that effort has succeeded, but we cannot say either that it has failed. We may be discontented with the art of our own time, but at least we must allow that it is, with all its faults, extravagances, morbidities and blind experiments, utterly unlike the art of any former age of decadence known to us. There may be confusion and anarchy, but there is not mere pedantry and stagnation. Artists perhaps are over-conscious, always following some new prophet, but at least there is the conviction of sin in them, which is exactly what all the decadent artists of the past have lacked. The artistic decadence of the past which is most familiar to us is that of the later Graeco-Roman art. It was a long process which began at least as early as the age of Alexander and continued until the fall of the Western Roman Empire and afterwards, until, indeed, the decadent classical art was utterly supplanted by the art which we call Romanesque and Byzantine, and which seems to us now at its best to be as great as any art that has ever been. But a hundred years ago this Romanesque and Byzantine art was thought to be only a barbarous corruption of the classical art. For then the classical art even in its last feebleness still kept its immense and unique prestige. Shelley said that the effect of Christianity seemed to have been to destroy the last remains of pure taste, and he said this when he had been looking at the great masterpieces of Byzantine mosaic at Ravenna. Now we know with an utter certainty that he was wrong. He was himself a great artist, but to him there was only one rational and beautiful and civilized art, and that was the decadent Graeco-Roman art. To him works like the Apollo Belvedere were the masterpieces of the world, and all other art was good as it resembled them. He and in fact most people of his time were still overawed by the immense complacency of that art. They had not the historical sense at all. They had no notion of certain psychological facts about art which are now familiar to every educated man. They did not know that art cannot be good unless it expresses the character of the people who produce it; that characterless art, however accomplished, is uninteresting; that there may be more life and so more beauty in the idol of an African savage than in the Laocoon. This later Greek and Graeco-Roman art was doomed to inevitable decay because of its immense complacency. The artists had discovered, as they thought, the right way to produce works of art, and they went on producing them in that way without asking themselves whether they meant anything by them or whether they enjoyed them. They knew, in fact, what was the proper thing to do just as conventional people now know what is the proper thing to talk about at a tea party; and their art was as uninteresting as the conversation of such people. In both the talk and the art there is no expression of real values and so no expression of real will. The past lies heavy upon both. So people have talked, so artists have worked, and so evidently people must talk and artists must work for evermore. Now we have been threatened with just the same kind of artistic decadence, and we are still threatened with it; so that it would be very easy to argue that, when men reach a certain stage in that organization of their lives which we call civilization, they must inevitably fall into artistic decadence. The Roman Empire did attain to a high stage of such organization, and all the life went out of its art. We have reached perhaps a still higher or at least more elaborate stage of it, and the life has gone or is going out of our art. It has become even more mechanical than the Graeco-Roman. We, too, have lost the power of expressing ourselves, our real values, our real will, in it; and we had better submit to that impotence and not make a fuss about it. Indeed art really is an activity proper to a more childish stage of the human mind, and we shall do well not to waste our time and energy upon it. That is the only way in which we can be superior to the Graeco-Roman world in the matter of art. We can give it up altogether or rather put it all into museums as a curiosity of the past to be studied for historical and scientific purposes. But I have only to say that to prove that we will not be contented with such a counsel of despair. The Romans went on producing art, even if it was bad art, and we shall certainly go on producing art whether it is good or bad. We have produced an immense mass of bad art, worse perhaps than any that the Roman world produced. But there is this difference between us and the Romans, that we are not content with it. We have the conviction of artistic sin and they had not. Therefore we do not think that their example need make us despair. They were not exercising their will on their art. It was to them what a purely conventional morality is to a morally decadent people. It went from bad to worse, just as conventional morals do, when no man arises and says: 'This is wrong, although you think it right. I know what is right from my own sense of values, and I will do it in spite of you.' So far as we know, there were no rebels of that kind in the art of the Graeco-Roman world. But our world of art is full of such rebels and has been ever since the artistic debacle at the beginning of the nineteenth century. In fact the chief and the unique characteristic of the art of the last hundred years has been the constant succession of artistic rebels. All our greatest artists have been men who were determined to exercise their own wills in their art, whatever the mass of men might think of it. And what has always happened is that they have been first bitterly abused and then passionately praised. This, so far as I know, has never happened before. There have been rebel artists like Rembrandt, but only a few of them. Most great artists before the nineteenth century have been admired in their own time. But in the nineteenth century, and more and more towards the end of it, the great artists have had to conquer the world with their rebellion, they have had to exercise their own individual wills against the common convention. And it seems to us now the mark of the great artist so to exercise his individual will, so to rebel and conquer the world with his rebellion, even if he kills himself in the process. Think of Constable and even Turner, of our pre-Raphaelites, and above all of nearly all the great French artists, of Millet, of Manet, of Cezanne, Gauguin, of Rodin himself, who has conquered the world now, but only in his old age. Think of Beethoven, of Schubert, of Wagner, and of all the rebel musicians of to-day. But in the past the great artists, Michelangelo, Titian, even the great innovator Giorgione; Mozart, Bach, Handel; none of these were thought of as rebels. They had not to conquer the world against its will. They came into the world, and the world knew them. So, we may be sure, the decadent artists of the Graeco-Roman world were not rebels. There they were like Michelangelo and Raphael, if they were like them in nothing else. If they had been rebels we might not yawn at their works now. Now, clearly, this rebellion is not so good a thing as the harmony between the artist and his public which has prevailed in all great ages of art. But it is better than the harmony of dull and complacent convention which prevailed in the Graeco-Roman decadence. For it means that our artists are not content with such complacence, that they will not accept decadence as an inevitable process. And the fact that we do passionately admire them for their rebellion as soon as we understand what it means, that this rebellion seems to us a glorious and heroic thing, is a proof that we, the public, also are not content to sink into the Graeco-Roman complacency. We may stone our prophets at first, but like the Hebrews, we produce prophets as well as priests, that is to say academicians. And we treasure their works as the Hebrews treasured the books of the prophets. Art, in fact, is a human activity in which we try to exercise our wills. We are aware that it is threatened with decadence by the mere process of our civilization, that it is much more difficult for us to produce living art than it was for our forefathers of the Middle Ages. But still we are not content to produce dead art. Half unconsciously we are making the effort to exercise our wills upon our art, as upon our science, our morals, our politics, to avoid decadence in art as we try to avoid it in other human activities; and this effort is the great experiment, the peculiar feature, of the art of the last century. It is an effort not merely aesthetic but also intellectual. There is a great interest in aesthetics and a constant and growing effort to charge them with actual experience and to put them to some practical end. In the past they have been the most backward, the most futile and barren, kind of philosophy because men wrote about them who had never really experienced works of art and who saw no connexion between their philosophy and the production of works of art. They talked about the nature of the beautiful, as schoolmen talked about the nature of God. And they knew no more about the nature of the beautiful from their own experience of it than schoolmen knew about the nature of God. But now men are interested in the beautiful because they miss it so much in the present works of men and because they so passionately desire it; and their speculation has the aim of recovering it. So aesthetics, whatever some artists in their peculiar and pontifical narrowness may say, is of great importance now; they are part of the effort which the modern world is making to exercise its will in the production of works of art, and they are bound, if that effort is successful, to have more and more effect upon that production. But is that effort going to be successful? That is a question which no one can answer yet. But my object is to insist that in our age, because of its effort, an effort which has never been made so consciously and resolutely before, there is a possibility of a progress in art of the same nature as progress in other human activities. If we can escape from what has seemed to some men this inexorable process of decadence in art, we shall have accomplished one of the greatest achievements of the human will. We shall have redeemed art from the tyranny of mere fate. What we have to do now is to understand what it is that causes decadence in art, we have to apply a conscious science to the production of it. We have to see what are the social causes that produce excellence and decay in it. And we have made a great beginning in this. For we are all aware that art is not an isolated thing, that it does not merely happen, as Whistler said. We know that it is a symptom of something right or wrong with the whole mind of man and with the circumstances that affect that mind. We know at last that there is a connexion between the art of man and his intellect and his conscience. It was because William Morris saw that connexion that he, from being a pure artist, became a socialist and spoke at street corners. Such a change, such a waste and perversion as it seemed to many, would have been impossible in any former age. It was possible and inevitable, it was a natural process for Morris in the nineteenth century, because he was determined to exercise his will upon art, just as men in the past had exercised their will upon religion or politics; because he no longer believed that art happened as the weather happens and that the artist is a charming but irresponsible child swayed merely by the caprices of his own private subconsciousness. Was he right or wrong? I myself firmly believe that he was right. That if man has a will at all, if he is not a mere piece of matter moulded by circumstances, he has a will in art as in all other things. And, further, if he has a common will which can express itself in his other activities, in religion or politics, that common will must also be able to express itself in art. It has not hitherto done so consciously, because man in all periods of artistic success has been content to succeed without asking why he succeeded, and in all periods of artistic failure he has been content to fail without asking why he has failed. We have been for long living in a period of artistic failure, but we have asked, we are asking always more insistently, why we fail. And that is where our time differs from any former period of artistic decadence, why, I believe, it is not a period of decadence but one of experiment, and of experiment which will not be wasted, however much it may seem at the moment to fail. But if out of all this conscious effort and experiment we do arrest the process of decadence, if we do pass from failure to success, then we shall have accomplished a progress in art such as has never been accomplished before even in the greatest ages. For whereas men have never been able to learn from the experience of those ages, whereas the Greeks and the men of the thirteenth century have not taught men how to avoid decadence in art, we and our children will teach them how to avoid it. We shall then have given a security to art such as it has never enjoyed before; and we shall do that by applying science to it, by using the conscious intelligence upon it. We may fail, of course, but even so our effort will not have been in vain. And some future age in happier circumstances may profit by it, and achieve that progress, that application of science to art, which we are now attempting. Many people, especially artists, tell us that the attempt is a mere absurdity. But ignorance even about art need not be eternal. Ignorance is eternal only when it is despairing or contented. Twenty years ago many people said that men never would be able to fly, yet they are flying now because they were resolved to fly. So we are more and more resolved to have great art. Every year we feel the lack of it more and more. Every year more people exercise their wills more and more consciously in the effort to achieve it. This, I repeat, has never happened before in the history of the world. And the consequence is that our art, what real art we have, is unlike any that there has been in the world before. It is so strange and so rebellious that we ourselves are shocked and amazed by it. Much of it, no doubt, is merely strange and rebellious, as much of early Christianity was merely strange and rebellious and so provoked the resentment and persecution of self-respecting pagans. Every great effort of the human mind attracts those who merely desire their own salvation, and so it is with the artistic effort now. There are cubists and futurists and post-impressionists who are as silly as human beings can be, because they hope to attain to artistic salvation by rushing to extremes. They are religious egotists, in fact, and nothing can be more disagreeable than a religious egotist. But there were no doubt many of them among the early Christians. Yet Christianity was a great creative religious effort which came because life and truth had died out of the religions of the past, and men could not endure to live without life and truth in their religion. So now they cannot endure to live without life and truth in their art. They are determined to have an art which shall express all that they have themselves experienced of the beauty of the universe, which shall not merely utter platitudes of the past about that beauty. So far perhaps there is little but the effort at expression, an effort strange, contorted, self-conscious. You can say your worst about it and laugh at all its failures. Yet they are failures different in kind from the artistic failures of the past, for they are failures of the conscious will, not of mere complacency. And it is such failures in all human activities that prepare the way for successes. Let us remember then, always, that art is a human activity, not a fairy chance that happens to the mind of man now and again. And let us remember, too, that it does not consist merely of pictures or statues or of music performed in concert-rooms. It is, indeed, rather a quality of all things made by man, a quality that may be good or bad but which is always in them. That is one of the facts about art that was discovered in the nineteenth century, when men began to miss the excellence of art in all their works and to wish passionately that its excellence might return to them. And this discovery which was then made about art was of the greatest practical importance. For then men became aware that they could not have good pictures or architecture or sculpture unless the quality of art became good again in all their works. So much they learnt about the science of art. They began, or some of them did, to think about their furniture and cottages and pots and pans and spoons and forks, and even about their tombstones, as well as about what had been called their works of art. And in all these humbler things an advance, a conscious resolute wilful advance, has been made. We begin to see when and also why spoons and forks and pots and pans are good or bad. We are less at the mercy of chance or blind fashion in such things than our fathers were. We know our vulgarity and the naughtiness of our own hearts. The advance, the self-knowledge, is not general yet, but it grows more general every year and the conviction of sin spreads. No doubt, like all conviction of sin, it often produces unpleasant results. The consciously artistic person often has a more irritating house than his innocently philistine grandfather had. So, no doubt, many simple pagan people were much nicer than those early Christians who were out for their own salvation. But there was progress in Christianity and there was none in paganism. The title of this book is _Progress and History_, and it may justly be complained that the progress of which I have been talking is not historic, but a progress that has not yet happened and may never happen at all. But that I think is a defect of my particular branch of the subject. Progress in art, if progress is anything more than a natural process of growth to be followed inevitably by a natural process of decay, has never yet happened in art; but there is now an effort to make it happen, an effort to exercise the human will in art more completely and consciously than it has ever been exercised before. Therefore I could do nothing but attempt to describe that effort and to speculate upon its success. X PROGRESS IN SCIENCE F.S. MARVIN 'L'Esprit travaillant sur les données de l'expérience.' The French phrase, neater as usual than our own, may be taken as the starting-point in our discussion. We shall put aside such questions as what an experience is, or how much the mind itself supplies in each experience, or what, if anything, is the not-mind upon which the mind works. We must leave something for the chapter on philosophy; and the present chapter is primarily historical. Having defined what we mean by science, we are to consider at what stage in history the working of the mind on experience can be called scientific, in what great strides science has leapt forward since its definite formation, and in what ways this growth of science has affected general progress, both by its action on the individual and on the welfare and unity of mankind. Our French motto must be qualified in order to give us precision in our definition and a starting-point in history for science in the strict sense. In a general sense the action of the mind upon the given in experience has been going on from the beginning of animal life. But science, strictly so-called, does not appear till men have been civilized and settled in large communities for a considerable time. We cannot ascribe 'science' to the isolated savage gnawing bones in his cave, though the germs are there, in every observation that he makes of the world around him and every word that he utters to his mates. But we may begin to speak of science when we reach those large and ordered societies which are found in the great river-basins and sedentary civilizations of East and West, especially in Egypt and Chaldea. When we turn to the quality of the thing itself, we note in the first place that while science may be said to begin with mere description, it implies from the first a certain degree of order and accuracy, and this order and accuracy increase steadily as science advances. It is thus a type of progress, for it is a constant growth in the fullness, accuracy and simplification of our experience. From the dawn of science, therefore, man must have acquired standards and instruments of measurement and means of handing on his observations to others. Thus writing must have been invented. But in the second place, there is always involved in this orderly description, so far as it is scientific, the element of prediction. The particular description is not scientific. 'I saw a bird fly' is not a scientific description, however accurate; but 'The bird flies by stretching out its wings' is. It contains that causal connexion or element of generality which enables us to predict. Before entering on a historical sketch of the most perfect example of human progress, it is of the first importance to realize its social foundation. This is the key-note, and it connects science throughout with the other aspects of our subject. Knowledge depends upon the free intercourse of mind with mind, and man advances with the increase and better direction of his knowledge. But when we consider the implications of any generalization which we can call 'a law of nature' the social co-operation involved becomes still more apparent. Geometry and astronomy--the measurement of the earth and the measurement of the heavens--dispute the honour of the first place in the historical order. Both, of course, involved the still more fundamental conception of number and the acceptance of some unit for measurement. Now in each case and at every step a long previous elaboration is implied of intellectual conventions and agreements--conscious and unconscious--between many minds stretching back to the beginnings of conscious life: the simplest element of thought involves the co-operation of individual minds in a common product. Language is such a common product of social life and it prepares the ground for science. But science, as the exact formulation of general truths, attains a higher degree of social value, because it rises above the idioms of person or race and is universally acceptable in form and essence. Such is the intrinsic nature of the process, and the historical circumstances of its beginnings make it clear. It was the quick mind of the Greek which acted as the spark to fire the trains of thought and observation which had been accumulating for ages through the agency of the priests in Egypt and Babylonia. The Greeks lived and travelled between the two centres, and their earliest sages and philosophers were men of the most varied intercourse and occupation. Their genius was fed by a wide sympathy and an all-embracing curiosity. No other people could have demonstrated so well the social nature of science from its inception, and they were planting in a soil well prepared. In Egypt conspicuously and in Chaldea also to a less extent there had been a social order which before the convulsions of the last millennium B.C. had lasted substantially unchanged for scores of centuries. This order was based upon a religious discipline which connected the sovereigns on earth with the divine power ruling men from the sky. Hence the supreme importance of the priesthood and their study of the movements of the heavenly bodies. The calendar, which they were the first to frame, was thus not only or even primarily a work of practical utility but of religious meaning and obligation. The priests had to fix in advance the feast days of gods and kings by astronomical prediction. Their standards and their means of measurement were rough approximations. Thus the 360 degrees into which the Babylonians taught us to divide the circle are thought to have been the nearest round number to the days of the year. The same men were also capable of the more accurate discovery that the side of a hexagon inscribed in a circle was equal to the radius and gave us our division of sixty minutes and sixty seconds with all its advantages for calculation. In Egypt, if the surveyors were unaware of the true relation between a triangle and the rectangle on the same base, they had yet established the carpenter's rule of 3, 4 and 5 for the sides of a right-angled triangle. How much the Greeks drew from the ancient priesthoods we shall never know, nor how far the priests had advanced in those theories of general relations which we call scientific. But one or two general conclusions as to this initial stage of scientific preparation may well be drawn. One is that a certain degree of settlement and civilization was necessary for the birth of science. This we find in these great theocracies, where sufficient wealth enabled a class of leisured and honoured men to devote themselves to joint labour in observing nature and recording their observations. Another point is clear, namely, that the results of these early observations, crude as they were, contributed powerfully to give stability to the societies in which they arose. The younger Pliny points out later the calming effect of Greek astronomy on the minds of the Eastern peoples, and we are bound to carry back the same idea into the ancient settled communities where astronomy began and where so remarkable an order prevailed for so long during its preparation. But however great the value we allow to the observations of the priests, it is to the Ionian Greeks that we owe the definite foundation of science in the proper sense; it was they who gave the raw material the needed accuracy and generality of application, A comparison of the societies in the nearer East to which we have referred, with the history of China affords the strongest presumption of this. In the later millenniums B.C. the Chinese were in many points ahead of the Babylonians and Egyptians. They had made earlier predictions of eclipses and more accurate observations of the distance of the sun from the zenith at various places. They had, too, seen the advantages of a decimal system both in weights and measures and in the calculations of time. But no Greek genius came to build the house with the bricks that they had fashioned, and in spite of the achievements of the Chinese they remained until our own day the type in the world of a settled and contented, although unprogressive, conservatism. Science then among its other qualities contains a force of social movement, and our age of rapid transformation has begun to do fuller justice to the work of the Greeks, the greatest source of intellectual life and change in the world. We are now fully conscious of the defects in their methods, the guesses which pass for observations, the metaphysical notions which often take the place of experimental results.[80] But having witnessed the latest strides in the unification of science on mathematical lines, we are more and more inclined to prize the geometry and astronomy of the Greeks, who gave us the first constructions on which the modern mechanical theories of the universe are based. We shall quote from them here only sufficient illustrations to explain and justify this statement. The first shall be what is called Euclidean geometry, but which is in the main the work of the Pythagorean school of thinkers and social reformers who flourished from the seventh to the fifth centuries B.C. This formed the greater part of the geometrical truth known to mankind until Descartes and the mathematicians recommenced the work in the seventeenth century. The second greatest contribution of the Greeks was the statics and the conics of which Archimedes was the chief creator in the third century B.C. In his work he gave the first sketch of an infinitesimal calculus and in his own way performed an integration. The third invaluable construction was the trigonometry by which Hipparchus for the first time made a scientific astronomy possible. The fourth, the optics of Ptolemy based on much true observation and containing an approximation to the general law. These are a few outstanding landmarks, peaks in the highlands of Greek science, and nothing has been said of their zoology or medicine. In all these cases it will be seen that the advance consisted in bringing varying instances under the same rule, in seeing unity in difference, in discovering the true link which held together the various elements in the complex of phenomena. That the Greek mind was apt in doing this is cognate to their idealizing turn in art. In their statues they show us the universal elements in human beauty; in their science, the true relations that are common to all triangles and all cones. Ptolemy's work in optics is a good example of the scientific mind at work.[81] The problem is the general relation which holds between the angles of incidence and of refraction when a ray passes from air into water or from air into glass. He groups a series of the angles with a close approximation to the truth, but just misses the perception which would have turned his excellent raw material into the finished product of science. His brick does not quite fit its place in the building. His formula _i_ (the angle of incidence) = _nr_ (the angle of refraction) only fits the case of very small angles for which the sine is negligible, though it had the deceptive advantage of including reflexion as one case of refraction. He did not pursue the argument and make his form completely general. Sin _i_ = _n_ sin _r_ escaped him, though he had all the trigonometry of Hipparchus behind him, and it was left for Snell and Descartes to take the simple but crucial step at the beginning of the seventeenth century. The case is interesting for more than one reason. It shows us what is a general form, or law of nature in mathematical shape, and it also illustrates the progress of science as it advances from the most abstract conceptions of number and geometry, to more concrete phenomena such as physics. The formula for refraction which Ptolemy helped to shape, is geometrical in form. With him, as with the discoverer of the right angle in a semicircle, the mind was working to find a general ideal statement under which all similar occurrences might be grouped. Observation, the collection of similar instances, measurement, are all involved, and the general statement, law or form, when arrived at, is found to link up other general truths and is then used as a starting-point in dealing with similar cases in future. Progress in science consists in extending this mental process to an ever-increasing area of human experience. We shall see, as we go on, how in the concrete sciences the growing complexity and change of detail make such generalizations more and more difficult. The laws of pure geometry seem to have more inherent necessity and the observations on which they were originally founded have passed into the very texture of our minds. But the work of building up, or, perhaps better, of organizing our experience remains fundamentally the same. Man is throughout both perceiving and making that structure of truth which is the framework of progress. Ptolemy's work brings us to the edge of the great break which occurred in the growth of science between the Greek and the modern world. In the interval, the period known as the Middle Ages, the leading minds in the leading section of the human race were engaged in another part of the great task of human improvement. For them the most incumbent task was that of developing the spiritual consciousness of men for which the Catholic Church provided an incomparable organization. But the interval was not entirely blank on the scientific side. Our system of arithmetical notation, including that invaluable item the cipher, took shape during the Middle Ages at the hands of the Arabs, who appear to have derived it in the main from India. Its value to science is an excellent object-lesson on the importance of the details of form. Had the Greeks possessed it, who can say how far they might have gone in their applications of mathematics? Yet in spite of this drawback the most permanent contribution of the Greeks to science was in the very sphere of exact measurement where they would have received the most assistance from a better system of calculation had they possessed it. They founded and largely constructed both plane and spherical geometry on the lines which best suit our practical intelligence. They gave mankind the framework of astronomy by determining the relative positions of the heavenly bodies, and they perceived and correctly stated the elementary principles of equilibrium. At all these points the immortal group of men who adopted the Copernican theory at the Renascence, began again where the Greeks had left off. But modern science starts with two capital improvements on the work of the Greeks. Measurement there had been from the first, and the effort to find the constant thing in the variable flux; and from the earliest days of the Ionian sages the scientific mind had been endeavouring to frame the simplest general hypothesis or form which would contain all the facts. But the moderns advanced decisively, in method, by experimenting and verifying their hypotheses, and in subject-matter, by applying their method to phenomena of movement, which may theoretically include all facts biological as well as physical. Galileo, the greatest founder of modern science, perfectly exemplifies both these new departures. It is, perhaps, the most instructive and encouraging thing in the whole annals of progress to note how the men of the Renascence were able to pick up the threads of the Greeks and continue their work. The texture held good. Leonardo da Vinci, whose birth coincides with the invention of the printing-press, is the most perfect reproduction in modern times of the early Greek sophos, the man of universal interests and capacity. He gave careful and admiring study to Archimedes, the greatest pure man of science among the Greeks, the one man among them whose works, including even his letters, have come down to us practically complete. A little later, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, Copernicus gained from the Pythagoreans the crude notion of the earth's movement round a great central fire, and from it he elaborated the theory which was to revolutionize thought. Another half-century later the works of Archimedes were translated into Latin and for the first time printed. They thus became well known before the time of Galileo, who also carefully studied them. At the beginning of the seventeenth century Galileo made the capital discoveries which established both the Copernican theory and the science of dynamics. Galileo's death in 1642 coincides with the birth of Sir Isaac Newton. Such is the sequence of the most influential names at the turning-point of modern thought. Galileo's work, his experiments with falling bodies and the revelations of his telescope, carried the strategic lines of Greek science across the frontiers of a New World, and Newton laid down the lines of permanent occupation and organized the conquest. Organization, the formation of a network of lines connected as a whole, and giving access to different parts of the world of experience, is perhaps the best image of the growth of science in the mind of mankind. It will be seen that it does not imply any exhaustion of the field, nor any identification of all knowledge with exact or systematic knowledge. The process is rather one of gradual penetration, the linking up and extension of the area of knowledge by well-defined and connected methods of thought. No all-embracing plan thought out beforehand by the first founders of science, or any of their successors, can be applied systematically to the whole range of our experience. It has not been so in the past; still less does it seem possible in the future. For the most part the discoverer works on steadily in his own plot, occupying the nearest places first, and observing here and there that one of his lines runs into some one else's. Every now and then a greater and more comprehensive mind appears, able to treat several systems as one whole, to survey a larger area and extend that empire of the mind which, as Bacon tells us, is nobler than any other. Of such conquerors Newton was the greatest we have yet known, because he brought together into one system more and further-reaching lines of communication than any one else. He unified the forms of measurement which had previously been treated as the separate subjects of geometry, astronomy, and the newly-born science of dynamics. Celestial mechanics embraces all three, and is a fresh and decisive proof of the commanding influence of the heavenly bodies on human life and thought. Not by a horoscope, but by continued and systematic thought, humanity was unravelling its nature and destiny in the stars as well as in itself. These are the two approaches to perfect knowledge which are converging more and more closely in our own time. Newton's work was the longest step yet taken on the mechanical side, and we must complete our notice of it by the briefest possible reference to the later workers on the same line, before turning to the sciences of life which began their more systematic evolution with the discovery of Harvey, a contemporary of Newton. The seventeenth century, with Descartes' application of algebra to geometry, and Newton's and Leibnitz's invention of the differential and integral calculus, improved our methods of calculation to such a point that summary methods of vastly greater comprehensiveness and elasticity can be applied to any problem of which the elements can be measured. The mere improvement in the method of describing the same things (cf. e.g. a geometrical problem as written down by Archimedes with any modern treatise) was in itself a revolution. But the new calculus went much farther. It enabled us to represent, in symbols which may be dealt with arithmetically, any form of regular movement. As movement is universal, and the most obvious external manifestation of life itself, the hopes of a mathematical treatment of all phenomena are indefinitely enlarged, for all fresh laws or forms might conceivably be expressed as differential equations. So to the vision of a Poincaré the human power of prediction appears to have no assignable theoretical limit. The seventeenth century which witnessed this momentous extension of mathematical methods, also contains the cognate foundation of scientific physics. Accurate measurement began to be applied to the phenomena of light and heat, the expansion of gases, the various changes in the forms of matter apart from life. The eighteenth century which continued this work, is also and most notably marked by the establishment of a scientific chemistry. In this again we see a further extension of accurate measurement: another order of things different in quality began to be treated by a quantitative analysis. Lavoisier's is the greatest name. He gave a clear and logical classification of the chemical elements then known, which served as useful a purpose in that science, as classificatory systems in botany and zoology have done in those cases. But the crucial step which established chemistry, a step also due to Lavoisier, was making the test of weight decisive. 'The balance was the _ultima ratio_ of his laboratory.' His first principle was that the total weight of all the products of a chemical process must be exactly equal to the total weight of the substances used. From this, and rightly disregarding the supposed weight of heat, he could proceed to the discovery of the accurate proportions of the elements in all the compounds he was able to analyse. Since then the process of mathematical synthesis in science has been carried many stages further. The exponents of this aspect of scientific progress, of whom we may take the late M. Henri Poincaré as the leading representative in our generation, are perfectly justified in treating this gradual mathematical unification of knowledge with pride and confidence. They have solid achievement on their side. It is through science of this kind that the idea of universal order has gained its sway in man's mind. The occasional attacks on scientific method, the talk one sometimes hears of 'breaking the fetters of Cartesian mechanics', seem to suggest that the great structure which Galileo, Newton, and Descartes founded is comparable to the false Aristotelianism which they destroyed. The suggestion is absurd: its chief excuse is the desire to defend the autonomy of the sciences of life, about which we have a word to say later on. But we must first complete our brief mention of the greatest stages on the mechanical side, of which a full and vivid account may be found in such a book as M. Poincaré's _Science et Hypothèse_. Early in the nineteenth century a trio of discoverers, a Frenchman, a German, and an Englishman, established the theory of the conservation of energy. To the labours of Sadi Carnot, Mayer, and Joule is due our knowledge of the fact that heat which, as a supposed entity, had disturbed the physics and chemistry of the earlier centuries, was itself another form of mechanical energy and could be measured like the rest. Later in the century another capital step in synthesis was taken by the foundation of astrophysics, which rests on the identity of the physics and chemistry of the heavenly bodies with those of the earth. The known universe thus becomes still more one. Later researches again, especially those of Maxwell, tend to the identification of light and heat with electricity, and in the last stage matter as a whole seems to be swallowed up in motion. It is found that similar equations will express all kinds of motion; that all are really various forms of the motion of something which the mind postulates as the thing in motion; we have in each case to deal with wave-movements of different length. The broad change, therefore, which has taken place since the mechanics of Newton is the advance from the consideration of masses to that of molecules of smaller and smaller size, and the truth of the former is not thereby invalidated. Newton, Descartes, Fresnel, Carnot, Joule, Mayer, Faraday, Helmholtz, Maxwell appear as one great succession of unifiers. All have been engaged in the same work of consolidating thought at the same time that they extended it. Their conceptions of force, mass, matter, ether, atom, molecule have provisional validity as the imagined objective substratum of our experience, and the fact that we analyse these conceptions still further and sometimes discard them, does not in any way invalidate the law or general form in which they have enabled us to sum up our experience and predict the future. But now we turn to the other side. In spite of the continued progress noted on the mechanical side, it is true that the predominant scientific interest changed in the nineteenth century from mechanics to biology, from matter to life, from Newton to Darwin. Darwin was born in 1809, the year in which Lamarck, who invented the term biology, published his _Philosophie Zoologique_. The _Origin of Species_ appeared in 1858 after the conservation of energy had been established, and the range and influence of evolutionary biology have grown ever since. Before anything can be said of the conclusions in this branch of science one preliminary remark has to be made. From the philosophical point of view the science of life includes all other, for man is a living animal, and science is the work of his co-operating mind, one of the functions of his living activity. What this involves on the philosophical side does not concern us here, but it is necessary to indicate here the nature of the contact between the two great divisions of science, the mechanical and the biological, considered purely as sciences. For, though we know that our consciousness as a function of life must in some form come into the science of life, and is, in a sense, above it all, we are yet able to draw conclusions, apparently of infinite scope, about the behaviour of all living things around us and including ourselves, just as we do about a stone or a star. And we are interested in this chapter in seeing how this drawing of general conclusions keeps growing with regard to the phenomena of life, just as it has grown with regard to all other phenomena, and we have to consider what sort of difference there is between the one class of generalizations and the other. For those of us who are content to rest their conclusions on the positively known, who, while not setting any limits to the possible extension of knowledge, are not prepared to dogmatize about it, it is still necessary to draw a line. A dualism remains, name and fact alike abhorrent to the completely logical philosophic mind. On the one hand the ordinary laws of physical science are constantly extending their sphere; on the other, the fact of life still remains unexplained by them, and becomes in itself more and more marvellous as we investigate it. The general position remains much as Johannes Müller expressed it about the middle of the last century, himself sometimes described as the central figure in the history of modern physiology. 'Though there appears to be something in the phenomena of living beings which cannot be explained by ordinary mechanical, physical, or chemical laws, much may be so explained, and we may without fear push these explanations as far as we can, so long as we keep to the solid ground of observation and experiment.' Since this was written the double process has gone on apace. The chemistry and physics of living matter are being sketched, and biologists are more and more inclined to study the mechanical expression of the facts of life. Mr. Bateson, for instance, tells us that the greatest advance that we can foresee will be made 'when it is possible to connect the geometrical phenomena of development with the chemical'. The process of applying physical laws to life follows, it would seem, the reverse order of their original development. First the chemistry of organic matter was investigated, then the physical attraction of their molecules, and now their geometry is in question. So, says Professor Bateson, the 'geometrical symmetry of living things is the key to a knowledge of their regularity and the forces which cause it. In the symmetry of the dividing cell the basis of that resemblance which we call Heredity is contained'. But such work as this is still largely speculative and in the future. It does not solve the secret of life. It does not affect the fact of consciousness which we are free to conceive, if we will, as the other side of what we call matter, evolving with it from the most rudimentary forms into the highest known form in man, or still further into some super-personal or universal form. This, however, is philosophy or metaphysics. We are here concerned with the progress of science, in one of its two great departments, i.e. knowledge about life and all its known manifestations, which from Aristotle onwards have been subjected to a scrutiny similar to that which has been given to the physical facts of the universe and with results in many points similar also. But the facts, although superficially more familiar, are infinitely more complicated, and the scrutiny has only commenced in earnest some hundred years ago. Considering the short space for this concentrated and systematic study, the results are at least as wonderful as those achieved by the physicists. Two or three points of suggestive analogy between the courses of the two great branches of science may here be mentioned. We will put first the fundamental question on which, as we have seen, no final answer has yet been reached: What is life, and is there any evidence of life arising from the non-living? Now this baffling and probably unanswerable question--unanswerable, that is, in terms which go beyond the physical concomitants of life--has played the part in biology which the alchemists' quest played in chemistry. It led by the way to a host of positive discoveries. Aristotle, the father of biology, believed in spontaneous generation. He was puzzled by the case of parasites, especially in putrefying matter. Even Harvey, who made the first great definite discovery about the mechanism of the body, agreed with Aristotle in this error. It was left for the minute and careful inquirers of the nineteenth century to dispose of the myth. It was only after centuries of inquiry that the truth was established that life, as we know it, only arises from life. But the whole course of the inquiry had illuminated the nature of life and had brought together facts as to living things of all kinds, plants and animals, great and small, which show superficially the widest difference. Illumination by unification is here the note, as clearly as in the mathematical-physical sciences. All living things are found to be built up from cells and each cell to be an organism, a being, that is, with certain qualities belonging to it as a whole, which cannot be predicated of any collection of parts not an organism. The cell is such an organism, just as the animal is an organism, and among its qualities as an organism is the power of growth by assimilating material different from itself. Yet, in spite of this assimilation and constant change, it grows and decays as one whole and reproduces its like. Another point of analogy between the animate and the inanimate sphere is that the process of study in both has been from the larger to the smaller elements. The microscope has played at least as decisive a part as the telescope, and it dates from about the same time, at the beginning of the seventeenth century. Since then it has penetrated farther and farther into the infinitesimal elements of life and matter, and in each case there seems to be no assignable limit to our analysis. The cell is broken up into physiological units to which almost every investigator gives a new name. We are now confronted by the fascinating theory of Arrhenius of an infinite universe filled with vital spores, wafted about by radio-activity, and beginning their upward course of evolution wherever they find a kindly soil on which to rest. To such a vision the hopes and fears of mortal existence, catastrophes of nature or of society, even the decay of man, seem transient and trivial, and the infinities embrace. A third point, perhaps the most important in the comparison, is the way by which the order of science has entered into our notions of life, through a great theory, the theory of evolution or the doctrine of descent. In this we find a solid basis for the co-ordination of facts: it was the rise of this theory in the hands of one thinker of unconquerable patience and love of truth which has put the study of biology in the pre-eminent position which it now holds. But it is necessary to consider the evolution theory as something both older and wider than Darwin's presentation of it. Darwin's work was to suggest a _vera causa_ for a process which earlier philosophers had imagined almost from the beginning of abstract thought. He observed and collected a multitude of facts which made his explanations of the change of species--within their limits--as convincing as they are plausible. But the idea that species change, by slow and regular steps, was an old one, and his particular explanations, natural and sexual selection, are seen on further reflection to have only a limited scope. This is no place, of course, to discuss the details of the greatest and most vexed question in the whole science of life. But it belongs to our argument to consider it from one or two general points of view. Its analogies with, and its differences from, the great generalizations of mathematical physics, are both highly instructive. The first crude hypothesis of the gradual evolution of various vegetable and animal forms from one another may be found in the earliest Greek thinkers, just as Pythagoras and Aristarchus anticipated the Copernican theory. Aristotle gave the idea a philosophic statement which only the fuller knowledge of our own time enables us to appreciate. He traced the gradual progression in nature from the inorganic to the organic, and among living things from the simpler to the higher forms. But his knowledge of the facts was insufficient: the Greeks had no microscope, and the dissecting knife was forbidden on the human subject. Then, as these things were gradually added to science from the seventeenth century onwards, and the record of the rocks gave the confirmation of palaeontology, the whole realm of living nature was gradually unfolded before us, every form connected both in function and in history with every other, every organ fulfilling a necessary part, either now or in the past, and growing and changing to gain a more perfect accord with its environment. Such is the supreme conception which now dominates biological science much as the Newtonian theory has dominated physics for two hundred years; and it is idle to debate whether this new idea is different in kind or only in degree from the great law of physics. It is a general notion or law which brings together and explains myriads of hitherto unrelated particulars; it has been established by observation and experiment working on a previous hypothesis; it involves measurement, as all accurate observation must, and it gives us an increasing power of prediction. So far, therefore, we must class it with the great mathematical laws and dissent from M. Bergson. But seeing that the multitudinous facts far surpass our powers of complete colligation, that much in the vital process is still obscure, that we are conscious in ourselves of a power of shaping circumstances which we are inclined in various degrees to attribute to other living things, so far we recognize a profound difference between the laws of life and the laws of physics, and pay our respects to M. Bergson and his allies of the neo-vitalist school. Not for the first time in history we have to seek the truth in the reconciliation, or at least the cohabitation, of apparent contradictories. To us who are concerned in tracing the progress of mankind as a whole, and constantly find the roots of progress in the growth of the social spirit, the development, that is, of unity of spirit and of action on a wider and deeper scale, there is one aspect of biological truth, as the evolutionists have lately revealed it, which is of special interest. The living thing is an organism of which the characteristic is the constant effort to preserve its unity. This is in fact the definition of an organism. It only dies or suffers diminution in order to reproduce itself, and the new creature repeats by some sort of organic memory the same preservative acts that its parents did. We recognize life by these manifestations. A merely material, non-living thing, such as a crystal, cannot thus make good its loss, nor can it assimilate unlike substance and make it a part of itself. But these things are of the nature of life. Now mankind, as a whole, has, if our argument is correct, this characteristic of an organism: it is bound together by more than mechanical or accidental links. It is _one_ by the nature of its being, and the study of mankind, the highest branch of the science of life, rests, or should rest, upon the basis of those common functions by which humanity is held together and distinguished from the rest of the animate world. Just as in passing from the mechanical sciences to that of life, we noticed that the general laws of the lower sphere still held good, but that new factors not analysable into those of the former had to be reckoned with, so in passing from the animate realm, as a whole, to man its highest member, we find that, while animal, and subject to the general laws of animality, he adds features which distinguish him as another order and cannot be found elsewhere. His unity as an organism has a progressive quality possessed by no other species. Step by step his mind advances into the recesses of time and space, and makes the farthest objects that his mind can reach a part of his being. His unity of organization, of which the humblest animalcule is a simple type, goes far beyond the preservation or even the improvement of his species: it touches the infinite though it cannot contain it. To trace this widening process is the true key to progress, the _idée-mère_ of history. For while man's evolution has its practical side, like that of other species,--the needs of nutrition, of reproduction, of adapting himself to his environment,--with man this is the basis and not the end. The end is, first the organization of himself as a world-being, conscious of his unity, and then the illimitable conquest of truth and goodness as far as his ever-growing powers extend. Man's reason is thus, as philosophers have always taught, his special characteristic, and takes the place for him, on a higher plane, of the law of organic growth common to all living things. In this we join hands, across two thousand years, with Aristotle: he would have understood us and used almost identical language. But the content of the words as we use them and their applications are immeasurably greater. The content is the mass of knowledge which man's reason has accumulated and partly put in order since Aristotle taught. It is now so great that thoroughly to master a single branch is arduous labour for a lifetime of concentrated toil, and at the end of it new discoveries will crowd upon the worker and he will die with all his earlier notions crying for revision. No case so patent, so conclusive, of the reality of human unity and the paramount need of organization. The individual here can only thrive and only be of service as a small member of a great whole, one atom in a planet, one cell in a body. The demand which Comte raised more than fifty years ago for another class of specialists, the specialists in generalities, is now being taken up by men of science themselves. But the field has now so much extended and is so much fuller in every part, that it would seem that nothing less than a committee of Aristotles could survey the whole. And even this is but one aspect of the matter. Just as the genesis of science was in the daily needs of men--the cultivators whose fields must be re-measured after the flooding, the priests who had to fix the right hour for sacrifice--so all through its history science has grown and in the future will grow still more by following the suggestions of practice. It gathers strength by contact with the world and life, and it should use its strength in making the world more fit to live in. Thus our committee of scientific philosophers needs to have constantly in touch with it not one but many boards of scientific practitioners. The past which has given us this most wonderful of all the fruits of time, does not satisfy us equally as to the use that has been made of it. Our crowded slums do not proclaim the glory of Watt and Stephenson as the heavens remind us of Kepler and Newton. Selfishness has grown fat on ill-paid labour, and jealous nations have sharpened their weapons with every device that science can suggest. But a sober judgement, as well as the clearest evidence of history, dictates a more hopeful conclusion. Industry, the twin brother of science, has vastly increased our wealth, our comfort, and our capacity for enjoyment. Medicine, the most human of her children, has lengthened our lives, fortified our bodies, and alleviated our suffering. Every chapter in this volume gives some evidence of the beneficent power of science. For religion, government, morality, even art, are all profoundly influenced by the knowledge that man has acquired of the world around him and his practical conclusions from it. These do not, with the possible exception of art, contradict the thesis of a general improvement of mankind, and science must therefore claim a share--it would seem the decisive share--in the result. We speak, of course, of science in the sense which has been developed in this essay, of the bright well-ordered centre to our knowledge which is always spreading and bringing more of the surrounding fringe, which is also spreading, into the well-defined area. In this sense religion, morality and government have all within historic times come within the range of clear and well-ordered thought: and mankind standing thus within the light, stands more firmly and with better hope. He sees the dark spots and the weaknesses. He knows the remedies, though his will is often unequal to applying them. And even with this revelation of weakness and ignorance, he is on the whole happier and readier to grapple with his fate. If this appears a fair diagnosis of the Western mind in the midst of its greatest external crisis, the reason for this amazing firmness of mind and stability of society must be sought in the structure which science and industry combined have built around us. The savage, untutored in astronomy, may think that an eclipse betokens the end of the world. Science convinces him that it will pass. Just so the modern world trained to an order of thought and of society which rests on world-wide activities elaborated through centuries of common effort, awaits the issue of our darkened present calmly and unmoved. The things of the mind on which all nations have co-operated in the past will re-assert their sway. Fundamentally this is a triumph for the scientific spirit, the order which man has now succeeded in establishing between himself and his surroundings. The country is demanding--and rightly--a stronger bias in our educational system for teaching of a scientific kind; but teachers and professors are not unnaturally perplexed. They see the immeasurable scope of the new knowledge; they know the labour, often ineffective, that has been expended in teaching the rudiments of the old 'humanities'. And now a task is propounded to them before which the old one with all its faults seems definite, manageable and formative of character. The classical world which has been the staple of our education for 400 years is a finished thing and we can compass it in thought. It lives indeed, but unconsciously, in our lives, as we go about our business. This new world into which our youth has now to enter, rests also on the past, but it is still more present; it grows all round us faster than we can keep pace with its earlier stages. How then can such a thing be used as an instrument of education where above all something is needed of clear and definite purpose, stimulating in itself and tending to mental growth and activity in after life? We could not, even if we would, offer any satisfactory answer here to one of the most troubled questions of the day. Decades of experiments will be needed before even a tolerable solution can be reached. But the argument pursued in this and other essays may suggest a line of approach. This must lie in a reconciliation between science and history, or rather in the recognition that science rightly understood is the key to history, and that the history best worth study is the record of man's collective thought in face of the infinite complexities, the barriers and byways, the lights and shadows of life and nature. From the study of man's approach to knowledge and unity in history each new-coming student may shape his own. He sees a unity of thought not wholly unattainable, a foundation laid beneath the storms of time. To a mind thus trained should come an eagerness to carry on the conquests of the past and to apply the lessons gained to the amelioration of the present. This we may hope from the well-disposed. But for all, the contemplation of a universe where man's mind has worked for ages in unravelling its secrets and describing its wonders, must bring a sense of reverence as well as trust. It is no dry category of abstract truths to which we turn and would have others turn, but a world as bright and splendid as the rainbow to the savage or the forest to the poet or the heavens to the lonely watcher on the Babylonian plain. The glories and the depths remain, deeper and more glorious, with all the added marvels of man's exploring thought. The seeing eye which a true education will one day give us, may read man's history in the world we live in, and read the world with the full illumination of a united human vision--the eyes of us all. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE Alcan, _De la méthode dans les Sciences_. Mach, _History of Mechanics_, Kegan Paul. Thomson, _Science of Life_, Blackie. Thomson, _Science in the Nineteenth Century_, Chambers. _New Calendar of Great Men_, Macmillan. _The Darwin Centenary Volume._ Bergson, _Creative Evolution_. FOOTNOTES: [80] See Lewes, 'Aristotle, a chapter in the History of Science'. [81] H. Bouasse, _La Méthode dans les Sciences_, Alcan. XI PROGRESS IN PHILOSOPHY J.A. SMITH To contend that there has been progress in Philosophy may seem but a desperate endeavour. For the reproach against it of unprogressiveness is of long standing: where other forms of human knowledge have undoubtedly advanced, Philosophy, in modern times at any rate, has (so it is said) remained stationary, propounding its outworn problems, its vain and empty solutions. Because of this failure it has by common consent been deposed from its once proud position at the head of the sciences and obliged to confess, in the words of the Trojan queen: modo maxima rerum Nunc trahor exul inops. The charge of unprogressiveness is not made against it by its foes alone; the truth of it is admitted by some of its best friends. If Voltaire exclaims 'O métaphysique, métaphysique, nous sommes aussi avancés qu'aux temps des Druides', Kant sadly admits the fact, sets himself to diagnose its cause, and if possible to discover or devise a remedy. Yet we must remember that it was philosophers who first descried those currents in the world of events which the non-philosophic, borrowing the name from them, call Progress, who first attempted to determine their direction and the possible goal of their convergence, and laboured to clear their own and others' minds in regard to the meaning, to capture which the name was thrown out as a net into the ocean of experience. Nor must we forget that it was in their own chosen field--the world of human thoughts and actions--that they from the beginning seemed to themselves to find the surest evidence of the reality of Progress. While the world that surrounded and hemmed them and their fellows in might or must be regarded as unchanging and unchangeable, doomed for ever to reproduce and monotonously reiterate whatsoever it had once done and been, the mind or spirit of Man in its own realm seemed capable of going beyond all its past achievements and rising to new heights, not merely here and there or in isolated instances but in such numbers or masses as to raise for long periods of history the general level of human efficiency and welfare. It is true that many of those who noted these advances or profited by them did not always admit that they took place in, or were due to the agency of, Philosophy. The advances were most often credited to other powers and the new territory claimed by their representatives. The contributions made by Philosophy to the general improvement of human life were and are obscure, difficult to trace, easily missed or forgotten. It came about that the philosopher was misconceived as one indifferent to ordinary human interests and disdainful of the more obvious advantages secured by others, pressing and urging forward and upward into a cloudland where the light was too dim for the eyes of man and the paths too uncertain for his feet. Unsatisfied with the region where Man had learned by the slow and painful lessons of experience to build himself a habitable city he dreamed of something higher, aspiring to explore beyond and above where the light of that experience shone and illuminated. Perhaps the main idea that the name of Philosophy now to most suggests is that of a Utopian ideal of knowledge so wide and so high that it must be by sane and sober minds pronounced for ever set beyond the reach of human faculty, an ideal which perhaps we cannot help forming and which constantly tempts us forward like a mirage, but which like a mirage leads us into waste and barren places, so much so that it is no small part of human wisdom to resist its subtle seductions and to confine our efforts to the pursuit of such ends as we may reasonably regard as well within the compass of our powers of thought and action. It is folly, we are told, to adventure ourselves upon the uncharted seas into which philosophers invite us, to waste our lives and perhaps break our hearts in the vain search for a knowledge that is for ever denied us. After all, there is much that we can know, and in the knowledge of which we can better the estate of Man, relieving him from many of his most pressing terrors and distresses. To cherish other hopes is to deceive ourselves to our own and our fellows' undoing, to refuse them our help and fail to play our part in the common business of mankind. There is surely in the world enough suffering and sorrow and sin to engage all our energies in dealing with them, nor are our endeavours to do so so plainly fruitless as to discourage from perseverance in them. Where in this task our hearts do faint and fail, are there not other means than the discredited nostrum of Philosophy to revive our hopes and recruit our forces? It was only, we are sometimes reminded, in the darkest days of human history that men turned desperately to Philosophy for comfort and consolation--how surely and demonstrably, we are told, in vain! When other duties are so urgent and immediate, have we even the right to consume our energies otherwise than in their direct discharge? And is it not presumption to ask for any further light than that which is vouchsafed to us in the ordinary course of experience or, if that is insufficient, in and by Religion? Much in this plea for a final relinquishment of aid from Philosophy in the furtherance of human progress is plausible and more than plausible. Yet the hope or, if you will, the dream of attaining some form or kind or degree of knowledge which the sciences do not and cannot supply and perhaps deny to be possible, some steadiness and firmness of assurance other and beyond the confidence of religious faith, is not yet extinct, is perhaps inextinguishable, and though it often takes extravagant and even morbid and repulsive forms, still haunts and tantalizes many, nor these the least wise or sane of our kind, so that they count all the labour they spend upon its search worth all the pains. Not for themselves alone do they seek it; they view themselves as not alone in the quest, but engaged in a matter of universally human moment. In the measure in which they count themselves to have attained any result they do not hoard it or grudge it to others. The notion of philosophic truth as something to be shared and enjoyed only by a few--as what is called 'esoteric'--is no longer in vogue and is indeed felt to involve an essential self-contradiction; rather it is conceived as something the value of which is assured and enhanced by being imparted. Those who believe themselves to be by nature or (it may be) accident appointed to the office of its quest, by no means feel that they are thereby divided from their fellows as a peculiar people or a privileged and exclusive priesthood, but much rather as fellow servants enlisted and engaged in the public service of mankind. Least of all do they believe that their efforts are foredoomed to inevitable failure, that progress therein is not to be looked for, or that they and their predecessors have hitherto made no advance towards what they and, as they also believe, all men sought and still seek. To them the history of Philosophy for say the last two thousand years is not the dreary and dispiriting narrative of repeated error and defeat, but the record of a slow but secure and steady advance in which, as nowhere else, the mind of Man celebrates and enjoys triumphs over the mightiest obstacles, kindling itself to an ever-brightening flame. Reviewing its own past in history the spirit of Philosophy sees its own inner light, which is its act and its essence, constantly increasing, spreading ever wider into the circumambient dark, and touching far-off and hitherto undiscovered peaks with the fire of a coming dawn. In place of the starlight of Science or the moonlight of Religion it sees a sun arise flooding the world with light and warmth and life. High hopes, high claims; but can they be made good, or even rationally entertained? Suffice it here that they be openly avowed and proclaimed to be laid up in the heart of the philosophic spirit, 'dreaming', and yet with waking eyes, 'of things to come'. Or rather shall we not say, seeing that its eyes are unsealed and the vision therefore no dream, beholding a present--an ever-present--Reality? It was Philosophy, or philosophers, as I have said, that first discerned the fact of Progress, named it, and divined its lineaments. To Philosophy the name and notion of Progress belongs as of right--the right of first occupation. Merely to have invented a name for the fact is no small service, for thus the fact was fixed for further study and examination. But with the name Philosophy gave us the idea, the notion, and therewith the fact began to be understood and to become amenable to further and further explanation. To this further explanation Philosophy gave notable assistance. To 'elaborate our concepts' has been said to be the whole business of Philosophy, that is, to arrest the vague and shifting meanings that float before our minds loosely attached to the words of ordinary careless speech, to fix their outlines, distinguishing, defining, ordering and organizing until each mass of meaning is improved and refined into a thought worthy to be called a notion, a fit member of the world of mind, a seat and source of intellectual light. In this work Philosophy proceeds and succeeds simply by reflecting on whatever meaning it has in whatever manner already acquired; it employs no strange apparatus or recondite methods, only continues more thoughtfully and conscientiously to use the familiar means by which the earlier simpler meanings were appropriated and developed, following the beaten tracks of the mind's native and spontaneous movement. Much more rarely than the sciences has it recourse to a technical vocabulary, being content to express itself in ordinary words though using them and their collocations with a careful delicacy and painstaking adroitness. To follow it in these uses demands an effort, for nothing is perhaps more difficult than to force our thoughts to run counter to our customary heedless use of words and to learn to employ them even for a short time with a steady precision of significance. Yet unless this effort is resolutely made we must remain the easy prey of manifold confusions and errors which trip us in the dark. Our words degrade into tokens which experience will not cash--tangles of symbols which we cannot retranslate. But Philosophy is more than the attempt to refine and subtilize our ordinary words so as to fit them for the higher service of interpretative thought, more even than the endeavour to improve the stock of ideas no matter how come by, by which we interpret to ourselves whatever it imports us to understand. All this it is and does, or strives to do, but only as subsidiary to its true business and real aim. All this it might do and do successfully, and yet make or bring about no substantial progress in itself or elsewhere. And when progress in Philosophy is spoken of, it is not either such improvement in language nor such improvement in ideas that alone or mainly is meant. What is claimed for (or denied to it) under the name of Progress is an advance in knowledge, knowledge clear-sighted, grounded, and assured, knowledge of some authentic and indubitable reality. It is by the attainment of such knowledge, by progress in and towards it, that the claim of Philosophy to be progressive must stand or fall. To the question whether it can make good its claim to the possession and increase of this knowledge we must give special attention, for if Philosophy fails in this it fails in all. The oldest name for the knowledge in question was simply Wisdom and, in some ways, in spite of its apparent arrogance this is the best name for what is sought--or missed. Yet from the beginning the name was felt not sufficiently to distinguish what was meant from the high skill of the cunning craftsman and the worldly wisdom of the man of affairs, the statesman or soldier or trader. In the case of all these it was difficult to disengage the knowledge involved from natural or trained practical dexterity. What was desired and required was knowledge distinguished but not divorced from practice and application--'pure knowledge' as it was sometimes called; not divorced, I repeat, for it was not conceived as without bearing upon the conduct of life, but still distinguished, as furnishing light rather than profit. For good or evil Philosophy began by considering what it sought and hoped to reach as pre-eminently knowledge in some distinctive sense, and having so begun it turned to reflect once more upon what it meant by so conceiving it and to make this meaning more precise and clear. So it came to present to itself as its aim or goal a special kind or degree of knowledge, to be inspired and guided by the hope of that. Practical as in many ways was the concern of ancient philosophy--its whole bent was towards the bettering of human life--it sought to achieve this by the extension and deepening of knowledge, and not either through the cultivation or refinement of emotion or the organization of practical, civil or social or philanthropic activities. It laboured--and laboured not in vain--to further the increase of knowledge by defining to itself in advance the kind or degree of knowledge which would accomplish the ultimate aim of its endeavour or subserve its accomplishment. Hence we must learn to view with a sympathetic eye its repeated essays to give precision and detail to the conception or ideal of knowledge. In form the answer rendered to its request to itself for a definition, was determined by the principle that the knowledge which was sought and alone, if found, could satisfy, was knowledge of the real, or as it was at first more simply expressed, of what is, or what really and veritably is. Refusing the name of knowledge except to what had this as its object, men turned to consider the nature of the object which stood or could stand in this relation. With this they contrasted what we, after them, call the phenomena, the appearances, the manifold aspects, constantly shifting with the shifting points of view of the observer or many observers of it, inconstant, unsteady, superficial, mirrored through the senses and imagination, multiplied and distorted in divergent and changing opinions, or misrepresented and even caricatured in the turbid medium of ordinary speech, like a clouded image on the broken waters of a rushing stream. 'It'--so at first they spoke of the object of true or 'philosophic' knowledge--was one and single, eternal and unchangeable, a universe or world-order of parts fixed for ever in their external relations and inward structure. In each and all of us there was, as it were, a tiny mirror that could be cleared so as to reflect all this, and in so far as such reflection took place an inner light was kindled in each which was a lamp to his path. Knowing--for to know was so to reflect the world as it really was--knowing, man came to self-possession and self-satisfaction--to peace and joy--and was even 'on this bank and shoal of time' raised beyond the reach of all accidents and evils of mortal existence--looking around and down upon all that could harm or hurt him and seeing it to be in its law-abiding orderliness and eternal changelessness the embodiment of good. So viewing it, man learned to feel the Universe his true home, and was inspired not only with awe but with a high loyalty and public spirit. 'The poet says "Dear City of Cecrops", and shall I not say "Dear City of God"?' The knowledge thus reached or believed to be attainable was more and more discriminated from what was offered or supplied by Art or Science or Religion, though it was still often confused with each and all of them. As opposed to that of Art, it was not direct or immediate vision flashed as it were upon the inner eye in moments of inspiration or excitement; as opposed to that of Science, it was a knowledge that pierced below the surface and the seeming of Nature and History; as opposed to that of Religion (which was rather faith than knowledge), it was sober, unimaginative, cleansed of emotional accompaniment and admixture, the 'dry light' of the wise soul. True to the principle which I have stated, ancient Philosophy proclaimed that the only knowledge in the end worth having was knowledge of Fact--of what lay behind all seeming however fair--Fact unmodified and unmodifiable by human wish or will; it bade us know the world in which we live and move and have our being, know it as it is truly and in itself, and knowing it love it, loyally acquiescing in its purposes and subserving its ends. In all this there was progress (was there not?) to a view, to a truth (how else shall we speak of it?) which has always, when apprehended, begotten a high temper in heroic hearts. Surely in having reached in thought so high and so far the mind of man had progressed in knowledge and in wisdom. But now a change took place, from which we must date the rise or birth of modern philosophy. Hitherto on the whole the mind of man had looked outward and sought knowledge of what lay or seemed to lie outside itself. So looking and gazing ever deeper it had encountered a spectacle of admirable and awe-compelling order, yet one which for that very reason seemed appallingly remote from, if not alien to, all human businesses and concerns. Now it turned inward and found within itself not only matter of more immediate or pressing interest, but a world that compelled attention, excited curiosity, rewarded study. Slowly and gradually the knowledge of this, the inner world--the world of the thinker's self--became the central object of philosophic reflection. The knowledge that was most required--that was all-important and indispensable (so man began explicitly to realize)--was knowledge of the Self, not of the outer world that at best could never be more than known, but of the self that knew or could know it, that could both know and be known. Henceforward what is studied is not knowledge of reality--of any and every reality--or of external reality, but knowledge of the Self which can know as well as be known. And the process by which it is sought is reflection, for the self-knowledge is not the knowledge of other selves, but the knowledge of just that Self which knows itself and no other. Thus the knowledge sought is once more and now finally distinguished from the knowledge offered or supplied by Art or Science or Religion: not by Art, for the Self cannot appear and has no seeming nor can it any way be pictured or described or imagined; not by Science, for it lies beyond and beneath and behind all observation, nor can it be counted or measured or weighed; not by Religion, for knowledge of it comes from within and the disclosure of its nature is by the self-witness of the Self to its self, not by revelation of any other to it. Thus there is disclosed the slowly-won and slowly-revealed secret of modern Philosophy, that the knowledge which is indispensable, which is necessary as the consummation and key-stone of all other knowledge, is knowledge of the knowing-self, self-knowledge, or, as it is sometimes more technically called, self-consciousness, with the corollary that this knowledge cannot be won by any methods known to or specially characteristic of Science or Art or Religion. To become self-conscious, to progress in self-consciousness is the end, and the way or means to it is by reflection--the special method of Philosophy. This is the step in advance made by the modern spirit beyond all discoveries of the ancients; it is the truth by the apprehension of which the modern spirit and its world is made what it is. Not outside us lies Truth or the Truth: Truth dwelleth in the inner man--_in interiore hominis habitat veritas_. Is this not progress, progress in wisdom, and to what else can we ascribe the advance save to Philosophy? It was one of the earliest utterances of modern Philosophy, and one which it has never found reason to retract, that the Self which knows can and does know itself better than aught else whatsoever, and in that knowledge can without end make confident and sure-footed advance. To itself the Self is the most certain and the most knowable of all realities--with this it is most acquainted, this it has light in itself to explore, of this it can confidently foresee and foretell the method of advance to further and further knowledge. It knows not only its existence but its essence, its nature, and it knows by what procedure, by what ordered effort or exercise of will it can progress to height beyond height of its self-knowledge. I say, it knows it, but it also knows that that knowledge cannot be attained all at once or taken complete and ready-made, for it _is_ itself a progress, a self-created and self-determined progress, and on that condition progress alone is or is real. For it to be is not to be at the beginning or at the end of this process, but to be always coming to be, coming to be what it is not and yet also what it has in it to be. Of nothing else is Progress so intimately the essence and very being; if we ask 'What progresses or evolves?', the most certain answer is 'The spirit which is in man, and what it progresses in, is knowledge of itself, which is wisdom'. Speaking of and for Philosophy I venture to maintain that nothing is more certain than that that spirit which has created it has grown, is growing, and will ever grow in wisdom, and that by reflection upon itself and its history--nor can the gates of darkness and error prevail against the irresistible march of its triumphant progress. As we look back the history of Philosophy seems strewn with the debris of outworn or outlived errors, but out of them all emerges this clear and assured truth, that in self-knowledge lies the master-light of all our seeing, inexhaustibly casting its rays into the retreating shadow world that now surrounds us, melting all mists and dispelling all clouds, and that the way to it is unveiled, mapped and charted in advance so that henceforward we can walk sure-footedly therein. Yet that does not mean that the work of Philosophy is done, that it can fold its hands and sit down, for only in the seeking is its prize found and there is no goal or end other than the process itself. For this too is its discovery, that not by, but in, endless reflection is the Truth concerning it known, the Truth that each generation must ever anew win and earn it for itself. The result is not without the process, nor the end without the means: the fact _is_ the process and other fact there is none. In other forms of so-called 'knowledge' we can sever the conclusion from its premisses, and the result can be given without the process, but with self-knowledge it is not so and no generation, or individual, can communicate it ready-made to another, but can only point the way and bid others help themselves. And if this, so put, seems hard doctrine, I can only remind you that to philosophize has always meant 'to think by and for oneself'. It is perhaps more necessary to formulate the warning that what is here called self-knowledge and pronounced to constitute the very essence of the spirit that is in man, is far removed from what sometimes bears its name, the extended and minute acquaintance by the individual mind with its individual peculiarities or idiosyncrasies, its weaknesses and vanities, its whims and eccentricities; nor is it to be confused with the still wider acquaintance with those that make up our common human nature in all its folly and frailty which is sometimes called 'knowledge of human nature'; no, nor with such knowledge as psychological science, with its methods of observation and induction and experiment, offers or supplies. It is knowledge of something that lies far deeper within us--'the inward man', which is not merely alike or akin but is the same in all of us; beneath all our differences, strong against all our weaknesses, wise against all our follies, what each of us rightly calls his true self and yet what is not his alone, but all men's also. As we reflect upon it duly, what discloses or reveals itself to us is a self which is both our very own and yet common or universal, the self of each and yet the self of all. The more we get to apprehend and understand it, the more we become and know ourselves, not so much as being but as becoming one with one another; the differences that sunder us in feeling and thought and action melting away like mist. The removal of these differences is just the unveiling of it, in which it at once comes to be and to be known. In coming to know it we create it. The unity of the spirit thus becomes and is known as indubitable fact, or rather (I must repeat) not as fact, as if it were or were anything before being known, but as something which is ever more and more coming to be, in the measure in which it is coming to be known--known to itself. For this is the hard lesson of modern philosophy, that our inmost nature and most genuine self is not aught ready-made or given, but something which is created in and by the process of our coming to know it, which progresses in existence and substantiality and value as our knowledge of it progresses in width and depth and self-assurance. The process is one of creative--self-creative--evolution, in which each advance deposits a result which prescribes the next step and supplies all the conditions for it, and so constantly furnishes all that is required for an endless progress in reality and worth. This is the process in which the spirit of man capitalizes and substantiates its activities, committing its gains to secure custody, amassing and using them for its self-enrichment--in which it depends on no other than itself and is sovereign master of its future and its fate. This is the way in which selves are made, or rather, make themselves. This is the discovery of modern Philosophy, the now patent secret which it offers for the interpretation of all mysteries and the solving of all problems--and it offers it with unquestioning assurance, for it has explored the ground and has awakened to the true method of progress within it. And as I have said or implied, to the reflective mind regress is impossible, it cannot go back upon itself, and with due tenderness and gratitude it has set behind it the things of its unreflective childhood. It stands on the stable foundation of the witness of the spirit within us to itself, to its own nature, its own powers and its own rights; it knows itself as the knower, the interpreter, the teacher, and therefore the master and maker of itself. Yet we must not identify or confuse this our deeper or deepest self which we thus create with the separate selves or souls which each of us is; it is not any one of them nor all of them together, unless we give to the word 'together' a new and more pregnant sense than it has yet come to bear. It is not the 'tribal' or 'collective' or 'social' self, for it is not made by congregation or collection or association, but by some far more intimate unification than is signified by any of these terms, namely by coming together in and by knowledge. It is the spirit which is in us all and in which we all are, which is more yet not other than we, without which we are nothing and do nothing and yet which is veritably the spirit of man, the immortal hero of all the tragedy and comedy--the whole drama--of human history; it is of this spirit as it is by it, that Philosophy has in repeated and resolute reflection come to know the nature and the method of its progress. Such knowledge has come into the world and prevails more widely and more potently than ever before; possessed in fullness by but a few, it is open and available to all and radiates as from a beacon light over the whole field of human experience; at that fire every man can light his candle. This is the light in which alone the record of man's thoughts and achievements can be construed and which exhibits them as steps and stages on that triumphant march to higher and higher levels such as alone we can rightly name Progress. Where else than in History, and, above all, in the History of Knowledge, is Progress manifested, and in that where more certainly than in the unretreating and unrevoked advance towards a deeper, a truer, a wiser knowledge of itself by the spirit that is in and is, Man? Yes, such knowledge, truth and wisdom now exists and is securely ours, though to inherit it each generation and each individual must win it afresh and having won it must develop and promote it, or it ceases not only to work but to be. For it exists only as it is made or rather only in the act and fact of its progress, and so for it not to progress is at once to return to impotence and nothingness. And it is we who maintain it in being, maintaining it by endless reiterated efforts of reflection, and so maintaining it we maintain ourselves, resting or relying upon it and using it as a source of strength and a fulcrum or a platform for further effort. Upon self-knowledge in this sense all other 'knowledge' reposes; upon it and the knowledge of other selves and the world, which flows from it, depends the possibility of all practical advance. In the dark all progress is impossible. But since this discovery was made and made good, the spirit of Philosophy has not stood still; it has gone on, and is still going on, to extend and deepen and secure its conquests. Once more it has turned from its fruitful and enlightening concentration on the inner self and its life to review what lies or seems to lie around and outside it. It finds that those who have stayed, or fallen, behind its audacious but justified advance in self-knowledge, still cherish a view of what is external to this (the true or real self so now made patent), thoughts or fancies which misconceive and misrepresent it--thoughts persisted in against the feebler protesting voices of Art and Religion and so held precariously and unstably though apparently grounded upon the authority of Science. To the unphilosophic or not yet philosophic mind the spirit of man, already in imagination multiplied and segregated into individual 'souls', appears to be surrounded with an environment of alien character, often harsh to man's emotions, often rebellious or untractable to his purposes, often impenetrable to his understanding, and in a word indifferent or hostile to his ideals and aspirations after progress and good. Nay, the individual souls seem to act towards one another separately and collectively as such hindrances, and again, each individual soul seems to be encrusted with insuperable impediments. Even the light within is enclosed in an opaque screen which prevents or counteracts its outflow, so that the spirit within is as it were entombed or imprisoned. 'Wall upon wall, the gross flesh hems us in,' we cannot communicate with one another or join with one another in thought or deed; and the hope of progress seems defeated by the recalcitrant matter that shell upon shell encases us. The world of our bodies, of the bodies and spirits of others, and all the vast _compages_ of things and forces which we call 'Nature' blinds and baffles us, mocks our hopes and breaks our hearts. How idle to dream that amidst and against all this neutrality or hostility any substantial or secure advance can be made! In answer to all these thoughts, these doubts and fears, Philosophy is beginning with increasing boldness to speak a word, not of mere comfort and consolation, but of secure and confident wisdom. All this so-called 'external' nature and environment is not hostile or alien to the self or spirit which is in man, it is akin and allied to it as we now know it to be. Whatever is real and not merely apparent in History or Nature is rational, is of the same stuff and character as that which is within us. It too is spiritual, the appearance and embodiment of what is one in nature and mode of being with what lies deepest and is most potent in us. So far as it is not that, it is appearance and not reality, woven like a dream by imagination or endowed with an unstable and shifting quasi-reality by our thoughts and suppositions and fancies about we know not what. Not that it is an illusion, still less a delusion, rather what it is is the outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual reality, a symbol beautiful, orderly, awe-inspiring yet mutilated, partial, confused, of something deeper and more real, the expression, the face and gesture, of a spirit that, as ours does, knows itself, its own profound being and meaning, and does what it does in the light of such knowledge, a spirit which above all progresses endlessly towards and in a richer and fuller knowledge of itself. What we call Fact--historical or natural--is essentially such an expression, on the one hand a finished expression, set in the past and therefore for ever beyond the possibility of change and so of progress, an exhausted or dead expression, on the other hand a passing into the light of what was before unknown even to the expresser's self, an act by which was made and secured a self-discovery or self-revelation, a creative act of self-knowledge and so significant and interpretable. This double character of events in History and Nature is dimly descried in what we specially call 'nature', but comes more fully into view in the sphere of human history, where each step is at once a deed and a discovery, a contribution to the constitution of the world of fact and a fulguration of the light within illuminating facts as the condition of its own inexhaustible continuance. The world of Fact, artistic or aesthetic, scientific, moral, political, economic, is what the spirit builds round itself, creating it out of its own substance, while it itself in creating it grows within, evolving out of itself into itself and advancing in knowledge or wisdom and power. And out of its now securely won self-knowledge it declares that it--itself--is the source and spring of all real fact whatsoever, which is its self-created expression, made by it in its own interests, and for its own good, the better and better to know itself. Nothing is or can be alien, still less hostile to it, for 'in wisdom has it made them all'. Looking back and around it re-reads in all fact the results of its own power of self-expression. Nothing is but what it has made. All this might perhaps have been put very simply by saying that ever since man has set himself to know his own mind in the right way, he has succeeded better and better, and that in knowing his own mind he has come to know and is still coming to know all else beside, including all that at first sight seems other than, or even counter to, his own mind. He has learned what manner of being he is, how that being has been made and how it continues to be made and developed, and again, how in the course of its self-creation and self-advance it deposits itself in 'fact' and reflecting on that fact rises beyond and above itself in knowledge and power. He is mind or spirit, and what lies behind and around him is spiritual. As he reflects upon this the meaning of it becomes ever more clear and distinct, ordered and organized, and at the same time more substantial, more real, more lively and potent. In becoming known what was before dead and dark and threatening or obstructive or hostile is made transparent, alive, utilisable, contributing to the constantly growing self that knows and is known. Here is the growing point of reality, the _fons emanationis_ of truth and worth and being, evidencing its power not as it were in increase of bulk, but in the enhancing of value. And surely here is Progress, which consists not in mere enlargement or expansion but in the heightening of forces to a new power--in a word, in their elevation to a more spiritual, a more intelligent and therefore more potent, level. To the artistic eye the universe presents itself as a vast and moving spectacle, to the scientific mind as the theatre of forces which repeat their work with a mechanical uniformity or perhaps fatally run down to a predestined and predictable final arrest, to the devout or religious soul as the constant efflux of a beneficent will, unweariedly kind, caring for the humblest of its creatures, august, worshipful, deserving of endless adoration and love, while to the philosophic mind it is known and ever more to be known as the self-expression of a mind in essence one with all minds that know it in knowing themselves, know it as the work or product of a mind engaged or absorbed in knowing itself, and so creating itself and all that is requisite that it may learn more and more what is hidden or stored from all eternity within its plenitude. At least we may say that the conception of a Mind which in order to know itself creates the conditions of such knowledge, which wills to learn whatever can be learned of itself from whatever it does, supplies the best pattern or original after which to model our vaguer and more blurred conceptions of progressive existence and being elsewhere. It furnishes to us an ideal of a progress which realizes or maintains and advances itself, for it is independent upon external conditions. The Progress of Philosophy or of Wisdom is a palmary instance of progress achieved out of the internal resources of that which progresses. And after this pattern we least untruly and least unworthily conceive the mode of that eternal and universal Progress which is the life of the Whole within and as part of which we live. The aim of Philosophy is not edification but the possession and enjoyment of Truth, and the Truth may wear an aspect which, while it enlightens, also blinds or even at first appals and paralyses. And certainly Reality or Philosophy as has come to know it and proclaims it to be, is not such as either directly to warm our hearts or stimulate our energies. Not to do either has Philosophy come into the world, nor so does it help to bring Progress about; nor does it offer prizes to those who pursue either moral improvement or business success, nor again does it increase that information concerning 'nature' and men which is the condition of the one and the other, yet to those who love Truth and who will buy no good at the sacrifice of it, what it offers is enough, and to progress towards and in it is for them worth all the world beside; it is, if not the only real progress, that in the absence of which all other progress is without worth or substance or reality. In the end, if any advance anywhere is claimed or asserted, must we not ask: Is the claim founded on truth, is the good or profit seemingly attained a (or the) true good? To whom or to what is it good? Can we stop short of the endeavour to assure ourselves beyond question or doubt that we are right in what answers we render? And where or by what means can we reach this save by turning inward on meditation or reflection, that is by philosophizing? [Greek: Ei philosophêteon philosophêteon, ei de mê, philosophêteon; pantôs ara philosophêteon]. Thither the mind of man has always turned when the burden of the mystery of its nature and fate has weighed all but intolerably upon it, and turning has never found itself betrayed, but from knowledge of itself has drawn fresh hope and strength to resume the uninterrupted march of Progress which is its life and its history, its being, its self-formation, in courage moving forwards in and towards the light. It is as if such light were not merely the condition of its welfare, but the food on which it lived, the stuff which it transmuted into substance and energy, out of it making, maintaining and building its very self. So under whatever name, whether we call what we are doing Philosophy or something else, the search for more and more light upon ourselves and our world is the most indispensable activity to which the leagued and co-operative powers of Man can be devoted. Fortunately it is also that in which success or failure depends most certainly upon ourselves and in which Progress can with most confidence be looked for. In it we cannot fail if we will to take sufficient trouble; the means to it are open and available; it is our fault if we do not employ them and profit by them. If we have less wisdom than we might have, it is never any one's fault but our own. The door of the treasure-house of Wisdom stands ever open. BOOKS FOR REFERENCE C. C. J. Webb, _History of Philosophy_ (Home University Library). Burnet, _History of Greek Philosophy_. E. J. Bevan, _Stoics and Sceptics_. Höffding, _History of Modern Philosophy_ (translated). Royce, _The Spirit of Philosophy_. Merz, _History of European Thought in the Nineteenth Century_. XII PROGRESS AS AN IDEAL OF ACTION J. A. SMITH Throughout this course of lectures, now come to its close, we have together been engaged in a theoretical inquiry. We have been looking mainly towards the past, to something therefore for ever and in its very nature set beyond the possibility of alteration by us or indeed at all. 'What is done not even God can make to be undone.' Were it otherwise it could not be fact or reality and so not capable of being theorized or studied. In the words of our programme we have analysed what is involved in the conception of Progress, shown when it became prominent in the consciousness of mankind and how far the idea has been realized--that is has become fact--in the different departments of life. We have taken Progress as a fact, something accomplished, and have attempted so taking it to explain or understand it. We have not indeed assumed that it is confined to the past, but have at times enlarged our consideration so as to recognize its continuance in the present and to justify the hope of its persistence in the future. Some of us would perhaps go further and hold that it has, by these and similar reflections, come to be part of our assured knowledge that it must so continue and persist. But however we have widened our purview, what we call Progress has remained to us a course or movement which still presents the appearance of a fact which is largely, if not wholly, independent of us--a fact because independent of us--to which we can occupy no other attitude than that of interested spectators, interested and concerned, moved or conditioned by it but not active or co-operative in it. So far as it is in process of realization in the vast theatre of nature, inorganic or organic, dead or living, that surrounds us, it pursues its course in virtue of powers not ours and unamenable to our control. And even when we view it within the closer environment of human history its current seems to carry us irresistibly with it. Its existence is indeed of very practical concern to us, but apparently all we can do is to come to know it, and knowing it to allow for it as or among the set conditions of our self-originated or self-governed actions if such actions there be. The clearer we have become as to the nature of Progress, the more it would appear that it must be for us, because it is in itself, a fact to be recognized in theory, taken into account and reckoned with. It is or it is not, comes to be or does not come to be, and what we have first and foremost to seek, is light upon its existence and character as it is or occurs. Light, we hope, has been cast upon it. We have learned that in its inmost essence and to its utmost bounds Reality--what lies outside and around us--is not fixed, rigid, immobile, was not and is not and cannot be as the ancient or mediaeval mind feigned or fabled, something beyond the reach of time and change--static or stationary--but is itself a process of ceaseless alteration. We have learned also to be dissatisfied with the compromise which, while acknowledging such alteration, all but withdraws it in effect by asserting it to be either in gross or in detail a process of mere repetition. The system of laws which science had taught us to consider as the truth of nature is itself now known to be caught in the evolutionary process, and to be undergoing a constant modification. As in the modern state, so in Nature, the legislative power is not exhausted but incessantly embodies itself in novel forms. Nature itself--_natura naturans_--is now conceived, and rightly conceived, as a power not bound to laws other than those which it makes for or imposes on itself, and as in its operations at least analogous to a will self-determined, self-governing, creative of the ways and means by which its purpose or purposes are achieved. What that purpose is we have begun to apprehend, and to see its various processes as converging or co-operating towards its fulfilment. In the mythological language which even Science is still obliged to use, we now speak of Nature as 'selecting' or 'devising', and we ascribe to it a large freedom of choice wisely used. We can already at least define the process as guided towards a greater variety and fullness and harmony of life, or (with a larger courage) as pointed towards a heightening or potentiation of life. So defining its goal we can sympathize with and welcome the successful efforts made toward it, and so feel ourselves at heart one with the power that carries on the process in its aspirations and its efforts. But still, we cannot help feeling, it and all its ways lie outside us, and to us it remains an alien or foreign power. I venture to repeat my contention that this is so just because, however much we come to learn of its ways, we do not feel that we are coming to understand it any better, getting inside it, as we do get inside and understand human nature. Its progress is a change, perhaps a betterment, in our environment--in externals--and takes place very largely whether we will and act or no. The larger our acquaintance with it, the more does its action seem to encroach upon the domain within which our volitions and acts can make any difference. Even in social life we seem in the grip and grasp of forces which carry us towards evil or good whether we will or no. _Ducunt volentem fata, nolentem trahunt._ The whole known universe outside and around us presents to us the spectacle of what has been called a _de facto_ teleology, and just because it is so, and so widely and deeply so, it leaves little or no room for us to set up our ideals within it and to work for their realization. The fact that the laws which prevail in it are modifiable and modified makes no difference; they modify themselves, and in their different forms still constrain us. And no matter how increasingly beneficent they may in their action appear, they are still despotic and we unfree. The rule of laws which Science discovers encroaches upon our liberties and privacies. What we had hitherto thought our very own, the movement of our impulses and desires and imaginations, are reported by science to be subject to 'laws of association', and we are borne onwards even if also at times upwards on an irresistible flood. We remain bound by the iron necessity of a fate that invades our inmost being--which will not let us anywhere securely alone. I repeat that it matters not how certainly the trend of the tide, which sets everywhere around and outside us, is towards what is good or best for us, it still is the case that it presents itself as neither asking for from us nor permitting to us the formation of any ideals of ours nor any prospect of securing them by our efforts. Were the fact of Progress established and conclusively shown to be all-pervasive and eternal, it still would bear to us the aspect of a paternal government which did good to and for us, but all the more left less and less to ourselves. This will doubtless be pronounced an exaggeration, and we may weakly refuse to face the impression naturally consequent upon the progress we have made in the ascertainment of the facts concerning the world in which we live. But does not the impression exist? The hateful and desolating impression made on us earlier by the thought of a 'block' universe, once for all and rigidly fixed in unalterable and uniform subjection to eternal and omnipresent law, has dissolved like the baseless fabric of a vision. And why? Just because being found intolerable it was faced and put to the question. Now that there has been substituted for it the spectacle of a universe necessarily or fatally evolving--or, as we have said, progressing--does it not, while still evoking the old awe or reverence, do anything but still daunt and dishearten us? What is our part, we ask, our very own part within all this? What can we within it do? And the answer, that it is ours, if we will, to enter into and live in the contemplation of all this no longer appeals to us. In such a progressive universe we can no longer feel ourselves 'at home'. In it our active nature would seem to exist only to be disappointed and rebuffed. The only progress which we can care for is the progress which we ourselves bring about, or can believe that we bring about, in ourselves or our fellows or in the world immediately around us. So long as what is so named is something devised and executed by a power not our own--not the same as our own--it may call out from us gratitude and reverence, but the spectacle of the reality of such Progress cannot exercise the attractive force nor, so far as it is realized, beget that creative joy which accompanies even humble acts in which we set an ideal of our own before ourselves, and see it through our efforts emerge into actual existence. A practical ideal must be through and through of our own making. It must be devised by us and set to ourselves for our pursuit, and its coming to be, or be real, must be our doing. The very idea of it must be our own, not given or prescribed, still less imposed, and the process towards it must be our doing too. That there should, on their view of it, ever be protest and rebellion against its tyrannous demands appears to me reasonable and right, and those who make it to be guarding the immediate jewel of man's nature. We should, we might say, if this were the whole truth about the universe, acknowledge ourselves as its sons bound to gratitude and obedience because of the fatherly care for us, but it would be an essential complement to our family loyalty that we should insist upon and make good our claims to be grown-up sons and fellow citizens, declining to pronounce it wholly good, if those claims were denied to us. Now all these conditions seem to make straight against the possibility of regarding Progress, in the view of it we have hitherto taken, as an ideal of our action. In view of this character of the known fact of Progress, so discouraging and disabling to our active or practical nature, certain suggestions have been made which are thought to relieve us from these effects. It is said sometimes that this fatal--if beneficent or beneficial, still fatal--progress leaves as it were certain interstices in the universe within which it loses its constraining force, petty provinces but sufficient, where man is master and determines all events, from which even, it is sometimes conceded, some obscure but important influences are permitted to flow, modifying his immediate surroundings, little sanctuaries where the spirit that is in him and is his devises and realizes ideals of its own. But the notion of such sacrosanct and inviolable autonomies is being steadily undermined, and they are felt, as science becomes more dominant over our imaginations and emotions, to be no more than eddies in the universal stream, only apparently distinct and self-maintained, means made and broken for its purpose, really products and instruments of the world-progress. At any rate, it has been denied that they can rightfully be thought to stand outside it or themselves to exercise any effect upon their fortunes and their fate, still less upon their environment. Another suggestion fully and frankly acknowledges this, but though denying to us any power to affect either the form or the direction of the currents on which we are borne along, declares still open to us the possibility of affecting their speed, and bids us find satisfaction in the thought that by taking thought or resolve we can hasten or delay their and the universal movement. Still another view, abandoning even that hope, proclaims one last choice open to us, namely, that of sullen submission to, or glad and loyal acquiescence in, its irresistible sway. But surely all these suggestions are idle, and but for a moment conceal or postpone the inevitable conclusion that if Progress was, is and must or will be, that is, is necessary, what we think or do makes no difference, and can make no difference to or in it. Whether or no we convert the fact into an ideal, whether or no we set it before as our aim and exert ourselves to work for it, it goes on its way all the same. Either then it is not a fact, never was, and never will be a fact, or it is no possible ideal for which we can act. To be or become a fact, it must be independent of our action or our consent or our liking; if it is not all these it is not an ideal of action, or at any rate not so for us. I must repeat that what is or can be an ideal of action for us must be wholly and solely of our making, the very thought of it self-begotten in our mind, every step to its actual existence the self-created deed of our will. Not that either idea or act comes into being in a void or without suggestion and assistance from without us, but still so that the initiative lies in what we think or do, and so that without us it is unreal and impossible. It is enough, indeed, that we should be contributory, but the ideal must be such that without our irreplaceable co-operation it must fail. The only Progress in which we can take an active interest or make an ideal of action, is one which we conceive and execute, and that the fact we call Progress is not. So far we have found much argument to show that what we have hitherto called Progress is not and cannot be an ideal of action, or at least of our action. And now we must face another argument more plain and apparently fatal, indeed, specially or peculiarly fatal. For the very notion of Progress is of a process which continues without end, or we have the dilemma that it is either endless or runs to an end in which there is no longer Progress but something else. In either case it is not itself an end or the end, and whatever an ideal of action is, it must be an end--something beyond which there is nothing, which has no Beyond at all. To set before oneself as an ideal of action what one certainly knows to be incapable of attainment or accomplishment, incapable of coming to an end--that is surely futile and vain. Without a best, better or better-and-better has no meaning, and when the best is reached Progress is no more. The objection may be put in various ways, as thus. What we seek or want or work for, is to be satisfied, and satisfaction is a state, not a process or a progress. Or again, acting is a process of seeking, seeking and striving for something, and surely the seeking cannot itself be the object of the search. Or once more, what we act for is, as we must conceive it, something complete, finished, perfect, but Progress is essentially something incomplete, unfinished, imperfect. We all feel this, and at times at least the thought that what we seek flies ever before, affrights and paralyses: recoiling from such a prospect, we set before our imaginations as the reward or result of our labours, not movement but rest, not creation or production but consumption and fruition. We dream of one day coming to participate in a life or experience so good that there is no change from less good to more good possible within it, and which, if it can be said to progress at all, only, in Milton's magnificent words, 'progresses the dateless and irrevoluble circle of its own perfections, joining inseparable hands with joy and bliss in over-measure for ever'. Once this ideal has presented itself to our hopes or desires, it degrades by comparison with it to a second-best, the former ideal of endless development from lower to higher. What we want and seek is to be there, to have done with getting there. 'Here is the house of fulfilment of craving, this is the cup with the roses around it.' Compared with this, how disconsolate a prospect is that 'of the sea that hath no shore beyond it, set in all the sea'--the endless voyage or quest. Not Progress is or can be the end, but achievement and the enjoyment of it. The progress is towards and for the end; the end is the supreme good and the progress is only good because of it, because it is on the way that leads to it, the way we are content to travel only because it leads there. Once more, and on still surer grounds, we must pronounce what we have come to know as Progress to be no possible ideal of action. What draws us on is the hope of something to be attained in and by the progress. To take Progress, which on the one hand is a fact and on the other is an incomplete fact, to be the end of our striving and our doing is to acquiesce in a self-contradiction. Yet the counter-ideal of a state in which we shall simply rest from our labours and sit down to enjoy the fruits of them does not promise satisfaction either, and so cannot be the end or ideal. Our desire and our endeavour is not for a moveless, changeless, undeveloping perfection. In fact, so often as the dream of such a state attained has presented itself, it has to thoughtful minds appeared anything but attractive or desirable. Our desire is to go on, and for that we are willing to pay a price--nay, it is for more than merely to go on, it is to advance and increase in perfection, so much so that the ideal itself once more slews round into its opposite and the search appears worth more than the attainment. It seems that we were not on the other view so wholly wrong, but must try so to frame our ideal of action as to unite both characters and satisfy both demands at once, so that it shall be at once a state and a movement or process, an achievement and a progress, a rest or quiet and a striving after it, a perfection and a perfecting. The combination at first sight appears impossible. Yet both characters it must combine. Here again, I must confess that the idea of mere Progress, even as achieved by our own efforts, seems to me to omit something essential to an ideal of action--of what is worth while our acting for. What is to be an ideal of action must have the character of a fulfilment--something to be consumed, not merely eternally added to. For this character of the (or any) ideal of action the best name is fruition or enjoyment. And the defect in the conception of it as Progress is that it seems to postpone this without a date. Let us put this truth which we have discovered concerning Progress in a nutshell, hiding or disregarding the internal contradiction. What is the nature, what is the kind of reality, which we have learned to ascribe to Progress (for we did pronounce it real and essentially capable of being realized)? It is that it is fact, yet fact not made but in the making; it is just the name for what is real only through and in the process of becoming real or being realized. Now I have already elsewhere pointed out that while a realization which is also a reality, or a reality which is also a realization, is in nature or what is external to us a mystery and a puzzle, it is just when we look inwards the open secret of our being; in our life or action regarded from within, it appears as something which is only dark because it is so close and familiar to us that inspection of it is difficult, not because it is in itself opaque or unintelligible. To its exemplification or illustration there we must turn for light upon our problem. Let us for the time disregard the pressure exercised upon us by the suggestions of physical science, or even, I may add, popular and imaginative or opinionative--which is Latin for 'dogmatic'--Religion, and examine how Progress takes place, or is realized and real, within our spirits, or that spirit which is within us. The inward process is one by which that spirit is or is real only in the act or fact of being or coming to be realized, or rather of realizing itself, and the way in which it so becomes or makes itself real is by acknowledging its own past, treating it as fact, recognizing its failures or imperfections therein, projecting on the future an idea or ideal of itself, suggested by those apprehended wants or defects, of what it might be, and using that to supply itself with both energy and guidance, drawing from its own past both strength and light. In all this it acts autonomously, out of itself, and creates both the requisite light and the indispensable force, making its very limitations into new sources and reservoirs of both. We do not sufficiently note and hold and use the indubitable truth that, in contradistinction to what we call Nature, the forces of the spirit reinforce and re-create themselves in their use, are in their use not consumed but reinvigorated, not dissipated or degraded but recollected and elevated, not expended but enhanced. There is in the realm of spirit which is our nature and our world no law of either the conservation or the degradation of energy. We must not allow ourselves to be brow-beaten by arguments drawn from the obscurer region of physical and external nature. We know ourselves to be energies or energizing powers which increase and do not waste by exercise. That is what we ought to mean by saying that we are wills and not forces, spiritual not physical or natural beings. If need be to confirm ourselves in this knowledge, let us think of what takes place, has taken place in the advance of knowledge, and particularly of the most important kind of knowledge, viz. self-knowledge, how we make it by our reflection upon what we have already in respect of it achieved, recognize how it or we have fallen short or over-shot our mark, define what is required to make good its deficiencies, and find ourselves thereby already in actual possession of the preconceived supplement. The real, the fact, what is attained or accomplished in and by us, prescribes and facilitates, or rather supplies, its own missing complement of perfection. The process carries itself on, the progress realizes itself, the ideal translates itself into the fact or actuality: it accomplishes itself and yet it is the doing of our very self, of the spirit within us. All this is not merely our doing, it is our being, it is the process by which we make our minds, our souls, our very selves or self. That man is essentially an, or rather the, ideal-forming animal (or rather spirit) has long been noted, and also that the formation of ideals is an indispensable factor in his progress, which is his life and very being. But all the same, this is sometimes put in such a way as to make action, or at least human action, a dispensable accident in the universe, an ineffective and unsubstantial unreality, while at the same time those who put it thus, profess to see through the illusion and to enjoy moments of insight which recognize its nullity. This way of putting it in my judgement intolerably misconceives and misrepresents the truth. Our ideals of action must be self-made or self-begotten, but yet they must be congruent with known fact; but the manner of such congruence is hard to see, hard to express. Ideals cannot be themselves facts, and therefore cannot be known, but on the other hand they cannot be mere imaginations or suppositions or beliefs, still less, of course, illusions or delusions. They are not visionary, and the apprehension of them is a sort or degree of perception. They point beyond themselves to some higher fact which is not cognizable by our senses or perhaps our understanding, but which is yet genuinely cognizable and so in some high sense fact. Yet they are not, as we envisage them, the fact to which they point, but a substitute for or representative of that--an anticipation of or prevision of it, a symbol of a fact. Their own kind or degree of reality is sometimes called 'validity'--a term I do not like: it might be more simply named 'rightness' with the connotation of a certain incumbency and imperativeness as well as of an appeal or adjustment to our nature as we know it; or perhaps all we can say is that their reality--it seems a paradox that an ideal should possess 'reality'--consists in their suggestiveness of modes of action and their applicability to it, all this being supported by the conception of a state of affairs beyond and around us which makes it 'right'. If all this is so, Progress as an ideal of action cannot be precisely identical with Progress as a fact or object of actual or possible knowledge. We can never know what we are aiming at. But though different, the two are and must be congruent, and this may be enough to justify us in using the one name for the two. Unless there were Progress as fact everywhere and always in the universe--outside us--in Nature and History, and unless we took ourselves genuinely to apprehend this, we could not form the practical ideal of Progress, or at least the ideal could not be right. But the difference remains, and we must be prepared for and allow for it; though we can use the knowledge we obtain of the fact of Progress to control and guide our formulation of the practical ideal, we cannot identify the one with the other. Our imagining and our supposing of what is best for or obligatory upon us to do or work for, must go on under conditions--the conditions of what we know as to the nature of ourselves and our surroundings--and yet under these conditions has a very large liberty or autonomy. The Progress which is to serve as a practical ideal is not and cannot be the Progress that we know, but must be the result of imagination or supposition, and it is high and necessary wisdom to trust our imaginations and aspirations. The forms which it rightly takes cannot be determined by what we have learned in or from the past; it cometh not with observation, and the sources of experience cannot of themselves supply us with it, and though it comes in and with experience, it does not come from or out of it. Yet it is due to an impression made upon us by the Universe as we by our faculties apprehend it, and is not merely subjective or of subjective origin. Begotten of the imagination, it is appearance, not ultimate reality, and it cannot be thought out or wholly evacuated of mystery and perplexity. Is this not involved in the language we use of it, proclaiming it practical and therefore not theoretical? Nevertheless, while I must acknowledge this insuperable difference between the Progress we can make our end or ideal and the Progress we believe that in ourselves and around us we apprehend, I still would lay renewed stress upon the congruence and affinity of the two, and urge that the perception of the one--the Progress without us--and the pursuit of the other--the Progress within us--support and fertilize each the other. The more we know or can learn of the one the more effectively do we pursue the other, and conversely. The light and the fruits are bound together: the theory and the practice of Progress cannot be dissevered without the ruin of both. The ideal of Progress which we present to ourselves is and must be one which is partly determined or limited by past achievement and partly enlarged by the study of what powers higher than our own have accomplished and are accomplishing. The formation of it must move constantly between a respect for what has been achieved and a worship, so to speak, for what is far better than anything that yet has been or become fact, and therefore incumbent or imperative upon us. The mode and manner of the Progress which is achieved in the Universe has become in various ways clearer to us and opens out undreamt-of possibilities, and our assurance of its reality is ever more and more confirmed, while on the other hand its actual or past results at the lower level of nature have grown and are growing more familiar. We see that Progress is the essential and therefore eternal form of life and spiritual being, which endows it everywhere with worth and substance. With this comes the conviction that the source of all this lies inward, in that inwardness where our true selves lie and springs from the very nature of that. The spirit which is within us is not other than the spirit which upholds and maintains the whole Universe and works after the same fashion. And with regard to this its manner of working, we have learned that it proceeds by taking account of its own past achievements, imagining or conceiving for itself tasks relevant to these but not limited by them, and finds in that the conditions and stimulus to their actualization. It is our business to imitate this procedure and so to contribute to the advance of the whole. No work so done is or can be lost. We are justified in supposing that in so doing we are leagued together in effective co-operation with one another and with all other forces at work in the whole. In and through us, though not in and through us only, Progress goes on, drawing us along with it. Inner and outer Progress, free allegiance and loyal subjection concur and do not clash, and the world in which we live and act appears to us as it is--a city of God which is also a self-governed and self-administered city of free men. But above all, what it prescribes to us is the duty--another name for 'the ideal of action'--to seek first light as to the true nature of our world and ourselves, dismissing and disregarding all appearance, however charming or seductive. Unless we learn to see Progress as universal and omnipresent and omnipotent, we shall set before ourselves ideals of action which are false and treacherous. We must exert ourselves not merely to apprehend, but to dwell in the apprehension and vision of it. And if there were no other reason, we should know it for the right ideal--this command first to seek light--because it is the hardest thing that can be asked of us or that we can ask of ourselves. But what is thus asked is not mere Faith and Hope, but a loyal adherence to the knowledge which is within us. Is this not the hardest? To-day, when over there in France and Flanders, and indeed almost all over Europe, as in a sort of Devil's smithy, men are busied in the most horrid self-destruction. The accumulated stores of age-long and patient industry are being consumed and annihilated; the works and monuments of civilized life are laid low: all physical and intellectual energies are bent to the service of destruction. The very surface of the kindly and fertile earth is seamed and scarred and wasted. And the human beings who live and move in this inferno, are jerked like puppets hither and thither by the operation of passions to which we dare not venture to give names, lest we be found either not condemning what defiles and imbrutes our nature or denying our meed of praise and gratitude to what ennobles it. All this portentous activity and business flows from no other fount and is fed by no other spring than the spirit which is within us, that spirit which has created that wealth, material, artistic, spiritual, which it is so busily engaged in wrecking and undoing. It is still as of old, making History, making it in the old fashion with the old ends in view and by the exercise of its old familiar powers. And if in this tragic scene or episode we cannot still read the features of Progress, our theory is a baseless dream, and we can frame no valid or 'right' ideal of action. For except to an environment known to be still, because always, the work and self-expression of a spirit akin to, and indeed identical with our own, and except as knowing ourselves to be still, because always, in all our ways of working its vehicles and instruments, we can neither define nor realize any ideals of action at all. This war is not an accident, nor an outburst of subterranean natural forces, but the act and deed of human will, and being so it cannot be merely evil. What, then, can we read not into, but out of, the tragic spectacle now being enacted, not merely before but in, through, and by us? Unless we have all along been mistaken, the victims of mere delusion and error, here, too, there has been and still is Progress. Primarily and principally what is taking place, is a tremendous revelation of the potencies which in our nature--in that which makes us men--have escaped our notice and therefore, because unseen or ignored, working in the dark, have not yet been drawn upon and utilized. There has been and still is going on, an enormous increase of self-knowledge. At first sight this seems wholly an opening up of undreamt-of evil. Side by side there has come to us a parallel revelation of undreamt-of good. I must bear witness to my conviction that we are beholding a tremendous inrush or uprush of good into man and his world. But what I wish to dwell upon is the growing and ever-confirmed revelation of an intimate relation or connexion between the two which is the very spring of Progress, viz. that the supply of good is not only adequate and more than adequate to the utmost demand made upon it, in the combating of the evil, and that for this reason, that while on the one hand the evil that impedes or counter-works the good is itself of spiritual origin, its existence and power is conditioned by the law that it must evoke and stimulate the very power which it attempts to crush and defeat. This is, as I have said, the now discovered and known spring of Progress both within and without us, that whatsoever is evil, evil just because it is enacted and does not merely occur, passes within the reach of knowledge and understanding, and in the measure that it passes into the light, not merely loses its sting and its force, but is convertible and converted into a strengthening condition of that which in its first appearance it seemed merely to thwart. Even regress is seen to be a necessary incident in progress, and the seasons which we call periods of decadence to be occasions in which the spirit progresses in secret, recruiting itself not by idleness or rest, but genuinely refreshing and recreating itself. The view here suggested is no sentimental optimism. The drama of the universe is no comedy or even melodrama, but a tragedy or epic of heroism, and more especially is this the character of the history of the spirit which is in Man and is Man. The evil we enact is real evil, the only real evil, the checks which our disobedience or disloyalty imposes upon the course of good, are genuine retardations or frustrations; nevertheless they are not wholly evil, for nothing is such, but are the means which the spirit that has begotten them, utilizes in its eternal Progress and wins out of them a richness, a complex and varied harmony to which they are compelled to contribute. Our ideal of action must therefore in principle acknowledge as essential, what I have called the 'tragic' character suggested by the spectacle of the war, the fear and agony which we imagine in Nature and comprehendingly discern in human history. The Progress which we can achieve or contribute to--which we can make our ideal of action--is one which cannot rightly be conceived otherwise than in its essence a victory over evil, and that it may be evil, it must come and be done in the dark. For the spirit in progressing deposits what, being abandoned by it, corrupts into venomous evil, but except in meeting and combating that, it cannot progress. And it can only combat it by getting to know it, for in darkness and ignorance it can make no secure advance. It has been profoundly said that to know all is to forgive all. Let us rather say that in coming to know its own past, the Spirit which is in Man can without undoing it--that it cannot--make it contributory to its own wealth of being, can, as I have said, utilize it for its own purposes, which are summed up in the knowing of itself. There is and can be nothing in its deeds which it cannot know, and so digest and assimilate and absorb into its own substance. In this interpretation of the meaning--the veiled but not hidden meaning of what has taken place and is taking place in the world--or rather in us and enacted by us, I seem to myself not to be expressing any private imagination or supposition which may or may not be so, but a certainty that it must be so. Either it is so or 'the pillared firmament is rottenness and earth's base built on stubble'. And this means that everywhere and always, but most specially and centrally and potently in man's spirit, there is Progress, in spite of checks and hindrances which come from within it, a constant if chequered advance in true worth or value. And that knowledge I build on grounded and reasoned hope that it will and must continue--how, I do not know, but can only surmise and conjecture and imagine. To the question, What, then, ought we to do? I can only reply first and foremost, Labour to retain this truth, fostering and developing it, verifying it as we have been doing in all the varied departments of human experience, exercising our imaginations while at the same time sobering and controlling them by the light that comes from it. If we are true to it and do not through slackness forget and lose it, we shall find arising spontaneously out of the depths of our self worthy and feasible ideals of action, the pursuit of which will not betray us or leave us without an ever-growing assurance that in bending and directing all our powers to their realization we are the agents of that Progress which is the source of all being and all worth whatsoever. If we will to learn from our own past, we can convert anything that is evil in it into an occasion, an opportunity, a means to good which without it were not possible. Thus we can even do what seems utterly impossible, for we can without forgetting or ignoring or denying, forgive ourselves even the evil which we have done. Yes, even the darkest and worst evil, the disloyalty to ourselves, to the best and deepest within us, which all but achieved the impossibility of finally defeating the march of Progress. For the basis and ground of our belief in the reality, and therefore the eternity, of Progress lies in this, that the now known nature of the Spirit which is in Man and not in Man alone, is that it can heal any wounds that it can inflict upon itself, can find in its own errors and failures, in its own mistakes and misdeeds, if it only will, the materials of richer and fuller and worthier life. +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Notes | | | | Page 26: Opening and closing quotes added to "Beg humbly | | that he unlock the door." | | Page 89: _Suma Theologica_ _sic_ | | Page 92: course amended to coarse | | Page 165: preventible amended to preventable | | Page 299: missing word "is" added ("so far as it is | | realized") | | | | The footnote number is for footnote 81 is missing in the | | original text. The location of the number that has been | | added is only an assumption. | | | | Discrepancies between the Table of Contents and chapter | | headings ("Government"/"Progress in Government"; | | "Industry"/"Progress in Industry"; "Art"/"Progress in Art"; | | "Science"/"Progress in Science" and "Philosophy"/"Progress | | in Philosophy") have been retained. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ 
40860	----	produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) RUINS OF ANCIENT CITIES; WITH GENERAL AND PARTICULAR ACCOUNTS OF THEIR RISE, FALL, AND PRESENT CONDITION. BY CHARLES BUCKE. Fallen, fallen, a silent heap; their heroes all Sunk in their urns:--Behold the pride of pomp, The throne of nations fallen; obscured in dust Even yet majestical.--The solemn scene Elates the soul! DYER. IN TWO VOLS.--VOL. I. LONDON: PRINTED FOR THOMAS TEGG, 73, CHEAPSIDE. MDCCCXL. LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. TO THOMAS HILL MORTIMER, ESQ., (OF THE ALBANY), THE FOLLOWING PAGES ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, BY HIS FAITHFUL AND GREATLY OBLIGED FRIEND AND SERVANT, THE AUTHOR. PREFACE. The reader is requested to observe, that, though the plan of this work is entirely his own, the compiler of it does not put it forth as in any way original in respect to language or description. It is, in fact, a much better book, than if it had been what is strictly called original, (which, indeed, must have involved an utter impossibility:) for it is a selection of some of the best materials the British Museum could furnish; sometimes worked up in his own language; and sometimes--and, indeed, very frequently--in that of others: the compiler having, at an humble distance and with unequal steps, followed the plan which M. Rollin proposed to himself, when he composed his celebrated history of ancient times.--"To adorn and enrich my own," says that celebrated writer, "I will be so ingenuous as to confess, that I do not scruple, nor am ashamed, to rifle whereever I come; and that I often do not cite the authors from whom I transcribe, because of the liberty I take to make some slight alterations. I have made the best use in my power of the solid reflections that occur in the Bishop of Meaux's Universal History, which is one of the most beautiful and most useful books in our language. I have also received great assistance from the learned Dean Prideaux's 'Connexion of the Old and New Testament,' in which he has traced and cleared up, in an admirable manner, the particulars relating to ancient history. I shall take the same liberty with whatever comes in my way, that may suit my design, and contribute to its perfection. I am very sensible, that it is not so much for a person's reputation to make use of other men's labours, and that it is in a manner renouncing the name and quality of author. But I am not over-fond of that title, and shall be extremely well pleased, and think myself very happy, if I can but deserve the name of a good compiler; and supply my readers with a tolerable history, who will not be over-solicitous to inquire what hand it comes from, provided they are but pleased with it." Having followed this example,--the compiler wishes he could say with equal effect,--he will be fully satisfied, should judicious readers feel inclined to concede, that he has shown some judgment in selecting his materials, and some taste in binding "the beads of the chain," that connects them together. He disclaims, in fact, (as, in the present instance, he is bound to do), all the "_divine honours_" of authorship; satisfied with those of a selecter, adapter, and compiler; and happy in the hope that he has here, by means of the superior writers, whose labours he has used, furnished his readers with an useful, accurate, and amusing work. C. B. _London, January 1st, 1840._ CONTENTS. PAGE I. ABYDOS 1 II. ABYDUS 5 III. ÆGESTA 7 IV. ÆGINA 8 V. AGRIGENTUM 15 VI. ALBA LONGA 22 VII. ALCANTARA 23 VIII. ALEXANDRIA 25 IX. AMISUS 50 X. ANTIOCH 53 XI. ARGOS 57 XII. ARIAMMENE 65 XIII. ARSINOE 66 XIV. ARTAXATA 69 XV. ARTEMITA 70 XVI. ATHENS 74 XVII. BABYLON 121 XVIII. BALBEC 165 XIX. BYZANTIUM 185 XX. CAIRO (OLD) 200 XXI. CANNÆ 205 XXII. CAPUA 209 XXIII. CARTHAGE 213 XXIV. CATANEA 237 XXV. CHALCEDON 240 XXVI. CHÆRONEA 243 XXVII. CORDUBA 247 XXVIII. CORCYRA (CORFU) 249 XXIX. CORINTH 252 XXX. CTESIPHON 265 XXXI. DELPHOS 274 XXXII. ECBATANA 279 XXXIII. ELEUSIS 294 XXXIV. ELIS 299 XXXV. EPHESUS 301 XXXVI. GERASA (DJERASH) 316 XXXVII. GRANADA 321 XXXVIII. GNIDOS 330 XXXIX. HELIOPOLIS 333 XL. HERCULANEUM 335 XLI. HIERAPOLIS 352 XLII. ISPAHAN 353 XLIII. ITALICA 365 XLIV. JERUSALEM 366 XLV. LACEDÆMON, OR SPARTA 399 XLVI. LAODICEA 407 XLVII. LEUCTRA 410 XLVIII. MAGNESIA 413 XLIX. MANTINEA 415 L. MARATHON 423 LI. MEGALOPOLIS 428 LII. MEGARA 430 LIII. MEMPHIS 435 RUINS OF ANCIENT CITIES. NO. I.--ABYDOS. Of chance or change, oh! let not man complain; Else shall he never, never, cease to wail; For from the imperial dome, to where the swain Rears his lone cottage in the silent dale, All feel the assault of fortune's fickle gale. Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd; Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble vale; And gulfs the mountains' mighty mass entomb'd; And where the Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloom'd. BEATTIE. This city stood on the Asiatic side of the Hellespont, now called the Dardanelles, opposite to the city of Sestos, on the European side, the distance from each other being about two miles. Abydos was built by the Milesians, and became greatly celebrated from the circumstance that it was here that Xerxes built his bridge over the Hellespont;--also for the loves of Hero and Leander. Philip, king of Macedon, laid siege to this city, and nothing of what is generally practised in the assaulting and defending of cities was omitted in the siege. No place, say the historians, was ever defended with greater obstinacy, which might be said at length, on the side of the besieged, to have risen to fury and brutality. Confiding in its own strength, they repulsed, with the greatest vigour, the approaches of the Macedonians. Finding, however, at last, that the outer wall of their city was sapped, and that the Macedonians carried their mines under the inner one, they sent deputies to Philip, offering to surrender the city on certain conditions, one of which was, that all the free citizens should retire whithersoever they pleased, with the clothes they then had on. These conditions were not approved by Philip, he therefore sent for answer, that the Abydonians had only to choose, whether they would surrender at discretion or continue to defend themselves gallantly as they had before done. When the citizens heard this they assembled together, to consider what they should do in so great an emergency; and here we have to record, not in our own language but in that of others, for our pen would be unequal to the description, circumstances scarcely to be paralleled in all history! It is thus given by Rollin:-- They came to these resolutions; first, that the slaves should be set at liberty, to animate them to defend the city with the utmost vigour; secondly, that all the women should be shut up in the temple of Diana, and all the children with their nurses in the Gymnasium; that this being done, they then should bring into the great square all the gold and silver in the city, and carry all the rest of the valuable effects into the quadrireme of the Rhodians and the trireme of the Cyzicenians. This resolution having passed unanimously, another assembly was called, in which they chose fifty of the wisest and most ancient of the citizens, but who at the same time had vigour enough left to execute what should have been determined; and they were made to take an oath, in presence of all the inhabitants, that the instant they saw the enemy master of the inner wall they should kill the women and children, set fire to the galleys laden with their effects, and throw into the sea all the gold and silver which they had heaped together. Then, sending for their priests, they took an oath either to conquer or die, sword in hand; and after having sacrificed the victims, they obliged the priests and priestesses to pronounce before the altar the greatest curses on those who should break their oath. This being done, they left off countermining, and resolved, the instant the wall should fall, to fly to the breach and fight to the last. Accordingly, the inward wall tumbling, the besieged, true to the oath they had taken, fought in the breach with such unparalleled bravery, that though Philip had perpetually sustained with fresh soldiers those who had mounted to the assault, yet, when night separated the combatants, he was still doubtful with regard to the success of the siege. Such Abydonians as marched first to the breach, over the heaps of slain, fought with fury, and not only made use of their swords and javelins, but after their arms were broken to pieces or forced from their hands, they rushed furiously upon the Macedonians, knocked down some, broke the long spears of others, and with the pieces struck their faces and such parts of their bodies as were uncovered, till they made them entirely despair of the event. When night had put an end to the slaughter, the breach was quite covered with the dead bodies of the Abydonians, and those who had escaped were so prodigiously fatigued, and had received so many wounds, that they could scarce support themselves. Things being brought to this dreadful extremity, two of the principal citizens, unable to execute the dreadful resolution that had been taken, and which at that time displayed itself to their imaginations in all its horror, agreed that, to save their wives and children, they should send to Philip by day-break all their priests and priestesses, clothed in pontifical habits, to implore his mercy and open their gates to him. Accordingly the next morning the city, as had been agreed, was surrendered to Philip, during which the greatest part of the Abydonians, who survived, vented millions of imprecations against their fellow-citizens, and especially against the priests and priestesses, for delivering up to the enemy those whom they themselves had devoted to death with the most dreadful oaths. Philip marched into the city and seized, without the least opposition, all the rich effects which the Abydonians had heaped together in one place. But now he was greatly terrified with the spectacle he saw. Among these ill-fated citizens, whom despair had made furious and distracted, some were strangling their wives and children; and others cutting them with swords to pieces; some were running to murder them; some were plunging them into wells; whilst others were precipitating them from the tops of the houses; in a word, death appeared in a variety of horrors. Philip, pierced with grief, and seized with horror at the spectacle, stopped the soldiers who were greedy of plunder, and published a declaration, importing that he would allow three days to all, who were resolved to lay violent hands on themselves. He was in hopes that during this interval they would change their resolution, but they had made their choice before. They thought it would be degenerating from those, who had lost their lives in fighting for their country, should they survive them. The individuals of every family killed one another, and none escaped this murderous expedition but those whose hands were tied, or were otherwise kept from destroying themselves. Nothing now remains of the ancient town, but a few insignificant ruins in the neighbourhood of the modern one[1]. NO. II.--ABYDUS. Abydus, in Egypt, is now called Madfuneh, or the _Buried City_. According to Pliny and Strabo it was a colony of Milesians. It is said once to have nearly equalled Thebes in grandeur and magnificence; but it was reduced to a village in the reign of Augustus, and is now only a heap of uninhabited ruins. In its neighbourhood, however, the celebrated tomb of Ismandes is still found; he who built the temple of Osiris, into which no singers or dancers were ever allowed to enter. Besides numerous tombs and sepulchral monuments, that are continually found here, the remains of two grand edifices, and other ruins, evince its former extent, and justify the assertion of Strabo, that Abydus formerly held the first rank after Thebes itself. One of those edifices was called the Palace of Memnon; but it was, in reality, commenced by Osirei, and completed by his son Remesis II., and from the peculiar nature of its plan, and the structure of its roof, it is particularly interesting to the antiquary. This last is formed of large blocks of stone placed from one architrave to the other; not, as usual in Egyptian buildings, on their faces, but on their sides; so that considerable thickness having been given to the roof, a vault was afterwards cut in them, without endangering its stability. The other building is the famous temple of Osiris, who was reported to have been buried in Abydus, and who was worshipped there in his most sacred character. There are many other places, says Plutarch, where his corpse is said to have been deposited; but Abydus and Memphis are mentioned in particular as having the true body; and for this reason the rich and powerful of the Egyptians were desirous of being buried in the former of these two cities, in order to lie, as it were, in the same grave with Osiris himself. The fact, that the natives of other towns also were buried at Abydus, is fully confirmed by modern discoveries; and inscriptions, purporting that the deceased were from some distant part of the country, are frequently found in the tombs of its extensive cemetery. The temple of Osiris was completed by Remesis II., who enriched it with a splendid sanctuary, rendered unusually conspicuous from the materials used in its construction, being entirely lined with oriental alabaster. He also added to the numerous chambers and courts many elegant and highly-finished sculptures. One of these lateral apartments contains the famous tablet of kings, discovered by Mr. Bankes, and which, in an historical point of view, is one of the most precious monuments hitherto met with among the ruins of Egypt. In the cemetery to the northward are some other stone remains, among which is one of the time of Remesis the Second, and another bearing the name of Sabaco. The reservoir mentioned by Strabo, which was cased with stone, may be traced on the east side of the ancient town; and in the mountain, to the north-west, are some limestone quarries, and an inclined road leading to a narrow grotto, in an unfinished state, and without sculpture. The Arabs, in searching for treasure, have heaped up piles of earth and rubbish; but there are no inhabitants[2]. NO. III.--ÆGESTA. The sterile country between Trapani and Alcamo (in Sicily) may render the stranger better prepared to contemplate one of the finest of ancient monuments--all that remains of Ægesta, celebrated for the temple of the Erycinian Venus. This town, situated on a height at the base of Mount Eryx, was deserted and almost in ruins at so early a period as the time of Strabo. All travellers, who have examined the temple, are unanimous in its commendation. "The effect it produced at a distance," says Mons. Simon, "increased as I approached. Such is the magic of its proportions, and the beauty of its forms, that, at whatever side it may be viewed, it is equally admirable. It has braved the influence of time--the edifice stands entire, columns, entablature, pediment--all except the cella and roof, which have disappeared. The columns, of the Ionic order, are about seven feet in diameter at the base, tapering towards the top, and only four diameters in height; but they form, with the front, a total height of fifty-eight feet. The dimensions of the interior are about one hundred and seventy-four feet by seventy-two." This city was destroyed by Agathocles. At a subsequent time it was the residence of the tyrant Æmilius Censorinus, who offered rewards to such artists as were the most ingenious in the invention of instruments of torture![3] NO. IV.--ÆGINA. "We seated ourselves on a fallen column," says Mr. Williams, "and could not but admire the scene before us: Attica, Peloponnesus, and the gulf of Ægina, with their many points of attraction, addressing both the eye and the mind! While we were enjoying the splendid view, two shepherds stepped from the ruins, and passing their crooks from their right hand to their left, pressed their hearts and foreheads, and kissed their hands in a manner than which nothing could be more graceful. Their eyes bespoke their curiosity to know what brought us there; and when we looked across the gulf, they both exclaimed, 'Athenæ! Athenæ!' as if we were desirous to know the name of the distant spot, that marked the site of Athens." Servius Sulpitius mentions Ægina in a very agreeable manner to Cicero, who was then grieving for the loss of his daughter Tullia:--"Once," said he, "when I was in distress, I received a sensible alleviation of my sorrow from a circumstance, which, in the hope of its having the same influence upon you, I will take this opportunity of relating. I was returning from Asia; and as I was steering my course, I began to contemplate the surrounding country. Behind me was Ægina; Megara in the front; the Piræus occupied my right hand, and Corinth my left. These cities, once flourishing, were now reduced to irretrievable ruin. 'Alas!' said I, somewhat indignantly, 'shall man presume to complain of the shortness and the ills of life, whose being in this world is necessarily short, when I see so many cities, at one view, totally destroyed?' This reflection, my friend, relieved my sorrow." Mr. Dodwell, when he was in Ægina, lodged at the house of the principal Greek, who was acquainted with the leading particulars of its history; and when he talked of its former grandeur, and compared it with its present abject condition, the tears came into his eyes, and he exclaimed--"_Alas! where is Ægina now?_" The island of Ægina lies between Attica and Argolis, eighteen miles distant from the coast of Athens and fourteen from Epidaurus. It does not exceed nine miles in its greatest length, nor six miles in its greatest breadth; its interior is rough and mountainous, and the valleys, though they are made to bear corn, cotton, olive, and fruit trees, are stony and narrow. Notwithstanding this, in ancient days, through the blessings of commerce, this spot in the seas of Greece was the residence of a numerous and most thriving population, who created upon it such works as are still the admiration of the civilised world, though they are now in ruins; the place, however, of those who built them, is scantily occupied by an impoverished and degraded race of men. The people of Ægina were the first who coined money to be subservient to the uses of life, agreeably to the advice of Phidon, who considered that a maritime commerce would best be promoted, where exchange and accommodation became easy and familiar between the vendor and purchaser. The place, too, had the advantage of security; an important point in the earlier ages of Greece, when piracy was a common and honourable profession. It lay deep within a gulf; nature had made access to its shores difficult, by nearly encircling them with rocks and sand-banks; and its industrious population added artificial defences. Its port also was commodious, and well protected against the attacks of man. Here, therefore, the goods procured, far and near, by the enterprising inhabitants, could be lodged without fear of pillage, and the Greeks would resort hither as to a general mart, where whatever they wanted might be purchased. Wealth would thus flow into the island, and its inhabitants, with their exquisite feeling for all that was beautiful, would employ their wealth in cultivating the fine arts, and in covering their barren rocks with grand and graceful edifices; and this was shown by the ancient inhabitants of Ægina having had the honour of introducing a style in sculpture superior to all that preceded, though inferior to the ultimate perfection of the Athenian school. Ægina was, originally, subject to kings; but it afterwards adopted the republican form of government. It was at length reduced by the Athenians, and continued subject to them, till, at the end of the Macedonian war, it was declared free by the Romans. In the reign of Vespasian, however, it underwent the same fortune as the other states of Greece. A.D. 1536, it was subdued by the Turks, after an obstinate resistance; the capital was plundered and burned; and, after a great slaughter of the inhabitants, the rest were carried into slavery--not an unworthy fate, had it occurred in ancient times, for a people, who were possessed of 420,000 slaves! The site of Ægina, the capital of the island, has long been forsaken. Instead of the temples, mentioned by Pausanias, there are thirteen lonely churches, all very mean, and two Doric columns supporting their architrave. These stand by the sea-side toward the low cape; and, it has been supposed, are a remnant of a temple of Venus, which was situated by the port principally frequented. The theatre, which is recorded as greatly worth seeing, resembled that of the Epidaurians, both in size and workmanship. It was not far from the private port; the _stadium_, which like that at Priene, was constructed with only one side, being joined to it behind, and each structure mutually sustaining and propping the other. The most celebrated of its edifices was the temple of Jupiter Panhellenius. "This temple," says Colonel Leake, "was erected upon a large paved platform, and must, when complete, have been one of the most remarkable examples in Greece of the majesty and beauty of its sacred edifices, as well as of the admirable taste with which the Greeks enhanced those qualities by an attention to local situation and surrounding scenery. It is not only in itself one of the finest specimens of Grecian architecture, but is the more curious as being, in all probability, the most ancient example of the Doric order in Greece, with the exception of the columns at Corinth." This temple is far from any habitation, and is surrounded with shrubs and small pine-trees. No ruin in Greece is more rich in the picturesque, as every point of view has some peculiar charm:--"When I was at Ægina," says Mr. Dodwell, "the interior of the temple was covered with large blocks of stone, and overgrown with bushes. This circumstance produced a sort of confusion, which, while it intermingled the trees and the architecture, made a great addition to the picturesque effect of the interesting scene. The place has since been cleared, the stones have been taken away, and the trees cut down to facilitate the removal of the statues which were found among the ruins. Though these changes may have made some deduction from the pleasure with which the painter would have viewed the spot, yet they have added greatly to the gratification of the classical traveller, by whom all the architectural details may now be readily examined and accurately discriminated." This ruin Dr. Chandler considers as scarcely to be paralleled in its claim to remote antiquity. The situation on a lonely mountain at a distance from the sea has preserved it from total demolition, and all the changes and accidents of numerous centuries[4]. Lusieri classes the architecture of the temple of the Panhellenian Jupiter at Ægina with that of Pæstum in Lucania:--"In their buildings," says he, "the Doric order attained a pre-eminence which it never passed; not a stone has been there placed without some evident and important design; every part of the structure bespeaks its own essential utility. Of such a nature were works in architecture, when the whole aim of the architect was to unite grandeur with utility; the former being founded on the latter. All then was truth, strength, and sublimity." In 1811, several statues of Parian marble were discovered by two English gentlemen and two Germans[5], the rivals in the style of which are said nowhere to be found. They were excavated from the two extremities of the temple below the tympana, from which they had fallen at some unknown period. Mr. Dodwell has given the following account of them:--"I shall not attempt," says he, "a minute description of these precious remains of the Æginetic school; the discovery of which, in its importance, has not been surpassed by any of the kind in modern times. They are supposed by some to represent the principal heroes of the Iliad contending with the Trojans for the body of Patroclus. Minerva, armed with her helmet, is the principal figure; and from its superior size, is conjectured to have stood in the centre of the tympanum, below which it was found. The other figures are combatants in various costumes and attitudes; their shields are circular, and their helmets crowned with the lophos. The bodies of some are naked, while others are covered with armour or leather; their attitudes are judiciously adapted to the four tympana, and the places which they occupied. They were evidently made prior to the introduction of the beautiful ideal in Grecian sculpture. The muscles and the veins, which are anatomically correct, exhibit the soft flexibility of life, and every motion of the body is in scientific harmony with that of nature. The limbs are strong, though not Herculean, and elegant without effeminacy; no preposterous muscular protuberance, no unnatural feminine delicacy offends the eye. They are noble without being harsh or rigid, and are composed with Doric severity mingled with the airy grace of youthful forms; the perfection of the finish is quite wonderful; every part being in a style worthy of the most beautiful cameo. The extremities of the hands and feet merit more particular admiration. Indeed, the ancients thought that elegant fingers and nails were essential ingredients in the composition of the beautiful. The most extraordinary circumstance, however, in these statues, is the want of expression, and the sameness of countenance, which is to be observed in all the heads. This approximation to identity is certainly not fortuitous; for the artists, who were able to throw so much varied beauty into the forms of the bodies, were, no doubt, fully able to infuse a similar diversity of expression into the features. Their talent was probably confined to one style of countenance by some religious prejudice. Perhaps some ancient and much venerated statue served as a model, from which it might not have been consistent with the feeling of reverence, or with the state of opinion, to deviate. The formation and posture of the bodies afforded a greater scope and a wider field for the talent of the sculptor; for while the Doric severity of the early Æginetic school is evidently diffused through the whole, yet a correctness of muscular knowledge; and a strict adherence to natural beauty, are conspicuously blended in every statue. An unmeaning and inanimate smile is prevalent in all the faces; every one of the heroes, who is mortally wounded, is supporting himself in the most beautiful attitude, and smiling upon death! In short, the conquerors and the conquered, the dying and dead, have all one expression, or rather none at all. The high finish of the hair is particularly worthy of notice. Some in curls, which hang down in short ringlets, are of lead, and still remain. The helmets were ornamented with metallic accessories, and the offensive weapons were probably of bronze; but they have not been found. All the figures have been painted; the colour is still visible, though nearly effaced. The colour on the ægis of Minerva is very distinguishable; but the white marble, of which the statues are composed, has assumed a yellow dye from the soil in which they were buried." Dr. Clarke tells us, that Lusieri found here both medals and vases in such numbers, that he was under the necessity of dismissing the peasants who amassed them, without purchasing more than half that were brought to him; although they were offered for a very trifling consideration, and were of very high antiquity[6]. NO. V.--AGRIGENTUM. The citadel of Agrigentum (Sicily) was situated on Mount Agragas; the city in the vale below; forming a magnificent spectacle at a distance. It was founded by a native of Rhodes, according to Polybius; but by a colony from Ionia, according to Strabo; about one hundred and eighty years after the founding of Syracuse. Thucydides, however, says that it was founded by a colony from Gela. The government was at first monarchical; afterwards democratical. Phalaris, so well known for his superior talent and tyranny, usurped the sovereignty, which for some time afterwards was under the sway of the Carthaginians. In its most flourishing condition, it is said to have contained not less than two hundred thousand persons, who submitted, without resistance, to the superior authority of the Syracusans. Some idea of the wealth of this city may be imagined, from what is stated by Diodorus Siculus, of one of its citizens. At the time when Exenetes, who had been declared victor in the Olympic games[7], entered the city in triumph, he did so in a magnificent chariot, attended by three hundred more, all drawn by white horses. Their habits were adorned with gold and silver; and nothing was ever more splendid than their appearance. Gellias, the most wealthy citizen of the place, erected several apartments in his house for the reception and entertainment of guests. Servants waited by his order at the gates of the city, to invite all strangers to lodge at their master's house, whither they conducted them. A violent storm having obliged one hundred horsemen to take shelter there, Gellias entertained them all in his house, and supplied them immediately with dry clothes, of which he had always a great quantity in his wardrobe. Though this gives us some notion of his wealth, there is another description still more indicative of his humanity. He entertained the people with spectacles and feasts; and, during a famine, prevented the citizens from dying with hunger; he gave portions to poor maidens also, and rescued the unfortunate from want and despair. He had houses built in the city and the country, purposely for the accommodation of strangers, whom he usually dismissed with handsome presents. Five hundred shipwrecked citizens of Gela, applying to him, were bountifully relieved; and every man supplied with a cloak and a coat out of his wardrobe. Agrigentum was first taken by the Carthaginians. It was strongly fortified. It was situated, as were Hymera and Selinuntum, on that coast of Sicily which faces Africa. Accordingly, Hannibal, imagining that it was impregnable except on one side, turned his whole force that way. He threw up banks and terraces as high as the walls; and made use, on this occasion, of the rubbish and fragments of the tombs standing round the city, which he had demolished for that purpose. Soon after, the plague infected the army, and swept away a great number of the soldiers. The Carthaginians interpreted this disaster as a punishment inflicted by the gods, who revenged in this manner the injuries done to the dead, whose ghosts many fancied they had seen stalking before them in the night. No more tombs were therefore demolished; prayers were ordered to be made according to the practice of Carthage; a child was sacrificed to Saturn, in compliance with a most inhumanly superstitious custom; and many victims were thrown into the sea in honour of Neptune. The besieged, who at first had gained several advantages, were at last so pressed by famine, that all hopes of relief seeming desperate, they resolved to abandon the city. The following night was fixed on for this purpose. The reader will naturally imagine to himself the grief with which these miserable people must be seized, on their being forced to leave their houses, rich possessions, and their country; but life was still dearer to them than all these. Never was a more melancholy spectacle seen. To omit the rest, a crowd of women, bathed in tears, were seen dragging after them their helpless infants, in order to secure them from the brutal fury of the victor. But the most grievous circumstance was the necessity they were under of leaving behind them the aged and sick, who were unable either to fly or to make the least resistance. The unhappy exiles arrived at Gela, which was the nearest city in their way, and there received all the comforts they could expect in the deplorable condition to which they were reduced. In the meantime Imilcon entered the city, and murdered all who were found in it. The plunder was immensely rich, and such as might be expected from one of the most opulent cities of Sicily, which contained two hundred thousand inhabitants, and had never been besieged, nor, consequently, plundered before. A numberless multitude of pictures, vases, and statues of all kinds, were found here, the citizens having an exquisite taste for the polite arts. Among other curiosities, was the famous bull of Phalaris, which was sent to Carthage. At a subsequent period the Romans attacked this city, then in possession of the Carthaginians; took it, and the chief persons of Agrigentum were, by the consul's order, first scourged with rods, and then beheaded. The common people were made slaves, and sold to the best bidder. After this, Agrigentum is seldom mentioned in history; nor is it easy to ascertain the precise time in which the old city was destroyed, and the new one (_Gergenti_) was built. It was crushed in the general fall of the Greek state, and its unfortunate inhabitants, expelled by the Saracens, took refuge among the black and inaccessible rocks of Girgenti. In ancient times, this city was greatly celebrated for the hospitality and luxurious mode of living, adopted by its inhabitants. On one side of the city there was a large artificial lake, about a quarter of a league in circumference, dug out of the solid rock by the Carthaginian captives, and to which the water was conveyed from the hills. It was thirty feet deep; great quantities of fish were kept in this reservoir for the public feasts; and swans and other fowls were kept upon it for the amusement of the citizens; and the depth of its waters secured the city from the sudden assault of an enemy. It is now dry, and converted into a garden. It is, nevertheless, a curious fact, that though the whole space within the walls of the ancient city abounds with traces of antiquity, there are no ruins which can be supposed to have belonged to places of public entertainment. Yet the Agrigentines were remarkably fond of shows and dramatic amusements; and their connexion with the Romans must have introduced among them the savage games of the circus. Theatres and amphitheatres seem peculiarly calculated to resist the outrages of time; yet not a vestige of these are to be seen on the site of Agrigentum. They appear, however, to have been quite alive to the pleasures to be derived from sculpture and painting. The Temple of Juno was adorned by one of the most famous pictures of antiquity; which is celebrated by many of the ancient writers. Zeuxis was determined to excel any thing that had gone before him, and to form a model of human perfection. To this end, he prevailed on all the finest women of Agrigentum, who were ambitious of the honour, to appear naked before him. Of these he chose five for his models; and moulding all the perfections of these beauties into one, he composed the picture of the goddess. This was ever looked upon as his masterpiece; but was, unfortunately, burnt when the Carthaginians took Agrigentum. At that period, many of the citizens retired into this temple, as to a place of safety; but as soon as they found the gates attacked by the enemy, they agreed to set fire to it, and chose rather to perish in the flames, than submit to the power of the conqueror. In the Temple of Hercules, there was another picture by Zeuxis. Hercules was represented, in his cradle, killing the two serpents; Alcmena and Amphitrion, having just entered the apartment, were painted with every mark of terror and astonishment. Pliny says, the painter looked upon this piece as invaluable; and, therefore, could never be prevailed upon to put a price upon it; but gave it as a present to the people of Agrigentum, to be placed in the temple of Hercules. The temples, also, were very magnificent. That of Æsculapius, two columns and two pilasters of which now support the end of a farm-house, was not less celebrated for a statue of Apollo. It was taken from them by the Carthaginians, at the same time that the Temple of Juno was burnt. It was carried off by the conquerors, and continued the greatest ornament of Carthage for many years; but was, at last, restored by Scipio, at the final destruction of the city. Some of the Sicilians allege, but it is supposed without ground, that this statue was afterward carried to Rome, and still remains there, the wonder of all ages; and known to the whole world, under the name of the Apollo Belvidere. An edifice of the Doric order, called the Temple of Concord, has still its walls, its columns, entablature, and pediments, entire. In proceeding from the Temple of Concord, you walk between rows of sepulchres, cut in the rock, wherever it admitted of being excavated by the hand of man, or was so already by that of nature. Some masses are hewn into the shape of coffins; others drilled full of small square holes, employed in a different mode of interment, and serving as receptacles of urns. One ponderous piece of the rock lies in an extraordinary position. By the failure of its foundation, or the shock of an earthquake, it has been loosened from the general quarry, and rolled down the declivity, where it now remains supine, with the cavities turned upwards. There was also a temple dedicated to Ceres and Proserpine; with the ruins was formed a church, which now exists; and the road, leading to which, was cut out of the solid rock. In respect to the temple of Castor and Pollux, vegetation has covered the lower parts of the building, and only a few fragments of two columns appear between the vines. Of the Temple of Venus, about one half remains; but the glory of the place was the Temple of Jupiter Olympius, three hundred and forty feet long, sixty broad, and one hundred and twenty in height. Its columns and porticos were in the finest style of architecture; and its bas-reliefs and paintings executed with admirable taste. On its eastern walls was sculptured the Battle of the Giants; while the western represented the Trojan War; corresponding exactly with the description which Virgil had given of the painting in the Temple of Juno at Carthage. Diodorus Siculus extols the beauty of the columns which supported the building; the admirable structure of the porticos, and the exquisite taste with which the bas-reliefs and paintings were executed; but he adds, that the stately edifice was never finished. Cicero, against Verres, speaks of the statues he carried away. Mr. Swinburne says, that it has remaining not one stone upon another; and that it is barely possible, with the liberal aid of conjecture, to discover the traces of its plan and dimensions. He adds, however, that St. Peter's at Rome exceeds this celebrated temple more than doubly in every dimension; being two hundred and fifteen feet higher, three hundred and thirty-four longer, and four hundred and thirty-three wider. Added to these, there is now remaining a monument of Tero, king of Agrigentum, one of the first of the Sicilian tyrants. The great antiquity of this monument may be gathered from this; that Tero is not only mentioned by Diodorus, Polybius, and the more modern of the ancient historians, but likewise by Herodotus, and Pindar, who dedicates two of his Olympic Odes to him; so that this monument must be much more than two thousand years old. It is a kind of pyramid, the most durable of forms; and is surrounded by aged olive-trees, which cast a wild, irregular shade over the ruin. All these mighty ruins of Agrigentum, and the whole mountain on which it stands, says Mr. Brydone, is composed of an immense concretion of seashells, run together, and cemented by a kind of sand, or gravel, and now become as hard, and perhaps more durable, than even marble itself. This stone is white before it has been exposed to the air; but in the temples and other ruins it is become "set," of a very dark brown. These shells are found on the very summit of the mountain, which is at least fourteen or fifteen hundred feet above the level of the sea. The celebrated Empedocles was a native of this city; one of the finest spirits that ever adorned the earth. His saying, in regard to his fellow-citizens, is well known;--viz., that they squandered their money so excessively every day, that they seemed to expect it could never be exhausted; and that they built with such solidity and magnificence, as if they thought they should live for ever[8]. NO. VI.--ALBA LONGA. It has been stated, or rather speculated upon, that the entire history of this place is no other than a romance. By Dionysius of Halicarnassus, however, it is said to have existed four hundred and eighty-seven years; when, after having been the founder of thirty other Latin cities, it was destroyed by the Roman power. That it existed, is also attested by the ruins that now remain. Its ancient characteristics are thus described by Dionysius:--it was so built, with regard to its mountain and lake, that it occupied a space between them, each serving like a wall of defence to the city. It was long supposed to have been situated where Palazzuolo now is. Sir W. Gell says, "On passing up the new road, running from the dry bed of the river Albanus, where it crosses the Appian Way, near Bolerillæ, and leading to the Villa Torlonia, or Castel Gandolfo, a few ancient tombs were observed about half way up the ascent; and further examination showed, that these tombs had once bordered an ancient road, now almost obliterated. It was obvious, that such a road must have led from some place on the plain, to another on the mountain. Toward the sea, the high tower of Pratica (Lavinium) lay in the direct line of the road; and it seemed certain that the city on the mountain, to which it led, could have been no other than Alba Longa. Climbing upward among the bushes, ponderous blocks of stone were discovered, evidently the remains of the walls of this city. By a farther search, more were found. At a distance a small cavern was discovered; and not only the remains of a well, but part of a column of stone, two feet four inches in diameter. At a higher point the shore was covered with ruins, consisting of large blocks of rectangular stones, nearly buried in the soil, and scarcely discernible among the bushes." There is a tradition, that the palaces of the kings of Alba stood on a rock; and so near to the edge of the precipice, that when the impiety of one of its monarchs provoked Jupiter to strike it with his lightning, a part of the mass was precipitated into the lake, carrying the impious king along with the ruins of his habitation. This tradition is apparently confirmed by a singular feature in a part of the remains of this city; for, directly under the rock of the citadel, toward the lake, and where the palace, both for security and prospect, would have been placed, is a cavern, fifty feet in depth, and more than one hundred in width; a part of the roof of which has evidently fallen in, and some of the blocks still remain on the spot[9]. NO. VII.--ALCANTARA. This town (in Spain) was built by the Moors, who gave it the name it bears; which, in the Moorish language, signifies a bridge; and this bridge shows that the original city belonged to the Romans in the time of Trajan; for on one of the arches is this inscription:-- IMP. CAESARI, D. NERVAE, F. NERVAE. TRAIANO. AVG. GERM. DACICO. PONT. MAX. TRIB. POTEST. VIII. IMP. VI. COS. V. P.P. Formerly there were four pieces of marble, fixed in the walls of the bridge; in each of which there was an inscription, containing the names of the several towns and districts, that contributed towards the expense of making it. Three of these marbles are lost; but the fourth remains, and bears the following inscription:-- MVNICIPIA. PROVINCIAE. LVSITAN. STIPE. CONFLATA. QVAE. OPVS. PONTIS. PERFECERVNT. IGAEDITANI LANCIENSES. OPIDANI. TALORI. INTERAMNIENSES. COLARNI. LAOCIENSES. TRANSCVDANI. ARAVI. MEIDVBRIGENSES. ARABRIGENSES. BANIENSES. PAESVRES. At the entrance of the bridge there is a small temple, cut in the rock, by the same person that built the bridge. The roof of this temple consists of two large stones. In the temple there is an inscription to the following effect:--"_It is reasonable to imagine, that every one, that passes this way, would be glad to know the name of the person that built this bridge and temple; and with what intent they were made, by cutting into this rock of the Tagus, full of the majesty of the Gods, and of Cæsar, and where art showed itself superior to the tough and stubborn matter that resisted her. Know, then, that it was that noble architect Lacer, who built this bridge, which will last as long as the world. Lacer, having finished this noble bridge, made and dedicated this new temple, with sacrifices, to the gods, in hopes of rendering them propitious to him, for having honoured them after this manner. This temple he dedicated to the gods of Rome, and to Cæsar; looking upon himself to have been extremely fortunate, in having been able to make so just and proper a sacrifice._[10]" NO. VIII.--ALEXANDRIA. Of the several capitals of Egypt in successive ages[11], Thebes, or Diospolis, was the most ancient. Next was Memphis; itself a city of the most remote antiquity. Babylon seems to have been only the capital of a part, retained by the Persians, after Cambyses had subdued Egypt; and was, by all accounts, founded by the Persians. Alexandria succeeded Memphis, and remained the chief city, till the Saracens founded Misr-el-Kahira. Alexander, in his way to the temple of Jupiter Ammon, observed, opposite to the island of Pharos, a spot which he thought extremely well adapted for the building of a city. He, therefore, set about drawing the plan of one; in doing which he particularly marked out the several places where temples and squares should be erected. The general execution he committed to the architect who had rebuilt the temple of Diana at Ephesus (Dinocrates). This city he called Alexandria, after his own name; and being situated with the Mediterranean on one side, and one of the branches of the Nile on the other, it soon drew all the commerce, both of the east and west. It still remains, and is situate about four days' journey from Cairo. The merchandises were unloaded at Portus Muris[12], a town on the western coast of the Red Sea; whence they were brought upon camels to a town of Thebais, called Copt, and conveyed down the Nile to Alexandria, whither merchants from all parts resorted. The trade of the East has at all times enriched those who carried it on. Solomon received from one commercial voyage, no less a sum than three millions two hundred and forty thousand pounds[13]. Tyre afterwards had the trade. When the Ptolemies, however, had built Berenice, and other ports on the western side of the Red Sea, and fixed their chief mart at Alexandria, that city became the most flourishing of all the cities in the world. "There," says Prideaux, "it continued for many centuries after; and all the traffic which the western parts of the world from that time had with Persia, India, Arabia, and the eastern coasts of Arabia, was wholly carried on through the Red Sea, and the mouth of the Nile, till a way was discovered of sailing to those parts by the Cape of Good Hope." Alexander was buried[14] in the city he had built; and as the sarcophagus in which he was placed has now become an object of great curiosity, by having been taken from the French, at Alexandria, where it was found in the mosque of St. Athanasius, and placed in the British Museum, we shall give (from Rollin) an account of his funeral; for never had any monarch one so magnificent! Alexander died at Babylon. Aridæus, having been deputed by all the governors and grandees of the kingdom, to take upon himself the care of his obsequies, had employed two years in preparing every thing that could render it the most august funeral that had ever been seen. When all things were ready for the celebration of this mournful ceremonial, orders were given for the procession to begin. This was preceded by a great number of pioneers and other workmen, whose office was to make all the ways practicable, through which the procession was to pass. As soon as these were levelled, the magnificent chariot, the invention and design of which raised as much admiration as the immense riches that glittered all over it, set out from Babylon. The body of the chariot rested upon two alxetrees, that were inserted into four wheels, made after the Persian manner; the naves and spokes of which were covered with gold, and the rounds plated over with iron. The extremities of the axletrees were made of gold, representing the mouths of lions biting a dart. The chariot had four draught-poles, to each of which were harnessed four sets of mules, each set consisting of four of those animals; so that this chariot was drawn by sixty-four mules. The strongest of those creatures, and the largest, were chosen on this occasion. They were adorned with crowns of gold, and collars enriched with precious stones and golden bells. On this chariot was erected a pavilion of entire gold, twelve feet wide, and eighteen in length, supported by columns of the Ionic order, embellished with the leaves of acanthus. The inside was adorned with a blaze of jewels, disposed in the form of shells. The circumference was beautified with a fringe of golden net-work; the threads that composed the texture were an inch in thickness, and to those were fastened large bells, whose sound was heard to a great distance. The external decorations were disposed into four relievos. The first represented Alexander seated in a military chariot, with a splendid sceptre in his hand, and surrounded, on one side, with a troop of Macedonians in arms; and on the other, with an equal number of Persians, armed in their manner. These were preceded by the king's equerries. In the second were seen elephants completely harnessed, with a band of Indians seated on the fore part of their bodies; and on the hinder, another band of Macedonians, armed as in the day of battle. The third exhibited to the view several squadrons of horse ranged in military array. The fourth represented ships preparing for a battle. At the entrance into the pavilion were golden lions, that seemed to guard the passage. The four corners were adorned with statues of gold, representing victories, with trophies of arms in their hands. Under the pavilion was placed a throne of gold of a square form, adorned with the heads of animals, whose necks were encompassed with golden circles a foot and a half in breadth; to these were hung crowns that glittered with the liveliest colours, and such as were carried in procession at the celebration of sacred solemnities. At the foot of the throne was placed the coffin of Alexander, formed of beaten gold, and half filled with aromatic spices and perfumes, as well to exhale an agreeable odour, as for the preservation of the corpse. A pall of purple, wrought with gold, covered the coffin. Between this and the throne the arms of that monarch were disposed in the manner he wore them while living. The outside of the pavilion was likewise covered with purple, flowered with gold. The top ended in a very large crown of the same metal, which seemed to be a composition of olive-branches. The rays of the sun which darted on this diadem, in conjunction with the motion of the chariot, caused it to emit a kind of rays like those of lightning. It may easily be imagined, that, in so long a procession, the motion of a chariot, loaded like this, would be liable to great inconveniences. In order, therefore, that the pavilion, with all its appendages, might, when the chariot moved in any uneven ways, constantly continue in the same situation, notwithstanding the inequality of the ground, and the shocks that would frequently be unavoidable, a cylinder was raised from the middle of each axle-tree, to support the pavilion; by which expedient the whole machine was preserved steady. The chariot was followed by the royal guards, all in arms, and magnificently arrayed. The multitude of spectators of this solemnity is hardly credible; but they were drawn together as well by their veneration for the memory of Alexander, as by the magnificence of this funeral pomp, which had never been equalled in the world. There was a current prediction, that the place where Alexander should be interred, would be rendered the most happy and flourishing part of the whole earth. The governors contested with each other, for the disposal of a body that was to be attended with such a glorious prerogative. The affection, Perdiccas entertained for his country, made him desirous that the corpse should be conveyed to Æge, in Macedonia, where the remains of its kings were usually deposited. Other places were likewise proposed, but the preference was given to Egypt. Ptolemy, who had such extraordinary and recent obligations to the king of Macedonia, was determined to signalise his gratitude on this occasion. He accordingly set out with a numerous guard of his best troops, in order to meet the procession, and advanced as far as Syria. When he had joined the attendants on the funeral, he prevented them from interring the corpse in the temple of Jupiter Ammon, as they had proposed. It was therefore deposited, first, in the city of Memphis, and from thence was conveyed to Alexandria. Ptolemy raised a magnificent temple to the memory of this monarch, and rendered him all the honours which were usually paid to demi-gods and heroes by Pagan antiquity. Freinshemius, in his supplement to Livy, relates, after Leo the African[15], that the tomb of Alexander the Great was still to be seen in his time, and that it was reverenced by the Mohammedans, as the monument, not only of an illustrious king, but of a great prophet. [16] The ancient city, together with its suburbs, was about seven leagues in length; and Diodorus informs us that the number of its inhabitants amounted to above 300,000, consisting only of the citizens and freemen; but that, reckoning the slaves and foreigners, they were allowed, at a moderate computation, to be upwards of a million. These vast numbers of people were enticed to settle here by the convenient situation of the place for commerce; since, besides the advantage of a communication to the eastern countries by the canal cut out of the Nile into the Red Sea, it had two very spacious and commodious ports, capable of containing the shipping of all the then trading nations in the world. The harbour, called Portus Eunostus, lay in the centre of the city; thus rendering the ships secure, not only by nature but by art. The figure of this harbour was a circle, the entrance being nearly closed up by two artificial moles, which left a passage for two ships only to pass abreast. At the western extremity of one of these moles stood the celebrated tower called Pharos. The ruins of it are buried in the sea, at the bottom of which, in a calm day, one may easily distinguish large columns and several vast pieces of marble, which give sufficient proofs of the magnificence of the building in which they were anciently employed. This light-house was erected by Ptolemy Philadelphus. Its architect was Sostratus of Cnidos; its cost was 180,000_l._ sterling, and it was reckoned one of the seven wonders of the world[17]. It was a large square structure built of white marble, on the top of which a fire was constantly kept burning, in order to guide ships by night. Pharos was originally an island at the distance nearly of a mile from the continent, but was afterwards joined to it by a causeway like that of Tyre. This Pharos was destroyed, and, in its stead, a square castle was built without taste or ornament, and incapable of sustaining the fire of a single vessel of the line: at present, in a space of two leagues, walled round, nothing is to be seen but marble columns lying in the dust, and sawed in pieces; for the Turks make mill-stones of them; together with the remains of pilasters, capitals, obelisks, and mountains of ruins heaped on each other. Alexandria had one peculiar advantage over all others:--Dinocrates, considering the great scarcity of good water in this country, dug very spacious vaults, which, having communication with all parts of the city, furnished its inhabitants with one of the chief necessaries of life. These vaults were divided into capacious reservoirs, or cisterns, which were filled, at the time of the inundation of the Nile, by a canal cut out of the Canopic branch, entirely for that purpose. The water was, in that manner, preserved for the remainder of the year; and being refined by the long settlement, was not only the clearest, but the wholesomest of any in Egypt. This grand work is still remaining; whence the present city, though built out of the ruins of the ancient one, still enjoys the benefactions of Alexander, its founder. A street[18], two thousand feet wide, began at the Marine gate, and ended at the gate of Canopus, adorned with magnificent houses, temples, and public edifices. Through this extent of prospect the eye was never satiated with admiring the marble, the porphyry, and the obelisks which were destined hereafter to adorn Rome and Constantinople. This street was indeed the finest the world ever saw. Besides all the private buildings constructed with porphyry and marble, there was an admirable temple to Serapis, and another to Neptune; also a theatre, an amphitheatre, gymnasium, and circus. The materials had all the perfection which the experience of one thousand years could afford; and the wealth and exertions, not only of Egypt but of Asia. The place was extensive and magnificent; and a succession of wise and good princes rendered it, by means of Egyptian materials and Grecian taste, one of the richest and most perfect cities the world has ever beheld. The palace occupied one quarter of the city; but within its precincts were a museum, extensive groves, and a temple containing the sepulchre of Alexander. This city was also famous for a temple erected to the God Serapis, in which was a statue which the natives of Sinope (in Pontus) had bartered, in a season of famine, for a supply of corn. The temple was called the Serapion; and Ammianus Marcellinus assures us[19], that it surpassed all the temples then in the world for beauty and magnificence, with the sole exception of the Capitol at Rome. Ptolemy Soter made this city the metropolitan seat of arts and sciences. He founded the museum, the most ancient and most sumptuous temple ever erected by any monarch, in honour of learning; he filled it with men of abilities, and made it an asylum for philosophers of all descriptions, whose doctrines were misunderstood, and whose persons were persecuted; in whose unfeigned tribute of grateful praise he has found a surer road to everlasting renown, than his haughty nameless predecessors, who pretended to immortality, and braved both heaven and corroding time by the solid structure of their pyramids. He founded also a library, which was considerably augmented by Ptolemy Philadelphus, and by the magnificence of his successors, was at length increased to 700,000 volumes. In Cæsar's time, part of this library,--that portion which was situated in the quarter of the city called the Bruchion,--was consumed by fire; a conflagration which caused the loss of not fewer than 400,000 volumes. This library, a short time after, received the increase of 200,000 volumes from Pergamus; Antony having given that library to Cleopatra. It was afterwards ransacked several times; but it was still a numerous and very celebrated library at the time in which it was destroyed by the Saracens, viz. A.D. 642; a history of which we shall soon have to relate. The manner in which this library was originally collected, may be judged of, in no small degree, by the following relation:--All the Greek and other books that were brought into Egypt were seized and sent to the Museum, where they were transcribed by persons employed for that purpose; the copies were then delivered to the proprietors, and the originals were deposited in the library. Ptolemy Evergetes, for instance, borrowed the works of Sophocles, Euripides, and Æschylus, of the Athenians, and only returned them the copies, which he had caused to be transcribed in as beautiful a manner as possible; and he likewise presented them with fifteen talents, equal to fifteen thousand crowns, for the originals, which he kept. On the death of Cleopatra, Egypt was reduced into a province of the Roman empire, and governed by a prefect sent from Rome. Alexander founded the city in 3629; and the reign of the Ptolemies, who succeeded him, lasted to the year of the world 3974. The city, in the time of Augustus, must have been very beautiful; for when that personage entered it, he told the natives, who had acted against him, that he pardoned them all; first, out of respect to the name of their founder; and, secondly, on account of the beauty of their city. This beauty and opulence, however, were not without their corresponding evils; for Quintilian informs us, that as Alexandria improved in commerce and in opulence, her inhabitants grew so effeminate and voluptuous, that the word Alexandrine became proverbial, to express softness, indelicacy, and immodest language. Egypt having become a province of Rome, some of the emperors endeavoured to revive in it a love of letters, and enriched it by various improvements. The emperor Caligula was inclined to favour the Alexandrians, because they manifested a readiness to confer divine honours upon him. He even conceived the horrid design of massacring the chief senators and knights of Rome (A.D. 40), and then of abandoning the city, and of settling at Alexandria; the prosperity and wealth of which in the time of Aurelian was so great, that, after the defeat of Zenobia, a single merchant of this city undertook to raise and pay an army out of the profits of his trade! The rapid rise of the power of the Moslems, and the religious discord which prevailed in Egypt, levelled a death-blow at the grandeur of this powerful city, whose prosperity had been unchecked from the time of its foundation;--upwards of nine hundred and seventy years. Amrou, the lieutenant of Omar, king of the Saracens, having entered Egypt, and taken Pelusium, Babylon, and Memphis, laid siege to Alexandria, and after fourteen months carried the city by assault, and all Egypt submitted to the yoke of the Caliphs. The standard of Mahomet was planted on the walls of Alexandria A.D. 640. Abulfaragius, in his history of the tenth dynasty, gives the following account of this catastrophe:--John Philoponus, a famous Peripatetic philosopher, being at Alexandria when the city was taken by the Saracens, was admitted to familiar intercourse with Amrou, the Arabian general, and presumed to solicit a gift, inestimable in his opinion but contemptible in that of the barbarians, and this was the royal library. Amrou was inclined to gratify his wish, but his rigid integrity scrupled to alienate the least object without the Caliph's consent. He accordingly wrote to Omar, whose well-known answer was dictated by the ignorance of a fanatic. Amrou wrote thus to his master, "I have taken the great city of the West. It is impossible for me to enumerate the variety of its riches and beauty; I shall content myself with observing, that it contains 4000 palaces, 4000 baths, 400 theatres or places of amusement, 12,000 shops for the sale of vegetable food, and 40,000 tributary Jews." He then related what Philoponus had requested of him. "If these writings of the Greeks," answered the bigoted barbarian, his master, "agree with the Koran, or book of God, they are useless, and need not be preserved; if they disagree they are pernicious, and ought to be destroyed." This valuable repository, therefore, was devoted to the flames, and during six months the volumes of which it consisted supplied fuel to the four thousand baths, which gave health and cleanliness to the city. "No complaint," says a celebrated moralist (Johnson), "is more frequently repeated among the learned, than that of the waste made by time among the labours of antiquity. Of those who once filled the civilised world with their renown nothing is now left but their names, which are left only to raise desires that never can be satisfied, and sorrow which never can be comforted. Had all the writings of the ancients been faithfully delivered down from age to age, had the _Alexandrian library_ been spared, and the Palatine repositories remained unimpaired, how much might we have known of which we are now doomed to be ignorant, how many laborious inquiries and dark conjectures, how many collations of broken hints and mutilated passages might have been spared! We should have known the successions of princes, the revolutions of empires, the actions of the great, and opinions of the wise, the laws and constitutions of every state, and the arts by which public grandeur and happiness are acquired and preserved. We should have traced the progress of life, seen colonies from distant regions take possession of European deserts, and troops of savages settled into communities by the desire of keeping what they had acquired; we should have traced the progress and utility, and travelled upward to the original of things by the light of history, till in remoter times it had glimmered in fable, and at last been left in darkness."--"For my own part," says Gibbon, "I am strongly tempted to deny both the fact and the consequences." Dr. Drake also is disposed to believe, that the privations we have suffered have been occasioned by ignorance, negligence, and intemperate zeal, operating uniformly for centuries, and not through the medium of either concerted or accidental conflagration[20]. The dominion of the Turks, and the discovery of the Cape of Good Hope, in 1499, completed its ruin; and from that time it has remained in decay. Its large buildings fell into ruins, and under a government which discouraged even the appearance of wealth, no person would venture to repair them, and mean habitations were constructed in lieu of them, on the sea-coast. Since that dismal epoch Egypt has, century after century, sunk deeper and deeper into a state of perfect neglect and ruin. In recent times, however, it has been under the immediate despotic rule of Mehemet Ali, nominally a pasha of the sultan of Constantinople, and a man apparently able and willing to do much towards restoring civilisation to the place of his birth. The remains, in the opinion of some, have been greatly magnified. One writer[21], for instance, states, "The present state of Alexandria affords a scene of magnificence and desolation. In the space of two leagues, inclosed by walls, nothing is seen but the remains of pilasters, of capitals, and of obelisks, and whole mountains of shattered columns and monuments of ancient art, heaped upon one another, and accumulated to a height even greater than that of the houses." Another writer[22] says, "Alexandria now exhibits every mark by which it could be recognised as one of the principal monuments of the magnificence of the conqueror of Asia, the emporium of the East, and the chosen theatre of the far-sought luxuries of the Roman triumvirs and the Egyptian queen." According to Sonnini, columns subverted and scattered about; a few others still upright but isolated; mutilated statues, fragments of every species, overspread the ground which it once occupied. "It is impossible to advance a step, without kicking, if I may use the expression, against some of its wrecks. It is the hideous theatre of destruction the most horrible. The soul is saddened on contemplating those remains of grandeur and magnificence; and it is raised into indignation against the barbarians, who dared to apply a sacrilegious hand to monuments, which time, the most pitiless of destroyers, would have respected." "So little," says Dr. Clarke, "are we acquainted with these valuable remains, that not a single excursion for purposes of discovery has yet been begun; nor is there any thing published with regard to its modern history, excepting the observations that have resulted from the hasty survey, made of its forlorn and desolated havens by a few travellers whose transitory visits ended almost with the days of their arrival[23]." "On arriving at Alexandria," says Mr. Wilkinson, "the traveller naturally enquires where are the remains of that splendid city, which was second only to Rome itself, and whose circuit of fifteen miles contained a population of three hundred thousand inhabitants and an equal number of slaves; and where the monuments of its former greatness? He has heard of Cleopatra's Needle and Pompey's Pillar, from the days of his childhood, and the fame of its library, the Pharos, the temple of Serapis and of those philosophers and mathematicians, whose venerable names contribute to the fame of Alexandria, even more than the extent of its commerce or the splendour of the monuments, that once adorned it, are fresh in his recollection;--and he is surprised, in traversing mounds which mark the site of this vast city, merely to find scattered fragments or a few isolated columns, and here and there the vestiges of buildings, or the doubtful direction of some of the main streets." Though the ancient boundaries, however, cannot be determined, heaps of rubbish are on all sides visible; whence every shower of rain, not to mention the industry of the natives in digging, discovers pieces of precious marble, and sometimes ancient coins, and fragments of sculpture. Among the last may be particularly mentioned the statues of Marcus Aurelius and Septimius Severus. The present walls are of Saracenic structure. They are lofty; being in some places more than forty feet in height, and apparently no where so little as twenty. These furnish a sufficient security against the Bedouins, who live part of the year on the banks of the canal, and often plunder the cattle in the neighbourhood. The few flocks and herds, which are destined to supply the wants of the city, are pastured on the herbage, of which the vicinity of the canal favours the growth, and generally brought in at night when the two gates are shut. "Judge," says M. Miot, "by Volney's first pages, of the impression which must be made upon us, by these houses with grated windows; this solitude, this silence, these camels; these disgusting dogs covered with vermin; these hideous women holding between their teeth the corner of a veil of coarse blue cloth to conceal from us their features and their black bosoms. At the sight of Alexandria and its inhabitants, at beholding these vast plains devoid of all verdure, at breathing the burning air of the desert, melancholy began to find its way among us; and already some Frenchmen, turning towards their country their weary eyes, let the expression of regret escape them in sighs; a regret which more painful proofs were soon to render more poignant." And this recals to one's recollection the description of an Arabic poet, cited by Abulfeda several centuries ago. "How pleasant are the banks of the canal of Alexandria; when the eye surveys them the heart is rejoiced! the gliding boatman, beholding its towers, beholds canopies ever verdant; the lovely Aquilon breathes cooling freshness, while he, sportful, ripples up the surface of its waters; the ample Date, whose flexible head reclines like a sleeping beauty, is crowned with pendent fruit." The walls to which we have alluded present nothing curious, except some ruinous towers; and one of the chief remains of the ancient city is a colonnade, of which only a few columns remain; and what is called the amphitheatre, on a rising ground, whence there is a fine view of the city and port. There is, however, one structure beside particularly entitled to distinction; and that is generally styled Pompey's Pillar. Pompey's Pillar, says the author of Egyptian Antiquities, "stands on a small eminence midway between the walls of Alexandria and the shores of the lake Mareotis, about three-quarters of a mile from either, quite detached from any other building. It is of a red granite; but the shaft, which is highly polished, appears to be of earlier date than the capital or pedestal, which have been made to correspond. It is of the Corinthian order; and while some have eulogised it as the finest specimen of that order, others have pronounced it to be in bad taste. The capital is of palm leaves, not indented. The column consists only of three pieces--the capital, the shaft, and the base--and is poised on a centre stone of breccia, with hieroglyphics on it, less than a fourth of the dimensions of the pedestal of the column, and with the smaller end downward; from which circumstance the Arabs believe it to have been placed there by God. The earth about the foundation has been examined, probably in the hopes of finding treasures; and pieces of white marble, (which is not found in Egypt) have been discovered connected to the breccia above mentioned. It is owing, probably, to this disturbance that the pillar has an inclination of about seven inches to the south-west. This column has sustained some trifling injury at the hands of late visiters, who have indulged a puerile pleasure in possessing and giving to their friends small fragments of the stone, and is defaced by being daubed with names of persons, which would otherwise have slumbered unknown to all save in their own narrow sphere of action; practices which cannot be too highly censured, and which an enlightened mind would scorn to be guilty of. It is remarkable, that while the polish on the shaft is still perfect to the northward, corrosion has begun to affect the southern face, owing probably to the winds passing over the vast tracts of sand in that direction. The centre part of the cap-stone has been hollowed out, forming a basin on the top; and pieces of iron still remaining in four holes prove that this pillar was once ornamented with a figure, or some other trophy. The operation of forming a rope-ladder to ascend the column has been performed several times of late years, and is very simple: a kite was flown, with a string to the tail, and, when directly over the pillar, it was dragged down, leaving the line by which it was flown across the capital. With this a rope, and afterwards a stout hawser, was drawn over; a man then ascended and placed two more parts of the hawser, all of which were pulled tight down to a twenty-four-pounder gun lying near the base (which it was said Sir Sidney Smith attempted to plant on the top); small spars were then lashed across, commencing from the bottom, and ascending each as it was secured, till the whole was complete, when it resembled the rigging of a ship's lower masts. The mounting this solitary column required some nerve, even in seamen; but it was still more appalling to see the Turks, with their ample trowsers, venture the ascent. The view from this height is commanding, and highly interesting in the associations excited by gazing on the ruins of the city of the Ptolemies, lying beneath. A theodolite was planted there, and a round of terrestrial angles taken; but the tremulous motion of the column affected the quicksilver in the artificial horizon so much as to preclude the possibility of obtaining an observation for the latitude. Various admeasurements have been given of the dimensions of Pompey's Pillar; the following, however, were taken by a gentleman who assisted in the operation above described:-- Feet In. Top of the capital to the astragal (one stone) 10 4 Astragal to first plinth (one stone) 67 7 Plinth to the ground 20 11 -------- Whole height 98 10 -------- Measured by a line from the top 99 4 -------- It will be remembered, however, that the pedestal of the column does not rest on the ground, Its elevation being 4 6 The height of the column itself is therefore 94 10 Diagonal of the capital 16 11 Circumference of shaft (upper part) 24 2 (lower part) 27 2 Length of side of the pedestal 16 6 Shaw says, that in his time, in expectation of finding a large treasure buried underneath, a great part of the foundation, consisting of several fragments of different sorts of stone and marble, had been removed; so that the whole fabric rested upon a block of white marble scarcely two yards square, which, upon touching it with a key, sounded like a bell. All travellers agree that its present appellation is a misnomer; yet it is known that a monument of some kind was erected at Alexandria to the memory of Pompey, which was supposed to have been found in this remarkable column. Mr. Montague thinks it was erected to the honour of Vespasian. Savary calls it the Pillar of Severus. Clarke supposes it to have been dedicated to Hadrian, according to his reading of a half-effaced inscription in Greek on the west side of the base; while others trace the name of Diocletian in the same inscription. No mention occurring of it either in Strabo or Diodorus Siculus, we may safely infer that it did not exist at that period; and Denon supposes it to have been erected about the time of the Greek Emperors, or of the Caliphs of Egypt, and dates its acquiring its present name in the fifteenth century. It is supposed to have been surmounted with an equestrian statue. The shaft is elegant and of a good style; but the capital and pedestal are of inferior workmanship, and have the appearance of being of a different period. In respect to the inscription on this pillar, there are two different readings:--It must, however, be remembered, that many of the letters are utterly illegible. TO DIOCLETIANUS AUGUSTUS, MOST ADORABLE EMPEROR, THE TUTELAR DEITY OF ALEXANDRIA, PONTIUS, A PREFECT OF EGYPT, CONSECRATES THIS. Dr. Clarke's version is-- POSTHUMUS, PRÆFECT OF EGYPT, AND THE PEOPLE OF THE METROPOLIS, [_honour_] TO THE MOST REVERED EMPEROR, THE PROTECTING DIVINITY OF ALEXANDRIA, THE DIVINE HADRIAN AUGUSTUS. Now, since it is known that Hadrian lived from A.D. 76 to 130, it seems clear that Pompey has no connexion with this pillar, and that it ought no longer to bear his name. Some writers, however, are disposed to believe that the inscription is not so old as the pillar, and this is very likely to be the case. This celebrated pillar has of late years been several times ascended. The manner, as we have before stated, was this:--"By means of a kite, a strong cord was passed over the top of the column, and securely fastened on one side, while one man climbed up the other. When he had reached the top, he made the rope still more secure, and others ascended, carrying with them water of the Thames, of the Nile, and of one of the Grecian Islands: a due supply of spirits was also provided, and thus a bowl of punch was concocted; and the healths of distinguished persons were drunk. This ascent was made when the British fleet was in Egypt, since which time the ascents have been numerous; for, according to Mr. Webster, the crew of almost every man-of-war which has been stationed in the port of Alexandria have thought the national honour of British tars greatly concerned in ascending the height of fame, or, in other words, the famous height which Pompey's pillar affords. It is not unusual for a party to take breakfast, write letters, and transact other matters of business on this very summit; and it is on record that a lady once had courage to join one of these high parties." Besides this there are two obelisks. The first is of granite, and is called Cleopatra's Needle, but it has become nearly certain that it was removed hither from Heliopolis, and it is now, therefore, regarded as the obelisk of Thothmes III. Its fallen companion also bears the name of Thothmes, and, in the lateral lines of Remeses II, the supposed Sesostris. One of these is still upright on its base; the other is thrown down and almost entirely buried in the sand. "The former," says Sonnini, "shows what the hand of man can do against time; the other what time can do against the efforts of man." They are both of red granite. According to a survey made by Dr. Clarke, the base of the prostrate one measures seven feet square, and the length is sixty-six feet. They are both covered with hieroglyphics cut into the stone to the depth of two inches. These two monuments served to decorate one of the entrances to the palace of the Ptolemies, the ruins of which are contiguous[25]. Nothing[26], however, which remains in the vicinity of Alexandria attests its greatness more satisfactorily than the catacombs on the coast, near the Necropolis. Their size, although remarkable, is not so striking as the elegant symmetry, and proportion of the architecture in the first chamber, which is of the best Greek style, and not to be equalled in any other part of Egypt.[27] They are at a short distance from the canal, and are galleries, penetrating a prodigious way under ground, or rather into the rock. They are supposed to have been at first the quarries, which furnished stones for the construction of the edifices of Alexandria; and, after having supplied the men of that country with the materials of their habitations, while they lived, are themselves become their last abode after death. Most of these subterraneous alleys are in a ruinous state. In the small number of those which it is possible to penetrate, are seen, on both sides, three rows of coffins, piled on each other. At the entrance of some of these galleries there are separate apartments, with their coffins; reserved, no doubt, for the sepulture of particular families, or of a peculiar order of citizens. These catacombs frequently serve as retreats for the jackals, which abound in this part of Egypt, prowling in numerous squadrons, and roaming around the habitations of man. These pernicious animals are not afraid of advancing close up to the walls of the city. Nay, more; they traverse its enclosure during the night; they frequently spring over it by the breaches made in the walls; they enter the city itself in quest of their prey, and fill it with howlings and cries. Dr. Clarke says, that nothing so marvellous ever fell within his observation[28]. Of the singular suburb styled the Necropolis or "city of the dead," nothing remains. But about sixty yards east of some excavations called the "Baths of Cleopatra," there is a little bay, about sixty yards deep, with an entrance so nearly blocked up by two rocks, that a boat only can obtain access[29]. At the bottom of this bay, in the steep slope of the shore, there is a small hole, through which it is difficult to pass: a passage of about thirty feet leads to the first hall, in which the visitor can stand upright; on the right and left are small square chambers, much filled up with sand, the ceiling and cornice supported by pilasters. The former is vaulted, and covered with a crystalized cement, on which are traced, in red, lines obviously forming geometrical configurations on the subject of astronomy. A sun is represented in the middle of the vault. The upright sides contain vaulted niches; the hall is about twenty yards square. From this a door, in the opposite side, leads to a larger hall, but the sand fills it up from the floor to the ceiling at the further end, so that its dimensions cannot be ascertained. Two small chambers, as before, are excavated on two sides of this also; in the right-hand one there is an opening in the wall, leading to a vast corridor, thirty-six feet long and twelve broad, half choked up, three wells in the roof having probably served to admit the rubbish. This leads to another fine apartment, with a portico on each of its four sides, three of which have pilasters and cornice, richly carved; the other parts of the wall are left quite plain, but there are lines traced on the vaulted ceiling, indicating that it was intended to have been cut into panels, with roses in the centres. From this chamber you enter a beautiful rotunda, on the left, which appears to be the principal object of the excavation; it is seven yards in diameter, and about five high; it is regularly ornamented with pilasters supporting a cornice, from which springs the cupola of the ceiling; nine tombs, decorated like those first described, are seen around it. The bottom is level with the sea; the water filters through, and is found a short distance below the floor. This place is quite free from sand, so that the whole of it can be seen; and the effect, when illuminated by many torches, the light of which is reflected from the cement, is very grand. The chamber preceding the rotunda also affords access to another corridor, leading to various apartments, presenting similar appearances to those already described. In one of them there is the springing of a brick-arch running round it, intended, apparently, to support a gallery; beneath is a hole, about half a yard square, which is the entrance to a winding passage; but it is impossible to penetrate it far on account of the sand and water. It is conjectured to have served for some religious mystery, or for some imposition of the priests on the common people. Through the centre portico of another chamber, similar to that before described, but left unfinished, like many other parts of this magnificent tomb, an apartment is entered, each side of which has three ranges of holes for the reception of embalmed bodies, and pits of various dimensions are dug in the floors of several of the rooms. There is a great symmetry in the arrangement of all the apartments, so that the plan of the excavation is regular. It was probably intended for a royal cemetery, the bodies of the sovereigns being deposited in the rotunda, and the other chambers serving as places of burial for their relatives, according to their rank; and two large side chapels, with collateral rooms, being appropriated to the religious rites of the Goddess Hecate; as is rendered probable by the crescents which ornament various parts of the place. Whatever was its destination, like all the other cemeteries of Egypt it has been ransacked at some remote period, and the bodies of its tenants removed. Like all the other distinguished nations of antiquity, Egypt, after a lengthened period of civil power, military glory, and dignified learning, suffered a series of reverses of fortune, and finally sank into a state of poverty and barbaric ignorance. Modern Cairo rose upon the ruins of Alexandria, and has been enriched with its spoils; since thither have been conveyed, at various times, not fewer than forty thousand columns of granite, porphyry, and marble; erected in the private dwellings and mosques. Its decay doubtless was gradual, but fifteen centuries, during which it has declined, have evinced its ancient opulence by the slowness of its fall. In respect to its modern condition, among heaps of rubbish, and among fine gardens, planted with palms, oranges, and citrons, are seen some churches, mosques, and monasteries, with three small clusters of dwellings[30]. NO. IX.--AMISUS. This city was founded by a colony from Miletus and Athens, who preserved their independence till they were conquered by the Persians. They succeeded in maintaining their liberties under Alexander. During a war with Mithridates, king of Pontus, Lucullus, the Roman general, laid strong siege to this town; and while so engaged, his troops murmured against him:--"Our general," said they, "amuses himself with sieges, which, after all, are not worth the trouble he bestows upon them." When Lucullus heard this, he replied: "You accuse me of giving the enemy time to augment his army and regain his strength. That is just what I want. I act in this manner for no other purpose; in order that our enemy may take new courage, and assemble so numerous an army as may embolden him to expect us in the field, and no longer fly before us. Do you not observe, that he has behind him immense solitudes and infinite deserts in which it is impossible for us to come up with or pursue him? Armenia is but a few days march from these deserts. There Tigranes keeps his court,--that king of kings, whose power is so great, that he subdues the Parthians, transports whole cities of Greeks into the heart of Media, has made himself master of Syria and Palestine, exterminated the kings descended from Seleucus, and carried their wives and daughters into captivity. This powerful prince is the ally and son-in-law of Mithridates. Do you think, when he has him in his palaces, as a suppliant, that he will abandon himself, and not make war against us? Hence, in hastening to drive away Mithridates, we shall be in great danger of drawing Tigranes upon our hands, who has long sought pretexts for declaring against us, and who can never find one more specious, legitimate, and honourable, than that of assisting his father-in-law, and a king, reduced to the last extremity. Why, therefore, should we serve Mithridates against ourselves; or show him to whom he should have recourse for the means of supporting the war with us, by pushing him against his will,--and at a time, perhaps, when he looks upon such a step as unworthy his valour and greatness,--into the arms and protection of Tigranes? Is it not infinitely better, by giving him time to take courage and strengthen himself with his own forces, to have only upon our hands the troops of Colchis, the Tibarenians, and Cappadocians, whom we have so often defeated, than to expose ourselves to have the additional force of the Armenians and Medes to contend with?" Lucullus soon after this marched against Mithridates, and in three engagements defeated him. Mithridates, however, escaped, and almost immediately after sent commands to his two sisters and his two wives, that they should die; he being in great fear that they would fall into the hands of the enemy. Their history is thus related:--When the officer, whose name was Bacchides, arrived where they were, and had signified to the princesses the orders of their king, which favoured them no further than to leave them at liberty to choose the kind of death they should think most gentle and immediate; Monima taking the diadem from her head, tied it round her neck, and hung herself with it. But that wreath not being strong enough, and breaking, she cried out--"Ah! fatal trifle, you might at least do me this mournful office." Then, throwing it away with indignation, she presented her neck to Bacchides. As for Berenice, she took a cup of poison; and as she was going to drink it, her mother, who was with her, desired to share it with her. They accordingly drank both together. The half of that cup sufficed to carry off the mother, worn out and feeble with age; but was not enough to surmount the strength and youth of Berenice. That princess, therefore, struggled long with death in the most violent agonies; till Bacchides, tired with waiting the effect of the poison, ordered her to be strangled. Of the two sisters, Roxana is said to have swallowed poison, venting reproaches and imprecations against Mithridates. Statira, on the contrary, was pleased with her brother, and thanked him, that being in so great a danger for his own person, he had not forgot them, and had taken care to supply them with the means of dying free, and of withdrawing from the indignities their enemies might else have made them undergo. Their deaths afflicted Lucullus very sensibly; for he was of a very gentle and humane disposition. Lucullus, in the mean time, laid strong siege to Amisus. Mithridates had given the conduct of the place to Callimachus, who was esteemed the best engineer of his time. That officer held out for a long time very skilfully, and with the utmost gallantry; but finding at last that the town must surrender, he set fire to it, and escaped in a ship that waited for him. Lucullus did all he could to extinguish the flames; but, for the most part, in vain; and the whole city had undoubtedly been burned, had not a rain fallen so violently, that a considerable number of houses were thereby saved; and before he departed, the conqueror caused those that had been burned, to be rebuilt; but so inveterate were his soldiers, that all his efforts could not secure it from plunder. It was afterwards the favourite residence of Pompey the Great, who rebuilt the city, and restored the inhabitants to their liberties, which were confirmed by Cæsar and Augustus. In subsequent times it was included in the dominions of the Commeni emperors of Trebisond; and finally subdued by the Turks in the reign of Mahomet the Second. It is now surrounded by a decayed wall. Towards the sea may be traced the remains of another wall; the ruins of these, in many parts, are almost buried under the waves[31]. NO. X.--ANTIOCH. There are few cities whose immediate origin we know so well as that of Antioch. Antigonus had built a city at a small distance from the spot on which Antioch was afterwards erected, and this he called after his own name, Antigonia. After his death Seleucus, having made himself master of Upper Syria, determined on founding a city. He, in consequence, demolished the one Antigonus had built, and employed its materials in constructing his own[32]. This he named after his son, Antiochus. He afterwards transplanted all the citizens to the new capital; and he adorned it with all the beauty and elegance of Grecian architecture. Seleucus built several other cities in the same direction, amongst which may be particularly noticed Apamea, which he named after his wife, the daughter of Arbazus the Persian; and Laodicea, which he called after his mother. Apamea was situated on the same river as Antioch, and Laodicea in the southern part of the same quarter. What is rather remarkable is, that in these cities he allowed the Jews the same privileges and immunities as were enjoyed by the Greeks and Macedonians; more especially at Antioch, where that people settled in such numbers that at length they possessed as large a portion of the city as their countrymen enjoyed at Alexandria. In the Christian times it was the see of the chief patriarch of Asia. It is often mentioned in the Acts of the Apostles, and particularly wherein it is said, that the disciples of Christ were here first called Christians; and in the river Orontes, according to tradition, St. Paul is said to have been baptised. The city, at various times, has suffered severely from the rage of bigotry and superstition, inseparably attached to the zealots of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, when the spirit of enthusiasm, roused by designing priests, induced the powers of Europe to attempt the reduction of Syria and the Holy Land. Antioch has several times been subjected to the violence of earthquakes, and several times been afflicted with great famine; and when Chosroes invaded Syria, the city, disdaining the offers of an easy capitulation, was taken by storm, the inhabitants slaughtered with unrelenting fury, and the city itself delivered to the flames. It recovered, however, after a time, and was again visited by earthquake, and the sword of the conqueror. It was taken by the Crusaders A.D. 1098; and in 1262 all its glory terminated; having been taken possession of by Bybaris, sultan of Egypt. It is now a ruinous town, the houses of which are built of mud and straw, and exhibit every appearance of poverty and wretchedness. The walls, however, of each quarter, as well as those which surrounded the whole, are still remaining; but as the houses are destroyed, the four quarters appear like so many inclosed fields. It is said that this city, which was about four miles in circumference, was built at four different times, and consisted in a manner of four cities, divided from one another by walls. The first, as we have already stated, was built by Seleucus Nicator; the second by those who flocked thither after the building of the first; the third by Seleucus Callinicus; and the fourth by Antiochus Epiphanes, king of Syria. The present town, which is a mile in circumference, stands in the plain, on the north-west part of the old city; all the parts within the walls being converted into gardens. The walls, which now exist, though much ruined, mark the ancient boundaries of Antioch. They were built since the introduction of Christianity; the form of them being nearly of a rectangular figure. There are, as we have already stated, very few remains within the city of any ancient buildings. The principal works are the aqueducts, and some grottoes cut in the mountain. There were once two temples of great celebrity, one of which was dedicated to Apollo and the other to the Moon. At this moment not a vestige of these is to be discovered. "Formerly," says Lord Sandwich, "it had a port of considerable importance on the north bank of the Orontes, and on the shores of the Levant; but the harbour is choked up, and not a single inhabitant remains. The sun of Antioch is set. The present city is a miserable place, extending four hundred yards from the side of the river to the bottom of a mountain, on the summit of which, and round the town, the crusaders, during their being in possession of Syria, built a strong wall. Nothing remains of its ancient grandeur besides some stupendous causeways and massy gateways of hewn stone." At a distance of about four or five miles was a place called Daphne. There Seleucus planted a grove, and in the midst of it he erected a temple, which he consecrated to Apollo and Diana. To this place the inhabitants of Antioch resorted for their pleasures and diversions, till at last it became so infamous, that "to live after the manner of Daphne" was used proverbially to express the most voluptuous and dissolute mode of living. Antioch is said to have been once greater than Rome itself; but often ruined, and finally razed by the Mamelukes, it is now only a small town, known by the name of Antakia. Its climate is so agreeable, that we may cite some observations, made in regard to it in a passage in Mr. Robinson's tour in Palestine and Syria. "For the breadth and brilliancy of the eastern landscape, there is no architecture equal to the Oriental. The solemnity and grandeur of the Gothic are suited to our climate of cloud and tempest. The severe or even the florid beauty of Greek architecture belongs to a country where the spectator sees it under the lights and shadows of a sky as picturesque as the hills and valleys that it covers. But the magnitude, strong colourings, and yet fantastic finish of Eastern architecture are made to be seen across its vast plains under the unclouded sky; and glowing with the powerful splendour with which the rising and the setting sun less illumine than inflame the horizon. At a distance it has the dream-like beauty which we habitually attach to the edifices of the Arabian Nights[33]." NO. XI.--ARGOS. Argos was founded in the 1856th year before the Christian era; that is, in the time of Abraham. Its founder was Inachus. Euripides, however, says, that the city was built by the Cyclops, who came from Syria. After flourishing for about 550 years, it was united to the crown of Mycenæ. According to Herodotus, Argos was the most famous of all the states, comprehended under the general name of Greece. For a long time it was the most flourishing city in Greece; and this chiefly from its being enriched by the commerce of Assyria and Egypt. Its early history is resplendent with illustrious names and shining achievements. Its inhabitants conceived a hope of obtaining the sovereignty of all Peloponnesus; but they became at length enfeebled and at last ruined by intestine divisions. There are many events exceedingly interesting in the history of Argos; amongst which, these. A war broke out, in the reign of Theopompus[34], between the Argives and Lacedemonians, on account of a little country called Thyrea, that lay upon the confines of the two states, and to which each of them pretended a right. When the two armies were ready to engage, it was agreed, in order to spare the effusion of blood, that the quarrel should be decided by three hundred of the bravest men on both sides; and that the land in question should become the property of the victors. To leave the combatants more room to engage, the two armies retired to some distance. Those generous champions then, who had all the courage of two mighty armies, boldly advanced towards each other, and fought with so much resolution and fury, that the whole number, except three men, two on the side of the Argives, and one on the side of the Lacedemonians, lay dead on the spot; and only the night parted them. The two Argives, looking upon themselves as the conquerors, made what haste they could to Argos to carry the news; the single Lacedemonian, Othryades by name, instead of retiring, stripped the dead bodies of the Argives, and carrying their arms into the Lacedemonian camp, continued in his post. The next day the two armies returned to the field of battle. Both sides laid equal claim to the victory. The Argives, because they had more of their champions left alive than the enemy had; the Lacedemonians, because the two Argives that remained alive had fled; whereas their single soldier had remained master of the field of battle, and had carried off the spoils of the enemy: in short, they could not determine the dispute without coming to another engagement. Then fortune declared in favour of the Lacedemonians, and the little territory of Thyrea was the prize of their victory. But Othryades, not able to bear the thoughts of surviving his brave companions, or of enduring the sight of Sparta after their death, killed himself on the same field of battle where they had fought, resolving to have one fate and tomb with them. At[35] a subsequent period, the inhabitants of Argos despatched ambassadors to Pyrrhus and Antigonus to entreat them to withdraw their troops, and not reduce their city into subjection to either of them, but to allow it to continue in a state of friendship with both. Antigonus readily consented, and sent his son as a hostage to the Argives. Pyrrhus, also, promised to retire; but as he offered no security for the fulfilment of his word, they began to suspect his sincerity; and, indeed, with sufficient reason: for as soon as night appeared, he advanced to the walls, and having found a door left open by Aristæus, he had time to force his Gauls into the city; and so seize it without being perceived. But when he would have introduced his elephants, he found the gates too low; which obliged him to cause the towers to be taken down from their backs, and replaced there when those animals had entered the city. All this could not be effected amidst the darkness without much trouble, noise, and confusion, which caused them to be discovered. The Argives, when they beheld the enemy in the city, fled to the citadel, and to those places that were most advantageous in their defence, and sent a deputation to Antigonus, to press his speedy advance to their assistance. He accordingly marched that moment, and caused his son, with the other officers, to enter the city at the head of his best troops. In this very juncture of time, King Areus also arrived at Argos, with a thousand Cretans, and as many Spartans as were capable of coming. These troops, when they had all joined each other, charged the Gauls with the utmost fury, and put them into disorder. Pyrrhus hastened, on his part, to sustain them; but the darkness and confusion was then so great, that it was impossible for him to be either obeyed or heard. When day appeared, he was not a little surprised to see the citadel full of enemies; and as he then imagined all was lost, he thought of nothing but a timely retreat. But as he had some apprehension with respect to the city gates, which were much too narrow, he sent orders to his son, Helenus, whom he had left without with the greatest part of the army, to demolish part of the wall, that his troops might have a free passage out of the city. The person to whom Pyrrhus gave this order in great haste, having misunderstood his meaning, delivered a quite contrary message; in consequence of which, Helenus drew out his best infantry, with all the elephants he had left, and then advanced into the city to assist his father, who was preparing to retire, the moment the other entered the place. Pyrrhus, as long as the place afforded him a sufficient extent of ground, appeared with a resolute mien, and frequently faced about and repulsed those who pursued him; but when he found himself engaged in a narrow street, which ended at the gate, the confusion, which already was very great, became infinitely increased by the arrival of the troops his son brought to his assistance. He frequently called aloud to them to withdraw, in order to clear the streets, but in vain; for as it was impossible for his voice to be heard, they still continued to advance; and to complete the calamity in which they were involved, one of the largest elephants sank down in the middle of the gate, and filled the whole extent in such a manner, that the troops could neither advance nor retire. The confusion occasioned by this accident became then inextricable. Pyrrhus observing the disorder of his men, who broke forward and were driven back, took off the glittering crest, which distinguished his helmet, and caused him to be known, and then, confiding in the goodness of his horse, he sprang into the throng of his enemies who pursued him; and while he was fighting with an air of desperation, one of the adverse party advanced up to him, and pierced his cuirass with a javelin. The wound, however, was neither great nor dangerous, and Pyrrhus immediately turned upon the man from whom he had received it, and who happened to be only a private soldier, the son of a poor woman at Argos: the mother beholding the contest from the top of a house, where she stood with several other women. The moment she saw her son engaged with Pyrrhus, she almost lost her senses, and chilled with horror at the danger to which she beheld him exposed. Amidst the impressions of her agony, she caught up a large tile, and threw it down upon Pyrrhus. The mass fell directly upon his head, and his helmet being too weak to ward off the blow, his hands dropped the reins, and he sank down from his horse without being observed. But he was soon discovered by a soldier, who put an end to his life, by cutting off his head. There is another circumstance related of Argos, which it gives us great pleasure in remarking. When Solon was at the court of Croesus, the king asked him--"Who, of all those he had seen, was the next in felicity to Tellus." Solon answered, 'Cleobis and Biton of Argos, two brothers, who had left behind them a perfect pattern of fraternal affection, and of the respect due from children to their parents. Upon a solemn festival, when their mother, a priestess of Juno, was to go to the temple, the oxen that were to draw her not being ready, the two sons put themselves to the yoke, and drew their mother's chariot thither, which was above five miles distant. All the mothers of the place, ravished with admiration, congratulated the priestess on the piety of her sons. She, in the transports of her joy and thankfulness, earnestly entreated the goddess to reward her children with the best thing that Heaven can give to man. Her prayers were heard. When the sacrifice was over, her two sons fell asleep in the very temple, and there died in a soft and peaceful slumber. In honour of their piety, the people of Argos consecrated statues to them in the temple of Delphos. "If Athens," says Dr. Clarke, "by arts, by military talents, and by costly solemnities, became _one of the eyes of Greece_, there was in the humanity of Argos, and in the good feeling displayed by its inhabitants, a distinction which comes nearer to the heart. Something characteristic of the people may be observed even in a name given to one of their divinities; for they worshipped a 'God of Meekness.' It may be said, perhaps, of the Argive character, that it was less splendid than the Athenian, and less rigid than the Lacedæmonian; but it was less artificial, and the contrast it exhibited, when opposed to the infamous profligacy of Corinth, where the manners of the people, corrupted by wealth and luxury, were further vitiated by the great influx of foreigners, rendered Argos, in the days of her prosperity, one of the most enviable cities of Greece. The stranger, who visited Athens, might, indeed, regard, with an eager curiosity, the innumerable trophies every where suspended of victors in her splendid games; might admire her extensive porticoes crowded with philosophers; might gaze with wonder at the productions of her artists; might revere her magnificent temples: but feelings more affecting were drawn forth in beholding the numerous monuments of the Argives, destined to perpetuate the memory of individuals who had rendered themselves illustrious by their virtues." Argos was taken, A.D. 1397, by Bajazet. It was then totally deserted, and its walls destroyed. It was rebuilt by the Venetians, from whom, in 1463, it was taken by the Turks; and after being retaken by the Venetians, it was again recovered by the Turks in the same year. "But where is Argos?" inquires La Martine; "a vast naked plain, intersected with marshes extending in a circular form at the bottom of the gulf. It is bounded on every side by chains of grey mountains; at the end of the plain, about two leagues inland, we perceive a mound, with some fortified walls on its summit, and which protects, by its shade, a small town in ruins--this is Argos. Close by is the tomb of Agamemnon." The antiquities of Argos, once so numerous, may now be comprised within a very short list. Those seen by Pausanias were the temples of Apollo, of Fortuna, of Jupiter, and of Minerva; sepulchres and cenotaphs; a theatre, a forum, a gymnasium, a stadium, a subterranean edifice, &c., formed of earth. Of these now remaining[36], are the ruins of the theatre[37], which was a remarkable structure, having been entirely an excavation in the rock, and having the appearance of three theatres instead of one. Opposite to this are the remains of a large edifice, built entirely of tiles. Above the theatre are those of the Hieron of Venus, within whose temple was a statue of the poetess Telesilla, who, at the head of a band of heroines, repulsed from the walls the enemies of her country, when it was attacked by the Lacedæmonians. She was represented, says Pausanias, standing upon a pillar, with the books of her poetry scattered at her feet, in the act of regarding her helmet, which she was about to put upon her head. On the sides and lower part of the modern fortress are still seen the remains of Cyclopian architecture, as ancient as the citadel of Tiryns, and built in the same style[38]. "This structure," says Dr. Clarke, "is mentioned by Pausanias[39], where he states that the inhabitants of Mycenæ were unable to demolish the walls of the Argives, built, like those of Tiryns, by the Cyclops. These Cyclopian walls, as well as the towers of Argos, are noticed by Euripides, Polybius, Seneca, Strabo, and Statius. They are also hinted at by Virgil. At the front of the Acropolis, we found one of the most curious tell-tale remains, yet discovered among the thirty temples of pagan priestcraft. It was nothing less than one of the oracular shrines of Argos, alluded to by Pausanias, laid open to inspection like the toy a child has broken, in order that he may see the contrivance whereby it was made to speak. A more interesting sight for modern curiosity can hardly be conceived to exist among the ruins of any Grecian city. In its original state, it has been a temple; the farther part from the entrance where the altar was, being an excavation of the rock, and the front and roof constructed of baked tiles. The altar yet remains, and part of the fictile superstructure; but the most remarkable part of the whole is a secret subterraneous passage, terminating behind the altar, its entrance being at a considerable distance towards the right of a person facing the altar, and so cunningly contrived, as to have a small aperture easily concealed, and level with the surface of the rock. This was barely large enough to admit the entrance of a single person, who, having descended in the narrow passage, might creep along until he arrived immediately behind the centre of the altar; where being hid by some colossal statue, or other screen, the sound of his voice would produce a most imposing effect among the humble votaries prostrate beneath, who were listening in silence upon the floor of the sanctuary." There was also in Argos a statue of Jupiter, which had three eyes, one of which was in the middle of the forehead. It is not impossible but this statue may, one day, be found among the ruins under the soil. Argos was consecrated to Juno[40]; it was subject to different forms of government; its people were brave; they cultivated the arts, but neglected the sciences. Their memory may well be cherished; for they were, both in precept and in practice, the kindest and most humane of all the citizens of Greece[41]. NO. XII.--ARIAMMENE. This city was situate on the banks of the Araxes. It is now called Esqui-Julfa; and Chardin, Cartwright, and Sir W. Ouseley, we believe, are almost the only travellers who have given any description of it. "They called it Old Julfa," says Chardin, "to distinguish it from the Julfa which is a suburb of Ispahan; and not without reason is it so called, since it is totally ruined and demolished. There is nothing further to be known of it, except the grandeur which it once enjoyed. There are nothing but holes and caverns made in the mountains, fitter for beasts then men. I do not believe there is in the world a more barren and hideous place than that of Old Julfa, where there is neither tree nor grass to be seen. True it is, that in the neighbourhood there are some places more happy and fertile; yet, on the other side it is as true, that never was any city situated in a more dry and stony situation. There are not more than thirty families in it, and those Armenians." Julfa was ruined by Abbas the Great, and all that art had contributed to its fortification; and this he did in order to prevent the Turkish armies from getting supplies of provisions during their incursions into Persia. To this end he transplanted the inhabitants and their cattle to other places, ruined all their houses, fired the whole country, burnt up all the turf and trees, and even poisoned their springs. Sir John Cartwright visited this place about two hundred years ago, and he stated the number of houses to be two thousand, and the inhabitants ten thousand. When Chardin was there (in 1675), however, as we have already stated, there were not more than thirty families. Sir W. Ouseley says, that there were only forty-five families in 1812, and those, apparently, of the lowest class. "Several steep and lofty mountains," says he, "offer very extraordinary aspects. Many huge masses of rock had lately fallen during earthquakes; and the whole country round bespeaks some ancient and tremendous commotion of nature[42]." NO. XIII.--ARSINOE. Arsinoe was situated near the lake of Moeris, on the west shore of the Nile, where the inhabitants paid the highest veneration to crocodiles. They nourished them in a splendid manner, embalmed them after they were dead, and buried them in the subterranean cells of the Labyrinth; thence the city was called, in ancient times, Crocodilopolis[43]. When the Greeks conquered Egypt they altered its name to Arsinoe. This name it retained in the time of Adrian, and Greek medals were struck here in honour of that emperor as well as of Trajan. Its ruins are thus described by Belzoni:--"On the morning of the 7th I went to see the ruins of the ancient Arsinoe; it had been a very large city, but nothing of it remains except high mounds of all sorts of rubbish. The chief materials appear to have been burnt bricks. There were many stone edifices, and a great quantity of wrought granite. In the present town of Medinet I observed several fragments of granite columns and other pieces of sculpture, of a most magnificent taste. It is certainly strange that granite columns are only to be seen in this place and near the Pyramids, six miles distant. Among the ruins at Arsinoe I also observed various fragments of statues of granite, well executed, but much mutilated; and it is my opinion that this town has been destroyed by violence and fire. It is clearly seen that the new town of Medinet is built out of the old town of Arsinoe, as the fragments are to be met with in every part of the town. The large blocks of stone have been diminished in their sizes, but enough is left to show the purposes for which they originally served. About the centre of the ruins I made an excavation in an ancient reservoir, which I found to be as deep as the bottom of the Bahr-Yousef, and which was, no doubt, filled at the time of the inundation, for the accommodation of the town. There are other similar wells in these ruins, which prove that this was the only mode they had of keeping water near them, as the river is at some distance from the town. Among these mounds I found several specimens of glass, of Grecian manufacture and Egyptian workmanship, and it appears to me, that this town must have been one of the first note in Egypt." Near this city was the Labyrinth, so greatly celebrated in ancient times, that Pliny regarded it as the most astonishing effort of human genius. Herodotus saw it, and assures us that it was still more surprising than the Pyramids. It was built at the southernmost part of the lake of Moeris. It was not so much one single palace as a magnificent pile, composed of twelve palaces, regularly disposed, which had a communication with each other. Fifteen hundred rooms, interspersed with terraces, were ranged round twelve halls, and discovered no outlet to such as went to see them. There were the like number of buildings under ground. Those subterraneous structures were designed for the burying-place of the kings; "and who," says Rollin, "can say this without confusion, and without deploring the blindness of man, for keeping the sacred crocodiles, which a nation, so wise in other respects, worshipped as gods?" In order to visit the rooms and halls of the Labyrinth, he continues, it was necessary, as the reader will necessarily suppose, for people to take the same precaution as Ariadne made Theseus use, when he was obliged to go and fight the Minotaur in the labyrinth of Crete. Virgil describes it in this manner:-- And in the Cretan labyrinth of old, With wandering ways, and many a winding fold, Involved the weary feet without redress, In a round error, which denied recess; Not far from thence he graved the wondrous maze; A thousand doors, a thousand winding ways. Of this monument no more is now to be found than amid the ruins of Babel Caroan and Casr Caroan. "Hereafter," says Savary, "when Europe shall have restored to Egypt the sciences it received thence, perhaps the sands and rubbish, which hide the subterranean part of the Labyrinth will be removed, and precious antiquities obtained. Who can say that the discoveries of the learned were not preserved in this asylum, equally impenetrable to the natives and foreigners? If the dust of Herculaneum, an inconsiderable city, has preserved so many rarities and instructive remains of art and history, what may not be expected from the fifteen hundred apartments in which the archives of Egypt were deposited, since the governors assembled here to treat on the most important affairs of religion and state[44]?" NO. XIV.--ARTAXATA. The ruins of this city are seen at a place called Ardachar, or, as it is more frequently called in the East, Ardechier; sometimes Ardesh. The city rose above the plain with fortress, palaces, and temples; and two more splendid than the rest, one dedicated to Anaites or Armatea, the other, a magnificent structure to Apollo. Statues were raised in all. Artaxata was the capital of Armenia, and the residence of the Armenian kings. It was situate on a plain, upon an elbow of the Araxes, which formed a peninsula, and surrounded the town, except on the side of the isthmus. This isthmus was defended by a broad ditch and rampart. It was built by Artaxias in consequence of Hannibal's having recommended the spot as a fit place for the king's capital; and there Artaxias' successors resided for many generations. Lucullus having defeated the Armenians, under their king Tigranes, did not venture to lay siege to this place, because he considered it impregnable. The gates were, however, thrown open to the Roman general Corbulo, but the city itself was burnt and razed. It was afterwards called Neronia, in compliment to the emperor Nero, who commanded Tiridates to rebuild it. A few families, of the poorest order of people, are now the sole occupants of this once famous city. "On reaching the remains of Ardisher," says Sir Robert Ker Porter, "I saw the earth covered to an immense extent, and on every side, with that sort of irregular hillocks, which are formed by Time over piles of ruins. These, with long dyke-like ridges, evidently by the same venerable architect, and materials connecting them in parts, told me at once I was entering the confines of a city, now no more. It is not in language to describe the effect on the mind in visiting one of these places. The space over which the eye wanders, all marked with the memorials of the past, but where no pillar or dome, nor household wall of any kind, however fallen, yet remains to give a feeling of some present existence of the place, even by a progress in decay. All here is finished; buried under heaps of earth; the graves, not of the people above, but of their houses, temples, and palaces; all lying in death-like entombment. At Anni I found myself surrounded by a superb monument of Armenian greatness; at Ardechier I stood over its grave. Go where one will for lessons of Time's revolutions, the brevity of human life, the nothingness of man's ambition, they nowhere can strike upon the heart like a single glance cast on one of these motionless life-deserted 'cities of the silent[45].'" NO. XV.--ARTEMITA. Artemita was a large town in Mesopotamia, according to Pliny the naturalist; but Strabo, more correctly, places it in Babylonia, five hundred stadia east of Seleucia, on the banks of the lake Arsissa, now called Argish. Though Chosroes was undoubtedly sovereign of Ctesiphon and built the splendid palace, of which the remains are visible; he did not approach the gates of that city for nearly four-and-twenty years. His favourite residence was Dustegerd (Artemita), situate on the Tigris, not less than sixty miles north of Ctesiphon; and here, since the length of his residence at Ctesiphon has not been clearly ascertained, and with a view of giving the reader some idea with respect to the power and splendour of this prince, we will cite the description that has been given of the wealth and magnificence for which his name has been rendered remarkable to all posterity. "The adjacent pastures were covered with flocks and herds; the paradise or park was replenished with pheasants, peacocks, ostriches, roebucks, and wild boars; and the noble game of lions and tigers were sometimes turned loose for the bolder pleasures of the chase. Nine hundred and sixty elephants were maintained for the use and splendour of the great king; his tents and baggage were carried into the field by twelve thousand great camels and eight thousand of a smaller size; and the royal stables were filled with six thousand mules and horses, among which the names of Shebdiz and Barid were renowned for their speed and beauty." The treasure, which consisted of gold, silver, gems, silk, and aromatics, were deposited in one hundred subterranean vaults; and his palace walls are described as having been hung with thirty thousand rich hangings, and thousands of globes of gold were suspended in the dome to imitate the planets and constellations of the firmament. When this palace was sacked by Heraclius, the conqueror found in it, as we are informed by Cedrenus, sugar, ginger, pepper, silk robes woven, and embroidered carpets; aloes, aloes-wood, mataxa, silk, thread, muslins, muslin garments without number, and a vast weight of gold bullion. Dustegerd stood upon the spot where now are seen the vast ruins of Kesra-Shirene. These have been described by Sir R. Ker Porter. "We are told, that the city of Dustegerd was the most stationary residence of Khosroo Purviz, and that it contained his most superb palace, treasury, and public buildings. There he passed his winters, with the beautiful object of his idolatry[46]; and thence he flew with her from the conquering arms of the emperor Heraclius. We entered upon a chain of hills, amongst which our road led in the most circuitous and intricate mazes I had ever trod; heights and depths, ravines, dry or water courses, rugged promontories, short stony plains, in short, every species of mountain difficulties, diversified our path for full fifteen miles, till we arrived at a once formidable barrier, not far from which we caught a view of the meandering river Zohaub. All along the alpine bridge we mounted, runs a massy wall of large hewn stone, which, in many places, like a curtain, closes the openings left by nature in the rocky bulwarks of the country. It had evidently been intended for a defence against any hostile approach from the eastward, and, on passing it, we went through what had formed one of its gates." Journeying on a mile or two further, the traveller came to a second wall, still higher and stronger, and from that ran a third wall, which partly enclosed a large angular space. On various spots lay large stones of a great length, and hollowed in the middle, as if they were the remains of some ancient covered channel to convey water. This is still called the aqueduct of Khosroo Purviz; and the natives told Sir Robert, that it was one of the works constructed by that prince to win the smiles of his beloved Shirene. Numerous fragments and continuations of the great rampart wall tracked their way, till they came to the ruins of another wall, the position and extent of which seemed to declare it to have been one side of the battlements of some large and ancient city. This they were informed was Kesra-Shirene. They passed under a gateway of simple construction, formed of hewn stones, twelve feet high and about six in thickness. The wall ran to a considerable distance, then disappeared, and then started up in massy fragments; the whole seeming to have formerly enclosed an area of several miles, and likely to have been occupied by the streets, courts, and public buildings of a very noble city. "The first ruined edifice we approached," continues Sir Robert, "was built of stone, and consists of long ranges of vaulted rooms, nearly choked up with the fallen masses of what may have been its magnificent superstructures. A little onward, we came to the remains of some place of great magnitude. It is a square building of nearly a hundred feet along each side; four entrances have led into the interior, and the arches of these portals, which are falling to the last stage of decay, cannot be less than from thirty to forty feet in height. The walls are of equal elevation, and of a more than ordinary thickness for any structure to stand the brunt of war, being twelve feet in solidity. The interior of the place, which seems to have been one enormous chamber or hall, is covered with lime, stones, and other fragments of masonry. No remnant of any sculptural ornaments or inscription was to be seen. At the southern angle of the great arch within the city walls, on a commanding rise of ground, stands a ruin of a stronger character; the massiveness and form of the work proving it to be the remains of a fortress. The building is of stone and brick; the latter being of a large square surface, but not very thick. Various lofty arched chambers, as well as deep subterraneous dungeons, compose this noble ruin. In ranging over the rest of the ground, contained within the circuit of the great interior walls, we found it covered with every indication that there had once stood the busy streets of a great and populous city[47]. NO. XVI.--ATHENS. "Look! on the Ægean shore a city stands, Built nobly, pure the air and light the soil. Athens! the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence, native to famous wits, Or hospitable in her sweet recess. City or suburban studious walks and shades! See there the olive groves of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Thrills her thick-warbled notes the summer long. There, flowery hill, Hymettus, with the sound Of bees, industrious murmur, oft invites To studious musing; there Ilissus rolls His whispering stream. Within the walls then view The schools of ancient sages; his who bred Great Alexander to subdue the world. Lyceum there and painted Stoa next."--MILTON. The Athenians thought themselves the original inhabitants of Attica; for which reason they were called "Sons of the Earth;" and "grasshoppers." They sometimes, therefore, wore golden grasshoppers in their hair, as badges of honour, to distinguish themselves from the people of later origin and less noble extraction; because these insects are supposed to be sprung from the ground. "Our origin," said Socrates, "is so beautiful, that none of the Greeks can give such pure appellations to their country as we can. We can truly style the earth on which we tread our nurse, our mother, our father." [Illustration: ATHENS] It was governed by seventeen kings, in the following order:-- After a reign of fifty years, Cecrops was succeeded by B.C. Cranaus 1506 Amphictyon 1497 Ericthonius 1487 Pandion 1437 Erictheus 1397 Cecrops II. 1347 Pandion II. 1307 Ægeus 1283 Theseus 1235 Menestheus 1205 Demophoon 1282 Oxyntes 1149 Aphidas 1137 Thymoetes 1336 Melanthus 1128 Codrus 1091 The history of the first twelve monarchs is, for the most part, fabulous. Athens was founded by Cecrops, who led a colony out of Egypt, and built twelve towns, of which he composed a kingdom. Amphictyon, the third king of Athens, procured a confederacy between twelve nations, who met every year at Thermopylæ, there to consult over their affairs in general, as also upon those of each nation in particular. This convention was called the assembly of the Amphictyons. The reign of Ægeus is remarkable for the Argonautic expedition, the war of Minos, and the story of Theseus and Ariadne. Ægeus was succeeded by his son, Theseus, whose exploits belong more to fable than to history. The last king was Codrus, who devoted himself to die for his people. After Codrus, the title of king was extinguished among the Athenians: his son was set at the head of the commonwealth, with the title of Archon, which after a time was declared to be an annual office. After this Draco was allowed to legislate, and then Solon. The laws of the former were so severe, that they were said to be written in blood. Those of the latter were of a different character. Pisistratus acquired ascendancy; became a despot, and was assassinated: whereon the Athenians recovered their liberties, and Hippias, the son of Pisistratus, in vain attempted to re-establish a tyranny. The Athenians, sometime after, burnt Sardis, a city of the Persians, in conjunction with the Ionians; and, to revenge this, Darius invaded Greece, but was conquered at Marathon by Miltiades. Xerxes soon after invaded Attica, and the Athenians having taken to their "wooden walls," their city was burnt to the ground. After the victory, gained over the Persians at Salamis, the Athenians returned to their city, but were obliged to abandon it again; Mardonius having wasted and destroyed every thing in its neighbourhood. They returned to it soon after their victory at Platæa. Their first care, after returning to their city, was to rebuild their walls. This measure was opposed by the Lacedemonians, under the pretence of its being contrary to the interest of Greece, that there should be strong places beyond the isthmus. Their real motive, however, was suspected to be an aversion to the rising greatness of the Athenians. Themistocles conducted himself with great art in this matter[48]. He got himself appointed ambassador to Sparta; and before setting out he caused all the citizens, of every age and sex, to apply themselves to the task of building the walls, making use of any materials within their reach. Fragments of houses, temples, and other buildings, were accordingly employed, producing a grotesque appearance, which remained to the days of Plutarch. He then set out for Sparta; but, on various pretences, declined entering on his commission, till he had received intelligence that the work he had set on foot was nearly completed. He then went boldly to the Lacedemonian senate, declared what had been done, and justified it, not only by natural right of the Athenians to provide for their own defence, but by the advantage of opposing such an obstacle to the progress of the barbarians. The Lacedemonians, sensible of the justice of this argument, and seeing that remonstrance would now avail nothing, were fain to acquiesce. No city in the world can boast, in such a short space of time, of such a number of illustrious citizens, equally celebrated for their humanity, learning, and military abilities. Some years after the Persian defeat, Athens was visited by a very terrible calamity, insomuch that its ravages were like what had never been before known. This was a plague. We now adopt the language of Rollin. "It is related, that this scourge began in Ethiopia, whence it descended into Egypt, from thence spread over Libya, and a great part of Persia; and at last broke at once like a flood upon Athens. Thucydides, who himself was seized with that deadly disease, has described very minutely the several circumstances and symptoms of it; in order, says he, that a faithful and exact relation of this calamity may serve as an instruction to posterity, in case the like should ever happen. This pestilence baffled the utmost efforts of art; the most robust constitutions were unable to withstand its attacks; and the greatest care and skill of the physicians were a feeble help to those who were infected. The instant a person was seized, he was struck with despair, which quite disabled him from attempting a cure. The assistance that was given them was ineffectual, and proved mortal to all such of their relations as had the courage to approach them. The prodigious quantity of baggage, which had been removed out of the country into the city, proved very noxious. Most of the inhabitants, for want of lodging, lived in little cottages, in which they could scarcely breathe, during the raging heat of the summer; so that they were seen either piled one upon the other, the dead as well as those who were dying, or else crawling through the streets; or lying along by the side of fountains, to which they had dragged themselves, to quench the raging thirst which consumed them. The very temples were filled with dead bodies, and every part of the city exhibited a dreadful image of death; without the least remedy for the present, or the least hopes with regard to futurity. "The plague, before it spread into Attica, had, as we have before stated, made wild havoc in Persia. Artaxerxes, who had been informed of the mighty reputation of Hippocrates of Cos, the greatest physician of that or any other age, caused his governors to write to him, to invite him into his dominions, in order that he might prescribe for those who were infected. The king made him the most advantageous offers; setting no bounds to his rewards on the side of interest, and, with regard to honours, promising to make him equal with the most considerable persons in his court. This great physician sent no other answer but this:--that he was free from either wants or desires; and he owed all his cares to his fellow-citizens and countrymen; and was under no obligation to the declared enemies of Greece.--Kings are not used to denials. Artaxerxes, therefore, in the highest transports of rage, sent to the city of Cos, the native place of Hippocrates, and where he was at that time; commanding them to deliver up to him that insolent wretch, in order that he might be brought to condign punishment; and threatening, in case they refused, to lay waste their city and island in such a manner, that not the least footsteps of it should remain. However, the inhabitants of Cos were not under the least terror. They made answer, that the menaces of Darius and Xerxes had not been able to prevail with them to give them earth and water, or to obey their orders; that Artaxerxes' threats would be equally impotent; that, let what would be the consequence, they would never give up their fellow citizens; and that they depended upon the protection of the gods. "Hippocrates had said in one of his letters, that he owed himself entirely to his country. And, indeed, the instant he was sent for to Athens, he went thither, and did not once stir out of the city till the plague had ceased. He devoted himself entirely to the service of the sick; and, to multiply himself, as it were, he sent several of his disciples into all parts of the country, after having instructed them in what manner to treat their patients. The Athenians were struck with the deepest sense of gratitude for this generous care. They therefore ordained, by a public decree, that Hippocrates should be initiated in the most exalted mysteries, in the same manner as Hercules the son of Jupiter; that a crown of gold should be presented him, of the value of a thousand staters[49], and that the decree by which it was granted him, should be read aloud by a herald in the public games, on the solemn festival of Panathenæa: that the freedom of the city should be given him, and himself be maintained at the public charge, in the Prytaneum all his lifetime, in case he thought proper: in fine, that the children of all the people of Cos, whose city had given birth to so great a man, might be maintained and brought up in Athens, in the same manner." In the time of Agis and Pausanias, kings of Lacedemonia, Lysander was sent to besiege Athens. He arrived, therefore, at the Piræus, with a fleet of one hundred and fifty sail, and prevented all other ships from coming in or going out. The Athenians, besieged by land and sea, without provisions, ships, hope of relief, or any resources, sent deputies to Agis, to propose a treaty with Sparta, upon condition of abandoning all their possessions, the city and port only excepted. He referred the deputies to Lacedemon, as not being empowered to treat with them. When they arrived at Salasia, upon the frontier of Sparta, and had made known their commission to the Ephori, they were ordered to retire, and to come with other proposals, if they expected a peace. The Ephori had demanded, "that one thousand two hundred paces of the wall on each side of the Piræus should he demolished;" but an Athenian, for venturing to advise a compliance, was sent to prison, and prohibition made against proposing any thing of that kind for the future. The Corinthians and several other allies, especially the Thebans, insisted that it was absolutely necessary to destroy the city without hearkening any further to a treaty. But the Lacedemonians, preferring the glory and safety of Greece to their own grandeur, made answer, that they would never be reproached with having destroyed a city that had rendered such great services to all Greece; the remembrance of which ought to have much greater weight with the allies than the remembrance of private injuries received from it. A peace was, therefore, concluded under these conditions:--"that the fortifications of the Piræus, with the long wall that joined that port to the city, should be demolished; that the Athenians should deliver up all their galleys, twelve only excepted; that they should abandon all the cities they had seized, and content themselves with their own lands and country." The deputies, on their return, were surrounded by an innumerable throng of people, who apprehended that nothing had been concluded; for they were not able to hold out any longer, such multitudes dying of famine. The next day they reported the success of their negociation; the treaty was ratified, and Lysander, followed by the exiles, entered the port. It was on the very day the Athenians had formerly gained the famous battle of Salamis. He caused the works to be demolished to the sound of flutes and trumpets, as if all Greece had that day regained its liberty. Thus ended the Peloponnesian war, after having continued during the space of twenty-seven years. The walls, thus demolished, were rebuilt by Conon. He did more; he restored Athens to its former splendour, and rendered it more formidable to its enemies than it had ever been before. Philip[50] having gained the battle of Cheronæa, Greece, and above all, Athens, received a blow from which she never recovered. It was generally expected, that Philip would avail himself of this opportunity of entirely crushing his inveterate enemy. That prudent prince, however, foresaw that powerful obstacles were yet to be encountered, and that there was still a spirit in the Athenian people which might render it difficult to hold them in subjection. It would appear, also, says an elegant writer, as if the genius and fame of Athens had, in the hour of her calamity, thrown a shield over her: for Philip is reported to have said, "Have I done so much for glory, and shall I destroy the theatre of that glory?" A treaty, in consequence, was entered into; and thus the Athenians, though reluctant to exist by Philip's clemency, were permitted to retain the whole Attic territory. The number of men able to bear arms at Athens, in the reign of Cecrops, was computed at twenty thousand; and there appears to have been no considerable augmentation in the more civilised age of Pericles; but in the time of Demetrius Phalareus, there were found twenty-one thousand citizens, ten thousand foreigners, and forty thousand slaves. Philip[51], son of Demetrius of Macedon, seems to have been one of the most inveterate enemies by whom Athens was ever ravaged. With unsparing cruelty he destroyed almost every thing which had either escaped the Persian invaders, or which had been erected after their final expulsion. Livy tells us, that, not content with burning and destroying the temples of the gods, he ordered that the very stones should be broken into small pieces, that they might no longer serve to repair the buildings; and Diodorus Siculus asserts, that even the inviolability of the sepulchres could not command his respect, or repress his violence. Athens, however, still recovered some portion of its power; for when Sylla arrived before the Piræus, he found the walls to be sixty feet high, and entirely of hewn stone. The work was very strong, and had been raised by order of Pericles in the Peloponnesian war: when, the hopes of victory depending solely upon this port, he had fortified it to the utmost of his power. The height of the walls did not deter Sylla. He employed all sorts of engines in battering them, and made continual assaults. He spared neither danger, attacks, nor expense, to hasten the conclusion of the war. Without enumerating the rest of the warlike stores and equipage, twenty thousand mules were perpetually employed in working the machines only. Wood happening to fall short, from the great consumption made of it in the machines, which were often either broken or spoiled by the vast weight they carried, or burned by the enemy, he did not spare the sacred groves. He cut down the trees in the walks of the Academy and Lycæum, which were the finest and best planted in the suburbs, and caused the high walls that joined the port to the city to be demolished, in order to make use of the ruins in erecting his works, and carrying on his operations. Notwithstanding all disadvantages, the Athenians defended themselves like lions. They found means either to burn most of the machines erected against the walls, or by undermining them, to throw them down and break them to pieces. The Romans, on their side, behaved with no less vigour. Sylla, discouraged by so obstinate a defence, resolved to attack the Piræus no longer, and confined himself to reduce the place by famine. The city was now at the last extremity; a bushel of barley having been sold in it for a thousand drachms (about 25_l._ sterling). In the midst of the public misery, the governor, who was a lieutenant of Mithridates, passed his days and nights in debauch. The senators and priests went to throw themselves at his feet, conjuring him to have pity on the city, and to obtain a capitulation from Sylla; he dispersed them with arrow-shot, and in that manner drove them from his presence. He did not demand a cessation of arms, nor send deputies to Sylla, till reduced to the last extremity. As those deputies made no proposals, and asked nothing of him to the purpose, but ran on in praising and extolling Theseus, Eumolpus, and the exploits of the Athenians against the Medes, Sylla was tired of their discourse, and interrupted them by saying,--"Gentlemen haranguers, you may go back again, and keep your rhetorical flourishes to yourselves. For my part, I was not sent to Athens to be informed of your ancient prowess, but to chastise your modern revolt." During this audience, some spies having entered the city, overheard by chance some old men talking of the quarter called Ceramicus (the public place at Athens), and blaming the tyrant exceedingly for not guarding a certain part of the wall that was the only place by which the enemy could scale the walls. At their return into the camp, they related what they heard to Sylla. The parley had been to no purpose. Sylla did not neglect the intelligence given him. The next night he went in person to take a view of the place; and finding the wall actually accessible, he ordered ladders to be raised against it, began the attack there, and, having made himself master of the wall, after a weak resistance, entered the city. He would not suffer it to be set on fire, but abandoned it to be plundered by his soldiers, who, in several houses, found human flesh, which had been dressed to be eaten. A dreadful slaughter ensued. The next day all the slaves were sold by auction, and liberty was granted to the citizens who had escaped the swords of the soldiers, who were a very small number. He besieged the citadel the same day, where Aristion and those who had taken refuge there, were soon so much reduced by famine, that they were forced to surrender themselves. The tyrant, his guards, and all who had been in any office under him, were put to death. Some ten days after, Sylla made himself master of the Piæaus, and burned all its fortifications. The reputation for learning, military valour, and polished elegance, which Athens enjoyed during the splendid administration of Pericles, was tarnished by the corruption which that celebrated person introduced. Prosperity was the forerunner of luxury and universal dissipation; every delicacy was drawn from distant nations; the wines of Cyprus, and the snows of Thrace, garlands of roses, perfumes, and a thousand arts of buffoonery, which disgraced a Persian court, were introduced; instead of the coarse meals, the herbs and plain bread, which the laws of Solon had recommended, and which had nourished the heroes of Marathon and Salamis. Sylla's assault was the final termination of the power and greatness of Athens; she became a portion of the Roman empire; but in the reign of Hadrian and the Antonines, she resumed, at least in outward appearance, no small portion of her former splendour. Hadrian built several temples, and, above all, he finished that of Jupiter Olympius, the work of successive kings, and one of the greatest productions of human art. He founded, also, a splendid library; and bestowed so many privileges, that an inscription, placed on one of the gates, declared Athens to be no longer the city of Theseus, but of Hadrian. In what manner it was regarded too in the time of Trajan, may be gathered from Pliny's letter to a person named Maximus, who was sent thither as governor. "Remember," said he, "that you are going to visit Achaia, the proper and true Greece; that you are appointed to govern a state of free cities, who have maintained liberty by their valour. Take not away any thing of their privileges, their dignity; no, nor yet of their presumption; but consider it is a country that hath of long time given laws, and received none; that it is to Athens thou goest, where it would be thought a barbarous cruelty in thee to deprive them of that shadow and name of liberty which still remaineth to them." The Antonines trod in the steps of Hadrian. Under them Herodes Atticus devoted an immense fortune to the embellishment of the city and the promotion of learning. But when the Roman world felt the wand of adversity, and her power began to decline, Athens felt her share; she had enjoyed a long respite from foreign war, but in the reign of Arcadius and Honorius a dreadful tempest burst upon her. Alaric, after over-running the rest of Greece, advanced into Attica, and found Athens without any power of defence. The whole country was converted into a desert; but it seems uncertain, whether he plundered the city, or whether he accepted the greater part of its wealth as a ransom. Certain, however, it is, that it suffered severely, and a contemporary compared it to the mere skin of a slaughtered victim. It is reported that, during their stay in the city, the barbarians, having collected all the libraries of Athens, were preparing to burn them; but one of their number diverted them from their design, by suggesting the propriety of leaving to their enemies what appeared to be the most effectual instrument for cherishing and promoting their unwarlike spirit. After the devastations of Alaric, and, still more, after the shutting up of her schools, Athens ceased almost entirely to attract the attention of mankind. These schools were suppressed by an edict of Justinian; an edict which excited great grief and indignation among the few remaining votaries of Grecian science and superstition. Seven friends and philosophers,[52] who dissented from the religion of their sovereign, resolved to seek in a foreign land the freedom of which they were deprived in their native country. Accordingly, the seven sages sought an asylum in Persia, under the protection of Chosroes; but, disgusted and disappointed, they hastily returned, and declared that they had rather die on the borders of the empire than enjoy the wealth and favour of the barbarian. These associates ended their lives in peace and obscurity; and as they left no disciples, they terminate the long list of philosophers who may be justly praised, notwithstanding their defects, as the wisest and most virtuous of their times[53]. After the taking of Constantinople by the Latins, in the beginning of the thirteenth century, the western powers began to view Greece as an object of ambition. In the division of the Greek empire, which they made among themselves, Greece and Macedonia fell to the share of the Marquis of Montferrat, who bestowed Athens and Thebes on one of his followers, named Otho de la Roche. This prince reigned with the title of Duke of Athens, which remained for a considerable time[54]. It was afterwards seized by a powerful Florentine family, named Acciaioli, one of whom sold it to the Venetians; but his son seized it again, and it remained in that family till A.D. 1455, when it surrendered to Omar, a general of Mahomet II., and thus formed one of the two hundred cities which that prince took from the Christians. He settled a colony in it, and incorporated it completely with the Turkish empire. What has occurred of late years has not been embodied in any authentic history; but the consequences of the tumults of Greece may be in some degree imagined, from what is stated by a recent traveller in regard to Athens[55]. "When I sallied forth to explore the wonders of Athens, alas! they were no longer to be seen. The once proud city of marble was literally a mass of ruins--the inglorious ruins of mud-houses and wretched mosques forming in all quarters such indistinguishable piles, that in going about I was wholly unable to fix upon any peculiarities of streets or buildings, by which I might know my way from one part of the capital to another. With the exception of the remains of the Forum, the temple of Theseus, which is still in excellent preservation, the celebrated columns of the temple of Jupiter Olympius, and the Parthenon, nothing now exists at Athens of all the splendid edifices with which it was so profusely decorated in the days of its glory." It has been well observed, that, associated in the youthful mind with all that is noble in patriotism, exalted in wisdom, excelling in art, elegant in literature, luminous in science, persuasive in eloquence, and heroic in action, the beautiful country of Greece, and its inhabitants, must, under every circumstance, even of degradation, be an interesting object of study. "We can all feel, or imagine," says Lord Byron, "the regret with which the ruins of cities, once the capital of empires, are beheld. But never did the littleness of man, and the vanity of his very best virtues, of patriotism to exalt and of valour to defend his country, appear more conspicuous than in the record of what Athens once was, and the certainty of what she now is." The former state of Athens is thus described by Barthelemy. "There is not a city in Greece which presents so vast a number of public buildings and monuments as Athens. Edifices, venerable for their antiquity, or admirable for their elegance, raise their majestic heads on all sides. Masterpieces of sculpture are extremely numerous, even in the public places, and concur with the finest productions of the pencil to embellish the porticoes of temples. Here every thing speaks to the eyes of the attentive spectator." To describe Athens entire would be to fill a volume. We shall, therefore, only give an account of the chief monuments of antiquity as they existed till very lately; the rest, as they give one little or no sort of idea of their ancient magnificence, were better omitted than mentioned. The Piræus[56] is one of the finest ports in Greece, and, being bounded by rocks, has experienced hardly any change in its form or dimensions. The sea, however, appears to have encroached a little, as some ruins are seen under water. The general depth of the port is from two to ten fathoms, in some places twenty. The Piræus was decorated with a theatre, several temples, and a great number of statues. As the existence of Athens depended on the safety of this harbour, Themistocles secured it against sudden attack by building a wall, sixty stadia in length, and forty cubits high. As to its thickness, it was greater than the space occupied by two waggons. It was built of huge square stones, fastened together on the outside by iron and leaden cramps. Without the gate was a cenotaph, erected in honour of Euripides, on which was inscribed "The glory of Euripides has all Greece for a monument." The old city of Athens was seated on the top of a rock in the midst of a pleasant plain, which, as the number of inhabitants increased, became full of buildings, which induced the distinction of Acro and Catapolis, _i. e._, of the upper and lower city. The inside of the citadel was adorned with a multitude of edifices. The flat space on the rock of the Acropolis is not more than eight hundred feet in length, and about four hundred feet in breadth,--a small extent for the site of the primitive city of the Athenians; but an area of great size, when considered as the base only of temples and marble palaces, containing not a single structure which might not be denominated a masterpiece of art[57]. The most remarkable of these were a magnificent temple of Minerva, styled Parthenon, because that goddess was a virgin--this the Persians destroyed, out it was rebuilt with still greater splendour by Pericles--the temple of Neptune and Minerva jointly; a temple dedicated to Victory, adorned with paintings, principally the work of Polygnotus, and constructed of white marble. Within the citadel, also, was an immense number of statues, erected by religion and gratitude, on which the chisels of Myron, Phidias, Alcamenes, and other artists of renown, seemed to have bestowed animation. Of these statues, some were those of famous Athenian generals; such as Pericles, Phormio, Iphicrates, and Timotheus; and others, those of the gods. It appears surprising that so many temples should have been crowded together within the narrow compass of the Athenian Acropolis; but the Roman Capitol, though not much more spacious, contained at least thirty temples[58]. "In its pride and glory," says Chandler, "the Acropolis appeared as one entire offering to the deity, surpassing in excellence, and astonishing in richness. Heliodorus employed on it fifteen books. The curiosities of various kinds, with the pictures, statues, and pieces of sculpture, were so many and so remarkable, as to supply Polemo Periegetes with matter for four volumes; and Strabo affirms, that as many more would be required in treating of Athens and of Attica. As the stranger draws near to the present entrance of the citadel, he passes before the façade of the Propylea; the old entrance to the Acropolis, between its Doric pillars, being walled up. Pausanias says, "There is only one entrance to the Acropolis of Athens; it being in every remaining part of its circuit a precipice, and fortified by strong walls. This entrance was fronted by a magnificent building, called the Propylea, covered with roofs of white marble, which surpassed, for beauty and the dimensions of the marble, all that I have seen." This is now in ruins. This was the most expensive work undertaken by Pericles, and is said to have cost 2,500 talents (£452,700). It took five years in building, and was completed B.C. 437. "To a person who has seen the ruins of Rome," says Dr. Clarke, "the first suggestion, made by a sight of the buildings in the Acropolis, is that of the infinite superiority of the Athenian architecture. It possesses the greatness and majesty of the Egyptian or of the ancient Etruscan style, with all the elegant proportion, the rich ornaments, and the discriminating taste of the most splendid era of the arts." Its present condition is thus described by Mr. Williams. "The scene of desolation in the Acropolis is complete; the heaps of ruins of wretched houses, and various buildings, are constructed part with clay and marble, the marble looking doleful through the mud. On entering the temple one is struck by the worn steps, and curved or circular marks of the great doors of old; the pavement, too, that had been trodden by the luminaries of Greece." The walls of the Acropolis[59] exhibit three distinct periods of construction; that is to say, the masonry of _modern_ times in the repairs,--a style of building which can only be referred to the age of _Cimon_, or of _Pericles_;--and the ancient _Pelasgic_ work, as mentioned by Lucian. The _modern_ walls of the city are about ten feet high, and not two in thickness. They were constructed about the year 1780, as a defence against pirates and hordes of Arnauts, who sometimes entered the town at night, and threatened to pillage it. The walls embrace a circuit of nearly three miles, and enclose not only the town and citadel, but also some open spaces for cattle. They were built in seventy-five days, all hands being employed night and day. All kinds of materials which were at hand were employed in their construction, and in some places they exhibit large blocks of stone and marble, and several fragmental inscriptions[60]. The lower city had thirteen gates, and among the principal edifices which adorned it were, 1. The Olympian temple, erected in honour of Athens and all Greece. 2. The Pantheon, dedicated to all the gods; a noble structure, supported by one hundred and twenty marble pillars, and having over its great gateway two horses, carved by Praxiteles. 3. The temple of Theseus; a noble structure, of Pentelic marble. The Gymnasia of Athens were many, but the most remarkable were the Lyceum, Academia, and Cynosarges. The Lyceum stood on the banks of the Ilissus; some say it was built by Pisistratus; others by Pericles; others by Lycurgus. The Academy was so called from Academus. The Cynosarges was a place in the suburbs, not far from the Lyceum. The Areopagus is situated a few hundred feet west of the Acropolis. It consists of an insulated rock, precipitous, and broken towards the south; on the north side it slopes gently down towards the temple of Theseus, and is rather lower than the Acropolis. "Higher up, ascending a hill covered with thistles and red pebbles, you arrive," says M. La Martine, "at the Pnyx; the scene of the stormy assemblies of the people of Athens, and of the fluctuating triumphs of its orators or its favourites; enormous masses of black stone, some of which measure twelve or thirteen cubic feet, lie upon one another, and support the terrace, upon which the people collected. Still higher up, at the distance of about fifty paces, we perceive a huge square block, wherein steps have been cut, which probably served for the orator to mount his tribunal, which thus overlooked the people, the city, and the sea. This possesses not the character of the people of Pericles, but seems Roman. The recollections it inspires are, however, delightful. Demosthenes spoke from thence, and roused or calmed that popular sea, more stormy than the Ægean, which he could also hear roll behind him." "From the odeum of Regilla," says Dr. Clarke, "we went to the Areopagus, wishing to place our feet upon a spot where it is so decidedly known that St. Paul had himself stood; and to view with our own eyes the same scene which he beheld, when he declared unto the Athenians the nature of the UNKNOWN GOD, whom they so ignorantly worshipped. * * * We ascended to the top by means of steps cut within the natural stone, which is of breccia. The sublime scene here exhibited is so striking, that a brief description of it may prove how truly it offers to us a commentary upon St. Paul's words, as they were delivered upon the spot. Before him there was spread a glorious prospect of mountains, islands, seas, and skies; behind him towered the lofty Acropolis, crowned with all its marble temples. This very object, whether in the face of nature, or among the works of art, conspired to elevate the mind, and to fill it with reverence towards that BEING, 'who made and governs the world;' who sitteth in that light which no mortal eye can approach, and yet is nigh unto the meanest of his creatures; 'in whom we live, and move, and have our being.'" Near the Piræan gate is still to be seen, in a state of admirable preservation, the ground-plot and entire town of the Pnyx, or place of _parliament_ of the Athenians, as it was appropriated by Solon to the use of the citizens. Nearly the whole of it is an excavation of the rock, and the several parts of it were carved in stone of one solid mass, with the exception only of the semi-circular area, the farthest part of which consists of masonry. "To approach the spot," says Dr. Clarke, "once dignified by the presence of the greatest Grecian orators, to set our feet where they stood, and actually to behold the place where Demosthenes addressed 'the men of Athens,' calling to mind the most memorable examples of his eloquence, is a gratification of an exalted nature. But the feelings excited in viewing the Pnyx, peculiarly affect Englishmen: that holy fire, so much dreaded by the Athenian tyrants, and which this place had such a remarkable tendency to agitate, burns yet in Britain; it is the very soul of her liberties, and it strengthens the security of her laws; giving eloquence to her senate, heroism to her armies, extension to her commerce, and freedom to her people: although annihilated in almost every country of the earth, it lives in England, and its extinction there, like the going out of the sacred flame in the temple of Delphi, would be felt as a national calamity." Among the loose fragments, dispersed in the Acropolis, has been found a small piece of marble, with an inscription, but in so imperfect a state, that Dr. Clarke considered it only worth notice as a memorial of the place where it was found, and in its allusion to the Prytaneum, which is the only legible part of it. The Prytaneum, where the written laws of Solon were kept, however, was not in the Acropolis, but in a lower part of the city. The Gymnasium of Ptolemy, which stands near the temple of Theseus, is greatly dilapidated, and, in no small degree, concealed by dwellings[61]. The Erectheum is situated about one hundred and fifty feet to the north of the Parthenon. This structure consisted of two contiguous temples; that of Minerva Polias, with its portico towards the east; and that of Pandrosus towards the west, with its two porticoes standing by the north and south angles, the entrance to the Pandroseum being on the northern side. The Turks made a powder-magazine of one of the vestibules of this building, which contains one of the finest specimens of Ionian architecture now existing; and it has been judiciously remarked of the sculpture, every where displayed in this edifice, that it is difficult to conceive how marble has been wrought to such a depth, and brought to so sharp an edge, the ornaments having all the delicacy of works of metal. In that portion of the Erectheum which was dedicated to Minerva Polias, the columns of the front porch are standing, but without any part of their entablature. The marble[62] of this ruin is of virgin whiteness; and the workmanship, as the structure is very diminutive in comparison with the specimens of the Parthenon, is a still more exquisite example than that temple, of the polish and edge which were given to all the parts of Grecian architecture. The line of no pencil can excel the delicate accuracy of contour in the swell of the torus, and the ornaments of the base; and the hand, in passing repeatedly over the marble, seeks in vain for the slightest inequality or even roughness on the surface. A bluish-grey limestone[63] seems to have been used in some of the works; particularly in the exquisite ornaments of the Erectheum, where the frieze of the temple and of its porticoes are not of marble like the rest of the building, but of this sort of slate-limestone. This resembles the limestone employed in the walls of the cella at the temple of Ceres, at Eleusis, and in buildings before the use of marble was known for purposes of architecture: such, for example, is the sort of stone employed in the temple of Apollo at Phigalia, and in other edifices of equal antiquity; it effervesces briskly in acids, and has all the properties of common compact lime, except that it is hard enough to cut glass, and, of course, is susceptible of a fine polish, exhibiting a flat conchoidal fracture, which is somewhat splintery. We could not discover a single fragment of porphyry; which was remarkable, as this substance was almost always used by the ancients in works of great magnificence. The temple of ANCHESMIAN JUPITER stood upon a commanding eminence. The pagan shrine has been succeeded by a small Christian sanctuary. Of the scene from the top of this steep and craggy rock, Wheler speaks in a style of enthusiasm, rather unfrequent with him:--"I wish I could make you taste the same satisfaction, while I describe the prospect, that I then did, and still do, when I consider it. Here, either a Democritus might sit and laugh at the pomps and vanities of the world, whose glories so soon vanish; or a Heraclitus weep over the manifold misfortunes of it, telling sad stories of the various changes and events of life. This would have been a place to inspire a poet, as the brave actions, performed within his view, have already exercised the pens of great historians. Here, like Virgil, he might have sate, and interwoven beautiful descriptions of the rivers, mountains, woods of olives, and groves of lemons and oranges, with the celebrated harbours on the shores and islands, all lying before him, as on a map, which I was content to do only in contemplation; and with a sea-compass to mark out the most considerable places on paper." The Odeum of Regilla stands at the foot of the rock of the Acropolis. The remains of this edifice are those which Wheler and all former travellers, excepting Chandler, have described as the theatre of Bacchus[64]. Of the _theatre_ of _Bacchus_, nothing remains except the circular sweep for the seats; as in the earliest ages of dramatic representation, it was universally formed by scooping the sloping side of a rock[65]. The[66] passion of the Athenians for the theatre is not conceivable. Their eyes, their ears, their imagination, their understanding, all shared in the satisfaction: nothing gave them so sensible a pleasure in dramatic performances, either tragic or comic, as the strokes which were aimed at the affairs of the public, whether some chance occasioned the application, or the address of the poets, who knew how to reconcile the most remote subjects with the transactions of the republic. They entered by this means into the interests of the people, took occasion to soothe their passions, authorise their pretensions, justify, and sometimes condemn their conduct, entertain them with agreeable hopes, instruct them in their duty in certain nice conjunctures; in effecting which they often not only acquired the applauses of the spectators, but credit and influence in the public affairs and councils: hence the theatre became so grateful, and so much the concern of the people[67]. The temple, dedicated to Augustus, consists of four Doric pillars of white marble, fluted, and, like those of all the other buildings of this order, without plinths or bases; they still support their architrave with the pontoon, on the top of which is a square piece of marble, seeming to have been placed there as the pedestal to some statue. There seems, also, to be some inscription on it, but by reason of the height, unintelligible. It is impossible to give a plan of the whole; the remains of it affording but little light towards discovering what form it was of. Of the remains of the Stadium Panathenaicum, the most wonderful of all the works of Herodes Atticus:--"It has been usual to say of this," says Dr. Edward Clarke, "that nothing now remains of its former magnificence. To our eyes, every thing necessary to impress the mind with an accurate idea of the object itself, and of its grandeur, and of the prodigious nature of the work, seemed to exist, as if it had been in its perfect state. The marble covering of the seats, indeed, no longer appears; but the lines are visible of the different ranges; and perhaps a part of the covering itself might be brought to light by a removal of the soil." This memorial of Attic splendour, and of the renown of a private citizen of Athens, became ultimately his funeral monument; and a very curious discovery may be reserved for future travellers in the majestic sepulchre of Herodes himself, who was here interred with the highest obsequies and most distinguished honours a grateful people could possibly bestow upon the tomb of a benefactor, who spared no expense for them while he was living, and every individual of whom participated in his bounty[68] at his death[69]. Beneath the arch of Hadrian persons are conducted from the old city of Theseus to the new Athens, built by Hadrian. The stones are put together without cement; but the work is adorned with a row of Corinthian pilasters and columns, with bases supporting an upper tier in the same style of architecture. It was erected commemorative of Hadrian's return to Athens. A new city had arisen under his auspices. Magnificent temples, stately shrines, unsullied altars, awaited the benediction of this sacerdotal monarch; and it would, indeed, have been marvellous if the Athenians, naturally prone to adulation, neglected to bestow it on a benefactor so well disposed for its reception. The triumphal arch was of course prepared, and lasting characters thereon inscribed have proclaimed to succeeding ages, that "The Athens of Hadrian eclipsed the city of Theseus[70]." Besides this arch, there are other remnants of structures erected in honour of Hadrian. Of these are the stupendous pillars which bear his name. In the time of Pausanias, there were one hundred and twenty pillars of Phrygian marble. Of these, sixteen columns of white marble, each six feet in diameter, and sixty feet in height, now remain; all of the Corinthian order, beautifully fluted, and of the most exquisite workmanship. "Certainly," says Wheler, "this was a work alone that may justify the liberality of Hadrian, and the great care he took to adorn the city; for this must needs have been a wonderful portico, both for beauty, use, and grandeur." Pausanias says, that it was enclosed with a cloister, in which were built rooms of the same stone, only the roofs of alabaster, gilded with gold, and the whole excellently adorned with statues and pictures. He founded also a library and a gymnasium. The Tower or Temple of the Winds[71] is more attractive by its singularity than its beauty. It was the water-clock, the chronometer, and the weather guide of Athens. It was built by Andronicus Cyrrhestes[72]. On the top stood a brazen Triton, contrived so as to turn round with the wind, and with a wand, that he held in his hand, to point to the figure of the wind which blew. The Triton is now wanting; the rest remains entire. It is a small octagon tower; the roof is built pyramidically. On every side is represented the figure of a wind, with proper attributes, characterising the nature of it, in very good _basso rilievo_, and their names written above them in Greek characters. The god Zephyrus is represented as a beautiful young man, gliding gently along with an imperceptible motion, with his bosom full of flowers. They are all drawn with wings, and flying on with more or less rapidity, according to the violence of each wind in those parts. This structure is known to be the same which Vitruvius mentions, but it is entirely unnoticed by Pausanias[73]. Some suppose that it was one of the sacred structures of the ancient city, and that, as a place of religious worship, it answered other purposes than that of merely indicating the direction of the winds, the seasons, and the hours. As Dr. Clarke drew near to the walls, he beheld the vast Cecropian citadel, crowned with temples, that originated in the veneration, once paid to the memory of the illustrious dead, surrounded by objects, telling the same theme of sepulchral grandeur, and now monuments of departed greatness, mouldering in all the solemnity of ruin. "So paramount is this funereal character in the approach to Athens from the Piræus," says he, "that as we passed the hill of the Museum, which was, in fact, an ancient cemetery of the Athenians, we might have imagined ourselves to be among the tombs of Telmessus, from the number of sepulchres hewn in the rock, and from the antiquity of the workmanship, evidently not of later date than any thing of the kind in Asia Minor. In other respects, the city exhibits nearly the appearance so briefly described by Strabo, eighteen centuries before our coming; and perhaps it wears a more magnificent aspect, owing to the splendid remains of Hadrian's temple of Olympian Jove, which did not exist when Athens was visited by the disciple of Xenacchus." "The first monument," says La Martine, "which attracts your attention, is the temple of Olympian Jupiter, the magnificent columns of which rise alone upon a deserted naked spot, on the right of what was Athens--a worthy portico of a city in ruins." This temple[74] was pretended by the Athenians to have been originally founded in the time of Deucalion, and to have subsisted nine hundred years; but in the end falling into ruin, it began to be rebuilt by Pisistratus, and having received additions from several hands during the space of seven hundred years, was completely finished by the Emperor Hadrian, and dedicated to Jupiter Olympus, to whose honour the same prince erected a colossal statue of immense value, both on account of the richness of its materials and the beauty of its workmanship. Nothing in all Greece, nor even in the whole world, was equal to the magnificence of this temple. Its area was computed to be four stadia. The inside was embellished with statues by the best hands, placed between each column, which were gifts from all the cities of Greece, that were desirous of paying their court to the Emperor; among whom the Athenians distinguished themselves by the colossus, erected by them in honour of the monarch himself. It is impossible from the remains to collect the plan of the whole building; there being nothing left but ten beautiful Corinthian pillars, with their friezes, architraves, and cornices, two fluted, the remaining eight plain. Close behind the eight, which stand in one rank, is a wall of white marble, the same as the columns, and, at the south end, the two that project, being fluted, and on a different line from the others, seem to have formed the entrance of the temple[75]. The solitary grandeur of these marble ruins[76] is, perhaps, more striking than the appearance presented by any other object at Athens; insomuch that the Turks themselves seem to regard them with an eye of respect and admiration; large parties of them being frequently seen seated on their carpets, in the long shade of the columns. "Rome," says Chandler, "afforded no example of this species of building. It was one of the four marble edifices, which had raised to the pinnacle of renown the architects who planned them; men, it is said, admired in the assembly of the gods for their wisdom and excellence." Of this temple seventeen columns were standing in 1676; but, a few years before Chandler arrived at Athens, one was thrown down, for the purpose of building a new mosque in the market-place. Some of the columns still support their architraves, as we have before stated, one of which was found to equal three feet in width, and although of one entire piece of marble, it extended in length twenty-two feet six inches. On the top of the entablature is shown the dwelling of a hermit, who fixed his abode upon this eminence, and dedicated his life entirely to the contemplation of the sublime objects by which his residence was on all sides surrounded. The beauty of the temple of Theseus[77] is not at all prejudiced by its littleness; but still remains a masterpiece of architecture, not easy to be paralleled, much less exceeded. Much of the history of Theseus is expressed in relievo, on the pronaos of the front and west end, where all the tricks and art of wrestling seem well expressed. There are, also, some in women's habits, to express the war of the Amazons. This elegant building[78] is supposed to have furnished the model of the Parthenon, which resembles it in the most essential points, though it is nearly of double the size. Indeed, the Theseion impresses the beholder more by its symmetry than its magnitude. It is now converted into a Christian church. "On approaching the temple of Theseus," says La Martine, "though convinced by what I had read of its beauty, I was astonished to find myself quite unmoved; my heart sought to bestir itself; my eye sought to admire; but in vain. I felt what one always feels at the sight of a work without faults,--a negative pleasure,--but as to a real, strong impression, a sense of powerful or involuntary delight, I experienced nothing. This temple is too small; it is a kind of sublime plaything of art. It is not a monument for the gods; nor even for men for ages. I felt but one instant of ecstacy, and that was when, seated at the western angle of the temple, on its last steps, my eye embraced, at one glance, the magnificent harmony of its forms, the majestic elegance of its columns, the empty and more sombre space of its portico; and on its internal frieze, the combats of the Centaurs and the Lapithæ; and above, through the opening of the centre, the blue and resplendent sky, shedding a serene and mystical light on the cornices and the projecting slopes of the bassi-rilievi, which seem to live and to move." All this seems rather extraordinary. "On your way from Piræum to the city of Athens," says Lord Sandwich, "you pass all along the ruins of Themistocles' wall. The road is in the middle of a beautiful plain, covered with vineyards and olive trees, which, being bounded on one side by mountains, and on the other by the sea, affords a most delightful prospect. Before your entrance into the city, the first monument of antiquity that presents itself to your view, is the temple of Theseus, built by the Athenians, in honour of that hero, soon after the battle of Marathon. This temple was allowed the privilege of being a sanctuary for all fugitives, in memory that Theseus, in his lifetime, protected the distressed. It cannot be too much commended, both on account of the beauty of the materials and regularity of the architecture; besides which, it has the advantage of being in a manner entire, there being nothing wanting to it but a small part of the roof." In spite of its beauty, what says Monsieur La Martine? "No; the temple of Theseus is not worthy of its fame; it cannot be said to live as a monument. It is not suggestive of what it ought to be. It is beautiful, no doubt; but it is a kind of frigid, dead beauty, of which the artist alone ought to go and shake the shroud, and wipe the dust. As for me, I admired unquestionably; but quitted it without any desire to see it again. The beautiful stones of the columns of the Vatican, the majestic colossal shadows of St. Peters at Rome, never suffered me to leave them without regret, or the hope of return." Can all this be real? or is it merely an affectation? "During our residence of ten weeks," says Sir John Hobhouse, "there was not, I believe, a day of which we did not devote a part to the contemplation of the noble monuments of Grecian genius, that have outlived the ravages of time, and the outrage of barbarous and antiquarian despoilers. The temple of Theseus, which was within five minutes' walk of our lodgings, is the most perfect ancient edifice in the world. In this fabric, the most enduring stability, and a simplicity of design peculiarly striking, are united with the highest elegance and accuracy of workmanship, the characteristics of the Doric style; whose chaste beauty is not, in the opinion of the first artists, to be equalled by the graces of any of the other orders." "That the Theseion was originally a tomb," says Dr. Clarke, "like other Grecian temples, is scarcely to be doubted. The building is believed to bear date from the event mentioned by Plutarch, when, after the conquest of Scyros, the son of Miltiades arrived in Athens, bearing the mouldering bones and weapons he had discovered. This occurred during the archonship of Apsepion; so that the Theseion has now braved the attacks of time, of earthquakes, and of barbarians, during a lapse of considerably above two thousand years." This beautiful Doric temple[79], more resembling in the style of its architecture the temples of Pæstum, than that of Minerva in the Acropolis, and the most entire of any of the structures of ancient Greece, were it not for the damage which the sculpture has sustained, may be considered as still perfect. The ruined state of the metopes and frieze has proved a very fortunate circumstance; for it was owing solely to this that the building escaped the ravages which were going on in the Parthenon. The entire edifice is of Pentelican marble. It stands east and west, the principal front facing the east; and it is that kind of building which was called by ancient architects, as it is expressed in the language of Vitruvius and explained by Stuart, a Peripteros; that is to say, it has a portico of six columns in each front, and on each side a range of eleven columns, exclusive of the columns on the angles. All these columns remain in their original position, excepting two, that separated the portico from the pronaos, which have been demolished. Like all pillars raised according to the most _ancient_ Doric style of buildings, they are without bases or pedestals; standing with inexpressible dignity and simplicity upon the pavement of the covered walk around the cell of the temple. Some of the metopes represent the labours of Hercules; others the exploits of Theseus; and there are some which were never adorned with any sculpture. Above the antæ of the pronaos is a sculptured frieze, the subject of which cannot now be determined; and the battle of the Centaurs and Lapithæ is represented upon a similar frieze of the porticoes. In the tympanum of the pediment, over the eastern front, Stuart observed several holes in the marble, where metal cramps had been fixed for sustaining sculpture in entire relief, as over the eastern entrance to the Parthenon. The action of the atmosphere in this fine climate upon the marble has diffused over the whole edifice, as over the buildings in the Acropolis, a warm ochreous tint, which is peculiar to the ruins of Athens. It bears no resemblance to the black and dingy hue, which is acquired by all works in stone and marble, when they have been exposed to the open air in the more northern countries of Europe, and especially in England. Perhaps to this warm colour, so remarkably characterizing the remains of ancient buildings at Athens, Plutarch alluded in that beautiful passage, cited by Chandler, when he affirmed that the structures of Pericles possessed a peculiar and unparalleled excellence of character. "A certain freshness bloomed upon them," says he, "and preserved their faces uninjured, as if they possessed a never-fading spirit, and had a soul insensible to age." The monument of THRASYLLUS,--an elegant little fabric,--was erected 318 B.C. It is a structure of Pentelic marble, simple, yet highly finished. Its entire height is twenty-nine feet five inches. "How majestic, and how perfect in its preservation," says Dr. Clarke, "rises the Choragic monument of Thrasyllus; and how sublime the whole group of objects with which it is associated. At the time of our visit, and before the work of dilapidation had commenced, the ancient sun-dial, the statue of the god, the pillars for the tripods, the majestic citadel;--the last of these has, indeed, defied the desolating ravages of barbaric power; but who shall again behold the other objects in this affecting scene as they then appeared? or in what distant country and obscure retreat may we look for their mutilated fragments?" The monument of PHILOPAPPUS[80] stands upon the hill of Musæus, where that celebrated poet is said to have been buried. It is within the walls of the ancient city, though at some distance from those of the modern one; and the view from it of the citadel of Athens and the neighbouring territories is very striking; for, looking towards the sea, the eye commands the ports of the Piræus, Munychia, and Phalerus; the isles of Salamis and Ægina, and the mountains of Peloponnesus, as far as the gulf of Argos. It originally consisted of three compartments between four Corinthian pilasters; that is to say, of an arched recess, containing a central sitting figure, having a square niche on each side of it. Below these appeared three superb sculptures in relief. That in the centre, beneath the sitting statue, exhibits Trajan in a car, drawn by four horses, as he is represented on many monuments of that emperor. On either side, in square compartments, were seen the attendants, preceding and following the triumphal car. Philopappus' monument, says Mr. Dodwell, has its faults and deficiencies; but it is an elegant and imposing object. In the interior of the basement are some blocks of the grey Hymettian marble, and the soft stone from the Piræus. The superstructure is of Pentelic marble. It is a structure of white marble, says another writer, built a proportionable height, something circular. In the middle was a large niche, with a figure of marble sitting in it, and under his feet, in large letters,--"Philopappus, son of Epiphanes of Besa." Wheler found a still longer inscription, in Latin, which he thus translates:-- _Caius, Julius, Philopappus, son of Caius, of the tribe of Fabia, Consul, Frater Arvalis, chosen among the Prætors by the most good and august Emperor Cæsar, Nerva, Trajanus, who conquered the Germans and Dacians._ Among the inscriptions in this city may be noted one on a large marble stone, standing on end, in the wall of a private house, relating to the sale of oil; and as it teaches many things we shall cite it, as translated by Wheler:-- _The law edict of the God-like Hadrian._ "'Let those that cultivate the oyl bring the third part to the office, or those that possess the ground of the Proconsul, which the ... has sold, their eighth part, for they only have that right. But let them bring it at the same time. * * * (Thence eight lines are imperfect, and then it followeth:--) 'Let it be taken upon oath, how much hath been gathered in all, as well by his slaves as by his freemen; but if he selleth the fruit, the landlord or the tenant, or the buyer of the crop, shall be written with them; and he that has sold it for transportation shall give an account how much he has sold it for, and to whom and whither bound. And let the merchant write what he hath embarked, and of whom, and whither he is bound. * * * But he that shall be found to give false accounts, either of the receipt of transportation, or concerning the country, their freight shall be confiscated; still those possessing the lands of the proconsul excepted if they bring their ... part.'" (Here half a dozen lines are defaced, and, then he proceeds again:--) "'Let him retain the half. But if he doth not receive half, let the public take half. * * * And let the merchant write what he hath transported, and how much of every body. But if he shall be apprehended not to have given his account, let him be stopped; or if he sail away, let his merchandise be forfeited. But if he shall avoid it by hoisting sails, let them write to his country, or to me, under the testimony of the commons; if any of the ship shall allege it necessary, the prætor shall convocate the senate the next day; but if the matter shall exceed fifty amphoræ, let it be brought to the congregation, and half given to the discoverer. But if any one shall yet appeal to me or my proconsuls, let the commons choose syndics, that all things which are done against evil doers may be executed without reproof.'" Some lines more yet remain, which are less preserved. The majority of the Athenian churches[81] are built upon the ruins of ancient temples, and are composed of blocks of stone and marble, with a great number of inscriptions, altars, pedestals, and architectural ornaments. "As we passed through the town," says Dr. Clarke, "there was hardly a house, that had not some little marble fragments of ancient sculpture stuck in its front, over its door." At Athens four ancient buildings[82] have been entirely destroyed within these few years; a small Ionic temple in the Acropolis; another temple, supposed to be of Ceres, near the Ilissus, or bridge over that stream, and the aqueduct of Antoninus Pius. Part also of the propylæan columns have been thrown down, with a mass of the architrave on the western front of the Erectheion, and one of the columns of the Olympeion. In fact, more than forty of the temples and public buildings[83], which are mentioned by Pausanias, have so totally disappeared, as not to leave a trace, by which it is possible to identify their situation: and this leads us to the Parthenon, which we have purposely left to the last, because the wrong done to it of late years, by a nobleman of Scotland, has been the means of introducing to our own country a taste for the elegant and beautiful, which it never enjoyed before. "The Parthenon," says Mr. Dodwell, "at first sight rather disappointed my expectations, and appeared less than its fame. The eye, however, soon becomes filled with the magnitude of its dimensions, the beauty of its materials, the exquisite perfection of its symmetry, and the harmonious analogy of its proportions. It is the most unrivalled triumph of sculpture and architecture that the world ever saw. The delight which it inspires on a superficial view is heightened in proportion as it is attentively surveyed. If we admire the whole of the glorious fabric, that admiration will be augmented by a minute investigation of all the ramified details. Every part has been finished with such exquisite purity, that not the smallest instance of negligence can be discovered in the execution of those particulars, which are the least exposed to observation: the most concealed minutiæ of the structure having been perfected, with a sort of pious scrupulosity." "I pass delicious hours," says M. La Martine, "recumbent beneath the shade of the Propylæa: my eyes fixed on the falling pediment of the Parthenon, I feel all antiquity in what it has produced of divine; the rest is not worth the language that has described it. The aspect of the Parthenon displays, better than history, the colossal grandeur of a people. Pericles ought not to die. What superhuman civilization was that which supplied a great man to command, an architect to conceive, a sculptor to decorate, statuaries to execute, workmen to cut, a people to pay, and eyes to comprehend and admire such an edifice! Where shall we find such a people, or such a period? No where!" "Let us, in idea, rebuild the Parthenon," continues the same writer; "it is easily done; it has only lost its frieze, and its internal compartments. The external walls, chiselled by Phidias, the columns, and fragments of columns, remain. The Parthenon was entirely built of Pentelic marble, so called from the neighbouring mountain of that name, whence it was taken. It consists of a parallelogram, surrounded by a peristyle of forty-six Doric columns; one column is six feet in diameter at the base, and thirty-four feet high. The columns are placed on the pavement of the temple itself, and have no bases. At each extremity of the temple exists, or did exist, a portico of six columns. The total length of the edifice is two hundred and twenty-eight feet; its width, two hundred feet; its height, sixty-six feet. It only presents to the eye the majestic simplicity of its architectural lines. It was, in fact, one single idea expressed in stone, and intelligible at a glance, like the thoughts of the ancients." This recalls to our recollection what Plutarch says in respect to Pericles. "The Parthenon was constructed with such admirable judgment, such solidity of workmanship, and such a profound knowledge of the architectural art, that it would have indefinitely defied the ravages of time, if they had not been assisted by the operations of external violence. It is an edifice that seems to have been constructed for eternity. The structures which Pericles raised are the more admirable, as, being completed in so short a time, they yet had such a lasting beauty; for, as they had, when new, the venerable aspect of antiquity, so, now they are old, they have the freshness of a modern work. They seem to be preserved from the injuries of time by a kind of vital principle, which produces a vigour that cannot be impaired, and a bloom that will never fade." These words of Plutarch were applicable to the Parthenon little more than a century ago, and would still have been so, if it had not found enemies in the successive bigotry of contending religions, in the destruction of war, and the plundering mania of artists and amateurs. The high preservation of those parts, which are still suffered to remain, is truly astonishing! The columns are so little broken, that were it not for the venerable reality of age, they would almost appear of recent construction. These observations naturally carry us back to the period in which the Parthenon was built. That which was the chief delight of the Athenians, and the wonder of strangers, was the magnificence of their edifices; yet no part of the conduct of Pericles moved the spleen of his adversaries more than this. They insisted that he had brought the greatest disgrace upon the Athenians, by removing the treasures of Greece from Delos, and taking them into his own custody; that he had not left himself even the specious apology of having caused the money to be brought to Athens for its greater security, and to keep it from being seized by the Barbarians; that Greece would consider such an attempt as a manifest tyranny; that the sums they had received from them, upon pretence of their being employed in the war, were laid out by the Athenians in gilding and embellishing their city, in making magnificent statues, and raising temples that cost millions. Nor did they amplify in the matter; for the Parthenon alone cost £145,000. Pericles,[84] on the contrary, remonstrated to the Athenians, that they were not obliged to give the allies an account of the money they had received; that it was enough they defended them from the Barbarians, whilst the allies furnished neither soldiers, horses, nor ships. He added, that as the Athenians were sufficiently provided with all things necessary for war, it was but just that they should employ the rest of their riches in edifices and other works, which, when finished, would give immortal glory to their city, and the whole time they were carrying on give bread to an infinite number of citizens: that they themselves had all kinds of materials, as timber, stone, brass, ivory, gold, ebony, and cypress wood; and all sorts of artificers capable of working them, as carpenters, masons, smiths, stone-cutters, dyers, goldsmiths; artificers in ebony, painters, embroiderers, and turners; men fit to conduct their naval affairs, as merchants, sailors, and experienced pilots; others for land carriage, as cartwrights, waggoners, carters, rope-makers, paviors, &c. &c.: that it was for the advantage of the state to employ these different artificers and workmen, who, as so many separate bodies, formed, when united, a kind of peaceable and domestic army, whose different functions and employments diffused gain and increase throughout all ages and sexes: lastly, that, whilst men of robust bodies, and of an age fit to bear arms, whether soldiers or mariners, and those who were in the different garrisons, were supported with the public moneys, it was but just that the rest of the people who lived in the city should also be maintained in their way: and that as all were members of the same republic, they should all reap the same advantages, by doing it services, which, though of a different kind, did, however, all contribute to its security or ornament. One day as the debaters were growing warm, Pericles offered to defray the expense of all these things, provided it should be declared in the public inscriptions, that he only had been at the charge of them. At these words, the people, either admiring his magnanimity, or fired with emulation, and determined not to let him engross that glory, cried, with one voice, that he might take out of the public treasury all the sums that were necessary for his purpose. Historians expatiate greatly on the magnificent edifices and other works; but it is not easy to say whether the complaints and murmurs raised against him were ill-founded or not. According to Cicero, such edifices and other works only are worthy of admiration as are of use to the public, as aqueducts, city walls, citadels, arsenals, sea-ports; and to these must be added the work, made by Pericles, to join Athens to the port of Piræus. Mons. de La Martine speaks of the only two figures that now adorn the Parthenon thus:--"At the Parthenon there remain only the two figures of Mars and Venus, half crushed by two enormous fragments of cornice, which have glided over their heads; but these two figures are to me worth more than all I have seen in sculpture in my life. They live as no other canvas or marble has ever lived. One feels that the chisel of Phidias trembled, burned in his hand, when these sublime figures started into being under his fingers." The following observations in regard to colour are by Mr. Williams:--"The Parthenon, in its present corroded state, impresses the mind with the idea of its thousands of years. The purity of marble has disappeared; but still the eye is charmed with the varied livery of time. The western front is rich in golden hues, and seems as if it had absorbed the evening beams[85]; little white appears, except the tympanum and part of the entablature. But the brightest orange colour, and grey and sulphury hues, combine in sweetest harmony. The noble shafts of the huge columns are uniformly toned with yellow, of a brownish cast, admitting here and there a little grey. Casting the eye to the inner cell, we see dark hues of olive mixed with various tints, adorning the existing frieze and pillars; and these, opposed to brilliant white, afford a point and power of expression, which never fails to please." Sir J. C. Hobhouse says, Lord Elgin's injuries were these; the taking off the metopes, the statue over the theatre of Bacchus, and the statues of the west pediment of the Parthenon; and the carrying away one of the Caryatides, and the finest of the columns of the Erectheum. "No other," continues Sir John, "comes, I believe, within the limits of censure--no other marbles were detached." The monuments, now called the Elgin marbles, were chiefly obtained from the Erectheum, the Propylæa, and the Parthenon, more especially the last. We must here give room to the observations, vindicative of this proceeding:--"Perhaps one of the most judicious measures of government, with reference to the advancement of the arts in this country, was the purchase of these remains. We may go farther, and add, that the removal of them from Athens, where their destruction was daily going forward, to place them where their merits would be appreciated, and their decay suspended, was not only a justifiable act, but one which deserves the gratitude of England and of the civilised world. The decay of the Athenian monuments may be attributed to various causes. 'Fire and the barbarian' have both done their work. Athens has seen many masters. The Romans were too refined to destroy the monuments of art: but the Goths had a long period of spoliation; and then came the Turks, at once proud and ignorant, despising what they could not understand. The Acropolis became a garrison in their hands, and thus, in 1687, it was bombarded by the Venetians, whose heavy guns were directed against the porticoes and colonnades of the ancient temples. But the Turks still continued to hold their conquests; and the business of demolition went steadily on for another century and a half. Many travellers who visited Athens about a hundred years ago, and even much later, describe monuments of sculpture which now have no existence. The Turks pounded the marble into dust to make lime; one traveller after another continued to remove a fragment. The museums of Egypt were successively adorned with these relics; at last, when, as column after column fell, the remains of Athens were becoming less and less worthy of notice, covered in the dust, or carted away to be broken up for building, Lord Elgin, who had been ambassador at Constantinople in 1799, obtained, in 1801, an authority from the Turkish government, called a firmaun, which eventually enabled the British nation to possess the most valuable of the sculptures of which any portion was left. The authority thus granted empowered Lord Elgin to fix scaffolding around the ancient temple of the Idols 'to mould the ornamental and visible figures thereon in plaster and gypsum;' and, subsequently, 'to take away any pieces of stone with old inscriptions or figures thereon.' For several years the intentions of Lord Elgin were carried into effect at his private risk, and at a cost which is stated to have amounted to 74,000_l_, including the interest of money. In 1816, the entire collection was purchased of Lord Elgin by act of parliament for 35,000_l._ It is unnecessary for us to go into the controversy, whether it was just to remove these relics from their original seats. Had the Greeks been able to preserve them, there can be no doubt of the injustice of such an act. The probability is, that if foreign governments had not done what Lord Elgin did as an individual, there would not have been a fragment left at this day to exhibit the grandeur of the Grecian art as practised by Phidias. The British nation, by the purchase of these monuments, has secured a possession of inestimable value[86]." From these observations, it would appear that the spoliation of the Parthenon may be vindicated on the ground, that neither the Turks nor the citizens cared any thing about them, and that if they had not been taken away, they would, in a short time, have been destroyed. Respectable testimony, however, is opposed to this: most travellers have inveighed against the spoliation; and two, highly qualified, have given a very different account from what the above statement implies. These are Dr. Clarke and Mr. Dodwell. We shall select the testimony of the latter in preference to that of Dr. Clarke, only because he was at Athens at the very time in which the spoliation was going on. "During my first tour to Greece," says he, "I had the inexpressible mortification of being present when the Parthenon was despoiled of its finest sculpture, and when some of its architectural members were thrown to the ground." * * * "It is, indeed, impossible to suppress the feelings of regret which must arise in the breast of every traveller, who has seen these temples before and since their late dilapidation! Nor have I any hesitation in declaring, that the Athenians in general, nay, even the Turks themselves, did lament the ruin that was committed; and loudly and openly blamed their sovereign for the permission he had granted! I was on the spot at the time, and had an opportunity of observing, and, indeed, of participating, in the sentiment of indignation, which such conduct universally inspired. The whole proceeding was so unpopular in Athens, that it was necessary to pay the labourers more than their usual profits, before any one could be prevailed upon to assist in this work of profanation." "Such rapacity is a crime against all ages and all generations," says Mr. Eustace; "it deprives the past of the trophies of their genius and the title-deeds of their fame; the present of the strongest inducements to exertion, the noblest exhibitions that curiosity can contemplate; and the future of the master-pieces of art, the models of imitation. To guard against the repetition of such depredations is the wish of every man of genius, the duty of every man in power, and the common interest of every civilised nation." "That the Elgin marbles will contribute to the improvement of art in England," says Mr. Williams, "cannot be doubted. They must, certainly, open the eyes of the British artists, and prove that the true and only road to simplicity and beauty is the study of nature. But had we a right to diminish the interest of Athens for selfish motives, and prevent successive generations of other nations from seeing those admirable structures? The temple of Minerva was spared as a beacon to the world, to direct it to the knowledge of purity and of taste. What can we say to the disappointed traveller, who is now deprived of the rich satisfaction that would have compensated his travel and his toil? It will be little consolation to him to say, he may find the sculpture of the Parthenon in England[87]." NO. XVII.--BABYLON. Babylon and Nineveh appear to have resembled each other, not only in form but in extent and population. Quintus Curtius asserts, that Babylon owed its origin to Semiramis. In the Bible, however, it having been stated, that one of the chief cities of Nimrod was Babel; many authors have given into the idea, that Babylon was built by Nimrod. If we attend strictly to the words of Moses, however, we shall find that to have been an impossible circumstance. Moses states, that Nimrod had four large cities[88]. Those were Babel, Erech, Accad, and Calneth. Nimrod was a descendant of Ham; but the temple of Babel, on the establishment of which depends the origin of Babylon, was built by the descendants of Shem:--at least, we have the right to believe so; for Moses mentions the descendants of Shem last, and then goes on to say:--"The whole earth was of one language and of one speech: and it came to pass, as they journeyed from the East, that they found a plain in the land of Shinar, and they dwelt there." When they had dwelt there some time, they said to one another, "Go to, let us make brick, and burn them thoroughly. And they had brick for stone, and slime had they for mortar." This was the first of the subsequent town. They had not yet aspired to any particular distinction. At length they said to themselves, "Let us build a city and a tower; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth." They were interrupted in their design, and "they left off building the city." There is, however, no account of its having been destroyed; nor any in regard to the destruction of the temple. The people, however, were scattered[89]. This city was, subsequently, called Babel; and the temple of Belus being the oldest temple recorded in history, it has been generally supposed, that it was no other than the tower, the family of Shem had endeavoured to build. This, however, is far from being certain; for Josephus, who, in this case is not without his weight, relates that the tower was thrown down by an impetuous wind or violent hurricane; and that it never was rebuilt. The fact is, that the real origin of Babylon is lost in the depth of history; and all that can be stated, with any degree of certainty, is, that Nineveh and Babylon were founded much about the same time, and that Ninus, Semiramis, Ninyas, and Sardanapalus were sovereigns, though not during their whole lives, of both cities. This appears to us to be the only way in which we can understand the history of the first Assyrian empire. We have no space to enter into the particular history of this most celebrated of all cities; neither does the plan of our work admit of it: our province only being to record its origin, to describe its ancient state, to give an account of its destruction, and then describe, from the pages of authentic travellers, the ruins which still remain. Having given some account of its origin, we proceed to describe the height to which it was exalted. "The Assyrians," says Herodotus, "are masters of many capital towns; but their place of greatest strength and fame is Babylon[90]; where, after the destruction of Nineveh, was the royal residence. It is situated on a large plain, and is a perfect square; each side, by every approach is, in length, one hundred and twenty furlongs; the space, therefore, occupied by the whole, is four hundred and eighty furlongs: so extensive is the ground which Babylon occupies. Its internal beauty and magnificence exceeds whatever has come within my knowledge. It is surrounded by a trench, very wide, deep, and full of water; the wall beyond this is two hundred royal cubits high[91], and fifty wide; the royal exceeds the common cubit by three digits[92]." "It will not be foreign to my purpose," continues the historian, "to describe the use to which the earth dug out of the trench was converted, as well as the particular manner in which they constructed the wall. The earth of the trench was first of all laid in heaps, and when a sufficient quantity was obtained, made into square bricks, and baked in a furnace. They used, as cement, a composition of heated bitumen, which, mixed with the tops of reeds, was placed between every thirtieth course of bricks. Having thus lined the sides of the trench, they proceeded to build the wall in a similar manner; on the summit of which, and fronting each other, they erected small watchtowers of one story, leaving a space betwixt them, through which a chariot and four horses might pass and turn. In the circumference of the wall, at different distances, were a hundred massy gates of brass[93], whose hinges and frames were of the same metal. Within eight days' journey from Babylon is a city called Is, near which flows a river of the same name, which empties itself into the Euphrates. With the current of this river, particles of bitumen descend towards Babylon, by means of which its walls are constructed. The great river Euphrates, which, with its deep and rapid streams, rises in the Armenian mountains, and pours itself into the Red Sea[94], divides Babylon into two parts. The walls meet and form an angle at the river at each extremity of the town, where a breast-work of burnt bricks begins, and is continued along each bank. The city, which abounds in houses from three to four stories in height, is regularly divided into streets. Through these, which are parallel, there are transverse avenues to the river opened through the wall and breast-work, and secured by an equal number of little gates of brass." The historian then proceeds to describe the fortifications and the temple of Belus. "The first wall is regularly fortified; the interior one, though less in substance, is of about equal strength. Besides these, in the centre of each division of the city, there is a circular space surrounded by a wall. In one of these stands the royal palace, which fills a large and strongly-defended place. The temple of Jupiter Belus[95] occupies the other, whose huge gates of brass may still be seen. It is a square building, each side of which is of the length of two furlongs. In the midst, a tower rises of the solid depth and height of one furlong, upon which, resting as a base, seven other turrets are built in regular succession. The ascent is on the outside; which, winding from the ground, is continued to the highest tower; and in the middle of the whole structure there is a convenient resting-place. In the last tower is a large chapel, in which is placed a couch magnificently adorned, and near it a table of solid gold; but there is no statue in the place." Herodotus, however, states, that in another part of the temple there was a statue of Jupiter, in a sitting posture, with a large table before him; and that these, with the base of the table and the seat of the throne, were all of the purest gold, and were estimated in his time, by the Chaldeans, at not less than eight hundred talents. We may here give place to a passage in a modern poem, highly descriptive of its ancient state. Those walls, within Whose large inclosure the rude hind, or guides His plough, or binds his sheaves, while shepherds guard Their flocks, scure of ill: on the broad top Six chariots rattled in extended front. For there, since Cyrus on the neighbouring plain, Has marked his camp, th' enclosed Assyrian drives His foaming steeds, and from the giddy height Looks down with scorn on all the tents below. Each side in length, in height, in solid bulk, Reflects its opposite; a perfect square; Scarce sixty thousand paces can mete out The vast circumference. An hundred gates Of polished brass lead to that central point, Where through the midst, bridged o'er with wondrous art, Euphrates leads a navigable stream, Branch'd from the current of his roaring flood. DR. ROBERTS, _Judah Restored_. Thus we find the walls to have extended to a vast circumference--from forty-eight to sixty miles; but we are not to suppose them to have been entirely filled up with houses;[96] but, as in the old city of Moscow, to have been in no small part taken up with gardens and other cultivated lands. In regard to the size of some ancient Eastern cities, Mr. Franklin has made some very pertinent remarks, in his inquiry concerning the site of the ancient Palibothra:--"For the extent of the city and suburbs of Palibothra, from seventy-five to eighty miles have been assigned by the Puranas; a distance, said to be impossible for the space occupied by a single city. So, indeed, it might, were we to compare the cities of Asia with those of Europe. The idea of lofty houses of brick and stone, consisting of many stories, with a number of inhabitants, like those of London, Paris, Vienna, and many others, must not be compared with the nature of the Asiatic cities. To look in them for regularly-built squares, and spacious and paved streets, would be absurd." Herodotus gives the extent of the walls of Babylon at one hundred and twenty stades on each side, or four hundred and eighty stades in circumference. Diodorus three hundred and sixty stades in circumference. Clitarchus, who accompanied Alexander, three hundred and sixty-five. Curtius states it at three hundred and sixty-eight; and Strabo at three hundred and eighty-five stades. The general approximation of these measurements would lead us to suppose that the same stade was used by the different reporters; and if this was the Greek itinerary stade, we may estimate the circumference of the great city at twenty-five British miles[97]. "The lines, drawn on maps, are often only used to divide distant mounds of ruin. Accumulations of pottery and brickwork are met with occasionally over a great tract; but the connection, supposed between these and the corn-fields and gardens, within the common precincts of a wall, is gratuitous in the extreme. Imagine London and Paris to be levelled, and the inhabitant of some future city to visit their ruins, as those of then remote antiquity; if, in the one instance, Sèvres, Mont Rouge, and Vincennes, or, in the other, Greenwich, Stratford-le-Bow, Tottenham, Highgate, Hammersmith, Richmond, and Clapham, be taken in as boundaries, or identified respectively as the ruins of Paris and London, what a prodigious extent would those cities gain in the eyes of futurity[98]!" Babylon, as we have already stated, stood upon the Euphrates, as Nineveh did upon the Tigris. A branch of it ran entirely through the city from north to south; and on each side was a quay, walled towards the river, of the same thickness as the city walls. In these, also, were gates of brass, from which persons descended to the water by steps; whence, for a long time, they crossed to the other side in boats; that is, until the building of a bridge. These gates were open always in the day, but shut at night. A bridge was at length erected; and this bridge was equally celebrated with the other great buildings; for it was of vast size; but Diodorus would seem to make it to have been much larger than it really was. He says it was five furlongs in length. Now as the Euphrates, at the spot, was only one furlong wide, this would be impossible; so we suppose that there must have been a causeway on each side of the bridge; and that Diodorus included the two causeways, which were, probably, merely dry arches, as we find in a multitude of modern bridges. It was, nevertheless, thirty feet in breadth, and built with great skill. The arches were of hewn stone, fastened together with chains of iron and melted lead. To effect the building with the greater care and safety, they turned the course of the river[99], and laid the channel dry. While one part of the workmen were doing this, others were shaping the materials for the quays, so that all were finished at the same time. During a certain portion of the year (viz., June, July, and August) the Euphrates overflows its banks, as the Nile does in Egypt, the Ganges in India, and the Amazon in South America. To remedy the manifold inconveniences arising from this, two large canals were cut to divert the superabundant waters into the Tigris, before they could reach Babylon[100]; and to secure the neighbouring country still the better, they raised artificial banks,--as the Dutch have done in Holland,--of a vast size, on both sides the river; not built, however, of earth, as in Holland, but of brick cemented with bitumen, which began at the head of the canals, and extended for some distance below the city. To effect all this, the Euphrates, which had been turned one way, in order to build the bridge, was turned another to build the banks. To this end they dug a vast lake, forty miles square, and one hundred and sixty in compass, and thirty-five feet deep. Into this lake the river was diverted, till the banks were finished; after which it was re-diverted into the former channel. The lake was, however, still preserved as a reservoir[101]. Perhaps some of our readers may be curious to know how long it would take to fill this lake up. It is thus stated in the Edinburgh Review[102]:--"Taking it at the lowest dimensions of a square of forty miles, by thirty feet deep; and supposing the Euphrates to be five hundred feet wide, ten deep, and to flow at the rate of two miles an hour, it would require one thousand and fifty-six days to fill the lake, allowing no absorption to the sides; but if absorption and evaporation are taken into the account, we may put the time at four years, or thereabouts; which, no doubt, would be sufficient, considering the number of hands employed, to complete the embankment[103]." This lake, the bridge, and the quays of the river are ascribed to Nitocris, by Herodotus; but most of the other wonders of Babylon are ascribed by Josephus to Nebuchadnezzar, her father-in-law. "Perhaps," says one of the historians, "Nitocris might only finish what her father had left imperfect at his death, on which account the historian might give her the honour of the whole undertaking." We are now called upon to describe other wonders. These are the palaces and hanging gardens. At each end of the bridge stood a palace; and those two palaces had a communication each with the other by means of a passage under the bed of the river, vaulted at the time in which it was laid dry[104]. The _old_ palace, which stood on the east side of the river, was three miles and three quarters in compass. It stood near the temple of Belus. The _new_ palace stood on the west side. It was much larger than the old one; being seven miles and a half in compass[105]. It was surrounded with three walls, one within the other, with considerable spaces between; and these, with those at the other palace, were embellished with an infinite variety of sculptures, representing all kinds of animals to the life; amongst which was one more celebrated than all the rest. This was a hunting piece, representing Semiramis on horseback throwing a javelin; and Ninus, her husband, piercing a lion. Near the old palace stood a vast structure, known from all antiquity, and celebrated in every age as the most wonderful structure ever yet built; viz., the temple of Belus. We have given some account of it from Herodotus already. A tower of vast size stood in the middle of it. At its foundation it was a square of a furlong on each side; that is, half a mile in its whole compass, and the eighth part of a mile in height. It consisted of eight towers, built one above another, gradually decreasing in size to the top. Its height exceeded that of the largest of the pyramids[106]. It was built of bricks and bitumen. The ascent to the top was on the outside, by means of stairs, winding, in a spiral line, eight times round the tower from the bottom to the top. There were many large rooms in the different stories, with arched roofs, supported by pillars. On the top was an observatory, the Babylonians having been more celebrated than any other people of ancient times for their knowledge of astronomy[107]. Notwithstanding the opinions of many, that this tower was built expressly for astronomical purposes, it appears certain that it was used as a temple also; for the riches of it were immense; consisting of statues, tables, censers, cups, and other sacred vessels, all of massy gold. Among these was a statue, weighing a thousand talents of Babylon, forty feet high. Indeed, so rich was this temple, that Diodorus does not hesitate to value all it contained at not less than six thousand three hundred Babylonian talents of gold; which implies a sum equivalent to twenty-one millions of pounds sterling! Surely some error must have crept into the MS. This temple stood till the time of Xerxes. On the return of that prince from Greece he plundered it; and then caused it to be entirely demolished. When Alexander returned from India, he formed the design of rebuilding it upon the ancient plan; and probably, had he lived, he would have accomplished his wish. Ten thousand men were put to work to clear away the rubbish; but he died in the midst of his preparation. Many of the chief erections in this city were planned and executed by Semiramis. When she had finished them, she made a progress through the various divisions of her empire; and wherever she went left monuments of her magnificence, by many noble structures, which she erected, either for the convenience or the ornament of her cities[108]. She was the best political economist of ancient times, and may truly be styled the first utilitarian: for she applied herself to the formation of causeways, the improvement of roads, the cutting through mountains, and the filling up valleys. She applied herself, also, most particularly, to the forming of aqueducts, in order that water might be conveyed to such places as wanted it: in hot climates desiderata of the first importance. Valerius Maximus[109] records a circumstance of her, which paints the influence she possessed over her people in a very striking manner. One day, as she was dressing herself, word was brought that a tumult was raging in the city. Without waiting to dress herself, she hurried from her palace with her head half dressed, and did not return till the disturbance was entirely appeased[110]. We now pass on to the dream of Nebuchadnezzar, because the accomplishment of that dream is connected with the splendid state of Babylon in the time of its glory. This dream was, that[111] "he saw a tree in the midst of the earth, whose height was great: the tree grew, and was strong, and the height of it reached unto heaven, and the sight thereof to the end of the earth. The leaves were fair, and the fruit much; and in it was meat for all: the beasts of the field had shadow under it, and the fowls of heaven dwelt in the boughs thereof, and all flesh was fed of it. I saw the visions of my head on the bed, and, behold, a watcher, and an holy one, came down from heaven; he cried aloud, and said thus:--'Hew down the tree, and cut off his branches, shake off his leaves, and scatter his fruit; let the beasts get away from under it, and the fowls from his branches. Nevertheless, leave the stump of his roots in the earth, even with a band of iron and brass, in the tender grass of the field; and let it be wet with the dew of heaven, and let his portion be with the beasts in the grass of the earth. Let his heart be changed from man's, and let a beast's heart be given to him. This matter is by the decree of the watchers, and the demand of the word of the holy ones, to the intent that the living may know, that the Most High ruleth in the kingdom of men, and giveth to whomsoever he will, and setteth up over it the basest of men.'" This dream was expounded by Daniel. "Let the dream be to them, O king, that hate thee; and the interpretation thereof to thine enemies." The prophet then declared, "that the king should be driven from the company of men for seven years; should be reduced to the fellowship of the beasts of the field, and feed upon grass like oxen; that his kingdom should, nevertheless, be preserved for him, and he should repossess his throne, when he should have learnt to know and acknowledge, that all power is from above, and cometh from heaven." At the end of twelve months, as Nebuchadnezzar was walking in his palace, and admiring the beauty and magnificence of his buildings, he became so elated at the sight of the structures he had erected, that he exclaimed--"Is not this great Babylon, that I have built for the house of the kingdom by the might of my power, and for the honour of my majesty?" In an instant, a voice came from heaven declaratory of his fate, and his understanding was taken from him. He was driven from men, and did eat grass like oxen, and his body was wet with the dew of heaven; till his hairs were grown like eagles' feathers, and his nails like birds' claws. At the expiration of seven years he recovered his intellectual powers. He was restored to his throne, and became more powerful than he had been before. At this period he is supposed to have built the hanging gardens, which have been so celebrated in every age. Amytis, his wife, having been bred in Media,--for she was the daughter of Astyages, king of that country,--had been much taken with the mountains and woody parts of her native country, and therefore desired to have something like it at Babylon. To gratify this passion, the king, her husband, raised the hanging gardens. Diodorus, however, ascribes them to Cyrus; and states that he built them to gratify a courtezan. They are thus described by Quintus Curtius:--"Near the castle are those wonders, which are so often celebrated by the Greek poets; gardens elevated in the air, consisting of entire groves of trees, growing as high as the tops of the towers, marvellously beautiful and pleasant from their height and shade. The whole weight of them is sustained and borne up by huge pillars, upon which there is a floor of square stone, that both upholdeth the earth, that lies deep on the pillar, and also the cisterns with which it is watered. The trees that grow upon this are many of them eight cubits in circumference, and every thing is as fruitful as if they grew on the natural ground; and, although process of time destroys things made by mortal hands, and also even the works of nature, yet this terrace, although oppressed with the weight of so much earth, and so great a multitude of trees, still remains unperished, being held up by seventy broad walls, distant from each other about eleven feet. When these trees (concludes Curtius), are seen afar off, they seem to be a wood growing upon a mountain." This may well be, since they comprised a square of about four hundred feet on every side, and were carried up into the air in the manner of several large terraces, one above another, till the highest equalled the height of the walls of the city. The floors were laid out thus[112]:--On the top of the arches were first laid large flat stones, sixteen feet long, and four feet broad; and over them a layer of reed, mixed with a great quantity of bitumen; over which were two rows of bricks, closely cemented by plaister; and then, over all, were laid thick sheets of lead; and, lastly, upon the lead a vast quantity of mould. The mould was of sufficient depth to let grow very large trees, and such were planted in it, together with other trees, and every description of plant and flower, that was esteemed proper for shrubberies and flower-gardens. To improve all this, there was, on the highest of the terraces, a water-engine, to draw the water out of the river below, wherewith to water the whole garden[113]. Besides all this, there were magazines for corn and provision, capable of maintaining the inhabitants for twenty years; and arsenals, which supplied with arms such a number of fighting men, as seemed equal to the conquest or defence of the whole monarchy. If Babylon was indebted to Nebuchadnezzar for many great buildings, it was still more so to his daughter Nitocris. She erected a great multitude; and amongst the rest, one of the gates. On this gate she caused to be inscribed a command to her successors, that, when she should be buried under it, none of them should open the tomb to touch the treasure which laid there, unless impelled by some great and overwhelming necessity. Many years passed away, and no one opened it. At length Darius came to the city. Reading the inscription, he caused the tomb to be opened; but alas! instead of finding the vast treasures he had expected, he beheld only this inscription:--_"If thou hadst not an insatiable thirst for money, and a most sordid avaricious soul, thou wouldst never have broken open the monuments of the dead."_ Astyages, king of the Medes, was succeeded by Cyaxares, uncle to Cyrus. Cyaxares, learning that the king of Babylon had made great preparations against him, sent for Cyrus, son of Cambyses, king of Persia, and placed him at the head of his army. Before marching, Cyrus addressed those officers who had followed him from Persia, in the following manner. "Do you know the nature of the enemy you have to deal with? They are soft, effeminate, enervated men, already half conquered by their own luxury and voluptuousness; men not able to bear either hunger or thirst; equally incapable of supporting either the toil of war, or the sight of danger: whereas you, that are inured, from your infancy, to a sober and hard way of living; to you, I say, hunger and thirst are but as sauce, and the only sauce, to your meals; fatigues are your pleasure; dangers are your delight; and the love of your country, and of glory, your only passion. Besides, the justice of our cause is another considerable advantage. They are the aggressors. It is the enemy that attacks us; and it is our friends and allies that require our aid. Can any thing be more just than to repel the injury they would bring upon us? Is there any thing more honourable, than to fly to the assistance of our friends? But what ought to be the principal motive of your confidence is, that I do not engage in this expedition without having first consulted the gods, and implored their protection; for you know it is my custom to begin all my actions, and all my undertakings, in that manner." Cyrus, after several battles, laid siege to Babylon. It was in the days of Belshazzar. That prince was absorbed in luxury and sloth. A great festival was to be held within the palace, and Cyrus heard of it. He prepared himself, therefore, and all his army. The court, in the meantime, was rife in every species of dance, feast, and revelry. In the pride of his heart, Belshazzar ordered all the gold and silver vessels, which had been taken from the temple of Jerusalem, to be brought to the banqueting-room; and he and his officers, and his wives and his concubines, drank out of them. No sooner was this done, than the fingers of a man's hand came out from the wall, and wrote over the candlestick upon the plaster. The king saw the hand; and when he saw it "his countenance was changed, and his thoughts troubled him, so that the joints of his loins were loosed, and his knees smote one against another." He summoned the magi, and made proclamation. "Whoever shall read this writing, and show me the interpretation thereof, shall be clothed with scarlet, and have a chain about his neck, and shall be the third ruler in the kingdom." Daniel, the prophet, interpreted this writing. "This is the writing that was written: MENE MENE, TEKEL, UPHARSIN. This is the interpretation of the thing. MENE; God hath numbered thy kingdom, and finished it. TEKEL; thou art weighed in the balances, and found wanting. PERES; thy kingdom is divided, and given to the Medes and Persians[114]." Notwithstanding this interpretation, Belshazzar continued the feast, and to grace it the more, performed his promise. He commanded, and "they clothed Daniel with scarlet, and put a chain of gold about his neck, and made a proclamation concerning him, that he should be the third ruler of the kingdom." In the meantime, Cyrus, well aware of the riot and luxury prevailing in the king's palace, entered the city by the river, the waters of which he had managed to be drawn dry, by means of the sluices. He and his army entered through the gates of brass, which opened on the quays. This they did in two divisions; then they proceeded through the city; met before the palace; slew the guards; and some of the company having come out to see what was the cause of the noise they heard, the soldiers rushed in and immediately made themselves masters of the palace. The king, however, in this last extremity, acted in a manner more worthy than might have been expected. He put himself at the head of those who were inclined to support him; but he was quickly despatched, and all those that were with him. Thus terminated the Babylonian empire, after a duration of two hundred and ten years, from the beginning of the reign of Nebuchadnezzar, who was its founder; and the fate of which had been so truly foretold. "Babylon, the glory of kingdoms," says Isaiah, "and the beauty of the Chaldees' excellency, shall be as when God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah. It shall never be inhabited: neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to generation; neither shall the Arabians pitch their tent there; neither shall the shepherds make their fold there; but wild beasts of the desert shall lie there; and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures; and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there; and the wild beasts of the island shall cry in their desolate houses, and dragons in their pleasant palaces. I will also make it a possession for the bittern and pools of water; and I will sweep it with the besom of destruction." Events answered the prophecy, though not precisely at this time[115]. From this period Babylon belonged to the Persian kings: but having become greatly affronted by the transference of the royal court to Susa, the inhabitants revolted. By this insult, they drew upon themselves the whole force of the Persian empire. The inhabitants had provided themselves with every necessary to support a siege. But lest it might last longer than they anticipated, they put the most barbarous act in practice that ever had then been heard of from the creation of the world. They assembled all their wives and children, and strangled them; no man being allowed to preserve more than one wife and a servant to do the necessary business of his house. The siege lasted eighteen months. Darius himself began to despair. Some friends having taken the liberty, one day, to propose the question to Darius, who was then holding a pomegranate in his hand:--"What good is there you would wish to multiply as often as that fruit contains seeds?" "Such friends as Zopyrus," answered the king, without hesitation. This answer threw Zopyrus into one of those paroxysms of zeal, which can only be justified by the sentiment that gives them birth. One morning the king observed one of his courtiers make his appearance before him, bathed in blood, with his ears and nose entirely cut off, and his whole body wounded in many places. When Darius saw this, he started from his throne, advanced to the wounded person, and eagerly inquired of him who had treated him in so terrible a manner? "You, yourself, O king!" answered Zopyrus. "My wish to render you a service has put me in this condition. As I was persuaded that you would never have consented to this method, I have consulted none but the zeal I have for your service." He then told the king that he had formed the plan of going over to the enemy in that condition. His plan will be explained in the result. He left the camp, and proceeded to the walls of Babylon. When he arrived before the gates, he told the Babylonians who he was. He was immediately admitted and carried before the governor. There he complained of Darius, accusing him of having reduced him to such an unfortunate condition: and that because he had advised him to give up the siege. Saying this, he offered his services to the governor and people of Babylon: stating that his revenge would be a sufficient stimulus and reward for his exertions; and that he would be found fully adequate to cope with the enemy, since he was well acquainted with all the arts, and discipline, and stratagems of the Persians. When the Babylonians heard all this, and saw the dreadful condition in which Zopyrus was, they gave him the command of as many troops as he desired. With these he made a sally, and cut off more than a thousand of the enemy: Darius having previously concerted with him. In a few days he made another sally, when he cut off double the number. In a third he destroyed not less than four thousand. "Nothing," say the historians, "was now talked of but the condition and success of Zopyrus." This was, indeed, so much the case, that he was at length appointed commander-in-chief. The whole matter, as we have stated before, was a stratagem between Zopyrus and Darius. Now, then, as Zopyrus had become master of the forces, he sent intelligence to the king. The king approached with his army. Zopyrus opened the gates, and the city was delivered into the king's hands. No sooner did Darius find himself master of the town, than he ordered its hundred gates to be pulled down, and its walls to be partly demolished[116]: but, in order to keep up the population, he caused fifty thousand women to be brought from the several provinces of his empire to supply the place of those the inhabitants had so cruelly destroyed at the beginning of the siege; and for having perpetrated that horrific act, he caused three thousand of the most distinguished of the nobility to be crucified[117]. Babylon remained in the possession of the kings of Persia for several generations[118]. But it soon ceased to be a royal residence, the sovereigns having chosen to reside either at Shusan, Ecbatana, or Persepolis; and, the better to reduce it to ruin, they built Seleucia in its neighbourhood, and caused the chief portion of its inhabitants to remove to Ctesiphon. The course of our subject now descends to the time, when Darius Codomanus became sovereign of Babylon, in right of being king of Persia. This prince was conquered at the Granicus by Alexander. Not long after, he lost another battle; viz. that of Arbela: after which the conqueror made what is called his "triumphant entry" into Babylon. He entered, we are told, at the head of his army, as if he had been marching to a battle. "The walls," says the historian, "were lined with people, notwithstanding the greatest part of the citizens were gone out before, from the impatient desire they had to see their new sovereign, whose renown had far outstripped his march. The governor and guardian of the treasure strewed the street with flowers, and raised on both sides of the way silver altars, which smoked not only with frankincense, but the most fragrant perfumes of every kind. Last of all, came the presents, which were made to the king; viz. herds of cattle and a great number of horses; also lions and panthers, which were carried in cages. After these the magi walked, singing hymns after the manner of their country; then the Chaldæans, accompanied by the Babylonian soothsayers and musicians. It was customary for the latter to sing the praises of their king to their instruments; and the Chaldæans to observe the motion of the planets and the vicissitudes of seasons." "The rear," continues the author, from whom we quote, "was brought up by the Babylonish cavalry, which, both men and horsemen, were so sumptuous, that imagination can scarce reach their magnificence." The king caused the people to walk after his infantry, and, himself surrounded by his guards, and seated on a chariot, entered the city, and from thence rode to the palace. On the next day he took a survey of all Darius' money and movables. These, however, he did not keep to himself. He distributed a large portion of it to his troops: giving to each Macedonian horseman fifteen pounds; to each mercenary horseman about five pounds; to every Macedonian foot-soldier five pounds; and to every one of the rest two months of their ordinary pay. Nor did he stop there. He gave orders, that all the temples which had been thrown down by the order of Xerxes should be rebuilt; most especially that of Belus. On his second visit to this city, he was met some miles from the town by a deputation of old men, who told him that the stars had indicated that, if he ventured into the city, some signal misfortune would befal him. At first the king was greatly alarmed and perplexed. But having consulted some Greek philosophers who chanced to be in his army, they threw such contempt on astrology in general, and the Babylonish astrologers in particular, that he resolved to continue his march, and the same day entered the city with all his army. Soon after this, designing to raise a monument to his friend Hephæstion, he caused nearly six furlongs of the city wall to be beat down; and having got together a vast number of skilful workmen, he built a very magnificent monumental structure over the part he had caused to be levelled. That the reader may have a distinct idea of the grandeur of this structure, it is necessary to admit a full account of it. It is thus given in Rollin's "History of Alexander":--"It was divided into thirty parts, in each of which was raised a uniform building, the roof of which was covered with great planks of palm-tree wood. The whole formed a perfect square, the circumference of which was adorned with extraordinary magnificence. Each side was a furlong, or an hundred fathoms in length. At the foot of it, and in the first row, there was set two hundred and forty-four prows of ships gilded, on the buttresses or supporters whereof the statues of two archers, four cubits high, with one knee on the ground, were fixed; and two other statues, in an upright posture, completely armed, bigger than the life, being five cubits in height. The spaces between the rows were spread and adorned with scarlet cloth. Over these prows was a colonnade of large flambeaux which, ending at top, terminated towards eagles, which, with their heads turned downwards, and extended wings, served as capitals. Dragons fixed near, or upon the base, turned their heads upwards towards the eagles. Over this colonnade stood a third, in the base of which was represented, in relievo, a party of hunting animals of every kind. On the superior order, that is, the fourth, the combat of Centaurs was represented in gold. Finally, on the fifth, golden figures, representing lions and bulls, were placed alternately. The whole edifice terminated with military trophies after the Macedonian and Babylonian fashion, as so many symbols of the victory of the former, and the defeat of the latter. On the entablatures and roofs were represented Syrens, the hollow bodies of which were filled, but in an imperceptible manner, with musicians, who sang mournful airs and dirges in honour of the deceased. This edifice was upwards of one hundred and thirty cubits high; that is, one hundred and ninety-five feet. The beauty and the design of this structure," concludes our author, "the singularity and magnificence of the decorations, and the several ornaments of it, surpassed the most wonderful productions of fancy, and were all in exquisite taste. The designer and architect of the whole, was Stasicrates; he who offered to cut Mount Athos into the shape of a man. The cost of this monument was no less than twelve thousand talents; that is, more than one million eight hundred thousand pounds!" Alexander resided at Babylon more than a year. During this time he planned a multitude of things; amongst which, we are told that, finding Babylon to surpass in extent, in conveniency, and in whatever can be wished, either for the necessities or pleasures of life, all the other cities of the East, he resolved to make it the seat of his empire[119]. With this view he planned many improvements, and undertook some; and would have, doubtless, accomplished much that he intended, for he was still but a very young man, when death cut him short in the midst of his career-- Leaving a name, at which the world grew pale, To point a moral, or adorn a tale[120]. And this calls to our recollection the prophecies which had been uttered:--"I will cut off from Babylon the name and remnant." "I will make it a possession for the bittern." "I will sweep it with the besom of destruction." "It shall never be inhabited; neither shall it be dwelt in from generation to generation." Such was the fate of this city; insomuch that, in process of time it became entirely forsaken, and the Persian kings made a park among its ruins, in which they kept wild beasts for hunting. Instead of citizens, there were boars, leopards, bears, deer, and wild asses. Nothing remained but portions of its walls, a great part even of these at last fell down. They were never repaired, and for many ages, so great was the ruin, that even the remains of it were supposed to have been swept from the face of the earth[121]. A short time after the death of Alexander, Babylon became a theatre for hostility between Demetrius and Seleucus. Seleucus had got possession of the city. When Antigonus learned this, he sent his son, Demetrius, with an army to drive him out of it. Demetrius, according to his father's order, gathered all the force he could command at Damascus, and marched thence to Babylon; where, finding that Seleucus had gone into Media, he entered the city without opposition; but, to his great surprise and mortification, he found it in great part deserted. The cause was this: Seleucus had left the town under the charge of a governor named Patrocles. When Demetrius was within a short distance, this governor retreated out of the walls into the fens, and commanded all persons to fly from the city. This multitudes of them did; some into the deserts, and others beyond the Tigris. Demetrius, finding the town deserted, laid siege to the castles; for there were two, both well garrisoned and of large extent. One of these castles he took; and, having plundered not only the city, but the whole province, of every thing he could lay his bands on, he returned to his father, leaving a garrison. The robbery, however, did not go unpunished; for the Babylonians were so grievously offended at it, that, at the return of Seleucus, they received him with open arms; and thus began the true reign of Seleucus. That prince, however, did not long make Babylon his capital. He built Seleucia on the western bank of the Tigris, forty miles from Babylon, over against the spot where now stands the city of Bagdad. To this new city, Seleucus invited the Babylonians generally to transplant themselves. This they did, and Babylon became, in process of time, so desolate, that Strabo assures us[122] that, in his time, Babylon, "once the greatest city that the sun ever saw," had nothing left but its walls. The area had been ploughed. In the fourth century St. Jerome notes, that Babylon was become a park for the Parthian and afterwards for the Persian kings to keep their wild beasts for hunting in; the walls being kept up to serve for a fence for the enclosure. No writer for several hundred years has been found to mention this city from this time, till Benjamin of Tudela[123] (in Navarre) visited the spot, and related, on his return, that he had stood where this old city had formerly stood; and that he had found it wholly desolated and destroyed. "Some ruins," said he, "of Nebuchadnezzar's palace remain; but men are afraid to go near them on account of the multitude of serpents and scorpions there are in the place." It was afterwards visited by the celebrated Portuguese traveller, Texeira, who says, "That there was, in his time, only a few footsteps of this famous city; and that there was no place in all that country less frequented." In 1574 it was visited by a German traveller, Rauwolf. "The village of Elugo," says he, "lieth on the place where formerly old Babylon, the metropolis of Chaldea, did stand. The harbour lieth a quarter of a league off, where-unto those use to go that intend to travel by land to the famous city of Bagdad, which is situated further to the east on the river Tigris, at a day and a half's distance. This country is so dry and barren that it cannot be tilled, and so bare that I should have doubted very much, whether this potent and powerful city (which once was the most stately and famous one of the world, situated in the pleasant and fruitful country of Sinar,) did stand there; if I had not known it by its situation, and several ancient and delicate antiquities, that still are standing hereabout in great desolation[124]. First, by the old bridge, which was laid over the Euphrates, whereof there are some pieces and arches still remaining, built of burned brick, and so strong, that it is admirable. Just before the village of Elugo is the hill whereon the castle did stand, in a plain, whereon you may still see some ruins of the fortification, which is quite demolished and uninhabited. Behind it, and pretty near to it, did stand the tower of Babylon. This we see still, and it is half a league in diameter; but so mightily ruined and low, and so full of venomous reptiles, that have bored holes through it, that one may not come near it within half a mile, but only in two months in the winter, when they come not out of their holes[125]." The next traveller that visited Babylon appears to have been Della Valle (A.D. 1616). When at Bagdad he was led, by curiosity rather than business, to visit Babylon, which, says he, was well known to the people in that city, as well by its name of Babel, as by the traditions concerning it. "He found," says Rennell, "at no great distance from the eastern bank of the Euphrates, a vast heap of ruins, of so heterogeneous a kind, that, as he expresses it, he could find nothing whereon to fix his judgment as to what it might have been in its original state. He recollected the descriptions of the tower of Belus, in the writings of the ancients, and supposed that this might be the ruins of it." He then proceeds to give measurements; but better accounts have been received since. The remains of Babylon have been visited in our times by several accomplished travellers, amongst whom may be especially noted Mr. Rich and Sir Robert Ker Porter. The former of these travellers has given the most distinct and circumstantial account; but, before we state what he has afforded us, we afford space for that passage of Sir Robert, in which he describes his first entry into the scene. "We now came to the north-east shore of the Euphrates, hitherto totally excluded from our view by the intervening long and varied lines of ruin, which now proclaimed to us, on every side, that we were indeed in the midst of what had been Babylon. From the point, on which we stood, to the base of the Mujelibé, large masses of ancient foundations spread on our right, more resembling natural hills in appearance, than mounds covering the remains of former great and splendid edifices. The whole view was particularly solemn. The majestic stream of the Euphrates wandering in solitude, like a pilgrim monarch through the silent ruins of his devastated kingdom, still appeared a noble river, even under all the disadvantages of its desert-tracked course. Its banks were hoary with reeds, and the grey osier willows were yet there, on which the captives of Israel hung up their harps, and, while '_Jerusalem was not_,' refused to be comforted. But how is the rest of the scene changed since then! At that time, these broken hills were palaces; those long, undulating mounds, streets; this vast solitude, filled with the busy subjects of the proud daughter of the East! now, '_wasted with misery_,' her habitations are not to be found; and, for herself, '_the worm is spread over her_.' The banks of the Euphrates are, nevertheless, still covered with willows, as they were in ancient times[126]." For the following particulars we are, principally, indebted to Mr. Rich, several years British minister at Bagdad. "The town of Hillah, enclosed within a brick wall, and known to have been built in the twelfth century, stands upon the western banks of the Euphrates (latitude thirty-two degrees, twenty-eight minutes). It is forty-eight miles south of Bagdad. The country, for miles around, is a flat, uncultivated waste; but it is traversed, in different directions, by what appear to be the remains of canals, and by mounds of great magnitude; most of which, upon being excavated, are found to contain bricks, some of which were evidently dried in the sun, others baked by a furnace, and stamped with inscriptions in a character now unknown." "The soil of the plains of ancient Assyria and Babylonia," says Major Keppell, "consists of a fine clay, mixed with sand, with which, as the waters retire, the shores are covered. This compost, when dried with the heat of the sun, becomes a hard and solid mass, and forms the finest materials for the beautiful bricks for which Babylon was celebrated." Hillah is built of such bricks; but there are others of more ancient appearance, which, no doubt, belonged to ancient Babylon; since they are stamped with characters, which have been ascribed to the Chaldeans. Hillah, then, stands upon the site of ancient Babylon: that is, a portion of it. Though this is certainly the case, there are no ruins at Hillah; the nearest being at a distance of two miles to the north, and upon the eastern side of the river. The first of these remains consists of a vast mound of earth, three thousand three hundred feet long, by two thousand four hundred feet broad, at its base, curved, at the south side, into the form of a quadrant. Its height is sixty feet at the highest part: and the whole appears to have been formed by the decomposition of sun-dried bricks, channelled and furrowed by the weather; and having the surface strewed with pieces of pottery, bricks, and bitumen. This mound is called Amran. On the north of this mound is another square, of two thousand one hundred feet, having one of its angles,--to the south-west,--connected with the other by a ridge, three hundred feet broad, and of considerable height. The building, of which this is a ruin, seems to have been finished in a very particular manner, for the bricks are of the finest description. "This is the place," says Mr. Rich, "where Beauchamp made his observations, and it is certainly the most interesting part of the ruins of Babylon. Every vestige discoverable in it declares it to have been composed of buildings far superior to all the rest, which have left traces in the eastern quarter: the bricks are of the finest description; and notwithstanding this is the grand storehouse of them, and that the greatest supplies have been, and are now, constantly drawn from it, they appear still to be abundant." To the north of this ruin is a ravine, hollowed out by brick-searchers, about three hundred feet long, ninety wide, and one hundred and twenty feet deep. At the north end of this ravine an opening leads to a subterranean passage, floored and walled with large bricks, laid in bitumen, and roofed with single slabs of sand-stone, three feet thick, and from eight to twelve long. In this passage was found a colossal piece of sculpture, in black marble. "There I discovered," says Mr. Rich, "what Beauchamp saw imperfectly, and understood from the natives to be an idol[127]. I was told the same thing[128], and that it was discovered by an old Arab in digging, but that, not knowing what to do with it, he covered it up again." On sending for the old man, and he having pointed out the spot, Mr. Rich set a number of men to work, and, after a day's hard labour, they laid open enough of the statue to show that it was a lion of colossal dimensions, standing on a pedestal. Its material was a gray granite, and it was of rude workmanship. The mound, last described, is called by the natives the palace (_El Kasr_)[129]. The walls are eight feet thick, ornamented with niches, and strengthened by pilasters and buttresses, all built of fine brick, laid in lime cement of such tenacity, that it cannot be separated without breaking. Hence it is, that so much of it remains perfect. This remarkable ruin is visible from a considerable distance, and is so fresh, that it is only upon minute inspection, that Mr. Rich became satisfied, that it is really a Babylonian remain. Near this are several hollows, in which several persons have lost their lives; so that no one will now venture into them, and their entrances are, therefore, become choked with rubbish. There are two paths near this ruin, made by the workmen, who carry down their bricks to the river side, whence they are transported to Hillah; and at a short distance to the north-north-east the celebrated tree stands, which is called by the natives Athelè, and which they assert to have once flourished in the hanging gardens; and which they as religiously believe God purposely preserved, that it might afford Mahomet a convenient shade, beneath which to tie up his horse, after the battle of Hillah! It is an evergreen, of the lignum-vitæ species. "Its trunk has been originally enormous; but at last, worn away by time, only part of its original circumference, hollow and shattered, supports the whole of its yet spreading and evergreen branches. They are particularly beautiful, being adorned with long tress-like tendrils, resembling heron-feathers, growing from a central stem. These slender and delicate sprays, bending towards the ground, gave the whole an appearance of a weeping-willow, while their gentle waving in the wind made a low and melancholy sound. This tree is revered as holy by the Arabs, from a tradition among them, that the Almighty preserved it here, from the earliest time, to form a refuge in after ages for the Caliph Ali; who, fainting with fatigue from the battle of Hillah, found a secure repose under its shade. The battle adverted to was fought within so short a period after the death of Mahomet, that, if any credit is to be given to the rest of the tale, the age of the tree must already have extended to a thousand years!" When Mr. Kinneir visited Hillah the girth of the tree was, two feet from the ground, four feet seven inches. Its height twenty feet. Nine hundred and fifty yards from the side of the river, and about a mile to the north of what is called the palace, stands the most remarkable ruin of the eastern division. This is called Mukallibè, a word signifying "overturned." This was visited, in 1616, by Della Valle, who determined it to be the tower of Belus; and this opinion has been adopted, erroneously, by Rennell and other writers. It is of an oblong shape, irregular in its height and the measurement of its sides, which face the cardinal points; the northern side being two hundred yards in length; the southern side, two hundred and nineteen; the eastern, one hundred and eighty-two; and the western, one hundred and thirty-six. The elevation of the highest angle, one hundred and forty-one feet. This mound is a solid mass. Near its summit appears a low wall, with interruptions, built of unburnt bricks, laid in clay mortar of great thickness, having a layer of reeds between every layer of bricks. On the north side are vestiges of a similar wall. The south-west angle, which is the highest point, terminates in a turret; or, rather, heaps of rubbish, in digging into which, layers of broken burnt brick, cemented with mortar, are discovered, and whole bricks, with inscriptions on them, are here and there found. The whole is covered with innumerable fragments of brick, pottery, pebbles, bitumen, vitrified scoria, and even shells, bits of glass, and mother-of-pearl! When Mr. Rich saw all these, he inquired of the Turk, that acted as guide, how he imagined the glass and mother-of-pearl came there?--"They were brought here by the deluge," answered the Turk. In describing this mound, Major Keppell says, that he found it full of large holes. "We entered one of them, and found them strewed with the carcases and skeletons of animals recently killed. The ordure of wild beasts was so strong, that prudence got the better of curiosity; for we had no doubt as to the savage nature of the inhabitants. Our guides, indeed, told us, that all the ruins abounded in lions and other wild beasts." Mr. Rich found, also, quantities of porcupine quills; and most of the cavities, he says, are peopled with bats and owls. The pile on the Mujelibé is called Haroot and Maroot, by the Arabs; and they believe that, near the foot of the pyramid, there still exists, though invisible to mankind, a well, in which those two wicked angels were condemned by the Almighty to be suspended by the heels until the end of the world, as a punishment for their vanity and presumption.[130] In another part of the ruins were found a brass pike and some earthen vessels (one of which was very thin, and had the remains of fine white varnish on the outside);--also a beam of date-tree wood. Continuing the work downwards, the men arrived at a passage, in which they discovered a wooden coffin; opening which they found a skeleton, perfect in all its parts. Under the head was placed a round pebble, and a brass ornament was attached to the skeleton. On the outside, another brass ornament was found, representing a bird: and a little farther on, they discovered the skeleton of a child. No skulls were found, either here or in the sepulchral urns that were at the bank of the river. Mr. Rich, also, found a number of urns, in the bulwark on the banks of the river. These contained ashes, and bones in small fragments. Comparing these remains with the skeletons found in the Mujelibé, he judiciously remarks, that the two modes of sepulture decidedly prove what people they were who were so interred. "There is, I believe," he adds, "no reason to suppose that the Babylonians burnt their dead: the old Persians, we know, never did." It was the common usage with the Greeks. "From this he infers," says Porter, "that the skeletons in the Mujelibé were the remains of the ancient people of Babylon; and the urns in the embankment contained the ashes of Alexander's soldiers." From the south-east angle of the Mujelibé, a mound extends in a circular direction, and joins the Amran at its south-east angle, the diameter of the sweep being two miles and a half. This is supposed to have been the fortified enclosure that is described by Herodotus as encircling the palace. To the north of the Mujelibé there are no ruins of any importance. A few low mounds, however, are observed, occurring at intervals, on each side of the road from Hillah to Bagdad; but they are of an insignificant character, and, from their situation, they are supposed to have been burying-places outside the city, rather than buildings within its walls. The Mujelibé is supposed to have been a Babylonian mausoleum, rather than a temple of worship. In respect to the other ruins, it is probable that the Kasr and adjacent mounds are the remains of the royal palace, with its hanging gardens, enclosed with the circular mound, which formed the outer wall of the palace mentioned by Herodotus, and described more in detail by Diodorus. Two or three miles upwards from the river, are the remains of what have, hitherto, been considered remains of canals. A recent traveller[131], however, seems inclined to believe, that they are the remains of streets. His reasoning is probable. Canals would go all one way; but most of these cross each other at right angles, with immense spaces of open and level ground on each side of them. We are now to note something in regard to what appears on the west side of the Euphrates. "The loose and inaccurate accounts of some modern travellers," says Mr. Rich, "have misled D'Anville and Rennell into the belief of there being considerable ruins on the western side of the river, similar to those on the eastern." This, however, does not appear to be the case; that is, near to the river. But although there are none in the immediate neighbourhood, by far the most stupendous and surprising mass of all the ruins of Babylon is situated on this side, about six miles from Hillah. This is the tower of Babel, otherwise the temple of Belus. It is called by the Arabs, _Birs Nemroud_; by the Jews Nebuchadnezzar's Prison. The shape of this vast ruin is oblong, having the appearance of a fallen or decayed pyramid. It is two thousand two hundred and eighty-six feet in compass at the base; and, on the west side, it rises conically to the height of one hundred and ninety-eight feet. "I visited the Birs," says Mr. Rich, "under circumstances peculiarly favourable to grandeur of effect. The morning was at first stormy, and threatened a severe fall of rain; but, as we approached the object of our journey, the heavy clouds separating, discovered the Birs frowning over the plain, and presenting the appearance of a circular hill, crowned by a tower, with a high ridge extending along the foot of it. It being entirely concealed from our view, during the first part of our ride, prevented our acquiring the gradual idea, in general so prejudicial to effect, and so particularly lamented by those who visit the pyramids. Just as we were within the proper distance, it burst at once upon our sight, in the midst of rolling masses of thick black clouds, partially obscured by that kind of haze whose indistinctness is one great cause of sublimity; whilst a few strong catches of stormy light, thrown upon the desert in the back ground, served to give some idea of the immense extent, and dreary solitude, of the wastes in which this remarkable ruin stands." Two stages of building are visible on the eastern side. The lowest is sixty feet high, and is broken in the middle by a deep ravine, and intersected on all sides by channels, made by the winter rains. The summit of this first stage was once flat; but it is no longer so; its margin having crumbled down so as to give this side the appearance of a cone. The second stage rises above the first, also, in a conical form, but much more steep; the summit being marked by a perpendicular fragment of brick work; which is probably the base of the third stage. On the west side, the structure rises at once from the plain like a pyramid; the face being broken in different directions, partly by the torrents, and partly by what seems to have been some convulsion of nature. At the foot of the northern side, vast masses of solid brick-work are scattered over the rubbish. The building is seen to most advantage to the south; for on that side it is by far the most perfect. The tower there rises by high and distinct stages (four), receding one within another, in proportion to their respective elevations. "Here is a ruin," says an elegant writer, "corresponding, in a most surprising degree, with the tower of Belus, as described by Herodotus. The total circumference of the base is two thousand two hundred and eighty-six feet instead of one thousand nine hundred and sixty, the square of a stadium. The east and west sides remain of the original breadth nearly, and a greater portion of rubbish from the top crumbled down upon their sides, the north and south are thereby elongated; the present height of the ruin, to the top of the wall, is two hundred and thirty-five feet--less than one-half of the original height--consequently the _débris_ round the base might be expected to be much more considerable, so as to make the circumference of the base greater than it appears to be. But it must be remembered, that Alexander the Great, when he took possession of Babylon, after the defeat of Darius, employed ten thousand men for two months in removing the rubbish, preparatory to removing the tower[132]. It is probable they had only cleared the south side, before the work was abandoned; which would account for the south face being more perfect than any of the others. If we add to this, that vast quantities of the bricks have been taken away by the natives of the country, for building modern towns, the circumstance that the base so little exceeds the dimensions, given by Herodotus, will no longer appear unaccountable." On Sir Robert Ker Porter's second visit to the Birs Nimrod, his party descried several dark objects moving along the summit of its hill, which they construed into dismounted Arabs on the look out, while their armed brethren were lying concealed under the southern brow of the mound. "Thinking this very probable," says Sir Robert, "I took out my glass to examine, and soon distinguished that the causes of our alarm were two or three majestic lions, taking the air upon the height of the pyramid. Perhaps I had never seen so sublime a picture to the mind, as well as to the eye. They were a species of enemy which my party were accustomed to dread without any panic fear; and while we continued to advance, though slowly, the hallooing of the people made the noble beasts gradually change their position, till, in the course of twenty minutes, they totally disappeared." The party then rode close to the ruins, every now and then observing the broad prints of feet the lions had left in the soil. This naturally brought to Sir Robert's recollection that part of the scriptures, wherein it is said, "Wild beasts of the desert shall be there." At a short distance from the Birs, and parallel with its eastern face, is a mound, not inferior to that of the Kasr in elevation, but much longer than it is broad. "On the top of it are two oratories," says Mr. Rich. "One, called Mekam Ibrahim Khalib, and said to be the place where Ibrahim was thrown into the fire by order of Nemroud, who surveyed the scene from the Birs; the other, which is in ruins, Makam Saheb Zeman; but to what part of Mehdy's life it relates, I am ignorant." "They call it," says Sir R. Ker Porter, "'Babylon, the glory of kingdoms, the beauty of the Chaldees' excellency. The lady of kingdoms, given to pleasure, that dwelleth carelessly, and sayeth in her heart, _I am,_ and there is none else beside me!' But now, in the same expressive language, we may say, 'She sits as a widow on the ground. There is no more a throne for thee, O daughter of the Chaldeans!' And for the abundance of the country, it has vanished as clean away as if 'the besom of desolation' had, indeed, swept it from north to south; the whole land, from the outskirts of Bagdad to the farthest stretch of the sight, lying a melancholy corpse." Round the Birs are traces of ruins to a considerable extent; and near the town of Hillah there are several remarkable places; but as they do not bear any very particular relation to Babylon, we here close our account, entirely agreeing with Mr. Rich, that it is evident, from what remains of that celebrated city, and even from the most favourable account handed down to us, that the public edifices which adorned it were remarkable more for vastness of dimensions than elegance of design, and solidity of fabric than beauty of execution. Though Babylon has universally been considered as the largest city that ever existed on the earth, there are some and even very good reasons to believe, that it was never so large as Nineveh. "It was intended, indeed," says one of the historians, "that Babylon should have exceeded Nineveh in every thing; but Nebuchadnezzar did not live long enough, nor the Babylonish empire last long enough, to finish the scheme that had been drawn of it." The houses were not contiguous, but all built with a void space on each side between house and house, so that the larger part was not built upon. The houses of Nineveh, however, were contiguous. Nineveh, also, had a greater population; for, in the time of Jonah, it had one hundred and twenty thousand souls, "who could nor did not know their right hand from their left." That is, one hundred and twenty thousand infants[133]. But though Nineveh was the oldest city and the largest, Babylon has in all subsequent ages enjoyed the greatest celebrity[134]. [Illustration: Balbec.] NO. XVIII.--BALBEC. Those ruined shrines and towers, that seem The relics of a splendid dream; Amid whose fairy loveliness Nought but the lapwing's cry is heard; Nought seen but (when the shadows, flitting Fast from the moon, unsheath its gleam) Some purple-winged SULTANA[135] sitting Upon a column motionless, And glittering like an idol bird. * * * * * But nought can charm the luckless Peri; Her soul is sad--her wings are weary-- Joyless she sees the sun go down On that great temple, once her own[136]; Whose lonely columns stand sublime, Flinging their shadows from on high, Like dials, which the wizard, Time, Had raised to count his ages by. These lines lead us to some beautiful observations by Sir John Malcolm:-- "Among the traces of a great nation's former glory," says he, "there is none upon which the mind dwells with more serious thought than on the magnificent ruins of its ancient palaces. How forcibly are we reminded of our condition, when told that an edifice, in the erection of which a kingdom's wealth had been exhausted; which was adorned with every ornament that the art of the world could supply, and whose history was engraven on the imperishable rocks with which it was constructed, was not only fallen into decay, but that its founder was unknown, and the language in which its history was inscribed was no longer numbered among the tongues of man!" These observations are peculiarly applicable to the present state of Balbec. This city stood in the road between Tyre and Palmyra; its history is, nevertheless, so lost in obscurity, that, considering the splendour and magnificence of its remains, we are astonished! Scarcely any thing of its history is known; and even its existence appears to have been unknown for many centuries to the Romans. Tradition states that it was built by Solomon; and for the truth of this the Jews quote the following passage from the Book of Chronicles[137]:--"Also he (Solomon) built Beth-horon the upper, and Beth-horon the nether, fencied cities, with walls, gates, and bars; and _Baal-ath_." For the greater confirmation, it is thought that Balbec is meant when Solomon says--"the tower of Lebanon, that looketh towards Damascus." The Arabs go even so far as to assert, that this city was built by the king as a residence for the Queen of Sheba; and Sir William Ouseley quotes a passage, wherein it is mentioned that a tradition in Persian implies, that Solomon often passed his day at Balbec, and his night at Istakr. The names Heliopolis and Balbec are words of different languages, which have nearly the same signification. The sun was worshipped by the ancient inhabitants of the country, under the name of Baal. Balbec signifies the vale of Baal; and Heliopolis the city of the sun. That Balbec derived, not only its religion, but its very name, from Heliopolis in Egypt, is rendered certain by a passage in Macrobius:--"In the city called Heliopolis, the Assyrians worship the sun with great pomp, under the name of the Heliopolitan Jove; and the statue of this god was brought from a city in Egypt, also called Heliopolis, where Senumens or Senepos reigned over the Egyptians, by Opios, ambassador from Delebor, king of the Assyrians, together with some Egyptian priests, of whom Partemetis was the chief, and it remained long among the Assyrians before it was removed to Heliopolis." The same author adds, "that he declines giving the reason for this fact, or telling how the statue was afterwards brought to the place, where in his time it was worshipped, more according to the Assyrian than the Egyptian rites, as circumstances foreign to his purpose." As Balbec has never been the seat of a monarch, antiquaries are greatly at a loss to conceive how the expense of these magnificent structures could have been supplied by private or municipal liberality. The orientals, however, explain the prodigy by a never-failing expedient,--they were constructed by the fairies or genii! That these temples did not exist when Pompey went through Heliopolis to Damascus is probable, because the writers of that time, who mention less remarkable structures with admiration, take no notice of any such building; and it is certain that they did exist in the time of Caracalla; because Heliopolis is to be seen on many of his coins; and vows in favour of him and his empress are recorded in two inscriptions, the remains of which are still to be seen on the pedestals of the columns of the great portico of the temple. That Heliopolis was constituted a colony by Augustus Cæsar, is rendered probable, by some medals which still remain, and in which it is called, "Colonia Julia Augusta;" but it was not till the time of Septimius Severus that the temple was impressed on the reverse of the coins. When we consider the extraordinary magnificence of the temple of Balbec, we cannot but be greatly surprised at the silence of the Greek and Roman authors in respect to it. Mr. Wood, who has carefully examined all the ancient authors, has found no mention of it, except in a fragment of John of Antioch, surnamed Malala, who attributes the building of it to Antoninus Pius. His words are:--"Ælius Antoninus Pius[138] built a great temple at Heliopolis, near Libanus, in Phoenicia, which was one of the wonders of the world." Some Roman medals also have been found, upon the reverse of which is a representation something similar to those temples, with the inscription:--COLONIA HELIOPOLITANA JOVI OPTIMO MAXIMO HELIOPOLITANO. One circumstance, however, militates against the idea that Antoninus Pius was the builder of these temples; viz., that Julius Capitolinus says nothing about them, though he gives a list of that emperor's buildings, and speaks of others of much less consideration. It must, however, be remembered, that the work of Julius Capitolinus is known to be so extremely defective, that though Antoninus reigned one-and-twenty years, and transmitted to posterity the character of one of the best princes that ever ruled, yet the particulars, that merited such extraordinary praise, are utterly unknown. Gibbon thus remarks upon the different fortunes of Balbec and Emesa:--"Among the cities which are enumerated by Greek and oriental names in the geography and conquest of Syria, we may distinguish EMESA and HELIOPOLIS; the former as a metropolis of the plain; the latter as the metropolis of the valley. Under the last of the Cæsars they were strong and populous; the turrets glittered from afar; an ample space was covered with public and private buildings; and the citizens were illustrious by their spirit, or at least by their pride; by their riches, or at least by their luxury. In the days of paganism, both Emesa and Heliopolis were addicted to the worship of Baal, or the sun: but the decline of their superstition or splendour has been marked by a singular variety of fortune. Not a vestige remains of the temple of Emesa, which was equalled in poetic style to the summits of Mount Libanus; while the ruins of Balbec, invisible to the writers of antiquity, excite the curiosity and wonder of European travellers." In the reign of Heraclius its garrison was strengthened, that it might be enabled to withstand the Arabs; and when Christianity gained the ascendancy under Constantine, he shut up many pagan temples; but it was Theodosius, who converted its temple into a Christian church, the walls of which are still standing. The conversion of it into a fortress was the work of the Caliphs, when this part of the world fell under the government of the Caliphs, called the Ommiades; an incurious and therefore an ignorant race, during whose time nothing is recorded of Balbec, although it was then a considerable city. The ancient name, Balbec, during this time was restored, instead of Heliopolis, which was probably a translation of Balbec, or at least substituted for it, when it passed out of the possession of its own native oriental inhabitants. In Ebn Haukal's[139] oriental geography, Balbec is mentioned thus:--"Beyond the borders of Demeshk is Baalbek, situated on an eminence. Here are the gates of palaces, sculptured in marble; and lofty columns, also of marble. In the whole region of Syria there is not a more stupendous or considerable edifice than this[140]." The approach to this ruined city is thus described by Mr. Bruce:--"The form of Mount Libanus, as seen from the plain of Bekka, is this: first, a range of mountains, extremely proper for culture, and of no considerable height, sloping easily to the plain, and covered with trees that are not very thickly planted. On the other side of these rises a chain of mountains of an extraordinary height, bare for the most part, and stony, cut in every rain, and covered with snow, except in summer. Thus they continue till they descend much more steeply on the other side towards the sea. The valleys within this high chain of mountains, which on one side run parallel with the sea-coast, and on the other form the east side of the plain of Bekka, are mostly narrow; but abundantly fertile, were they in the hands of better people, under a better government; industry being here always followed by oppression." Mr. Carne describes his arrival thus:--"The sun set on the vast temple, and the mountains around it, with indescribable grandeur; the chain of Anti-Libanus, in front, was covered with snow; and the plain, wild and beautiful, stretched at its feet farther than the eye can reach: the pigeons, of many-coloured plumage, flew in clusters round the ruined walls, at whose feet were a variety of trees and flowers, amidst which ran a clear and rapid stream." We now pass to Mons. La Martine:--"On reaching the summit of the breach, we knew not where to fix our eyes. On every side we beheld marble doors of prodigious dimensions, windows and niches, bordered with exquisite sculpture, richly ornamented arches, fragments of cornices, entablatures, and capitals. The master-work of art; the wrecks of ages, lay scattered as thickly as the grains of dust beneath our feet. All was mystery, confusion, inexplicable wonder. No sooner had we cast an admiring glance on one side, than some new prodigy attracted us on the others. Every attempt, we made to interpret the religious meaning of the monuments, was immediately defeated by some newly-discerned object. We frequently groped about in this labyrinth of conjecture. One cannot restrict, in one's fancy, the sacred edifices of an age, or a people of whose religion or manners nothing certain can be known. Time carries his secrets away with him, and leaves his enigmas as sports for human knowledge. We speedily renounced all our attempts to build any system out of these ruins; we were content to gaze and admire, without comprehending any thing beyond the colossal power of human genius; and the strength of religious feeling, which had moved such masses of stone, and wrought so many master-pieces." The ruins of Balbec do not present a crowd of fallen edifices, spread over a large extent, like those of Palmyra; they consist only of three distinct buildings, which stand not far from each other, in a plain at a short distance from the inhabited part of the town. As in the instance of Palmyra, where we shall have to make a similar remark, it is impossible to convey an adequate idea of these works of art, without the accompaniments of plates[141]. We adopt, therefore, an abstract of the account of M. Volney, since his description is, perhaps, the best that we have:--"In entering the principal gate, which faces the mountain on the east, we come to an hexagonal court, which is one hundred and eighty feet in diameter. This is strewed with broken columns, mutilated capitals, and the remains of entablatures and cornices. Around it is a row of ruined edifices, which display all the ornaments of the richest architecture. On passing through this court towards the west, we enter a large square, three hundred and fifty feet wide, and three hundred and thirty-three in length. Along each side of this court runs a sort of gallery, divided into various compartments, seven of which may be reckoned in each of the principal wings. It is not easy to conceive the use of this part of the structure; but it does not diminish our admiration at the beauty of the pilasters, and the richness of the frieze and entablature; neither is it possible to avoid remarking the singular effect which results from the mixture of the garlands, the large foliage of the capitals, and the sculpture of wild plants, with which they are every where ornamented. At the west end of this court stand six enormous columns, which appear to be totally unconnected with the rest of the building. On a more attentive examination, however, we discover a series of foundations, which seem to mark out the peristyle of a grand temple, to which these columns belonged. Pococke supposes this temple never to have been finished. We must examine them narrowly before we can conceive all the boldness of the elevation, and the richness of their workmanship. Their shafts are twenty-one feet eight inches in circumference, and fifty-eight high; so that the total height, including the entablature, is from seventy-one to seventy-two feet. These six pillars are all that now remain of twenty-four[142]. The southern side of the grand temple has, at some distant period, been blocked up to build a smaller one, the peristyle and walls of which are still remaining. This temple presents a side of thirteen columns by eight in front, which, like all the rest of the ruins, are of the Corinthian order[143]. To reach the smaller temple from the larger one, you must cross trunks of columns, heaps of stone, and a ruinous wall. After surmounting these obstacles, you arrive at the gate, where you may survey the enclosure, which was once the habitation of a god; but instead of the awful scene of a prostrate people, and sacrifices offered by a multitude of priests, the sky, which is open from the falling in of the roof, only lets in light to show a chaos of ruins covered with dust and weeds. The walls, which supported the roof, are thirty-one feet high, and without a window. There are tablets in the form of lozenges, on which are represented Jupiter seated on his eagle, Leda caressed by the swan, Diana with her bow and crescent, and several busts which seem to be figures of emperors and empresses. The number of lizards to be seen is so great, that Mr. Bruce says, that those he saw one day in the great court of the temple of the sun amounted to many thousands; the ground, the walls, and stones of the ruined buildings being covered with them. Besides these two, there is a smaller temple of very great beauty. The building itself, exclusive of the pillars, by which it is surrounded, is only thirty-two feet in diameter; and the height is divided into two parts, in the lower of which the architecture is Ionic, and in the higher Corinthian. The grace and lightness of the exterior of this edifice has induced several competent critics to call it "a perfect gem of art." In respect to the six columns, "In order to reach them," says M. de La Martine, "we had to pass external boundary walls, high pedestals, terraces, and foundations of altars. At length we arrived at the feet of the columns. Silence is the only language of man, when what he feels outstrips the ordinary measure of his impressions. We stood in mute contemplation of these six columns, and scanning with our eyes their diameter, their elevation, and the admirable sculpture of their architraves and cornices. Their diameter is six feet, and their height upwards of seventy-two. They are formed out of two or three blocks, which are so perfectly joined together, that the junction lines are scarcely discernible[144]. They are composed of light yellow stone, presenting a sort of medium between the polish of marble and the deadness of turf. When near them, the sun lighted them only on one side, and we sat down for a few moments in their shade. Large birds, like eagles, scared by the sound of our footsteps, fluttered above the capitals of the columns, where they have built their nests; and returning, perched upon the acanthus of the columns, striking them with their beaks, and flapping their wings like living ornaments, amidst these inanimate wonders, all of which appear to resemble works of dwarfs." Branching off to the southward of the _avenue_, you come to the stumps of some fluted columns sticking above the sand on either side of a small simple gateway; and a few paces to the westward, on an eminence, are the ruins of the small temple just now mentioned; and from thence is enjoyed the magnificent _coup-d'oeil_ of all the ruins and the vast desert. Beyond the circular colonnade lie the prostrate remains of a very magnificent building, constructed of a species of marble superior to the generality of that used in these ruins. The walls are constructed of large single stones, nicely fitted one above another. Richly ornamented windows extend around the walls, and some columns of one entire piece, twenty-two feet in length and about nine in circumference, lie prostrate on the ground. "About fifty yards distant from the temple," says Mr. Maundrell, "is a row of Corinthian pillars, very great and lofty, with a most stately architrave and cornice at the top. This speaks itself to have been part of some very august pile; but what one now sees of it is but just enough to give a regret, that there should be no more remaining. Here is another curiosity of this place, which a man need be well assured of his credit, before he ventures to relate, lest he should be thought to strain the privilege of a traveller too far. That which I mean is a large piece of an old wall, which encompasses all these structures last described. A wall made of such monstrous great stones, that the natives hereabouts, (as it is usual in things of this strange nature,) ascribe it to the architecture of the devil. Three of the stones, which were larger than the rest, we took the pains to measure. We found them to extend sixty-one yards in length; one twenty-one; the other two each twenty yards; and in the breadth of the same dimensions. These three stones lay in one and the same row to the end; the rest of the wall was made also of great stones, but none I think so great as these. That which added to the wonder was, that these stones were lifted up into the wall more than twenty feet from the ground." Besides these ruins, there are several very large subterraneous passages, which lead under the great citadel, immense vaults of very massive architecture, constructed in a very beautiful manner. Some of these, no doubt, were tombs; and this leads us to remember, that Mr. Browne says[145], that when he was at Zahhlé, he met with a young man, a Druse, who told him, that near Balbec, a few years ago, in digging, the body of a man was found interred in a kind of vault, having a piece of unstamped gold in his mouth; near him a number of leaden plates marked with characters, to them unknown. These were sold and melted. La Martine says, that not far from Balbec, in a valley of the Anti-Libanus, human bones of immense magnitude have been discovered; and that this fact is so confidently believed among the neighbouring Arabs, that the English consul in Syria (Mr. Farren), a man of extensive information, proposes to visit those mysterious sepulchres. The walls of the ancient Heliopolis are traceable in many directions, and show that the city must have been of a very considerable extent. "These walls," says Mr. Wood, "like most of the ancient cities of Asia, appear to be the confused patch-work of different ages. The pieces of capitals, broken entablatures, and, in some places, reversed Greek inscriptions, which we observed in walking round them, convinced us that their last repairs were made after the decline of taste, with materials, negligently collected as they lay nearest to hand, and hastily put together for immediate defence." The stone of which the temple is built was brought from the neighbouring quarry, at the bottom of which there is a single stone lying seventy feet in length, fourteen in breadth, and fourteen feet six inches in thickness. Its weight, according to these dimensions, must be above 1130 tons! It would require, we are told, the united strength of sixty thousand men of our time to raise this single stone! The stones used at Balbec are the largest that have ever been moved by human power. The largest in the pyramids of Egypt do not exceed eighteen feet. But here, of those that compose the sloping wall, which surrounds the temple on the west and north, three occupy a space of one hundred and seventy-five feet and a half; viz., the 1st, fifty-eight feet seven inches; the 2nd, fifty-eight feet eleven inches; and the 3rd, exactly fifty-eight feet long; and each of these is twelve feet thick. "When it is considered," says La Martine, "that some of these blocks of hewn granite are raised one above another to the height of twenty or thirty feet from the ground;--that they have been brought from distant quarries, and raised to so vast a height to form the pavement of the temple;--the mind is overwhelmed by such an example of human power. The science of modern times cannot help us to explain it, and we cannot be surprised, therefore, that it is referred to the supernatural." "The shades of evening," continues this accomplished traveller, "which slowly descended the mountains of Balbec, and obscured, one by one, the columns and the ruins, imparted an additional air of mystery to the picturesque and magical effect of these wonderful works of man and time. We felt the full insignificance of human nature; and while contemplating the mass and eternity of these monuments, we compared man to the swallows, which build their nests for a season in the interstices of these stones, without knowing for whom, or by whom, or for what purpose, they were collected together. The power which moved these masses, and accumulated these blocks, is unknown to us. The dust of the marble, which we trod under our feet, knows more than we do, but can tell us nothing; and in a few centuries to come, the generations who may, in their turn, visit the wrecks of our monuments now existing, will ask, without being able to answer, why we laboured without being able to build and carve. The works of man are more durable than his thoughts; movement is the law of the human mind; the definite is the dream of man's vanity and ignorance; God is an object which incessantly recedes from us, as we endeavour to approach him. We are continually advancing, but we never arrive. The Deity, whose divine figure man seems to embody in his imagination, and to enshrine in his temples, continually enlarges, and exceeds the narrow boundaries of our minds, and our edifices; leaves the temples and the altars to crumble into dust; and summons man to seek him where he is most plainly manifested, viz., in intelligence, in virtue, in nature, and in eternity." We now give place to observations, made by travellers on the relative merits of the architecture, employed in these magnificent edifices. "When we compare the ruins of Balbec," says Mr. Wood, "with those of many ancient cities, which we visited in Italy, Greece, and Egypt, and in other parts of Asia, we cannot help thinking them the remains of the boldest plan we ever saw attempted in architecture." "The enormity of the scale," says Mr. Buckingham, "and the magnificence of design, seen throughout the whole of the architecture, with the boldness of the drawing, and the exquisite finish of the sculpture, impressed me with an idea of a labour more than human. I should conceive that in no country was to be found so superb a monument of the inimitable perfection of ancient architecture. The temples and the tombs of Egypt were here equalled in the enormity of the masses, that composed them; and the chamber of the Pyramids rivalled in the closeness of the masonry; while the monuments of Athens itself, in the age of Pericles and Praxiteles, were at least equalled in the richness and beauty of the sculptured ornaments, that adorned them. It appeared to me, that the temples of Edfou, Tentyris, and Thebes, fell far short of this, as a whole; for here the ponderous strength of the Egyptian, and the chastened elegance of the Grecian school, are both most happily combined." Mr. Addison appears to have entertained a different opinion:--"Those ruins," says he, "though so striking and magnificent, are yet, however, quite second rate, when compared with the Athenian ruins; and display, in their decorations, none of the bold conceptions and the genius which characterise the Athenian architecture. There is a peculiar sameness in the decorations of the figures, entablatures, and cornices. The ornaments are all alike, and the festoons of grapes, and vine-leaves hung on goats' and horses' heads, the pendent bunches of grapes and Cupids, however rich in appearance, and beautifully chiselled, can never excite such feelings, as one small portion of the Panathenian frieze of the Parthenon, or one of the Metopes, representing a battle between a Centaur and a Lapithæ. There is a genius in these latter, a combination of talent, a soul, fire, and spirit, which are looked for in vain in the Balbec remains. The great Panathenian frieze of the Parthenon, which extended all around that temple, with its hundreds of horses and warriors, its spirited grouping, and faithful delineation of forms and attitudes; and above it the wars of the Centaurs and Lapithæ, possessed a most exciting interest. The vine-branches and wheat ears of the temple of Balbec, although unquestionably very beautiful, yet appear tame in comparison; and cannot certainly be put in competition with these master-pieces of architectural decoration." "Several artists have observed," says Mr. Wood, "a similitude between some European buildings, and some parts of the ruins of Palmyra and Balbec; from which they have, perhaps, too hastily concluded, that the former were copied from the latter. The portico of the Louvre at Paris has been compared in this light to the ruins of Palmyra; as also with the portico at Balbec; but we cannot discover any foundation for inferences so injurious to the memory of the architect, who built that noble structure, which is as justly admired as it is unaccountably neglected." We now return to the page of M. de La Martine:--"Round this platform is ranged a series of chapels, decorated with niches, admirably sculptured, friezes, cornices, and vaulted arches; all displaying the most finished workmanship, but evidently belonging to a degenerate period of art. But this impression can only be felt by those whose eyes have been previously exercised by the contemplation of the pure monuments of Athens and Rome. Every other eye would be fascinated by the splendour of the forms and the finish of the ornaments. The only fault is too much richness; the stone groans beneath the weight of its own luxuriance, and the walls are overspread with a lace-work of marble." The town is, at present, so ruined, that there are not counted more than fifty habitable dwellings in it; though the whole number within the walls may be estimated at five hundred. The state of the city is deplorable. The emirs of the house of Harfoushe had already greatly impaired it, when an earthquake, in 1759, completed its destruction; insomuch, that though in 1751 there were five thousand inhabitants, not twelve hundred are remaining; and all these poor, without industry or commerce, we are told, and cultivating nothing but a little cotton, some maize, and a few watermelons. Even the ruins are altering every day. Dawkins and Wood found nine large columns standing; but Volney, in 1784, found only six. They reckoned twenty-nine at the lesser temple; but now there are only twenty. There were, originally, thirty-four,--eight in front, and thirteen along each of the sides. The others were overthrown by an earthquake. Nature alone, however, has not effected this devastation. The Turks have had their share in the destruction of the columns; the motive for which was merely that of procuring the iron cramps, which served to join the several blocks of which each column is composed. Famine, the pestilence, and the sword, gradually thinned the inhabitants. The population of five thousand, which the town contained in 1751, has now dwindled down to barely two hundred persons: nor does each house continue to possess, as it did in the time of Maundrell, "ten or fifteen cows, besides goats and sheep, the goats being of an uncommon species, worth from 30_l._ to 35_l._ a piece!" The description left by Maundrell was faithful at the time he visited those ruins; but since that period several important parts have been destroyed, and even the place of the temple at the end of the great court, which was probably the principal edifice of the whole, cannot at this day be made out[146]. The hands of the natives have, no doubt, committed many ravages. Faccardine, prince of the Druses, destroyed or injured several parts of these ruins; but when he afterwards visited Italy, and contracted a taste for its architecture, he is said to have bitterly lamented the sacrilege he had committed at Balbec[147]. "It is in fact man, not nature," says an elegant writer, "that has wrought this change. No blight has seared the soil, or poisoned the air, but a degrading despotism has as effectually dried up the sources of social prosperity, as if some elementary convulsion had suddenly turned the clime of beauty cold and dark, and struck the teeming earth with hopeless barrenness. Indeed, Turkish oppression has done what no unkindness of nature could have effected. The splendours of Palmyra rose, under the breath of a free commerce, in the midst of a sandy desert; but nothing has been able to preserve that and many other great cities from crumbling into heaps of ruins, at the death-touch of the gloomy tyranny, that now hangs like a pall over the land." We must now give place to what Mons. de La Martine says, in regard to the Bishop of Balbec:--"We proceeded very little farther that day. The road diverged from these ruins, and led us to others. We passed over some vaults, and arrived at a small house. This was the palace of the Bishop of Balbec, who, clothed in his violet-coloured pelisse, and attended by some Arab peasants, advanced to meet us, and conducted us to his humble door. The poorest peasant's cottage in Burgundy, or Auvergne, possesses greater luxury and elegance than the palace of the Bishop of Balbec. It was an ill-built hut, without either window or door, and through the decayed roof the rain worked its way, and dropped on the mud floor. This was the bishop's dwelling! But at the further end of the yard, which adjoined the house, a neat wall, newly built of blocks of stone, and a door and window in ogives of Moorish architecture, each ogive being constructed of finely-sculptured stones, attracted my attention. This was the church of Balbec, the cathedral of that town, in which other gods have had splendid temples; the chapel in which the few Arab Christians, who live here amidst the wrecks of so many different faiths, worship, under a purer form, the universal Creator." The bishop was a fine old man with hair and beard of silver, a grave and benevolent cast of features, and a sweet and well-modulated voice. He was the perfect image of a priest of poetry or romance, says the traveller; and his aspect, which denoted peace, resignation, and charity, was well suited to the scene of ruins and meditation in which he lived. The traveller afterwards describes a delightful scene. He and his friends were sitting by moonlight near the bishop's hut. "We were silent. Suddenly a soft plaintive strain, a slow modulated murmur stole through the grotesque ogives of the ruined wall of the bishop's house. This vague and confused sound swelled higher and higher, until we distinguished it to be a chant from the united voices of choristers; a monotonous, melancholy strain, which rose, fell, and died away, and was alternately revived and re-echoed. This was the evening prayer, which the Arab bishop was chanting with his little flock, in the skeleton of that which once had been his church; viz., a heap of ruins piled up by a heap of idolaters. We were totally unprepared for music of this sort, where every note was, in fact, a sentiment or a sign from the human breast. How little did we expect it in this solitude, in the bosom of the desert, issuing, as it were, from mute stones, strewed about by the combined influence of earthquakes, barbarous ignorance, and time! A hallowed emotion inspired us, and we joined with religious fervour in the sacred hymn, until the last sighs of the pious voices had died away, and silence again reigned over the venerable ruins." We conclude with the words which Seller in his history of Palmyra adopts from Cicero: "Whenever we see such remains of venerable antiquity, such lasting records of the names and achievements of great persons, we are admonished to take care so to regulate our actions, that we may convince the world we have settled our prospect upon the rewards of future ages, and not on the flatteries of the present; and so remember, that monuments being erected to the memory of those who have lived well in this world before they left it, put us in mind, that there is nothing here permanent and immutable; and that it is the duty of considering man to aspire towards immortality[148]." NO. XIX.--BYZANTIUM. "On which side soever," says an elegant traveller, "you approach Constantinople, whether ascending by the Dardanelles and the sea of Marmora, or descending from the Black Sea by the Bosphorus; whether you arrive by crossing the plain of Thrace, or come in sight from the opposite hills of Asia, she presents herself, indeed, like 'the queen of cities.'" The history of this city being that of an empire, we shall confine ourselves to a few particulars, and then pass on to give some account of its monumental antiquities. We do this the more readily, since those antiquities are far from being of the first order. According to Ammianus, Byzantium was founded by the Athenians; according to Justin, by the Lacedæmonians; according to Paterculus, by the Milesians; according to others, by a colony of Megara, under the conduct of Byzas, 658 B.C. Byzantium received a great accession of inhabitants in consequence of a decree passed, in gratitude to the Athenians, for having compelled Philip of Macedon to raise the siege of their city[149]. In subsequent times Constantine the Great (from whom it was called Constantinople), seeing its proud situation, created it into a capital jointly with Rome; from which time the Roman empire was distinguished by the titles Eastern and Western. In this position it stood, till the city was sacked by the Turks under the guidance of Mahomet the Second. The manner in which the Turks first gained a footing in Europe is thus described in Bucke's Harmonies of Nature:--"Orcan having made himself master of the shore skirting the sea that separated Asia from Europe, his son Solyman resolved, if possible, to gain the castle of Hanni (Sestos), then considered the key of Europe: but the Turks had neither pilot, ships, nor boats. Solyman stood meditating on the beach, one fine moonlight night, for some time. He had come thither with about eighty followers on a hunting expedition. Beholding the towers of Hanni rising over the opposite shore, he resolved to secure them for his father and himself. He communicated his thoughts to his followers. Wondering at his resolution, they regarded him as frantic. He persisted;--and they made three rafts fastened on corks and bladders of oxen. When the party had finished their task, they committed themselves to the waters; and with poles instead of oars, succeeded in gaining the opposite shore: the moon shining brilliantly as they stepped off the rafts, almost immediately under the walls of Hanni. As they marched along the beach, they met a peasant going to his work, it being now morning. This man hated his prince; and being bribed by a sum of money, he told Solyman of a subterranean passage leading into the castle. The little band availed themselves of this information, and quietly entered the walls. There was no regular garrison, and the few inhabitants were still asleep. They fell an easy prey, therefore, to the adventurers. Having thus gained the first object of their enterprise, they assembled the pilots and vessel-owners of the town; and, offering them considerable sums of money, induced them to steer their vessels to the opposite shore. Some thousand men were then embarked, and in a few hours they were wafted under the castle walls. This was the first landing of the Turks in Europe: they ever after kept possession of this castle: ninety-six years after, they sacked the city of Constantinople." Mahomet II.[150], surnamed "the Great," was born at Adrianople in the year 1430, and was, in the thirteenth year of his age, called to the throne by the voluntary abdication of his father, Amurath II. On his accession, Mahomet renewed the peace with the Greek emperor Constantine, to whom he, at the same time, agreed to pay a pension for the expenses and safe custody of his uncle Orcan, who had, at a previous period, withdrawn to the court of Constantinople for safety. The carelessness of the sultan in the observance of this clause of the treaty excited the complaints of the emperor, with the imprudent threat that, unless the pension was regularly paid, he would no longer detain Orcan. This threat afforded the sultan a pretext for rekindling the war. Mahomet determined to complete the conquest of the feeble empire by the capture of Constantinople; and to terminate, by one terrible catastrophe, the strife of many ages between the Moslems and the Greeks. Every preliminary measure having been completed, Mahomet at length appeared before Constantinople, on the 2d of April, 1453, at the head of three hundred thousand men; supported by a formidable artillery, and by a fleet of three hundred and twenty sail, mostly store-ships and transports; but including eighteen galleys of war, while the besieged could not muster more than ten thousand effective soldiers for the defence. This vast disparity of force leaves little room for admiring the prowess and military skill of the victorious party. The besieged made, however, so obstinate a defence, under the brave emperor, Constantine Palæologus, that for fifty-three days all the efforts of the assailants were unavailing. The defenders of the city had drawn strong iron chains across the entrance of the port; and Mahomet saw, that unless he could get some of his vessels into the Golden Horn, his success was doubtful, and that, at best, the defence might be greatly protracted. He, therefore, contrived to conduct a part of his fleet, for ten miles, over the land on a sort of railway, from the Bosphorus into the harbour, and caused a floating battery to be constructed and occupied with cannon. This sealed the fate of the imperial city. On the day of the last assault, Mahomet said to his soldiers:--"I reserve to myself only the city; the gold and women are yours." The emperor (Constantine) accomplished all the duties of a general and a soldier. The nobles, who fought around his person, sustained, till their last breath, the honourable names of Palæologus and Cantacuzene. His mournful exclamation was heard--"Cannot there be found a Christian to cut off my head?" and his last fear was, lest he should fall alive into the hands of his enemies. He threw away his imperial dress, rushed into the thickest of the fight, fell by an unknown hand, and his body was buried under a mountain of the slain: nor was it afterwards recognised. The houses and convents were deserted; and the trembling inhabitants flocked together in the streets, like a herd of timid animals. From every part of the city they rushed into the church of St. Sophia. In the space of an hour the sanctuary, the choir, the nave, the upper and lower galleries, were filled with the multitude of fathers and husbands, of women and children, of priests, monks, and religious virgins; the doors were barred on the inside, and they sought protection from the sacred dome, which they had so lately abhorred as a profaned and polluted edifice. The doors were, soon after, broken with axes; and the Turks encountering no resistance, their bloodless hands were employed in selecting and securing the multitude of their prisoners. Youth, beauty, and the appearance of youth, attracted their choice. In the space of an hour, the male captives were bound with cords, the females with their veils and girdles. The senators were linked with their slaves; the prelates with the porters of their church; and young men of a plebeian class with noble maids, whose faces had been invisible to the sun and their nearest kindred. In this common captivity the ranks of society were confounded; the ties of nature were cut asunder; and the inexorable soldier was careless of the father's groan, the tears of the mother, and the lamentations of the children. The loudest in their wailings were the nuns, who were torn from the altars with naked bosoms, outstretched hands, and dishevelled hair. At a similar hour, a similar rapine was exercised in all the churches and monasteries; in all the palaces and habitations of the capital. The male captives were bound with cords, and the females with their veils and girdles, and driven, to the number of sixty thousand, from the city to the camp or fleet, where those, who could not obtain the means of purchasing their ransom, were exchanged, or sold, according to the caprice or interest of their masters. The disorder and rapine lasted till the sultan entered in triumph through the gate of St. Romanus. He was attended by his vizirs, his bashaws, and guards. As he rode along, he gazed with satisfaction and wonder on the strange, though splendid, appearance of the domes and palaces, so dissimilar to the style of oriental architecture. He proceeded to the church of St. Sophia; where, observing a soldier in the act of breaking up the marble pavement, he admonished him with his scymetar, that if the spoil and captives were granted to the soldiers, the public and private buildings had been reserved for the prince. From St. Sophia he proceeded to the august, but desolate, mansion of a hundred successors of the first Constantine; but which, in a few hours, had been stripped of the pomp of royalty. A melancholy reflection on the vicissitudes of human greatness forced itself upon his mind, and he repeated an elegant distich of Persian poetry:--"The spider has wove his web in the imperial palace; and the owl hath sung her watch-song on the towers of Afrasiel[151]." "The finest point from which Constantinople can be viewed," says M. de La Martine, "is from a belvidere, built by M. Truqui, on the terrace roof of his house. This belvidere commands the entire group of the hills of Pere-Galata, and the little hillocks which surround the port on the front side of the water. It is the eagle's flight over Constantinople and the sea. Europe, Asia, the entrance of the Bosphorus, and the sea of Marmora, are all under the eye at once. The city lies at the feet of the spectator. If (continues Mons. de La Martine) we were allowed to take only one point of the earth, this would be the one to choose. Whenever I ascend to the belvidere to enjoy this view (and I do so several times a day, and invariably every evening), I cannot conceive how, of the many travellers who have visited Constantinople, so few have felt the beauty which it presents to my eye and to my mind. Why has no one described it? Is it because words have neither space, horizon, nor colours, and that painting is only the language of the eye? But painting itself has never portrayed all that is here. The pictures, I have seen, are merely detached scenes, consisting of a few lines and colours without life: none convey any idea of the innumerable gradations of tint, varying with every change of the atmosphere, and every passing hour. The harmonious whole, and the colossal grandeur of these lines; the movements and the intertwinings of the different horizons; the moving sails, scattered over the three seas; the murmur of the busy population on the shores; the reports of the cannon on board the vessels, the flags waving from the mast-heads; the floating caiques; the vaporous reflection of domes, mosques, steeples, and minarets in the sea; all this has never been described;"--nor ever can be! The whole circuit of Constantinople, however, calculated at somewhat more than twelve miles, present, even to diligent research[152], very few remains of antiquity. The truth is, the Turks have availed themselves of the marbles and fragments of the Greeks in the construction of their own public edifices; and the antiquities of Constantinople are re-produced to the eye under entirely different forms and constructions, in the mosques and minarets, the fountains and cemeteries of the Osmandys. Many a beautiful work, of the ancient Greek chisel, has thus been embedded in a wall, or cut down and defaced to make a Turkish tombstone; and many an edifice, constructed in accordance with the pure styles of architecture, has been levelled and used as a quarry. But still, it must be confessed that some of the Turkish buildings, and more particularly some of the imperial mosques which have risen in their places, are distinguished by grandeur and beauty. Of these imperial mosques there are fourteen, each lofty, and magnificent in its general dimensions, and built from base to dome with excellent and enduring materials; chiefly of white marble, tinged with grey. Besides these, there are sixty ordinary mosques, varying in size and beauty, but all considerable edifices; and then two hundred and more inferior mosques and messdgids[153]. The walls of Byzantium[154] were built of large square stones, so joined as, apparently, to form one single block. They were much loftier on the land side than towards the water, being naturally defended by the waves, and in some places by the rocks they are built on, which project into the sea. They were of Cyclopian structure[155]; and of the workmanship, from what Herodian has said of them, the masonry was greatly superior to any of the workmanship now visible in the fortifications. It was surrounded by a wall, made of such immense quadrangular masses of stone, and so skilfully adjusted, that the marvellous masonry, instead of disclosing to view the separate parts of which it consisted, seemed like one entire mass. "The very ruins," says Herodian, "show the wonderful skill, not only of the persons who built it, but of those, also, by whom it was dismantled." The wall of Theodosius begins at the castle of Seven Towers, whence it traverses the whole western side of the city. This is the only part of the general wall of the city worth seeing. It is flanked into a double row of mural towers, and defended by a fosse about eight yards wide. The same promiscuous mixture of the works of ancient art--columns, inscriptions, bas-reliefs, &c.--seen in the walls of all the Greek cities, is here remarkably conspicuous. But the ivy-mantled towers, and the great height of this wall, added to its crumbling ruinous state, give it a picturesque appearance, exhibited by no other city in the Levant: it resembles a series of old ruined castles extending for five miles from sea to sea[156]. Of the eighteen gates, which once existed on the west side of the city, only seven now remain. The site of the two temples erected by Justinian, as _safeguards_ of the city, may still be ascertained by their vestiges; but these have almost disappeared. The walls, which are well built, are still standing, and consist of stone terraces from fifty to sixty feet high, and occasionally from fifteen to twenty feet thick, covered with freestone of a greyish-white colour; but sometimes of pure white, and seeming fresh from the chisel of the mason. At the feet of the walls are the ancient fosses filled with rubbish and luxuriant loam, in which trees and pellitories have taken root ages ago, and now form an impenetrable glacis. The summit of the wall is almost everywhere crowned with vegetation, which overhangs and forms a sort of coping, surmounted by capital and volute of climbing plants and ivy. These walls are so noble, that La Martine says that, next to the Parthenon and Balbec, they are the noblest existing memorials of ruined empires. "There is nothing either grand or beautiful in the remains of the brazen column, consisting of the bodies of three serpents twisted spirally together. It is about twelve feet in height, and being hollow, the Turks have filled it with broken tiles, stones, and other relics. But in the circumstances of its history, no critique of ancient times can be more interesting. For it once supported the golden tripod at Delphi, which the Greeks, after the battle of Platæa, found in camp of Mardonius[157]." Near the Valide is a COLUMN of PORPHYRY[158], generally supposed to have supported the statue of CONSTANTINE. It is composed of eight pieces, surrounded by as many wreaths or garlands of the same marble. Not long since it gained the name of Colonna Brugiata, or burned pillar, having been very much defaced by the many conflagrations to which this vast city has been subject. Near Mesmer-Kiosch[159] is a view of the summit of the Corinthian pillar of white marble, fifty feet high, in the gardens of the seraglio, with the inscription-- FORTUNÆ REDUCI OB DEVICTOS GOTHOS. This has been erroneously supposed the column of Theodora. Pococke mentions that it was taken from some other part of the town to the seraglio gardens. It is supported by a handsome capital of verd antique. This building[160], the mosque of St. Sophia (formerly of much larger extent), owes its foundation to the emperor Justinian, who lived also to see it finished, A.D. 557. It was dedicated by him to the wisdom of God. This fabric is entirely Gothic. "In the time of Procopius[161] its dome might have seemed suspended by a chain from heaven; but at present it exhibits much more of a subterranean than of an aerial character. The approach to the Pantheon at Rome, as well as to the spacious aisle and dome of St. Peter's, is by ascending; but in order to get beneath the dome of St. Sophia, the spectator is conducted down a flight of stairs. * * * The more we saw of the city, the more we had reason to be convinced that it remains as it was from its conquest by the Turks. The interior of St. Sophia manifestly proves the indisposition of the Turks towards the decoration of the buildings they found. * * * There is so much of littleness and bad taste in the patchwork of its interior decorations, and of confusion in the piles and buttresses about it, when viewed externally, that we hardly considered it more worth visiting than some other mosques, especially those of sultan Solyman and sultan Achmet." This is one of the largest edifices ever built for the purpose of Christian worship; but though built by Constantine, it is evident, from the barbarous style of art which pervades the mass of stone, that it is the production of a vitiated and declining age. It is a confused memorial of a taste which no longer exists. "In its present state," says La Martine, "St. Sophia resembles an immense caravansary of God; for there are the columns of the temple of Ephesus and the figures of the apostles, encircled with gilded glories, looking down upon the hanging lamps of the Iman." In the mosques, called Osmanic, are pillars of Egyptian granite, twenty-two feet high and three feet in diameter; and near it is the celebrated sarcophagus of red porphyry, called the _Tomb of Constantine_, nine feet long, seven feet wide, and five feet thick, of one entire mass. In the mosque of sultan Achmet are columns of verde antico, Egyptian granite, and white marble. Several antique vases of glass and earthenware are also there suspended, exactly as they were in the temples of the ancients with the votive offerings. Near the mosque of sultan Achmet[162], which is one of the finest buildings in Constantinople, stands the Hippodrome, called by the Turks Etmeidon, which is no other than a translation of the ancient name; it being made use of at present for exercising cavalry. It is a space of ground five hundred and seventy-four yards in length, and one hundred and twenty-four in breadth, and at one end are two obelisks, the one of granite fifty-eight feet high, on which are inscribed many Egyptian hieroglyphics. The pedestal is adorned with bas-relievos of but ordinary sculpture, representing different actions of the emperor Theodosius in relation to the races that were performed in the Hippodrome. In one place, particularly, he is to be seen crowning a figure who is supposed to be the person that had carried off the prize. The other obelisk is composed of several pieces of stone, and seems, by many cavities between the stones, to have been covered with brass plates; which, together with its height, must have rendered it superior to the former in magnificence. Between these obelisks is the Delphic pillar. The aqueduct of the Roman emperors still remains[163]. It was first erected by Hadrian: it was called by his name; subsequently it bore that of Valens, and of Theodosius. Being ruined by the Avans in the reign of Heraclius, it was repaired by one of the Constantines. In a later period Solyman, called the Magnificent, finding it gone to decay, caused it to be restored. It consists of a double line of arches, built with alternate layers of stone and brick. Within the walls of Constantinople[164] the Greek emperors had formed, by excavation, a number of immense cisterns, or reservoirs, which were always to be kept full, and which might supply the capital in case of siege. One of them, though no longer performing the office for which it was intended, is still one of the curiosities of Constantinople, to which all travellers are conducted. It is a vast subterranean edifice, whose roof is supported by an immense number of columns, each column being curiously formed of three pillars placed one on the top of the other. The Turks call it the place of the "thousand and one columns"--not that the columns are really so numerous--but because it is the favourite number of the oriental nations. Though the earth has, in part, filled it up, it is still of great depth. The whole cavity, according to Dr. Walsh, is capable of containing 1,237,939 cubit feet of water when full. It is now, however, dry; and a number of silk-twisters have taken possession of it, and ply their trade at the bottom in almost utter darkness. There is another, also, which still exists as a cistern; which Dr. Walsh, who first gave us any account of it, describes as being a subterraneous lake, extending under several streets, with an arched roof that covers and conceals it, supported on three hundred and thirty-six magnificent pillars. Some remains of a large antique structure are seen on the side of the Hippodrome; and it has been conjectured that this was the palace of the emperors; others suppose it to have been part of the Basilica, the form of which Gyllius believes to have been quadrangular; in opposition to those who had described it as an octagon. The Basilica was a college for the instruction of youth. In the reign of Basilicus there happened a great fire, and which consuming whole streets, with many stately edifices, wholly destroyed the Basilica, together with its library, containing six hundred thousand volumes. Amongst these curiosities there was a MS. of the Iliad and Odyssey, written in letters of gold; upon a serpents gut, one hundred and twenty feet in length. Wheler says that the Seven Towers do not look strong enough for a castle; but sufficiently so for a prison; which was the employment to which it was put for great men, or great malefactors, like the Tower of London. He was not permitted to enter into it; but he observed that one of the gateways was adorned with bassi-relievi, or oblong tablets of white marble. One of these represented the fall of Phaeton; another Hercules fighting with a bull; another Hercules combating with Cerberus; and another, Venus coming to Adonis during the time in which he is sleeping. The appearance of these walls, says Hobhouse, (the work of the second Theodosius), is more venerable than any other Byzantine antiquity; their triple ranges rise one above the other in most places nearly entire, and still retaining their ancient battlements and towers, which are shaded with large trees, which spring from the fosse, and through the rents of repeated earthquakes. The intervals between the triple walls, which are eighteen feet wide, are in many places choked up with earth and masses of the fallen rampart; and the fosse, of twenty-five feet in breadth, is cultivated and converted into gardens and cherry orchards, with here and there a solitary cottage. Such is the height of the walls, that to those following the road under them on the outside, none of the mosques or other buildings of the capital, except the towers of Tekkun-Sana, are visible; and as there are no suburbs, this line of majestic ramparts, defenceless and trembling with age, might impress upon the mind the notion, that the Ottomans had not deigned to inhabit the conquered city, but, carrying away its people into distant captivity, had left it an unresisting prey to the desolations of time. The Seven Towers reminded La Martine of the death of the first sultan, who was immolated by the Janissaries. Othman was allured by them into the castle, and perished two days afterwards by the hand of the vizir Daoud. Shortly after, the vizir himself was conducted to the Seven Towers. His turban was torn off his head; he was made to drink at the same fountain where the unfortunate Othman had slaked his thirst; and he was strangled in the same chamber in which he had strangled his master. "I have seen the ruins of Athens, of Ephesus, and Delphi," says Lord Byron; "I have traversed great part of Turkey; and many other parts of Europe, and some of Asia; but I never beheld a work of nature or art, which yielded an impression like the prospect, on each side, from the Seven Towers to the Golden Horn." NO. XX.--CAIRO (OLD). This city is said, by some, to have been founded by Semiramis, when she invaded Egypt; others suppose it to have been erected by the Persians under Cambyses in the place where Latopolis formerly stood. Strabo, however, asserts, that it was built by some barbarians who had retired thither by permission of their sovereign; and that in his time the Romans kept in garrison there one of the three legions that were kept in Egypt. It is now called Fostat, and is situate between Grand Cairo and the Nile. It succeeded Memphis as the capital of Egypt; the history, therefore, of this place merges in the general one of Egypt. According to Elmanim in his history of the Arabs, Amrou, son of Eleas, built Masr Fostat on the spot where he had formed his camp previously to his besieging Alexandria. The governors sent by the caliphs afterwards made it their place of residence. The situation on the banks of the Nile, and near to land that communicated with the Red Sea, soon made it very flourishing. It was about two leagues in circumference, when, five hundred years after its foundation, it was delivered up by Schaonar, king of Egypt, in order to prevent its falling under the French (during the crusades), who set fire to it. The conflagration lasted fifty-four days. The unfortunate inhabitants quitted the ashes, and took refuge in New Cairo, which then assumed the name of Masr, and the former one of Fostat was lost. Its environs are now scattered over with ruins, which indicate its ancient extent; and which, were history defective, would sufficiently attest it to be comparatively modern. They want the majestic character the Egyptians gave to their edifices, and the impression of which time cannot efface. Neither sphynx, column, nor obelisk, can be found among those heaps of rubbish. At this place, however, are still to be seen Joseph's granaries; if this appellation may be given to a large space of ground, surrounded by walls twenty feet high, and divided into courts, without any roof or covering. But the only things worth seeing in the ancient Cairo are the castle, and the aqueduct that conveys the water of the Nile into the castle. It is supported by three hundred and fifty narrow and very lofty arcades. These are thus described by Rollin:--The castle of Cairo is one of the greatest curiosities in Egypt. It stands on the hill without the city, has a rock for its foundation, and is surrounded with walls of a vast height and solidity. You go up to the castle by a way hewn out of the rock, and which is of so easy ascent, that loaded horses and camels get up without difficulty. The greatest rarity in this castle is Joseph's Well; so called, either because the Egyptians are pleased with ascribing their most remarkable particulars to that great man, or because there is really such a tradition in the country. This is a proof, at least, that the work in question is very ancient; and it is certainly worthy the magnificence of the most powerful kings of Egypt. This well has, as it were, two stories, cut out of a rock to a prodigious depth. One descends to the reservoir of water between the two wells by a staircase seven or eight feet broad, consisting of two hundred and twenty steps, and so contrived, that the oxen employed to throw up the water, go down with all imaginable ease; the descent being scarcely perceptible. The well is supplied by a spring, which is almost the only one in the whole country. The oxen are continually turning a wheel with a rope, to which buckets are fastened. The water thus drawn from the first and lowermost well is conveyed by a little canal into a reservoir which forms the second well, from whence it is drawn to the top in the same manner, and then conveyed by pipes to all parts of the castle. The remains of Egyptian Babylon merit attention, says Mr. Wilkinson; and, among other objects shown by the monks, who live there, is a chamber of the Virgin, the traditions concerning which have been treated by the credulous with the same pious feelings as the tree at Heliopolis. The station of Babylon is evidently of Roman construction, and probably the same that is mentioned by Strabo, in which one of the three Roman legions was quartered. It formed part of the town of Fostat, built by Amer, near the ruins of Babylon, and the mosque, called after him, marks the spot of his encampment, which subsequently became the centre of the city he had founded. The exterior of the Roman station still reminds us of its former strength, which defied the attacks of the Arab invaders for seven months, and its solid walls still contain a village of Christian inhabitants. Over the triangular pediment of the doorway, which is on the south side, appears to have been an inscription, long since removed; and in an upper chamber above one of the bastions of this now-closed entrance, is an old Christian record, sculptured on wood, of the time of Dioclesian, which is curious from its material and the state of its preservation. Near Cairo are some ancient catacombs. These are situated beneath a mound in the middle of a plain, adjoining the pyramids of Saccara, which lies beneath the sandy surface. Dr. Clarke ascended into them by means of a rope-ladder. "The first chamber he entered contained scattered fragments of mummies, which had originally been placed on a shelf cut out of the rock, and extending breast-high the whole length of this apartment: there are two tiers or stories of these chambers, one above the other, all presenting the same appearance of violation and disorder, and smelling very offensively. At some distance from these, which were apparently appropriated to man, are those in which the sacred birds and animals were deposited; one apartment of which Dr. Clarke found filled with earthen jars entire, laid horizontally in tiers on one another, something like bottles in a wine-bin. They were about fourteen inches long, and conical in form, the cover being fixed on by some kind of cement; when opened, they were found to contain the bodies of birds (the ibis), with white feathers tipped with black, or the heads of monkeys, cats, and other animals, all carefully bandaged up in linen. Old Cairo sustained all the evils of a great famine in the year of Christ 597. We adopt the account given of this calamity from the Encyclopædia Londinensis:--"Of the number of poor who perished with hunger," says Abtollatiph, "it is impossible to form any probable estimate; but I will give the reader some information on this subject, whence he may form a faint idea of the mortality with which Egypt was then afflicted. In Mesr, and Cairo, and their confines, wherever a person turned he could not avoid stumbling over some starved object, either already dead, or in the agonies of death." From Cairo alone nearly five hundred were daily carried out to the burying-ground; and so great was the mortality in Mesr, that the dead were thrown out without the walls, where they remained unburied. But afterwards, when the survivors were no longer able to throw out the dead bodies, they were left wherever they expired, in the houses, shops, or streets. The limbs of the dead were even cut in pieces, and used for food; and instead of receiving the last offices from their friends, and being decently interred, their remains were attended by persons who were employed in roasting or baking them. In all the distant provinces and towns the inhabitants became entirely extinct, except in the principal cities, and some of the large towns, such as Kous Ashmunein, Mahalla, &c., and even there but a few survived. In those days a traveller might pass through a city without finding in it one human creature alive. He saw the houses open, and the inhabitants dead on their faces, some grown putrid, and others who had recently expired. If he entered into the houses, he found them full of goods, but no one to make use of them; and he saw nothing wherever he turned, but a dreadful solitude, and a universal desolation. This account rests not on the information and authority of a single person, but of many, whose several assertions mutually confirmed each other. One of these gave information in the following words:--"We entered a city, where no living creature was to be found; we went into the houses, and there we saw the inhabitants prostrate and dead, all lying in a wretched group on the ground,--the husband, the wife, and the children. Hence we passed into another city, which contained, as we had heard, four hundred shops of weavers: it was now a desert like the former,--the artificer had expired in his shop, and his family lay dead around him. A third city, which we afterwards visited, appeared like the former,--a scene of death and desolation. Being obliged to reside in this place for some time, for the purpose of agriculture, we ordered persons to throw the bodies of the dead into the hole at the rate of ten for a diakem. Wolves and hyenas resorted here in great numbers to feed on the corpses[166]." NO. XXI.--CANNÆ. Cannæ is a small village of Apulia, near the Aufidus, famous for a battle between Hannibal and the Romans; and as the spot where the battle was fought is still pointed out by the inhabitants, and is still denominated "the field of blood," we shall refresh the memories of our readers with an account of it. Both armies having often removed from place to place, came in sight of each other near Cannæ. As Hannibal was encamped in a level open country, and his cavalry much superior to that of the Romans, Æmilius did not think proper to engage in such a place. He was for drawing the enemy into an irregular spot, where the infantry might have the greatest share of the action. But his colleague, who was wholly inexperienced, was of a contrary opinion. The troops on each side were, for some time, contented with skirmishes; but, at last, one day when Varro had the command, for the two consuls took it by turns, preparations were made on both sides for battle. Æmilius had not been consulted; yet, though he extremely disapproved the conduct of his colleague, as it was not in his power to prevent it, he seconded him to the utmost. The two armies were very unequal in numbers. That of the Romans, including the allies, amounted to eighty thousand foot, and about six thousand horse; and that of the Carthaginians consisted but of forty thousand foot, all well disciplined, and of ten thousand horse. Æmilius commanded the right wing of the Romans; Varro the left; and Servilius was posted in the centre. Hannibal, who had the art of taking all advantages, had posted himself so as the south wind should blow directly in the faces of the Romans during the fight[167], and cover them with dust. Then keeping the river Aufidus on his left, and posting his cavalry on the wings, he formed his main body of the Spanish and Gallic infantry, which he posted in the centre, with half the African heavy armed foot on the right, and half on their left, on the same line with the cavalry. His army being thus drawn up, he put himself at the head of the Spanish and Gallic infantry, and having drawn themselves out in a line, advanced to begin the battle, rounding his front as he advanced near the enemy. The fight soon began, and the Roman legions that were in the wings, seeing their centre firmly attacked, advanced to charge the enemy in flank. Hannibal's main body, after a brave resistance, finding themselves furiously attacked on all sides, gave way, being overpowered in numbers. The Romans having pursued them with eager confusion, the two wings of the African infantry, which was fresh, well armed, and in good order, wheeled about on a sudden towards that void space in which the Romans had thrown themselves in disorder, and attacked them vigorously on both sides without allowing them time to recover themselves, or leaving them ground to draw up. In the mean time, the two wings of the cavalry having defeated those of the Romans, which were much inferior to them, advanced and charged the rest of the Roman infantry, which being surrounded at once on every side by the enemy's horse and foot, was all cut to pieces, after having fought with great bravery. Æmilius being covered with wounds, he received in the fight, was afterwards killed by a body of the enemy to whom he was not known. Above seventy thousand men fell in this battle; and the Carthaginians, so great was their fury, did not give over the slaughter till Hannibal, in the very heat of it, cried out to them several times, "Stop, soldiers, spare the vanquished." Ten thousand men, who had been left to guard the camps, surrendered themselves prisoners of war after the battle. Varro, the consul, retired to Venusia with only seventy horse; and about four thousand men escaped into the neighbouring cities. Hannibal remained master of the field, he being chiefly indebted for this, as well as for his former victories, to the superiority of his cavalry over the Romans. Maherbal, one of the Carthaginian generals, advised Hannibal to march directly to Rome, promising him that within five days they should sup in the capital. Hannibal, answering, that it was an affair that required mature examination--"I see," replies Maherbal, "that the gods have not endowed the same men with all talents. You, Hannibal, know how to conquer, but not to make the best use of a victory." It is pretended that this delay saved Rome and the empire. Many authors, and among the rest Livy, charge Hannibal on this occasion as if guilty of a capital error. But others, more reserved, are not for condemning without evident proofs, so renowned a general, who, in the rest of his conduct, was never wanting either in prudence to make choice of the best expedient, or in readiness to put his designs in execution. They, besides, are inclined to judge favourably of him from the authority, or, at least, the silence of Polybius, who, speaking of the memorable consequences of this celebrated battle, says, "That the Carthaginians were firmly persuaded, that they should possess themselves of Rome at the first assault:" but then he does not mention how this could possibly have been effected; as that city was very populous, warlike, strongly fortified, and defended with a garrison of two legions; nor does he anywhere give the least hint that such a project was feasible, or that Hannibal did wrong, in not attempting to put it in execution. Soon after the battle of Cannæ, Hannibal despatched his brother to Carthage with the news of his victory; and at the same time to demand succours, in order that he might be enabled to put an end to the war. Mago being arrived, made, in full senate, a lofty speech, in which he extolled his brother's exploits, and displayed the great advantages he had gained over the Romans. And to give a more lively idea of the greatness of the victory, by speaking in some measure to the eye, he poured out in the middle of the senate a bushel of gold rings which had been taken from such of the Roman nobility as had fallen in the battle. A ridge of low hills[168], bare of wood, and laid out in grass or corn land, confines the river for four miles, at the end of which, bounded by knolls, stood the city of Cannæ. The traces of the town, however, are very faint, consisting of fragments of altars, cornices, gates, walls, vaults, and under-ground granaries. "My eyes ranged at large over the vast expanse of unvariegated plains," says Mr. Swinburne: "all was silent; not a man, not an animal, appeared to enliven the scene. We stood on ruins and over vaults; the banks of the river were desert and wild. My thoughts naturally assumed the tint of the dreary prospect, as I reflected on the fate of Carthage and of Rome. Rome recovered from the blow she received in these fields; but her liberty, her fame, and trophies, have long been levelled in the dust. Carthage lies in ruins less discernible than those of the paltry walls of Cannæ; the very traces of them have almost vanished from the face of the earth. The daring projects, marches, and exploits of her hero, even the victory, obtained upon this spot, would, like thousands of other human achievements, have been long buried in oblivion, had not his very enemies consigned him to immortality; for the annals of Carthage exist no more." The peasants showed Mr. Swinburne some spurs and heads of lances, which had been turned up by the plough a short time before he visited the spot, and told him, that horse-loads of armour and weapons had been found and carried away at different times[169]. NO. XXII.--CAPUA. Capua, once the chief city of Campania, was founded by Capys, who is described as having been the father, or rather the companion, of Anchises. It was at one time so opulent, that it was called "the other Rome." Perhaps our readers will have no objection to have their memories refreshed by an allusion to the mistake, committed at this place by Hannibal. The details of it will give some variety to our page. It is thus related by Rollin, from the luminous page of Livy:--"The battle of Cannæ subjected the most powerful nations of Italy to Hannibal, drew over to his interest Græcia Magna; also wrested from the Romans their most ancient allies, amongst whom the Capuans held the first rank. This city, by the fertility of its soil, its advantageous situation, and the blessings of a long peace, had risen to great wealth and power. Luxury, and a flow of pleasures, the usual attendants on wealth, had corrupted the minds of all the citizens, who, from their natural inclination, were but too much addicted to voluptuousness and all excesses. Hannibal made choice of this city for his winter-quarters. There it was that his soldiers, who had sustained the most grievous toils, and braved the most formidable dangers, were overthrown by delights and a profusion of all things, into which they plunged with the greater eagerness as they, till then, had been entire strangers to them. Their courage was so enervated in this bewitching retirement, that all their after-efforts were owing rather to the fame and splendour of their former victories than to their present strength. When Hannibal marched his forces out of the city, one would have taken them for other men, and the reverse of those who had so lately marched into it. Accustomed, during the winter season, to commodious lodgings, to ease and plenty, they were no longer able to bear hunger, thirst, long marches, watchings, and the other toils of war; not to mention that all obedience, all discipline, were laid aside." Livy thinks that Hannibal's stay at Capua is a reproach to his conduct; and pretends that he there was guilty of an infinitely greater error than when he neglected to march directly to Rome after the battle of Cannæ:--"For this delay," says Livy, "might seem only to have retarded his victory; whereas this last misconduct rendered him absolutely incapable of ever defeating the enemy. In a word, as Marcellus observed judiciously afterwards, Capua was to the Carthaginians and their general, what Cannæ had been to the Romans. There their martial genius, their love of discipline, were lost; there their former fame, and their almost certain hopes of future glory, vanished at once, and, indeed, from thenceforth, the affairs of Hannibal advanced to their decline by swift steps; fortune declared in favour of prudence, and victory seemed now reconciled to the Romans." It is doubted, however, whether Livy has reason to impute all these fatal consequences to the agreeable abode at Capua. It might, indeed, have been one cause, but this would be a very inconsiderable one; and the bravery with which the forces of Hannibal afterwards defeated the armies of consuls and prætors; the towns they took even in sight of the Romans; their maintaining their conquests so vigorously, and staying fourteen years after this in Italy in spite of the Romans; all these circumstances may induce us to believe that Livy lays too much stress on the delights of Capua. In fact, the chief cause of the decay of Hannibal's affairs was his want of necessary supplies and succours from Carthage. The revolt of Capua to the Carthaginians proved its ruin; for when taken by the consuls Fulvius and Claudius, it was punished for its perfidy. Genseric, the Vandal, however, was more cruel than the Romans had been; for he massacred the inhabitants and burned the town to the ground. Narses rebuilt it; but in 841 it was totally destroyed by an army of Saracens, and the inhabitants driven to the mountains[170]. Some time after the retreat of these savage invaders, the Lombards ventured down again into the plain; but not deeming their force adequate to the defence of so great a circuit as the large city, they built themselves a smaller one on the river, and called it Capua. In 1501 this new city was taken by storm by the French, who, according to Guicciardini and Giannone, committed the most flagitious acts of rapine, lust, and enormity. "The amphitheatre of Old Capua," says Mr. Forsyth, "recals to us the sublime image of Spartacus. It resembles the Coliseum in its form and in its fate. Both were raised on magnificent designs--negligently executed. Both have suffered from barbarians and from modern builders; but the solitude of the Campanian ruin has exposed it to greater dilapidation than the Roman has yet undergone. Part of its materials has emigrated to modern Capua; a part is buried in its own arena. The first order of columns is half interred; the second has none entire." Though much defaced by the loss of its marble[171], this structure offers many ornaments peculiar to itself. It is considerably smaller than the Flavian amphitheatre at Rome; but worthy of the first among the second cities of the empire: the monuments still to be seen on the spot are certainly of a date long posterior to Capua's independence, and even to that of Roman liberty. The lower order of the amphitheatre is Tuscan; the second Doric. What the upper ones were cannot be ascertained: on the keystone of each arcade was the bust of a deity of a colossal size and coarse execution, much too massive for the rest of the work. It had four entrances, and was built of brick, faced with stone or marble. The little value set upon brick has preserved it; while the other materials have been torn down to mend roads and build cottages. "From Caserta," says Mr. Forsyth, "it is but half an hour's ride to the remains of ancient Capua[172]. Some tombs on the road, though ruined and encumbered with bushes, display a variety of sepulchral forms, unknown during the Roman republic. Most of the Campanian tombs, anterior to Cæsar, had been demolished by his soldiers, while searching for painted vases; for Capua, though late in learning the ceramic art, was more productive than the rest of Campania." Vases have lately been discovered here in great variety, and antiquaries find out purposes for them all; either in the form, or the size, or the painting, or their own imagination[173]. NO. XXIII.--CARTHAGE. Carthage was founded by the Tyrians about the year of the world 3158, and 846 before Christ; that is, at the period in which Joash was king of Judah. Its empire lasted about seven hundred years. The Carthaginians were indebted to the Tyrians not only for their origin, but their manners, customs, laws, religion, and their general application to commerce. They spoke the same language with the Tyrians, and these the same with the Canaanites and Israelites; that is, the Hebrew; or at least a language entirely derived from it. The strict union, which always subsisted between the Phoenicians and Carthaginians, is remarkable. When Cambyses had resolved to make war upon the latter, the Phoenicians, who formed the chief strength of his fleet, told him plainly, that they could not serve him against their countrymen: and this declaration obliged that prince to lay aside his design. The Carthaginians, on their side, were never forgetful of the country from whence they came, and to which they owed their origin. They sent regularly every year to Tyre a ship freighted with presents, as a quit-rent or acknowledgment, paid to their ancient country; and its tutelar gods had an annual sacrifice offered to them by the Carthaginians, who considered them as their protectors. They never failed to send thither the first fruits of their revenues, nor the tithe of the spoils taken from their enemies, or offerings to Hercules, one of the principal gods of Tyre and Carthage. The foundation of Carthage is ascribed to Elisa, a Tyrian princess, better known by the name of Dido. She married her relation, whose name was Sichæus. Her brother was Pigmalion, king of Tyre. Sichæus being extremely rich, Pigmalion put him to death in order to seize upon his wealth; but the plan did not succeed; for Dido managed to elude his avarice, by withdrawing from the city with all her husband's possessions. Taking all these out to sea, she wandered about for some time; till, coming to the gulf, on the borders of which Utica stood, about fifteen miles from Tunis, then but too well known for its corsairs, she landed for the purpose of considering what plan it would be proper to pursue. Invited by the hope of profit, the people of the neighbouring country soon began to frequent the new settlement; and those brought others from more distant parts, and the town soon began to wear an air of importance. Utica having also been raised by a colony from Tyre, its inhabitants entered into friendship with the new comers. They deputed envoys with considerable presents and exhorted them to build a city. This exhortation was seconded by the natives of the country. All things conspiring to so great an object, Dido immediately entered into a treaty with the natives for a certain portion of land, and having agreed to pay an annual tribute to the Africans for the ground on which the town was to stand, she built that celebrated city, so universally known, and gave it the name of Carthada, or Carthage, a word signifying the "New City[174]." Dido was soon sought in marriage by the king of Getulia, named Iarbus. Having determined on never marrying again, out of compliment to her lost husband, Sichæus, she desired time for consideration. We must now follow the true history, and neglect the false one; that is, we must follow Justin, and altogether disregard Virgil; since, to answer the purposes of his poem, as well as those of a political nature, he has fixed the building of Carthage no less than three hundred years before the period in which it actually occurred. Justin's account is this[175]:--"Iarbus, king of the Mauritanians, sending for ten of the principal Carthaginians, demanded Dido in marriage, threatening to declare war against her in case of refusal. The ambassadors, being afraid to deliver the message of Iarbus, told her, with punic honesty, that he wanted to have some person sent him, who was capable of civilizing and polishing himself and his Africans; but there was no possibility of finding any Carthaginian, who would be willing to quit his native place and kindred, for the conversation of barbarians, who were as savage as the wildest beasts. Here the queen, with indignation, interrupted them, asking if they were not ashamed to refuse living in any manner which might be beneficial to their country, to which they owed their lives. They then delivered the king's message, and bade her set them a pattern, and sacrifice herself to her country's welfare. Dido, being thus ensnared, called on Sichæus, with tears and lamentations, and answered that she would go where the fate of her city called her. At the expiration of three months she ascended the fatal pile, and with her last breath told the spectators, that she was going to her husband, as they had ordered her." The first war made by the Carthaginians was against the Africans, in order to free themselves from the tribute they had engaged to pay. In this, however, they were foiled. They afterwards carried their arms against the Moors and Numidians, and won conquest from both. They had then a dispute with Cyrene, on account of their respective limits. This quarrel was settled without much trouble. They soon after conquered Sardinia, Majorca, and Minorca. Then they added many cities in Spain to their conquests; though it is not known at what period they entered that country, nor how far they extended their conquests. Their conquests were slow at the first; but in the process of time, they subjugated nearly the whole country. They became soon after masters of nearly all Sicily. This excited the jealousy of the Romans; and Sicily became an arena for the trial of their respective strength. "What a fine field of battle," said Pyrrhus, as he left that island, "do we leave the Carthaginians and Romans!" The wars between Rome and Carthage were three, and they are called, in the history of the former city, "Punic" wars. The first lasted twenty-four years; then there was an interval of peace, but that expired at the end of twenty-four years more. The second Punic war took up seventeen years; and then ensued another interval of forty-nine years; followed by the third Punic war, which terminated, after a contest of four years and some months, in the total destruction of Carthage. The first was terminated in a treaty to the following effect[176], that "there shall be peace between the Carthaginians and Romans, on the following conditions:--The Carthaginians shall evacuate all Sicily; shall no longer make war against the Syracusans or their allies; shall restore to the Romans, without ransom, all the prisoners whom they shall have taken from them; pay one thousand talents of silver immediately; and two thousand two hundred talents of silver within the space of ten years; and, also, depart out of all the islands situated between Italy and Sicily." Sardinia was not comprehended in this treaty; but they gave it up in a treaty some years after. This was the longest war that had then been known in any country; it having lasted four-and-twenty years. "The obstinacy in disputing for empire," says the historian, "was equal on both sides; the same resolution, the same greatness of soul, in forming as well as in executing of projects being equal on both sides. The Carthaginians had the superiority over the Romans, with regard to naval affairs; the strength and swiftness of their vessels; the working of them; the skill and capacity of their pilots; the knowledge of coasts, shallows, roads and winds; and in the inexhaustible fund of wealth which furnished all the expenses of so long and obstinate a war. The qualities and capabilities of the Romans were of a different character. They had none of the advantages above stated; but their courage, and regard for the public good, are said to have supplied all of them; and their soldiers were greatly superior to those of Carthage, not only in skill but in courage. The Carthaginians had scarcely closed the war with the Romans, than they were engaged in another against the mercenaries who had served under them in Sicily. This was a short but a very sanguinary war. These mercenaries being returned to the neighbourhood of Carthage, were unjustly treated, in not being paid the wages they had earned by the assistance they had given. Complaints, seditious and insolent murmurs, were heard on every side. These troops being composed of different nations, who were strangers to one another's language, were incapable of hearing reason when they once mutinied. They consisted of Gauls, Ligurians, Spaniards, and natives of the Balearic islands; a great number of Greek slaves and deserters; and a large number of Africans. These troops having been trifled with by the Carthaginian government, the members of which attempted to defraud them of no small share of what they had earned, broke out into ungovernable fury, and being twenty thousand strong, marched towards Carthage, and encamped at Tunis, a city not far from the metropolis. The insurgents now began to act the part their employers had set them the example of. They rose in their demands far above what was due to them; and the Carthaginians at length saw the error of having given way to a dishonest policy. The points at issue, however, were at last, in a great measure, arranged, when two soldiers among the mercenaries found means to raise the whole of their comrades into mutiny, and engaged several cities to take up their cause. Their army amounted, after a while, to seventy thousand men. Carthage had never been in such urgent danger before. The command of the army was given to Hanno. Troops were levied by land and sea; horse as well as foot. All the citizens capable of bearing arms were mustered; all their ships were refitted; and mercenaries were enlisted from all parts. On the other hand, the insurgents harassed them with perpetual alarms, advancing to their walls by night as well as by day. When the mercenaries, who had been left in Sardinia, heard of what their comrades had effected in Africa, they shook off their yoke in imitation, murdered the general who commanded them, and all the Carthaginians who served under him; and a successor, who was sent from Carthage, also the forces which had accompanied him, went over to the rebels. They hung the new general on a cross, and put all the Carthaginians then in Sardinia to the sword, after making them suffer inexpressible torments. They then besieged all the cities one after another, and soon got possession of the whole country. When they had effected this, they quarrelled among themselves; and the natives taking advantage of that, became soon enabled to drive them out of the island. They took refuge in Italy, where, after some scruples on the part of the Romans, they induced that people to sail over to Sardinia, and render themselves masters of it. When the Carthaginians heard of this, they were highly indignant; and the matter terminated, at length, in what is called the Second Punic war. This war had many remote causes besides the one we have just stated: but for these, as well as its astonishing variety of incidents and fortunes, we must refer to the various histories of the two states. We can only state the issue. We cannot, however, deny ourselves the satisfaction of quoting what Rollin says with regard to the general subject:--"Whether we consider the boldness of the enterprises; the wisdom employed in the execution; the obstinate efforts of the two rival nations, and the ready resources they found in their lowest ebb of fortune; the variety of uncommon events, and the uncertain issue of so long and bloody a war; or, lastly, the assemblage of the most perfect models in every kind of merit; we cannot but consider them as the most instructive lessons that occur in history, either with regard to war, policy, or government. Neither did two more powerful, or, at least, more warlike states or nations make war against each other; and never had those in question seen themselves raised to a more exalted pitch of power and glory." Though, as we have already hinted, there were many remote causes for this war, the more immediate one was the taking of Saguntum by the Carthaginian general, Hannibal. We shall speak of the fall of this city when we come to describe its ruins, which still remain. Words, we are told, could never express the grief and consternation with which the news of the taking of Saguntum was received at Rome. The senate sent immediately deputies to Carthage to inquire whether Saguntum had been besieged by order of the republic; and, if so, to declare war: or, in case the siege had been undertaken solely by the authority of Hannibal, that he should be delivered up to the Romans. The senate not giving any answer to this demand, one of the deputies took up the folded lappet of his robe, and said in a proud voice, "I bring here either peace or war; the choice is left to yourselves." To this the senate answered, "We leave the choice to you." The deputy then declared, "I give you war then." "And we," answered the senate, "as heartily accept it; and we are resolved to prosecute it with the same cheerfulness." Such was the beginning of the second Punic war. During this war Hannibal made his celebrated march over the Alps. He entered Italy, and fought the battles of Ticinus, Trebia, Thrasymene, and Cannæ. He besieged Capua, and then Rome. In the mean time Scipio conquers all Spain; and having been appointed consul, he sets sail for Africa, and carries the war into the bosom of the Carthaginian state. Success attended him every where. When the council of "one hundred" found this, they deputed thirty of their body to the tent of the Roman general, when they all threw themselves prostrate upon the earth, such being the custom of the country, spoke to him in terms of great submission, and accused Hannibal of being the author of all their calamities, and promised, in the name of the senate, implicit obedience to whatever the Romans should be pleased to ordain. Scipio answered, that though he was come into Africa for conquest, and not for peace, he would, nevertheless, grant them one, upon condition, that they should deliver up all the Roman prisoners and deserters; that they should recal their armies out of Gaul and Italy; that they should never set foot again in Spain; that they should retire out of all the islands between Italy and Africa; that they should deliver up all their ships except twenty; give the Romans five hundred thousand bushels of wheat; three hundred thousand of barley; and, moreover, pay to the Romans fifteen thousand talents. These terms the Carthaginians consented to; but their compliance was only in appearance: their design being to gain time to recal Hannibal. That general was then in Italy. Rome was almost within his grasp. He had, perhaps, seized it, had he marched thither immediately on gaining the battle of Cannæ. The order to return home overwhelmed him with indignation and sorrow. "Never banished man," says Livy, "showed so much regret at leaving his native country as Hannibal did in going out of that of an enemy." He was exasperated almost to madness to see himself thus forced to quit his prey. Arriving in his own country--for we must hasten our narrative--that celebrated meeting between the two generals at Zama took place, which makes so conspicuous a figure in Roman and Carthaginian history. The issue of this meeting was a battle, in which the Carthaginians, after an obstinate engagement, took to flight, leaving ten thousand men on the field of battle. Hannibal escaped in the tumult, and entering Carthage, owned that he was overthrown; that the disaster was irrecoverable; and that the citizens had no other choice left but to accept whatever terms the conqueror chose to impose. After some difficulty and opposition in the Carthaginian senate, peace was agreed upon. The terms were exceedingly hard. They were these:--that the Carthaginians should continue free and preserve their laws, territories, and the cities they possessed in Africa during the war. That they should deliver up to the Romans all deserters, slaves, and captives belonging to them; all their ships, except ten triremes; all their tame elephants; and that they should not train up any more for war. That they should not make war out of Africa, nor even in that country, without obtaining leave for that purpose of the Roman people; should restore to Masinissa all they had dispossessed either him or his ancestors of; should furnish money and corn to the Roman auxiliaries, till their ambassadors should be returned from Rome; should pay to the Romans ten thousand Euboic talents[177] of silver in fifty annual payments, and give one hundred hostages, who should be nominated by Scipio. These were hard terms indeed; and when Scipio burnt all the ships, to the amount of five hundred in the harbour of Carthage, these ships which had been the cause of all the power of Carthage, Carthage appeared to its inhabitants as if it never could recover; nor, indeed, did it ever do so. The blow was fatal. This war lasted seventeen years: the peace which succeeded, fifty[178]. Twenty-five years after it was concluded, Hannibal poisoned himself at the court of Prusias. We must now pass to the war, which soon after occurred between the Carthaginians and Masinissa, king of Numidia. In this war the Carthaginians were, in the end, worsted. Scipio the younger, who afterwards destroyed Carthage, was present at the battle. He had been sent by Lucullus, who commanded in Spain, to Masinissa to desire some elephants. During the whole engagement, he is represented as standing upon a neighbouring hill; and was greatly surprised to see Masinissa, then eighty-eight years of age, mounted, agreeably to the custom of his country, on a horse without a saddle, flying from rank to rank like a young officer, and sustaining the most arduous toils. The fight was very obstinate, and continued all day; but at last the Carthaginians gave way, and Masinissa afterwards turned their camp into a blockade, so that no provisions could reach them. A famine ensued, and then the plague. They were, in consequence, reduced to agreeing to the king's terms, which were no other than these:--to deliver up all deserters; to pay five thousands talents of silver in fifty years, and restore all exiles. They were, also, made to suffer the ignominy of passing under the yoke; and dismissed with only one suit of clothes for each. Nor did their misfortunes terminate here. Gulussa, the son of Masinissa, whom the Carthaginians had treated in a disrespectful manner, intercepted them with a body of cavalry. They could neither resist nor escape. The consequence of which was, that out of fifty-eight thousand men only a very few returned to Carthage. During the latter part of the second Punic war, it was stated in the Roman senate, that Rome could never be in safety while Carthage was permitted to exist:--"Carthage," said Cato, at the close of all his speeches, "must be destroyed." The time soon came, in which the threat was to be carried into execution: and this brings us to the commencement of the third and last Punic war. It lasted only four years; and yet it terminated in the total ruin and destruction of Carthage. This war arose out of that which the Carthaginians had waged against Masinissa; that prince being an ally of the Romans. The vanquished party sent to Rome to justify their proceedings. When the matter came to be debated in the senate, Cato and Scipio were of different opinions. Nasica desired the preservation of Carthage, in order that the people might, who were grown excessively insolent, have something to fear. Cato, on the other hand, thought, that as the people had become what Nasica represented them, it was highly dangerous that so powerful an enemy as Carthage should be allowed to remain. "They may one day conquer us, so great is our prosperity." He was but lately returned from Africa; and he represented in the senate, that he had not found Carthage exhausted either of men or money. On the contrary, that it was full of vigorous young men, and abounded with immense quantities of gold and silver, and prodigious magazines of arms and all warlike stores; and was, moreover, so haughty and confident on account of all this, that their hopes and ambition had no bounds. On saying this, he took from the lappet of his coat a few figs, and, throwing them on the table, and the senators admiring them--he called out, "Know, this; it is but three days those figs were gathered; so short is the distance between the enemy and us." The Carthaginians not having made good their cause in regard to their conduct towards Masinissa, war was declared against them, and the generals[179], who were charged with the command, received strict injunctions not to end the war but with the destruction of Carthage. These instructions the Carthaginians did not become acquainted with till some time after. They, therefore, sent deputies to make all manner of submission. They were even instructed to declare, if necessity required, that they were willing to give themselves up, with all they possessed, to the will and pleasure of the Romans. On arriving at Rome, the deputies found that the war had been, before their arrival, already proclaimed, and that the army had actually sailed. They therefore returned to Carthage with certain proposals, in complying with which the Romans declared they would be satisfied. Amongst the terms demanded were three hundred hostages, the flower and the last hopes of the noblest families in Carthage. No spectacle, we are told, was ever more moving: nothing was heard but cries; nothing seen but tears; and all places echoed with groans and lamentations. Above all, the unhappy mothers, bathed in tears, tore their dishevelled hair, beat their breasts, and expressed their grief in terms so moving, that even savage beasts might have been moved to compassion. But the scene is stated to have been much more moving when the fatal moment arrived when, after having accompanied their children to the ship, they bade them a long and last farewell, persuaded that they should never see them again. They wept a flood of tears over them, embraced them with the utmost fondness, clasped them eagerly in their arms, and could not be prevailed upon to part with them, till they were forced away. When the hostages arrived at Rome, the deputies were informed that when they should arrive at Utica, the consuls would acquaint them with the orders of the republic. The deputies, therefore, repaired to Utica, where they received orders to deliver up, without delay, all their arms. This command was put immediately in execution; and a long train of waggons soon after arrived at the Roman camp, laden with two hundred thousand complete sets of armour, a numberless multitude of darts and javelins, with two thousand engines for shooting darts and stones. Then followed the deputies, and a great number of the most venerable senators and priests, who came with the hope of moving the Romans to compassion. When they arrived, Censorinus addressed them in the following manner:--"I cannot but commend the readiness with which you execute the orders of the senate. They have commanded me to tell you, that it is their will and pleasure, that you depart out of Carthage, which they have resolved entirely to destroy; and that you remove into any other part of your dominions you shall think proper, provided it be at the distance of eight stadia (twelve miles) from the sea." The instant the consul had pronounced this fulminating decree, nothing was heard among the Carthaginians but shrieks and howlings. Being now in a manner thunderstruck, they neither knew where they were, nor what they did; but rolled themselves in the dust, tearing their clothes, and unable to vent their grief any otherwise but by broken sighs and deep groans. Being afterwards a little recovered, they lifted up their hands with the air of suppliants, one moment towards the gods, and the next towards the Romans, imploring their mercy and justice with regard to a people, who would soon be reduced to the extremities of despair. But as both the gods and men were deaf to their fervent prayers, they now changed them into reproaches and imprecations; bidding the Romans call to mind, that there were such beings as avenging deities, whose severe eyes were ever open on guilt and treachery. The Romans themselves could not refrain from tears at so moving a spectacle: but their resolution was fixed. The deputies could not even prevail so far as to get the execution of the order suspended, till they should have an opportunity of presenting themselves again before the senate, if possible, to get it revoked. They were forced to set out immediately, and carry the answer to Carthage. The people waited for their return, with such an impatience and terror, as words can never express. It was scarcely possible for them to break through the crowd that flocked around them, to hear the answer which was but too strongly painted in their faces. When they were come into the senate, and had declared the barbarous orders of the Romans, a general shriek informed the people of their too lamentable fate; and from that instant nothing was seen or heard in every part of the city but howling and despair, madness and fury. The consuls made no great haste to march against Carthage; not suspecting they had reason to be under apprehension from that city, as it was now disarmed. However, the inhabitants took advantage of this delay to put themselves in a posture of defence, being all unanimously resolved not to quit the city. They appointed, as a general, without the walls, Asdrubal, who was at the head of twenty thousand men; and to whom deputies were sent accordingly, to entreat him to forget, for his country's sake, the injustice which had been done to him, from the dread they were under of the Romans. The command of the troops, within the walls, was given to another Asdrubal, grandson to Masinissa. They then applied themselves to making arms with considerable expedition. The temples, the palaces, the open markets and squares, were all changed into so many arsenals, where men and women worked day and night. Every day were made one hundred and forty shields, three hundred swords, five hundred pikes or javelins, a thousand arrows, and a great number of engines to discharge them; and because they wanted materials to make ropes, the women cut off their hair, and abundantly supplied their wants on this occasion. The combat, which was carried on from the tops of the houses, continued six days, during which a dreadful slaughter was made. To clear the streets, and make way for the troops, the Romans dragged aside with hooks the bodies of such of the inhabitants as had been slain, or precipitated headlong from the houses, and threw them into pits, the greatest part of them being still alive and panting. There was still reason to believe that the siege would last much longer, and occasion a great effusion of blood. But on the seventh day there appeared a company of men, in a suppliant posture and habit, who desired no other conditions, but that the Romans would be pleased to spare the lives of all those who should be willing to leave the citadel; which request was granted them. The deserters only were excepted. Accordingly, there came out fifty thousand men and women, who were sent into the fields under a strong guard. The deserters were about nine hundred. Finding they would be allowed no quarter, they fortified themselves in the temple of Æsculapius, with Asdrubal, his wife, and two children; where, though their number was but small, they might have held out a long time, because the temple stood on a very high hill, upon rocks, to which the ascent was by sixty steps. But, at last, exhausted by hunger and watchings, oppressed with fear, and seeing their destruction at hand, they lost all patience, when, abandoning the lower part of the temple, they retired to the uppermost story, and resolved not to quit it but with their lives. In the mean time, Asdrubal, being desirous of saving his own life, came down privately to Scipio, carrying an olive-branch in his hand, and threw himself at his feet. Scipio showed him immediately to the deserters, who, transported with rage and fury at the sight, vented millions of imprecations against him, and set fire to the temple. Whilst it was lighting, we are told that Asdrubal's wife, dressing herself as splendidly as possible, and placing herself and her two children in sight of Scipio, addressed him with a loud voice:--"I call not down," says she, "curses on thy head, O Roman, for thou only takest the privilege allowed by the laws of war: but may the gods of Carthage, and thou, in concert with them, punish, according to his deserts, the false wretch who has betrayed his country, his gods, his wife, his children!" Then directing herself to Asdrubal, "perfidious wretch!" says she, "thou basest of creatures! this fire will presently consume both me and my children; but as to thee, too shameful general of Carthage,--go,--adorn the gay triumph of thy conqueror,--suffer, in the sight of all Rome, the tortures thou so justly deservest!" She had no sooner pronounced these words, but, seizing her children, she cut their throats, threw them into the flames, and afterwards rushed into them herself; in which she was imitated by all the deserters. With regard to Scipio, when he saw this famous city, which had flourished seven hundred years, and might have been compared to the greatest empires on account of the extent of its dominions both by sea and land, its mighty armies, its fleets, elephants, and riches, and that the Carthaginians were even superior to other nations, by their courage and greatness of soul, as, notwithstanding their being deprived of armies and ships, they had sustained, for three whole years, all the hardships and calamities of a long siege; seeing, I say, this city entirely ruined, historians relate, that he could not refuse his tears to the unhappy fate of Carthage. He reflected that cities, nations, and empires, are liable to revolutions no less than particular men; that the like sad fate had attended Troy, anciently so powerful; and in latter times, the Assyrians, Medes, and Persians, whose dominions were once of so great an extent; and lastly, the Macedonians, whose empire had been so glorious throughout the world. Full of these mournful ideas, he repeated the following verses of Homer:-- The day shall come, that great avenging day, Which Troy's proud glories in the dust shall lay; When Priam's powers, and Priam's self shall fall, And one prodigious ruin follow all. Thereby denouncing the future destiny of Rome, as he himself confessed to Polybius, who desired Scipio to explain himself on that occasion. Carthage being taken in this manner, Scipio gave the plunder of it (the gold, silver, statues, and other offerings which should be found in the temples excepted) to his soldiers for seven days. After this, adorning a very small ship with the enemy's spoils, he sent it to Rome, with the news of the victory. At the same time he ordered the inhabitants of Sicily to come and take possession of the pictures and statues, which the Carthaginians had plundered them of in former wars. When the news of the taking of Carthage was brought to Rome, the people abandoned themselves to the most immoderate transports of joy, as if the public tranquillity had not been secured till that instant. All ranks and degrees of men emulously strove who should show the greatest gratitude towards the gods; and the citizens were, for many days, employed wholly in solemn sacrifices, in public prayers, games, and spectacles. After those religious duties were ended, the senate sent ten commissioners into Africa, to regulate, in conjunction with Scipio, the fate and condition of that country in times to come. Their first care was to demolish whatever was still remaining of Carthage: and we may guess at the dimensions of this famous city by what Florus says, viz., that it was seventeen days on fire before it could be all consumed. Rome, though mistress of almost the whole world, could not believe herself safe as long as even the name of Carthage was in being. Orders were given that it should never be inhabited again; and dreadful imprecations were denounced against those, who, contrary to this prohibition, should attempt to rebuild any parts of it. In the mean time, every one, who desired it, was admitted to see Carthage; Scipio being well pleased to have people view the sad ruins of a city, which had dared to contend for empire with the majesty of Rome.[180] Commerce, strictly speaking, was the occupation of Carthage, the particular object of its industry, and its peculiar and predominant characteristic. It formed the greatest strength and the chief support of that commonwealth. In a word, it may be affirmed, that the power, the conquests, the credit, and the glory of the Carthaginians, all flowed from trade. This gives Mr. Montague an opportunity of comparing Carthage with England:--"To the commercial maxims of the Carthaginians, we have added their insatiable lust of gain, without their economy, and contempt of luxury and effeminacy. To the luxury and dissipation of the Romans, we have joined their venality, without their military spirit: and we feel the pernicious effects of the same species of faction, which was the great leading cause to ruin in both those republics. The Roman institution was formed to make and to preserve their conquests. Abroad invincible, at home invulnerable, they possessed within themselves all the resources requisite for a warlike nation. The military spirit of their people, where every citizen was a soldier, furnished inexhaustible supplies for their armies abroad, and secured them at home from all attempts of invasion. The Carthaginian was better calculated to acquire than to preserve. They depended upon commerce for the acquisition of wealth, and upon their wealth for the protection of their commerce. They owed their conquests to the venal blood and sinews of other people; and, like their ancestors the Phoenicians, exhibited their money bags as symbols of their power. They trusted too much to the valour of foreigners, and too little to that of their own natives. Thus while they were formidable abroad by their fleets and mercenary armies, they were weak and defenceless at home. But the great event showed how dangerous it is for the greatest commercial nation to rely on this kind of mercantile policy; and that a nation of unarmed undisciplined traders can never be a match, whilst they are so circumstanced, for a nation of soldiers." Notwithstanding the denunciations of the senate against all who should attempt to rebuild Carthage, the senators were induced, in a very short period, themselves to sanction the undertaking. When Marius took refuge in Africa, outcast and deserted, he is said to have dwelt in a hovel amidst the ruins of Carthage. The answer of Marius to the prætor of Africa, is one of the finest indications of a strong mind recorded in history. Oppressed with every species of misfortune, Marius, after escaping many dangers, arrived at length in Africa; where he hoped to have received some mark of favour from the governor. He was scarcely landed, however, when an officer came to him, and addressed him after the following manner:--"Marius, I am directed by the prætor to forbid your landing in Africa. If, after this message, you shall persist in doing so, he will not fail to treat you as a public enemy." Struck with indignation at this unexpected intelligence, Marius, without making any reply, fixed his eyes, in a stern menacing manner, upon the officer. In this position he stood for some time. At length, the officer desiring to know whether he chose to return any answer;--"Yes," replied Marius, "go to the prætor, and tell him that thou hast seen the exiled Marius, sitting among the ruins of Carthage[181]." Twenty-four years after the victory of Æmilianus (B.C. 142), the sedition of Tiberius Gracchus began to be formidable to the patricians, since he was supported by the great body of the people in his endeavours to pass an Agrarian law. Gracchus, finding himself unable to accomplish his purpose, was probably not unwilling to accept the offer, made to him by the senate, of becoming the leader of six thousand citizens to the site of Carthage, for the purpose of its restoration. From this, however, he was terrified by a dream. It seems probable, nevertheless that a few buildings began to spring up among the ruins. Julius Cæsar determined on rebuilding it, in consequence of having beheld, in a dream, a numerous army, weeping at the fate of Carthage. His death prevented the fulfilment of his purpose. Augustus, however, sent three thousand Romans thither, or rather, within a short distance of it, who were joined by the inhabitants of the neighbouring country. From this time it appears to have increased in beauty, convenience, and the number of its inhabitants. In the early part of the fifth century, however, Genseric having invaded Africa, the whole of the fruitful provinces, from Tangier to Tripoli, were in succession overwhelmed, and Carthage was surprised, five hundred and eighty-five years after its destruction by the younger Scipio. At this time, we are told[182], Carthage was considered as the "Rome" of the African world. It contained the arms, the manufactures, and the treasures of six provinces; schools and gymnasia were instituted for the education of youth; and the liberal arts were publicly taught in the Greek and Latin languages. The buildings were uniform and magnificent; a shady grove was planted in the midst of the city; the new port, a secure and capacious harbour, was subservient to the commercial industry of citizens and strangers; and the splendid games of the circus and the theatre were exhibited. After Genseric had permitted his licentious troops to satiate their rage and avarice, he promulgated an edict, which enjoined all persons to deliver up their gold, silver, jewels, and valuable furniture and apparel, to the royal officers; and the attempt to secrete any part of their patrimony was punished with torture and death, as an act of treason against the state. Carthage never recovered this blow, and it fell gradually into such insignificance, that it disappeared altogether from the records of history. We now select a few passages from Mons. Chateaubriand and Sir George Temple, in respect to its present condition. "The ship in which I left Alexandria," says the former, "having arrived in the port of Tunis, we cast anchor opposite to the ruins of Carthage. I looked at them, but was unable to make out what they could be. I perceived a few Moorish huts, a Mahommedan hermitage at the point of a projecting cape; sheep browsing among the ruins--ruins so far from striking, that I could scarcely distinguish them from the ground on which they lay--this was Carthage. In order to distinguish these ruins, it is necessary to go methodically to work. I suppose then that the reader sets out with me from the port of Goltetha, standing upon the canal by which the lake of Tunis discharges itself into the sea. Riding along the shore in an east-north-east direction, you come in about half an hour to some salt-pits of the sea. You begin to discover jetties running out to a considerable distance under water. The sea and jetties are on your right; on your left you perceive a great quantity of ruins upon eminences of unequal height, and below these ruins is a basin of circular form and of considerable depth, which formerly communicated with the sea by means of a canal, traces of which are still to be seen. This basin must be, in my opinion, the Cothon or inner port of Carthage. The remains of the immense works, discernible in the sea, would, in this case, indicate the site of the outer mole. If I am not mistaken, some piles of the dam, constructed by Scipio, for the purpose of blocking up the port, may still be distinguished. I also observed a second inner canal, which may have been the cut, made by the Carthaginians when they opened a new passage for their fleet." At the foot of the hill at Maallakah[183] are the foundations of an amphitheatre, the length of which appears to have been about three hundred feet by two hundred and thirty, and the dimensions of the arena one hundred and eighty by one hundred. There are, also, the ruins of a very extensive edifice, supposed to have been the temple of Ceres. Some trifling fragments of edifices, and the traces of its triple walls, are all that remain of the Byrsa's splendid fanes and palaces; though many pieces of rare marbles have been found, as serpentine, giallo, rosso, and porphyry. Nor is there any remain of the famous temple of Æsculapius, the approach to which was by a magnificent flight of steps, and rendered so interesting from having been the place in whose flames Asdrubal's wife destroyed herself, her children, and nine hundred Roman deserters, rather than submit to the yoke of the haughty vanquishers of her country. Sir George Temple's observations are very beautiful:--"Early in the morning, I walked to the site of the great Carthage--of that town, at the sound of whose name mighty Rome herself had so often trembled--of Carthage, the mistress of powerful and brave armies, of numerous fleets, and of the world's commerce, and to whom Africa, Spain, Sardinia, Corsica, Sicily, and Italy herself, bowed in submission as to their sovereign;--in short, 'Carthago, dives opum, studiisque asperrima belli.' I was prepared to see but few vestiges of its former grandeur; it had so often suffered from the devastating effects of war, that I knew many could not exist: but my heart sunk within me, when, ascending one of its hills, (from whose summit the eye embraces a view of the whole surrounding country to the edge of the sea,) I beheld nothing more than a few scattered and shapeless masses of masonry[184]. Yes, all the vestiges of the splendour and magnificence of the mighty city had, indeed, passed away, and its very name is now unknown to the present inhabitants[185]." NO. XXIV.--CATANEA. This city, situated at the foot of Mount Etna, was founded by a colony from Chalcis, seven hundred and fifty-three years before the Christian era; and soon after the settlement of Syracuse. There have not been wanting some, however, to assert that ancient Catanea was one of the oldest cities in the world. It fell into the hands of the Romans, and became the residence of a prætor. It was then adorned with sumptuous buildings of all kinds. It was destroyed, however, by Pompey; and restored by Augustus with greater magnificence. It was large and opulent. Being so contiguous to Mount Etna, it is rendered remarkable for the fatal overthrows to which it has been subjected by the eruptions of that mountain; in some of which it has been known to discharge a stream of lava four miles broad and fifty feet deep, and advancing at the rate of seven miles in a day. The number of eruptions from the page of history are 81. From the time of Thucydides (B.C. 481) 3 In the year B.C. 1 In A.D. 44 1 A.D. 252 1 During the 12th century 2 13th 1 14th 2 15th 4 16th 4 17th 22 18th 32 Since the commencement of the 19th cent. 8 --81 total. In 1693 Catanea was entirely destroyed by an earthquake, so that hardly one stone remained upon another. It began on the 9th January, and on the 11th the earth opened in several places. Almost in a moment 11,000 persons, who had fled to the cathedral for shelter, perished by its fall; the canon, with the ministers at the altar, and about one hundred persons, being all that escaped. The undulations of this shock were felt, it is said, in Germany, France, and even in England. Fifty-four towns of some magnitude were, more or less, sufferers by this earthquake, and the total loss of human life, it is supposed, amounted to nearly one hundred thousand. "The present town," says Malte Brun, "is well built. Its fine edifices are so many proofs, not of its prosperity, but of its misfortunes; for, in Catanea, houses never become old; they give way either to lava or volcanic shocks. It is to the earthquakes of 1693 and 1783 that it owes its magnificence; almost wholly destroyed, it was rebuilt with greater regularity. Most of its edifices, however, have been injured by the shocks in 1819." A great many antiquities are contained in the Biscari Museum, which was founded by a wealthy noble of the same name, who spent his fortune in exploring or digging for antiquities in the territory of Catanea. The ancient theatre and amphitheatre, the old walls, baths, and temples, were buried under several layers of lava and alluvial deposits, that were removed by the same individual; lastly, the town is indebted to him for several ancient statues. "There are many remains of antiquity," says Mr. Brydone, "but most of them are in a very ruinous state. One of the most remarkable is an elephant of lava, with an obelisk of Egyptian granite on his back. There are also considerable remains of a great theatre, besides that belonging to the prince of Biscaris, a large bath, almost entire; the ruins of a great aqueduct eighteen miles long; the ruins of several temples, one of Ceres; another of Vulcan. The church, called Bocca di Fuoco, was likewise a temple. But the most entire of all is a small rotunda, which, as well as the rotunda at Rome, and some others to be met with in Italy, demonstrates that form to be the most durable of any." There is also a well at the foot of the old walls, where the lava, after running along the parapet, and and then falling forwards, produced a very complete and lofty arch over the spring. Through the care, and at the expense of prince Biscaris, many other monuments of ancient splendour and magnificence have been recovered by digging down to the ancient town, which, on account of the numerous torrents of lava that have flowed out of Mount Etna for the last thousand years, is now to be sought for in dark caverns many feet below the present surface of the earth. Mr. Swinburne states, that he descended into baths, sepulchres, an amphitheatre, and a theatre, all very much injured by the various catastrophes that have befallen them. He found, too, that these buildings were erected not on the solid ground and with brick or stone, but on old beds of lava, and with square pieces of the same substance, which, in no instance, appears to have been fused by the contact of new lavas: the sciarra or stones of old lava having constantly proved as strong a barrier against the flowing torrent of fire as any other stone could have been, though some authors have been of opinion, that the hot matter would melt the whole mass, and incorporate itself with it. There was a temple at Catanea, dedicated to Ceres, in which none but women were permitted to appear[186]. NO. XXV.--CHALCEDON. This place, which stands opposite Byzantium, was built by a colony from Megara, some years before Byzantium, viz. B.C. 685. Its position was so imprudently selected, that it was called the city of blind men[187]; by which was intimated the inconsiderate plan of the founders. It was built on a sandy and barren soil, in preference to the rich one on the opposite side of the Bosphorus, on which Byzantium was afterwards founded. Chalcedon, in the time of its prosperity, was considerable; not only on account of its buildings, but the wealth of its inhabitants, who enriched themselves greatly by commerce; more especially by the exportation of purple dye, which was found in great quantities upon its coast. In ancient times it underwent many revolutions; being first subdued by Otanes, general of the Persians, whose father Sisanes, one of the judges of the Persian empire, having pronounced an unjust sentence, was flayed alive by the order of Cambyses. Not long after this the Lacedemonians made themselves masters of it, but were obliged to give place to the Athenians, who contented themselves with imposing upon the inhabitants an annual tribute, which they in time neglecting to pay, were again reduced to obedience by Alcibiades. Afterwards, with the rest of the world, it passed under the dominion of the Romans, who were succeeded by the Greek emperors, under whose administration it became famous by a celebrated council of the church (A.D. 327), which is recorded under the name of the council of Chalcedon. A tribunal also was here erected by the Emperor Julian, to try and punish the evil ministers of his predecessor, Constantius. "We are now delivered," said Julian, in a familiar letter to one of his most intimate friends, "we are now surprisingly delivered from the voracious jaws of the hydra. I do not mean to apply that epithet to my brother, Constantius. He is no more;--may the earth lie light on his head! But his artful and cruel favourites studied to deceive and exasperate a prince, whose natural mildness cannot be praised without some efforts of adulation. It is not my intention, however, that these men should be oppressed; they are accused, and they shall enjoy the benefit of a fair and impartial trial." The executions of some of these men, one of whom (Paulus) was burned alive, were accepted, says the historian, as an inadequate atonement by the widows and orphans of so many hundred Romans, whom those legal tyrants had betrayed and murdered. Persians, Greeks, Goths, Saracens, and Turks, by turns, despoiled Chalcedon. The walls were razed by Valens, and much of the materials was employed in the aqueduct of Constantinople that bears his name, and which was, by a singular coincidence, repaired by Soliman II., from the remaining ruins of this devoted city. Here it was that the infamous Rufinus, so justly stigmatised by Claudian, built a magnificent villa, which he called the Oak[188]. He built, also, a church; and a numerous synod of bishops met in order to consecrate the wealth and baptise the founder. This double ceremony was performed with extraordinary pomp. A.D. 602, Chalcedon became remarkable for the murder of the Emperor Maurice and his five sons; and afterwards for that of the empress, his widow, and her three daughters[189]. The ministers of death were despatched to Chalcedon (by Phocas). They dragged the emperor into his sanctuary; and the five sons of Maurice were successively murdered before the eyes of their agonised parent. At each stroke, which he felt in his heart, he found strength to rehearse a pious ejaculation:--"Thou art just, O Lord! and thy judgments are righteous." It is now a small place, known to the Turks by the name of Cadiaci; but the Greeks still call it by its ancient name. It is a miserable village, inhabited by a few Greeks, who maintain themselves by their fishery, and the cultivation of their lands. Wheler found an inscription, importing that Evante, the son of Antipater, having made a prosperous voyage towards the Abrotanians and the islands Cyaneæ, and hence desiring to return by the Ægean Sea and Pontus, offered cakes to the statue he had erected to Jupiter, who had sent him good weather as a token of a good voyage. Pococke says, "There are no remains of the ancient city, all being destroyed, and the ground occupied by gardens and vineyards." "We visited the site of Chalcedon," says Dr. Clarke, "of which city scarcely a trace remains; landing also upon the remarkable rock, where the light-house is situate, called the tower of Leander. The Turks call it the 'Maiden's Castle;' possibly it may have been formerly used as a retreat for nuns, but they relate one of their romantic traditions concerning a princess, who secluded herself upon this rock, because it had been foretold she should die by the bite of a serpent, adding, that she ultimately here encountered the death she sought to avoid[190]." NO. XXVI.--CHÆRONEA. A city in Boeotia, greatly celebrated on account of a battle fought near it between Philip of Macedon and the Athenians. The two armies encamped near Chæronea. Philip gave the command of his left wing to his son Alexander, who was then but sixteen. He took the right wing upon himself. In the opposite army the Thebans formed the right wing, and the Athenians the left. At sunrise the signal was given on both sides. The battle was bloody, and the victory a long time dubious; both sides exerting themselves with astonishing valour. At length Philip broke the sacred band of the Thebans[191], which was the flower of their army. The rest of the troops being raw, Alexander, encouraged by his example, entirely routed. The conduct of the victor after this victory shows that it is much easier to overcome an enemy than to conquer one's self. Upon his coming from a grand entertainment which he had given his officers, being equally transported with joy and wine, he hurried to the spot where the battle had been fought, and there, insulting the dead bodies with which the field was covered, he turned into a song the beginning of the decree, which Demosthenes had prepared to excite the Greeks to war, and sang thus, himself beating time; "Demosthenes the Peanian, son of Demosthenes, has said." Everybody was shocked to see the king dishonour himself by this behaviour; but no one opened his lips. Demades, the orator, whose soul was free, though his body was a prisoner, was the only person who ventured to make him sensible of the indecency of this conduct, telling him--"Ah, sir, since fortune has given you the part of Agamemnon, are you not ashamed to act the part of Thersites?" These words, spoken with so generous a liberty, opened his eyes, and made him turn inward; and so far from being displeased with Demades, he esteemed him the more for them, treated him with the utmost respect, and conferred upon him all possible honours. The bones of those slain at Chæronea were carried to Athens; and Demosthenes was charged with composing a eulogium, for a monument erected to their memory:-- This earth entombs those victims to the state, Who fell a glorious sacrifice to zeal. Greece, on the point of wearing tyrant-chains, Did, by their deaths alone, escape the yoke. This Jupiter decreed: no effort, mortals, Can save you from the mighty will of fate. To gods alone belongs the attribute Of being free from crimes with never-ending joy. According to Procopius, Chæronea and other places in Boeotia (also of Achaia and Thessaly) were destroyed by an earthquake in the sixth century. The Acropolis[192] is situated on a steep rock, difficult of access; the walls and square towers are, in some places, well preserved; and their style, which is nearly regular, renders it probable, that they were constructed not long before the invasion of the Macedonians. The ancient Necropolis is on the east side of the Acropolis, behind the village: the remains of several tombs have been uncovered by the rains. The church of the Holy Virgin contains an ancient chair of white marble, curiously ornamented. It is called by the villagers the throne of Plutarch[193]. There are two ancient circular altars with fluted intervals, in the manner of an Ionic or Corinthian column. Altars of this kind were placed on the road side. They were unstained with fire and blood, being set apart for exclusive oblations of honey, cakes, and fruit. These altars are common in Greece, and generally formed of coarse black stone; those of Chæronea, however, are of white marble. They are frequently found in Italy, and are at present used as pedestals for large vases, their height being in general about three feet. They are never inscribed, and sometimes not fluted; and are frequently represented on painted terra-cotta vases. Some Ionic fragments of small proportions are scattered among the ruins. On the rock there was anciently a statue of Jupiter; but Pausanias mentions no temple. The theatre stands at the foot of the Acropolis, and faces the plain. It is the smallest in Greece, except one at Mesaloggion; but it is well preserved. Indeed, nothing is better calculated to resist the devastations of time than the Grecian theatres, when they are cut in the rock, as they generally are. "The sole remains of this town," says Sir John Hobhouse, "are some large stones six feet in length, and the ruins of a wall on the hill, and part of a shaft of a column, with its capital; the seats of a small amphitheatre, cut out of the rock, on the side of the same hill; in the flat below, a fountain, partly constructed of marble fragments, containing a few letters, not decipherable; some bits of marble pillars, just appearing above ground, and the ruins of a building of Roman brick." Two inscriptions have, we understand, lately been discovered at this place; one relative to Apollo, the other to Diana. Several tombs have been also discovered and opened. Though a respectable traveller asserts, that the battle of Chæronea, by putting an end to the turbulent independence of the Grecian republics, introduced into that country an unusual degree of civil tranquillity and political repose, we cannot ourselves think so; we therefore subjoin, from Dr. Leland, a short account of the conqueror's death. "When the Greeks and Macedonians were seated in the theatre, Philip came out of his palace, attended by the two Alexanders, his son and son-in-law. He was clothed in a white flowing robe, waving in soft and graceful folds, the habiliment in which the Grecian deities were usually represented. He moved forward with a heart filled with triumph and exultation, while the admiring crowds shouted forth their flattering applause. His guards had orders to keep at a considerable distance from his person, to show that the king confided in the affections of his people, and had not the least apprehensions of danger amidst all this mixed concourse of different states and nations. Unhappily, the danger was but too near him. The injured Pausanias had not yet forgot his wrongs, but still retained those terrible impressions, which the sense of an indignity he had received, and the artful and interested representations of others, fixed deeply in his mind. He chose this fatal morning for the execution of his revenge, on the prince who had denied reparation to his injured honour. His design had been for some time premeditated, and now was the dreadful moment of effecting it. As Philip marched on in all his pride and pomp, this young Macedonian slipped through the crowd, and, with a desperate and malignant resolution, waited his approach in a narrow passage, just at the entrance into the theatre. The king advanced towards him: Pausanias drew his poniard; plunged it into his heart; and the conqueror of Greece, and terror of Asia, fell prostrate to the ground, and instantly expired[194]. NO. XXVII.--CORDUBA. "Are we at Cordova?" says a modern writer. "The whole reign of the Omniad Caliphs passes, in mental review, before us. Once the seat of Arabian art, gallantry, and magnificence, the southern kingdom of Spain was rich and flourishing. Agriculture was respected; the fine arts cultivated; gardens were formed; roads executed; palaces erected; and physics, geometry, and astronomy, advanced. The inhabitants were active and industrious; accomplishments were held in esteem; and the whole state of society formed a striking contrast to that of every other in Europe." It was situated in Hispanic Boetica, having been built by Marcellus. It was the native place of both the Senecas, and Lucan. Indeed, it produced, in ancient times, so many celebrated characters, that it was styled the "mother of men of genius." Its laws were written in verse; and its academy was partly distinguished for its cultivation of the Greek language, as well as for rhetoric and philosophy. It became celebrated, also, under the Moors. Of its ancient grandeur, however, Cordova has preserved nothing but a vast inclosure, filled with houses, half in ruins. Its long, narrow, and ill-paved streets are almost deserted; most of the houses are uninhabited; and the multitude of churches and convents which it contains, are besieged by a crowd of vagabonds, covered with rags. The ancient palace of the Moors has been converted into stables, in which, till within these few years, one hundred Andalusian horses were usually kept. Their genealogy was carefully preserved; and the name and age of each written over the stall in which he stood. In the place appropriated to bathing, is part of a Cufic inscription. Cordova was called at first Corduba, and afterwards Colonia Patricia, as appears from inscriptions on the numerous medals which have been discovered in this city and neighbourhood. From the Romans it passed successively under the dominion of the Goths and Arabs; and, while the latter swayed the sceptre of Spain, Cordova became pre-eminently distinguished, as we have just stated, as the seat of arts, sciences, and literature. About ten miles from this place is a small town, called by the ancients Obubea[195]; and we mention it here merely because it reminds us that Julius Cæsar came thither to stop the progress of Pompey's sons, who had a little before entered Spain in twenty-seven days[196]. NO. XXVIII.--CORCYRA. (CORFU.) Corcyra is an island in the Ionian Sea, on the coast of Epirus: it is now called Corfu; was first peopled by a colony from Colchis, B.C. 1349, and afterwards by a colony from Corinth, who, with Chersicrates at their head, came to settle there, on being banished from their native city 703 years before the Christian era. Homer calls it Phæacia; Callimachus, Drepane. Ancient authors give glorious descriptions of the beautiful gardens of this island belonging to Alcinous; but, at present, no remains of them are to be found. It was famous for the shipwreck of Ulysses. The air is healthy, the land fertile, the fruit excellent. Oranges, citrons, honey, wax, oil, and most delicious grapes, are very abundant. The war between this people and that of Athens was called the Corcyrean; and operated as an introduction to the Peloponnesian war. Corcyra was then an independent power, which could send out fleets and armies; and its alliance was courted by many other states. Thucydides gives a frightful account of a sedition which occurred in this city and island during the Peloponnesian war: some were condemned to die under judicial sentences; some slew one another in the temples; some hung themselves upon the trees within its verge; some perished through private enmity; some for the sums they had lent, by the hands of the borrowers. Every kind of death was exhibited. Every dreadful act, usual in a sedition, and more than usual, was then perpetrated. For fathers slew their children; some were dragged from altars; and some were butchered at them; and a number died of starvation in one of the temples. Corcyra, when in the possession of the Romans, became a valuable station for their ships of war, in their hostilities against the cities of Asia. Septimius Severus and his family appear to have been great benefactors to it; for, about 150 years ago, there was found a number of medals, not only of Septimius, but of his wife Julia Domna; Caracalla, his eldest son, and his wife Plankilla; also of Geta, his youngest son. Two hundred years ago, Corfu consisted of nothing but one old castle and a village. It is now a considerable town. It stands projecting on a rock into the sea; and, from the fortifications guarding it, is a place of strength. The fortresses are completely mined below; and the roads to the gates of some of them are narrow and precipitous. By an accidental explosion of a powder-mill, one of the fortresses, in the early part of the last century, 2000 people were killed and wounded; and by a singular catastrophe, in 1789, 600 individuals lost their lives; ten galleys and several boats were sunk in the harbour; and many houses in the town greatly damaged. Wheler visited the ruins of Paloeopoli, the ancient metropolis of the island. "It stood," says he, "on a promontory to the south of the present city, separated from it by a little bay, of about a mile or two over. The abundance of ruins and fortifications, which are to be seen there, do sufficiently prove it to have been so." Abundance of foundations, he goes on to observe, have been dug up there; and of arches and pillars, many of which have been employed to build the foundations of the present city. There are also the remains of an old place of worship; the architecture of which is sustained by Corinthian columns of white marble, with an inscription, showing that it was built by the Emperor Jovian, after he was converted to the Christian faith and had destroyed the heathen temples. "_I Jovian, having received the faith, established the kingdom of my power; and having destroyed the heathen temples and altars, have built to thee, O thou blessed and most high King, a holy temple, the gift of an unworthy hand._" Mr. Dodwell visited this place some years ago, and he says that nothing is now seen above ground of the remains of the ancient city, except some frusta of large columns, which from having flutings without intervals, were evidently of the Doric order. They have a large square, which forms but one mass with a column, which is a singularity, it is said, of which there is no other example. Corcyra was celebrated, as we have before stated, for having been the island on which Ulysses is represented in the Odyssey as having been entertained by Alcinous, king of Phæacia. It is also the place where Cicero and Cato met after the battle of Pharsalia; and where Cato, after having intrusted Cicero to take the command of the last legions which remained faithful to the republic, separated from him to lose his life at Utica, while Cicero went to lose his head to the triumvirate. To this place Aristotle was once exiled; and it is well known as having been visited by the youthful Alexander; as the place where the tragical nuptials of Antony and Cleopatra were celebrated; and as that where Agrippina touched, bringing from Egypt the body of the murdered Germanicus in the midst of winter[197]. NO. XXIX.--CORINTH. Corinth!-- Whose gorgeous fabrics seem'd to strike the skies, Whom, though by tyrant victors oft subdued, Greece, Egypt, Rome, with awful wonder view'd. Her name, for Pallas' heavenly art renown'd, Spread like the foliage which her pillars crown'd; But now in fatal desolation laid, Oblivion o'er it draws a dismal shade. This city was situated at the foot of a hill, on which stood the citadel. To the south it was defended by the hill itself, which is there extremely steep. Strong and lofty ramparts protected it on three sides. Corinth was at first subject to the kings of Argos and Mycenæ; at last Sisyphus made himself master of it. But his descendants were dispossessed of the throne by the Heraclidæ, about ten years after the siege of Troy. The regal power, after this, came to the descendants of Bacchis, under whom the monarchy was changed into an aristocracy; that is, the reins of government were in the hands of the elders, who annually chose from amongst themselves a chief magistrate, whom they called Prytanis. At length Cypselus, having gained the people, usurped the supreme authority, which he transmitted to his son Periander. The most celebrated of the Corinthians was a person, who though a tyrant, was reckoned one of the seven wise men (Periander). When he had first made himself master of the city, he wrote to Thrasybulus, tyrant of Miletus, to know what measures he should take with his newly-acquired subjects. The latter, without any answer, led the messenger into a field of wheat; where, in walking along, he beat down with his cane all the ears of corn that were higher than the rest. Periander perfectly well understood the meaning of this enigmatical answer, which was a tacit intimation to him, that, in order to secure his own life, he should cut off the most eminent of the Corinthian citizens. Periander, however, did not relish so cruel an advice. He wrote circular letters to all the wise men, inviting them to pass some time with him at Corinth, as they had done the year before at Sardis with Croesus. Princes in those days thought themselves much honoured when they could have such guests in their houses. Plutarch describes an entertainment which Periander gave these illustrious guests, and observes, at the same time, that the decent simplicity of it, adapted to the taste and humour of the persons entertained, did him much more honour than the greatest magnificence could have done. The subject of their discourse at table was sometimes grave and serious, at other times pleasant and gay. One of the company proposed this question;--Which is the most perfect popular government? That, answered Solon, where an injury, done to any private citizen, is such to the whole body: That, said Bias, where the law has no superior: That, said Thales, where the inhabitants are neither too rich nor too poor: That, said Anacharsis, where virtue is honoured, and vice detested: Says Pittacus, where dignities are always conferred upon the virtuous, and never upon the wicked: Says Cleobulus, where the citizens fear blame, more than punishment: Says Chilo, where the laws are more regarded, and have more authority, than the orators. From all these opinions Periander concluded, that the most perfect popular government would be that which came nearest to aristocracy, where the sovereign authority is lodged in the hands of a few men of honour and virtue. This city standing between two seas, an attempt was made by Periander, and afterwards by Alexander, Demetrius, Julius Cæsar, Caligula, Nero, and Herodes Atticus, to unite them; but they all failed in the attempt. Strabo was in Corinth after its restoration by the Romans. He describes the site, and says, that its circuit occupied five miles. From the summit of the Sisyphéum, he continues, is beheld to the north Parnassus and Helicon, lofty mountains covered with snow; and below both, to the west, the Crissæan gulf, bounded by Phocis, by Boeotia and the Megaris, and by Corinthia and Sicyonia. Beyond all these are the Oneian mountains, stretching as far as Cithæron. Corinth had temples dedicated to the Egyptian Isis, to Serapis, and Serapis of Canopus. Fortune, also, had a temple, and her statue was made of Persian work; and near this temple was another, dedicated to the mother of all the gods. Besides the citadel, built upon the mountain, the works of art, which chiefly displayed the opulence and taste of the people, were the grottoes, raised over the fountain of Pyrene, sacred to the Muses, and constructed of white marble. There were, also, a theatre and stadium, built of the same materials, and decorated in the most magnificent manner; also a temple of Neptune, containing the chariots of the god, and of Amphitrite, drawn by horses covered over with gold, and adorned with ivory hoofs. There were a multitude of statues, also; amongst which were those of Bacchus, and Diana of Ephesus. These were of wood; others were of bronze; amongst which were those of Apollo Clarius; a Venus by Hermogenes of Cythera; two Mercuries; three statues of Jupiter; and a Minerva. This last was mounted on a pedestal, the basso-relievos of which represented the Nine Muses. Such, indeed, were its wealth, magnificence, and excellent situation, that it was thought by the Romans equally worthy of empire with Carthage and Capua; and this induces me to say a few words in regard to its war with the Romans. Metellus[198] having received advice in Macedonia of the troubles in Peloponnesus, departed thither with Romans of distinction, who arrived in Corinth at the time the council was assembled there. They spoke in it with abundance of moderation, exhorting the Achaians not to draw upon themselves, by imprudent levity and weakness, the resentment of the Romans. They were treated with contempt, and ignominiously turned out of the assembly. An innumerable crowd of workmen and artificers rose about them, and insulted them. All the cities of Achaia were at the time in a kind of delirium; but Corinth was far more frantic than the rest, and abandoned themselves to a kind of madness. They had been persuaded that Rome intended to enslave them all, and absolutely to destroy the Achaian league. The Romans, having chosen Mummius for one of the consuls, charged him with the management of the Achaian war. When Mummius had assembled all his troops, he advanced to the city, and encamped before it. A body of his advanced guard being negligent of duty upon their post, the besieged made a sally, attacked them vigorously, killed many, and pursued the rest almost to the entrance of their camp. This small advantage very much encouraged the Achaians, and thereby proved fatal to them. Diæus offered the consul battle. The latter, to augment his rashness, kept his troops within the camp, as if fear prevented him from accepting it. The joy and presumption of the Achaians rose in consequence to an inexpressible height. They advanced furiously with all their troops, having placed their wives and children upon the neighbouring eminence, to be spectators of the battle, and caused a great number of carriages to follow them, to be laden with the booty they should take from the enemy; so fully did they assure themselves of the victory. Never was there a more rash or ill-founded confidence. The faction had removed from the service and councils all such as were capable of commanding the troops, or conducting affairs; and had substituted others in their room, without either talents or ability, in order to their being more absolutely masters of the government, and ruling without opposition. The chiefs, without military knowledge, valour, or experience, had no other merit than a blind and frantic rage. They had already committed an excess of folly in hazarding a battle, which was to decide their fate, without necessity, instead of thinking of a long and brave defence in so strong a place as Corinth, and of obtaining good conditions by a vigorous resistance. The battle was fought near Leucopetra, and the defile of the isthmus. The consul had posted part of his horse in ambuscade, which they quitted at a proper time for charging the Achaian cavalry in flank; who, surprised by an unforeseen attack, gave way immediately. The infantry made a little more resistance; but, as it was neither covered, nor sustained by the horse, it was soon broken and put to flight. Diæus, upon this, abandoned himself to despair. He rode full speed to Megalopolis, and having entered his house, set fire to it; killed his wife, to prevent her falling into the hands of the enemy; drank poison; and in that manner put an end to his life, worthy of the many crimes he had committed. After this defeat, the inhabitants lost all hope of defending themselves; so that all the Achaians who had retired into Corinth, and most of the citizens, quitted it the following night, to save themselves how they could. The consul having entered the city, abandoned it to be plundered by the soldiers. All the men who were left in it were put to the sword, and the women and children sold; and after the statues, paintings, and richest moveables were removed, in order to their being carried to Rome, the houses were set on fire, and the whole city continued in flames for several days. From that time the Corinthian brass became more valuable than ever, though it had been in reputation long before. It is pretended that the gold, silver, and brass, which were melted, and ran together in this conflagration, formed a new and precious metal. The walls were afterwards desolated, and razed to their very foundations. All this was executed by order of the Senate, to punish the insolence of the Corinthians, who had violated the law of nations, in their treatment of the ambassadors sent to them by Rome. The booty taken at Corinth was sold, and considerable sums raised from it. Amongst the paintings there was a piece drawn by the most celebrated hand in Greece, representing Bacchus, the beauty of which was not known to the Romans, who were at that time entirely ignorant of the polite arts. Polybius, who was then in the country, had the mortification to see the painting serve the soldiers for a table to play at dice upon. It was afterwards sold to Attalus for £3625 sterling. Pliny mentions another picture by the same painter, which the same Attalus purchased for 110 talents. The consul, surprised that the price of the painting in question should rise so high, interposed his authority, and retained it contrary to public faith, and notwithstanding the complaints of Attalus, because he imagined there was some hidden virtue in the prize, unknown to him. He did not act in that manner for his private interest, nor with the view of appropriating it to himself, as he sent it to Rome, to be applied in adorning the city. When it arrived at Rome, it was set up in the temple of Ceres, whither the judges went to see it out of curiosity, as a masterpiece of art; and it remained there till it was burned with that temple. Mummius was a great warrior, and an excellent man; but he had neither learning, knowledge of arts, nor taste for painting or sculpture. He ordered particular persons to take care of transporting many of the paintings and statues of the most excellent masters to Rome. Never had loss been so irreparable, as that of such a deposite, consisting of the masterpieces of those rare artists, who contributed almost as much as the great captains, to the rendering of their age glorious to posterity. Mummius, however, in recommending the care of that precious collection to those to whom he confided them, threatened them very seriously, that if the statues, paintings, and other things with which he charged them, should be either lost or destroyed by the way, he would oblige them to find others at their own cost[199];--a saying deservedly ridiculed by all persons of sense, as a most egregious solecism in taste and delicacy[200]. It is amusing to observe the difference between Mummius and Scipio;--the one the conqueror of Corinth, the other of Carthage; both in the same year[201]. Scipio, to the courage and virtue of ancient heroes, joined a profound knowledge of the sciences, with all the genius and ornaments of wit. His patronage was courted by every one who made any figure in learning. Panætius, whom Tully calls the prince of the Stoics, and Polybius the historian, were his bosom friends, the assisters of his studies at home, and the constant companions of his expeditions abroad. To which may be added, that he passed the more agreeable hours of his life in the conversation of Terence, and is even thought to have taken part in the composition of his comedies. The period in which the Isthmian games were to be celebrated being at hand, the expectation of what was to be transacted drew thither an incredible multitude of people, and persons of the highest rank. The conditions of peace, which were not yet entirely made public, were the topic of all conversations, and various constructions were put upon them; but very few could be persuaded that the Romans would evacuate all the cities they had taken. All Greece was in this uncertainty, when the multitude being assembled in the stadium to see the games, a herald comes forward, and publishes with a loud voice:--"The senate and people of Rome, and Titus Quintius the general, having overcome Philip and the Macedonians, ease and deliver from all garrisons and taxes and imposts, the Corinthians, the Locrians, the Phocians, the Euboeans, the Phthiot Achaians, the Magnesians, the Thessalians, and the Perrhoebians; declare them free, and ordain that they shall be governed by their respective laws and usages." At these words all the spectators were filled with excessive joy. They gazed upon and questioned one another with astonishment, and could not believe either eyes or ears; so like a dream was what they saw and heard. But being at last assured of their happiness, they abandoned themselves again to the highest transports of joy, and broke out into such loud acclamations, that the sea resounded them to a distance; and some ravens, which happened to fly that instant over the assembly, fell down into the stadium; so true it is, that of all the blessings of this life, none are so dear as that of liberty! Corinth, nevertheless, remained after this in a ruined and desolate state many years. At length, Cæsar, after he had subdued Africa, and while his fleet lay at anchor at Utica, gave order for rebuilding Carthage; and soon after his return to Italy, he likewise caused Corinth to be rebuilt. Strabo and Plutarch agree in ascribing the rebuilding of Carthage and Corinth to Julius Cæsar; and Plutarch remarks this singular circumstance with regard to these cities, viz.--that as they were taken and destroyed in the same year, they were rebuilt and repeopled at the same time. Under the eastern emperors, Corinth was the see of an archbishop, subject to the patriarch of Constantinople. Roger, king of Naples, obtained possession of it under the empire of Emanuel. It had, afterwards, its own sovereign, who ceded it to the Venetians; from whom it was taken by Mahomet II., A.D. 1458. The Venetians retook it in 1687, and held it till the year 1715, when they lost it to the Turks, in whose possession it remained till, a few years since, Greece was erected into an independent state. The grand army of the Turks[202] (in 1715) under the prime vizier, to open themselves a way into the heart of the Morea, attacked Corinth, upon which they made several attacks. The garrison being weakened, and the governor, seeing it was impossible to hold out against a force so superior to their own, beat a parley; but while they were treating about the articles, one of the magazines in the Turkish camp, wherein they had 600 barrels of powder, blew up by accident, whereby between 600 and 700 men were killed; which so enraged the infidels, that they would not grant any capitulation, but stormed the place with so much fury that they took it, and put most of the garrison, with the governor, Signior Minotti, to the sword. The rest they made prisoners of war. This subject formed the foundation of Lord Byron's poem of the Siege of Corinth. The natural consequences of an extensive commerce were wealth and luxury. Fostered in this manner, the city rose in magnificence and grandeur; and the elegant and magnificent temples, palaces, theatres, and other buildings, adorned with statues, columns, capitals, and bases, not only rendered it the pride of its inhabitants and the admiration of strangers, but gave rise to that order of architecture which still bears its name. Corinth has preserved but few monuments of its Greek or Roman citizens. The chief remains are at the southern corner of the town, and above the bazaar; eleven columns, supporting their architraves, of the Doric order, fluted, and wanting in height near half the common proportion to the diameter. Within them, to the western end, is one taller, though entire, which, it is likely, contributed to sustain the roof. They are of stone. This ruin is probably of great antiquity, and a portion of a fabric, erected mostly before the Greek city was destroyed, but before the Doric order had attained to maturity. Mr. Dodwell, nevertheless, observed no remains of the order of architecture which is said to have been invented at Corinth, nor did he perceive in any part of the isthmus the acanthus plant, which forms the principal distinctive character of the Corinthian capital. Corinth*, says Mr. Turner, contains, within its walls, remains of antiquity, but some small masses of ruined walls and seven columns, with part of the frieze of a temple, of which some columns were pulled down to make room for a Turkish house to which it joins. As there is nothing approaching to an intelligible building of antiquity, we may exclaim with the poet-- Where is thy grandeur, Corinth! shrunk from sight, Thy ancient treasures, and thy ramparts' height, Thy god-like fanes and palaces! Oh where, Thy mighty myriads and majestic fair! Relentless war has poured around thy wall, And hardly spared the traces of thy fall. There are several shapeless and uninteresting masses of Roman remains composed of bricks, one of which seems to have been a bath, resembling, in some respects, that of Dioclesian at Rome, but little more than the lower walls and foundations are remaining. The only Grecian ruin which, at present, remains at Corinth, is that of a Doric temple. When Du Loir travelled there (1654), there were twelve columns of this temple standing. In the time of Chandler there were also eleven; but now there are only seven. To what god this temple was dedicated is unknown. The columns are each composed of one black calcareous stone, which being of a porous quality, were anciently covered with stucco of great hardness and durability. From its massive and inelegant proportions, Mr. Dodwell is disposed to believe, that this ruin is the most ancient remaining in Greece. In the narrowest part of the isthmus, about three miles from Corinth, and therefore probably in the place where the games were celebrated, are seen the spacious remains of a theatre and stadium; and less than a mile from Corinth, in the same direction, the circuit and arena are still visible. The Acropolis, however, is one of the finest objects in Greece, and before the introduction of artillery, it was deemed almost impregnable, and had never been taken except by treachery or surprise. In the time of Aratus it was defended only by four hundred soldiers, fifty dogs, and fifty keepers. It shoots up majestically from the plain to a considerable height, and forms a conspicuous object at a great distance; as it is clearly seen from Athens, from which it is not less than forty-four miles in a direct line. From its summit is a glorious prospect. Strabo thus describes it:--"From the summit of the Acropolis, Parnassus and Helicon are seen covered with snow. Towards the west is the gulf of Krissa, bordered by Phocis, Boeotia, Megaris, Corinthia, and Sicyonia. Beyond are the Oneian mountains, extending to Boeotia and Mount Cithæron." The entire view forms, on the whole, a panorama of the most captivating features, and of the greatest dimensions, comprehending six of the most celebrated states of Greece;--Achaia, Locris, Phocis, Boeotia, Attica, and Argolis[203]. The Corinthian order having been invented at Corinth, we cannot refuse ourselves the satisfaction of quoting a passage from Dr. Brewster's treatise on Civil Architecture:--"The artists of Græcia Proper, perceiving that in the Ionic order the severity of the Doric had been departed from, by one happy effort invented a third, which much surpassed the Ionic in delicacy of proportion and richness of decorations. This was named the Corinthian order. The merit of this invention is ascribed to Callimachus of Athens, who is said to have had the idea suggested to him by observing acanthus leaves growing round a basket, which had been placed with some favourite trinkets upon the grave of a young lady; the stalks which rose among the leaves having been formed into slender volutes by a square tile which covered the basket. It is possible that a circumstance of this nature may have caught the fancy of a sculptor who was contemporary with Phidias; and who was, doubtless, in that age of competition, alive to every thing which promised distinction in his profession. But in the warmth of our devotion for the inspiration of Greek genius, we must not overlook the facts, that, in the pillars of several temples in Upper Egypt, whose shafts represent bundles of reeds or lotus, bound together in several places by fillets, the capitals are formed by several rows of delicate leaves. In the splendid ruins of Vellore in Hindostan, the capitals are, also, composed of similar ornaments; and it is well known, that the Persians, at their great festivals, were in the habit of decorating with flowers the tops of their pillars which formed the public apartments. It is, therefore, not improbable, that these circumstances, after so much intercourse with other countries, might have suggested ideas to Callimachus, which enabled him to surpass the capital of Ionia[204]." At Corinth, too, the art of portrait painting is said to have been first practised. "Blest be the pencil! whose consoling power, Soothing soft Friendship in her pensive hour, Dispels the cloud, with melancholy fraught, That absence throws upon her tender thought. Blest be the pencil! whose enchantment gives To wounded Love the food on which he lives. Rich in this gift, though cruel ocean bear The youth to exile from his faithful fair, He in fond dreams hangs o'er her glowing cheek, Still owns her present, and still hears her speak. Oh! LOVE, it was thy glory to impart Its infant being to this sweetest art! Inspired by thee, the soft Corinthian maid, Her graceful lover's sleeping form portray'd; Her boding heart his near departure knew, Yet long'd to keep his image in her view. Pleased she beheld the steady shadow fall, By the clear lamp upon the even wall. The line she traced, with fond precision true, And, drawing, doted on the form she drew: Nor, as she glow'd with no forbidden fire, Conceal'd the simple picture from her sire. His kindred fancy, still to nature just, Copied her line, and form'd the mimic bust. Thus from thy inspiration, LOVE, we trace The modell'd image, and the pencill'd face!"[205] NO. XXX. CTESIPHON. The Parthian monarchs delighted in the pastoral life of their Scythian ancestors; and the royal camp was frequently pitched in the plain of Ctesiphon, on the eastern bank of the Tigris, at the distance of only three miles from Seleucia. It was, then, no other than a village. By the influx of innumerable attendants on luxury and despotism, who resorted to the court, this village insensibly swelled into a large city; and there the Parthian kings, acting by Seleucia as the Greeks, who built that place, had done by Babylon, built a town, in order to dispeople and impoverish Seleucia. Many of the materials, however, were taken from Babylon itself; so that from the time the anathema was pronounced against that city, "it seems," says Rollin, "as if those very persons, that ought to have protected her, were become her enemies; as if they had all thought it their duty to reduce her to a state of solitude, by indirect means, though without using any violence; that it might the more manifestly appear to be the hand of God, rather than the hand of man, that brought about her destruction." This city was for some time assailed by Julian[206], who fixed his camp near the ruins of Seleucia, and secured himself by a ditch and rampart, against the sallies and enterprising garrison of Coche. In this fruitful and pleasant country the Romans were supplied with water and forage; and several forts, which might have embarrassed the motions of the army, submitted, after some resistance, to the efforts of their valour. The fleet passed from the Euphrates in an artificial diversion of the river, which forms a copious and navigable stream into the Tigris, at a small distance _below_ the great city. Had they followed this royal canal, which bore the name of Nahar-Malcha[207], the immediate situation of Coche would have separated the fleet and army of Julian; and the vast attempt of steering against the current of the Tigris, and forcing their way through the midst of a hostile capital, must have been attended with the total destruction of the Roman army. As Julian had minutely studied the operations of Trajan in the same country, he soon recollected that his warlike predecessor had dug a new and navigable canal, which conveyed the waters into the Tigris, at some distance above the river. From the information of the peasants, Julian ascertained the vestiges of this ancient work, which were almost obliterated by design or accident. He, therefore, prepared a deep channel for the reception of the Euphrates: the flood of waters rushed into this new bed; and the Roman fleet steered their triumphant course into the Tigris. He soon after passed, with his whole army, over the river: sending up a military shout, the Romans advanced in measured steps, to the animating notes of military music; launched their javelins, and rushed forwards with drawn swords, to deprive the barbarians, by a closer onset, of the advantage of their missile weapons. The action lasted twelve hours: the enemy at last gave way. They were pursued to the gates of Ctesiphon, and the conquerors, says the historian from whom we have borrowed this account, might have entered the dismayed city, had not their general desired them to desist from the attempt; since, if it did not prove successful, it must prove fatal. The spoil was ample: large quantities of gold and silver, splendid arms and trappings, and beds, and tables of massy silver. The victor distributed, as the reward of valour, some honourable gifts civic and mural, and naval crowns: and then considered what new measures to pursue: for, as we have already stated, his troops had not ventured to attempt entering the city. He called a council of war; but seeing that the town was strongly defended by the river, lofty walls[208], and impassable morasses, he came to the determination of not besieging it; holding it a fruitless and pernicious undertaking. This occurred A.D. 363. In this city Chosroes, king of Persia, built a palace; supposed to have been once the most magnificent structure in the East. In process of time Seleucia and Ctesiphon became united, and identified under the name of _Al Modain_, or the two cities. This union is attributed to the judgment of Adashir Babigan (the father of the Sassanian line). It afterwards continued a favourite capital with most of his dynasty, till the race perished in the person of Yezdijerd; and Al Modain was rendered a heap of ruins, by the fanatic Arabs, in the beginning of the seventh century. At that period (A.D. 637), those walls, which had resisted the battering rams of the Romans, yielded to the darts of the Saracens. Said, the lieutenant of Omar, passed the Tigris without opposition; the capital was taken by assault; and the disorderly resistance of the people gave a keener edge to the sabre of the Moslems, who shouted in religious transport, "This is the white palace of Chosroes: this is the province of the apostle of God." "The spoils," says Abulfeda, "surpassed the estimate of fancy, or numbers;" and Elmacin defines the untold and almost infinite mass by the fabulous computation of three thousands of thousands of thousands of pieces of gold[209]. One of the apartments of the palace was decorated with a carpet of silk, 60 cubits in length, and as many in breadth; a paradise, or garden, was depicted on the ground; the flowers, fruits, and shrubs, were imitated by the figures of the gold embroidery, and the colours of the precious stones; and the ample square was encircled by a verdant and variegated border. The conqueror (Omar) divided the prize among his brethren of Medina. The picture was destroyed; but such was the value of the material, that the share of Ali was sold for 20,000 drachms. The sack was followed by the desertion and gradual decay of the city. In little more than a century after this it was finally supplanted by Bagdad under the Caliph Almanzor. "The imperial legions," says Porter, "of Rome and Constantinople, with many a barbaric phalanx besides, made successive dilapidation on the walls of Seleucia and Ctesiphon; but it was reserved for Omar and his military fanatics to complete the final overthrow. That victorious caliph founded the city of Kufa on the western shore of the Euphrates; whilst the defeat, which the Persians sustained from one of his best generals in the battle of Cadesia, led to the storming of Al-Maidan, and an indiscriminate massacre of all its Guebre inhabitants. In after times the caliph Almanzor, taking a dislike to Kufa, removed the seat of his government to Bagdad; the materials for the erection of which he brought from the battered walls of the Greek and Parthian city; so as Babylon was ravaged and carried away for the building of Seleucia and Ctesiphon, in the same manner did they moulder into ruin before the rising foundations of Bagdad." Little more remains of Seleucia but the ground on which it stood; showing, by its unequal surface, the low moundy traces of its former inhabitants. Small as these vestiges may seem, they are daily wasting away, and soon nothing would be left to mark the site of Seleucia, were it not for the apparently imperishable canal of Nebuchadnezzar, the Nahar Malcha, whose capacious bosom, noble in ruins, open to the Tigris, north of where the city stood." What remains of the palace of Chosroes is thus described by the same hand. "Having passed the Diala, a river which flows into the Tigris, the lofty palace of Chosroes, at Modain, upon the site of the ancient Ctesiphon, became visible to us; looking exceedingly large through the refracting atmosphere of the southern horizon, above the even line of which it towered as the most conspicuous object any where to be seen around us. It looked from hence much larger than Westminster Abbey, when seen from a similar distance; and in its general outline it resembled that building very much, excepting only in its having no towers. The great cathedral of the Crusaders, still standing on the ancient Orthosia, on the coast of Syria, is a perfect model of it in general appearance; as that building is seen when approaching from the southward, although there is no one feature of resemblance between those edifices in detail." On the northern bank of the Diala, Mr. Buckingham saw nothing but some grass huts, inhabited by a few families, who earned their living by transporting travellers across the river; and to the westward, near the Tigris, a few scattered tents of Arab shepherds. On the south bank a few date-trees were seen; but, besides these, no other signs of fertility or cultivation appeared. When Mr. Buckingham reached the mounds of Ctesiphon, he found them to be of a moderate height, of a light colour, and strewed over with fragments of those invariable remarks of former population, broken pottery. The outer surface of the mounds made them appear as mere heaps of earth, long exposed to the atmosphere; but he was assured by several well acquainted with the true features of the place, that on digging into the mounds, a masonry of unburnt bricks was found, with layers of reed between them, as in the ruins at Akkerhoof and the mounds of Meklooba at Babylon. The extent of the semicircle formed by these heaps, appears to be nearly two miles. The area of the city, however, had but few mounds throughout its whole extent, and those were small and isolated; the space was chiefly covered with thick heath, sending forth, as in the days of Xenophon, a highly aromatic odour, which formed a cover for partridges, hares, and gazelles, of each of which the traveller saw considerable numbers. After traversing a space within the walls, strewed with fragments of burnt bricks and pottery, he came to the tomb of Selman Pauk. "This Selman Pauk[210]," says Mr. Buckingham, "was a Persian barber, who, from the fire-worship of his ancestors, became a convert to Islam, under the persuasive eloquence of the great prophet of Modain himself; and, after a life of fidelity to the cause he had embraced, was buried here in his native city of Modain. The memory of this beloved companion of the great head of their faith is held in great respect by all the Mahometans of the country; for, besides the annual feast of the barbers of Bagdad, who in the month of April visit his tomb as that of a patron saint, there are others who come to it on pilgrimage at all seasons of the year." The large ruin, which forms the principal attraction of this place, is situated about seven hundred paces to the south of this tomb. It is called by the natives Tauk Kesra (the Arch of Kesra). It is composed of two wings and one large central hall, extending all the depth of the building. Its front is nearly perfect; being two hundred and sixty feet in length, and upwards of one hundred feet in height. Of this front the great arched hall occupies the centre; its entrance being of an equal height and breadth with the hall itself. The arch is thus about ninety feet in breadth, and rising above the general line of the front, is at least one hundred and twenty feet high, while its depth is at least equal to its height. "The wings leading out on each side of the central arch," continues Mr. Buckingham, "to extend to the front of the building, are now merely thick walls; but these had originally apartments behind them, as may be seen from undoubted marks that remain, as well as two side doors leading from them into the great central hall." The walls which form these wings in the line of the front were built on the inclined slope, being in thickness about twenty feet at the base; but only ten at the summit. The masonry is altogether of burnt bricks, of the size, form, and composition of those seen in the ruins of Babylon; but none of them have any writing or impression of any kind. The cement is white lime, and the layers are much thicker than is seen in any of the burnt brick edifices at Babylon; approaching nearer to the style of the Greek and Roman masonry found among the ruins of Alexandria, where the layers of lime are almost as thick as the bricks themselves. At Babylon the cement is scarcely perceptible. The symmetry of the work bears considerable resemblance, however, both to the Birs and the fine fragments of brick-masonry of the age of the Caliphs, still remaining at Bagdad. The wings, though not perfectly uniform, are similar in their general construction; "but the great extent of the whole front," says our accomplished traveller, "with the broad and lofty arch of its centre, and the profusion of recesses and pilasters on each side, must have produced an imposing appearance, when the edifice was perfect; more particularly if the front was once coated, as tradition states it to have been, with white marble; a material of too much value to remain long in its place after the desertion of the city." The arches of the building are described to be all of a Roman form, and the architecture of the Roman style, though with less purity of taste; the pilasters having neither capital nor pedestal, and a pyramidal termination is given to some of the long narrow niches of the front. There is a circumstance, in regard to the position of this pile, very remarkable. The front of it, though immediately facing the Tigris, lies due east by compass; the stream winding here so exceedingly, that this edifice, though standing on the _west_ of that portion of the river flowing before it, and facing the _east_, is yet on the _eastern_ side of the Tigris, in its general course. Another curiosity of the same kind is exhibited; that in regard to the sailing of boats, the stream being so serpentine, that those which are going _up_ by it to Bagdad are seen steering south-south-west through one reach, and north-west through another above it. Nor ought we to close here. Sir R. K. Porter furnishes a beautiful anecdote. "The history of Persia, from the Royut-ul-Suffa," says he, "gives an interesting anecdote of this palace. A Roman ambassador, who had been sent to Chosroes with rich presents, was admiring the noble prospect from the window of the royal palace, when he remarked a rough piece of ground; and making inquiry why it was not rendered uniform with the rest, the person to whom he spoke replied, 'It is the property of an old woman, who, though often requested to sell it to the king, has constantly refused; and our monarch is more willing to have his prospect spoiled, than to perfect it by an act of violence.' 'That rough spot,' cried the Roman, 'consecrated by justice, now appears to me more beautiful than all the surrounding scene'."[211] NO. XXXI.--DELPHOS. Casting the eye over the site of ancient Delphos[212], one cannot imagine what has become of the walls of the numerous buildings, which are mentioned in the history of its former magnificence. With the exception of a few terraces, nothing now appears. We do not even see any swellings or risings in the ground, indicating the graves of the temple. All, therefore, is mystery; and the Greeks may truly say,--"Where stood the walls of our fathers? Scarce their mossy tombs remain!" But Though here no more Apollo haunts his grot, And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their grave, Some gentle spirit still pervades the spot, Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious wave. Delphos is now sunk into a village,--a village of wretchedness,--known by the name of Castri. Delphos was built in the form of a kind of amphitheatre, and was divided into three parts; one rising, as it were, above the other. It was universally believed by the ancients to be situated in the middle of the earth; in consequence of which it was called the "navel of the world." It stood under Parnassus. It was not defended by walls, but by precipices, which environed it on all sides. It had temples dedicated to Latona, Diana, and Minerva Providence; also one dedicated to Apollo. This edifice was built, for the most part, of a very beautiful stone; but the frontispiece was of Parian marble, and the vestibule was decorated with paintings. On the walls were moral sentences. In the interior was a statue of the god, and such a multitude of precious things, that it is impossible to describe them. We must refer to Plutarch, Strabo, Pausanias, and other ancient writers; and more particularly to Barthelemy's "Travels of Anacharsis," since he has collected all the principal circumstances in regard to it. Our business is to state the condition to which it is reduced. Before we do this, however, we must admit something of what has been written of this celebrated place. Delphos was an ancient city of Phocis, in Achaia. It stood upon the declivity, and about the middle of the mountain Parnassus, built upon a small extent of even ground, and surrounded by precipices, which fortified it without the aid of art. Diodorus says, that there was a cavity upon Parnassus, whence an exhalation arose, which made the goats skip about, and intoxicated the brain. A shepherd having approached it, out of a desire to know the causes of so extraordinary an effect, was immediately seized with violent agitations of the body, and pronounced words which indicated prophecy. Others made the same experiment, and it was soon rumoured throughout the neighbouring countries. The cavity was no longer approached without reverence. The exhalation was concluded to have something divine in it. A priestess was appointed for the reception of its inspirations, and a tripod was placed upon a vent, from whence she gave oracles. The city of Delphos rose insensibly round about the cave, where a temple was erected, which at length became very magnificent. The reputation of this oracle very much exceeded that of all others. The temple being burned about the fifty-eighth Olympiad, the Amphyctions took upon themselves the care of rebuilding it. They agreed with the architect, for three hundred talents. The cities of Greece were to furnish that sum. The Delphians were taxed a fourth part of it, and made gatherings in all parts, even in foreign nations, for that purpose. Gyges, king of Lydia, and Croesus, one of his successors, enriched the temple of Delphos with an incredible number of presents. Many other princes, cities, and private persons, by their example, in a kind of emulation of each other, had heaped up in it tripods, vessels, tables, shields, crowns, chariots, and statues of gold and silver of all sizes, equally infinite in number and value. The presents of gold which Croesus alone made to this temple amounted, according to Herodotus, to upwards of 254 talents (about 35,500_l._ sterling); and perhaps those of silver to as much. Most of those presents were in being in the time of Herodotus. Diodorus Siculus, adding those of other princes to them, makes the amount 10,000 talents (about 1,300,000_l_). It is not less surprising than true[213], that one of the most celebrated edifices in the world has been so entirely destroyed, that sufficient traces are scarcely left by which the traveller can form even a conjecture as to its position. During the Sacred war, the people of Phocis seized from it 10,000 talents to maintain their armies against their powerful opponents. Sylla plundered it; and Nero carried away no less than five hundred statues of brass, partly of the gods, and partly of the most illustrious heroes. It had been plundered no less than eleven times before. It is not known when this celebrated oracle ceased. Lucian says that answers were given in his time: but most of the Grecian oracles were annihilated when Constantine relinquished the errors of polytheism. Indeed Constantine the Great proved a more fatal enemy to Apollo and Delphos, than either Sylla or Nero: he removed the sacred tripods to adorn the hippodrome of his own city. Afterwards Julian sent Oribesius to restore the temple, but he was admonished by an oracle to represent to the emperor the deplorable condition of the place. "Tell him, the well-built court is fallen to the ground. Phoebus has not a cottage; nor the prophetic laurel; nor the speaking fountain (Cassotis); but even the beautiful water is extinct." The temple was situated in a very romantic situation; rendered still more striking by the innumerable echoes, which multiplied every sound, and increased the veneration of superstitious visitants. But even its form is unknown; though painters, for the most part, have delineated it as circular, amongst whom may be mentioned Claude Lorrain, and Gaspar Poussin. The Apollo Belvidere is supposed to be a copy from the statue in this temple. The Castalian spring, however, still exists, and equally clear as in ancient times. It is ornamented with ivy, and overshadowed by a large fig-tree, the roots of which have penetrated the fissures of the rock. At the front is a majestic plane-tree. The remains of the town wall are a little to the east of the Castalian spring; but no part of it is left but the interior mass, which consists of an exceedingly hard composition of small stones and mortar. When Pausanias visited Delphos, there were four temples and a gymnasium in the vicinity of the eastern gate; and several ruins and fragments may now be seen: some fine blocks of marble, some with inscriptions, a marble triglyph, and other Doric remains. There are none, however, of the hippodrome; in which ten chariots are said to have been able to start at the same moment. The temple has vanished like a dream, leaving not a trace behind; insomuch, that Mr. Dodwell's opinion is, that the site of this far-famed edifice must be sought for under the humble cottages of Castri, as the whole village probably stands within its ancient peribolos. In some places, however, are blocks of considerable magnitude; and some ancient foundations, supposed to be those of the Lesche, which contained the paintings of Polygnotus; and near the Aga's house are several remains of some fluted marble columns, of the Doric order, and of large dimensions. Some inscriptions, too, have been observed. One in marble is in honour of the Emperor Hadrian: "_The council of the Amphictyons, under the superintendence of the priest Plutarch, from Delphi, commemorate the Emperor_." Another: "_The council of Amphictyons and Achaians, in honour of Polycratea, high priestess of the Achaian Council, and daughter of Polycrates and Diogeneia_." Another states that "_The father and mother of Amarius Nepos, honoured by the Senate of Corinth with rewards, due to him as senator and overseer of the Forum, put their son under the protection of the Pythian Apollo_." The remains of the gymnasium are principally behind the monastery. The foundations were sustained by an immense bulwark of hewn stone. There is also some part of a stadium. The marble posts remain. Its length is 660 feet. "I was surprised," says Mr. Dodwell, "to find few fragments of marble among the ruins of Delphos. The town was small; but it was a concentration of great opulence and splendour. What can have become of the materials which adorned its public edifices? Several curiosities are no doubt buried below the village: though the soil is in general so thin and so rocky, that great masses cannot be concealed beneath the superficies." They have, no doubt, crumbled away. The fate, however, of Delphos has been greatly aggravated of late years; for in consequence of some dispute between the agents of Ali Pacha and the inhabitants of Castri, the Pacha laid the village under contribution to pay him the sum of 15,000 piastres. This they were unable to do; in consequence of which everything was taken from them; and this serves to explain the ruined state of the place. "In its present condition," says Dr. Clarke, "there is not in all Lapland a more wretched village than Castri[214]." NO. XXXII.--ECBATANA. This city, which Heraclius says was as large as Athens, was founded by one of the most illustrious princes that ever adorned the earth--Dejoces, King of the Medes. Not that we mean to vindicate or approve all that he did; but, "taking him for all in all," history has but few characters that can be placed in competition with him. It is not our intention to write the history of this celebrated prince anew, his story being almost unanimously allowed: we have only to copy. We shall, therefore, select the account, compiled by Rollin, from the testimony of Herodotus; ours being an abstract. The Medes were a people divided into tribes. They dwelt almost entirely in villages; but Dejoces, finding with how great an inconvenience such a mode of life was attended, erected the state into a monarchy. The methods he took to accomplish this, exhibited the consummate wisdom with which his mind was endowed. When he formed the design, he laboured to make the good qualities that had been observed in him more conspicuous than ever; and he succeeded so well, that the inhabitants of the district in which he lived, made him their judge. His conduct fully answered the expectation of those who elected him. He brought the association into a regular mode of life; and this being observed by a multitude of other villages, they soon began to make him arbitrator for them, as he had been for the first. "When he found himself thus advanced," says the historian, "he judged it a proper time to set his last engines to work for compassing his point. He, therefore, retired from business, pretending to be over-fatigued with the multitude of people that resorted to him from all quarters; and would not exercise the office of judge any longer, notwithstanding all the importunity of such as wished well to the public tranquillity. When any person addressed themselves to him, he told them, that his own domestic affairs would not allow him to attend to those of other people." The consequence of this withdrawal was, that the various communities relapsed into a worse state than they had been before; and the evil increased so rapidly, from day to day, that the Medes felt themselves constrained to meet, in order to endeavour to find some remedy for it. This was what Dejoces had foreseen. He sent emissaries, therefore, to the assembly, with instructions in what manner to act. When the turn came for those persons to speak, they declared their opinion, that unless the face of the republic was entirely changed, the whole country would be entirely uninhabitable. "The only means," said they, "left for us is, to elect a king. Having elected a sovereign, with authority to restrain violence, and make laws, every one can prosecute his own affairs in peace and security." This opinion was seconded by the consent of the whole assembly. All that remained then was to find out a proper person. This did not require much time. Dejoces was the man to whom all eyes were instantly turned. He was, therefore, immediately elected king with the consent of all present. "There is," says the author from whom we borrow, "nothing nobler or greater, than to see a private person, eminent for his merit and virtue, and fitted by his excellent talents for the highest employments, and yet, through inclination and modesty, preferring a life of obscurity and retirement; thus to see such a man sincerely refuse the offer made to him of reigning over a whole nation, and at last consent to undergo the toil of government upon no other motive than that of being useful to his fellow citizens. Such a governor was Numa at Rome, and such have been some other governors, whom the people have constrained to accept the supreme power. But," continues he in a strain of great wisdom, "to put on the mask of modesty and virtue, in order to satisfy one's ambition, as Dejoces did; to affect to appear outwardly what a man is not inwardly; to refuse for a time, and then accept with a seeming repugnancy what a man earnestly desires, and what he has been labouring by secret, underhand, practices to obtain; this double dealing has so much meanness in it, that it goes a great way to lessen our opinion of the person, be his talents never so great or extraordinary." The method by which Dejoces gained his ambition to be king, greatly disenchants us of his merits. But having attained it, he acted in a manner few men have been found to adopt, even when they have arrived at the throne by the most legitimate of methods. He set himself to civilise and polish his subjects; men who, having lived perpetually in villages, almost without laws and without polity, had contracted rude manners and savage dispositions. Thus animated, he selected a hill, the ascent of which was regular on every side, and having marked out, with his own hands, the circumference of the walls, he laid the foundation of a city, which became the capital of the dominions of which he had been elected sovereign. When he had done this, he constructed walls after the following manner. Their number was seven; all disposed in such a manner, that the outermost did not hinder the parapet of the second from being seen; nor the second that of the third, and so of all the rest. Within the last and smallest inclosure he erected his own palace; and there he kept all his treasures. The first and largest inclosure is supposed to have been of about the size of Athens, when at its greatest height. The palace was at the foot of the citadel, and about seven furlongs in circumference. The wood-work was of cedar or cypress; the beams, the ceilings, the columns of the porticoes, and the peristyles, were plated with either gold or silver; the roofs were covered with silver tiles. This city the founder called ECBATANA[215]. The aspect of it was beautiful and magnificent; and, having completed it to his satisfaction, he employed himself in composing laws for the good of the community. In order to do this with greater effect, and with a view to keep up the respect which nearness of view is apt to impair with rude and ignorant persons, he secluded himself almost entirely from the people at large. All was done through the medium of agents and servants. He knew all that was passing. He made a multitude of wise laws. He became literally the true father of his people; for so entirely did he give himself up to the contemplation of their benefit, that though he reigned not less than fifty-three years, he had no reason to complain of any of the neighbouring kingdoms; and so satisfied was he of the good belonging to his own fortune, that he never once engaged in any enterprise against them. Dejoces was succeeded by his son Phraortes, of whom it is not necessary to say more than that he enlarged the city his father had built. He was succeeded by Cyaxares I., who reigned forty years. He made himself master of all the cities of the kingdom of Assyria, except Babylon and Chaldæa. Astyages was the next king of the Medes, he who is called in scripture Ahasuerus.[216] He married his daughter, Mandana, to Cambyses king of Persia; and thereby became grandfather to the great Cyrus, one of the most remarkable princes in all history. He was succeeded by Cyaxares II., called in scripture Darius the Mede; who, under the generalship of Cyrus, having taken Babylon, Cyrus, on the death of his father Cambyses, and his uncle, whom he had made governor of Babylon, united the empires of the Medes and Persians under one and the same authority. Ecbatana, therefore, from that time ceased to be the chief seat of authority[217]. Diodorus Siculus relates, that when Semiramis came to Ecbatana, "which," says he, "is situated in a low and even plain," she built a stately palace there, and bestowed more care upon that city than she had done upon any other. For the city wanting water (there being no spring near it), she plentifully supplied it with such as was good, which she brought thither in this manner. There is a mountain called Orontes, twelve furlongs distant from the city, exceedingly high and steep for the space of twenty-five furlongs up to the top. On the other side of this mount there is a large mere, or lake, which empties itself into the river. At the foot of this mount she dug a canal fifteen feet in breadth and forty in depth, through which she conveyed water to the city in great abundance[218]. Alexander being in pursuit of Darius, came within three days' march of Ecbatana, where he was met by the son of Ochus, who informed him that Darius had left that city five days before, carrying with him five thousand talents (about one million five hundred thousand pounds), from the Median treasury. When Alexander took possession of the city, he laid up all the treasure he had got from Persis and Susiana. It was in this city that Darius made the following remarkable speech to the principal officers of his army. He had lost Persepolis and Pasagarda:--"Dear companions, among so many thousand men who composed my army, you only have not abandoned me during the whole course of my ill-fortune; and, in a short time, nought but your fidelity and constancy will be able to make me fancy myself a king. Deserters and traitors now govern in my cities. Not that they are thought worthy of the honour bestowed upon them; but rewards are given them only in the view of tempting you, and staggering your perseverance. You still chose to follow my fortune rather than that of the conqueror; for which you certainly have merited a recompense from the gods; and I do not doubt but they will prove beneficent towards you, in case that power is denied me. With such soldiers and officers I would brave, without the least dread, the enemy, how formidable soever he may be. What! would any one have me surrender myself up to the mercy of the conqueror, and expect from him, as a reward of my baseness and meanness of spirit, the government of some province which he may condescend to leave? No! It never shall be in the power of any man, either to take away, or fix upon my head, the diadem I wear. The same power shall put a period to my reign and life. If you have all the same courage and resolution, which I can no longer doubt, I assure myself that you shall retain your liberty, and not be exposed to the pride and insults of the Macedonians. You have in your own hands the means either to revenge or terminate all your evils." Having ended this speech, the whole body replied with shouts, that they were ready to follow him in all fortunes. Nabarzanes and Bessus soon showed the unfortunate king how little confidence is to be placed in man. They and other traitors seized upon Darius, bound him in chains of gold, placed him in a covered chariot, and set out for Bactriana, with the design of delivering their master up to Alexander. They afterwards murdered him. Plutarch says of Alexander, that he traversed all the province of Babylon, which immediately made its submission; and that in the district of Ecbatana, he saw a gulf of fire, which streamed continually, as from an inexhaustible source. He admired, also, a flood of naphtha, not far from the gulf, which flowed in such abundance that it formed a lake. The naphtha, in many respects, resembles the bitumen, but is much more inflammable. Before any fire touches it, it catches light from a flame at some distance, and often kindles all the immediate air. The barbarians, to show the king its force, and the subtlety of its nature, scattered some drops of it in the street, which led to his lodging; and standing at one end, they applied their torches to some of the first drops; for it was night. The flame communicated itself swifter than thought, and the street was instantaneously all on fire. On his arrival, Alexander offered magnificent sacrifices to the deities, in thanksgiving for the success that had crowned his arms. Gymnic games and theatrical representations succeeded, and universal festivities reigned in the Grecian army. But in the midst of these rejoicings, the king had the misfortune to lose the friend he loved the most. He was engaged in presiding at the games, when he was suddenly and hastily sent for; but before he could reach the bed-side of Hephæstion, his friend had expired. The king gave himself up to sorrow many days. At length, when he had recovered his self-command, he gave orders for a magnificent funeral, the expense of which is said to have amounted to not less than 10,000 talents, that is, about two millions! All the Oriental subjects were charged to put on mourning; and it is even affirmed, that, to gratify Alexander's affection, several of his companions dedicated themselves and arms to the deceased favourite. The folly of Alexander went even farther. He wrote to Cleomenes, his governor in Egypt, a person of an inordinate bad character, commanding him to erect two temples to Hephæstion; one at Alexandria, and another in the island of Pharos: "If I find these temples erected, when I return into Egypt, I will not only forgive all thy past deeds, but likewise all thou mayest hereafter commit!" Plutarch says:--When he came to Ecbatana, in Media, and had despatched the most urgent affairs, he employed himself in the celebration of games, and other public solemnities; for which purpose 3000 artificers, lately arrived from Greece, were very serviceable to him. But, unfortunately, Hephæstion fell sick of a fever in the midst of this festivity. As a young man and a soldier, he could not bear to be kept to strict diet; and taking the opportunity to dine when his physician Glaucus was gone to the theatre, he ate a roasted fowl, and drank a flagon of wine, made as cold as possible; in consequence of which he grew worse, and died a few days after. Plutarch and Quintus Curtius relate, that when Darius offered Alexander all the country which lies on the west of the Euphrates, with his daughter Statira in marriage, and a portion of 10,000 talents of gold, Parmenio having been present at this offer, and having been required to state his opinion in regard to it, answered, that if it were he, he would accept it; "so would I," answered Alexander, "were I Parmenio." Sometime after this, the life of this excellent friend and consummate general, as well as that of his son, was sacrificed to a mean and wanton accusation made against him of treason against his master's person; dying in the height of his prosperity, in the 70th year of his age. At Ecbatana, it was commonly observed in the army to which he belonged, that Parmenio had gained many victories without Alexander, but that Alexander had gained none without Parmenio. Ecbatana is supposed to have been situated where the modern Hameden now stands; that is, in the province of Irac-Agemi, winding between Bagdad and Ispahan, 240 miles from each. It stands at the foot of a mountain, whence issue streams, that water the country. The adjacent parts are fertile, and productive of corn and rice. The air is healthy, but the winter is said to be intense. Its climate, however, was so fine in ancient times, that the Persian kings preferred it to Ispahan or Susa; hence It acquired the title of the "Royal City." "Ecbatana," says Rennell, "was unquestionably on, or near, the site of Hameden in Al Jebel. A great number of authorities concur in proving this; although many refer to Tauris, or Tebriz, in Aderbigian; Mr. Gibbon and Sir William Jones among the rest. The authorities are too numerous to be adduced here. We shall only mention that Isidore of Charax places it on the road from Seleucia to Parthia; that Pliny says Susa is equi-distant from Seleucia and Ecbatana; and that Ecbatana itself lies in the road from Nineveh to Rages or Ray." "The situation of Hameden," says Mr. Morier, "so much unlike that of other Persian cities, would of itself be sufficient to establish its claim to a remote origin, considering the propensity of the ancients to build their cities on elevated positions. Ispahan, Schiraz, Teheran, Tabris, Khoi, &c., are all built on plains; but Hameden occupies a great diversity of surface, and, like Rome and Constantinople, can enumerate the hills over which it is spread. Its locality, too, agrees with that of Ecbatana, built on the declivity of the Orontes, according to Polybius[219], and is also conformable to Herodotus[220]; who, in describing the walls, rising into circles one above another, says, 'this mode of building was favoured by the situation of the place.'" "I had not expected to see Ecbatana," says Sir Robert Ker Porter, "as Alexander found it; neither in the superb ruin, in which Timour had left it; but, almost unconsciously to myself, some indistinct ideas of what it had been floated before me; and when I actually beheld its remains, it was with the appalled shock of seeing a prostrate dead body, where I had anticipated a living man, though drooping to decay. Orontes, indeed, was there, magnificent and hoary-headed; the funeral remnant of the poor corpse beneath." The extensive plain of Hameden stretched below, and the scene there was delightful. Numberless castellated villages, rising amidst groves of the noblest trees. The whole tract appeared as a carpet of luxuriant verdure, studded by hamlets and watered by rivulets. "If the aspect of this part of the country," thought the traveller, "now presents so rich a picture, when its palaces are no more, what must it have been when Astyages held his court here; and Cyrus, in his yearly courses from Persepolis, Susa, and Babylon, stretched his golden sceptre over this delicious plain? Well might such a garden of nature's bounties be the favourite seat of kings, the nursery of the arts, and all the graceful courtesies of life." The site of the modern town, Sir Robert goes on to observe, like that of the ancient, is on a gradual ascent, terminating near the foot of the eastern side of the mountain. It bears many vestiges of having been strongly fortified. The sides and summits are covered with large remnants of great thickness, and also of towers, the materials of which were bricks, dried in the sun. When it lost the name of Ecbatana in that of Hameden, it seems to have lost its honours too; for while it preserved the old appellation of the capital, whence the great kings of the Kaianian race had dictated their decrees; and where "Cyrus, the king, had placed, in the house of the rolls of its palace, the record wherein was written his order for the rebuilding of Jerusalem," it seems, with the retention of its name, to have preserved some memory of its consequence, even so far into modern times as three centuries of "the Christian era." "It was then," continues our accomplished traveller, "that Tiridates attempted to transfer its glories to his own capital; and, according to Ebn Haukel, the gradual progress of six hundred years mouldered away the architectural superiority of the ancient city. Towards the end of the fourteenth century, Tamerlane sacked, pillaged, and destroyed its proudest buildings, ruined the inhabitants, and reduced the whole, from being one of the most extensive cities of the East, to hardly a parsang in length and breadth[221]. In that dismantled and dismembered state, though dwindled to a mere day-built suburb of what it was, it possessed iron gates, till within these fifty years; when Aga Mahomed Khan, not satisfied with the depth of so great a capital's degradation, ordered every remain of past consequence to be destroyed." The result? "His commands were obeyed to a tittle. The mud alleys, which now occupy the site of ancient streets or squares, are narrow, interrupted by large holes or hollows, in the way, and heaps of the fallen crumbled walls of deserted dwellings. A miserable bazaar or two are passed through in traversing the town; and large lonely spots are met with, marked by broken low mounds over older ruins; with here and there a few poplars or willow trees, shadowing the border of a dirty stream, abandoned to the meanest uses; which, probably, flowed pellucid and admired, when these places were gardens, and the grass-grown heap some stately dwelling of Ecbatana." In one or two spots may be observed square platforms of large stones, many of which are chiselled over with the finest Arabic characters. These, however, are evidently tomb-stones of the inhabitants during the caliphs' rule; the register of yesterday. "As I passed through the wretched hovelled streets, and saw the once lofty city of Astyages, shrunk like a shrivelled gourd, the contemplation of such a spectacle called forth more saddening reflections than any that had awakened in me on any former ground of departed greatness. In some I had seen mouldering pomp, or sublime desolation; in this, every object spoke of neglect, and hopeless poverty. Not majesty in stately ruin, pining to find dissolution on the spot where it was first blasted; but beggary, seated on the place which kings had occupied, squalid with rags, and stupid with misery. It was impossible to look on it and not exclaim, "O Ecbatana, seat of princes! How is the mighty fallen, and the weapons of war perished!" Sir Robert saw, not far from the remains of a fortress to the south, the broken base and shaft of a column; which, on examination, proved to him that the architecture of Persepolis and Ecbatana had been the same. Hameden is to be seen for several miles before reaching Surkhahed, for several stages. Mr. Morier saw nothing in Persia that wore such an appearance of prosperity; for the plain, about nine miles in breadth and fifteen in length, was one continued series of fields and orchards. Hameden itself is one of the best watered places in Persia. All the habitations are interspersed with trees. The most conspicuous building is a large mosque, called Mesjed Jumah, now falling into decay; and there was to be seen, every morning, before the sun rises, a numerous body of peasants, with spades in their hands, waiting to be hired for the day, to work in the surrounding fields.[222] Near the Mosque, in a court, filled with tents, stands a building, called the sepulchre of Esther and Mordecai. It is of an architecture of the earliest ages of Mohammedism. It was erected in the year of the Creation 4474, by two devout Jews of Kasham. _Translation of the inscription on the marble slab in the sepulchre of Esther and Mordecai._ "Mordecai, beloved and honoured by a king, was great and good. His garments were those of a sovereign. Ahasuerus covered him with this rich dress, and also placed a golden chain around his neck. The city of Susa rejoiced at his honours, and his high fortune became the glory of the Jews." On a steep declivity of the Orontes are to be seen two tablets, each of which is divided into three longitudinal compartments, inscribed by the arrow-headed character of Persepolis. In the northern skirts of the city, Mr. Morier found another monument of antiquity. This is the base of the column, which we noticed just now; and this, Mr. Morier is equally certain with Sir Robert, is of the identical order of the columns of Persepolis, and of the same sort of stone. This, says Mr. Morier, led to a discovery of some importance; for, adjacent to this fragment is a large but irregular terrace, evidently the work of art, and perhaps the ground-plan of some great building; of the remains of which its soil must be the repository. Mr. Morier is induced to believe, that the situation of this spot agrees with that Polybius[223] would assign to the palace of the kings of Persia, which, he says, was below the citadel. Besides these, there are many other antiquities; but as they all belong to Mohammedan times, they do not come within the sphere of our subject. There are some hopes that this city may, one day, assume a far different rank than what it now holds;[224] for, within a few years, it has been created a royal government, and committed to the care of Mohammed Ali Mirza. Palaces, therefore, have been erected, and mansions for his ministers, new bazaars and mercantile caravanserais. We shall close this account with Sir Robert's description of the view that is to be seen from Mount Orontes, now called Mount Elwund. "It is one of the most stupendous scenes I had ever seen! I stood on the eastern park. The apparently intermediate peaks of the Courdistan mountains spread before me far to the north-west; while continued chains of the less towering heights of Louristan stretched south-east; and linking themselves with the more lofty piles of the Bactiari, my eye followed their receding summits, till lost in the hot and tremulous haze of an Asiatic sky. The general hue of this endless mountain region was murky red; to which in many parts the arid glare of the atmosphere gave so preternatural a brightness, that it might well have been called a land of fire. From the point on which I stood, I beheld the whole mass of country round the unbroken concave:--it was of enormous expanse; and although, from the clearness of the air, and the cloudless state of the heavens, no object was clouded from my sight; yet, from the immensity of the height whence I viewed the scene, the luxuriancy of the valleys was entirely lost in the shadows of the hills; and nothing was left to the beholder from the top of Elwund, but the bare and burning summits of countless mountains. Not a drop of water was discernible of all the many streams, which poured from the bosom into the plains below. In my life I had never beheld so tremendous a spectacle. It appeared like standing upon the stony crust of some rocky world, which had yet to be broken up by the Almighty word, and unfold to the beneficent mandate the fructifying principles of earth and water, bursting into vegetation and terrestrial life[225]." NO. XXXIII.--ELEUSIS. This was a town of Attica, equally distant from Megara and the Piræus; greatly celebrated for the observance, every fifth year, of the greatest festival in Greece, called the Eleusinian; a festival sacred to Ceres and Proserpine; every thing appertaining to which was a secret, or mystery; to divulge any of which was supposed to call down an immediate judgment from heaven. "Ceres," says an Athenian orator, "wandering in quest of her daughter Proserpine, came into Attica, where some good offices were done her, which it is unlawful for those who are not initiated to hear. In return, she conferred two unparalleled benefits:--the knowledge of agriculture, by which the human race is raised above the brute creation; and the mysteries, from which the partakers derive sweeter hopes than other men enjoy, both in the present life and to eternity." There is nothing in all the Pagan antiquity more celebrated than the mysteries and feasts of Ceres Eleusina[226]. Their origin and institution are attributed to Ceres herself, who in the reign of Erechtheus, coming to Eleusis, a small town of Attica, in search of her daughter Proserpine, whom Pluto had carried away, and finding the country afflicted with a famine, she not only taught them the use of corn, but instructed them in the principles of probity, charity, civility, and humanity. These mysteries were divided into the less and the greater, of which the former served as a preparation for the latter. Only Athenians were admitted to them; but of them each sex, age, and condition had a right to be received. All strangers were absolutely excluded. We shall consider principally the greater mysteries, which were celebrated at Eleusis. Those who demanded to be initiated into them, were obliged, before their reception, to purify themselves in the lesser mysteries, by bathing in the river Ilissus, by saying certain prayers, offering sacrifices, and, above all, by living in strict continence during an interval of time prescribed them. That time was employed in instructing them in the principles and elements of the sacred doctrine of the great mysteries. When the time for their initiation arrived, they were brought into the temple; and to inspire the greater reverence and terror, the ceremony was performed in the night. Wonderful things passed upon this occasion. Visions were seen, and voices heard, of an extraordinary kind. A sudden splendour dispelled the darkness of the place; and disappearing immediately, added new horrors to the gloom. Apparitions, claps of thunder, earthquakes, improved the terror and amazement; whilst the person admitted, stupified, sweating through fear, heard trembling the mysterious volumes read to him. These nocturnal rites were attended with many disorders, which the severe law of silence, imposed on the persons initiated, prevented from coming to light. The president in this ceremony was called a Hierophant. He wore a peculiar habit, and was not admitted to marry. He had three colleagues; one who carried a torch; another, a herald, whose office was to pronounce certain mysterious words; and a third, to attend at the altar. Besides these officers, one of the principal magistrates of the city was appointed to take care that all the ceremonies of this feast were exactly observed. He was called the king, and was one of the nine Archons. His business was to offer prayers and sacrifices. The people gave him four assistants. He had, besides, ten other ministers to assist him in the discharge of his duty, and particularly in offering sacrifices. The Athenians initiated their children of both sexes very early into these mysteries, and would have thought it criminal to have let them die without such an advantage. It was regularly celebrated every fifth year; that is, after a revolution of four years: and history records, that it was never interrupted, except upon the taking of Thebes by Alexander the Great. It was continued down to the time of the Christian emperors; and Valentinian would have abolished it, if Prætextatus, the proconsul of Greece, had not represented in the most lively and affecting terms the universal sorrow which the abrogation of that feast would occasion among the people; upon which it was suffered to subsist. It is supposed to have been finally suppressed by Theodosius the Great. At this place there were several sacred monuments, such as chapels and altars; and many rich citizens of Athens had pleasant and beautiful villas there[227]. The great temple at Eleusis was plundered by the Spartan king Cleomenes, and it was burnt by the Persians, in their flight after the battle of Platæa. It was afterwards rebuilt by Iktinos; but nearly entirely destroyed by Alaric. After this Eleusis became an inconsiderable village. It is now inhabited by a few poor Albanian Christians. The temple of Ceres and Proserpine was built under the administration of Pericles. It was of the marble of Pentelicus. It was equally vast and magnificent. Its length, from north to south, was about three hundred and eighty-six feet, and its breadth about three hundred and twenty-seven; and the most celebrated artists were employed in its construction and decoration. "In the most flourishing times of Athens," says Wheler, "Eleusis was one of their principal towns, but is now crushed down under their hard fortune, having been so ill treated by the Christian pirates, more inhuman than the very Turks, that all its inhabitants have left it; there being now nothing remaining but ruins. The place is situated upon a long hill, stretched out near to the sea, north-east and north-west, not far distant from the mountain Gerata. The whole hill seems to have been built upon, but chiefly towards the sea, where the first thing we came to was the stately temple of Ceres, now prostrate upon the ground; I cannot say, 'not having one stone upon another,' for it lieth all in a confused heap together, the beautiful pillars buried in the rubbish of its dejected roof and walls, and its goodly carved and polished cornices used with no more respect than the worst stone of the pavement. It lies in such a rude and disorderly manner, that it is not possible to judge of its ancient form; only it appeared to have been built of most beautiful white marble, and no less admirable stone." There are also remains of several old sepulchres; and among these was lately found an inscription relative to something dedicated to Ceres and her daughter, by Fabius, the Dadouchos. Another is in the wall of a cottage, and is relative to a member of the Areopagus, who erected a statue to his wife. The temple of Neptune is supposed to have been near the sea, where traces now remain, composed of dark Eleusinian marble. The foundations of the ancient tombs are still visible; but there are no remains of the city walls; but a long wall, which united it with the port, may be still traced with little interruption. The temple of Venus, which was of the Doric order, is now a mass of rubbish, among which have been found several marble doves of the natural size. Many fragments, says Mr. Dodwell, have probably been removed, owing to its propinquity to the sea, and the consequent facility of exportation. The church of St. Zacharias is almost entirely composed of ancient fragments. This is probably the situation of the temple of Diana; and of a large ancient well he supposes to be that mentioned by Pausanias, round which the women of Eleusis danced in honour of the goddess. There were also temples dedicated to Triptolemus and Neptune, the father; but of these not a fragment remains[228]. NO. XXXIV.--ELIS. Elis was formed, like many of the Grecian cities, more especially in the Peloponnesus, by the union of several hamlets. It was a large and populous city in the time of Demosthenes; but in that of Homer it did not exist. Elis was originally governed by kings, and received its name from Eleus, one of its monarchs. It was famous for the horses it produced, whose celebrity was so often tried at the Olympic games. "On our arrival at Elis," says Anacharsis, "we met a procession on its way to the temple of Minerva, and that made part of a ceremony, in which the youth of Elis contended for the prize of beauty. The victor was led in triumph; the first, with his head bound with ribands, bore the weapons to be consecrated to the goddess; the second conducted the victim; and the third carried the other offerings. I have often seen similar contests in Greece, for the young men; as well as for the women and girls. Even among distant nations, I have seen women admitted to public competitions; with this difference, however, that the Greeks decree the prize to the most beautiful, and the barbarians to the most virtuous." This city was once ornamented with temples, sumptuous edifices, and a number of statues. Among these was particularly distinguished the group of the Graces, in a temple dedicated to them. They were habited in a light and brilliant drapery;--the first held a myrtle branch in honour of Venus; the second, a rose, to denote the spring; the third, a die, the symbol of infant sports. The chief curiosity at Elis, however, was a statue of Jupiter, formed by Phidias[229]. The serene majesty and beauty of this piece of sculpture ranked it among the wonders of the world. Jupiter was represented sitting upon a throne, with an olive wreath of gold about his temples; the upper part of his body was naked; a wide mantle, covering the rest of it, hung down in the richest folds to his feet, which rested on a footstool. The naked parts of the statue were of ivory; the dress was of beaten gold, with an imitation of embroidery, painted by Panænus, brother of Phidias. In the right hand stood the goddess Victoria, turning towards the statue, and carved, like it, out of ivory and gold; she was holding out a band, with which she appeared desirous to encircle his olive crown. In his left hand the divinity held a parti-coloured sceptre, made of various metals skilfully joined, and on the sceptre rested an eagle. Power, wisdom, and goodness, were admirably expressed in his features. He sat with the air of a divinity, presiding among the judges of the games, and dispensing the laurel wreaths to the victors, calm in conscious dignity. The statue was surrounded with magnificent drapery, which was drawn aside only on particular occasions, when the deity was to be exhibited. A sense of greatness and splendour overwhelmed the spectator, the height of the figure being about forty feet. The structures of Elis[230] seem to have been raised with materials far less elegant and durable than the produce of the Ionian and Attic quarries. The ruins are of brick, and not considerable; consisting of pieces of ordinary wall, and an octagon building with niches, which, it is supposed, was the temple, with a circular peristyle. These stand detached from each other, ranging in a vale southward from the wide bed of the river Peneus, which, by the margin, has several large stones, perhaps the relics of the gymnasium. The ruins of Elis, says Mr. Dodwell, are few and uninteresting. Of Grecian remains nothing is seen but a confused wreck of scattered blocks. There are some masses of brick-work, and an octagon tower of the same materials, which appears to be of Roman origin. It is surprising that there should be so few remains of the temples, porticoes, theatres, and other edifices, which embellished the town at the time of Pausanias; but some suppose that much is covered by the earth; since it is considerably higher than its original level[231]. NO. XXXV.--EPHESUS. This city was once reputed the metropolis of Asia; and thence it was styled Epiphanestata, a name signifying "Monstrous." It was at first not merely a village, but a small village; yet, in the time of Strabo, it was the largest and most frequented emporium of all that continent. It was situated in Ionia, about 50 miles south of Smyrna, near the mouth of the river Cayster. Pliny tells us, that before his age, it had been known by various names. In the time of the Trojan war, it was called Alopes; soon after, Ortygia, and Morges; then it took the name of Smyrna; then Samornium, and Ptelea. "It is mounted on a hill," says he, "and hath the river Cayster under it, which cometh out of the Cilbian hills, and brings down with it the waters of many other rivers; but is principally maintained and enriched by the lake Pegaseum, which discharges itself by the river Phyrites, that runs into it. A large quantity of mud is brought down, which increases the land; for already, a good way within the land, is an island called Phyrie, nearly joined to the continent." Pliny, and several other ancient writers, assert that this city was founded by the Amazons; but others, with greater probability, ascribe that honour to a party emigrating from Athens. As this emigration was important, we shall pause a little upon it. It is called the Ionic emigration. It was led from Athens by two young men, named Neleus and Androcles, the younger sons of Codrus the king. Multitudes followed them, especially certain Ionian and Messenian families, who had taken refuge in that city after the Dorian conquest. On landing, they seized upon four hundred miles[232] of Asia Minor, together with the islands of Samos and Chios; and having driven out the Carians and Segetes, founded twelve cities. Of these Ephesus was one[233]. Neleus settled at Miletus; but Androcles, the elder brother, at Ephesus. Strabo relates, that the authority of Androcles was at first acknowledged over all the cities; but that a republican government was soon after established, and that the municipality of each city claimed sovereign authority; the whole being, nevertheless, united by confederacy; having, for considering their common affairs, a general council. This council was called Panionium. This form of government continued to the time of Pythagoras, who lived before Cyrus the Great, and was one of the most savage tyrants of whom history makes mention. He was succeeded by Pyndarus, who ruled with a less absolute and cruel sway; in whose time Ephesus was besieged by Croesus, king of Lydia. That prince advised the inhabitants to dedicate their city to Diana; and they having resolved to follow his advice, he treated them with kindness, and restored them to their former liberty. The other tyrants, mentioned in Ephesian history, were, Athenagoras, Comes, Aristarchus, and Hegesias. The last of these governed under the patronage of Alexander[234]. That conqueror, however, at length expelled him; and, having done so, bestowed upon the temple of Diana, after having defeated the Persians on the banks of the Granicus,--all the tributes which the Ephesians had been accustomed to pay to the Persian kings. He also established a democracy in the city. Ephesus was greatly assisted, also, by Lysander the Lacedemonian. Plutarch relates, that when that person went to Ephesus, he found that city well disposed to the Lacedemonians, but in a bad condition as to its internal policy, and in danger of falling into the hands of the Persians; because it was near Lydia, and the king's lieutenants often visited it. Lysander, therefore, having fixed his quarters there, ordered all his store-ships to be brought into the harbour, and built a dock for his galleys. By these means he filled the ports with merchants, their markets with business, and their houses and shops with money. So that from that time, and from his services, continues Plutarch, Ephesus began to conceive hopes of that greatness and splendour in which it afterwards flourished. We must now describe the temple at this place, dedicated to Diana. It was in part built by the hands of kings. It was four hundred and twenty-five feet long and two hundred feet broad, and not only adorned with the choicest paintings and statues, but with whatever the hand of art or genius could produce in that day of superior execution and magnificence. The roof was supported by one hundred and twenty-seven columns, sixty feet high. Of these, thirty-six were carved in a most exquisite manner: nor was it entirely completed till two hundred and twenty years after its first foundation. Its architect was Ctesiphon. The riches placed in this temple were very great, and the goddess was represented as crowned with turrets, holding in her arms lions; while a number of beasts seemed to indicate the fertility and resources of the earth, or of nature. It was formed of ebony; and Pliny states, that though the staircase, which led up to the top of this edifice, was not very narrow, it was formed out of the trunk of one single vine. This temple was destroyed on the day on which Alexander was born. It was burnt by an Ephesian, who thus desired to immortalise his name. In order to frustrate the accomplishment of this desire, the Ephesians enacted a law, that no one should even be guilty of mentioning his name. The name of Eratostratus, nevertheless, has descended to posterity. Such is the account left us by Plutarch and Valerius Maximus. On this occasion, Hegesias, the Magnesian, "uttered a conceit," says Plutarch, "frigid enough to have extinguished the flames." "It is no wonder," said he, "that the temple of Diana was burnt, when she was at a distance employed in bringing Alexander into the world."[235] All the Magi, continues Plutarch, who were then at Ephesus, looked upon the fire as a sign which betokened a much greater misfortune;--they ran about the town beating their faces, and crying, "that the day had brought forth the greatest scourge and destroyer of Asia." Barthelemy makes Anacharsis visit Ephesus some few years after this calamity. Nothing then remained of this superb temple but the four walls and some columns in the midst of ruins. The fire had consumed the roof and the ornaments which decorated the nave. Alexander offered to rebuild this edifice; but the offer being accompanied by the condition, that the Ephesians should inscribe his name upon it as that of the benefactor; the Ephesians refused to accept his offer. They, nevertheless, refused in a manner that gave him, no doubt, a superior satisfaction. It was, that one deity ought not to raise a temple to another! At the time Barthelemy has named, the temple was beginning to be rebuilt[236]. All the citizens had contributed, and the women had sacrificed their jewels. No change was made in the form of the goddess' statue; a form anciently borrowed from the Egyptians, and which was found, also, in the temples of several other Greek cities. The goddess bore on her head a tower; two iron rods supported her hands; and the body terminated in a sheath, encircled with symbols and the figures of animals. Thirty-six of the columns were carved by Scopas, of the school of Praxiteles[237], and it was in this temple that the Ionic order in architecture was first employed; and every column contained one hundred and ten tons of marble[238]. In the war between the Romans and Mithridates, the Ephesians took part with the latter; and by his command went even so far as to massacre all the Romans in their city[239]. For this atrocity they were severely fined, and reduced almost to beggars. Whoever might have originally founded this city, certain it is that the town, which in the Roman times was the metropolis of Asia, was founded by Lysimachus; he having caused the first city to be destroyed. When he had effected that, he rebuilt it in a more convenient place. This new city became very splendid in process of time; but it was greatly damaged in the reign of Tiberius by an earthquake. On this Tiberius ordered it to be repaired and adorned with many stately buildings; and of that city the ruins which are now visible are the remains. Ephesus was in subsequent times sacked by the Goths, and the temple of Diana again burnt to the ground. The ruin of the temple is thus described by Gibbon:--"In the general calamities of mankind, the death of an individual, however exalted, the ruin of an edifice, however famous, are passed over with careless inattention. Yet, we cannot forget that the temple of Diana at Ephesus, after having risen with increasing splendour from seven repeated misfortunes[240], was finally burnt by the Goths in their third naval invasion. The arts of Greece, and the wealth of Asia, had conspired to erect that sacred and magnificent structure. It was supported by one hundred and twenty-seven marble columns of the Ionic order. They were the gifts of devout monarchs, and each was sixty feet high. The altar was adorned with the masterly sculpture of Praxiteles, who had, perhaps, selected from the favourite legends of the place, the birth of the divine children of Latona, the concealment of Apollo after the slaughter of the Cyclops, and the clemency of Bacchus to the vanquished Amazons[241]. Yet the length of the temple of Ephesus was only four hundred and twenty-five feet; about two-thirds of the measurement of the church of St. Peter's at Rome[242]. In the other dimensions it was still inferior to that sublime production of modern architecture. The spreading arms of a Christian cross require a much greater breadth than the oblong temples of the pagans; and the boldest architect of antiquity would have been startled at the proposal of raising in the air a dome of the size and proportions of the Pantheon. The temple of Diana was, however, admired as one of the wonders of the world. Successive empires, the Persian, Macedonian, and the Roman, had revered its sanctity, and enriched its splendour. But the rude savages of the Baltic were destitute of a taste for the elegant arts, and they despised the ideal terrors of a foreign superstition[243]." In regard to this temple, some have supposed that the subterranean arches still existing are the remains of it. This, however, cannot be allowed. "A Sybilline oracle," says Sir John Hobhouse, "foretold, that the earth would tremble and open, and that this glorious edifice would fall headlong into the abyss; and present appearances might justify the belief, that it was swept from the face of the earth by some overwhelming catastrophe." "It is easier to conceive," he goes on to observe, "that such an event, although unnoticed, did take place, than that a marble temple, four hundred and twenty feet long, and two hundred and twenty feet broad, whose columns (one hundred and twenty-seven in number) were sixty feet high, should have left no other vestige than two fragments of wall, some brick subterraneous arches, and four granite pillars." Certain it is that large portions of this city were carried away at various times to assist in building or adorning other cities, more especially Constantinople. "It is probable," says Hobhouse, "that Christian zeal accelerated the devastations of time; and that the Ephesians, in order to prevent the punishment denounced against the seven churches of Asia, may have been eager to demolish this monument of their glory and their shame. The cedar roofs, the cypress doors, the vine staircase, the sculptured column of Scopas, the altar adorned by Praxiteles, the paintings of Parrhasius and Apelles, and the ebony image of the goddess, may have fallen before the enemies of pagan idolatry; and the piety of the priests might have been more injurious to Diana than the rapacity of the Goths; but neither the cupidity nor audacity of the reformers, against whom the sophist Libanius,--an eye-witness of their progress,--so forcibly exclaims, could have destroyed, although they might have defaced, the vast fabric of the Artemisium itself." Under the reign of Alexius, father of the celebrated Anna de Comnena, Ephesus fell under the dominion of the Mahometans. In A.D. 1206, the Greeks retook it; but seventy-seven years after they lost it again. At the commencement of the fourteenth century, it became a part of the Turkish dominions, and has remained so ever since. Ephesus is greatly distinguished in ecclesiastical history. "First," says Rees, "it may be considered as the abode of many Jews, who obtained the privilege of citizens; and afterwards as the place where the first Paul took up his residence for three years[244]; where he wrought miracles[245], and was resisted by the Jews[246]; and where Timothy was bishop; and where John resided; and moreover, as containing one of the seven churches whose character and doom are recorded by that evangelist in the book of the Revelation[247]." We now pass to the times in which we live; and shall present descriptions of the ruins of this once noble city, in the language of those who have visited them. Aiasaluck is situated about thirteen or fourteen hours from Smyrna. It is now a small village, inhabited by a few Turkish families, standing chiefly on the south of a hill, called the Castle-hill, among bushes and ruins. Near a caravanserai is a marble sarcophagus, which serves as a water-trough to a well before it. It bears an inscription; and from that is learnt, that it once contained the bodies of the commander of a Roman trireme named the Griffin, and his wife. "We sat near this sarcophagus," says Dr. Chandler, "in the open air, while our supper was preparing; when suddenly fires began to blaze up among the bushes, and we saw the villagers collected about them in savage groups, or passing to and fro with lighted brands for torches. The flames, with the stars and a pale moon, afforded us a dire prospect of ruin and desolation. A shrill owl, named Cucuvaia from its note, with a night-hawk, flitted near us; and a jackal cried mournfully, as if forsaken by his companions on the mountain." Such was the scene where Ephesus had been! "We retired," continues this elegant and accomplished traveller, "early in the evening to our shed; not without some sensations of melancholy, which were renewed at the dawn of day. We had then a distinct view of a solemn and most forlorn spot; a neglected castle, a grand mosque, and a broken aqueduct, with mean cottages, and ruinous buildings, interspersed among wild thickets, and spreading to a considerable extent. Many of the scattered structures are squares, with domes, and have been baths. Some gravestones occurred, finely painted and gilded, as the Turkish manner is, with characters in relievo. But the castle, the mosque, and the aqueduct, are alone sufficient evidences, as well of the former greatness of the place, as of its importance." The castle is a large and barbarous edifice, with square towers. You ascend to it over heaps of stones, intermixed with scraps of marble. "An outwork," continues Dr. Chandler, "which secured the approach, once consisted of two lateral walls from the body of the fortress, with a gateway. This is supported on each side by a huge and awkward buttress, constructed chiefly with the seats of a theatre, or stadium, many marked with Greek letters. Several fragments of inscriptions are inserted in it, or lie near. Over the arch are four pieces of ancient sculpture. Two in the middle are in alto-relievo, of most exquisite workmanship, and parts of the same design; representing the death of Patroclus, and the bringing of his body to Achilles." A third is in basso-relievo. "The figures are, a man leading away a little boy, a corpse extended, two women lamenting, and soldiers bearing forth the armour and weapons of the deceased, to decorate his funeral pile." This referred to the story of Hector. The fourth is much injured, but sufficient remains to show boys and vine-branches. The gateway faces the sea. Within the castle were a few huts, an old mosque, and a great deal of rubbish. "If you move a stone, it is a chance but you find a scorpion under it." The grand mosque is situated beneath the castle. The side next the foot of the hill is of stone; the rest of polished marble, veined. In front is a court, having a large fountain; there are, also, broken columns--remains of a portico. The fabric was raised with old materials; and the large granite columns which sustain the roof, as well as all the marbles, are remains of what were long supposed to constitute ancient Ephesus. In regard to the aqueduct, the piers are square; not large, but many, with arches formed with brick. These are constructed with inscribed pedestals, on one of which is the name of Herodes Atticus, whose statue it once supported. These ruins abound in snakes. Chamelions and lizards, also, are frequently seen basking in the sun. "The marbles, yet untouched, would form a copious and curious harvest, if accessible. The downfall of some may be expected continually, from the tottering condition of the fabric; and time and earthquakes will supply the place of ladders; for which the traveller wishes in vain at a place, where, if a tall man, he may almost overlook the houses." And yet these ruins, strictly speaking, are in Dr. Chandler's opinion not those of Ephesus: those lie nearer the sea; and are visible from the castle hill. The ruins of Aiasaluck are those of a town, built in great part, if not entirely, of Ephesian ruins; and it may be supposed, by the Mahometan potentate, Mantakhia, who conquered Ephesus and all Caria, in the year 1313. The site of Ephesus is to be sought for in the way from Aiasaluck to a square tower of white marble, which stands on a ridge, projecting from the chain of Corissus, the southern boundary of the plain of the Cayster. For about half a mile from the village the route is over a flat, interspersed with thickets of tamarinds, agnus-castus, and other shrubs; it then arrives at a low round hill which extends to the north-east from the high range of Corissus. All the inhabitants of the once famous Ephesus, the chief of this part of Asia, as the mistress governing the rest, by the residence of the proconsul here, amount now not to above forty or fifty families of Turks, living in poor thatched cottages, without, says Wheler, one Christian among them. They lie in a knot together, on the south side of the castle. "Within the gate, on the castle wall," continues he, "we saw a marble, whereon is cut a face, representing the moon, with two snakes; one on one side of the head, and the other on the other; joining their heads in the middle of the crown, and their tails pointing outwards; with each of them a circle in such shape, they both represent a bow. This was to represent the deity Hecate triformis; the moon in the heavens, represented by the large round visage; Proserpine in Hell, represented by the snakes; and Diana upon earth by the bow." All the principal part of the ruins are on the side of the hill, lately mentioned, and in a flat recess between the west side of it and the high mountains. On the slope of the hill which is called Pion, or Prion (sometimes Lepre Acte), is a large arch of white marble, built, like the aqueduct before mentioned, from ancient ruins. On another part of the hill are two arches and vestiges of a theatre. This was, doubtless, the theatre into which the people rushed, shouting, "Great is Diana!" when St. Paul, by his preaching, produced a tumult at Ephesus. In both wings of this theatre, the seats and the ruins of the proscenium of which are removed, are several architectural fragments; and over an arch, once one of the avenues, is an inscription, enjoining the reader: "_If he did not think proper to approach the festive scene, at least to be pleased with the skill of the architect, who had saved a vast circle of the theatre; all-conquering time having yielded to the succour he had contrived._" Coming to a narrow valley, broken columns and pieces of marble are observed, with vestiges of an Odeum, or music-room; this is stripped of the seats, and is naked. Beyond this are the remains of a large edifice, greatly resembling the one with an arcade at Troas. The top of one of the niches is painted with waves and fishes; and amongst the fragments lying in the front are two trunks of statues, of great size, without heads and almost buried; the drapery of which is both the same, alike remarkable. This was the gymnasium. "We pitched our tents," says Dr. Chandler, "among the ruins of this huge building, when we arrived from Claros, and employed on it three days in taking a plan and view. We found the area green with corn, and the site in general overrun with fennel, in seed, the stalks strong and tall." At the entrance from Aiasaluck is a street, and from the remains still existing, it must have been a noble one. The edifices must have been, also, ample ones, with colonnades. There are many bases and pedestals of columns; and the vaulted substructions of the fabrics are still entire. Turning towards the sea, the traveller is greeted with the sight of a prostrate heap, once forming a temple. The cell, or nave, was constructed of large, coarse stones. This temple had four columns between the antæ. Their diameter is about four feet six inches; their length about thirty-two feet; but, including the base and capital, forty-six feet and about seven inches. Though the dimensions of these pillars was so great, the shafts are fluted. The most entire of them, however, are broken into two pieces. The ornaments were rich; but "of inferior taste, and the mouldings ill proportioned[248]." This temple is supposed to be the remains of that erected at Ephesus, by permission of Augustus, to the god Julius. Some, however, have imagined that it might have been that dedicated to Claudius Cæsar on his apotheosis. About a mile from this are the remnants of a sumptuous edifice; among the bushes beneath which are altars of white marble. These stand upon an eminence; and from that is beheld a lovely prospect of the river Cayster, which there crosses the plain from near Gellesus, into a small but full stream, and with many luxuriant windings. Mount Prion, according to Chandler, is among the curiosities of Ionia enumerated by Pausanias. It has served as an inexhaustible magazine of marble, and contributed largely to the magnificence of the city. "The Ephesians, it is related, when they first resolved to provide an edifice worthy of Diana, met to agree on importing materials. The quarries, then in use, were remote, and the expense, it was foreseen, would be prodigious. At this time a shepherd happened to be feeding his flock on mount Prion[249], and two rams fighting, one of them missed his antagonist, and, striking the rock with his horn, broke off a crust of very white marble. He ran into the city with this specimen, which was received with excess of joy. He was highly honoured for this accidental discovery; the Ephesians changing his name from Pixodorus to Evangelus, _the good messenger_, and enjoining their chief magistrate, under a penalty, to visit the spot, and to sacrifice to him monthly." This custom continued to be observed, even so late as the time of Augustus Cæsar. Not far from the gymnasium, are cavities with mouths, like ovens, forming burial-places, made to admit bodies, which were thrust in. This was supposed to have belonged to the oratory or church of St. John, rebuilt by Justinian. Near the city, also, are quarries in the bowels of the mountain, with numberless mazes, and vast, silent, dripping caverns. In many parts of this, Dr. Chandler informs us, are chippings of marble and marks of tools. He found chippings, also, which supplied marble for the city wall, and huge pieces lying among the bushes at the bottom. The Ephesians, at the time in which the learned traveller to whom in this account we have so frequently referred, were a few Greek peasants, living in extreme wretchedness, dependence, and insensibility; "the representatives of an illustrious people, and exhibiting the wreck of their greatness; some, the substructions of the glorious edifices which they raised; some beneath the vaults of the stadium, once the crowded scene of their diversions; and some by the abrupt precipice, in the sepulchres, which received their ashes." These ruins were visited by Sir John Hobhouse. "The desolate walls of the mosque of St. John, and the whole scene of Aiasaluck," says he, "cannot but suggest a train of melancholy reflections. The decay of these religions is thus presented, at one view, to the eye of the traveller! The marble spoils of the Grecian temple adorn the mouldering edifice, over which the tower of the Mussulman, the emblem of another triumphant worship, is itself seen to totter, and sink into the mouldering ruins." Not a single inhabitant, not even a shepherd's hut, was to be seen on the actual site of this once resplendent city! "Its streets are obscure and overgrown," says Chandler. "A herd of goats was driven to it for shelter from the sun at noon; and a noisy flight of crows from the quarries seemed to insult its silence. We heard the partridge call in the area of the theatre, and of the stadium. The glorious pomp of its heathen worship is no longer remembered; and Christianity, which was there nursed by apostles, and fostered by general councils, until it increased in fulness of stature, barely lingers on in an existence hardly visible." Since this, the state of Christianity there has fallen still lower. In 1812, one Greek, who was a baker, living at Aiasaluck, and three or four fishermen, who lived in sheds near the river, were the only Christians to be found in the city of Ephesus[250]. NO. XXXVI.--GERASA. (DJERASH.) This city is placed among those of the Decapolis, in Matthew, vii. 28; and it is from a rock near it, from which the swine are described as having ran down into the Dead Sea. By some it is included in Coelosyria; by others in Arabia. The ruins of this city were discovered by the well known traveller, M. Seetzen (Conseiller d'Ambassade de S. M. l'Empereur de Russie). His letters were addressed to M. von Zach, Grand Marshal of the court of Saxe Gotha, and part of them appeared, at different times, in the Moniteur. Some members of the National Institute sent over these papers to Sir Joseph Banks, by whom they were forwarded to the Palestine Association. One of the most interesting portions of this journal is that, which comprises the account of the ruins of Jerrash, situated in about the centre of the Holy Land, the dilapidated buildings of which had, till then, escaped the notice of its lovers of antiquity, and which, for beauty and importance, may be compared to those of Palmyra and Balbec. "_Jerrash_," says our journalist, "is situated in an open and tolerably fertile plain, through which a river runs. Before entering the town, I found several sarcophagi, with very beautiful bas-reliefs, among which I remarked one, on the edge of the road, with a Greek inscription. The walls of the town are mouldered away, but one may yet trace their whole extent, which may have been three-quarters of a league, or a whole one. These walls were entirely built of hewn marble. The ground within it is of unequal heights, and falls towards the river. Not a single private house remains entire; but on the other hand, I observed several public buildings which were distinguished by a very beautiful style of architecture. I found two superb amphitheatres, solidly built of marble, with columns, niches, &c. the whole in good preservation. I found also some palaces, and three temples, one of which has a peristyle of twelve grand columns of the Corinthian order, eleven of which are still upright. In another of these temples, I saw a column on the ground, of most beautiful polished Egyptian granite. I also found a handsome gate of the city, well preserved, formed of three arcades, and ornamented with pilasters. "The most beautiful thing I discovered was a long street, crossed by another, and ornamented on both sides with a row of marble columns of the Corinthian order, and one of whose extremities terminated in a semicircle, that was set round with sixty pillars, of the Ionic order. At the points where the two streets cross, in each of the four angles, a large pedestal of hewn stone is visible, on which probably statues were formerly set. A part of the pavement remains, formed of hewn stones. "To speak generally, I counted about two hundred columns, which yet partly support their entablatures, but the number of those overthrown is infinitely more considerable: I saw indeed but half the extent of the town, and a person would probably still find in the other half, on the opposite side of the river, a quantity of remarkable curiosities. "Jerrash can be no other than the ancient Geresa, one of the Decapolitan towns. It is difficult to conceive that so much ignorance of its real situation should exist, as would allow Monsieur Paulus, in his map, to have placed it to the _north_-east of the northern extremity of the Lake of Tiberias. I do not know whether any ancient geographer has made the same mistake. From a fragment of a Greek inscription, which I copied, I am led to conclude, that several of the buildings of this town were erected under the Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antoninus. The Roman history may, perhaps, furnish some data in corroboration of this conjecture. It is, at all events, certain, that the edifices of this town are of the age of the most beautiful Roman architecture." Gerasa has been since visited by other travellers, from whose report we learn, that the principal curiosities of antiquity are, a temple adorned in front with a double row of six columns in each row, of which nine are standing; and on each side of the temple there remains one column belonging to the single row of pillars, that surrounded the temple on every side except the front. Of these eleven columns are entire, and two are without capitals. They are of the Corinthian order; their capitals being beautifully ornamented with the acanthus leaf. The interior of this temple is choked with the ruins of the roof. The number of columns which originally adorned the temple and its area, was not less than from 200 to 250. "The whole edifice," says Burckhardt*, "seems to have been superior in taste and magnificence to every public building of the kind in Syria,--the temple of the Sun at Palmyra excepted." To the west of this, at about two hundred yards distance, are the remains of a small temple, with three Corinthian pillars, still standing. Not far from this are two colonnades, of which thirty broken shafts are yet standing, and two entire columns, but without capitals; and opposite to these are five columns, with their capitals and entablatures. Originally there were about fifty. At a short distance from these there are other columns, much larger; and still farther on seventeen Corinthian, all of which are united by their entablature. Some of these are twenty-one, some twenty-five, and others thirty feet high. Their entablatures are slightly ornamented with sculptured bas-reliefs. In other parts of the ruins are other columns; and a large open space is enclosed by a magnificent semicircle of columns in a single row; fifty-seven columns are yet standing; originally, it is supposed, there were sixty. On entering the forum there are four, and then twenty-one, united by their entablatures. To the left, five, seven, and twenty, united in the same manner. They are of the Ionic order; thus differing from all the others. At the end of a semicircle are several basins, which seem to have been reservoirs of water; and remains of an aqueduct are still visible. To the right and left are some other chambers. From this spot the ground rises; and on mounting a low but steep hill, Mr. Burckhardt found on its top a beautiful temple, commanding a view over the greater part of the town. Not far from this are the remains of a theatre. It fronted the town; so that the spectators, seated on the highest row of benches, enjoyed the prospect of all its buildings and quarters. At the back runs the town wall. In another part of the town are found in every direction columns of considerable height, some still standing, others lying prostrate, some having inscriptions on their pedestals. In many parts, the streets are absolutely rendered impassable from fragments; indeed we have not space to describe all that is to be seen among these splendid remains. There are 190 columns still standing, and 100 half columns. In respect to private habitations, there are none in a state of preservation; but the whole of the area within the walls is covered with their ruins. In one of the temples Mr. Irby noticed a curious singularity, viz.--a chamber under ground, below the principal hall of one of the temples, with a bath in the centre. "There are numerous inscriptions in all directions," says Mr. Irby, "chiefly of the time of Antoninus Pius; most of them much mutilated. On the whole, we hold Djerash to be a much finer mass of ruins than Palmyra. This city has three entrances of richly ornamented gateways; and the remains of the wall, with its occasional towers, are in wonderful preservation. "Gerasa," says Mr. Robinson, "was nearly square, each side something less than a mile, the walls crossing the river in two places at right angles; the other two sides being parallel to each other on opposite sides of the hill. The greater part of the inclosed space is covered with the ruins of houses, forming a deep contrast with the elegant specimens of art, whichever way the eye is turned. From the triumphal arch on the south-west side to the wall inclosing the north-east, along both sides of the stream, the whole space is covered; also east and west of it, up the sides of the hill. There are several small eminences within the walls, from one of which, near the northern theatre, the view of columns seems interminable, and that of the rest of the ruins is beyond every thing attractive from this spot;--it is indeed a perfect gallery of art." The smaller theatre, Mr. Robinson is inclined to believe, was used for purposes different from the other; the area below the seats being more extensive, and furnished with a suite of dark, arched chambers, opening into it. The latter was, probably, used to confine the wild beasts destined to combat in the arena; such exhibitions being in vogue at the time Gerasa may be supposed to have flourished[251]. NO. XXXVII.--GRANADA. The city of Granada[252] has twelve gates; and is about eight miles round, defended by high walls, flanked with a multitude of towers. Its situation is of a mixed kind; some parts of it being upon the mountain, and other parts in the plain. The mountainous part stands upon three small eminences; the one is called Albrezzin; which was inhabited by the Moors that were driven out of Baezza by the Christians. The second is called Alcazebe; and the third Alhambra. This last is separated from the other parts by a valley, through which the river Darro runs; and it is also fortified with strong walls, in such a manner as to command all the rest of the city. The greatest part of this fortified spot of ground is taken up with a most sumptuous palace of the Moorish kings. This palace is built with square stones of great dimensions; and is fortified with strong walls and prodigious large towers; and the whole is of such an extent as to be capable of holding a very numerous garrison. The outside has exactly the appearance of an immense romantic old castle; but it is exceedingly magnificent within. But before we enter, we must take notice of a remarkable piece of sculpture over the great gate; there is the figure of a large key of a castle-gate, and at some distance above it, there is an arm reaching towards it; and the signification of this emblematical marble basso-relief is this:--that the castles will never be taken till the arm can reach the key. Upon entering, not only the portico is of marble, but the apartments also are incrusted with marble, jasper, and porphyry, and the beams curiously carved, painted, and gilt; and the ceilings ornamented with pieces of foliage in stucco. The next place you come to is an oblong-square court, paved with marble, at each angle of which there is a fountain, and in the middle there is a very fine canal of running water. The baths and chambers, where they cooled themselves and reposed, are incrusted with alabaster and marble. There is an exceeding venerable tower, called La Toure Comazey; in which are noble saloons, and fine apartments; and all perfectly well supplied with water. In the time of the Moors, there was a kind of espalier, or cut hedge of myrtle, accompanied with a row of orange trees, which went round the canal. From thence you pass into an exceeding fine square, which is called the Square of Lions, from a noble fountain, which is adorned with twelve lions cut in marble, pouring out a vast torrent of water at its mouth; and when the water is turned off, and ceases to run, if you whisper ever so low at the mouth of any one of them, you may hear what is said by applying your ear to the mouth of any one of the rest. Above the lions, there is another basin, and a grand jet-d'eau. The court is paved with marble, and has a portico quite round it, which is supported by one hundred and seventeen high columns of alabaster. In one of the saloons, if you whisper ever so low, it will be distinctly heard at the further end; and this they call the Chamber of Secrets. This sumptuous palace was built by Mahomed Mir, king of Granada, in 1278. "There is no part of the edifice," says Washington Irving, "that gives us a more complete idea of its original beauty and magnificence, than the Hall of Lions, for none has suffered so little from the ravages of time. In the centre stands the fountain, famous in song and story. The alabaster basins still shed their diamond drops; and the twelve lions, which support them, cast forth their crystal streams as in the days of Boabdil. The court is laid out in flower-beds, surrounded by high Arabian arcades of open filagree work, supported by slender pillars of white marble. The architecture, like that of all the other parts of the palace, is characterised by elegance rather than grandeur; bespeaking a delicate and graceful taste, and a disposition to indolent enjoyment. When one looks upon the fair tracery of the peristyles, and the apparently fragile fretwork of the walls, it is difficult to believe that so much has survived the wear and tear of centuries, the shock of earthquakes, the violence of war, and the quiet and no less baneful pilfering of the tasteful traveller. There is a Moorish tradition, that a king who built this mighty pile was skilled in the occult sciences, and furnished himself with gold and silver for the purpose by means of alchymy; certainly never was there an edifice accomplished in a superior style of barbaric magnificence; and the stranger who, even at the present day, wanders among its silent and deserted courts and ruined halls, gazes with astonishment at its gilded and fretted domes and luxurious decorations, still retaining their brilliancy and beauty in spite of the ravages of time. The Alhamr[=a], usually, but erroneously, denominated the Alhambra, is a vast pile of building about two thousand three hundred English feet in length; and its breadth, which is the same throughout, is about six hundred feet. It was erected by M[=u]hammed Ab[=u] Abdill[=a]h, surnamed Algh[=a]lib Bill[=a]h, who superintended the edifice himself, and, when it was completed, made it the royal residence. Although the glory and prosperity of Granada may be said to have departed with its old inhabitants, yet, happily, it still retains, in pretty good preservation, what formed its chief ornament in the time of the Moors. This is the Alhambra, the royal alcazar, or fortress and palace, which was founded by M[=u]hammed Ab[=u]. Abdill[=a]h Ben Nasz, the second sovereign of Granada, defrayed the expense of the works by a tribute imposed upon his conquered subjects. He superintended the building in person, and when it was completed, he made it a royal residence[253]. The immediate successors of this prince also took delight in embellishing and making additions to the fabric. Since the conquest of Granada by the Christians, the Alhambra has undergone some alterations. It was for a time occasionally inhabited by the kings of Spain. Charles the Fifth caused a magnificent palace to be commenced within the walls; but owing to his wars and frequent absences from Spain, or, as some accounts say, to repeated shocks of earthquakes, a splendid suite of apartments, in the Spanish style, is all that resulted from an alleged intention to eclipse the palace of the Moslem kings. Like the rest of the Alhambra, it is falling rapidly to decay through neglect. At present the walls are defaced, the paintings faded, the wood-work is decayed, and festoons of cobwebs are seen hanging from the ceiling. In the works of the Arabs, on the contrary, the walls remain unaltered, except by the injuries inflicted by the hand of man. The beams and wood-work of the ceiling present no signs of decay; and spiders, flies, and all other insects, shun their apartments at every season. The art of rendering timber and paints durable, and of making porcelain, mosaics, arabesques, and other ornaments, began and ended in western Europe with the Spanish Arabs. The palace has had no royal residents since the beginning of the last century, when Philip the Fifth was there for a short time with his queen. The Alhambra is generally spoken of as a palace, but it is to be understood, that, in the extensive sense, the name applies to a fortress, a sort of city in itself. The palace, situated upon the northern brow of a steep hill, overlooks the city of Granada on one side, and on the other commands an extensive view over a most charming country. All the wonders of this palace lie within its walls. Externally, according to the account of Swinburne, it appears as a large mass of irregular buildings, all huddled together without any apparent intention of forming _one_ habitation. The walls are entirely unornamented, of gravel and pebbles coarsely daubed over with plaster. We cannot trace the successive courts and apartments, through which the visiter passes as he penetrates to the interior, or attempt to enumerate their separate claims to notice. The general arrangement of the buildings which compose the palace is exceedingly simple. The courts, for instance, which in our mansions are dull and uninteresting, are here so planned, as to seem a continuation of a series of apartments; and as the whole is on the same level throughout, the prospect through the building, in its perfect state, must have been like a scene of enchantment or a dream; halls and galleries, porticoes and columns, arches, mosaics, with plants and flowers of various hues, being seen in various extensive views, through the haze arising from the spray of the fountains. In every part of the palace its inmates had water in abundance, with a perfect command over it, making it high, low, visible, or invisible, at pleasure. In every department two currents of air were continually in motion. Also, by means of tubes of baked earth placed in the walls, warmth was diffused from subterranean furnaces; not only through the whole range of the baths, but to all the contiguous upper apartments where warmth was required. The doors were large, but rather sparingly introduced; and, except on the side towards the precipice, where the prospect is very grand, the windows are so placed as to confine the view to the interior of the palace. The object of this is declared in an inscription in one of the apartments, which says--"My windows admit the light, but exclude the view of external objects, lest the beauties of Nature should divert attention from the beauties of my work." In this mansion the elaborate arabesques and mosaics which cover the ceilings, walls, and floor, give a consequence and interest even to the smallest apartment. Instead of being papered and wainscoted, the walls are provided with the peculiar ornament which, from the Arabs, has been denominated "arabesque." The receding ornaments are illuminated in just gradation with leaf-gold, pink, light blue, and dusky purple: the first colour is the nearest, the last is the most distant, from the eye; but the general surface is white. The domes and arcades are also covered with ornamented casts, which are as light as wood, and as durable as marble. Besides the inscriptions above alluded to, there are various others. In the king's bath, and in various other parts of the Alhambra, is, "There is no conqueror but God;" and "Glory to our Lord, Sultan Ab[=u] Abdall[=a]h!" Over the principal door of the golden saloon, or hall of ambassadors: "By the sun and its rising brightness; by the moon, when she followeth him; by the day, when he showeth his splendour; by the night, when it covereth him into darkness; by the heaven, and Him who created it; by the earth, and Him who spread it forth; by the soul, and Him who completely formed it: there is no other God but God." The gate of judgment was erected by Sultan Abu Yusuff, A.H. 749. or A.D. 1348, as appears from an Arabic inscription over it. On each side of that inscription is a block of marble, containing (in Arabic) "Praise be to God. There is no God but God, and Mahomet is his prophet. There is no strength but from God." In one of the windows on the right hand of the saloon are the following verses, descriptive of its elegance:-- "I am the ornamented seat of the bride, endowed with beauty and perfection. "Dost thou doubt it? Look, then, at this basin, and thou wilt be fully convinced of the truth of my assertion. "Regard, also, my tiara; thou wilt find it resembling that of the crescent moon. "And Ibn Nasr is the sun of my orb, in the splendour of beauty. "May he continue in the (noon-tide) altitude of glory, secure (from change) whilst the sun sets and disappears." At the entrance of the tower of Comares: "The kingdom is God's;" "The tower is God's;" "Durability is God's." In the middle of the golden saloon: "There is no God but God, the Sovereign, the True, the Manifest. Muhamud is the just, the faithful messenger of God. I flee to God for protection from Satan: the pelted with stones.. In the name of God the merciful, the forgiving; there is no God but He, the living, the eternal; sleep nor slumber seizeth Him. To Him (belongeth) whatever is in the heavens, and whatever is in the earth; who is there who shall intercede with him except by His permission? He knoweth what is before them, and what is behind them; and they comprehend not His wisdom, except what he pleaseth. He hath extended His throne, the heavens, and the earth; the protection of which incommodeth Him not; and he is the exalted, the great! There is no forcing in the faith. Truly, righteousness is distinguished from error. He, therefore, who disbelieveth in (the idol) T[=a]g[=u]t, and believeth in God, hath taken hold of a sure handle, that cannot be broken. God heareth, knoweth the truth of God." The walls of the alcoves in the Court del Aqua, present, also, various effusions of the Muse, which have been inscribed by various travellers; amongst which this:-- "When these famed walls did Pagan rites admit, Here reigned unrivalled breeding, science, wit. Christ's standard came, the prophet's flag assailed, And fix'd true worship where the false prevailed: And, such the zeal its pious followers bore, Wit, science, breeding, perished with the Moor." "On looking from the royal villa or pleasure-house of Ál Generalife," says Mr. Murphy, "the spectator beholds the side of the Alhambra that commands the quarter of the city called the Albrezzin. The massive towers are connected by solid walls, constructed upon the system of fortification, which generally prevailed in the middle ages. Those walls and towers follow all the turnings and windings of the mountain; and previously to the invention of gunpowder and artillery, this fortress must have been almost impregnable. The situation of this edifice is the most delightful and commanding that can be conceived. Wherever the spectator may turn his eyes, it is impossible for him not to be struck with admiration at the picturesque beauty and fertility of the surrounding country. On the north and west, as far as the eye can reach, a lovely plain presents itself, which is covered with an immense number of trees laden with fruit and blossoms; while, on the south, it is bounded by mountains, whose lofty summits are crowned with perpetual snows, whence issue the springs and streams that diffuse both health and coolness through the city of Granada." "But," in the language of Mr. Swinburne, "the glories of Granada have passed away; its streets are choked with filth; its woods destroyed; its territory depopulated; its trade lost. In a word, everything, except the church and the law, is in the most deplorable condition[254]." NO. XXXVIII.--GNIDOS. This was a maritime city of Asia Minor, founded by the Dorians, and much known on account of a victory, which Conon gained over the Lacedemonians. Conon was an Athenian, having the command of the Persian fleet; Pisander, brother-in-law of Agesilaus, of the Lacedemonian. Conon's fleet consisted of ninety galleys; that of Pisander something less. They came in view of each other near Gnidos. Conon took fifty of the enemy's ships. The allies of the Spartans fled, and their chief admiral died fighting to the last, sword in hand. Gnidos was famed for having produced the most renowned sculptors and architects of Greece; amongst whom were Sostratus and Sesostris, who built the celebrated light-tower on the isle of Pharos, considered one of the seven wonders of the world, and whence all similar edifices were afterwards denominated. Venus, surnamed the Gnidian, was the chief deity of this place, where she had a temple, greatly celebrated for a marble statue of the goddess. This beautiful image was the masterpiece of Praxiteles, who had infused into it all the soft graces and attractions of his favourite Phryne; and it became so celebrated, that travellers visited the spot with great eagerness. It represented the goddess in her naked graces, erect in posture, and with her right hand covering her waist; but every feature and every part was so naturally expressed, that the whole seemed to be animated[255]. "We were shown, as we passed by," says Anacharsis, "the house in which Eudoxus, the astronomer, made his observations; and soon after found ourselves in the presence of the celebrated Venus of Praxiteles. This statue had just been placed in the middle of a small temple, which received light by two opposite doors, in order that a gentle light might fall on it on every side. But how may it be possible to describe the surprise we felt at the first view, and the illusions, which quickly followed! We lent our feelings to the marble, and seemed to hear it sigh. Two pupils of Praxiteles, who had lately arrived from Athens to study this masterpiece, pointed out to us the beauties, of which we felt the effect without penetrating the cause. Among the by-standers, one said,--'Venus has forsaken Olympus, and come down to dwell among us.' Another said,--'If Juno and Minerva should now behold her, they would no more complain of the judgment of Paris:' and a third exclaimed,--'The goddess formerly deigned to exhibit her charms without a veil to Paris, Anchises, and Adonis. Has she been seen by Praxiteles?'" Mounting the rocks extending along the sea-shore, Mr. Morritt came in view of the broken cliffs of the Acropolis, and its ruined walls. The foundation and lower courses of the city walls are still visible; these extend from those of the Acropolis to the sea, and have been strengthened by towers, now also in ruins. He found also a building, the use of which he could not understand. It was a plain wall of brown stone, with a semicircle in the centre, and a terrace in front, supported by a breast-work of masonry, facing the sea. The walls were about ten or twelve feet in height, solidly built of hewn stone, but without ornament. There was anciently a theatre; the marble seats of which still remain, although mixed with bushes and overturned. The arches and walls of the proscenium are now a heap of ruins on the ground. A large torso of a female figure with drapery, of white marble, lies in the orchestra. It appears to have been, originally, of good work; but is so mutilated and corroded by the air, as now to be of little or no consequence. Near this are foundations and ruins of a magnificent Corinthian temple, also of white marble; and several beautiful fragments of the frieze, cornice, and capitals, lie scattered about; the few bases of the peristyle remaining in their original situation, so ruined, that it appears impossible to ascertain the original form and proportion of the building. In another part is seen a large temple, also in ruins, and still more overgrown with bushes. The frieze and cornice of this temple, which lie amongst the rubbish, are of the highest and most beautiful workmanship. A little to the north of this stood a smaller temple, of grey veined marble, whereof almost every vestige is obliterated. Several arches of rough masonry, and a breast-work, support a large square area, in which are the remains of a long colonnade, of white marble, and of the Doric order, the ruins of an ancient stoa. Of the Acropolis nothing is left but a few walls of strong brown stone[256]. Besides these there are the remains of two aqueducts; undistinguishable pieces of wall, some three, some five, eight, ten feet from the ground; columns plain, and fluted; a few small octagon altars, and heaps of stones. Along the sea-shore lie pieces of black marble[257]. Whenever the ground is clear[258], it is ploughed by the peasantry around, who frequently stop here for days together, in chambers of the ruins and caves of the rocks. The Turks and Greeks have long resorted thither, as to a quarry, for the building materials afforded by the remains. The British consul at Rhodes states, that a fine colossal statue of marble is still standing in the centre of the orchestra belonging to the theatre, the head of which the Turks have broken off; but he remembers it when in a perfect state. Mr. Walpole brought away the _torso_ of a male statue, and which has since been added to the collection of Greek marbles at Cambridge[259]. NO. XXXIX.--HELIOPOLIS. This city was situated in that part of Egypt which is called the Delta. It was named Heliopolis, city of the sun, from the circumstance of there being a temple dedicated to the sun there; and here, according to historians, originated the tale in respect to the phoenix. At this place, Cambyses, king of Persia, committed a very great extravagance; for he burned its temple, demolished all the palaces, and destroyed most of the monuments of antiquity that were then in it. Some obelisks, however, escaped his fury, which are still to be seen; others were transported to Rome. In this city[260] Sesostris built two obelisks of extreme hard stone, brought from the quarries of Syene, at the extremity of Egypt. They were each 120 cubits high; that is, 30 fathoms, or 180 feet. The emperor Augustus, having made Egypt a province of the Roman empire, caused these two obelisks to be transplanted to Rome, one of which was afterwards broken to pieces. He durst not venture upon a third, which was of monstrous size. It was made in the reign of Rameses; and it is said that 20,000 men were employed in the cutting of it. Constantius, more daring than Augustus, ordered it to be removed to Rome. Two of these obelisks are still to be seen; as well as another of 100 cubits, or 25 fathoms high, and 8 cubits, or 2 fathoms in diameter. Caius Cæsar had it taken from Egypt in a ship of so odd a form, that, according to Pliny, the like had never been seen. At Heliopolis, there remains only a solitary sphinx and an obelisk, to mark the site of the city of the sun, where Moses, Herodotus, and Plato, are said to have been instructed in the learning of the Egyptians; whose learning and arts brought even Greece for a pupil, and whose empire, says Bossuet, in regard to Egypt in general, had a character distinct from any other. "This kingdom (says Rollin) bestowed its noblest labours and finest arts on the improving of mankind; and Greece was so sensible of this, that its most illustrious men,--as Homer, Pythagoras, Plato, even its great legislators, Lycurgus and Solon, with many more,--travelled into Egypt to complete their studies, and draw from that fountain whatever was most rare and valuable in every kind of learning. God himself has given this kingdom a glorious testimony, when, praising Moses, he says of him, that 'he was learned in all the wisdom of the Egyptians.' Such was the desire for encouraging the growth of scientific pursuits, that the discoverers of any useful invention received rewards suitable to their skill and labour. They studied natural history, geometry, and astronomy, and what is worthy of remark, they were so far masters of the latter science, as to be aware of the period required for the earth's annual revolutions, and fixed the year at 365 days 6 hours--a period which remained unaltered till the very recent change of the style. They likewise studied and improved the science of physic, in which they attained a certain proficiency. The persevering ingenuity and industry of the Egyptians are attested by the remains of their great works of art, which could not well be surpassed in modern times; and although their working classes were doomed to engage in the occupations of their fathers, and no others, as is still the custom in India, society might thereby be hampered, but the practice of handicrafts would be certainly improved. The Egyptians were also the first people who were acquainted with the process of communicating information by means of writing, or engraving on stone and metal; and were, consequently, the first who formed books and collected libraries. These repositories of learning they guarded with scrupulous care, and the titles they bore, naturally inspired a desire to enter them. They were called the "Office for the Diseases of the Soul," and that very justly; because the soul was there cured of ignorance, which, it will be allowed, is the source of many of the maladies of our mental faculties[261]." NO. XL.--HERCULANEUM. "It is characteristic of the noblest natures and the finest imaginations," says an elegant writer[262], "to love to explore the vestiges of antiquity, and to dwell in times that are no more. The first is the domain of the imaginative affections alone; we can carry none of our baser passions with us thither. The antiquary is often spoken of as being of a peculiar construction of intellect, which makes him think and feel differently from other people. But, in truth, the spirit of antiquarianism is one of the most universal of human tendencies. There is, perhaps, scarcely any person, for example, not utterly stupid or sophisticated, who would not feel a strange thrill come over him in the wonderful scenes these volumes describe. Looking round upon the long ruined city, who would not, for the moment, utterly forget the seventeen centuries that had revolved since Herculaneum and Pompeii were part and parcel of the world, moving to and fro along its streets! It would not be deemed a mere fever of curiosity that would occupy the mind,--an impatience to pry into every hole and corner of a scene at once so old and so new. Besides all that, there would be a sense of the actual presence of those past times, almost like the illusion of a dream. There is, in fact, perhaps no spot of interest on the globe, which would be found to strike so deep an impression into so many minds." Herculaneum is an ancient city of Italy, situated in the Bay of Naples, and supposed to have been founded by Hercules, or in honour of him, 1250 years before the Christian era.[263] "This city," says Strabo, "and its next neighbour, Pompeii, on the river Sarnus, were originally held by the Osci, then by the Tyrrhenians and Pelasgians, then by the Samnites, who, in their turn, took possession of it, and retained it ever after." The adjacent country[264] was distinguished in all ages for its romantic loveliness and beauty. The whole coast, as far as Naples, was studded with villas, and Vesuvius, whose fires had been long quiescent, was itself covered with them. Villages were also scattered along the shores, and the scene presented the appearance of one vast city, cut into a number of sections by the luxuriant vegetation of the paradise in which it was embosomed. The following epigram of Martial gives an animated view of the scene, previous to the dreadful catastrophe, which so blasted this fair page of Nature's book:-- Here verdant vines o'erspread Vesuvius' sides; The generous grape here pour'd her purple tides. This Bacchus loved beyond his native scene; Here dancing satyrs joy'd to trip the green. Far more than Sparta this in Venus' grace; And great Alcides once renown'd the place; Now flaming embers spread dire waste around, And gods regret that gods can so confound. The scene of luxurious beauty[265] and tranquillity above described was doomed to cease, and the subterranean fire which had been from time immemorial extinct in this quarter, again resumed its former channel of escape. The long period of rest, which had preceded this event, seems to have augmented the energies of the volcano, and prepared it for the terrible explosion. The first intimation of this was the occurrence of an earthquake, in the year 63 after Christ, which threw down a considerable portion of Pompeii, and also did great damage to Herculaneum. In the year following, another severe shock was felt, which extended to Naples, where the Roman emperor Nero was at the time exhibiting as a vocalist. The building in which he performed was destroyed, but unfortunately the musician had left it. These presages of the approaching catastrophe were frequently repeated, until, in A.D. 79 (Aug. 24), they ended in the great eruption. Fortunately we are in possession of a narrative of the awful scene, by an eye-witness;--Pliny the younger, who was at the time at Misenum, with the Roman fleet, commanded by his uncle, Pliny the elder. The latter, in order to obtain a nearer view of the phenomena, ventured too far, and was suffocated by the vapours. His nephew remained at Misenum, and describes the appalling spectacle in a very lively manner. "You ask me the particulars of my uncle's death," says he, in a letter to Tacitus, "in order to transmit it, you say, with all its circumstances, to posterity. I thank you for your intention. Undoubtedly the eternal remembrance of a calamity, by which my uncle perished with nations, promised immortality to his name; undoubtedly his works also flattered him with the same. But a line of Tacitus ensures it. Happy the man to whom the gods have granted to perform things worthy of being written, or to write what is worthy of being read. Happier still is he who at once obtains from them both these favours. Such was my uncle's good fortune. I willingly therefore obey your orders, which I should have solicited. My uncle was at Misenum, where he commanded the fleet. On the 23d of August, at one in the afternoon, as he was on his bed, employed in studying, after having, according to his custom, slept a moment in the sun and drunk a glass of cold water, my mother went up into his chamber. She informed him that a cloud of an extraordinary shape and magnitude was rising in the heavens. My uncle got up and examined the prodigy; but without being able to distinguish, on account of the distance, that this cloud proceeded from Vesuvius. It resembled a large pine-tree: it had its top and its branches. It appeared sometimes white, sometimes black, and at intervals of various colours, according as it was more or less loaded with stones or cinders. "My uncle was astonished; he thought such a phenomenon worthy of a nearer examination. He ordered a galley to be immediately made ready, and invited me to follow him; but I rather chose to stay at home and continue my studies. My uncle therefore departed alone. "In the interim I continued at my studies. I went to the bath; I lay down, but I could not sleep. The earthquake, which for several days had repeatedly shaken all the small towns, and even cities in the neighbourhood, was increasing every moment. I rose to go and awake my mother, and met her hastily entering my apartment to awaken me. "We descended into the court, and sat down there. Not to lose time, I sent for my Livy. I read, meditated, and made extracts, as I would have done in my chamber. Was this firmness, or was it imprudence? I know not now; but I was then very young![266] At the same instant one of my uncle's friends, just arrived from Spain, came to visit him. He reproached my mother with her security, and me with my audacity. The houses, however, were shaking in so violent a manner, that we resolved to quit Misenum. The people followed us in consternation. "As soon as we had got out of the town we stopped. Here we found new prodigies and new terrors. The shore, which was continually extending itself, and covered with fishes left dry on it, was heaving every moment, and repelling to a great distance the enraged sea which fell back upon itself; whilst before us, from the limits of the horizon, advanced a black cloud, loaded with dull fires, which were incessantly rending it, and darting forth large flashes of lightning. The cloud descended and enveloped all the sea, it was impossible any longer to discern either the isle of Caprea, or the promontory of Misenum. 'Save yourself, my dear son,' cried my mother; 'save yourself; it is your duty; for you can, and you are young: but as for me, bulky as I am, and enfeebled with years, provided I am not the cause of thy death, I die contented.'--'Mother, there is no safety for me but with you.'--I took my mother by the hand, and drew her along.--'O my son,' said she in tears, 'I delay thy flight.' "Already the ashes began to fall; I turned my head; a thick cloud was rushing precipitately towards us.--'Mother,' said I, 'let us quit the high road; the crowd will stifle us in that darkness which is pursuing us.' Scarcely had we left the high road before it was night, the blackest night. Then nothing was to be heard but the lamentations of women, the groans of children, and the cries of men. We could distinguish, through the confused sobs and the various accents of grief, the words, _my father!_--_my son!_--_my wife!_--there was no knowing each other but by the voice. One was lamenting his destiny; another the fate of his relations: some were imploring the gods; others denying their existence; many were invoking death to defend them from death. Some said that they were now about to be buried with the world, in that concluding night which was to be eternal:--and amidst all this, what dreadful reports! Fear exaggerated and believed everything. "In the mean time a glimmering penetrated the darkness; this was the conflagration which was approaching; but it stopped and extinguished; the night grew more intensely dark, and the shower of cinders and stones more thick and heavy. We were obliged to rise from time to time to shake our clothes. Shall I say it? Not a single complaint escaped me. I consoled myself, amid the fears of death, with the reflection that the world was about to expire with me. "At length this thick and black vapour gradually vanished. The day revived, and even the sun appeared, but dull and yellowish, such as he usually shows himself in an eclipse. What a spectacle now offered itself to our yet troubled and uncertain eyes! The whole country was buried beneath the ashes, as in winter under the snow. The road was no longer to be discerned. We sought for Misenum, and again found it; we returned and took possession; for we had in some measure abandoned it. Soon after, we received news of my uncle. Alas! we had but too good reason to be uneasy for him. "I have told you, that, after quitting Misenum, he went on board a galley. He directed his course towards Retina, and the other towns which were threatened. Every one was flying from it; he however entered it, and, amidst the general confusion, remarked all the phenomena, and dictated as he observed. But already a cloud of burning ashes beat down on his galley; already were stones falling all around, and the shore covered with large pieces of the mountain. My uncle hesitated whether he should return from whence he came, or put out to sea. _Fortune favours courage_ (exclaimed he), _let us turn towards Pomponianus_. Pomponianus was at Stabiæ. My uncle found him all trembling: embraced and encouraged him, and to comfort him by his security, asked for a bath, then sat down to table and supped cheerfully; or, at least, which does not show less fortitude, with all the appearance of cheerfulness. "In the mean time Vesuvius was taking fire on every side, amid the thick darkness. 'It is the villages which have been abandoned that are burning,' said my uncle to the crowd about him, to endeavour to quiet them. He then went to bed, and fell asleep. He was in the profoundest sleep, when the court of the house began to fill with cinders; and all the passages were nearly closed up. They run to him; and were obliged to awaken him. He rises, joins Pomponianus, and deliberates with him and his attendants what is best to be done, whether it would be safest to remain in the house or fly into the country. They chose the latter measure. "They departed instantly therefore from the town, and the only precaution they could take was to cover their heads with pillows. The day was reviving everywhere else; but there it continued night; horrible night! the fire from the cloud alone enlightened it. My uncle wished to gain the shore, notwithstanding the sea was still tremendous. He descended, drank some water, had a sheet spread, and lay down on it. On a sudden, violent flames, preceded by a sulphureous odour, shot forth with a prodigious brightness, and made every one take to flight. My uncle, supported by two slaves, arose; but suddenly, suffocated by the vapour, he fell[267],--and Pliny was no more[268]." If this visitation affected Misenum in so terrible a manner, what must have been the situation of the unfortunate inhabitants of Pompeii and Herculaneum, so near its focus? The emperor Titus here found an opportunity for the exercise of his humanity. He hastened to the scene of affliction, appointed curatores[269], persons of consular dignity, to set up the ruined buildings, and take charge of the effects. He personally encouraged the desponding, and alleviated the misery of the sufferers; whilst a calamity of an equally melancholy description recalled him to Rome; where a most destructive fire, laying waste nearly half the city, and raging three days without interruption, was succeeded by a pestilence, which for some time carried off ten thousand persons every day! Herculaneum and Pompeii rose again from their ruins in the reign of Titus; and they still existed with some remains of splendour under Hadrian[270]. The beautiful characters of the inscription, traced out on the base of the equestrian statue of Marcus Nonius Balbus, son of Marcus, are an evident proof of its existence at that period. They were found under the reign of the Antonines. In the geographical monument, known under the name of Peutinger's chart, which is of a date posterior to the reign of Constantine, that is to say in the commencement of the 4th century, Herculaneum and Pompeii were still standing, and then inhabited; but in the Itinerary, improperly ascribed to Antoninus, neither of these two cities is noticed; from which it may be conjectured, that their entire ruin must have taken place in the interval between the time when Peutinger's chart was constructed, and that when the above Itinerary was composed. The eruption, which took place in 471, occasioned the most dreadful ravages. It is very probable that the cities of Herculaneum and Pompeii disappeared at that period, and that no more traces of them were left. It appears, by the observation of Sir W. Hamilton[271], that the matter, which covers the ancient town of Herculaneum, is not the produce of one eruption only; but there are evident marks that the matter of six eruptions has taken its course over that which lie immediately above the town; and which was the cause of its destruction. These strata are either of lava or burnt matter, with veins of good soil between them. The stratum of erupted matter that immediately covers the town, and with which the theatre and most of the houses were filled, is not of that sort of vitrified matter, called lava, but of a sort of soft stone composed of pumice, ashes, and burnt matter. It is exactly of the same nature with what is called the Naples stone. The Italians call it tufa; and it is in general use for building. HERCULANEUM was covered with lava; Pompeii with pumice stone; yet the houses of the latter were built of lava; the product of former eruptions. All memorials of the devoted cities were lost[272]; and discussions, over the places they had once occupied, were excited only by some obscure passages in the classical authors. Six successive eruptions contributed to lay them still deeper under the surface. But after that period had elapsed, a peasant digging a well beside his cottage in 1711, obtained some fragments of coloured marble, which attracted attention. Regular excavations were made, under the superintendence of Stendardo, an architect of Naples; and a statue of Hercules, of Greek workmanship, and also a mutilated one of Cleopatra, were drawn from what proved to be a temple in the centre of the ancient Herculaneum. It may be well conceived with what interest the intelligence was received, that a Roman city had been discovered, which, safely entombed under-ground, had thus escaped the barbarian Goths and Vandals, who ravaged Italy, or the sacrilegious hands of modern pillagers. The remains of several public buildings have been discovered[273], which have possibly suffered from subsequent convulsions. Among these are two temples; one of them one hundred and fifty feet by sixty, in which was found a statue of Jupiter. A more extensive edifice stood opposite to them; forming a rectangle of two hundred and twenty-eight feet by one hundred and thirty-two, supposed to have been appropriated for the courts of justice. The arches of a portico surrounding it were supported by columns; within, it was paved with marble; the walls were painted in fresco; and bronze statues stood between forty columns under the roof. A theatre was found nearly entire; very little had been displaced; and we see in it one of the best specimens extant of the architecture of the ancients. The greatest diameter of the theatre is two hundred and thirty-four feet, whence it is computed, that it could contain ten thousand persons, which proves the great population of the city. This theatre was rich in antiquities[274], independent of the ornamental part. Statues, occupying niches, represented the Muses; scenic masks were imitated on the entablatures; and inscriptions were engraven on different places. Analogous to the last were several large alphabetical Roman characters in bronze; and a number of smaller size, which had probably been connected in some conspicuous situation. A metallic car was found, with four bronze horses attached to it, nearly of the natural size; but all in such a state of decay, that only one, and the spokes of the wheels, also in metal, could be preserved. A beautiful white marble statue of Venus, only eighteen inches high, in the same attitude as the famous Venus de Medicis, was recovered; and either here, or in the immediate vicinity, was found a colossal bronze statue of Vespasian, filled with lead, which twelve men were unable to move. Besides many objects entire, there were numerous fragments of others, extremely interesting; which had been originally impaired, or were injured by attempts to remove them. When we reflect, that sixteen hundred years have elapsed since the destruction of this city[275], an interval which has been marked by numerous revolutions, both in the political and mental state of Europe, a high degree of interest must be experienced in contemplating the venerable remains, recovered from the subterraneous city of Herculaneum. Pliny, the younger, in his letters, brings the Romans, their occupations, manners, and customs, before us. He pictures in feeling terms the death of his uncle, who perished in the same eruption as the city we now describe; and that event is brought to our immediate notice by those very things which it was the means of preserving. Among these we see the various articles which administered to the necessities and the pleasures of the inhabitants, the emblems of their religious sentiments, and the very manners and customs of domestic life. These curiosities consist not only of statues, busts, altars, inscriptions, and other ornamental appendages of Grecian opulence and luxury; but also comprehend an entire assortment of the domestic, musical, and surgical instruments; tripods of elegant form and exquisite execution; lamps in endless variety; vases and basins of noble dimensions; chandeliers of the most beautiful shapes, looking-glasses of polished metal; coloured glass, so hard, clear, and well stained, as to appear like emeralds, sapphires, and other precious stones; a kitchen completely fitted up with copper pans lined with silver, kettles, cisterns for heating water, and every utensil necessary for culinary purposes; also specimens of various sorts of combustibles, retaining their form though burnt to a cinder. By an inscription, too, we learn that Herculaneum contained no less than nine hundred houses of entertainment, such as we call taverns. Articles of glass, artificial gems, vases, tripods, candelabra, lamps, urns, dice, and dice-boxes; various articles of dress and ornaments; surgical instruments, weights and measures, carpenters' and masons' tools; but no musical instruments except the sistrum, cymbals, and flutes of bone and ivory. Fragments of columns of various coloured marble and beautiful mosaic pavements were also found disseminated among the ruins; and numerous sacrificial implements, such as pateræ, tripods, cups, and vases, were recovered in excellent preservation, and even some of the knives with which the victims are conjectured to have been slaughtered. The ancient pictures of Herculaneum[276] are of the utmost interest; not only from the freshness and colour, but from the nature of the subjects they represent. All are executed in fresco; they are exclusively on the walls, and generally on a black or red ground. Some are of animated beings large as life; but the majority are in miniature. Every different subject of antiquity is depicted here; deities, human figures, animals, landscapes, foreign and domestic, and a variety of grotesque beings; sports and pastimes, theatrical performances, sacrifices, all enter the catalogue. In regard to the statues found[277], some are colossal, some of the natural size, and some in miniature; and the materials of their formation are either clay, marble, or bronze. They represent all different objects, divinities, heroes, or distinguished persons; and in the same substances, especially bronze, there are the figures of many animals. It is not probable that the best paintings of ancient Greece and Italy[278] were deposited in Herculaneum or Pompeii, which were towns of the second order, and unlikely to possess the master-pieces of the chief artists, which were usually destined to adorn the more celebrated temples or the palaces of kings and emperors. Their best statues are correct in their proportions, and elegant in their forms; but their paintings are not correct in their proportions, and are, comparatively, inelegant in their forms. A few rare medals also have been found among these ruins, the most curious of which is a gold medallion of Augustus, struck in Sicily in the fifteenth year of his reign. Nor must we omit one of the greatest curiosities, preserved at Portici[279]. This consists of a cement of cinders, which in one of the eruptions of Vesuvius surprised a woman, and totally enveloped her. This cement, compressed and hardened by time around her body, has become a complete mould of it, and in the pieces here preserved, we see a perfect impression of the different parts to which it adhered. One represents half a bosom, which is of exquisite beauty; another a shoulder, a third a portion of her shape, and all concur in revealing to us that this woman was young; that she was tall and well made, and even that she had escaped in her chemise, for some of the linen was still adhering to the ashes. Though the city was destroyed[280] in the manner we have related, remarkably few skeletons have been found, though many were discovered in the streets of Pompeii; but one appears under the threshold of a door with a bag of money in his hand, as if in the attitude of escaping, leaving its impression in the surrounding volcanic matter. These and other valuable antiquities are preserved in the museum at Portici, which occupies the site of ancient Herculaneum, and in the Museo Borbonico at Naples. For details in respect to which, we must refer to the numerous books that have described them. One of the most interesting departments of this unique collection is that of the Papyri, or MSS., discovered in the excavation of Herculaneum. The ancients did not bind their books (which, of course, were all MSS.) like us, but rolled them up in scrolls. When those of Herculaneum were discovered, they presented, as they still do, the appearance of burnt bricks, or cylindrical pieces of charcoal, which they had acquired from the action of the heat contained in the lava, that buried the whole city. They seemed quite solid to the eye and touch; yet an ingenious monk discovered a process of detaching leaf from leaf, and unrolling them, by which they could be read without much difficulty. It is, nevertheless, to be regretted, that so little success has followed the labours of those who have attempted to unrol them. Some portions, however, have been unrolled, and the titles of about 400 of the least injured have been read. They are, for the most part, of little importance; but all entirely new, and chiefly relating to music, rhetoric, and cookery. The obliterations and corrections are numerous, so that there is a probability of their being original manuscripts. There are two volumes of Epicurus "on Virtue," and the rest are, for the most part, productions of the same school of writers. Only a very few are written in Latin, almost all being in Greek. All were found in the library of one individual, and in a quarter of the town where there was the least probability of finding anything of the kind. The following is a list of the most important works that have been discovered:-- 1. Philodemus, on the Influence of Music on the Human Constitution. 2. Epicurus upon Nature. 3. Philomedes on Rhetoric. 4. Id. on the Vices. 5. Id. on the Affinities of the Vices and the Virtues. 6. Id. on the Poets. 7. Id. some Philosophical Fragments. 8. Id. on Providence. 9. Democritus, some Geometrical Fragments. 10. Philostratus on Unreasonable Contempt. 11. Carnisirus on Friendship. 12. Cotothes on Plato's Dialogue of Isis. 13. Chrysippus on Providence. We shall give the reader a specimen, in a fragment of a poem on the Actian war, copied from a manuscript taken from Herculaneum; supposed to be written by C. Rabirius:-- COL. I. ... XIM......... AEL .. TIA· ........... .. CESAR . FA .. AR . HAR . IAM. ..... G ... .. RT.·HIS·ILLE .. NATO . CVM ..... ELIAPOR .. QVEM IVVENES; gRANdAeVOS·ERAT·pEr cVNcTA seguntus[281] BELLA·FIDE·DEXTRAQVE POtENS·RERVMQuE·PER·Vsum CALLIDVS·ADSIDVus traCTANDO·IN MVNERE martis IMMINET oPSESSIS ITALuS·IAM·TVRRIBVS alTIS· Adsiliens muriS·NEC·DEFVit IMPETVS·ILLIS. COL. II. funeraque adCEDVNT·PATRiis deforMIA·TerRIS et foedA Illa mAGIS·QVAM·Si NOS geSTA LATEReNT CVM cuPERet potIVS·PELVSIA mOENIA·CAESAR _vix_ ERAT·IMperIIS·ANIMOs COHlberE SVorVM; QuID·cAPITIS Iam caPTA IACENt QVAE praemia belli? SVBRVITIS·fERro meA·MOENIA QVONdAM·ERat hoSTlS. HAEC·MIHI·CVM·domin A·PLEBES QVOQVE nunc sibi VICTRIX VINDICAT hanc faMVLAM ROMANA POTEntia taNDEM. COL. III. fas et ALeXANDRO thAlaMOS iNtRaRE DEoRVM DIco ETIAM·dOLVISSE·DEAM vIDISSe triuMphoS AcTIACOS·CVM.cAVSa fORES Tu MaxIMA beLLI PARS·ETIAM·IMperII·QVAE·FEMINA·TanTA·? VIrORuM QVAE·SERIEs ANTIQVA fVIT·? NI GLORIA·MENDAX MVLTA vetuStATIS·NIMIO·ConcEDAT·HONORI. COL. IV. .................... EN ................. SAEPE·Ego QVAE·VEteRIS CVraE·seRMoNIBVs angor QVA fuGITVr lux, erro: TameN NVNC·QVAErere caVSAS, EX·SiGVasque mORaS·VITAE·LIBET·EST·.MIHI·CONIuNX; partHos quI·POSSET phARIIS·SVBIVNGERE REGnIS· QVI SPreVIT·NOStraEQVE·MORI·PRO·NOMINE·GENTIS· Hic iGItur pARTIS aniMVM DIDVctuS IN oMnIS qVID·VELIT·INCERTVM·EST·TERriS qVIBVS·, AVT· QVIBVS·VNDIS COL. V. delectVMQue foruM Quo noXIA TVRBA COiRET, PRAEBERETQVE·SVAE·SPECTACVLA·TRisTIA·MORTIS. QVALIS·AD INSTANTIS·ACIES CVM TELA·PAraNTVR SIGNA·TVBAE·CLASSESQVE·SIMVL·TERRESTRibus ARMIS; EST·FACIES·EA·VISA·LOCI·CV.M·SAEVA·COIRENt INSTRVMENTA·NECIS varIO·CONGESTA·PARATV· VNDiQVE·SIC·ILLVC·caMPo DEFORME·COactVM OMNE·VAGABATVR·LETI·GENVS·OMNE·TIMORIS· COL. VI. hic cAdit absumtus fERRO·TumeT·IlLE·VENeno, aVT·PEndenTe suIS·CERVICIBVS·ASPIDE·MOLLEM LABITur iN SOMNVM·TRAHITVRQVE·LIBIDINE·MORTIS· PERCulit adFLATV·BReVIS·HVNC·SINE·MORSIBVS·ANguis voLNERE·SEV·TeNVI·PARS·INLiTA·PARVA·VenENI· OCIus INTEREMiT·LAQVEIS·PArS·COGItVR·ARTIS· INtERSAEPTAM·ANIMAM·PRESSIS·EFFVNDERE·VENIS· ImMERSISQVE fretO·CLAVSERVNT·GVTTVRA·FAVCES· hAS·INTeR·StRAGES·SOLIO·DESCENDIT·eT·INTER COL. VII. A ............ LIA .. NO ................ SIC·ILLI·INTteR·Se mISERO·serMoNe fRVVNTVR· HAEC·REGINA·GERIT·: PROCVL·HAnc OccultA·VIDEBAT· ATROPOS·INRIDeNs inteR·DIVERSA·vagenteM CONSILIA·INTErITVs, QVAM·iAM sua fatA MANeRENT TER·FVERAT·REVOCATA·diES·CVM·PArte senATVS· ET·PATRIAE·cOMItANTE·SVAE·CVM·MILite CAESAR· GENTIS·ALEXANdrI·CupiENs AD·moEnia VENIT· SIGNAQVE·CONSTITVIT·SIC·OMNis terROR IN·ARTVM. COL. VIII. obtereRE·adnisi PORtarVm clAVSTRa pEr VRBEM·, OPSIDIONE·TAMEN·NeC·CORPORA·MOENIBVS·ArceNT· CASTRAQVE·PRO·MVRIS·ATQVE·ARMA·PEDESTRIA·PONVNT· HOS INTER COETVS·ALISQVE·AD·BELLA·PARATVS· VTRAQUE·SOLLEMNIS·ITERVM·REVOCAVERAT·ORBES· CONSILIIS·NOX·APTA·DVCVM·LVX·APTIOR·ARMIS. NO. XXXVIII.--HIERAPOLIS. This was a town in Syria, near the Euphrates, deriving its name from the number of its temples[283]. It abounded in hot springs; and those gave origin to the following fable: "The shepherd poet relates, after mentioning a case in Phrygia, sacred to the nymphs, that near these springs Luna had once descended from the sky to Endymion, while he was sleeping by the herds; that marks of their bed were then extant under the oaks; and in the thickets around it the milk of cows had been spilt, which man still beheld with admiration (for such was the appearance if you saw it afar off); but that from thence flowed clear and warm water, which in a little time concreted round the channel, and formed a stone pavement." The deity most worshipped in ancient times in this city, and indeed throughout all Phoenicia, was the goddess Astarte, called in Scripture the Queen of Heaven and the goddess of the Sidonians. Dr. Chandler and his friend Mr. Revett ascended to the ruins, which are in a flat, passing by sepulchres with inscriptions, and entering from the east. They had soon the theatre on the right hand; and opposite to it, near the margin of the cliff, are the remains of an ancient structure, once perhaps baths, or as was conjectured, a gymnasium; the huge vaults of the roof striking horror as they rode underneath. Beyond is the mean ruin of a modern fortress; and farther on are massive walls of edifices, several of them leaning from their perpendicular, the stones disjointed, and seeming every moment ready to fall--the effects and evidences of repeated earthquakes. In a recess of the mountain, on the right side, is the area of a stadium. Then again sepulchres succeed; some nearly buried in the mountain side, and one, a square building, with an inscription with large letters. The theatre appears to have been a very large and sumptuous structure: part of the front is still standing. In the heap, which lies in confusion, are many sculptures, well executed in basso-relievo, with pieces of architecture inscribed, but disjoined, or so incumbered with massive marbles, that no information could be gathered from them. The character is large and bold, with ligatures. The marble seats are still unremoved. The numerous ranges are divided by a low semicircular wall, near the midway, with inscriptions, on one of which Apollo Archegetes (or the Leader) is requested to be propitious. In another compartment, mention is made of the city by its name; and a third is an encomium, in verse. "Hail, golden city, Hierapolis, the spot to be preferred before any in wide Asia; revered for the rills of the nymphs; adorned with splendour." In some of the inscriptions the people are styled "the most splendid," and the senate "the most powerful." Hierapolis was not so magnificent as Laodicea; but still it was a splendid place; and, like its neighbour city, is now almost "an utter desolation[284]." NO. XLII.--ISFAHAN. "_In the territory of Istakhar is a great building, with statues carved in stone; and there, also, are inscriptions and paintings. It was said that this was a temple of Solomon, to whom be peace! and that it was built by the Dives, or Demons: similar edifices are in Syria, and Baalbeck, and in Egypt._"--EBN HAWKEL; OUSELEY. The origin of Isfahan is not to be traced with any certainty. It is, however, for the most part, supposed to have arisen from the ruins of Hecatompylos,[285] the capital of Parthia. This city was the royal residence of Arsaces, and it was situated at the springs of the Araxes. Whatever may have been the origin of this city, it is universally admitted that the situation of it, topographically, and centrically with regard to the empire, is admirably adapted for a royal residence and capital[286]. It stands on the river Zeinderood; and has been celebrated as a city of consequence from the time in which it was first noted in history[287]; and that is, we believe, at the period in which it was taken possession of by Ardisheer, who, soon after, was proclaimed king of Persia; and was considered by his countrymen as the restorer of that great empire, which had been created by Cyrus and lost by Darius. This prince was so great a sovereign, that it gives pleasure to note some of his sayings:--"When a king is just, his subjects must love him, and continue obedient: but the worst of all sovereigns is he whom the wealthy, and not the wicked, fear." "There can be no power without an army; no army without money; no money without agriculture; no agriculture without justice." "A furious lion is better than an unjust king: but an unjust king is not so bad as a long and unjust war." "Never forget," said he, on his death-bed, to his son, "that, as a king, you are at once the protector of religion and of your country. Consider the altar and throne as inseparable; they must always sustain each other. A sovereign without religion is a tyrant; and a people who have none may be deemed the most monstrous of all societies. Religion may exist without a state; but a state cannot exist without religion; and it is by holy laws that a political association can alone be bound. You should be to your people an example of piety and of virtue, but without pride or ostentation." After a few similar lessons, he concluded in the following manner:--"Remember, my son, that it is the prosperity or adversity of the ruler, which forms the happiness or misery of his subjects; and that the fate of the nation depends upon the conduct of the individual who fills the throne. The world is exposed to constant vicissitudes: learn, therefore, to meet the frowns of Fortune with courage and fortitude, and to receive her smiles with moderation and wisdom. To sum up all:--May your administration be such as to bring, at a future day, the blessings of those whom God has confided to our paternal care, upon both your memory and mine." A.D. 1387, Isfahan surrendered to Timour. The moment he pitched his camp before it, it yielded. Satisfied with this ready submission, Timour commanded that the town should be spared, but that a heavy contribution should be levied on the inhabitants. This had been almost entirely collected, when a young blacksmith, one under age, beat a small drum for his amusement. A number of citizens, mistaking this for an alarm, assembled, and became so irritated from a communication to each other of the distress they suffered, that they began an attack upon those whom they considered the immediate cause of their misery; and, before morning, nearly 3000 of the Tartars, who had been quartered in the city, were slain. The rage of Timour, when he heard of this, exceeded all bounds. He would therefore listen to no terms of capitulation. He doomed Isfahan to be an example to all other cities. The unfortunate inhabitants knew what they had to expect, and made all the resistance they could; but in vain. The walls were carried by storm; and the cruel victor did not merely permit pillage and slaughter, but commanded that every soldier should bring him a certain number of heads. Some of those, more humane than their master, purchased the number allotted, rather than become the executioners of unresisting men. It was found impossible to compute all the slain; but an account was taken of 70,000 heads, which were heaped in pyramids that were raised in monuments of this horrid revenge.[288] Isfahan attained its highest pitch and magnitude in the time of Shah Abbas. It became the great emporium of the Asiatic world; and during his reign nearly a million of people animated its streets, and the equally flourishing peasantry of more than 1400 villages in its neighbourhood, supplied by their labour the markets of this abundant population.[289] Industry, diligence, activity, and negotiations, were seen and heard everywhere. The caravans even were crowded with merchants, and the shops with the merchandise of Europe and Asia; while the court of the great Shah was the resort of ambassadors from the proudest kingdoms, not only of the East but of the West. Travellers thronged thither from every part, not only on affairs of business, but to behold the splendour of the place. In fact, it owes most of the glory it now possesses to Shah Abbas, who, after the conquest of Lar and Ormus, charmed with its situation, made it the capital of his empire between 1620 and 1628; for the fertility of the soil, the mildness of the seasons, and the fine temperature of the air, conspire, it is said, to make Isfahan one of the most delightful cities in the world. The waters of its two rivers, also, are so sweet, pleasant, and wholesome, as to be almost beyond comparison. The splendours of Isfahan are described by Pietro Della Velle[290] and Chardin.[291] What they were would occupy too large a space; but we may judge of the extent and nature of the public works by the causeway[292] this prince formed across the whole of Mazenderen, so as to render that difficult country passable for armies and travellers at all seasons of the year. He threw bridges over almost all the rivers of Persia. He studied, we are told, beyond all former sovereigns, the general welfare and improvement of his kingdom. He fixed on the city of Ispahan as the capital of his dominions; and its population was more than doubled during his reign. Its principal mosque, the noble palace of Chehel-Setoon, the beautiful avenues and porticoes called Châr Bagh, and several of the finest palaces in the city and suburbs, were all built by this prince. In 1721 there was a great rebellion. A celebrated traveller, who was on the spot, assures us, that the inhabitants of one of the suburbs (Julfa, an Armenian colony), not many years before, amounted to thirty thousand souls. He says, that some of the streets were broad and handsome, and planted with trees, with canals, and fountains in the middle; others narrow and crooked, and arched at top; others again, though extremely narrow, as well as turning and winding many ways, were of an incredible length, and resembled so many labyrinths; that at a small distance from the town there were public walks adorned with plane-trees on either hand, and ways paved with stones, fountains and cisterns: that there were one hundred caravanserais for the use of merchants and travellers, many of which were built by the kings and prime nobility of Persia. He goes on to state, that there was a castle in the eastern part of the town, which the citizens looked upon as impregnable, in which the public money and most of the military stores were kept: but that, notwithstanding the number of baths and caravanserais were almost innumerable, there was not one public hospital. All this was in the suburb of Julfa only. In what condition is that suburb now? A.D. 1722, Mahmoud, chief of the Afghans, invaded Persia, and laid siege to Isfahan. He was at first repulsed and compelled to fall back; in consequence of which he made overtures. These the citizens unfortunately rejected. Mahmoud, in consequence, determined on laying waste the whole of the neighbouring country. Now the districts surrounding Ispahan were, perhaps, the most fruitful in the world, and art had done her utmost to assist nature in adorning this delightful country. This fairest of regions was doomed by Mahmoud to complete ruin! The task occupied his army more than a month; but the lapse of nearly a century has not repaired what their barbarity effected in that period; and the fragments of broken canals, sterile fields, and mounds of ruins, still mark the road with which they laboured in the work of destruction. A famine ensued in consequence of this, and the inhabitants of Isfahan were reduced to despair. The flesh of horses, camels, and mules, became so dear[293], that none but the king, some of the nobles, and the wealthiest citizens, could afford to purchase. Though the Persians abhor dogs as unclean, they ate greedily of them, as well as of other forbidden animals. When these supplies were exhausted, they fed not only upon the leaves and bark of trees, but on leather, which they softened by boiling; and when this was exhausted too, they began to devour human flesh. Men, we are told, with their eyes sunk, their countenances livid, and their bodies feeble and emaciated with hunger, were seen in crowds, endeavouring to protract a wretched existence by cutting pieces from the bodies of those who had just expired. In many instances the citizens slew each other, and parents murdered their children to furnish the horrid meal. Some, more virtuous, poisoned themselves and families, that they might escape the guilt of preserving life by such means. The streets, the squares, and even the royal gardens, were covered with carcases; and the river Zainderand, which flowed through the city, became so corrupted by dead bodies[294], that it was hardly possible to drink of its waters[295]. Overpowered with his misfortunes, Shah Husseyn abdicated his throne in favour of his persecutor. These events are related in Bucke's Harmonies of Nature, thus:--During the reign of Shah Husseyn, Isfahan was besieged by Mahmoud, chief of the Afghans; when the besieged, having consumed their horses, mules, camels, the leaves and bark of trees, and even cloth and leather, finished,--so great was the famine,--with not only eating their neighbours and fellow-citizens, but their very babes. During this siege more human beings were devoured than was ever known in a siege before. Mahmoud having at length listened to terms of capitulation, Husseyn clad himself in mourning; and with the Wali of Arabia, and other officers of his court, proceeded to the camp of his adversary, and resigned the empire. The Afghan chief, in receiving his resignation, exclaimed, "Such is the instability of all human grandeur! God disposes of empires, as he pleases, and takes them from one to give to another!" This occurred in the year 1716. Mahmoud was now king of Persia. But, some time after, fearing a revolt of the people of Isfahan, he invited all the nobles of the city to a feast, and the moment they arrived, a signal was given, and they were all massacred. Their amount was three thousand! not so many as one escaped. Their bodies were exposed in the streets, that the inhabitants might behold and tremble. But an equal tragedy was yet to be performed. He had taken three thousand of the late king's guards into his pay. These men he directed to be peculiarly well treated; and, as a mark of favour, he commanded that a dinner should be dressed for them in one of the squares of the palace. The men came; sat down; and the moment they had done so, a party of the tyrant's troops fell upon them, and not a single soul was allowed to escape! This, however, was not the close of things, but the beginning. A general order was now issued, to put every Persian to death, who had in any way served the former government. The massacre lasted 15 days! Those who survived were made to leave the city, with the sole exception of a small number of male youths, whom the tyrant proposed to train in the habits and usages of his own nation. Nor does this terminate the history of his atrocities. He soon after massacred all the males of the royal family. These victims he caused to be assembled in one of the courts of the palace; when attended by two or three favourites, he commenced, with his own sabre, the horrid massacre. Thirty-nine princes of the blood were murdered on this dreadful occasion. The day of punishment, however, was at hand. He soon after died in a state of horrific insanity! His body was buried in a royal sepulchre; but when Nadir Shah afterwards took Isfahan, he caused it to be taken from the sepulchre and abandoned to the fury of the populace; and the place where he had been interred was converted into a common sewer to receive the filth of the city. This was in the year 1727. Isfahan never recovered these dreadful events. Mr. Hanway tells us, that in the time he visited it, a Persian merchant assured him, that in all Isfahan there were not more than five thousand inhabited houses. It has been, since, several times taken and retaken by tyrants and revolters. It was last taken by Aga Mohamed Khan (A.D. 1785); who dismantled the walls. Its present condition is thus described by Sir Robert Ker Porter:--"The streets are everywhere in ruin; the bazaars silent and abandoned; the caravanserais are equally forsaken; its thousand villages hardly now counting two hundred; its palaces solitary and forlorn; and the nocturnal laugh and song, which used to echo from every part of the gardens, succeeded by the yells of jackals and shouts of famishing dogs." Sir Robert afterwards gives an account of the ruins. From one end of the city to the other, under avenues old and new, through the gardens, and round their delightful "paradises," of shade and fountain, he hardly saw a single creature moving. If, says he, "Isfahan continues fifty years so totally abandoned of its sovereign's notice as it is now, Isfahan will become a total ruin, amidst the saddest of wildernesses." The name of this city is said to have been Sepahan, which it received from the Persian kings, in consequence of its having been the general place of rendezvous for their armies. "This famous city," says Mr. Kinneir[296], "has been so minutely described, even when at the height of its glory, by many travellers, and particularly by Chardin, that it will only be necessary to state the changes that have taken place since the period in which he wrote. The wall, which then surrounded the city, was entirely destroyed by the Afghans, who have left many striking marks of their savage and barbarous habits in every part of the kingdom. The suburb of Julfa has been reduced from twelve thousand to six hundred families; most of the others have shared the same fate; and a person may ride ten miles amidst the ruins of this immense capital. The spacious houses and palaces, which opened to the Royal Avenue, are almost all destroyed. The first view, however," continues Mr. Kinneir, "which the traveller has, on coming from Shirauz, of this great metropolis, is from an eminence, about five miles from the city, when it bursts at once upon his sight, and is, perhaps, one of the grandest prospects in the universe. Its ruinous condition is not observable at a distance; all defects being hid by high trees and lofty buildings; and palaces, colleges, mosques, minarets, and shady groves, are the only objects that meet the eye." The bazaars, constructed by Shah Abbas, which were covered in with vaults, and lighted by numerous domes, are of prodigious extent, and proclaim the former magnificence of the city. They extend considerably more than a mile. The palaces of the king are enclosed in a fort of lofty walls, which have a circumference of three miles. The palace of the Chehel Sitoon, or "forty pillars," is situated in the middle of an immense square, which is intersected by various canals, and planted in different directions with the beautiful chenar tree. The palace was built by Shah Abbas. Under the great room are summer apartments, excavated in the ground, which, in their season, must be delightful retreats. They are also wainscoted, and paved with marble slabs; and water is introduced by cascades, which fall from the ground floor, and refresh the whole range. The Ali Capi gate forms the entrance. This gate, once the scene of the magnificence of the Seffi family, the threshold of which was ever revered as sacred, is now deserted, and only now and then a solitary individual is seen to pass negligently through. The remains of that splendour, so minutely and exactly described by Chardin, are still to be traced; the fine marble remains, and the grandeur and elevation of the dome, are still undemolished.[297] At the Ala Capi gate of the old palaces, which is described as one of the most perfect pieces of brick-work to be found in Persia, used to sit Shah Abbas, and thence review his cavalry, galloping and skirmishing, or witnessed the combats of wild animals[298]. In former times this view from the spot was undoubtedly splendid; but, at present, with the exception of the palaces in the gardens, the whole mass below is one mouldering succession of ruinous houses, mosques, and shapeless structures, which had formerly been the mansions of the nobility, broken by groups or lines of various tall trees, which once made part of the gardens of the houses now in ruins. The freshness of all the buildings is said to be particularly striking to an European, or the inhabitants of any comparatively humid country, in which the atmosphere cherishes a vegetation of mosses, lichens, and other cryptogamous plants, which we particularly associate in our minds with the spectacle of decay. Sir W. Ouseley says, "I explored the ruins of villages, scattered over the plain in all directions near our camp; and some must have been considerable in size and respectability from the handsome houses which they contained. Although pillaged and depopulated by the Afghans almost a century ago, many of their chambers yet remain, with vaults and staircases but little injured; yet no human being is ever seen within their walls, except some traveller, who wonders at finding himself alone in places, which might be easily rendered habitable, situate not above a mile from the walls of a great metropolis. It must be confessed, that these ruins, composed of sun-dried brick and mud, appear, like many edifices in Persia, to much greater advantage on paper than in reality." Morier, in his second journey into Persia, says:--"The great city of Isfahan, which Chardin has described, is twenty-four miles in circumference, were it to be weeded (if the expression may be used) of its ruins, would now dwindle to a quarter that circumference. One might suppose that God's curse had extended over part of this city, as it did over Babylon. Houses, bazaars, mosques, palaces, whole streets, are to be seen in total abandonment; and I have rode for miles among its ruins without meeting with any living creature, except, perhaps, a jackal peeping over a wall, or a fox running to its hole. "In a large tract of ruins," Mr. Morier goes on to observe, "where houses, in different stages of decay, were to be seen, now and then an inhabited house may be discovered, the owner of which may be assimilated to Job's forlorn man, '_dwelling in desolate cities, and which no man inhabiteth, which are ready to become heaps_[299].' Such a remark as this must have arisen from scenery similar to those which parts of Isfahan present; and unless the particular feeling of melancholy which they inspire has been felt, no words can convey any idea of it[300]." NO. XLIII.--ITALICA. This city (in Spain) is supposed to have been founded by the Phoenicians, who give it the name of Hispalis. It was afterwards colonized by the wounded soldiers of Scipio. It was then called Julia, and at last, after a variety of corruptions, Sebilla or Sevilla, la Viega. The Romans embellished it with many magnificent edifices, but of which scarcely any vestige now remains. In regard to the new city, the Gothic kings for some time made it their residence; but it was taken by storm soon after the victory obtained at Xeres, over the Gothic king Rodrigo. It at last fell before Ferdinand III., after a year's siege; and three hundred thousand Moors were compelled to quit the place; notwithstanding which it became the most magnificent city in all Spain, a little after the discovery of America; all the valuable commodities of the West Indies being carried thither. An old Spanish writer thus speaks of this place:--"Not far from hence one sees the _ruins of an ancient city_; and of an amphitheatre, great part of which remains; but many of the great parts lie in such confusion, as if it had been thrown into disorder by an earthquake. The people call this place Sevilla la Vieja, or Old Seville; but the learned take it to be the ancient Italica, the birth-place of the emperor Adrian and Silius Italicus; there having been found a sufficient number of ancient medals and inscriptions to justify that opinion; and amongst others, they found a medal of Tiberius, with the following legend upon it: DIVI. AVG. MVNIC. ITALIC. PERM. And in the time of Fernando el Santo, the conqueror of Seville (which was in the year 1248), this place retained some traces of its ancient name; for it was called Talca. Some of the ruins appear to have been the remains of a temple, and a bath. In the spot near which many of these ruins are to be seen, there is a monastery of St. Isidore; and in the church there is an altar of alabaster, which can scarce be matched in Europe[301]." NO. XLIV.--JERUSALEM. "How doth the city solitary sit, she that was full of people! How is she become a widow, that was great among the nations! Princess among the provinces, how is she become tributary! She weepeth sore in the night, and her tear is upon her cheek: She hath none to comfort her, among all her lovers: All her friends have betrayed her, they became her enemies." _Lamen._ i. 1, 2. "In the whole universe," says Mr. Eustace, "there were only two cities interesting alike to every member of the great Christian commonwealth, to every citizen of the civilised world, whatever may be his tribe or nation--Rome and Jerusalem. The former calls up every classic recollection; the latter awakens every sentiment of devotion; the one brings before our eyes all the splendour of the present world; the other all the glories of the world to come." [Illustration: JERUSALEM.] Palestine, or the land of Canaan, originally extended in length from north to south, near two hundred miles, and from eighty to fifteen in breadth, from east to west. Its southern boundary was formed by the desert of Beersheba, the Dead Sea, the river Arnon, and the river of Egypt, or the Siehor; to the north, it was bounded by the mountainous ridge called Antilibanus; to the east by Arabia, and to the west by the Mediterranean. Though rocky and mountainous, it was one of the most fertile provinces of the temperate zone; a land, according to the authority of the sacred penman, of brooks of waters, of fountains, and depths, that spring out of valleys and hills; a land of wheat, and barley, and vines, and fig-trees, and pomegranates; a land of olive-oil, and honey; a land wherein bread might be eaten without scarceness, whose stones were iron, and out of whose hills might be dug brass. In the midst of this highly favoured region stood the city of Jerusalem, which, according to the Jewish chronology, was founded by their high priest Melchizedec, in the year of the world 2032. It was then called Salem, a word signifying _peace_.[302] Joshua is supposed to have destroyed Jerusalem; that town, though not mentioned, being considered to have been one of those that fought against Gibeon, the king of which was Adoni-zedek[303]. The city was afterwards rebuilt by David, and surrounded with fortifications, extending inwards from the low grounds, called Millo, to the summit of the mountain, on which he erected a citadel, destined alike to be the great fortress of the nation, and the sumptuous residence of its kings. The rich work of the tabernacle, and the splendour which characterised many of their ceremonies, had long tended to inspire the Israelites with a taste for the elegant arts. David's palace, we accordingly find, was a palace of cedar. In raising this structure, the timber of Tyre and the superior skill of its artificers were employed to secure its beauty and stability. When completed, the grace and majesty of the pile reminded the monarch that, in taking up his abode in such a building, he should be more splendidly lodged than the ark and visible emblem of Jehovah itself. With this idea in his mind, he resolved upon erecting a building for the service of God, which should be as worthy of its destination as the ability and piety of man could make it. This design, David not living to carry into execution, was followed up and completed by Solomon his son. From the reign of Solomon to the final destruction of the city, it underwent many vicissitudes, some of which we shall recite. In the fourth year of Solomon's son, Rehoboam (B.C. 971), it was besieged and taken by Sesac, king of Egypt, who carried away the treasures of the temple, as well as those of the royal palace. In 826 B.C. the temple and palace were plundered by Jehoash, and the walls demolished. In 608 B.C. Jerusalem was taken by Nechao, king of Egypt. It was next besieged by Sennacherib, king of Nineveh. That prince having returned from Egypt, which he had ravaged, and taken a great number of prisoners, laid siege to it with a vast army. The city appeared to be inevitably lost: it was without resource, and without hope from the hands of men. It had, however, says the historian, "a powerful protector in Heaven, whose jealous ears had heard the impious blasphemies uttered by the king of Nineveh against his sacred name. In one single night 185,000 men of his army perished by the sword of the destroying angel." Jerusalem was soon after besieged by Nebuchadonosser and taken; when the conqueror caused Jehoiakim to be put in chains with the design of having him carried to Babylon; but, being moved with his affliction, he restored him to his throne. Great numbers, however, of the Jews were carried captives to Babylon, whither all the treasures of the king's palace and a part of the temple were likewise transported. From this famous epoch we are to date the captivity of the Jews at Babylon. They having afterwards rebelled, the king came from Babylon and besieged them anew. The siege lasted nearly a year. At length the city was taken by storm, and a terrible slaughter ensued. Zedekiah's two sons were, by Nebuchadnezzar's orders, killed before their father's face, with all the noblemen and principal men of Judah. Zedekiah himself had both his eyes put out, was loaded with fetters, and carried to Babylon, where he was confined in prison as long as he lived. As to the city and temple, they were both pillaged and burned, and all their fortifications demolished. The kings of Persia soon after permitted the Jews to rebuild the temple;[304] but not the walls. Artaxerxes Epiphanes, however, issued an edict that they might rebuild their walls; and Nehemiah, as governor of Judea, was appointed to put this edict in execution; and, in order to do him higher honour, the king ordered a body of horse to escort him thither. He likewise wrote to all the governors of the provinces on this side the Euphrates, to give him all the assistance possible in forwarding the work for which he was sent. This pious Jew did not fail to execute every part of his commission with great activity and zeal. After the time of Nehemiah, Jerusalem enjoyed peace till the year B.C. 332, when Alexander, having taken Tyre, demanded assistance of the Jews, and being refused by the high-priest, who pleaded an oath, made to Darius, not to take part with his enemies; the Macedonian was incensed, and repairing to Jerusalem, determined to be avenged on the city and its inhabitants; but being met by a multitude of people, dressed in white, the priests arrayed in their robes, and the high priest in a garment of purple and gold, having on his head a tiara, on which was inscribed the name of the Lord, his passion subsided; and, approaching the high-priest, he offered his adoration to God, and saluted all the Hebrews. We pass over Alexander's entry into the city, because enough will be said of that vain-glorious person, in other pages of our work; also the siege which Ptolemy made it sustain, to the time when Antiochus Epiphanes took it by storm; and during three days abandoned it to the fury of his soldiers. He caused no less than 80,000 of its inhabitants to be inhumanly butchered. Forty thousand men, also, were taken prisoners, and the like number sold to the neighbouring nations. He committed, also, a thousand other atrocities. We now come to the period in which it was besieged by another Antiochus, viz. Antiochus Sidetes. Hircanus having been, by the death of Simon, appointed high-priest and prince of the Jews, Antiochus marched with all possible haste, at the head of a powerful army, to reduce Judea, and unite it to the empire of Syria. Hircanus shut himself up in the city, where he sustained a long siege with incredible valour. At length he was compelled, by the extremity of his necessities, to make proposals of peace. Several of the king's councillors, however, advised him not to listen to any proposals of that nature. "The Jews," said they, "were driven out of Egypt, as impious persons, hated by the gods, and abhorred by men. They are enemies to all the rest of mankind. They have no communication with any but those of their own persuasion. They will neither eat nor drink nor have any familiarity with other people; they do not adore the gods that we do; their laws, customs, manners, and religion, are entirely different from those of all other nations; they therefore deserve to be treated by all the nations with equal contempt; to receive hatred for hatred; and to be utterly extirpated." Such was the language addressed to Antiochus; and had he not been devout and generous, says Diodorus, this advice had been followed. He listened, however, to milder counsels, and agreed that the besieged should have leave to surrender their arms; and that their fortifications being demolished, a peace should be granted. All this was done. Some years after this, Jerusalem was taken possession of by the Romans under the command of Pompey the Great, and the temple carried by storm. There were two parties in the city. One, the adherents of Hircanus, opened the gates; the other retired to the mountain where the temple stood, and caused the bridges of the ditch and valley which surrounded it to be broken down. Upon this, Pompey, who was already master of the city, ventured to besiege the temple. The place held out three months, and might, perhaps, have done so for three months longer, and perhaps even obliged the Romans to abandon their enterprise, but for the rigour with which the besieged thought proper to observe the sabbath. They believed, indeed, that they might defend themselves when attacked; but not that they might prevent the works of the enemy, or make any for themselves. The Romans knew how to take advantage of this inaction on sabbath-days. They did not attack the Jews upon them; but filled up the fosses, made their approaches, and fixed their engines without opposition. At length, being able to make a breach in the walls, the place was carried by the sword, and not less than 12,000 persons were slain. The victors entered the temple; and Pompey went even so far as to penetrate to the Holy of Holies, and altered the name of Jerusalem (then called Hierosolyma) to Hierosolymarius. Not long after, Crassus, marching against the Parthians, entered the temple, the treasures of which Pompey held sacred, and rifled it of a sum equivalent, in our money, to £1,500,000. Pompey caused the walls to be demolished: Cæsar afterwards caused them to be rebuilt; and Antipater, executing that commission, soon put the city into as good a position of defence as it had been before the demolition. Notwithstanding this, Jerusalem became subject to another siege by the Romans, acting in behalf of Herod, with 60,000 men. The place held out many months with great resolution; and if the besieged had been as expert in the art of war and the defence of places, as they were brave and resolute, it would not, perhaps, have been taken. But the Romans, who were much better skilled in those things than they, carried the place, after a siege of more than six months. They entered, made themselves masters, plundered and destroyed all before them, and filled every part of the city with blood. The crown of all Judea was soon after placed in the hands of a stranger,--an Idumean--(Herod); in whose reign Jesus Christ was born. During the reign of Herod the Great, Jerusalem was much enlarged and embellished. He erected a superb palace, a theatre, and an amphitheatre. He, also, projected the design of enlarging the temple,[305] which had been erected after the return of the Jews from the Babylonian captivity; and, having begun the work in the eleventh year of his reign, he completed it in eight years. Tacitus call this erection "_immensæ opulentiæ templum_;" and Josephus says, "it was the most astonishing temple he had ever seen, as well on account of its architecture as its magnitude; the richness and magnificence of its various parts, and the reputation of its sacred appurtenances." This temple Herod began to build about sixteen years before the birth of Christ. It was so far completed in nine years and a half, as to be fit for divine service: and what is very remarkable, it was afterwards destroyed by the Romans, in the same month and day of the month, in which Solomon's temple had been destroyed by the Babylonians. In its most flourishing state Jerusalem was divided into four parts, each separated by a wall, viz. 1. The old city of J[=e]bus, standing on Mount Zion, where David built a magnificent palace and castle. This part was called the city of David. 2. The lower city; called the Daughter of Zion, in which part Solomon built two magnificent palaces, for himself and his queen; and which contained that of the Maccabean princes; and the amphitheatre of Herod. Also the citadel of Antiochus; and lastly the citadel built by Herod, upon a high rock, and thence called Antonia. 3. The "New City;" mostly inhabited by merchants, tradesmen, and mechanics. 4. Mount Moriah; on which Solomon built his temple. The height of the temple thus repaired is said to have been one thousand two hundred feet. The stones of which it was built were all of marble, forty cubits long, twelve thick, eight high, and so exquisitely joined that they appeared to be of one combined piece. There were one thousand four hundred and fifty-three columns of Parian marble, and two thousand nine hundred and six pilasters, of such thickness, that three men could hardly embrace them; and their height and capital proportionable, and all of the Corinthian order.[306] All the materials of the original fabric were, as it is well known, finished and adapted to their several ends before they were brought to Jerusalem: that is, the stones in their quarries, and the cedars in Lebanon; so that there was no noise of axe, hammer, or any other tool, heard in the rearing of it. There were no less than one hundred and sixty-three thousand men employed in this work; and yet it took nine years in the building. The expense of building this wonderful structure was prodigious: the gold and silver employed for this purpose, amounted to 800,000,000_l._ sterling, which, according to Prideaux's calculation, was a sum equal to have built the whole of solid silver; but it can scarcely be questioned, we think, that some error has crept into the account[307]: There could not have been so much bullion, much less coin, at that time in the world. In ancient Jerusalem there were ten gates and four towers. Its extent was about one mile. In Solomon's time, this extent appears to have been twice, if not thrice, more. In the time of Titus it was four miles 125 paces. Eusebius lays the circumference at 2550 toises. We must now proceed to give some account of the destruction of the city by Titus[308]: and in doing so we shall adopt the description presented by the author of--"On the Beauties, Harmonies, and Sublimities of Nature." "The war began in the month of May, A.D. 66; and the siege left to the management of Titus, April 14, A.D. 70. Previous to the siege, the city was a prey to the most intolerable anarchy; robbers having broken into it, and filled almost every house with thieves, assassins, and broilers, of every description. The best citizens were thrown into prisons, and afterwards murdered, without even a form of trial. At this time Titus appeared before the gates--a vast multitude having previously arrived in the city to celebrate the feast of the passover. During this celebrated siege, there were no less than three earthquakes; and an aurora borealis terrified the inhabitants with forms, which their fears and astonishment converted into prodigies of enemies fighting in the air, and flaming swords hanging over their temple. They were visited with a plague, so dreadful, that more than one hundred and fifty thousand persons were carried out of the city, at the public charge, to be buried; and six hundred and fifty thousand were cast over the walls, and out of the gates. A famine ensued; and so horrible was the want, that a bushel of corn sold for six hundred crowns. The populace were reduced to the necessity of taking old excrement of horses, mules, and oxen, to satisfy their hunger; and a lady of quality even boiled her own child and ate it--a crime so exquisite, that Titus vowed to the eternal Gods, that he would bury its infamy in the ruins of the city. He took it soon after by storm; the plough was drawn over it; and with the exception of the west walls, and three towers, not one stone remained above another. Ninety thousand persons were made captives; and one million one hundred thousand perished during the siege. Those made captives being sold to several nations, they were dispersed over a great portion of the ancient world; and from them are descended the present race of Jews, scattered singly, and in detached portions, in every province of Europe, and in most districts of Africa and Asia. Thus terminated this memorable siege--a siege the results of which meet the eye in every Jew we meet." The Jews having, in the reign of Adrian, given way to a turbulent disposition, that emperor resolved to level all things to the ground--that is, those buildings which the Jews had erected to destroy the towers, that were left by Titus for the convenience of the Roman garrison; and to sow salt in the ground on which the city had stood. Thus did Adrian literally fulfil the prophecy, that neither in the city, nor in the temple, should one stone be left upon another. This final destruction took place forty-seven years after that of Titus. A new city, under the name of Ælia Capitolina, was soon after built, where the presence of the Jews was absolutely prohibited. In this new city, the Christians were sometimes persecuted, and sometimes protected, by the Roman emperors, till the time when the empress Helena came to visit the city; when, finding it in a most forlorn and ruinous condition, she formed the design of restoring it to its ancient lustre; and her son, Constantine, having embraced the Christian doctrine, he issued an edict, that the old name of Jerusalem should be employed when speaking of the city. A few years after, an attempt was made to rebuild the temple by the emperor Julian, an attempt which is recorded as having proved abortive, from fiery eruptions escaping out of the earth, and dispersing the workmen. In the reign of Justinian, that emperor built a magnificent church at Jerusalem; the foundation being formed by raising part of a deep valley. The stones of a neighbouring quarry were hewn into regular forms; each block was fixed on a peculiar carriage drawn by forty of the strongest oxen, and the roads were widened for the passage of such enormous weights. Lebanon furnished her loftiest cedars for the timbers of the church; and the seasonable discovery of a vein of red marble supplied its beautiful columns;--two of which, the supporters of the extensive portico, were esteemed the largest in the world. In 613, Jerusalem was taken by Chosroes, king of Persia. The sepulchre of Christ and the stately churches of Helena and Constantine were consumed; the devout offerings of three hundred years were rifled, "the true cross" was transported into Persia; and the massacre of ninety thousand Christians is imputed to the Jews and Arabs, who swelled the disorder of the Persian march. It was recaptured by Heraclius in 627. This emperor banished all the Jews, and interdicted them from coming nearer to it than three miles. Nine years after this, Jerusalem was taken by Khaled, one of Omar's generals. Omar being apprised of this success of his arms, immediately set out to visit the Holy City. He was attended in his journey by a numerous retinue. He rode upon a red camel, and carried with him two sacks of provision and fruits. Before him he had a leather bottle containing water, and behind him a wooden platter, out of which many of his retinue ate in common with himself. His clothes were made of camels' hair, and were in a very tattered condition; and the figure he made was mean and sordid to the last degree. On the morning after his arrival, he said prayers and preached to his troops. After the conclusion of his sermon, he pitched his tent within sight of the city. There he signed the articles of capitulation; by which the inhabitants were entitled to the free exercise of their religion, the possession of their property, and his protection. It continued under the caliphs of Bagdad till A.D. 868, when it was taken by a Turkish sovereign of Egypt; during the space of two hundred and twenty years it was subject to several masters, Turkish and Saracenic; and in 1099, it was taken by the crusaders under Godfrey of Bouillon, who was elected king. He was succeeded by his brother Baldwin, who died A.D. 1118, and having no son, his eldest daughter, Melisandra, conveyed the kingdom into her husband's family. In A.D. 1188, Saladin, sultan of the East, captured the city, assisted by Raymond, count of Tripoli, who was found dead in his bed on the morning of the day on which he was to have delivered up the city. It was restored in 1242 to the Latin princes by Salah Ismael, emir of Damascus. They lost it in 1291 to the sultans of Egypt, who held it till 1382. Selim, the Turkish sultan, reduced Egypt and Syria, including Jerusalem, in 1517, and his son Solyman built the present walls in 1534. It continues to the present day under the Turkish dominion, fulfilling the prophecy, that it "should be trodden down of the Gentiles." It is not, therefore, only in the history of Josephus, and in other ancient writers, that we are to look for the accomplishment of Christ's prediction; we see them verified at this moment before our eyes, in the desolate state of this once celebrated city and temple, and in the present condition of the Jewish people; not collected together into any one country, into one political society, and under one form of government, but dispersed into every region of the globe, and everywhere treated with contumely and scorn. We now proceed to give some account of the city, as it now stands, from various travellers who have visited it; confining ourselves, however, almost entirely to what may be called its antiquities. The following particulars in regard to the approach to Jerusalem are from the pen of Mr. Robinson. "As we approach Jerusalem, the road becomes more and more rugged, and all the appearance of vegetation ceases; the rocks are scantily covered with soil, and what little verdure might have existed in the spring, is in the autumn entirely burnt up. There is a like absence of animal life; and it is no exaggeration to say, here man dwelleth not; the beast wandereth not; the bird flieth not; indeed, nothing indicates the approach to the ancient metropolis of Judea, unless it be the apparent evidences of a curse upon its soil, impressed in the dreadful characters just mentioned, whilst the 'inhabitants thereof,' are 'scattered abroad.' Oftentimes on the road was I tempted to exclaim, like the stranger that was come from a strange land, 'Wherefore hath the Lord done this unto the land? what meaneth the heat of this great anger[309]?'" Dr. Clarke, however, was nevertheless struck with its grandeur. He says that, instead of a wretched and ruined town, as he had expected, he beheld a flourishing and stately metropolis, domes, towers, palaces, and monasteries, shining in the sun's rays with inconceivable splendour. "Like many other ancient places," says a French commentator on this account, "it no doubt presents two aspects; a mixture of magnificence and paltriness." To the southward of the site of Bethlehem stands the city castle[310]. It is composed of towers connected by curtains, which form two or three enclosures, the interior successively commanding the exterior. A few old guns, mounted on broken carriages, are planted on its walls to keep the Arabs in awe. The castle is sometimes called the castle of Daniel; and sometimes of the Pisans, having been erected by that people when the city was in the hands of the Christians. From one of the windows looking north, travellers are shown the site of the house of Uriah; and a piece of ground attached to it, and just within the walls, an old tank, called Bathsheba's bath. But the place where the latter was bathing, when seen by the amorous monarch, was more probably the great basin lying in the ravine to the south of the castle at the foot of Mount Zion, and called the lower pool of Gihon. The sides of the hill of Zion have a pleasing appearance; as they possess a few olive-trees and rude gardens, and a crop of corn was growing there when Mr. Carne visited it. On its southern extremity is the mosque of David, which is held in the highest reverence by the Turks, who affirm that the remains of that monarch, and his son Solomon, were interred there. The palace of Pilate is now a Turkish residence, and stands near to the gateway by which Christ was led thence to Calvary, to be crucified. Here is pointed out the spot on which Pilate presented Jesus to the people, declaring he could find no guilt in him; the place on which he fainted under the weight of the cross, and where the Virgin swooned, also, at the sight; the spot where Veronica gave him her handkerchief to wipe his forehead; and lastly, where the soldiers compelled Simon of Cyrene to bear his cross. In the palace the monk points out the room where Christ was confined before his trial; and at a short distance is a dark and ruinous hall, shown as the arch where Christ stood till his judge exclaimed "Behold the man[311]!" One of the streets is said to be the same where Christ made his first appearance after his resurrection; and in the same street stands an Armenian convent, erected over the spot on which James, the brother of John, was beheaded. This is one of the finest buildings in Jerusalem[312]. At a short distance is a small church, said to be erected on the spot where formerly stood the house of the high-priest Annas; and, a little farther on, another which marks the house of Caiaphas; while, just beyond the gate, the attention is directed to a mosque, where the house stood in which Christ ate his last supper. The mosque of Omar, which occupies the site of the Jewish temple, loses nothing of its grandeur or beauty on a near approach. The spacious paved courts, the flights of steps, and surrounding arcades, the dark tall cypress-trees and running fountains, and the large octagonal body of the mosque, with its surrounding domes, produce altogether the finest effect, and increase the desire to enter its forbidden walls. It is said to be the most magnificent piece of architecture in the Turkish empire; far superior to the mosque of St. Sophia in Constantinople. By the sides of the spacious area in which it stands are several vaulted remains; and evidence is said to be capable of proving, that they belonged to the foundation of Solomon's temple[313]. Chateaubriand says, that he was strongly tempted to find some mode of penetrating to the interior of the mosque; but was prevented by the fear, that he might thereby involve the whole Christian population of Jerusalem in destruction. Dr. Richardson, however, succeeded in gratifying a similar curiosity, which he shared in common with a host of other travellers. The Tomb of Zacharias is square, with four or five pillars, and is cut out of the rock. Near this is a sort of grotto, hewn out of the elevated part of the rock, with four pillars in front, which is said to have been the apostles' prison at the time they were confined by the rulers. At a small distance within the gates of St. Stephen, that fronts Olivet, is the pool of Bethesda, said to be the scene of one of Christ's most striking miracles. The pool is at present dry, and its bed nearly filled up with earth and rubbish. Wild tamarisk bushes and pomegranate trees spread their foliage round it; but, according to Chateaubriand, the mason-work of the sides, composed of large stones, joined together by iron cramps, may still be traced; making the measurement of this reservoir to have been in width 40 feet, and in length 150. At its eastern end are some arches dammed up. It is evidently the most ancient work in Jerusalem, and, as such, is an interesting specimen of the primitive architecture of its inhabitants. All travellers seem to agree that this was the pool of Bethesda, memorable in the Gospel history as the scene of the paralytic, related in St. John. It was here, perhaps, that the sheep were marked, preparatory to the sacrifices of the temple[314]. "At about two-thirds of the ascent of the Mount of Olives," says Mr. Robinson, "we were shown the place where our Lord, looking down upon the city, wept over its impending fate. 'Seest thou these great buildings? There shall not be left one stone upon another, that shall not be thrown down[315].'" "From the summit," says Mr. Carne, "you enjoy an admirable view of the city. It is beneath, and very near, and looks, with its valleys around it, like a panorama. This noble mosque of Omar, and large area, planted with palms, its narrow streets, ruinous places and towers, are all laid out before you, as you have seen Naples and Corfu in Leicester-square. On the summit are the remains of a church, built by the empress Helena; and in a small edifice, containing one large and lofty apartment, is shown the print of the last footsteps of Christ, when he took his leave of earth." "About forty years," says Dr. Clarke, "before the idolatrous profanation of the Mount of Olives by Solomon, his afflicted parent, driven from Jerusalem by his son Absalom, came to this eminence to present a less offensive sacrifice, and, as it is beautifully expressed by Adichomius, 'flens et nudis pedibus adoravit,' what a scene does the sublime description, given by the prophet, picture to the imagination of every one who has felt the influence of filial piety, but especially of the traveller, standing upon the very spot where the aged monarch gave to heaven the offering of his wounded spirit. "And David went up by the ascent of Mount Olives, and wept as he went up, and had his head covered, and he went barefoot, and all the people that was with him covered every man his head; and they went up weeping." On the top of the mount are the remains of several works, the history of which has been lost. Among these are several subterraneous chambers. One of them has the shape of a cone, of very large size. It is upon the very pinnacle of the mountain. "The Mount of Olives," says Mons. La Martine, "slopes suddenly and rapidly down to the deep abyss, called the Valley of Jehoshaphat, which separates it from Jerusalem. From the bottom of this sombre and narrow valley, the barren sides of which are everywhere paved with black and white stones, the funereal stones of death, rises an immense hill, with so abrupt an elevation, that it resembles a fallen rampart: no tree here strikes its roots; no moss even can here fix its filaments. The slope is so steep that the earth and stones continually roll from it, and it presents to the eye only a surface of dry dust, as if powdered cinders had been thrown upon it. From the heights of the city, towards the middle of this hill, or natural rampart, rise high and strong walls of large stones, not externally sawed by the mason, which conceal their Hebrew and Roman foundations beneath the same cinders, and are here from fifty to one hundred, and further on, from two to three hundred feet in height. The walls are here cut by three city gates, two of which are fastened up, and the only one open before us seems as void and as desolate as if it gave entrance to an uninhabited town. The walls, rising again beyond this gate, sustain a large and vast terrace, which runs along two-thirds of the length of Jerusalem, on the eastern side; and, judging by the eye, may be a thousand feet in length, and five or six hundred in breadth. It is nearly level, except at its centre, where it sinks insensibly, as if to recall to the eye the _valley of little depth_, which formerly separated the hill of Sion from the city of Jerusalem. This magnificent platform, prepared no doubt by nature, but evidently finished by the hand of man, was the sublime pedestal upon which arose the temple of Solomon. It now supports two Turkish mosques." Acra Hill[316] rose to the north of Sion, the east side facing mount Moriah, on which the temple was situated, and from which this hill was separated only by a chasm, which the Asmoneans partly filled up by lowering the summit of Acra. As we are informed by Josephus, Antiochus Epiphanes erected a fortress upon it to overawe the city and the temple; which fortress, having a Greek or Macedonian garrison, held out against the Jews till the time of Simon, who demolished it, and at the same time levelled the summit of the hill. The east side of Mount Moriah[317] bordered the valley of Kedron, commonly called the Valley of Jehoshaphat, which was very deep: the south side, overlooking a very low spot, (the Tyropoeon,) was faced, from top to bottom, with a strong wall, and had a bridge going across the valley for its communication with Sion. The east side looked towards Acra, the appearance of which from the temple is compared by Josephus to a theatre; and on the north side an artificial ditch, says the same historian, separated the temple from a hill named Begetha, which was afterwards joined to the town, by an extension of its area. The loftiest, the most extensive, and in all respects the most conspicuous eminence, included within the site of the ancient city, was that of Sion, called the Holy Hill, and the citadel of David. This we have positive authority for fixing on the south of the city. David himself saith, "Beautiful for situation, the joy of the whole earth, is Mount Zion; on the sides of the north the city of the great King[318]." "On its summit," says La Martine, "at some hundred paces from Jerusalem, stands a mosque and a group of Turkish edifices, not unlike an European hamlet, crowned with its church and steeple. This is Sion! the palace, the tomb of David! the seat of his inspiration and of his joys, of his life and his repose! A spot doubly sacred to me, who have so often felt my heart touched, and my thoughts rapt by the sweet singer of Israel, the first poet of sentiment, the king of lyrics. Never have human fibres vibrated to harmonies so deep, so penetrating, so solemn; all the most secret murmurs of the human heart found their voice and their note on the lips and the heart of this minstrel! and if we revert to the remote period when such chants were first echoed on the earth; if we consider that at the same period the lyric poetry of the most cultivated nations sang only of wine, love, and war, and the victories of the muses, or of the coursers at the Eleian games, we dwell with profound astonishment on the mystic accents of the prophet king, who addresses God the Creator, as friend talks to friend, comprehends and adores his wonders, admires his judgments, implores his mercies, and seems to be an anticipating echo of the evangelic poetry, repeating the mild accents of Christ, before they had been heard. Prophet or poet, as he is contemplated by the philosopher or christian, neither of them can deny the poet king an inspiration, bestowed on no other man! Read Horace or Pindar after a Psalm? For my part I cannot!" Near Jerusalem is a spot called Tophet, which is a ravine, which contains several ancient tombs, marked with Hebrew and Greek inscriptions. This valley is remarkable for the barbarous worship here paid to Moloch; to which deity parents often sacrificed their offspring by making them pass through the fire. To drown the lamentable shrieks of the children[319] thus immolated, musical instruments were played. After the captivity the Jews regarded this spot with abhorrence, on account of the abominations which had been practised there; and following the example of Josiah[320], they threw into it every species of filth, as well as the carcases of animals, and the dead bodies of malefactors; and to prevent the pestilence which such a mass would occasion, if left to putrefy, constant fires were maintained in the valley in order to consume the whole; hence the place received the appellation of Gehenna. All round the hill of Sion[321], and particularly on that facing the Valley of Hinnom, are numerous excavations which may have been habitations of the living, but are more generally taken for sepulchres of the dead. They are numerous and varied, both in their sizes and forms; and are supposed to have been the tombs of the sons of Heth, of the kings of Israel, of Lazarus, and of Christ. The modern sepulchres of the unfortunate Jews are scattered all around. The declivities of Sion and Olivet are covered with small and ill-shaped stones, disposed with little order:--Here are the tombs of their fathers. The sepulchres of the kings of Judah consist of a series of subterranean chambers, extending in different directions, so as to form a sort of labyrinth, resembling the still more wonderful example, lying westward of Alexandria, in Egypt, by some called "the Sepulchres of the Ptolemies." Each chamber contains a certain number of receptacles for dead bodies, not being much larger than our coffins. The taste, manifested in the interior of these chambers, denotes a late period in the history of the arts. The skill and neatness visible in the carving is admirable, and there is much of ornament in several parts of the work. There are, also, slabs of marble, exquisitely sculptured. These sepulchres are not those of the kings of Judah. Some suppose they may have been constructed by Agrippa, who extended and beautified this quarter of the city; but the most current opinion is, that they were the work of Helena, queen of Aliabene, and her son Izatus. The Sepulchres of the Patriarchs face that part of Jerusalem where the Temple of Solomon was formerly erected. The antiquities which particularly bear this name, are four in number: these are the sepulchres of Jehoshaphat, of Absalom, the cave of St. James, and the sepulchre of Zechariah. These tombs display an alliance of the Egyptian and Grecian taste, "forming, as it were," says Chateaubriand, "a link between the Pyramids and the Parthenon." "In order to form the sepulchres of Absalom and Zechariah," says Dr. Clarke, "the solid substance of the mountain has been cut away; sufficient areas being thereby excavated, two monuments of prodigious size appear in the midst; each seeming to consist of a single stone, although standing as if erected by an architect, and adorned with columns, appearing to support the edifice, whereof they are, in fact, integral parts; the whole of each mausoleum being of one entire block of stone. These works may, therefore, be considered as belonging to sculpture, rather than to architecture: for, immense as these are, they appeared sculptured instead of being built. The columns are of that ancient style and character, which yet appear among the works left by Ionian and Dorian colonies, in the remains of their Asiatic cities." The sepulchre of Absalom, and the cave of St. James, are smaller works, but of the same nature as those above. All of them contain apartments and receptacles for the dead, hewn in the same curious manner. A few paces to the north of the grot,[322] is a substantial stone building, resembling the dome of a church, almost even with the ground, having a pointed gothic doorway. It covers the reputed tomb of the blessed Virgin; and its construction, like other great monuments of this country, is attributed to the pious mother of Constantine. The descent to it is by a broad and handsome flight of forty-six stone steps. On the right-hand side, about half way down, is shown the cenotaph, erected to the memory of Joahim and Anne, the father and mother of Mary; and, in a recess on the opposite side, that of Joseph her husband. A further descent leads into a subterraneous chapel, lit up with lamps, which are kept continually burning. In the centre, a little to the right, is an altar, erected over the sacred tomb, which is an excavation in the rock. Behind, in the curve of the chapel, is an altar, at which mass is occasionally said.[323] "The tomb of the Virgin," says Dr. Clarke, "is the largest of all the cryptæ. Near Jerusalem, appropriate chapels, within a lofty and spacious vault, distinguish the real or imaginary tombs of the Virgin Mary, of Joseph, of Anna, and of Caiaphas. Struck with wonder, not only in viewing such an extraordinary effort of human labour, but in the consideration that history affords no light whatever as to its origin, we came afterwards to examine it again, but could assign no probable date for the era of its construction. It ranks among those colossal works, which were accomplished by the inhabitants of Asia Minor, of Phoenicia, and of Palestine, in the first ages;--works, which differ from those of Greece, in displaying less of beauty, but more of arduous enterprise; works, which remind us of the people rather than the artist; which we refer to as monuments of history, rather than of taste." The circumstance[324] that perplexes every traveller, is to account for Mount Calvary having been formerly _without_ the city, whereas it is, at present, not a small way _within_; and in order to shut it out, the ancient walls must have made the most extraordinary and unnecessary curve imaginable. But tradition could not err in the identity of so famous a spot; and the smallest scepticism would deprive it of its principal charm. The street leading to Calvary is called by the Christians Via Dolorosa, or "Dolorous Way," in commemoration of the sufferings of Christ, in the carrying of the cross to the place of execution. It rises with a gradual ascent as it approaches Calvary, where it terminates. There are many interesting spots in this way; and Mr. Robinson thus describes them:-- (1.) "An archway across the street, designated the Arch of the Ecce Homo, over which there is a double window, separated by a column. Here Pilate brought the Lord forth to the people, saying,--'Behold the Man!'--(John xix. 6). (2.) "The place where Christ turned round to the women, who followed him with their lamentations, and, moved by the tears of his countrymen, he addressed them in the language of consolation; 'Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me.'--(Luke xxiii. 28.) Where the Virgin, witness of the trying scene, and overcome by the feelings of a mother, fell into a swoon. (3.) "Where Christ, falling down under the weight of the cross, the soldiers compelled Simon the Cyrenian to assist him,--(Luke xxiii. 26); it is marked out by the broken shaft of a column, just where the lower city terminates. (4.) "The dwelling of Lazarus. (5.) "The dwelling of the rich man. (6.) "The house from which Veronica, or Berenice, issued, to present our Lord with a handkerchief, to wipe his bleeding brows. (7.) "The gate of judgment, formerly the boundary of the city. "And finally, Calvary, the scene of his crucifixion." The church, which is regarded as marking the site of the Holy Sepulchre, in Dr. Clarke's opinion, exhibits nowhere the slightest evidence which can entitle it to either of these appellations. He is, therefore, disposed to believe, that the crucifixion took place upon the opposite summit, now called Mount Sion. Dr. Clarke says, in reference to another cavern: "There was one, which particularly attracted our notice, from its extraordinary coincidence with all the circumstances attaching to the history of our Saviour's tomb. The large stone which once closed its mouth had been, perhaps for ages, rolled away. Stooping down to look into it, we observed within a fair sepulchre, containing a repository upon one side only for a single body: whereas, in most of the others, there were two, and in many of them more than two. It is placed exactly opposite to that which is now called Mount Sion. As we viewed the sepulchre, and read upon the spot the description given of Mary Magdalene and the disciples coming in the morning,[325] it was impossible to divest our minds of the probability, that here might have been the identical tomb of Jesus Christ; and that up the steep, which led to it, after descending from the gate of the city, the disciples strove together,[326] when "John did out-run Peter, and came first to the sepulchre."[327] "On leaving the Church of the Holy Sepulchre," says Mons. la Martine, "we followed the Via Dolorosa, of which M. de Chateaubriand has given so poetical an itinerary. Here is nothing striking, nothing verified, nothing even probable. Ruined houses, of modern construction, are everywhere exhibited to the pilgrims by the monks as incontestible vestiges of the various stations of Christ. The eye cannot even doubt; all confidence in these local traditions is annihilated beforehand by the history of the first years of Christianity, where we read that Jerusalem no longer retained one stone upon another, and that Christians were for many years exiled from the city. Some pools, and the tombs of her kings, are the only memorials Jerusalem retains of her past eventful story; a few sites alone can be recognised--as that of the Temple, indicated by its terraces, and now bearing the large and magnificent mosque of Omar al Sakara; Mount Sion occupied by the Armenian convent, and the tomb of David; and it is only with history in one's hand, and with a doubting eye, that the greater part of these can be assigned with any degree of precision. Except the terraced walls in the valley of Jehoshaphat, no stone bears its date in its form or colour;--all is in ashes, or all is modern. The mind wanders in uncertainty over the horizon of the city, not knowing where to rest; but the city itself, designated by the circumscribed hill on which it stood, by the different valleys which encircled it, and especially by the deep valley of Cedron, is a monument which no eye can mistake. There, truly, was Sion seated; a singular and unfortunate site for the capital of a great nation. It is rather the natural fortress of a small people, driven from the earth, and taking refuge, with their God and their Temple, on a soil that none could have any interest in disputing with them; on rocks which no roads can render accessible; amidst valleys destitute of water; in a rough and sterile climate; its only prospect mountains, calcined by the eternal fires of volcanoes; the mountains of Arabia and Jericho; and an infectious lake, without shore or navigation--the Dead Sea." The Garden of Gethsemane[328] is, not without reason, shown as the scene of our Saviour's agony, the night before his crucifixion, both from the circumstance of the name it still retains, and its situation in regard to the city. Titus, it is true, cut down all the wood in the neighbourhood of Jerusalem; and were this not the case, no reasonable person would regard it as a remnant of so remote an age, notwithstanding the story of the olive shown in the citadel of Athens, and supposed to bear date from the foundation of the city. But, as a spontaneous produce, uninterruptedly resulting from the original growth of the mountain, it is impossible to view even those with indifference. In the upper end of the garden is a naked ledge of rocks[329], where Peter, James, and John slept. The exact limits of this, the most interesting and hallowed of all gardens, are not known, nor is it necessary to know them; but as we read that "Christ went forth with his disciples over the brook Cedron, where there was a garden" (John xviii. 1), and that this garden was in the Mount of Olives, "we felt satisfied," says Mr. Robinson, "that we stood on the ground whereon the Saviour had stood before; and that the aged trees, which now afforded us shade, were the lineal descendants of those under which he often reposed; but more particularly on the night of his ascent. The grot, to which he retired on this occasion, and where, "falling down to the ground," in the agony of his soul, and "sweating," as it were, "great drops of blood," he was comforted by an angel (Luke xxii. 43, 44), is still shown, and venerated as such. It is excavated in the live rock, and the descent to it is by a flight of rudely cut steps; the form of the interior is circular, about fifteen feet in diameter, and the roof, which is supported by pilasters, perforated in the middle to admit light: there are some remains of sepulchres in the sides. The cave of Gethsemane is in the valley of Jehoshaphat:--"It was to this cavern," says La Martine, "at the foot of the Mount of Olives, that Christ retired, according to tradition, to escape sometimes from the persecution of his enemies and the importunities of his disciples; it was here he communed with his own divine reflections, and that he implored his Father, that the bitter cup that he had filled for himself, and which we fill for ourselves, should pass from his lips. It was here that he enjoined his three disciples to watch and pray, the evening before his death, and not to sleep--and that three times he returned and awakened them, so prone is human zeal and charity to slumber. It was here he passed the terrible hours of his agony--the ineffable struggle between life and death--between instinct and will--between the soul that wishes to be free, and matter, which resists because of its blindness. It was here he sweated blood and water, and that, weary of combating with himself, without obtaining that victory of his intellect, which would give peace to his thoughts, he uttered those words, which sum up all human godliness; those words which are become the wisdom of the wise, and which ought to be the epitaph of every life, and the sole aspiration of every created being; 'My father, not my will, but thine, be done!'" The Valley of Jehoshaphat[330] was a deep and narrow valley, enclosed on the north by barren heights, which contained the sepulchres of kings, shaded on the west by the heavy and gigantic walls of a pre-existing city; covered at the east by the summit of the Mount of Olives, and crossed by a torrent which rolled its bitter and yellow waves over the broken rocks of the valley of Jehoshaphat. At some paces distant, a black and bare rock detaches itself like a promontory from the base of the mountain, and, suspended over Cedron and the valley, bears several old tombs of kings and patriarchs, formed in gigantic and singular architecture, and strikes like the bridge of death over the valley of lamentations. The fountain of Siloam[331] rises about half way down Mount Sion, and gushes from beneath a little arch, nearly ten feet below the surface, into a small pool about two feet deep; this is quite open, and the rocky sides of the spot are cut smooth. On the south side a flight of steps leads down to it: the water is clear and cold, and flows down the mount into the valley beneath, to a considerable distance. At this stream the women of the city generally come to wash their linen; and its banks are in some parts shaded with trees[332]. The Church of the Holy Sepulchre has the external appearance of a Roman Catholic church. Over the door is a bas-relief, executed in a style of sculpture which at first sight implies an antiquity higher than that of any Christian place of worship; but, upon a nearer view, is recognized the history of the Messiah's entry into Jerusalem. Dr. Clarke is, therefore, disposed to think, that it offers an example of the first work in which Pagan sculptors represented a Christian theme. The interior of this fabric is divided into two parts; and in the anti-chapel is shown the mouth of what is called the sepulchre, the stone whereon the angel sat: this is a block of white marble[333]. The Stone of Unction is covered by a slab of polished marble in the floor of the entrance hall of the Holy Sepulchre. On this the body of Christ was washed, anointed, and prepared for the tomb. (St. John, xix. 39.) It is surrounded by a low rail; and several rich lamps are hung suspended over it. Advancing a few paces to the left, we come into that part of the church, properly denominated the nave. It is an open space in the form of a circle, about thirty-five paces in diameter, and surrounded by sixteen pillars, supporting galleries, and covered in by a dome, not unlike that of the Pantheon at Rome. In the centre of this area, and immediately under the aperture through which the light is admitted, rises a small oblong building of marble, twenty feet in length, by ten in breadth, and about fifteen feet in height, surmounted by a small cupola, standing upon columns; this covers the supposed site of the Saviour's tomb. It is approached by steps leading into an anti-room, or chapel[334]. The following account is given by Dr. Richardson:--"Having passed within these sacred walls," says he, "the attention is first directed to a large flat stone in the floor, a little within the door; it is surrounded by a rail, and several lamps hang suspended over it. The pilgrims approach it on their knees, touch and kiss it, and, prostrating themselves before it, offer up their prayers in holy adoration. This is the stone, it is said, on which the body of our Lord was washed and anointed, and prepared for the tomb. Turning to the left, and proceeding a little forward, we came into a round space immediately under the dome, surrounded with sixteen large columns which support the gallery above. In the centre of this space stands the Holy Sepulchre; it is enclosed in an oblong house, rounded at one end, with small arcades, or chapels for prayer, on the outside of it. These are for the Copts, the Abyssinians, the Syrian Maronites, and other Christians, who are not, like the Roman Catholics, the Greeks, and Armenians, provided with large chapels in the body of the church. At the other end it is squared off, and furnished with a platform in front, which is ascended by a flight of steps, having a small parapet wall of marble on each hand, and floored with the same material. In the middle of this small platform, stands a block of polished marble, about a foot and a half square; on this stone (it is said) sat the angel, who announced the blessed tidings of the resurrection to Mary Magdalene, and Joanna, and Mary the mother of James. Advancing, and taking off our shoes and turbans at the desire of the keeper, he drew aside the curtain, and stepping down, and bending almost to the ground, we entered by a low narrow door into this mansion of victory, where Christ triumphed over the grave, and disarmed Death of all his terrors. Here the mind looks on Him, who, though He knew no sin, yet entered the mansion of the dead to redeem us from death, and the prayers of a grateful heart ascend with a risen Saviour to the presence of God in heaven." "Christians," says Mons. Chateaubriand, "will inquire, perhaps, what my feelings were on entering this holy place? I really cannot tell. So many reflections rushed at once into my mind, that I was unable to dwell upon any particular idea. I continued near half an hour upon my knees, in the little chamber of the Holy Sepulchre, with my eyes riveted upon the stone, from which I had not the power to turn them. One of the two monks, who accompanied me, remained prostrate on the marble by my side; while the other, with the Testament in his hand, read to me, by the light of the lamps, the passages relating to the sacred tomb. All I can say is, that when I beheld this triumphant sepulchre, I felt nothing but my own weakness; and that when my guide exclaimed, with St. Paul, 'O Death, where is thy victory? O Grave, where is thy sting?' I listened, as if Death was about to reply, that he was conquered, and enchained in this monument[335]." NO. XLV.--LACEDÆMON, OR SPARTA. Leliæ, the first king of Laconia, began his reign about 1516 years before the Christian era. Tyndarus[336], the ninth king of Lacedæmon, had, by Leda, Castor and Pollux, who were twins, besides Helena, and Clytemnestra, the wife of Agamemnon, king of Mycenæ. Having survived his son, he began to think of choosing a successor, by looking out for a husband for his daughter Helena. All the pretenders to this princess bound themselves by oath, to abide by, and entirely submit to, the choice which the lady herself should make, who determined in favour of Menelaus. She had not lived above three years with her husband, before she was carried off by Paris, son of Priam, king of the Trojans, which rape was the cause of the Trojan war. The Greeks took Troy after a siege of ten years, about the year of the world 2820, and 1184 before Christ. Eighty years after the taking of this city, the Heraclidæ re-entered the Peloponnesus, and seized Lacedæmon; when two brothers, Eurysthenes and Procles, sons of Aristodemus, began to reign together, and from their time the sceptre always continued jointly in the hands of the descendants of those two families. Many years after this, Lycurgus instituted that body of laws, which rendered both the legislature and the republic so famous in history: and since the constitution of Lycurgus seems to have been the true groundwork of our own, we insert some few particulars in respect to it; for the ruins of institutions are even more important subjects of contemplation than those of the walls in which they were engendered. The following account is taken from Rollin. We have not space, however, for the whole of his observations; we shall select, therefore, only the most important ones. Of all the institutions, made by Lycurgus, the most considerable was that of the senate; which, by tempering and balancing the too absolute power of the kings by an authority of equal weight and influence with theirs, became the principal support and preservation of the state. For whereas, before, it was ever unsteady, and tending one while to tyranny, by the violent proceedings of the kings; at other times towards democracy, by the excessive power of the people, the senate served as a kind of counterpoise to both; which kept the state in a due equilibrium, and preserved it in a firm and steady situation; the twenty-eight senators, of which it consisted, siding with the king, when the people were aiming at too much power; and, on the other hand, espousing the interests of the people whenever the kings attempted to carry their authority too far. Lycurgus having thus tempered the government, those that came after him thought the power of the senate too absolute; and, therefore, as a check upon them, they devised the authority of the Ephori. These were five in number, and remained but one year in office. They were all chosen out of the people, and in that respect considerably resembled the tribunes of the people among the Romans. Their authority extended to the arresting and imprisoning the persons of their kings. This institution began in the reign of Theopompus, whose wife reproached him, that he would leave his children the regal authority in a worse condition than he had received it. "No!" said he, "on the contrary, I shall leave it them in a much better condition; as it will be more permanent and lasting." The Spartan government then was not purely monarchical. The nobility had a share in it, and the people were not excluded. Each part of this body politic, in proportion as it contributed to the public good, found in it their advantage. The second institution of Lycurgus was the division of the lands, which he looked upon as absolutely necessary for establishing peace and good order in the commonwealth. The major part of the people were so poor, that they had not one inch of land of their own, whilst a small number of particular persons were possessed of all the lands and wealth of the country. In order to banish insolence, envy, fraud, luxury, and two other distempers of the state, still greater and more ancient than those, excessive poverty and excessive wealth, he persuaded the citizens to give up all their lands to the commonwealth, and to make a new division of them. This scheme, as extraordinary as it was, was immediately executed. Lycurgus divided the lands of Laconia into thirty thousand parts, which he distributed among an equal number of citizens. It is said that, some years after, as Lycurgus was returning from a long journey, and passing through the lands of Laconia, in the time of harvest, and observing, as he went along, the perfect equality of the reaped corn, he turned towards those who were with him, and said smilingly, "Does not Laconia look like the possession of several brothers, who have just been dividing their inheritance among them?" After having divided their immoveables, he undertook likewise to make the same equal division of all their moveable goods and chattels, that he might utterly banish all manner of equality from among them. But perceiving that this would go against the grain, if he went openly about it, he endeavoured to effect it by sapping the very foundations of avarice. For first he cried down all gold and silver money, and ordained that no other should be current than that of iron; which he made so very heavy, and fixed at so low a rate, that a cart and two oxen were necessary to carry home a sum of ten minas (about 20_l._), and a whole chamber to keep it in. Being desirous to make a yet more effectual war upon luxury, and utterly to extirpate the love of riches, Lycurgus made a third regulation, which was that of public meals. That he might entirely suppress all the magnificence and extravagance of expensive tables, he ordained, that all the citizens should eat together of the same common victuals, which the law prescribed, and expressly forbade all private eating at their own houses. The tables consisted of about fifteen persons each; where none could be admitted but with the consent of the whole company. Each person furnished, every month, a bushel of flour, eight measures of wine, five pounds of cheese, two and a half pounds of figs, and a small sum of money for preparing and cooking the food. The very children ate at these public tables, and were carried thither as to a school of wisdom and temperance. Nay, they were sure to see nothing but what tended to their instruction and entertainment. The conversation was often enlivened with ingenious and sprightly raillery, but never intermingled with any thing vulgar or shocking; and if their jesting seemed to make any person uneasy, they never proceeded any farther. Here their children were likewise trained up, and accustomed to great secrecy; as soon as a young man came into the dining-room, the oldest of the company used to say to him, pointing to the door, "Nothing spoken here must ever go out there." Lycurgus looked upon the education of youth as the greatest and most important object of a legislator's care. His grand principle was, that children belonged more to the state than to their parents; and, therefore, he would not have them brought up according to their humours and fancies; he would have the state intrusted with the general care of their education, in order to have them formed upon correct and uniform principles, which might inspire them betimes with the love of virtue and of their country. The most usual occupation of the Lacedæmonians was hunting, and other bodily exercises. They were forbidden to exercise any mechanic art: the Elotæ, a sort of slaves, tilled their land for them; for which they were paid a certain revenue by way of wages. Lycurgus would have his citizens enjoy a great deal of leisure: they had common halls, where the people used to meet to converse together; and though their discourses chiefly turned upon grave and serious topics, yet they seasoned them with a mixture of wit and facetious humour, both agreeable and instructive. They passed little of their time alone; being accustomed to live like bees, always together, always about their chiefs and leaders. The love of their country and of the public good was their predominant passion; and they did not imagine they belonged to themselves but to their country. The end Lycurgus proposed was the public happiness: convinced that the happiness of a city, like that of a private person, depends upon virtue, and upon being well within himself. He regulated Lacedæmon so as it might always suffice to its own happiness, and act upon principles of wisdom and equity. From thence arose that universal esteem of the neighbouring people, and even of strangers, for the Lacedæmonians, who asked them neither money, ships, nor troops; but only that they should lend them a Lacedæmonian to command their armies; and when they had obtained their request, they paid him certain obedience, with every kind of honour and respect. There were a multitude of other regulations, some of which were, doubtless, of a very imperfect tendency; but it is certain that the declension of Sparta began with the violation of Lycurgus's laws. No sooner had the ambition of reigning over all Greece inspired them with the design of having naval armies and foreign troops, and that money was necessary for the support of those forces, than Lacedæmon, forgetting her ancient maxims, saw herself reduced to have recourse to the Barbarians, which, till then, she had detested, and basely to betray her court to the kings of Persia, whom she had formerly vanquished with so much glory; and that only to draw from them some aids of money and troops against their own brethren; that is to say, against people born and settled in Greece, like themselves. Thus had they the imprudence and misfortune to recal, with gold and silver, all the vices and crimes which the iron money had banished; and to prepare the way to the changes which ensued, and were the causes of their ruin. And this infinitely exalts the wisdom of Lycurgus, in having foreseen at such a distance what might strike at the happiness of his citizens, and provided salutary remedies against it in the form of government he established at Lacedæmon. Ancient Sparta is thus described by Polybius:--"It is of a circular form, and forty-eight stadia in circumference, situated in a plain, but containing some rough places and eminences. The Eurotas flows to the east, and the copiousness of its waters renders it too deep to be forded during the greater part of the year. The hills, on which the Menelaion is situated, are on the south-east of the city, on the opposite side of the river. They are rugged, difficult of ascent, and throw their shadows over the space which is between the city and the Eurotas. The river flows close to the foot of the hills, which are not above a stadium and a half from the city." Its former condition is thus described by Anacharsis:--"The houses at Lacedæmon are small, and without ornament. Halls and porticos have been erected, to which the citizens resort to converse together, or transact business. On the south side of the city is the hippodromus, or course for foot and horse races; and at a little distance from that, the platanistas, or place of exercise for youth, shaded by beautiful plane-trees, and inclosed by the Eurotas on one side, a small river which falls into it, and a canal, by which they communicate, on the other. It is entered by two bridges, on one of which is the statue of Hercules, or 'All-subduing Force;' and on the other that of Lycurgus, or 'All-regulating Law.'" In what condition is this celebrated city at present? "Passing over the Eurotas," says Mr. Dodwell, "we viewed the first remains of the Lacedæmonian capital, now called Palaio-Kastro, consisting of uncertain traces and heaps of large stones, tossed about in a sort of promiscuous wreck. In a few minutes we reached the theatre, which is of large dimensions. The Koilon is excavated in the hill, which rose nearly in the middle of the city, and which served as an Acropolis. The theatre appears of Roman construction, and the walls of the proscenium are principally of brick. The white marble, of which, Pausanias says, it was composed, has disappeared. Near the theatre are the remains of a Roman brick tower. Sparta was originally without walls, and Lycurgus prohibited their erection. Justin asserts that the Spartans first surrounded their capital with walls, when Cassander entered the Peloponnesus; according to Livy, they were built by the tyrant; and Plutarch says they were destroyed by Philopoemen. Pausanias asserts, that the walls were constructed with precipitate haste, when Demetrius and Pyrrhus besieged Sparta. They were afterwards strongly fortified by the tyrant Nabis, and destroyed by the Achæans, by whom, it appears, they were afterwards rebuilt. A fine sepulchral chamber, of a square form, regularly constructed with large blocks, is situated nearly opposite the theatre, and a short distance from it. It has been opened, and the interior is found to be composed of brick-work. Many other ruins are dispersed in this direction, some of which are of Roman origin. They appear to have suffered more from sudden violence than from gradual decay; and have, no doubt, been torn to pieces to supply materials for the modern town of Misithra. Several inscriptions have also been found. From all this, it will appear, that Chateaubriand is not quite correct, when he asserts, that "SPARTA is occupied by the single hut of a goat-herd, whose wealth consists in the crop, that grows upon the graves of Agis and Agesilaus."[337] NO. XLVI.--LAODICEA. This city was long an inconsiderable place; but it increased towards the age of Augustus. The fertility of the soil, and the good fortune of some of its citizens, raised it to greatness. Several persons bequeathed large sums to it; amongst whom may be particularly mentioned, Hiero, Zeno the rhetorician, and Polemo his son. The first bequeathed it no less than 2000 talents. In ancient times Laodicea collected a very considerable revenue from its flocks of sheep, celebrated for the fineness of their wool. "Under the reign of the Cæsars," says an elegant writer, "the proper Asia alone contained five hundred populous cities, enriched with all the gifts of nature, and adorned with all the refinements of art. Eleven cities of Asia had once disputed the honour of dedicating a temple to Tiberius, and their respective merits were examined by the senate. Four of them were immediately rejected, as unequal to the burthen; and among these was Laodicea, whose splendour is still displayed in its ruins, and had received, a little before the contest, a legacy of above 400,000_l._ by the testament of a generous citizen. If such was the poverty of Laodicea, what must have been the wealth of those cities whose pretensions were admitted?" It was first called Ramitha; but being, in process of time, greatly embellished by Seleucus Nicator, he took advantage of his benefaction, and called it Laodicea in honour of his mother. Cæsar afterwards named it Juliopolis. It was in process of time included in the empire of Saladin, conquered by Sultan Selim, and not long after nearly destroyed by an earthquake. It was rebuilt by a Turkish Aga. "It is thus a curiosity in its way," says a French Geography, "being indebted for its revival to a race of people who usually confine their exertions to the work of destruction." The ruins of this city have been described by several travellers. We shall select the details left by Dr. Chandler and Mr. Kinneir. The first ruin, says the former, is the remains of an amphitheatre, of an oblong form, the area of which is about one thousand feet in extent, with many seats remaining. At the west end is a wide vaulted passage, about one hundred and forty feet long, designed for the horses and chariots; near it is an arch, with an inscription on the mouldings, in large Greek characters, "_To the Emperor Titus Cæsar Augustus Vespasian, seven times consul, son of the Emperor, the God, Vespasian; and to the people_," &c. By another ruin is a pedestal, with an inscription: "_The senate and people have honoured Tatia, daughter of Nicostratus, son of Pericles, a new heroine, both on account of the magistracy and ministries and public works of her father, and on account of her great uncle, Nicostratus, who lately, besides his other benefactions, was priest of the city, and changed the stadium into an amphitheatre._" On the north side of the amphitheatre is the ruin of an ample edifice. In consists of many piers, and arches of stone, with pedestals and marble fragments. On the west side lies a large stone with an inscription: The city "_has exalted Ased, a man of sanctity and piety, recorder for life; on account of the services he has performed to his country_." There are remains also of an Odeum. The seats remain in the side of the hill. The whole was of marble. The proscenium lies a confused heap of ruins. Sculpture had been lavished upon it, and the style savoured less of Grecian taste than of Roman magnificence. Beyond the Odeum are seen some marble arches, of, it is supposed, a gymnasium. Westward are three other marble arches, crossing a dry valley, as a bridge. There are also traces of the city walls, with broken columns and pieces of marble. Within, the whole surface is filled with pedestals and columns. According to Mr. Kinneir, the greatest ornament is a triumphal arched structure, of a square plan, between thirty and forty feet in height, and encircled near the top with a handsome entablature. The arches, four in number, are in the Roman style of architecture, supposed to have been erected in honour of Cæsar, the patron of the city; or Germanicus, who died at Daphne, and was greatly beloved by the Syrians. The corners are adorned with handsome pilasters of the Corinthian order, and one of its fronts exhibits a basso-relievo with martial instruments; hence another traveller is inclined to suppose that it formed part of a temple dedicated to Mars. At no great distance from this, stands a mosque, evidently built from the ruins of another ancient edifice, of which several columns of a portico still stand; and amidst rocks and crags along the sea-shore may be observed a prodigious number of small catacombs, Dr. Shaw mentions several rows of porphyry and granite pillars. We cannot close this account without citing what has been recently said of the inhabitants and environs of this city:--"The environs of Ledikea having many olive grounds, gardens, little country retreats, and places of pleasure, the inhabitants are all fond of rural recreation; and those who cannot find time for a longer excursion, seat themselves along the sides of the public roads, both in the morning and in the evening, to enjoy the freshness of the air, and, as they themselves say, to lengthen out their days by delight[338]." NO. XLVII.--LEUCTRA. This city (in Boeotia) is famous for having been the scene of a great battle between the Thebans and the Lacedæmonians, July 8, B.C. 371. The two armies were very unequal in number[339]. That of the Lacedæmonians consisted of twenty-four thousand foot, and sixteen hundred horse. The Thebans had only six thousand foot, and four hundred horse; but all of them choice troops, animated by their experience of the war, and determined to conquer or die. The Lacedæmonian cavalry, composed of men picked up by chance, without valour, and ill disciplined, was as much inferior to their enemies in courage as superior in number. The infantry could not be depended on, except the Lacedæmonians; their allies having engaged in the war with reluctance, because they did not approve the motive of it, and were besides dissatisfied with the Lacedæmonians. Upon the day of battle, the two armies drew up on a plain. Cleombrotus was upon the right, consisting of Lacedæmonians, on whom he confided most. To take the advantage which his superiority of horse gave him in an open country, he posted them in the front of the Lacedæmonians. Archidamus, Agesilaus' son, was at the head of the allies, who formed the left wing. The action began by the cavalry. As that of the Thebans were better mounted, and braver troops than the Lacedæmonian horse, the latter were not long before they were broke, and driven upon the infantry, which they put into some confusion. Epaminondas following his horse close, marched swiftly up to Cleombrotus, and fell upon his phalanx with all the weight of his heavy battalion. The latter, to make a diversion, detached a body of troops with orders to take Epaminondas in flank, and to surround him. Pelopidas, upon the sight of that movement, advanced with incredible speed and boldness at the head of the second battalion to prevent the enemy's design, and flanked Cleombrotus himself, who, by that sudden and unexpected attack, was put into disorder. The battle was very rude and obstinate; and whilst Cleombrotus could act, the victory continued in suspense, and declared for neither party. When he fell dead with his wounds, the Thebans, to complete the victory, and the Lacedæmonians, to avoid the shame of abandoning the body of their king, redoubled their efforts, and a great slaughter ensued on both sides. The Spartans fought with so much fury about the body, that at length they gained their point, and carried it off. Animated by so glorious an advantage, they prepared to return to the charge, which would perhaps have proved successful, had the allies seconded their ardour. But the left wing, seeing the Lacedæmonian phalanx had been broke, and believing all lost, especially when they heard that the king was dead, took to flight, and drew off the rest of the army along with them. Epaminondas followed them vigorously, and killed a great number in the pursuit. The Thebans remained masters of the field of battle, erected a trophy, and permitted the enemy to bury their dead. The Lacedæmonians had never received such a blow. The most bloody defeats till then had scarce ever cost them more than four or five hundred of their citizens. They had been seen, however, animated, or rather violently incensed against several hundred of their citizens, who had suffered themselves to be shut up in the little island of Sphacteria. Here they lost four thousand men, of whom one thousand were Lacedæmonians, and four hundred Spartans, out of seven hundred who were in the battle. The Thebans had only three hundred men killed; among whom were few of their citizens. The city of Sparta celebrated at that time the gymnastic games, and was full of strangers, whom curiosity had brought thither. When the couriers arrived from Leuctra with the terrible news of their defeat, the Ephori, though perfectly sensible of all the consequences, and that the Spartan empire had received a mortal wound, would not permit the representations of the theatre to be suspended, nor any changes in the celebration of the festival. They sent to every family the names of their relations who were killed, and stayed in the theatre to see that the dances and games were continued without interruption to the end. The next day in the morning, the loss of each family being known, the fathers and relations of those who had died in the battle, met in the public place, and saluted and embraced each other with great joy and serenity in their looks; whilst the others kept themselves close in their houses; or, if necessity obliged them to go abroad, it was with a sadness and dejection of aspect, which sensibly expressed their profound anguish and affliction. That difference was still more remarkable in the women. Grief, silence, tears, distinguished those who expected the return of their sons; but such as had lost their sons were seen hurrying to the temples, to thank the gods, and congratulating each other upon their glory and good fortune[340]. All that remains of this city, so celebrated and so universally known by the battle just described, and in which the Lacedæmonians forfeited for ever the empire of Greece, after possessing it for three centuries, are a few remains near the village of Parapongi, and a few blocks of stone[341]. NO. XLVIII.--MAGNESIA. This city, situate on the Mæander, about fifteen miles S. E. of Ephesus, was founded by a colony from Magnesia in Thrace, united with the Cretans. It was one of the cities given to Themistocles by the king of Persia. The Turks call it "Guzel-Hisar," or the beautiful castle. A great battle was fought here between the Romans and Antiochus, king of Syria. The forces of the former consisted of thirty thousand men; those of Antiochus to seventy thousand foot and twelve thousand horse. The Syrians lost fifty thousand foot and four thousand horse; and the Romans only three hundred foot and twenty-five horse. This disproportion of loss, however, is incredible. Magnesia is rendered remarkable by the circumstance of its having been, as we have before stated, the place assigned by Artaxerxes for the residence of Themistocles. The whole revenues of the city, as well as those of Lampsacus and Myunte, were settled upon him[342]. One of the cities was to furnish him with bread, another with wine, and a third with other provisions[343]. The temple of Diana at Magnesia was constructed under the direction of Hermogenes, of whom Vitruvius speaks with great veneration. "The situation of Magnesia," says Pococke, "is delightful; for it commands a view of the fine plain of the Mæander, which is broad towards the west. The view extends to the sea, and from the height I saw the Agathonisa islands, which are near Patmos. Mount Thorax to the north is covered with snow. What adds to the prospect, is a most beautiful inclosed country to the south and west, and the fields are planted with the fig and almond trees. The modern city, also, adds to the beauty of the view; which being large, and there being courts and gardens to the houses, improved by cypress and orange trees, and some of the streets planted with trees, it makes it appear like a city in a wood." Chandler visited this place in 1774. According to him, Magnesia surrendered to the Romans immediately after the decisive battle between Scipio and Antiochus. It was a free city in the time of Tiberius. It was selected as a place of security, in 1303, by the Emperor Michael, who at length was compelled to escape from it in the night. In 1313 it ranked among the acquisitions of Sarkhan, afterwards sultan of Ionia. In 1443, Amurath II. selected it as a place of retreat, when he resigned his empire to his son Mahomet II. There are signs of many great buildings all over the city; but they are ruined in such a manner, that, except two or three, it is difficult to judge of what nature they were. Pococke speaks, however, of there having been in his time very great ruins to the east, which appeared to be remains of some "magnificent large palace." On the north, too, he observed the ruins of a very grand temple, which he thinks must have belonged to that of Diana Leucophryne, the largest in Asia after the temples of Ephesus and Didymi; and though it yielded to that of Ephesus in its riches, yet it exceeded it in its proportions, and in the exquisiteness of its architecture. In the Ionic temple[344] at Magnesia, designed by that Hermogenes whose merits are highly extolled by Vitruvius, the general dimensions are the same as the dipteros; but having, in order to obtain free space under the flank porticoes, omitted the inner range of columns, he thereby established the pseudo-dipteros; but unless he continued the wooden beams of the roof over the increased space, this mode was impracticable, unless when the quarries afforded marble of very large dimensions. A Persian writer says of this place:--"It is situated at the skirt of a mountain; and its running streams afford water of the utmost purity; and its air, even in winter, is more delightful than the breath of spring[345]." XLIX.--MANTINEA. A city of the Peloponnesus, well known for a famous battle fought near it between the Lacedæmonians and Thebans. The Greeks had never fought among themselves with more numerous armies. The Lacedæmonians consisted of twenty thousand foot, and two thousand horse; the Thebans of thirty thousand foot, and three thousand horse. The Theban general, Epaminondas, marched in the same order of battle in which he intended to fight, that he might not be obliged, when he came up with the enemy, to lose, in the disposition of his army, a time which cannot be too much saved in great enterprises[346]. He did not march directly, and with his front to the enemy, but in a column upon the hills, with his left wing foremost, as if he did not intend to fight that day. When he was over against them at a quarter of a league's distance, he made his troops halt and lay down their arms, as if he designed to encamp there. The enemy in effect were deceived by that stand; and reckoning no longer upon a battle, they quitted their arms, dispersed themselves about the camp, and suffered that ardour to extinguish, which the near approach of a battle is wont to kindle in the hearts of the soldiers. Epaminondas, however, by suddenly wheeling his troops to the right, having changed his column into a line, and having drawn out the choicest troops, whom he had expressly posted in front upon his march, he made them double their files upon the front of his left wing, to add to its strength, and to put it into a condition to attack in a point the Lacedæmonian phalanx, which, by the movement he had made, faced it directly. He expected to decide the victory by that body of chosen troops which he commanded in person, and which he had formed in a column to attack the enemy in a point like a galley, says Xenophon. He assured himself, that if he could penetrate the Lacedæmonian phalanx, in which the enemy's principal force consisted, he should not find it difficult to rout the rest of their army, by charging upon the right and left. After having disposed his whole army in this manner, he moved on to charge the enemy with the whole weight of his column. They were strangely surprised when they saw Epaminondas advance towards them in this order, and resumed their arms, bridled their horses, and made all the haste they could to their ranks. Whilst Epaminondas marched against the enemy, the cavalry that covered his flank on the left, the best at that time in Greece, entirely composed of Thebans and Thessalians, had orders to attack the enemy's horse. The Theban general, whom nothing escaped, had artfully bestowed bowmen, slingers and dartmen, in the intervals of his horse, in order to begin the disorder of the enemy's cavalry, by a previous discharge of a shower of arrows, stones, and javelins, upon them. The other army had neglected to take the same precaution, and had made another fault, not less considerable, in giving as much depth to the squadrons as if they had been a phalanx. By this means their horse were incapable of supporting long the charge of the Thebans. After having made several ineffectual attacks with great loss, they were obliged to retire behind their infantry. In the mean time, Epaminondas, with his body of foot, had charged the Lacedæmonian phalanx. The troops fought on both sides with incredible ardour; both the Thebans and Lacedæmonians being resolved to perish rather than yield the glory of arms to their rivals. They began by fighting with the spear; and those first arms being soon broken in the fury of the combat, they charged each other sword in hand. The resistance was equally obstinate, and the slaughter very great on both sides. The furious slaughter on both sides having continued a great while without the victory's inclining to either, Epaminondas, to force it to declare for him, thought it his duty to make an extraordinary effort in person, without regard to the danger of his own life. He formed, therefore, a troop of the bravest and most determined about him, and putting himself at the head of them, he made a vigorous charge upon the enemy, where the battle was most warm, and wounded the general of the Lacedæmonians with the first javelin he threw. His troop, by his example, having wounded or killed all that stood in their way, broke and penetrated the phalanx. The gross of the Theban troops, animated by their general's example and success, drove back the enemy upon his right and left, and made a great slaughter of them. But some troops of the Spartans, perceiving that Epaminondas abandoned himself too much to his ardour, suddenly rallied, and returning to the fight, charged him with a shower of javelins. Whilst he kept off part of those darts, shunned some of them, fenced off others, and was fighting with the most heroic valour, to assure the victory to his army, a Spartan, named Callicrates, gave him a mortal wound with a javelin in the breast across his cuirass. The wood of the javelin being broken off, and the iron head continuing in the wound, the torment was insupportable, and he fell immediately. The battle began around him with new fury; the one side using their utmost endeavours to take him alive, and the other to save him. The Thebans gained their point at last, and carried him off, after having put the enemy to flight. Epaminondas was carried into the camp. The surgeons, after having examined the wound, declared that he would expire as soon as the head of the dart was drawn out of it. Those words gave all that were present the utmost sorrow and affliction, who were inconsolable on seeing so great a man about to die, and to die without issue. For him, the only concern he expressed, was about his arms, and the success of the battle. When they showed him his shield, and assured him that the Thebans had gained the victory; turning towards his friends with a calm and serene air; "Do not regard," said he, "this day as the end of my life, but as the beginning of my happiness, and the completion of my glory. I leave Thebes triumphant, proud Sparta humbled, and Greece delivered from the yoke of servitude. For the rest, I do not reckon that I die without issue; Leuctra and Mantinea are two illustrious daughters, that will not fail to keep my name alive, and to transmit it to posterity." Having spoken to this effect, he drew the head of the javelin out of his wound, and expired. Mantinea is also famous for another great battle, viz., that between Philopoemen and Machanidas, tyrant of Sparta[347]. The time for beginning the battle approaching and the enemy in view, Philopoemen, flying up and down the ranks of the infantry, encouraged his men in few but very strong expressions. Most of them were even not heard; but he was so dear to his soldiers, and they reposed such confidence in him, that they wanted no exhortations to fight with incredible ardour. In a kind of transport they animated their general, and pressed him to lead them on to battle. Machanidas marched his infantry in a kind of column, as if he intended to begin the battle by charging the right wing; but when he was advanced to a proper distance, he on a sudden made his infantry wheel about, in order that it might extend to his right, and make a front equal to the left of the Achæans; and, to cover it, he caused all the chariots laden with catapults to advance forward. Philopoemen plainly saw that his intention was to break his infantry, by overwhelming it with darts and stones: however, he did not give him time for it. The first charge was very furious. The light-armed soldiers advancing a little after to sustain them, in a moment the foreign troops were universally engaged on both sides; and, as in this attack they fought man to man, the battle was a long time doubtful. At last the foreigners in the tyrant's army had the advantage; their numbers and dexterity, acquired by experience, giving them the superiority. The Illyrians and cuirassiers, who sustained the foreign soldiers in Philopoemen's army, could not withstand so furious a charge. They were entirely broken, and fled with the utmost precipitation towards Mantinea, about a mile from the field of battle. Philopoemen seemed now lost to all hopes. "On this occasion," says Polybius, "appeared the truth of a maxim, which cannot reasonably be contested, That the events of war are generally successful or unfortunate, only in proportion to the skill or ignorance of the generals who command in them. Philopoemen, so far from desponding at the ill success of the first charge, or being in confusion, was solely intent upon taking advantage of the errors which the enemy might commit." Accordingly, they were guilty of a great one. Machanidas, after the left wing was routed, instead of improving that advantage, by charging in front that instant with his infantry the centre of that of the enemies, and taking it at the same time in flank with his victorious wing, and thereby terminating the whole affair, suffers himself, like a young man, to be hurried away by the fire and impetuosity of his soldiers, and pursues, without order or discipline, those who were flying. Philopoemen, who had retired to his infantry in the centre, takes the first cohorts, commands them to wheel to the left, and at their head marches and seizes the post which Machanidas had abandoned. By this movement he divided the centre of the enemies' infantry from his right wing. He then commanded these cohorts to stay in the post they had just seized, till further orders; and at the same time directed a Megalapolitan to rally all the Illyrians, cuirassiers, and foreigners, who, without quitting their ranks, and flying as the rest had done, had drawn off, to avoid the fury of the conqueror; and with these forces to post himself on the flank of the infantry in his centre, to check the enemy in their return from the pursuit. This Megalapolitan was named Polyinus; but not the historian, as many writers have imagined. The Lacedæmonian infantry, elated with the first success of their wing, without waiting for the signal, advanced with their pikes lowered towards the Achæans, as far as the brink of the ditch. This was the decisive point of time for which Philopoemen had long waited, and thereupon he ordered the charge to be sounded. His troops levelling their pikes, fell with dreadful shouts on the Lacedemonians. These, who at their descending into the ditch, had broken their ranks, no sooner saw the enemy above them, but immediately fled. To complete the glory of this action, the business now was to prevent the tyrant from escaping the conqueror. This was Philopoemen's only object. Machanidas, on his return, perceived that his army fled; when, being sensible of his error, he endeavoured, but in vain, to force his way through the Achæans. His troops, perceiving that the enemy were masters of the bridge which lay over the ditch, were quite dispirited, and endeavoured to save themselves as well as they could. Machanidas himself, finding it impossible to pass the bridge, hurried along the side of the ditch, in order to find a place for getting over it. Philopoemen knew him by his purple mantle, and the trappings of his horse: so he passed the ditch, in order to stop the tyrant. The latter having found a part of the ditch which might easily be crossed, clapped spurs to his horse, and sprang forward in order to leap over. That very instant Philopoemen threw his javelin at him, which laid him dead in the ditch. The tyrant's head being struck off, and carried from rank to rank, gave new courage to the victorious Achæans. They pursued the fugitives with incredible ardour as far as Tegea, entered the city with them, and, being now masters of the field, the very next day they encamped on the banks of the Eurotas. The Achæans did not lose many men in this battle, but the Lacedemonians lost four thousand, without including the prisoners, who were still more numerous. The baggage and arms were also taken by the Achæans. The conquerors, struck with admiration at the conduct of their general, to whom the victory was entirely owing, erected a brazen statue to him in the same attitude in which he had killed the tyrant; which statue they afterwards placed in the temple of Apollo at Delphos. Mantinea[348] was richly decorated with public edifices. It had eight temples, besides a theatre, a stadium, and hippodrome, and several other monuments; many of which are enumerated by Pausanias. Some imperfect remains of the theatre are still visible; the walls of which resemble those round the town. But none of the sites of the temples or of the other structures can be identified; and everything, except the walls which enclose the city, is in a state of total dilapidation. These walls were composed of unbaked bricks, which resisted, even better than stone, the impulse of warlike engines; but were not proof against the effects of water. For one of the kings of Sparta, forming a ditch round the town, and carrying the river Ophis to flow into it, dissolved the fabric of the walls. They enclose a circle, in which the city stood. They are fortified with towers, most of which are square; others are of circular forms. The whole exhibits an interesting and very perfect example of Grecian fortification. There were eight gates; not one of which, however, retains its lintel. The walls are surrounded by a fosse, which is still supplied by the Ophis[349]. NO. L.--MARATHON. Marathon, which was originally one of the four cities, founded by an Attic king, who gave it his name, is now little better than a village. The plain in which it is situated is, says Mr. Dodwell, "one of the prettiest spots in Attica, and is enriched with many kinds of fruit-trees: particularly walnuts, figs, pomegranates, pears, and cherries. On our arrival, the fine country girls, with attractive looks and smiling faces, brought us baskets of fruit. Some of them appeared unwilling to accept our money in return; and the spontaneous civility and good-humour of the inhabitants soon convinced us that we were in Attica, where they are more courteous to strangers than in other parts of Greece." This city was but a small one, indeed it was often called a village; yet a deathless interest is attached to it; for just beside it was fought the battle between the Persians and the Athenians, which is, even at this day, more known and respected than any other recorded in history. We shall, therefore, give an abstract of the account of the battle, as it is stated in Rollin, and then show in what condition the city is at the present time. Miltiades, like an able captain, endeavoured, by the advantage of the ground, to gain what he wanted in strength and number. He drew up his army at the foot of a mountain, that the enemy should not be able to surround him, or charge him in the rear. On the two sides of his army he caused large trees to be cut and thrown down, in order to cover his flanks, and render the Persian cavalry useless. Datis, their commander, was sensible that the place was not advantageous for him: but, relying upon the number of his troops, which was infinitely superior to that of the Athenians, he determined to engage. The Athenians did not wait for the enemy's charging them. As soon as the signal for battle was given, they ran against the enemy with all the fury imaginable. The Persians looked upon this first step of the Athenians as a piece of madness, considering their army was so small, and utterly destitute both of cavalry and archers; but they were quickly undeceived. Herodotus observes, that "this was the first time the Grecians began an engagement by running in this manner." The battle was fierce and obstinate. Miltiades had made the wings of his army exceedingly strong, but had left the main body more weak, and not deep; the reason of which seems manifest enough. Having but ten thousand men to oppose to such a numerous army, it was impossible for him either to make a large front, or to give an equal depth to his battalion. He was therefore obliged to take his choice; and he imagined that he could gain the victory in no other way than by the efforts he should make with his two wings, in order to break and disperse those of the Persians; not doubting, but when his wings were once victorious, they should be able to attack the enemy's main body in flank, and complete the victory without much difficulty.[350] The Persians then attacked the main body of the Grecian army, and made their greatest effort particularly upon their front. This was led by Aristides and Themistocles, who supported it a long time with an intrepid courage and bravery, but were at length obliged to give ground. At that very instant came up their two victorious wings, which had dispersed those of the enemy, and put them to flight. Nothing could be more seasonable for the main body of the Grecian army, which began to be broken, being quite borne down by the number of the Persians. The scale was quickly turned, and the barbarians were entirely routed. They all betook themselves to their heels and fled; not towards their camp, but to their ships, that they might escape. The Athenians pursued them thither, and set their ships on fire. They took, also, seven of their ships. They had not above two hundred men killed on their side in this engagement; whereas, on the side of the Persians, above six thousand were slain, without reckoning those who fell into the sea, as they endeavoured to escape, or those that were consumed with the ships set on fire. Immediately after the battle, an Athenian soldier, still reeking with the blood of the enemy, quitted the army, and ran to Athens to carry his fellow-citizens the happy news of the victory. When he arrived at the magistrate's house, he only uttered two or three words:--"Rejoice, rejoice, the victory is ours!" and fell down dead at their feet. In an excavation, made in one of the tumuli, some years ago, were found a number of busts;--of Socrates, Lucius Verus, and Marcus Aurelius, with another of an unknown person, sculptured with great care, and happily finished. The unknown bust is supposed to be that of Herodes Atticus, a native of this city, and greatly distinguished. His history is exceedingly curious. We take it from Sir George Wheler. "He flourished about the time of the emperors Trajan, Adrian, Antoninus Pius, and Marcus Aurelius. His grandfather Hipparchus, or as Suidas has it, Plutarchus, was well to pass in the world, but having been accused of some tyrannical practices, used towards the people, the emperor confiscated all his estates; so that his son, Atticus, father of this Herod; lived afterwards in Athens in a mean condition; until, having found a great hidden treasure in his own house, near the theatre, he became on a sudden very rich. He was not more fortunate in lending it, than prudent in getting it confirmed on himself; for well knowing, should it come to be discovered, he should be obliged to give an account of it to the emperor, he wrote thus:--'My liege, I have found a treasure in my house; what do you command that I should do with it?' The emperor answered him, 'That he should make use of what he had found.' But Atticus, yet fearing that he might be in danger of some trouble, when the greatness of the treasure should come to be known, wrote a second time to the emperor, professing ingenuously, that the treasure he had written to him about was too great a possession for him, and exceeded the capacity of a private man. But the emperor answered him again with the same generosity, 'Abuse, also, if thou wilt, the riches thou hast so accidentally come by; for they are thine.' By this means, Atticus became again extremely rich and powerful, having married a wife also that was very rich, whence it came to pass that his son and heir Herodes far surpassed his father both in wealth and magnificence, and became the founder of many stately edifices in sundry parts of Greece; and, dying, left by his will ten crowns to every citizen of Athens. Neither did he partake less of virtue and merit than he did of fortune; being very learned, and so eloquent, that he was called the tongue of Athens; having been the disciple of the famous Phavorinus. Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus, emperors of his time, made it their glory that they had been his auditors. His entire name was Tiberius Claudius Atticus Herodes; as I prove by an inscription that is at Athens, in the house of Signor Nicoli Limbonia."--Thus far, Sir George Wheler. Chandler goes on to observe, that Herodes Atticus directed his freed-men to bury him at Marathon; where he died, at the age of seventy-six. But the Ephebi, or young men of Athens, transported his body on their shoulders to the city, a multitude meeting the bier, and weeping like children for the loss of a parent. The antiquities of this plain resolve themselves into the tomb of the Athenians, the monument of Miltiades, and the tomb of the Platæans. Dr. Clarke found also many interesting relics, for an account of which we must refer to his Travels, in order that we may find space for some beautiful remarks, with which he closes his very agreeable account. "If there be a spot upon earth, pre-eminently calculated to awaken the solemn sentiments, which such a view of nature is fitted to make upon all men, it may surely be found in the plain of Marathon; where, amidst the wreck of generations, and the graves of ancient heroes, we elevate our thoughts towards HIM, 'in whose sight a thousand years are but as yesterday;' where the stillness of Nature, harmonizing with the calm solitude of that illustrious region, which once was a scene of the most agitated passions, enables us, by the past, to determine of the future. In those moments, indeed, we may be said to live for ages;--a single instant, by the multitude of impressions it conveys, seems to anticipate for us a sense of that eternity 'when time shall be no more;' when the fitful dream of human existence, with all its turbulent illusions, shall be dispelled; and the last sun having set, in the last of the world, a brighter dawn than ever gladdened the universe, shall renovate the dominions of darkness and of death."[351] NO. LI.--MEGALOPOLIS. This city, situated in Arcadia, had one of the most illustrious persons of ancient times for its founder, Epaminondas. Its population was collected from various small cities and towns of Arcadia. Soon after its establishment, the inhabitants sent to Plato for a code of laws. The philosopher was much pleased with so flattering an offer; but he ultimately declined sending them one, because he learned from a disciple, whom he had sent to Megalopolis, that the inhabitants would never consent to an equality of property. In 232 B.C., Megalopolis joined the Achaian league, and was taken and ruined by Cleomenes. At that period it was as large a city as Sparta. Its most valuable paintings and sculptures were conveyed to the Laconian capital, and great part of the city destroyed. The Athenians, soon after, beginning to see the impropriety of not keeping up the balance of power in Greece, Demosthenes signalised himself greatly in endeavouring to persuade them to take part with the Megalopolitans. "It has been a perpetual maxim with us," said he, "to assist the oppressed against the oppressor. We have never varied from this principle. The reproach of changing, therefore, ought not to fall upon us, but upon those whose injustice and usurpation oblige us to declare against them." "I admire the language of politicians," says Rollin. "To hear them talk, it is always reason and the strictest justice that determine them; but to see them act, makes it evident that interest and ambition are the sole rule and guide of their conduct. Their discourse is an effect of that regard for justice, which nature has implanted on the mind of man, and which they cannot entirely shake off. There are few that venture to declare against that internal principle in their expressions, or to contradict it openly. But there are also few who observe it with fidelity and constancy in their actions. Greece never was known to have more treaties of alliance than at the time we are now speaking of, nor were they ever less regarded. This contempt of religion, of oaths in states, is a proof of their decline, and often denotes and occasions their approaching ruin." The Athenians, moved by the eloquent discourse of Demosthenes, sent three thousand foot and three hundred horse to the aid of Pamanes. Megalopolis was reinstated in its former condition; and the inhabitants, who had retired into their own countries, were obliged to return. Anacharsis, from whose travels we have gleaned so many interesting anecdotes, says:--"A small river, called the Helisson, divides the city into two parts, in both of which houses and public edifices have been built, and are still building. That to the north contains a tower, enclosed by a stone balustrade, and surrounded by some edifices and porticoes. A superb bronze statue of Apollo, twelve feet high, has been erected facing the temple of Jupiter. This statue is a present from the Philagians, who contributed with pleasure to the embellishments of the new city. Some private individuals have done the same. One of the porticoes bears the name of Aristander, who caused it to be built at his own expense. In the part to the south we saw a spacious edifice, in which is held the assembly of the ten thousand deputies, appointed to conduct the important affairs of the state. The city contains a great number of statues; among others, we saw the work of two Athenian artists, Cephisodorus and Xenophon, consisting of a group, in which Jupiter is represented, seated on a throne, with the city of Megalopolis in his right hand, and Diana Conservatrix on his left. The marble of which it is made is the production of the quarries of Mount Pentelicus, near Athens. The theatre at Megalopolis was the largest in Greece. The circular part still remains; but the seats are covered with earth and overgrown with bushes. Part of the walls of the proscenium are also seen facing the Helisson, a small but rapid river, which flows a few yards to the east. The remains of the temples are dubious; some masses of walls and scattered blocks of columns indicate their situations; without indicating the divinities to whose worship they were consecrated. The soil being much raised, Mr. Dodwell thinks that it may conceal several remains of the city. There are several other ruins at the distance of a few miles from Megalopolis, which recent travellers have not been able to visit on account of the troubles which have lately prevailed in almost every part of the Morea[352]. NO. LII.--MEGARA. Megara, a city of Achaia, formerly possessed such a multitude of objects for a stranger to see, that Pausanias, in his description of Greece, occupies no less than six chapters in the mere enumeration of them. Megara was founded 1131 B.C. It is situate at an equal distance from Athens and Corinth, and is built on two rocks. Its founder has been variously stated. Some have insisted that it was called after Megareus, the son of Apollo; some after Megarius, a Boeotian chief; and others after Megara, a supposed wife of Hercules. However this may be, certain, we believe, it is, that, under the reign of Codrus, the Peloponnesians having declared war against the Athenians, and miscarried in their enterprise, returned and took possession of Megara, which they peopled with Corinthians. It was originally governed by twelve kings, but afterwards became a republic. The ancient Megareans are said to have excelled in nothing but naval affairs. They were reckoned the worst people of Greece, and were generally detested as fraudulent and perfidious[353]. Their military acts were few, and not brilliant. They were bandied about by the Athenians and Corinthians, and had all the bad qualities of insolent slaves, or servile and dependent friends. Such having been the case, we are not surprised at what Tertullian says of the Megareans; viz., that they ate as if they were to die the next day, and built as if they were to live for ever. Megara, however, was not without some redeeming qualities, for it had at one time a school for philosophy, so highly distinguished, that Euclid was at the head of it. Megara has been greatly distinguished from the circumstance of Phocion having been buried in its territories. The enemies of Phocion, not satisfied with the punishment they had caused him to suffer, and believing some particulars were still wanting to complete their triumph, obtained an order from the people, that his body should be carried out of the dominions of Attica, and that none of the Athenians should contribute the least quantity of wood to honour his funeral pile: these last offices were therefore rendered to him in the territories of _Megara_. A lady of the country, who accidentally assisted at his funeral with her servants, caused a cenotaph, or vacant tomb, to be erected to his memory on the same spot; and, collecting into her robe the bones of that great man, which she had carefully gathered up, she conveyed them into her house by night, and buried them under her hearth, with these expressions: "Dear and sacred hearth, I here confide to thee, and deposit in thy bosom, these precious remains of a worthy man. Preserve them with fidelity, in order to restore them hereafter to the monument of his ancestors, when the Athenians shall become wiser than they are at present." Megara still retains it name: it has been greatly infested by corsairs; insomuch that in 1676, the inhabitants were accustomed, on seeing a boat approaching in the daytime, or hearing their dogs bark by night, immediately to secrete their effects and run away. The Vaiwode, who lived in a forsaken tower, above the village, was once carried off. Besides two citadels, Megara had several magnificent structures and ornaments. One was an aqueduct, distinguished for its grandeur and beauty; another for a statue of Diana, the protectress; and to these were added statues of the twelve great gods, of so much excellence, that they were ascribed to Praxiteles;--a group, consecrated to Jupiter Olympius, in which was a statue of that deity, with its face of gold and ivory, and the rest of the body of burnt earth. There were also a temple of Bacchus, and another of Venus; a third of Ceres, a fourth of Apollo, a fifth of Diana, and a sixth of Minerva; in which last was a statue of the goddess, the body of which was gilt, and the face, feet, and hands of ivory. There was, also, a chapel dedicated to the Night. Pausanias speaks, also, of several tombs; especially those of Hyllus, Alcmenes, Therea, and Hippolyta, queen of the Amazons. In Wheler's time, Megara was a collection of pitiful cottages, whose walls were sometimes only the broken stones of her ruins, or clay dried in the sun, covered only with faggots; and these again spread over with earth above them*. Chandler describes the site of Megara as covered with rubbish, amongst which were standing some ruinous churches; some pieces of ancient wall, on which a modern fortress has been erected. The village consisting of low, mean cottages, pleasantly situated on the slope of an eminence, indented in the middle. Nearly the whole site of the ancient city he found green with corn, and marked by heaps of stones, and the rubbish of buildings. A few inscriptions, too, were seen: one of which relates to Herodes Atticus, signalising the gratitude of the Megareans, for his benefactions and good will. There was another on a stone:--"_This, too, is the work of the most magnificent Count Diogenes, the son of Archelaus, who, regarding the Grecian cities as his own family, has bestowed on that of the Megarensians 100 pieces of gold towards the building of their towers; and also 150 more, with 2200 feet of marble, toward re-edifying the bath; deeming nothing more honourable than to do good to the Greeks, and to restore their cities._" The person here signalised was one of the generals of the emperor Anastasius, who employed him on a rebellion in Isauria, A.D. 494. Wheler also gives an inscription in "honour of Callimachus, Scribe and Gymnasiarch," and several others. Dr. Clarke also saw one, setting forth that, "_under the care of Julius, the proconsul, and the prætorship of Aiscron, this (monument or statue) is raised by the Adrianidæ to Adrian_." Several other inscriptions have been found; one in honour of the Empress Sabina; and others in praise of Marcus Aurelius and Lucius Verus. There is another, too, in honour of a person, who had been several times conqueror in almost all the public games in Greece and Italy. There was, also (formerly), another inscription, still more honourable. This was on the tomb of a person named Choræbus, in which was related, in elegiac verse, the history of his having devoted himself to death, in order to free his native country (Thebes) from the evils of a pestilence[354]. The Earl of Sandwich mentions two statues of women, about eight feet high, without heads; and having no attributes to show for what they were designed. Clarke says, that Ionic and Doric capitals, some of which are of limestone, and others of marble, lie scattered among the ruins, and in the courts of some of the houses. He procured, also, a few fragments of terra-cotta, of a bright red hue, beautifully fluted. Chandler speaks of the remains of a temple of Minerva, near a large basin of water; on the sides of which are the remains of a bath, remarkable for its size and ornaments, and for the number of its columns. The stone of Megara was of a kind unknown any where else in Hellas; very white, and consisting entirely of cockle shells; which, not being hard, may be reckoned among the causes of the destruction of Megara. Another cause of destruction may be supposed to have originated in its locality; it being the great road leading to and from the peninsula, as well as its immediate situation between the two powerful enemies,--the Athenians and Corinthians,--with whom the Megareans had frequent contests concerning the boundaries of their respective territories. If its situation, however, was the cause of its destruction, it was, also, the one great cause of its consequence[355]. Megara is well known from the following anecdote. The city of _Megara_ being taken by Demetrius, the soldiers demanded leave to plunder the inhabitants; but the Athenians interceded for them so effectually, that the city was saved. Stilpon, a celebrated philosopher, lived in that city, and was visited by Demetrius, who asked him if he had lost any thing?--"Nothing at all," replied Stilpon, "for I carry all my effects about me;" meaning by that expression, his justice, probity, temperance, and wisdom; with the advantage of not ranking any thing in the class of blessings that could be taken from him[356]. NO. LIII.--MEMPHIS. There are said to be in Upper Egypt thirty-four temples, still in existence, and five palaces. The most ancient have been constructed chiefly of sand-stone, and a few with calcareous stone. Granite was only used in obelisks and colossal statues. After the seat of empire was removed to Memphis, granite was made use of. Memphis, according to Herodotus, was built (eight generations after Thebes) by Menes; but Diodorus attributes its origin to Uchoreus, one of the successors of Osymandyas, king of Thebes. To reconcile this want of agreement, some authors ascribe the commencement to Menes, and its completion and aggrandisement to Uchoreus, who first made it a royal city. The occasion of its having been erected, is thus stated[357]:--A king of Egypt having turned the course of the Nile, which diffused itself over the sands of Lybia, and the Delta being formed from the mud of its waters, canals were cut to drain Lower Egypt. The monarchs, who till then had resided at Thebes, removed nearer the mouth of the river, to enjoy an air more temperate, and be more ready to defend the entrance of their empire. They founded the city of Memphis, and endeavoured to render it equal to the ancient capital; decorating it with many temples, among which that of Vulcan drew the attention of travellers: its grandeur and sumptuousness of rich ornaments, each excited admiration. Another temple beside the barren plain was dedicated to Serapis, the principal entrance to which had a sphinx avenue. Egypt has always been oppressed with sands, which, accumulating here, half buried some of the sphinxes, and others up to the neck, in the time of Strabo; at present they have disappeared. To prevent this disaster, they built a large mound on the south side, which also served as a barrier against the inundations of the river, and the encroachments of the enemy. The palace of the kings and a fortress built on the mountain, defended it on the west; the Nile on the east; and to the north were the lakes, beyond which were the plain of mummies, and the causeway which led from Busiris to the great pyramids. Thus situated, Memphis commanded the valley of Egypt, and communicated by canals with the lakes Moeris and Mareotis. Its citizens might traverse the kingdom in boats; and it therefore became the centre of wealth, commerce, and arts; where geometry, invented by the Egyptians, flourished. Hither the Greeks came to obtain knowledge, which, carrying into their own country, they brought to perfection. Thebes, and her hundred gates, lay forgotten, and on the hill near Memphis, rose those proud monuments, those superb mausoleums, which alone, of all the Wonders of the World, have braved destructive time, and men still more destructive. Strabo says, that in this city there were many palaces, situated along the side of a hill, stretching down to lakes and groves, forty stadia from the city. "The principal deities of Memphis," says Mr. Wilkinson, "were Pthah, Apis, and Butastis; and the goddess Isis had a magnificent temple in this city, erected by Amasis, who also dedicated a recumbent colossus, seventy-five feet long, in the temple of Pthah or Vulcan. This last was said to have been founded by Menes, and was enlarged and beautified by succeeding monarchs. Moeris erected the northern vestibule; and Sesostris, besides the colossal statues, made considerable additions with enormous blocks of stone, which he employed his prisoners of war to drag to the temple. Pheron, his son, also enriched it with suitable presents, on the recovery of his sight; and on the south of the temple of Palain, were added the sacred grove and chapel of Proteons. The western vestibule was the work of Rhampsinetus, who also erected two statues, twenty-five cubits in height; and that on the east was Asychis. It was the largest and most magnificent of all these propyla, and excelled as well in the beauty of its sculpture as its dimensions. Several grand additions were afterwards made by Psamaticus, who, besides the southern vestibule, erected a large hypæthral court, where Apis was kept, when exhibited in public. It was surrounded by a peristyle of figures, twelve cubits in height, which served instead of columns, and which were no doubt similar to those in the Memnonium at Thebes." Diodorus and Strabo speak highly of its power and opulence:--"Never was there a city," observes the former of these, "which received so many offerings in silver, gold, obelisks, and colossal statues." The first shock this city received was from the Persians[358]. Cambyses, having invaded Egypt, sent a herald to Memphis, to summon the inhabitants to surrender. The people, however, transported with rage, fell upon the herald, and tore him to pieces, and all that were with him. Cambyses, having soon after taken the place, fully revenged the indignity, causing ten times as many Egyptians of the prime nobility, as there had been of his people massacred, to be publicly executed. Among these was the eldest son of Psammenitus. As for the king himself, Cambyses was inclined to treat him kindly. He not only spared his life, but appointed him an honourable maintenance. But the Egyptian monarch, little affected by this kind usage, did what he could to raise new troubles and commotions, in order to recover his kingdom; as a punishment for which he was made to drink bull's blood, and died immediately. His reign lasted but six months; after which all Egypt submitted to the conqueror. When the tyrant came back from Thebes, he dismissed all the Greeks, and sent them to their respective homes; but on his return into the city, finding it full of rejoicing, he fell into a great rage, supposing all this to have been for the ill success of his expedition. He therefore called the magistrates before him, to know the meaning of these rejoicings; and upon their telling him that it was because they had found their god, Apis, he would not believe them; but caused them to be put to death, as impostors, that insulted him in his misfortunes. And when he sent for the priests, who made him the same answer, he replied, that since their god was so kind and familiar as to appear among them, he would be acquainted with him, and therefore commanded him forthwith to be brought to him. But when, instead of a god be saw a calf, he was strangely astonished, and falling again into a rage, he drew out his dagger, and run it into the thigh of the beast; and then upbraiding the priests for their stupidity in worshipping a brute for a god, ordered them to be severely whipped, and all the Egyptians in Memphis, that should be found celebrating the feast of Apis, to be slain. The god was carried back to the temple, where he languished for some time and then died. The Egyptians say, that after this fact, which they reckon the highest instance of impiety that ever was committed among them, Cambyses grew mad. But his actions show that he had been mad long before. The splendour of Upper Egypt terminated with the invasion of Cambyses. He carried with him not only conquest, but destruction. His warfare was not merely with the people, but with their palaces and temples. At a subsequent period, Memphis was taken by Alexander. The account we give of that event is from the same author[359]. As soon as Alexander had ended the siege of Gaza, he left a garrison there, and turned the whole power of his army towards Egypt. In seven days' march he arrived before Pelusium, whither a great number of Egyptians had assembled, with all imaginable diligence, to recognize him for their sovereign. The hatred these people bore to the Persians was so great, that they valued very little who should be their king, provided they could but meet with a hero, to rescue them from the insolence and indignity with which themselves, and those who professed their religion, were treated. Ochus had caused their god Apis to be murdered, in a manner highly injurious to themselves and their religion; and the Persians, to whom he had left the government, continued to make the same mock of that deity. Thus several circumstances had rendered the Persians so odious, that upon Amyntas's coming a little before with a handful of men, he found them prepared to join, and assist him in expelling the Persians. This Amyntas had deserted from Alexander, and entered into the service of Darius. He had commanded the Grecian forces at the battle of Issus; and having fled into Syria, by the country lying toward Tripoli, with four thousand men, he had there seized upon as many vessels as he wanted, burned the rest, and immediately set sail towards the island of Cyprus, and afterwards towards Pelusium, which he took by surprise. As soon as he found himself possessed of this important city, he threw off the mask, and made public pretensions to the crown of Egypt; declaring that the motive of his coming was to expel the Persians. Upon this, a multitude of Egyptians, who wished for nothing so earnestly as to free themselves from these insupportable tyrants, went over to him. He then marched directly to Memphis, when, coming to a battle, he defeated the Persians, and shut them up in the city. But, after he had gained the victory, having neglected to keep his soldiers together, they straggled up and down in search of plunder, which the enemy seeing, they sallied out upon such as remained, and cut them to pieces, with Amyntas their leader. This event, so far from lessening the aversion the Egyptians had for the Persians, increased it still more; so that the moment Alexander appeared upon the frontiers, the people, who were all disposed to receive that monarch, ran in crowds to submit to him. His arrival, at the head of a powerful army, presented them with a secure protection, which Amyntas could not afford them; and, from this consideration, they all declared openly in his favour. Mazæus, who commanded in Memphis, finding it would be to no purpose for him to resist so triumphant an army, since Darius, his sovereign, was not in a condition to succour him, set open the gates of the city to the conqueror, and gave up eight hundred talents, (about £140,000,) and all the king's furniture. Thus Alexander possessed himself of all Egypt, without the least opposition. On the founding of Alexandria by the Macedonian conqueror, Memphis lost the honour of being the metropolis of Egypt; and its history became so obscure, that little knowledge of it is preserved in history. We must, therefore, now content ourselves with stating to what a condition it is now reduced. Of this celebrated city, which, according to Diodorus Siculus, was not less than seven leagues in circumference, and contained a multitude of beautiful temples, not one stone remains to tell the history; even the site on which it stood being disputed. "Is it not astonishing," says Savary, "that the site of the ancient metropolis of Egypt, a city containing magnificent temples and palaces, which art laboured to render eternal, should at present be a subject of dispute among the learned? Pliny removes the difficulty of past doubts--the three grand pyramids, seen by the watermen from all parts, stand on a barren and rocky hill, between Memphis and Delta, one league from the Nile, two from Memphis, and near the village of Busiris." Rennell, however, says, that Memf is on the site of Memphis; since Abulfeda describes it as being a _short_ day's journey from Cairo: Memf being only fourteen road miles from that city. M. Maillet says, "The most probable opinion is, that this superb city was built at the entrance of the town of mummies, at the north of which the pyramids are placed: the prodigious ruins which present themselves in this spot will serve for a long time as proofs of the greatness of that city, of which they are remains, and the incontestible evidences of its true position." Again, he says, that "out of so many superb monuments, &c., there remain only at present some shapeless ruins of broken columns of ruined obelisks, and some other buildings fallen to decay, which one still discovers at the bottom of the lake, when the increase of the Nile is too small to furnish it with its usual supply of water. This circumstance has twice happened during my seventeen years' consulship, particularly in the year 1677, when the surface of the lake sank between eight and nine feet, and discovered at the bottom of this vast reservoir a kind of city, which excited the admiration of every one. This lake can never be dried up, or drawn off again as before; because they have neglected to keep up the canal which served to drain off the water. There are, also, some heaps of ruins in the plain of three leagues in width, that separates the northern from the southern pyramids, and in which this ancient city extended from the borders of the lake towards the Nile eastward. These are the faint traces of so much magnificence." Dr. Shaw is of opinion that Djizeh, or Giseh, now occupies the site of Memphis; and that the city is entirely buried in soil. Other authorities, however, place it, and perhaps with greater probability, near the village of Menshee or Dashoo. Norden says: "If we give credit to some authors, the city of Memphis was situated in the place where at present stands the village of Gize, and I own that this opinion does not want probability. But if we attend to it carefully, we shall find it necessary to strike off a great deal of grandeur of that ancient capital of Egypt, or else raise extremely all the plains about it. In effect, Gize does not occupy half the space of Old Cairo, and the plains that extend all round never fail to be deluged at the time of the overflowing of the waters of the Nile. It is incredible, that they should have built a city, so great and famous, in a place subject to be under water half of the year; still less can it be imagined that the ancient authors have forgotten so particular a place." Mr. Browne says: "I visited the pleasant site of the ancient Memphis on the left bank of the Nile, about two hours to the south of Kahira, in a plain about three miles broad, between the river and the mountains. The land is now laid down in corn, with date-trees toward the mountains. Nothing remains except heaps of rubbish, in which are found pieces of sculptured stone. The spot has been surrounded by a canal. Its extent might be marked by that of the ground where remains are dug up, and which is always overgrown with a kind of thistle, that seems to thrive among the ruins. None of the fine marbles, which are scattered so profusely at Alexandria, are discoverable here; whether it be that they were never used, or were carried away to adorn other cities."[360] But though the site of the city is not absolutely known, certain it is, that many wonderful erections in its neighbourhood denote its former grandeur, power, and magnificence. These are the Catacombs, the Sphinx, the lake of Moeris, and the Pyramids. "The entrances into the Catacombs," says the Earl of Sandwich, "where the inhabitants of the neighbouring city of Memphis entombed their embalmed bodies, are near the last Pyramid of Sakara. The greatest part of the plain of Sakara is hollowed into subterraneous cavities, all cut out of the solid rock; not of a hard nature, but yielding to the least violence. The entrances are many in number; and are in form a square of three feet, and about twenty feet deep. The vaults contain embalmed bodies, scattered in confusion, and many of them broken in pieces. These have been taken out of their chests or coffins; and after having been ransacked in search of any idol of value, which are frequently found within the bodies, thrown aside by persons, who would not be at the trouble of carrying them away. The farther the recesses are penetrated, however, the bodies are much more entire, and everything less disturbed. These subterraneous passages are divided into many different chambers; in the sides of which are to be seen a multitude of perpendicular niches, of sufficient height to contain the bodies upright." A little to the east of the second pyramid, is the SPHINX, cut out of the same rock upon which the pyramids are built. The length is about twenty-five feet; and its height, from the knees to the top of the hand, thirty-eight feet. "The sphinx," says Mr. Wilkinson, "stands nearly opposite the south end of the pyramid Cephren: between its paws were discovered an altar and some tablets; but no entrance was visible. Pliny says, they suppose it the tomb of Amasis;--a tradition which arose, no doubt, from the resemblance of the name of the king, by whose order the rock was cut into this form. But one author has gone farther, and given to Amasis the pyramids themselves. The cap of the sphinx, probably the pshent, has long since been removed; but a cavity in the head, attests its former position, and explains the mode in which it was fixed. The mutilated state of the face, and the absence of the nose, have led many to the erroneous conclusion, that the features were African; but by taking an accurate sketch of the face, and restoring the Egyptian nose, any one may convince himself, that the lips, as well as the rest of the features, perfectly agree with the physiognomy of a Pharaoh; for the reader must be aware, that this, and all other sphinxes, are emblematic representations of Egyptian kings." Between the paws of the sphinx, a perfect temple was discovered, a few years ago, by the intrepid traveller Belzoni, on clearing away the sand by which it had been choked up for ages. This figure was[361], a few years ago, at an expense of 800 or 900_l._ (contributed by some European gentlemen,) cleared from the sand which had accumulated in front of it, under the superintendence of Captain Caviglia. The noblest and most wonderful of all the structures[362] or works of the kings of Egypt, was the lake of Moeris; accordingly, Herodotus considers it as vastly superior to the pyramids and labyrinth. As Egypt was more or less fruitful in proportion to the inundations of the Nile; and as, in these floods, the first general flow or ebb of the waters were equally fertile to the land; King Moeris, to prevent these two inconveniences, and correct, as far as lay in his power, the irregularities of the Nile, thought proper to call art to the assistance of nature; and so caused the lake to be dug, which afterwards went by his name. This lake was several thousand paces long, and very deep. Two pyramids, on each of which stood a colossal statue, seated on a throne, raised their heads to the height of three hundred feet, in the midst of the lake, whilst their foundations took up the same space under the waters; a proof that they were erected before the cavity was filled; and a demonstration that a lake of such vast extent, was the work of man's hands, in one prince's reign. This is what several historians have related concerning the Lake Moeris, on the testimony of the inhabitants of the country. This lake had a communication with the Nile, by a great canal, four leagues long, and fifty feet broad. Great sluices either opened or shut the canal and lake, as there was occasion. When it is considered, that the object of this work was the advantage and comfort of a numerous people, all must agree, with M. Savary, that Moeris, who constructed it, performed a far more glorious work than either the labyrinth or the pyramids. At present, this lake is of a much smaller extent: but this by no means proves that Herodotus and other writers were deceived in their calculations; for, considering the revolutions to which Egypt has been subject for a series of two thousand years, it might have undergone still greater changes. For the period of nearly one thousand two hundred years, since which Egypt has fallen into the hands of barbarous nations, they have either destroyed, or suffered to perish, the chief part of this lake, and the canal belonging to it. The Moereotis is dried up, the canal of Alexandria is no longer navigable, and the Moeris is only fifty leagues in circumference. "If," says an enlightened writer, "the Canal of Joseph was cleared out, where the mud is raised up to a vast height; if the ancient dykes were re-established; and the sluices of the canals of Tamich and Bouch restored; Lake Moeris would still serve the same purposes. It would prevent the devastation of the too great swellings of the rivers, and supply the deficiency of those that are inadequate. We should see it, as on former occasions, extending itself from Nesle and Arsinoe, to the Lybian mountains, and offering to astonished travellers what is no where else to be seen;--a sea formed by the hand of man." The annihilation of Memphian palaces and temples indeed is almost compensated by the existence of the pyramids, which alone are sufficient to engage the attention of mankind. The three largest are situated at Gees, or Ghesa, and named from their founders, CHEOPS, CHEPHREN, and MYCERINES; of these only we shall speak. 1. That of CHEOPS, the largest, is four hundred and forty-eight feet in height, and seven hundred and twenty-eight on each side of the base: that is, forty feet higher than St. Peter's, at Rome; and one hundred and thirty-three feet higher than St. Paul's, in London. This pyramid, like the rest, was built on a rock, having a square base, cut on the outside as so many steps, and decreasing gradually quite to the summit. It was built with stones of a prodigious size, the least of which were thirty feet, wrought with wonderful art, and covered with hieroglyphics. According to several ancient authors, each side was eight hundred feet broad, and as many high. The summit of the pyramids, which, to those who viewed it from below, seemed a point, was a fine platform, composed of ten or twelve massy stones, and each side of that platform sixteen or eighteen feet long. It is also remarkable that the four sides of this, and indeed of all the pyramids, face the cardinal points. The inside contained numberless rooms and apartments. There were expressed on the pyramid, in Egyptian characters, the sums it cost only in garlic, leeks, onions, and the like, for the workmen; and the whole amounted to sixteen hundred talents of silver; from whence it was easy to conjecture what a vast sum the whole must have amounted to. Herodotus ascribes this pyramid to Cheops, a tyrannical and profligate sovereign. He barred the avenues to every temple, and forbade the Egyptians to offer sacrifice to their gods; after which he compelled the people at large to perform the work of slaves. Some he condemned to hew stones out of the Arabian mountains, and drag them to the banks of the Nile; others were stationed to receive the same in vessels, and transport them to the edge of the Libyan Desert. In this service a hundred thousand men were employed, who were relieved every three months. Ten years were spent in the hard labour of forming the road on which these stones were to be drawn,--a work of no less difficulty and fatigue than the erection of the pyramid itself. This causeway is five stadia in length, forty cubits wide, and its greatest height thirty-two cubits; the whole being composed of polished marble, adorned with the figures of animals. Ten years were consumed in forming this pavement, in preparing the hill on which the pyramids are raised, and in excavating chambers under the ground. The burial-place which he intended for himself, he contrived to insulate within the building, by introducing the waters of the Nile. The pyramid itself was a work of twenty years; it is of a square form, every side being eight plethra in length and as many in height. The stones are very skilfully cemented, and none of them of less dimensions than thirty feet. Such is the account of Herodotus. Pliny and Diodorus Siculus agree in stating that not less than three hundred and sixty thousand men were employed in the work[363]. The pyramid next in size was erected by Cephrenus, and is thence called CEPHREN: he was the son of Cheops. These two princes, who were truly brothers by the similitude of their manners, seem to have striven which of them should distinguish himself most, by a barefaced impiety towards the gods, and a barbarous inhumanity to men. Cheops reigned fifty years, and his son Cephrenus fifty-six years after him. They kept the temples shut during the whole time of their long reigns, and forbade the offering of sacrifices under the severest penalties. On the other hand, they oppressed their subjects, by employing them in the most grievous and useless works; and sacrificed the lives of numberless multitudes of men, merely to gratify a senseless ambition of immortalising their names by edifices of an enormous magnitude and a boundless expense. It is remarkable, that those stately pyramids which have so long been the admiration of the whole world, were the effect of the irreligion and merciless cruelty of those princes. The magnificent prospect from the top of this pyramid has been described by the French traveller, Savary, who visited Egypt in 1770, in glowing terms. After occupying seven hours in ascending to its summit, "the morning light," says he, "discovered to us every moment new beauties: the tops of gilded minarets, and of date-tree and citron groves, planted round the villages and hills; anon the herds left the hamlets; the boats spread their light sails, and our eyes followed them along the vast windings of the Nile. On the north appeared sterile hills and barren sands; on the south, the river and waving fields, vast as the ocean; to the west, the plain of Fayum, famous for its roses: to the east, the picturesque town of Gizeh, and the towers of Fostat, the minarets of Cairo, and the castle of Saladin, terminated the prospect. Seated on the most wonderful of the works of man, as upon a throne, our eyes beheld by turns a dreadful desert; rich plains in which the Elysian fields had been imagined; villages; a majestic river; and edifices which seemed the work of giants. The universe contains no landscape more variegated, more magnificent, or more awful." The ancients knew little of the interior structure of these giant piles.[364] Herodotus, who lived 445 years before Christ, merely speaks of an entrance leading to the interior, by hearsay from the priests, who informed him that there were secret vaults beneath, hewn out of the natural rock. Strabo, who lived after the Christian era, only describes a single slanting passage which led to a chamber in which was a stone tomb. Diodorus Siculus, who lived forty-four years before Christ, agrees with this; and Pliny, who lived A.D. 66, adds, that there was a well in the Great Pyramid, eighty cubits deep. This is all the ancients have said about the interior. "The Egyptian priests, indeed, assured Aristides, a Greek traveller about two centuries before Christ, that 'the excavations beneath were as great as the height above.' And Ebn Abd Alkokim, an Arabic writer of the ninth century, says, that the builders 'constructed numerous excavated chambers, with gates to them, forty cubits under ground.' Other Arabian writers say, that these chambers contain chests of black stone, in which were deposited the sacred archives of king Saurid, who built the pyramid. Many discoveries (perhaps a burial-place under ground) obviously remain to be made. "The same Arab historian, Alkokim, gives an account of the opening of this building under the Caliphate, from which time it has remained in the condition seen and described by all modern travellers, to the time of the Italian traveller Caviglia, who made a discovery of a new chamber and passages about ten years ago. 'After that, Almamon the Caliph (A.D. 820) entered Egypt, and saw the Pyramids: he desired to know what was within, and therefore would have them opened. He was told it could not possibly be done. He replied, I will have it certainly done. And that hole was opened for him, which stands open to this day, with fire and vinegar. Two smiths prepared and sharpened the iron and engines, which they forced in: and there was a great expense in the opening it; and the thickness of the wall was found to be twenty cubits. Within they found a square well, and in the square of it there were doors: every door of it opened into a house (or vault), in which there were dead bodies wrapped up in linen. Towards the upper part of the pyramid, they found a chamber, in which was a hollow stone; in it was a statue of stone, like a man, and within it a man, upon whom was a breast-plate of gold, set with jewels, and on him were written characters with a pen, which no man can explain.' "Greaves, an Englishman, who visited the Great Pyramid in 1648, described the passages thus opened, and then open, very accurately, and suspected that at the bottom of a well in the pyramid was the passage to those secret vaults mentioned by Herodotus; but he made no new discovery. Davison, who visited it in the middle of the eighteenth century, discovered some secret chambers and passages connecting the largest gallery with the central room, and an apartment four feet high over it. He descended the well 155 feet, but found farther progress blocked up. Caviglia was the first to discover the above suspected passage. After much trouble in clearing the narrow opening at the end of the first or entrance gallery of the pyramid, he found that it did not terminate at that point, as hitherto supposed, but proceeded downwards to the distance of two hundred feet. It ended in a doorway on the right, which was found to communicate with the bottom of the well. But the new passage did not terminate here: it went beyond the doorway twenty-three feet, and then took a horizontal direction for twenty-eight more, where it opened into a spacious chamber immediately under the central room. "This new chamber is twenty-seven feet broad, and sixty-six feet long. The floor is irregular; nearly one half of the length from the eastern, or entrance end, being level, and about fifteen feet from the ceiling; while, in the middle, it descends five feet lower, in which part there is a hollow space bearing all the appearance of the commencement of a well, or shaft. From thence it rises to the western end, so that there is scarcely room between the floor and the ceiling to stand upright. "On the south of this chamber is a passage hollowed out, just high and wide enough for a man to creep along upon his hands and knees, which continues in the rock for fifty-five feet, and then suddenly ends. Another at the east end commences with a kind of arch, and runs about forty feet into the solid body of the pyramid. Mr. Salt, the late intelligent British Consul to Egypt, was so struck by this discovery, as to express his belief that the under-ground rooms were used for 'the performance of solemn and secret mysteries.' "As to the second pyramid of Gizeh, the ancients knew less about it than they did of the first. Herodotus says it has no under-ground chambers, and the other ancient authorities are silent. But the enterprising Belzoni found its entrance, in the north front, in 1818, and discovered, at the same time, that it had been previously forced open by the Arabian Caliph, Ali Mehemet, A.D. 782, more than a thousand years before. After forcing an entrance, and advancing along a narrow passage, one hundred feet long, he found a central chamber, forty-six feet long by sixteen wide, and twenty-three high, cut out of the solid rock. It contained a granite sarcophagus, (a tomb,) half sunk in the floor, with some bones in it, which, on inspection by Sir Everard Home, proved to be those of a cow. An Arabic inscription on the walls implies that it had been opened in the presence of the Sultan Ali Mehemet[365]." This pyramid was, as has been already said, opened by Belzoni. We shall select another account of this enterprise. "According to Herodotus, (whose information has generally been found correct,) this pyramid was constructed without any internal chambers. M. Belzoni, however, believed the fact might be otherwise; and having reasons of his own for commencing his operations at a certain point, he began his labours, and with so much foresight as actually to dig directly down upon a forced entrance. But, even after this success, none but a Belzoni would have had the perseverance to pursue the labour required to perfect the discovery. It was by attending to the same kind of indications, which had led him so successfully to explore the six tombs of the kings in Thebes, that he was induced to commence his operations on the north side. "He set out from Cairo on the 6th of February, 1818, went to the Kaia Bey, and gained permission; the Bey having first satisfied himself that there was no tilled ground within a considerable distance of Ghiza. On the 10th of February he began with six labourers in a vertical section at right angles to the north side of the base, cutting through a mass of stones and lime which had fallen from the upper part of the pyramid, but were so completely aggregated together as to spoil the mattocks, &c. employed in the operation. He persevered in making an opening fifteen feet wide, working downwards, and uncovering the face of the pyramid. During the first week there was but little prospect of meeting with anything interesting; but on the 17th, one of the Arabs employed called out with great vociferation that he had found the entrance. He had, in fact, come upon a hole into which he could thrust his arm and a djerid six feet long. Before night they ascertained that an aperture was there, about three feet square, which had been closed irregularly with a hewn stone. This being removed, they reached a larger opening, but filled with rubbish and sand. M. Belzoni was now satisfied that this was not a real, but a forced passage. Next day they had penetrated fifteen feet, when stones and sand began to fall from above; these were removed, but still they continued to fall in large quantities, when, after some more days' labour, he discovered an upper forced entrance, communicating with the outside from above. Having cleared this, he found another opening running inward, which proved, on further search, to be a continuation of the lower horizontal forced passage, nearly all choked up with rubbish. This being removed, he discovered, about half way from the outside, a descending forced passage, which terminated at the distance of forty feet. He now continued to work in the horizontal passage, in hope that it might lead to the centre, but it terminated at the depth of ninety feet; and he found it prudent not to force it further, as the stones were very loose over-head, and one actually fell, and had nearly killed one of the people. He therefore now began clearing away the aggregated stones and lime to the eastward of the forced entrance; but by this time his retreat had been discovered, and he found himself much interrupted by visitors. "On the 28th of February he discovered, at the surface of the pyramid, a block of granite, having the same direction as that of the passage of the first pyramid, that of Cheops; and he now hoped that he was not far from the true entrance. Next day he removed some large blocks, and on the 2d of March he entered the true passage, an opening four feet high, and three feet and a half wide, formed by blocks of granite, and continued descending at an angle of about twenty-six degrees to the length of one hundred and four feet five inches, lined all the length with granite. From this passage he had to remove the stones with which it was filled, and at its bottom was a door or portcullis of granite, (fitted into a niche also made of granite,) supported at the height of eight inches by small stones placed under it. Two days were occupied in raising it high enough to admit of entrance. This door is one foot three inches thick, and, with the granite niche, occupies seven feet of the passage, where the granite work ends, and a short passage, gradually ascending twenty-two feet seven inches towards the centre, the descending commences; at the end of which is a perpendicular of fifteen feet. On the left is a small forced passage cut in the rock; and above, on the right, a forced passage running upward, and turning to the north thirty feet, just over the portcullis. At the bottom of the perpendicular, after removing some rubbish, he found the entrance of another passage, which inclined northward. But, quitting this for the present, he followed his prime passage, which now took a horizontal direction; and at the end of it, one hundred and fifty-eight feet eight inches from the above-mentioned perpendicular, he entered a chamber forty-six feet three inches long, sixteen feet three inches wide, and twenty-three feet six inches in height, for the greater part cut out of the rock; and in the middle of this room he found a SARCOPHAGUS of granite, eight feet long, three feet six inches wide, and two feet three inches deep inside, surrounded by large blocks of granite, as if to prevent its being removed. The lid had been opened, and he found in the interior a few bones, which he supposed to be human; but some of them having been since carried to England by Captain Fitzclarence, who was afterwards in this pyramid, and one of them (a thigh-bone) having, on examination by Sir Everard Home, been found to have belonged to a cow, it has been doubted whether any of them ever belonged to a human subject: but such a suspicion is premature, and without any solid foundation; since it appears, from an Arabic inscription on the west wall of this chamber, that this pyramid was opened by architects named Mahomet El Aghar and Othman, and inspected in the presence of the Sultan Ali Mahomet, the first Ugloch (a Tartaric title, as Uleg Bey, &c.). The length of time the pyramid remained open is not known; and it indeed appears to have been closed only by the fall of portions of the structure, and by the collecting of the sands of Libya. From this, and from the lid of the sarcophagus having been opened, and the remains of other animals being also found in the same sarcophagus, as is stated in other accounts, such an opinion does not even appear to be probable. On other parts of the walls are some inscriptions, supposed by M. Belzoni to be in Coptic. "He now returned to the descending passage at the bottom of the above-mentioned perpendicular. Its angle is about twenty-six degrees. At the end of forty-eight feet and a half it becomes horizontal, still going north fifty-five feet; in the middle of which horizontal part there is a recess to the east eleven feet deep, and a passage to the west twenty feet, which descends into a chamber thirty-two feet long, nine feet nine inches wide, and eight and a half high. In this room were only a few small square blocks of stone, and on the walls some unknown inscriptions. He now returned to the horizontal part and advanced north, ascending at an angle of sixty degrees; and in this, at a short distance from the horizontal part, he met with another niche, which had been formerly furnished with a granite door, the fragments of which were still there. At forty-seven feet and a half from this niche the passage was filled with large stones, so as to close the entrance, which issues out precisely at the base of the pyramid. All the works below the base are cut in the rock, as well as part of the passages and chambers. "By clearing away the earth to the eastward of the pyramid, he found the foundation and part of the walls of an extensive temple which stood before it at the distance of forty feet, and laid bare a pavement composed of fine blocks of calcareous stone, some of them beautifully cut and in fine preservation. This platform probably goes round the whole pyramid. The stones composing the foundation of the temple are very large: one, which he measured, was twenty-one feet long, ten high, and eight in breadth[366]." The pyramid of MYCERINUS is one hundred and sixty-two feet in height, and two hundred and eighty on each side of the base. "If," says Diodorus Siculus, "it is less in size and extent than the others, it is superior to them in the costliness of the materials and excellence of the workmanship." Of Mycerinus historians write in the following manner:--He was the son of Cheops, but of a character opposite to that of his father. So far from walking in his steps, he detested his conduct, and pursued quite different measures. He again opened the temples of the gods, restored the sacrifices, did all that lay in his power to comfort his subjects, and make them forget their past miseries; and believed himself set over them for no other purpose but to exercise justice, and to make them taste all the blessings of an equitable and peaceful administration. He heard their complaints, dried their tears, eased their misery, and thought himself not so much the master as the father of his people. This procured him the love of them all. Egypt resounded with his praises, and his name commanded veneration in all places. "Men," says one writer, "have very justly reckoned these prodigious masses of earth and stone among the wonders of the world; nevertheless their use appears to us very trivial, or is unknown. The Egyptians seem to have been more desirous of exciting wonder, than of communicating instruction."--"The most probable opinion respecting the object of these vast edifices," says another writer, "is that which combines the double use of the sepulchre and the temple, nothing being more common in all nations than to bury distinguished men in places consecrated by the rites of divine worship. If Cheops, Suphis, or whoever else was the founder of the Great Pyramid, intended it only for his tomb, what occasion, says Dr. Shaw, for such a narrow sloping entrance into it, or for the well, as it is called, at the bottom;--or for the lower chamber with a large niche or hole in the eastern wall of it;--or for the long narrow cavities in the sides of the large upper room, which likewise is incrusted all over with the finest marble;--or for the two ante-chambers and the lofty gallery, with benches on each side, that introduce us into it? As the whole of the Egyptian theology was clothed in mysterious emblems and figures, it seems reasonable to suppose that all these turnings, apartments, and secrets in architecture, were intended for some nobler purpose;--for the catacombs or burying-places are plain vaulted chambers hewn out of the natural rock;--and the deity rather, which was typified in the outward form of this pile, was to be worshipped within." "If thoughtlessness should condemn the immense and apparently useless labours of ancient Egypt," says a third, "so are they easily condemned, under the use of the ever-acceptable term tyranny, the ever-ready word of him who abuses all the power which he can command. Yet he who would eat must labour: it is the unvarying law, not of God alone, but of human society; the bond by which it is held together. The soil of Egypt was the possession of its singular government, and the labour of the people was the only manner in which they could demand or acquire a share of the produce: it was the only mode in which they ought to have possessed their portions. There is reason to believe that the soil had appropriated all the labour applicable to it; and commercial industry, as it then was, had probably done the same. An artificial invention to occupy labour became, therefore, imperiously necessary; and through this was Egypt peopled to an extent which seems to have been very great. The bearing of this fact on other cases, where, under a general law pervading all creation, conditions of labour have been attached to possession, must be obvious; and though tyranny had been the immediate cause, even thus does the Deity often direct the wickedness of man to his own good ends." "I should, however," says a fourth, (Maupertuis,) "have been much better pleased had the kings of Egypt employed the millions of men who reared these pyramids in the air, in digging cavities in the earth of a depth answerable to the marvellous we find in the works of those princes."--"There have been many opinions expressed by learned men as to the object of these structures," says a fifth. One is, that they were the granaries of Joseph. This may be confuted by the smallness of the rooms, and the time required in building. Another, that they were observatories; which is accusing the builders of great absurdity, since the neighbouring rocks were better calculated for the purpose. The Arabians generally think that they were built by king Saurid, before the Deluge, as a refuge for himself and the public records from the Flood; but this opinion requires no answer. Josephus, the Jewish historian, who wrote A.D. 71, ascribes them to his countrymen, during the captivity in Egypt. As sun-dials, they would have failed. Shaw and Bryant, who wrote in the middle of the last century, believed them to be temples, and the stone chest, a tank for holding water used for purification. Pauw, who lived at the same time with Shaw and Bryant, considers the Great Pyramid as the tomb of Osiris; and that Osiris having fourteen tombs for various parts of his dismembered body, fourteen pyramids must have been devoted to them, and the annual funeral mysteries connected with his death and resurrection. But the greater number of writers, ancient and modern, believe it to be the tomb of Cheops, the alleged builder. Improving on this notion, Maillet (1760) supposed that the chambers were built for the purpose of shutting up the friends of the deceased king with the dead body; and that the holes on each side of the central chamber of the Great Pyramid were the means by which they were to be supplied with food, &c: an opinion which would have appeared sufficiently ludicrous, if it had not been exceeded by that expressed by an old Moulah to Buonaparte, when in Egypt (1799), that the object was to keep the buried body undecayed, by closely sealing up all access to the outward air. Another ingenious theory ascribes them to the shepherd kings, a foreign pastoral nation which oppressed Egypt in the early times of the Pharaohs. However, this is, after all, but conjecture. The utmost uncertainty exists in all that concerns these gigantic, unwieldy, and mysterious buildings. Their builders, origin, date, and purposes, are entirely lost in the night of ages. As the sides of all the pyramids face the cardinal points, and of course give the true meridian of the places where they are situated, it would seem that their builders had made some progress in _scientific_ knowledge; and the buildings themselves, under all circumstances, notwithstanding their plain exterior, clearly show the advanced state of art in those very early times. When the traveller approaches[367] those vast monuments of human labour, the imagination seems to burst, as it were, the bands of ages, and the mind appears as if it had lived a thousand years. When the French were at Thebes, the whole army stopped among the ruins, and clapped their hands with delight: and when Buonaparte was about to engage the Mamelukes, who were advancing with loud cries, superbly accoutred, he called out to his army, "Behold! Yonder are the Pyramids; the most ancient of the works of men. From the summits of those monuments forty ages are now beholding us." The battle which ensued laid all Egypt at the feet of the French general. We shall finish this account by selecting a passage from Rollin:--"Such were the famous Egyptian Pyramids, which, by their figure as well as size, have triumphed over the injuries of time and the barbarians. But what efforts soever men may make, their nothingness will always appear. These pyramids were tombs; and there is still to be seen in the middle of the largest, an empty sepulchre, cut out of one entire stone, about three feet deep and broad, and a little above six feet long[368]. Thus all this bustle, all this expense, and all the labours of so many thousand men, ended in procuring a prince, in this vast and almost boundless pile of building, a little vault six feet in length. Besides, the kings who built these pyramids had it not in their power to be buried in them, and so did not enjoy the sepulchre they had built. The public hatred which they incurred, by reason of their unheard-of cruelties to their subjects, in laying such heavy tasks upon them, occasioned their being interred in some obscure place, to prevent their bodies from being exposed to the fury and vengeance of the populace. "This last circumstance, which historians have taken particular notice of, teaches us what judgment we ought to pass on these edifices, so much boasted of by the ancients. It is but just to remark and esteem the noble genius which the Egyptians had for architecture; a genius that prompted them from the earliest times, and before they could have any models to imitate, to aim in all things at the grand and magnificent, and to be intent on real beauties, without deviating in the least from a noble simplicity, in which the highest perfection of the art consists. But what idea ought we to form of those princes, who considered as something grand, the raising, by a multitude of hands and by the help of money, immense structures, with the sole view of rendering their names immortal, and who did not scruple to destroy thousands of their subjects to satisfy their vain-glory! They differed very much from the Romans, who sought to immortalise themselves by works of a magnificent kind, but, at the same time, of public utility. "Pliny gives us, in few words, a just idea of these pyramids, when he calls them a foolish and useless ostentation of the wealth of the Egyptian kings--_Regum pecuniæ otiosa ac stulta ostentatio_,--and adds, that, by a just punishment, their memory is buried in oblivion."[369] END OF VOL. I. LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. FOOTNOTES: [1] Plutarch; Diodorus; Rollin; Sandwich. [2] Pliny; Strabo; Plutarch; Diodorus; Wilkinson. [3] Simon; Count Fedor de Karacray; Malte-Brun. [4] "Ægina abounds," says Wheler, "with a sort of red-legged partridge, against which, by order of the Epitropi, or the chief magistrate of the town, all, both young and old, go out yearly, as the pigmies of old did against the cranes, to war with, and to break their eggs before they are hatched; otherwise, by their multitudes, they would so destroy and eat up the corn, that they would inevitably bring a famine every year upon the place." [5] Mr. C. R. Cockerell and Mr. John Foster; W. Linckh and Baron Haller. [6] Wheler; Chandler; Barthélemi; Sandwich; Lusieri; Clarke; Dodwell; Williams; Leake. [7] Rollin. [8] Livy, Cicero, Diodorus Siculus, Rollin, Brydone; Encyl. Lond., Brewster's Encyl. [9] Dionysius of Halicarnassus;--Sir W. Gell. [10] Jose Almana. [11] Browne. [12] Myos Hormos. [13] Four hundred and fifty talents of gold. See 2 Chron. viii. 18. This, we may suppose, was the gross sum received; not the profit. [14] A.M. 3685. Ant. J. C. 321. Diod. lib. xviii. p. 608, 610. [15] This author lived in the fifteenth century. [16] Earl of Sandwich. [17] Some have commended Ptolemy for permitting the architect to put his name in the inscription which was fixed on the tower, instead of his own. It was very short and plain, according to the manner of the ancients. _Sostratus Cnidius Dexiphanis F. Diis Servatoribus pro navigantibus_, _i. e._, "Sostratus the Cnidian, son of Dexiphanes, to the protecting deities, for the use of sea-faring people." But certainly Ptolemy must have very much undervalued that kind of immortality which princes are generally very fond of, to suffer that his name should not be so much as mentioned in the inscription of an edifice so capable of immortalising him. What we read in Lucian, concerning this matter, deprives Ptolemy of a modesty, which indeed would be very ill-placed here. This author informs us that Sostratus, seeing the king determined to engross the whole glory of that noble structure to himself, caused the inscription with his own name to be carved in the marble, which he afterwards covered with lime, and thereon put the king's name. The lime soon mouldered away: and by that means, instead of procuring the king the honour with which he had flattered himself, served only to discover to future ages his unjust and ridiculous vanity.--ROLLIN. [18] Savary. [19] Lib. xxii. c. 16. [20] See his observations on the supposed conflagration of the Alexandrian library, with a commentary on the 5th and 6th sections of the first chapter of the tenth book of Quintilian. [21] Rees. [22] Browne. [23] A very curious instance is afforded by Bruce, who wrote an account of Alexandria, and, literally, did not spend one entire day in the city. He was at sea on the morning of the 20th of June, 1768, previously to his landing in Alexandria, (see Bruce's Travels, v. i. p. 7,) and in the afternoon he left that city for Rosetta.--CLARKE. [24] Browne. [25] After the English were in possession of Alexandria, a subscription was opened by the military and naval officers for the purpose of removing the prostrate obelisk to England. With the money so raised they purchased one of the vessels, sunk by the French in the old port of Alexandria: this was raised, and prepared for the reception of the obelisk. The French had already cleared away the heaps of rubbish which enveloped it, and the English turned it round, and found it in a fine state of preservation. It was moved towards the vessel, when an order arrived from the Admiralty, prohibiting the sailors from being employed at this work. No further attempts have been made to remove this fine monument to Europe.--ANON. [26] Wilkinson. [27] Sonnini. [28] He gives a full description of them.--Part iv. p. 285, 4to. [29] Sat. Mag. [30] Diodorus Siculus; Quintilian; Ammianus Marcellinus; Abulfaragius; Prideaux; Rollin; Shaw; Harris; Gibbon; Johnson; Drake; Savary; Sonnini; Sandwich; Rees; Miot; Clarke; Wilkinson; Browne; Parker; Knight. [31] Rollin; Sandwich. [32] A.M. 3604, A.C. 300. [33] Wheler; Pococke; Chandler; Rees; Sandwich; Porter; Kinneir; Buckingham; Carne; Robinson; Walpole. [34] Rollin. [35] Rollin. [36] Clarke. [37] The devastations of time and war have effaced the old city. The stranger in vain inquires for vestiges of its numerous edifices, the theatre, the gymnasium, the temples, and the monuments it once boasted, contending even with Athens in antiquity and in favours conferred by the gods.--CHANDLER. [38] See Tiryns. [39] Lib. vii. [40] The district of Argol is first received colonies, who introduced civilisation into Greece. It has been reckoned the cradle of the Greeks, the theatre of events, which distinguished their earliest annals, and the country which produced their first heroes and artists. It was accordingly in the temple of Juno at Argos where the Doric order first rose to a marked eminence, and became the model for the magnificent edifices afterwards erected in the other cities, states, and islands.--CIVIL ARCHITECTURE. [41] Rollin; Rees; Clarke; La Martine. [42] Chardin; Cartwright; Ouseley. [43] Every nation had a great zeal for their gods. "Among us," says Cicero, "it is very common to see temples robbed, and statues carried off; but it was never known, that any person in Egypt ever abused a crocodile; for its inhabitants would have suffered the most extreme torments, rather than be guilty of such sacrilege." It was death for any person to kill one of these animals voluntarily. [44] Herodotus; Rollin; Savary; Belzoni; Rees. [45] Strabo; Rees; Porter [46] For the loves of Chosroes and Shirene, see D'Herbelot, and the Oriental collections. [47] Rees; Sir Robert Ker Porter. [48] Brewster. [49] The Attic stater was a gold coin weighing two drachms. [50] Brewster. [51] Dodwell. [52] Diogenes, and Hermias; Eulalicus, and Priscian; Damaschius; Isidore, and Simplicius. [53] Anon. [54] Hence Shakspeare, confounding dates, talks of Theseus, "Duke of Athens." [55] Quin's Voyage down the Danube. [56] Dodwell. [57] Hobhouse. [58] Dodwell. [59] Clarke. [60] Dodwell. [61] Clarke. [62] Hobhouse, p. 343. [63] Clarke. [64] Clarke. [65] The theatre of the ancients was divided into three principal parts; each of which had its peculiar appellation. The division for the actors was called in general the _scene_, or _stage_; that for the spectators was particularly termed the _theatre_, which must have been of vast extent, as at Athens it was capable of containing above thirty thousand persons; and the _orchestra_, which, amongst the Greeks, was the place assigned for the pantomimes and dancers, though at Rome it was appropriated to the senators and vestal virgins. The theatre was of a semicircular form on one side, and square on the other. The space contained within the semicircle was allotted to the spectators, and had seats placed one above another to the top of the building. The square part, in the front of it, was the actors' division; and in the interval, between both, was the orchestra. The great theatres had three rows of porticoes, raised one upon another, which formed the body of the edifice, and at the same time three different stories for the seats. From the highest of those porticoes the women saw the representation, covered from the weather. The rest of the theatre was uncovered, and all the business of the stage was performed in the open air. [66] Boindin; Rollin. [67] Plutarch, in his inquiry whether the Athenians were more eminent in the arts of war or in the arts of peace, severely censures their insatiable fondness for diversions. He asserts, that the money, idly thrown away upon the representation of the tragedies of Sophocles and Euripides alone, amounted to a much greater sum than had been expended in all their wars against the Persians, in defence of their liberty and common safety. That judicious philosopher and historian, to the eternal infamy of the Athenians, records a severe but sensible reflection of a Lacedæmonian, who happened to be present at these diversions. The generous Spartan, trained up in a state where public virtue still continued to be the object of public applause, could not behold the ridiculous assiduity of the Choragi, or magistrates who presided at the public shows, and the immense sums which they lavished in the decorations of a new tragedy, without indignation. He therefore frankly told the Athenians, that they were highly criminal in wasting so much time, and giving that serious attention to trifles, which ought to be dedicated to the affairs of the public. That it was still more criminal to throw away upon such baubles as the decorations of a theatre, that money which ought to be applied to the equipment of their fleet, or the support of their army. That diversions ought to be treated merely as diversions, and might serve to relax the mind at our idle hours, or when over a bottle; if any kind of utility could arise from such trifling pleasures. But to see the Athenians make the duty, they owed to their country, give way to their passion for the entertainments of the theatre, and to waste unprofitably that Footnote: time and money upon such frivolous diversions, which ought to be appropriated to the affairs and the necessities of the state, appeared to him to be the height of infatuation."--MONTAGUE. [68] He bequeathed to every Athenian a sum nearly equivalent to 3_l._ of our money. [69] The funeral of Herodes Atticus must have afforded one of the most affecting solemnities of which history makes mention. He was seventy-six years old when he died; and in the instructions which he left for his interment, he desired to be buried at Marathon, where he was born; but the Athenians insisted upon possessing his remains; and they caused the youth of their city to bear him to the Stadium Panathenaicum, which he had built; all the people accompanying, and pouring forth lamentations as for a deceased parent.--CLARKE. [70] Clarke. [71] Dodwell. [72] Sandwich. [73] Clarke. [74] Lord Sandwich. [75] Sandwich. [76] Hobhouse. [77] Wheler. [78] Dodwell. [79] Clarke. [80] Clarke. [81] Dodwell. [82] Dodwell. [83] Idem. [84] Rollin. [85] "It is generally supposed," continues Mr. Williams, "the marble temples are white; but, with the exception of the temple of Minerva at Cape Colonna, (which is built of Parian marble,) this is not the case. The marble of Pentelicus, with which all the temples at Athens were built, throws out an oxide of iron of the richest yellow, and this certainly makes them infinitely more picturesque than if they were purely white." [86] "The two principal statues among the Elgin marbles are those of Theseus, the Athenian hero, and a recumbent figure, supposed to be the river-god Ilissus (numbered in the Synopsis 93 and 99). They are executed in a style of extraordinary breadth and grandeur. Theseus is represented half reclined on a rock, covered with the skin of a lion, and appears to be resting after some mighty labour. The figure of the Ilissus is less robust: all his contours flow in lines of undulating elegance. But in both these statues, that which chiefly strikes us, in spite of the dilapidations which they have suffered, is the vitality which seems to pervade them. In these, not only the office and appearance of the muscles, whether in action or at rest, but the bearings of the skeleton, are expressed with an accuracy which could only have resulted from the most profound science, added to an acute and perpetual observation of nature. The statue of the Ilissus is especially remarkable for its graceful flexibility; and we would observe, without going too technically into the subject, how different is the indentation, formed by the lower line of the ribs in this figure, so admirably expressing its position, from that geometrical arch by which this part of the body is designated in the ordinary antique statues, and which is so rarely accommodated to the action represented. The principle, pointed out in this instance, may be traced throughout the Elgin marbles, in which true art is never superseded by conventional style. We believe that in the opinion of the majority of connoisseurs, the statue of Theseus is considered superior to that of the Ilissus. Canova, however, preferred the latter; and Raffaelle, who imported designs from Greece, has adapted this figure to that of the fallen Commander, in his picture of Heliodorus. It is well known that the Ilissus was a small stream which ran along the south side of the plain of Athens. The statue in which it is here personified occupied the left angle of the west pediment of the Parthenon, and that of Theseus was placed opposite to it on the east pediment next to the horses of Hyperion." [87] Herodotus; Thucydides; Pliny, the younger; Plutarch; Pausanias; Wheler; Rollin; Chandler; Stuart; Barthelemy; Sandwich; Montague; Brewster; Rees; Byron; Dodwell; Clarke; Hobhouse; Eustace; Quin; Williams; De la Martine. [88] Gen. c. x. v. 10. [89] Gen. xi. v. 4.--"The schemes that men of coarse imaginations have raised from a single expression in the Bible, and sometimes from a supposition of a fact no where to be found, are astonishing. If you believe the Hebrew doctors, the language of men, which, till the building of Babel, had been one, was divided into seventy languages. But of the miraculous division of the languages there is not one word in the Bible."--"Dissertation on the Origin of languages," by DR. GREGORY SHARPE, 2nd Ed. p. 24. [90] The greatest cities of Europe give but a faint idea of the grandeur which all historians unanimously ascribe to the famous city of Babylon.--DUTENS. [91] "It is conceivable," says an elegant writer on civil architecture, "that walls of the height of the London monument might have, during the long existence of a great empire, been raised to protect so great a city as Nineveh; but it requires a much greater stretch of thought to conceive them, as in the case of Babylon, to be raised to a height equal to that of the cross which terminates the dome or cupola of St. Paul's cathedral in London. Yet, when we recollect that Nebuchadnezzar was intoxicated with conquest, in possession of unbounded power and riches, and ambitious of erecting a metropolis for all Asia, upon a scale which should surpass every city the world had seen, we shall hesitate in condemning as improbable even the descriptions of Herodotus." [92] It must be confessed, indeed, that in the comparison of ancient and modern measures, nothing certain has been concluded. According to vulgar computation, a cubit is a foot and a half; and thus the ancients also reckoned it; but then we are not certainly agreed about the length of their foot.--MONTFAUCON. The doubt expressed by Montfaucon appears unnecessary; these measures being taken from the proportions of the human body, are more permanent than any other. The foot of a moderately-sized man, and the cubit--(that is, the space from the end of the fingers to the elbow), have always been twelve and eighteen inches respectively.--BELOE. [93] Thus, saith the Lord, to his anointed, to Cyrus, I will go before thee; I will break in pieces the gates of brass.--ISAIAH. [94] The original Erythræan, or Red Sea, was that part of the Indian ocean, which forms the peninsula of Arabia; the Persian and Arabian gulfs being branches of it.--BELOE. [95] It is necessary to bear in mind, that the temples of the ancients were altogether different from our churches. A large space was inclosed by walls, in which were courts, a grove, pieces of water, apartments sometimes for the priests; and, lastly, the temple, properly so called, and where, most frequently, it was permitted the priests alone to enter. The whole inclosure was named [Greek: to hieron]: the temple, properly so called, or the residence of the deity, was called [Greek: naos] (_naos_) or the cell.--HARVEY. [96] The streets crossed each other, and the city was cut into six hundred and seventy-six squares, each of which was four furlongs and a half on every side; viz., two miles and a quarter in circumference. [97] Porter. [98] Anon. [99] This is said to have been done at the building of old London Bridge. [100] These canals having been suffered to decay, the water of the river is much greater now than formerly. [101] Herodotus. Megathenes says seventy-five feet. "We relate the wonders of Babylon," says Rollin, "as they are delivered down to us by the ancients; but there are some of them which are scarce to be comprehended or believed; of which number is the lake. I mean in respect to its vast extent." [102] Vol. xlviii. 199. [103] The reviewer then goes on to say:--"By way of comparing this with a work of modern times, we may notice, that the Bristol ship canal, one of the late projects, was intended to have been eighty miles long, one hundred feet wide, and thirty feet deep; and the estimated cost was four millions sterling. To be sure, labour was cheaper at Babylon than in London, and well it might be; for if the Babylonian lake were to be made now in England, it would cost the trifling sum of four thousand two hundred and twenty-one millions sterling!" [104] The reader will naturally be reminded of the tunnel now constructing under the Thames; a much more difficult and extensive undertaking. [105] Going in and out, we should suppose, with every angle. Should any one do this with a rule at St. Paul's Cathedral, it is probable he might compass a mile. [106] The largest pyramid is 110 feet higher than St. Paul's, with a base occupying about the same area as Lincoln's Inn Fields. [107] The advantageous situation of Babylon, which was built upon a wide, extended, flat country, where no mountains bounded the prospect; the constant clearness and serenity of the air in that country, so favourable to the free contemplation of the heavens; perhaps, also, the extraordinary height of the tower of Babel, which seems to have been intended for an observatory; all these circumstances were strong motives to engage this people to a more nice observation of the various motions of the heavenly bodies, and the regular course of the stars.--ROLLIN. [108] Diodorus states, that in his time many monuments still remained with inscriptions upon them. [109] Val. Max. ix. c. 3. [110] A statue was erected in memory of this action, representing her in that very attitude, and the undress, which had not prevented her from flying to her duty. [111] Daniel, c. iv. [112] Diodorus; Prideaux. [113] "The hanging gardens," says Major Rennell, "as they are called, had an area of about three acres and a half, and in them were grown trees of considerable size; and it is not improbable, that they were of a species different from those of the natural growth of the alluvial soil of Babylonia. These trees may have been perpetuated in the same spot where they grew (or seeds from them), notwithstanding that the terraces may have subsided, by the crumbling of the piers and walls that supported them; the ruins of which may form the very eminences, spoken of by M. Niebuhr, and which are covered with a particular kind of trees." That is, with trees different from any that grow between the ruins and the Persian gulf, in which space no other trees are to be found but date and other fruit trees. [114] Daniel, ch. v., ver. 25. [115] Isaiah xiii. 19, 22; xiv. 23, 24.--It has been well observed by Bishop Newton, that it must afford all readers of an exalted taste and generous sentiments, a very sensible pleasure to hear the prophets exulting over such tyrants and oppressors as the kings of Assyria. "In the fourteenth chapter of Isaiah," continues he, "there is an Epinikion, or a triumphant ode upon the fall of Babylon. It represents the infernal mansions as moved, and the ghosts of deceased tyrants as rising to meet the king of Babylon, and congratulate his coming among them."--"It is really admirable for the severest strokes of irony as well as for the sublimest strains of poetry. The Greek poet Alcæus, who is celebrated for his hatred to tyrants, and whose odes were animated with the spirit of liberty no less than with the spirit of poetry, we may presume to say, never wrote any thing comparable to it." [116] Partly, not entirely. "Herodotus states that Darius Hystaspes, on the taking of Babylon by the stratagem of Zopyrus, 'levelled the walls and took away the gates, neither of which Cyrus had done.' But let it be remarked that Darius lived a century and a half before Alexander, in whose time the walls appear to have been in the original state; or, at least, nothing is said that implies the contrary; and it cannot be believed, if Darius had taken the trouble to level thirty-four miles of so prodigious a rampart as that of Babylon, that ever it would have been rebuilt in the manner described by Ctesias, Clitarchus, and others, who describe it at a much later period. Besides, it would have been quite unnecessary to level more than a _part_ of the wall; and in this way, probably, the historian ought to be understood."--RENNELL. [117] Herod. Thalia. c. v. ch. ix. [118] Cyrus; Cambyses; Smerdis Magus; Darius the son of Hystaspes; Xerxes I.; Artaxerxes Longimanus; Xerxes II.; Sogdianus; Darius Nothus; Artaxerxes Mnemon; Artaxerxes Ochus; Arses; and Darius Codomanus. [119] "Babylon was designed by Alexander to be not only the capital of his empire, but also a great port and naval arsenal. To contain his fleet, he ordered a basin to be excavated, capable of admitting a thousand sail, to which were to be added docks and magazines for stores. The ships of Nearchus, as well as others from Phoenicia, were already arrived. They had been taken to pieces on the Mediterranean coast, and conveyed overland to Thapsacus, where they had been put together, and then navigated down the Euphrates." The object of all this was to enable him to invade Arabia. [120] Sir John Malcolm says, that many traditions still exist in Persia, in regard to this wonderful person. Amongst others, this:--"The astrologers had foretold, that when Alexander's death was near, he would place his throne where the earth was of iron and the sky of gold. When the hero, fatigued with conquest, directed his march towards Greece, he was one day seized with a bleeding at the nose. A general who was near, unlacing his coat of mail, spread it for his prince to sit on; and, to defend him from the sun, held a golden shield over his head. When Alexander saw himself in this situation, he exclaimed, 'The prediction of the astrologers is accomplished, I no longer belong to the living! Alas! that the work of my youth should be finished! Alas! that the plant of the spring should be cut down like the ripened tree of autumn!' He wrote to his mother, saying, he should shortly quit the earth and pass to the regions of the dead. He requested that the alms given at his death should be bestowed on such as had never seen the miseries of the world, and who had never lost those who were dear to them. In conformity to his will, his mother sought, but in vain, for such persons. All had tasted the woes and griefs of life; all had lost those whom they loved. She found in this a consolation which her son had intended, for her great loss. She saw that her own was the common lot of humanity." [121] In describing the overthrow, the prophet is admirable; rising by a judicious gradation into all the pomp of horror. _q. d._ "Now, indeed, it is thronged with citizens; but the hour is coming, when it shall be entirely depopulated, and not so much as a single inhabitant left.--Lest you should think, that in process of time it may be re-edified, and again abound with joyful multitudes, it shall never be inhabited more; no, never to be dwelt in any more, from generation to generation; but shall continue a dismal waste, through all succeeding ages.--A waste so dismal, that none of the neighbouring shepherds shall make their fold, or find so much as an occasional shelter for their flocks; where kings, grandees, and crowds of affluent citizens were wont to repose themselves in profound tranquillity. Even the rude and roving Arabian shall not venture to pitch his tent, nor be able to procure for himself the poor accommodation of a night's lodging; where millions of polite people basked in the sunshine of profuse prosperity.--In short; it shall neither be habitable, nor accessible! but a dwelling place for dragons, and a court for owls; an astonishment, and a hissing. What was once the golden city, and the metropolis of the world, shall be an everlasting scene of desolation, a fearful monument of divine vengeance, and an awful admonition to human pride." [122] About the middle of the second century, when Strabo was there, the walls were reduced to fifty cubits in height, and twenty-one in breadth. [123] About the year 1169. [124] The soil of Babylonia, in the time of Herodotus, may be in no small degree judged of by what that historian states:--"Of all countries, which have come under my observation, this is far the most fruitful in corn. Fruit-trees, such as the vine, the olive, and the fig, they do not even attempt to cultivate; but the soil is so particularly well adapted for corn, that it never produces less than two-hundredfold; in seasons which are remarkably favourable it will sometimes produce three hundred; the ear of their wheat as well as barley is four digits in size. The immense height to which millet will grow, although I have witnessed it myself, I know not how to mention. I am well aware that they who have not witnessed the country will deem whatever I may say upon the subject, a violation of probability."--CLIO, CXCIII. [125] There is a copy of Rauwolf's work in the British Museum, enriched by a multitude of MS. notes by Gronovius, to whom it would seem the copy once belonged. [126] By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down; yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. 2. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof. 3. For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song; and they, that wasted us, required of us mirth, saying, Sing us one of the songs of Zion. 4. How shall we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?--PSALM cxxxvii. [127] The words of Beauchamp are:--"I employed two men for three hours in clearing a stone, which they supposed to be an idol. The part, which I got a sight of, appeared to be nothing but a shapeless mass: it was evident, however, that it was not a simple block, as it bore the marks of a chisel, and there were pretty deep holes in it." Sir Robert Ker Porter says, it is a common idea with the Turks, that the real object with Europeans, in visiting the banks of the Euphrates, is not to explore antiquities, as we pretend, but to make a laborious pilgrimage to these almost shapeless relics of a race of unbelievers more ancient than ourselves; and to perform certain mysterious religious rites before them, which excite no small curiosity amongst the Faithful to inquire into. [128] It is probable, that many fragments of antiquity, especially of the larger kind, are lost in this manner. The inhabitants call all stones, with inscriptions or figures on them, idols.--RICH. [129] "The mass on which the Kasr stands," says Sir R. K. Porter, "is above the general level full seven hundred feet. Its length is nearly four hundred yards; its breadth six hundred; but its form is now very irregular. Much of the _débris_, which this interesting spot presented to the Abbé Beauchamp and Mr. Rich in 1811, have now totally disappeared; the aspect of the summit and sides suffering constant changes from the everlasting digging in its apparently inexhaustible quarries for brick of the strongest and finest material. [130] For the story of Haroot and Maroot, see D'Herbelot and Richards' Persian Dictionary; also Kinneir's Geographical Memoir of the Persian Empire. [131] Buckingham. [132] Justin. iii. c. 16. [133] The Hebrew Scriptures; Herodotus; Xenophon; Valerius Maximus; Diodorus Siculus; Plutarch; Arrian; Quintus Curtius; Justin; Texeira; Rauwolf; Delle Valle; Prideaux; Rollin; Bp. Newton; Beloe; Rennell; Beauchamp; Kinneir; Porter; Malcolm; Franklin; Rich; Buckingham. [134] Since this was written, the following account has appeared in one of the journals (The Saturday Magazine):--"The present population of Hillah, which may average from six to seven thousand souls, consists chiefly of Arabs, who have their own Sheik, but the Mutsellim, or governor of the place, is under the pacha of Bagdad, and resides in a fortress within the town. There are bazaars and markets on both sides of the river. The shopkeepers are chiefly Armenians, Turks, and Jews. A most important fact connected with these traders is, that Manchester and Glasgow goods that were taken out by the Euphrates expedition as samples, were eagerly bought by them, at a profit to the sellers of one hundred per cent. There is much trade carried on in the town, both by camels from the interior, and by boats laden with rice, dates, tobacco, and other articles most in demand among the desert tribes. It would be curious if, in the progress of commerce and civilisation, the neighbourhood of Babylon should again become the scene of princely mercantile traffic; it is described in the Revelations as having once been (xviii. 12, 13), "The merchandise of gold, and silver, and precious stones, and of pearls, and fine linen, and purple, and silk, and scarlet, and all thyme wood, and all manner of vessels of ivory, and all manner of vessels of most precious wood, and of brass, and iron, and marble, and cinnamon, and odours, and ointments, and frankincense, and wine, and oil, and flour, and wheat, and beasts, and sheep, and horses, and chariots," &c. [135] That beautiful bird, with plumage of the finest shining blue, with purple beak and legs, the natural and living ornament of the temples and porticoes of the Greeks and Romans, which, from the stateliness of its port, as well as the brilliancy of its colours, has obtained the title of Sultana.--SONNINI. [136] The temple of the sun at Balbec. [137] Chap. viii. verses 5, 6. [138] Hist. Chron. lib. ii. [139] An Arabian traveller in the tenth century. [140] Ouseley. [141] For these the curious reader may turn to the fine work of Messrs. Daukins and Wood. There are several plates of these ruins, also, in Pococke's and Bruce's travels. When at Balbec the latter made numerous drawings; all of which he presented to George the Third. "These," says he, "are the richest offering of the kind that were ever presented to a sovereign by a subject." [142] "The entry to the great Temple of the Sun is from the east, through a noble portico of twelve circular columns; and the first apartment in which the visiter finds himself is a magnificent hexagonal hall, one hundred and eighty feet in diameter, exhibiting on all sides the remains of an architectural beauty and magnificence of the richest character, in the columns and other ornaments of a circle of chambers which run around it. Beyond this is a still larger court, of nearly a square form, being three hundred and seventy-four feet in one direction, by three hundred and sixty-eight feet in another, and at the farther extremity of that is the far-stretching pillared structure forming the proper temple. As may be observed from the view, nine of the lofty columns, which had composed this part of the edifice, are still to be seen standing together. There had been originally fifty-six in all, namely, ten at each end, and eighteen others along each of the sides. The entire length of the space which they include is two hundred and eighty-five feet, and its breadth is one hundred and fifty-seven feet. The height, including the plinth, is eighty-seven feet."--ANON. [143] The effect of the Corinthian order depends as much on the execution of the sculptured details as in the harmony and correctness of the proportion; and the miserable specimens we have about London, with a stunted capital, and a few cramped projections, called acanthus leaves, would not be known as the same order of architecture by the side of these bold, free, airy, and majestic masses of building.--ADDISON. [144] No cement or mortar is used in their construction, but the large square stones are neatly adjusted, and so closely fitted, as to render the joining almost invisible. [145] Travels in Africa, Egypt, and Syria, p. 406, 7, 4to. [146] Buckingham. [147] Carne. [148] Chronicles; Diodorus; Macrobius; Maundrell; Bruce; Seller; Dawkins and Wood; Volney; Browne; Malcolm; Ouseley; Buckingham; Carne; La Martine; Addison. [149] The substance of this decree was as follows:--"Inasmuch as in times past the continual benevolence of the people of Athens towards the Byzantines and Perinthians, united by alliance and their common origin, has never failed upon any occasion; that this benevolence, so often signalised, has lately displayed itself, when Philip of Macedon, who had taken up arms to destroy Byzantium and Perinthus, battered our walls, burned our country, cut down our forests; that in a season of so great calamity, this beneficent people succoured us with a fleet of a hundred and twenty sail, furnished with provisions, arms, and forces; that they saved us from the greatest danger; in fine, that they restored us to the quiet possession of our government, our laws, and our tombs: the Byzantines grant, by decree, the Athenians to settle in the countries belonging to Byzantium; to marry in them, to purchase lands, and to enjoy all the prerogatives of citizens; they also grant them a distinguished place at public shows, and the right of sitting both in the senate and the assembly of the people, next to the pontiffs: and further, that every Athenian, who shall think proper to settle in either of the two cities above mentioned, shall be exempted from taxes of any kind: that in the harbours, three statues of sixteen cubits shall be set up, which statues shall represent the people of Athens crowned by those of Byzantium and Perinthus: and besides, that presents shall be sent to the four solemn games of Greece, and that the crown we have decreed to the Athenians shall there be proclaimed; so that the same ceremony may acquaint all the Greeks, both with the magnanimity of the Athenians, and the gratitude of the Byzantines." [150] Gibbon. [151] Gibbon. [152] Chambers. [153] Chambers. [154] Clarke. [155] Barthelemy. [156] The whole circumference of the walls measures eighteen miles; the number of mural towers is four hundred and seventy-eight. [157] "This fact," continues Dr. Clarke, "has been so well ascertained, that it will, probably, never be disputed." "The guardians of the most holy relics," says Gibbon, "would rejoice if they were able to produce such a chain of evidence as may be alleged on this occasion." The original consecration in the temple of Delphi is proved from Herodotus and Pausanias; and its removal by Zosimus, Eusebius, Socrates, Ecclesiasticus, and Sozomen. [158] Lord Sandwich. [159] Hobhouse. [160] Sandwich. [161] Clarke. [162] Lord Sandwich. [163] Clarke. [164] Chambers. [165] Barthélemi; Wheler; Gibbon; Sandwich; Hobhouse; Byron; Clarke; La Martine; Chambers; Parker. [166] Elmanim; Sonnini; Browne; Brewster; Clarke; Encyclop. Londinensis; Rees; Wilkinson. [167] Rollin. [168] Swinburne. [169] Rollin; Swinburne. [170] Swinburne. [171] Swinburne. [172] Forsyth. [173] Livy; Rollin; Swinburne; Forsyth. [174] The tale about purchasing so much land as an ox's hide would cover, being a mere poetical fiction, is of course omitted. [175] Lib. xxiii. ch. 6. [176] Polybius has transmitted to us a treaty of peace concluded between Philip, son of Demetrius, king of Macedon, and the Carthaginians, in which the great respect and veneration of the latter for the deity, their inherent persuasion that the gods assist and preside over human affairs, and particularly over the solemn treaties made in their name and presence, are strongly displayed. Mention is therein made of five or six different orders of deities; and this enumeration appears very extraordinary in a public instrument, such as a treaty of peace concluded between two nations. We will here present our reader with the very words of the historian, as it will give some idea of the Carthaginian theology. "This treaty was concluded in the presence of Jupiter, Juno, and Apollo; in the presence of the dæmon or genius ([Greek: daimonos]) of the Carthaginians, of Hercules and Iolaus; in the presence of Mars, Triton, and Neptune; in the presence of all the confederate gods of the Carthaginians; and of the sun, the moon, and the earth; in the presence of the rivers, meads, and waters, in the presence of all those gods who possess Carthage."--ROLLIN. [177] 1,750,000_l._; that is. 35,000_l._ annually. [178] Polybius acquaints us, that the ratification of the articles of agreement between the Romans and the Carthaginians, was performed in this manner: the Carthaginians swore by the gods of their country; and the Romans, after their ancient custom, swore by a stone, and then by Mars. They swore by a stone thus:-- "If I keep my faith, may the gods vouchsafe their assistance, and give me success; if, on the contrary, I violate it, then may the other party be entirely safe, and preserved in their country, in their laws, in their possessions, and, in a word, in all their rights and liberties; and may I perish and fall alone, as now this stone does:" and then he lets the stone fall out of his hands. Livy's account of the like ceremony is something more particular; yet differs little in substance, only that he says the herald's concluding clause was, "otherwise may Jove strike the Roman people, as I do this hog;" and accordingly he killed a hog that stood ready by, with the stone which he held in his hand.--KENNETT. [179] M. Manilius and L. Marcius Censorinus. [180] Rollin. [181] Harmonies of Nature. [182] Gibbon. [183] Clarke. [184] "A company, formed at Paris, for exploring the ruins of Carthage, has already met with great success. A large house has been discovered on the margin of the sea, near Bourj-Jedid. Paintings in fresco, similar to those at Pompeii, adorn many of the rooms, and beautiful mosaics, representing men, women, and nymphs, fishes of various kinds, tigers, gazelles, &c. have been found. Fifteen cases with these precious relics have arrived at Toulon."--_Literary Gazette, May 19, 1838._ [185] Polybius; Livy; Cicero; Justin; Rollin; Kennett; Gibbon; Montague; Chateaubriand; Clarke; Sir George Temple. [186] Swinburne; Brydone; Malte Brun; Encyclop. Londinensis. [187] By Pliny, Strabo, and Tacitus. [188] Quercus. [189] Zonaras, apud Gyll. [190] Julian; Barthelemy; Gibbon; Pococke; Clarke. [191] The _sacred_ battalion was famous in history. It consisted of a body of young warriors, brought up together, at the public expense, in the citadel. Their exercises and even their amusements were regulated by the sounds of the flute, and in order to prevent their courage from degenerating into blind fury, care was taken to inspire them with the noblest and most animated sentiments. Each warrior chose from the band a friend to whom he remained inseparably united. These three hundred warriors were anciently distributed in troops at the head of the different divisions of the army. Philip destroyed this cohort at the battle of Chæronea, and the prince seeing these young Thebans stretched on the field of battle covered with honourable wounds, and lying side by side on the ground on which they had been stationed, could not restrain his tears.--BARTHELEMY. [192] Dodwell. [193] Ibid. [194] Rollin; Barthelemy; Leland; Hobhouse; Dodwell; Leland. [195] Obubea changed its name to Porcuna; and this, it is supposed, from the circumstance of a sow having had thirty pigs at one litter; in memory of which her figure was cut in stone with the following inscription underneath:-- C. CORNELIVS. C. F. C. N. GAL. CAESO. AED. FLAMEN. II. VIR. MVNICIPII. PONTIF. C. CORN. CAESO. F. SACERDOS. GENT. MVNICIPII. SCROFAM. CUM. PORCIS. XXX. IMPENSA. IPSORVM. D. D. [196] Jose. [197] Thucydides; Rollin; Wheler; Dodwell; Williams. [198] Rollin. [199] Rollin. [200] Demens! qui nimbos et non imitabile fulmen, Ære et cornipedum cursu simulâret squorum.--VIRG. [201] Kennet. [202] History of the Turks. [203] Dodwell. [204] Herodotus; Pliny the Nat.; Du Loir; Rollin; Kennet; Knowles; Wheler; Chandler; Barthelemy; Stuart; Dodwell; Quin; Turner. [205] The story of the maid of Corinth may be found in Pliny, lib. xxxv.; and in Athenagoras, with this additional circumstance, that the lover, while his outlines were taken, is described to have been asleep. [206] Gibbon. [207] The royal canal (Nahar-Malcha) might be successively restored, altered, divided, &c. (Cellarius Geograph. Antiq. tom. ii. p. 453): and these changes may serve to explain the seeming contradictions of antiquity. In the time of Julian, it must have fallen into the Euphrates, _below_ Ctesiphon. [208] These works were erected by Orodes, one of the Arsacidæan kings. [209] "I suspect," says Mr. Gibbon, "that the extravagant numbers of Elmacin may be the error, not of the text, but of the version. The best translators from the Greek, for instance, I find to be very poor arithmeticians." [210] Selman the Pure. [211] Rollin; Gibbon; Porter; Buckingham. [212] Williams. [213] Dodwell. [214] Rollin; Barthélemi; Chandler; Clarke; Dodwell; Williams. [215] In Judith, Dejoces is called Arphaxad:--"1. In the twelfth of the reign of Nabuchodonosor, who reigned in Nineveh, the great city; in the days of Arphaxad, which reigned over the Medes in Ecbatana. 2. And built in Ecbatana walls round about of stones hewn, three cubits broad and six cubits long, and made the height of the walls seventy cubits, and the breadth thereof fifty cubits. 3. And set the towers thereof upon the gates of it, an hundred cubits high, and the breadth thereof in the foundation thereof three score cubits. 4. And he made the gates thereof, even gates that were raised to the height of seventy cubits, and the breadth of them was forty cubits, for the going forth of his mighty armies, and for the setting in array of his footmen." [216] It is said, in Esther, that Ahasuerus reigned over one hundred and twenty-seven princes; from India to Ethiopia. [217] According to Herodotus, the reign of Dejoces was 53 years Phraortes 22 ---- Cyaxares 12 ---- The Scythians 28 ---- Astyages 35 ---- ---- Total 150 [218] Some authors have made a strange mistake: they have confused this city with that of the same name in Syria, at the foot of Mount Carmel; and still more often with that which was called the "City of the Magi." [219] Lib. x. 24. [220] Clio, 98. [221] Ecbatana was taken by Nadir Shah. Nadir marched against the Turks as soon as his troops were refreshed from the fatigues they had endured in the pursuit of the Afghauns. He encountered the force of two Turkish pachas on the plains of Hameden, overthrew them, and made himself master, not only of that city, but of all the country in the vicinity.--Meerza Mehdy's Hist. Sir William Jones's works, vol. v. 112; Malcolm's Hist. of Persia, vol. ii. 51. 4to. [222] "This custom," says Mr. Morier, "which I had never seen in any other part of Asia, forcibly struck me as a most happy illustration of our Saviour's parable of the labourer in the vineyard; particularly when passing by the same place, late in the day, we still found _others standing idle_, and remembered his words, '_Why stand ye here all the day idle?_' as most applicable to their situation; for in putting the question to them, they answered '_Because no one has hired us._'" [223] Lib. x. c. 24. [224] "The habitations of the people here (at Hameden) were equally mean as those of the villages through which we had passed before. The occupiers of these last resembled, very strongly, the African Arabs, or Moors, and also the mixed race of Egypt, in their physiognomy, complexion, and dress. The reception, given by these villagers to my Tartar companions, was like that of the most abject slaves to a powerful master; and the manner in which the yellow-crowned courtiers of the Sublime Porte treated their entertainers in return, was quite as much in the spirit of the despotic sultan whom they served."--_Buckingham's Travels in Mesopotamia_, vol. ii. p. 18. [225] Herodotus; Diodorus Siculus; Plutarch; Arrian; Quintus Curtius; Rollin; Rennell; Morier; Sir R. Ker Porter; Buckingham. [226] Rollin. [227] Dodwell. [228] Rollin; Barthelemy; Wheler; Chandler; Sandwich; Clarke; Hobhouse; Dodwell. [229] Gillies. [230] Chandler. [231] Pausanias; Plutarch; Barthelemy; Chandler; Dodwell; Rees; Gillies. [232] Breadth scarcely anywhere exceeding forty miles. [233] The others were, Miletus, Myus, Lebedos, Colophon, Priene, Teos, Erythræ, Phocæa, Clazomenæ, Chios, and Samos. [234] Polyen. Strat. vi. [235] Diana was the patroness of all women in labour, as well as of the children born. [236] The Ephesians have a very wise law relative to the construction of public edifices. The architect whose plan is chosen enters into a bond, by which he engages all his property. If he exactly fulfils the condition of his agreement, honours are decreed him; if the expense exceeds the sum stipulated only by one quarter, the surplus is paid from the public treasury; but if it amounts to more, the property of the architect is taken to pay the remainder.--BARTHELEMY, vol. v. 394, 5; from Vitruvius Præf., lib. x. 203. [237] We often see this temple represented upon medals with the figure of Diana. It is never charged with more than eight pillars; and sometimes only with six, four, and now and then only with two. [238] The columns being sixty feet high, the diameter, according to rule, must be six feet eight inches; that is, one-ninth part. Thus, every column would contain one hundred and ten tons of marble, besides base and capital!--WREN'S PARENTALIA, p. 361. [239] Mithridates caused 150,000 Romans in Asia to be massacred in one day. [240] Hist. August, p. 178; Jornandes, c. 20. [241] Strabo, 1. xiv. 640; Vitruvius, 1. i. c. 1; Præf. 1. vii.; Tacitus Annal. iii. 61; Plin. Nat. Hist. xxxvi. 14. [242] The length of St. Peter's is 840 Roman palms; each palm is very little short of nine English inches. [243] They offered no sacrifices to the Grecian gods. [244] Acts xx. 31. [245] Acts xix. 11; 1 Cor. xv. 9. [246] Acts xx. 19. [247] Ch. ii. [248] Revett's MS. notes. [249] On this passage Mr. Revett has left the following observation in a MS. note: "Upon what authority? Vitruvius, though he relates the story, does not give us the name of the mountain on which it happened. If mount Prion consists of white marble, it is very extraordinary it was not discovered sooner; part of the mountain being included in the city." [250] Diodorus Siculus; Vitruvius; Plin. Nat. Hist.; Plutarch; Polyænus; Wren's Parentalia; Barthelemy; Gibbon; Wheler; Chandler; Revett; Clarke; Hobhouse; Brewster; Rees. [251] Seetzen; Burckhardt; Irby; Robinson. [252] From a work published in 1778. [253] Anon. [254] Hippolyto de Jose; Swinburne; Wright; Murphy; Washington Irving. [255] Lempriere. [256] Morritt. [257] Turner. [258] Turner; Clarke. [259] Barthelemy; Lempriere; Rees; Mitford; Clarke; Walpole; Morritt; Turner. [260] Rollin. [261] Bossuet; Rollin; Encyclop. Metropolitana; Denon. [262] Eustace. [263] Dionysius of Halicarnassus makes it sixty years before the fall of Troy; or 1342 B.C. [264] Chambers. [265] Chambers. [266] He was then only eighteen. [267] The death of this celebrated naturalist was probably occasioned by carbonic acid gas. This noxious vapour must have been generated to a great extent during the eruption. It is heavier than common air, and, of course, occupies in greater proportion the substrata of that circumambient fluid. The supposition is greatly strengthened by the fact, that the old philosopher had lain down to rest; but the flames approaching him, he was compelled to rise, assisted by two servants, which he had no sooner done than he fell down dead. [268] It is a remarkable circumstance that some naturalists walking amid the flowers, on the summit of Vesuvius, the very day before this eruption, were discussing whether this mountain was a volcano. [269] Gandy, 53. [270] Mons. Du Theil. [271] Rees. [272] Brewster. [273] Ibid. [274] Brewster. [275] Brewster. [276] Brewster, 741. [277] Ibid, 740. [278] Rees. [279] Dupaty. [280] Brewster. [281] The letters in the smaller type were inserted by Ciampitti; as those he considered appropriate for filling up passages which could not be deciphered. [282] Pliny the younger; Encycl. Rees, Metrop.; Brewster; Dupaty; Eustace. [283] Plin. v. c. 26. Ptolem. v. c. 15. [284] Ptolemy; Pliny; Pococke; Chandler. [285] This was an epithet given to Crete, from the 100 cities which it once contained: also to Thebes in Egypt, on account of its 100 gates. The territory of Laconia had the same epithet for the same reason that Thebes had; and it was the custom of these 100 cities to sacrifice a hecatomb every year. [286] Sir John Malcolm. [287] The boundaries of Iran, which Europeans call Persia, have undergone many changes. The limits of the kingdom in its most prosperous periods may, however, be easily described. The Persian Gulf, or Indian Ocean, to the south; the Indies and the Oxus to the east and north-east; the Caspian Sea and Mount Caucasus to the north; and the river Euphrates to the west. The most striking features of this extensive country, are numerous chains of mountains, and large tracts of desert; amid which are interspersed beautiful valleys and rich pasture lands.--SIR JOHN MALCOLM. [288] I conquered the city of Isfahan, and I trusted in the people of Isfahan, and I delivered the cattle in their hands. And they rebelled; and the darogah whom I had placed over them they slew, with 3000 of the soldiers. And I also commanded that a general slaughter should be made of the people of Isfahan.--TIMOUR'S Institutes, p. 119. MALCOLM'S Hist. Persia, vol. i. 461. [289] Porter. [290] Lett. ii. 1. 3. [291] vii. 273, 486. viii. 2, 144. [292] Sir John Kinneir says of this causeway: "It is in length about 300 miles. The pavement is now nearly in the same condition as it was in the time of Hanway; being perfect in many places, although it has hardly ever been repaired." [293] At one time a horse's carcase sold for one thousand crowns. [294] Malcolm, Hist. Persia from Murza Mahdy. [295] The horrors of this siege, equal to any recorded in ancient history, have been described by the Polish Jesuit Krurinski, who personally witnessed them (see his History of the Revolution of Persia, published by Père du Cerceau); and they are noticed in the "Histoire de Perse depuis le commencement de ce siècle" of M. la Marnya Clairac, on authorities that cannot be disputed.--OUSELEY'S Trav. [296] Geog. Mem. of Persia. [297] Morier. [298] Malte-Brun. [299] Job, chap. xv. ver. 28. [300] Ferdousi; Ebn Hakekl; Della Valle; Chardin; Kinneir; Porter; Malcolm; Malte-Brun; Ouseley. [301] Hippolito de Jose. [302] From the time that Solomon, by means of his temple, had made Jerusalem the common place of worship to all Israel, it was distinguished from the rest of the cities by the epithet Holy, and in the Old Testament was called Air Hakkodesh, _i. e._, the city of holiness, or the holy city. It bore this title upon the coins, and the shekel was inscribed Jerusalem Kedusha, _i. e._, Jerusalem the Holy. At length Jerusalem, for brevity's sake, was omitted, and only Kedusha reserved. The Syriac being the prevailing language in Herodotus's time, Kedusha, by a change in that dialect of sh into th, was made Kedutha; and Herodotus, giving it a Greek termination, it was writ [Greek: Kadytis], or Cadytis.--PRIDEAUX'S Connexion of the Old and New Testament, vol. i. part i. p. 80, 81, 8vo. edit. [303] And Joshua smote all the country of the hills, and of the south, and of the vale, and of the springs, and all their kings; he left none remaining; but utterly destroyed all that breathed, as the Lord God of Israel commanded.--Joshua, ch. x. ver. 40. [304] --The emotions which filled the minds of those who witnessed the laying of the foundation of the temple were strangely mingled. All gave thanks to the Lord; and the multitude shouted with a great shout when the foundations were laid; but, "many of the priests and Levites, and chief of the fathers, who were ancient men, that had seen the first house, when the foundation of this house was laid before their eyes, wept with a loud voice."--EZRA, iii. 12. [305] Besides this, he built another temple. [306] Some have thought that this description, which is from Josephus, applies rather to the temple of Herod. [307] It is remarkable that the sum mentioned is equal to the British national debt. [308] "Because thou servedst not the Lord thy God with joyfulness, and with gladness of heart, for the abundance of all things; therefore shalt thou serve thine enemies which the Lord shall send against thee, in hunger, and in thirst, and in nakedness, and in want of all things: and he shall put a yoke of iron upon thy neck, until he have destroyed thee. The Lord shall bring a nation against thee from far, from the end of the earth, as swift as the eagle flieth; a nation whose tongue thou shalt not understand; a nation of fierce countenance, which shall not regard the person of the old, nor show favour to the young: and he shall eat the fruit of thy cattle, and the fruit of thy land, until thou be destroyed: which also shall not leave thee either corn, wine, or oil, or the increase of thy kine, or flocks of thy sheep, until he have destroyed thee. And he shall besiege thee in all thy gates, until thy high and fenced walls come down, wherein thou trustedst, throughout all thy land: and he shall besiege thee in all thy gates throughout all thy land, which the Lord thy God hath given thee. And thou shalt eat the fruit of thine own body, the flesh of thy sons and of thy daughters, which the Lord thy God hath given thee, in the siege, and in the straitness, wherewith thine enemies shall distress thee: so that the man that is tender among you and very delicate, his eye shall be evil toward his brother, and toward the wife of his bosom, and toward the remnant of his children which he shall leave: so that he will not give to any of them of the flesh of his children whom he shall eat: because he hath nothing left him in the siege, and in the straitness, wherewith thine enemies shall distress thee in all thy gates. The tender and delicate woman among you, which would not adventure to set the sole of her foot upon the ground for delicateness and tenderness, her eye shall be evil toward the husband of her bosom, and toward her son, and toward her daughter, and toward her children which she shall bear: for she shall eat them for want of all things secretly in the siege and straitness wherewith thine enemy shall distress thee in thy gates."--DEUT. xxviii. 47-57. [309] Deut. xxix. 22, 24, 27. [310] Robinson. [311] Buckingham. [312] The patriarch, says an accomplished traveller, makes his appearance in a flowing vest of silk, instead of a monkish habit, and every thing around him bears the character of Eastern magnificence. He receives his visitors in regal stateliness; sitting among clouds of incense, and regaling them with all the luxuriance of a Persian court. [313] Dr. Clarke. [314] Robinson. [315] Matt. xiii. 2. [316] D'Anville. [317] Id. [318] Buckingham. [319] 2 Kings xxiii. 10, 12. 2 Chron. xxvii. 3. [320] 2 Kings xxiii. 10. [321] Brewster. [322] Robinson. [323] Id. [324] Carne. [325] John xx. [326] Ib. v. 4. [327] Ib. v. 5, 11. [328] Clarke. [329] Robinson. [330] La Martine. [331] Carne. [332] Id. [333] Robinson. [334] Id. [335] Josephus; Tacitus; Prideaux; Rollin; Stackhouse; Pococke; D'Anville; Gibbon; Rees; Brewster; Clarke; Eustace; Chateaubriand; Buckingham; Robinson; La Martine; Carne. [336] Rollin. [337] Polybius; Plutarch; Rollin; Titler; Barthelemy; Chateaubriand; Dodwell. [338] Shaw; Chandler; Kinneir; Malte-Brun; Buckingham; Porter. [339] Rollin. [340] Rollin. [341] Turner. [342] Those of Magnesia amounted to fifty talents every year, a sum equivalent to 11,250_l._ sterling. [343] Such was the custom of the ancient kings of the East. Instead of settling pensions on persons they rewarded, they gave them cities, and sometimes even provinces, which, under the name of bread, wine, &c, were to furnish them abundantly with all things necessary for supporting, in a magnificent manner, their family and equipage.--ROLLIN. [344] Civil Architecture, 617. [345] Pococke; Chandler; Encycl. Metrop. [346] Rollin. [347] Rollin. [348] Dodwell. [349] Rollin; Dodwell; Williams. [350] This was the same plan as Hannibal followed afterwards at the battle of Cannæ. [351] Rollin; Wheler; Barthelemy; Clarke; Dodwell. [352] Barthelemy; Rollin; Rees; Dodwell. [353] Thucydides; Dodwell. [354] This story is told at length in Statius's Thebaid. [355] Dodwell. [356] Thucydides; Pausanias; Plutarch; Rollin; Wheler; Chandler; Barthelemy; Dodwell. [357] Savary. [358] Rollin. [359] Rollin. [360] Alexandria may be supposed to have been partly built with its ruins. [361] Malte-Brun. [362] Rollin. [363] The London and Birmingham Railway is unquestionably the greatest public work ever executed, either in ancient or modern times. If we estimate its importance by the labour alone which has been expended on it, perhaps the Great Chinese Wall might compete with it; but when we consider the immense outlay of capital which it has required,--the great and varied talents which have been in a constant state of requisition during the whole of its progress,--together with the unprecedented engineering difficulties, which we are happy to say are now overcome,--the gigantic work of the Chinese sinks totally into the shade. It may be amusing to some readers, who are unacquainted with the magnitude of such an undertaking as the London and Birmingham Railway, if we give one or two illustrations of the above assertion. The great pyramid of Egypt, that stupendous monument which seems likely to exist to the end of all time, will afford a comparison. After making the necessary allowances for the foundations, galleries, &c., and reducing the whole to one uniform denomination, it will be found that the labour expended on the great _pyramid_ was equivalent to lifting fifteen thousand seven hundred and thirty-three million cubic feet of stone one foot high. This labour was performed, according to Diodoras Siculus by three hundred thousand, to Herodotus by one hundred thousand men, and it required for its execution twenty years. If we reduce in the same manner the labour, expended in constructing the London and Birmingham Railway, to one common denomination, the result is twenty-five thousand million cubic feet of material (reduced to the same weight as that used in constructing the pyramid) lifted one foot high, or nine thousand two hundred and sixty-seven million cubic feet more than was lifted one foot high in the construction of the pyramid; yet this immense undertaking has been performed by about twenty thousand men in less than five years. From the above calculation have been omitted all the tunnelling, culverts, drains, ballasting, and fencing, and all the heavy work at the various stations, and also the labour expended on engines, carriages, wagons, &c. These are set off against the labour of drawing the materials of the pyramid from the quarries to the spot where they were to be used--a much larger allowance than is necessary. As another means of comparison, let us take the cost of the railway and turn it into pence, and allowing each penny to be one inch and thirty-four hundredths wide, it will be found that these pence laid together, so that they all touch, would more than form a continuous band round the earth at the equator. As a third mode of viewing the magnitude of this work, let us take the circumference of the earth in round numbers at one hundred and thirty million feet. Then, as there are about four hundred million cubic feet of earth to be moved in the railway, we see that this quantity of material alone, without looking to any thing else, would, if spread in a band one foot high and one foot broad, more than three times encompass the earth at the equator.--LECOUNT. [364] Saturday Magazine. [365] Saturday Magazine. [366] Monthly Magazine. [367] Harmonies of Nature. [368] Strabo mentions the sepulchre, lib. xvii. p. 808. [369] Herodotus; Diodorus; Strabo; Pliny; Plutarch; Arrian; Quintus Curtius; Rollin; Maupertuis; Montague; Maillet; Pococke; Shaw; Savary; Norden; Sandwich; Browne; Denon; Belzoni; Salt; Clarke; Wilkinson; Lecount. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: 1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_. 2. Images have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the closest paragraph break. 3. Footnotes have been renumbered and moved from the end of pages to the end of this text. 4. The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version these letters have been replaced with transliterations. 5. Certain words use oe ligature in the original. 6. In this etext letters with overhead macron are represented within square brackets preceded by equals sign. For instance, [=a] is used to represent letter 'a' with macron above it. 7. Other than that, printer's inconsistencies in spelling, punctuation, and hyphenation have been retained. 
34051	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has Volume I of this two-volume work. See http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31345 Transcribers' note: Text in italic font is enclosed by underscores (_italics_). The INDEX of this eBook also covers PG-eBook #31345, "History of the Intellectual Development of Europe, Volume I (of 2), by John William Draper." See http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31345 HISTORY OF THE INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT OF EUROPE. by JOHN WILLIAM DRAPER, M.D., LL.D., Professor of Chemistry in the University of New York, Author of a "Treatise on Human Physiology," "Civil Policy of America," "History of the American Civil War," &c. REVISED EDITION, IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. II. New York: Harper & Brothers, Publishers, Franklin Square. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1876, by Harper & Brothers, In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST. THE THREE ATTACKS: NORTHERN OR MORAL; WESTERN OR INTELLECTUAL; EASTERN OR MILITARY. THE NORTHERN OR MORAL ATTACK ON THE ITALIAN SYSTEM, AND ITS TEMPORARY REPULSE. _Geographical Boundaries of Italian Christianity.--Attacks upon it._ _The Northern or moral Attack.--The Emperor of Germany insists on a reformation in the Papacy.--Gerbert, the representative of these Ideas, is made Pope.--They are both poisoned by the Italians._ _Commencement of the intellectual Rejection of the Italian System.--It originates in the Arabian doctrine of the supremacy of Reason over Authority.--The question of Transubstantiation.--Rise and development of Scholasticism.--Mutiny among the Monks._ _Gregory VII. spontaneously accepts and enforces a Reform in the Church.--Overcomes the Emperor of Germany.--Is on the point of establishing a European Theocracy.--The Popes seize the military and monetary Resources of Europe through the Crusades._ CHAPTER II. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST--(_Continued_). THE WESTERN OR INTELLECTUAL ATTACK ON THE ITALIAN SYSTEM. _The intellectual Condition of Christendom contrasted with that of Arabian Spain._ _Diffusion of Arabian intellectual Influences through France and Sicily.--Example of Saracen Science in Alhazen, and of Philosophy in Algazzali.--Innocent III. prepares to combat these Influences. Results to Western Europe of the Sack of Constantinople by the Catholics._ _The spread of Mohammedan light Literature is followed by Heresy.--The crushing of Heresy in the South of France by armed Force, the Inquisition, mendicant Orders, auricular Confession, and Casuistry._ _The rising Sentiment is embodied in Frederick II. in Sicily.--His Conflict with and Overthrow by the Pope.--Spread of Mutiny among the mendicant Orders._ CHAPTER III. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST--(_Continued_). OVERTHROW OF THE ITALIAN SYSTEM BY THE COMBINED INTELLECTUAL AND MORAL ATTACK. _Progress of Irreligion among the mendicant Orders.--Publication of heretical Books.--The Everlasting Gospel and the Comment on the Apocalypse._ _Conflict between Philip the Fair and Boniface VIII.--Outrage upon and death of the Pope._ _The French King removes the Papacy from Rome to Avignon.--Post-mortem Trial of the Pope for Atheism and Immorality.--Causes and Consequences of the Atheism of the Pope._ _The Templars fall into Infidelity.--Their Trial, Conviction, and Punishment._ _Immoralities of the Papal Court at Avignon.--Its return to Rome.--Causes of the great Schism.--Disorganization of the Italian System.--Decomposition of the Papacy.--Three Popes._ _The Council of Constance attempts to convert the papal Autocracy into a constitutional Monarchy.--It murders John Huss and Jerome of Prague.--Pontificate of Nicolas V.--End of the intellectual influence of the Italian System._ CHAPTER IV. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST--(_Concluded_). EFFECT OF THE EASTERN OR MILITARY ATTACK.--GENERAL REVIEW OF THE AGE OF FAITH. _The Fall of Constantinople.--Its momentary Effect on the Italian System._ GENERAL REVIEW OF THE INTELLECTUAL CONDITION IN THE AGE OF FAITH.--_Supernaturalism and its Logic spread all over Europe.--It is destroyed by the Jews and Arabians.--Its total Extinction._ _The Jewish Physicians.--Their Acquirements and Influence.--Their Collision with the Imposture-medicine of Europe.--Their Effect on the higher Classes.--Opposition to them._ _Two Impulses, the Intellectual and Moral, operating against the Mediæval state of Things.--Downfall of the Italian System through the intellectual Impulse from the West and the moral from the North.--Action of the former through Astronomy.--Origin of the moral Impulse.--Their conjoint irresistible Effect.--Discovery of the state of Affairs in Italy.--The Writings of Machiavelli.--What the Church had actually done._ _Entire Movement of the Italian System determined from a consideration of the four Revolts against it._ CHAPTER V. APPROACH OF THE AGE OF REASON IN EUROPE. IT IS PRECEDED BY MARITIME DISCOVERY. _Consideration of the definite Epochs of Social Life._ _Experimental Philosophy emerging in the Age of Faith._ _The Age of Reason ushered in by Maritime Discovery and the rise of European Criticism._ MARITIME DISCOVERY.--_The three great Voyages._ COLUMBUS _discovers America_.--DE GAMA _doubles the Cape and reaches India_.--MAGELLAN _circumnavigates the Earth.--The Material and intellectual Results of each of these Voyages._ DIGRESSION ON THE SOCIAL CONDITION OF AMERICA.--_In isolated human Societies the process of Thought and of Civilization is always the same.--Man passes through a determinate succession of Ideas and embodies them in determinate Institutions.--The state of Mexico and Peru proves the influence of Law in the development of Man._ CHAPTER VI. APPROACH OF THE AGE OF REASON IN EUROPE. IT IS PRECEDED BY THE RISE OF CRITICISM. _Restoration of Greek Literature and Philosophy in Italy.--Development of Modern Languages and Rise of Criticism.--Imminent Danger to Latin Ideas._ _Invention of Printing.--It revolutionizes the Communication of Knowledge, especially acts on Public Worship, and renders the Pulpit secondary._ THE REFORMATION.--_Theory of Supererogation and Use of Indulgences. --The Right of Individual Judgment asserted.--Political History of the Origin, Culmination, and Check of the Reformation.--Its Effects in Italy._ _Causes of the Arrest of the Reformation.--Internal Causes in Protestantism.--External in the Policy of Rome.--The Counter-Reformation. --Inquisition.--Jesuits.--Secession of the great Critics.--Culmination of the Reformation in America.--Emergence of Individual Liberty of Thought._ CHAPTER VII. DIGRESSION ON THE CONDITION OF ENGLAND AT THE END OF THE AGE OF FAITH. RESULTS PRODUCED BY THE AGE OF FAITH. _Condition of England at the Suppression of the Monasteries._ _Condition of England at the close of the seventeenth Century.--Locomotion, Literature, Libraries.--Social and private Life of the Laity and Clergy.--Brutality in the Administration of Law.--Profligacy of Literature.--The Theatre, its three Phases.--Miracle, Moral, and Real Plays._ _Estimate of the Advance made in the Age of Faith.--Comparison with that already made in the Age of Reason._ CHAPTER VIII. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF REASON. REJECTION OF AUTHORITY AND TRADITION, AND ADOPTION OF SCIENTIFIC TRUTH.--DISCOVERY OF THE TRUE POSITION OF THE EARTH IN THE UNIVERSE. _Ecclesiastical Attempt to enforce the_ GEOCENTRIC DOCTRINE _that the Earth is the Centre of the Universe, and the most important Body in it_. _The_ HELIOCENTRIC DOCTRINE _that the Sun is the Centre of the Solar System, and the Earth a small Planet, comes gradually into Prominence_. _Struggle between the Ecclesiastical and Astronomical Parties.--Activity of the Inquisition.--Burning of_ BRUNO.--_Imprisonment of_ GALILEO. INVENTION OF THE TELESCOPE.--_Complete Overthrow of the Ecclesiastical Idea.--Rise of Physical Astronomy._--NEWTON.--_Rapid and resistless Development of all Branches of Natural Philosophy._ _Final Establishment of the Doctrine that the Universe is under the Dominion of mathematical, and, therefore, necessary Laws._ _Progress of Man from Anthropocentric Ideas to the Discovery of his true Position and Insignificance in the Universe._ CHAPTER IX. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF REASON--(_Continued_). HISTORY OF THE EARTH.--HER SUCCESSIVE CHANGES IN THE COURSE OF TIME. _Oriental and Occidental Doctrines respecting the Earth in Time.--Gradual Weakening of the latter by astronomical Facts, and the Rise of Scientific Geology._ _Impersonal Manner in which the Problem was eventually solved, chiefly through Facts connected with Heat._ _Proofs of limitless Duration from inorganic Facts.--Igneous and Aqueous Rocks._ _Proofs of the same from organic Facts.--Successive Creations and Extinctions of living Forms, and their contemporaneous Distribution._ _Evidences of a slowly declining Temperature, and, therefore, of a long Time.--The Process of Events by Catastrophe and by Law.--Analogy of Individual and Race Development.--Both are determined by unchangeable Law._ _Conclusion that the Plan of the Universe indicates a Multiplicity of Worlds in infinite Space, and a Succession of Worlds in infinite Time._ CHAPTER X. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF REASON--(_Continued_). THE NATURE AND RELATIONS OF MAN. _Position of Man according to the Heliocentric and Geocentric Theories._ OF ANIMAL LIFE.--_The transitory Nature of living Forms.--Relations of Plants and Animals.--Animals are Aggregates of Matter expending Force originally derived from the Sun._ THE ORGANIC SERIES.--_Man a Member of it.--His Position determined by Anatomical and Physiological Investigation of his Nervous System.--Its triple Form: Automatic, Instinctive, Intellectual._ _The same progressive Development is seen in individual Man, in the entire animal Series, and in the Life of the Globe.--They are all under the Control of an eternal, universal, irresistible Law._ _The Aim of Nature is intellectual Development, and human Institutions must conform thereto._ _Summary of the Investigation of the Position of Man.--Production of Inorganic and Organic Forms by the Sun.--Nature of Animals and their Series.--Analogies and Differences between them and Man.--The Soul.--The World._ CHAPTER XI. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF REASON--(_Continued_). THE UNION OF SCIENCE AND INDUSTRY. _European Progress in the Acquisition of exact Knowledge.--Its Resemblance to that of Greece._ _Discoveries respecting the Air.--Its mechanical and chemical Properties.--Its Relation to Animals and Plants.--The Winds. --Meteorology.--Sounds.--Acoustic Phenomena._ _Discoveries respecting the Ocean.--Physical and chemical Phenomena.--Tides and Currents.--Clouds.--Decomposition of Water._ _Discoveries respecting other material Substances.--Progress of Chemistry._ _Discoveries respecting Electricity, Magnetism, Light, Heat._ _Mechanical Philosophy and Inventions.--Physical Instruments.--The Result illustrated by the Cotton Manufacture.--Steam-engine. --Bleaching.--Canals.--Railways.--Improvements in the Construction of Machinery.--Social Changes produced.--Its Effect on intellectual Activity._ _The scientific Contributions of various Nations, and especially of Italy._ CHAPTER XII. CONCLUSION--THE FUTURE OF EUROPE. _Summary of the Argument presented in this Book respecting the mental Progress of Europe._ _Intellectual Development is the Object of Individual Life.--It is also the Result of social Progress._ _Nations arriving at Maturity instinctively attempt their own intellectual Organization.--Example of the Manner in which this has been done in China.--Its Imperfection.--What it has accomplished._ _The Organization of public Intellect is the End to which European Civilization is tending._ THE INTELLECTUAL DEVELOPMENT OF EUROPE. CHAPTER I. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST. THE THREE ATTACKS: NORTHERN OR MORAL; WESTERN OR INTELLECTUAL; EASTERN OR MILITARY. THE NORTHERN OR MORAL ATTACK ON THE ITALIAN SYSTEM, AND ITS TEMPORARY REPULSE. _Geographical Boundaries of Italian Christianity._--_Attacks upon it._ _The Northern or moral Attack.--The Emperor of Germany insists on a reformation in the Papacy.--Gerbert, the representative of these Ideas, is made Pope.--They are both poisoned by the Italians._ _Commencement of the intellectual Rejection of the Italian System.--It originates in the Arabian doctrine of the supremacy of Reason over Authority.--The question of Transubstantiation.--Rise and development of Scholasticism.--Mutiny among the Monks._ _Gregory VII. spontaneously accepts and enforces a Reform in the Church.--Overcomes the Emperor of Germany.--Is on the point of establishing a European Theocracy.--The Popes seize the military and monetary Resources of Europe through the Crusades._ The realm of an idea may often be defined by geometrical lines. [Sidenote: The geographical boundaries of Latin Christianity.] If from Rome, as a centre, two lines be drawn, one of which passes eastward, and touches the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus, the other westward, and crosses the Pyrenees, nearly all those Mediterranean countries lying to the south of these lines were living, at the time of which we speak, under the dogma, "There is but one God, and Mohammed is his prophet;" but the countries to the north had added to the orthodox conception of the Holy Trinity the adoration of the Virgin, the worship of images, the invocation of saints, and a devout attachment to relics and shrines. [Sidenote: Forces acting upon it.] I have now to relate how these lines were pushed forward on Europe, that to the east by military, that to the west by intellectual force. On Rome, as on a pivot, they worked; now opening, now closing, now threatening to curve round at their extremes and compress paganizing Christendom in their clasp; then, through the convulsive throes of the nations they had inclosed, receding from one another and quivering throughout their whole length, but receding only for an instant, to shut more closely again. It was as if from the hot sands of Africa invisible arms were put forth, enfolding Europe in their grasp, and trying to join their hands to give to paganizing Christendom a fearful and mortal compression. There were struggles and resistances, but the portentous hands clasped at last. Historically, we call the pressure that was then made the Reformation. Not without difficulty can we describe the convulsive struggles of nations so as to convey a clear idea of the forces acting upon them. I have now to devote many perhaps not uninteresting, certainly not uninstructive, pages to these events. In this chapter I begin that task by relating the consequences of the state of things heretofore described--the earnestness of converted Germany and the immoralities of the popes. [Sidenote: The Germans insist on a reform in the papacy.] The Germans insisted on a reformation among ecclesiastics, and that they should lead lives in accordance with religion. This moral attack was accompanied also by an intellectual one, arising from another source, and amounting to a mutiny in the Church itself. In the course of centuries, and particularly during the more recent evil times, a gradual divergence of theology from morals had taken place, to the dissatisfaction of that remnant of thinking men who here and there, in the solitude of monasteries, compared the dogmas of theology with the dictates of reason. Of those, and the number was yearly increasing, who had been among the Arabs in Spain, not a few had become infected with a love of philosophy. [Sidenote: Reappearance of philosophy.] Whoever compares the tenth and twelfth centuries together cannot fail to remark the great intellectual advance which Europe was making. The ideas occupying the minds of Christian men, their very turn of thought, had altogether changed. The earnestness of the Germans, commingling with the knowledge of the Mohammedans, could no longer be diverted from the misty clouds of theological discussion out of which Philosophy emerged, not in the Grecian classical vesture in which she had disappeared at Alexandria, but in the grotesque garb of the cowled and mortified monk. She timidly came back to the world as Scholasticism, persuading men to consider, by the light of their own reason, that dogma which seemed to put common sense at defiance--transubstantiation. Scarcely were her whispers heard in the ecclesiastical ranks when a mutiny against authority arose, and since it was necessary to combat that mutiny with its own weapons, the Church was compelled to give her countenance to Scholastic Theology. Lending himself to the demand for morality, and not altogether refusing to join in the intellectual progress, a great man, Hildebrand, brought on an ecclesiastical reform. He raised the papacy to its maximum of power, and prepared the way for his successors to seize the material resources of Europe through the Crusades. [Sidenote: The three pressures upon Rome.] Such is an outline of the events with which we have now to deal. A detailed analysis of those events shows that there were three directions of pressure upon Rome. The pressure from the West and that from the East were Mohammedan. Their resultant was a pressure from the North: it was essentially Christian. While those were foreign, this was domestic. It is almost immaterial in what order we consider them; the manner in which I am handling the subject leads me, however, to treat of the Northern pressure first, then of that of the West, and on subsequent pages of that of the East. [Sidenote: Foreign influence for reforming the papacy.] It had become absolutely necessary that something should be done for the reformation of the papacy. Its crimes, such as we have related in Chapter XII., Vol. I., outraged religious men. To the master-spirit of the movement for accomplishing this end we must closely look. He is the representative of influences that were presently to exert a most important agency. [Sidenote: Life of Gerbert.] In the train of the Emperor Otho III., when he resolved to put a stop to all this wickedness, was Gerbert, a French ecclesiastic, born in Auvergne. In his boyhood, while a scholar in the Abbey of Avrillac, he attracted the attention of his superiors; among others, of the Count of Barcelona, who took him to Spain. There he became a proficient in the mathematics, astronomy, and physics of the Mohammedan schools. [Sidenote: His Saracen education.] He spoke Arabic with the fluency of a Saracen. His residence at Cordova, where the khalif patronized all the learning and science of the age, and his subsequent residence in Rome, where he found an inconceivable ignorance and immorality, were not lost upon his future life. He established a school at Rheims, where he taught logic, music, astronomy, explained Virgil, Statius, Terence, and introduced what were at that time regarded as wonders, the globe and the abacus. He laboured to persuade his countrymen that learning is far to be preferred to the sports of the field. He observed the stars through tubes, invented a clock, and an organ played by steam. He composed a work on Rhetoric. Appointed Abbot of Bobbio, he fell into a misunderstanding with his monks, and had to retire first to Rome, and then to resume his school at Rheims. In the political events connected with the rise of Hugh Capet, he was again brought into prominence. [Sidenote: His reproaches against the Church.] The speech of the Bishop of Orleans at the Council of Rheims, which was his composition, shows us how his Mohammedan education had led him to look upon the state of things in Christendom: "There is not one at Rome, it is notorious, who knows enough of letters to qualify him for a door-keeper; with what face shall he presume to teach who has never learned?" He does not hesitate to allude to papal briberies and papal crimes: "If King Hugh's embassadors could have bribed the pope and Crescentius, his affairs had taken a different turn." He recounts the disgraces and crimes of the pontiffs: how John XII. had cut off the nose and tongue of John the Cardinal; how Boniface had strangled John XIII.; how John XIV. had been starved to death in the dungeons of the Castle of St. Angelo. He demands, "To such monsters, full of all infamy, void of all knowledge, human and divine, are all the priests of God to submit--men distinguished throughout the world for their learning and holy lives? The pontiff who so sins against his brother--who, when admonished, refuses to hear the voice of counsel, is as a publican and a sinner." With a prophetic inspiration of the accusations of the Reformation, he asks, "Is he not Anti-Christ?" He speaks of him as "the Man of Sin," "the Mystery of Iniquity." Of Rome he says, with an emphasis doubtless enforced by his Mohammedan experiences, "She has already lost the allegiance of the East; Alexandria, Antioch, Africa, and Asia are separate from her; Constantinople has broken loose from her; the interior of Spain knows nothing of the pope." He says, "How do your enemies say that, in deposing Arnulphus, we should have waited for the judgment of the Roman bishop? Can they say that his judgment is before that of God which our synod pronounced? The Prince of the Roman bishops and of the apostles themselves proclaimed that God must be obeyed rather than men; and Paul, the teacher of the Gentiles, announced anathema to him, though he were an angel, who should preach a doctrine different to that which had been delivered. Because the pontiff Marcellinus offered incense to Jupiter, must, therefore, all bishops sacrifice?" In all this there is obviously an insurgent spirit against the papacy, or, rather, against its iniquities. [Sidenote: His ecclesiastical advancement.] In the progress of the political movements Gerbert was appointed to the archbishopric of Rheims. On this occasion, it is not without interest that we observe his worldly wisdom. It was desirable to conciliate the clergy--perhaps it might be done by the encouragement of marriage. He had lived in the polygamic court of the khalif, whose family had occasionally boasted of more than forty sons and forty daughters. Well then may he say, "I prohibit not marriage. I condemn not second marriages. I do not blame the eating of flesh." His election not only proved unfortunate, but, in the tortuous policy of the times, he was removed from the exercise of his episcopal functions and put under interdict. The speech of the Roman legate, Leo, who presided at his condemnation, gives us an insight into the nature of his offence, of the intention of Rome to persevere in her ignorance and superstition, and is an amusing example of ecclesiastical argument: "Because the vicars of Peter and their disciples will not have for their teachers a Plato, a Virgil, a Terence, and the rest of the herd of philosophers, who soar aloft like the birds of the air, and dive into the depths like the fishes of the sea, ye say that they are not worthy to be door-keepers, because they know not how to make verses. Peter is, indeed, a door-keeper--but of heaven!" He does not deny the systematic bribery of the pontifical government, but justifies it. "Did not the Saviour receive gifts of the wise men?" Nor does he deny the crimes of the pontiffs, though he protests against those who would expose them, reminding them that "Ham was cursed for uncovering his father's nakedness." In all this we see the beginning of that struggle between Mohammedan learning and morals and Italian ignorance and crime, which was at last to produce such important results for Europe. Once more Gerbert retired to the court of the emperor. It was at the time that Otho III. was contemplating a revolution in the empire and a reformation of the Church. He saw how useful Gerbert might be to his policy, and had him appointed Archbishop of Ravenna. [Sidenote: Gerbert the pope.] On the death of Gregory V. he issued his decree for the election of Gerbert as pope. The low-born French ecclesiastic, thus attaining to the utmost height of human ambition, took the name of Sylvester II. But Rome was not willing thus to surrender her sordid interests; she revolted. Tusculum, the disgrace of the papacy, rebelled. It required the arms of the emperor to sustain his pontiff. For a moment it seemed as if the Reformation might have been anticipated by many centuries--that Christian Europe might have been spared the abominable papal disgraces awaiting it. [Sidenote: Poisoning of the emperor and pope.] There was a learned and upright pope, an able and youthful emperor; but Italian revenge, in the person of Stephania, the wife of the murdered Crescentius, blasted all these expectations. From the hand of that outraged and noble criminal, who, with more than Roman firmness of purpose, could deliberately barter her virtue for vengeance, the unsuspecting emperor took the poisoned cup, and left Rome only to die. He was but twenty-two years of age. Sylvester, also, was irretrievably ruined by the drugs that had been stealthily mixed with his food. He soon followed his patron to the grave. His steam organs, physical experiments, mechanical inventions, foreign birth, and want of orthodoxy, confirmed the awful imputation that he was a necromancer. The mouth of every one was full of stories of mystery and magic in which Gerbert had borne a part. Afar off in Europe, by their evening firesides, the goblin-scared peasants whispered to one another that in the most secret apartment of the palace at Rome there was concealed an impish dwarf, who wore a turban, and had a ring that could make him invisible, or give him two different bodies at the same time; that, in the midnight hours, strange sounds had been heard, when no one was within but the pope; that, while he was among the infidels in Spain, the future pontiff had bartered his soul to Satan, on condition that he would make him Christ's vicar upon earth, and now it was plain that both parties had been true to their compact. In their privacy, hollow-eyed monks muttered to one another under their cowls, "Homagium diabolo fecit et male finivit." To a degree of wickedness almost irremediable had things thus come. The sins of the pontiffs were repeated, without any abatement, in all the clerical ranks. Simony and concubinage prevailed to an extent that threatened the authority of the Church over the coarsest minds. Ecclesiastical promotion could in all directions be obtained by purchase; in all directions there were priests boasting of illegitimate families. [Sidenote: Commencing protest in the Church against its sins.] But yet, in the Church itself there were men of irreproachable life, who, like Peter Damiani, lifted up their voices against the prevailing scandal. He it was who proved that nearly every priest in Milan had purchased his preferment and lived with a concubine. The immoralities thus forced upon the attention of pious men soon began to be followed by consequences that might have been expected. It is but a step from the condemnation of morals to the criticism of faith. The developing intellect of Europe could no longer bear the acts or the thoughts that it had heretofore submitted to. The dogma of transubstantiation led to revolt. [Sidenote: Primitive agreement of philosophy and theology.] The early fathers delighted to point out the agreement of doctrines flowing from the principles of Christianity with those of Greek philosophy. For long it was asserted that a correspondence between faith and reason exists; but by degrees as one dogma after another of a mysterious and unintelligible kind was introduced, and matters of belief could no longer be co-ordinated with the conclusions of the understanding, it became necessary to force the latter into a subordinate position. [Sidenote: Their gradual alienation.] The great political interests involved in these questions suggested the expediency and even necessity of compelling such a subordination by the application of civil power. In this manner, as we have described, in the reign of Constantine the Great, philosophical discussions of religious things came to be discountenanced, and implicit faith in the decisions of existing authority required. Philosophy was subjugated and enslaved by theology. We shall now see what were the circumstances of her revolt. In the solitude of monasteries there was every inducement for those who had become weary of self-examination to enter on the contemplation of the external world. Herein they found a field offering to them endless occupation, and capable of worthily exercising their acuteness. [Sidenote: The mutiny against theology commences among the monks.] But it was not possible for them to take the first step without offending against the decisions established by authority. The alternative was stealthy proceeding or open mutiny; but before mutiny there occurs a period of private suggestion and another of more extensive discussion. [Sidenote: Persecution of Gotschalk,] It was thus that the German monk Gotschalk, in the ninth century, occupied himself in the profound problem of predestination, enduring the scourge and death in prison for the sake of his opinion. The presence of the Saracens in Spain offered an incessant provocation to the restless intellect of the West, now rapidly expanding, to indulge itself in such forbidden exercises. Arabian philosophy, unseen and silently, was diffusing itself throughout France and Europe, and churchmen could sometimes contemplate a refuge from their enemies among the infidel. In his extremity, Abelard himself looked forward to a retreat among the Saracens--a protection from ecclesiastical persecution. [Sidenote: who sets up reason against authority.] In the conflict with Gotschalk on the matter of predestination was already foreshadowed the attempt to set up reason against authority. John Erigena, who was employed by Hincmar, the Archbishop of Rheims, on that occasion, had already made a pilgrimage to the birthplaces of Plato and Aristotle, A.D. 825, and indulged the hope of uniting philosophy and religion in the manner proposed by the ecclesiastics who were studying in Spain. [Sidenote: John Erigena falls into Pantheism.] From Eastern sources John Erigena had learned the doctrines of the eternity of matter, and even of the creation, with which, indeed, he confounded the Deity himself. He was, therefore, a Pantheist; accepting the Oriental ideas of emanation and absorption not only as respects the soul of man, but likewise all material things. In his work "On the Nature of Things," his doctrine is, "That, as all things were originally contained in God, and proceeded from him into the different classes by which they are now distinguished, so shall they finally return to him and be absorbed in the source from which they came; in other words, that as, before the world was created, there was no being but God, and the causes of all things were in him, so, after the end of the world, there will be no being but God, and the causes of all things in him." This final resolution he denominated deification, or theosis. He even questioned the eternity of hell, saying, with the emphasis of a Saracen, "There is nothing eternal but God." It was impossible, under such circumstances, that he should not fall under the rebuke of the Church. [Sidenote: The conflict begins on transubstantiation.] Transubstantiation, as being, of the orthodox doctrines, the least reconcilable to reason, was the first to be attacked by the new philosophers. What was, perhaps, in the beginning, no more than a jocose Mohammedan sarcasm, became a solemn subject of ecclesiastical discussion. Erigena strenuously upheld the doctrine of the Stercorists, who derived their name from their assertion that a part of the consecrated elements are voided from the body in the manner customary with other relics of food; a doctrine denounced by the orthodox, who declared that the priest could "make God," and that the eucharistic elements are not liable to digestion. [Sidenote: Opinions of Berengar of Tours.] And now, A.D. 1050, Berengar of Tours prominently brought forward the controversy respecting the real presence. The question had been formularized by Radbert under the term transubstantiation, and the opinions entertained respecting the sacred elements greatly differed; mere fetish notions being entertained by some, by others the most transcendental ideas. In opposition to Radbert and the orthodox party, who asserted that those elements ceased to be what to the senses they appeared, and actually became transformed into the body and blood of the Saviour, Berengar held that, though there is a real presence in them, that presence is of a spiritual nature. These heresies were condemned by repeated councils, Berengar himself being offered the choice of death or recantation. He wisely preferred the latter, but more wisely resumed his offensive doctrines as soon as he had escaped from the hands of his persecutors.[Sidenote: The pope privately adopts them.] As might be supposed from the philosophical indefensibility of the orthodox doctrine, Berengar's opinions, which, indeed, issued from those of Erigena, made themselves felt in the highest ecclesiastical regions, and, from the manner in which Gregory VII. dealt with the heresiarch, there is reason to believe that he himself had privately adopted the doctrines thus condemned. [Sidenote: Peter Abelard among the insurgents.] But it is in Peter Abelard that we find the representative of the insurgent spirit of those times. The love of Heloisa seems in our eyes to be justified by his extraordinary intellectual power. In his Oratory, "The Paraclete," the doctrines of faith and the mysteries of religion were without any restraint discussed. No subject was too profound or too sacred for his contemplation. [Sidenote: St. Bernard attacks him.] By the powerful and orthodox influence of St. Bernard, "a morigerous and mortified monk," the opinions of Abelard were brought under the rebuke of the authorities. In vain he appealed from the Council of Sens to Rome; the power of St. Bernard at Rome was paramount. "He makes void the whole Christian faith by attempting to comprehend the nature of God through human reason. He ascends up into Heaven; he goes down into hell. Nothing can elude him, either in the height above or in the nethermost depths. His branches spread over the whole earth. He boasts that he has disciples in Rome itself, even in the College of Cardinals. He draws the whole earth after him. It is time, therefore, to silence him by apostolic authority." Such was the report of the Council of Sens to Rome, A.D. 1140. Perhaps it was not so much the public accusation that Abelard denied the doctrine of the Trinity, as his assertion of the supremacy of reason--which clearly betrayed his intention of breaking the thraldom of authority--that insured his condemnation. It was impossible to restrict the rising discussions within their proper sphere, or to keep them from the perilous ground of ecclesiastical history. [Sidenote: The book "Sic et Non."] Abelard in his work entitled "Sic et Non," sets forth the contradictory opinions of the fathers, and exhibits their discord and strifes on great doctrinal points, thereby insinuating how little of unity there was in the Church. It was a work suggesting a great deal more than it actually stated, and was inevitably calculated to draw down upon its author the indignation of those whose interests it touched. [Sidenote: Scholastic philosophy, rise of.] Out of the discussions attending these events sprang the celebrated doctrines of Nominalism and Realism, though the terms themselves seem not to have been introduced till the end of the twelfth century. The Realists thought that the general types of things had a real existence; the Nominalists, that they were merely a mental abstraction expressed by a word. It was therefore the Old Greek dispute revived. [Sidenote: Nominalism and Realism.] Of the Nominalists, Roscelin of Compiègne, a little before A.D. 1100, was the first distinguished advocate; his materializing views, as might be expected, drawing upon him the reproof of the Church. In this contest, Anselm, the Archbishop of Canterbury, attempted to harmonize reason in subordination to faith, and again, by his example, demonstrated the necessity of submitting all such questions to the decision of the human intellect. The development of scholastic philosophy, which dates from the time of Erigena, was accelerated by two distinct causes: the dreadful materialization into which, in Europe, all sacred things had fallen, and the illustrious example of the Mohammedans, who already, by their physical inquiries, had commenced a career destined to end in brilliant results. [Sidenote: The Arabs in Spain promote these discussions.] The Spanish universities were filled with ecclesiastics from many parts of Europe. Peter the Venerable, the friend and protector of Abelard, who had spent much time in Cordova, and not only spoke Arabic fluently, but actually translated the Koran into Latin, mentions that, on his first arrival in Spain, he found several learned men, even from England, studying astronomy. The reconciliation of many of the dogmas of authority with common sense was impossible for men of understanding. Could the clear intellect of such a statesman as Hildebrand be for a moment disgraced by accepting the received view of a doctrine like that of transubstantiation? His great difficulty was to reconcile what had been rendered orthodox by the authority of the Church with the suggestions of reason, or even with that reverence for holy things which is in the heart of every intelligent man. In such sentiments, we find an explanation of the lenient dealings of that stern ecclesiastic with the heretic Berengar. He saw that it was utterly impossible to offer any defence of many of the materialized dogmas of the age, but then those dogmas had been put forth as absolute truth by the Church. [Sidenote: Rise of Scholastic Theology.] Things had come to the point at which reason and theology must diverge; yet the Italian statesmen did not accept this issue without an additional attempt, and, under their permission, Scholastic Theology, which originated in the scholastic philosophy of Erigena and his followers, sought, in the strange union of the Holy Scriptures, the Aristotelian Philosophy, and Pantheism, to construct a scientific basis for Christianity. Heresy was to be combated with the weapons of the heretics, and a co-ordination of authority and reason effected. Under such auspices scholastic philosophy pervaded the schools, giving to some of them, as the University of Paris, a fictitious reputation, and leading to the foundation of others in other cities. It answered the object of its politic promoters in a double way, for it raised around the orthodox theology an immense and impenetrable bulwark of what seemed to be profound learning, and also diverted the awakening mind of Western Europe to occupations which, if profitless, were yet exciting, and without danger to the existing state of things. In that manner was put off for a time the inevitable day in which philosophy and theology were to be brought into mortal conflict with each other. [Sidenote: Its advantages in the existing state of the Church.] It was doubtless seen by Hildebrand and his followers that, though Berengar had set the example of protesting against the principle that the decision of a majority of voters in a council or other collective body should ever be received as ascertaining absolute truth, yet so great was the uncertainty of the principles on which the scholastic philosophy was founded, so undetermined its mental exercise, so ineffectual the results to which it could attain, that it was unlikely for a long time to disturb the unity of doctrine in the Church. While men were reasoning round and round again in the same vicious circle without finding any escape, and indeed without seeking any, delighted with the dexterity of their movements, but never considering whether they were making any real advance, it was unnecessary to anticipate inconvenience from their progress. [Sidenote: The philosophical dilemma of the Church.] Here was the difficulty. The decisions of the Church were asserted to be infallible and irrevocable; her philosophy, if such it can be called--as must be the case with any philosophy reposing upon a final revelation from God--was stationary. But the awakening mind of the West was displaying, in an unmistakable way, its propensity to advance. As one who rides an unruly horse will sometimes divert him from a career which could not be checked by main force by reining him round and round, and thereby exhausting his spirit and strength, and keeping him in a narrow space, so the wanton efforts of the mind may be guided, if they cannot be checked. These principles of policy answered their object for a time, until metaphysical were changed for physical discussions. Then it became impossible to divert the onward movement, and on the first great question arising--that of the figure and place of the earth--a question dangerous to the last degree, since it inferentially included the determination of the position of man in the universe, theology suffered an irretrievable defeat. Between her and philosophy there was thenceforth no other issue than a mortal duel. [Sidenote: Course of Scholasticism.] Though Erigena is the true founder of Scholasticism, Roscelin, already mentioned as renewing the question of Platonic Universals, has been considered by some to be entitled to that distinction. After him, William of Champeaux opened a school of logic in Paris, A.D. 1109, and from that time the University made it a prominent study. On the rise of the mendicant orders, Scholasticism received a great impulse, perhaps, as has been affirmed, because its disputations suited their illiterate state; Thomas Aquinas, the Dominican, and Duns Scotus, the Franciscan, founding rival schools, which wrangled for three centuries. In Italy, Scholasticism never prevailed as it did in France and elsewhere, and at last it died away, its uselessness, save in the political result before mentioned, having been detected. [Sidenote: Reaction in the papacy against these pressures.] The middle of the eleventh century ushers in an epoch for the papacy and for Europe. It is marked by an attempt at a moral reformation in the Church--by a struggle for securing for the papacy independence both of the Emperors of Germany and of the neighbouring Italian nobles--thus far the pope being the mere officer of the emperor, and often the creature of the surrounding nobility--by the conversion of the temporalities of the Church, heretofore indirect, into absolute possessions, by securing territories given "to the Church, the blessed Peter, and the Roman republic" to the first of these beneficiaries, excluding the last. [Sidenote: Preparation for a concentration of the papal power.] As events proceeded, these minor affairs converged, and out of their union arose the great conflict of the imperial and papal powers for supremacy. The same policy which had succeeded in depriving the Roman people of any voice in appointments of popes--which had secularized the Church in Italy, for a while seized all the material resources of Europe through the device of the Crusades, and nearly established a papal autocracy in all Europe. These political events demand from us notice, since from them arose intellectual consequences of the utmost importance. The second Lateran Council, under Nicolas II., accomplished the result of vesting the elective power for the papacy in the cardinals. That was a great revolution. It was this council which gave to Berengar his choice between death and recantation. [Sidenote: Three parties in Italy.] There were at this period three powers engaged in Italy--the Imperial, the Church party, and the Italian nobles. For the sake of holding the last in check--since it was the nearest, it required the most unremitting attention--Hildebrand had advised the popes who were his immediate predecessors to use the Normans, who were settled in the south of the peninsula, by whom the lands of the nobles were devastated. Thus the difficulties of their position led the popes to a repetition of their ancient policy; and as they had, in old times, sought the protection of the Frankish kings, so now they sought that of the Normans. [Sidenote: Hildebrand becomes pope.] But in the midst of the dissensions and tumults of the times, a great man was emerging--Hildebrand, who, with almost superhuman self-denial, again and again abstained from making himself pope. On the death of Alexander II. his opportunity came, and, with acceptable force, he was raised to that dignity, A.D. 1073. [Sidenote: Hildebrand resolves on a reform.] Scarcely was Hildebrand Pope Gregory VII. when he vigorously proceeded to carry into effect the policy he had been preparing during the pontificates of his predecessors. In many respects the times were propitious. The blameless lives of the German popes had cast a veil of oblivion over the abominations of their Italian predecessors. Hildebrand addressed himself to tear out every vestige of simony and concubinage with a remorseless hand. That task must be finished before he could hope to accomplish his grand project of an ecclesiastical autocracy in Europe, with the pope at its head, and the clergy, both in their persons and property, independent of the civil power. [Sidenote: Necessity of celibacy of the clergy.] It was plain that, apart from all moral considerations, the supremacy of Rome in such a system altogether turned on the celibacy of the clergy. If marriage was permitted to the ecclesiastic, what was to prevent him from handing down, as an hereditary possession, the wealth and dignities he had obtained. In such a state of things, the central government at Rome necessarily stood at every disadvantage against the local interests of an individual, and still more so if many individuals should combine together to promote, in common, similar interests. But very different would it be if promotion must be looked for from Rome--very different as regards the hold upon public sentiment, if such a descent from father to son was absolutely prevented, and a career fairly opened to all, irrespective of their station in life. To the Church it was to the last degree important that a man should derive his advancement from her, not from his ancestor. In the trials to which she was perpetually exposed, there could be no doubt that by such persons her interests would be best served. [Sidenote: It is enforced.] In these circumstances Gregory VII. took his course. The synod held at Rome in the first year of his pontificate denounced the marriage of the clergy, enforcing its decree by the doctrine that the efficacy of the sacraments altogether depended on their being administered by hands sinless in that respect, and made all communicants partners in the pastoral crime. [Sidenote: The pope seeks the friendship of the Normans.] With a provident foresight of the coming opposition, he carried out the policy he had taught his predecessors of conciliating the Normans in the south of Italy, though he did not hesitate to resist them, by the aid of the Countess Matilda, when they dared to touch the possessions of the Church. It was for the sake of this that the Norman invasion of England under William the Conqueror had already been approved of, a consecrated standard and a ring containing a hair from the head of St. Peter sent him, and permission given for the replacement of Saxon bishops and other dignitaries by Normans. It was not forgotten how great had been the gains to the papacy, three centuries before, by changing the dynasty of the Franks; and thus the policy of an Italian town gave a permanent impress to the history of England. Hildebrand foresaw that the sword of the Italian-Norman would be wanted to carry out his projected ends. He did not hesitate to authorize the overthrow of a Saxon dynasty by the French-Norman, that he might be more sure of the fidelity of that sword. Without the countenance of the pope, the Norman could never have consolidated his power, nor even held his ground in England. [Sidenote: The conflict concerning investitures.] From these movements of the papacy sprang the conflict with the Emperors of Germany respecting investitures. The Bishop of Milan--who, it appears, had perjured himself in the quarrel respecting concubinage--had been excommunicated by Alexander II. The imperial council appointed as his successor one Godfrey; the pope had nominated Atto. Hereupon Alexander had summoned the emperor to appear before him on a charge of simony, and granting investitures without his approbation. While the matter was yet in abeyance, Alexander died; but Gregory took up the contest. A synod he had assembled ordered that, if any one should accept investiture from a layman, both the giver and receiver should be excommunicated. The pretence against lay-investiture was that it was a usurpation of a papal right, and that it led to the appointment of evil and ignorant men; the reality was a determination to extend papal power, by making Rome the fountain of emolument. Gregory, by his movements, had thus brought upon himself three antagonists--the imperial power, the Italian nobles, and the married clergy. The latter, unscrupulous and exasperated, met him with his own weapons, not hesitating to calumniate his friendship with the Countess Matilda. It was also suspected that they were connected with the outrage perpetrated by the nobles that took place in Rome. [Sidenote: Outrage on Hildebrand.] On Christmas night, A.D. 1075, in the midst of a violent rain, while the pope was administering the communion, a band of soldiers burst into the church, seized Gregory at the altar, stripped and wounded him, and, haling him on horseback behind one of the soldiers, carried him off to a stronghold, from which he was rescued by the populace. But, without wavering for a moment, the undaunted pontiff pressed on his conflict with the imperial power, summoning Henry to Rome to account for his delinquencies, and threatening his excommunication if he should not appear before an appointed day. In haste, under the auspices of the king, a synod was assembled at Worms; charges against the pope of licentious life, bribery, necromancy, simony, murder, atheism, were introduced and sentence of deposition pronounced against him. On his side, Gregory assembled the third Lateran Council, A.D. 1076, placed King Henry under interdict, absolved his subjects from allegiance, and deposed him. [Sidenote: He defines the position of the Church,] A series of constitutions, clearly defining the new bases of the papal system, was published. They were to the following effect: "That the Roman pontiff can alone be called universal; that he alone has a right to depose bishops; that his legates have a right to preside over all bishops in a general council; that he can depose absent prelates; that he alone has a right to use imperial ornaments; that princes are bound to kiss his feet, and his only; that he has a right to depose emperors; that no synod or council summoned without his commission can be called general; that no book can be called canonical without his authority; that his sentence can be annulled by none, but that he may annul the decrees of all; that the Roman Church has been, is, and will continue to be infallible; that whoever dissents from it ceases to be a catholic Christian, and that subjects may be absolved from their allegiance to wicked princes." The power that could assert such resolutions was near its culmination. And now was manifest the superiority of the spiritual over the temporal power. The quarrel with Henry went on, and, after a hard struggle and many intrigues to draw the Normans over to him, that monarch was compelled to submit, and in the depth of winter to cross the snowy Alps, under circumstances of unparalleled hardship, to seek absolution from his adversary. [Sidenote: and overcomes the King of Germany.] Then ensued the scene at Canosa--a penitent in white raiment standing in the dreary snow of three winter days, January 1077, cold and fasting at the gate, seeking pardon and reconciliation of the inexorable pontiff; that penitent was the King of Germany. Then ensued the dramatic scene at the sacrament, in which the gray-haired pontiff called upon Heaven to strike him dead on the spot if he were not innocent of the crimes of which he had been accused, and dared the guilty monarch to do the same. [Sidenote: Conclusions from these events.] Whoever will reflect on these interesting events cannot fail to discern two important conclusions. The tone of thought throughout Europe had changed within the last three ages; ideas were entertained, doctrines originated or controverted, a policy conceived and attempted altogether in advance of the old times. Intellect, both among the clergy and the laity, had undergone a great development. But the peculiar character of the papal power is also ascertained--that it is worldly, and the result of the policy of man. The outrage on Hildebrand shows how that power had diminished at its centre, but the victory over Henry that it maintained its strength at a distance. Natural forces diminish as the distance increases; this unnatural force displayed an opposite property. [Sidenote: Culmination of the ecclesiastical power.] Gregory had carried his point. He had not only beaten back the Northern attack, but had established the supremacy of the ecclesiastical over the temporal power, and that point, with inflexible resolution, he maintained, though in its consequences it cost Germany a civil war. But, while he was thus unyielding in his temporal policy, there is reason to suppose that he was not without misgivings in his theological belief. In the war between Henry and his rival Rodolph, Gregory was compelled by policy to be at first neutral. He occupied himself with the Eucharistic controversy. [Sidenote: Friendship of Hildebrand and Berengar.] This was at the time that he was associated with Berengar, who lived with him for a year. Nor did the pope think it unworthy of himself to put forth, in excuse of the heretic, a vision, in which the Virgin Mary had asserted the orthodoxy of Berengar; but, as his quarrel with King Henry went on to new excommunications and depositions, a synod of bishops presumed to condemn him as a partisan of Berengar and a necromancer. On the election of Gilbert of Ravenna as antipope, Gregory, without hesitation, pushed his principles to their consequences, denouncing kingship as a wicked and diabolical usurpation, an infraction of the equal rights of man. [Sidenote: The German contest resumed.] Hereupon Henry determined to destroy him or to be destroyed; and descending again into Italy, A.D. 1081, for three successive years laid siege to Rome. In vain the amorous Matilda, with more than the devotion of an ally, endeavoured to succour her beleaguered friend. The city surrendered to Henry at Christmas, A.D. 1084. With his antipope he entered it, receiving from his hands the imperial crown. The Norman allies of Hildebrand at last approached in strength. The emperor was compelled to retreat. A feeble attempt to hold the city was made. The Normans took it by surprise, and released Gregory from his imprisonment in the Castle of St. Angelo. An awful scene ensued. Some conflicts between the citizens and the Normans occurred; a battle in the streets was the consequence, and Rome was pillaged, sacked, and fired. Streets, churches, palaces, were left a heap of smoking ashes. The people by thousands were massacred. [Sidenote: The Mohammedans support Hildebrand.] The Saracens, of whom there were multitudes in the Norman army, were in the Eternal City at last, and, horrible to be said, were there as the hired supporters of the Vicar of Christ. Matrons, nuns, young women, were defiled. Crowds of men, women, and children were carried off and sold as slaves. [Sidenote: Sack of Rome, and death of the pope.] It was the treatment of a city taken by storm. In consternation, the pontiff with his infidel deliverers retired from the ruined capital to Salerno, and there he died, A.D. 1085. [Sidenote: The Crusades.] He had been dead ten years, when a policy was entered upon by the papacy which imparted to it more power than all the exertions of Gregory. The Crusades were instituted by a French pope, Urban II. Unpopular in Italy, perhaps by reason of his foreign birth, he aroused his native country for the recovery of the Holy Land. He began his career in a manner not now unusual, interfering in a quarrel between Philip of France and his wife, taking the part of the latter, as experience had shown it was always advisable for a pope to do. Soon, however, he devoted his attention to something more important than these matrimonial broils. It seems that a European crusade was first distinctly conceived of and its value most completely comprehended by Gerbert, to whom, doubtless, his Mohammedan experiences had suggested it. In the first year of his pontificate, he wrote an epistle, in the name of the Church of Jerusalem, to the Church throughout the world, exhorting Christian soldiers to come to her relief either with arms or money. It had been subsequently contemplated by Gregory VII. For many years, pilgrimages to Palestine had been on the increase; a very lucrative export trade in relics from that country had arisen; crowds from all parts of Europe had of late made their way to Jerusalem, for the singular purpose of being present at the great assize which the Scriptures were supposed to prophesy would soon take place in the Valley of Jehoshaphat. The Mohammedans had inflicted on these pious persons much maltreatment, being unable to comprehend the purport of their extraordinary journey, and probably perceiving a necessity of putting some restriction upon the influx of such countless multitudes. [Sidenote: The Council of Clermont authorizes a crusade.] Peter the Hermit, who had witnessed the barbarities to which his Christian brethren were exposed, and the abominations of the holy places now in the hands of the infidel, roused Europe, by his preaching, to a frantic state; and Urban, at the Council of Clermont, A.D. 1095, gave authority to the Holy War. "It is the will of God," was the unanimous shout of the council and the populace. The periodical shower of shooting stars was seen with remarkable brilliancy on April 25th, and mistaken by the council for a celestial monition that the Christians must precipitate themselves in like manner on the East. From this incident we may perceive how little there was of inspiration in these blundering and violent ecclesiastical assemblages; the moment that they can be brought to a scientific test their true nature is detected. As a preliminary exercise, a ferocious persecution of the Jews of France had burst forth, and the blood and tortures of multitudes offered a tardy expiation for the crimes that their ancestors had committed at the Crucifixion in Jerusalem, more than a thousand years previously. [Sidenote: The first crusade.] It does not fall within my plan to give a detailed description of the Crusades. It is enough to say that, though the clergy had promised the protection of God to every one who would thus come to his assistance--an ample reward for their pious work in this life, and the happiness of heaven in the next--Urban's crusade failed not only disastrously, but hideously, so far as the ignorant rabbles, under Peter the Hermit and Walter the Penniless, were concerned. Nevertheless, under the better-organized expeditions that soon followed, Jerusalem was captured, July 15th, A.D. 1099. The long and ghastly line of bones whitening the road through Hungary to the East showed how different a thing it was for a peaceable and solitary pilgrim, with his staff, and wallet, and scallop-shell, to beg his way, and a disorderly rabble of thousands upon thousands to rush forward without any subordination, any organization, trusting only to the providence of God. The van of the Crusades consisted of two hundred and seventy-five thousand men, accompanied by eight horses, and preceded by a goat and a goose, into which some one had told them that the Holy Ghost had entered. Driven to madness by disappointment and famine--expecting, in their ignorance, that every town they came to must be Jerusalem--in their extremity they laid hands on whatever they could. Their track was marked by robbery, bloodshed, and fire. In the first crusade more than half a million of men died. It was far more disastrous than the Moscow retreat. [Sidenote: Storming of Jerusalem.] But still, in a military sense, the first crusade accomplished its object. The capture of Jerusalem, as might be expected under such circumstances, was attended by the perpetration of atrocities almost beyond belief. What a contrast to the conduct of the Arabs! When the Khalif Omar took Jerusalem, A.D. 637, he rode into the city by the side of the Patriarch Sophronius, conversing with him on its antiquities. At the hour of prayer, he declined to perform his devotions in the Church of the Resurrection, in which he chanced to be, but prayed on the steps of the Church of Constantine; "for," said he to the patriarch, "had I done so, the Musselmen in a future age would have infringed the treaty, under colour of imitating my example." But, in the capture by the Crusaders, the brains of young children were dashed out against the walls; infants were thrown over the battlements; every woman that could be seized was violated; men were roasted at fires; some were ripped open, to see if they had swallowed gold; the Jews were driven into their synagogue, and there burnt; a massacre of nearly 70,000 persons took place; and the pope's legate was seen "partaking in the triumph." [Sidenote: Political results of the Crusades.] It had been expected by the politicians who first projected these wars that they would heal the divisions of the Latin and Greek churches, and give birth to a European republic, under the spiritual presidency of the pope. In these respects they proved a failure. It does not appear that the popes themselves personally had ever any living faith in the result. Not one of them ever joined a crusade; and the Church, as a corporation, took care to embark very little money in these undertakings. But, though they did not answer to the original intention, they gave, in an indirect way, a wonderful stimulus to the papal power. [Sidenote: Give to Rome the control of men and money in Europe.] Under the plausible pretences offered by them, the pope obtained control over the person of every Christian man from the highest to the lowest. The cross once taken, all civil control over the Crusader ceased--he became the man of the Church. Under those pretences, also, a right was imperceptibly acquired of raising revenue in all parts of Europe; even the clergy might be assessed. A drain was thus established on the resources of distant nations for an object which no man dared to gainsay; if he adventured on any such thing, he must encounter the odium of an infidel--an atheist. A steady stream of money flowed into Italy. Nor was it alone by this taxation of every Christian nation without permission of its government--this empire within every empire--immense wealth accrued to the projectors, while the infatuation could be kept up, by the diminished rate at which land could be obtained. Domains were thrown into the market; there were few purchasers except the Church. Immense domains were also given away by weak-minded sinners, and those on the point of death, for the salvation of their souls. Thus, all things considered, the effect of the Crusades, though not precisely that which was expected, was of singular advantage to the Church, giving it a commanding strength it had never before possessed. In their resistance to the German attack the popes never hesitated at any means. They prompted Prince Henry to revolt against their great antagonist, his father; they intervened, not to rebuke, but to abet him, when he threw his father into prison and deprived him of the necessaries of life. They carried their vengeance beyond the grave. When the aged emperor, broken in heart, escaped from their torment, and was honourably buried by the Bishop of Liège, that prelate was forthwith excommunicated and compelled to disinter the corpse. But crimes like these, against which human nature revolts, meet with retribution. [Sidenote: Resistance of Henry V.] This same Prince Henry, becoming Henry V., was forced by circumstances to resume his father's quarrel, and to refuse to yield his right of granting investitures. He marched upon Rome, and at the point of the sword compelled his adversary, Pope Paschal II., to surrender all the possessions and royalties of the Church--compelled him to crown him emperor--not, however, until the pontiff had been subjected to the ignominy of imprisonment, and brought into condemnation among his own party. [Sidenote: Bernard of Clairvaux stimulates the second crusade.] Things seemed to be going to ruin in Rome, and such must inevitably have been the issue, had not an extraneous influence arisen in Bernard of Clairvaux, to whom Europe learned to look up as the beater down of heresies, theological and political. He had been a pupil of William of Champeaux, the vanquished rival of Abelard, and Abelard he hated with a religious and personal hate. He was a wonder-worker. He excommunicated the flies which infested a church--they all fell down dead and were swept out by the basketful. He has been described as "the mellifluous doctor, whose works are not scientific, but full of unction." He could not tolerate the principle at the basis of Abelard's philosophy--the assertion of the supremacy of reason. Of Arnold of Brescia--who carried that principle to its political consequences, and declared that the riches and power of the clergy were inconsistent with their profession--he was the accuser and punisher. [Sidenote: Its failure.] Bernard preached a new crusade, authenticating his power by miracles, affirmed to be not inferior to those of our Saviour; promising to him who should slay an unbeliever happiness in this life and Paradise in the life to come. This second crusade was conducted by kings, and included fanatic ladies, dressed in the armour of men; but it ended in ruin. It was reserved for the only Englishman who ever attained to the papacy to visit Rome with the punishment she had so often inflicted upon others. Nicolas Breakspear--Adrian IV.--put the Eternal City under interdict, thereby ending the republic which the partisans of Arnold of Brescia had set up. But in this he was greatly aided by a change of sentiment in many of the inhabitants of Rome, who had found to their cost that it was more profitable for their city to be the centre of Christianity than the seat of a phantom republic. [Sidenote: Murder of Arnold of Brescia.] As an equivalent for his coronation by Adrian, Frederick Barbarossa agreed to surrender to the Church Arnold of Brescia. With indecent haste, the moment she had obtained possession of her arch-enemy she put him to death--not delivering him over to the secular arm, as the custom had been, but murdering him with her own hand. Seven centuries have elapsed, and the blood of Arnold is still crying from the ground for retribution. Notwithstanding a new--the third--crusade, things went from bad to worse in the Holy Land. Saladin had retaken Jerusalem, A.D. 1187. Barbarossa was drowned in a river in Pisidia. Richard of England was treacherously imprisoned; nor did the pope interfere for this brave soldier of the Cross. [Sidenote: Birth of Frederick II.] In the meantime, the Emperors of Germany had acquired Sicily by marriage--an incident destined to be of no little importance in the history of Europe; for, on the death of the Emperor Henry VI. at Messina, his son Frederick, an infant not two years old, was left to be brought up in that island. What the consequences were we shall soon see. [Sidenote: Review of the preceding events.] If we review the events related in this chapter, we find that the idolatry and immorality into which Rome had fallen had become connected with material interests sufficiently powerful to ensure their perpetuation; that converted Germany insisted on a reform, and therefore made a moral attack on the Italian system, attempting to carry it into effect by civil force. This attack was, properly speaking, purely moral, the intellectual element accompanying it being derived from Western or Arabian influences, as will be shown in the next chapter; and, in its resistance to this, the papacy was not only successful, but actually was able to retaliate, overthrowing the Emperors of Germany, and being even on the point of establishing a European autocracy, with the pope at its head. It was in these events that the Reformation began, though circumstances intervened to postpone its completion to the era of Luther. Henceforth we see more and more plainly the attitude in which the papacy, through its material interests, was compelled to stand, as resisting all intellectual advancement. Our subject has therefore here to be left unfinished until we shall have described the Mohammedan influences making pressures on the West and the East. CHAPTER II. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST--(_Continued_). THE WESTERN OR INTELLECTUAL ATTACK ON THE ITALIAN SYSTEM. _The intellectual Condition of Christendom contrasted with that of Arabian Spain._ _Diffusion of Arabian intellectual Influences through France and Sicily.--Example of Saracen Science in Alhazen, and of Philosophy in Algazzali.--Innocent III. prepares to combat these Influences.--Results to Western Europe of the Sack of Constantinople by the Catholics._ _The spread of Mohammedan light Literature is followed by Heresy.--The crushing of Heresy in the South of France by armed Force.--The Inquisition, mendicant Orders, auricular Confession, and Casuistry._ _The rising Sentiment is embodied in Frederick II. in Sicily.--His Conflict with and Overthrow by the Pope.--Spread of Mutiny among the mendicant Orders._ [Sidenote: The pressure from the West upon Rome.] A pressure upon the Italian system had meantime been arising in the West. It was due to the presence of the Arabs in Spain. It is necessary, therefore, to relate the circumstances of their invasion and conquest of that country, and to compare their social and intellectual condition with the contemporary state of Christendom. [Sidenote: Barbarism of Europe.] From the barbarism of the native people of Europe, who could scarcely be said to have emerged from the savage state, unclean in person, benighted in mind, inhabiting huts in which it was a mark of wealth if there were bulrushes on the floor and straw mats against the wall; miserably fed on beans, vetches, roots, and even the bark of trees; clad in garments of untanned skin, or at the best of leather--perennial in durability, but not conducive to personal purity--a state in which the pomp of royalty was sufficiently and satisfactorily manifested in the equipage of the sovereign, an ox-cart, drawn by not less than two yokes of cattle, quickened in their movements by the goads of pedestrian serfs, whose legs were wrapped in wisps of straw; from a people, devout believers in all the wild fictions of shrine-miracles and preposterous relics; from the degradation of a base theology, and from the disputes of ambitious ecclesiastics for power, it is pleasant to turn to the south-west corner of the continent, where, under auspices of a very different kind, the irradiations of light were to break forth. The crescent in the West was soon to pass eastward to its full. But I must retrace my steps through four centuries, and resume the description of the Arabian movement after the subjugation of Africa, as related in the former volume, Chapter XI. [Sidenote: Arab invasion of Spain.] Those were the circumstances of the Arab conquest of Spain. In that country the Arian Creed had been supplanted by the orthodox, and the customary persecutions had set in. From the time of the Emperor Hadrian, who had transported 50,000 Jewish families into Spain, that race had greatly increased, and, as might be expected, had received no mercy at the hands of the orthodox. Ninety thousand individuals had recently suffered compulsory baptism, and so had been brought under the atrocious Catholic law that whoever has been baptized shall be compelled to continue the observances of the Church. The Gothic monarchy was elective, and Roderic had succeeded to the throne, to the prejudice of the heirs of his predecessor. Though a very brave soldier, he was a luxurious and licentious man. It was the custom of the Goths to send their children to Toledo to be educated, and, under these circumstances, a young girl of extraordinary beauty, the daughter of Count Julian, governor of Ceuta in Africa, was residing there. King Roderic fell passionately in love with her, and, being unable to overcome her virtuous resolution by persuasion, resorted to violence. The girl found means to inform her father of what had occurred. "By the living God!" exclaimed the count, in a paroxysm of rage, "I will be revenged." But, dissembling his wrath, he crossed over into Spain, had an understanding with Oppas, the Archbishop of Toledo, and other disaffected ecclesiastics, and, under specious pretences, lulled the suspicions of Roderic, and brought his daughter away. And now he opened communications with the Emir Musa, prevailing upon him to attempt the conquest of the country, and offering that he himself would take the lead. The conditions were settled between them, and the consent of the khalif to the expedition obtained. [Sidenote: Its conquest.] Tarik, a lieutenant of the emir, was sent across the Straits with the van of the army. He landed on the rock called, in memory of his name, Gibraltar, April, A.D. 711. In the battle that ensued, a part of Roderic's troops, together with the Archbishop of Toledo, consummated their treasonable compact, and deserted to the Arabs; the rest were panic-stricken. In the rout, Roderic himself was drowned in the waters of the Guadalquivir. Tarik now proceeded rapidly northward, and was soon joined by his superior, the Emir Musa, who was not, perhaps, without jealousy at his success. As the Arab historians say, the Almighty delivered the idolators into their hand, and gave them one victory after another. As the towns successively fell, they left them in charge of the Jews, to whose revenge the conquest was largely due, and who could be thoroughly trusted; nor did they pause in their march until they had passed the French frontier and reached the Rhone. It was the intention of Musa to cross the European continent to Constantinople, subjugating the Frank, German, and Italian barbarians by the way. At this time it seemed impossible that France could escape the fate of Spain; and if she fell, the threat of Musa would inevitably have come to pass, that he would preach the Unity of God in the Vatican. But a quarrel had arisen between him and Tarik, who had been imprisoned and even scourged. The friends of the latter, however, did not fail him at the court of Damascus. An envoy from the Khalif Alwalid appeared, ordering Musa to desist from his enterprise, to return to Syria, and exonerate himself of the things laid to his charge. But Musa bribed the envoy to let him advance. Hereupon the angry khalif dispatched a second messenger, who, in face of the Moslems and Christians, audaciously arrested him, at the head of his troops, by the bridle of his horse. The conqueror of Spain was compelled to return. He was cast into prison, fined 200,000 pieces of gold, publicly whipped, and his life with difficulty spared. As is related of Belisarius, Musa was driven as a beggar to solicit charity, and the Saracen conqueror of Spain ended his days in grief and absolute want. [Sidenote: Arrest of Mohammedanism in Western Europe.] The dissensions among the Arabs, far more than the sword of Charles Martel, prevented the Mohammedanization of France. Their historians admit the great check received at the battle of Tours, in which Abderrahman was killed; they call that field the Place of the Martyrs; but their accounts by no means correspond to the relations of the Christian authors, who affirm that 375,000 Mohammedans fell, and only 1500 Christians. The defeat was not so disastrous but that in a few months they were able to resume their advance, and their progress was arrested only by renewed dissensions among themselves--dissensions not alone among the leaders in Spain, but also more serious ones of aspirants for the khalifate in Asia. On the overthrow of the Ommiade house, Abderrahman, one of that family, escaped to Spain, which repaid the patronage of its conquest by acknowledging him as its sovereign. He made Cordova the seat of his government. Neither he nor his immediate successors took any other title than that of Emir, out of respect to the khalif, who resided at Bagdad, the metropolis of Islam, though they maintained a rivalry with him in the patronage of letters and science. Abderrahman himself strengthened his power by an alliance with Charlemagne. [Sidenote: Civilization and splendour of the Spanish Arabs.] Scarcely had the Arabs become firmly settled in Spain when they commenced a brilliant career. Adopting what had now become the established policy of the Commanders of the Faithful in Asia, the Emirs of Cordova distinguished themselves as patrons of learning, and set an example of refinement strongly contrasting with the condition of the native European princes. Cordova, under their administration, at its highest point of prosperity, boasted of more than two hundred thousand houses, and more than a million of inhabitants. After sunset, a man might walk through it in a straight line for ten miles by the light of the public lamps. Seven hundred years after this time there was not so much as one public lamp in London. Its streets were solidly paved. In Paris, centuries subsequently, whoever stepped over his threshold on a rainy day stepped up to his ankles in mud. Other cities, as Granada, Seville, Toledo, considered themselves rivals of Cordova. The palaces of the khalifs were magnificently decorated. Those sovereigns might well look down with supercilious contempt on the dwellings of the rulers of Germany, France, and England, which were scarcely better than stables--chimneyless, windowless, and with a hole in the roof for the smoke to escape, like the wigwams of certain Indians. The Spanish Mohammedans had brought with them all the luxuries and prodigalities of Asia. [Sidenote: Their palaces and gardens.] Their residences stood forth against the clear blue sky, or were embosomed in woods. They had polished marble balconies, overhanging orange-gardens; courts with cascades of water; shady retreats provocative of slumber in the heat of the day; retiring-rooms vaulted with stained glass, speckled with gold, over which streams of water were made to gush; the floors and walls were of exquisite mosaic. Here, a fountain of quicksilver shot up in a glistening spray, the glittering particles falling with a tranquil sound like fairy bells; there, apartments into which cool air was drawn from the flower-gardens, in summer, by means of ventilating towers, and in winter through earthen pipes, or caleducts, imbedded in the walls--the hypocaust, in the vaults below, breathing forth volumes of warm and perfumed air through these hidden passages. The walls were not covered with wainscot, but adorned with arabesques, and paintings of agricultural scenes and views of Paradise. From the ceilings, corniced with fretted gold, great chandeliers hung, one of which, it is said, was so large that it contained 1804 lamps. Clusters of frail marble columns surprised the beholder with the vast weights they bore. In the boudoirs of the sultanas they were sometimes of verd antique, and incrusted with lapis lazuli. The furniture was of sandal and citron wood, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, ivory, silver, or relieved with gold and precious malachite. In orderly confusion were arranged vases of rock crystal, Chinese porcelains, and tables of exquisite mosaic. The winter apartments were hung with rich tapestry; the floors were covered with embroidered Persian carpets. Pillows and couches, of elegant forms, were scattered about the rooms, perfumed with frankincense. It was the intention of the Saracen architect, by excluding the view of the external landscape, to concentrate attention on his work; and since the representation of the human form was religiously forbidden, and that source of decoration denied, his imagination ran riot with the complicated arabesques he introduced, and sought every opportunity of replacing the prohibited works of art by the trophies and rarities of the garden. For this reason, the Arabs never produced artists; religion turned them from the beautiful, and made them soldiers, philosophers, and men of affairs. Splendid flowers and rare exotics ornamented the courtyards and even the inner chambers. Great care was taken to make due provision for the cleanliness, occupation, and amusement of the inmates. Through pipes of metal, water, both warm and cold, to suit the season of the year, ran into baths of marble; in niches, where the current of air could be artificially directed, hung dripping alcarazzas. [Sidenote: Libraries and works of taste.] There were whispering-galleries for the amusement of the women; labyrinths and marble play-courts for the children; for the master himself, grand libraries. The Khalif Alhakem's was so large that the catalogue alone filled forty volumes. He had also apartments for the transcribing, binding, and ornamenting of books. A taste for caligraphy and the possession of splendidly-illuminated manuscripts seems to have anticipated in the khalifs, both of Asia and Spain, the taste for statuary and paintings among the later popes of Rome. [Sidenote: The court of Abderrahman III.] Such were the palace and gardens of Zehra, in which Abderrahman III. honoured his favourite sultana. The edifice had 1200 columns of Greek, Italian, Spanish, and African marble. Its hall of audience was incrusted with gold and pearls. Through the long corridors of its seraglio black eunuchs silently glided. The ladies of the harem, both wives and concubines, were the most beautiful that could be found. To that establishment alone 6300 persons were attached, The body-guard of the sovereign was composed of 12,000 horsemen, whose cimeters and belts were studded with gold. This was that Abderrahman who, after a glorious reign of fifty years, sat down to count the number of days of unalloyed happiness he had experienced, and could only enumerate fourteen. "Oh man!" exclaimed the plaintive khalif, "put not thy trust in this present world." [Sidenote: Social habits of the Moors.] No nation has ever excelled the Spanish Arabs in the beauty and costliness of their pleasure-gardens. To them we owe the introduction of very many of our most valuable cultivated fruits, such as the peach. Retaining the love of their ancestors for the cooling effect of water in a hot climate, they spared no pains in the superfluity of fountains, hydraulic works, and artificial lakes in which fish were raised for the table. Into such a lake, attached to the palace of Cordova, many loaves were cast each day to feed the fish. There were also menageries of foreign animals; aviaries of rare birds; manufactories in which skilled workmen, obtained from foreign countries, displayed their art in textures of silk, cotton, linen, and all the miracles of the loom; in jewelry and filigree-work, with which they ministered to the female pride of the sultanas and concubines. Under the shade of cypresses cascades disappeared; among flowering shrubs there were winding walks, bowers of roses, seats cut out of the rock, and crypt-like grottoes hewn in the living stone. Nowhere was ornamental gardening better understood; for not only did the artist try to please the eye as it wandered over the pleasant gradation of vegetable colour and form--he also boasted his success in the gratification of the sense of smell by the studied succession of perfumes from beds of flowers. [Sidenote: Their domestic life.] To these Saracens we are indebted for many of our personal comforts. Religiously cleanly, it was not possible for them to clothe themselves according to the fashion of the natives of Europe, in a garment unchanged till it dropped to pieces of itself, a loathsome mass of vermin, stench, and rags. No Arab who had been a minister of state, or the associate or antagonist of a sovereign, would have offered such a spectacle as the corpse of Thomas à Becket when his haircloth shirt was removed. They taught us the use of the often-changed and often-washed under-garment of linen or cotton, which still passes among ladies under its old Arabic name. But to cleanliness they were not unwilling to add ornament. Especially among women of the higher classes was the love of finery a passion. Their outer garments were often of silk, embroidered and decorated with gems and woven gold. So fond were the Moorish women of gay colours and the lustre of chrysolites, hyacinths, emeralds, and sapphires, that it was quaintly said that the interior of any public building in which they were permitted to appear looked like a flower-meadow in the spring besprinkled with rain. [Sidenote: They cultivate literature, music,] In the midst of all this luxury, which cannot be regarded by the historian with disdain, since in the end it produced a most important result in the south of France, the Spanish khalifs, emulating the example of their Asiatic compeers, and in this strongly contrasting with the popes of Rome, were not only the patrons, but the personal cultivators of all the branches of human learning. One of them was himself the author of a work on polite literature in not less than fifty volumes; another wrote a treatise on algebra. When Zaryab the musician came from the East to Spain, the Khalif Abderrahman rode forth to meet him in honour. The College of Music in Cordova was sustained by ample government patronage, and produced many illustrious professors. [Sidenote: but disapprove of European mythology.] The Arabs never translated into their own tongue the great Greek poets, though they so sedulously collected and translated the Greek philosophers. Their religious sentiments and sedate character caused them to abominate the lewdness of our classical mythology, and to denounce indignantly any connexion between the licentious, impure Olympian Jove and the Most High God as an insufferable and unpardonable blasphemy. Haroun al Raschid had gratified his curiosity by causing Homer to be translated into Syriac, but he did not adventure on rendering the great epics into Arabic. Notwithstanding this aversion to our graceful but not unobjectionable ancient poetry, among them originated the Tensons, or poetic disputations, carried afterward to perfection among the Troubadours; from them, also, the Provençals learned to employ jongleurs. Across the Pyrenees, literary, philosophical, and military adventurers were perpetually passing; and thus the luxury, the taste, and above all, the chivalrous gallantry and elegant courtesies of Moorish society found their way from Granada and Cordova to Provence and Languedoc. [Sidenote: The south of France contracts their tastes.] The French, and German, and English nobles imbibed the Arab admiration of the horse; they learned to pride themselves on skilful riding. Hunting and falconry became their fashionable pastimes; they tried to emulate that Arab skill which had produced the celebrated breed of Andalusian horses. It was a scene of grandeur and gallantry; the pastimes were tilts and tournaments. The refined society of Cordova prided itself in its politeness. A gay contagion spread from the beautiful Moorish miscreants to their sisters beyond the mountains; the south of France was full of the witcheries of female fascinations, and of dancing to the lute and mandolin. [Sidenote: Light literature spreads into Sicily and Italy.] Even in Italy and Sicily the love-song became the favourite composition; and out of these genial but not orthodox beginnings the polite literature of modern Europe arose. The pleasant epidemic spread by degrees along every hillside and valley. In monasteries, voices that had vowed celibacy might be heard carolling stanzas of which St. Jerome would hardly have approved; there was many a juicy abbot, who could troll forth in jocund strains, like those of the merry sinners of Malaga and Xeres, the charms of women and wine, though one was forbidden to the Moslem and one to the monk. The sedate greybeards of Cordova had already applied to the supreme judge to have the songs of the Spanish Jew, Abraham Ibn Sahal, prohibited; for there was not a youth, nor woman, nor child in the city who could not repeat them by heart. Their immoral tendency was a public scandal. The light gaiety of Spain was reflected in the coarser habits of the northern countries. It was an archdeacon of Oxford who some time afterward sang, "Mihi sit propositum in tabernâ mori, Vinum sit appositum morientis ori, Ut dicant, cum venerint angelorum chori; 'Deus sit propitius huic potatori,'" etc. Even as early as the tenth century, persons having a taste for learning and for elegant amenities found their way into Spain from all adjoining countries; a practice in subsequent years still more indulged in, when it became illustrated by the brilliant success of Gerbert, who, as we have seen, passed from the Infidel University of Cordova to the papacy of Rome. [Sidenote: The Arabian school system.] The khalifs of the West carried out the precepts of Ali, the fourth successor of Mohammed, in the patronage of literature. They established libraries in all their chief towns; it is said that not fewer than seventy were in existence. To every mosque was attached a public school, in which the children of the poor were taught to read and write, and instructed in the precepts of the Koran. For those in easier circumstances there were academies, usually arranged in twenty-five or thirty apartments, each calculated for accommodating four students; the academy being presided over by a rector. In Cordova, Granada, and other great cities, there were universities frequently under the superintendence of Jews; the Mohammedan maxim being that the real learning of a man is of more public importance than any particular religious opinions he may entertain. In this they followed the example of the Asiatic khalif, Haroun al Raschid, who actually conferred the superintendence of his schools on John Masué, a Nestorian Christian. The Mohammedan liberality was in striking contrast with the intolerance of Europe. Indeed, it may be doubted whether at this time any European nation is sufficiently advanced to follow such an example. In the universities some of the professors of polite literature gave lectures on Arabic classical works; others taught rhetoric or composition, or mathematics, or astronomy. From these institutions many of the practices observed in our colleges were derived. They held Commencements, at which poems were read and orations delivered in presence of the public. They had also, in addition to these schools of general learning, professional ones, particularly for medicine. [Sidenote: Cultivation of grammar, rhetoric, composition.] With a pride perhaps not altogether inexcusable, the Arabians boasted of their language as being the most perfect spoken by man. Mohammed himself, when challenged to produce a miracle in proof of the authenticity of his mission, uniformly pointed to the composition of the Koran, its unapproachable excellence vindicating its inspiration. The orthodox Moslems--the Moslems are those who are submissively resigned to the Divine will--are wont to assert that every page of that book is indeed a conspicuous miracle. It is not then surprising that, in the Arabian schools, great attention was paid to the study of language, and that so many celebrated grammarians were produced. By these scholars, dictionaries, similar to those now in use, were composed; their copiousness is indicated by the circumstance that one of them consisted of sixty volumes, the definition of each word being illustrated or sustained by quotations from Arab authors of acknowledged repute. They had also lexicons of Greek, Latin, Hebrew; and cyclopedias such as the Historical Dictionary of Sciences of Mohammed Ibn Abdallah, of Granada. In their highest civilization and luxury they did not forget the amusements of their forefathers--listening to the tale-teller, who never failed to obtain an audience in the midst of Arab tents. Around the evening fires in Spain the wandering literati exercised their wonderful powers of Oriental invention, edifying the eager listeners by such narrations as those that have descended to us in the Arabian Nights' Entertainments. The more sober and higher efforts of the educated were, of course, directed to pulpit eloquence, in conformity with the example of all the great Oriental khalifs, and sanctified by the practice of the Prophet himself. [Sidenote: Defects of their literature.] Their poetical productions embraced all the modern minor forms--satires, odes, elegies, etc.; but they never produced any work in the higher walks of poesy, no epic, no tragedy. Perhaps this was due to their false fashion of valuing the mechanical execution of a work. They were the authors and introducers of rhyme; and such was the luxuriance and abundance of their language, that, in some of their longest poems, the same rhyme is said to have been used alternately from the beginning to the end. Where such mechanical triumphs were popularly prized, it may be supposed that the conception and spirit would be indifferent. Even among the Spanish women there were not a few who, like Velada, Ayesha, Labana, Algasania, achieved reputation in these compositions; and some of them were daughters of khalifs. And this is the more interesting to us, since it was from the Provençal poetry, the direct descendant of these efforts, that European literature arose. Sonnets and romances at last displaced the grimly-orthodox productions of the wearisome and ignorant fathers of the Church. If fiction was prized among the Spanish Arabs, history was held in not less esteem. Every khalif had his own historian. The instincts of the race are perpetually peeping out; not only were there historians of the Commanders of the Faithful, but also of celebrated horses and illustrious camels. In connexion with history, statistics were cultivated; this having been, it may be said, a necessary study, from the first enforced on the Saracen officers in their assessment of tribute on conquered misbelievers, and subsequently continued as an object of taste. [Sidenote: Their taste for practical science.] It was, doubtless, a similar necessity, arising from their position, that stamped such a remarkably practical aspect on the science of the Arabs generally. Many of their learned men were travellers and voyagers, constantly moving about for the acquisition or diffusion of knowledge, their acquirements being a passport to them wherever they went, and a sufficient introduction to any of the African or Asiatic courts. They were thus continually brought in contact with men of affairs, soldiers of fortune, statesmen, and became imbued with much of their practical spirit; and hence the singularly romantic character which the biographies of many of these men display, wonderful turns of prosperity, violent deaths. The scope of their literary labours offers a subject well worthy of meditation; it contrasts with the contemporary ignorance of Europe. Some wrote on chronology; some on numismatics; some, now that military eloquence had become objectless, wrote on pulpit oratory; some on agriculture and its allied branches, as the art of irrigation. Not one of the purely mathematical, or mixed, or practical sciences was omitted. [Sidenote: Their continued inclination to the study of medicine.] Out of a list too long for detailed quotation, I may recall a few names. Assamh, who wrote on topography and statistics, a brave soldier, who was killed in the invasion of France, A.D. 720; Avicenna, the great physician and philosopher, who died A.D. 1037; Averroes, of Cordova, the chief commentator on Aristotle, A.D. 1198. It was his intention to unite the doctrines of Aristotle with those of the Koran. To him is imputed the discovery of spots upon the sun. The leading idea of his philosophy was the numerical unity of the souls of mankind, though parted among millions of living individuals. He died at Morocco. Abu Othman wrote on zoology; Alberuni, on gems--he had travelled to India to procure information; Rhazes, Al Abbas, and Al Beithar, on botany--the latter had been in all parts of the world for the purpose of obtaining specimens. Ebn Zoar, better known as Avenzoar, may be looked upon as the authority in Moorish pharmacy. Pharmacopoeias were published by the schools, improvements on the old ones of the Nestorians: to them may be traced the introduction of many Arabic words, such as syrup, julep, elixir, still used among apothecaries. [Sidenote: Relics of the Arab vocabulary.] A competent scholar might furnish not only an interesting, but valuable book, founded on the remaining relics of the Arab vocabulary; for, in whatever direction we may look, we meet, in the various pursuits of peace and war, of letters and of science, Saracenic vestiges. Our dictionaries tell us that such is the origin of admiral, alchemy, alcohol, algebra, chemise, cotton, and hundreds of other words. The Saracens commenced the application of chemistry, both to the theory and practice of medicine, in the explanation of the functions of the human body and in the cure of its diseases. [Sidenote: Their medicine and surgery.] Nor was their surgery behind their medicine. Albucasis, of Cordova, shrinks not from the performance of the most formidable operations in his own and in the obstetrical art; the actual cautery and the knife are used without hesitation. He has left us ample descriptions of the surgical instruments then employed; and from him we learn that, in operations on females in which considerations of delicacy intervened, the services of properly instructed women were secured. How different was all this from the state of things in Europe; the Christian peasant, fever-stricken or overtaken by accident, hied to the nearest saint-shrine and expected a miracle; the Spanish Moor relied on the prescription or lancet of his physician, or the bandage and knife of his surgeon. [Sidenote: Liberality of the Asiatic khalifs.] In mathematics the Arabians acknowledged their indebtedness to two sources, Greek and Indian, but they greatly improved upon both. The Asiatic khalifs had made exertions to procure translations of Euclid, Apollonius, Archimedes, and other Greek geometers. Almaimon, in a letter to the Emperor Theophilus, expressed his desire to visit Constantinople if his public duties would have permitted. He requests of him to allow Leo the mathematician to come to Bagdad to impart to him a portion of his learning, pledging his word that he would restore him quickly and safely again. "Do not," says the high-minded khalif, "let diversity of religion or of country cause you to refuse my request. Do what friendship would concede to a friend. In return, I offer you a hundred weight of gold, a perpetual alliance and peace." True to the instincts of his race and the traditions of his city, the Byzantine sourly and insolently refused the request, saying that "the learning which had illustrated the Roman name should never be imparted to a barbarian." [Sidenote: Their great improvements in arithmetic.] From the Hindus the Arabs learned arithmetic, especially that valuable invention termed by us the Arabic numerals, but honourably ascribed by them to its proper source, under the designation of "Indian numerals." They also entitled their treatises on the subject "Systems of Indian Arithmetic." This admirable notation by nine digits and cipher occasioned a complete revolution in arithmetical computations. As in the case of so many other things, the Arab impress is upon it; our word cipher, and its derivatives, ciphering, etc., recall the Arabic word tsaphara or ciphra, the name for the 0, and meaning that which is blank or void. Mohammed Ben Musa, said to be the earliest of the Saracen authors on algebra, and who made the great improvement of substituting sines for chords in trigonometry, wrote also on this Indian system. He lived at the end of the ninth century; before the end of the tenth it was in common use among the African and Spanish mathematicians. Ebn Junis, A.D. 1008, used it in his astronomical works. From Spain it passed into Italy, its singular advantage in commercial computation causing it to be eagerly adopted in the great trading cities. We still use the word algorithm in reference to calculations. The study of algebra was intently cultivated among the Arabs, who gave it the name it bears. Ben Musa, just referred to, was the inventor of the common method of solving quadratic equations. [Sidenote: Their astronomical discoveries.] In the application of mathematics to astronomy and physics they had been long distinguished. Almaimon had determined with considerable accuracy the obliquity of the ecliptic. His result, with those of some other Saracen astronomers, is as follows: A.D. 830. Almaimon 23° 35' 52" " 879. Albategnius, at Aracte 23° 35' 00 " 987. Aboul Wefa, at Bagdad 23° 35' 00 " 995. Aboul Rihau, with a quadrant of 25 feet radius 23° 35' 00 " 1080. Arzachael 23° 34' 00 Almaimon had also ascertained the size of the earth from the measurement of a degree on the shore of the Red Sea--an operation implying true ideas of its form, and in singular contrast with the doctrine of Constantinople and Rome. While the latter was asserting, in all its absurdity, the flatness of the earth, the Spanish Moors were teaching geography in their common schools from globes. In Africa, there was still preserved, with almost religious reverence, in the library at Cairo, one of brass, reputed to have belonged to the great astronomer Ptolemy. Al Idrisi made one of silver for Roger II., of Sicily; and Gerbert used one which he had brought from Cordova in the school he established at Rheims. It cost a struggle of several centuries, illustrated by some martyrdoms, before the dictum of Lactantius and Augustine could be overthrown. Among problems of interest that were solved may be mentioned the determination of the length of the year by Albategnius and Thebit Ben Corrah; and increased accuracy was given to the correction of astronomical observations by Alhazen's great discovery of atmospheric refraction. Among the astronomers, some composed tables; some wrote on the measure of time; some on the improvement of clocks, for which purpose they were the first to apply the pendulum; some on instruments, as the astrolabe. The introduction of astronomy into Christian Europe has been attributed to the translation of the works of Mohammed Fargani. In Europe, also, the Arabs were the first to build observatories; the Giralda, or tower of Seville, was erected under the superintendence of Geber, the mathematician, A.D. 1196, for that purpose. Its fate was not a little characteristic. After the expulsion of the Moors it was turned into a belfry, the Spaniards not knowing what else to do with it. [Sidenote: Europe tries to hide its obligations to them.] I have to deplore the systematic manner in which the literature of Europe has contrived to put out of sight our scientific obligations to the Mohammedans. Surely they cannot be much longer hidden. Injustice founded on religious rancour and national conceit cannot be perpetuated for ever. What should the modern astronomer say when, remembering the contemporary barbarism of Europe, he finds the Arab Abul Hassan speaking of tubes, to the extremities of which ocular and object diopters, perhaps sights, were attached, as used at Meragha? what when he reads of the attempts of Abderrahman Sufi at improving the photometry of the stars? Are the astronomical tables of Ebn Junis (A.D. 1008), called the Hakemite tables, or the Ilkanic tables of Nasser Eddin Tasi, constructed at the great observatory just mentioned, Meragha, near Tauris, A.D. 1259, or the measurement of time by pendulum oscillations, and the methods of correcting astronomical tables by systematic observations--are such things worthless indications of the mental state? The Arab has left his intellectual impress on Europe, as, before long, Christendom will have to confess; he has indelibly written it on the heavens, as any one may see who reads the names of the stars on a common celestial globe. [Sidenote: Improvements in the arts of life.] Our obligations to the Spanish Moors in the arts of life are even more marked than in the higher branches of science, perhaps only because our ancestors were better prepared to take advantage of things connected with daily affairs. They set an example of skilful agriculture, the practice of which was regulated by a code of laws. Not only did they attend to the cultivation of plants, introducing very many new ones, they likewise paid great attention to the breeding of cattle, especially the sheep and horse. To them we owe the introduction of the great products, rice, sugar, cotton, and also, as we have previously observed, nearly all the fine garden and orchard fruits, together with many less important plants, as spinach and saffron. To them Spain owes the culture of silk; they gave to Xeres and Malaga their celebrity for wine. They introduced the Egyptian system of irrigation by flood-gates, wheels, and pumps. They also promoted many important branches of industry; improved the manufacture of textile fabrics, earthenware, iron, steel; the Toledo sword-blades were everywhere prized for their temper. The Arabs, on their expulsion from Spain, carried the manufacture of a kind of leather, in which they were acknowledged to excel, to Morocco, from which country the leather itself has now taken its name. They also introduced inventions of a more ominous kind--gunpowder and artillery. The cannon they used appeared to have been made of wrought iron. But perhaps they more than compensated for these evil contrivances by the introduction of the mariner's compass. [Sidenote: Their commerce.] The mention of the mariner's compass might lead us correctly to infer that the Spanish Arabs were interested in commercial pursuits, a conclusion to which we should also come when we consider the revenues of some of their khalifs. That of Abderrahman III. is stated at five and a half million sterling--a vast sum if considered by its modern equivalent, and far more than could possibly be raised by taxes on the produce of the soil. It probably exceeded the entire revenue of all the sovereigns of Christendom taken together. From Barcelona and other ports an immense trade with the Levant was maintained, but it was mainly in the hands of the Jews, who, from the first invasion of Spain by Musa, had ever been the firm allies and collaborators of the Arabs. Together they had participated in the dangers of the invasion; together they had shared its boundless success; together they had held in irreverent derision, nay, even in contempt, the woman-worshippers and polytheistic savages beyond the Pyrenees--as they mirthfully called those whose long-delayed vengeance they were in the end to feel; together they were expelled. Against such Jews as lingered behind the hideous persecutions of the Inquisition were directed. But in the days of their prosperity they maintained a merchant marine of more than a thousand ships. They had factories and consuls on the Tanaïs. With Constantinople alone they maintained a great trade; it ramified from the Black Sea and East Mediterranean into the interior of Asia; it reached the ports of India and China, and extended along the African coast as far as Madagascar. Even in these commercial affairs the singular genius of the Jew and Arabs shines forth. In the midst of the tenth century, when Europe was about in the same condition that Caffraria is now, enlightened Moors, like Abul Cassem, were writing treatises on the principles of trade and commerce. As on so many other occasions, on these affairs they have left their traces. The smallest weight they used in trade was the grain of barley, four of which were equal to one sweet pea, called in Arabic carat. We still use the grain as our unit of weight, and still speak of gold as being so many carats fine. [Sidenote: Obligations to the Khalifs of the West.] Such were the Khalifs of the West; such their splendour, their luxury, their knowledge; such some of the obligations we are under to them--obligations which Christian Europe, with singular insincerity, has ever been fain to hide. The cry against the misbeliever has long outlived the Crusades. Considering the enchanting country over which they ruled, it was not without reason that they caused to be engraven on the public seal, "The servant of the Merciful rests contented in the decrees of God." What more, indeed, could Paradise give them? But, considering also the evil end of all this happiness and pomp, this learning, liberality, and wealth, we may well appreciate the solemn truth which these monarchs, in their day of pride and power, grandly wrote in the beautiful mosaics on their palace walls, an ever-recurring warning to him who owes dominion to the sword, "There is no conqueror but God." [Sidenote: Examination of Mohammedan science.] The value of a philosophical or political system may be determined by its fruits. On this principle I examined in Vol. I., Chapter XII., the Italian system, estimating its religious merit from the biographies of the popes, which afford the proper criterion. In like manner, the intellectual state of the Mohammedan nations at successive epochs may be ascertained from what is its proper criterion, the contemporaneous scientific manifestation. At the time when the Moorish influences in Spain began to exert a pressure on the Italian system, there were several scientific writers, fragments of whose works have descended to us. As an architect may judge of the skill of the ancient Egyptians in his art from a study of the Pyramids, so from these relics of Saracenic learning we may demonstrate the intellectual state of the Mohammedan people, though much of their work has been lost and more has been purposely destroyed. [Sidenote: Review of the works of Alhazen.] Among such writers is Alhazen; his date was about A.D. 1100. It appears that he resided both in Spain and Egypt, but the details of his biography are very confused. Through his optical works, which have been translated into Latin, he is best known to Europe. [Sidenote: He corrects the theory of vision.] He was the first to correct the Greek misconception as to the nature of vision, showing that the rays of light come from external objects to the eye, and do not issue forth from the eye, and impinge on external things, as, up to his time, had been supposed. His explanation does not depend upon mere hypothesis or supposition, but is plainly based upon anatomical investigation as well as on geometrical discussion. [Sidenote: Determines the function of the retina.] He determines that the retina is the seat of vision, and that impressions made by light upon it are conveyed along the optic nerve to the brain. Though it might not be convenient, at the time when Alhazen lived, to make such an acknowledgment, no one could come to these conclusions, nor, indeed, know anything about these facts, unless he had been engaged in the forbidden practice of dissection. [Sidenote: Explains single vision.] With felicity he explains that we see single when we use both eyes, because of the formation of the visual images on symmetrical portions of the two retinas. To the modern physiologist the mere mention of such things is as significant as the occurrence of an arch in the interior of the pyramid is to the architect. But Alhazen shows that our sense of sight is by no means a trustworthy guide, and that there are illusions arising from the course which the rays of light may take when they suffer refraction or reflexion. It is in the discussion of one of these physical problems that his scientific greatness truly shines forth. [Sidenote: Traces the course of a ray of light through the air.] He is perfectly aware that the atmosphere decreases in density with increase of height; and from that consideration he shows that a ray of light, entering it obliquely, follows a curvilinear path which is concave toward the earth; and that, since the mind refers the position of an object to the direction in which the ray of light from it enters the eye, the result must be an illusion as respects the starry bodies; they appear to us, to use the Arabic term, nearer to the _zenith_ than they actually are, and not in their true place. [Sidenote: Astronomical refraction.] We see them in the direction of the tangent to the curve of refraction as it reaches the eye. Hence also he shows that we actually see the stars, and the sun, and the moon before they have risen and after they have set--a wonderful illusion. He shows that in its passage through the air the curvature of a ray increases with the increasing density, and that its path does not depend on vapours that chance to be present, but on the variation of density in the medium. [Sidenote: The horizontal sun and moon.] To this refraction he truly refers the shortening, in their vertical diameter, of the horizontal sun and moon; to its variations he imputes the twinkling of the fixed stars. The apparent increase of size of the former bodies when they are in the horizon he refers to a mental deception, arising from the presence of intervening terrestrial objects. [Sidenote: Explains the twilight.] He shows that the effect of refraction is to shorten the duration of night and darkness by prolonging the visibility of the sun, and considering the reflecting action of the air, he deduces that beautiful explanation of the nature of twilight--the light that we perceive before the rising and after the setting of the sun--which we accept at the present time as true. [Sidenote: Determines the height of the atmosphere.] With extraordinary acuteness, he applies the principles with which he is dealing to the determination of the height of the atmosphere, deciding that its limit is nearly 58-1/2 miles. All this is very grand. Shall we compare it with the contemporaneous monk miracles and monkish philosophy of Europe? It would make a profound impression if communicated for the first time to a scientific society in our own age. Nor perhaps does his merit end here. If the Book of the Balance of Wisdom, for a translation of which we are indebted to M. Khanikoff, the Russian consul-general at Tabriz, be the production of Alhazen, of which there seems to be internal proof, it offers us evidence of a singular clearness in mechanical conception for which we should scarcely have been prepared, and, if it be not his, at all events it indisputably shows the scientific acquirements of his age. [Sidenote: The weight of the air.] In that book is plainly set forth the connexion between the weight of the atmosphere and its increasing density. The weight of the atmosphere was therefore understood before Torricelli. This author shows that a body will weigh differently in a rare and in a dense atmosphere; that its loss of weight will be greater in proportion as the air is more dense. [Sidenote: Principles of hydrostatics.] He considers the force with which plunged bodies will rise through heavier media in which they are immersed, and discusses the submergence of floating bodies, as ships upon the sea. He understands the doctrine of the centre of gravity. [Sidenote: Theory of the balance.] He applies it to the investigation of balances and steelyards, showing the relations between the centre of gravity and the centre of suspension--when those instruments will set and when they will vibrate. He recognizes gravity as a force; asserts that it diminishes with the distance; but falls into the mistake that the diminution is as the distance, and not as its square. [Sidenote: Gravity; capillary attraction; the hydrometer.] He considers gravity as terrestrial, and fails to perceive that it is universal--that was reserved for Newton. He knows correctly the relation between the velocities, spaces, and times of falling bodies, and has very distinct ideas of capillary attraction. He improves the construction of that old Alexandrian invention, the hydrometer--the instrument which, in a letter to his fair but pagan friend Hypatia, the good Bishop of Ptolemais, Synesius, six hundred years previously, requests her to have made for him in Alexandria, as he wishes to try the wines he is using, his health being a little delicate. [Sidenote: Tables of specific gravities.] The determinations of the densities of bodies, as given by Alhazen, approach very closely to our own; in the case of mercury they are even more exact than some of those of the last century. I join, as, doubtless, all natural philosophers will do, in the pious prayer of Alhazen, that, in the day of judgment, the All-Merciful will take pity on the soul of Abur-Raihân, because he was the first of the race of men to construct a table of specific gravities; and I will ask the same for Alhazen himself, since he was the first to trace the curvilinear path of a ray of light through the air. Though more than seven centuries part him from our times, the physiologists of this age may accept him as their compeer, since he received and defended the doctrine now forcing its way, of the progressive development of animal forms. [Sidenote: The theory of development of organisms.] He upheld the affirmation of those who said that man, in his progress, passes through a definite succession of states; not, however, "that he was once a bull, and was then changed to an ass, and afterwards into a horse, and after that into an ape, and finally became a man." This, he says, is only a misrepresentation by "common people" of what is really meant. The "common people" who withstood Alhazen have representatives among us, themselves the only example in the Fauna of the world of that non-development which they so loudly affirm. At the best they are only passing through some of the earlier forms of that series of transmutations to which the devout Mohammedan in the above quotation alludes. The Arabians, with all this physical knowledge, do not appear to have been in possession of the thermometer, though they knew the great importance of temperature measures, employing the areometer for that purpose. They had detected the variation in density of liquids by heat, but not the variation in volume. In their measures of time they were more successful; they had several kinds of clepsydras. A balance clepsydra is described in the work from which I am quoting. [Sidenote: The pendulum clock.] But it was their great astronomer, Ebn Junis, who accomplished the most valuable of all chronometric improvements. He first applied the pendulum to the measure of time. Laplace, in the fifth note to his Systeme du Monde, avails himself of the observations of this philosopher, with those of Albategnius and other Arabians, as incontestable proof of the diminution of the eccentricity of the earth's orbit. [Sidenote: Astronomical works of Ebn Junis.] He states, moreover, that the observation of Ebn Junis of the obliquity of the ecliptic, properly corrected for parallax and refraction, gives for the year A.D. 1000 a result closely approaching to the theoretical. He also mentions another observation of Ebn Junis, October 31, A.D. 1007, as of much importance in reference to the great inequalities of Jupiter and Saturn. [Sidenote: The Arabic numerals.] I have already remarked that, in the writings of this great Arabian, the Arabic numerals and our common arithmetical processes are currently used. From Africa and Spain they passed into Italy, finding ready acceptance among commercial men, who recognised at once their value, and, as William of Malmesbury says, being a wonderful relief to the "sweating calculators;" an epithet of which the correctness will soon appear to any one who will try to do a common multiplication or division problem by the aid of the old Roman numerals. It is said that Gerbert--Pope Sylvester--was the first to introduce a knowledge of them into Europe; he had learned them at the Mohammedan university of Cordova. It is in allusion to the cipher, which follows the 9, but which, added to any of the other digits, increases by tenfold its power, that, in a letter to his patron, the Emperor Otho III., with humility he playfully but truly says, "I am like the last of all the numbers." [Sidenote: Arabian philosophy.] The overthrow of the Roman by the Arabic numerals foreshadowed the result of a far more important--a political--contest between those rival names. But, before showing how the Arabian intellect pressed upon Rome, and the convulsive struggles of desperation which Rome made to resist it, I must for a moment consider the former under another point of view, and speak of Saracen philosophy. [Sidenote: The writings of Algazzali.] And here Algazzali shall be my guide. He was born A.D. 1058. Let us hear him speak for himself. He is relating his attempt to detach himself from the opinions which he had imbibed in his childhood: "I said to myself, 'My aim is simply to know the truth of things; consequently, it is indispensable for me to ascertain what is knowledge.' Now it was evident to me that certain knowledge must be that which explains the object to be known in such a manner that no doubt can remain, so that in future all error and conjecture respecting it must be impossible. [Sidenote: The certitude of knowledge.] Not only would the understanding then need no efforts to be convinced of certitude, but security against error is in such close connexion with knowledge, that, even were an apparent proof of falsehood to be brought forward, it would cause no doubt, because no suspicion of error would be possible. Thus, when I have acknowledged ten to be more than three, if any one were to say, 'On the contrary, three is more than ten, and to prove the truth of my assertion, I will change this rod into a serpent,' and if he were to change it, my conviction of his error would remain unshaken. His manoeuvre would only produce in me admiration for his ability. I should not doubt my own knowledge. "Then was I convinced that knowledge which I did not possess in this manner, and respecting which I had not this certainty, could inspire me with neither confidence nor assurance; and no knowledge without assurance deserves the name of knowledge. "Having examined the state of my own knowledge, I found it divested of all that could be said to have these qualities, unless perceptions of the senses and irrefragable principles were to be considered such. [Sidenote: Fallibility of the senses.] I then said to myself, 'Now, having fallen into this despair, the only hope of acquiring incontestable convictions is by the perceptions of the senses and by necessary truths.' Their evidence seemed to me to be indubitable. I began, however, to examine the objects of sensation and speculation, to see if they possibly could admit of doubt. Then doubts crowded upon me in such numbers that my incertitude became complete. Whence results the confidence I have in sensible things? The strongest of all our senses is sight; and yet, looking at a shadow, and perceiving it to be fixed and immovable, we judge it to be deprived of movement; nevertheless, experience teaches us that, when we return to the same place an hour after, the shadow is displaced, for it does not vanish suddenly, but gradually, little by little, so as never to be at rest. If we look at the stars, they seem to be as small as money-pieces; but mathematical proofs convince us that they are larger than the earth. These and other things are judged by the senses, but rejected by reason as false. I abandoned the senses, therefore, having seen all my confidence in their truth shaken. "'Perhaps,' said I, 'there is no assurance but in the notions of reason, that is to say, first principles, as that ten is more than three; the same thing cannot have been created and yet have existed from all eternity; to exist and not to exist at the same time is impossible.' [Sidenote: Fallibility of reason.] "Upon this the senses replied, 'What assurance have you that your confidence in reason is not of the same nature as your confidence in us? When you relied on us, reason stepped in and gave us the lie; had not reason been there, you would have continued to rely on us. Well, may there not exist some other judge superior to reason, who, if he appeared, would refute the judgments of reason in the same way that reason refuted us? The non-appearance of such a judge is no proof of his non-existence.' [Sidenote: The nature of dreams.] "I strove in vain to answer the objection, and my difficulties increased when I came to reflect on sleep. I said to myself, 'During sleep, you give to visions a reality and consistence, and you have no suspicion of their untruth. On awakening, you are made aware that they were nothing but visions. What assurance have you that all you feel and know when you are awake does actually exist? It is all true as respects your condition at that moment; but it is nevertheless possible that another condition should present itself which should be to your awakened state that which to your awakened state is now to you sleep; so that, as respects this higher condition, your waking is but sleep.'" It would not be possible to find in any European work a clearer statement of the scepticism to which philosophy leads than what is thus given by this Arabian. Indeed, it is not possible to put the argument in a more effective way. His perspicuity is in singular contrast with the obscurity of many metaphysical writers. [Sidenote: Intellectual despair.] "Reflecting on my situation, I found myself bound to this world by a thousand ties, temptations assailing me on all sides. I then examined my actions. The best were those relating to instruction and education, and even there I saw myself given up to unimportant sciences, all useless in another world. Reflecting on the aim of my teaching, I found it was not pure in the sight of the Lord. I saw that all my efforts were directed toward the acquisition of glory to myself. Having, therefore, distributed my wealth, I left Bagdad and retired into Syria, where I remained two years in solitary struggle with my soul, combating my passions, and exercising myself, in the purification of my heart and in preparation for the other world." This is a very beautiful picture of the mental struggles and the actions of a truthful and earnest man. In all this the Christian philosopher can sympathize with the devout Mohammedan. After all, they are not very far apart. Algazzali is not the only one to whom such thoughts have occurred, but he has found words to tell his experience better than any other man. And what is the conclusion at which he arrives? [Sidenote: Algazzali's ages of man.] The life of man, he says, is marked by three stages: "the first, or infantile stage, is that of pure sensation; the second, which begins at the age of seven, is that of understanding; the third is that of reason, by means of which the intellect perceives the necessary, the possible, the absolute, and all those higher objects which transcend the understanding. But after this there is a fourth stage, when another eye is opened, by which man perceives things hidden from others--perceives all that will be--perceives the things that escape the perceptions of reason, as the objects of reason escape the understanding, and as the objects of the understanding escape the sensitive faculty. This is prophetism." Algazzali thus finds a philosophical basis for the rule of life, and reconciles religion and philosophy. * * * * * And now I have to turn from Arabian civilized life, its science, its philosophy, to another, a repulsive state of things. With reluctance I come back to the Italian system, defiling the holy name of religion with its intrigues, its bloodshed, its oppression of human thought, its hatred of intellectual advancement. [Sidenote: Renewal of the operation of Mohammedan influences.] Especially I have now to direct attention to two countries, the scenes of important events--countries in which the Mohammedan influences began to take effect and to press upon Rome. These are the South of France and Sicily. Innocent III. had been elected pope at the early age of thirty-seven years, A.D. 1198. The papal power had reached its culminating point. The weapons of the Church had attained their utmost force. In Italy, in Germany, in France and England, interdicts and excommunications vindicated the pontifical authority, as in the cases of the Duke of Ravenna, the Emperor Otho, Philip Augustus of France, King John of England. [Sidenote: Interference of Innocent III. in France.] In each of these cases it was not for the sake of sustaining great moral principles or the rights of humanity that the thunder was launched--it was in behalf of temporary political interests; interests that, in Germany, were sustained at the cost of a long war, and cemented by assassination; in France, strengthened by the well-tried device of an intervention in a matrimonial broil--the domestic quarrel of the king and queen about Agnes of Meran. "Ah! happy Saladin!" said the insulted Philip, when his kingdom was put under interdict; "he has no pope above him. I too will turn Mohammedan." [Sidenote: In Spain and Portugal.] So, likewise, in Spain, Innocent interfered in the matrimonial life of the King of Leon. The remorseless venality of the papal government was felt in every direction. Portugal had already been advanced to the dignity of a kingdom on payment of an annual tribute to Rome. The King of Aragon held his kingdom as feudatory to the pope. [Sidenote: In England; denounces Magna Charta.] In England, Innocent's interference assumed a different aspect. He attempted to assert his control over the Church in spite of the king, and put the nation under interdict because John would not permit Stephen Langton to be Archbishop of Canterbury. It was utterly impossible that affairs could go on with such an empire within an empire. For his contumacy, John was excommunicated; but, base as he was, he defied his punishment for four years. Hereupon his subjects were released from their allegiance, and his kingdom offered to anyone who would conquer it. In his extremity, the King of England is said to have sent a messenger to Spain, offering to become a Mohammedan. The religious sentiment was then no higher in him than it was, under a like provocation, in the King of France, whose thoughts turned in the same direction. But, pressed irresistibly by Innocent, John was compelled to surrender his realm, agreeing to pay to the pope, in addition to Peter's pence, 1000 marks a year as a token of vassalage. When the prelates whom he had refused or exiled returned, he was compelled to receive them on his knees--humiliations which aroused the indignation of the stout English barons, and gave strength to those movements which ended in extorting Magna Charta. Never, however, was Innocent more mistaken than in the character of Stephen Langton. John had, a second time, formally surrendered his realm to the pope, and done homage to the legate for it; but Stephen Langton was the first--at a meeting of the chiefs of the revolt against the king, held in London, August 25th, 1213--to suggest that they should demand a renewal of the charter of Henry I. From this suggestion Magna Charta originated. Among the miracles of the age, he was the greatest miracle of all; his patriotism was stronger than his profession. The wrath of the pontiff knew no bounds when he learned that the Great Charter had been conceded. In his bull, he denounced it as base and ignominious; he anathematized the king if he observed it; he declared it null and void. It was not the policy of the Roman court to permit so much as the beginnings of such freedom. The appointment of Simon Langton to the archbishopric of York was annulled. One De Gray was substituted for him. It illustrated the simony into which the papal government had fallen, that De Gray had become, in these transactions, indebted to Rome ten thousand pounds. [Sidenote: The drain of money from that country.] In fact, through the operation of the Crusades, all Europe was tributory to the pope. He had his fiscal agents in every metropolis; his travelling ones wandering in all directions, in every country, raising revenue by the sale of dispensations for all kinds of offences, real and fictitious--money for the sale of appointments, high and low--a steady drain of money from every realm. Fifty years after the time of which we are speaking, Robert Grostête, the Bishop of Lincoln and friend of Roger Bacon, caused to be ascertained the amount received by foreign ecclesiastics in England. He found it to be thrice the income of the king himself. This was on the occasion of Innocent IV. demanding provision to be made for three hundred additional Italian clergy by the Church of England, and that one of his nephews--a mere boy--should have a stall in Lincoln cathedral. [Sidenote: Goading of Europe into a new crusade.] While thus Innocent III. was interfering and intriguing with every court, and laying every people under tribute, he did not for a moment permit his attention to be diverted from the Crusades, the singular advantages of which to the papacy had now been fully discovered. They had given to the pope a suzerainty in Europe, the control of its military as well as its monetary resources. Not that a man like Innocent could permit himself to be deluded by any hopes of eventual success. The crusades must inevitably prove, so far as their avowed object was concerned, a failure. The Christian inhabitants of Palestine were degraded and demoralized beyond description. Their ranks were thinned by apostasy to Mohammedanism. In Europe, not only the laity begun to discover that the money provided for the wars in the Holy Land was diverted from its purpose, and in some inexplicable manner, found its way into Italy--even the clergy could not conceal their suspicions that the proclamation of a crusade was merely the preparation for a swindle. Nevertheless, Innocent pressed forward his schemes, goading on Christendom by upbraiding it with the taunts of the Saracens. "Where," they say, "is your God, who can not deliver you out of our hands? Behold! we have defiled your sanctuaries; we have stretched forth our arm; we have taken at the first assault, we hold in despite of you, those your desirable places, where your superstition had its beginning. Where is your God? Let him arise and protect you and himself." "If thou be the Son of God, save thyself if thou canst; redeem the land of thy birth from our hands. Restore thy cross, that we have taken, to the worshippers of the Cross." With great difficulty, however, Innocent succeeded in preparing the fourth crusade, A.D. 1202. The Venetians consented to furnish a fleet of transports. But the expedition was quickly diverted from its true purpose; the Venetians employing the Crusaders for the capture of Zara from the King of Hungary. [Sidenote: The crusade is used for the seizure of Constantinople.] Still worse, and shameful to be said--partly from the lust of plunder, and partly through ecclesiastical machinations--it again turned aside for an attack upon Constantinople, and took that city by storm A.D. 1204, thereby establishing Latin Christianity in the Eastern metropolis, but, alas! with bloodshed, rape, and fire. On the night of the assault more houses were burned than could be found in any three of the largest cities in France. [Sidenote: Sack of that city by the Catholics.] Even Christian historians compare with shame the storming of Constantinople by the Catholics with the capture of Jerusalem by Saladin. Pope Innocent himself was compelled to protest against enormities that had outrun his intentions. He says: "They practised fornications, incests, adulteries in the sight of men. They abandoned matrons and virgins, consecrated to God, to the lewdness of grooms. They lifted their hands against the treasures of the churches--what is more heinous, the very consecrated vessels--tearing the tablets of silver from the very altars, breaking in pieces the most sacred things, carrying off crosses and relics." In St. Sophia, the silver was stripped from the pulpit; an exquisite and highly-prized table of oblation was broken in pieces; the sacred chalices were turned into drinking-cups; the gold fringe was ripped off the veil of the sanctuary. Asses and horses were led into the churches to carry off the spoil. A prostitute mounted the patriarch's throne, and sang, with indecent gestures, a ribald song. The tombs of the emperors were rifled; and the Byzantines saw, at once with amazement and anguish, the corpse of Justinian--which even decay and putrefaction had for six centuries spared in his tomb--exposed to the violation of a mob. It had been understood among those who instigated these atrocious proceedings that the relics were to be brought into a common stock and equitably divided among the conquerors! but each ecclesiastic seized and secreted whatever he could. The idolatrous state of the Eastern Church is illustrated by some of these relics. [Sidenote: The relics found there,] Thus the Abbot Martin obtained for his monastery in Alsace the following inestimable articles: 1. A spot of the blood of our Saviour; 2. A piece of the true cross; 3. The arm of the Apostle James; 4. Part of the skeleton of John the Baptist; 5.--I hesitate to write such blasphemy--"A bottle of the milk of the Mother of God!" [Sidenote: and works of art destroyed.] In contrast with the treasures thus acquired may be set relics of a very different kind, the remains of ancient art which they destroyed: 1. The bronze charioteers from the Hippodrome; 2. The she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus; 3. A group of a Sphinx, river-horse, and crocodile; 4. An eagle tearing a serpent; 5. An ass and his driver, originally cast by Augustus in memory of the victory of Actium; 6. Bellerophon and Pegasus; 7. A bronze obelisk; 8. Paris presenting the apple to Venus; 9. An exquisite statute of Helen; 10. The Hercules of Lysippus; 11. A Juno, formerly taken from the temple at Samos. The bronzes were melted into coin, and thousands of manuscripts and parchments were burned. From that time the works of many ancient authors disappeared altogether. [Sidenote: The pope and the doge divide the spoil.] With well-dissembled regret, Innocent took the new order of things in the city of Constantinople under his protection. The bishop of Rome at last appointed the Bishop of Constantinople. The acknowledgment of papal supremacy was complete. Rome and Venice divided between them the ill-gotten gains of their undertaking. If anything had been wanting to open the eyes of Europe, surely what had thus occurred should have been enough. The pope and the doge--the trader in human credulity and the trader of the Adriatic--had shared the spoils of a crusade meant by religious men for the relief of the Holy Land. [Sidenote: Works of art carried to Venice.] The bronze horses, once brought by Augustus from Alexandria, after his victory over Antony and transferred from Rome to Constantinople by its founder, were set before the Church of St Mark. They were the outward and visible sign of a less obvious event that was taking place. For to Venice was brought a residue of the literary treasures that had escaped the fire and the destroyer; and while her comrades in the outrage were satisfied, in their ignorance, with fictitious relics, she took possession of the poor remnant of the glorious works of art, of letters, and of science. Through these was hastened the intellectual progress of the West. [Sidenote: The punishment of Constantinople.] So fell Constantinople, and fell by the parricidal hands of Christians. The days of retribution for the curse she had inflicted on Western civilization were now approaching. In these events she received a first instalment of her punishment. Three hundred years previously, the historian Luitprand, who was sent by the Emperor Otho I. to the court of Nicephorus Phocas, says of her, speaking as an eye-witness, "That city, once so wealthy, so flourishing, is now famished, lying, perjured, deceitful, rapacious, greedy, niggardly, vainglorious;" and since Luitprand's time she had been pursuing a downward career. It might have been expected that the concentration of all the literary and scientific treasures of the Roman empire in Constantinople would have given rise to great mental vigour--that to Europe she would have been a brilliant focus of light. [Sidenote: The literary worthlessness of that city.] But when the works on jurisprudence by Tribonian, under Justinian, have been mentioned, what is there that remains? There is Stephanus, the grammarian, who wrote a dictionary, and Procopius, the historian, who was secretary to Belisarius in his campaigns. There is then a long interval almost without a literary name, to Theophylact Simocatta, and to the Ladder of Paradise of John Climacus. The mental excitement of the iconoclastic dispute presents us with John of Damascus; and the ninth century, the Myriobiblion and Nomacanon of Photius. Then follows Constantine Porphyrogenitus, vainly and voluminously composing; and Basil II. doubtless truly expresses the opinion of the time, as he certainly does the verdict of posterity respecting the works of his country, when he says that learning is useless and unprofitable lumber. The Alexiad of Anna Comnena, and the history of Byzantine affairs by Nicephorous Bryennius, hardly redeem their age. This barrenness and worthlessness was the effect of the system introduced by Constantine the Great. The long line of emperors had been consistent in one policy--the repression or expulsion of philosophy; and yet it is the uniform testimony of those ages that the Eastern convents were full of secret Platonism--that in stealth, the doctrines of Plato were treasured up in the cells of Asiatic monks. The Byzantines had possessed in art and letters all the best models in the world, yet in a thousand years they never produced one original. Millions of Greeks never advanced one step in philosophy or science--never made a single practical discovery, composed no poem, no tragedy worth perusal. The spirit of their superficial literature--if literature it can be called--is well shadowed forth in the story of the patriarch Photius, who composed at Bagdad, at a distance from his library, an analysis of 280 works he had formerly read. [Sidenote: The absurdity of its intellectual pursuits.] The final age of the city was signalized by the Baarlamite controversy respecting the mysterious light of Mount Thabor--the possibility of producing a beatific vision and of demonstrating, by an unceasing inspection of the navel for days and nights together, the existence of two eternal principles, a visible and an invisible God! [Sidenote: Cause of all this.] What was it that produced this barrenness, this intellectual degradation in Constantinople? The tyranny of Theology over Thought. But with the capture of Constantinople by the Latins other important events were occurring. Everywhere an intolerance of papal power was engendering. [Sidenote: Heresy follows literature.] The monasteries became infected, and even from the holy lips of monks words of ominous import might be heard. In the South of France the intellectual insurrection first took form. There the influence of the Mohammedans and Jews beyond the Pyrenees began to manifest itself. [Sidenote: Spread of gay literature from Spain.] The songs of gallantry; tensons, or poetical contests of minstrels; satires of gay defiance; rivalry in praise of the ladies; lays, serenades, pastourelles, redondes, such as had already drawn forth the condemnation of the sedate Mussulmen of Cordova, had gradually spread through Spain and found a congenial welcome in France. [Sidenote: The Troubadours and Trouvères.] The Troubadours were singing in the langue d'Oc in the south, and the Trouvères in the langue d'Oil in the north. Thence the merry epidemic spread to Sicily and Italy. Men felt that a relief from the grim ecclesiastic was coming. Kings, dukes, counts, knights, prided themselves on their gentle prowess. The humbler minstrels found patronage among ladies and at courts: sly satires against the priests, and amorous ditties, secured them a welcome among the populace. When the poet was deficient in voice, a jongleur went with him to sing; and often there was added the pleasant accompaniment of a musical instrument. The Provençal or langue d'Oc was thus widely diffused; it served the purposes of those unacquainted with Latin, and gave the Italians a model for thought and versification, to Europe the germs of many of its future melodies. While the young were singing, the old were thinking; while the gay were carried away with romance, the grave were falling into heresy. [Sidenote: Commencing resistance of Rome.] But, true to her instincts and traditions, the Church had shown her determination to deal rigorously with all such movements. Already, A.D. 1134, Peter de Brueys had been burned in Languedoc for denying infant baptism, the worship of the cross, and transubstantiation. Already Henry the Deacon, the disciple of Peter, had been disposed of by St. Bernard. Already the valleys of Piedmont were full of Waldenses. Already the Poor Men of Lyons were proclaiming the portentous doctrine that the sanctity of a priest lay not in his office, but in the manner of his life. They denounced the wealth of the Church, and the intermingling of bishops in bloodshed and war; they denied transubstantiation, invocation of saints, purgatory, and especially directed their hatred against the sale of indulgences for sin. The rich cities of Languedoc were full of misbelievers. They were given up to poetry, music, dancing. Their people, numbers of whom had been in the Crusades or in Spain, had seen the Saracens. Admiration had taken the place of detestation. Amid shouts of laughter, the Troubadours went through the land, wagging their heads, and slyly winking their eyes, and singing derisive songs about the amours of the priests, and amply earning denunciations as lewd blasphemers and atheists. [Sidenote: Innocent III. alarmed at the spread of heresy.] Here was a state of things demanding the attention of Innocent. The methods he took for its correction have handed his name down to the maledictions of posterity. He despatched a missive to the Count of Toulouse--who already lay under excommunication for alleged intermeddling with the rights of the clergy--charging him with harbouring heretics and giving offices of emolument to Jews. The count was a man of gay life, having, in emulation of some of his neighbours across the Pyrenees, not fewer than three wives. His offences of that kind were, however, eclipsed by those with which he was now formally charged. It chanced that, in the ensuing disputes, the pope's legate was murdered. There is no reason to believe that Raymond was concerned in the crime. [Sidenote: He proclaims a crusade against the Count of Toulouse,] But the indignant pope held him responsible; instantly ordered to be published in all directions his excommunication, and called upon Western Christendom to engage in a crusade against him, offering, to him whoever chose to take them, the wealth and possessions of the offender. So thoroughly was he seconded by the preaching of the monks, that half a million of men, it is affirmed, took up arms. [Sidenote: and disciplines him.] For the count there remained nothing but to submit. He surrendered up his strong places, was compelled to acknowledge the crimes alleged against him, and the justice of his punishment. He swore that he would no longer protect heretics. Stripped naked to his middle, with a rope round his neck, he was led to the altar, and there scourged. But the immense army that had assembled was not to be satisfied by these inflictions on an individual, though the pope might be. They had come for blood and plunder, and blood and plunder they must have. Then followed such scenes of horror as the sun had never looked on before. The army was officered by Roman and French prelates; bishops were its generals, an archdeacon its engineer. [Sidenote: Atrocities of the Crusaders in the South of France.] It was the Abbot Arnold, the legate of the pope, who, at the capture of Beziers, was inquired of by a soldier, more merciful or more weary of murder than himself, how he should distinguish and save the Catholic from the heretic. "Kill them all," he exclaimed; "God will know his own." At the Church of St. Mary Magdalene 7000 persons were massacred, the infuriated Crusaders being excited to madness by the wicked assertion that these wretches had been guilty of the blasphemy of saying, in their merriment, "S. Mariam Magdalenam fuisse concubinam Christi." It was of no use for them to protest their innocence. In the town twenty thousand were slaughtered, and the place then fired, to be left a monument of papal vengeance. At the massacre of Lavaur 400 people were burned in one pile; it is remarked that "they made a wonderful blaze, and went to burn everlastingly in hell." Language has no powers to express the atrocities that took place at the capture of the different towns. Ecclesiastical vengeance rioted in luxury. The soil was steeped in the blood of men--the air polluted by their burning. [Sidenote: Institution of the Inquisition.] From the reek of murdered women, mutilated children, and ruined cities, the Inquisition, that infernal institution, arose. Its projectors intended it not only to put an end to public teaching, but even to private thought. In the midst of these awful events, Innocent was called to another tribunal to render his account. He died A.D. 1216. [Sidenote: Establishment of mendicant orders.] It was during the pontificate of this great criminal that the mendicant orders were established. The course of ages had brought an unintelligibility into public worship. The old dialects had become obsolete; new languages were forming. Among those classes, daily increasing in number, whose minds were awakening, an earnest desire for instruction was arising. Multitudes were crowding to hear philosophical discourses in the universities, and heresy was spreading very fast. But it was far from being confined to the intelligent. The lower orders furnished heretics and fanatics too. To antagonize the labours of these zealots--who, if they had been permitted to go on unchecked, would quickly have disseminated their doctrines through all classes of society--the Dominican and Franciscan orders were founded. They were well adapted for their duty. It was their business to move among the people, preaching to them, in their own tongue, wherever an audience could be collected. The scandal under which the Church was labouring because of her wealth could not apply to these persons who lived by begging alms. Their function was not to secure their own salvation, but that of other men. [Sidenote: St. Dominic.] St. Dominic was born A.D. 1170. His birth and life were adorned with the customary prodigies. Miracles and wonders were necessary for anything to make a sensation in the West. His was an immaculate conception, he was free from original sin. He was regarded as the adopted son of the Virgin; some were even disposed to assign him a higher dignity than that. He began his operations in Languedoc; but, as the prospect opened out before him, he removed from that unpromising region to Rome, the necessary centre of all such undertakings as his. Here he perfected his organization; instituted his friars, nuns, and tertiaries; and consolidated his pretensions by the working of many miracles. He exorcised three matrons, from whom Satan issued forth under the form of a great black cat, which ran up a bell-rope and vanished. A beautiful nun resolved to leave her convent. Happening to blow her nose, it dropped off into her handkerchief; but, at the fervent prayer of St. Dominic, it was replaced, and in gratitude, tempered by fear, she remained. St. Dominic could also raise the dead. Nevertheless, he died A.D. 1221, having worthily obtained the title of the burner and slayer of heretics. To him has been attributed the glory or the crime of being the inventor of "the Holy Inquisition." In a very few years his order boasted of nearly 500 monasteries, scattered over Europe, Asia, Africa. [Sidenote: St. Francis.] St. Francis, the compeer of St. Dominic, was born A.D. 1182. His followers delighted to point out, as it would seem not without irreverence, a resemblance to the incidents that occurred at the birth of our Lord. A prophetess foretold it; he was born in a stable; angels sung forth peace and good-will in the air; one, under the form of Simeon, bore him to baptism. In early life he saw visions and became ecstatic. His father, Peter Bernardini, a respectable tradesman, endeavoured to restrain his eccentricities, at first by persuasion, but eventually more forcibly, appealing for assistance to the bishop, to prevent the young enthusiast from squandering his means in alms to the poor. On that functionary's gently remonstrating, and pointing out to Francis his filial obligations, he stripped himself naked before the people, exclaiming, "Peter Bernardini was my father; I have now but one Father, he that is in heaven." At this affecting renunciation of all earthly possessions and earthly ties, those present burst into tears, and the good bishop threw his own mantle over him. When a man has come to this pass, there is nothing he cannot accomplish. [Sidenote: Authorization of these orders.] It is related that, when application was first made to Innocent to authorize the order, he refused; but, very soon recognizing the advantages that would accrue, he gave it his hearty patronage. So rapid was the increase, that in A.D. 1219 it numbered not fewer than five thousand brethren. It was founded on the principles of chastity, poverty, obedience. They were to live on alms, but never to receive money. After a life of devotion to the Church, St. Francis attained his reward, A.D. 1226. Two years previous to his death, by a miraculous intervention there were impressed on his person marks answering to the wounds on our Saviour. These were the celebrated stigmata. A black growth, like nails, issued forth from the palms of his hands and his feet; a wound from which blood and water distilled opened in his side. It is not to be wondered at that these prodigies met with general belief. This was the generation which received as inestimable relics, through Andrew of Hungary, the skulls of St. Stephen and St. Margaret, the hands of St. Bartholomew and St. Thomas, a slip of the rod of Aaron, and one of the water-pots of the marriage at Cana in Galilee. [Sidenote: Influence derived from these orders.] The papal government quickly found the prodigious advantage arising from the institution of these mendicant orders. Vowed to poverty, living on alms, hosts of friars, begging and barefoot, pervaded all Europe, coming in contact, under the most favourable circumstances, with the lowest grades of society. They lived and moved among the populace, and yet were held sacred. The accusations of dissipation and luxury so forcibly urged against the regular clergy were altogether inapplicable to these rope-bound, starving fanatics. Through them the Italian government had possession of the ear of Europe. The pomp of worship in an unknown tongue, the gorgeous solemnities of the Church, were far more than compensated by the preaching of these missionaries, who held forth in the vernacular wherever an audience could be had. Among the early ones, some had been accustomed to a wandering life. Brother Pacificus, a disciple of St. Francis, had been a celebrated Trouvère. In truth, they not only warded off the present pressing danger, but through them the Church retained her hold on the labouring classes for several subsequent centuries. The pope might truly boast that the Poor Men of the Church were more than a match for the Poor Men of Lyons. Their influence began to diminish only when they abandoned their essential principles, joined in the common race for plunder, and became immensely rich. [Sidenote: Introduction of auricular confession.] Not only did Innocent III. thus provide himself with an ecclesiastical militia suited to meet the obviously impending insurrection, he increased his power greatly but insidiously by the formal introduction of auricular confession. It was by the fourth Lateran Council that the necessity of auricular confession was first formally established. Its aim was that no heretic should escape, and that the absent priest should be paramount even in the domestic circle. In none but a most degraded and superstitious society can such an infamous institution be tolerated. It invades the sacred privacy of life--makes a man's wife, children, and servants his spies and accusers. When any religious system stands in need of such a social immorality, we may be sure that it is irrecoverably diseased, and hastening to its end. [Sidenote: Development of casuistry.] Auricular confession led to an increasing necessity for casuistry, though that science was not fully developed until the time of the Jesuits, when it gave rise to an extensive literature, with a lax system and a false morality, guiding the penitent rather with a view to his usefulness to the Church than to his own reformation, and not hesitating at singular indecencies in its portion having reference to married life. [Sidenote: Attitude of Innocent III.] Great historical events often find illustrations in representative men. Such is the case in the epoch we are now considering. On one side stands Innocent, true to the instincts of his party, interfering with all the European nations; launching forth his interdicts and excommunications; steeped in the blood of French heretics; hesitating at no atrocity, even the outrage and murder of women and children, the ruin of flourishing cities, to compass his plans; in all directions, under a thousand pretences, draining Europe of its money; calling to his aid hosts of begging friars; putting forth imposture miracles; organizing the Inquisition, and invading the privacy of life by the contrivance of auricular confession. [Sidenote: Attitude of Frederick II.] On the other side stands Frederick II., the Emperor of Germany. His early life, as has been already mentioned, was spent in Sicily, in familiar intercourse with Jews and Arabs, and Sicily to the last was the favoured portion of his dominions. To his many other accomplishments he added the speaking of Arabic as fluently as a Saracen. He delighted in the society of Mohammedan ladies, who thronged his court. His enemies asserted that his chastity was not improved by his associations with these miscreant beauties. The Jewish and Mohammedan physicians and philosophers taught him to sneer at the pretensions of the Church. [Sidenote: His Mohammedan tendencies.] From such ridicule it is but a short step to the shaking off of authority. At this time the Spanish Mohammedans had become widely infected with irreligion; their greatest philosophers were infidel in their own infidelity. The two sons of Averroes of Cordova are said to have been residents at Frederick's court. Their father was one of the ablest men their nation ever produced: an experienced astronomer, he had translated the Almagest, and, it is affirmed, was the first who actually saw a transit of Mercury across the sun; a voluminous commentator on the works of Plato and Aristotle, but a disbeliever in all revelation. Even of Mohammedanism he said, alluding to the prohibition which the Prophet had enjoined on the use of the flesh of swine, "That form of religion is destitute of every thing that can commend it to the approval of any understanding, unless it be that of a hog." [Sidenote: He cultivates light literature and heresy.] In the Sicilian court, surrounded by such profane influences, the character of the young emperor was formed. Italian poetry, destined for such a brilliant future, here first found a voice in the sweet Sicilian dialect. The emperor and his chancellor were cultivators of the gay science, and in the composition of sonnets were rivals. A love of amatory poetry had spread from the South of France. With a view to the recovery of the Holy Land, Honorius III. had made Frederick marry Yolinda de Lusignan, the heiress of the kingdom of Jerusalem. It was not, therefore, to be wondered at that Frederick's frivolities soon drew upon him the indignation of the gloomy Pope Gregory IX., the very first act of whose pontificate was to summon a new crusade. [Sidenote: Refuses to go on a crusade, and then goes.] To the exhortations and commands of the aged pope the emperor lent a most reluctant ear, postponing, from time to time, the period of his departure, and dabbling in doubtful negotiations, through his Mohammedan friends, with the Sultan of Egypt. He embarked at last, but in three days returned. The octogenarian pope was not to be trifled with, and pronounced his excommunication. Frederick treated it with ostensible contempt, but appealed to Christendom, accusing Rome of avaricious intentions. [Sidenote: Presumes to rebuke the pontifical government.] Her officials, he said, were travelling in all directions, not to preach the Word of God, but to extort money. "The primitive Church, founded on poverty and simplicity, brought forth numberless saints. The Romans are now rolling in wealth. What wonder that the walls of the Church are undermined to the base, and threaten utter ruin." For saying this he underwent a more tremendous excommunication; but his partisans in Rome, raising an insurrection, expelled the pope. And now Frederick set sail, of his own accord, on his crusading expedition. On reaching the Holy Land, he was received with joy by the knights and pilgrims; but the clergy held aloof from him as an excommunicated person. The pontiff had despatched a swift-sailing ship to forbid their holding intercourse with him. [Sidenote: His friendship with the sultan,] His private negotiations with the Sultan of Egypt now matured. The Christian camp was thronged with infidel delegates: some came to discuss philosophical questions, some were the bearers of presents. Elephants and a bevy of dancing-girls were courteously sent by the sultan to his friend, who, it is said, was not insensible to the witcheries of these Oriental beauties. He wore a Saracen dress. In his privacy he did not hesitate to say, "I came not here to deliver the Holy City, but to maintain my estimation among the Franks." To the sultan he appealed, "Out of your goodness, surrender to me Jerusalem as it is, that I may be able to lift up my head among the kings of Christendom." [Sidenote: who gives up Jerusalem to him.] Accordingly, the city was surrendered to him. The object of his expedition was accomplished. But the pope was not to be deceived by such collusions. He repudiated the transactions altogether, and actually took measures to lay Jerusalem and our Saviour's sepulchre under interdict, and this in the face of the Mohammedans. [Sidenote: The pope denounces him.] While the emperor proclaimed his successes to Europe, the pope denounced them as coming from the union of Christ and Belial; alleging four accusations against Frederick: 1. That he had given the sword which he had received from the altar of St. Peter for the defence of the faith, as a present to the Sultan of Babylon; 2. That he had permitted the preaching of the Koran in the holy Temple itself; 3. That he had excluded the Christians of Antioch from his treaty; 4. That he had bound himself, if a Christian army should attempt to cleanse the Temple and city from Mohammedan defilements, to join the Saracens. Frederick crowned himself at Jerusalem, unable to find any ecclesiastic who dared to perform the ceremony, and departed from the Holy Land. It was time, for Rome was intriguing against him at home, a false report of his death having been industriously circulated. He forthwith prepared to enter on his conflict with the pontiff. [Sidenote: Frederick establishes Saracen posts in Italy.] His Saracen colonies at Nocera and Luceria, in Italy, could supply him with 30,000 Mussulman soldiers, with whom it was impossible for his enemies to tamper. He managed to draw over the general sentiment of Europe to his side, and publicly offered to convict the pope himself of negotiations with the infidels; but his antagonist, conveniently impressed with a sudden horror of shedding blood, gave way, and peace between the parties was made. It lasted nearly nine years. [Sidenote: His political institutions.] In this period, the intellectual greatness of Frederick, and the tendencies of the influences by which he was enveloped, were strikingly manifested. In advance of his age, he devoted himself to the political improvement of Sicily. He instituted representative parliaments; enacted a system of wise laws; asserted the principle of equal rights and equal burdens, and the supremacy of the law over all, even the nobles and the Church. He provided for the toleration of all professions, Jewish and Mohammedan, as well as Christian; emancipated all the serfs of his domains; instituted cheap justice for the poor; forbade private war; regulated commerce--prophetically laying down some of those great principles, which only in our own time have been finally received as true; established markets and fairs; collected large libraries; caused to be translated such works as those of Aristotle and Ptolemy; built menageries for natural history; founded in Naples a great university; patronized the medical college at Salernum; made provisions for the education of promising but indigent youths. All over the land splendid architectural triumphs were created. Under him the Italian language first rose above a patois. Sculpture, painting, and music were patronized. His chancellor is said to have been the author of the oldest sonnet. [Sidenote: They are denounced.] In the eye of Rome all this was an abomination. Were human laws to take the precedence of the law of God? Were the clergy to be degraded to a level with the laity? Were the Jew and the Mohammedan to be permitted their infamous rites? Was this new-born product of the insolence of human intellect--this so-called science--to be brought into competition with theology, the heaven-descended? Frederick and his parliaments, his laws and universities, his libraries, his statues, his pictures and sonnets, were denounced. Through all, the ever-watchful eye of the Church discerned the Jew and the Saracen, and held them up to the abhorrence of Europe. But Gregory was not unwilling to show what could be done by himself in the same direction. He caused a compilation of the Decretals to be issued, intrusting the work to one Raymond de Pennaforte, who had attained celebrity as a literary opponent of the Saracens. It is amusing to remark that even this simple work of labour could not be promulgated without the customary embellishments. It was given out that an angel watched over Pennaforte's shoulder all the time he was writing. [Sidenote: Outbreak of his quarrel with the pope,] Meantime an unceasing vigilance was maintained against the dangerous results that would necessarily ensue from Frederick's movements. In Rome, many heretics were burned; many condemned to imprisonment for life. The quarrel between the pope and the emperor was resumed; the latter being once more excommunicated, and his body delivered over to Satan for the good of his soul. Again Frederick appealed to all the sovereigns of Christendom. He denounced the pontiff as an unworthy vicar of Christ, "who sits in his court like a merchant, weighing out dispensations for gold--himself writing and signing the bulls, perhaps counting the money. He has but one cause of enmity against me, that I refused to marry to his niece my natural son Enzio, now King of Sardinia." "In the midst of the Church sits a frantic prophet, a man of falsehood, a polluted priest." To this Gregory replied. [Sidenote: who rouses Christendom against him.] The tenor of his answer may be gathered from its commencement: "Out of the sea a beast is arisen, whose name is written all over 'Blasphemy.'" "He falsely asserts that I am enraged at his refusing his consent to the marriage of my niece with his natural son. He lies more impudently when he says that I have pledged my faith to the Lombards." "In truth, this pestilent king maintains, to use his own words, that the world has been deceived by three impostors--Jesus Christ, Moses, and Mohammed; that of these two died in honour, and the third was hanged on a tree. Even now, he has asserted, distinctly and loudly, that those are fools who aver that God, the Omnipotent Creator of the world, was born of a woman." This was in allusion to the celebrated and mysterious book, "De Tribus Impostoribus," in the authorship of which Frederick was accused of having been concerned. The pontiff had touched the right chord. The begging friars, in all directions, added to the accusations. "He has spoken of the Host as a mummery; he has asked how many gods might be made out of a corn-field; he has affirmed that, if the princes of the world would stand by him, he would easily make for mankind a better faith and a better rule of life; he has laid down the infidel maxim that 'God expects not a man to believe anything that cannot be demonstrated by reason.'" The opinion of Christendom rose against Frederick; its sentiment of piety was shocked. The pontiff proceeded to depose him, and offered his crown to Robert of France. [Sidenote: Frederick uses his Saracen troops.] But the Mussulman troops of the emperor were too much for the begging friars of the pope. His Saracens were marching across Italy in all directions. The pontiff himself would have inevitably fallen into the hands of his mortal enemy had he not found a deliverance in death, A.D. 1241. Frederick had declared that he would not respect his sacred person, but, if victorious, would teach him the absolute supremacy of the temporal power. It was plain that he had no intention of respecting a religion which he had not hesitated to denounce as "a mere absurdity." Whatever may have been the intention of Innocent IV.--who, after the short pontificate of Celestine IV. and an interval, succeeded--he was borne into the same policy by the irresistible force of circumstances. The deadly quarrel with the emperor was renewed. To escape his wrath, Innocent fled to France, and there in safety called the Council of Lyons. In a sermon, he renewed all the old accusations--the heresy and sacrilege--the peopling of Italian cities with Saracens, for the purpose of overturning the Vicar of Christ with those infidels--the friendship with the Sultan of Egypt--the African courtesans--the perjuries and blasphemies. [Sidenote: Excommunication of Frederick.] Then was proclaimed the sentence of excommunication and deposition. The pope and the bishops inverted the torches they held in their hands until they went out, uttering the malediction, "So may he be extinguished." Again the emperor appealed to Europe, but this time in vain. Europe would not forgive him his blasphemy. Misfortunes crowded upon him; his friends forsook him; his favourite son, Enzio, was taken prisoner; and he never smiled again after detecting his intimate, Pietro de Vinea, whom he had raised from beggary, in promising the monks that he would poison him. The day had been carried by a resort to all means justifiable and unjustifiable, good and evil. For thirty years Frederick had combated the Church and the Guelph party, but he sunk in the conflict at last. When Innocent heard of the death of his foe, he might doubtless well think that what he had once asserted had at last become true: "We are no mere mortal man; we have the place of God upon earth." [Sidenote: The triumph at his death.] In his address to the clergy of Sicily he exclaimed, "Let the heavens rejoice and let the earth be glad; for the lightning and tempest wherewith God Almighty has so long menaced your heads have been changed by the death of this man into refreshing zephyrs and fertilizing dews." This is that superhuman vengeance which hesitates not to strike the corpse of a man. Rome never forgives him who has told her of her impostures face to face; she never forgives him who has touched her goods. [Sidenote: Power of the Church at this moment.] The Saracenic influences had thus found an expression in the South of France and in Sicily, involving many classes of society, from the Poor Men of Lyons to the Emperor of Germany; but in both places they were overcome by the admirable organization and unscrupulous vigour of the Church. She handled her weapons with singular dexterity, and contrived to extract victory out of humiliation and defeat. As always since the days of Constantine, she had partisans in every city, in every village, in every family. And now it might have appeared that the blow she had thus delivered was final, and that the world, in contentment, must submit to her will. She had again succeeded in putting her iron heel on the neck of knowledge, had invoked against it the hatred of Christendom, and reviled it as the monstrous but legitimate issue of the detested Mohammedanism. [Sidenote: Vitality of Frederick's principles.] But the fate of men is by no means an indication of the fate of principles. The fall of the Emperor Frederick was not followed by the destruction of the influences he represented. These not only survived him, but were destined, in the end, to overcome the power which had transiently overthrown them. We are now entering on the history of a period which offers not only exterior opposition to the current doctrines, but, what is more ominous, interior mutiny. Notwithstanding the awful persecutions in the South of France--notwithstanding the establishment of auricular confession as a detective means, and the Inquisition as a weapon of punishment--notwithstanding the influence of the French king, St. Louis, canonized by the grateful Church--heresy, instead of being extirpated, extended itself among the laity, and even spread among the ecclesiastical ranks. [Sidenote: St. Louis.] St. Louis, the representative of the hierarchical party, gathers influence only from the circumstance of his relations with the Church, of whose interests he was a fanatical supporter. So far as the affairs of his people were concerned, he can hardly be looked upon as anything better than a simpleton. His reliance for checking the threatened spread of heresy was a resort to violence--the faggot and the sword. In his opinion, "A man ought never to dispute with a misbeliever except with his sword, which he ought to drive into the heretic's entrails as far as he can." It was the signal glory of his reign that he secured for France that inestimable relic, the crown of thorns. [Sidenote: His superstition,] This peerless memento of our Saviour's passion he purchased in Constantinople for an immense sum. But France was doubly and enviably enriched; for the Abbey of St. Denys was in possession of another, known to be equally authentic! Besides the crown, he also secured the sponge that was dipped in vinegar; the lance of the Roman soldier; also the swaddling-clothes in which the Saviour had first lain in the manger; the rod of Moses; and part of the skull of John the Baptist. These treasures he deposited in the "Holy Chapel" of Paris. [Sidenote: and crusade.] Under the papal auspices, St. Louis determined on a crusade; and nothing, except what we have already mentioned, can better show his mental imbecility than his disregard of all suitable arrangements for it. He thought that, provided the troops could be made to lead a religious life, all would go well; that the Lord would fight his own battles, and that no provisions of a military or worldly kind were needed. In such a pious reliance on the support of God, he reached Egypt with his expedition in June, A.D. 1249. The ever-conspicuous valour of the French troops could maintain itself in the battle-field, but not against pestilence and famine. [Sidenote: Its total failure.] In March of the following year, as might have been foreseen, King Louis was the prisoner of the Sultan, and was only spared the indignity of being carried about as a public spectacle in the Mohammedan towns by a ransom, at first fixed at a million of Byzantines, but by the merciful Sultan voluntarily reduced one fifth. Still, for a time, Louis lingered in the East, apparently stupefied by considering how God could in this manner have abandoned a man who had come to his help. Never was there a crusade with a more shameful end. [Sidenote: The Inquisition attempts to arrest the intellectual revolt.] Notwithstanding the support of St. Louis in his own dominions, the intellectual revolt spread in every direction, and that not only in France, but throughout all Catholic Europe. In vain the Inquisition exerted all its terrors--and what could be more terrible than its form of procedure? It sat in secret; no witness, no advocate was present; the accused was simply informed that he was charged with heresy, it was not said by whom. He was made to swear that he would tell the truth as regarded himself, and also respecting other persons, whether parents, children, friends, strangers. If he resisted he was committed to a solitary dungeon, dark and poisonous; his food was diminished; everything was done to drive him into insanity. Then the familiars of the Holy Office, or others in its interests, were by degrees to work upon him to extort confession as to himself or accusations against others. But this fearful tribunal did not fail to draw upon itself the indignation of men. Its victims, condemned for heresy, were perishing in all directions. The usual apparatus of death, the stake and faggots, had become unsuited to its wholesale and remorseless vengeance. The convicts were so numerous as to require pens made of stakes and filled with straw. [Sidenote: Burnings of heretics.] It was thus that, before the Archbishop of Rheims and seventeen other prelates, one hundred and eighty-three heretics, together with their pastor, were burned alive. Such outrages against humanity cannot be perpetrated without bringing in the end retribution. In other countries the rising indignation was exasperated by local causes; in England, for instance, by the continual intrusion of Italian ecclesiastics into the richest benefices. Some of them were mere boys; many were non-residents; some had not so much as seen the country from which they drew their ample wealth. The Archbishop of York was excommunicated, with torches and bells, because he would not bestow the abundant revenues of his Church on persons from beyond the Alps; but for all this "he was blessed by the people." The archbishopric of Canterbury was held, A.D. 1241, by Boniface of Savoy, to whom had been granted by the pope the first-fruits of all the benefices in his province. His rapacity was boundless. From all the ecclesiastics and ecclesiastical establishments under his control he extorted enormous sums. Some, who, like the Dean of St. Paul's, resisted him, were excommunicated; some, like the aged Sub-prior of St. Bartholomew's, were knocked down by his own hand. Of a military turn--he often wore a cuirass under his robes--he joined his brother, the Archbishop of Lyons, who was besieging Turin, and wasted the revenues of his see in England in intrigues and petty military enterprises against his enemies in Italy. [Sidenote: Mutiny arising in the Church.] Not among the laity alone was there indignation against such a state of things. Mutiny broke out in the ranks of the Church. It was not that among the humbler classes the sentiment of piety had become diminished. [Sidenote: The Shepherds and Flagellants.] The Shepherds, under the leadership of the Master of Hungary, passed by tens of thousands through France to excite the clergy to arouse for the rescue of good King Louis, in bondage among the Mussulmen. They asserted that they were commissioned by the Virgin, and were fed miraculously by the Master. Originating in Italy, the Flagellants also passed, two by two, through every city, scourging themselves for thirty-three days in memory of the years of our Lord. These dismal enthusiasts emulated each other, and were rivals of the mendicant friars in their hatred of the clergy. [Sidenote: The mendicant friars are affected.] The mendicants were beginning to justify that hesitation which Innocent displayed when he was first importuned to authorize them. The papacy had reaped from these orders much good; it was now to gather a fearful evil. They had come to be learned men instead of ferocious bigots. They were now, indeed, among the most cultivated men of their times. They had taken possession of many of the seats of learning. In the University of Paris, out of twelve chairs of theology, three only were occupied by the regular clergy. The mendicant friars had entered into the dangerous paths of heresy. They became involved in that fermenting leaven that had come from Spain, and among them revolt broke out. [Sidenote: Rome prohibits the study of science.] With an unerring instinct, Rome traced the insurrection to its true source. We have only to look at the measures taken by the popes to understand their opinion. Thus Innocent III., A.D. 1215, regulated, by his legate, the schools of Paris, permitting the study of the Dialectics of Aristotle, but forbidding his physical and metaphysical works and their commentaries. These had come through an Arabic channel. A rescript of Gregory XI., A.D. 1231, interdicts those on natural philosophy until they had been purified by the theologians of the Church. These regulations were confirmed by Clement IV. A.D. 1265. CHAPTER III. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST--(_Continued_). OVERTHROW OF THE ITALIAN SYSTEM BY THE COMBINED INTELLECTUAL AND MORAL ATTACK. _Progress of Irreligion among the mendicant Orders.--Publication of heretical Books.--The Everlasting Gospel and the Comment on the Apocalypse._ _Conflict between Philip the Fair and Boniface VIII.--Outrage upon and death of the Pope._ _The French King removes the Papacy from Rome to Avignon.--Post-mortem Trial of the Pope for Atheism and Immorality.--Causes and Consequences of the Atheism of the Pope._ _The Templars fall into Infidelity.--Their Trial, Conviction, and Punishment._ _Immoralities of the Papal Court at Avignon.--Its return to Rome.--Causes of the great Schism.--Disorganization of the Italian System.--Decomposition of the Papacy.--Three Popes._ _The Council of Constance attempts to convert the papal Autocracy into a constitutional Monarchy.--It murders John Huss and Jerome of Prague.--Pontificate of Nicolas V.--End of the intellectual influence of the Italian System._ [Sidenote: "The Everlasting Gospel."] About the close of the twelfth century appeared among the mendicant friars that ominous work, which, under the title of "The Everlasting Gospel," struck terror into the Latin hierarchy. It was affirmed that an angel had brought it from heaven, engraven on copper plates, and had given it to a priest called Cyril, who delivered it to the Abbot Joachim. [Sidenote: Introduction to it by the General of the Franciscans.] The abbot had been dead about fifty years, when there was put forth, A.D. 1250, a true exposition of the tendency of his book, under the form of an introduction, by John of Parma, the general of the Franciscans, as was universally suspected or alleged. Notwithstanding its heresy, the work displayed an enlarged and masterly conception of the historical progress of humanity. In this introduction, John of Parma pointed out that the Abbot Joachim, who had not only performed a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, but had been reverenced as a prophet, received as of unimpeachable orthodoxy, and canonized, had accepted as his fundamental position that Roman Christianity had done its work, and had now come to its inevitable termination. He proceeded to show that there are epochs or ages in the Divine government of the world; that, during the Jewish dispensation, it had been under the immediate influence of God the Father; during the Christian dispensation, it had been under that of God the Son; and that the time had now arrived when it would be under the influence of God the Holy Ghost; that, in the coming ages, there would be no longer any need of faith, but that all things would be according to wisdom and reason. It was the ushering in of a new time. So spake, with needful obscurity, the Abbot Joachim, and so, more plainly, the General of the Franciscans in his Introduction. "The Everlasting Gospel" was declared by its adherents to have supplanted the New Testament, as that had supplanted the Old--these three books constituting a threefold revelation, answering to the Trinity of the Godhead. At once there was a cry from the whole hierarchy. [Sidenote: Attempts to destroy the book.] The Pope, Alexander IV., without delay, took measures for the destruction of the book. Whoever kept or concealed a copy was excommunicated. But among the lower mendicants--the Spiritualists, as they were termed--the work was held in the most devout repute. With them it had taken the place of the Holy Scriptures. [Sidenote: The Comment on the Apocalypse.] So far from being suppressed, it was followed, in about forty years, A.D. 1297, by the Comment on the Apocalypse, by John Peter Oliva, who, in Sicily, had accepted the three epochs or ages, and divided the middle one--the Christian--into seven stages: the age of the Apostles; that of the Martyrs; that of Heresies; that of Hermits; that of the Monastic System; that of the overthrow of Anti-Christ, and that of the coming Millennium. He agreed with his predecessors in the impending abolition of Roman Christianity, stigmatized that Church as the purple harlot, and with them affirmed that the pope and all his hierarchy had become superfluous and obsolete--"their work was done, their doom sealed." [Sidenote: Spread of these doctrines among ecclesiastics.] His zealous followers declared that the sacraments of the Church were now all useless, those administering them having no longer any jurisdiction. The burning of thousands of these "Fratricelli" by the Inquisition was altogether inadequate to suppress them. Eventually, when the Reformation occurred, they mingled among the followers of Luther. [Sidenote: Approaching difficulties of the Church.] To the internal and doctrinal troubles thus befalling the Church, material and foreign ones of the most vital importance were soon added. The true reason of the difficulties into which the papacy was falling was now coming conspicuously into light. It was absolutely necessary that money should be drawn to Rome, and the sovereigns of the Western kingdoms, France and England, from which it had hitherto been largely obtained, were determined that it should be so no longer. They had equally urgent need themselves of all that could be extorted. In France, even by St. Louis, it was enacted that the papal power in the election of the clergy should be restrained; and, complaining of the drain of money from the kingdom to Rome, he applied the effectual remedy of prohibiting any such assessments or taxations for the future. [Sidenote: Peter Morrone becomes pope.] We have now reached the pontificate of Boniface VIII., an epoch in the intellectual history of Europe. Under the title of Celestine V. a visionary hermit had been raised to the papacy--visionary, for Peter Morrone (such was his name) had long been indulged in apparitions of angels and the sounds of phantom bells in the air. Peter was escorted from his cell to his supreme position by admiring crowds; but it very soon became apparent that the life of an anchorite is not a preparation for the duties of a pope. The conclave of cardinals had elected him, not from any impression of his suitableness, but because they were evenly balanced in two parties, neither of which would give way. They were therefore driven to a temporary and available election. But scarcely had this been done when his incapacity became conspicuous and his removal imperative. [Sidenote: Celestine V. terrified into abdication.] It is said that the friends of Benedetto Gaetani, the ablest of the cardinals, through a hole perforated in the pope's chamber wall, at midnight, in a hollow voice, warned him that he retained his dignity at the peril of his soul, and in the name of God commanded him to abdicate. And so, in spite of all importunity, he did. His abdication was considered by many pious persons as striking a death-blow at papal infallibility. [Sidenote: The miracle of Loretto.] It was during his pontificate that the miracle of Loretto occurred. The house inhabited by the Virgin immediately after her conception had been converted on the death of the Holy Family into a chapel, and St. Luke had presented to it an image, carved by his own hands, still known as our Lady of Loretto. Some angels chancing to be at Nazareth when the Saracen conquerors approached, fearing that the sacred relic might fall into their possession, took the house bodily in their hands, and, carrying it through the air, after several halts, finally deposited it at Loretto in Italy. [Sidenote: Boniface VIII. elected pope.] So Benedetto Gaetani, whether by such wily procurements or not, became Pope Boniface VIII., A.D. 1294. His election was probably due to King Charles, who held twelve electoral votes, the bitter personal animosity of the Colonnas having been either neutralized or overcome. The first care of Boniface was to consolidate his power and relieve himself of a rival. In the opinion of many it was not possible for a pope to abdicate. Confinement in prison soon (A.D. 1296) settled that question. [Sidenote: Ascent of Pope Celestine to heaven.] The soul of Celestine was seen by a monk ascending the skies, which opened to receive it into heaven; and a splendid funeral informed his enemies that they must now acknowledge Boniface as the unquestioned pope. [Sidenote: Quarrel of Boniface and the Colonnas.] But the princely Colonnas, the leaders of the Ghibelline faction in Rome, who had resisted the abdication of Celestine to the last, and were, therefore, mortal enemies of Boniface, revolted. He published a bull against them; he excommunicated them. With an ominous anticipation of the future--for they were familiar with the papal power, and knew where to touch it to the quick--they appealed to a "General Council." Since supernatural weapons did not seem to avail, Boniface proclaimed a crusade against them. The issue answered his expectations. Palestrina, one of their strongholds, which in a moment of weakness they had surrendered, was utterly devastated and sown with salt. The Colonnas fled, some of them to France. There, in King Philip the Fair, they found a friend, who was destined to avenge their wrongs, and to inflict on the papacy a blow from which it never recovered. [Sidenote: Pecuniary necessities of Rome.] This was the state of affairs at the commencement of the quarrel between Philip and Boniface. The Crusades had brought all Europe under taxation to Rome, and loud complaints were everywhere made against the drain of money into Italy. Things had at last come to such a condition that it was not possible to continue the Crusades without resorting to a taxation of the clergy, and this was the true reason of the eventual lukewarmness, and even opposition to them. But the stream of money that had thus been passing into Italy had engendered habits of luxury and extravagance. Cost what it might, money must be had in Rome. The perennial necessity under which the kings of England and France found themselves--the necessity of revenue for the carrying out of their temporal projects--could only be satisfied in the same way. The wealth of those nations had insensibly glided into the hands of the Church. [Sidenote: The King of England compels the clergy to pay taxes.] In England, Edward I. enforced the taxation of the clergy. They resisted at first, but that sovereign found an ingenious and effectual remedy. He directed his judges to hear no cause in which an ecclesiastic was a complainant, but to try every suit brought against them; asserting that those who refused to share the burdens of the state had no right to the protection of its laws. They forthwith submitted. In the nature and efficacy of this remedy we for the first time recognize the agency of a class of men soon to rise to power--the lawyers. [Sidenote: The King of France attempts it.] In France, Philip the Fair made a similar attempt. It was not to be supposed that Rome would tolerate this trespassing on what she considered her proper domain, and accordingly Boniface issued the bull "_Clericis laicos_," excommunicating kings who should levy subsidies on ecclesiastics. Hereupon Philip determined that, if the French clergy were not tributary to him, France should not be tributary to the pope, and issued an edict prohibiting the export of gold and silver from France without his license. But he did not resort to these extreme measures until he had tried others which perhaps he considered less troublesome. He had plundered the Jews, confiscated their property, and expelled them from his dominions. [Sidenote: Is abetted by the begging friars,] The Church was fairly next in order; and, indeed, the mendicant friars of the lower class, who, as we have seen, were disaffected by the publication of "The Everlasting Gospel," were loud in their denunciations of her wealth, attributing the prevailing religious demoralization to it. They pointed to the example of our Lord and his disciples; and when their antagonists replied that even He condescended to make use of money, the malignant fanatics maintained their doctrines, amid the applause of a jeering populace, by answering that it was not St. Peter, but Judas, who was intrusted with the purse, and that the pope stood in need of the bitter rebuke which Jesus had of old administered to his prototype Peter, saying, "Get thee behind me, Satan; for thou savourest not of the things that be of God, but of the things that be of men" (Mark viii. 33). Under that authority they affirmed that they might stigmatize the great culprit without guilt. So the king ventured to put forth his hand and touch what the Church had, and she cursed him to his face. At first a literary war ensued: the pope published his bull, the king his reply. [Sidenote: and ably sustained by the lawyers.] Already the policy which Philip was following, and the ability he was displaying, manifested that he had attached to himself that new power of which the King of England had taken advantage--a power soon to become the mortal enemy of the ecclesiastic--the lawyers. [Sidenote: Device of the jubilee.] In the meantime, money must be had in Rome; when, by the singularly felicitous device of the proclamation of a year of jubilee, A.D. 1300, large sums were again brought into Italy. [Sidenote: The four enemies of Boniface.] Boniface had thus four antagonists on his hands--the King of France, the Colonnas, the lawyers, and the mendicants. By the latter, both high and low, he was cordially hated. Thus the higher English Franciscans were enraged against him because he refused to let them hold lands. They attempted to bribe him with 40,000 ducats; but he seized the money at the banker's, under the pretence that it had no owners, as the mendicants were vowed to poverty, and then denied the privilege. As to the lower Franciscans, heresy was fast spreading among them. They were not only infected with the doctrines of "The Everlasting Gospel," but had even descended into the abyss of irreligion one step more by placing St. Francis in the stead of our Saviour. They were incessantly repeating in the ears of the laity that the pope was Anti-Christ, "The Man of Sin." [Sidenote: Collision between the French king and the pope.] The quarrel between Philip and Boniface was every moment increasing in bitterness. The former seized and imprisoned a papal nuncio, who had been selected because he was known to be personally offensive; the latter retaliated by the issue of bulls protesting against such an outrage, interfering between the king and his French clergy, and citing the latter to appear in Rome and take cognizance of their master's misdoings. The monarch was actually invited to be present and hear his own doom. In the lesser bull--if it be authentic--and the king's rejoinder, both parties seem to have lost their temper. [Sidenote: The bull "_Ausculta Fili_."] This was followed by the celebrated bull "_Ausculta Fili_" at which the king's indignation knew no bounds. He had it publicly burnt in Paris at the sound of a trumpet; assembled the States-General; and, under the advice of his lawyers, skilfully brought the issue to this: Does the king hold the realm of France of God or of the pope? Without difficulty it might be seen how the French clergy would be compelled to act: since many of them held fiefs of the king, all were in fear of the intrusion of Italian ecclesiastics into the rich benefices. France, therefore, supported her monarch. [Sidenote: The bull "_Unam Sanctam_."] On his side, Boniface, in the bull "_Unam Sanctam_" asserted his power by declaring that it is necessary to salvation to believe that "every human being is subject to the Pontiff of Rome." Philip, foreseeing the desperate nature of the approaching conflict, and aiming to attach his people firmly to him by putting himself forth as their protector against priestly tyranny, again skilfully appealed to their sentiments by denouncing the Inquisition as an atrocious barbarity, an outrage on human rights, violating all law, resorting to new and unheard-of tortures, and doing deeds at which men's minds revolt with horror. In the South of France this language was thoroughly understood. [Sidenote: William de Nogaret.] The lawyers, among whom William de Nogaret was conspicuous, ably assisted him; indeed, his whole movement exhibited the extraordinary intelligence of his advisers. It has been affirmed, and is, perhaps, not untrue, that De Nogaret's father had been burnt by the Inquisition. The great lawyer was bent on revenge. [Sidenote: Action of the States-General.] The States-General, under his suggestions, entertained four propositions: 1. That Boniface was not the true pope; 2. That he was a heretic; 3. That he was a simoniac; 4. That he was a man weighed down with crimes. De Nogaret, learning from the Colonnas how to touch the papacy in a vital point, demanded that the whole subject should be referred to a "General Council" to be summoned by the king. A second meeting of the States-General was held. William de Plaisian, the Lord of Vezenoble, appeared with charges against the pope. [Sidenote: Accusations against the pope.] Out of a long list, many of which could not possibly be true, some may be mentioned: that Boniface neither believed in the immortality nor incorruptibility of the soul, nor in a life to come, nor in the real presence in the Eucharist; that he did not observe the fasts of the Church--not even Lent; that he spoke of the cardinals, monks, and friars as hypocrites; that the Holy Land had been lost through his fault; that the subsidies for its relief had been embezzled by him; that his holy predecessor, Celestine, through his inhumanity had been brought to death; that he had said that fornication and other obscene practices are no sin; that he was a Sodomite, and had caused clerks to be murdered in his presence; that he had enriched himself by simony; that his nephew's wife had borne him two illegitimate sons. These, with other still more revolting charges, were sworn to upon the Holy Gospels. The king appealed to "a general council and to a legitimate pope." The quarrel had now become a mortal one. There was but one course for Boniface to take, and he did take it. He excommunicated the king. He deprived him of his throne, and anathematized his posterity to the fourth generation. The bull was to be suspended in the porch of the Cathedral of Anagni on September 8; but William de Nogaret and one of the Colonnas had already passed into Italy. They hired a troop of banditti, and on September 7 attacked the pontiff in his palace at Anagni. The doors of a church which protected him were strong, but they yielded to fire. The brave old man, in his pontifical robes, with his crucifix in one hand and the keys of St. Peter in the other, sat down on his throne and confronted his assailants. His cardinals had fled through a sewer. [Sidenote: His seizure by De Nogaret, and his death.] So little reverence was there for God's vicar upon earth, that Sciarra Colonna raised his hand to kill him on the spot; but the blow was arrested by De Nogaret, who, with a bitter taunt, told him that here, in his own city, he owed his life to the mercy of a servant of the King of France--a servant whose father had been burnt by the Inquisition. The pontiff was spared only to be placed on a miserable horse, with his face to the tail, and led off to prison. They meant to transport him to France to await the general council. He was rescued, returned to Rome, was seized and imprisoned again. On the 11th of October he died. Thus, after a pontificate of nine eventful years, perished Boniface VIII. His history and his fate show to what a gulf Roman Christianity was approaching. His successor, Benedict XI., had but a brief enjoyment of power; long enough, however, to learn that the hatred of the King of France had not died with the death of Boniface, and that he was determined not only to pursue the departed pontiff's memory beyond the grave, but also to effect a radical change in the papacy itself. [Sidenote: Poisoning of Benedict XI.] A basket of figs was presented to Benedict by a veiled female. She had brought them, she said, from the Abbess of St. Petronilla. In an unguarded moment the pontiff ate of them without the customary precaution of having them previously tasted. Alas! what was the state of morals in Italy? A dysentery came on; in a few days he was dead. But the Colonnas had already taught the King of France how one should work who desires to touch the popedom; the event that had just occurred was the preparation for putting their advice into operation. [Sidenote: Understanding between the king and the Archbishop of Bordeaux.] The king came to an understanding with Bernard de Goth, the Archbishop of Bordeaux. Six conditions were arranged between them: 1. The reconciliation between the Church and the king; 2. The absolution of all persons engaged in the affair of Boniface; 3. Tenths from the clergy for five years; 4. The condemnation of the memory of Boniface; 5. The restoration of the Colonnas; 6. A secret article; what it was time soon showed. A swift messenger carried intelligence to the king's partisans in the College of Cardinals, and Bernard became Clement V. "It will be long before we see the face of another pope in Rome!" exclaimed the Cardinal Matteo Orsini, with a prophetic instinct of what was coming when the conspiracy reached its development. [Sidenote: Removal of the papacy to Avignon.] His prophecy was only too true. Now appeared what was that sixth, that secret article negotiated between King Philip and De Goth. Clement took up his residence at Avignon in France. The tomb of the apostles was abandoned. The Eternal City had ceased to be the metropolis of Christianity. But a French prelate had not bargained with a French king for the most eminent dignity to which a European can aspire without having given an equivalent. In as good faith as he could to his contract, in as good faith as he could to his present pre-eminent position, Clement V. proceeded to discharge his share of the obligation. To a certain extent King Philip was animated by an undying vengeance against his enemy, whom he considered as having escaped out of his grasp, but he was also actuated by a sincere desire of accomplishing a reform in the Church through a radical change in its constitution. [Sidenote: Post-mortem trial of Pope Boniface.] He was resolved that the pontiffs should be accountable to the kings of France, or that France should more directly influence their conduct. To reconcile men to this, it was for him to show, with the semblance of pious reluctance, what was the state to which morals and faith had come in Rome. The trial of the dead Boniface was therefore entered upon, A.D. 1310. The Consistory was opened at Avignon, March 18. The proceedings occupied many months; many witnesses were examined. [Sidenote: The accusations against him.] The main points attempted to be established by their evidence seem to have been these: "That Boniface had declared his belief that there was no such thing as divine law--what was reputed to be such was merely the invention of men to keep the vulgar in awe by the terrors of eternal punishment; that it was a falsehood to assert the Trinity, and fatuous to believe it; that it was falsehood to say that a virgin had brought forth, for it was an impossibility; that it was falsehood to assert that bread is transubstantiated into the body of Christ; that Christianity is false, because it asserts a future life, of which there is no evidence save that of visionary people." It was in evidence that the pope had said, "God may do the worst with me that he pleases in the future life; I believe as every educated man does, the vulgar believe otherwise. We have to speak as they do, but we must believe and think with the few." It was sworn to by those who had heard him disputing with some Parisians that he had maintained "that neither the body nor the soul rise again." Others testified that "he neither believed in the resurrection nor in the sacraments of the Church, and had denied that carnal gratifications are sins." The Primicerio of St. John's at Naples, deposed that, when a cardinal, Boniface had said in his presence, "So that God gives me the good things of this life, I care not a bean for that to come. A man has no more a soul than a beast. Did you ever see any one who had risen from the dead?" He took delight in deriding the blessed Virgin; "for," said he, "she was no more a virgin than my mother." As to the presence of Christ in the Host, "It is nothing but paste." Three knights of Lucca testified that when certain venerable ambassadors, whose names they gave, were in the presence of the pope at the time of the jubilee, and a chaplain happened to invoke the mercy of Jesus on a person recently dead, Boniface appalled all around him by exclaiming, "What a fool, to commend him to Christ! He could not help himself, and how can he be expected to help others? He was no Son of God, but a shrewd man and a great hypocrite." It might seem impossible to exceed such blasphemy: and yet the witnesses went on to testify to a conversation which he held with the brave old Sicilian admiral, Roger Loria. This devout sailor made the remark, in the pope's presence, that if, on a certain occasion, he had died, it was his trust that Christ would have had mercy on him. To this Boniface replied, "Christ! he was no Son of God; he was a man, eating and drinking like ourselves; he never rose from the dead; no man has ever risen. I am far mightier than he. I can bestow kingdoms and humble kings." Other witnesses deposed to having heard him affirm, "There is no harm in simony. There is no more harm in adultery than in rubbing one's hands together." Some testified to such immoralities and lewdness in his private life that the pages of a modern book cannot be soiled with the recital. [Sidenote: Philip consents to abstain from the prosecution.] In the meantime, Clement did all in his power to save the blackened memory of his predecessor. Every influence that could be brought to bear on the revengeful or politic king was resorted to, and at last with success. Perhaps Philip saw that he had fully accomplished his object. He had no design to destroy the papacy. His aim was to revolutionize it--to give the kings of France a more thorough control over it; and, for the accomplishment of that purpose, to demonstrate to what a condition it had come through the present system. Whatever might be the decision, such evidence had been brought forward as, notwithstanding its contradictions and apparent inconsistencies, had made a profound impression on every thinking man. It was the king's consummate policy to let the matter remain where it was. Accordingly, he abandoned all farther action. The gratitude of Clement was expressed in a bull exalting Philip, attributing his action to piety, exempting him from all blame, annulling past bulls prejudicial to him, revoking all punishments of those who had been concerned against Boniface except in the case of fifteen persons, on whom a light and nominal penance was inflicted. In November, A.D. 1311, the Council of Vienne met. In the following year three cardinals appeared before it to defend the orthodoxy and holy life of Pope Boniface. Two knights threw down their gauntlets to maintain his innocence by wager of battle. There was no accuser! no one took up the gage; and the council was at liberty quietly to dispose of the matter. [Sidenote: The religious condition of Pope Boniface.] How far the departed pontiff was guilty of the charges alleged against him was, therefore, never fairly ascertained. But it was a tremendous, an appalling fact that charges of such a character could be even so much as brought forward, much more that a succeeding pontiff had to listen to them, and attribute intentions of piety to the accuser. The immoralities of which Boniface was accused were such as in Italy did not excite the same indignation as among the more moral people beyond the Alps; the heresies were those everywhere pervading the Church. We have already seen what a profound impression "The Everlasting Gospel" had made, and how many followers and martyrs it had. What was alleged against Boniface was only that he had taken one step more in the downward course of irreligion. His fault lay in this, that in an evil hour he had given expression to thoughts which, considering his position, ought to have remained locked up in his inmost soul. As to the rest, if he was avaricious, and accumulated enormous treasures, such as it was said the banditti of the Colonnas seized when they outraged his person, he was no worse than many other popes. Clement V., his successor, died enormously rich; and, what was worse, did not hesitate to scandalize Europe by his prodigal munificence to the beautiful Brunisard, the Countess of Talleyrand, his lady. [Sidenote: Its causes.] The religious condition of Boniface, though not admitting of apology, is capable of explanation. By the Crusades all Europe had been wrought up to a fanatical expectation, doomed necessarily to disappointment. From them the papacy had derived prodigious advantages both in money and power. It was now to experience fearful evils. It had largely promised rewards in this life, and also in the world to come, to those who would take up the Cross; it had deliberately pitted Christianity against Mohammedanism, and staked the authenticity of each on the issue of the conflict. In face of the whole world it had put forth as the true criterion the possession of the holy places, hallowed by the life, the sufferings, the death, the resurrection of the Redeemer. Whatever the result might be, the circumstances under which this had been done were such that there was no concealing, no dissembling. In all Europe there was not a family which had not been pecuniarily involved in the Crusades, perhaps few that had not furnished men. Was it at all to be wondered at that everywhere the people, accustomed to the logic of trial by battle, were terror-stricken when they saw the result? Was it to be wondered at that even still more dreadful heresies spontaneously suggested themselves? Was it at all extraordinary that, if there had been popes sincerely accepting that criterion, the issue should be a pope who was a sincere misbeliever? Was it extraordinary that there should be a loss of papal prestige? It was the papacy which had voluntarily, for its own ends, brought things into this evil channel, and the papacy deserved a just retribution of discredit and ruin. It had wrought on the devout temper of religious Europe for its own sinister purposes; it had drained the Continent of its blood, and perhaps of what was more highly prized--its money; it had established a false issue, an unwarrantable criterion, and now came the time for it to reap consequences of a different kind--intellectual revolt among the people, heresy among the clergy. Nor was the pope without eminent comrades in his sin. [Sidenote: Apostacy of the Templars.] The Templars, whose duty it had been to protect pilgrims on the way to Jerusalem--who had therefore been long and thoroughly familiar with the state of events in Palestine--had been treading in the same path as the pope. Dark rumours had begun to circulate throughout Europe that these, the very vanguard of Christianity, had not only proved traitors to their banner, but had actually become Mohammedanized. On their expulsion from the Holy Land, at the close of the Crusades, they spread all over Europe, to disseminate by stealth their fearful heresies, and to enjoy the riches they had acquired in the service they had betrayed. Men find a charm in having it mysteriously and secretly divulged to them that their long-cherished opinions are all a delusion. There was something fascinating in hearing privately, from those who could speak with authority, that, after all, Mohammed was not an impostor, but the author of a pure and noble Theism; that Saladin was not a treacherous assassin, a despicable liar, but a most valiant, courteous, and gentle knight. In his proceedings against the Templars, King Philip the Fair seems to have been animated by a pure intention of checking the disastrous spread of these opinions; yet William de Nogaret, who was his chief adviser on this matter as on that of Boniface, was not without reasons of personal hatred. It was said that he divided his wrath between the Templars and the pope. They had had some connexion with the burning of his father, and vengeance he was resolved to wreak upon them. [Sidenote: They are arrested and tried.] Under colour of the charges against them, all the Templars in France were simultaneously arrested in the dawn of one day, October 13, A.D. 1307, so well devised were the measures. The grand master, Du Molay, was secured, not, however, without some perfidy. Now were openly brought forward the charges which struck Europe with consternation. Substantiation of them was offered by witnesses, but it was secured by submitting the accused to torture. The grand master, Du Molay, at first admitted their guilt of the crimes alleged. After some hesitation, the pope issued a bull, commanding the King of England to do what the King of France had already done, to arrest the Templars and seize their property. His declaration, that one of the order, a man of high birth, had confessed to himself his criminality, seems to have made a profound impression on the mind of the English king, and of many other persons until that time reluctant to believe. The Parliament and the University of Paris expressed themselves satisfied with the evidence. New examinations were held, and new convictions were made. The pope issued a bull addressed to all Christendom, declaring how slowly, but, alas! how certainly, he had been compelled to believe in the apostacy of the order, and commanding that everywhere proceedings should be instituted against it. A papal commission assembled in Paris, August 7, A.D. 1309. The grand master was brought before it. He professed his belief in the Catholic faith, but now denied that the order was guilty of the charges alleged against it, as also did many of the other knights. Other witnesses were, however, brought forward, some of whom pretended to have abandoned the order on account of its foul acts. At the Porte St. Antoine, on many pleasant evenings in the following May, William de Nogaret revelled in the luxury of avenging the shade of his father. [Sidenote: Found guilty and punished.] One hundred and thirteen Templars were, in slow succession, burnt at stakes. The remorseless lawyer was repaying the Church in her own coin. Yet of this vast concourse of sufferers all died protesting their innocence; not one proved an apostate. Notwithstanding this most significant fact--for those who were ready to lay down their lives, and to meet with unshaken constancy the fire, were surely the bravest of the knights, and their dying declaration is worthy of our most reverent consideration--things were such that no other course was possible than the abolition of the order, and this accordingly took place. The pope himself seems to have been satisfied that the crimes had been perpetrated under the instigation or temptation of Satan; but men of more enlarged views appear to have concluded that, though the Templars were innocent of the moral abominations charged against them, a familiarity with other forms of belief in the East had undoubtedly sapped their faith. After a weary imprisonment of six years, embittered by many hardships, the grand master, Du Molay, was brought up for sentence. He had been found guilty. With his dying breath, "before Heaven and earth, on the verge of death, when the least falsehood bears like an intolerable weight on the soul," he declared the innocence of the order and of himself. [Sidenote: Burning of Du Molay.] The vesper-bell was sounding when Du Molay and a brother convict were led forth to their stakes, placed on an island in the Seine. King Philip himself was present. As the smoke and flames enveloped them they continued to affirm their innocence. Some averred that forth from the fire Du Molay's voice sounded, "Clement! thou wicked and false judge, I summon thee to meet me within forty days at the bar of God." Some said that he also summoned the king. In the following year King Philip the Fair and Pope Clement the Fifth were dead. John XXII., elected after an interval of more than two years spent in rivalries and intrigues between the French and Italian cardinals, continued the residence at Avignon. His movements took a practical turn in the commencement of a process for the recovery of the treasures of Clement from the Viscount de Lomenie. This was only a part of the wealth of the deceased pope, but it amounted to a million and three quarters of florins of gold. The Inquisition was kept actively at work for the extermination of the believers in "The Everlasting Gospel," and the remnant of the Albigenses and Waldenses. But all this had no other result than that which eventually occurred--an examination of the authenticity and rightfulness of the papal power. With an instinct as to the origin of the misbelief everywhere spreading, the pope published bulls against the Jews, of whom a bloody persecution had arisen, and ordered that all their Talmuds and other blasphemous books should be burnt. [Sidenote: Marsilio's work, "The Defender of Peace."] A physician, Marsilio of Padua, published a work, "The Defender of Peace." It was a philosophical examination of the principles of government, and of the nature and limits of the sacerdotal power. Its democratic tendency was displayed by its demonstration that the exposition of the law of Christianity rests not with the pope nor any other priest, but with a general council; it rejected the papal political pretensions; asserted that no one can be rightfully excommunicated by a pope alone, and that he has no power of coercion over human thought; that the civil immunities of the clergy ought to be ended; that poverty and humility ought alone to be their characteristics; that society ought to provide them with a decent sustenance, but nothing more: their pomp, extravagance, luxury, and usurpations, especially that of tithes, should be abrogated; that neither Christ nor the Scriptures ever gave St. Peter a supremacy over the other apostles; that, if history is to be consulted, St. Paul, and not St. Peter, was bishop of Rome--indeed, it is doubtful whether the latter was ever in that city, the Acts of the Apostles being silent on that subject. From these and many other such arguments he drew forty-one conclusions adverse to the political and ecclesiastical supremacy of the pope. It is not necessary to consider here the relations of John XXII. to Louis of Bavaria, nor of the antipope Nicholas; they belong merely to political history. But, as if to show how the intellectual movement was working its way, the pontiff himself did not escape a charge of heresy. [Sidenote: The "beatific vision."] Though he had so many temporal affairs on his hands, John did not hesitate to raise the great question of the "beatific vision." In his opinion, the dead, even the saints, do not enjoy the beatific vision of God until after the Judgment-day. At once there was a demand among the orthodox, "What! do not the apostles, John, Peter, nay, even the blessed Virgin, stand yet in the presence of God?" The pope directed the most learned theologians to examine the question, himself entering actively into the dispute. The University of Paris was involved. The King of France declared that his realm should not be polluted with such heretical doctrines. A single sentence explains the practical direction of the dogma, so far as the interests of the Church were concerned: "If the saints stand not in the presence of God, of what use is their intercession? What is the use of addressing prayers to them?" The folly of the pontiff perhaps might be excused by his age. He was now nearly ninety years old. That he had not guided himself according to the prevailing sentiment of the lower religious orders, who thought that poverty is essential to salvation, appeared at his death, A.D. 1334. He left eighteen millions of gold florins in specie, and seven millions in plate and jewels. [Sidenote: It is explained by Benedict XII.] His successor, Benedict XII., disposed of the question of the "beatific vision:" "It is only those saints who do not pass through Purgatory that immediately behold the Godhead." The pontificate of Benedict, which was not without many good features, hardly verified the expression with which he greeted the cardinals when they elected him, "You have chosen an ass." His was a gay life. There is a tradition that to him is due the origin of the proverb, "As drunk as a pope." [Sidenote: Voluptuousness of Avignon.] In the subsequent pontificate of Clement VI., A.D. 1342, the court at Avignon became the most voluptuous in Christendom. It was crowded with knights and ladies, painters and other artists. It exhibited a day-dream of equipages and banquets. The pontiff himself delighted in female society, but, in his weakness, permitted his lady, the Countess of Turenne, to extort enormous revenues by the sale of ecclesiastical promotions. Petrarch, who lived at Avignon at this time, speaks of it as a vast brothel. His own sister had been seduced by the holy father, John XXII. During all these years the Romans had made repeated attempts to force back the papal court to their city. With its departure all their profits had gone. But the fatal policy of electing Frenchmen into the College of Cardinals seemed to shut out every hope. [Sidenote: Rienzi.] The unscrupulous manner in which this was done is illustrated by the fact that Clement made one of his relatives, a lad of eighteen, a cardinal. For a time the brief glories of Rienzi cast a flickering ray on Rome; but Rienzi was only a demagogue--an impostor. It was the deep impression made upon Europe that the residence at Avignon was an abandonment of the tomb of St. Peter, that compelled Urban V. to return to Rome. This determination was strengthened by a desire to escape out of the power of the kings of France, and to avoid the free companies who had learned to extort bribes for sparing Avignon from plunder. He left Avignon, A.D. 1367, amid the reluctant grief of his cardinals, torn from that gay and dissipated city, and in dread of the recollections and of the populace of Rome. And well it might be so; for not only in Rome, but all over Italy, piety was held in no respect, and the discipline of the Church in derision. [Sidenote: Irreverence of Barnabas Visconti.] When Urban sent to Barnabas Visconti, who was raising trouble in Tuscany, a bull of excommunication by the hands of two legates, Barnabas actually compelled them, in his presence, to eat the parchment on which the bull was written, together with the leaden seal and the silken string, and, telling them that he hoped it would sit as lightly on their stomachs as it did on his, sent them back to their master! In a little time--it was but two years--absence from France became insupportable; the pope returned to Avignon, and there died. [Sidenote: The popes return to Rome.] It was reserved for his successor, Gregory XI., finally to end what was termed, from its seventy years' duration, the Babylonish captivity, and restore the papacy to the Eternal City, A.D. 1376. [Sidenote: Causes of the great schism.] But, though the popes had thus returned to Rome, the effects of King Philip's policy still continued. On the death of Gregory XI., the conclave, meeting at Rome--for the conclave must meet where the pope dies--elected Urban VI., under intimidation of the Roman populace, who were determined to retain the papacy in their city; but, escaping to Fondi, and repenting of what they had thus done, they proclaimed his election void, and substituted Clement VII. for him. They were actually at one time on the point of choosing the King of France as pope. Thus began the great schism. It was, in reality, a struggle between France and Italy for the control of the papacy. The former had enjoyed it for seventy years; the latter was determined to recover it. The schism thus rested originally on political considerations, but these were doubtless exasperated by the conduct of Urban, whose course was overbearing and even intolerable to his supporters. Nor did he amend as his position became more consolidated. In A.D. 1385, suspecting his cardinals of an intention to seize him, declare him a heretic, and burn him, he submitted several of them to torture in his own presence, while he recited his breviary. Escaping from Nocera, where he had been besieged, he caused the Bishop of Aquila to be killed on the road-side. Others he tied in sacks, and threw into the sea at Genoa. It was supposed, not without reason, that he was insane. [Sidenote: Pecuniary necessities of the rival popes.] If there had formerly been pecuniary difficulty in supporting one papal court, it, of course, became greater now that there were two. Such troubles, every day increasing, led at length to unhappy political movements. There was an absolute necessity for drawing money to Rome and also to Avignon. The device of a jubilee was too transitory and inadequate, even though, by an improvement in the theory of that festival, it was expedited by thirty-three years, answering to our Saviour's life. At Avignon, the difficulty of Clement, who was of amiable and polished manners, turned on the French Church being obliged to support him; and it is not to be wondered at that the French clergy looked with dislike on the pontifical establishment among them, since it was driven by its necessities to prey on all their best benefices. [Sidenote: Organization of simony.] Under such circumstances, no other course was possible to the rival popes and their successors than a thorough reorganization of the papal financial system--the more complete development of simony, indulgences, and other improper sources of emolument. In this manner Boniface IX. tripled the value of the annates upon the papal books. Usurers or brokers, intervening between the purchasers of benefices and the papal exchequer, were established, and it is said that, under the pressing difficulties of the case, benefices were known to have been sold, many times in succession, to different claimants in one week. Late applicants might obtain a preference for appointments on making a cash payment of twenty-five florins; an increased preference might be had for fifty. It became, at last, no unusual thing to write to kings and prelates for subsidies--a proof how greatly the papacy had been weakened by the events of the times. [Sidenote: Indignation of religious Europe.] But religious Europe could not bear with such increasing scandals. The rival popes were incessantly accusing each other of falsehood and all manner of wickedness. At length the public sentiment found its expression in the Council of Pisa, called by the cardinals on their own responsibility. This council summoned the two popes--Benedict XIII. and Gregory XII.--before it; declared the crimes and excesses imputed to them to be true, and deposed them both, appointing in their stead Alexander V. [Sidenote: Three popes.] There were now, therefore, three popes. But, besides thus rendering the position of things worse than it was before in this respect, the council had taken the still more extraordinary step of overthrowing the autocracy of the pope. It had been compelled by the force of circumstances to destroy the very foundation of Latin Christianity by assuming the position of superiority over the vicar of Christ. Now might be discerned by men of reflexion the purely human nature of the papacy. It had broken down. Out of the theological disputes of preceding years a political principle was obviously emerging; the democratic spirit was developing itself, and the hierarchy was in rebellion against its sovereign. Nor was this great movement limited to the clergy. In every direction the laity participated in it, pecuniary questions being in very many instances the incentive. Things had come to such a condition that it seemed to be of little moment what might be the personal character of the pontiff; the necessities of the position irresistibly drove him to replenish the treasury by shameful means. [Sidenote: Balthazar Cossa made pope.] Thus, on Alexander's death, Balthazar Cossa, an evil but an able man, who succeeded as John XXIII., was not only compelled to extend the existing simoniacal practices of the ecclesiastical brokers' offices, but actually to derive revenue from the licensing of prostitutes, gambling-houses, and usurers. [Sidenote: Dissatisfaction in England.] In England, for ages a mine of wealth to Rome, the tendency of things was shown by such facts as the remonstrance of the Commons with the crown on the appointment of ecclesiastics to all the great offices; the allegations made by the "Good Parliament" as to the amount of money drawn by Rome from the kingdom. They asserted that it was five times as much as the taxes levied by the king, and that the pope's revenue from England was greater than the revenue of any prince in Christendom. It was shown again by such facts as the passage of the statutes of Mortmain, Provisors, and Præmunire, and by the universal clamour against the mendicant orders. This dissatisfaction with the clergy was accompanied by a desire for knowledge. [Sidenote: Wiclif, the English reformer.] Thousands of persons crowded to the universities both on the Continent and in England. In a community thus well prepared, Wiclif found no difficulty in disseminating his views. He had adopted in many particulars the doctrines of Berengar. He taught that the bread in the Eucharist is not the real body of Christ, but only its image; that the Roman Church has no true claim to headship over other churches; that its bishop has no more authority than any other bishop; that it is right to deprive a delinquent Church of temporal possessions; that no bishop ought to have prisons for the punishment of those obnoxious to him; and that the Bible alone is a sufficient guide for a Christian man. [Sidenote: He translates the Bible.] His translation of the Bible into English was the practical carrying out of that assertion for the benefit of his own countrymen. All classes of society were becoming infected. The government for a season vacillated. It was said that every other man in England was a Lollard. The Lollards were Wiclifites. But the Church at last persuaded the government to let her try her hand, and the statute "de heretico comburendo" was passed A.D. 1400. [Sidenote: Burning of English heretics.] William Sautree, a priest who had turned Wiclifite, was the first English martyr. John Badbee, a tailor, who denied transubstantiation--accused of having said that, if it were true, there were 20,000 gods in every corn-field in England--next suffered in like manner at the stake, in presence of the Prince of Wales. Lord Cobham, the head of the Lollards, who had denounced the pope as Anti-Christ, the Son of Perdition, was imprisoned; but escaping, became involved in political movements, and suffered at length the double penalty for heresy and treason, being hung on a gallows with a fire blazing at his feet. It is interesting to remark the social rank of these three early martyrs. Heresy was pervading all classes, from the lowest to the highest. [Sidenote: The Council of Constance deposes the pope,] The Council of Constance met A.D. 1415. It had a threefold object: 1. The union of the Church under one pope; 2. The reformation of the clergy; 3. The suppression of heresy. Its policy from the first was determined. It proclaimed itself supreme. It demanded the abdication of the pope John XXIII.; exhibited articles of accusation against him, some of them of such enormity as almost to surpass belief, and justifying the epithet that he was "a devil incarnate." The suffrage of the council was changed. The plan of voting by nations, which reduced the Italians to a single vote, was introduced. These incidental facts may indicate to us that there were present men who understood thoroughly how to manage the machinery of such an assembly, and that the remark of Æneas Sylvius, afterward Pope Pius II., respecting the Council of Basle was equally true as to that of Constance, that it was not so much directed by the Holy Ghost as by the passions of men. The influence that lawyers were now exercising in social affairs--their habits of arrangement, of business, and intrigue, is strikingly manifested in the management of these assemblages; their arts had passed to the clergy, and even in part to the people. But how vast was the change that had occurred in the papacy from the voluntary abdication of Celestine to the compulsory abdication of John! [Sidenote: and murders John Huss.] To this council, also, came John Huss, under a safe-conduct from the Emperor Sigismund. Scarcely, however, had he arrived when he was imprisoned; this treachery being excused from the necessity of conceding it to the reforming party. On June 5th, A.D. 1416, Huss was brought in chains before the council. It was declared unlawful to keep faith with a heretic. His countrymen, the Bohemian lords present, protested against such perfidy, and loudly demanded his release. Articles of accusation, derived from his works, were presented. He avowed himself ready to defend his opinions. The uproar was so great that the council temporarily adjourned. Two days afterwards the trial was resumed. It was ushered in by an eclipse of the sun, said to have been total at Prague. No one of the bloodthirsty ecclesiastics laid to heart the solemn monition that, after his moment of greatest darkness was over, the sun shone forth with recovered effulgence again. The emperor was present, with all the fathers. The first accusation entered on related to transubstantiation. On this and on succeeding occasions the emperor took part in the discussions, among other things observing that, in his opinion, the prisoner was worthy of death. After a lengthy inquiry into his alleged errors, a form of recantation was prepared for Huss. [Sidenote: Noble conduct of Huss.] With modest firmness he declined it, concluding his noble answer with the words, "I appeal to Christ Jesus, the one all-powerful and all-just Judge. To him I commend my cause, who will judge every man, not according to false witnesses and erring councils, but according to truth and man's desert." On July 1st the council met in full session. Thirty articles against Huss were read. Among other things, they alleged that he believed the material bread to be unchanged after the consecration. In his extremity the prisoner looked steadfastly at the traitor Sigismund, and solemnly exclaimed, "Freely came I here under the safe-conduct of the emperor." The conscience-stricken monarch blushed. Huss was then made to kneel down and receive his sentence. It condemned his writings and his body to the flames. [Sidenote: He is burnt.] He was then degraded and despoiled of his orders. Some of the bishops mocked at him; some, more merciful, implored him to recant. They cut his hair in the form of a cross, and set upon his head a high paper crown on which devils were painted. "We devote thy soul to the devils in hell." "And I commend my soul to the most merciful Lord Christ Jesus." He was then led forth. They passed by the bishop's palace, where Huss's books were burning. When they fastened him with a chain to his stake, the painted crown fell off, but the soldiers replaced it. "Let him and his devils be burned together." As the flames closed over him, he chanted psalms and prayed to the Redeemer. Can that be true which requires for its support the murder of a true man? [Sidenote: It murders, also, Jerome of Prague.] So acted without a dissenting voice the Council of Constance. It feared the spread of heresy, but it did not fear, perhaps did not consider, that higher tribunal to whose inexorable verdict councils, and popes, and emperors must submit--posterity. It asserted itself to be under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost. It took profit by a shameful perfidy. It was a conclave of murderers. It stifled the voice of an earnest man, solemnly protesting against a doctrine now derided by all the intellect of Europe. The revolution it was compassing it inaugurated in blood, not alone that of John Huss, but also of Jerome of Prague. These martyrs were no common men. [Sidenote: His singular eloquence.] Poggio Bracciolini, an eye-witness, says, in a letter to Leonardo Aretino, speaking of the eloquence of Jerome, "When I consider what his choice of words was, what his elocution, what his reasoning, what his countenance, his voice, his action I must affirm, however much we may admire the ancients, that in such a cause no one could have approached nearer to the model of their eloquence." John XXIII. was compelled to abdicate. Gregory XII. died. Some time after, Benedict XIII. followed him. The council had elected Martin V., and in him found a master who soon put an end to its doings. [Sidenote: What the council did.] It had deposed one pope and elected another; it had cemented the dominant creed with blood; it had authorized the dreadful doctrine that a difference in religious opinion justifies the breaking of plighted faith between man and man; it had attempted to perpetuate its own power by enacting that councils should be held every five years; but it had not accomplished its great object--ecclesiastical reform. [Sidenote: The Council of Basle.] In a room attached to the Cathedral of Basle, with its roof of green and parti-coloured tiles, the modern traveller reads on a piece of paper this inscription: "The room of the council, where the famous Council of Basil was assembled. In this room Pope Eugene IV. was dethroned, and replaced by Felix V., Duc of Savoie and Cardinal of Repaile. The council began 1431, and lasted 1448." That chamber, with its floor of little red earthen flags and its oaken ceiling, witnessed great events. The democratic influence pervading the Church showed no symptoms of abatement. The fate of Huss had been avenged in blood and fire by the Bohemian sword. Eugenius IV., now pontiff, was afraid that negotiations would be entered upon with the Hussite chiefs. Such a treaty, he affirmed, would be blasphemy against God and an insult to the pope. He was therefore bent on the prorogation of the council, and spared no means to accomplish his purpose. Its ostensible object was the reformation of the clergy; its real intent was to convert the papal autocracy into a constitutional monarchy. [Sidenote: It declares the pope in contumacy.] To this end it cited the pope, and, on his non-appearance, declared him and seventeen of the cardinals in contumacy. He had denounced it as the Synagogue of Satan; on its part, it was assuming the functions of the Senate of Christendom. It had prepared a great seal, and asserted that, in case of the death of the pope, the election of his successor was vested in it. It was its firm purpose never again to leave that great event in the hands of a conclave of intriguing Italian cardinals, but to intrust it to the representatives of united Christendom. After a due delay since he was declared in contumacy, the council suspended the pope, and, slowly moving towards its object, elected Amadeus of Savoy, Felix V., his successor. It was necessary that its pope should be a rich man, for the council had but slender means of offering him pecuniary support. Amadeus had that qualification. And perhaps it was far from being, in the eyes of many, an inopportune circumstance that he had been married and had children. [Sidenote: Its real intentions.] We may discern, through the shifting scenes of the intrigues of the times, that the German hierarchy had come to the resolution that the election of the popes should be taken from the Italians and given to Europe; that his power should be restricted; that he should no longer be the irresponsible vicar of God upon earth; but the accountable chief executive officer of Christendom; and that the right of marriage should be conceded to the clergy. These are significantly Teutonic ideas. [Sidenote: Cause and close of these troubles.] We have pursued the story of these events nearly as far as is necessary for the purpose of this book. We shall not, therefore, follow the details of the new schism. It fell almost without interest on Europe. Æneas Sylvius, the ablest man of the day, in three words gives us the true insight into the state of things: "Faith is dead." On the demise of Eugenius IV., Nicolas V. succeeded. An understanding was had with those in the interest of the council. It was dissolved. Felix V. abdicated. The morality of the times had improved. The antipope was neither blinded nor murdered. The schism was at an end. [Sidenote: End of the intellectual influence of the papacy.] Thus we have seen that the personal immoralities and heresy of the popes brought on the interference of the King of France, who not only shook the papal system to its basis but destroyed its prestige by inflicting the most conspicuous indignity upon it. For seventy years Rome was disfranchised, and the rivalries of France and Italy produced the great schism, than which nothing could be more prejudicial to the papal power. We have seen that, aided by the pecuniary difficulties of the papacy, the rising intellect of Europe made good its influence and absolutely deposed the pope. It was in vain to deny the authenticity of such a council; there stood the accomplished fact. At this moment there seemed no other prospect for the Italian system than utter ruin; yet, wonderful to be said, a momentary deliverance came from a quarter whence no man would have expected. The Turks were the saviours of the papacy. At this point is the true end of the Italian system--that system which had pressed upon Europe like a nightmare. The great men of the times--the statesmen, the philosophers, the merchants, the lawyers, the governing classes--those whose weight of opinion is recognized by the uneducated people at last, had shaken off the incubus and opened their eyes. A glimmering of the true state of things was breaking upon the clergy. No more with the vigour it once possessed was the papacy again to domineer over human thought and be the controlling agent of European affairs. Convulsive struggles it might make, but they were only death-throes. The sovereign pontiff must now descend from the autocracy he had for so many ages possessed, and become a small potentate, tolerated by kings in that subordinate position only because of the remnant of his influence on the uneducated multitude and those of feeble minds. CHAPTER IV. THE AGE OF FAITH IN THE WEST--(_Concluded_). EFFECT OF THE EASTERN OR MILITARY ATTACK.--GENERAL REVIEW OF THE AGE OF FAITH. _The Fall of Constantinople.--Its momentary Effect on the Italian System._ GENERAL REVIEW OF THE INTELLECTUAL CONDITION IN THE AGE OF FAITH.--_Supernaturalism and its Logic spread all over Europe.--It is destroyed by the Jews and Arabians.--Its total Extinction._ _The Jewish Physicians.--Their Acquirements and Influence.--Their Collision with the Imposture-medicine of Europe.--Their Effect on the higher Classes.--Opposition to them._ _Two Impulses, the Intellectual and Moral, operating against the Mediæval state of Things.--Downfall of the Italian System through the intellectual Impulse from the West and the moral from the North.--Action of the former through Astronomy.--Origin of the moral Impulse.--Their conjoint irresistible Effect.--Discovery of the state of Affairs in Italy.--The Writings of Machiavelli.--What the Church had actually done._ _Entire Movement of the Italian System determined from a consideration of the four Revolts against it._ [Sidenote: The Eastern pressure.] From the West I have now to return to the East, and to describe the pressure made by Mohammedanism on that side. It is illustrated by many great events, but, above all, by the fall of Constantinople. The Greek Church, so long out of sight that it is perhaps almost forgotten by the reader, comes for a moment before us like a spectre from the dead. [Sidenote: Invasions of the Turks.] A wandering tribe of Turks had found its way into Asia Minor, and, under its leader Ertogrul and his son Othman, consolidated its power and commenced extending its influence by possessions taken from the sultans of Iconium and the Byzantine empire. The third prince of the race instituted the Janissaries, a remarkable military force, and commenced driving the Greeks out of Asia Minor. His son Soliman crossed the Hellespont and captured Gallipoli, thus securing a foothold in Europe, A.D. 1358. [Sidenote: Extension of their power in Europe.] This accomplished, the Turkish influence began to extend rapidly. Thrace, Macedon, and Servia were subdued. Sigismund, the King of Hungary, was overthrown at the battle of Nicopolis by Bajazet. Southern Greece, the countries along the Danube, submitted, and Constantinople would have fallen had it not been for the unexpected irruption of Tamerlane, who defeated Bajazet and took him prisoner. The reign of Mohammed I., who succeeded, was occupied in the restoration of Turkish affairs. Under Amurath II., the possession of the Euxine shore was obtained, the fortifications across the Isthmus of Corinth were stormed, and the Peloponnesus entered. [Sidenote: The Byzantine sovereigns apply to the West.] Mohammed II. became the Sultan of the Turks A.D. 1451. From the moment of his accession, he turned all his powers to the capture of Constantinople. Its sovereigns had long foreseen the inevitable event, and had made repeated attempts to secure military aid from the West. They were ready to surrender their religious belief. On this principle, the monk Barlaam was despatched on an embassy to Benedict XII. to propose the reunion of the Greek and Latin Churches, as it was delicately termed, and to obtain, as an equivalent for the concession, an army of Franks. As the danger became more urgent, John Palæologus I. sought an interview with Urban V., and, having been purified from his heresies respecting the supremacy of the pope and the double procession of the Holy Ghost, was presented before the pontiff in the Church of St. Peter. The Greek monarch, after three genuflexions, was permitted to kiss the feet of the holy father and to lead by its bridle his mule. But, though they might have the will, the popes had lost the power, and these great submissions were productive of no good. Thirty years subsequently, Manuel, the son and successor of Palæologus, took what might have seemed a more certain course. He travelled to Paris and to London to lay his distress before the kings of France and England; but he received only pity, not aid. At the Council of Constance Byzantine ambassadors appeared. It was, however, reserved for the synods of Ferrara and of Florence to mature, as far as might be, the negotiation. The second son of John Palæologus journeyed again into Italy, A.D. 1438; and while Eugenius was being deposed in the chamber at Basle, he was consummating the union of the East and West in the Cathedral of Florence. [Sidenote: The Greek Church yields to the Latin.] In the pulpit of that edifice, on the sixth of July of that year, a Roman cardinal and a Greek archbishop embraced each other before the people; Te Deum was chanted in Greek, mass was celebrated in Latin, and the Creed was read with the "Filioque." The successor of Constantine the Great had given up his religion, but he had received no equivalent--no aid. The state of the Church, its disorders and schisms, rendered any community of action in the West impossible. [Sidenote: Mohammed II.] The last, the inevitable hour at length struck. Mohammed II. is said to have been a learned man, able to express himself in five different languages; skilful in mathematics, especially in their practical application to engineering; an admirer of the fine arts; prodigal in his liberality to Italian painters. In Asia Minor, as in Spain, there was free thinking among the disciples of the Prophet. It was affirmed that the sultan, in his moments of relaxation, was often heard to deride the religion of his country as an imposture. His doubts in that particular were, however, compensated for by his determination to carry out the intention of so many of his Mohammedan predecessors--the seizure of Constantinople. [Sidenote: The siege of Constantinople.] At this time the venerable city had so greatly declined that it contained only 100,000 inhabitants--out of them only 4970 able or willing to bear arms. The besieging force was more than a quarter of a million of men. As Mohammed pressed forward his works, the despairing emperor in vain looked for the long-promised effectual Western aid. In its extremity, the devoted metropolis was divided by religious feuds; and when a Latin priest officiated in St. Sophia, there were many who exclaimed that they would rather see the turban of the sultan than the tiara of the pope. In several particulars the siege of Constantinople marked out the end of old ages and the beginning of new. Its walls were shaken by the battering rams of the past, and overthrown by cannon, just then coming into general use. Upon a plank road, shipping was passed through the open country, in the darkness of a single night, a distance of ten miles. The works were pushed forward toward the walls, on the top of which the sentinels at length could hear the shouts of the Turks by their nocturnal fires. They were sounds such as Constantinople might well listen to. She had taught something different for many a long year. "God is God; there is none but God." In the streets an image of the Virgin was carried in solemn procession. Now or never she must come to the help of those who had done so much for her, who had made her a queen in heaven and a goddess upon earth. The cry of her worshippers was in vain. [Sidenote: Fall of the city.] On May 29th, 1453, the assault was delivered. Constantine Palæologus, the last of the Roman emperors, putting off his purple, that no man might recognize and insult his corpse when the catastrophe was over, fell, as became a Roman emperor, in the breach. After his death resistance ceased, and the victorious Turks poured into the town. To the Church of St. Sophia there rushed a promiscuous crowd of women and children, priests, monks, religious virgins, and--men. Superstitious to the last, in this supreme moment they expected the fulfilment of a prophecy that, when the Turks should have forced their way to the square before that church, their progress would be arrested, for an angel with a sword in his hand would descend from heaven and save the city of the Lord. The Turks burst into the square, but the angel never came. More than two thirds of the inhabitants of Constantinople were carried prisoners into the Turkish camp--the men for servitude, the women for a still more evil fate. The churches were sacked. From the dome of St. Sophia its glories were torn down. The divine images, for the sake of which Christendom had been sundered in former days, unresistingly submitted to the pious rage of the Mohammedans without working a single miracle, and, stripped of their gems and gold, were brought to their proper value in the vile uses of kitchens and stables. On that same day the Muezzin ascended the loftiest turret of St. Sophia, and over the City of the Trinity proclaimed the Oneness of God. The sultan performed his prayers at the great altar, directing the edifice to be purified from its idolatries and consecrated to the worship of God. Thence he repaired to the palace, and, reflecting on the instability of human prosperity, repeated, as he entered it, the Persian verse: "The spider has woven his web in the imperial palace; the owl hath sung her watch song on the towers of Afrasiab." This solemn event--the fall of Constantinople--accomplished, there was no need of any reconciliation of the Greek and Latin Churches. The sword of Mohammed had settled their dispute. Constantinople had submitted to the fate of Antioch, Jerusalem, Alexandria, Carthage. [Sidenote: Terror of Christendom at the fall of Constantinople.] Christendom was struck with consternation. The advance of the Turks in Europe was now very rapid. Corinth and Athens fell, and the reduction of Greece was completed. The confines of Italy were approached A.D. 1461. The Mohammedan flag confronted that peninsula along the Adriatic coast. In twenty years more Italy was invaded. Otranto was taken; its bishop killed at the door of his church. At this period, it was admitted that the Turkish infantry, cavalry, and artillery were the best in the world. Soliman the Magnificent took Belgrade A.D. 1520. [Sidenote: Progress of the Turks.] Nine years afterwards the Turks besieged Vienna, but were repulsed. Soliman now prepared for the subjugation of Italy, and was only diverted from it by an accident which turned him upon the Venetians. It was not until the battle of Lepanto that the Turkish advance was fairly checked. Even as it was, in the complicated policy and intrigues of Europe its different sovereigns could not trust one another; their common faith had ceased to be a common bond: in all it had been weakened, in some destroyed. Æneas Sylvius, speaking of Christendom, says, "It is a body without a head, a republic without laws or magistrates. The pope or the emperor may shine as lofty titles, an splendid images; but they are unable to command, and no one is willing to obey." But, during this period of Turkish aggression, had not the religious dissensions of Christendom been decently composed, there was imminent danger that Europe would have been Mohammedanized. A bitter experience of past ages, as well as of the present, had taught it that the Roman Church was utterly powerless against such attacks. Safety was to be looked for, not in any celestial aid, but in physical knowledge and pecuniary resources, carried out in the organization of armies and fleets. Had her authority been derived from the source she pretended, she should have found an all-sufficient protection in prayer--indeed, not even that should have been required. Men discovered at last that her Litanies and her miracles were equally of no use, and that she must trust, like any other human tyranny, to cannon and the sword. [Sidenote: Effect of the Turkish invasion.] The Turkish aggression led to the staying of the democratic outbreak in the bosom of the Church--the abstaining for a season from any farther sapping of the papal autocracy. It was necessary that ecclesiastical disputes, if they could not be ended, should, at all events, be kept for a time in abeyance, and so indeed they were, until the pent-up dissensions burst forth in "the Reformation." And thus, as we have related, by Mohammedan knowledge in the West, papal Christianity was well-nigh brought to ruin; thus, by a strange paradox, the Mohammedan sword in the East gave it for a little longer a renewed lease of political power, though never again of life. [Sidenote: Nicolas V. a patron of art.] To Nicolas V., a learned and able pope, the catastrophe of Constantinople was the death-blow. He had been the intimate friend of Cosmo de' Medici, and from him had imbibed a taste for letters and art, but, like his patron, he had no love for liberty. It was thus through commerce that the papacy first learned to turn to art. The ensuing development of Europe was really based on the commerce of upper Italy, and not upon the Church. The statesmen of Florence were the inventors of the balance of power. A lover of literature, Nicolas was the founder of the Vatican Library. He clearly perceived the only course in which the Roman system could be directed; that it was unfit for, and, indeed, incompatible with science, but might be brought into unison with art. Its influence upon the reason was gone, but the senses yet remained for it. [Sidenote: Gradual rise of the fine arts.] In continuing his policy, the succeeding popes acted with wisdom. They gratified the genius of their institutions, of their country, and their age. In the abundant leisure of monasteries, the monks had found occupation in the illumination of manuscripts. From the execution of miniatures they gradually rose to an undertaking of greater works. In that manner painting had originated in Italy in the twelfth century. Sculpture, at first merged in architecture, had extricated herself from that bondage in the fourteenth. The mendicant orders, acquiring wealth, became munificent patrons. From caligraphic illustrations to the grand works of Michael Angelo and Raffaelle is a prodigious advance, yet it took but a short time to accomplish it. [Sidenote: Review of the Age of Faith.] I have now completed the history of the European Age of Faith as far as is necessary for the purposes of this book. It embraces a period of more than a thousand years, counting from the reign of Constantine. It remains to consider the intellectual peculiarity that marks the whole period--to review briefly the agents that exerted an influence upon it and conducted it to its close. [Sidenote: Philosophical peculiarities of the Age of Faith.] Philosophically, the most remarkable peculiarity is the employment of a false logic, a total misconception of the nature of evidence. It is illustrated by miracle-proofs, trial by battle, ordeal tests, and a universal belief in supernatural agency even for objectless purposes. On the principles of this logic, if the authenticity of a thing or the proof of a statement be required, it is supposed to be furnished by an astounding illustration of something else. If the character of a princess is assailed, she offers a champion; he proves victorious, and therefore she was not frail. [Sidenote: The character of its logic.] If a national assembly, after a long discussion, cannot decide "whether children should inherit the property of their father during the lifetime of their grandfather," an equal number of equal combatants is chosen for each side; they fight; the champions of the children prevail, and therefore the law is fixed in their favour. A relic of some martyr is bought at a great price; no one seeks to criticize the channel through which it has come, but every one asks, Can it work a miracle? A vast institution demands the implicit obedience of all men. It justifies its claim, not by the history of the past, but by promises and threats of the future. A decrepit crone is suspected of witchcraft. She is stripped naked and thrown into the nearest pond: if she sinks, she is innocent; if she swims, she is in commerce with the Devil. In all such cases the intrinsic peculiarity of the logic is obvious enough; it shows a complete misconception of the nature of evidence. [Sidenote: Its adoption of supernaturalism.] Yet this ratiocination governed Europe for a thousand years, giving birth to those marvellous and supernatural explanations of physical phenomena and events upon which we now look back with unfeigned surprise, half disbelieving that it was possible for our ancestors to have credited such things. [Sidenote: The Jews and Saracens destroy supernaturalism.] Against this preposterous logic the Mohammedans and Jews struck the first blows. We have already heard what Algazzali the Arabian says respecting the enchanter who would prove that three are more than ten by changing a stick into a serpent. The circumstances under which the Jewish physicians acted we shall consider presently. It will not be useless to devote a little space to this belief in the supernatural. It offers an opportunity of showing how false notions may become universal, embody themselves in law and practical life, and wonderful to be said, how they may, without anything being done to destroy them, vanish from sight of themselves, like night-spectres before the day. At present we only encounter them among the lowest peasant grades, or among those who have been purposely kept in the most abject state of ignorance. Less than a century ago the clergy of Spain wished to have the Opera prohibited, because that ungodly entertainment had given rise to a want of rain; but now, in a country so intellectually backward as that--a witch was burnt there so lately as A.D. 1781--such an attempt would call up sly wit, and make the rabble of Madrid suspect that the archbishop was smarting under the rivalry of the prima donna, and that he was furbishing up the rusty ecclesiastical enginery to sustain his cause. [Sidenote: Respective influence of the clergy, the lawyers, and physicians.] In the day of their power the ecclesiastical profession were the supporters of this delusion. They found it suitable to their interests, and, by dint of at first persuading others to believe, they at last, by habit, came to believe in it themselves. The Mohammedans and Jews were the first to assail it philosophically and by sarcasm, but its final ruin was brought about by the action of the two other professions, the legal and the medical. The lawyers, whose advent to power is seen in the history of Philip the Fair, and whose rise from that time was very rapid, were obliged to introduce the true methods of evidence; the physicians, from their pursuits, were perpetually led to the material explanation of natural phenomena in contradistinction to the mystical. It is to the honour of both these professions that they never sought for a perpetuation of power by schemes of vast organization, never attempted to delude mankind by stupendous impostures, never compelled them to desist from the expression of their thoughts, and even from thinking, by alliances with civil power. Far from being the determined antagonists of human knowledge, they uniformly fostered it, and, in its trials, defended it. The lawyers were hated because they replaced supernatural logic by philosophical logic; the physicians, because they broke down the profitable but mendacious system of miracle-cures. [Sidenote: Position of the Church.] Yet the Church is not without excuse. In all her varied history it was impossible to disentangle her from the principles which at the beginning had entered into her political organization. For good or evil, right or wrong, her necessity required that she should put herself forth as the possessor of all knowledge within the reach of human intellect--the infallible arbitress of every question that should arise among men. Doubtless it was a splendid imposture, capable for a time of yielding great results, but sooner or later certain to be unmasked. Early discovering the antagonism of science, which could not fail, in due season, to subject her pretensions to investigation, she lent herself to a systematic delusion of the illiterate, and thereby tried to put off that fatal day when creeds engendered in the darkness would have to be examined in the light, enforcing her attempt with an unsparing, often with a bloody hand. [Sidenote: She could not extricate herself from her false position.] It was for this reason that, when the inevitable time of trial came, no intellectual defence could be made in her behalf, and hence there only remained a recourse to physical and political compulsion. But such a compulsion, under such circumstances, is not only a testimony to the intrinsic weakness of that for which it is invoked, it is also a token that they who resort to it have lost all faith in any inherent power of the system they are supporting, and that, in truth, it is fast coming to an end. [Sidenote: Successive order in supernatural ideas.] The reader will remark, from the incidents connected with supernatural delusions now to be related, that they follow a law of continuous variation, the particular embodiment they assumed changing with the condition of the human mind at each epoch under examination. For ages they are implicitly believed in by all classes; then, to a few, but the number perpetually increasing, they become an idle story of bare-faced imposture. At last humanity wakens from its delusion--its dream. The final rejection of the whole, in spite of the wonderful amount of testimony which for ages had accumulated, occurs spontaneously the moment that pyschical development has reached a certain point. There can be no more striking illustration of the definite advancement of the human mind. The boy who is terror-stricken in a dark room insensibly dismisses his idle fears as he grows up to be a man. [Sidenote: Oriental magicians--Simon Magus.] Clemens Romanus and Anastasius Sinaita, speaking of Simon Magus, say that he could make himself invisible; that he formed a man out of air; that he could pass bodily through mountains without being obstructed thereby; that he could fly and sit unharmed in flames; that he constructed animated statues and self-moving furniture, and not only changed his countenance into the similitude of many other men, but that his whole body could be transformed into the shape of a goat, a sheep, a snake; that, as he walked in the street, he cast many shadows in different directions; that he could make trees suddenly spring up in desert places; and, on one occasion, compelled an enchanted sickle to go into a field and reap twice as much in one day as if it had been used by a man. [Sidenote: Greek thaumaturgists.] Of Apollonius of Tyana we are told that, after an unbroken silence of five years, he comprehended the languages of all animals and all men; that, under circumstances very picturesquely related, he detected the genius of a plague at Ephesus, and dragged him, self-convicted, before the people; that, at the wedding-dinner of Menippus, he caused all the dishes and viands to vanish, thereby compelling the bride to acknowledge that she was a vampire, intending to eat the flesh and lap the blood of her husband in the night; that he exhibited the prodigy of being in many places at the same time; raised a young woman from the dead; and, finally, weary of the world, ascended bodily into heaven. [Sidenote: Introduction of an Arabian element.] As Arabian influence spread, ideas of Oriental aspect appear. There are peris who live on perfumes, and divs who are poisoned by them; enchanted palaces; moving statues; veiled prophets, like Mokanna; brazen flying horses; charmed arrows; dervises who can project their soul into the body of a dead animal, giving it temporary life; enchanted rings, to make the wearer invisible, or give him two different bodies at the same time; ghouls who live in cemeteries, and at night eat the flesh of dead men. As the European counterpart of these Perso-Arabic ideas, there are fairies, and their dancing by moonlight, their tampering with children, and imposing changelings on horror-stricken mothers. [Sidenote: Introduction of European sorcery and witchcraft.] Every one believes that rain and wind may be purchased of wizards, and that fair weather may be obtained and storms abated by prayer. Whoever attains to wealth or eminence does so by a compact with Satan, signed with blood. The head of the Church, Sylvester II., makes a brazen head, which speaks to him prophetically. He finds underground treasures in a subterranean magic palace beneath a mountain. The protestator of the Greek emperor is accused of a conspiracy against his master's life by making invisible men. Robert Grostête, the Bishop of Lincoln, makes another speaking head. Nay, more, Albertus Magnus constructs a complete brazen man, so cunningly contrived as to serve him for a domestic. This was at the time that Thomas Aquinas was living with him. The household trouble arising from the excessive garrulity of this simulacrum grew so intolerable--for it was incessantly making mischief among the other inmates--that Thomas, unable to bear it any longer, took a hammer and broke the troublesome android to pieces. [Sidenote: These ideas infect all classes.] This reverend father, known among his contemporaries as the "seraphic doctor," was not without experience in the mysterious craft. Annoyed by the frequent passing of horses near his dwelling, he constructed a magical horse of brass, and buried it in the road. From that moment no animal could be made to pass his door. Among brazen heads of great celebrity is that of Friar Bacon and Friar Bungy. This oracle announced, "Time is; time was; time is passed;" perhaps it was some kind of clock. The alchemist Peter d'Apono had seven spirits in glass bottles. He had entrapped them by baiting with distilled dew, and imprisoned them safely by dexterously putting in the corks. He is the same who possessed a secret which it is greatly to be regretted that he did not divulge for the benefit of chemists who have come after him, that, whatever money he paid, within the space of one hour's time came back of itself again into his pocket. That was better than even the philosopher's stone. [Sidenote: Modifications of supernaturalism.] These supernatural notions were at different times modified by two intrusive elements, the first being the Perso-Arabic just alluded to, the second derived from the north of Europe. This element was witchcraft; for, though long before, among Hebrews, Greeks, and Romans, decrepit women were known as witches--as the Thessalian crone who raised a corpse from the dead for Sextus by lashing it with a snake--it was not until a later period that this element was fairly developed. [Sidenote: The persecutions for witchcraft.] A bull of Pope Innocent VIII., published A.D. 1484, says, "It has come to our ears that numbers of both sexes do not avoid to have intercourse with the infernal fiends, and that by their sorceries they afflict both man and beast. They blight the marriage-bed; destroy the births of women and the increase of cattle; they blast the corn on the ground, the grapes in the vineyard, the fruits of the trees, and the grass and herbs of the field." At this time, therefore, the head of the Church had not relinquished a belief in these delusions. The consequences of the punishment he ordained were very dreadful. In the valleys of the Alps many hundred aged women were committed to the flames under an accusation of denying Christ, dishonouring the crucifix, and solemnizing a devil's sabbath in company with the fiend. Such persecutions, begun by papal authority, continued among illiterate zealots till late times, and, as is well known, were practised even in America. Very masculine minds fell into these delusions. Thus Luther, in his work on the abuses attendant on private masses, says that he had conferences with the Devil on that subject, passing many bitter nights and much restless and wearisome repose; that once, in particular, Satan came to him in the dead of the night, when he was just awakened out of sleep. [Sidenote: Experiences of Luther.] "The Devil," says Luther, "knows well enough how to construct his arguments, and to urge them with the skill of a master. He delivers himself with a grave and yet with a shrill voice. Nor does he use circumlocutions and beat about the bush, but excels in forcible statements and quick rejoinders. I no longer wonder that the persons whom he assails in this way are occasionally found dead in their beds. He is able to compress and throttle, and more than once he has so assaulted me and driven my soul into a corner that I have felt as if the next moment it must leave my body. I am of opinion that Gesner and OEcolampadius came in that manner to their deaths. The Devil's manner of opening a debate is pleasant enough, but he soon urges things so peremptorily that the respondent in a short time knows not how to acquit himself." [Sidenote: English wizards--Scotch witches.] Social eminence is no preservative from social delusion. When it was affirmed that Agnes Sampson, with two hundred other Scotch witches, had sailed in sieves from Leith to North Berwick church to hold a banquet with the Devil, James I. had the torture applied to the wretched woman, and took pleasure in putting appropriate questions to her after the racking had been duly prolonged. It then came out that the two hundred crones had baptized and drowned a black cat, thereby raising a dreadful storm in which the ship that carried the king narrowly escaped being wrecked. Upon this Agnes was condemned to the flames. She died protesting her innocence, and piteously calling on Jesus to have mercy on her, for Christian men would not. On the accession of James to the English throne he procured an act of Parliament against any one convicted of witchcraft, sorcery, or enchantment, or having commerce with the Devil. Under this monstrous statute many persons suffered. At this time England was intellectually in a very backward state. [Sidenote: French and English legal proceedings.] The statute remained until 1736 unrepealed. The French preceded the English in putting a stop to these atrocities; for Louis XIV., A.D. 1672, by an order in council, forbade the tribunals from inflicting penalty in accusations of sorcery. Can the reader of the preceding paragraphs here pause without demanding of himself the value of human testimony? All these delusions, which occupied the minds of our forefathers, and from which not even the powerful and learned were free, have totally passed away. [Sidenote: The total disappearance of these delusions.] The moonlight has now no fairies; the solitude no genius; the darkness no ghost, no goblin. There is no necromancer who can raise the dead from their graves--no one who has sold his soul to the Devil and signed the contract with his blood--no angry apparition to rebuke the crone who has disquieted him. Divination, agromancy, pyromancy, hydromancy, cheiromancy, augury, interpreting of dreams, oracles, sorcery, astrology, have all gone. It is 350 years since the last sepulchral lamp was found, and that was near Rome. There are no gorgons, hydras, chimæras; no familiars; no incubus or succubus. The housewives of Holland no longer bring forth sooterkins by sitting over lighted chauffers. No longer do captains buy of Lapland witches favourable winds; no longer do our churches resound with prayers against the baleful influences of comets, though there still linger in some of our noble old rituals forms of supplication for dry weather and rain, useless but not unpleasing reminiscences of the past. The apothecary no longer says prayers over the mortar in which he is pounding to impart a divine afflatus to his drugs. Who is there now that pays fees to a relic or goes to a saint-shrine to be cured? These delusions have vanished with the night to which they appertained, yet they were the delusions of fifteen hundred years. In their support might be produced a greater mass of human testimony than probably could be brought to bear on any other matter of belief in the entire history of man; and yet, in the nineteenth century, we have come to the conclusion that the whole, from the beginning to the end, was a deception. [Sidenote: Value of human testimony.] Let him, therefore, who is disposed to balance the testimony of past ages against the dictates of his own reason ponder on this strange history; let him who relies on the authority of human evidence in the guidance of his opinions now settle with himself what that evidence is worth. [Sidenote: Supernaturalism appertains to a period of life.] But, though in one sense this history is humiliating to the philosopher, in another it is full of interest. Supernaturalism, both in the individual and in society, appertains to a definite period of life. It is shaken off as men and nations approach maturity. The child and the youth people solitude and darkness with unrealities. The adult does not so much convince himself of their fictitious nature by reasoning on the results of his experience--he grows out of them, as we see that society has done. Nevertheless, his emancipation is quickened if he is among those who instruct his curiosity and deride his fears. It was in this manner that the decline of supernaturalism in the West was very much accelerated by Jewish physicians. They, more than the lawyers, were concerned in the ending of these delusions. [Sidenote: Influence of the Jews on supernaturalism.] These apparitions, as is the nature of their kind, vanished as soon as the crowing of the Æsculapian cock announced that the intellectual day of Europe was on the point of breaking. The Jews held in their hands much of the trade of the world; they were in perpetual movement and commercial intercommunication. Locomotion--for such is always its result--tended to make them intellectual. The persecutions under which they had long suffered bound their distant communities together. The Spanish Jews knew very well what was going on among their co-religionists beyond the Euphrates. As Cabanis says, "They were our factors and bankers before we knew how to read; they were also our first physicians." To this it may be added that they were, for centuries, the only men in Europe who saw the course of human affairs from the most general point of view. The Hellenizing Jewish physicians inoculated the Arabs with learning on their first meeting with them in Alexandria, obtaining a private and personal influence with many of khalifs, and from that central point of power giving an intellectual character to the entire Saracenic movement. We have already seen that in this they were greatly favoured by the approximation of their unitarianism to that of the Mohammedans. The intellectual activity of the Asiatic and African Jews soon communicated an impulse to those of Europe. The Hebrew doctor was viewed by the vulgar with wonder, fear, and hatred; no crime could be imputed to him too incredible. Thus Zedekias, the physician to Charles the Bald, was asserted to have devoured at one meal, in the presence of the court, a waggon-load of hay, together with its horses and driver. [Sidenote: Writings of Jewish physicians.] The titles of some of the works that appeared among them deserve mention, as displaying a strong contrast with the mystical designations in vogue. Thus Isaac Ben Soleiman, an Egyptian, wrote "On Fevers," "On Medicine," "On Food and Remedies," "On the Pulse," "On Philosophy," "On Melancholy," "An Introduction to Logic." The simplicity of these titles displays an intellectual clearness and a precision of thought which have ever been shown by the Israelites. They are in themselves sufficient to convince us of the strong common sense which these men were silently infusing into the literature of Western Europe in ages of concealment and mystification. Roger Bacon, at a much later time, gave to one of his works the title of "The Green Lion;" to another, "The Treatise of Three Words." Since it was by the power and patronage of the Saracens that the Jewish physicians were acting, it is not surprising that the language used in many of their compositions was Arabic. Translations were, however, commonly made into Hebrew, and, at a subsequent period, into Latin. Through the ninth century the Asiatic colleges maintained their previous celebrity in certain branches of knowledge. Thus the Jew Shabtai Donolo was obliged to go to Bagdad to complete his studies in astronomy. [Sidenote: Foundation of colleges.] As Arabian influence extended itself into Sicily and Italy, Jewish intelligence accompanied it, and schools were founded at Tarentum, Salerno, Bari, and other places. Here the Arab and Jew Orientalists first amalgamated with a truly European element--the Greek--as is shown by the circumstance that in the college at Salerno instruction was given through the medium of all three languages. At one time, Pontus taught in Greek, Abdallah in Arabic, and Elisha in Hebrew. A similar influence of the Arab and Jew combined founded the University of Montpellier. [Sidenote: Medical studies among the Jews.] After the foundation of medical colleges, the progress of medicine among the Jews was very rapid. Judged by our standard, in some respects it was peculiar. Thus, they looked upon the practice of surgery as altogether mechanical, and therefore ignoble. A long list of eminent names might be extracted from the tenth and eleventh centuries. In it we should find Haroun of Cordova, Jehuda of Fez, Amram of Toledo. Already it was apparent that the Saracenic movement would aid in developing the intelligence of barbarian Western Europe through Hebrew physicians, in spite of opposition encountered from theological ideas imported from Constantinople and Rome. Mohammedanism had all along been the patron of physical science; paganizing Christianity not only repudiated it, but exhibited towards it sentiments of contemptuous disdain and hatred. [Sidenote: Imposture-medicine.] Hence physicians were viewed by the Church with dislike, and regarded as atheists by the people, who held firmly to the lessons they had been taught that cures must be wrought by relics of martyrs and bones of saints, by prayers and intercessions, and that each region of the body was under some spiritual charge--the first joint of the right thumb being in the care of God the Father, the second under that of the blessed Virgin, and so on of other parts. For each disease there was a saint. A man with sore eyes must invoke St. Clara, but if it were an inflammation elsewhere he must turn to St. Anthony. An ague would demand the assistance of St. Pernel. For the propitiating of these celestial beings it was necessary that fees should be paid, and thus the practice of imposture-medicine became a great source of profit. In all this there was no other intention than that of extracting money from the illiterate. With men of education and position it was different. Bishops, princes, kings, and popes had each in private his Hebrew doctor, though all understood that he was a contraband luxury, in many countries pointedly and absolutely prohibited by the law. [Sidenote: The rabbis cultivate medicine and other sciences.] In the eleventh century nearly all the physicians in Europe were Jews. This was due to two different causes: the Church would tolerate no interference with her spiritual methods of treating disease, which formed one of her most productive sources of gain; and the study of medicine had been formally introduced into the rabbinical schools. The monk was prohibited a pursuit which gave to the rabbi an honourable emolument. From the older institutions offshoots in quick succession appeared, particularly in France. Thus the school at Narbonne was under the presidency of Doctor Rabbi Abou. There was also a flourishing school at Arles. In these institutions instruction was given through the medium of Hebrew and Arabic, the Greek element present at Salerno being here wanting. In the French schools, to the former languages Latin and Provençal were, in the course of time, added. The versatility of acquirement among the physicians, who were taking the lead in this intellectual movement, is illustrated both by the Spanish and French Jews. Some, like Djanah, a native of Cordova, acquired reputation in grammar, criticism, astronomy; others in poetry or theology. If thus the social condition of the rabbis, who drew no income from their religious duties, induced them to combine the practice of medicine with their pursuits, great facilities had arisen for mental culture through the establishment of so many schools. Henceforth the Jewish physician is recognised as combining with his professional skill a profound knowledge of theology, mathematics, astronomy, philosophy, music, law. In a singular manner he stands aloof in the barbarian societies among whom he lives, looking down like a philosopher upon their idolatries, permitting, or even excusing them, like a statesman. [Sidenote: Writings of the Spanish-Jewish physicians.] Of those who thus adorned the eleventh century was Rabbi Solomon Ben Isaac, better known under the abbreviation Raschi--called by his countrymen the Prince of Commentators. He was equally at home in writing commentaries on the Talmud, or in giving instructions for great surgical operations, as the Cæsarean section. He was the greatest French physician of his age. Spain during the same century, produced a worthy competitor to him, Ebn Zohr, physician to the court of Seville. His writings were in Hebrew, Arabic, Syriac, and both in prose and verse. He composed a treatise on the cure of diseases, and two on fevers. In singular contrast with the superstitious notions of the times, he possessed a correct view of the morbific nature of marsh miasm. He was followed by Ben Ezra, a Jew of Toledo, who was at once a physician, philosopher, mathematician, astronomer, critic, poet. He travelled all over Europe and Asia, being held in captivity for some time in India. Among his medical writings was a work on theoretical and practical medicine, entitled "Book of Proofs." Through the wars arising in Spain between the Mohammedans and Christians, many learned Jews were driven into France, imparting to that country, by their presence, a new intellectual impulse. Of such were Aben Tybbon, who gave to his own profession a pharmaceutical tendency by insisting on the study of botany and art of preparing drugs. Ben Kimchi, a Narbonnese physician and grammarian, wrote commentaries on the Bible, sacred and moral poems, a Hebrew grammar. Notwithstanding the opposition of the ecclesiastics, William, the Lord of Montpellier, passed an edict authorizing all persons, without exception, to profess medicine in the university of his city. This was specially meant for the relief of the Jews, though expressed in a general way. [Sidenote: Maimonides.] Spain, though she had thus lost many of her learned men, still continued to produce others of which she had reason to be proud. Moussa Ben Maimon, known all over Europe as Maimonides, was recognized by his countrymen as "the Doctor, the Great Sage, the Glory of the West, the Light of the East, second only to Moses." He is often designated by the four initials R. M. B. M., that is Rabbi Moses Ben Maimon, or briefly Rambam. His biography presents some points of interest. He was born at Cordova A.D. 1135, and, while yet young, wrote commentaries on the Talmuds both of Babylon and Jerusalem, and also a work on the Calendar; but, embracing Mohammedanism, he emigrated to Egypt, and there became physician to the celebrated Sultan Saladin. Among his works are medical aphorisms, derived from former Greek, Latin, Hebrew, and Arabic sources; an abridgment of Galen; and of his original treatises, which were very numerous, may be mentioned those "On Hemorrhoids," "On Poisons and Antidotes," "On Asthma," "On the Preservation of Health,"--the latter being written for the benefit of the son of Saladin--"On the Bites of Venomous Animals"--written by order of the sultan--"On Natural History." His "Moreh Nevochim," or "Teacher of the Perplexed," was an attempt to reconcile the doctrines of the Old Testament with reason. In addition to these, he had a book on Idolatry, and one on Christ. Besides Maimonides, the sultan had another physician, Ebn Djani, the author of a work on the medical topography of the city of Alexandria. From the biographies of these learned men of the twelfth century it would seem that their religious creed hung lightly upon them. Not unfrequently they became converted to Mohammedanism. [Sidenote: Later Jewish physicians.] It might be tedious if I should record the names and writings of the learned European Jews of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, a period more prolific of these great men than even the preceding ages. But I cannot pass these later centuries without mentioning the Alphonsine Tables, calculated for Alphonso, the King of Castile, by Mascha, his Hebrew physician. The irreligious tendency of the times is illustrated by the well-known sarcasm uttered by that Spanish monarch respecting the imperfect construction of the heavens, according to the Ptolemaic hypothesis. For long, however, the Jews had been dabbling in free-thinking speculations. Thus Aben Tybbon, above-mentioned, anticipating that branch of science which has drawn upon itself, in later years, so much opprobrium, wrote a work containing a discussion of the causes which prevent the waters of the sea from encroaching on the land. Abba Mari, a Marseillese Jew, translated the Almagest of Ptolemy and the Commentary of Averroes upon it. The school of Salerno was still sending forth its doctors. In Rome, Jewish physicians were very numerous, the popes themselves employing them. Boniface VIII. had for his medical adviser Rabbi Isaac. At this period Spain and France were full of learned Jews; and perhaps partly by their exerting upon the higher classes with whom they came in contact too much influence, for the physician of a Christian prince was very often the rival of his confessor, and partly because the practice of medicine, as they pursued it, interfered with the gains of the Church, the clergy took alarm, and caused to be re-enacted or enforced the ancient laws. The Council of Beziers, A.D. 1246, and the Council of Alby, A.D. 1254, prohibited all Christians from resorting to the services of an Israelitish physician. It would appear that these enactments had either fallen into desuetude or had failed to be enforced. The faculty of Paris, awakening at last to the danger of the case, caused, A.D. 1301, a decree to be published prohibiting either man or woman of the religion of Moses from practising medicine upon any person of the Catholic religion. A similar course was also taken in Spain. At this time the Jews were confessedly at the head of French medicine. It was the appointment of one of their persuasion, Profatius, as regent of the faculty of Montpellier A.D. 1300, which drew upon them the wrath of the faculty of Paris. This learned man was a skilful astronomer; he composed tables of the moon; of the longitudes of many Asiatic and African towns; he determined the obliquity of the ecliptic, his result being honourably alluded to by Copernicus. [Sidenote: The University of Paris causes the expulsion of the Jews from France.] The animosity of the French ecclesiastics against the Jewish physicians at last led to the banishment of all the Jews from France, A.D. 1306. "It was," say the historians of this event, "a most revolting spectacle to see so many learned men, who had adorned and benefited France, proscribed, wanderers without a country or an asylum. Some of them expired of grief upon the road. Abba Mari gives in his work heart-rending details of the expulsion of the Jews from Montpellier, at the head of whom were the professors and doctors of the faculty." [Sidenote: Result that they had accomplished.] But, though thus driven into exile, these strangers had accomplished their destiny. They had silently deposited in France their ideas. They had sapped the credulity of the higher classes in Europe, and taught them to turn away from the supernatural. A clear recognition of their agency in this matter fastened upon them the watchful eye of Inquisition, and made them the victims of its tyranny. And so it might well be. Out of the Spanish peninsula there had come across the Pyrenees an intellectual influence, which reached the populace under the form of a fresh and pleasing literature, and the better classes by novel but unorthodox ideas. To a very great extent the Jews had been its carriers. The result was the overthrow of supernaturalism. [Sidenote: Destruction of fairies by tobacco.] We shall hardly accept the affirmation of good Catholics that fairies disappeared on account of the Reformation, unable to bear the morose sectarianism with which it was accompanied, or the still more material explanation of the rustics that it was through the introduction of tobacco. However that may be, no longer is Robin Goodfellow the compeller of household duties--no longer do bad elves sit by the dying embers of the hearth-stone at night, in the shape of shrivelled frogs, after the family have gone to bed. For a long time there have been no miracles in Europe. Even Rome, the workshop of those artifices, has ceased to be the seat of that trade. From human institutions of any kind, a great principle, firmly inwrought and inwoven at the beginning, can never be removed. It will show itself whenever occasion permits. The animosity between the Byzantine ecclesiastical system and all true wisdom was inextinguishable, though it was utterly foreign to Christianity. [Sidenote: Causes of the ecclesiastical opposition.] It was fastened by imperial violence on the nations, and made its appearance, with unabated force, at intervals of ages. The same evil instinct which tore Hypatia piecemeal in the church at Alexandria brought Galileo into the custody of the familiars of the holy office at Rome. The necessary consequence of this upholding ignorance by force was the emergence of ideas successively more and more depraved. [Sidenote: Degraded state of Italy.] Whoever will ingenuously compare the religious state of Italy in the fourteenth century with its state in the fourth--that is, the recent Italian with the old Roman--will find that among the illiterate classes nothing whatever had been accomplished. There were no elevated thoughts of holy things. From practical devotion God had altogether disappeared; the Saviour had been supplanted by the blessed Virgin; and she herself--such was the increasing degradation--had been abandoned for the ignoble worship of apotheosized men, who, under the designation of saints, had engrossed all the votaries. There had been a rapid descent to the last degree of more than African abasement in bleeding statues and winking pictures. [Sidenote: Rise of a new social system.] In Europe there had been incorporated old forms of worship and old festivals with Christian ones; the local gods and goddesses had been replaced by saints; for deification canonization had been substituted. There had been produced a civilization, the character of which was its extraordinary intolerance. A man could not be suspected of doubting the popular belief without risk to his goods, his body, or his life. As a necessary consequence, there could be no great lawgivers, no philosophers, no poets. Society was pervaded by a systematic hypocrisy. This tyranny over others sometimes led to strange results. It caused the Jews to discover the art of making wealth invisible by bills of exchange and other such like means, so that money might be imperceptibly but instantaneously moved. [Sidenote: Influence of that new system,] Thus, after the dying out of Greek science, there followed, among the new populations, an intellectual immobility, which soon became the centre of a vast number of growing interests quickly and firmly crystallizing round it. For them it was essential that there should be no change--no advance. In the midst of jarrings and conflicts between those interests, that condition was steadfastly maintained, as if through instinct, by them all. It mattered not how antiquated were the forms insisted on, nor how far they outraged common sense. New life was given to decaying illusions, and, in return, strength was gathered from them. [Sidenote: and degradation by African ideas.] Isis, with the moon beneath her feet, was planted, under a new name, on the Bosphorus and the Tiber. African theology, African ecclesiastical machinery, and African monasticism were made objects of reverence to unsuspecting Europe. Juvenal says that the Roman painters of his day lived on the goddess Isis. The Italian painters of a later day lived on her modernized form. [Sidenote: No literature in the Age of Faith.] In such a condition of things the literary state could be no other than barren. Political combinations had not only prescribed an intellectual terminus, but had even laid down a rail upon which mental excursions were to be made, and from which there was no departing; or, if a turn-out was permitted, it was managed by a tonsured man. For centuries together, if we exclude theological writings, there was absolutely no literature worth the name. Life seems to have been spent in the pursuit of mere physical enjoyment, and that enjoyment of a very low kind. When in the South of France and Sicily literature began to dawn, it is not to be overlooked how much of it was of an amatory kind; and love is the strongest of the passions. The first aspect of Western literature was animal, not intellectual. [Sidenote: Its critical innocence.] A taste for learning excited, there reappeared in the schools the old treatises written a thousand years before--the Elements of Euclid, the Geography of Ptolemy. Long after the Reformation there was an intellectual imbecility which might well excite our mirth, if it were not the index of a stage through which the human mind must pass. Often enough we see it interestingly in the interweaving of the new with the old ideas. If we take up a work on metallurgy, it commences with Tubal Cain; if on music, with Jubal. The history of each country is traced back to the sons of Noah, or at least to the fugitives from the siege of Troy. An admiration for classical authors may perhaps be excused. It exhibited itself amusingly in the eccentricity of interlarding compositions of every kind with Greek and Latin quotations. This was an age of literary innocence, when no legend was too stupendous for credulity; when there was no one who had ever suspected that Tully, as they delighted to call him, was not a great philosopher, and Virgil not a great poet. [Sidenote: Disuse of patristic works.] Of those ponderous, those massive folios on ecclesiastical affairs, at once the product and representatives of the time, but little needs here to be said. They boasted themselves as the supreme effort of human intellect; they laid claim to an enduring authority; to many they had a weight little less than the oracles of God. But if their intrinsic value is to be measured by their pretensions, and their pretensions judged of by their present use, what is it that must be said? Long ago their term was reached, long ago they became obsolete. They have no reader. Such must be the issue of any literature springing from an immovable, an unexpanding basis, the offspring of thought that has been held in subjugation by political formulas, or of intellectual energies that have been cramped. [Sidenote: Spread of science in France.] The Roman ecclesiastical system, like the Byzantine, had been irrevocably committed in an opposition to intellectual development. It professed to cultivate the morals, but it crushed the mind. Yet, in the course of events, this state of things was to come to an end through the working of other principles equally enduring and more powerful. They constitute what we may speak of under the title of the Arabian element. On preceding pages it has been shown that, when the Saracens conquered Egypt, they came under the influence of the Nestorians and Hellenizing Jews, acquiring from them a love of philosophy, which soon manifested itself in full energy from the banks of the Euphrates to those of Guadalquivir. The hammer of Charles Martel might strike down the ranks of the Saracens on the field of Tours, but there was something intangible, something indestructible accompanying them, which the Frank chivalry could not confront. To the Church there was an evil omen. It has been well remarked that in the Provençal poetry there are noble bursts of crusading religious sentiment, but they are incorporated with a sovereign contempt for the clergy. The biography of any of the physicians or alchemists of the thirteenth century would serve the purpose of illustrating the watchfulness of the Church, the unsound condition of the universities, the indirect patronage extended to heretics by eminent men, and the manner in which the rival powers, ecclesiasticism and philosophy, were preparing for their final conflict. [Sidenote: Illustration from the biography of Arnold.] As an example of the kind, I may present briefly that of Arnold de Villa Nova, born about A.D. 1250. He enjoyed a great reputation for his knowledge of medicine and alchemy. For some years he was physician to the King of Aragon. Under an accusation of defective orthodoxy he lost his position at court, his punishment being rendered more effective by excommunication. Hoping to find in Paris more liberality than he had met with in Spain, he fled to that city, but was pursued by an adverse ecclesiastical influence with a charge of having sold his soul to the Devil, and of having changed a plate of copper into gold. In Montpellier, to which he was obliged to retire, he found a more congenial intellectual atmosphere, and was for long one of the regents of the faculty of medicine. In succession, he subsequently resided in Florence, Naples, Palermo, patronized and honoured by the Emperor Frederick II.--at that time engaged in the attempt to unite Italy into one kingdom and give it a single language--on account of his extraordinary reputation as a physician. Even the pope, Clement V., notwithstanding the unfortunate attitude in which Arnold stood toward the Church, besought a visit from him in hopes of relief from the stone. On his voyage for the purpose of performing the necessary operation, Arnold suffered shipwreck and was drowned. His body was interred at Genoa. The pope issued an encyclic letter, entreating those who owed him obedience to reveal where Arnold's Treatise on the Practice of Medicine might be found, it having been lost or concealed. It appears that the chief offences committed by Arnold against the Church were that he had predicted that the world would come to an end A.D. 1335; that he had said the bulls of the pope were only the work of a man, and that the practice of charity is better than prayer, or even than the mass. If he was the author of the celebrated book "De Tribus Impostoribus," as was suspected by some, it is not remarkable that he was so closely watched and disciplined. Like many of his contemporaries, he mingled a great deal of mysticism with his work, recommending, during his alchemical operations, the recitation of psalms, to give force to the materials employed. Among other such things, he describes a seal, decorated with scriptural phrases, of excellent use in preserving one from sudden death. It appears, however, to have failed of its effect on the night when Arnold's ship was drifting on an Italian lee-shore, and he had most need of it. [Sidenote: Two impulses--intellectual and moral--in operation.] The two antagonistic principles--ecclesiastical and intellectual--were thus brought in presence of each other. On other occasions they had already been in partial collision, as at the iconoclastic dispute which originated in the accusations of the Mohammedans, and ended in the tearing of Christendom asunder. [Sidenote: Struggle of ecclesiasticism against the intellectual principle.] Again there was a collision, a few centuries later, when the Spanish Moors and Jews began to influence the higher European classes. Among the bishops, sovereigns, and even popes thus affected, there were many men of elevated views, who saw distinctly the position of Europe, and understood thoroughly the difficulties of the Church. It had already become obvious to them that it would be impossible to restrain the impulse arising from the vigorous movements of the Saracens, and that it was absolutely necessary so to order things that the actual condition of faith in Europe might be accommodated to or even harmonized with these philosophical conceptions, which it was quite clear would, soon or late, pervade the whole Continent. This, as we have seen, is the explanation of the introduction of Scholasticism from the Arabian schools, and its accommodation to the Christian code, on which authority looked with so much favour at first. But hardly had this attempt been entered upon before it became manifest that the risks to be incurred through the remedy itself were as great as the anticipated dangers. There was then no other course than for the Church to retrace her steps, ostensibly maintaining her consistency by permitting scholastic literature, though declining scholastic theology. She thus allured the active intellect, arising in all directions in the universities, to fruitless and visionary pursuits. This policy, therefore, threw her back upon a system of repression; it was the only course possible; yet there can be no doubt that it was entered upon with reluctance. [Sidenote: The difficulty was in the system, not in the men.] We do injustice to the great men who guided ecclesiastical policy in those times when we represent them as recklessly committing themselves to measures at once violent and indefensible. They did make the attempt to institute an opposite policy; it proved not only a failure, but mischievous. They were then driven to check the spread of knowledge--driven by the necessities of their position. The fault was none of theirs; it dated back to the time of Constantine the Great; and the impossibility of either correcting or neutralizing it is only an example, as has been said, of the manner in which a general principle, once introduced, will overbear the best exertions of those attempting to struggle against it. We can appreciate the false position into which those statesmen were thrown when we compare their personal with their public relations. Often the most eminent persons lived in intimacy and friendship with Jewish physicians, who, in the eye of the law, were enemies of society; often those who were foremost in the cultivation of knowledge--who, indeed, suffered excommunication for its sake--maintained amicable relations of a private kind with those who in public were the leaders of their persecutors. The systems were in antagonism, not the men. Arnold de Villa Nova, though excommunicated, was the physician of one pope; Roger Bacon, though harshly imprisoned, was the friend and correspondent of another. These incidents are not to be mistaken for that compassion which the truly great are ever ready to show to erring genius. They are examples of what we often see in our own day, when men engaged in the movements of a great political party loyally carry out its declared principles to their consequences, though individually they may find in those consequences many things to which they could mentally object. Their private objection they thus yield for the sake of what appears to them, in a general way, a practical good. Such was the state of affairs when the Arab element, having pervaded France and Italy, made its formal intellectual attack. It might almost have been foreseen in what manner that attack would be made, and the shape it would be likely to assume. Of the sciences, astronomy was the oldest and most advanced. [Sidenote: The intellectual impulse makes its attack through astronomy,] Its beginning dates earlier than the historic period, and both in India and in Egypt it had long reached correctness, so far as its general principles were concerned. The Saracens had been assiduous cultivators of it in both its branches, observation and mathematical investigation. Upon one point, the figure and relations of the earth, it is evident that not the slightest doubt existed among them. Nay, it must be added that no learned European ecclesiastic or statesman could deny the demonstrated truths. Nevertheless, it so fell out that upon this very point the conflict broke out. In India the Brahmans had passed through the same trial--for different nations walk through similar paths--with a certain plausible success, by satisfying the popular clamour that there was, in reality, nothing inconsistent between the astronomical doctrine of the globular form and movement of the earth, and the mythological dogma that it rests upon a succession of animals, the lowest of which is a tortoise. But the strong common sense of Western Europe was not to be deluded in any such idle way. It is not difficult to see the point of contact, the point of pressure with the Church. The abstract question gave her no concern; it was the consequences that might possibly follow. The memorable battle was fought upon the question thus sharply defined: Is the earth a moving globe, a small body in the midst of suns and countless myriads of worlds, or is it the central and greatest object in the universe, flat, and canopied over with a blue dome, motionless while all is in movement around it? [Sidenote: and the Church is defeated.] The dispute thus definitely put, its issue was such as must always attend a controversy in which he who is defending is at once lukewarm and conscious of his own weakness. Never can moral interests, however pure, stand against intellect enforcing truth. On this ill-omened question the Church ventured her battle and lost it. [Sidenote: The moral impulse.] Though this great conflict is embodied in the history of Galileo, who has become its historical representative, the prime moving cause must not be misunderstood. From the Pyrenees had passed forth an influence which had infected all the learned men of Western Europe. Its tendency was altogether unfavourable to the Church. Moreover, the illiterate classes had been touched, but in a different way. To the first action the designation of the intellectual impulse may be given; to the latter, the moral. It is to be especially observed that in their directions these impulses conspired. We have seen how, through the Saracens and Jews conjointly, the intellectual impulse came into play. [Sidenote: Origin of the moral impulse.] The moral impulse originated in a different manner, being due partly to the Crusades and partly to the state of things in Rome. On these causes it is therefore needful for us to reflect. First, of the Crusades. There had been wrenched from Christendom its fairest and most glorious portions. Spain, the north of Africa, Egypt, Syria, Asia Minor, were gone. The Mohammedans had been repeatedly under the walls of Constantinople; its fall was only a question of time. They had been in the streets of Rome. They had marched across Italy in every direction. [Sidenote: Loss of the holy places.] But perhaps the geographical losses, appalling as they were, did not appear so painful as the capture of the holy places; the birthplace of our Redeemer; the scene of His sufferings; the Mount of Olives; the Sea of Galilee; the Garden of Gethsemane; Calvary; the Sepulchre. Too often in their day of strength, while there were Roman legions at their back, had the bishops taunted Paganism with the weakness of its divinities, who could not defend themselves, their temples, or their sacred places. That logic was retaliated now. To many a sincere heart must many an ominous reflexion have occurred. In Western Europe there was a strong common sense which quickly caught the true position of things--a common sense that could neither be blinded nor hoodwinked. The astuteness of the Italian politicians was insufficient to conceal altogether the great fact, though it might succeed in dissembling its real significance for a time. The Europe of that day was very different from the Europe of ours. It was in its Age of Faith. Recently converted, as all recent converts do, it made its belief a living rule of action. In our times there is not upon that continent a nation which, in its practical relations with others, carries out to their consequences its ostensible, its avowed articles of belief. Catholics, Protestants, Mohammedans, they of the Greek communion, indiscriminately consort together under the expediences of the passing hour. Statesmanship has long been dissevered from religion--a fact most portentous for future times. But it was not so in the Middle Ages. Men then believed their form of faith with the same clearness, the same intensity with which they believed their own existence or the actual presence of things upon which they cast their eyes. The doctrines of the Church were to them no mere inconsequential affair, but an absolute, an actual reality, a living and a fearful thing. It would have passed their comprehension if they could have been assured that a day would come when Christian Europe, by a breath, could remove from the holy places the scandal of an infidel intruder, but, upon the whole, would consider it not worth her while to do so. How differently they acted. [Sidenote: Effect of the Crusades.] When, by the preaching of Peter the Hermit and his collaborators, who had received a signal from Rome, a knowledge had come to their ears of the reproach that had befallen Jerusalem and the sufferings of the pilgrims, their plain but straightforward common sense taught them at once what was the right remedy to apply, and forthwith they did apply it, and Christendom, precipitated headlong upon the Holy Land, was brought face to face with Mohammedanism. But what a scene awaited the zealous, the religious barbarians--for such they truly were--when Constantinople, with its matchless splendours, came in view! What a scene when they had passed into Asia Minor, that garden of the world, presenting city after city, with palaces and edifices, the pride of twenty centuries! [Sidenote: Change of opinion in the Crusaders.] How unexpected the character of those Saracens, whom they had been taught, by those who had incited them to their enterprise, to regard as no better than bloodthirsty fiends, but whom they found valiant, merciful, just! When Richard the Lion-hearted, King of England, lay in his tent consumed by a fever, there came into the camp camels laden with snow, sent by his enemy, the Sultan Saladin, to assuage his disease, the homage of one brave soldier to another. But when Richard was returning to England, it was by a Christian prince that he was treacherously seized and secretly confined. This was doubtless only one of many such incidents which had often before occurred. Even down to the meanest camp-follower, every one must have recognized the difference between what they had anticipated and what they had found. They had seen undaunted courage, chivalrous bearing, intellectual culture far higher than their own. They had been in lands filled with the prodigies of human skill. They did not melt down into the populations to whom they returned without imparting to them a profound impression destined to make itself felt in the course of time. [Sidenote: They discover the immoralities of Italy.] But, secondly, as to the state of things in Rome. The movement into which all Europe had been thrown by these wars brought to light the true condition of things in Italy as respects morality. Locomotion in a population is followed by intellectual development. The old stationary condition of things in Europe was closed by the Crusades. National movement gave rise to better observation, better information, and could not but be followed by national reflexion. And though we are obliged to speak of the European population as being in one sense in a barbarous state, it was a moral population, earnestly believing the truth of every doctrine it had been taught, and sincerely expecting that those doctrines would be carried to their practical application, and that religious profession must, as a matter of course, be illustrated by religious life. The Romans themselves were an exception to this. They had lived too long behind the scenes. Indeed, it may be said that all the Italian peninsula had emancipated itself from that delusion, as likewise certain classes in France, who had become familiar with the state of things during the residence of the popes at Avignon. It has been the destiny of Southern France to pass, on a small scale, under the same influence, and to exhibit the same results as were appointed for all Europe at last. And now, what was it that awakening Europe found to be the state of things in Italy? I avert my eyes from looking again at the biography of the popes; it would be only to renew a scene of sin and shame. Nor can I, without injustice to truth, speak of the social condition of the inhabitants of that peninsula without relating facts which would compel my reader to turn over the page with a blush. I prefer to look at the maxims of political life which had been followed for many centuries, and which were first divulged by one of the greatest men that Italy has produced, in a work--A.D. 1513--truly characterized as a literary prodigy. Certainly nothing can surpass in atrocity the maxims therein laid down. [Sidenote: The principles of Italian statesmanship--Machiavelli.] Machiavelli, in that work, tells us that there are three degrees of capacity among men. That one understands things by his own natural powers; another, when they are explained to him; a third, not at all. In dealing with these different classes different methods must be used. The last class, which is by far the most numerous, is so simple and weak that it is very easy to dupe those who belong to it. If they cease to believe of their own accord they ought to be constrained by force, in the application of which, though there may be considerable difficulties at first, yet, these once overcome by a sufficient unscrupulousness--veneration, security, tranquillity, and happiness will follow. That, if a prince is constrained to make his choice, it is better for him to be feared than loved; he should remember that all men are ungrateful, fickle, timid, dissembling, and self-interested; that love depends on them, but fear depends on him, and hence it is best to prefer the latter, which is always in his own hands. The great aim of statesmanship should be permanence, which is worth everything else, being far more valuable than freedom. That, if a man wants to ruin a republic, his proper course is to set it on bold undertakings, which it is sure to mismanage; that men, being naturally wicked, incline to good only when they are compelled; they think a great deal more of the present than the past, and never seek change so long as they are made comfortable. He recommends a ruler to bear in mind that, while the lower class of men may desert him, the superior will not only desert, but conspire. If such cannot with certainty be made trustworthy friends, it is very clearly necessary to put it out of their power to be enemies. Thus it may be observed that the frequent insurrections in Spain, Gaul, and Greece against the Romans were entirely due to the petty chiefs inhabiting those countries; but that, after these had been put to death, everything went on very well. Up to a certain point, it should be the grand maxim of a wise government to content the people and to manage the nobles; but that, since hatred is just as easily incurred by good actions as by bad ones, there will occasionally arise the necessity of being wicked in order to maintain power, and, in such a case, there should be no hesitation; for, though it is useful to persevere in the path of rectitude while there is no inconvenience, we should deviate from it at once if circumstances so advise. A prudent prince ought not keep his word to his own injury; he ought to bear in mind that one who always endeavours to act as duty dictates necessarily insures his own destruction; that new obligations never extinguish the memory of former injuries in the minds of the superior order of men; that liberality, in the end, generally insures more enemies than friends; that it is the nature of mankind to become as much attached to one by the benefits they render as by the favours they receive; that, where the question is as to the taking of life or the confiscation of property, it is useful to remember that men forget the death of their relatives, but not the loss of their patrimony; that, if cruelties should become expedient, they should be committed thoroughly and but once--it is very impolitic to resort to them a second time; that there are three ways of deciding any contest--by fraud, by force, or by law, and a wise man will make the most suitable choice; that there are also three ways of maintaining control in newly-conquered states that have once been free--by ruining them, by inhabiting them, or by permitting them to keep their own laws and to pay tribute. Of these the first will often be found the best, as we may see from the history of the Romans, who were experienced judges of such cases. That, as respects the family of a rival but conquered sovereign, the greatest pains should be taken to extinguish it completely; for history proves, what many fabulous traditions relate, that dangerous political consequences have originated in the escape of some obscure or insignificant member; that men of the highest order, who are, therefore, of sound judgment--who seek for actual social truths for their guidance rather than visionary models which never existed--will conform to the decisions of reason, and never be influenced by feelings of sentiment, unless it is apparent that some collateral advantage will arise from the temporary exhibition thereof; and that they will put a just estimate on the delusions in which the vulgar indulge, casting aside the so-called interventions of Divine Providence, which are, in reality, nothing more than the concatenation of certain circumstances following the ordinary law of cause and effect, but which, by interfering with the action of each other, have assumed a direction which the judgment of the wisest could not have foreseen. Europe has visited with its maledictions the great political writer by whom these atrocious maxims have been recommended, forgetting that his offence consists not in inventing, but in divulging them. His works thus offer the purest example we possess of physical statesmanship. They are altogether impassive. He views the management of a state precisely as he might do the construction of a machine, recommending that such a wheel or such a lever should be introduced, his only inquiry being whether it will accomplish his intention. As to any happiness or misery it may work, he gives himself no concern, unless, indeed, they evidently ought to enter into the calculation. He had suffered the rack himself under a charge of conspiracy, and borne it without flinching. But, before Machiavelli wrote, his principles had all been carried into practice; indeed, it would not be difficult to give abundant examples in proof of the assertion that they had been for ages regarded in Italy as rules of conduct. [Sidenote: Conjoined effect of the intellectual and moral impulses.] Such was the morality which Europe detected as existing in Italy, carried out with inconceivable wickedness in public and private life; and thus the two causes we have been considering--contact with the Saracens in Syria and a knowledge of the real state of things in Rome--conspired together to produce what may be designated as the moral impulse, which, in its turn, conspired with the intellectual. Their association foreboded evil to ecclesiastical authority, thus taken at great disadvantage. Though, from its very birthday, that authority had been in absolute opposition to the intellectual movement, it might, doubtless, for a much longer time have successfully maintained its conflict therewith had the conditions remained unchanged. Up to this time its chief strength reposed upon its moral relations. It could point, and did point the attention of those whose mental culture enabled them to understand the true position of affairs, to Europe brought out of barbarism, and beginning a course of glorious civilization. That achievement was claimed by the Church. If it were true that she had thus brought it to pass, it had been altogether wrought by the agency of her moral power, intellectual influence in no manner aiding therein, but being uniformly, from the time of Constantine the Great to that of the Reformation, instinctively repulsed. When, now, the moral power suffered so great a shock, and was not only ready to go over to, but had actually allied itself with the intellectual, there was great danger to ecclesiastical authority. And hence we need not be surprised that an impression began to prevail among the clear-thinking men of the time that the real functions of that authority were completed in producing the partially-civilized condition to which Europe had attained, the course of events tending evidently to an elimination of that authority as an active element in the approaching European system. [Sidenote: The excuses of ecclesiasticism.] To such the Church might emphatically address herself, pointing out the signal and brilliant results to which she had given rise, and displaying the manifest evils which must inevitably ensue if her relations, as then existing, should be touched. For it must have been plain that the first effect arising from the coalition of the intellectual with the moral element would be an assertion of the right of private judgment in the individual--a condition utterly inconsistent with the dominating influence of authority. It was actually upon that very principle that the battle of the Reformation was eventually fought. She might point out--for it needed no prophetic inspiration--that, if once this principle was yielded, there could be no other issue in Christendom than a total decomposition; that though, for a little while, the separation might be limited to a few great confessions, these, under the very influence of the principle that had brought themselves into existence, must, in their turn, undergo disintegration, and the end of it be a complete anarchy of sects. [Sidenote: Her feeble resistance.] In one sense it may be said that it was in wisdom that the Church took her stand upon this point, determining to make it her base of resistance; unwisely in another, for it was evident that she had already lost the initiative of action, and that her very resistance would constitute the first stage in the process of decomposition. [Sidenote: Contemporaneous changes in Europe.] Europe had made a vast step during its Age of Faith. Spontaneously it had grown through its youth; and the Italians, who had furnished it with many of its ideas, had furnished it also with many of its forms of life. In that respect justice has still to be done them. When Rome broke away from her connexions with Constantinople, a cloud of more than Cimmerian darkness overshadowed Europe. It was occupied by wandering savages. Six hundred years organized it into families, neighbourhoods, cities. Those centuries found it full of bondmen; they left it without a slave. They found it a scene of violence, rapine, lust; they left it the abode of God-fearing men. Where there had been trackless forests, there were innumerable steeples glittering in the sun; where there had been bloody chieftains, drinking out of their enemies' skulls, there were grave ecclesiastics, fathoming the depths of free-will, predestination, election. Investing the clergy with a mysterious superiority, the Church asserted the equality of the laity from the king to the beggar before God. It disregarded wealth and birth, and opened a career for all. Its influence over the family and domestic relations was felt through all classes. It fixed paternity by a previous ceremony; it enforced the rule that a wife passes into the family of her husband, and hence it followed that legitimate children belong to the father, illegitimate to the mother. It compelled women to domestic life, shut them out from the priesthood, and tried to exclude them from government. In a worldly sense, the mistake that Rome committed was this: she attempted to maintain an intellectual immobility in the midst of an advancing social state. She saw not that society could no more be stopped in its career through her mere assertion that it could not and should not move, than that the earth could be checked in its revolution merely because she protested that it was at rest. She tried, first by persuasion and then by force, to arrest the onward movement, but she was overborne, notwithstanding her frantic resistance, by the impetuous current. Very different would it have been had the Italian statesmen boldly put themselves in the van of progress, and, instead of asserting an immutability and infallibility, changed their dogmas and maxims as the progress of events required. Europe need not have waited for Arabs and Jews. [Sidenote: Loss of power in Church organizations.] In describing these various facts, I have endeavoured to point out impressively how the Church, so full of vigour at first, contained within itself the seeds of inevitable decay. From the period when it came into collision with the intellectual and moral elements, the origin of which we have traced, and which conspired together for its overthrow, it exhibited a gradual decline; first losing its influence upon nations, and ceasing to be in them a principle of public action; next, witnessing the alienation of the higher and educated classes, the process descending downward through the social scale, therein retracing the steps of its advance. When ecclesiasticism became so weak as to be unable to regulate international affairs, and was supplanted by diplomacy, in the castle the physician was more than a rival for the confessor, in the town the mayor was a greater man than the abbot. There remained a lingering influence over individuals, who had not yet risen above a belief that it could control their state after death. This decline of its ancient influence should be a cause of rejoicing to all intelligent men, for an ecclesiastical organization allying itself to political power can never now be a source of any good. In America we have seen the bond that held the Church and State together abruptly snapped. [Sidenote: Return of things to the ancient Christian times.] It is therefore well that, since the close of the Age of Faith, things have been coming back with an accelerated pace, to the state in which they were in the early Christian times, before the founder of Constantinople beguiled the devotional spirit to his personal and family benefit--to the state in which they were before ambitious men sought political advancement and wealth by organizing hypocrisy--when maxims of morality, charity, benevolence, were rules of life for individual man--when the monitions of conscience were obeyed without the suggestions of an outward, often an interested and artful prompter--when the individual lived not under the sleepless gaze, the crushing hand of a great overwhelming hierarchical organization, surrounding him on all sides, doing his thinking for him, directing him in his acts, making him a mere automaton, but in simplicity, humility, and truthfulness guiding himself according to the light given him, and discharging the duties of this troublesome and transitory life "as ever in his great Taskmaster's eye." For the progressive degradations exhibited by the Roman Church during the Age of Faith, something may be offered as at once an explanation and an excuse. Machiavelli relates, in his "History of Florence"--a work which, if inferior in philosophical penetration to his "Prince," is of the most singular merit as a literary composition--that Osporco, a Roman, having become pope, exchanged his unseemly name for the more classical one Sergius, and that his successors have ever since observed the practice of assuming a new name. [Sidenote: Connexion of religious ideas in Italy with its ethnical state.] This incident profoundly illustrates the psychical progress of that Church. During the fifteen centuries that we have had under consideration--counting from a little before the Christian era--the population of Italy had been constantly changing. The old Roman ethnical element had become eliminated partly through the republican and imperial wars, and partly through the slave system. The degenerated half-breeds, of whom the Peninsula was full through repeated northern immigrations, degenerated, as time went on, still more and more. After that blood admixture had for the most part ceased, it took a long time for the base ethnical element which was its product to come into physiological correspondence with the country, for the adaptation of man to a new climate is a slow, a secular change. But blood-degeneration implies thought-degeneration. It is nothing more than might be expected that, in this mongrel race, customs, and language, and even names should change--that rivers, and towns, and men should receive new appellations. As the great statesman to whom I have referred observes, Cæsar and Pompey had disappeared; John, Matthew, and Peter had come in their stead. Barbarized names are the outward and visible signs of barbarized ideas. Those early bishops of Rome whose dignified acts have commanded our respect, were men of Roman blood, and animated with sentiments that were truly Latin; but the succeeding pontiffs, whose lives were so infamous and thoughts so base, were engendered of half-breeds. Nor was it until the Italian population had re-established itself in a physiological relation with the country--not until it had passed through the earlier stages of national life--that manly thoughts and true conceptions could be regained. Ideas and dogmas that would not have been tolerated for an instant in the old, pure, homogeneous Roman race, found acceptance in this adulterated, festering mass. This was the true cause of the increasing debasement of Latin Christianity. Whoever will take the trouble of constructing a chart of the religious conceptions as they successively struggled into light, will see how close was their connexion with the physiological state of the Italian ethnical element at the moment. [Sidenote: Successive steps in the religious decline.] It is a sad and humiliating succession. Mariolatry; the invocation of saints; the supreme value of virginity; the working of miracles by relics; the satisfaction of moral crimes by gifts of money or goods to the clergy; the worship of images; Purgatory; the sale of benefices; transubstantiation, or the making of God by the priest; the materialization of God--that He has eyes, feet, hands, toes; the virtue of pilgrimages; vicarious religion, the sinner paying the priest to pray for him; the corporeality of spirits; the forbidding of the Bible to the laity; the descent to shrine-worship and fetichism; the doctrine that man can do more than his duty, and hence have a claim upon God; the sale by the priests of indulgences in sin for money. But there is another, a very different aspect under which we must regard this Church. Enveloped as it was with the many evils of the times, the truly Christian principle which was at its basis perpetually vindicated its power, giving rise to numberless blessings in spite of the degradation and wickedness of man. [Sidenote: Statement of what the Church had actually done.] As I have elsewhere (Physiology, Book II., Chap. VIII.) remarked, "The civil law exerted an exterior power in human relations; Christianity produced an interior and moral change. The idea of an ultimate accountability for personal deeds, of which the old Europeans had an indistinct perception, became intense and precise. The sentiment of universal charity was exemplified not only in individual acts, the remembrance of which soon passes away, but in the more permanent institution of establishments for the relief of affliction, the spread of knowledge, the propagation of truth. Of the great ecclesiastics, many had risen from the humblest ranks of society, and these men, true to their democratic instincts, were often found to be the inflexible supporters of right against might. Eventually coming to be the depositaries of the knowledge that then existed, they opposed intellect to brute force, in many instances successfully, and by the example of the organization of the Church, which was essentially republican, they showed how representative systems may be introduced into the state. Nor was it over communities and nations that the Church displayed her chief power. Never in the world before was there such a system. From her central seat at Rome, her all-seeing eye, like that of Providence itself, could equally take in a hemisphere at a glance, or examine the private life of any individual. Her boundless influences enveloped kings in their palaces, and relieved the beggar at the monastery gate. In all Europe there was not a man too obscure, too insignificant, or too desolate for her. Surrounded by her solemnities, every one received his name at her altar; her bells chimed at his marriage, her knell tolled at his funeral. She extorted from him the secrets of his life at her confessionals, and punished his faults by her penances. In his hour of sickness and trouble her servants sought him out, teaching him, by her exquisite litanies and prayers, to place his reliance on God, or strengthening him for the trials of life by the example of the holy and just. Her prayers had an efficacy to give repose to the souls of his dead. When, even to his friends, his lifeless body had become an offence, in the name of God she received it into her consecrated ground, and under her shadow he rested till the great reckoning-day. From little better than a slave she raised his wife to be his equal, and, forbidding him to have more than one, met her recompense for those noble deeds in a firm friend at every fireside. Discountenancing all impure love, she put round that fireside the children of one mother, and made that mother little less than sacred in their eyes. In ages of lawlessness and rapine, among people but a step above savages, she vindicated the inviolability of her precincts against the hand of power, and made her temples a refuge and sanctuary for the despairing and oppressed. Truly she was the shadow of a great rock in many a weary land!" [Sidenote: Analysis of the career of the Church.] This being the point which I consider the end of the Italian system as a living force in European progress, its subsequent operation being directed to the senses and not to the understanding, it will not be amiss if for a moment we extend our view to later times and to circumstances beyond the strict compass of this book, endeavouring thus to ascertain the condition of the Church, especially as to many devout persons it may doubtless appear that she has lost none of her power. [Sidenote: Four revolts against the Italian system.] On four occasions there have been revolts against the Italian Church system: 1st, in the thirteenth century, the Albigensian; 2nd, in the fourteenth, the Wiclifite; 3rd, in the sixteenth, the Reformation; 4th, in the eighteenth, at the French Revolution. On each of these occasions ecclesiastical authority has exerted whatever offensive or defensive power it possessed. Its action is a true indication of its condition at the time. Astronomers can determine the orbit of a comet or other celestial meteor by three observations of its position as seen from the earth, and taken at intervals apart. [Sidenote: The Albigensian revolt.] 1st. Of the Albigensian revolt. We have ascertained that the origin of this is distinctly traceable to the Mohammedan influence of Spain, through the schools of Cordova and Granada, pervading Languedoc and Provence. Had these agencies produced only the gay scenes of chivalry and courtesy as their material results, and, as their intellectual, war-ballads, satires, and amorous songs, they had been excused; but, along with such elegant frivolities, there was something of a more serious kind. A popular proverb will often betray national belief, and there was a proverb in Provence, "Viler than a priest." The offensive sectaries also quoted, for the edification of the monks, certain texts, to the effect that, "if a man will not work neither let him eat." The event, in the hands of Simon de Montfort, taught them that there is such a thing as wresting Scripture to one's own destruction. How did the Church deal with this Albigensian heresy? As those do who have an absolutely overwhelming power. She did not crush it--that would have been too indulgent; she absolutely annihilated it. Awake to what must necessarily ensue from the imperceptible spread of such opinions, she remorselessly consumed its birthplace with fire and sword; and, fearful that some fugitives might have escaped her vigilant eye, or that heresy might go wherever a bale of goods might be conveyed, she organized the Inquisition with its troops of familiars and spies. Six hundred years have elapsed since these events, and the south of France has never recovered from the blow. That was a persecution worthy of a sovereign--a persecution conducted on sound Italian principles of policy--to consider clearly the end to be attained, and adopt the proper means without any kind of concern as to their nature. But it was a persecution that implied the possession of unlimited and irresponsible power. [Sidenote: The revolt of Wiclif.] 2nd. Of the revolt of Wiclif. We have also considered the state of affairs which aroused the resistance of Wiclif. It is manifested by legal enactments early in the fourteenth century, such as that ecclesiastics shall not go armed, nor join themselves with thieves, nor frequent taverns, nor chambers of strumpets, nor visit nuns, nor play at dice, nor keep concubines--by the Parliamentary bill of 1376, setting forth that the tax paid in England to the pope for ecclesiastical dignities is fourfold as much as that coming to the king from the whole realm; that alien clergy, who have never seen nor care to see their flocks, convey away the treasure of the country--by the homely preaching of John Ball, that all men are equal in the sight of God. Wiclif's opposition was not only directed against corruptions of discipline in the Church, but equally against doctrinal errors. His dogma that "God bindeth not men to believe any thing they cannot understand" is a distinct embodiment of the rights of reason, and the noble purpose he carried into execution of translating the Bible from the Vulgate shows in what direction he intended the application of that doctrine to be made. Through the influence of the queen of Richard the Second, who was a native of that country, his doctrines found an echo in Bohemia--Huss not only earnestly adopting his theological views, but also joining in his resistance to the despotism of the court of Rome and his exposures of the corruptions of the clergy. The political point of this revolt in England occurs in the refusal of Edward III., at the instigation of Wiclif, to do homage to the pope; the religious, in the translation of the Bible. Though a bull was sent to London requiring the arch-heretic to be seized and put in irons, Wiclif died in his bed, and his bones rested quietly in the grave for forty-four years. Ecclesiastical vengeance burned them at last, and scattered them to the winds. There was no remissness in the ecclesiastical authority, but there were victories won by the blind hero, John Zisca. After the death of that great soldier--whose body was left by the road-side to the wolves and crows, and his skin dried and made into a drum--in vain was all that perfidy could suggest and all that brutality could execute resorted to--in vain the sword and fire were passed over Bohemia, and the last effort of impotent vengeance tried in England--the heretics could not be exterminated nor the detested translation of the Bible destroyed. [Sidenote: The revolt of Luther.] 3rd. Of the revolt of Luther. As we shall have, in a subsequent chapter, to consider the causes that led to the Reformation, it is not necessary to anticipate them in any detail here. The necessities of the Roman treasury, which suggested the doctrine of supererogation and the sale of indulgences as a ready means of relief, merely brought on a crisis which otherwise could not have been long postponed, the real point at issue being the right of interpretation of the Scriptures by private judgment. The Church did not restrict her resistance to the use of ecclesiastical weapons--those of a carnal kind she also employed. Yet we look in vain for the concentrated energy with which she annihilated the Albigenses, or the atrocious policy with which the Hussites were met. The times no longer permitted those things. But the struggle was maintained with unflinching constancy through the disasters and successes of one hundred and thirty years. Then came the peace of Westphalia, and the result of the contest was ascertained. The Church had lost the whole of northern Europe. [Sidenote: The revolt of the philosophers.] 4th. Of the revolt of the philosophers. Besides the actual loss of the nations who openly fell away to Protestantism, a serious detriment was soon found to have befallen those still remaining nominally faithful to the Church. The fact of secession or adherence depending, in a monarchy, on the personal caprice or policy of the sovereign, is by no means a true index of the opinions or relations of the subjects; and thus it happened that in several countries in which there was an outward appearance of agreement with the Church because of the attitude of the government, there was, in reality, a total disruption, so far as the educated and thinking classes were concerned. This was especially the case in France. When the voyage of circumnavigation of the globe by Magellan had for ever settled all such questions as those of the figure of the earth and the existence of the antipodes, the principles upon which the contest was composed between the conflicting parties are obvious from the most superficial perusal of the history of physics. Free thought was extorted for science, and, as its equivalent, an unmolested state for theology. It was an armed truce. It was not through either of the parties to that conflict that new troubles arose, but through the action of a class fast rising into importance--literary men. From the beginning to the middle of the last century these philosophers became more and more audacious in their attacks. Unlike the scientific, whose theological action was by implication rather than in a direct way, these boldly assaulted the intellectual basis of faith. The opportune occurrence of the American Revolution, by bringing forward in a prominent manner social evils and political methods for their cure, gave a practical application to the movement in Europe, and the Church was found unable to offer any kind of resistance. [Sidenote: Summary of the Italian system.] From these observations of the state of the Church at four different epochs of her career we are able to determine her movement. There is a time of abounding strength, a time of feebleness, a time of ruinous loss, a time of utter exhaustion. What a difference between the eleventh and the eighteenth centuries! It is the noontide and evening of a day of empire. CHAPTER V. APPROACH OF THE AGE OF REASON IN EUROPE. IT IS PRECEDED BY MARITIME DISCOVERY. _Consideration of the definite Epochs of Social Life._ _Experimental Philosophy emerging in the Age of Faith._ _The Age of Reason ushered in by Maritime Discovery and the rise of European Criticism._ MARITIME DISCOVERY.--_The three great Voyages._ COLUMBUS _discovers America_.--DE GAMA _doubles the Cape and reaches India_.--MAGELLAN _circumnavigates the Earth.--The Material andintellectual Results of each of these Voyages._ DIGRESSION ON THE SOCIAL CONDITION OF AMERICA.--_In isolated human Societies the process of Thought and of Civilization is always the same.--Man passes through a determinate succession of Ideas and embodies them in determinate Institutions.--The state of Mexico and Peru proves the influence of Law in the development of Man._ [Sidenote: Peculiarities of the Age of Reason.] I have arrived at the last division of my work, the period in national life answering to maturity in individual. The objects to be considered differ altogether from those which have hitherto occupied our attention. We have now to find human authority promoting intellectual advancement, and accepting as its maxim that the lot of man will be ameliorated, and his power and dignity increased, in proportion as he is able to comprehend the mechanism of the world, the action of natural laws, and to apply physical forces to his use. [Sidenote: Natural periods merge into one another.] The date at which this transition in European life was made will doubtless be differently given according as the investigator changes his point of view. In truth, there is not in national life any real epoch, because there is nothing in reality abrupt. Events, however great or sudden, are consequences of preparations long ago made. In this there is a perfect parity between the course of national and that of individual life. In the individual, one state merges by imperceptible degrees into another, each in its beginning and end being altogether indistinct. No one can tell at what moment he ceased to be a child and became a boy--at what moment he ceased to be a youth and became a man. Each condition, examined at a suitable interval, exhibits characteristics perfectly distinctive, but, at their common point of contact, the two so overlap and blend that, like the intermingling of shadow and light, the beginning of one and end of the other may be very variously estimated. [Sidenote: Artificial epochs.] In individual life, since no precise natural epoch exists, society has found it expedient to establish an artificial one, as, for example, the twenty-first year. The exigencies of history may be satisfied by similar fictions. A classical critic would probably be justified in selecting for his purpose the foundation of Constantinople as the epoch of the commencement of the Age of Faith, and its capture by the Turks as the close. It must be admitted that a very large number of historical events stand in harmony with that arrangement. [Sidenote: Origin and end of the Age of Faith.] A political writer would perhaps be disposed to postpone the date of the latter epoch to that of the treaty of Westphalia, for from that time theological elements ceased to have a recognized force, Protestant, Catholic, Mohammedan, consorting promiscuously together in alliance or at war, according as temporary necessities might indicate. Besides these other artificial epochs might be assigned, each doubtless having advantages to recommend it to notice. But, after all, the chief peculiarity is obvious enough. It is the gradual decline of a system that had been in activity for many ages, and its gradual replacement by another. [Sidenote: Prelude to the Age of Reason.] As with the Age of Reason in Greece, so with the Age of Reason in Europe, there is a prelude marked by the gradual emergence of a sound philosophy; a true logic displaces the supernatural; experiment supersedes speculation. It is very interesting to trace the feeble beginnings of modern science in alchemy and natural magic in countries where no one could understand the writings of Alhazen or the Arabian philosophers. Out of many names of those who took part in this movement that might be mentioned there are some that deserve recollection. [Sidenote: Albertus Magnus, the Dominican.] Albertus Magnus was born A.D. 1193. It was said of him that "he was great in magic, greater in philosophy, greatest in theology." By religious profession he was a Dominican. Declining the temptations of ecclesiastical preferment, he voluntarily resigned his bishopric, that he might lead in privacy a purer life. As was not uncommon in those days, he was accused of illicit commerce with Satan, and many idle stories were told of the miracles he wrought. At a great banquet on a winter's day, he produced all the beauties of spring--trees in full foliage, flowers in perfume, meadows covered with grass; but, at a word, the phantom pageant was dissolved, and succeeded by appropriate wastes of snow. This was an exaggeration of an entertainment he gave, January 6th, 1259, in the hot-house of the convent garden. He interested himself in the functions of plants, was well acquainted with what is called the sleep of flowers, studied their opening and closing. He understood that the sap is diminished in volume by evaporation from the leaves. He was the first to use the word "affinity" in its modern acceptation. His chemical studies present us with some interesting details. He knew that the whitening of copper by arsenic is not a transmutation, but only the production of an alloy, since the arsenic can be expelled by heat. He speaks of potash as an alkali; describes several acetates; and alludes to the blackening of the skin with nitrate of silver. [Sidenote: Roger Bacon, discoveries of.] Contemporary with him was Roger Bacon, born A.D. 1214. His native country has never yet done him justice, though his contemporaries truly spoke of him as "the Admirable Doctor." The great friar of the thirteenth century has been eclipsed by an unworthy namesake. His claims on posterity are enforced by his sufferings and ten years' imprisonment for the cause of truth. His history, so far as is known, may be briefly told. He was born at Ilchester, in Somersetshire, and studied at the University of Oxford. Thence he went to the University of Paris, where he took the degree of doctor of theology. He was familiar with Latin, Greek, Hebrew, and Arabic. Of mathematics he truly says that "it is the first of all the sciences; indeed, it precedes all others, and disposes us to them." In advance of his age, he denied the authority of Aristotle, and tells us that we must substitute that of experiment for it. Of his astronomical acquirements we need no better proof than his recommendation to Pope Clement IV. to rectify the Calendar in the manner actually done subsequently. If to him be rightly attributed the invention of spectacles, the human race is his debtor. He described the true theory of telescopes and microscopes, saying that lenses may be ground and arranged in such a way as to render it possible to read the smallest letters at incredible distances, and to count grains of sand and dust, because of the magnitude of the angle under which we may perceive such objects. He foresaw the greatest of all inventions in practical astronomy--the application of optical means to instruments for the measurement of angles. He proposed the propulsion of ships through the water and of carriages upon roads by merely mechanical means. He speculated upon the possibility of making a flying-machine. Admitting the truth of alchemy, he advised the experimenter to find out the method by which Nature makes metals and then to imitate it. He knew that there are different kinds of air, and tells us that there is one which will extinguish flame. These are very clear views for an age which mistook the gases for leather-eared ghosts. He warned us to be cautious how we conclude that we have accomplished the transmutation of metals, quaintly observing that the distance between whitened copper and pure silver is very great. He showed that air is necessary for the support of fire, and was the author of the well-known experiment illustrating that fact by putting a lighted lamp under a bell-jar and observing its extinction. [Sidenote: Is persecuted and imprisoned.] There is no little significance in the expression of Friar Bacon that the ignorant mind cannot sustain the truth. He was accused of magical practices and of a commerce with Satan, though, during the life of Clement IV., who was his friend, he escaped without public penalties. This pope had written to him a request that he would furnish him an account of his various inventions. In compliance therewith, Bacon sent him the "Opus Majus" and other works, together with several mathematical instruments which he had made with his own hands. But, under the pontificate of Nicolas III., the accusation of magic, astrology, and selling himself to the Devil was again pressed, one point being that he had proposed to construct astronomical tables for the purpose of predicting future events. Apprehending the worst, he tried to defend himself by his work "De Nullitate Magiæ." "Because these things are beyond your comprehension, you call them the works of the Devil; your theologians and canonists abhor them as the productions of magic, regarding them as unworthy of a Christian." But it was in vain. His writings were condemned as containing dangerous and suspected novelties, and he was committed to prison. There he remained for ten years, until, broken in health, he was released from punishment by the intercession of some powerful and commiserating personages. He died at the age of seventy-eight. On his death-bed he uttered the melancholy complaint, "I repent now that I have given myself so much trouble for the love of science." If there be found in his works sentiments that are more agreeable to the age in which he lived than to ours, let us recollect what he says in his third letter to Pope Clement: "It is on account of the ignorance of those with whom I have had to deal that I have not been able to accomplish more." [Sidenote: Minor alchemists of England, France, and Germany.] A number of less conspicuous though not unknown names succeed to Bacon. There is Raymond Lully, who was said to have been shut up in the Tower of London and compelled to make gold for Edward II.; Guidon de Montanor, the inventor of the philosopher's balm; Clopinel, the author of the "Romance of the Rose;" Richard the Englishman, who makes the sensible remark that he who does not join theory to practice is like an ass eating hay and not reflecting on what he is doing; Master Ortholan, who describes very prettily the making of nitric acid, and approaches to the preparation of absolute alcohol under the title of the quintessence of wine; Bernard de Treves, who obtained much reputation for the love-philters he prepared for Charles V. of France, their efficacy having been ascertained by experiments made on servant-girls; Bartholomew, the Englishman who first described the method of crystallizing and purifying sugar; Eck de Sulzbach, who teaches how metallic crystallizations, such as the tree of Diana, a beautiful silvery vegetation, may be produced. He proved experimentally that metals, when they oxidize, increase in weight; and says that in the month of November, A.D. 1489, he found that six pounds of an amalgam of silver heated for eight days augmented in weight three pounds. The number is, of course, erroneous, but his explanation is very surprising. "This augmentation of weight comes from this, that a spirit is united with the metal; and what proves it is that this artificial cinnabar, submitted to distillation, disengages that spirit." He was within a hair's-breadth of anticipating Priestley and Lavoisier by three hundred years. [Sidenote: Augurelli, the poetical alchemist.] The alchemists of the sixteenth century not only occupied themselves with experiment; some of them, as Augurelli, aspired to poetry. He undertook to describe in Latin verses the art of making gold. His book, entitled "Chrysopoeia," was dedicated to Leo X., a fact which shows the existence of a greater public liberality of sentiment than heretofore. It is said that the author expected the Holy Father to make him a handsome recompense, but the good-natured pope merely sent him a large empty sack, saying that he who knew how to make gold so admirably only needed a purse to put it in. [Sidenote: Basil Valentine introduces antimony.] The celebrated work of Basil Valentine, entitled "Currus triumphalis Antimonii," introduced the metal antimony into the practice of medicine. The attention of this author was first directed to the therapeutical relations of the metal by observing that some swine, to which a portion of it had been given, grew fat with surprising rapidity. There were certain monks in his vicinity who, during the season of Lent, had reduced themselves to the last degree of attenuation by fasting and other mortifications of the flesh. On these Basil was induced to try the powers of the metal. To his surprise, instead of recovering their flesh and fatness, they were all killed; hence the name popularly given to the metal, antimoine, because it does not agree with the constitution of a monk. Up to this time it had passed under the name of stibium. With a result not very different was the application of antimony in the composition of printer's type-metal. Administered internally or thus mechanically used, this metal proved equally noxious to ecclesiastics. [Sidenote: The new epoch.] It is scarcely necessary to continue the relation of these scientific trifles. Enough has been said to illustrate the quickly-spreading taste for experimental inquiry. I now hasten to the description of more important things. [Sidenote: Difficulty of treating it scientifically.] In the limited space of this book I must treat these subjects, not as they should be dealt with philosophically, but in the manner that circumstances permit. Even with this imperfection, their description spontaneously assumes an almost dramatic form, the facts offering themselves to all reflecting men with an air of surpassing dignity. On one hand it is connected with topics the most sublime, on the other it descends to incidents the most familiar and useful; on one hand it elevates our minds to the relations of suns and myriads of worlds, on the other it falls to the every-day acts of our domestic and individual life; on one hand it turns our thoughts to a vista of ages so infinite that the vanishing point is in eternity, on the other it magnifies into importance the transitory occupation of a passing hour. Knowing how great are the requirements for the right treatment of such topics, I might shrink from this portion of my book with a conviction of incapacity. I enter upon it with hesitation, trusting rather to the considerate indulgence of the reader than to any worthiness in the execution of the work. In the history of the philosophical life of Greece, we have seen (Chapter II.) how important were the influences of maritime discovery and the rise of criticism. Conjointly they closed the Greek Age of Faith. In the life of Europe, at the point we have now reached, they came into action again. [Sidenote: Approach of the Age of Reason.] As on this occasion the circumstances connected with them are numerous and important, I shall consider them separately in this and the following chapter. And, first, of maritime enterprise, which was the harbinger of the Age of Reason in Europe. It gave rise to three great voyages--the discovery of America, the doubling of the Cape, and the circumnavigation of the earth. [Sidenote: State of Mediterranean trade.] At the time of which we are speaking, the commerce of the Mediterranean was chiefly in two directions. The ports of the Black Sea furnished suitable depôts for produce brought down the Tanaïs and other rivers, and for a large portion of the India trade that had come across the Caspian. The seat of this commerce was Genoa. The other direction was the south-east. The shortest course to India was along the Euphrates and the Persian Gulf, but the Red and Arabian seas offered a cheaper and safer route. In the ports of Syria and Egypt were therefore found the larger part of the commodities of India. This trade centred in Venice. A vast development had been given to it through the Crusades, the Venetians probably finding in the transport service of the Holy Wars as great a source of profit as in the India trade. [Sidenote: Rivalry of Genoa and Venice.] Toward the latter part of the fourteenth century it became apparent that the commercial rivalry between Venice and Genoa would terminate to the disadvantage of the latter. The irruption of the Tartars and invasion of the Turks had completely dislocated her Asiatic lines of trade. In the wars between the two republics Genoa had suffered severely. Partly for this reason, and partly through the advantageous treaties that Venice had made with the sultans, giving her the privilege of consulates at Alexandria and Damascus, this republic had at last attained a supremacy over all competitors. The Genoese establishments on the Black Sea had become worthless. [Sidenote: Attempt to reach India by the west.] With ruin before them, and unwilling to yield their Eastern connexions, the merchants of Genoa had tried to retrieve their affairs by war; her practical sailors saw that she might be re-established in another way. There were among them some who were well acquainted with the globular form of the earth, and with what had been done by the Mohammedan astronomers for determining its circumference by the measurement of a degree on the shore of the Red Sea. These men originated the attempt to reach India by sailing to the west. [Sidenote: Opposition to this scheme.] By two parties--the merchants and the clergy--their suggestions were received with little favour. The former gave no encouragement, perhaps because such schemes were unsuited to their existing arrangements; the latter disliked them because of their suspected irreligious nature. The globular form had been condemned by such fathers as Lactantius and Augustine. In the Patristic Geography the earth is a flat surface bordered by the waters of the sea, on the yielding support of which rests the crystalline dome of the sky. These doctrines were for the most part supported by passages from the Holy Scriptures, perversely wrested from their proper meaning. Thus Cosmas Indicopleustes, whose Patristic Geography had been an authority for nearly eight hundred years, triumphantly disposed of the sphericity of the earth by demanding of its advocates how in the day of judgment, men on the other side of a globe could see the Lord descending through the air! Among the Genoese sailors seeking the welfare of their city was one destined for immortality--Christopher Columbus. [Sidenote: Columbus, early life of.] His father was a wool-comber, yet not a man of the common sort. He procured for his son a knowledge of arithmetic, drawing, painting; and Columbus is said to have written a singularly beautiful hand. For a short time he was at the University of Pavia, but he went to sea when he was only fourteen. After being engaged in the Syrian trade for many years, he had made several voyages to Guinea, occupying his time when not at sea in the construction of charts for sale, thereby supporting not only himself, but also his aged father, and finding means for the education of his brothers. Under these circumstances he had obtained a competent knowledge of geography, and, though the state of public opinion at the time did not permit such doctrines to be openly avowed, he believed that the sea is everywhere navigable, that the earth is round and not flat, that there are antipodes, that the torrid zone is habitable, and that there is a proportionate distribution of land in the northern and southern hemispheres. [Sidenote: His argument for lands to the west.] Adopting the Patristic logic when it suited his purpose, he reasoned that since the earth is made for man, it is not likely that its surface is too largely covered with water, and that, if there are lands, they must be inhabited, since the command was renewed at the Flood that man should replenish the earth. He asked, "Is it likely that the sun shines upon nothing, and that the nightly watches of the stars are wasted on trackless seas and desert lands?" But to this reasoning he added facts that were more substantial. One Martin Vincent, who had sailed many miles to the west of the Azores, related to him that he had found, floating on the sea, a piece of timber evidently carved without iron. Another sailor, Pedro Correa, his brother-in-law, had met with enormous canes. On the coast of Flores the sea had cast up two dead men with large faces, of a strange aspect. Columbus appears to have formed his theory that the East Indies could be reached by sailing to the west about A.D. 1474. He was at that time in correspondence with Toscanelli, the Florentine astronomer, who held the same doctrine, and who sent him a map or chart constructed on the travels of Marco Polo. He offered his services first to his native city, then to Portugal, then to Spain, and, through his brother, to England; his chief inducement in each instance being that the riches of India might be thus secured. In Lisbon he had married. While he lay sick near Belem an unknown voice whispered to him in a dream, "God will cause thy name to be wonderfully resounded through the earth, and will give thee the keys of the gates of the ocean, which are closed with strong chains!" The death of his wife appears to have broken the last link which held him to Portugal, where he had been since 1470. One evening, in the autumn of 1485, a man of majestic presence, pale, care-worn, and, though in the meridian of life, with silver hair, leading a little boy by the hand, asked alms at the gate of the Franciscan convent near Palos--not for himself, but only a little bread and water for his child. This was that Columbus destined to give to Europe a new world. [Sidenote: Is confuted by the Council of Salamanca.] In extreme poverty, he was making his way to the Spanish court. After many wearisome delays his suit was referred to a council at Salamanca, before which, however, his doctrines were confuted from the Pentateuch, the Psalms, the Prophecies, the Gospels, the Epistles, and the writings of the fathers--St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, St. Jerome, St. Gregory, St. Basil, St. Ambrose. Moreover, they were demonstrably inconsistent with reason; since, if even he should depart from Spain, "the rotundity of the earth would present a kind of mountain up which it was impossible for him to sail, even with the fairest wind;" and so he could never get back. The Grand Cardinal of Spain had also indicated their irreligious nature, and Columbus began to fear that, instead of receiving aid as a discoverer, he should fall into trouble as a heretic. [Sidenote: Queen Isabella adopts his views.] However, after many years of mortification and procrastination, he at length prevailed with Queen Isabella; and on April 17, 1492, in the field before Granada, then just wrenched from the Mohammedans by the arms of Ferdinand and Isabella, he received his commission. With a nobleness of purpose, he desired no reward unless he should succeed; but, in that case, stipulated that he should have the title of Admiral and Viceroy, and that his perquisite should be one tenth of all he should discover--conditions which show what manner of man this great sailor was. [Sidenote: The expedition prepared.] He had bound himself to contribute one-eighth to the expenses of the expedition: this he accomplished through the Pinzons of Palos, an old and wealthy seafaring family. These arrangements once ratified, he lost not a moment in completing the preparations for his expedition. The royal authority enabled him to take--forcibly, if necessary--both ships and men. But even with that advantage he would hardly have succeeded if the Pinzons had not joined heartily with him, personally sharing in the dangers of the voyage. [Sidenote: The voyage across the Atlantic.] The sun, by journeying to the west, rises on India at last. On Friday, August 3, 1492, the weary struggles and heart-sickness of eighteen years of supplication were over, and, as the day was breaking, Columbus sailed with three little ships from Palos, carrying with him charts constructed on the basis of that which Toscanelli had formerly sent, and also a letter to the Grand Khan of Tartary. On the 9th he saw the Canaries, being detained among them three weeks by the provisioning and repairing of his ships. He left them on September 6th, escaping the pursuit of some caravels sent out by the Portuguese government to intercept him. He now steered due west. Nothing of interest occurred until nightfall on September 13th, when he remarked with surprise that the needle, which the day before had pointed due north, was varying half a point to the west, the effect becoming more and more marked as the expedition advanced. He was now beyond the track of any former navigator, and with no sure guide but the stars; the heaven was everywhere, and everywhere the sea. On Sunday, 16th, he encountered many floating weeds, and picked up what was mistaken for a live grasshopper. For some days the weeds increased in quantity, and retarded the sailing of the ships. On the 19th two pelicans flew on board. Thus far he had had an easterly wind; but on September 20th it changed to south-west, and many little birds, "such as those that sing in orchards," were seen. His men now became mutinous, and reproached the king and queen for trusting to "this bold Italian, who wanted to make a great lord of himself at the price of their lives." On September 25th Pinzon reported to him that he thought he saw land; but it proved to be only clouds. With great difficulty he kept down his mutinous crew. On October 2nd he observed the seaweeds drifting from east to west. Pinzon, in the Pinta, having seen a flight of parrots going to the south-west, the course was altered on October 7th, and he steered after them west-south-west; he had hitherto been on the parallel 26° N. On the evening of October 11th the signs of land had become so unmistakable that, after vesper hymn to the Virgin, he made an address of congratulation to his crew, and commended watchfulness to them. [Sidenote: Discovery of America.] His course was now due west. A little before midnight, Columbus, on the fore-castle of his ship, saw a moving light at a distance; and two hours after a signal-gun was fired from the Pinta. A sailor, Rodrigo de Triana, had descried land. The ships were laid to. As soon as day dawned they made it out to be a verdant island. There were naked Indians upon the beach watching their movements. At sunrise, October 12, 1492, the boats were manned and armed, and Columbus was the first European to set foot on the new world. [Sidenote: Events of the voyage.] The chief events of the voyage of Columbus were, 1st. The discovery of the line of no magnetic variation, which, as we shall see, eventually led to the circumnavigation of the earth. 2nd. The navigability of the sea to the remote west, the weeds not offering any insuperable obstruction. When the ships left Palos it was universally believed that the final border or verge of the earth is where the western sky rests upon the sea, and the air and clouds, fogs and water, are commingled. Indeed, that boundary could not actually be attained; for, long before it was possible to reach it, the sea was laden with inextricable weeds, through which a ship could not pass. This legend was perhaps derived from the stories of adventurous sailors, who had been driven by stress of weather towards the Sargasso Sea, and seen an island of weeds many hundreds of square miles in extent--green meadows floating in the ocean. 3rd. As to the new continent, Columbus never knew the nature of his own discovery. He died in the belief that it was actually some part of Asia, and Americus Vespucius entertained the same misconception. Their immediate successors supposed that Mexico was the Quinsay, in China, of Marco Polo. For this reason I do not think that the severe remark that the "name of America is a monument of human injustice" is altogether merited. Had the true state of things been known, doubtless the event would have been different. The name of America first occurs in an edition of Ptolemy's Geography, on a map by Hylacomylus. [Sidenote: End of Patristic Geography.] Two other incidents of no little interest followed this successful voyage: the first was the destruction of Patristic Geography; the second the consequence of the flight of Pinzon's parrots. Though, as we now know, the conclusion that India had been reached was not warranted by the facts, it was on all sides admitted that the old doctrine was overthrown, and that the admiral had reached Asia by sailing to the west. This necessarily implied the globular form of the earth. As to the second, never was an augury more momentous than that flight of parrots. It has been well said that this event determined the distribution of Latin and German Christianity in the New World. [Sidenote: Previous Scandinavian discovery.] The discovery of America by Leif, the son of Eric the Red, A.D. 1000, cannot diminish the claims of Columbus. The wandering Scandinavians had reached the shores of America first in the vicinity of Nantucket, and had given the name of Vinland to the region extending from beyond Boston to the south of New York. But the memory of these voyages seems totally to have passed away, or the lands were confounded with Greenland, to which Nicolas V. had appointed a bishop A.D. 1448. Had these traditions been known to or respected by Columbus, he would undoubtedly have steered his ships more to the north. [Sidenote: The papal grant to Spain.] Immediately on the return of Columbus, March 15, 1493, the King and Queen of Spain despatched an ambassador to Pope Alexander VI. for the purpose of insuring their rights to the new territories, on the same principle that Martin V. had already given to the King of Portugal possession of all lands he might discover between Cape Bojador and the East Indies, with plenary indulgence for the souls of those who perished in the conquest. The pontifical action was essentially based on the principle that pagans and infidels have no lawful property in their lands and goods, but that the children of God may rightfully take them away. The bull that was issued bears date May, 1493. Its principle is, that all countries under the sun are subject of right to papal disposal. It gives to Spain, in the fulness of apostolic power, all lands west and south of a line drawn from the Arctic to the Antarctic pole, one hundred leagues west of the Azores. The donation includes, by the authority of Almighty God, whatever there is toward India, but saves the existing rights of any Christian princes. It forbids, under pain of excommunication, any one trading in that direction, threatening the indignation of Almighty God and his holy apostles Peter and Paul. It directs the barbarous nations to be subdued, and no pains to be spared for reducing the Indians to Christianity. [Sidenote: The magnetic line of no variation.] This suggestion of the line of no magnetic variation was due to Columbus, who fell into the error of supposing it to be immovable. The infallibility of the pontiff not extending to matters of science, he committed the same mistake. In a few years it was discovered that the line of no variation was slowly moving to the east. It coincided with the meridian of London in 1662. [Sidenote: Patristic ethnical ideas.] The obstacles that Patristic Geography had thrown in the way of maritime adventure were thus finally removed, but Patristic Ethnology led to a fearful tragedy. With a critical innocence that seems to have overlooked physical impossibilities and social difficulties, it had been the practice to refer the peopling of nations to legendary heroes or to the patriarchs of Scripture. The French were descended from Francus, the son of Hector; the Britons from Brutus, the son of Æneas; the genealogy of the Saxon kings could be given up to Adam; but it may excite our mirthful surprise that the conscientious Spanish chronicles could rise no higher than to Tubal, the grandson of Noah. The divisions of the Old World, Asia, Africa, and Europe, were assigned to the three sons of Noah--Shem, Ham, and Japheth; and the parentage of those continents was given to those patriarchs respectively. In this manner all mankind were brought into a family relationship, all equally the descendants of Adam, equally participators in his sin and fall. As long as it was supposed that the lands of Columbus were a part of Asia there was no difficulty; but when the true position and relations of the American continent were discovered, that it was separated from Asia by a waste of waters of many thousand miles, how did the matter stand with the new-comers thus suddenly obtruded on the scene? [Sidenote: Denial that the Indians are men.] The voice of the fathers was altogether against the possibility of their Adamic descent. St. Augustine had denied the globular form and the existence of Antipodes; for it was impossible that there should be people on what was thus vainly asserted to be the other side of the earth, since none such are mentioned in the Scriptures. The lust for gold was only too ready to find its justification in the obvious conclusion; and the Spaniards, with appalling atrocity, proceeded to act toward these unfortunates as though they did not belong to the human race. Already their lands and goods had been taken from them by apostolic authority. [Sidenote: The American tragedy.] Their persons were next seized, under the text that the heathen are given as an inheritance, and the uttermost parts of the earth for a possession. It was one unspeakable outrage, one unutterable ruin, with out discrimination of age or sex. Those who died not under the lash in a tropical sun died in the darkness of the mine. From sequestered sand-banks, where the red flamingo fishes in the grey of the morning; from fever-stricken mangrove thickets, and the gloom of impenetrable forests; from hiding-places in the clefts of rocks, and the solitude of invisible caves; from the eternal snows of the Andes, where there was no witness but the all-seeing Sun, there went up to God a cry of human despair. By millions upon millions, whole races and nations were remorselessly cut off. The Bishop of Chiapa affirms that more than fifteen millions were exterminated in his time! [Sidenote: The crime of Spain.] From Mexico and Peru a civilization that might have instructed Europe was crushed out. Is it for nothing that Spain has been made a hideous skeleton among living nations, a warning spectacle to the world? Had not her punishment overtaken her, men would have surely said, "There is no retribution, there is no God!" It has been her evil destiny to ruin two civilizations, Oriental and Occidental, and to be ruined thereby herself. With circumstances of dreadful barbarity she expelled the Moors, who had become children of her soil by as long a residence as the Normans have had in England from William the Conqueror to our time. In America she destroyed races more civilized than herself. Expulsion and emigration have deprived her of her best blood, her great cities have sunk into insignificance, and towns that once had more than a million of inhabitants can now only show a few scanty thousands. The discovery of America agitated Europe to its deepest foundations. All classes of men were affected. The populace at once went wild with a lust of gold and a love of adventure. Well might Pomponius Lætus, under process for his philosophical opinions in Rome, shed tears of joy when tidings of the great event reached him; well might Leo X., a few years later, sit up till far in the night reading to his sister and his cardinals the "Oceanica" of Anghiera. * * * * * [Sidenote: Vasco de Gama. African coasting voyages.] If Columbus failed in his attempt to reach India by sailing to the west, Vasco de Gama succeeded by sailing to the south. He doubled the Cape of Good Hope, and retraced the track of the ships of Pharaoh Necho, which had accomplished the same undertaking two thousand years previously. The Portuguese had been for long engaged in an examination of the coast of Africa under the bull of Martin V., which recognised the possibility of reaching India by passing round that continent. It is an amusing instance of making scientific discoveries by contract, that King Alphonso made a bargain with Ferdinand Gomez, of Lisbon, for the exploration of the African coast, the stipulation being that he should discover not less than three hundred miles every year, and that the starting-point should be Sierra Leone. [Sidenote: Papal confines of Spain and Portugal.] We have seen that a belief in the immobility of the line of no magnetic variation had led Pope Alexander VI. to establish a perpetual boundary between the Spanish and Portuguese possessions and fields of adventure. That line he considered to be the natural boundary between the eastern and western hemispheres. An accurate determination of longitude was therefore a national as well as a nautical question. Columbus had relied on astronomical methods; Gilbert at a subsequent period proposed to determine it by magnetical observations. The variation itself could not be accounted for on the doctrine vulgarly received, that magnetism is an effluvium issuing forth from the root of the tail of the Little Bear, but was scientifically, though erroneously, explained by Gilbert's hypothesis that earthy substance is attractive--that a needle approaching a continent will incline toward it; and hence that in the midst of the Atlantic, being equally disturbed by Europe and America, it will point evenly between both. [Sidenote: News that Africa might be doubled.] Pedro de Covilho had sent word to King John II., from Cairo, by two Jews, Rabbi Abraham and Rabbi Joseph, that there was a south cape of Africa which could be doubled. They brought with them an Arabic map of the African coast. This was about the time that Bartholomew Diaz had reached the Cape in two little pinnaces of fifty tons apiece. He sailed August, 1486, and returned December, 1487, with an account of his discovery. Covilho had learned from the Arabian mariners, who were perfectly familiar with the east coast, that they had frequently been at the south of Africa, and that there was no difficulty in passing round the continent that way. [Sidenote: De Gama's successful voyage. He reaches India.] A voyage to the south is even more full of portents than one to the west. The accustomed heavens seem to sink away, and new stars are nightly approached. Vasco de Gama set sail July 9, 1497, with three ships and 160 men, having with him the Arab map. King John had employed his Jewish physicians, Roderigo and Joseph, to devise what help they could from the stars. They applied the astrolabe to marine use, and constructed tables. These were the same doctors who had told him that Columbus would certainly succeed in reaching India, and advised him to send out a secret expedition in anticipation, which was actually done, though it failed through want of resolution in its captain. Encountering the usual difficulties, tempestuous weather, and a mutinous crew, who conspired to put him to death, De Gama succeeded, November 20, in doubling the Cape. On March 1st he met seven small Arab vessels, and was surprised to find that they used the compass, quadrants, sea-charts, and "had divers maritime mysteries not short of the Portugals." With joy he soon after recovered sight of the northern stars, so long unseen. He now bore away to the north-east, and on May 19, 1498, reached Calicut, on the Malabar coast. [Sidenote: A commercial revolution the result.] The consequences of this voyage were to the last degree important. The commercial arrangements of Europe were completely dislocated; Venice was deprived of her mercantile supremacy; the hatred of Genoa was gratified; prosperity left the Italian towns; Egypt, hitherto supposed to possess a pre-eminent advantage as offering the best avenue to India, suddenly lost her position; the commercial monopolies so long in the hands of the European Jews were broken down. The discovery of America and passage of the Cape were the first steps of that prodigious maritime development soon exhibited by Western Europe. And since commercial prosperity is forthwith followed by the production of men and concentration of wealth, and moreover implies an energetic intellectual condition, it appeared before long that the three centres of population, of wealth, of intellect were shifting westwardly. The front of Europe was suddenly changed; the British islands, hitherto in a sequestered and eccentric position, were all at once put in the van of the new movement. * * * * * [Sidenote: Ferdinand Magellan enters the Spanish service.] Commercial rivalry had thus passed from Venice and Genoa to Spain and Portugal. The circumnavigation of the earth originated in a dispute between these kingdoms respecting the Molucca Islands, from which nutmegs, cloves, and mace were obtained. Ferdinand Magellan had been in the service of the King of Portugal; but an application he had made for an increase of half a ducat a month in his stipend having been refused, he passed into the service of the King of Spain along with one Ruy Falero, a friend of his, who, among the vulgar, bore the reputation of a conjurer or magician, but who really possessed considerable astronomical attainments, devoting himself to the discovery of improved means for finding the place of a ship at sea. Magellan persuaded the Spanish government that the Spice Islands could be reached by sailing to the west, the Portuguese having previously reached them by sailing to the east, and, if this were accomplished, Spain would have as good a title to them, under the bull of Alexander VI., as Portugal. [Sidenote: His great voyage commenced.] Five ships, carrying 237 men, were accordingly equipped, and on August 10, 1519, Magellan sailed from Seville. The Trinitie was the admiral's ship, but the San Vittoria was destined for immortality. He struck boldly for the south-west, not crossing the trough of the Atlantic as Columbus had done, but passing down the length of it, his aim being to find some cleft or passage in the American Continent through which he might sail into the Great South Sea. For seventy days he was becalmed under the line. He then lost sight of the north star, but courageously held on toward the "pole antartike." He nearly foundered in a storm, "which did not abate till the three fires called St. Helen, St. Nicholas, and St. Clare appeared playing in the rigging of the ships." In a new land, to which he gave the name of Patagoni, he found giants "of good corporature" clad in skins; one of them, a very pleasant and tractable giant, was terrified at his own visage in a looking-glass. [Sidenote: He penetrates the American continent.] Among the sailors, alarmed at the distance they had come, mutiny broke out, requiring the most unflinching resolution in the commander for its suppression. In spite of his watchfulness, one ship deserted him and stole back to Spain. His perseverance and resolution were at last rewarded by the discovery of the strait named by him San Vittoria, in affectionate honour of his ship, but which, with a worthy sentiment, other sailors soon changed to "the Strait of Magellan." [Sidenote: Reaches the Pacific Ocean.] On November 28, 1520, after a year and a quarter of struggling, he issued forth from its western portals and entered the Great South Sea, shedding tears of joy, as Pigafetti, an eye-witness, relates, when he recognized its infinite expanse--tears of stern joy that it had pleased God to bring him at length where he might grapple with its unknown dangers. Admiring its illimitable but placid surface, and exulting in the meditation of its secret perils soon to be tried, he courteously imposed on it the name it is for ever to bear, "the Pacific Ocean." While baffling for an entry into it, he observed with surprise that in the month of October the nights are only four hours long, and "considered, in this his navigation, that the pole antartike hath no notable star like the pole artike, but that there be two clouds of little stars somewhat dark in the middest, also a cross of fine clear stars, but that here the needle becomes so sluggish that it needs must be moved with a bit of loadstone before it will rightly point." [Sidenote: The Pacific Ocean crossed.] And now the great sailor, having burst through the barrier of the American continent, steered for the north-west, attempting to regain the equator. For three months and twenty days he sailed on the Pacific, and never saw inhabited land. He was compelled by famine to strip off the pieces of skin and leather wherewith his rigging was here and there bound, to soak them in the sea and then soften them with warm water, so as to make a wretched food; to eat the sweepings of the ship and other loathsome matter; to drink water that had become putrid by keeping; and yet he resolutely held on his course, though his men were dying daily. As is quaintly observed, "their gums grew over their teeth, and so they could not eat." He estimated that he sailed over this unfathomable sea not less than 12,000 miles. In the whole history of human undertakings there is nothing that exceeds, if indeed there is anything that equals, this voyage of Magellan's. That of Columbus dwindles away in comparison. It is a display of superhuman courage, superhuman perseverance--a display of resolution not to be diverted from its purpose by any motive or any suffering, but inflexibly persisting to its end. Well might his despairing sailors come to the conclusion that they had entered on a trackless waste of waters, endless before them and hopeless in a return. "But, though the Church hath evermore from Holy Writ affirmed that the earth should be a wide-spread plain bordered by the waters, yet he comforted himself when he considered that in the eclipses of the moon the shadow cast of the earth is round; and as is the shadow, such, in like manner, is the substance." It was a stout heart--a heart of triple brass--which could thus, against such authority, extract unyielding faith from a shadow. [Sidenote: Succeeds in his attempt, and dies.] This unparalleled resolution met its reward at last. Magellan reached a group of islands north of the equator--the Ladrones. In a few days more he became aware that his labours had been successful; he met with adventurers from Sumatra. But, though he had thus grandly accomplished his object, it was not given to him to complete the circumnavigation of the globe. At an island called Zebu, or Mutan, he was killed, either, as has been variously related, in a mutiny of his men, or as they declared--in a conflict with the savages, or insidiously by poison. "The general," they said, "was a very brave man, and received his death wound in his front; nor would the savages yield up his body for any ransom." Through treason and revenge it is not unlikely that he fell, for he was a stern man; no one but a very stern man could have accomplished so daring a deed. Hardly was he gone when his crew learned that they were actually in the vicinity of the Moluccas, and that the object of their voyage was accomplished. On the morning of November 8, 1521, having been at sea two years and three months, as the sun was rising they entered Tidore, the chief port of the Spice Islands. The King of Tidore swore upon the Koran alliance to the King of Spain. [Sidenote: Circumnavigation of the earth.] I need not allude to the wonderful objects--destined soon to become common to voyagers in the Indian Archipelago--that greeted their eyes: elephants in trappings; vases, and vessels of porcelain; birds of Paradise, "that fly not, but be blown by the wind;" exhaustless stores of the coveted spices, nutmegs, mace, cloves. And now they prepared to bring the news of their success back to Spain. Magellan's lieutenant, Sebastian d'Elcano, directed his course for the Cape of Good Hope, again encountering the most fearful hardships. Out of his slender crew he lost twenty-one men. He doubled the Cape at last; and on September 7, 1522, in the port of St. Lucar, near Seville, under his orders, the good ship San Vittoria came safely to an anchor. She had accomplished the greatest achievement in the history of the human race. She had circumnavigated the earth. [Sidenote: Elcano, the lieutenant of Magellan.] Magellan thus lost his life in his enterprise, and yet he made an enviable exchange. Doubly immortal, and thrice happy! for he impressed his name indelibly on the earth and the sky, on the strait that connects the two great oceans, and on those clouds of starry worlds seen in the southern heavens. He also imposed a designation on the largest portion of the surface of the globe. His lieutenant, Sebastian d'Elcano, received such honours as kings can give. Of all armorial bearings ever granted for the accomplishment of a great and daring deed, his were the proudest and noblest--the globe of the earth belted with the inscription, "Primus circumdedisti me!" [Sidenote: Results of the circumnavigation.] If the circumnavigation of the earth by Magellan did not lead to such splendid material results as the discovery of America and the doubling of the Cape, its moral effects were far more important. Columbus had been opposed in obtaining means for his expedition because it was suspected to be of an irreligious nature. Unfortunately, the Church, satisfying instincts impressed upon her as far back as the time of Constantine, had asserted herself to be the final arbitress in all philosophical questions, and especially in this of the figure of the earth had committed herself against its being globular. Infallibility can never correct itself--indeed, it can never be wrong. Rome never retracts anything; and, no matter what the consequences, never recedes. It was thus that a theological dogma--infallibility--came to be mixed up with a geographical problem, and that problem liable at any moment to receive a decisive solution. So long as it rested in a speculative position, or could be hedged round with mystification, the real state of the case might be concealed from all except the more intelligent class of men; but after the circumnavigation had actually been accomplished, and was known to every one, there was, of course, nothing more to be said. It had now become altogether useless to bring forward the authority of Lactantius, of St. Augustine, or of other fathers, that the globular form is impious and heretical. Henceforth the fact was strong enough to overpower all authority, an exercise of which could have no other result than to injure itself. It remained only to permit the dispute to pass into oblivion; but even this could not occur without those who were observant being impressed with the fact that physical science was beginning to display a fearful advantage over Patristicism, and presenting unmistakable tokens that ere long she would destroy her ancient antagonist. [Sidenote: Minor voyages and travels.] In the midst of these immortal works it is hardly worth while to speak of minor things. Two centuries had wrought a mighty change in the geographical ideas of Western Europe. The travels of Marco Polo, A.D. 1295, had first given some glimmering of the remote East, the interest in which was doubtless enhanced by the irruption of the Moguls. Sir John Mandeville had spent many years in the interior of Asia before the middle of the next century. Conti had travelled in Persia and India, between 1419 and 1444. Cadamosto, a Venetian, in 1455 had explored the west coast of Africa. Sebastian Cabot had re-discovered Newfoundland, and, persisting in the attempt to find a north-west passage to China, had forced his way into the ice to 67° 30' N. By 1525 the American coast-line had been determined from Terra del Fuego to Labrador. New Guinea and part of Australia, had been discovered. The fleet of Cabral, attempting to double the Cape of Good Hope in 1500, was driven to Brazil. A ship was sent back to Portugal with the news. Hence, had not Columbus sailed when he did, the discovery of America could not have been long postponed. Balboa saw the Great South Sea September 25th, 1513. Wading up to his knees in the water, with his sword in one hand and the Spanish flag in the other, he claimed that vast ocean for Castile. Nothing could now prevent the geography of the earth from being completed. [Sidenote: Participation of other nations in these events.] I cannot close these descriptions of maritime adventure without observing that they are given from the European point of view. The Western nations have complacently supposed that whatever was unknown to them was therefore altogether unknown. We have seen that the Arabs were practically and perfectly familiar with the fact that Africa might be circumnavigated; the East Indian geography was thoroughly understood by the Buddhist priesthood, who had, on an extensive scale, carried forward their propagandism for twenty-five hundred years in those regions. But doubtless the most perfect geographical knowledge existed among the Jews, those cosmopolite traders who conducted mercantile transactions from the Azores to the interior of China, from the Baltic to the coast of Mozambique. It was actually through them that the existence of the Cape of Good Hope was first made known in Europe. Five hundred years before Columbus, the Scandinavian adventurers had discovered America, but so low was the state of intelligence in Europe that the very memory of these voyages had been altogether lost. The circumnavigation of the earth is, however, strictly the achievement of the West. I have been led to make the remarks in this paragraph, since they apply again on another occasion--the introduction of what is called the Baconian philosophy, the principles of which were not only understood, but carried into practice in the East eighteen hundred years before Bacon was born. * * * * * It is scarcely necessary that I should offer any excuse for devoting a few pages to a digression on the state of affairs in Mexico and Peru. Nothing illustrates more strikingly the doctrine which it is the object of this book to teach. [Sidenote: Progress of man in the New World the same as in the Old.] The social condition of America at its discovery demonstrates that similar ideas and similar usages make their appearance spontaneously in the progress of civilization of different countries, showing how little they depend on accident, how closely they are connected with the organization, and, therefore, with the necessities of man. From important ideas and great institutions down to the most trifling incidents of domestic life, so striking is the parallel between the American aborigines and Europeans that with difficulty do we divest ourselves of the impression that there must have been some intercommunication. Each was, however, pursuing an isolated and spontaneous progress; and yet how closely does the picture of life in the New World answer to that in the Old. [Sidenote: Mexico, its political system.] The monarch of Mexico lived in barbaric pomp, wore a golden crown resplendent with gems; was aided in his duties by a privy council; the great lords held their lands of him by the obligation of military service. In him resided the legislative power, yet he was subject to the laws of the realm. The judges held their office independently of him, and were not liable to removal by him. The laws were reduced to writing, which, though only a system of hieroglyphics, served its purpose so well that the Spaniards were obliged to admit its validity in their courts, and to found a professorship for perpetuating a knowledge of it. Marriage was regarded as an important social engagement. Divorces were granted with difficulty. Slavery was recognized in the case of prisoners of war, debtors, and criminals, but no man could be born a slave in Mexico. No distinction of castes was permitted. The government mandates and public intelligence were transmitted by a well-organized postal service of couriers able to make two hundred miles a day. The profession of arms was the recognized avocation of the nobility; the military establishments, whether in active service in the field, or as garrisons in large towns, being supported by taxation on produce or manufactures. The armies were divided into corps of 10,000, and these again into regiments of 400. Standards and banners were used; the troops executed their evolutions to military music, and were provided with hospitals, army surgeons, and a medical staff. In the human hives of Europe, Asia, and America, the bees were marshalled in the same way, and were instinctively building their combs alike. [Sidenote: Its religion, priesthood, and ceremonies.] The religious state is a reflexion of that of Europe and Asia. The worship was an imposing ceremonial. The common people had a mythology of many gods, but the higher classes were strictly Unitarian, acknowledging one almighty, invisible Creator. Of the popular deities, the god of war was the chief. He was born of a virgin, and conceived by mysterious conception of a ball of bright-coloured feathers floating on the air. The priests administered a rite of baptism to infants for the purpose of washing away their sins, and taught that there are rewards and punishments in a life to come--a paradise for the good, a hell of darkness for the wicked. The hierarchy descended by due degrees from the chief priests, who were almost equal to the sovereign in authority, down to the humble ecclesiastical servitors. Marriage was permitted to the clergy. They had monastic institutions, the inmates praying thrice a day and once at night. They practised ablutions, vigils, penance by flagellation or pricking with aloe thorns. They compelled the people to auricular confession, required of them penance, gave absolution. Their ecclesiastical system had reached a strength which was never attained in Europe, since absolution by the priest for civil offences was an acquittal in the eye of the law. It was the received doctrine that men do not sin of their own free will, but because they are impelled thereto by planetary influences. With sedulous zeal, the clergy engrossed the duty of public education, thereby keeping society in their grasp. [Sidenote: Its literary condition.] Their writing was on cotton cloth or skins, or on papyrus made of the aloe. At the conquest immense collections of this kind of literature were in existence, but the first Archbishop of Mexico burnt, as was affirmed, a mountain of such manuscripts in the market-place, stigmatizing them as magic scrolls. About the same time, and under similar circumstances, Cardinal Ximenes burnt a vast number of Arabic manuscripts in Granada. [Sidenote: Divisions of time: the week, month, year.] The condition of astronomy in Mexico is illustrated as it is in Egypt by the calendar. The year was of eighteen months, each month of twenty days, five complementary ones being added to make up the three hundred and sixty-five. The month had four weeks, the week five days; the last day, instead of being for religious purposes, was market day. To provide for the six additional hours of the year, they intercalated twelve and a half days every fifty-two years. At the conquest the Mexican calendar was in a better condition than the Spanish. As in some other countries, the clergy had for ecclesiastical purposes a lunar division of time. The day had sixteen hours, commencing at sunrise. They had sun-dials for determining the hour, and also instruments for the solstices and equinoxes. They had ascertained the globular form of the earth and the obliquity of the ecliptic. The close of the fifty-second year was celebrated with grand religious ceremonials; all the fires were suffered to go out, and new ones kindled by the friction of sticks. [Sidenote: Private life, mechanical arts, trade.] Their agriculture was superior to that of Europe; there was nothing in the Old World to compare with the menageries and botanical gardens of Huaxtepec, Chapultepec, Istapalapan, and Tezcuco. They practised with no inconsiderable skill the more delicate mechanical arts, such as those of the jeweller and enameller. From the aloe they obtained pins and needles, thread, cord, paper, food, and an intoxicating drink. They made earthenware, knew how to lacquer wood, employed cochineal as a scarlet dye. They were skilful weavers of fine cloth, and excelled in the production of feather-work, their gorgeous humming-birds furnishing material for that purpose. In metallurgy they were behind the Old World, not having the use of iron; but, as the Old World had formerly done, they employed bronze in its stead. They knew how to move immense masses of rock; their great calendar stone, of porphyry, weighed more than fifty tons, and was brought a distance of many miles. Their trade was carried on, not in shops, but by markets or fairs held on the fifth day. They employed a currency of gold dust, pieces of tin, and bags of cacao. [Sidenote: Luxury of the higher classes.] In their domestic economy, though polygamy was permitted, it was in practice confined to the wealthy. The women did not work abroad, but occupied themselves in spinning, embroidering, feather-work, music. Ablution was resorted to both before and after meals; perfumes were used at the toilet. The Mexicans gave to Europe tobacco, snuff, the turkey, chocolate, cochineal. Like us, they had in their entertainments solid dishes, with suitable condiments, gravies, sauces, and desserts of pastries, confections, fruits, both fresh and preserved. They had chafing-dishes of silver or gold. Like us, they knew the use of intoxicating drinks; like us, they not unfrequently took them to excess; like us, they heightened their festivities with dancing and music. They had theatrical and pantomimic shows. At Tezcuco there was a council of music, which, moreover, exercised a censorship on philosophical works, as those of astronomy and history. In that city North American civilization reached its height. The king's palace was a wonderful work of art. It was said that 200,000 men were employed in its construction. Its harem was adorned with magnificent tapestries of feather-work; in its garden were fountains, cascades, baths, statues, alabasters, cedar groves, forests, and a wilderness of flowers. In conspicuous retirement in one part of the city was a temple, with a dome of polished black marble, studded with stars of gold, in imitation of the sky. It was dedicated to the omnipotent, invisible God. In this no sacrifices were offered, but only sweet-scented flowers and gums. [Sidenote: Their monotheism and philosophical sentiments.] The prevailing religious feeling is expressed by the sentiments of one of the kings, many of whom had prided themselves in their poetical skill: "Let us," he says, "aspire to that heaven where all is eternal, and where corruption never comes." He taught his children not to confide in idols, but only to conform to the outward worship of them in deference to public opinion. [Sidenote: Peru--unknown to Mexico.] To the preceding description of the social condition of Mexico I shall add a similar brief account of that of Peru, for the conclusions to be drawn from a comparison of the spontaneous process of civilization in these two countries with the process in Europe is of importance to the attainment of a just idea of the development of mankind. The most competent authorities declare that the Mexicans and Peruvians were ignorant of each other's existence. [Sidenote: Its geographical peculiarities.] In one particular especially is the position of Peru interesting. It presents an analogy to Upper Egypt, that cradle of the civilization of the Old World, in this, that its sandy coast is a rainless district. This sandy-coast region is about sixty miles in width, hemmed in on the east by grand mountain ranges, which diminish in size on approaching the Isthmus of Panama; the entire length of the Peruvian empire having been nearly 2,400 miles, it reached from the north of the equator to what is now known as Chili. In breadth it varied at different points. [Sidenote: A rainless country like Egypt.] The east wind, which has crossed the Atlantic, and is therefore charged with humidity, being forced by the elevation of the South American continent, and especially by the range of the Andes, upward, is compelled to surrender most of its moisture, which finds its way back to the Atlantic in those prodigious rivers that make the country east of the Andes the best watered region of the world; but as soon as that wind has crossed the mountain ridge and descends on the western slope, it becomes a dry and rainless wind, and hence the district intervening to the Pacific has but a few insignificant streams. [Sidenote: Its system of agriculture.] The sides of this great mountain range might seem altogether unadapted to the pursuit of agriculture, but the state of Peruvian civilization is at once demonstrated when it is said that these mountain slopes had become a garden, immense terraces having been constructed wherever required, and irrigation on a grander scale than that of Egypt carried on by gigantic canals and aqueducts. Advantage was taken of the different mean annual temperatures at different altitudes to pursue the cultivation of various products, for difference in height topographically answers to difference in latitude geographically, and thus, in a narrow space, the Peruvians had every variety of temperature, from that corresponding to the hottest portions of Southern Europe to that of Lapland. In the mountains of Peru, as has been graphically said, man sees "all the stars of the heavens and all the families of plants." On plateaus at a great elevation above the sea there were villages and even cities. Thus the plain upon which Quito stands, under the equator, is nearly ten thousand feet high. So great was their industry that the Peruvians had gardens and orchards above the clouds, and on ranges still higher flocks of lamas, in regions bordering on the limit of perpetual snow. [Sidenote: Its great roads and engineering,] Through the entire length of the empire two great military roads were built, one on the plateau, the other on the shore. The former, for nearly two thousand miles, crossed sierras covered with snow, was thrown over ravines, or went through tunnels in the rocks; it scaled the more difficult precipices by means of stairways. Where it was possible, it was carried over the mountain clefts by filling them with masonry, or, where that could not be done, suspension bridges were used, the cables being made of osiers or maguey fibres. Some of these cables are said to have been as thick as a man, and two hundred feet long. Where such bridges could not be thrown across, and a stream flowed in the bottom of the mountain valley, the passage was made by ferry-boats or rafts. As to the road itself, it was about twenty feet in width, faced with flags covered with bitumen, and had mile-stones. Our admiration at this splendid engineering is enhanced when we remember that it was accomplished without iron and gunpowder. The shore road was built on an embankment, with a clay parapet on each side, and shade trees. Where circumstances called for it, piles were used. [Sidenote: and expresses by couriers.] Every five miles there was a post-house. The public couriers, as in Mexico, could make, if necessary, two hundred miles a day. Of these roads Humboldt says that they were among the most useful and most stupendous executed by the hand of man. The reader need scarcely be told that there were no such triumphs of skill in Spain. From the circumstance that there were no swift animals, as the horse or dromedary, the width of these roads was sufficient, since they were necessarily used for foot passage alone. [Sidenote: Cuzco--the military centre.] In Cuzco, the metropolis, was the imperial residence of the Inca and the Temple of the Sun. It contained edifices which excited the amazement of the Spanish adventurers themselves--streets, squares, bridges, fortresses surrounded by turreted walls, subterranean galleries by which the garrison could reach important parts of the town. Indeed, the great roads we have spoken of might be regarded as portions of an immense system of military works spread all over the country, and having their centre at Cuzco. [Sidenote: The Inca--the Lord of the Empire.] The imperial dignity was hereditary, descending from father to son. As in Egypt, the monarch not unfrequently had his sisters for wives. His diadem consisted of a scarlet tasseled fringe round his brow, adorned with two feathers. He wore earrings of great weight. His dress of lama-wool was dyed scarlet, inwoven with gold and studded with gems. Whoever approached him bore a light burden on the shoulder as a badge of servitude, and was barefoot. The Inca was not only the representative of the temporal, but also of the spiritual power. He was more than supreme pontiff, for he was a descendant of the Sun, the god of the nation. He made laws, imposed taxes, raised armies, appointed or removed judges at his pleasure. He travelled in a sedan ornamented with gold and emeralds; the roads were swept before him, strewn with flowers, and perfumed. [Sidenote: The national palace.] His palace at Yucay was described by the Spaniards as a fairy scene. It was filled with works of Indian art; images of animals and plants decorated the niches of its walls; it had an endless labyrinth of gorgeous chambers, and here and there shady crypts for quiet retirement. Its baths were great golden bowls. It was embosomed in artificial forests. The imperial ladies and concubines spent their time in beautifully furnished chambers, or in gardens, with cascades and fountains, grottoes and bowers. It was in what few countries can boast of, a temperate region in the torrid zone. [Sidenote: Religion of Peru, its establishments and ceremonial.] The Peruvian religion ostensibly consisted of a worship of the Sun, but the higher classes had already become emancipated from such a material association, and recognized the existence of one almighty, invisible God. They expected the resurrection of the body and the continuance of the soul in a future life. It was their belief that in the world to come our occupations will resemble those we have followed here. Like the Egyptians, who had arrived at similar ideas, the Peruvians practised embalming, the mummies of their Incas being placed in the Temple of the Sun at Cuzco, the kings on the right, the queens on the left, clad in their robes of state, and with their hands crossed on their bosoms, seated in golden chairs, waiting for the day when the soul will return to reanimate the body. The mummies of distinguished personages were buried in a sitting posture under tumuli of earth. To the Supreme Being but one temple was dedicated. It was in a sacred valley, to which pilgrimages were made. In the Peruvian mythology, heaven was above the sky, hell in the interior of the earth--it was the realm of an evil spirit called Cupay. The general resemblance of these to Egyptian doctrines may forcibly impress upon us that they are ideas with which the human mind necessarily occupies itself in its process of intellectual development. As in all other countries, the educated classes were greatly in advance of the common people, who were only just emerging from fetichism, and engrossed in the follies of idolatry and man-worship. Nevertheless, the government found it expedient to countenance the vulgar delusion; indeed, the political system was actually founded upon it. But the Peruvians were in advance of the Europeans in this respect, that they practised no persecutions upon those who had become mentally emancipated. Besides the sun, the visible god, other celestial bodies were worshipped in a subordinate way. It was supposed that there were spirits in the wind, lightning, thunder; genii in the mountains, rivers, springs, and grottoes. In the great Temple of the Sun at Cuzco an image of that deity was placed so as to receive the rays of the luminary at his rising; a like artifice had been practised in the Serapion at Alexandria. There was also a sanctuary dedicated to the Sun in the island of Titicaca, and, it is said, between three and four hundred temples of a subordinate kind in Cuzco. To the great temple were attached not fewer than four thousand priests and fifteen hundred vestal virgins, the latter being intrusted with the care of the sacred fire, and from them the most beautiful were chosen to pass into the Inca's seraglio. The popular faith had a ritual and a splendid ceremonial, the great national festival being at the summer solstice. The rays of the sun were then collected by a concave mirror, and fire rekindled thereby, or by the friction of wood. [Sidenote: Social system--the nobility, the people.] As to their social system, polygamy was permitted, but practically it was confined to the higher classes. Social subordination was thoroughly understood. The Inca Tupac Yupanqui says, "Knowledge was never intended for the people, but only for those of generous blood." The nobility were of two orders, the polygamic descendants of the Incas, who were the main support of the state, and the adopted nobles of nations that have been conquered. As to the people, nowhere else in the whole world was such an extraordinary policy of supervision practised. They were divided into groups of ten, fifty, one hundred, five hundred, one thousand, ten thousand, and over the last an Inca noble was placed. Through this system a rigid centralization was insured, the Inca being the pivot upon which all the national affairs turned, it was an absolutism worthy of the admiration of many existing European nations. [Sidenote: Organization of Labour.] The entire territory was divided into three parts; one belonged to the Sun, one to the Inca, one to the people. As a matter of form, the subdivision was annually made; in practice, however, as perhaps must always be the result of such agrarianism, the allotments were continually renewed. All the land was cultivated by the people, and in the following order: first, that of the Sun, then that of the destitute and infirm, then that of the people, and, lastly, that of the Inca. The Sun and the Inca owned all the sheep, which were sheared and their wool distributed to the people, or cotton furnished in its stead. The Inca's officers saw that it was all woven, and that no one was idle. An annual survey of the country, its farming and mineral products, was made, the inventory being transmitted to the government. A register was kept of births and deaths; periodically a general census was taken. The Inca, at once emperor and pope, was enabled, in that double capacity, to exert a rigorous patriarchal rule over his people, who were treated like mere children--not suffered to be oppressed, but compelled to be occupied; for, with a worldly wisdom which no other nation presents, labour was here acknowledged not only as a means, but also as an end. In Peru a man could not improve his social state; by these refinements of legislation he was brought into an absolutely stationary condition. He could become neither richer nor poorer; but it was the boast of the system that every one lived exempt from social suffering--that all enjoyed competence. [Sidenote: Military system; warlike resources.] The army consisted of 200,000 men. Their weapons were bows, lances, slings, battle-axes, swords; their means of defence, shields, bucklers, helmets, and coats of quilted cotton. Each regiment had its own banner, but the imperial standard, the national emblem, was a rainbow, the offspring of the Sun. The swords and many of the domestic implements were of bronze; the arrows were tipped with quartz or bone, or points of gold and silver. A strict discipline was maintained on marching, granaries and depôts being established at suitable distances on the roads. With a policy inflexibly persisted in, the gods of conquered countries were transported to Cuzco, and the vanquished compelled to worship the Sun; their children were obliged to learn the Peruvian language, the government providing them teachers for that purpose. As an incitement, this knowledge was absolutely required as a condition for public office. To amalgamate the conquered districts thoroughly, their inhabitants were taken away by ten thousand, transported to distant parts of the empire, not, as in the Old World, to be worked to death as slaves, but to be made into Peruvians; an equal number of natives were sent in their stead, to whom, as a recompense for their removal, extraordinary privileges were given. It was the immemorial policy of the empire to maintain profound tranquillity in the interior and perpetual war on the frontiers. The philosophical advancement of the Peruvians was much retarded by their imperfect method of writing--a method greatly inferior to that of Egypt. [Sidenote: Peruvian literature--the quipus.] A cord of coloured threads, called quipus, was only indifferently suited to the purposes of enumeration, and by no means equal to hieroglyphics as a method of expressing general facts. But it was their only system. Notwithstanding this drawback, they had a literature consisting of poetry, dramatic compositions, and the like. Their scientific attainments were inferior to the Mexican. Their year was divided into months, their months into weeks. They had gnomons to indicate the solstices. One, in the form of an obelisk, in the centre of a circle, on which was marked an east and west line, indicated the equinox. These gnomons were destroyed by the Spaniards in the belief that they were for idolatrous purposes, for on the national festivals it was customary to decorate them with leaves and flowers. As the national religion consisted in the worship of the Sun, it was not without reason that Quito was regarded as a holy place, from its position upon the equator. [Sidenote: Agriculture carried to perfection.] In their extraordinary provisions for agriculture, the national pursuit, the skill of the Peruvians is well seen. A rapid elevation from the sea-level to the heights of the mountains gave them, in a small compass, every variety of climate, and they availed themselves of it. They terraced the mountain sides, filling the terraces with rich earth. They excavated pits in the sand, surrounded them with adobe walls, and filled them with manured soil. On the low level they cultivated bananas and cassava; on the terraces above, maize and quinoa; still higher, tobacco; and above that the potato. From a comparatively limited surface, they raised great crops by judiciously using manures, employing for that purpose fish, and especially guano. Their example has led to the use of the latter substance for a like purpose in our own times in Europe. The whole civilized world has followed them in the cultivation of the potato. The Peruvian bark is one of the most invaluable remedies. Large tracts of North America would be almost uninhabitable without the use of its active alkaloid quinine, which actually, in no insignificant manner, reduces the percentage mortality throughout the United States. [Sidenote: The great aqueduct of Condesuya.] Indispensably necessary to their agricultural system were their great water-works. In Spain there was nothing worthy of being compared with them. The aqueduct of Condesuya was nearly 500 miles long. Its engineers had overcome difficulties in a manner that might well strike modern times with admiration. Its water was distributed as prescribed by law; there were officers to see to its proper use. From these great water-works and from their roads it may be judged that the architectural skill of the Peruvians was far from insignificant. They constructed edifices of porphyry, granite, brick; but their buildings were for the most part low, and suitable to an earthquake country. [Sidenote: The stages of human development always the same.] I have dwelt at some length on the domestic history of Mexico and Peru because it is intimately connected with one of the philosophical principles which it is the object of this book to teach, viz., that human progress takes place under an unvarying law, and therefore in a definite way. The trivial incidents mentioned in the preceding paragraphs may perhaps have seemed insignificant or wearisome, but it is their very commonness, their very familiarity, that gives them, when rightly considered, a surprising interest. There is nothing in these minute details but what we find to be perfectly natural from the European point of view. They might be, for that matter, instead of reminiscences of the spontaneous evolution of a people shut out from the rest of the world by impassable oceans, a relation of the progress of some European or Asiatic nation. The man of America advanced in his course of civilization as did the man of the Old World, devising the same institutions, guided by the same intentions, constrained by the same desires. From the great features of his social system down to the little details of his domestic life, there is a sameness with what was done in Asia, Africa, Europe. But similar results imply a similar cause. What, then, is there possessed in common by the Chinese, the Hindoo, the Egyptian, the European, the American? Surely not climate, nor equal necessities, nor equal opportunity. Simply nothing but this--corporeal organization! As automatons constructed in the same way will do the same things, so, in organic forms, sameness of structure will give rise to identity of function and similarity of acts. The same common sense guides men all over the world. Common sense is a function of common organization. All natural history is full of illustrations. [Sidenote: Analogy between societies of men and societies of animals.] It may be offensive to our pride, but it is none the less true, that in his social progress, the free-will of which man so boasts himself in his individual capacity disappears as an active influence, and the domination of general and inflexible laws becomes manifest. The free-will of the individual is supplanted by instinct and automatism in the race. To each individual bee the career is open; he may taste of this flower and avoid that; he may be industrious in the garden, or idle away his time in the air; but the history of one hive is the history of another hive; there will be a predestined organization--the queen, the drones, the workers. In the midst of a thousand unforeseen, uncalculated, variable acts, a definite result, with unerring certainty, emerges; the combs are built in a pre-ordained way, and filled with honey at last. From bees, and wasps, and ants, and birds--from all that low animal life on which he looks with such supercilious contempt, man is destined one day to learn what in truth he really is. [Sidenote: The crime of Spain in America.] For a second reason, also, I have dwelt on these details. The enormous crime of Spain in destroying this civilization has never yet been appreciated in Europe. After an attentive consideration of the facts of the case, I agree in the conclusion of Carli, that at the time of the conquest the moral man in Peru was superior to the European, and I will add, the intellectual man also. Was there in Spain, or even in all Europe, a political system carried out into the practical details of actual life, and expressed in great public works, as its outward visible and enduring sign, which could at all compare with that of Peru? Its only competitor was the Italian system, but that for long had been actively used to repress the intellectual advancement of man. [Sidenote: The Spaniard and the American.] In vain the Spaniards excuse their atrocities on the plea that a nation like the Mexican, which permitted cannibalism, should not be regarded as having emerged from the barbarous state, and that one which, like Peru, sacrificed human hecatombs at the funeral solemnities of great men, must have been savage. Let it be remembered that there is no civilized nation whose popular practices do not lag behind its intelligence; let it be remembered that in this respect Spain herself also was guilty. In America, human sacrifice was part of a religious solemnity, unstained by passion. The auto da fé of Europe was a dreadful cruelty; not an offering to heaven, but a gratification of spite, hatred, fear, vengeance--the most malignant passions of earth. [Sidenote: European and American human sacrifice.] There was no spectacle on the American continent at which a just man might so deeply blush for his race as that presented in Western Europe when the heretic from whom confession had been wrung by torture passed to his stake in a sleeveless garment, with flames of fire and effigies of an abominable import depicted upon it. Let it be remembered that by the Inquisition, from 1481 to 1808, 340,000 persons had been punished, and of these nearly 32,000 burnt. Let what was done in the south of France be remembered. Let it be also remembered that, considering the worthlessness of the body of man, and that, at the best, it is at last food for the worm--considering the infinite value of his immortal soul, for the redemption of which the agony and death of the Son of God were not too great a price to pay--indignities offered to the body are less wicked than indignities offered to the soul. It would be well for him who comes forward as an accuser of Mexico and Peru in their sin to dispose of the fact that at that period the entire authority of Europe was directed to the perversion, and even total repression of thought--to an enslaving of the mind, and making that noblest creation of Heaven a worthless machine. To taste of human flesh is less criminal in the eye of God than to stifle human thought. [Sidenote: Antiquity of American civilization.] Lastly, there is another point to which I will with brevity allude. It has been widely asserted that Mexican and Peruvian civilization was altogether a recent affair, dating at most only two or three centuries before the conquest. It would be just as well to say that there was no civilization in India before the time of the Macedonian invasion because there exist no historic documents in that country anterior to that event. The Mexicans and Peruvians were not heroes of a romance to whom wonderful events were of common occurrence, whose lives were regulated by laws not applying to the rest of the human race, who could produce results in a day for which elsewhere a thousand years are required. They were men and women like ourselves, slowly and painfully, and with many failures, working out their civilization. The summary manner in which they have been disposed of reminds us of the amusing way in which the popular chronology deals with the hoary annals of Egypt and China. Putting aside the imperfect methods of recording events practised by the autochthons of the Western world, he who estimates rightly the slowness with which man passes forward in his process of civilization, and collates therewith the prodigious works of art left by those two nations--an enduring evidence of the point to which they had attained--will find himself constrained to cast aside such idle assertions as altogether unworthy of confutation, or even of attention. CHAPTER VI. APPROACH OF THE AGE OF REASON IN EUROPE. IT IS PRECEDED BY THE RISE OF CRITICISM. _Restoration of Greek Literature and Philosophy in Italy.--Development of Modern Languages and Rise of Criticism.--Imminent Danger to Latin Ideas._ _Invention of Printing.--It revolutionizes the Communication of Knowledge, especially acts on Public Worship, and renders the Pulpit of secondary importance._ THE REFORMATION.--_Theory of Supererogation and Use of Indulgences.--The Right of Individual Judgment asserted.--Political History of the Origin, Culmination, and Check of the Reformation.--Its Effects in Italy._ _Causes of the Arrest of the Reformation.--Internal Causes in Protestantism.--External in the Policy of Rome.--The Counter-Reformation. --Inquisition.--Jesuits.--Secession of the great Critics.--Culmination of the Reformation in America.--Emergence of Individual Liberty of Thought._ [Sidenote: The rise of criticism.] In estimating the influences of literature on the approach of the Age of Reason in Europe, the chief incidents to be considered are the disuse of Latin as a learned language, the formation of modern tongues from the vulgar dialects, the invention of printing, the decline of the power of the pulpit, and its displacement by that of the press. These, joined to the moral and intellectual influences at that time predominating, led to the great movement known as the Reformation. [Sidenote: Epoch of the intellectual movement.] As if to mark out to the world the real cause of its intellectual degradation, the regeneration of Italy commenced with the exile of the popes to Avignon. During their absence, so rapid was the progress that it had become altogether impossible to make any successful resistance, or to restore the old condition of things on their return to Rome. The moment that the leaden cloud which they had kept suspended over the country was withdrawn, the light from heaven shot in, and the ready peninsula became instinct with life. [Sidenote: Use of Latin as a sacred language.] The unity of the Church, and, therefore, its power, required the use of Latin as a sacred language. Through this Rome had stood in an attitude strictly European, and was enabled to maintain a general international relation. It gave her far more power than her asserted celestial authority, and, much as she claims to have done, she is open to condemnation that, with such a signal advantage in her hands, never again to be enjoyed by any successor, she did not accomplish much more. Had not the sovereign pontiffs been so completely occupied with maintaining their emoluments and temporalities in Italy, they might have made the whole Continent advance like one man. Their officials could pass without difficulty into every nation, and communicate without embarrassment with each other, from Ireland to Bohemia, from Italy to Scotland. The possession of a common tongue gave them the administration of international affairs with intelligent allies everywhere speaking the same language. [Sidenote: Causes of the dislike of Rome to the Greek,] Not, therefore, without cause was the hatred manifested by Rome to the restoration of Greek and introduction of Hebrew, and the alarm with which she perceived the modern languages forming out of the vulgar dialects. The prevalence of Latin was the condition of her power, its deterioration the measure of her decay, its disuse the signal of her limitation to a little principality in Italy. In fact, the development of European languages was the instrument of her overthrow. They formed an effectual communication between the mendicant friars and the illiterate populace, and there was not one of them that did not display in its earliest productions a sovereign contempt for her. We have seen how it was with the poetry of Languedoc. [Sidenote: and danger from modern languages.] The rise of the many-tongued European literature was therefore coincident with the decline of papal Christianity. European literature was impossible under the Catholic rule. A grand, and solemn, and imposing religious unity enforced the literary unity which is implied in the use of a single language. No more can a living thought be embodied in a dead language than activity be imparted to a corpse. [Sidenote: Public disadvantages of a sacred tongue.] That principle of stability which Italy hoped to give to Europe essentially rested on the compulsory use of a dead tongue. The first token of intellectual emancipation was the movement of the great Italian poets, led by Dante, who often, not without irreverence, broke the spell. Unity in religion implies unity through a sacred language, and hence the non-existence of particular national literatures. [Sidenote: Effect of modern languages.] Even after Rome had suffered her great discomfiture on the scientific question respecting the motion of the earth, the conquering party was not unwilling to veil its thoughts in the Latin tongue, partly because it thereby insured a more numerous class of intelligent readers, and partly because ecclesiastical authority was now disposed to overlook what must otherwise be treated as offensive, since to write in Latin was obviously a pledge of abstaining from an appeal to the vulgar. The effect of the introduction of modern languages was to diminish intercommunication among the learned. [Sidenote: Approach of a crisis in Europe.] The movement of human affairs, for so many years silent and imperceptible, was at length coming to a crisis. An appeal to the emotions and moral sentiments at the basis of the system, the history of which has occupied us so long, had been fully made, and found ineffectual. It was now the time for a like appeal to the understanding. Each age of life has its own logic. The logic of the senses is in due season succeeded by that of the intellect. Of faith there are two kinds, one of acquiescence, one of conviction; and a time inevitably arrives when emotional faith is supplanted by intellectual. [Sidenote: Cosmo de' Medici. Florence.] As if to prove that the impending crisis was not the offspring of human intentions, and not occasioned by any one man, though that man might be the sovereign pontiff, Nicolas V. found in his patronage of letters and art a rival and friend in Cosmo de' Medici. An instructive incident shows how great a change had taken place in the sentiments of the higher classes: Cosmo, the richest of Italians, who had lavished his wealth on palaces, churches, hospitals, libraries, was comforted on his death-bed, not, as in former days would have been the case, by ministers of religion, but by Marsilius Ficinus, the Platonist, who set before him the arguments for a future life, and consoled his passing spirit with the examples and precepts of Greek philosophy, teaching him thereby to exchange faith for hope, forgetting that too often hopes are only the day-dreams of men, not less unsubstantial and vain than their kindred of the night. Ficinus had perhaps come to the conviction that philosophy is only a higher stage of theology, the philosopher a very enlightened theologian. [Sidenote: Reappearance of Platonism in Italy.] He was the representative of Platonism, which for so many centuries had been hidden from the sight of men in Eastern monasteries since its overthrow in Alexandria, and which was now emerging into existence in the favouring atmosphere of Italy. His school looked back with delight, and even with devotion, to the illustrious pagan times, commemorating by a symposium on November 13th the birthday of Plato. The Academy of Athens was revived in the Medicean gardens of Florence. Not that Ficinus is to be regarded as a servile follower of the great philosopher. [Sidenote: Doctrines of Marsilius Ficinus.] He alloyed the doctrines of Plato with others derived from a more sinister source--the theory of the Mohammedan Averroes, of which it was an essential condition that there is a soul of humanity, through their relations with which individual souls are capable of forming universal ideas, for such, Averroes asserted, is the necessary consequence of the emanation theory. [Sidenote: Revival of Greek learning in Italy.] Under such auspices, and at this critical moment, occurred the revival of Greek literature in Italy. It had been neglected for more than seven hundred years. In the solitary instances of individuals to whom here and there a knowledge of that language was imputed, there seem satisfactory reasons for supposing that their requirements amounted to little more than the ability of translating some "petty patristic treatise." The first glimmerings of this revival appear in the thirteenth century; they are somewhat more distinct in the fourteenth. The capture of Constantinople by the Latin Crusaders had done little more than diffuse a few manuscripts and works of art along with the more highly prized monkish relics in the West. It was the Turkish pressure, which all reflecting Greeks foresaw could have no other result than the fall of the Byzantine power, that induced some persons of literary tastes to seek a livelihood and safety in Italy. [Sidenote: Gradual progress of the Restoration.] In the time of Petrarch, 1304-1374, the improvement did not amount to much. That illustrious poet says that there were not more than ten persons in Italy who could appreciate Homer. Both Petrarch and Boccacio spared no pains to acquaint themselves with the lost tongue. The latter had succeeded in obtaining for Leontius Pilatus, the Calabrian, a Greek professorship at Florence. He describes this Greek teacher as clad in the mantle of a philosopher, his countenance hideous, his face overshadowed with black hair, his beard long and uncombed, his deportment rustic, his temper gloomy and inconstant, but his mind was stored with the treasures of learning. Leontius left Italy in disgust, but, returning again, was struck dead by lightning in a storm while tied to the mast of the ship. The author from whom I am quoting significantly adds that Petrarch laments his fate, but nervously asks whether "some copy of Euripides or Sophocles might not be recovered from the mariners." The restoration of Greek to Italy may be dated A.D. 1395, at which time Chrysoloras commenced teaching it. A few years after Aurispa brought into Italy two hundred and thirty-eight Greek manuscripts; among them were Plato and Pindar. The first endeavour was to translate such manuscripts into Latin. To a considerable extent, the religious scruples against Greek literature were giving way; the study found a patron in the pope himself, Eugenius IV. As the intention of the Turks to seize Constantinople became more obvious, the emigration of learned Greeks into Italy became more frequent. And yet, with the exception of Petrarch, and he was scarcely an exception, not one of the Italian scholars was an ecclesiastic. [Sidenote: Lorenzo de' Medici, his villas, gardens, and philosophy.] Lorenzo de' Medici, the grandson of Cosmo, used every exertion to increase the rising taste, generously permitting his manuscripts to be copied. Nor was it alone to literature that he extended his patronage. In his beautiful villa at Fiesole the philosophy of the old times was revived; his botanic garden at Careggi was filled with Oriental exotics. From 1470 to 1492, the year of his death, his happy influence continued. He lived to witness the ancient Platonism overcoming the Platonism of Alexandria, and the pure doctrine of Aristotle expelling the base Aristotelian doctrine of the schools. [Sidenote: Effects instantly produced by the Greek language.] The last half of the fifteenth century revealed to Western Europe two worlds, a new one and an old; the former by the voyage of Columbus, the latter by the capture of Constantinople; one destined to revolutionize the industrial, the other the religious condition. Greek literature, forced into Italy by the Turkish arms, worked wonders; for Latin Europe found with amazement that the ancient half of Christendom knew nothing whatever of the doctrine or of the saints of the West. Now was divulged the secret reason of that bitter hatred displayed by the Catholic clergy to Grecian learning. [Sidenote: Causes of the prevailing dislike of Greek.] It had sometimes been supposed that the ill-concealed dislike they had so often shown to the writings of Aristotle was because of the Arab dress in which his Saracen commentators had presented him; now it appeared that there was something more important, more profound. It was a terror of the Greek itself. Very soon the direction toward which things must inevitably tend became manifest; the modern languages, fast developing, were making Latin an obsolete tongue, and political events were giving it a rival--Greek--capable of asserting over it a supremacy; and not a solitary rival, for to Greek it was clear that Hebrew would soon be added, bringing with it the charms of a hoary antiquity and the sinister learning of the Jew. With a quick, a jealous suspicion, the ecclesiastic soon learned to detect a heretic from his knowledge of Greek and Hebrew, just as is done in our day from a knowledge of physical science. The authority of the Vulgate, that corner-stone of the Italian system, was, in the expectation of Rome, inevitably certain to be depreciated; and, in truth, judging from the honours of which that great translation was soon despoiled by the incoming of Greek and Hebrew, it was declared, not with more emphasis than truth, yet not, perhaps, without irreverence, that there was a second crucifixion between two thieves. Long after the times of which we are speaking, the University of Paris resisted the introduction of Greek into its course of studies, not because of any dislike to letters, but because of its anticipated obnoxious bearing on Latin theology. [Sidenote: Tendency of "The Imitation of Christ."] We can scarcely look in any direction without observing instances of the wonderful change taking place in the opinions of men. To that disposition to lean on a privileged mediating order, once the striking characteristic of all classes of the laity in Europe, there had succeeded a sentiment of self-reliance. Of this perhaps mo better proof can be furnished than the popularity of the work reputed to have been written by Thomas à Kempis, and entitled "The Imitation of Christ." It is said to have had probably more readers than any other book except the Bible. Its great celebrity is a proof how profoundly ecclesiastical influence had been affected, for its essential intention was to enable the pious to cultivate their devotional feeling without the intervention of the clergy. Such a work, if written in the present day, would have found an apt and popular title in "Every Man his own Priest." There is no reason for supposing that the condition to which man had at that time been brought, as the general result of Italian Christianity, was one of intense selfishness, as has been asserted; the celebrity of this book was rather dependent on a profound distrust everywhere felt in the clergy, both as regards morals and intellect. And why should we be surprised that such should be the case with the laity, when in all directions the clergy themselves were giving proof that they could not trust their own strength? They could not conceal their dread at the incoming of Greek; they could not speak without horror of the influence of Hebrew; they were loud in their protestations against the study of pagan philosophy, and held up to the derision and condemnation of the world science denounced by them as profane. [Sidenote: Danger to the unity of the Church.] They foresaw that that fictitious unity of which they had boasted was drawing to an end; that men would become acquainted with the existence and history of churches more ancient, and, therefore, more venerable than the Roman, and, like it, asserting an authenticity upon unimpeachable proofs. But once let sects with such an impressive prestige be introduced to the knowledge of the West, once let the appearance of inviolate unity be taken from the Latin Church, and nothing could prevent a spontaneous decomposition forthwith occurring in it. It must break up into sects, which, in their turn, must break up, in process of time, into smaller and smaller divisions, and, through this means, the European must emerge at last into individual liberty of thought. The compelling hand of ecclesiastical tyranny must be removed, and universal toleration ensue. Nor were such anticipations mere idle suspicions, for such was the course that events actually took. Scarcely had the Reformation occurred when sectarian subdivisions made their appearance, and in modern times we see that an anarchy of sects is the inevitable harbinger of individual liberty of thought. [Sidenote: Higher requirements in evidence.] As we have just said, it was impossible to look in any direction on the latter half of the fifteenth century without recognizing the wonderful change. It had become obviously useless any longer to assert an immobility of humanity when men were standing face to face with the new forms into which it had been transposed. New ideas had driven out old ones. Natural phenomena could not again be likened to human acts, nor the necessities of man regarded as determining the movements of the universe. A better appreciation of the nature of evidence was arising, perhaps in part through the influence of the lawyers, but in part through a commencing taste for criticism. We see it in such facts as the denial that a miracle can be taken as the proof of anything else than the special circumstances with which it is connected; we see it in the assertion that the martyrdom of men in support of a dogma, so far from proving its truth, proves rather its doubtfulness, no geometer having ever thought it worth his while to die in order to establish any mathematical proposition, truth needing no such sacrifices, which are actually unserviceable and useless to it, since it is able spontaneously to force its own way. [Sidenote: Disbelief setting in in Italy.] In Italy, where the popular pecuniary interests were obviously identical with those of the Church, a dismal disbelief was silently engendering. And now occurred an event the results of which it is impossible to exaggerate. [Sidenote: Invention of printing: its early history.] About A.D. 1440 the art of printing seems to have been invented in Europe. It is not material to our purpose to inquire into the particulars of its history, whether we should attribute it to Coster of Haarlaem or Gutenberg of Mentz, or whether, in reality, it was introduced by the Venetians from China, where it had been practised for nearly two thousand years. In Venice a decree was issued in 1441 in relation to printing, which would seem to imply that it had been known there for some years. Coster is supposed to have printed the "Speculum Humanæ Salvationis" about 1440, and Gutenberg and Faust the Mentz Bible without date, 1455. The art reached perfection at once; their Bible is still admired for its beautiful typography. Among the earliest specimens of printing extant is an exhortation to take up arms against the Turks, 1454; there are also two letters of indulgence of Nicolas V. of the same date. In the beginning each page was engraved on a block of wood, but soon movable types were introduced. Impressions of the former kind pass under the name of block books; at first they were sold as manuscripts. Two of Faust's workmen commenced printing in Italy, but not until 1465; they there published an edition of "Lactantius," one of "Cicero de Officiis," and one of "Augustine de Civitate Dei." The art was carried to France 1469, and in a few years was generally practised in all the large European towns. [Sidenote: Early books and booksellers.] The printers were their own booksellers; the number of copies in each edition usually about three hundred. Folios were succeeded by quartos, and in 1501 duodecimos were introduced. Very soon the price of books was reduced by four fifths, and existing interests required regulations not only respecting the cost, but also respecting the contents. Thus the University of Paris established a tariff for their sale, and also exercised a supervision in behalf of the Church, and the State. From the outset it was clear that printing would inevitably influence the intellectual movement synchronously occurring. [Sidenote: Measure of the contemporaneous mental state of nations.] Some authors have endeavoured to estimate the intellectual condition of different countries in Europe at the close of the fifteenth century by the literary activity they displayed in the preparation and printing of editions of books. Though it is plain that such estimates can hardly be rigorously correct, since to print a book not only implies literary capacity, but also the connexions of business and trade, and hence works are more likely to be issued in places where there is a mercantile activity, yet such estimates are perhaps the most exact that we can now obtain; they also lead us to some very interesting and unexpected results of singular value in their connexion with that important epoch. Thus it appears that in all Europe, between 1470 and 1500, more than ten thousand editions of books and pamphlets were printed, and of them a majority in Italy, demonstrating that Italy was in the van of the intellectual movement. Out of this large number, in Venice there had been printed 2,835; Milan, 625; Bologna, 298; Rome, 925; Paris, 751; Cologne, 530; Nuremberg, 382; Leipsic, 851; Bâle, 320; Strasburg, 526; Augsburg, 256; Louvain, 116; Mentz, 134; Deventer, 169; London, 130; Oxford, 7; St. Alban's, 4. [Sidenote: Italy compared with the rest of Europe.] Venice, therefore, took the lead. England was in a very backward state. This conclusion is confirmed by many other circumstances, which justify the statement that Italy was as far advanced intellectually in 1400 as England in 1500. Paris exhibits a superiority sixfold over London, and in the next ten years the disproportion becomes even more remarkable, for in Paris four hundred and thirty editions were printed, in London only twenty-six. The light of learning became enfeebled by distance from its Italian focus. As late as 1550, a complete century after the establishment of the art, but seven works had been printed in Scotland, and among them not a single classic. It is an amusing proof how local tastes were consulted in the character of the books thus put forth, that the first work issued in Spain, 1474, was on the "Conception of the Virgin." [Sidenote: Effect of printing on literature and the Church.] The invention of printing operated in two modes altogether distinct; first, in the multiplying and cheapening of books, secondly, in substituting reading for pulpit instruction. [Sidenote: Cheapening of books.] First, as to the multiplication and cheapening of books--there is no reason to suppose that the supply had ever been inadequate. As, under the Ptolemies, book manufacture was carried forward in the Museum at Alexandria to an extent which fully satisfied demands, so in all the great abbeys there was an apartment--the Scriptorium--for the copying and making of books. Such a sedentary occupation could not but be agreeable to persons of a contemplative or quiet habit of life. But Greece, Rome, Egypt--indeed, all the ancient governments except that of China, were founded upon elements among which did not appear that all-important one of modern times, a reading class. Information passed from mouth to mouth, not from eye to eye. With a limited demand, the compensation to the copier was sufficient, and the cost to the purchaser moderate. It is altogether a mistake to suppose that the methods and advantages of printing were unknown. Modifications of that art were used wherever occasion called for them. We do not need the Roman stamps to satisfy us of that fact every Babylonian brick and signet ring is an illustration. [Sidenote: The want of paper. Damascus paper.] Printing processes of various kinds were well enough known. The real difficulty was the want of paper. That substance was first made in Europe by the Spanish Moors from the fine flax of Valentia and Murcia. Cotton paper, sold as charta Damascena, had been previously made at Damascus, and several different varieties had long been manufactured in China. Had there been more readers, paper would have been more abundantly produced, and there would have been more copiers--nay, even there would have been printers. An increased demand would have been answered by an increased supply. As soon as such a demand arose in Europe the press was introduced, as it had been thousands of years before in China. [Sidenote: Longevity of books curtailed.] So far as the public is concerned, printing has been an unmixed advantage; not so, however, in its bearing on authors. The longevity of books is greatly impaired, a melancholy conclusion to an ambitious intellect. The duration of many ancient books which have escaped the chances of time is to be hoped for no more. In this shortening of their term the excessive multiplication of works greatly assists. A rapid succession soon makes those of distinction obsolete, and then consigns them to oblivion. No author can now expect immortality. His utmost hope is only this, that his book may live a little longer than himself. [Sidenote: Multiplication of books.] But it was with printing as with other affairs of the market--an increased demand gave origin to an increased supply, which, in its turn reacting, increased the demand. Cheap books bred readers. When the monks, abandoning their useless and lazy life of saying their prayers a dozen times a day, turned to the copying and illustrating of manuscripts, a mental elevation of the whole order was the result; there were more monks who could read. And so, on the greater scale, as books through the press became more abundant, there were more persons to whom they became a necessity. [Sidenote: The mode of communicating knowledge changes.] But, secondly, as to the change which ensued in the mode of communicating information--a change felt instantly in the ecclesiastical, and, at a later period, in the political world. The whole system of public worship had been founded on the condition of a non-reading people; hence the reading of prayers and the sermon. Whoever will attentively compare the thirteenth with the nineteenth century cannot fail to see how essential oral instruction was in the former, how subordinate in the latter. [Sidenote: Injury to pulpit instruction.] The invention of the printing-press gave an instant, a formidable rival to the pulpit. It made possible that which had been impossible before in Christian Europe--direct communication between the government and the people without any religious intermedium, and was the first step in that important change subsequently carried out in America, the separation of Church and state. Though in this particular the effect was desirable, in another its advantages are doubtful, for the Church adhered to her ancient method when it had lost very much of its real force, and this even at the risk of falling into a lifeless and impassive condition. [Sidenote: Influence of church services on the people.] And yet we must not undervalue the power once exercised on a non-reading community by oral and scenic teachings. What could better instruct it than a formal congregating of neighbourhoods together each Sabbath-day to listen in silence and without questioning? In those great churches, the architectural grandeur of which is still the admiration of our material age, nothing was wanting to impress the worshipper. The vast pile, with its turrets or spire pointing to heaven; its steep inclining roof; its walls, with niches and statues; its echoing belfry; its windows of exquisite hues and of every form, lancet, or wheel, or rose, through which stole in the many-coloured light; its chapels, with their pictured walls; its rows of slender, clustering columns, and arches tier upon tier; its many tapering pendants; the priest emerging from his scenic retreat; his chalice and forbidden wine; the covering paten, the cibory, and the pix. Amid clouds of incense from smoking censers, the blaze of lamps, and tapers, and branching candlesticks, the tinkling of silver bells, the play of jewelled vessels and gorgeous dresses of violet, green, and gold, banners and crosses were borne aloft through lines of kneeling worshippers in processional services along the aisles. The chanting of litanies and psalms gave a foretaste of the melodies of heaven, and the voices of the choristers and sounds of the organ now thundered forth glory to God in the highest, now whispered to the broken in spirit peace. [Sidenote: Influence of village churches.] If such were the influences in the cathedral, not less were those that gathered round the little village church. To the peasant it was endeared by the most touching incidents of his life. At its font his parents had given him his name; at its altar he had plighted his matrimonial vows; beneath the little grass mounds in its yard there awaited the resurrection those who had been untimely taken away. Connected thus with the profoundest and holiest sentiments of humanity, the pulpit was for instruction a sole and sufficient means. Nothing like it had existed in paganism. The irregular, ill-timed, occasional eloquence of the Greek republican orators cannot for an instant be set in comparison with such a steady and enduring systematic institution. In a temporal as well as in a spiritual sense, the public authorities appreciated its power. Queen Elizabeth was not the only sovereign who knew how to thunder through a thousand pulpits. [Sidenote: The pulpit yields to the press.] For a length of time, as might have been expected, considering its power and favouring adventitious circumstances, the pulpit maintained itself successfully against the press. Nevertheless, its eventual subordination was none the less sure. If there are disadvantages in the method of acquiring knowledge by reading, there are also signal advantages; for, though upon the printed page the silent letters are mute and unsustained by any scenic help, yet often--a wonderful contradiction--they pour forth emphatic eloquence, that can make the heart leap with emotion, or kindle on the cheek the blush of shame. The might of persuasiveness does not always lie in articulate speech. The strong are often the silent. God never speaks. [Sidenote: Listening and reading.] There is another condition which gives to reading a great advantage over listening. In the affairs of life, how wide is the difference between having a thing done for us and doing it ourselves! In the latter case, how great is the interest awakened, how much more thorough the examination, how much more perfect the acquaintance. To listen implies merely a passive frame of mind; to read, an active. But the latter is more noble. [Sidenote: Decline of pulpit influence.] From these and other such considerations, it might have been foreseen that the printing-press would at last deprive the pulpit of its supremacy, making it become ineffective, or reducing it to an ancillary aid. It must have been clear that the time would arrive when, though adorned by the eloquence of great and good men, the sermon would lose its power for moving popular masses or directing public thought. [Sidenote: Newspapers; their origin.] Upon temporal as well as ecclesiastical authority, the influence of this great change was also felt. During the Turkish war of 1563 newspapers first made their appearance in Venice. They were in manuscript. The "Gazette de France" commenced in 1631. There seems to be doubt as to the authenticity of the early English papers reputed to have been published during the excitement of the Spanish Armada, and of which copies remain in the British Museum. It was not until the civil wars that, under the names of Mercuries, Intelligences, etc., newspapers fairly established themselves in England. [Sidenote: Decline of power in parliamentary eloquence.] What I have said respecting the influence of the press upon religious life applies substantially to civil life also. Oratory has sunk into a secondary position, being every day more and more thoroughly supplanted by journalism. No matter how excellent it may be in its sphere of action, it is essentially limited, and altogether incompetent to the influencing of masses of men in the manner which our modern social system requires. Without a newspaper, what would be the worth of the most eloquent parliamentary attempts? It is that which really makes them instruments of power, and gives to them political force, which takes them out of a little circle of cultivated auditors, and throws them broadcast over nations. [Sidenote: Dawn of the Reformation.] Such was the literary condition of Western Europe, such the new power that had been found in the press. These were but initiatory to the great drama now commencing. We have already seen that synchronously with this intellectual there was a moral impulse coming into play. The two were in harmony. At the time now occupying our attention there was a possibility for the moral impulse to act under several different forms. The special mode in which it came into effect was determined by the pecuniary necessities of Italy. It very soon, however, assumed larger proportions, and became what is known to us as the Reformation. The movement against Rome that had been abandoned for a century was now recommenced. [Sidenote: Variation of human thought.] The variation of human thought proceeds in a continuous manner, new ideas springing out of old ones either as corrections or developments, but never spontaneously originating. With them, as with organic forms, each requires a germ, a seed. The intellectual phase of humanity observed at any moment is therefore an embodiment of many different things. It is connected with the past, is in unison with the present, and contains the embryo of the future. Human opinions must hence, of absolute necessity, undergo transformation. What has been received by one generation as undoubted, to a subsequent one becomes so conspicuously fallacious as to excite the wonder of those who do not distinctly appreciate the law of psychical advance that it could ever have been received as true. These phases of transformation are not only related in a chronological way, so as to be obvious when we examine the ideas of society at epochs of a few years or of centuries apart--they exist also contemporaneously in different nations or in different social grades of the same nation, according as the class of persons considered has made a greater or less intellectual progress. [Sidenote: Variations in Italian ideas.] Notwithstanding the assertion of Rome, the essential ideas of the Italian system had undergone unavoidable modifications. An illiterate people, easily imposed upon, had accepted as true the asseveration that there had been no change even from the apostolic times. But the time had now come when that fiction could no longer be maintained, the divergence no longer concealed. In the new state of things, it was impossible that dogmas in absolute opposition to reason, such as that of transubstantiation, could any longer hold their ground. The scholastic theology and scholastic philosophy, though supported by the universities, had become obsolete. With the revival of pure Latinity and the introduction of Greek, the foundations of a more correct criticism were laid. An age of erudition was unavoidable, in which whatever could not establish its claims against a searching examination must necessarily be overthrown. [Sidenote: The Reformation: its history.] We are thus brought to the great movement known as the Reformation. The term is usually applied in reference to the Protestant nations, and therefore is not sufficiently comprehensive, for all Europe was in truth involved. A clear understanding of its origin, its process, its effects, is perhaps best obtained by an examination of the condition of the northern and southern nations, and the issue of the event in each respectively. [Sidenote: The preparatory state of Germany, France, England.] Germany had always been sincere, and therefore always devout. Of her disposition she had given many proofs from the time when the Emperor Otho descended into Italy, his expedition having been, as was said, an armed procession of ecclesiastics resolved to abate the scandals of the Church. The Councils of Constance and Basle may be looked upon as an embodiment of the same sentiment. The resolution to limit the papal authority and to put a superior over the pope arose from a profound conviction of the necessity of such a measure. Those councils were precursors of the coming Reformation. In other countries events had long been tending in the same direction: in Sicily and Italy by the acts of Frederick II.; in France through those of Philip the Fair. The educated had been estranged by the Saracens and Jews; the enthusiastic by such works as the Everlasting Gospel; the devout had been shocked by the tale of the Templars and the detected immoralities in Rome; the patriotic had been alienated by the assumptions of the papal court and its incessant intermeddling in political affairs; the inferior, unreflecting orders were in all directions exasperated by its importunate, unceasing exactions of money. In England, for instance, though less advanced intellectually than the southern nations, the commencement of the Reformation is perhaps justly referred as far back as the reign of Edward III., who, under the suggestion of Wiclif, refused to do homage to the pope, but a series of weaker princes succeeding, it was not until Henry VII. that the movement could be continued. In that country the immediately exciting causes were no doubt of a material kind, such as the alleged avarice and impurity of the clergy, the immense amount of money taken from the realm, the intrusion of foreign ecclesiastics. In the South of France and in Italy, where the intellectual condition was much more advanced, the movement was correspondingly of a more intellectual kind. To this difference between the north and the south must be referred not only the striking geographical distribution of belief which was soon apparent, but also the speedy and abrupt limitation of the Reformation, restrictedly so called. [Sidenote: The theory of supererogation,] In recent ages, under her financial pressure, Rome had asserted that the infinite merits of our Saviour, together with the good works of supererogation of many holy men, constituted, as it were, a fund from which might be discharged penalties of sins of every kind, for the dead as well as the living, and therefore available for those who had passed into Purgatory, as well as for us who remain. [Sidenote: and nature of indulgences.] This fund, committed to the care of St. Peter and his successors, may be disbursed, under the form of indulgences, by sale for money. A traffic in indulgences was thus carried on to a great extent through the medium of the monks, who received a commission upon the profits. Of course, it is plain that the religious conception of such a transaction is liable to adverse criticism--the bartering for money so holy a thing as the merit of our Redeemer. This was, however, only the ostensible explanation, which it was judged necessary to present to sincerely pious communities: behind it there lay the real reason, which was essentially of a political kind. It was absolutely necessary that papal Rome should control a revenue far beyond that arising in a strictly legitimate way. As all the world had been drained of money by the senate and Cæsars for the support of republican or imperial power, so too there was a need of a like supply for the use of the pontiffs. The collection of funds had often given rise to contentions between the ecclesiastical and temporal authorities, and in some of the more sturdy countries had been resolutely resisted. To collect a direct tax is often a troublesome affair; but such is human nature--a man from whom it might be difficult to extort the payment of an impost lawfully laid, will often cheerfully find means to purchase for himself indulgence for sin. In such a semi-barbarian but yet religious population as that with which the Church was dealing, it was quite clear that this manner of presenting things possessed singular advantages, an obvious equivalent being given for the money received. The indulgence implied not only a release from celestial, but also, in many cases, from civil penalties. It was an absolute guarantee from hell. [Sidenote: Martin Luther.] It is said that the attention of Martin Luther, formerly an Augustinian monk, was first attracted to this subject by the traffic having been conferred on the Dominicans instead of upon his own order at the time when Leo X. was raising funds by this means for building St. Peter's at Rome, A.D. 1517. That was probably only an insinuation of Luther's adversaries, and is very far from being borne out by his subsequent conduct. His first public movement was the putting forth of ninety-five theses against the practice. He posted them on the door of the cathedral of Wittenberg, and enforced them in his sermons, though at this time he professed obedience to the papal authority. With a rapidity probably unexpected by him, his acts excited public attention so strongly, that, though the pope was at first disposed to regard the whole affair as a mere monkish squabble for gains, it soon became obvious, from the manner in which the commotion was spreading, that something must be done to check it. The pope therefore summoned Luther to Rome to answer for himself; but through the influence of certain great personages, and receiving a submissive letter from the accused, he, on reconsideration, referred the matter to Cardinal Cajetan, his legate in Germany. The cardinal, on looking into the affair, ordered Luther to retract; and now came into prominence the mental qualities of this great man. Luther, with respectful firmness, refused; but remembering John Huss, and fearing that the imperial safe-conduct which had been given to him would be insufficient for his protection, he secretly returned to Wittenberg, having first, however, solemnly appealed from the pope, ill informed at the time, to the pope when he should have been better instructed. Thereupon he was condemned as a heretic. Undismayed, he continued to defend his opinions, but, finding himself in imminent danger, he fell upon the suggestion which, since the days of Philip the Fair, had been recognized as the true method of dealing with the papacy, and appealed to a general council as the true representative of the Church, and therefore superior to the pope, who is not infallible any more than St. Peter himself had been. To this denial of papal authority he soon added a dissent from the doctrines of purgatory, auricular confession, absolution. [Sidenote: The right of individual judgment asserted.] It was now that the grand idea which had hitherto silently lain at the bottom of the whole movement emerged into prominence--the right of individual judgment--under the dogma that it is not papal authority which should be the guide of life, but the Bible, and that the Bible is to be interpreted by private judgment. Thus far it had been received that the Bible derives its authenticity and authority from the Church; now it was asserted that the Church derives her authenticity and authority from the Bible. At this moment there was but one course for the Italian court to take with the audacious offender, for this new doctrine of the right of exercising private judgment in matters of faith was dangerous to the last extreme, and not to be tolerated for a moment. [Sidenote: Excommunication of Luther.] Luther was therefore ordered to recant, and to burn his own works, under penalty, if disobedient, of being excommunicated, and delivered over unto Satan. The bull thus issued directed all secular princes to seize his person and punish his crimes. [Sidenote: He resists, and publicly burns the bull,] But Luther was not to be intimidated; nay, more, he retaliated. He denounced the pope, as Frederick and the Fratricelli had formerly done, as the Man of Sin, the Anti-Christ. He called upon all Christian princes to shake off his tyranny. In presence of a great concourse of applauding spectators, he committed the volumes of the canon law and the bull of excommunication to the flames. The pope now issued another bull expelling him from the Church. This was in January, 1521. This separation opened to Luther an unrestrained career. He forthwith proceeded to an examination of the Italian system of theology and policy, in which he was joined by many talented men who participated in his views. The Emperor Charles V. found it necessary to use all his influence to check the spreading Reformation. But it was already too late, for Luther had obtained the firm support of many personages of influence, and his doctrines were finding defenders among some of the ablest men in Europe. An imperial diet was therefore held at Worms, before which Luther, being summoned, appeared. But nothing could induce him to retract his opinions. An edict was published putting him under the ban of the empire; but the Elector of Saxony concealed him in the castle of Wartburg. [Sidenote: and the revolt spreads.] While he was in this retirement his doctrines were rapidly extending, the Augustinians of Wittenberg not hesitating to change the usages of the Church, abolishing private masses, and giving the cup as well as the bread to the laity. [Sidenote: The Swiss Reformation. Zuinglius.] While Germany was agitated to her centre, a like revolt against Italian supremacy broke out in Switzerland. It too commenced on the question of indulgences, and found a leader in Zuinglius. Even at this early period the inevitable course of events was beginning to be plainly displayed in sectarian decomposition; for, while the German and Swiss Reformers agreed in their relation toward the papal authority, they differed widely from each other on some important doctrinal points, more especially as to the nature of the Eucharist. The Germans supposed that the body and blood of Christ are actually present in the bread and wine in some mysterious way; the Swiss believed that those substances are only emblems or symbols. Both totally rejected the Italian doctrine of transubstantiation. The old ideas of Berengar were therefore again fermenting among men. An attempt was made, under the auspices of the Landgrave of Hesse, to compose the dissension in a conference at Marburg; but it was found, after a long disputation, that neither party would give up its views, and they therefore separated, as it was said, in Christian charity, but not in brotherhood. At the first Diet of Spires, held in 1526, it was tried to procure the execution of the sentence passed upon Luther, but the party of the Reformation proved to be too strong for the Catholics. At a second diet, held at the same place three years subsequently, it was resolved that no change should be made in the established religion before the action of a general council, which had been recommended by both diets, should be known. On this occasion the Catholic interest preponderated sufficiently to procure a revocation of the power which had been conceded to the princes of the empire of managing for a time the ecclesiastical matters of their own dominions. [Sidenote: The Protestants; origin of the name.] Against this action several of the princes and cities _protested_, this being the origin of the designation Protestants subsequently given to the Reformers. At a diet held the following year at Augsburg, a statement, composed by Luther and Melanchthon, of the doctrines of the Reformers was presented; it also treated to some extent of the errors and superstitions of the Catholics. This is what is known as the Confession of Augsburg. [Sidenote: Organization of the Reformation.] The diet however not only rejected it, but condemned most of its doctrines. The Protestants, therefore, in an assembly at Smalcalde, contracted a treaty for their common defence, and this may be looked upon as the epoch of organization of the Reformation. This league did not include the Reformers of Switzerland, who could not conscientiously adopt the Confession of Augsburg, which was its essential basis. The Sacramentarians, as they were called, became thus politically divided from the Lutherans. Moreover, in Switzerland the process of decomposition went on, Calvin establishing a new sect, characterized by the manner in which it insisted on the Augustinian doctrines of predestination and election, by the abolition of all festivals, and the discontinuance of Church ceremonies. At a later period the followers of Zuinglius and Calvin coalesced. [Sidenote: Its culmination. Peace of Westphalia.] The political combinations which had thus occurred as Protestantism rapidly acquired temporal power gave rise, as might have been anticipated, to wars. The peace of Augsburg, 1555, furnished the Reformers the substantial advantages they sought--freedom from Italian ecclesiastical authority, the right of all Germans to judge for themselves in matters of religion, equality in civil privileges for them and the Catholics. A second time, sixty-four years subsequently, war broke out--the Thirty Years' War--and finally the dispute was composed by the treaty of Westphalia. This may be regarded as the culmination of the Reformation. Peace was made in spite of all the intrigues and opposition of Rome. [Sidenote: Extent of the movement.] The doctrines of the Reformation were adopted with singular avidity throughout the north of Europe, and established themselves for a time in France and in Italy. Even as early as 1558 a report of the Venetian ambassador estimates the Catholics of the German empire at only one-tenth of the population. For twenty years not a student of the University of Vienna had become a priest. [Sidenote: The revolt in Italy.] Such was the Reformation among the German nations. It is not possible, however, to comprehend correctly that great movement without understanding the course of events in Italy, for that peninsula was involved, though in a very different way. In its intellectual condition it was far in advance of the rest of Europe, as is proved by such facts as those to which we have alluded respecting the printing of books. Between it and the nations of which we have been speaking there was also a wide difference in material interests. What was extorted from them was enjoyed by it. The mental and material condition of Italy soon set a limit to the progress of the Reformation. [Sidenote: Position of the Italians.] The Italians had long looked upon the transalpine nations with contempt. On the principle that the intellectually strong may lawfully prey on the intellectually weak, they had systematically drained them of their wealth. As we exchange with savages beads, and looking-glasses, and nails, for gold, they had driven a profitable barter with the valiant but illiterate barbarians, exchanging possessions in heaven for the wealth of the earth, and selling for money immunities or indulgences for sin. But in another respect they had looked upon them with dread--they had felt the edge of the French and German sword. The educated classes, though seeking the widest liberty of thought for themselves, were not disposed to more than a very select propagandism of opinions, which plainly could only be detrimental to the pecuniary interests of their country. Their faith had long ago ceased to be that of conviction; it had become a mere outward patriotic acquiescence. Even those who were willing enough to indulge themselves in the utmost latitude of personal free-thinking never made an objection when some indiscreet zealot of their own kind was compelled by ecclesiastical pressure to flee beyond the Alps. No part of Europe was so full of irreligion as Italy. It amounted to a philosophical infidelity among the higher classes; to Arianism among the middle and less instructed; to an utter carelessness, not even giving itself the trouble of disbelief, among the low. [Sidenote: State of their universities.] The universities and learned academies were hot-beds of heresy; thus the University of Padua was accused of having been for long a focus of atheism, and again and again learned academies, as those of Modena and Venice, had been suppressed for heresy. [Sidenote: State of the learned academies.] The device of the Academy of the Lyncei indicated only too plainly the spirit of these institutions; it was a lynx, with its eyes turned upward to heaven, tearing the triple-headed Cerberus with its claws. Nor was this alarming condition restricted to Italy; France had long participated in it. From the University of Paris, that watch-tower of the Church, the alarm had often been sounded; now it was against men, now against books. Once, under its suggestions, the reading of the physics and metaphysics of Aristotle had been prohibited, and works of philosophy interdicted until they should have been corrected by the theologians of the Church. The physical heresies of Galileo, the pantheism of Cæsalpinus had friendly counterparts in France. Even the head of the Church, Leo X., at the beginning of the Reformation, could not escape obloquy, and stories were circulated touching his elevation to the pontificate at once prejudicial to his morals and to his belief. [Sidenote: False position of the papacy.] In such an ominous condition, the necessity of carrying out the policy to which Italy had so long been committed perpetually forced the papal Government to acts against which the instructed judgment of its own officials revolted. It was a continual struggle between their duty and their disposition. Why should they have thought it expedient to suppress the Koran when it was printed in Venice, 1530? why, when Paul IV., 1559, promulgated the Index Expurgatorius of prohibited books, was it found necessary that not less than forty-eight editions of the Bible should be included in it, sixty-one printers put under the ban, and all their publications forbidden, at first the interdict being against all prohibited books, and, on this being found insufficient, even those that had not been permitted being prohibited? Why was it that Galileo was dealt with so considerately and yet so malignantly? It was plain that toleration, either of men or books, was altogether irreconcilable with the principles of the Holy See, and that under its stern exigencies the former must be disposed of, and the latter suppressed or burnt, no matter what personal inclinations or favouring sentiments might be in the way. If any faltering took place in the carrying out of this determination, the control of Rome over the human mind would be put into the most imminent jeopardy. [Sidenote: Check of the Reformation in Italy.] So stood affairs in Italy at the beginning and during the active period of the Reformation, the ancient system inexorably pressing upon the leading men, and impelling them to acts against which their better judgment revolted. They were bound down to the interests of their country, those interests being interwoven with conditions which they could no longer intellectually accept. For men of this class the German and Swiss reformations did not go far enough. They affirmed that things were left just as inconsistent, with reason, just as indefensible as before. Doubtless they considered that the paring away of the worship of saints, of absolution for money, penances, indulgences, freedom from papal taxation, the repudiation of intrusive foreign ecclesiastics, was all to the detriment of the pecuniary interests of Italy. They affirmed that the doctrines put forth by the Reformers made good their ground, not through the force of reason, but through appeals to the ignorant, and even to women; not through an improved and sounder criticism, but, as it was declared, through the inward light of the Spirit; that nothing had been done to alleviate the ancient intolerant dogmatism, the forcible suppression of freedom of thought. [Sidenote: Leo X.; his character.] Leo X., it is well known, at first altogether mistook the nature of the Reformation. He was a man of refined tastes and pleasure, delighting in sumptuous feasts, and too often scandalizing the devout by his indecent conversation and licentious conduct. He gloried in being the patron of the learned, devoting all his attention to the progress of literature and the fine arts, a connoisseur in antiques. The amenities of the life of an accomplished gentleman were not to be disturbed. He little dreamt that in the coarse German monk there was an antagonist worthy of the papacy. The gay Italians looked upon Luther with ineffable contempt, as introducing ideas even more absurd than those he was trying to displace, and, what was perhaps a still greater offence, upholding his bad doctrines in worse Latin. They affected to believe that they discerned a taint of insanity in the Reformer's account of his conflicts with the Devil, yet were willing to concede that there was a method in his madness, since he was bent on having a wife. In their opinion, the result of the German movement must be exceedingly detrimental to learning, and necessarily lead to the production of very vulgar results, exciting among the common people a revolutionary and destructive spirit. Nor was this personal distaste for Luther altogether undeserved. The caricatures which that great man permitted himself to put forth are too indelicate to be described to a modern reader. They would be worthy of our disgust and indignation did we not find some palliation in the coarseness of the communities and times in which he lived. Leo awoke to his blunder when it was too late, and found that he had been superciliously sneering at what he should have combated with all his might. [Sidenote: Check of the Reformation in Europe.] It is now more than three centuries since the Reformation commenced, and we are able, with some degree of accuracy, to ascertain its influence. Founded as it was on the right of private interpretation of the Scriptures, it introduced a better rule of life, and made a great advance towards intellectual liberty. It compelled men to be more moral, and permitted them to be more learned. For the traditions of superstition it substituted the dictates of common sense; it put an end to the disgraceful miracles that for so many ages had been the scandal of Europe. The assertion of the Italians that it was a great injury to letters is untrue. Though not to be regarded in any respect as a learned man, Luther approved of the study of Greek and Hebrew, recognized by all parties to be dangerous to the Latin system. And even if the accusation be admitted that he approved of their cultivation, not from any love of them, but from hatred to it, the world was equally a gainer. Toward the close of his life it seemed as if there was no other prospect for papal power than total ruin: yet at this day, out of three hundred millions of Christians, more than half owe allegiance to Rome. Almost as if by enchantment the Reformation suddenly ceased to advance. Rome was not only able to check its spread, but even to gain back a portion of what she had lost. [Sidenote: Its causes were not supernatural.] The cause of this, which may seem at first an extraordinary result, is not to be attributed to any supernatural influence, as some have supposed. When natural causes suffice, it is needless to look for supernatural. Though there might be sovereigns who, like Henry VIII., had personal reasons for discontent with the Italian court; though there were some who sought to usurp the power and prerogatives of the popes; though there might be nobles who, as the Prince of Wales's tutor wrote to Sir W. Paget, were "importunate wolves, as are able to devour chantries, cathedral churches, universities, and a thousand times as much;" some who desired the plunder of establishments endowed by the piety of ages, and who therefore lent all their influence in behalf of this great revolution; there was among such and above such that small but all-important body of men who see human affairs from the most general point of view. [Sidenote: Influence of statesmen and philosophers.] To these, whatever might be the nation to which they happened to belong, it was perfectly evident that the decomposition of faith which had set in, if permitted to go on unchecked, could not possibly end in any other way than in producing an anarchy of sects. In their opinion, the German Reformation did not go far enough. It still practically left untouched the dependency of the Church upon the State. In the southern nations of the Continent it had merely irritated the great European ulcer, whereas what was required was the complete amputation of the rotten mass. In their judgment it was better to leave things as they were until a thorough eradication could be accomplished, and this, at the time, was obviously impossible. Not understanding, perhaps, how much human affairs are developed according to law, and how little by the volition of individuals, they liberally conceded that Catholicism had been the civilizing agency of Europe, and had become inwoven with the social fabric for good or for evil. It could not now be withdrawn without pulling the whole texture to pieces. Moreover, the curtain of papal authority, which at one time enveloped all Europe in its ample folds, had, in the course of these late events, been contracted and stretched across the Continent, dividing the northern and southern nations from each other. The people of the south saw on its embroidered surface nothing but forms of usefulness and beauty, they on the north a confusion of meaningless threads. But the few who considered it as a whole, and understood the relations of both sides, knew well enough that the one is the necessary incident of the other, and that it is quite as useless to seek for explanations as to justify appearances. To them it was perfectly clear that the tranquillity and happiness of Christendom were best subserved by giving no encouragement to opinions which had already occasioned so much trouble, and which seemed to contain in their very constitution principles of social disorganization. [Sidenote: Influence of the nature of the Reformation.] A reason for the sudden loss of expansive force in the Reformation is found in its own intrinsic nature. The principle of decomposition which it represented, and with which it was inextricably entangled, necessarily implied oppugnancy. For a short season the attention of Protestantism was altogether directed to the papal authority from which it had so recently separated itself; but, with its growing strength and ascertained independence, that object ceased to occupy it, becoming, as it were, more distant and more obscure. Upon the subordinate divisions which were springing from it, or which were of collateral descent from the original Catholic stock, the whole view of each denomination was concentrated. The bitterness once directed against the papacy lost none of its intensity when pointed at rivals or enemies nearer home. Nor was it alone dissensions among the greater sects, oppositions such as those between the Church of England and the Church of Scotland, whose discords were founded on points admitted by all to be great and essential; the same principle ran down through all the modes of sectarian combination as they emerged into life, producing among those of equal power struggles, and in the strong toward the weak persecution. [Sidenote: Effect of sectarian disputes.] Very soon the process of decomposition had advanced to such an extent that minor sects came into existence on very unessential points. Yet even among these little bodies there was just as much acrimony, just as much hatred as among the great. These differences were carried into the affairs of civil life, each sect forming a society within itself, and abstaining, as far as might be, from associations with its rivals. Of such a state of things the necessary result was weakness, and, had there been no other reason, this in itself would have been quite sufficient in the end to deprive Protestantism of its aggressive power. An army divided against itself is in no condition to make warfare against a watchful and vigorous enemy. [Sidenote: Want of concentrated power.] But this was not all. It was in the nature of Protestantism from its outset that it was not constructive. Unlike its great antagonist, it contained no fundamental principle that could combine distant communities and foreign countries together. It originated in dissent, and was embodied by separation. It could not possess a concentrated power, nor recognize one apostolic man who might compress its disputes, harmonize its powers, wield it as a mass. For the attainment of his aims the Protestant had only wishes, the Catholic had a will. The Church of England, of Scotland, or of any other Protestant nation, undoubtedly did discharge its duty excellently well for the community in which it was placed, but, at the most, it was only a purely local institution, altogether insignificant in comparison with that great old Church, hoary and venerable with age, which had seen every government and every institution in Europe come into existence, many of them at its bidding, which had extirpated paganism from the Roman empire, compelled the Cæsars to obey its mandates, precipitated the whole white race upon the Holy Land--that great old Church, once the more than imperial sovereign of Christendom, and of which the most respectable national Church was only a fragment of a fragment. [Sidenote: Condition of Catholicism.] Very different was it with Catholicism. It possessed an organization which concentrated in the hand of one man irresistible power, and included all the southern countries of Europe not Mohammedan. It could enforce its policy by the armies and fleets of obedient kings. It is not surprising, when this state of things is considered, that the spread of the Reformation was limited to its first fervour--that the men who saw its origin saw also its culmination. It is not to be wondered at that, with the political weakening arising from a tendency to subdivision and disintegration on one side, and the preparing of a complete and effective organization against the danger that was threatening on the other, the issue should have turned out as it did. [Sidenote: The means of resistance resorted to by Rome.] Rome, awaking at last to her danger, met the Reformation with four weapons--a counter-reformation, an increased vigour in the Inquisition, the institution of the Jesuits, and a greater embellishment of worship. The disposition of the northern nations was to a simplification of worship, that of the south to adorn it with whatever could captivate the senses. Ranke asserts that the composition of the mass of Marcellus by Palestrina, 1560, had a wonderful effect in the revival of religion; there can be no doubt that it constituted an epoch in devotion. [Sidenote: A counter-reformation.] But of all these, the first and best was a moral change which she instantly imposed upon herself. Henceforth it was her intention that in the chair of St. Peter should never again be seen atheists, poisoners, thieves, murderers, blasphemers, adulterers, but men, who, if they were sometimes found, as must be the case, considering the infirmities of humanity, incompetent to deal with the great trials which often befell them, were yet of such personal purity, holiness of life, and uprightness of intention as to command profound respect. Those scandals that hitherto had everywhere disgraced her began to disappear, a true reformation, but not a schism, occurring through all ecclesiastical grades. Had Protestantism produced no other result than this, it would have been an unspeakable blessing to the world. [Sidenote: The Inquisition brought into activity.] By another very different means the Italian power sought to insure its domination--by an increased activity of the Inquisition. It is difficult to understand how men of capacity could have justified this iniquitous institution. Certainly it could not have been upon any principles of Christian morality, nor even upon those of high statesmanship. For the Inquisition to accomplish its purpose, it must needs be as all-seeing as Providence, as inexorable as the grave; not inflicting punishments which the sufferer could remember, but remorselessly killing outright; not troubling itself to ascertain the merits of a case and giving the accused the benefit of a doubt, but regarding suspicion and certainty as the same thing. If worked with the unscrupulous, impassive resolution of Machiavellianism, this great engine for the coercion of the human mind could be made to accomplish its purpose. It thoroughly extinguished Protestantism in Spain and Italy, and in those countries maintained a barrier against the progressive reason of man. [Sidenote: The Jesuits are established.] But the most effective weapon to which the papacy resorted was the institution of the order of the Jesuits. This was established by a bull of Paul III., 1540, the rules being that the general, chosen for life, should be obeyed as God; that they should vow poverty, chastity, obedience, and go wherever they were commanded; their obedience was to the pope, not to the Church--a most politic distinction, for thereby an unmistakable responsibility was secured. They had no regular hours of prayer; their duties were preaching, the direction of consciences, education. By the Jesuits Rome penetrated into the remotest corners of the earth, established links of communication with her children who remained true to her in the heart of Protestant countries, and, with a far-seeing policy for the future, silently engrossed the education of the young. At the confessional she extorted from women the hidden secrets of their lives and those of their families, took the lead in devotion wherever there were pious men, and was equally foremost in the world of fashion and dissipation. [Sidenote: Their influence all over the world.] There was no guise under which the Jesuit might not be found--a barefoot beggar, clothed in rags; a learned professor, lecturing gratuitously to scientific audiences; a man of the world, living in profusion and princely extravagance; there have been Jesuits the wearers of crowns. There were no places into which they did not find their way: a visitor to one of the loyal old families of England could never be sure but that there was a Jesuit hidden in the garret or secreted behind the wainscot of the bedroom. They were the advisers of the leading men of the age, sat in the cabinets of kings, and were their confessors. They boasted that they were the link between religious opinion and literature. With implicit and unquestioning obedience to his superior, like a good soldier, it was the paramount duty of the Jesuit to obey his orders, whatever those orders might be. It was for him to go, at the summons of a moment, with his life in his hand, to the very centre of pagan or of reformed and revolted countries, where his presence was death by law, and execute the mission intrusted to him. If he succeeded, it was well; if he should fall, it was also well. To him all things were proper for the sake of the Church. It was his business to consider how the affair he had in hand was to be most surely accomplished--to resort to justifiable means if they should appear sufficient, if not, to unjustifiable; to the spiritual weapon, but also to be prepared with the carnal; to sacrifice candour if the occasion should require, if necessary even truth, remembering that the end justifies the means, if that end is the good of the Church. While some religious orders were founded on retirement, and aimed at personal improvement by solitude, the Jesuits were instructed to mix in the affairs of men, and gather experience in the ways of worldly wisdom. And since it is the infirmity of humanity, whatever may be the vigour of its first intentions, too often to weary in well-doing, provision was made to re-enforce the zeal of those becoming lukewarm to admonish the delinquent, by making each a spy on all the others, under oath to reveal everything to his superior. In that manner a control was exercised over the brotherhood in all parts of the world. In Europe they had, in a very short time, stealthily but largely engrossed public education; had mixed themselves up with every public affair; were at the bottom of every intrigue, making their power felt through the control they exerted over sovereigns, ministers of state, and great court ladies, influencing the last through the spiritual means of the confessional, or by the more natural but equally effectual entanglements of requited love. Already they had recognized the agency of commerce in promoting and diffusing religious belief, and hence simultaneously became great missionaries and great merchants. With the Indies, East and West, they carried forward extensive commercial undertakings, and had depôts in various parts of Europe. In these operations they were necessarily absolved from their vows of poverty, and became immensely rich. In South America they obtained a footing in Paraguay, and commenced their noble attempt at the civilization of the Indians, bringing them into communities, teaching them social usages, agricultural arts, and the benefits arising to themselves and the community from labour. They gave them a military organization, subdivided according to the European system, into the customary arms--infantry, cavalry, artillery; they supplied them with munitions of war. It was their hope that from this basis they should be able to spread the rule of the Church over America, as had been done in preceding ages over Europe. [Sidenote: Causes of their suppression.] An intolerable apprehension of their invisible presence and unscrupulous agency made all Europe put them down at last. The amenities of exquisite courteousness, the artifices of infinite dissimulation, cannot for ever deceive. Men found, by bitter experience, that within the silken glove there was an iron hand. From their general in Rome, who was absolute commander of their persons and unchallengeable administrator of their prodigious wealth, down to the humblest missionary who was wearing away his life among the Andes, or on the banks of the Hoang-ho, or in the solitary prairies of Missouri, or under the blazing sun of Abyssinia--whether he was confessing the butterfly ladies of Paris, whispering devilish suggestions into the ear of the King of Spain, consoling the dying peasant in an Irish cabin, arguing with mandarins in the palace of the Emperor of China, stealing away the hearts of the rising generation in the lower schools and academies, extorting the admiration of learned societies by the profundity of his philosophy and the brilliancy of his scientific discoveries--whether he was to be seen in the exchanges and marts of the great capitals, supervising commercial operations on a scale which up to that time had been attempted by none but the Jews--whether he was held in an English jail as a suspected vagabond, or sitting on the throne of France--whether he appeared as a great landed proprietor, the owner of countless leagues in the remote parts of India or South America, or whether he was mixing with crowds in the streets of London, and insinuating in Protestant ears the rights of subjects to oppose and even depose their monarchs, or in the villages of Castile and Leon, preaching before Catholic peasants the paramount duty of a good Christian implicitly to obey the mandates of his king--wherever the Jesuit was, or whatever he was doing, men universally felt that the thing he had in hand was only auxiliary to some higher, some hidden design. This stealth, and silence and power became at last so intolerable that the Jesuits were banished from France, Spain, Portugal, and other Catholic countries. But such was their vitality that, though the order was abolished by a papal bull in 1773, they have been again restored. [Sidenote: Effects of change of opinion among the learned.] Though it is sometimes said that Rome in this manner, by her admirable combinations and irresistible movement, succeeded at last in checking the Reformation, a full consideration of the state of affairs would lead us to receive that assertion with very considerable restriction. She came out of the conflict much less powerful than she had entered it. If we attribute to her policy all that it can justly claim, we must also attribute to causes over which she had no kind of control their rightful influence. The Reformation had been, to no small extent, due to the rise of criticism, which still continued its development, and was still fruitful of results. Latin had fallen from its high estate; the modern languages were in all directions expanding and improving; the printing-press was not only giving Greek learning to the world, but countless translations and commentaries. The doctrine successfully established by Luther and his colleagues--the right of private interpretation and judgment--was the practical carrying out of the organic law of criticism to the highest affairs with which man can be concerned--affairs of religion. The Reformation itself, philosophically considered, really meant the casting off of authority, the installation of individual inquiry and personal opinion. [Sidenote: Effects of criticism on religion and literature.] If criticism, thus standing upon the basis of the Holy Scriptures, had not hesitated to apply itself to an examination of public faith, and, as the consequence thereof, had laid down new rules for morality and the guidance of life, it was not to be expected that it would hesitate to deal with minor things--that it would spare the philosophy, the policy, the literature of antiquity. And so, indeed, it went on, comparing classical authors with classical authors, the fathers with the fathers, often the same writer with himself. Contradictions were pointed out, errors exposed, weakness detected, and new views offered of almost everything within the range of literature. [Sidenote: The Bible.] From this burning ordeal one book alone came out unscathed. It was the Bible. It spontaneously vindicated for itself what Wiclif in the former times, and Luther more lately, had claimed for it. And not only did it hold its ground, but it truly became incalculably more powerful than ever it had been before. The press multiplied it in every language without end, until there was scarcely a cottage in reformed Europe that did not possess a copy. But if criticism was thus the stimulating principle that had given life to the Reformation, it had no little to do with its pause; and this is the influence over which Rome had no kind of control, and to which I have made allusion. The phases through which the Reformation passed were dependent on the coincident advances of learning. First it relied on the Scriptures, which were to the last its surest support; then it included the Fathers. [Sidenote: Decline of the value of patristic learning.] But, from a more intimate study of the latter, many erudite Protestants were gradually brought back to the ancient fold. Among such may be mentioned Erasmus, who by degrees became alienated from the Reformers, and subsequently Grotius, the publication of whose treatise, "De jure belli et pacis," 1625, really constituted an epoch in the political system of Europe. This great man had gradually become averse to the Reformation, believing that, all things considered, it had done more harm than good; he had concluded that it was better to throw differences into oblivion for the sake of peace, and to enforce silence on one's own opinions, rather than to expect that the Church should be compelled to accommodate herself to them. If such men as Erasmus, Casaubon, and Grotius had been brought to this dilemma by their profound philosophical meditations, their conclusion was confirmed among the less reflecting by the unhappy intolerance of the new as well as the old Church. [Sidenote: Moral effects of persecutions.] Men asked what was the difference between the vindictiveness with which Rome dealt with Antonio de Dominis, at once an ecclesiastic and a natural philosopher, who, having gone over to Protestantism and then seceded, imprudently visited Rome, was there arrested, and dying, his body was dug up and burnt, and the rigour of Calvin, who seized Servetus, the author of the "Christianismi Restitutio," and in part the discoverer of the circulation of the blood, when he happened to pass through Geneva, and committed him to the flames. [Sidenote: End of patristicism.] Criticism had thus, in its earlier stage, produced well-marked results. As it developed it lost none of its power. It had enthroned patristic theology; now it wrenched from its hand the sceptre. In the works of Daillé it showed that the fathers are of no kind of use--they are too contradictory of one another; even Jeremy Taylor speaks of their authority and reputation as clean gone for ever. In a few years they had sunk into desuetude, a neglect shared by many classical authors, whose opinions were now only quoted with a respectful smile. The admiration for antiquity was diminishing under the effect of searching examination. Books were beginning to appear, turning the old historians into ridicule for their credulity. [Sidenote: The burning of Servetus by Calvin.] The death of Servetus was not without advantage to the world. There was not a pious or thoughtful man in all reformed Europe who was not shocked when the circumstances under which that unhappy physician had been brought to the stake at Geneva by John Calvin were made known. For two hours he was roasted in the flames of a slow fire, begging for the love of God that they would put on more wood, or do something to end his torture. Men asked, with amazement and indignation, if the atrocities of the Inquisition were again to be revived. On all sides they began to inquire how far it is lawful to inflict the punishment of death for difference of opinion. It opened their eyes to the fact that, after all they had done, the state of civilization in which they were living was still characterized by its intolerance. In 1546 the Venetian ambassador at the court of Charles V. reported to his government that in Holland and Friesland more than thirty thousand persons had suffered death at the hands of justice for Anabaptist errors. From such an unpromising state of things toleration could only emerge with difficulty. It was the offspring, not of charity, but of the checked animosities of ever-multiplying sects, and the detected impossibility of their coercing one another. [Sidenote: The Reformation continued in America.] The history of the Reformation does not close, as many European authors have imagined, in a balanced and final distribution of the north and south between the Protestant and the Catholic. The predestined issue of sectarian differences and dissensions is individual liberty of thought. So long as there was one vast, overshadowing, intolerant corporation, every man must bring his understanding to its measure, and think only as it instructed him to do. As soon as dissenting confessions gathered sufficient military power to maintain their right of existence--as soon as from them, in turn, incessant offshoots were put forth, toleration became not only possible, but inevitable, and that is perhaps as far as the movement has at this time advanced in Europe. But Macaulay and others who have treated of the Reformation have taken too limited a view of it, supposing that this was its point of arrest. [Sidenote: Separation of Church and State.] It made another enormous stride when, at the American Revolution, the State and the Church were solemnly and openly dissevered from one another. Now might the vaticinations of the prophets of evil expect to find credit; a great people had irrevocably broken off its politics from its theology, and it might surely have been expected that the unbridled interests, and instincts, and passions of men would have dragged everything into the abyss of anarchy. Yet what do we, who are living nearly a century after that time, find the event to be? Sectarian decomposition, passing forward to its last extreme, is the process by which individual mental liberty is engendered and maintained. A grand and imposing religious unity implies tyranny to the individual; the increasing emergence of sects gives him increasing latitude of thought--with their utmost multiplication he gains his utmost liberty. In this respect, unity and liberty are in opposition; as the one diminishes, the other increases. [Sidenote: Emergence of liberty of thought.] The Reformation broke down unity; it gave liberty to masses of men grouped together in sufficient numbers to insure their position; it is now invisibly, but irresistibly making steps, never to be stayed until there is an absolute mental emancipation for man. [Sidenote: The American clergy.] Great revolutions are not often accomplished without much suffering and many crimes. It might have been supposed before the event, perhaps it is supposed by many who are not privileged to live among the last results, that this decomposition of religious faith must be to the detriment of personal and practical piety. Yet America, in which, of all countries, the Reformation at the present moment has farthest advanced, should offer to thoughtful men much encouragement. Its cities are filled with churches built by voluntary gifts; its clergy are voluntarily sustained, and are, in all directions, engaged in enterprises of piety, education, mercy. What a difference between their private life and that of ecclesiastics before the Reformation! Not, as in the old times, does the layman look upon them as the cormorants and curse of society; they are his faithful advisers, his honoured friends, under whose suggestion and supervision are instituted educational establishments, colleges, hospitals, whatever can be of benefit to men in this life, or secure for them happiness in the life to come. CHAPTER VII. DIGRESSION ON THE CONDITION OF ENGLAND AT THE END OF THE AGE OF FAITH. RESULTS PRODUCED BY THE AGE OF FAITH. _Condition of England at the Suppression of the Monasteries._ _Condition of England at the close of the seventeenth Century.--Locomotion, Literature, Libraries.--Social and private Life of the Laity and Clergy.--Brutality in the Administration of Law.--Profligacy of Literature.--The Theatre, its three Phases.--Miracle, Moral, and Real Plays._ _Estimate of the Advance made in the Age of Faith.--Comparison with that already made in the Age of Reason._ [Sidenote: Results of the Age of Faith.] Arrived at the commencement of the Age of Reason, we might profitably examine the social condition of those countries destined to become conspicuous in the new order of things. I have not space to present such an examination as extensively as it deserves, and must limit my remarks to that nation which, of all others, is most interesting to the English or American reader--that England which we picture to ourselves as foremost in civilization, her universities dating back for many centuries; her charters and laws, on which individual, and therefore social, liberty rests, spoken of as the ancient privileges of the realm; her people a clear-headed race, lovers and stout defenders of freedom. [Sidenote: The social condition produced in England.] During by far the greater part of the past period she had been Catholic, but she had also been Reformed--ever, as she will always be, religious. A correct estimate of her national and individual life will point out to us all that had been done in the Age of Faith. From her condition we may gather what is the progress made by man when guided by such theological ideas as those which had been her rule of life. The following paragraphs convey an instructive lesson. They dissipate some romantic errors; they are a verdict on a political system from its practical results. What a contrast with the prodigious advancement made within a few years when the Age of Reason had set in! How strikingly are we reminded of the inconsequential, the fruitless actions of youth, and the deliberate, the durable undertakings of manhood! For many of the facts I have now to mention the reader will find authorities in the works of Lord Macaulay and Mr. Froude on English history. My own reading in other directions satisfies me that the picture here offered represents the actual condition of things. [Sidenote: Condition at the suppression of the monasteries.] At the time of the suppression of the monasteries in England the influences which had been in operation for so many centuries had come to an end. Had they endured a thousand years longer they could have accomplished nothing more. The condition of human life shows what their uses and what their failures had been. There were forests extending over great districts; fens forty or fifty miles in length, reeking with miasm and fever, though round the walls of the abbeys there might be beautiful gardens, green lawns, shady walks, and many murmuring streams. In trackless woods where men should have been, herds of deer were straying; the sandy hills were alive with conies, the downs with flocks of bustards. The peasant's cabin was made of reeds or sticks plastered over with mud. His fire was chimneyless--often it was made of peat. In the objects and manner of his existence he was but a step above the industrious beaver who was building his dam in the adjacent stream. There were highwaymen on the roads, pirates on the rivers, vermin in abundance in the clothing and beds. The common food was peas, vetches, fern roots, and even the bark of trees. There was no commerce to put off famine. Man was altogether at the mercy of the seasons. The population, sparse as it was, was perpetually thinned by pestilence and want. Nor was the state of the townsman better than that of the rustic; his bed was a bag of straw, with a hard round log for his pillow. If he was in easy circumstances, his clothing was of leather, if poor, a wisp of straw wrapped round his limbs kept off the cold. It was a melancholy social condition when nothing intervened between reed cabins in the fen, the miserable wigwams of villages, and the conspicuous walls of the castle and monastery. Well might they who lived in those times bewail the lot of the ague-stricken peasant, and point, not without indignation, to the troops of pilgrims, mendicants, pardoners, and ecclesiastics of every grade who hung round the Church, to the nightly wassail and rioting drunkenness in the castle-hall, secure in its moats, its battlements, and its warders. The local pivots round which society revolved were the red-handed baron, familiar with scenes of outrage and deeds of blood, and the abbot, indulging in the extreme of luxury, magnificent in dress, exulting in his ambling palfrey, his hawk, his hounds. Rural life had but little improved since the time of Cæsar; in its physical aspect it was altogether neglected. As to the mechanic, how was it possible that he could exist where there were no windows made of glass, not even of oiled paper, no workshop warmed by a fire. For the poor there was no physician, for the dying the monk and his crucifix. The aim was to smooth the sufferer's passage to the next world, not to save him for this. Sanitary provisions there were none except the paternoster and the ave. In the cities the pestilence walked unstayed, its triumphs numbered by the sounds of the death-crier in the streets or the knell for the soul that was passing away. Our estimate of the influence of the system under which men were thus living as a regulator of their passions may at this point derive much exactness from incidents such as those offered by the history of syphilis and the usages of war. For this purpose we may for a moment glance at the Continent. [Sidenote: Moral state indicated by the spread of syphilis,] The attention of all Europe was suddenly arrested by a disease which broke out soon after the discovery of America. It raged with particular violence in the French army commanded by Charles VIII. at the siege of Naples, A.D. 1495, and spread almost like an epidemic. It was syphilis. Though there have been medical authors who supposed that it was only an exacerbation of a malady known from antiquity, that opinion cannot be maintained after the learned researches of Astruc. That it was something recognized at the time as altogether new seems to be demonstrated by the accusations of different nations against each other of having given origin to it. Very soon, however, the truth appeared. It had been brought by the sailors of Columbus from the West Indies. Its true character, and the conditions of its propagation, were fully established by Fernel. [Sidenote: and by the usages of war.] Now, giving full weight to the fact that the virulence of a disease may be greatest at its first invasion, but remembering that there is nothing in the history of syphilis that would lead us to suppose it ever was, or indeed could be infectious, but only contagious, or communicated by direct contact from person to person; remembering also the special circumstances under which, in this disease, that contagion is imparted, the rapidity of its spread all over Europe is a significant illustration of the fearful immorality of the times. If contemporary authors are to be trusted, there was not a class, married, or unmarried, clergy or laity, from the holy father, Leo X., to the beggar by the wayside, free from it. It swept over Europe, not as Asiatic cholera has done, running along the great lines of trade, and leaving extensive tracts untouched, settling upon and devastating great cities here and there, while others had an immunity. The march of syphilis was equable, unbroken, universal, making good its ground from its point of appearance in the south-west, steadily and swiftly taking possession of the entire Continent, and offering an open manifestation and measure of the secret wickedness of society. If thus the sins man practises in privacy became suddenly and accidentally exposed, that exposure showing how weak is the control that any system can exercise over human passions, we are brought to the same melancholy conclusion when we turn to those crimes that may be perpetrated in the face of day. The usages of war in the civil contests of the fifteenth century, or in the religious conflicts of the sixteenth and seventeenth, are perfectly appalling; the annals of those evil days are full of wanton and objectless barbarities, refusal of quarter, murder in cold blood, killing of peasants. Invading armies burnt and destroyed everything in their way; the taking of plunder and ransom of prisoners were recognized sources of wealth. Prosperous countries were made "a sea of fire;" the horrible atrocities of the Spaniards in America were rivalled by those practised in Europe; deliberate directions were given to make whole tracts "a desert." Attempts had been made to introduce some amelioration into warfare again and again, either by forbidding hostilities at certain times, as was the object of the "truces of God," repeatedly enforced by ecclesiastical authority, or by establishing between the combatants themselves courtesies which are at once the chief grace and glory of chivalry; but, to judge by the result as offered, even so late as the eighteenth century, those attempts must be regarded as having proved altogether abortive. [Sidenote: Backward condition of England.] England, at the close of the Age of Faith, had for long been a chief pecuniary tributary to Italy, the source from which large revenues had been drawn, the fruitful field in which herds of Italian ecclesiastics had been pastured. A wonderful change was impending. At the beginning of the sixteenth century the island was far more backward intellectually and politically than is commonly supposed. Its population hardly reached five millions, and was stationary at that point, not so much because of the effects of civil and foreign war as merely through the operation of ordinary economical causes. There was no reason to call more men into existence. It was regarded as good statesmanship to maintain the population at a constant standard. The municipal policy corresponded to the national; it was not so much advanced as that contemporaneously existing in Peru. [Sidenote: Apparent decline of her prosperity.] Swarms of idle ecclesiastics had set such a pernicious example that the indisposition among common people to work had become quite a formidable difficulty. In every village there were stocks for the punishment of "valiant beggars," as they were termed. By the act of 1531, vagrants "whole and mighty in body" caught begging for the first time might be whipped at the cart-tail; the second time their ears were to be slit; by the act of 1536, if caught the third time they were to be put to death. In all directions large towns were falling into decay, a misfortune popularly attributed to the laziness of the lower orders, but in reality due to causes of a very different kind. Hitherto land had been the representative of authority and the source of power. Society had been organized upon that imperfect basis; a descending scale of landed proprietors had been established, and in that system every man had a place assigned to him, just as in Peru, though less perfectly. It was a system of organized labour, the possession of land being a trust, not a property. But now commerce was beginning to disturb the foundations on which all these arrangements had been sustained, and to compel a new distribution of population; trading companies were being established; men were unsettled by the rumours or realities of immense fortunes rapidly gained in foreign adventure. Maritime enterprise was thus not only dislocating society, but even destroying its spirit, substituting self-interest for loyalty. [Sidenote: It is imputed to the clergy.] A nation so illiterate that many of its peers in Parliament could neither read nor write, was hardly able to trace the troubles befalling it to their proper source; with one voice it imputed them to the bad example and shortcomings of the clergy. Long before Henry VIII., England was ready for the suppression of the monasteries. She regarded them as the very hot-beds of her evils. There were incessant complaints against the clergy for their scandalous lusts, for personal impurities such as in modern times we do not allude to, for their holding livings in plurality, for their extortion of exorbitant profits, and neglect in the discharge of their duty. [Sidenote: Causes of irritation of the laity against the clergy.] In public opinion, to so great an extent had these immoralities gone that it was openly asserted that there were one hundred thousand women in England made dissolute by the clergy. It was well known that brothels were kept in London for their use. It was affirmed that the confessional was shamefully abused, and, through it, advantage taken of females; that the vilest crime in an ecclesiastic might be commuted for money, six shillings and eightpence being sufficient in the case of mortal sin. Besides these general causes of complaint, there were some which, though of a minor, were not of a less irritating kind; such for instance, as the mortuary, soul-shot, or corpse present, a claim for the last dress worn by persons brought to a priest for burial, or some exaggerated commutation thereof. [Sidenote: Accusation against the clergy by the House of Commons.] That such was the demoralized condition of the English Church, and such its iniquitous relations to the people, we have the most unimpeachable evidence, under circumstances of an imposing and solemn character. The House of Commons brought an accusation against the clergy before the king. When Parliament met A.D. 1529, that House, as its very first act, declared to the sovereign that sedition and heresy were pervading the land, and that it had become absolutely necessary to apply a corrective. It affirmed that the troubles into which the realm had fallen were attributable to the clergy; that the chief foundation, occasion, and cause thereof was the parallel jurisdiction of the Church and State; that the incompatible legislative authority of convocation lay at the bottom of the mischief. Among other specific points it alleged the following:--That the houses of convocation made laws without the royal assent, and without the consent or even the knowledge of the people; that such laws were never published in the English language, and that, nevertheless, men were daily punished under them without ever having had an opportunity to eschew the penalties; that the demoralization extended from the Archbishop of Canterbury down to the lowest priest, that dignitary having tampered with the despatch of justice in his Court of Arches; that parsons, vicars, priests, and curates were in the habit of denying the administration of the sacraments save upon the payment of money; that poor men were harrassed without any legal cause in the spiritual courts for the mere purpose of extortion, and exorbitant fees were exacted from them; that the probate of wills was denied except on the gratification of the appetite of prelates and ordinaries for money; that the high ecclesiastics extorted large sums for the induction of persons into benefices, and that they did daily confer benefices on "young folk," their nephews and relatives, being minors, for the purpose of detaining the fruits and profits in their own hands; that the bishops illegally imprisoned, sometimes for a year or more, persons in their jails, without informing them of the cause of their imprisonment or the name of their accuser; that simple, unlearned men, and even "well-witted" ones, were entrapped by subtle questions into heresy in the ecclesiastical courts, and punishment procured against them. These are serious charges; they imply that the Church had degenerated into a contrivance for the extortion of money. The House of Commons petitioned the king to make such laws as should furnish a remedy. The king submitted the petition to the bishops, and required of them an answer. [Sidenote: Reply of the bishops to that accusation.] In that answer the ecclesiastical manner of thought is very striking. The bishops insist that the laws of the realm shall give way to the canon law, or, if incompatible, shall be altered so as to suit it; they identify attacks on themselves with those on the doctrine of the Church, a time-honoured and well-tried device; they affirm that they have no kind of enmity against the laymen, "their ghostly children," but only against the pestilent poison of heresy; that their authority for making laws is grounded on the Scriptures, to which the laws of the realm must be made to conform; that they cannot conscientiously permit the king's consent to the laws, since that would be to put him in the stead of God, under whose inspiration they are made; that, as to troubling poor men, it is the Holy Ghost who inspireth them to acts tending to the wealth of his elect folk, that, if any ecclesiastic hath offended in this respect, though "in multis offendimus omnes," as St. James hath it, let him bear his own fault, and let not the whole Church be blamed; that the Protestants, their antagonists, are lewd, idle fellows, who have embraced the abominable opinions recently sprung up in Germany; that there are many advantages in commuting Church penances and censures for money; that tithes are a divine institution, and that debts of money owing to God may be recovered after one hundred or seven hundred years of non-payment, since God can never lose his rights thereto; that, however, it is not well to collect a tithe twice over; that priests may lawfully engage in secular occupations of a certain kind; that the punishments inflicted on the laymen have been for the health of their souls, and that, generally, the saints may claim powers to which common men are not entitled. [Sidenote: The House passes the Clergy Discipline Act.] A fierce struggle between the Commons and the bishops ensued; but the House was firm, and passed several bills, and among them the Clergy Discipline Act. The effect was to cut down ecclesiastical incomes, probate and legacy duties were defined, mortuaries were curtailed, extortionate fees for burial terminated, clergymen were forbidden to engage in farming, tanning, brewing, or to buy merchandise for the purpose of selling it again. It was made unlawful any longer to hold eight or nine benefices, or to purchase dispensations for not doing duty. They were compelled to reside in the parishes for the care of which they were paid, under penalty of £10 a month; and it was made a high penal offence to obtain dispensations from any of the provisions of this Act from Rome. [Sidenote: The Church is compelled to submit.] Nothing could be more significant of the position of the parties than the high-toned, the conservative moderation of these Acts. The bishops did not yield, however, without a struggle. In all directions from the pulpits arose a cry of "atheism," "lack of faith," "heresy." But the House resolutely stood to its ground. Still more, it sent its speaker to the king with a complaint against the Bishop of Rochester, who had dared to stigmatize it as "infidel." The bishop was compelled to equivocate and apologize. [Sidenote: The king is sustained by his people.] The English nation and their king were thus together in the suppression of the monasteries; they were together in the enforcing of ecclesiastical reforms. It was nothing but this harmony which so quickly brought the clergy to reason, and induced them, in 1532, to anticipate both Parliament and the people in actually offering to separate themselves from Rome. In the next year the king had destroyed the vast power which in so many centuries had gathered round ecclesiastical institutions, and had forced the clergy into a fitting subordination. Henceforth there was no prospect that they would monopolize all the influential and lucrative places in the realm; henceforth, year by year, with many vicissitudes and changes, their power continued to decline. Their special pursuit, theology, was separated more and more perfectly from politics. In the House of Lords, of which they had once constituted one-half, they became a mere shadow. [Sidenote: Religious feeling of the nation changed.] Henry VIII. cannot, therefore, be properly considered as the author of the downfall of ecclesiasticism in England, though he was the instrument by which it was ostensibly accomplished. The derisive insinuation that the Gospel light had flashed upon him from Anna Boleyn's eyes was far from expressing all the truth. The nullity of papal disciplines, excommunications, interdicts, penances, proved that the old tone of thought was utterly decayed. This oblivion of old emotions, this obsoleteness of old things, was by no means confined to England. On the Continent the attacks of Erasmus on the monks were everywhere received with applause. In 1527 one printer issued an edition of 24,000 copies of the Colloquies of Erasmus, and actually sold them all. He understood the signs of the times. [Sidenote: State of England at the close of the seventeenth century.] From this digression on parties and policy in England, let us again return to special details, descending for that purpose to the close of the seventeenth century. For a long time London had been the most populous capital in Europe; yet it was dirty, ill built, without sanitary provisions. The deaths were one in twenty-three each year; now, in a much more crowded population, they are not one in forty. Much of the country was still heath, swamp, warren. [Sidenote: Wild state of the country.] Almost within sight of the city was a tract twenty-five miles round nearly in a state of nature; there were but three houses in it. Wild animals roamed here and there. It is incidentally mentioned that Queen Anne, on a journey to Portsmouth, saw a herd of five hundred red deer. With such small animals as the marten and badger, found everywhere, there was still seen occasionally the wild bull. [Sidenote: Locomotion: the roads and carriages.] Nothing more strikingly shows the social condition than the provisions for locomotion. In the rainy seasons the roads were all but impassable, justifying the epithet often applied to them of being in a horrible state. Through such gullies, half filled with mud, carriages were dragged, often by oxen, or, when horses were used, it was as much a matter of necessity as in the city a matter of display to drive half a dozen of them. If the country was open the track of the road was easily mistaken. It was no uncommon thing for persons to lose their way, and have to spend the night out in the air. Between places of considerable importance the roads were sometimes very little known, and such was the difficulty for wheeled carriages that a principal mode of transport was by pack-horses, of which passengers took advantage, stowing themselves away between the packs. We shall probably not dissent from their complaint that this method of travelling was hot in summer and cold in winter. The usual charge for freight was fifteen pence per ton per mile. Toward the close of the century what were termed "flying coaches" were established; they could move at the rate of from thirty to fifty miles in a day. Many persons thought the risk so great that it was a tempting of Providence to go in them. [Sidenote: The mails; penny-post disliked.] The mail-bag was carried on horseback at about five miles an hour. A penny-post had been established in the city, but with much difficulty, for many long-headed men, who knew very well what they were saying, had denounced it as an insidious "popish contrivance." Only a few years before the period under consideration Parliament had resolved that "all pictures in the royal collection which contained representations of Jesus or the Virgin Mother should be burnt; Greek statues were delivered over to Puritan stone-masons to be made decent." [Sidenote: Lewis Muggleton; his doctrines.] A little earlier, Lewis Muggleton had given himself out as the last and greatest of the prophets, having power to save or damn whom he pleased. It had been revealed to him that God is only six feet high, and the sun only four miles off. The country beyond the Trent was still in a state of barbarism, and near the sources of the Tyne there were people scarcely less savage than American Indians, their "half-naked women chanting a wild measure, while the men, with brandished dirks, danced a war-dance." [Sidenote: Printing-presses and private libraries.] At the beginning of the eighteenth century there were thirty-four counties without a printer. The only press in England north of the Trent was at York. As to private libraries, there were none deserving the name. "An esquire passed for a great scholar if 'Hudibras,' 'Baker's Chronicle,' 'Tarleton's Jests,' and the 'Seven Champions of Christendom' lay in his hall-window." It might be expected that the women were ignorant enough when very few men knew how to write correctly or even intelligibly, and it had become unnecessary for clergymen to read the Scriptures in the original tongues. [Sidenote: Social discipline; its barbarity.] Social discipline was very far from being of that kind which we call moral. The master whipped his apprentice, the pedagogue his scholar, the husband his wife. Public punishments partook of the general brutality. It was a day for the rabble when a culprit was set in the pillory to be pelted with brickbats, rotten eggs, and dead cats; when women were fastened by the legs in the stocks at the market-place, or a pilferer flogged through the town at the cart-tail, a clamour not unfrequently arising unless the lash were laid on hard enough "to make him howl." In punishments of higher offenders these whippings were perfectly horrible; thus Titus Oates, after standing twice in the pillory, was whipped, and, after an interval of two days, whipped again. A virtuoso in these matters gives us the incredible information that he counted as many as seventeen hundred stripes administered. So far from the community being shocked at such an exhibition, they appeared to agree in the sentiment that, "since his face could not be made to blush, it was well enough to try what could be done with his back." Such a hardening of heart was in no little degree promoted by the atrocious punishments of state offenders; thus, after the decapitation of Montrose and Argyle, their heads decorated the top of the Tolbooth; and gentlemen, after the rising of Monmouth, were admonished to be careful of their ways, by hanging in chains to their park gate the corpse of a rebel to rot in the air. [Sidenote: Private life in different classes of society.] To a debased public life private life corresponded. The houses of the rural population were huts covered with straw-thatch; their inmates, if able to procure fresh meat once a week, were considered to be in prosperous circumstances. One-half of the families in England could hardly do that. Children six years old were not unfrequently set to labour. The lord of the manor spent his time in rustic pursuits; was not an unwilling associate of pedlars and drovers; knew how to ring a pig or shoe a horse; his wife and daughters "stitched and spun, brewed gooseberry wine, cured marigolds, and made the crust for the venison pasty." Hospitality was displayed in immoderate eating, and drinking of beer, the guest not being considered as having done justice to the occasion unless he had gone under the table. The dining-room was uncarpeted; but then it was tinted with a decoction of "soot and small beer." The chairs were rush-bottomed. In London the houses were mostly of wood and plaster, the streets filthy beyond expression. After nightfall a passenger went at his peril, for chamber windows were opened and slop-pails unceremoniously emptied down. There were no lamps in the streets until Master Heming established his public lanterns. As a necessary consequence, there were plenty of shoplifters, highwaymen, and burglars. [Sidenote: General immorality and brutality.] As to the moral condition, it is fearfully expressed in the statement that men not unfrequently were willing to sacrifice their country for their religion. Hardly any personage died who was not popularly suspected to have been made away with by poison, an indication of the morality generally supposed to prevail among the higher classes. If such was the state of society in its serious aspect, it was no better in its lighter. We can scarcely credit the impurity and immodesty of the theatrical exhibitions. What is said about them would be beyond belief if we did not remember that they were the amusements of a community whose ideas of female modesty and female sentiment were altogether different from ours. Indecent jests were put into the mouths of lively actresses, and the dancing was not altogether of a kind to meet our approval. The rural clergy could do but little to withstand this flood of immorality. [Sidenote: Degraded condition of the lower clergy.] Their social position for the last hundred years had been rapidly declining; for, though the Church possessed among her dignitaries great writers and great preachers, her lower orders, partly through the political troubles that had befallen the state, but chiefly in consequence of sectarian bitterness, had been reduced to a truly menial condition. It was the business of the rich man's chaplain to add dignity to the dinner-table by saying grace "in full canonicals," but he was also intended to be a butt for the mirth of the company. "The young Levite," such was the phrase then in use, "might fill himself with the corned beef and the carrots, but as soon as the tarts and cheese-cakes made their appearance he quitted his seat, and stood aloof till he was summoned to return thanks for the repast," the daintiest part of which he had not tasted. If need arose, he could curry a horse, "carry a parcel ten miles," or "cast up the farrier's bill." The "wages" of a parish priest were at starvation-point. The social degradation of the ecclesiastic is well illustrated by an order of Queen Elizabeth, that no clergyman should presume to marry a servant-girl without the consent of her master or mistress. The clergy, however, had not fallen into this condition without in a measure deserving it. Their time had been too much occupied in persecuting Puritans and other sectaries, with whom they would have gladly dealt in the same manner as they had dealt with the Jews, who, from the thirteenth century till Cromwell, were altogether interdicted from public worship. [Sidenote: Burning of books and persecution of preachers.] The University of Oxford had ordered the political works of Buchanan, Milton, and Baxter to be publicly burnt in the court of the schools. The immortal vagabond, Bunyan, had been committed to jail for preaching the way of salvation to the common people, and had remained there twelve years, the stout old man refusing to give his promise not to offend in that manner again. The great doctrine inculcated from the pulpit was submission to temporal power. Men were taught that rebellion is a sin not less deadly than witchcraft. [Sidenote: The Puritan's hatred of orthodoxy.] On a community thirsting after the waters of life were still inflicted wearisome sermons respecting "the wearing of surplices, position at the Eucharist, or the sign of the cross at baptism," things that were a stench in the nostrils of the lank-haired Puritan, who, with his hands clasped on his bosom, his face corrugated with religious astringency, the whites of his eyes turned upward to heaven, rocking himself alternately on his heels and the tips of his toes, delivered, in a savoury prayer uttered through his nose, all such abominations of the Babylonish harlot to the Devil, whose affairs they were. [Sidenote: Brutal administration of the law.] In administering the law, whether in relation to political or religious offences, there was an incredible atrocity. In London, the crazy old bridge over the Thames was decorated with grinning and mouldering heads of criminals, under an idea that these ghastly spectacles would fortify the common people in their resolves to act according to law. The toleration of the times may be understood from a law enacted by the Scotch Parliament, May 8, 1685, that whoever preached or heard in a conventicle should be punished with death and the confiscation of his goods. That such an infamous spirit did not content itself with mere dead-letter laws there is too much practical evidence to permit any one to doubt. A silly labouring man, who had taken it into his head that he could not conscientiously attend the Episcopal worship, was seized by a troop of soldiers, "rapidly examined, convicted of non-conformity, and sentenced to death in the presence of his wife, who led one little child by the hand, and it was easy to see was about to give birth to another. He was shot before her face, the widow crying out in her agony, 'Well, sir, well, the day of reckoning will come.'" Shrieking Scotch Covenanters were submitted to torture by crushing their knees flat in the boot; women were tied to stakes on the sea-sands and drowned by the slowly advancing tide because they would not attend Episcopal worship, or branded on their cheeks and then shipped to America; gallant but wounded soldiers were hung in Scotland for fear they should die before they could be got to England. In the troubles connected with Monmouth's rising, in one county alone, Somersetshire, two hundred and thirty-three persons were hanged, drawn and quartered, to say nothing of military executions, for the soldiers amused themselves by hanging a culprit for each toast they drank, and making the drums and fifes play, as they said, to his dancing. It is needless to recall such incidents as the ferocity of Kirk's lambs, for such was the name popularly given to the soldiers of that colonel, in allusion to the Paschal lamb they bore on their flag; or the story of Tom Boilman, so nicknamed from having been compelled by those veterans to seethe the remains of his quartered friends in melted pitch. Women, for such idle words as women are always using, were sentenced to be whipped at the cart's-tail through every market town in Dorset; a lad named Tutching was condemned to be flogged once a fortnight for seven years. Eight hundred and forty-one human beings judicially condemned to transportation to the West India islands, and suffering all the horrible pains of a slave-ship in the middle passage, "were never suffered to go on deck;" in the holds below, "all was darkness, stench, lamentation, disease, and death." One fifth of them were thrown overboard to the sharks before they reached their destination, and the rest obliged to be fattened before they could be offered in the market to the Jamaica planters. The court ladies, and even the Queen of England herself, were so utterly forgetful of womanly mercy and common humanity as to join in this infernal traffic. That princess requested that a hundred of the convicts should be given to her. "The profit which she cleared on the cargo, after making a large allowance for those who died of hunger and fever during the passage, cannot be estimated at less than a thousand guineas." [Sidenote: Profligate condition of literature.] It remains to add a few words respecting the state of literature. This, at the end of the seventeenth century, had become indescribably profligate, and, since the art of reading was by no means generally cultivated, the most ready method of literary communication was through theatrical representation. It was for that reason that play-writing was the best means of literary remuneration, if we except the profit derived from the practice which, to some extent, survives, though its disgraceful motive has ceased, of dedicating books to rich men for the sake of the fee they would give. It is said that books have actually been printed in consideration of the profits of the dedication. Especially in the composition of plays was it judged expedient to minister to the depraved public taste by indecent expressions, or allusions broad and sly. The playwright was at the mercy of an audience who were critical on that point, and in a position, if he should not come up to the required standard, to damn him and his work in an instant. [Sidenote: Milton's "Paradise Lost."] From these remarks must be excepted the writings of Milton, which are nowhere stained by such a blemish. And yet posterity will perhaps with truth assert that "Paradise Lost" has wrought more intellectual evil than even its base contemporaries, since it has familiarized educated minds with images which, though in one sense sublime, in another are most unworthy, and has taught the public a dreadful materialization of the great and invisible God. A Manichean composition in reality, it was mistaken for a Christian poem. [Sidenote: The English theatre.] The progress of English literature not only offers striking proofs of the manner in which it was affected by theatrical representations, but also furnishes an interesting illustration of that necessary course through which intellectual development must pass. It is difficult for us, who live in a reading community, to comprehend the influence once exercised by the pulpit and the stage in the instruction of a non-reading people. As late as the sixteenth century they were the only means of mental access to the public, and we should find, if we were to enter on a detailed examination of either one or the other, that they furnish a vivid reflexion of the popular intellectual condition. Leaving to others such interesting researches into the comparative anatomy of the English pulpit, I may, for a moment, direct attention to theatrical exhibitions. [Sidenote: Its successive phases.] There are three obvious phases through which the drama has passed, corresponding to as many phases in the process of intellectual development. These are respectively the miracle play, corresponding to the stage of childhood; the moral, corresponding to that of youth; the real, corresponding to that of manhood. In them respectively the supernatural, the theological, the positive predominates. The first went out of fashion soon after the middle of the fifteenth century, the second continued for about one hundred and fifty years, the third still remains. By the miracle play is understood a representation of Scripture incidents, enacted, however, without any regard to the probabilities of time, place, or action, such subjects as the Creation, the fall of man, the Deluge, being considered as suitable, and in these scenes, without any concern for chronology, other personages, as the Pope or Mohammed, being introduced, or the Virgin Mary wearing a French hood, or Virgil worshipping the Saviour. Our forefathers were not at all critical historians; they indulged without stint in a highly pleasing credulity. They found no difficulty in admitting that Mohammed was originally a cardinal, who turned heretic out of spite because he was not elected Pope; that, since the taking of the true cross by the Turks, all Christian children have twenty-two instead of thirty-two teeth, as was the case before that event; and that men have one rib less than women, answering to that taken from Adam. The moral play personifies virtues, vices, passions, goodness, courage, honesty, love. The real play introduces human actors, with a plot free from the supernatural, and probability is outraged as little as possible. Its excellence consists in the perfect manner in which it delineates human character and action. [Sidenote: Miracle plays, their character.] The miracle play was originally introduced by the Church, the first dramas of the kind, it is said, having been composed by Gregory Nazianzen. They were brought from Constantinople by the Crusaders; the Byzantines were always infatuated with theatrical shows. The parts of these plays were often enacted by ecclesiastics, and not unfrequently the representations took place at the abbey gate. So highly did the Italian authorities prize the influence of these exhibitions on the vulgar, that the pope granted a thousand days of pardon to any person who should submit to the pleasant penance of attending them. All the arguments that had been used in behalf of picture-worship were applicable to these plays; even the Passion, Resurrection, and Ascension were represented. Over illiterate minds a coarse but congenial influence was obtained; a recollection, though not an understanding of sacred things. In the play of "the Fall of Lucifer," that personage was introduced, according to the vulgar acceptation, with horns, and tail, and cloven hoof; his beard, however, was red, our forefathers having apparently indulged in a singular antipathy against hair of that colour. There still remain accounts of the expenses incurred on some of these occasions, the coarse quaintness of which is not only amusing, but also shows the debased ideas of the times. For instance, in "Mysteries," enacted at Coventry, are such entries as "paid for a pair of gloves for God;" "paid for gilding God's coat;" "dyvers necessaries for the trimmynge of the Father of Heaven." In the play of the "Shepherds" there is provision for green cheese and Halton ale, a suitable recruitment after their long journey to the birthplace of our Saviour. "Payd to the players for rehearsal: imprimis, to God, ii_s._ viii_d._; to Pilate his wife, ii_s._; item, for keeping fyer at hell's mouth, iii_d._" A strict attention to chronology is not exacted; Herod swears by Mohammed, and promises one of his councillors to make him pope. Noah's wife, who, it appears, was a termagant, swears by the Virgin Mary that she will not go into the ark, and, indeed, is only constrained so to do by a sound cudgelling administered by the patriarch, the rustic justice of the audience being particularly directed to the point that such a flogging should not be given with a stick thicker than her husband's thumb. The sentiment of modesty seems not to have been very exacting, since in the play of "the Fall of Man" Adam and Eve appear entirely naked; one of the chief incidents is the adjustment of the fig-leaves. Many such circumstances might be related, impressing us perhaps with an idea of the obscenity and profanity of the times. But this would scarcely be a just conclusion. As the social state improved, we begin to find objections raised by the more thoughtful ecclesiastics, who refused to lend the holy vestments for such purposes, and at last succeeded in excluding these exhibitions from consecrated places. After dwindling down by degrees, these plays lingered in the booths at fairs or on market-days, the Church having resigned them to the guilds of different trades, and these, in the end, giving them up to the mountebank. And so they died. Their history is the outward and visible sign of a popular intellectual condition in process of passing away. [Sidenote: Moral plays, their character.] The mystery and miracle plays were succeeded by the moral play. It has been thought by some, who have studied the history of the English theatre, that these plays were the result of the Reformation, with the activity of which movement their popularity was coincident. But perhaps the reader who is impressed with the principle of that definite order of social advancement so frequently referred to in this book, will agree with me that this relation of cause and effect can hardly be sustained, and that devotional exercises and popular recreations are in common affected by antecedent conditions. Of the moral play, a very characteristic example still remains under the title of "Everyman," It often delineates personification and allegory with very considerable power. This short phase of our theatrical career deserves a far closer attention than it has hitherto obtained, for it has left an indelible impression on our literature. I think that it is to this, in its declining days, that we are indebted for much of the machinery of Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." Whoever will compare that work with such plays as "Everyman" and "Lusty Juventus," cannot fail to be struck with their resemblances. Such personages as "Good Council," "Abominable Living," "Hypocrasie," in the play, are of the same family as those in the Progress. The stout Protestantism of both is at once edifying and amusing. An utter contempt for "holy stocks and holy stones, holy clouts and holy bones," as the play has it, animates them all. And it can hardly be doubted that the immortal tinker, in the carnal days when he played at tipcat and romped with the girls on the village green at Elstow, indulged himself in the edification of witnessing these dramatic representations. [Sidenote: Real plays, Shakespeare.] As to the passage from this dramatic phase to the real, in which the character and actions of man are portrayed, to the exclusion or with the subordination of the supernatural, it is only necessary to allude with brevity--indeed, it is only necessary to recall one name, and that one name is Shakespeare. He stands, in his relations to English literature, in the same position that the great Greek sculptors stood with respect to ancient art, embodying conceptions of humanity in its various attributes with indescribable skill, and with an exquisite agreement to nature. [Sidenote: The pulpit and the stage.] Not without significance is it that we find mystery in the pulpit and mystery on the stage. They appertain to social infancy. Such dramas as those I have alluded to, and many others that, if space had permitted, might have been quoted, were in unison with the times. The abbeys were boasting of such treasures as the French hood of the Virgin, "her smocke or shifte," the manger in which Christ was laid, the spear which pierced his side, the crown of thorns. The transition from this to the following stage is not without its political attendants, the prohibition of interludes containing anything against the Church of Rome, the royal proclamation against preaching out of one's own brain, the appearance of the Puritan upon the national stage, an increasing acerbity of habit and sanctimoniousness of demeanour. With peculiar facility we may, therefore, through an examination of the state of the drama, determine national mental condition. The same may be done by a like examination of the state of the pulpit. Whoever will take the trouble to compare the results cannot fail to observe how remarkably they correspond. Such was the state of the literature of amusement; as to political literature, even at the close of the period we are considering, it could not be expected to flourish after the judges had declared that no man could publish political news except he had been duly authorized by the crown. [Sidenote: Newspapers and coffee-houses.] Newspapers were, however, beginning to be periodically issued, and, if occasion called for it, broadsides, as they were termed were added. In addition, newsletters were written by enterprising individuals in the metropolis, and sent to rich persons who subscribed for them; they then circulated from family to family, and doubtless enjoyed a privilege which has not descended to their printed contemporary, the newspaper, of never becoming stale. Their authors compiled them from materials picked up in the gossip of the coffee-houses. The coffee-houses, in a non-reading community, were quite an important political as well as social institution. They were of every kind, prelatical, popish, Puritan, scientific, literary, Whig, Tory. Whatever a man's notions might be, he could find in London, in a double sense, a coffee-house to his taste. In towns of considerable importance the literary demand was insignificant; thus it is said that the father of Dr. Johnson, the lexicographer, peddled books from town to town, and was accustomed to open a stall in Birmingham on market-days, and it is added that this supply of literature was equal to the demand. [Sidenote: Liberty of the press slowly secured.] The liberty of the press has been of slow growth. Scarcely had printing been invented when it was found necessary everywhere to place it under some restraint, as was, for instance, done by Rome in her "Index Expurgatorius" of prohibited books, and the putting of printers who had offended under the ban; the action of the University of Paris, alluded to in this volume, p. 198, was essentially of the same kind. In England, at first, the press was subjected to the common law; the crown judges themselves determined the offence, and could punish the offender with fine, imprisonment, or even death. Within the last century this power of determination has been taken from them, and a jury must decide, not only on the fact, but also on the character of the publication, whether libellous, seditious, or otherwise offensive. [Sidenote: Its present condition.] The press thus came to be a reflector of public opinion, casting light back upon the public; yet as with other reflectors, a portion of the illuminating power is lost. The restraints under which it is laid are due, not so much to the fear that liberty will degenerate into license, for public opinion would soon correct that; they are rather connected with the necessities of the social state. [Sidenote: Contrast between progress in the ages of Faith and Reason.] Whoever will examine the condition of England at successive periods during her passage through the Age of Faith will see how slow was her progress, and will, perhaps, be surprised to find at its close how small was her advance. The ideas that had served her for so many centuries as a guide had rather obstructed than facilitated her way. But whoever will consider what she has done since she fairly entered on her Age of Reason will remark a wonderful contrast. There has not been a progress in physical conditions only--a securing of better food, better clothing, better shelter, swifter locomotion, the procurement of individual happiness, an extension of the term of life. There has been a great moral advancement. Such atrocities as those mentioned in the foregoing paragraphs are now impossible, and so unlike our own manners that doubtless we read of them at first with incredulity, and with difficulty are brought to believe that these are the things our ancestors did. What a difference between the dilatoriness of the past, its objectless exertions, its unsatisfactory end, and the energy, and well-directed intentions of the present age, which have already yielded results like the prodigies of romance. CHAPTER VIII. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF REASON. REJECTION OF AUTHORITY AND TRADITION, AND ADOPTION OF SCIENTIFIC TRUTH.--DISCOVERY OF THE TRUE POSITION OF THE EARTH IN THE UNIVERSE. _Ecclesiastical Attempt to enforce the_ GEOCENTRIC DOCTRINE _that the Earth is the Centre of the Universe, and the most important Body in it._ _The_ HELIOCENTRIC DOCTRINE _that the Sun is the Centre of the Solar System, and the Earth a small Planet, comes gradually into Prominence._ _Struggle between the Ecclesiastical and Astronomical Parties.--Activity of the Inquisition.--Burning of_ BRUNO.--_Imprisonment of_ GALILEO. INVENTION OF THE TELESCOPE.--_Complete Overthrow of the Ecclesiastical Idea.--Rise of Physical Astronomy._--NEWTON.--_Rapid and resistless Development of all Branches of Natural Philosophy._ _Final Establishment of the Doctrine that the Universe is under the Dominion of mathematical, and, therefore, necessary Laws._ _Progress of Man from the Anthropocentric Ideas to the Discovery of his true Position and Insignificance in the Universe._ [Sidenote: An astronomical problem.] The Age of Reason in Europe was ushered in by an astronomical controversy. Is the earth the greatest and most noble body in the universe, around which, as an immovable centre, the sun, and the various planets, and stars revolve, ministering by their light and other qualities to the wants and pleasures of man, or is it an insignificant orb--a mere point--submissively revolving, among a crowd of compeers and superiors, around a central sun? The former of these views was authoritatively asserted by the Church; the latter, timidly suggested by a few thoughtful and religious men at first, in the end gathered strength, and carried the day. [Sidenote: Its important consequences.] Behind this physical question--a mere scientific problem--lay something of the utmost importance--the position of man in the universe. The conflict broke out upon an ostensible issue, but every one saw what was the real point in the dispute. [Sidenote: Treatment of the Age of Reason.] In the history of the Age of Reason in Europe, which is to fill the remaining pages of this book, I am constrained to commence with this astronomical controversy, and have therefore been led by that circumstance to complete the survey of the entire period from the same, that is, the scientific point of view. Many different modes of treating it spontaneously present themselves; but so vast are the subjects to be brought under consideration, so numerous their connexions, and so limited the space at my disposal, that I must give the preference to one which, with sufficient copiousness, offers also precision. Whoever will examine the progress of European intellectual advancement thus far manifested will find that it has concerned itself with three great questions: 1. The ascertainment of the position of the earth in the universe; 2. The history of the earth in time; 3. The position of man among living beings. Under this last is ranged all that he has done in scientific discovery, and all those inventions which are the characteristics of the present industrial age. What am I? Where am I? we may imagine to have been the first exclamations of the first man awakening to conscious existence. Here, in our Age of Reason, we have been dealing with the same thoughts. They are the same which, as we have seen, occupied Greek intellectual life. [Sidenote: Roman astronomical ideas.] When Halley's comet appeared in 1456, it was described by those who saw it as an object of "unheard-of magnitude;" its tail, which shook down "diseases, pestilence, and war" upon earth, reached over a third part of the heavens. It was considered as connected with the progress of Mohammed II., who had just then taken Constantinople. It struck terror into all people. From his seat, invisible to it, in Italy, the sovereign pontiff, Calixtus III., issued his ecclesiastical fulminations; but the comet in the heavens, like the sultan on the earth, pursued its course undeterred. In vain were all the bells in Europe ordered to be rung to scare it away; in vain was it anathematized; in vain were prayers put up in all directions to stop it. True to its time, it punctually returns from the abysses of space, uninfluenced by anything save agencies of a material kind. A signal lesson for the meditations of every religious man. [Sidenote: More correct ideas among some of the clergy.] Among the clergy there were, however, some who had more correct cosmic ideas than those of Calixtus. A century before Copernicus, Cardinal de Cusa had partially adopted the heliocentric theory, as taught in the old times by Philolaus, Pythagoras, and Archimedes. He ascribed to the earth a globular form, rotation on its axis, and a movement in space; he believed that it moves round the sun, and both together round the pole of the universe. [Sidenote: The geocentric and heliocentric theories.] By geocentric theory is meant that doctrine which asserts the earth to be the immovable centre of the universe; by heliocentric theory that which demonstrates the sun to be the centre of our planetary system, implying, as a necessary influence, that the earth is a very small and subordinate body revolving round the sun. [Sidenote: The geocentric doctrine adopted by the Church.] I have already, in sufficient detail, described how the Roman Church had been constrained by her position to uphold the geocentric doctrine. She had come to regard it as absolutely essential to her system, the intellectual basis of which she held would be sapped if this doctrine should be undermined. Hence it was that such an alarm was shown at the assertion of the globular form of the earth, and hence the surpassing importance of the successful voyage of Magellan's ship. That indisputable demonstration of the globular figure was ever a solid support to the scientific party in the portentous approaching conflict. [Sidenote: Preparations for the heliocentric doctrine.] Preparations had been silently making for a scientific revolution in various directions. The five memoirs of Cardinal Alliacus "On the Concordance of Astronomy with Theology," show the turn that thought was taking. His "Imago Mundi" was published in 1460, and is said to have been a favourite work with Columbus. In the very Cathedral of Florence, Toscanelli had constructed his celebrated gnomon, 1468, a sun-ray, auspicious omen! being admitted through a plate of brass in the lantern of the cupola. John Muller, better known as Regiomontanus, had published an abridgment of Ptolemy's "Almagest," 1520. Euclid had been printed with diagrams on copper as long before as 1482, and again in Venice twenty-three years subsequently. The Optics of Vitello had been published 1533. Fernel, physician to Henry II. of France, had even ventured so far, supported by Magellan's voyage, as to measure, 1527, the size of the earth, his method being to observe the height of the pole at Paris, then to proceed northward until its elevation was increased exactly one degree, and to ascertain the distance between the stations by the number of revolutions of his carriage wheel. He concluded that it is 24,480 Italian miles round the globe. The last attempt of the kind had been that of the Khalif Almaimon seven hundred years previously on the shore of the Red Sea, and with nearly the same result. The mathematical sciences were undergoing rapid advancement. Rhæticus had published his trigonometrical tables; Cardan, Tartaglia, Scipio Ferreo, and Stefel were greatly improving algebra. [Sidenote: Copernicus, the works of.] The first formal assertion of the heliocentric theory was made in a timid manner, strikingly illustrative of the expected opposition. It was by Copernicus, a Prussian, speaking of the revolutions of the heavenly bodies; the year was about 1536. In his preface, addressed to Pope Paul III., whether written by himself, or, as some have affirmed, for him by Andreas Osiander, he complains of the imperfections of the existing system, states that he has sought among ancient writers for a better way, and so had learned the heliocentric doctrine. "Then I too began to meditate on the motion of the earth, and, though it appeared an absurd opinion, yet since I knew that in previous times others had been allowed the privilege of feigning what circles they chose in order to explain the phenomena, I conceived that I might take the liberty of trying whether, on the supposition of the earth's motion, it was possible to find better explanations than the ancient ones of the revolutions of the celestial orbs." "Having, then, assumed the motions of the earth, which are hereafter explained, by laborious and long observation I at length found that, if the motions of the other planets be compared with the revolution of the earth, not only their phenomena follow from the suppositions, but also that the several orbs and the whole system are so connected in order and magnitude that no one point can be transposed without disturbing the rest, and introducing confusion into the whole universe." [Sidenote: Introduction of his system.] The apologetic air with which he thus introduces his doctrine is again remarked in his statement that he had kept his book for thirty-six years, and only now published it at the entreaty of Cardinal Schomberg. The cardinal had begged of him a manuscript copy. "Though I know that the thoughts of a philosopher do not depend on the judgment of the many, his study being to seek out truth in all things as far as is permitted by God to human reason, yet, when I considered how absurd my doctrine would appear, I long hesitated whether I should publish my book, or whether it were not better to follow the example of the Pythagoreans and others, who delivered their doctrine only by tradition and to friends." [Sidenote: He fears being accused of heresy.] He concludes: "If there be vain babblers who, knowing nothing of mathematics, yet assume the right of judging on account of some place of Scripture perversely wrested to their purpose, and who blame and attack my undertaking, I heed them not, and look upon their judgments as rash and contemptible." Copernicus clearly recognized not only the relative position of the earth, but also her relative magnitude. He says the magnitude of the world is so great that the distance of the earth from the sun has no apparent magnitude when compared with the sphere of the fixed stars. [Sidenote: Early correction of the Copernican theory.] To the earth Copernicus attributed a triple motion--a daily rotation on her axis, an annual motion round the sun, a motion of declination of the axis. The latter seemed to be necessary to account for the constant direction of the pole; but as this was soon found to be a misconception, the theory was relieved of it. With this correction, the doctrine of Copernicus presents a clear and great advance, though in the state in which he offered it he was obliged to retain the mechanism of epicycles and eccentrics, because he considered the planetary motions to be circular. It was the notion that, since the circle is the most simple of all geometrical forms, it must therefore be the most natural, which led to this imperfection. His work was published in 1543. He died a few days after he had seen a copy. Against the opposition it had to encounter, the heliocentric theory made its way slowly at first. Among those who did adopt it were some whose connexion served rather to retard its progress, because of the ultraism of their views, or the doubtfulness of their social position. [Sidenote: Giordano Bruno of Nola.] Such was Bruno, who contributed largely to its introduction into England, and who was the author of a work on the Plurality of Worlds, and of the conception that every star is a sun, having opaque planets revolving round it--a conception to which the Copernican system suggestively leads. Bruno was born seven years after the death of Copernicus. He became a Dominican, but, like so many other thoughtful men of the times, was led into heresy on the doctrine of transubstantiation. Not concealing his opinions, he was persecuted, fled, and led a vagabond life in foreign countries, testifying that wherever he went he found scepticism under the polish of hypocrisy, and that he fought not against the belief of men, but against their pretended belief. [Sidenote: He teaches the heliocentric theory,] For teaching the rotation of the earth he had to flee to Switzerland, and thence to England, where, at Oxford, he gave lectures on cosmology. Driven from England, France, and Germany in succession, he ventured in his extremity to return to Italy, and was arrested in Venice, where he was kept in prison in the Piombi for six years without books, or paper, or friends. Meantime the Inquisition demanded him as having written heretical works. He was therefore surrendered to Rome, and, after a farther imprisonment of two years, tried, excommunicated, and delivered over to the secular authorities, to be punished "as mercifully as possible, and without the shedding of his blood," the abominable formula for burning a man alive. He had collected all the observations that had been made respecting the new star in Cassiopeia, 1572; he had taught that space is infinite, and that it is filled with self-luminous and opaque worlds, many of them inhabited--this being his capital offence. He believed that the world is animated by an intelligent soul, the cause of forms but not of matter; that it lives in all things, even such as seem not to live; that every thing is ready to become organized; that matter is the mother of forms and then their grave; that matter and the soul of the world together constitute God. His ideas were therefore pantheistic, "Est Deus in nobis." In his "Cena de le Cenere" he insists that the Scripture was not intended to teach science, but morals only. The severity with which he was treated was provoked by his asseverations that he was struggling with an orthodoxy that had neither morality nor belief. This was the aim of his work entitled "The triumphant Beast." [Sidenote: and is burnt alive as a heretic.] He was burnt at Rome, February 16, 1600. With both a present and prophetic truth, he nobly responded, when the atrocious sentence was passed upon him, "Perhaps it is with greater fear that ye pass this sentence upon me than I receive it." His tormentors jocosely observed, as the flames shut him out forever from view, that he had gone to the imaginary worlds he had so wickedly feigned. This vigorous but spasmodic determination of the Church to defend herself was not without effect. It enabled her to hold fast the timid, the time-servers, the superficial. [Sidenote: Lord Bacon. Rejects the Copernican doctrine.] Among such may be mentioned Lord Bacon, who never received the Copernican system. With the audacity of ignorance, he presumed to criticize what he did not understand, and, with a superb conceit, disparaged the great Copernicus. He says, "In the system of Copernicus there are many and grave difficulties; for the threefold motion with which he encumbers the earth is a serious inconvenience, and the separation of the sun from the planets, with which he has so many affections in common, is likewise a harsh step; and the introduction of so many immovable bodies in nature, as when he makes the sun and stars immovable, the bodies which are peculiarly lucid and radiant, and his making the moon adhere to the earth in a sort of epicycle, and some other things which he assumes, are proceedings which mark a man who thinks nothing of introducing fictions of any kind into nature, provided his calculations turn out well." The more closely we examine the writings of Lord Bacon, the more unworthy does he seem to have been of the great reputation which has been awarded to him. The popular delusion to which he owes so much originated at a time when the history of science was unknown. They who first brought him into notice knew nothing of the old school of Alexandria. This boasted founder of a new philosophy could not comprehend, and would not accept, the greatest of all scientific doctrines when it was plainly set before his eyes. It has been represented that the invention of the true method of physical science was an amusement of Bacon's hours of relaxation from the more laborious studies of law and duties of a court. His chief admirers have been persons of a literary turn, who have an idea that scientific discoveries are accomplished by a mechanico-mental operation. [Sidenote: The practical uselessness of his philosophy.] Bacon never produced any great practical result himself, no great physicist has ever made any use of his method. He has had the same to do with the development of modern science that the inventor of the orrery has had to do with the discovery of the mechanism of the world. Of all the important physical discoveries, there is not one which shows that its author made it by the Baconian instrument. Newton never seems to have been aware that he was under any obligation to Bacon. Archimedes, and the Alexandrians, and the Arabians, and Leonardo da Vinci did very well before he was born; the discovery of America by Columbus and the circumnavigation by Magellan can hardly be attributed to him, yet they were the consequences of a truly philosophical reasoning. But the investigation of nature is an affair of genius, not of rules. No man can invent an organon for writing tragedies and Epic poems. Bacon's system is, in it own terms, an idol of the theatre. It would scarcely guide a man to a solution of the riddle of Ælia Lælia Crispis, or to that of the charade of Sir Hilary. [Sidenote: His scientific errors.] Few scientific pretenders have made more mistakes than Lord Bacon. He rejected the Copernican system, and spoke insolently of its great author; he undertook to criticise adversely Gilbert's treatise "De Magnete;" he was occupied in the condemnation of any investigation of final causes, while Harvey was deducing the circulation of the blood from Aquapendente's discovery of the valves in the veins; he was doubtful whether instruments were of any advantage, while Galileo was investigating the heavens with the telescope. Ignorant himself of every branch of mathematics, he presumed that they were useless in science, but a few years before Newton achieved by their aid his immortal discoveries. It is time that the sacred name of philosophy should be severed from its long connexion with that of one who was a pretender in science, a time-serving politician, an insidious lawyer, a corrupt judge, a treacherous friend, a bad man. [Sidenote: Adoption of the Copernican doctrine.] But others were not so obtuse as Bacon. Gilbert, one of the best of the early English experimentalists, an excellent writer on magnetism, adopted the views of Copernicus. Milton, in "Paradise Lost," set forth in language such as he only could use the objections to the Ptolemaic, and the probabilities of the Copernican system. Some of the more liberal ecclesiastics gave their adhesion. Bishop Wilkins not only presented it in a very popular way, but also made some sensible suggestions explanatory of the supposed contradictions of the new theory to the Holy Scriptures. It was, however, among geometricians, as Napier, Briggs, Horrox, that it met with its best support. On the continent the doctrine was daily making converts, and nightly gathering strength from the accordance of the tables of the motions of the heavenly bodies calculated upon its principles with actual observation. [Sidenote: Invention of the telescope.] It is by no means uninteresting to notice the different classes of men among whom this great theory was steadily winning its way. Experimental philosophers, Republican poets, Episcopal clergymen, Scotch lords, West of England schoolmasters, Italian physicists, Polish pedants, painstaking Germans, each from his own special point of view, was gradually receiving the light, and doubtless, from such varied influence, the doctrine would have vindicated its supremacy at last, though it might have taken a long time. On a sudden, however, there occurred a fortunate event, which led forthwith to that result by a new train of evidence, bringing the matter, under the most brilliant circumstances, clearly to the apprehension of every one. This great and fortunate event was the invention of the telescope. [Sidenote: Galileo constructs one.] It is needless to enter on any examination of the authorship of this invention. It is enough for our purpose to know that Lippershey, a Dutchman, had made one toward the close of 1608, and that Galileo, hearing of the circumstance, but without knowing the particulars of the construction, in April or May of the following year invented a form of it for himself. Not content with admiring how close and large it made terrestrial objects, he employed it for examining the heavens. [Sidenote: Telescopic astronomical discoveries.] On turning it to the moon, he found that she has mountains casting shadows, and valleys like those of the earth. The discovery of innumerable fixed stars--not fewer than forty were counted by him in the well-known group of the Pleiades--up to that time unseen by man, was felt at once to offer an insuperable argument against the opinion that these bodies were created only to illuminate the night; indeed, it may be said that this was a death-blow to the time-honoured doctrine of the human destiny of the universe. Already Galileo began to encounter vulgar indignation, which accused him loudly of impiety. On January 7th, 1610, he discovered three of Jupiter's satellites, and a few days later the fourth. To these he gave the designation of the Medicean stars, and in his "Sidereal Messenger" published an account of the facts he had thus far observed. As it was perceived at once that this planet offered a miniature representation of the ideas of Copernicus respecting the solar system, this discovery was received by the astronomical party with the liveliest pleasure, by the ecclesiastical with the most bitter opposition, some declaring that it was a mere optical deception, some a purposed fraud, some that it was sheer blasphemy, and some, fairly carrying out to its consequences the absurd philosophy of the day, asserted that, since the pretended satellites were invisible to the naked eye, they must be useless, and, being useless, they could not exist. Continuing his observations, Galileo found that Saturn differs in an extraordinary manner from other planets; but the telescope he used not being sufficient to demonstrate the ring, he fell into the mistake that the body of the planet is triple. This was soon followed by the discovery of the phases of Venus, which indisputably established for her a motion round the sun, and actually converted what had hitherto, on all hands, been regarded as one of the weightiest objections against the Copernican theory, into a most solid support. "If the doctrine of Copernicus be true, the planet Venus ought to show phases like the moon, which is not the case;" so said the objectors. Copernicus himself saw the difficulty, and tried to remove it by suggesting that the planet might be transparent. The telescope of Galileo for ever settled the question by showing that the expected phases do actually exist. [Sidenote: Commencing opposition to Galileo.] In the garden of Cardinal Bandini at Rome, A.D. 1611, Galileo publicly exhibited the spots upon the sun. He had observed them the preceding year. Goaded on by the opposition his astronomical discoveries were bringing upon him, he addressed a letter in 1613 to the Abbe Castelli, for the purpose of showing that the Scriptures were not intended as a scientific authority. This was repeating Bruno's offence. Hereupon the Dominicans, taking alarm, commenced to attack him from their pulpits. It shows how reluctantly, and with what misgivings the higher ecclesiastics entered upon the quarrel, that Maraffi, the general of the Dominicans, apologized to Galileo for what had taken place. The astronomer now published another letter reiterating his former opinions, asserting that the Scriptures were only intended for our salvation, and otherwise defending himself, and recalling the fact that Copernicus had dedicated his book to Pope Paul III. [Sidenote: He is summoned to Rome.] Through the suggestion of the Dominicans, Galileo was now summoned to Rome to account for his conduct and opinions before the Inquisition. He was accused of having taught that the earth moves; that the sun is stationary; and of having attempted to reconcile these doctrines with the Scriptures. The sentence was that he must renounce these heretical opinions, and pledge himself that he would neither publish nor defend them for the future. [Sidenote: Is condemned by the Inquisition,] In the event of his refusal he was to be imprisoned. With the fate of Bruno in his recollection, he assented to the required recantation, and gave the promise demanded. The Inquisition then proceeded to deal with the Copernican system, condemning it as heretical; the letters of Galileo, which had given rise to the trouble, were prohibited; also Kepler's epitome of the Copernican theory, and also the work of Copernicus. [Sidenote: which condemns the Copernican system.] In their decree prohibiting this work "De Revolutionibus," the Congregation of the Index, March 5, 1616, denounced the new system of the universe as "that false Pythagorean doctrine utterly contrary to the Holy Scriptures." Again it appears how reluctant the Roman authorities were to interfere, and how they were impelled rather by the necessity of their position than by their personal belief in the course they had been obliged to take. [Sidenote: The personal sentiments of the Popes.] After all that had passed, the Pope, Paul V., admitted Galileo to an audience, at which he professed to him personally the kindest sentiments, and assured him of safety. When Urban VIII. succeeded to the pontifical chair, Galileo received the distinction of not less than six audiences; the Pope conferred on him several presents, and added the promise of a pension for his son. In a letter to the Duke of Florence his Holiness used the most liberal language, stated how dear to him Galileo was, that he had very lovingly embraced him, and requested the duke to show him every favour. [Sidenote: Galileo publishes "The System of the World".] Whether it was that, under these auspicious circumstances, Galileo believed he could with impunity break through the engagement he had made, or whether an instinctive hatred of that intellectual despotism and hypocrisy which was weighing upon Europe became irrepressible in his breast, in 1632 he ventured on the publication of his work, entitled "The System of the World," its object being to establish the truth of the Copernican doctrine. It is composed in the dialogue form, three speakers being introduced, two of them true philosophers, the third an objector. Whatever may have been the personal opinion of the Pope, there can be no doubt that his duty rendered it necessary for him to act. Galileo was therefore again summoned before the Inquisition, the Tuscan ambassador expostulating against the inhumanity of thus dealing with an old man in ill health. But no such considerations were listened to, and Galileo was compelled to appear at Rome, February, 1633, and surrender himself to the Holy Office. The Pope's nephew did all in his power to meet the necessity of the Church and yet to spare the dignity of science. He paid every attention to the personal comfort of the accused. When the time came for Galileo to be put into solitary confinement, he endeavoured to render the imprisonment as light as possible; but, finding it to prey upon the spirits of the aged philosopher, he, on his own responsibility, liberated him, permitting him to reside in the house of the Tuscan ambassador. [Sidenote: Is again condemned by the Inquisition.] The trial being completed, Galileo was directed to appear, on June 22nd, to hear his sentence. Clothed in the penitential garment, he received judgment. His heretical offences were specified, the pledges he had violated recited; he was declared to have brought upon himself strong suspicions of heresy, and to be liable to the penalties thereof; but from these he might be absolved if, with a sincere heart, he would abjure and curse his heresies. However, that his offences might not altogether go unpunished, and that he might be a warning to others, he was condemned to imprisonment during the pleasure of the Inquisition, his dialogues were prohibited by public edict, and for three years he was directed to recite, once a week, the seven penitential psalms. [Sidenote: His degradation and punishment.] In his garment of disgrace the aged philosopher was now made to fall upon his knees before the assembled cardinals, and, with his hand on the Gospels, to make the required abjuration of the heliocentric doctrine, and to give the pledges demanded. He was then committed to the prison of the Inquisition; the persons who had been concerned in the printing of his book were punished; and the sentence and abjuration were formally promulgated, and ordered to be publicly read in the universities. In Florence, the adherents of Galileo were ordered to attend in the Church of Santa Croce to witness his disgrace. After a short imprisonment in the jail of the Inquisition, he was ordered to Arcetri, and confined in his own house. Here severe misfortunes awaited him; his favourite daughter died; he fell into a state of melancholy; an application that he might go to Florence for the sake of medical advice was refused. It became evident that there was an intention to treat him with inexorable severity. After five years of confinement, permission was reluctantly accorded to him to remove to Florence for his health; but still he was forbidden to leave his house, or receive his friends, or even to attend mass during Passion Week without a special order. The Grand-duke tried to abate this excessive severity, directing his ambassador at the court of Rome to plead the venerable age and ill health of the immortal convict, and that it was desirable to permit him to communicate certain scientific discoveries he had made to some other person, such as Father Castelli. Not even that was accorded unless the interview took place in the presence of an official of the Inquisition. Soon after Galileo was remanded to Arcetri. He spent the weary hours in composing his work on Local Motion, his friends causing it to be surreptitiously published in Holland. [Sidenote: The calamities of his old age.] His infirmities and misfortunes now increased. In 1637 he became totally blind. In a letter he plaintively says, referring to this calamity, "So it pleases God, it shall therefore please me also." The exquisite refinement of ecclesiastical vengeance pursued him remorselessly, and now gave him permission to see his friends when sight was no longer possible. It was at this period that an illustrious stranger, the author of "Paradise Lost," visited him. Shortly after he became totally deaf; but to the last he occupied himself with investigations respecting the force of percussion. [Sidenote: His death; is refused burial.] He died, January, 1642, in the seventy-eighth year of his age, the prisoner of the Inquisition. True to its instincts, that infernal institution followed him beyond the grave, disputing his right to make a will, and denying him burial in consecrated ground. The pope also prohibited his friends from raising to him a monument in the church of Santa Croce, in Florence. It was reserved for the nineteenth century to erect a suitable memorial in his honour. [Sidenote: Steady advance of the Copernican system.] The result of the discoveries of Copernicus and Galileo was thus to bring the earth to her real position of subordination and to give sublimer views of the universe. Moestlin expresses correctly the state of the case when he says, "What is the earth and the ambient air with respect to the immensity of space? It is a point, a punctule, or something, if there be any thing, less." It had been brought down to the condition of one of the members of a family--the solar system. And since it could be no longer regarded as holding all other bodies in submissive attendance upon it, dominating over their movements, there was reason to suppose that it would be found to maintain interconnexions with them in the attitude of an equal or subordinate; in other words, that general relations would be discovered expressive of the manner in which all the planetary members of the solar system sustain their movements round the sun. [Sidenote: Kepler, his mode of inquiry.] Among those whose minds were thoroughly occupied with this idea, Kepler stands pre-eminently conspicuous. It is not at all surprising, considering the tone of thought of those times, that he regarded his subject with a certain mysticism. They who condemn his manner of thus viewing things do not duly appreciate the mental condition of the generation in which he lived. Whatever may be said on that point, no one can deny him a marvellous patience, and almost superhuman painstaking disposition. Guess after guess, hypothesis after hypothesis, he submitted to computations of infinite labour, and doubtless he speaks the melancholy truth when he says, "I considered and reflected till I was almost mad." Yet, in the midst of repeated disappointment, he held, with a truly philosophical determination, firmly to the belief that there must be some physical interconnexion among the parts of the solar system, and that it would certainly be displayed by the discovery of laws presiding over the distances, times, and velocities of the planets. In these speculations he was immersed before the publications of Galileo. In his "Mysterium Cosmographicum" he says, "In the year 1595 I was brooding with the whole energy of my mind on the subject of the Copernican system." [Sidenote: Discovery of Kepler's laws.] In 1609 he published his work entitled "On the Motion of Mars." This was the result of an attempt, upon which he had been engaged since the beginning of the century, to reconcile the motions of that planet to the hypothesis of eccentrics and epicycles. It ended in the abandonment of that hypothesis, and in the discovery of the two great laws now known as the first and second laws of Kepler. They are respectively that the orbits of the planets are elliptical, and that the areas described by a line drawn from the planet to the sun are proportional to the times. In 1617 he was again rewarded by the discovery which passes under the designation of Kepler's third law: it expresses the relation of the mean distances of the planets from the sun with the times of their revolutions--"the squares of the periodic times are in the same proportion as the cubes of the distances." In his "Epitome of the Copernican Astronomy," published 1622, he showed that this law likewise holds good for the satellites of Jupiter as regards their primary. [Sidenote: His remonstrance with the Church.] Humboldt, referring to the movement of Jupiter's satellites, remarks: "It was this which led Kepler, in his 'Harmonices Mundi,' to state, with the firm confidence and security of a German spirit of philosophical independence, to those whose opinions bore sway beyond the Alps, 'Eighty years have elapsed during which the doctrines of Copernicus regarding the movement of the earth and the immobility of the sun have been promulgated without hindrance, because it was deemed allowable to dispute concerning natural things and to elucidate the works of God, and, now that new testimony is discovered in proof of the truth of those doctrines--testimony which was not known to the spiritual judges, ye would prohibit the promulgation of the true system of the structure of the universe.'" [Sidenote: Rectification of the Copernican theory.] Thus we see that the heliocentric theory, as proposed by Copernicus, was undergoing rectification. The circular movements admitted into it, and which had burdened it with infinite perplexity, though they had hitherto been recommended by an illusive simplicity, were demonstrated to be incorrect. They were replaced by the real ones, the elliptical. Kepler, as was his custom, ingenuously related his trials and disappointments. Alluding on one occasion to this, he says: "My first error was that the path of a planet is a perfect circle--an opinion which was a more mischievous thief of my time, in proportion as it was supported by the authority of all philosophers, and apparently agreeable to metaphysics." [Sidenote: The philosophical import of these laws.] The philosophical significance of Kepler's discoveries was not recognized by the ecclesiastical party at first. It is chiefly this, that they constitute a most important step to the establishment of the doctrine of the government of the world by law. But it was impossible to receive these laws without seeking for their cause. The result to which that search eventually conducted not only explained their origin, but also showed that, as laws, they must, in the necessity of nature, exist. It may be truly said that the mathematical exposition of their origin constitutes the most splendid monument of the intellectual power of man. [Sidenote: Necessity for mechanical science.] Before the heliocentric theory could be developed and made to furnish a clear exposition of the solar system, which is obviously the first step to just views of the universe, it was necessary that the science of mechanics should be greatly improved--indeed, it might be said, created; for during those dreary ages following the establishment of Byzantine power, nothing had been done toward the acquisition of correct views either in statics or dynamics. It was impossible that Europe, in her lower states of life, could produce men capable of commencing where Archimedes had left off. She had to wait for the approach of her Age of Reason for that. [Sidenote: Leonardo da Vinci.] The man of capacity at last came. Leonardo da Vinci was born A.D. 1452. The historian Hallam, enumerating some of his works, observes, "His knowledge was almost preternatural." Many of his writings still remain unpublished. Long before Bacon, he laid down the maxim that experience and observation must be the foundation of all reasoning in science; that experiment is the only interpreter of nature, and is essential to the ascertainment of laws. Unlike Bacon, who was ignorant of mathematics, and even disparaged them, he points out their supreme advantage. Seven years after the voyage of Columbus, this great man--great at once as an artist, mathematician, and engineer--gave a clear exposition of the theory of forces obliquely applied on a lever; a few years later he was well acquainted with the earth's annual motion. He knew the laws of friction, subsequently demonstrated by Amontons, and the principle of virtual velocities; he described the camera obscura before Baptista Porta, understood aerial perspective, the nature of coloured shadows, the use of the iris, and the effects of the duration of visible impressions on the eye. He wrote well on fortification, anticipated Castelli on hydraulics, occupied himself with the fall of bodies on the hypothesis of the earth's rotation, treated of the times of descent along inclined planes and circular arcs, and of the nature of machines. He considered, with singular clearness, respiration and combustion, and foreshadowed one of the great hypotheses of geology, the elevation of continents. [Sidenote: Stevinus continues the movement in Natural Philosophy.] This was the commencement of the movement in Natural Philosophy; it was followed up by the publication of a work on the principles of equilibrium by Stevinus, 1586. In this the author established the fundamental property of the inclined plane, and solved, in a general manner, the cases of forces acting obliquely. Six years later Galileo's treatise on mechanics appeared, a fitting commencement of that career which, even had it not been adorned with such brilliant astronomical discoveries, would alone have conferred the most illustrious distinction upon him. [Sidenote: Discovery of the laws of motion.] The dynamical branch of Mechanics is that which is under most obligation to Galileo. To him is due the establishment of the three laws of motion. They are to the following effect, as given by Newton: (1.) Every body perseveres in its state of rest or of uniform motion in a right line unless it is compelled to change that state by forces impressed thereon. (2.) The alteration of motion is ever proportional to the motive force impressed, and is made in the direction of the right line in which that force is impressed. (3.) To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction, or the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts. Up to this time it was the general idea that motion can only be maintained by a perpetual application, impression, or expenditure of force. Galileo himself for many years entertained that error, but in 1638 he plainly states in his "Dialogues on Mechanics" the true law of the uniformity and perpetuity of motion. Such a view necessarily implies a correct and clear appreciation of the nature of resistances. No experimental motion that man can establish is unrestrained. But a perception of the uniformity and perpetuity of motion lies at the very basis of physical astronomy. With difficulty the true idea was attained. The same may be said as respects rectilinear direction, for many supposed that uniform motion can only take place in a circle. [Sidenote: Establishment of the first law of motion,] The establishment of the first law of motion was essential to the discovery of the laws of falling bodies, in which the descent is made under the influence of a continually acting force, the velocity increasing in consequence thereof. Galileo saw clearly that, whether a body is moving slowly or swiftly, it will be equally affected by gravity. This principle was with difficulty admitted by some, who were disposed to believe that a swiftly moving body would not be as much affected by a constant force like gravity as one the motion of which is slower. With difficulty, also, was the old Aristotelian error eradicated that a heavy body falls more swiftly than a light one. [Sidenote: and of the second,] The second law of motion was also established and illustrated by Galileo. In his "Dialogues" he shows that a body projected horizontally must have, from what has been said, a uniform horizontal motion, but that it will also have compounded therewith an accelerated motion downward. Here again we perceive it is necessary to retain a steady conception of this intermingling of forces without deterioration, and, though it may seem simple enough to us, there were some eminent men of those times who did not receive it as true. The special case offered by Galileo is theoretically connected with the paths of military projectiles, though in practice, since they move in a resisting medium, the air, their path is essentially different from the parabola. Curvilinear motions, which necessarily arise from the constant action of a central force, making a body depart from the rectilinear path it must otherwise take, are chiefly of interest, as we shall presently find, in the movements of the celestial bodies. [Sidenote: and of the third.] A thorough exposition of the third law of motion was left by Galileo to his successors, who had directed their attention especially to the determination of the laws of impact. Indeed, the whole subject was illustrated and the truth of the three laws verified in many different cases by an examination of the phenomena of freely falling bodies, pendulums, projectiles, and the like. Among those who occupied themselves with such labours may be mentioned Torricelli, Castelli, Viviani, Borelli, Gassendi. Through the investigations of these, and other Italian, French, and English natural philosophers, the principles of Mechanics were solidly established, and a necessary preparation made for their application in astronomy. By this time every one had become ready to admit that the motion of the planetary bodies would find an explanation on these principles. [Sidenote: Application of Mechanics to the celestial motions.] The steps thus far taken for an explanation of the movements of the planets in curvilinear paths therefore consisted in the removal of the old misconception that for a body to continue its motion forward in a straight line a continued application of force is necessary, the first law of motion disposing of that error. In the next place, it was necessary that clear and distinct ideas should be held of the combination or composition of forces, each continuing to exercise its influence without deterioration or diminution by the other. The time had now come for it to be shown that the perpetual movement of the planets is a consequence of the first law of motion; their elliptic paths, such as had been determined by Kepler, a consequence of the second. Several persons almost simultaneously had been brought nearly to this conclusion without being able to solve the problem completely. Thus Borelli, A.D. 1666, in treating of the motions of Jupiter's satellites, distinctly shows how a circular motion may arise under the influence of a central force; he even uses the illustration so frequently introduced of a stone whirled round in a sling. In the same year a paper was presented to the Royal Society by Mr. Hooke, "explicating the inflection of a direct motion into a circular by a supervening attractive principle." Huygens also, in his "Horologium Oscillatorium," had published some theorems on circular motions, but no one as yet had been able to show how elliptical orbits could, upon these principles, be accounted for, though very many had become satisfied that the solution of this problem would before long be given. [Sidenote: Newton; publication of the "Principia."] In April, 1686, the "Principia" of Newton was presented to the Royal Society. This immortal work not only laid the foundation of Physical Astronomy, it also carried the structure thereof very far toward its completion. It unfolded the mechanical theory of universal gravitation upon the principle that all bodies tend to approach each other with forces directly as their masses, and inversely as the squares of their distances. [Sidenote: Propounds the theory of universal gravitation.] To the force producing this tendency of bodies to approach each other the designation of attraction of gravitation, or gravity, is given. All heavy bodies fall to the earth in such a way that the direction of their movement is toward its centre. Newton proved that this is the direction in which they must necessarily move under the influence of an attraction of every one of the particles of which the earth is composed, the attraction of a sphere taking effect as if all its particles were concentrated in its centre. [Sidenote: Preparation for Newton.] Galileo had already examined the manner in which gravity acts upon bodies as an accelerating force, and had determined the connexion between the spaces of descent and the times. He illustrated such facts experimentally by the use of inclined planes, by the aid of which the velocity may be conveniently diminished without otherwise changing the nature of the result. He had also demonstrated that the earth's attraction acts equally on all bodies. This he proved by inclosing various substances in hollow spheres, and showing that, when they were suspended by strings of equal length and made to vibrate, the time of oscillation was the same for all. On the invention of the air-pump, a more popular demonstration of the same fact was given by the experiment proving that a gold coin and a feather fall equally swiftly in an exhausted receiver. Galileo had also proved, by experiments on the leaning tower of Pisa, that the velocity of falling bodies is independent of their weight. It was for these experiments that he was expelled from that city. [Sidenote: Extension of attraction or gravity.] Up to the time of Newton there were only very vague ideas that the earth's attraction extended to any considerable distance. Newton was led to his discovery by reflecting that at all altitudes accessible to man, gravity appears to be undiminished, and that, therefore, it may possibly extend as far as the moon, and actually be the force which deflects her from a rectilinear path, and makes her revolve in an orbit round the earth. Admitting the truth of the law of the inverse squares, it is easy to compute whether the moon falls from the tangent she would describe if the earth ceased to act upon her by a quantity proportional to that observed in the case of bodies falling near the surface. In the first calculations made by Newton, he found that the moon is deflected from the tangent thirteen feet every minute; but, if the hypothesis of gravitation were true, her deflection should be fifteen feet. It is no trifling evidence of the scrupulous science of this great philosopher that hereupon he put aside the subject for several years, without, however, abandoning it. At length, in 1682, learning the result of the measures of a degree which Picard had executed in France, and which affected the estimate of the magnitude of the earth he had used, and therefore the distance of the moon, he repeated the calculations with these improved data. It is related that "he went home, took out his old papers, and resumed his calculations. As they drew to a close, he became so much agitated that he was obliged to desire a friend to finish them." The expected coincidence was verified. And thus it appeared that the moon is retained in her orbit and made to revolve round the earth by the force of terrestrial gravity. [Sidenote: The cause of Kepler's laws.] These calculations were founded upon the hypothesis that the moon moves in a circular orbit with a uniform velocity. But in the "Principia" it was demonstrated that when a body moves under the influence of an attractive force, varying as the inverse square of the distances, it must describe a conic section, with a focus at the centre of force, and under the circumstances designated by Kepler's laws. Newton, therefore, did far more than furnish the expected solution of the problem of elliptical motion, and it was now apparent that the existence of those laws might have been foreseen, since they arise in the very necessities of the case. [Sidenote: Resistless spread of the heliocentric theory.] This point gained, it is obvious that the evidence was becoming unquestionable, that as the moon is made to revolve round the earth through the influence of an attractive force exercised by the earth, so likewise each of the planets is compelled to move in an elliptical orbit round the sun by his attractive force. The heliocentric theory, at this stage, was presenting physical evidence of its truth. It was also becoming plain that the force we call gravitation must be imputed to the sun, and to all the planetary bodies as well as to the earth. Accordingly, this was what Newton asserted in respect to all material substance. [Sidenote: Perturbations accounted for.] But it is a necessary consequence of this theory that many apparent irregularities and perturbations of the bodies of the solar system must take place by reason of the attraction of each upon all the others. If there were but one planet revolving round the sun, its orbit might be a mathematically perfect ellipse; but the moment a second is introduced, perturbation takes place in a variable manner as the bodies change their positions or distances. An excessive complication must therefore be the consequence when the number of bodies is great. Indeed, so insurmountable would these difficulties be, that the mathematical solution of the general problem of the solar system would be hopeless were it not for the fact that the planetary bodies are at very great distances from one another, and their masses, compared with the mass of the sun, very small. [Sidenote: Results of the theory of gravitation.] Taking the theory of gravitation in its universal acceptation, Newton, in a manner that looks as if he were divinely inspired, succeeded in demonstrating the chief inequalities of the moon and planetary bodies; in determining the figure of the earth--that it is not a perfect sphere, but an oblate spheroid; in explaining the precession of the equinoxes and the tides of the ocean. To such perfection have succeeding mathematicians brought his theory, that the most complicated movements and irregularities of the solar system have been satisfactorily accounted for and reduced to computation. Trusting to these principles, not only has it been found possible, knowing the mass of a given planet, to determine the perturbations it may produce in adjacent ones, but even the inverse problem has been successfully attacked, and from the perturbations the place and mass of a hitherto unknown planet determined. It was thus that, from the deviations of Uranus from his theoretical place, the necessary existence of an exterior disturbing planet was foreseen, and our times have witnessed the intellectual triumph of mathematicians directing where the telescope should point in order to find a new planet. The discovery of Neptune was thus accomplished. It adds to our admiration of the wonderful intellectual powers of Newton to know that the mathematical instrument he used was the ancient geometry. Not until subsequently was the analytical method resorted to and cultivated. This method possesses the inappreciable advantage of relieving us from the mental strain which would otherwise oppress us. It has been truly said that the symbols think for us. [Sidenote: The "Principia;" its incomparable merit.] Mr. Whewell observes: "No one for sixty years after the publication of the 'Principia,' and, with Newton's methods, no one up to the present day, has added any thing of value to his deductions. We know that he calculated all the principal lunar inequalities; in many of the cases he has given us his processes, in others only his results. But who has presented in his beautiful geometry or deduced from his simple principles any of the inequalities which he left untouched? The ponderous instrument of synthesis, so effective in his hands, has never since been grasped by any one who could use it for such purposes; and we gaze at it with admiring curiosity, as on some gigantic implement of war which stands idle among the memorials of ancient days, and makes us wonder what manner of man he was who could wield as a weapon what we can hardly lift as a burden." [Sidenote: Philosophical import of Newton's discoveries.] Such was the physical meaning of Newton's discoveries; their philosophical meaning was of even greater importance. The paramount truth was resistlessly coming into prominence--that the government of the solar system is under necessity, and that it is mathematically impossible for the laws presiding over it to be other than they are. Thus it appears that the law of gravitation holds good throughout our solar system. But the heliocentric theory, in its most general acceptation, considers every fixed star as being, like the sun, a planetary centre. [Sidenote: Unity of idea in the construction of the universe.] Hence, before it can be asserted that the theory of gravitation is truly universal, it must be shown that it holds good in the case of all other such systems. The evidence offered in proof of this is altogether based upon the observations of the two Herschels on the motions of the double stars. Among the stars there are some in such close proximity to each other that Sir W. Herschel was led to suppose it would be possible, from observations upon them, to ascertain the stellar parallax. While engaged in these inquiries, which occupied him for many years, he discovered that many of these stars are not merely optically in proximity, as being accidentally in the same line of view, but are actually connected physically, revolving round each other in regular orbits. The motion of these double suns is, however, in many instances so slow as to require many years for a satisfactory determination. [Sidenote: Gravitation of double stars.] Sir J. Herschel therefore continued the observations of his father, and with other mathematicians, investigated the characteristics of these motions. The first instance in which the true elliptic elements of the orbit of a binary star were determined was given by M. Savary in the case of chi Ursæ Majoris, indicating an elliptic orbit of 58-1/4 years. But the period of others, since determined, is very much longer; thus, in sigma Coronæ, it is, according to Mr. Hind, more than 736 years. From the fact that the orbits in which these stars move round each other are elliptical, it necessarily follows that the law of gravitation, according to the inverse square, holds good in them. Considering the prodigious distances of these bodies, and the departure, as regards structure of the systems to which they belong, from the conditions obtaining in our unisolar system, we may perhaps assert the prevalence of the law of gravitation throughout the universe. [Sidenote: Coloured light of double stars.] If, in association with these double suns--sometimes, indeed, they are triple, and occasionally, as in the case of epsilon Lyræ, quadruple--there are opaque planetary globes, such solar systems differ from ours not only in having several suns instead of a single one, but, since the light emitted is often of different tints, one star shining with a crimson and another with a blue light, the colours not always complementary to one another, a wonderful variety of phenomena must be the result, especially in their organic creations; for organic forms, both vegetable and animal, primarily depend on the relations of coloured light. How varied the effects where there are double, triple, or even quadruple sunrises, and sunsets, and noons; and the hours marked off by red, or purple, or blue tints. [Sidenote: Grandeur of Newton's discoveries.] It is impossible to look back on the history of the theory of gravitation without sentiments of admiration and, indeed, of pride. How felicitous has been the manner in which have been explained the inequalities of a satellite like the moon under the disturbing influence of the sun; the correspondence between the calculated and observed quantities of these inequalities; the extension of the doctrine to satellites of other planets, as those of Jupiter; the determination of the earth's figure; the causes of the tides; the different force of gravity in different latitudes, and a multitude of other phenomena. The theory asserted for itself that authority which belongs to intrinsic truth. It enabled mathematicians to point out facts not yet observed, and to foretell future events. And yet how hard it is for truth to force its way when bigotry resists. In 1771, the University of Salamanca, being urged to teach physical science, refused, and this was its answer; "Newton teaches nothing that would make a good logician or metaphysician; and Gassendi and Descartes do not agree so well with revealed truth as Aristotle does." [Sidenote: The earth in time.] Among the interesting results of Newton's theory may be mentioned its application to secular inequalities, such as the acceleration of the moon's mean motion, that satellite moving somewhat quicker now than she did ages ago. Laplace detected the cause of this phenomenon in the influence of the sun upon the moon, combined with the secular variation of the eccentricity of the earth's orbit. Moreover, he showed that this secular inequality of the motion of the moon is periodical, that it requires millions of years to re-establish itself, and that, after an almost inconceivable time, the acceleration becomes a retardation. In like manner, the same mathematician explained the observed acceleration in the mean motion of Jupiter, and retardation of that of Saturn, as arising from the mutual attraction of the two planets, and showed that this secular inequality has a period of 929-1/2 years. With such slow movements may be mentioned the diminution of the obliquity of the ecliptic, which has been proceeding for ages, but which will reach a limit and then commence to increase. These secular motions ought not to be without interest to those who suffer themselves to adopt the patristic chronology of the world, who suppose that the earth is only six thousand years old, and that it will come to an end in about one thousand years more. They must accept, along with that preposterous delusion, its necessary consequences, that the universe has been so badly constructed, and is such a rickety machine, that it can not hold together long enough for some of its wheels to begin to revolve. Astronomy offers us many illustrations of the scale upon which the world is constructed as to time, as well as that upon which it is constructed as to space. [Sidenote: Dominion of law in the universe.] From what has been said, the conclusion forces itself upon us that the general laws obtaining as respects the earth, hold good likewise for all other parts of the universe; a conclusion sustained not only by the mechanism of such motions as we have been considering, but also by all evidence of a physical kind accessible to us. The circumstances under which our sun emits light and heat, and thereby vivifies his attendant planets, are indisputably the same as those obtaining in the case of every fixed star, each of which is a self-luminous sun. There is thus an aspect of homogeneousness in the structure of all systems in the universe, which, though some have spoken of it as if it were the indication of a uniformity of plan, and therefore the evidence of a primordial idea, is rather to be looked upon as the proof of unchangeable and resistless law. [Sidenote: Ruin of anthropocentric ideas.] What, therefore, now becomes of the doctrine authoritatively put forth, and made to hold its sway for so many centuries, that the earth is not only the central-body of the universe, but in reality, the most noble body in it; that the sun and other stars are mere ministers or attendants for human use? In the place of these utterly erroneous and unworthy views, far different conceptions must be substituted. Man, when he looks upon the countless multitude of stars--when he reflects that all he sees is only a little portion of those which exist, yet that each is a light and life-giving sun to multitudes of opaque, and therefore, invisible worlds--when he considers the enormous size of these various bodies and their immeasurable distance from one another, may form an estimate of the scale on which the world is constructed, and learn therefrom his own unspeakable insignificance. [Sidenote: Aids for measurements in the universe.] In one beat of a pendulum a ray of light would pass eight times round the circumference of the earth. Thus we may take the sunbeam as a carpenter does his measuring-rule; it serves as a gauge in our measurements of the universe. A sunbeam would require more than three years to reach us from alpha Centauri; nine and a quarter years from 61 Cygni; from alpha Lyræ twelve years. These are stars whose parallax has been determined, and which are therefore nearest to us. [Sidenote: Clusters of stars.] Of suns visible to the naked eye there are about 8000, but the telescope can discern in the Milky Way more than eighteen millions, the number visible increasing as more powerful instruments are used. Our cluster of stars is a disc divided into two branches at about one-third of its length. In the midst of innumerable compeers and superiors, the sun is not far from the place of bifurcation, and at about the middle of the thickness. Outside the plane of the Milky Way the appearance would be like a ring, and, still farther off, a nebulous disc. [Sidenote: Distribution of matter and force in space.] From the contemplation of isolated suns and congregated clusters we are led to the stupendous problem of the distribution of matter and force in space, and to the interpretation of those apparent phantoms of self-luminous vapour, circular and elliptic discs, spiral wreaths, rings and fans, whose edges fade doubtfully away, twins and triplets of phosphorescent haze connected together by threads of light and grotesque forms of indescribable complexity. Perhaps in some of these gleaming apparitions we see the genesis, in some the melting away of universes. There is nothing motionless in the sky. In every direction vast transformations are occurring, yet all things proclaim the eternity of matter and the undiminished perpetuity of force. [Sidenote: Limit of the theory of gravitation.] The theory of gravitation, as delivered by Newton, thus leads us to a knowledge of the mathematical construction of the solar system, and inferentially likewise to that of other systems; but it leaves without explanation a large number of singular facts. It explains the existing conditions of equilibrium of the heavenly bodies, but it tells us nothing of their genesis; or, at the best, in that particular it falls back on the simple fiat of God. [Sidenote: Phenomena of the solar system.] The facts here referred to conduct us, however, to another and far higher point of view. Some of them, as enumerated by Laplace, are the following:--1. All the planets and their satellites move in ellipses of such small eccentricity that they are nearly circles; 2. The movements of the planets are in the same direction and nearly in the same plane; 3. The movements of the satellites are in the same direction as those of the planets; 4. The movements of rotation of these various bodies and of the sun are in the same direction as their orbitual motions, and in planes little different. [Sidenote: The nebular hypothesis.] The nebular hypothesis requires us to admit that all the ponderable material now constituting the various bodies of the solar system once extended in a rarefied or nebulous and rotating condition, beyond the confines of the most distant planet. That postulate granted; the structure and present condition of the system may be mathematically deduced. For, as the vast rotating spheroid lost its heat by radiation, it contracted, and its velocity of rotation was necessarily increased; and thus were left behind from its equatorial zone, by reason of the centrifugal force, rotating rings, the same result occurring periodically again and again. These rings must lie all in one plane. They might break, collapsing into one rotating spheroid, a planet; or into many, asteroids; or maintain the ring-like form. From the larger of these secondary rotating spheroids other rings might be thrown off, as from the parent mass; these, in their turn breaking and becoming spheroids, constitute satellites, whose movements correspond to those of their primaries. We might, indeed, advance a step farther, and show how, by the radiation of heat from a motionless nebula, a movement of rotation in a determinate direction could be engendered, and that upon these principles, the existence of a nebulous matter admitted, and the present laws and forces of nature regarded as having been unchanged, the manner of origin of the solar system might be deduced, and all those singular facts previously alluded to explained; and not only so, but there is spontaneously suggested the cause of many minor peculiarities not yet mentioned. [Sidenote: Facts accounted for by it.] For it follows from the nebular hypothesis that the large planets should rotate rapidly, and the small ones more slowly; that the outer planets and satellites should be larger than the inner ones. Of the satellites of Saturn, the largest is the outermost; of those of Jupiter, the largest is the outermost save one. Of the planets themselves, Jupiter is the largest, and outermost save three. These cannot be coincidences, but must be due to law. The number of satellites of each planet, with the doubtful exception of Venus, might be foreseen, the presence of satellites and their number being determined by the centrifugal force of their primary. The hypothesis also points out the time of revolution of the planets in their orbits, and of the satellites in theirs; it furnishes a reason for the genesis and existence of Saturn's rings, which are indeed its remaining witnesses--their position and movements answering to its requirements. It accounts for the physical state of the sun, and also for the physical state of the earth and moon as indicated by their geology. It is also not without furnishing reasons for the existence of comets as integrant members of our system; for their singular physical state; for the eccentric, almost parabolic orbits of so many of them; for the fact that there are as many of them with a retrograde as with a direct motion; for their more frequent occurrence about the axis of the solar system than in its plane; and for their general antithetical relations to planets. [Sidenote: Whether nebulæ actually exist.] If these and very many other apparently disconnected facts follow as the mechanical necessities of the admission of a gravitating nebula--a very simple postulate--it becomes important to ascertain whether, by actual observation, the existence of such material forms may be demonstrated in any part of the universe. It was the actual telescopic observation of such objects that led Herschel to the nebular hypothesis. He concluded that there are two distinct kinds of nebulæ, one consisting of clusters of stars so remote that they could not be discerned individually, but that these may be discerned by sufficient telescopic power; the other being of a hazy nature, and incapable of resolution. Nebulæ do not occur at random in the heavens: the regions poorest in stars are richest in them; they are few in the plane of our sidereal system, but numerous about its poles, in that respect answering to the occurrence of comets in the solar system. The resolution of many of these hazy patches of light into stars by no means disproves the truly nebulous condition of many others. Fortunately, however, other means than telescopic observation for the settlement of this question are available. In 1846, it was discovered by the author of this book that the spectrum of an ignited solid is continuous, that is, has neither dark nor bright fixed lines. Fraunhofer had previously made known that the spectrum of ignited gases is discontinuous. Here, then, is the means of determining whether the light emitted by a given nebula comes from an incandescent gas, or from a congeries of ignited solids, stars, or suns. If its spectrum be discontinuous, it is a true nebula or gas; if continuous, a congeries of stars. In 1864, Mr. Huggins made this examination in the case of a nebula in the constellation Draco. It proved to be gaseous. Subsequent observations have shown that of sixty nebulæ examined, nineteen give discontinuous or gaseous spectra; the remainder continuous ones. It may, therefore, be admitted that physical evidence has at length been obtained, demonstrating the existence of vast masses of matter in a gaseous condition, and at a temperature of incandescence. The hypothesis of Laplace has thus a firm basis. [Sidenote: Opposition to the nebular hypothesis.] Notwithstanding the great authority of the astronomers who introduced it, the nebular hypothesis has encountered much adverse criticism; not so much, however, from its obvious scientific defects, such as its inability to deal with the cases of Uranus and Neptune, as from moral and extraneous considerations. There is a line in Aristophanes which points out precisely the difficulty: Ho Zeus ouk ôn, all' ant' autou Dinos nuni basileuôn. A reluctance to acknowledge the presidency of law in the existing constitution and movements of the solar system has been yielded only to be succeeded by a reluctance to acknowledge the presidency of law in its genesis. And yet whoever will reflect on the subject will be drawn to the conclusion that the principle involved was really settled by Newton in his "Principia"--that is to say, when it became geometrically certain that Kepler's laws originate in a mathematical necessity. As matters now stand, the nebular hypothesis may be regarded as the first superficial, and therefore imperfect, glimpse of a series of the grandest problems soon to present themselves for solution--the mathematical distribution of matter and force in space, and the variations of that distribution in time. [Sidenote: The intellectual ruin of ecclesiasticism.] Such is the history of the dispute respecting the position of the earth in the universe. Not without reason, therefore, have I assigned the pontificate of Nicolas V. as the true close of the intellectual dominion of the Church. From that time the sceptre had passed into another hand. In all directions Nature was investigated, in all directions new methods of examination were yielding unexpected and beautiful results. On the ruins of its ivy-grown cathedrals, Ecclesiasticism, surprised and blinded by the breaking day, sat solemnly blinking at the light and life about it, absorbed in the recollection of the night that had passed, dreaming of new phantoms and delusions in its wished-for return, and vindictively striking its talons at any derisive assailant who incautiously approached too near. I have not space to describe the scientific activity displayed in all directions; to do it justice would demand volumes. Mathematics, physics, chemistry, anatomy, medicine, and all the many branches of human knowledge received an impulse. [Sidenote: Wonderful development of scientific activity.] Simultaneously with the great events I have been relating, every one of these branches was advancing. Vieta made the capital improvement of using letters as general symbols in algebra, and applied that science to geometry. Tycho, emulating Hipparchus of old, made a new catalogue of the stars; he determined that comets are beyond the moon, and that they cut the crystalline firmament of theology in all directions. Gilbert wrote his admirable book on the magnet; Gesner led the way to zoology, taking it up at the point to which the Saracens had continued Aristotle, by the publication of his work on the history of animals; Belon at the same time, 1540, was occupied with fishes and birds. Fallopius and Eustachius, Arantius and Varolius, were immortalizing themselves by their dissections: the former reminding us of the times of Ptolemy Philadelphus, when he naïvely confesses "the Duke of Tuscany was obliging enough to send living criminals to us, whom we killed and then dissected." Piccolomini laid the foundations of general anatomy by his description of cellular tissue. Coiter created pathological anatomy, Prosper Alpinus diagnosis, Plater the classification of disease, and Ambrose Paré modern surgery. Such were the occupations and prospect of science at the close of the sixteenth century. [Sidenote: The movement becomes still more vigorous.] Scarcely had the seventeenth opened when it became obvious that the movement, far from slackening, was gathering force. It was the age of Galileo. Descartes introduced the theory of an ether and vortices; but, hearing of the troubles that had befallen Galileo, was on the point of burning his papers. Several years later, he was restrained from publishing his "Cosmos" "from a pious desire not to treat irreverently the decrees of the holy chair against the planetary movement of the earth." This was in 1633, when the report of the sentence of the Inquisition was made known. He also developed Vieta's idea of the application of algebra to geometry, and brought into prominence the mechanical fact, destined to an important application in physical astronomy, that every curvilinear deflection is due to a controlling force. To him, among Europeans, also is to be attributed the true explanation of the rise of water in an exhausted space--"the weight of the water counter-balances that of the air." Napier perfected his great and useful invention of logarithms. Hydraulics was created by Castelli; hydrostatics by Torricelli, who also discovered barometric variations: both were pupils of Galileo. Fabricius ab Aquapendente discovered the valves in the veins; Servetus almost detected the course of the circulation. Harvey completed what Servetus had left unfinished, and described the entire course of the blood; Asellius discovered the lacteals; Van Helmont introduced the theory of vitality into medicine, and made the practice or art thereof consist in regulating by diet the Archeus, whose seat he affirmed to be in the stomach. In strong contrast with this phantasy, Sanctorio laid the foundation of modern physiology by introducing the balance into its inquiries. Pascal, by a decisive experiment, established the doctrines of the weight and pressure of the air, and published some of the most philosophical treatises of the age: "his Provincial Letters did more than any thing to ruin the name of the Jesuits." The contagion spread to the lawyers: in 1672 appeared Puffendorf's work on the "Law of Nature and Nations." The phlogistic theory, introduced by Beccher and perfected by Stahl, created chemistry, in contradistinction to the Arabian alchemy. Otto Guericke invented the air-pump, Boyle improved it. Hooke, among many other discoveries, determined the essential conditions of combustion. Far above all contemporaries in mathematical learning and experimental skill, Newton was already turning his attention to the "reflexions, refractions, inflexions and colours of light," and introducing the idea of attractions into physics. Ray led the way to comparative anatomy in his synopsis of quadrupeds; Swammerdam improved the art of dissection, applying it to the general history of insects; Lister published his synopsis of shells; Tournefort and Malpighi devoted themselves to botany; Grew discovered the sexes of plants; Brown the quinary arrangement of flowers. Geology began to break loose from the trammels of theology, and Burnet's Sacred theory of the Earth could not maintain its ground against more critical investigations. The Arabian doctrine of the movement of the crust of the earth began to find supporters. Lister ascertained the continuity of strata over great distances; Woodward improved mineralogy; the great mathematician, Leibnitz, the rival of Newton, propounded the doctrine of the gradual cooling of the globe, the descent of its strata by fracture, the deposit of sedimentary rocks, and their induration. Among physicians, Willis devoted himself to the study of the brain, traced the course of the nerves and classified them, and introduced the doctrine of the localization of functions in the brain. Malpighi and Lewenhoeck applied the microscope as an aid to anatomy; the latter discovered spermatozoa. Graaf studied the function of the generative organs; Borelli attempted the application of mathematics to muscular movement; Duverney wrote on the sense of hearing, Mayow on respiration; Ruysch perfected the art of injection, and improved minute anatomy. But it is in vain to go on. The remainder of these pages would be consumed in an attempt to record the names of the cultivators of science, every year increasing in number, and to do justice to their works. From the darkness that had for so many ages enveloped it, the human mind at last emerged into light. The intellectual motes were dancing in the sunbeam, and making it visible in every direction. [Sidenote: Institution of scientific societies.] Despairing thus to do justice to individual philosophers and individual discoveries, there is, however, one most important event to which I must prominently allude. It is the foundation of learned societies. Imitating the examples of the Academia Secretorum Naturæ, instituted at Naples, 1560, by Baptista Porta, and of the Lyncean Academy, founded 1603 by Prince Frederic Cesi at Rome for the promotion of natural philosophy, the Accademia del Cimento was established at Florence, 1637; the Royal Society of London, 1645; and the Royal Academy of Sciences in Paris, 1666. * * * * * [Sidenote: Review of anthropocentric philosophy.] Arrived at the close of the description of this first great victory of scientific truth over authority and tradition, it is well for us to pause and look back on the progress of man from the erroneous inferences of his social infancy to the true conclusions of his maturity--from anthropocentric ideas, which in all nations and parts of the world have ever been the same, to the discovery of his true position and insignificance in the universe. [Sidenote: The sky, apparent nature of.] We are placed in a world surrounded with illusions. The daily events of our life and the objects before us tend equally to deceive us. If we cast our eyes on the earth, it seems to be made only to minister to our pleasures or our wants. If we direct our attention to the sky, that blue and crystalline dome, the edges of which rest on the flat land or the sea--a glacial vault, which Empedocles thought was frozen air, and the fathers of the Church the lowest of the seven concentric strata of heavens--we find a thousand reasons for believing that whatever it covers was intended by some Good Being for our use. Of the various living things placed with us beneath it, all are of an inferior grade when compared with ourselves, and all seem intended for us. The conclusions at which we thus arrive are strengthened by a principle of vanity implanted in our hearts, unceasingly suggesting to us that this pleasant abode must have been prepared for our reception, and furnished and ornamented expressly for our use. [Sidenote: Anthropocentric ideas of God.] But reflexion teaches us that we came not hither of ourselves, and that doubtless the same Good Being who prepared this delightful abode brought us as tenants into it. From the fact of our own existence, we are insensibly and inevitably led to infer the existence of God; from the favourable circumstances in which our lot is cast, we gather evidences of His goodness; and in the energy which natural phenomena often display, we see the tokens of His power. What other explanation can we give of tempests in the sea or lightning in the heavens? Moreover, it is only during a part of our time--our waking hours--that we are brought into relation with these material things; for the rest, when we are asleep, a state in which we spend more than a third part of our life, we are introduced to other scenery, other beings, another world. [Sidenote: Of the world and heaven.] From these we gather that there are agents of an intangible and more ethereal mould, perhaps of the nature of Him who brought us here, perhaps His subordinates and messengers. Whence do they issue and whither do they go? Is there not beyond the sky above us a region to which our imperfect vision cannot penetrate, but which may be accessible to them from the peaks of elevated mountains, or to be reached only with wings? And thus we picture to ourselves a heaven shut off from earth, with all its sins and cares, by the untroubled and impenetrable sky--a place of light and repose, its pavement illuminated by the sun and countless other shining bodies--a place of peace, but also a place of power. [Sidenote: Of evil beings and hell.] Still more, a thousand facts of our life teach us that we are exposed to influences of an evil nature as well as to those that are good. How often, in our dreams, does it happen that we are terror-stricken by the approach of hideous forms, faces of fearful appearance, from which we vainly struggle to escape. Is it not natural for us to attribute the evil we see in the world to these as the good to those? and, since we can not conceive of the existence of beings without assigning them a place, where shall we find for these malignant spirits a habitation? Is it not in the dark region beneath the ground, far away from the realms of light--a region from which, through the volcano, smoke and burning sulphur are cast into this upper world--a place of everlasting fire and darkness, whose portals are in caves and solitudes of unutterable gloom? [Sidenote: Of man, the supernatural.] Placed thus on the boundary between such opposing powers, man is the sport of circumstances, sustained by beings who seek his happiness, and tempted by those who desire his destruction. Is it at all surprising that, guided by such obvious thoughts and simple reasonings, he becomes superstitious? that he sees in every shadow a spirit, and peoples every solitary place with invisibles? that he casts a longing look to the good beings who can protect him, seeking to invoke their aid by entreaties, and to propitiate their help by free-will sacrifices of things that are pleasant and valuable? Open to such influences himself, why should he not believe in the efficacy of prayer? His conscious superiority lends force to his suspicion that he is a worthy object for the opposing powers to contend for, a conclusion verified by the inward strifes he feels, as well as by the trials of life to which he is exposed. [Sidenote: His immortality and future life.] But dreams at night, and sometimes visions by day, serve to enforce the conclusion that life is not limited to our transitory continuance here, but endures hereafter. How often at night do we see the well-known forms of those who have been dead a long time appearing before us with surprising vividness, and hear their almost forgotten voices? These are admonitions full of the most solemn suggestions, profoundly indicating to us that the dead still continue to exist, and that what has happened to them must also happen to us, and we too are destined for immortality. Perhaps involuntarily we associate these conclusions with others, expecting that in a future life good men will enjoy the society of good beings like themselves, the evil being dismissed to the realms of darkness and despair. And, as human experience teaches us that a final allotment can only be made by some superior power, we expect that He who was our Creator shall also be our Judge; that there is an appointed time and a bar at which the final destination of all who have lived shall be ascertained, and eternal justice measure out its punishments and rewards. [Sidenote: Inducements to morality.] From these considerations there arises an inducement for us to lead a virtuous life, abstaining from wickedness and wrong; to set apart a body of men who may mediate for us, and teach us by precept and example the course it is best for us to pursue; to consecrate places, such as groves or temples, as the more immediate habitations of the Deity to which we may resort. Such are the leading doctrines of Natural Theology of primitive man both in the old and new continent. They arise from the operations of the human mind considering the fitness of things. Just as we have in Comparative Anatomy the structure of different animals examined, and their identities and differences set forth, thereby establishing their true relations; just as we have in Comparative Physiology the functions of one organic being compared with those of another, to the end that we may therefrom deduce their proper connexions, so, from the mythologies of various races of men, a Comparative Theology may be constructed. [Sidenote: Course of Comparative Theology.] Through such a science alone can correct conclusions be arrived at respecting this, the most important of the intellectual operations of man--the definite process of his religious opinions. But it must be borne in mind that Comparative Theology illustrates the result or effect of the phase of life, and is not its cause. [Sidenote: Corrections of anthropocentric ideas.] As man advances in knowledge he discovers that of his primitive conclusions some are doubtless erroneous, and many require better evidence to establish their truth incontestably. A more prolonged and attentive examination gives him reason, in some of the most important particulars, to change his mind. He finds that the earth on which he lives is not a floor covered over with a starry dome, as he once supposed, but a globe self-balanced in space. The crystalline vault, or sky, is recognized to be an optical deception. It rests upon the earth nowhere, and is no boundary at all; there is no kingdom of happiness above it, but a limitless space, adorned with planets and suns. Instead of a realm of darkness and woe in the depths on the other side of the earth, men like ourselves are found there, pursuing, in Australia and New Zealand, the innocent pleasures and encountering the ordinary labours of life. By the aid of such lights as knowledge gradually supplies, he comes at last to discover that this, our terrestrial habitation, instead of being a chosen, a sacred spot, is only one of similar myriads, more numerous than the sands of the sea, and prodigally scattered through space. [Sidenote: Consequence of discovering the form of the earth.] Never, perhaps, was a more important truth discovered. All the visible evidence was in direct opposition to it. [Sidenote: Detection of its insignificance.] The earth, which had hitherto seemed to be the very emblem of immobility, was demonstrated to be carried with a double motion, with prodigious velocity, through the heavens; the rising and setting of the stars were proved to be an illusion; and, as respects the size of the globe, it was shown to be altogether insignificant when compared with multitudes of other neighbouring ones--insignificant doubly by reason of its actual dimensions, and by the countless numbers of others like it in form, and doubtless, like it, the abodes of many orders of life. And so it turns out that our earth is a globe of about twenty-five thousand miles in circumference. The voyager who circumnavigates it spends no inconsiderable portion of his life in accomplishing his task. It moves round the sun in a year, but at so great a distance from that luminary that, if seen from him, it would look like a little spark traversing the sky. It is thus recognized as one of the members of the solar system. [Sidenote: Other solar bodies.] Other similar bodies, some of which are of larger, some of smaller dimensions, perform similar revolutions round the sun in appropriate periods of time. [Sidenote: Magnitude of the universe.] If the magnitude of the earth be too great for us to attach to it any definite conception, what shall we say of the compass of the solar system? There is a defect in the human intellect which incapacitates us for comprehending distances and periods that are either too colossal or too minute. We gain no clearer insight into the matter when we are told that a comet which does not pass beyond the bounds of the system, may perhaps be absent on its journey for more than a thousand years. Distances and periods such as these are beyond our grasp. They prove to us how far human reason excels imagination, the one measuring and comparing things of which the other can form no conception, but in the attempt is utterly bewildered and lost. [Sidenote: The infinity of worlds.] But as there are other globes like our earth, so too there are other worlds like our solar system. There are self-luminous suns exceeding in number all computation. The dimensions of this earth pass into nothingness in comparison with the dimensions of the solar system, and that system, in its turn, is only an invisible point if placed in relation with the countless hosts of other systems which form, with it, clusters of stars. Our solar system, far from being alone in the universe, is only one of an extensive brotherhood, bound by common laws and subject to like influences. Even on the very verge of creation, where imagination might lay the beginning of the realms of chaos, we see unbounded proofs of order, a regularity in the arrangement of inanimate things, suggesting to us that there are other intellectual creatures like us, the tenants of those islands in the abysses of space. Though it may take a beam of light a million of years to bring to our view those distant worlds, the end is not yet. Far away in the depths of space we catch the faint gleams of other groups of stars like our own. The finger of a man can hide them in their remoteness. Their vast distances from one another have dwindled into nothing. They and their movements have lost all individuality; the innumerable suns of which they are composed blend all their collected light into one pale milky glow. [Sidenote: Insignificance of man.] Thus extending our view from the earth to the solar system, from the solar system to the expanse of the group of stars to which we belong, we behold a series of gigantic nebular creations rising up one after another, and forming greater and greater colonies of worlds. No numbers can express them, for they make the firmament a haze of stars. Uniformity, even though it be the uniformity of magnificence, tires at last, and we abandon the survey, for our eyes can only behold a boundless prospect, and conscience tells us our own unspeakable insignificance. [Sidenote: Triumph of scientific truth.] But what has become of the time-honoured doctrine of the human destiny of the universe? that doctrine for the sake of which the controversy I have described in this chapter was raised. It has disappeared. In vain was Bruno burnt and Galileo imprisoned; the truth forced its way, in spite of all opposition, at last. The end of the conflict was a total rejection of authority and tradition, and the adoption of scientific truth. CHAPTER IX. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF REASON--(_Continued_). HISTORY OF THE EARTH.--HER SUCCESSIVE CHANGES IN THE COURSE OF TIME. _Oriental and Occidental Doctrines respecting the Earth in Time.--Gradual Weakening of the latter by astronomical Facts, and the Rise of Scientific Geology._ _Impersonal Manner in which the Problem was eventually solved, chiefly through Facts connected with Heat._ _Proofs of limitless Duration from inorganic Facts.--Igneous and Aqueous Rocks._ _Proofs of the same from organic Facts.--Successive Creations and Extinctions of living Forms, and their contemporaneous Distribution._ _Evidences of a slowly declining Temperature, and, therefore, of a long Time.--The Process of Events by Catastrophe and by Law.--Analogy of Individual and Race Development.--Both are determined by unchangeable Law._ _Conclusion that the Plan of the Universe indicates a Multiplicity of Worlds of infinite Space, and a Succession of Worlds in infinite Time._ [Sidenote: Age of the earth.] A victory could not be more complete nor a triumph more brilliant than that which had been gained by science in the contest concerning the position of the earth. Though there followed closely thereupon an investigation of scarcely inferior moment--that respecting the age of the earth--so thoroughly was the ancient authority intellectually crushed that it found itself incapable of asserting by force the Patristic idea that our planet is less than six thousand years old. [Sidenote: The question is impersonally solved.] Not but that a resistance was made. It was, however, of an indirect kind. The contest might be likened rather to a partisan warfare than to the deliberate movement of regular armies under recognized commanders. In its history there is no central figure like Galileo, no representative man, no brilliant and opportune event like the invention of the telescope. The question moves on to its solution impersonally. A little advance is made here by one, there by another. The war was finished, though no great battle was fought. In the chapter we are entering upon there is, therefore, none of that dramatic interest connected with the last. Impersonally the question was decided, and, therefore, impersonally I must describe it. [Sidenote: Oriental and Western doctrines of the age of the earth.] In Oriental countries, where the popular belief assigns to the creation of man a very ancient date, and even asserts for some empires a duration of hundreds of thousands of years, no difficulty as respects the age of the earth was felt, there seeming to have been time enough for every event that human researches have detected to transpire. But in the West, where the doctrine that not only the earth, but the universe itself, was intended for man, has been carried to its consequences with exacting rigour, circumstances forbid us to admit that there was any needless delay between the preparation of the habitation and the introduction of the tenant. They also force upon us the conclusion that a few centuries constitute a very large portion of the time of human existence, since, if we adopt the doctrine of an almost limitless period, we should fall into a difficulty in explaining what has become of the countless myriads of generations in the long time so past, and, considering that we are taught that the end of the world is at hand, and must be expected in a few years at the most, we might seem to arraign the goodness of God in this, that He has left to their fate immeasurably the larger proportion of our race, and has restricted His mercy to us alone, who are living in the departing twilight of the evening of the world. [Sidenote: Correction of the European doctrine.] But in this, as in the former case, a closer examination of the facts brings us to the indisputable conclusion that we have decided unworthily and untruly; that our guiding doctrine of the universe being intended for us is a miserable delusion; that the scale on which the world is constructed as to time answers to that on which it is constructed as to space; that, as respects our planet, its origin dates from an epoch too remote for our mental apprehension; that myriads of centuries have been consumed in its coming to its present state; that, by a slow progression, it has passed from stage to stage, uninhabited, and for a long time uninhabitable by any living thing; that in their proper order and in due lapse of time, the organic series have been its inhabitants, and of these a vast majority, whose numbers are so great that we cannot offer an intelligible estimate of them, have passed away and become extinct, and that finally, for a brief period, we have been its possessors. Of the intentions of God it becomes us, therefore, to speak with reverence and reserve. In those ages when there was not a man upon the earth, what was the object? Was the twilight only given that the wolf might follow his fleeing prey, and the stars made to shine that the royal tiger might pursue his midnight maraudings? Where was the use of so much that was beautiful and orderly, when there was not a solitary intellectual being to understand and enjoy? Even now, when we are so much disposed to judge of other worlds from their apparent adaptedness to be the abodes of a thinking and responsible order like ourselves, it may be of service to remember that this earth itself was for countless ages a dungeon of pestiferous exhalations and a den of wild beasts. [Sidenote: It elevates rather than degrades the position of man.] It might moreover appear that the conclusions to which we come, both as respects the position and age of the world, must necessarily have for their consequences the diminution and degradation of man, the rendering him too worthless an object for God's regard. But here again we fall into an error. True, we have debased his animal value, and taught him how little he is--how insignificant are the evils, how vain the pleasures of his life. But, as respects his intellectual principle, how does the matter stand? What is it that has thus been measuring the terrestrial world, and weighing it in a balance? What is it that has been standing on the sun, and marking out the orbits and boundaries of the solar system? What is it that has descended into the infinite abysses of space, examined the countless worlds that they contain, and compared and contrasted them together? What is it that has shown itself capable of dealing with magnitudes that are infinite, even of comparing infinites together! What is it that has not hesitated to trace things in their history through a past eternity, and been found capable of regarding equally the transitory moment and endless duration? That which is competent to do all this, so far from being degraded, rises before us with an air of surpassing grandeur and inappreciable worth. It is the soul of man. [Sidenote: Relations of the earth in time.] From the facts given in the last chapter respecting the relations of the earth in space, we are next led to her relations in time. So long as science was oppressed with the doctrine of the human destiny of the universe, which, as its consequence, made this earth the great central body, and elevated man to supreme importance, there was much difficulty in treating the problem of the age of the world. The history of the earth was at first a wild and fictitious cosmogony. Scientific cosmogony arose, not from any theological considerations, but from the telescopic ascertainment of the polar compression of the planet Jupiter, and the consequent determination by Newton that the earth is a spheroid of revolution. With a true cosmogony came a better chronology. [Sidenote: Anthropocentric ideas of the beginning and end of the world.] The patristic doctrine had been that the earth came into existence but little more than five thousand years ago, and to this a popular opinion long current was added, that its end might be very shortly expected. From time to time periods were set by various authorities determining the latter event, and, as true knowledge was extinguished, the year 1000 came to be the universally appointed date. In view of this, it was not an uncommon thing for persons to commence their testamentary bequests with the words, "In expectation of the approaching end of the world." But the tremendous moment passed by, and still the sun rose and set, still the seasons were punctual in their courses, and Nature wore her accustomed aspect. A later day was then predicted, and again and again disappointment ensued, until sober-minded men began to perceive that the Scriptures were never intended to give information on such subjects, and predictions of the end of the world fell into discredit, abandoned to the illiterate, whose morbid anticipations they still amuse. As it was thus with the end of our planet, so it was as regards her origin. By degrees evidence began to accumulate casting a doubt on her recent date, evidence continually becoming more and more cogent. [Sidenote: Rise of the doctrine of illimitable age.] In no insignificant manner did the establishment of the heliocentric theory, aided by the discoveries of the telescope, assist in this result. As I have said, it utterly ruined past restoration the doctrine of the human destiny of the universe. With that went down all arguments which had depended on making man the measure of things. Ideas of unexpected sublimity as to the scale of magnitude on which the world is constructed soon enforced themselves, and proved to be the precursors of similar ideas as to time. At length it was perceived by those who were in the van of the movement that the Bible was never intended to deliver a chronological doctrine respecting the beginning any more than the end of things, and that those well-meaning men who were occupied in wresting it from its true purposes were engaged in an unhappy employment, for its tendency could be no other than to injure the cause they designed to promote. Nevertheless, so strong were the ancient persuasions, that it was not without a struggle that the doctrine of a long period forced its way--a struggle for the age of the earth, which, in its arguments, in its tendencies, and in its results, forcibly recalls the preceding one respecting the position of the earth; but, in the end, truth overrode all authority and all opposition, and the doctrine of an extremely remote origin of our planet ceased to be open to dispute. In a scientific conception of the universe, illimitable spaces are of necessity connected with limitless time. [Sidenote: Indications depending on the progressive motion of light.] The discovery of the progressive motion of light offered the means of an absolute demonstration of this connexion. Rays emitted by an object, and making us sensible of its presence by impinging on the eye, do not reach us instantaneously, but consume a certain period in their passage. If any sudden visible effect took place in the sun, we should not see it at the absolute moment of its occurrence, but about eight minutes and thirteen seconds later, this being the time required for light to cross the intervening distance. All phenomena take place in reality anterior to the moment at which we observe them by a time longer in proportion as the distance to be travelled is greater. There are objects in the heavens so distant that it would take many hundreds of thousands of years for their light to reach us. Then it necessarily follows, since we can see them, that they must have been created and must have been shining so long. The velocity with which light moves was first determined by the Danish astronomer Römer from the eclipses of Jupiter's satellites, November, 1675. It was, therefore, a determination of the rate for reflected solar light in a vacuum, and gave 198,000 miles in a second. In 1727, Bradley determined it for direct stellar light by his great discovery of the aberration of the fixed stars. More recently, the experiments of M. Foucault and those of M. Fizeau, by the aid of rotating mirrors or wheels, have confirmed these astronomical observations, Fizeau's determination of the velocity approaching that of Römer. Probably, however, the most correct is that of Struve, 191,515 miles per second. [Sidenote: Investigation of the age of the earth through the phenomena of heat.] This astronomical argument, which serves as a general introduction, is strengthened by numerous physical and physiological facts. But of the different methods by which the age of the earth may be elucidated, I shall prefer that which approaches it through the phenomena of heat. Such a manner of viewing the problem has led to its determination in the minds of many thinking men. [Sidenote: Astronomical heat alone on the earth's surface.] As correct astronomical ideas began to prevail, it was perceived that all the heat now on the surface of our planet is derived from the sun. Through the circumstance of the inclination of her axis of rotation to the plane of her annual motion, or through the fact of her globular form occasioning the presentation of different parts of her surface, according to their latitudes, with more or less obliquity, and hence the reception of less or more of the rays, there may be local and temporary variations. But these do not affect the general principle that the quantity of heat thus received must be the same from year to year. [Sidenote: The equilibrium of interior heat.] This thermometric equilibrium not only holds good for the surface, it may also be demonstrated for the whole mass of the planet. The day has not shortened by the 1/200 of a second since the time of Hipparchus, and therefore the decrease of heat can not have been so much as the 1/300 of a Fahrenheit degree, on the hypothesis that the mean dilatation of all terrestrial substances is equal to that of glass, 1/180000 for one degree. If a decline had taken place in the intrinsic heat of the earth, there must have been a diminution in her size, and, as a necessary consequence, the length of the day must have become less. The earth has therefore reached a condition of equilibrium as respects temperature. [Sidenote: Its ancient decline.] A vast body of evidence has, however, come into prominence, establishing with equal certainty that there was in ancient times a far higher temperature in the planet; not a temperature concerned with a fraction of a degree, but ranging beyond the limits of our thermometric scale. The mathematical figure of the earth offers a resistless argument for its ancient liquefied condition--that is, for its originally high temperature. But how is this to be co-ordinated with the conclusion just mentioned? Simply by the admission that there have elapsed prodigious, it might almost be said limitless, periods. [Sidenote: Necessity for a long time.] As thus the true state of affairs began to take on shape, it was perceived that the age of the earth is not a question of authority, not a question of tradition, but a mathematical problem sharply defined: to determine the time of cooling of a globe of known diameter and of given conductibility by radiation in a vacuum. In such a state of things, what could be more unwise than to attempt to force opinion by the exercise of authority? How unspeakably mischievous had proved to be a like course as respects the globular form of the earth, which did not long remain a mere mathematical abstraction, but was abruptly brought to a practical issue by the voyage of Magellan's ship. And on this question of the age of the earth it would have been equally unwise to become entangled with or committed to the errors of patristicism--errors arising from well-meant moral considerations, but which can never exert any influence on the solution of a scientific problem. [Sidenote: Indications of the interior heat of the earth.] One fact after another bearing upon the question gradually emerged into view. It was shown that the diurnal variations of temperature--that is, those connected with night and day--extend but a few inches beneath the surface, the seasonal ones, connected with winter and summer, to many feet; but beyond this was discovered a stratum of invariable temperature, beneath which, if we descend, the heat increases at the rate of 1° Fahr. for every fifty or seventy feet. The uniformity of this rate seemed to imply that, at depths quite insignificant, a very high temperature must exist. This was illustrated by such facts that the water which rushes up from a depth of 1794 feet in the Artesian well of Grenelle has a temperature of 82° Fahr. The mean temperature of Paris being about 51° Fahr., these numbers give a rate of 1° for every fifty-eight feet. If, then, the increase of heat is only 100° per mile, at a depth of less than ten miles every thing must be red hot, and at thirty or forty in a melted state. It was by all admitted that the rise of temperature with the depth is not at all local, but occurs in whatever part of the earth the observation may be made. The general conclusion thus furnished was re-enforced by the evidence of volcanoes, which could no longer be regarded as merely local, depending on restricted areas for the supply of melted material, since they are found all over the land and under the sea, in the interior of continents and near the shores, beneath the equator and in the polar regions. It had been estimated that there are probably two thousand aerial or subaqueous eruptions every century. Some volcanoes, as Ætna, have for thousands of years poured forth their lavas, and still there is an unexhausted supply. Everywhere a common source is indicated by the rudely uniform materials ejected. The fact that the lines of volcanic activity shift pointed to a deep source; the periodic increments and decrements of force bore the same interpretation. They far transcend the range of history. The volcanoes of central France date from the Eocene period; their power increased in the Miocene, and continued through the Pliocene; those of Catalonia belong to the Pliocene, probably. Coupled with volcanoes, earthquakes, with their vertical, horizontal, and rotary vibrations, having a linear velocity of from twenty to thirty miles per minute, indicated a profound focus of action. The great earthquake of Lisbon was felt from Norway to Morocco, from Algiers to the West Indies, from Thuringia to the Canadian lakes. It absolutely lifted the whole bed of the North Atlantic Ocean. Its origin was in no superficial point. [Sidenote: Proof from the mean density.] A still more universal proof of a high temperature affecting the whole mass of the interior of the globe was believed to be presented in the small mean density of the earth, a density not more than 5·66 times that of water, the mean density of the solid surface being 2·7, and that of the solid and sea-surface together 1·6. But this is not a density answering to that which the earth should have in virtue of the attraction of her own parts. It implied some agent capable of rarefying and dilating, and the only such agent is heat. Although the law of the increase of density from the upper surface to the centre is unknown, yet a comparison of the earth's compression with her velocity of rotation demonstrated that there is an increasing density in the strata as we descend. The great fact, however, which stands prominently forth is the interior heat. Not only were evidences thus offered of the existence of a high temperature, and, therefore, of the lapse of a long time by the present circumstances of the globe; every trace of its former state, duly considered, yielded similar indications, the old evidence corroborating the new. And soon it appeared that this would hold good whether considered in the inorganic or organic aspect. [Sidenote: Inorganic proofs of a former high temperature.] In the inorganic, what other interpretation could be put on the universal occurrence of igneous rocks, some in enormous mountain ranges, some ejected from beneath, forcing their tortuous way through thus resisting superincumbent strata; veins of various mineral constitution, and, as their relations with one another showed, veins of very different dates? What other interpretation of layers of lava in succession, one under another, and often with old disintegrated material between? What of those numerous volcanoes which have never been known to show any signs of activity in the period of history, though they sometimes occur in countries like France, eminently historic? What meaning could be assigned to all those dislocations, subsidences, and elevations which the crust of the earth in every country presents, indications of a loss of heat, of a contraction in diameter, and its necessary consequence, fracture of the exterior consolidated shell along lines of least resistance? And though it was asserted by some that the catastrophes of which these are the evidences were occasioned by forces of unparalleled energy and incessant operation--unparalleled when compared with such terrestrial forces as we are familiar with--that did not, in any respect, change the interpretation, for there could have been no abrupt diminution in the intensity of those forces, which, if they had lessened in power, must have passed through a long, a gradual decline. [Sidenote: These necessarily imply long time.] In that very decline there thus spontaneously came forth evidences of a long lapse of time. The whole course of Nature satisfies us how gradual and deliberate are her proceedings; that there is no abrupt boundary between the past and the present, but that the one insensibly shades off into the other, the present springing gently and imperceptibly out of the past. If volcanic phenomena and all kinds of igneous manifestations--if dislocations, injections, the intrusion of melted material into strata were at one time more frequent, more violent--if, in the old times, mundane forces possessed an energy which they have now lost, their present diminished and deteriorated condition, coupled with the fact that for thousands of years, throughout the range of history, they have been invariably such as we find them now, should be to us a proof how long, how very long ago those old times must have been. [Sidenote: Support from astronomical facts.] Thus, therefore, was perceived the necessity of co-ordinating the scale of time with the scale of space, and such views of the physical history of the earth were extended to celestial bodies which were considered as having passed through a similar course. In one, at least, this assertion was no mere matter of speculation, but of actual observation. The broken surface of the moon, its volcanic cones and craters, its mountains, with their lava-clad sides and ejected blocks glistening in the sun, proved a succession of events like those of the earth, and demonstrated that there is a planetary as well as a terrestrial geology, and that in our satellite there is evidence of a primitive high temperature, of a gradual decline, and, therefore, of a long process of time. Perhaps also, considering the rate of heat-exchange in Venus by reason of her proximity to the sun, the pale light which it is said has been observed on her non-illuminated part is the declining trace of her own intrinsic temperature, her heat lasting until now. [Sidenote: Astronomical facts imply slow secular changes.] If astronomers sought in systematic causes an explanation of these facts if, for instance, they were disposed to examine how far changes in the obliquity of the ecliptic are connected therewith--it was necessary at the outset to concede that the scale of time on which the event proceeds is of prodigious duration, this secular variation observing a slow process of only 45·7'' in a century; and hence, since the time of Hipparchus, two thousand years ago, the plane of the ecliptic has approached that of the equator by only a quarter of a degree. Or if, again, they looked to a diminishing of the eccentricity of the earth's orbit, they were compelled to admit the same postulate, and deal with thousands of centuries. Under whatever aspect, then, the theory was regarded, if once a former high temperature were admitted, and the fact coupled therewith that there has been no sensible decline within the observation of man, whether the explanation was purely geological or purely astronomical, the motion of heat in the mass of the earth is so slow, yet the change that has taken place is so great, the variations of the contemplated relations of the solar system so gradual--under whatever aspect and in whatever way the fact was dealt with, there arose the indispensable concession of countless centuries. To the astronomer such a concession is nothing extraordinary. It is not because of the time required that he entertains any doubt that the sun and his system accomplish a revolution round a distant centre of gravity in nineteen millions of years, or that the year of epsilon Lyræ is half a million of ours. He looks forward to that distant day when Sirius will disappear from our skies, and the Southern Cross be visible, and Vega the polar star. He looks back to the time when gamma Draconis occupied that conspicuous position, and the builders of the great pyramid, B.C. 3970, gave to its subterranean passage an inclination of 26° 15´, corresponding to the inferior culmination of that star. He tells us that the Southern Cross began to be invisible in 52° 30´ N., 2900 years before our era, and that it had previously attained an altitude of more than 10°. When it disappeared from the horizon of the countries on the Baltic, the pyramid of Cheops had been erected more than a thousand years. [Sidenote: Proofs of time from aqueous effects,] We must pass by a copious mass of evidence furnished by aqueous causes of change operating on the earth's surface, though these add very weighty proof to the doctrine of a long period. The filling up of lakes, the formation of deltas, the cutting power of running water, the deposit of travertines, the denudation of immense tracts of country, the carrying of their detritus into the sea, the changes of shores by tides and waves, the formation of strata hundreds of miles in length, and the imbedding therein of fossil remains in numbers almost beyond belief, furnished many interesting and important facts. Of these not a few presented means of computation. It would not be difficult to assign a date for such geographical events as the production of the Caspian and Dead Seas from an examination of the sum of saline material contained in their waters and deposited in their bed, with the annual amount brought into them by their supplying rivers. Such computations were executed as respects the growth of Lower Egypt and the backward cutting of Niagara Falls, and, though they might be individually open to criticism, their mutual accordance and tendency furnished an evidence that could not be gainsaid. The continual accumulation of such evidence ought not to be without its weight on those who are still disposed to treat slightingly the power of geological facts in developing truth. [Sidenote: and from the movements of the earth's crust.] To such facts were added all those, with which volumes might be filled, proving the universality of the movements of the solid crust of the earth--strata once necessarily horizontal now inclined at all angles, strata unconformable to one another--a body of evidence most copious and most satisfactory, yet demonstrating from the immensity of the results how slowly the work had gone on. How was it possible to conceive that beds many hundred feet in thickness should have been precipitated suddenly from water? Their mechanical condition implied slow disintegration and denudation in other localities to furnish material; their contents showed no trace of violence; they rather proved the deposition to have occurred in a tranquil and quiet way. What interpretation could be put upon facts continually increasing in number like those observed in the south-east of England, where fresh-water beds a thousand feet thick are covered by other beds a thousand feet thick, but of marine origin? What upon those in the north of England, where masses once uplifted a thousand feet above the level, and, at the time of their elevation, presenting abrupt precipices and cliffs of that height, as is proved by the fractures and faults of the existing strata, have been altogether removed, and the surface left plain? In South Wales there are localities where 11,000 feet in thickness have been bodily carried away. Whether, therefore, the strata that have been formed, and which remain to strike us with astonishment at their prodigious mass, were considered; or those that have been destroyed, not, however, without leaving unmistakable traces of themselves; the processes of wearing away to furnish material as well as the accumulation, of necessity required the lapse of long periods of time. The undermining of cliffs by the beating of the sea, the redistribution of sands and mud at the bottom of the ocean, the washing of material from hills into the lowlands by showers of rain, its transport by river courses, the disintegration of soils by the influence of frost, the weathering of rocks by carbonic acid, and the solution of limestone by its aid in water--these are effects which, even at the quickest, seem not to amount to much in the course of the life of a man. A thousand years could yield but a trifling result. We have already alluded to another point of view from which these mechanical effects were considered. The level of the land and sea has unmistakably changed. There are mountain eminences ten or fifteen thousand feet in altitude in the interior of continents over which, or through which shells and other products of the sea are profusely scattered. And though, considering the proverbial immobility of the solid land and the proverbial instability of the water, it might at first be supposed much more likely that the sea had subsided than that the land had risen, a more critical examination soon led to a change of opinion. Before our eyes, in some countries, elevations and depressions are taking place, sometimes in a slow secular manner, as in Norway and Sweden, that peninsula on the north rising, and on the south sinking, at such a rate that, to accomplish the whole seven hundred feet of movement, more than twenty-seven thousand years would be required if it had always been uniform as now. Elsewhere, as on the south-western coast of South America, the movement is paroxysmal, the shore line lifting for hundreds of miles instantaneously, and then pausing for many years. In the Morea also, range after range of old sea cliffs exist, some of them more than a thousand feet high, with terraces at the base of each; but the Morea has been well known for the last twenty-five centuries, and in that time has undergone no material change. Again, in Sicily, similar interior sea-cliffs are seen, the rubbish at their bases containing the bones of the hippopotamus and mammoth, proofs of the great change the climate has undergone since the sea washed those ancient beaches. Italy, pre-eminently the historic country, in which, within the memory of man, no material change of configuration has taken place since the Pleistocene period, very late geologically speaking has experienced elevations of fifteen hundred feet. The seven hills of Rome are of the Pliocene, with fluviatile deposits and recent terrestrial shells two hundred feet above the Tiber. There intervened between the older Pliocene and the newer a period of enormous length, as is demonstrated by the accumulated effects taking place in it, and, indeed, the same may be said of every juxtaposed pair of distinctly marked strata. It demanded an inconceivable time for beds once horizontal at the bottom of the sea to be tilted to great inclinations; it required also the enduring exertion of a prodigious force. Ascent and descent may be detected in strata of every age: movements sometimes paroxysmal, but more often of tranquil and secular kind. The coal-bearing strata, by gradual submergence, attained in South Wales a thickness of 12,000 feet, and in Nova Scotia, a total thickness of 14,570 feet; the uniformity of the process of submergence and its slow steadiness is indicated by the occurrence of erect trees at different levels: seventeen such repetitions may be counted in a thickness of 4515 feet. The age of the trees is proved by their size, some being four feet in diameter. Round them, as they gradually went down with the subsiding soil, calamites grew at one level after another. In the Sidney coal-field fifty-nine fossil forests thus occur in superposition. [Sidenote: Organic proofs of a former high temperature.] Such was the conclusion forcing itself from considerations connected with inorganic nature. It received a most emphatic endorsement from the organic world, for there is an intimate connexion between the existence and well-being both of plants and animals, and the heat to which they are exposed. Why is it that the orange and lemon do not grow in New York? What is it that would inevitably ensue if these exotics were exposed to a cold winter? What must take place if, in Florida or other of the Southern states, a season of unusual rigor should occur? Does not heat thus confine within a fixed boundary the spread of these plants? And so, again, how many others there are which grow luxuriantly in a temperate climate, but are parched up and killed if fortuitously carried beneath a hot tropical sun. To every one there is a climate which best suits the condition of its life, and certain limits of heat and cold beyond which its existence is not possible. If the mean annual heat of the earth's surface were slowly to rise, and, in the course of some centuries, the temperature now obtaining in Florida should obtain in New York, the orange and lemon would certainly be found here. [Sidenote: Boundary of organisms by heat.] With the increasing heat those plants would commence a northward march, steadily advancing as opportunity was given. Or, if the reverse took place, and for any reason the heat of the torrid zone declined until the winter's cold of New York should be at last reached under the equator, as the descent went on the orange and lemon would retreat within a narrow and narrower region, and end by becoming extinct, the conditions of their exposure being incompatible with the continuance of their life. From such considerations it is therefore obvious that not only does heat arrange the limits of the distribution of plants, erecting round them boundaries which, though invisible, are more insuperable than a wall of brass, it also regulates their march, if march there is to be--nay, even controls their very existence, and to genera, and species, and individuals appoints a period of duration. [Sidenote: Animals localized as well as plants.] Such observations apply not alone to plants; the animal kingdom offers equally significant illustrations. Why does the white bear enjoy the leaden sky of the pole and his native iceberg? Why does the tiger restrict himself to the jungles of India? Can it be doubted that, if the mean annual temperature should decline, the polar bear would come with his iceberg to corresponding southern latitudes, or, if the heat should rise, the tiger would commence a northward journey? Does he not, indeed, every summer penetrate northward in Asia as far as the latitude of Berlin, and retire again as winter comes on? Why is it that, at a given signal, the birds of passage migrate, pressed forward in the spring by the heat, and pressed backward in the autumn by the cold? The annual migration of birds illustrates the causes of geological appearances and extinctions. Do we not herein recognize the agent that determines animal distribution? We must not deceive ourselves with any fancied terrestrial impediment or restraint. Let the heat rise but a few degrees, and the turkey-buzzard, to whose powerful wing distances are of no moment and the free air no impediment, would be seen hovering over New York; let it fall a few degrees, and he would vanish from the streets of Charleston; let it fall a little more, and he would vanish from the earth. Shell-fish, once the inhabitants of the British seas, retired during the glacial period to the Mediterranean, and with the returning warmth have gone back northward again. [Sidenote: Control of animals by food.] Animals are thus controlled by heat in an indirect as well as a direct way. Indirectly; for, if their food be diminished, they must seek a more ample supply; if it fails, they must perish. Doubtless it was insufficient food, as well as the setting in of a more rigorous climate, that occasioned the destruction of the mastodon giganteus, which abounded in the United States after the drift period. Such great elephantine forms could not possibly sustain themselves against the rigors of the present winters, nor could they find a sufficient supply of food for a considerable portion of the year. The disappearance of animals from the face of the earth was, as Palæontology advanced, ascertained to have been a determinate process, a condition of their existence, and either inherent in themselves or dependent on their environment. It was proved that the forms now existing are only an insignificant part of the countless tribes that have lived. [Sidenote: Nature of creations and extinctions.] The earth has been the theatre of a long succession of appearances and removals, of creations and extinctions, reaching to the latest times. In the Pleistocene of Sicily, 35/124 of the fossil shells are extinct; in the bone caverns of England, out of thirty-seven mammals eighteen are extinct. But judging, from what may be observed of the duration of races contemporary with us, that their life is prolonged for thousands of years, successive generations of the same species in a long order replacing their predecessors before final removal occurs, this again resistlessly brought forward the same conclusion to which all the foregoing facts had pointed, that there have transpired since the introduction of animal life upon this globe very long periods of time. Through the operation of this law of extinction and of creation, animated nature, both on the continents and in the seas, has undergone a marvellous change. In the lias and oolitic seas, the Enaliosauria, Cetiosauria, and Crocodilia dominated as the Delphinidæ and Balænidæ do in ours; the former have been eliminated, the latter produced. Along with the cetaceans came the soft-scaled Cycloid and Ctenoid fishes, orders which took the place of the Ganoids and Placoids of the Mesozoic times. One after another successive species of air-breathing reptiles have emerged, continued for their appointed time to exist, and then died out. The development has been, not in the descending, but in the ascending order; the Amphitheria, Spalacotheria, Triconodon of the Mesozoic times were substituted by higher tertiary forms. Nor have these mutations been abrupt. If mammals are the chief characteristic of the Tertiary ages, their first beginnings are seen far earlier; in the triassic and oolitic formations there are a few of the lower orders struggling, as it were, to emerge. The aspect of animated nature has altogether changed. No longer does the camelopard wander over Europe as he did in the Miocene and Pliocene times; no longer are great elephants seen in the American forests, the hippopotamus in England, the Rhinoceros in Siberia. The hand of man has introduced in the New the horse of the Old World; but the American horse, that ran on the great plains contemporary with the megatherium and megalonyx, has for tens of thousands of years been extinct. Even the ocean and the rivers are no exception to these changes. [Sidenote: Creations and extinctions by law.] What, then, is the manner of origin of this infinite succession of forms? It is often sufficient to see clearly a portion of a plan to be able to determine with some degree of certainty the general arrangement of the whole; it is often sufficient to know with precision a part of the life of an individual to guess with probable accuracy his action in some forthcoming event, of to determine the share he has borne in affairs that are past. It is enough to appreciate thoroughly the style of a master to ascertain without doubt the authenticity of an imputed picture. And so, in the affairs of the universe, it is enough to ascertain the manner of operation of a part in order to settle the manner of operation of the whole. When, therefore, it was perceived how the disappearance of vanishing forms from the surface of the globe is accomplished--that it is not by a sudden and grand providential intervention--that there is no visible putting forth of the Omnipotent hand, but slowly and silently, yet surely, the ordinary laws of Nature are permitted to take their course--that heat, and cold, and want of food, and dryness, and moisture, in the end, as if by an irresistible destiny, accomplish the event, it seemed to indicate that, as regards the introduction of new-comers, a suitableness of external conditions had called them forth, as an unsuitableness could end them. Changes in the constitution of the air or its pressure, in the composition of the sea or its depth, in the brilliancy of light or the amount of heat, in the inorganic material of a medium, will modify old forms into new ones, or compel their extinction. Birth and death go hand in hand; creation and extinction are inseparable. The variation of organic form is continuous; it depends upon an orderly succession of material events; appearances and eliminations are managed upon a common principle; they stand connected with the irresistible course of great mundane changes. It was impossible that geologists could reach any other conclusion than that such phenomena are not the issue of direct providential interventions, but of physical influences. The procession of organic life is not a motley march; it follows the procession of physical events; and, since it is impossible to re-establish a sameness of physical conditions that have once come to an end, or reproduce the order in which they have occurred, it of necessity follows that no organic form can reappear after it has once died out--once dead, it is clean gone for ever. [Sidenote: Interstitial molecular creations.] In the course of the life of individual man, the parts that constitute his system are undergoing momentary changes; those of to-day are not the same as those of yesterday, and they will be replaced by others to-morrow. There have been, and are every instant, interstitial deaths of all the constituent particles, and an unceasing removal of those that have performed their duty. In the stead of departing portions, new ones have been introduced, interstitial births and organizations perpetually taking place. In physiology it became no longer a question that all this proceeds in a determinate way under the operation of principles that are fixed, of laws that are invariable. The alchemists introduced no poetical fiction when they spoke of the microcosm, asserting that the system of man is emblematical of the system of the world. The intercalation of a new organic molecule in a living being answers to the introduction of a new form in the universal organic series. It requires as much power to call into existence a living molecule as to produce a living being. Both are accomplished upon the same principle, and that principle is not an incessant intervention of a supernatural kind, but the operation of unvarying law. Physical agents, working through physical laws, remove in organisms such molecules as have accomplished their work and create new ones, and physical agents, working through physical laws, control the extinctions and creations of forms in the universe of life. The difference is only in the time. What is accomplished in the one case in the twinkling of an eye, in the other may demand the lapse of a thousand centuries. [Sidenote: Defence of the process of all things by law.] The variation of organic forms, under the force of external circumstances, is thus necessary to be understood in connexion with that countless succession of living beings demonstrated by geology. It carries us, in common with so much other evidence, to the lapse of a long time. Nor are such views as those to which we are thus constrained inconsistent with the admission of a Providential guidance of the world. Man, however learned and pious he may be, is not always a trustworthy interpreter of the ways of God. In deciding whether any philosophical doctrine is consistent or inconsistent with the Divine attributes, we are too prone to judge of those attributes by our own finite and imperfect standard, forgetting that the only test to which we ought to resort is the ascertainment if the doctrine be true. If it be true, it is in unison with God. Perhaps some who have rejected the conception of the variation of organic forms, with its postulate--limitless duration, may have failed to remember the grandeur of the universe and its relations to space and to time; perhaps they do not recall the system on which it is administered. Like the anthropomorphite monks of the Nile, they conceive of God as if he were only a very large man; else how could it for a moment have been doubted that it is far more--I use the expression reverently--in the style of the great Constructor to carry out his intentions by the summary operations of law? It might be consistent with the weakness and ignorance of man to be reduced to the necessity of personal intervention for the accomplishment of his plans, but would not that be the very result of such ignorance? Does not absolute knowledge actually imply procedure by preconceived and unvarying law? Is not momentary intervention altogether derogatory to the thorough and absolute sovereignty of God? The astronomical calculation of ancient events, as well as the prediction of those to come, is essentially founded on the principle that there has not in the times under consideration, and that there will never be in the future, any exercise of an arbitrary or overriding will. The corner-stone of astronomy is this, that the solar system--nay, even the universe, is ruled by necessity. To operate by expedients is for the creature, to operate by law for the Creator; and so far from the doctrine that creations and extinctions are carried on by a foreseen and predestined ordinance--a system which works of itself without need of any intermeddling--being an unworthy, an ignoble conception, it is completely in unison with the resistless movements of the mechanism of the universe, with whatever is orderly, symmetrical, and beautiful upon earth, and with all the dread magnificence of the heavens. [Sidenote: Historical sketch of early Palæontology.] It was in Italy that particular attention was first given to organic remains. Leonardo da Vinci asserts that they are real shells, or the remains thereof, and hence that the land and sea must have changed their relative position. At this time fossils were looked upon as rare curiosities, no one supposing that they were at all numerous, and many were the fantastic hypotheses proposed to account for their occurrence. Some referred them to the general deluge mentioned in Scripture; some to a certain plastic power obscurely attributed to the earth; some thought that they were engendered by the sunlight, heat, and rain. To Da Vinci is due the first clear assertion of their true nature, that they are actually the remains of organic beings. Soon the subject was taken up by other eminent Italians. Fracaster wrote on the petrifactions of Verona; Scilla, a Sicilian, on marine bodies turned into stone, illustrating his work by engravings. Still later, Vallisneri, 1721, published letters on marine bodies found in rocks, attempting by their aid to determine the extent of the marine deposits of Italy. These early cultivators of geology soon perceived the advantage to be gained by the establishment of museums and the publication of catalogues. The first seems to have been that of John Kentman, an example that was followed by Calceolarius and Vallisneri. Subsequently Fontanelle proposed the construction of charts in accordance with fossil remains; but the principle involved was not applied on the great scale as a true geological test until introduced by Smith in connexion with the English strata. [Sidenote: The pre-organic time.] To Steno, a Dane, is due the recognition of pre-organic in contradistinction to organic rocks, a distinction the terms of which necessarily involve the idea of time. Soon it became generally recognized that the strata in which organic remains occur are of a later date than those devoid of them, the pre-organic rocks demonstrating a pre-organic time. Moreover, as facts were developed, it was plain that there are essential differences in the relations of fossils, and that, though in Italy the same species of shells may occur in the mountains that occur in the adjacent seas, this was very far from being the case uniformly elsewhere. At length the truth began to emerge, that in proportion as the strata under examination are of an older date, so are the differences between their organic remains and existing species more marked. It was also discovered that the same species often extends superficially over immense districts, but that in a vertical examination one species after another rapidly appears in a descending order--an order which could be verified in spite of the contortions, fractures, and displacements of the strata. A very important theoretical conclusion was here presented: for the rapid succession of essentially different organic forms, as the rocks were older, was clearly altogether inconsistent with one catastrophe, as the universal deluge, to which it had been generally referred. It was plain that the thickness of the strata in which they were enveloped, and the prodigious numbers in which they occurred, answered in some degree to the period of life of those fossils, since every one of them, large or small, must have had its time of birth, of maturity, and of death. [Sidenote: Insufficiency of a single catastrophe.] When, therefore, it could be no longer doubted that strata many hundreds of feet in thickness were crowded with such remains, it became altogether out of the question to refer their entombment to the confusion of a single catastrophe, for every thing indicated an orderly and deliberate proceeding. Still more cogent did this evidence become when, in a more critical manner, the fossils were studied, and some strata were demonstrated to be of a fresh-water and others of a marine origin, the one intercalated with the other like leaves in a book. To this fact may be imputed the final overthrow of the doctrine of a single catastrophe, and its replacement by a doctrine of periodical changes. [Sidenote: The orderly progression of organization.] From these statements it will therefore be understood that, commencing with the first appearance of organization, an orderly process was demonstrated from forms altogether unlike those with which we are familiar, up to those at present existing, a procedure conducted so slowly that it was impossible to assign for it a shorter duration than thousands of centuries. Moreover, it seemed that the guiding condition which had controlled this secular march of organization was the same which still determines the possibility of existence and the distribution of life. The succession of organic forms indicates a clear relation to a descending temperature. The plants of the earliest times are plants of an ultratropical climate, and that primitive vegetation seemed to demonstrate that there had been a uniform climate--a climate of high temperature--all over the globe. The coal-beds of Nova Scotia exhibited the same genera and species as those of Europe, and so well marked was the botanical connexion with the declining temperature in successive ages that attempts were made to express eras by their prevailing organisms; thus Brongniart's division is, for the Primary strata, the Age of Acrogens; the Secondary, exclusive of the Cretaceous, the Age of Gymnogens; the third, including the Cretaceous and Tertiary, the Age of Angiosperms. It is to be particularly remarked that the Cretaceous flora, in the aggregate, combines the antecedent and succeeding periods, proving that the change was not by crisis or sudden catastrophe, but that the new forms rose gently among the old ones. After the Eocene period, dicotyledonous angiosperms became the prevalent form, and from that date to the Pleistocene the evidences of a continued refrigeration are absolute. [Sidenote: Climates in time and in place.] As thus an examination was made from the most ancient to the later ages, indications were found of a climate arrangement more and more distinct--in the high latitudes, from the ultratropical through the tropical, the temperate, down to the present frigid state; in lower latitudes the declining process stopping short at an earlier point. It therefore appeared that there has been a production of climates both in an order of time and, in an order of locality, the greatest change having occurred in the frigid zone, which has passed through all mean temperatures, an intermediate change in the temperate, and a minimum in the torrid zone. The general effect has thus been to present a succession of surfaces on the same planet adapted to a varied organization, and offering a more magnificent spectacle than if we were permitted to inspect many different planets; for in them there might be no necessary connexion of their forms of life, but in this there is, so that, were our knowledge of Comparative Physiology more perfect, we might amuse ourselves with intercalating among the plant and animal organisms familiar to us hypothetical forms that would make the series complete, and verify our principles by their subsequent discovery in the deep strata of the earth. Does not this progression of life in our planet suggest a like progression for the solar system, which in its aggregate is passing in myriads of years through all organic phases? May we not also, from our solar system, rise to a similar conception for the universe? There are two very important considerations, on which we must dwell for the complete understanding of the consequences of these changes: 1st. The mechanism of the declining temperature; 2d. Its effect in the organic world. [Sidenote: The nature of terrestrial declining temperature.] 1st. A uniformly high temperature could never be manifested all over the surface of our planet through any heating influence of the sun. A high and uniform temperature unerringly points to an internal cause; and the gradual appearance of climates, manifesting a relatively increasing power of the sun, indicates the slow diminution of that internal heat. But this is precisely the conclusion which was come to from a contemplation of the earth from a purely physical point of view. So long as its intrinsic heat overpowered that derived from the sun, it was not possible that any thing answering to climates could be established; and, until a certain degree of cooling by radiation had been accomplished, the heat must have been comparatively uniform in all latitudes; but, that point gained, there necessarily ensued an arrangement of zones of different temperatures, or, in other words, climates appeared, the process being essentially slow, and becoming slower as the loss of heat went on. Finally, when loss of heat from the earth ceased, an equilibrium was reached in the climate arrangement as we now find it. Thus purely physical as well as geological considerations brought philosophers on this point to the same conclusion--that conclusion which has been so often repeated--very long periods of time. [Sidenote: Consequent effect on the Flora and Fauna.] 2nd. As to the effect on the organic world. Nothing can live at a temperature higher than the boiling-point of water, for the condition of life implies that there shall circulate from part to part of a living mechanism a watery liquid, sap, or blood. From this it necessarily follows that a planet, the temperature of which is above a certain limit, must necessarily have a lifeless surface; and this seemed to be the interpretation of that pre-organic time to which we have referred. Moreover, when the temperature suitably descends so as to come within the limit at which life is possible, its uniformity over the surface of a planet will produce a sameness in the organization. It would be an identity if heat were the only regulating condition of life. At this stage of things, the solar heat being overpowered, and a sensibly uniform temperature in all latitudes existing, still the only possible organic forms are those consistent with a high temperature, uniformity in the physical condition impressing a general uniformity in the aspect of life geographically. [Sidenote: Production and distribution of new organisms.] But the moment that climate arrangement has become possible, variety of organic form becomes possible. Now also ensues another all-important result--geographical distribution. Both of plants and animals, those whose vital conditions are inconsistent with the occurring change must retire from the affected locality. In plants this retrocession is brought to pass by the gradual sickening and death of individuals, or the impossibility of reproduction; in animals there is added thereto, because of their power of locomotion, voluntary retirement, at least in the case of individuals, and immobility in the species is corrected by locomotion in the individual. The affected region has become unsuitable, cheerless, uncomfortable; they abandon it; and as the boundary they thus, in the one case, can not, and in the other will not overpass, advances, so do they recede before it. If the change were abrupt, or took place by a sudden crisis, there would seem to be no other possible event than an overcrowding of the unaffected region and a desolation of the part that had varied. But, since a developing cell under a new condition produces a new form, and since the physical change is taking place with extreme slowness, the appearance of modified structures ensues. And thus, by decline of temperature, two distinct results are accomplished--first the production of organic forms in an order of succession, new ones replacing the old, as if they were transmutations of them, and, secondly, geographical distribution. [Sidenote: Delusive nature of organic equilibrium.] In my "Physiology" I have endeavoured to explain in detail the principles here set forth. I have endeavoured to show that the aspect of sameness presented by an animal or plant is no proof of unchangeability. Those forms retain in our times their special aspect because the conditions of the theatre in which they live do not change; but let the mean temperature rise, let the sun-rays become brighter, change the composition of the air, and forthwith the world of organization would show how profoundly it was affected. Nor need such changes, in one sense, be more than insignificant to produce prodigious results. Thus the air contains only 1/2000 of its volume of carbonic acid gas. That apparently trifling quantity taken away, in an instant the whole surface of the earth would become a desolate waste, without the possibility of vegetable life. [Sidenote: The Coal period.] As physical geology advanced, the Coal period was perceived to be the chief epoch in the history of our planet. Through a slow decline of temperature, a possibility had gradually been attained, so far as the condition of heat was concerned, for a luxuriant vegetable growth. All that prodigious mass of carbon now found in the earth in the various forms of coal existed as carbonic acid in the atmosphere. The proportion of free oxygen was less than at present by a volume equal to the excess of carbonic acid. [Sidenote: Effects of light on the atmosphere,] A change in the constitution of this primæval atmosphere was occasioned by the action of the light; for, under the influence of the sun-rays, plants decompose carbonic acid, appropriating its carbon, and, for the most part, setting the oxygen free. The quantity of carbon which can thus be condensed for the use of a plant, and, indeed, every such decomposing action by light, is directly proportionate to the quantity of light consumed, as experiments which I have personally made have proved. For the production of so great a weight of combustible matter a very long period of time was necessarily required, that the sun might supply the necessary luminous influence. Age after age the sunbeams continued their work, changing the mechanical relations and composition of the atmosphere, the constitution of the sea, and the appearance of the surface of the earth. There was a prodigious growth of ferns, lepidodendra, equisetaceæ, coniferæ. The percentage of oxygen in the air continually increased, that of carbonic acid continually declined; the pressure of the air correspondingly diminished, partly because of the replacement of a heavy gas by a lighter one, and partly because of the general decline of temperature slowly taking place, which diminished the absolute volume of vapour. [Sidenote: and also on the sea.] The sea, in its deepest abysses, was likewise affected by the sunlight; not directly, but in an indirect way; for, as the removal of carbonic acid from the atmosphere went on, portions of that gas were perpetually surrendered by the ocean in order to maintain a diffusion-equilibrium between its dissolved gas and the free gas of the air. And now no longer could be held in transparent solution by the water those great quantities of carbonate of lime which had once been concealed in it, the deposit of a given weight of coal in the earth being inevitably followed by the deposit of an equivalent weight of carbonate of lime in the sea. This might have taken place as an amorphous precipitate; but the probabilities were that it would occur, as in fact it did, under forms of organization in the great limestone strata coeval with and posterior to the coal. The air and the ocean were thus suffering an invisible change through the disturbing agency of the sun, and the surface of the solid earth was likewise undergoing a more manifest, and, it may be said, more glorious alteration. Plants, in wild luxuriance, were developing themselves in the hot and dank climate, and the possibility was now approaching for the appearance of animal types very much higher than any that had yet existed. [Sidenote: Cold-blooded animals succeeded by hot.] In the old heavy atmosphere, full of a noxious gas, none but slowly-respiring cold-blooded animals could maintain themselves; but after the great change in the constitution of the air had been accomplished, the quickly-respiring and hot-blooded forms might exist. Hitherto the highest advancement that animal life could reach was in batrachian and lizard-like organisms; yet even these were destined to participate in the change, increasing in magnitude and vital capacity. The pterodactyl of the chalk, a flying lizard, measures nearly seventeen feet from tip to tip of its wings. The air had now become suitable for mammals, both placental and implacental, and for birds. One after another, in their due order, appeared the highest vertebrates: marine, as the cetacean; aerial, as the bat; and in the terrestrial, reaching, in the Eocene, quadrumanous animals, but not, until after the Pliocene, man. [Sidenote: The date of organisms may change, but the order not.] Although the advance of geology may hereafter lead to a correction of some of the conclusions thus attained to respecting the first dates of different organic forms, and carry them back to more ancient times, it is scarcely likely that any material modification of their order of occurrence will ever be made. Birds, mammals, reptiles, fishes, and invertebrates may each be detected in earlier strata; even in some of those formations now regarded as non-fossiliferous, organisms may be found; but it is not at all probable that the preponderance of reptiles will ever cease to be the essential characteristic of the Secondary rocks, or that of mammals of the Tertiary, or that a preceding period of vast duration, in which the type of life had been the invertebrate, will ever be doubted. Nothing, probably, will ever be discovered to invalidate the physical conclusion that, while there was an excess of carbonic acid in the air, the Flora would tend to be Cryptogamic and Gymnospermic, and that there would be a scarcity of monocotyledons and dicotyledonous angiosperms in the coal; nothing to disprove the fact that the animals were slow-breathing and cold-blooded; and that it was not until after the oxygen of the air had increased and the mean temperature had declined that birds made their appearance. Though both placental and marsupial animals may hereafter be found earlier than in the Stonesfield slate; though wood and herb-eating beetles, grasshoppers, dragon-flies, and May-flies may be found beneath the lias, and scorpions and cockroaches beneath the coal, though, also beneath the coal, salamanders and Sauroid batrachians, of which the archegosaurus is an example, may occur; though reptiles, as the telerpeton, may be found deeper than the old red sandstone; yet the connexion between aerial constitution and form of life will never be shaken. Still will remain the facts that the geographical distribution of types was anterior to the appearance of existing species, that organisms first appeared in a liquid medium, primitively marine, then fluviatile, and at last terrestrial; that Radiates, Molluscs, Articulates, Vertebrates, were all at first aquatic, and that the Radiates have ever remained so; that the plane of greatest vital activity has ever been the sea-level, where the earth and air touch each other; that the order of individual development is the order of mundane development. Still will remain the important conclusions that the mammalian Fauna has diverged more rapidly than the testaceous; that hot-blooded animals have not had that longevity of species which has been displayed by the cold, just as we observe in the individual the possibility of muscular contraction by a given galvanic force lasts much longer in the latter than in the former; that if the hot-blooded tribes have thus a briefer duration, they enjoy a compensation in the greater energy of their life--perhaps this being the cause and that the effect; that, notwithstanding the countless forms exhibited by species, their duration is so great that they outlive vast changes in the topographical configuration of countries--the Fauna of some countries having been in existence before those countries themselves; that the plan of individual development has ever been as it is now, and that sameness of external influence produces similarity of organization. [Sidenote: The doctrine of catastrophes and uniformity.] In its early history theoretical geology presented two schools--one insisting on a doctrine of catastrophes, one on a doctrine of uniformity. The former regarded those changes which have manifestly taken place in the history of our planet as having occurred at epochs abruptly. To this doctrine the prevailing impression that there had been providential interventions lent much force. The other school, reposing on the great principle of the invariability of the laws of Nature, insisted that affairs had always gone on at the same rate and in the same way as they do now. Hence it maintained an opposition to the catastrophists, and in this, it may be said, was actually not true to its own principles. Any doctrine of uniformity, rightly considered from its most general point of view, includes an admission of catastrophes. Numerous illustrations of this truth spontaneously suggest themselves. A tower, the foundations of which are slowly yielding, may incline more and more for many centuries, but the day must come in which it will fall at last. In the uniformity of the disturbance a catastrophe was eventually involved. And thus, in what has been said respecting geological events, though they are spoken of as proceeding quietly and with uniformity, it may be understood that sudden crises are also contemplated. Moreover, those who adopt the doctrine of uniformity in an absolute sense must pay a due regard to the variations in intensity of physical acts which their own principles imply. The uniform cooling of a hot body actually means a cooling at first fast, and then slower and slower; and invariability of chemical change actually implies more violent and summary modifications at a high temperature than at one which is low. But, though it may at first sight have appeared that an admission of the doctrine of catastrophes is in harmony with a providential government of the world, and that the emergence of different organic forms in successive ages is a manifestation of creative intervention, of which it was admitted that as many as from twelve to twenty, if no more, successive instances might be recognized, we may well congratulate ourselves that those important doctrines rest upon a far more substantial basis. Rightly considered, the facts lead to a very different conclusion. [Sidenote: Successive forms assumed by man.] Physiological investigations have proved that all animals, even man, during the process of development, pass in succession through a definite cycle of forms. Starting from a simple cell, form after form, in a definite order is assumed. In this long line of advance the steps are ever, in all individuals, the same. But no one would surely suppose that the changed aspect at any moment presented is due to a providential interposition. [Sidenote: But they are rigidly determined by law.] On the contrary, it is the inevitable result of what has been taking place under the law of development, and the sure precursor of what is about to follow. In the organic world, the successive orders, and genera, and species are the counterparts of these temporary embryonic forms of the individual. Indeed, we may say of those successive geological beings that they are mere embryos of the latest--embryos that had gained a power of reproduction. How shall we separate the history of the individual from the history of the whole? Do not the fortunes and way of progress of the one follow the fortunes and way of progress of the other? If, in a transitory manner, these forms are assumed by the individual, equally in a transitory manner are they assumed by the race. Nor would it be philosophical to suppose that the management in the one instance differs from the management in the other. If the one is demonstrably the issue of a law in action, so must the other be too. It does not matter that the entire cycle is passed through by the individual in the course of a few months, while in the race it demands ages. [Sidenote: Individual and race development conducted in the same way.] The standard of time that ought to be applied is the respective duration of life. In man it is much if he attains to threescore years and ten; but the entire period of human record, embracing several thousand years, offers not a single instance of the birth, maturity, and death of a species. They, therefore, who think they find, in the successive species that have in an orderly manner replaced each other in the life of the earth, the sure proof of Divine intervention, would do well to determine at what point the production of such forms by law ceases, and at what point their production by the immediate act of God begins. Their task will be as hard to tell where one colour in the rainbow ends and where the next commences. They will also do well to remember that, in great mundane events, the scale of time is ample, and that there may be no essential difference between a course that is run over in a few days and one that requires for its completion thousands of centuries. [Sidenote: Catastrophes disproved by the co-existence of types.] The co-existence of different types in the organic series was the incontrovertible fact by which was demonstrated the gradual passage from form to form without catastrophes, the argument relied upon gathering strength from such circumstances as these, that even the fossil shells of the modern Italian tuffs which are not extinct exhibit a slight want of correspondence when compared with those now inhabiting the Mediterranean, some of the old ones being twice and a half as large as the present, and that there is a numerical passage from strata containing seventy per cent. of recent shells to those that are altogether recent, or contain one hundred per cent. This is manifestly indicative of a continually changing impression bringing on a corresponding modelling. It is the proof of a slow merging into, or of a measured assumption of, the new form--a transition, for the completion of which probably a very long time is required. That the existing reindeer is found in the same fluviatile deposits with an extinct hippopotamus seemed certainly to prove that there was a condition of things in which the co-life of those animals was possible in the same locality, and that, as the physical causes slowly changed, the one might be eliminated and the other might be left. That the regulating conditions were altogether physical was obvious from such facts as that in the bone-caves of Australia all the mammals are marsupial, and in the pampas of South America they are allied to such forms as are indigenous, armadilloes, sloths, etc., showing the tokens of lineage or hereditary transmission. For still more remote times numerous instances of a similar nature were detected; thus, throughout the whole Secondary period, the essential characteristic was the wonderful development of reptile life, while in the Tertiary it was the development of mammals. But the appearance of mammals had commenced long before that of reptiles had ceased. Indeed, the latter event is incomplete in our times; for, though the marine Saurians have been almost entirely removed, the fluviatile and terrestrial ones maintain themselves, though diminished both in species and individuals. Now such an overlapping of reptiles and mammals was altogether irreconcilable with the doctrine of a crisis or catastrophe, and, in fact, it demonstrated the changing of organisms in the changing of physical states. [Sidenote: Cuvier's doctrine of permanence of species.] Cuvier maintained the doctrine of the permanence of animal species from the facts that the oldest known do not appear to have undergone any modification, and that every existing one shows a resistance to change. If his observations are restricted to periods not exceeding human history, they may perhaps be maintained, but that duration cannot be looked upon as more than a moment in the limitless progress we are considering, and it was in this view that Cuvier's doctrine proved to be incapable of defence. [Sidenote: Imperfection of evidence in its support.] What does it signify if our domestic animals show no variations when compared with the corresponding images depicted on the hieroglyphic monuments of Egypt, or with the descriptions left by ancient authors? Evidence of that kind is valueless. Does the geologist ask of the architect his opinion whether there have ever been upliftings and down-sinkings of the earth? If he did, would not every structure in Europe be brought forward as an evidence that nothing of the kind had ever occurred? A leaning tower, or a church with inclining walls in Italy, might pass for nothing; the Pyramids would testify that Egypt itself had never undergone any disturbance--they remain solid on their bases, undisturbed. But what is the weight of all this when placed in opposition with the mass of evidence offered by inclined and fractured strata? And yet such is precisely the proof offered in behalf of the permanence of animals. The facts with which the zoologist deals, like those on which the architect depends, are insufficient for the purpose--they are wanting in extent of time. There have been movements in the crust of the earth, though every building in the world may be perpendicular; there have been transformations of organisms, though for four thousand years there may have been no perceptible change. [Sidenote: Control of organisms by physical conditions.] If ever there had been a universal creation of all possible organic forms or combinations, forthwith vast numbers of them must have disappeared, every type being eliminated which was not in correspondence with the external conditions or with the medium in which it was placed. If the environment or the physical conditions underwent a variation, a corresponding variation in the forms that could by possibility exist must ensue, and, from a thorough study of those not eliminated, the physical conditions might be ascertained; and conversely, from a thorough knowledge of the physical conditions, the forms that could escape elimination might be designated. The facts on which Cuvier rested did not demonstrate what he supposed. His immobility of species was no consequence of an innate or intrinsic resistance possessed by them, but merely an illustration that external physical agents had not undergone any well-marked variation in the time with which he was concerned. [Sidenote: Nature of variation of physical conditions.] What is here meant by variation in physical forces or condition is not any intrinsic change in their nature, but the varied manner in which they may work by interfering with one another, or experiencing declines of intensity. From the fact that we may read in the fixed stars, through the progressive motion of light, the history of a million of past years, we may be sure that the forces of nature have undergone no intrinsic change; that light was propagated at the same rate, was capable of producing the same optical and chemical effects, and varied in its intensity by distance as it does now; that heat determined corporeal magnitudes. These are things that in their nature are absolutely unchangeable. Always, as now, the freezing of water, and its boiling under a given pressure, must have been the same; there must have been a thermometric zero of life and an upward limit, no animal process ever going on below 32° Fahrenheit or above 212° Fahrenheit. [Sidenote: Effect thereof on organisms.] But out of this invariability of natural causes variations in their condition of action arise, and it is these that affect organic forms. Of such forms, some become at length incapable of maintaining themselves in the slow progress of change; others acclimatize, or accommodate, or suit themselves thereto by undergoing modifications, and this was at last discerned to be the true explanation of extinctions and appearances, events taking place very slowly in untold periods of time, and rather by imperceptible degrees than by a sudden catastrophe or crisis. [Sidenote: Transmutation of species.] The doctrine of the transmutation of species has met with no little resistance. They who have refused to receive it as one of the truths of Nature have perhaps not given full weight to physiological evidence. When they ask, Has any one ever witnessed such an event as the transmutation of one species into another? has any experimenter ever accomplished it by artificial means? they do not take a due account of time. In the Fables it is related that when the flowers were one evening conversing, "Our gardener," said the rose to the lily, "will live for ever. I have not seen any change in him. The tulip, who died yesterday, told me that she had remarked the same thing; she believed that he must be immortal. I am sure that he never was born." [Sidenote: Two modes of action.] Two modes have been presented by which we may conceive of the influence of physical agents upon organic forms. Their long persistent action upon the individual may give rise to modifications, developing one part, stunting another; and such variations, being transmitted in an hereditary way, may become firmly fixed at last. Thus a given plant may, in the course of ages, under the influence of unremittingly acting physical conditions, undergo a permanent change, and a really new plant arise as soon as, through the repetitions of successive generations, the modifications have become so thorough, so profound, as to be capable of transmission with certainty. Perhaps this is what has taken place with many of our kitchen-garden plants, of which the special varieties may be propagated by seeds. But there is another mode by which that result may be reached, even if we decline the doctrine of St. Augustine, who, in his work "De Civitate Dei," shows how islands may be peopled with animals by "spontaneous generation." All organic forms originally spring from a simple cell, the development of which, as indicated by the final form attained, is manifestly dependent on the physical conditions it has been exposed to during its course. If those conditions change, that final form must change correspondingly; and in this manner, since all organic beings come from the same starting-point--the same cell, as has been said, which helplessly submits to whatever impression may be put upon it--the issue is the same as though a transformation or transmutation had occurred, since the descendant is not like its ancestors. Such a manner of considering these changes is in harmony with our best physiological knowledge, since it does not limit itself to a small portion of the life of an individual, but embraces its whole cycle or career. For the more complete examination of this view I may refer to the second chapter of the second book of my "Physiology." [Sidenote: Problem of the modification of forms.] But here has arisen the inquiry, Does the modification of organic forms depend exclusively on the impressions of external influences, or is it due to a nisus or force of development residing in the forms themselves? Whether we consider the entire organic series in its succession, or the progress of an individual in his development, the orderly course presented might seem to indicate that the operation is taking place under a law--an orderly progression being always suggestive of the operation of law. But a philosophical caution must, however, be here exercised; for deceptive appearances may lead us into the error of imputing to such a law, impressed by the Creator on the developing organism, that which really belongs to external physical conditions, which, on their part, are following a law of their own. What is here meant may be illustrated by the facts that occur on the habitable surface of a planet suffering a gradual decline of heat. [Sidenote: Three solutions of it.] On such a surface a succession of vegetable types might make its appearance, and, as these different types emerged or were eliminated, we might speak of the events as creations and extinctions, and therefore as the acts of God. Or, in the second place, we might refer them to an intrinsic force of development imparted to each germ, which reached in due season its maximum, and then declined and died out; and, comparing each type with its preceding and succeeding ones, the interrelation might be suggested to us of the operation of a controlling law. Or, in the third place, we might look to the external physical condition--the decline of heat--itself taking place at a determinate rate under a mathematical law, and drawing in its consequences the organic variations observed. Now the first of these explanations in reality means the arbitrary and unchallengeable will of God, who calls into existence, and extinguishes according to his sovereign pleasure, whatever he pleases; the orderly progression we notice becoming an evidence that his volitions are not erratic, but are according to pure reason. The second implies that there has been impressed upon every germ a law of continuous organic variation--it might have been through the arbitrary fiat of God. The third implies that the successive types owe their appearance and elimination to a physical influence, which is itself varying under a strict mathematical necessity; for the law of cooling, which the circumstances force on our attention, is such a strict mathematical necessity. [Sidenote: Their relative probability.] If at this point we balance the probabilities of these three explanations, we shall perhaps find ourselves biassed toward the last, as physiologists have been, because of its rigorous scientific aspect, and should not be surprised to find it supported by an array of facts depending on the principle that the appearance of new forms does not observe a certain inevitable order, or stand in a certain relation to time. From individual development it might seem as if the advancing procession of an organism is such that specific forms ever appear in a certain order one after another, and at certain intervals; but the fallacy of such a conclusion is apparent when we attend to the orderly procedure of the physical conditions to which the developing organism is exposed. [Sidenote: Development is in place, not in time.] The passing through a given form at a given epoch is due to the relation being to space and its conditions, not to time. And so in the life of the earth, if development were according to time, we should have an orderly succession of grades as the earth grew older, and in all localities, at a given moment, the contemporary organisms would be similar; but if it were according to space, that rigorous procedure would not occur; in its stead we should have a broken series, the affiliation being dependent on the secularly continuous variation of the physical condition. Now this was discovered to be the case. For instance, throughout the northern hemisphere, during the Tertiary period, an extinct placental Fauna was contemporaneous with an extinct marsupial Fauna in Australia. If the development was proceeding according to time, by an innate nisus, and not according to external influences, the types for the same epoch in the two hemispheres should be the same; if under external influences, irrespective of time, they should be, as they were found to be, different. If true-going clocks, which owe their motion to their own internal mechanism, were started in all countries of the earth at the same instant, they would strike their successive hours simultaneously. But sun-dials, which owe their indications to an exterior cause, would in different longitudes tell different times, or, when the needful light was absent, their shadows would altogether fail. As to the vegetable kingdom, the principles that hold for the animal again apply. At a very early period, even before the deposit of the coal, all the distinct forms of vegetable tissue were in existence, and nothing to prevent, so far as time was concerned, their being united together all over the world into similar structural combinations. And, in truth, as the botany of the Coal period proves, there was a far more extensive sameness than we see at present, simply because the distribution of heat was more uniform and climates were less marked. But from this point the diversity of form in climate distribution becomes more and more conspicuous, though we must descend, perhaps, as late as the Wealden before we discover any flowering plants, except Gymnosperms, as Conifers and Cycads. All this is what might be expected on the doctrine of external influence, but not on the doctrine of an innate and interior developmental force. If, at this stage, attention is once again turned to the animal kingdom, we find our opinion confirmed. The diminution of carbonic acid in the atmosphere, the deposit of coal in the earth, the precipitation of carbonate of lime in the sea, the disengagement of an increased quantity of oxygen in the air, and the reduction of atmospheric pressure--different effects contemporaneously occurring--were soon followed by the consequence which they made possible--the appearance of hot-blooded mammals. [Sidenote: Cold and hot-blooded animals.] Perhaps those first arising might, like our hibernates, lead a sluggish existence, with imperfect respiration; but, as the media improved and the temperature declined, more vigorous forms of life emerged, though we have probably to descend to the Tertiary epoch before we meet with birds, which of all animals have the most energetic respiration, and possess the highest heat. [Sidenote: The organisms of the sea.] As with the atmosphere, so with the sea. Variations in its composition must control the organisms it contains. With its saline constituents its life must change. Before the sunlight had removed from the atmosphere so much of its carbonic acid, decomposing it through the agency of plants, the weight of carbonate of lime held in solution by the highly carbonated water was far greater than was subsequently possible, and the occurrence of limestone became a necessary event. With such a disturbance in the composition of the sea-water, its inhabiting organisms were necessarily disturbed. And so again, subsequently, when the solar heat began to preponderate on the surface over the subsiding interior heat, the constitution of the sea-water, as respects its salinity, was altered through difference of evaporation in different latitudes, an effect inevitably making a profound impression on marine animal life. [Sidenote: Nature of hereditary transmission.] Supported by the facts that have been mentioned respecting the later fossils of Australia and Brazil, and their analogy to forms now existing in those countries, much stress was laid on the hereditary transmission of structure, and hence the inference was drawn that such examples are of a mixed nature, depending in part on external agency, in part on an interior developmental force. From marsupial animals, marsupials will issue; from placental ones, those that are placental. But here, perhaps, an illustration drawn from the inorganic kingdom may not be without interest and use. Two pieces of carbonate of lime may be rolling among the pebbles at the bottom of a brook, one perpetually splitting into rhomboids, the other into arragonitic prisms. The fragments differ from one another not only thus in their crystalline form, but in their physical qualities, as density and hardness, and in their optical qualities also. We might say that the calc-spar crystals gave birth to calc-spar crystals, and the arragonitic to arragonite; we might admit that there is an interior propensity, an intrinsic tendency to produce that result, just as we say that there is a tendency in the marsupial to engender a marsupial; but if, in our illustration, we look for the cause of that cause, we find it in a physical impression long antecedently made, that the carbonate of lime, crystallizing at 212° Fahr., produces arragonite, and, at a lower temperature, calc-spar; and that the physical impression thus accomplished, though it may have been thousands of years ago, was never cast off, but perpetually manifested itself in all the future history of the two samples. That which we sometimes speak of as hereditary transmission, and refer to an interior property, peculiarity, or force, may be nothing more than the manifestation of a physical impression long antecedently made. In the last place, the idea of an intrinsic force of development is in connexion with time and a progression, and only comes into prominence when we examine a limited portion or number of the things under consideration. The earth, though very beautiful, is very far from being perfect. [Sidenote: The broken organic chain.] The plants and animals we see are only the wrecks of a broken series, an incomplete, and, therefore, unworthy testimonial of the Almighty power. We should judge very inadequately of some great author if only here and there a fragmentary paragraph of his work remained; and so, in the book of organization, we must combine what is left with what we can recover from past ages and buried strata before we can rise to a comprehension of the grand argument, and intelligibly grasp the whole work. [Sidenote: Enormous age of the earth.] Of that book it is immaterial to what page we turn. It tells us of effects of such magnitude as imply prodigiously long periods of time for their accomplishment. Its moments look to us as if they were eternities. What shall we say when we read in it that there are fossiliferous rocks which have been slowly raised ten thousand feet above the level of the sea so lately as since the commencement of the Tertiary times; that the Purbeck beds of the upper oolite are in themselves the memorials of an enormous lapse of time; that, since a forest in a thousand years can scarce produce more than two or three feet of vegetable soil, each dirt-bed is the work of hundreds of centuries. What shall we say when it tells us that the delta of the Mississippi could only be formed in many tens of thousands of years, and yet that is only as yesterday when compared with the date of the inland terraces; that the recession of the Falls of Niagara from Queenstown to the present site consumed thirty thousand years; that if the depression of the carboniferous strata of Nova Scotia took place at the rate of four feet in a century, there were demanded 375,000 years for its completion--such a movement in the upward direction would have raised Mont Blanc; that it would take as great a river as the Mississippi two millions of years to convey into the Gulf of Mexico as much sediment as is found in those strata. Such statements may appear to us, who with difficulty shake off the absurdities of the patristic chronology, wild and impossible to be maintained, and yet they are the conclusions that the most learned and profound geologists draw from their reading of the Book of Nature. [Sidenote: Summary as respects the world in time.] Thus, as respects the age of the earth and her relations in time, we approach the doctrine of Orientals, who long ago ascertained that the scales of time and of space correspond to each other. More fortunate than we, they had but one point of resistance to encounter, but that resistance they met with dissimulation, and not in an open way. They attempted to conceal the tendency of their doctrine by allying or affiliating it with detected errors. According to their national superstition, the earth is supported on the back of an elephant, and this on a succession of animals, the last of which is a tortoise. It is not to be supposed that the Brahmans, who wrote commentaries on the Surya Siddhanta, should for a moment have accepted these preposterous delusions--that was impossible for such great geometers; yet led, perhaps, by a wish to do nothing that might disturb public feeling, they engaged in the hopeless task of showing that their profound philosophical discoveries were not inconsistent with the ancient traditions; that a globular and revolving earth might be sustained on a descending succession of supporting beasts. But they had the signal advantage over us that those popular traditions conceded to them that limitless time for which we have had to struggle. [Sidenote: The life of the universe.] The progression of life on the surface of our planet is under the guidance of pre-ordained and resistless law--it is affiliated with material and correspondingly changing conditions. It suggests that the succession of organic forms which, in a due series, the earth's surface in the long lapse of time has presented, is the counterpart of a like progress which other planets in the solar system exhibit in myriads of years, and leads us to the conception of the rise, development, and extinction of a multiplicity of such living forms in other systems--a march of life through the universe, and its passing away. [Sidenote: Multiplicity of worlds implies succession of worlds.] Magnitudes and times, therefore, go parallel with one another. With the abandonment of the geocentric theory, and of the doctrine of the human destiny of the universe, have vanished the unworthy hypotheses of the recent date of creation and the approaching end of all things. In their stead are substituted more noble ideas. The multiplicity of worlds in infinite space leads to the conception of a succession of worlds in infinite time. This existing universe, with all its splendours, had a beginning, and will have an end; it had its predecessors, and will have its successors; but its march through all its transformations is under the control of laws as unchangeable as destiny. As a cloud, which is composed of myriads of separate and isolated spherules of water, so minute as to be individually invisible, on a summer's afternoon changes its aspect and form, disappearing from the sky, and being replaced in succeeding hours by other clouds of a different aspect and shape, so the universe, which is a cloud of suns and worlds, changes in the immensity of time its form and fashion, and that which is contemporary with us is only an example of countless combinations of a like kind, which in ancient times have one after another vanished away. In periods yet to come the endless succession of metamorphoses will still go on, a series of universes to which there is no end. CHAPTER X. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF REASON--(_Continued_). THE NATURE AND RELATIONS OF MAN. _Position of Man according to the Heliocentric and Geocentric Theories._ OF ANIMAL LIFE.--_The transitory Nature of living Forms.--Relations of Plants and Animals.--Animals are Aggregates of Matter expending Force originally derived from the Sun._ THE ORGANIC SERIES.--_Man a Member of it.--His Position determined by Anatomical and Physiological Investigation of his Nervous System.--Its triple Forms: Automatic, Instinctive, Intellectual._ _The same progressive Development is seen in individual Man, in the entire animal Series, and in the Life of the Globe.--They are all under the Control of an eternal, universal, irresistible Law._ _The Aim of Nature is intellectual Development, and human Institutions must conform thereto._ _Summary of the Investigation of the Position of Man.--Production of Inorganic and Organic Forms by the Sun.--Nature of Animals and their Series.--Analogies and Differences between them and Man.--The Soul.--The World._ [Sidenote: The apparent position of man on the heliocentric theory.] When the ancient doctrine of the plurality of worlds was restored by Bruno, Galileo, and other modern astronomers, the resistance it encountered was mainly owing to its anticipated bearing on the nature and relations of man. It was said, if round our sun, as a centre, there revolve so many planetary bodies, experiencing the changes of summer and winter, day and night--bodies illuminated by satellites, and perhaps enjoying twilight and other benefits such as have been conferred on the earth--shall we not consider them the abodes of accountable, perhaps of sinful, beings like ourselves? Nay, more; if each of the innumerable fixed stars is, as our sun, a central focus of light, attended by dark and revolving globes, is it not necessary to admit that they also have their inhabitants? But among so many families of intelligent beings, how is it that we, the denizens of an insignificant speck, have alone been found worthy of God's regard? It was this reasoning that sustained the geocentric theory, and made the earth the centre of the universe, the most noble of created things; the sun, the moon, the stars, being only ministers for the service of man. [Sidenote: The fallacy of objections to that theory.] But, like many other objections urged in that memorable conflict, this was founded on a misconception, or, rather, on imperfect knowledge. There may be an infinity of worlds placed under the mechanical relations alluded to, but there may not be one among them that can be the abode of life. The physical conditions under which organization is possible are so numerous and so strictly limited that the chances are millions to one against their conjoint occurrence. [Sidenote: Evidence furnished by Geology.] In a religious point of view, we are greatly indebted to Geology for the light it has cast on this objection. It has taught us that during inconceivable lapses of time our earth itself contained no living thing. These were those pre-organic ages to which reference was made in the last chapter. Then by slow degrees, as a possibility for existence occurred, there gradually emerged one type after another. It is but as yesterday that the life of man could be maintained. [Sidenote: The transitory nature of living forms.] Only in the presence of special physical conditions can an animal exist. Even then it is essentially ephemeral. The life of it, as a whole, depends on the death of its integrant parts. In a waterfall, which maintains its place and appearance unchanged for many years, the constituent portions that have been precipitated headlong glide finally and for ever away. For the transitory matter to exhibit a permanent form, it is necessary that there should be a perpetual supply and also a perpetual removal. So long as the jutting ledge over which the waters rush, and the broken gulf below that receives them, remain unchanged, the cataract presents the same appearance. But variations in them mould it into a new shape; its colour changes with a clear or cloudy sky; the rainbow seen in its spray disappears when the beams of the sun are withdrawn. So in that collection of substance which constitutes an animal; whatever may be its position, high or low, in the realm of life, there is a perpetual introduction of new material and a perpetual departure of the old. It is a form, rather than an individual, that we see. Its permanence altogether depends on the permanence of the external conditions. If they change, it also changes, and a new form is the result. [Sidenote: Characteristics of animal life.] An animal is therefore a form through which material substance is visibly passing and suffering transmutation into new products. In that act of transmutation force is disengaged. That which we call its life is the display of the manner in which the force thus disengaged is expended. [Sidenote: Matter and force.] A scientific examination of animal life must include two primary facts. It must consider whence and in what manner the stream of material substance has been derived, in what manner and whither it passes away. And, since force can not be created from nothing, and is in its very nature indestructible, it must determine from what source that which is displayed by animals has been obtained, in what manner it is employed, and what disposal is made of it eventually. [Sidenote: Force is derived from the sun.] The force thus expended is originally derived from the sun. Plants are the intermedium for its conveyance. The inorganic material of a saline nature entering into their constitution is obtained from the soil in which they grow, as is also, for the most part, the water they require; but their organic substance is derived from the surrounding atmosphere, and hence it is strictly true that they are condensations from the air. [Sidenote: Mode in which plants obtain material substance.] These statements may be sufficiently illustrated, and the relation between plants and animals shown, by tracing the course of any one of the ingredients entering into the vegetable composition, and derived, as has been said, from the air. For this purpose, if we select their chief solid element, carbon, the remarks applicable to the course it follows will hold good for other accompanying elements. It is scarcely necessary to embarrass the brief exposition of vegetable life now to be given by any historical details, since these will come with more propriety subsequently. It is sufficient to mention that the chemical explanations of vegetable physiology rest essentially on the discovery of oxygen gas by Priestley, of the constitution of carbonic acid by Lavoisier, and of water by Cavendish and Watt. [Sidenote: Action of a plant on the air.] While the sun is shining, the green parts of plants, especially the leaves, decompose carbonic acid, one of the ingredients of the atmospheric air. This substance is composed of two elements, carbon and oxygen; the former is appropriated by the plant, and enters into the composition of elaborated or descending sap, from which forthwith organic products, such as starch, sugar, wood fibre, acids, and bases are made. The other element, the oxygen, is for the most part refused by the plant, and returns to the air. As the process of decomposition goes on, new portions of carbonic acid are presented through mechanical movements, the trembling of the leaf, breezes, and currents rising from the foliage warmed by the solar beams giving place to other cool currents that set in below. The action of a plant upon the air is therefore the separation of combustible material from that medium. Carbon is thus obtained from carbonic acid; from water, hydrogen. Plant life is chemically an operation of reduction, for in like manner ammonia is decomposed into its constituents, which are nitrogen and hydrogen; and sulphuric and phosphoric acids, which like ammonia, may have been brought into the plant through its roots in the form of salt bodies, are made to yield up the oxygen with which they had been combined, and their sulphur and phosphorus, combustible elements, are appropriated. [Sidenote: Composition and resolution of matter and force.] Every plant, from the humblest moss to the oak of a thousand years, is thus formed by the sun from material obtained from the air--combustible material once united with oxygen, but now separated from that body. It is of especial importance to remark that in this act of decomposition, force, under the form of light, has disappeared, and become incorporated with the combustible, the organizing material. This force is surrendered again, or reappears whenever the converse operation, combination with oxygen, occurs. Vegetable products thus constitute a magazine in which force is stored up and preserved for any assignable time. Hence they are adapted for animal food and for the procuring of warmth. The heat evolved in the combustion of coal in domestic economy was originally light from the sun appropriated by plants in the Secondary geological times, and locked up for untold ages. The sun is also the source from which was derived the light obtained in all our artificial operations of burning gas, oil, fat, wax, for the purposes of illumination. [Sidenote: Correlation of physical forces.] My own experiments have proved that it is the light of the sun, in contradistinction to the heat, which occasions the decomposition of carbonic acid, furnishing carbon to plants and oxygen to the atmosphere. But such is the relation of the so-called imponderable principles of chemistry to each other, and their mutual convertibility, that that which has disappeared in performing its function as light may reappear as heat or electricity, or in the production of some mechanical effect. [Sidenote: The nature of food.] Food is used by all animals for the sake of the force it thus contains, the remark applying to the carnivora as well as the herbivora. In both cases the source of supply is the vegetable kingdom, indirectly or directly. The plant is thus indispensable to the animal. It is the collector and preserver of that force the expenditure of which constitutes the special display of animal life. From this point of view, animals must therefore be considered as machines, in which force obtained as has been described, is utilized. The food they take, or the tissue that has been formed from it, is acted upon by the air they breathe, and undergoes partial or total oxydation, and now emerges again, in part as heat in part as nerve-force, in some few instances in part as light or electricity, the force that originally came from the sun. [Sidenote: Cycle through which matter and force pass.] There is, therefore, a cycle or revolution through which material particles suitable for organization incessantly run. At one moment they exist as inorganic combinations in the air or the soil, then as portions of plants, then as portions of animals, then they return to the air or soil again to renew their cycle of movement. The metamorphoses feigned by the poets of antiquity have hence a foundation in fact, and the vegetable and animal, the organic and inorganic worlds are indissolubly bound together. Plants are reducing, animals oxydizing, machines. Plants form, animals destroy. Thus, by the light of the sun, the carbonic acid of the atmosphere is decomposed--its oxygen is set free, its carbon furnished to plants. The products obtained serve for the food of animals, and in their systems the carbon is re-oxydized by the air they respire, and, resuming the condition of carbonic acid, is thrown back into the atmosphere in the breath, ready to be decomposed by the sunlight once more, and run through the same cycle of changes again. The growth of a plant and the respiration of an animal are dependent on each other. [Sidenote: The duration of matter and imperishability of force.] Material particles are thus the vehicles of force. They undergo no destruction. Chemically speaking, they are eternal. And so, likewise, force never deteriorates or becomes lessened. It may assume new phases, but it is always intrinsically unimpaired. The only changes it can exhibit are those of aspect and of distribution; of aspect, as electricity, affinity, light, heat; of distribution, as when the diffused aggregate of many sunbeams is concentrated in one animal form. It is but little that we know respecting the mutations and distribution of force in the universe. We cannot tell what becomes of that which has characterized animal life, though of its perpetuity we may be assured. It has no more been destroyed than the material particles of which such animals consist. They have been transmuted into new forms--it has taken on a new aspect. The sum total of matter in the world is invariable; so, likewise, is the sum total of force. [Sidenote: Theory of Averroes.] These conclusions resemble in many respects those of the philosophy of Averroes, but they are free from the heresy which led the Lateran Council, under Leo X., to condemn the doctrines of the great Spanish Mohammedan. The error of Averroes consisted in this, that he confounded what is here spoken of under the designation of force with the psychical principle, and erroneously applied that which is true for animals to the case of man, who is to be considered as consisting of three essentially distinct parts--a material body, upon which operate various physical forces, guided and controlled by an intelligent soul. In the following paragraphs the distinction here made is brought into more striking relief. [Sidenote: Anatomical mode of determining position in the animal series.] The station of any animal in the organic series may be determined from the condition of its nervous system. To this observation man himself is not an exception. Indeed, just views of his position in the world, of the nature of his intellect and mental operations, can not be obtained except from the solid support afforded by Anatomy. [Sidenote: The uselessness of the metaphysical sciences.] The reader has doubtless remarked that, in the historical sketch of the later progress of Europe given in this book, I have not referred to metaphysics, or psychology, or mental philosophy. Cultivated as they have been, it was not possible for them to yield any other result than they did among the Greeks. A lever is no mechanical power unless it has a material point of support. It is only through the physical that the metaphysical can be discovered. [Sidenote: Necessity of resorting to Anatomy and Physiology.] An exposition of the structure, the physical forces, and the intellectual operations of man must be founded on anatomy. We can only determine the methods of action from the study of the mechanism, and the right interpretation of that mechanism can only be ascertained from the construction of its parts, from observations of the manner in which they are developed, from comparisons with similar structures in other animals, not rejecting even the lowest, and from an investigation of their habits and peculiarities. Believing that, in the present state of science, doctrines in psychology, unless they are sustained by evidence derived from anatomy and physiology, are not to be relied on, I have not thought it necessary to devote much space to their introduction. They have not taken a part in the recent advances of humanity. They belong to an earlier social period, and are an anachronism in ours. I have referred to these points heretofore in my work on Physiology, and perhaps shall be excused the following extract: "The study of this portion of the mechanism of man brings us therefore in contact with metaphysical science, and some of its fundamental dogmas we have to consider. Nearly all philosophers who have cultivated in recent times that branch of knowledge, have viewed with apprehension the rapid advances of physiology, foreseeing that it would attempt the final solution of problems which have exercised the ingenuity of the last twenty centuries. [Sidenote: Solution of psychological questions.] In this they are not mistaken. Certainly it is desirable that some new method should be introduced, which may give point and precision to whatever metaphysical truths exist, and enable us to distinguish, separate, and dismiss what are only vain and empty speculations. [Sidenote: Uncertainty of metaphysics.] "So far from philosophy being a forbidden domain to the physiologist, it may be asserted that the time has now come when no one is entitled to express an opinion in philosophy unless he has first studied physiology. It has hitherto been to the detriment of truth that these processes of positive investigation have been repudiated. If from the construction of the human brain we may demonstrate the existence of a soul, is not that a gain? for there are many who are open to arguments of this class on whom speculative reasoning or a mere dictum falls without any weight. Why should we cast aside the solid facts presented to us by material objects? In his communications throughout the universe with us, God ever materializes. He equally speaks to us through the thousand graceful organic forms scattered in profusion over the surface of the earth, and through the motions and appearances presented by the celestial orbs. Our noblest and clearest conceptions of his attributes have been obtained from these material things. I am persuaded that the only possible route to truth in mental philosophy is through a study of the nervous mechanism. The experience of 2500 years, and the writings of the great metaphysicians attest, with a melancholy emphasis, the vanity of all other means. "Whatever may be said by speculative philosophers to the contrary, the advancement of metaphysics is through the study of physiology. What sort of a science would optics have been among men who had purposely put out their own eyes? What would have been the progress of astronomy among those who disdained to look at the heavens? Yet such is the preposterous course followed by the so-called philosophers. They have given us imposing doctrines of the nature and attributes of the mind in absolute ignorance of its material substratum. [Sidenote: Necessity of the interpretation of structure.] Of the great authors who have thus succeeded one another in ephemeral celebrity, how many made themselves acquainted with the structure of the human brain? Doubtless some had been so unfortunate as never to see one! Yet that wonderful organ was the basis of all their speculations. In voluntarily isolating themselves from every solid fact which might serve to be a landmark to them, they may be truly said to have sailed upon a shoreless sea from which the fog never lifts. The only fact they teach us with certainty is, that they know nothing with certainty. It is the inherent difficulty of their method that it must lead to unsubstantial results. What is not founded on a material substratum is necessarily a castle in the air." [Sidenote: Intellectual relations of man depend on his nervous system.] Considering thus that scientific views of the nature of man can only be obtained from an examination of his nervous system, and that the right interpretation of the manner of action of that system depends on the guiding light of comparative anatomy and physiology, I shall, in the following exposition, present the progress of discovery on those principles. [Sidenote: The rudimentary nervous system is automatic.] In those low tribes of life which show the first indications of a nervous system, its operation is purely mechanical. An external impression, as a touch, made upon animals of that kind, is instantly answered to by a motion which they execute, and this without any manifestation of will or consciousness. The phenomenon is exactly of the same kind as in a machine of which, if a given lever is touched, a motion is instantly produced. [Sidenote: Two elementary forms of nerve structure.] In any nervous system there are two portions anatomically distinct. They are, 1st, the fibrous; 2d, the vesicular. It may be desirable to describe briefly the construction and functions of each of these portions. Their conjoint action will then be intelligible. [Sidenote: Structure of a nerve fibre.] 1st. A nerve fibre consists essentially of a delicate thread--the axis filament, as it is called--enveloped in an oil-like substance, which coagulates or congeals after death. This, in its turn, is inclosed in a thin investing sheath or membranous tube. Many such fibres bound together constitute a nerve. [Sidenote: Function of a nerve fibre is conduction.] The function of such a nerve fibre is indisputably altogether of a physical kind, being the conveyance of influences from part to part. The axis filament is the line along which the translation occurs, the investing material being for the purpose of confining or insulating it, so as to prevent any lateral escape. Such a construction is the exact counterpart of many electrical contrivances, in which a metallic wire is coated over with sealing-wax or wrapped round with silk, the current being thus compelled to move in the wire without any lateral escape. Of such fibres, some convey their influences to the interior, and hence are called centripetal; some convey them to the exterior, and hence are called centrifugal. No anatomical difference in the structure of the two has, however, thus far been discovered. As in a conducting wire the electrical current moves in a progressive manner with a definite velocity, so in a nerve filament the influence advances progressively at a rate said to be dependent on the temperature of the animal examined. It seems in the cold-blooded to be much slower than in the hot. It has been estimated in the frog at eighty-five feet per second; in man at two hundred feet--an estimate probably too low. The fibres thus described are of the kind designated by physiologists as the cerebro-spinal; there are others, passing under the name of the sympathetic, characterized by not possessing the investing medullary substance. In colour they are yellowish-gray; but it is not necessary here to consider them further. [Sidenote: Structure of a nerve vesicle.] 2nd. The other portion of the nervous structure is the vesicular. As its name imports, it consists of vesicles filled with a gray granular material. Each vesicle has a thickened spot or nucleus upon it, and appears to be connected with one or more fibres. If the connexion is only with one, the vesicle is called unipolar; if with two, bipolar; if with many, multipolar or stellate. Every vesicle is abundantly supplied with blood. [Sidenote: Function of a nerve vesicle.] As might be inferred from its structure, the vesicle differs altogether from the fibre in function. I may refer to my "Physiology" for the reasons which have led to the inference that these are contrivances for the purposes of permitting influences that have been translated along or confined within the fibre to escape and diffuse themselves in the gray granular material. They also permit influences that are coming through many different channels into a multipolar vesicle to communicate or mix with one another, and combine to produce new results. Moreover, in them influences may be long preserved, and thus they become magazines of force. Combined together, they constitute ganglia or nerve centres, on which, if impressions be made, they do not necessarily forthwith die out, but may remain gradually declining away for a long time. Thus is introduced into the nervous mechanism the element of time, and this important function of the nerve vesicle lies at the basis of memory. It has been said that the vesicular portion of the nerve mechanism is copiously supplied with blood. Indeed, the condition indispensably necessary for its functional activity is waste by oxydation. Arterial vessels are abundantly furnished to insure the necessary supply of aerated blood, and veins to carry away the wasted products of decay. Also, through the former, the necessary materials for repair and renovation are brought. [Sidenote: Physiological condition of nerve action is nerve waste.] There is a definite waste of nervous substance in the production of a definite mechanical or intellectual result--a material connexion and condition that must never be overlooked. Hence it is plain that unless the repair and the waste are synchronously equal to one another, periodicities in the action of the nervous system will arise, this being the fundamental condition connected with the physical theories of sleep and fatigue. The statements here made rest upon two distinct forms of evidence. In part they are derived from an interpretation of anatomical structure, and in part from direct experiment, chiefly by the aid of feeble electrical currents. The registering or preserving action displayed by a ganglion may be considered as an effect, resembling that of the construction known as Ritter's secondary piles. It will not suit my purpose to offer more than the simplest illustration of the application of the foregoing facts. When an impression, either by pressure or in any other way, is made on the exterior termination of a centripetal fibre, the influence is conveyed with a velocity such as has been mentioned into the vesicle to which that fibre is attached, and thence, going forth along the centrifugal fibre, may give rise to motion through contraction of the muscle to which that fibre is distributed. [Sidenote: Reflex action of the nervous system.] An impression has thus produced a motion, and to the operation the designation of reflexion is commonly given. This reflexion takes place without consciousness. The three parts--the centripetal fibre, the vesicle, and the centrifugal fibre--conjointly constitute a simple nervous arc. [Sidenote: Gradual complexity of the nervous system.] A repetition of these arcs, each precisely like all the others, constitutes the first step toward a complex nervous system. Their manner of arrangement is necessarily subordinated to the general plan of construction of the animals in which they occur. Thus, in the Radiates it is circular; in the Articulates, linear, or upon an axis. But, as the conditions of life require consentaneousness of motion in the different parts, these nerve arcs are not left isolated or without connexion with each other. As it is anatomically termed, they are commissured, nerve fibres passing from each to its neighbours, and each is thus brought into sympathy or connexion with all the others. [Sidenote: First appearance of special ganglia.] The next advance is a very important one, for it indicates the general plan on which the nervous system is to be developed: it is the dedication of special nerve arcs to special duties. Thus, in the higher articulates and molluscs, there are such combinations expressly for the purpose of respiration and deglutition. Their action is altogether of the reflex kind; it takes place without consciousness. These ganglia are commissured for the sake of sympathetic action, and frequently several of them are coalesced for the sake of package. This principle of dedication to special uses is carried out in the introduction of ganglia intended to be affected by light, or sounds, or odours. The impressions of those agencies are carried to the ganglion by its centripetal fibres. Such ganglia of special action are most commonly coalesced together, forming nervous masses of conspicuous size; they are always commissured with those for ordinary motions, the action being reflex, as in the preceding case, though of a higher order, since it is attended with consciousness. [Sidenote: They are automatic mechanisms.] Such being the elementary construction of a nervous system, it is plain that animal tribes in which it exists in no higher degree of complexity must be merely automata. In this remark many insects must be included, for the instinct they display is altogether of a mechanical kind, and, so far as they are concerned, without design. Their actions are uniformly alike; what one does under given circumstances, under the same circumstances another will certainly do. They are incapable of education, they learn nothing by experience, and the acts they are engaged in they accomplish as well at the first trial as ever after. Of parts like those described, and of others of a higher order, as will be presently seen, the most complex nervous system, even that of man, is composed. [Sidenote: Evidence to be used in these investigations.] It might, perhaps, be expected that for the determination of the duty of each part of such complex system the physiologist must necessarily resort to experiment, observing what functions have been injured or destroyed when given portions have been removed by his knife. At the best, however, evidence of that kind must be very unsatisfactory on account of the shock the entire system receives in vivisections, and accordingly, artificial evidence can, for the most part, be used only in a corroborative way. But, as Cuvier observed, the hand of Nature has prepared for us these very experiments without that drawback. The animal series, as we advance upward from its lowest members, proves to us what is the effect of the addition of new parts in succession to a nervous system, as also does any individual thereof in its successive periods of development. It is one of the most important discoveries of modern physiology that, as respects their nervous system, we can safely transfer our reasonings and conclusions from the case of the lowest to that of the highest animal tribes. The articulata present structures and a mode of action illustrating in a striking manner the nervous system of man. Lengthwise upon their ventral region is laid a double cord, with ganglia, like a string of beads; sometimes the cords are a little distance apart, but more generally they are coalesced, each pair of ganglia being fused into one. [Sidenote: First introduction of governing ganglia.] To every segment of the body a pair is supplied, each pair controlling its own segment, and acting toward it automatically, each also acting like any of the others. But in the region of the head there is a special pair, the cephalic ganglia, receiving fibres from the eyes and other organs of sense. From them proceed filaments to the ventral cord, establishing communications with every segment. So every part has two connexions, one with its own ventral ganglia, and one with the cephalic. It is not difficult to determine experimentally the functions of the ventral ganglia and those of the cephalic. If a centipede be decapitated, its body is still capable of moving, the motion being evidently of a reflex kind, originating in the pressure of the legs against the surface on which they rest. [Sidenote: But thus far actions are only instinctive.] The ventral cord, with its ganglia, is hence purely an automatic mechanism. But if, in making the decapitation, we leave a portion of the body in connexion with the head, we recognize very plainly that the cephalic ganglia are exercising a governing power. In the part from which they have been cut off the movement is forward, regardless of any obstacle; in that to which they are attached there are modifications in the motions, depending on sight or other special senses; obstacles are avoided, and a variety of directions pursued. Yet still the actions are not intelligent, only instinctive. The general conclusion therefore is, that the cephalic ganglia are of a higher order than the ventral, the latter being simply mechanical, the former instinctive; but thus far there is no trace of intelligence. [Sidenote: Nervous anatomy of vertebrates, as man.] In man these typical parts are all present, and discharge the functions specified. His spinal cord answers to the ventral cord of the articulates. It has its lateral communications in the same way, and each segmental portion presents the same reflex action. Toward its upper part it dilates to form the medulla oblongata, sending forth nerves for respiration and deglutition. [Sidenote: Their automatic apparatus.] Of these the action is still reflex, as is proved by the involuntary movements of respiration and deglutition. A portion of food being placed in the pharynx, contraction instantly occurs, the will having no kind of control over the act of swallowing. [Sidenote: Their instinctive apparatus.] Above or in front of this enlargement is a series of ganglia, to which converge the nerves of special sense--of hearing, sight, smell; these are, therefore, the equivalents of the cephalic ganglia of insects, their function being also the same. In the lowest vertebrates, as in the amphioxus, the nervous system consists of nothing more. It may therefore be said to have only two parts--the cord and the sensory ganglia, and to have two functions--the automatic, attributable to the former, and the instinctive, attributable to the latter. [Sidenote: Their intellectual apparatus.] But as we advance from the low vertebrates upward in the animal scale, we begin to detect new organs; on the medulla oblongata a cerebellum, and on the sensory ganglia a cerebrum. From this moment the animal displays reasoning powers, its intelligence becoming more strikingly marked as the development of the new organs is greater. [Sidenote: Functions of the brain.] It remains to determine with exactness the function of one of these new parts, the cerebrum; the other portion, the cerebellum, being of minor interest, and connected, probably, with the locomotive apparatus. For the same reason it is unnecessary to speak of the sympathetic nerve, since it belongs to the apparatus of organic life. Confining our attention, therefore, to the true brain, or cerebrum, we soon recognize that the intelligence of an animal is, in a general manner, proportional to the relative size of this organ as compared with the sensory ganglia. We are also struck with the fact that the cerebrum does not send forth to other portions any independent fibres of its own, nor does it receive any from them, its only means of communication being through the parts that have been described--that is to say, through the sensory and automatic apparatus. [Sidenote: Its relations to the instinctive and automatic portions.] The cerebrum is therefore a mechanism of a higher order, and its relationship with the thalami optici and corpora striata indicate the conditions of its functions. It can only receive impressions which have come through them, and only act upon the body through their intermedium. [Sidenote: Its secondary and tertiary lobes.] Moreover, as we ascend the animal scale, we find that these cerebral parts not only increase in size, but likewise, in their turn, give rise to offshoots; secondary lobes emerging posteriorly on the primary ones, and, in due season, tertiary lobes posteriorly on the secondary. To these, in human anatomy, the designations of anterior, middle, and posterior lobes have been respectively given. In proportion, as this development has proceeded, the intellectual qualities have become more varied and more profound. [Sidenote: Action of the spinal cord alone.] The relation of the cerebrum to the cranio-spinal axis is manifested by the circumstance that the latter can act without the former. In sleep the cerebrum is, as it were, torpid, but respiration, deglutition, and other reflex actions go on. If we touch the palm of a sleeping infant our finger is instantly grasped. [Sidenote: Conjoint action of the brain and cord.] But, though the axis can work without the cerebrum, the cerebrum can not work without the axis. Illustrations of these truths may be experimentally obtained. An animal from which the cerebrum has been purposely removed may be observed to perform actions automatic and instinctive, but never intelligent; and that there is no difference between animals and man in this respect is demonstrated by the numerous instances recorded in the works of medicine and surgery of injuries by accident or disease to the human nervous system, the effects corresponding to those artificially produced in experiments on animals. This important observation, moreover, shows that we may with correctness use the observations made on animals in our investigations of the human system. [Sidenote: Three distinct parts of the nervous system of man.] In the nervous system of man our attention is therefore especially demanded by three essentially distinct parts--the spinal cord, the sensory ganglia, and the cerebrum. [Sidenote: They are the automatic, the instinctive, the intellectual.] Of the first, the spinal cord, the action is automatic; by its aid we can walk, from place to place, without bestowing a thought on our movements; by it we swallow involuntarily; by it we respire unconsciously. The second portion, the sensory ganglia, is, as we have seen, the counterpart of the cephalic ganglia of invertebrates; it is the place of reception of sensuous impressions and the seat of consciousness. To these ganglia instinct is to be referred. Their function is not at all impaired by the cerebrum superposed upon them. The third portion, the cerebrum, is anatomically distinct. It is the seat of ideas. It does not directly give rise to motions, being obliged to employ for that purpose its intermediate automatic associated apparatus. [Sidenote: Dominating control of the latter.] In this realm of ideas thoughts spring forth suggestively from one another in a perpetual train or flux, and yet the highest branch of the nervous mechanism still retains traces of the modes of operation of the parts from which it was developed. Its action is still often reflex. Reason is not always able to control our emotions, as when we laugh or weep in spite of ourselves, under the impression of some external incident. Nay, more; the inciting cause may be, as we very well know, nothing material--nothing but a recollection, an idea--and yet it is enough. But these phenomena are perhaps restricted to the first or anterior lobes of the brain, and, accordingly, we remark them most distinctly in children and in animals. As the second and third lobes begin to exercise their power, such effects are brought under control. [Sidenote: Progressive nervous development in the animal series.] There is, therefore, a regular progression, a definite improvement in the nervous system of the animal series, the plan never varying, but being persistently carried out, and thus offering a powerful argument for relationship among all those successively improving forms, an observation which becomes of the utmost interest to us in its application to the vertebrates. In the amphioxus, as has been said, the cranio-spinal axis alone exists; the Cyclostome fishes are but a step higher. In fishes the true cerebrum appears at first in an insignificant manner, a condition repeated in the early embryonic state both of birds and mammals. An improvement is made in reptiles, whose cerebral hemispheres are larger than their optic lobes. As we advance to birds, a further increase occurs; the hemispheres are now of nearly sufficient dimensions to cover over those ganglia. In the lower mammals there is another step, yet not a very great one. But from the anterior lobes, which thus far have constituted the entire brain, there are next to be developed the middle lobes. In the Rodents the progress is still continued, and in the Ruminants and Pachyderms the convolutions have become well marked. [Sidenote: It attains its maximum in man.] In the higher carnivora and quadrumana the posterior or tertiary lobes appear. The passage from the anthropoid apes to man brings us to the utmost development thus far attained by the nervous system. The cerebrum has reached its maximum organization by a continued and unbroken process of development. [Sidenote: The same progressive development occurs in each individual man.] This orderly development of the nervous system in the animal series is recognized again in the gradual development of the individual man. The primitive trace, as it faintly appears in the germinal membrane, marks out the place presently to be occupied by the cranio-spinal axis, and, that point of development gained, man answers to the amphioxus. Not until the twelfth week of embryonic life does he reach the state permanently presented by birds; at this time the anterior lobes are only perceptible. In four or six weeks more the middle lobes are evolved posteriorly on the anterior, and, finally, in a similar manner, the tertiary or posterior ones are formed. And thus it appears that, compared with the nervous system of other animals, that of man proceeds through the same predetermined succession of forms. Theirs suffers an arrest, in some instances at a lower, in some at a higher point, but his passes onward to completion. [Sidenote: It occurs again in the entire life of the globe.] But that is not all. The biography of the earth, the life of the entire globe, corresponds to this progress of the individual, to this orderly relation of the animal series. Commencing with the oldest rocks that furnish animal remains, and advancing to the most recent, we recognize a continual improvement in construction, indicated by the degree of advancement of the nervous system. The earliest fishes did not proceed beyond that condition of the spinal column which is to be considered as embryonic. The Silurian and Devonian rocks do not present it in an ossified state. Fishes, up to the Carboniferous epoch, had a heterocercal tail, just as the embryos of osseous fishes of the present time have up to a certain period of their life. There was, therefore, an arrest in the old extinct forms, and an advance to a higher point in the more modern. The buckler-headed fishes of the Devonian rocks had their respiratory organs and much of their digestive apparatus in the head, and showed an approximation to the tadpoles or embryos of the frog. The crocodiles of the oolite had biconcave vertebræ, like the embryos of the recent ones which have gained the capability of making an advance to a higher point. In the geological order, reptiles make their appearance next after fishes, and this is what we should expect on the principle of an ascending nervous development. Not until long after come birds, later in date and higher in nervous advancement, capable not only of instinct, but also of intelligence. Of mammals, the first that appear are what we should have expected--the marsupials; but among the tertiary rocks, very many other forms are presented, the earlier ones, whether herbivorous or carnivorous, having a closer correspondence to the archetype than the existing ones, save in their embryonic states, the analogies occurring in such minor details as the possession of forty-four teeth. [Sidenote: Absolute necessity of admitting transmutation of forms.] The biography of the earth is thus, on the great scale, typical of individual life, even that of man, and the succession of species in the progress of numberless ages is the counterpart of the transmutation of an individual from form to form. As in a dissolving view, new objects emerge from old ones, and new forms spontaneously appear without the exercise of any periodical creative act. [Sidenote: Life of man from infancy to maturity in accordance with his anatomy.] For some days after birth the actions of the human being are merely reflex. Its cranio-spinal axis alone is in operation, and thus far it is only an automaton. But soon the impressions of external objects begin to be registered or preserved in the sensory ganglia, and the evidences of memory appear. The first token of this is perhaps the display of an attachment to persons, not through any intelligent recognition of relationship, but merely because of familiarity. This is followed by the manifestation of a liking to accustomed places and a dread of strange ones. At this stage the infant is leading an instinctive life, and has made no greater advance than many of the lower mammals; but they linger here, while he proceeds onward. He soon shows high powers of memory, the exercise of reason in the determinations of judgment, and in the adaptation of varied means to varied ends. Such is therefore the process of development of the nervous system of man; such are the powers which consequently he successively displays. His reason at last is paramount. No longer are his actions exclusively prompted by sensations; they are determined much more by ideas that have resulted from his former experiences. While animals which approach him most closely in construction require an external stimulus to commence a train of thought, he can direct his mental operations, and in this respect is parted from them by a vast interval. The states through which he has passed are the automatic, the instinctive, the intellectual; each has its own apparatus, and all at last work harmoniously together. [Sidenote: Every person consists of two lateral individuals.] But besides this superposition of an instinctive apparatus upon an automatic one, and an intellectual upon an instinctive, the nervous system consists of two equal and symmetrical lateral portions, a right half and a left. Each person may be considered as consisting in reality of two individuals. The right half may be stricken with palsy, the left be unimpaired; one may lose its sight or hearing, the other may retain them. These lateral halves lead independent lives. Yet, though independent in this sense, they are closely connected in another. The brain of the right side rules over the left half of the body, that of the left side rules over the right of the body. [Sidenote: Consequences of this doubleness of construction.] On the relationships and antagonisms of the two halves of the cerebro-spinal system must be founded our explanations of the otherwise mysterious phenomena of double and alternate life; of the sentiment of pre-existence; of trains of thought, often double, but never triple; of the wilful delusions of castle-building, in which one hemisphere of the brain listens to the romance suggestions of the other, though both well know that the subject they are entertaining themselves with is a mere fiction. The strength and precision of mental operations depend as much upon the complete equivalency of the two lateral halves as upon their absolute development. It is scarcely to be expected that great intellectual indications will be given by him, one of whose cerebral hemispheres is unequal to the other. But for the detailed consideration of these topics I may refer the reader to my work on Physiology. He will there find the explanation of the nature of registering ganglia; the physical theory of memory; the causes of our variable psychical powers at different times; the description of the ear as the organ of time; the eye as the organ of space; the touch as that of pressures and temperatures; the smell and taste as those for the chemical determination of gases and liquids. [Sidenote: Conclusions from the foregoing anatomical facts.] From a consideration of the construction, development, and action of the nervous system of man, we may gain correct views of his relations to other organic beings, and obtain true psychical and metaphysical theories. There is not that homogeneousness in his intellectual structure which writers on those topics so long supposed. It is a triple mechanism. [Sidenote: Man a member of the animal series.] A gentle, a gradual, a definite development reaches its maximum in him without a breach of continuity. Parts which, because of their completion, are capable of yielding in him such splendid results, are seen in a rudimentary and useless condition in organisms very far down below. On the clear recognition of this rudimentary, this useless state, very much depends. It indicates the master-fact of psychology--the fact that Averroes overlooked--that, while man agrees with inferior beings in the type of his construction, and passes in his development through transformations analogous to theirs, he differs from them all in this, that he alone possesses an accountable, an immortal soul. It is true that there are some which closely approach him in structure, but the existence of structure by no means implies the exercise of functions. In the still-born infant, the mechanism for respiration, the lungs, is completed; but the air may never enter, and the intention for which they were formed never be carried out. [Sidenote: His life and that of the planet alike.] Moreover, it appears that the order of development in the life of individual man and the order of development in the life of the earth are the same, their common features indicating a common plan. The one is the movement of a few hours, the other of myriads of ages. This sameness of manner in their progression points out their dependence on a law immutable and universal. The successive appearance of the animal series in the endless course of time has not, therefore, been accidental, but as predetermined and as certain as the successive forms of the individual. In the latter we do not find any cause of surprise in the assumption of states ever increasing in improvement, ever rising higher and higher toward the perfection destined to be attained. We look upon it as the course of nature. Why, then, should we consider the extinctions and creations of the former as offering any thing unaccountable, as connected with a sudden creative fiat or with an arbitrary sentence of destruction? [Sidenote: Progress of humanity is according to law.] In this book I have endeavoured to investigate the progress of humanity, and found that it shows all the phases of individual movement, the evidence employed being historical, and, therefore, of a nature altogether different from that on which our conclusions in the collateral instances rest. It may serve to assure us that the ideas here presented are true when we encounter, at the close of our investigation, this harmony between the life of the individual, the life of society, and the life of the earth. Is it probable that the individual proceeds in his movement of development under law, that the planet also proceeds in its movements under law, but that society does not proceed under law? [Sidenote: Eternity and universality of that law.] Man, thus, is the last term of an innumerable series of organisms, which, under the domination of law, has, in the lapse of time, been evolving. Law has controlled the inorganic world, and caused the earth to pass through various physical conditions, gently and continuously succeeding one another. The plastic forms of organic beings have been modelled to suit those changing conditions. The invariability of that law is indicated by the numberless ages through which it has been maintained, its universality by its holding good in the life of the meanest individual. But it is only a part of sociology that we have considered, and of which we have investigated the development. [Sidenote: Comparative sociology.] In the most philosophical aspect the subject includes comparative as well as human sociology. For, though there may not be society where actions are simply reflex, there is a possibility of it where they are instinctive, as well as where they are intellectual. Its essential condition being intercommunication, there are necessarily modifications depending respectively on touch or upon the higher and more delicate senses. That is none the less society which, among insects, depends upon antennal contacts. Human society, founded on speech, sight, hearing, has its indistinct beginnings, its rudiments, very low down in the animal scale, as in the bell-like note which some of the nudibranchiate gasteropods emit, or the solitary midnight tapping with which the death-watch salutes his mate. Society resting on instinct is characterised by immobility; it is necessarily unprogressive. Society resting on intellect is always advancing. But, for the present, declining this general examination of sociology, and limiting our attention strictly to that of humanity, we can not fail to be struck with the fact that in us the direction of evolution is altogether toward the intellectual, a conclusion equally impressed upon us whether our mode of examination be anatomical or historical. [Sidenote: The aim of Nature is not at moral, but intellectual development.] Anatomically we find no provision in the nervous system for the improvement of the moral, save indirectly through the intellectual, the whole aim of development being for the sake of intelligence. Historically, in the same manner, we find that the intellectual has always led the way in social advancement, the moral having been subordinate thereto. The former hay been the mainspring of the movement, the latter passively affected. It is a mistake to make the progress of society depend on that which is itself controlled by a higher power. In the earlier and inferior stages of individual life we may govern through the moral alone. In that way we may guide children, but it is to the understanding of the adult that we must appeal. [Sidenote: Systems of policy must be in accordance therewith.] A system working only through the moral must sooner or later come into an antagonism with the intellectual, and, if it do not contain within itself a means of adaptation to the changing circumstances, it must in the end be overthrown. This was the grand error of that Roman system which presided while European civilization was developing. It assumed as its basis a uniform, a stationary psychological condition in man. Forgetting that the powers of the mind grow with the possessions of the mind, it considered those who lived in past generations as being in no respect mentally inferior to those who are living now, though our children at sixteen may have a wider range of knowledge than our ancestors at sixty. That such an imperfect system could exist for so many ages is a proof of a contemporary condition of undeveloped intellect, just as we see that the understanding of a child does not revolt against the moral suasion, often intrinsically feeble, through which we attempt to influence him. But it would be as unphilosophical to treat with disdain the ideas that have served for a guide in the earlier ages of European life, as to look with contempt on the motives that have guided us in youth. Their feebleness and incompetency are excused by their suitability to the period of life to which they are applied. But whoever considers these things will see that there is a term beyond which the application of such methods cannot be extended. [Sidenote: The Age of Reason demands intellectual incentives for the individual.] The head of a family would act unwisely if he attempted to apply to his son at twenty-one the methods he had successfully used at ten; such methods could be only rendered effective by a resort to physical compulsion. A great change in the intervening years has taken place, and ideas once intrinsically powerful can exert their influence no more. The moral may have remained unchanged; it may be precisely as it was--no better, no worse; but that which has changed is the understanding. Reasoning and inducements of an intellectual kind are now needful. An attempt to persist in an absolute system by constraint would only meet with remonstrance and derision. [Sidenote: And the same holds good for humanity.] If it is thus with the individual, so it is likewise with humanity. For centuries nations may live under forms that meet their requirements, forms suitable to a feeble state; but it is altogether illusory to suppose that such an adaptedness can continue for ever. A critical eye discerns that the mental features of a given generation have become different from those of its ancestors. New ideas and a new manner of action are the tokens that a modification has silently taken place. Though after a short interval the change might not amount to much, in the course of time there must inevitably be exhibited the spectacle of a society that had outgrown its forms, its rules of life. Wherever, then, such a want of harmony becomes perceptible, where the social system is incompatible with the social state, and is, in effect, an obsolete anachronism, it is plainly unphilosophical and unwise to resort to means of compulsion. No matter what the power of governments or of human authorities may be, it is impossible for them to stop the intellectual advancement, for it forces its way by an organic law over which they have no kind of control. * * * * * [Sidenote: Summary of the investigation of the position of man.] Astronomers sometimes affirm that the sun is the cause, directly or indirectly, of all the mechanical movements that take place upon the earth. Physiologists say that he is the generator of the countless living forms with which her surface is adorned. [Sidenote: Influence of the sun on inorganic nature, and on organic nature.] If the light, the warmth, and other physical influences of the sun could be excluded, there would be a stagnant and icy sea encircling silent and solitary shores. But the veil once withdrawn, or the influences permitted to take effect, this night and stillness would give place to activity and change. In the morning beams of the day, the tropical waters, expanding, would follow from east to west the course of the sun, each renewed dawn renewing the impulse, and adding force to the gentle but resistless current. At one place the flowing mass would move compactly; at another, caught by accidentally projecting rocks, it would give off little eddies, expending their share of its force; or, compressed in narrow passages, it would rush impetuously along. Upon its surface myriads of momentary ripples would play, or opposing winds, called into existence by similar disturbances in the air, would force it into waves, making the shores resound with their breaking surge. Twice every day, under the conjoint influences of the sun and moon, as if the inanimate globe itself were breathing, the tide would rise and fall again upon the bosom of the deep. The eddy, the ripple, the wave, the current, are accidental forms through which the originally imparted force is displayed. They are all expending power. Their life, if such a term can be used, is not the property of themselves, but of the ocean to which they belong. Influences which thus metaphorically give life to the sea, in reality give life to the land. Under their genial operation a wave of verdure spreads over the earth, and countless myriads of animated things attend it, each like the eddies and ripples of the sea, expending its share of the imparted force. The life of these accidental forms, through which power is being transposed, belongs, not to itself, but to the universe of which it is a part. [Sidenote: Nature of animals.] Of the waves upon the ocean there may not be two alike. The winds, the shores, their mutual interferences, a hundred extraneous influences, mould them into their ephemeral shapes. So those collections of matter of which animated things consist offer a plastic substance to be modified. The number of individuals counts like the ripples of the sea. [Sidenote: They constitute a series.] As external circumstances change, animated forms change with them, and thus arises a series of which the members stand in a connected relation. The affiliated sequence of the external circumstances is represented in the affiliated succession of living types. From parts, or from things already existing, new parts and new things emerge, the new not being added or juxtaposed to the old, but evolved or developed from it. From the homogeneous or general, the heterogeneous or special is brought forth. A new member, fashioned in secrecy and apart, is never abruptly ingrafted on any living thing. New animal types have never been suddenly located among old ones, but have emerged from them by process of transmutation. As certainly as that every living thing must die, so must it reach perfection by passing through a succession of subordinate forms. An individual, or even a species, is only a zoological phase in a passage to something beyond. An instantaneous adult, like an immortal animal, is a physiological impossibility. [Sidenote: The doctrine of progressive improvement.] This bringing forth of structure from structure, of function from function, incidentally presents, upon the whole, an appearance of progressive improvement, and for such it has been not unfrequently mistaken. Thus if the lowest animals, which move by reflex action instantly but unconsciously, when an impression is made upon them, be compared with the higher ones, whose motions are executed under the influence of antecedent impressions, and are therefore controlled by ideas, there seems to have been such an improvement. Still, however, it is altogether of a physical kind. Every impression of which the dog or elephant is conscious implies change in the nerve centres, and these changes are at the basis of the memory displayed by those animals. Our own experience furnishes many illustrations. When we gaze steadfastly on some brightly-illuminated object, and then close or turn aside our eyes, a fading impression of the object at which we have been looking still remains; or, when a spark is made to revolve rapidly, we think we see a circle of fire, the impression upon the retina lasting until the spark has completed its revolution. In like manner, though far more perfectly, are impressions registered or stored up in the sensory ganglia, the phantoms of realities that have once been seen. In those organs countless images may thus be superposed. [Sidenote: Analogies between animals and man.] Man agrees with animals thus approaching him in anatomical construction in many important respects. He, too, represents a continuous succession of matter, a continuous expenditure of power. Impressions of external things are concealed in his sensory ganglia, to be presented for inspection in subsequent times, and to constitute motives of action. But he differs from them in this, that what was preparatory and rudimentary in them is complete and perfect in him. From the instrument of instinct there has been developed an instrument of intellection. In the most perfect quadrupeds, an external stimulus is required to start a train of thought, which then moves on in a determinate way, their actions indicating that, under the circumstances, they reason according to the same rules as man, drawing conclusions more or less correct from the facts offered to their notice. But, the instrument of intellection completed, it is quickly brought into use, and now results of the highest order appear. The succession of ideas is under control; new trains can be originated not only by external causes, but also by an interior, a spontaneous influence. The passive has become active. Animals remember, man alone recollects. Every thing demonstrates that the development and completion of this instrument of intellection has been followed by the super-addition of an agent or principle that can use it. [Sidenote: Points of distinction between them.] There is, then, a difference between the brutes and man, not only as respects constitution, but also as respects destiny. Their active force merges into other mundane forces and disappears, but the special principle given to him endures. We willingly persuade ourselves that this principle is actually personified, and that the shades of the dead resemble their living forms. To Eastern Asia, where philosophy has been accustomed to the abstract idea of force, the pleasures we derive from this contemplation are denied, the cheerless doctrine of Buddhism likening the life of man to the burning of a lamp, and death to its extinction. Perceiving in the mutation of things, as seen in the narrow range of human vision, a suggestion of the variations and distribution of power throughout nature, it rises to a grand, and, it must be added, an awful conception of the universe. But Europe, and also the Mohammedan nations of Asia, have not received with approbation that view. [Sidenote: The human soul.] To them there is an individualized impersonation of the soul, and an expectation of its life hereafter. The animal fabric is only an instrument for its use. The eye is the window through which that mysterious principle perceives: through the ear are brought to its attention articulate sounds and harmonies; by the other organs the sensible qualities of bodies are made known. From the silent chambers and winding labyrinths of the brain the veiled enchantress looks forth on the outer world, and holds the subservient body in an irresistible spell. [Sidenote: Extension of these views to the nature of the world.] This difference between the Oriental and European ideas respecting the nature of man reappears in their ideas respecting the nature of the world. The one sees in it only a gigantic engine, in which stars and orbs are diffusing power and running through predestined mutations. The other, with better philosophy and a higher science, asserts a personal God, who considers and orders events in a vast panorama before him. CHAPTER XI. THE EUROPEAN AGE OF REASON--(_Continued_). THE UNION OF SCIENCE AND INDUSTRY. _European Progress in the Acquisition of exact Knowledge.--Its Resemblance to that of Greece._ _Discoveries respecting the Air.--Its mechanical and chemical Properties.--Its Relation to Animals and Plants.--The Winds. --Meteorology.--Sounds.--Acoustic Phenomena._ _Discoveries respecting the Ocean.--Physical and chemical Phenomena.--Tides and Currents.--Clouds.--Decomposition of Water._ _Discoveries respecting other material Substances.--Progress of Chemistry._ _Discoveries respecting Electricity. Magnetism, Light, Heat._ _Mechanical Philosophy and Inventions.--Physical Instruments.--The Result illustrated by the Cotton Manufacture.--Steam-engine.--Bleaching. --Canals.--Railways.--Improvements in the Construction of Machinery.--Social Changes produced.--Its Effect on intellectual Activity._ _The scientific Contributions of various Nations, and especially of Italy._ The Age of Reason in Europe presents all the peculiarities of the Age of Reason in Greece. There are modern representatives of King Ptolemy Philadelphus among his furnaces and crucibles; of Hipparchus cataloguing the stars; of Aristyllus and Timochares, with their stone quadrants and armils, ascertaining the planetary motions; of Eratosthenes measuring the size of the earth; of Herophilus dissecting the human body; of Archimedes settling the laws of mechanics and hydrostatics; of Manetho collating the annals of the old dynasties of Egypt; of Euclid and Apollonius improving mathematics. [Sidenote: Analogies between the Age of Reason in Europe and in Greece.] There are botanical gardens and zoological menageries like those of Alexandria, and expeditions to the sources of the Nile. The direction of thought is the same; but the progress is on a greater scale, and illustrated by more imposing results. The exploring voyages to Madagascar are replaced by circumnavigations of the world; the revolving steam-engine of Hero by the double-acting engine of Watt; the great galley of Ptolemy, with its many banks of rowers, by the ocean steam-ship; the solitary watch-fire on the Pharos by a thousand light-houses, with their fixed and revolving lights; the courier on his Arab horse by the locomotive and electric telegraph; the scriptorium in the Serapion, with its shelves of papyrus, by countless printing-presses; the "Almagest" of Ptolemy by the "Principia" of Newton; and the Museum itself by English, French, Italian, German, Dutch, and Russian philosophical societies, universities, colleges, and other institutions of learning. [Sidenote: European progress in the acquisition of knowledge.] So grand is the scale on which this cultivation of science has been resumed, so many are those engaged in it, so rapid is the advance, and so great are the material advantages, that there is no difficulty in appreciating the age of which it is the characteristic. The most superficial outline enables us to recognize at once its resemblance to that period of Greek life to which I have referred. To bring its features into relief, I shall devote a few pages to a cursory review of the progress of some of the departments of science, selecting for the purpose topics of general interest. First, then, as respects the atmosphere, and the phenomena connected with it. [Sidenote: The atmosphere.] From observations on the twilight, the elasticity of aerial bodies, and the condensing action of cold, the conclusion previously arrived at by Alhazen was established, that the atmosphere does not extend unlimitedly into space. Its height is considered to be about forty-five miles. From its compressibility, the greater part of it is within a much smaller limit; were it of uniform density, it would not extend more than 29,000 feet. Hence, comparing it with the dimensions of the earth, it is an insignificant aerial shell, in thickness not the eightieth part of the distance to the earth's centre, and its immensity altogether an illusion. It bears about the same proportion to the earth, that the down upon a peach bears to the peach itself. A foundation for the mechanical theory of the atmosphere was laid as soon as just ideas respecting liquid pressures, as formerly taught by Archimedes, were restored, the conditions of vertical and oblique pressures investigated, the demonstration of equality of pressures in all directions given, and the proof furnished that the force of a liquid on the bottom of a vessel may be very much greater than its weight. [Sidenote: Its mechanical relations.] Such of these conclusions as were applicable were soon transferred to the case of aerial bodies. The weight of the atmosphere was demonstrated, its pressure illustrated and measured; then came the dispute about the action of pumps, and the overthrow of the Aristotelian doctrine of the horror of a vacuum. Coincidently occurred the invention of the barometer, and the proof of its true theory, both on a steeple in Paris and on a mountain in Auvergne. The invention of the air-pump, and its beautiful illustrations of the properties of the atmosphere, extended in a singular manner the taste for natural philosophy. [Sidenote: Its chemical relations.] The mechanics of the air was soon followed by its chemistry. From remote ages it had been numbered among the elements, though considered liable to vitiation or foulness. The great discovery of oxygen gas placed its chemical relations in their proper position. One after another, other gases, both simple and compound, were discovered. Then it was recognized that the atmosphere is the common receptacle for all gases and vapours, and the problem whether, in the course of ages, it has ever undergone change in its constitution arose for solution. [Sidenote: The antagonism of animals and plants.] The negative determination of that problem, so far as a few thousand years are concerned, was necessarily followed by a recognition of the antagonism of animals and plants, and their mutually balancing each other, the latter accomplishing their duty under the influence of the sun, though he is a hundred millions of miles distant. From this it appeared that it is not by incessant interventions that the sum total of animal life is adjusted to that of vegetable, but that, in this respect, the system of government of the world is by the operation of natural causes and law, a conclusion the more imposing since it contemplates all living things, and includes even man himself. The detail of these investigations proved that the organic substance of plants is condensed from the inorganic air to which that of all animals returns, the particles running in ever-repeating cycles, now in the air, now in plants, now in animals, now in the air again, the impulse of movement being in the sun, from whom has come the force incorporated in plant tissues, and eventually disengaged in our fires, shining in our flames, oppressing us in fevers, and surprising us in blushes. [Sidenote: The winds; their origin and nature.] Organic disturbances by respiration and the growth of plants being in the lowest stratum of the air, its uniformity of composition would be impossible were it not for the agency of the winds and the diffusion of gases, which it was found would take place under any pressure. The winds were at length properly referred to the influence of the sun, whose heat warms the air, causing it to ascend, while other portions flow in below. The explanation of land and sea breezes was given, and in the trade-wind was found a proof of the rotation of the earth. At a later period followed the explanation of monsoons in the alternate heating and cooling of Asia and Africa on opposite sides of the line, and of tornadoes, which are disks of air rotating round a translated axis with a diameter of one hundred or one hundred and fifty miles, the axis moving in a curvilinear track with a progressive advance of twenty or twenty-five miles an hour, and the motions being in opposite directions in opposite hemispheres of the globe. The equatorial calms and trade-winds accounted for on physical principles, it was admitted that the winds of high latitudes, proverbially uncertain as they are, depend in like manner on physical causes. With these palpable movements there are others of a less obvious kind. Through the air, and by reason of motions in it, sounds are transmitted to us. [Sidenote: Of sounds; their velocity.] The Alexandrian mathematicians made sound a favourite study. Modern acoustics arose from the recognition that there is nothing issuing from the sounding body, but that its parts are vibrating and affecting the medium between it and the ear. Not only by the air-pump, but also by observations in the rare atmosphere of the upper regions, it was shown that the intensity of sound depends upon the density. On the top of a mountain the report of a pistol is no louder than that of a cracker in the valley. As to the gradual propagation of sounds, it was impossible to observe fire-arms discharged at a distance without noticing that the flash appears longer before the report in proportion as the distance is greater. The Florentine academicians attempted a determination of the velocity, and found it to be 1148 feet in a second. More accurate and recent experiments made it 1089·42 feet at the freezing-point of water; but the velocity, though independent of the density, increases with the temperature at the rate of 1·14 foot for each degree. For other media the rate is different; for water, about 4687 feet in a second, and in cast iron about 10-1/2 times greater than in air. All sounds, irrespective of their note or intensity, move at the same velocity, the medium itself being motionless in the mass. No sound can pass through a vacuum. The sudden aerial condensation attending the propagation of a sound gives rise to a momentary evolution of heat, which increases the elasticity of the air, and hence the velocity is higher than 916 feet in a second, otherwise the theoretical rate. [Sidenote: Acoustic phenomena.] Turning from soniferous media to sounding bodies, it was shown that the difference between acute and grave sounds depends on the frequency of vibration. The ear can not perceive a sound originating in less than thirty-two vibrations in a second, nor one of more than 24,000. The actual number of vibrations in a given note was counted by means of revolving wheels and other contrivances. I have not space to relate the investigation of many other acoustic facts, the reference of sounds to phases of condensation, and rarefaction in the elastic medium taking place in a normal direction; the affections of note, intensity, quality; the passage in curved lines and around obstacles; the production of sympathetic sounds; nodal points; the effect of reeds; the phenomena of pipes and flutes, and other wind instruments; the various vibrations of solids, as bells; or of membranes, as drums; visible acoustic lines; the reflexion of undulations by surfaces of various forms; their interferences, so that, no matter how intense they may be individually, they can be caused to produce silence; nor of whispering galleries, echoes, the nature of articulate sounds, the physiology of the vocal and auditory organs of man, and the construction of speaking machines. [Sidenote: The ocean; its size.] Like the air, the ocean, which covers three-fourths of the earth's surface, when reduced to a proper standard of measure, loses very much of its imposing aspect. The varnish that covers a twelve-inch globe represents its relative dimension not inadequately. [Sidenote: Tides and currents.] On the theory of gravitation, the tides of the ocean were explained as depending on the attractive force of the sun and moon. Its currents, in a general manner, are analogous to those of the air. They originate in the disturbing action of solar heat, the temperature of the sea varying from 85° in the torrid zone to the freezing-point as the poles are approached. Its specific gravity at the equator is estimated at 1·028; but this density necessarily varies with the rate at which superficial evaporation takes place; the pure vapour rising, leaves a more concentrated salt solution. The effect is therefore, in some degree, to counteract the expansion of the water by warmth, for the sun-rays, being able to penetrate several feet below the surface, correspondingly raise the temperature of that portion, which expands and becomes lighter; but, simultaneously, surface evaporation tends to make the water heavier. Notwithstanding this, currents are established through the preponderance of the dilatation, and of them the Gulf Stream is to us the most striking example. [Sidenote: Effects of ocean streams.] The physical action of the sun-rays in occasioning currents operates through the expansion of water, of which warm portions ascend to the surface, colder portions from beneath setting in to supply their place. These currents, both hot and cold, are affected by the diurnal rotation of the earth, the action being essentially the same as that for the winds. They exert so great an influence as conveyers of heat that they disturb the ordinary climate relation depending on the sun's position. In this way the Gulf Stream, a river of hot water in a sea of cold, as soon as it spreads out on the surface of the Atlantic in higher latitudes, liberates into the air the heat it has brought from the torrid zone; and this, being borne by the south-west wind, which blows in those localities for the greater part of the year, to the westerly part of the European continent, raises by many degrees the mean annual temperature, thus not only regulating the distribution of animals and plants, but also influencing human life and its pursuits, making places pleasant that would otherwise be inclement, and even facilitating the progress of civilization. Whatever, therefore, can affect the heat, the volume, the velocity, the direction of such a stream, at once produces important consequences in the organic world. [Sidenote: Physical and chemical relations of water.] The Alexandrian school had attained correct ideas respecting the mechanical properties of water as the type of liquids. This knowledge was, however, altogether lost in Europe for many ages, and not regained until the time of Stevinus and Galileo, who recovered correct views of the nature of pressure, both vertical and oblique, and placed the sciences of hydrostatics and hydrodynamics on exact foundations. The Florentine academicians, from their experiments on water inclosed in a globe of gold, concluded that it is incompressible, an error subsequently corrected, and its compressibility measured. The different states in which it occurs, as ice, water, steam, were shown to depend altogether on the amount of latent heat it contains. Out of these investigations originated the invention of the steam-engine, of which it may be said that it has revolutionized the industry of the world. Soon after the explanation of the cause of its three states followed the great discovery that the opinion of past ages respecting its elementary nature is altogether erroneous. It is not a simple element, but is composed of two ingredients, oxygen and hydrogen, as was rigorously proved by decomposing and forming it. By degrees, more correct views of the nature of evaporation were introduced; gases and vapours were found to coexist in the same space, not because of their mutual solvent power, but because of their individual and independent elasticity. The instantaneous formation of vapours in a vacuum showed that the determining condition is heat, the weight of vapour capable of existing in a given space being proportional to the temperature. More scientific views of the nature of maximum density were obtained, and on these principles was effected the essential improvement of the low pressure steam-engine--the apparent paradox of condensing the steam without cooling the cylinder. In like manner much light was cast on the meteorological functions of water. It was seen that the diurnal vaporization from the earth depends on the amount of heat received, the vapour rising invisibly in the air till it reaches a region where the temperature is sufficiently low. There condensation into vesicles of perhaps 1/50000 of an inch in diameter ensues, and of myriads of such globules a cloud is composed. [Sidenote: Clouds and their nomenclature.] Of clouds, notwithstanding their many forms and aspects, a classification was given--cirrus, cumulus, stratus, etc. It was obvious why some dissolve away and disappear when they encounter warmer or drier spaces, and why others descend as rain. It was shown that the drops can not be pure, since they come in contact with dust, soluble gases, and organic matter in the air. [Sidenote: The return of water to the sea.] Sinking into the ground, the water issues forth as springs, contaminated with whatever is in the soil, and finds its way, through streamlets and rivers, back to the sea, and thus the drainage of countries is accomplished. Through such a returning path it comes to the receptacle from which it set out; the heat of the sun raised it from the ocean, the attraction of the earth returns it thereto; and, since the heat-supply is invariable from year to year, the quantity set in motion must be the same. Collateral results of no little importance attend these movements. Every drop of rain falling on the earth disintegrates and disturbs portions of the soil; every stream carries solid matter into the sea. It is the province of geology to estimate the enormous aggregate of detritus, continents washed away and new continents formed, and the face of the earth remodelled and renewed. [Sidenote: Progress of chemistry.] The artificial decomposition of water constitutes an epoch in chemistry. The European form of this science, in contradistinction to the Arabian, arose from the doctrine of acids and alkalies, and their neutralization. This was about A.D. 1614. It was perceived that the union of bodies is connected with the possession of opposite qualities, and hence was introduced the idea of an attraction of affinity. On this the discovery of elective attraction followed. Then came the recognition that this attraction is connected with opposite electrical states, chemistry and electricity approaching each other. A train of splendid discoveries followed; metals were obtained light enough to float on water, and even apparently to accomplish the proverbial impossibility of setting it on fire. In the end it was shown that the chemical force of electricity is directly proportional to its absolute quantity. [Sidenote: Attraction. The elements.] Better views of the nature of chemical attraction were attained, better views of the intrinsic nature of bodies. The old idea of four elements was discarded, as also the Saracenic doctrine of salt, sulphur, and mercury. The elements were multiplied until at length they numbered more than sixty. [Sidenote: Theory of phlogiston.] Alchemy merged into chemistry through the theory of phlogiston, which accounted for the change that metals undergo when exposed to the fire on the principle that something was driven off from them--a something that might be restored again by the action of combustible bodies. It is remarkable how adaptive this theory was. It was found to include the cases of combustive operations, the production of acids, the breathing of animals. It maintained its ground even long after the discovery of oxygen gas, of which one of the first names was dephlogisticated air. But a false theory always contains within itself the germ of its own destruction. The weak point of this was, that when a metal is burnt the product ought to be lighter than the metal, whereas it proves heavier. [Sidenote: Introduction of the balance into chemistry.] At length it was detected that what the metal had gained the surrounding air had lost. This discovery implied that the balance had been resorted to for the determination of weights and for the decision of physical questions. The reintroduction of that instrument--for, as we have seen, it had ages before been employed by the Saracen philosophers, who used several different forms of it--marked the epoch when chemistry ceased to be exclusively a science of quality and became one of quantity. [Sidenote: Theory of oxygen, and the nomenclature.] On the ruins of the phlogistic theory arose the theory of oxygen, which was sustained with singular ability. Its progress was greatly facilitated by the promulgation of a new nomenclature in conformity to its principles, and of remarkable elegance and power. In the course of time it became necessary, however, to modify the theory, especially by deposing oxygen from the attitude of sovereignty to which it had been elevated, and assigning to it several colleagues, such as chlorine, iodine, etc. The introduction of the balance was also followed by important consequences in theoretical chemistry, among which pre-eminently was the establishment of the laws of combinations of bodies. [Sidenote: Present state of chemistry.] Extensive and imposing as is the structure of chemistry, it is very far from its completion. It is so surrounded by the scaffolding its builders are using, it is so deformed with the materials of their work, that its true plan can not yet be made out. In this respect it is far more backward than astronomy. It has, however, disposed of the idea of the destruction and creation of matter. [Sidenote: Indestructibility of matter.] It accepts without hesitation the doctrine of the imperishability of substance; for, though the aspect of a thing may change through decompositions and recombinations, in which its constituent parts are concerned, every atom continues to exist, and may be recovered by suitable processes, though the entire thing may have seemingly disappeared. A particle of water raised from the sea may ascend invisibly through the air, it may float above us in the cloud, it may fall in the rain-drop, sink into the earth, gush forth again in the fountain, enter the rootlets of a plant, rise up with the sap to the leaves, be there decomposed by the sunlight into its constituent elements, its oxygen and hydrogen; of these and other elements, acids and oils, and various organic compounds may be made: in these or in its undecomposed state it may be received in the food of animals, circulate in their blood, be essentially concerned in acts of intellection executed by the brain, it may be expired in the breath. Though shed in the tear in moments of despair, it may give birth to the rainbow, the emblem of hope. Whatever the course through which it has passed, whatever mutations it has undergone, whatever the force it has submitted to, its elementary constituents endure. Not only have they not been annihilated, they have not even been changed; and in a period of time, long or short, they find their way as water back again to the sea from which they came. [Sidenote: Electrical discoveries.] Discoveries in electricity not only made a profound impression on chemistry, they have taken no insignificant share in modifying human opinion on other very interesting subjects. In all ages the lightning had been looked upon with superstitious dread. The thunderbolt had long been feigned to be the especial weapon of Divinity. A like superstitious sentiment had prevailed respecting the northern lights universally regarded in those countries in which they display themselves as glimpses of the movements of the angelic host, the banners and weapons of the armies of heaven. A great blow against superstition was struck when the physical nature of these phenomena was determined. As to the connexion of electrical science with the progress of civilization, what more needs to be said than to allude to the telegraph? [Sidenote: Theories of electricity.] It is an illustration of the excellence and fertility of modern methods that the phenomena of the attraction displayed by amber, which had been known and neglected for two thousand years, in one-tenth of that time led to surprising results. [Sidenote: Electrical phenomena.] First it was shown that there are many other bodies which will act in like manner; then came the invention of the electrical machine, the discovery of electrical repulsion, and the spark; the differences of conductibility in bodies; the apparently two species of electricity, vitreous and resinous; the general law of attraction and repulsion; the wonderful phenomena of the Leyden phial and the electric shock; the demonstration of the identity of lightning and electricity; the means of protecting buildings and ships by rods; the velocity of electric movement--that immense distances can be passed through in an inappreciable time; the theory of one fluid and that of two; the mathematical discussion of all the phenomena, first on one and then on the other of these doctrines; the invention of the torsion balance; the determination that the attractive and repulsive forces follow the law of the inverse squares; the conditions of distribution on conductors; the elucidation of the phenomena of induction. [Sidenote: Voltaic electricity.] At length, when discovery seemed to be pausing, the facts of galvanism were announced in Italy. Up to this time it was thought that the most certain sign of the death of an animal was its inability to exhibit muscular contraction: but now it was shown that muscular movements could be excited in those that are dead and even mutilated. Then followed quickly the invention of the Voltaic pile. [Sidenote: Results of the discovery of Galvani.] Who could have foreseen that the twitching of a frog's leg in the Italian experiments would establish beyond all question the compound nature of water, separating its constituents from one another? would lead to the deflagration and dissipation in a vapour of metals that could hardly be melted in a furnace? would show that the solid earth we tread upon is an oxide? yield new metals light enough to swim upon water, and even seem to set it on fire? produce the most brilliant of all artificial lights, rivalling if not excelling, in its intolerable splendour the noontide sun? would occasion a complete revolution in chemistry, compelling that science to accept new ideas, and even a new nomenclature? that it would give us the power of making magnets capable of lifting more than a ton, and cast a light on that riddle of ages, the pointing of the mariner's compass north and south, explain the mutual attraction or repulsion of magnetic needles? that it would enable us to form exquisitely in metal casts of all kinds of objects of art, and give workmen a means of gilding and silvering without risk to their health? that it would suggest to the evil disposed the forging of bank notes, the sophisticating of jewelry, and be invaluable in the uttering of false coinage? that it would carry the messages of commerce and friendship instantaneously across continents or under oceans, and "waft a sigh from Indus to the pole?" Yet this is only a part of what the Italian experiment, carried out by modern methods, has actually done. Could there be a more brilliant exhibition of their power, a brighter earnest of the future of material philosophy? [Sidenote: Discoveries in magnetism.] As it had been with amber, so with the magnet. Its properties had lain uninvestigated for two thousand years, except in China, where the observation had been made that its qualities may be imparted to steel, and that a little bar or needle so prepared, if floated on the surface of water or otherwise suspended, will point north and south. In that manner the magnet had been applied in the navigation of ships, and in journeys across trackless deserts. The first European magnetical discovery was that of Columbus, who observed a line of no variation west of the Azores. Then followed the detection of the dip, the demonstration of poles in the needle, and of the law of attraction and repulsion; the magnetic voyage undertaken by the English government; the construction of general variation charts; the observation of diurnal variation; local perturbations; the influence of the Aurora, which affects all the three expressions of magnetical power; the disturbance of the horary motion simultaneously over thousands of miles, as from Kasan to Paris. In the meantime, the theory of magnetism improved as the facts came out. Its germ was the Cartesian vortices, suggested by the curvilinear forms of iron filings in the vicinity of magnetic poles. The subsequent mathematical discussion was conducted upon the same principles as in the case of electricity. [Sidenote: Electro-magnetism.] Then came the Danish discovery of the relations of electricity and magnetism, illustrated in England by rotatory motions, and in France adorned by the electrodynamic theory, embracing the action of currents and magnets, magnets and magnets, currents and currents. The generation of magnetism by electricity was after a little delay followed by its converse, the production of electricity by magnetism; and thermoelectric currents, arising from the unequal application or propagation of heat, were rendered serviceable in producing the most sensitive of all thermometers. [Sidenote: Of light and optics.] The investigation of the nature and properties of light rivals in interest and value that of electricity. What is this agent, light, which clothes the earth with verdure, making animal life possible, extending man's intellectual sphere, bringing to his knowledge the forms and colours of things, and giving him information of the existence of countless myriads of worlds? What is this light which, in the midst of so many realities, presents him with so many delusive fictions, which rests the coloured bow against the cloud--the bow once said, when men transferred their own motives and actions to the Divinity, to be the weapon of God? [Sidenote: Optical discoveries.] The first ascertained optical fact was probably the propagation of light in straight lines. The theory of perspective, on which the Alexandrian mathematicians voluminously wrote, implies as much; but agreeably to the early methods of philosophy, which were inclined to make man the centre of all things, it was supposed that rays are emitted from the eye and proceed outwardly, not that they come from exterior objects and pass through the organ of vision inwardly. Even the great geometer Euclid treated the subject on that erroneous principle, an error corrected by the Arabians. In the meantime the law of reflexion had been discovered; that for refraction foiled Alhazen, and was reserved for a European. Among natural optical phenomena the form of the rainbow was accounted for, notwithstanding a general belief in its supernatural origin. Its colours, however, could not be explained until exact ideas of refrangibility, dispersion, and the composition of white light were attained. The reflecting telescope was invented; the recognized possibility of achromatism led to an improvement in the refractor. A little previously the progressive motion of light had been proved, first for reflected light by the eclipses of Jupiter's satellites, then for the direct light of the stars. A true theory of colours originated with the formation of the solar spectrum; that beautiful experiment led to the discovery of irrationality of dispersion and the fixed lines. The phenomena of refraction in the case of Iceland spar were examined, and the law for the ordinary and extraordinary rays given. At the same time the polarization of light by double refraction was discovered. A century later it was followed by polarisation by reflexion and single refraction, depolarization, irised rings, bright and black crosses in crystals, and unannealed or compressed glass, the connexion between optical phenomena and crystalline form, uniaxial crystals giving circular rings and biaxial oval ones, and circular and elliptical polarization. The beautiful colours of soap-bubbles, at first mixed up with those of striated and dotted surfaces, were traced to their true condition--thickness. The determination of thickness of a film necessary to give a certain colour was the first instance of exceedingly minute measures beautifully executed. These soon became connected with fringes in shadows, and led to ascertaining the length of waves of light. [Sidenote: Vision; the functions of the eye.] Meantime more correct ideas respecting vision were obtained. Alhazen's explanation of the use of the retina and lens was adopted. This had been the first truly scientific investigation in physiology. The action of the eye was reduced to that of the camera-obscura described by Da Vinci, and the old notion of rays issuing therefrom finally abandoned. It had held its ground through the deceptive illustration of the magic-lantern. Of this instrument the name indicates the popular opinion of its nature. In the stories of necromancers and magicians of the time are to be found traces of applications to which it was insidiously devoted--the raising of the dead, spectres skipping along the ground or dancing on the walls and chimneys, pendulous images, apparitions in volumes of smoke. [Sidenote: Optical instruments.] These early instruments were the forerunners of many beautiful inventions of later times--the kaleidoscope, producing its forms of marvellous symmetry: the stereoscope, aided by photography, offering the very embodiment of external scenery; the achromatic and reflecting telescope, to which physical astronomy is so greatly indebted; and the achromatic microscope, now working a revolution in anatomy and physiology. [Sidenote: The undulatory theory.] In its theory optics has presented a striking contrast to acoustics. Almost from the very beginning it was recognized that sound is not a material substance emitted from the sounding body, but only undulations occurring in the air. For long, optics failed to reach an analogous conclusion. The advancement of the former science has been from the general principle down to the details, that of the latter from the details up to the general principle. That light consists of undulations in an elastic medium was first inferred in 1664. Soon after, reflexion, refraction, and double refraction were accounted for on that principle. The slow progress of this theory was doubtless owing to Newton's supremacy. He gave a demonstration in the second book of the "Principia" (Prop. 42) that wave motions must diverge into the unmoved spaces, and carried popular comprehension with him by such illustrations as that we hear sounds though a mountain interpose. It was thought that the undulatory theory was disposed of by the impossibility of seeing through a crooked pipe, though we can hear through it; or that we cannot look round a corner, though we can listen round one. The present century finally established it through the discovery of interference, the destruction of the emission theory being inevitable when it was shown that light, interfering under certain circumstances with light, may produce darkness, as sound added to sound may produce silence--results arising from the action of undulating motion. The difficulties presented by polarization were not only removed, but that class of phenomena was actually made a strong support of the theory. The discovery that two pencils of oppositely polarized light would not interfere, led at once to the theory of transverse vibrations. Great mathematical ability was now required for the treatment of the subject, and the special consideration of many optical problems from this new point of view, as, for example, determining the result of transverse vibrations coming into a medium of different density in different directions. As the theory of universal gravitation had formerly done, so now the undulatory theory began to display its power as a physical truth, enabling geometers to foresee results, and to precede the experimenter in conclusions. Among earlier results of the kind was the prediction that both the rays in the biaxial crystal topaz are extraordinary, and that circular polarization may be produced by reflexion in a rhomb of glass. The phenomena of depolarization offered no special difficulty; and many new facts, as those of elliptic polarization and conical refraction, have since illustrated the power of the theory. [Sidenote: The ether and its movements.] Light, then, is the result of ethereal undulations impinging on the eye. There exists throughout the universe and among the particles of all bodies an elastic medium, ether. By reason of the repulsion of its own parts it is uniformly diffused in a vacuum. In the interior of refracting media it exists in a state of less elasticity compared with its density than in vacuo. Vibrations communicated to it in free space are propagated through such media by the ether in their interior. The parts of shining bodies vibrate as those of sounding ones, communicating their movement to the ether, and giving rise to waves in it. They produce in us the sensation of light. The slower the vibration, the longer the wave; the more frequent, the shorter. On wave-length colour depends. In all cases the vibrations are transverse. The undulatory movement passes onward at the rate of 192,000 miles in a second. The mean length of a wave of light is 0.0000219 of an inch; an extreme red wave is about twice as long as an extreme violet one. The yellow is intermediate. The vibrations which thus occasion light are, at a mean, 555 in the billionth of a second. As with the air, which is motionless when a sound passes through it, the ether is motionless, though traversed by waves of light. That which moves forward is no material substance, but only a form, as the waves seen running along a shaken cord, or the circles that rise and fall, and spread outwardly when a stone is thrown into water. The wave-like form passes onward to the outlying spaces, but the water does not rush forward. And as we may have on the surface of that liquid waves the height of which is insignificant, or those which, as sailors say, are mountains high in storms at sea, their amplitude thus differing, so in the midst of the ether difference of amplitude is manifested to us by difference in the intensity or brilliancy of light. [Sidenote: The human eye; its capabilities.] The human eye, exquisitely constructed as it is, is nevertheless an imperfect mechanism, being limited in its action. It can only perceive waves of a definite length, as its fellow organ, the ear, can only distinguish a limited range of sounds. It can only take note of vibrations that are transverse, as the ear can only take note of those that are normal. In optics there are two distinct orders of facts; the actual relations of light itself, and the physiological relations of our organ of vision, with all its limitations and imperfections. Light is altogether the creation of the mind. The ether is one thing, light is another, just as the air is one thing and sound another. The ether is not composed of the colours of light any more than the atmospheric air consists of musical notes. [Sidenote: Chemical influences of light.] To the chemical agency of light much attention has in recent times been devoted. Already in photography, it has furnished us an art which, though yet in its infancy, presents exquisite representations of scenery, past events, the countenances of our friends. In an almost magical way it evokes invisible impressions, and gives duration to fleeting shadows. Moreover, these chemical influences of light give birth to the whole vegetable world, with all its varied charms of colour, form, and property, and, as we have seen in the last chapter, on them animal life itself depends. [Sidenote: Of heat; reflexion; refraction.] The conclusions arrived at in optics necessarily entered as fundamental ideas in thermotics, or the science of heat; for radiant heat moves also in straight lines, undergoes reflexion, refraction, double refraction, polarization, and hence the theory of transverse vibrations applies to it. Heat is invisible light, as light is visible heat. Correct notions of radiation originated with the Florentine academicians, who used concave mirrors; and, in the cold-ray experiment, masses of ice of five hundred pounds weight. The refraction of invisible heat was ascertained in consequence of the invention of the thermoelectric pile. Its polarization and depolarization soon followed. Already had been demonstrated the influence of the physical state of radiant surfaces, and that the heat comes also from a little depth beneath them. [Sidenote: Exchanges of heat.] The felicitous doctrine of exchanges of heat imparted true ideas of the nature of calorific equilibrium and the heating and cooling of bodies, and offered an explanation of many phenomena, as, for instance, the formation of dew. [Sidenote: The dew, nature of.] This deposit of moisture occurs after sunset, the more copiously the clearer the sky; it never appears on a cloudy night; it neither ascends from the ground like an exhalation, nor descends like a rain. It shows preferences in its manner of settling, being found on some objects before it is on others. All these singular peculiarities were satisfactorily explained, and another of the mysteries, the unaccountable wonders of the Middle Ages, brought into the attitude of a simple physical fact. [Sidenote: Incandescence. Physical instruments.] It is impossible, in a limited space, to relate satisfactorily what has been done respecting ignition, the production of light by incandescence, the accurate measurement of the conductibility of bodies, the determination of the expansions of solids, liquids, gases, under increasing temperature, the variations of the same substance at different degrees, the heat of fluidity and elasticity, and specific heat, or to do justice to the great improvements made in all kinds of instruments--balances, thermometers, contrivances for linear and angular measures, telescopes, microscopes, spectroscopes, chronometers, aerostats, telegraphs, and machinery generally. [Sidenote: Effect of mechanical inventions.] The tendency in every direction has been to practical applications. More accurate knowledge implies increasing power, greater wealth, higher virtue. The morality of man is enhanced by the improvement of his intellect and by personal independence. Our age has become rational, industrial, progressive. In its great physical inventions Europe may securely trust. There is nothing more to fear from Arabian invasions or Tartar irruptions. The hordes of Asia could be swept away like chaff before the wind. Let him who would form a correct opinion of the position of man in the present and preceding phases of his progress reflect on the losses of Christendom in Asia and Africa, in spite of all the machinery of an Age of Faith, and the present security of Europe from every barbarian or foreign attack. From almost any of the branches of industry facts might be presented illustrating the benefits arising from the application of physical discoveries. As an example, I may refer to the cotton manufacture. [Sidenote: Illustration from the cotton manufacture.] In a very short time after the mechanical arts were applied to the manufacture of textile fabrics, so great was the improvement that a man could do more work in a day than he had previously done in a year. That manufacture was moreover accompanied by such collateral events as actually overturned the social condition throughout Europe. Among these were the invention of the steam-engine, the canal system, the prodigious development of the iron manufacture, the locomotive, and railroads; results not due to the placemen and officers to whom that continent had resigned its annals, whose effigies encumber the streets of its cities, but to men in the lower walks of life. The assertion is true that James Watt, the instrument maker, conferred on his native country more solid benefits than all the treaties she ever made and all the battles she ever won. Arkwright was a barber, Harrison a carpenter, Brindley a millwright's apprentice. [Sidenote: Development of the cotton manufacture in England.] By the labours of Paul or of Wyatt, who introduced the operation of spinning by rollers, a principle perfected by Arkwright; by the rotating carding-engine, first devised by Paul; by the jenny of Highs or Hargreaves; the water-frame; the mule, invented by Crompton, so greatly was the cotton manufacture developed as to demand an entire change in the life of operatives, and hence arose the factory system. [Sidenote: The steam-engine of Watt.] At a critical moment was introduced Watt's invention, the steam-engine. His first patent was taken out in 1769, the same year that Arkwright patented spinning by rollers. Watt's improvement chiefly consisted in the use of a separate condenser, and the replacement of atmospheric pressure by that of steam. Still, it was not until more than twenty years after that this engine was introduced into factories, and hence it was not, as is sometimes supposed, the cause of their wonderful increase. It came, however, at a fortunate time, nearly coincident with the invention of the dressing-machine by Radcliffe and the power-loom by Cartwright. [Sidenote: Bleaching by chlorine.] If the production of textile fabrics received such advantages from mechanics, equally was it favoured by chemistry in the discovery of bleaching by chlorine. To bleach a piece of cotton by the action of the air and the sun required from six to eight months, and a large surface of land must be used as a bleach-field. The value of land in the vicinity of great towns presented an insuperable obstacle to such uses. By chlorine the operation could be completed in the course of a few hours, and in a comparatively small building, the fibre being beautifully and permanently whitened. [Sidenote: Calico-printing by cylinders.] Nor were the chemical improvements restricted to this. Calico-printing, an art practised many thousand years ago among the Egyptians, was perfected by the operation of printing from cylinders. It deserves to be remarked that the cotton manufacture was first introduced into Europe by the Arabs. Abderrahman III., A.D. 930, caused it to be commenced in Spain; he also had extensive manufactures of silk and leather, and interested himself much in the culture of the sugar cane, rice, the mulberry. One of the most valuable Spanish applications of cotton was in the invention of cotton paper. The Arabs were also the authors of the printing of calicoes by wooden blocks, a great improvement on the old Indian operation of painting by hand. [Sidenote: Extent of the cotton manufacture.] We may excuse the enthusiastic literature of the cotton manufacture its boasting, for men had accomplished works that were nearly God-like. Mr. Baines, writing in 1833, states that the length of yarn spun in one year was nearly five thousand millions of miles, sufficient to pass round the earth's circumference more than two hundred thousand times--sufficient to reach fifty-one times from the earth to the sun. It would encircle the earth's orbit eight and a half times. The wrought fabrics of cotton exported in one year would form a girdle for the globe passing eleven times round the equator, more than sufficient to form a continuous sheet from the earth to the moon. And, if this was the case thirty years ago, by what illustrations would it be possible to depict it now (1859), when the quantity of cotton imported by England alone is more than twelve hundred millions of pounds? [Sidenote: Improvements in locomotion.] But such a vast development in that particular manufacture necessarily implied other improvements, especially in locomotion and the transmission of intelligence. The pedlar's pack, the pack-horse, and the cart became altogether inadequate, and, in succession, were replaced by the canal system of the last century, and by the steam-boats and railroads of this. [Sidenote: Brindley's canals.] The engineering triumphs of Brindley, whose canals were carried across valleys, over or through mountains, above rivers, excited unbounded admiration in his own times, and yet they were only the precursors of the railway engineering of ours. As it was, the canal system proved to be inadequate to the want, and oaken railways, which had long been used in quarries and coal-pits, with the locomotive invented by Murdoch in 1784, were destined to supplant them. [Sidenote: Stephenson's locomotives.] It does not fall within my present purpose to relate how the locomotion of the whole civilized world was revolutionized, not by the act of some mighty sovereign or soldier, but by George Stephenson, once a steam-engine stoker, who, by the invention of the tubular boiler and the ingenious device of blowing the chimney instead of the fire, converted the locomotive of the last century, which, at its utmost speed, could only travel seven miles an hour, into the locomotive of this, which can accomplish seventy. [Sidenote: The railway system.] I need not dwell on the collateral improvements, the introduction of iron for rails, metallic bridges, tubular bridges, viaducts, and all the prodigies of the existing system of railway engineering. [Sidenote: Improvement in the construction of machinery.] It is not only on account of the gigantic nature of the work it has to execute that the machinery employed in the great manufactures, such as those of cotton and iron, is so worthy of our admiration; improvements as respects the correctness, and even the elegance of its own construction, attract our attention. It has been truly said of steam-engines that they were never properly made until they made themselves. In any machine, the excellence of its performance depends on the accuracy of its construction. Its parts must be made perfectly true, and, to work smoothly, must work without error. To accomplish such conditions taxed to its utmost the mechanical ingenuity of the last century; and, indeed, it was not possible to reach perfect success so long as the hand alone was resorted to. Work executed by the most skilful mechanic could be no more than approximately correct. Not until such machines as the sliding rest and planing engine were introduced could any approach to perfection be made. Improvements of this nature reacted at once on the primary construction of machinery, making it more powerful, more accurate, more durable, and also led to the introduction of greater elegance in its planning or conception, as any one may see who will compare the clumsy half wooden, half metal machinery of the last century with the light and tasteful constructions of this. [Sidenote: Social changes effected by machinery.] While thus the inventive class of men were gratifying their mental activity, and following that pursuit which has ever engrossed the energetic in all ages of the world--the pursuit of riches; for it was quickly perceived that success in this direction was the high road to wealth, public consideration, and honour--the realization of riches greater than the wildest expectations of the alchemists; there were silently and in an unobserved manner great social and national results arising. The operative was correct enough in his conclusion that machinery was throwing him out of work, and reflecting persons were right enough in their belief that this extensive introduction of machines was in some way accomplishing a disorganization of the social economy. Doubtless, for the time being, the distress and misery were very severe; men were compelled to starve or to turn to new avocations; families were deprived of their long-accustomed means of support; such must necessarily be the incidents of every great social change, even though it be a change of improvement. Nor was it until the new condition of things had passed through a considerable advance that its political tendency began to be plainly discerned. It was relieving the labourer from the burden of his toil, supplanting manual by mechanical action. [Sidenote: Life in the mill.] In the cotton-mill, which may be looked upon as the embodiment of the new system and its tendencies, the steam-engine down below was doing the drudgery, turning the wheels and executing the labour, while the operatives above--men, women, and children--were engaged in those things which the engine could not accomplish--things requiring observation and intelligent action. Under such a state it was not possible but that a social change should ensue, for relief from corporeal labour is always followed by a disposition for mental activity; and it was not without a certain degree of plausibility that the philanthropist, whose attention was directed to this subject, asserted that the lot of the labouring man was no better than it had been before: he had changed the tyrant, but had not got rid of the tyranny; for the demands of the insatiate, inexorable, untiring steam-engine must be without delay satisfied; the broken thread must be instantly pieced; the iron fingers must receive their new supply; the finished work must be forthwith taken away. [Sidenote: Intellectual activity.] What was thus going on in the mill was a miniature picture of what was going on in the state. Labour was comparatively diminishing, mental activity increasing. Throughout the last century the intellectual advance is most significantly marked, and surprising is the contrast between the beginning and the close. Ideas that once had a living force altogether died away, the whole community offering an exemplification of the fact that the more opportunity men have for reflection the more they will think. Well, then, might those whose interests lay in the perpetuation of former ideas and the ancient order of things look with intolerable apprehension on what was taking place. They saw plainly that this intellectual activity would at last find a political expression, and that a power, daily increasing in intensity, would not fail to make itself felt in the end. [Sidenote: Difference between past and present ages.] In such things are manifested the essential differences between the Age of Faith and the Age of Reason. In the former, if life was enjoyed in calmness it was enjoyed in stagnation, in unproductiveness, and in a worthless way. But how different in the latter! Every thing is in movement. So many are the changes we witness, even in the course of a very brief period, that no one, though of the largest intellect, or in the most favourable position, can predict the future of only a few years hence. We see that ideas which yesterday served us as a guide die to-day, and will be replaced by others, we know not what, to-morrow. [Sidenote: Scientific contributions of various nations,] In this scientific advancement, among the triumphs of which we are living, all the nations of Europe have been engaged. Some, with a venial pride, claim for themselves the glory of having taken the lead. But perhaps each of them, if it might designate the country--alas! not yet a nation--that should occupy the succeeding post of honour, would inscribe Italy on its ballot. It was in Italy that Columbus was born; in Venice, destined one day to be restored to Italy, newspapers were first issued. It was in Italy that the laws of the descent of bodies to the earth and of the equilibrium of fluids were first determined by Galileo. In the Cathedral of Pisa that illustrious philosopher watched the swinging of the chandelier, and, observing that its vibrations, large and small, were made in equal times, left the house of God, his prayers unsaid, but the pendulum clock invented. To the Venetian senators he first showed the satellites of Jupiter, the crescent form of Venus, and, in the garden of Cardinal Bandini, the spots upon the sun. [Sidenote: especially of Italy.] It was in Italy that Sanctorio invented the thermometer; that Torricelli constructed the barometer and demonstrated the pressure of the air. It was there that Castelli laid the foundation of hydraulics and discovered the laws of the flowing of water. There, too, the first Christian astronomical observatory was established, and there Stancari counted the number of vibrations of a string emitting musical notes. There Grimaldi discovered the diffraction of light, and the Florentine academicians showed that dark heat may be reflected by mirrors across space. In our own times Melloni furnished the means of proving that it may be polarized. The first philosophical societies were the Italian; the first botanical garden was established at Pisa; the first classification of plants given by Cæsalpinus. The first geological museum was founded at Verona; the first who cultivated the study of fossil remains were Leonardo da Vinci and Fracasta. The great chemical discoveries of this century were made by instruments which bear the names of Galvani and Volta. Why need I speak of science alone? Who will dispute with that illustrious people the palm of music and painting, of statuary and architecture? The dark cloud which for a thousand years has hung over that beautiful peninsula is fringed with irradiations of light. There is not a department of human knowledge from which Italy has not extracted glory, no art that she has not adorned. [Sidenote: Causes of her depression.] Notwithstanding the adverse circumstances in which she has been placed, Italy has thus taken no insignificant part in the advancement of science. I may at the close of a work of which so large a portion has been devoted to the relation of her influences, political and religious, on the rest of Europe, be perhaps excused the expression of a hope that the day is approaching in which she will, with Rome as her capital, take that place in the modern system to which she is entitled. The course of centuries has proved that her ecclesiastical relation with foreign countries is incompatible with her national life. It is that, and that alone, which has been the cause of all her ills. She has asserted a jurisdiction in every other government; the price she has paid is her own unity. The first, the all-important step in her restitution is the reduction of the papacy to a purely religious element. Her great bishop must no longer be an earthly prince. Rome, in her outcry for the preservation of her temporal possessions, forgets that Christian Europe has made a far greater sacrifice. It has yielded Bethlehem, Gethsemane, Calvary, the Sepulchre, the Mount of the Ascension. That is a sacrifice to which the surrender of the fictitious donations of barbarian kings is not to be compared. * * * * * The foregoing paragraphs were written in 1859. Since that time Italy has become a nation, Rome is its capital, Venice belongs to it. In 1870-71 I was an eye-witness of the presence of Italian troops in the Eternal City. CHAPTER XII. CONCLUSION.--THE FUTURE OF EUROPE. _Summary of the Argument presented in this Book respecting the mental Progress of Europe._ _Intellectual Development is the Object of Individual Life.--It is also the Result of social Progress._ _Nations arriving at Maturity instinctively attempt their own intellectual Organization.--Example of the Manner in which this has been done in China.--Its Imperfection.--What it has accomplished._ _The Organization of public Intellect is the End to which European Civilization is tending._ A Philosophical principle becomes valuable if it can be used as a guide in the practical purposes of life. [Sidenote: General summary of the work.] The object of this book is to impress upon its reader a conviction that civilization does not proceed in an arbitrary manner or by chance, but that it passes through a determinate succession of stages, and is a development according to law. [Sidenote: Individual and social life have been considered;] For this purpose we considered the relations between individual and social life, and showed that they are physiologically inseparable, and that the course of communities bears an unmistakable resemblance to the progress of an individual, and that man is the archetype or exemplar of society. [Sidenote: in the intellectual history of Greece;] We then examined the intellectual history of Greece--a nation offering the best and most complete illustration of the life of humanity. From the beginnings of its mythology in old Indian legends and of its philosophy in Ionia, we saw that it passed through phases like those of the individual to its decrepitude and death in Alexandria. [Sidenote: and the history of Europe.] Then, addressing ourselves to the history of Europe, we found that, if suitably divided into groups of ages, these groups, compared with each other in chronological succession, present a striking resemblance to the successive phases of Greek life, and therefore to that which Greek life resembles--that is to say, individual life. For the sake of convenience in these descriptions we have assumed arbitrary epochs, answering to the periods from infancy to maturity. History justifies the assumption of such periods. [Sidenote: The contrasts its ages display.] There is a well-marked difference between the aspect of Europe during its savage and mythologic ages; its changing, and growing, and doubting condition during the Roman republic and the Cæsars; its submissive contentment under the Byzantine and Italian control; the assertion of its manhood, and right of thought, and freedom of action which characterize its present state--a state adorned by great discoveries in science, great inventions in art, additions to the comforts of life, improvements in locomotion, and the communication of intelligence. Science, capital, and machinery conjoined are producing industrial miracles. Colossal projects are undertaken and executed, and the whole globe is literally made the theatre of action of every individual. Nations, like individuals, are born, pass through a predestined growth, and die. One comes to its end at an early period and in an untimely way; another, not until it has gained maturity. One is cut off by feebleness in its infancy, another is destroyed by civil disease, another commits political suicide, another lingers in old age. But for every one there is an orderly way of progress to its final term, whatever that term may be. [Sidenote: The object of development is intellect.] Now, when we look at the successive phases of individual life, what is it that we find to be their chief characteristic? Intellectual advancement. And we consider that maturity is reached when intellect is at its maximum. The earlier stages are preparatory; they are wholly subordinate to this. [Sidenote: It is the same in individual life,] If the anatomist be asked how the human form advances to its highest perfection, he at once disregards all the inferior organs of which it is composed, and answers that it is through provisions in its nervous structure for intellectual improvement; that in succession it passes through stages analogous to those observed in other animals in the ascending scale, but in the end it leaves them far behind, reaching a point to which they never attain. The rise in organic development measures intellectual dignity. [Sidenote: and in the animal series,] In like manner, the physiologist considering the vast series of animals now inhabiting the earth with us, ranks them in the order of their intelligence. He shows that their nervous mechanism unfolds itself upon the same plan as that of man, and that, as its advancement in this uniform and predetermined direction is greater, so is the position attained to higher. [Sidenote: and in the general life of the globe.] The geologist declares that these conclusions hold good in the history of the earth, and that there has been an orderly improvement in intellectual power of the beings that have inhabited it successively. It is manifested by their nervous systems. He affirms that the cycle of transformation through which every man must pass is a miniature representation of the progress of life on the planet. The intention in both cases is the same. [Sidenote: Succession of automatism, instinct, and intelligence.] The sciences, therefore, join with history in affirming that the great aim of nature is intellectual improvement. They proclaim that the successive stages of every individual, from its earliest rudiment to maturity--the numberless organic beings now living contemporaneously with us, and constituting the animal series--the orderly appearance of that grand succession which, in the slow lapse of time, has emerged--all these three great lines of the manifestation of life furnish not only evidences, but also proofs of the dominion of law. In all the general principle is to differentiate instinct from automatism, and then to differentiate intelligence from instinct. In man himself the three distinct modes of life occur in an epochal order through childhood to the most perfect state. And this holding good for the individual, since it is physiologically impossible to separate him from the race, what holds good for the one must also hold good for the other. Hence man is truly the archetype of society. His development is the model of social progress. [Sidenote: The object of social development.] What, then, is the conclusion inculcated by these doctrines as regards the social progress of great communities? It is that all political institutions--imperceptibly or visibly, spontaneously or purposely--should tend to the improvement and organization of national intellect. The expectation of life in a community, as in an individual, increases in proportion as the artificial condition or laws under which it is living agree with the natural tendency. Existence may be maintained under very adverse circumstances for a season; but, for stability and duration, and prosperity, there must be a correspondence between the artificial conditions and the natural tendency. [Sidenote: Application of these principles to Europe.] Europe is now entering on its mature phase of life. Each of its nations will attempt its own intellectual organization, and will accomplish it more or less perfectly, as certainly as that bees build combs and fill them with honey. The excellence of the result will altogether turn on the suitability and perfection of the means. [Sidenote: Example offered by China.] There are historical illustrations which throw light upon the working of these principles. Thus, centuries ago, China entered on her Age of Reason, and instinctively commenced the operation of mental organization. What is it that has given to her her wonderful longevity? What is it that insures the well-being, the prosperity of a population of three hundred and sixty millions--more than one fourth of the human race--on a surface not by any means as large as Europe? Not geographical position; for, though the country may in former ages have been safe on the East by reason of the sea, it has been invaded and conquered from the West. Not a docility, want of spirit, or submissiveness of the people, for there have been bloody insurrections. The Chinese empire extends through twenty degrees of latitude; the mean annual temperature of its northern provinces differs from that of the southern by twenty-five Fahrenheit degrees. Hence, with a wonderful variety in its vegetation, there must be great differences in the types of men inhabiting it. But the principle that lies at the basis of its political system has confronted successfully all these human varieties, and has outlived all revolutions. [Sidenote: She has organized her public intellect,] The organization of the national intellect is that principle. A broad foundation is laid in universal education. It is intended that every Chinese shall know how to read and write. The special plan then adopted is that of competitive examinations. The way to public advancement is open to all. Merit, real or supposed, is the only passport to office. Its degree determines exclusively social rank. The government is organized on mental qualifications. The imperial constitution is imitated in those of the provinces. Once in three years public examinations are held in each district or county, with a view of ascertaining those who are fit for office. The bachelors, or those who are successful, are triennially sent for renewed examination in the provincial capital before two examiners deputed from the general board of public education. The licentiates thus sifted out now offer themselves for final examination before the imperial board at Pekin. Suitable candidates for vacant posts are thus selected. There is no one who is not liable to such an inquisition. When vacancies occur they are filled from the list of approved men, who are gradually elevated to the highest honours. [Sidenote: and obtains stability for her institutions.] It is not because the talented, who, when disappointed constitute in other countries the most dangerous of all classes, are here provided for, that stability of institutions has been attained, but because the political system approaches to an agreement with that physiological condition which guides all social development. The intention is to give a dominating control to intellect. [Sidenote: Imperfection of the method she employs.] The method through which that result is aimed at is imperfect, and, consequently, an absolute coincidence between the system and the tendency is not attained, but the stability secured by their approximation is very striking. The method itself is the issue of political forms through which the nation for ages has been passing. Their insufficiency and imperfections are incorporated with and reappear in it. [Sidenote: Its literary basis inadequate.] To the practical eye of Europe a political system thus founded on a literary basis appears to be an absurdity. But we must look with respect on anything that one-fourth of mankind have concluded it best to do, especially since they have consistently adhered to their determination for several thousand years. Forgetting that herein they satisfy an instinct of humanity which every nation, if it lives long enough, must feel, Europe often asserts that it is the competitive system which has brought the Chinese to their present state, and made them a people without any sense of patriotism or honour, without any faith or vigour. These are the results, not of their system, but of old age. There are octogenarians among us as morose, selfish, and conceited as China. [Sidenote: Relative position of Europe and China.] The want of a clear understanding of our relative position vitiates all our dealings with that ancient empire. The Chinese has heard of our discordant opinions, of our intolerance toward those who differ in ideas from us, of our worship of wealth, and the honour we pay to birth; he has heard that we sometimes commit political power to men who are so little above the animals that they can neither read nor write; that we hold military success in esteem, and regard the profession of arms as the only suitable occupation for a gentleman. It is so long since his ancestors thought and acted in that manner that he justifies himself in regarding us as having scarcely yet emerged from the barbarian stage. On our side, we cherish the delusion that we shall, by precept or by force, convert him to our modes of thought, religious or political, and that we can infuse into his stagnating veins a portion of our enterprise. [Sidenote: What China has really accomplished.] A trustworthy account of the present condition of China would be a valuable gift to philosophy, and also to statesmanship. On a former page I have remarked (Chap. I. Vol. I.) that it demands the highest policy to govern populations living in great differences of latitude. Yet China has not only controlled her climatic strands of people, she has even made them, if not homogeneous, yet so fitted to each other that they all think and labour alike. Europe is inevitably hastening to become what China is. In her we may see what we shall be like when we are old. A great community, aiming to govern itself by intellect rather than by coercion, is a spectacle worthy of admiration, even though the mode by which it endeavours to accomplish its object is plainly inadequate. [Sidenote: Difference in government by force and intelligence.] Brute force holds communities together as an iron nail binds pieces of wood by the compression it makes--a compression depending on the force with which it has been hammered in. It also holds more tenaciously if a little rusted with age. But intelligence binds like a screw. The things it has to unite must be carefully adjusted to its thread. It must be gently turned, not driven and so it retains the consenting parts firmly together. Notwithstanding the imperfections of a system founded on such a faulty basis, that great community has accomplished what many consider to be the object of statesmanship. They think that it should be permanence in Institutions. But permanence is only, in an apparent sense, the object of good statesmanship; progression, in accordance with the natural tendency, is the real one. The successive steps of such a progression follow one another so imperceptibly that there is a delusive appearance of permanence. Man is so constituted that he is never aware of continuous motion. Abrupt variations alone impress his attention. Forms of government, therefore, are of moment, though not in the manner commonly supposed. Their value increases in proportion as they permit or encourage the natural tendency for development to be satisfied. While Asia has thus furnished an example of the effects of a national organization of intellect, Europe, on a smaller scale, has presented an illustration of the same kind. [Sidenote: A similar example in the case of Italy.] The papal system opened, in its special circumstances, a way for talent. It maintained an intellectual organization for those who were within its pale, irrespective of wealth or birth. It was no objection that the greatest churchman frequently came from the lowest walks of life. And that organization sustained it in spite of the opposition of external circumstances for several centuries after its supernatural and ostensible basis had completely decayed away. [Sidenote: Approach of Europe to universal education.] Whatever may be the facts under which, in the different countries of Europe, such an organization takes place, or the political forms guiding it, the basis it must rest upon is universal, and, if necessary, compulsory education. In the more enlightened places the movement has already nearly reached that point. Already it is an accepted doctrine that the state, as well as the parent, has rights in a child and that it may insist on education: conversely also, that every child has a claim upon the government for good instruction. After providing in the most liberal manner for that, free countries have but one thing more to do for the accomplishment of the rest. [Sidenote: Necessity of intellectual freedom.] That one thing is to secure intellectual freedom as completely as the rights of property and personal liberty have been already secured. Philosophical opinions and scientific discoveries are entitled to be judged of by their truth, not by their relation to existing interests. The motion of the earth round the sun, the antiquity of the globe, the origin of species, are doctrines which have had to force their way in the manner described in this book, not against philosophical opposition, but opposition of a totally different nature. And yet the interests which resisted them so strenuously have received no damage from their establishment beyond that consequent on the discredit of having so resisted them. There is no literary crime greater than that of exciting a social, and especially a theological odium against ideas that are purely scientific, none against which the disapproval of every educated man ought to be more strongly expressed. The republic of letters owes it to its own dignity to tolerate no longer offences of that kind. [Sidenote: The future course of Europe.] To such an organization of their national intellect, and to giving it a political control, the countries of Europe are thus rapidly advancing. They are hastening to satisfy their instinctive tendency. The special form in which they will embody their intentions must, of course, depend to a great degree on the political forms under which they have passed their lives, modified by that approach to homogeneousness which arises from increased intercommunication. The canal system, so wonderfully developed in China, exerted no little influence in that respect--an influence, however, not to be compared with that which must be the result of the railway system of Europe. [Sidenote: Its hopefulness compared with that of China.] In an all-important particular the prospect of Europe is bright. China is passing through the last stage of civil life in the cheerlessness of Buddhism; Europe approaches it through Christianity. Universal benevolence cannot fail to yield a better fruit than unsocial pride. There is a fairer hope for nations animated by a sincere religious sentiment, who, whatever their political history may have been, have always agreed in this, that they were devout, than for a people who dedicate themselves to a selfish pursuit of material advantages, who have lost all belief in a future, and are living without any God. * * * * * I have now come to the end of a work which has occupied me for many years, and which I submit, with many misgivings as to its execution, to the indulgent consideration of the public. These pages will not have been written in vain if the facts they present impress the reader, as they have impressed the author, with a conviction that the civilization of Europe has not taken place fortuitously, but in a definite mariner, and under the control of natural law; that the procession of nations does not move forward like a dream, without reason or order, but that there is a predetermined, a solemn march, in which all must join, ever moving, ever resistlessly advancing, encountering and enduring an inevitable succession of events; that individual life and its advancement through successive stages is the model of social life and its secular variations. I have asserted the control of natural law in the shaping of human affairs--a control not inconsistent with free-will any more than the unavoidable passage of an individual as he advances to maturity and declines in old age is inconsistent with his voluntary actions; that higher law limits our movements to a certain direction, and guides them in a certain way. As the Stoics of old used to say, an acorn may lie torpid in the ground, unable to exert its living force, until it receives warmth, and moisture, and other things needful for its germination; when it grows, it may put forth one bud here and another bud there; the wind may bend one branch, the frost blight another; the innate vitality of the tree may struggle against adverse conditions or luxuriate in those that are congenial; but, whatever the circumstances may be, there is an overruling power for ever constraining and modelling it. The acorn can only produce an oak. The application of this principle to human societies is completely established by a scientific study of their history; and the more extensive and profound that study, the better shall we be able to distinguish the invariable law in the midst of the varying events. But that once thoroughly appreciated, we have gained a philosophical guide for the interpretation of the past acts of nations, and a prophetic monitor of their future, so far as prophecy is possible in human affairs. INDEX. Abba Oumna, a distinguished Jewish physician, i. 401. Abbot Arnold, his sanguinary order at the capture of Beziers, ii. 62. Abdallah penetrates Africa as far as Tripoli, i. 334. Abdalmalek invades Africa, i. 334. Abderrahman slain at the battle of Tours, ii. 30. Abderrahman III., description of the Court of, ii. 32. Introduces cotton manufacture into Spain, ii. 386. Abderrahman Sufi improves the photometry of the stars, ii. 42. Abdulmalek, his scrupulous integrity in regard to the church of Damascus, i. 338. Abelard, Peter, his character and doctrines, ii. 11. Abkah, his temporary success in subjugating Africa, i. 334. Aboul Wefa discovers the variation of the moon, i. 325. Abraham Ibn Sahal, obscene character of the songs of, ii. 35. Absorption of the soul of man, the Veda doctrine of, i. 60. Abu-Bekr, the successor of Mohammed and first Khalif, i. 334. Abul Cassem, a Moorish writer of the tenth century, on trade and commerce, ii. 44. Abul Hassan, an Arab astronomer, ii. 42. Abu Othman, a Moorish writer on zoology, ii. 39. Acacius, Bishop of Constantinople, excommunicated by Felix, the Bishop of Rome, i. 352. Academies, accusation of heresy against the Italian, ii. 213. Foundation of modern learned, ii. 287. Academy, Old, founded by Plato, i. 169. Middle, founded by Arcesilaus, i. 169. New, founded by Carneades, i. 169. Fourth, founded by Philo of Larissa, i. 170. Fifth, founded by Antiochus of Ascalon, i. 170. Acherusian Cave, superstitiously believed to lead to hell, i. 36. Achilles, spear of, preserved as a relic, i. 51. Puzzle, advanced by Zeno the Eleatic as one of four arguments against the possibility of motion, i. 122. Acoustics, discoveries in, and phenomena of, ii. 370. Adrian, Pope, incurs the displeasure of Charlemagne in consequence of selling his vassals as slaves, i. 373. Adriatic Sea, North, change of depth in, i. 30. Æneas Sylvius becomes Pope Pius II., i. 299. His remark on the Council of Basle, ii. 100. On the state of faith, ii. 103. On Christendom, ii. 109. Aerial martyrs, account of, i. 426. Æschylus condemned to death for blasphemy, but saved by his brother Aminias, i. 50. Æsculapius, the father of Greek medicine, i. 393. Affinity, first employed in its modern acceptation by Albertus Magnus, ii. 153. Africa, circumnavigation of, by the ships of Pharaoh Necho, i. 78. Conquered by the Arabs, i. 333. Effects of the loss of, on Italy, i. 350. Circumnavigation of, by Vasco de Gama, ii. 168. Age of the earth, problem of, ii. 294. Proofs of, ii. 334. Age of Faith, Greek, i. 143. Its problems, i. 217. European, i. 308. In the East, end of, i. 326. In the West, i. 349; ii. 1, 27, 77, 105. Its literary condition, ii. 128. Results of, in England, ii. 229. Contrast of, and age of Reason, ii. 389. Age of Greek decrepitude, i. 207. Age of Inquiry, Greek, its solutions, i. 217. History of, European, i. 239, 265. Age of Reason, Greek, i. 171. Greek, its problems, i. 221. Approach of, ii. 151, 190. History of, ii. 252, 294. Ages, duration of Greek, i. 222. Ages of life of man, i. 14. Of intellectual progress of Europe, i. 19. Algazzali's, of life of man, ii. 52. Each has its own logic, ii. 192. Agriculture in a rainless country, i. 85. Air, modern discoveries of the relations of, i. 102. Aix-la-Chapelle, adorned by Charlemagne, i. 373. Aiznadin, battle of, i. 335. Al Abbas, a Moorish writer on botany, ii. 39. Alaric, capture of Rome by, i. 300. Albategnius discovers the motion of the sun's apogee, i. 325. Determines the length of the year, ii. 41. Al Beithar, a Moorish writer on botany, ii. 39. Albertus Magnus constructs a brazen man, ii. 116. His extensive acquirements, ii. 153. Alberuni, a Moorish writer on gems, ii. 39. Albigensian revolt, ii. 147. Albucasis, a skilful surgeon of Cordova, ii. 39. Alby, edict of Council of, against the Jewish physicians, ii. 125. Al-Cawthor, river of, mentioned in the Koran, i. 346. Alchemists, Saracenic, i. 409. Alchemists, minor, of England, France, and Germany, ii. 155. Alchemy, theory and object of, i. 406. Alcuin, a Benedictine monk, founded the University of Paris, i. 437. Alemanni, Christianized at the beginning of the sixth century, i. 365. Alexander, Bishop of Constantinople, his controversy with Arius, i. 285. Alexander II. excommunicates the Bishop of Milan, ii. 17. Alexander IV., Pope, he endeavours to destroy the "Everlasting Gospel," ii. 78. Alexander of Aphrodisais, his principles and tendencies, i. 259. Alexander the Great, his invasion of Persia, i. 171. His character, i. 174. Alexandria, foundation of, i. 173. Political state of, i. 200. Decline of the school of, i. 204. Description of, i. 323. Its capture, i. 334. "Alexiad" of Anna Comnena, ii. 59. Algazzali, his writings and doctrines, ii. 50. Alhakem, Khalif, his extensive library, ii. 32. Alhazen discovers atmospheric refraction, ii. 42. Review of, ii. 45. His conclusions on the extent of the atmosphere confirmed, ii. 367. Ali, believed by the Shiites to be an incarnation of God, i. 347. His patronage of literature carried out by his successors, ii. 36. Alineations, employed by Hipparchus in making a register of the stars, i. 202. Alliacus, Cardinal, the five memoirs of, ii. 254. Almagest, of Ptolemy, description of, i. 203. Translated by Averroes, ii. 67. Almaimon, his letter to the Emperor Theophilus, ii. 40. Determines the obliquity of the ecliptic, ii. 41. Also the size of the earth, ii. 41. His accuracy confirmed by the measurements of Fernel, ii. 255. Almansor patronizes learned men irrespective of their religious opinions, i. 336. Alps, upheaval of, i. 31. Al-Sirat bridge, spoken of in the Koran, i. 346. Alwalid I., Khalif, prohibits the use of Greek, i. 339. Amadeus, elected "Pope Felix V.," ii. 103. Amber brought from the Baltic, i. 46. Supposed by Thales to possess a living soul, i. 97. Its electrical power imputed to a soul residing in it, i. 100. Study of its phenomena has led to important results, ii. 376. Ambrose of Milan converts St. Augustine, i. 304. Apology for the impostures practised by, i. 313. Ambrose Paré lays the foundation of modern surgery, ii. 285. America, persecutions practised in, ii. 117. Discovery of, ii. 163. Where name first occurs, ii. 163. Crime of Spain in, ii. 188. Antiquity of its civilization, ii. 189. America, United States of, separation of Church and State in, ii. 143, 227. Opportune occurrence of the Revolution, ii. 150. Culmination of the Reformation in, ii. 226. American tragedy, ii. 166. Ammon, St., wonder related of, i. 427. Ammonius Saccas, reputed author of the doctrines of Neo-Platonism, i. 211. Amrou, the Mohammedan general, takes Alexandria, i. 333. Amulets, whence their supposed power derived, i. 403. Anabaptists, number of, put to death, ii. 226. Analogy of Greek and Indian Philosophy, i. 210. Analysis, higher, commencement of the, i. 134. Political dangers of, i. 139. Anaxagoras condemned to death for impiety, i. 50. His doctrines, i. 106. Persecution and death of, i. 110. Anaximander of Miletus, his doctrines, i. 106. Originates cosmogony and biology, i. 107. Holds the doctrine that air is the first principle, i. 98. Anchorets, number of, i. 432. Animals, Veda doctrine of use of, i. 61. Are localized as well as plants, ii. 309. Order of succession of, ii. 321. Animals, cold and hot-blooded, ii. 332. Characteristics of, ii. 339. In lower tribes of, movements are automatic, ii. 349. Their instinctive and intellectual apparatus, ii. 351. Their nature, ii. 363. Analogy between, and Man, ii. 364. Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury, takes part in the dispute between the realists and nominalists, ii. 12. Anthony, St., a grazing hermit, i. 427. Delusions of, i. 429. Anthropocentric stage of thought, i. 36. Ideas, prominence of, i. 64. Ruin of, ii. 279. Philosophy, review of, ii. 287. Antimony, its uses, and origin of its name, ii. 156. Antiochus of Ascalon, founder of the fourth Academy, i. 170. Antiochus, King of Syria, cedes his European possessions to Rome, i. 246. Antisthenes, founder of the Cynical School, i. 149. Antonina, wife of Belisarius, her cruel treatment of Sylverius, i. 354. Antoninus, Marcus Aurelius, Emperor, his acknowledgments to Epictetus, i. 259. Antonio de Dominis, outrage on the body of, ii. 225. Apennines, upheaval of, i. 31. Apocalypse, comments on, ii. 78. Apollonius Pergæus, the writings of, i. 201. His geometry underrated by Patristicism, i. 316. Apollonius of Tyana aids in the introduction of Orientalism, i. 210. Wonders related of, ii. 115. Aquinas, Thomas, a Dominican, the rival of Duns Scotus, ii. 14. Sojourns with Albertus Magnus, ii. 116. Arabian influence, importance of, i. 383. Sorcery, i. 390. School system, ii. 36. Practical science, ii. 38. Medicine and surgery, ii. 39. Astronomy, ii. 41. Practical art, ii. 43. Commerce, ii. 43. Numerals, ii. 49. Arabs cultivate learning, i. 335. Rapidity of their intellectual development, i. 336. Invade Spain, ii. 28. Arabs, civilization and refinement of Spanish, ii. 30. Introduce the manufacture of cotton into Europe, ii. 386. Invent cotton paper, and the printing of calico by wooden blocks, ii. 386. Arantius, a distinguished anatomist, ii. 284. Arcesilaus, founder of the Middle Academy, i. 169. Archimedes, the writings of, i. 194. His mechanical inventions held in contempt by Patristicism, i. 316. Arctinus, his poems held in veneration, i. 51. Arddha Chiddi, the founder of Buddhism, life of, i. 66. Argonautic voyage, object of, i. 41. Its real nature, i. 45. Ariminium, Council of, i. 289. Aristarchus attempts to ascertain the sun's distance, i. 199. Aristippus, the founder of the Cyrenaic School, i. 149. Aristotle keeps a druggist's shop in Athens, i. 129, 397. Biography of, i. 176. His works translated into Arabic, i. 402. Aristotelism compared with Platonism i. 177. Arithmetic, Indian, ii. 40. Arius, his heresy, i. 285. His death, i. 288. Political results of his heresy, i. 326. Arnold of Brescia, murder of, ii. 25. Arnold de Villa Nova, biographical sketch of, ii. 130. Art, Black, i. 404. Artesian Wells, ii. 301. Articulata, anatomy of, ii. 350. Asclepions, effect of the destruction of, i. 387. Nature and organization of, i. 396. Asellius discovers the lacteals, ii. 285. Asoka, King, patronizes Buddhism, i. 67. Aspasia, history of, significant, i. 132. Astrolabe, known to the Saracens, ii. 42. Astronomical refraction, understood by Alhazen, ii. 46. Astronomy, primitive, i. 39. Passes beyond the fetich stage, i. 100. Of Eratosthenes, i. 199. How she takes her revenge on the Church, i. 360. The intellectual impulse makes its attack through, ii. 133. Affords illustration of the magnitude and age of the world, ii. 278. Athanasius rebels against the Emperor Constantine, i. 289. First introduces monasticism into Italy, i. 433. Athene, statues of, i. 51. Athens, her progress in art, i. 132, her philosophy, i. 133. Her fall, ii. 109. Atlantic, first voyage across, ii. 162. Atmosphere, height of, determined by Alhazen, ii. 47. Effects of light on, ii. 320. The phenomena and properties of, ii. 367. Atomic theory, suggested by Democritus, i. 125. Attalus, King of Pergamus, effect of his bequests to Rome, i. 247. Attila, King of the Huns, "the scourge of God," invades Africa, i. 350. Augsburg, Diet of, ii. 211. Augustine, St., causes Pelagius to be expelled from Africa, i. 294. Writes the "City of God," i. 301. Character of that work, i. 304. Denies the possibility of the Antipodes, i. 315. His notion of the Virgin, i. 361. On spontaneous generation, ii. 329. Auricular confession, introduction of, ii. 65. "Ausculta Fili," Papal bull of, ii. 83. Australian, how affected by physical circumstances, i. 26. Avenzoar, a Moorish writer on pharmacy, ii. 39. Averroes, of Cordova, the chief commentator on Aristotle, ii. 39. His theory of the soul, ii. 193. Confounded force with the psychical principle, ii. 343. His erroneous view of man, ii. 357. Avicenna, the geological views of, i. 411. A physician and philosopher, ii. 39. Avignon, Papacy removed to, ii. 86. Voluptuousness of, ii. 95. Papacy leaves, ii. 96. Azof, Sea of, dependency of the Mediterranean, i. 28. Babylonian, extent of astronomical observations, i. 192. Bacon, Lord, nature of his philosophy, ii. 258. Bacon, Roger, titles of his works, ii. 120. Is the friend of the Pope, ii. 132. His history and his discoveries, ii. 153. Baconian philosophy, its principles understood and carried into practice eighteen hundred years before Bacon was born, ii. 175. Bactrian empire, European ideas transmitted through, i. 45. Badbee, John, the second English martyr, denies transubstantiation, ii. 99. Bagdad, Khalifs of, patronize learning, i. 335. Its university founded by the Khalif al Raschid, i. 402. Baghavat Gita, i. 65. Baines on the extent of the cotton manufacture, ii. 386. Bajazet, defeats Sigismund, King of Hungary, at the battle of Nicopolis, ii. 106. "Balance of Wisdom," probably written by Alhazen, ii. 47. Balboa discovers the Great South Sea, ii. 174. Ball, John, his preaching an index of the state of the times, ii. 148. Balthazar Cossa, Pope John XXIII., ii. 98. Barbarians, Northern, their influence on civilization in Italy, i. 416. Barbarossa, Frederick, surrenders Arnold of Brescia to the Church, ii. 25. Barsumas assists in the murder of the Bishop of Constantinople, i. 297. Basil Valentine introduces antimony, ii. 156. Basil, St., Bishop of Cæsarea, founder of the Basilean order of monks, i. 436. Basle, Council of, ii. 102. Bavarians, Christianized, i. 365. "Beatific Vision," questioned by John XXII., ii. 94. Beccher introduced the phlogistic theory, ii. 286. Bechil, the discoverer of phosphorus, i. 410. Belgrade, taken by Soliman the Magnificent, ii. 109. Belisarius reconquers Africa, i. 327. Captures Rome, i. 350. Benedetto Gaetani, Cardinal, his participation in causing the abdication of Peter Morrone, Celestine V., ii. 80. Benedict, St., miracles related of, i. 435. Benedictines, their numbers, i. 436. Ben Ezra, his numerous acquirements, ii. 123. Berengar of Tours, opinions of, ii. 10. Many of his doctrines embraced by Wickliffe, ii. 98. Berkeley, his doctrine on the existence of matter, i. 231. Bernard of Clairvaux stimulates the second Crusade, ii. 24. Bernard, St., attacks Abelard, ii. 11. Bernardini, Peter, the father of St. Francis, ii. 64. Bertha, Queen of Kent, assists in the conversion of England to Christianity, i. 366. Beziers, the capture of, by Abbot Arnold, ii. 62. Council of, opposes the Jewish physicians, ii. 125. Bible, translated into Latin by Jerome, i. 306. Its superiority to the Koran, i. 343. Translated into English by Wickliffe, ii. 99. Its character and general circulation, ii. 224. Biology originates with Anaximander, i. 107. Birds, migration of, i. 6. Bishops, rivalries of the three, i. 298. Their fate, i. 306. Accusation of House of Commons against the English, ii. 235. Their reply, ii. 236. Black Art sprang from Chaldee notions, i. 404. Black Sea, a dependency of the Mediterranean, i. 28. Bleaching by chlorine, ii. 386. Blood admixture, effect of, i. 15. Degeneration, its effect, ii. 144. Boccaccio obtains a professorship for Leontius Pilatus, ii. 194. Bodin's, "De Republica," i. 6. Boethius falls a victim to the wrath of Theodoric, i. 353. His character, i. 358. Boilman, Tom, origin of the nickname, ii. 244. Boniface VIII., Pope, "Benedetto Gaetani," his quarrel with the Colonnas, ii. 80. Boniface of Savoy, Archbishop of Canterbury, his rapacity, ii. 75. Boniface, an English missionary of the seventh century, i. 366. Books, longevity of, ii. 201. Borelli on circular motion, ii. 272. Applies mathematics to muscular movement, ii. 286. Boyle improves the air-pump, ii. 286. Bradley determines the velocity of direct stellar light, ii. 299. Brahman, how regarded according to the Institutes of Menu, i. 63. Attempted to reconcile ancient traditions with modern philosophical discoveries, ii. 335. Brain, functions, ii. 351. Breakspear, Nicholas, afterwards Pope Adrian IV., ii. 25. Brown, discoverer of the quinary arrangement of flowers, ii. 286. Brindley, a millwright's apprentice, ii. 385. His engineering triumph in the construction of canals, ii. 387. Bruchion, the library in, i. 318. Bruno, Giordano, teaches the heliocentric theory, ii. 257. Is burnt as a heretic, ii. 258. Brutes, why supposed by Diogenes to be incapable of thought, i. 102. Buddhism, its rise, i. 65. The organisation of, i. 67. Its fundamental principle, i. 68. Its views of the nature of man, i. 70. Philosophical estimate of, i. 72. Bulgarians converted by a picture, i. 367. Bunsen, his estimate of Eusebius's chronology, i. 198. Bunyan, John, his writings surpass those of St. Augustine, i. 305. His twelve years' imprisonment for preaching, ii. 242. Probable source of much of the machinery of the Pilgrim's Progress, ii. 248. Burnet's "Sacred Theory of the Earth," ii. 286. Byzantine system adopted in Italy, i. 349. Government persecutes the Nestorians and Jews, i. 385. Suppression of medicine, i. 386. Cabanis, quoted on the influence of the Jews, ii. 120. Cabot, Sebastian, rediscovers Newfoundland, and attempts to find a north-west passage to China, ii. 174. Cabral discovers Brazil, ii. 174. Cadesia, effect of the battle of, i. 335. Cæsalpinus first gives a classification of plants, ii. 390. Cæsar becomes master of the world, i. 248. Calico printing, antiquity of the art, and how improved, ii. 386. Caligula, Emperor, an adept in alchemy, i. 407. Calixtus III., Pope, issues his fulminations against Halley's comet, ii. 253. Callimachus, author of a treatise on birds, and a poet, i. 201. Callisthenes accompanies Alexander the Great in his campaigns, i. 172. Is hanged by his orders, i. 174. Transmits to Aristotle records of astronomical observations, i. 192. Calvin establishes a new religious sect, ii. 211. Causes Servetus to be burnt as a heretic, ii. 225. Calydonian boar, hide of, preserved as a relic, i. 51. Cambyses conquers Egypt, i. 79, 186. Canal of Egypt, reopened by Necho, i. 78. A warning from the oracle of Amun causes Necho to stop the construction of, i. 93. Cleared again from sand, i. 325. Canals the precursors of railways, ii. 387. Of China, their influence, ii. 400. Cannibalism of Europe, i. 32. Canonic of Epicurus, imperfection of, i. 167. Canosa, scene at, the King of Germany seeking pardon of the Pope, ii. 19. Cape of Good Hope, doubled by Vasco de Gama, ii. 168. First made known in Europe by the Jews, ii. 175. Caracalla, alluded to in the reply of the Christians to the Pagans, i. 302. Carat, its derivation and signification, ii. 44. Carneades, the founder of the New Academy, his doctrines, i. 169. Carthage, description of, i. 129. Its conquest contemplated by Alexander the Great, i. 174. Most effectually controlled by invading Africa, i. 245. Heraclius contemplates making it the metropolis of the Eastern empire, i. 329. Stormed and destroyed by Hassan, i. 334. Carthaginian commerce, nature, and extent of, i. 130. "Carolinian Books" published by Charlemagne, against image worship, i. 372. Caspian and Dead Seas, level of, ii. 305. Castelli assists in the verification of the laws of motion, ii. 271. Creates hydraulics, ii. 285. Lays the foundation of hydraulics, ii. 390. Casuistry, development of, ii. 66. Catalogue of stars contained in the Almagest of Ptolemy, i. 203. Catasterisims of Eratosthenes, i. 196. Catastrophe, insufficiency of a single, ii. 316. Doctrine of, ii. 323. Cato causes Carneades to be expelled from Rome, i. 164. Celibacy of clergy insisted on by the monks, i. 426. Necessity of, ii. 16. Celt, sorcery of the, i. 34. Cerebral sight, important religious result of, i. 430. Cerinthus, his opinion of the nature of Christ, i. 270. Chadizah, the wife of Mohammed, i. 330, 337. Chakia Mouni, meaning of the name, i. 67. The founder of Buddhism, i. 342. Chalcedon, Council of, i. 297. It determines the relation of the two natures of Christ, i. 299. Chaldee notions give rise to the black art, i. 404. Châlons, battle of, i. 350. Charlemagne, his influence in the conversion of Europe, i. 364. Disapproves of idolatry, i. 368. Developes the policy of his father Pepin, i. 371. Is crowned Emperor of the West, i. 371. The immorality of his private life, i. 374. Charles Martel gains the battle of Tours, i. 368. His relations to the Church, i. 369. Pope Gregory III. seeks his aid, i. 423. Charms, the source of their supposed power, i. 403. Chemistry, fetichism of, i. 101. Pythagorean, i. 116. Scientific, cultivated by the Arabs, i. 408. Progress of, ii. 374. Chilperic II. permitted to retain his title, i. 369. Chilperic III. deposed and shut up in the convent of St. Omer, i. 370. China, her policy, ii. 395. Chinese Buddhism, i. 72, 74. Chosroes II., his successes, i. 328. The effect of his wars on commerce, i. 337. Christian reply to the accusation of the Pagans, i. 301. Christianity, influence of Roman, i. 241. Debased in Rome, i. 264. Distinction between, and ecclesiastical organizations, i. 267. Its first organization, i. 269. Three modifications of, i. 271. Judaic, i. 271. Gnostic, i. 273. Platonic, i. 273. Spreads from Syria, i. 274. Antagonizes imperialism, i. 275. Its persecutions, i. 277. Hellenized, i. 290. Paganization of, i. 309. Expelled from Palestine, Asia Minor, Egypt, and Carthage, i. 332. Paganisms of, i. 359. Allied to art, i. 359. Chronology of Eratosthenes, i. 197. Church, Greek and Latin, i. 291. Effects of union of, and State, i. 377. What she had done, ii. 145. Services, their influence on the people, ii. 202. Separation of, and State, ii. 227. Cicero, his opinions and principles, i. 258. Cimbri, cause of their invasion, i. 30. Cipher, its derivation and meaning, ii. 40. Alluded to by Pope Sylvester, ii. 49. Circle, the quadrature of, treated by Archimedes, i. 194. Circumnavigation of Africa, why undertaken by the Egyptian Kings, i. 78. Its repetition contemplated by Alexander, i. 173. Of the earth, ii. 172. Results of, ii. 173. Circumstances, how far man is the creature of, i. 389. Clement V., Pope, takes up his residence at Avignon, ii. 86. Clement of Alexandria, his invective against the corruptions of Christianity, i. 358. Cleomedes, an astronomer of Alexandria, i. 202. Cleopatra, the last of the Ptolemies, i. 200. Is presented with one of the Alexandrian libraries, i. 318. Clergy, responsible for the massacre at Thessalonica, i. 313. Support the delusion of supernaturalism, ii. 113. American, ii. 227. English accused by the Commons, ii. 235. Discipline Act, ii. 237. Degraded condition of the lower, in England, ii. 242. "Clericis Laicos," bull issued by Pope Boniface, ii. 82. Clermont, Council of, authorizes the First Crusade, ii. 21. Climacus, John, author of "Ladder of Paradise," ii. 59. Climates, in time and place, ii. 317. Clotilda, Queen of the Franks, counsels her husband Clovis, i. 365. Clouds and their nomenclature, ii. 373. Cnidos, medical school of, i. 396. Cnudesuya, aqueduct of, ii. 186. Coal period, ii. 320. Its botany, ii. 332. Cobham, Lord, hanged for heresy and treason, ii. 99. Cochlea, its function, i. 5. Coenobitism succeeds Eremitism, i. 432. Coffee-houses, their political and social importance, ii. 249. Coinage, its adulteration, i. 251. Coiter creates pathological anatomy, ii. 285. Cold, influence of, on man, i. 28. Colleges founded by the Jews, i. 402, ii. 121. Colonial system, origin of Greek, i. 128. Colonies, Greek, essentially weak, i. 113. Philosophical influence of, i. 128. Colonnas, their quarrel with Pope Boniface, ii. 80. Colossus of Rameses II., its great antiquity, i. 87. Colours of rainbow, ii. 379. Columban, a missionary of the sixth century, i. 366. Columbus, his early life, ii. 159. Is confuted by the Council of Salamanca, ii. 161. His voyage across the Atlantic, ii. 162. Discovery of America, ii. 163. Commerce, development of Mediterranean, i. 45. Favourable to the spread of new ideas, i. 127, many of the devices of modern, known to the Carthaginians, i. 130. Communities, nature of progress of, i. 12. Comnena, Anna, "Alexiad" of, ii. 59. Condillac, his theory of memory and comparison, i. 232. Conon of Alexandria, i. 194. Constance, Council of, ii. 99. Constantine the Great, the success of his policy, i. 277. Influence of the reign of, i. 278. Removes the metropolis, i. 279. His tendencies to Paganism, i. 280. His relations to the Church, i. 281. His policy, i. 282. Conversion and death, i. 283. Attempts to check the Arian controversy, i. 286. Denounces Arius as a heretic, i. 287. Constantine, Pope, an usurper, his cruel treatment, i. 378. Constantine Copronymus, his iconoclastic policy, i. 418. Constantine Palæologus, the last of the Roman Emperors, ii. 108. Constantinople, Council of, i. 419. Determines that Son and Holy Spirit are equal to the Father, i. 299. The seventh general, held at, i. 419. Sack of, ii. 56. Its literature, ii. 58. Siege of, by the Turks, ii. 107. Fall of, ii. 108. Convocation, charges against, ii. 235. Copais, tunnel of, i. 32. Copernican system, condemned by the Inquisition, ii. 263. Theory of, rectified, ii. 268. Copernicus, the works of, ii. 255. His doctrine, ii. 256. Copronymus the Iconoclast, i. 418. Cordova, description of, ii. 30. Corinth, mechanical art reached its perfection in, i. 132. Her fall, ii. 109. Cosmas Indicopleustes, his argument against the sphericity of the earth, ii. 159. Cosmo de' Medici, ii. 192. Cosmogony, originates with Anaximander, i. 107. Of Anaxagoras, i. 109. Of Pythagoras, i. 115. Cotton manufacture, ii. 385. Councils, their object and nature, i. 236. Are not infallible, i. 297. Creations and extinctions, cause of, ii. 311. Criterion of truth, existence of, doubted by Anaxagoras, i. 110. One of the problems of Greek philosophy, i. 230. Remarks on, i. 232. A practical one exists, i. 235. Criticism, effect of philosophical, i. 46. Rise of, ii. 190. Effect of, on literature and religion, ii. 224. Cross, the true, discovered, i. 309. Crotona, a Greek colonial city, i. 111. Its extent, i. 128. Crusades, origin of, ii. 20. The first, ii. 22. Political result of, ii. 23. Atrocities in the South of France, ii. 62. Effect of, ii. 135. Ctesiphon, the metropolis of Persia, sack of, i. 335. Cuvier, his doctrine of the permanence of species, ii. 326. His remark on vivisection, ii. 349. Cuzco, the metropolis of Peru, description of, ii. 181. Cycle of life, i. 233. Cyclopean structures, i. 32. Cynical school, i. 149. Cyprian, his complaints against the clergy and confessors, i. 358. Cyprian, St., his remarks at the Council of Carthage, i. 291. Cyprus taken by the Saracens, i. 335. Cyrenaic school, i. 149. Cyril, St., his acts, i. 321. An ecclesiastical demagogue, i. 391. Daillé, his estimate of the Fathers, ii. 225. Damascus taken, i. 334. Damasus, riots at the election of, i. 292. Damiani, Peter, his charges against the priests of Milan, ii. 7. Death, interstitial, i. 14. "Defender of Peace," nature of the work, ii. 93. Deification, John Erigena on, ii. 9. Deity, anthropomorphic ideas of, in the Koran, i. 342. Delos, a slave market, i. 246. Deluges, ancient, i. 30. Delusions, of the sense, i. 230. Created by the mind, i. 429. Demetrius Phalereus, his instructions to collect books, i. 188. Demetrius Poliorcetes quoted, i. 166. Democritus asserts the unreliability of knowledge, i. 124. Descartes, his theory of clear ideas, i. 231. Introduces the theory of an ether and vortices, ii. 285. Desert, influences of the, i. 6. Destiny, Democritus's opinion of, i. 125. Stoical doctrine of, i. 185. Deucalion, deluge of, i. 51. Development of organisms, Alhazen's theory of, ii. 48. Dew, the nature of, ii. 384. Diaphragm of Dicæarchus, i. 196. Didymus, wonderful taciturnity related of, i. 427. Diocles, a writer on hygiene and gymnastics, i. 397. Diocletian, state of things under, i. 276. Diogenes of Apollonia developes the doctrines of Anaximenes, i. 99. Diogenes of Sinope extends the doctrines of Cynicism, i. 149. Dioscorus, Bishop of Alexandria, deposed by the Council of Chalcedon, i. 297. Djafar, or Geber, an Arabian chemist, describes nitric acid and aqua regia, i. 410. Djondesabour, medical college of, founded by the Nestorians and Jews, i. 391. Patronized by the Khalif al Raschid, i. 402. Docetes, their ideas of the nature of Christ, i. 270. Dogmatists, their theory of the treatment of disease, i. 399. Dominic, St., wonders related of, ii. 63. Dominicans, they oppose Galileo, ii. 262. Donatists recalled from banishment by Constantine, i. 281. Drama, an index of national mental condition, ii. 249. Draper's Physiology quoted on cerebral sight, i. 430. On the benefits conferred by the Church, ii. 145. On the necessity of resorting to anatomy and physiology, ii. 343. Dreams, Algazzali's view of their nature, ii. 51. Druids, i. 241. Du Molay, burnt at the stake, ii. 92. Duns Scotus, John, a Franciscan monk, the rival of Thomas Aquinas, ii. 14. Duverney on the sense of hearing, ii. 286. Ear, i. 5. Earth, globular form of, implied by the voyage of Columbus, ii. 164, proved by its shadow in eclipses of the moon, ii. 171. Is not the immovable centre of the universe, ii. 254. Age of, ii. 278. Its slow cooling, ii. 301. Mean density of, ii. 302. Movement of the crust of, ii. 306. Development of life on, ii. 355. Earthquakes, ii. 302. Easter, dispute respecting, i. 291. Ebionites, their doctrine of our Saviour's lineage, i. 272. Ebn Djani, physician to the Sultan Saladin, and author of a work on the medical topography of Alexandria, ii. 124. Ebn Junis, a Moorish astronomer, ii. 41. Astronomical table of, ii. 42 Ebn Zohr, competitor of Raschi, ii. 123. Ecclesiasticism, its decline, ii. 143. Its downfall, ii. 284. Eclipse, solar, predicted by Thales, i. 97. Ecliptic, discovery of obliquity of, falsely imputed to Anaximenes, i. 99. Determined with accuracy by Almaimon, ii. 41. Slow process of its secular variation, ii. 304. Ecstasy, i. 213. Edessa, church of, re-built by Moawiyah for his Christian subjects, i. 338. Edward I. of England compels the clergy to pay taxes, ii. 81. Egypt, conquest of, by Cambyses, i. 79. Antiquity of civilization in, i. 81. Pre-historic Life of, i. 81. Influence of, on Europe, i. 82. Antiquity of its monarchy, i. 84. Geological age of, i. 87. Geography and topography of, i. 87. Roman annexation of, i. 248. Egyptian ports opened, i. 77. Theology i. 91. Elcano, Sebastian de, the Lieutenant of Magellan, ii. 173. Eleatic philosophy, i. 118. Influence of the school, i. 220. Electricity, discoveries in, ii. 377. Electro-magnetism, ii. 378. Elixir of Life, i. 407. Effect of the search for, on medicine, i. 411. Eloquence, Parliamentary, decline of its power, ii. 204. Elphinstone, quotation from, i. 64. Elysium, i. 36. Emanation, doctrine of, i. 225. Empedocles, biography of, i. 123. Empirics, their doctrine, i. 399. England, conversion of, i. 366. Policy of an Italian town gave an impress to its history, ii. 17. Its social condition, ii. 229. Condition of, at the suppression of the monasteries, ii. 230. Backward condition of, ii. 233. State of, at the close of the seventeenth century, ii. 238. Ephesus, Council of, called "Robber Synod," i. 297. Determines that the two natures of Christ make but one person, i. 299. Epictetus, his doctrines, i. 259. Epicureans, modern, i. 168. Epicurus, the doctrine of, i. 165. His irreligion, i. 168. Epicycles and eccentrics, Hipparchus's theory of, i. 202. Epochs of individual life, i. 14. Of national life, i. 19. Erasmus becomes alienated from the Reformers, ii. 225. Wonderful popularity of his "Colloquies," ii. 238. Eratosthenes, the writings and works of, i. 196. Astronomy of, i. 199. Eremitism, its modifications, i. 432. Erigena, John, a Pantheist employed by the Archbishop of Rheims, ii. 9. Essenes, a species of the first hermits among the Jews, i. 425. Ether, movements of, ii. 382. Ethical philosophy, i. 143. Its secondary analysis, i. 164. Ethics of Plato, i. 158. Ethnical element, definition of, and conditions of change in, i. 12. Eucharist, difference of opinion about, ii. 210. Euclid of Alexandria, his various works, i. 193. His reply to Ptolemy Philadelphus, i. 398. Euclid of Megara, an imitator of Socrates, i. 148. Eugenius IV., Pope, dethroned by the Council of Basle, ii. 102. Eumenes, King of Pergamus, establishes a second library in Alexandria, i. 318. Eunapius, his opinion of Plotinus, i. 212. Eunostos, harbour of, connected by a canal with lake Mareotis, i. 323. Euripides tainted with heresy, i. 50. Europe, description of, i. 23. Greatest elevation of, above the sea, i. 23. Vertical displacement of, i. 29. Conversion of, i. 365. Psychical change in, i. 364. Social condition of, after Charlemagne, i. 376. Barbarism of, ii. 27. Future of, ii. 392. European climate, modification of Asiatic intruders by, i. 34. Old religion, i. 240. Priesthood, i. 240. Slave-trade, i. 373. Eusebius, his contempt of philosophy, i. 314. Perverts chronology, i. 197. Is deposed, i. 297. His apology for the Fathers, i. 314. His chronology subverts that of Manetho and Eratosthenes, i. 316. His admission of his own want of truthfulness, i. 360. Eustachius distinguished by his dissections, ii. 284. Eutychianism, i. 296. "Everlasting Gospel," ii. 75. Existence depends on physical conditions, i. 7. Extinction of species, cause of, i. 8. Extinctions and creations, law of, ii. 311. Eye, arranged on refined principles of optics, i. 5. Functions of, ii. 380. Capabilities of the human, ii. 383. Fabricius ab Aquapendente discovers the valves in the veins, ii. 285. Fairies destroyed by tobacco, ii. 126. Faith, two kinds of, ii. 192. Fallopius distinguished by his dissections, ii. 284. Fasting, continued, its effect on the mind, i. 429. Faustus, his accusation to Augustine, i. 310. Felix V., Pope, abdicates, ii. 103. Felix, Bishop of Rome, excommunicated by Acacius, Bishop of Constantinople, i. 352. Fernel establishes the true nature of syphilis, ii. 232. Measures the size of the earth, ii. 255. Fetiches supposed a panacea, i. 386. Fetichism displaced by star worship, i. 3. Difficulty of early cultivators of philosophy to emerge from, i. 100. Feudal system, how it originated, i. 376. Fire, asserted by Heraclitus to be the first principle, i. 104. Fire, liquid or Greek, used by the Arabs, i. 408. Fireworks used by the Arabs, i. 408. Flagellants, their origin, ii. 76. Flavianus, Bishop of Constantinople, deposed, i. 297. Florence, the Academy of Athens revived in the Medicean gardens of, ii. 193. Florentine Academicians erroneously suppose water to be incompressible, ii. 372. Originate correct notions of the radiation of heat, ii. 383. Show that dark heat may be reflected by mirrors, ii. 390. Florentius, a priest, attempts to poison St. Benedict, i. 435. Food, location of animals controlled by, ii. 310. Its nature, ii. 341. Force, animal, its source, ii. 339. Formosus, Pope, converted the Bulgarians, i. 367. Forms contrasted with law, i. 22. Introduction of, personified, i. 37. Fictitious permanence of, successive, i. 104. Fracasta, an early cultivator of fossil remains, ii. 391. Francis, St., his early life, ii. 64. Placed by the lowest of his order in the stead of our Saviour, ii. 83. Franciscans, higher English, their opposition to Pope Boniface, ii. 83. Franks Christianized at the end of the fifth century, i. 365. Fratricelli, their affirmation, i. 283. Burned by the inquisition for heresy, ii. 79. Frederick II., Emperor of Germany, birth of ii. 25. His Mohammedan tendencies, ii. 66. Free trade, its effects, i. 254. Freewill not inconsistent with the doctrine of law, i. 21. Galen, his opinions, i. 259. His division of physicians into two classes, i. 399. Galileo, the historical representative of the intellectual impulse, ii. 134. Invents the telescope, ii. 261. Astronomical discoveries of, ii. 261. Is condemned by the Inquisition, ii. 263. Publishes "The System of the World," ii. 263. His degradation and punishment, ii. 264. His death, ii. 265. His three laws of motion, ii. 269. Re-discovers the mechanical properties of fluids, ii. 372, 390. Geber, or Djafar, the alchemist, discovers nitric acid and aqua regia, i. 409. Gelasius, his fearless address to the Emperor, i. 353. Geminus, an Alexandrian astronomer, i. 202. Genoa, her commerce, ii. 158. Genseric, King of the Vandals, invited by Count Boniface into Africa, i. 327. Invited to Rome, i. 350. Geocentric theory, its adoption by the Church, ii. 254. Important result of its abandonment, ii. 335. Geographical discovery, effects of, i. 44. Geography, primitive, i. 39. Its union with the marvellous, i. 42. Of Ptolemy, i. 204. End of Patristic, ii. 164. Geological movements of Asia, i. 29. Geology, ii. 294. Evidence furnished by, as to the position of man, ii. 338. Gepidæ, converted in the fourth century, i. 365. Gerbert, life of, ii. 4. His Saracen education, ii. 4. His ecclesiastical advancement, ii. 5. Becomes Pope Sylvester II., ii. 6. Is the first to conceive of a European crusade, ii. 21. Said to have introduced a knowledge of the Arabic numerals into Europe, ii. 49. Germans not prone to idolatry, i. 415. Insist on a reform in the Papacy, ii. 2. Gesner, Luther's opinion of the manner of his death, ii. 117. Leads the way to zoology, ii. 284. Gilbert proposed to determine the longitude by magnetic observations, ii. 167. Adopts the views of Copernicus, ii. 260. Publishes his book on the magnet, ii. 284. Gilbert of Ravenna elected antipope, ii. 20. Gisella, Queen of Hungary, assists in the conversion of her subjects to Christianity, i. 365. Glass, its rate of dilatation by heat, ii. 300. Globes, used by the Saracens, ii. 41. Gobi, dry climate of, i. 25. Character of its botany, i. 25. Was once the bed of a sea, i. 29. Gold, Ancient value of, i. 251. Potable, attempts to make, i. 407. Problem of, solved by Djafar, i. 409. Gotama, the founder of Buddhism, life of, i. 67. Goths become permanently settled in the Eastern empire, i. 300. Adopt the Byzantine system, i. 349. Have possession of Italy, i. 350. Date of their conversion, i. 365. Gotschalk, his persecution, ii. 8. Graaf, a physiologist, ii. 286. Greece, Roman invasion of, i. 247. Greek mythology, i. 38. Transformations of, i. 43. Cause of its destruction, i. 44. Secession of literary men and philosophers, i. 47. Movements repeated in Europe, i. 53. Philosophy, origin of, i. 94. Summary of, i. 141. Its four grand topics, i. 223. Fire, i. 408. Learning, revival of, ii. 193. Cause of dislike of, ii. 195. Gregory II., Pope, defends image-worship, i. 421. Gregory III., Pope, defies the emperor, i. 423. Gregory VI., Pope, purchases the Papacy, i. 381. Gregory VII., his policy, ii. 15. Gregory IX., Pope, excommunicates Frederick II., ii. 67. Gregory XI., Pope, restores the Papacy to Rome, ii. 96. Gregory XII., Pope, deposed by the Council of Pisa, ii. 97. Gregory the Great, his history, i. 355. Burns the Palatine Library, i. 357. Attempts to reconvert England, i. 366. Gregory of Nazianzum, his opinion of Councils, i. 299. Grew discovers the sexes of plants, ii. 286. Grimaldi discovers the diffraction of light, ii. 390. Grostête, Robert, Bishop of Lincoln, the result of his inquiry into the emoluments of foreign ecclesiastics, ii. 55. Makes a speaking head, ii. 116. Grotius, his opinion of the Reformation, ii. 225. Guericke, Otto invented the air-pump ii. 286. Guido, a Benedictine monk, the inventor of the scale of music, i. 437. Gulf Stream, its influence on the western countries of Europe, i. 24; ii. 371. Gunpowder, its composition given by Marcus Græcus, i. 408. Hades, i. 39. Origin of the Greek, i. 92. Hadrian IV., Nicholas Breakspear, ii. 25. Hallam, his opinion of Leonardo da Vinci quoted, ii. 268. Halley's comet, how described and regarded, ii. 253. Hallucination, fasting a frequent cause of, i. 428. Hannina, the earliest Jewish physician, i. 400. Haroun, a physician of Alexandria, the first to describe the small-pox, i. 401. Haroun al Raschid, Khalif, sends Charlemagne the keys of our Saviour's sepulchre, i. 374. Places all his public schools under John Masué, i. 392. Patronizes a medical college and founds a university, i. 402. Causes Homer to be translated into Syriac, ii. 34. Harpalus, employed by Alexander in his scientific undertakings, i. 173. Harvey discovers the circulation of the blood, ii. 285. Hassan takes Carthage by storm, i. 334. Heart constructed upon the principles of hydraulics, i. 5. Heat, control of, over life, i. 8. Distribution of, in Europe, i. 26. Sources of, i. 103. Boundary of organisms by, ii. 309. Decline of, in the earth, ii. 318. Properties of, ii. 383. Helena, the mother of Constantine the Great, superintends the building of monumental churches, i. 309. The influence she exercised in the religion of the world, i. 366. Her benevolence in founding hospitals, i. 386. Adopts image-worship, i. 414. Heliocentric theory, its meaning, ii. 254. Resistless spread of, ii. 274. Heming introduced street-lamps in England, ii. 241. Henry V., Emperor of Germany, his resistance to the Popes, ii. 24. Henry VIII., King of England, had personal reasons for discontent, ii. 216. The instrument, not the author, of the revolution, ii. 238. Henry the Fowler asserts the power of the monarchical principle, i. 376. Heraclitus, his philosophical system, i. 104. Heraclius, Emperor, resists the second Persian attack, i. 326. His contemplated abandonment of Constantinople, i. 329. Defeated at the battle of Aiznadin, i. 335. The effect on commerce of his long wars, i. 337. Hercules, legend of, i. 37. Heresy, Pelagian, i. 293. Nestorian, i. 295. Eutychian, i. 296. Followed the spread of literature, ii. 60. Heretics, burning of, by the Inquisition, ii. 75. Hermits, their origin, i. 424. Aerial, i. 426. Grazing, i. 427. Their numbers, i. 432. Hero, the inventor of the first steam-engine, i. 205, 387. Herodotus, i. 49. Herschels, their discoveries, ii. 276. Hesiod extends the theogony of Homer, i. 43. Hessians, period of their conversion, i. 365. Hiero's crown gives origin to hydrostatics, i. 195. Hieroglyphics, their origin and value, i. 83. Hilarion, a hermit of the fourth century, i. 425. Said to be the first to establish a monastery, i. 432. Hilary, Bishop of Arles, his contumacy denounced, i. 300. Hildebrand brought on an ecclesiastical reform, ii. 3. His difficulty in reconciling the dogmas of the Church with the suggestions of reason, ii. 12. Becomes Pope Gregory VII., ii. 15. Hindu polytheism, i. 34. Philosophy, i. 56. Hipparchus, the writings of, i. 202. Hippocrates, his opinion of Democritus, i. 126. Review of, i. 393. Historians, secession of, from the public faith, i. 49. Hobbes, his philosophical opinions, i. 231. Holy places, loss of, ii. 134. Homer, theogony of, extended by Hesiod, i. 43. Homoeomeriæ, i. 109. Honorius passes a law against concubinage among the clergy, i. 359. Honorius III. compels Frederick II. to marry Yolinda de Lusignan, ii. 67. Hooke, his paper to the Royal Society on circular motion, ii. 272. Determines the essential conditions of combustion, ii. 286. Hormisdas, Pope, policy pursued by, i. 353. Horner's observation on the rate of the mud deposit of the Nile, i. 87. Hosius of Cordova sent to Alexandria, i. 286. Houris of Paradise, i. 346. Humboldt pays tribute to Eratosthenes, i. 196. His remarks on the movement of Jupiter's satellites, ii. 267. Hume, his doctrine of mind and matter, i. 231. Huss, John, martyrdom of, ii. 100. Adopts the theological views of Wickliffe, ii. 148. Hydrometer improved by Alhazen, ii. 48. Hyksos, old empire of Egypt invaded and overthrown by the, i. 76. Hypatia lectures on philosophy in Alexandria, i. 322. Murdered by Cyril, i. 324. Hypocrisy, organization of, i. 54. Iamblicus, a wonder-worker, i. 215. Iconoclasm, i. 416. Ideal theory, Plato's, i. 153. Criticism on, i. 161. Illiberis, Council of, condemns the worship of images, i. 414. Images, bleeding and winking, i. 415. Image-worship resisted by Charlemagne, i. 372. Fostered by the Empress Helena, i. 414. In the West, i. 415. "Imitation of Christ," tendency of, ii. 196. Immortality, double, implied by Plato's doctrine, i. 161. Impulses, two, against the Church, ii. 131. Incandescence, the production of light by, ii. 384. Incarnations, divine, necessary consequence of the belief of, i. 91. Incas, the ancestors of one of the orders of nobility among the Peruvians, ii. 183. Incombustible men, i. 409. Index Expurgatorius, promulgated by Paul IV., ii. 214. Indian, American, i. 27. Indo-Germanic invasion, i. 32. Inductive philosophy founded by Aristotle, i. 76. Indulgences, nature of, ii. 207. Innocent I., Pope, settles the Pelagian controversy in favour of the African bishops, i. 294. Innocent III., Pope, his interference in behalf of temporary political interests, ii. 53. His death, ii. 62. Prohibits the study of science in the schools of Paris, ii. 76. Innocent IV., Pope, excommunicates Frederick, ii. 72. Innocent VIII., Pope, his bull against witchcraft, ii. 116. Inquisition, its origin, ii. 62. Attempts to arrest the intellectual revolt, ii. 74. Its sacrifices, ii. 188. Its effect on Protestantism in Spain and Italy, ii. 220. Insane, Diogenes' view of the, i. 102. Insect an automatic mechanism, ii. 349. Institutes of Menu, i. 63. Intellect, the primal, Anaxagoras's view of, i. 108. Intellectual class, the true representation of a community, i. 13. Despair, ii. 52. Intellectual impulse makes its attack through astronomy, ii. 133. Development the aim of nature, ii. 359. Interstitial death, i. 14. Creations, ii. 312. Investitures, the conflict on, ii. 17. Invisible, localization of the, i. 36. Ionian philosophy, puerilities of, i. 106. Irene, the Empress, puts out her son's eyes, i. 374. Her superstitious cruelty, i. 420. Iris, its function, i. 5. Isis, her worship, i. 187. Isothermal lines, i. 24, 26. Israfil, the angel, i. 345. Italian Christianity, boundaries of, ii. 1. System, its movements, ii. 150. Italy, relations of, ii. 127. Degraded state of, ii. 127. Immorality of, ii. 136. Cause of her degradation, ii. 143. Scientific contributions of, ii. 390. Causes of her depression, ii. 391. James I., his proceedings against witchcraft, ii. 117. Jason, the voyage of, i. 41. Jaxartes, its drying up, i. 29. Jerome of Prague, his martyrdom, ii. 101. Jerome, St., denounces Pelagius, i. 294. Translates the Bible into Latin, i. 306. His equivocal encomiums on marriage, i. 359, 427. Jerusalem, position of, i. 77. Bishops of, i. 272. Church of, i. 291. Fall and pillage of, i. 328, 335. Capture of, ii. 22. Surrender of, to Frederick II., ii. 68. Jesuits, the Order of, instituted, ii. 220. The extent of their influence, ii. 221. Causes of their suppression, ii. 222. Jewish physicians, their writings, ii. 120. Jewish-Spanish physicians, writings of, ii. 123. Jews, conversion of, i. 270. Are the teachers of the Saracens, i. 384. Their influence on supernaturalism, ii. 119. Medical studies among, ii. 121. Expulsion of, from France, ii. 126. Their geographical knowledge and its results, ii. 175. John, King of England, is excommunicated by Pope Innocent III., ii. 54. John, Pope, died in prison, i. 353. John VIII., Pope, pays tribute to the Mohammedans, i. 379. John XVI., Antipope, cruel and ignominious treatment of, i. 381. John XXII., Pope, the practical character of his policy, ii. 93. John of Damascus takes part in the Iconoclastic dispute, ii. 59. Joshua ben Nun, a professor at Bagdad, i. 402. Journalism is gradually supplanting oratory, ii. 204. Judgment, future, according to the Egyptian theology, i. 92. According to the Koran, i. 345. Right of individual, asserted by Luther, ii. 209. Jugurthine War, i. 247. Julian, Emperor, attempts the restoration of paganism, i. 311. Justinian closes the philosophical schools in Athens, i. 216. His re-conquest of Africa, i. 327. Effect of his wars, i. 351. Conquers Italy, i. 354. Justin Martyr, his illustrations of his idea of the divine ray, i. 274. Kaleidoscope, an optical instrument, ii. 380. Kalid, the "Sword of God," defeats Heraclius at the battle of Aiznadin, i. 335. Kant, his philosophical doctrines, i. 232. Kempis, Thomas à, author of the "Imitation of Christ," ii. 106. Kepler, the effect of the discovery of his laws, i. 4. His work prohibited by the Inquisition, ii. 263. His mode of inquiry, ii. 266. Discovery of his laws, ii. 267. Cause of his laws, ii. 274. Kiersi, Council of, quotation from, i. 369. Kirk's lambs, ferocity of, ii. 244. Koran, passages from the, i. 331. Review of the, i. 340. Labarum, story of, believed, i. 309. Lactantius, his argument against the globular form of the earth, i. 315. "Ladder of Paradise," ii. 59. Langton, Stephen, Magna Charta originates from his suggestion, ii. 54. Languages, modern, their effects, ii. 192. Languedoc, light literature of, ii. 35. Laplace discovers the cause of the irregularity of the moon's motion, ii. 278. On some of the phenomena of the solar system, ii. 280. Lapland, cause of the contentment and inferiority of, i. 13. Lateran Council, second, vests the elective power to the Papacy in the Cardinals, ii. 15. Third, defines the new basis of the Papal system, ii. 18. Fourth, establishes the necessity of auricular confession, ii. 65. Latin, the use of, as a sacred language, required by the Church, ii. 191. Lavaur, massacre of, ii. 62. Law, the world ruled by, i. 20. Succession of affairs determined by, i. 389. Eternity and universality of, ii. 359. Lawyers, their agency first recognized, ii. 81. Their power antagonistic to the ecclesiastical, ii. 82. Their opposition to supernaturalism, ii. 113. Leaning towers, i. 30. Leaves of plants, their action, ii. 339. Legends of Western Saints, i. 435. Legion, Roman, how constructed, i. 251. Leibnitz, his doctrine of the mind, i. 231. His contribution to geology, ii. 286. Leif, the first discoverer of America, ii. 164. Lentulus, spurious letter of, to the Roman senate, i. 361. Leo III., Pope, crowns Charlemagne in St. Peter's, i. 371. Assaulted by the nephews of Adrian, i. 378. Leo the Chazar continues an iconoclastic policy, i. 419. Leo the Great, i. 352. Leo the Isaurian, the founder of a new dynasty at Constantinople, i. 416. Publishes an edict prohibiting the worship of images, i. 417. Leo X., Pope, exposed to obloquy, ii. 213. His character, ii. 215. Is reported to have contracted syphilis, ii. 232. Leontius Pilatus, description of, by Boccaccio, ii. 194. Lesches, poems of, i. 51. Levites, their manner of healing, i. 400. Lewenhoeck discovers spermatozoa, ii. 286. Liberty not appreciated in India, i. 62. Mental when maintained, ii. 227. Libraries, Alexandrian, size of, i. 188. Establishment of, i. 317. Licinius neutralizes the policy of Constantine, i. 278. Life, individual, is of a mixed kind, i. 2. Social, its nature, i. 2. First opinion of savage, i. 3. Variable rapidity of, i. 18. Light, velocity of motion of, ii. 279, 298. Proves the age of the world, ii. 298. White, ii. 379. Chemical influences of, ii. 383. Limestone deposited from the sea, ii. 321. Lipari, the crater of, supposed to be the opening into hell, i. 354, 357. Lippershey first constructs a telescope, ii. 261. Lisbon, the great earthquake of, ii. 302. Listening contrasted with reading, ii. 203. Lister, author of a synopsis of shells, ii. 286. Ascertains the continuity of strata, ii. 286. Literary men, their influence, ii. 150. Literature, spread of gay, from Spain, ii. 60. Profligate character of, in England, ii. 244. Lithotomy, new operations for, by the Alexandrian surgeons, i. 399. Livy, writings of, vindictively pursued by Gregory the Great, i. 357. Locke, his theory of the sources of ideas, i. 231. Locomotion, followed by mental development, ii. 119, 136. Provisions for, show the social condition of a nation, ii. 239. Locomotives, invented by Murdoch, ii. 387. Logic, Aristotle's, i. 177. Character of mediæval, ii. 111. Each age of life has its own, ii. 192. "Logos," Philo's idea of the, i. 210. Justin Martyr's idea of the, i. 274. Lombards, converted at the beginning of the sixth century, i. 365. London, condition of, towards the close of the seventeenth century, ii. 238. Lorenzo de' Medici, his patronage of literature and philosophy, ii. 195. Loretto, miracle of, ii. 80. Louis XIV., his order in council punishing sorcery, ii. 118. Louis, St., his character, ii. 73. Lucius Apuleius, i. 211. Lucretius, the irreligious nature of his poem, i. 257. Luitprand captures Ravenna, i. 422. Luitprand quoted on Constantinople, ii. 58. Luther, experiences of, ii. 117. The revolt of, ii. 149. History of, ii. 208. Excommunication of, ii. 211. Looked upon with contempt by the Italians, ii. 215. Lyceum, Aristotle founds a school in, i. 176. Lyons, Council of, ii. 71. Macaulay, Lord, has taken too limited a view of the Reformation, ii. 227. Macedonian campaign opens a new world to the Greeks, i. 45. Its ruinous effects on Greece, i. 172. Its effect on intellectual progress, i. 186. Macedonius, Bishop of Constantinople, his heresy, i. 289. Machiavelli, the principles of, ii. 137. His "History of Florence," ii. 143. Machinery, social changes effected by, ii. 388. Magellan, his great voyage, ii. 169. Magic and necromancy, Plotinus resorts to, i. 214. Magic lantern, ii. 380. Magna Charta originates from a suggestion of Stephen Langton, ii. 54. Magnet supposed by Thales to have a living soul, i. 97. Magnetic variation, discovery of the line of, ii. 163. Erroneously supposed by Columbus to be immovable, ii. 165. Magnetism, discoveries in, ii. 378. Maimonides, his life and writings, ii. 124. Malpighi devotes himself to botany, ii. 286. Applies the microscope to anatomy, ii. 286. Man the archetype of society, i. 2. Controlled by physical agents, i. 10. Variations of, i. 11. First form of, according to Anaximander, i. 107. Nature and development of, i. 233. His race connections, i. 234. Apparent position of, on the heliocentric theory, ii. 337. Marco Polo, ii. 174. Marcus Græcus gives the composition of gunpowder, i. 408. Mareotis, Lake, i. 323. Mariner's compass introduced by the Arabs, ii. 43. Marozia, her infamy and cruelty, i. 380. Marriage, compulsory in the time of Augustus, i. 253. Sinfulness of, according to the principles of the monks, i. 426. Marsilio, his work "The Defender of Peace," ii. 93. Marsilius Ficinus, the Platonist, ii. 193. Masué, John, the Nestorian, superintendence of schools entrusted to, by Haroun al Raschid, i. 392, ii. 36. Matilda, Countess, aids Gregory VII., ii. 16. Calumniated by the married clergy, ii. 17. Matter, its indestructibility, ii. 375. Maximum of certainty, i. 236. Maximus Tyrius, i. 259. Max Müller on language, i. 33. Mayow on respiration, ii. 286. Mechanical invention, effect of, ii. 384. Medicine, Byzantine, suppression of, i. 386. Origin of Greek, i. 393. Egyptian, i. 397. Alexandrian, i. 398. Mediterranean Sea, its dependencies and extent, i. 28. Propriety of its name, i. 39. Wonders of, i. 41. Trade of, ii. 158. Megaric school, i. 148. Melanchthon, ii. 211. Melissus of Samos, an Eleatic, i. 123. Melloni first polarizes light, ii. 390. Mendicant Orders, establishment of, ii. 62. Menu, institutes of, i. 63. Extract from, i. 224. Metaphysics, Aristotle's, i. 178. Uncertainty of, ii. 344. Meteoric stone, boasted prediction of fall of, i. 111. Mexico, social condition of, ii. 175. Michael the Stammerer, his incredulity and profanity, i. 420. Middle Ages, their condition, i. 139. Migration of birds, i. 6. Milan, Bishop of, excommunicated, ii. 17. Milky way, as explained by the Pythagoreans, i. 117. Mill life, ii. 388. Milton, his "Paradise Lost" a Manichean composition, ii. 245. In favour of the Copernican system, ii. 260. Miracle cure, i. 386. Plays, ii. 246. Missionaries, Irish and British, i. 366. Mithridates, King of Pontus, studies poisons and antidotes, i. 400. Moawiyah, Khalif, sends his lieutenant against Africa, i. 334. Rebuilds the church of Edessa, i. 338. Moestlin quoted in favour of the Copernican system, ii. 266. Mohammed subject to delusions, i. 148, 330. History of, i. 329. Mohammed II., ii. 107. Mohammedanism, causes of the spread of, i. 337. Popular, i. 345. Sects of, i. 347. Arrest of, in Western Europe, ii. 30. Literature of, ii. 34. Uniformly patronized physical science, ii. 121. Monasteries, condition of Europe at the suppression of, ii. 230. Monasticism, amelioration of, i. 431. Spread of, from Egypt, i. 433. Monks, African and European, i. 237. Labours and successes of, i. 365. Their origin and history, i. 424. Differences of Eastern and Western, i. 434. Their intellectual influence, i. 438. Monotheism preceded by imperialism, i. 256. Roman, its boundaries, i. 261. Montanus, the pretended Paraclete, i. 291. Moon, variations of, discovered by Aboul Wefa, i. 325. Volcanic action in, ii. 304. Moors boast of an Arab descent, i. 337. Moral plays, ii. 248. Moris, Lake, i. 96. Moslems, their creed, ii. 37. Motion, the three laws of, ii. 269. Muggleton, Lewis, his doctrines, ii. 239. Murdoch invents the locomotive, ii. 387. Musa completes the conquest of Africa, i. 333. Arrested at the head of his army, i. 369. Museum of Alexandria, i. 187. Its studies arranged in four faculties, i. 397. Music, scale of, invented by Guido, i. 437. Mycene, gate of, i. 32. Mythology, Greek, origin of, i. 37. Napier invents and perfects logarithms, ii. 285. Narses, the eunuch, sent by Justinian against Rome, i. 351. Nations, progress of, like that of individuals, i. 12. Secular variations of, i. 16. Death of, i. 17. Are only transitional forms, i. 17. Nearchus, an intimate friend of Alexander the Great, i. 173. Nebulæ, existence of, ii. 282. Nebular hypothesis, ii. 281. Necromancy, Alexandrian, i. 404. Neo-Platonism, its origin imputed to Ammonius Saccas, i. 211. Nervous system, general view of, ii. 346. Three distinct parts of human, ii. 353. Nestorians, their origin, i. 295. Early cultivate medicine, i. 385. Their history and progress, i. 391. New academy founded by Carneades, i. 169. Newspapers, their origin, ii. 204. When first regularly issued in England, ii. 249. Were first issued in Italy, ii. 390. Newton, quotation from "Principia" of, i. 120. Availed himself of the doctrines of Hipparchus, i. 202. Under no obligation to Bacon, ii. 259. Publication of the "Principia" of, ii. 272. His mathematical learning and experimental skill, ii. 286. Niagara Falls furnish proof of time from effect produced, ii. 305. Prove the enormous age of the earth, ii. 334. Nicæa, Council of, summoned by Constantine, i. 286. Second council of, summoned by Irene, i. 420. Nicene Creed, i. 287. Nicholas V. a patron of art, ii. 110. Nicomedia, church of, destroyed, i. 277. Niebuhr, his opinion of the Greek account of the Persian war, i. 131. Nile, inundations of, i. 86. Nirwana, the end of successive existences in the Buddhist doctrine, i. 71, 230. Nitria, why well adapted for monks, i. 432. Nogaret, William de, the legal adviser of Boniface, ii. 84. Advises King Philip the Fair, ii. 91. Nomades, Asiatic, i. 29. Nominalism, doctrine of, sprang from scholastic philosophy, ii. 11. Norman invasion of England favoured by Pope Gregory VII., ii. 16. Norway, depth of rain in, i. 25. Elevation and depression in level of, ii. 307. Norwegians, diet of, accounted for, i. 27. Novatus the heretic, i. 284. Number the first principle according to the Pythagorean philosophy, i. 113. Numenius, a Trinitarian, i. 211. Numerals, Arabic, derived from the Hindus, ii. 40. Introduced into different countries, ii. 49. Oaks, objects of adoration among the German nations, i. 241. Obelisks, Egyptian, prodigious height of, i. 76. Observatories first introduced into Europe by the Arabs, ii. 42. Ocean, its size, ii. 371. Octave, the grand standard of harmonical relation among the Pythagoreans, i. 116. Oliva, John Peter, his comment on the Apocalypse, ii. 78. Olympian deities, their nature, i. 50. Omar, Khalif, takes Jerusalem, i. 335. His behaviour contrasted with that of the Crusaders, ii. 22. Opinion and Reason, Parmenides's work on, i. 121. Optics, discoveries in, ii. 379. Oratory supplanted by journalism, ii. 204. Orchomenos, ruins of, i. 32. Orders, monastic, rise and progress of, i. 433. Orestes compelled to interfere to stop a riot in Alexandria, i. 322. Organ, the, invented by Sylvester, a Benedictine monk, i. 437. Organisms, permanence of, due to external conditions, i. 8. Control of physical agents over, i. 9. Dates of various, ii. 321. Orpheus, legend of, i. 37. Osiris, daily ceremony before tomb of, i. 89. One of the divinities of the Egyptian theology, i. 91. Site of temple of, given to the church, i. 319. Osporco changes his unseemly name into Sergius, ii. 143. Ostrogoth monarchy overthrown, i. 351. Otho III., Emperor, contemplates a reform in the Church, and is poisoned by Stephania, ii. 6. Otranto taken by the Mohammedans, ii. 109. Oxus, its drying up, i. 29. Pacific Ocean crossed, ii. 171. Paganism, attitude of, i. 268. Death-blow given to, by Theodosius, i. 312. Pagans, accusation of, against the Christians, i. 301. Painting and sculpture, relation of the Church to, i. 360. Palæontology, historical sketch of early, ii. 314. Palatine library burnt by Gregory the Great, i. 357. Pandataria, Sylverius banished to, i. 354. Pantheism, theology of India underlaid with, i. 59. Adopted by Parmenides, i. 121. Greek, i. 223. Papacy, history of, i. 290. Consolidation of its power in the West, i. 362. Signal peculiarity of, i. 378. Human origin of, i. 382. Paper, invention of, ii. 200. Pappus, an Alexandrian geometrician, i. 204. Parabolani diverted from their original intent by Cyril, i. 321, 386. "Paraclete," doctrines of faith discussed in the, ii. 10. Paradise spoken of with clearness by Mohammed, i. 345. Parliament, its accusation against the clergy, ii. 235. Parma, John of, the General of the Franciscans, ii. 77. Parmenides, doctrines of, i. 121. Pascal, his views of humanity, i. 18. The influence of his writings, ii. 285. Path-zone, i. 24. Patristicism, introduction of, i. 314. Doctrines of, i. 315. Conflict of, with philosophy, i. 316. Decline of, ii. 129. End of geography of, ii. 164. Ethnical ideas of, ii. 165. End of, ii. 225. Paulus Æmilius, his severity, i. 249. Pausanias, i. 131. Pelagian controversy, its effect on Papal superiority, i. 293. Pelagius, his doctrines, i. 293, 366. Penances, the Veda doctrine of, i. 61. Pendulum first applied to clocks by the Moors, ii. 42. Pepin, the son of Charles Martel, i. 370. Pergamus, library of, transferred to Egypt, i. 318. Pericles embraces obnoxious opinions, i. 50. His the age of improvement in architecture and oratory, i. 132. Perictione, the reputed mother of Plato, i. 151. Periodicities, human cause of, i. 7. Peripatetics, their philosophy, i. 178. Persecutions, moral effects of, ii. 225. Persepolis, burning of by Alexander the Great, i. 174. Perses, revolt of, i. 246. Persia, Greek invasion of, i. 171. Subdued by Othman III., i. 335. Persian invasion of Europe, i. 130. Attack on the Byzantine system, i. 326. Personified forms introduced, i. 37. Perturbations, astronomical, accounted for, ii. 274. Peru, its coast, a rainless district, i. 86. A description of, ii. 179. Peter d'Apono, the alchemist, the wonders imputed to him, ii. 116. Peter de Brueys, his martyrdom, ii. 60. Peter Morrone becomes Celestine V., i. 79. Peter the Hermit, ii. 22, 135. Peter the Venerable, his acquirements, ii. 12. Peter's pence, ii. 54. Petrarch, his opinion of Avignon, ii. 95. His zeal for learning, ii. 194. Pharaoh Necho, his ships first double the Cape of Good Hope, ii. 167. Philadelphus Ptolemy, i. 189. Philæ, mysterious temple of, i. 89. Philip the Fair protects the Colonnas, ii. 81. Philiston, a writer on regimen, i. 397. Philo of Larissa, founder of the fifth academy, i. 170. Philo the Jew thinks he is inspired, i. 209. Compares the mind to the eye, i. 234. Philosopher's stone, i. 407. Philosophers, persecution of, i. 311. The revolt of, ii. 149. Philosophical criticism, effect of, i. 46. Schools, Indian, i. 65. Philosophical principles, application of, i. 237. Philosophy, peripatetic, i. 178. Greek, end and summary of, i. 217. Greek and Indian, the analogy between, i. 236. Reappearance of, ii. 3. Phlogiston, theory of, ii. 374. Phocæans built Marseilles, i. 46. Phoenicians, enterprise of, i. 45. Phosphorus discovered by Achild Bechil, i. 410. Photius, his two works, ii. 59. Photography, ii. 383. Physical instruments, improvements in, ii. 384. Physicians, classes of, i. 397. Jewish, i. 400. Oppose supernaturalism, ii. 113. Are disliked by the Church, ii. 121. Physics of Zeno, i. 183. Physiology, its phases the same as those of physics, i. 5. Of Plato, i. 156. Of Aristotle, i. 180. Piccolomini lays the foundation of general anatomy, ii. 285. Pietro de Vinea undertakes to poison Frederick II., ii. 72. Pinzons of Palos assist Columbus, ii. 161. Pisa, Council of, deposes the rival Popes, ii. 97. The first botanical gardens established at, ii. 390. Plagues, mortality of ancient, i. 250. Plants, effect of seasons on, i. 6. Their dependence on the air, i. 102, ii. 339. Platæa, fabulous number slain at battle of, i. 130. Plater first classified diseases, ii. 285. Plato, his profound knowledge of human nature, i. 53. His doctrines, i. 152. Platonism, Plutarch leans to, i. 210. Reappearance of, in Europe, ii. 193. Plays, miracle, moral, real, ii. 246. Pleiades, a nickname given to seven Alexandrian poets, i. 201. Plotinus, writings of, i. 212, 404. Plutarch leans to platonizing Orientalism, i. 210. Poggio Bracciolini quoted, ii. 101. Polarization of light lends support to the undulatory theory, ii. 382. Pole star, ii. 305. Polycrates, Bishop of Ephesus, opposes Victor, Bishop of Rome, i. 291. Polygamy, institution of, i. 331. Secured the conquest of Africa, i. 334. Its influence in consolidating the conquests of Mohammedanism, i. 338. Polytheism, its antagonism to science, i. 49. Slowness of its decline, i. 52. Pontifical power sustained by physical force, i. 300. Popes, biography of, from A.D. 757, i. 378. Had no faith in the result of the Crusades, ii. 23. Porphyry, his writings, i. 214, 404. Porsenna takes Rome, i. 244. Posidonius, i. 232. Praxagoras wrote on the pulse, i. 397. Pre-existence, Plato's notion of, i. 160. Press, liberty of, secured, ii. 250. "Principia," Newton's, quotation from, i. 120. Publication of, ii. 272. Its incomparable merit, ii. 275. Printing, invention of, ii. 198. Effects of, ii. 200. Problems of Greek philosophy, i. 217. Proclus burns Vitalian's ships, i. 215. His theology, i. 215. Procopius, the historian, secretary to Belisarius, ii. 58. Profatius, a Jew, appointed regent of the faculty of Montpellier, ii. 125. Prosper Alpinus writes on diagnosis, ii. 285. Protestant, origin of the name, ii. 211. Provincial letters of Pascal, influence of, ii. 286. Psammetichus overthrows the ancient policy of Egypt, i. 75. "Psammites," a work of Archimedes, i. 195. Psychology, origin of, i. 101. Solution of questions of, ii. 344. Ptolemies, political position of, i. 186. Biography of, i. 200. Ptolemy, his "Syntaxis," i. 203. Puffendorf, author of the "Law of Nature and Nations," ii. 286. Pulpit, influence of, affected by the press, ii. 201. Decline of eloquence of, ii. 203. Its relation to the drama, ii. 249. State of, an index of the mental condition of a nation, ii. 249. Punic wars, results of, i. 245. Puranas, i. 65. Pyramids of Egypt, size of, i. 75. The Great, its antiquity and wonders, i. 81. What they have witnessed, i. 84. Their testimony unreliable as to the age of the world, ii. 327. Pyrrho, the founder of the Sceptics, i. 164. Pyrrhus, the Epirot, i. 244. Pythagoras, biography of, i. 111. The service he rendered us, i. 230. Quintus Sextius, i. 258. Quipus, a Peruvian instrument for enumeration, ii. 185. Quito, why it was regarded as a holy place, ii. 185. Rab, a Jewish anatomist, i. 400. Rabanus, a Benedictine monk, sets up a school in Germany, i. 437. Rabbis cultivate medicine, ii. 122. Radbert, his views on transubstantiation, ii. 10. Railways, ii. 387. Rain, quantity of in Europe, i. 25. Maximum points of, i. 25. Rainless countries, agriculture in, i. 85. Of the West, i. 86. Peru one, ii. 180. Rainy days, number of, i. 26. Influence of, i. 27. Rameses II., his policy, i. 78. Raschi, his varied acquirements, ii. 123. Ravenna, Gerbert appointed Archbishop of, ii. 6. Ray leads the way to comparative anatomy, ii. 286. Raymond Lully, said to have been compelled to make gold for Edward II., ii. 155. Raymond de Pennaforte compiles a list of decretals, ii. 70. Reading, its advantage over listening, ii. 203. Realism, its origin, ii. 11. Reason, Algazzali's doctrine of the fallibility of, ii. 51. Reductio ad absurdum introduced by Zeno, i. 122. Reflection, Democritus's view of, i. 125. Reflex action, ii. 348. Reformation attempted in Greece, i. 50. Influences leading to, ii. 190. Dawn of the, ii. 204. In Switzerland, ii. 210. Organization of, ii. 211. In Italy, ii. 212. Arrest of, ii. 214. Counter, ii. 219. Culmination of, in America, ii. 226. Relics, age of, i. 51. Worship of, i. 414. Reminiscence, Plato's doctrine of, i. 153. Republic of Plato, i. 159. Revolution, French, ii. 150. Rhacotis, Alexandria erected on the site of, i. 192. Rhazes discovers sulphuric acid, i. 410. Rhazes, a Moorish writer on botany, ii. 39. Rheims, Gerbert appointed Archbishop of, ii. 5. Rhodes raised from the sea, i. 30. Rhodians, maritime code of, i. 45. Richard I. of England treacherously imprisoned, ii. 25. His treatment by Saladin contrasted with that he received from a Christian prince, ii. 136. Rienzi, a demagogue, ii. 95. Rig Veda, asserted to have been revealed by Brahma, i. 58. "Robber Synod," the council of Ephesus, i. 297. Roderic, King of the Goths, ii. 28. Roderigo de Triana, the first of Columbus's crew to descry land, ii. 163. Roman power, influence of, i. 52. Christianity, influence of, on the people, i. 241. History, importance of, i. 242. Power, triple form of, i. 243. First theocracy and legends, i. 243. History, early, i. 243. Slave laws, atrocity of, i. 249. Slave system, social effects of, i. 249. Depravity, i. 252. Women, their dissoluteness, i. 253. Ethnical element disappears, i. 255. Conquest, effects of, i. 256. Rome, cause of permanence of, i. 11. Unpitying tyranny of, i. 267. Fall and sack of, by Alaric, i. 300. Fall and pillage of, by the Vandals, i. 350. Progress of, to Papal supremacy, i. 352. Relations of, to Constantinople, i. 353. Three pressures upon, ii. 1. Pillaged, sacked, and fired by Henry, ii. 20. Immoralities of, brought to light by the Crusades, ii. 136. Its geological peculiarities, ii. 307. Römer, his estimate of the velocity of light confirmed, ii. 299. Roscelin of Compiègne, an early advocate of Nominalism, ii. 11. Ruysch improves minute anatomy, ii. 286. Sacramentarians, separate from the Lutherans, ii. 211. Sahara Desert affects the distribution of heat in Europe, i. 24. Saladin retakes Jerusalem, ii. 25. His noble behaviour to Richard I., ii. 136. Salamanca, Columbus confuted by the Council of, ii. 161. Council of, its reply when urged to teach physical science, ii. 278. Sampson, Agnes, burnt for witchcraft, ii. 117. Samuel, an accomplished Jewish physician, i. 400. Sanctorio lays the foundation of modern physiology, ii. 285. Invents the thermometer, ii. 390. Sanscrit vocabulary, i. 33. Saracens, their policy, i. 336. Cause of their check in the conquest of France, i. 369. Are taught by the Nestorians and Jews, i. 384. They dominate in the Mediterranean, i. 422. Their chemistry, medicine, and surgery, ii. 39. Their philosophy, ii. 49. Early cultivators of astronomy, ii. 133. Sardica, Council of, i. 292. Satan, notion of, had become debased, i. 414. Sautree, William, the first English martyr, ii. 99. Saviour, in Koran never called Son of God, i. 342. Model of, eventually received, i. 361. Scandinavian geological motion, i. 30. Discovery of America, ii. 164, 175. Sceptics, rise of, i. 163. Schism, causes of the great, ii. 96. Scholastic philosophy, rise of, ii. 11. Theology, rise of, ii. 12. Schools, philosophical Greek, merely points of reunion, i. 112. The Megaric, Cyrenaic, and Cynical, i. 148. Science, Alexandrian, suppressed, i. 325. Sculpture, relation of Church to, i. 360. Sea of Azof, a dependency of the Mediterranean, i. 28. Seasons, effect of, on animals and plants, i. 6. Sebastian de Elcano, the Lieutenant of Magellan, ii. 173. Secular geological movement of Europe and Asia, i. 29. Inequalities of satellites, ii. 277. Semicircular canals, their function, i. 5. Seneca, the influence of his writings accounted for, i. 258. Sens, Council of, report of, to Rome, ii. 11. Sensation, Democritus confounds it with thought, i. 125. Senses, Algazzali's doctrine of the fallibility of, ii. 50. Septuagint Bible, the translators of, entertained by Ptolemy Philadelphus, i. 190. Serapion, causes of its umbrage to Archbishop Theophilus, i. 318. Destruction of, i. 319. Serapis, establishment of the worship of, i. 187. Description of the temple of, i. 318. Statue of, destroyed, i. 319. Temple of, used for a hospital, i. 399. Servetus, the burning of, by Calvin, ii. 226. Almost detected the circulation of the blood, ii. 285. Servile rebellion in Sicily, i. 247. Seville, tower of, an observatory built by the Arabs, ii. 42. Shakespeare, quotation from, i. 207. His position with regard to English literature, ii. 249. Shepherds, the, their exertions in behalf of King Louis, ii. 76. Shiites, one of the seventy-three Mohammedan sects, i. 347. Sigismund, Emperor, his treacherous conduct to John Huss, ii. 101. Silver, its comparative value in Rome, i. 251. Simon Magus, an Oriental magician, wonders related of, ii. 114. Simony, organization of, ii. 97. Sirius, its supposed influence on the waters of the Nile, i. 90. Slave system, Roman, i. 249. Slavery under Charlemagne, i. 373. Recognized in certain cases in Mexico, ii. 176. Slavians converted by Greek missionaries, i. 367. Smyrna, Erasistratus established a school there, i. 399. Snow, distribution of, in Europe, i. 26. Snowy days, number of, at various places, i. 26. Social war, important results of, i. 247. Eminence, no preservative from social delusion, ii. 117. Society, the intellectual class the true representative of a community, i. 13. Sociology, comparative, ii. 359. Socrates, Aristophanes excites the people against, i. 47. His mode of teaching, and his doctrines, i. 143. Character of, in Athens, i. 146. "The Mad," i. 150. Solar system proves the existence of law, i. 4. Soliman the Magnificent takes Belgrade, ii. 109. Sonnites, one of the seventy-three Mohammedan sects, i. 347. Sopater accused of magic, and decapitated, i. 310. Sophists, their doctrines, i. 135. Their influence, i. 220. Sorcery, intermingling of magic and, i. 402. Introduction of European, ii. 115. Soul, Indian ideas of the, i. 60. Purification of, i. 61. Diogenes' opinion of that of the world, i. 99. Plato's doctrine of the triple constitution of, i. 156. Greek problem as to the nature of, i. 218. As to the immortality and absorption of, i. 228. The human, ii. 365. Sound, nature and properties of, ii. 369. Spain, Roman annexation of, i. 247. Arab invasion of, ii. 28. Literature of, ii. 35. Crime of, ii. 166. Sparta, Lycurgus abolished private property in, i. 129. Spartacus, the gladiator, i. 248. Species, Cuvier's doctrine of the permanence of, ii. 326. Opposition to the doctrine of transmutation of, ii. 328. Specific gravity, Alhazen's tables of, clearly approach our own, ii. 48. Sphærus, the Stoic, fraud practised on, i. 189. Spheres, music of, a belief entertained by the Pythagoreans, i. 116. Sphinxes, one of the wonders of ancient Egypt, i. 76. Spinal cord, its separate and conjoint action, ii. 352. Spires, first Diet of, ii. 210. Spirit, in chemistry, had at first a literal meaning, i. 405. Spiritualists, their devout regard for the "Everlasting Gospel," ii. 78. Spontaneous generation, Anaximander's doctrine of, i. 107. Anaxagoras's doctrine of, i. 109. Stage, state of, an index of the mental condition of a nation, ii. 249. Stancari first counted the vibrations of a string emitting musical notes, ii. 390. Stars, multiple, i. 4. Coloured light of double, ii. 277. Our cluster of, how divided, ii. 280. Star-worship, fetichism displaced by, i. 3. The philosophy of, i. 90. Steam-engine first invented by Hero, i. 205, 387. The nature of Watt's improvement in, ii. 385. Steno first recognizes the twofold division of rocks, ii. 315. Stephania, wife of Crescentius, poisons Otho III., ii. 7. Stephanus, a grammarian of Constantinople, ii. 58. Stephen II., Pope, consecrates Pepin and his family, i. 370. Stephen III., Pope, urges Charlemagne against the Lombards, i. 371. Stephenson, George, his improvement in the locomotive, and its results, ii. 387. Stercorists, their doctrines, ii. 10. Stereoscope, an optical instrument, ii. 380. Stevinus, his mechanical works, ii. 269. Revives correct views of the mechanical properties of water, ii. 372. Stigmata, marks miraculously impressed on the body of St. Francis, ii. 64. Stilicho, a Goth, compels Alaric to retreat, and Rhadogast to surrender, i. 300. Is murdered by the Emperor, his master, i. 300. Stoicism, its intention, i. 183. Stoics, exoteric philosophy of, i. 184. Struve, his estimate of the velocity of light, ii. 299. Stylites, St. Simeon, an aerial martyr of the fifth century, i. 426. Success too often the criterion of right, i. 332. Sun, agency of, i. 103. Aristarchus's attempts to ascertain the distance of, i. 199. The source of force, ii. 339. Influence of, on organic and inorganic nature, ii. 362. Sun-dials, invention of, wrongfully ascribed to Anaximander, i. 107. Supererogation, the theory of, ii. 207. Supernatural appearances, cause of, i. 428. Supernaturalism, its adoption by the age of faith, ii. 112. Overthrow of, in France, ii. 126. Superstitions, disappearance of, i. 255. Swammerdam section to the natural history of insects, ii. 286. Sweden, change of level in, ii. 307. Sybaris, a luxurious Italiot city, i. 128. Sylverius, Pope, deposed by the Emperor's wife, Theodora, i. 354. Sylvester, a Benedictine monk, invents the organ, i. 437. Sylvester II., Pope, is believed to have made a speaking head, ii. 115. Symmachus, Senator, falls a victim to the wrath of Theodoric, the Gothic king, i. 353. "Syntaxis," the great work of Ptolemy, i. 203. Syphilis, moral state of Europe indicated by the spread of, ii. 231. Syria, importance of conquest of, to the Arabs, i. 335. Tacitus, his testimony to the depraved state of Roman morality, i. 254. Tarasius created Patriarch by Irene, i. 420. Tarik lands at Gibraltar, so called in memory of his name, ii. 29. Tartars, why they prefer a milk diet, i. 27. Tartarus, one of the two divisions of hell, according to Anaximenes, i. 36. Taxation, amount of Roman, i. 251. Taylor, Jeremy, his testimony as to the authority of the Fathers, ii. 225. Telescope, invention of, ii. 261, 380. Temperature, life can only be maintained within a narrow range, i. 7. Templars, apostasy, arrest, and punishment of, ii. 90, 91, 92. Tensons, or poetic disputations, originated among the Arabs, ii. 34. Tertullian, his letter to Scapula, i. 275. Denounces the Bishop of Rome as a heretic, i. 291. Denies the Scripture authority for certain observances, i. 358. His impression of the personal appearance of the Saviour, i. 361. Testimony, human, value of, ii. 119. Tetractys, the number "ten," why so called, i. 114. Tezcuco, description of, ii. 178. Thabor, mysterious light of, ii. 59. Thales, philosophy of, i. 95. Thaumasius, the name of Ammonius changed to, i. 322. Theatre, the English, ii. 245. Thebit Ben Corrah determines the length of the year, ii. 41. Theodora, Empress, restores image-worship, i. 421. Theodoric, the Ostrogoth, effect of the conquest of Italy by, i. 353. The change in his policy, i. 353. Theodorus, Bishop his tongue cut out, i. 378. Theodosius, Emperor, fanaticism of, i. 312. His cruel vengeance at Thessalonica, i. 313. His acts, i. 317. Orders the Serapion to be torn down, i. 319. Theodosius, an Alexandrian geometrician, i. 204. Theon, an Alexandrian geometrician, and father of Hypatia, i. 204, 322. Theophilus, Archbishop of Alexandria, his character, i. 317. Cause of his umbrage at the Serapion, i. 318. Persecutions of, i. 319. Theophilus, Bishop of Antioch, first introduced the word "Trinity," i. 273. Theophilus, Emperor, image-worship restored at his death, i. 421. His surly and insolent reply to Almaimon, ii. 40. Theosis, its meaning as employed by John Erigena, ii. 9. Therapeutæ, early Egyptian hermits, i. 424. Thermotics, science of heat, ii. 383. Thessalonica, massacre at, i. 313. Thomas à Kempis, the reputed author of "The Imitation of Christ," ii. 196. Thought, confounded with sensation by Democritus, i. 125. Variation of human, ii. 205. Thucydides, his secret disbelief of the Trojan war, i. 49. Thuringians converted in the seventh and eighth centuries, i. 365. Tides and currents explained on the theory of gravitation, ii. 371. Time, nothing absolute in, i. 17. Torricelli, weight of atmosphere understood before, ii. 47. Hydrostatics created by, ii. 285. Constructs the barometer, and demonstrates the pressure of the air, ii. 390. Toscanelli, a Florentine astronomer, and friend of Columbus, ii. 160. Constructs his gnomon in the Cathedral of Florence, ii. 255. Tours, battle of, i. 368. Trade-wind, under the dominion of law, i. 4. Transformation, the world is undergoing unceasing, i. 59. Transitional forms, nature of, i. 12. Transmigration of souls, the Veda doctrine of, i. 61. The Buddhist doctrine of, i. 71. The Pythagorean doctrine of, does not imply the absolute immortality of the soul, i. 117. Plato's doctrine of, i. 156. Transmission, hereditary, nature of, ii. 333. Transmutation of metals, i. 406. Of species, doctrine of, has met with opposition, ii. 328. Transubstantiation, a twin-sister of transmutation, i. 407. The doctrine of, first attacked by the new philosophers, ii. 9. The Italian doctrine of, rejected by the German and Swiss reformers, ii. 210. Tribonian suspected of being an atheist, i. 359. Trinitarian disputes had their starting point in Alexandria, i. 191. Trinity, the Indian doctrine of, i. 64. The Egyptian doctrine of, i. 91. Is assumed in the doctrine of Numenius, i. 211. The word does not occur in the Scriptures, i. 273. Triumvirate, the First, usurps the power of the senate and people, i. 248. Trojan war, various views entertained about, i. 50. Horse, superstitious notions of the tools with which it was made, i. 51. Troubadours use the Langue d'Oc in the north of France, ii. 60. Trouvères use the Langue d'Oil in the south of France, ii. 60. Tupac Yupanqui, Inca, quoted, ii. 183. Turkish invasion, effect of, ii. 110. Turks, their origin and progress, ii. 105. Tutching, his severe and prolonged punishment, ii. 244. Tycho makes a new catalogue of the stars, ii. 284. Tympanum, its function, i. 5. Types, Platonic, i. 152. Tyre, fall of, i. 80. Tyrians, their enterprise, i. 45. Ulphilas invents an alphabet for the Goths, i. 307. "Unam Sanctam," the bull of, issued by Pope Boniface, ii. 83. Under-world, primitive notions respecting, i. 39. Undulatory theory of light, ii. 381. Uniformity, doctrine of, ii. 323. Unity of mankind, i. 10. Religious, implies tyranny to the individual, ii. 227. Universe, unchangeability of, taught by Anaxagoras, i. 108. Its magnitude, ii. 292, 335. Unreliability of sense, Zeno's illustration of, i. 123. Urban II. institutes the Crusades, ii. 20. Urban VI., his cruelty to his cardinals and bishops, ii. 96. Valentinian issues an edict denouncing the contumacy of Hilary, i. 300. Is a Nicenist, i. 311. Valerius, Count, the Pelagian question settled through his influence, i. 294. Vallisneri, an Italian geologist of the eighteenth century, ii. 315. Vandal attack, i. 327. Vandals converted in the fourth century, i. 365. Van Helmont introduced the theory of vitality into medicine, ii. 285. Variation of organic forms, i. 8. Man not exempt from law of, i. 10. Human, best seen when examined on a line of the meridian, i. 11. The political result of human, i. 11. Varolius, a distinguished anatomist, ii. 284. Varro, Terentius, his scepticism, i. 257. Vasco de Gama doubles the Cape of Good Hope, ii. 167. Vatican library founded by Nicholas V., ii. 111. Vedaism, the adoration of nature, its doctrines, i. 58. Its changes, i. 64. Vedic doctrines, minor, i. 62. Venice, commercial rivalry between Genoa and, ii. 158. Takes the lead in the publication of books, ii. 199. Venus, light of the planet, ii. 304. Verona, Fracaster wrote on the petrifactions found at, ii. 315. The first geological museum established at, ii. 390. Vesicles, nerve, structure and functions of, ii. 347. Victor, Bishop of Rome, requires the Asiatic bishops to conform to his view respecting Easter, i. 291. Victor III. denounces the life of Pope Benedict IX. as foul and execrable, i. 381. Vienne, Council of, ii. 89. Vieta improves algebra, and applies it to geometry, ii. 284. Vigilius purchases the Papacy for two hundred pounds of gold, i. 354. Vinci, Leonardo da, his contributions to science, ii. 268. First asserts the true nature of fossil remains, ii. 314, 390. Compares the action of the eye to that of a camera obscura, ii. 380. Virgin Mary, worship of, i. 296. Various art types of the, i. 361. Visconti, Barnabas, irreverence of, ii. 95. Visigoths, spread of, through Greece, Spain, Italy, i. 300. Vision, correct ideas respecting, ii. 380. Vitello publishes a treatise on optics in the sixteenth century, ii. 255. Vocabulary, Indo-Germanic, i. 32. Volcanoes, ii. 301. Volta, indebtedness of chemistry to, ii. 391. Voltaic electricity, ii. 377. Voyages, minor, ii. 174. Vulgate becomes the ecclesiastical authority of the West, i. 306. Jealous fears of Rome respecting depreciation of the authority of, ii. 195. Wales, South, thickness of coal-bearing strata in, ii. 308. Walter the Penniless, one of the first Crusaders, ii. 22. War, effect of, on the low Arab class, i. 339. Moral state of Europe indicated by the usages of war, ii. 232. War system, Roman, i. 250. Water, importance of, in Egypt, i. 96. The curious treatise of Zosimus on the virtues and composition of, i. 408. Physical and chemical relation of, ii. 372. Watt, James, has revolutionized the industry of the world, i. 387. His discovery of the constitution of water, ii. 340. His invention of the steam-engine, ii. 385. Week, origin of the, i. 403. Weeping statues, held in superstitious veneration by the vulgar, i. 51. Western Empire becomes extinct, i. 351. Westphalia, Peace of, the culmination of the Reformation, ii. 212. Whewell, his testimony to the incomparable merit of Newton's "Principia," ii. 275. Wickliffe translates the Bible, ii. 99. The revolt of, ii. 148. William of Champeaux opens a school of logic in Paris, ii. 14. William, Lord of Montpellier, his edict respecting the practice of medicine, ii. 123. William de Nogaret assists King Philip against Pope Boniface II., ii. 84. Also against the Templars, ii. 91. William de Plaisian prefers a long list of charges against Pope Boniface, ii. 84. Willis, his researches on the brain and nervous system, ii. 286. Winking pictures held in superstitious veneration by the vulgar, i. 51 Witchcraft, introduction of European, ii. 115. Women, condition of, in India, i. 63. "Sub-introduced," i. 359. Exerted extraordinary influence in the conversion of Europe, i. 365. Woodward improves mineralogy, ii. 286. World, to determine the origin and manner of production of, the first object of Greek philosophy, i. 217. Hindu doctrine of the absorption of, i. 226. Moral, is governed by principles analogous to those which obtain in the physical, i. 348. Expected end of, i. 377. Anthropocentric ideas of the beginning of, ii. 297. Worlds, infinity of; ii. 292. Succession of, ii. 336. Worms, synod of, ii. 18. Xantippe, the wife of Socrates, her character unfairly judged of, i. 147. Xenophanes, the representative of a great philosophical advance, i. 118. Xerxes, his exploits exaggerated, i. 130. Ximenes, Cardinal, burns Arabic manuscripts, ii. 177. Year, length of, determined by Albategnius and Thebit Ben Corrah, ii. 41. Yezed, Khalif, origin of Iconoclasm imputed to, i. 417. Yolinda de Lusignan, Frederick compelled to marry her by Honorius III., ii. 67. York, Archbishop of, excommunicated, ii. 75. Yucay, the site of the national palace of Peru, ii. 182. Zachary, Pope, enters into an alliance with King Pepin, i. 370. Zaryab, the musician, honour paid him by the Khalif Abderrahman, ii. 34. Zedekias, physician to Charles the Bald, fabulous story of, ii. 120. Zehra, splendour and magnificence of the palace and gardens of, ii. 32. Zemzen, a well, one of the fictions of popular Mohammedanism, i. 345. Zeno the Eleatic, the doctrines of Parmenides carried out by, i. 122. 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61572	----	https://archive.org/details/general_history_of_civilization_in_europe/page/n6 {i} Civilisation In Europe. {ii} {iii} General History Of Civilisation In Europe, From The Fall Of The Roman Empire Till The French Revolution. By M. F. Guizot. A Treatise On Death Punishments. By The Same Author. Edinburgh: William And Robert Chambers. 1848. {iv} Edinburgh: Printed By W. And R. Chambers. {v} Contents. Life of Guizot.--7 His Birth Education Entry Into Life Literary Works Political Career And Exile 1787 TO 1848. Lecture I.--23 objects of the course civilisation in general. Lecture II.--38 Peculiar Features Of Civilisation In Europe Influence Of The Church. Lecture III.--56 First Ages Of Civilisation. Lecture IV.--71 Influence Of The Feudal System. Lecture V.--88 The Church From The Fifth To The Twelfth Century. Lecture VI.--104 Relations Of The Church With The People. Lecture VII.--122 Boroughs And Their Influence. Lecture VIII.--139 The Twelfth And Thirteenth Centuries The Crusades. Lecture IX.--153 Rise And Progress Of Royalty. Lecture X.--167 Union Of Elements Of Modern Society. Lecture XI.--182 Of Nations And Governments. Lecture XII.--197 Effects Of The Reformation. Lecture XIII.--212 Effects Of The English Revolution. Lecture XIV.--226 Cause And Effects Of The French Revolution. On The Punishment Of Death--247 {vi} {vii} Life Of Guizot. His Birth Education Entry into Life Literary Works Political Career and Exile 1787 to 1848. Among the many extraordinary personages who have figured within the last sixty years on the political stage of Europe, there are few whose career has been more singular and chequered than that of the author of the following works. In no country does talent so certainly insure pre-eminence to its possessor as in France, nor is success in literature anywhere so nobly rewarded. Rank and fortune are in it no necessary passports to social or political importance, and with perfect truth it may be said that the career of distinction is open to aspirants of every class and merit possessing and evincing legitimate claims to esteem and consideration. Of all professions, that of literature is held in the highest estimation, and its most successful cultivators are those who have exercised for many years the greatest influence over its destinies, and who have constituted its chief legislators and statesmen. From the superiority of his attainments in the field of intellectual exertion, M. Guizot has raised himself from obscurity, and achieved not only the fame of the most philosophic and profound historian of the day, but the lustre of a position the most exalted in the hierarchy of civilised life. The family of M. Guizot appears to have been of old standing and respectable repute in the south of France, having its chief seat in the town of Nismes, where he himself was born on the 4th of October 1787. His father was an advocate, enjoying considerable practice at the provincial bar of Nismes, and he belonged, like his forefathers before him, to the Reformed Church, which entailed upon him sundry galling disabilities, the Protestants being then a proscribed sect in France, precisely as were the Catholics, on the other hand, in England and Ireland. Hence he viewed with approbation and hope the progress of the Revolution which commenced with the meeting of the States-General under Louis XVI. in 1789, and hailed with joy the abrogation of a system which condemned him to humiliations of both a civil and a religious character. He shrank, however, from the excesses with which the Jacobins polluted the glorious outburst, and by his sentiments of moderation, drew upon himself their revengeful anger, from the consequences of which he sought safety in concealment. {viii} Being discovered in his retreat, he heroically refused to accept the offer of permission to escape made him by his captor, preferring to suffer death rather than compromise the existence of another, whom humanity alone prompted to tender a generous protection. He accordingly fell under the axe of the guillotine at Nismes on the 8th of April 1794, contemporaneously with the execution of Danton at Paris, whose fall marked the culminating point of the Reign of Terror. The young Guizot was at this, period nearly seven years of age, and sufficiently old to appreciate all the horrors of that gloomy era: the terrible impression became indelible on his mind, and in a great measure ruled the future tendencies of his mature years, which led him to regard with instinctive abhorrence the smallest approach to a return of revolutionary violence. The mother of Guizot escaped the fate of her husband, being in that respect more fortunate than the wives of most of the victims sacrificed to the vengeance of the Jacobins, and removed with her children to Geneva, to which Calvinistic city she originally belonged. She was a woman of strong mind and sound religious principles: she proved an excellent parent to Guizot and his younger brother, to whose training and education she devoted herself with exemplary solicitude. The care of an affectionate and virtuous mother is the most precious boon to man in his tender years, and there is scarcely an instance of one rising to high celebrity who has not enjoyed the fostering tutelage of maternal superintendence in his boyhood. This advantage Guizot possessed in a supreme degree: and it has been related by a visitor, who found her with him on her knee, reading to him incidents from the lives of the great Reformers, that she remarked, 'I wish to show my Frank, by these examples, how much may be effected by determination and diligence;' and assuredly her lessons were not thrown away, for these are the very qualities which have chiefly distinguished him through life. At the age of twelve, having already made considerable progress in the acquisition of the classical and principal modern languages, he was placed under the charge of M. de Joux, a minister of the Reformed Church of Geneva, who was at the head of a considerable seminary in that city. Under the auspices of this instructor of youth he made rapid progress in his studies, seeking still to master the difficulties which shroud from the unenlightened the immortal compositions bequeathed from antiquity or illumining more recent eras. In four years--such was the ardour of the young student--he could boast an intimate acquaintance with all the most illustrious of the Greeks and Romans, with all the most renowned of the nations of modern Europe. Homer, Thucydides, Demosthenes; Cicero, Seneca, Tacitus; Dante, Tasso, Ariosto; Schiller, Goethe, Fichte; Shakespeare, Milton, Locke; Racine, Fenelon, Montesquieu--these were the great minds with which he cultivated a familiar intercourse, these the sources from which he drank of the fountain of knowledge, these the ennobling inspirers of his dawning genius. Happy the youth who can embrace the opportunity of such learning, happier he who can appreciate its incomparable virtues, its ineffable charms, its exalted benefits; for no education can be more admirably adapted to refine the mind, develop the understanding, invigorate the intellect, or fill the soul with the divine breath of philosophy! {ix} It was natural that the subtle questions which possess such interest in the minds of reflective men, and which involve the enigma of human existence, should present themselves to the thoughtful Guizot as fitting topics of contemplation. Consequently, we find him turn with avidity to metaphysics, and steep himself in sleepless ponderings on their sublime but inextricable problems. He thus acquired, more perhaps than even from his previous studies, that profound and detective cast of mind which is so perceptible in his works, and which makes the elucidation of causes the distinctive feature, the inestimable merit of his dissertations. But the time arrived when the pleasures of academic training must be exchanged for the toils of active life, since no patrimony removed the necessity of earning a subsistence by labour; and Madame Guizot, after consultation with her friends, determined that his father's profession was the most appropriate for her accomplished son. In 1804, accordingly, she left Geneva and returned to Nismes, whence, after tarrying a few months to inhale his native air, Guizot proceeded to Paris, then the glittering capital of the European world, and resplendent with the lustre of Napoleon's imperial throne. The scene, however, was singularly unfitted to a young adventurer, armed doubtless with much recondite lore, versed in all the learning of the schools, attuned to austerity as a Genevese neophyte: the military career was the great high road to fortune and distinction under the rule of the mighty conqueror. Mere civil virtues or mental acquirements were less in repute, and especially the profession of the law languished under the sceptre of the sword. In the midst of a society thus resonant with the tramp of warriors, the poor student felt abashed and forlorn; he sought in seclusion to escape its noise and glare, and the first year of his residence in Paris he still passed in solitude and study. But it was incumbent on him to exert himself for a livelihood, and he justly conceived the functions of a preceptor equally well suited to his capabilities as congenial to his tastes. In his quest for an engagement in this capacity, it was his good fortune to encounter M. Stapfer, himself a native of Switzerland, and formerly the Swiss minister to France, who took him into his house as tutor to his children. M. Stapfer had been originally a preacher of the Gospel, and likewise a professor of philosophy, which he laboured strenuously to invest with a religious character. He was deeply versed in German metaphysics, then bewildered by the novel and abstruse speculations of Kant, and with them he thoroughly embued the mind of Guizot, whom he treated at once as his disciple and his friend. Under the roof of this estimable personage, who has left behind him several valuable critical essays, Guizot found time, moreover, to follow the example of Gibbon and other men of illustrious name in literature, imposing on himself a rigorous and laborious recast of all his previous studies, analytically digesting them and arranging them in that clear and substantive manner which is essential for a permanent and productive groundwork. {x} Whilst thus engaged in the duties of teaching, in the enjoyments of intellectual intercourse, and in the grateful toils of private application, he passed two happy and fruitful years. Through the introduction of M. Stapfer, he became known to M. Suard, whose house was the rendezvous of all the chief literary men of the day, and where he mingled on a footing of perfect equality with its most distinguished visitors, of whom the first in name and lustre was Chateaubriand, who had just electrified, and in part reclaimed, the infidel mind of France by his brilliant and fervent effusion, the 'Génie du Christianisme'--[the Genius of Christianity]. Sedate, modest, and retiring, Guizot was nevertheless twenty-one years old, and at an age when romance appears decked in a guise of irresistible attraction. Yet it was not love that allured him, but rather generosity and sympathy with misfortune that fired his ingenuous ardour. It chanced that a young lady, by name Pauline de Meulan, already past the bloom of womanhood, had been appointed chief contributor to a journal established by M. Suard, called the _Publicist_. This highly-gifted person unfortunately contracted a dangerous illness in the year 1807, which incapacitated her from continuing her contributions to the _Publicist_, on the proceeds of which she depended for the support of herself and her aged mother. No sooner did Guizot hear of her calamitous situation, than he sat down and composed an article in imitation as much as possible of her style and manner, which having completed, he sent to her anonymously, with an intimation that, if agreeable, a similar article would be forwarded for each future number of the journal. It is needless to say that the invalid authoress received the article and the offer with gratitude; and until her restoration to health, her mysterious benefactor perseveringly fulfilled his promise. The extraordinary circumstance was subsequently mentioned by her in the saloon of M. Suard, and in the presence of Guizot, who long refrained from disclosing the secret. When it was at length divulged, it was natural that a very cordial intimacy should ensue between the parties, which, after the lapse of some years-- namely, in 1812--resulted in their marriage, although the lady had the advantage in age by at least fourteen years. Nevertheless, the union was a happy and auspicious one, proving also profitable even in a pecuniary view, since M. Guizot found in his wife an able and sedulous assistant in his literary labours. To her severe purity of mind also it is understood that he is much indebted for that lofty probity and adherence to principle which so strikingly distinguish him from the great herd of his contemporaries. Thus fairly introduced to a literary life, he applied himself to its pursuits with unwearied industry. Under the rigorous censorship in which Napoleon kept the press, a very limited range of subjects was permitted to an author--anything bearing on politics, even in historical, critical, or philosophical dissertation, being strictly forbidden. In this dismal state of restriction, Guizot's first regular work, published in 1809, was an edition of Gerard's French Synonymes, with additions, accompanied by an original treatise on the philosophical character of the French language. {xi} This was followed in 1811 by a translation of 'Spain in 1808,' from the German of Rehfus, and by an essay on the state of the fine arts in France. In the course of that year he also received the appointment of conductor of a periodical entitled 'The Annals of Education,' which appeared for some years under his editorship. Before the end of 1812, he produced a translation of Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, which was a work of many hands, even Louis XVI., when dauphin, being said to have executed part of it; but the whole of which was carefully revised and annotated by Guizot before publication. At the close of this same year he obtained, through the influence of M. de Fontanes, the professorship of history in the university of Paris, a situation which brought him in contact with Royer-Collard, likewise a professor in the same college, and between them a friendship sprang up, which afterwards bore happy fruits, and had an important influence on the future career of M, Guizot. The first restoration of the Bourbons in 1814 presented to him the opportunity for which his ambition had been already aroused, of entering into political life. Through the recommendation of Royer-Collard, he was nominated by the Abbé de Montesquiou, minister of the interior, secretary to his department; and he followed the king in his flight to Ghent, where he is stated to have successfully exerted his enlightened remonstrances to induce Louis XVIII. to discard from his councils M. de Blacas, whose antiquated royalism had materially availed to precipitate him from his newly-acquired throne. Under the second restoration he held several secondary offices in the administration, and he remained attached to successive ministries until 1820, when the assassination of the Duke de Berri produced a violent royalist reaction, under which the Decazes ministry fell (of which Royer-Collard formed a component part), and in its ruin involved M. Guizot. He then openly joined the party in opposition to M. Villele, the new minister; and having ventured to arraign his measures in a pamphlet, he was suspended from his chair in the university, which he did not regain until the accession of M. de Martignac to power in the year 1828. Thus deprived of all official income, he was reduced once more to his pen to eke out a subsistence. With a hearty good-will, and a noble spirit of independence, he turned again to his literary labours, which he prosecuted during the ten years from 1820 to 1830 with unexampled diligence, and soon fixed on himself the attention and admiration of his countrymen. It will be sufficient to enumerate his principal publications during this important era of his life. 1. A Collection of Memoirs relative to the English Revolution, with Historical Notes and Explanations, 25 vols. 8vo; followed by a History of the English Revolution in 2 vols. 8vo, which has not yet been completed according to the authors original intentions. 2. A Collection of Memoirs relative to the History of France from the Foundation of the Monarchy to the Thirteenth Century, with an Introduction, Supplement, Notices, and Notes, 29 vols. 8vo. 3. A new edition of Rollin and Letourneur's Translation of Shakespeare, with great Amendments, and illustrated by Critical Notes and Historical Notices. {xii} 4. The 'Revue Française,' a periodical established by him during this period, may be accounted in the number of his works, together with the principal articles in the journal called the 'Globe.' In the execution of all these labours he was constantly assisted by his wife, who sat in the same room with him in which he carried on his literary operations, attended by her two nieces, and surrounded by a number of young men, who acted in various capacities as copyists, arrangers, and amanuenses: the whole group presenting a picture of silent activity and resolute industry the most interesting that can be conceived. At this period M. Guizot lived in a quiet retired house in a small street behind the Madeleine, which he has rendered in some degree famous by the indefatigable labours of which it was the scene. He has since lived in sumptuous palaces; but it is probable that in this modest abode he had more real enjoyment than when seated amid the magnificence of high official pomp. Though he was well known to be poor, and to be dependent on literature for a livelihood, his condition, which in England would have been considered one of the most degraded possible, was no drawback to his social position, and his residence was the resort of nearly all the most eminent men of the day both in literature and in politics. On his reception nights his little rooms were crowded with people of distinction, anxious to partake the intellectual feast served out on such occasions; for no substantial viands were there to regale them beyond a cup of tea, dispensed by the fair hands of Madame Guizot and one or two female friends--often the late Duchess de Broglie, a woman of superior attainments. Yet sorrow, too, fell on him in this otherwise cherished home, for here his wife died in the course of 1827, and shortly after her his only son. With her dying breath she besought him to marry one of her nieces, who resided with them; and in the following year he fulfilled her wish by espousing Eliza Dillon, the eldest, whom he has likewise had the misfortune to lay in the tomb, after bearing him two daughters. It was in this same year, 1828, that the liberal ministry of M. de Martignac was formed, one of whose first acts was to restore M. Guizot to his professorship of modern history in the Sorbonne, and in which situation he will he perhaps hereafter held to have earned his chiefest glory. The lectures that M. Guizot delivered from his university chair have been collected into two publications, the one entitled 'A Course of Modern History,' in six volumes, and the other 'The History of Civilisation in Europe.' This latter course has been very much admired, has passed into all modern languages, and attained a most extensive celebrity. It was delivered on his resumption of his chair in the session of 1828, and more than one translation of it has already appeared in English. But recent events have given to the work an additional interest and importance, justifying its renewed publication and as it will pass into the hands of a fresh class of readers, a few words on its purport, scope, and execution, will scarcely be considered misplaced:-- {xiii} It embraces a history of the general course of modern civilisation, from the overthrow of the Roman Empire in the west, to the mental convulsion which heralded the French Revolution. The elements of that civilisation the author has reduced to four--namely, the church, the feudal system, the boroughs, and the royal power--and each of them in succession to its origin, and followed in all its subsequent changes. The influence of the great events that have occurred in modern Europe, on the different orders of society, is exhibited with great force and originality, particularly the effect of the crusades, the Reformation, and the English revolution. The manner in which he shows society to have been ultimately divided between two powers only, nations and governments, is very striking and successful. The most brilliant portion of the work is generally judged to be that in which he describes the reign of Louis XIV., and the contests of that monarch with William III., each of them being the representative and personification of a great principle, the one embodying absolute sovereignty, and the other civil and religious liberty, the struggle between which is the characteristic of later European history. Throughout the work, M. Guizot displays great depth of thought and originality, not only in his general views and analysations, but also in his ideas touching particular orders of facts, individual occurrences, or peculiar institutions. He possesses the art, in a very high degree, of presenting known objects in so novel and startling a light, as to arouse the attention of the reader, and make him stretch his reflective faculties to the utmost, in spite of himself. An exalted tone of philosophical reasoning marks the whole inquiry, which, whilst it opens and delights the mind, keeps it likewise steadfast and attentive; for it will be found impossible to comprehend the greater part of M. Guizot's deductions in a careless or occasional perusal. Objections have been made to the style in which M. Guizot writes. He is accused, and perhaps justly, of being sometimes barren and spiritless, and at other times diffuse and tedious. But there is no doubt that in his writings there are passages of great beauty and expression, though he evidently is more concerned about the strength and truthfulness of his ideas than the mere diction in which he couches them. A certain suddenness of transition, in which he frequently indulges, renders him a difficult author to translate, in such a manner as to give so perfect an idea of his style of writing as could be wished, though that object has in the present instance been pursued as far as possible. It will be found that, at the conclusion of the work, the author gives an intimation of his intention to carry out the operation of modern civilisation on the moral and internal development of mankind at a future period, he having limited his present inquiry to its effect on political and social development. From the circumstances about to be related, M. Guizot has not hitherto fulfilled this promise, but it is now understood that he intends without delay to complete his original design. {xiv} From the celebrated epoch of 1830 M. Guizot is to be viewed chiefly as a political character, although he has in the interval published several esteemed works, such as the life of Monk, the life of Washington, an Essay on Democracy, and a philosophical essay on Death Punishments, particularly with reference to political offences, which appears at the close of this volume. In January of that year he was returned by the constituency of Lisieux a member of the Chamber of Deputies, and he concurred in the address from the majority of that body, which provoked Charles X. to issue his famous ordinances of the 15th July 1830. At a meeting of deputies held at the house of Casimir Perier, the protest adopted against those ordinances was drawn up by Guizot, and when Charles X. was driven from the kingdom, he was appointed by the provisional government minister of public instruction. On the elevation of Louis-Philippe to the throne, the first administration selected by him was naturally drawn from different parties, and was in a great measure heterogeneous, being left without a head or president. But in it Guizot held unquestionably the first place, since he had the appointment of minister of the interior, which, immediately subsequent to a revolution, must be deemed the most important office of the government. This first ministry, which comprised men of all shades of opinion--Molé, Dupin, Lafitte, and Perier--lasted only three months, being displaced by one of a more decidedly liberal tendency under the presidency of Lafitte, and Guizot retired from office with his friends. It was from this time that the Chamber of Deputies became broken up into so many different fractions, that scarcely any combination was feasible to command for any length of time the necessary majority to carry on the government. Hence changes of ministry were almost continual during the first ten years of Louis-Philippe's reign. The various parties in the Chamber were generically four only--that is, distinguishable from each other on account of fundamental principles. These four were the Legitimatists, or partisans of the fallen dynasty; the Reactionists, the Conservative Reformers, and the Radical Reformers, according to the nomenclature best descriptive of their respective tendencies; but they were known as the Right, the Centre Right, the Centre Left, and the Left, from the positions they occupied in the hall of the Chamber. But these again were subdivided into minuter sections, particularly with regard to the two Centres, which constituted the bulk of the assembly, and from which all the ministries were drawn. Thus, although Guizot belonged to the Centre Right, he, with Royer-Collard and some twenty-five or thirty others, formed a body apart called the Doctrinaires: a term applied to them, like most political designations, from an accidental circumstance. Previous to the Revolution, a teaching corporation had existed under the title of the Doctrinaires, in one of whose colleges Royer-Collard had been educated, whilst his brother and uncle belonged to the fraternity. His style of oratory was of a severe and logical character, proceeding always upon a foundation of fixed doctrines, and the word, moreover, was continually upon his lips. {xv} One day he was more than usually profuse of the phrase, and a royalist member, irritated at the lecture he was delivering, exclaimed aloud, 'Ah! hear the Doctrinaires! No one can ever mistake the Doctrinaires!' From that moment the epithet clung to him and his associates, who, sooth to say, accepted it willingly enough. But though the origin of the appellation is easily explained, it is far otherwise with regard to the precise principles upheld by the Doctrinaires. Agreeing generally with the Right Centre on the necessity of resisting any extension of popular franchises, they nevertheless allowed that such an extension might be advisable, and was consistent with reason and justice, but at the same time care must be taken that the real government of the country should always be vested in the men of superior information and capacity. There was nothing so very peculiar in these ideas as really to invest the Doctrinaires with a distinct political character; but in truth both Guizot and Collard were too proud and ambitious to confess the leadership of another, and they aspired to hold the balance between the two Centres, so as to render their support indispensable to the formation of a ministry. There is perhaps no more difficult task than to render intelligible the struggles of parties and the changes of government that took place during the early years of Louis-Philippe's reign. With the exception of the two small fractions on the extremes of the Chamber, the Legitimatists (of whom Berryer was the leader) and the avowed Republicans (of whom Garnier-Pages was the leader), all were unanimous in maintaining in its integrity the Charter of 1830, and the dynasty it planted on the throne of France. Even Odillon Barrot and Arago only advocated certain electoral changes with a view to an extension of the suffrage to a larger portion of the population, and the adoption of sundry other reforms. But nevertheless, although the battle-ground seemed thus contracted, and merely insignificant points of difference to exist, there are few instances in parliamentary history of a keener or more bitter strife being maintained than between the main parties in the Chamber of Deputies; and this can be explained only by the undoubted fact, that the dissensions almost exclusively arose from personal rivalries. Thus between Guizot and Thiers, who so far outshone all others in oratory and talent as to be the incontestable leaders of the assembly, there existed no such tangible practical difference as to justify their mutual hostility. It is true that Thiers, from the tenor of his writings and his previous associations, was considered as of a more liberal cast; but his name is identified with no measure of any liberal tendency, nor did he hesitate to follow, when himself in power, the same restrictive policy with regard to the press, public meetings, and other matters, which marked what were deemed more retrograde governments. Under such circumstances it was that Louis-Philippe, who possessed great sagacity and knowledge of men, and was, withal, tormented by the lust of ruling, saw that, by skilfully poising between the adverse factions, he might himself hold the reins of government, and violate the great maxim of a constitutional monarchy, which assigns to the king the part of _reigning_ only, and to his responsible advisers that of _ruling_. {xvi} This he so far carried out, that notwithstanding the numerous displacements of ministries, they were all essentially of his own composition, and on the great affairs of policy the creatures of his will. Yet it would be unjust to this monarch not to allow that such a condition of things was in a great measure forced upon him by the anomalous state of parties in the Chamber of Deputies, and that throughout his reign he invariably exerted his influence to discourage the passion for war so unhappily inherent in the French people, insomuch that to him personally may be ascribed the glory of preserving for so many years the peace of the civilised world. There is no doubt that although France attained a great development of material prosperity under the reign of Louis-Philippe, his government must be characterised, as regards social and political improvement, as stagnant, if not retrograde. Whether it could be otherwise or not, from the peculiar character of the French, without its own stability being endangered, will be the subject of curious inquiry with the future historian. But on one important point a magnificent progress was made, and that through the agency of M. Guizot. In October 1832 he took office in a coalition ministry with Thiers, of which Marshal Soult was president, and he received the appointment of minister of public instruction, for which he was so admirably adapted, and which, under innumerable modifications of the cabinet, he retained until 1836. And here it may be remarked in approbation, as indicating the entire extinction of religious bigotry in France, that not a single objection was raised, on the score of his Protestantism, against Guizot being intrusted with the superintendence of the education of the whole youth of France. But it may appear more surprising that he was allowed to extend the system of public education in so extraordinary a degree. Without entering into the particulars of his educational organisation, it is a sufficient proof of the gigantic ramifications he gave it, that whereas in 1829 the grant for education figured in the budget at the moderate sum of 2,000,000 francs, it was increased in 1836 to 15,000,000 francs, or L.600,000 sterling; whilst the item for primary instruction was in like manner swelled from 50,000 to 5,000,000 francs. Thus throughout the whole of France the means of affording an adequate education to the bulk of the population was provided by the foresight of this statesman, who wisely judged that the spread of education among a community is the best security of peace, prosperity, and order. In February 1836 Guizot yielded to the superior address of his rival, Thiers, who realised the full dream of his ambition in becoming prime minister of France. His tenure of power, however, was very brief, since it continued only to August of the same year, when he in his turn gave way to Molé, whom Guizot joined as a colleague. So brittle was the fabric of these cabinets, that Molé's fell to pieces in March 1837, but was subsequently reconstructed, by the substitution of Montalivet for Guizot, who was sacrificed as obnoxious to the majority of the Chamber. In 1839 Soult was again made president of the council, and Guizot accepted the honourable post of ambassador to England. {xvii} He was received at the court of London with distinguished regard; and he has himself recorded his sense of the flattering reception he experienced from all classes in Great Britain. His mission, however, was not of long duration, since another ministerial revolution had again hoisted to the head of affairs the redoubtable Thiers, under whom he declined to serve. The warlike propensities evinced by Thiers, consequent upon the coalition of the other great powers to expel Mehemet Ali from Syria, induced the king to dismiss him; and in 1840 Louis-Philippe formed his last ministry, with Soult nominally at its head, but Guizot virtually its chief in the all-important post of minister of foreign affairs. Under this administration was finally consummated the catastrophe, which to the foreseeing had long hideously loomed, and against which the voice of warning had been raised in vain. The Charter of 1830, and the government established under it, had been gradually becoming indifferent, if not repugnant, to the bulk of the French people, who viewed with amazement the successive variations of ministries, which produced indeed a change of men, but led to no modification of system, to no amelioration of measures. That this was a result almost inevitably entailed on a mushroom institution is perhaps too true, from the simple fact, that the primary function of every orderly government in France is to protect its existence from the ceaseless efforts of a faction the most unscrupulous and ruthless in its means of action known since the days of Catiline in the Roman Forum. The repeated attempts to assassinate the king, and the constant plots to subvert his throne, sufficiently attest this dire necessity, which nevertheless involved consequences most disastrous to his popularity and the durability of his dynasty. Compelled, in sheer self-defence, to adopt repressive measures against the abettors of anarchy, the friends of liberty, forgetting or overlooking the existing danger to order and to society itself, saw in these measures evidences of tyranny, and exclaimed against them as acts of treachery to the spirit of the constitution. In some instances these measures might be too severe, and those taken against the press would seem undoubtedly so, were it not that newspaper articles exercise so extraordinary an influence over the French, insomuch that Napoleon himself stood more in awe of them than of all the million bayonets of the Allies; but at least they were sanctioned by the principal men of all parties, save the extreme republicans, and for the moment acquiesced in as precautions of absolute necessity. Yet no situation can be conceived more unfortunate for a government than being thus continually driven to acts of harshness and severity even against inveterate malefactors, since it thereby becomes easy to represent it in odious colours. The whole system of the government appeared directed to one single aim--that of consolidating the dynasty on the throne, even at the expense of public liberty--and this idea being assiduously circulated, soon took root, and grew into a settled conviction throughout the country. Thus the king grew unpopular, if not odious, and durst not appear in public unless surrounded by innumerable guards. {xviii} The only member of his family, the Duke of Orleans, who was at all beloved among the people, was unfortunately killed; and although another of his sons, the Prince de Joinville, attempted to gain popularity by pandering to the national hatred against England, he failed in his object; and the whole family came to be regarded by the nation with utter indifference, and perhaps aversion. This was strikingly exemplified in the case of the marriage of the Duke de Montpensier with the Infanta of Spain, which was brought about by means very discreditable to the heads of the French government, albeit regarding it as a master-stroke of policy, but which created no excitement among the people, who saw in it simply the aggrandisement of a family in whose fortunes they had ceased to feel any interest. It was under such untoward circumstances, with M. Guizot as chief adviser of the crown, that an almost unanimous cry arose in France for electoral reform, such as had been long advocated by Odillon Barrot and his party. But for the general discontent existing against the government, it is probable this cry would have subsided, although founded on strict reason and justice; yet this discontent was unhappily further inflamed by certain disclosures of peculation on the part of high functionaries, which tended to show the entire system of the administration to be deeply tainted with corruption. The integrity of M. Guizot himself was never questioned, nor was he personally affected in character; but he could not escape the imputation of conniving at impurities, certainly of long-standing, and difficult to be eradicated, which could not fail to compromise the government under which they were allowed to continue. [Footnote 1] [Footnote 1: M. Guizot carried his idea of ministerial integrity to the pitch of austerity. When the Boy of Tunis was received in Paris, one of the questionable proceedings that marked the latter years of Louie-Philippe, he sent presents to Guizot's daughters, amounting in value to L.6000, which the latter immediately returned.] The question of reform consequently grew in magnitude, and, independently of other causes, for these especial reasons--1_st_, The electoral system of the Charter was partial and defective; and, 2_ldy_, It had proved barren and fruitless. The qualification of an elector being fixed at the yearly payment of L.8, 6s. 8d. direct taxes, reduced the number of electors below 200,000 in a population of 35,000,000. Therefore the representation was partial and illusory. The constituencies were so unequal, that whereas in large towns there was only one deputy to every 2000 voters, in the rural districts there was one also to every 150 voters; and these last were, from the multitude of public functionaries in France, almost completely under the influence, and, in fact, close boroughs, of the government. It could not be denied, therefore, that the composition of the Chamber was unequal and defective, and that it might have been advantageously reformed. But Louis-Philippe had grown only the more wedded to his system of repression with increase of age, and he would hear of no change. Guizot himself was of stubborn and haughty temper, and though he might feel all the force of the arguments against the existing system, he scorned to yield to what might be deemed intimidation. {xix} Confident in a force of 50,000 soldiers collected in the capital, confident in the majority of the Chamber of Deputies, which was actually composed of persons holding places under the crown, both king and minister looked with composure on the movement, determined to suppress it the moment it appeared to gather undue strength or wax in real danger. During the winter of 1847, Reform Banquets were held in almost all the departments of France, which were signalised by the significant omission of the king's health from the list of toasts. This was in itself a circumstance sufficiently indicative of the low estimation in which the monarch was held, not among the lower classes, who are generally discontented with any government, but among the bulk of the middle classes, the assumed bulwarks of the throne. These banquets were of course watched, but were not interfered with by the authorities; but when the legislature again assembled at Paris for its usual session, in the beginning of 1848, it was resolved to hold one on a gigantic scale in the capital itself. This the government resolved to prevent, and accordingly interdicted it; afterwards it withdrew the prohibition, and eventually renewed it. This vacillation was most injurious; it bespoke the government to be in doubt and hesitation; it imparted to the reform leaders additional boldness and determination. They persisted in holding the banquet, which was appointed to take place on the 22d February. It would be out of place to pursue the subject in detail. Suffice it to say, that an insurrection of the people broke out, who erected barricades in the principal thoroughfares of Paris; the national guards and the troops refused to act against the populace, and in four-and-twenty hours Louis-Philippe was dethroned! The palace of the Tuileries was stormed and sacked; the mob burst into the Chamber of Deputies, whence they expelled the members, and proclaimed a Republic. The monarch, who a few days previously had seemed as firmly seated on his throne as any in Europe, who was esteemed as amongst the wisest and most sagacious, and who had to fence around him 500,000 bayonets, was a fugitive with his queen, flying in disguise, without money and without clothes, and at length reaching the shore of England in an old pea-coat borrowed from the master of a steamboat! So sudden and unaccountable an event has never occurred in the history of the world, studded as it is with remarkable vicissitudes and reverses of fortune. It is for the historian, and not for the biographer, to investigate its causes and trace its development. The minister shared the fate of his master. With difficulty he escaped through the insurgent multitude, and making good his way to the Belgian frontier, took shipping at Ostend, and reached England in safety. For better security, he had despatched his mother and daughters in a different direction for the same destination, and upon his arrival, had the happiness to find they had preceded him. Now an exile from his native land, in which he has played so varied and distinguished a part, he will at least have letters and philosophy to console him; nor will his sterner nature melt into those abject repinings for which we blush in Cicero. In leisure and retirement, he will complete those works which assure him a niche in the temple of fame, if the judgment of posterity be adverse to him as a statesman. T. W. Redhead. --------------- {xx} Since the arrival of M. Guizot in England, he has lived in studied seclusion. He has refused several invitations from public bodies, and even offers of honourable appointments, for it is the boast of Britain to feel sympathy with the unfortunate and the exiled; but upon one occasion he has been tempted from his privacy, and as the words of such a man must ever possess great value and interest, it is deemed fitting they should be here recorded. It was at a public entertainment given in August 1848 at Great Yarmouth, after the re-opening of St. Nicholas Church, that M. Guizot was present; and on his health being drunk by the chairman, he delivered himself as follows:-- 'I have come but twice during my life to England. The first time I came as the ambassador of a powerful king; the second time as an exile from my native land. When I came the first time to your country, Europe was in a state of perfect tranquillity and prosperity; there was peace present, and confidence in the future. The second time, some months ago, when I came, my own country--Europe generally--was involved in much sadness and fears for the future; but I found England perfectly quiet, enjoying in the deepest tranquillity her liberty, her constitution, her moral, intellectual, and material prospects; and I was received as an exile, as I had been when an ambassador, with the same kindness, the same sympathy, and, I venture to say, with the same friendship. I have hitherto refused myself to every invitation--declined every invitation to great feasts and to great meetings. Far from my dear country, and deeply sad, it is my inclination as well as my duty to live in retirement; and this I am doing. But this occasion is one of a very different kind. The restoration of a church of God, the piety of an immense people, the eloquence of two worthy bishops--these were the motives that attracted me to your town, after I had refused every other invitation. Only one word more. Allow me to say to you, keep your faith--keep your laws--be faithful to the examples, to the tradition of your ancestors; and I trust God will continue to pour on you and your country His best, His most abundant, His most fertile blessings.' {xxi} {xxii} {23} History Of Civilisation In Europe. Lecture I. Objects Of The Course--of Civilisation In General. Gentlemen--I am deeply affected at the reception with which you favour me, and which I accept as a pledge of the sympathy which has continued to exist between us, notwithstanding so long a separation. It is as if the same individuals, the same generation, who seven years ago took part in my labours, were now present within these walls. Because I myself return here, it seems to me that everything is as it was, that nothing is changed; yet all is changed, and changed for the better. Seven years ago, we entered this building with uneasiness, beset by sad and gloomy thoughts; we were aware that difficulties and perils surrounded us; we felt ourselves drawn towards an evil which we vainly strove to escape by a grave, calm, and reserved demeanour. Now we all come, you as well as I, with confidence and hope, our minds at peace, and our thoughts unshackled. There is only one mode by which we can testify our gratitude, gentlemen; and it is by observing in our meetings and our studies the same tranquillity and prudence that marked them when every day brought its fears that they would be fettered or suspended. Let us not forget that good fortune is of a delicate and fragile texture, and liable to accidents; that hope requires moderation like fear; that the convalescent state demands almost the same cares and caution as the approaches of illness. I feel assured, gentlemen, that your ideas correspond with mine. The sympathy, the intimate and unreserved communication of opinions and sentiments, which united us in days of difficulty, and saved us at all events from indiscretions, will equally unite us at this more favourable period, and enable us to gather all its fruits. I reckon upon your acquiescence, gentlemen, and I need nothing more. {24} The time allowed us between this and the close of the year is very limited. I have myself had only a short period to arrange the course that I should present to you. I have sought a subject which might be the most completely handled, both with reference to the time that is left us, and to the few days that have been granted me for preparation. It has appeared to me that a general picture of the modern history of Europe, considered with respect to the development of civilisation--in other words, a glance at the history of European civilisation, of its origin, its progress, its objects, and its character--was best adapted for the space at our disposal. It is upon this subject, therefore, I have determined to address you. I am justified in speaking of European civilisation, because it is evident that a certain identity prevails in the civilisation of the different states of Europe; that it results from facts nearly similar, notwithstanding great diversities in time, place, and circumstance; that it is traceable to the same principles, and has an almost universal tendency to analogous results. Thus I deduce an European civilisation, and with it, taken as a whole, I am desirous of interesting you. On the other hand, it is equally clear that this civilisation is not to be looked for, that its history is not fully developed, in the history of any single state of Europe. If it possesses unity, its variety is not less prodigious: in no peculiar country can its progress be completely traced. Its features are scattered: the elements of its history are to be found sometimes in France, sometimes in England, sometimes in Germany, sometimes in Spain. We hold a favourable position for prosecuting this search and study into European civilisation. We must avoid flattery to any individual, and even to our country; yet I believe we can say with truth that France has been the centre, the furnace, of the civilisation of Europe. It would be absurd to pretend that she has always marched in the van on all sides. She has been preceded in the arts at different eras by Italy; and in political institutions by England. Perhaps also, in other respects, we should find that other nations have at particular periods been superior to her; but it is impossible to deny that whenever France has perceived herself backward in the race, she has assumed a fresh vigour, has sprung forward, and has soon found herself equal to, or in advance of all. And not only has this come to pass; but when the civilising ideas or institutions, if I may be allowed the phrase, have been transplanted, to render them productive and universal, to fit them for the common good of European civilisation, we have seen them obliged, in some degree, to undergo a new preparatory process in France, and from her, as from a second country, of a richer and more fertile soil, go forth to the conquest of Europe. There is not a great idea, not a great principle of civilisation, which has not first passed through France to be disseminated in every quarter. {25} There is something more sociable and sympathetic, something acting with more facility and energy, in the French character than in that of any other nation: either from our language, or the particular bent of our genius or our manners, our ideas are more popular, are more clearly perceptible to the masses, and penetrate amongst them more easily; in a word, perspicuity, sociability, and sympathy, are the peculiar characteristics of France and of her civilisation, and these qualities eminently fit her to march at the head of European civilisation. Therefore, in entering upon the history of this great fact, it is from no arbitrary or conventional choice that we assume France as the centre of our studies, but rather that we thereby place ourselves, as it were, in the very heart of civilisation, in the very heart of what we are about to engage our minds in investigating. I call it a _fact_, gentlemen, and I call it so designedly. Civilisation is a fact, and one as susceptible of being studied, described, and related, as any other in history. It has long ago been remarked with justice, that history should be comprised in facts--that it should be a relation. Nothing is more true. But there are more facts to relate, and these facts are themselves more various than we are perhaps at first disposed to believe: there are the material, visible facts, such as battles, wars, the official acts of governments; there are the moral, hidden facts, which are not the less real; there are individual facts, which have a distinct designation; and there are general facts, having no designation, to which it is impossible to assign a precise date either of day or year, which it is impossible to include in prescribed limits, and which are unquestionably facts which cannot be excluded from history without mutilating it. That portion which we are accustomed to name the philosophical part of history--the mutual relations of facts, the bond which unites them, the causes and the effects of events--is as much history as the recitals of battles and of external circumstances. Facts of this description are doubtless more difficult to unravel, and give frequent occasions for error: it is no easy task to give them animation, or present them in clear and vivid colours; but this difficulty affects not, nor changes, their nature, nor renders them a less essential part of history. Civilisation is one of these facts, a general, hidden, complex fact; very difficult, I grant, to describe and relate, but not the less, on that account, possessing existence, and a right to be described and related. A great number of questions may be raised on this fact: it may be asked, indeed it has been asked, whether it is for good or evil? Some have most gloomy anticipations, others most bright. It may be also asked whether there be an universal civilisation of the human species, a destiny for humanity, and whether there has been transmitted from age to age something which cannot be lost, which must increase, form a store, and thus be passed on to the end of time? {26} For my own part, I am convinced that there is, in fact, a general destiny for humanity, a transmission of the store of civilisation, and, as a necessary consequence, an universal history of civilisation to write. But without raising questions so grave and difficult to resolve, if we confine ourselves to a fixed interval of time and space--that is, if we limit our researches to the history of a certain number of centuries and of certain people--we shall find it clear, that within these bounds civilisation is a fact which can be described, related as matter of history. I do not hesitate to add, that its history is the most important of all, and that it embraces all others. Is it not apparent that civilisation is the main fact, the general and definite fact, in which all others terminate and are included! Take all the facts which compose the history of a nation, they being generally considered as the elements of its existence; take its institutions, its commerce, its industrial movements, its wars, all the details of its government; and when we reflect upon these circumstances in their consolidated tendency, and in their relations, when we weigh and judge them, our view is directed to ascertain how they have contributed to the civilisation of that nation, in what proportion they have influenced it, what effect they have had in accomplishing it. We thus not only form a complete idea of them, but we measure and ascertain their real value: they are in some degree like rivers, the quantity of water conveyed by which to the ocean is matter of calculation. Civilisation is a species of ocean forming a nation's wealth, and in the bosom of which all the elements and sources of its existence are united. This is so true, that, with respect to facts--which are from their nature detestable, disastrous, a painful weight upon nations, as despotism and anarchy, for example--if they have contributed in some degree to civilisation, if they have given it a considerable impetus, up to a certain point we excuse and pardon their injuries and their evil nature; insomuch, that wherever we discover civilisation, and the facts which have tended to enrich it, we are tempted to forget the price it has cost. There are, indeed, facts which, properly speaking, cannot be styled social--individual facts, seeming to interest the human soul rather than to affect public life: such are religious creeds and philosophical ideas, sciences, letters, and arts. These are matters apparently influencing man, either to perfect or delight him, and having for their object rather his internal amelioration or gratification, than his social condition. Yet it is with reference to civilisation that these very circumstances are frequently, and ought to be, considered. At all periods, in all lands, religion has been glorified as an engine of civilisation; sciences, letters, and arts, all the intellectual and moral pursuits, have claimed a share in this glory; and we give them praise and honour in our opinion when we admit that their claims are just. {27} Thus facts the most important and sublime in themselves, independently of all external result, and simply taken in their relations with the human soul, increase in importance, and rise in sublimity, from their connection with civilisation. So great is the value of this general fact, that it imparts consideration to everything it touches; and not only that, but there are even occasions when the matters of which we speak--religious creeds, philosophical ideas, letters, arts--are especially estimated and judged with reference to their influence upon civilisation; and the extent of this influence becomes, up to a certain point, and during a certain time, the decisive measure of their merit and value. It is important to inquire, before undertaking its history, and with regard only to itself, in what consists this grave, and extensive, and precious matter, thus seeming to contain, and give expression to, the entire existence of nations. And here I shall avoid falling into pure philosophy; I shall avoid laying down a reasoning principle, and then deducing the nature of civilisation from it as a consequence: there would be many chances of error in such a method. We encounter a fact preliminarily which requires to be verified and described. During a long period, and in many countries, the word civilisation has been used; ideas more or less clear, more or less expansive, have been attached to it, but it is in general use, and it is understood. It is the general, human, popular meaning of this word that we must study. It almost invariably occurs, that in the usual acceptation of terms most in vogue, there is more truth than in the more rigorous, and apparently more precise, definitions of science. It is good sense which gives their common signification to words, and good sense is the genius of humanity. The popular meaning of a word is constituted by a successive process as facts actually arise; so that when a matter presents itself which seems to be comprised within the meaning of a received term, it is comprehended within it by, as it were, a natural tendency: the signification of the term expands and takes a larger compass; and by degrees the various facts and ideas which, from the very nature of things, men should include under this word, become so included in reality. When the meaning of a word, on the contrary, is determined by science, such determination, being fixed by one or a small number of individuals, is controlled by some particular fact which has struck their minds. Thus scientific definitions are in general much more confined, and from that circumstance alone, much less true at bottom, than popular acceptations. In studying, as a fact, the meaning of the word _civilisation_, in investigating all the ideas comprised within it, according to the common sense of mankind, we shall make greater progress in gaining a knowledge of the fact itself, than if we endeavoured to form for ourselves a scientific definition, although it might appear at first more clear and precise. {28} As a commencement to this investigation, I shall attempt to place before you certain hypotheses--I shall describe certain states of society; and then will arise the question, Whether, by general instinct, the condition of a people advancing in civilisation is at once recognised--whether the meaning which mankind attach naturally to the word _civilisation_ is thereby developed? Let us take a people whose outward existence is agreeable and comfortable, paying few taxes, exposed to no suffering, amongst whom justice is well administered in private affairs; in a word, whose material existence, in its full extent, is well and happily regulated. But at the same time, the intellectual and moral existence of this people is studiously held in a state of numbness and inactivity, I will not say in a state of oppression, because the feeling is unknown to it, but of compression. This order of things is not without example. There has been a great number of small aristocratic republics in which the people have been treated like flocks, well tended, and materially happy, but without moral and intellectual activity. Is this civilisation! Is this a people in the process of self-civilisation? Let us take another hypothesis. Here is a people whose material existence is less agreeable, less comfortable, yet supportable. But in return, its moral and intellectual wants have not been neglected; a certain extent of pasture has been afforded them; elevated and pure sentiments are cultivated amongst this people; systems of religion and morality have attained a certain degree of development; but great care is taken to strangle the principle of liberty. Here the intellectual and moral wants, as before the physical wants, are satisfied: to each individual is meted out a portion of truth, but he is not permitted to seek it freely of himself alone. The characteristic of the moral life is immobility; it is the state into which the major part of the Asiatic populations has fallen, where theocratic dominations repress elasticity; it is the state of the Hindoos, for example. I ask the same question as before--Is this a people advancing in civilisation? I change altogether the nature of the hypothesis. Here is a people amongst whom is a great development of certain individual liberties, but where disorder and inequality are excessive; the empire of force and chance: he who is not strong is oppressed, suffers, and perishes. Violence is the characteristic of the social state. Every person knows that Europe has passed through this state. Is it a civilised condition? It may doubtless contain the principles of civilisation, which will be successively developed; but the predominant fact in such a society is most assuredly not that which the common sense of mankind calls civilisation. {29} I take a fourth and last hypothesis. The liberty of each individual is very great, inequality is rare, or at least temporary. Each does almost what he pleases, and differs little in power with his neighbour; but there are very few general interests, public ideas or sentiments, very little society; in a word, the faculties and career of individuals are deployed, and run in isolation, without mutual action, and without leaving any marks behind: successive generations leave society at the same point at which it has come to them. This is the state of savage tribes: liberty and equality are there, and yet as certainly is not civilisation. I could multiply these hypotheses, but I think we have enough to prove what is the popular and natural meaning of the word civilisation. It is clear that none of the conditions which I have glanced at answers, according to the common sense of mankind, to this term. Why? It appears to me that the first fact comprised in the word _civilisation_ (and this is deducible from the different examples I have brought forward), is that of progress, of development; its application is identical with the idea of a people on the move, not for a change of locality, but of condition; of a people whose state is in the process of expansion and amelioration. Progress and development appear to me the fundamental ideas contained in the word civilisation. What is this progress? what this development? Here stands the great difficulty. The etymology of the word seems to afford a clear and satisfactory solution; it says that it is the perfection of the civil life, the development of society, properly so called, of the relations of men amongst themselves. Such is, in reality, the first idea which presents itself to the human understanding when the word _civilisation_ is pronounced; the extension of the social relations, the imparting to them the greatest activity, the most perfect organisation, are matters of immediate implication: on the one hand, an increasing production of the means which secure strength and happiness to society; on the other, a more equitable distribution amongst individuals of the strength and happiness produced. Is this all? Have we exhausted all that its natural and prevailing meaning conveys? Does the fact of civilisation contain nothing more? It is almost as if we asked--Is the human species a mere swarm or aggregation demanding only order and plenty, in which the greater the amount of labour, and the more equitable the appropriation of the fruits of labour, the more effectually will the object be attained and the progress accomplished? {30} The human instinct rejects so narrow a definition of the destiny of mankind. At the first glance, it concludes that the word _civilisation_ comprehends something more extended and complex, something superior to the mere perfection of the social relations, or of social power and happiness. Facts, public opinion, the generally received acceptation of the term, are in accordance with this instinct. Take Rome in the glorious periods of the republic, after the second Punic war, at the time of its greatest virtues, when it was marching to the empire of the world, when its social state was in evident progress: then take Rome under Augustus, at the era of the commencement of decay, when, at all events, the progressive movement of society was arrested, when evil principles were on the point of prevailing; and yet there is no one who does not think and say that the Rome of Augustus was more civilised than the Rome of Fabricius and Cincinnatus. Again, let us take France in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In a social point of view, regarding the amount and distribution of prosperity amongst individuals, France, at those periods, was undoubtedly inferior to some other countries of Europe--to Holland and England, for example. I believe that the social activity in Holland and England was greater, increased more rapidly, and distributed its results better, than in France; yet if we consult general opinion, it will say that France, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, was the most civilised country in Europe. There was no hesitation upon the question: the evidences of this public conviction, as to France, are found in all the records of European literature. I might point out several other states in which prosperity is greater, of more rapid growth, and better dissemination amongst individuals, than elsewhere, and in which, nevertheless, according to the spontaneous instinct, the common understanding of men, civilisation is estimated as inferior to that of other countries not so well situated in a purely social sense. How come these countries, then, thus styled civilised, to possess their exclusive right? How are they so largely compensated, in the opinion of mankind, for what they are so deficient in on other grounds? A different development from that of social life has been brilliantly manifested by them--the development of the individual and mental existence, the development of man himself, of his faculties, sentiments, and ideas. If society be more imperfect than in other places, humanity appears with more grandeur and power. Many social conquests remain to be made, but prodigious moral and intellectual conquests are effected; many possessions and rights are wanting to numbers of men, but many great men live and shine in the eyes of the world. {31} Letters, sciences, and arts, display all their splendour. Wherever mankind beholds these great images, so glorious to human nature, come forth resplendently, wherever it finds the treasury of those elevating gratifications, it there recognises and pronounces civilisation. Two facts are therefore comprised in this great fact; it is based on two conditions, and is revealed by two symptoms--the development of social activity and that of individual activity; the progress of society and the progress of humanity. Wherever the external condition of man progresses, is quickened and ameliorated, wherever the internal nature of man is exhibited with lustre and grandeur--upon these two signs, the human race applauds and proclaims civilisation, often even in spite of fundamental imperfections in the social state. Such, if I mistake not, is the result of the simple and merely common-sense examination of the general opinion of mankind. If we investigate history, properly so called, if we inquire into the nature of the great crises of civilisation, of those facts which, by universal confession, have given it a great impulse, we shall invariably recognise one or other of the two elements I have just described. They are always crises of individual or social development, or facts which have wrought a change in the internal man, in his creeds or habits, or in his external condition, or his position in relation to his fellow mortals. For example, Christianity, not merely at its first introduction, but during the first ages of its existence, in no degree addressed itself to the social state; it proclaimed aloud that it did not interfere with it; it ordered the slave to obey his master; it attacked none of the great evils and iniquities of the society of that period. Who, however, will deny that Christianity, from the first, was a great crisis in civilisation? Why? Because it changed the internal man, the prevailing principles and sentiments, because it regenerated the moral and intellectual man. We have witnessed a crisis of another nature, one which was addressed, not to the internal man, but to his external condition, which has changed and regenerated society. That, likewise, was assuredly one of the decisive crises of civilisation. Run through the whole of history, you will everywhere find the same result: you will not discover any important fact aiding in the development of civilisation, which has not exercised one or other of the two sorts of influence which I have mentioned. {32} Such is, I conceive, the natural and popular meaning of the term; and we have the fact, I will not say defined, but described and exemplified almost completely, or at least in its general features. We understand the two elements of civilisation. Now, we ask ourselves, Whether one of these two things suffices to constitute it--whether, if the development of the social state, or that of the individual man, be presented in disjunction, there would be civilisation? Would the human race recognise it as such? or is there between the two facts so intimate and necessary a relation, that if they are not simultaneously produced, they are notwithstanding inseparable, and the one draws on the other sooner or later? It appears to me we may approach this question on three sides. We may examine the real nature of the two elements of civilisation, and inquire whether by that alone they are closely united, and mutually necessary or not? We may institute a historical search to ascertain if they have, in reality, been made manifest separately, or if they have always produced each other. We may finally consult the general opinion of mankind, common sense. I will first address myself to the general opinion. When a great change is effected in the state of a country, when a great development of wealth and power, and a revolution in the distribution of the social prosperity, are worked out, this new order of things encounters adversaries, provokes combats: it cannot be otherwise. What say the enemies of the change? They say that this progress in the social state does not ameliorate or regenerate the moral and internal condition of man, that it is a false and deceitful progress, detrimental to morality and the true interests of mankind. On the other hand, the friends of the social development repel this attack with great energy, and maintain, in opposition, that the progress of society necessarily draws with it the progress of morality, and that when the external life is better regulated, the internal is rectified and made purer. Thus stands the question between the opponents and the partisans of the new order of things. Reverse the hypothesis: suppose the moral development in progress. What do the men who labour at it usually promise? What, at the origin of societies, have religious leaders, sages and poets, held out, when striving to soften and improve manners?-- the amelioration of the social condition, the more equitable distribution of worldly goods. Now, I ask, what do these disputes on the one hand, and these promises on the other, imply! Doubtless that in the spontaneous, instinctive conviction of mankind, the two elements of civilisation, the social and moral developments, are intimately connected, and that the appearance of one is the assured harbinger of the other. It is to this natural conviction that the arguments are addressed, when, for the purpose of assisting or repulsing the one or the other of the two developments, their union is affirmed or denied. It is known that if men can be persuaded that the improvement of the social condition will be detrimental to the moral progress of individuals, the revolution effected in society will be successfully decried and enfeebled. {33} On the other hand, when men are promised the amelioration of society as a consequence of individual improvement, it is known that their tendency is to believe in such promise, and it is effectually appealed to. Thus it clearly results that the instinct of humanity is enlisted in the belief that the two elements of civilisation are bound up in each other, and are reciprocally productive. If we turn to the history of the world, we shall arrive at the same conclusion. We shall find that all the great developments of the moral being have resulted in the advantage of society, and that all the great developments of the social condition have raised the character of humanity. The movement takes its peculiar character from whichever of the two facts predominates and lends its lustre. Sometimes long intervals of time, a thousand transformations and obstacles, occur before the second fact is developed, and comes, as it were, to complete the civilisation which the first had commenced. But close observation convinces us of the bond which unites them. The ways of Providence are not confined within narrow limits; he hurries not himself to display to-day the consequence of the principle that he yesterday laid down; he will draw it out in the lapse of ages when the hour is come; and even according to _our_ reasoning, logic is not the less sure because it is slow. Providence is unconcerned as to time; his march (if I may be allowed the simile) is like that of the fabulous deities of Homer through space; he takes a step, and ages have elapsed. How long a time, how many events, before the regeneration of the moral man by Christianity exercised its great and legitimate influence upon the regeneration of the social state! It has succeeded, however: who can at this day gainsay it? If we pass from history to the actual nature of the two facts which constitute civilisation, we are irresistibly led to the same result. It is consistent with the personal experience of every individual. When a moral change is worked upon a man, when he acquires an idea, a virtue, or a faculty, the more, in a word, when his individual powers gain fuller development, what sudden desire possesses him? It is the necessity he feels to bring his sentiments into the external world, and realise his conceptions. As soon as a man makes an acquisition, as soon as his being takes in his own eyes a fresh development and additional value, to this improved development and value is immediately attached by himself the idea of a mission: he feels himself compelled and driven by his instinct, by an internal voice, to spread and make predominant abroad the alteration, the amendment, that has been effected within himself. We owe great reformers to no other cause: the great men who have changed the face of the world, after being changed themselves, have been urged and governed by no other necessity. So much for the alteration that is worked out in the internal man: let us take the other. {34} A revolution is accomplished in the state of society; it is better regulated, rights and possessions are more justly disseminated amongst individuals--that is to say, the aspect of the world is fairer and brighter, the action, both of governments and of men in their mutual relations, is improved. Is it credible that the contemplation of this spectacle, that this amelioration in external affairs, will have no reaction on the internal man, on humanity? All that is predicated of the authority of examples, habits, and good models, is based upon nothing, unless it be upon the conviction that an external, advantageous, reasonable, and well-regulated order of things leads sooner or later, more or less completely, to an internal order of the same nature and the same merit; that a better arranged and juster world renders man himself more just; that the inward is reformed by the outward, as the outward by the inward; that the two elements of civilisation are closely linked together; that ages and various impediments may be cast between them; that it is possible they may have to undergo a thousand transformations in order to be rejoined, but that earlier or later they will be rejoined; that such is the law of their nature, the leading fact of history, the instinctive faith of the human species. Thus far, I think, without exhausting the subject, I have laid bare in a complete, though cursory manner, the fact of civilisation: I think I have described it, and assigned its limits, and I have weighed the principal and fundamental questions to which it gives rise. I might here stop, but I cannot avoid mentioning a question which meets me at this stage of the inquiry; one of those questions which are not strictly historical, and which I will call not hypothetical, but conjectural; questions which we can grasp at only one of the ends, without the possibility of ever reaching the other, nor can we make their circuit, nor behold more than one of their sides; and yet they are certainly not the less real, nor less imperatively call for our deep reflection, since they, in spite of ourselves, and at all moments, are forced upon our observation. Of those two developments of which we have just spoken, and which constitute the fact of civilisation, that of society on the one hand, and that of humanity on the other, which is the end, and which is the means? Is it to expedite the perfectibility of his social condition, for the amelioration of his earthly existence, that man developes his faculties, sentiments, ideas, his whole being?--or rather is not the improvement of the social condition, the progress of society, society itself, the theatre, occasion, and stimulant of the individual development? In a word, is society made to serve the individual, or the individual to serve society? On the answer to this question inevitably depends the decision whether the destiny of man is purely social, whether society drains and absorbs the whole man, or he bears within him something foreign and superior to his existence on earth. {35} M. Royer-Collard, a man whom I am proud to call my friend, who has passed from such peaceable meetings as ours to assume the first station in more stormy and influential assemblies, and whose words remain engraved wherever they fall, has solved this question, or he has at least, according to his own conviction, solved it, in his speech on the project of law relative to sacrilege. I find in that speech these two sentences: 'Human societies are born, live, and die on the earth; their destinies are there accomplished. But they contain not the whole man. After he has bound himself to society, there remains to him the noblest part of himself, those lofty powers by which he elevates himself to God, to a future life, to unknown bliss in an invisible world. We as individual and identical creatures, as veritable beings endowed with immortality, have a different destiny to that of states.' I will add nothing, nor will I undertake to treat the question itself; I content myself with bringing it forward. It will be met at the end of the history of civilisation. When the history of civilisation is run through, when there is nothing more to say concerning actual life, we are irresistibly driven to ask ourselves whether all is exhausted, whether we have reached the end? This, then, is the last and highest problem to which the history of civilisation can conduct us. It is sufficient for me to have indicated its position and importance. From all that I have said, it is clear that the history of civilisation may be treated of after two modes, drained at two sources, considered under two different aspects. The historian may place himself in the depths of the human mind for a given period, a series of ages, and amongst a certain people; he may study, describe, relate all the events, transformations, and revolutions which are accomplished in the internal man; and when he has reached the end, he will have a history of civilisation amongst the people, and for the period he chose. He may proceed in a different manner. Instead of penetrating the inward man, he may place himself in the midst of the worldly spectacle; instead of describing the vicissitudes in the ideas and sentiments of the individual being, he may describe external facts, the events and fluctuations of the social state. These two portions, these two histories, of civilisation are closely united to each other; each is the reflection and image of the other. Nevertheless, they may be separated, and perhaps they ought to be so, at least in the beginning, in order that both the one and the other may be treated of in detail, and with perspicuity. For my own part, I do not propose to investigate the history of civilisation in the inward workings of the human mind; it is only with the history of the external events of the visible and social world that I shall occupy myself. I had a desire to unfold the fact of civilisation, such as I conceive it, in all its complexity and extent, and to lay down all those great questions which may spring from it. But at present I restrict myself, and narrow my field of inquiry; it is only the history of the social state that I purpose entering upon. {36} We shall begin by searching out all the elements of European civilisation in its cradle, at the fall of the Roman empire; we will study with attention society, such as it was, in the midst of those famous ruins. We will endeavour, not indeed to resuscitate, but to rear its elements side by side; and when we have them placed, we will strive to make them move, and to follow them in their developments, through the fifteen centuries that have elapsed since that epoch. When we have advanced some way into this study, I believe we shall very shortly feel convinced that civilisation is very youthful, and that a great deal is wanting before the world can measure its career. Human thought is most assuredly very far from being at this day all that it may become, and we are very far from embracing the whole future of humanity. Let each individual search his own mind, let him interrogate himself as to the greatest possible good of which he can form a conception or a hope, and then compare his ideas with what actually exists at this moment in the world; he will be convinced that society and civilisation are very young, and that in spite of all the advance they have made, they have incomparably more to make. But this conclusion will not lessen the pleasure we shall experience in the contemplation of our actual condition. When our attention is awakened to the great critical junctures in the history of civilisation in Europe during fifteen centuries, we shall see how laborious, stormy, and harsh the condition of mankind has been, even to our own time, not only outwardly, and in the social state, but also inwardly, in the mental existence. For all those ages, the human mind has had to suffer as much as the human species. We shall see that, for the first time perhaps in modern times, the human mind has arrived at a state, certainly very imperfect, but in which some peace and harmony reign. It is the same with society; it has evidently made immense strides: the condition of men is easy and just when compared with what it previously was. We may almost apply to ourselves, when thinking of our ancestors, the verses of Lucretius: Suave mari magno, turbantibus æquora ventis, E terrâ magnum alterius spectare laborem. [Footnote 2] [Footnote 2: We can look calmly from the land on the perils of another tossed on the ocean by turbulent winds.] We may even say of ourselves, without too much pride, as Sthenelaus in Homer: [Greek text][Footnote 3] [Footnote 3: We are thankful to Heaven that we are worth infinitely more than those that went before us.] {37} Let us be careful, however, not to give up ourselves too much to the idea of our happiness and amelioration, or we may fall into two great dangers, pride and relaxation; and by placing too great a confidence in the power and success of the human mind, and of our actual advancement, we may become enervated by the agreeableness of our condition. I know not whether others are struck with the same thought as myself, but in my opinion we are perpetually fluctuating between the temptation to complain of having too little, and that of pluming ourselves on too much. We have a mental susceptibility, an illimitable want and ambition in the thought, in the desires, in the workings of the imagination; and when we bring them to the practical ordeal of life--and it behoves us to undergo pain, and make sacrifices and efforts, to attain the object--our arms droop, and fall listless. We despond with a facility almost equal to the impatience with which we desire. We must take care not to be carried away by either one or other of these two failings. Let us accustom ourselves to a just measurement of what we can legitimately effect with our powers, science, and strength; and let us pretend to nothing more than what can be legitimately, justly, and regularly acquired, with a due regard to the principles upon which our civilisation itself reposes. We sometimes seem disposed to invoke principles that we condemn and despise, the principles and means of barbarous Europe--force, violence, falsehood, habitual usages four or five centuries ago. And when we have yielded to this desire, we find in ourselves neither the perseverance nor the savage energy of the men of those times, who endured much suffering, and who, dissatisfied with their condition, laboured unceasingly to get freed from it. We are satisfied with ours; let us eschew the risks of vague desires, the time for which has not yet come. Much has been given to us, and much will be required from us: we must render to posterity a severe account of our conduct: at the present day, all people and governments must submit to discussion, examination, and responsibility. Let us firmly and faithfully adhere to the principles of our civilisation, justice, legality, publicity, liberty; and let us never forget that if we most reasonably ask that all things should be laid open to us, we are ourselves under the eye of the world, and will in our turn be examined and judged. {38} [There are some remarks at the commencement of this lecture so purely personal between M. Guizot and his hearers, as to induce the translator to omit them.] Lecture II. Peculiar Features Of Civilisation In Europe Influence Of The Church. I have endeavoured, in the preceding lecture, to explain the fact of civilisation in general, without speaking of any civilisation in particular, without referring to circumstances of time and place, but viewing the fact in itself, and in a purely philosophical light. To-day I broach the history of European civilisation; but before entering upon the strict recital, I wish to give a general idea of the peculiar physiognomy of this civilisation. I wish to characterise it so distinctly, that it may appear quite apart from all the other civilisations that have been developed in the world. I am about to attempt this, but I can do little more than so declare, for I dare scarcely flatter myself that I shall succeed in depicting European society with so much fidelity as to lead you at once to recognise it as a true picture. When we observe the civilisations which have preceded that of modern Europe, whether in Asia or elsewhere, including the Greek and Roman civilisation, it is impossible not to be struck with the unity which prevails in them. They appear to have emanated from a single fact, from a single idea: it would seem as if society clung to one great principle, which controlled it, and determined its institutions, manners, opinions; in a word, all its developments. In Egypt, for example, it was the theocratic principle upon which the whole social state depended; it was pourtrayed in its manners, on its monuments, and all that remains to us of the Egyptian civilisation. In India, the same fact is perceptible--the almost exclusive domination of the theocratic principle. In other quarters we discern another organisation--the dominion of a conquering tribe: the principle of force alone possesses society, and imposes upon it laws and character. Again, elsewhere, the society is the expression of the democratic principle; thus it appeared in the commercial republics which covered the coasts of Asia-Minor and Syria, Ionia and Phoenicia. Thus, when we survey the ancient civilisations, we find them all impressed with a singular character of unity in institutions, ideas, and manners; a single, or at least a very preponderating power, governs and decides everything. {39} I do not say that this unity of principle and organisation always prevailed in the civilisation of these states. If we go back to their more ancient history, we find that the different powers that may be formed in the bosom of one society often disputed for empire. Amongst the Egyptians, Etruscans, even the Greeks, &c. the caste of warriors, for example, strove against that of the priests; in other places, the spirit of clan against the spirit of free association, the aristocratic system against the popular system, &c. But, generally speaking, it was in the ante-historical periods that those contests occurred; only a vague recollection of them remained. The struggle sometimes recurred in the course of their career; but it was almost always promptly terminated: one of the powers that disputed the sway speedily carried it and took sole possession of the society. The war always finished by the dominion, if not exclusive, at least greatly preponderating, of some special principle. The co-existence and the combat of different principles were but a passing crisis, an accidental circumstance, in the history of these people. Thence resulted a remarkable simplicity in the major part of the ancient civilisations, but attended with different consequences. Sometimes, as in Greece, the simplicity of the social principle drew forth a prodigiously rapid development; never did a people unfold itself in so short a period, or with such lustre. But after that wonderful burst, Greece suddenly appeared exhausted; its decay, if it were not quite so rapid as its progress, was nevertheless singularly prompt. It would seem that the creative power of the principle of Greek civilisation was worn out, and none other came to invigorate it. In other countries--in Egypt and India, for example--the uniformity of the civilising principle had a different effect; society fell into a stationary state. Simplicity produced monotony; the country was not destroyed, society continued to subsist, but motionless and frozen, as it were. It is to this same cause that that character of tyranny is traceable which prevailed, under the most different forms, and as an embodiment of principles, in all the ancient civilisations. Society belonged to one exclusive power which would tolerate no other. Every different tendency was proscribed and rooted out. The dominant principle never would permit the coeval manifestation and action of a distinct principle. This character of unity in the civilisation is equally stamped on the literature and on the works of the mind. Who is not acquainted with the records of Indian literature not long ago disseminated through Europe? It cannot fail to be remarked that they are all imbued with the same spirit; they appear all the result of an identical fact, the expression of an identical idea. Works of religion or morals, historical traditions, dramatic and epic poetry, on all is the same characteristic impressed; the labours of the mind bear that same impress of simplicity and monotony which is observable in their transactions and institutions. In Greece, even, amidst all the riches of the human understanding, a singular uniformity prevails in literature and in arts. {40} It has been quite otherwise with the civilisation of modern Europe. Without entering into detail, look around and collect your thoughts; it will immediately appear to you a varied, confused, and stormy scene; all the forms and principles of social organisation are there co-existent; spiritual and temporal powers, theocratical, monarchical, aristocratical, and democratical elements, all classes, and all the social arrangements, are mingled and pressing on each other: there are extreme degrees as to liberty, wealth, and influence. And these different powers are in a state of continual strife amongst themselves, without any one succeeding in stifling the others, and taking sole possession of society. In the olden times, all societies seem, at every great epoch, to have been cast in the same mould: it is sometimes pure monarchy, sometimes theocracy or democracy which prevails, but each completely lords it in its turn. Modern Europe presents examples of all the systems and theories of social organisation; pure or mixed monarchies, theocracies, republics, more or less aristocratic, exist there simultaneously side by side; and notwithstanding their diversity, they have all a certain resemblance, a certain family aspect, which it is impossible to overlook. In the ideas and sentiments of Europe there is the same variety, the same combat. The theocratical, monarchical, aristocratical, and popular creeds, encounter, struggle with, limit, and modify each other. Open the boldest writings of the middle age; no idea is ever followed to its ultimate consequences. The partisans of absolute power recoil at once, and unknown to themselves, before the results of their doctrine: they feel that there are ideas and influences around them which arrest them, and prevent their pushing to extremities. The democrats are subject to the same law. On neither side is that imperturbable audacity, that stubbornness of logic, which are displayed in the ancient civilisations. The sentiments present the same contrasts, the same variety; an energetic zeal for independence accompanying a great facility in submission; a singular fidelity of man to man, and at the same time an uncontrollable desire to exercise free will, to cast aside all restraint, to live selfishly, without concern for others. The minds are as various and as agitated as the social state. The same character is found in the literatures. We cannot but confess that in artistic form and beauty they are far inferior to the ancient literature; but in the depth of the sentiments and ideas, they are more vigorous and rich. It is evident that the later human mind has been moved on far more points, and to a much greater depth. The imperfection of form proceeds from this very cause. {41} The more rich and numerous the materials, the more difficult it is to reduce them into a simple and pure form. What makes the beauty of a composition--that which we call form in works of art--is clearness, simplicity, a symbolic unity of workmanship. From the prodigious diversity of ideas and sentiments in the European civilisation, it has been much more difficult to attain this simplicity and perspicuity. This predominant character in the modern civilisation is thus everywhere perceptible. It has doubtless been attended with this consequence, that on considering by itself such or such particular development of the human mind in letters, in arts, indeed in all the directions in which it may advance, we find it, in general, inferior to the correspondent development in the ancient civilisations; but in return, when we look at the whole, the European civilisation shows itself incomparably richer than any other, and it has simultaneously exhibited a much greater number of different developments. It has now existed for fifteen centuries, and it is yet in a state of continuous progression; it has not advanced by many degrees as quickly as the Greek civilisation, but it has never ceased to wax in vigour. A boundless career is open before it, and day by day it presses onward the more rapidly, since an increasing liberty accompanies all its movements. Whilst in the earlier civilisations the exclusive domination, or at least the excessive preponderance, of a single principle, of a single organisation, was the cause of tyranny, the diversity of the elements of social order in modern Europe, and the impossibility that has been met with of any excluding another, have generated the liberty which reigns at present. Lacking the power to exterminate, the different principles have been fain to live together, and to make amongst themselves a sort of forced compact. Each has agreed to take only so much development as it could fairly gain; and whilst elsewhere the preponderance of one principle produced tyranny, in Europe liberty has resulted from the variety in the elements of civilisation, and from the state of combat in which they have been constantly involved. There is a real and immense superiority in this; and if we go farther, and penetrate beyond the outward facts, into the very nature of things, we shall find that this superiority is approved and supported by reason, as well as demonstrated by facts. Passing by for a moment European civilisation, let us cast our eyes upon the world at large, upon the general course of terrestrial affairs. What is its character? How moves the world? It moves precisely with this diversity and variety of elements, a prey to this incessant struggle that we remark in European civilisation. It has evidently been granted to no particular principle or organisation, to no special idea or power, to gain possession of the world to fashion it once for all, to banish from it all other tendencies, and establish an exclusive sway. {42} Different powers, principles, and systems, are engaged in ceaseless strife, commingling with and limiting each other, alternately predominant and oppressed, but never completely conquered or conquerors. Such is the general condition of the world with regard to the diversity of forms, ideas, and principles, their mutual combats, and their effort towards a certain unity, a certain ideal perfection, which will be perhaps never reached, but to which the human species is tending by freedom and laborious exertion. European civilisation is, then, the image of the world: like the course of things in this world, it is neither narrow, nor exclusive, nor stationary. For the first time, as I conceive, the character of specialty has disappeared from civilisation; for the first time it has been developed with the variety, richness, and activity of the great theatre of the universe. The European civilisation has entered, if it be permitted me to say so, into the eternal truth, into the plan of Providence; it advances according to the intentions of God. This is the rational solution of its superiority. I am anxious that this fundamental and distinctive character of European civilisation be borne in mind. It is true that at the present moment I only assert it, for the proof must be furnished by the development of facts. Nevertheless, it will be allowed as an important confirmation of my views, if the causes and elements of the character which I attribute to our civilisation are found at its very cradle; if at the moment when it was first born, at the period of the fall of the Roman Empire, we discover in the state of the world, and in the facts which, from its earliest days, have concurred in forming the European civilisation, the active principle of this tumultuous but fruitful diversity which so distinguishes it. Into this scrutiny I am about to enter. I shall proceed to examine the state of Europe at the fall of the Roman Empire, and endeavour to discover, by an investigation into institutions, creeds, ideas, and sentiments, what were the elements which the ancient world bequeathed to the modern. If we distinguish in these elements that character strongly marked which I have just described, it will form a groundwork for belief in its justness. First of all, it will be necessary to have a correct conception of what the Roman Empire was, and how it was constituted. Rome at its origin was only a municipality, a corporation. The Roman government was a mere concentration of the institutions which are suited to a people shut up within the walls of a town-- that is, municipal institutions. Such was its distinctive character. {43} This was not peculiar to Rome. When we look at Italy at this epoch, around Rome, we find nothing but towns. What were then called people, were mere confederations of towns. The Latin people was a confederation of Latin towns. The Etruscans, the Samnites, the Sabines, the people of Græcia Magna, were all in the same state. At this era there was no country--that is to say, the country had no resemblance to what it is at present; it was cultivated--that was necessary; but it was not inhabited. The rural proprietors were the inhabitants of the cities; they went out to look after their farms, and they often kept a certain number of slaves upon them; but what we at present call the country, consisting of a scattered population, in isolated abodes, or in villages, strewed over the whole soil, was a thing altogether unknown to ancient Italy. When Rome extended, what were her proceedings? Peruse her history, and you will see that she conquered or founded towns; it was against towns she fought, or with towns she made treaties, and also into towns she sent colonies. The history of the conquest of the world by Rome, is the history of the conquest and founding of a great number of cities. In the East, the extension of the Roman sway does not quite bear this character; the population was there distributed differently from the western: being under another social system, it was much less concentrated in towns. But as it is only with the European population that we are interested, what was passing in the East is of little importance. Confining ourselves to the West, we everywhere discern the fact that I have pointed out. In Gaul, in Spain, we meet with nothing but towns; at a distance from them, the territory is covered with marshes and forests. Examine the character of the Roman monuments, of the Roman roads. We find great roads leading from one town to another; that multitude of small roads which now intersect the country in every direction had no existence. There was nothing resembling that countless throng of small monuments, villages, country-houses, churches, dispersed over the land since the middle ages. Rome has transmitted to us only colossal monuments impressed with the municipal character, suited for a numerous population collected at one point. Under whatever aspect the Roman world may be considered, this almost exclusive preponderance of cities, and the consequent non-existence of a country, socially speaking, will be found. This municipal character in the Roman world evidently rendered the unity and social bond of a great state extremely difficult to establish and maintain. A municipality like Rome had been able to conquer the world, but it was not so easy a task to govern and organise it. Thus, when the work seemed consummated, when all the West, and a great part of the East, had fallen under the Roman sway, we find this prodigious accumulation of cities, of small states instituted for isolation and independence, disunited, detached from each other, and slipping the noose, as it were, in all directions. {44} This was one of the causes which led to the necessity of an empire of a more concentrated form of government, and one more capable of holding elements so slightly coherent in a state of union. The empire endeavoured to introduce unity and connection into this scattered society. It succeeded to a certain extent. Between the reigns of Augustus and Diocletian, a civil legislation was developed, coincidental with that vast system of administrative despotism which spread over the Roman world a network of functionaries upon a hierarchical form of distribution, closely linked amongst themselves, and to the imperial court, and solely employed in giving effect to the decrees of power in society, and in rendering available to power the tributes and capabilities of society. Not only did this system succeed in rallying and compressing together the elements of the Roman world, but the idea of a despotism, of a central power, penetrated the minds of men with a singular facility. We are astonished at beholding in this ill-united collection of small republics, in this association of municipalities, a reverence for the imperial majesty, sole, august, and sacred, prevail with such rapidity. The necessity of establishing some common bond between all these portions of the Roman world must have been extremely urgent when the modes and almost the sentiments of despotism found so ready an acceptation in the minds of men. The Roman Empire was sustained against the dissolution which was threatened from within, and against the barbaric invasions from without, by these principles, by its administrative organisation, and by the system of military organisation which was joined to it. It strove for a long time in a continual state of decay, but always defending itself. The moment at last arrived when the struggle ceased; neither the skill and sagacity of despotism, nor the stolid imperturbability of subjection, any longer sufficed to hold up this great body. In the fourth century it was rented and dismembered on all sides; the barbarians poured in at all points; the provinces no longer made any resistance, or concerned themselves with the general destiny. It was then that a singular idea came into the heads of certain emperors; they wished to make an experiment whether hopes of general freedom, a confederation or system analogous to what we at the present day call the representative form of government, would not better defend the unity of the Roman Empire than the despotic administration. Here is a rescript of Honorius and Theodosius the younger, addressed in the year 418 to the Prefect of Gaul, the sole object of which was to endeavour to establish a sort of representative government in the south of Gaul, and by its assistance to still maintain the integrity of the Empire:-- {45} 'Rescript of the Emperors Honorius and Theodosius the younger, addressed in the year 418 to the Prefect of the Gauls sitting in the town of Arles. 'Honorius and Theodosius, Augusti, to Agricola, Prefect of the Gauls. 'In consequence of the very satisfactory exposition that your Magnificence has made to us, among other information greatly to the advantage of the republic, we decree, with the purpose of giving them the force of law in perpetuity, the following dispositions, to which the inhabitants of our seven provinces [Footnote 4] will pay due obedience, they being such as they themselves might have wished and demanded. [Footnote 4: The Viennoise, the first Aquitaine, the second Aquitaine, the Novempopulanie, the first Narbonnaise, the second Narbonnaise, and the province of the Maritime Alps.] Inasmuch as persons in office, or special deputies, frequently resort to your Magnificence on affairs either of public or private utility, not only from each of the provinces, but also from every town, either to render accounts, or to treat of matters having reference to the interest of the proprietors, we have considered that it might be turned to good account and great advantage if, at a certain epoch in every year, dating from the present, there should be an assembly of the inhabitants of the seven provinces held in the chief city--that is to say, in the town of Arles. By such an institution, we have equally in view the providing for individual as well as general interests. In the first place, by the most notable inhabitants meeting together in presence of the prefect, if the public order should not induce his absence, the best possible information will be obtained upon every subject under deliberation. Nothing that is discussed and decided, after mature deliberation, will remain unknown to any of the provinces, and those persons who have taken no part in the assembly will be equally bound to follow the same rules of justice and equity. Furthermore, by ordaining that an assembly be held every year in the city of Constantine, [Footnote 5] we believe we shall promote not only the public good, but also social relations. The city is so advantageously situated, strangers frequent it in such numbers, and it enjoys so extended a commerce, that everything that grows, or is manufactured elsewhere, is brought thither. [Footnote 5: Constantine the Great had a singular affection for the city of Arles. It was he who established in it the seat of the Gaulish prefecture. He also wished that it should bear his name, but usage was more powerful than his inclination.] All the famous productions of the rich East, spicy Arabia, mild Assyria, fertile Africa, beauteous Spain, and valorous Gaul, abound in that place with such profusion, that all things admired for their magnificence in the various parts of the world seem the products of its soil. Besides, the junction of the Rhone with the Tuscan Sea draws near, and renders almost neighbours, the countries which the first traverses, and which the second bathes with its sinuosities. {46} Thus, since the whole earth places at the disposal of this city all its most estimable possessions, since the individual productions of all countries are there transported by land, by sea, by the course of rivers, by means of sails, oars, and wagons, will not our Gaul perceive the benefit of the order that we give to convoke a public assembly in that city, where all the enjoyments of life, and all the facilities for commerce, are found concentrated by, as it were, the especial gift of God? 'The illustrious prefect, Petronius [Footnote 6] with a praiseworthy and most reasonable purpose, issued orders at a previous date that this custom should be observed; but as its fulfilment was interrupted by the confusion of the times, and the reign of usurpers, we have resolved to restore it to vigour by our authoritative prudence. Therefore, your Magnificence Agricola, our dear and well-beloved cousin, conforming yourself to our present ordinance, and the custom established by your predecessors, will cause the following dispositions to be observed in the provinces: [Footnote 6: Petronius was prefect of the Gauls between the years 402 and 408.] 'Let intimation be given to all persons honoured with public functions, or proprietors of domains, and all the judges of the provinces, that they must assemble in council every year in the city of Arles, in the interval elapsing between the ides of August and those of September, the actual days of meeting and of sitting being fixed at pleasure. 'Novempopulanie and the second Aquitaine, as the most distant provinces, may, if their judges are retained by indispensable duties, send deputies in their place, according to custom. 'Those who shall fail to appear at the prescribed place and time shall pay a fine, rated to the judges at five pounds of gold, and to the members of the _curiæ_ [Footnote 7] and the other dignitaries, three pounds of gold. [Footnote 7: The municipal bodies of the Roman towns were called _curiæ_, and the members of those bodies, who were very numerous, _curiales_.] 'We design by this measure to confer great advantages and an important boon on the inhabitants of our provinces. We are likewise assured of adding to the embellishment of the city of Arles, to the fidelity of which we owe much, according to our brother and patrician. [Footnote 8] [Footnote 8: Constantine, the second husband of Placidea, whom Honorius had taken for a colleague in 421.] 'Given on the 15th of the calends of May, and received at Arles the 10th of the calends of June.' The provinces and towns refused the boon; no deputies were named, no one would go to Arles. Centralisation and unity were contrary to the primitive nature of that society; the spirit of locality, of municipality, was displayed in full force, and the impossibility of reconstituting a general society or country was clearly evidenced. {47} The towns shut themselves up within their walls, and looked not beyond their own affairs; and the Empire fell because no one would be of the Empire, because the citizens would no longer concern themselves with anything but their own city. Thus, at the fall of the Roman Empire, we find again the same fact that was observable at its commencement--the predominance of the municipal form and spirit. The Roman world returned to its first condition: towns had formed it; it was dissolved, but the towns remained. It is the municipal system that the ancient Roman civilisation bequeathed to modern Europe; in a very irregular and weakened form, and doubtless very inferior to what it had been in the early times, but still the only real constituted system which had alone survived all the elements of the Roman world. When I say _alone_, I am wrong. Another fact, another idea, equally survived--namely, the idea of the Empire, the name of the emperor, the maxim of imperial majesty, and of an absolute, sacred power, attached to that name. These are the elements that Roman civilisation transmitted to the European civilisation; on one hand, the municipal system, its customs, rules, and precedents, containing the germ of liberty; on the other, a uniform and universal civil legislation, coupled with the idea of the absolute power and the sacred majesty of the imperial name, containing the principle of order and subjection. <h4>Influence Of The Church.</h4> But at the same time a very different society, founded upon totally distinct principles, animated by other sentiments, and one destined to infuse into the modern European civilisation elements of quite a different nature, had arisen in the bosom of the Roman society--namely, the _Christian church_. I speak peculiarly of the Christian church, and not of Christianity. At the end of the fourth, and commencement of the fifth century, Christianity had ceased to be simply an individual creed; it had become an institution, and had taken a constituted form; it had its own government, a body of clergy, a hierarchy arranged for the different clerical functions, revenues, means for independent action, and rallying-points suitable to a great society, provincial, national, and oecumenical councils, and the custom of deliberating in common upon the affairs of the society. In a word, Christianity at this epoch was not merely a religion, it was a church. If it had not been a church, it is impossible to say what might have happened to it amid the fall of the Roman Empire. I confine myself to purely human considerations; I put aside every element foreign to the natural consequences deducible from natural facts; and I believe that if Christianity had been, as in the early times, only an individual belief, sentiment, or conviction, it would have sunk under the ruins of the Empire, and the invasions of the barbarians. {48} It succumbed at a later date in Asia and in the north of Africa, under an invasion of the same nature, an invasion of Moslem barbarians, even when it was in a state of institution, when it was an established church. Much more might the same result have occurred at the fall of the Roman Empire. There were at that time none of the means in existence by which at the present day moral influences are established or offer resistance independently of institutions, none of the means by which a mere truth or idea acquires an empire over the minds of men, governs actions, and determines events. Nothing existed in the fourth century to give to personal ideas and sentiments such a sway. It is clear that a society powerfully organised and vigorously governed was needed to struggle against so destructive a crisis, and to arise victorious from so fearful a conflict. It is not therefore too much to affirm that, at the end of the fourth, and beginning of the fifth century, it was the Christian church which saved Christianity; it was the church, with its institutions, its magistrates, its temporal power, which strove triumphantly against the internal dissolution which convulsed the Empire, and against barbarity which subdued the barbarians themselves, and became the link, the medium, the principle of civilisation, as between the Roman and barbarian worlds. Hence it is the state of the church rather than of Christianity, properly so called, in the fifth century, which ought to be investigated, in order to discover in what Christianity has from that period aided modern civilisation, and what elements it has introduced. An inquiry necessarily arises, What was the Christian church at that epoch? When we consider, under a merely human aspect, the different revolutions which have been accomplished in the development of Christianity, from its origin to the fifth century, taking it only as a society, and not as a religious creed, we find that it has passed through three stages essentially distinct. In the earliest period, the Christian society presents itself as a simple association arising from a common creed, from common sentiments; the first Christians congregated in order to enjoy amongst themselves an interchange of the religious emotions and convictions common to all their breasts. There was no settled system of doctrines, of rules, or of discipline, or no body of persons invested with authority. There is no doubt that in every society that exists, however newly-born or feebly-constituted it may be, a moral power is perceptible, animating and directing it. So in the different Christian congregations there were men who preached, taught, and morally governed the rest, but no superior, or no discipline, was regularly instituted; the primitive state of the Christian society was simply an association of persons drawn together by an identity of creed and sentiment. {49} In proportion as it progressed (and very speedily, for the marks are traceable in the earliest records), a system of doctrines, of rules, of discipline, and of functionaries or magistrates, was brought out. Of the magistrates some were called _presbuteroi_, or _ancients_, who became the priests; others _episkopoi_, or inspectors, or watchers, who became bishops; and others _diakonoi_, or deacons, charged with the care of the poor and the distribution of alms. It is almost impossible to determine the precise functions of these different magistrates; the line of demarcation was probably very vague and fluctuating, but at all events the institutions had a commencement. This second epoch, however, had a predominant feature, which consisted in the control, the preponderance belonging to the body of the faithful. It was they who decided both as to the choice of dignitaries or magistrates, and as to the adoption as well of systems of discipline as of doctrine. The Christian people were not as yet separated from the government of the church. They did not exist apart from or independently of each other, and the Christian people continued to exercise the principal influence in the society. In the third era everything was changed. A clergy was formed distinct from the people, a body of priests having riches, jurisdiction, a constitution of their own, in a word, a complete government, being in itself a regular society, furnished with all the means of existence independently of the society for whose behoof it was intended, and over which it extended its influence. This was the state in which the Christian church appeared at the commencement of the fifth century, and in the third stage of its constitution. The government was not completely taken out of the hands of the people, or separated from them; a system prevailed which is without any parallel, especially in religious affairs; but in the relations between the clergy and the flocks of the faithful, the clergy ruled almost without control. The Christian clergy had, besides, another means of influence of a different character. The bishops and clerks became the chief municipal magistrates. We have seen that the municipal system was, properly speaking, all that remained of the Roman Empire. From the annoyances of despotism, and the ruin of the towns, it came to pass that the _curiales_, or members of the municipal bodies, fell into despair and apathy. The bishops and the body of priests, on the contrary, being full of life and zeal, naturally offered themselves to guard and direct affairs. It would be wrong to reproach them with officiousness, or to tax them with usurpation; they merely obeyed the natural impulse of events. The clergy alone were morally strong and animated, and it became powerful; the result is a law of the universe. {50} All the legislation of the emperors at that epoch bears marks of this revolution. In the codes both of Theodosius and Justinian we find a great number of regulations which remit municipal affairs to the clergy and the bishops. I will quote some of them. 'Cod. Just. 1. i. tit. iv. _de episcopali audientia_, § 26.--With regard to the annual affairs of the cities (whether they refer to the ordinary city revenues, resulting either from funds arising from the city property, or from individual gifts or legacies, or from any other source, whether deliberation is required touching the public works, or magazines of provisions, or aqueducts, or the maintenance of baths or of harbours, or the construction of walls or towers, or the repairing of bridges and roads, or lawsuits in which the city may be engaged, on account of public or private interests), we ordain as follows:--The very pious bishop, and three men of good fame amongst the chief men of the city, shall assemble together; they shall examine every year the works that have been performed, and they shall take care that those who conduct them, or have conducted them, do measure them with precision, give in accounts of them, and make it clear that they have fulfilled their engagements in the administration, whether it be of the public monuments, or of the sums appropriated to provisions and baths, or of what is expended for the repair of roads, aqueducts, or any other work. '_Ibid_. § 30.--With regard to the guardianship of young people, of the first or second age, and of all those to whom the law assigns curators, if their fortune does not exceed 500 _aurei_, we ordain that the nomination of the president of the province shall not be waited for, as it might give rise to heavy charges, especially if the said president did not reside in the city where the guardianship is required to be provided. The nomination of the curators or tutors shall therefore be made by the magistrate of the city, in concert with the most pious bishop, and other persons invested with public functions, if the city possess several. '_Ibid_. 1. i. tit. lv. _de defensoribus_, § 8.--We will that the defenders of the cities, being well instructed in the holy mysteries of the orthodox faith, be chosen and instituted by the venerable bishops, the clerks, the notables, the proprietors, and the curiales. As to their installation, it shall be referred to the glorious power of the Prefect of the Pretorium, in order that their authority may gather more solidity and vigour from the admissory letters of his Magnificence.' I might cite a great number of other laws illustrative of the fact everywhere displayed, that between the Roman municipal system and the municipal system of the middle ages an ecclesiastical municipal system interposed; that the preponderance of the clergy in city affairs succeeded that of the old municipal magistrates, and preceded the organisation of the modern corporations. {51} Thus, by its own constitution, by its action on the Christian population, and also by the part it bore in civil affairs, the Christian church exercised prodigious means of influence. From that epoch, therefore, it operated powerfully on the character and development of modern civilisation. I will endeavour to sum up the elements it has infused into it. In the first place, an incalculable benefit resulted from the existence of a moral influence and force, of a force which simply rested on moral convictions, persuasions, and opinions, in the midst of that deluge of physical force which poured upon society at that epoch. If the Christian church had not been established, the whole world had been overborne by pure physical force. It alone exercised a moral power. It did more: it sustained and spread the idea of a rule or law which was superior to all human laws; it maintained, for the safety of humanity, that fundamental doctrine that there is above all human laws a law, which, according to the spirit of times and manners, is sometimes called reason, and sometimes Divine will, but which, at all periods, and in all places, is the same law under different designations. The church, then, originated a great fact--namely, the separation of the spiritual from the temporal power. This separation is the source of liberty of conscience; and it rests upon no other principle than that which serves as the base of the most unrestricted and extended liberty of conscience. The separation between the temporal and spiritual powers is founded upon the principle that physical force has no right or influence over the minds of men, or over conviction and truth. It results from the distinction established between the world of thought and that of action, between circumstances of an internal and those of an external nature. So that this maxim of liberty of conscience--for which Europe has struggled and suffered so much, and which has prevailed only so lately, often against the exertions of the clergy--was laid down under the name of a separation between temporal and spiritual power in the earliest stages of European civilisation; and its introduction and maintenance was owing to the Christian church being compelled, by the necessity of its situation, to defend itself against the barbarism of the times. The Christian church, therefore, shed upon the European world in the fifth century three essential blessings--the recognition of a moral influence, the upholding a divine law, and the disjunction of temporal and spiritual power. But even at that period all its influence was not equally salutary. So early as the fifth century, some evil principles made their appearance in the church, which have played an important part in the development of our civilisation. Thus there arose within it at that era the doctrine of the separation of the governing and the governed, the attempt to establish the irresponsibility of rulers to subjects, to impose laws, to control opinion, and to dispose of men, without the consent of the governed, or regard being paid to their reason and inclination. {52} It likewise strove to infuse into society the theocratic principle, to seize upon temporal power, and to exercise exclusive domination. And when it failed in fully accomplishing this design, it allied itself with temporal princes, and supported their absolute power at the expense of the liberty of the people, in order that it might obtain a share for itself. Such were the principal elements of civilisation that Europe drew from the church and the Empire in the fifth century. It was in this state that the barbarians found the Roman world when they came to take possession of it. In order to comprehend all the elements which were included and mingled in the cradle of our civilisation, there remains nothing but the barbarians to contemplate. It is not with the history of the barbarians that we have to concern ourselves, for relation is not our province. We are aware that, at the epoch in question, the conquerors of the Empire were almost all of the same race, all Germans, except some Slavonic tribes, as the Alani, for example. We are likewise aware that they were all pretty nearly in the same state of civilisation. Some difference might exist amongst them, according to the greater or less degree of contact into which they had respectively come with the Roman provincials. Thus there is no doubt that the Goths were more advanced and milder in their manners than the Franks. But considering things in a general point of view, and with reference to their results upon ourselves, this early diversity amongst the barbaric tribes in civilisation is of no importance. It is the general state of society amongst the barbarians that it behoves us to ascertain; and this is a subject which is involved in considerable difficulty. We can understand with comparative ease the Roman municipal system and the Christian church, because their influence is perpetuated even to our own days, and we discover traces of them in a multitude of actual institutions and circumstances, affording us a thousand means of identifying and explaining them. But the manners and the social state of the barbarians have completely perished; we are reduced to the necessity of evoking them either from the most ancient historical monuments, or by an effort of the imagination. There is a sentiment, a fact, which we must impress upon our minds, in order to have a true idea of what a barbarian was, and that is the feeling of individual independence, the joy he experienced in casting himself, in the fulness of his strength and freedom, into the midst of worldly vicissitudes--the pleasure to him of activity without labour, the charm of an adventurous career, full of uncertainty, inequality of fortune, and danger. This was the predominant sentiment of the barbarian state, the moral craving which urged these human masses to movement. At present, in a society so regular as that into which we are wedged, it is difficult to imagine the extent of dominion which this sentiment exercised over the barbarians of the fourth and fifth centuries. {53} There is only one work which in my opinion presents this character of barbarism in its full strength--namely, 'The History of the Conquest of England by the Normans,' by M. Thierry; it is the only book in which the motives, the longings, and the impulses, which are the springs of actions in men when in a social state bordering upon the barbaric, are perceived and brought out with true Homeric vividness. Nowhere do we perceive so well what a barbarian is, or in what his life consists. Something also of the same is found, though, according to my ideas, in a far inferior degree, and in a much less simple and truthful manner, in Mr. Cooper's romances of the North American savages. The existence of the American savages, the ties and the sentiments which they bear with them in the midst of the woods, recall to a certain extent the manners of the ancient Germans. Of course these pictures are somewhat idealised and poetical, the dark side of barbaric life and manners being studiously glossed over. I speak not only of the ills provoked by these manners in the social state, but also of the inward and individual state of the barbarian himself. In this furious craving for personal independence there was far more grossness and animalism than we would conclude from the work of M. Thierry; there was a degree of brutality, frenzy, and sullen apathy, which is not always faithfully given in his account. Nevertheless, when we regard things fundamentally, we are convinced that, in spite of this alliance of brutality, materialism, and boorish selfishness, the desire for individual independence is a noble moral sentiment, which derives its strength from the moral nature of man; it consists in the gratification of feeling as a man, in the consciousness of personality and of human free-will in its fullest development. The German barbarians introduced this feeling into the European civilisation; it was unknown to the Roman world, to the Christian church, and to almost all the ancient civilisations. Liberty in those ancient civilisations meant political, municipal liberty. Men were not engaged in a strife for personal liberty, but for their liberty as citizens; they belonged to an association, to it they were devotedly attached, and for it they were prepared to sacrifice themselves. It was the same in the Christian church: there prevailed within it a sentiment of strong regard for the Christian corporation, of devotion to its laws, and an ardent desire to extend its empire; or rather the religious sentiment caused a reaction in the minds of men, which was displayed in an inward struggle to subdue individual liberty, and to give blind submission to what faith decreed. But the feeling of personal independence, the taste for liberty making itself apparent at all moments without other design sometimes than that of proving itself--this was a sentiment unknown to the Roman society and to the Christian church. {54} It was imported and fixed by the barbarians at the birth of modern civilisation, and it has performed too important a part, and produced too many happy results in connection with it, to be omitted as one of its fundamental elements. There is a second fact, a second element in civilisation, that we likewise draw exclusively from the barbarians. It is the military chieftainship, the tie that was formed between individuals as warriors, and which, without destroying the liberty of each, without destroying, except to a certain extent, the equality which almost completely existed amongst them, introduced a graduated subordination, and gave a beginning to that aristocratic organisation which at a later date expanded into the feudal system. The groundwork of this relation was the attachment of man to man, the fidelity of one individual to another, without any outward compulsion, and without any obligation founded on the general principles of society. In the ancient republics, no man was of his own accord specially attached to any other man; all were bound to their city. With the barbarians the social bond was formed amongst individuals, in the first place by the relation of the chief to his companion, when they lived in a banded state traversing the face of Europe, and later by the relation of suzerain and vassal. This second principle, which has also had an important effect on modern civilisation, this devotedness of man to man, comes to us from the barbarians, and from their manners it has passed into ours. Was I wrong, then, in stating at the commencement that modern civilisation was at its very origin as varied, agitated, and confused as I endeavoured to represent it in the general picture which I gave of it? Do we not discover at the dissolution of the Roman Empire almost all the elements which meet in the progressive development of our civilisation? Three perfectly different societies are found at that period; the municipal society, the last remnant of the Roman Empire, the Christian, and the barbarian society. We find these societies very differently organised, based upon perfectly distinct principles, and inspiring men with opposite sentiments: we perceive the longing for the most absolute independence by the side of the most complete subservience; military chieftainship ranged with ecclesiastical domination; the spiritual and temporal powers in activity on every side; the canons of the church, the studied legislation of the Romans, and the almost unwritten customs of the barbarians--everywhere a mixture, or rather a co-existence, of races, tongues, social situations, manners, ideas, and feelings, all the most contrary to each other. This I adduce as a satisfactory proof of the accuracy of the general character under which I have laboured to present our civilisation. {55} This confusion, diversity, and strife, have doubtless cost us dear; they have retarded the progress of Europe; to them are owing the storms and agonies to which she has been a prey. Yet I am not of opinion that we should regret them. To nations, as well as to individuals, the opportunity of the most varied and complete development, of pushing onwards in all directions, and to an almost indefinite extent, compensates by itself alone for all the sacrifices it may have cost to obtain the faculty of enjoying it. Upon a comprehensive view, this agitation, violence, and laboriousness, have availed more than the simplicity with which other civilisations are marked, and the human race has thereby gained more than it has suffered. We have now traced in its general features the state in which the fall of the Roman Empire left the world, and the different elements which were in turmoil and commixture, germinating European civilisation. Henceforth we shall see them advancing and acting. In the next lecture I shall endeavour to show what they became, and what they effected, in the epoch that we are accustomed to call the times of barbarism--that is to say, the period during which the chaos of the invasion lasted. {56} Lecture III. First Ages Of Civilisation. I have brought forward the fundamental elements of European civilisation by tracing them in its very cradle, at the moment that the Roman Empire fell. I have endeavoured to point out how great was their diversity, how constant their strife, and that none of them succeeded in gaining a mastery over our society, or at least in ruling it so effectually as to subject or expel the others. We have seen that in this consists the distinctive character of the European civilisation. We now come to its history, at its first start, in the ages that it is usual to designate 'the barbarous.' At the first glance that we cast upon this epoch, it is impossible not to be struck with a fact which seems in flat contradiction to what I have just advanced. In investigating the opinions that have been formed upon the antiquities of Europe, it is surprising to observe that the different elements of our civilisation--the monarchical, theocratical, aristocratical, and democratical principles--all lay claim to the original proprietorship of the European society, and all pretend that they have lost exclusive empire by the usurpations of contrary principles. If we turn to all that has been written, and listen to all that has been said, on this subject, we shall find that all the systems by means of which our groundworks are sought to be displayed or explained, maintain the exclusive predominance of one or other of the elements of European civilisation. Thus there is a school of feudal advocates, the most celebrated of whom is M. de Boulainvilliers, who asserts that after the fall of the Roman Empire, the conquering nation, subsequently formed into a nobility, possessed all power and rights, that society was its lordship, that kings and people have despoiled it, and that, in fact, the aristocratic organisation was the primitive and veritable constitution of Europe. Alongside of this school we find that of the monarchists, amongst whom is the Abbé Dubos, who maintain, on the contrary, that the European society belonged to royalty. They say that the German kings inherited all the rights of the Roman emperors, that the ancient populations--the Gauls amongst others--appealed to them, that they alone ruled legitimately, and that all the acquisitions of aristocracy are mere encroachments upon monarchy. {57} A third school presents itself, that of liberals, republicans, democrats, as you may choose to style them. If we follow the Abbé de Mably, we shall conclude that the government of society was handed over, from the dawning of the fifth century, to a system of free institutions, to assemblies of free men, to the people properly so called; that nobles and kings have enriched themselves with the spoils of primitive liberty, which shrunk under their attacks, but nevertheless reigned before them. And above all these monarchical, aristocratical, and popular pretensions, rises the theocratic claim of the church, which says that, by virtue of her very mission and divine title, society belonged to her, that she alone had any right to govern it, and that she alone was the legitimate queen of the European world, reclaimed by her labours to civilisation and truth. Thus we are placed in a peculiar position. We imagined that we had demonstrated that none of the elements of European civilisation has had exclusive sway in the course of its history, but that they have existed in a constant state of vicinage, of amalgamation, of strife, and of activity; and at our very first step, we find this directly contrary opinion maintained, that at its birth, in the bosom of barbaric Europe, some one or other of these elements had sole possession of society. And it is not in a single country, but in all the countries of Europe, that the advocates for the different principles of our civilisation have put forward their irreconcilable pretensions, under forms and at periods somewhat variable. The historical schools that we have just characterised are not confined to one country, but are met throughout Europe. This fact is important, not in itself, but because it brings to light other facts which hold a material place in our history. Two important particulars are started by this simultaneous advocacy of the most incongruous pretensions to the exclusive possession of power in the first ages of modern Europe. The first is the principle or idea of political legitimacy, which has enacted a prominent part in the drama of European civilisation: the second is the actual and veritable character of the state of barbarian Europe of that epoch, with which we have specially to concern ourselves at this period of our inquiry. I shall proceed to draw these two particulars from obscurity, and to sever them in succession from the contest of allegations which I have previously mentioned. What do the different elements of European civilisation--the theocratical, monarchical, aristocratical, and popular--claim when they assert themselves the first possessors of society in Europe? Is it not that each proclaims itself to be solely legitimate? Political legitimacy is evidently a right based on antiquity and duration. Priority of time is invoked as the source of right, as the proof of the legitimacy of power. And here I beg attention to the fact, that this pretension is not confined to one particular system or element of our civilisation, but that it spreads over all. {58} We are accustomed in modern times to consider the idea of legitimacy as involved in only one system--the monarchical--which is a great mistake, for it is at issue in all the others. We have already seen that all the elements of our civilisation have endeavoured to monopolise it; and if we cast a look forward into the history of Europe, we shall see the most varied social forms and governments equally in possession of this character of legitimacy. The Italian and Swiss aristocracies and democracies, the republic of San Marino, like the greatest monarchies of Europe, have styled themselves, and have been esteemed, legitimate; they, exactly like the others, have founded their claim to legitimacy upon the antiquity of their institutions, upon the historical priority, and upon the prolonged duration, of their system of government. If we go beyond Europe, and carry our observation to other times and countries, we encounter on all sides this idea of political legitimacy, and find it clinging to some portion of the ruling government, to some of its institutions, forms, or maxims. There is no country or time in which a certain portion of the social system, of the public powers, has not bestowed upon itself, and had recognised as inherent in it, this character of legitimacy derived from antiquity and stability. And what is this principle! What are its elements? How came its introduction into European civilisation? All systems of power are, at their origin, mixed up with force. I do not mean to say that they are all based upon force alone, or that if they had not originally had other titles than force, they would have been established. They most certainly needed others; powers are established in accordance with certain social wants, and with reference to the state of society, to manners and opinions. But we cannot avoid perceiving that force has sullied the foundation of all the systems of power in the world, whatever may have been their nature and form. But every one repudiates this origin, all the systems of every description deny it, and there is none that will consent to spring from force. An invincible instinct apprises governments that force does not confer right, and that if their claims rested upon that alone, right could never be deduced. For this reason, when we recur to ancient times, and unmask the different systems and powers abandoned to violence, all hasten to exclaim, 'I was earlier, I subsisted previously, and by virtue of other titles; society belonged to me before this state of violence and strife in which you discover me; I was legitimate; my just prerogatives were contested and wrenched from me.' This single fact demonstrates that the maxim of force is not the groundwork of political legitimacy, and that it reposes upon some other base. What is the effect of this formal repudiation of force by all the systems? {59} Their acknowledgment that there is another legitimacy, the veritable foundation for all others, the legitimacy of reason, justice, and right. Such is the origin to which they are all eager to cling. And because they discard force as their initiatory element, they are driven to assert themselves robed with a different title, quoting their antiquity. The main characteristic, then, of political legitimacy, is to deny force as the source of power, and to allege it as cohesive with a moral idea and force, with the idea, in fact, of right, justice, and reason. This is the fundamental element which constitutes the principle of political legitimacy. It has taken its rise therefrom, receiving a helping hand from time and stability. We will trace the process. Force having presided at the dawn of all governments and societies, time progresses and effects changes in the operations of force; it administers correctives, from the very circumstance that a society endures and is composed of men. Man bears within him a certain number of notions of order, justice, and reason, and a certain craving to give them sway, and to introduce them into the facts amidst which he lives. To attain this object, he labours unremittingly; and if the social state in which he is located continues, his labours are not fruitless. Man brings reason and right to bear in the sphere he moves in. Independently of the exertions of man, there is a law of Providence too palpable to be denied, a law analogous to that which rules the material world, by which a certain measure of order, reason, and justice, is indispensable to the continuance of a society. Indeed, from the mere fact of durability, we may be assured that any particular society is not utterly absurd, insensate, or iniquitous, and that it is not entirely bare of that element of reason, truth, and justice, which can alone give life to any society. If, furthermore, the society is developed, if it becomes more vigorous and powerful, if its terms are from time to time accepted by an increasing number of people, then are we sure that by the action of time, more reason, justice, and right have been infused into it; for facts imperceptibly arrange themselves according to true legitimacy. Thus has the idea of political legitimacy spread over the world, and from the world penetrated men's minds. For foundation or first origin, it has, in a certain degree, at least, moral legitimacy, justice, reason, and truth; and afterwards the sanction of time, which gives ground for belief that reason has become part and parcel of existing facts, that, in reality, true undeniable legitimacy has been introduced into external matters. In the epoch we are about to open upon, we shall find force and falsehood ingredients in the first composition of royalty, aristocracy, democracy, and even of the church; and then force and falsehood will be perceived undergoing gradual reformation under the plastic hand of time, and right and truth taking their places in civilisation. It is this introduction of right and truth into the social state that has developed by degrees the principle of political legitimacy, and it is thus that it has become established in modern civilisation. {60} When attempts have been made at various times to raise this idea as the banner of absolute power, its real origin has been grossly mistaken or perverted. So utterly apart is it from identification with absolute power, that right and justice are the titles by which it has been diffused, and has taken root in the world. It is not in any degree exclusive, it appertains to none in particular, but is planted wherever right finds development. Political legitimacy, I assert again, is as much bound up with liberty as with power, and with individual rights equally with the forms, whatever they may be, by which public functions are exercised. We will meet it in our progress, in the most discordant systems--equally in the feudal system, in the municipalities of Flanders and Germany, in the republics of Italy, as in monarchy. It is a character partaken of by all the different elements of modern civilisation, and it behoves us fully to comprehend it in investigating the history of that civilisation. The second fact which is brought to light by the simultaneous pretensions of which I have so often spoken, is the real character of the epoch styled barbarous. As I have said, all the elements of European civilisation assert that they possessed Europe at that period; as a consequence, none of them predominated. When a social form domineers in the world, there is not so much difficulty in recognising it. When we come to the tenth century, we shall have no hesitation in recognising the preponderance of the feudal system; in the seventeenth, we shall have no doubt in affirming the prevalence of the monarchical principle; and if we regard the Flemish corporations or the Italian republics, we shall immediately declare the sway of the democratic principle. When a principle is really predominant in the world, there is no possibility of mistaking it. The contest that has arisen among the various systems which are included in European civilisation, upon the question as to which ruled it at its origin, proves that they had all a co-existence therein, without any one so generally or assuredly prevailing as to impress upon society its form and name. And herein lies the actual character of the barbarous epoch--a chaos of all the elements, an outburst of all the systems, a universal hubbub, in which the struggle was neither permanent nor systematic. By examining, in all its phases, the social state of that era, I might demonstrate the impossibility of discovering any fact or principle approaching to a general or established recognition. I will confine myself to two essential points--the state of individuals, and the state of institutions. They will suffice to depict the entire society. {61} We discern four classes of persons at this epoch: 1_st_, The free men--that is to say, those who depended upon no superior or patron, who held their possessions, and regulated their lives, in full liberty, without any tie binding them to another man; 2_d_, The _leudes, fideles, anstrustions_, &c. bound by a relation--first that of companion to a chief, then of vassal to a suzerain--to another man towards whom they had contracted the obligation of a service, in respect of a grant of lands or other gifts; 3_d_, The freedmen; 4_th_, The slaves. But these different classes were not immovably fixed; men, when once included within their limits, did not remain there for ever; the relations of the various classes were neither definite nor permanent. Among the free men were some ever and anon leaving their position to assume service under a particular person, receiving from him some gift, and passing into the class of leudes; whilst others fell into that of slaves. On the other hand, some leudes struggled to get rid of their patron, to re-establish their independence, and return into the free class. On all sides was a continual movement and transition from one class to another, a general uncertainty and instability in the mutual bearings of the classes: no man adhered to his position, and no position remained unchanged. Tenures of land were in the same state; they were distinguished as allodial, or completely free, and beneficiary, or subject to certain obligations towards a superior. It is well known that attempts have been made to establish, in this last class of tenures, a precise and determined system; it has been said that the grants were made for a certain number of years, then for life, and that finally they became hereditary. The attempts are vain; all these varieties of tenure existed simultaneously; the self-same epoch displays benefices for years, for life, to heirs; and even the same lands passed in a few years through those different states. Nothing was more stable or generalised in the condition of landed property than in that of individuals. The difficult transition is everywhere perceptible from the wandering to the sedentary life, from relations merely personal to those in combination with bodies of men and the rights of property, which are real, substantial, obligatory relations. In this state of transition all was confused, partial, and disordered. The same instability and turmoil marked the institutions. Three systems were in juxtaposition--royalty, aristocratical institutions, or superiorities over men and lands in gradation, and free institutions, or assemblies of free men deliberating in common. No one of these systems was in possession of society, no one had a preference. Free institutions existed, but the men who should have taken part in the assemblies did not attend. The signorial jurisdiction, likewise, was not exercised. {62} Royalty, which is the most simple institution, and the easiest to determine, had no fixed character: election and hereditary right were mingled together: sometimes the son succeeded his father; sometimes a selection was made out of the royal family; and sometimes a pure and simple election took place of a distant relative, or perhaps of a stranger. We find nothing settled in any system; all the institutions, like the social conditions, existed together, were confounded, and continually changing. Countries were in the same unsettled state. They were created and suppressed, united and divided. Frontiers, governments, nations, ceased to be distinguishable. A universal confusion in positions, principles, facts, races, and tongues, was the condition of barbarian Europe. Within what limits is this strange epoch contained? Its commencement is well marked--it occurred at the fall of the Roman Empire. But when did it end? In order to answer this question, we must inquire to what this state of society was owing, what were the causes of the barbarism. I think two main ones are discoverable. The one physical, arising outwardly from the course of events; and the other moral, working inwardly from the mental state of man himself. The physical cause was the prolongation of the invasion. We are not to conclude that the invasion of the barbarians was arrested at the fifth century, nor that because the Roman Empire had fallen, and barbaric kingdoms were founded on its ruins, the populations brought their movements to a close. On the contrary, they continued long after the fall of the Empire, of which we have all-sufficient proof. We see the Frank kings, even of the first race, continually compelled to make war beyond the Rhine; we see Clotaire, Dagobert, incessantly engaged in expeditions into Germany, fighting against the Thuringians, the Danes, and the Saxons, who occupied the right bank of the Rhine. For what reason? Because those nations wished to cross the river, and gather their share of the spoils of the Empire. What caused, about the same period, those great invasions of Italy by the Franks established in Gaul, principally of the eastern or Austrasian Franks? Why did they precipitate themselves on Switzerland, pass the Alps, and enter Italy? Because they were pushed on the north-east by new populations; their expeditions were undertaken from necessity, and were not mere forays for pillage; their settlements were interfered with, and they went forth to seek others. Then a new German nation appeared upon the stage, and founded in Italy the kingdom of the Lombards. In Gaul, the first Frank dynasty was subverted: the Carlovingians succeeded the Merovingians. It is now acknowledged that this change of dynasty was in truth an accession of population which displaced the western for the eastern Franks. {63} The change was effected, and the second race reigned. Charlemagne began against the Saxons what the Merovingians had directed against the Thuringians, and became involved in ceaseless wars with the nations beyond the Rhine. And these were urged onwards by the Obotrites, the Wiltzes, the Sorabes, the Bohemians, by the whole Slavonic race which pressed upon the Germanic, and from the sixth to the ninth century goaded it to advance towards the west. To the whole of the north-east, the invading movement continued and controlled events. In the south a movement of the same nature occurred, occasioned by the Moslem Arabs. Whilst the Germanic and Slavonic populations crowded along the Rhine and the Danube, the Arabs began their career of conquest on all the coasts of the Mediterranean. The invasion of the Arabs had a peculiar character. The spirit of conquest and that of proselytism were united; their invasion was made both to conquer territory and spread their faith. There was a great difference between this movement and that of the Germans. In the Christian world, the spiritual and temporal arms were disjoined. Zeal for the propagation of a faith was not felt by the same men who burned with the desire of conquest. The Germans on their conversion had preserved their manners, sentiments, and tastes; earthly interests and passions continued to sway them; and though they might be Christians, they were not missionaries. The Arabs, on the contrary, were conquerors and missionaries; with them the sword and the Word were wielded by the same hands. At a later date, this circumstance gave the unfortunate turn to the Mussulman civilisation; for it is from the unity of the temporal and spiritual powers, from the confused mixture of moral influence with material force, that the tyranny which seems inherent in that civilisation took its rise; and such is, as I believe, the principal cause of the stagnant state into which it has fallen. But this was far from appearing at the first outburst; on the contrary, a prodigious power was thereby imparted to the Arab invasion. Strengthened as it was by moral ideas and passions, it gained, upon the instant, a lustre and greatness which had been signally wanting to the German invasion; more energy and enthusiasm were displayed in it, and the minds of men were affected by it in a very different manner. Such was the situation of Europe from the fifth to the ninth century; pressed on the south by the Mohammedans, on the north by the Germans and Slavi, the interior of the European region was inevitably kept in continual disorder by the reaction of this double invasion. Populations were incessantly displaced and hurled upon each other; no settlement could be established; the nomade life recommenced in every quarter. {64} There was certainly some difference in this respect amongst the various countries; the turmoil was greater in Germany than in the rest of Europe, for it was the very furnace of agitation; and France was more convulsed than Italy. But nowhere could society get fixed or regulated; barbarism was prolonged on all sides, from the same cause which had given it a commencement. So much for the material cause which sprang from the course of events. I now come to the moral cause, founded upon the internal state of mankind, which was not less powerful. Whatever external events may be, it is, after all, man himself who makes his world; it is from the ideas and sentiments, the moral and intellectual dispositions of men, that the world is regulated in its progress; it is upon the inward state of men that the outward state of society depends. What is needful to men in order to found a society at all durable and regular? It is evidently requisite that they have a certain number of ideas sufficiently expansive to suit that society, and to be applicable to its wants and relations. It is furthermore necessary that these ideas be common to the majority of the members of the society, and that they exercise some sway over their desires and actions. It is clear that if men have no ideas extending beyond their own existence, if their intellectual horizon be limited to themselves, if they give unrestrained play to the fury of their passions and inclinations, if they have not amongst them a certain number of notions and sentiments held in common, around which they may be rallied, then it is clear, I repeat, that no society can possibly exist among them, and that each individual will be an element of disorder and dissolution in any society into which he enters. Wherever individuality gains a nearly absolute sway, where man considers only himself, where his ideas stretch not beyond his own person, where he listens only to his own passions, society (meaning thereby a society calculated for some small degree of extension and permanence) is almost an impossibility. Now this was the moral state of the conquerors of Europe in the epoch treated of. I observed, in the preceding lecture, that we are indebted to the Germans for the vigorous sentiment of individual liberty, of human individuality. But in a state of extreme coarseness and ignorance, this sentiment is pure selfishness in all its brutality and unsociability. It was at this point among the Germans from the fifth to the eighth century. They were concerned only for their own interests, with their own passions and inclinations, and how could they thus accommodate themselves to a state approaching the social? Attempts were made to induce them to enter into it; they even tried it of themselves. But from some act of recklessness, some burst of passion, or some deficiency in understanding, they broke immediately loose. {65} Society was incessantly endeavouring to form itself, but as incessantly was it routed by the act of man, by the absence of those moral conditions which are essential to its existence. Such were the two disposing causes of the barbaric state. So long as they lasted, barbarism continued. Let us inquire how, and when, they finally ceased. Europe laboured to get out of this state. It is the nature of man to struggle to emerge from such a chaos, even though he has been plunged into it by his own fault. However brutal and ignorant, however much devoted to his own gratification and passions, there is within him a voice or instinct which repeats to him that he is made for something else, that he has another capacity and destiny. In the midst of his disorganisation, a taste for order and advancement pursues and torments him. Longings for justice, for foresight, for development, agitate his breast even under the yoke of the most boorish selfishness. He feels himself urged to reform the material world, society, and himself; and he labours for this object without much cognisance of the want that goads him. Thus the barbarians aspired at civilisation, although utterly incapable of it, I may say, indeed, utterly detesting it, when its restraints were felt. There remained, likewise, some considerable remnants of the Roman civilisation. The name of the Empire, the remembrance of that great and glorious society, agitated the memories of men, especially of the town senators, the bishops, the priests, and of all those who had their origin in the Roman era. Many of the barbarians themselves, or of their barbarian forefathers, had been witnesses of the grandeur of the Empire; they had served in its armies, or fought against it. The image and name of the Roman civilisation had an imposing effect upon them, and they experienced a desire to imitate it, to bring it back, or to preserve some portion of it. In this was an additional stimulus to drive them from the state of barbarism which I have described. There was a third, which suggests itself to every mind--I mean the Christian church. The church was a society regularly constituted, having principles, rules, and discipline of its own, and actuated by an ardent zeal to extend its influence, and to vanquish its conquerors. Among the Christians of that epoch, in the ranks of the clergy, there were men who had pondered deeply upon all moral and political questions, who held fixed opinions and energetic sentiments upon all things, and strove strenuously to propagate them and render them paramount. No society ever made such efforts as did the Christian church, from the fifth to the tenth century, to extend its sphere, and smooth the external world into its own likeness. When we study its particular history, we shall perceive the full extent of its labours. It attacked barbarism, as it were, on all its sides, to civilise by subduing it. {66} Finally, there existed a fourth cause of civilisation, one which it is impossible accurately to weigh, but which is not the less real on that account--namely, the influence of great men. No one can say why a great man comes at a particular era, or what he infuses of his own into the development of the world; the secret remains with Providence, but the fact is certain. There are men whom the spectacle of anarchy or of social stagnation strikes and distresses, who are intellectually shocked thereat as with a fact which should not be, and who become possessed with an uncontrollable desire to change it, and to plant some rule, some uniformity, regularity, and permanency in the world before them: a terrible, and often a tyrannical power, committing a thousand iniquities and errors, for human weakness accompanies it; yet a glorious and salutary power, for it gives to humanity a vigorous jerk, an admirable impulse. These different causes and influences originated various attempts to emancipate European society from the clutch of barbarism, in the epoch stretching from the fifth to the ninth century. The first of these attempts (although it may have had little effect, yet requires to be noticed, for it emanated from the barbarians themselves) was the digesting the barbarian laws. Between the sixth and eighth centuries, the laws of almost all the barbarous tribes were written. Formerly it was otherwise, these people having mere customs for governance before they established themselves on the ruins of the Roman Empire. There were the laws of the Burgundians, of the Salian and Ripuarian Franks, of the Visigoths, the Lombards, the Saxons, the Frisons, the Bavarians, the Allemanni, &c. Here was evidently a commencement of civilisation, an endeavour to transfer society to the empire of general and regular principles. It was impossible for much success to attend it, for it presented the laws of a society which no longer existed, the laws of the social state of the barbarians before their establishment on the Roman territory, before they had changed a wandering for a sedentary life, and the condition of nomad warriors for that of proprietors. Here and there are found some articles as to the lands which the barbarians had acquired, and as to their relations with the old inhabitants of the country, and even attempts are made to regulate some of the new circumstances with which they were mixed up; but the ground-work of the majority of these laws is the ancient life and state of things in Germany, which were utterly inapplicable to the new society, and have had but little influence in its development. An attempt of another nature was commenced in Italy and the south of Gaul at the same period. The Roman society had not perished there so completely as in other quarters; in the cities there remained a somewhat greater degree of order and energy. Civilisation attempted to rear itself there again. {67} For example, we find the municipal system recover breath, as it were, and exercise some influence upon the general course of events, in the kingdom of the Ostrogoths in Italy, under Theodoric, although both king and nation were barbarian. The Roman society had humanised the Goths, and to a certain extent assimilated them with itself. The same fact is perceptible in the south of Gaul. At the commencement of the sixth century, a Visigoth king of Toulouse, Alaric, caused the Roman laws to be collected, and published a code for his Roman subjects, under the name of the _Brevarium Aniani_. It was the church which endeavoured to give a new beginning to civilisation in Spain. Instead of the old German assemblies of warriors (the _malla_), the council of Toledo held sway in Spain, and although influential laymen attended the council, the bishops governed it. In the laws of the Visigoths there is not a barbaric enactment; the compilation is evidently the work of the philosophers of the era, the clergy. They abound in general ideas and in theories which are completely foreign to barbarian manners. Thus it is known that the legislation of the barbarians was a personal legislation; that is to say, the same law applied only to men of the same race. The Roman law governed the Romans, the Franco law governed the Franks; each people had its own law, although they were united under the same government, and inhabited the same territory. This is the system which is called personal legislation, in opposition to the system of real legislation, founded upon territorial distinctions. Now the legislation of the Visigoths was not personal, but territorial. All the inhabitants of Spain, whether Romans or Visigoths, were subject to the same law. But there are still more evident traces of philosophy to be found. Amongst the barbarians, men were valued at a fixed rate, according to their situations; the barbarian, the Roman, the freeman, the vassal, &c. were not estimated at the same sum; their lives were made matter of tariff. The principle of men being of equal value in the eyes of the law, was established in the code of the Visigoths. With regard to the system of procedure, we find the oath of _compurgatores_ and the judicial combat displaced for the proof by witnesses, and such a rational examination into facts as might be adopted in any civilised society. In a word, the whole Visigoth code bears a wise, systematic, and social character. We perceive in it the labours of that same clergy which held command in the councils of Toledo, and operated so powerfully on the government of the country. Therefore in Spain, up to the great invasion of the Arabs, it was the theocratic principle which laboured to raise up civilisation. {68} In France, the same endeavour was the work of a different influence; it originated with great men, especially with Charlemagne. If we examine his reign in its various phases, we shall find that the prevailing idea of his mind was the civilisation of his people. First, with regard to his wars. He was constantly in the field, ranging from the south to the north-east, from the Ebro to the Elbe or the Weser. These were not mere arbitrary expeditions, arising from an insatiable thirst for conquests. I do not assert that all he did may be systematically accounted for, or that his plans display a profound diplomatic or strategetic wit, but he obeyed the impulse of a great necessity resulting from his scheme to repress barbarism. During the whole period of his reign, he was employed in arresting the double invasion of the Mussulmans on the south, of the Germans and Slavi on the north, in prosecution of that object. This is the character of the military part of the reign of Charlemagne: as I have previously said, this was also the end and purpose of his expeditions against the Saxons. Passing from his wars to his internal government, we find the same principle in activity, the attempt to introduce order and uniformity into the administration of all the countries which he possessed. I cannot call them a _kingdom_ or a _state_, for these expressions are of too regular a stamp, and raise ideas too little in accordance with the society over which Charlemagne presided. This much, however, is certain, that he, master of an immense territory, was indignant at beholding all things therein in a most dissevered, anarchical, and brutish condition, and devoted his energies to soften its hideousness. His first measure was to despatch his _missi dominici_ into the different districts of his possessions, to inquire into facts, and either reform them, or report them to him. He afterwards held general assemblies with much more regularity than his predecessors, which he compelled almost all the influential men of his territories to attend. These were not free assemblies; nor were they summoned for what we would call deliberation. They were used by Charlemagne as a means of getting information as to facts, and of introducing some regularity and union among his disorganised subjects. In whatever point of view the reign of Charlemagne is considered, the same character is found predominant, a contest against the barbaric state, the genius of civilisation at work. This is the spirit which is evinced in his eagerness to institute schools, in his taste for learned men, in his predilection for ecclesiastical influence, and in his adoption of everything which appeared to him capable of acting beneficially either on society as a whole, or on man as an individual. An attempt of the same nature was made by King Alfred in England somewhat later. Thus the different causes which I have particularised, as tending to put an end to barbarism, were in action, in some quarter or other of Europe, from the fifth to the ninth century. {69} Not one was successful. Charlemagne failed to give stability to his great empire, and the system of government which he wished to institute. In Spain, the church was not more happy in its endeavours to establish the theocratic principle. In Italy and the south of Gaul, although the Roman civilisation made various efforts to rise again, it was not until afterwards, towards the end of the tenth century, that it really assumed any vigour. Up till that period, all the endeavours to extinguish barbarism were fruitless: they proceeded on the idea that men were more advanced than the reality demonstrated: they all strove for a society more extended and regular than comported with the actual diffusion of coercive influences, and the state of men's minds. However, they were not completely thrown away. At the commencement of the tenth century, there was no longer any question about the great empire of Charlemagne, or the glorious councils of Toledo, but barbarism did not the less surely approach extinction. Two great results were obtained: 1_st_, The invading movements were arrested both on the north and the south. After the dismemberment of the empire of Charlemagne, a strong barrier was opposed to the tribes still pushing to the west, by the nations established on the right bank of the Rhine. The Normans prove this fact incontestibly; for up to this era, excepting the tribes that had fallen on Britain, the action of maritime invasion had not been considerable. It was in the course of the ninth century that it became constant and general, and principally because invasions by land were rendered very difficult, since society had acquired more fixed and assured frontiers on that side. That portion of the roving population which could not be driven back, was yet constrained to turn away and pursue its adventurous career on the sea. Whatever evil the Norman invasions inflicted on the west, they were much less fatal than the inroads by land, and gave infinitely less general disturbance to the infant society. In the south, the same consequence ensued. The Arabs took up quarters in Spain, and the struggle between them and the Christians continued, but it was no longer attended with the displacement of the population. The Saracenic bands still infested from time to time the coasts of the Mediterranean, but Islamism had evidently ceased its grand march. 2_d_, In the interior of the European territory, the wandering life came to a cessation; populations were settled, property was fixed, and the relations of men no longer varied from day to day at the impulse of force or chance. The internal and moral state of man himself began to change, his ideas and sentiments acquired some stability as well as his life; he became attached to the locality he inhabited, to the ties he had contracted, to those domains which he flattered himself with leaving to his children, to that abode which in time he was to designate his castle, and to that miserable assemblage of colonists and slaves which was one day to rise into a village. {70} Small societies, petty states, were everywhere formed, hewn, so to express myself, according to the extent of ideas and knowledge possessed by men. Amongst these societies a bond of confederation, which did not destroy individual independence, was gradually introduced, according to a principle which lurked in the barbarian manners. On one hand, every considerable personage established himself in his domains with his family and retainers; on the other, a certain gradation of services and rights was instituted among these warlike proprietors scattered over the territory. What was the result?--the feudal system, which ultimately arose from the bosom of barbarism. Of the different elements of our civilisation, it was natural that the Germanic should first of all prevail, for it had the force, and it had conquered Europe; and the first social form and organisation were necessarily received from it. The feudal system, its character, and the part which it has played in the history of European civilisation, will be the object of the next lecture. In the very heart of the victorious feudal regime, we shall, however, encounter at every step the other elements of our civilisation, royalty, the church, and corporations; and we shall have little difficulty in concluding that they were not destined to be crushed under that feudal form to which they assimilated themselves, whilst struggling against it, and waiting for the hour that victory might declare for them in their turn. {71} <h3>Lecture IV.</h3> Influences Of The Feudal System. We have now surveyed the state of Europe after the fall of the Roman Empire, in the first epoch of modern history--namely, the barbaric. We have seen that, at the end of that era, at the commencement of the tenth century, the first principle or system which was developed, and which took possession of European society, was the feudal system, the earliest offspring of barbarism. It is therefore the feudal system that we shall make the present object of our inquiry. I need scarcely here repeat that it is not the history of events, properly so called, that I treat of. I am not called upon to detail the destinies of feudalism: it is the history of civilisation with which I concern myself, and that is the general, hidden fact, which I seek for under all the exterior facts which envelope it. Thus events, social crises, and the various states through which society has passed, interest us only in their relations with the development of civilisation; we have to inquire how they opposed or aided it, what they gave to it, and what they abstained from giving. It is simply in this point of view that we take the feudal system into consideration. On commencing this inquiry, we determined what civilisation was, we endeavoured to distinguish its elements, and we became aware that it involved, in one respect, the development of man himself, of the individual, of human nature; and in the other, that of his outward and visible condition, of society. Every time, therefore, that we open out an event, a system, a general order of things, we have this double question to ask: What has it effected for or against the development of humanity--what for or against the development of society? In this investigation, it is impossible for us to avoid encountering in our progress very important questions in moral philosophy. When we would decide to what extent an event or system has contributed to the development of man and of society, it behoves us to ascertain what is the true development of society and of humanity, and whether certain developments are not deceitful and illegitimate, tending to pervert rather than to ameliorate, and leading to a retrograde instead of an advancing movement. {72} We shall not attempt to elude the task that is imposed upon us. Not only should we thereby emasculate and degrade our ideas, and the facts themselves, but the actual state of the world compels us frankly to adopt as law this unquestionable alliance between philosophy and history. This conjunction is precisely one of the features, if not the main and essential feature, of our age. We are called upon to study, and to give simultaneous weight to science and reality, to theory and practice, to right and fact. In previous times, these two powers have lived apart: the world was accustomed to behold scientific theory and practice take different routes, without acknowledging each other, or at least without forming a union. And when doctrines or general ideas operated upon events, and stirred up the world, they have succeeded in doing so only by the impulsion of fanaticism. The sway over human societies, and the direction of their affairs, have hitherto been divided between two sorts of influences: on the one hand, the believers, the men of general ideas and of principles, the fanatics; on the other, men strangers to all rational principle, making circumstances their only rule of conduct, practicians, libertines, as the seventeenth century called them. This state of things has now ceased; neither the fanatics nor the libertines can any longer wield predominance. In order to govern and have influence amongst men at present, it is necessary to ascertain and comprehend both general ideas and circumstances; it is necessary to have the capacity to keep count of principles and facts, to respect truth and expediency, and to avoid as well the blind presumption of the fanatics, as the insensate disdain of the libertines. The development of the human mind and of the social state has conducted us to this point: on the one hand, the human understanding, elevated and unshackled, has a clearer conception of the entirety of things, can direct its scrutiny to all questions, and bring everything that has being into its combinations; on the other hand, society is brought to that state of advancement that it can bear testing by the application of truth; and facts may be supported by appeal to principles, without inspiring, by such comparison, an overwhelming discouragement or disgust, in spite of their great imperfection. Therefore, by passing, as occasions arise, from the examination of circumstances to that of ideas, from an exposition of facts to an inquiry into theories, I shall only follow the natural tendency, the tone and the demands of our age. Perhaps, also, there is an additional reason in favour of this method, derived from the actual disposition of men's minds. For some time past, a decided taste, I will even say a sort of predilection, for facts, for the practical point of view and the positive side of human affairs, has manifested itself amongst us. We have been so much a prey to the despotism of general ideas and theories, and they have cost us in many respects so dear, that they have become objects of partial distrust. We prefer to appeal to facts, to special circumstances, and to the tests of application. {73} Nor is this matter for regret: it is a fresh advance, a great step towards the knowledge and empire of truth; taking care, nevertheless, that we avoid being carried too far by this disposition, and provided we always bear in mind that truth alone has a prerogative to reign in the world, and that facts have no merit but as they give it expression, and take form upon its model; that all true greatness springs from thought, and is indebted to it for fruitfulness. The civilisation of our country has this peculiar character, that it has never been wanting in intellectual grandeur: it has always been rich in ideas: the influence of the human understanding has been great in French society, perhaps greater than anywhere else. It must not lose this glorious feature, it must not fall into that somewhat subordinate and material state which characterises other societies. Intellect and thought must still hold in France at least the place that they have hitherto occupied. We shall therefore on no account shun general and philosophical questions; we shall not beat about in search of them, but when facts bring us on them, we shall face them without hesitation or embarrassment. More than one occasion for this hardihood will present itself, on considering the feudal system in its relation to the history of European civilisation. That the feudal system was necessary, and the only possible social state, in the tenth century, is proved by the universality of its establishment. Wherever barbarism ceased, everything took the feudal form. At the first moment, men saw in it only the last stage of chaos. All unity and general civilisation seemed finally prorogued; society was seen dismembered on all sides, and a multitude of petty, obscure, isolated, and incohesive societies, to arise. This appeared to contemporaries the dissolution of all things, a universal anarchy. Both the poets and chroniclers of the era believed the end of the world at hand. Yet this feudal society was so necessary and inevitable, so completely the only possible consequence of the anterior state, that all entered into it, all adopted its form. Even elements the most foreign to the system--the church, municipalities, royalty--were constrained to accommodate themselves to it: churches became superiors and vassals, towns had lords and vassals, and royalty was hid under the mask of paramount lordship. All things were given as fiefs-- not only lands, but certain rights, as those of cutting in forests, and of fishing: churches gave their casualties to be held in fief, revenues from baptisms, and the churchings of women. And in the same manner that all the general elements of society entered into the feudal frame, the minor details and circumstances of common life became its objects. {74} On beholding the feudal form thus take possession of everything, we are tempted to believe at the first blush that its essential and vital principle had also universal predominance. But this is a great error. The institutions and elements of society, which were not analogous to the feudal system, did not renounce their peculiar nature or principle, although borrowing the feudal form. The feudal church did not cease to be animated and governed at bottom by the theocratic principle; and in order to give it prevalence, it struggled unceasingly, sometimes in concert with the royal power, sometimes with the pope, and sometimes with the people, to destroy the system whose livery, so to speak, it wore. It was the same with royalty and the corporations; the first continued, at bottom, to be actuated by the monarchical principle, the last by the democratic. In spite of their feudal trappings, these varied elements of the European society constantly laboured to free themselves from a form alien to their nature, and to assume that which corresponded to their own vital principle. After demonstrating the universality of the feudal form, it behoves us, then, to avoid concluding therefrom the universality of the feudal principle, and studying that system indiscriminately wherever its outward aspect meets our eyes. In order to gain a full knowledge and comprehension of it, in order to unfold and form a judgment of its effect upon modern civilisation, we must seek it only where the principle and form are in harmony; we must contemplate it in the hierarchy of the conquerors of the European territory. There truly resides the feudal society, and upon it I shall forthwith enter. I mentioned just now the importance of moral questions, and the necessity of grappling with them. There is another order of considerations quite opposed to that one, which has in general been too much neglected; I mean the physical condition of society, the physical changes introduced into men's modes of existence by a new occurrence, by a revolution in the social state. Sufficient attention has not always been paid to this matter; inquiry has not been sufficiently directed to the modifications these great crises in the world have produced in the material existence of men and in their relations. These modifications have more influence upon the entirety of society than is usually imagined. Every one knows how much the question of the influence of climate has been discussed, and the great importance attached to it by Montesquieu. If the direct influence of climate upon men be mooted, it is perhaps not so extensive as is supposed; at all events, the appreciation is vague and difficult. But the indirect influence of climate--that which results, for example, from the fact, that in a hot country men live in the open air, whilst in cold countries they shut themselves up in habitations, and that they support themselves in the two extremes after different modes--becomes of extreme importance, since the mere variation in physical life has a powerful operation on civilisation. Now every great revolution brings with it modifications of the sort I have mentioned into the social state, and it is incumbent upon us to give them great attention. {75} The establishment of the feudal system produced one of these changes of grave import; it completely altered the distribution of the population on the face of the land. Previously, the masters of the territory, the conquering population, had lived in masses more or less numerous, either sedentary in the interior of towns, or roving in bands over the country. By the feudal system, these men came to live isolated, each in his habitation, at great distances from each other. This change of course exercised material influence upon the character and course of civilisation. The social preponderance, the government of society, passed at once from the towns to the country; private property necessarily became of greater importance than public property, and in the same manner public life was absorbed in private life. Such was the first effect, a purely physical effect, of the triumph of the feudal society. The farther we investigate it, the more will the consequences of this single fact be unveiled. In order to get more unequivocally at the part borne by this system in the history of civilisation, let us first of all take it in its most simple phase, in its primitive and fundamental element; let us contemplate a possessor of a fief in his domain, and inquire what becomes of all those who compose the petty society around him. He establishes himself in an isolated and elevated locality, which he takes care to render sure and strong; he builds there what we shall call his castle. With whom does he establish himself? With his wife and children: perhaps some free men, who are not proprietors, are attached to his person, and continue to live with him and frequent his table. These are the occupiers of the interior of the castle. Around its base is grouped a small population of colonists and serfs, who cultivate the domain of the owner of the fief. In the midst of this inferior population religion erects a chapel, which attracts a priest. In ordinary cases, during the first period of the feudal government, this priest was at once the chaplain of the castle and the curate of the village; in time these two characters were separated, and each village had its minister, who dwelt beside his church. Such was the elementary, the atomic state (so to speak), of the feudal society. This is the condition that we have first to examine; and we will subject it to the double question that it is expedient for us to address to all facts--What resulted from it towards the development, 1_st_, of man himself, 2_d_, of society? We are strictly correct in submitting this narrow society to the double analysation, and in relying on the result, for it is the faithful type and image of the feudal society in its full extent. The lord, the people of his domains, and the priest, represent feudalism on the large scale as well as on the small, when it is severed from royalty and the towns, which were distinct and foreign elements. {76} The first fact which strikes us in considering this petty association, is the prodigious importance which the possessor of the fief must have had in his own eyes, and in the eyes of those who surrounded him. The sentiment of personality, of individual liberty, was the predominant one of the barbarian life. But here the matter was quite altered; there was not only the independence of the man or warrior, but also the importance of a proprietor, of a family chief; of a master. From this position must have sprung an impression of immense superiority, a superiority altogether peculiar, and greatly different from anything perceptible in the course of other civilisations. I will give an illustration of this. I take a high aristocratic condition in the ancient world; a Roman patrician, for example. Like the feudal lord, he was the head of a family, a master, a superior. He was the priest, the pontiff, in the interior of his family. Now his importance as a religious magistrate came to him from without; it was not an importance purely personal or individual; he received it from above, as the delegate of the Divinity, the interpreter of the religious doctrines attached to that idea. The Roman patrician was, furthermore, the member of a corporation which was gathered into one place, the senate, giving him an additional importance derived from without, received and borrowed from his corporation. The grandeur of the ancient aristocrats, associated as it was with a religious and political character, belonged to the station, to the corporation in general, rather than to the individual. That of the possessor of a fief was purely personal; he drew nothing from any one; all his rights and all his power came to him from himself alone. He was not a religious magistrate, he made part of no senate; in his own person, in his individual self, all his importance resided, and all that he was he was by himself, and in his own right. How great an influence must such a position have exercised upon him who occupied it! How much of individual haughtiness, what prodigious pride--let us not mince the word--what insolence, must have been generated in his mind! Above him was no superior whose representative and interpreter he might be; near him, no equals; no powerful and general system of law restraining him, no external control shackling his will, and no curb upon him but the limitations of his strength and the presence of danger. Such was the moral result of the situation on the character of the man. I proceed to a second consequence, also of grave moment, and too little noticed--the particular tone of the feudal family spirit. {77} Let us cast a glance upon the various systems of family, taking first of all the patriarchal, of which the Bible and the eastern records sketch the model. Here the family was very numerous; it formed a tribe. The chief or patriarch lived in common with his children, his near relatives, the different generations which had sprang up around him; in a word, his whole kindred, together with his servants; and not only did he live with them, but he had the same interests and occupations, and his existence was in all things the same as theirs. Was this not the situation of Abraham, of all the patriarchs, and of the Arab chiefs who still present the image of the patriarchal life? Another family system offers itself, the _clans_, a sort of petty associations, of which the type is to be found in Scotland and Ireland, through which in all probability a great portion of the European world has passed. This was very different from the patriarchal family. There existed an important distinction between the situations of the chief and the rest of the population: they did not lead the same life; the greater part tilled and served, whilst the chief was an idler and a warrior. But they had a common origin, and they all bore the same name; whilst relations of kindred, old traditions, identity in recollections, and feelings of attachment, established a moral tie, a sort of equality, amongst all the members of the clan. These are the two principal types of family association that history supplies. But do they contain the feudal family? Certainly not. At the first glance, some similarity may be imagined to exist with the clan, but in reality there was a great difference. The population which surrounded the possessor of a fief was perfectly alien to him; it neither bore his name, nor was there between him and it any relationship, or traditional or moral tie. And assuredly it was not the patriarchal family. The fief-holder led not the same life, nor surrendered himself to the same labours, as those who encompassed him; he was addicted to idleness and war, and their occupations were servile and toilsome. The feudal family was not numerous; it formed no tribe; it included simply the family, properly so called, the wife and children, who lived apart from the rest of the population in the seclusion of the castle. The serfs made no part of it; their origin was distinct, and their inequality of condition prodigious. The feudal family was composed of five or six individuals, occupying a position at once superior and antagonistic. In such a state, it was sure to be invested with a peculiar character. Thus it was close and concentrated, perpetually on the alert to defend itself, doubtful of, or at least isolating itself from, its very retainers. The home life, or domestic manners, were certain to become of preponderating influence in this sequestered state. I am well aware that the development of domestic manners would meet with great obstacles from the brutal passions of the chief, and his habits of consuming time in war and the chase. {78} But these obstacles would be overcome; the chief, of course, must have habitually returned to his home, and there he would always find his wife and children; they alone must have been his permanent society, and the assured sympathisers with his interests and projects. Under these circumstances, it was impossible that the domestic existence should not acquire a great sway. There are numerous proofs of it. Was it not in the bosom of the feudal family that the importance of women received its grand development! In all the ancient societies, not adducing those in which the spirit of family did not prevail, but in those even where it was potential, in the patriarchal life, for example, the women were very far from holding the station they acquired in Europe under the feudal system. This change or advancement in their position was mainly owing to the development, to the necessary preponderance, of domestic manners in the feudal state. Its cause has been sought for in the peculiar manners of the ancient Germans, in a sort of national respect which, it is asserted, they paid to women amidst their primeval forests. Founding upon a phrase of Tacitus, German patriotism has reared a fabric of such superior gentleness, of such native and ineffaceable purity, in the relations of the two sexes amongst the old Germans, as is truly surprising. Similar phrases to those of Tacitus, sentiments and usages analogous to those of the ancient Germans, are found in the recitals of a host of describers of savage or barbarian populations. The result was not owing to anything primitive, or peculiar to a certain race. It was from the consequences of a social situation strongly marked, from the progress and preponderance of domestic manners, that the importance of women in Europe originally sprang, and this very preponderance became, at a very early date, an essential characteristic of the feudal system. A second fact, forming an additional proof of the sway of domestic ties, likewise distinguished the feudal family--namely, the hereditary spirit, the desire for perpetuity which clearly prevailed in it. The idea of hereditary descent is inherent in the spirit of family, but it never took so great a development as in the feudal system. This resulted from the nature of the property to which the family was linked. The fief was not like any other property; it had constant need of a possessor to defend it, to do its services, to fulfil the obligations cohesive to the domain, and so maintain its position in the general association of the lords of the soil. Thence arose a species of identification between the actual possessor of the fief, and the fief itself, and the series of his future successors. This circumstance greatly contributed to strengthen and bind more closely the family ties, already so powerful from the nature of the feudal state. {79} I shall now leave the seignorial abode, and descend amongst that petty population which surrounded it. Here things bore a very different aspect. The nature of man is so happily disposed, so open to impressions, that when a social situation endures any length of time, a certain moral tie, sentiments of protection, benevolence, and affection, are inevitably established between those whom it draws together, whatever conditions may clog the junction. So it happened in the feudal system. There is no doubt that after the lapse of a certain period, some moral relations, some habits of affectionate regard, were formed between the serfs and the owner of the fief, in spite of their reciprocal situation, and certainly not in consequence of it; for, considered in itself, the situation was radically vicious. There was nothing morally in common between the lord and the serfs; they formed part of his domain, and were his property; under which designation were comprised all the rights that we at present call rights of public sovereignty, as well as the privileges of private property, he having the right of giving laws, of imposing taxes, and of inflicting punishment, as well as that of disposing and selling. In fact, as between the lord and the labourers on his domain, there were no recognised laws, no guarantees, no society, at least so far as may be predicated of any state in which men are brought into contact. Hence arose, as I believe, that vast inextinguishable hatred which the country people have borne at all times to the feudal system, to its recollections, and to its very name. We are not without examples that men may endure oppressive despotisms, become used to them, and even voluntarily accept them. Both theocratic and monarchical despotisms have more than once obtained the sanction, almost the affection, of the population subjected to them. The feudal despotism was always repulsive and odious; it sat heavily on the destinies, but it never reigned over the minds, of men. The reason of the difference is obviously deducible from the fact, that power in a theocracy or monarchy is exercised by virtue of principles common to the wielder and the subject; the former is the representative and administrator of another power, superior to all human powers; he speaks and acts in the name of the Divinity, or of a general idea, and not in right of man himself, and of man alone. The feudal despotism was quite the contrary; it recognised the power of one individual over another, the dominion of the personal and capricious will of a man. This is perhaps the only tyranny that man, to his eternal honour, never would yield to. Wherever he perceives that his master is but a man, so soon as the will which weighs upon him is but a human individual will like his own, he grows indignant, and submits to the yoke with wrath. Such was the veritable and distinctive character of the feudal sway, and such also was the origin of the antipathy which it never ceased to inspire. {80} The religious element which was associated with it was little calculated to lighten the burden. I do not believe that the influence of the priest was at all considerable in the confined society I have just depicted, nor that he succeeded, to any great extent, in imparting a juster character to the relations between the servile population and the lord. The church has doubtless exercised an important influence on European civilisation, but it has done so by proceeding in a general manner, by operating a change on the general dispositions of men. Now when we narrowly scrutinise the petty feudal society, limiting the designation as I have previously done, we find the influence of the priest, as between the lord and the serfs, almost a nullity. In the majority of cases, he was himself as boorish and subservient as the serf, and in very poor condition and weak inclination to bear up against the arrogance of the superior. We can readily imagine that he, the sole instrument to sustain and develop any sort of moral life in the lower population, would be useful to it in that respect, and attract some regard; he would confer a modicum of consolation and enlightenment; but he neither could nor did effect much in his ministry. I have now examined the elementary feudal society, and brought forward the principal consequences that necessarily flowed from it, as affecting the possessor of the fief himself, his family, and the population gathered around him. We will now emerge from this narrow circle. The population of the fief was not alone on the face of the land; there were other societies, analogous or different, with which it had relations. The influence of this general society upon civilisation, therefore, becomes our present object of inquiry. Before entering upon it, I will hazard a short remark. It is true that the owner of the fief and the priest both belonged to a general society; at a distance, they had numerous and frequent relations. It was not so with the serfs: whenever we use a general word, as, for instance, the word 'people,' to designate the rural population at this epoch, which conveys the idea of a society, one and indivisible, we speak inaccurately. For this population there was no general society; its existence was purely local. Beyond the territory in which they had habitation, the serfs held communication or interests with no individual or thing. There was for them no common destiny or common country: they did not compose a people. Therefore when we speak of the feudal association in its entirety, reference is made to the owners of fiefs alone. Let us see, then, what were the relations of the lord of the isolated society with the general society in which he was involved and what consequences they brought to bear upon the development of civilisation. {81} The reciprocal ties that united the possessors of fiefs, the duties attached to their tenures, the obligations of service on one side, of protection on the other, are well known. I will not enter into their detail; a general idea of them is sufficient for my purpose. There must necessarily have flowed from them a certain number of ideas and moral sentiments, conceptions of duty, and feelings of attachment, impressed on the mind of each proprietor. That the principle of fidelity, of devotedness, of loyalty to engagements, and all the sentiments thereunto persuading, were evolved and sustained by the mutual relations amongst the holders of fiefs, is sufficiently evident. It was attempted to convert these obligations, duties, and feelings, into rights and institutions. Every one is aware that the feudal system endeavoured to make matter of legal regulation the services that the possessor of the fief owed to his superior, and those that he might claim in return, the cases in which the vassal could be called upon by his suzerain for a military or money aid, and the forms in which he might obtain the consent of his vassals for services to which they were not bound by the holding of their fiefs. They essayed to put all these rights under the guarantee of institutions calculated to insure respect. Thus, the seignorial jurisdictions were intended to administer justice between holders of fiefs, upon reclamation to their common suzerain. Thus, also, every considerable lord gathered his vassals into a parliament, in order to treat with them upon affairs which required their consent or co-operation. In fact, there was a concourse of political, judicial, and military modes, by which they strove to organise the feudal system, and to convert the relations of the possessors of fiefs into rights and institutions. But these rights and institutions had no substantiveness or guarantee. When we are asked in what a political guarantee consists, we are induced to acknowledge that its fundamental character is the constant presence in society of a force, disposed and conditioned to impose law upon individual will and power, and to compel their observance of rules laid down for all, and their respect to general rights. There are only two possible systems of political guarantees. Either there is requisite one particular will or force, so superior to all others, that none can resist it, and to which all are obliged to submit when it interferes; or a public force and will, the result of the concurrence and demonstration of individual wills, is required to be in such a state, when once fairly developed, as to awe and impose submission upon all. Therefore the despotism of a single man or body, or a free government, are the only two possible systems of political guarantees. When we come to review the various governing forms, we shall find that they are all assignable within one or other of these systems. {82} But neither the one nor the other existed, or could exist, in the feudal state. Yet the possessors of fiefs were not all equal amongst themselves, for a great many of them were powerful enough to oppress the weaker. But there was none, even taking the king, the first of the suzerains, who was in a condition to impose law upon all the others, and enforce obedience. All the permanent means of power and action were wanting; no permanent troops, or imposts, or tribunals, were in existence. Every time a call was made for aid on the social strength and institutions, they required a new commencement, a fresh creation, as it were. Tribunals were to be created at each process, an army when war was imminent, a revenue when the necessity for money was urgent: all was occasional, accidental, and merely adapted for the special exigency: all the springs of a central, stable, and independent government were deficient. In such a system, it is quite clear that no individual was in a condition to make his will a rule for others, or to render the general law respected by all. On the other hand, resistance was as easy as repression was difficult. The possessor of a fief could defend himself with great facility, shut up in his habitation, having but a small number of enemies to oppose, and many means of forming coalitions, and drawing succour from vassals in the same situation as himself. Therefore the first system of political guarantees--namely, that which intrusts them to the intervention of one preponderating strength--was palpably impossible in the feudal state. The other system, that of free government, of a public power and force, was likewise out of the question; it never could have taken root in the midst of feudalism. This was owing to a very simple cause. When we speak at the present day of a public power, and of what we call the rights of sovereignty--namely, the rights of legislation, of taxation, and of punishment--we know and feel that they appertain not to any individual, and that no person has a prerogative, derived from himself alone, to punish others, or to impose upon them a burden or a law. These are privileges which are only vested in society as a mass, exercised in its name, and held not from itself, but imparted from a higher influence. So when an individual is arraigned before a power invested with these rights, he is irresistibly, and perhaps unwittingly, impressed with the feeling, that he is at the bar of a public and legitimate tribunal, which holds a mission to command over him, to which he yields a mental and immediate submission. Now, in the feudal system, on the contrary, the holder of a fief was invested with all the rights of sovereignty in his domain, and over the people inhabiting it; they were inherent to the domain, and matter of private property--so much so, that the prerogatives now recognised as public were then private, and the public powers were equally appropriated. {83} When the possessor of a fief, in the habit of exercising sovereignty, in his own name, and by right of property, over all the population amongst which he lived, attended an assembly or parliament held by his suzerain--a parliament generally scanty in numbers, and composed of his equals, or those who were nearly so--he carried neither to it nor from it the idea of a public power. Such an idea was in contradiction to his whole existence, and to all that he was accustomed to do in the interior of his domains. He saw in that assembly only men invested with the same rights as himself, in the same situation as he was, and acting, like him, by virtue of personal will. Nothing led or compelled him to acknowledge in the most elevated portion of the government, or in the institutions now known as public, that superior and general character inherent in the idea that we entertain of political powers. And if he were dissatisfied with the decision, he refused to concur in it, or appealed to force to resist it. In reality, force was the true and habitual guarantee of rights in the feudal system, if it be permitted to call force a guarantee. The only means of inducing acknowledgment and respect to rights was an incessant recurrence to force. No institution availed; and so perfectly was this felt, that institutions ceased to be invoked. If the seignorial courts and feudal parliaments had been conditioned to act, they would have been much more energetic and frequent than history represents them: their rarity proves their uselessness. Nor need we be surprised at this result, for it proceeded from a cause yet deeper and more decisive than those I have just indicated. Of all systems of government and political guarantees, assuredly the most difficult to establish, and give stability to, is the federative; that system which consists in leaving to each locality and particular society all the portion of governing power that can possibly remain in it, and removing only that portion which is indispensable to the maintenance of general society, in order to form therefrom, in the heart of that society, a central government. In fact the federal system, although logically the most simple, is actually the most complex. To reconcile the degree of local independence and liberty which it leaves in force, with the degree of general order and submission which it demands and involves in certain cases, evidently requires a very advanced civilisation: it is absolutely essential that the inclinations of men, and individual choice, co-operate in the establishment and maintenance of the system much more than in any other, for the coercive means are far inferior. {84} The federal system, therefore, is one which certainly requires the highest development of reason, morality, and civilisation, in the society for which it is intended. Yet this was the system that feudalism essayed to establish, for, in its general features, it was an actual federation. It rested upon the same principles as those upon which the confederation of the United States of America is at present founded. It assumed to confer upon each lord all the government and sovereignty that he could wield, and invest the suzerain, or the general assembly of barons, with the least possible portion of power, and this only in cases where it was absolutely necessary. The impossibility of establishing such a system amidst the ignorance, the brutal passions, and the imperfect moral state of men, as existing under the feudal regime, cannot be matter of doubt. The very nature of such a government was utterly opposed to the manners of the men to whom it was to be applied. Who, then, can be surprised at the failure of these attempts at organisation! We have now considered the feudal society, first in its most simple and fundamental element, and latterly in its entirety. Under these two aspects, we have endeavoured to trace what its necessary and natural influence must have been on the course of civilisation. We are led, as I conceive, to this double result: 1_st_, Feudalism has exercised a considerable, and, upon the whole, a salutary influence upon the inward development of the individual being; it excited in the minds of men energetic ideas and sentiments, moral wants, and fine displays of character and passion. 2_nd_, In a social point of view, it failed in founding either legal order or political guarantees. It was a system indispensable to give a new commencement in Europe to the society so utterly dissolved by barbarism as to be incapable of a more regular or extended form, and the feudal form, radically bad in itself, could neither be reduced to regularity, nor be made expansive. The only political right that the feudal system has given prevalence to in the European society, is the right of resistance. I do not speak of legal resistance, for that could not become a question in a society so little advanced. The progress of society alone effects the substitution, on the one hand, of public powers for individual wills, and on the other, of legal resistance for that offered by particular persons. In this is the great object and chief perfection of the social order: a considerable latitude is left to personal liberty, and when that liberty comes to fail, and is reduced to defend its rightfulness, it is to public reason only that appeal can be made, to decide the process instituted against individual freedom. Such is the system of legal order and of legal resistance. Under the feudal system, there was of course nothing similar. {85} The right of resistance, supported and practised by the feudal law, was the right of personal resistance--a terrible and unsocial right, since it is an appeal to force, to war, which is the destruction of society itself; but it is nevertheless a right which can never be completely extinguished in the human mind, for its abolition would be a recognition of servitude. The sentiment of the right of resistance had perished in the decay of the Roman society, and could not be raked up from its ashes; nor could it spring very naturally, as I imagine, from the principles of the Christian society. Feudalism, then, introduced it into the manners of Europe. It is to the honour of civilisation to render it always active and dormant, whilst it is to the credit of the feudal system to have constantly professed and asserted it. Such is the result, if I mistake not, of the examination into the feudal society, considered in itself and in its general elements, independently of the historical development. If we pass to facts, to history, we shall find that everything has happened as was destined, that the feudal regime has effected what it was sure to do, and that its destiny has been in conformity with its nature. Events may be adduced in corroboration of all the conjectures and inductions that I have drawn from the mere nature of that system. Let us cast a glance upon the general history of feudalism from the tenth to the thirteenth century. It is impossible to be blind to the fact, that it exercised a great and salutary influence upon the individual development of man, of his sentiments, character, and ideas. We cannot open the histories of that period without meeting a crowd of noble sentiments, of great actions, and agreeable developments of humanity, evidently springing from the inward temper of the feudal manners. It is true, chivalry does not resemble feudalism, yet it is its daughter. It was from feudalism that the first notions of those lofty, generous, and faithful sentiments came. Again, in another point of view, the first burst of the European imagination, the first essays at poetry and literature, the first intellectual pleasures that Europe tasted after shaking off barbarism, were encouraged and fostered by the feudal spirit, and were brought forth in the recesses of the castles. For this sort of development of humanity, a movement in the mind and in life, leisure, a thousand conditions are required, which cannot be met with in the toilsome, sad, and boorish existence of the common people. Hence it is with the feudal times in France, England, and Germany, that the first literary recollections, the first intellectual enjoyments of Europe, are associated. In return, if we investigate history as to the social influence of feudalism, it will tell us, agreeably to our conjectures, that it has been everywhere opposed, as well to the establishment of general order, as to the extension of general liberty. In whatever quarter we consider the progress of society, we shall find the feudal system standing as an obstacle. {86} From the first period of its existence, we perceive the two forces that have been the great levers in the development of order and liberty, the monarchical power on the one hand, and popular power on the other, royalty and the people attack it, and struggle unceasingly against it. Some attempts were made at various eras to give it regularity, to bring it to a state somewhat legal and general; as in England by William the Conqueror and his sons, in France by St. Louis, and in Germany by several of the emperors. But all the trials and attempts failed, for the very nature of the feudal society was repugnant to order and legality. In modern times, some ingenious men have endeavoured to dress up feudalism as a social system, and to give it a legal, regular, and progressive form: they have made a golden age of it. But if they are asked to adduce their proofs, to assign a locality or a time for this Utopia, they are unable to do so; for they would represent a drama, for which neither theatre nor actors are to be found in the past. The cause of this error is easy of discovery, and it is one which equally explains the contrary mistake of those who cannot entertain the idea of the feudal system without absolute execration. Both parties have failed to take into consideration the double aspect under which feudalism presents itself: to distinguish, on the one hand, its influence upon the individual development of man, upon his character, sentiments, and passions; and on the other, its influences on the social state. The first are unable to conceive that a social system should be so full of evils, and so fatal, as is alleged, in which such lofty sentiments, and so many virtues, are found, in which they see literature take root, and manners assume a certain elevation and dignity. The others behold only the ill resulting from feudalism to the mass of the population, and the obstacles planted by it to the establishment of order and liberty, and are unwilling to believe that noble characteristics, great virtues, or any advancement whatsoever arose from it. Both have overlooked the double element of civilisation, and forgotten that it consists in two developments, one of which can be produced in the course of time, independently of the other; although after many ages, and a long series of events, they must reciprocally call and bring forth each other. In conclusion, what the feudal system was, and what it effected, it was necessitated to be and to effect. Individuality, a personal existence in full energy, was the predominant feature amongst the conquerors of the Roman world, and therefore the development of individuality necessarily resulted from the social system founded by them. What man himself bears with him into a social system when he enters it, his inward and moral dispositions, powerfully influence the situation he occupies. {87} The situation in its turn reacts upon the dispositions, fortifies and developes them. The individual swayed in the German society; therefore the feudal system, the offspring of the German, exercised its influence to the promotion of individual development. The same fact is discernible in the various elements of civilisation. They have remained faithful to their original principles; they have advanced and pushed forward the world in the route upon which they first entered. In the succeeding lecture, which will embrace the history of the church from the fifth to the twelfth century, and of its influence upon European civilisation, a new and striking example will be supplied. {88} Lecture V. The Church From The Fifth To The Twelfth Century. Having examined the nature and influence of the feudal system, we next enter upon the subject of the Christian church from the fifth to the twelfth century; of the _church_, as I have once before remarked, because I do not purpose to descant upon Christianity properly so called, upon Christianity as a religious system, but upon the church, upon the Christian clergy as an ecclesiastical society. In the fifth century this society was almost completely organised. Of course it has undergone since that era many and important changes, but it may be asserted that the church, considered as a corporation and government for the Christian people, had attained a complete and independent existence. It requires but a single glance to recognise a prodigious difference between the state of the church in the fifth century, and that of the other elements of European civilisation. I have particularised, as the fundamental elements of our civilisation, the municipal and feudal systems, royalty, and the church. In that age the municipal system was a mere relic of the Roman Empire, a lifeless and formless shadow. The feudal system had not emerged from chaos. Royalty existed but in name. All the civil elements of modern society were in decay or struggling infancy. The church alone was at once young and constituted; it alone had acquired a definitive form, and preserved all the vigour of its first ages; it alone possessed the principle of movement and of order, energy and system, the two great instruments of influence. Is it not, I ask, by the moral action, the internal movement on the one hand, and by order and discipline on the other, that institutions are ingrafted upon societies? Besides, the church had stirred up all the great questions which interest men; all the problems concerning human nature, and all the chances of human destiny, were its matters of discussion. Thus its influence upon modern civilisation has been very great, much greater, perhaps, than its hottest adversaries or its most zealous defenders made it. They, occupied in serving or opposing it, considered it only in a polemical point of view, and were unable, as I conceive, to judge it with impartiality, or to measure it in all its extent. {89} The church of the fifth century presents itself as an independent and constituted society, standing between the masters and sovereigns of the world, the possessors of temporal power on the one hand, and the people on the other, serving as a link between them, and acting upon all. Therefore, to ascertain and perfectly understand its action, we must consider it under three aspects. We must first of all survey it in itself, and take account of what it was, its internal constitution, the principles which predominated in it, its nature; then examine it in its relations with temporal sovereigns, kings, lords, or others; and finally, in its relations with the people. And when, from this triple examination, we have deduced a complete idea of the church, of its principles, situation, and the influence it was destined to exercise, we will verify our reasonings by history, or, in other words, we will inquire whether facts, properly so called, are in accordance with the results which the study of the church and of its various relations led us to draw. First, then, of the church in itself, of its internal state, its nature. The first imposing fact, and the most important perhaps, is its mere existence--the existence of a government based on religion, of a clergy, of an ecclesiastical corporation, of a priesthood, of a religion in the sacerdotal state. To very many enlightened men, these words alone, a body of priests, a priesthood, a government based on religion, appear decisive of the question. They are of opinion that a religion which has worked up to a body of priests, to a clergy holding a legal constitution, a religion, in fact, under governance, exercises an influence, taken upon the whole, more hurtful than beneficial. According to their idea, religion is a purely individual affair between man and God; and whenever it loses this character, and an external authority is interposed between the individual and the object of his religious creed, that is to say, the Almighty, religion is adulterated, and society endangered. The examination of this question is imposed upon us. In order to learn the influence exercised by the Christian church, it is necessary to have a distinct idea of what ought to be the influence of a church or body of clergy, from the nature of the institution itself. To attain this end, it behoves us to enter upon the preliminary investigation, whether religion is, in fact, purely individual? whether it provokes, and gives rise to, nothing more than an inward relation between each man and God? or whether it of necessity becomes a source of new relations between men, from which religious society, and a government for that society, as inevitably result? {90} If religion be reduced to the religious sentiment properly so called, to that sentiment certainly quite real, yet still somewhat vague and uncertain in its object, which we cannot further characterise than by its mere mention; that sentiment which addresses itself sometimes to exterior nature, sometimes to the most subtle emotions of the soul, now to poetic effusions, now to the mysteries of the future, which ranges inimitably, seeking everywhere for satisfaction, and fixing itself nowhere; if religion be restricted to this sentiment, I say, then must it, in my understanding, remain purely individual. Such a sentiment may indeed provoke a momentary association amongst men; it may, and in fact must, take pleasure in sympathy, and be nourished and strengthened by it. But from its unsettled and wavering nature, it is incapable of becoming the principle of a permanent and extended association, or of accommodating itself to any system of precepts, rites, and forms; in a word, to give origin to a religious society and government. But I am strangely at fault, if this religious sentiment gives complete expression to the whole religious nature of man. According to my idea, religion is a great deal more. There are problems in human nature and in human destiny whose solution is beyond this world, which are linked to an order of things unknown to the visible creation, but which irrepressibly torment the minds of men, and which they are absolutely bent upon solving. The solution of these problems, with the creeds and dogmas which contain, or at least profess to contain it, is the first object, and the first source of religion. Yet another route conducts mankind to it. To those who have pursued philosophic studies to some extent, it is, I believe, clear enough that morality exists independently of religious ideas; that the distinction between good and evil in morals, and the obligation to shun evil and do good, are laws that man recognises in his own nature as much as the laws of logic, having their principle inherent in him, and their application in his actual life. But these facts being settled, and morality invested with independence, a question arises in the human understanding--Whence comes morality?--whither does it lead? Is this obligation to do good, which subsists by itself, an isolated fact, without an author or an end? Does it not veil from, or rather does it not reveal to man, an origin and a destiny which is not of this world? This is a spontaneous, inevitable question, and it is one by which morality, in its turn, leads man to the threshold of religion, and opens to him a sphere from which he has not originally received it. Thus, on one hand, the problems concerning our nature, on the other, the necessity of seeking for morality a sanction, an origin, and a purpose, are fruitful and assured sources to religion. Hence it presents itself under many other aspects than that of a pure sentiment, such as I have described: it presents itself as a whole, combining, 1_st_, Doctrines evoked by the problems which beset man himself; 2_d_, Precepts corresponding to those doctrines, and giving a meaning and sanction to natural morality; and, 3_d_, Promises addressed to the hopes of futurity entertained by humanity. These are what truly constitute religion, and such it is at bottom, and not a mere expression of sensibility, a burst of the imagination, or a variety in poetic inspiration. {91} Thus brought to its true elements, to its essence, religion no longer appears as a matter purely individual, but as a powerful and fruitful principle of association. First take it as a system of creeds and dogmas. Truth belongs to none peculiarly; it is universal and absolute; men require to seek and profess it in common. Then as to the precepts associated to doctrines: an obligatory law for one individual is so for all; it must be promulgated, and all men must be brought under its empire. Lastly, as to the promises which religion makes under sanction of its creeds and precepts: they must be spread far and wide, and all must be called to enjoy their blessing. Therefore it is from the essential elements of religion that religious society arises; and it results so infallibly from them, that the word proselytism, which is especially applied to religious creeds, and seems almost exclusively consecrated to them, is still that which expresses the most forcible of social sentiments, that incessant craving to propagate ideas, and give extension to any particular society. When the germs of the religious society are once laid, that is, when a certain number of men are united in common religious articles of belief, under a law of common religious precepts, and in common religious hopes, a government is needed for them. No society can exist a week, even an hour, without a government. At the very moment that the society is formed, and by the mere fact of its formation, it calls up a government to proclaim the common truth, the bond of the society, and to promulgate and maintain the precepts which that truth may bring to light. The necessity for a power or government over the religious society, as over every other, is implied in the fact of the existence of the society. And not only is the government absolutely essential, but it forms itself naturally. I cannot linger long in explaining how government is produced and established in society at large; I will confine myself to the remark, that when things follow their natural laws, when force takes no part, power falls to the most able, to the best, to those who will lead society to its object. Is a warlike expedition contemplated? The most valiant will take the power. Has the association in view some skilful investigation or enterprise? The most qualified will attain the mastery. In all cases, whenever the world is left to its natural course, the natural inequality of men is freely displayed, and each takes the place which he is capable of filling. {92} And in the religious relation, men are not more equal in talents, powers, and capacity, than in other respects: such a man will be more capable than another to shed light upon religious doctrines, and to make them generally adopted; another will derive from himself more authority to enforce the observance of the religious precepts; and some other will excel in sustaining and raising the emotions of the mind and the religious hopes. Hence the same inequality in faculties and influence, which gives birth to power in civil society, is equally its cause in religious. Missionaries come forth and declare themselves, like generals. So that, as on the one hand a religious government necessarily results from the nature of a religious society, so on the other, by the mere operation of human faculties, and their unequal distribution, its development also is perfectly natural. Therefore, as soon as religion is planted in man, a religious society is formed; and as soon as the religious society appears, it produces its government. But here a fundamental objection arises, from the absence of anything to ordain and impose, and from nothing coercitive being legitimate. That there is, in fact, no scope for government, since liberty ought to subsist unrestricted. It is, I believe, a very confined and rude idea of government to imagine it to reside solely, or even with regard to the force which it exhibits to insure obedience, in its coercitive element. I leave the religious point of view, and take civil government, following the simple course of events. Society exists: there is something to do, no matter what, for its interest, or in its name; there is a law to give, a measure to take, or a judgment to pronounce. Most assuredly there is likewise a good law to make, a good resolve to follow, and a good judgment to deliver. Whatsoever may be the subject under discussion, or the interest brought in question, upon all occasions there is a truth necessary to be known, and which ought to decide the conduct. The first act of government is to seek out this truth, and to discover what is just and reasonable, and what is suitable to the society. When it has found it, it proclaims it. Then it must endeavour to impress upon the minds of those upon whom it is to act, that it is right, so as to gain their approval and acquiescence. Is there anything coercive in all this? Certainly not. Now suppose that the truth, which ought to decide the affair, whatever it may be, is found out and proclaimed, that all understandings are immediately convinced, all inclinations determined, that all universally recognise the government to be right, and give it spontaneous obedience; there is still no coercion, there is no need for the employment of force. But is it to be concluded from this that government has not subsisted, that, in fact, there has been no government? Most clearly there has been a government, and it has accomplished its true task. Coercion comes only when the resistance of individual wills presents itself, when the idea, or the measure which government has adopted, obtains not the approbation or the voluntary submission of all. {93} Then the government employs force to make itself be obeyed, a necessary result of human imperfection, an imperfection residing at once both in the governing power and in the society. There will never be any means for absolutely avoiding it; civil governments will always be obliged to have recourse to it in a certain degree. But surely coercion does not constitute them; whenever they can dispense with it, they do so, to the great advantage of all, and their highest state of perfection is to pass from it, and to rely upon purely moral means, upon the influence exercised over the intelligence of men; insomuch that the more a government departs from coercion, the more faithful is it to its true nature, and the better fulfils its end. It is not, therefore, lowered or unduly contracted, as is vulgarly echoed; it acts in another manner, and that manner infinitely more general and powerful. Those governments which employ most coercion, effect much less than those which employ none. By addressing itself to good sense, by convincing free wills, by acting with means purely intellectual, a government, instead of lowering itself, is extended and elevated, and it is under such circumstances that it accomplishes its greatest actions. On the contrary, it is when it is obliged to ceaselessly employ coercion that it contracts and shrinks, effects very little, and that little very badly. The essence of government, then, is far from residing in coercion, or the employment of force. That which constitutes it most especially, is a system of means and powers, based on the principle of truly seeking the discovery of what is fitting to be done upon each occasion, the discovery of the truth which ought to govern society, so that it may be afterwards made to penetrate the minds of men, and procure their voluntary and free adoption. The necessity for, and the existence of a government, are therefore quite conceivable, even when there is no scope given to coercion, or when it is absolutely interdicted. Now this is exactly the government of a religious society. There is no doubt that coercion is prohibited in it, for inasmuch as the human conscience is its only territory, the employment of force is unquestionably illegitimate, whatever may be the object in view; but it does not the less subsist, nor is it the less incumbent upon it to accomplish all those things previously mentioned. It behoves it diligently to search for the religious doctrines which solve the problems upon the human destiny, or if there be already a general system of articles of belief in which those problems are solved, then, in each particular case, to unveil and place in full light the ordinances of the system; it must promulgate and enforce the precepts which correspond to its doctrines, and it must preach and expound them, and when society falls from them, call it back. But nothing compulsory; simply investigation into, the preaching and the expounding of, religious truths; in case of need, admonitions and censure. {94} In this lies the task, as also the duty, of the religious government. Set aside coercion out of view altogether, still, all the essential questions as to the organisation of government arise and claim a solution. For instance, the question whether a body of religious magistrates be necessary, or whether it be possible to trust to the religious inspiration of individuals?-- a question which is at issue between the majority of religious societies and the Quakers--is one which will always exist, and must always demand discussion. So also the question, whether, when it is agreed that a body of religious magistrates is necessary, preference should be given to a system of equality, where the ministers of religion are equal amongst themselves, and deliberate in common, or to a hierarchical constitution with different degrees of power? is one which will never cease, on account simply of all coercitive power being denied to the ecclesiastical magistrates, whatever may be their denomination. Instead, therefore, of seeking the dissolution of the religious society, so as to attain a right to destroy the religious government, we are bound to remember that the religious society is formed in the natural order of things, and that the government results as naturally from the society; and that the real problem to resolve is, to determine upon what conditions this government ought to subsist, and what are the bases, the principles, the conditions of its legitimacy. This is the true investigation which the necessary existence of the religious government, as of every other, imposes. Now the conditions of legitimacy are the same for the government of the religious society as for every other. They may be reduced to two: the first, that the power devolves upon and remains constantly in the hands of the best and most capable, so far, at least, as is practicable in the imperfection of human affairs; that the men, legitimately superior, scattered through society, be sought out, brought forward, and called upon to decide the social law, and to exercise the power; the second, that power, rightfully constituted, respects the rightful liberties of those upon whom it is exercised. A good system in the formation and organisation of power, and a good system of guarantees for liberty, are the two conditions which imply the goodness of government in general, religious or civil. They must all be judged by this twofold criterion. Therefore, instead of urging its existence as a reproach to the church, or government of the Christian world, it is incumbent upon us to investigate how it was constituted, and whether its principles corresponded to the two essential conditions of every good government. Let us examine the church under this double aspect. {95} With regard to the creation and transmission of power in the church, there is a word in frequent use in speaking of the Christian clergy, which I desire to repudiate--namely, the appellation of _caste_. The body of ecclesiastical magistrates has been often styled a caste. The expression is far from being a just one; for the idea of hereditary descent is inherent in that of caste. If we take the countries in which the system of castes was produced, India and Egypt, we shall find it was essentially hereditary, the transmission of the same situation and power from father to son. Where the hereditary principle did not prevail, neither did the caste, but a corporation. The spirit engendered in an established body has its evil results, but it is quite different from the spirit arising from the system of castes. The word caste cannot be at all applied to the Christian church. The celibacy of the priests prevented the Christian clergy from becoming a caste. Now the consequences of this difference are considerable. To the system of caste, to the fact of hereditary descent, monopoly is inevitably attached. The very definition of the word proves it. When the same functions and powers become hereditary in the same families, it is clear that an exclusive privilege is transmitted, and that no one can acquire these functions or powers independently of his origin. Such, in fact, was the result; for where the religious government fell into the hands of a caste, it became matter of privilege, and no person entered it but those who sprang from the families of the caste. But nothing of this sort is met in the Christian church, and indeed so far from that being the case, the church maintained the principle of the equal admissibility of all men, whatever might be their origin, to all its charges and dignities. The ecclesiastical career, more particularly from the fifth to the twelfth century, was open to all. The church was recruited from all ranks, from the inferior as well as the superior, and most frequently, indeed, from the inferior. All things were crumbling around it, under the influence of the exclusive system; it alone maintained the principle of equality and fair competition, and summoned the possessors of legitimate superiority to the assumption of power. This was the first great consequence that naturally resulted from it being a body and not a caste. Again, there is a spirit inherent in castes, that of immutability or stagnation. This assertion has no need of proof. All history informs us that the spirit of stagnation has possessed all societies, political or religious, in which the system of castes predominated. The fear of change or progress was certainly introduced into the Christian church at a certain epoch, and up to a certain point. But we cannot say that it predominated, nor can we assert that the church has remained immovable and stationary: during many ages it was in movement and progress, sometimes stimulated by the attacks of an outward opposition, sometimes impelled from within by the necessities for internal reform and development. {96} Upon the whole, it is a society which has constantly changed and progressed, and whose history is marked with corresponding characteristics. It admits of no doubt that the indiscriminate admission of all men to ecclesiastical charges, and the continual recruitment of the church upon a principle of equality, powerfully aided in maintaining and unceasingly reanimating its activity and energy, and in preventing the triumph of the immutable or stagnant spirit. How was the church, thus admitting all men to power, assured as to the justness of their claims? How did it discover, and draw out from the obscurity of the mass, those legitimately superior spirits entitled to take part in the government? Two principles were vigorous in the church: first, the election of the inferior by the superior, a power of choice and nomination exercised by the latter; secondly, the election of the superior by subordinates, properly an election such as we esteem it at the present day. The ordination of priests, for example, the faculty of making a man a priest, belonged to the superior alone; the choice was exercised by the superior upon the inferior. Likewise with regard to the presentation to certain ecclesiastical benefices, amongst other benefices attached to feudal grants, it was the superior, whether king, pope, or lord, who named the incumbent. In other cases, the principle of election proper was in force. The bishops had been for a long time, and were frequently, at the epoch which now engages our attention, elected by the body of the clergy, and the congregations even sometimes interfered. In the cloisters of the monasteries, the abbot was elected by the monks. At Rome, the pope was elected by the college of cardinals, and formerly the whole Roman clergy took part in that nomination. Therefore we find these two principles, the choice of the inferior by the superior, and the election of the superior by subordinates, recognised and active in the church, especially at the epoch in question, and it was by the one or the other of these means that it designed the men called to exercise a portion of the ecclesiastical power. The co-existence of two principles so essentially different was accompanied by a struggle for mastery. After many ages and vicissitudes, the nomination of the inferior by the superior has prevailed in the Christian church. But in general it was the other principle, the choice of the superior by the subordinates, which prevailed from the fifth to the twelfth century. There is no reason for astonishment in the co-existence of two principles so very distinct; for looking at society in general, at the natural course of things, and at the manner in which power is transmitted in the world, it is unquestionable that this transmission is effected, sometimes according to one of these modes, and sometimes according to the other. The church did not invent them; it found them in the providential arrangement of human things, and it thence borrowed them. {97} There is much sound sense and utility in each mode, and their combination might often be the best means of discovering the really legitimate claimant to power. It is a great misfortune, in my opinion, that one of the two, the choice of the inferior by the superior, has been victorious in the church. But the other has never completely perished, and under different names it has been reproduced more or less successfully at every era, so as at all events to enter protests, and interrupt the prescription. Returning to the epoch immediately under view, the Christian church then derived a prodigious strength from its respect for equality and legitimately superior minds. It was a society in the highest degree popularised, illimitably accessible and open to all the faculties, to all the noble aspirations, in human nature. Thence sprang its power, much more than from its riches and the illegitimate means of influence which it has too frequently employed. With regard to the second condition of a good government, respect for liberty, the church was greatly deficient. Two evil principles met in it; the one avowed and incorporated, so to speak, in its doctrines; the other introduced into it by human weakness, not as a legitimate consequence of its doctrines. The first was the debasement of the rights of individual reason, the pretension to transmit articles of belief from high to low throughout the whole religious society, without allowing any one the right of private judgment. It is more easy to lay down this pretension as a principle, than to make it actually prevail. A conviction does not penetrate the human intellect, unless the intellect be itself accessory to its admission; it must be made acceptable to reason. In whatever manner it presents itself, whatever sanction it may invoke, reason weighs it, and if it prevail with the human understanding, it is because of its rationality. Thus there is always, under whatever form it may be veiled, an action of individual reason upon the ideas which are pretended to be imposed upon it. It is true, nevertheless, that reason may be perverted; it may to a certain extent nullify or emasculate itself; it may be induced to make a bad use of its faculties, or not to make such use of them as it has a right to do. Such, in fact, has been the consequence of this evil principle admitted into the church, although it never had, and never could have, an unmixed and uncontrollable action. The second evil principle was the right of coercion arrogated to itself by the church--a right contrary to the nature of a religious society, to the origin of the church itself, and to its primitive maxims--a right contested by several of the illustrious fathers of the church, Saint Ambrose, Saint Hilary, and Saint Martin--but which, nevertheless, was upheld, and became a predominant assertion. The pretension of forcing to believe--if we can put these two words together--or of physically punishing belief, as the persecution of heresy--that is to say, contempt for the legitimate liberty of human thought, is an error which was introduced into the church even before the fifth century, and has cost it dear. {98} If, therefore, we consider the church in its relations with the liberty of its members, we perceive that its principles in this respect were less legitimate and salutary than those which presided at the formation of the ecclesiastical power. We are not, however, to conclude that one evil principle radically vitiates an institution, nor even that it does all the mischief with which it is pregnant. Nothing falsifies history more than logic. When the human understanding has fixed upon an idea, it deduces therefrom all possible consequences; it makes it bring forth all that in pure possibility it could bring forth, and then represents it in history as attended by all these results. But matters do not come out after this fashion; events are not so prompt as the deductions of the human mind. There is in all things a mixture of bad and good so deep-seated and invincible, that when you dive to the most hidden elements of society or the mind, whatever portion you open out, you there find these two orders of things co-existent, developing themselves side by side, and struggling with, but not exterminating each other. Human nature never goes to the last limits either of good or bad; it passes unceasingly from one to the other, recovering itself when it seems nearest the fall, and faltering at the moment that its step seems firmest. We discover here once more that characteristic of discordance, variety, and strife, which I have already remarked as the fundamental characteristic of European civilisation. There is, furthermore, a general fact illustrative of the government of the church of which it is necessary to take notice. At the present day, when the idea of a government, whatever may be its nature, presents itself to us, we feel that there is no longer any pretension of controlling aught else than the outward actions of men, and their civil relations amongst themselves; governments profess to go no farther. As to the human thought and conscience, morality, properly so called, or as to individual opinions and private manners, they do not interfere; those matters fall to the domain of liberty. Now the Christian church did, or wished to do, directly the reverse. Human thought, human liberty, private manners, and individual opinions, were precisely what it endeavoured to rule over. It did not make a code like other powers, to define the actions at once morally culpable and socially dangerous, and to award them punishment in proportion only as they bore this double character; but it set out a catalogue of all actions morally culpable, and, under the name of sins, it punished and acted on the design of repressing them all; in a word, the government of the church was not applied, like modern governments, to the outward man, and to the purely civil relations of men amongst themselves; it was applied to the inward man, to the thought and the conscience--that is to say, to what is held by man as most intimately his own, to what is most free and restive to constraint. {99} The church, then, by the very nature of its enterprise, in combination with the tendency of some of the principles upon which its government was founded, was placed in peril of becoming tyrannical, and of using an illegitimate employment of force. But at the same time the force encountered an opposition which it could not vanquish. However little movement or scope may be left to them, human thought and love of liberty react energetically against every attempt to prostrate them, and repeatedly compel the very despotism which they endure to step down and abdicate its supremacy. This is what happened in the bosom of the Christian church. We have enumerated the proscription of heresy, the anathema upon the right of examination, the contempt for individual reason, and the principle of the imperative transmission of doctrines through those in authority. Yet scarcely a society is to be found in which individual reason has been more boldly developed than in the church. What are sects and heresies but the fruit of individual opinions? And these sects and heresies, and all this species of opposition encountered by the Christian church, afford incontestible proof of the moral life and activity which reigned in it; a troubled and painful life, strewed with dangers, errors, and crimes, yet noble and potential, and giving scope to the finest developments of intellect and opinion. But setting aside the opposition, and entering into the ecclesiastical government itself, we find it constituted and acting in a manner quite different to what some of its principles seem to have prescribed. It denied the right of examination, it wished to deprive individual reason of its liberty; yet it is to reason that it for ever addressed its appeals; liberty was actually its mainspring. What were its institutions and means of action? Provincial councils, national councils, �cumenical councils, a continual correspondence and an incessant publication of letters, admonitions, and other writings. Never did any government proceed to such an extent in the way of discussion and common deliberation. We might imagine ourselves in the schools of the Greek philosophy. And yet it was not a mere discussion or investigation of truth which was at issue; it involved questions of authority, of measures to adopt, of decrees to promulgate, a government in fact. But the energy of the intellectual life in the heart of this government was such, that it became the predominant and universal standard to which all others yielded, and the main fact displayed on all sides was the exercise of reason and liberty. {100} I am very far from concluding, on this account, that the evil principles which I have endeavoured to unfold as existing, in my opinion, in the system of the church, remained without effect. At the epoch which now engages our attention, they had already produced bitter consequences, and afterwards they were productive of much more disastrous results; but what I mean to affirm is, that they did not perpetrate all the mischief of which they were capable, and that they did not smother the good which was growing out of the same soil. Such was the church considered in itself, in its internal state, in its nature. I proceed to its relations with sovereigns, the masters of temporal power. It is the second point of view under which I promised to consider it. When the Empire fell, and instead of the old Roman system, instead of that government in the midst of which it had taken root, with which it had common feelings and long-formed ties, the church found itself exposed to those barbarous kings and chiefs roaming over the country or quartered in their castles, to whom no tie founded on a community of traditions, creeds, or sentiments, united it; the danger which impended over it was great, and of corresponding magnitude was its terror. The idea which then seized predominantly upon the church was to gain possession of the new-comers, or, in other words, to convert them. The relations between the church and the barbarians had scarcely any other object at first. In order to captivate the barbarians, it was chiefly necessary to address their senses and imagination. Therefore we find that at this epoch the number, pomp, and variety of ceremonious rites were augmented. The chronicles prove that it was mainly by these means that the church acted upon the barbarians. She converted them by imposing spectacles. When the barbarians were finally established and converted, and some ties formed between them and the church, it did not cease to incur great danger from them. The brutality and recklessness in the barbarian manners were such, that the new creed, and the sentiments with which it had inspired them, exercised very little sway over them. Violence soon reassumed the upper hand, and the church was a victim to it equally with the rest of society. As a means of defence, it proclaimed a principle formerly asserted, although more indefinitely, under the Empire--namely, the separation of spiritual from temporal power, and their reciprocal independence. By the aid of this principle it was that the church continued unmolested by the barbarians. The church maintained that force could have no action upon a system of religious articles, hopes, and promises, and therefore that the temporal world was completely severed from the spiritual. {101} The salutary consequences resulting from this principle are discernible at a glance. Independently of the temporary utility it was to the church, it had the inestimable advantage of placing on the basis of right the separation of the two powers, and of controlling them by means of each other. Furthermore, by sustaining the independence of the intellectual world in general, in its full extent, the church prepared the way for the independence of individual intellect and of thought. The church said that the system of religious belief could not fall under the yoke of force, so each individual was tempted to use the same language on his own account. The principle of free discussion or examination, and of liberty for individual thought, is exactly the same as that of the independence of the general spiritual authority with respect to the temporal power. Unfortunately, it is an easy matter to pass from the want of liberty to the lust of dominion. The church exhibited a proof of it at this period. By a tendency natural to human ambition and pride, the church endeavoured to establish for the spiritual power not only independence, but supremacy over the temporal power. Yet we must not believe that this pretension had no other source than the failings of humanity; there were others still deeper, which it behoves us to inquire into. When liberty reigns in the intellectual world, when the human thought and conscience are not subjected to a power which denies them the right of discussion and decision, and employs force to crush them--when, in fact, there is no visible and constituted spiritual government, arrogating and exercising the right of dictating opinions--then is the idea of the dominion of a spiritual order over a temporal impossible. Such is pretty nearly the present state of the world. But when there exists, as in the tenth century did exist, a government of the spiritual order; when thought and conscience come under laws, institutions, and powers, which assert a right to command and coerce them; in a word, when the spiritual power is constituted, when it has taken effective possession, under the sanction of right and of force, of human reason and conscience, it is natural that it should be tempted to lay claim to dominion over the temporal order, and that it should exclaim, 'How! I have right and sway over what is most lofty and independent in man--over his reason, his inward will, his conscience--and shall I not have right over his outward, material, and fleeting interests? I, who am the interpreter of justice and truth, shall I be debarred from regulating earthly matters according to justice and truth?' By the mere provocative of this reasoning, the spiritual order was sure to be urged into an invasion of the temporal order. And this was still more certain when the spiritual order monopolised all the developments of the human mind then possible: there was but one science, theology; but one spiritual order, the theological: all the other sciences, rhetoric, arithmetic, even music, everything was comprised in theology. {102} The spiritual power thus finding itself at the head of the whole activity of the human brain, naturally fell into a self-assumption of the general government of the world. A second cause was equally powerful in urging it to this appropriation--namely, the frightful state of the temporal order, and the violence and iniquity which prevailed in the temporal government of all communities. We can speak of the rights of the temporal power without difficulty; but at the epoch under review, the power in question was a mere brute force, an intractable ruffianism. The church, however imperfect its notions of morals and of justice might still be, was infinitely superior to such a government, and the cry of the people was continually raised, beseeching it to take its place. When a pope or a few bishops proclaimed a sovereign denuded of his rights, and his subjects freed from the oath of fidelity, such an intervention, although doubtless open to serious abuses, was often in particular cases legitimate and salutary. In general, whenever liberty has been wanting to mankind, its restoration has been the work of religion. In the tenth century, the people were not in a state to defend themselves, or to make their rights available against civil violence, and religion came to the rescue in the name of Heaven. This is one of the reasons which have mainly contributed to the victories of the theocratic principle. There is a third cause for the arrogation of the spiritual order, which has been too little noticed, arising out of the complexity in the situation of the chiefs of the church, and the variety of aspects under which they appeared in society. On the one hand they were prelates, members of the ecclesiastical order, part and parcel of the spiritual power, and by right thereof independent; on the other they were vassals, and, as such, engaged in the bonds of civil feudalism. And, furthermore, they were not only vassals, but also subjects: some portion of the old relations of the Roman emperors with the bishops and clergy had passed into those formed between the priesthood and the barbarian kings. By a series of causes which it would be too tedious to develop, the bishops had been led to regard, to a certain extent, the barbarian sovereigns as successors of the Roman emperors, and to attribute to them all their prerogatives. The chiefs of the clergy had therefore a triple character--an ecclesiastical character, and, as such, independent; a feudal character, and, as such, bound to certain duties, and holding by certain services; and the character of a simple subject, and, as such, held to obey an absolute sovereign. Now, the temporal sovereigns, who were not less greedy or ambitious than the bishops, frequently availed themselves of their rights as lords or sovereigns to encroach upon the spiritual independence, and to possess themselves of the presentation to benefices, the nomination to bishoprics, &c. {103} On their side, the bishops often intrenched themselves behind their spiritual independence, to get rid of their obligations as vassals or subjects. In this manner there was an almost inevitable tendency leading the sovereigns, on the one hand, to destroy the spiritual independence; and the chiefs of the church, on the other, to make that independence an instrument to work out universal dominion. This result has been illustrated by facts notorious to all, as in the disputes concerning investitures, and the struggles between the priesthood and the empire. The distinct positions of the chiefs of the church, and the difficulty of reconciling them, have been the real source of the uncertainty and the contests with regard to these pretensions. Finally, the church had a third relation with the sovereigns, the least favourable, and the most disastrous, for itself: it laid claim to coercion, to the right of repressing and punishing heresy: but it had no means to effect this; it had no physical force at its disposal; so that when it had condemned heresy, it was unable of itself to put its judgment in execution. In this strait it invoked what was called the secular arm; in other words, it borrowed the force of the civil power as a means of coercion. In consequence, it placed itself, with regard to the civil power, in a situation of dependence and inferiority. Such was the deplorable necessity to which the adoption of the evil principle of coercion and persecution reduced the church. There remains to be considered the relations of the church with the people, which I shall enter upon in the next lecture, as well as such other questions as arise out of this branch of our inquiry. {104} Lecture VI. Relations Of The Church With The People. I have preliminarily laid down that the church ought to be considered under three principal aspects: firstly, in itself, in its internal constitution, in its nature, and as a distinct and independent society; secondly, in its relations with sovereigns and the temporal power; and finally, in its relations with the people. We have accomplished the two first divisions of this task, and I now proceed to the last. I shall subsequently endeavour to draw from this triple examination a general appreciation of the influence of the church upon European civilisation from the fifth to the twelfth century. I shall then verify my assertions by an epitome of facts, by the history of the church at that epoch. In speaking of the relations of the church with the people, I am of course obliged to restrict myself to very general terms. I cannot enter into a detail of the usages of the church, or of the every-day relations of the clergy with the faithful. The predominant principles, and the great results of the system, and of the conduct of the church towards the Christian people, are what I concern myself with. The main characteristic, and the radical vice (for so it must be called) of the relations of the church with the people, was the separation of the governing and the governed, the non-influence of the governed over their government, the independence of the Christian clergy, with reference to the body of the faithful. This evil must have been provoked, one would imagine, by the state of man and of society, for it was introduced into the Christian church at a very early date. The separation was not fully consummated at the era we are contemplating, as upon certain occasions, the elections of bishops, for instance, there was still an occasional direct interference by the Christian flocks in their government. But such efforts were weak and rare; and even from the second century of our era, this intervention had commenced a visible and rapid decline. A tendency to the isolation and independence of the clergy is in some degree the burden of church history from its dawn. It cannot be denied that from this circumstance has arisen the major part of the abuses which, at this period, and still more at a later date, have so injured the church. We must not, however, impute them absolutely to it, or regard this tendency to isolation as peculiar to the Christian clergy. There is, in the very nature of a religious society, a strong inclination to raise the government far above the governed, and to attribute to the former something distinct and holy. {105} It comes from the mission itself with which they are charged, and from the character under which they offer themselves to the eyes of the multitude. Yet this result is more baneful in a religious society than in any other. What is at stake to the governed? Their reason, their conscience, their immortal destiny--that is to say, such considerations as are most strictly inward, most individual to each, and most incapable of thraldom. We can, to a certain extent, imagine that, although some evil may result from it, mankind may abandon to a visible authority the direction of their material interests and temporal destiny. We can understand the philosopher who, on being informed that his house was on fire, answered, 'Go and tell my wife: I have nothing to do with the affairs of the household.' But when the matter at issue is conscience, thought, the inward moral existence, for men to abdicate the government of themselves, and to give themselves up to a foreign sway, is an actual moral suicide, a servitude a hundred times more abject than can befall the body, or than that endured by the tethered serf. Such, nevertheless, was the evil which overbore the church in its relations with the faithful, though its weight became alleviated, as I shall hereafter demonstrate. We have already seen, that for the clergymen themselves, and in the heart of the church, liberty had no guarantee. For laymen, and outside the church, the matter was much worse. Amongst ecclesiastics, there was at all events discussion, deliberation, and a deployment of individual faculties; with them the excitement of dispute supplied in some sort the lack of liberty. But there was nothing of this description between the clergy and the people. The laymen assisted in the government of the church as simple spectators. And thus we perceive that idea so early vegetate and expand, that theology, or religious questions and affairs, are the privileged domain of the clergy, that the clergy alone have a right to decide, or even to canvass them, and that on no account, or under any pretence, ought laymen to interfere. At the era under review this theory was already in full blossom; and it has required ages and terrible revolutions to subdue it, and to bring back, even partially, religious questions and science to the public domain. Therefore, in principle as well as in fact, the legal separation of the clergy and the Christian people was nearly complete before the twelfth century. In spite of this, however, the Christian people were not without influence, even at this epoch, upon their government. Legal interference was wanting to it, but not influence. In fact its extinction is scarcely possible in any government, much less in one founded upon articles of belief common to the governing and the governed. {106} Whenever an actual community of ideas is developed, or an intellectual movement of the same order is participated by both government and people, a bond necessarily exists between them which no viciousness in the organisation can utterly break. To give a clear explanation of my meaning, I will take an example from our own history of the political cast. At no date in the history of France have the French people had less legal control over their government, by means of institutions, than in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, under Louis XIV. and Louis XV. Every one knows that almost all the direct and official interference of the country, in the exercise of authority, had died away at those periods. Yet there is no doubt that the public and the country then exercised much more influence over the government than at other times--in those, for instance, in which the States-General were frequently convoked, in which the parliaments took considerable part in politics, and in which the legal participation of the people with power was unquestionably greater. It is because there is a force which laws do not entomb, and which, upon occasion, can shake off the burden of institutions, the force of ideas, of public intelligence and opinion. In the France of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, there was a public opinion much more potential than at any other epoch. Although it was debarred from legal means of acting on the government, it acted indirectly, by the sway of ideas common to the governing and the governed, and by the impossibility experienced by the rulers to set at nought the opinion of society. A similar fact occurred in the Christian church of the fifth to the twelfth centuries: the Christian people, it is true, were deficient in means of legal action, but there was a great mental movement in religious matters, which operated conjointly upon laymen and ecclesiastics, and gave means of action to the people upon the clergy. In studying history, it is essential to set great value upon indirect influences in all things, for they are much more efficacious, and sometimes more salutary, than are commonly represented. It is natural for men to wish that their action should be prompt and palpable, and to derive pleasure from taking part in their own success, power, and triumph. But this is not always possible, nor even useful. There are times and situations in which indirect and imperceptible influences are alone advantageous and practicable. I will again adduce an example of the political order. More than once, in 1641 especially, the English parliament has claimed, like many other assemblies in analogous cases, the right of directly nominating the great officers of the crown, the ministers and councillors of state, &c. regarding this direct interference in the government as a great and precious guarantee. {107} It has sometimes exercised this privilege, and the experiment has always met with bad success. Yet what takes place now in England? Is it not the influence of the two houses of parliament which decides the formation of the ministry, and the nomination of all the great officers of the crown? Certainly; but it is an indirect and general influence, instead of a special intervention. The result for which England has long laboured is produced, but by another course; the first had never worked beneficially. There is a reason for this, upon which I shall linger for a moment. The direct action requires, in those to whom it is confided, an unusual share of enlightenment, sound sense, and prudence: as they aim at reaching their point at once, and without delay, they have good need of caution, lest their enterprise be ill-timed, and fail. Indirect influences, on the contrary, encounter obstacles ere they come into play, and undergo trials which test and rectify them: before succeeding, they are subjected to discussion, opposition, and restriction: their triumph is slow, and upon conditions, in a certain degree. Therefore, when the minds of men are not sufficiently advanced and ripened to render the direct action secure, indirect and mitigated influences are preferable. It was thus that the Christian people acted on their government, very incompletely, and far too stintedly, I am aware, yet they certainly did act. There was likewise another cause of reconcilement between the church and laymen, existing in the dispersion, so to speak, of the Christian clergy amongst all the conditions of society. Almost everywhere, when a church has been constituted independent of the people whom it governed, the body of priests has been formed of men nearly in the same situation; not that marked inequalities did not prevail amongst them; but still, upon the whole, the power has been vested in colleges of priests, living in community, and governing, from the depths of a temple, the people bowing under their yoke. The Christian church was quite differently organised. From the miserable hut of the boor or serf, at the foot of the feudal castle, to the palace of the king, there was throughout society a priest or member of the clerical body. Clergymen were associated to all conditions of men. This diversity in the situation of the Christian priests, this sharing in all fortunes, has been a great principle of union between the clergy and laymen, which has been entirely wanting to the majority of churches invested with power. The bishops and chiefs of the Christian church were furthermore, as has been previously mentioned, mixed up with the feudal organisation, and were members of the civil as well as of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Hence arose common interests, usages, and manners, between the civil and religious orders. It has been judged scandalous, and reasonably, that bishops waged war, and that priests led the life of laymen. {108} Assuredly it was a great abuse, and yet one infinitely less disastrous than was elsewhere the existence of those priests who never issued out of the temple, and who were altogether separated from the people in their course of life. The bishops, who took part, to a certain extent, in the civil disorders, were of more avail than priests, complete strangers to the population, its affairs, and its manners. In this respect there was a parity of destiny and situation between the clergy and the people, which, if it did not correct, certainly lessened, the evil of the separation between the rulers and the governed. Now, this separation being admitted, and its limits and countervailing influences determined, let us next inquire how the church governed, in what manner it acted upon the populations subject to its empire; what it effected, on the one hand, for the development of the man, for the moral advancement of the individual, and, on the other, for the amelioration of the social state. To speak the truth, I do not believe that, at the era in question, the church concerned itself greatly about the development of the individual. It endeavoured to inspire the powerful in the world with milder sentiments, and to induce them to act with more justice in their relations with the weak; and it taught the oppressed to lead a moral life, and to indulge in sentiments and hopes of a loftier order than those to which their immediate destiny condemned them. Yet for individual development, properly so called, for imparting value to the personal nature of men, I do not believe that the church then did much, at least so far as laymen were concerned. What it did was confined to the ecclesiastical society itself; it made great exertions for the development of the clergy, for the instruction of priests; for them it had schools, and all the institutions which the deplorable state of society allowed. But they were ecclesiastical schools, appointed for the instruction of the clergy alone, and, with their exception, the church acted indirectly, and by very slow means, towards the progress of ideas and manners. It doubtless gave a stimulus to general mental activity by the career it proffered to all those whom it judged capable of serving it; but that was pretty nearly all it did, at that period, for the intellectual development of the laity. It had a greater influence, and acted in a more efficacious manner, towards the amelioration of the social state. It resolutely struggled against the great vices of the social state--for example, against slavery. It has been often asserted that the abolition of slavery in modern Europe was exclusively owing to Christianity. I think that is saying too much. Slavery long existed in the heart of the Christian society, without greatly exciting its astonishment, or drawing down its anathema. A multitude of causes, and a great development in other ideas of civilisation, were required to eradicate this evil of evils, this iniquity of iniquities. {109} Yet it is indubitable that the church employed its influence in restraining it. There exists an unquestionable proof of this fact. The greater part of the formulas of enfranchisement, made out at different eras, are founded upon a religious motive; it is upon the invocation of religious ideas, of hopes of eternal bliss, and of the equality of men in the eyes of Heaven, that the enfranchisement is almost invariably pronounced. The church laboured likewise for the suppression of a great many barbarous practices, and for the amelioration of the criminal and civil legislation. Although containing certain principles of liberty, the laws were absurd, and fruitful of injustice; the most stupid ordeals, the judicial combat, and the unsupported oaths of a specified number of men, were esteemed the only means of arriving at the discovery of truth. The church strove to have more rational and legitimate means substituted. I have already spoken of the difference observable between the laws of the Visigoths, derived principally from the councils of Toledo, and the other barbarian laws. It is impossible to compare them, without being struck with the immense superiority of the ideas of the church on the subject of legislation and the administration of justice, in all that relates to the investigation of truth and of what is befitting to man. Doubtless most of these ideas were borrowed from the Roman legislation; but if the church had not preserved and asserted them, and done its utmost to propagate them, they would certainly have perished. For example, the employment of the oath in process is wisely regulated in the law of the Visigoths. 'Let the judge, in order fully to understand the cause, first interrogate the witnesses, and then examine the writings, so that the truth may be discovered with more certainty, and the oath not too lightly administered. A determination according to truth and justice requires that the writings on both sides be carefully examined, and that the necessity for the oath, kept in suspense over the heads of the parties, come upon them unexpectedly. Let the oath be administered only in causes in which the judge shall not succeed in discovering any writing, any proof, or any certain clue to the truth.'--(For. Jud. 1. ii. tit. i. 1. 21.) In criminal matters, the relation of the punishments to the offences is determined according to philosophical and moral notions, of singular justness. The efforts of an enlightened legislator struggling against the violence and irreflectiveness of the barbarian manners, are clearly distinguishable. The enactments under the title or head of '_C�de et morte hominum_'--['Of the slaying and death of men'], compared to those of a correspondent nature in use amongst other nations, is a very remarkable example of these characteristics. {110} In other codes, it is almost exclusively the damage which is held to constitute the crime, and the penalty is comprised in that tangible reparation which results from a principle of composition. But here the crime is reduced to its moral and true element, intention. The different shades of criminality, the purely involuntary homicide, accidental homicide, justifiable homicide, and homicide with or without premeditation, are distinguished and defined almost as well as in our codes, and the punishments vary on a very equitable scale. The legislator has rendered justice more indiscriminate; he has attempted, if not to abolish, at least to lessen, that diversity in the legal value of men established by the other barbarian laws. The only distinction he has maintained is that of the free man and the slave. With regard to free men, the punishment is not varied either according to the national origin, or according to the rank of the defunct, but simply according to the different degrees of moral culpability in the murderer. With regard to slaves, not venturing to completely deprive masters of the right of life and death, attempts are at all events made to restrain it, by making it subject to a public and regular process. The text of the law deserves to be cited. 'If no malefactor or accomplice in a crime ought to remain unpunished, how much more ought he to be put down who commits murder wickedly and trivially! Thus, as masters in their pride frequently put their slaves to death without any fault on their parts, it is expedient to utterly abrogate this license, and to ordain that this law shall be for ever observed by all. No master or mistress shall be allowed to inflict death, without public judgment, upon any of their slaves, male or female, or upon any person dependent upon them. If a slave or any other servant commits a crime which may subject him to capital punishment, his master or his accuser shall immediately make it known to the judge of the place where the action has been committed, or the count, or the duke. After investigation into the matter, if the crime is proved, let the guilty undergo, either through the judge or his own master, the sentence of death he has deserved; provided that, if the judge will not put the criminal to death, he shall draw up in writing a capital sentence against him, and then it shall be in the discretion of the master to slay him or to spare his life. At the same time, if the slave, by a fatal audacity, offering resistance to his master, has struck him, or attempted to strike him, with a weapon, a stone, or any other thing, and if the master, endeavouring to defend himself, has slain the slave in his anger, he shall not be at all held amenable to the penalties of homicide. But it shall be necessary to prove that the fact has thus happened, and that by the testimony or oath of the male or female slaves who were present, and by the oath of the perpetrator himself. Whoever, from pure wickedness, by his own hand, or by that of another, shall kill his slave without public judgment, shall be declared infamous, and incapable of appearing as a witness, condemned to pass the rest of his life in exile and penitence, and his possessions fall to his next of kin, to whom the law accords the inheritance.'--(For. Jud. 1. vi. tit. v. 1. 12.) {111} In the institutions of the church there was an article which has been hitherto very little noticed--namely, its penitential system. The study of this system is rendered much more interesting at the present day, since it is almost completely in accordance with the ideas of modern philosophy as to the principles and objects of the penal law. If we investigate the nature of the punishments used by the church, of the public penances which were its principal mode of inflicting chastisement, we shall find that their main design was to excite repentance in the mind of the criminal, and moral terror by the example in the beholders. There was also another idea mixed up with it--that of expiation. In a general point of view, I do not know if it be possible to separate the idea of expiation from that of punishment, and if there be not in every punishment a hidden and imperative demand for the expiation of the wrong committed, independently of the design of leading the guilty to repentance, and of scaring those who might be tempted to fall into crime. But putting aside this question, it is quite clear that repentance and example were the objects proposed by the church in its penitential system. Are these not also the objects of truly philosophic legislation? Have not the most enlightened jurists of the last age, and of our own days, advocated reform in the European penal legislation, upon the allegation of these very principles? Look at their works--look at those of Bentham, for example--and you will be surprised at the numerous resemblances you will find between the penal modes proposed by them and those employed by the church. They most certainly did not borrow them from her, nor could she have foreseen that her example might be one day adduced in aid of plans propounded by the least devout of philosophers. By all sorts of methods the church likewise strove to repress the tendency of society to violence and continual wars. Every one is aware that it was by 'the truce of God,' and numerous measures of the same nature, that the church struggled against the employment of force, and devoted itself to introduce into society a greater degree of order and mildness. These facts are so well known, that I am spared the trouble of entering into any detail. [Footnote 9] [Footnote 9: As many readers of this edition may not be such perfect masters of these facts as M. Guizot's auditory, it may be permitted the translator to mention, that the first volume of Robertson's History of Charles V. will be found the best expositor of these and other references which may not be familiar to the reader.] {112} Such are the principal points which I have to bring forward regarding the relations of the church with the people. We have now considered it under the three aspects which I first announced, and gained a knowledge of it both within and without, both in its internal constitution, and in its twofold outward position. It now remains to apply our knowledge to decide, by means of induction and conjecture, its general influence upon European civilisation. This is a labour almost accomplished, or at least much advanced, as the simple announcement of the predominant facts and principles in the church reveals and explains its influence; the results have in some sort already passed before us with the causes. However, in summing them up, we are led, I think, to two general conclusions. The first is, that the church must necessarily have exercised a very considerable influence upon moral and intellectual order in modern Europe, and upon public ideas, sentiments, and manners. That the fact is unquestionable, is proved by the moral and intellectual development of Europe being essentially theological. A survey of history from the fifth to the sixteenth century exhibits theology possessing and directing the human understanding, and giving its impress to all opinions: philosophical, political, and historical questions, were all considered under a theological point of view. The church was so supreme in the intellectual order, that even mathematical and physical sciences were held to be subject to its doctrines. The theological spirit was, as it were, the blood which flowed in the veins of the European world, until Bacon and Descartes--Bacon in England, and Descartes in France--were the first to carry intellect out of the beaten tracks of theology. The same fact is found in all branches of literature; theological modes of thought, feeling, and expression, are displayed at every step. Upon the whole, this influence was salutary. Not only did it keep up, and render productive, the intellectual movement in Europe, but the system of doctrines and precepts, under sanction of which it imparted the movement, was very superior to anything that the ancient world had known. Movement and advancement existed at one and the same time. The situation of the church, furthermore, has given an extension and variety to the development of the human mind which it never had previously. In the East, intellectual progress was altogether religious; in the Greek society it was almost exclusively human; in the one, humanity, properly so called, its actual nature and destiny, completely disappeared; in the other, it was man himself, his immediate passions, sentiments, and interests, which occupied the whole stage. In the modern world, the religious spirit has mingled with all things, without excluding any. Modern intelligence is impressed at once with humanity and divinity. {113} Human sentiments and interests hold a material place in our literatures, and yet the religious character of man--that portion of his existence which is directed to another world--appears at every step therein; insomuch that the two great sources of the development of man, humanity and religion, have flowed abundantly, and at the same time; so that, in spite of all the evil and all the abuses mixed up with it, in spite of all its acts of tyranny, in an intellectual point of view the church has exercised an influence more calculated for development than repression, for expansion than contraction. In a political point of view, the matter is very different. There can be no doubt that by softening feelings and manners, by decrying and suppressing a great number of barbarous practices, the church powerfully contributed to the amelioration of the social state; but in the political order, as properly defined, in that which affects the relations of government with subjects, of power with liberty, I do not believe that, upon the whole, its influence has been beneficial. Under this head the church has always come forward as the interpreter and defender of two systems--the theocratical and the imperial--that is to say, of despotism, sometimes under a religious form, sometimes under a civil form. Taking all its institutions, its entire legislation--taking its canons, and its modes of procedure--the principle of theocracy, or of the old empire, is throughout found predominant. When weak, the church sheltered itself under the absolute power of the emperors; when strong, it claimed that absolutism on its own account, on the plea of its spiritual power. We need not linger in adducing facts or particular cases. There is no question that the church often invoked the rights of the people against the bad government of the sovereigns; it often even approved of, and stimulated, insurrections; and it likewise frequently advocated, in its intercourse with the sovereigns, the rights and interests of the people. But whenever the question of political guarantees has arisen between power and liberty, whenever attempts have been made to establish a system of permanent institutions, which might truly and effectually shelter liberty from the encroachments of power, the church has generally ranged itself on the side of despotism. There is no occasion for much astonishment at this, or to charge upon the clergy an undue proportion of human weakness, or to imagine it a vice peculiar to the Christian church. It has a much deeper and more powerful origin. What does every religion lay claim to? The governance of human passions and of human will. Every religion is a curb, a power, a government. It comes in the name of divine law to subdue human nature. Therefore human liberty is its especial antagonist, which it is its object to vanquish. To this purpose is its mission and hope directed. {114} But although religions have to struggle with human liberty, and although they aspire to cast the will of man in a new mould, at the same time they have no other moral means of acting upon man than what he himself supplies, than his own will and liberty. When they act by outward means, as by force or seduction--in other words, by means other than the free concurrence of man-- they treat him as we would one of the elements, water or wind, as a purely physical or material power; and they fail in their object, for they do not thereby reach or influence the inclination. For religions really to accomplish their task, it is necessary that man yields himself up to them, but voluntarily and of his own free will, and that he preserves his liberty even amidst his submission. Religions are thus called to solve a double problem. This they have too often overlooked. They have considered liberty as an obstacle, and not as a means; they have forgotten the nature of the force to which they were to address themselves, and have acted with the human soul as with a material object. It is in consequence of this error that they have been led to range themselves on the side of power or despotism against human liberty, regarding it only as an adversary, and straining much more to subdue it than to procure it guarantees. If religions had well considered their means of action, if they had not given way to a natural but deceitful tendency, they would have discovered that their province was to strengthen liberty, in order morally to control it, that religion can, and ought to act only by moral influences; and they would have respected the free will of mankind, whilst applying themselves to direct it. This they have not done, and in the end the religious influence has itself suffered as much as liberty. I will not go further with the examination into the general consequences of the influence of the church upon European civilisation. I sum them up in this twofold result--a great and salutary influence upon the intellectual and moral development; an influence more disastrous than beneficial upon the political order of things, properly so called. We have now to test our assertions by facts, and to verify by history what we have deduced from the mere nature of the ecclesiastical society, and the situation occupied by it. Let us see what was the condition of the Christian church from the fifth to the twelfth century, and whether, in fact, the principles which I have laid down, and the results I have endeavoured to draw from them, were such in their development as I have ventured to surmise. We are not to believe that these principles and consequences have all appeared at once, and as connectedly as I have presented them. It is a signal, and yet a very common error, when contemplating the past at the distance of many centuries, to forget with a singular obliviousness that history is essentially successive. {115} Take the life of a man, of Cromwell, Gustavus Adolphus, or Cardinal Richelieu. He enters upon his career, and marches forward; great events influence him, he influences great events; finally he reaches the goal. Then we know him, but in his entirety, such as long experience and varied events have made him. [Footnote 10] [Footnote 10: The original is not strictly followed in this phrase. M. Guizot gives vent to the following conceit:--'Tel qu'il est sorti en quelque sorte, après un long travail, de l'atelier de la Providence.'] Now, at starting he was not what he thus became, nor at any single period of his life was he complete and fully fashioned: his development was by a successive process. Men have a moral growth as well as a physical: every day brings its change: their being is perpetually undergoing modifications. The Cromwell of 1650 was not the Cromwell of 1640. There is, of course, always a certain individuality at bottom--it is the same man who works his way; but how changed are his ideas, his feelings, his designs! How many things were lost and acquired! In a word, whatever moment we may select in the life of a man, there is none in which he was such as we behold him when its term is reached. Nevertheless, the majority of historians have fallen into error upon this point. Because they have acquired a complete idea of a man, they see him such during the whole course of his career: to them it is the same Cromwell who entered parliament in and who died thirty years afterwards in Whitehall palace. And with regard to institutions and general influences, the same mistake is incessantly committed. Let us take care to avoid it. I have sketched in their whole bearing the principles of the church and their consequences, but historically the picture is not correct. The whole has been partial, successive, distributed here and there over space and time. Our entirety, our prompt and systematic concatenation, will not be found in the recital of actual facts. Here one principle shoots forth, there another; all is incomplete, dissimilar, and scattered; and it is only by coming to modern times, to the end of the career, that the whole result is perceived. I shall proceed to represent the different states through which the church passed from the fifth to the twelfth century. I thereby go to the fountain head; and if I fail in the complete demonstration of the assertions that I have thrown out, yet perhaps enough will be shown to evince them warrantable. The first state in which the church is found in the fifth century is that of the imperial church, the church of the Roman Empire. At the period the Roman Empire fell, the church was indulging in the idea that her mission was accomplished, her triumph assured. She had then completely vanquished paganism. The last emperor who had assumed the office of _pontifex maximus_, a pagan dignity, was the Emperor Gratian, who had died at the end of the fourth century. She likewise believed herself at the end of her contest with heretics, especially with the Arians, the principal heretics of the day. {116} The Emperor Theodosius had drawn up against them a peculiar and stringent body of laws at the end of the fourth century. The church, therefore, was in possession of the government, and had triumphed over her two greatest enemies. She was in this prosperous state when the Roman Empire suddenly failed her, and she found herself opposed to other pagans and heretics in the shape of the barbarians, as the Goths, Vandals, Burgundians, and Franks. It was a prodigious fall. It may be easily imagined that a warm attachment for the Empire must have been preserved in the bosom of the church. Thus we see her steadily adhere to what remained of it, the municipal system and absolute power; and when the barbarians were converted, the church attempted to resuscitate the Empire. She addressed herself to the barbarian kings, and besought them to declare themselves Roman emperors, to assume all the rights formerly held by them, and to enter into the same relations with the church as she had had with the Roman Empire. It was especially to this point that the bishops of the fifth and sixth centuries laboured, and they imparted the general feature to the whole church. It was impossible for this attempt to succeed. There were no means amongst the barbarians to reconstitute the Roman society. Like the civil world around it, therefore, the church itself fell into barbarism. That was its second state. When a comparison is made between the writings of the ecclesiastical chroniclers of the eighth century, and of those in the preceding ages, an immense difference is found. Every vestige of Roman civilisation disappeared, even to the language, and barbarism was at its very acme. For, on the one hand, barbarians entered into the clerical order, and became priests and bishops; and on the other, bishops adopted the barbarian life, and without quitting their bishoprics, constituted themselves chiefs of banditti, roaming over the country, pillaging and fighting, like the companions of Clovis. Gregory of Tours mentions several bishops who passed their lives after this fashion. Two important facts, nevertheless, received their development in the bosom of this barbarian church. The first was the separation between the spiritual and temporal powers, which principle took its stand at that epoch, as a natural consequence of the state of things. The church not having succeeded in resuscitating the absolute power of the Roman Empire, so as to gain a share of it for herself, was driven to seek safety in independence. She was called upon to defend herself on every side, for she was incessantly threatened. The bishops and priests saw their barbarian neighbours interfere every instant in the affairs of the church, in order to seize upon her riches, her lands, and her power, and they had no other means of defending themselves than alleging--'The spiritual order is completely separated from the temporal, and you have no right to intervene in its affairs.' This principle became the defensive weapon of the church against barbarism in all quarters. {117} The second important fact which belongs to the same epoch, is the development of the monastic order in the West. It was at the commencement of the sixth century that Saint Benedict instituted his order amongst the monks of the West, who were then very few in number, but who subsequently multiplied prodigiously. The monks were not, up to that period, members of the clerical body, but were still regarded as laymen. No doubt priests and even bishops had been sought out amongst them; but it was not until the end of the fifth, and the beginning of the sixth century, that the monks in general were considered as forming part of the clergy, properly so called. After that, matters were reversed; priests and bishops became monks, conceiving that they thereby made a new progress in the religious life. Thus the monastic order took all at once an excessive development in Europe. The monks struck the imagination of the barbarians more forcibly than the secular clergy; their numbers, as well as the singularity of their lives, had an imposing effect upon them. The secular clergy, indeed--the bishop and the simple priest--were less reverently looked upon by the barbarians, accustomed as they were to see, maltreat, and despoil them. An attack on a monastery, on so many holy men congregated in one holy place, was a much more serious affair. Thus the monasteries were, during the barbarian epoch, places of asylum for the church, as she herself was a resort for refuge to the laity. Pious men flocked to them for shelter, as in the East they fled to the Thebaide to escape a worldly life and the contamination of Constantinople. Such are the two great facts which appertain to the barbarian epoch in the history of the church: on the one hand, the development of the principle of the separation between the spiritual and temporal powers; and on the other, the development of the monastic system in the West. Towards the end of the barbarian epoch, there was a new attempt to resuscitate the Roman Empire made by Charlemagne. The church and the civil sovereign contracted once more a strict alliance. It was a period of great docility, and therefore of great advancement to the Papacy. The attempt at resuscitation again failed; the Empire of Charlemagne fell, but the advantages that the church had drawn from its alliance remained with her. The Papacy was definitively planted at the head of Christianity. {118} After the death of Charlemagne, chaos came again; the church relapsed into it as well as civil society, and emerged in like manner to enter into the frame of feudalism. This was its third state. The dissolution of the Empire of Charlemagne produced in the ecclesiastical order almost the same effect as in the civil--the complete disappearance of unity, a break-up into local, partial, and individual distributions. This situation of the clergy, then, originated a struggle not previously known up to that period--namely, the struggle between the sentiments and interests of a fief-holder and those of a priest. The chiefs of the church were between these two temptations, each striving for the mastery; the ecclesiastical spirit was no longer so powerful or universal, private interest had more charms, whilst the taste for independence, and the habits of a feudal life, relaxed the bonds of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. An attempt was made in the bosom of the church to avert the effects of this relaxation, and by a system of federation, by means of general assemblies and deliberations, to organise in various quarters national churches. It is at this epoch, under the feudal system, that we perceive the greatest number of councils and convocations, of provincial and national ecclesiastical assemblies, held. This essay at unity appears to have been especially followed out in France. Hincmar, archbishop of Rheims, may be considered as the chief organ of this idea; he was constantly engaged in the labour of organising the French church; he sought out and employed all the means of intercourse and correspondence which might restore some portion of unity to the feudal church. Hincmar maintained, on the one hand, the independence of the church with regard to the temporal power, and on the other, its irresponsibility to the Papacy. It was he who, knowing that the Pope wished to come into France, and threatened to excommunicate some bishops, said, '_Si excommunicaturus venerit, excommunicatus abibit_' ('If he come here to excommunicate, he shall go back with an anathema at his own head.') But the endeavour thus to organise the feudal church, had no better success than the previous one to restore the organisation of the imperial church. There were no means available to reestablish unity in that church. Its disorganisation was continually increasing. Each bishop, prelate, and abbot, isolated himself more and more in his diocese or in his monastery. Disorders multiplied from the same cause. This period was distinguished for the greatest abuses of simony, for the completely arbitrary disposition of ecclesiastical benefices, and for the most deplorable corruption of manners amongst the priests. These disorders were extremely revolting both to the people and the better-minded portion of the clergy. Hence we see that at an early date a spirit of reform arose in the church, and a desire to find some authority competent to rally the stray elements and give them law. Claude, bishop of Turin, and Agobard, archbishop of Lyons, made some attempts of this sort in their respective dioceses; but they were in no condition to accomplish so great a work. There was only one force within the church itself which could succeed in such an object, and that was the court of Rome, the Papacy. {119} In consequence, it was not long in becoming predominant. In the course of the eleventh century the church passed to her fourth state, that of a theocratical and monastical church. The creator of this new form assumed by the church, so far as it belongs to a man to create, was Gregory VII. We are accustomed to regard Gregory VII. as a man who strove to render all things stagnant, as an adversary of intellectual development and of social progress, as a man, in fact, who laboured to retain the world in a stationary or retrograding system. No idea can be less correct; Gregory VII. was a reformer by means of despotism, like Charlemagne and Peter the Great. He was in the ecclesiastical order pretty nearly what Charlemagne in France and Peter the Great in Russia were in the civil order. His object was to reform the church, and, through her, civil society--to introduce into them a greater degree of morality, justice, and regularity; and this he wished to effect through the Holy See, and to its advantage. At the same time that he endeavoured to subject the civil world to the church, and the church to the Papacy, in the spirit of reform and advancement, and not of stagnation or retrogression, an attempt of the same nature was made, a similar movement was produced, in the cloisters of the monasteries. A desire for order, discipline, and rigid morality was zealously manifested. It was the period in which Robert de Molême introduced a severe order at Citeaux, it was the era of St. Norbert, and the reform of the prebendaries, of the reform of Cluny, and finally of the great reform of St. Bernard. A general ferment reigned in the monasteries; the old monks stood up in their own defence, asserted innovation to be a thing of evil, proclaimed their liberty infringed upon, maintained that the people ought to rest satisfied with the manners of the age, that it was out of the question to return to the primitive strictness of the church, and treated all these reformers as madmen, dreamers, and tyrants. Look at the history of Normandy by Orderic Vital, and these complaints will be found unceasingly urged. All, therefore, seemed turning to the advantage of the church, to its unity and power. But whilst the Papacy was striving to clutch the government of the world, and the monasteries were reforming themselves in a moral point of view, a few vigorous-minded, although isolated, men asserted the right of human reason to be considered of some value, and to take part in the constitution of opinions. The majority of them did not attack the received doctrines, the articles of religious belief; they merely said that reason had a right to investigate them, and that it was not sufficient that they were affirmed by authority. {120} John Erigena (Scotus), Roscelin, and Abelard--these were the advocates by whom individual reason recommenced to claim its inheritance; these were the first authors of the movement made for liberty, which was contemporaneous with the movement for reform made by Hildebrand and St. Bernard. When we inquire into the predominant character of this movement, we perceive it was not a change of opinion, or a revolt against the public articles of faith, but merely an assertion of the right of reason to exercise its functions. The scholars of Abelard asked him, as he tells us himself in his 'Introduction to Theology,' 'for philosophical arguments proper to satisfy reason, begging him to instruct them, not merely so as to repeat by rote what he communicated to them, but to understand him; for no one can believe without first comprehending, and it is absurd to preach to others of things which neither he who professes, nor those whom he teaches, can understand. What object can the study of philosophy have, if not to lead to that of God, to whom all ought to be referred? With what view are the faithful permitted to read the writings treating of the events of the age and the books of the Gentiles, unless it be to form them for the understanding of the truths of the Holy Scriptures, and to give them the necessary ability to defend them? It is especially necessary to be fortified by all the powers of reason, in order to prevent, upon questions so difficult and complicated as those which are the objects of the Christian faith, the subtleties of its enemies succeeding too easily in adulterating the purity of our faith.' The importance of this first attempt at liberty, of this reproduction of the spirit of examination, was soon felt. Although occupied in reforming itself, the church did not the less take alarm: it immediately declared war against these new reformers, whose appearance threatened it much more than their doctrines. Behold the great fact which illustrates the end of the eleventh and the commencement of the twelfth century, whilst the church presented itself in the theocratic and monastic state! For the first time, a serious contest arose between the clergy and the free-thinkers. The quarrels of Abelard and St. Bernard, the councils of Soissons and Sens, in which Abelard was condemned, are but the evidences of that fact which has held so important a place in the history of modern civilisation. It was the principal circumstance in the state of the church in the twelfth century, the point of time at which we shall now leave it. A movement of a different nature took place at the very same period, the movement towards the enfranchisement of the boroughs. It was attended by a singular proof of the inconsistency of barbarian and rude minds. If those burgesses who maintained their own freedom with such zeal, had been told that there were men who asserted the rights of human reason, of free examination, and were denounced by the church as heretics, they would have stoned or burnt them on the instant. {121} Abelard and his friends were exposed to this danger more than once. On the other hand, those very writers who were the champions of the rights of human reason, spoke of the efforts for enfranchisement of the boroughs as productive of abominable disorder, and of the overthrow of society. Thus war seemed declared between the philosophical and the municipal movement, between intellectual and political enfranchisement. To reconcile these two great actions, and to bring them to a comprehension of the community of their interests, ages have been required. In the twelfth century they were utterly severed, as we shall see in our succeeding inquiry into the enfranchisement of the boroughs. {122} Lecture VII. Boroughs And Their Influence. The feudal system and the church, the two first great fundamental elements of modern civilisation, have now been brought down to the twelfth century, and our present object will be to trace the third of those elements, the boroughs, to the same era, confining ourselves within the limits we have observed with regard to the other two. Our inquiry into boroughs commences with a different situation from that held by the church or the feudal system. From the fifth to the twelfth century, these latter, although they afterwards underwent new developments, exhibited themselves as nearly complete, and in a definitive state; their birth, growth, and maturity, all occurred within that interval. It was very different with boroughs. It was not until the end of the epoch upon which our attention is engaged, in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, that they took any place in history; not meaning thereby that their previous history calls for no examination, or that the traces of their existence long before that period are not discoverable, but that it was only in the eleventh century that they made a distinct appearance on the great stage of the world, and came out as an important element of modern civilisation. Thus, in surveying the feudal system and the church from the fifth to the twelfth century, we have found effects developed and produced from causes, or, in other words, whenever, by induction or conjecture, we have deduced results from certain principles, we have been able to verify them by reference to facts. This is a facility which we do not possess with the boroughs. At the present moment, I shall only speak of causes and origins; and what I may say upon the effects of their existence, and upon their influence on the progress of European civilisation, will be in some sort by way of prediction, as the adducement of contemporary and known facts will be impossible. It is not until a later date, in the period stretching from the twelfth to the fifteenth century, that we shall perceive corporations take their development, as an institution bear fruit, and history prove our predictions. I mark this difference of situation the more emphatically, in order to obviate objections against the incompleteness and prematureness of the picture I am about to give. {123} I will suppose that a burgher of the twelfth century had suddenly appeared amongst us in 1789, at the moment that the terrible regeneration of France commenced, and that there had been given him to read (for we must endow him with the power to read) one of those pamphlets which then so violently agitated the minds of men; for example, the pamphlet of M. Sieyes--'What is the third estate?' Let us imagine his eyes falling on this phrase--the main point of the publication--'The third estate is the French nation, less the nobility and the clergy.' I ask, what impression would such a phrase produce on the mind of this man? Would he understand it? The words, '_the French nation_,' would be beyond his comprehension, for they would convey no idea of anything known to him, or existing in his own day; but if he should understand the phrase--if he had a clear conception of that sovereignty attributed to the third estate over all society, it would assuredly appear to him a nearly insane and impious proposition, so much would it be in contradiction to what he had seen, and to the entire bent of his ideas and sentiments. Now, ask this bewildered burgher to follow you, and conduct him to some of the then boroughs of France, to Rheims, Beauvais, Laon, or Noyon. A surprise of a different nature would here await him. On entering the town he would perceive no towers, no ramparts, no burgher guard, no means of defence, but all open and exposed to the first hostile occupant. The safety of such a municipality would appear to him very uncertain and weakly guaranteed. Penetrating into the interior, and inquiring into what was there passing, into the manner in which it was governed, and into the condition of the inhabitants, he would be told that there was a power outside which taxed them as it pleased, summoned their militia, and sent it to distant wars, regardless of their consent; that there were magistrates, mayors, and sheriffs, whom the burgesses had no share in nominating, and that the affairs of the borough were not decided in the borough itself, but that a man named by the king, an intendant, alone and from a distance, administered them. Furthermore, he would be told that the inhabitants had no right to assemble and deliberate in common upon what concerned them--that the bell of their church did not summon them to the public square. The burgess of the twelfth century would be perfectly at a loss to comprehend these matters. First he was bewildered and dismayed at the grandeur and importance that the burgher community, the third estate, attributed to itself, and now he finds it, upon its own hearthstone, in a state of servitude, weakness, and nullity, worse than anything he had known as most disastrous. Passing from one contemplation to the other--from the idea of a sovereign commonalty to the survey of its powerlessness--how could he comprehend and reconcile the difference, or disentangle his mind from confusion? {124} On the other hand, let us carry a burgess of the nineteenth century back to the twelfth, and he will find things under the same double aspect, but the situations changed. Contemplating the general affairs of the age, the state, the government of the country, and society at large, we see or hear nothing of the burgesses; they are altogether without importance in the state. And not only so, but in speaking or thinking of themselves and their situation in relation to the general government of France, their language is timid and humble in the extreme. Their old masters, the lords of fiefs, from whom they wrung their franchises, are found treating them, in words at least, with a pride which surprises us, but was far from astonishing or irritating them. But entering into the borough itself, and surveying what is there passing, we find the scene changed. We are in a sort of fortified place, defended by the armed burgesses, who tax themselves, elect their own magistrates, sit in judgment, inflict punishments, and assemble to deliberate upon their own affairs; making war even against their lord, and having their own militia. In a word, they govern themselves, and are superior to control. Here is a contrast of the same order as that which so much surprised the burgess of the twelfth century in the France of the eighteenth, only the parts are reversed. In the latter, the burgher order or nation is everything, the borough nothing; in the former, the degrees of importance are diametrically opposite. Assuredly many things and many extraordinary events must have passed, and many revolutions have been accomplished between the twelfth and eighteenth centuries, to produce so prodigious a change in the state of one social class. Yet, in spite of this change, there is no doubt that the third estate of 1789 was, politically speaking, the descendant and heir of the burghers of the twelfth century. That haughty and ambitious 'French nation,' which raised its pretensions so high, proclaimed its sovereignty with such pomposity, and pretended not only to regenerate and govern itself, but also to govern and regenerate the world, incontestibly descended from those borough communities, who made their obscure though courageous stands in the twelfth century, with the sole object of throwing off the tyrannical yoke of nameless lords in their respective isolated corners. Now, although there is no question that the explication of so great a metamorphosis will not be found in the state of the boroughs in the twelfth century, but that it has been effected and has its causes in the events which have occurred between the twelfth and eighteenth centuries, yet the origin of the third estate has been of great consequence in its history; and whilst we shall not therein discover the full secret of its destiny, we may at least discern the germ thereof; for what it was at first, is found again in what it has become, to a much greater extent than appearances would lead us to presume. A survey, although an incomplete one, of the state of the boroughs in the twelfth century, will, I think, be decisive of the fact. {125} In entering upon an investigation into this state, in order fully to comprehend it, we must consider the boroughs in two main points of view. There are two important questions to resolve: the first, that of the enfranchisement of the boroughs themselves, the inquiry how the revolution operated, and from what causes, what change it produced in the situation of the burghers, and what was its effect upon society at large, upon the other classes, and upon the state. The second question is relative to the government of the boroughs, the internal condition of the enfranchised towns, the relations of the burgesses amongst themselves, and the principles, the forms, and the manners in vogue within the communities. From these two sources--on the one hand, from the change introduced into the social position of the burghers, and on the other, from their internal or borough government--all their influence on modern civilisation has been derived. That influence has been productive of no one fact which may not be referred to one or other of these two causes. Therefore, when we shall have thoroughly sifted them, and obtained an insight into the circumstances of their enfranchisement on the one hand, and their government on the other, we shall possess, as it were, the two keys to their history. I will first say a few words on the diversity in the state of boroughs throughout Europe. The facts which I shall bring forward will not apply indifferently to all the Italian, Spanish, English, and French boroughs; some of them are referable to them all; but there are great and important differences. These I will indicate as I go on: we shall subsequently find them in the progress of civilisation, and will then investigate them more narrowly. To have a proper idea of the enfranchisement of the boroughs, it is necessary to go back to the state of towns from the fifth to the tenth century, from the fall of the Roman Empire to the time at which the borough revolution commenced. The differences were, I repeat, very great; the condition of towns varied extensively in the different countries of Europe, yet there are some general facts which may be affirmed of almost all towns, to which I shall endeavour to restrict myself. When I have done with them, the more special matter will apply to the boroughs of France, and particularly to those in the north of France, above the Rhone and the Loire. These will be prominent points in the picture it is my object to draw. {126} After the fall of the Roman Empire, from the fifth to the tenth century, the towns were in a state neither of liberty nor of servitude. In the use of words, we run the same chance of error as I previously remarked took place in the description of men and of events. When a society has endured for a long period, and also its language, words take a complete, determinate, and precise meaning, a legal and official sense, as it were. Time has introduced into the meaning of each term a multitude of ideas which are awakened as soon as it is pronounced, but which, not being all included at the same date, are not all applicable to one period. For example, the words _slavery_ and _liberty_ arouse ideas in our minds at the present day infinitely more precise and perfect than correspond to the facts existing in the eighth, ninth, or tenth centuries. If we say that the towns were in a state of liberty in the eighth, we say far too much, for we attach at present a meaning to the word 'liberty' which does not portray the state of things in that century. We fall into the same error if we say that the towns were in servitude, for this word implies something very different from the municipal conditions of the period. Thus, I repeat, the towns were not then in a state either of servitude or of liberty; they suffered all the evils which befall weakness, and were a prey to the continual violence and depredations of the strong; but in spite of so many and such frightful disorders, in spite of their impoverishment and depopulation, they never lost a certain degree of importance. In the major part there was a clergy or a bishop who exercised considerable power, having influence over the inhabitants, and serving as a link between them and their conquerors, thus maintaining the town in a species of independence, and covering it with the shield of religion. Considerable remnants of the Roman institutions likewise lingered in the towns. Frequent instances of the convocations of the senate and the curia are met with at this epoch, and many facts of that nature have been collected by Messrs de Savigny and Hulmann, Mademoiselle de Lezardière, &c. There is some doubt concerning public assemblies and municipal magistrates. But the affairs of civil life, testaments, donations, and a multitude of other acts, are legalised in the curia by its officers, as took place in Roman municipalities. Yet barbarism, and an always increasing disorder, hastened the depopulation of towns, and gradually undermined all that remained of urban activity and freedom. The establishment of the masters of the land in the country districts, and the growing preponderance of the rural life, were additional causes of decay to the towns. The bishops themselves, when they had entered into the feudal frame, attached much less importance to their municipal ties. Finally, when feudalism had completely triumphed, the towns, without falling into the slavery of the serfs, found themselves under the sway of liege lords, and comprised within fiefs, in consequence of which they lost that share of independence which had been left to them in times even more barbarous, in the first ages of the invasion. So that from the fifth century to the period of the complete organisation of feudalism, the state of towns was continually getting worse. {127} When feudalism was once fairly established, when each man had taken up his station, and planted himself on an estate, and the wandering life had finally ceased, the towns, after a certain interval, began again to acquire some importance, and to deploy a renewed activity. Human activity is like the fecundity of the earth; as soon as the storm ceases, it reappears, germinates, and bears fruit. Whenever there is the least glimpse of order and peace, mankind resumes hope, and with hope labour. Thus it happened in the towns: so soon as the feudal system was well fixed, there sprang up amongst the fief-holders new wants and a certain taste for advancement and amelioration, to satisfy which a little commerce and industry took root in the towns of their domains, and wealth and population returned to them; slowly, I admit, but still they returned. Amongst the circumstances which hastened that result, may be reckoned one not hitherto much regarded--namely, the right of sanctuary in churches. Even before the boroughs were constituted, and before their force and ramparts enabled them to hold out an asylum to the wretched population of the fields, the protection which could be found in the church alone was sufficient to attract a great many fugitives into the towns. They came to shelter themselves either in the church itself, or around the church; and they were not confined to men of the inferior class, serfs and boors, but were frequently men of consideration and wealth who had been proscribed. The chronicles of the epoch are full of such examples. We see men, formerly powerful, pursued by a neighbour yet more powerful, or by the king himself, abandoning their domains, carrying off all their movables, and flying to a town to put themselves under the protection of a church. These men became burgesses; and such refugees were, in my opinion, of some influence on the progress of towns, as they brought into them both wealth and the elements of a population superior to the bulk of the former inhabitants. Besides, is it not probable that when anything like a considerable association had been formed in any quarter, men would flock to it not only on account of the greater security afforded by it, but also from the mere spirit of sociability which is so natural to them? By dint of all these causes, the towns acquired a certain degree of strength after the feudal system had become somewhat regulated. But security was not gained in the same proportion. It is true the wandering life had ceased, yet this wandering life had been to the conquerors and new proprietors of the soil a great means of gratifying their passions. When urged by a craving for plunder, they had made a foray, or gone to a distance in search of fresh fortune or a fresh domain. {128} But when each had fixed himself, and it was necessary to renounce the conquering vagabond life, the taste for it was far from ceasing, or brutish appetites, or fierce desires, from abating. Their weight fell upon that part of the population lying most at the mercy of those possessed of power, upon the towns. Instead of going to a distance to pillage, they pillaged near their own homes. The extortions of the lords upon the burgesses redoubled from the beginning of the tenth century. Every time that the proprietor of a domain in which a town was included had any lust of pelf to satisfy, the burgesses were sure to feel its worst effects. It was at this epoch, more than at any other, that the complaints of the boroughs were loud and repeated, in consequence of the absolute want of security to commerce. The merchants, after making their rounds, were unable to return in peace into their towns; the roads and avenues were incessantly blocked up by the lord and his followers. The period in which industry recommenced its exercise was thus precisely that in which security was most deficient. Nothing frets men more than to be thus troubled in their labours, and despoiled of the fruits which they had thence anticipated. They are thereby much more annoyed and enraged than when they are subjected to suffering in a course of life for a long time fixed and monotonous, or when that of which they are deprived is not the result of their own activity, exerted in the reasonable hope of drawing sure returns. In the progressive movement which lifts up a man or a population to a new fortune, there is a principle of abhorrence for iniquity and violence much more energetic than in any other situation. This, then, was the condition of the towns in the course of the tenth century. Their strength, importance, and riches had increased; and these acquisitions rendering them every day objects of greater envy to the lords, it became more than ever necessary to be able to defend them. The danger and the evil grew in magnitude with the means of resisting them. Indeed the feudal system offered to all its participators the continual example of resistance; it presented to the mind, under no modification, the idea of an organised government, capable of regulating and controlling all by its intervention alone. On the contrary, the spectacle of individual will, refusing to submit to any restraint, was unceasingly displayed. The greater number of the fief-holders was in this position with regard to their lords-paramount, and the small lords with regard to the great; so that, at the very time when the towns were oppressed and tormented, and they began to have new and important interests to maintain, they had under their eyes a continual lesson of insurrection. Feudalism has certainly done this service to humanity, that it has given a perpetual exhibition of individual will acting in all its energy. The lesson was not thrown away, for notwithstanding their weakness, and the prodigious inequality of condition between them and their lords, the towns became insurgent on all sides. {129} It is difficult to assign a precise date to the event. It is generally said that the enfranchisement of the boroughs commenced in the eleventh century; but in all great events, how many unknown and unsuccessful efforts are made before that which finally prevails! In all things, Providence, to accomplish its designs, lavishes courage, virtues, sacrifices man himself; and it is only after a countless multitude of unknown labours, in appearance utterly lost, after numberless noble hearts have sunk under discouragement, and the painful conviction of the hopelessness of their cause, that the triumph is achieved. This was doubtless the case with the boroughs. There can be little question but that very many attempts at resistance and struggles for enfranchisement were made in the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries, which not only did not succeed, but the memory of which remained without renown, because unfortunate. But these endeavours most assuredly exercised an influence upon posterior events; they gave animation and prevalence to the spirit of liberty, and laid the train for the great insurrection of the eleventh century. I call it insurrection designedly. The enfranchisement of the boroughs, in the eleventh century, was the result of a veritable insurrection, of a real war declared by the inhabitants of towns against their lords. The first fact which is always met with in such histories, is a levy of the burghers, who arm themselves with any weapon they can catch, the expulsion of the officers of the superior, who had come to make exactions, or an enterprise against his castle; the characteristics of war are always there. If the insurrection is suppressed, what is the first act of the conqueror? He orders the destruction of the fortifications raised by the burghers, not only around their town, but around each house. We find that at the formation of the confederacy, after undertaking to act in common, and swearing the _borough_ as a whole, the first proceeding of each burgher was to place his house in a state of defence. Some boroughs, whose names are at the present day buried in obscurity--for example, the petty borough of Vézelai in Nivernais--maintained a prolonged and energetic contest with their lords. In the case of Vézelai, victory fell to its abbot, and he instantly enjoined the demolition of the fortified houses of the burgesses. The names of several of those whose houses were thus destroyed have been preserved. If we enter the interior of these houses of our ancestors, and study the mode of construction, and the kind of life which it reveals, we shall find everything adapted for war, and possessing a warlike character. {130} The following is the construction of a burgher's house of the twelfth century, as far as we can judge at the present day. There were generally three floors, with a single room on each floor. The ground-floor was a low room, in which the family fed; the first floor was very elevated, as a means of safety, affording the most remarkable peculiarity in the construction. On this was a room in which the owner of the house dwelt with his wife. The building was almost always flanked by towers at the angles, usually of a square form, another adaptation for war, and a means of resistance. On the second and last floor was a room, the use of which is uncertain, but which probably served for the children and the rest of the family. Above, there was very often a small platform, evidently destined to serve as an observatory. Thus the whole construction of the house gives an idea of war. In reality, such was the actual character and true designation of the movement which produced borough enfranchisement. Now, when war has continued a certain time, whoever may be the belligerents, it necessarily ends in peace. The treaties of peace between the boroughs and their adversaries were the charters. The borough charters were mere treaties of peace between the burghers and their superiors. The insurrection was general. When I use the term _general_, I do not mean that there was any concert or coalition amongst all the burghers of a country; far from it. The situation of the boroughs was almost everywhere the same, exposed to the same danger, and overborne by the same misfortunes. Having acquired pretty nearly the same means of resistance and offence, they employed them at almost the same moment. It is possible, also, that example may have had some effect, and that the success of one or two boroughs may have been contagious. The charters sometimes seem drawn upon the same pattern; that of Noyon, for example, served as a model for those of Beauvais, Saint Quentin, &c. Yet I am very doubtful that example operated to such an extent as is commonly supposed. The communications were difficult and rare, reports vague and unaccredited. There are more grounds for believing that the insurrection was the consequence of an identical situation, and of a spontaneous general movement. Again, I mean the word general merely to express that it took place in almost every district, for it was not the result of a unanimous and concerted movement. On the contrary, all was individual and local; each borough rose against its superior on its own peculiar account, and all was effected in separate localities. Great were the vicissitudes of the strife. Not only did success alternate, but even after peace appeared made, and charters had been sworn to on both sides, they were broken or eluded in every possible way. The royal power bore an important part in the alternations of this strife, of which I will speak more in detail when I come to treat of royalty itself. {131} Its influence in the movement of borough enfranchisement has been perhaps too much exaggerated; sometimes it has been denied altogether, or too much underrated. At present, I confine myself to the declaration that it frequently interfered, invoked sometimes by the boroughs, sometimes by the lords; that it often played contrary parts, acting now on one principle, then upon another, and unceasingly changing its designs and conduct; but that, upon the whole, its action was attended with more good than bad consequences. Notwithstanding all these vicissitudes, and the continual violations of charters, the enfranchisement of the boroughs was consummated in the twelfth century. Europe, and especially France, which had been overrun with insurrections, was now filled with charters of a more or less favourable tendency. The degree of security with which the boroughs enjoyed them was variable, but still they enjoyed them. The fact was established, and the right was recognised. We will now inquire into the immediate results of this great fact, and the changes it produced in the position of the burghers in society. In the first place, it altered nothing, at least at the commencement, in the relation of the burghers with the general government of the country, with what we now call the state; they interfered with it to no greater extent than before. Everything remained local, and confined to the limits of the fief. One circumstance, however, must be taken to modify this assertion. Between the burghers and the king a tie began at that time to be formed. In many cases the boroughs had invoked the support of the king against their superior, or his guarantee, when a charter was promised or sworn to. In other cases the lords had called for the judgment of the king between themselves and the burghers. At the demand of one or other of the parties, from a concourse of different causes, the royal power had interfered in the quarrels, whence sprang up pretty constant relations between the burghers and the king, which sometimes became very intimate. By these means the commonalty grew connected with the centre of the state, and began to have ties with the general government. Although everything remained local, still the effect of the enfranchisement was to call a new and general class into being. No coalition had existed amongst the burghers, nor had they, as a class, any public and common existence. But the land was covered with men occupying an identical situation, with common interests and manners, amongst whom there could not fail to be formed by degrees a certain bond and unity, which was sure to originate a burgher class. Thus a necessary result of the local enfranchisement of boroughs, was the formation of a great social order, the citizen or burgher class. {132} We must not imagine that this class was then what it has since become. Not only has its situation greatly changed, but its elements or component parts were quite different. In the twelfth century, it was only composed of dealers and traders driving a trifling commerce, and of small proprietors, either of houses or of land, who had taken up their abodes in towns. Three centuries afterwards, the burgher class comprised, in addition, lawyers, physicians, local magistrates, and persons engaged in various literary avocations. It was thus formed successively, and of very distinct elements; but neither to the succession nor to the diversity has proper attention been paid in its history. Whenever the burgher class is spoken of, it has been considered, apparently, as at all epochs composed of the same elements. Such a conclusion is absurd. It is, perhaps, more than all in the diversity of its composition, at the various eras of history, that the secret of its destiny ought to be sought. So long as it included neither magistrates nor lettered men--so long, in fact, as it was not what it became in the sixteenth century--it possessed neither so high a standing nor so great an influence in the state. The successive rise within itself of new professions and relative moral positions, of a new intellectual development, must be traced, in order to comprehend the vicissitudes of its fortunes and its power. In the twelfth century it was composed, I repeat, of petty traders, who retired into the towns after making their purchases and sales, and of owners of houses or small estates who had fixed their residence in them. Such was the European burgher class in its first elements. The next great result of the enfranchisement of boroughs was the contest of classes, which thereupon arose inevitably from the fact itself, a contest which occupies all modern history. Europe, as at present constituted, has sprung from the struggles amongst the different orders of society. In other regions, as I have formerly stated, the contest produced very opposite effects. In Asia, for example, one class completely triumphed; the system of castes succeeded that of classes, and society fell into stagnation. Thanks be to God, no such consequence has happened in Europe. No one order has been able to vanquish or enslave the others; the contest, instead of becoming a principle of immobility, has been the cause of advancement. The relations of the different classes amongst themselves, and the necessity in which they have found themselves to struggle and to yield by turns, the variety of their interests and passions, the desire for conquest, without being able to accomplish it--from all this has resulted, perhaps, the most energetic and fruitful principle of development in European civilisation. The orders have been engaged in constant warfare: they detested each other; a deep-seated diversity in position, interests, and manners, wrought amongst them a profound moral hostility or antagonism, and yet they have progressively drawn together, amalgamated, and merged their differences. {133} Every country in Europe has witnessed a certain general spirit, a certain community of interests, ideas, and feelings, take root and gain development within its own confines, which has triumphed over dissension and division. For example, in France, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the social and moral separation of the orders was still deeply planted; yet there is no doubt that the fusion was even then far advanced, and that there was a veritable French nation, not of one class exclusively, but comprising all classes, animated with a certain common sentiment, having a common social existence, and strongly impressed with nationality. Thus, from our diversity, enmity, and warfare, has arisen in modern Europe that national unity, which has become so brilliant a feature of the present times, and which is tending, day by day, to a development still more glorious and beneficial. Such are the great external, palpable, and social effects that have resulted from the revolution under review. We will now proceed to inquire what were its moral effects, or what changes it wrought in the minds of the burghers themselves, what, in fact, they became, in a moral sense, in their new position. There is one fact with which it is impossible to avoid being struck, when we study the relations of the burghers, not merely in the twelfth century, but in after ages, with the state, or government of the state, with the general interests of the country. I speak of the extraordinary timidity and humility of the burghers, of the excessive modesty of their pretensions with regard to the government of their country, and of the facility they display in being contented. They give no token of possessing that true political spirit which aspires to influence, to reform, and to govern; they are utterly devoid of boldness of thought and greatness of ambition. They seem more like prudent and plodding freedmen. There are only two sources whence greatness of ambition and boldness of thought, in the political sphere, can result. There must be present either the feeling and consciousness of exercising an important influence and great power over the destinies of others, and upon a vast stage, or an energetic self-conviction of complete personal independence, an absolute certainty of individual liberty, and an inward persuasion of a destiny dependent upon no other will than that of the individual himself. Upon one or other of these conditions seem to depend hardihood of mind, loftiness of ambition, and a desire to act in an extended sphere, and to be instrumental in obtaining results of high import. {134} Neither the one nor the other entered into the situation of the burghers of the middle ages. Their importance was limited to themselves: out of their own towns, or upon the state at large, their influence was trifling. Neither could they have any strong sentiment of personal independence. It was of little moment that they had conquered and obtained charters. The burgher of a town, comparing himself to a petty lord who lived near him, and who had just been vanquished, felt, notwithstanding the latter incident, his extreme inferiority; he was a stranger to that haughty feeling of independence which swelled the breast of the fief-holder; his portion of freedom was held not from himself, but from his association with others, resting on a succour difficult and precarious. Thence arose that character of reserve, timidity of spirit, modest awe, and cringing humility of speech, even in the midst of stem resolution, which was so profoundly impressed on the burgher life of the twelfth century, and which has come down to their latest descendants. They have never had a taste for great enterprises; and when fate has plunged them into such, they have been beset with disquietude and embarrassment; the weight of responsibility has pressed too heavily upon them; they have felt themselves out of their sphere, and longed to return to more accustomed habits; thus they have always been ready to treat on moderate terms. We therefore find, in the course of European history, and especially in the French, that the burgher class was esteemed, flattered, even consulted, but very rarely feared; it seldom impressed its adversaries with the idea of its being a great or high-spirited power of real political weight. This weakness in the comparatively modern burgher class is not matter of astonishment, since its principal cause is clearly assignable to its origin, and to those circumstances of its enfranchisement which I have shortly before noted. A high ambition, entertained independently of social station, expansion and boldness in political thought, desire for intervention in the affairs of the realm, full consciousness of the dignity of man as a human being, and of the extent of his power, if he have capacity to exercise it--these are sentiments and dispositions altogether modern, the proceeds of modern civilisation, and the fruit of that glorious and elastic generality which characterises it, and which can never fail to assure to the people an influence and a weight in the government of the country, which were always wanting, and must of necessity have been wanting, to the burghers, our ancestors. But, on the other hand, they acquired and displayed a degree of energy, devotedness, perseverance, and patient zeal, in the strenuous maintenance of the local interests intrusted to them upon their narrow stage, which has never been surpassed. The difficulty of accomplishing that task was so great, and they had to struggle against so many perils, that an unexampled deployment of courage was required. A very false idea of the life of a burgher of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries is entertained at this day. {135} Sir Walter Scott has given in one of his novels, Quentin Durward, a description of the burgomaster of Liege, whom he has represented as a true burgher of comedy, fat, sluggish, ignorant, and cowardly, solely occupied in passing his life comfortably. But the burghers of those times had always their coats of mail on their breasts, and their pikes in their hands; their course of life was almost as disturbed, as warlike, and as rough, as that of the lords with whom they fought. It was in their constant danger, and in their bearing up against all the hardships of military life, that they acquired that strong determination and stubborn energy which have become somewhat mitigated in the softer activity of modern times. None of these social or moral effects of the enfranchisement of the boroughs had taken its full development in the twelfth century; it is in the following ages that they incontestably appear, and give opportunity for their clear discernment. Yet it is just as sure that their seed was sown in the original position of the boroughs, in the mode of their enfranchisement, and the place or station which the burghers thereafter took in the general society. Therefore I am justified in anticipating them at present. We will, in consequence, penetrate into the very interior of the borough of the twelfth century, and will see how it was governed, and what principles and facts predominated in the mutual relations of the burghers amongst themselves. It will be recollected that, in speaking of the municipal system bequeathed by the Roman Empire to the modern world, I stated that the Roman Empire was a great coalition of municipalities, which had formerly been sovereign powers like Rome herself. Each of those towns had had originally the same existence as Rome, and had been a small independent republic, making peace and war, and governing itself at its own pleasure. In proportion as they were incorporated into the Roman Empire, the rights which constitute sovereignty, the rights of peace and war, of legislation, taxation, &c. were taken from each town, and concentred in Rome. Then there remained but one sovereign municipality, Rome, reigning over a great number of municipalities, which no longer preserved anything but a civil existence. The municipal system changed its character, and instead of being a political government, invested with sovereignty, it became a mere mode of administering affairs. This was the great revolution consummated under the Roman Empire. The municipal system, having become a mode of administration, was reduced to the government of local affairs, and the civil interests of the city. The fall of the Roman Empire left the towns and their institutions in this state. In the midst of the barbaric chaos, ideas were jumbled in as much confusion as facts; the attributes of sovereignty, and those of mere administration, were confounded. {136} These distinctions were no longer attended to, and affairs were abandoned to the course of necessity. Each locality had its sovereign or its administrator, according to events or immediate wants. When the towns rose in insurgency to secure themselves from arbitrary spoliation, they assumed the sovereignty. This was not owing in the slightest degree to any respect for political theory, or to any sentiment of their own dignity. But in order to have the best means of resisting the lords against whom they rebelled, they appropriated to themselves the right of making militia levies, of self-taxation for supporting war, of making their own chiefs and magistrates--in a word, of governing themselves. Government administered in the interior of the towns was essential to defence and security. Thus sovereignty returned to the municipal system, from which it had departed in consequence of the Roman conquests. The boroughs became again independent and self-governing. Such is the political characteristic of their enfranchisement. It is of course not to be inferred that this sovereignty was complete. There always remained some trace of external sovereignty; sometimes the lord preserved a right to send an officer into the town, who took the borough magistrates for his assessors; sometimes he had a right to collect certain revenues, or a tribute was in some instances secured to him. Occasionally the outward sovereignty of the borough passed into the hands of the king. The boroughs themselves, having entered into the folds of feudalism, had vassals, and became suzerains, or superior lords, and under this title they possessed all that portion of sovereignty which belonged inherently to feudal lordship. A confusion ensued between the rights with which they were invested by their feudal position, and those which they had conquered by their insurrection; but under this twofold title sovereignty appertained to them. The description of what took place, and how the government was carried on in the interior of a borough in the first ages, may be drawn as follows from the very incomplete monuments left for our guidance. The entirety of the inhabitants formed the borough assemblies; all those who had been sworn in burgesses (and whoever lived within the walls, was obliged to take the oaths) were called together to general assembly by the sound of the clock. There the magistrates were nominated. The number and form of magisterial offices were very variable. The magistrates being named, the assembly was dissolved. They governed almost alone with a considerable degree of arbitrariness, and without any other check or responsibility than what might arise from new elections, or rather popular risings, which were the grand method of calling to account in use at that day. {137} Thus the internal organisation of the boroughs was reduced to two simple elements--the general assembly of the inhabitants, and a government invested with a nearly arbitrary power, under the check of insurrection or risings. It was impossible, chiefly from the state of manners, to establish a regular government and veritable guarantees for order and stability. The greatest part of the borough population was in such a condition of ignorance, brutality, and ferociousness, as rendered it very difficult to govern. In a short time, there was almost as little security in the interior of a borough, as there existed formerly in the relations of the burghers with the superior lord. Still, a higher class of burghers was rather speedily formed, the cause of which may be easily divined. The state of ideas and of social relations produced the establishment and legal constitution of industrial professions into companies or corporations. The system of privilege or monopoly was thus introduced into the interior of the boroughs, and, as a consequence, great inequality. There was shortly in all of them a certain number of important and wealthy burghers, and a labouring population more or less numerous, which, in spite of its inferiority, had a considerable share of influence in the affairs of the borough. Therefore the boroughs were divided into two classes--the higher burghers, and a population prone to all the errors and vices of a mob. The superior burghers were trammelled by the enormous difficulty of governing this lower population on the one hand, and by the continual efforts of the old lord of the borough to re-usurp his power on the other. This was their situation not only in France, but in all Europe, up till the sixteenth century, and this was perhaps the principal cause which prevented the boroughs from obtaining all the political importance which they might otherwise have had in several countries of Europe, and especially in France. Two principles were in constant strife within them: among the inferior population, a blind, reckless, and ferocious democratic spirit; and thence among the superior population, a spirit of timidity and management, inducing an extreme facility to make accommodations either with the king or with the ancient lords, in order to re-establish order and docility in the interior of the community. These two tendencies, by their separate action, effectually prevented the boroughs from assuming an important station in the general state. All these consequences had not broken out in the twelfth century; yet we are enabled to anticipate them from the very character of the insurrection, from the manner in which it had commenced, and from the condition of the different component parts of the borough population. {138} Such are, if I mistake not, the principal characteristics and general results both of the enfranchisement of the boroughs and of their internal government. I have already stated that they were not so uniform and universal as I have represented them. There is, on the contrary, a great diversity in the history of European boroughs. For example, in Italy and in the south of France, the Roman municipal system prevailed; the population was not so much divided or so unequal as in the north. The borough organisation was also much better, either on account of the lingering Roman traditions, or on account of the superior state of the population. In the north, it was the feudal system which influenced the borough existence. There, all was made subordinate to a successful struggle against the lords. The southern boroughs were much more occupied with their internal organisation, with improvements, and with the means of advancement. They were paving the way for their becoming independent republics. The destiny of the northern boroughs, of the French especially, assumed a more rude and incomplete aspect; a destiny of far inferior development. If we survey the boroughs of Germany, Spain, and England, we shall find in them differences of other kinds. It is not my purpose to enter into these details; we shall have occasion to remark some of them as we advance in the history of civilisation. At their original formation, all things were confounded in pretty nearly one likeness, and it was only by successive developments that the variety occurred. By subsequent developments, societies have been urged to that grand and concurrent unity which is the glorious goal of the efforts and hopes of the human race. {139} Lecture VIII. The Twelfth And Thirteenth Centuries The Crusades. I have not hitherto stated the entire plan of my inquiry. I commenced by indicating its object, and then I proceeded, without considering European civilisation as a whole, or without marking out at one and the same time the point of departure, the course, and the port; that is, the commencement, the middle, and the end. We are now, however, arrived at an era in which this survey of the whole, this general sketch of the region we are traversing, becomes necessary. The periods that we have investigated so far, are illustrated in some sort by themselves, or by immediate and distinct results. Those upon which we are about to enter would not be understood, and would indeed fail in exciting any lively interest, if they were not connected with their most indirect and remote consequences. In so extensive an investigation, moments occur in which the mind seeks for elucidation as to the ultimate object, and feels reluctant to proceed with mists and darkness before it; not only whence we come, and where we are, does it seek to know, but also whither we go. This is what we feel at present. The epoch upon which we now open is intelligible, and its importance can be appreciated only by the relations which link it to modern times. Its true tendency has only been revealed at a very late period. We are now in possession of almost all the essential elements of European civilisation. I say almost, because I have not yet entered upon royalty. The era of the decisive development of royalty did not take place until the twelfth or even the thirteenth century; it was not till then that the institution was truly established, and began to assume its definitive station in modern society. For this reason I have not treated of it earlier, but it will form the subject of my next lecture. With this exception, however, we grasp all the great elements of European civilisation: the feudal aristocracy, the church, and the boroughs, have all been traced to their origin; the institutions corresponding to each of these matters have been laid open, and not only the institutions, but also the principles and ideas which they were calculated to excite in the minds of men. Thus, when treating of feudalism, we have gone to the cradle of the modern household, to the sanctuary of domestic life; and we have fully understood the prevailing sentiment of individual independence in all its energy, and the influence it was destined to exercise upon our civilisation. {140} On the question of the church, we have witnessed the rising of the purely religious society, its relations with civil society, the theocratic principle, the separation of the spiritual from the temporal power, the first objects of persecution, and the first cries of liberty of conscience. The consideration of the infant boroughs has shown an association founded upon very opposite principles to those of feudalism or the church, the diversity of the social classes, their contests, the first and deep-rooted characteristics of modern burgher manners, timidity of spirit by the side of firm determination, and mob licentiousness accompanied by principles of legality, In a word, all the elements which have concurred in the constitution of European society, and all that that society has been, have now been fully searched into. Now let us transport ourselves into the midst of modern Europe; I do not mean the present Europe, after the astonishing change we have witnessed, but that of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Do we recognise the society we have just beheld in the twelfth? How prodigious the difference! I have already dilated upon this difference when on the subject of the boroughs; I then endeavoured to show how little the third estate of the eighteenth century resembled that of the twelfth? Scrutinising feudalism and the church in the same manner, we are struck by a similar metamorphosis. There was no more resemblance between the nobility of Louis XIV.'s court and the feudal aristocracy, or between the church of Cardinal de Bernis and that of the Abbot Suger, than between the third estate of the eighteenth century and the burghers of the twelfth. In the interval between these two epochs, society (although in possession of all its elements) was completely transformed. I shall attempt a clear explication of the general and essential character of this transformation. From the fifth to the twelfth century, society contained all that I have described--kings, a lay aristocracy, a clergy, burghers, serfs, religious and civil powers, the germs, in fact, of all that constitutes a nation and a government, and yet there was no government or nation. As to a people, properly so called, or a veritable government, in the sense with which those words are now applied, there was nothing of the sort in the whole period mentioned. We have encountered a multitude of particular forces, of special facts and of local institutions, but nothing general or public, no political system, in the strict sense of the word; in fine, no real nationality. Let us look, on the contrary, to Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. We behold in every quarter two great forms appear on the stage of the world, the government and the nation. Society is formed by, and history is occupied in the relation of, the action of a general power upon a whole country, and the influence of that country upon the power which governs it; the mutual ties of these two great forces, their alliance and their strife, are the especial objects of history. {141} The nobles, the clergy, the burghers, all those particular classes and powers, have no longer a prominent appearance, but are merged in and effaced by these two great bodies, the government and the nation. This is, if I mistake not, the essential feature which distinguishes modern from primitive Europe, and the metamorphosis was accomplished between the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries. It is therefore between these two eras that the secret is embowelled, and the distinctive character of the epoch upon which we are entering is, that it has been employed to turn primitive Europe into modern Europe; hence its importance and high historic interest. Unless we contemplate it under that aspect, and unless we seek to learn what has resulted therefrom, not only shall we be utterly at a loss to understand the epoch, but we shall also feel tired and wearied with its pursuit. In fact, viewed by itself, and apart from its consequences, it was a period without character, a time during which confusion went on increasing, without the causes being apparent, an era of movement without direction, of agitation without result; royalty, nobility, clergy, burghers, all the elements of social order, kept moving in the same circle, all equally incapable of progress and repose. Experiments of all kinds were made, and all failed; attempts were made to give stability to government, foundation to public liberty, even to introduce religious reforms, but nothing was effected, nothing grew to a head. If the human race was ever delivered over to a destiny at once agitated and stationary, to labour at once unremitting and barren, such were certainly the features of its condition from the thirteenth to the fifteenth century. I know only one work in which this characteristic is truthfully portrayed--namely, 'The History of the Dukes of Burgundy,' by M. de Barante. I do not refer to the truth which sparkles in his descriptions of manners, or minute relations of events; but to that general truthfulness which renders his whole work a faithful image, a transparent mirror of the whole epoch, the restlessness and the monotony of which it so well unfolds. Considered, on the contrary, in its relation to what followed it, as the period of transition from the primitive to the modern state of Europe, the epoch in question brightens into perspicuity and animation; a uniformity in the whole, a direction and a progress, are instantly discoverable; its unity of action and its interest are contained in the heavy and obscure labour itself which worked out the accomplishment. The history of European civilisation may therefore be summed into three great periods. First, a period which I shall call that of origins, of formation, in which the different elements of our society emerged from chaos, took being, and displayed themselves in their native forms with their animating principles. {142} This period was prolonged almost to the twelfth century. Second, the second period was one of trial, experiment, groping; the different elements of social order drew towards each other, came in contact, and, so to express myself, felt each other, yet were unable to strike out anything of a general, regular, and lasting order. This state did not terminate until the sixteenth century. Third, the last is the period of development, properly so called, in which human society took a definitive form in Europe, pursued a determined direction, and progressed, rapidly and as a whole, towards a clear and precise object. This commenced in the sixteenth century, and still holds its course. Such appears to me, upon a combined survey, the aspect of European civilisation, and in such a light I shall endeavour to present it. We are entering at the present moment upon the second period. We have to search it for the great crises and the determining causes of the social transformation which thence resulted. The first great event which stands before us, and opens, as it were, the epoch of which we speak, is the phenomenon of the crusades. They began at the end of the eleventh, and filled the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. They form assuredly a great event, which, from the era of its accomplishment, has unceasingly occupied philosophic historians, all of whom, even before engaging in a particular analysis, have felt that it was one of those influences which change the condition of populations, and which it was imperatively incumbent well to study, in order to obtain a clear comprehension of the general course of things. The main characteristic of the crusades is their universality. All Europe together took part in them; they were the first European occurrence. Previous to the crusades, Europe had never been moved by an identical sentiment, nor had acted in one and the same cause; there was, in fact, no Europe. The crusades unfolded a Christian Europe. The French formed the bulk of the first army of the crusaders, but there were also Germans, Italians, Spaniards, and Englishmen. Take the second or the third crusade; all the Christian nations were engaged in each. Nothing similar had ever been witnessed. This was not all. In the same manner as the crusades were an European event, so were they in each country a national event. In each nation all classes of society were animated with the same conviction, obeyed the same idea, and abandoned themselves to the same enthusiastic impulse. Kings, lords, priests, burghers, husbandmen, all took the same interest and the same share in the crusades. A moral unity amongst the nations broke forth--a fact as novel as the European unity. {143} When such events occur in the youth of nations, in those times when they act spontaneously, and from free impulse, without premeditation, political intention, or governmental combinations, we acknowledge them to be what history calls heroic events, and to evidence the heroic age of nations. The crusades were, in fact, the heroic era of modern Europe--a movement at once individual and general, national, and yet unguided. All documents avouch, and all facts prove, that this was actually their primitive character. Who were the first crusaders who put themselves in motion? Bands of populace, who departed under the conduct of Peter the Hermit, without preparation, and without guides or chiefs, followed, rather than led, by some obscure knights, and who, after traversing Germany and the Greek empire, dispersed or perished in Asia Minor. The superior class, the feudal nobility, was, in its turn, eager for the crusade. Under the command of Godfrey of Bouillon, the lords and their followers set off full of ardour. When they had traversed Asia Minor, the chiefs became lukewarm and weary, were little disposed to continue the route, and felt inclined to throw aside all considerations but themselves, to make conquests, and gain establishments. The commonalty of the army rose in anger; they were bent on proceeding to Jerusalem; the deliverance of Jerusalem was the object of the crusade, and not to gain principalities for Raymond of Toulouse, Bohemond, or any other. The popular, national, European impulse prevailed over all individual schemes; the chiefs had not sufficient ascendancy over the masses to bend them to their selfish interests. The sovereigns, who had remained aloof from the first crusade, were finally drawn into the movement like the people. The great crusades of the twelfth century were commanded by kings. I pass at once to the end of the thirteenth century. Crusades were still talked of in Europe, were still preached with zeal. The popes urged sovereigns and people; councils were held in commendation of the Holy Land; but every one hung back, and was indifferent about going. Something had passed into the European mind and society which put an end to crusades. There were still some particular expeditions; a few lords and parties of men still departed for Jerusalem, but the general movement was evidently arrested. Yet it does not appear that either the necessity for continuing in it or the facility of so doing had ceased. The Moslems triumphed more and more in Asia. The Christian kingdom founded at Jerusalem had fallen into their power. It was necessary to reconquer it; to secure success, the means were much greater than they were at the time that the crusades commenced; a great number of Christians were established, and still powerful, in Asia Minor, Syria, and Palestine. The best modes of travelling there, and of acting effectually, were much better known than at the earlier period. But, however, all this was unavailing to reanimate the crusading spirit. It is clear that the two great powers of society--the sovereigns on the one hand, and the nations on the other--wished for no more crusades. {144} It has been repeatedly said that this arose from lassitude; that Europe was tired with thus pouring upon Asia. It is proper that this word _lassitude_, which is so often used on similar occasions, should be understood, for it is singularly inappropriate. It is not true that human generations are weary with what they have not done, weary of the fatigues of their fathers. Lassitude or weariness is personal, and is not transmitted like an inheritance. The men of the thirteenth century were not fatigued with the crusades of the twelfth; another cause operated upon them. A great change had been effected in ideas, feelings, and social positions. The same wants and desires were no longer felt. The same things were no longer either believed or wished for. Such political or moral metamorphoses, and not weariness, explain the varying conduct of successive generations. The lassitude which is attributed to them is a metaphor void of truth. Two great causes, the one moral, the other social, threw Europe into the crusades. The moral cause was the impulse derived from religious sentiments and creed. Since the end of the seventh century, Christianity had fought against Mohammedanism, and had conquered it in Europe, after being fearfully menaced by it; it had succeeded in restricting it to Spain. Thence also it was constantly labouring to expel it. The crusades have been represented as a sort of accident, as an unforeseen and unbruited event, brought about by the recitals of pilgrims on their return from Jerusalem, and the preachings of Peter the Hermit. Nothing of the kind. The crusades were the continuation and apog�um of the great contest carried on for four centuries between Christianity and Mohammedanism. The theatre of that contest had previously been in Europe, then it was transported into Asia. If I put any value on those comparisons and parallels in which people sometimes delight to press, suitably or unsuitably, historical facts, I might exhibit Christianity as running in Asia exactly the same career, and undergoing the same fate, as Mohammedanism in Europe. Mohammedanism was established in Spain, where it conquered and founded a kingdom and principalities. The Christians did that also in Asia, and they found themselves, with regard to the Mohammedans, in the same position as the latter in Spain with regard to the Christians. The kingdom of Jerusalem and that of Grenada precisely corresponded. However, such likenesses or similitudes are of very little consequence. The great fact was the contest of the two religious and social systems. The crusades were its main and culminating crisis. In that is their historical character, the bond which unites them to the entirety of affairs. {145} Another cause, the social state of Europe in the eleventh century, equally contributed to their breaking forth. I have been particular in explaining why nothing of a general nature could gain establishment in Europe from the fifth to the eleventh century, and I endeavoured to show how completely the local system prevailed, and within what narrow limits states, existences, and minds were confined. The feudal system had effected that. After some time, limits so narrow no longer satisfied; human thought and activity were eager to overleap the bounds to which they were restricted. The wandering life had ceased, but not the taste for its excitement and adventures. The populations rushed to the crusades as to a new existence, wider and more varied than their own, pleasurable to them as both recalling the ancient liberty of barbarism, and opening out vast prospects for the future. Such were, in my opinion, the determining causes of the crusades in the twelfth century. At the end of the thirteenth century, neither the one nor the other of them any longer existed. Mankind and society were so changed, that neither the moral impulse nor the social wants which had precipitated Europe upon Asia, were any longer felt. It is a curious matter to compare the contemporary chroniclers of the first crusades with those of the end of the twelfth and of the thirteenth century; for example, Albert of Aix, Robert the monk, and Raymond of Agiles, who were present in the first crusade, with William of Tyre and James of Vitry. When we bring these two classes of writers together, we are immediately struck with the distance which separates them. The first are animated chroniclers, with excited imaginations, who relate the events of the crusade with great warmth. But their minds were prodigiously narrow, having no idea out of the petty sphere in which they lived, strangers to all science, filled with prejudices, and incapable of forming any judgment whatsoever upon what was passing around them, or upon the events which they recount. On the contrary, opening the history of William of Tyre, we are astonished to discover almost an historian of modern times, a developed, expansive, and unprejudiced mind, a rare political insight into events, comprehensive views, and a judgment based upon causes and effects. James of Vitry presents the example of another order of development; he is a learned man, who carries his inquiries beyond what has immediate reference to the crusades, and dilates upon the state of manners, upon geography, heathenism, and natural history; in fact, one who observes and describes the world. In fine, there is a vast interval between the chroniclers of the first crusades and the historians of the last, sufficient to convince us of a veritable revolution in the state of the human mind. {146} This revolution is especially perceptible in the feeling with which the two classes mention the Mohammedans. To the first chroniclers, and consequently to the first crusaders, of whom they are but the expression, Mohammedans are objects only of hatred; it is evident that those who speak of them do not know them or judge them upon proof, but consider them only with the blindness of the religious hostility which exists between them: we discover no trace of any mutual social relation; they hate and they fight them, nothing more. William of Tyre, James of Vitry, and Bernard the Treasurer, speak of the Mussulmans quite differently; although engaged in combating them, it is clear that they look upon them no longer as monsters, that they have to a certain extent entered into their ideas, that they have lived with them, and that relations, and even a sort of sympathy, have been established between them. William of Tyre passes a fine eulogium upon Noureddin, and Bernard the Treasurer upon Saladin. They even sometimes go so far as to place the manners and conduct of the Mussulmans in opposition to the manners and conduct of the Christians, and they praise the Mohammedans, in order to satirise the Christians, as Tacitus painted the manners of the Germans as a contrast to those of Rome. Now, the change must have been immense which was accomplished between the two epochs, since we find in the last a freedom and impartiality of spirit in regard to the very enemies of the Christians, those against whom the crusades themselves were directed, which would have filled the first crusaders with astonishment and rage. Here was the first and main result of the crusades, a great step towards the enfranchisement of the mind, and a considerable advance towards more extended and unprejudiced ideas. Commenced in the name, and under the influence of religious principles, the crusades took from religious ideas, I will not say their legitimate share of influence, but the exclusive and despotic possession of the human mind. This consequence, doubtless a very unforeseen one, was produced by various causes. The first arose certainly from the novelty, the extent, and the variety of the scenes that were offered to the contemplation of the crusaders. There happened to them what usually happens to travellers. It is a mere commonplace to say that the mind of a traveller is set free, and that the custom of comparing different nations, manners, and opinions expands the ideas, and clears the judgment from ancient prejudices. Now, the same fact occurred to these travelling populations who have been called crusaders; their minds were opened and elevated by the mere circumstance of witnessing a multitude of different things, and by becoming acquainted with manners distinct from their own. Besides, they came into relations with two civilisations, not only different, but more advanced--namely, the Greek society on the one hand, and the Mussulman on the other. {147} There can be no doubt but that the Greek society, although its civilisation was emasculated, corrupted, and expiring, had on the crusaders the operation of a society in a more advanced state, more polished and enlightened than theirs. The Mussulman society offered to them a spectacle of the same nature. It is curious to perceive in the chronicles the impression that the crusaders produced upon the Mohammedans; the latter regarded them upon their first approach as barbarians, as the most brutal, ferocious, and stupid mortals it had been their lot to behold. The crusaders, on their side, were struck with the exhibition of wealth and the refinement of manners amongst the Moslems. Frequent relations between the two people soon succeeded this first impression. These extended, and became much more important than is generally believed. Not only had the Christians of the East habitual relations with the Mohammedans, but the East and the West came to know, to visit, and to mingle with each other. Not long ago, one of those learned men who made France honourable in the eyes of Europe, M. Abel Remusat, has brought to light the intercourse between the Mongol emperors and the Christian kings. Mongol ambassadors were sent to the Frank kings, to St. Louis amongst others, to induce them to enter into alliance, and to recommence crusades for the common interests of Mongols and Christians against the Turks. And not only were diplomatic or official relations thus established between the sovereigns, but they extended to frequent and varied relations amongst the populations. I shall quote literally from M. Remusat. [Footnote 11] [Footnote 11: 'Memoirs of the Political Relations of the Christian Princes with the Mongol Emperors.'--Second Memoir, p. 145-157.] 'A great many Italian, French, and Flemish monks were charged with diplomatic missions to the great khan. Mongols of distinction came to Rome, Barcelona, Valentia, Lyons, Paris, London, and Northampton, and a Franciscan of the kingdom of Naples was archbishop of Pekin. His successor was a professor of theology of the faculty of Paris. But how many other persons less known were drawn after these, either as slaves, or attracted by the love of gain, or urged by curiosity, into countries up to that period unknown! Chance has preserved the names of some. The first envoy who came to visit the king of Hungary, on the part of the Tartars, was an Englishman, banished from his country for certain crimes, and who, after having wandered over all Asia, had finished by taking service amongst the Mongols. A Flemish shoemaker met in the depths of Tartary a woman from Metz, named _Paquette_, who had been carried off in Hungary; a Parisian goldsmith, whose brother was established in Paris upon the great bridge; and a young man from the environs of Rouen, who had been at the taking of Belgrade. {148} He saw also some Russians, Hungarians, and Flemings. A chorister, named _Robert_, after traversing Oriental Asia, returned to end his days in the cathedral of Chartres. A Tartar was purveyor of helmets in the armies of Philip the Handsome. John de Plancarpin fell in, near Gayouk, with a Russian nobleman whom he calls _Temer_, who was officiating as interpreter; several merchants of Breslau, Poland, and Austria accompanied him in his journey to Tartary. Others returned with him by way of Russia; they were Genoese, Pisans, and Venetians. Two merchants from Venice, whom hazard had conducted to Bokhara, consented to follow a Mongol ambassador from Houlagou sent to Khoubalai. They sojourned several years in China and Tartary, returned with letters from the great khan for the pope, went back to the great khan, taking with them the son of one of them, the celebrated Marco Polo, and once more quitted the court of Khoubalai to return to Venice. Travels of this sort were not less frequent in the following age. In the number are those of Sir John Mandeville, an English physician, of Orderic of Frioul, of Pegoletti, of William Bouldeselle, and of several others. We can readily conceive that those whose memory is preserved are but a very small portion of those that were undertaken, and that there were at the period in question more people capable of executing distant journeys than of writing accounts of them. Very many of these adventurers must have settled and died in the countries they went to visit. Others returned to their native land as obscure as they went away, but with an imagination filled with what they had seen, and gave relations to their families, highly coloured doubtless, but thereby leaving around them, amidst ridiculous fables, useful remembrances, and traditions capable of bearing good fruit. Thus in Germany, Italy, and France, in the monasteries, in the castles of the feudal lords, and even in the lowest ranks of society, were deposited precious mementos, destined at a somewhat later period to be turned to account. All these unknown travellers, carrying the arts of their own countries into distant lands, brought back others not less precious, and made, without perception on their parts, more advantageous exchanges than all those of commerce. By these means, not only the trade in silks, porcelain, and Indian commodities became extended and more practicable, opening up new routes to commercial industry and activity, but what was of still greater consequence, foreign manners, unknown nations, and extraordinary productions, crowded upon the minds of Europeans, repressed since the fall of the Roman Empire into too narrow a circle. They began to estimate properly the finest, the best-peopled, and the most anciently-civilised of the four quarters of the globe. They set about studying the arts, creeds, and idioms of the nations who inhabited it, and there was even a project for establishing a chair of the Tartar language in the university of Paris. {149} Romantic accounts, being soon investigated and valued as they deserved, spread on all sides more just and comprehensive ideas. The world seemed to open on the side of the East; geography made a prodigious stride; and an ardour for discoveries became the new direction which the adventurous spirit of Europeans fell into. When our own hemisphere was better known, the idea of another ceased to present itself to the mind as a paradox stripped of all likelihood; and it was upon an expedition in search of the Zipango of Marco Polo, that Christopher Columbus discovered the New World.' Here we see how vast and novel a world was opened to the European mind by means of circumstances brought about by the impulse of the crusades in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. We cannot doubt it to have been one of the most powerful causes of the mental development and freedom which broke forth at the end of that great era. Another circumstance deserves to be mentioned. Previous to the crusades, the court of Rome--the centre of the church--had held communication with laymen only through the agency of ecclesiastics, either of legates sent by Rome, or of bishops and the whole body of clergy. Of course there were always some laymen in direct relation with Rome; but, upon the whole, it was by ecclesiastics that it communicated with the populations. During the crusades, on the contrary, Rome became a place of passage to a great proportion of the crusaders, either in going or returning. Multitudes of laymen thus enjoyed an opportunity of more narrowly inspecting the policy and manners of the papal court, and of discriminating how much of personal interest was mixed up with religious discussions. There can scarcely be a doubt that this new species of knowledge inspired numerous minds with a hardihood previously undreamt of. When we reflect upon the state of public opinion in general, and especially with regard to ecclesiastical matters, at the termination of the crusades, a singular fact cannot fail to strike us. We do not find that the religious ideas had changed, or that they had been supplanted by contrary or merely different opinions, yet was opinion infinitely more free, religious dogmas were no longer the only sphere in which the human mind gave itself scope; but without altogether forsaking them, it commenced to shake them off, and carry its inquiries into other quarters. Thus, by the end of the thirteenth century, the moral cause which had provoked the crusades, or which had been at least their most energetic principle, had disappeared; the moral state of Europe had undergone deep-seated modifications. {150} The social state also had suffered an alteration of an analogous nature. Much labour has been spent in investigating the influence of the crusades in a social respect; it has been shown that a great number of proprietors of fiefs was reduced to the necessity of selling them to the kings, or of granting charters to the boroughs, for the purpose of raising money and going to the crusades; and also that, by their mere absence, many lords lost a considerable portion of power. Without entering into details, I think the influence of the crusades upon the social state may be summed up into a few general facts. They greatly diminished the number of small fiefs, of petty domains, and of small proprietors, and concentrated property and power into a less number of hands. It is subsequent to the crusades that we find the great fiefs, the great feudal formations, spread over the face of the country. I have often regretted that there is no map of France divided into fiefs, in the same manner as we have one divided into departments, arrondissements (circles), cantons, and boroughs, in which all the fiefs were denoted, with their extent, relations, and successive changes. If by the aid of such a map we could compare the state of France before and after the crusades, we should perceive at a glance how many fiefs had disappeared, and to what extent the great and middle fiefs had increased. This was one of the most important results of the crusades. And even when the small proprietors preserved their fiefs, they ceased to live so isolated as formerly. The possessors of large fiefs became centres, around which the small ones flocked and passed their lives. During the crusades they had found it necessary to range themselves under the banner of the wealthiest and most powerful, and receive assistance from him. With this chief they had lived, partaken his fortunes, and shared his adventures. When they returned home, this sociability and habit of associating with the superior became fixed in their manners. So, whilst we perceive the great fiefs enlarged after the crusades, we likewise find that their owners held a much more considerable court than theretofore in their castles, and had about their persons a great number of gentlemen, who preserved their small domains, but no longer shut themselves up in them. The extension of the great fiefs, and the creation of various centres for society, instead of the dispersion and isolation previously existing, were the two greatest effects of the crusades within the folds of feudalism. As to the burghers, a result of the same nature is instantly perceptible. The crusades were the means of creating large towns. Petty inland commerce and industry had been insufficient to form boroughs such as the great towns of Italy and Flanders. Their rise was owing to commerce upon an extensive scale, maritime commerce, and particularly that between the East and the West. Thus it was the crusades which gave to maritime commerce the strongest impulse it had ever received. {151} Upon the whole, when we look to the state of society at the conclusion of the crusades, we find that that tendency to dispersion and dissolution, that movement to universal localisation, if I may be permitted so to speak, which had preceded that epoch, had ceased and been replaced by a tendency of a contrary nature, by a movement to centralisation. Everything was disposed for junction and amalgamation. The smaller existences were absorbed in the greater, or grouped around them. In this direction society marched, to this object were its advancements pointed. We now clearly understand why nations and sovereigns, at the end of the thirteenth and in the fourteenth century, were indifferent about crusades. They had no longer any occasion or inclination for them; they had been thrown into them by the impulse of a religious spirit, and by the exclusive dominion held by religious ideas over the entirety of their existence; this dominion was on the wane, its energy was gone. The crusades had been recommended to them also by the novelty, extent, and variety of the scenes they opened up, and they began to find in Europe itself, in the progress of social relations, a life possessing all such characteristics. It was at this epoch that the career of political aggrandisement opened to kings. Why go in search of kingdoms in Asia, when they had them to conquer at their thresholds? Philip Augustus went to the crusades much against his inclination; his unwillingness was quite natural, for he had yet to make himself king of France. The people were affected in the same manner. The career of wealth was laid open before them, and they renounced romance for labour. Political affairs were substituted by sovereigns for adventures, and extended industry by the people. One class only of society continued to keep up a taste for adventures, namely, that portion of the feudal nobility which, being on too low a scale to pretend to political aggrandisement, and despising labour, preserved its old position and its ancient manners. It therefore continued to rush to the crusades, and to endeavour their revival. Such, according to my conception, were the great and veritable effects of the crusades; on the one hand, expansion of ideas, enfranchisement of opinion; on the other, the aggrandisement of particular powers, and a wider sphere opened to all sorts of activity. They produced, at one and the same time, an increase to individual liberty and to political unity. They conduced to the independence of man and to the centralisation of society. Many inquiries have been directed to ascertain what means of civilisation were directly imported from the East. It has been said that the majority of the great discoveries which, in the course of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, stimulated so vastly the development of European civilisation--the compass, printing, and gunpowder--were known in the East, and might have been brought thence by the crusaders. That is true to a certain extent. {152} Yet some of these assertions are impugnable. But what is not so, is that influence, that general effect of the crusades upon the minds of men on the one hand, and upon society on the other; they drew European society out of a narrow drain, and sent it forward upon new and broad ways; they commenced that transmigration of the different elements or parts of European society into governments and nations, which is the character of modern civilisation. At the same period, royalty, one of the institutions which have most powerfully contributed to that great result, was developed. Its history from the birth of modern states to the thirteenth century will be the object of my next lecture. {153} Lecture IX. Rise And Progress Of Royalty. In my last lecture I endeavoured to determine the essential and distinctive character of modern society, as compared with the primitive European society; and it was my object to show that it was exhibited in this fact, that all the elements of the social state, at first numerous and distinct, were reduced to two--the government on the one hand, and the people or nation on the other. Instead of encountering as predominant powers and chief actors in history, the feudal nobility, the clergy, kings, burghers, boors, and serfs, we find in modern Europe but two great forms alone occupying the historical stage--the government and the country. If such be the head to which European civilisation has gathered, such also must be the object towards which we are to direct our steps, to which our researches must be made subservient. It is incumbent on us to trace the great result through its different stages, its origin, development, and progressive consolidation. We have already entered upon the epoch to which its origin may be assigned; and it was, as we have seen, between the twelfth and sixteenth centuries that a slow and hidden labour was at work in Europe, which drew our society to that new and definitive configuration. So also have we investigated the first great event which, in my opinion, palpably and irresistibly impelled Europe into that direction--namely, the crusades. In the same epoch, nearly at the instant that the crusades broke loose, the institution which has mainly contributed to the formation of modern society, and to that fusion of all the social elements into the two powers mentioned, royalty commenced its aggrandisement. Royalty has assuredly played a prodigious part in the history of European civilisation, as a glance at facts will convince us. We see the development of royalty progressing step by step, if I may so say, with that of society itself; at least for a long time the advancement is mutual. And not only so, but whenever society advances towards its definitive and modern character, royalty appears to expand and prosper; so that when the work is achieved, and there remains in none, or nearly none, of the great states of Europe any other important and decisive influence than that of the government and the body of the nation, it is royalty which forms the government. {154} It has thus come to pass not only in France, where the fact is evident, but in the great majority of the countries of Europe; a little earlier or a little later, and under forms somewhat differently modified, the history of society in England, Spain, and Germany offers us the same result. In England, for example, it was under the Tudors that the old particular and local elements of English society were displaced, broken up, and supplanted by the system of public powers; it was likewise the period in which royalty exercised the greatest influence. There have been the same circumstances in Germany, in Spain, and in all the great European states. If we proceed out of Europe, and carry our views to the rest of the world, we encounter an analogous fact. We everywhere find royalty occupying an important station, and appearing as an institution perhaps the most general, the most permanent, and the most difficult to prevent, where it did not previously exist, and to eradicate where it had existed. From time immemorial it has possessed Asia. On the discovery of America, all the great states were there found, in different combinations, subjected to the monarchical system. Even in the interior of Africa, wherever nations of any extent are met with, it is the prevailing regime. And not only has royalty penetrated into all quarters, but it has accommodated itself to situations the most various, to civilisation and barbarism, to the most pacific manners--as in China, for example--and to those in which war or the military spirit held predominance; it has established itself at one time in the heart of the system of castes, in societies the most rigorously classified, and at another in the midst of a system of equality, and in societies the most alien to all legalised and permanent classification. Often despotic and oppressive, and again, elsewhere, favourable to the progress of civilisation and liberty, it seems to be a head fitted for a multitude of different bodies--a fruit which may grow from the most diversified germs. From this fact we might deduce many important and curious consequences. I will take but two; the first, that it is impossible such a result should be the offspring of mere hazard, or of force and usurpation alone, and that a profound and powerful analogy must exist between the genius of royalty considered as an institution, and the nature either of individual man or of human society. Doubtless force mingled at the origin of the institution, and has had a great share in its progress; but when a result like this is met with, when we find a great fact constantly developing or reproducing itself during a long series of ages, and amidst so many varied ramifications, we can never attribute it exclusively to force. Force is a great instrument, an every-day instrument in human affairs, but it is not their moving or highest principles; above force, and the part it enacts, is always hovering a moral cause, which decides the course of affairs. Force, in the history of societies, is like the body in the history of man. {155} The body assuredly holds an important place in the life of man, yet it is not the principle of life. Life circulates within it, but emanates not from it. This also is the case with human societies; whatever part may be borne by force, it does not govern them, or exercise a sovereign sway over their destiny; this is the province of ideas and moral influences, which are hid under the accidents of force, and which, in their concealment, regulate the course of societies. It is undoubtedly a cause of this nature, and not force, which has made royalty so prosperous. The second fact is scarcely less important. It consists in the flexibility of the institution, its faculty for modification, and for adaptation to a multitude of diverse circumstances. In this it presents a strong contrast; its form is of itself permanent and simple, not offering that great variety of combinations which are perceived in other institutions, and yet it accommodates itself to societies which have the least resemblance to it. It therefore evidently consists with a great diversity, and is linked, either through man himself, or through society, to many different elements and principles. From not having contemplated the institution of royalty in all its extent; from not having, on the one hand, pierced to its peculiar and invariable principle, to that which makes its essence, and still subsists, whatever may be the circumstances to which it is made applicable; and from not having, on the other, estimated all the variations to which it lends itself, all the principles with which it may enter into alliance; from not having considered royalty under this twofold and expansive point of view, its part in the history of the world has often been mistaken, and erroneous conceptions formed as to its nature and effects. To embrace these points is the task I impose upon myself, so as to present a complete and precise account of the effects of this institution in modern Europe, whether as flowing from its peculiar principle, or from the modifications it has undergone. There can be no doubt that the strength of royalty, that moral power which is its true character, does not rest in the personal or self-will of the man who is for the moment king, or that nations, in receiving it as an institution, and philosophers in supporting it as a system, have not intended or wished to subject themselves to the will of one man, which in its essence is narrow, arbitrary, capricious, and ignorant. Royalty is a thing quite distinct from the will of one man, although it presents itself under that form. It is the personification of the supremacy of right, and of that will which is essentially reasonable, enlightened, just, and impartial, foreign and superior to all individual wills, and having, by virtue of these claims, a right to govern them. Such is the meaning attached to royalty in the minds of nations, and such is the motive of their adhesion to it. {156} Is it true, then, that there is a sovereignty of right, a will which has the right to govern men! It is certain that they believe so, for they seek, and have constantly sought, and they cannot but seek, to be placed under its empire. Let us conceive, I will not say a nation, but the smallest assembly of men subjected to a sovereign, who is so only _de facto_, to a power, whose only right is that of force, governing in spite of reason, justice, and truth. Human nature instantly revolts against such a supposition; it will yield only to some claim of right. The object it wishes to attain, therefore, is, that right should reign, and to it alone will it consent to pay obedience. What is history but the demonstration of the universality of this fact! What has caused the majority of those contests which have worried the life of nations, but a neverceasing effort to make right supreme, so as to range themselves under its empire? And not only nations, but philosophers, firmly believe in its existence, and are incessantly in search of it. What are all the systems of political philosophy but disquisitions for the discovery of right, to give it sovereignty! What do they treat of, unless it be to decide who has the right to govern society? Take the theocratical, monarchical, aristocratical, and democratical systems, do they not all boast of having found out in whom the sovereignty by right resides, and do they not all profess to place society under its legitimate master? I assert again that this is the object of all the speculations of philosophers, as well as of all the efforts of nations. How could it be otherwise than that both, philosophers and nations, should believe in the veritable existence of a sovereign right? or that they should not constantly be on the search for it? Take one of the most simple propositions in elucidation; let there be some action to work out, or some influence to exercise, over society as a whole, or over some of its members, or even over one man; there is most certainly and indispensably a rule for that action or influence, a legitimate will to follow and apply. Whether we descend to the minor details of the social life, or rise to its greatest events, we find in all a truth to discover, a rational law to infuse into realities. In this consists the sovereignty of right, after which nations and philosophers have never ceased, and, in the nature of things, never can cease, earnestly to yearn. And now arises the question as to the extent to which the sovereignty of right can be represented, in a general and permanent form, by an earthly power, by a human will. Is there nothing necessarily false or dangerous in granting that it is thereby adequately represented? What is to be thought, in particular, of the personification of the sovereignty of right under the image of royalty? Upon what conditions, and under what limitations, is that personification admissible? These are important questions, which I am not called upon here to discuss, but which I cannot avoid alluding to, or bestowing a few words upon, as I proceed. {157} I affirm, and the simplest common sense must coincide, that the sovereignty of right, complete and permanent, can belong to no individual, and that all attribution thereof to any human power whatever is false and dangerous. Hence comes the necessity for limiting all powers, whatever may be their names and forms; and hence also comes the radical illegitimacy of every absolute power, whether its origin may rest on conquest, hereditary claim, or election. Differences may exist as to the best means to be employed in establishing the supremacy of right; indeed they must be varied according to times and places; but at no time, in no place, can any power be legitimately the independent possessor of that supremacy. This principle being laid down, it is nevertheless certain that royalty, in whatever system it is contemplated, protrudes itself as the personification of the sovereign right. Here is the theocratic system; it tells us that kings are the image of God on earth, which means nothing else than that they are the personification of sovereign justice, truth, and goodness. Here are the jurisconsults; they tell us that the king is the living law; which again means that the king is the personification of sovereign right and of the just law which has a prerogative to govern society. Here is royalty itself in a system of pure monarchy; it asserts itself the personification of the state, of the general interest. In whatever conjunction or situation it is beheld, it is always found gathering itself into an allegation of its representing and giving embodiment to that sovereign right which is alone entitled legitimately to govern society. In this there is no occasion for astonishment. What are the characteristics of supreme right, such as it derives from its very nature? First, it is by itself alone; for as there is but one truth, and one justice, there can be but one supreme right. Furthermore, it is permanent, always the same: truth changes not. It is placed in a situation superior and unknown to all the vicissitudes, all the hazards, of this world: in some degree it is of this world only as a judge and spectator--such is its part. Now, it is royalty which substantively brings out these rational and natural characteristics of right under the most sensible outward form, and seems their most faithful representative. M. Benjamin Constant has ingeniously likened royalty to a neutral moderating power, raised above the accidents and contests of society, and interfering only in great crises. This is, as it were, the very attitude of supreme right in the government of human affairs. This idea must have had something calculated to convince the judgment, for it passed with surprising rapidity from books to facts. One sovereign made it the very base of his throne, in the constitution of Brazil, in which royalty appears as a moderator, raised above the active powers as spectator and judge. {158} Under whatever point of view the institution may be regarded, when tested in comparison with sovereign right, it will be found to possess a great external resemblance, naturally calculated to strike the minds of men. Thus, whenever their reflection or their imagination has been turned towards the contemplation or study of the nature of the sovereignty of right and of its essential characteristics, they have inclined towards royalty. As, for instance, in those periods in which religious ideas had predominance, the habitual contemplation of the attributes of God has led mankind to the monarchical system. So, also, when jurisconsults have swayed society, the habit of studying, under the name of law, the nature of the supremacy of right, has been conducive to the dogma of its being personified in royalty. The attentive application of the human intellect to the investigation of the nature and the qualities of rightful sovereignty, when other causes have not interfered to destroy its operation, has invariably given strength and credit to royalty, as portraying its likeness. Furthermore, there are times peculiarly favourable to this personification, times in which individual forces range through the world with all their accidents and caprices, and in which selfishness rules paramountly over individuals from ignorance and brutality, or from corruption of manners. Then society, abandoned to the conflict of personal wills, and unable to constitute by their free concurrence a common and general will capable of rallying and controlling them, passionately longs for a superior to whom all individuals may be compelled to yield obedience; and as soon as any institution presents itself which bears some of the characteristics of rightful supremacy, and holds out to society its legitimate empire, all cling to it with eager haste as fugitives fly to a sanctuary. This is witnessed in the season of the disorganised youth of nations, in times such as we have surveyed. Royalty is admirably adapted for those eras of anarchy in which society longs for constitution and regularity, and cannot accomplish its aspiration by the free concord of individual inclinations. There are other times in which, from a totally different cause, it has the same good quality. How did the Roman world, on the verge of dissolution at the end of the republic, still subsist for nearly fifteen centuries under the name of that empire which, after all, was but a continual decay, a prolonged agony! Royalty alone could have produced such an effect, it alone could have repressed a society which corruption was perpetually tending to destroy. Thus the imperial power bore up for fifteen centuries against the ruin of the Roman world. {159} Hence there are periods in which royalty alone is able to retard the dissolution of society, and also periods in which it alone can accelerate its formation. And in both cases it exercises this power over events, because it represents more vividly and energetically the sovereignty of right than any other form of government. Upon the whole, therefore, we may conclude that in every aspect under which the institution is viewed, and in every epoch that it is taken, its essential character, its moral principle, its real and inherent spirit, and that which constitutes its strength, consists in its being the image, the personification, the presumed interpreter of that single, supreme, and essentially legitimate will which alone holds the right to govern society. Let us now consider royalty under the second point of view--that is to say, with regard to its flexibility in the vast variety of the parts it has played, and of the effects it has produced. It is incumbent on us to find a reason for it, and to determine its causes. We have here an advantage, as we can immediately plunge into history, and into our own history too. By a singular concourse of circumstances, it has come to pass that royalty has assumed in modern Europe all the characters under which it has displayed itself in the history of the world. If I may be allowed to use an arithmetical expression, European royalty has been in some degree the multiplicand of all possible species of royalty. My intention is to take its history from the fifth to the twelfth century, in the course of which it will be made evident under how many distinct phases it presents itself, and to what extent that character for variety, complication, and conflict which belongs to all European civilisation is met with. In the fifth century, at the period of the great invasion of the Germans, two royalties are before us--the barbarian royalty, and the imperial royalty; that of Clovis, and that of Constantine-- each very different in principles and consequences. The barbarian royalty was essentially elective: the German kings were elected, although their election was not accompanied by the forms to which we are accustomed to attach that idea; they were, in fact, military chiefs, bound to render their power freely acceptable to a great number of companions, who obeyed them as the bravest and ablest. Election, therefore, was the true source of barbarian royalty, its primitive and essential characteristic. I do not mean to state that even in the fifth century this quality had not been somewhat modified, or that other elements had not been introduced into royalty. The different tribes had had their chiefs for a certain time; some families had raised themselves to more consideration, trust, and wealth than others. This gave a beginning to the hereditary principle; the chief was no longer elected out of particular families. This was the first circumstance of a different order which became associated to the predominant principle of election. {160} Another idea or element had also previously been infused into the barbarian royalty, springing from religious feelings. We find amongst some of the barbarian nations--for example, amongst the Goths--the conviction that the families of their kings were descended from their gods, or from the heroes whom they had made gods--from Odin, for instance. It is the situation of the kings of Homer, who had sprung from gods or demigods, and under that title were the objects of a sort of religious veneration, notwithstanding the narrow limits of their power. Such was barbarian royalty in the fifth century, already exhibiting different and fluctuating characteristics, although its primitive principle still prevailed. Now I take the Roman or imperial royalty, and find it perfectly distinct. It was the impersonation of the state, the inheritor of the sovereignty and majesty of the Roman people. In the royalty of Augustus and Tiberius, the emperor was the representative of the senate, of the comitiæ, of the entire republic; them he succeeded, and combined in his own person. The modest pretensions of the first emperors, of those at least who were men of sense, and understood their position, give proof of this fact. They felt themselves before the people so lately supreme, and who had abdicated in their favour; they addressed them as their representatives and ministers. But in reality they exercised the whole power of the people, and in the most formidable intensity. Such a phenomenon is easy for us to comprehend, as we have ourselves witnessed it: in the history of Napoleon we have seen the sovereignty pass from the people into the hands of one man. He also was the impersonation of the sovereign people, as he perpetually said. 'Who ever was elected, like me, by eighteen millions of men! Who is so perfect a representative of the people as I!' he was accustomed to exclaim. And when we read on his coins, 'The French republic' on one side, and 'Napoleon, emperor,' on the reverse, does it not prove the fact as I describe it, the people merged into a king? In this was exemplified the fundamental character of the imperial royalty, which it preserved for the three first centuries of the Empire, as it was only under Diocletian that it took its definitive and complete form. At that time, however, it was on the point of undergoing a great modification; a new species of royalty was about to appear. Christianity had laboured for three centuries to introduce the religious element into the Empire; and under Constantine it succeeded, not in making it paramount, but in enabling it to perform an important part. {161} Then royalty presented itself under a totally different aspect; its origin ceased to be of the earth; the prince was not the representative of the public sovereignty, but the image of God, the delegate and representative of Heaven. Power came down to him from on high, whilst in the imperial royalty it had come up from below. These two positions were quite distinct, and had analogous results. The rights of liberty and political guarantees were difficult to combine with the principle of religious royalty; but the principle itself was elevated, moral, and salutary. Let us see the idea formed of the prince in the seventh century, amid the system of religious royalty. I take it from the canons of the council of Toledo. 'The king is called king (_rex_) because he governs justly (_recte_). If he acts with justice (_recte_), he possesses legitimately the name of king; if he acts with injustice, he perishes miserably. Therefore our fathers rightly said, "Thou wilt be king if thou perform just actions; but if thou do not so act, king thou wilt not be." [Footnote 12] The two principal royal virtues are justice and truth (the science of truth, reason). [Footnote 12: Rex ejus eris si recta facis; si autem non facis, non eris. (The reverend fathers of Toledo have here indulged a sort of play on the words _rex_ and _recta_.)] 'The royal power is bound, like the whole body of the people, to pay respect to the laws. Obeying the behests of Heaven, we give, as well to ourselves as to our subjects, wise laws, to which our own majesty and that of our successors is bound to render submission, as well as all the population of our kingdom. 'God, the creator of all things, in disposing the structure of the human body, has placed the head on high, and has willed that thence should proceed the nerves of all its members. And he has placed in the head the torch of the eyes, in order that thence should be discerned all things that might be noxious. And he has there established the seat of intelligence, imposing on it the duty of governing all the members, and discreetly regulating their action. Therefore is it necessary, in the first place, to make order for what concerns princes, to provide for their safety and protect their lives, and afterwards to prescribe what affects the people; so that by guaranteeing, as is fitting, the safety of kings, that of the people may be at the same time and more effectually secured.' [Footnote 13] [Footnote 13: Forum Judicum, tit. i. 1. 2; tit. i. 1. 2. 1. 4.] But another element besides royalty itself almost always intruded itself into the system of religious royalty. A new power seated itself by its side, a power more connected with God, and therefore with the source whence the royalty emanated, than royalty itself. This was the ecclesiastical power, which came forward to interpose between God and kings, and between kings and people, so that royalty, the image of the Divinity, ran the chance of sinking to a mere instrument of human interpreters of the Divine will. Here was a new cause of diversity in the destinies and effects of the institution. {162} Such were the various orders of royalty which manifested themselves amid the wreck of the Roman Empire in the fifth century--namely, the barbarian royalty, the imperial royalty, and the rising religious royalty. Their fortunes were as diverse as their principles. In France, under the first race, the barbarian royalty prevailed. There were several attempts on the part of the clergy to impress on it the imperial or the religious character; but election in the royal family, with some mixture of hereditary right and religious ideas, remained predominant. In Italy, amongst the Ostrogoths, the imperial royalty overcame the barbarian manners. Theodoric asserted himself the successor of the emperors. The pages of Cassiodorius bear sufficient evidence to this character of his government. In Spain, royalty appeared more religious than elsewhere. As the councils of Toledo were, I will not say the masters, but the influencing power, the religious character held the sway, if not in the government, properly so called, of the Visigoth kings, at least in the laws with which the clergy inspired them, and the language it caused them to hold. In England, amongst the Saxons, the barbarian manners subsisted almost entire. The kingdoms of the heptarchy were no more than the domains of different bands having each its chief. Military election was more clearly displayed there than anywhere else. The Anglo-Saxon royalty was the most faithful type of the barbarian. Thus, from the fifth to the seventh century, whilst the three sorts of royalty manifested themselves in general affairs, some one prevailed, according to circumstances, in each of the different states of Europe. The confusion was such at that epoch, that nothing general or permanent could be established; and through a maze of vicissitudes we arrive at the eighth century, without finding that royalty had taken a definitive character in any quarter. Towards the middle of the eighth century, upon the triumph of the second race of Frank kings, affairs become more generalised and capable of explication. Inasmuch as events were accomplished upon a larger scale, their results were proportionately increased, and they themselves more easy to be understood. We then distinctly perceive the different royalties succeed and combine with each other in a short space of time. {163} At the period that the Carlovingians supplanted the Merovingians, a return to the barbarian royalty is visible; the system of election reappears. Pepin got himself elected at Soissons. When the first Carlovingians gave kingdoms to their sons, they took care to have them accepted by the great men of the countries which they assigned them; and whenever they made a partition, they were anxious to have it sanctioned in national assemblies. In a word, the elective principle, under the form of a general acceptation, reassumed some reality. It will be borne in mind that this change of dynasty was like a new invasion of Germans into the west of Europe, bringing back a certain portion of their ancient institutions and manners. In the same period the religious principle was more unequivocally introduced into royalty, and exercised a greater influence upon it. Pepin was acknowledged and crowned by the Pope. He had need of a religious sanction; it was already a tower of strength, and he availed himself of it. Charlemagne took the same precaution; the religious royalty was gaining development. But under Charlemagne that character did not grow predominant, for the imperial royalty was what he attempted to resuscitate. Although he closely allied himself with the clergy, he made use of them, and was not their instrument. The idea of a universal state, of one prodigious political unity--in fact, the resurrection of the Roman Empire--was the favourite contemplation and dream of Charlemagne. Louis le Debonnaire (the Good-hearted) succeeded him. Every one knows the character the royal power momentarily assumed in his reign. He fell into the hands of the clergy, who censured, deposed, re-established, and governed him. The subordinate religious royalty seemed on the point of organisation. Thus, from the middle of the eighth to the middle of the ninth century, the variety of the three royal systems was exemplified in considerable, connected, and palpable events. After the death of Louis le Debonnaire, the three sorts of royalty almost equally disappeared amid the anarchy into which Europe was plunged; everything was jumbled together. After a certain interval, when the feudal system prevailed, a fourth royalty presented itself, different from all those we have hitherto contemplated--namely, the feudal royalty. This species is very confused and difficult to define. It has been said that the king, in the feudal system, was the suzerain of suzerains, the chief of chiefs; that he was held by fixed ties, through the different degrees, to the whole society; and that in calling around him his vassals, then the vassals of his vassals, and so on, he called the whole nation, and showed himself truly a king. I do not deny that this was the theory of the feudal royalty; but it was a mere theory, which never governed facts. That general influence of the king by means of the graduated organisation, those ties which united royalty to the entire feudal society, exist only in the dreams of publicists. In fact, the majority of the feudal lords were at that epoch completely independent of royalty; many of them scarcely knew it by name, and had no, or very trifling, relations with it. All the sovereignties were local and separate. The name of king, borne by one of the feudal chiefs, expressed a thing past rather than present. {164} This is the state in which royalty presented itself in the course of the tenth and eleventh centuries. In the twelfth, in the reign of Louis the Fat, things began to change in aspect; the name of the king was more frequently invoked, his influence penetrated into places to which it had previously never approached, and in fact his part in society became decidedly more active. Yet we do not find that this increased sway was owing to any one of the titles by which royalty had been accustomed to make good its claims. It was not as inheritor of the emperors, or under colour of the imperial royalty, that it waxed in strength, and settled into a firmer consistence. Neither was it by virtue of election, or as an emanation of the Divine power; every appearance of an elective nature had vanished, and the principle of hereditary succession to the throne definitively established; and although religion sanctioned the accession of kings, the minds of men were not at all awed by any religious character in the royalty of Louis the Fat. A new element or character, hitherto unknown, came forth in royalty at that period. A new royalty commenced. It is scarcely necessary to observe that society was at that epoch in a state of deplorable disorder, and a prey to continual violence. Society had in itself no means of successfully grappling with this shocking condition, or of regaining any regularity or unity. The feudal institutions, those baronial parliaments and seignorial courts, all those forms under which feudalism has been portrayed in modern times, as a systematic and well-ordered regime, were absolutely null and powerless, possessing nothing which could at all conduce to the re-establishment of order and justice; so that, in the midst of this social desolation, none knew to whom recourse might be had to get reparation for wrong, or to apply a remedy to crying evils--in a word, to constitute a state to however small an extent. The name of king still remained, borne by one of the chiefs; some addressed themselves to him. The various titles by which royalty had previously been recommended were not quite eradicated from all minds, although they had long ceased to exercise any great sway; yet on some occasions they were adduced. It often happened that recourse was had to the king to repress some scandalous course of violence, or to establish some degree of order, in a locality approximate to his own residence, or to terminate a long-standing dispute, so that he was called upon to interfere in affairs that were not strictly his own; and in these interventions he came forward as the protector of public order, as an arbiter, and as a redresser of wrongs. The moral authority which still lingered around his name gradually drew to him this power. {165} Such was the character that royalty began to assume under Louis the Fat, and under the administration of Suger. Then, for the first time, we perceive arising in the minds of men an idea, although still imperfect, confused, and feeble, of a public power superior to the local powers which had possession of society, invested with authority to render justice to those who could not obtain it by ordinary means, and capable of establishing, or at least of commanding, order; the idea of a great magistracy, whose essential province was to maintain peace, to protect the weak, and to decide differences which none other could terminate. This was the perfectly new character under which royalty presented itself in Europe, and especially France, dating from the twelfth century. It was not in the light either of a barbarian, religious, or imperial royalty, that it exercised its empire; the power it possessed was very limited, imperfect, and occasional; the power, in some degree (I know not any expression more exact), of a great justice of the peace for the whole country. This is the veritable origin of modern royalty, its vital principle, so to speak; that which has been developed in the course of its career, and which, I do not hesitate to affirm, has been the cause of its prosperity. In the different eras of history we perceive the various characters of royalty, the distinct orders that I have described, endeavouring by turns to reassume preponderance. Thus the clergy have always preached up the religious royalty; jurisconsults have laboured to resuscitate the imperial royalty; and the nobles have sometimes been inclined to renew the elective royalty, or to assert its feudal character. And not only have the clergy, the publicists, and the nobility, striven to make predominant in royalty such or such a character, but it has itself rendered them all subservient to the aggrandisement of its power. Kings have asserted themselves sometimes the delegates of the Almighty, sometimes the successors of the emperors, or the first nobles of the land, according to the exigency or the whim of the moment; they have illegitimately availed themselves of these different titles, but not one of them has been the true title of modern royalty, or the source of its preponderating influence. It is, I once again assert, as the depositary and protector of the public order, of general justice, and of the common interests--under the features of a great magistracy, the centre and nucleus of society--that it has exhibited itself to the eyes of nations, and has monopolised their force by obtaining their adhesion. As we proceed onwards, we shall see this character of modern European royalty, which commenced with the reign of Louis the Fat in the twelfth century, gain strength, develop itself, and finally become, so to speak, its political physiognomy. It is through it that royalty has contributed to the great result which characterises European societies, the reduction of all the social elements to two--the government and the nation. {166} Thus, then, Europe, after the termination of the crusades, entered upon the track which was to lead it to its actual state, and we have now seen that royalty took its appropriate part in that great transition. We shall next survey the different attempts at political organisation that were made, from the twelfth to the sixteenth century, with the object of maintaining, by rendering it more regular, the order of things then in vogue, but ready to crumble. We shall inquire into the efforts of feudalism, the church, and even the boroughs, to constitute society after its ancient principles, and under its primitive forms, and thus defend themselves against the general metamorphosis which was in preparation. {167} Lecture X. Union Of Elements Of Modern Society. I think it proper preliminarily to determine the precise object of this lecture. It will be recollected that one of the most striking facts in the elements of the ancient European society is their diversity, separation, and independence. The feudal nobility, the clergy, and the boroughs, had each a position, laws, and manners, entirely distinct; they were so many separate societies, each governing itself for its own behoof, and by its individual rules and power. They were in mutual relation and contact, but not in a veritable union, nor did they form a nation or state, properly so called. The fusion of all these societies into one has been accomplished; this is distinctly, as has been seen, the distinguishing fact, the essential character, of modern society. The old social elements have been reduced to two--the government and the nation--that is to say, diversity having ceased, similarity produced union. But before this result was consummated, and indeed to avert it, numerous efforts were tried to render it possible for all these particular societies to live and act in common, without destroying their diversity or independence. Their object was not to make any attack of moment on their individual position, their privileges, or their special nature, and yet to unite them into one single state, to form from them the substance of a nation, and to rally them under one and the same government. All these attempts failed. The result which I have just mentioned, the unity of modern society, attests their bad success. Even in those countries of Europe where there still subsist some traces of the ancient diversity in the social elements--in Germany, for example, where there are yet a true feudal nobility and a true burgher order, and in England, where a national church is in possession of special revenues and a peculiar jurisdiction--it is clear that this distinct existence is but a semblance and pretence, and that these particular societies are politically confounded in the general society, absorbed in the nation, governed by the public recognised powers, in subjection to one system, and drawn along in the current of the prevailing ideas and manners. Therefore, I repeat, the separation and independence of the old social elements have no sort of reality, even where they are formally sustained. {168} Nevertheless, these attempts to make them co-ordinate without changing them, to link them to a national unity without abolishing their variety, hold an important place in the history of Europe. They partly fill the epoch upon which we are now engaged, that epoch which divides primitive from modern Europe, and in which was accomplished the metamorphosis of European society. They have, furthermore, had a vast influence upon posterior events, upon the manner in which the reduction of all the social elements to two, government and nation, has been effected. It is therefore of great consequence to investigate and thoroughly understand all the essays at political organisation, from the twelfth to the sixteenth century, designed to create nations and governments, without rooting out the diversity in character of the secondary societies placed side by side. Such is our present task. It is a difficult and even a painful task. All these attempts at political organisation were assuredly not conceived and framed with good intentions; several were instigated by views of selfishness and tyranny. More than one, however, was pure and disinterested; more than one had really for its object the moral and social wellbeing of mankind. The state of incohesiveness, violence, and injustice in which society was then plunged, was disgusting to great and elevated minds, and they were incessantly devising means to emancipate it. Yet the very best of those noble efforts failed; all that amount of courage, sacrifices, energy, and virtue, was utterly thrown away. Is not this a mournful consideration? And there is upon this point something still more painful, ground for still deeper sadness, when we reflect that not only did these experiments for social amelioration miscarry, but an enormous mass of errors and of evil accompanied them. In spite of good intentions, the greater part were absurd, and avouch a profound ignorance of what reason and justice required, of the rights of humanity, and the conditions upon which the social state is founded; so that not only did the men fail in success, but they deserved their discomfiture. We have here, therefore, the spectacle both of the hard fate of humanity, and of its weakness. And we have also placed in striking light how the smallest portion of truth suffices so completely to dazzle the greatest minds, that they lose sight of all the rest, and become blind to what is not comprised within the narrow scope of their ideas; and so that there be a particle of justice in their cause, to what extent men may overlook all the injustice which that cause involves and sanctions. The contemplation of such a display of the faults and imperfection of human nature is, in my opinion, still more sad than the evil of its condition, for its errors are more afflictive to me than its sufferings. The efforts of which I have to speak will present us with both spectacles. It behoves us, however, to encounter them, and at the same time to be just towards those men and those times that have so often mistaken the right course, and been so signally worsted, but have nevertheless displayed many great virtues, made many noble struggles, and have merited well of fame. {169} The attempts at political organisation formed between the twelfth and sixteenth centuries were of two sorts. The first, those that had for their object the giving predominance to some one of the social elements, making all the others subordinate to it, and producing unity at that sacrifice; the clergy, the feudal nobility, and the boroughs, each in turn attempted this. The next, those that were designed to make all the particular societies harmonise and act together, leaving to each its independence, and securing to it an adequate share of influence. The first description of efforts is, much more than the second, open to the suspicion of selfishness and tyranny. They were, in fact, more frequently tainted with those vices; indeed, from their very nature, they were essentially tyrannical in their modes of action. Some of them, nevertheless, might be, and in truth were, conceived in the pure spirit of promoting the good and the advancement of humanity. The first which offers itself to our notice was the attempt at theocratic organisation--that is to say, the design of subjecting the different societies to the principles and empire of the ecclesiastical society. What I said upon the history of the church will be recollected. I there endeavoured to demonstrate what principles had gained development within its own pale, what share of legitimacy each of those principles possessed, how naturally they flowed from the course of events, and what services they rendered, and what evil they perpetrated. I there characterised also the different states through which the church had passed from the eighth to the twelfth century, under its various aspects, as the imperial, the barbarian, the feudal, and finally the theocratic church. Those circumstances must be borne in mind whilst I am on the topic of what the clergy did to monopolise power in Europe, and the causes of their miscarriage. The theocratic organisation was very early attempted, as is evinced both in the acts of the court of Rome and in those of the general body of the clergy. It resulted naturally from the political and moral superiority of the church; but from the commencement of its efforts, it encountered obstacles which it never succeeded in breaking through, even in its greatest vigour. The principal opposition arose from the nature of Christianity itself. Very different from the majority of religious creeds, Christianity was established by persuasion alone, simply by moral influences. From its earliest stages it was never armed with force; it prevailed in the first ages by the Word alone, and it prevailed only over minds. {170} Hence it happened that even after its triumph, when the church was in possession of great wealth and consideration, it never found itself invested with the direct government of society. The purely moral origin of the church, and the merely persuasive character of its action, pervaded its condition at all times. It had considerable influence, but did not wield power. It insinuated itself into the municipal magistracies, and exercised great sway over the emperors and all their agents; but the actual administration of public affairs, the government, properly so called, was never possessed by the church. Now, a system of government, theocracy or any other, cannot be established in an indirect manner, or by means of mere influence; it must perform the functions of judge, administrator, and commander, gather taxes, disburse revenues; in a word, govern and take positive possession of society. When action is limited to persuasion, much certainly may be effected, and great control exercised, both over nations and governments; but a system of rule or political supremacy is not thereby founded, nor future stability sufficiently provided for. This was the position of the Christian church on account of its very origin; it was always on a level with the actual government of society, but it never could thrust it aside and take its place. This great obstacle to its attempts at theocratic organisation it never was able to surmount. Very early in its career, also, the church encountered a second. When the Roman Empire fell, and the barbarian states were founded, the church was composed of the vanquished race. Its first object was to emerge from this position by converting the conquerors, and thus raising itself to their rank. When this labour was accomplished, and when the church aspired to dominion, it encountered the disdain and resistance of the feudal nobility. This was a prodigious service which lay-feudalism rendered to Europe. In the eleventh century, the people were almost completely subjugated by the church, and the sovereigns were scarcely able to stand up against it. The feudal nobility alone scorned the yoke of the clergy, and refused to bow before them. It is sufficient to recall the general features of the middle age, to be convinced of the singular mixture of pride and submissiveness, of blind belief and freedom of spirit, that prevailed in the relations of the lay lords with the priests. In this we discern some remnants of their relative primitive situation. It will recur to the mind of the reader that I have previously endeavoured to describe the origin of feudalism, its first elements, and the manner in which the earliest feudal society was formed around the abode of the fief-holder. I then remarked upon the fact of the priest being at that period under the lord. Now there always remained in the minds of the feudal nobility a remembrance or fueling of that position, and they always regarded themselves not only as independent of the church, but as superior to it, and as alone entitled to possess and actually govern the country. {171} They were always disposed to live on good terms with the church, but not to abandon their own claims, or give in to those set up by it. Thus, during many ages, it was the lay aristocracy which maintained the independence of society with regard to the church; it proudly defended itself, when monarchs and people were tamely crouching. It was the first to enter an opposition, and it contributed more perhaps than any other force to render the attempt to give society a theocratic organisation abortive. A third obstacle stood equally opposed to it, one upon which, in general, very little stress has been laid, and even its effects erroneously judged. Wherever a body of priests has seized upon society, and subjected it to a theocratical organisation, we find that this empire has devolved upon a married clergy, recruiting itself within its own folds, and rearing children from their infancy in, and for, the same profession. Look at Asia and Egypt: all the great theocracies were the work of a clergy forming of itself a complete society, sufficing for all its own purposes, and dependent for nothing from without. The Christian clergy were placed in a totally different situation, owing to the celibacy of the priests. In order to perpetuate their own body, they were obliged to have perpetual recourse to the lay society, and to seek their means of durability from out all the social positions and callings. Doubtless great pains were taken to assimilate these foreign elements, by infusing into them the spirit of the institution, but not with full success: something of the origin of the new-comers always remained: whether burghers or nobles, they invariably preserved some trace of their ancient spirit and primitive condition. There is no question but that this celibacy, by giving to the Catholic clergy a situation altogether peculiar, and divested of participation with the interests and general life of mankind, was a powerful promoter of their isolation; but it has also forced them into constant and close connection with the lay society, to recruit and renew their members, and thus exposed them to receive and undergo some portion of the moral revolutions which were accomplished in that society. Therefore I do not hesitate to aver that this ever-recurring necessity has infinitely more impeded the success of the attempt at theocratical organisation, than the spirit engendered by the institution, and strongly maintained by celibacy, has been able to promote it. The church finally encountered, within its own bosom, powerful adversaries to its attempt. The unity of the church is a thing perpetually talked of, and it is true enough that it has diligently laboured to attain it, and has done so in certain respects. But let us not be led away by imposing words, or a few partial facts. {172} What society has been torn by more civil dissensions, or suffered more disruptions, than the clerical? What nation has been more divided, broken up, or varied, than the ecclesiastical nation? The national churches, in the majority of the countries of Europe, have been in almost constant strife with the court of Rome; councils have risen against popes; heresies have been innumerable and inextinguishable; and schisms have incessantly prevailed: nowhere has there been so much diversity in opinion, so much bitterness and fury in contest, or so much splitting up of power. The internal existence of the church, the dissensions which have broken loose within it, and the revolutions which have shaken it, have been perhaps the greatest obstacle to the triumph of that theocratical organisation which it has striven to impose on society. All these impediments were in action, and are discernible from the fifth century, at the very commencement of the great attempt which now occupies our attention. They did not, however, prevent it continuing its course, or being in progress for several centuries. Its most glorious moment, its critical day, so to speak, was the reign of Gregory VII., at the end of the eleventh century. It has been already remarked that the predominant idea of Gregory VII. was to subject the world to the clergy, and the clergy to the Papacy--Europe to one vast and regular theocracy. In working out this design, that great man committed, in my opinion, as far as it is permitted us to judge at such a distance from the events, two capital faults, the one in his speculative, the other in his revolutionary character. The first consisted in pompously proclaiming his plan, and systematically parading his principles upon the nature and the rights of the spiritual power, and deducing from them beforehand, as an unbending logician, the most remote consequences. He thus menaced and attacked all the lay sovereignties of Europe, before he had made sure of his means to subdue them. Success in human affairs is not obtained by such a dictatorial process, or by the sanction of a mere philosophical argument. In the next place, Gregory fell into the common error of revolutionists, which is, to attempt more than they can execute, and not to take the possible as the measure and limit of their efforts. To hasten the dominion of his ideas, he engaged in contest with the Empire, with all sovereigns, and with the clergy themselves. He insisted upon consequences being immediate, scorning all regard for existing interests, haughtily proclaiming that he would reign over all kingdoms as well as over all minds, and thus rousing against himself not only the temporal powers, which perceived themselves in imminent peril, but also the freethinkers, who were beginning to come out, and already felt apprehensive of tyranny on thought. On the whole, therefore, Gregory VII. perhaps compromised more than he advanced the cause he was wishful to serve. {173} Nevertheless, it continued to prosper during the whole course of the twelfth, and up to the middle of the thirteenth century. This was the period in which the church possessed its greatest power and splendour. Yet I do not think it can be strictly said to have made at that epoch any very great progress. To the end of the reign of Innocent III., it had rather been parading than extending its glory and power. It was at the moment of its greatest apparent success that a popular reaction arose against it in a considerable portion of Europe. In the south of France, the heresy of the Albigenses exploded, which carried off a numerous and powerful society. About the same period, ideas and desires of a similar nature were broached in the north and in Flanders. A little later, Wickliffe, in England, made a talented attack upon the power of the church, and founded a sect which is not yet extinct. The sovereigns were not long in entering upon the same course as the people. It was at the commencement of the thirteenth century that the most powerful and able monarchs of Europe, the emperors of the house of Hohenstaufen, succumbed in their contest with the Papacy. Before that century was over, Saint Louis, the most pious of kings, proclaimed the independence of the temporal power, and promulgated the first pragmatic sanction, which became the base of all the succeeding ones. At the opening of the fourteenth century, the quarrel between Philip the Handsome and Boniface VIII. began to rage, whilst the king of England, Edward I., was not more docile towards Rome. It is clear, therefore, that at this epoch the attempt at theocratic organisation had failed, that the church was thenceforth put upon the defensive, and had so much difficulty in preserving what it had conquered, as to stop all further endeavour to impose its system on Europe. Hence the true date of the emancipation of the lay European society is from the end of the thirteenth century; it was then that the church ceased its pretensions to monopolise it. For a long time previously, it had renounced that attempt in the very sphere in which it seemed to have the best chance of success. At the very threshold of the church, around its throne in Italy, theocracy had been completely discomfited, and given place to a very different system, to that attempt at democratic organisation of which the Italian republics are the type, and which played so distinguished a part in Europe from the eleventh to the sixteenth century. What I have already stated upon the history of the boroughs, and the manner in which they were formed, will be recollected. Their establishment was more precocious and powerful in Italy than anywhere else; the towns there were much more numerous and wealthy than in Gaul, Britain, or Spain, and the Roman municipal system had remained there in greater force and regularity. {174} The districts of Italy, besides, were much less suited for the habitation of its new masters than those of the rest of Europe. They had been all cleared, drained, and cultivated, and were no longer covered by forests, so that the barbarians were unable to follow the exciting hazards of the chase, or to lead a life at all analogous to that of their old Germany. Furthermore, a part of that territory did not belong to them. The south of Italy, the Campagna di Romagna, and Ravenna, continued to depend upon the Greek emperors. In this portion of the country the republican system very early gained strength and development, favoured as it was by the distance of the sovereign, and by the vicissitudes of almost constant war. But in addition to the circumstance of Italy not being wholly in the power of the barbarians, those hordes that overran it never remained its undisturbed and definitive possessors. The Ostrogoths were hunted down and destroyed by Belisarius and Narses. The Lombards had little better success with regard to their kingdom: the Franks destroyed it; and at the period of their overthrow, Pepin and Charlemagne judged it expedient, instead of exterminating the Lombard population, to form an alliance with the old Italian population to keep down the recently-subdued Lombards. Therefore the barbarians never were exclusive and tranquil masters of the territory and society of Italy, as they were elsewhere. For this reason, only a very feeble, thin, and scattered feudalism was established beyond the Alps. The preponderance, instead of passing to the inhabitants of the country districts, as had happened in Gaul, for example, continued to adhere to the towns. When this fact unequivocally declared itself, a considerable proportion of the fief-holders, either of their own accord, or impelled by necessity, forsook the country, and settled within the walls of the cities. The barbarian nobles then became burghers. It may be easily imagined how great was the strength and superiority which the towns of Italy gained by this single circumstance, in comparison with the other boroughs in Europe. What was chiefly remarkable in the latter, as has been observed, was the inferior condition and the timidity of their inhabitants. Those burghers, we have seen, were like desperate freedmen, courageously but painfully struggling against a master always at their gates. Very different was the lot of the Italian burghers; the conquering and the conquered populations were mingled together within the same walls; they had no neighbouring master to defend themselves against; and the majority of the citizens were men free from all time, who asserted their independence and their rights against distant and foreign sovereigns, sometimes against the Frank kings, and sometimes against the emperors of Germany. From these causes sprang the great and precocious superiority of the Italian towns; and whilst miserable boroughs were formed elsewhere with much difficulty, they at once emerged into important republics and states. {175} Thus the success of the attempt at republican organisation in this part of Europe is explained. It early swamped the feudal element, and became the predominant form of the society. But it was little calculated to extend, or be perpetuated, for it contained but very few seeds of amelioration, a condition necessary to extension and durability. When we contemplate the history of the Italian republics from the eleventh to the fifteenth century, we are struck with two facts apparently contradictory, and yet incontestable. We perceive an admirable development of courage, activity, and genius, and, as its consequence, great prosperity. A movement and a liberty were there in operation, which were utterly wanting to the rest of Europe. Now, let us ask, what was the real lot of the inhabitants, how were their lives passed, and what was their share of happiness? In this respect the aspect of things is instantly changed. No history, perhaps, is more mournful and gloomy, nor has there ever been an epoch, or a country, in which the destiny of man appears to have been more beset with alarms and disorder, more liable to deplorable hazards, or more afflicted by dissensions, crimes, and calamities. At the same time, there is another fact equally striking. In the political system of the major part of those republics liberty was always diminishing. The deficiency of security was such, that the community was driven to seek for refuge in some system less boisterous and popular than that with which the state commenced. Take the history of Florence, Venice, Genoa, Milan, or Pisa; it is everywhere clear that the general course of events, instead of developing liberty, and enlarging the circle of the institutions, tended to coop up and concentrate power in the hands of a decreasing number of men. In a word, two things were wanting in those republics, so energetic, brilliant, and wealthy, in their outward aspect--namely, security for life, the first condition of the social state, and progressive action in the institutions. Thence sprang a new evil, which served as an effectual barrier to the farther spread of the attempt at republican organisation. It brought down interference from without, and thenceforth the greatest danger incurred by Italy arose from foreign sovereigns. Yet this peril never succeeded in reconciling the different republics, and making them act in common. Thus several of the most enlightened and patriotic Italians of the present time, deplore the republican system of Italy in the middle ages as the true cause of hindrance to its becoming a nation. It was parcelled out, say they, into a multitude of petty states, so bent on the gratification of their several momentary designs, as to be incapable of confederating together and constituting a united people. {176} It is to them a subject of regret that their country has not passed, like the rest of Europe, through a despotic centralisation, which would have formed it into one nation, and rendered it independent of the stranger. It therefore appears that the republican organisation, even in the most favourable circumstances, did not contain at that era the principle of advancement, of durability, or of extension, and that it was deficient in what regarded futurity. The organisation of Italy in the middle ages may be compared to a certain extent with that of ancient Greece. Greece was likewise a country strewed with small republics, always rivals, often enemies, and occasionally uniting in a common object. The advantage of the comparison rests entirely with Greece. There was undoubtedly much more order, security, and justice in the interior of Athens, Sparta, or Thebes, although history presents us with many instances of iniquity, than in the republics of Italy. Yet we see how short was the political existence of Greece, and how surely weakness followed its minute subdivisions of territory and power. Whenever Greece came in contact with powerful neighbours--Macedonia and Rome, for instance--she yielded at once. Those small republics, so glorious, and still so flourishing, were unable to coalesce for a common resistance. How much more, then, was the same result sure to happen in Italy, where society and intellect were far less developed, and infinitely weaker, than amongst the Greeks! If the attempt at republican organisation had so few chances of stability in Italy, where it had originally triumphed, and where the feudal system had been vanquished, it may be readily conceived that in other parts of Europe it was destined to meet a yet more speedy overthrow. I will take a rapid glance at its fate in various places. There was a portion of Europe which greatly resembled Italy; namely, the south of France, and the provinces of Spain adjoining it--Catalonia, Navarre, and Biscay. The towns had there likewise gained considerable development, importance, and wealth. Several petty feudal chiefs had allied themselves with the burghers, and a part of the clergy had also embraced their cause, so that the country was actually in a situation very analogous to that of Italy. We therefore find that in the course of the eleventh, and at the commencement of the twelfth century, the towns of Provence, Languedoc, and Aquitaine were disposed to try a political essay, and form themselves into independent republics, upon the model of those beyond the Alps. But the south of France was in contact with a very powerful feudalism, predominant in the north. And upon the occasion of the heresy of the Albigenses, war broke out between feudal and municipal France. The history of the crusade against the Albigenses, commanded by Simon do Montfort, is well known. It was an attack by northern feudalism upon the southern attempt at democratic organisation. {177} In spite of the heroism of southern patriotism, the north carried the victory. It was promoted by the want of political unity, and civilisation was not sufficiently advanced for men to be aware that the deficiency might be remedied by skilful concert. The experiment at republican organisation was therefore put down, and a crusade re-established the feudal system in the south of France. At a later date, the republican movement succeeded better on the mountains of Switzerland. There the theatre was very contracted, and it had to struggle only against a foreign sovereign who, although possessing superior strength to the Swiss, was not one of the most formidable monarchs of Europe. The contest was maintained with infinite courage. The Swiss feudal nobility also joined in a great measure with the towns; bringing certainly powerful aid, but altering the nature of the revolution which they supported, and imparting to it a more aristocratical and stationary character than it seemed destined to bear. [Footnote 14] [Footnote 14: M. Guizot has allowed himself to be carried away by his speculative deduction from history in this description of the early attempts of the Swiss to establish their independence. The movement began in the most rural part of Switzerland, in the three _forest_ cantons of Schweiz, Uri, and Underwalden, and not in towns, and was almost throughout conducted by peasants. It was only in a portion of Switzerland that feudalism prevailed. Besides, the Swiss cantons are only partially aristocratic--_See Muller's Hist. de la Suisse_.] I pass to the north of France, to the boroughs of Flanders, to those on the banks of the Rhine, and to the Hanseatic League. There the democratic organisation completely triumphed within the walls of the town; but we can discern from its commencement that it was not destined to extend or to take possession of all society. The boroughs of the north were surrounded and hemmed in by feudalism, by chiefs and sovereigns, so that they were constantly put upon the defensive. They were not calculated to make conquests; their great object was to protect themselves. In this they succeeded; they maintained their privileges, but they were confined to their own precincts. Thus the democratic organisation was shut up and stopped; it never spread over the face of the country. Such, then, was the state of the republican experiment; triumphant in Italy, but with few chances of durability and expansion; suppressed in the south of France; victorious, on a small stage, in the Swiss mountains; and restricted to the walls of the towns in the north, in Flanders, on the Rhine, and in the Hanseatic League. Nevertheless, whilst in this state, so palpably inferior in strength to the other elements of society, it inspired the feudal nobility with prodigious alarm. The barons were not only envious of the wealth of the boroughs, but they were afraid of their power; the democratic spirit penetrated into the rural districts, and insurrections among the peasants became more frequent and stubborn. {178} Hence a great coalition was formed by the feudal nobility, throughout almost all Europe, against the boroughs. The contest was not at all equal, for the boroughs were isolated, and had no understanding or intercourse amongst themselves. Doubtless there existed a certain sympathy between the burghers of different countries; the successes or the reverses of the Flemish towns, at war with the Dukes of Burgundy, excited a lively sensation in the French towns, but it was an emotion transitory, and without result; no veritable bond or union was established amongst the different boroughs, nor did they lend any strength to each other. Feudalism, therefore, had an immense advantage over them; but it was itself divided and irreflective, and was far from succeeding in destroying them. When the contest had lasted a certain time, and it had become clear that a complete victory was impossible, there arose a necessity for consenting to recognise these small burgher republics, to negotiate with them, and to receive them as members of the state. Then commenced a new order of things, and a new attempt at political organisation--to wit, the attempt at a mixed organisation, which had for its object the reconciling the different elements of society, the feudal nobility, the boroughs, the clergy, and the sovereigns, and, notwithstanding their mutual deep-rooted antipathy, bringing them to live and act together. This branch of the subject remains to be investigated. The purposes of the states-general in France, the cortes in Spain and Portugal, the parliament in England, and the diets in Germany, are sufficiently well known. The elements of these different assemblies were the feudal nobility, the clergy, and the burghers, who collected together with the view of uniting themselves into one single society, into one and the same state, and under an identical law and power. This was the tendency and design of them all, under different names. I will take as the type of this attempt at organisation the states-general of France, as being the most familiarly known. I say familiarly known, and yet the name of the states-general calls up none but vague and imperfect ideas. There is no one who can state with any precision what was fixed or regular in the states-general of France, what was the number of their members, what the subjects of deliberation, or what the periods of convocation, and the duration of their sessions. We know nothing of all these things; it is impossible to draw from history any clear and general results on tins subject. When we inquire into the character of these assemblies in the history of France, they appear to have been purely accidental, a sort of political shift, on the part of the people as well as on that of the kings: a last shift to the kings when they had no money, and were at their wits' ends for expedients; and a last shift to the people, when evil became so intolerable, that the usual remedies for alleviation were exhausted in vain. {179} The nobility and the clergy each took part in the states-general, but they came there with reluctance, and distrustfully, as they were well aware that it was not in them their best means of action lay, or that they could thereby promote their real participation in the government. The burghers themselves were not more eager for the sitting; it was not a right which they exercised with alacrity, but rather a necessity to which they submitted. We find these facts exemplified in the character of the political actions of those assemblies. They were sometimes perfectly insignificant, and sometimes vastly terrible. If the king was the strongest, their humility and docility were extreme; if the situation of the crown was disastrous, if it had an absolute occasion for the assistance of the states, they fell into factious opposition, and became the instruments either of some aristocratic intrigue, or of some ambitious schemers. In a word, they were sometimes mere assemblies of notables, and sometimes veritable conventions. Thus their labours seldom or ever survived them; they promised and attempted much, but did nothing. Not one of the great measures which have really acted on society in France, not one important reform in government, legislation, or administration, has emanated from the states-general. We must not, however, too rashly conclude that they have been without utility or effect. They have served a moral purpose, which has been generally overlooked, by operating, from time to time, as a protestation against political servitude, and distinctly proclaiming certain tutelary principles; such, for example, as that the country has the right to impose taxes, to interfere in affairs, and to make the agents of power responsible. That these maxims have never perished in France, is chiefly owing to the states-general; and it is certainly not a small service to render to a nation, the keeping up in its manners, and reviving in its recollection, the name and dues of liberty. The states-general effected that good, but they never were a means of government, nor ever entered into a political organisation. They never attained the object for which they were formed--namely, the fusion into one single body of the different societies which subdivided the country. The cortes of Spain and Portugal present the same result. There are, however, a thousand different attendant circumstances. The importance of the cortes varied according to the kingdoms and the times; in Arragon and Biscay, and amid the contests for the succession to the crown, or the struggles against the Moors, they were more frequently convoked, and more powerful than in other places and periods. In certain cortes--for example, in those of Castile in 1370 and in 1373--the nobles and the clergy were not summoned. {180} There is a multitude of circumstances to be taken into account, if we were to look more narrowly into the events; but in the generalising system, to which I am forced to restrict myself, it is sufficient to affirm that the cortes, like the states-general of France, were but an accident in history, and never a system, a political organisation, or a regular means of government. The destiny of England was different. I will not enter upon the subject of England at any great length now, as it is my purpose to devote a lecture specially to an inquiry into its political career. I shall only say a few words upon the causes which imparted to it a direction so completely different from that of the continent. In the first place, there were no great vassals, no subjects in a state individually to oppose royalty, in England. The barons, the great lords, were obliged, at a very early date, to coalesce together, in order to form a common resistance. Thus the principle of association, and manners essentially political, prevailed in the high aristocracy. In the next place, English feudalism, or the possessors of small fiefs, were led be a series of events to which I cannot do more than allude at the present moment, to unite themselves to the burghers, and to sit with them in the House of Commons, which thus possessed a strength far superior to that enjoyed by the continental boroughs, a strength capable of really influencing the government of the country. Now, in the fourteenth century, the state of the British parliament was as follows:--The House of Lords was the king's great council, and effectively associated with the exercise of power; the House of Commons, composed of the deputies of the possessors of small fiefs, and the burgesses, took scarcely any part in the government, properly so called, but it conduced to the establishment of rights, and energetically defended private and local interests. The parliament, considered as a whole, did not yet govern, but it was already a regular institution, adopted in principle as a means of government, and in fact often indispensable. Thus the attempt to reconcile and ally together the different elements of society, in order to form a single political body and veritable state, succeeded in England, whilst it miscarried on the continent. I will say but one word upon Germany, merely to point out the predominant character of its history. There the attempts to promote a general fusion, unity, and a common political organisation, were followed up with little ardour. The various social elements remained much more distinct and independent than in the rest of Europe. If any proof of this were required, it will be found even in modern times. Germany is the only country of Europe in which the feudal election long prevailed in the creation of royalty. I do not include Poland or the Slavonian nations, which entered at so late a period into the system of European civilisation. Germany is likewise the only country in Europe in which ecclesiastical sovereignties remained, and which preserved free towns having a political and really independent existence. It is therefore clear that the attempt to mould into a single society the elements of the primitive European world, was there much less active and effective than elsewhere. {181} I have now brought forward the great essays at political organisation attempted in Europe up to the end of the fourteenth and the beginning of the fifteenth century, and have exhibited their failures. In my progress, I have endeavoured to indicate the causes of that bad success, but in truth they are summed up in one. Society was not sufficiently advanced for unity and amalgamation; everything was still too local, special, and straitened in existences and minds. There were neither general interests nor general opinions capable of controlling particular interests and opinions. The most enlightened and vigorous minds had no idea of a truly public administration or of public justice. It was clearly requisite that a very active and powerful civilisation must first come to mingle, assimilate, and bray together, if I may be so allowed to speak, all these disjointed elements; that an energetic centralisation of interests, laws, manners, and ideas, must be effected; in a word, it was essential that a public power and a public opinion should be created. We have arrived at an epoch in which this great work was finally achieved. Its first symptoms, the state of minds and manners during the course of the fifteenth century, and their tendency towards the formation of a central government, and towards identity of tone in public feeling, will be treated of in the next lecture. {182} Lecture XI. Rise Of Nations And Governments. We are approaching the threshold of modern history, properly so called, the threshold of that society which is our own, the institutions, opinions, and manners of which were forty years ago those of France, are still those of Europe, and yet exercise upon us, in spite of the metamorphosis our revolution has made us undergo, a very powerful influence. It was in the sixteenth century, as I have previously mentioned, that modern society truly commenced. Before entering upon it, I shall give a backward glance at the space we have traversed. Amidst the ruins of the Roman Empire, we discerned all the essential elements of our Europe; we saw them come out and grow into prominence, each on its own account, and independently. During the first epoch of our history, we became aware of the constant tendency of those elements to separation and isolation, to a local and special existence. Then, when this object appeared attained, when feudalism, the boroughs, and the church, had each taken its distinct form and place, we found them immediately bent upon a reconcilement and union, upon forming themselves into a general society, a national body and government. To obtain that result, all the different systems which co-existed in the various countries of Europe were successively applied to; the principle of social unity, the political and moral nucleus, was sought from theocracy, aristocracy, democracy, and royalty. We have seen that so far these attempts failed, and that no one system or influence was enabled to monopolise society, and by its sway to secure it a really public organisation. We discovered the cause of the failure to consist in the absence of general interests and ideas, in everything being still too special, individual, and local; and it was evident that a prolonged and energetic effort at centralisation was required, to enable society simultaneously to extend and cement itself--in other words, to become at once both great and regular--a goal for which it naturally longs. It was in this state that we left Europe at the end of the fourteenth century. Europe was not able rightly to understand her position, such as I have endeavoured to display it. She did not know distinctly what were her deficiencies, or what remedies were needful. Yet she applied herself to seek out those remedies as if she had been perfectly aware of them. The miscarriage of all the grand attempts at political organisation having been made apparent, Europe fell naturally, and as if by instinct, into the ways of centralisation. {183} The fifteenth century is characterised by having constantly tended to this result, by having laboured to create general interests and general ideas, to extirpate the spirit of speciality and locality, to unite and rear together existences and minds; in fine, to call into being what had never previously existed on a large scale--nations and governments. The outbreak of this fact belongs to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; the fifteenth served to prepare it. The object of our immediate inquiry is that preparation, that imperceptible working towards centralisation, both in social relations and in ideas, which was afterwards accomplished by the natural course of events, without foresight or design. It is after this manner that man advances in the execution of a plan which he has not himself conceived, of which he is even quite ignorant. He is the intelligent and free labourer in a work which is not his own, and which he only recognises and understands at a later date, when it manifests itself outwardly and in realities; and even then, his comprehension is imperfect. And yet it is by him, by the development of his intelligence and liberty, that the work is accomplished. Conceive a great machine, the purpose of which is known to only one mind, but its different pieces are confided to separate workmen, kept apart and strangers to each other. Not one of them is acquainted with the entirety of the work, nor the definitive and general result towards which he is co-operating; nevertheless each executes with intelligence and liberty, by rational and voluntary acts, that with which he has been intrusted. Thus is the plan of Providence as to the world executed by the hands of mortals, and thus co-exist those two facts which break out in the history of civilisation: the one, what it has of fatalism, that which is unaffected by human knowledge and will; and the other, what it is indebted to the liberty and intelligence of man, what he has therein infused of himself, from the operations of his thought and inclination. In order perfectly to understand the fifteenth century, to obtain a clear and exact knowledge of that precursor of modern society, it will be proper to distinguish the different classes of facts. We will first examine the political facts and changes which have tended to form both nations and governments. We will then pass to the moral facts, and investigate the changes produced in ideas and manners, thence deducing what general opinions were in process of formation. With regard to political facts, to simplify and expedite our progress, I will take all the great countries of Europe, and show what the fifteenth century made of them, in what state it found and left them. {184} I will commence with France. The last half of the fourteenth and the first half of the fifteenth century, were the times, as is well known, of the great national wars against the English. It was the epoch in which the struggle for the independence of the territories and name of France against a foreign sway was maintained. It is sufficient to take a glance at history, to perceive with what ardour all classes of society in France, in spite of numberless dissensions and acts of treachery, co-operated in that struggle, and what patriotism was displayed by the feudal nobility, the burghers, and even the peasants. If there were nothing but the history of Jeanne d'Arc to show the popular character of the era, it would be in itself a convincing proof. The Maid of Orleans sprang from the people, and she drew her inspiration and support from the feelings, convictions, and passions prevailing amongst the people. She was viewed with doubt, scorn, and even enmity by the gentry of the court and the chiefs of the army, but the soldiers and the people were her constant adherents. It was the peasants of Lorraine who sent her to the citizens of Orleans. No event could more strikingly evince the popular character of that war, and the feeling which the whole country bore regarding it. Thus the French nationality commenced to be formed. Up to the reign of the Valois, the feudal character predominated in France, and the French nation, French spirit or patriotism, had no existence. It may be said that France began with the Valois, for it was in the course of their wars, and through the hazards of their fortunes, that the nobility, burgesses, and peasants were for the first time united by a moral tie, by the tie of a common name, a common honour, and an identical desire to subdue the enemy. Still there was no true political spirit, no great principle of unity in the government and the institutions, such as we conceive those terms to mean at the present day. The unity laboured for by France at that epoch was restricted to the glory of its name, to its national honour, and to the existence of a national royalty, whatever it might be, so that the foreigner was excluded from it. But even in this sense the contest with the English greatly promoted the formation of the French nation and its tendency towards concentration. At the same time that France was thus morally forming itself, and the national spirit taking development, it was also constituting itself materially, so to speak--that is to say, its territory was arranged, extended, and consolidated. The incorporation of the greater number of the provinces which became France occurred at that period. Under Charles VII., after the expulsion of the English, almost all the provinces which they had occupied, Normandy, Angoumais, Touraine, Poitou, Saintonge, &c. became definitively French. Under Louis XI, ten provinces, of which three were subsequently lost and regained, were united to France; namely, Roussillon and Cerdagne, Burgundy, Franche-Comté, Picardy, Artois, Provence, Maine, Anjou, and Perche. Under Charles VIII. and Louis XII., the successive marriages of Anne with those two kings gave us Brittany. Thus, at the same epoch, and in the course of the same events, the national territory and spirit were conjointly formed; both moral France and physical France acquired together force and unity. {185} Passing from the nation to the government, we see facts of the same nature accomplished, an advancement to the same result. The French government was never more powerless, or more stripped of unity and connecting ties, than under the reign of Charles VI., and in the first part of that of Charles VII. At the end of that reign, things assumed a very different aspect. There was then evidently a consolidated, extended, and organised power; whilst all the great instruments of government--taxation, military force, and the administration of justice--were arranged upon a great scale, and with an appearance of forming parts of one whole. It was at this time that a standing soldiery was formed, composed of regular companies of cavalry, and archers as infantry. With these forces Charles VII. re-established some order in the provinces desolated by the debaucheries and rapine of the troops, even after the war had ceased. All contemporary historians expatiate upon the wonderful effects of the regular companies. It was at the same epoch that the poll-tax, one of the principal sources of the royal revenue, became perpetual; certainly a heavy blow aimed at the liberty of the people, but which powerfully contributed to the regularity and force of government. At the same time that great instrument of power, the administration of justice, was extended and organised. The number of parliaments was increased. Five new parliaments [Footnote 15] were instituted in a very short space of time; under Louis XI. the parliaments of Grenoble (in 1451), of Bordeaux (in 1462), and of Dijon (in 1477); under Louis XII. the parliaments of Rouen (in 1499), and of Aix (in 1501). The parliament of Paris then also assumed much more importance and stability, both with regard to the administration of justice, and as charged with the police of its jurisdiction. [Footnote 15: From the very different meaning implied by the word parliament in Britain, it will be proper to remind the English reader that the parliaments of France were mere local tribunals, invested with scarcely any political or legislative character.] Therefore under the heads of military force, taxation, and judicature--that is to say, in what forms its essence--the government acquired in France, during the fifteenth century, a character of unity, regularity, and stability which was previously unknown. The public power then definitively supplanted the feudal or local powers. {186} Identical with this fact was the accomplishment of another change, one less visible and less noticed by historians, but perhaps of still greater importance; namely, that which Louis XI. effected in the manner of governing. Much has been said of the contest waged by Louis XI. against the nobles of the realm, of their reduction, and of his favour for the burghers and weaker individuals. There is some truth in all that, though much exaggeration has been made use of in describing it; and it is also true that the conduct of Louis XI., with the different classes of society, far oftener disturbed than served the state. But he did something much more important. Before his time, the government had scarcely ever proceeded except by force, by physical means. Persuasion, address, the art of managing men, and enticing them into the purposed vein--in a word, policy, properly so called, the policy of falsehood and of deceit doubtless, but also of skill and prudence, had previously been little used. Louis XI. substituted in his government intellectual for material means, trickery for force, the Italian system of policy for the feudal. Take the two men whoso rivalship fills that epoch of French history, Charles the Bold, [Footnote 16] and Louis XI. [Footnote 16: Charles the Bold was the last Duke of Burgundy. The general reader cannot do better than take a glance at Sir Walter Scott's 'Quentin Durward' for an admirable picture of these two men.] Charles was the representative of the ancient mode of governing; he proceeded by violence alone, and his appeal was incessantly to war. He was a person incapable of calm or patient reflection, or of addressing himself to the minds of men to mould them into instruments of success. It was, on the contrary, the delight of Louis XI. to avoid the employment of force, and to win men individually, by personal persuasion, or by apt appeals to their interests and understandings. He changed not the institutions or the outward system, but the hidden courses, the tactics of power. It was reserved for modern times to attempt a yet greater revolution, by tending to the substitution of justice in lieu of grasping selfishness, of candid and open dealing for falsehood and secrecy, as well as in the means adopted to gain political ends as in the ends themselves. Yet it was a great step to make, to cease the continual employment of force, to appeal to an intellectual superiority, to govern through the understandings of men, and not by inflicting injuries upon all existences. This Louis XI. commenced, in the midst of his crimes and errors, and in spite of his own perverse nature, at the instigation of his strong intellect alone. {187} From France I pass into Spain, where I find events of the same nature. It was likewise in the fifteenth century that the national unity of Spain was formed; and in that era was finished, by the conquest of the kingdom of Grenada, the long strife between the Christians and the Arabs. Then also the territory was consolidated: by the marriage of Ferdinand the Catholic with Isabella, the two principal kingdoms, Castile and Arragon, were united under the same power. As in France, the royal power was extended and strengthened; institutions of a harsher order, and bearing names more pregnant with wo, served as its props; instead of parliaments, it was the Inquisition which was established in Spain. It contained the seeds of what it afterwards became: but at the commencement it was very different: it was at first more political than religious, intended rather for the maintenance of order than for the defence of the faith. The analogy between the two countries is carried beyond the institutions to the very persons of the sovereigns. With less subtlety, with less of the mental movement, and with a smaller portion of restlessness and trickery, the character and government of Ferdinand the Catholic greatly resembled those of Louis XI. I attach little importance to arbitrary comparisons, to fantastic parallels, but here the analogy is really profound, and imprinted on general facts as well as on details. The same result is exhibited in the state of Germany. It was in the middle of the fifteenth century, in 1438, that the house of Austria returned to the empire, and with it the imperial power acquired a stability which it had never possessed before: the form of election became almost a mere consecration of hereditary right. At the end of the fifteenth century, Maximilian I. definitively fixed the preponderance of his house, and the regular exercise of the central power. Charles VII. had been the first in France to create a standing force for the maintenance of order, so also Maximilian in his hereditary states adopted the same means for the same object. Louis XI. had established the post-office in France, and Maximilian introduced it into Germany. In every quarter similar advancements in civilisation universally conduced to the advantage of the central power. The history of England in the fifteenth century consists of two great events--the war with France outwardly, and that of the Roses inwardly, a foreign and a civil war. These two wars, so different in appearance, tended to the same result. The contest with France was maintained by the English people with a zeal which turned almost exclusively to the profit of the royal power. This nation, even then more skilful and firm than any other in sparing its troops and its money, abandoned them to its kings at that epoch without foresight or calculation. In the reign of Henry V., a considerable revenue, the rights of customs, was granted to the king for life from his accession to the throne. The foreign war being finished, or nearly so, the civil war, which had been at first connected with it, continued alone, and the houses of York and Lancaster maintained their respective claims with the sword. {188} When a final term was put to their bloody contests, the high English aristocracy was ruined, thinned, and utterly unable to preserve the power which it had exercised in former times. A coalition of the great barons could no longer awe the crown. When the Tudors mounted the throne in the person of Henry VII., in 1485, the era of political centralisation and the triumph of royalty commenced. In Italy, royalty was not established, at least not under that name; but it is of little moment with regard to the result. The republics fell in the fifteenth century; or where the name still lingered, power was concentrated in the hands of one or a few families; the republican life was burnt to the socket In the north of Italy, almost all the Lombardian republics merged in the duchy of Milan. In 1434, Florence fell under the dominion of the Medicis. In 1464, Genoa became subject to the Milanese. The majority of the republics, great and small, gave place to sovereign houses. Shortly afterwards, the pretensions of foreign sovereigns to the north and south of Italy--to the Milanese on the one hand, and to the kingdom of Naples on the other--began to be advanced. Upon whatever country of Europe our eyes fall, whatever portion of its history we contemplate--whether it have reference to the nations themselves, or to the governments, to institutions, or territories--we everywhere perceive the ancient elements and forms of society decaying, and ready to disappear. Old traditional liberties are swamped and perish, whilst new powers arise, more regular and concentrated. There is something infinitely mournful in this spectacle of the fall of the old European liberties; and at the period of its occurrence, it inspired the bitterest sorrow. In France, in Germany, and especially in Italy, the patriots of the fifteenth century fiercely, and with the energy of despair, opposed and deplored a revolution, which on all sides was working up to what they had a right to call despotism. We cannot but admire their courage and compassionate their grief, but at the same time we must allow that the revolution in question was not only inevitable, but also useful. The primitive system of Europe, the old feudal and borough liberties, had utterly failed in organising society. Security and progressiveness are the main ingredients in the social state. Any system which does not effect order for the present, and advancement for the future, is vicious, and soon abandoned. This was the fate of the old political forms and liberties in the fifteenth century. They were unable to impart to society either security or advancement. These consequences were to be sought for elsewhere, and from other principles, other means of action. This is the purport of all the facts I have just dilated upon. {189} Another fact dates from the same epoch, one which has held a great place in the history of Europe. In the fifteenth century, the relation of governments amongst themselves commenced to become frequent, regular, and permanent. Then were formed for the first time those great combinations and alliances, either for peace or war, which ultimately produced the system of the balance of power. Diplomacy in Europe dates from the fifteenth century. In fact, towards the end of that century, we see the principal powers of the continent, the popes, the dukes of Milan, the Venetians, the emperors of Germany, the kings of Spain, and the kings of France, form connections, negotiate, come to understandings, and unite amongst themselves, and balance their respective states. Thus at the time that Charles VIII. made his expedition for the conquest of Naples, a grand league was formed against him between Spain, the pope, and the Venetians. The league of Cambray was arranged some years later (in 1508) against the Venetians. The holy league, directed against Louis XII., succeeded, in 1511, the league of Cambray. All these combinations sprang from Italian politics, from the desire entertained by the different sovereigns to possess its territory, and from the fear that one of them, by seizing upon it exclusively, should gain too great a preponderance. This new order of facts was highly favourable to the development of the royal power. In the first place, from the very nature of the external relations of states, they can only be managed by one person, or by a small number of persons, and they require a certain degree of secrecy. In the next, the people possessed so little foresight that the consequences of a combination of this description were not appreciated by them; such things had for them no direct, home interest, and therefore they concerned themselves very little respecting them, and left them to the discretion of the central power. Thus diplomacy, as it arose, fell into the hands of the kings; and the idea that it belonged to them exclusively, that the country, even when free, and monopolising the right of levying its own taxes, and interfering in its own affairs, was not permitted to meddle with foreign concerns, was established in almost all minds as a settled principle, as a maxim of common right. Look at the history of England in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries; we there perceive what power this idea possessed, and what obstacles it opposed to English liberties, in the reigns of Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I. It was always under plea of this principle that peace and war, commercial relations, in a word, all external affairs, belonged to the royal prerogative, that absolute power defended itself against the rights of the country. Nations have been excessively timid in confessing this portion of prerogative, and this shyness has been the more prejudicial to them, since, dating from the epoch upon which we are shortly to enter--that is, from the sixteenth century--the history of Europe is essentially diplomatic. {190} Exterior relations form, for nearly three centuries, the important part of history. Within, the countries were organised, and the settlement of the internal government, on the continent at least, produced no more shocks, and no longer absorbed the whole public activity. Hence the external relations, wars, negotiations, and alliances, are the matters which draw attention, and fill the pages of history. Thus it appears that the greater portion of the destinies of nations have been abandoned to the royal prerogative, to the central power. It was indeed scarcely possible that it should be otherwise. It requires a great advancement in civilisation, a prodigious development of political comprehension and studies, to enable the public to interfere with credit in affairs of this nature. From the sixteenth to the eighteenth century, the people were very far from possessing any such capability. Take, as an instance, a scene from the history of England at the commencement of the seventeenth century, under James I. His son-in-law, the elector-palatine, having been elected king of Bohemia, had lost his crown, and had even been despoiled of his hereditary states, the palatinate. The whole of Protestantism was interested in his cause, and on that account England was affected with a strong sympathy for his success. There was a powerful ebullition of public opinion to force James to take the part of his son-in-law, and to procure his restoration to the palatinate. The parliament furiously demanded war, promising ample means to sustain it. James was not very eager for it; he eluded the question, made some attempts at negotiation, sent a few troops into Germany, and then came to inform parliament that he would need £900,000 sterling to carry on the war with any chance of success. It was not said, and in fact it does not appear, that his calculation was exaggerated. But the parliament recoiled with surprise and affright at the prospect of such an expense, and it voted, with much reluctance, a sum of £70,000 sterling to re-establish a prince, and reconquer a country some hundreds of miles from England. Such was the ignorance and political incapacity of the public in such matters. It acted without knowledge of facts, and without burdening itself with any responsibility: therefore it was not enabled to interfere with regularity or efficiency. This was the principal reason that caused the external relations to fall into the hands of the central power, for it alone was in a condition to direct them, I will not say for the public good, as that necessarily was not always consulted, but with any continuity and sound sense. {191} Thus we see that under whatever point of view the political history of Europe of that epoch presents itself to us--whether our attention is directed to the internal state of the countries, or to their mutual relations with each other--whether we look to the administration of war, justice, or taxation--the same general character is in all distinguishable; we perceive everywhere the same tendency to centralisation and unity, to the formation and predominance of general interests and public powers. This was the hidden labour at work in the fifteenth century--a labour which did not then produce any very apparent result, any revolution, properly so called, in society, but which prepared the way for all. I now proceed to facts of another nature, to moral facts, or those which have reference to the development of the human understanding and of general ideas. We shall there also discern the same phenomenon, and be carried to the same conclusion. I will commence with an order of facts which has very often been the subject of our inquiry, and which, under various forms, has always occupied an important station in the history of Europe: I mean the facts relative to the church. In our views of affairs in Europe up till the fifteenth century, we have been made aware that the only general and potential ideas operating veritably on the masses were religious ideas. We have seen that the church alone was invested with authority to regulate, promulgate, and prescribe these ideas. Often, it is true, attempts at independence and separation were made, and the church was called upon for its most strenuous exertions to put them down. Those exertions had hitherto been successful; the dogmas anathematised by the church had not taken general and permanent possession of the minds of the people; even the Albigenses had been crushed. Dissent and strife were continual in the bosom of the church, but without any decisive or striking result. At the opening of the fifteenth century, a very different state of things appeared; new ideas, and a public, avowed desire for alteration and reform, agitated the church itself. The close of the fourteenth, and the dawn of the fifteenth century, were illustrated by the great western schism, arising from the translation of the Holy See to Avignon, and the creation of two popes, the one at Avignon, and the other at Rome. The contest between these two papacies is what is called the great schism of the west. It commenced in 1378. In 1409, the Council of Pisa, wishing to bring it to an end, named a third, Alexander V. This proceeding, so far from moderating the violence of the schism, fanned it into additional fury, and instead of two opposition popes, there were three. The disorder and abuses caused by this lamentable dissension went on increasing. In 1414, the Council of Constance assembled at the instance of the Emperor Sigismond. It entered upon a very different matter than naming a new pope; it undertook the reform of the church. It first of all proclaimed the indissolubility of the general council, and its superiority over the papal power. It endeavoured to make these principles recognised as fundamental in the church, and then set about the task of reforming the abuses which had crept into it, especially the exactions by which the court of Rome drew money from the faithful. {192} The better to attain its object, the council named what we would call a committee of inquiry--that is to say, a _reforming college_, composed of deputies taken from the different nations represented in it. This college was charged to investigate the abuses which tarnished the church, and the means of remedying them, and to make a report to the council, which would deliberate on the modes of execution. But whilst the council was engaged upon the labour, a question was submitted to it--Whether it could proceed to the reform of abuses without the participation of the head of the Church, without the sanction of the pope? It was decided in the negative, by the influence of the Romanist party, supported by honest but timid men; so the council elected a new pope, Martin V ., in 1417. This pope was instructed to present a plan of reform for the church, which was not acceptable, and the council separated. In 1431, a fresh council assembled at Basle, with the same design. It took up and continued the reforming labour of the Council of Constance, but had no better success. The schism which divided Christianity broke out in the assembly likewise. The pope removed the Council of Basle to Ferrara, and afterwards to Florence. A portion of the prelates refused to obey the pope, and remained at Basle; so as there were formerly two popes, there were then also two councils. That of Basle stuck to its projects of reform, and named its own pope, Felix V. After a certain period it migrated to Lausanne, and finally broke up in 1449, without having effected a single object. Thus the papacy ultimately prevailed, and remained in possession of the field of battle and of the government of the church. The councils had been unable to accomplish what they had undertaken, but the consequences of their acts survived their failure. At the time the Council of Basle miscarried in its essays at reform, certain sovereigns availed themselves of the ideas which it had promulgated, and of the institutions it had recommended. In France, Charles VII. issued the pragmatic sanction, founded on the decrees of the Council of Basle, which he proclaimed at Bourges in 1438. It maintained the election of bishops, the suppression of first fruits, and the reform of the principal abuses prevalent in the church. The pragmatic sanction was declared the law of the state in France. In Germany, the diet of Mayence adopted it in 1439, and likewise made it a law of the German empire. Thus what the spiritual power had attempted without success, the temporal power seemed determined upon accomplishing. {193} The reforming projects were destined to encounter fresh reverses. As the councils had failed, so also did the pragmatic sanction. In Germany, it perished with great abruptness; the diet formally abandoned it in 1448, in consequence of a negotiation with Nicholas V. In France, Francis I. likewise gave it up in 1516, and substituted in its stead his concordat with Leo X. Thus the princely reform was not more successful than the clerical. But we are not to conclude that it completely died away. As the councils had done things which left consequences behind, so also had the pragmatic sanction effects which survived it, and were destined to play an important part in modern history. The principles asserted by the Council of Basle were vigorous and fruitful. Some superior and determined men adopted and maintained them. John of Paris, D'Ailly, Gerson, and a great number of distinguished men of the fifteenth century, devoted themselves to their defence. Although the council was dissolved, and the pragmatic sanction abandoned, their general doctrines upon the government of the church, and upon the reforms necessary to be worked out, had taken root in France, and were there perpetuated. They passed into the parliaments, gradually grew into a powerful opinion, and gave birth first to the Jansenists, then to the Gallicans. All that series of maxims and efforts tending to reform the church, which commenced with the Council of Constance and terminated in the four propositions of Bossuet, emanated from the same source, and proceeded to the same goal. It was an identical fact successively transformed. In spite of the failure of the legal and regular attempts at reform in the fifteenth century, they had taken their station in the course of civilisation, and exercised indirectly a prodigious influence. The councils showed wisdom in pursuing their legal reform, for it alone could avert a revolution. Almost at the same moment that the Council of Pisa endeavoured to bring the great schism of the west to a cessation, and the Council of Constance to reform the church, the first efforts of a popular religious reform broke out with violence in Bohemia. The preachings and progress of John Huss date from 1404, the period that he commenced to teach at Prague. Thus there were two reforms marching side by side; the one in the very bosom of the church, experimented by the aristocratical ecclesiastics themselves, a prudent, timid, and thwarted reform; the other a reform outside the church, opposed to it, violent and fierce. War soon raged between these two powers or designs. The council summoned John Huss and Jerome of Prague to Constance, and condemned them to the stake as heretics and revolutionists. These events are perfectly intelligible to us at the present day. We can very readily understand the simultaneousness of separate reforms, the one undertaken by governments, the other by the people, enemies of each other, and yet emanating from the same source, and conducting to the same end; reforms which, although making war upon each other, actually and definitively agreed in a common object. Such was the occurrence in the fifteenth century. {194} The popular reform of John Huss was momentarily stifled; the war of the Hussites did not break out for three or four years after the death of their master. It continued for a long time with great violence, but the Empire finally triumphed. But as the reform attempted by the councils was unattended with effect, as the object they had pursued was not attained, the popular reform ceased not to ferment; it waited only for an opportunity, and it found one at the beginning of the sixteenth century. Had the reform undertaken by the councils been carried to a beneficial length, the popular reform perhaps would have been prevented. But the success of the one or the other was unavoidable, for their coincidence proves a necessity. Therefore the state in which the fifteenth century left Europe, as to religious matters, was this: an aristocratical reform had been attempted without success, and a popular reform had been broached and stifled, but was ever ready to explode. But the fermentation of the human mind was not confined at that epoch to the sphere of religious dogmas. It was in the course of the fourteenth century, as is well known, that the Greek and Roman antiquity was restored, so to speak, to Europe. The ardour with which Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and all their contemporaries, sought out Greek and Latin manuscripts, and gave them to the world, is matter of notoriety. The least discovery of that sort excited an amazing bustle and transport of joy. In the midst of this excitement, a school commenced to be formed, which has played a much more important part in the development of the human understanding than is ordinarily attributed to it; I mean the classical school. I do not attach to this word the meaning in which it is used at present; it was then concerned with anything but a literary system or contest. The classical school of that epoch was inflamed with admiration not only for the writings of the ancients, for Virgil and for Homer, but also for the whole ancient society--its institutions, opinions, and philosophy, as well as literature. It must be confessed that antiquity, under the heads of politics, philosophy, and literature, was far superior to the Europe of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. It is not, therefore, at all surprising that it exercised so great an influence, or that the majority of enlightened, active, refined, and fastidious minds conceived an utter disgust for the coarse manners, confused ideas, and barbarous forms of their own times, and gave themselves up with rapture to the study, and almost to the worship, of a society so much more regular, and at the same time so much more developed. Thus was originated that school of freethinkers which appeared at the commencement of the fifteenth century, and in which prelates, jurisconsults, and scholars were united together. {195} In the midst of this movement occurred the taking of Constantinople by the Turks, the fall of the Eastern Empire, and the settling of the fugitive Greeks in Italy. They brought with them an increased knowledge of antiquity, numerous manuscripts, and a multitude of fresh means by which the ancient civilisation might be more thoroughly studied. The classical school became animated with redoubled admiration and ardour. This was the period of the most brilliant development of the aristocratic church, especially in Italy, not in point of political power, so much as in luxuriousness and wealth. It abandoned itself with lordly pride to all the pleasures of a voluptuous, effeminate, elegant, and licentious civilisation, to a taste for letters and arts, for social and material enjoyments. See the sort of life led by men who bore an important part in politics and literature at that epoch--by Cardinal Bembo, for example. We are astonished at so singular a medley of refined sensuality and intellectual development, of enervated manners and hardihood of mind. We might imagine, in fact, when we survey that era, and behold its ideas and social relations, that we are in the middle of the French eighteenth century. We perceive the same zeal for intellectual movement and for new ideas, the same taste for a soft and agreeable life; in a word, the same effeminacy and libertinism, the same deficiency in political energy and in moral doctrines, accompanied by a remarkable candour and activity of mind. The literati of the fifteenth century were, in regard to the prelates of the church, in the same relation as the men of letters and the philosophers of the eighteenth with respect to the great aristocrats; they were all imbued with the same opinions, all pursued the same course of life, mingled harmoniously together, and looked with indifference on the agitation that was brewing around them. The prelates of the fifteenth century, commencing with Cardinal Bembo, assuredly no more foresaw the rising of Luther and Calvin, than the courtiers had any preconception of the French Revolution. The situation was analogous. Three great facts, therefore, of the moral order present themselves at this epoch. First, an ecclesiastical reform attempted by the church itself; secondly, a popular movement for religious reform; and lastly, an intellectual revolution, which formed the school of freethinkers. And all these changes were progressing amid the greatest political alteration which had previously occurred in Europe, amid the working towards centralisation in nations and governments. Nor was this all. It was also the period of the greatest outward activity of mankind--the period of voyages, enterprises, discoveries, and inventions of all sorts. This was the era of the great expeditions of the Portuguese along the coasts of Africa, of the discovery of the passage by the Cape of Good Hope, of the discovery of America by Columbus, and of the wonderful extension of European commerce. {196} A multitude of new inventions came forth, whilst others, previously known in a confined sphere, became popular, and passed into general use. Gunpowder changed the system of war, and the compass changed the system of navigation. The art of oil-painting was developed, and covered Europe with masterpieces. Engraving on copper, invented in 1460, multiplied and disseminated them. The use of linen paper became common. Finally, between 1436 and 1452, printing was invented, the theme of so much declamation, and of so many commonplaces, but the merit and effects of which will never be obscured by either vapid declamation or nauseous small-talk. Such was the greatness and activity of this century; a greatness still scarcely apparent, an activity which had not yet brought its results under the disposition of mankind. Violent reforms had been suppressed; governments were consolidated, and the people hushed. It might be imagined that society was preparing merely to enjoy a better order of things, accompanied by a quickened impulse. But the revolutions of the sixteenth century were impending, which the fifteenth had only been preparing. They will be the object of my next lecture. {197} Lecture XII. Effects Of The Reformation. In the course of our inquiry, we have had frequent occasion to lament the disorder and anarchy of European society, and to complain of the difficulty of analysing and depicting a society so scattered, incohesive, and discordant. We have longed for, and impatiently invoked, the era of general interests, of order, and of social unity. We have now reached it, and are entering upon the epoch in which everything is summed into general facts and general ideas, upon the very epoch of order and unity. We there, however, encounter a difficulty of another kind. It has hitherto required great pains to link facts together, to place them in their proper stations, to seize what they possessed in common, and unfold some appearance of a whole. In modern Europe, things are in an opposite vein. All the elements and incidents of the social state are modified by, and act and react upon, each other; the mutual relations of men are far more numerous and complicated; and the same multiplicity and entanglement occur in their relations with the government of the state, in the relations of states amongst themselves, and in the ideas and in all the workings of the human mind. In the periods we have passed through, a great number of facts appeared isolated, alien to each other, and without reciprocal influence. Now, we have no more isolation; all things meet, commingle, and vary as they meet. Can anything be conceived more difficult than to distinguish the veritable unity amid such a diversity, to determine the bent of a movement so extended and complex, to present so prodigious a throng of different elements, all closely linked together, in a general summary; in a word, to predicate the general predominant fact which sums up and expresses a long series of facts, which is the characteristic of an epoch, and the faithful expression of its influence and its action in the history of civilisation? We shall quickly perceive the extent of this difficulty in the great event which has now to occupy our attention. We encountered in the twelfth century an event, religious in its origin, if rather the reverse in its nature--I mean the Crusades. Notwithstanding the vastness of the event, its long duration, and the variety of circumstances it produced, it was an easy task to unravel its general character, and to determine with some precision its unity and influence. We have at present to consider the religious revolution of the sixteenth century, that which is commonly called the Reformation. {198} Allow me here to premise, that I shall make use of the word _reformation_, as of a simple and settled term, synonymous with _religious revolution_, and without implying a judgment of its nature. Thus on the threshold we perceive how difficult it is to assign the veritable character of that great crisis--to state in a general form what it was, and what it effected. We must seek for the Reformation between the beginning of the sixteenth and the middle of the seventeenth century, for it was within this interval that the life, so to speak, of the event was comprised, that it took birth and ended. All historical events have in some sort a limited career. Their consequences are prolonged to infinity, they are connected with all the past and all the future, but at the same time they have a peculiar and restricted existence, in which they arise, expand, and fill with their development a certain portion of space, then shrink and retire from the stage to give place to some new occurrence. The precise date that we assign to the origin of the Reformation is of little importance. We may take the year 1520, in which Luther burnt publicly at Wittemburg the bull of Leo X. which condemned him, and thus severed himself officially from the Roman church. It is between this year and the middle of the seventeenth century, the year 1648, the date of the treaty of Westphalia, that the life of the Reformation is comprised. Here is the proof of it. The first and greatest effect of the religious revolution was to create two classes of states in Europe--the Catholic and the Protestant--to bring them in front of each other, and engage them in war. With a variety of vicissitudes, that war lasted from the commencement of the sixteenth to the middle of the seventeenth century. It was not until the treaty of Westphalia, in 1648, that the Catholic and Protestant states came finally to a reciprocal recognition, agreed upon a mutual existence, and undertook to live in society and in peace, in spite of the diversity in religion. Dating from 1648, diversity in religion ceased to be the predominant principle in the classification of states, or in their external policy, relations, and alliances. Up till that epoch, Europe, with certain modifications, was essentially divided into a Catholic league and a Protestant league. After the treaty of Westphalia, this distinction disappeared, and states became allied or divided from very different considerations than religious dogmas. At that point, therefore, the preponderance, or rather the career, of the Reformation was stopped, although its consequences did not cease their course of development. Let us now go hastily over this career, and, without doing more than naming events and men, let us touch upon what it contains. By this mere indication, by this dry and partial nomenclature, we shall see what must be the difficulty of summing up a series of facts, so varied and complex, into one general fact, and of determining the veritable character of the religious revolution of the sixteenth century, and assigning its station in the history of our civilisation. {199} The Reformation broke out during the prevalence of a great political crisis--namely, the contest between Francis I. and Charles V., between France and Spain. This contest commenced for the possession of Italy, was continued for that of the German empire, and finally raged for preponderance in Europe. It was the period in which the House of Austria rose to predominance. It was likewise at the time that England, under Henry VIII., interfered in continental politics with more regularity, consistency, and effect, than it had previously done. Viewing the course of events in the sixteenth century in France, we find it a prey to the great religious wars between the Protestants and Catholics, which became the means and the occasion of a new attempt on the part of the great lords to regain the power which was slipping from them, and to control royalty. This was the political meaning of our religious wars, of the league, of the struggle of the Guises against the Valois, which was terminated by the accession of Henry IV. In Spain, during the reign of Philip II., the rebellion of the United Provinces exploded. The Inquisition, under the name of the Duke of Alva, waged war against civil and religious liberty, under that of the Prince of Orange. Whilst liberty triumphed in Holland, through the perseverance and prudent measures of the Netherlander, it utterly perished in Spain itself, where absolute power, both lay and ecclesiastical, reigned supreme. In England occurred the reigns of Mary and Elizabeth; the war between Elizabeth, the head of Protestantism, and Philip II.; the advent of James Stuart to the throne of England; and the beginning of the great quarrel of royalty and the people. About the same period, new powers arose in the north. Sweden was reintegrated by Gustavus Vasa in 1523. Prussia was created by the secularising of the Teutonic order. [Footnote 17] The northern powers then took a place in European politics which they had not previously occupied, the importance of which was shortly to be evinced in the thirty years' war. [Footnote 17: Perhaps M. Guizot would have been a little more accurate if he had stated that the House of Brandenburg gained a large accession of territory, as Prussia was not, in fact, created until the second year of the eighteenth century, nor was that designation used in history until that period.] I return to France. There we have the reign of Louis XIII.; Cardinal Richelieu changing the internal administration of the country, entering into relations with Germany, and affording support to the Protestant party. In Germany occurred the struggle against the Turks during the latter part of the sixteenth century, and at the commencement of the seventeenth the thirty years' war, the greatest event in modern eastern Europe: then flourished Gustavus Adolphus, Wallenstein, Tilly, the Duke of Brunswick, and the Duke of Weimar, the greatest names that Germany has yet to boast of. {200} At the same epoch, Louis XIV. ascended the throne of France, and the Fronde commenced. In England, the revolution which dethroned Charles I. exploded. Thus I take only the greatest events in history, events which every one knows by name, and we see how great are their number, variety, and importance. If we inquire into events of another nature, events less palpable, and which are less indicated by general allusions or names, we shall find the era in question equally replete with them. It was at this time that the greatest changes in the political institutions of almost all nations took place, that pure monarchy prevailed in the majority of the great states, whilst in Holland the most powerful republic in Europe was formed, and in England the constitutional monarchy definitively, or nearly so, triumphed. In the church, it was the era in which the ancient monastic orders lost almost all political power, and were replaced by a new order of another character, whose importance, wrongly perhaps, is held as far superior to theirs--the Jesuits. In the same epoch, the Council of Trent eradicated what might yet remain of the influence of the Councils of Constance and Basle, and secured the final triumph of the court of Rome in ecclesiastical affairs. If we leave the church, and cast an eye upon philosophy, upon the unshackled career of the human mind, we see two men arise, Bacon and Descartes, the authors of the greatest philosophical revolution which the modern world has undergone, and the chiefs of two schools disputing with each other for mastery. It was also the brilliant period of the Italian literature, and the era in which French and English literature commenced. Finally, it was the time during which the great colonies were planted, and the most active developments of the commercial system were stimulated. Thus, whether we regard the political, ecclesiastical, philosophical, or literary events of that epoch, we find them more numerous, varied, and important, than in all the ages that had preceded it. The activity of the human mind was manifested in all directions, in the relations of men amongst themselves, in their relations with the public power, in the relationships of states, and in purely intellectual operations; in a word, it was an era of great men and great things. And during this very age, the religious revolution which engages our attention was the greatest of all its events, its predominant fact, that which gives to it its name, and determines its character. Amongst so many operative causes playing so important a part, the Reformation was the most powerfully operative, that to which all the others tended, and which modified them all, or was by them itself modified. {201} So much so, that our present task is to characterise with truthfulness, to sum up with precision, the event which controlled all the others in an age of the most important events, the cause which effected more than all the others in an age of the most weighty causes. It will be evident how extremely difficult it is to gather facts so various, so extensive, and so closely interwoven, into one clear historical conclusion. It is, however, necessary. When events are once consummated, when they have become history, the great and essential object with men is to find out the general facts, the connection of causes and effects. This is, so to speak, the immortal portion of history, that to which all generations have need of referring, in order to comprehend the past, and to comprehend themselves. This necessity for generalisation, for arriving at a rational deduction, is the most potent and the most glorious of all the intellectual wants; but in satisfying it, great care must be taken to guard against imperfect and precipitate generalisations. Nothing is more enticing than to yield to the pleasure of fixing immediately, and at first sight, upon the general character and permanent results of such an era or such an event. The human mind is like the human will, ever eager to come to the point, impatient of obstacles and fetters, and urgent for conclusions, willingly overlooking the facts which tease and embarrass it; but whilst disregarding them, it cannot destroy them, and they still subsist to convict it some day of error, and to condemn its precipitancy. There is but one means by which the human mind can escape this danger, and that is, by courageously and patiently devoting itself to the study of facts, before generalising and forming conclusions. Facts are to the thought what the rules of morality are to the inclination. It is bound to ascertain them, and bear their weight; and it is only when it has fulfilled this duty, and when it has formed an accurate idea of its extent, that it is permitted to expand its wings, and take flight to the lofty region whence it may behold all things in their entirety and their results. If it insists upon mounting too quickly, and without having gained a knowledge of all the territory which it has thence to contemplate, the chances of error and failure are beyond calculation. It happens as in the solution of an arithmetical question, where a preliminary mistake leads to others, _ad infinitum_. Thus in history, if in the first labour all the facts have not been properly investigated, if the taste for precipitate generalisation has been indiscreetly indulged, it is impossible to assign limits to the consequent absurdities. {202} By so emphatically dilating on this point, I am in some degree prejudicing myself. I have been necessarily restricted in this inquiry to attempts at generalising, to giving general summaries of facts which we have not had leisure to study closely. Having now arrived at an epoch in which this task is much more difficult than at any other time, and when the chances of error are far greater, I have judged it my duty to be explicit in laying down these positions, so that my own deductions may be exposed to their test. Having done this, I shall now proceed to attempt upon the Reformation what I have done upon other events--namely, to endeavour to distinguish its predominant fact, to describe its general character; in a word, to assign the station and the part of this great occurrence in the progress of European civilisation. It will be recollected in what state we left Europe at the end of the fifteenth century. We witnessed in its course two great experiments at religious revolution or reform; an experiment at legal reform by the councils, and one at revolutionary reform by the Hussites in Bohemia: both of them we saw stifled and failing in effect; and yet we were made aware that it was impossible to extinguish the spirit, and that it was sure to reproduce itself under one form or another--that, in fact, what the fifteenth century had essayed, the sixteenth would inevitably accomplish. It is not my intention to recount the details of the religious revolution of the sixteenth century; I suppose them to be almost universally known. I am concerned merely with its general influence upon the destinies of the human race. When investigations have been made into the causes which originated this great event, the adversaries of the Reformation have imputed it to accidents, to evils in the course of civilisation--for example, to the sale of indulgences being intrusted to the Dominicans, which rendered the Augustines jealous; and as Luther was an Augustine, that this, therefore, was the determining motive of the Reformation. Others have attributed it to the ambition of the sovereigns, to their rivalship with the ecclesiastical power, and to the greediness of the lay nobles, who were anxious to get possession of the property of the church. It has been thus wished to explain the religious revolution solely by the worst features in mankind and in human affairs--by private interests and personal passions. On the other hand, the friends and partisans of the Reformation have attempted to account for it by the mere necessity for effective reform in the abuses of the church; they have represented it as a redressing of religious grievances, as an undertaking conceived and executed with the sole design of reconstituting the primitive and pure church. Neither the one nor the other of these explanations appears to me well founded. The second has more truth than the first; at least it is more noble, more in accordance with the extent and importance of the event, but yet I do not conceive it at all more exact. {203} In my opinion, the Reformation was neither an accident, the consequence of some great chance, or of some personal interest, nor a simple exhibition of religious improvement, the fruit of an imaginary perfection of humanity and truth. There was a cause more powerful than all these would imply, and which rises superior to all the particular causes. It was a great explosion for the liberty of the human understanding, an uncontrollable demand for its free exercise of thought and judgment, by its own powers alone, upon facts and ideas which Europe previously received, or was held bound to receive, from the hands of authority. It was a grand undertaking for the enfranchisement of human thought, and, to call things by their proper names, a rebellion of the human understanding against power in spiritual matters. Such is, as far as I can judge, the veritable character, the general and predominant character, of the Reformation. When we inquire into the state, at this epoch, of the human mind, on the one hand, and into that of the spiritual power of the church, which had the government of the human mind, on the other, we are struck with a twofold fact. With regard to the human understanding, we perceive a much greater activity, a much greater craving for development, than it had ever felt. This increased activity was the result of various causes, which had been accumulating for ages. For example, there had been times in which heresies sprang up, occupied some space, and fell to be replaced by others; and there had been times in which philosophical opinions held the same course as heresies. The labours of the human mind, both in the religious and philosophical sphere, had been accumulating from the eleventh to the sixteenth century; and the moment was at last come in which they were destined to have a result. Furthermore, all those means of instruction, instituted or authorised in the bosom of the church itself, were far from being fruitless. Schools had been founded, and from these schools issued men not barren in knowledge, whose number increased daily. These men at length insisted upon thinking for themselves, and for their own guidance, for they felt themselves more fortified than they had ever previously been. Finally came that revival and youthful vigorousness imparted to the human intellect by the restoration of antiquity, of which I have before described the progress and effects. All these united causes communicated a highly energetic movement, an imperative necessity for advancement, to the mind of man in the sixteenth century. {204} The situation of the spiritual power, which exercised government over the human understanding, was very different; it had fallen, on the contrary, into a state of inertness and stagnation. The political influence of the church, or of the court of Rome, was much attenuated; the European society was no longer in its exclusive possession, but had passed under the dominion of lay governments. Nevertheless, the spiritual power preserved all its pretensions, all its prominence, and all its external importance. There happened to it what has more than once occurred to old governments. The majority of the complaints that were alleged against it were scarcely better founded than in many such outcries. It is not true that the court of Rome was highly tyrannical in the sixteenth century, or that the abuses, properly so called, were more numerous or glaring than they had been at other times. On the contrary, the ecclesiastical government had never perhaps been more easy, more tolerant, or more disposed to let things take their course, provided the rights it had hitherto enjoyed were so far recognised as not to render them inoperative, provided it were assured its previous existence, and were paid its accustomed dues. It would willingly have left the human mind undisturbed, if the human mind would have been equally complacent with it. But it is precisely when governments have least vigour, when they do least mischief, that they are attacked, because men can then do so, whereas formerly they could not. It is therefore evident, from the mere examination of the state of the human mind at this era, and of that of its government, that the character of the Reformation must have been a new burst of liberty, a grand rebellion of human intellect. This was undoubtedly the predominant cause, that which rose above all the others; a cause more influential than all the interests either of nations or of sovereigns, than the demand for reform, properly so called, than the desire for the redress of those grievances which were complained of at that period. I will suppose that after the Reformation had broken out for some years, when it had paraded all its pretensions, and inventoried all alleged grievances, the spiritual power had suddenly fallen into agreement with it, and had said, 'Well, so be it, I will reform all; I will revert to an order of things more just and religious. I will suppress all annoyances, arbitrary interferences, and tributes; even in matters of faith I will modify, re-interpret, and return to the primitive meanings. But the grievances being thus redressed, I will preserve my position; I will be, as formerly, the government of the human mind, with the same power and the same rights.' Would the religious revolution have been satisfied with these terms, and stopped in its course! I think not; I believe firmly that it would have continued its career, and that, after demanding reform, it would have claimed liberty. The crisis of the sixteenth century was not simply a reforming one; it was essentially revolutionary. It was impossible to remove from it that character in any instance, or its inherent merits and defaults; it had all the consequent effects of such a character. {205} Let us cast a glance at the consequences of the Reformation; let us see what it mainly, and above all things, effected in the different countries in which it was developed. It is to be observed that it was developed in very various and distinct situations, in the midst of very unequal chances. Now, if we find that, if in spite of the diversity of situations and the inequality of chances, it everywhere followed an identical bent, achieved an identical result, and preserved an identical character, it will be clear that this character, which thus surmounted all the diversities of situation, and all the inequalities of chance, must be the fundamental character of the event, and that the result thus obtained must be that which it essentially aimed at. Now, wherever the religious revolution of the sixteenth century prevailed, if it did not work out the complete enfranchisement of the human mind, it procured it a new and considerable increase of liberty. It undoubtedly left thought subject to all the risks of liberty or servitude as to political institutions, but it abolished or disarmed the spiritual power, the systematic and formidable government of the thought. This result the Reformation attained amid the most opposite combinations. In Germany there was no political liberty, nor did the Reformation introduce it; indeed it rather strengthened than weakened the power of princes, and was more adverse to the free institutions of the middle ages than favourable to their development. Nevertheless, it aroused and sustained a liberty of thought in Germany greater perhaps than anywhere else. In Denmark, a country where absolute power prevailed, where it penetrated even into the municipal institutions, as well as into the general ones of the state, the influence of the Reformation wrought the enfranchisement and free exercise of thought in all its directions. In Holland, amidst a republic, and in England, under a constitutional monarchy, and in spite of a religious tyranny long of a very harsh order, the emancipation of the human intellect was likewise accomplished. Finally, in France, in a situation which seemed the least favourable to the effects of the religious revolution, in a country where it had been subdued, there even it was a principle of intellectual independence and freedom. Up till 1685--that is to say, until the revocation of the Edict of Nantes--the Reformation held a legal existence in France. During that long space of time it wrote and discussed, and provoked its adversaries to write and discuss also. This fact alone, this war of pamphlets and conferences between the old and the new opinions, disseminated in France a liberty much more real and active than is generally imagined; a liberty which conduced to the prosperity of science and morality, and to the improvement of the French clergy, as well as to the advantage of thought in general. Let us look at the discussions of Bossuet with Claude, and at the whole of the religious polemics at that period, and then ask ourselves whether Louis XIV. would have sanctioned a similar display of liberty upon any other topic. {206} Thus the Reformation and the opposite party enjoyed more liberty in France in the seventeenth century than was allowed to any person or thing besides. The religious spirit was then much bolder, and treated its questions with far less reserve, than the political spirit, even of Fenelon in his Telemachus. This state of things did not cease until the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Now, from 1685 to the outburst of the human intellect in the eighteenth century, there were not forty years; and the influence of the religious revolution in furtherance of intellectual liberty had scarcely ceased, when that of the philosophical revolution commenced. Thus we see that wherever the Reformation penetrated, wherever it played an important part, whether victorious or vanquished, it had, as a general, predominant, and invariable result, a prodigious advancement to the activity and liberty of thought, a grand tendency to the emancipation of the human understanding from thraldom. And not only had the Reformation this constant result, but it aspired to none other; wherever that was obtained, it was contented, and very rarely sought for anything further, so much was it the groundwork of the event, its primitive and fundamental character! Thus in Germany, so far from demanding political liberty, it accepted, I will not say political servitude, but the absence of freedom. In England, it consented to the hierarchical constitution of the clergy, and the existence of a church as full of abuses as ever the Roman church was, and much more servile to power. How came it to pass that the Reformation, so fierce and stubborn in many respects, thus showed itself so accommodating and supple? Because it had achieved the general fact to which it tended--the abolition of the spiritual power, and the enfranchisement of human thought. I repeat, wherever it attained that object, it easily reconciled itself to all systems and situations. Now let us take the reverse side of this examination, and let us see what happened in those countries where the religious revolution did not penetrate, or was early stifled, or was unable to gain any development. History shows that the human mind was not enfranchised: two great countries, Spain and Italy, distinctly attest the fact. Whilst in those portions of Europe where the Reformation has held an important station, the human intellect has taken, in the three last centuries, an activity and freedom previously unknown, in those where it has not penetrated it has fallen in the same epoch into weakness and inertness; insomuch, that the trial and the counter-trial have been made, as it were, simultaneously, and produced analogous results. {207} Therefore the essential character of the Reformation, the most general consequence of its influence, the predominant fact of its destiny, was the outburst of thought and the abolition of absolute power in spiritual matters. I call it a _fact_, and I say so designedly. The emancipation of the human intellect was in reality, in the course of the Reformation, a fact rather than a principle, a result rather than an intention. The Reformation in this respect, I think, performed more than it had undertaken, more perhaps than it even wished. Unlike many other revolutions which have remained greatly in arrear of what they intended, in which the event has fallen far short of the design, the consequences of the Reformation surpassed its views. It is greater as an event than as a system; what it effected it did not fully foresee, nor would have fully avowed. What were the reproaches which its adversaries constantly fulminated against the Reformation? Which of its results did they cast, so to speak, in its teeth to reduce it to silence? Two principal ones: 1_st_, the multiplicity of sects, the boundless license of the understanding, the destruction of all spiritual authority, and the dissolution of the religious society as a whole; 2_nd_, tyranny and persecution. 'You provoke license,' said they to the reformers; 'you produce it; and when it appears, you wish to restrain and repress it. And how do you repress it? By the harshest and most violent measures. You also persecute heresy, and by virtue of an illegitimate authority.' Survey and sum up all the great attacks directed against the Reformation, severing the purely dogmatical questions, and these are the two fundamental upbraidings to which it will be found they always reduce themselves. The reformed party was greatly embarrassed at these accusations. When the multiplicity of sects was objected to it, instead of avowing the fact, and asserting the legitimacy of their free development, it anathematised sectarians, deplored their appearance, and denied them. Was it taxed with persecution? It defended itself with some perplexity; it alleged necessity; and had, as it said, the right to repress and punish error, for it was in possession of the truth. Its dogmas and institutions were alone legitimate; and if the Roman church had no authority to punish the reformers, it was because it was in the wrong as against them. And when it was not its enemies, but its own offspring, that upbraided the dominant party in the Reformation with its persecutions, when the sectarians, whom it anathematised, said to it, 'We only do what you have done; we only separate ourselves as you have separated yourselves,' it was still more puzzled to find an answer, and very frequently only replied by additional rigour. {208} Thus, in fact, whilst labouring for the destruction of absolute power in spiritual matters, the religious revolution of the sixteenth century was ignorant of the true principles of intellectual liberty. It was busy enfranchising the human mind, and still pretending to govern it by the law; in practice it was giving prevalence to free examination, whilst in theory it was merely purposing to substitute a legitimate for an illegitimate power. It did not rise to the first cause, nor descend to the last consequences, of its own work. Hence it fell into a twofold fault. On the one hand, it neither knew nor respected all the rights of the human thought; at the moment that it clamoured for them, for its own behoof, it violated them with others. On the other hand, it was unable rightly to estimate the rights of authority in the intellectual order of things: I do not speak of coercive authority, which could possess no rights in such matters, but of the purely moral authority, acting upon the understanding alone, and merely by way of influence. The greater part of the reformed countries were deficient in a good organisation of the intellectual society, and in regulating the action of old and general opinions. They could not reconcile the rights and demands of past times or tradition with those of liberty; and the cause was undoubtedly owing to this circumstance, that the Reformation never fully comprehended and accepted either its own principles or its own consequences. Thence, also, it was invested with a certain aspect of inconsistency and narrow-mindedness which frequently gave a hold and advantage over it to its adversaries. These latter knew perfectly well both what they were doing and what they desired; they traced their conduct to certain principles, and avowed all their consequences. There has never been a government more consistent and systematic than that of the Roman church. In practice, the court of Rome has greatly vacillated and yielded, much more than the Reformation; but in principle, it has far more completely followed out its own system, and held a conduct infinitely more coherent in all its parts. This perfect knowledge of what is done, and what is wished to be done, this complete and thoughtful adoption of a doctrine and a design, give considerable strength to a party. The religious revolution of the sixteenth century presented in its progress a striking example of it. It is well known that the principal power instituted to contest with it was the order of Jesuits. Take a glance at their history: they everywhere failed; and wherever they interfered to any extent, they brought misfortune upon the cause they meddled with. In England, a race of kings was their victims; in Spain, the people. The eternal nature of things, the development of modern civilisation, and the liberty of the human understanding, all those powers against which the Jesuits were called upon to struggle, rose up against them, and vanquished them. And not only did they miscarry, but what were the means they were constrained to employ? {209} No lustre or grandeur marked their actions; they performed no brilliant events, nor did they put in movement imposing masses of men; they transacted matters by under-hand, obscure, and subordinate modes--ways which were not at all calculated to strike the imagination, or to secure for them that public sympathy which is attracted by great circumstances, whatever may be their principle and design. The party against which they strove, on the contrary, was not only victorious, but conquered with renown, effecting great things by great means; it aroused the people, strewed Europe with illustrious men, and changed in the face of day the fate and constitution of states. In fact, every thing was against the Jesuits, both fortune and appearances; neither the good sense which decides success, nor the imagination which has need of pomp, were consulted in their career. And yet nothing is more certain than that they had greatness; a great idea is attached to their name, their influence, and their history. It is because they knew what they were doing, and what they wished to do; because they had a full and clear conception of the principles upon which they acted, and of the object to which they conduced--that is to say, they had grandeur of thought and of intention, which saved them from the ridicule which is always attached to repeated reverses and despicable means. Where, on the contrary, the event was greater than the design, where a knowledge of the first principles and final results of the action seemed to be wanting, there remained something imperfect, inconsistent, and contracted, which placed the very conquerors in a sort of rational and philosophical inferiority that has sometimes made its influence be felt in events. This was, I conceive, the weak side of the Reformation in the contest between the two spiritual systems, the old and the new, which frequently embarrassed its situation, and prevented it from defending itself as efficiently as it ought to have done. I might consider the religious revolution of the sixteenth century under several other aspects. I have said nothing, nor intend to say anything, upon its purely dogmatical phase, upon what it effected in religion, properly so called, or as to the relations of the human soul with God and eternity; but I might exhibit it in the variety of its relations with the social order, deducing throughout results of immense importance. For example, it recalled religion to the bulk of the laymen, to the world of the faithful; previously, religion was, so to speak, the exclusive domain of the clergy, of the ecclesiastical order, who distributed its consolations, but alone disposed of the groundwork, and almost solely possessed the right to speak of it. The Reformation caused religious doctrines to re-enter into general circulation, and it reopened the field of faith to believers, into which they had lost their right to penetrate. It had, at the same time, a second result: it banished, or nearly so, religion from politics; it restored independence to the temporal power. {210} At the very same moment that religion re-entered, so to speak, into the possession of the faithful, it parted from the government of society. In the reformed countries, notwithstanding the diversity of ecclesiastical constitutions--in England even, where that constitution is more akin to the ancient order of things--the spiritual power has no longer any serious idea of directing the temporal. I might enumerate many other consequences of the Reformation, but I must restrain myself, and be satisfied with having brought out its principal character--the emancipation of the human understanding, and the abolition of absolute power in the spiritual order of things; an abolition which undoubtedly was not complete, but nevertheless the greatest advance in that direction which had been made up to our own time. Before concluding, I shall say a few words upon the striking similarity of destiny that is observable between the civil and the religious societies, in the revolutions to which they have been subjected in the history of modern Europe. The Christian society commenced, as I before explained when speaking of the church, by being a perfectly free society, formed solely by virtue of a common creed, without institutions, without government, properly so called, regulated merely by moral and fluctuating powers, according to the wants of the moment. Civil society also commenced in Europe, partially at least, by bands of barbarians; a society perfectly free, in which each remained because he wished it, without laws or instituted powers. Upon the termination of that state, which could not be reconciled with any great social development, the religious society placed itself under a government essentially aristocratical; it was governed by the clergy, the bishops, councils, and ecclesiastical aristocracy. A fact of the same nature occurred in the civil society, upon issuing out of barbarism, it falling equally under the domination of an aristocracy or lay-feudalism. The religious society left the aristocratic form to enter that of pure monarchy; for such was the purport of the triumph of the court of Rome over the councils and over the European ecclesiastical aristocracy. The same revolution was accomplished in civil society; it was also by the destruction of the aristocratical power that royalty prevailed and took possession of the European world. In the sixteenth century, an insurrection broke out in the bosom of the religious society against the system of pure monarchy, against absolute power in spiritual things. This revolution drew in its train, established and consecrated, the spirit of free inquiry in Europe. In our own days, we have witnessed a similar event in the civil order. The temporal absolute power has been equally attacked and vanquished. Thus we see that the two societies have gone through the same vicissitudes, and suffered the same revolutions; but the religious society has always been in the van in this career. {211} We are now in possession of one of the great facts of modern society--the spirit of free inquiry, or the liberty of the human understanding. We have also seen that, at the same time, political centralisation prevailed almost everywhere. In my next lecture I shall treat of the English Revolution--that is to say, of the event in which the spirit of free examination and pure monarchy, both the results of the progress of civilisation, found themselves for the first time in array. {212} Lecture XIII. Effects Of The English Revolution. We have seen that, in the course of the sixteenth century, all the elements and facts of the ancient European society had gathered into two essential facts--the spirit of free inquiry, and the centralisation of power. The one prevailed in the religious society, and the other in the civil. Thus the emancipation of the human mind and pure monarchy achieved their triumphs at the same time. A struggle between these two facts was pretty sure at some period to take place, for there was something contradictory between them; the one was the defeat of absolute power in spiritual affairs, and the other its victory in temporal affairs; the one promoted the decay of the old ecclesiastical monarchy, and the other perfected the ruin of the old liberties of feudal and borough times. Their simultaneousness continued, as we have seen, until the revolutions of the religious society marched quicker than those of the civil; the first came forth at the period of the enfranchisement of individual thought, whilst the last only declared itself at the instant of the concentration of all the powers into one general power. The coincidence in time of the two facts, therefore, far from accruing from their similarity, did not even moderate their contradictory natures. They were each an advance in the course of civilisation, but advances linked to different situations, and of distinct moral dates, so to speak, although coincident in time. That they should clash with each other before they succeeded in blending harmoniously, was inevitable. Their first battle-field was England. The principle of the English Revolution was the struggle of free inquiry, the fruit of the Reformation, against the ruin of all political liberty, the fruit of the success of pure monarchy; an attempt to abolish absolute power in temporal as well as in spiritual affairs. Such is the character of that revolution in the course of our civilisation. Why did this contest occur in England rather than elsewhere? Why were the revolutions of a political character more nearly simultaneous with those of a moral character in that country than on the continent? The English royalty had undergone the same vicissitudes as the continental; in the reign of the Tudors, it reached a pitch of concentration and energy which it had never before known. I do not mean to say that the practical despotism of the Tudors was more violent, or more hurtful to England, than that of their predecessors had been. {213} There were, I have no doubt, quite as many acts of tyranny, exactions, and violations of right under the Plantagenets as under the Tudors, and perhaps more. I am also of opinion that at this epoch the government of monarchy on the continent was more rough and arbitrary than in England. The new fact under the Tudors consisted in absolute power becoming systematic; royalty pretended to a primitive, indefeasible sovereignty, and assumed a tone and held a language which it had not previously ventured upon. The theoretical pretensions of Henry VIII., Elizabeth, James I., and Charles I., were far different from those put forth by Edward I. or Edward III., although practically the power of these last-named kings was neither less arbitrary nor extensive. I repeat, it was the principle or rational system of the monarchy which changed in England, during the sixteenth century, rather than its practical power; royalty claimed to be absolute and superior to all laws, even to those which it declared itself willing to respect. On the other hand, the religious revolution was not accomplished in England as upon the continent; it was the work of the kings themselves. Not that the seeds of a popular reform had not long existed there also, and even put forth some shoots, which in all probability would have grown rapidly to maturity, but Henry VIII. took the initiative, and royalty led the way to revolution. It thence resulted, at least in the beginning, that as a reform of ecclesiastical abuses and tyranny, as a liberation of the human mind, the English reformation was much less complete than on the continent. It was made, as a matter of course, in the interests of its authors. The king and the retained episcopacy divided the spoils, both of wealth and of power, of the preceding government, the papacy. The consequence was not long in being felt. It was said that the reformation was made, whilst the greater part of the motives which had rendered it desirable still subsisted. It reappeared, therefore, under the popular form, clamouring against the bishops as it had exclaimed against the court of Rome, and accusing them of being so many popes. Whenever the general fate of the religious revolution was jeopardised, whenever it was a question of war against the ancient church, all portions of the reformed party rallied together, and confronted the common enemy; but the danger being over, the internal struggle recommenced, the popular reformation renewed its attack on the royal and aristocratical reformation, denounced its abuses, complained of its tyranny, and called upon it to keep its promises, and not to reproduce the power which it had so recently subverted. {214} About the same epoch, a movement for liberation, a craving for political liberty formerly unfelt, or at least not strongly, arose in the civil society. In the course of the sixteenth century, the commercial prosperity of England increased with extreme rapidity, and at the same time territorial wealth or landed property changed hands to a great extent. Sufficient attention has not been paid to the fact contained in the increased division of landed estates in the sixteenth century, in consequence of the ruin of the feudal aristocracy, and from many other causes which it would be too tedious to enumerate here. All authorities show us the number of landed proprietors prodigiously augmenting, and estates passing in a great measure into the possession of the _gentry_ or small nobility, and the burgesses. The high nobility, or House of Lords, was at the commencement of the seventeenth century not nearly so rich as the House of Commons. There was therefore a great development of industrial resources and a great mutation in landed property at one and the same time. Contemporary with these two facts came up a third, the new movement of mind. The reign of Elizabeth is perhaps the era of the greatest literary and philosophical activity in England, the epoch of fertile and bold thoughts. The Puritans pushed unhesitatingly to all the consequences of a narrow but strong doctrine; other spirits, less moral and more liberal, careless of principle or system, welcomed with eagerness all ideas which promised satisfaction to their curiosity or aliment to their zeal for knowledge. Wherever the intellectual movement is hailed with delight, liberty soon becomes a necessity, and it promptly passes from the public mind into the government. In some of the continental countries where the Reformation had broken out, a desire of the same nature, a certain longing for political liberty, had indeed manifested itself also, but the means of success were wanting to this new spirit; it knew not where to fix itself, finding no basis either in institutions or manners, but remaining vague and uncertain, seeking in vain how to set about satisfying itself. In England, it happened quite otherwise: there the spirit of political liberty, which reappeared in the sixteenth century, consequent upon the Reformation, had a basis and means of action in the ancient institutions, and in the whole social state. There is no person who is ignorant of the first origin of the free institutions of England, or how the coalition of the great barons, in 1215, wrested from King John _Magna Charta_. It is not so generally known that the great charter was renewal and confirmed at repeated intervals by the majority of the kings. There were more than thirty confirmations of it between the thirteenth and sixteenth centuries. And not only was the charter confirmed, but new statutes were made in order to strengthen and develop it. It continued to subsist, therefore, without break or interval. At the same time the House of Commons was formed, and had taken its place in the supreme institutions of the country. {215} It was under the race of the Plantagenets that it veritably took root; not that it played any great part in the state at that epoch, for the government, properly so called, did not come within the scope of its functions, even as a mere influence; it interfered only when it was called upon by the king, and almost always did so with reluctance and hesitation, as if fearing to engage and compromise itself, and displaying no eagerness to augment its power. But when it concerned the defence of private rights, the fortunes or dwellings of the citizens, individual liberty, in a word, the House of Commons upon such occasions performed its mission with great energy and constancy, and established all the principles which have become the basis of the English constitution. After the Plantagenets, and especially under the Tudors, the House of Commons, or rather the whole parliament, presents itself under another aspect. It ceased to defend individual liberty so strenuously as under the Plantagenets. Arbitrary arrests, and violations of private rights, became much more frequent, and were oftener passed over in silence. As a counterpoise, the parliament held a greater place in the general government of the state. Henry VIII., for instance, needing a public support or instrument in order to change the religion of the country, and to regulate the succession to the throne, made use of the parliament, and especially of the House of Commons. Under the Plantagenets it had been an instrument of resistance, an assertor of private rights; under the Tudors it became an instrument of government, a participator in general politics; so that, at the end of the sixteenth century, although it had served or suffered almost all descriptions of tyranny, its importance had nevertheless greatly increased; its power was founded--that power upon which, in truth, representative government is based. Therefore, when we refer to the state in which the free institutions of England stood at the end of the sixteenth century, we find the following facts:--First, certain maxims and principles of liberty, which had been constantly recorded, and of which the country and the legislature had never lost sight; secondly, certain precedents or examples of liberty, greatly mingled, it is true, with contrary precedents and examples, but sufficing to legitimate and give efficacy to remonstrances, and to support the advocates of liberty in the struggle commenced against arbitrary power or tyranny; thirdly, certain special and local institutions, fruitful as seeds of liberty, as juries, the right of assembly, and of being armed, and the independence of the municipal administrations and jurisdictions; fourthly, and finally, the parliament and its power, of which royalty had more need than ever, as it had alienated the greater part of its independent revenues, its domains, feudal rights, &c. and was obliged to have recourse, for its own sustenance, to the vote of the country. {216} The political state of England in the sixteenth century was thus quite different from that of the continent. In spite of the tyranny of the Tudors, and in spite of the systematic predominance of pure monarchy, there was nevertheless a substantial basis and assured means of action for the new spirit of liberty. Two national demands were therefore coincident at this epoch in England. On the one hand, a demand for religious revolution and liberty amidst the reformation already introduced; and on the other, a demand for political liberty amidst the pure monarchy then in progress. These two spirits were also enabled to adduce, for their own advancement, what had previously occurred in either the one or the other direction. As was natural, they formed an alliance. The party bent on the pursuit of religious reform, invoked political liberty to the succour of its faith and its conscience against the king and the bishops; and the friends of political liberty courted the aid of the popular reformation. The two parties united to struggle against absolute power in temporal and in spiritual affairs--a power altogether concentrated in the hands of the king. Such was the origin and meaning of the English revolution. It was essentially consecrated to the defence or the conquest of liberty. To the religious party it was a means, to the political party an object; but with both, the question at issue was one of liberty, and they were obliged to pursue it in common. There was not any real religious quarrel between the Episcopal and the Puritanical parties; the contest was not joined upon dogmas, upon objects of faith, properly so called; not that there were not between them substantial differences of opinion upon important and grand points, but that was not the principal and capital matter in dispute between them. Practical liberty was what the Puritan party wished to wrest from the Episcopal party, and it was for that it struggled. There was, undoubtedly, also a religious party, which had a system to found, and peculiar dogmas, an ecclesiastical discipline and constitution of its own, to make prevalent--namely, the Presbyterian party; but although it laboured to attain its objects with all its might, it was not in a condition to put forward all its claims in these respects. Placed upon the defensive, oppressed by the bishops, and unable to effect anything without the sanction of the political reformers--its necessary allies and chiefs--liberty was for it the predominant interest; it was, indeed, the general interest and common object of all the parties which co-operated in the movement, however great their diversity. Taking everything, therefore, into consideration, the English revolution was essentially political. It was accomplished amidst a religious people, and in a religious age, and religious ideas and passions served it as instruments; but its fundamental purpose and definitive end were political--the establishment of liberty, and the abolition of absolute power. {217} I shall go through the different phases of this revolution, and decompose it into the great parties which followed each other in it. I will afterwards connect it with the general course of European civilisation, and denote its place and influence therein. It will be seen by the detail of facts, as it appeared at first sight, that it was really the earliest shock of the free spirit of inquiry with pure monarchy, the earliest explosion of the antagonistic principles of those two great powers. Three principal parties came forward in this influential crisis; three revolutions were in some sort continued and successively produced upon the stage. In each party, in each revolution, two several parties were allied and marched in conjunction--the one of a political, and the other of a religious cast. The first took the lead, and the second followed, but each was necessary to the other; insomuch that the twofold character of the event is distinctly marked in all its phases. The first party which appeared--that under whose banner all the others at first ranged themselves--was the party aiming at legal reform. When the English revolution commenced, when the Long Parliament assembled in 1640, everyone said, and many sincerely believed, that a legal reform would meet all difficulties, and that there was sufficient in the ancient laws and usages of the country to afford a remedy for all abuses, and to establish a system of government in perfect conformity with the public desire. This party loudly blamed, and was sincerely anxious to prevent illegal taxation, arbitrary imprisonments, and all acts, in fact, condemned by the recognised laws of the land. At the base of its ideas was the belief in the sovereignty of the king--that is to say, in absolute power. A secret instinct forewarned it that there was in that dogma something false and dangerous, so it would willingly have avoided allusion to it; but urged to extremity, and forced to explain itself, it admitted that there resided in royalty a power superior to all human origin and all control, and defended it when needful. It held, at the same time, that this sovereignty, absolute in principle, was bound to respect in its exercise certain rules and forms, and that there were certain limits beyond which it could not go; and furthermore, that these rules, forms, and limits were sufficiently established and guaranteed in _Magna Charta_, in the confirmative statutes, and in the old common law of the country. Such was its political creed. In religious matters, the legal party thought that episcopacy had greatly encroached, that the bishops had too much power, that their jurisdiction was too extensive, and that it was necessary to restrict it, and keep guard over its exercise. Nevertheless, it strongly adhered to episcopacy, not only as an ecclesiastical institution, and as a system of church government, but also as a necessary support to the royal prerogative, and as a means for defending and sustaining the supremacy of the king in religious affairs. {218} The doctrines of the sovereignty of the king, in the political order of things, to be exercised according to legal recognised forms and within the like limits, and of the supremacy of the king in religious matters, administered and supported by episcopacy, were maintained in the twofold system of the legal party. Its chief men were Clarendon, Colepepper, Lord Capel, and even Lord Falkland, although a warmer advocate for popular liberties, and it reckoned in its ranks almost all the great lords who were not servilely devoted to the court. Behind them advanced a second party, which I will call that of political revolution. This held that the ancient guarantees, the ancient legal barriers, had been, and were, insufficient; that a great change, a veritable revolution, was required, not in the forms, but in the real essence, of the government; that it was necessary to deprive the king and his council of their independent power, and place political preponderance in the House of Commons; and that the government, properly so called, belonged to that assembly and its chiefs. This party did not investigate its own ideas or intentions so clearly or systematically as I have done, but these were the main features of its political doctrines and tendencies. Instead of the absolute sovereignty of the king, or of pure monarchy, it rested its belief in the sovereignty of the House of Commons as representing the country. Under this idea was concealed that of the sovereignty of the people, an idea of which the party was far from estimating all the bearings, or from intending all the consequences, but which suggested itself to it, and was embraced under the form of the sovereignty of the House of Commons. The religious party of the Presbyterians was closely united with the party of political revolution. The Presbyterians wished to effect a revolution in the church analogous to that which their allies meditated in the state. They wished to have the church governed by assemblies (presbyteries), and to lodge religious power in a hierarchy of assemblies working into each other, as their allies wished to lodge political power in the House of Commons. But the Presbyterian revolution was more bold and complete, for it aimed at changing the form, as well as the groundwork, of church government, whilst the political party aspired only to displace influences and preponderance, and did not contemplate any overthrow in the form of the institutions. Thus the chiefs of the political party were not all favourable to the Presbyterian organisation of the church. Several of them-- Hampden and Holles, for example--would have preferred a moderate episcopacy, restricted to functions purely ecclesiastical, and permitting increased liberty of conscience. However, they gave in to it, for they could not spare their fanatical allies. {219} A third party demanded still more. This alleged that it was necessary to change at once the groundwork and the form of the government, that the whole political constitution was vicious and disastrous. This party threw aside the past history of England, and rejected all national institutions and traditions, in order to found a new government upon pure theory, in as far at least as it conceived a theory. It was not only a revolution in the government that it designed to accomplish, but also a social revolution. The party of which I have just spoken, the party of political revolution, was anxious to introduce great changes into the relations of the parliament with the crown, and wished to extend the power of the houses, especially of the Commons, to invest them with the right of nomination to great public offices, and with the supreme direction of general affairs; but its schemes of reform went not beyond these points. It had no idea of changing, for instance, the electoral, the judicial, the administrative, or the municipal system of the country. The republican party meditated all these changes, publicly asserted their necessity, and designed, in a word, to remodel not only the public powers, but the social relations, and the distribution of private rights. Like the preceding, this party also was composed of a religious and of a political portion. In the latter class were the real theoretical republicans, Ludlow, Harrington, Milton, &c. By their side were ranged the republicans from circumstances and interest, the principal chiefs of the army--Ireton, Cromwell, and Lambert-- all more or less sincere in their first impulse, but soon controlled and led by personal views and the necessities of their situation. Around them was rallied the religious republican party, composed of all the enthusiastic sects which recognised no power as legitimate but that of Jesus Christ, and, whilst waiting for His coming, desired the government of His elect. At the tail of the party was a rather considerable number of libertines and fantastical dreamers, the former promising themselves a career of licentiousness, the latter equality of goods and universal suffrage. In 1653, after twelve years of contest, all these parties had successively appeared and failed in their designs. They ought at least to have been convinced of this result, and it is certain that the public was so. The legal party, quickly thrust aside, had seen the ancient constitution and laws spurned and trampled under foot, and innovations penetrating on all sides. The party of political revolution witnessed parliamentary forms perish in the novel use to which it was wished to apply them; after twelve years of domination, it saw the House of Commons reduced, by the successive expulsion of the Royalists and the Presbyterians, to a very small number of members, despised and detested by the public, and utterly incapable of governing. The republican party seemed to have succeeded best; it had, in appearance, remained master of the field of battle; the House of Commons counted scarcely more than fifty or sixty members, all republicans. {220} They might believe and call themselves masters of the country; but the country resolutely refused to allow itself to be governed by them, and they were incapable of giving effect to their will in any quarter; they had no means of action either on the army or the people. No social bond or safety any longer subsisted; justice was not rendered, or, if it were, it was not justice; its administration was directed by party-spirit, chance, or malice. And not only was there an absence of all safety in the relations of society, but there was none even on the high roads; they were covered with robbers and brigands. Thus physical as well as moral anarchy prevailed, and the House of Commons and the republican council of state were utterly inefficient to preserve order. The three great parties of the Revolution, then, had been successively called upon to conduct it, to govern the country according to their ability and theories; and they had been found incapable of doing so; they had all three completely failed, and were writhing powerless. 'It was then,' says Bossuet, 'that a man was found who left nothing to fortune that he could place beyond its reach by counsel and foresight;' an expression quite erroneous, and which all history belies. No man ever left more to fortune than Cromwell; none ever exposed more to hazard, or proceeded with more temerity, without design or object, but the determination to go as far as fate would permit him. Cromwell is characterised by a boundless ambition and an admirable skill in converting each day and each circumstance into a means of progression, the art of turning fortune to account, without presuming to direct it. He displayed qualities such as perhaps no man who has pursued a career at all analogous ever evinced; he was suited for all the phases, the most distinct and varied, of the revolution. He was equally a man for the first as for the last of its periods: in the beginning, the instigator of insurrection, the promoter of anarchy, and the most fierce revolutionist in England; subsequently, the man of reaction, the re-establisher of order and of social organisation; thus playing by himself alone all the parts which, in the usual course of revolutions, are divided amongst the greatest actors. We cannot say that Cromwell was a Mirabeau; he wanted eloquence, and in the first years of the Long Parliament, although highly active, he made no figure. But he was successively Danton and Bonaparte. He had more than any other contributed to prostrate power, and he raised it up because none other could assume and wield it. Some government was requisite, and all aspirants to the conduct of one miserably failed; but he succeeded. Once master of the government, this man, whose ambition had shown itself so daring and insatiable, who had always advanced, pushing fortune before him, and stayed by no barrier, exhibited a good sense, prudence, and perception of the practicable, sufficient to control his most violent desires. {221} There is no doubt he had a keen relish for absolute power, and felt a strong inclination to place the crown upon his head, and bequeath it to his family. This latter purpose he abandoned, when he became timeously aware of the peril it would expose him to; and with regard to absolute power, although he practically exercised it, he was of too sound an intellect not to comprehend that the feeling of his age was utterly repugnant to it, that the revolution in which he had co-operated, and which he had followed in all its phases, had been directed against despotism, and that the irrepressible desire of England was to be governed by a parliament, and according to parliamentary forms. Therefore he, the despot, by taste and in fact, endeavoured to have a parliament, and to govern after a parliamentary fashion. He addressed himself successively to all parties; he attempted to form a parliament with the religious enthusiasts, with the republicans, with the Presbyterians, and with the officers of the army. He tried all possible means to constitute a parliament which could and would act with him. He sought in vain: all parties, when once seated in Westminster, wished to wrest from him the power he exercised, and to govern in their turn. I will not affirm that Cromwell's principal motive was not his personal interest and gratification, but there is not the least doubt that if he had thrown up his power, he must necessarily have resumed it the next day; for Puritans or royalists, republicans or officers, none others than Cromwell himself were conditioned to govern with any order or justice. The experiment, in fact, had been made. It was impossible to permit the parliament--that is, the parties sitting in parliament--to assume an empire which they could not preserve. Such, then, was the situation of Cromwell; he governed by a system which he knew perfectly well was hateful to the country, and he exercised a power acknowledged to be necessary, but which was acceptable to no one. His sway was not considered by any party as a definitive, established government. The royalists, the Presbyterians, and the republicans, the army itself, the party which was the most devoted to him, were all convinced that he was only a transitory master. At bottom, he never reigned over the minds of men; he was never anything in their eyes but a make-shift, a necessity of the moment. The Protector, absolute master of England, was obliged all his life to make use of force to retain power. No party could govern as he was able to do, yet none looked upon him with a kindly or favourable eye; on the contrary, he was constantly attacked by all. {222} At his death, the republicans alone were in so compact an order as to lay hands on power. They did so, and succeeded no better than they had formerly done. It was not from any want of confidence in themselves, at least so far as the fanatics of the party were concerned. A pamphlet of Milton, published at that epoch, remarkable for talent and enthusiasm, is entitled, 'An Easy and Prompt Method for Establishing the Republic' The self-conceit of these men was as great as ever. They shortly relapsed into that impossibility of governing which they had previously evinced. Monk assumed the conduct of the event which all England was breathlessly expecting. The Restoration was effected. The restoration of the Stuarts was a truly national occurrence. It presented itself with the advantages of an ancient government, reposing on the traditions and cherished remembrances of the country, and at the same time with the favourable auspices of a new government, exposed to no recent trial, and the faults and weight of which had not been lately experienced. The ancient monarchy was the only system of government, which for twenty years had not been condemned for its incapacity and its bad success in the administration of the country. These two causes rendered the Restoration popular: it was opposed only by the dregs of the violent parties; the public rallied around it with great good-will. In the opinion of the country at large, it was the only chance and means of forming a legal government, the fact which was most ardently desired by the community. This was also what the Restoration undertook to effect, the promise of a legal government was precisely what it held out. The first royalist party which took the management of affairs, after the return of Charles II., was in fact the legal party, represented by its ablest chief, the high chancellor Clarendon. From 1660 to 1667, Clarendon was prime minister, and possessed of the greatest influence in England. Clarendon and his friends reappeared with their ancient system, the absolute sovereignty of the king, restrained within legal limits, controlled in matters of taxation by the parliament, and in matters of private right and individual liberty by the tribunals of justice; but possessing, in the practice of government, properly so called, an almost entire independence, and the most decisive preponderance, to the exclusion, or even in spite of, the wishes of the majority in parliament, and especially of those of the House of Commons. On other points, they evinced a proper respect for legal order, a solicitude for the interests of the country, a noble sentiment of its dignity, and a moral tone highly grave and honourable. Such was the character of Clarendon's administration for seven years. But the fundamental ideas upon which this administration rested, the absolute sovereignty of the king, and the government raised beyond the sphere of the influence of parliament, were antiquated and dead in the public mind. Notwithstanding the reaction of the first moments of the Restoration, twenty years of parliamentary dominion had placed them beyond resuscitation. {223} A new element shortly burst out in the heart of the royalist party, personified in the Deists, rakes, or libertines, who participated in the ideas of the time, partook the belief that power was vested in the Commons, and caring little for legal order, or the absolute sovereignty of the king, were anxious only for their own success, and sought it wherever they perceived any means of influence or power to exist. They formed a party which allied itself with the discontented national party, and Clarendon was overthrown. Then came a new system of government, carried on by that portion of the royalist party that I have just described. The rakes or libertines formed the ministry that is styled the ministry of the Cabal, and several of the administrations that succeeded it. Let us see what were their characteristics. No solicitude as to principles, laws, or rights; no regard for justice or truth; the adoption of such means of success as each occasion presented; if success depended on the influence of the Commons, everything was prostituted to gain it; if it were necessary to disregard the Commons, it was done without scruple, asking their pardon the next moment. Corruption was tried one day, cajolery with the nation the next: no care was evinced for the general interests of the country, for its dignity or its honour; in a word, it was a government essentially selfish and immoral, scorning all doctrines and views of public advantage; but at bottom, and in the practice of affairs, sufficiently intelligent and liberal. Such was the character of the Cabal, of the ministry of the Earl of Danby, and of the whole English government from 1667 to 1679. In spite of its immorality, and its disdain for principles and the true interests of the country, this government was less odious and unpopular than the ministry of Clarendon had been. And why? Because it was more in the spirit of the age, and understood better the sentiments of the people, even whilst it mocked them. It was not antiquated and foreign to the feelings of the country like that of Clarendon; and though it did the nation much greater injury, it was less distasteful to it. At last there came a moment when corruption, servility, and disregard for the public rights and honour were pushed to such a point, as to render farther sufferance impossible. There was a general outcry against the government of the libertines. A national and patriotic party was formed in the House of Commons. The king was induced to call its chiefs to the council. Then came into the direction of affairs Lord Essex, the son of him who had commanded the first parliamentary armies during the civil war, Lord Russell, and a man who, without having any of their virtues, was far superior to them in political ability, Lord Shaftesbury. Thus placed at the head of affairs, the national party gave tokens of its incapacity; it knew not how to gain the moral force of the country; it was unable to conciliate the interests, habits, and prejudices either of the king, of the court, or of the persons with whom it had to transact business. {224} It conveyed to no one, either to king or people, any great idea of its talents or energy. After remaining a short time in power, it sank. The virtues of its chiefs, their generous courage, the nobleness of their deaths, have exalted them in history, and justly placed them in the highest rank; but their political capacity did not equal their virtue, and they knew not how to exercise the power which had been unable to corrupt them, or make the cause triumphant for which they could lay their heads on the block. Let us see in what state the English Restoration was after the failure of this attempt. It had, like the Revolution, in some sort tried all parties and administrations--the legal, the corrupt, and the national--and none had succeeded. The country and the court found themselves in a situation almost analogous to that in which England was in 1653 at the close of the revolutionary storm. Recourse was had to the same expedient: what Cromwell had done for lessening the evils of the Revolution, Charles II. did for the advantage of his crown--he plunged into the career of absolute power. James II. succeeded his brother. Then a second question was added to that of absolute power--the question of religion. James wished to make papistry dominant as well as despotism. Thus we see, as at the commencement of the Revolution, a religious rising and a political rising, both directed against the government. It has been often asked what would have happened if William III. had not been in existence, or if he had not come with his Hollanders to put an end to the quarrel between James II. and the English people? I am decidedly of opinion that the same event would have been accomplished. The whole of England, excepting a very small party, was aroused at that epoch against James, and most assuredly the Revolution of 1688 would have been effected under one form or another. But that crisis was hastened by causes more influential than the internal state of England. It was a European event as well as an English. It is at this point that the English Revolution is connected by facts themselves, independently of the influence which its example has exercised, to the general course of European civilisation. Whilst the struggle was breaking out in England which I have just alluded to--the war of absolute power against civil and religious liberty--one of the same kind was proceeding on the continent, very different as to the actors, the forms it assumed, and the theatre of action, but at bottom the same, and for the same cause. The pure unmixed monarchy of Louis XIV. was striving to become a universal monarchy; at least it gave occasion for the apprehension, and in fact Europe was impressed with that fear. A league amongst certain status in Europe was formed to oppose this attempt, and the chief of that league was the head of the party for securing religious and civil liberty in Europe--William, Prince of Orange. {225} The Protestant republic of Holland, with William as its leader, undertook to resist the pure monarchy represented and led on by Louis XIV. The apparent question at issue was not as to civil and religious liberty in the interior of states, but of the independence of those states. Louis XIV. and his opponents had no idea that they were contesting between them the same question that was at stake in England. Their struggle was maintained, not as between parties, but as between states; it was carried on by war and diplomacy, and not by political party movements and revolutions. But at bottom it was the same question that was agitated. When, therefore, James II. recommenced in England the contest between absolute power and liberty, it occurred in the midst of the general war which was going forward in Europe between Louis XIV. and the Prince of Orange, the representatives of two great systems fighting on the Scheldt as well as on the Thames. The league against Louis XIV. was so strong, that several sovereigns entered it, either publicly, or in a concealed but effective manner, who were assuredly greatly averse to the flourishing of civil and religious liberty. The Emperor of Germany and Pope Innocent XI. supported William against Louis XIV. And William passed into England, less to serve the internal interests of that country, than to draw it fully into the league against Louis. He took this new kingdom as an additional force which he needed, and which his adversary had previously made use of against him. So long as Charles II. and James II. had reigned, England had belonged to Louis XIV.; it was he who had disposed of its force, and had invariably directed it against Holland. England was therefore drawn from the party of pure and universal monarchy, to become the main instrument and support of religious liberty. This is the European side of the Revolution of 1688, and it is by this connection that it took a station in the events of Europe considered as a whole, independently of the part it played by its example, and the influence it exercised over the minds of men in the following century. Thus we see, as I stated at the commencement, that the true meaning and essential character of this revolution was the attempt to abolish absolute power in temporal as well as in spiritual matters. This fact is to be found in all the phases of the Revolution, in its first period up to the Restoration, and in the second up to the crisis of 1688, whether we consider it in its interior development as to England, or in its relations with Europe in general. It remains for us to study the same great event--the struggle between pure monarchy and free inquiry on the continent, or at least its causes and approaches. This will be the object of my next and last lecture. {226} Lecture XIV. Cause And Effects Of The French Revolution. I endeavoured in my last lecture to determine the veritable character and political purport of the English Revolution. We have seen that it was the first encounter of the two great facts, into which the whole civilisation of primitive Europe had gathered in the course of the sixteenth century--namely, pure monarchy on the one hand, and the spirit of free inquiry on the other. These two powers came to blows for the first time in England. It has been thence attempted to deduce a radical difference between the social state of England and that of the continent; it has been alleged that no comparison was possible between regions of so distinct a destiny, and that the English people had lived in a moral atmosphere of their own, in a moral isolation as complete as their geographical. There has been, it is true, an important difference between the English and the continental civilisations, which it behoves us to investigate. We have already had a glimpse of it in the course of our inquiry. The different principles and elements of society have been developed in England in some degree simultaneously and abreast, much more so at least than on the continent. When I endeavoured to determine the peculiar character of the European civilisation, as compared with the ancient and Asiatic civilisations, I made it appear that the first was varied, copious, and complex; that it had never fallen under the dominion of any exclusive principle; and that the different elements of the social state had been there brought into juxtaposition, conflict, and mutual modifications, and had been constantly obliged to act and exist in common. This fact--the general characteristic of European civilisation--has been especially the feature of English civilisation; it has been there elicited with most coherency and palpability. In that country the civil and religious orders--aristocracy, democracy, royalty, local and central institutions, moral and political development--have progressed and expanded in conjunction and pell-mell, so to speak; if not with parallel rapidity, always, at least, at a short distance from each other. Under the sway of the Tudors, for example, in the most brilliant career of pure monarchy, we see the democratic principle, the popular power, break through and intrench itself almost at the same time. The revolution of the seventeenth century exploded, at once a political and religious movement. The feudal aristocracy appeared in it but in a very enfeebled state, and betraying various symptoms of decay; yet it was still enabled to preserve a station in it, to play an important part, and secure itself a share in its results. {227} There are the same features in the whole course of English history; no ancient element ever completely perishes, nor does any new element ever exclusively triumph; no special principle ever gains absolute dominion. There is always a simultaneous development of the different powers, and arrangement between their pretensions and respective interests. Upon the continent, the march of civilisation has been much less complex and less complete. The various elements of society--the religious order, the civil order, monarchy, aristocracy, and democracy--have not been developed conjointly, and side by side, but successively. Each principle or system has had in some sort its day. Such an age, for instance, belongs, I shall not say exclusively, for that would be going too far, but with a marked preponderance, to the feudal aristocracy, another to the monarchical principle, and another to the democratic principle. Compare the French with the English middle ages, the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries of French history with the corresponding centuries of English. It will be found that, in the epoch in question, feudalism was almost absolutely paramount in France, and royalty and democracy nearly nullified. In England, on the contrary, although the feudal aristocracy held the chief sway, royalty and democracy evinced themselves both vigorous and important. Royalty triumphed in England under Elizabeth, as in France under Louis XIV.; but how many measures was she compelled to keep!--how many restrictions, sometimes from the aristocracy, sometimes from the democracy, had she to endure! Thus in England each system or principle has had its era of strength and prosperity; but never so completely or so exclusively as on the continent. The conqueror, for the time being, has always been constrained to tolerate the presence of its rivals, and to allow each its portion. To this difference in the march of the two civilisations, are attached advantages and inconveniences which have, in fact, manifested themselves in the history of the two countries. There is no doubt, for instance, but that this simultaneous development of the various social elements has greatly contributed to accelerate the arrival of England at the object of all society--that is to say, at the establishment of a government at once regular and free, with a despatch unknown to any continental state. It is precisely of the essence of government to respect all interests and all powers, to reconcile them, and make them exist and prosper in community. Now, such was, by the concurrence of a multitude of causes, the early disposition and relation of the different elements of English society; therefore a general and somewhat regular government had there less difficulty in being constituted. {228} In the same manner, liberty is in its essence the simultaneous manifestation and action of all interests, rights, powers, and social elements. England was therefore much nearer to its attainment than the majority of other states. From the same causes, the formation of a national sound sense, and of a general comprehension of public affairs, was necessarily more quickly effected there. Sound sense in political affairs consists in knowing how to grasp all facts in the mind, rightly appreciate them, and apportion to each its due influence; in the English social state it became a necessity, a result natural from the course of civilisation. As a set-off, each principle or system having had its turn, having triumphed in a more complete and exclusive manner in the continental states, the development has been made on a greater scale, and with more grandeur and display. Royalty and the feudal aristocracy, for example, have appeared upon the continental stage with much more hardihood, extension, and freedom. All the political experiments, so to speak, have had a broader basis, and been more complete. It has thence resulted that political ideas, I mean general ideas, and not the application of practical sense to the conduct of affairs, but political ideas and doctrines, have been raised much higher, and deployed with far more rational vigour. Each system having in some sort presented itself alone and prominently, and having remained for a length of time on the stage, has enabled men to contemplate it in its entirety, to trace it back to its first principles, to follow it to its remotest consequences, and to fully unfold its theory. Whoever observes, with any degree of attention, the English genius, is struck with a double fact. On the one hand, he perceives a soundness of practical sense and ability, and on the other, an absence of general ideas and of elevation of mind on theoretical questions. Whether it is an English work on history, or jurisprudence, or any other matter, that we open, we very rarely find the great and fundamental reasons of things at all treated of. In all things, and especially in political sciences, pure doctrine, philosophy, science, properly so called, have flourished more luxuriantly on the continent than in England; their flights, at all events, have been much more bold and vigorous. And we cannot doubt that the different character of the development of civilisation in the two regions has mainly conduced to this result. Thus, whatever may be thought of the inconveniences or the advantages which this difference has drawn in its train, it in itself is a real and incontestable fact, and the very circumstance which most profoundly distinguishes England from the continent. But although the various social principles or elements have been developed in that country more simultaneously, and on the continent more successively, it does not follow that at bottom the route and the object have not been the same. {229} Considered in their whole extent, the continent and England have gone through the same great phases of civilisation, events have in each pursued the same course, and the same causes have led to the same effects. This, indeed, convincingly appeared in the picture I presented of civilisation up to the sixteenth century, and it will be equally perceptible in the portraiture of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The development of the spirit of free inquiry and of pure monarchy, almost simultaneous in England, were accomplished on the continent at pretty long intervals; but they have been accomplished, and the two powers, after having successively enjoyed a marked predominance, have in the same manner joined battle. Therefore, upon the whole, the general march of the societies has been the same; and although there may be some substantial differences, the resemblance is deeply-seated. A rapid glance at modern times will remove all doubt upon the subject. On a survey of the history of Europe during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the mind is irresistibly driven to acknowledge that France led the van of European civilisation. On commencing this inquiry, I asserted the fact, and attempted to assign its cause. We shall find it more prominent at this period than before. The principle of pure monarchy, or absolute royalty, had prevailed in Spain under Charles V. and Philip II., before being developed in France under Louis XIV. In the same manner the principle of free inquiry had reigned in England in the seventeenth century, before its development in France in the eighteenth. Nevertheless, the principle of monarchy did not proceed from Spain, nor that of free inquiry from England, when each pervaded Europe. The two systems remained, as it were, confined to the countries where they had appeared. They must first pass through France, to extend their conquests; in a word, it was necessary that pure monarchy and freedom of inquiry should become French, in order to become European. This communicative character of the French civilisation, this social genius of France, which have been evinced at all eras, shone especially in that upon which we are now engaged. As this fact has been brought out with equal truth and brilliancy upon other occasions more distinctly devoted to an investigation into the influence of French literature and philosophy in the eighteenth century, I need not linger upon it. It has been demonstrated that philosophical France had more authority over Europe, on the point of liberty itself, than free England, and that the French civilisation has shown itself much more active and contagious than that of any other country. It is not necessary for me to enlarge upon the details establishing the fact, and I have only alluded to it to defend the propriety of my restricting the picture of modern European civilisation to France. {230} There are doubtless many differences between the civilisation of France at that epoch, and that of the other states of Europe, which it would be essential to inquire into, if I had pretended to give a full history; but I am obliged to omit many things, even nations and ages, so to speak, in the course I have chalked out for myself. So I shall proceed to concentrate my attention upon the progress of French civilisation--the image, although an imperfect one, of the general progress of things in Europe. The influence of France in Europe presented itself, during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, under very different aspects. During the first, it was the French government which acted upon Europe, and which marched at the head of general civilisation. During the second, the preponderance was owing no longer to the government, but to French society, to France herself. At first it was Louis XIV. and his court, afterwards France and its opinions, which governed the minds of men, and drew their attention. In the seventeenth century, there were certainly nations who, as nations, appeared more prominently on the scene, and took a greater part in events, than the French nation. Thus, during the thirty years' war, the German nation, and during the Revolution, the English nation, exercised, on their respective destinies, a greater influence than the French did, at the same period, on theirs. Likewise, in the eighteenth century, there were governments stronger, enjoying greater consideration, and more feared than the French government. There can be little question that Frederic II., Catherine II., and Maria-Theresa, had more weight in Europe than Louis XV. Yet at both epochs it was France which was at the head of European civilisation--first through its government, and afterwards through itself; now through the political action of its masters; and again through its own intellectual development. Therefore, in order fully to comprehend the prevailing influence on the course of civilisation in France, and consequently in Europe, we must study the French government in the seventeenth century, and French society in the eighteenth. It is necessary to shift the ground and the representation, as time works its changes on the stage and the actors. Generally speaking, when the subject of discussion is the government of Louis XIV., and the causes of his power and influence in Europe, his renown, his conquests, his magnificence, and the literary glory of his time alone are spoken of. To external causes alone is the attention directed, and to them is ascribed the European preponderance of the French government. {231} I am of opinion that this preponderance had a deeper groundwork and graver causes. We can scarcely believe that it was solely through victories, or pompous ceremonies, or even through the master-works of genius, that Louis XIV. and his government played at that epoch the prominent part which it would be absurd to deny them. Every one is aware of the effect produced in France by the consular government thirty years ago, and of the state in which it found the country. Without, an impending foreign invasion, and continual reverses suffered by the French armies; within, the almost complete dissolution of power, and of the nation; no revenues, no public order, in a word, a society prostrated and disorganised--such was France at the accession of the consular government. The prodigious and skilful activity of that government soon assured the safety of the territory, restored the national honour, reorganised the administration of affairs, remodelled legislation, and, in a word, gave fresh birth to society under the aegis of power. Now, the government of Louis XIV., when it commenced, effected something analogous. With great differences in time, proceedings, and forms, it pursued and attained almost the same results. Recall the state into which France had fallen after the administration of Cardinal de Richelieu, and during the minority of Louis XIV. The Spanish armies always on the frontiers, sometimes in the interior; a continual danger of invasion, internal dissensions pushed to extremity, civil war, and the government weak and despised both within and without. No policy was ever more wretched and contemned in Europe, or more powerless in France, than that of Cardinal Mazarin. Society was perhaps in a less violent state at that period, but still greatly analogous to what it was before the _eighteenth brumaire_. It was out of such a state that the government of Louis XIV. drew France. His first victories had the effect of the battle of Marengo; they secured the territory, and elevated the national honour. I am about to consider this government under its principal points of view--in its wars, external relations, administration, and legislation; and I believe that the analogy of which I speak, and to which I would not attach any puerile importance, for I hold historical comparisons generally of little moment, will be seen to have a real foundation, sufficient to justify me in adducing it. Let us, in the first place, speak of the wars of Louis XIV. The wars of Europe were originally, as I have had frequent occasion to observe, great popular movements; entire populations urged by want, whim, or some other cause, sometimes in large hordes, sometimes in smaller bands, transported themselves from one territory to another. This was the general character of the European wars, until after the Crusades at the end of the thirteenth century. {232} Then commenced another kind of wars almost equally different from the modern. They were distant expeditions, no longer undertaken by the people, but by princes who went at the head of their armies in search of territories and adventures in remote parts. They quitted their countries, abandoned their own territories, and dived, some into Germany, others into Italy, others into Africa, without any motive but their personal caprice. Almost all the wars of the fifteenth, and even of the sixteenth century, were of this character. What interest, I do not mean a legitimate interest, but what conceivable motive had France, that Charles VIII. should possess the kingdom of Naples? It was evidently a war dictated by no political consideration; the king thought he had personal claims to the kingdom of Naples, and with a personal object, the gratification of his individual desire, he went forth to attempt the conquest of a distant country, which was not at all adapted as a suitable territorial acquisition to his own kingdom, but which, on the contrary, could have no effect but to compromise his strength externally and his repose internally. It was the same with the expedition of Charles V. into Africa. The last war of this sort was the enterprise of Charles XII. against Russia. The wars of Louis XIV. had not that character; they were the wars of a regular government, fixed in the centre of its states, labouring to conquer all around it, to extend and consolidate its territory; in a word, political wars. They might be just or unjust, and might have cost France too dear; there are numerous considerations to allege against their morality and their profusion--but they bear a character incomparably more rational than antecedent wars: they were no longer capricious, or merely adventurous, but were dictated by serious motives--such as some natural boundary to be gained, some population speaking the same language to be incorporated, or some point of defence or barrier to acquire against a neighbouring power. Doubtless personal ambition was mixed up with them; but if we examine the wars of Louis XIV., one after the other, those especially in the first part of his reign, we shall find them to have had truly political motives, and to have been undertaken for French interests, for the acquisition of power, and for promoting the safety of the country. Results have proved the fact. The France of the present day is still in many respects such as the wars of Louis XIV. made it. The provinces which he acquired--Franche-Comté, Flanders, and Alsace--have remained incorporated in France. There are sensible conquests as well as absurd conquests. Louis XIV.'s were sensible; his enterprises have not that character of stupidity and caprice previously so general; on the contrary, an able policy, if not always a just and prudent one, presided in them. {233} Passing from the wars of Louis XIV. to his relations with foreign states, to his diplomacy, properly so called, an analogous result is perceptible. I have asserted the birth of diplomacy in Europe to have occurred at the end of the fifteenth century. I then endeavoured to show that the relations of governments and states amongst themselves, which had been previously accidental, rare, and temporary, became at that epoch more regular and permanent, that they took a character of great public interest, and that at the end of the fifteenth, and in the first half of the sixteenth century, diplomacy assumed an immense importance over events. Nevertheless, up to the seventeenth century, it had not been in reality systematic, nor had it led to long alliances, or grand combinations--above all, to durable combinations, actuated by fixed principles, directed to one constant object, or evincing that continuous spirit which is the veritable characteristic of established governments. During the religious revolution, the external relations of states had been almost exclusively swayed by the interests of religion; the Protestant and Catholic leagues had divided Europe. It was in the seventeenth century, after the treaty of Westphalia, under the influence of Louis XIV.'s government, that diplomacy changed its character. It then threw off the exclusive influence of the religious principle; alliances and political combinations were made from other considerations. At the same time, it became much more systematic and regular, and always directed to a certain precise object, and according to invariable principles. The regular introduction of the system of balance of power belongs to that era. It was under the government of Louis XIV. that this system, with all the considerations connected with it, took real possession of European politics. When we inquire what was the general idea, or predominant principle in the policy of Louis XIV. on this subject, I think we shall discover the following facts. I have spoken of the great conflict which arose in Europe between the pure monarchy of Louis XIV., endeavouring to become a universal monarchy, and civil and religious liberty, and the independence of states, under the leadership of the Prince of Orange, William III. We have seen that the great event in Europe at that epoch was the division of the powers under these two banners. But this fact was not understood at that time as it is now; it was hidden, and unknown even by those who accomplished it; the result of the resistance of Holland and its allies to Louis XIV. was necessarily and fundamentally the repression of the system of pure monarchy, and the establishment of civil and religious liberty, but the question was not thus openly stated between absolute power and freedom. It has been repeatedly asserted that the propagation of absolute power was the paramount principle in the diplomacy of Louis XIV. I am of opinion, however, that this consideration only actuated, to any great extent, his policy in later years, in his old age. {234} The objects at which he constantly aimed, whether fighting with Spain, the Emperor of Germany, or England, were making France the preponderating power in Europe, and the humbling of his rivals--in a word, the promotion of the political interest, and the strength of the state; he laboured much less with a view to the propagation of absolute power, than with a desire for the power and aggrandisement of France and its government. Amongst many proofs of this, we have one furnished by Louis XIV. himself. There is found in his _Memoirs_ under the year 1666, if I recollect aright, a note couched pretty nearly in these terms: 'I have had this morning a conversation with Mr Sidney, an English gentleman, who explained to me the possibility of reanimating the republican party in England. Mr Sidney asked from me for that purpose 400,000 livres. I told him I could only advance 200,000. He urged me to summon from Switzerland another English gentleman who is called Ludlow, and to learn his opinions touching the same design.' In the memoirs of Ludlow, a paragraph occurs about the same date in corroboration of this, to the following purport:-- 'I have received from the French government an invitation to come to Paris, to speak concerning the affairs of my country; but I am suspicious of that government.' And Ludlow, in fact, remained in Switzerland. Thus it is plain that the weakening of the royal power in England was at that epoch the design of Louis XIV. He fomented internal dissensions, in order to prevent Charles II. from becoming too powerful in his own country. In the course of Barillon's embassy in England, the same fact is unceasingly exhibited. Whenever the authority of Charles II. appeared to gain the upper hand, and the national party to be on the point of being crushed, the French ambassador threw his influence into that scale, gave money to the leaders of the opposition, and, in short, strove against absolute power when it was needful as a means of crippling a rival power of France. By attentively considering the manner of conducting the external relations under Louis XIV., this feature will be found strikingly exemplified. The French diplomacy of that epoch was also strongly marked by skill and ability. The names of Messieurs de Torey, d'Avaux, and Bonrepaus, are known to all well-informed persons. When we compare the despatches and memoirs, the capacity and conduct of these counsellors of Louis XIV. with the capabilities evinced by the Spanish, Portuguese, and German negotiators, we are struck with the superiority of the French ministers, not only as regards their thoughtful activity and application to business, but also in liberality of mind. These courtiers of an absolute king understood external circumstances and parties, the wants of liberty and popular movements, much better than the majority of the English themselves at that period. {235} There was no diplomacy in Europe in the seventeenth century which appears at all equal to the French but the Dutch. The ministers employed by De Witt and William of Orange, those illustrious chiefs of the party of civil and religious liberty, were the only diplomatists who proved themselves fitting to enter the lists with the servants of the great monarch. Thus, whether we consider the wars or diplomatic relations of Louis XIV., we come to the same conclusion. It is easy to be conceived how a government conducting its wars and negotiations in this manner, must have taken a high standing in Europe, and appeared not only very formidable as to power, but imposing for its ability and astuteness. Let us now take the interior of France, and inquire into the administration and legislation of Louis XIV., in which we shall find additional explanatory causes of the strength and splendour of his government. It is difficult to determine with precision what we ought to understand by administration in the government of a state. But I think, after fully investigating the matter, we may conclude that administration, in the most general point of view, consists in a concentration of means calculated to carry the will of the central power with the greatest promptitude and certainty into all parts of society, and to invest the central power in the same manner with the sinews of society, either in men or money. Such is, if I mistake not, the true object and prevailing character of administration. We consequently find that in those times when it is especially necessary to establish unity and order in society, administration is the great instrument of succeeding in that design, of drawing together, cementing, and uniting scattered and incohesive elements. Such was, in fact, the operation of Louis XIV.'s administration. Before his time, nothing had been more difficult, in France and in the rest of Europe, than to make the action of the central power felt in all the portions of society, and to gather into the hands of the central power the means of force possessed by the society. Louis XIV. laboured to effect these points, and succeeded to a certain extent infinitely better, at all events, than preceding governments. I cannot enter into details, but taking the public services of every kind, the finances, the departments of roads and public works, the military administration, and all the establishments which belong to every branch of administration, there is not one that will not be found to have had its origin, its development, or its greatest perfection, under the reign of Louis XIV. The greatest men of his time--Colbert and Louvois--displayed their genius, and exercised their ministries as administrators. It was by these means that his government acquired a generality, decisiveness, and consistence, in which all the European governments around him were wofully deficient. {236} Under the legislative phase, this reign presents the same character. I will return to the comparison of which I spoke at the commencement--to the legislative activity of the consular government, and its prodigious labour in a general revision and recasting of the laws. A work of the same sort took place under Louis XIV. The great ordinances which he promulgated regarding criminal affairs, law proceedings, commerce, the marine, woods, and waters, are veritable codes, which were digested in the same manner as our later codes, and discussed in the council of state sometimes under the presidency of Lamoignon. There are some men whose glory consists in having taken part in these labours and discussions--M. Pussort, for example. If we were to consider it merely in itself, we should pronounce very unfavourably of the legislation of Louis XIV., for it is full of errors very discernible at the present day, and which no one can fail to allow; it is not actuated by a sense of what true justice and liberty demanded, but directed to the preservation of public order, and to give the laws more regularity and certitude. But that alone was a great step, and it is not to be doubted that the ordinances of Louis XIV., being superior to anything exhibited at an antecedent period, very powerfully contributed to stimulate French society to advancement in the career of civilisation. We thus speedily perceive the sources of its strength and influence, under whatever point of view we regard this government. It was the first government which presented itself to the eyes of Europe as a power acting upon sure grounds, which had not to dispute its existence with inward enemies, but at ease as to its territory and its people, and solely occupied with the task of administering government, properly so called. All the European governments had been previously thrown into incessant wars, which deprived them of all security as well as of all leisure, or so pestered by internal parties or antagonists, that their time was passed in fighting for existence. The government of Louis XIV. was the first to appear as a busy thriving administration of affairs, as a power at once definitive and progressive, which was not afraid to innovate, because it could reckon securely on the future. There have been, in fact, very few governments equally innovating. Compare it with a government of the same nature--the unmixed monarchy of Philip II. in Spain; it was more absolute than that of Louis XIV., and yet it was far less regular and tranquil. How did Philip II. succeed in establishing absolute power in Spain? By stifling all activity in the country, opposing himself to every species of amelioration, and rendering the state of Spain completely stagnant. The government of Louis XIV., on the contrary, exhibited alacrity for all sorts of innovations, and showed itself favourable to the progress of letters, arts, wealth--in short, of civilisation. {237} This was the veritable cause of its preponderance in Europe, which arose to such a pitch, that it became the type of a government not only to sovereigns, but also to nations, during the seventeenth century. And now we ask ourselves, for it is impossible we should do otherwise, how a power so brilliant and so well established as I have represented it, should have so quickly fallen into decay, and how, after having played such a part in Europe, it became in the following century so vacillating, so weak, and so despised? The fact itself is incontestable. In the seventeenth century, the French government was at the head of European civilisation; in the eighteenth, this preponderance disappeared, and it was the French society, separated from its government, often even arrayed against it, that preceded and guided the European world in its advancements. We here discover the incorrigible evil and the inevitable effect of absolute power. I will not enter into any detail as to the faults of Louis XIV.'s government, which committed many and great ones; I will not speak of the war of the Spanish succession, of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, of profligate expenditures, or of various other fatal actions which compromised his fortune. I will take the merits of his government to be such as I have just described them, granting that there was never perhaps an absolute government more grateful to its age and subjects, or that rendered more real services to the civilisation of its country, and of Europe in general. But simply because this government had no other principle than absolute power, and rested upon no other base, its decay was sudden and deserved. The essential deficiency of France under Louis XIV. was the want of institutions, of independent political bodies, subsisting by themselves, and capable of spontaneous action, and of offering resistance. The ancient French institutions, so far as they merited that appellation, no longer subsisted: Louis had succeeded in destroying them. He had no idea of endeavouring to replace them by modern institutions, for they would have annoyed him, and he was not at all disposed to court annoyance. The will and the action of central power are what appear in fullest force at that epoch. The government of Louis XIV. was great, brilliant, and most potent, but without roots. Free institutions are not only the guarantees of wisdom and justice, but also of the durability of governments. There is no system which can have a prolonged existence otherwise than by means of institutions. Wherever absolute power has stood the shocks of time, it has rested upon veritable institutions, sometimes upon the division of society into casts distinctly separated, and at other times upon a system of religious institutions. {238} Under the reign of Louis XIV., power as well as liberty lacked the essential safeguard of institutions. There was nothing in France at that epoch to guarantee either the country against the illegitimate action of the government, or the government itself against the inevitable action of time. Thus did the government promote its own decay. It was not Louis XIV. alone that grew old and feeble at the end of his reign, but the whole principle of absolute power. Pure monarchy was as emasculated in 1712 as the monarch himself. And the evil was the more serious, in consequence of Louis XIV. having abolished political habits as well as institutions. Political habits cannot exist without independence. He alone who feels his own strength is capable either of serving power or of resisting it. Energetic characteristics disappear with the loss of independence, and dignity of mind can be sustained only by the assuredness of rights. The real state in which Louis XIV. left France was, therefore, a society in full intellectual vigour and activity, and by its side a government essentially stationary, and without any means of reanimating itself, or taking part in the movement of its subjects; but after half a century of splendour, doomed to stagnation and feebleness, and whilst its founder was still alive, sank into a decay which nearly resembled dissolution. This was the situation in which France was placed at the close of the seventeenth century, and which gave to the following age so different a direction and character. It is scarcely necessary for me to say that the burst of the human mind, the spirit of free inquiry, was the paramount feature of the eighteenth century. This influential epoch has been treated of, and so ably handled by others who have gone before me, that I am relieved from the necessity of following minutely all the phases of the wondrous moral revolution which was then accomplished. I am, however, anxious to note certain points which have been somewhat overlooked. The first which strikes my mind is one I have already alluded to--namely, the almost complete disappearance, so to speak, of the government in the course of the eighteenth century, and the prominence of the human mind as the principal and almost only actor. Excepting the external relations attended to by the ministry of the Duke de Choiseul, and some concessions made to public opinion--for example, the American war--there never, perhaps, was a government so inactive, so apathetic and inert, as the French government of that time. In place of the stirring and ambitious government of Louis XIV., which interfered with everything, and placed itself at the head of all, we see a power anxious only to keep in the background, so weak and shattered did it feel itself. The activity and the ambition had passed to the nation, which, by its opinions and its intellectual movement, mixed and interfered with all things, and, in short, alone possessed that moral authority which confers a veritable sway. {239} The second characteristic which strikes me in the state of the human understanding in the eighteenth century, is the universality which marked the spirit of free inquiry. Previously, and particularly in the sixteenth century, inquiry had been exercised in a limited and defined field, having for its objects religious questions, or political and religious questions mixed up together, but never extending its pretensions to all subjects. On the contrary, the characteristic of the free inquiry of the eighteenth century is its universality: religion, politics, pure philosophy, man and society, moral and material nature, all became at once the subjects of investigation, doubt, and system; ancient ideas were cast away, and new ones arose in their stead. It was a movement which penetrated to all quarters, though springing from one and the same impulse. This movement had, furthermore, a peculiar characteristic, which has not, perhaps, been twice exhibited in the history of the world--namely, that it was purely speculative. In former times, action had promptly participated with speculation in all human revolutions. Thus, in the sixteenth century, the religious revolution had commenced by ideas and discussions purely intellectual, but it had speedily gathered into events. The leaders of intellectual parties had rapidly grown into the leaders of political parties, and the realities of life had mingled with the operations of intellect. It had thus happened in the English revolution of the seventeenth century. In France, in the eighteenth century, we perceive the human mind exercising itself on all things, on ideas which, being closely interwoven with the real interests of existence, ought to have had the most prompt and potential influence. And yet the leaders and actors in those great debates remained apart from every sort of practical activity, appearing as mere speculators, who observed, judged, and delivered their opinions, without ever interfering in events. At no epoch has the government over facts or external realities been so completely distinct from that over mind. The separation of the mental and physical orders of things was not real in Europe before the eighteenth century. For the first time, perhaps, the mental order was developed, utterly apart from the material. This was an important fact, and it is one which has exercised a prodigious influence over the course of events. It gave to the ideas of the time a singular character of ambitiousness and inexperience; for never was philosophy more eager to rule the world, or at the same time less conversant with it. A day was sure to come when a conflict would arise, when the intellectual movement would pass into external facts; and as they had been so totally separated, the shock was violent, the amalgamation more difficult. {240} The astonishing boldness of the human mind at that epoch is another characteristic which deserves our consideration. Previously, its greatest activity had always been repressed within certain limits; men had lived in the midst of facts, some of which awed their minds, and kept their movement barred to a certain extent. In the eighteenth century, it would be extremely difficult to say what were the external facts which the human mind respected, or which exercised any empire over it. It held the whole social state in contempt and hatred. It thence concluded that it was called upon to reform all things, and came to look upon itself as a species of creator; institutions, opinions, manners, society, and man himself, all appeared to require remodelling, and human reason imposed upon itself the undertaking. Never had a similar audacity been dreamt of! Such, then, was the force at work against what remained of the government of Louis XIV., in the course of the eighteenth century. We can easily understand that a shock between them was impossible to be avoided. That which had been the predominant fact in the English revolution--the struggle between the spirit of free inquiry and unmixed monarchy--was likewise certain to commence in France. Undoubtedly there were various points of difference in the two conflicts which pervaded also their results, but fundamentally, the general positions were similar, and the definitive event taught the same lesson. As I have no intention of following out the multitudinous consequences of that crisis, I shall confine myself to the mention of the gravest, and in my opinion the most instructive fact, which was prominently displayed in that great conjuncture. I allude to the proof of the danger, the evil, the inveterate vice of absolute power, whatever that power may be, whatever name it may bear, or to whatever end directed. We have already seen the government of Louis XIV. perish from this single cause. The power which succeeded it--the human understanding, which was the veritable ruler of the eighteenth century--underwent the same fate; it possessed an almost absolute power in its turn, and thence derived an overweening confidence in itself. Its outbreak was glorious and useful; and if I were called upon to give an opinion upon the general operation, I should not hesitate to declare that the eighteenth century is to me one of the greatest eras of history, that perhaps which has rendered the most important services to humanity, which has given to it its greatest stimulus, resulting in the most universal advancement--so that, pronouncing upon it as a public administration, if I may be allowed to use that expression, my judgment should certainly be given in its favour. Still, it is not the less true that the absolute power possessed at that epoch by the human mind, corrupted it and led it to hold contemporary facts and opinions different from those that were in chief respect, in an illegitimate disdain and aversion, which brought it into error and tyranny. {241} So much of error and tyranny, in fact, as mingled with the triumph of human reason towards the end of the century, which we cannot conceal from ourselves, nor ought to deny, was very considerable, mainly resulted from the extravagance into which the human mind was thrown by the extent of its power. It is the province, and will form, I believe, the peculiar merit of our times, to proclaim that all human power, be it intellectual or material, vested in governments or people, in philosophers or ministers of state, and exerted in any cause whatsoever, bears inherently a natural viciousness, and a principle of weakness and abuse, which call imperatively for the prescribing fixed limits to its exercise. Thus it is only a system of general freedom for all rights, interests, and opinions, their unfettered manifestation and legalised co-existence, that can restrain each individual power or influence within its proper limits, prevent it infringing upon others, and make the spirit of free inquiry an actual and general enjoyment. The conflict between material absolute power and intellectual, which occurred at the close of the eighteenth century, has impressed upon our minds this great truth. I have now reached the point which I originally proposed to myself. It will be recollected that I set out with the design of giving a general picture of the development of European civilisation from the fall of the Roman Empire to the present time. I have gone very rapidly through this task, not permitting myself time to bring out everything that was important, or to adduce proofs for what I alleged. I have been obliged to omit much, and also frequently to rely upon my own unsupported assertions. However, I am not altogether without hope that I have attained my object; which was to mark the great crises in the development of modern society. At the beginning, I endeavoured to define civilisation, and to describe the fact to which that word is applied. Civilisation appeared to me to consist of two principal facts--the development of human society, and that of man himself: on the one hand, the political and social development; and on the other, the internal and moral development. I have confined myself upon this occasion to the history of society; I have presented civilisation only in its social point of view, and have said nothing upon the development of man himself. My task did not lead me to an exposition of the history of the opinions and of the moral progress of humanity; upon another occasion I may enter more into detail, and embrace this branch of the subject in the inquiry. {242} Concluding Note By The Editors. M. Guizot, it will be perceived, by bringing the history of European civilisation no farther down than the latter years of the eighteenth century, and adhering throughout rather too closely to France, has left untouched a series of movements in the social progress, which promise to effect, at no distant day, a prodigious change in the destinies of both individuals and nations. It may only be necessary to allude in a general way to the termination of a protracted warfare between France and Britain, followed by a universal peace, which has permitted the cultivation of the sciences, the useful arts, commerce, and, generally speaking, all the attributes of moral, religious, and intellectual advancement; the political elevation of the great middle class in Britain and France, and the co-ordinate improvement in the condition of the more humble classes in society; the abolition of numberless monopolies in trade and otherwise, leaving greater freedom for legitimate action; signal meliorations in the habits and manners of all ranks of people, particularly as regards fashions of dress, temperance, and decorum, the natural result of which is an increase in the value of human life; important modifications of civil laws and municipal institutions in most European countries; and lastly, and chiefly, the wonderful advances made in practical science and in the arts. Among these advances may be only noted the use of gas in artificial lighting, and the application of steam power to navigation, road-travelling, and all kinds of industrial operations. Steam navigation alone, by opening up new channels for commerce, and, in effect, bringing countries remote from each other into immediate neighbourhood, forms by far the grandest engine of civilisation which the world has seen since the invention of printing, and must speedily work the most surprising improvement in human affairs not only in Europe, but in every region of the earth. To these various facts, as M. Guizot would term them, in the history of modern times, may be added that of the extensive diffusion of newspapers and an instructive literature at a low cost among the less affluent classes of the people, a blessing which is ascribable to the recent invention of machinery for the manufacture of paper and for printing, and of which past generations of mankind had no idea. It is further of importance to include in this catalogue of facts the opening up of new fields for human industry and subsistence in the colonies of Britain, and other fruitful regions in a foreign hemisphere, by which Europe is now regularly drained of a portion of its exuberant population; also the permanent establishment of a republican constitution in the United States of America, which, from its earliest dawn, has exerted a considerable reaction on the elder political institutions of European nations. {243} By these, and some other facts, European civilisation has been latterly advancing in a daily accelerating ratio, and has already, to appearance, thrown back the state of civilisation of the eighteenth century, with all its luxurious refinements, to that of the primeval ages. The civilisation which has been thus attained by distinct advances during the last forty, or, more properly, the last twenty-five years, may be described as at present in a pausing or transitive state, in which, by the conflict of parties and opinions, it may be arrested for a length of time in any particular country, but cannot well be prevented from passing onwards in the aggregate to a higher condition. The concurring effects of a universal and friendly intercourse among nations, improved and extended means of education, missionary enterprise in planting Christianity in hitherto heathen regions, and the diffusion of the produce of the press, cannot but be beneficial to society, and must sooner or later carry civilisation to limits considerably beyond those which are now assigned to it. The history of this latter progress, which remains to be written, will form a deeply interesting chapter in the annals of human civilisation. {244} {245} On The Punishment Of Death. {246} {247} Contents. Preface, -- 249 Chapter I. -- Limits Of The Question,--255 Chapter II -- Physical Efficacy Of Capital Punishment,--258 Chapter III. -- Moral Efficacy Of Capital Punishment,--268 Chapter IV. -- The Same Subject Continued,--280 Chapter V. -- Double Character Of The Government,--285 Chapter VI. -- Justice,--291 Chapter VII. -- Necessity,--300 Chapter VIII. -- Means,--306 Chapter IX. -- Prosecution And Qualification Of Political Crimes,--308 Chapter X. -- The Privilege Of Mercy,--318 Chapter XI. -- Conclusion,--325 {248} {249} Preface. It may be asked, perhaps, what I hope from this work? I do not hope, I admit, that governments will be convinced of the inutility of capital punishment, still less that they will abandon its employment. Truth glides slowly into the mind of power, and even when it does fairly enter, it is not immediately acknowledged as master. The mind long refuses to believe, and even when forced to believe, it still refuses to obey. There is no occasion to tell why. It is precisely for this reason, that when power is in error, it is necessary to set the public right--to establish in opinion that which will be so long of resolving into fact. If the road is long, it is the more necessary to set out early; for in that case, even before reaching the goal, we may obtain some results. It is vain to prolong error, for when known to be such, it is powerless. Society in the present day is so formed, that power is half vanquished when the public pronounces it to be in the wrong. In vain it persists, for even in persisting, it hesitates, feeling itself to be before a superior strength. Opinion at length gradually comes to invade, where before it only sustained attack; but even then power does not yield, though its hesitation increases. First fear, and then doubt, weakens its action: then it becomes timid, and falls into the mistake of employing a means which society reprobates, and in the efficacy of which it does not itself believe. To this point it must be forced, and its errors clearly exhibited; and at last, as the daylight shines upon them, the strength in which it trusted will be more difficult to use, and be more and more weakened by the increasing blunders of its strategy. I think the present time favourable for thus attacking the use of capital punishment in the light of a political question. When action is directed by truth, it is slow and feeble; but it proceeds vigorously when truth works in the way of reaction. Amid the gentle manners of the eighteenth century, cruel laws, political severities, and the punishment of death, were vigorously striven against: everything seemed tending to restrain, if not suppress them, and many honest men supposed the victory gained. But the Revolution broke out, and cruel laws, political severity, and the punishment of death, were resorted to with a violence unheard of before. So many perished hopes engendered a fear that the ideas which had given them birth were an illusion; but this was a great error. On the contrary, it is at this time that these ideas may claim and exercise the greatest dominion; they are able to avail themselves of a recent and frightful experience; and it is easy for them, in improving it, to rid themselves of the dreams of their infancy, to strengthen themselves by instances instead of theories, and to come down to the simplest rules of common sense. {250} Notwithstanding the scepticism of our time, the public mind is disposed to receive them. The Revolution made more enemies by employing capital punishment politically, than were stirred up by all the books and speeches philanthropic, philosophical, and literary. It has left on this subject an impression much more efficacious than that of ideas, and which overcomes opinions even the most apparently hostile. With many men it would provoke indignation to try to make them admit even the partial suppression of capital punishment as a general necessity, the consequences of a right or a theory: perhaps they would say that it is such chimeras which brought on the Revolution. But place these same men in the presence of facts: let them award, in the capacity of judges or juries, the terrible sentence, or even let them see it brought into effect by others, and experience will resume all its power over their minds. They will mistrust its necessity and its justice; melancholy presentiments will arise from melancholy recollections; they will feel at once doubt and fear; they will recall what they have seen, and what they have suffered; they will distrust a policy which has occasion to take such a course, and engenders such a necessity; and they will have no more faith in results than in reasons. And thus in spite of theoretical opinions, often in spite even of the tendency of circumstances, the common instinct, the public good sense--fruit of bitter experience--will resist the employment of capital punishment politically with much more efficacy than all the arguments and precepts of philosophy. I would justify this instinct, and produce all the proofs of its legitimacy. Is the case urgent? Does power show itself so eager for, and so prodigal of, capital punishment? Are we so assailed by penalties that it is necessary to sound the alarm, and to treat the policy of our days as if it resembled that disastrous policy the severe judgments of which were formerly its great and habitual instruments? I detest exaggeration, for it is falsehood. I do not seek to excite or maintain blind fears of what I cannot prove; I draw no comparison between our own and those deplorable times. But let me not be told that it is necessary to wait in a case like this for the right to speak. If the punishment of death is politically useless, inefficacious, and even dangerous, wherefore not say so at once? Why should truth be silent till it is proclaimed by facts so terrible? These facts, it may be said, will not come: well, if they are not to come, a book cannot bring them; and if they are, who could pardon himself if he had delayed the warning? Besides, I observe the odd anomaly, that some people, when afraid, are at once credulous and difficult of belief. Sometimes they see frightful symptoms everywhere; and sometimes they will not believe in the possibility of the evil till its arrival. One would say that they made a choice in their recollections; always accessible to some, and repulsing others as importunate and inadmissible. {251} The least idea, the slightest agitation, recalls the terrors of the Revolution to their minds; but with other terrors before them, likewise revolutionary, they are blind and bold. They are seized with affright if some errors of the Constituent Assembly reappear, and yet exclaim against any inquietude that may be manifested on the restoration of capital punishment as a political engine. I ask more impartiality of memory, more extent in foresight, and more justice in fear. We are not descended so low that an evil must be horrible to be felt. I am sure that iniquity without modesty and without restraint has not taken possession of either the laws or tribunals; I know that if it aspired too far, it would meet with powerful obstacles in its course; and I am aware that danger does not lurk at every door, or the punishment of death hover over all the adversaries of power. But still, in my opinion, capital punishment is too often called for, and too often inflicted. In the use we make of it there is neither wisdom, nor equity, nor necessity; it fails in its object, and aggravates the evil of our position by engaging power in a course full of peril for society and for itself; it causes of itself gratuitous misfortunes, which, if they spread no farther, are still neither lighter nor more reparable; it attaches itself to a false and fatal policy, and sinks day by day into an instrument more melancholy and more useless. Let others imagine that there are not here sufficient motives for opposing its use, and wait for more evils and more severity: for my part I think I have reckoned enough. Another consideration determines me. One side has triumphed, and expecting still to triumph, it in the meantime does all it can. It will attempt, I think, more than it has yet attempted; although it cannot do all it would. This is evident even to itself. The situation is a new one. In the course of the Revolution, the party which succeeded always did more than it intended, and more than at the commencement of the enterprise it was in a condition even to conceive. The success surpassed not only hopes, but pretensions. Blind instruments of a giant power, the men of the Revolution were hurried away by events more rapid than their thoughts, and carried facts into accomplishment much more extensive and terrible than their designs. Now, on the contrary, we see a party in authority whose desires surpass their designs, and whose designs surpass their power. They would advance, and they do so; but at each step their hope lessens of attaining their end. Instead of being, like the Revolutionists, carried onwards by their momentum rather than their will, they are held back against their will by a force contrary to their momentum. With nothing, or almost nothing active and visible to oppose them, everything around is resistance; everything troubles and delays them--the instruments they employ, the air which surrounds them, the ground which they tread beneath their feet. Whence arises this anomaly, and what does it reveal to us of the fate of the party? I do not care to busy myself with this question. I merely remark the general fact, and I do so because it has consequences of which I wish to avail myself. {252} It is in such moments that the truth is good to be told, although it will not be the better received by men to whom it is displeasing, or exercise more power over great events. No party disavows its origin, none acquires that high wisdom which, in changing its nature, would change its whole destiny; even if the progress it is able to make in skill or prudence is not sufficiently extended, or prompt to save them from that definitive fate to which Providence has devoted them. These parties are no more independent than other things of the action of time. Their internal dispositions become modified as well as their situation, and these modifications render them more or less accessible to the influence of truth. When a party is carried away by the general movement of the age, when it becomes the engine of a great social crisis, neither truth nor wisdom has any effect upon its career. It crushes all who oppose it, abandons all who counsel it, and hurries blindly onwards to a goal of which it is ignorant; and it is then that, in the midst of their greatest activity, we see most clearly the weakness of men--the mere tools in working out decrees alike beyond their understanding and their will. But when the social tempest is calmed, and Providence seems to have given up the management of human affairs to ordinary laws, and the contending parties have time to look around them, to study their course, and to measure their strength, we see them resume some reason with their freedom. Instead of the fever which devoured them, a new malady gains upon them, a slow and heavy dissolution, which, without destroying the predominant character or general intentions of the party, gives more independence to individuals, and more authority to wisdom. In the course of the Revolution, the partisans of monarchy detached themselves from the Constituents, the Constituents from the Girondins, and the Girondins from the Jacobins; but the Revolution, far from being stopped or slackened, pursued with even more violence its terrible career; and in proportion as these factions became wiser, they became less powerful. Who would think now-a-days that any one of the parties into which we are divided could thus deliver itself up to the madness of its wishes and passions, denouncing and trampling whoever refused to cooperate, and that yet it would gain strength every day, and march rapidly towards success? Nothing like this can now be seen. If in these parties there be any one who still hopes to the contrary, he is a dreamer blind to passing events, and who has neither forgotten nor learnt. Whether conquerors or beaten, outs or ins, all parties are constrained to act with wisdom and prudence: the energy of fever will not now suffice for strength; they must rally around their banner all shades of interests or opinions; for they cannot suffer one to fall away without feeling instantly its loss in their own weakness. They must even bend in some measure before their more obstinate adversaries; and this is not a counsel I give, but a fact I observe, and one which in every day more apparent in their conduct. {253} It is seen clearly in the party now in power, and under two characters: there is a division in the party, and in a contrary direction to that which took place twenty-nine years ago. It is not the most violent, but the most moderate and prudent, who now take the management of its affairs--those who have the best chance of enlisting general interests and floating opinions. Even these moderates are evidently driven farther than they desire, and perhaps may end in being overturned. But in their case they will not be replaced by the more violent; the party will drag itself from impotence to impotence, just as revolution is precipitated from fury to fury. And after the evil they have caused--the greatest evil in their power--dissolved by their success, as well as weakened by their old reverses, they will be forced to feel that they have undertaken an impossibility, and that no one in the present day is able to bring about a revolution in society. Things being in this position, it may be advantageous to throw into the midst of parties what appears to me to be the truth. No one is more aware than myself that they will not make it their rule, but it will operate as a dissolvent, insinuating itself into their disorganised constitution. It will not be met by those proud convictions, that blind confidence, that idea of an ardent and insurmountable force, which prevented its access to the revolutionary parties. The party which predominates at the present day is full of doubt and fear; it has faith neither in its own doctrines nor its own destiny. In assuming to be the protector of order, it sometimes tries to appropriate the principles of liberty. Whether it courts them because it feels its own to be decayed, or merely as a mask, is of little consequence; what is certain is, that it is surrounded by obstacles, obliged to adopt the means of government it distrusts, to speak in a language which scandalises a portion of its adherents, to temporise, and to hesitate--and all these things open a way for truth, and give it opportunity as it advances to second the uncertainty, internal feebleness, and moral dissolution by which the party is beset. A simple fact will demonstrate this: in 1791 and 1792 the opposition in its harangues only served to irritate and accelerate the party which accomplished the Revolution. Now the opposition is not less displeasing to the governing party; but it startles it by a word, calms, obliges it to dissemble, and carries confusion into its proceedings and hesitation into its projects. It even enlightens the whole changing mass, insinuates ideas into its bosom, and necessitates a prudence before unthought of, and at which it grumbles and submits. Opposition, then, is not vain; it may have at the present moment few visible or direct effects, but it is at least able to sow, and the future will reap the fruits. Such are the motives which impel me to write, and I believe them to be sufficient and well-founded. {254} {255} On The Punishment Of Death. Chapter I. Limits Of The Question. It is not a philosophical question of which I wish to treat, neither do I solicit a change in legislation. This is not a time at once calm and active enough for the principles and reformation of the laws to be discussed: but prudence is necessary at all times; and at all times, whatever may be its perils, government may commit useless faults, and cause superfluous evils to society. It is in this point of view that I wish to consider capital punishment as a political question. I would know whether the government, which has the power of prosecuting and pardoning, acts wisely when it has recourse to it, whether it consults its own interest in doing so, and whether it is constrained thereto by necessity. It will be admitted that this is still worth the trouble of examination. Conspiracies crowd upon us. One has just been brought under judgment at Tours, another at Marseilles, and another at Nantes; the same thing is to be done at Colmar, Rochelle, and Saumur; and if we may believe the authorities which have discovered them, there are many others ready for the law. Sirejean and Vallé have been executed. New condemnations, perhaps new executions, are preparing. If they should prove useless, nay, fatal to the power which commands them!--a mistake here would surely be a melancholy one: if we take life, we should at least be convinced of the necessity for doing so. Let those who think there is no mistake, be not too hasty in saying so. I affirm that they do themselves doubt, and that without ceasing to think they must continue to doubt. The time has been when, in a struggle among factions, or between them and the governing power, the punishment of death was not only the habitual arm, but a recognised necessity of the conqueror. It is not from seeing this punishment written in the old laws that we know the impression it made upon men, for it is also written in ours; but it had then more foundation in the manners of the time. {256} The justice of its application was sometimes questioned, but never its utility. Power made use of it with confidence, and none were shocked by the fact. Condemnations and executions might agonize the friends of the vanquished; but the iniquity of such steps not being evident to the public, they considered them as only natural; and power in taking them, firmly believed that it was merely exercising its right, and obeying the necessity of its situation. It was thought by all that government and established order could not be maintained but by the physical destruction of its enemies. If we now examine the government and the public when capital punishment has been pronounced, or when an execution has just taken place, or is about to do so--if we listen to words, examine thoughts, and interrogate countenances, we shall find everywhere doubt and anxiety. Power has prosecuted: was it right in provoking this judgment? It has struck: has it proved its strength or increased its peril? It does not know itself what to think: it hesitates, and almost apologises for what has been done. And this is not from the fear of appearing cruel, but because it is not sure of having been, I will not say just, but wise. It sought security, and found fear. Thus all its proceedings on such occasions are full of irresolution and inconsistency. A political prosecution pressed forward to-day is held back tomorrow; now it will try to extend its meshes, and anon to contract them; the smallest respite, an application for pardon from the meanest prisoner who has been condemned, becomes an important affair, which calls for long deliberations, the responsibility of which is thought to be of fearful importance; and neither the ill success of the conspiracy, nor the firmest credit in the Chambers, can reassure power from feeling the inquietude which besets it when obliged to accomplish an act it declares to be necessary. The same impression is made upon the public, which, however, is less moved, since it has nothing to decide. I do not speak of those men who, without conspiring or acting against the government, bear ill-will against it, or even of those whose habits of constitutional opposition render them suspicious of the acts and intentions of power. I address myself to that immense public who have neither political passions nor prejudices, but who desire the establishment of legal order and liberty, because these are necessary for their own wellbeing, for their business, and their daily interests. Are they inclined to imagine it justice which condemns a man to death for a political offence? Do they promise themselves more order and repose after such a consummation! Do they suppose this rigour wholesome, and does it appear necessary to their common sense? {257} No: it startles them like a disorder, and they do not admit its urgency, or perhaps even its equity. It is difficult to persuade them that power is under any necessity of killing a man; and if there is a necessity, they will perhaps infer that the power itself must be evil. This proceeds neither from a bad feeling against authority, nor from effeminacy of manners, but solely from an unconscious but deep-rooted doubt of the usefulness as well as justice of the punishment. There is scarcely any person in our day out of the pale of faction who, after a political execution, believes the public peace more secure, or the government itself more firmly established; everybody, on the contrary, has less confidence in the strength of power, and in the future of society; and this is not by reason of the conspiracies, but of their punishment. This feeling does not surprise me, for I think it well-founded, and I shall proceed to state why. The government strikes, and the people behold the stroke, but neither the one nor the other is assured after the blow of having gained anything by it. I have said enough, I think, to prove that there is here matter for debate. I do not suppose that government wishes to make a habit of killing only because this was done formerly, or that it acts solely to please its own passions, and satisfy its own vengeance. The use of the scaffold cannot become a mere routine; and as to the passions which it is pretended have something to say in it, I leave them out of the question, not only because they are not just, but because they are not true. It is not true that they are so strong, so persevering, and so imperious as they are made to appear. If, after having long suffered, they had sacrificed much; if they had refused themselves the consolations of life and the pleasures of the world; if they had shown themselves inflexible and incurable, nourishing in solitude their melancholy and their hope, I could comprehend, perhaps even excuse, their exigence. But they can be easily turned aside, or made to smile; and their violence has not been able to resist either the continuation of danger or the hope of security. As they do not, then, demand a satisfaction they are so well able to dispense with, they have not the right to appear ardent and severe. Such energy comes too late; and since they have no pretensions to depth, they may at least leave us the advantage of their frivolity. Neither have I anything to question with the laws. They pronounce the punishment of death against political crime, yet I repeat that I do not blame them, that I do not invoke their abolition. I am convinced that the reforms solicited by the sentiments and manners of the time must pass into the conduct of the government, in the routine of its affairs, before being introduced into legislation. So it may be in this matter. {258} Government influences the prosecution of political crimes; it can often stifle them before they grow of sufficient importance to come before the tribunals; it may invest them with more or less gravity; and finally, it has the right of suspending or mitigating the punishments which the law decrees. Is it necessary for it to provoke the application of capital punishment, or to allow it to be inflicted? That is my whole question. The doubt exists in every mind, even in that of the government itself; and for my part I think the doubt is in the right. Chapter II. Physical Efficacy Of Capital Punishment. The necessity of punishments depends upon their efficacy. If a punishment does not attain the end proposed in inflicting it, there can be no question that it is unnecessary. The efficacy of punishments is either physical, or moral, or both. It is physical by the impotence to which it reduces the guilty, and moral by the example it offers. The physical efficacy of the punishment of death was at first its most powerful recommendation. In killing an enemy, it did away with danger; and what could be more natural than to gratify vengeance while insuring safety? In the present day, however, there is no longer any question of revenge. No legislation, no government, wishes to have imputed to it such barbarity. But every society and every government still desires security; and capital punishment seems to offer it. But the efficacy of punishments is not the same in all places or at all times. It varies according to the different stages of society, the degrees of civilisation, the sentiments of the people, and the circumstances of government. Capital punishment, in spite of appearances, has not, even in a physical sense, the advantage of an immutable efficacy; for in suppressing a known enemy, it does not always suppress danger. What was formerly the composition of society? A small aristocracy, rich and powerful; and the multitude poor, obscure, and weak, notwithstanding numerical strength. When a conspiracy was hatched by the great, it had its known and important chiefs, invested with immense power: it was the fruit of the ambition of some men, perhaps only of one, and the work of a few personal influences. On seizing two or three of the conspirators, therefore, the danger was over. {259} The Percy family, after having placed Henry Lancaster on the throne of England, becoming discontented, conspired and made war against him; but they were defeated and proscribed, and Henry had nothing more to dread. Where are now those eminent and avowed chiefs, whom to destroy was to destroy a party? Under what proper names are peril and influence thus concentrated! Few men now-a-days have a name, and these few are of little consequence. Power has departed from individuals and families; it has left the hearths where it formerly dwelt, to spread itself abroad in society. There it circulates rapidly, and though scarcely seen in any particular spot, it is present everywhere. It is attached to the public interests, ideas, and sentiments, which no single person directs, which no one represents in such a manner as to make their fate depend in the slightest degree upon his. But if these forces are hostile to power, let it search and inquire in what hands they are deposited. Upon what head will it let fall its vengeance? There are still reformers and leaguers, but no longer a Coligny or a Mayenne. The death of an enemy is now but that of a man, and neither troubles nor weakens the party he served. If power is reassured when the life is taken, it deceives itself: its danger remains the same, for it was not the man who created it. The causes of its perils are widely-scattered and deeply-seated; and the absence of a nominal chief does not lessen their energy, or even modify their action. They do not need interpreters, instruments, or councils. The interests and opinions now exist on their own account, and are directed by their own prudence, and make their way by their own strength. No one has a monopoly of them, and no one can either lose them by mischance or sell them by treachery. Capital punishment, in this at least, has lost its efficacy: it has no longer the prompt and sure result of taking off the head to which all eyes are directed, or of silencing the voice which speaks to all. It may search among these higher classes, in which it is said are the chiefs of parties; but whatever individual it may fix upon, in destroying him, it by no means neutralises the impending danger. Have governments any instinctive knowledge of this fact? Does it exercise even unconsciously an influence over their conduct? One is tempted to believe so. During the last seven years, many conspiracies in France have been prosecuted and punished; but no man of consideration or of known name had a part in them. Was this because power did not fear such men, or because it thought it could gain little by ridding itself of them? Yet it affirms constantly that every faction has its chiefs, wealthy and important men, who direct its motions and defray its expenses. How is it that these chiefs always escape detection, or that they are reserved for the parade of the tribune, but omitted in the actions before the tribunals? {260} The true cause is this, and it is of importance to remark it, because it proves my assertion--that the Revolution has struck down in a special manner the upper classes. I use this word the rather because it was the class, not the individual, it was the object of the Revolution to strike. Destined to change society, it was not against men, but against interests and positions, that it directed its blows. The horrible spectacle of judicial death has made so deep an impression, that great hesitation is felt in reviving its use in these more elevated regions. Desires have been expressed, intentions half revealed, even attempts begun; but as soon as any point has been reached from which, if entered, there would be no return, the courage, the will, and the capacity to do have been at an end. At this point the counsels of power are divided; its agents are timid, and its partisans refuse their support. They feel instinctively--and not less wisely--that they are entering on a frightful path, without reason to guide or profit to reward them. To treat the classes that have made the Revolution in the same manner as the Revolution has treated those it has vanquished--to act against it as it has acted against its enemies--is impossible; the very thought is madness. Why, then, direct such fury against individuals whose death would be attended with more noise than benefit? Why recommence in the bosom of the higher class that bloody struggle which will serve to excite hatred against power without really weakening its enemies? Is it necessary again to let the people see that neither consideration, fortune, nor elevated station, is any protection against the violence of political passions? They have begun to forget this, and become accustomed to believe that there are social conditions which, from their nature, are strangers to tumult and its consequences, and where the punishment of death almost never penetrates. Should this salutary belief be broken down? Should the multitude be taught that there are conspiracies in those ranks which are the most interested in maintaining order, and the exhibition presented to them of a man well-known, influential, and highly esteemed, dragged to the scaffold like the vilest malefactor? Might not more danger accrue from this spectacle than from the most powerful adversary of government? Is it not by such spectacles that the Revolution overturned not only society, but habits and ideas? Besides, when such a war takes place among men of the same position, education, and rank, it wears a much more serious aspect than elsewhere: the combatants have known, seen, and spoken to each other; those who are defeated know by whom they are so, by whom their destruction has been sought; and their friends will remember it to-morrow: thus enmities become personal, and dangers direct. Is it prudent or is it unavoidable to allow the strife to assume this character? {261} Will men compromise themselves in person, when even success cannot avert danger, for the simple reason that danger lies in many more things than the life or hostility of individuals? Thus in proportion as the chiefs of a party become less important, the more hesitation is felt in destroying them; and the fear of incurring such responsibility is not surmounted by any feeling of its imperious necessity. That spontaneous good sense which directs men almost unconsciously, informs the friends and even depositaries of power that they would have to hunt after the life of their principal adversaries with less profit to their cause than peril to themselves. Three centuries ago, the destruction of a known enemy was our grand object; now such a consummation is dreaded and shunned: and notwithstanding the fierce declarations and blind fury of certain agents, notwithstanding even its own passions, when government is able and ready to strike the enemies it professes to fear, it surrounds itself with a coil of circumstances to prevent the blow, which compromises without serving. It is said that men are cowardly, each seeking his own safety, and unwilling to put himself forward on behalf of the government. All that may be true; but if there was any necessity in the case, if the strength or safety of power centered in the destruction of certain men, there would not be wanting friends or agents to hire out their courage to their ambition or their servility. But even the vices of human nature change their mode of action with the time: egotism, covetousness, and fear, do not always follow the same course. No one is a stranger to the new stage of society in which we live, no one is ignorant of the real chiefs of party; the men dangerous in themselves have disappeared, and no one believes that the suppression of such and such an adversary could dissipate, or even sensibly diminish, the dangers of power. The physical inefficacy of capital punishment in the higher ranks is deep in the minds of all. In vain would government refuse its belief, for it is no longer in a condition to act as if it did not believe, and neither fear nor passion has the power of recalling a necessity which no longer exists. Is the punishment of death more efficacious, and therefore more necessary, against the dangers which spring up lower in society? While the high aristocracy is extinct, and conspiracies are no longer the offspring of a few eminent men, the mass of the free and active population has increased in volume, and exercises an influence it did not formerly possess. Perhaps capital punishment, useless against the fallen great, may be more necessary against the intrigues which ferment in the bosom of the multitude. I request that it be not forgotten that the necessity of punishment depends upon its efficacy, and likewise that I am now treating of capital punishment only in its physical effects. {262} And first, I object to the very word _multitude_; that is to say, in the extensive meaning which some persons would give it. To see the insolence with which such persons treat a great population, one would think that we are still in the thirteenth century; that the feudal aristocracy is now in its pride of place; and that it looks down haughtily from the height of its towers on bands of serfs scattered over its domains, or trembling bourgeois coming humbly to solicit permission to rebuild the walls of their poor town, as a defence against robbers. These persons are mistaken: society is not thus formed; there is no longer an abyss separating the higher classes from the mass of the people. The descent from the summit of the social order to its base is by means of close steps, covered with men only slightly different from those above and beneath them. This is true as regards property, industry, education, knowledge, and influence; and although some momentary confusion may be occasioned by the ruins of the old regime, the new form of society is fixed for ever in France. It is necessary to keep this in view, in order to comprehend the effects of legislation and the acts of power, since it is not for the age of Philip-Augustus, but for our own, that we have a government and laws. But let us see how things were managed formerly in the event of political crimes occurring out of the upper region of society, and in what way the governing power proceeded. On the part of the people plots were rare--the aristocracy had that privilege. This is easily conceivable; for the latter alone could gain by or succeed in them. How could the citizens or peasants conceive the idea of changing the government and seizing the authority? When plots were on foot, they marched in the train of the great, either compelled or seduced. Neither the initiative, nor the direction, nor the fortunate chances of such enterprises, belonged to them. However, they sometimes troubled the established order. This was by seditions, and general or local revolts, according to the causes which created them--whether oppression, famine, or occasionally new religious creeds. Then the insurrections were frightful: a frenzied multitude quitted their wretched homes, and wandered about in bands, killing, pillaging, and devastating--brutalised in their passions, blind and implacable in their vengeance, ferocious and licentious in their freedom. Such was the war of the peasants of Suabia in Germany, the insurrection of Wat Tyler in England, the Jacquerie in France, and everywhere, from age to age, a crowd of similar risings, less important, but not less hideous. When such disorders could be repressed before they were converted into wars, it was done without much art. Almost all those who had exerted or seconded them were condemned and executed. All that was to be done was simply to hunt a population from its soil, setting fire to a score of villages, and covering the roads with bodies or limbs hanging from gibbets. {263} When the war had broken out, it became a ferocious chase, which terminated only with the death of the insurgents; or if it was thought prudent to treat with and disperse them by promises, the promises disappeared with the bands which had received them. Thus the peril over, even the British parliament supplicated Richard II. not to pay any attention to such pretended concessions, but to give to all his sheriffs and judges full powers to proceed against the rebels on their return to their provinces. It was not alone during the feudal servitude, in the midst of the darkness and barbarism of the middle ages, that popular movements were thus repressed. When order commenced, when the police, military force, and all the rights of sovereignty, were concentrated in the hands of government, the same means were used, but with more regularity. The number of executions which took place in the reign of Henry VIII. was above 70,000, and under Elizabeth still upwards of 19,000, and insurrections and riots did not furnish the smallest part of them. Madame Sévigné informs us in her letters how Louis XIV. punished the trifling seditions of Brittany. 'The whole of the inhabitants of a large street,' she says, 'have been hunted out and banished, and everybody forbidden on pain of death to harbour them; so that all these wretches, women newly delivered, old men and infants, are wandering away weeping from the town, without knowing whither to go, without food, and without a place to lay their heads. ... Sixty citizens have been taken, and are to be hung to-morrow. ... We are no longer so extravagant: one in eight days is now sufficient to keep justice going; and the gallows appears quite a refreshment.' Society did not see all this blood flow, and the king was not aware of all the executions which took place; but that the punishment of death was efficacious in a time in which such things could pass without the knowledge of society or of the king--in a time in which wholesale banishment, the gallows, and the wheel, were not merely punishments, but the ordinary arms of police--surely one must be hard of belief to doubt it. Whether in the thirteenth century, or even later, these means might have been necessary, I will not inquire. What I know is, that they were possible, and, moreover, that they were physically efficacious, since they really banished in a great measure the danger against which they were directed, positively reducing the number and strength of their enemies; falling upon the popular masses like hail upon a field of corn, cutting off all the petty chiefs, decimating the fighting-men, and, in fact, not only operating by fear, but by real enervation. {264} Could this be done in our day? Would the punishment of death thus employed have the same efficacy? To those who think so, and at the same time understand what they think, I have nothing to say, except that I do not fear them. The system they call for will not have even the shame of a useless trial. But how many people still believe in the efficacy of capital punishment, even in its physical point of view, without taking account of its effects or the tendency of their own opinion! The remembrance of past times governs their ideas. Some minds can accommodate themselves at once to the changes of social order, or even anticipate them; but the greater number remain blind and motionless long after the consummation has taken place. The world is full of habits without foundation, and beliefs without motive. This is an instance of the fact. What government would now dare to use the punishment of death against the people in a manner which would render it physically efficacious? and what laws, what ministers, would prescribe or permit the gallows to be raised along the roads, or shoot men by hundreds, or dispossess and chase away the inhabitants of a canton? We are told of the softness of our manners, and the humanity of our laws; but there are many other obstacles, or rather those sentiments which protect among us the life of a man are themselves protected by the powerful facts which gave them birth. If human life is now more respected, it is that it has more force to make itself respected. Of what consequence was one of the people, a peasant or a petty bourgeois, in the times when such classes were treated in the manner we have seen? A miserable being, totally unknown, weaker and more isolated than the meanest shrub languishing in a forest of oaks. His views extended no farther than his subsistence; his death was of as little importance as his life; and the evils of his lot were as unknown as himself. His fate was allied to nothing; and no one who held any place in society thought himself compromised by the misfortunes and hardships of the multitude. For that multitude there were distinct laws and particular punishments, from which the higher classes had nothing to fear; and the condemnation and execution of a hundred seditious peasants might take place in the district, without the details being known at a distance of thirty leagues, and without the really influential and active part of the nation feeling the least fear for themselves. There is not a single man now in this condition in society, not a single being whoso life is of so little moment, and whose execution would make so little noise. It might have been a tempting idea to destroy one's enemies while thus isolated, silent, and obscure; at the slightest insurrection or danger the punishment of death might easily descend upon this humble race, and make havoc among them at its leisure. But now there are fewer great lords and many more men, and these all hold together. {265} None is so high that the lowest voice cannot reach him; none so strong that the dangers of the weakest may not also threaten him; none so obscure that misfortune may not give importance to his fate; and none so isolated, whether by greatness or insignificance, that he has nothing to hope or fear from what passes around him. The condition of men in society bears now some analogy with the laws of their destiny in the world; there are no invincible inequalities and no privileges; the trials or blessings of Providence are for all; no one is sheltered more than another from misfortune, sickness, or grief; and each sees in the fate of his neighbour the image or presentiment of his own. This community of position, this parity of chances, this equality in the hand of God, is not the least powerful bond of union among men. It attracts them to each other, intermingles them in the same sentiments, hinders them from being kept aloof by the clashing of their interests and the diversity of their conditions; and, in fine, gathers them together under equal laws, and makes them feel that they have one nature and one country. This is the terrestrial destiny of man; and the present state of society begins to shape in the same fashion its political destiny. The same laws and the same chances are given to all; great diversities grow weaker, and community of interest stronger and more extended. Everything tends to teach men that they are accessible to the same evils, and exposed to the same perils, and that therefore they cannot remain indifferent to the fate of each other; while everything furnishes them with the means of communicating with, and sustaining each other. Thus, on the one hand, individual existence has more importance and power; and, on the other, the totality of existence is so closely interlaced and dovetailed, that a wound or a threat is felt simultaneously, and the means of protection simultaneously adopted. If we would form an idea of the prodigious changes which, in the point of view I have taken, this new state of things has introduced into the relations between society and the government, let us consider what would become of power if it had now to repress in the people one of those insurrections which formerly it was so easy to manage by means of the gallows or the wheel. When we see a crowd in movement, when here and there some cries are heard, and some cudgels raised, we fancy the state in danger, call out the troops, and display the public force in its gravest aspect. I do not say that this is wrong; but what if a province rose, if armed bands traversed the country, sometimes victorious, and sometimes difficult to vanquish? This, however, is just what happened under Louis XIV. in Brittany, Languedoc, and twenty other places: here on account of a tax, there for a creed, elsewhere against an edict. Troops were sent out, punishments multiplied, the population hunted; but the confusion had no effect upon the fêtes at Versailles, and the ordinary course of affairs at Paris was undisturbed; for the state did not feel itself compromised, or power really attacked. {266} And wherefore, it will be asked, should these violent resistances and partial disorders now inspire so much more alarm than formerly? Is it that they have a more serious effect? It is that they are no longer a mere effervescence of the multitude; that instead of popular seditions, there would now be public movements. Such is the composition of society, that the rabble, reduced in number and force, can no longer act alone in the brutality of their wants or passions. Between them and power is placed a great, wealthy, and yet working population, who, though still too little educated, are able to see far beyond mere material necessities or the fancies of the moment. This population is not given to tumults, for its members do not live upon daily wages, but work upon whatever they possess, land or capital. Thus it is very difficult to draw them away from their business; even when discontented, they would long hesitate before acting, for no one has the power to command them; and however bad a government might be, it could scarcely drive them to do worse than grumble. But if an insurrection were really to take place, it could not be without their concurrence and consent. And thus those who, in the seventeenth century, scarcely attracted the attention of Louis XIV. at all, would now set the whole government astir, and cause it to feel that this was no question of a riot among the populace, but that a more formidable enemy and a greater danger were before it. If force was not at once successful, the authorities would despair of force, and have recourse to promises, concessions, changes of systems, to all that compulsory policy which proclaims that power has been mistaken, and has found it out. And thus, while formerly a government, opposing nothing but troops or punishments to the seditious, might be for some years at war with a portion of the country, society, in its quiet, but strong construction, animated by one common spirit, would hardly have advanced a step in real resistance before its tottering government would begin to think rather of reforms than punishments. Is it then, I ask, is it in the midst of society thus constituted that the physical efficacy of capital punishment against the political crimes of the masses can still subsist? It is no longer a poor weak multitude, separated from the influential classes, whom it is now the question to reduce to impotence. Who would now treat the multitude, composed of students, merchants, master-workmen, and farmers, as it was treated formerly? It is there, however, that the evil would be if it burst forth; it is there that the remedy must be applied; and in order to give that remedy the direct utility which the government of Louis XIV. obtained, by hanging or chasing from the town of Rennes all the inhabitants of a turbulent street--in order to suppress the danger in the persons of its authors--what intensity, what extent would it not require to possess! {267} But what would be the consequences? Shall we say what disgust, what horror of government, would run through this electrical society, where everything is known, everything propagated, and where millions of men in the same condition, of the same sentiments, without having ever seen or spoken to each other, yet know reciprocally their fate, and in spite of the calm around them, feel themselves menaced by a storm growling at the distance of a hundred leagues from their canton. In such circumstances two conditions are attached to the physical efficacy of capital punishment--the first is, that it weighs heavily upon the place where the danger appears; and the other, that it does not carry desolation and confusion into the whole country. Formerly, these two conditions were united; but now this is impossible, and the authority which would fulfil the first would soon feel itself more compromised by the horror and agitation spread throughout the country, than reassured by the solitude it might have made in one corner of the state. We cannot struggle against social facts: they have roots which the hand of man cannot reach, and when they have once taken possession of the soil, it is necessary to learn to live under their shadow. There are no longer great nobles to destroy, or a rabble to decimate. Physically useless against individuals, since there are none whose life is dangerous to government, capital punishment is equally so against the masses, who are too strong and too watchful to allow it to be exercised with efficacy. In this first point of view, then, capital punishment, as a direct means of suppressing danger, is vain: it is but a custom, a prejudice, a routine, derived from a time when, indeed, it did attain the end intended by really delivering power from its enemies. And power, which still retains this worn-out weapon, is itself aware of its vanity; for when it has to do with men of any consideration, it wisely hesitates to employ it; and when, on the other hand, it is a portion of the population which it fears, the impossibility is so evident, that it never dreams of employing so terrible an instrument. The efficacy, then, of the punishment of death must be moral, since it is not physical. This is the strong point in which its friends confide: let us examine it. {268} Chapter III. Moral Efficacy Of Capital Punishment. Considered generally, and in its moral efficacy, capital punishment, like all other punishments, has a double effect--inspiring aversion to crime, and fear of chastisement. The two ideas--crime and chastisement--are associated in the mind of man. When crime is seen, punishment is expected; when punishment is seen, crime is presumed. Founded upon this natural fact, legislation proposes in punishing not only to terrify, but also to maintain and fortify in all minds the conviction of the perversity of the acts it punishes; and it is thus it would dissuade the people from crime, and make that punishment an example. I even think that punishments are still more exemplary by the moral impression they make, than by the terror they inspire. The laws have more force in the consciences of men than in their fears. The public reprobation and shame attached to certain acts have more power in deterring, than the chastisement which may follow. Those who are acquainted with human nature will agree with me in this; and let those who doubt only suppose the moral stigma removed from actions reckoned criminal by our code, and then inquire whether all the skill of the police, and all the rigour of power, could suffice for their prevention. Fear, no doubt, has its part in the moral efficacy of punishments; but we should not exaggerate the power of this agent, or forget the more energetic one which works to the same result. It has been said that the moral antipathy inspired by crime is not increased by the severity of the punishment. It is true that if the punishment appears excessive, if it revolts more than conciliates the moral sentiments, if it changes the horror of the crime into pity for the criminal, it loses its desired effect. It is not true, however, that fear alone arises from severe punishments, and that they do not move the conscience still more strongly: all this varies according to the times, ideas, and manners: the punishment which formerly spoke loudly against the crime might now speak only in favour of the criminal. Moreover, even in the midst of the mildest manners, pity never so exclusively possesses the heart of man that, while beholding a great punishment merited by a great crime, he suddenly forgets the crime, to think only of the sufferings of the criminal. Pity has its sentiment of justice; and when this justice is not offended, the gravity of the punishment exercises its power alike over the conscience and the fear. I do not dispute that capital punishment has this double virtue. {269} Neither do I believe that it now acts only by fear, or that it is, besides, so contrary to our manners that it fails as entirely in its end as would do the punishment of the wheel. I think even that, become rarer, its effect upon the imagination may have increased with the importance which a man's life takes in the public mind. But even as simple capital punishment preserves its moral efficacy, and as slow and cruel punishments have lost theirs, in like manner are introduced or developed such differences in crimes, that the same punishment does not possess the same efficacy in all. Why does capital punishment, when applied to private crimes, such as murder, robbery, incendiarism, &c. never fail to produce this chief effect, the end of all punishments, which consists in increasing the aversion these crimes inspire? It is because it finds this aversion in all hearts, or at least because there is no dispute as to the natural criminality of the acts which it punishes. Two facts are certain--that the action made criminal by law has really taken place, and that it is really criminal. The public, power, even the accused, agree upon this. There is no question but to discover the author of an act of which no one contests the reality or the wickedness. Thus the first condition of the moral efficacy of punishment is in some sort fulfilled beforehand; it is a proved fact, which calls for chastisement, and the chastisement addresses itself to men who think in unison with the law. In political crimes, on the contrary, these two circumstances are uncertain: it is not certain that the acts of the accused are really these which the law incriminates, nor that the acts incriminated by the law arc naturally and invariably criminal. The first uncertainty is evident: no one in the present day is ignorant that in the case of private offences it is the criminal alone who is sought out, the offence being certain; while in a political matter, such as conspiracies, offences of the press, &c. it is almost always necessary to discover in a series of actions more or less significant both the offence and the offender. As to the second uncertainty, let it not be said that in affirming that, it also exists, I wish to enervate the laws, and leave public order without a safeguard. I affirm only that the immorality of political crimes is neither so clear nor so immutable as that of private crimes; it is constantly metamorphosed or obscured by the vicissitudes of human affairs; it varies according to times, events, and the rights and merits of power; it totters every moment under the blows of a force which pretends to fashion it according to its caprices or its necessities. It would be difficult to find in the political world a meritorious and innocent act which has not received, in some corner of the world or of time, a legal incrimination. Who shall say that all these laws were in the right? Who affirm that they have always carried into the minds of the people the conviction of their justice, and inspired, together with fear of the punishment, horror of the crime? {270} Who will now become the absolute defender of passive obedience, and construe the rights of society as subordinate to the written law, whatever be the character of power? Such an attempt would be vain. In things so changeable and complicated, true morality does not allow itself to be thus absolutely fixed and imprisoned for ever in the text of the laws; and Providence, which so often delivers up to force the destiny of men, does not permit it thus to make and unmake crime and virtue at its pleasure. 'Do you not know,' said the president of the revolutionary tribunal to M. Engrand d'Alleray, 'the law which forbids the sending of money to emigrants?' 'Yes,' replied the old man, 'but I know of an older law which commands me to support my children.' This, which was true in 1793, will be so always, in spite of all codes, and in the face of all kinds of power. Doubtless there are real and odious political crimes; but those that are made by the laws are not always so, whatever the laws or times may be. Force exercises an immense empire over the weak mind of man; but it is not given to it to deprave it to this degree, that crimes of its own fashioning excite the instinctive antipathy attached to crimes declared as such by the true law. Tyranny apart, and even in tolerably regular times, there frequently rests upon actions of this kind a great moral uncertainty. When they raise in the public a violent animosity, it is perhaps because the public is passionate, and itself inclined to injustice; and when it is always incredulous, and secretly given to excuse them, it is because power displeases the public. Which is right, and which wrong? Force may prevent people from knowing, or at least from speaking, but in almost every case capital punishment in political crimes fails to produce, either surely or generally, the really moral impression which accompanies it in private crimes. An analogous difference exists between these two classes of crimes as to the effect of the fear sought to be inspired by capital punishment. The robber and the murderer are isolated in society, or at least their friends, protectors, or accomplices are only robbers or murderers like themselves. This they know; and when punishment overtakes them, it is not power alone, but the whole of society, which arms itself against them. With society they were at war, and it has conquered. This victory gives the idea of an immense force directed against individuals, who can only oppose to it their courage or address. They will never have better fortune; never will a portion of the public embrace their cause; never will a day of triumph or vengeance dawn for them. They live in the midst of society like wild beasts in a country crowded by man, finding everywhere snares or enemies; without support, without shelter, and without other force than their personal strength, which every one attacks, and living in a fear which every one increases; and every condemnation, every execution of their brethren which takes place, is to them a solemn proof of the weakness of their position, and a warning of the fate which awaits them. {271} But the enemies of a government, men inclined to conspire, or who do actually conspire, are in a very different position: they do not cease to belong to society, and they are attached to some party, to whose assistance and protection they look. This party may not wish what they wish, and may not believe what they believe; but what of that? They merely exaggerate its power, and misapprehend its intentions. In the meantime they live surrounded by men whose desires assimilate with their own, and whose illusions respond to their confidence. Who does not know what prodigious blindness possesses political factions, and with what mad certainty each reckons upon its strength and success? In each passer-by, under each roof from which the smoke rises, the robber sees an enemy; while the conspirator dreams everywhere of allies, and is confident of obtaining everywhere at least a temporary protection. And besides, if the latter is in danger, defenders will not fail him; his offence will be considered doubtful, and power unjust and violent; a thousand kind sentiments, a thousand wise reasons, will lend their support to designs which are disapproved of, and to conduct which is blamed, but which men cannot, and will not, allow to be suppressed by iniquity. Finally, if the man falls, it will not be in this isolation, in the midst of this universal animadversion, which freezes the most audacious courage. Perhaps in a future day he will be avenged; and in this expectation his friends regard his ruin as a blow from which the strength they possess, with the aid of a little more good fortune or prudence, may henceforth preserve them. It is not possible to intimidate a faction like a band of robbers: in order to give in such cases the moral efficacy to capital punishment which it derives from fear, and which in a matter of private crime a single execution suffices to obtain, it would be necessary to go almost so far as to render its efficacy likewise physical; and we have seen that this has obstacles still more formidable, and dangers still more serious. There is, then, no analogy of this kind between private and political crimes, which are separated by profound differences. The question is not to examine the moral efficacy of capital punishment in general; because, whether it addresses itself to the conscience or fear, it will not produce the same effect in conspiracies as in robberies. It is necessary to confine ourselves exclusively to the former class of offences, in order to appreciate its influence. There, as in other cases, it proposes for itself the double end which every punishment aims at: it would prevent the evil, in making the crime detestable and the chastisement terrible. {272} I have just said that political crimes are of such a description that their moral perversity is more doubtful, more variable, and less generally recognised than that of private crimes; the punishment, therefore, whatever it may be, has a work here to perform which is spared it elsewhere. When some act of the kind is proclaimed to be criminal, men are not found, as in the case of murder or robbery, decided upon its character. Convictions must be changed, and a struggle entered into not only against passions, but against ideas; and as the question is to act upon those very men who would be inclined to commit what is thus proscribed, the difficulty becomes immense. In the present state of manners, the destitute, the vagabond, or the depraved, whatever be the unhappiness of their situation, or the vice of their inclinations, never believe that they are morally permitted to rob. Everything inculcates the interdict, and recalls it to them when they forget it; and the law finds very rarely, even in them, a belief directly opposed to right. Men carried to political offences, on the contrary, are enemies alike to the convictions and commands of the law; for the law affirms the established order to be good, while they think it bad; its continuance necessary, while they desire its fall; its existence sacred, while they demand its overthrow. No point of contact exists between these men and the law which addresses them; no common principle unites them; and to obtain obedience otherwise than through fear, the law must begin by making them believe it. Before obtaining this chief and powerful efficacy, which consists in fortifying the natural antipathy to crime, punishments are here encountered by an unaccustomed obstacle. They have not, in general, to do with beliefs; they are themselves a sanction to public belief, acting upon men who have transgressed while believing. How can the sanction of a principle produce its effect in a case where the principle does not exist! It may prove the strength of an enemy, but not the justice of its cause. Great questions recur everywhere. If Providence had imposed on human actions no other curb than fear of consequences--if men entirely abandoned to the counsel of their interest or the voice of their desires, were without those convictions which introduce order into the tumult of passion, and light into the uncertainties of life--chaos would soon invade the world, and the only means of maintaining order would be the sudden abasement of our nature by the absolute loss of its liberty. But man, by his moral convictions, binds and adapts himself to the will of Providence: he is in direct communication with it, comprehends the language of its laws, admits its principles, and submits himself to them freely; and notwithstanding the struggles which agitate him, notwithstanding his constant errors, there is no need of force to substitute slavery for obedience. {273} What man would be in his relations with Providence if his moral principles were to fail him, men inclined to political offences pretty nearly are in their relations with power. They do not believe what it believes; they have no wish for what it wishes; they contest with it even the legitimacy of its existence. How must power act upon them? It has sense enough to understand that force alone will not suffice, that it has never had enough of this to exterminate or imprison any considerable portion of the society it governs. It must change its dispositions, and re-establish between it and them this community, if not of intentions, at least of beliefs, which gives law its true empire, arming it with the power to prevent a hundred crimes by punishing a single one, and raising its administrators to the rank of teachers of the people, whereas formerly they tried in vain to remain their jailers. Of all the means which power employs for attaining this end, punishments assuredly are the least efficacious. Punishment supposes crime, and if the supposition is not admitted, the moral efficacy of the former disappears. When the man on whom the punishment is inflicted, and those who think with him, judge that he is unjustly smitten, in this case punishment has the effect of injustice: it irritates, confirms the hostile opinion, widens the breach between the law and its transgressors, and thus goes directly against a part of its own purpose. But if, on the contrary, the enemies of power admit that it is right in punishing them, if they see that it employs its force against them with reason, they can only have taken the part of considering themselves in a state of war. From that moment every social tie is broken; the question is no longer of laws or chastisements; plots are ambuscades, and punishments defeats. Government has lost its moral position: it has descended to an equality of force; everything is equal between it and its enemies: as it has the right of self-defence, they have the right of attack: the claim of obedience on one side, and justice on the other, are equally false. All this belongs to society, but society is dissolved: there is nothing now but war, with the liberty of its arms, the continuity of its dangers, and the uncertainty of its results. Of all punishments, capital punishment is that whose employment precipitates parties and power most rapidly into this last situation: it brings war to mind by rousing violent animosities, and provoking vengeance. It is therefore the punishment which possesses least of all the kind of efficacy we are now in quest of. This efficacy, I repeat, has for its condition the reform of certain ideas: it will not bear its fruit till the men it addresses consent to consider those acts culpable from which it would dissuade them; at least they must have conceived doubts on the subject, and the notion of the legitimacy of power must have entered their minds. {274} It has often been attempted to introduce moral convictions by means of punishments, but when these have not succeeded in exterminating, they have always failed. It is said that moral convictions are not aimed at--that the struggle is only against vicious desires, inordinate wants, and criminal interests. But this is a mistake: for when the morality or immorality of an action is not evident, when there is room for the least uncertainty, then passions, interests, everything, hide themselves under opinions, and all resolve or metamorphose themselves into ideas. The most perverse and headstrong of men are disinclined to dispense with reason, and content themselves with brute force. They have ever a wish to legitimise in their own eyes even the least disinterested conduct; they carefully collect every motive, every pretext, and seize upon the slightest pretence; and what is more easy, after an unexpected overthrow, to form thus for themselves a creed which lends its support to hostility against power? Was there ever a true faction that was anything else than a union of banditti forced on by their own base interests, and accessible only to fear? The weakest government of our day might hold such a danger cheap; but punishments are desired to act in a very different sphere: to teach the citizens that it is culpable to conspire against established order, and deliver their country to the terrible chances of revolution. Be it known, however, that punishments have no power to propagate such ideas; they must already exist in the mind. It is weakness to suppose that they can be reaped when other causes have not yet sown them: this is attributing to punishments a power which they do not possess: they cannot make things be detested as criminal which are regarded as meritorious, nor can they demonstrate the moral legitimacy of power: they have no effect upon the established convictions of the people; and when these are hostile to authority, it is by other means than punishments that government can succeed in changing them, and when they will not change, punishments, instead of reforming, only strengthen their empire. Let us talk no more, then, of capital punishment preventing political crimes by inspiring a hatred of them: this really moral efficacy, however powerful against ordinary crimes, is here without reality; and the more vigorous parties become, and the more the perils of power increase, the less pretence can capital punishment make to such salutary influence. It is, then, both for government and the factious, only another step in antagonism, and for the public only another blow of destiny, fatal to the vanquished to-day, and perhaps to the conqueror to-morrow. Does it act more powerfully through fear? I have already shown that in this point of view, and by the sole difference of social position existing between conspirators and robbers, political crimes offer to the laws much less hold than private offences. But this is not the only cause which renders the terror of punishment less efficacious in political matters than is commonly supposed. {275} Men are influenced by different motives; and there must be an agreement between them and the means used for control. Who does not know that he cannot speak to a man whom interest governs in the same manner as he would speak to him who is ruled by passion, or to a man who is possessed by passion as to him who is directed by an opinion or a duty? We study carefully, in the private relations of life, those various dispositions of mankind, and never think of addressing ourselves to feelings which have no existence. The legislator who acts upon the masses cannot arrive at this nice justice, this special fitness of things; but he need not commit the profound absurdity of directing the same means indifferently against dispositions the most different; and since he can avoid this, it is imperative upon him to do so, not only for the sake of justice, but for the sake of success. Fear, for example, has more efficacy against interests than passions, and against passions than ideas: it is easier to prevent a poor man from stealing than an irritated man from seeking vengeance; and the angry man, in his turn, is more easily restrained than the fanatic who believes himself commanded to assassinate. Generally, when a man's governing principle is of a nature in some sort material, such as a purely personal interest, fear has much power: it opposes interest to interest, and all happens thus in the same sphere; for there is similitude and fitness in the impelling and opposing motive. As we approach the moral order, fear loses its virtue: it ceases to be in natural and direct relation with the impulses it would repress; it addresses them in a language not their own, gives them reasons they cannot admit, and thus falls short of the mark it aims at. But when we arrive at the purest and rarest of all motives, at the full and dominating convictions of our moral nature, fear remains without action upon the man thus placed above that world to which its power is confined. And this is not a theory: it is a series of facts, regulated by Providence, which has willed that material and moral order shall remain distinct and profoundly different even in their union. To which category do these causes of action belong which generally urge men to political offences? Here, also, the diversity is great; for I am far from believing that everything happens within the moral order, or even upon its confines. Among the causes which excite hostility to power are ideas, passions, and interests: here honourable sentiments or sincere beliefs, there frenzied desires or the most brutal selfishness. All these principles of action join, are confounded together, and form in their admixture a heterogeneous force, whose different elements cannot be combated by the same arms, nor be repressed by the same means. {276} I do not say that the fear inspired by the spectacle, or the chance of capital punishment, is without efficacy to prevent the explosions of this confused force: but I do say that its efficacy is not of a simple nature; and that even if it finds in the adversary it combats points where it can strike with success, there will be others which it cannot reach, and where its rebound will produce a contrary effect to that contemplated by the penal law. When Charles II., urged on by the Catholics, and by his own taste for absolute power, resorted to condemnations and punishments, the opposition included, as always happens, the most heterogeneous elements. The followers of the republic joined those of Cromwell; and the fanaticism of the Puritans did not refuse an alliance with men whose disgust of frequently-ridiculous controversies had rendered them indifferent to every religious belief. To men revolted by the license of the court were joined others influenced by the love of disorder, the melancholy fruit of revolutions; and the ambitious who sought after popularity, for the sake of wealth or power, stood side by side with sincere patriots, disinterested friends of their country's liberty: thus Lord Shaftesbury voted with Lord Russell. In the same party, in fine, met together the most noble sentiments and the most culpable passions, the most sincere beliefs and the most worldly interests, the highest virtue and the most shameful desires. What must have been, what really was, the effect of political rigour upon a party thus composed? The court triumphed at first: for those who had joined the party from interest withdrew from it; the venal sold themselves; the timid sunk into silence; old republicans, in thus losing their illusions, believed liberty lost without retrieve; Monk corrupted or abandoned his former companions; and Shaftesbury fled to Holland. Fear reigned in all its glory. But at the same time that it struck the vulnerable portion of the party, it deeply and irreconcilably offended forces which it was not its business to attack. If cowards were afraid, brave men became indignant; and if fear brought over to the court some deserters from the popular party, it likewise confirmed the people in their aversion; causing the former to think themselves in error in having attacked power, and proving to the latter their right to do so. The reformers were alienated past return; the passions, kept in check perhaps among the great, grew furious in the rabble; the public mistrust became incurable; and all the friends of national liberty judged themselves in peril. As to the more ambitious of the party, Lord Russell and Sidney were the most unfortunate of the conspirators: they became martyrs for the people; and time soon showed that if fear had borne fruits favourable for power, it had likewise sowed some that were very bitter. {277} Such is, in a political matter, the inevitable condition of the indirect efficacy of punishment. It is not confined to the limits in which it can be of service; it does not restrict its operation to perils which it can combat with success; but in some cases causes the desired effect, and in others one which would rather have been avoided: its influence can neither be diverted nor even foreseen. It is a weapon of unknown power, which, thrown at random, may strike one required point, and at the same time in a hundred others excite new enemies and new dangers. The want of reflection in men explains everything: but that power which, in order to destroy political factions, calls to its aid the fear of death, commits a strange mistake; for in employing this means, it knows not what it does. It should at least, before having recourse to it, consider what is the nature of the danger it fears, what the interior composition of the factions it combats, and what will be the effects, so variable and complicated, of the punishment of death. If the question was now of such enemies as in the thirteenth century were those of established governments; if political struggles carried physical disorder suddenly into society, and the gatherings of conspirators threatened always to turn into bands of robbers, then fear would be the true weapon. If even, in our day, we dealt with seditions engendered among the multitude, provoked by some brutal passion or some physical interest--by the most pressing, for instance, the most excusable of interests, famine--there, again, I could conceive the employment of the punishment of death. It might, indeed, be needlessly and odiously abused; but it would at least be used with a knowledge of its effects against an evil to which its fear might be properly applied. Parties now, however, are very differently constituted: they unite men of all conditions, rich and poor, idle and industrious, peaceable and disorderly, bound together by numerous and systematic relations. If conspiracies do not obtain entire success, and change the face of empires, they seldom advance so far as they attempt. We live in a society recently overturned, where legitimate and illegitimate interests, honourable and blameable sentiments, just and false ideas, are so mingled, that it is very difficult to strike hard without striking wrong. We are an ancient people entering into a new social order; the errors of inexperience are seen amidst the security of civilisation; all is obscure and confused, without being entirely disorderly or violent. In such a state of men and things, to believe in the efficacy of capital punishment against political danger, and to rely on the fear it inspires as a great means of government, is to mistake both the evil and the remedy, and to employ arms at once old and poisonous, which are no longer of use, and cannot be handled without danger. {278} I find everywhere the same mistake; and it is by confounding times that means are misunderstood. In the former constitution of society, the moral efficacy of capital punishment was powerfully seconded by its direct and physical efficacy. When it fell upon the chief of an eminent party, known to all its members, and invested with immense power, his personal fall not only dissipated a great danger, but struck terror into the whole faction, and it was said on all hands--How has this man fallen? What! were not all his riches, his credit, his numerous followers, and his strong places, able to defend him? His adversaries are then much to be dreaded! How is it possible to escape their power? How strive against that which has destroyed such a man? Beyond the circle of political conflicts the same phenomenon is visible. The death of Cartouche or Mandrin will be a much greater example, and act much more powerfully upon robbers, than that of an obscure pickpocket. If you descend into the rabble, you will find the same relation between the moral and physical efficacy of punishments; for there the number of the victims makes up for their want of celebrity. Is it surprising that the population of a district should be paralysed with fear when they see their ranks thinned by chastisements, and encounter at every step the instruments or the ruins of this devastating power? Sepulture itself is refused to their remains, and the dead remain above ground to terrify the living. At such a price is obtained that fear which in former times derived its terrible influence from capital punishment. If you try now to restore the vanished régime, you will not be able to fulfil the conditions; you will not be able to multiply political punishments so as to terrify by their number. A government aiming at such effects would find danger moving against it at the same pace as fear among the people. Society no longer furnishes those victims whose illustrious fall spread terror everywhere. You must act here and there against some obscure wretches, whose names are unheard, and who are known only by their misfortune. And how can you destroy such men? Not by the force of power: the conflict is too unequal. By its justice? Have a care: when interest is personal, and the superiority so immense, justice is very open to suspicion: if doubt is possible, you may count upon its becoming in many minds equivalent to a certainty. And what fear have you then inspired? Not the fear of force, but of iniquity; and a government, in my opinion, can gain nothing from the one without the other. That, however, is the error which possesses those who, in our day, rely upon the punishment of death: they mistake the nature of the fear they spread, and believe themselves to have proved their strength when they have but made their justice or their wisdom doubtful. Strength is not so easily proved, nor always in the same manner. {279} Two governments have ruled France despotically--the Convention, which reigned by political punishments; and Bonaparte, who made little use of them, and even took pains to avoid them. Both, by different means, were powerful, and dreaded. But was the scaffold the only strength of the Convention? No rational man can believe it: it played its part, just like conflagrations, or falling houses, or ravaging banditti; but in all these the efforts are greater than the energy, and the Convention, consuming itself almost as quickly as its enemies, fell into the abyss from which it issued; for in vain is power great--the crime by which it triumphs destroys it in our day more rapidly than ever. Bonaparte was strong in his turn; but it was not by punishments that he proved his strength, and made it to be feared. He punished some conspiracies, suppressed others, and passed over many more; he even specially passed over those which proceeded from the party opposed to the Revolution. Invested with power by the need of order and justice, and in opposition to the anarchical tyranny of the Jacobins, already worn out, he comprehended well that he must invoke power from the same interests and sentiments which had just procured him the Empire. The need of order within and of victory without the Empire had made the 18th Brumaire, and Bonaparte reigned as he had risen--by order and victory; and when by his faults he had lost or compromised victory in Europe, and security in France, he fell, still full of life, but having ceased to be strong. If I may use the figure, there is a star which bestows their strength upon governments, and which they are not at liberty to choose or renounce without danger. They are born and live with a nature of their own, but in a situation they have not made, and under conditions they cannot direct; and their skill consists in becoming acquainted with these, and adapting themselves to them. Thus are they powerful--one by war, another by peace; this by severity, and that by gentleness--according as the different means of government have affinity with the especial laws of their destiny. And if they misunderstand these laws, and mistake the means of the government which correspond with them; if they imagine they can attempt indifferently any path they choose, and set in motion such or such a spring according to their fancy; if they consider power as an arsenal of all sorts of arms, equally useful to all comers--then their star abandons them: they hesitate, waver, try in vain a thousand resources, which fail them successively, and feeling themselves growing weaker day by day, are foolishly astonished that a course of conduct which has succeeded so well with others does nothing but increase their embarrassments and perils. {280} What was the star of the Restoration? Under what native laws was the present government placed? Where were its elements of power, and what means of action were fitted to its position and its nature? I would know this, in order to discover if capital punishment in political matters is really an arm for its use, and which preserves in its hands, both as regards its own interest and that of the people, a salutary efficacy. I cannot help the question becoming so extensive. I shall endeavour to keep within its bounds; but it is very necessary that I follow wherever it conducts me. Chapter IV. The Same Subject Continued. I shall say but one word of external matters. The Restoration found war in France, and France, like Europe, weary of war. This was both for France and Europe a pledge of peace. Peace was then the general law of our destiny; and in it should France have sought its power, and likewise its dignity, for the one is not separated from the other, at least for long. Within, the Restoration found neither anarchy, impiety, contempt for the laws, struggles between classes, nor any of those revolutionary scourges of which they now speak, as if they had possessed France for twenty-five years without interruption. This is not true. The old nobility lived at peace with the new, and both with the nation. Vanity had its folly as well as its pleasures, and the country thought little about the matter. Unluckily for our prospects and our rights--I thought so then, and do so still--power was at least strongly constituted, and in such a manner that disorder was not to be feared either for us or itself. Moral disorder, that internal shamelessness which incredulity produces, that domestic license, contempt for all existing forms of things, and aversion to every rule and restraint, had disappeared. Order, an imperious and blind necessity in 1799, was in 1814 a habit and a general taste, and the Restoration found it so. It is true that order, not only politically, but morally, was without guarantees. In political respects, no real and independent institutions subsisted by their own strength, capable of protecting either the general interests against individual pretensions, or individual interests against the tyranny of general interests and the natural vices or errors of power. One man had sufficed for many, and had pretended to suffice for all. In falling, he left power entirely naked and defenceless: for it had rights, and no means of exercising them; strength, and no means of displaying it; wants, and no means of providing for them by its own efforts. {281} In moral respects the evil was less apparent, but still real and profound. Order reigned in social facts, and even in manners; but the principles of order were not in the soul. These principles I may sum up in two words: the firm sentiment of right and true belief. These were almost alike wanting. I will not say that in the respect for religion and morals which replaced the revolutionary cynicism there was hypocrisy, but still there was not sincerity: it was an external respect, founded upon necessities and conveniences, not upon convictions and sentiments. People considered it good, and observed it, but without having in themselves that which occasions it, and without troubling themselves as to its legitimate nature. The head of the government set the example; but if he desired its habits, he feared its principles; for while ridiculing ideas, he acknowledged their empire. Discipline without moral rule, obedience with indifference, this is all he sought, and society gradually took the character under his hand. Never had order been at once so exact, and yet so foreign, to the inner life of man; and never had there been so much regularity united with so little faith. As for the idea of right, it was raised little above civil relations; beyond which force reigned so supreme, that it seemed as if right belonged to it alone. When there exists in a nation a will before which everything disappears, or is reduced to silence, the sentiment of right perishes; and if this will is at the same time very active, and is possessed with the passion for displaying itself on every side, in war, in peace, manifesting itself everywhere, and considering every obstacle as illegitimate, it exercises over men the most formidable corruption they can be subject to, for it deprives them of the power and even thought of resisting--that is to say, takes from them their moral existence. Right is the right of resistance: there is no other; for take that away, and every other disappears. Bonaparte struck them all to the heart, at least in their relations with his power; and thus repulsing beliefs on the one hand, and rights on the other, he carried away from the order which he maintained, without having founded it, every guarantee but habit and his own will. What Bonaparte did not give, the Restoration could give us: this was at once its mission and its nature. It was its mission, for a government has no other than that of satisfying the wants of the society in which it is established; not only the permanent and universal wants of society, but likewise, and above all perhaps, the special wants of its epoch. But even as Bonaparte had had to bring back external order, and to cause the cessation, by the despotism of a single will, of the anarchy of individual wills, so the Restoration, taking things where Bonaparte left them, had to infuse into external order the belief which constitutes moral order, and to replace the empire of will by the empire of right. Though less visible, these wants are not the less real; they are found at the bottom of every legitimate aspiration of every party. {282} It was also in the nature of the Restoration to respond to them. And from the first it was constrained to the institutions of liberty. I make use of this word, for it appears to me the only one by which the imperious necessity for the Charter can be expressed. Such constraints are not offensive to the power to which they apply, for it is Providence which directs them. The mistrust which the Restoration could not fail to excite exacted guarantees which liberty alone could offer. Thus liberty was perhaps still more necessary to the Restoration than power to the Consulate: but it is in the bosom of liberty that public beliefs are developed; it is under its shadow that general ideas germinate and grow, ideas adapted to the time and to the instinct of minds, and called forth and gathered by the secret wants of an entire people. Despotism never produces them; and the great convictions which have governed the world are never formed but against power or in a free state. The idea and the sentiment of right spring of necessity from liberty. This does not need proof, especially in modern times, when the bloody combats of the little Greek or Italian factions would not be, in the eyes of any one, liberty. And this is not all: that which was a necessity to the Restoration was likewise analogous to its nature: it drew its force not from force itself, but from an idea. The word legitimacy has been, and will still be, much abused. One loses much by this abuse; for in trying to make it mean what it does not, we run the risk of depriving it of what it really contains of truth and strength. It expresses a right, real and obvious, though limited as rights always are, when existing simultaneously with other rights. This right has made the strength of the Restoration, and even the Restoration itself. The Restoration was the result of the influence which recollections of long possession and certain moral principles and sentiments accompanying them exercise upon the minds of men. Whatever we may think of right--its origin, conditions, limits--we should know that it is a fact, a powerful fact, and one which was felt as such by Cromwell and William III., as well as in the reign of Charles II. It is the consequence of this fact that, founded as it is upon a moral idea, and sustained by those which are joined to or derived from it, the development of its force must be sought especially in the moral order where its principle resides. Elicited by convictions effected in virtue of a right, convictions and rights were at the Restoration the natural means of government. Subject to necessity even in the moment of triumph, obliged to yield in returning to the Revolution, it dreaded what the Revolution desired--it had to conciliate antagonistic principles and rights; but even that was a moral work foreign to its direct action, and which new sentiments and new ideas could alone accomplish. {283} Bonaparte had rebuilt the altars, and restored its solemnities to public worship; and notwithstanding revolutionary clamours, the non-Catholics felt no alarm. After the Restoration, Catholicism came to demand, and liberty of conscience to fear much more. What had the Restoration to do to defend society and itself from this peril? Could it, like the Revolution, or even like Bonaparte, treat different communions now with severity, now with complacency, and arbitrarily restrain or permit their action? No: that would have been opposed to the general nature of its institutions, and have shocked the respect it owed to faith as well as to liberty. Another path was open to it: and that was, to lay vigorous hold upon the principles of religious liberty, to proclaim it in all its acts, to inculcate it in every mind, and to make it, in fine, one of its doctrines of government, one of its public creeds which, really adopted, are found everywhere acting by their own virtue, and maintaining order almost of themselves. All the wants of the new order prescribed to the Restoration such a course; and it had, partly in the necessities of its situation, and partly in its nature, what sufficed for this noble task. The protection accorded to religious and moral ideas was not, on its part, the confession of an error, for all these ideas rallied spontaneously around it. The respect in which rights were held was of great importance to it, for it drew its own title from a right; and the maintenance of the public liberties was not less its policy than their establishment, for it could not, like Bonaparte, pretend to despotism by victory. It was, in fine, its condition and its destiny to rule especially by the moral influences, to aid in their development, to base on their empire the order which it found restored, and to have recourse to force but rarely, and then with regret, as a means foreign to its nature, and the necessity of which rendered its employment grievous. If we consider the occasions when the present government has tried this means, we shall be convinced, without difficulty, that the natural laws which rule it have had little to do with its use. Sometimes, as in the slightest popular agitations, we have seen it used with a precipitation and to an extent which exhibited less skill than inquietude; sometimes, as in the proceedings of the Cour des Pairs, indications of severity were observable sufficient to inspire much alarm, but which ended merely in correctional punishments. The movement has almost always appeared above the cause, and the effect beneath the movement. I do not know if a neutral observer is in the right to judge thus; but assuredly the employment of force, and the public threats of severity, have failed both in motive and address; and many believe that power has made use of them either wrongfully or unskilfully. Either of these faults would prove that the means of governing are improper. {284} It is not merit to succeed by force even at the moment when it is invoked; but what government does not come to the end of its means? It is still necessary that, after having set it at work, it leaves it public, convinced that this was necessary; and that it has used the means so well as to render this need more rare. If the first of its convictions fail, power is suspected of timidity and malevolence; if the second, it is taxed with want of skill, and its employment of force has weakened instead of strengthening it. I will not go farther; I have said enough to show in what system of government the Restoration seemed to me born, and how, in trying to leave it, it would lose its advantages without acquiring those of a different system. It cannot strengthen itself more by judicial rigour than by conquests. If fear ever became the machinery of its power--if, in order to maintain itself, it was necessary to terrify the interests, opinions, and sentiments it suspected--the more pressing would be the need, the more useless would be the weapon, and the danger would increase with the necessity. Our government, then, can still less than other governments rely upon the indirect efficacy of capital punishment. Rarely simple, and often in the complication of its effects more hurtful than profitable, this means would carry into the present régime more trouble than security. No one in France or in Europe will ever think that the Restoration is called upon to crush all it may fear. It has not been able to give such proofs of its physical force, that the minds of men submit as a matter of course to its frequent use. When it strikes, many people are tempted to believe it more severe than just, or more in danger than it is in reality, and its strokes awaken less the idea of its energy than of its danger. More than one government, after great severities, has been considered still weak; and in such case it finds itself in the worst of conditions--that of a power whose weakness provokes conspiracy, and which tries afterwards to fill up, by means of punishments, the abysses which that weakness has opened. The reason is, that force must exist before it pretends to inspire fear; and in the case of the Restoration, the sources of force must be sought for elsewhere than in the means of terror. I repeat that power itself has now an instinct of this; for it has not, while administering death-punishment, that confidence, that certainty of success, which is almost its only guarantee. It causes, yet fears the sentiments this melancholy spectacle may excite, without feeling assured of the terror it wishes to inspire; and this instinct is not a mistake, but the voice of nature. It is bound to moderation in punishment, just as in its exterior relations it is bound to peace. The Charter has abolished confiscation, and the Restoration justly honours the Charter. I do not demand the abolition of capital punishment; but I am convinced that, against its enemies, government gains nothing by this agent, and would gain much by showing itself very niggardly in its use. {285} It can no longer have a physical and direct efficacy. Its moral efficacy is not so great in political as in private offences; it is powerless in inspiring aversion to crime; it is equivocal and mixed with the most various results when tending to the propagation of fear; and it is more feeble, more uncertain, and more perilous to the present government than to powers of a different origin and position. Is this enough? It would be well were this all. But many other reasons, and many more dangers, suggest themselves; and these I shall proceed to indicate. Chapter V. Double Character Of The Government. What power seeks in the employment of capital punishment is security. I have shown that this it does not find; but that it often finds what it does not seek, and what it should and always does wish to avoid. There are some simple truths which no one disputes, which good sense immediately admits, and yet which are no sooner admitted than forgotten. The reason is, perhaps, that being adopted without debate, we are not led to think of their consequences. Here is a truth of this kind. Every government has a double character. Charged with maintaining public order and justice, and conducting the affairs of the state, it represents the social interest. Formed of men, and thus liable to the passions and vices of our nature, it has, besides, a personal interest, which is, to execute its will, and preserve at any price its existence. That these two characters are united in power, that the one is legitimate, and the other illegitimate, and that institutions have for their object the constraining of the government to act by the former, and to fortify the people from the perils of the latter, who will deny? Who would even insinuate a doubt? Power itself would not dare to do so. But in this instance power forgets what it would not for a moment deny. From the fact, that it is only called upon to act in the social interest, while it still preserves a distinct personal interest, proceeds this consequence, that all it does in virtue of the former character fortifies it, and all it does in that of the latter weakens it. {286} However frequently misunderstood, this is evident. I do not speak of legitimacy, nor of justice, nor of any moral obligation. Independently of every motive of this kind, it is clear that if power acts only for its own sake, in the sole interest of its will or durability, it separates itself from society, courts a risk of detection, and if detected, exposes itself to being forsaken or even attacked by that general force from which its own has sprung. That prudence prescribes to power to show itself ever in its social, and dissemble its individual aspect, and that it is of importance to its existence to appear on every occasion the representative of the public interest, and not the minister of its own, would serve to show, if it were necessary to show, its continual efforts to appear what it is not, and to pass for the organ of society even when it acts against its wants or wishes. To abjure its personal, in order to retain its social character, would be, on the part of power, an act of the highest virtue. To convince the people that it acts only in the general interest, and binds up its destiny in theirs, would be its greatest art. To keep itself apart, preoccupied with its own affairs, and in all the nakedness of its distinct existence, would be foolish and perilous in the extreme. There was a time when governments could so act with less danger. When they drew their revenues from their own domains, when they possessed their places of war like an estate, when they formed armies of adventurers, attracted by the pay alone, and pledged to serve everywhere, then power had a separate existence, and a distinct form from that of society. If skilful, it still tried to identify itself with the country, and so received from it a much greater strength; but if incapable or passionate, it could isolate itself at least for a time, to live on its own funds, and preserve some reality whilst losing its public character, and allowing its personal sentiments and interests to predominate in its acts and language. But this time is past: power, which cannot live of itself, can no longer live by itself. Everything draws it towards society. Does it want money!--society must give it: laws?--society must approve of them. If it acts, its acts arc judged; if it speaks, its words are commented on: the public weighs constantly upon it by the rule of necessity. As the representative of society, its strength may be great, greater than ever; but if special and isolated, it is a cipher. Alone to-day, it will be nothing tomorrow. It has, then, the greatest interest in avoiding every appearance of egotism, and in making its public character obviously predominate over its individual one. {287} But there are traits which belong to one more than the other of these characters, symptoms which reveal the latter, but not the former. The employment of capital punishment politically is of this kind. It announces the predominance of the personal existence of power over its social existence, and shows it to be occupied with itself, and combating a peril which perhaps threatens only itself. And what is more natural? When we look at history, and ask why so much blood has been shed on the political scaffold, it is seldom that the spirit of past society rises to reply, 'That blood was shed for me.' Governments almost always present themselves alone to give account of these punishments: their own passions, faults, interests, commanded them; and next to the victims themselves, society suffered most. I know that the prospect of this future responsibility troubles power but little, and less because it is perverse, than because, like men, it is reckless; but we have at least gathered from it this knowledge, that the necessities of a power which kills, often false with regard to itself, are almost always so with regard to society; and that if it must kill in its own defence, that defence is necessary merely because it willed those things which suited no interest but its own. This knowledge, little disseminated formerly, and almost confined to moralists, is now popular; it has become a sort of instinct, which reveals to us, in all their extent, the position and the illusions of power. When it is said that the illusions of what we call monarchy are dissipated, and its prestiges vanished, we know not how much to believe. It is not, however, in reality, a question of illusions and prestiges; it is that things themselves are changed: every sphere of existence or of action is enlarged; and that which was particular has become general, not only for society and its guarantees, but for the government and its profit. The citizen whose affairs took him little from his corporation, whose thoughts rarely wandered beyond the walls of his town, now knows himself to be engaged and compromised in affairs of the highest importance, and in the most complicated deliberations. The words _judgment of the state, political necessity_, which formerly struck upon his ear without his comprehending their sense, although he admitted their dominion, awaken ideas within him which trouble, and sentiments which agitate him. He has indeed reason to be moved more than formerly; for this government, which then had its sphere apart, higher and greater, but also more special and restricted, has itself become much more general, more directly, more universally associated with the interests and life of every citizen. Does it require money?--It demands it from all. Does it make laws?--They are for all. Has it fear?--All maybe its object. The distinctions in the nature of great and small exist no longer for power: its relations are with the magistrates of a village, as well as with the chiefs of the state; it has to produce an effect everywhere, and everywhere receives some motive of action. {288} And what is astonishing in the fact of the condition of government and the disposition of the people having changed? These changes are reciprocal, and correspond with each other. If power is no longer a mystery to society, the reason is, that society has ceased to be so to power: if authority meets everywhere with minds that pretend to judge it, it is because it comes into daily contact with these minds: if they demand that its conduct shall be on every occasion legitimate, it is because it has the disposal of all the strength of the country: if the public busies itself more with the government, government likewise acts over a very different public, and power is enhanced as well as liberty. Of what, then, do you complain? Have you so little ambition that this displeases you! It is true you have lost the independence which belongs to a private life: your passions, and your personal interests, can no more have a place in the new order which surrounds you; you may not listen to their voice without its being known, nor obey their dictates without the reproach of failing in your mission. But what a mission is yours! If you are in harmony with society, the whole of society is concentrated and reflected in you. It is whilst offering itself entirely to you, that it asks you to live only for it. Formerly, you could confide only in a factitious policy, emanating from the ideas or desires of a single man, and tormenting nations to adapt them to designs they knew nothing about. But now policy must be true--that is to say, national--and that restrains the capricious actions or arbitrary conceptions of individuals. But what strength, what lustre, what energy belongs to a true national policy! What power is the best--that which represents the interests and the will of a people, or that which accomplishes only the thoughts, and responds only to the interest, of a man! I own I have no hesitation in deciding. Hesitation, however, is of little consequence. I only insist at present upon this new state of society, to prove that power is not free to choose; and that if its conduct were to appear dictated by the necessities of its personal situation, rather than those of the social, which should be manifested in it, it would soon fall into a profound weakness; for society would soon be aware that it was separated from the fate as well as interest of the public, and acted only for itself. And how can it be supposed that capital punishment, employed politically, will not awaken this idea in society! There are fearful times, I know, when the people themselves call for and excuse it. I do not believe nations to be secure from those frightful maladies which engender human passions and errors. But a crisis of this kind is rare, and not of long duration; and it is precisely when it does take place that capital punishment becomes most odious. Remember the burst of kindly feeling with which France turned towards the emigrants in spite of all mistrust, past animosities, and every possible prejudice, the revolutionary policy was overturned, because it could neither become just nor remain cruel. {289} Since that period, capital punishment has been in political hands a weapon which compromises power more than serves it, and to which power has scarcely ever recourse but when in peril on its own account and from its own errors. It might be said that society, terrified by what it has seen, will no longer accept the responsibility of any political punishment, but is determined to believe that if it must be employed, government alone has need of an instrument which its own faults have rendered necessary. And that is especially true of a government which is not of yesterday, but has already held out, and is able to take its true position. If it were now only struggling into life, we might think with regret that it had not had time to become known, or to dissipate by its wisdom the perils surrounding it, and that examples were still necessary, and the severities of to-day only the forerunners of peace tomorrow. But if the government has been long enough established, if legal means and leisure have not faded in their influence, if it has been able to show itself wise, and become strong by its harmony with the public, then conspiracies cannot spring up again, nor punishments recommence, without society immediately repelling from itself both the necessity and the blame. Then power is again invested with this personal and isolated character which destroys it: it is no longer social power; and society, instead of seeing its own reflection, beholds only an interest which is not its own, wants which it disavows, and intentions in which it has no share. The justice of such a government is not true justice, and its necessities are not real necessities. There is, in fact, in political chastisements, as in other things, a true justice and necessity, often distinct from legal justice and the necessities of power. Governments have long given up troubling themselves on the subject. In barbarous times--and their duration was long--legal justice did not seem to have been required at all; the personal necessities of power being sufficient. When attacked, it had every right to defend itself, and the execution of a conspirator called for little more delay or formality than the death of an enemy. By degrees, however, legal justice was introduced into public policy, the people began to think, and power was forced to admit that there were other things besides war, and that against crimes of this nature, as of every other, laws, forms, proofs, and judgments were necessary. This was an immense progress, and it is now approaching its consummation. But the career of progress is not yet stayed--the public cry is still, Go on! The laws which regulate the chastisement of political crimes may be insufficient or even bad; and the necessities which deliver up culprits to the laws may be false. {290} Society goes the length of supposing this more especially when the question is of capital punishment. Suspecting that power is isolated from it, and looks to its own interest alone, it is at the same time convinced that that interest does not suffice to legitimise punishments, and that power has not the right of defending itself at all risks. Sufficiently enlightened to know that infallible justice does not belong to any law, and that were laws even without fault in themselves, the faults of men would corrupt them in their administration, society now neither relies upon the personal wants of power nor upon the legality of its processes. It would have these wants founded on reason, and these processes in equity. Whether it obtains this or not, its demands continue; for it is aware of the justice of the debt, and though refused, it is not forgotten. Moreover, has not one political condemnation, legally pronounced, succeeded better in our days in convincing the people of its necessity and justice, than the most arbitrary executions of former times? Let not power mistake this new exaction of the public; for it is a powerful and irrevocable one, and is allied to all the progress, and all the moral wants of civilisation and of the human mind. Let it not flatter itself in thinking to escape by taking refuge behind the laws: it has long rejected their yoke, and now it would make them a shield when beaten on an open field, and would possess itself of the citadels armed against it, and then think itself inviolate. But it will be pursued to this asylum, which will be shown to have been profaned more than once by deceit and iniquity. It may plead that the punishment was legal; but it will be asked if it was just or necessary. Is it, indeed, so politically? And in what case, and under what conditions? We must descend to these questions, for the public thought itself descends to them, and will have an answer. A government which would give itself no concern in such questions, but say with Pilate--'I wash my hands of the blood of this man: see ye to it,' such governments would soon learn that they do not escape; that no deceit, no laws, can save from impending danger a power at once egotistical and hypocritical, which, in separating itself from society and truth, makes for itself a justice which is not true justice, and a necessity which is not the necessity of the country. {291} Chapter VI. Justice. Need I say that if there were a justice anterior and superior to legal justice, there would be no legal justice. Montesquieu has made this principal truth the principal idea of his book: 'To say that there is nothing just or unjust but what positive laws order or forbid, is to say that rays were not regular before the circle had been traced.' It would be strange if natural justice, in virtue of which legal justice exists, should cease to be from the moment the latter was written. But it does not cease to be, or even to speak; it has in principle its general conditions, and on each occasion its particular will, which legal justice is bound to carry out. I shall mention presently the progress of a struggle between the two; but we must first inquire what true justice is, before supposing it to fail in obtaining what it desires. Morally speaking, there are two parts in every action--the morality of the act itself, and the morality of the agent. The morality of the act depends on its conformity with the eternal laws of truth, reason, and morality, which no man knows fully, but only aspires to know, judging according to the degree of that knowledge of the merits or demerits of human actions. The morality of the agent resides in the intention--that is to say, in the idea which he has himself conceived of the morality of the action--and in the purity of the motives which carry him on to its accomplishment. When these two are at variance, the fact is shown in the daily conduct and common language of men. 'He has done ill,' they say, 'but he intended to do well;' that is, the action may be absolutely culpable, and yet the agent personally innocent. But will Divine justice consider only the intention? or will it punish error? I dare not decide. Error is often caused by vanity, passion, the preoccupations of personal interest, or of pride--that is to say, by what is wrong. How does this wrong affect individual unconsciousness of error? It is seldom given to men to decide the point; God alone can see clearly into the depths of the conscience. But this is certain, that the judgment of man can neither absolve the guilt of the action because of the intention of the agent, nor condemn the agent without taking the intention into account. Thus our nature wills it. {292} Unable to solve such a problem, legal justice is obliged to act as if it did not exist. It declares certain actions to be culpable, and punishes those who commit them, without troubling itself to inquire whether they are guilty in intention or not. And in this there is no reproach to be cast on legal justice; for the effects of bad actions are in themselves so fatal to society, that it cannot give up to individual opinion the right of deciding upon them: it declares their nature, and takes care that its laws are observed. But there are here two remarks to be made. First, that society thus absolutely incriminating certain actions, is bound to be in the right in its condemnations; and second, that although the laws cannot be rendered subordinate to the intention of individuals, they cannot abolish this element of man's judgment; and when, therefore, in their application they have the misfortune to punish an intention evidently pure, the natural sentiment of justice is offended. Legal justice, then, runs a double risk--that of erring in its general incriminations; and that of encountering, in the application of its rules, particular facts in which a circumstance occurs it has not taken into account, and which, nevertheless, will act powerfully upon the mind of man--honesty of intention. If there is a species of action in which this double obstacle in the way of legal justice is most real and apparent, certainly it is political crime. I have already said that the character of such an offence is variable and even conditional, and that, moreover, it is difficult to decide upon and appreciate it justly. Who does not know, too, that error is nowhere more easy, and that the purest intentions are here often associated with the most immoral acts! Some persons, struck with these facts, have gone so far as to think that, morally speaking, there are no political offences; that force alone creates them; and that good or bad fortune is the test of their culpability. I do not share in this idea in any degree. It germinates in those unfortunate times when the duties and rights of citizens disappear, or become obscured, so to speak, under the mantle of despotism, or in the storm of revolutions; but the light has not ceased to be because an eclipse has hidden it. The endeavour to change the established government, even if it did not involve any private crime, may unite in the highest degree the two general characters of crime--the immorality of the act, and the wickedness of the intention. It matters little, then, that its end is political; it does not less constitute a true crime, which ought to be punished, and perhaps with justice. Neither insurrections nor conspiracies have the privilege of innocence; and if virtue has often succumbed in its resistance to tyranny, history has no want of criminal conspirators. What is certain is, that on no occasion is legal justice more exposed to deviate from natural justice, or has more difficulty in identifying itself with it. I leave out of question, as may be seen, everything that corrupts legal justice itself; I do not avail myself of the passions either of power, or of the judges, nor of the facility offered of twisting the laws, nor of the obstacles which the defence of the accused may meet with, notwithstanding the strict observation of forms. {293} Suppose impartiality and liberty everywhere, and yet I say, or rather see, that even then, and through the nature of things, true justice is in danger. The moral merit or demerit of such an action has not that degree of certainty which belongs to private crime: it depends upon an infinity of circumstances, which the foresight of the law cannot reach. The consideration of intention has more power here than anywhere else; for doubt is more easy, motives less directly personal, the causes of illusion more pressing, and the passions perhaps less impure. What will prevent these facts, for they are facts, from acting upon the public mind? Who will hinder it from seeing and taking account of them? The more difficulty the judges have in adapting the laws, the more the citizens, who judge also, will be shocked to see the laws indifferent to reasons which influence their own judgment. The imperfection of legal justice will declare itself in all its extent; and, in fact, what is the imperfection of justice but injustice? This is felt: power has not been slow in comprehending that, in placing itself thus upon moral ground, in considering actions in their communication with the laws of eternal morality and the intentions of their authors, it would often have great difficulty in defending and proving the legitimacy of its decisions. The attempt has been made to cheat the instinct of men, to elude their disposition, to compare legal with natural justice, and in order to succeed in this, the question has been carried elsewhere. Power has taken up its ground in the social interests and the maintenance of order; it has represented crimes as hurtful rather than culpable; and shunning the absolute justice of punishments, it occupies itself with their utility. I might say much upon this transposition of the question, but I must hasten towards my end, and shall do nothing more than indicate the error. It is not true that crimes are punished especially as hurtful, nor that the ruling consideration of punishment is its utility. Attempt to condemn and punish as hurtful an act which every one considers innocent, and you will see how much you will revolt the minds of men. Men often believe acts culpable, and punish them as such, when they are not so; but they cannot endure the sight of chastisements descending from a human hand upon actions which they think innocent. Providence alone has the right of treating innocence severely without accounting for its motives. This astonishes and troubles the human mind, which, knowing that it cannot fathom the mystery here, seeks beyond our world for an explanation. But on the earth, and where human beings are the actors, chastisement has no right but over crime. No public or private interest can induce a society, however disorderly, to believe that where there is no crime, the law may still punish to prevent a danger. {294} Moral offence is, then, the fundamental condition of chastisement. Human justice exacts this imperiously before it admits the legitimacy of punishment; and legal justice deceives, when, to free itself from the exigencies of natural justice, it attributes to itself another principle, and another end, and pretends to find them in utility. But it cannot thus escape from its name, which is justice, and become merely a combination, more or less skilful, of means of defence for the profit of such or such an interest. They confine the madman who has taken life, but do not punish him; because, being incapable of reason and responsibility, he is incapable of crime. Let the penal laws, then, not hope to escape, under the pretext of social interest, from being obliged to conform to the rules of natural justice: they will always have to submit to this criterion, whether in their generality or application; and when power judges and punishes, it can neither change the conditions with which the judgments of moral justice are formed, nor deviate from them without causing a universal feeling of the iniquity. That being understood, and legal justice thus brought back to the empire of natural justice, I will admit that social interest is also one of the motives which enter into the discrimination of offences and their punishment. It is not the first, for it would be without value were it not preceded by the moral reality of the offence; but it is the second, for society has the right of condemning and punishing whatever is at once culpable, hurtful, and of a nature to be repressed by the laws. Moral criminality, social dangers, and penal efficacy, are the three conditions of criminal justice, the three characters which ought to be met with in the actions it condemns and the punishments it inflicts. That is the true ground on which legal justice is established. It participates in our greatness and our misery. It is in relation at once with the sublime nature of man and the infirmity of his condition. It cannot be pure moral justice; but it is obliged to retain its principal characteristic of punishing those only who morally deserve punishment. On this condition it undertakes to repress everything that is hurtful to society; and in this design of which an interest, or, if you please, a terrestrial necessity, is the principle, it meets with another limit, and submits to another condition--that of the efficacy of the means it uses to prevent the evils it fears--or, in other words, the efficacy of written laws and external chastisements. I arrive now at the question, thus reduced to its true elements, and examine what is, with regard to political crimes, true legal justice, and more especially with regard to capital punishment. {295} Let me remark, in the first place, that of the two constituent characters of every offence--the immorality of the act, and the social danger--the more the latter predominates over the former, the more the legitimacy of capital punishment becomes doubtful, and its application cruel. There are some crimes so evident, and so odious, that the instinctive feeling of men calls for the death of the culprits as the only chastisement proportioned to the deed. But a single glance will show that these are not the crimes which can put society in great danger. They outrage natural feelings and moral laws, and show in the criminal a degree of perversity or ferocity which our nature hates to look upon, as if it were insupportable to find to what a point of depravity and dishonour it could attain. Social danger is a complex idea, the fruit of reflection and knowledge, which does not awaken in mankind this spontaneous and violent antipathy. If, in all offences, the two principles of criminality were equally and exactly balanced, the penal laws would have but little trouble. But this is not the case; for offences are, so to speak, diversely composed: in one it is immorality which predominates, in another danger; and according to the relations of these two elements of crime, the punishment must vary, not only for the sake of justice, but because the public feeling expects it, and will not see justice in the punishment on any other condition. But capital punishment being the gravest of all punishments, and much the more so now when human life is more generally respected, it is naturally adapted only to crimes of such wickedness as would perhaps provoke its infliction even if it were banished from the laws. Wherever social peril is the principal element of the offence, capital punishment is no longer founded upon our moral nature; it is excessive both in justice and in public opinion. Every one admits that, generally speaking, political crimes are in this position. They may be detestable, but, in general, they are dangerous; and it is in this latter character that the law punishes them with severity. Let me inquire if capital punishment is a necessary, or even useful severity. It is with justice I occupy myself at this moment. But it is not in the power of any law to contrive that, in the opinion of men, the justice of a punishment should be estimated chiefly according to the moral gravity of the offence; and this measure of justice is the more natural, that the punishment strikes most severely in the person of the culprit who submits to it. The justice which deals death because of social peril, when the moral criminality is feeble or doubtful, carries injustice in the face of it; and if it happened, as it sometimes does happen in political affairs, that the intention of the accused was pure, or at least excusable--that he was mistaken in the moral character of his action, and that his error proceeded from disinterested illusions--then capital punishment would assume at once the appearance of iniquity. It would be no longer a chastisement, but the sacrifice of a human victim to terrestrial and mortal gods. {296} Formerly it had its excuse, I will not say in the violence of political passions, for this violence is, and will be still greater, but in their personality. Political struggles, like war, were formerly struggles, man to man, between rivals pretty nearly equal, and life was bound to the fate of power. Capital punishment, then, appeared as a species of law of retaliation, analogous not only to the state of ideas, but of realities. Danger was as near and personal as in battle. This is so true, that the greater part of the laws of barbarism--so minute in matters of private crime, so attentive in regulating the retribution according to the nature and amount of the offence--make no mention of capital punishment for a political cause. Justice had no pretence for entering here: it was of war the question was, and the danger was so visible and pressing, that the right of retaliation was too obvious to require to be written in the laws. Later, it was written, and even subjected to certain forms; but it was still retaliation, for political crimes never menaced power without first menacing the lives of men, and political perils were always preceded by personal ones. Power had thus all the rights of personal defence; but at present, the conditions of peril, as of power, are changed. The king of France has no longer enemies in the neighbouring chateaux waiting in ambush to seize his person, imprison, and perhaps kill him, and that even without the hope of reigning in his place, but merely from avarice, from vengeance, for the recovery of a domain, or for a right which he disputed, or had ravished from them. The greater number of conspiracies are vague, and a thousand barriers rise up between a government and its enemies. Instead of an individual and certain danger, the question is commonly of a complicated and social danger, formed of confused projects and means of action frequently ridiculous. How can it be thought that crimes of this kind call for capital punishment as clearly or loudly as they formerly did? Such culprits, when preparing the crime, placed themselves, as it were, at the foot of the scaffold erected by their own hands. Now this scaffold is raised laboriously, and the culprits must almost always be dragged to it from a distance, and made to mount before the eyes of a public who have seen neither distantly nor at hand either the crime or the danger. I do not believe that the condition of power is worse than it was; but if it is better, it is not power alone that should profit by the favourable change, but likewise justice. Now, justice very rarely authorises the employment of capital punishment against those crimes in which there is more appearance of social danger than moral wickedness. What will be the case if we sound the peril itself deeply? This is the motive of the punishment, the fundamental element of the criminality; and this element should at least be powerful, and the motive have the extent and reality which are attributed to it. {297} I will presently enter in a direct manner into this question; and I will therefore remark upon it here only in passing, and with regard to its effect on the justice of capital punishment. Observe, the question is of a social danger. I myself think with the laws. When public order is menaced, and the general forms of government or the persons who represent them are attacked, it is society which is in danger. A government must be bad, indeed, and no one can say _how_ bad, before society prefers the terrible chance of distraction to even the slightest hope of reform. There are doings and secrets hidden by Providence under a veil which it alone can raise. This admitted, I still insist and repeat that the question is of social danger. In order that society may suppose the peril to justify capital punishment, that peril must be its own, and in the danger of power it must see its own danger. However wearisome the words may have become, it is still necessary to repeat, that power exists only for society, and that all its rights correspond with its mission. But is it quite certain that society is really so often in danger as power believes it to be? Is it quite certain that the dangers which power dreads are indeed those which it is the object of the penal laws to prevent? Is it not possible that they are neither so great, nor perhaps at all the same, as those which have appeared serious and frequent enough between power and society to render death a legitimate punishment? I affirm nothing, for nothing can here be affirmed generally and beforehand; but I consider that danger in its special nature is the principal element of criminality, and I recognise in it a double character. It is not certain that it does exist, nor that it is really the social danger against which the laws are directed. The same differences which separate political from private crimes in their relations with morality, distinguish them still in their relations with the public interest. That assassination and theft are always equally hurtful to society, and morally culpable, is never doubted, and remains true whatever may be the faults or merits of the government. There is no relation between the conduct of power and the danger occurring to society from crimes of this kind. Under a tyranny, as under the most liberal regime, the same danger exists in all its extent and intensity. In the case of political crimes, on the contrary, danger--I mean social danger--varies according to the conduct of power, and the advantages derived from it by society. Certainly, in 1802, France was in more danger from the fall of Bonaparte than in 1814; for in 1802 Bonaparte served France faithfully, both at home and abroad, while in 1814 he compromised and oppressed her. I attach no value to a permanent and blind hostility to power; but power in its turn has no right to pretend that it will be always found equally good and equally necessary, and that its dangers are always alike dangerous to society. {298} Thus in the very nature of that social danger, in the name of which they would take life, there is one cause of uncertainty. Here is a second cause. In private crimes, as I have already said, at the same time that the wicked and hurtful character of the offence is indubitable, its reality is certain. A murder or robbery has been committed, and a search is made for the criminal. It is certain that an offence has been committed against morality, and society put in danger, and upon whom will the punishment fall? In a political matter, the reality even of the crime is, as we have seen, often called in question; and the social danger is likewise a matter of dispute. There are men accused of conspiracy, and in order to their conviction, it must be proved that there has been a conspiracy, or, in other words, that society has been put in danger; and if the conspiracy is not proved, neither will the danger be so, at least in the eyes of the law. While in other cases the wickedness, danger, and reality of the crime are positive data, from which the accusation sets out, here the accusation goes first, and may be proceeded upon without there being a legal crime, a social peril, or a wicked act at all. I proceed always, and it is impossible to do otherwise, upon the hypothesis, that the danger of society and that of power is one and the same. It is the only legitimate and the only legal hypothesis. It is fully established when the power is good; and it is long before it can become so bad that society may reasonably desire its fall; and in the immense interval which separates these two terms of its career, it is not to be doubted that power has a right to make use, for its own preservation, of the laws instituted for preserving the public order in its own person. But if power forfeits this right only through greater crimes, or more absurd errors, its faults before this fatal epoch do not cease to have an influence; they have the infallible effect of weakening the feeling of society as to the danger of power and its own, and thus they introduce into legal justice, especially when severe, a measure, or at least an appearance, of iniquity. When governments separate themselves from society, and feel society retiring from them, they flatter themselves they can bring it back by severity against its enemies. They are mistaken. Society judges of the severity by the opinion it has of its own danger, not by that which it forms of theirs. If only moderate punishments wore employed, it would perhaps consider them equitable; for, though discontented with power, society does not desire its destruction, or think that it has lost every right of using the laws in its defence. But if government makes use of the laws, as if society were in full harmony with it, it awakens and fortifies the feeling of disagreement, deepens the abyss which already separates them, and allows the time to pass for filling it up by other means. {299} Such are the conditions to which legal justice is subjected in political affairs; such are the facts in the midst of which it works, without power to escape from their bondage. It has to do with crimes whose moral perversity is sometimes equivocal, in which the intention may be excusable, and which cause more danger than aversion. It must rather consider, therefore, the danger than the immorality, and desire the prevention of perils which are not always equal or certain, nor perhaps menace alike power and society--thus causing society to doubt the equity of punishments, and giving power an air of egotism and isolation fatal, especially in our days, to its strength. When legal justice is called upon to pronounce judgment on such offences, it finds itself before a natural justice which takes account of every thought, weighs every fact, and speaks so loudly, that it must be faithfully obeyed. What is in such circumstances the character of capital punishment? Everything that could otherwise confer upon it a certain degree of legitimacy fails to do so here, not only in the eyes of attentive reason, but of the spontaneous instinct of men; and at the same time it meets with everything that can make it unjust, suspected, and odious; it is directed against danger and crime, but without the assurance of striking at a legitimate danger or the true criminal; and in order to arrive at justice, it runs a thousand chances of committing iniquity. And let not power aver that these chances are but little apparent; let it not flatter itself that the public is not aware of them, and show itself, in dealing justice, less exigent than truth demands. The public knows much of its own rights, and of the rights of true justice; and what it is still ignorant of, it will be taught. All such questions will be brought forward and debated over and over again. Men will learn to understand them, and they will insist upon the rights they discover themselves to possess. Truth will be aided in its entrance into their minds by their interests, sentiments, and even passions; and in proportion as it gains ground, capital punishment, flying before justice, will be driven for refuge to the last asylum where it can defend itself--the necessities, if not of society, at least of power--and thither we must follow it. {300} Chapter VII. Necessity. I might dispense with this part of the question. If capital punishment is of little efficacy, and I think I have proved the fact, how can it be necessary? However, I will glance at the question, even at the risk of meeting by the way the indirect paths which have conducted me to it. Let it not be forgotten that I do not propose the legal abolition of capital punishment. Were I to demand this, it would be properly answered, that the existence of such punishments is necessary, though their application may seldom be so; and I would then have to demonstrate that not only is there no need of the punishment of death, but that it is absolutely useless to have it written in the laws. I admit that these are two distinct propositions which have no dependence on each other, and with the latter I do not meddle. I do not break this arm of capital punishment in the hands of power, I merely maintain that, in general, it is wrong to use it. I examine, then, very freely what is called its necessity; for if, in general, this does not exist, it is well to know it; and if ever real, we shall do no harm. I have shown that the efficacy of punishments varies according to times, manners, and different states of civilisation. The case is the same with their necessity, not only because they are only necessary when efficacious, but for more direct reasons. Formerly the public strength was small, and individual strength great and licentious; and the severity of punishment made up for the insufficiency of the means of power. The wisest kings of the old ages directed frightful laws against the slightest disturbances. Were they wrong in so doing? I think not. Physical order was everywhere met by enemies capable of destroying it, and always ready to attempt its destruction. Central power, without administration, without police, stripped even of the chief rights of sovereignty, and reduced to the personal resources of the sovereign, could not defend society, or even itself, without constantly opposing physical force to physical force; and very frequently the cruelty of the laws, and the number of punishments, proved only its wisdom and desire to protect the public. The chronicles of these times, too, especially praise as just and popular those princes who punished severely and frequently. They were, like the first heroes of Greece, occupied in purging society of its bandits and monsters. {301} But what would society of the present day think of a power which, to maintain order, had recourse to such means? It would consider such a power as odious and insane; and this because the means of order have changed with the social constitution. On the one hand, order is maintained, as it were, of itself by the general regularity of manners, the universality of labour, and the public knowledge of the true social interests; on the other, society is concentrated: the public strength is immense, and individual strength small and little aggressive. Every physical resource and every moral influence are placed in the hands of power: it disposes of the riches of the country, of its magistrates, and of its soldiers: no one is too great or too obscure not to fear it. It is everywhere, and everywhere ready to prevent crime or danger. What is the great merit of this new condition?--The maintenance of order at the expense of little blood. When disorder has been great and general, it was not the effusion of blood which could stop it: it was by good administration, not by punishments, that Bonaparte established order in France. Five hundred years earlier, and after crises much less important than revolution, they bordered the roads with gibbets, and often without success. That which is true of the necessities of social order is also true, and even more so, of the necessities of political order. Power can now defend itself at the cost of much less blood than society. But let us take a nearer view of the varied characters of the old and present perils of power. Whence formerly proceeded the dangers of a sovereign, or even of a minister? From his rivals and competitors. The House of York disputes the crown with the House of Lancaster, and if one of the two exterminate the other, it will reign in safety. Charles VII. had a favourite, Giac, whom the Constable of Richmond carries oft', judges summarily, and puts to death; and then the constable returns to exercise a dominion over the king, which he has assured to himself by the assassination. Cardinal Richelieu struggles against dangers of the same kind, and defends himself by analogous means. Those who menace men in the possession of power are those who desire its possession. Political questions almost always occur between individuals; and death, which has power to decide either way, is called a necessity. Where, now, are these enmities, and this personal ambition, which power thus disputed? Who flatters himself with seizing or preserving supremacy by the mere destruction of an enemy? No one. I do not speak of ministers: factions are not always mad; but none is so much so as to think that their chiefs may be invested with the ministry, by killing those of the opposite faction. As for sovereigns, more than one in Europe believes himself menaced; but is it by a rival or a pretender? Have the revolutions of Spain, Portugal, Naples, Piedmont, been the fruit of a litigation for the throne, the work of an ambitious subject? {302} It is evidently not so. The nature of political dangers is changed. The struggle is no longer between men, but between systems of government. The fate of ministers, or even that of dynasties, is not regulated by the fate of their adversaries, but by that of the system they adopt or represent. Formerly communities had masters, between whom the battle was fought; but now they are really free, for it is from them alone, or the great parties which divide them, that power can draw not merely its strength, but its pretensions. From them, also, can its dangers alone arise. The question is no longer who governs, but how he governs? Individuals are no longer, I repeat, but the instruments and interpreters of the general interest. Is it not clear that against such dangers, and against such adversaries, capital punishment is neither powerful nor necessary? It has, however, one effect; and it is this: at the same time that it cannot destroy those whom power wishes to destroy, it alarms those whom it does not wish to alarm. Its blows have at once less force and more extent than is necessary. The man it reaches is nothing in himself; he is feared and destroyed only on account of his connection with certain interests and general sentiments wherein the danger really resides. They desired to dissipate the danger, and have crushed only a man; and yet the stroke is felt throughout the whole sphere of interests of which his was the organ. These interests do not die with his death, nor are they even sensibly weakened; but the survivors estimate the intention which has killed him; and say that if it were possible they also would be killed--which, however, they know is not possible. And this persuasion is not only spread throughout the interests which exactly correspond with the conduct and language of the victim, but also throughout those connected with him by more distant relations, little felt, perhaps, during his life, but now compromised and menaced by his death. Thus power, by being mistaken in the nature of its dangers and enemies, brings upon itself an immense evil without obtaining the good it sought. It is doubly deceived in the importance it attaches to a man; considering him both greater and more insignificant than he really is. It has forgotten that, in ceasing to be the strength of his party, he has become its symbol; and that what he represents can no more be abolished in his person, than his person can be touched without its being felt throughout the vast circle of which he forms a part. In this, again, the employment of capital punishment is a perilous anachronism. It is addressed to other times, other force, other dangers. It does not obtain what it promises, and it produces what is not wanted. It troubles or irritates the mass of society, to prevent the irritation and trouble occasioned by the voice or presence of an individual. {303} And is it now necessary against this mass itself? That would be a pity; for it would be all the more difficult to direct, and I have shown how doubtful its moral efficacy is, and that its physical efficacy is impossible. Nevertheless, if the necessity spoken of has any reality, it must be there, for the danger is there as well as the question. The possession of power is no longer the object of private struggles, once sustained by such bloody means; but the system and conduct of power are debated between it and society; and the former has indeed great need of defence, for it is vigorously attacked. Why is it so, or rather with what intention is it so? This is the grand question. The rivals who formerly disputed the empire could not all possess it; and they were therefore obliged to kill each other. Is it a combat of the same nature which now takes place between power and society, or those great portions of society which it considers enemies? Is there that radical incompatibility, that impossibility of co-existing, which there is between two individuals who both pretend to the same place or the same property! This is not, and cannot be. What its adversaries demand of power, is not the position it occupies, but a course of conduct which suits their views. General interests never govern in person, but desire to be governed according to their own feelings and desire. And this desire, morally speaking, the established government can always accomplish. If it will not do so, or does not know that such is in its power, the incapability may arise, though it is not in the things themselves: it is power which has created it, and the vexatious necessities thus created are its own fault. Once set out in the way where it meets with such difficulties, can it turn back? Or if it persists, and proceeds in employing the means which those necessities command, will it succeed in its design? I affirm boldly that it will fail. In our day, every government which, through its misdeeds, draws a line of distinction between its own necessities and the social necessities is lost. The most terrible use of capital punishment cannot save it, for it can never take lives enough. We have seen situations of this kind: Bonaparte imposed upon himself the indefinite necessity for war, just as the Convention did the indefinite necessity for death: the Convention killed many, and Bonaparte vanquished many; but the time came when both the scaffold and victory refused to serve their former masters. Social necessities, repressed for a time, regained their dominion; and the power which had disowned them saw itself incapable of supporting the factitious necessities which it had put in the place of truth. {304} I do not admit the natural necessity of capital punishment. Or if I do, for the sake of argument, it will be only to show that the admission would avail nothing. I do not suppose that any power ever existed which took no trouble to insure its definitive success, and aspired no higher than the postponement of its ruin. In fact such power does not exist; for if a government found its ruin certain at the end of the course it followed, it would immediately leave that course: what it hoped from it was really safety. But if it were so egotistical and careless as to look no farther than the present, I would again counsel it to beware. It might formerly indulge in this indifference, and count upon a long sufferance; but now everything goes quickly, the more so that society is calm, and exhibits few tokens by its agitations of the immense strength it can wield when necessary. The approach of the Revolution did not escape the inert foresight of Louis XV. If new revolutions were still nearer, perhaps they would be still less felt under the steps of power. It would do wrong, then, to be satisfied with precautions when the time would be so short and the means so uncertain. When we inquire on all sides into the necessities and dangers of power, from not one quarter comes the answer that capital punishment is called for by necessity, or can lessen or dissipate danger. I have considered it in all its bearings and effects; and I have almost always found it without legitimate motives; without virtue when it has, if not legitimate, at least real motives; seldom efficacious; and still seldomer just. What remains, then, but the memory of its old services! Revolutions make successful use of it, it is said, and will do so still. I know it; but revolutions are not permanent; and do governments think themselves of a like transitory nature? Prodigious error! Governments would imitate them in displaying the same strength and attaining the same results. But they forget that it is their business to lay at least the foundations of that permanence which it is the fate of revolutions to destroy, and to perish in destroying. But after all, the mistake is not surprising; for it is in our day, and perhaps for the first time, that this difference has clearly appeared. Up to the middle of the seventeenth century, revolution was, if not the permanent, at least the habitual state of European society. Delivered up to force and to rival forces, and to rivalries which were really wars, society knew neither the conditions nor the means of stability and order. The same ignorance in this respect possessed government, factions, and people. They all in their respective fortunes made use of the same arms, fell into the same practices, and produced the same results. Society has now more ambition. In tyranny or disorder it demands of government quite another thing than mere change of name. It knows what it ought to have, and what it can to do. {305} When the physical world came out of chaos, it still had its crises; but it also had its regularity, its repose, and its preserving laws. Though slower in emerging from disorder, the social world, the world of man, has begun to comprehend the profound difference between a state of peace and a state of war, between order and disorder, between revolutionary and regular governments. Forces differ as well as ideas, the means as well as the end. I admit that capital punishment is of use in revolutionary policy; but it is so in no other. A regular government making it a necessity, and employing its aid in laying the foundations of its repose and duration, would place itself in the path of revolution. If it proceeded only half-way, that which made the strength of revolutions would be its weakness; and if it entered fully, while changing its character it would change its destiny, and devote itself to the destruction which is the fate even of successful revolutions. Politically, capital punishment must in the present day be either a rapid succession of bloody oblations to the insatiable divinities, or a useless sacrifice to impotent idols. Power itself, I repeat, feels this; its confidence in such means is rather a prejudice than a belief, and, like all prejudices, occasions disquiet and hesitation even at the moment of action. It, however, persists in this means; and we must state the true cause, stripping it of its pretexts and delusions, and show to which divinity the oblation belongs. This cause is neither justice nor necessity--it is fear; and not that legitimate and prudent fear which looks danger in the face, and takes means to avert it, but the blind cowardice which desires rather to be saved from itself than from the peril, and which, without rational intention or preconcerted design, adopts by chance whatever presents a hope of escape. Prudence desires safety; but fear dreads the aspect of the danger, the reality of which may perhaps be greater to-morrow. But this matters little; power will have shaken off in a moment the anxieties of its situation, and will be persuaded that it has no fear. This intractable passion never changes its nature; what it is in the obscure incidents of private life, it is still in the bosom of greatness, always more occupied with the torment than the danger; always giving itself up to vain and unreasonable expedients, if they only offer a little shelter or a little respite. And when the fears of faction are joined to the fears of power, when this blind sentiment, penetrating the mass of a party, becomes a collective passion, and pushes forward one upon another individuals who fancy themselves without personal responsibility, then reason is at an end, every calculation disappears, and there is no longer a question of necessity, utility, or justice. Fear becomes its own necessity; one of those fatal necessities the empire of which endures the more it fails in success, and into which men fling themselves both mechanically and passionately, without being in a state to reflect. A terrible example of this was given by the Convention and the Jacobins. {306} But fear itself is deceived, and this new and last advocate of capital punishment sees itself every moment cajoled by the hopes which attach it to the cause. Such is the power of facts, even when misunderstood and violated, that in our day political severities can no more dissipate fear than danger. Their inutility is seen even by the blindest fear; they can neither procure for power, nor for the terrified factions which make use of them, more than a momentary lull, itself a source of new anxieties. Let parties especially take heed that their condition is not less changed than that of governments. Formerly many individuals retained their strength and importance after the defeat of their party; they preserved in their original force the guarantees against reaction, and still negotiated on their own account on fair conditions. But now what are ministers when their power has left them? What becomes of the most considerable men of a party when that party is overcome! They are lost in the mass of citizens, which the public laws and true justice alone protect; they may no longer act for themselves, and have no other defenders than those principles which are obstacles to every useless severity, and every pretended necessity, and which, in the matter of punishments, interdicts to power everything with which society can dispense. It is then now more than ever the interest of all, of parties as well as of power, of individuals as well as of parties, that these principles should be recognised and introduced into the practice of government. I will try to point out the means. Chapter VIII. Means. Is there any one who does not demand the legal abolition of capital punishment as a political engine? I think there is, and I have contracted the obligation of proving the fact. I might, as is often done, have raised my voice against the severities of our penal code; I might especially have said that, drawn up on the issue of a violent crisis, it must bear the impress of the necessities of the day, real perhaps at that epoch, but now false and tyrannical. Revolutions have this deplorable effect in common with barbarism, that they bequeath to living generations the terrible laws which were made to put a stop to their fury. {307} Almost everywhere in Europe the nineteenth century bears the punishment of the disorders of the fifteenth. Revolutionary France weighs in the same manner on constitutional France; and it will be long before the Charter is free from the inheritance of the Empire. But I will not pause upon this ground; ground from which power is not easily forced, and upon which it is not always wrong in fortifying itself. It is too often attacked by vague declamations and inconsiderate hopes; and declamations now-a-days are but little respected even when their subject-matter is true. Our epoch has a predilection for good sense; but it mistakes oddly sometimes what it honours with this name; degrading it, and becoming itself degraded, by conferring it upon aimless practices or dangerous inactivity. But even then this error may be managed; and for my part I do not ask of power that it will give us all the good laws it can, but merely that it will employ the existing laws agreeably to our interest and its own. This it can do, and sometimes does. I could easily point to laws which, though not abolished, are not, and cannot be acted upon without both shame and danger. The statutes of Great Britain are full of penal laws fallen into disuse. When their formal repeal is called for, the friends of power exclaim against it; but they would exclaim quite as much were they brought into operation. I do not ask for repeal, which would be to forget or violate indirectly recent and positive laws. The latitude which judges enjoy in England does not belong to our tribunals; and neither is it to the tribunals that I address myself. The application of the laws is their right and duty; but the government moves in a larger and freer sphere; it has great influence in political processes, both before they come before the tribunals and after they leave them. The means I seek belong to this influence, which has them completely in its power. The prosecution and qualification of political crimes on the one hand, and the right of pardon on the other, are the means by which government can, without changing or infringing on the laws, preserve the legal domain from capital punishment, in rendering its application more rare, and thus placing its conduct in harmony with true justice, true social necessities, true prudence and its own duty. This liberty of action should involve reason in decision; and since the arbitrary preserves a place in the attributes of power, it should be considered to create a void that must always be filled by justice and the public good. {308} Chapter IX. Prosecution And Qualification Of Political Crimes. I know that the prejudiced will here rouse themselves to repel me, and I know what they will say. They pretend that everything is foreseen and absolute in the execution of criminal justice; that the administration has no more latitude than the judges, and that in the prosecution of crime it merely executes positive laws, which command and regulate its acts as well as the judgments of the tribunals. According to such reasoners, authority knows nothing of crime before the moment of prosecution; and from that moment there is no longer either will or freedom. It is bound to prosecute, for no criminal must remain unpunished; and bound to interpret the crime according to the interpretation of the law, for the legal punishment annexed to the offence must be inflicted. Strange contradiction! Those very men who maintain such doctrines are the same who preach respect for facts and contempt for theories; and here they twist the most evident facts, in order to adapt them to the most factitious and arbitrary theory that can be conceived. I confine myself to political crimes, of which alone I have to treat. It is not true that authority has no knowledge of these crimes, and possesses no means for their repression before the moment they come within the ken of the law. It is untrue that even then it has not the option to prosecute or not, or that, when undertaking to prosecute, it is restrained by legal texts to a single and precise interpretation. The greater number of political crimes are conspiracies, which is proved by the numerous accusations now brought forward. But what is a conspiracy! An attempt at crime, often nothing more than the project of an attempt. The law sees crime in the project, for it requires merely the criminal intention without waiting for the commencement of the deed. In order to stay the execution of a project which has not commenced, but exists only in the common thought of its authors, authority must know what it is; it must have tracked this thought so far in the course of its formation as to be able to seize it at the moment when it is perfected in the moral course, without having made the smallest progress in the physical course. Authority, then, is not generally here, as in the case of private crimes, surprised by an unforeseen and unexpected offence, which becomes apparent only at its consummation, and leaves nothing to be thought of but the capture of its perpetrators. {309} On the contrary, it assists at the birth of crime, and watches it in the cradle. Why not stifle it there? What hinders it? What compels it to allow crime to grow, that it may afterwards have to prosecute it? It is surely no uncommon thing to crush a design in the bud. All wise governments have done so; they have preferred dissipating conspiracies to punishing them; and frequently, when very near their execution, they have averted the peril, and prevented the necessity of punishment, by merely showing themselves to be on their guard. Henry IV., and even Cromwell and Bonaparte, afford more than one example of this prudence. Unskilful power, and governing factions, have alone need to wait till they can arm themselves with the rigour of the laws; they alone are under the necessity of allowing crime to ripen before their eyes ere they crush it. To some the fear, and to others the passions of a party, render this perilous and culpable conduct necessary; and in our day it is of less use than ever. Two instruments now in the hands of power, and almost unknown formerly, absolve it from the necessity of having recourse to it: these are the police and publicity. By means of the police, it is enabled to penetrate into the most secret conspiracies; by publicity, conspiracies denounce and thwart themselves. Formerly authority had not so many means of obtaining information and warning; but now, besides the secret police, it has another still more efficacious agent, which, established everywhere, unveils the mysteries of society, and deprives conspirators of the resources and haunts which the general disorder offered them before. But the effect of publicity is still greater; and governments, blind as they are, lament the fact. They do not see that it works for them as well as for us; since, if publicity exposes them to the gaze of the public, it likewise exposes the public to theirs. Conspirators can no longer live in courts side by side with sovereigns, meditating on their plans by favour of the universal darkness and silence. Hypocrisy is of no more avail either for the enemies of power or for power itself. Men are formed into classes, where each takes his place according to his own sentiments or desires; treason fades before the light; every thought, every intention, is unveiled; and conspiracies, formerly the monopoly of men powerful and remarkable on the political stage, seem now reserved for the weak and obscure. The first would still conspire, if they could do so with success; but they walk in broad day; every word, every step, draws attention; whatever be their reserve and ability, they never can obtain concealment, for publicity is the condition of their importance. If they were silent, and hid themselves in secrecy, they would cease to be what they are in their party; and how can they plot successfully without silence and concealment? {310} Everything, in one way or other, delivers up conspiracies to power: against those of the higher class there is publicity; against those of the lower, the police; when they would be powerful, they arc difficult to form; when they would grow in the shade, they are feeble; and everywhere authority, warned in time, has a thousand means of thwarting them before they arrive at the smallest prospect of success. How, then, can it be asserted that authority has but the severity of the law for its defence, and is therefore obliged to allow conspirators to go on towards the scaffold, tracking them quietly along that path it could so easily close! Is it imagined that punishments alone will prevent conspiracies? This is another mistake; the prospect of failure acts much more powerfully than that of chastisement in the prevention of crime. Why do so many men, in the hope of fortune or glory, face so heedlessly the cannon of battle? It is because they flatter themselves that the shot will not hit _them_. The same confidence makes in a great measure the courage of conspirators: they know very well that the law likewise deals death, but they hope to escape its cannon--that they will be under cover from the marksman--and this is the idea which accompanies and sustains them in their enterprises. But let this idea be contradicted by facts, let them see their plots penetrated and thwarted; and here will be discouragement and fear much more efficacious than the punishment of death, which they would escape if undiscovered. I do not hesitate to say that a plot baffled by the vigilance of government, even when not punished, has more effect in intimidating than the severest chastisements inflicted upon conspirators who have failed by their own fault at the moment of the outbreak. Who will now assert that it is the legal duty of authority to allow crime to come to a head, and wait till it is before the judges, whose office it is to condemn? Who will say that it abuses its option when it stops crime and punishment in their progress towards each other? Who, on the contrary, will deny that such is its bounden duty, and a duty the more incumbent, that it has now more means of discharging, and less interest in neglecting it? But the partisans of condemnations have yet a refuge: they say that central authority, or the higher administration, does not institute prosecutions; that the great law officers and judges of instruction have the duty as well as right of commencing of their own accord in political as in other matters; and hence they conclude that we cannot exact from a minister that which does not depend upon him, but upon numerous and independent magistrates. If I may be permitted to say so, I entertain a profound disgust of those hypocritical arguments which, knowing their own nothingness, lie without the hope of deceiving. In my opinion this one is of the number; but yet it must receive our attention, since it is used in the controversy. {311} In fact I do not fear to say that, in our day, and excepting two cases within my own knowledge, no prosecutions for pure political crimes, such as conspiracies and offences of the press, have taken place but when authorised by the minister. I know well enough how these things are managed, and I do not believe that any _procureur du roi_ is permitted to engage government in such processes against its will, or without its knowledge. Has this officer the right to do so, and would the ministers allow it? Is the action of the public ministry in matters of political crimes spontaneous and independent in principle? The question becomes important, and although forced to content myself with a glance, I will not elude it. Under a constitutional regime, there are only two kinds of magistracies, responsible and irresponsible; and wherever power is established, justice and liberty demand absolutely one or other of these guarantees. It is the custom to believe that independence results either from popular election, or permanence of office; but though I believe that one of the two conditions may be necessary, I do not think it is always sufficient of itself. Independence is not so easily formed; for besides its legal, it has moral conditions, which are not obtained by an act, or in a day. It does not less depend upon the personal steadiness of the magistrate, his social position, and the idea he has himself conceived of his rights, than on the origin or duration of his functions. They might render the prefects unremovable to-morrow, but they would not be as independent as the sheriffs of England, nominated by the king, and for a single year. I do not say this in order to deny the independence of our unremovable magistrates; for I believe that, for eight years past, and especially in the higher courts, it has made a real progress. Liberty cannot begin to dawn in a country where its spirit is not everywhere diffused, even among the depositaries of power. I do not think that this independence is yet all it should be; and it is important not to allow ourselves to be deceived by words, or to see in mere exterior signs the certainty and reality of the guarantees. However this may be, it will be admitted that if permanence of office does not secure the independence of the magistrate, his want of permanence must imply that he is responsible. Unfortunately, responsibility is not easier to create than independence; for it likewise has more important moral conditions than those written in the laws. It has been affirmed that it flows fully and sufficiently from permanence of office. But this is not the case; for just as the world has seen perpetual magistrates very little independent, so it may see removable magistrates with a very illusive responsibility. Removableness is not in itself an efficacious guarantee, or a principle of real responsibility, but for the profit of the higher authority. {312} It is true that the power which can displace at its pleasure the magistrates it employs, is by that circumstance alone assured of their responsibility, so far as itself is concerned. But will that suffice? And when we speak of the responsibility which must supply the place of independence, is the question of that alone? There is here a snare, perhaps placed without design, but into which we must not fall. Do we ask of ministers to make the responsibility of the ministry they undertake a reality? They reply that the public ministry is independent. Does it desire then to act as if it were so? They deprive it of this independence in alleging its responsibility to themselves. Thus they destroy the responsibility in alleging its independence, and the independence in the name of its responsibility. So, when all the responsibility of a class of magistrates lies in their removableness, the higher power, to whom alone they are responsible, can alone profit by it. Surely it is not responsibility of this kind we seek, but responsibility to society itself, to justice, and the public interest; without which removableness is but a falsehood and a new danger. How to escape this danger? How to realise the social responsibility of removable magistrates? There are but two means: the dependence which results from removableness must be combated by the elements of independence, which, giving magistrates a proper power, restricts the higher power in the exercise of its right, and imposes upon it the obligation of using it but seldom, with caution, and only in a case of absolute necessity; or the dependence must be complete, and the responsibility of magistrates concentrated entirely upon the high administration, which alone offers any hold to political responsibility, since it alone is called upon to the public discussion of its acts and their constitutional justification. If I had to choose between these two means, the first would appear to me to be greatly preferable. I own that I hold that responsibility to be of little value which leaves the place where it originated to seek afar off for that where it will become real, and travels from agent to agent, growing weaker from each transition, until it has found the individual with whom it must rest. It has, in my opinion, a great chance, after so many changes, of becoming in the end illusive, perhaps even unjust. And I think besides that, without giving to the public ministry the same degree of independence which belongs to the judges, we may regret that it has none at all. Magistrates reduced to the condition of simple agents are no longer magistrates. They are wanting both in authority and dignity, for dignity goes with independence. Moreover it happens, in the nature of things, that in many cases, in matters of private crimes, for instance, the action of the public ministry is truly spontaneous and free. {313} Hence it follows that its position becomes a false one in those cases where it has no longer spontaneousness and liberty; and the falseness of its position proves a means of deceiving the public, who are still told of the independence of these magistrates, when, in fact, as in political affairs, there is no such thing. There results from all this for the public ministry a false and bastard position, which compromises it in the ideas of the people, but which would cease if it were indeed a magistracy invested with some personal consistence, with a proper degree of strength, with independence enough to feel itself under the weight of a direct responsibility, and summoned for the service of power, though without holding from it every element of its importance, and every law of its action. I repeat, I would much prefer, and for the sake of liberty as well as of the magistrates, a public ministry thus constituted to the hierarchical subordination of the purely administrative regime; but such things are not the work of one generation nor of a legislative will. Shall we obtain them one day, and on what conditions can such a magistracy have a place in our constitutional system? I have nothing to do with this question here; but assuredly, when the guarantees of the social responsibility of the public ministry are not found to have a degree of independence accordant with its mission, we are in the right to seek them elsewhere. They may, it is true, be of a partial and haphazard nature; but no matter, it is all that remains to us. There is here a great power, a power whose action is in a great measure arbitrary; and we need a visible and real responsibility, at least for discussion. This is nothing more than a right. I again affirm that in political matters the subordination of the public ministry is complete; that here it possesses no spontaneousness; that in almost every case it is the higher administration that orders or holds back the prosecutions, and decides upon their propriety and direction. Since it does exercise this power, it is bound to make use of it reasonably, according to the public interest: it is bound to prove that it does use it thus; and it stands responsible for using it in excess, or without necessity. Here, then, is the first road opened to the economy of capital punishment, the first means of sparing the tribunals the necessity of a frequent application of the rigours of the law. It rests with power to smother many political offences without prosecuting them. In the present state of society it will find this easy; and in the present state of the magistracy it has the absolute right, for the prosecutions are in its hand. Let us see the cases where it is obliged, or thinks it indispensable to prosecute. It has not been able to arrest the offence before the complete development of its legal character, or at least till it supposes chastisement to be necessary. Is it from that moment so bound by the laws, as to have no influence in the direction of prosecutions--but is obliged to force the criminal on towards the scaffold whenever the crime appears susceptible of a capital qualification? {314} Whoever has watched for some years past the course of political processes, must have remarked two circumstances. Sometimes the judgment has not accorded with the indictment; the court of assizes has believed it a duty, in the position of the question, to lessen the severity of the public ministry, and substitute for a capital crime one of less gravity; or the public ministry itself has reduced its first pretensions, and combated even the first finding which had admitted them. This is what M. Courvoisier at Lyons did in the affair of Maillard. More frequently the public ministry is obstinate in rigorously characterising the offence, and exacting death as its punishment; and in such cases we have seen the judges and jurors acquit the accused, rather than lend themselves to such excessive severity; so that men who would have been subjected to some punishment, had the sentence demanded been moderate, are fully acquitted because it was desired to drive them to the scaffold. I could cite many instances of this kind, but I abstain from doing so, in tenderness to the innocence thus legally proclaimed. What do these facts prove, if not the uncertainty which often accompanies the characterisation of political crimes? And in this uncertainty, what obliges power to class them under the gravest heads, and to show itself eager for capital punishment at the risk of obtaining none at all! If I am not mistaken here, and if, in political matters, justice, necessity, and efficacy are generally wanting in capital punishment, must not power be too happy in not having to grapple with so terrible an anomaly, and the perils which spring from it, but to find, in the very nature of such crimes, sufficient flexibility to make it easy to characterise them more moderately! Reason commands it, the reason of interest as well as of equity; for nothing can more compromise power than failing totally in a capital accusation; and experience has proved that, notwithstanding the weakness of our judiciary institutions, it could very well do without the blood it had refrained from demanding. I am aware that it complains of the insufficiency of our laws, and imputes to them both the severity and the ill-success of its issues. They admit, it says, of no alternative: conspirators must either be arraigned as such, and the punishment of death invoked, or the prosecution must be abandoned; for there is nothing under this classification and punishment commensurate with the offence. {315} I do not admit the excuse. The penal code, in inflicting on the unsuccessful proposal to conspire the punishment of a long banishment, has opened wide a door for the classification of offences of a similar kind. Few attempts characterised as conspiracy correspond fully with the definition of the law; and since some features are wanting, the accusation must be indeed absurd, and the crime imaginary, if it could not be found an unsuccessful proposal of conspiracy. Why not reduce it, from the first, to this character? Because exile is considered too mild; because we are still under the dominion of those prejudices, and this false confidence in capital punishment which I have combated. The government thinks there is no safety but in bloodshed; and at the risk of not obtaining this blood, they seek capital condemnation, because ten years of exile are supposed to be nothing. Ten years of exile nothing! Good God! with what enemies then do you deal? Are these men so powerful, so European, that they will carry wherever they go their fortune and their influence, that they will everywhere find a _point d'appui_ from which to shake your power, and stretch forth at any distance arms long enough to reach you? That Henry III. still feared the Duke de Guise in refuge at Brussels--that Elizabeth was inquieted by Mary Stuart in France--that even in St Helena Bonaparte made his enemies tremble--may be conceived; but almost all the conspirators you prosecute are men without fame, without wealth, unknown beyond their canton, and who are unable to find in foreign countries anything but misery and oblivion. You then arm yourself even with their wretchedness; you say that it will drive them to any hazard, and that they will attempt to return and rear against you new dangers. There are indeed persons who have been sufficiently daring, who have maintained some correspondence, who have published proclamations, and who have even come to the frontiers of the country. But what risk did you run? Did M. Cuquet de Montarlot give you serious cause of alarm? Were the administration, the police, the gendarmes, the custom-houses, the passports, found to be useless against such paltry designs? And if there is really danger in any part of our frontiers, do you believe it to be caused by the presence of a few obscure and impoverished exiles? I cannot pause upon such an idea. No, assuredly, it is not true that the punishment of exile is illusory; and if it were so, it would be from very different causes than the personal importance of the convicts. Few French men are anything in France: out of France they are nothing. If power were in the right; if it were true that there does exist a hiatus in the penal code, and that, in desiring to inflict the severest punishments upon political crimes, our law has forgotten to define those that are susceptible of the lighter chastisements, would it be very difficult to find a remedy? It is not a rare thing to see the administration coming to the legislative power to complain of the insufficiency of the penal laws, and to ask new punishments for new offences. {316} In general, I know, the question in such cases is of aggravation; but if it were desired to soften the laws on account of the severity of their pretensions involving a vexatious impunity, are not the same paths open! What obliges power to remain under the necessity of requiring capital punishment for crimes which really do not merit it? What condemns it to put the judges and juries so often to the alternative of pardon or injustice? Is it not permitted to bring less violent indictments involving lighter punishments? Would it not be welcome thus to show itself at once moderate and prudent, caring alike for order and equity! It is possible that our laws in regard of political matters require some reforms of this kind, and that power, in calling for more merciful punishments, would obtain them more easily. I see nothing to prevent this new means from being adopted, of restricting the circle of capital punishment. Thereby would be gained the important advantage of no longer offering to the country and to Europe the spectacle of such continual accusations of great political crimes brought against obscure and powerless men, and which exhibit authority always ready to arm itself with all its strength against those who are obviously incapable of putting the fate of the state in jeopardy. I do not think that power can have any profit in thus revealing all its maladies, or, if we must call them so, the maladies of the society it governs. The moral effect of such a spectacle is deplorable. It is impossible not to conclude from it, either that the revolutionary fever possesses the people, or that power is unfit to govern. That party men, delivered up to the egotism of frantic passions, delight in repeating that France is full of lepers and brigands; that general disorder is ever on the point of raging; and that the parliamentary opposition is itself but the organ of the most unsocial interests and the blindest fury--all this may be conceived: but the national honour has not been committed to the keeping of these men; they are not held in respect by their country, nor do they watch over its consideration and tranquillity in Europe. But a government must think of these duties; it belongs to the state, and it is commanded to conceal, if such exist, the moral wounds of the country, expecting meanwhile that its good conduct will succeed in curing them. Surely it is not its part to disclose such deformities, that it may avail itself of them for legitimising such or such a system of administration! I wish, however, for neither illusion nor falsehood; for I do not believe that power is bound to flatter society, or to appear ignorant of the vices or danger fermenting in its bosom. {317} What good can it expect from exhibiting the country so often troubled and itself so often menaced with such agitations! It is always a melancholy and dangerous situation for a government to live upon the faults and errors of its people, and to seek its strength in the manifestation of the weaknesses past or present of the country. Besides, is not power aware that disorder is contagious, especially after a great crisis, and that it is of the utmost importance to stifle its symptoms in order to remove its temptation? Much is expected from example; but it is forgotten that although there is example in punishment, there is the same in crime, and often more efficacious. Who will doubt that in a country where theft is rare, the very rarity would more powerfully contend with the temptation than would elsewhere the severest chastisements of the thieves? How can so evident an analogy be mistaken? A thousand times has it been observed: we have seen murder call forth murder, incendiaries produce incendiaries: the perverse dispositions of men reveal themselves when called upon; and when once set forth on their course, the rigour of the law must long be exercised against them before they stop. This peril is greater in political crimes than in any other; for there the guilty are more liable to self-deception, and excite in the public, by whom they are surrounded, much less contempt and aversion. What madness, then, in power to hold up those continual provocations to such crimes, which spring from the parade of political prosecutions! Truly one cannot admire too much its inconsistency. The publicity of judicial debates not only incommodes, but terrifies it; and it tries to get rid of the inconvenience by concealing its incomparable advantages. Such publicity, it tells us, reveals the temptations as well as the terrors of crime; yet it takes no care to make this spectacle rare, to refrain till the last extremity from opening a school the lessons of which it holds in such dread. How does it not see that, if these were less frequent and less solemn, they would have less power? Their solemnity depends much upon the gravity of the punishments in perspective: the public cannot feel the same interest in a process which gives but a few years of imprisonment, as if the question were of a life. If power knew how to read the souls of the audience in such a debate; if every thought, every emotion which it raises were developed before its eyes, it would itself be troubled, and would assuredly doubt whether its expected profit were not an illusion. But, blind and unsteady, it is ignorant of this: it is not aware that every proceeding, every word of the politically accused whom it urges on to the scaffold, becomes the subject of the most animated conversations and the boldest commentaries, and that the slightest particular of his fate occasions the most lively and most enduring reflections, even in men who would not themselves have committed his imputed crime, and who would have felt but little interested, if the terrible destiny which weighs upon him had not stirred up from the bottom of their hearts every element of pity and sympathy. Such is the effect of political prosecutions which lead to the punishment of death: an effect mysterious in its extent, but infallible, and which baffles in this case the hopes of power, although power knows not how much what its supposed gains have cost. {318} I might go much farther: consequences present themselves in crowds, and all proclaim that the commonest prudence, the merest personal interest of power, counsels it to lower the rate of its political accusations, to diminish their number, and to make use of every means at its disposal to frustrate conspiracies without prosecuting them; in fine, to employ very rarely the punishment of death--as rarely as it is attended by true justice and true necessity. Observe what an employment a wise and skilful administration might make of its influence; observe how, without disarming itself, and without interference with the laws, it might introduce into government practical reforms conformable to the actual state of society, to the instinct of morals, and to the real interests of power. It is for such purposes that it is allowed, even here, that measure of the arbitrary always inseparable from the course of human affairs. In vain it would deny that it possesses and is able to use such a faculty. Power is full of contradictions. When incommoded by the laws, it claims arbitrary authority; when responsibility weighs upon it, it pretends to be merely the executive agent. But these sophisms deceive no one; truth easily compasses them; and when political processes multiply beyond measure, and capital punishment is continually invoked, it will be power, and not the laws, that will suffer. I have shown how, either before the prosecutions or by their direction, the legal domain of punishment might be restricted. Let us now see what influence might be exercised after judgment has been passed. Chapter X. The Privilege Of Mercy. I meet here with prejudices of another kind, as unreasonable in my opinion, but more respectable, inasmuch as they are probably more disinterested and sincere. Some persons suppose that the privilege of mercy is a right purely royal, with the exercise of which the ministry has nothing to do, and of which the king alone disposes, with reference to nothing more than personal clemency or equity, and without any ministerial responsibility being attached to it, or making it a part of the enginery of government. This was likewise the opinion of the Constituent Assembly; and what resulted from it? That, in the constitution of 1791, the privilege of mercy was suppressed. {319} That this was a great error, none is more convinced than I; but the error was consequent on the idea which still dominated in the minds of men. Under the constitutional regime, where the inviolability of the monarch is founded upon the responsibility of ministers, no power of action would belong to him, and no act could emanate from him unaccompanied by this responsibility. Whence, otherwise, could the royal inviolability derive its meaning, or, in other words, its guarantee? The Constituent Assembly was aware of this necessity; and yet, from the influence of old habits, the privilege of mercy was still considered as a right purely personal and irresponsible in its nature. And they came to the conclusion that it should not continue. It is now re-established, and very properly so, like many other rights of which the sudden revolution had stripped the royal power; but at the same time, like all these rights, it has reentered the dominion of the principle which is the permanent and tutelary condition of this power. The king, acting by advice, and inviolable in everything, rules under the countersign of a responsible minister. Let those who still doubt on this point at least examine it. They have already abandoned two similar opinions: they said that the right of dissolving the Chamber of Deputies, and that of creating peers, were in like manner personal to the king, free from all ministerial responsibility. But in 1816 and 1819, the king openly exercised both by the advice of his ministers. Such was the power of facts, that it became necessary to pay homage to the truth of principles, and recognise a responsibility which appeared to flow from these acts of government. The most violent, as well as the most enlightened members of the party now in power, have exclaimed against the ministry to which they imputed them; and which, I think, would no more hesitate now than it did then. The privilege of mercy is not of another nature, for it is not placed out of the constitutional pale, and perhaps occupies a position not less important. It is forming too mean an idea of it to regard it as merely intended to illustrate the goodness of the prince, and to call down blessings upon his name. It may produce this effect, and that is one of its advantages; but it is founded upon more extended causes and more general interests. In fact it is a portion of the right of justice, a remnant of the times when princes, exercising judgment themselves, could, according to circumstances, either condemn or absolve. In the progress of social order, the right of judging has departed from the prince, but he has retained the right of pardoning. What a great example of that mysterious Wisdom which presides over the development of civilisation, and which, unconsciously to man, calls forth from the bosom of facts institutions and customs conformable to those eternal truths, the laws of which human wisdom alone could never have discovered! {320} Balanced between the need of justice and the impossibility of giving up to the capricious or perverse will of man the right of ruling, society felt first the perils of arbitrary power; and in order to free itself, established fixed laws and independent judges, strove against the influence of individual will upon judgments, and tried to write justice beforehand, and to connect with it beforehand the judges. A great amelioration has been the result of these efforts. But truth has not allowed itself to be seized all at once; and the inevitable nature of things has not always consented to be seen in the texts of the laws. After having struggled against the arbitrary principle, it has been necessary to recur to it; and in the same way that the precision of legal judgments has been invoked against the imperfections of men, so the conscience of man has been invoked against the imperfections of the judgments. Thus the necessity of the arbitrary principle, indomitable in our weakness, makes itself felt after its danger; and in default of that infallible judge who is wanting upon earth, the freedom which the law wished to subdue in order to rule has now in its turn come to the succour of the law itself. Such is the inevitably vicious circle of human affairs. The great error of the Constituent Assembly, both in its theories and institutions, was to mistake this fundamental element of our condition, and suppose that truth, reason, and justice could belong, fully and perfectly, to certain forms and certain powers, and that it was thus possible to banish completely the arbitrary principle: an arrogant attempt, which could only lead to tyranny. Such an attempt can never succeed, for it is in direct opposition to the present system of government which the people favour, and which it was the object of the Constituent Assembly to found. It is the grand characteristic of the representative government to accept freely, in many cases, the imperious necessity of the arbitrary principle, and at once to remedy its defects in associating it with responsibility. The greater progress we make in this system, the more shall we be convinced that responsibility in all its forms, and by the most diverse means, moral or legal, direct or indirect, is its most essential character and most powerful spring. A complete and admirable system, then, it must be, since it recognises at once the weakness of our nature and respects its dignity. In this system it is impossible to prevent arbitrary power, however needful its presence may be, from being suddenly seized upon by responsibility. If it were otherwise, the entire system would be falsified. The privilege of mercy would be no privilege at all. Has the nature of this right been well examined? {321} It is the right of suspending, or annihilating the law; it is that 'dispensing power' which was one of the causes of the terrible struggle of the English nation and the Stuarts. The kings of England maintained that it was their privilege to recognise in particular cases the injustice or imperfection of certain laws, and so to exempt such or such citizens from them. The country would never agree to this, and the country was right. All the laws and all the public rights would have been enervated by such a privilege. The ministerial responsibility alone could, in exercising the privilege of mercy, preserve society from that peril; for if it remains ignorant of one function of power, it will soon be so of others. The dispensing power of the Stuarts desired likewise to have the right of exempting the Catholics from certain penal clauses; but the parliament knew well that, in policy as in morals, bad principles must be put down, and it would neither allow itself to be over-ridden nor neutralised. Where could falsehood elsewhere hide itself? Who does not know that in the exercise of the privilege of mercy, as in every other step, the king commonly decides according to the advice of his ministers, whose duty it is to study the case, and submit to him the reasons for decision? Who is ignorant that, on every occasion, the petitions for pardon are addressed to the minister of justice, and become in his office the object of an examination, which produces a report to the king, who thereupon grants or refuses his clemency? This clemency is free, absolutely free, yet it desires to be enlightened; and if I am not mistaken, when such petitions are addressed directly to the sovereign, he himself orders them to be referred to his minister, to the end that the regular course of administration should be uninterrupted. In political matters this regularity is still more scrupulous, for there the severity or clemency may affect the entire conduct of the ministry, and the general state of the country. Such affairs are always a subject of serious deliberation in the council. It matters not whether the determination which ensues be conformable or not with the advice of ministers, for if they neither disavow nor fail in carrying it into execution, it is their own; it belongs to their responsibility, like all other royal decisions, the secret of which none knows better than they. They have, then, no right to declare themselves absolved from the consequences; they have given their advice, fulfilled their task, and must be answerable. The mantle of royal inviolability is itself inviolable, and no one can pretend to cover himself with it. Is the privilege of mercy thus brought under the common law of constitutional principles, and fixed in the province of the upper administration, an engine of government which might be used to advantage to-day, and if so, what use should be made of it as regards political crimes? {322} To those who would persist in seeing in it merely a means of extending mercy to individuals, and not a political instrument of general government, Montesquieu has replied for me:--'Letters of pardon,' says he, 'are a great instrument of moderate governments; the power by which a prince may pardon, when exercised with wisdom, may have admirable effects.' And can it be otherwise? It is especially for political crimes that the privilege of mercy seems to be reserved--crimes frequently of an equivocal nature, to which sincere errors may be allied, and sentiments worthy of respect; by which society may not always appear to be threatened; in which the peril--the principal element of the crime--is wanting; and, in short, in which want of success acts more efficaciously than chastisement. In private crimes, pardon supposes error, or at least excessive severity of judgment: and it may thus have the inconvenience of shaking the authority of legal justice, or the confidence in the wisdom of the laws. Too widely used, it would point out vices to reform in the tribunals or the codes; it would make the royal clemency a new jurisdiction, a tribunal of equity called upon to revise all criminal judgments; and offering, neither in the administrative instruction which preceded the sentences, nor in their forms, any of the prudent warrants of ordinary tribunals. In political crimes, none of these inconveniences are to be dreaded: here pardon implies neither the error of the chief judges, nor even, in a legal point of view, the immoderate rigour of their decree. It neither compromises nor shakes their authority in any way: it simply reveals the intention of the sovereign of treating with gentleness even those of his subjects of whom he has to complain: a moral and politic intention, that has no dispute with the laws, and does not alter their credit, but addresses itself to a circle of sentiments or ideas completely foreign to that in which legal justice moves. One may even presume that, in such a sphere, the habit of clemency, far from discouraging the severity of jurors or judges, would make them less timid and more free. The idea is so natural, that the public has sometimes seemed to believe that a particular political condemnation had been pronounced only in the prospect of a pardon to neutralise its rigour. Thus, by an economy of blood, we might perhaps gain the facility of example; power would have all the merit of the moderation, and the citizens who, in the courts of assize, often hesitate, and with good reason, when it is necessary to condemn a man to the scaffold, would manifest with less pain their disapprobation of his attempts or his designs. {323} We fear the effects of impunity; we fear that confidence of courage which supposes moderation to result from weakness or cowardice. But I have never known any governments taxed with weakness but those that were really weak; and with regard to them, I know of none to whom rigour can supply the wanting strength. It is the most obstinate error of power to take on every occasion the effect for the cause. Thus, if discontent is general, it imputes it to the symptoms by which it is manifested. Since strong governments have been rigorous, it concludes that every rigorous government must be strong. I have already exposed this absurd mistake, and I find it here in all its grossness. Doubtless it is possible that mildness may be allied to weakness, and malevolence encouraged by it; but it is not from the mildness the evil comes, but from the weakness--that real weakness which betrays itself in severity the same as in mercy. I am ashamed to insist upon these commonplaces of common sense; but what is to be done? When the error is a vulgar one, it is by vulgar truths it must be subdued. Besides, what do you call impunity? Is it banishment, imprisonment, transportation? These are the next punishments to death, and you may substitute them for it. Amusing impunity! Do you not see that similar commutations are in absolute harmony with the present state of morals and the nature of political dangers? We are no longer in the time of strong and indomitable passions, which survived suffering and irons, and were found, after twenty years of impotence and captivity, in all their energy. Such sentiments belong to those epochs when even liberty is morose, when life offers few distractions and few pleasures, when the ideas which occupy the mind of man are few and simple, and are not of that conflicting nature which confuses and agitates the soul, drifting at random in the midst of an advanced civilisation. In our day the prison or banishment takes men away from a commodious and pleasant existence; and they regret a thousand enjoyments they knew not in former times, and receive from punishment much more efficacious warning. Yet they do not experience in exile or prison those ferocious violences which formerly irritated them so deeply, rendering them as much more untractable as they were more miserable. In the present day, even without liberty, a prisoner's physical sufferings are not such as to disable him from reflecting on the causes of his misfortune, recognising his imprudences or errors, calming perhaps, or at least terrifying himself, and returning one day into society more softened than enraged. A power, however wanting in skill, would find, I am sure, in these features of our social state a thousand means of working upon the condemned enemies whose lives it had spared. Besides, whose is the necessity for the blow? Political perils are not immutable; though substantial now, perhaps in two years they will have disappeared; and the man who is to-day their instrument, will then have neither the power nor even the idea of hurting the consolidated government. {324} A bandit or an assassin robs or kills on his own account, from motives purely personal, and without troubling himself as to whether the disposition of society is favourable, or whether he will receive from it protection or support. But political crimes are not so isolated: right or wrong, they are in correspondence with the condition of the public, from whom they promise themselves indulgence or even succour; they are to a certain extent crimes of circumstances, and would not have been committed, or perhaps conceived, if circumstances had been different. And wherefore be in such a hurry to kill when the circumstances may change! The present peril is foreseen; the condemned is in the hands of power, which, in sparing his life, may yet retain him in impotence while the danger continues. The danger past, of what use is severity? Is it so difficult to keep some mercy in reserve for days of security? If you have not this foresight, but hasten to irrecoverable steps, know you what will happen? That the trouble and danger will go on increasing, and you will be demanded an account of your needless severity. But if fortune is more favourable, and danger departs, and the storm subsides--then, when safety has returned, and society sees no more in a pressing peril the motive of your rigour, it will forget peril and motive together: it will remember only your bloodthirstyness; and governed by that instinct of truth which does not permit us to attribute to the death of a few men the return of peace and order, it will say that you have sacrificed to your fear or your vengeance those whom you might have spared without danger. It would be right to think thus; and the fact which is revealed in this sentiment is the political uselessness of capital punishment. It must be seen from a distance, in order to be judged properly as to its effects; and more than once, governments have had to regret having lost the opportunity offered to them by the privilege of mercy. Hurried away by the passions or perils of the moment to give it full sweep, they have afterwards found themselves weighed down by obligations and recollections, the burden of which they deplored. In the midst of the mobility of human affairs, it is a great fault in power to bind itself by irrecoverable acts. A day may come when the blood which it shed, apparently forgotten, will bubble up between it and the men it has most need of. Formerly, the brutality of manners and power of personal interests were such, that obstacles like this gave way easily before new circumstances; but in the present day, notwithstanding the unchangeable levity of our nature, they are more real and more difficult to surmount, for public opinion lends them a force which they could not always derive from the constancy of individual sentiments. The prudent use of the privilege of mercy disperses them, as it were, beforehand, and leaves power a freedom of movement, which it is of great importance for it to preserve. In what consists wisdom, if not in foresight! Let governments be possessed of that, and I doubt if they will frequently make use of capital punishment. {325} Here is the last consideration. I have hesitated to present it, for I would not be accused of advising cowardice; and yet I will set it down--for it is true. Formerly the depositaries of power, ministers or others, risked in political struggles their life as well as position. It was the necessity of the time that such combats should always have a revolutionary character, and that no one could retire from them vanquished to find security in repose. The constitutional system and public manners have changed this gloomy condition of public men; they may now fall without danger, and even re-enter the lists for the recovery of their power. The people are better governed, and the governors more safe. May nothing alter this new aspect of political life! Ministers would deceive themselves did they think to shake off the responsibility which rests upon them by disputing its limits. When facts become serious, and the gravest interests are compromised, then subtilties lose their empire; everything is decided with simplicity, and they answer in their whole conduct for all the counsels they have given or omitted. I know that such a prospect, presenting itself to the eyes of a public man, should not induce him to relax in his duties: it should rather teach him the obligation to look well about him; not to believe lightly in pretended necessities, or to satisfy himself in the days of his power with such frivolous excuses as have no value when those days are past; to reduce as far as in him lies that circle of political death-punishment already so happily contracted; and, in short, to employ to this end, in his function of counsellor to the throne, the whole force which his responsibility lends him. Chapter XI. Conclusion. Before concluding, I have read again that treatise in which it is said we may discover the deepest and most odious secrets of tyranny--the treatise of _The Prince_; and I have found a passage which I wish to quote. In its expressions, and even ideas, it belongs rather to the manners and policy of the sixteenth century than to our own; it speaks more especially of personal enmities and treasons, of assassinations and political perils which belong more to the ferocious struggles of personal ambition than to the clashing of general interests or contending systems of government. {326} However, it is good to know what was thought of conspiracies and their importance by a great man, who, living in the midst of punishments and factions, an unmoved observer of facts and their results, undertook to teach governments by what prudence they might surmount such casualties. 'One of the most powerful safeguards,' says Machiavel, 'that a prince can have against conspiracies, is to be neither hated nor despised by the mass. The man who conspires believes always that, by the death of the prince, he will satisfy the people; but if, on the contrary, he thinks it would offend them, he will not have the courage to go forward, for the difficulties which surround conspirators are infinite. We know by experience that there have been many conspiracies, but few that have succeeded. He who conspires cannot do so alone, nor choose his companions but among those whom he supposes to be discontented. But when you have intrusted your secret to a malcontent, you have furnished him with the means of throwing off this character, for, by revealing the design, he may hope for every kind of profit. Seeing, on the one hand, the profit certain, and on the other nothing but doubts and perils, he must be a rare friend indeed, or else a very obstinate enemy of the prince, to keep faith with you. Reducing the thing to the most simple terms, I say that, on the side of the conspirators, all is fear, mistrust, and dread of chastisement; while on that of the prince are the majesty of power and of the laws, and the strength of his friends and of the state. When to all this is joined the good-will of the public, it is impossible for any one to have the temerity to conspire. In ordinary cases, a conspirator has much to fear before the perpetration of the crime; but here he has to fear even after it; for, the crime accomplished, he will have the people for enemies, and so can hope for no refuge. A number of examples on this point might be given, but I will content myself with one which occurred in the time of our fathers. Annibal Bentivoglio, who governed Bologna, having been assassinated by the Canneschi in a conspiracy, and leaving no heir but John, who was still an infant, the people rose after the murder and massacred all the Canneschi, an effect of the popular good-will enjoyed at that time by the family of Bentivoglio. ... From this I conclude that a prince has little to fear from conspiracies, if he enjoys the good-will of the people; but that, if the people are his enemies, he has to fear everything and every citizen.' [Footnote 18] [Footnote 18: _Il Principe_, c. xix.; Opere di Nic, Macchiavelli, t. vi. pp. 316-318.] {327} I would not be so confident as Machiavel, nor go so far as to say that the popularity of power is enough to discourage the audacity of conspirators. But if, in the sixteenth century, the most profound adept in Italian policy thought that the strength of power against conspiracies resided not in its punishments, but in the satisfaction of general interests, and the relation borne to them by the system of government, how will it be in our own day? Machiavel found conspiracies very difficult to deal with, and capital punishments very insufficient when power was not popular; and now, when the question is to stir up the masses to a struggle against the powerful organisation of great governments, would conspirators have fewer obstacles to contend with? Would capital punishments have more virtue? I have already answered the question. The tasks of justice and policy are distinct, more so than they ever were, and the one cannot supply the place of the other. If policy is not equal to its own, or if it is ignorant of, or offends the public will, in vain would it summon to its assistance punishments against individuals. Punishments may destroy men, but they can neither change the interests nor sentiments of the people. But what do I wish? Neither effeminacy nor impunity. To combat a useless rigour, I have merely gathered these facts together, and have shown that against moral dangers and general forces such rigour is without efficacy. The character of generality which the dangers of power now bear will be also found in these means. It may kill one or several individuals, and severely chastise one or several conspiracies; but if it can do no more than this, it will find the same perils and the same enemies always before it. If it is able to do more, let it dispense with killing, for it has no more need of it: less terrible remedies will suffice. It will see, as Machiavel says, that a government protected by public approbation stands on a vantage-ground, where conspiracies are as impotent against power as capital punishment is impotent against conspiracies. The End. Edinburgh: Printed by W. & R. Chambers. {328} {329} [Transcriber's note: The prices listed use the £sd system (or Lsd), "pounds, shillings and pence," from _librae, solidi_, and _denarii_. 12_d_ (pence) is a shilling. 20_s_ (shillings), or 240_d_ (pence), is a pound. The purchasing power of one pence in 1852 is about US$.58 in 2020.] Chambers's Educational Course. This Course will, as far as possible, embody the code and materials of a complete Elementary Education, Physical, Moral, and Intellectual. _Already published, all strongly bound in Dark-coloured Cloth:_� Directories. Infant Treatment Under Two Years of Age, -- 1_s_ 3_d_ Infant Education from Two to Six Years of Age, -- 2_s_ 0_d_ English Section. 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35095	----	[Transcriber's note] This is derived from a copy on the Internet Archive: http://www.archive.org/details/centurycolumbus01walsgoog Page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers enclosed in curly braces, e.g. {99}. They have been located where page breaks occurred in the original book. Obvious spelling errors have been corrected but "inventive" and inconsistent spelling is left unchanged. Extended quotations and citations are indented. Footnotes have been renumbered to avoid ambiguity, and relocated to the end of the enclosing paragraph. [End Transcriber's note] BY THE SAME AUTHOR FORDHAM UNIVERSITY PRESS SERIES MAKERS OF MODERN MEDICINE Lives of the men to whom nineteenth century medical science owes most. Second Edition. New York, 1910. $2.00 net. THE POPES AND SCIENCE The story of Papal patronage of the sciences and especially medicine. 45th thousand. New York, 1911. $2.00 net. MAKERS OF ELECTRICITY Lives of the men to whom important advances in electricity are due. 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[Illustration: SEBASTIANO DEL PIOMBO, CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS (METROPOLITAN MUSEUM. NEW YORK)] The Century of Columbus BY JAMES J. WALSH, K.C.St.G., M.D., Ph.D., LL.D. LITT.D. (Georgetown), Sc.D. (Notre Dame) PROFESSOR OP PHYSIOLOGICAL PSYCHOLOGY AT THE CATHEDRAL COLLEGE; LIFE MEMBER OF THE NEW YORK HISTORICAL SOCIETY, MEMBER OF THE NEW YORK ACADEMY OF MEDICINE. OF THE GERMAN AND FRENCH SOCIETIES OF THE HISTORY OF MEDICINE. OF THE ITALIAN SOCIETY FOR THE HISTORY OF THE NATURAL AND THE MEDICAL SCIENCES, OF THE ST. LOUIS MEDICAL HISTORY CLUB, THE NEW ORLEANS PARISH MEDICAL SOCIETY, A.M.A., A.A.A.S., ETC. WITH EIGHTY-SIX ILLUSTRATIONS CATHOLIC SUMMER SCHOOL PRESS New York, 1914 Copyright, 1914 James J. Walsh THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS RAMWAY, N. J. To The Knights of Columbus for whom the material here presented in book form was originally gathered for lectures in many parts of the country and whose hearty interest in the dissemination of historical truth has encouraged its completion, this book is fraternally and respectfully dedicated by the author. "There come from time to time, eras of more favorable conditions, in which the thoughts of men draw nearer together than is their wont, and the many interests of the intellectual world combine in one complete type of general culture. The fifteenth century ... is one of these happier eras; and what is sometimes said of the age of Pericles is true of that of Lorenzo--it is an age productive of personalities, many-sided, centralized, complete. Here, artists and philosophers and those whom the action of the world has elevated and made keen, do not live in isolation, but breathe a common air, and catch light and heat from each other's thoughts. There is a spirit of general elevation and enlightenment in which all alike communicate. ... That solemn fifteenth century can hardly be studied too much, not merely for its positive results in the things of the intellect and the imagination, its concrete works of art, its special and prominent personalities, with their profound aesthetic charm, but for its general spirit and character, for the ethical qualities of which it is a consummate type." Walter Pater, _The Renaissance._ {vii} PREFACE In a previous book, "The Thirteenth Greatest of Centuries," I described the period of human activity in which, as it appears to me, more was accomplished that is of significance in the expression of what is best in man and for the development of humanity than during any corresponding period of the world's history. To many people it may now seem that I am setting up a rival to the Thirteenth Century in what is here called The Century of Columbus, the period from 1450 to 1550. I may as a foreword say, then, that there is no thought of that and that I still feel quite sure that the Thirteenth is the Greatest of Centuries, though it must be admitted that probably more supremely great men were at work in Columbus' Century than in the preceding period. The Thirteenth Century is greatest, however, because its achievements were more widely diffused in their influence and because more of mankind had the opportunity and the incentive to bring out the highest that was in them, than at any other period in the world's history. As a consequence a greater proportion of mankind was happy than ever before or since, for happiness comes only with the consciousness of good work done and the satisfaction of personal achievement. And that is the greatest period of human history when man is the happiest. The Renaissance, however, for it is practically the period in history usually known by that name which is here called the Century of Columbus, achieved results in every mode of human endeavor that have been inspiring models for all succeeding generations, most of all our own. Just why greatness in human achievement should thus occur in periods long separated from each other is hard to understand. I have sometimes suggested that there is probably a biological law in the matter, the factors of which are not well understood as yet. Every third or fourth year the farmer expects to have an apple or fruit year, as it is called--that is, to reap a fine fruit harvest, the {viii} fruit product of the intervening years having often been quite indifferent. Man is much more complex than the fruits and so it takes a longer interval to prepare a great human harvest, hence humanity has its supreme fruitage only every third or fourth century. Undoubtedly Columbus' Century is one of the finest fruit periods of human history. There was nothing that the men of the time did not do supremely well, and a great many of them did nearly everything that they took in hand better than any of their successors. As a curious contrast to our time, very few of them limited themselves to any one mode of expression. Because of its very contradiction of a great many of our prevalent impressions, as for instance the universal persuasion of constant human evolution and the supposed progress of mankind from year to year but surely from century to century, and the thought so common, that after all we must now be far ahead of the past,--though there is abundant evidence of the vanity of this self-complacency--the story of Columbus' Century should be interesting to our generation. Since it furnishes the background of history on which alone the real significance of the discovery of our continent just after the end of the Middle Ages can be properly seen, it should have a special appeal to Americans. These are the reasons for writing the book. Owing to the large field that is covered, the author can scarcely hope to have escaped errors of detail. His only thought is that the broad view of the whole range of achievement may be sufficiently helpful to those interested in the history of human culture to compensate for faults that were almost inevitable. Its comprehensiveness may give the book a suggestive and retrospective value. It is addressed not to the special student but to the general reader interested in all phases of human accomplishment who wishes to fill in the outlines of political history with the story of the intellectual and ethical life of a great epoch. Thanks are due to Mr. Stephen Horgan for material aid in the selection of illustrations, no easy task because of the immense material to choose from. A definite effort has been made to avoid the well-known masterpieces and have the illustrations add to the knowledge of the time. {ix} CONTENTS INTRODUCTION xxv The discovery of America but one of a series of notable achievements in Columbus' time. His century, 1450 to 1550, had more great men than any other in human history. In the arts it is unsurpassed. In its deeds it rivals every other century, above all in social work, in scholarship, in education and in its achievements in the sciences, physical as well as biological, and in medicine and surgery. Its literature is behind that of certain other periods of history, but this is the age of Leo X and one of the most interesting epochs of world literature in every European country. BOOK I. THE BOOK OF THE ARTS CHAPTER I GREAT PAINTERS; RAPHAEL 1 Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo the world's greatest painters. Raphael, greatest of religious painters. Born at Urbino. Duke Frederick patron of art. Studies with Timotheo Viti and Perugino. Influence of Fra Bartolommeo. Work at Rome. Stanze of the Vatican. Camera della Segnatura. Cartoons for Sistine tapestries. Sistine Madonna. Raphael, art director and archaeologist. CHAPTER II LEONARDO DA VINCI 15 "Mona Lisa." Walter Pater's tribute. The "Last Supper" disclosed genius and methods of artist. The "Madonna of the Rocks." Sculptor, engineer, geologist, anatomist, zoologist, botanist and biologist. Dissections and proposed text-book of anatomy. Career as artist. Surpasses his master Verrocchio. Scientific interests. Inventor. Personality, philosophy of life. Burckhardt's summary--"colossal genius" {x} CHAPTER III MICHELANGELO 32 Humble origin of world's greatest genius. Little interest in books. Studio of Ghirlandajo. Academy of Lorenzo de' Medici. Dissections. Early works. Pietà, reason for youthfulness of mother. David. Tomb of Pope Julius. Galley Slaves. Decoration of the Sistine Chapel. Moses. Sacristy of San Lorenzo. "Four-souled" Michelangelo's sonnets. Practical genius. Family cares. Advice on marriage. Friendship with Vittoria Colonna. Attitude toward religion. Influence waxes with time CHAPTER IV SECONDARY ITALIAN PAINTERS OF THE CENTURY: FRA ANGELICO, PERUGINO, FRA BARTOLOMMEO, BOTTICELLI, BELLINI, TITIAN, CORREGGIO, TINTORETTO, VERONESE AND OTHERS 53 A century rich in painters. Fra Angelico the mystic. Perugino the teacher of Raphael; at the Sistine Chapel; pictures mistaken for Raphael's. Fra Bartolommeo's greatest works. Botticelli's mythology and psychology; Madonnas; illustrations of Dante. Bellini's portraits; Madonnas. Titian's wonderful color; religious pictures; portraits; mythological scenes. Piero dei Franceschi. Luca Signorelli. Melozzo da Forli. Correggio a middle-term between the various Italian schools; "Most skilful artist since the ancient Greeks." Tintoretto master of drawing and world artist. "The composition of Michelangelo and the coloring of Titian." Veronese's magnificent large pictures. CHAPTER V PAINTING OUTSIDE OF ITALY 71 The Netherlands: The brothers Van Eyck forerunners; Roger van der Weyden; Memling's paintings at the Hospital of St. John, Bruges; Dirk Bouts; Quentin Matsys; Lucas van Leyden; Gerard David; Justus of Ghent; Jan van Mabuse; Bernard van Orley; Blondeel. Nuremberg rival of Bruges; Dürer; the Holbeins. France: The Clouets; Cousin; Fouquet Spain: Navarrete; Juan de Borgona; Luis de Vargas; Pablo de Cespedes. Women painters in Spain CHAPTER VI SCULPTURE IN ITALY 85 Ghiberti's doors for the Baptistery at Florence. Donatello. The great equestrian statues of Gatamelata and Colleoni. Donatello's St. George, St. Francis, Bambino Gesu, St. John the Baptist Donatello's personality. His paralysis. {xi} Luca della Robbia, sculptor, worker in terra-cotta. Andrea del Verrocchio, goldsmith, painter, sculptor: "The Incredulity of St. Thomas," "The Colleoni." Benvenuto Cellini, sculptor, goldsmith, writer. John of Bologna: Neptune, Mercury. The sculpture in the Certosa at Pavia. Decadence in sculpture CHAPTER VII SCULPTURE AND MINOR ARTS AND CRAFTS OUTSIDE OF ITALY 97 Names of sculptors of Low Countries often unknown. Tombs of Mary of Burgundy and Charles the Bold. Wood-carving, Bruges, Leyden, Haarlem. Germany: Nuremberg, Veit Stoss, Dürer, Adam Kraft, the Vischers. St. Sebald's shrine; Maximilian's Tomb at Innsbrück. France: Colombe. Tours a great centre of art: Jean Fouchet and the Tomb of Agnes Sorel: Jean Goujon and Germain Pilon. Flemish and French tapestry. Golden Age of tapestry. Recent appreciation. Beautiful altar vessels, enamels, furniture, locks and keys, jewel boxes, armor, clocks CHAPTER VIII THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE CENTURY 114 Brunelleschi's dome. Alberti's _"De re aedificatoria":_ Church of San Francesco. Florence, Rucellai, Ricardi and Pitti Palace. Venice; Library of St Mark; Palace of the Doge and of the Grimani. Palladio at Vicenza. Genoa, the city of palaces. Vignola, Villa of Pope Julius, Palace of Caprarola. Façade of the Certosa. Sistine Chapel and King's College, Cambridge. Louvain, Hotel de Ville. Brussels the _grande place._ Spain: University of Alcalá. Cloister of Lupiana. Alcazar, Toledo. Giralda tower. France: Louvre, Pavillon de l'Horloge; the Chateaux. Architecture of the Renaissance a living force 114 CHAPTER IX MUSIC 134 Renaissance music as original as art and literature. Beginning in Netherlands, Ockenheim, Josquin, Arcadelt. Degrees in music, England. German music, Hans Sachs. Roman music, Claude Goudimel, the brothers Animuccia, the brothers Nanini, Orlando di Lasso. Church reform of music. Palestrina, career, achievement, recent restoration as Catholic standard. Oratorio. Dominant seventh. Development of musical instruments--organ, violin CHAPTER X BOOKS AND PRINTS: WOOD AND METAL ENGRAVING 146 Renaissance appreciation of beautiful books. Artistic manuscripts. Invention of printing. Most beautiful printed books in the world {xii} Our imitation. Books of Hours. Illustrations. Type-cutting. William Caxton: his place in English prose. Aldus Manutius: _Editiones principes_ of all the classics; career; business troubles; achievements. Geoffrey Tory. Simon de Collines. Champ Fleury. Tory, King's printer. The dream of Poliphilo. Fra Giocondo's illustrations. Dürer and German wood-engraving. Burgkmaier. Holbein. French wood-engraving. German metal-engraving. Italian illustrations. Vesalius' anatomy. Artistic bookbinding. Grolier. Decadence in bookmaking arts BOOK II. THE BOOK OF THE DEEDS CHAPTER I SOCIAL WORK AND WORKERS 169 Criterion of period; solution of social problems. The climax of guild social influence. Insurance features. No poorhouses, no orphan asylums. Care of ne'er-do-well. Guild of Holy Cross, Stratford; almshouses; grammar school. Thirty thousand guilds in England. Philanthropy. Sir Hugh Clopton's guild chapel and bridge. "Tag day." Beguines' care for dependents: their place in history. Lending institutions for the poor. St. Catherine of Genoa. Organization of charity. St. Philip Neri; modern appreciation. St. Ignatius. Savonarola. Political complications. Savonarola's fate. Las Casas' care for the Indians. St. Francis Borgia. Torture later in history. Witchcraft delusion post-reformation. Decadence of charity CHAPTER II HOSPITALS, NURSING AND CARE FOR THE INSANE 192 The humanity that cares for the ailing. Neglect in more recent times; jail-like hospitals without trained attendants. Beautiful Renaissance hospitals. Florence's Home of the Innocents. _Ospedale Maggiore_, Milan. _Santo Spirito Hospital_, Rome. Hospitals of the Beguines, Netherlands. St. John's Hospital, Bruges. Ample water supplies. Religious uniform and cleanliness. Sir Thomas More on hospitals. Brothers of Mercy in Spain. The Do-good Little Brothers. Care of the insane. Spain the leader. The "open door." Subsequent abuses. Italian asylums. Subsequent decadence CHAPTER III ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA AND THE JESUITS 206 A great genius in organization. Career. Political and religious situation in Europe. A new knighthood. {xiii} The "Little Company of Jesus." The Spiritual Exercises. Jesuit Missions: India, Japan, China, South America, Reductions of Paraguay, North America. Jesuit Relations, gathering and transmitting knowledge. Education of the Jesuits; great pupils; bibliography. Activity in the sciences. Jesuit astronomers. In other fields. All things to all men. Ignatius' legacy of persecution and contumely CHAPTER IV SIR THOMAS MORE AND SOME CONTEMPORARIES 223 An artist in human will. England at More's birth. Youth. Marriage. Opposes the King. Studies, Louvain, Paris. Busy barrister, care for the poor. Friendship with Erasmus. Family life. Margaret More. Linacre. Dean Colet. Lyly. John Caius. More's English writings. Utopia. Controversial writings. Lord Chancellor,--clears the docket. Honors and wealth or duty and death. More's choice. Trying situation. Humor on the scaffold. Lord Campbell on his execution; on the Lord Chancellors who succeeded him CHAPTER V THE REFORMERS 243 Reformation or religious revolt. Change in education and its effect on men's minds. Janssen on intellectual movement of the Renaissance. Reformers, Luther, Calvin, Henry VIII. False impressions as to reformation, Hallam. Political corruption. Luther, Denifle, Grisar. Luther on indulgences. Luther and Zwingli. Judgments of God. Luther and Melanchthon condone bigamy. McGiffert's comment. Luther's discouragement. Calvin the austere. Life without relaxation. Calvin's discouragement. Execution of Servetus. Henry VIII's conscience. How the English people were robbed of their religion. Cobbett, Macaulay, Frederic Harrison and Professor Powell on the English and Scottish reformers. Professor Briggs on Saints of the Reformation. The counter-reformation. Effects of the reformation CHAPTER VI GREAT EXPLORERS AND EMPIRE BUILDERS 262 Prince Henry the navigator. John II of Portugal. Bartholomew Dias. Vasco da Gama. Columbus. Amerigo Vespucci. The Cabots. Magellan. Circumnavigation of the globe. South Sea discoveries. Australia. Verazzano in New York. French explorers. Empire builders old and new. Cortés. Pizarro. Spanish treatment of Indians. Contrast with ours. Explorers of Columbus Century and of present day {xiv} CHAPTER VII AMERICA IN COLUMBUS' CENTURY 275 A glorious chapter of American history before 1550. Sidney Lee contrasts Spanish and English influence in America. Professor Bourne on early American culture. Mexican education. Universities of Mexico and Lima. Scholarship. Educational standards. Dr. Chanca on America. Garcilaso de la Vega. Professor Bourne contrasts Spanish and English education. Printing press. Early printed books. First American hospital. Champlain on Mexico. Remains at Panama. CHAPTER VIII SOME GREAT WOMEN 290 Renaissance women. Isabella of Castile. Genius for peace and war. Power of administration. Education. Housewifely virtues. Care for Indians. Prescott's contrast of Isabella and Elizabeth. Vittoria Colonna. Letter to her husband on honesty. Poems. Influence on men of Renaissance. The Gonzagas. St. Catherine of Genoa. Battistina Vernazza. Lucretia Borgia. Historical traditions and facts. Gregorovius' vindication. Garnett on Borgia poisonings. Aldus' praise. Lucretia as a ruler. Her protection of the Jews. Her husband's love. Victor Hugo and the Lucretian myth. Marguerite of Navarre. Personal character. Care for the poor. Mary of Burgundy. St. Teresa. _Mater Spiritualium_. French, German and English tributes. Greatest of intellectual women. Some of her maxims. CHAPTER IX FEMININE EDUCATION 313 Phases of feminine education before our time. Italian universities. Benedictine convents. Charlemagne's time. St. Brigid of Ireland. Vittorino da Feltre and his pupils. Guarino. Physical training. Lucretia, the mother of Lorenzo the Magnificent. Isabella and Beatrice D'Este. Abundant opportunities of feminine education. Influence on their homes. Renaissance gardens. _Camerini_ of Isabella D'Este. Lucretia Borgia's apartments. Feminine devotion to social problems. Comparison with our own time. Public appearances. Olympia Morata. Angela Merici, founder in education. The Ursulines and the Jesuits. Their continued activity all over the world. Anne of Bretagne. Marguerite of Navarre. Sex. Feminine education in Spain. Prescott's tribute. Feminine education in England: Margaret of Anjou, Margaret Beaufort, the Countess of Arundel, Lady Jane Grey, Mary Queen of Scots, Queen Elizabeth, Margaret More. Charitas Pirkheimer. Feminine education and religion. "Beauty, disposition, education, virtue, piety combined to make them harmonious human beings" (Burckhardt) {xv} CHAPTER X PHYSICAL SCIENCE OF THE CENTURY 343 Science developed as wonderfully as art and literature. Translations of the classics of science. Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa. Puerbach. Regiomontanus. Cardinal Bessarion. Scientific scholars in Italy from all over the world. Linacre, Vesalius, Caius. Toscanelli and Columbus. Copernicus and a new universe. His attitude toward the reformation. Leonardo da Vinci, scientist and inventor. The scientific spirit. Telesio and the inductive method. Chemistry in medicine. Basil Valentine and Paracelsus. Columbus and the declination of the magnetic needle CHAPTER XI BIOLOGICAL SCIENCES 360 Nature study in the Middle Ages. Anatomists of the Renaissance. Acute Italian observation. Leonardo da Vinci. Supposed Church opposition to dissection. All the artists dissectors. Vesalius, father of modern anatomy. Columbus, Fallopius, Eustachius, Aranzi, Servetus. Caesalpinus. Circulation of the blood. Harvey's indebtedness to the Italian anatomists. Botany. Leonardo da Vinci, Brunfels, Fuchs, Tragus, Euricius and Valerius Cordus. Tributes to Valerius Cordus. Caesalpinus as a botanist. Ruellius and Pierre Belon in France. Spanish and Portuguese studies of American and Indian plants CHAPTER XII MEDICINE 381 Standards of education. Clinical teaching. Rabelais' principles. Early printed medical books. Leonicenus. Linacre. Caius. Montanus. Paracelsus, chemistry and medicine, physical factors, in therapy, occupation diseases. Rejection of pretensions to knowledge. Paracelsus' contributions to surgery. Animal magnetism. Absurdities. Basil Valentine. Theories of auto-toxaemia. Cornelius Agrippa. Influence of mind on body. Pathological anatomy. Benivieni. Joost van Lom. Schenck von Graffenberg. Petrus Forestus. Fracastorius. Paré on gout. Drugs from the new world. Botanical gardens. Theory and observation. Mental diseases, differentiation. Balneotherapy. Jerome Cardan, absurdities. Cornaro's longevity. Sanitary regulations. Pure food laws. Popular hygiene. Alcoholic beverages. Health boards in Italy. Tuberculosis contagion. Sir Thomas More on the place of the physician {xvi} CHAPTER XIII SURGERY 409 Printing of old surgical text-books. Magnificent hospitals. Study of gunshot wounds. Ambroise Paré. Experiments with bullets. Surgical specialties. Orthopedics. Bone surgery. Blood transfusion. Tracheotomy tube. Magnet in surgery. Cesarean operation. Gynaecology and obstetrics. Heart surgery. Cosmetic surgery. Artificial noses, lips and eyelids. Aseptic surgery. Pyemia as an infectious disease. Paracelsus against meddlesome surgery. German surgeons. Pfolspeundt, tubes in intestinal surgery. Brunschwig on the necessity of anatomy. Stiffened bandages. Gerssdorff, surgery of anchyloses. Hall on experience in surgery. Gurlt's four hundred pages on Renaissance surgery BOOK III. THE BOOK OF THE WORDS CHAPTER I LATIN LITERATURE 427 Latin the universal language of scholars. Three great books: The "Imitation of Christ," "Utopia" and the "Spiritual Exercises" of St Ignatius. The "Imitation" the most influential of human books. Other works by à Kempis. Tributes to the "Imitation"; saints, jurists, soldiers, scholars agree in lauding it. One of the world's supremely great books. Illustrative passages. The Ode on Love. "Utopia" and Plato's "Republic" and St. Augustine's "City of God." A vivid piece of fiction. A profound social study. Translation by Bishop Burnet. The "Spiritual Exercises" a book of things, not words. Erasmus' _"Colloquia"_ and the _"Encomium Moriae"_ CHAPTER II ITALIAN LITERATURE 442 Age of Leo X. Ariosto "very nearly if not quite supreme" (Saintsbury). Orlando Furioso. Ariosto's similes, sonnet. Italian Mystery and Miracle plays. Ballads. Carnival songs. Lorenzo de' Medici as a poet. Italian prose. Machiavelli, history, plays, poems, fiction, "a universal genius" (Garnett). Guicciardini, history, reminiscences. Vasari--Lives of the Painters. Italian fiction, Ariente, Luigi da Porto, Illicini, Machiavelli's "Belphagor." Cinthio. Bandello. Licentious stories intended to lessen license. Autobiography of Benevenuto Cellini, Castiglione's "Cortigiano" not the "Autobiography," the symbol of the century's thought and philosophy of life {xvii} CHAPTER III FRENCH LITERATURE 462 Villon. Prince Charles of Orleans. Clement Marot. Francis I as an author. Margaret of Navarre. "The Marguerites" of Marguerite. A French poetess of passion. Melin de Saint Gelais' epigrams. The Pleiades. Ronsard's "Prince and Peasant." Joachim du Bellay. French prose, Comines, Amyot's translations. Rabelais' misunderstood genius, his life, evidence for tolerance of time, modern studies and influence. Embodiment of French Renaissance CHAPTER IV SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE LITERATURE 476 Queen Isabella's letters. St. Teresa's mystical writings. The Tales of Chivalry. Amadis de Gaul. Tales of Roguery, Celestina, Lazarillo de Tormes. Mystical writers, John of Avila, Luis de Granada and Luis de Leon. Spanish poetry--Boscan and Garcilaso de la Vega. Camöens "greatest of modern epic poets" (Schlegel). Shorter poems. Love sonnets. CHAPTER V ENGLISH LITERATURE 485 English dramatic literature-- "Everyman," Passion and Nativity Plays, Interludes. "Marriage of Witte and Science" first play marked off into acts and scenes. Dramatic quality of the Morality Plays. John Skelton's work. John Heywood's Interludes, "The Four P's," illustrative passage. Social and religious satire, "Ralph Royster Doyster." Percy's "Reliques," "Ancient Ballad of Chevy Chase." Malory's "Morte d' Arthur," Caxton's Translations. Scotch poetry. James I. "The King's Quair." Blind Harry, Robert Henryson, Gawin Douglas and William Dunbar. English poetry, Howard Earl of Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyeth. More's place in English prose. Life of Edward V. Berner's translation of Froissart. Collects of the English prayer-book. Tyndale and Coverdale's Translations of the Scriptures. CHAPTER VI SCHOLARSHIP IN ITALY 501 Italy Alma Mater Studiorum. The New Learning. AEneas Sylvius (Pope Pius II). Cardinal Bessarion. {xviii} Greek teachers, Chalcondyles, Gaza, Trebizond and Argyropulos. Pope Nicholas V. Academy of Florence. Landino, Ficino and Politian. Italian academies. Pomponius Laetus, Platina, Roman Academy, Vitruvian Academy, Academy of Naples, Venice, Calepinus. Pico della Mirandola. CHAPTER VII THE SCHOLARSHIP OF THE TEUTONIC COUNTRIES 513 Nowhere scholarship deeper than in Germany. Brothers of the Common Life, founders, purpose. Great pupils. Nicholas of Cusa. Rudolph Agricola. John of Dalberg. Jacob Wimpheling. Alexander Hegius. Erasmus. Melanchthon. Reuchlin. Ulrich von Hutten. Conrad Muth (Mutianus). Conrad Celtes, edition of Hroswitha's plays. Dürer and Wilibald Pirkheimer. Sandys on the German Humanists. Janssen on classic culture and Christian scholarship. Critical studies. CHAPTER VIII SCHOLARSHIP OUTSIDE OF ITALY AND GERMANY 531 Every country in Europe interested in the New Learning. The first teacher of the French, Aleander, an Italian. Budé (Budaeus), devotion to study. Foundation of College de France. Toussain, Turnebus, Rabelais, Montaigne. Rabelais "science without conscience is the ruination of the soul." The Scaligers. Spanish scholars: Guzman, Antonio of Lebriza, Barbosa, all three students in Italy. Cardinal Ximenes, the University of Alcalá, Complutensian Polyglot. Grammar under the domination of Spanish minds. Portugal, the University of Coimbra. England early shared enthusiasm for New Learning. Linacre, John Free and Caius were teachers at Italian universities. Lord Grey of Codnor; John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester. Erasmus on English scholarship. Greek students: Selling, Grocyn, William Latimer, Lily, John Fisher. Critical scholarship. APPENDIX I SIR THOMAS MORE AND MAN'S SOCIAL PROBLEMS 545 Religious toleration and More's practice. Standing armies and their evils. "Balanced fear" and the balance of power. Over-estimation of gold and precious stones. A living wage. Not pleasure but virtue the end of life. Forest conservation. Scientific books. Division of time. More's own home. {xix} APPENDIX II AFTER THE REFORMATION 553 Decadence in the arts, education, scholarship and humanitarianism begins immediately after the Reformation and culminates at the end of the eighteenth century. Education not freer; academic liberty less (Prof. Paulsen). The New Learning and the Reform doctrines. Bishop Bale on the neglect of books. Wanton destruction of libraries. Decadence in art, "King Whitewash and Queen Ugliness supreme." Gerhard Hauptmann on decay in art as the exorbitant price of personal freedom of conscience. Decline of charity. Jail-like hospitals. Dissolution of social organization. Superstition and torture rampant after the Reformation. The Witchcraft delusion. Political decadence. The pre-Reformation House of Lords. Popular holidays obliterated. Internationalism overshadowed. Modern social progress a reversion to mediaeval notions. {xx} {xxi} LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 1. Sebastiano del Piombo, Christopher Columbus (Metropolitan Museum, New York) _Frontispiece_ 2. Carpaccio, Meeting of Sts. Joachim and Anna. Opposite page xxix 3. Titian, Emperor Charles V xxxiv 4. Raphael, Drawing of Slaughter of Innocents. On page 3 5. Raphael, Dream of the Knight Opposite page 4 6. Raphael, School of Athens Opposite page 8 7. Raphael, Poetry (Mosaic, Vatican) Opposite page 14 8. Leonardo da Vinci, Madonna of the Rocks Opposite page 20 9. Raphael, Pope Julius II Opposite page 37 10. Fra Angelico, St Francis Opposite page 53 11. Perugino, Entombment (Pitti) Opposite page 56 12. Borgognone, St. Catharine of Alexandria Opposite page 57 13. Botticelli, Illustration for Dante On page 61 14. Bellini, Doge Loredano Opposite page 62 15. Correggio, Marriage of St. Catherine (Louvre) Opposite page 66 16. Gossaert, Virgin and Child Jesus (Italian Influence over Flemish) Opposite page 69 17. Van der Weyden, Mater Dolorosa Opposite page 71 18. Quentin Matsys, Legend of St. Ann (Centre) Opposite page 73 19. Van Oriey, Dr. Zelle Opposite page 74 20. Dürer, Title Page of Life of Blessed Virgin On page 76 21. Clouet, François, Elizabeth of Austria On page 79 22. Navarrete, St. Peter and St. Paul (Escurial) On page 81 23. Cespedes, The Last Supper (Cathedral, Cordova) On page 83 24. Bertoldo di Giovanni, Battle (Bargello) Opposite page 85 25. Rosselino, Antonio, Madonna Opposite page 87 26. Donatello, Gatamelata Opposite page 91 27. Benedetto Rovezzano, Chimney Piece Opposite page 95 28. Pulpit, Leyden Opposite page 98 29. Dürer, St John Baptist Preaching (Bas-relief in carved wood) On page 100 30. King Arthur (Innsbruck) On page 103 31. Henry VIII on Field of Cloth of Gold (Bas-relief, Rouen) On page 104 32. Goujon, Jewel Cabinet On page 106 33. Armor (fifteenth century, Paris) On page 108 34. Scent Box, chased gold On page 111 {xxii} 35. Seats (fifteenth century miniatures) On page 112 36. Clock (Paris) On page 113 37. Alberti, San Francesco (Rimini) On page 115 38. Michelangelo, St. Peter's (Rome) On page 116 39. Alberti, Rucellai Palace (Florence) On page 119 40. Court, Doge's Palace (Venice) On page 121 41. Palladio, Barbarano Palace (Vicenza) On page 123 42. Hotel de Ville (Louvain) Opposite page 124 43. Alcalá, Paranimfo On page 125 44. Alcalá, Archiepiscopal Palace Court On page 126 45. Cloister (Lupiana, Spain) On page 128 46. Toledo, Alcazar On page 130 47. Melozzo da Forli, Angel with Lute (Rome) Opposite page 141 48. Violin and Bass Viol, Germany On page 144 49. Verard, "Book of Hours" Border On page 147 50. Fouquet, Miniature Livy MSS. (Paris) On page 150 51. Tory, Border from "Book of Hours" On page 157 52. Tory, Page of Collines' "Book of Hours" On page 160 53. Dürer, Marriage of Blessed Virgin On page 163 54. Black Letter bordered page On page 165 55. Playing Card On page 167 56. Stratford Guild Chapel On page 175 57. Stratford, Sir Hugh Clopton's Bridge On page 176 58. Bramante, Court of Hospital (Milan) On page 195 59. Memling, Martyrdom of St. Ursula (Bruges, Hospital of St. Jean) Opposite page 197 60. Holbein, Sir Thomas More Opposite page 223 61. Matteo Civitale, Faith (Bargello) Opposite page 243 62. Holbein, Henry VIII (London) Opposite page 255 63. Filippino Lippi, Madonna with Four Saints Opposite page 260 64. Stradan, Columbus on First Voyage (niello, ivory) On page 276 65. Columbus' Title of Letter On page 282 66. Columbus' Page from Letter (1494-) On page 283 67. Hospital, Mexico (founded before 1524) Opposite page 287 68. Hospital, (another view) Opposite page 287 69. Crivelli, Madonna Enthroned Opposite page 290 70. Holbein, Queen Catherine of Aragon Opposite page 293 71. Titian, Presentation of Virgin Opposite page 296 72. Palma Vecchio, St. Barbara Opposite page 304 73. Mostaert, Virgo Deipara (Antwerp) Opposite page 312 74. Bellini, Madonna, St. Catherine and Mary Magdalen (Venice) Opposite page 318 75. Pinturicchio, Holy Family (Siena) Opposite page 326 76. Dürer, Nativity On On page 339 77. Vivarini, St. Clare Opposite page 341 78. Titian, Paracelsus On page 386 {xxiii} 79. Holbein, Dr. William Butts Opposite page 413 80. Cima da Conegliano, Christ (Dresden) Opposite page 431 81. Titian, Ariosto Opposite page 443 82. Palma Vecchio, Poet (sometimes called Ariosto) Opposite page 449 83. Francia, Virgin Weeping over Body of Christ (London) Opposite page 477 84. Page from early printed book, with woodcut On page 487 85. Theatre, Title Page of Terence On page 491 86. Mantegna, St. George Opposite page 501 87. Correggio, Blessed Virgin and St Sebastian Opposite page 508 88. Cima da Conegliano, Incredulity of St Thomas (Venice) Opposite page 519 89. Tory, Francis I's Court On page 534 {xxiv} {xxv} INTRODUCTION To many people the date of the discovery of America must seem somewhat out of place. At least it must be hard for them to understand just how it came about that before the fifteenth century closed so great a discovery as this of a new continent could be made. The Middle Ages are usually said to end with the Fall of Constantinople (1453), though a number of historians in recent years have begun to date the close of mediaeval history with the discovery of America itself. It scarcely seems consonant with the usually accepted ideas of widespread ignorance, lack of scientific curiosity with dearth of initiative and absence of great human interests during the Middle Ages, that so important an achievement as the discovery of America should have come at this time. In spite of the growing knowledge that has revealed the wonderful achievements of the mediaeval period, there are still a great many people who think themselves well informed, for whom the thousand years from about 500 to 1500 seem almost a series of blank pages and it cannot but be very surprising to them that anyone should have been able to rise out of the slough of despond so far as regards human knowledge and enterprise which these times are often declared to represent, to the climax of energy and daring and conscious successful purpose required for the discovery of the Western Hemisphere. Apparently only a special dispensation of Providence preparing the modern time could possibly have brought this important discovery out of the Nazareth of the so-called "Dark Ages." All sorts of explanations have been deemed necessary to account for Columbus' great discovery at this time. To some it has seemed to be the result of a happy accident by which one of the deeply original spirits among mankind, with the _wanderlust_ in his soul, succeeded finally in having someone provide him with the opportunity for a long vague voyage on which fortunately the discovery of the Western Hemisphere was made. We hear much of happy accidents in scientific {xxvi} discoveries and they are supposed to represent the fortunate chances of humanity. It must not be forgotten, however, that only to genius do these happy accidents occur. Newton discovered the laws of gravitation after having seen the apple fall, but many billions of men had seen apples fall before his time without being led to the faintest hint of gravitation. Galvani touched the legs of a frog by accident with his metal implements while making electrical experiments, and so became "the frogs' dancing master" in the contemptuous phrase of many of his scientific colleagues and the father of biological electricity for us, but doubtless many others lacking his scientific insight had seen this phenomenon without having their attention particularly caught by it. It has been suggested that not a little of the good fortune that resulted in the discovery of the American Continent was due to Columbus' obstinacy of character. He was a man who, having conceived an idea, was bound to carry it out, cost what it might. These are, of course, the men as a rule who make advances and discoveries and obtain privileges for us. They are not satisfied to be as others, and the world usually denominates them cranks. They insist on doing things differently and their vision of great achievement does not fade or become dim even under the clouds of objections that men are prone to rouse against anything, and, above all, any purpose that they themselves cannot understand. Columbus is said to have been one of those mortals who are actually urged on by obstacles and who cannot be made to back down from their purpose by rebuffs and refusals, or even by the disappointments after preliminary encouragement which are so much harder to bear. Columbus' steadfastness of character during the voyage, which enabled him to overcome the murmurings of his men and keep his ships to their course in spite of almost mutiny, is a reflex of this trait of his character, and yet there have been no end of obstinate men who have never succeeded in accomplishing anything worth while. Once engaged on the expedition, or in the preliminaries for it, Columbus' obstinacy of character in the better sense of that expression was simply invaluable, but the question is. How did he become engaged on the expedition at this time? {xxvii} It takes only a little consideration of the history of the time in which Columbus was educated and the story of the accomplishment of the men who lived around him during the half century that preceded the discovery of America to realize exactly why the discovery was made at this particular time. There has probably never been a period when so many supremely great things were done or when so many men whose enduring accomplishment has influenced all the after generations were alive, as during the nearly seventy years of Columbus' lifetime. In order to illustrate, then, the background of the history of the discovery of America, it has seemed worth while to take what may be called Columbus' Century, from 1450 to 1550, and show what was accomplished during it. The discovery of America came just about the middle of it and represents one of a series of great achievements made by the men of the time which are destined never to lose in interest for mankind. To know the other great events and great men of the period is to appreciate better just what the discovery of America meant and the place that Columbus' work in this regard should have in the history of human accomplishment. The present volume can be at best only a very brief review of the great achievements and the story of the lives of the men of this time. John Ruskin once said that the only proper way to know the true significance of a period of human history was to study the book of its arts, the book of its deeds and the book of its words, that is, to weigh the significance of its artistic accomplishment, the meaning of what its men did for their fellowmen and the worth of its literature in terms of world achievement. Judged by this standard, Columbus' Century must be placed among the greatest periods of human accomplishment in the world's history. It is the Renaissance period and, as everyone knows, this is a famous epoch in modern times. It has been a favorite study of a great many scholars in a great many generations since. It introduced many of the ideas, indeed most of the important thoughts and inventions on which our modern progress is founded. It is true that its great impetus came from the impulse given by the reintroduction of Greek ideas and Greek ideals into the modern world, but only that {xxviii} there were men of talent and genius, capable of being stirred to achievement by Greek incentive, nothing great would have been accomplished. Besides, while it owes much to Greece, it is great in its own right, and its men added much to what came to them out of Greece and adopted and adapted classic ideas and ideals so as to make them of great significance in the modern world. As regards The Book of the Arts of Columbus' Century, scarcely more need be said in this introductory chapter than what has already been suggested, that this is the Renaissance period. All the world now knows of the art of the Renaissance and of all that was accomplished by men who lived during the century after the Fall of Constantinople in 1453. Every form of art, painting, sculpture, architecture, music, as well as the arts and crafts, achieved a supreme expression at this time. Everywhere, particularly in Italy, men started up as if a new life had come into the world and proceeded to the accomplishment of artistic results which had apparently been impossible to preceding generations, and, alas for the notion of human progress! have often been the despair of succeeding generations. If imitation is the sincerest flattery, then these artists of the Renaissance period have indeed been flattered, for it has almost been the rule in the after time to imitate them and even the greatest of the artists of succeeding generations have been deeply influenced by the work of these men and usually have been quite willing to confess how much they owe to them. In Italy the list of names of painters who were at this time doing work which the world will never willingly let die, is long and glorious. There has never been a period of equal influence and achievement in this mode of art in the history of the race. Almost every city in Italy produced a group of painters during this century who would make a whole nation famous in any other period. The Florentine School surpasses all the others in importance, and such names as Fra Angelico, Benozzo Gozzoli, Fra Bartolommeo, Lippo Lippi and Filippino Lippi, Botticelli, Ghirlandaio, Leonardo da Vinci, Andrea del Sarto, Masaccio and Michelangelo, occur in its history. Venice produced in the first half of our period such men as the Vivarinis, the Bellinis, Titian, Carpaccio, Palma Vecchio, Giorgione and Lorenzo Lotti, worthy predecessors of the great names that were to come in the second half--Tintoretto and Paolo Veronese. [Illustration: CARPACCIO, MEETING OF STS. JOACHIM AND ANNA] {xxix} The Umbrian School of painters includes a group of men born in the hill towns of Umbria, to be credited, therefore, to more than a single city, but their greatness is sufficient for the glory of any number of cities,--Gentile da Fabriano, Bonfigli, Perugino and his pupils, Pinturicchio, Lo Spagna, and many others, above all Raphael. Bologna possessed the three Caracci, Guido, Domenichino and Guercino. Parma had Correggio, Ferrara, Dosso Dossi and Garofalo; Padua, Andrea Mantegna and his master, Squarcione, and Rome, the pupils of Raphael, Giulio Romano, Sassoferato and Carlo Maratta and Da Imola. These schools of Italian painting embrace all the modes of expression with the brush in their scope. The other countries of Europe, however, were not without distinguished representatives of the wondrous art spirit of the time. In Germany, there were Albrecht Dürer and the Holbeins, in the Lowlands the Van Eycks' greatest work came just before the opening of the century and inspired Memling, Van der Weyden, Quentin Matsys and others. In Spain, such men as Zurbaran and Ribalta were worthy forerunners of the great geniuses Velasquez and Murillo, who represent the aftermath of the glorious harvest of the workers in the field of art during this Renaissance period. They were all willing to confess their obligations to the great painters of the preceding age and their work is really a continuation of that Renaissance spirit. The accomplishment of the painters of Columbus' period proved as copious in stimulus for subsequent painters as the great navigators' discovery of America proved the stimulus to explorers, discoverers and empire makers during the subsequent century. A great wind of the spirit was blowing abroad and men were deeply affected by it, and accomplished results almost undreamt of before, and even when the wind of the spirit was dying down it still moved men to achievements that had only been surpassed during the immediately preceding period and that were to be looked up to with admiration and {xxx} envy and given that sincerest of praise, imitation, during all the succeeding centuries. The artists of Columbus Century, this great Renaissance period, were never merely artists. Some of them, like Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, though among the greatest painters in the world, preferred to think of themselves as something else than painters. Leonardo has painted the greatest of portraits, but was a great engineer, an architect, an inventor, a scientist, and anything else that he cared to turn his hand to. Michelangelo was undoubtedly a great painter, yet this was the least of his accomplishments, for he was greater as an architect, a sculptor, and perhaps even as a poet, than he was as a painter. Raphael, besides being a painter, was an architect and above all an archaeologist. It was a sad loss to classic archaeology that he did not live to accomplish his plan of making a model of old Rome. He was a great student of the technics of his art and if he had not died at the early age of thirty-seven would surely have accomplished much besides painting. Many of the painters and sculptors of the time had been goldsmiths or workers in metal, and nearly all of them were handicraftsmen, handy with their hands and capable of doing things. Practically all of them were architects and many of them proved their powers in this regard. A man of the Renaissance always thought that he could do anything well, and specialism was the last thing in the world thought of. Their confidence in their own powers gave them a wonderful breadth of ability to accomplish. In sculpture the roll of great names is scarcely less wonderful than that of the great painters. It includes such men as Verrocchio and Leopardi, Donatello, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, the Della Robbias, Benvenuto Cellini and many others of less fame in this great period, but who would have been looked up to as wonder workers in the art at any other time. The sculpture work, for instance, that was accomplished in connection with Certosa at Pavia, though out of harmony with some of the true aims of sculpture, shows how beautifully Renaissance men worked out artistic ideas of any kind. Glorious as is the list of sculptors in Italy, other countries are by no means eclipsed by Italian pre-eminence. The work of {xxxi} the great sculptors of Nuremberg, Adam Kraft and Peter Vischer, as well as of the coterie of sculptors who did the wonderful group of heroes at Innsbruck, show how the wind of the spirit of genius in art was blowing abroad everywhere. In the Low Countries, while we do not always know the names of the sculptors, their beautiful monuments are with us. Such beautiful work as the Tomb of Mary of Burgundy, made by Peter Beckere of Brussels, is an enduring memorial of artistic excellence. There are wood carvings everywhere through the Low Countries that display the artistic genius of the time, In France, Colombe, trained in Flanders, did beautiful work, and Jean Juste and his son have left a monument of their sculptural genius in the Cathedral at Tours. Jean Fouchet made the lovely tomb of Agnes Sorel at Loches, and after the spirit of the Renaissance had come to France, Jean Goujon and Germain Pilon achieved their masterpieces. The reliefs of Jean Goujon for the "Fountain of the Innocents" are very well known and often to be seen in copies. The "Three Graces" of Germain Pilon, though already there is perhaps some sign of decadence, is a charming work of art that has never been excelled in the more modern time. In architecture, Columbus' Century is, if anything, more famous than for its accomplishment in other arts. Almost every city in Italy has a distinguished architect who has left behind him a monument of genius. Brunelleschi died just before the century; Bramante, Alberti, Leonardo da Vinci, and above all, Michelangelo, are the great names of the time. Such other names as Palladio, Sangallo, della Porta, Sansovino and San Michele come after these, and the work of this group of men has more influenced succeeding generations than any other. The monuments of this time include the Cathedral of Santa Croce at Florence, St. Peter's at Rome and many of the great palaces and hospitals that now are the subject of so much admiration and attention from scholarly visitors to Italy. In our own time the reproduction of Renaissance architectural types and the careful study of what the Italian Renaissance did in modifying for modern use classic types of architecture has done more to give us handsome monumental buildings than any other inspiration that men have had. {xxxii} Unfortunately, the Renaissance in its adoration of classic types and ideals developed a contempt for the older Gothic architecture that had many sad effects on taste in art, but the people of the period succeeded in building a glorious monument to themselves for all time. This same century saw the rise and marvellous development of music in nearly every department of that art and in a way that strikingly illustrates how the genius of this time gave to men a power of lofty expression in every aesthetic mode. In this form of art Italy was not as in other departments of aesthetics the leader, though she proved the apt pupil, excelling before the close of the period even her masters. It is to the Flemings that we owe the great beginnings of music at this time, as we also owe to them and to their brethren of Holland so much in all the arts. Ockenheim of Hainault and his pupils, above all Josquin, developed the technique of polyphonic music, and Flanders furnished music masters for every important capital in Europe. Claude Goudimel, born at Avignon, but educated in Flanders, opened his famous school of music in Rome in the first half of the sixteenth century, and while not perhaps, as has often been said, the teacher of Palestrina, he helped to create the Roman school in which developed the brothers Animuccia and the brothers Nanini. Orlando de Lasso did his work at this time, and Stefano Vanneo of Recanati published his treatise on counterpoint in 1531. The use of the chord of the dominant seventh was invented and St. Philip Neri encouraged those religious musical exercises which culminated first in the Oratorio and subsequently in what we know as opera. As always happens in a really great artistic period, there was a magnificent development of the crafts as well as of the arts. When such men as Verrocchio, probably even Leonardo da Vinci himself, Pollaiuolo and Benvenuto Cellini were looked upon as goldsmiths as well as sculptors, it is easy to understand how thoroughly artistic was the goldsmithery of the time. As a matter of fact, most of the artists of the Renaissance were trained in workshops. These were not only technical schools, but art schools of the finest kind. As a consequence not only in gold and metal work, but in every {xxxiii} other craft, art impulses of lofty achievement are noted. The stained glass of the time is among the most beautiful ever made. All glass-making and porcelain reached a high plane of perfection. It is interesting to note the decadence of fine glass-making that begins toward the end of our period. Gem-cutting reached a climax of perfection at this time that has ranked Renaissance gems among the most precious in the world. The art of the medal and the medallion was another artistic specialty of this time in which it has probably never been excelled and very seldom equalled. In book-making artistic craftsmanship surpassed itself. Before the development of printing as the exclusive mode of making books there was a marvellous evolution of illuminated hand-made books. Many specimens still extant are among the most beautiful in the world. With these as models the printed books came to be just as wonderful artistic products and so we have during Columbus' period the finest book-making that the world has ever known. Every portion of the book, the print, the spacing, the paper, the binding was artistically done. What seemed a mere handicraft was lifted to the plane of art and whenever in the aftertime--and never more so than in our own period--men have wanted models for beautiful book-making they have gone back to those produced during this period. THE BOOK OF THE DEEDS of the century will be best appreciated from the names of the doers, the men of action, of this wonderful time. History was indeed making. What came with the rise of the Portuguese empire mainly through the influence of Prince Henry and of the Spanish Empire in America under Ferdinand and Isabella were only the great beginnings of the wealth and power Europe was to draw from over-sea colonies. Unfortunately the century was a period of political unrest. The seething spirit that led to great achievement in every department gave rise to many wars and disturbances. The Wars of The Roses in England and the many wars in Italy, with the political disaffection in Germany and the disturbed state of France, made human life very cheap just when it was capable of most enduring accomplishment. Great monarchs like the Emperor Charles V, Francis I, king of France, and Henry VIII of England worked good and harm {xxxiv} in proportions very hard to estimate properly. There was never a more tyrannical king than Henry VIII and probably never a less just one than Francis I. Bishop Stubbs, the English constitutional historian, has claimed for Charles V the right to the title great, yet there is so much that is at least questionable about his career as a ruler that history will probably never willingly accord it. The military exploits, the courtly intrigues, the corrupt diplomacy, the exhibition of the ugliest traits of mankind were all emphasized in this period because great men are great also in the ill they do, but fortunately there is another side to the book of the deeds of the century worth while reading. Among the events of the century are the great Battle of Pavia at which Francis I of France was defeated so thoroughly that afterwards, while confined in the Certosa, he sent the famous despatch to his mother, "All is lost save honor." This century saw also the famous meeting of the Field of the Cloth of Gold at which both English and French nobles went so gaily attired and with so many handsome changes of raiment that literally not a few of them "carried their castles on their backs." Their subsequent bankruptcy strengthened the hands of the crown in both countries. This unfortunately did more than anything else to lay the foundations of that absolutism which needed the French Revolution and its successors in other countries of the past century to break up. It was the time of the famous Diet of Worms and of all the political and religious disturbances which have been called the Reformation, though in recent years historians have come to recognize the movement not as a great epoch-making reform in religion, of which it brought about the disintegration by its doctrine of individual judgment, but as a religious revolt affecting the Northern nations of Europe, disturbing the continuity of the traditions of culture and education and art which had been so completely under the influence of the old Church and which among these Northern nations were not caught up again for several centuries after this unfortunate division in Christianity. [Illustration: TITIAN, EMPEROR CHARLES V. ] The greatest accomplishment of this period, however, was its scholarship. In every country in Europe men devoted {xxxv} themselves to the study of the Latin and Greek classics and opportunities for education of the highest import were accorded everywhere. They were no merely dry-as-dust scholars, and the names of such men as AEneas Sylvius Piccolomini, who was afterwards Pope Pius II; of Aldus Manutius, the great Venetian printer; of Leon Battista Alberti, famous not only as a scholar, but as an architect and an artist in every mode, and Lorenzo de' Medici himself, are only brilliant examples in a single country of a scholarship that was eminently productive and influential. In every country in Europe the story is the same. At the beginning of this book it seemed that the scholarship of the century might be summed up in a single chapter. I found that even a single chapter for Italy was quite inadequate and that the Teutonic countries of themselves required another chapter even for a quite incomplete record of their scholarly achievements. Rudolph Agricola; Reuchlin, who was known as "the three-tongued wonder" of Germany; Desiderius Erasmus, the most influential scholar of Europe in this intellectual period; Jacob Wimpfeling, the schoolmaster of Germany; Melanchthon, the gentle _praeceptor Germaniae_, and all the products of the schools of the Brethren of the Common Life serve to demonstrate the greatness of the German scholarship of this period. In England there are such men as Bishop Selling, Cardinal Morton, Archbishop Warham, Dean Colet, Thomas Linacre, Dr. John Caius, Roger Ascham, Thomas More and many others who in any other period would be reckoned among the distinguished scholars. And yet the other Latin countries did not lag much behind Italy and were fair rivals of the Teutonic countries in scholarship at this time. Queen Isabella herself learned Latin when she was already a queen on the throne. Court fashions are sure to spread and this did. Besides the queen encouraged Cardinal Ximenes in the production of that magnificent monument of scholarship the Complutensian Polyglot Bible. The development of the universities in Spain only parallels the corresponding movement in the rest of Europe, but there were probably more higher institutions of learning founded and above all more refounded and re-established on a broader {xxxvi} basis at this time than at any other corresponding period of history. In France the index of scholarly accomplishment is the foundation of the Collège de France, which was to mean so much for French intellectual life. It made it possible for scholars to pursue their work unhampered by the fossilized University of Paris, which had become cramped in old-fashioned ways and for the time being was incapable of doing great intellectual work itself and yet, owing to the charters and privileges granted it in its flourishing period, was still capable of crushing out the true spirit of knowledge and preventing real development. There was never a time in the world's history when scholarship, in so far as that term means knowledge of the great books of the past, occupied so prominent a place in men's minds or had so much influence. Nor has there ever been a time when so many of those in power felt that the very best thing that they could do for their people as well as for their own fame was the encouragement of learning. Scholars were more highly honored than at any period in the world's history. Even ruling princes and the higher nobility felt that they owed it to themselves to be acquainted with the great works of literature or pretend at least to a knowledge of them and that a portion of their policy must be to patronize teachers and scholars of the New Learning. To be a patron of scholars was considered quite as important as to act in a similar capacity for painters, sculptors and architects, though there might be more personal fame attached to securing the works of the great masters in art. Fortunately these scholars were encouraged in their labors, and we have a whole series of wonderful editions of the old classics accomplished at a cost of time and labor and patience that only a few of those who have labored at such work under ever so much more favorable circumstances can properly appreciate. Their editions were issued as beautiful books in this wonderful time, and so they have remained as precious treasures for us down to our own day. The achievements in art and scholarship in this century are well known and universally recognized. It is seldom appreciated, however, that the century is almost as great in its {xxxvii} wonderful progress in science as it is in any other intellectual department. The foundations of our modern sciences were laid broad and deep at this time, and achievements of scientific generalization as well as accurate and detailed observation were made, that may be placed with confidence in comparison with those of any other time in the world's history, even our own. Copernicus' theory probably revolutionized men's thinking more with regard to the earth and the universe of which it forms a part than the thought of any man has ever done during the whole history of mankind. The great medical scientists of this period almost as effectually revolutionized men's thinking with regard to the constitution of men and animals as Copernicus had done with regard to the universe. Vesalius, called the father of modern anatomy, has left us a monument of genius in his work on the structure of the human body, and his famous contemporaries, Eustachius, another Columbus, the anatomist, and Caesalpinus as well as Servetus added to the knowledge of anatomy and physiology which Vesalius had so well begun. Servetus and Columbus described the circulation of the blood in the lungs about the same time; and shortly after the close of our period Caesalpinus, trained in the schools of this time, described the circulation of the blood in the body. In every department of biological science, in anatomy and physiology, in pathology, in botany, in zoology, in palaeontology, in ethnology and linguistics, in anthropology, noteworthy advances were made. Magnificent applications of the knowledge acquired were made for the benefit of man and animals, new plants for medicine were sought in distant countries and a great new development of medicine took place. None of the anatomists and physiologists of the time failed to use their knowledge for the increase of information with regard to disease and its treatment. Vesalius besides being a great anatomist was almost as great a pathologist and one of the epoch-making diagnosticians of medical history. He was the first since the Greeks to describe an aneurism, that is the pathological dilatation of an artery through disease or accident, and the first in the history of medicine to demonstrate the presence of such a condition on the living subject. Paracelsus, {xxxviii} Ambroise Paré, Linacre, John Caius and a whole host of great teachers in Italy are names to conjure with in the history of medicine and of surgery. There is probably no period in the world's history that has so many names famous in medicine that the world will never willingly let die. The supremely great accomplishments of this time however, the true, good and great deeds of the century, were what it did for men. This is the period when there was more organization for social help and uplift than at any other period that we know. Every social need was responded to by the guilds. There were old-age pensions, disability wages, insurance against fire, accident at sea, burglary, highway robbery, the destruction of crops, the death of animals and all the other developments of mutual protection against the unexpected which we have been inclined to think were developments of our time. There were 30,000 guilds in England, it is said, when they were suppressed by Henry VIII, and the money in the treasuries, many millions of pounds, confiscated on the plea that they were religious organizations. They maintained grammar schools, had burses at the universities, arranged for technical training and apprenticeships, cared for orphans, provided entertainments for the people of the town, brought the membership together in friendly meetings and banquets several times each year, held athletic contests, encouraged social life and innocent amusements in every way and represented an ever vital nucleus of fraternal interest among men. Our chapter on this shows too how seriously the moneyed men of the time took their duty of philanthropic care for their townsmen by various institutions. A period that did so much for social needs could scarcely be expected to have neglected its hospitals and as a matter of fact some of the most beautiful hospitals in the world were built in this period, and everywhere that a hospital was built it was worthy of its purpose. The hospitals of a later time, especially the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, were little better than jails and were eminently unsuitable. At this time citizens, instead of thinking that anything was good enough for the ailing poor, felt that the honor of the city was concerned, and the hospital, being a municipal building, was {xxxix} constructed with as much care for its beauty externally and its utility internally as the famous town halls or churches of the time. We know how well patients were cared for, since we have abundant evidence of the clinical teaching of medicine at the bedside. Whenever hospitals are well built and the attendant physician takes students with him on his rounds, the best possible treatment of patients is assured. They cared finely for the insane also and for the weak-minded. The awful abuses in this regard that came in the eighteenth century, and from which our own happier though far from satisfactory conditions represent a reaction, were a lamentable, almost incomprehensible degeneration from the magnificent work of the earlier time. The women of Columbus' Century are worthy in every way of a place beside the men of their time. Those who in recent years have talked of the nineteenth century as the first period in the world's history when women secured an opportunity for the higher education forget amazingly many phases of feminine education of the long ago. The University of Salerno had its department of women's diseases in the charge of women professors in the twelfth century. There were feminine professors at the University of Bologna in the thirteenth century, and as a matter of fact in no century since the twelfth has Italy been without distinguished women professors at one or more of the Italian universities. Above all those who talk of feminine education as a recent evolution must be strangely forgetful of the women of the Renaissance. In Italy, in France, in Spain, in Germany, in England, there were long series of distinguished women, some noted for their scholarship, some for their artistic taste, some for their literary power, all of them for a fine influence on the men of the time and an inspiration to what was best. Much of the wonderful social history of the time is due to them, but there is no department of intellectual or moral uplift in which their names are not prominent. Vittoria Colonna, the D'Estes, the women of the House of Medici, the Gonzagas in Italy, Queen Anne of Bretagne and Marguerite of Navarre in France, Queen Isabella of Castile, Queen Catherine of England, Margaret More, Mary Queen of Scots, Margaret of Bourgogne, {xl} Lady Jane Grey, Queen Elizabeth--when was there ever such a galaxy of learned women alive during the same hundred years? Besides these known in secular literature there was St. Angela of Merici, the great founder of the Ursulines; St. Catherine of Genoa, the wonderful organizer of charity; St. Teresa, probably the greatest intellectual woman who ever lived, and other women distinguished for supreme qualities of mind and heart almost too numerous to mention. The hardest chapters of the book to compress have been those on Feminine Education and The Women of the Century. What they did to make their homes beautiful and their home surroundings charming, how they inspired the artists of the time, what they did to bring out the best that was in them, this indeed makes a difficult story to tell in a few pages. Their contributions to the intellectual treasure of mankind were not very large and only two or three of them have a name that will endure in literature and none of them in art, but what they accomplished for the ethical progress of the race at a particularly dangerous time when the study of pagan authors and of Grecian art had relaxed the fibre of Christian morality, represents a triumph of feminine accomplishment of which too much cannot be said in praise. THE BOOK OF THE WORDS of the century forms the least important chapter of the accomplishment of the time, and as compared with the arts and the deeds its literature seems almost disappointing, yet it must not be forgotten that this was the Age of Leo X, of which Saintsbury in "The Earlier Renaissance," in his series of Periods of European Literature, says, "Of few epochs is it more difficult to speak in brief space than of this century." He adds that "the age of Leo X was for no small length of time and under many changes of prevailing literary taste extolled as one of the greatest ages of literature, as perhaps the greatest age of modern literature." It fell from this high estate about a century ago, but the reaction against it was, as always is the case with reactions, exaggerated, and we are gradually growing in the appreciation of the greatness of the literature of the time again. We now know that there are very few periods that have contributed so much that is really of enduring value to world literature as this age of Leo X. {xli} The Latin literature alone of this century would be enough to assure it a place as one of the wonderful productive periods in world letters. The "Imitation of Christ" was not written during the century, though its author seems to have put it into the ultimate form in which we now know it about the beginning of our period. It was during this time that it came to be recognized as a great source of consolation, a marvellous study of the human heart in time of trial and of triumph and the most influential book that had ever come from the hand of man. We have gathered together a small sheaf of the tributes that have been paid to it by some of the serious thinkers in all generations since, but it would be easy to fill a volume with words of highest commendation. In the Latin literature of this period also must be counted Sir Thomas More's "Utopia," which has been read in every generation that has taken its social problems seriously ever since, and never more so than in our own time. It deserves a place in world literature beside Plato's "Republic," and it is far ahead of any of the attempts at the description of a socialized state made in our time. For scholars at least Erasmus' writings represent an enduring contribution to Latin literature of the classic type, a storehouse of information with regard to the scholarship and also lack of scholarship of the time. For those interested in mystical subjects St. Ignatius' "Spiritual Exercises" is another of the Latin works of the period which, though it can scarcely be classed as literature, for, as we have said, Ignatius like Michelangelo wrote things rather than words, must take its place amid Columbian letters of lasting value since it is more used now than ever before. There are not many surpassing works of vernacular literature from this time, and yet Machiavelli's history represents the only contribution to historical literature that takes a place in human interests beside the immortal trio of classical historians, Herodotus, Thucydides and Tacitus. Ariosto represents one of the favorite works of Italian scholars, and as the Italians have been the most cultured people in the world ever since, their critical judgment must be accepted as of great value. In popular literature the Tales of Chivalry, the Picaresque romances or tales of roguery and the almost endless {xlii} number of Italian novels show how wide must have been the popular reading of the time. In France Villon has always been a favorite for all classes, and with Charles of Orleans he has been known by scholars at least outside of France and thoroughly appreciated. French modes of verse following the Italian came to influence the other countries of Europe at this time and have never ceased to supply ideas for the form of the less serious modes of poetry at least for all the generations down to our own. The influence of Clément Marot, of Brantôme and the Pleiades was felt in every literature of Europe, and has not completely disappeared even after the nearly four centuries that have elapsed since their time. The literature of the century contains besides the names of Rabelais as well as Calvin in France, Baldassare Castiglione, Michelangelo, Vasari, Politian, Bembo, Lorenzo de' Medici, Pico della Mirandola and the learned ladies Vittoria Colonna, Margaret of Navarre, Lucretia Tornabuoni, the mother of Lorenzo de Medici, as well as the great scholars of the period in Italy. In Spain St. Teresa and the great mystical writers were compensating for the triviality and worse of the picaresque romances and the tales of chivalry. In Portugal the young genius of Camöens was nurtured, while in England Sir Thomas More was laying the foundations of modern English prose, the great Morality Plays, "Everyman" and the "Castle of Perseverance," were written, and the first fruits of English dramatic literature in its more modern form came in "Ralph Royster Doyster" and "Gammer Gurton's Needle." In Germany the literary product of the vernacular was less significant, but Luther's great popular hymns and his vernacular translation of the Scriptures gave a vigorous birth to modern German verse and prose, while Hans Sachs and the Minnesingers did as much for popular poetry. Few periods can present a literature so rich in every country, so varied, with so many enduring elements and with so much that remains as the constant possession of scholars ever since. The literature of the time may not equal its art or even its science, but no apologies are needed for it. In a word, then, the books of the arts, the deeds and the words of Columbus' Century when read even a little carefully {xliii} show us a marvellous period in which man's power of achievement was at its very highest. Its art in every department has never been excelled and has only been equalled by that of the Greeks, from whom, however, we possess no painting worthy of the name. Its intellectual achievements in scholarship and in science give it the leadership in education in the modern world at least. What it accomplished for men in great works of humanity represent a triumph of humanitarianism in the best sense of that word, and present achievements worthy to be emulated by the modern time. The book of its words is of less import, and yet there are not more than two or three periods in the world's history that have surpassed it and there are some modes of literature in which it is unexcelled. In the midst of this century the discovery of America instead of being a surprise cannot but seem the most natural thing in the world. Everywhere men were doing things that for many centuries men had been unable to do and they were achieving triumphs in every form of human effort. Given the fact that there was a large undiscovered portion of the world, it was more likely to be discovered at this time than at any other time in the world's history. That is the background of Columbus' Discovery of America, which anyone who wants to understand its place must know. {1} BOOK I THE BOOK OF THE ARTS CHAPTER I GREAT PAINTERS: RAPHAEL Any attempt at proper consideration of the book of the arts of Columbus' Century must begin with the three great names of Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo. They are the greatest trio in the history of art--all their names associated with a single city at the beginning of their lives but deeply influencing the world of art before the end of them. Of the three as a painter Raphael is undoubtedly the greatest, though surely here, if anywhere in the history of art, comparisons are odious. Each of these geniuses in his own department of painting was supreme,--as a religious painter Raphael, as a portrait painter Leonardo, as a great decorative artist Michelangelo. Raphael rivals Leonardo, however, in the painting of portraits and some of Leonardo's religious paintings are almost the only ones worthy to be placed besides Raphael's great religious visions. Michelangelo, however, could on occasion, as he showed in the Sistine, prove a rival of either of them in this mode. As is so true of the men of this time as a rule, all three of these men were much more than painters. Raphael died at the early age of thirty-seven, yet he reached distinction as an architect and as an archaeologist, besides accomplishing his great painting. Leonardo insisted on not being thought of as a painter, but as an engineer and architect, though he has painted the greatest portrait ever made and beat Michelangelo once in a competition in sculpture. Michelangelo reached supremacy in all four of the greatest modes of art. He is a painter second to none in all that he attempted, he is the {2} greatest sculptor since the time of the Greeks, he is one of the greatest architects of all time, yet with all this, by what might seem almost an impossible achievement, he was one of the greatest of poets and has written sonnets that only Dante and Shakespeare have equalled. These men of Columbus' Century not only were never narrow specialists but quite the contrary; they were extremely varied in their interests and felt in contradiction to what seems the prevalent impression in our time that such breadth of interest only increased their powers of expression in anything that they attempted. Of the three probably Raphael has had the widest popular influence. His paintings have all unconsciously to most people colored and visualized for them the Biblical scenes, especially of the New Testament, and since his time painters have been greatly influenced by his compositions. He has deeply affected all the world of art and as for several centuries now some of his greatest works have been held outside of Italy, they have been producing their effect and giving artists the thought of how well deepest vision could be expressed. This man, who by universal consent was the greatest painter that ever lived, was about nine years old when Columbus discovered America. According to tradition he died on his birthday at the age of thirty-seven in 1520. In less than two decades of active artist life he had painted a series of pictures that were a triumph even in that glorious period of marvellous artistic accomplishment. They have been the subject of loving study and affectionate admiration ever since. Many of them have been the despair of the artists who came after him. But Raphael is not an artists' artist in any exclusive sense of the word. He is as popular an idol with those who confess to having no critical knowledge of art as he is the hopeless model of those whose lives are devoted to art. {3} [Illustration: RAPHAEL, DRAWING OF SLAUGHTER OF INNOCENTS (tapestry, VATICAN)] Unlike many a genius, though his family was poor his early years were surrounded by conditions all favorable for the development of his talents. Raphael is his baptismal name and his family name was Santi. (The name Sanzio often attributed to him has no warrant in history.) His father Giovanni Santi filled the post of art expert, so far as that office was formally constituted at that time, to Duke Frederick, {4} reigning Prince of Urbino, and it was here that Raphael was born. The Duke was one of the most distinguished and perhaps the most discriminating of the great Renaissance patrons of art as well as of letters, and a series of well-known painters, among them Piero della Francesca, Melozzo da Forli and Justus of Ghent, were in his service at this time. Duke Frederick's interest in everything artistic had made the capital of his little principality one of the most important art centres of this time and his palace is still the Mecca for visitors to Italy who are interested in the development of art, for it possesses some of the great masterpieces of the Renaissance painters. Raphael in his boyhood had in a more limited way almost as favorable surroundings as Michelangelo enjoyed in Florence, but with his father's favor of his studies instead of the opposition that this Florentine contemporary encountered. Urbino was indeed almost as much of a centre of intellectual influence and progress at this time as the court of Lorenzo the Magnificent, at which Michelangelo was brought up. It was at Urbino that Baldassare Castiglione wrote _"Il Cortigiano,"_ the book of The Gentleman, the elegant setting forth of what was represented by that term in the Renaissance period. When Raphael was about eleven his father died, but fortunately the maternal uncle under whose guardianship he passed was quite as favorable to art as his father had been. Yielding to the wishes of the boy he permitted him to enter the studio of Timoteo Viti, a pupil of the artist Francia, who had lately returned from his studies in other portions of Italy to take up his residence in his native country. During the next few years Raphael devoted himself to that training in drawing which was to mean so much for him. Just about a century ago a sketchbook was found, now in the Academy of Venice, having been purchased for the city, in which there are over a hundred pen-and-ink drawings of various pictures copied by Raphael, and competent critics declare that the masterly genius of the artist can already be recognized in them. Besides these he painted a series of pictures in Timoteo's studio. Some of these have been preserved. Probably the best known is "St. George and St. Michael," now in the Louvre, though the "Dream of the Knight" in the National Gallery, {5} London, has been the admiration of young folk particularly for many generations. There are some who claim that the most charming of these early pictures painted at Urbino is the "Three Graces of the Tribune of Chantilly." [Illustration: RAPHAEL, DREAM OF THE KNIGHT] After this Raphael studied for a time, probably for some four years, with Perugino at Perugia. This period of his life is mainly interesting from the fact that while he acquired Perugino's technique, Raphael went far beyond his master, though for a time his development was probably hindered rather than helped by that master's influence. Only one of the paintings made at Perugia, "The Coronation of the Virgin," painted for the Franciscans of that city, and now to be seen in the Vatican, reveals as art critics declare the real genius of Raphael shining through and above the qualities that he had borrowed from his Perugian master. After Raphael's years of fruitful student work in the Hill Country so dear to students of Italian culture for its four periods of great art, there came his Florentine period, which represents a new and wonderful evolution of his artistic genius. Here, when he arrived in 1504, Leonardo da Vinci in his productive forties and the young Michelangelo in his revealing later twenties were at work at their famous historical cartoons, and the atmosphere of the city was deeply imbued with the Renaissance spirit. It is a little difficult now to think of Raphael as merely a young struggling artist, making his living by painting portraits for rather commonplace people, and executing his earlier Madonnas for private oratories, partly from love of his work but mainly because he needed the money, yet this constituted his occupation. [Footnote 1] [Footnote 1: As pointed out by Grimm in his "Life of Michelangelo" the patrons of the Renaissance painters at the beginning of that period, and indeed until after the climax of its development had been reached, were either of the middle class or consisted of the religious orders and ecclesiastical authorities intent on the decoration of churches. The town folk ordered pictures for their homes or for the decoration of churches. The artist was a craftsman, like the goldsmith or any other. When artists became the favorites of princes and kings and rulers, when they came to occupy positions at courts, it was not long before decadence began. Lives at court were not calculated to bring out what was best nor to encourage profound thinking nor provide the leisure which is necessary for great art, and truth lost its attraction in jealous rivalry and the desire to please a patron.] His Madonnas soon made him famous. At the end of his first year in Florence came one of his masterpieces, the "Madonna of the Grand Duke," still to be seen at the Pitti. At this {6} time Raphael was under the influence of the great Dominican painter Fra Bartolommeo, though undoubtedly the specimens of Fra Angelico's work so frequent in Florence had their power over him. The sweetness and mystical beauty which, added to the human tenderness of his lovely mothers, make his Madonnas so charming are the fruit of Raphael's studies in Florence. Under the influence of the two Dominican painters such great pictures as "La Belle Jardinière," of the Louvre, the "Madonna of the Goldfinch" now in the Uffizi, Florence, and the "Madonna of the Meadow," one of the treasures of the Vienna collection, were produced. Just before he left Florence he painted for Atlanta Baglioni an "Entombment" which is his first attempt at an historic picture. The critics declare that it was spoiled somewhat by overwork at it and overanxiety to rival some of the great paintings of this kind from Leonardo and Michelangelo which Raphael had so much admired. However that may be, it is undoubtedly one of the world's greatest pictures, especially when the age of the artist, twenty-five, is taken into account. Just after he finished it he was summoned to Rome by that discerning patron of genius Pope Julius II. His great opportunity had arrived. Only a little more than ten years of life lay ahead of him, but in that ten years the art of the world was to receive almost its greatest treasures. In their "Italian Cities" the Blashfields have told the story of his Roman career:-- "Raphael's conquest of his surroundings was almost magical: he arrived a youth, well spoken of as to skill, yet by reputation hardly even _par inter pares;_ in ten short years--how long if we count them in art history--he died, having painted the Vatican, the Farnesina, world-famous altar-pieces, having planned the restoration of the entire _urbs_, having reconciled enemies and stimulated friends, and having succeeded without being hated. {7} "He achieved this success by his great and manifold capacity, but, most of all, because in art he was the greatest assimilator and composer who ever lived. The two words are each other's complements; he received impressions, and he put them together; his temperament was exactly suited to this marvellous forcing house of Rome, for a Roman school never really existed, it was simply the Tusco-Umbrian school throned upon seven hills and growing grander and freer in the contemplation of Antiquity. "To this contemplation, Raphael brought not only a brilliant endowment but an astonishing mental accumulation; the mild eyes of the Uffizi portrait were piercing when they looked upon nature or upon art, and behind them was an alembic in which the things that entered through those eyes fused, precipitated, or crystallized as he willed." Pope Julius II, himself one of the great geniuses of history, with a dream of a united Italy long before there was any possibility of its accomplishment, and with an appreciation of genius that alone would have given him a commanding place among the world's great rulers, had summoned to Rome for the decoration of the apartments of the Vatican some of the greatest painters of the time. Even from distant Flanders came Reuisch and then there were Perugino, Raphael's old master, now advanced in years, and Signorelli, quite as old, and Lotto and Sodoma and Peruzzi and others. It was beside these that Raphael had to do his work. Within a year of Raphael's coming he, the youngest of them all, not yet twenty-six years of age, was selected by the Pope--how well advised he was--as the one to whom all the important decorations should be entrusted. Then came the opportunity to do the Camera della Segnatura, that triumph of decorative art. "This chamber of the Vatican" became, as Raphael's biographer in the Catholic Encyclopaedia says, "a sort of mirror of the tendencies of the human mind, a summary of all its ideal history, a sort of pantheon of spiritual grandeurs. Thereby the representation of ideas acquired a dramatic value, being no longer as in the Middle Ages the immovable exposition of an unchangeable truth but the impassioned search for knowledge in all its branches, the moral life of humanity." {8} His decorations of the Camera de la Segnatura are probably among the greatest contributions to decorative art ever made. They are certainly among the most interesting. Only Michelangelo's wonderful decorations in the Sistine Chapel rival them and there are some critics who would concede the palm to Raphael. Here we have the index not only of his power to paint marvellously but also of his intellectual genius and his judgment of values in the history of literature and philosophy. Such pictures as the "Disputa" and the "School of Athens" are real contributions to the history of human thought. Only a man who was himself of profound intellectuality on a plane of equality with the great intellectual geniuses whom he was painting could have conceived and completed these magnificent groups of the world's greatest men successfully. It has been well said that to appreciate properly the pictures of the Segnatura is of itself an education. To be able to take them in their full significance as essays in art and in the history of literature and philosophy is to have gone far on the road to culture. Raphael's achievement here is that of a great mind gifted with a wonderful power of comprehension as well as an almost unrivalled faculty of expression. No decorative pictures of the modern time, however great, can be placed beside them. It has often been a source of wonder how Raphael was able to paint so appropriately the figures of Plato, Socrates, Aristotle and others in his great picture of the "School of Athens." Only the genius that gives men intuition, that enabled Shakespeare to portray wonderfully the character of the men of all times and the blind Homer to give us an enduring picture of man could have enabled him to do it. It was the time of the New Learning and the recently aroused interest in the classics, but no mere accumulation of information would ever have made him capable of such a representation. As Gladstone once said of Homer, a whole encyclopaedia of information with regard to the Greeks of Homer's time would not have told us as much about them as Homer has given us. At the time when he did the painting Raphael was not much more than thirty and his life had been occupied with painting and not with the accumulation of erudition. Henry Strachey in {9} his sketch of Raphael calls attention to the fact that none of the great contemporary Italian humanists were in Rome at this time. Neither Bembo nor Bibbiena nor Castiglione were where they might be readily consulted, and it was only Raphael's genius insight that enabled him to accomplish so wonderfully the task he had been set. For while the subjects were probably chosen for him he had to work out the details for himself, and indeed these wonderful compositions show this very clearly. [Illustration: Raphael, School of Athens] Raphael revealed for us in the "Camera della Segnatura," as almost no one else has done, the attitude of mind of his period with regard to the meaning of life. Years of scholarly devotion to the study of pagan antiquity and especially the great Greek philosophers and poets, as well as the remains of its sculpture, had awakened in men's minds a broader view of life and its significance than had been possible for centuries. Raphael has summed this up in the wonderful documents that he has left in the Vatican and put on canvas what the great scholars of the time tried to express in words. The late Professor Kraus of Munich in his chapter on Medicean Rome in the second volume of the Cambridge modern History has told the story of this: "The four pictures of the camera represent the aspirations of the soul of man in each of its faculties; the striving of all humanity towards God by means of aesthetic perception (Parnassus), the explanation of reason in philosophical inquiry and all scientific research (the _School of Athens_), order in Church and State (_Gift of Ecclesiastical and Secular Laws_) and finally Theology. The whole may be summed up as a pictorial representation of Pico della Mirandola's celebrated phrase, _philosophia veritatem quaerit, theologia invenit, religio possidet;_ and it corresponds with what Marsilio says in his _Academy of Noble Minds_ when he characterized our life's work as an ascent to the angels and to God." Artists and poets and writers have vied with each other in saying strong words of high praise with regard to these decorations. The Blashfields in their "Italian Cities" have told the story of the limitations under which he worked, those of the room, lighted from two sides with two walls pierced by {10} windows, and then the fact that to a great extent probably his subjects were dictated, yet he must needs body them forth in concrete form and clearly. How well the young artist not only overcame these difficulties but out of the very difficulties created the most marvellous portions of his masterpieces the Blashfields have also told. In one paragraph they have detailed the story of Raphael's associations with the artists of Rome at that period. Because it gives some idea of the wealth of artistic genius existent in this time it concerns us deeply here. They say: "The Urbinate (Raphael) strong as he was, had felt the need of strengthening himself still further by acquiring the friendship of other artists, and creating a kind of little court. We are told that almost nightly at his table there met, Luca Signorelli, Pietro Perugino, Baldassare Peruzzi, Giovanantonio Bazzi and Lorenzo Lotto. What an age! when a single supper party could furnish such an assemblage of world-famous artists, who in turn, as they went from their quarters in the Borgo Vecchio, might meet Michelangelo returning from the Vatican with the contingent of Florentines, Bugiardini, Granacci, Aristotile da Sangallo, and l'Indaco, who were helping him in the Sistine Chapel." So much has been said of the Camera della Segnatura that it is sometimes forgotten that there are other rooms at the Vatican decorated by Raphael, only less wonderful than this. If they existed anywhere else they would be prized very highly, and if they were by any other artist would place him among the great artists of all time. The Camera del Incendio, so called because of the representation of "The Fire in the Borgo," has in this scene one of the most dramatic pictures ever painted. There are other great dramatic subjects finely treated here, as "The Oath of Leo III" and the "Coronation of Charlemagne." In this work Raphael was probably assisted to a noteworthy extent by pupils and associates, yet all of it is stamped with his genius. There are in the Camera del Eliodoro such pictures as "Jacob's Dream," the "Sacrifice of Isaac" and the "Burning Bush," which show Raphael's wonderful power of composition and at the same time the readiness of genius which enabled him to turn from one subject to another, accomplishing {11} so much that one is astounded to think of how ideas must have crowded on him and yet how well all is done considering that the artist so often needs above all the element of time to perfect his work. Had Raphael been spared to the ordinary length of life or to such years as Michelangelo's four score and ten or Titian's almost five score, what an abundance of his art there would be in the world. One of Raphael's greatest works at Rome is comparatively little appreciated except by those whose attention has been particularly called to it. This was his making of the cartoons for the series of tapestries to be hung in the Sistine Chapel. These tapestries were to be manufactured in the Low Countries, but the Pope wanted the subjects that were to be represented to come from Raphael. Raphael consented to make the cartoons for them, though he knew that they would be cut into rolls some two inches wide to be handed over to the weavers. He had no idea that they would ever be exhibited except in the imperfect way in which tapestry can represent painting. Most artists of high rank would probably refuse such a commission. Certainly it seemed rather derogatory to his dignity as an artist to think that he should furnish only copies that were themselves to have no place among his collected works and prove at most a dubious addition to his fame. Under these circumstances it would not have been surprising if the composition and the manner of execution of the cartoons had been far below that of his works in painting and fresco. He gave himself to the commission, however, whole-heartedly and executed a series of designs that are among the greatest compositions that have ever come from an artist's hand. These cartoons, after having been copied in tapestry, lay in the narrow rolls into which they had been slit in the tapestry factory in the Low Countries until, resurrected almost in our own time, they became the most precious treasures of the South Kensington Museum in London. Here they have been the favorite study of artists from all countries and have added laurels to Raphael's crown of artistic glory. He had the artist's true sense of joy in work and the artistic conscience to satisfy the canons of his own judgment and taste, even in a task that was to represent him only at second hand. Almost {12} never in history has the great artist consented thus to make himself subsidiary to the artisan, and that Raphael, the greatest of artists, should have done it shows the genuine spirit of true art as developed at this time. Some of these cartoons, as "St. Paul Preaching to the Athenians," are considered among Raphael's greatest works. Raphael has well been called the greatest decorator who ever lived, yet he consented to add his mite to the decoration of the Sistine Chapel, in which Michelangelo's triumphant work stood out so grandly above, in order that the hangings on the walls might be worthy of that wonderful chapel that a great Pope had planned and had had the happy faculty of securing the greatest men of all time as collaborators in finishing. Perhaps nothing shows the wonderful artistic power and influence of Raphael more than the fact that his compositions have dictated practically all the interpretation of Bible scenes for the after time. Quite unconsciously men have adopted his way of looking at things. He did not costume Biblical characters in the clothes of his own time, but on the other hand, in spite of his wide knowledge as an archaeologist, he did not attempt to make his pictures true to the genuine life of the times and the costuming of the older period. The set of cartoons particularly illustrate how well he visualized the scenes and yet the Apostles are dressed in garments that they never wore. As I write there is before me an engraving of Paul preaching to the Athenians. That Unknown God whom they had worshipped he is come to preach to them. It is a wonderful composition. Probably nothing has ever excelled it. There is probably not a single feature in it, however, that in any way represents what is true to history in the scene or the people. After his time for centuries his visualization satisfied people's minds, so much is genius able to impose itself on humanity. The Sistine Madonna, the only picture of Raphael's painted on canvas, is usually considered to be the greatest religious painting that ever was executed and one of the most wonderful realizations of vivid poetic imagination that the world possesses. Everything in it is full of sublime suggestion. The majestic attitude of the Madonna posed upon the clouds, her face of perfect beauty, her far-away gaze of rapt veneration {13} and absorption in her motherhood, but motherhood of the Divine, proclaim her a vision from Heaven. No more wonderful conception of the human mother of the Divinity has ever been reached and yet critics and artists are a unit in proclaiming that the Virgin Mother is surpassed in wondrous realization of profound imagination by the Divine Child Whom she holds so tenderly in her arms. He looks out into the world from those arms with solemn sacred eyes that somehow give the idea of His profound interest in all that He sees and of an all-embracing vision. Then there is the rugged, bearded Pope Sixtus gazing upward with rapt devotion and the graceful, beautiful Saint Barbara adequately representative of the modest virgins who all over the world, for all the time since the coming of Christ, modestly cast their eyes down before the Virgin Mother and her child. Below are the two exquisite boy angels, whose charming childish attitudes of rapture have always roused so much interest. It is said that these were the portraits of two little boys who came to gaze, boy fashion, curiously into the window of the studio while Raphael was painting. His transformation of the mischievous, inquisitive, supremely boyish faces into the look of angelic rapture is one of the triumphs of the picture that have always made it of the greatest interest. Painted originally for an Italian Church it is now the treasure of the gallery of Dresden, where it occupies a room by itself that is more like a shrine to which devout worshippers come from all over the world and in which as in some sacred place the visitor distinctly lowers his voice and walks on tiptoe. Nothing tells more of what the picture means than to watch the crowds that come from all over the world to see it and the way in which it is almost worshipped by those whose opinion is worth the most. After the Sistine Madonna, unfortunately for art, Raphael's attention was drawn more and more from its special sphere of work as a painter and his time was taken up and his attention absorbed by the larger, wider pursuits of art director and archaeologist. This would not have been so sad perhaps only for the brevity of the life destined to be his. Had he lived to three score and ten the ten years devoted to these {14} phases of art work, as they may well be called, would probably have proved beneficial to his development. As it was we are likely to think of it as time wasted by a great genius painter. His art directorship proves the genius of the man. His workshop at Rome gradually took on the character of a school of art. In this designs were prepared not only for fresco but for mosaic work, for tapestry, for the carving of wood and stone and even for engraving and other phases of art. Vasari mentions fifty scholars who were employed as pupils and assistants in this workshop. In the meantime Raphael's interest in art history and his passion for classical art led him to dispatch artists to Naples and Athens, to make drawings of noteworthy antiquities that had been discovered. His manifold interests serve to show how broad were his own sympathies with everything artistic. Towards the end of his life, though Raphael at thirty-five had no idea that death was impending, he devoted himself to the study of Roman antiquities and to the direction of the archaeological excavations which were then being carried on in Rome. He had conceived the design of reconstructing an entire plan of ancient Rome, based partly on the discoveries of the excavators and partly on the descriptions of classical writers. For this he made numerous plans and sketches with his own hand, and though these have unfortunately perished, there is in the Library at Munich a copy of the report which he drew up on this subject. It is in the form of a Latin letter to Pope Leo X, showing how deeply the Pope was interested in the scheme and that very probably it was due to his urging that Raphael took it up. This letter has been declared a monument to the industry and the archaeological learning of the artist. Ordinarily in the modern time we are likely to think that the artist devotes himself to his painting and leaves to the professional scholar such work as this. We do not look for many-sidedness in the artist. Raphael, however, like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, evidently had a magnificent breadth of intellect that would have given the most precious fruits of the spirit in many lines besides painting, had he only lived to anything like the years of so many of his great contemporaries. [Illustration: RAPHAEL, POETRY (MOSAIC, VATICAN)] {15} CHAPTER II LEONARDO DA VINCI When it was announced that the "Mona Lisa" had been stolen from the Louvre a thrill of solicitude that was almost dismay went through the civilized world. Its recovery has been a triumph. It is only a woman's portrait, herself of no importance, with what some might call a conventional landscape behind it, all on a comparatively small canvas, with its colors rather dimmed by time and by unfortunate surroundings during its somewhat over four hundred years of existence, yet it was looked upon as one of the most precious art treasures of the race. Critics with a right to an opinion have often declared that it was probably the greatest portrait of a human being that had ever been painted. When we recall how magnificently Rembrandt portrayed the Dutch burghers of his time, with what marvellous expression Raphael painted some of the personages he knew and how wondrously Velasquez painted some of his contemporaries; the placing of Leonardo's "Mona Lisa" above them by good critics shows what a supreme place must be accorded to it in the history of art. Art critics have expressed themselves in almost unmeasured terms as to the significance of the expression on the face of the "Mona Lisa." They do not hesitate to proclaim that Leonardo painted the very soul and not merely the bodily features of a woman. Walter Pater in his "The Renaissance" has written an almost dithyrambic description of it that is well known and yet deserves to be quoted again if only to show how a really great critic can be carried away by a favorite work of art:-- "'La Gioconda' is, in the truest sense, Leonardo's masterpiece, the revealing instance of his mode of thought and work. In suggestiveness, only the 'Melancholia' of Dürer is comparable to it; and no crude symbolism disturbs the effect of its subdued and graceful mystery. We all know the face {16} and hands of the figure, set in its marble chair, in that cirque of fantastic rocks, as in some faint light under sea. Perhaps of all ancient pictures time has chilled it least. "The presence that thus rose so strangely beside the waters, is expressive of what in the ways of a thousand years man had come to desire. Here is the head upon which all 'the ends of the world are come,' and the eyelids are a little weary. It is a beauty wrought out from within upon the flesh, the deposit, little cell by cell, of strange thoughts and fantastic reveries and exquisite passions. Set it for a moment beside one of those white Greek goddesses or beautiful women of antiquity, and how would they be troubled by this beauty, into which the soul with all its maladies has passed? All the thoughts and experience of the world have etched and moulded there, in that which they have of power to refine and make expressive the outward form, the animalism of Greece, the lust of Rome, the reverie of the middle age with its spiritual ambition and imaginative loves, the return of the Pagan world, the sins of the Borgias. She is older than the rocks among which she sits; like the vampire, she has been dead many times, and learned the secrets of the grave; and has been a diver in deep seas, and keeps their fallen day about her; and trafficked for strange webs with Eastern merchants; and, as Leda, was the mother of Helen of Troy, and, as Saint Anne, the mother of Mary; and all this has been to her but as the sound of lyres and flutes, and lives only in the delicacy with which it has moulded the changing lineaments, and tinged the eyelids and the hands." While the "Mona Lisa" was undoubtedly the greatest of Leonardo's portraits, perhaps the best possible idea of Leonardo's power as an artist is to be found in the "Last Supper." Instead of making a placid group he has chosen the moment just after the Lord had said that one of the Twelve will betray Him and when all are asking "Is it I, Lord?" He represents not only the individual shock but also the natural grouping that occurred as a consequence of the announcement There are four groups of three each, separate and with very distinct interest and yet they are so arranged as not to break the unity of the picture. On the left side the outer three {17} are all intently gazing on the Lord while the external group on the other side are gazing away from Him, but their hands all point towards Him. The inner three on the right are talking directly to Him while the corresponding three on the left are occupied among themselves and yet evidently intent on Him. There was probably never put together a more expressive set of faces. Each one is eminently individual, and each one shows marvellously the character of the Apostle represented. It has been said that it is as if the painter had made a condensed biography of each one of them with his brush. All the special characteristics of the different Apostles that we know are here to be seen in their faces. He has painted the souls and characters of the men in the imaginary portraits that he makes. There is an old tradition mentioned by Vasari, that charming gatherer of legends with regard to the old painters, that Leonardo, unable to satisfy himself with the head and face of Jesus, left it unfinished. This would indeed have been a sad loss to art. Leonardo hesitated for long, wondering above all whether he should follow a model, but finally made his peace with tradition, accepted the type of head for the Lord that had been created by Giotto, and refining it still more succeeded in giving a look of mystic superhumanity to it that would evoke the idea of divinity. It is easy to see how much he borrowed but it is harder to realize how much he added, yet artists who have studied it have felt that here indeed was a triumph and that, as far as possible, Leonardo had represented the human face divine. He followed his model strictly in the case of the Apostles' heads and none knew better than he how to select models, but in the head of Christ he turns from the model and works out his design from ideals of the human face of which so many existed in his well-stored fancy. The face of Christ was left somewhat vague, trembling, undissolved like faces seen in cloud or in the fire. Leonardo himself once counselled his students to look for suggestions in curious cloud and fire shapes and even to study the vague forms that occur in imitation of human faces on cracked and stained surfaces of ruined walls, and some of his own devotion to this seems to have been of help to him in this marvellous face. {18} Much has been said about the head of Judas in this picture. According to Vasari, Leonardo fairly outdid himself on this face and head and he talks about "the force and truth with which the master has exhibited the imperious determination, hatred and treachery of Judas." According to another legend he had haunted the purlieus of Florence for months, searching for a head and face expressive enough in its malignity for his Judas. Possibly one might expect to find a human monster then in the Apostle traitor. In spite of Vasari's traditions, who here seems to have indulged his fancy for the sensational, Judas has a very interesting human face, rather weak than strong, but with redeeming qualities in it. After all it must not be forgotten that the face had to recall or at least not negative the fact that this man had been for three years in the company of the Lord, chosen as one of the Twelve, with possibilities of as great accomplishment for good as the others if he had not turned aside. Judas was not foreordained to be a traitor, but he made himself such. It was not his nature that compelled him to the crime, but his failure to control certain elemental passions, above all the craving for money, that led him into it. Many a good man since has been led off the same way. We have the face of a man who might have been one of the honored Apostles. That he was not is his own fault. It is said that the same model was used by Leonardo for Peter and Judas. If so, surely it was a stroke of genius. Peter too was weak. He even denied the Master, but had it in him to realize his weakness and repent. Peter's face is in the light, Judas' face in the shadow of Leonardo's picture. If Leonardo had not given Judas the bag to carry, thrown his face out of the line of the Apostles near him who are in the light, and made him ominously upset the salt while reaching for a better quality of bread than that near him, it would have been rather difficult to pick him out from among the others. One thing is absolutely true in this great work of art. All the faces of the Apostles, with the possible exception of John's, are rudely strong. The men who were to carry on the work of the Master and convert the world to Christianity were not effeminate in any sense, and above all they had been the rough {19} fishermen of Galilee. Their costumes are modernized, their beards are probably less unkempt than if they were really Judeans, but here is a group of men whose very strength of feature makes them striking. As has been well said, Leonardo broke up the old formality and immobility of the earlier painters and brought life and action into the scene. For the first time the personages are deprived of their halos and there is nothing to make the group of men anything more than human beings deeply interested in a great purpose and disturbed to the depths of their beings by the suggestion from the Master Himself that now that purpose was to be thwarted by the treason of one of their number. This conception seems all the more natural when we recall that none of them had as yet been confirmed in grace, that one was to deny, another betray and all were to be hesitant and cowardly in a great moment of trial. With all this of thought in Leonardo's picture it might be expected that all of his attention would be given to the faces and little to the composition itself and to the setting of the picture. The exact contrary is what happens. The composition is probably the most wonderful ever done. The room itself is so arranged that everything leads the eye toward the centre of the picture where the Master sits, while behind Him the middle one of three windows, with an arched casement, frames Him apart from the Apostles. Through these three windows at the back can be seen one of the varied mountainous landscapes that Leonardo delighted in. The extent of the landscape which can be seen shows that the supper was held in an "upper room." The bare beams of the ceiling in that coffered arrangement common in Italy, the walls ornamented with large panel spaces filled in with a damasked pattern are all worked over with artistic completeness of detail. It is details of this kind one might expect the painter of the Last Supper to have overlooked in his intentness on the sublime moment and the characters. The tablecloth, moreover, is beautifully worked and the linen and the pattern of it and the folds are done with as meticulous care as one might expect from a _genre_ painter of tissues. The glasses and table service are very carefully drawn and every detail was executed with {20} an artistic conscience and eye to perfection, even of trifles, that reveals the thoroughness and all-embracing skill of the artist. The more one knows of Leonardo's power to paint detail and of his devoted study of nature, the less surprise is there at the traditions with regard to his head of Medusa. It was much for an artist to attempt to make a picture of this hideous head on which were the writhing serpents, the sight of which, according to tradition, turned beholders to stone, but he has succeeded in accomplishing a presentation of the horrible as far as it is possible. The writhing serpents are done with a devotion to detail and a lifelike naturalness that only a great observer of nature could have reached. Besides the serpents in all their varieties there are bats and lizards and vermin of many kinds in the picture, while the cloudy mephitic breath which can be seen issuing from the mouth completes the picture. The intense realism of these details of low animal life is a surprise at that period, but above all a surprise that it should have been done by a man who had such wonderful power of idealization when he wished to use it. It is this combination of qualities so opposite in themselves and often thought mutually exclusive that makes the never-ending surprise of Leonardo's genius. That the painter of the "Last Supper" and the charming "Madonna of the Rocks" should have also made this "Head of Medusa" is indeed difficult to understand, and yet not more than might be expected from one of the greatest of the artists of the Renaissance who is at the same time almost the world's most manifold genius. [Illustration: LEONARDO DA VINCI, MADONNA OF THE ROCKS (LONDON)] With all this of magnificent accomplishment in painting, which sets him on a pinnacle by himself in this great department of art, it might be thought that Leonardo's main claim to recognition was because of his painting. He himself, however, would have been the first to object to estimation of him on any such grounds. He probably scarcely considered himself to be a painter at all, or at least occupied himself with painting only in his leisure moments. He beat Michelangelo once in a competition in sculpture, but doubtless thought less of himself as a sculptor than as a painter. He made what his generation declared to be the greatest equestrian statue {21} ever modelled and his generation knew what they meant by that, for they had before them two such triumphs of equestrian statuary as Donatello's "Gatamelata" and Verrocchio's "Colleoni." Just as in painting, when he wanted to do sculpture he could do it with a supreme perfection that is unrivalled. Strange as it may seem, Leonardo thought of himself as an engineer. He actually took on himself the contract for extending the canal system around Milan and accomplished it so well that his work still remains in use. During the course of this he invented the wheelbarrow, the movable derrick, the self-dumping derrick, various modes of moving rock, locks for canals and a system for maintaining a navigable level of water in rivers which were usually nearly dry in the summer time. Leonardo had the thorough appreciation of himself that genius is so likely to have and that in smaller men seems conceit. He knew that there was practically nothing to which he cared to turn his hand in which he could not work out original ideas. He was only in his middle twenties when he wrote the letter to Ludovico Sforza in which he tells his future patron very calmly all the things he might be expected to do if the Duke should have need of them. "MOST ILLUSTRIOUS LORD.--Having studied and estimated the works of the present inventors of warlike engines, I have found that in them there is nothing novel to distinguish them. I therefore force myself to address your Excellency that I may disclose to you the secrets of my art. 1. I have a method of bridges, very light and very strong; easy of transport and incombustible. 2. New means of destroying any fortress or castle (which hath not foundations hewn of solid rock) without the employment of bombards. 3. Of making mines and passages, immediately and noiselessly, under ditches and streams. 4. I have designed irresistible protected chariots for the carrying of artillery against the enemy. 5. I can construct bombards, cannon, mortars, passavolanti; all new and very beautiful. 6. Likewise battering rams, machines for the casting of projectiles, and other astounding engines. 7. For sea combats I have contrivances both offensive and defensive; ships whose sides would repel stone and iron balls, and explosives, unknown to any soul. 8. In {22} days of peace, I should hope to satisfy your Excellency in architecture, in the erection of public and private buildings, in the construction of canals and aqueducts. I am acquainted with the arts of sculpture and painting, and can execute orders in marble, metal, clay or in painting with oil, as well as any artist. And I can undertake that equestrian statue cast in bronze, which shall eternally glorify the blessed memory of your lordship's father and of the illustrious house of Sforza. "And if any of the above seem extravagant or beyond the reach of possibility, I offer myself prepared to make experiment in your park; or in whatsoever place it may please your Excellency to appoint; to whose gracious attention I most humbly recommend myself." Was there ever a more confident genius? There was never a man who fulfilled all his promises better. What Leonardo was able to accomplish as an engineer can be seen in the canal some 200 miles in length still in existence by which he conducted the waters of the Adda over the arduous passes of the Valtellina to the gates of Milan. In its own way and considering the conditions under which he had to work and the obstacles that he had to overcome, this was as great an engineering feat as the digging of the Panama Canal, certainly a much greater engineering project than the completion of the Suez Canal, though until Panama came to shroud the glory of that our generation was inclined to be rather proud of that achievement. So far from being merely an artistic mind Leonardo da Vinci had typically the scientific and inquiring mind. Whenever a scientific problem came up to him, no matter how others had solved it before him and above all no matter how his contemporaries were solving it, he solved it for himself and almost inevitably in the true light of science. For instance while he was engineer, in charge, to use our modern term, of the canals of central Italy, the cuttings necessary for them brought to light a series of fossils. These were mainly shells resembling the seashells of his time, though not exactly like them. Before this a number of such finds had been made and man had found it very hard to explain them. They were usually {23} uncovered beneath a rather thick layer of earth. They looked like shells that belonged to creatures that had lived on a seashore. How could their presence be explained far from the sea and completely covered up? Occasionally, when found near the surface on the tops of rather high mountains a distance from the sea, the explanation had been offered and generally accepted that they had been deposited there by the Deluge. The buried shells and especially those deeply buried could not be thus explained. Scientists, and let us not forget that it was scientists in the true sense of the term who were especially concerned with such objects, men who knew their mathematics and principles of science very well and who had made valuable observations in other departments of science, evolved a learned theory of their presence. These were incomplete beings occurring in the earth because of a surplusage of creative power that had not quite finished its work. Their development had been arrested as it were before they actually became living creatures. When Leonardo da Vinci ran across the shells in the cuttings for his canals, he suggested another and a simpler explanation as it seemed to him. These were actually marine shellfish, which had been deposited where they now were at a time when this portion of land was submerged by the sea. They had become covered during the process of sedimentation and transformation of the land which had gradually pushed the sea far away. It always requires a genius to offer so simple an explanation as that, and as a rule it seems quite out of the question to most of his contemporaries, because of its very simplicity. They usually express their disdain for such simple-mindedness or wrong-headedness rather forcibly, though after a time they come to accept the explanation of it, but usually refuse to give the inventor any credit for his idea, because it now seems so obvious that they cannot think of it as so very new, after all. We know that Leonardo had made a series of studies of the shells of the seashore, though ordinarily it was presumed that his studies had been directed rather to their artistic beauty than to scientific knowledge with regard to them. Apparently his very familiarity with them, however, led him to lay the foundation stone of the science of palaeontology. There are {24} sketches of a number of the spiral shells to be found in his notebooks. These are all charming in their pretty curves, and they caught his artistic eye. Nature never makes anything merely useful. This strong outwardly rude cover of shell for the amorphous ugly shellfish--that is, ugly according to most human standards--is very pretty in its forms and its color. The fine use that Leonardo made of his study in seashells was pointed out by someone who studied some of the spiral staircases for the corners of palaces in Northern Italy which Leonardo is said to have planned. These were only private stairways leading usually from the ladies' apartments to the gardens of the castles and were probably designed to be useful as fire escapes. They projected sometimes from the angles of the building. We know what hideous things fire escapes can be. These were very pretty and effectively decorative. They were planned in imitation of the spirals of some of the whorl seashells that Leonardo had been studying. Everywhere we find that mixture of the devotion to the useful and the practical as well as the aesthetic, to the scientific as well as the artistic. He made a series of dissections. These dissections were made at a time when, if we would believe certain of our modern historians of science in its relation to religion, the Church had absolutely forbidden dissection. Such declarations are all the more incomprehensible because not only did all the anatomists and surgeons of this century do dissection quite freely, and the greatest dissections were done in Rome by the Papal Physicians in the Papal Medical School, but every artist of the time studied anatomy for art purposes through dissections. We have dissections from Raphael and from Michelangelo and from many others as well as from Leonardo da Vinci. Leonardo proposed after making a large number of dissections to write a text-book of anatomy. Ordinarily it might seem that such a text-book from an artist's hands would be eminently superficial and not at all likely to further the science of anatomy, though it might be helpful for students of art, especially in their dissection work. During the past twenty years, however, a series of Leonardo's sketches made from his dissections have been republished from a number of {25} collections of the originals in important libraries in Europe. The collection at Windsor Castle in England is particularly valuable and the sketches are very complete. Anyone who looks over these republications will realize at once that had Leonardo written his text-book of anatomy and illustrated it with his own drawings, it would have been an epoch-making landmark in the history of anatomy and of medicine. It was not until a quarter of a century after the artist's death that Vesalius, but five years old when Leonardo died, published his great anatomical text-book. At the time Vesalius was only twenty-seven years of age, but his work revolutionized anatomy and he is rightly greeted as the father of modern anatomy. Had Vesalius had the opportunity to consult Leonardo's work, his own would have been greatly facilitated. It was not merely anatomy for art purposes but for all purposes, scientific as well as artistic, that Leonardo with characteristic thoroughness had studied. There are studies of his in zoology, made evidently for the sake of his work in sculpture, that represent important additions to this scientific department. The same thing is true with regard to botany. Flowers caught his artistic eye, but they appealed quite as much to the scientific sense and so we find sketches of many varieties of them that are very interesting but also very startling from a scientific standpoint because they show a knowledge of the parts of the flowers in detail not usually supposed to exist at that time. One is not surprised to hear that he did distinguished work in mathematics. Somehow the exact scientific bent of his mind and its literalness in all matters pertaining to science would lead us to expect that. There probably never has been a mind so thoroughly rounded out as his. Aristotle had greater scientific precision and wider knowledge, but lacked something at least of Leonardo's power to execute his artistic ideas, or we would surely have some great art from him or traditions of it. It is even not startling, with this knowledge of the scientific side of Leonardo's mind, to find that he advanced a theory of evolution. That generalization far from being new, as is often imagined, has appealed to many great investigating minds down the centuries, according to the title of a modern {26} scientist's history of the theory all the way "From the Greeks to Darwin." One of the most interesting anticipations of a set of ideas that are definitely considered quite modern, and indeed have developed so recently that we are not quite sure of all their significance as yet, is Leonardo da Vinci's occupation with muscular movements and the saving of time and labor by carefully regulating these movements. He suggested that each different kind of work done by human muscular labor should be carefully studied, with the idea of simplifying and reducing the number of movements necessary for its accomplishment in order to save both time and effort. In a word he anticipated practically the modern ideas of the efficiency engineer of the present time though, as I have said, we are rather prone to think these ideas quite new and recent. The personality of this universal genius is one of the most interesting that mankind has to study. Every detail is of special import. Leonardo da Vinci was born of the noble Florentine house of Vinci in the Val d'Arno. He was a precocious child, attracting attention by his beauty of feature and by his winning ways. There are stories of his improvising music and songs even when he was very young. A little later we hear of him pitying the caged songbirds and buying them and setting them free. As a growing boy he liked colors; indeed, they may almost be said to have had a fascination for him, and the bright dresses of the Florentine girls and of the peasants from the vicinity caught his eye. Tradition also connects him with a fancy for spirited horses. As if these were not enough to show an artistic temperament, while still scarcely more than a boy he began to design and sketch and even mould objects that he was interested in. Vasari's stories of him show that even at this early date, when he was only a boy, his sketches and plastic work had for subjects smiling women. His vocation seemed clear and his father took him for education to the workshop of Andrea del Verrocchio, then the greatest artist in Florence and one whose work has always maintained an influence over succeeding generations. Those of us who have seen his "Colleoni" in Venice are likely to think {27} of him as a great sculptor. Undoubtedly he was one of the great sculptors of the world, but he had the broad artistic spirit of the men of the Renaissance, and there was no form of art in which he was not interested and in which he did not accomplish things worthy of his great time to be the admiration of succeeding generations. Verrocchio was a great painter as well as a sculptor, but he was also a worker in metals and, as so many of these artists of the Renaissance, quite ready to design household objects for even ordinary use, provided only he was allowed to put beauty in them. Drinking vessels, instruments of music, gates, wooden doors and above all any objects that were meant for sacred uses he was glad to take commissions for. It was just the place to train such a many-sided genius as Leonardo, though rather let us say it was just the place for such a many-sided genius to find and train himself. Certainly the young Leonardo must have owed very little except suggestion and some minor directions in technics to anyone else. He very soon came to surpass his master in painting at least, and the master recognized that fact apparently without any jealousy. According to the story as we have it, Verrocchio was employed by the Brethren of Vallombrosa to paint the "Baptism of Christ." Leonardo was given by the master permission to paint an angel in the left-hand corner. There was such a striking contrast between the fresh youthful work of the pupil and the labored work of the master that Verrocchio is said to have painted no more, or at least made no more ambitious attempts at great pictures. Sculpture was always the favorite of the old master, however, so that it was not so much of a tragedy. It was after this, in his early manhood, that Leonardo became interested in the things of nature around him and made many investigations into their meaning. He took up astronomy for a time and anticipated some of the thoughts that Copernicus was to put in order in his great theory. Such ideas in astronomy were in the air at that time. Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa had more than hinted at them when, about the middle of the fifteenth century, he declared that the earth moved in the heavens like the other stars. Astronomical subjects were {28} favorite speculations for intellectual genius. Regiomontanus, who died before he was forty, was alive in Leonardo's boyhood, and after having begun that series of astronomical leaflets which later were to influence so deeply Columbus and the Portuguese navigators, was invited down to Rome to reform the calendar. Toscanelli made the observations on comets, out of which later their orbits were confirmed. Every form of natural observation caught the inquiring Leonardo's eye, and he studied the plants around him and meditated on crystal formation and occupied himself with all the forms of living things. Somehow his feeling seemed to be that such broadening of his intelligence would help him to breadth of expression in art, though probably it was only his native curiosity occupying itself in the insatiable youthful years with everything that came to hand. His achievements in science are sketched hurriedly in the chapter on Physical Science. Leonardo seems to have occupied himself much with mechanical toys. He made mechanical birds that flew, mechanical lions that walked and a lizard which crawled and whose horns and eyes moved while the oscillating wings were constantly in motion. Every one of these contrivances, however, was the result of serious study. He took up with great assiduity the problem of flying and was quite sure that he would be able to make a machine by which men would accomplish locomotion through the air. He studied the wings of birds very carefully, and anticipated the knowledge of most of the principles of flight as they developed in later years. He used his mechanical lion as a bait to catch the attention of Francis I. The beast is said to have walked across the audience chamber towards the monarch until, when close to him, it stood up and disclosed the fact that the "Lily of France" was stamped upon its heart. Leonardo's own name is derived from lion and this was supposed to be his declaration of patriotic affection and loyalty to the French King. Something of the _busyness_ of his mind can be understood from the gossip that one hears about him in the letters of the time or even from what may be concluded from his own diary. It is said, for instance, that in the midst of the painting of the "Last Supper" there was quite an interruption in the work {29} because Leonardo became very much interested in the invention of a new machine for mincing meat and making sausages. The head of one of the Apostles was left unfinished for a time because Leonardo could not get the blades of the new machine fixed so as to make them more to his satisfaction. Unfriendly critics said that he would do anything so as to get away from his painting. Those who least understood declared that this was because he was trivial of mind and incapable of concentrating his attention. Anyone who has done artistic work of any kind, or indeed has devoted himself to literary work of any description, is likely to understand Leonardo's ways in such matters. The time comes when the particular vein of thought is exhausted for the moment and new ideas come slowly and with difficulty. The serious self-critical writer or artist recognizes that what he does at such times has not the significance he would like it to have and that he is likely to have to erase or greatly modify most of it afterwards or to regret it if he does not. If he is wise, then, he turns aside and gives his mind a complete rest by devoting it to something quite different from that in which he has been engaged before. If he insists on continuing his work after inspiration ceases or his particular vein of thought runs out, it becomes more and more difficult and more and more of a drudgery. Finally, unless he is almost entirely without proper self-appreciation, he literally has to give up the work that has become so difficult. Leonardo did not wait for this, but after a certain set of ideas had run out devoted himself to other and quite different things. He had had trouble with cleaning his brushes, and had found that a rather strong lye could be extracted from fowls' droppings. He at once devoted considerable time to finding out whether the material thus obtained could not also be used for the washing of linen. Indeed, his attention to inventions for the relief of domestic difficulties stamps him as quite modern in his notions. Besides his sausage-making machine he invented a spit for the roasting of pigs and designed various forms of utensils that would be handier than those commonly in use at that time. Some of Leonardo's expressions are well worth chronicling {30} because they show us so well the character of the man. He did not write any moral essays, but a number of expressions of his that have been preserved show that he had decided and very definite opinions with regard to many important human interests. His greatest picture was probably the "Battle of the Standards," in which, according to the descriptions preserved for us, he pictured all the horrors of war. He depicted the frenzy of contest at its fiercest. In one of his famous expressions he disposes of war in two words as _pazzia bestialissima_. I find it a little hard to translate that in the force of the original, but I suppose it would be something like "the climax of animal frenzy." Even that is not as strong as that superlative _bestialissima_ in Italian. The ease with which he transferred his services from one distinguished noble master to another has led some to suggest that he was lacking in loyalty, or at least was quite satisfied with life so long as he found someone to pay him for his work. As a matter of fact he often spent much more in experiments of various kinds than he was paid for the results of his labors, and money seems to have meant very little to him. He was known to be generous to his friends, and he once said "the poor are those who have many wants." He realized very well that poverty is entirely relative, and if a man is dissatisfied with what he has he is poor, no matter how much he has. As might be expected, above all Leonardo realized the preciousness of work. For him indeed blessed was the man who had found his work. His expression was "as a day well spent gives joyful sleep, so does a life well spent give joyful death." With the disturbed conditions in Italy in his time he probably had to suffer many injustices, frequently had his labors interrupted, his work often undone, and it is easy to understand how much the jealousy of smaller men around him must have irritated him. He realized, however, that happiness depends on not permitting one's self to be bothered by such trifles. The only satisfaction is to go on with one's works. As he said, "The best shield against injustice is to double the cloak of longsuffering." His philosophy of life was in many ways ideal, then. Something of a stoic one needs must be to follow {31} it, but why should the petty trivialities of foolish human squabbling disturb a man who has all of art and science spread out before him and who knows so much more than others of his generation, but whose knowledge surely must have made it very clear to him how little after all he knew of all that was to be known? Like his Italian contemporaries, generally, Leonardo remained faithful in his adhesion to the old Church. His charming "Madonna" and his "Last Supper" could scarcely have come from one who was not a believer. If these things were mere matters of imagination for the artists of the Renaissance, they would not have been expressed with such marvellous reality. We do not know much about his life, though we know so much about his work and thought. When he came to die, however, he left a legacy for masses for his soul. This was the custom of the time and might very well be considered only a conventional acknowledgment of his adhesion to the customs of his contemporaries. Besides, however, he left a sum of money for candles to be burnt at the shrine of the Blessed Virgin in the little village where he had been raised as a boy and where he had often prayed. This would seem to indicate that the faith of his childhood was still precious to him or had come back in its boyish tenderness at the end of his life. His whole career is that of a wonderfully-rounded man who could scarcely fail to recognize the place of the spiritual in life and its significance for man's understanding of the universe. Burckhardt concludes one of the chapters of his work on "The Renaissance in Italy" with words that probably sum up better than any others Leonardo's character. No one was better fitted to know whereof he spoke than the great German historian of the Renaissance. "The colossal outlines of Leonardo's nature can never be more than dimly and distantly conceived." {32} CHAPTER III MICHELANGELO Probably the greatest artistic genius that the world has ever known, certainly the man who was best able to express his thoughts most perfectly in every mode of art, with chisel, pencil, brush and pen, was the son of Lodovico de Leonardo Buonarroti-Simoni, whom succeeding generations have known as Michelangelo. He was a member of a noble Italian family much reduced in the world. They claimed to be related to the celebrated Counts of Canossa in Northern Italy, and when Angelo became famous there was a recognition of the relationship by the head of the Canossa family of that day. Nobility is usually willing to be related to great genius, but genealogists have not been able to trace the relationship. When Michelangelo was born (March 6, 1475), his father was the governor of the Castle of Caprese, which stood on the crest of a bold and rocky ridge of the Catenaian Alps, overlooking the wild and rugged hills in which the Tiber and Arno rise. He died two months before Shakespeare's birth in 1564, when another month of life would have brought him to his ninetieth year. He is another typical example of the fact that genius usually inhabits long-lived bodies. Great men may be short-lived by accident, but as a rule the over-abounding vitality, which enables a great mind to express itself greatly, also enables the personality with which it is associated to reach longevity. It is fortunate for us, seeing that Angelo was such a great genius, that as Lilly said: [Footnote 2] "There are few great men of whom we possess so many and such authentic documents." His works are the living monuments of his genius, but we have, besides even minute details of all his long life, his struggles, {33} his triumphs, his friendships, his patrons and above all the fire of trial through which his genius passed in order to secure its expression of itself. [Footnote 2: W. S. Lilly: "Renaissance Types." Macmillan, 1904.] Michelangelo's mother died when he was very young, her only place in his life being that she gave him his name because she saw something divine in him, though perhaps that is not rare. When his father's term of office expired he returned to Florence, but left his infant son at Caprese in the care of a wet nurse, the daughter of a stone mason and the wife of another stone mason. Michelangelo often said that he imbibed a love for marble and stone-cutting with his first nourishment. The chisel and mallet were his early play-toys, and though he was but six when taken to Florence, there is a tradition of rude charcoal sketches made on the walls by him in his country home. In Florence he was sent to the school of the famous grammarian, Francesco Venturino of Urbino, the teacher of the New Learning, who was also some years later a teacher of Raphael. Michelangelo, according to tradition, paid little attention to his books, however, but was constantly to be found with a pencil in his hand, making sketches of all kinds. He became associated with some art pupils and artists, and before long most of his time was given up to drawing and sketching. While Michelangelo lived in the Renaissance time, and was undoubtedly influenced very deeply by the humanistic movement, this influence was exerted in very different fashion from what is usually supposed by those who think of the Renaissance as the time when the re-discovery of the Greek classics made for book-knowledge and a consequent deepening and sharpening of the intellectuality of man. Michelangelo had very little interest in books at any time, probably despised scholarship, had little Latin, though it would have been so easy for him to have learned it, seeing that his native tongue was Italian, and had probably no Greek. He died, as I have said, the year that Shakespeare was born, and much has been made of the supposed impossibility of Shakespeare's wonderful conception of the universe of man without more knowledge in the sense of scholarship. Shakespeare had little Latin and less Greek, but undoubtedly the man who best deserves place beside him is Michelangelo, who was similarly situated. {34} Condivi tells us that books were to Michelangelo "a dull and endless strife." He was very often dreadfully beaten--as the artist tells it himself, _bene spesso stranamente battuto_--for wandering in the workshops of artists instead of going to school, or sketching for himself instead of studying his books. His father had intended that his son should go into the silk and woollen business. When he discovered his artistic proclivities, of course he forbade such foolish waste of time and punished the lad severely. It seemed a disgrace that a member of the respectable Buonarroti family should take up so non-lucrative and little-considered occupation as that of a painter on canvas and worker in marble. There was the usual result. Michelangelo could not overcome his native genius, and after some trying scenes his father finally consented to permit him to enter the studio of Domenico Ghirlandajo, who was at the moment the most distinguished painter in Italy. It was not long, moreover, before Angelo was correcting his master's drawing. At first Ghirlandajo was disturbed by this, but he was won inevitably by the distinction of Angelo's work until one day he declared, though altogether Angelo was only a year in his studio, "this young man knows more of art than I do myself." Then he was given a place in the Academy of Lorenzo de' Medici, Ghirlandajo having been asked to nominate two of his best pupils for the Academy and selecting as one Angelo. Surely this selection proved that the teacher was not, as some have said, jealous of the pupil. At Lorenzo's academy Michelangelo came in contact with some of the most distinguished men of Italy of that day. There were Lorenzo's two sons, Giovanni and Giulio, who afterwards became Popes Leo X and Clement VII; Pico della Mirandola, the poet and scholar; Politian, the poet, classicist and philosopher; Ficino, the head of the Platonic academy at Florence of that day, and Bibbiena and Castiglione, the latter subsequently the author of the famous book _"Il Cortigiano."_ The two last-named were Raphael's great friends when a few years later he was studying in Florence. It is not surprising that under these circumstances Angelo became very much interested in antique sculpture, nor that his first independent work was a bas-relief, representing a battle between Hercules {35} and the Centaurs. This is still preserved in the Casa Buonarroti, and with its crowded figures reveals the genius and the assured artistic grasp of the future great sculptor who executed it. Angelo, however, soon realized that if he was to do sculpture successfully he must study not only the outside of the human body and the antique sculptures, but he must know all the structures of the body. Accordingly he had dead bodies conveyed from the hospital to a special room provided for him in the convent of Santo Spirito, and dissected them carefully. It has often been said in the modern time that at this period dissection was forbidden by the Church, but there is absolutely no trace of any such legislation, and every artist of the latter part of the fifteenth century did dissection. Michelangelo rewarded the prior of the monastery for his help in these studies by carving for him a crucifix out of wood, which revealed the benefit derived from his dissections. With such zeal for art it is not surprising that the young man soon found himself capable of doing sculpture of great artistic significance. We have traditions of a statue of "Hercules," a high relief of the "Madonna" and a "Sleeping Cupid," which had an eventful history. A dealer buried it in the earth for a time and then sold it as an antique. Cardinal Riario, who purchased it, finding out the trick, invited the sculptor, who knew nothing of the deception, to Rome, and some of his first important work was done there. His earliest Roman work was of antique subjects, a "Cupid," which has been lost, and a "Bacchus," now in the Bargello. His first great commission, however, came from the Cardinal de St. Denis, the French Ambassador at Rome. This was of a "Madonna" with the dead Saviour on her knees, just after His taking down from the Cross. The group is now in St. Peter's at Rome, and though executed when Michelangelo was less than twenty-five years of age, has come to be looked upon as one of the great sculptures of the world. Copies of it are now to be seen in most of the important museums, so that a good idea of his youthful genius can be readily obtained by anyone desirous of knowing it. Some critics have objected that the "Madonna" in the {36} group is entirely too young to be the mother of the dead son, who lies across her knees. Michelangelo's own answer to that objection is, of course, the only one that will interest those who love the group and would like to know just his meaning. We have it from Condivi, to whom Michelangelo confided it: "Don't you know," he said, "that chaste women keep their youthful looks much longer than others? Isn't this much more true in the case of a Virgin who had never known a wanton desire to leave its shade upon her beauty! ... It is quite the contrary with the form of the 'Son of God,' because I wanted to show that He really took upon Him human flesh, and that He bore all the miseries of man, yet without sin." The "Pietà" is probably one of the supreme sculptures of all time, but Michelangelo's next important work was to place him beyond all doubt in the rank of world sculptors. This was his "David." It is all the more interesting because of the difficulties under which he executed it. A huge block of marble of the finest vein lay in the works at Santa Maria del Fiore, Florence, which several sculptors had designed to make use of and at least two or three had begun work on, but then had given up. Michelangelo saw it and saw in it the possibilities of a heroic statue. He offered his design, it was accepted by the authorities, and he set to work. He built a workshop on the spot and shut himself up for eighteen months, absolutely refusing to let anyone see his work. The result was the "David" so well known. A copy of it was afterwards made in bronze and may be seen on the hill above Florence. It has often been said that the difference in impressiveness between the bronze and marble statues shows how much better adapted marble is for the expression of the human figure. The triumph of the artist, not only in the execution of this triumphant expression of youth, but also over the strict limitations of his materials, shows the eminently practical genius of the man who, at the age of thirty, was able to accomplish such a work. [Illustration: RAPHAEL, POPE JULIUS II] After these great sculptures, Michelangelo entered into a competition in painting and was chosen as a rival of Leonardo to decorate one side of the Council Hall of the Signory. Leonardo was already at work when Michelangelo received his {37} commission. Unfortunately neither of the paintings was ever completed. Only a portion of Leonardo's cartoon remains for us, though Michelangelo's, representing some Pisan soldiers surprised by Florentines while bathing in the Arno, is now at Holkham Hall in England and has been well engraved by Schiavonetti. This cartoon was the subject of much study by contemporaries, and Raphael particularly was greatly influenced by it. After this work Michelangelo was summoned to Rome by Pope Julius II and commissioned to make that great tomb which occupied so much of Angelo's attention for the next quarter of a century, caused him so many difficulties and disturbances of mind and was destined eventually to remain unfinished or at least to be of nothing like the significance that was originally planned. If one looks a little into Michelangelo's life at this time, surrounded as he was by the jealousies of his colleagues, disturbed at his work by political animosities of various kinds, by the slights of those who failed to appreciate and the open envy of those who favored his rivals, some idea of the difficulties of his artistic soul will be understood. In the midst of his preparations for the making of the great tomb of Pope Julius, for which he spent nearly a year in the quarries up at Carrara obtaining the proper kind of marble and working out three or four statues while the men of the quarries were getting out the other marble that he wished, the execution of the tomb was put off. Fortunately the work done at this time was not entirely lost. The two galley slaves at the Louvre, which are among the greatest sculptures of their kind ever made, attest Michelangelo's industry, as well as genius, and they have been favorite studies of artists of all kinds ever since. When the execution of the tomb was put off Michelangelo was summoned to paint the vault of the Sistine Chapel. It is said that he owed this commission to the jealousy of rivals who hoped to discredit him. The Sistine Chapel is a most difficult room for effective decoration, since it is simply an oblong box with a low-vaulted ceiling. It was this ceiling that Michelangelo was supposed to decorate in fresco. He {38} refused at first to accept the commission, saying that he was no fresco painter, but the Pope insisted. For over three years, except when eating and sleeping, he was hidden behind the scaffolding, lying on his back most of the time painting above him, so that he could not read without placing his book above his head after a while. When the scaffold was taken down, the triumphant manifestation of his genius revealed one of the most superb monuments of art that the world possesses. As Grimm says, "If a man wants to get an idea of the art of Giotto and his pupils, architecture and painting together, he must go to the Campo Santo at Pisa; if he wants the masterpiece of the following art period, the extensive development that lies between Masaccio and Michelangelo, he must go to the Sistine Chapel." Fortunately for the after-time it is one of the few great decorative works of this time that can be studied as the artist left it, or at least without having to make allowance for the well-meant additions of restorers. The ceiling of the Sistine Chapel has been sadly injured by smoke and by water percolation from the roof and it has faded somewhat with time under the conditions of use of the chapel, but it has been spared from the misguided efforts of men by its position. A great Pope is said to have said, "There are two ways of ruining a work of art, by destruction and by restoration." He might well have added, especially in the light of what has happened even in the Vatican to Raphael and others, "and of the two the latter is the worse." From this Michelangelo's great work has happily been saved, and as a result it remains even in its damaged condition one of the acknowledged triumphs of human art, undoubtedly the greatest decorative work that has ever been done since the time of the Greeks. Some of Michelangelo's greatest work was done for the Julian tomb, and the triumph of his genius at this time is the "Moses," which was to have been one of four prophets that were to have found a place on the monument. It would not be difficult to collect some of the most effusive expressions of artistic enthusiasm over the "Moses." Men who are themselves great sculptors have declared that it is the triumph of man's power over marble. It is extremely difficult, artists have {39} declared, to give a work in marble a decided facial expression, yet Michelangelo succeeded in doing it in the "Moses," but, as has also been said, every portion of the statue partakes of this wonderful power that he had of making it profoundly expressive. Men whose opinions are valuable because of their own significant work have been unstinted in their praise of the now famous knee of the statue and the wonderful way in which the foot of the right leg rests upon the ground. All these are but details, however. One must have seen the statue many times and have had its meaning in every part grow by repetition of impression, and then something of the wonderful genius of its sculptor comes home to the beholder. We cannot but regret that Michelangelo was not permitted in peace to finish the great tomb as he had planned it, for with the "Moses" as an example we would surely have had in it the greatest triumph of modern genius in sculpture, if not indeed of all time. This is probably one of the most striking figures ever made. It has made the Church of San Pietro in Vincoli, in which it is, a place of pilgrimage for artists from all over the world, and for all those interested in art ever since. Michelangelo has taken the moment when Moses, descending from the Mount with the tables of the law in his hands, sees before him the procession of the Golden Calf. In Exodus it is said, "he waxed hot with wrath." Moses has just come from communion with the Most High, and his wrath is tempered and sublimated by religious enthusiasm and by the majesty which the consciousness of his high mission imparts to him. Every portion of the statue breathes with the wrath of justice, yet with the sublime feeling of the awfulness of the crime that has just been committed against the Most High and that His servant must pitilessly condemn. And yet, had the artist been allowed to work on uninterrupted at the Julian tomb, we might have missed some or all of the great work that he accomplished under the direction of the Medici Popes in Florence. While the "Moses" is looked upon as the finest expression of his powers in mature years, as the "David" is of his younger life, there are good critics who have not hesitated to say that Michelangelo's most {40} interesting work is to be found in the series of statues the very consummation of the sculptor's skill which are in the sacristy of San Lorenzo. There are four allegorical figures, "Dawn and Twilight," "Day and Night," which recall the principal phases and the rapid course of man's destiny, in which Michelangelo has expressed in imperishable marble his thoughts with regard to life and its significance. There are, besides, two statues of the "Medici," one, that of "Lorenzo"--not the great Lorenzo, but his son--and the other, "Giuliano," the younger son of il Magnifico. So little are these considered, however, now as portrait statues of the Medici that one of them is known as _il pensiero_, the thinker, and its fellow is likewise thought of as expressing an ideal rather than a person. Michelangelo himself had said that in a hundred years no one would care whom these statues represented, so looking through the temporal with a great artist's vision they became in his hands symbols of immortal moods of humanity. Michelangelo's crowning work of a great lifetime came in his later years when he devoted himself to architecture. In this department of art he was as great as in any other and probably greater than anyone who had ever preceded him. Some of his smaller works, as the "Porta del Popolo" and the twin churches near it, are admirable in themselves, yet simple and admirably suited to their surroundings. Millet once said that the essence of beauty in art consists in the adaptation of truth so as to suit the conditions. The triumph of Michelangelo's architecture came in the great dome of St. Peter's. As the great basilica was unfortunately finished in the after-time, no proper conception of this can be obtained from the plaza of St. Peter's. Close up only from the roof of the great Church itself does one get a true idea of its marvellous beauty and stupendous size. It was intended, of course, to be seen from a long distance, and when thus seen it stands out with wondrous effectiveness. In the old days, when men came in carriages over the mountains to Rome, the Dome of St. Peter's was the first thing to be seen from twenty miles away, and, thus seen, profoundly impressed the beholder. From Tivoli, for instance, when nothing else is visible above the horizon except Michelangelo's mighty dome, and all of Rome, {41} even on her seven hills, is lost to sight, its stupendous size and wondrous charm can be properly appreciated. It then appeals to the beholder not as a work of man, but seems more like some great natural wonder from the hand of the Creator Himself. How Michelangelo succeeded in building it with the materials that he had at hand, with the assistance--material and personal--that he could command, and in spite of all the obstacles that were placed in his path, the misunderstandings, the jealousies, the petty rivalries of smaller artists, is indeed a wonder. Some of his biographers have been astonished that he should have known enough of mathematics to be able to plan and construct it properly. They frankly confess that he had no opportunity as a young man to make the mathematical studies necessary for such work and apparently forget that whenever Michelangelo would do anything he somehow found in himself the power to accomplish his purpose with absolute thoroughness. He had set out to put the Pantheon above St. Peter's tomb, and he succeeded in his ambition, for the great dome, though it does not begin to curve into a dome until it is more than a hundred feet above the pavement, is somewhat larger in diameter than the great vault of the Pantheon, the triumph of Roman power to build, which had been hailed as one of the wonders of the world. One further phase of Michelangelo's accomplishment must be mentioned. This greatest of sculptors, boldest and most successful of architects and finest of decorative painters, was also one of the greatest of poets. "Four-souled" is the apt epithet that has been coined to express this versatility. It has been said that only Dante and Shakespeare have equalled him in the writing of sonnets, and there is no doubt at all that he is one of the most important contributors to Italian literature, even in the glorious Age of Leo X. Addington Symonds declared his sonnets to be the rough-hewn blocking out of poems rather than finished works of art, and the great Italian critic, Bembo, declared "he says _things_, while other poets say words." His friend and biographer, Condivi, said, "he devoted himself to poetry rather for his own delight than because he made a profession of it, always depreciating himself and accusing his {42} ignorance." His poems were scribbled on the backs of old letters or drawings or other papers that chanced to be around, and only occasionally copied and sent off to his friends. Although often urged by his friends, he would never consent to make any collection of his poems during his lifetime. Many of them were faithfully preserved, however, and of some of them the various readings and corrections show that his artistic sense would not allow him to let things go from him without, to some extent at least, giving them a form worthy of the thought. Nowhere can one find the character of Michelangelo better expressed than in his sonnets, and there is a deep religious vein in them which reveals the profound belief of this greatest of men in all the great truths of Christianity and his sense of personal devotion to the Creator and his dependence on Him and the necessity for doing everything for Him that is extremely refreshing. For Michelangelo this was the solution of the mystery of life. Perhaps the best idea of his sonnets can be obtained from his lines on Dante. It had come to be the custom during the Renaissance to think that the only literature worth while thinking about was the classical, and above all Greek, and that the Middle Ages had produced nothing of significance in art or letters. Even Dante was not thought to be a great exception to this rule, though it was admitted that he stood far above his contemporaries. The word Gothic, as applied to the architecture, the art and the literature of these rude ancestors, the descendants of the Gothic barbarians, was invented by the critics of the Renaissance to express to the full their contempt for the products of the earlier period. Michelangelo had no illusions with regard to comparative values. Above all he recognized the surpassing character of Dante's poetry. His sonnet tells the rest and sympathetically insists that he would have been willing to have borne even Dante's years of suffering and exile to produce such marvellous poetry. "Into the dark abyss he made his way; Both nether worlds he saw, and in the might Of his great soul beheld God's splendor bright, And gave to us on earth true light of day: Star of supremest worth with his clear ray, Heaven's secrets he revealed to our dim sight, And had for guerdon what the base world's spite Oft gives to souls that noblest grace display, Full ill was Dante's life work understood, His purpose high by that ungrateful state. That welcomed all with kindness but the good. Would I were such, to bear like evil fate. To taste his exile, share his lofty mood! For this I'd gladly give all earth calls great." {43} The bitter rivalries and jealousies that surrounded him have sometimes produced the impression that Michelangelo must himself have been of a carping disposition, not ready to acknowledge the merits of other artists, though it is felt in extenuation, as it were, that in this he only shared the spirit of the time. Any such impression would be quite unjustified by what we know of Michelangelo. His admiration for the ancients was unbounded. It was he who, when they were first excavated, stepped up to the horses that are now on the Capitoline in Rome, and patting one of them on the back said "get up," as if they seemed to him so true to life that they ought to walk off. A single paragraph from the sketch of Michelangelo in the Artists' Biographies [Footnote 3] will show how thoroughly he appreciated some of his immediate predecessors: [Footnote 3: Houghton Mifflin, Boston, 1878.] "Angelo was a great admirer of the three famous Florentine artists who had preceded him. Of Ghiberti's 'Gates to the Baptistry,' he said, 'They are so beautiful that they are worthy of being the gates of Paradise.' Standing before Donatello's statue of St. Mark, he cried out, 'Mark, why don't you speak to me?' and on another occasion he said, 'If St. Mark looked thus we may safely believe what he has written.' When he was advised to vary the lantern on the Medici Chapel from that which Brunelleschi had built on the old sacristy of San Lorenzo, he remarked, 'It may be varied, but not improved.' Of other artists he spoke no less pleasantly, saying of Gentile da Fabriano that his name corresponded with the grace of his {44} style; and of Cesari's medals, that 'art has reached its last hour, for beyond this it cannot go.'" If there ever was a man who had a right to pride himself a little on his powers and his achievements, surely it was Michelangelo. He had succeeded in bodying forth thoughts too deep for words in every mode of human expression, even making words serve his purpose greatly though inadequately; men of genius had so admired his work and been influenced by it that all during life he had that sincerest of flattery, imitation, from men who themselves were among the notable geniuses of his generation, yet it was he who, in his sonnet towards the end of his life, begged pardon of his God if he had ever used his powers as if they were his own and not for the glory of the Creator who had given them. We have any number of stories of his patient study of art and architecture, even until the end of his life. Once Cardinal Farnese met him, when he was past sixty, in solitary contemplation amid the ruins of the Coliseum. To his question as to why he was there and alone, Angelo replied, "I am still at school taking my lessons so that I may continue to learn." He once drew a picture of an old man, somewhat resembling himself, seated in a child's carriage with the motto, "I still learn." His anatomical studies begun in his early youth at Florence were never given up, and when other subjects were lacking he dissected domestic animals and above all welcomed the opportunity to dissect several horses. Dürer in Germany and Da Vinci in Italy had been faithful dissectors, and Michelangelo kept up the tradition. The personality of this greatest of geniuses that the world has ever known can scarcely fail to be interesting. Michelangelo is the true type of one of the greatest periods of human history, and as such every detail of his life appeals to men. Like many great geniuses, Michelangelo was what is called a handy man, that is, one who could fashion implements and objects skilfully with his hands. It is said that all through his life he preferred not to entrust the making of the implements of his art to any other hand. He used to make his own chisels, files, and piercers and to mix his own colors. Even to an advanced age he continued to use the chisel for himself and was {45}ever famous for his audacious skilfulness with it. At the age of sixty he is described as bringing down more scales from a very high block of marble in a short time than three young marble-cutters could in three or four times that space. With a single blow, Vigenero described him as bringing down scales of marble three or four inches in breadth and with such precision to the line that if he had broken away, even a very little more, he risked the ruin of his work. How lonely he was in the midst of all his great work, and how many material difficulties there were to weigh on his spirit and keep him from intoxication with that joy of the artist in accomplishment, which might even have hurt the work or at least the striving of even so great an artist as he, can be very well understood through quotations from some letters to his father, in which, not querulously, but as if needing someone as a confidant, he pours out his inmost feelings: "I stand here in intense anxiety and with the greatest fatigue of body. I have no friends of any sort, nor do I wish any; and I have not time enough to eat what is needful. Let no more annoyances be added to me, for I cannot bear another ounce." In the summer of 1508 he wrote, "I am sick at heart, ill, and worn out with fatigue, helpless and penniless." A year later he wrote again: "The Pope has not given me a groat for a year; and I do not ask for it, for I feel that I have not merited it, and this because painting is not the sort of work which is my profession. And yet I waste my time without fruits--God help me!" Michelangelo's views with regard to matrimony are well known. To a priest who asked him one day why he never married he said, "I have a wife who is too much for me already; one who unceasingly persecutes me. It is my art; and my works are my children." And yet his tenderness of soul and his affection for children was not eclipsed by his absorption in his art, for Grimm tells the story of a child stopping him on the street and asking him to make a drawing, and the artist took the sheet of paper offered him and fulfilled the wish. When Michelangelo was an old man of seventy-five, however, he was ready to give advice to his grandnephew Leonardo in the matter of marriage. That advice is interesting {46} from a good many standpoints, but especially because Michelangelo thought that the choice of a wife was something to pray and ask for special aid from on High about: "Leonardo, I wrote thee about taking a wife, and told thee of three girls which have been here mentioned to me. ... I do not know any of them, and cannot say either good or evil of them, nor advise you about one more than the other. ... Giov. Francesco might give you good advice; he is old and knows the world. [Michelangelo himself was seventy-five years young at this time.] Remember me to him. Above all, seek the counsel of God, for it is a great step. Remember that the husband should be at least ten years older than the wife, and that she should be healthy." Again he wrote, "Leonardo, I sent thee in my last a note as to marriageable girls, which had been sent me from Florence. ... Thou needst a wife to associate with, and whom thou canst rule, and who will not care about pomps, and run about every day to parties and marriages. It is easy for a woman to go wrong who does these things. Nor is it to be said by anyone that thou wishest to ennoble thyself by marriage, for it is well known that we are as ancient and noble citizens of Florence as those of any other house. Recommend thyself to God and He may aid thee." [Footnote 4] [Footnote 4: It may be interesting to know that the grand-nephew did take a wife, one of those recommended by his grand-uncle, and that Michelangelo dictated the names of the children, often went to see them, loaded them with presents and was their mother's best friend and confidant.] The great artist did not escape the disturbing cares of family life by his bachelorhood, however, for it became the custom of his brothers to turn to him for aid whenever there was trouble. His family had objected to his becoming a sculptor because it was beneath the dignity of their nobility, but now that he was successful they were quite willing to use his money freely. He had a scapegrace younger brother who was particularly a thorn in his side, ever getting into trouble and being helped out, above all constantly demanding money. Michelangelo once wrote to him while he was at work on the great ceiling of the Sistine. "If you take care to do well, and to honor and revere your {47} father, I will aid you like the others, and will soon establish you in a good shop. ... I have gone about throughout all Italy for twelve years, leading a dog's life, bearing all manner of insults, enduring all sorts of drudgery, lacerating my body with many toils, placing my life itself under a thousand perils solely to aid my family, and now that I have commenced to raise it up a little, thou alone wishest to do that which shall confound and ruin in an hour everything that I have done in so many years and with so many fatigues." Michelangelo's letters of consolation to his brother's (Leonardo's) daughter, who was delicate and ailing, show how tender were his family affections. He has sometimes been pictured as the self-centred bachelor, occupied only with his art. Any such picture of him is but one of the many one-sided false impressions of these geniuses of the Renaissance, all of whom, when known intimately, prove to be whole-hearted human beings with all the human interests deeply developed. One of the most interesting incidents in Michelangelo's life is his association with Vittoria Colonna. This is one of the most charming episodes of platonic friendship with wonderful mutual influence for good chronicled in history. Vittoria was an inspiration to Michelangelo in his work, and his tributes to her are full of the loftiest admiration and almost saintlike worship. On the other hand, no one could have held a higher place in the esteem of Vittoria than Michelangelo. She had suggested the subjects for certain pictures and Michelangelo painted them. She wrote in thankfulness and said with regard to one of them: "I had the greatest faith in God, that He would give you a supernatural grace to paint this 'Christ'; then I saw it, so wonderful that it surpassed in every way my expectations. Being emboldened by your miracles, I desired that which I now see marvellously fulfilled--that is, that it should stand in every part in the highest perfection, and that one could not desire more nor reach forward to desire so much. And I tell you that it gave me joy that the angel on the right hand is so beautiful; for the Archangel Michael will place you, Michelangelo, on the right hand of the Lord at the Judgment Day. And, meanwhile, I know not how to serve you otherwise than to {48} pray to this sweet 'Christ,' Whom you have so well and perfectly painted, and to entreat you to command me as altogether yours in all and through all." This friendship of Michelangelo and Vittoria has become so celebrated that to many it may seem that time has woven a romantic halo around it, far transcending the reality. Only a little study of contemporary documents, however, is needed to show that the facts are interesting beyond even the stories that are told. Modern biographers have enriched the tradition with many details, and Grimm has given a most beautiful picture of this most famous of friendships between man and woman which reflects so much honor on both the participants. Nothing that I know contradicts so many false notions as to the Renaissance that are widely disseminated and that are only too often taken as a criterion of modes of thinking and of conduct in this period. All the so-called Pagan tendencies of the Renaissance are contradicted by it. Condivi, Angelo's pupil, who wrote about his master during his master's lifetime and who was intimately associated with him for many years, pays an affectionate tribute to Michelangelo's purity of mind and speech. The great master was a model of magnanimity, and Condivi says: "I have often heard him speak about love; and others who have listened to him on this subject will bear me out in saying that the only love of which he spoke was the kind which is spoken of in Plato's works. For my part I do not know what Plato says, but one thing I, who have lived with him so long and so intimately, can assert, that I have never heard any but the purest words issue from his mouth." He was one of the most abstemious of men. He literally thought nothing about creature comforts. Often he would take a piece of bread in his hand while at his work and that would be all during the course of a long day. His meals were likely to be irregular, and he paid very little attention to them. As for his sleep, he was noted even among the strenuous livers of his time for his ability to work without sleep and for the small amount that he took. When he was deeply interested in some work he would lie down in his clothes, and after a few hours get up to work again. The surprise is that he should {49} have lived to the age of nearly ninety under such living conditions, but work never kills, and if the original vitality is extensive men live on to the limit of existence much better by consuming their energy than by allowing it to react within them, as it so often does. Some repentant expressions of his had been taken to indicate, be it said by modern writers, never by his contemporaries, that he was of a passionate nature and had given rein to his impulses in youth. Except these words of repentance, however, which are rather conventional in his time and indicate a falling below ideals rather than actual serious faults, we have absolutely no evidence. On the other hand, we have some expressions of his which indicate how much difficulty he found in curbing his passions in youth and how glad he is that he used the effort, since it saved him from regrets in after life. The thought of death was a favorite one with him, and he seems frequently to have dwelt on it and to have considered that there was no thought that was better for a man. Not only did it prove chastening, but above all it helped a man to eliminate the quest of the trivial and the merely selfish in life. He held the thought of death as the only consideration that makes us know ourselves and saves us from becoming a prey to kindred, friends or masters, to ambition, and to the other vices and sins which rob a man of himself. That was his main purpose in life, to live it for accomplishment and not merely for the trifles which easily satisfy so many men. Whenever he was tempted to permit himself to derogate from his highest aims in life for the sake of the distinction of the moment, the thought of death was sobering, and the time when the darkness cometh and no man can labor brought him back to his best work, no matter what the difficulties might be in doing it. Angelo's relation to religion is all the more interesting because it is often said that the great men of the Renaissance, because of their profound study of pagan antiquity, had become touched with paganism. There is not a trace of this in Michelangelo, however, and surely he must be considered as the typical great man of the Renaissance. All his life he had thought of his relation to his Creator and of the necessity for accomplishing work, not for himself alone nor for selfish {50} purposes, but with great aims that would be worthy of the talents that had been given him. Once, when he was having great difficulties because of opposition to his plans and interference with designs that he felt must be carried out, he said to Pope Paul III, "Holy Father, you see what I gain; if these fatigues which I endure do not benefit my soul I lose both time and labor." The Pope, with whom Michelangelo was a great favorite and who loved above all his sincere, straightforward simplicity and his deep feeling of religion, laid his hands paternally on the great artist's shoulders and said, "Have no doubt. You are benefiting both soul and body." Toward the end of his life his mind became more and more occupied with religious thoughts, and there was a charmingly simple piety that he cultivated. This had been expressed often before in his great works of art, both paintings and sculptures, and still more clearly in his sonnets. Some seem to think that an artist, because of his occupation, may express beautiful thoughts on religious subjects, even though he does not feel them. Somehow it is supposed to be the artist's business to work himself into such moods and then express them, as if it were possible to express greatly in art, what one does not really feel. Most people, however, seem to think that formal expression in _words_ must mean more in such matters, and for them Michelangelo's sonnets will doubtless be proofs of his absolute sincerity in religious matters. Towards the end of his life most of his poetry is deeply religious in character. He sent two sonnets to Vasari when he was about seventy-five, as he told the biographer "that you may see where I keep my thoughts." A more lofty expression of Christian humility and the spirit of prayerfulness has perhaps never been made. One of them, because it expresses his recognition of the fact that the trifles of the world had carried even him away, that _fascinatio nugacitatis quae obscurat bona_ of the Scriptures, is worth quoting as a summation of his religious life and feelings: {51} "The fables of the world have filched away The time I had for thinking upon God; His grace lies buried 'neath oblivion's sod, Whence springs an evil crop of sins alway. What makes another wise, leads me astray, Slow to discern the bad path I have trod: Hope fades, but still desire ascends that God May free from self-love, my sure decay. Shorten half-way my road to heaven from earth! Dear Lord, I cannot even half-way rise Unless Thou help me on this pilgrimage. Teach me to hate the world so little worth. And all the lovely things I clasp and prize. That endless life, ere death, may be my wage." Angelo's last work in sculpture was a group very like his first great religious group, the "Pietà." It consisted of the Blessed Virgin with the dead Christ and two other figures. Only the "Christ" was ever finished. His intention was that this group should be placed on an altar over his tomb, but his wish was never fulfilled. The circumstances of his work at it are interesting. Like many an old man, he often found himself wakeful at night and needed something to occupy his thoughts. When he arose this way he used to work in solitude and silence at these figures with loving recollection and care and with the thought that it would be his monument after death. He had come to look upon death rather as a friend than an enemy, saying once that "life, which had been given to us without our asking, had wonderful possibilities of good in it, and death, which came unsummoned from the same Providential hand, could surely not prove less full of blessing." Towards sunset on the eighteenth of February, 1564, Michelangelo turned to his friends and said, "I give my soul to God, my body to the earth and my worldly possessions to my nearest of kin, charging them through life to remember the sufferings of Jesus Christ." In making a will some years before, he left as alternative heir the Church, on condition that the "income was to be given for the love of God to the modest poor." While Leonardo da Vinci was indeed a universal genius well deserving of the high title, it must not be forgotten that the age in which he lived was the age of Michelangelo. The "divine master," his compatriot artists have loved to call him ever since his own day. It is probable that he must be {52} conceded to have carried human nature as far in its power of expression of the beauty and truth of life as any man that ever lived. The divine in human nature nowhere shines out so conspicuously as in Michelangelo's achievements. There was no form of art, no mode of expression, no field of thought in which he did not excel. It must be confessed that his thoughts were often too high and too deep for human nature's limitations, and that he did not always succeed in completing his work in such a way as he himself would have wished, and above all such as would have made it thoroughly comprehensible to ordinary mortals. His works give us a better idea of human nature's possibilities, yet Vittoria Colonna, who knew him so well, declared that those who admire Michelangelo's works admire but the smallest part of him. She had come to realize how much more there was in him than even his works made manifest. Often the artist is a disappointment after his works. Michelangelo's personality made one disappointed with his works as if there should be much more in them. As his contemporaries knew him then, he was, if possible, greater than he is revealed to us in his works. Probably no larger man in all the best sense of that term has ever lived, painter, sculptor, architect, poet, simple, humble, devout, in friendship a model, as a teacher deeply beloved--this man, who succeeded so marvellously in everything that he attempted, is one of human nature's proudest boasts, yet himself realized poignantly how little he could really accomplish of all that surged up in his soul. No career in history so makes it clear that the breath of the Creator is in His creatures to inspire and exalt. How deeply a creature may influence his kind, Michelangelo illustrates as perhaps no other. There are certainly not more than a few chosen spirits to be numerated on the fingers of one hand whom we think of in the same breath with him when we count up man's beneficent geniuses, and we can scarcely foresee an end to that influence apart from the complete destruction of our modern civilization. As Grimm said at the end of his sixth edition of Michelangelo's life, "It is not thinkable that the influence on the artistic work of mankind which has proceeded from him should not continue to wax with the course of time." [Illustration: FRA ANGELICO, ST. FRANCIS] {53} CHAPTER IV SECONDARY ITALIAN PAINTERS OF THE CENTURY. FRA ANGELICO, PERUGINO, FRA BARTOLOMMEO, BOTTICELLI, BELLINI, TITIAN, CORREGGIO, TINTORETTO, VERONESE AND OTHERS Perhaps nothing illustrates better the wealth of genius in what we have called Columbus' Century than the fact that after detailed accounts of the lives of Raphael, Michelangelo and Leonardo da Vinci, many painters of the first rank still remain to be treated of in the second place, as it were, a number of them exhibiting some quality that has given them an almost unique distinction in the history of art. Some of these great painters are acknowledged to be among the most distinguished artists of all time. When it is realized that men like Fra Angelico, Perugino, Botticelli, Titian, Correggio, Tintoretto and Veronese have to be grouped together in a single chapter, the necessities of compression in our account of the century will begin to be appreciated. Each of them deserves, for any adequate presentation of his work, not a few paragraphs, but a large volume, and about each of them indeed not one but many volumes have been written even centuries after their deaths. It must not be forgotten that almost the same abbreviation of the story must be made for any other phase of the century's achievements. When Columbus' Century opened, Fra Angelico had just been summoned to Rome to set about what has usually been considered the crowning labor of his life. This was the painting in fresco of the walls of the small oratory in the Vatican, since known as the chapel of Nicholas V, because the decoration of it was ordered by that great pontiff, a man of deep scholarship and an enlightened patron of the fine arts, whose aim to make Rome not only the centre of the religious life, but also of the best influences for art and science for all the world, {54} has come to be well recognized. Artists and art critics have been almost fulsome in their praise of these decorations of Fra Angelico. The walls were covered on three sides with two series of paintings, the upper portion illustrating the life of St. Stephen, the lower that of St. Lawrence. That two sets of subjects so similar should have been treated in close juxtaposition without any repetition in design or composition is in itself the best possible evidence of the artist's power and his constructive imagination. The designs show a freshness of conception very remarkable in a man of advanced years, yet withal there is absolutely no falling off in the power and sincerity of his art, and if anything a deepening of the religious feeling so characteristic of him. When he did this work he was probably past sixty-five years of age. Fortunately in our day, when it is so easy to obtain cheap reproductions of the works of all the great painters, and when copies in color of Fra Angelico's paintings may readily be secured, anyone may know for himself something at least of the sweetness and power of this charming painter of the early Renaissance. His Madonnas have a most taking motherly expression and yet are full of the mystic saintliness that becomes the Mother of God. His angels are a constantly-repeated argument and impelling appeal for the existence of these invisible creatures, which have been well declared to look so real as to be convincing. His pictures of Christ as man and boy are replete with humanity, and yet have the Divinity shining through the veils of flesh. No one but a man who believed firmly, completely and entirely in what he was painting could ever have given us these marvellous representations. It is easy to understand, then, that when it comes to his pictures of the saints Fra Angelico has given us, absolutely true to life, representations of them in various actions as their activities appeal to him. Among them he has introduced some portraits of his friends, thus laying the foundation of that portrait painting which was to develop so finely in the next generation and which was fortunately to preserve for us the features of so many whom we would like to have known. In the meantime, in the background of his pictures he has given us the beginning of modern landscape painting in all the beauty and {55} charm of his own, simple, single-hearted way of looking at the beauties of nature. One of the most important of the Italian painters of the first half of Columbus' Century, all the more interesting because he was young Raphael's master, was Pietro Vannucci, whom, from the name of his adopted town Perugia, the world of art knows as Perugino. He was born just before the century began in 1447. His parents were poor, though not of low condition, and as a boy Pietro worked as a shop drudge with a painter in Perugia. There has been much discussion as to who this painter was, and probably the best determination is Niccolo da Foligno, who is sometimes considered the originator of the school of Umbrian painters, in which Perugino thereafter took so important a place. Niccolo was himself a pupil of Benozzo Gozzoli, who owed his training to Fra Angelico. There were other artists at Perugia under whose influence young Perugino came, and their names, when taken in connection with those already mentioned, will show the wondrous art influences abroad in the period. Vasari mentions also Bonfigli, known also as Benedetto Buonfiglio, whose work can be seen at its best only in Perugia and is well deserving of study, and Fiorenzo di Lorenzo, in whom the typical Umbrian landscapes, which are so important a feature in Perugino's pictures, first make their appearance. A still more important influence in Perugino's life was Piero della Francesca, who was perhaps at Perugia for a while, though Perugino may have met him elsewhere. After his apprentice work in art at Perugia, Perugino travelled and was influenced by such men as Luca Signorelli, Lorenzo and the group of great painters then at Florence, including Ghirlandajo, Cosi, Moroselli and Botticelli, as well as the master Verrocchio, in whose studio, or rather workshop, Perugino probably came in contact with Leonardo da Vinci and also Lorenzo di Credi. There are two oft-quoted lines from Giovanni Santi, "two youths alike in age and love, Leonardo da Vinci and the Perugian Peter of Pieve." It was Perugino's merit to have reached distinction, even amongst these, and his religious pictures have a value all their own. After his years of training and journeying, Perugino had his {56} opportunity at Rome, especially in the Sistine Chapel. Of his work there, Berenson said in his "Central Italian Painters of the Renaissance," "It is the golden joyous color and the fine rhythm of the groups and above all the buoyant spaciousness of this fresco that win and hold us." He has spoken of "the golden dreamy summerings" of his pictures in the Louvre, and especially "the round containing the Madonna with the guardian saints and angels, all dipped in the color of Heaven, dreaming away in bliss the glowing summer afternoon." Perugino's power to paint man "not as a mite against infinity, but as man should be in Eden, dominant and towering high over the horizon," has given him a place all his own. "It is this exaltation of human being over the landscape that not only justifies but renders paintings great." Grimm, in his "Life of Michelangelo," goes out of his way to say that "Perugino's work in the Sistine Chapel far surpasses the others, though they include such great men as Botticelli, Signorelli and Ghirlandajo. His simplicity, his symmetry, his thoughtful composition and finishing of individual figures, though in the others these are often in masses, scarcely to be distinguished, all these give a surpassing distinction to his painting." Perhaps the greatest tribute to Perugino that has been paid by subsequent generations is the attribution to Raphael of some of the works that have since been determined to be Perugino's. "Apollo and Marsyas" of the Louvre, Paris, which has had its place in the Salon Carré for thirty years, is a typical example and is still called a Raphael in the Louvre catalogue, though now it has been almost definitely assigned to Perugino. Most of the important galleries of Europe have pictures that they value very highly that were done by Perugino, and mistakes with regard to his work have always been such as indicated the highest appreciation of Perugino, for they have been attributed to great masters. [Illustration: PERUGINO, ENTOMBMENT (PITTI)] [Illustration: BORGOGNONE, ST. CATHARINE OF ALEXANDRIA] One of the great painters of this time who, if he had done nothing else but influence Raphael deeply, would deserve a place in any account of the art of this century is Fra Bartolommeo. He was the intimate personal friend of Savonarola and painted the well-known portrait of the great preacher after {57} the unfortunate execution of the friar. At a time when the Order of St. Dominic was very unpopular, Bartolommeo entered it in 1500, and for a time gave up painting. [Footnote 5] He returned to his art, however, "for the profit of the Convent and the glory of God." Quite naturally he was very much influenced by the works of Fra Angelico, his brother, in religion, which were all round him in the monastery of San Marco, and also came under the influence of Leonardo da Vinci, who worked at Florence during the first decade of the sixteenth century. Bartolommeo had charge of the studio San Marco, and it was here that Raphael came in contact with him to the mutual benefit of both the painters, though Raphael was much the younger man. In 1508 Bartolommeo visited Venice and came under the spell of the rich coloring of Bellini and Titian. [Footnote 5: It is often said that it was fortunate that Savonarola's preaching did not continue to influence the Florentines deeply, for if it had it would surely have seriously disturbed art, and as it is, it is often declared that there must have been many beautiful works of art sacrificed in the bonfires built in the streets of Florence under Savonarola's inspiration. In the sketch of Fra Bartolommeo (M. E. James, London, 1902), the answer to this is contained in a single paragraph: "The artists of Italy had no quarrel with the friar; some of the best of them were his devoted friends, while many entered his Order. Fra Filippo Lappacini in 1492, Fra Agostino di Paulo, Fra Ambrogio and Fra Luca della Robbia, Fra Benedetto (miniature painter), 1495, Fra Eustachio, 1496. Michael Angelo read the friar's sermons constantly; Cronaca, the great architect, 'could talk of nothing else.' Raphael painted him among the doctors of the Church. Baldini, Lorenzo di Credi and Botticelli loved him."] Fra Bartolommeo's greatest works are probably the "Marriage of St. Catherine," "The Last Judgment," now in the Church of Santa Maria Nuova, Florence, the picture which is said to have attracted the attention of Raphael, and the well-known "Descent from the Cross," or as it is often called, "Lamentation over Christ," "in which the expression of suffering on the faces is charmingly differentiated for the various characters of St. John, the Magdalen and the Blessed Virgin, and so subdued that a heavenly peace illumines the group." It has been declared that Bartolommeo united the spirituality {58} of Fra Angelico to the perfect treatment in form and color of Raphael, combined with a gentle gravity that was all his own and a devotion that was part of his life. The "Descent from the Cross" is one of his last works and, far from showing any sign of failing power, is masterly and firm. In anatomy and composition and color it is unsurpassed; in delicacy of feeling and religious devotion it is considered one of the great pictures of the world. His portrait of "Savonarola," a work of love on the part of an ardent disciple, is deservedly his best-known work and is one of the great portraits of all time, worthy to be placed beside those of such masters of portraiture as Bellini, Titian, Raphael and even Leonardo. Among the other secondary painters of Columbus' time one of the greatest, an artist who would have stood out above all his contemporaries in almost any other period of art, is Sandro Botticelli. He is the only contemporary whom Leonardo mentions in his "Treatise on Painting." A quarter of a century ago Walter Pater, in his Renaissance essays, said of him in regard to this distinction of being mentioned by Leonardo: "This pre-eminence may be due to chance only, but to some it will rather appear a result of deliberate judgment, for people have begun to find out the charm of Botticelli's work; and his name, little known in the last century, is quietly becoming important. In the middle of the fifteenth century he had already anticipated much of that meditative subtlety, which is sometimes supposed peculiar to the great imaginative workmen of its close. Leaving the simple religion which had occupied the followers of Giotto for a century, and the simple naturalism which had grown out of it, a thing of birds and flowers only, he sought inspiration in what to him were works of the modern world, the writings of Dante and Boccaccio, and in new readings of his own of classical stories; or if he painted religious incidents, painted them with an undercurrent of original sentiment, which touches you as the real matter of the picture through the veil of its ostensible subject." In his pictures of "Spring" and the "Birth of Venus," Botticelli has shown his power to paint great imaginative pictures, and the "Venus" particularly shows his faculty of expressing the intimate, elusive psychology of his subject. In {59} his little sketch of Botticelli, Streeter (Catholic Truth Society, London, 1900) says: "Perhaps the most striking thing in this dainty discerned vision of antiquity is the conscious emphasis laid on the distance from which the vision is beheld. The sorrow Botticelli had learned to restrain in his recent 'Madonnas' breaks out afresh in the wistful plaintiveness of the goddess of pleasure, separated from her true home by 'the travail of the world through twenty centuries,' by a 'yawning sepulchre wherein the old faiths of the world lay buried and whence Christ had arisen.' It would seem, not as some critics have asserted, that Botticelli strove, and strove in vain, to achieve the true embodiment of a pagan ideal, but rather that he sought in this strange mingling of pagan and mediaeval sentiment to express his own profound instinct of the impossibility, to a later age, of ever reaching it." Botticelli is famous above all for his round pictures. Somehow these _tondi_, as they are called, became fashionable in Florence about the middle of the latter half of the fifteenth century, and when he was about thirty Botticelli painted a series. One need only see the charming reproductions that are now so often used for decorative purposes to realize how beautiful they are. The "Madonna of the Magnificat," so-called because the Blessed Virgin is represented with pen in hand, as writing her song of praise, though also known as the "Coronation of the Blessed Virgin" because the angels are represented as placing the crown on her head, is the most perfect of these. The lines of the composition, which have been exquisitely arranged so as to fit into the round frame, have been very aptly compared with those of the corolla of an open rose. Botticelli was able not only to conquer the difficulties of this round form of painting, but actually to elaborate out of the difficulties involved in this form of composition new beauties, just as a poet may choose a particularly difficult metre, and actually add to the quality or at least the charm of his poetry by the exquisite form in which he puts it. One of Botticelli's forms of artistic activity that has attracted the attention of artists and literati very much in the modern {60} time is his execution of a series of illustrations for Dante. With his profound sympathy with the mediaeval spirit it might well be anticipated that he would make as nearly adequate illustrations of Dante as may be possible. It requires a deep knowledge of Dante to appreciate these illustrations. They are not at all like modern attempts to illustrate Dante and are separated as far as Heaven from earth from Doré's illustrations. They are extremely naive and simple, and at first are likely to strike a modern as being caricatures rather than illustrations. The grotesque element in Dante is not minimized to the slightest extent. It requires much study to appreciate Ruskin's profound expression that a noble grotesque is one of the most sublime achievements of art. The illustrations have to be studied in connection with the text and with a thorough spirit of devotion to Dante before proper appreciation comes. Great authorities in art and in the older literature, however, have united in declaring these the most wonderfully illuminating illustrations of Dante that were ever made. It is an index of the genius of Botticelli that he should have achieved so marvellously in a mode of art unfamiliar to him personally and then quite new in the world. His illustrations were made as copies for the illustration of a printed book. Until Botticelli has been studied faithfully and seriously, most people are likely to think of him as a painter of what he saw with a certain poetic charm and a naivete which makes him by contrast particularly interesting to the modern world. Few realize how much appreciative students of Botticelli, who are at the same time art critics, have learned to think of his high seriousness, his lofty purpose and his marvellous execution in his paintings. It is above all for his psychology that he has come to be admired in the modern time, and as our own interest in psychology has deepened, the appreciation for Botticelli has grown. He was gifted with a profound psychological insight into character, which he knew how to express with almost incredible simplicity and directness. Talking of his St. Augustine, St. Jerome, St. Eligius and St. John, a well-known German critic. Prof. Steinman, recently said: {61} [Illustration: BOTTICELLI, ILLUSTRATION FOR DANTE] {62} "It would seem that in these four strongly contrasting figures Botticelli aimed at portraying the four human temperaments in their separate and distinctive modes of response to the same spiritual appeal: the fiery enthusiasm of the impulsive St. John, looking upwards, rapt in wonder; the studious concentration with which St. Augustine, who here represents the phlegmatic temperament, unmoved, continues his writing; the nerve-strained longing of St. Jerome, worn and wasted with many fastings and watchings; and the benignity of the sanguine St. Eligius, who, gazing before him, raises his hand in blessing. With consummate skill, Botticelli has distinguished between the reality of these living figures and the ideal quality of the celestial vision. And a special artistic interest is given to this picture, making it a typical instance of the rare versatility of the painter's genius, by the fact that in the vigorous, massive, realistic portraiture of the saints, in the fantastic, poetical delicacy of the angelic choirs, in the stiff, severe traditionalism of the central figures of the mystery, it shows three separate modes of imaginative conception, three separate methods in the manipulation of line and colour, so distinct and individualized that it would seem almost that they must be the work of three separate artists." A very great painter, who is not often appreciated as he should be outside of Italy, though in recent years he is much better known, is Giovanni Bellini, the distinguished Venetian painter. His portrait of the "Doge Loredano" is now recognized as one of the world's great portraits, and copies of it are to be seen everywhere. His masterpieces, however, are his altar pictures, which are noted for their beauty and devotional quality. His Madonnas particularly are famous. His well-known painting at Berlin of the "Angels Mourning over Christ" is probably one of the most humanly touching of mystical pictures. The "Presentation of the Infant Christ" in the Temple, in which Mary is shown presenting the child to the High Priest over a table, while the striking expression of worship on the faces of old Simeon and Joseph completes the meaning of the picture in wondrous fashion, is another typical example of Bellini's power to express the loftiest devotional sentiments. [Illustration: BELLINI, DOGE LOREDANO ] Among those in second rank in this great period of art, one {63} of the greatest was surely Titian. In any other period he would quite easily have been the greatest painter of his time. His painting was done in Venice, and his early training was in glass work and mosaic work, to which apparently must be attributed his marvellous development of color in painting. At the age of about fifteen he entered the studio of Giovanni Bellini, at that time the greatest of Venetian painters and one of the important contributors to the art of this period. In this studio a group of young men, including Giorgione, with whom Titian came to be on terms of intimate friendship, Giovanni Palma, Lorenzo Lotto and Sebastiano Luciani, all destined to fame, were brought together. Especially Titian and Giorgione broke away from the older traditions of painting and became founders in modern art. All of his long productive life of nearly 100 years, except for very short visits elsewhere, Titian lived in Venice and did his marvellous painting there. There are masterpieces by him that are acknowledged by artists and critics to be among the greatest paintings we have. No one has been more faithfully studied by art students in all the generations since his time. Some of his Madonnas are among the most beautiful in the world and bear comparison even with all but the very finest of Raphael's. His "Entombment of Christ" in the Louvre is a surpassing representation of this scene which so often appealed to artists. The "Assumption" at the Academy in Venice is probably one of the most visited of pictures in Italy and shows all the best qualities, though some also of the defects, of the great Venetian. Such pictures as the "Presentation of the Blessed Virgin," in the Vatican at Rome, show how Titian faithfully developed his best powers until he arrived at the very climax of artistic expression. No more thoroughly satisfying representations of religious themes were probably ever made. While he could make wonderful pictures on a large scale, and his compositions have always been the subject of loving study, some of his smaller pictures are almost more beautiful than any he has made, and his series of small Madonnas are only equalled and very few of them surpassed even by Raphael's treatment of the same theme. As a portrait painter, however, Titian almost excelled his {64} work as a religious painter. His series of portraits of the Emperor Charles V are among the world's greatest portraits. His portrayals of Philip II are thought by some even to surpass those of his father. Titian's portraits of himself and his daughter are wonderful "counterfeit presentments" of the real individuals. Indeed, the portraits of his contemporaries left us by Titian have an eternal interest, and besides being great works of art they are marvellously illuminating of the human personalities depicted. They represent not merely a reproduction of the features of the individual, but preserve for posterity the character and the very soul. Leonardo da Vinci and Raphael have surpassed him when they set themselves the same task. Van Dyke is his equal in some respects, but much less satisfying. Rembrandt and Velasquez are his peers, but there are those who think that he combines the best qualities of both these great successors in the same field to a noteworthy degree. Besides his religious pictures and portraits, however, Titian succeeded in painting some of the greatest representations of ancient mythological lore that have ever been done. His much-admired picture of the "Bacchanals" in Madrid and the still more famous "Bacchus and Ariadne," so often now seen in copies, show how well he could enter into the spirit of the old Olympian mythology. It was typical of the Renaissance time in which he lived that he should thus be inspired by Greek culture and religion. If we did not have from his hands so many beautiful Christian devotional pictures, which never could have been painted except by a man who was himself a believer in the religious scenes and mysteries that he portrays, it would have been almost impossible to believe, after a study of these pagan pictures, that he could have retained a devout Christian piety and faith with such a sympathetic appreciation and an intimate understanding of the psychology of the old pagan myths. It was this combination, however, that was perfectly possible to the great minds of the Renaissance period. The greater they were like Titian, Michelangelo and Raphael, the deeper was their faith, though the higher their power to portray phases of religious feeling that might be considered so foreign to their religious experience as to be quite out of {65} the range of their sympathetic expression. Smaller men, influenced by Greek mythology, became merely pagan, but the greater men retained their faith in its completeness. The smaller men are so much more numerous that we have the tradition of the Renaissance making men pagan, but this is not true with regard to the geniuses of the time. Titian, as Delacroix said in the article in his _"Dictionnaire des Beaux Arts,"_ is one of those who came closest to the spirit of antiquity. The great modern artist and art connoisseur did not hesitate to declare that nowhere, unless perhaps in such great monuments of antiquity as the sculptures of the Pantheon, can antiquity be so well understood as in the pictures of Titian. Yet this is the painter whom the bishops and ecclesiastics, the monks and friars and the people of his time, desirous of expressing what was deepest in their sense of devotion and piety, sought after most eagerly, because of his wonderful ability to express all the charm of religious personages and all the power of religious feelings. He has all the many-sidedness of the Renaissance, yet without any loss of the mediaeval power to inspire profound Christian feeling. A very great school of art of the Renaissance was that which took its rise in Southern Tuscany and the Romagna, of whom the three best-known representatives are Piero dei Franceschi, Luca Signorelli and Melozzo da Forli. Piero's influence on Perugino has already been spoken of. Berenson declares him "hardly inferior to Giotto and Masaccio in feeling for tactile values; in communicating values of force he is the rival of Donatello; he was perhaps the first to use effects of light for their direct tonic or subduing and soothing qualities; and, finally judged as an illustrator, it may be questioned whether another painter has ever presented a world more complete and convincing, has ever had an ideal more majestic, or ever endowed things with more heroic significance." Piero's two pupils, Melozzo and Signorelli, each of them starting, as Berenson says, with the heritage Piero left him, yet following the promptings of his own temperament and the guidance of his own genius, touched excellence in his own splendid way. Melozzo was the grander temperament, {66} Signorelli the subtler and deeper mind. Visitors to Loretto, who see the music-making angels in a cupola there, are likely to be surprised into an appreciation of the power of the painter to express something of the witchery of music. Berenson says of them: [Footnote 6] "Almost they are French Gothic in their witchery, and they listen to their own playing as if to charm out the most secret spirit of their instruments. And you can see what a sense Signorelli had for refined beauty, if, when seated with Guido's 'Aurora,' you will rest your eyes on a Madonna by him in the same pavilion of the Rospigliosi Palace." [Footnote 6: _Op. cit_, p. 81.] One of the very great artists of the Renaissance, who has come into his own of appreciation in recent years again, is Antonio Allegri, generally known as Correggio, from the small town near Mantua in which he was born. He is one of the most surprising figures in the history of art. So far as we know, he had no teachers and no pupils. He seems never to have visited any of the cities in which in his time (1494-1524) so many great pictures might have been seen, nor did he seek to make the acquaintance of any of his great contemporaries. All that we know of him was that he had "an uncle who painted, but was no artist." He influenced the artists of the after-time in Italy almost more than any of his contemporaries. By some he is placed among the decadent or "sweet" school of Italian painting, and undoubtedly such painters as Guido Reni and Carlo Dolci, who were for many centuries more popular than the greater masters, were deeply influenced by him. While so negligent of others' achievements in life he was destined to form a school that attracted more attention from subsequent generations than almost any of his contemporaries. His pictures represent a climax of Italian religious art, and his painting of angels and celestial beings, together with that of Fra Angelico two generations before, serves to show how wonderfully the Italian painters of this time were able to visualize spiritual conceptions. [Illustration: CORREGGIO, MARRIAGE OF ST. CATHERINE (LOUVRE)] Grimm, in his "Life of Michelangelo," says of Correggio: "As Parma, where he (Correggio) painted, lies between Milan, Florence and Venice, so does Correggio's painting represent a middle term between the schools of these cities. Greater {67} than all who came after Michelangelo, Leonardo and Raphael there are many qualities of his art in which Correggio excels even these. Unlike the Venetians, he did not neglect drawing; he embraced the whole of his art and made a distinct advance." Grimm goes as far as to say, "If we could think of streams flowing together out of the genius of Raphael, Leonardo, Titian and Michelangelo to form a new spirit, that spirit would be Correggio's. He has the dreamy smiling sweetness of Leonardo, and to add an external detail, his fate as to our absolute ignorance of his inner and outer life; he has the joyous, radiant, uncreated quality of Raphael with his brief life and its interruption in the very bloom of it; he has the boldness of Michelangelo, his liking for unprecedented attitudes and his power to reproduce them in marvellous foreshortening; he has Titian's soft coloring and the gift to picture the palpitating naked flesh as if the pulse was beating in it." It is one of the world's greatest losses in art that he was cut off in his prime at the early age of thirty, yet what we have from him shows the supreme artist, and though we might have had further precious art treasures, we could scarcely have had a completer revelation of his genius. Leigh Hunt, in his article on him in the "Catholic Encyclopaedia," emphasizes the far-reaching influence which Correggio's work had over artists after his time and how deeply the principles of his art prevailed in painting and sculpture in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries over all Italy and France. "Correggio is the most skilful artist since the ancient Greeks in the art of foreshortening; and, indeed, he was master of every technical device in painting, being the first to introduce the rules of aerial perspective. Radiant light floods his pictures and is so delicately graded that it passes subtly into shade with that play of reflections among the shadows which gives transparency in every modulation. This is _chiaroscuro_. Even in Allegri's earliest works it was prominent, and later he became the acknowledged master of it. His refined feeling made Correggio paint the nude as though from a vision of ideal beauty; the sensuous in life he made pure and beautiful; earthly pleasures he spiritualized, and gave expression of mental beauty, the very culmination of true art. His angel pictures {68} are a cry of _Sursum Corda_. The age in which he lived and worked was partly responsible for this; but his modesty, his retiring disposition, his fondness for solitude, his ideal homelife, his piety and the fellowship of the Benedictine monks contributed far more to it." A very great painter of Columbus' Century, though he is usually thought of as of a later period, was Jacopo Robusti, whom we know as Tintoretto. According to Ridolfi, himself born almost on the date of Tintoretto's death, the artist was born in 1512, though later dates up to 1520 have been assumed for him. Like many of the other great workers of the Renaissance, he too lived to be at least seventy-five and probably well beyond eighty. The same store of energy that enabled him to accomplish his work gave him length of days. He was the son of a dyer, and, as a boy, was fond of drawing, finding the colors used by his father valuable for practice in painting. While he lived at a time when many of the great painters of the Renaissance were at work, he was not deeply influenced by them, but fortunately for himself developed his own genius. He is famous for his drawing, his power over which he owed to dissection, drawing from life and from models draped and lighted in various ways, some of them suspended from the ceiling so as to get the correct prospective of flying figures. He invented an ingenious device, a rectangular framework with strings across it which, held before the eye, taught how to measure the proportions accurately. While Venetian painters generally are famous for their coloring, Tintoretto is the master of them all in drawing and one of the world's greatest artists in Italy. [Illustration: GOSSAERT, VIRGIN AND CHILD JESUS (ITALIAN INFLUENCE OVER FLEMISH)] Like every other great worker of the Renaissance, almost without exception, he had a passion for work and has left us an enormous amount of finished painting. Some of his paintings, as, for instance, the "Bacchus and Ariadne," are looked upon as the greatest of their kind. Some of his great paintings in the palace of the doges at Venice have been a favorite study of artists ever since his time. Ruskin considered him one of the greatest painters who ever lived and has made his name and work familiar to English-speaking peoples. Probably no one has ever dared to attempt the solution of so many {69} problems in painting as Tintoretto, and no one has solved them better. He deeply influenced his own generation and has influenced every generation since that has had true critical spirit and appreciation for art. It has been well said of him, and without exaggeration, that he mastered every detail of his art. Ridolfi tells us his two favorite subjects of study were the works of Titian and the reliefs of Michelangelo. He wrote on the wall of his studio these words, _Il disegno di Michelangelo é il colorito di Titiano_ (the drawing and composition of Michelangelo and the coloring of Titian). These were his ambitions. He as nearly accomplished this transcendent purpose as perhaps it is possible to be done. An eminent painter of the Venetian school at this time, who is usually thought of as belonging to a later period, is Paolo Cagliari, better known as Veronese. He was twenty-two years of age, however, before Columbus' Century closed, and as he began his work very early in life he had received some important commissions before he was twenty-five years of age. He owes all his training to the great period at least. His greatest picture, the "Marriage at Cana," was painted practically within the decade after the close of our period. He was very fond of huge compositions, and Tintoretto alone outdid him in the conception of large pictures and the filling of large canvases. Like most of the painters of the Renaissance, he was a man of tireless energy, as well as sharing the facility that so many of them possessed; his very large pictures did not serve to limit the number of his paintings to the extent that might otherwise be expected. He was a master of decoration and of the use of the sumptuous color that the Venetians had invented because of their familiarity with pigments and the making of glass, and no great decorative painter has equalled him in the effect produced by this wealth of color. Already the decadence is beginning and his great paintings lack feeling, and above all exhibit no trace of religious feeling, though many of them are on religious subjects, but they are splendid, unexcelled, cold triumphs of composition. These great painters of the Renaissance, touched by the humanistic spirit abroad in the world of their time and with the old Greek ideas of the place of man as the very centre of {70} the universe, created a new way of looking at men in their relation to the world around them. They Hellenized their vision of men and stamped it upon the culture and civilization of their time. Berenson has suggested in his "The Central Italian Painters of the Renaissance" that they thus influenced not only men's way of looking at men, but actually to some degree transformed men themselves by the mirror they held before them. He said: [Footnote 7] [Footnote 7: Op. cit, p. 67.] "The way of visualizing, affected by the artists, the humanists and the ruling classes, could not help becoming universal. Who had the power to break through this new standard of vision and, out of the chaos of things, to select shapes more definitely expressive of reality than those fixed by men of genius? No one had such power. People had perforce to see things in that way and in no other, to see only the shapes depicted, to love only the ideals presented. Nor was this all. Owing to this subtle and most irresistible of all forces, the unconscious habits of imitation, people soon ended either by actually resembling the new ideals or, at all events, earnestly endeavoring to be like them. The result has been that, after five centuries of constant imitation of a type first presented by Donatello and Masaccio, we have, as a race, come to be more like that type than we ever were before. For there is no more curious truth than the trite statement that nature imitates art. Art teaches us not only what to see, but what to be." [Illustration: VAN DER WEYDEN, MATER DOLOROSA] {71} CHAPTER V PAINTING OUTSIDE OF ITALY While it is the custom to think of our period, Columbus' Century, as the time of the Renaissance, owing its inspiration to the rebirth of Greek ideas into the modern world, it must not be forgotten that quite apart from this there was a "great wind of the spirit" of art blowing abroad at this epoch. The Renaissance is thought of as Italian, but the Teutonic countries exhibit in Columbus' Century a great artistic development at the beginning quite uninfluenced by the New Learning that came from the Greek rebirth. Painting, sculpture, architecture and the arts and crafts, all reached a climax of expression in the Teutonic countries, especially in the latter half of the fifteenth century, the evidence for which is to be seen in the monuments preserved for us particularly in the Low Countries and in Southern Germany. Flemish art above all others reached a high level of perfection at this time that has scarcely ever or anywhere been surpassed. The work of the brothers Van Eyck, accomplished just before the opening of Columbus' Century, paved the way for a great new development of art and made their invention of painting in oil the favorite medium of pictorial expression. After such a work as "The Adoration of the Lamb," at Ghent, no one could doubt either of their genius as artists or the future of the new mode in painting. Their pupil, Roger Van der Weyden, did not excel his masters, but carried on worthily the tradition which they had established, and passed on the torch which they had lighted to successors whose fame was to be undying. Memling is indeed a great master in painting, almost never excelled, seldom equalled and representing a phase of art development quite independent of the humanistic side of the Renaissance. {72} The wonderful decorations of the casket of St. Ursula in the Hospital of St. John at Bruges, done just about the time of the discovery of America, are not unworthy to be placed beside the greatest art of Europe from any period. The almost more beautiful "Adoration of the Magi" in the same place shows a minute finish in detail, a marvellous power of composition, a charm of expression and a wonderful application of colors which have not faded during all these four and a half centuries, which deservedly place it among the world's supreme artistic triumphs. What Giotto is at Padua in the Arena, and Fra Angelico in San Marco at Florence, Memling is in the Hospital of St. John at Bruges. The pictures must be seen in all the glory of their unfading colors to be properly appreciated or to enable those who are less familiar with the great work of the Netherlands painters to understand the encomiums of critics; but even uncolored reproductions give some idea of the charm of the originals. Strange to say, because of the neglect of the biographical details of their painters' lives by the Teutonic nations, even Memling's name has not been quite certain until comparatively recent years. Bruges was one of the great merchant towns of this time, wealthy, populous, busy, enterprising, ambitious, the home of merchant princes who were as generous in their patronage of art as the ecclesiastics or nobility of Italy, or as our own millionaires, though they believed in the creation of new works of art especially adapted to their surroundings rather than the collection of those that had an established reputation. During the first half of the fifteenth century Brabant had produced the group of famous artists whom we have mentioned, most of whom worked at some time or other in Bruges. As Weale, himself an associate of the Royal Academy of Belgium, says in his "Hans Memlinc": [Footnote 8] "Of none of all the many celebrated men who made this town their home has Bruges more reason to be proud than of Hans Memlinc." While his works remained, however, the personal memory of him was lost, and hence it is only in our time that it has been quite sure that the initial letter of his name should be "M" and not "H," though the other form is often used by writers about art, and that the final letter should probably be "c" and not "g" though in English the latter terminal has been most frequent. [Footnote 8: London: George Bell & Sons, 1907.] [Illustration: QUENTIN MATSYS, LEGEND OF ST. ANN (CENTRE)] {73} It was only in 1889 that Father Dussart, S.J., discovered in the Public Library of St. Omer in a manuscript by the historian, James De Meyere, an extract from a diary, in which the death of John Memmelinc, the painter, is placed on the 11th of August, 1494. He was probably born about 1435, or a little before, so that his accomplishment as a painter was all in the first half of Columbus' Century. Memling is the greatest of all these early painters of the Netherlands in his portraits, and yet there are many religious pictures which are full of the devotion of the best of the Italians and wonderful in their composition, in their solution of the technical problems of painting and their marvellous power of expression which show him to be one of the great painters of the world. His great picture, which has been called "Christ the Light of the World," is a triumph in every mode of the painter's expression. His shrine of St. Ursula, an oblong tabernacle of carved oak with gabled ends, for which Memling did a series of miniatures, is one of the most beautiful accomplishments of this kind in the world. In very contracted panels, Memling has placed hundreds of beautiful faces and details of architecture, shipping and water scenes that must be seen to be appreciated. "It has been said that Van Eyck, even when painting religious subjects, only awakes earthly ideas, whilst Memling, even when painting earthly scenes, kindles thoughts of heavenly things. It is easy to see by his paintings that he was indeed a man humble and pure of heart, who, when the arts were beginning to abdicate their position as handmaids of the Church in order to minister to the pleasures of men, preserved his love for Christian tradition, and in earnest simplicity painted what he believed and venerated as he conceived and saw it in his meditations. There is no affectation, no seeking after novelties, no mixture of pagan ideas in his works." Memling's contemporary, Dirk Bouts, deserves scarcely less praise, and Quentin Matsys is another of the genius painters of the time. The story of his rise from blacksmith to painter is only a good illustration, whether legendary or not, of the {74} closeness of the mechanical arts, those of the goldsmith and the silversmith particularly, but of all the smiths, to the liberal arts of painting and sculpture. The divorce of these higher and lower arts from each other always leads to decadence, not alone in the mechanical, but also in the liberal arts. The goldsmith or silversmith in the Low Countries, in Italy, in Nuremberg, easily became a sculptor in the highest sense of the term, and not infrequently turned his attention successfully to other arts. It was an ideal condition, showing how deeply culture had penetrated, and whenever something of it at least does not exist the liberal arts are sure to be artificial and borrowed, not native and genuine. Memling's successors in the Flemish tradition of painting maintained their master's distinction, and even when lacking in that genius which alone enables men to do great work did painting that is far above the mediocre, and that served to spread the spirit of culture among the people. Lucas van Leyden, in a short life of less than forty years, did some beautiful things that shall always keep his memory alive. Gerard David falls only short of the work of such great contemporaries as Memling himself. David's pupil, Moestart, nobly continues the tradition of his master. Michiel Coxcie and others do good work before the end of Columbus' Century, which, in a country less dowered with great artists than Flanders, would have secured them places of highest distinction in the history of national art. The generation of Flemish painters after Memling who studied in Italy represent among them some great artists worthy to be mentioned even beside their Italian masters, though these are confessedly the great Renaissance artists. Justus of Ghent is the first of these, an actual contemporary of Memling and a man who not only learned from but also in turn deeply influenced the Italians with whom he was brought in contact. Jan van Mabuse-Gossaert, Bernard van Orley, Blondeel and Gerard David were touched by the spirit of the Italian Renaissance and its great painters, yet preserved the native fire of their genius and displayed national characteristics which have deservedly given them a place quite apart from the Italian schools. Some of their paintings are among those the world knows best and values most highly, and they have gained in prestige in later years as the knowledge and appreciation of Teutonic art has spread. [Illustration: VAN ORLEY, DR. ZELLE] {75} Great as was the distinction and achievement of the Low Countries, at this time it was not so far superior to Southern Germany as to eclipse its brilliancy. What Bruges was to the Low Countries, and especially Flanders as an art capital at the beginning of Columbus' Century, Nuremberg was to Southern Germany. The city well deserves the name of Northern Florence, for all the arts flourished luxuriantly and the monuments attest, even better than any traditions, how much was accomplished here for art. Her greatest artist in this, very like so many of his Italian contemporaries, was not limited in his powers of expression to any one narrow mode, for Albert Dürer was painter, designer, engraver, but also like Leonardo a mathematician, and like Michelangelo a writer. Dürer's place as a painter is too well known to need special description here. He is now acknowledged to be one of the world's greatest artists, worthy to be mentioned in the same breath even with his supremely great contemporaries, Raphael, Leonardo, Titian, Botticelli and Correggio. In recent years he has come to be more generally known. His pious pictures have a certain Teutonic literalness added to their mystical quality that gives them distinction. He is one of the great group of cultured intellectual people who made Nuremberg so famous at this time. While his art has many essential German characteristics, it is much more than national, though it shows very well the high standard of excellence that the German painters of this time had attained. His visits to Italy and the Netherlands broadened his views, developed his artistic sense, refined his taste and did much for him, yet the essential German character of his painting and his absolute individuality as an artist remained. Some of his Madonnas are quite as charming in their way, though very different from the Italian, as those of the great Renaissance painters in the peninsula. His "Adoration of the Magi" will bear comparison with the masterpieces even of Italy and the Netherlands, and his Madonnas, though of German type, have a sweetness all their own. In his second period some of his {76} painting at Venice shows how deeply he was influenced by the Venetian colorists and yet was never merely an imitator. [Illustration: DÜRER, TITLE PAGE OF LIFE OF BLESSED VIRGIN (WOODCUT, 1511)] Dürer did fine work of real artistic quality, not only in painting, but also in wood engraving, and afterwards in engraving on copper. Prints from his woodcuts or copperplates still command high prices, and indeed it is probable that only those of Rembrandt are valued more highly. He brought these two modes of art to great perfection. He was a fine craftsman, as well as an artist, and both etching and wood {77} engraving owe much to his inventive ability and handicraftsmanship. As might be expected of this intimate friend of Wilibald Pirkheimer, he was a scholar as well as an artist, and we have from him three books, one on the proportions of the human figure, which shows how carefully he studied the essentials of his art; one on geometry and one on the art of fortification. Like Leonardo he felt his ability as an engineer, and like Raphael and Michelangelo was widely interested not only in every mode of art, but all the intellectual interests of his time. No more than the Italians he was not a narrow specialist in any sense of the word, and nothing shows so clearly as his career and achievements how much the spirit of genius was abroad at this time in Europe everywhere, lifting men up to heights of accomplishment that had scarcely been possible before. Besides Dürer, the great painters of South Germany were the Holbeins, father and son. Hans Holbein the elder first came into prominence at Augsburg as a partner to his brother Sigmund, a painter, none of whose works have come down to us. His early works are nearly all on the Passion and show the influence of his studies of the Passion Plays, so frequently given all over South Germany at this time. Early in the sixteenth century he came under Italian influence and painted some pictures that, while naive and primitive, exhibit evidence of high artistic ability. His fame was eclipsed entirely by his son, Hans Holbein, known as the younger, though there is no doubt at all of the influence exerted by Holbein the father on the art of his period, and his sketchbooks are precious material for the biography and customs of his contemporaries. His son left Augsburg about 1515 to become an illustrator of books at Basel. The first patron of the younger Holbein is said to have been Erasmus, for whom, shortly after his arrival, he illustrated an edition of the _"Encomium Moriae"_ by pen-and-ink sketches, which are now in the Museum at Basel. After some five years of work as an illustrator, Hans began to attract attention by his portrait drawings. Some of these, as J. A. Crowe in his article on Holbein in the ninth edition of {78} the "Encyclopaedia Britannica" says, are "finished with German delicacy and with a power and subtlety of hand seldom rivalled in any school." That he could paint with almost equal distinction his portrait of Boniface Amerbach, painted in 1519, furnishes ample evidence, for it is "acknowledged to be one of the most complete examples of smooth and transparent handling that Holbein ever executed" (Crowe). Art was gradually being pushed out in the German countries, however, and above all there was no opportunity for religious painting, which used to form the chief source of income and of inspiration, as well as the principal resource of painters before this, as it continued to be in the Latin countries. Besides, the religious revolution had come to occupy men's minds with disputes about religious subjects, and interest in art further declined. How well Holbein could have painted religious pictures is very well illustrated by the famous altar-piece of the Burgomaster Meyer, with his wives and children, in prayer before the Blessed Virgin. Few Madonnas are more impressive than this, but now the beautiful Mother of God was no longer an object of reverence. Holbein could get no further commissions of this kind, and was pitifully reduced, it is said, even to the painting of escutcheons for a living. Erasmus, whose portrait he had so often made in many different positions, compassionated his poverty and lack of occupation and sent him with a note of introduction to Sir Thomas More. More appreciated him at once, had him paint his own portrait and those of his family and engaged the interest of the nobility in him. [Illustration: CLOUET, FRANÇOIS, ELIZABETH OF AUSTRIA, WIFE OF CHARLES IX (LOUVRE) ] Holbein executed portraits of many of the prominent nobility of England, and after two happy years returned to Basel, taking to Erasmus the sketch of More's family, which is still to be seen in the gallery of that city, being indeed one of the precious treasures of it. With the money made in London, Holbein purchased a house and made the charming portraits of his wife and children for it, but the next year witnessed the fury of the Iconoclasts, who, in their so-called reforming zeal, destroyed in one day almost all the religious pictures at Basel. It is not surprising to find him two years later back in England, where the merchants of the Steel Yard gave him a series {79} of commissions to paint portraits and he was employed also by the Court to provide the famous series of portraits of prospective Queens for Henry VIII. Some of these make it very dear that he could do portraits absolutely without flattery. {80} The series of drawings by him at Windsor form one of the most precious treasures of the English Crown. He was busy painting a picture of Henry VIII, "Confirming the Privileges of the Barber Surgeons," still to be seen in their building in London, when he sickened of the plague and died in 1543. Crowe says, "Had he lived his last years in Germany he would not have changed the current which decided the fate of painting in that country; he would but have shared the fate of Dürer and others, who merely prolonged the agony of art amidst the troubles of the Reformation." Everywhere a great spirit entered into art and produced a series of artists with an originality and a power of expression that has given them a place in the history of art. The first important development of the modern period in France came among the illuminators of books and is well illustrated by the work of Jean Fouquet of Tours, the Court Painter of Louis XI. I have mentioned some of the books illuminated by him in the chapter on Books and Prints, and a copy of one of his illuminations from the famous Livy manuscript will be found there. He did a series of larger works which entitles him to the name of painter, and his portraits are worthy of the time. Bourdischon and Perreal, the first a painter of historical subjects and portraits in the reign of Louis XI, and the second, attached to the army of Charles VIII in his Italian expedition, painted many battle scenes. These first French artists were little influenced by Italian art, and then come a group, Jean Cousin and the Clouets, especially François, who is often called Janet, who, though under Italian influence to some extent, yet showed, especially taken in connection with the sculptors Colombe and Jean Goujon, that France possessed artists capable of forming a native school. Clouet's portrait of Elizabeth of Austria, wife of Charles IX, is worthy of the great portrait painters of this time. {81} [Illustration: NAVARRETE, ST. PETER AND ST. PAUL (ESCURIAL)] In Spain, as in France, there was a development of art in Columbus' Century that owes nothing to external influence and shows the originality of the time. As early as 1454 one Sanchez de Castro, "the Morning Star" of Andalusia, painted a _retablo_ in the Cathedral of Seville and a fresco of St. Julian in the Church of the same city. He was still painting in 1516, so {82} that he must have enjoyed as long a life as many of the great Italian artists of the time. Juan de Borgona was working at Toledo in 1495 at a series of paintings which recall Perugino, yet have an originality of their own. It is not surprising, then, to find Luis de Morales, born about the beginning of the sixteenth century, called "the Divine" and hailed as the first Spaniard whose genius and good fortune have obtained him a place among the great painters of Europe. One of the master painters of this time is Juan Fernandez Navarrete, most of whose pictures were painted after the close of our century, but who had passed some twenty-five years of his life in it and been subjected to its influence and received his education from it. He is extremely interesting, because his nickname _el Mudo_, the Dumb, recalls the fact that he was one of the unfortunate deaf who, for lack of hearing, cannot speak, and yet succeeded in developing a great mode of expression for himself. Such opportunities for the defective are supposed to be quite modern, but as a matter of fact, in spite of difficulties and obstacles, genius usually finds a mode of expression. Like Italy, Spain has its schools of painting, and the school of Andalusia came into prominence under Luis de Vargas, "the best painter of the Sevillan line from Sanchez de Castro to Velasquez" (Sterling, "The Artists of Spain"). His earliest known work was completed just about the end of Columbus' Century. It is the altar-piece of the Chapel of the Nativity in the Cathedral at Seville, so often admired. Vargas is famous for his portraits, "for the grandeur and simplicity of his design, his correct drawing and fresh coloring and the great purity and grace in his female heads." [Footnote 9] Pablo de Cespedes, born toward the end of our period, doing his work afterwards, is very well known. [Footnote 9: Painting, Spanish and French, Gerard W. Smith, among the Art Handbooks.] {83} [Illustration: CESPEDES, THE LAST SUPPER (CATHEDRAL, CORDOVA)] In the School of Valentia, Juan de Juanes is famous for his religious pictures. His vigor and variety of invention are wonderful and his coloring is splendid. His numerous faces of Christ were unrivalled, the best perhaps being that with the Sacred Cup. His pencil was wholly dedicated to religion, and, {84} according to the tradition, he habitually communicated and confessed before taking a sacred picture. He had two daughters, Dorothea and Marguerita, who are famous in the history of Spanish art, typical, illustrious women of the Spanish Renaissance. [Illustration: BERTOLDO DI GIOVANNI, BATTLE (BARGELLO)] {85} CHAPTER VI SCULPTURE IN ITALY Columbus' Century was destined to see the creation of some of the finest sculpture since the time of the Greeks. Probably in no department of art does this period stand out as so surely surpassing any other period of modern times, or indeed any time except the Periclean, as in its power to furnish great examples of plastic art. Triumphs of sculpture were accomplished in every medium--stone, bronze, terra-cotta, wood and the precious metals. The eve of the century saw the making of some very great sculptures, which portended the wonderful development that was to come. It was in 1447 that Ghiberti completed the second pair of doors for the Baptistery at Florence, which have been the admiration of the world ever since. After this it was easy to understand that there was no development of artistic expression in plastic work that might not be expected. All the expectations possible were realized in the succeeding hundred years. Columbus' Century was ushered in with as great a triumph in sculpture and by the work of a master as great in his maturity, which came just then, as Fra Angelico was in painting. Fra Angelico, however, had been but little touched by the Renaissance spirit of classicism, while Donatello, the familiar name for Donato di Niccolo di Betti Pardi, whom the classic impulse was to carry ahead of all contemporary artists and indeed to make a model and a subject of study for all succeeding students of sculpture, was born even before the close of the fourteenth century, but like so many of the distinguished artists of the Renaissance period, lived a long life of persistent work and great achievement, and the most important part of that work came after 1450. His greatest triumph, the monument to Gatamelata, was set up in Padua in 1453. There are two equestrian statues {86} that are conceded by all the world to be supreme works of art, and copies of which are to be found in many museums throughout our civilization. One of these is Donatello's "Gatamelata" and the other the "Colleoni," by Verrocchio, who was a disciple of Donatello. The earlier sculptor had seen some of the equestrian monuments of the Roman times and had wondered whether he could not imitate them, or at least accomplish the same purpose. Undaunted by the difficulties as men seem ever to have been at this time, he faced not only the problem of making the model that would express his ideas, but of putting it into the bronze form that would make it imperishable. He had to master all the problems of equine anatomy, but above all he had to make himself familiar with the details of the technique of the founders' art so as to master the process of casting so large a work absolutely in the round. Practically he had to discover a great many of these technical points for himself, and he had to invent methods of accomplishing his purpose. To most men at any time this would have seemed an almost impossible achievement. They would have been discouraged from attempting it. There were many simpler forms of his art that he might practise, and not take on his shoulders all the technics of the bronze foundry, but Donatello undisturbedly went on his way and accomplished his purpose. There is nothing more interesting and at the same time nothing more characteristic of this period of discovery and a achievement--indeed, it is a worthy prelude to Columbus' Century--than the fact that the very first equestrian statue, made in the modern times when all the difficulties, material as well as artistic, were heaped up before the sculptor, is one of the greatest monuments of that kind in the world's history. Only the "Colleoni," made a half a century later, surpasses, if indeed that is to be conceded, yet this was the very first attempt. This is not so surprising, however, if one realizes the significance of other work of this time. Within a half a century of the invention of oil painting some of the greatest masterpieces of that mode came into existence; within less than half a century of the invention of printing, some of the most beautiful books that have ever been made were printed. There has been a {87} tendency in our time, as a result of much discussion of evolution, to think that such triumphs of achievement come only after long evolution and as the climax of a prolonged process of development. On the contrary genius at any time in the world's history takes hold of a mode of expression for the first time and secures a triumph in it that will be the envy and admiration of all succeeding generations. [Illustration: ROSSELINO, ANTONIO, MADONNA] While Donatello's success in this huge equestrian work might be expected to stamp his genius as much more fitted for monumental sculpture than any other mode of his favorite art, there is scarcely any phase of sculpture which he has not illustrated beautifully. The very spirit of youth is caught and fixed in imperishable bronze in his "St. George." There is probably no more successful attempt at the artistic rendering of the "little poor man of God" than Donatello's sculptured expression of him in his statue of "St. Francis" in the Church of St. Antony of Padua. It was Donatello who, according to M. Muntz, the German authority on the history of sculpture, recovered the child from antiquity and gave it back to art. Some of his baby faces are among the most beautiful ever made, and yet without any of the sickly sentimentality that would make them pall. Their bodies are alive, their draperies cling or float as they touch their wearers, or are caught up by the air. Only his great contemporary, Luca della Robbia, has rivalled him in this regard, and it is doubtful whether even he has excelled him, though the world as a rule knows della Robbia for his baby faces and thinks of Donatello as having accomplished more monumental work. Donatello's "Bambino Gesu," infinitely human, and his boyish "St. John the Baptist," precociously serious, in the Church of the Vanchetoni, Florence, where they are seldom seen unless particularly looked for, are charming examples of Donatello's power of expression in child faces. In Donatello, as in so many of these artists of Columbus' Century, the man is almost more interesting than his work. While at Padua doing the "Gatamelata," Vasari tells us that his works were held to be miracles, and they were praised so much that finally the master resolved characteristically to return to Florence. He naively remarked one day, "If I stayed {88} here any longer I should forget all I have ever known through being so much praised. I shall willingly return home, where I get censured continually; for such censure gives occasion for study and brings as a consequence greater glory." His end was very sad. He, whose hands had accomplished so much, was stricken with paralysis and yet lived on for years. His pupils, with whom the great master was a favorite, took care of him, and even to the end took his suggestions, worked out his ideas and brought their work to him for criticism. Galileo, a century later unable to see after having seen farther into the heavens than any other; Beethoven, unable to hear after having written some of the most divinely beautiful music ever conceived, may be compared to Donatello, with his useless skilful hands. Even this sad fate did not sour him, however, but only made him tenderer to those who needed help. He had no near relatives, and some distant connections, hearing that his end was near, and as Hope Rea tells in his "Donatello" (London: George Bell & Sons), to which I am indebted for most of the details of this sketch, reminded him of their existence and begged him to leave them a small property which he possessed near Prato. "I cannot consent to that, relations mine," he answered them, "because I wish, as indeed seems to me to be reasonable, to leave it to the peasant who has labored so long upon it, and not to you who have never done anything in connection with it and indeed wish for it as some recompense for your visit to me. Go, I give you my blessing." The epigram, with which old Giorgio Vasari ends his all too short appreciation of the great master, seems the most fitting close that could be made to any notice of his life, "O lo spirito di Donato opera nel Buonarroto, ó quello del Buonarroto anticipo di operare in Donato" ("Either the spirit of Donatello wrought again in Buonarotti, or the genius of Buonarotti had pre-existence in Donatello.") Among the great artists, in the highest sense of that word, and one of the great sculptors of this period must be reckoned Luca della Robbia, with whose name there are naturally associated the names of others of this family, and particularly Andrea. Luca was chosen as one of the sculptors to execute {89} portions of the decorative work of the Duomo at Florence. He did one of the famous _cantorias_, the two sculptured marble singing galleries which are unfortunately no longer in the Duomo itself, but in the museum at the Eastern end of the great church. This was finished in 1438, when Luca, whose years run coincident with the century, was thirty-eight years of age. Among the artists from whom the Florentine officials might have chosen for the execution of these singing galleries was also Donatello, who actually modelled the other of the pair, and Ghiberti, since famous for the great doors of the Baptistery. It is sufficient to say that when Luca della Robbia's singing gallery was finished, the Florentines realized very well that no mistake had been made in giving him the execution of it, even though he had such great rivals. This is almost the only great work in marble that we have from Luca della Robbia. He was a scientist, as well as an artist, and he was very much interested in artistic glazed work. He devoted himself to making this as perfect as possible and succeeded in adding this as a wonderful new medium to sculpture. Like so many other of the artists, painters and sculptors of this time, he was originally a goldsmith, but became ambitious of doing higher things than those usually committed to the craftsmen. Vasari tells us that he carved all day and drew all night, keeping his feet warm through the long winter evenings by covering them up in a basketful of carpenter shavings. He worked at the glazing of terra-cotta with the idea at first apparently of preserving his clay models by baking them. Working in this new medium he brought to the execution of the models for it all his genius as a sculptor and succeeded in accomplishing some of the most beautiful results. He developed the medium so as to secure charming color, creamy white figures that stand out from a cloudy blue background, with a glaze that is perfect and joints that are almost invisible. It is only in comparatively recent years that a due meed of appreciation has been accorded to della Robbia's work once more, though his contemporaries valued him at his true worth, but in compensation for the neglect his pieces are now among the most costly works of art whenever they turn up at public {90} sales. While devoting himself to the new artistic modes, he accepted commissions in both bronze and marble for the embellishment of Florence, and the bronze doors of the sacristy of the Duomo are his, as well as certain reliefs in marble on the Campanile. "In fact," as Hope Rea says in his "Tuscan and Venetian Artists," [Footnote 10] "the total amount of work produced by him in the middle twenty years of his life shows him to have been one of those strenuous laborers in art, the like of whom have hardly been seen before or since the years of the Renaissance." Luca never married, but he gave every opportunity to his nephew, Andrea della Robbia, who was an apt pupil, but who confined himself practically entirely to the new style invented by his uncle. In spite of what might be expected, the young man, with the advantage of his uncle's training and the possession of his uncle's secrets, did not do better work, though the amount of it that he turned out made the della Robbia terra-cotta an important part of Florentine art. In his hands, and those of his son Giovanni, what had been as pure an art as any form of sculpture came to be merely a decorative craft. Andrea's many beautiful pieces, however, and especially the well-known "Bambine," the swaddled infant medallions of the Hospital of the Innocents, have been very popular at all times and have entered into renewed popularity in our day. The great series of incidents of St. Francis' life, executed by Andrea for the Franciscan monastery of La Verna, represents the climax of his art work. He was thoroughly sympathetic with the early Franciscan traditions and he expressed the details of them beautifully. [Footnote 10: "The Tuscan and Venetian Artists: Their Thought and Work," by Hope Rea. London: J. M. Dent & Co., 1904.] [Illustration: DONATELLO. GATAMELATA] One of the greatest of the sculptors of the Renaissance, who must indeed be reckoned among the greatest artists of all times, is Leonardo da Vinci's teacher, Andrea del Verrocchio. He was one of the wonderful Florentine artists whose genius was recognized by Lorenzo the Magnificent and was given the opportunity to express his artistic conceptions worthily by this liberal patron of the arts and literature. Three of his great {91} works, the tomb of Piero and Giovanni de Medici in the Church of San Lorenzo; his "David," which is in the National Museum, the Bargello in Florence and the "Child Holding a Dolphin," now in the courtyard of the Palazzo Vecchio, were all three executed for Lorenzo. These are all in bronze, but with the versatility of the men of his time, Verrocchio could express himself in other media just as charmingly. Michel has said of the terra-cotta "Madonna" made for the Hospital of Santa Maria Novella that in it "supreme distinction of thought is combined with the most scrupulous observation of nature." The famous marble bust of a "Flower Girl" is in the Bargello. A silver _basso-rilievo_, the "Beheading of John the Baptist," is now in the Cathedral Museum at Florence. His two masterpieces are "The Incredulity of St. Thomas" and the statue of Colleoni, the celebrated _condottiere_ who had commanded the Venetian troops. Both of these are in bronze. Little as the deep feeling of the scene between Christ and the doubting Thomas might seem apt to lend itself to expression in sculpture, Verrocchio has succeeded in making an extremely beautiful and touching work of art. The Divine Humanity, urging Thomas the doubter to put his hand into His pierced side, is a wonderful realization of one of the most pathetic of incidents. The triumph of Verrocchio's genius, however, is the "Colleoni." It is probably the greatest equestrian statue ever made. His contemporaries declared that Leonardo da Vinci's figure of the Duke of Milan on horseback surpassed it. Sometimes doubt is expressed as to whether Donatello's "Gatamelata" does not rival it. That question must be left for great artists and sculptors to decide, and in the meantime there is no doubt at all that Verrocchio was one of the greatest sculptors who ever lived. Burckhardt declared that "we have a right to call this equestrian statue the finest in the world." Unfortunately Verrocchio was seized with a chill while casting it and died at the early age of forty-three, or we might have had some still more wonderful work from him. He is a typical many-sided genius of the Renaissance, though in sculpture particularly only two, perhaps three, of his greatest contemporaries ever equalled him; it is even doubtful if they {92} have excelled his "Colleoni," yet everything that he ever did was an advance on his previous accomplishment. His disciple, Leopardi, who finished the casting of the "Colleoni," is another great sculptor of the time who, in any other period, would be looked upon as a supreme artist. He has shone with reflected glory, besides, for his part in the "Colleoni," though it is very doubtful whether any but very small credit is due to him for the completion of this work which Verrocchio had left in such a state that but little was required to make it what it had been ever since, one of the world's greatest monuments of sculpture. A great sculptor of the Renaissance, whose career presents many other features of interest, however, which have made him famous, is Benvenuto Cellini. He was born in 1500 and, like many of the artists and most of the sculptors of the time, began his life work as an apprentice to a goldsmith. After a troubled early manhood in Rome and other Italian cities, during which he executed some medals that are among the best of their kind ever made, and various ornamental pieces in the precious metals, he was for a time at the court of Francis I. Afterwards he worked in Florence, lending his genius to the fortification of the city during the war with Siena. While his career is entirely exceptional among the great artists of the time it is often taken for a type of the restless, rather unmoral than immoral, character that was supposed to be produced by the paganizing influence of the New Learning. The true types of Columbus' Century among the artists, however, are such men as Raphael, Leonardo and Michelangelo, deeply intent on their work, anxious only for the opportunity to accomplish high artistic purpose and without any of that restless unmorality that is at least supposed to have characterized Cellini. It would be much nearer the truth to point to the lives of such men as Fra Angelico or Fra Bartolommeo, happy in their monastery homes, or Correggio, who spent his time so peacefully with the religious of the little town in which he lived, than to appeal to Benvenuto's chequered stormy career as typical of the Renaissance. Cellini's autobiography, as great a work of imaginative art, very probably, as any that he ever executed in plastic materials, has attracted as much attention in literature as his great {93} sculptures have in art. His name, then, has become familiar to many who know nothing about the intimate personal careers of the great artists of the time and who will in all good faith continue to draw their conclusions as to the character of the men of the Renaissance from Cellini's rather boastful proclamation of his successful vices, though this exactly represents the exception which proves the rule to be the opposite. In spite of his forbidding picture of himself he had moments of intense religious feeling and highest inspiration. Anyone who has seen his famous "Christ" in marble in the Escurial will not be likely to think that he was entirely lacking in deep religious feeling. His famous bronze group of "Perseus holding the Head of Medusa," to which deservedly the Florentines have given a distinguished place in front of the old ducal palace at Florence, is one of the masterpieces of modern sculpture. W. M. Rossetti spoke of it in his article in the "Encyclopaedia Britannica" as "a work full of the fire of genius and the grandeur of a terrible beauty. One of the most typical and unforgettable monuments of the Italian Renaissance." His story of the casting of this great monument shows the difficulties under which the sculptors of the time labored, and yet how triumphantly they overcame technical obstacles and made great works of art. While so great as a sculptor in monumental work, Cellini never thought art objects of small size beneath his attention, and like Raphael, willing to make the cartoons for the tapestries of the Sistine Chapel and composing great pictorial scenes as their subjects, so Cellini, with a true Renaissance artistic spirit, modelled beautifully any and every form of work in metal. He modelled flagons, bells and even rings and jewels, designed coins and medals for the Papal mint and for the Medici at Florence. It has been said that everything minted under his direction attained the highest excellence. His work in _alto-rilievo_ was as fine as that in _basso-rilievo_. All over Europe there are well-authenticated specimens of smaller pieces from his hands, a bell in the Rothschild collection, a gold salt-cellar in Vienna, a shield elaborately wrought in Windsor Castle and even beautifully chased armor, such as he made for Charles IX of Sweden, which may be seen at Stockholm. {94} Of course, for any proper estimation of the Italian sculpture of this period, the work of Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo must bulk very large. They have been treated in separate chapters, and there is room here only to say that, while unfortunately we have almost none of Leonardo's sculpture, we have from his own great artistically critical generation traditions of magnificent accomplishment. As for Michelangelo, his own generation admired him only too much, and the almost inevitable imitation of his genius brought on decadence in plastic art much sooner than it would otherwise have come. His faults were imitated without any of the genius in power of expression that condones them in the great originals. If Michelangelo's sculpture had been the only contribution of this period to plastic art, that would have been sufficient to place it high among the periods of greatest productivity in this department of art. As it is, there were men who preceded Michelangelo whose genius is unquestioned and whose achievements have been recognized by the world ever since. The roll of sculptors of the century worthily closes with the name of John of Bologna, who was born at Douai in Flanders, but passed all his life in Italy, and it is hard to know whether to group him with the Italian or extra-Italian sculptors. Most of his great work was done after the end of our century, but as he was probably more than twenty-five years of age when the century closed, and received all his training and inspiration from the men of our time, he deserves a place here. John, who owes his name of Bologna to the fact that one of his greatest works, the bronze "Neptune," was prepared for the fountain of Bologna, was often called by his contemporaries _Il Fiammingo_, in reference to the place of his birth. Probably no sculptor of his time has been more popular all down the centuries than he, and there are very few with any claim to education and culture who do not know his wonderful figure of "Mercury," with winged feet borne aloft upon the breezes blowing out of the mouth of Aeolus, the god of the winds. There has probably never been a more masterly expression of light, easy, graceful movements in statuary than this. It is for his power to express movement {95} within the limitations of plastic art that John is famous. His "Rape of the Sabines" in the Bargello in Florence is declared "to have come nearer to expressing swift-flashing motion and airy lightness than has ever been accomplished before or since." He lacked the faults of exaggeration of the later Renaissance and had many of its best qualities. [Illustration: BENEDETTO ROVEZZANO, CHIMNEY PIECE] The sculptured work on and in the Certosa at Pavia belongs mainly to Columbus' period. It remains one of the great architectural and sculptural monuments of the world. It has its defects, which are mainly due to over-luxuriousness of decoration and failure to make the decoration and the structure itself harmonize, but it remains a beautiful example of the art of the time. It has continued to be ever since a place of pilgrimage for art lovers, and it will doubtless continue to be so for as long as this present phase of our civilization lasts. It contains some most effective work, and while not all of its sculpture is conceived in the true spirit of what belongs to plastic art, there is much of it that has never been surpassed except by supremely great sculptors, the men who are looked upon as the world's geniuses in this department. When the Certosa is compared with some of the churches which in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were thought to be the highest expressions of artistic excellence, the taste and the ability of the sculptors and architects of the Renaissance become manifest. Perhaps nothing brings out in greater relief the accomplishment of the sculptors of this period than the deep decadence of the art in the succeeding century. The only name that stands out with any prominence during the seventeenth century is that of Bernini, a man of undoubted talent, who, in a better period of art, might have been a sculptor of the first rank. Much of his monumental work, however, is thoroughly inartistic and has been declared "a series of perfect models of what is worst in plastic art." It is still more illuminating to learn that this work was looked upon in his time with the loftiest admiration. No sculptor in any period had quite so much fulsome praise. The eighteenth century sank, if possible, still lower in all that pertained to true sculpture, and sculptors often of great technical skill occupied themselves in making such {96} trivialities as statues covered with filmy veils, through which forms and features could be seen, and other tricks of art. It was not until Canova came at the end of the eighteenth century that there was any gleam of hope for sculpture, and even this was eclipsed to some extent by the classic formalism which came in with it. {97} CHAPTER VII SCULPTURE AND MINOR ARTS AND CRAFTS OUTSIDE OF ITALY While Italy excelled in sculpture at this time, as indeed in every department of art, the other countries of Europe practically all enjoyed a magnificent period of development in plastic art, not a little of it thoroughly national in character and some of the most precious of it quite apart from Italian influence. Besides, there was a marvellous accomplishment in the subsidiary arts and artistic crafts well deserving of mention which confirms the place of this period among the greatest of productive eras. A very noteworthy development of sculpture took place in the Netherlands, where in the midst of the rising democracies and the commercial prosperity there was a great outburst of artistic genius. Wealthy patrons had the good taste to recognize artistic genius and encourage it. There has never been a period or country when tradesmen proved more discriminatingly beneficent. It would be indeed surprising if the country that produced the Van Eycks and the first great evolution of oil painting with the work of Van der Weyden, Memling, Quentin Matsys, Gerard David and so many others on canvas, should not have given us sculpture worthy of this fine artistic development. We do not, as a rule, know the names of the individual sculptors in the Netherlands, because apparently they looked upon themselves as artist artisans, whose duty it was to do their work faithfully and thoroughly, looking for no reward of fame and no special recognition beyond their own consciousness of having done good work. Their sculptures are to be seen in many places, in the cathedrals, the town halls and the other beautiful buildings erected at this time. Louvain, Brussels and many of the other towns of what is now Belgium {98} particularly must have had many artistic workers in stone who well deserved the name of sculptors. They executed not only beautifully decorative work, but also full-length statues, busts, medallions in high and low relief, and plastic ornaments of all kinds. The high quality of their accomplishment can scarcely be disputed, and yet the lack of their names has often left the impression that there were no great sculptors at this time; the fine sculpture that has come down to us is, however, an emphatic contradiction of any such notion. Some of the work done in the humble medium of wood is particularly interesting. The charmingly artistic wood-carving of the consecration of St. Eloi in the Church of Notre Dame at Bruges is a striking example. The choir seats of the Church at Louvain are quite as worthy of high praise, and the wood-carvings in the choir at Harlem so often admired come from this same period. Perhaps one of the best examples of the wood-carving of the time is the pulpit of the Cathedral at Leyden, which was made in this century. The tombs of Mary of Burgundy and of Charles the Bold in the Church of Notre Dame, Bruges, still further emphasize the sculptural capacity of these generations, though, from the rarity of large masterpieces, there were apparently but few opportunities to display it on a monumental scale. These monuments, especially the older one, are supremely great works of art. A comparison of them is very illuminating for the history of sculpture in our period. Though constructed scarcely half a century apart, they are executed under the influence of the two typical but very different art impulses of this century. The tomb of Mary, made by Peter Beckere of Brussels in 1502, is mediaeval and Gothic in spirit. That of Charles, made by order of Philip II just before 1560, is a distinctly Renaissance work. The later is much more modern and obvious in the meaning of all its symbolism, but one need not be an artist to see how much more genuinely artistic is the earlier tomb. At first glance one seems almost a replica of the other, except, of course, for the figure of the deceased and the subjects of the decorations of the sarcophaguses, but it takes but little study to discover what a descent there is in the art quality of the Renaissance work. Nowhere can one see the {99} value of the old and the new nor compare Gothic and Renaissance so easily as here. [Illustration: PULPIT, LEYDEN] Sculpture developed very wonderfully in Germany during the first half of Columbus' Century. The commercial prosperity of the time, the development of industries and the increase of trade caused an inflow of wealth into many of the cities of Southern Germany particularly, and not a little of this wealth found its way through the generosity of donors into the decoration of their churches. The people's faith was deep and full. Reform had not yet come to disturb it. Germany devoted itself especially to sculptured decoration in wood. An immense number of carved altars, pulpits, choir screens, stalls, tabernacles and other church fittings of very great elaborateness and usually fine artistic quality were produced. One of the first of the great German wood-carvers was Jörg Syrlin, who executed the famous choir stalls of Ulm cathedral, so richly decorated and ornamented with statuettes and canopies. His son of the same name did the great pulpit in the same cathedral and was given the commission for the elaborate stalls in Blaubeuren church. These were finished within a year of the discovery of America. At Nuremberg wood-carving also reached a high degree of excellence, and Veit Stoss of Nuremberg, though notorious for his escapades, was looked upon as the most skilful of artists for church woodwork. He was invited to Cracow to do the high altar, the tabernacle and the stalls of the Frauenkirchen. His masterpiece is the great wooden panel nearly six feet square, carved toward the end of the fifteenth century, with an immense number of scenes from Bible history, which is now among the treasures of the Nuremberg town hall. Albrecht Dürer himself with Renaissance versatility took up sculpture and did not despise even the humble medium of wood. He was a clever wood-carver and executed a tabernacle with an exquisitely carved relief of Christ on the Cross between His mother and St. John, which still may be seen in the chapel of the monastery at Landau. The British Museum possesses a number of miniature reliefs in boxwood which were also made by Dürer, though he early abandoned wood-carving for art work in materials that might be expected {100} to be more enduring. The influence of the wood-carving of this period can be noted in the work of the sculptors of the time, even after they abandoned it for stone and bronze. {101} Adam Kraft's great Schreyer monument in St. Sebald's Church at Nuremberg, for instance, shows very clearly the influence of wood-carving. There is no doubt, however, about his high place among the sculptors, even of this glorious period, in the art. [Illustration: DÜRER, ST. JOHN BAPTIST PREACHING (BAS-RELIEF IN CARVED WOOD)] The Vischer family for three generations executed a series of very great monuments in bronze, especially during the second half of Columbus' Century. The genius of the family was Peter Vischer of the second generation, who was admitted as a master sculptor into the sculptors' guild of Nuremberg in 1489. Perhaps the most interesting thing about his work is his absolute mastery of the technique of his art. Few men have ever succeeded in casting in bronze to such good effect. After having finished the magnificent tomb of Archbishop Ernest in Magdeburg Cathedral, in which some traces of Gothic influence still linger, Vischer obtained the opportunity for his masterpiece in the beautiful canopy for the shrine of St. Sebald at Nuremberg, a veritable triumph of plastic art. Modern, critical appreciation of it has very well corroborated contemporary admiration. Its details are a never-ending source of interest and study. Some of the statuettes of saints attached to the slender columns of the canopy are among the most charming examples of their kind that we have. They have grace and dignity, as well as great expressiveness. Near the base there is a small, evidently portrait, figure of a rather stout, bearded man wearing a large leathern apron and holding some of the sculptor's tools with which he usually worked that is considered to be a figure of Peter himself. It is a marvel of clever realism. The story of the execution of this monumental masterpiece is of itself a lesson in the art work of the time. Peter was assisted by his sons, and they worked at it almost continuously for more than ten years, between 1508 and 1519. It was often extremely difficult for them to secure money enough for their work from the authorities who had agreed to pay, though stingily enough, yet they devoted themselves to it as whole-heartedly as if it was a munificently rewarded work. The smaller figures are executed with marvellous attention to detail, and every feature of the work, the graceful scroll {102} foliage so abundantly used, the dragons and even the grotesques, all the details which crowd every possible part of the canopy, were executed evidently without the slightest regard for the time and labor which were required for them and with the good workman's delight in his work. It has sometimes been said that these Teutonic sculptors of Nuremberg were mere workers in bronze who reproduced in that material the ideas and drawings of others. As pointed out by Cecil Headlam in his little book on "The Bronze Founders of Nuremberg," [Footnote 11] "The evidence of our eyes, which enable us to trace the development of their style, would be enough to refute that opinion even if we were without the documentary evidence which shows that father and sons alike were patient and painstaking draughtsmen as well as craftsmen all their lives." There is no doubt at all that they adopted and adapted many ideas from the great Italian sculptors of their own and the preceding time. They were deeply influenced by Sansovino, Donatello, Leonardo da Vinci, but they were not mere imitators and they were not plagiarists in any sense of the word. To quote Mr. Headlam again (page 131): [Footnote 11: "The Bronze Founders of Nuremberg: Peter Vischer and His Family," by Cecil Headlam, B. A., formerly Demi of Magdalen College, Oxford. London: George Bell & Sons, 1906.] "They could apply the lessons they had learnt from their careful study of the Italian Masters, and apply them with successful originality. It is in the energy which lives in the King Arthur, the simple yet vigorous composition and execution of bas-reliefs, such as the Healing of the Blind Man of St. Sebald's tomb, or the Tucher Memorial, with their wholly admirable treatment of lines and planes; it is in the tender and spiritual feeling infused into the greatest of their bronze portraits that the unanswerable vindication lies of an imitation proved not too slavish and of a study that has not deadened but inspired." Other cities in Southern Germany, as Augsburg and Innsbrück, and at least one city in Northern Germany, Lübeck, are in possession of bronze sculptures which show how thoroughly alive was the spirit of plastic art all over Germany at this time. [Illustration: KING ARTHUR (INNSBRUCK)] Innsbrück possesses a series of bronze statues, all of them {103} executed in the first half of the sixteenth century, which has always attracted the attention of the world artists ever since. There are twenty-eight colossal bronze figures around the tomb of the Emperor Maximilian which stands in the centre of the nave of the Cathedral. They are designed to represent the heroes of the olden time and one of them, usually looked upon as the finest, is an ideal statue of King Arthur of the Briton legends, famous for the nobility of the face and pose. He is represented in the plate armor of the early fifteenth century. The statue of Theodoric is also considered to be not only a very fine example of the work of the period, but also one of the world's great bronze statues. The difficulties encountered {104} in the accomplishment of the casting of the bronze for these were so great that the Emperor invited Peter Vischer from Nuremberg to superintend at least this portion of the work and it is probable that his influence was felt also on the modeling. The designs are usually attributed to local artists at Innsbruck, however, of whose names we are not sure. In nothing are these older periods so different from ours as in the utter neglect of artists to make any effort to secure their personal fame. [Illustration: HENRY VIII ON FIELD OF CLOTH OF GOLD (FROM THE BAS-RELIEFS OF THE HÔTEL BOURG HÉRALDE, ROUEN)] In France even before the time of the Renaissance, or at least before the effect of Greek ideas was felt, there was a magnificent development of sculpture, an inheritance from the older period of the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries which had left such magnificent monuments as the tombs in St. Denis, Le Beau Dieu at Amiens and the statues in the porch of the cathedral at Chartres. The first of these French Gothic sculptors of Columbus' Century is Colombe, trained in Flanders, who founded a school of sculpture at Tours. He {105} executed the tomb of Margaret of Austria and her husband Duke Philibert of Savoy in the Marble Church of Brou. Tours became a great centre of art in the latter half of the fifteenth century. Its name, the town of spires, indicates that there had always been aspirations after effect in their ecclesiastical architecture and this reached a culmination in statuary at this time. With Colombe his nephews worked while Jean Juste and his son collaborated in the poetic tomb built in honor of the son and daughter of Charles VIII in the Cathedral of Tours. Here also they erected the famous tomb of Louis XII and Anne of Bretagne, which has since been carried to St. Denis. The Justes had a power of putting touching human qualities into marble that has always given a special interest to their work. Jean Fouchet probably made at this time the lovely tomb of Agnes Sorel at Loches which has been so famous and has helped to make Loches a favorite pilgrimage place ever since. French sculpture touched by the Renaissance reached a further triumph of artistic development in the first half of the sixteenth century. Two names particularly stand out, those of Jean Goujon and Germain Pilon. Though the first signs of that affectation and mannerism which developed as the Renaissance progressed are to be already noted in their styles, they combined great technical skill with refinement in modelling. Undoubtedly the greatest of the French sculptors of the time was Jean Goujon, whose most pleasing work is the marble group of Diana reclining beside a stag, which exhibits a power beyond that of any except the greatest Italian sculptors. He executed a series of sculptures for the older part of the Louvre which beautifully harmonizes with the architecture. His reliefs for the Fountain of the Innocents are one of the best known of his works and have a charm all their own. The other great sculptor, Germain Pilon, trained under the influence of the Renaissance, did his best work just after the close of Columbus' Century. His group of the Three Graces bearing on their heads an urn containing the heart of Henry II, executed for Catherine de Medici, has been deservedly very much praised. Other men, Maitre Ponce and Barthélemy Prieur, did work that has attracted much attention about this same time. A fine portrait effigy of a recumbent figure in full {106} armor of the duke of Montmorency, which has always attracted the attention of those of critical artistic taste and is one of the treasures of the Louvre, is the work of Prieur. [Illustration: GOUJON, JEAN, JEWEL CABINET ] The story of subsequent decadence is as striking in France as in other countries. No sculpture of any significance appeared during the seventeenth century, though some of the artists of the time exhibited great technical skill. Indeed it was not until the coming of Hudon, at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century, that there is any relief from the story of mediocrity or worse, and {107} in his time the plastic arts had reached a very low ebb. Modern French sculpture is the result of the movement begun by Hudon, but it is separated from the Renaissance by nearly two centuries of debasement. A very interesting and valuable development of the arts and crafts that came in the Netherlands at this time was in the execution of art tapestries. This is the period when weaving of all kinds came to its highest perfection all over the world. The fifteenth and sixteenth century Oriental rugs command the highest prices and are among the most beautiful examples of carpet weaving that we have. In the Netherlands and in France tapestry reached its highest perfection and the examples executed at this time are now the precious treasures of governmental museums and similar public institutions almost without exception and probably will not change hands again because they are looked upon as too valuable for educational purposes and the uplifting of popular taste for public authorities ever to part with them. In the Netherlands particularly, tapestry-making reached a climax of perfection. After Michelangelo had been asked to decorate the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Raphael was requested to do a series of cartoons for the tapestries to be hung around the walls of it, which were to be executed in Flanders. After their completion they were the admiration of Rome, and we have many expressions of praise for them from the great men of the time whose critical ability in all matters relating to art cannot be doubted. Vasari has an enthusiastic tribute, which even discounting his well-known tendency to praise overmuch under certain circumstances, still serves to show how thoroughly satisfied this period of great art was with these masterpieces. He said: "One is astonished at the sight of this series. The execution is marvellous. One can hardly imagine how it was possible, with simple threads, to procure such delicacy in the hair and beards and to express the suppleness of flesh. It is a work more Godlike than human; the waters, the animals and the habitations are so perfectly represented that they appear painted with the brush, not woven." [Illustration: ARMOR (FIFTEENTH CENTURY MUSEUM OF ARTILLERY, PARIS)] The tapestries were first shown the day after Christmas, {108} 1519, in the Sistine Chapel for which they had been designed. Some of the greatest of the Renaissance scholars and artists and literary men were present on the occasion. It was the custom at that time to send as Ambassadors to Rome from foreign countries, distinguished scholars and amateurs. Many of these were present. All were enthusiastic in their admiration. Rumor said that they were quite unable to express all that they felt for these new works of art. Everyone present, one of the guests said in a letter to his sovereign, was speechless at the sight of these hangings and it is the unanimous opinion that nothing more beautiful exists in the universe. Another of those present wrote: {109} "After the Christmas celebrations were over, the Pope exposed in his chapel seven tapestries (the eighth not being finished) executed in the West (in Flanders). They were considered by every one the most beautiful specimens of the weaver's art ever executed. And this in spite of the celebrity attained by other tapestries--those in the antechamber of Pope Julius II, those made for the Marchese of Mantua after the cartoons of Mantegna, and those made for the King of Naples. They were designed by Raphael of Urbino, an excellent painter, who received from the Pope 100 ducats for each cartoon. They contain much gold, silver and silk, and the weaving cost 1,500 ducats apiece--a total of 16,000 ducats ($160,000) for the set--as the Pope himself says, though rumor would put the cost at 20,000 golden ducats." Even this account gives evidence that it was not because of their rarity, but on account of their unique quality that the Sistine tapestries were so much admired. As a matter of fact, most of the ruling court families of Italy ordered tapestries for themselves that have since become famous and most of these were made in France and in the Netherlands. There is absolutely no doubt left now that this is the period when the best tapestries ever made were woven. George Leland Hunter in his "Tapestries, Their Origin, History and Renaissance" [Footnote 12] says that the Golden Age of tapestries was the Gothic Renaissance Transition--the last half of the fifteenth century and the first half of the sixteenth century--the hundred years during which Renaissance tapestries began and Gothic tapestries ceased to be woven, while many of the greatest tapestries were of mixed style like the story of the Virgin at Rheims. There are sets woven at various times during this period which are among the greatest tapestry treasures of the world. The largest of all these sets is the story of St. Rémi in the church of the same name at Rheims--sixteen feet high with a combined width of 165 feet. When exhibited at the Paris Exhibition in 1900, one of them, wrong side out in order to display the richness and solidity of the ancient unfaded colors, attracted the attention of amateurs from all over the world. The story of St. Étienne in nine pieces at the Cluny Museum {110} at Paris was presented to the Cathedral of Auxerre in 1502. [Footnote 12: John Lane Co., New York, 1912. pp. 33.] As a matter of fact there was scarcely a cathedral or monastery in France at this time that did not come into the possession of beautiful tapestries that are now very precious treasures. During recent years the value of such tapestries have increased very much and our millionaires have been willing to spend almost fabulous sums in order to get possession of them. We have had the opportunity here in America through the munificence of the late Mr. Pierpont Morgan to see some of them in the Metropolitan Museum and have learned to realize that the praise of them is well deserved. Mr. Hunter says that "the most famous tapestries in the world are the Renaissance tapestries, though the only distinction in most cases between the Gothic tapestries of the end of the fifteenth and the Renaissance tapestries at the beginning of the sixteenth, is that in one, whatever architecture or ornamentation or decoration is used has Gothic motives, while the models for these same details in the later tapestries is drawn from the Renaissance." The Brussels tapestries of the early sixteenth century are particularly beautiful and are the despair of the modern tapestry makers. Other Flemish cities, however, Arras, Tournai, Bruges, Lille, Antwerp became famous for their tapestries and Delft, in Holland, was a worthy rival. The art seems to require too much patience for our modern artisans to compete with their brethren of the old time, but doubtless with the rise and appreciation of artistic handicraftsmanship and the demand for charming decoration of homes and public buildings regardless of cost, we may look confidently for a development even in this line. The other phases of the arts and crafts also developed very wonderfully outside of Italy as well as in the peninsula. Beautiful vessels for altar use, chalices, candlesticks, crucifixes and the like were made, and indeed this is the supreme period of their manufacture. Some of the chalices of this time were made by distinguished sculptors who felt that they could not devote themselves to more suitable art work than this for Church purposes. Under the inspiration of deep religious feeling some even of the smaller pieces are among the world's {111} great works of art. Benvenuto Cellino made morses, chalices and crucifixes that are famous. Many of these were executed for patrons outside of Italy. His well-known crucifix in the Escurial near Madrid, made for Philip II, is a typical example. Processional crosses lent themselves to decorative effect very well, and some of them from this time are indeed very beautiful works of art. The same application of artistic craftsmanship was to be noted with regard to nearly everything meant for the service of the Church or for use in municipal building for the decoration of municipal property. The well-known iron well railing executed, it is said, by Quentin Matsys (or Massys), when the artist was but a blacksmith and had not yet taken up painting, is a typical sample of the combination of the beautiful and useful which characterizes so much of the work of this time and carries away every point of admiration. [Illustration: SCENT BOX (CHASED GOLD, FRENCH, FIFTEENTH CENTURY)] There was scarcely any form of decorative work that did not receive high artistic development at this time nearly everywhere throughout Europe. In recent years enamels have attracted much attention, and the recent presentation of the Barwell collection to the British Museum brought the Limoges work into prominence again. The London _Illustrated News_ reproduced a series of Limoges enamels in the Barwell collection that are marvellous in color and artistic excellence. {112} The Courtois, the younger of whom, Jean, died in 1586, are probably the greatest artistic craftsmen in this mode. Pierre Courtois (or Courteys) made just about the end of our century the largest enamels which ever came out of Limoges with life-size figures of the Virtues. Pierre Reymond (Raymond or Rexmont), who was the Mayor of Limoges in 1567, did some work that attracted attention as early as 1532. The stream of artistic influence at this time can be studied very well in his work, for he was influenced by the Germans in his early maturity, later came under the influence of the Italian school, though he had been a pupil of Nardon Pénicaud, who himself came of a famous French family of fifteenth and sixteenth century artists, whose work always possesses distinction. Some of the plaques and salvers of this time in enamel are among the most precious treasures of national collections throughout the world. [Illustration: SEATS (fifteenth CENTURY MINIATURES)] Some of the locks and keys and latches and hinges for doors made during this period are among the most beautiful examples of iron work in the world. The Cluny Museum in Paris possesses a number of these as well as other iron work of Columbus' Century which show that the men of this time had the true artistic spirit in their work. The armorers of the period made probably the most beautiful armor that has ever been made, and the finest pieces in collections, especially {113} in national armories, are nearly all from this time. Scent boxes and jewel boxes of various kinds in the precious or semi-precious metals were always executed with fine artistic taste, or at least some of the best examples of these in the world come from this time. Clocks were made with a perfection of mechanism and at the same time an ornateness that give them a place in the art world instead of merely in the industrial domain. The furniture of the time is noted for its artistic quality, and some of the smaller pieces made by well-known sculptors or under their direction were works of art that now are thought of as world treasures for all time. [Illustration: CLOCK (FIFTEENTH CENTURY, PARIS)] {114} CHAPTER VIII THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE CENTURY Just as the introduction of Greek ideas gave a new impetus to literature and art and sculpture and painting, so it did also, and perhaps to an even greater degree, to architecture. The effect of classic thought had begun to be felt before 1450. It was noted first in ecclesiastical architecture and its influence can be traced throughout Europe. Brunelleschi, who built the great dome of the Cathedral in Florence, died in 1444, but not until he had shown the world of his time how beautiful such a conception was and how it could be accomplished. He had gone to Rome and studied the Pantheon, as well as all the other great buildings which the Romans had left in that city, and during his studies, becoming enamored of the subject, he mastered every detail of their style and became familiar with every form of Roman art. He first completed the Church of San Lorenzo in Florence and then was entrusted with a larger work, the completion of the Santo Spirito, which Arnolfo and Giotto had left unfinished and apparently, according to the practice of the Middle Ages, without even a drawing to show how they intended to complete it. They would have given it a Gothic roof. Brunelleschi conceived the dome and then, in the course of his studies and designing, definitely initiated the development of Renaissance architecture. The first important influence in the architecture of our century is Leon Battista Alberti, who was led to the study of architecture because of his interest in classical literature and his desire to restore a classical style in building as well as in letters. In order to accomplish this, he wrote a text-book of architecture, _"De re aedificatoria."_ Besides the theory of classic architecture, he also devoted himself to its practical exemplification, and there are some models of his work that are well {115} known. The charming little classic Church of San Francesco at Rimini and the much more important Church of San Andrea at Mantua were erected under his direction. The latter Church is noted, according to Fergusson in his "History of Modern Architecture," [Footnote 13] for "the beauty of its proportions, the extreme elegance of every part and the appropriateness of the modes in which classical details are used without the least violence or straining." All the details of the classical architecture as applied to Churches are to be found in this in their simplest and most sincere form. They were to become so familiar afterwards as to represent a standard of Church architecture. [Footnote 13: Dodd, Mead & Co., 1899.] [Illustration: ALBERTI, SAN FRANCESCO (RIMINI)] [Illustration: MICHELANGELO, ST. PETER's (ROME)] The great development of this new style came under {116} Bramante of Urbino, who was born the year that Brunelleschi died. His most remarkable monument in ecclesiastical architecture is the Church at Lodi. Alberti's work had been mainly {117} the restoration of the Basilican form. Bramante emphasized the domical or Byzantine type. After these two the change from the mediaeval to the modern style of architecture may be said to have been completed and under the most favorable auspices. The dome of Santa Maria delle Grazie, which Fergusson pronounces "both externally and internally one of the most pleasing specimens of its class found anywhere," is another monument to Bramante's genius. Bramante is most famous, however, for his bold design and magnificent foundations for St Peter's at Rome. He did not live to complete this, but had his original plan been carried out, the finished building would have been in many ways more satisfactory than it is and would have exhibited many less serious architectural faults. An excellent type of the ornate architecture of the Renaissance period is the facade of the famous Certosa near Pavia. The designs for it were prepared by Borgognone, a distinguished Milanese artist of that time, one of whose pictures will be found reproduced in the chapter on Secondary Italian Painters. He was much more essentially a painter than an architect, and this the Certosa demonstrates. Many an architect, with no ambition outside of his own department, would be eminently well pleased, however, to have succeeded in producing so beautiful and harmonious a design as may be seen in the façade of the great Church of the Italian Carthusians. The architectural monument of the century is St. Peter's at Rome, designed originally by Bramante, whose design was developed and harmonized very beautifully by Sangallo, but only after Raphael had carried on Bramante's work for some six years and Baldassare Peruzzi had succeeded him for an equal term, though without accomplishing much. The defects so often noted come from this succession of architects. Sangallo's design has been preserved for us and shows what a magnificent conception he had. Michelangelo's dome might well have taken its place in this design without any of the overpowering effect that it has on the structure as completed. In spite of all the criticism that may be made of St. Peter's, because, as the editor of the recent edition of Fergusson's "History of Architecture" (Dodd, Mead & Co., 1899) says, "the {118} big pulls away from the beautiful and there must be a compromise," it is one of the most wonderful of churches and one of the most marvellous structures that ever came from the hand of man. Fergusson himself is severe in criticism, and yet he says, "in spite of all its faults of detail, the interior of St. Peter's approaches more nearly to the sublime in architectural effect than any other which the hand of man has executed." In England Renaissance architecture, that is the influence of the classical, had very little, indeed almost no effect during Columbus' Century. The genius, as well as the taste of the builders and architects of the time, however, is well illustrated by the development of Gothic architecture which took place in this period. The Italians of the Renaissance decided that the interior of buildings should be decorated by paintings. The English builders were yet in the period in which they considered that the interior decoration, just as the exterior decoration, should flow naturally from the construction of the building. These two styles are very well illustrated in two famous structures which were built within the same generation, though separated by half the width of the European continent, and which are triumphs of the respective styles of architecture. These are the Sistine Chapel at Rome and King's College Chapel of Cambridge, the plans of which, because of the inevitable contrast they suggest and the supreme effectiveness of both of them, deserve study. Each has a beauty of its own that advocates of either style cannot help but admire, and both give magnificent testimony to the power of the men of this time to express themselves nobly and beautifully in structural work under the influence of religious ideas. In Spain the architecture of the time is noteworthy, though it is mainly of ecclesiastical character. All of the buildings erected by Ferdinand and Isabella are in the Gothic style, and the famous Church of St. John of the Kings at Toledo is as Gothic as the chapel of Henry VII at Westminster. The Cathedral at Salamanca commenced in 1513 and that of Segovia in 1525 are both thoroughly Gothic. These buildings are so well known that the accomplishment of this period in architecture need scarcely be emphasized. The first distinctively Renaissance work in Spain is the Cathedral at {119} Granada, which, though Gothic in certain ways, contains Renaissance suggestions and modifications of form that have been adopted for many modern Churches. [Illustration: ALBERTI, RUCELLAI PALACE (FLORENCE)] The secular architecture of this period made as great progress as the ecclesiastical architecture, and it is of even greater interest because nearly all the ideas in common use among architects for monumental public buildings or ambitious private structures in our time are adopted and adapted from the architecture of Columbus' Century. As in ecclesiastical {120} architecture, the Renaissance begins in Florence. The erection of two of the magnificent palaces of the city, still well known and admired, the Riccardi, formerly called the Medicean, and the Pitti, were the initial steps. The Riccardi was designed by Michelozzi and has a splendid façade 500 feet in length and 90 feet in height. The Pitti is 490 feet in length, three stories high in the centre, each story 40 feet in height, with immense windows 24 feet apart from centre to centre. They show very well what the architects of this time could accomplish on this grand scale. Both were completed just about the beginning of Columbus' Century. After this, the Florentine buildings became more ornate, and yet with the ornament properly adapted to the structure and producing an effect of beauty that has deservedly won modern admiration and study. Probably the two most famous buildings of the first half of Columbus' Century are the Rucellai and the Guadagni palaces of Florence, the façades of which have been much admired. The Rucellai Palace was designed by Alberti, the Guadagni by Bramante. As their ideas dominated ecclesiastical architecture, so now they were to dominate secular architecture. After Florence comes Venice, and here the wealth of the city, its Oriental affiliations and the light and air of its surroundings gave rise to a series of marvellously beautiful ornate Renaissance buildings, famous throughout the world and especially known to English-speaking people through Ruskin's "Stones of Venice." The most famous of these is the Palazzo Vendramini, which may be permitted to speak for itself. One of the most beautiful buildings in Venice is the Library of St. Mark, situated exactly opposite the Doge's Palace and built by Sansovino. Scarcely less beautiful is San Micheli's masterpiece, the Palace of the Grimani, which is now the post-office. These buildings are familiar to all. To know them is to admire them, and the architects of every progressive structural period since have devoted much study to them. [Illustration: COURT DOGE'S PALACE (VENICE)] A very interesting development of Renaissance architecture took place in the little city of Vicenza, the birthplace of Palladio and the scene of some of his best work. Palladio was not so perfect in his achievements, as some of his admirers have suggested, but he applied most of the Renaissance ideas to {121} architecture very successfully, and his influence upon the after-time, as some of the illustrations which we have selected from his work will show, has been felt at all times and nearly everywhere. The Thiene Palace, which has been very much praised {122} and is generally quoted as one of his most successful designs, has been criticized rather severely by Fergusson, and yet its effectiveness cannot be gainsaid. The Chiericate Palace, another one of Palladio's designs reckoned among his best, has the objection that it is open and weak at the angles and solid in the centre and the centre is full above and weak below, and yet, after mentioning these faults, Fergusson says that there is "an exquisite proportion of parts which redeems this façade and an undefinable elegance of detail which disarms the critic of Palladio's work so that in spite of the worst possible arrangements they still leave a pleasing impression on the mind of the spectator." This is, perhaps, damning by faint praise, but it is praise indeed from Fergusson. Many others have been most enthusiastic about this and other of Palladio's works, and one has only to look around at our modern ambitious structures to realize how much of influence Palladio still has. In Genoa there are some very beautiful buildings of this time, though as their material, despite the name "the city of palaces," was mainly rubble masonry covered with stucco, the windows without dressings, the intention being to paint the architectural mouldings on the stucco and also to paint frescoes between them, the unsatisfactoriness of much of the architecture for modern study can be realized. In spite of these limitations, Galeazzo Alessi (1500 to 1572) succeeded in making some very beautiful buildings. Probably the most admired example is the building now known as the Municipalata in the Strada Nuova, formerly known as the Tursi-Doria Palace. Vignola (1507 to 1573) occupies the place in Rome that Palladio holds in Vicenza towards the end of Columbus' Century. A charming example of his construction is the Villa of Pope Julius near Rome, the façade of which is certainly his and which, without being ambitious, represents his power to express simplicity and dignity even in a summer house. His great work is the Palace of Caprarola, built some thirty miles outside of Rome for the Cardinal Alessandro Farnese. The building is all the more interesting because it has furnished ideas for some of the larger public buildings of our time and contains more than a suggestion for some recent architectural plans of somewhat startling character for New York City. {123} [Illustration: PALLADIO, BARBARANO PALACE (VICENZA)] {124} The plan of the Palace of Caprarola is a pentagon enclosing a circular court, each of the five sides measures 130 feet and the court is 65 feet in diameter, while the three stories are each about 30 feet in height. It is usually considered one of the finest palaces in Italy. In spite of the difficulty of the task and the singularly unfavorable nature of pentagonal form for architectural effect externally and commodious arrangements internally, the architect succeeded admirably. As the picture of it shows very well, the approach was managed beautifully and the effect of castellation very well secured. The story of architecture, secular as well as religious, outside of Italy is quite as interesting as that in Italy itself at this time. Everywhere throughout Europe beautiful buildings were erected in charming taste and with fine effectiveness. This is particularly true as regards the municipal buildings of various kinds, the town halls, the hospitals, the asylums for foundling children, and all the other structures due to civic munificence at this time. Just as in regard to painting and sculpture, the Netherlands was the seat of some extremely beautiful artistic work of great originality and perfection of detail during this period. There is scarcely an important town of Belgium, and even a number of those that have become quite unimportant in our time, which does not present some architectural monument of cardinal importance in the history of architecture. While Italy is much better known, Belgium deserves, and in recent years has very properly received, devoted attention from students and amateurs in all the arts, and not least has its architecture come into its due meed of praise and appreciation. [Illustration: HOTEL DE VILLE, LOUVAIN] One of the most beautiful architectural monuments of the later fifteenth century is the town hall of Louvain. Indeed, it is one of the most beautiful architectural monuments of its kind in the world. Schayes, in his "History of Architecture," says, "Not only is the Hôtel de Ville of Louvain the most remarkable municipal edifice in Belgium, but one may seek in vain its equal in Europe." Its architect, whose name was unknown until well on in the nineteenth century, was only a master mason of this capital of Brabant when he was entrusted {125} with the task of making for the burghers of one of the most important towns of the time a town hall such as they would consider worthy of them, but above all surpassing those erected by any of the neighboring towns. He succeeded eminently in fulfilling the commission, and fortunately the town hall remains almost in its original condition as a monument to the wonderful artistic workmanship of the time. [Illustration: ALCALÁ, PARANIMFO (STATE APARTMENT OF UNIVERSITY)] George Wharton James, in his book on "Some Old Flemish Towns," says, "The exquisite Hôtel de Ville reminds one of the caskets or reliquaries which Kings and Queens used to give to be placed upon the high altars of Cathedrals. There is the same simplicity of design, the same beauty of line, the {126} rectangle with gables, emphasized by a graceful tower at each pinnacle, and another at each angle, the whole finished with a crown spire tipped with a golden flèche." The decorations are most delicate, reminding one of the lace work of the country, but it seems almost incredible that this effect should have been produced so marvellously in stone. [Illustration: ALCALÁ, ARCHIEPISCOPAL PALACE COURT] In spite of the multitude of decorations, the structure does not strike one, as do so many of the buildings of the seventeenth century, as over-decorated, but somehow all the charming sculptured ornament seems as {127} suitably in place here as it is in the exquisite patterns of the lace of the town. The beautiful Hôtel de Ville of Brussels is almost as interesting as that at Louvain and represents the early part of the Columbus' Century. At the opposite side of the Grande Place is what is now known as the Maison du Roi, formerly known as the Broodhuis or House of Bread, which is scarcely less interesting, though very much restored, than the Hôtel de Ville. The one is a monument of the Gothic of the middle of the fifteenth century, the other shows the influence of the Renaissance in the early sixteenth century. The whole of the Grand Place gives an excellent idea of the devotion of these municipalities to civic beauty and monumental construction and represents an anticipation of ideas that are usually considered modern but that were very thoroughly developed and applied in making the "City Beautiful" in Columbus' Century. Were there space, much might be said here about the magnificent town halls of Bruges, Ghent and other cities of the Netherlands. The architecture of Spain, practically always connected with the names of ecclesiastics and usually built for ecclesiastical or educational or charitable purposes, shows very well the profound intellectual genius of the people for whom Columbus' discovery was made and who were beginning to reap the material benefits of his extension of the Spanish realms in the Western continent. One of the most important of the buildings of the time is that of the University of Alcalá, under the direction of the celebrated Cardinal Ximenes, or Cisneros. The rebuilding commenced about 1510 and continued nearly to the end of Columbus' Century. It is an extremely beautiful building. The Archiepiscopal Palace is quite equal to it, and its court has been very highly praised. Fergusson has spoken highly of the bracket capitals in the upper story of this court, of which we give a sketch, and he thinks this invention of the Spanish architect a distinctly new and valuable idea in architecture which unfortunately has not been commonly adopted. Some of the internal arrangements have been very much admired, and the Paranimfo, a state apartment in the University, deserves attention not only for its intrinsic beauty, but {128} from its being so essentially Spanish in style. The roof is of richly-carved woodwork in panels in a style borrowed from the Moors. Fergusson says that there is another and more beautiful specimen of this sort of work in the chapel of the University above the Cenotaph of the great Cardinal. [Illustration: CLOISTER, (LUPIANA, SPAIN)] Elsewhere in Spain some of these beautiful courts and interiors were ornamented very highly as became a Southern {129} people, and yet with an effectiveness and taste that have caused them to be very much admired in after-times. In the Monastery of Lupiana there is a cloistered court similar in design to that at Alcalá, but even grander, four stories in height, each gallery being lighter than the one below it and so arranged as to give the appearance of sufficient strength, combined with the lightness and elegance peculiarly appropriate to domestic architecture, especially when employed internally as it is here. Fergusson, from whom the opinion just expressed is quoted, thinks that the Spanish architects were far more happy than their Italian brethren in this regard and mainly because they borrowed ideas from their own Spanish art rather than kept too insistently to classic ideas. Two royal buildings in Spain, the Palace of Charles V at Granada and the Alcazar of Toledo, deserve to be mentioned. The Alcazar was begun before the end of Columbus' Century, but not finished until later. The sketch of it here presented gives an excellent idea of how simple and yet properly ornate for monumental purposes the Spanish architects were making their buildings at this time. The truly Spanish features of solidity below, with the increasing richness and openness above, is very effective and is all the more interesting because historians of architecture declare that this effect was little understood outside of the Spanish peninsula. The upper portion of the famous tower of the Giralda at Seville, which has always attracted so much attention for its beauty, was being built just at the close of the century. We in modern America have given it the tribute of sincerest flattery by imitating it in the tower of Madison Square Garden. It is interesting to realize that the Spaniards put a figure of Faith at the summit of the beautiful tower, pointing strikingly heavenward. Is it significant that we in our time have found nothing better to put there than the outworn symbol of a statue to Diana? French secular architecture at this time made some fine achievements which are very well known and have been very much admired. The Louvre in Paris is a succession of monuments to the architectural spirit of the French for centuries. I think that there is very general agreement that the portion {130} of this building erected in Columbus' Century is not only the most interesting, but the most beautiful. The Pavilion de I'Horloge is quite charming in its effectiveness. The ornamental portions are said to have been sculptured from designs furnished by Jean Goujon. This is enough of itself to make us sure that they would be beautiful, but they were besides very artistically designed to heighten the effect of the architecture. [Illustration: ALCAZAR (TOLEDO, EXTERNAL FAÇADE)] The best-known contributions to architecture by the French in this time are their famous châteaux. The typical example of these is the Château of Chambord, commenced by Francis I immediately after his return from his Spanish captivity. While the design is classical in detail, it is eminently French in character, and it has been a favorite study of architects ever since. Its repute shows how well architects at this time {131} accomplished their purpose of making an impressively beautiful building. At this same time the Château of Madrid, situated in the Bois de Boulogne at Paris and which was unfortunately destroyed during the Revolution, was built, and the sketches that are left to us show us its beauty and effectiveness secured through comparative simplicity. All the famous châteaux of France were either built or received their most famous additions under the influence of the new spirit that came into architecture under the influence of Francis I. Those of Bury and Blois and Amboise and Chenonceaux were products of this period. The staircase and the wing in the centre of which it stands at Blois are among the most admired, or at least the most frequently drawn, of the works of this age. All the other departments of architecture, besides the ecclesiastical and municipal, were affected by the enterprising spirit which entered into architecture at this time. Leonardo da Vinci offered to build fortifications under any and all circumstances, the more difficult the better, and succeeded in doing some excellent work. According to tradition he laid firm foundations, even under water, for certain French fortifications, and these still remain. In bridge building particularly this period did some excellent work. In the chapter on Social Work and Workers will be found an illustration of the bridge built across the Avon at Stratford by Sir Hugh Clopton about the time of the discovery of America, which shows that they could build beautifully as well as enduringly at this time. There are many private houses in the towns of Europe erected at this time, some of them even by families without any pretension to wealth or nobility, which illustrate very well how sincere and thorough was their domestic architecture, how beautiful because of its honest straightforwardness and how eminently enduring. Fra Giocondo, who edited the Aldine edition of Vitruvius in 1511 and who edited Caesar in 1513, introduced illustrations into these works, and particularly a plan of Caesar's bridge across the Rhine. He used his classical knowledge to good purpose, however, for in the service of the king of France he probably built two of the noble bridges that still span the Seine. These were finished early in the {132} sixteenth century. It would not be difficult to note other examples of this same kind in many parts of Europe at this time. Fergusson summed up the place of this century in architecture very well in his advice to Italy as to what must be done in order to restore to that country the precedence that she won in architecture in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. He said (p. 169): "Italy has only to go back to the inspirations which characterize the end of the fifteenth and the dawn of the sixteenth century, to base upon them a style which will be as beautiful as it would be appropriate to her wants and her climate. If she will only attempt to revive the traditions of the great age which is hallowed by the memories of Leonardo da Vinci and Raphael, of Bramante, Sangallo, and even of Michelangelo, she cannot go wrong. These men erred occasionally from inexperience, and because the system under which the art was conducted in their days was such as to render success impossible; but their aspirations were right, and there was an impress of nobleness on their works _which has not since been surpassed._ "Since their time the history of Italian art may be summed up in a few words. During the fifteenth century it was original, appropriate and grand; during the sixteenth it became correct and elegant, though too often also tinctured with pedantry; and in the seventeenth it broke out into caprice and affectation, till it became as bizarre as it was tasteless. During the eighteenth it sank down to a uniform level of timid mediocrity, as devoid of life as it is of art." It is as true for all the countries of Europe as for Italy that what is needed for the redemption of architecture from the unfortunate sordid influences which have crept over it is a return to the ideas of Columbus' Century. Fortunately, since Fergusson wrote his paragraph of advice for Italy, a great change has come over the attitude of men generally toward architecture, and beautiful buildings are being erected nearly everywhere, most of them with Renaissance ideas prominent in them, but above all with the lessons drawn from this fruitful period of beautiful construction guiding the minds and hands of architects and builders. All around us handsome Renaissance buildings are rising. Inasmuch as they are mere {133} imitations, they are unfortunate evidence of our lack of originality. If, somehow, using the same high standards of taste and the inspiration of the classic authors as did the men of Columbus' Century, we can succeed in evolving an architecture suited to our conditions and our environment and appropriate for the uses of our day, then we shall accomplish the solution of the problem which they solved so well. What they did above all was to accomplish in building Horace's dictum that "he who mingles the useful and the beautiful takes every point." The merely useful is hideous. The merely beautiful is monstrous. Success lies in that combination of use and beauty, of which Columbus' contemporaries so ingeniously found the key. {134} CHAPTER IX MUSIC Everyone concedes the supreme accomplishment of Italy in the arts of painting, sculpture, architecture, and even in the lesser arts and crafts during the Renaissance period, which we have called Columbus' Century. It is not always realized, however, that her place in music is almost equally important and that her accomplishment in this art came also during this same period. While musical development into modern forms came as a rule after the close of our century, the great foundations of modern music were laid at this time. These are not so deep beneath the surface of developed music, however, as to be hidden from us entirely at the present time. On the contrary, there are many composers and musical measures of this period which still have an interest quite apart from their antiquity and which music-lovers know very well in spite of the time that has elapsed since their composition. We know nothing of ancient music, and indeed are scarcely able to conceive just how Grecian music was composed or written and expressed. It might be thought, then, that the Renaissance, representing the influence upon the modern world of the rebirth of Greek ideas, would be lacking in any important development of music. In every other department, even in that of science, indeed it might well be said, especially in that of science, the influence of contact with ancient Greek ideas can be readily seen. They formed the stimulus for study and often supplied the fundamental information on which modern, that is Renaissance, developments were built up. Without this aid from the ancients, then, it might reasonably be expected that music would be neglected or would certainly be in abeyance, but this is not the case. There is a great period of musical history, not perhaps so significant as the progress in other departments of aesthetics, but containing within itself {135} a magnificent achievement and the germ of all our modern music. Perhaps there is nothing that demonstrates so well the fact that the Renaissance was not, as it is so often considered, a rebirth out of nothingness after some 1500 years of darkness and lack of accomplishment than the history of music. Only that there had been a great period of advance in Europe before the Renaissance, the stimulus of Greek would have had very little effect. The old philosophers said that things are received according to the capacity of the receiver, and in the modern time a favorite maxim of teachers is that students take away from a lecture what is of value to them just in proportion to what they brought to it. It was the height of the culture of the preceding period that enabled the generations of the Renaissance to take such good advantage of the New Learning. In music, there being no New Learning, they had to depend on their own efforts, and the magnificent fruits of their musical progress show how the genius of the time was capable of accomplishment for itself. As a result of the lack of any stimulus from Greek sources for music, the first development of it at this time is noted not in Italy, as is true for other modes of aesthetic evolution because of contiguity to Greece, but, on the contrary, in the distant West of Europe and especially in the Netherlands. Henderson, in his "The Story of Music," declares that "all the countries at this time took Netherlandish masters," and one finds the names of distinguished teachers of music, who were from the Low Countries, in centres so far apart as Naples, Venice, Munich and Madrid. The first of these, who was an extremely important factor in the music of the time, was Ockeghem, or Ockenheim, of Hainault, who, in the latter half of the fifteenth century, came to be looked upon as probably the greatest teacher of the time. He is surpassed in fame by his pupil, Josse Despres, usually known by the name, familiarly used among his friends, Josquin, who is also a native of Hainault. Henderson declares that "in technical skill no master has ever surpassed Ockeghem; and all that he knew he taught Josquin, who made it the outlet for his real musical genius." Luther said of him, "They sing {136} only Josquin in Italy; Josquin alone in France; only Josquin in Germany; in Flanders, in Hungary, in Bohemia, in Spain, it is always only Josquin." From this testimony, and the otherwise well-known popularity of this composer's music, it is probable that there has never been a great European musician who, in his own time, has gained more universal acclaim among music-lovers than Josquin. There is no doubt at all of the merit of his work. Arcadelt, who was Palestrina's teacher at Rome and himself a distinguished musician of this time, said of him: "Other composers make their music where their notes take them, but Josquin takes his music where he wills." Arcadelt's musical ability is recognized; an Ave Maria by him is still often sung. Other countries were not without an important development in music at this time. England had been the leader in musical composition and evolution before Flanders had her turn. In the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries England had developed part singing and also laid the foundations of counterpoint. In the fifteenth century musical composition and erudition came to be considered of so much importance that academic honors were conferred on musicians. John Hamboys, the author of some treatises on the art of music, is said to be the first on whom the degree of Doctor of Music was ever conferred. In 1463, according to the records, the University of Cambridge conferred the degree of Doctor of Music on Thomas Seynt Just and the degree of Bachelor of Music on Henry Habyngton. During the following century it was required that candidates for the degree of Musical Doctor should present an original musical composition. America has followed England in the granting of academic degrees for music, though I believe no other country has done so except Ireland. In the latter half of Columbus' Century there was a vigorous native school of music in Germany which devoted itself, however, almost entirely to the composition of songs for the people. The best known of the composers of this time is the famous Hans Sachs of Nuremberg, who, in the first half of the sixteenth century, wrote so many ballads for the people and set them to his own music. He was by trade a shoemaker, and all the musical composers in this particular mode {137} seem to have been craftsmen who took to musical composition and the writing of ballads for their music as a recreation after their daily labor. They organized themselves into guilds, which, in imitation of the old knightly songsters of the days of chivalry, they called Meistersingers. In its vigorous originality this movement produced at the beginning some striking folk music with a wonderful influence on the life of the people. After a time, however, the spirit of exclusiveness asserted itself and seriously hurt their work. They enacted rigid and pedantic laws, refused to admit to mastership in the guild those who did not follow these laws, and the letter killed the spirit, and true music disappeared, while men who prided themselves on their musical ability and taste were trying to uplift it, but were really regulating it out of existence. The decline in music is, however, only commensurate with the decline in the other arts and due to many of the same causes. The latter half of Columbus' Century saw the rise of the great Roman school of music which, at the end of this period, was to bring about a culmination of musical achievements that places this among the greatest musical epochs of the world. As was true everywhere in Italy, Rome owed its musical incentive and teaching to a Fleming. The great master was Claude Goudimel, who is said to have been born at Avignon, but who was educated in Flanders and is known as a Fleming. Among his pupils at Rome, where he opened a school, are the most famous musicians of the sixteenth century and some of the most famous of all time. Among others, probably, were Palestrina, the supreme master of modern church music, though the old tradition of Goudimel's great influence over him is now denied; the brothers Animuccia, one of whom was the penitent and intimate friend of St. Philip Neri, the founder of the Oratory, after which the Oratorio is named, and the brothers Nanini, who contributed so much to Italian music before the end of the sixteenth century. Another of his pupils was Orlando di Lasso, known as Lassus or Latres of Mons, who was one of the greatest and most popular of the musicians of this time. He was known in many countries and popular in all of them. To him we owe the definite attempt to make words and music run along in such harmony as would {138} emphasize and thoroughly co-ordinate the meaning of both. An abuse had been growing for a considerable period by which prolix florid passages of music were written for single syllables. Even Josquin had indulged much in this vicious mode. After Orlando di Lasso's reformation, the practice was to come back again in the fiorituri of the opera composers, especially the Italians of the early nineteenth century, and had to be combated by Wagner. There is little in the revolution effected in music by the modern German composer in this regard at least that was not anticipated by his great predecessor, Orlando, full three centuries before. Orlando di Lasso was known, moreover, for the sweetness, beauty, as well as the great number and variety of his works. One of his songs, "Matona! Lovely Maiden!" has been pronounced one of the most charming part songs in existence. Lassus (di Lasso) tried every form of music at this time, but devoted himself chiefly to musical compositions for church purposes. We have from him psalms, hymns, litanies, magnificats, motets, as well as more lengthy musical settings for religious services. Bonavia Hunt, the Warden of Trinity College, London, and lecturer on musical history, in his "History of Music" declares that Lassus' settings of the Seven Penitential Psalms for five voices are among his best works. They contain elements that have made them a favorite study for students of music even in our time. Lassus introduced such musical terms as _Allegro_ and _Adagio_ into music and brought chromatic elements into musical composition. He was very greatly appreciated in his own day and was called _Princeps Musicae_, the prince of music. He received as much honor from statesmen as Palestrina did from churchmen, and the story of the honor paid to both of them by their own generation is the best possible tribute to the musical taste of the time. Lassus was made a Knight of the Order of the Golden Spur. The greatest musician of this time, however, probably indeed the greatest of all times, is Palestrina, who in 1551 was appointed the musical director of the Julian Chapel in the Vatican with the definite hope that he would reform the evils that had crept into music and were making the art in its most recent {139} development so unsuitable for religious purposes. The Council of Trent, whose sessions were being held with interruptions at this time, had to legislate so as to secure suitable music for the mass. Ornamental passages of all kinds, or at least what were supposed to be such, had been introduced into church music, until finally it was quite impossible to follow the words of the service. As Cardinal Borromeo said, "These singers counted for their principal glory that when one says _Sanctus_ another says _Sabaoth_ and a third _gloria tua_ and the whole effect of the music is little more than a confused whirling and snarling, more resembling the performance of cats in January than the beautiful flowers of May." He was one of the committee who insisted at various sessions of the Council of Trent on musical reform, and while their work has sometimes been falsely represented as derogatory of music itself, all that the Council wished to accomplish was to secure intelligibility of the words, and as a matter of fact their insistence on the simplification of music led to a magnificent new development in the art. It has sometimes been said that Palestrina's work represented a revolution in the music of his time. This is not true, however, for his great mass music was only an evolution in the hands of the great master of the musical movement that had preceded his time. The story of his having been asked to write music very different from that which had immediately preceded, in order that church music might be preserved and figured music be thus still used in ecclesiastical services, has been discredited by recent historical research. At the end of Columbus' Century a climax in musical expression had been reached which Palestrina represents and which marked an epoch in the history of music. The abuses that had crept in were quite apart from the genuine evolution of music. Henderson, in his "How Music Developed" (New York: Stokes, 1898, page 73), has told the story: "The mass of Marcellus was not written to order, and there was nothing new in its style. The mass is simply a model of all that was best in Palestrina's day. It embodied all that was noblest in the polyphonic style developed by the Netherlands school. Its melody is pure, sweet and fluent, and its {140} expressive capacity perfectly adapted to the devotional spirit of the text. Palestrina's contemporaries, such as Lasso and some of his predecessors, wrote in the same style. Lasso's 'Penitential Psalms' are much simpler in style than this mass. Its apparent simplicity lies in the fact that its profound mastery of technical resources conceals its superb art. The polyphonic writing is matchless in its evenness; every part is as good as every other part. The harmonies are beautiful, yet there is apparently no direct attempt to produce them. They seem just to happen. But above all other qualities stands the innate power of expression in this music. It is, as Ambrose has hinted, as if the composer had brought the angelic host to earth." Mees, in his "Choirs and Choral Music," has outlined what the place of Palestrina's music in church services is, and made it very clear how helpful it is for devotion instead of suggesting distractions, as modern music is so sure to do. Dickenson, in his "Study of the History of Music," says that in "Comparing a mass by Palestrina with one of Schubert or Gounod he (the hearer) will perceive not only a difference of style and form, but also one of purpose and ideal. The modern work strives to depict the moods suggested by the words according to the general methods that prevail in modern lyric and dramatic music; while the aim of the older music is to render a universal sentiment of devotion that is impersonal and general. Music here conforms to the idea of prayer. There is no thought of definite portrayal; the music strives merely to deepen the mystical impression of the ceremony as a whole." Mees had said in his work, p. 61: "Palestrina's conception of what the music of the Roman church should be was in perfect accord with the principle held by the early church: that music should form an integral part of the liturgy and add to its impressiveness. ... No sensuous melodies, no dissonant tension-creating harmonies, no abrupt rhythms distract the thoughts and excite the sensibilities. Chains of consonant chords growing out of the combination of smoothly-flowing, closely-interwoven parts, the contours of which are all but lost in the maze of tones, lull the mind into that state of submission to indefinite impressions which makes it susceptible to the mystic influence of the ceremonial and turns it away from worldly things." [Illustration: MELOZZO DA FORLI. ANGEL WITH LUTE (ROME)] {141} Perhaps the best proof of the enduring value of Palestrina's work is to be found in the fact that some of his compositions are still to be heard in the Sistine Chapel, and that even in our own time [Footnote 14] a definite movement to restore his music to its proper high place in the service of the Church has been initiated. Whenever, since his death, music has been really on a high plane, Palestrina has been thoroughly appreciated. Whenever musical taste has been debased and men have gone seeking after novelty and bizarre effects and over-decoration, Palestrina has been neglected. For music, he is what Dante is to literature and art, the touchstone by which it is easiest to estimate properly the value of a generation's critical faculty and spirit of appreciation. Henderson, in his "How Music Developed," already quoted from, has summed up Palestrina's accomplishment in a few words: [Footnote 14: The decree of Pope Pius X, requiring the restoration of the Gregorian Chant to the place of honor in the Liturgic Services and making Palestrina's music the standard to which choir music should properly conform, seemed to many music-lovers distinctly reactionary and perhaps old-fogyish. As a matter of fact, it was a well-judged restoration of such criteria in church music as would preclude the possibility of modern unsuitable developments of music finding their way further into church services. It was open to the same objections on the part of those who knew no better as the decree of Pope Leo XIII that St. Thomas Aquinas' Philosophy should be the standard in Catholic schools of Philosophy and Theology. The two decrees will be set beside each other in history as examples of the ability of great Popes so to direct church policy as to preserve the faithful from human degeneracies of taste and thought. Palestrina's music is as firm a standard of church music as Aquinas' thought is a safe criterion in philosophy.] "Before leaving the subject of Palestrina, let me endeavor to make clear to the reader wherein his style is so fine. Composers before him had begun to aim at the simplification of church music. They sought to accomplish their purpose by breaking the shackles of canonic law. The canon had demanded the most exact imitation in the different voice parts. The new style allowed the greatest freedom. The result was that free polyphony took the place of rigid canon. {142} Consequently composers were able to devote more attention to the development of fluent, beautiful and expressive melody. The merit of Palestrina's work was that it carried this style to perfection. His compositions became the models for succeeding composers, and indeed they remain to this day unequalled as examples of pure church music." Palestrina's career furnishes another striking example of the opportunities for genius to express itself provided by this period. According to a contemporary manuscript authority, so that the story is probably much more authentic than such stories usually are, young Pierluigi of Palestrina, the ancient Praeneste, while peddling in the streets of Rome the products of his father's farm, used to sing songs, one of which was heard by the choirmaster of Santa Maria Maggiore. He found that the boy had not only a beautiful voice, but a taste for music, so he gave him the opportunity for a musical education. Palestrina lived to be over eighty years of age, with manifold opportunities afforded him for the display of his genius. The latter half of his life was spent as one of the most honored men of his generation. His most brilliant period began when he was nearly seventy and when he was apparently thinking his career at an end. His complete works in thirty-three volumes have just been published, the last volume of the completed edition being presented to Pius X in 1908, who was most interested in this great modern monument to the Catholic genius of music. The great composer is worthy to stand beside St. Teresa, St. Philip Neri and St. Ignatius Loyola as one of the protagonists of the counter reformation. He did for music and the Church what others did for education, mysticism and social reform. One of the most interesting chapters in the history of music began just about the end of Columbus' Century. St. Philip Neri, of whom we have spoken in the chapter on Social Work and Workers of the period, was himself devoted to music and recognized how much it might mean for occupation of mind with higher things that would be a source at once of pleasure and social relaxation. He appreciated also how much of value music might lend to the proper expression of religious feeling, and even how much it might add to genuine religious {143} sentiment. The Miracle Plays of the latter half of the fifteenth century had always been accompanied by certain songs and glees with words relating to the sacred subjects often set to popular music. St. Philip recognized that these performances might be raised to a higher plane by introducing more music and using the best possible music for their illustration. Accordingly, in the course of services held in his oratory, he introduced historical scenes and sacred allegories with a musical setting, calling as a rule on his musical friends in Rome, and especially Animuccia, to supply him with compositions. Hence the term oratorio, the Italian word for oratory, for this class of music. It was not to reach its highest form of expression, the dramatic, until the end of the sixteenth century, but it is an invention of Columbus' period. An extremely important invention of this time was the introduction of the chord of the dominant seventh. The discovery is usually said to have been due to Claudio Monteverde of the seventeenth century, but the earliest extant musical works, in which examples of the phenomenal chord of the dominant seventh with the full freedom of present-day practice are found, are those of Jean Mouton of Holling in Lorraine, who died about 1522. For nearly a century after this time this great discovery, like so many others in every department of science, struggled for a place. It was finally acknowledged. This discovery brought music into close relation with science, and demonstrated its foundation in the natural laws of acoustics. In his article on the History of Music in "The Encyclopaedia Britannica," Sir George A. MacFarren, Professor of Music at the University of Cambridge, declared "that the discovery of the dominant seventh lays open the principle for which pagan philosophers and Christians had been vainly groping through centuries while a veil of mathematical calculation hung between them and the truth." The curious feature of the history of its introduction lies in the fact that it failed of appreciation from orthodox musicians for a considerable period and actually met with organized opposition. Even this brief sketch will suffice to show how greatly music developed during Columbus' Century. There is probably no corresponding period in the world's history that can show as {144} much real advance that is lasting progress. Perhaps in no department of aesthetics does supposed progress come and go from generation to generation more easily than in music. What certain generations of musical critics have very highly praised is often judged by their successors quite worthless. The musical achievements of this period have, on the contrary, been beacon lights for succeeding generations. Whenever the principles that came to be accepted at this time have been much departed from, musical taste has proved false and musical accomplishment trivial. It is this sort of achievement, absolutely enduring in its quality, which above all counts for humanity, and it is nowhere so well illustrated in every department of intellectual effort as during this century of Columbus. [Illustration: GERMAN MUSICIANS PLAYING ON THE VIOLIN AND BASS VIOL (LATE FIFTEENTH CENTURY)] The organ, as we have it at the present time, practically came into its modern shape during Columbus' Century. In the latter part of the fifteenth century the pedals and their {145} application were developed by the organ-builders of the time, and in the first half of the sixteenth century pipes in large numbers came to be used, and the stops were arranged as in the modern organ. There are records of organ-building, particularly in France about the end of the first quarter of the sixteenth century, which show that the instrument had reached a very modern phase and that it was only a question of the adaptation of such mechanical aids as would enable the organist to control a greater number of pipes that was now needed to bring about the further development of this instrument. A good idea of the perfection of the organ at this time may be obtained from the description of one built at St. Maurice, Angers, France, in 1511, of which we have a detailed account in a legal process some years later. This contained two towers of thirty-five-foot pipe, forty-eight stops and a separate pedal. The independent pedal came into general use at this time. About this same time the violin began to develop and came very nearly into its modern form by the end of Columbus' Century, so that it was ready for the perfecting process which was to take place in the following hundred years. {146} CHAPTER X BOOKS AND PRINTS: WOOD AND METAL ENGRAVING The scholarship of this century is well known to all the world, and the Renaissance is looked upon as the time when the deep knowledge of the classics, the New Learning or Humanism as it was called, awoke the modern spirit. The men of the time learned much from books. It is interesting to note, then, how much they did for books. The generations amply repaid the debt they owed to the past by what they accomplished for the preservation of the ancient writings, and above all by putting them in a worthy dress for the use and the admiration of future generations. The Renaissance must probably be considered to have appreciated books more than any other period in the world's history and to have done more to give dignity, beauty and permanence to the objects of their devotion. It was no mere accident that just at the beginning of this period, about 1450, the invention of printing was perfected. Books had been rising in value and in price, though the demand had been constantly increasing, until it was only to be expected that some method of making them available for a much larger number of people must come. Necessity is the mother of invention, and the need for a thing sets men's minds at work until they have obtained it. Caxton's experience, detailed further on in this chapter, is illuminating in this regard. Great, however, as is the invention, the credit for which apparently must be shared by the Germans Gutenberg, Fust and Schoeffer, the use that was made of that invention during the century that followed is deserving of still higher appreciation. It had indeed come to a worthy time, but not by accident, for any time receives its deserts and wins the rewards of its own interests and efforts. {147} [Illustration: BORDER FROM THE "BOOK OF HOURS" OF ANTHONY VERARD (1488)] If ordinary impressions were to be accepted, it might well be expected that printing having been invented about the middle of the fifteenth century, the first century would see industrious, but rather crude applications of the invention, until men became accustomed to its employment, and then gradually, by that progress which is so often assumed to be inevitable in mankind, printing would rise to be an art more and more beautiful as time went on, until in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries we would have the most beautiful examples of book-making. As a matter of fact, however, during the first half century, immediately after the preliminary tentative application of the art, printing rose to a perfection that has never been excelled since and only equalled in few periods. Between 1475 and 1525 some of the most beautiful printed books ever made were completed and {148} worthily bound. Columbus' Century can boast the production of the most beautiful books in the world. Succeeding centuries saw a decadence in the arts of book-making which was progressive until the latter half of the nineteenth century. At that time some of the worst books ever made, with poorly designed, cheap type, still cheaper but fortunately perishable paper, sadly inartistic illustrations and ugly bindings, were made (_perpetrated_ is the expression one book-lover has used). It must not be forgotten that this same decadence affected everything else, and that painting and sculpture and architecture reached their lowest ebb also in the nineteenth century, though the book continued to be in the depths for longer than any of the other products of the arts. Fortunately, William Morris came to call attention to the utter ugliness of commercialized book-making and to arouse his generation to a noble effort for the recovery of the lost art. He demonstrated how artistically books might be made by taking as models the printed books of Columbus' time. He imitated as far as possible their beautiful hand-made paper without reflecting surface, of a tint that made the ink stand out on printed pages with wide margins and judicious spacing, with type faces eminently suited for easy reading, and made with an eye to real artistic quality and with ink that has not faded all these 400 years. All these were book qualities well worthy of emulation. The work has been taken up in many places since, and now beautiful books are not so rare as they were, though it is doubtful whether, even with all our mechanical appliances, our ability to sell reasonably large editions, the prosperity of the time and the interest of publishers and bibliophiles, we have succeeded in making any books that we would dare to set in comparison with a number of the volumes that were printed in Columbus' Century. The perfection which book-making by hand had reached at the time when printing was invented and began to come into general use made it comparatively easy for excellent printed books to be made--excellent in the sense both of good printing and fine illustration. The "Books of Hours" of the later fifteenth century are among the most beautiful volumes that were ever made. They were finely written in a dear hand, {149} beautifully decorated, handsomely illuminated and very suitably bound. Even the best painters did not hesitate to devote themselves to the making of illuminated illustrations for favorite volumes. The French were, as Dante suggests in Canto XI of the "Purgatorio," the best illuminators in his time, and they continued to maintain this superiority during the fifteenth century. Gerard W. Smith in his "Painting, Spanish and French" (Illustrated Handbooks of Art History), says that "the French school of miniature, though surpassed in seriousness and originality by those of Flanders and Italy, was yet skilful in appropriating many of the excellences of both. They surpassed the former in the general composition of their subjects and the latter in their perspective." The best known of their artist illustrators of this time was Jean Fouquet, the Court painter of Louis XI, whose work as painter is discussed in the chapter, Painting Outside of Italy. The pictures by him in the illuminated Josephus in the Paris Library are especially well known and often praised for their freedom of invention, their variety and the perfection of detail in their accessories. The compositions made for the illustration of Titus Livius, Livy the Latin historian, have been pronounced admirable for their naturalness and life. Fouquet is particularly happy in the landscapes which he introduces into his pictures and the architectural details which he adds. The miniature, which we have copied from the Livy manuscript in the Bibliothèque Nationale, illustrates all of these qualities very well and makes it clear that no element of artistic beauty or picturesque values was lacking in the books that were being made by hand when printing came to revolutionize the arts of book-making. Some of the extra-illuminated books of this period are among the most beautiful printed books ever issued in their ornateness. Not long since Tregaskis advertised a little Book of Hours, printed by _Simon duBois pour maistre geofroy tori de bourges 1527,_ at sixty guineas. He describes it as extremely rare and the first in which occurs the Arabesque border so frequently used by Tory and his successors in subsequent editions. Dibden, reproducing some of the borders in his "Bibliographical Decameron," said that he had seen {150} nothing more beautiful of this kind. Each page is printed within a varying woodcut border of birds, fish, flowers and insects, with the initials of the Queen Mother and of the King and Queen crowned, in combination with the arms of France and Savoy. [Illustration: FOUQUET, JEHAN, MINIATURE PAINTING, FROM THE LIVY MSS. (BIBLIOTHÈQUE NATIONALE, PARIS)] This is, of course, the period when these books were most beautifully done. There are a number of examples of them that have appeared in the sales in recent years and have {151} commanded high prices not alone because of their antiquity, but because of the exquisite charm of their decorations. It was in competition with such exquisite books that the early printers found themselves. No wonder, then, that they were stimulated to do beautiful work and that their best efforts were aroused. The fine, broad enterprise of the printers of the time can be very well appreciated from the rapid development of their art and craft by the making of fonts of letters for all the different alphabets. Greek type was made as early as 1465. The first book wholly printed in Greek minuscules was Lascaris' Grammar at Milan in 1476. The first Hebrew types appeared as early as 1475. Aldus' famous Italic type, said to be an imitation of the handwriting of Petrarch, was introduced by Aldus Manutius of Venice for his projected small edition of the classics. The cutting of it was probably done by the painter Francia (Raibolini). It was first used in the Virgil of 1500. Arabic types were first used for the printing of a book in 1514 at Fano in Italy. Syriac was used for printing as early as 1538, and just after the end of Columbus' Century excellent types of this language were in use. A Psalter was printed in Russian at Cracow as early as 1491, and the Russian types were used at Prague in 1517. Anglo-Saxon and Irish types were used shortly after the end of Columbus' Century. Music printing began early, the earliest specimen of music type occurring in Higden's "Polychronicon," printed by Wynken de Worde at Westminster in 1495. Notes had been printed from wooden blocks twenty-five years earlier, though some books had spaces left to be filled in by hand. About 1500 a musical press was established at Venice. Toward the end of the century special types and presses of many kinds for music were invented. The great English printer of this time, William Caxton, is a characteristic type of the scholarly printers of the period. We know almost nothing about his life. He records his thanks to his parents for having given him an education that fitted him to earn a living, though he does not say where or how he was educated. Just about the beginning of Columbus' Century he settled at Bruges, going into business on his own {152} account, and soon became prosperous. He had been an apprentice to Robert Large, a wealthy London mercer of the time, who was one of the influential men of the period. In 1453 Caxton returned to England for his formal admittance as a member of the Mercers' Company. His story after this is not unlike that of Schliemann, the discoverer of Troy in our own time. He retired from business apparently with a competency, entered the service of Margaret Duchess of Burgundy, probably in order to have more time for his literary work, and the next year he finished his translation from the French of the "Recuyell of the Historyes of Troye," which was dedicated to Margaret. His book was very much sought after and circulated in manuscript. The task of copying it was too great and entirely too slow for the demand. With true business instinct, Caxton then "practysed & lerned at grete charge and dispense to ordeyne this said book in prynte." His book was printed at Bruges in 1474. The next year his second book, the "Game & Pleye of Chess," which he had also translated from the French, was printed. The following year, 1476, Caxton returned to England and set up his own printing press at Westminster. The first issue from his press was the "Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers," which bears the date 1477. Though he died fourteen years later, in 1491, he is said to have issued ninety-six books from the Westminster Press in the intervening brief period. His publications include the works of Chaucer and Gower, Sir Thomas Malory's _"Morte d'Arthur"_ and a number of translations from French, Latin and Dutch, most of them probably made by himself and all of them under his editorial direction. He issued a number of smaller pious books which show his deep religious interest. Though brought up to a trade which he pursued successfully until he had made money, he was a scholarly man who wrote excellent vigorous English and had an ardent enthusiasm for literature. He is one of the greatest forces in English prose before the sixteenth century, and with Sir Thomas More helped to fix it in the form in which it was to pass to the Elizabethans and be given our modern shape. His life is the best possible evidence of the opportunities for education that abounded at the beginning of Columbus' {153} Century, and which even those quite outside of what would ordinarily be thought the possible chances for the higher education might readily secure. The story of the great printers of the Renaissance might well be summed up in the work of the Venetian, Aldus Manutius, who was a distinguished scholar as well as publisher. Born 1450, he was a pupil of Guarino of Verona, and having studied Greek very faithfully, resolved to print all the Greek classics. He adopted the handwriting of Musurus as the model on which his Greek type was cast and then proceeded to make arrangements for worthy publication. The ink was made in the publishing house and only the best materials employed. He had special paper from the mills of Fabriano, and the bookbinding was done in a separate department of his own establishment. [Footnote 15] The result was the magnificent set of Editiones Principes issued by his house. The first of these was Musaeus, printed in 1493. Altogether twenty-eight _editiones principes_ of the {154} Greek and Latin classics were issued in some twenty-two years. His trade symbol, the Dolphin and the Anchor, signifies speed and tenacity. In reference to it, Aldus himself once said, "I have achieved much by patience (the word he used was _cunctando_, literally by taking my time) and I work without pause." As we have said, Aldus invented the form of type called Italic, for which he received a patent from Pope Leo X. In 1500 Aldus printed the first leaf of a proposed Bible in Hebrew, Greek and Latin--a Polyglot Bible which was never completed. His work was carried on after his death in 1515 by the Asolani, his brothers-in-law, and later by Paolo Manuzio, his son, and afterwards by another Aldus, his grandson. In 1518 the Aeschylus was printed, and there was then no extant Greek classic of the first rank unprinted. [Footnote 15: The lofty motives that impelled men to take up the art of printing can be very well appreciated from some expressions of Aldus in this matter. As a boy he had been shy, awkward and retiring, and although receiving his education in the best schools of Ferrara and Rome, he had not shown any marked ability. For a time he seems to have studied for the priesthood, but instead became a tutor for princely houses. This gave him sufficient for his modest tastes and a quiet, scholarly life. At the age of forty he gave up this career, and with little money began to edit and prepare for printing the works of almost forgotten Greek authors. This was about the time that Columbus launched his vessels to sail to America. Early as this date might seem to be in the history of the art, printing had already been overdone. When Aldus reached Venice there were or had been 160 printers or publishers in that city. Most of them were poor, some of them were bankrupt and none of them were making any money that might be expected to tempt a man of forty without experience to take up a business career. The state of the trade at Rome was scarcely better. Italy was disturbed by rumors of impending war. It was under these conditions that Aldus declared in the preface of one of his early books: "I have made a vow to devote my life to the public good. God is my witness that this is my most earnest desire. ... I leave a peaceable life, preferring this which is laborious and exacting. ... Man was not born for pleasure unworthy of an elevated spirit, but for duties which dignify him. Let us leave to the vile the lower life of animals."] Aldus devoted himself to the printing of the classics and quite neglected the theological works which were so popular, at least among the printers of the time. After seven years of the hardest kind of work he said, "In this seventh year of my self-imposed task I can truly say--yes, under oath--that I have not during these long years had one hour of peaceful rest." In 1498, perhaps from overwork, but more likely from neglect of the ordinary care of nature in regular eating and sleeping, he came down with a severe illness. During his illness his thoughts went back to his student days and he vowed that he would become a priest if he recovered. After his recovery, however, he asked and obtained a release from this obligation. The next year he married the daughter of an eminent brother printer, Torresano of Asola, and though there was great difference in their ages, Aldus being fifty and his wife scarcely twenty, it seems to have proved a happy marriage. Aldus health was better cared for after this, and then his thrifty father-in-law, who was a successful publisher, probably helped him with many suggestions, as a consequence of which Aldus made his books cheaper and more widely salable, and henceforth we have less querulousness over the neglect of the public to buy. Aldus was one of the busiest of men. His motto was _festina lente_ (make haste slowly). He says in one of his books, "You do not know how busy I am; the care I have to give to {155} my publications does not allow me proper time to eat or sleep." In self-defence against bores, and it is easy to understand how many there might be in this period of reawakened interest in scholarship who would think that they could occupy a few hours pleasantly and profitably for themselves in Aldus' establishment, he put this warning on his door: "Whoever you are, Aldus entreats you to be brief. When you have spoken, leave him, unless you come like Hercules to help Atlas, weary of his burden. Know that there is work here for everyone who enters the door." Practically every important printer and publicist ever since has had to try to protect himself and his time in some similar way. Human nature, or at least the human nature of bores, has not changed any in these five centuries. In spite of all that he did for his generation, he met with little of gratitude and almost less of personal appreciation. There were many distinguished scholars who were dear personal friends, there were many high ecclesiastics who admired and helped him, there were many noble patrons and clients of his house who must have brought him much consolation. But he had his critics as well: Erasmus could not refrain from some biting witticisms with regard to the frugality of his table, being himself somewhat of a glutton. Scaliger indeed said of him that he drank like three, but did only half the work of one man, while Aldus was very abstemious. Besides, Aldus complained that his books were fraudulently reprinted, that his workmen were tempted away from him after he had trained them, and that he even had to defend himself against the treachery of his own employees at times. Already at that time they were beginning to complain of the injustice done the author by lack of copyright. Erasmus complained: "Our lawmakers do not concern themselves about the matter. He who sells English cloth for Venetian cloth is punished, but he who sells corrupt texts in place of good ones goes free. Innumerable are the books that are corrupted, especially in Germany. There are restraints on bad bakers, but none on bad printers, and there is no corner of the earth where bad books do not go." A writer in the old _Scribner's Magazine_ for October, 1881, summed up what Aldus had accomplished for his profession {156} in a paragraph that evidently comes from a man who knows his subject well and probably in the modern time has faced some of the problems that Aldus had to meet, though with the advantage of the experience of over four centuries since to help him in solving them. "Considering the difficulties he had to encounter, not the least of them the difficulty of getting compositors who could read Greek MSS. and compose Greek types, it is a wonder that they are as correct as they are. Some of them are above reproach. When he offered to the reader of his edition of Plato, as he did in the preface of that book, a gold crown for every discovered error, he must have had a confidence in its accuracy which comes only from the consciousness of thorough editorial work. Aldus' taste as editor went beyond the text. Not content with an accurate version, he had that version presented in pleasing types. Everybody admits the value of his invention of Italic, even if his use of it as a text-letter be not approved. But few persons consider that we are indebted to Aldus for the present forms that he introduced. How great this obligation is will be readily acknowledged after an examination of the uncouth characters and the discordant styles of Greek copyists before the sixteenth century. Aldus' invention of small capitals has already been noticed. Here, then, are three distinct styles of book-printing types which he introduced, and which have been adopted everywhere almost without dissent. Other printers have done work of high merit; other type-founders have made pleasing ornamental or fancy types; but no printer or founder since Aldus has invented even one original style of printing types which has been adopted and kept in use as a text-letter for books." [Footnote 16] [Footnote 16: It was after Grolier's visit to Aldus in Italy that he took up the making of that collection of beautifully bound and printed books which have since made him famous; he evidently owed the inspiration not a little to the great Italian printer.] The other most distinguished printer of Columbus' Century whose career deserves to be sketched at some length was the Frenchman, Geoffrey Tory or Trinus, who is not so well known as Aldus, coming a little later in history, but whose work was of the highest artistic character. {157} [Illustration: BORDER FROM "BOOK OF HOURS," GEOFFREY TORY (1525)] Like Aldus, he was of poor parents, but attended the best schools in the Province of Berry toward the end of the fifteenth century and then travelled in Italy. He afterwards became instructor in Paris in the College de Plessis, edited an edition of Pomponius Mela, which was published by Jean Petit, and prepared "AEneas Sylvius" and other works for Estienne the Elder. Fond of art, Tory began to practise wood-engraving and gave up his teaching to study wood-engraving in Italy. He supported himself while studying by painting miniatures for the adornment of manuscripts and printed books and became a great master of his chosen art. He engraved initials, characters and borders for Simon de Collines in Paris, and his work shows the fullest acquaintance with all the resources of his art. His plates marked with the Cross of {158} Lorraine are now considered worthy of a very high place in every choice collection. His principal contribution to book-making was his remarkable original work called "Champ Fleury." This book was divided into three parts for the instruction of printers. The first of these parts contained a treatise upon the proper use of letters. The second treated of the origin of the capital letter and its proper place. The third contained accurate drawings of letters and a large number of alphabets of various kinds, so that proper selection of type might be made for various kinds of books and varying sizes according to space and page. This work had a far-reaching influence. One result was an immediate and complete revolution in French typography and orthography--the abandonment of the Gothic and the adoption of the new cutting of antique type. After having been used for several centuries, the faces of the type thus produced were abandoned for a time and are now being revived. In this book also Tory laid down the rules for the proper use in French of the accents, apostrophe and marks of punctuation. He did more than anyone else to settle these vexed problems of usage for the world. The publication of the book won from Francis I, himself a scholar and patron of learning and an author to whom so much is owed in the French Renaissance, the title of King's Printer. Some of Tory's borders are illustrated on these pages. They have been fruitful models full of suggestion for such work ever since. With the development of printing, the need of methods of multiplying illustrations for printed books soon made itself felt and was finely responded to by the genius of the century. Wood-engraving in the service of book-illustration came in very early in the history of printing and was, after all, only a development of the wooden blocks, out of which the first idea of movable types had originally sprung. It was very crude at the beginning, and yet often with an artistic expression that gives it great interest. Its possibilities for printing in company with movable types soon began to be realized, and as printed books became more beautiful and type faces more artistic, the necessity for supplying artistic illustrations was felt, and then it was not long before the need was supplied. Probably the {159} first wood-engraving designed for book-illustration which exhibits a marked artistic quality was "The Dream of Poliphilo," in which, as Woodberry says in his "History of Wood-Engraving," "Italian wood-engraving, quickened by the spirit of the Renaissance, displayed its most beautiful creation." It was written by a Venetian monk, Francesco Colombo, in 1467, and was first printed by Aldus in 1499. The subject was a worthy one, for though the book is a strange mingling of Greek, Latin, Hebrew and Arabic traditions and poetic symbolism, it typifies the spirit of the Renaissance. It represents the search of youth for the loveliness of universal nature and the perfection of ancient art under the title of Polia, the charming maiden who combines all the qualities. Altogether there are 192 designs. They have been attributed to many illustrious masters, even John Bellini and Raphael, among others, but were probably due to Benedetto Montagna. How soon illustration came to aid in the understanding of the text in books is very well illustrated by Fra Giocondo's work. When, in 1508, he published the letters of the younger Pliny in the Aldine edition, he not only described but illustrated the villas of the ancients. In 1511 he edited the Aldine edition of Vitruvius, with its rude woodcuts that are yet much more thoroughly illustrative than many a more ambitious modern book and which include the first modern plan of a Roman house. When he issued his Aldine edition of Caesar in 1513 this was illustrated with the earliest of all modern drawings of Caesar's bridge across the Rhine. Fra Giocondo is in fact the true father of the illustrated classic, as Sandys suggested in his Harvard Lectures on the "Revival of Learning" (Cambridge University Press, 1905). It may be well to add that the good friar was no mere student for erudition's sake, since, as is noted in the chapter on architecture, he entered the royal service in France, and in 1497 designed one at least, if not two, of the noble bridges that still span the Seine. The great improvement which came in book-illustration and the making of prints we owe to Albrecht Dürer, who not only was the first to discover the capacities of wood-engraving as a mode of artistic expression, but who saw immediately that it could not equal the rival art of copperplate-engraving in that delicacy of line and depth of tone on which the metal-engraving depends for its excellence, but appreciating the limitations, Dürer prescribed the materials and processes of wood-engraving. {160} [Illustration: PAGE OF "BOOK OF HOURS" MADE FOR SIMON DE COLLINES (TORY)] {161} He increased the size of the cuts, gave breadth and boldness to the lines and obtained new and pleasing effects from strong contrasts of black and white. As Woodberry in his "History of Wood-Engraving" (Harper's, New York, 1883) says: "He thus showed the true method of wood-engraving; but the art owes to him much more than this: he brought to the practice of it the hand and brain of a great master, lifted it, a mechanic's trade, into the service of high imagination and vigorous interest and placed it among the fine arts--a deed of far more importance than any improvements in processes or methods." In so doing, may we add that he only accomplished what so many of his contemporaries did in other arts. The goldsmiths became sculptors and painters, the decorators became true artists and the scholars learned from their classical books to execute what they had studied in the ancients. It would be hard to say enough of Dürer's wood-engravings. His prints must be allowed to talk for themselves. Unfortunately, owing to limit of space, we are only able to give one of them, but that will furnish an excellent example of the marvellous qualities Dürer succeeded in expressing, in what might have seemed before this time a hopelessly coarse medium. The first of the four famous series of designs by which his skill in wood-engraving is first shown was published in 1498, but it was probably finished before that time. It consisted of fifteen large woodcuts in illustration of the Apocalypse of St. John, to which a vignette of wonderful nobility and simplicity was prefixed. Other men did wonderful work in this new medium, after Dürer had shown them the way, though none of them surpassed or perhaps even equalled their master. Portions of the triumphal procession of Maximilian by Hans Burgkmaier show that his disciples were thoroughly capable of following in his footsteps. Such men as Hans Schaeuffelin and Hans Springinklee, as well as Hans Baldung, far surpassed most of their successors in the artistic quality of their wood-engraving. Lucas van Leyden and the Cranachs show how artists took to {162} this new mode of expression, and a series of men working in this century prove the wonderful power of the time to stimulate men's genius. Besides Dürer and the group who were largely influenced by him, one man, Hans Holbein, deserves special mention because he illustrates especially the connection of the new art with book-making. Holbein commenced to practise wood-engraving as soon as he settled in Basel at about the age of twenty. He began by designing the title page, initial letters and woodcuts for the publishers of that period. He illustrated the books of the humanists, especially the "Utopia" of Sir Thomas More, then a new and popular work, and afterwards designed the woodcuts for the Biblical translation of Luther, and he did some excellent caricature work. He is a realist and has illustrated particularly humble life, incidents of the daily doings of peasants and children, and these scenes are sometimes introduced as the background of initial letters, some twenty alphabets of which are ascribed to him. Geoffrey Tory in France introduced a classical spirit into wood-engraving, and the sculptors, Jean Cousin and Bernard Salomon and especially Jean Goujon, who made some excellent cuts for Vitruvius (1547), and a group of other illustrators in France, serve to show how the art spread and was used all over the world. Another interesting development both in prints and in book-illustration came in the gradual evolution of metal-engraving, which, like wood-engraving, reached some of its highest perfection in Germany. Martin Schongauer, who died in 1488, is the first important name, though he was preceded by an unknown German engraver usually spoken of as "The Master of 1466." Schongauer used curved shading and greatly developed the technique. After him came Dürer, who lifted metal-engraving, especially copperplate-engraving, into the realm of art. Probably nothing illustrates so well his power of minute observation as some of his copperplates. His animals are reproduced with fidelity and charm, and in the early days of landscape painting he studied every leaf and branch and tree trunk and knew how to picture just what he saw. The climax of artistic quality was reached by Marcantonio in Italy, who worked under the direction of Raphael. After the work of these masters there was very little left to be added by subsequent engravers. {163} [Illustration: DÜRER, MARRIAGE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN (WOODCUT, 1511)] {164} How much the illustration of books was helped by this new development of art can be very readily appreciated by those who know some of the old books. Even technical books, such as text-books of anatomy, were beautifully illustrated from copperplates that are not merely conventional pictures, but often real works of art. The plates for Vesalius' anatomy were probably prepared under the direction of Titian by one of his best students, Kalkar, and Eustachius' anatomical plates probably also had the counsel of a great artist. [Footnote 17] [Footnote 17: How much the book-making and bookbinding of this period is appreciated in our time will perhaps be best and most easily realized from the following item: "At the sale of Lady Brooke's Library at Sotheby's, Mr. Quaritch bought for $1,500 the well-preserved copy of Livy, dated 1543, in a fine contemporary morocco binding, and paid $1,475 for a copy, dated 1533. of Petrus Martyr's _'De Rebus Oceanicis, et Orbe Novo'"_ (New York _Herald_, Nov. 26, 1913).] While the inside of the book was cared for so thoroughly and thoughtfully the outside of it was not neglected. This is the period when the most beautiful bindings in the world were made. The name of the Grolier Club in New York is testimony to this, for when our American bibliophiles wanted to name their association worthily they took their title from the great book-lover of Columbus' Century, Jean Grolier, the Treasurer of France, who did so much to encourage the beautiful book-making of the time. The collection of books made by Grolier is probably the most famous ever brought together. They were beautifully printed on the best of paper as a rule and most fittingly and artistically bound. The life history of practically every one of them has been traced, and many a book-lover has purchased immortality at a comparatively cheap price by having at some time or other been in possession of one of Grolier's books, for the name of every possessor is chronicled as a rule. Many a book-owner of our time has his only chance for being known in the time to come from the fact that he has one of Grolier's books in his library. {165} [Illustration: BLACK-LETTER WITH BORDERED PAGE (1520)] {166} The beautiful bindings need to be seen to be appreciated, but every phase of artistic adornment in books was exhausted. While leather was the favorite material for binding, silk and tapestry and plush were used, and ornamentation of all kinds, metal, tortoise shell and precious stones, was employed. There probably was never more taste displayed than at this time, and though subsequent workmen learned to finish much better, the best bindings of the modern time scarcely compare with those of Columbus' period in artistic quality. Brander Matthews in his "Bookbindings, Old and New," said: "We must confess that there are very few finishers (of books) of our time who have originality of invention, freshness of composition or individuality of taste." He proceeds to say that in our time we have a more certain handicraft, but less artistic quality. The handicraft has improved, the art has declined. The hand has gained skill, but the head has lost its force. In our time we are again coming to appreciate properly the value of beautiful books. There have been periods between ours and Columbus' Century when only the most sordid ideas obtained in the book world, or when bad taste ruled and book-binding, like printing and the other arts, had a period of decadence after the sixteenth century, that is hard to explain, though it is easy to find reasons for it, and which continued to sink books into ever greater and greater lack of artistic qualities until almost the twentieth century. Out of that pit dug by neglect of interest in the beautiful as well as the useful we are now climbing, but unfortunately many of our time are inclined to think that this is the first time there has been that emergence, though we are only beginning, as yet distantly, to imitate the beauties of book-making in the mediaeval and Renaissance periods. Even more interesting for the modern time is the attitude of these great collectors of books of Columbus' time toward their precious treasures. They did not consider that they belonged to themselves alone, but to all those capable of using them. The distinguished Italian collector who preceded Grolier, Maioli, had the motto printed on his books, _Tho. Maioli et amicorum_--that is, "the property of Thomas Maioli and his friends." A number of other book-collectors, including Grolier, imitated this. Maioli is said to have had the true amateur spirit and to have taken up the making of beautiful bindings for himself. Geoffrey Tory also devoted himself to {167} bookbinding as well as to wood-engraving and his work for the printers. In a word it was a time when men were intent on making the book just as beautiful as possible, while all the time bearing in mind that its utility must be its principal characteristic. [Illustration: PLAYING CARD, FRANCE, FIFTEENTH CENTURY] {168} {169} BOOK II THE BOOK OF THE DEEDS CHAPTER I SOCIAL WORK AND WORKERS Any century that does not display an important evolution of works for the benefit of the poor whom we have "always with us," of organized effort for the ailing who are inevitable in the present state of man's existence, as well as some general recognition of social duty towards the great body of men and women who must always be helped to make something out of their lives, because they lack initiative and power of accomplishment for themselves, does not deserve a place among the great centuries of human existence. Columbus' Century is in this regard one of the notable periods of human history. It saw the building of magnificent hospitals in many countries, a phase of its history so full of importance that we have had to reserve its treatment for a special chapter on hospitals. It saw the organization of many means of helping the poor, and particularly of definite methods for the care of the old and the young, for the disabled and unfortunate, and the origin of the institutions through which the poor for their little pledges might secure loans to tide them over the recurring crises of existence. Besides there were many asylums, in the best sense of the word, founded for the care of the insane and chronic sufferers of other kinds, and many other institutions of charity were organized and established in such forms as to do the greatest possible amount of good. Above all, this century saw the establishment of a number of religious orders which were to accomplish social reforms of many kinds, and the founders of which were to provide by their example and {170} advice the proper encouragement for many charitable foundations. The most interesting development of helpfulness at this time came in connection with the many guilds which reached their highest development at the end of the fifteenth century. These guilds took care of the disabled, supported the old, took charge of orphans, gave technical training to the children, founded schools in many places and often sent the more intelligent boys even to the university, and provided various entertainments during the year for the members of the guilds and their neighbors and townsfolk. How universal was their effect upon the life for instance of the English people will be best appreciated from the calculation of Toulmin Smith, whose authority in all that relates to the history of the English guilds is unquestioned, that there were some thirty thousand of these brotherhood institutions in existence in England about the beginning of the sixteenth century. They touched every phase of the social life of the time and helped in the solution of many of the social problems. They provided insurance for their members against loss by fire, by robbery, at sea, by the fall of a house, by imprisonment and even against loss from flood. There was insurance against the loss of sight, against the loss of limb or any other form of crippling. The deaf and dumb might be insured so as to secure an income for them and corresponding relief for leprosy might be obtained, so that if one were set apart from the community by the law requiring segregation of lepers there might be provision for food and lodging even though productive work had become impossible. [Footnote 18] There was also insurance for the farmer against the loss of cattle and farm products. [Footnote 18: Walsh, "The Thirteenth Greatest of Centuries," Catholic Summer School Press Appendix, fifth edition, New York, 1912.] There were no poorhouses and no orphan asylums. We have just come to recognize once more that the best possible guardian, as a rule, for children is their mother, if she is alive. It is cheaper in the end to help her to keep the family together than to put them into institutions, and the home training is almost infinitely better. They recognized this fact very {171} clearly in the later Middle Ages and in Columbus' Century, and if mother were dead, and father could not keep the children, which was very rarely the case, or if both parents were dead, the children were distributed in families which adopted them with the specific agreement that they should be looked upon as members of the family. The guild officials looked after these children and saw that they were not abused and obtained special opportunities for their training, and supplied a dowry very often for the girls when they married. Indeed, there was a tradition that "the children of the guild," as these orphans were called, were likely to have better opportunities in life than those whose parents were still living. In spite of all their care for the poor, the time had, as every time has had, the problem of the ne'er-do-well, the man with the _wanderlust,_ who will not settle down anywhere and cannot be expected to keep steadily at work. They dealt with what we have come to call the tramp rather well. Above all, they avoided many of the abuses of public begging. The method is worth while noting. When a member of the guild died every member was expected to attend his funeral. Those that did not were fined a small sum, but yet sufficient to deter them from neglecting this obligation unless compelled by some necessity. These fines went into the common fund for the benefit of the poor and were given as alms for the intention of the dead brother's soul. Besides, every member was expected to give a small coin as further alms for the dead, and this sum of money was deposited with the treasurer of the guild for this special purpose. Each one who gave an alms was handed a token, which he might use as he saw fit. When a member of a guild met someone who looked as though he needed help, instead of giving him money he handed him this token and then the beggar might obtain whatever he needed most--food, lodging or clothing--by presenting the token to the treasurer of the guild, the sexton of the church or any of the church wardens or the clergy. This prevented the abuse of charity, gave immediate relief where it was needed and did not pauperize, because the person benefited knew that the intention in what was given him was the benefit of a dead brother's soul and not merely pity for him. {172} The number and efficiency of the activities of the guild can be best understood from a study of the history of the Guild of the Holy Cross at Stratford. Owing to the fact that interest in Shakespeare has led to a very careful study of every possible scrap of information with regard to the life of the town during the century before his time, we are in possession of many details with regard to it. The Guild of the Holy Cross at Stratford came to represent nearly every form of initiative for the good of the townspeople. They had their periodic banquets, provided pageants, took care of the poor, built almshouses that were very different from poorhouses, cared for the orphans and disabled and supported the grammar school as well as helping some of their members to the higher education. The guild became so famous for its benefactions to the life of the town that distinguished members of the nobility and judges, members of the professions and prominent merchants from all the surrounding neighborhood asked and obtained the privilege of becoming members. The guild acquired property and had a definite income. We know that in 1481 it acquired the rectory of Little Wilmcote, where the Ardens, the ancestors of Shakespeare's mother, had property, with all its profits. One very interesting development in Stratford shows the difference between the poorhouses of subsequent centuries and the almshouses of Columbus' Century. Just next to the Guild School and Chapel in Stratford there is a row of little houses rather strange looking now, but not so unlike the houses of the time in which they were erected as to be noticeable. There are a dozen or more of these in which the aged poor were to live, husband and wife occupying the ground floor of a little house by themselves. Places were also provided in the upper stories of these houses for the widowers, spinsters and old bachelors who had become too old for work. They are neat little quarters, in which the old folks still live contented and which the visitor to Stratford finds of very great interest. The guild chapel not being far away, a few hundred feet from the farthest of them, even the feeblest of the old people who were not actually bedridden could have the consolation of going to church and special services at convenient hours {173} were held for them. As a matter of fact, after the rebuilding of the chapel by Sir Hugh Clopton, a great many of the townspeople, except on high festival days, used to go to the guild chapel because of its convenience rather than to Trinity Church outside the town. The boys at the guild school hard by played in their yard, where the old folk could see them, thus providing the best possible pastime for their elders, while during the day the busy traffic of a main travelled road went by them, furnishing further distraction. The grammar school which was founded and supported by the guild deserves particular mention. It was free to the children of the members of the guild, and the schoolmaster was forbidden to take anything from his pupils. The master of the guild paid him an annual salary. The date of its origin used to be set down as 1453, but it is now known to have been in existence much earlier, though a thorough reorganization took place at this time, giving rise to the idea of its actual foundation. How successful it was in its work may be gathered from the number of Stratford men who came to hold high positions in England--there being no less than three Lord Chancellors in one century--and from what we know of it in Shakespeare's time. It was suppressed under Henry VIII, but owing to the disaffection among the people it, as well as a number of other institutions of the kind, were reestablished under Edward VI and have come to be known as Edward VI Grammar Schools. As Gairdner has emphasized, there is very little reason for this designation. The new foundations were made most grudgingly and economically, considering the vast funds that had been confiscated. The grammar school was so effective in its teaching, however, that even the merchants' sons in Stratford wrote to one another in rather good Latin. Some of the letters are extant. Some of these details serve to show very well the character of the social work accomplished by the guild, especially in its school and its almhouses. Sir Sidney Lee continues: "But in 1547 all these advantages ceased: The guild was dissolved and all the property came into the royal treasure." The account of what happened to some of these long-established funds for the benefit of the poor and of education is to be {174} found in his chapter. They were transferred to favorites of the King, who used them for various unworthy purposes and, above all, merely to keep up with the pampered luxury of the time. Rev. Augustus Jessop, the Anglican rector of Seaming, in his volume of essays, "Before the Great Pillage," tells of other parts of England and that "the almshouses in which old men and women were fed and clothed were robbed to the last pound, the poor almsfolk being turned out in the cold at an hour's warning to beg their bread. Hospitals for the sick and needy, sometimes magnificently provided with nurses and chaplains, whose very _raison d'être_ was that they were to look after the care for those who were past caring for themselves, these were stripped of all their belongings, the inmates sent out to hobble into some convenient dry ditch to lie down and die, or to crawl into some barn or hovel, there to be tended, nor without fear of consequences, by some kindly man or woman who could not bear to see a suffering fellow-creature drop down and die at their own door-posts." How all this fine organization of social work ended has often been a mystery to students of the social history of this time. It is not difficult to understand, however, when the happenings of the latter part of Columbus' Century are recalled. Sir Sidney Lee, in his "Stratford-on-Avon," has told the story of the end of things so far as Stratford is concerned. I prefer to let him tell the story (page 101): "The politicians who surrounded Henry VIII and Edward VI found the destruction of religious corporations not more satisfactory to their consciences than to their purses. In 1545 and in 1547 commissioners came to Stratford to report upon the possessions and constitution of the Guild of the Holy Cross. The income was estimated at fifty pounds, one shilling, eleven pence halfpenny, of which twenty-one pounds, six shillings and eight pence was paid as salary to four chaplains. There was a clerk, who received four shillings a year; and Oliver Baker, who saw to the clock (outside the chapel), received thirteen shillings and four pence. 'Upon the {175} premises was a free school, and William Dalam, the schoolmaster, had yearly for teaching ten pounds. 'There is also given yearly,' the report runs, 'to xxiiij poor men, brethren of the said guild, lxiijs:iijd; vz. xs. to be bestowed in coals, and the rest given in ready money; besides one house there called the Almshouse; and besides v. or vjli. given them of the good provision of the master of the same guild.'" [Illustration: CHAPEL OF GUILD AT STRATFORD AND ALMHOUSES (RESTORED BY SIR HUGH CLOPTON, 1500)] A typical instance of the way that wealthy men looked at their social duties during Columbus' Century is to be found in the case of Sir Hugh Clopton of Stratford-on-Avon. He was the Lord Mayor in 1492 and, having never married, he devoted his leisure and his wealth to philanthropy. Earlier in life he had made his fortune as a merchant in London. It was he who built New Place, which afterwards became Shakespeare's property. Just across the street stood the chapel of the guild and, as Sir Hugh was a prominent member when this edifice sadly needed restoration at the end of the fifteenth century, he provided for this. The chancel was left untouched, but the nave and tower as we have it were rebuilt by him. He died before the work was finished, but left enough money to secure its completion. It is a charming example of the perpendicular Gothic of the time and was decorated by elaborate paintings illustrating the history of the Holy Cross. {176} These paintings were afterwards covered with whitewash, because the "reforming" spirit could not tolerate such representations, but in recent years some of them have been partly uncovered, disclosing how interestingly the work was done. [Illustration: SIR HUGH CLOPTON'S BRIDGE AT STRATFORD-ON-AVON] Still more interesting, and perhaps the present generation will consider it more practical, was Sir Hugh's rebuilding in solid stone of the old wooden bridge over the Avon at Stratford. It was constructed of free stone, with fourteen arches, and a long causeway also of Stone, well walled on each side, was added to it. How much this was needed can be judged from what Leland the antiquary, who visited Stratford about 1530 on a tour through England, noted in his account of his journey as to the great value of this gift. "Afore the time of Hugh Clopton," he wrote, "there was but a poor bridge of timber, and no causeway to come to it, whereby many poor folks either refused to come to Stratford when the river was up, or coming thither stood in jeopardy of life." The bridge is still standing to convince us of the workmanlike thoroughness with which its foundations were laid. {177} When Sir Hugh Clopton came to make his will, Stratford largely benefited in other ways, as Mr. Sidney Lee, to whom we owe most of these details, has noted in his "Stratford-on-Avon" (London: Seeley & Co., 1907, page 94): "He bequeathed also C. marks to be given to xx. poor maidens of good name and fame dwelling in Stratford, i.e., to each of them five marks apiece at their marriage; and likewise CI. to the poor householders in Stratford; as also Lli. to the new building, 'the cross aisle in the Parish Church there' (Dugdale). The testator did not, at the same time, forget the needs of the poor of London, or their hospitals; and on behalf of poor scholars at the Universities, he established six exhibitions at Cambridge and Oxford, each of the annual value of four pounds for five years." [Footnote 19] [Footnote 19: It might possibly be thought that there were few opportunities for the making of fortunes of any significance in England at this time, and that therefore Sir Hugh Clopton's example would mean very little. As a matter of fact, however, this was the time when above all, fortunes were made rapidly and money flowed into England more than ever before. Taine in his "History of English Literature" quotes Acts of Parliament, the "Compendious Examination," by William Strafford, and other government documents which make this clear. He sums the situation up by saying: "Towards the close of the fifteenth century, the impetus was given commerce and the woollen trade made a sudden advance, and such an enormous one that cornfields were changed into pasture lands, 'whereby the inhabitants of the said town (Manchester) have gotten and come into riches and wealthy livings' so that in 1553, forty thousand pieces of cloth were exported in English ships. It was already the England which we see to-day a land of meadows, green, intersected by hedgerows, crowded with cattle, abounding in ships, a manufacturing, opulent land, with a people of beef-eating toilers, who enrich it while they enrich themselves. They improved agriculture to such an extent, that in half a century the produce of an acre was doubled."] Sir Hugh Clopton's many benefactions illustrate very thoroughly the feeling of many of those who had made money at this time, that they were stewards of their wealth for the benefit of the community. Civic philanthropy is sometimes supposed to be a much more modern idea than this century, and what was given for charity is sometimes thought to have been but poorly directed. As a matter of fact, wealthy men were {178} at least as thoughtful of their benefactions in that time as in our own. If Sir Hugh Clopton's varied works for his towns-people are to be considered as typical, and everything points to such a conclusion, they were even more likely to do enduring good. He did not specialize, but where he found a good work to do he did it. Indeed, the whole story of doing good for others in this time deserves the study of the modern time, because of its solution of many problems that we are facing now. An interesting phase of their collections for charity was the continuance of the old custom which had existed for several centuries, of having a special day on which everyone who was approached by certain solicitors for charity was expected to give something. This was usually the day after Whit-Sunday. Sometimes in the English villages, at the entrance to a bridge, or across a market place or the main street of the town, a rope was stretched and everyone who passed had to pay a toll for charity. Our modern "tag day" was a revival of this custom, though in the mediaeval towns, where everybody knew everybody else, there were less social dangers in the custom. The Low Countries were very prosperous at this time and took up seriously the problem of helping the poor. As we have told more in detail in the chapter on "Hospitals and Care for the Insane," the order of Beguines took up the nursing and the visiting of the poor, and in many places the Beguinages assumed the character to some extent of institutions for the care of the poor. The word poorhouses has becomes so unfortunate in its connotations that one would scarcely think of using it in connection with these almost separate village-like communities, with abundance of air and light, in which the young women of the better classes took up their own life in small, neat, attractive houses and cared for the aged poor and children in little houses not far from their own. A great number of dependents were maintained mainly out of the revenues derived from the incomes which these young women of the better classes brought with them into the institution and from the funds contributed by friends who were interested in their good work. Our modern settlements are like them in certain {179} ways, but there are so many differences in favor of the older institutions, which represent indeed an almost ideal way of exercising charity, that the contrast is striking. Many of the religious orders that were doing such good work in Columbus' time have gone through many vicissitudes. Governments have often turned to enrich their favorites at the expense of charitable foundations in their hands, and it has been an easy way for politicians to get money. In spite of all this, some of them continue to do their work even at the present time. Among these the Beguines are particularly worthy of note. After the union of Holland and Belgium, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, William of Holland attempted to abrogate many of the rights of the Beguines and confiscate much of their property. The municipality of Ghent, in which the largest Beguinage was situated, sent a protest, in which they catalogued the great services of the order in times of war and epidemics, and the unfriendly purpose of the Holland Government was changed. In the nineteenth century the list of good works accomplished by the Beguines is very striking and some of them have been listed by Miss Nutting and Miss Dock in their "History of Nursing": "In 1809-10 the Beguines of Belgium had devoted their whole strength to the service of the army during an epidemic of fever. During the war of 1813 their buildings were turned into hospitals, and after Waterloo they literally gave all they had to relieve the overwhelming distress. In 1832, 1849, and 1853 they again served nobly in cholera epidemics. Besides their readiness as nurses, they have likewise not been wanting as good citizens. In 1821 they contributed a generous sum toward the establishment of municipal industrial workshops, and have often acted as an aid society in dispensing contributions to sufferers from natural disasters, such as inundations and fires." That is a brief nineteenth-century chronicle of a charitable organization that was at an acme of its usefulness in Columbus' Century. Such functions of helpfulness for those in need are now exercised by various organizations which are of comparatively {180} recent date. Because these organizations are new, it is often supposed that the duties which they now fulfil were either quite unknown or almost entirely overlooked in the older time. It only requires a little study of the details of the social life and the organization of charity before the Reformation to appreciate how much was accomplished by the various religious orders. It has been so much the custom in English-speaking countries particularly to think that the religious were mainly occupied in their own little concerns, selfishly intent on the accumulation of means to enable them to live in idleness, that their real place in the life of the olden time has been almost entirely lost sight of. They represented the charitable organizations of all kinds that have come into prominence during this last few generations and that were so sadly needed. Their duties were accomplished by men and women who resigned all hope of profit for themselves and gave themselves entirely to these good works, thus obviating many of the abuses that are now beginning to be so manifest in charity organization. The story of the establishment of the Monti di Pietà, lending institutions for the poor in Italy, is one of the most interesting chapters not alone in the social work of this period, but of all periods. The original suggestion for them came from that great scholar, preacher and worker for the good of the people, St. Bernardine of Siena, who died just before the opening of Columbus' Century. Their organization, however, we owe to Blessed Bernardine of Feltre, that worthy son of St. Francis of Assisi, who is generally represented in his pictures with that symbol of a Monte di Pietà, a little green hill composed of three mounds and on the top either a cross or a standard, with the inscription, _"Curam illius habe"_ (Have the care of it). As thus established these institutions, the Monti di Pietà, were charitable lending houses, where the poor could obtain money readily for pledges and usually with very little cost to them beyond the repayment of the loan. At that time it was felt that charity might well care for the poor to this extent, and it was the custom for wealthy people who died to leave legacies by which unredeemed pledges of household necessaries might be restored to the poor without {181} the repayment of the loan. Such legacies, by the way, are not unusual even yet in the Latin countries, and at least two have been chronicled within the year. The spirit of these institutions was excellent and they accomplished great good, spreading all over Italy and finding their way in some form into the Latin countries at least during Columbus' period. St. Catherine of Genoa, whose work was done just about the beginning of Columbus' Century, is a typical example of the organizer of charity of this time. As a young widow she began to visit the patients in the hospital, and finally came to spend all of her time there, except such as was devoted to the visiting of the sick in their homes and the bringing of them into the hospitals. Soon she organized a number of others, or at least they gathered round her until a great work for charity was being done. Many of the noblewomen of the time devoted some hours at least every week to visiting the sick in the hospitals. There is a touching story told of Frances, Duchess of Brittany, who nursed through a severe illness her husband's successor on the ducal throne, who had treated her with great injustice. She afterwards retired to a Carmelite convent, where during an epidemic she nursed the stricken nuns through its whole course, and at the end of it laid down her own life. In the next century Evelyn, in his "Diary," tells of his surprise on visiting the hospitals in Paris to see how many noble persons, men and women, were waiting on them and "how decently and Christianly the sick in Charité [one of the great hospitals] were attended even to delicacy." This was only a continuation of the fine traditions of the older time, surprising to Evelyn because they had gone out entirely in Protestant England. The period was particularly rich in social workers, especially those who used Christianity as the basis by which to enable men to help themselves. One of the greatest of these, whose influence so lives on even in our own time that Cardinal Newman loved to speak of him as his beloved Father Philip, was Philip Romolo Neri (1515-1595), better known as St. Philip Neri, the Apostle of Rome. He proved a rather brilliant scholar as a young man, but when a successful {182} business career was opening up for him he gave it all up and in 1533 arrived in Rome without any money, without having informed his father of the step that he was taking and after having deliberately cut himself off from the patronage of an uncle who had resolved to make him his heir. For a while he tutored and wrote poetry and Latin and Italian, and then studied philosophy at the Sapienza and theology in the school of the Augustinians. When he was about thirty he became the close friend of St. Ignatius Loyola, and many of the young men that gathered round him, because of his attractive, amiable character, found a vocation for the intellectual and spiritual life in the infant Society of Jesus. In 1548, together with his confessor, he founded the confraternity of the Most Holy Trinity for the care of pilgrims and convalescents in Rome. Its members met for communion once a month and there was exposition of the Blessed Sacrament, a practice which was introduced by Philip. He sometimes preached even as a layman, and in 1551, at the command of his confessor, for nothing short of this would have overcome his humility, he entered the priesthood. He devoted his attention particularly to men and boys and succeeded in making them close personal friends. In the midst of this work priests gathered round him, and finally Gregory XIII recognized the little community as the Congregation of the Oratory. Pope Gregory XIV, who had previously been a great personal friend of Philip's, would have made him a cardinal only for the saint's great reluctance. His little band of oratorians, among whom the most conspicuous was Baronius, the Church historian, did wonderful work in Rome and many other houses of this congregation came into existence. Few men that ever lived had so much influence over all those who came in contact with him as St. Philip Neri, and it is this personal influence that characterized the work of his congregation in the after-time. Newman and Faber and many of the distinguished converts of the Tractarian movement in England became members of the Oratory, and St. Philip's work has come down to our generation through them with very wonderful success. His career represents another example of the marvellous power of the {183} men of this time to create things of all kinds which influence all succeeding generations. St. Philip Neri's contemporary and intimate friend, St. Ignatius Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, is always thought of as a great organizer in education, seldom as a social worker. There was no phase of social need in Rome, however, to which he did not give his personal attention in spite of the many calls that there were on his time. He taught little children catechism and insisted that this should be a special feature of the work of his order in spite of its devotion to the higher education. He organized various institutions for the poor and secured by his efforts the foundation of a home for fallen women in Rome and himself personally conducted through the streets to it some of those who were to enter. His example in this matter must be taken as a type of what many thoughtful persons of this time were ready to do in the accomplishment of what they saw as their social duties. One of the great social reformers of the time whose unfortunate death has made him the subject of wide attention ever since was Savonarola, the Dominican monk, whose fate has been a sad stumbling-block of misunderstanding of the time. He used his great powers of oratory to bring about a social reform. It was sadly needed. Contact with the old pagan ideas through the new learning had made many of the people of the time even more selfish than usual. In the midst of the luxury and worldly interests of the time there had come a neglect of the old fellow-feeling of kindness and of charity that had characterized the Middle Ages. This affected mainly the so-called better classes. It was this, above all, that Savonarola tried to reform. He succeeded in stirring up the people wonderfully, and it is probable that no one has ever succeeded in working such a revolution in the social feelings of a whole city as Savonarola did. As a consequence of his ardent appeals people began a great reformation of city life by reforming themselves. The confessionals were thronged with penitents, the audiences outgrew the capacity of the largest church in Florence, that city of ample churches, and the very streets that had listened to nothing but pagan poetry for years resounded to the music {184} of hymns and psalms. A really important step in reform, however, was the great change in the attitude of mind of men towards others, and especially those needy or in suffering. Men sold their goods and gave the proceeds to the poor. Women gathered together their vanities of all kinds, burned them in the market place and devoted themselves to the care of the ailing. Old feuds were made up, and thoughts of revenge put aside, though they had been the dearest traditions in families for generations. For some time there was probably never a happier community than Florence. No one was in want, selfishness was almost at an end and lawlessness quite unknown. The conditions were too good to last among ordinary humanity. Political bickering began and political factors of all kinds obtruded themselves on the movement. The citizens formed themselves into a Christian commonwealth, over which they wished Savonarola to rule. After a time, intoxicated by the apparent success of the movement, not a few hoped to raise themselves to power in the midst of the rather quixotic political conditions that had developed, and almost needless to say they were urged on by certain of the ruling princes of Italy, who hoped themselves to benefit by conditions in Florence. Long ago Horace said, "You may put away nature as with a fork, but she will come back." The supernatural ruled for a time in Florence, but the natural reasserted itself and then the trouble began. Savonarola was its victim, but not before he had shown clearly what the evils of the time were and pointed out the path along which they might be reformed, though the sudden reformation of them could not be hoped for. Savonarola was a social, and not a religious, reformer. He has often been proclaimed a pre-Reformation reformer, but there was no doctrine of the old Church that Savonarola did not accept, and it was for political and not theological reasons that he was put to death, though ecclesiastics had so much to do with it. All the characteristic doctrines of the Church--devotion to the Saints and to the Blessed Virgin, the Blessed Sacrament, Transubstantiation--are dwelt on in his writings, and he is even the author of a hymn to the Blessed Virgin {185} and of a treatise on devotion to her. Nor was he at all carried away with the idea of self-judgment and independence in religion. No one teaches more emphatically than he the power of the Pope and the necessity for obedience to Rome. Nothing stronger or more explicit in this regard has ever been written than some passages that have been found in his writings. It is too bad that his great social influence for good was not allowed to work itself out into important social reforms. Great churchmen of the after-time have recognized the sad misfortune of his death, and Pope Benedict XIV, whose authority in the matter of the canonization of Saints and the honor to be paid them is the highest, made use of an expression which shows in what lofty veneration Savonarola was held by one of the greatest of the popes. As Cardinal Lambertini, Pope Benedict said: "If God gives me the grace to get to Heaven, as soon as I shall have consoled myself with the Beatific Vision my curiosity will lead me to look for Savonarola." Half a century later a parallel expression, which is almost more striking, was reported to have been used by Pope Pius VII, who said: "In Heaven three serious questions will be solved: The Immaculate Conception, the suppression of the Society of Jesus and the death of Savonarola." [Footnote 20] [Footnote 20: How soon this vindication of Savonarola began to be felt in the minds of high ecclesiastics will perhaps be best realized from the fact that when, some ten years after the friar's death, Raphael was asked to decorate the stanze of the Vatican, he introduced Savonarola beside St. Thomas Aquinas, among the great doctors of the Church in the very first fresco that he painted. This fresco was seen and studied carefully by the Pope and greatly praised by him. Almost needless to say Raphael's action in the matter would never have been permitted, only that the reaction in favor of Savonarola had set in very strongly.] As a matter of fact, all the sentiment of the great Catholic scholars and historians of modern times has been intent on vindicating Savonarola's character. It is not the Church but churchmen who condemned him and not for religious but political reasons. Unfortunately in English the general impression with regard to him is derived from George Eliot's "Romola," and that distinguished English novelist, in spite of her erudition, was least of all fitted by temperament or {186} intellectual training and eminently unfitted because of her religious ideas to write the life of Savonarola and his relation to his time. No one saw the social abuses so well as he and no one called attention to them so effectively. He recognized them as abuses, however, and not in any sense as consequences of the religious system. He would have been the last one in the world to have wished for serious disturbance of the Church. He had for years held high positions in the Dominican order and was in the most complete sympathy with the religious orders and the hierarchy of his time. One of the greatest of the social workers of this century is undoubtedly Bartolomé de Las Casas, who did so much to moderate the abuses in the treatment of the Indians, which had unfortunately crept in under the Spanish sovereignty in the early days. He was the son of Francisco Casas, who had accompanied Columbus on his second voyage and brought back an Indian boy, whom he left to his son as a servant. Bartolomé studied law at Salamanca, secured a high reputation as a lawyer and then became the counsel to the Spanish governors of the Antilles and later of the Island of Hispaniola. After some years of successful legal practice Las Casas became a priest and devoted himself to the alleviation of the condition of the Indians. In becoming a priest his position as a reformer became assured. Strange as that may seem to some who do not understand the period, he gained almost complete freedom of speech and, having no solicitude for his material needs, could devote all his time and energy untrammelled to his chosen life work. He made mistakes, he was eminently unpractical, but there is no doubt at all about his absolute devotion to the cause of humanity and his untiring activity and zeal in the cause of proper Christian treatment of the Indians. He aroused the attention of the men of his time and, above all, of the sovereigns of Spain and the most influential men and women of that country. His crusade had much to do with the promulgation of the "New Laws" in 1542 and their amendments in 1543 and 1544. These did not abolish serfdom, but they greatly limited it, so that it was even said that a native enjoyed more privileges than a Creole. He refused the bishopric of Cuzco in Peru {187} declaring that he would never accept any Church dignity, and it was only after much urging that he consented to become bishop of Chiapas in Southern Mexico. His powers of administration did not prove as great as his humanitarian ideals and, while he talked much of abuses, he was not able to correct them as well as many others who did not set out to be so radical as he. He has written much and his books have appeared in many editions. His was a great soul that found a supreme purpose and devoted to it a long life of ninety years. A less ardent advocate than he would almost surely have failed of accomplishing the great reform that was needed. Like our own Abolitionists, he was too radical in many of his views, and yet his very enthusiasm carried others along into the execution of great good. His writings have been a storehouse of information with regard to conditions in the colonies and, while they have to be discounted from the standpoint of his tendency to exaggeration of interest in the Indian questions, that exaggeration is justified to a great extent by the great humanitarian purpose that dictated it. Las Casas must undoubtedly be considered one of the world's great philanthropists. An important social influence, if the name of social reformer does not quite suit him, was the Duke of Gandia, who is better known as St. Francis Borgia. He was a great-grandson of Pope Alexander VI, and his grandfather, Juan Borgia, who had acquired the hereditary Duchy of Gandia in the kingdom of Valentia in Spain, was assassinated by an unknown hand, possibly that of his brother, Caesar Borgia. On the maternal side the Duke of Gandia was the great-grandson of Ferdinand the Catholic. His grandfather had been the Archbishop of Saragossa. He himself became a brilliant courtier at the Court of Charles V, and in the absence of the Emperor was considered the head of the Imperial household. He and his wife were the favorites of the Empress. After the death of the Empress he was commissioned to convey her remains to Granada and, having to identify them formally there before burial, was shocked on the opening of the coffin at the change which a few days of death had brought in the sovereign whom he had served so zealously. He turned {188} to make his life mean something, not for passing honor but for the good of others. In fulfilment of this purpose he joined the Jesuits and eventually became the third General of the order. His change of life attracted wide attention and did almost more than anything else to lessen many selfish tendencies among the nobility of the time due to the pagan spirit of the Renaissance. It was a social reform that made the Borgian name as much of an inspiration for good as it had been for ill. Perhaps even more important for this period is what may be called the negative side of its social history. Apparently a great many people are quite convinced that the later Middle Ages and the Renaissance were witnesses of many severe cruelties and torturing practices, some of them legal, which reveal, if not an actual barbarity, a sad, almost inhuman, lack of kindliness and fellow-feeling on the part of the men and women of this time. Most people who have heard of cruelties and torture are quite sure that in general these reached their climax of bitterness in the later Middle Ages and that even the Renaissance time was not free from them. In the more recent centuries, particularly the seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth, men are supposed to be climbing out of the slough of despond in this matter into which humanity unfortunately had sunk during the mediaeval period. We rather pride ourselves on this evolution of humanity, quite forgetting for the moment how much greater than all the old-time barbarity is the suffering incident to our industrial development. This is, however, set down to inadvertence at most, while mediaeval and Renaissance cruelty is thought of as deliberate. There are not many impressions more false than this in history, and it is entirely due to the ignorance of the date of a number of historical events which are sometimes massed together as mediaeval or at least not modern, modern history being supposed to begin as a rule with the discovery of America. As a matter of fact, the refinements of torture all came after Columbus' Century. The Virgin of Nuremberg, the iron boots into which wedges were driven for torture purposes, the iron gauntlets in which the hands of living {189} people were roasted and many other of the hideous contrivances that rightly find a prominent place in history were made in the later sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and not in Columbus' time nor during the mediaeval period. The worst refinements of legal torture nearly all were devised in the course of the witchcraft delusion which swept over Europe in the later sixteenth and during the seventeenth century. There was comparatively little witch baiting and witch hunting and very few witches put to death during the earlier centuries. Witchcraft was a post-Reformation delusion. The Encyclopedia Britannica (Ninth Edition), in its article on torture, emphasizes particularly the fact that: "It is the boast of the common law of England that it never recognized torture as legal. Instances of torture as a means of obtaining evidence were invariably ordered by the Crown or Council, or by some tribunal of extraordinary authority such as the Star Chamber, not professing to be bound by the rules of the common law." "The infliction of torture became more common under the Tudor monarchs," this article continues. "Under Henry VIII it appears to have been in frequent use." May I add that its frequency is an incident of the end of his reign after the religious difficulties began. "Only two cases are recorded under Edward VI and eight under Mary. The reign of Elizabeth was its culminating point. In the words of Hallam, 'the rack stood seldom idle in the tower for all the latter part of Elizabeth's reign.' The varieties of torture used at this period are fully described by Lingard, and consisted of the rack, the scavenger's daughter, the iron gauntlets or bilboes, and the cell called 'little ease.' The registers of the council during the Tudor and early Stuart reigns are full of entries as to the use of torture, both for state and for ordinary offences." Under Elizabeth and the Stuarts, and even later, there were cases fully recognized by the English common law which differed from torture only in name. To quote the Encyclopedia Britannica again: "The _peine forte et dure_ was a notable example of this. If a prisoner stood mute of malice instead of pleading, he was {190} condemned to the peine, that is, to be stretched upon his back and to have iron laid upon him as much as he could bear, and more, and so to continue, fed upon bad bread and stagnant water through alternate days until he pleaded or died. It was abolished by George III, and George IV enacted that a plea of 'not guilty' should be entered for a prisoner so standing mute. A case of _peine_ occurred as lately as 1726. At times tying the thumbs with whipcords was used instead of the _peine_. This was said to be a common practice at the Old Bailey up to the last century. In trials for witchcraft the legal proceedings often partook of the nature of the torture, as in the throwing of the reputed witch into a pond to see whether she would sink or swim, in drawing her blood, and in thrusting pins into the body to try to find the insensible spot. Confessions, too, appear to have been often extorted by actual torture, and torture of an unusual nature, as the devil was supposed to protect his votaries from the effects of ordinary torture." The seventeenth century particularly witnessed the deaths of many thousands of poor people who were thought to be witches. Persecutions for witchcraft took place more particularly in the countries most affected by the Reformation. Germany as well as England had many of them. Even the crudest forms of torture were invented with almost devilish ingenuity at this time. It was under the influence of this delusional psychic contagion and the dread of possession by the devil that the insane and sufferers from nervous diseases of all kinds came to be treated more inhumanly than ever before. A climax of inhumanity in their regard was reached in the eighteenth century, when manacles and chains and dungeons were employed, until at last the exaggeration of ill-treatment brought with it reaction and reform. Humanitarianism shows a decline, marked and definite and progressive from the end of the sixteenth until the end of the eighteenth century. Interest in religion sank as in England until John Wesley came to put a new spirit into it. The rights of men were less and less respected and the poor were oppressed by those above them until the awful conditions that developed in the _ancien régime_ came in France, and {191} nearly similar conditions in other countries. The French Revolution had to come. Men could stand no more. As Hilaire Belloc, one of the best of the modern historians of the French Revolution, says, "That movement was really an attempt to restore to men the rights which they had enjoyed during the Middle Ages." {192} CHAPTER II HOSPITALS, NURSING AND CARE FOR THE INSANE An excellent criterion of the social status of any period in history is the genuine humanitarian purpose that animates it, and how seriously it takes the duty of caring for those who most need care is to be found in the character of its hospital buildings and their maintenance. Tried by this standard, Columbus' Century proves to be one of the greatest of the centuries of history. This will seem very surprising to most people, because the general impression has been that until our generation hospitals were rather ugly buildings of institutional type, with small windows, sordid surroundings and very unsuitable internal arrangements for the ailing. There is no doubt at all that hospital buildings just before our generation--and some of them unfortunately remain over as living witnesses--were all that has been thus suggested and if possible worse. Indeed, some of the hospital buildings of two generations ago were about as unsuitable for their purpose as could well be imagined. The general feeling with regard to this fact, however, is not so much one of blame as of pity. Most people assume that the older generations did not know how to build good hospitals. They did as well as they could, but until the development of modern knowledge of hygiene and sanitation, as well as the demand made on hospital administration by modern surgery, hospitals could scarcely be expected to be anything but the sordid piles of buildings they usually were, thought proper if they but furnished a protection from the weather and sustenance for the sick poor. Anyone who will consult the real history of hospitals, however, will be surprised to find that the worst hospitals in the world's history were built in the first half of the nineteenth century. The usual impression is that, if the hospitals of a {193} century ago were so bad, those of the century preceding that must have been much worse and so on progressively more unsuitable until in the Middle Ages they must have been unspeakable. As a matter of fact, the hospitals of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries were beautiful buildings as a rule, quite as charming structures for their purposes as all the other architecture of that time--churches, monasteries, abbeys, castles, town halls and the rest. They had at this time a period of wonderful surgical practice, of which we have learned from the republication of their text-books of surgery only in recent years, and there is a definite, direct ratio between surgery and proper hospital organization. Whenever there is good surgery there are good hospitals, and whenever there are good hospitals, surgery will be found occupying a prominent, progressive place in the history of medicine. It is hard to understand the periods of decadence in hospital construction and maintenance and in nursing care and training, but not more difficult than to understand the ups and downs of surgery. That anaesthesia and antiseptic practice should obtain for a while and then gradually be lost is no harder to understand than that hospitals should gradually "sink to an almost indescribable level of degradation." Miss Nutting and Miss Dock, in their "History of Nursing," have described the century from 1750 to 1850 as "The Dark Period of Nursing." They quote Jacobsohn, the well-known German writer about care for the ailing, who says "that it is a remarkable fact that attention to the well-being of the sick, improvements in hospitals and institutions generally and to details of nursing care, had a period of complete and lasting stagnation after the middle of the seventeenth century, or from the close of the Thirty Years' War. Neither officials nor physicians took any interest in the elevation of the nursing or in improving the conditions of hospitals. During the first two-thirds of the eighteenth century he proceeds to say nothing was done to bring either construction or nursing to a better state. Solely among the religious orders did nursing remain an interest and some remnants of technique survive. The result was that in this period the general level of nursing fell far below that of earlier {194} periods. The hospitals of cities were like prisons, with bare, undecorated walls and little dark rooms, small windows where no sun could enter, and dismal wards where fifty or one hundred patients were crowded together, deprived of all comforts and even of necessities. In the municipal and state institutions of this period, the beautiful gardens, roomy halls and springs of water of the old cloister hospital of the Middle Ages were not heard of, still less the comforts of their friendly interiors." It so happens that just about the beginning of Columbus' Century there was a great new development of hospital building. This was only what might have been expected, for a wonderful new period of architecture was just beginning and buildings of all kinds were being erected with a magnificence that has made them the admiration of the world ever since. Handsome basilicas, Renaissance palaces, town halls were being executed by the architects of the time so as to make them precious monuments for future generations. Hospitals came in for their share of this renewal of architectural interest, and a series of really beautiful hospital buildings were erected which we have come to admire very much since we ourselves have wakened up to the duty of building fine hospitals. The old municipalities felt that buildings erected for the poorer citizens must not be planned with the idea that anything was good enough for the poor, but must be suitable to the dignity of the city. One of the most beautiful hospitals of this time is the famous _Ospedale Santa Maria degli Innocenti,_ which has been called the finest and most interesting foundling asylum in the world. It was built under the patronage of the guild of silk merchants in the early part of the fifteenth century, being completed in 1451, and is a model of charming architecture, decorated with fine paintings and adorned with the well-known della Robbia blue medallions. The Italians did not, however, call it--as in our ruder Northern ways is our custom--a foundling asylum, thus stamping the tragedy of their existence on the children, but the Home of Innocents. Surely they were the innocent victims of the conditions which had brought about their abandonment by their parents. The {195} children were kept until the age of seven, and then they were placed about with families who promised to treat them as their own children. The boys were taught trades; the girls, trained in all domestic occupations, were, when married, given dowries by the hospital or the foster parents, or received into convents if they so wished. As showing how the spirit that organized it in Columbus' Century lives on, we may quote what Miss Nutting and Miss Dock say with regard to the hospital in their "History of Nursing" (p. 243): [Illustration: BRAMANTE, GREAT COURT OF HOSPITAL (MILAN)] {196} "To-day this richly historic house is in charge of the Sisters of St. Vincent de Paul, under the direction of a highly scientific and progressive council chiefly consisting of medical men, and is one of the most perfectly kept and well managed institutions of the kind in existence, its union of mediaeval charm with modern science being a congenial and happy one." Other hospitals in Florence are scarcely less interesting. The hospital where Romola went to nurse her patients is still in existence, but is no longer a hospital. It is now the very interesting Accademia dei Belli Arti. One of the beautiful hospitals erected at this time which may serve as a type of the buildings erected for hospital purposes is the great Ospedale Maggiore of Milan. Important portions of this were finished during Columbus' Century. One of its courts is so beautiful that it has been attributed to Michelangelo, though it seems more probable that it was due to that almost equally great architectural genius, Bramante. The famous Santo Spirito Hospital in the Borgo at Rome was rebuilt by Sixtus IV in the first half of Columbus' Century and had many of the characteristics of the best architecture of the time. Practically every city in Italy did some really fine hospital building at this time. Naples and Venice added to their beautiful mediaeval hospitals and everywhere there was high development of humanitarian purpose in this regard. Italy, however, was not the only country of Europe to have fine hospitals. Indeed, every country had a share in this, and wherever there was a flourishing period of architectural evolution hospitals came in for their share of the development. In the Low Countries and Northeastern France, where a series of beautiful cathedrals and churches were being rebuilt or newly erected, and above all where the magnificent town halls that have been such a subject for admiration ever since were being erected, hospitals received great attention. Not only were fine buildings erected, but a magnificent organization of nursing and care for the ailing occurred. There was great prosperity among the people, they were doing the trade of the world, they were democratic in their ideas and they felt that the dignity of the municipalities required worthy care for the citizens no matter how poor they might be. [Illustration: MEMLING, MARTYRDOM OF ST. URSULA (BRUGES. HOSPITAL OF ST. JEAN)] {197} Above all, some of our own ideas in hospitals developed among them and many of the wealthy came to realize that they could be better cared for in the efficient hands of trained attendants in properly arranged hospital quarters than in their own homes. There was not that dread of hospitals which develops whenever they are exclusively for the poor--and deservedly, because the patients are inevitably the subject of many abuses. That picturesque Belgian community, the Beguines, had charge of a number of hospitals at this time which became famous for their thorough organization and maintenance on a high level of efficiency. One of these was founded at Beaune by Nicolas Rolin, chancellor of the Duke of Burgundy, just about the beginning of Columbus' Century. Miss Nutting and Miss Dock, in their "History of Nursing," have given a description (p. 269) of this, as well as some of the details of the nursing and management mainly taken from Helyot's "History of the Religious Orders": "It was built with much magnificence, with long wards extending into a chapel, so that the sick could hear the services, and opening into square courts with galleries above and below. Patients of both sexes and of all ranks and degrees were received, both rich and poor. There was one ward for those most seriously ill, and back of all a building for the dead, with 'many lavatories and stone tables.' In the upper galleries were suites of apartments for wealthy patients, and the gentlefolk came from leagues around. The suites consisted of a bedroom, dressing-room, anteroom and cabinet. They were richly furnished, and each patient had three beds, that he might move from one to another. Each apartment had its own linen, utensils and furniture, 'and borrowed nothing from any other.' The suites and wards were named after the King, royal family, dukes of Burgundy, and other prominent personages. In the middle wards patients of the middle class were received, and in the lower galleries the poor. The rich patients had their own food and wine sent to them, and paid for their medicines, but the rooms and the sisters' services were free. Few, however, left without bestowing a gift. The poor were cared for without any cost, but if they wanted {198} anything special they had to buy it. A little river ran through the court and was carried in canals past the different departments for drainage. It was noted that the hospital had no bad odors, such as were found in so many others, but was sweet and clean." The conditions in these hospitals of Columbus' Century were so much better than we have had any idea of until recent historical studies revealed them to us, and so many people have somehow become persuaded that hospitals of the olden time were without proper provision for the care of the sick, such as we have elaborated again in our time, that descriptions of other hospitals seem necessary to make the hospital organization of the time clear. Miss Nutting and Miss Dock declare that "the hospital at Châlons sur Saône was also very magnificent, and there, too, there were no bad odors, but in winter delicate perfumes and in summer baskets of growing plants hung from the ceiling. It had a large garden with a stream running through it with little bridges over it." It is easy to understand what a charming place for convalescents and what a pleasant view for patients could be made out of such surroundings. There is no doubt that they were well taken advantage of, for this is the time of the beautiful Renaissance gardens, when everywhere natural beauty was cultivated to a good purpose. Helyot, in his _"Les Ordres Monastiques."_ describes the beautiful drug rooms in these hospitals, where the various medicaments were prepared, many of them being grown in the hospital garden, and also the other rooms of the hospital, the quarters for the nursing sisters, and says that "the patients were nursed with all the skill and goodness of heart and refinement that might be expected from the conditions surrounding them." He appreciated very well that proper quarters for patients and nurses make strongly for such nursing conditions as are sure to be of the greatest possible help in the care of diseases. A special nursing order of Beguines was formed at this time, and as these religious women were recruited as a rule from the better classes of the population, bringing in with them such dowries as would enable them to support {199} themselves in whatever work they might undertake, it is easy to understand on what a high plane the nursing must have been. It would remind one of the conditions in the early days of the trained nurse in modern times, when so many of the applicants for nursing positions were prepared by their family life at home for devotion to a liberal profession rather than merely the taking up of an occupation necessary for livelihood. How their efforts were appreciated by patients will be very well understood from what may still be seen at the hospital of St. Jean at Bruges. The great painter Memling was for a time a patient in the hospital. He felt that he owed his life to the good sisters who had done so much for him, and so he painted a great altar-piece for them and decorated the famous Shrine of St. Ursula. The pictures were painted just about the time that Columbus discovered America. They are among the most beautiful examples of religious painting ever made. The decorations of the shrine particularly are among the world's great works of art. They are almost miniatures and contain large numbers of faces, beautifully executed, but every detail has been worked out by the great painter, evidently as a labor of love. The texture of some of the garments as he reproduces them has proved a source of wonder to artist visitors ever since. Many thousands of visitors find their way to the hospital every year, and even the small sum of money (twenty cents) which is charged for admission to see them constitutes in the annual aggregate an income of thousands of dollars. The hospital, which is very spacious and has large gardens with the canal winding alongside of it, is enabled to carry on its work much better as a consequence of this notable addition to its revenues due to the gratitude of a patient of over four hundred years ago. Many of these hospitals had beautiful decorations. They understood very well at that time that patients' minds must be occupied if they are to be saved from the depressing effect of too much thinking about themselves, and they felt that staring at bare walls was not conducive to diversion of mind. In many of these hospitals then there were beautifully {200} decorated walls and great pictures in the corridors. As these were painted directly on the wall, as a rule they did not collect dust nor present opportunities for dirt to gather. Helyot has insisted on the ample water supply that they made it a rule to secure for these old-time hospitals. It was felt that the plentiful use of water was absolutely essential for maintaining healthy conditions in hospital work. In our modern time we have come more and more to realize that, while antiseptics are of great value once infection has taken place and dirt has found an entrance, soap and hot water are the best possible materials, especially when frequently applied, to maintain sanitary conditions. Many of the habits worn by the religious who were devoted to nursing had certain features that made them much more hygienic for patients than ordinary feminine dress. As a rule, they were very simple, often made of washable materials, the head was always covered and spotless white was worn around the shoulders and at the wrist. This was sufficient of itself to keep constantly in mind the necessity for scrupulous cleanliness. Dirt showed very readily. When the nurses, or at least those who had the main duties to perform, came of refined families and wore these habits there could have been no neglect of cleanliness. The best possible evidence for the proper appreciation of the place of hospitals in life at this time is to be found in Sir Thomas More's account of the hospitals in Utopia. It must not be forgotten that he was travelling in Flanders when he wrote it. He pictures the people of his ideal republic as possessed of fine large hospital buildings, providing ample accommodations so that even in times of epidemic there need be no danger of contagion and abundantly supplied with all that is necessary for the care of the ailing. The standard was not what was good enough for the ailing poor, but what was worthy of the dignity of the city caring for its citizens. The proof of the completeness of their arrangements for the care of patients is to be found in the added declaration that practically everyone who was sick preferred to go to the hospital rather than to be cared for at home. This is the condition of affairs which is now developing among us again, {201} after a long interval, during which hospitals were the dread of the poor and the detestation of those who had to go to them. The whole passage is extremely interesting for this reason: "But they take more care of their sick than of any others; these are lodged and provided for in public hospitals. They have belonging to every town four hospitals, that are built without their walls and are so large that they may pass for little towns; by this means, if they had ever such a number of sick persons, they could lodge them conveniently, and at such a distance that such of them as are sick from infectious diseases may be kept so far from the rest that there can be no danger of contagion. The hospitals are furnished and stored with all things that are convenient for the ease and recovery of the sick; and those that are put in them are looked after with such tender and watchful care, and are so constantly attended by their skilful physicians, that as none is sent to them against their will, so there is scarce one in a whole town that, if he should fall ill, would not choose rather to go thither than lie sick at home." The spirit of the century and its power of organization of charity and good works is well expressed by the foundation of the Brothers of Mercy in Spain, in 1538, by a Portuguese soldier who had been wounded in battle, as was not infrequent in those days, and vowed to devote his life to God if he recovered. He rented a small house in Granada, where he gathered together a number of sick people and nursed them with the greatest care. In order to support them he went through the streets in the evening with a basket begging for his patients. After a time others came and joined him in his good work. Alms boxes were placed here and there through the city to remind people of the help that was needed. Gradually the scope of their work increased, they were given charge of hospitals, they visited the sick at their homes and the order spread not only over Europe but throughout the Spanish-American countries on this continent. Within a hundred years after the foundation the annual number of patients under their care was said to have been some two hundred thousand. A number of houses of the order was {202} founded in Italy, and over their alms boxes down there the sign was, _Fate bene, fratelli_, (Do good, little brothers). From this sign they came to be known as the _Fate Bene Fratelli_, the Do Good Little Brothers. The proper care of the insane is usually looked upon as a very modern phase of humanitarian evolution. Most people think that until the last hundred years the insane have been hideously neglected, when not treated with absolute barbarity, and that the rule has been simply to put them away so that they could not injure themselves or others, confining, manacling, and otherwise hampering their activities, regardless of their health or the mental effect on them. In this once more, as in most of the historical ideas with regard to humanitarian development, the erroneous notions are due to the fact that the care for the insane was at its lowest point during the eighteenth and the early part of the nineteenth century, and that there has been a magnificent improvement since, though it must not be forgotten that there has not been a single generation since when there have not been very serious complaints deservedly uttered of awful neglect of the insane in some part of the civilized world. We have had revelations with regard to the care of the insane in the country districts of even our Eastern States which have been almost incredible. The conditions that we have come to learn as existing in the South in the care of the insane, which have been brought to light by the recent investigation of pellagra, have been of a similar character. The epithet mediaeval which is applied so often to these conditions is absolutely unwarranted by our present knowledge of old-time care of the insane. It has been concluded that, since care for the insane was so neglected in the eighteenth century, it must have been almost infinitely worse in preceding centuries. The same fallacy lies at the root of a great many false impressions with regard to mediaeval and Renaissance history. The eighteenth was the lowest of centuries in art, literature, education, and humanitarian purpose. The preceding centuries exhibit some very interesting developments of care for the insane, some of which anticipate our most modern ideas. At Gheel in {203} Belgium, from the earlier Middle Ages, they cared for defectives on the village plan. Similar institutions were not infrequent. They developed the "open door" system of caring for the insane and insane institutions were mainly in connection with monasteries, well out in the country, and under good conditions, since they were never crowded. It is always crowding that brings serious abuses with it and leads to what seems to be barbarity, but is really an inability to cope with the large problem with inadequate means. It so happened that just before the beginning of Columbus' Century there was a special development of care for the insane and the opening of a series of hospitals that represent an epoch in the history of care for these poor people. The most important part of this development of the fifteenth century occurred in Spain. Asylums were founded at Valencia, Saragossa, Seville, Valladolid and Toledo. This movement has sometimes been attributed to Moorish or Mohammedan influence, but even Lecky, in his "History of European Morals," has rejected these assertions which are absolutely without proof. Spain continued to be the country in which lunatics were best cared for in Europe down to the beginning of the nineteenth century. Pinel, the great French psychiatrist who struck the manacles from the insane of France, declared Spain to be the country in which lunatics were treated with most wisdom and most humanity. In his book on "Mental Alienation" he gives some details of the treatment which show a very modern recognition of the need to be gentle and careful of the insane rather than harsh and forceful. In England a rather important development of care for the insane occurred during this century in connection with Bedlam Hospital, London. This, originally founded as a home for the suffering poor, as its name Bethlehem (house of bread) implies, whether they had any specific ailment or not, came after a time to be a hospital, and then as a further development confined its care to the insane. Tyndale is the first to use the word Bedlam as meaning a madhouse or a madman, so that the conversion had evidently taken place in his time. One very interesting custom developed which serves to show the mode of treatment practised. A "bedlam" came to {204} signify one who had been discharged from this hospital with the license to beg. After recovery from their acute conditions the insane were allowed to go out on condition, if there was no one to care for them, that they wore a tin plate on their arms as a badge to indicate that they had been for a time in the asylum. This tin plate aroused the sympathy of those they met and they were helped in various ways by the people of the time. Besides, it served as a warning that, since such people had been for a time in the asylum, they were not to be irritated nor treated quite as other folk, but on the contrary to be cared for. They were known as bedlamers, bedlamites or bedlam beggars. They were treated so well that tramps and other beggars of various descriptions obtained possession of badges and abused the confidence of the public. After Henry VIII's time Bedlam, which had been a religious institution, passed under the care of the state, and from this time on the story of abuses of all kinds is repeated at successive investigations in every other generation. Evelyn, in his "Diary of 1656," notes that he saw several poor creatures in Bedlam in chains. In the eighteenth century it became the custom for those seeking diversion and entertainment to visit Bedlam and observe the antics of the insane patients as a mode of amusement. This was done particularly by the nobility and their friends. A penny was charged for admission into the hospital, and there is a tradition that at one time an annual income of £400 accrued from this source. This would mean that one hundred thousand people had visited the hospital in the course of a year. Some of Hogarth's pictures show the hospital being visited in this way by fashionable ladies. In Rome the Popes, recognizing the superiority of the care for the insane as practised in Spain and in Navarre, opened a Pazzarella at Rome in the sixteenth century under the care of three Navarrese. This hospital for the insane "received crazed persons of whatever nation they be and care is taken to restore them to their right mind; but if the madness prove incurable they are kept during life and have food and raiment necessary to the condition they are in." Evidently they {205} looked for improvement in many cases and expected to allow the patients to leave the asylum at least for a time, though if their alienation continued they were kept. Just about the end of Columbus' Century a Venetian lady of wealth, evidently attracted by the kind of care given the insane, "was moved to such great pity of these poor creatures upon sight of them that she left them heirs to her whole estate. This enabled the management with the approbation of Pope Pius IV to open a new house." It is after the sixteenth century that decadence in the care of the insane becomes very marked. This reached its climax, as might well be expected, just about the same time that hospitals and care for the ailing reached their lowest ebb of efficiency. Burdett, in his "Hospitals and Asylums of the World," London, 1901, gives his third chapter the title, "The Period of Brutal Suppression in Treatment and Cruelty, 1750 to 1850." This decadence was largely due to the fact that institutions for the care of the insane became State asylums, with hired attendants, whose only interest after a time was the drawing of their salary and having as little trouble as possible with the care of the insane. In the previous centuries they had been under the care of the religious orders. {206} CHAPTER III ST. IGNATIUS LOYOLA AND THE JESUITS While painters and sculptors and architects and poets during the Renaissance period were creating masterpieces that were to influence all succeeding generations, a Spanish soldier, using men as his material, created a human masterpiece for the accomplishment of great purposes that was destined to be as vital and enduring as any of the supreme achievements of the time. As Raphael used color and Michelangelo marble, and Leonardo da Vinci the original ideas of an inventive genius of first rank, Ignatius Loyola formed men's wills to a great creative end that was destined to influence not only Europe but every continent on the globe perhaps more than any other creation of the time. The Company of Jesus, as he called it--and he liked to add the epithet little--the band of trained soldiers whose motto was to be "For the Greater Glory of God" (_Ad Major em Dei Gloriam_) and whose purposes were to be as various as all the activities that can be included under such a standard, came to be within half a century after his death the most powerful body of intellectual men in their influence over mankind that the world has ever seen. It was not so much a deliberate creation as a Providential formation, gradually finding its place in the world under the guiding genius of a great soul living on after the death of the body it had informed. Born in Spain in the Castle of Loyola the year before Columbus discovered America, the youngest of eleven children, Ignatius until his thirtieth year was a venturous chivalric soldier. Wounded at the siege of Pamplona by the French in 1521, when his leg healed in bad position, he had it rebroken, bearing the awful pain in those pre-anaesthetic days rather than have his pride annoyed by deformity. During the enforced idleness he read, after exhausting all the other reading {207} of the place, especially the romances of chivalry, a life of Christ and lives of various saints, particularly that of St. Francis of Assisi, and came to the conclusion that life was only worth living when lived in imitation of the God Man. Amidst many almost incredible difficulties, for more than a dozen of years, he formed his character by spiritual exercises, took up the study of grammar in a class with little boys, supported himself by begging as one of the beggar students of the time, and gathered around him at the University of Paris a group of seven men, who in 1534 took their vows with him as members of the Company of Jesus. With true Spanish chivalry, their first object was to win over the Holy Land from the infidels by going to Jerusalem and converting it. Prevented by war from doing this, they became teachers and missionaries in Italy. Their zeal was so great and yet so directed by reason, they were so absolutely unselfish and had a charm that attracted so much attention, that they accomplished wonders. The Pope received them with kindness and gave them provisional confirmation of their rule. Pope Paul III had insisted on limiting the number of religious orders because of abuses that had arisen in them, but after reading Ignatius' rule he declared "the finger of God is here," gave them the fullest confirmation and in 1543 they were acknowledged as one of the religious orders of the Church. Francis Thompson has summed up very strikingly, with a poet's eye for effect, the situation in Europe when Loyola was born. That will give the best idea what a confusion there was all around him at the moment when this son of an obscure nobleman began the work that was finally destined to bring order out of much of the religious and educational chaos of the time at least: "It was a great, a brilliant, a corrupt epoch, fraught with possibilities of glory and peril to a youth of Spain. The old order was yielding. Throughout Europe the nations were loud with the falling ruins of feudalism, and the consolidation of absolute monarchies was ushering in the new political creation. In a mighty dust of war and revolt Christendom itself was vanishing, leaving in its stead an adjustment of States {208} on a secular basis, to be known as 'the balance of European Power.' "In the year after little Loyola's birth Columbus sailed to begin the New World. When the boy passed to the Court the day of Ferdinand and Isabella was done; Charles V was waiting to ascend the Spanish throne. Before he began the campaign which ended in the breach of Pamplona, Charles had inherited the sceptre of Spain and been elected to the Empire of Germany. The great captain, Gonsalvo de Cordova, was dead; Francis I was King of France, singing _'Souvent femme varie,_ and preparing to tilt with Charles for the supremacy of Europe. English Harry was still bluff Hal, no gospel light yet dawned from Boleyn's eyes and many an English Queen, little dreaming of that perilous dignity to come, still bore her head on her shoulders. But a thick-necked young German friar, with the Reformation in his cowl, was about to cut the tow-rope between the Teuton nations and the boat of Peter. There was a constable Bourbon who should presently halloo those revolting Teutons to the sack of Rome, there was Cellini, a goldsmith, who should brag to have killed him there: a young Gaston de Foix was to flame athwart Italy, and leave like a modern Epaminondas--the victors weeping at Ravenna: a Bayard, last of chivalry in an unchivalric age, was to leave a name _sans peur et sans reproche._ And there was a young Loyola: what of him? Why, before Cervantes came to laugh Spain's chivalry away, should he not be a Spanish Bayard, a Spanish Gaston de Foix, or indeed both in one?" A knight he dreamed to be and a knight he was to be, but very different from his dreams. Cervantes did not laugh Spain's nor Europe's chivalry away. Any such thought was farthest from him. Ignatius Loyola was to demonstrate the chivalry still in many hearts and was to form and lead men who should accomplish knight-errant tasks all over the world, thinking not of themselves, but lifting men up, an army, as I have said he preferred to call it "a little company," of leaders of others to what seemed less quixotic in his time than in ours, the greater glory of God, but was not without its visionary quality even then. A knight undaunted, _sans peur et sans reproche,_ {209} he surely was, but when he fell his purpose actively survived him, his own great soul had passed into it and it was destined to survive him apparently forever. After nearly four centuries the Jesuits, as Ignatius' "little company of Jesus" came to be called, are still at their work--teachers, missionaries, writers, scientists, editors; anywhere and everywhere accomplishing the purpose of their founder, doing anything and everything that seems best fitted to advance according to their motto, "The Greater Glory of God." When they were suppressed in 1773 there were about twenty thousand of them. After a full generation of formal non-existence they rose from the dead, as it were, and now there are some sixteen thousand of them in the world, with some twenty-five thousand pupils in their schools in this country alone, and probably two hundred thousand in their schools all over the world. No body of men have more influence, nor is that influence used more for good, than is true of the Jesuits. They are human, and individual members have their faults. Ignatius was named as the first General, and to him is due the Constitutions of the Order. His only other writing is the little book of the "Spiritual Exercises," a compendium of the thoughts with which men were to exercise their souls and hearts during the thirty days of retreat which they made in order to strip themselves as far as possible of earthly motives and of all selfishness, so as to take up seriously the following of Christ. It has been said, and probably with justice, that this little book has influenced the conduct of men more since it was written than any that ever came from the hands of man. It was composed within the same quarter of a century while Machiavelli was writing "The Prince." The Jesuit constitutions have been the admiration of all those who have given them deep study and they are the model of those of most of the religious orders, both of men and women, founded since his time. They were not written with ideals alone in mind, but they were a growth in the mind of Ignatius during the years of his generalate and represent the condensed practical experience of the Jesuits during the first ten years of their existence as it passed through the alembic of a genius {210} for government, directed by a saint's absolute desire only to secure the greater glory of God. The only purpose of Ignatius was to influence men to imitate the life that the God Man had lived on earth, which had become the absorbing motive of his own life. He gave himself as a result to all forms of work for social betterment that would conduce to this. The teaching of catechism to children was considered most important by him, and he took it on himself as a personal obligation. The social evil and the reform of erring women were his special care in Rome, and he did not hesitate to be seen conducting these women to a house of refuge that he had had established for them in the city. His work for them accomplished great and lasting good. He realized that education was the most important means of influencing men, so to this his order was particularly devoted. Ignatius' supreme quality was his marvellous ability to select the men who would be of service in great undertakings. St. Francis Xavier, who became the great Apostle of the Indies, acknowledged that he owed under Providence his call to this sublime work entirely to Ignatius, who had turned his ambition from the pursuit of scholarly distinction to a life directed to the extension of Christianity. The brilliant young professor at the University of Paris who at first rather despised the elderly student, apparently slow-witted because of unaccustomedness to the task of study, came to look upon Ignatius almost as a second father, and his expression "What doth it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul?" became for him the keynote of existence. Once he had given himself to the new purpose in life, Francis Xavier took nothing back, and when Ignatius obtained for him the privilege of going to the Indies as an apostle he succeeded in the ten years between 1542 and 1552 in planting Christianity firmly among the natives in both India and Japan, and was only prevented from accomplishing as much for China by his premature death in 1552. As it was, he left the inspiration of his example to be the spirit of the greatest missionary work in the East that has ever been known. This work of the missions was to be one of the principal {211} features of Jesuit accomplishment during the after-time. While they conducted some of the most important colleges in Europe and came to have more than one hundred thousand students under their care within a hundred years, their missionaries were soon to be found in every land. The century of Jesuit missions in Japan after St. Francis Xavier's time is one of the most glorious, edifying and romantic chapters in Church history. They succeeded in converting many thousands of Japanese and organizing them into Christian communities. Unfortunately political troubles within, commercial rivalries of various kinds from without eventually led to the persecution of the Christians. The Japanese Christians showed then that they knew how to die with the firmness of the early martyrs. All the priests were put to death or banished, and yet so thorough had been the training of the native catechists that even in our own time, with the opening up of Japan to missionary work again, village communities have been found in which the Christian faith was preserved. In India their success was not less remarkable and they succeeded in solving the caste problem, which had been up to this time a hopeless obstacle in the path of Christianity. Robert de Nobili, the nephew of Bellarmine, the great theological writer and historian of the Church, adopted the dress and the extremely difficult habits of life of the high-caste Brahmin. In a few years he succeeded in converting over one hundred thousand of this hitherto impossibly exclusive class. He had many worthy companions as his colleagues and successors. Among others Andrada, the first Apostle of Thibet, succeeded in penetrating into the forbidden sacred land of the Lamas and in making many conversions. All the castes of India were taken care of and there were great missionary centres at Goa, Mangalore, Madura, Calcutta and Bombay. The Chinese missions of the Jesuits were in their own good time not less successful and in certain ways gave the order even greater prestige. Distinguished scholars like Father Ricci impressed themselves upon even the contemptuous Chinese mandarins, established astronomical observatories and succeeded in gaining the favor of the Court. As a consequence, their brethren received permission to evangelize the people, {212} and proceeded to make many thousands of converts. Unfortunately, here as in Japan, political disturbances in China itself and Western commercial jealousies, with the fear that the Jesuits might favor certain nations rather than others in trade, led eventually to their banishment and the destruction of their missions. It is on the American continent, however, that the story of the Jesuit missions is particularly interesting for Americans. Ignatius himself founded the missions in South America, opening up the missions of Brazil through Father De Nobreza in 1549. Later in Chili, in Peru and in Mexico the Jesuits labored with unexampled success among the Indians. At the beginning of the seventeenth century they established the famous Reductions of Paraguay. These were communities of Christian Indians living in peaceful ways in the most happy community life. The story of the life led by the Indians in these Reductions reads more like some ideal commonwealth than an actual chapter of the history of a savage people gradually being brought to a happy civilization. Students of social order have often gone back to study the ways and means by which this great work was accomplished and have been enthusiastic in their praise of the marvels accomplished. In 1717 these Reductions in Paraguay counted over one hundred thousand Christian Indians. With the suppression of the Society in the Portuguese dominions after the middle of the eighteenth century they fell into decay, and an accomplished ideal of human life that made men happier than has perhaps ever before been the case disappeared from existence. In North America the labors of the Jesuits were quite as wonderful as elsewhere, perhaps even more marvellous in the heroism displayed than in any other part of the globe. Their labors among the Indians, though they risked and often incurred torture and death and though their lives involved the most difficult kind of labors under the most trying conditions of hardship, lack of food and suffering from the inclemencies of the climate, and the still more uncertain temper of the savages, form a chapter in the history of humanity that is among the most stirring tales of human bravery for a high, unselfish purpose. The lives of such men as Fathers Daniel, Lallemant, {213} Bréboeuf, Jogues and Marquette are monuments of supreme human devotion to the great cause of humanity and Christianity. They preceded the pioneers, and their stories of life among the Indians as told in the "Jesuit Relations" are the most precious documents in the early history of exploration on this continent, making important contributions to the sciences of Indian ethnology and of American geography, as well as other departments of knowledge. Bancroft said of them: "The history of their labors is connected with the origin of every celebrated town in the annals of French America; not a cape was turned, nor a river entered but a Jesuit led the way." Parkman has paid a fine tribute to their work as missionaries and pioneers, though it is sad to see how ill he appreciated the motive of their work and how he failed almost completely to realize the sublime humanity of their intentions. Everywhere they went they devoted themselves not only to the spread of Christianity, but also to the gathering of precious scientific information, which they transmitted to Europe. They brought about the introduction into Europe of valuable botanical specimens, especially of medicinal plants and various substances that they found in use among the Indians. The name Jesuits' bark for quinine is only a testimony to the fact that it was a missionary of the order in Brazil who first learned how valuable this substance was in the treatment of malarial fevers and brought about its introduction into Europe. They compiled dictionaries of the Indian languages, which are now the only remains of some of these native American languages, important contributions to philology. Often these language studies are the only significant evidence of the relationships among the Indian tribes and of their real place of origin in the country. The geographical knowledge that they gathered and transmitted was most precious. All this was done in the midst of a self-sacrificing life among the Indians that a modern reads with ever-increasing astonishment. It seems almost incredible when it is recalled that the men who bore these sufferings so heroically were always highly educated, scholarly graduates of European colleges and often the descendants of gently nurtured families. Not infrequently the missionaries could see but very little fruit {214} from their labors for long periods and they had to be satisfied if they could make even a few converts among the old and the women and children as the result of years of labor. The contribution to civilization of these men, formed after the mighty saintly mind of Columbus' great contemporary Ignatius Loyola, is one of the greatest things that we owe to Columbus' Century. The most important function of the Jesuits, however, as planned by Ignatius himself, was not missionary work, but education. Ignatius contemplated that his little Company of Jesus should be, first of all, teachers. His constitutions arranged the training and outlined the methods. Before a generation had passed after his death they had some of the best schools in Europe. Everywhere the Jesuit schools were attended by the better classes, and the first century of the history of the Jesuits had not closed before there were more than one hundred thousand students in attendance in their classrooms. The reason for this was that their system of teaching and of intellectual discipline turned out scholars better than any other. What they taught as the basis of education was the classics. The humanities had come in as a great feature of education with the Renaissance. When the order was founded the Renaissance spirit was at its height and the schools of the New Learning had multiplied all over Europe. The Jesuits adopted it as the best means of training the mind, and how well they used it history shows. At once, with that careful attention to details so characteristic of the order, they began to systematize education, and the great _ratio studiorum_, probably the most significant contribution to the literature of methods of education ever made, was the result. It emphasized particularly the necessity for the prelection, that is, of preliminary discussion and explanation of the lesson which the students were expected to study for the next day, careful methods of recitation and demonstration and then finally insisted on the need of frequent repetitions. Competition was looked upon as a most precious element for the arousing of student interest. After a period of neglect, we are coming back to this thought once more. Themes, that is, written exercises, and especially those {215} in which the language to be learned was directly employed, were set down as a most important factor in linguistic education. The actual use of the language to be learned in class was dwelt on. After the classics the student was expected to take a course in philosophy, that is, in logic and general metaphysics and psychology, before graduation. Above all, moral as well as intellectual training was insisted on. In his "Essays on Educational Reformers," Quick summed up in the first paragraph of his book the place of the Jesuits in education rather strikingly: "Since the revival of learning, no body of men has played so prominent a part in education as the Jesuits. With characteristic sagacity and energy, they soon seized on education as a stepping-stone to power and influence; and with their talent for organization, they framed a system of schools which drove all important competitors from the field, and made Jesuits the instructors of Catholic, and even, to some extent, of Protestant Europe. Their skill in this capacity is attested by the highest authorities, by Bacon and Descartes, the latter of whom had himself been their pupil; and it naturally met with its reward: for more than one hundred years nearly all the foremost men throughout Christendom, both among the clergy and laity, had received the Jesuit training, and for life regarded their old masters with reverence and affection." If the estimation of any body of teachers is to be rightly adjudged, surely there can be no better source of evidence with regard to them than what is to be obtained from their students. Almost without exception pupils of the Jesuits are most ardent in their praise. Only those who do not know them personally have been bitter in denunciation of them. To know them well enough is to love and honor them. A few of the names of the great pupils of the Jesuit schools will serve to exemplify the sort of men that they were influencing by their education. Among them were: Bossuet, Corneille, Molière, Bourdaloue, Tasso, Fontenelle, Diderot, Voltaire, Bourdelais, Descartes, Buffon, Justus Lipsius, Muratori, Calderon, Vico the jurisconsult, Richelieu, Tilly, Malesherbes, Don John of Austria, Luxemburg, Esterhazy, Choiseul, St. Francis de Sales, Lambertini, one of the great scholars of his {216} time, afterwards the most learned of Popes under the name of Benedict XIV, and the late Pope Leo XIII, one of the greatest of the moderns. Some idea of the productiveness of the Jesuits as scientific, philosophic and literary writers may be obtained from the catalogue of their works issued by the Fathers de Backer and which has been brought up to date by Father Sommervogel. Hughes, in "Loyola and the Educational System of the Jesuits" in the Great Educators Series (Scribner's, 1902), has summed up the significance of these works: "But at length the two Fathers de Backer published a series of seven quarto volumes, in the years 1853-1861; and the first step they followed up, in the years 1869-1876, with a new edition in three immense folios, containing the names of 11,100 authors. This number does not include the supplements, with the names of writers in the present century, and of the anonymous and pseudonymous authors. Of this last category. Father Sommervogel's researches, up to 1884, enabled him to publish a catalogue, which fills a full octavo volume of 600 pages, with double columns. The writers of this century, whom the De Backers catalogued in their supplement, filled 647 columns, folio, very small print. Altogether the three folios contain 7,086 columns, compressed with every art of typographical condensation. "Suarez of course is to be seen there, and Cornelius à Lapide, Petau, and the Bollandists. A single name like that of Zaccaria has 117 works recorded under it--whereof the 116th is in thirteen volumes quarto, and the 117th in twenty-two volumes octavo. The catechism of Canisius fills nearly eleven columns with the notices of its principal editions, translations, abridgments; the commentaries upon it, and critiques. Rossignol has 66 works to his name. The list of productions about Edmund Campion, for or against him, chiefly in English, fills in De Backers' folio, two and a half columns of minutest print. Bellarmine, in Father Sommervogel's new edition, fills fifty pages, double column. "Under each work are recorded the editions, translations, sometimes made into every language, including Arabic, {217} Chinese, Indian; also the critiques, and the works published in refutation--a controversial enterprise which largely built up the Protestant theological literature of the times, and, in Bellarmine's case alone, meant the theological Protestant literature for 40 or 50 years afterwards. Oxford founded an anti-Bellarmine chair. The editions of one of this great man's works are catalogued by Sommervogel under the distinct heads of 54 languages. "In the methodical or synoptic table, at the end of the De Backers' work, not only are the subjects well-nigh innumerable, which have their catalogues of authors' names attached to them, but such subjects too are here as might not be expected. Thus "Military Art" has 32 authors' names under it; Agriculture 11; Navy 12; Music 45; Medicine 28. "To conclude then this history of our Educational Order, we have one synoptical view of it in these twelve or thirteen thousand authors, all of one family. We have much more. This one work 'attesting,' as De Backer says in his Preface, 'at one and the same time a prodigious activity and often an indisputable merit, whereof three and a half centuries have been the course in time, and the whole world the place and theatre, is a general record of religion, letters, science and education in every country, civilized or barbarous, where the Society of Jesus labored and travelled.'" Very often it seems to be thought that, since the basis of Jesuit education was the classics, therefore little or no attention was paid to the sciences and consequently an important phase of human intellectual development was neglected and an essential set of interests of humanity were set back or at least failed of their evolution. Those who think that, however, fail entirely to know the history of the Jesuits and their educational efforts and achievements. As a matter of fact, the Jesuits have always had distinguished scientists among them, and many of the great discoverers and teachers in science for the last three centuries and a half have been members of the order. Very early in their history the Jesuits turned their attention to astronomy, then the one of the physical sciences most developed, and nearly every important Jesuit College soon had an observatory in which good work {218} was done. When Gregory XIII, scarcely more than a quarter of a century after Ignatius' death, wanted to bring about the reformation of the calendar, it was to a Jesuit, Father Clavius, that he turned. Ever since that time there have been distinguished Jesuit astronomers. In our own time, Father Secchi, the Jesuit, probably did more important work than any other single astronomer of the third quarter of the nineteenth century. Among the names of the Jesuit astronomers are: Father Scheiner, who made observations particularly on the sun; Father Cysatus, whose papers on comets are justly numbered among the most important concerning this subject; Father Zupi, who first described the dark stripes or bands on Jupiter and first saw the phases of Mercury which Galileo surmised rather than saw; Father Grimaldi, who studied Saturn and drew up one of the first maps of the moon worthy of the name; Father Riccioli, who introduced the lunar nomenclature; Father Maximilian Hell, whose memory our own Newcomb vindicated, and many others. They were noted for their intimate relations with scholars who were devoting themselves to similar subjects, and they were close correspondents of Kepler and succeeded in helping him to keep his professorship at the University of Gratz when the Emperor of Austria issued a decree banishing all Protestant professors from Austrian Universities. [Footnote 21] [Footnote 21: About this same time when Harvey on a trip through Europe went to visit the Jesuits in their colleges in a number of towns, the fact was noted by the men who accompanied him, and they jested with him as regards the possibility of his either converting the Jesuits or being converted by them. He said, however, that he found nowhere more sympathetic friends and interested scholars than among these religious. His friendship for them has even given some ground for the declaration that he may have been a Catholic.] It must not be thought, however, that the Jesuits were interested only in astronomy. They had a large number of mathematicians and of teachers of all the physical sciences. The famous Roman College, founded in St. Ignatius' time, was always looked up to as the type of what a Jesuit College should be. It was here that the great scholarly Father Kircher taught for nearly half of the seventeenth century. He was invited to Rome to begin his teaching there just {219} before the condemnation of Galileo. He would not have received the invitation had there been the slightest feeling of opposition on the part of the Church or his order to the teaching of science. While teaching at the Roman College he wrote a series of text-books on all phases of physical science. There are several text-books on magnetism, one on light, a second on sound, a third on astronomy, a fourth on the subterranean world and many others. It would be easy to think that these books are mere compilations and that they were probably scarcely more than small hand-books of the imperfect knowledge of the time. On the contrary, they are magnificent large volumes beautifully printed, finely illustrated, bibliographic treasures full of original observation. They are some of the best text-books ever issued. Father Kircher's originality is demonstrated by the fact that he is the perfecter of the projecting stereoscope or magic lantern, which he was led to invent in his desire to be able to make demonstrations to his classes. He also founded the Kircherian Museum, by which the teaching of anthropology and ethnology were greatly furthered through the curiosities sent to Rome by the Jesuit missionaries all over the world. His book, "On the Pest," is full of observations of great value and contains the first suggestions that infectious diseases are carried by insects. There was no subject that he touched that he did not illuminate. Since that time there have been many distinguished Jesuit scientists, and they have continued their work down to our own day. At the present time, one of the best known of biologists in the special field of entomology is Father Wasmann, S.J., who has published some seven hundred papers on ants, their hosts and guests, and who, taking advantage of the help of his brethren all over the world, has described many hundreds of new species. How successful the Jesuits have been in their pursuit of science will perhaps be best realized from the fact that, while in Poggendorff's "Biographical Dictionary of Science" out of something less than nine thousand names nearly one thousand are Catholic clergymen, about five hundred of these are Jesuits. Their occupations first of all as priests often left them but little leisure {220} for scientific investigations, and yet they succeeded in stamping their names upon the history of science. Two departments of modern science owe much to them. Father Secchi's wonderful inventions of instruments for meteorology were awarded prizes by the French Academy of Sciences, and other members of the order made successful investigations in the science. The Jesuits in the Philippines and the West Indies have done more to study out the conditions which precede cyclones and hurricanes so as to give warning with regard to them than any others. Their work was fully recognized by the United States Government. Many of the Jesuit colleges and universities throughout the world now have seismological observatories for the study of earthquakes, and undoubtedly their intimate connection and wide distribution will bring important details of information into this department of knowledge from which significant conclusions may be reached. The work of the Jesuits has come to be better appreciated in English-speaking countries, where old religious prejudices hampered its proper recognition, until comparatively recent times. Macaulay, in his essay on Ranke's "History of the Popes," has summed up the achievements of the Jesuits in his own striking way. When he wrote the Jesuits were unknown personally in England, and so it is not surprising that there are passages in his panegyric that are full of the old prejudices which had accumulated in English history and by which the term Jesuitic has become a word of the worst reproach. Macaulay's wide reading, however, had brought to him a very extensive knowledge of the wonderful work accomplished by Loyola and his sons during the two centuries after their foundation. The passage is too well known to be more than referred to here. His tribute to their successful work as missionaries all over the world, which undoubtedly set the fashion after which Protestant historians in English-speaking countries have come to acknowledge the marvellous work of the Jesuits among the savages, is not so well known: "The old world was not wide enough for this strange activity. The Jesuits invaded all the countries which the great marine discoveries of the preceding {221} age had laid open to European enterprise. In the depths of the Peruvian mines, at the marts of the African slave-caravans, on the shores of the Spice Islands, in the observatories of China, they were to be found. They made converts in regions which neither avarice nor curiosity had tempted any of their countrymen to enter, and preached and disputed in tongues of which no other native of the West understood a word." No wonder that Parkman, who in some ways has helped to make us Americans understand them better but who in many ways is utterly lacking in proper sympathy for them probably because he failed to know them well personally, said of them: "The Jesuit was, and is, everywhere--in the schoolroom, in the library, in the cabinets of princes and ministers, in the huts of savages, in the tropics, in the frozen north, in India, in China, in Japan, in Africa, in America; now as a Christian priest, now as a soldier, a mathematician, an astrologer, a Brahmin, a mandarin, under countless disguises, by a thousand arts, luring, persuading, or compelling souls into the fold of Rome." He feels sure that there must be much to condemn in them, since they have been the subject of so much criticism and persecution. Like many another, he cannot bring himself to think that their founder's last wish for them, that they should be persecuted even as their Lord and Master was, should be the symbol of their fate. Where he knows them best, however, as in Canada, he has unmixed praise for them, though he declares that it is not for him to eulogize them, but to portray them as they were. At once the keynote for the proper appreciation of the Jesuits and the summary of what Loyola accomplished through them is to be found in the closing paragraphs of Francis Thompson's "Life of St. Ignatius" (Benzigers': New York, 1909, pp. 318): "Issuing from this Manresan cave, forgotten by the world which he had forgotten, and rejected in the land which bore him, single and unaided he constructed and set in motion a force that stemmed and rolled back the reformation which had engulfed the North and threatened to conquer {222} Christendom. He cast the foundations of his Order deep; and, satisfied that his work was good, died--leaving it for legacy only the God-required gift that all men should speak ill of it. "Most singular bequest that Founder ever transmitted, it has singularly been fulfilled. The union of energy and patience, sagacity and a self-devotion which held nothing impossible that was bidden it, were the leading qualities of St. Ignatius; and so far as his Order has prospered, it has been because it incarnated the qualities of its Founder. The administrative genius which, among the princes of Europe or the 'untutored minds' of Paraguay, is perhaps its most striking secular feature, comes to it direct from the man who might have ruled provinces in the greatest empire of the sixteenth century; but chose rather to rule, from the altars of the Church, an army which has outlasted the armies of Spain, and made conquests more perdurable than the vast empire which drifted to its fall in the wake of the broken galleons of the Armada." The Jesuits are literally one of the greatest creations of this great period. Not to know them as such is to miss the significance of their order and not a little of the true spirit of the epoch from which they sprang. The arts and literature of the Renaissance produced no work destined to live so vividly, nor to influence men in all succeeding generations so deeply, as "the little company of Jesus," as Ignatius of Loyola conceived and organized it. {223} [Illustration: HOLBEIN, SIR THOMAS MORE] CHAPTER IV SIR THOMAS MORE AND SOME CONTEMPORARIES While in this great period of the Renaissance, Raphael, Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo, and so many others, were demonstrating the power of the human mind to express itself in aesthetic modes of all kinds, and Copernicus and Regiomontanus and Vesalius and Paracelsus were showing how man's intellect might penetrate the mysteries of the universe without him and that smaller universe the microcosm that he is himself, and Erasmus and Pico della Mirandola and Linacre were exhibiting human scholarship at its highest, a great contemporary in England expressed human life at its best in strong terms of the human will. This was Sir Thomas More, Lord Chancellor of England, put to death by Henry VIII, but not until he had succeeded in making out of his life a wonderful work of living art of the profoundest significance, to which men of all classes have been attracted ever since. He was a great scholar, a great lawyer, a great judge--the only man who ever cleared the docket of the English Court of Chancery,--a writer of distinguished ability not only in his own language but in Latin, a philosopher who so far as the consideration of social problems was concerned deserves a place beside Plato: yet not for any of these attainments is he famous, but for his unflinching following of what he saw to be his duty even though it cost him everything that men usually hold dear--life, reputation, property and even the possibility of poverty and suffering for those he held dear after his death. Sir Thomas More was born in London, February 7, 1478. We are likely to think of the Wars of the Roses as farther away from us, but they were not yet over. Edward the Fourth was now firmly fixed on the throne, but there had been stormy times for the monarchy in his reign. Edward {224} originally ascended the throne in March, 1461, but the revolt of the Kingmaker Earl of Warwick had led to the restoration of poor Henry VI in 1470, and Edward had to flee the country. He returned in 1471, defeated Warwick at Barnet, April 14, 1471, and Margaret of Anjou at Tewkesbury, May 4, 1471. There was tranquillity for a dozen of years after this, but it was not until Henry VII defeated Richard III at Bosworth in 1485, and then married the Yorkist Princess Elizabeth, that peace was assured to England. It was into a very disturbed England, then, that Sir Thomas More was born. As a boy he had as teacher Nicholas Holt, who seems, with the true Renaissance spirit, to have been thoroughly able to arouse the youth's interest. At the age of twelve he entered the household of Cardinal Morton, the Archbishop of Canterbury. It was the good old custom at that time to have boys brought up in the households of distinguished nobles or high ecclesiastical dignitaries, with the idea that association with men of parts represented the best stimulus for that development of the intellectual faculties which constitutes real education. It was not long before young More attracted the attention of the distinguished old Cardinal, who prophesied his future greatness. Roper, who married More's daughter Margaret, tells an incident of the boy's life at this time and adds that, as a consequence of the Cardinal's appreciation of him. More was sent to the university. He says in a famous paragraph that shows us More's precocity and that sense of humor that was to characterize him all his life: "Though More were young of years, yet would he at Christmas suddenly sometimes step in among the players, and never studying for the matter, make a part of his own there presently among them which made the lookers on more sport than all the players beside. In whose wit and towardness the Cardinal much delighting, would often say of him to the nobles that divers times dine with him: 'This child here waiting at the table, whoever shall live to see it, will prove a marvellous man.' Whereupon for his better furtherance in learning, he placed him at Oxford." After some four years in the Cardinal's household, More {225} went to the university on the bounty of his patron, and afterwards took up the study of law and was admitted to the bar. When he was twenty-six More became a member of Parliament, and the next year, in 1505, he married. The story of his marriage has an interest rather unique of its kind. He had gone down to the home of John Colt of Newhall, in Essex, with the avowed purpose of getting him a wife. He had been told that John's elder daughter was just the person for him. When he got down there he liked the second daughter better, but married her elder sister so as not to subject her to the discredit of being passed over. There are those who have said that his sanctity began right there. It is to be hoped that his wife knew nothing of it until much later. The year of his marriage, when he might reasonably have been expected to be circumspect as to his political future, More strenuously opposed in Parliament King Henry's (VII) proposal for a very large subsidy as the marriage portion of his daughter Margaret. In spite of his youth, his arguments in the matter were so forcible and in accord with old-time custom and law in England that the House of Commons reduced the subsidy to scarcely more than a quarter of the amount demanded. When his favorite courtiers brought to Henry VII the news that a man whom he would deem scarcely more than a beardless boy had brought about the disappointment of his hopes and schemes and deprived him of an opportunity to fill his coffers, than which nothing was dearer to the miserly King's heart, it is easy to understand that More was not a favorite at Court. More seems to have considered it advisable to absent himself from England for a while at this time, because of the king's displeasure. This provided an opportunity to spend some time at Paris, and also at Louvain. At Louvain he began that acquaintance with Erasmus which ripened into the enduring intimacy of later life. No opportunity seems to have been missed by him to develop his intellect and broaden his intellectual interests. While he was a lawyer, the Greek authors became a favorite subject of study and philosophy and science his diversions. Literally, it might be said of {226} him, that there was nothing that was human that did not interest him. After some time, More returned to London and took up the practice of law. After the death of Henry VII, in 1509, he became the most popular barrister of the day and very soon obtained an immensely lucrative practice. He refused to receive fees from the poor, and especially from widows and orphans who seemed to him to be oppressed in any way. Tradition shows him as a sort of legal aid society for the city of London at that time. He absolutely refused to plead in cases which he thought unjust. Such punctilious practice of the law is sometimes said to hamper a successful career and, above all, lead to the loss of the opportunities that bring a lawyer into prominence. The very opposite happened with More, and he became the best known of his profession before he was forty. The pleasantest part of More's life was these years of his professional career. He then had the opportunity to associate frequently in the most charming of friendly and literary intercourse with the group of men whose names are famous in the English Renaissance. He and Erasmus were life-long friends, and perhaps there is no greater tribute to Erasmus' character than More's devoted affection for him, and his sympathetic devotion to More. Erasmus himself, though a much greater scholar, had nothing like the depth and strength of character possessed by More. The men were in many ways almost exact opposites of each other, and perhaps they felt how complementary their qualities were. More was eminently practical, Erasmus was rather impractical; More was humorous, Erasmus was witty. More sympathized with all humanity, even when he found something to criticise; Erasmus' criticism was likely to be bitter and he laughed at rather than with people, so that he did not make himself generally loved, but quite the contrary, except for a few close friends, while the most typical characteristic of More's life is the love and affection it aroused. More's family life is one of the most interesting features of his career. Erasmus has spoken of it with enthusiastic admiration and, as he had personal experience of it for rather {227} long periods at several different times and was himself a highly sensitive, readily irritable individual, his testimony in the matter is all the more significant. It may be due to Erasmus' enthusiastic admiration for More, but in any case it shows us how thoroughly he appreciated and was ready to place on record his enjoyment of the privilege of being received as a friend into the household: "Does my friend regulate his household, where misunderstandings and quarrels are altogether unknown! Indeed, he is looked up to as a general healer of all differences, and he was never known to part from any on terms of unkindness. His house seems to enjoy the peculiar happiness that all who dwell under its roof go forth into the world bettered in their morals as well as improved in their condition; and no spot was ever known to fall on the reputation of any of its fortunate inhabitants. Here you might imagine yourself in the academy of Plato. But, indeed, I should do injustice to his house by comparing it with the school of that philosopher where nothing but abstract questions, and occasional moral virtues, were the subjects of discussion; it would be truer to call it a school of religion, and an arena for the exercise of all Christian virtues. All its inmates apply themselves to liberal studies, though piety is their first care. No wrangling or angry word is ever heard within the walls. No one is idle; everyone does his duty with alacrity, and regularity and good order are prescribed by the mere force of kindness and courtesy. Everyone performs his allotted task, and yet all are as cheerful as if mirth were their only employment. Surely such a household deserves to be called a school of the Christian religion." Some who have found a lack in the chancellor's life of what may be called romance, for both his courtships were eminently matter-of-fact, may find adequate compensation for this and material for the proper appreciation of More's affectionate nature in the contemplation of the intense affection which he displayed for his children, and especially for his daughter Margaret. Margaret More richly deserved all this affection of her father, but there is probably not a case in history where such affection has been so charmingly expressed. {228} Fortunately for us, the extensive correspondence that passed between father and daughter is largely preserved for us. The letters are charming expressions of paternal and daughterly affection. Perhaps the one that may interest the young folks of this generation the most is that in which Sir Thomas replies to a letter of his daughter's asking for money. Probably there would be rather ready agreement that, in the great majority of cases, paternal answers to filial requests for money in our time are couched in somewhat different terms. The father wrote with classic references that are meant to make her studies seem all the more valuable: "You ask me, my dear Margaret, for money with too much bashfulness and timidity, since you are asking from a father that is eager to give, and since you have written to me a letter such that I would not only repay each line of it with a golden philippine, as Alexander did the verses of Cherilos, but, if my means were as great as my desire, I would reward each syllable with two gold ounces. As it is, I send you only what you have asked, but would have added more, only that as I am eager to give, so am I desirous to be asked and coaxed by my daughter, especially by you, whom virtue and learning have made so dear to my soul. So the sooner you spend this money well, as you are wont to do, and the sooner you ask for more, the more you will be sure of pleasing your father." Linacre, the second of the group with whom More was associated to a considerable extent, is one of the great characters of the England of that time. Like More, he had attracted the attention of a great Churchman, Bishop Selling; when young, he had gone to Italy in his train and there had had the advantage of intimate association with the family of the Medici when Lorenzo the Magnificent was training his boys to be rulers of Italy, political and ecclesiastical. Linacre stayed some ten years in Italy, mainly during the pontificate of Pope Alexander VI, of whom so much that is derogatory has been said, but, instead of having his devotion to the Church lessened by the abuses that are said to have existed in Italy at this time, he came back to England as a fervent Catholic. Years afterwards, when toward the end of life {229} he felt its emptiness, he distributed his property for educational purposes and became a priest. His foundations in both Cambridge and Oxford, and especially his foundation of the Royal College of Physicians, were very valuable contributions to the intellectual life of England. The College of Physicians lives on under the constitutions that he provided. His chairs founded at Oxford and Cambridge were not so fortunate, because the disturbances of the end of Henry VIII's reign and the time of Edward VI led to the confiscation of many of these educational foundations, or at least of their diversion to the King's private purposes. Erasmus was the greatest scholar of the time, Linacre was looked up to as perhaps the best Greek scholar of the period, and, while in Italy, Manutius in Venice had taken advantage of his knowledge for the editing of certain of the Greek classics. He himself translated a number of volumes of Galen into Latin, and the translation was proclaimed, in Erasmus's words, to be better than the original Greek. The third of this group of friends of More was scarcely less distinguished than the other two. It was Dean Colet of St. Paul's. He, too, had been touched by the spirit of the Renaissance, but like all the others of this group, instead of being attracted towards Paganism or away from Christianity, his devotion to the Church and his faith had been broadened and deepened by his knowledge. His sermons at St. Paul's attracted widespread attention. But his personal influence was perhaps even more telling. According to tradition, these men and certain others, as Lyly and at some times probably John Caius, who afterwards founded Caius College at Cambridge, used to meet for an afternoon's discussion of things literary, social and philosophic at the home of Colet's mother in Stepney. There we have a picture of them arguing over literary questions with that intense seriousness which characterized the Renaissance, and in the midst of which Colet had sometimes to restrain the ardent enthusiasm of the others lest argument should run into strife. Here, according to tradition, Dame Colet, mother of the Dean, used sometimes to bring them for a collation some of the strawberries that had been introduced into England {230} from Holland, probably by Erasmus himself or through his influence, and some of which were grown in the Colet garden. With English milk and the sweet cakes of the time, they made a pleasant interlude in the afternoon or served as a fitting smoothing apparatus for the end of a discussion that had waxed hot. Such a group of men make an Academy in the best sense of the word. When Plato led his scholars through the groves of Academus and discussed high thoughts with them, the first Academy came into existence and the English Renaissance furnished another striking example of how the friction of various many-sided minds may serve to bring out what is best in all of them. The pleasure of such intercourse only those who have had opportunities of sharing it can properly appreciate. The meetings must, indeed, have been events in the lives of the men, and More, who had not had the opportunity to go to Italy, must have drunk in with special enthusiasm all that their long years of Italian experience had given to the others. These interludes from his more serious practical duties at the bar must have been most happy and marvellously broadening in their effects. A good idea of More's interests as a young man between twenty-five and thirty can be obtained from his setting himself to make a translation of Pico della Mirandola's "Life, Letters and Works." While Pico was one of the most learned men of the Renaissance, he was also one of the most pious. And more than any other he showed the possibility of being profoundly acquainted with Greek culture, and yet retaining a deep devotion to religion. More's praise of him in the life that he wrote shows better than anything else the drift of his own thoughts. The passage affords a good idea of More's prose style in English, with the spelling somewhat but not entirely modernized: "Oh very happy mind," he writes, "which none adversity might oppress, which no prosperity might enhance: Not the cunning of all philosophy was able to make him proud, not the knowledge of the hebrewe chaldey and arabie language besides greke and latin could make him vain gloriuse, not his great substance, not his noble blood coulde blow up his heart, {231} not the beauty of his body, not the great occasions of sin were able to pull him back into the voluptous broad way that lead us to hell: what thing was there of so marvelous strength that might overturn that mind of him which now: as Seneca saith was gotten above fortune as he which as well her favor as her malice hath, saitheth nought, that he might be coupled with a spiritual knot unto Christ and his heavenly citizens." More also wrote some verses on the vicissitudes of fortune, in which he describes her as distributing brittle gifts among men only to amuse herself by suddenly taking them back again. It was the literal expression of his own career, and his advice as to how to defy her is best illustrated by his own life: "This is her sport, thus proveth she her might; Great boast she mak'th if one be by her power Wealthy and wretched both within an hour. Wherefore if thou in surety lust to stand. Take poverty's part and let proud fortune go. Receive nothing that cometh from her hand. Love, manner and virtue: they be only tho, Which double Fortune may not take thee fro': Then may'st thou boldly defy her turning chance. She can thee neither hinder nor advance.'" The young King Henry VIII became deeply interested in More because of his brilliancy of intellect, his successful conduct of affairs, his sterling character and, above all, for his wit and humor. He wanted to have him as a member of his Court, but this More long resisted. He preferred independence to a courtier's life, and in spite of the urging of Wolsey, who had been made a Cardinal by Leo X in 1515, and alleged how dear his service would be to his majesty, continued to refuse. After an embassy to Flanders, however, on which he went with Cuthbert Tunstal to confer with the ambassadors of Charles V, who was then, however, only Archduke of Austria, upon a renewal of the alliance with the English Monarch and a further embassy of the same kind in 1516, {232} More consented to enter the Royal Court. On his embassy in Flanders he had probably taken the leisure to write out his "Utopia" in Latin, and it was published on the Continent, though not published in England until nearly twenty years after his death. The contact with Erasmus woke More's literary spirit, and Erasmus felt that there were magnificent possibilities for literature in More's intellect. Erasmus bewailed his becoming a courtier and says in his letters "the King really dragged him to his Court. No one ever strove more eagerly to gain admission there than More did to avoid it." More's literary reputation rests more particularly on his "Utopia," written when he was thirty-seven years of age, during his absence from England on the commission in the Low Countries with Cuthbert Tunstal. That absence was but for six months, and this will give some idea of More's industry. At home he was deep in his law practice, and now when he had leisure from social and ambassadorial demands he found time to write one of the most interesting contributions to the science of government from the social side that probably has ever been written. It was written in Latin and was first printed at Louvain late in 1516 under the editorship of Erasmus, Peter Giles, sometimes known under his Latin name as AEgidius, and others of More's literary friends in Flanders. It was subsequently revised by More and printed by Frobinius at Basel in November, 1518. The book became popular on the Continent and was reprinted at Paris and Vienna, but was not published in England during More's lifetime. More evidently feared that it might be misunderstood there, though he had been very careful in the course of the book to make whatever might seem to reflect upon England appear to be directly referred to some other country. An English translation was not published in England until Edward the VI's reign in 1551. The standard translation, however, is that made by Bishop Burnet. It can scarcely but seem strange that the author of the history of "The Protestant Reformation," who more than any other almost kept England from relaxing any of her antipopery feeling or governmental regulations, should translate the last great Papal {233} Catholic's book for his countrymen, but it is a tribute the significance of which cannot be missed. Burnet is said to have been induced to make the translation from the same feelings of protest against arbitrary government that led to More's writing of it. The passages quoted here are always taken from Burnet's translation. Unfortunately, "Utopia" is mainly known to ordinary readers from the adjective Utopian, derived from it and which has come to mean a hopelessly ideal or infeasibly impractical scheme. Doubtless many have been deterred from even the thought of reading it, because of the feeling produced that a book of Utopian character could not be of any serious import. Utopia from the Greek simply means nowhere. More himself often calls it by the Latin name Nusquama, with the same meaning. It was simply a country which unfortunately existed nowhere as yet, in which things were done very differently from anywhere in civilized Europe at least, but where the people had reasoned out what ought to be their attitude of mind towards many things which in Europe following tradition and convention were liable to many abuses and social wrongs. Sir Thomas recognized all the danger there was from the so-called Reformation and did not hesitate to take his part in the controversies that inevitably came. As early as 1523 he published the answer to Luther, in 1525 a pamphlet letter against Pomeranus, in 1528 the dialogue "Quoth He and Quoth I," in 1529 the "Supplication of Souls," in 1531 the "Confutation of Tindale," in 1532 his "Apology," in 1533 "The Deballation of Salem and Bizance" and in 1533 the "Answer to the Supper of the Lord," probably written by either William Tindale or George Jay. [Footnote 22] [Footnote 22: A good idea of how the spelling of the English language has changed in four centuries may be gathered from the title of one of these controversial works of More's, as it appeared recently in the catalogue of a bookseller. The frequent use of _y_ where we now use _i_ would almost make one think that the _i_'s have been exhausted in the particular font of type, or else that this typesetter had a special fondness for _y_. This latter idea is probably true, for, as a matter of fact, in books printed about this same time so many _y_'s were not ordinarily used. "Sir Thomas More A dyaloge . . . whereyn he treatyed dyvers maters as of the veneracyon and worshyp of ymagys and relyques, prayng to sayntis, and goynge on pylgrymage. Wyth many other thyngys touchyng the pestylent secte of Luther and Tyndale, etc. Newly oversene. Sm. folio black letter, with the leaf of "fawtes escaped in the pryntynge."] When Cardinal Wolsey, Lord Chancellor, fell after the failure of the divorce proceedings, the King insisted on Sir Thomas More accepting the position. More must have known how {234} difficult, indeed almost impossible, the post would be for him. It was dangerous, however, to oppose Henry VIII's will, and so within a week after the deposition of Wolsey, Sir Thomas More was installed as Lord Chancellor, an office that had very seldom before this been held by a layman, though it has been held by laymen ever since, almost without exception. His installation is said to have taken place with the joy and applause of the whole kingdom. There are some who have said that More was glad to triumph over Wolsey, and that indeed he took advantage of the opportunity afforded him by the new dignity to abuse his predecessor and to show that he had schemed to succeed him. There are no grounds for such expressions, however, and even Wolsey himself had declared that More was the man who should have the post, the only one fitted to succeed him. Erasmus, writing on the matter, is quite sure that More himself does not deserve to be congratulated, for he foresaw the difficulties ahead, but the kingdom deserves congratulation. He felt, too, that it would be a loss to literature. As he said: "I do not at all congratulate More or literature, but I do indeed congratulate England, for a better or holier judge could not be appointed." The most characteristic feature of More's Chancellorship was his prompt disposing of cases. He realized very well that not only must justice be done, but as far as possible it must be done promptly, and the tedious drawing out of cases to great length works injustice, even though they are justly decided after many years. The Court of Chancery in England has become a byword for slowness of procedure and has been satirized on many occasions during the nineteenth {235} century, but already in the sixteenth century there were many cases before the Court that had been dragging on for twenty years, and even more. Delays were mainly due to the fact that Lord Chancellors were occupied with many other duties and did not always feel equal to the task of trying cases and weighing evidence. Undoubtedly some delays had been occasioned by the fact that presents were received, if not by the Lord Chancellor himself at least by court officials, and the longer cases were allowed to drag on the more opportunity was there in them for such irregularities. The clearing up of the calendar of the Court of Chancery marked an epoch in English legal history and is one of our best evidences of More's thoroughly practical character. It is by his death more than anything else that More is admirable. Here was a man of marvellous breadth of interests, to whom life must have meant very much. As a young man he had been brought in intimate contact with the pick of the intellectual men of his time. In early manhood he had been the chosen friend of the best scholars in Europe--men like Colet, Erasmus and Linacre, with international reputations. He had represented his King abroad in important missions before he was forty. He had shown himself a great lawyer in spite of a scrupulosity of conscience that would ordinarily be supposed to make the successful practice of the law extremely difficult. Notwithstanding the most thorough honesty in every activity of life and the absence of every hint even of truckling of any kind to popular or royal opinion, he had been the favorite of all classes. As an author he wrote books that the world will not willingly let die. They are occupied with things that men often push away from them, serious, high-minded, purposeful, yet they are more read now than they were in his own time. He was a philosopher worthy to be placed beside the greatest practical philosopher, and his ideal republic, written in his own profound vein of humor, is a distinct contribution to that form of literature. To this man there came, about the age of fifty, the highest office that he could possibly hope to attain in England. He was the favorite of his King and of the Court. He used his high office for the benefit of the commonwealth in every way, {236} and above all for the benefit of the people. He revolutionized methods in chancery and succeeded in bringing Justice back to haunts of the law, where her presence had been so rare as almost to be doubted. He had a great future before him in the possibilities of good for others. Unselfish as he had always shown himself to be, surely he could have had no greater satisfaction for his ambition than this. In the midst of his efficient duties there came a decision to be made with regard to himself. The Lord High Chancellor of England is often spoken of as the keeper of the King's conscience. Such More evidently deemed himself to be in reality. Anyhow, he was the keeper of his own conscience. The King, unable to obtain a divorce from the wife whom he had married twenty years before in order to marry a younger, handsomer woman, had resolved to grant one to himself and for that purpose assumed the supremacy in Church as well as in State. The great nobles, knowing his headstrong character, submitted to this usurpation of authority, which was besides baited with the possibility of enrichment through the confiscation of monastic property and its transfer to king's favorites. Even the bishops of England hesitated but for a time, and then almost to a man took the oath of supremacy which declared Henry to be supreme head of the Church as well as the State. There were only one or two notable exceptions to this. It would seem as though after this there ought to be no difficulty for More. If the bishops and the clergy of the country were willing to accept the King as the head of the Church, why should a layman hesitate? And yet More hesitated. He refused to take the oath of supremacy. It was represented to him that to refuse was dangerous. On the other hand, it was shown to him, and it must have been very clear to himself, that if he took it he would obtain great favor with the King, and that indeed there was almost nothing that he might not aspire to. Lord Chancellor he was, but ennoblement and enrichment would surely come to him. The King had always thought much of him, was now particularly irritated by his refusal, but would be won to him completely if he yielded. It seemed not unlikely that a peerage would be his at once, and {237} that higher degrees of nobility were only a question of time. Times were disturbed, and he might be able to do much good, certainly he could not expect that other advisers near the King would do anything but yield to the monarch's whims. Here was a dilemma. On the one hand, honor, power, wealth and the favor of his King, as well as the esteem of his generation; on the other hand, disgrace, impoverishment of his family by attainder, imprisonment, probably death. More calmly weighed it all and decided in favor of following his conscience, no matter what it might cost him. He did so entirely on his own strength of character and without any encouragement from others. On the contrary, there was every discouragement. Having made his decision he did not proceed to think that everyone else ought to have seen it the same way, but on the contrary he felt for the others, realized all the difficulties and calmly recognized that they might well be in good faith. When the decision of his judges that he must die was announced to him, he told them very calmly that he thanked them for their decision and said that he hoped to meet them in heaven. The passage is well worth reading in More's own quaint, simple, forcible language. It is probable that there has never been an occasion in the world's history when the obligation of following conscience has been more clearly seen and more devotedly acknowledged than when More went to death for what was called treason, because he refused to take the oath that the King of England was the head of the Church as well as of the State. Every human motive was urgent against his following of conscience in the matter. He stood almost entirely alone. Bishop Fisher of Rochester, it is true, was with him, but More stated in one of his letters that even had the bishop found some way to compound with his conscience and take the oath as so many other upright and conscientious men, as they thought themselves and others thought them, had done, he did not feel that he could take it. It was urged upon him that the very fact that he stood alone showed that there must be something wrong about his {238} method of reasoning and his mode of coming to a decision in the matter. All the bishops of England had consented to take the oath. Some of them, it is true, had solaced their conscience by putting in an additional phrase, "as far as the law of God allowed," or something of that kind, but most of them had taken it without any such modification, and indeed, as a rule, the Commissioners who had administered the oath refused to accept it unless taken literally and without additions. Perhaps the hardest trial for More's constancy of purpose came from his own family. When he was imprisoned they were allowed to see him frequently, with the deliberate idea that they would surely break down his scruples. His wife absolutely refused to see why anyone should set himself up in opposition to all the rest of the kingdom and think that his conscience should be followed no matter what happened, though so many other people's consciences were apparently at ease in the matter. As she said to him over and over again, did he think that he was better than the Bishops of England and the priests who had taken the oath, and did he set himself up as the only one who properly understood and could see the right in the question? Some of her expressions are typical of women in her position and show us how little human nature has changed in these four hundred years. More simply laughed at her quietly and gently and, after explaining his position a few times from varying standpoints, refused to argue with her, but occupied the time of her visits with talk about other matters as far as possible. It was not hard to divert her mind, as a rule, to any other subject, for she did not see very deeply into anything and, above all, had no hint at all of the serious condition of affairs in England. His daughter Margaret, of whom he thought so much, was a much more dangerous temptress than Mistress More, though of course she did not think of herself in any such role. She has told the story in a letter to the Lady Allington, More's step-daughter, for his second wife had been previously married. Lady Allington had written to Margaret a long letter, in which she related an interview that she had had with Audley, the Lord Chancellor, who had promised to help {239} More, though he declared that the remedy was in More's own hands, if he would put aside his foolish scruples. Audley had said to Lady Allington that "he marvelled that More was so obstinate in his own conceit in matter that no one scrupled save the blind Bishop [Fisher] and he." Always, when wife or daughter came to see him, they first prayed together, and I may say that the prayers were not short, for they included the Seven Penitential Psalms as well as other formal prayers. When Margaret approached the subject of Lady Allington's letter and how More's obstinacy was alienating his friends, smiling, he called her mistress Eve, the temptress, and asked if his daughter Allington had played the serpent with her "and with a letter set you at work to come tempt your father again and for the favor that you bear him labor to make him swear against his conscience and so send him to the devil." It was at this time that he emphasized very much the fact that everyone must make up his conscience for himself. We have the verbatim report of one of his conversations with his daughter that emphasized this position very strongly: "Verily, daughter, I never intend to pin my soul at another man's back, not even the best man that I know this day living. For I know not whither he may hap to carry it. There is no man living of whom, while he liveth, I may make myself sure. Some may do for favor, and some may do for fear, and so might they carry my soul a wrong way. And some might hap to frame himself a conscience, and think that if he did it for fear God would forgive it. And some may peradventure think that they will repent and be shriven thereof, and that so shall God remit it to them. And some may be, peradventure, of the mind that, if they say one thing and think the while contrary, God more regardeth the heart than the tongue; and that, therefore, their oath goeth upon what they think and not upon what they say. But in good faith, Margaret, I can use no such ways in so great a matter." In spite of this, Margaret still urged that he was not asked to swear against his conscience in order to keep others company, but instructed to reform his conscience by the {240} considerations that such and so many men consider the oath lawful, and even a duty since Parliament required it. Bridgett, in his "Life of Sir Thomas More," gives some details of the conclusion of the discussion that have a very human interest: "When he saw his daughter, after this discussion, sitting very sadly, not from any fear she had about his soul, but at the temporal consequences she foresaw, he smiled again and exclaimed: 'How now, daughter Margaret? What now, Mother Eve? Where is your mind now? Sit not musing with some serpent in your breast, upon some new persuasion to offer Father Adam the apple yet once again.' "'In good faith, father,' replied Margaret, 'I can no further go. For since the example of so many wise men cannot move you, I see not what to say more, unless I should look to persuade you with the reason that Master Harry Pattenson made.' (It will be remembered that Pattenson was More's fool, now in the service of the Lord Mayor.) 'For,' continued Margaret, 'he met one day one of our men, and when he had asked where you were, and heard that you were in the Tower still, he waxed angry with you and said: "Why, what aileth him that he will not swear? Wherefore should he stick to swear? I have sworn the oath myself." And so,' says Margaret, 'have I sworn.' At this More laughed and said 'that word was like Eve too, for she offered Adam no worse fruit than she had eaten herself.'" All the details of the scenes of his death have a deep interest of their own. He was ready to obey the King in everything, except where he felt his conscience was involved. When they came to ask him not to make a speech at his execution, because the King wished him not to, he thanked them very simply and said he was glad to have had the King's wishes conveyed to him and that he would surely obey them. He added that he had had in mind to say something, but that now he would refrain. When it was called to his attention that the clothes that he wore would fall as a perquisite to the executioner, and that therefore the worse he wore the less his loss, he asked if there was anyone who could do him a greater favor than the headsman was going to perform and {241} that he would prefer to wear his best. He had actually donned them when it was represented to him by the Governor that this was a bad precedent to set, and then he changed them for others. He was the same, meek gentleman in everything, though it might be expected that his insistence on his conscience against that of all the others would mark him as an obstinate man absolutely immovable in his own opinions. The humor that characterized all his life and that had so endeared him to his friends did not abandon him even to the very end. Twenty years before Erasmus had written about it, punning on the name, _Encomium Moriae_, using the Greek word Moria for folly. Years and high office, serious persecution, bitter imprisonment, lofty decisions involving death all had not obliterated it. When he was about to ascend the scaffold the steps of that structure proved to be rather shaky, and he asked that he should be given a hand going up, though as for coming down he said he felt that he might be left to shift for himself. On the scaffold he commended himself to the headsman, gave him a present and then, as he was placing his head on the block, his beard, which he had been unused to wearing before he went to prison, coming on it he pushed it out of the way, saying "This at least has committed no treason." All the rest was silent communion with his God. Thus died one of the greatest men of his race--great in intellect, in sympathy, in practical philosophy, great above all in character. _Totus teres atque rotundus_. Of his execution Lord Campbell, in his "Lives of the Lord Chancellors of England," said: "Considering the splendor of his talent, the greatness of his acquirements, and the innocence of his life, we must still regard his murder as the blackest crime that has ever been perpetrated in England under the forms of law." In closing his life of him in "The Lives of the Lord Chancellors," Lord Campbell, who had no sympathy at all with More's religious views and who is quite sure that the Reformation was a very wonderful benefit to England, declared: {242} "I am indeed reluctant to take leave of Sir Thomas More not only from his agreeable qualities and extraordinary merits, but from my abhorrence of the mean, sordid, unprincipled chancellors who succeeded him and made the latter half of the reign of Henry VIII the most disgraceful period in our annals." [Illustration: MATTEO CIVITALE, FAITH (BARGELLO)] {243} CHAPTER V THE REFORMERS During the last quarter of Columbus' Century, Europe was very seriously disturbed and the minds of men very much occupied with the movement which has come to be called in English-speaking countries at least the "reformation," though many historians now prefer to speak of it as the religious revolt in Germany during the sixteenth century. There is no doubt that this movement was due to the unrest--political, social and religious--which came over men at this time. The conquests in scholarship through the study of the Greek and Latin classics had awakened men's minds. The great achievements in art and architecture had still further aroused them to a sense of their own power. The introduction of Greek ideas into the modern world had brought about great developments in science. Columbus, largely influenced by classical studies, had initiated a movement that revolutionized men's thinking with regard to the earth on which they live. Copernicus, taught by men who were making commentaries on Ptolemy, saw farther than his masters and gave the world a new universe at this time. Physical science was developing and biological science, especially in all that relates to anatomy and physiology, was receiving a marvellous impetus. No wonder men felt ready for change. Above all, a complete change in the basis of education influenced men deeply. For centuries education had occupied itself with science, and particularly the ethical sciences. Philosophy in its various aspects constituted the curriculum of the old universities. Metaphysics, logic, rhetoric, grammar, the ethical philosophies or, as we would say, sciences of the world, of thought, of speech, and of political and moral science, though of course also mathematics, music and astronomy, had been the subjects of special attention. Now men {244} were trained by means of the classics, the New Learning, as it was called. Quite naturally they came to know so much more about these than their fathers had ever had the opportunity to learn and, above all, they had come to think these so much more important than anything that had been taught their fathers, that the rising generation were quite sure that they knew ever so much more than preceding generations had known. A corresponding state of mind developed in our own time when, as a consequence of the gradual replacement of the classics in university curricula by science, another generation arose educated very differently from its forefathers. What has come to be called modernism, which may be best defined as the feeling that we in the modern time know so much more than our forefathers did that we can scarcely be expected to accept complacently the philosophy and religion that satisfied them, is really an intellectual movement very similar to that which can be noted nearly everywhere during Columbus' Century. The picture of it as drawn by Janssen, in his "History of the German People" (Vol. III, p. 17), can scarcely fail to attract attention, because of its anticipation of what are usually considered to be quite modern ideas. There was the same lack of respect for the older time, the same feeling that until their precious time men really did not know enough to be able to take any serious thought about the Church and Christianity, and the same tendency to make fun of practices of the older time simply because of failure to understand the spirit behind them. The passage is all the more interesting when it is recalled that nearly every one of the men who thus in his younger years was so sure of the failure of the Church in its mission came back in later life and recognized that without Christian unity, and even the dogmatism which earlier he had so contemned, there could be no real church. Janssen said: "Erasmus did, however, seriously propose a revision of the doctrines laid down by the early Church. He was inclined to look upon the transactions, the controversies, and the doctrinal decisions of the christological period as the first step in the continuous deterioration of the Church. The Church {245} had since then, he considered, departed from her 'ancient evangelical simplicity'; theology had become subservient to a casuistical philosophy, which in its turn had degenerated into the scholastic methods by which the actual ruin of Christian doctrine and Christian life had been brought about. During the whole of his literary career he waged war against this barren scholasticism with an acrimony that had no parallel, and its representatives were a butt for his ridicule and contempt. Ever since the domination of this scholasticism had set in, the whole Western world, he declared, had been subject to a spirit of Judaism and Pharisaism which had crushed the true life of Christianity and theology and perverted it to mere monastic sanctity and empty ceremonialism. "The contempt for the Middle Ages as for a period of darkness and spiritual bondage, of sophistry in learning, and mere _outwardness_ in life and conduct, originated with Erasmus and his school, and was transmitted by them to the later so-called reformers. Thanks to the high esteem in which Erasmus was held for his culture and scholarship, his ironical and calumnious writings against the mediaeval culture, and against the influence of the Church and the traditions of Christian schools, passed for a long time unchallenged." No wonder that a great many people felt that the religion and philosophy of life that had been quite good enough for their forefathers was not good enough for them, because they thought that they were so far above their forbears in all intellectual attainments. As a consequence, a great religious revolution that has disturbed Western Christianity ever since took place. Writers have viewed it from many and varying standpoints and have agreed to differ about its significance. The place accorded this revolutionary movement in history depends entirely on the writer about it. For some historians it was a great movement in human freedom and the origin of practically all the blessings of modern civilization. For others it was mainly a political reaction brought about by ambitious monarchs tempted by the idea of ruling Church as well as State and, above all, of enriching themselves by the confiscation of Church property. These two contradictory views are gradually being brought into some harmony. It has taken {246} all the power of modern scientific and critical history, with the consultation of original and contemporary documents and the critical appreciation of these, to bring us a little nearer the truth. We are not yet in a position to see this clearly. But we are much nearer than ever before, and the future is most promising. In the meantime, the only way that the reform movement can be treated concretely and objectively in its place in Columbus' Century is to consider it, as we have every other important phase of the period's activity, through the lives of the men who are the acknowledged leaders and prime movers in it. There are three who, though utterly out of sympathy with each other, are more responsible for the division of Western Christianity than any others. These are Luther in Germany, Calvin in France and Switzerland, and through Knox in Scotland, and finally Henry VIII in England. Undoubtedly all three of these men were of great force of character, possessed of a personality that enabled them to dominate others. Luther and Calvin were besides the masters of a vigorous style in the vernacular when that mode of expression was rare enough to make them a power over the masses of the people in their respective countries. Scholars had always used Latin for learned discussions of religious subjects up to this time, but now these were brought into the forum of popular debate through the use of the vernacular. Above all, every man was told that all he needed to do was read the Scriptures, interpret them for himself and make out his own religion without the necessity for submitting to any authority. Hallam declares that "it cannot be denied that the reform was brought about by stimulating the most ignorant to reject the authority of their Church," though he adds in comment that "it instantly withdrew this liberty of judgment and devoted all who presumed to swerve from the line drawn by law to virulent obloquy and sometimes to bonds and death." Lord Acton once declared that the most difficult problem in historical writing would be to have a confirmed Catholic and a confirmed Protestant agree in the writing of the lives of the reformers, and especially of Luther. Very many lives of the three men we have mentioned have been written, and Lord {247} Acton's suggestion might well be repeated with regard to nearly all of them. In recent years, however, owing to the publication of contemporary documents consequent upon the opening of archives and the scientific development of history, it has been possible to get actual facts rather than opinions with regard to them and we are now probably in a better position to judge them and the movement with which their names and activities are so intimately connected than any generation since their time. As the editors of the "Cambridge Modern History" declared in their preface, "the long conspiracy against the revelation of truth has gradually given way." "In view of changes and of gains such as these (the printing of archives), it has become impossible for the historical writer of the present age to trust without reserve even to the most respected secondary authorities. While we cannot obtain ultimate history in this generation, conventional history can be discarded and the point can be shown that has been reached on the road from one to the other." These expressions are more true with regard to the history of the Reformation and the reformers than any other period and men. All the generalized explanations of Luther's movement that used to be accepted as accounting for the Reformation and its progress have now been definitely rejected by the almost universal consensus of historians. The reaction began at least a generation ago. Hallam, in his "Introduction to the History of Literature," said: "Whatever be the bias of our minds as to the truth of Luther's doctrines, we should be careful, in considering the Reformation as a part of the history of mankind, not to be misled by the superficial and ungrounded representations which we sometimes find in modern writers. Such as this, that Luther, struck by the absurdity of the prevailing superstitions, was desirous of introducing a more rational system of religion; or that he contended for freedom of inquiry, and the boundless privileges of individual judgment; or what others have pleased to suggest, that his zeal for learning and ancient philosophy led him to attack the ignorance of the monks and the crafty policy of the Church, which withstood all liberal {248} studies. These notions are merely fallacious refinements, as every man of plain understanding, who is acquainted with the early reformers, or has considered their history, must acknowledge." Recent historical investigation emphasizes more and more that the movement was not religious in any sense, except superficially, and that the forces that gathered behind Luther were political. There was the opportunity for reigning princes to become both the head of the Church and the State in their dominions and, above all, to get possession of the property of the Church and share it with the nobility or creatures of their own, thus strengthening their hold upon the government and securing extension of power. We know in our day the all-persuasive power of political graft and how it saps honesty and corrupts character. Everywhere the track of it can be followed readily in the Reformation period. Luther was not only the first but the most important of these reformers. There has been more controversy over the true import of his work than that of any of the others. He was undoubtedly the leader through whom the religious revolution of this period was brought about. He had had predecessors, but the work of none of them had anything like the significance of his. Within the past ten years his history has been revolutionized. Denifle, the great historian of the mediaeval universities, by publishing all the documents that show the worse side of Luther's character created a great commotion in Germany. Grisar's later life of the reformer is, in accordance with the traditions of his order, much more irenic, yet makes it very clear how many of the very generally accepted favorable impressions with regard to Luther are contradicted by the many lately unearthed materials with regard to his life now available. Only those who have read these books can have any pretence to know the realities of the history of the religious revolt in Germany, though even these probably must not be considered as representing ultimate truth. With regard to Luther and the other reformers, as well as the significance of the whole movement, I have preferred to quote only Protestant authorities in order to avoid the almost inevitable bias of my own educational training and {249} environment. Even thus I can only hope to give an approximately impartial discussion of these men whose work as I see it did more to hurt human development in every line of thought than anything else in modern history. The story of Luther's early life, of the unhappiness of his home, of the sudden death of his friend which made him turn from a career at the bar to enter the monastery, all tend to show him by heredity and personal character as a man of strong impulses ruled by them. There is no doubt at all that during the early years of his career as a monk Luther was happy and that the stories of his unhappiness are founded on inconsiderate expressions of his own in later life, which are contradicted by documents written in his earlier years. The doctrine of indulgences, against which he inveighed so vigorously, is as eminently open to abuse as religion itself--and had undoubtedly been abused in his time, but the teaching of the Church on the subject remains exactly what it was in Luther's day and before it, yet has been accepted by the intelligent members of the Church ever since. Converts like Newman or Manning, not to mention many others of our time, find no difficulty at all in accepting it, once they understand it. The Protestant arguments founded on it are due entirely to misunderstanding of the true significance of the Church's position in the matter. Only those who _will_ not cannot understand it. Luther's declaration that he found the doctrine of indulgences too hard to comprehend is shown to be one of those interesting ideas as to his earlier career that developed in his mind in all sincerity in later life, but which are contradicted by his own writings, for there is from him an admirable sermon on the subject of indulgences which contains an excellent exposition of the Church's teaching. Luther gradually developed into one of the men so common in the world's history who are quite sure that the world is wrong in nearly everything and that they are born to set it right. They believe thoroughly in themselves, they have a great fund of energy to draw on, they usually have strong powers of expression and there are a large number of people waiting to be led by them and not a few quite willing to take {250} advantage for their own purposes of the movement that the restless create. It is well understood now that the great majority of men do not think for themselves, but stand ready to accept other people's thoughts, and often are more willing to carry out such thoughts to their logical conclusions, or at least to try to fit them to practical life, than are the original thinkers. The fate of a generation depends on whom it chooses as its leaders. Unfortunately, the choice is not often quite voluntary, but is forced on men by conditions, or they are imposed upon by the genius appeal of the leader, and sometimes even more by those who gather round him at the beginning of a movement and help to give it momentum. Luther's relations with Zwingli, the Swiss reformer, show more clearly than anything else the character of the reformer, his assurance of his divine mission and his absolute confidence that he has a Heaven-directed mission. Zwingli would not agree with Luther's interpretation of the doctrine of the Last Supper. They proceeded to anathematize each other, and when induced by friends they met at a conference, each claimed the victory in the argument. The Zwinglians seem, indeed, to have recognized the force of Luther's contentions, but dared not yield entirely, and when they returned to their homes Zwingli spoke very contemptuously of his antagonist's arguments and loudly claimed that he had completely vanquished him. This drew from Luther some bitter denunciations, and among other things Luther wrote to Jacob Probst of Bremen as follows: "In boasting that I was vanquished at Marburg the sacramentarians act as is their wont. For they are not only liars, but falsehood, deceit, and hypocrisy itself, as Carlstadt and Zwingli show both in deeds and words. They revoked at Marburg, as you can see from the articles drawn up there, the things hitherto taught in their pestilential books concerning baptism, the use of the sacraments, and the preaching of the word. We revoked nothing. But when they were conquered also in the matter of the Lord's Supper they were unwilling to renounce their position even though they could see it was untenable, for they feared their people, to whom they could not have returned if they had recanted." {251} He never forgave Zwingli, and when some time later the Swiss reformer, acting as a chaplain to the Swiss Protestant Army in a battle with the Swiss Catholic cantons, was killed, Luther pronounced this event a special dispensation of Providence. He was fully persuaded that the special spirit of prophecy had come down over him and that he had been inspired to denounce Zwingli and to declare that his doom was not far off. After the news of Zwingli's sad, untimely end, he wrote to his friend Link: "We see the judgment of God a second time--first in the case of Münzer, and now of Zwingli. I was a prophet when I said, God will not long endure these mad and furious blasphemies with which they overflow, laughing at our God-made bread, and calling us carnivora, savages, drinkers of blood, and other horrible names." This exaggeration of his own importance and conviction of his intimate relations with the Deity became more and more manifest as time goes on. The spectacle is not at all unfamiliar, though it is usually pathological, and the surprise always is how many followers such characters are able to gather around them at any time in the history of the race. It is this aspect of Luther's life and the psychic development of his career that have attracted the special attention of historians in recent years and received ample illustration from hitherto unused original documents. Some of the recent studies of Luther, written by those who are making out just as good a case as possible with all the contemporary information that now is available, have some very illuminating passages as to the character of the reformer, who has been traditionally set up as a great religious leader. For instance, the explanation of how Luther came to permit the Landgrave Philip of Hesse to take a second wife is very disturbing to those who think of him as a reformer of religion. McGiffert, in his "Martin Luther, the Man and His Work" (New York, 1912), has much to say with regard to the permit undoubtedly granted not only by Luther, but also by Melanchthon for this bigamy, and then the proposed denial of the marriage, which is, if possible, more disturbing to the modern world than the permit itself. McGiffert said (p. 364): {252} "The proposed denial of the marriage, which seems to throw so sinister a light upon the whole affair, Luther justified somewhat sophistically by an appeal to the traditional maxim of the inviolability of the confessional, requiring the priest, if necessary, to tell an untruth rather than divulge its secrets. He justified it also by the more fundamental principle that the supreme ethical motive is regard for our neighbor's good, and it is better to lie than to do him harm. To this principle, taught not by a few ethical teachers of our own as well as other ages, he gave frequent expression." McGiffert, with all his obvious effort to defend Luther, frankly finds this whole incident too much. He said (p. 366): "Regarded from any point of view, the landgrave's bigamy was a disgraceful affair, and Luther's consent the gravest blunder [!] of his career. He acted conscientiously [!], but with a lamentable want of moral discernment and a singular lack of penetration and foresight. To approve a relationship so derogatory to the women involved, and so subversive to one of the most sacred safeguards of society, showed too little fineness of moral feeling and sureness of moral conviction; while to be so easily duped by the dissolute prince was no more creditable to his perspicacity than thinking such an affair could be kept secret to his sagacity." The same biographer has summed up the closing years of Luther's life, from which we have so many records in the shape of letters and documents of various kinds. As McGiffert says: "There is little sign of flagging powers in his later writings. The same Luther still speaks in them with all the racy humor, biting satire and coarse vituperation of his best days." He continues (p. 373): "Despite the multiplicity of his occupations, his closing years were far from happy. As time passed, he became more censorious, impatient and bitter. He seems to have been troubled less frequently than in earlier life with doubts as to his own spiritual condition and divine mission, but he grew correspondingly despondent over the results of his labors and the unworthiness of his followers. Instead of finding the world transformed into a paradise by his gospel, he saw things continuing much as before, and his heart grew sick with {253} disappointment. The first flush of enthusiasm passed, and the joy of battle gone, he had time to observe the results of his work, and they were by no means to his liking. "Conditions even in Wittenberg itself were little to his liking. In this centre of gospel light he felt there should be a devotion and purity seen nowhere else. Instead, as the town grew in size and importance, and manners lost somewhat of their earlier simplicity, it seemed to his exaggerated sensibilities that everything was going rapidly to the bad." Calvin, like Luther, was another of these vigorous active spirits so common in this time of the Renaissance who felt that he had a special call from on High to teach the world doctrines very different from those received before. Like Luther, he too used his native tongue in speech and writing with a forcefulness and originality that makes him one of the founders of the prose of his language. From his earliest youth of a very serious disposition, caring nothing for the games and sports in which his fellow-scholars indulged, shunning society and its pleasures, and prone to censure anything that was not deeply serious and to condemn everything that smacked of frivolity, he found abundant opportunity for reform. Severe to himself in the highest degree, relaxation seemed almost sinful. He insisted that others should follow the same regime and imputed even the ordinary amusements of life to sin. He was lacking entirely in that disposition for healthy, happy and hearty amusement which is a sign of good health of mind and body and the best possible proof of absolute sanity. The old Church had encouraged the recreations and amusements of the people. Calvin made it a cardinal principle of religion that there were to be none of them. He is probably no more to be held responsible for this, since it was due to the lack of something in him, than is the color-blind person for failure to perceive colors. Poor Calvin, with no faculty for relaxation, insisted that others should not indulge theirs, and made it the basis of his religion that any such indulgence was sinful. From this to the doctrine of predestination to eternal punishment was not difficult. A God who meant life to be passed without recreation would surely not scruple to condemn most of His creatures {254} quite without their own fault to an eternity of punishment. Why is it when men make their gods they make them worse than themselves? Even the wise Greeks did not escape this pitfall. There are always a number of people who are ready to follow anyone who announces any doctrine, no matter how unreasonable it may seem to be, if only he insists emphatically on his belief and if he evidently is a sincere believer in it himself. Calvin was one of the dominant spirits who readily gain control over others, and his severity to himself won many of the sombre people around him to a devotion to his cause that partook of worship. They even permitted themselves to be ruled by his rigid hand, and there probably never has been a place where less allowance was made for human nature than at Geneva during the days when Calvin ruled there with a rod of iron and when his particular mode of the reformation of religion was so completely accepted. To the dour Scots this austere doctrine appealed particularly, and Calvin's disciple, Knox, secured almost as much authority in Edinburgh as did his master down at Geneva. Like Luther, Calvin before the end of his life was profoundly disillusioned with regard to the Reformation and its effect upon mankind. The unfortunate divisions of the Protestants among themselves, their readiness to persecute each other, their refusal to permit anything like religious toleration, above all their rejection, except for very limited numbers, of his own doctrines, made him foresee nothing but evil for the future. He knew that he had stirred mankind deeply in the West of Europe, but he could not foretell anything but unfortunate results from the conditions that he saw around him. He once said: "The future appals me. I dare not think of it. Unless the Lord descends from heaven, barbarism will engulf us." [Illustration: HOLBEIN, HENRY VIII (LONDON)] The blot on Calvin's name through the execution of Servetus has been extenuated by his adherents, but the certainty of his complete hostility to the unfortunate physiologist, who insisted in dabbling in theology at a dangerous time, is now settled. Long before Servetus' execution at Geneva, Calvin actually secured through his well-developed system of {255} espionage and delation, extending even into Catholic countries, the persecution of Servetus by the Catholic ecclesiastical authorities in France. The details of this have now been traced very clearly. When Servetus, thinking to find protection where freedom of interpretation of Scriptures was preached, came to Geneva his fate was sealed. Calvin himself made it a personal matter to secure his conviction and bring about his execution. A number of the reformers are on record agreeing that Calvin's action in this case was eminently right, and even the gentle Melanchthon would not condemn it. Nothing makes so perfectly clear as this that the claim made for the Reformation of fostering or encouraging liberty of thought is founded entirely on a misconception of what the reformers were trying to do. The reformers wanted liberty of religious thinking for themselves, but they were not ready to grant it to others. After all, we in America do not need to appeal to foreign history in order to understand that very well, for the Puritan disciples of Calvin, driven out of England by Anglican religious persecution and intolerance, made a home for themselves in New England, where they practised the bitterest intolerance and absolutely refused to allow anyone to live in their communities unless he or she, as Ann Hutchinson learned to her cost, conformed unquestioningly to their religious tenets and practices. The history of Henry VIII has less in it to make historians disagree. His uxoriousness represents the explanation of the revolutionary changes that took place in the government and the religion of England. He fell in love with a younger, handsomer woman than the elderly wife, who for more than twenty years had been, as he confessed himself, his faithful, loving spouse, and then his first marriage got on his conscience. The succeeding marriages are the best commentary on this explanation. His father, Henry VII, had left him a full treasury, and the son had spent liberally during the early years of his reign, and finally the famous Field of the Cloth of Gold had almost exhausted the crown's resources. Many a nobleman had literally carried his estates on his back and returned from France so heavily mortgaged that the power of the nobles was broken. This made most of them thoroughly {256} dependent on the King. When the trouble with the Church came then, the King himself and most of the nobles were rather glad of the opportunity to obtain possession of the Church properties, the estates of the great monasteries, and the many foundations for charitable and social purposes that existed in connection with Church societies. All of these might well be brought under the law of the confiscation so as to fatten the Royal treasury, or at least fall to an expectant sycophantic nobility. The question that many have been unable to answer satisfactorily for themselves is how could the religion of a whole people be taken from them under such sordid circumstances if they really held it. It has been supposed that the change was made possible only by the fact that for centuries there had been a growing feeling in England of opposition to a foreign spiritual ruler, the Pope, and that this culminated in Henry VIII's time and enabled him to assume the headship of the English Church. James Gairdner has, however, dispelled this idea completely, though himself an Anglican, and like Augustus Jessop continuing in his adherence to the English Church. He shows in his book on Lollardism that there was no widespread growing feeling of opposition to Rome, and that while of course occasionally, when there were difficulties between the crown and the Pope, mutterings of spiritual insubordination were heard, which took the form expressed by Shakespeare through the mouth of King John in his play, these were but temporary and individual and not at all a growing sentiment of wide diffusion. England up to Henry's time had been one of the most faithful countries of Europe in the support of the Papacy, and continued to be so until the change actually came. As a matter of fact, the people of England were deprived of their religion by fraud at first, and then by violence. They did not change it voluntarily. They were deeply attached to their church and clergy. Augustus Jessop, in his book "Before the Great Pillage," has told the story of the clergy before the reformation. He said: "Take them all in all I cannot resist the impression which has become deeper and deeper upon me the more I have read {257} and pondered, that the parochial clergy in England during the centuries between the Conquest and the Reformation numbered amongst them at all times some of the best men of their generation." He reechoes Chaucer's picture of the village parson who "did as well as taught." Jessop adds: "Not once, nor twice in our history these parish priests are to be found siding with the people against those in power and chosen by the people to be their spokesmen when their grievances were becoming unbearable." As to the pretended corruption of the monasteries, that has been disproved by all the careful investigation of recent years, until it has become perfectly clear that the abuses were no greater than may be expected at any time, since men are only human. The evidence for corruption was very slight, and what there is was manifestly gathered in such a way as to enable the government authorities to justify their settled purpose to confiscate the property. It was the need of money that was important. Nearly a century ago Cobbett, in his "History of the English Reformation," had found it almost impossible to select words quite strong enough to express his feeling with regard to the people who brought about the English reformation. His expressions were considered at that time as grossly exaggerated and the result of his tendency to use strong language. In our time they still remain radical in mode, but most writers now agree as to the essential truth of the facts on which they are based. When it is recalled that millions of people have for centuries thought of the Reformation as one of the greatest blessings to mankind and the source of nearly every good that we have in the modern time, it is indeed startling to read Cobbett's words, yet Cobbett had made a special study of his subject, he was a great practical-minded investigator, who knew his historical sources well, who had gone directly to them and who had been shocked by the difference between ordinary impressions as fostered for religious and political purposes by historians and the realities that he found. No wonder that he burst forth in his strong way: "The Reformation, as it is called, was (in England) engendered in beastly lust, brought forth in hypocrisy and {258} perfidy, and cherished and fed by plunder, devastation and rivers of innocent English and Irish blood." Macaulay described the character of those who were most responsible for the change of religion, the so-called reformation in England, in words that are passing strange, considering that he himself would never think of submitting to "the yoke of Rome" and seems even to have felt that a great good had been accomplished, though by such vile means. He says, in his "Essay on Hallam's Constitutional History," that the reformers were: "A king whose character may be described best by saying that he was despotism itself personified; unprincipled ministers; a rapacious aristocracy; a servile parliament. Such were the instruments by which England was delivered from the yoke of Rome. The work which had been begun by Henry, the murderer of his wives, was continued by Somerset, the murderer of his brother, and completed by Elizabeth, the murderer of her guest." Some of the most unworthy motives and adjuvants were mixed up in the reform movement. Indeed, it is possible to collect from non-Catholic sources more bitter excoriations of the men who made the Reformation possible than with regard to almost any group of men who accomplished any other purpose in history. Frederic Harrison, for instance, said: "It is not to be denied that the origin of the (English) Establishment is mixed up with plunder, jobbery and intrigue, that stands out even in the tortuous annals of the sixteenth century; that the annals run black with red, along some of the blackest and reddest pages of royal tyranny and government corruption." Andrew Lang quotes Professor F. York Powell in a description of how the reformation in Scotland was brought about in language that is, if possible, stronger than this of Frederic Harrison: "The whole story of Scottish Reformation, hatched in purchased treason and outrageous intolerance, carried on in open rebellion and ruthless persecution, justified only in its indirect results, is perhaps as sordid and disgusting a story as the annals of any European country can show." Almost needless to say, though the Reformation was a {259} religious movement and therefore might be expected to be intimately associated with personal holiness on the part of its leaders, probably no one would think for a moment of suggesting the title of saint for any of those whose names are most prominent in the movement. To John Wesley, who came two centuries and a half later, the name saint might readily be attributed. He was one of those kindly characters, thoughtful for others, thoughtless of himself, thoughtful especially of the poor, whose personal winningness meant much for his cause. The reformers of the sixteenth century, however, were egoistic leaders of men, with the self-consciousness of a great purpose and determination to put that through regardless of the suffering of others involved in it. There was little that was sympathetic about them, though all of them had certain compelling qualities of mind but not of heart which won men to them. Saintliness of character, in the ordinary acceptation of the word, would scarcely be thought of even distantly in connection with them. All of them were fighters, and if others suffered in the conflict they cared little, for they felt that they were in the right and must do the work of the Lord cost what it might. It is no wonder that in our own time Professor Briggs of the Union Theological Seminary, New York, whose own religious experience must have been so illuminating for him, reviewing the Reformation period, has suggested that there were other and more saintly reformers alive at this time whose influence unfortunately was not strong enough to turn the tide of revolution once it had begun. In an article in the _Independent_ (New York) entitled "How May We Become More Truly Catholic," Professor Briggs said: "There were other and in some respects greater reformers in the sixteenth century than the more popular heroes Luther, Zwingli and Calvin. Sir Thomas More, the greatest jurist of his time, Lord Chancellor of England, a chief leader of reform before Cranmer, resigned his exalted position and went to the block rather than recognize the supremacy of the King in ecclesiastical affairs; a true knight, a martyr to the separation of civil and ecclesiastical jurisdiction. Erasmus, {260} the greatest scholar of his age, regarded by many as the real father of the Reformation, the teacher of the Swiss reformers, was unwilling to submerge learning and morals in an ocean of human blood. He urged reformation, not revolution. He has been crucified for centuries in popular Protestant opinion as a political time-server, but undoubtedly he was the most comprehensive reformer of them all. "John von Staupitz, doctor of theology, and Vicar-General of the German Augustinians, the teacher of Luther and his counsellor in the early stages of his reform, a man without a stain and above reproach, a Saint in the common estimation of Protestant and Catholic alike, the best exponent of the piety of his age, was an Apostle of Holy Love and good works, which he would not sacrifice in the interests of the Protestant dogma of justification by faith only. These three immortals who did not separate themselves from the Roman Catholic Church, who remained in the Church to patiently carry on the work of reform therein--these three were the irenic spirits, the heroic representatives of all that was truly Catholic, the beacons of the greater reformation that was impending." [Illustration: FILIPPINO LIPPI, MADONNA WITH FOUR SAINTS] This position taken by Professor Briggs has come to be more and more recognized as the true one from the historical standpoint in recent years. What has been called the Reformation had in it so many unfortunate political elements that its force for good was frittered away by the abuses inevitably connected with political associations. The counter-reformation, which represented the reaction from the religious revolt of the early sixteenth century, carried with it the truer spirit of Christianity and gradually gathered round it those forces for culture, social uplift and political liberty which mean most for the benefit of mankind and which thrived so well under the fostering care of Christianity. It is only with the breaking up of the ideas and institutions fostered by the reformers that modern progress along these lines has come. Protestantism hurt art, sadly hampered education, ruined architecture, shackled philosophy, discouraged scholarship and, above all, destroyed educational and humanitarian foundations for mere personal profit, and took away the incentive for true charity, its doctrine of salvation by faith only obliterating {261} the divine significance of good works. In the Appendix, some of these points are emphasized by quotations from well-known authorities, who have summed up various phases of Reformation influence. These writers, though themselves in sympathy with the reform movement in its ideals, see its evil effects and lament them. {262} CHAPTER VI GREAT EXPLORERS AND EMPIRE BUILDERS Columbus was not the first great successful explorer of this century that we have called by his name. Many daring navigators, particularly during the half century preceding the discovery of America, had braved the perils of the ocean, so literally trackless for them, in order to add to man's knowledge. A great stimulus to the spirit of navigation and exploration came with the rediscovery of the Cape Verde Islands by the Portuguese in 1447. Men dared after this to sail with the definite purpose of finding hitherto unknown land, and their bravery was rewarded in 1460 by the discovery of Sierra Leone. Prince Henry of Portugal then realized that the future of his country, hemmed in as it was in Europe, would largely depend upon the success of her navigators. He gathered together and systematized all the knowledge obtainable in nautical matters, and well deserves the name of Henry the Navigator. It was under his inspiration that the coast of Africa and the Senegal and the Gambia were explored. Probably no one more than he helped to remove the imagined terrors of the deep and gave men courage to venture ever farther and farther in exploration. His great purpose was the spread of Christianity, and to this he brought every incentive from patriotism and every possible help that could be obtained from science in any way. His name gloriously opened Columbus' Century. It is possible that the old tradition that Henry established a college of navigation and even, as some have declared, an astronomical observatory at Sagres, near Cape St. Vincent, with the special purpose of making observations on the declination of the sun so as to secure more accurate nautical tables, may be a pious exaggeration of ardent admirers. Undoubtedly, however, he did a great deal for the scientific {263} development of navigation and established a tradition that was well followed in Portugal. John II of Portugal appointed a commission on navigation consisting of Roderick and Joseph, his physicians, and Martin of Bohemia. They invented the astrolabe, though the cross staff continued to be used for some time by navigators and was one of the few instruments possessed by Columbus and Vasco da Gama. Martin Cortez described the astrolabe and shows how much more convenient it is than the cross staff for taking altitudes. During the latter part of Columbus' Century, the Portuguese made a series of magnificent discoveries. In 1486 King John II appointed Bartholomew Dias as the head of an expedition whose purpose was to sail around the southern end of Africa. Henry the Navigator had been attracted by the story of Prester John, the legendary Christian king of Abyssinia, who was said to rule over a large part of Africa. The Christian monarchs of the West hoped to get in touch with him. Recent reports had arrived apparently confirmatory of the tradition, and the Portuguese under King John wanted to enter into friendly relations with them. Dias sailed in 1487, reached the mouth of the Congo, which had been discovered the year before, followed the African coast, entered Walfisch Bay and erected a column near the present Angra Pequeña. He was driven by a storm then far to the south, but after the storm sailed easterly and, turning northward, he landed in Mossel Bay. He followed the coast as far as Algoa Bay and the Great Fish River. On his return he discovered the cape and gave it the name of _Cabo Tormentoso_ (Stormy, Dangerous Cape), but on his arrival home King John proposed the name it still bears--the Cape of Good Hope--with the desire apparently of dissipating, if not its dangers, at least the dread of them that so filled men's minds. After this it was a comparatively easy matter to reach India, at least Dias had shown the way, and the problem which had occupied Prince Henry of joining the East and the West, so that the peoples might learn to exchange their riches, the costly materials of the East and the religious treasures of the West, was solved. The great Portuguese Empire in India is an example of {264} empire building under the most difficult circumstances, which shows the energy and the enterprise, the courage and the successful achievement of the men of this period. India was a very long distance from Portugal in those days. To think of sending out a colony, the men for which had to make the long voyage around the Cape of Good Hope with all its dangers, was a daring thought reaching almost to hardihood. In the course of a single generation, however, that empire became a wonderful source of added power and income to the mother country. Bartholomew Dias more than any other accomplished this for Portugal, but there were a large number of men of bravery and high administrative ability who helped in the work. Portugal had the advantage at this time of producing a supremely great poet, Camöens, who could celebrate the work of his fellow-countrymen and immortalize the story of their achievement. Nearly always the poet comes when a work worthy of his genius has been accomplished. India proved to be a school of courage and enterprise for the Portuguese of that generation, which lifted a little country (the smallest of Europe) to almost the highest plane of influence and greatness. While Columbus' great discovery has overshadowed the work of all the other explorers and navigators in the Western Ocean at this time, it must not be forgotten that during this century a large number of hardy, heroic men, with a determination not due to ignorance or to mere foolhardiness, but with purposes as sincere and courage as high as our Arctic explorers, accomplished wonderful results in the enlargement of human knowledge of the Western Continent and its inhabitants and varied products. Even before Columbus himself had reached the American continent, Amerigo Vespucci as well as the two Cabots had already touched it. Vespucci's biographers insist that his first voyage to America was made in 1497 and that he coasted along the northern shore of South America and into the Gulf of Mexico, returning to Spain November 15, 1498. It was in this latter year that Columbus first touched the mainland. In 1499 Vespucci went out with a second fleet and, keeping his former course, he succeeded in reaching the mouth of the Orinoco River, and returned {265} to Cadiz in 1500. He made a third voyage in 1501 and reached as far south as 52° of latitude, having coasted the South American shore from 5° south latitude to within 4° of Cape Horn. The fourth voyage was undertaken the next year, and on this Vespucci explored portions of the coast of Brazil. While it is usually said, and it must be confessed with some justification, that Columbus was deprived of what may be considered his proper privilege as first discoverer in not having the continent of America named after him, there is no doubt that Vespucci deserved highly of mankind for his daring explorations and his expert seamanship and hardy navigation. The scientific world owes him still more for the publication of his maps and detailed description of the American coast. These served to spread widely definite knowledge with regard to the new continent. Above all others, with the single exception of Columbus, even if that exception must be made, he deserved to have the Continent named after him. [Footnote 23] [Footnote 23: The news of Amerigo Vespucci's discovery seems to have spread rapidly throughout Europe and his writings became familiar within a few years to a much greater number of people than we would think possible in the limited means of communication at the time. In discussing "The Four Elements," the Morality Play, in the chapter on English Literature lines are quoted to show that the play was written within twenty years of the discovery of America. Ordinarily it would be assumed that this would mean Columbus' discovery in 1492, but the whole passage shows that the reference was to Amerigo's, in Latin Americus', discovery of the Continent. The complete passage is: "Till now, within this twenty years. Westward he found new lands. That we never heard tell of before this By writing nor other means. But this new lands found lately Been called America, because only Americus did first them find."] While we are not likely to think of the Italians as a seafaring people, Columbus himself is an Italian, so was Amerigo Vespucci, but still more remarkable the other greatest navigators of the first half of Columbus' Century, the Cabots, were also of Italian origin. John and Sebastian Cabot were Venetians, settled at Bristol, and they reached the continent of {266} North America in 1498 and sailed for a considerable distance along it. It was on their discoveries that England based its claims to the North American portion of the hemisphere. Their merits as bold and fearless, yet intelligent, navigators have rightly been given the highest recognition. Owing to their connection with North America, we have known much more about them than about many of the others who ventured to make long, perilous voyages of discovery about this time. The great Portuguese discoverers after Bartholomew Dias are Vasco da Gama (c. 1460-1524) and Magellan (1470-1521), almost exactly his contemporary. Vasco da Gama, who had proved his intrepidity as a mariner often before, was entrusted with the fleet of four vessels sent out by the Portuguese in July, 1497, in order to determine whether the story of Bartholomew Dias, that it was possible to sail around the continent of Africa and thus reach India, was true or not. He touched at St. Helena Bay, rounded the Cape of Good Hope and on the 20th of May, 1498, arrived at Calcutta on the Malabar coast. On his return he was magnificently received by the King, and three years later he was sent out with a larger expedition which took possession of India and created the Portuguese Indian Empire. At this time, in spite of rich rewards, he was evidently distrusted by the King, who apparently feared his ambition, and for twenty years he lived in retirement. After that he was called from his seclusion and created Viceroy of India. Unfortunately, his career as Viceroy lasted but a few months, yet even in that short time he had succeeded in correcting many abuses and reestablishing firmly Portuguese authority in India. Da Gama had the good fortune to be celebrated in an immortal epic by Camöens, and it is the tribute of the great poet almost more than his own achievement that has given him high distinction among the many great navigators of his time. One of the greatest of the explorers of this time was undoubtedly Da Gama's compatriot and contemporary, Ferdinand Magellan. He had been in the service of the king of Portugal, but as his services were unappreciated he went over to the king of Spain and succeeded in persuading the Spanish Government that the Spice Islands could be reached by {267} sailing to the West. The Portuguese had previously reached them by sailing East. Magellan's idea was to find some mode of getting through or around the American continent so as to sail into the great South Sea. He reached the land to which he gave the name of Patagonia, where he noted the presence of men of huge size. South of this he succeeded in finding a passage which he called San Vittoria Strait, but which has come much more properly to be known since as the Straits of Magellan. He shed tears of joy, as Pigafetti who was with him on the expedition tells, when he beheld the immense expanse of the new ocean. He found it so placid that he gave it the name it has borne ever since, the Pacific Ocean. For nearly four months he sailed on the Pacific without seeing any inhabited land. His sailors were compelled to eat even the skin and leather wherewith their rigging was bound and to drink water which had become putrid. It required super-human courage and perseverance to continue the expedition, but Magellan did so. He touched at the Ladrone Islands, but unfortunately he was killed shortly after his vessels reached the Spice Islands, it is presumed by the natives, though perhaps by his own men, who dreaded his intensity of purpose to circumnavigate the globe and feared that it would carry them once more through similar awful sufferings to those which they had experienced in the voyage through the Pacific Ocean. His lieutenant, Sebastian de Elcano, directed his course from the Moluccas to the Cape of Good Hope, but did not reach it until he had gone through hardships almost as severe as those suffered in the Pacific. He lost twenty-one of his men, but succeeded in getting back to Seville just about three years and one month after they had sailed from that port. They had accomplished, however, one of the greatest achievements in the history of the race. They had circumnavigated the globe and proved beyond all doubt that by sailing westward one might come round to where one started. It is interesting to know that Magellan's lieutenant, Sebastian, received high honors and armorial bearings, with the globe of the world belted by the inscription, "You were the first to go round me" (_Primus circumdedisti me_). Spain made many claims {268} to lands discovered on this expedition and it added notably to the extent of the Spanish Empire. The French scarcely more than the Italians are thought of as great navigators. We are likely to reserve that designation for the Spaniards, Portuguese and English, yet next in point of priority at this time there are records of some magnificent French accomplishments in navigation. We have an account of a voyage by Paulmier de Gonneville, a French priest, the evidence for which rests on a judicial statement made before the Admiralty in France, July 19, 1505. De Gonneville called the large island that he discovered Terre Australe, so that for a long time it was thought that he was the first to touch Australia. The description that he gives, however, of the people and the products of the country evidently applies to some northern island of the Indian Ocean and not to the great southern continent. There is good reason to think, however, that in this voyage important discoveries were made. A little later in the century, Verrazano, an Italian in charge of a French expedition which sailed along the coast of North America, entered the harbor of New York, sailed up the Hudson River and landed an expedition on Manhattan Island, where in 1524 a religious service, probably the Mass as Rev. Dr. Morgan Dix suggested, was celebrated. Bennett's discussion of the matter in his "Catholic Footsteps in Old New York" (New York, 1910) leaves little doubt of the fact. Two Spanish expeditions probably reached Australia during the first half of the sixteenth century. The first of these was under Alvar de Saavedra, who was sent out by Cortez. Cortez, having settled himself in Mexico, wished to get in touch with the East, and especially the Spice Islands, and it was he who despatched Saavedra, who was a relative. There is some doubt as to whether this navigator did not touch New Guinea rather than Australia, but there is no question but that he navigated across the Pacific Ocean as early as 1528. In 1542 Bernard della Torre is reported to have landed on the Australian continent, and critical analysis of his description of the natives and of the conditions that he found there puts his discovery beyond all doubt. {269} The men who were leaders of expeditions to the newly discovered countries at this time were all of them distinguished for bravery, and most of them for high administrative ability and a talent for government and the management of men which stamp them as among the world's geniuses. In our time much has been said of the ability of such a man as Cecil Rhodes and what he accomplished as an empire builder in South Africa. Considering the difference of circumstances, the lack of means of communication, the immense distances that had to be traversed and the dangers encountered, there are at least three men of Columbus' Century who have gained a place in history such as Cecil Rhodes will never have. The qualities exercised were of the same kind, but of much higher order, because requiring more independent activity and the most absolute self-reliance. What Vasco da Gama did in India for the Portuguese, Cortes in Mexico and Pizarro in Peru for the Spaniards represent achievements in empire building that have deservedly given these men an undying name in history. There were unfortunate abuses in the work. There always are whenever a savage race is brought under the dominance of what is at least supposed to be a more civilized people. There always are, even in the heart of our modern civilization, whenever one class of people can with impunity take advantage of another. The work of these men is perhaps best illustrated by short sketches of the careers of Cortes and Pizarro. Cortes, sent as a boy to the University of Salamanca, found that he had no liking for study and that his restless spirit could not be satisfied with an education and the career of law which his parents destined him for. He joined an expedition that brought him to the Antilles at the age of nineteen, and soon showed the qualities of daring and military aptitude that made him a favorite with his superiors in the service. As a consequence, he was named as commander in the expedition to Mexico. He had solved the Indian method of warfare by decoy and ambush and turned it against the Indians themselves. He soon became noted for the almost lightning-like celerity, as it seemed to his opponents, of his movements. When the Governor of the Antilles, suspecting Cortes of {270} personal ambitious designs, sent an expedition against him, he captured its commander by a surprise, though he himself had only one-quarter of the force that his opponent mustered. Against overwhelming odds he succeeded in conquering the Mexicans and establishing Spanish dominion throughout the country. While his conquest was disfigured by many of the unfortunate evils that so often have characterized such events in history, Cortes was not unkind to the Indians and he endeavored in every way to improve their condition and lift them up to a higher plane of civilization. Even Las Casas mentions him favorably and, while his kind treatment of the Indians is sometimes said to have been part of a deep-laid plan to use his power over them for selfish reasons and even for treason against the Spanish Crown, this explanation seems far-fetched. Cortes knew how easily his position could be undermined at court and, above all, he knew the fate of many of the men who had accomplished great things for Spain and of the readily comprehensible suspicions that were likely to attach to a man who had made so great a success as his. He was of an independent character and used expressions which indicated that he would not submit to the treatment that had been dealt out to others. It is not surprising, then, that after a time he was excluded from the government of Mexico and had to look elsewhere for further occupation for his restless ambition. He was allowed to join the great expedition against Algiers in 1541, but after its disastrous end did not long survive the failure. Cortes could write well, and has written the accounts of his own achievements, and these have been published in a number of editions, with translations into many languages. They show that he was a clear-headed man of great ability in an intellectual and literary sense, as well as for administration, and, while colored quite naturally in his own favor, they are valuable sources for history. Pizarro, _filius nullius_, with his fortune to make, everything to gain and nothing to lose, set sail at the age of twenty-eight with Alonzo de Ojeda from Spain. After many hardships he attached himself to Balboa, and accompanied him across the Isthmus of Panama in the expedition which discovered the {271} Pacific. After Balboa's death he followed the fortunes of Pedrarias, the governor of the region. Hearing of the achievements of Cortes in Mexico and the reports of the riches of the countries lying along the shore of the Pacific Ocean to the south, he organized an expedition to conquer them. Their project seemed so utterly rash and foolhardy, without any prospects of success, that the people of Panama called those who had joined the expedition "the company of lunatics." In spite of every discouragement, Pizarro continued his preparations, and after eighteen months returned to Panama with an abundance of gold and glowing accounts of the wealth of the countries he had visited. The Governor, jealous of his success, withdrew his support and refused to allow him to continue his explorations. Pizarro then crossed the ocean to Charles V, laid his information and plans before him and Charles, recognizing his ability and the probable success of his project, conferred on him the Order of the Knighthood of St. James and made him Governor and Captain-General, with absolute authority, in all the territories he might discover and subjugate. His orders could be reviewed only by the Royal Council in Spain. Armed with this authority, Pizarro proceeded to add the empire of Peru to that of Charles V, then ruling over more of Europe than anyone since the time of the Roman Emperors. The romantic story of this achievement and of Pizarro's assassination have often attracted the attention of dramatists, writers of fiction, as well as historians. There is no doubt at all of the magnificent daring, the political talent, nor the administrative ability of the man who succeeded in doing this in spite of obstacles that looked absolutely unsurmountable. This was accomplished by the free use of treachery, breaking of faith, as well as taking advantage in every way of the natives, but empire builders at all times have had such elements in them. Pizarro is no worse than modern conquerors, and in many respects is far better. The stories of India, Egypt and Africa will look quite as bad before the bar of history as that of Peru. Our own great task of exploration and of colonization and conquest during the past hundred years has been the opening {272} up of Africa and the finding of the North and South Poles. The opening up of Africa represents a really great extension of civilization, and doubtless will hold an important place in history. It is more than doubtful, however, if our colonizers and conquerors will be dealt with any more generously in history, or placed on a higher plane of fellow-feeling for the natives, than the colonizers and conquerors of Columbus' Century. The slave trade had been abolished early in the nineteenth century, and yet there has been the feeling many times during the past hundred years that the natives of South Africa were being abused almost as in the days of slavery, and that even the natives of South America under European influence in certain places were little better than slaves. Indeed, the whole attitude of mind of the modern time with regard to the early conquerors has had very interesting light thrown on it by investigations, which showed that in many states of our own country there was a system of employing ignorant labor that could only be characterized as slavery. After recalling the "spheres of influence" of the different nations and the mode in which South Africa has been parcelled out without any regard for the native inhabitants or their rights in the question, it becomes clear that the world, for all its complacent condemnation of the men of the older time, has not changed a particle since Columbus' Century. The two Latin nations, the Spaniards and the Portuguese, were the conquerors and colonizers in the early sixteenth century. The Teutonic nations, England and Germany, because they had replaced Spain and Portugal as the leading commercial countries, did the work in the later nineteenth. The differences between the modes of action and the general conduct of affairs at the two periods are very slight when compared to the close similarities of motive and purpose. Nations at both periods were looking for a region by which they could enrich themselves, and explorers and colonists and pioneers who went out were actuated by just the same motives at both times. Indeed, it is very doubtful whether we have point for point accomplished anything like so much good for the natives as the Spaniards tried to do, and as we have seen in the {273} chapter on Columbus' Century in America, often with striking success. After all, it must not be forgotten that there are more Indians alive in Mexico and in South America now than when Columbus landed. It has been impossible as yet to lift the natives up to the high plane of civilization of their European invaders, which has been reached only after many centuries of training, but undoubtedly much has been done. In many of these countries even the natives are nearly ready for self-government, and the countries with the handicap of their mixed races are, considering all the conditions, as prosperous as we are, and visitors often declare their upper classes possessed of a higher state of culture than ours. President Taft, after thorough practical experience in the Philippines, declared that the natives were on the high road to readiness for self-government and that they represent the only example of a people who, invaded by civilized conquerors and colonists, had been gradually lifted out of their barbarism on to a higher and higher plane. The beginning of this accomplishment came in Columbus' Century. It is only by comparing what our own and that century did in the solution of similar problems that we can get any idea of how admirable in many ways is the work of the earlier period. If at the end of the next century the natives of Africa shall fare as well as those of South America and the Philippines, the comparison will be more satisfactory. Our problem of adventurous navigation in the nineteenth century has been the discovery of the North and South Poles. We have succeeded in our purpose, but not without much sacrifice of treasure and men and much suffering. For many people in our time the finding of the Poles has seemed merely a quixotic undertaking, and, as a matter of fact, there has been no great practical purpose in it. The voyages of the navigators of the early sixteenth century must have seemed just as quixotic, though after any successful voyage the fruits of the expedition, in a commercial as well as a scientific and cultural way, could be readily appreciated. When we estimate the difference between the small sailing vessels of that time and the utter lack of facilities for the storage and {274} preservation of food as well as the dangers of the literally trackless ocean, some idea of the bravery of these hardy adventurers can be appreciated. Our steam vessels, with preserved foods and medicines usually available and the understanding of the dangers that they are to meet, has made our voyages comparatively simple, yet we have felt the inspiration of accomplishment. Columbus' Century is almost infinitely higher in the place that must be accorded to it for the spirit and the number of the men who ventured upon long voyages from which so many never returned and on which all trace was absolutely lost of many and many a vessel. In spite of the losses, there was never any dearth of men to take up the work of exploration and conquest, and their success revolutionized modern history. {275} CHAPTER VII AMERICA IN COLUMBUS' CENTURY Since our English colonization of America did not take place until the seventeenth century--Jamestown, 1607; Plymouth, 1620--it is ordinarily presumed, in English-speaking countries at least, that there is little or nothing worth while talking about in American history during Columbus' Century, ending as it does in 1550. As a matter of fact, however, though America was discovered only in 1492, there is an extremely interesting and significant chapter of American history between 1500 and 1550. This is, of course, all in the Spanish-American countries. It has unfortunately been the custom to think of the Spanish colonies as backward in all that relates to education and culture, but the history of even this half century here in America, when some magnificent progress was made, the landmarks of which still remain, is quite enough to show how far from the realities of things as they were some of our fondly cherished historic impressions are. There is not a single phase of civilization that did not receive diligent attention very early in the history of Spanish America, and the results achieved were such as to represent enduring progress in the intellectual life. In education, in printing and the distribution of books, in art and architecture, in the training of the Indians in the arts and crafts as well as in the principles of self-government, and even in science, though this department of human accomplishment is usually not supposed to be seriously taken at this time, there are many significant early American achievements. It is only in comparatively recent years that in English-speaking countries there has come anything like a proper recognition of the work done by the Spaniards in America in the early days of the history of this continent. It has been the custom to think that, while the English colonists came {276} to make a home here, the main purpose of the Spaniards in America was to exploit the inhabitants and the country and to do just as little as possible for either, provided only the members of the Spanish expeditions made money enough to enable them to live in comfort at home in Spain after a few years of stay here in America. Mr. Sidney Lee, the distinguished editor of the English Biographical Dictionary and an authority on Shakespeare and the Elizabethan period, as well as the sixteenth century generally, in a series of articles which appeared in _Scribner's_ for 1907 on "The Call of the West," contradicted most of these notions that are so prevalent with regard to the contrasted attitude of the English colonists and the Spanish colonizers during the early history of the continent. He said, for instance, not hesitating properly to characterize the principal reason for this historical deception: [Illustration: STRADAN (JAN VAN DER STRAET), NIELLO, IVORY COLUMBUS ON HIS FIRST VOYAGE ] "Especially has theological bias justified neglect or facilitated misconception of Spain's role in the sixteenth century drama of American history. Spain's initial adventures in the {277} New World are often consciously or unconsciously overlooked or underrated in order that she may figure on the stage of history as the benighted champion of a false and obsolete faith, which was vanquished under divine protecting providence by English defenders of the true religion. Many are the hostile critics who have painted sixteenth century Spain as the avaricious accumulator of American gold and silver, to which she had no right, as the monopolist of American trade, of which she robbed others, as the oppressor and exterminator of the weak and innocent aborigines of the new continent who deplored her presence among them. Cruelty in all its hideous forms is, indeed, commonly set forth as Spain's only instrument of rule in her sixteenth century empire. On the other hand, the English adventurer has been credited by the same pens with a touching humanity, with the purest religious aspirations, with a romantic courage which was always at the disposal of the oppressed native. "No such picture is recognized when we apply the touchstone of the oral traditions, printed books, maps and manuscripts concerning America which circulated in Shakespeare's England. There a predilection for romantic adventure is found to sway the Spaniards in even greater degree than it swayed the Elizabethan. Religious zeal is seen to inspirit the Spaniards more constantly and conspicuously than it stimulated his English contemporary. The motives of each nation are barely distinguishable one from another. Neither deserves to be credited with any monopoly of virtue or vice. Above all, the study of contemporary authorities brings into a dazzling light which illumes every corner of the picture _the commanding facts of the Spaniard's priority as explorer, as scientific navigator, as conqueror, as settler."_ (Italics ours.) In education particularly the Spaniards accomplished much for which they have been given almost no credit in English-speaking countries until the last few years. As a matter of fact, as the President of a great Eastern university said at a public dinner not long since, "We have only just discovered Spanish America." The lamented Professor Bourne of Yale, who wrote the third volume of "The American Nation" [Footnote 24] {278} on Spain in America, was one of the earliest American students of history to realize how much of injustice had been done by the ordinarily accepted notions of Spanish-American history that are common in English-speaking countries. In his chapter on "The Transmission of European Culture," which is a vindication of Spanish-American intellectual achievements, Professor Bourne proceeds to institute comparisons between what was done in Spanish and in English America in the early centuries for education and intellectual development, and constantly to the disadvantage of the English-speaking countries. He said: [Footnote 24: Harpers, New York.] "Not all the institutions of learning founded in Mexico in the _sixteenth century_ can be enumerated here, but it is not too much to say that in number, range of studies and standards of attainments by the officers they surpassed anything existing in English America _until the nineteenth century_. (Italics ours.) Mexican scholars made distinguished achievements in some branches of _science, particularly medicine_ and surgery, but pre-eminently linguistics, history and anthropology. Dictionaries and grammars of the native languages and histories of the Mexican institutions are an imposing proof of their scholarly devotion and intellectual activity. Conspicuous are Toribio de Motolinia's '_Historia de las Indias de Nueva España,'_ Duran's '_Historia de las Indias de Nueva España,'_ but most important of all Sahagun's great work on Mexican life and religion." Most of these works were written after the close of Columbus' Century, but the ground had been prepared for them and some of the actual accumulation of facts for them begun in our period. They followed as a natural development out of the scholarly interests already displayed in the first half of the sixteenth century. Perhaps the most interesting feature of Spanish-American development of education is the fact that its first landmark is a school for the education of Indians. Not a few of the Spaniards who came to Mexico in the first half of the sixteenth century had enjoyed the advantage of a university education. As their children grew up they felt like sending them back to Spain for university education, and many were {279} so sent. The need for the education of the Indians was recognized early, however, and in 1535 the College of Santa Cruz in Tlaltelolco, the quarter of the City of Mexico reserved for the Indians, was founded under the patronage of Bishop Zumarata. Among the faculty were, as might be expected, graduates not only of Salamanca, the great Spanish university of the time, but also of the University of Paris, which was at this period the leading university of the world. It is interesting to realize that these professors did not consider that they were fulfilling their whole duty by teaching alone, but also devoted themselves faithfully to what many have come to look upon apparently as a modern development of university life, the duty of investigating and writing. This is the real index of the vitality of a university and the sincerity of its professors. Among the teachers of Santa Cruz were such eminent scholars as Bernardino de Sahagun, the founder of American anthropology, and Juan de Torquemada, himself a graduate of a Mexican college, whose _"Monarquia Indiana"_ is a great storehouse of facts concerning Mexico before the coming of the whites, containing many precious details with regard to Mexican antiquity. Just as Columbus' Century was closing, arrangements were made for the organization of two universities in Spanish America--the one in Mexico City and the other in Lima, Peru. They received their royal charters the same year, 1551, but besides the granting of their charters a definite amount of the Spanish revenues was set aside by the Crown as a government contribution to their support. It seems worth while to note that such encouragement on the part of the English Government for an institution of learning in the American colonies a full century, or even two, later than this would have been quite out of the question. Whatever the English colonists did for education they had to do for themselves. There was no aid and not even sympathy with their efforts. English universities for several centuries refused to recognize American universities as on a par with them, and rightly, for their standards were too low, though it is an extremely interesting commentary on the educational situation in America, and especially on the usually accepted {280} notions as to the relative significance of Spanish and English education here, that both the University of Lima and of Mexico came to be recognized during the sixteenth century as sister institutions of learning not only by Salamanca and the other Spanish universities, at this time among the best institutions of learning in Europe, but also by the other university of Europe, whose prestige was the highest, that of Paris. There was a certain interchange of professors among them, though this was not formally organized, and graduates of Salamanca and Paris taught at both Mexico and Lima. Students from these American universities were accorded their American ratings and allowed to proceed with their work on an equality with European university men, a privilege scarcely accorded to English-American university students even yet. The scholars of the Old World were quite well aware that the New Learning was penetrating into the Western Hemisphere and were proud to think that the humanities were being cultivated beyond the Western ocean. Before the end of Columbus' Century, Marcantonio Flaminio, whom Sandys in his "Harvard Lectures on the Revival of Learning" calls the purest of the Latin poets of the age, a man who was a great friend of Vittoria Colonna, in sending to Cardinal Alessandro Farnese a volume of Latin poems by the scholars of Northern Italy, assures the Cardinal that France and Spain and Germany and distant Brittany would do honor to those Latin muses, and that even the New World would share in admiration for them. As he puts it: "Those on whom the light of dawn arises when the skies of Italy are wrapped in darkness will devote their nights and days to the study of the Latin poets of Italy." "For strange to tell, e'en on that far-off shore Doth flourish now the love of Latin lore." The newly created Universities of Mexico and Lima developed during the half century following Columbus' Century into full-fledged institutions of learning amply deserving the name university. Lectures in medicine were delivered in {281} Mexico in 1578, and a full medical faculty was organized before the close of the century. Our first school of medicine in English America did not come into existence for fully two centuries later. More than half a century before this, however, special care had been exercised by the Spanish authorities to prevent the exploitation of the Spanish colonists or the Indians by pretenders to knowledge in medicine. As early as 1527 strict medical regulations were drawn up by the municipal council of the City of Mexico, granting the license to practise medicine only to those who showed the possession of a university degree in medicine. Even earlier than this arrangements had been made for the regular training of barber surgeons, so that injuries and wounds of various kinds might be treated promptly as well as properly, so that even the poorer classes might have the benefit of some regular training in those whose ministrations they could afford to pay for. A pure-drug ordinance, regulating the practice of the apothecaries, was issued as early as 1529. It was practically only in our own time that similar regulations were adopted in this country. Standards in university teaching were well maintained. Post-graduate work was literally post-graduate work, and students might take up the study of medicine or of law or of divinity only after having made proper preliminary studies in the undergraduate departments of the university. The Spanish-American universities received a charter not only from the Spanish crown, but also from the Pope. The formal title of the University of Mexico was the Pontifical University of the city. The Papal charter was sought because it was the only way to secure an international value for academic degrees, for the Papacy was the international authority of the time. Papal charters for the universities, however, were granted only on condition that standards should be maintained. There are any number of these Papal university charters extant which emphasize this necessity. On the establishment of a new university the professors had to be graduates of well-recognized, authoritative universities, in which the examinations were held in oath-bound secrecy, in order {282} to assure as far as possible absolute fairness and the maintenance of standards. The course of studies and the length of time for them had to be arranged in accordance with the standards of older universities. [Illustration: TITLE PAGE OF LETTER OF COLUMBUS (BASEL, 1494)] {283} [Illustration: PAGE FROM THE LETTER OF COLUMBUS (BASEL, 1494)] {284} The Spanish-American universities had the advantage of being closely in touch with the European universities, and as a consequence had taken their traditions direct from them. Papal university charters, as a rule, required explicitly that there should be three years of university work before medicine or other graduate work might be taken up, and then four years of medicine before the degree of doctor would be granted. Even after this, according to the Italian laws of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the practice of medicine must not be begun by the graduate until he had spent a year in practice with an experienced physician. This is the year of hospital work that we are now trying to introduce into the medical schools as a requirement and which is taken, but voluntarily, by most of those who are seriously interested in their professional studies. The preliminary requirements, that is, such formal academic preparation for the study of medicine as makes it possible for a young man to take up the subject and properly benefit by it, have only become obligatory by law in very recent years here in America, and that to a very limited degree. The letter written to the Municipal Council of his native city, Seville, by Dr. Chanca, who accompanied Columbus on his second expedition, shows the thoroughly scientific interest and the acute powers of observation of the Spanish physicians of this time. This is unquestionably the first written document about the flora, the fauna, the ethnology and the anthropology of America. Dr. Fernandez de Ybarra published in the _Journal_ of the American Medical Association, September 29, 1906, some abstracts from this letter which show that these expressions are justified by its contents and are not mere enthusiastic terms for rather commonplace observations. Chanca described in detail woods of various kinds, fruit, spices, plants such as cotton, the birds and animals, and above all the customs, appearance and mode of living of the inhabitants. He gives in detail their slave-making and cannibalistic tendencies. There was nothing that escaped Chanca's observation. He found turpentine, tar, nutmegs, ginger, aloes, though he noted that the aloes were not the same kind as those in Spain (Barbadoes aloes are still {285} considered inferior), cinnamon, cloves, mastic and many other things. He notes the food of the inhabitants, their mode of working, the absence of iron, yet the well-made implements, the presence of gold in many places, describes the climate of the country and gives important details with regard to its meteorology. Dr. Chanca had been the physician to their majesties, and he gave up not only this position, but a large and lucrative practice in order to become the physician of the colonies. It is principally through him that we have any account of Columbus' second voyage. This second voyage was, of course, very different from the first and carried a thousand five hundred persons, among them many of the nobility who had recently been in the wars with the Moors and who were looking for new conquests in America. They were restless and hard to manage, negligent and rash, they tasted many things without due care and succeeded in poisoning themselves on a number of occasions, they caught the fevers of the country and only for the presence of Dr. Chanca it is very probable that most of them would have perished. Columbus, who thought that he owed him his life, praises him highly in a letter to the Sovereigns, asking permission to pay him special fees in addition to the salary and rations which he was allowed as _scrivener_ in the Indies. His letter and the estimation in which he was held at the time is the best possible evidence of the standard of attainments of the Spanish physicians of Columbus' Century. One of the memorable products of American scholarship during Columbus' Century, that must not be passed over without mention here, is Garcilaso de la Vega, the historian of Peru, born in our period, though he did his work afterwards. He was the son of a daughter of the Incas, the reigning family in Peru when the Spaniards came, and owed to his mother the suggestion of writing a history of his ancestors and their land. He travelled over the country consulting the old inhabitants, the principal among whom were relatives through his mother and his father was the Spanish Governor of Cuzco, one of the few Spanish governors, be it said, who did not die a violent death. Garcilaso was then in an {286} excellent position to gather all the details of the story, yet without prejudice against the Spaniards. As he spent his life after the age of twenty mainly in Europe, his opportunities for thorough understanding of all the conditions were complete. His work is of a great historic value, and indeed is the foundation of all that we know of old Peru. It has been translated into all the modern languages. Besides this attention to the higher education and to the education of the Indians, popular education was cared for sedulously and, above all, the Indians were instructed in the use of their hands, in the arts and crafts, and in every way that would make them useful, happy citizens. The contrast between English America and Spanish America in this matter is rather striking and has been emphasized by Professor Bourne in the chapter of his book to which we have already referred. He said: "Both the crown and the Church were solicitous for education in the colonies, and provisions were made for its promotion on a far greater scale than was possible or even attempted in the English colonies. The early Franciscan missionaries built a school beside each Church and in their teaching abundant use was made of signs, drawings and paintings. The native languages were reduced to writing, and in a few years Indians were learning to read and write. Pedro de Gante, a Flemish lay brother and a relative of Charles V, founded and conducted in the Indian quarter in Mexico a great school, attended by over a thousand Indian boys, which combined instruction in elementary and higher branches, the mechanical and fine arts. _In its workshops the boys were taught to be tailors, carpenters, blacksmiths, shoemakers and painters."_ (Italics ours.) Almost needless to say it is only in quite recent years that we have awakened to the necessity for such teaching for our Indians and, may it be added, for the poorer classes of our population generally. [Illustration: HOSPITAL, MEXICO (FOUNDED BEFORE 1524)] [Illustration: HOSPITAL, MEXICO (ANOTHER VIEW)] The printing press early found its home in America, and even during Columbus' Century quite a number of books were published in the Spanish-American countries. It is often said that the first book printed in America was the {287} Massachusetts Bay Psalm Book, issued, I believe, in 1638, but of course this was long anticipated in Mexico and in South America. In this, as in many other of the details of Spanish-American culture. Professor Bourne has given authoritative information. He said: "The early promoters of education and missions did not rely upon the distant European presses for the publication of their manuals. The printing press was introduced into the New World probably as early as 1536, and it seems likely that the first book, an elementary Christian doctrine called 'La Escala Espiritual' (the ladder of the spirit), was issued in 1537. No copy of it, however, is known to exist. Seven different printers plied their craft in New Spain in the sixteenth century. Among the notable issues of these presses, besides the religious works and church service works, were dictionaries and grammars of the Mexican languages, Pufa's 'Cedulario' in 1563, a compilation of royal ordinances, Farfan's 'Tractado de Medicina.'" An enduring and very striking monument of the humanitarian progress made in Spanish America at this time in medicine is a hospital that still stands in the City of Mexico. It was built originally by Cortes and endowed by him, and his descendants still appoint the superintendent and have much to do with the support of the hospital. It was erected in 1524, and it might well be thought that at any such early date as this it would be a very rude structure and the surprise would be that it is still standing. Miss Nutting and Miss Dock, however, in their "History of Nursing," have given two pictures of it, both of which we reproduce here, and which show that it was a beautiful hospital building and quite worthy of the great beginnings that were made in other ways in Mexican educational and humanitarian progress. The pretty courtyard and porticoes were eminently suitable for the changeable climate of Mexico, and the whole building is a monument of Spanish culture as well as Spanish charity. [Footnote 25] [Footnote 25: The surprise inevitable for many at finding that such a handsome hospital was erected at this time will be tempered by recalling that this is the period when some of the most beautiful hospitals in the world were erected. (See the chapter on Social Work and Workers.) Besides they began very early to erect beautiful buildings in Mexico City. The University Buildings, the Cathedral and other public buildings were worthy of the fine traditions of architecture prevalent in Europe and especially in Spain at this time.] {288} Champlain, the French navigator, having visited the City of Mexico before the end of the sixteenth century, said of it: "But all the contentment I felt at the sight of things so agreeable (the beautiful natural scenery) was but little in comparison with that which I experienced when I beheld the beautiful City of Mexico, which I did not suppose had such superb buildings with splendid ample palaces and fine houses and the streets well laid and where are seen the large and handsome shops of the merchants full of all sorts of every kind of merchandise." Nor must it be thought that Mexico was the only progressive part of Spanish America so early in our history. Indeed, so much had been accomplished in the Panama region by the end of Columbus' Century that, when Sir Francis Drake raided the place some twenty years later, the bank of the Chagres River was lined with warehouses, there was a handsome monastery and beautiful church, and there were many houses of stone decorated with carvings of many kinds, the residences of the Governor and the royal officials. When the flow of the Chagres was arrested in order to make the Gatun dam for the Panama Canal, all vestiges of this disappeared, though the church was practically the only building of any importance then standing. It showed by the charm of its architecture and its interesting carvings how high had been the culture and how good the taste of the builders almost a century before there was any permanent settlement in English America. The rise of the waters of the dam did not cover as important records of human progress as when the great irrigation dam at Assuan submerged the ruins of the ancient Temple of Philae in Egypt, nor cover up such interesting works of art, but it did obliterate some of the evidence for a stage of civilization in America that in English-speaking countries at least has been wantonly minimized or sadly misunderstood. There are many remains in Panama that give some idea {289} of how much the Spaniards did during Columbus' Century and how permanent were many of their constructions. There is an old bridge from the early part of the sixteenth century which, though built without a keystone, has its main arch still standing. There is the famous flat arch which demonstrates so clearly that this region must have been very little disturbed by earthquakes ever since, because it seems almost incredible that a structure should stand with so slight curvature for any length of time, even in an absolutely undisturbed country, yet this has been in place for nearly four centuries in Panama. There was a magnificent paved road across the isthmus, the King's Highway, remains of which are still to be found in excellent preservation. Some portions of it were used during the course of the construction of the Panama Canal and proved very serviceable. When we realize what would have happened to one of our roads in a century, much less four hundred years, a good idea of their permanency of construction is reached. The old tower of St. Jerome, still standing, shows how solidly and yet how ornately the Spaniards built, and there was evidently a magnificent set of monumental constructions for religious and civil purposes on the isthmus almost a century before the pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock. The story of these early days in American history has not yet been told in its entirety, but even the details that are available show us how well the Spaniards labored for permanency of their foundations in America. {290} CHAPTER VIII SOME GREAT WOMEN Probably what must be considered the most interesting chapter in the history of Columbus' Century for our generation is that which tells the story of the women of the time who accomplished purposes that make their names forever memorable. Great as were the men, the women were in every way worthy of them, and these women of the Renaissance have attracted attention ever since, though never more so than now, when we are beginning to take seriously once more the problem of giving to women the amplest opportunities for intellectual development and achievement that they may desire. The Italian ladies of the Renaissance have been the subject of particular attention, sometimes indeed to the almost total eclipse of their equally as interesting sisters of the other nationalities, for in every country in Europe the Renaissance brought a magnificent development of feminine intellectual incentive and accomplishment and brought out a fine demonstration of women's powers. [Illustration: CRIVELLI, MADONNA ENTHRONED] It would be quite impossible to give any adequate idea of the large numbers of women who at this period manifested intellectual ability of a high order. All that can be done is to select from the various countries of Europe those women who at this time did work of such high order that their names will never willingly be let die and whose careers will have an enduring interest for mankind so long as our present form of civilization continues. They not only merit a place beside the men of the time, but some of them indeed must be classed as surpassing all but the very highest geniuses of the period. The variety of their achievement is quite as interesting as its quality. Above all, the women of Columbus' Century demonstrated their ability to administer government, to organize particularly charitable purposes, to secure the building of fine {291} hospitals and proper care for the ailing poor, and to direct the decoration of their homes and the beauty of home surroundings, so that Renaissance interior decoration and gardens have been the special subject of imitation whenever in the after-time the beautifying of the home has come to occupy the position that it should. The first woman to be considered in Columbus' Century should naturally be Isabella of Castile, to whom so much of the possibility of Columbus' achievement is due. Fortunately in recent years her life and career have come to be much better known and we have reached a more fitting appreciation of her wonderful administrative ability and profound influence on her time. There is probably no woman in history who so deeply influenced her own nation and generation as Isabella. In a time of very great women she was the greatest. Withal, she was charmingly feminine and did much to lift the position of her sex in Spain up to the height of Renaissance achievements. There is scarcely any mode of activity on which Isabella has not left traces of her genius. Her power of inspiring men was very great. She led her armies in person, and undoubtedly to her more than anyone else is due the success of the Spaniards against the Moors at this time. Her genius for peace as well as for war is evidenced by the formation of a constabulary force in Spain, the _Santa Hermandad_, intended for the protection of persons and property against injustice of any kind, though particularly against the violence of the nobles. She found Spain anarchic, without any power over disorders and with so many elements of disaffection that it seemed hopeless to think of making it a unified powerful country. She left it peaceful and prosperous, and when she died she was the ruler of a greater domain than the Roman Empire ever possessed. Some of this was undoubtedly her good fortune, but the happy accidents of history occur, as a rule, only to those who are able to take advantage of them. She encouraged education and, above all, obtained a fine education for herself. Her Castilian has been ranked as the standard of the language by the Spanish Royal Academy. When a mother, she took up the study of Latin so as to share her {292} children's education, and learned to know it well. She was extremely solicitous for the education of her children and, in order to secure the best possible mental training for them, she established a palace school, where some of the most scholarly men of the time were invited to teach. As a rule, all that most of us know about Isabella is that she recalled Columbus to her presence with the words: "I will assume the undertaking for my own crown of Castile and am ready to pawn my jewels to defray the expenses of it if the funds in the treasury should be found inadequate." It was a woman's intuition surpassing in its insight all the knowledge of those around her. There is perhaps one other fact that a great many people know, and that is, that during the siege of Granada she declared that she would not change her shift until the town had been taken. Told of her in praise at the beginning, the story has come in more refined times to seem a little ridiculous. But for anyone who knows the strenuous life, most of which was passed in the saddle, encouraging, cajoling, threatening, urging, leading, inspiring the men of her time until what was the most disturbed and unhappy country in Europe became a firmly consolidated nation, where prosperity and happiness went hand in hand, the spirit of the woman will be better revealed in that expression than in anything else. There is perhaps no greater woman ruler in all the history of the world. What she was capable of physically in her long rides on horseback would seem almost incredible, and yet with all that she was eminently womanly, a fond mother to her children, noted for her care of her household and, strangest of all perhaps, a great needlewoman. Many a church in Spain was proud to display an altar cloth that was worked by her hands, and the historical traditions that traced them to her actual hand labor are well authenticated. Her daughters as well as her sons received the benefit of the best education, though, with their mother's example and encouragement, they devoted themselves to needlework and even to the arts of spinning and weaving. It is said that Ferdinand the Catholic, her husband, could declare, as Charlemagne had done, that he used no article of clothing that {293} had not been made for him by his wife or his daughters. When she was married to Ferdinand they were so poor that they had to borrow the money to make the presents to the servants that were customary on such occasions. It is said that she mended one doublet for her husband, the King, as often as seven times. Her deep piety, her firm character, her habits of industry and thrift, and yet her ability to recognize what was likely to be good for her kingdom and her people and to spend money freely on it, made an admirable example for the time. Above all, she discouraged the idle extravagance of the nobility and succeeded in greatly lessening the immorality at court. She made a magnificent collection of books, fostered learning at the universities, encouraged it among the women of the time, and it is no wonder that historians have spoken so much in praise of her. With all this she was extremely unhappy in her children--she saw her son die in the promise of youth, her daughter went mad, other daughters, including Queen Catherine of England, were destined, in spite of felicitous auguries in early life, to the most poignant unhappiness--and mother had to be the source of consolation for them all. [Illustration: HOLBEIN, QUEEN CATHERINE OF ARAGON] The spirit of Isabella in the matter of the rights of her subjects will perhaps be best appreciated from the famous expression which she used on hearing that Columbus had offered some of the Indians whom he brought home with him to some of the Spanish nobility as gifts. The Queen indignantly demanded when she heard of it, "Who gave permission to Columbus to parcel out my vassals to anyone?" Having learned that some of the Indians were being held as slaves in Spain she issued a decree that they should be returned to their native country at the expense of the person in whose possession they were found. Prescott has drawn a striking contrast between the character of Isabella and of Elizabeth. The two names are in origin the same and there are many details of their careers that tempt to the making of a comparison. Because Elizabeth is really a product of Columbus' Century, seventeen years of age before the century closed, Prescott's comparison is a document of special value for us here, for it tells the {294} story of two great women of the time, though the work of one of them was accomplished after the close of our period. He says (p. 188, Vol. III): "Both succeeded in establishing themselves on the throne after the most precarious vicissitudes. Each conducted her kingdom, through a long and triumphant reign, to a height of glory to which it had never before reached. Both lived to see the vanity of all earthly grandeur, and to fall the victims of an inconsolable melancholy; and both left behind an illustrious name, unrivalled in the subsequent annals of their country. "But with these few circumstances of their history, the resemblance ceases. Their characters afford scarcely a point of contact. Elizabeth, inheriting a large share of the bold and bluff King Harry's temperament, was haughty, arrogant, coarse and irascible; while with these fiercer qualities she mingled deep dissimulation and strange irresolution. Isabella, on the other hand, tempered the dignity of royal station with the most bland and courteous manners. Once resolved, she was constant in her purposes, and her conduct in public and private life was characterized by candour and integrity. Both may be said to have shown that magnanimity which is implied by the accomplishment of great objects in the face of great obstacles. But Elizabeth was desperately selfish; she was incapable of forgiving, not merely a real injury, but the slightest affront to her vanity; and she was merciless in exacting retribution. Isabella, on the other hand, lived only for others,--was ready at all times to sacrifice self to considerations of public duty; and, far from personal resentments, showed the greatest condescension and kindness to those who had most sensibly injured her; while her benevolent heart sought every means to mitigate the authorized severities of the law, even towards the guilty. . . . "To estimate this (contrast) aright, we must contemplate the results of their respective reigns. Elizabeth found all the materials of prosperity at hand, and availed herself of them most ably to build up a solid fabric of national grandeur. Isabella created these materials. She saw the faculties of her people locked up in a death-like lethargy, and she breathed {295} into them the breath of life for those great and heroic enterprises which terminated in such glorious consequences to the monarchy. It is when viewed from the depressed position of her early days, that the achievements of her reign seem scarcely less than miraculous." Prescott has declared that her heart was filled with benevolence to all mankind. In the most fiery heat of war she was engaged in devising means for mitigating its horror. She is said to have been the first to introduce the benevolent institution of camp hospitals and her lively solicitude to spare the effusion of blood even of her enemies is often told. Her establishment of the Inquisition and the exile of the Jews are often set over against this, but Prescott did not hesitate to say, "It will be difficult to condemn her indeed without condemning her age; for these acts are not only excused, but extolled by her contemporaries as constituting her constant claims to renown and to the gratitude of her country." Spaniards of much more modern time have not scrupled to pronounce the Inquisition "the great evidence of her prudence and piety; whose uncommon utility not only Spain but all Christendom freely acknowledged." Undoubtedly it saved Spain from some of the troubles which devastated Germany during the Hundred Years' War after the Reformation, when religious divisions so embittered the struggle and made it impossible for national affairs to prosper or for men to be brought to any common understanding with regard to anything for the good of the commonwealth. The difference between the position of Spain and of Germany in this regard is highly instructive. There are so many distinguished women of this period in Italy that a choice indeed is embarrassing. Probably, however, the general consensus of opinion would be that the typical great intellectual woman of this time is Vittoria Colonna, the daughter of the great Roman family of that name, who became the wife of the Marquis of Pescara. The Colonnas were at this time in exile at Naples, where her father was the Grand Constable. Her mother was Agnesina de Montefeltro of the Ducal house of Urbino and she was brought up after the age of ten by her prospective sister-in-law, the Duchess {296} Costanza, in the Island of Ischia. She was intimately related, then, to many of the important noble families of Italy and her career may be taken as a type of the possibilities of education and intellectual influence in her class at this time. Her husband became distinguished as a military leader and finally at scarcely more than thirty years of age was made the General of the Imperial forces when the Pope and the Emperor Charles V made an alliance and drove the French from Milan in 1528. He had been the commander of the Imperial Army at the battle of Pavia in 1525, after which Francis I, badly beaten and taken prisoner, sent his mother the famous despatch from his captive cell in the Certosa near Pavia, "All is lost save honor." Francis was too important a prisoner to be left to the fortunes of war in Italy, so Charles V had him transferred by ship to Madrid. Emissaries of the French, who tried to win the Marquis of Pescara from his allegiance to the Emperor, represented this action to him as something of an insult or at least a lack of trust. They offered him the throne of Naples if he should abandon the Emperor and come over to the French. The Marquis had been wounded and was just recovering when these offers were made. He wrote to his wife, Vittoria, with whom he was on terms of the most charming affection, telling her of the offer and asking her advice. With a crown dangling before her and the added temptation, the subtlest there could be for a woman, of going back as Queen where she had been only a lady-in-waiting at Court, Vittoria wrote the famous letter which has deservedly so often been quoted: "Consider well what you are doing, mindful of the fame and estimation which you have always enjoyed; and in truth, for my part, I care not to be the wife of a king, but rather to be joined to a faithful and loyal man; for it is not riches, titles, and kingdoms which can give true glory, infinite praise, and perpetual renown to noble spirits desirous of eternal fame; but faith, sincerity, and other virtues of the soul; and with these man may rise higher than the highest kings, not only in war, but in peace." [Illustration: TITIAN, PRESENTATION OF VIRGIN] {297} Not long afterwards her husband died as a consequence of his wounds and Vittoria was broken-hearted. The letters which they had written to each other show how much of a love match this was and all the sixteen years of married life there seems to have been nothing to disturb it. Vittoria's only consolation now was in religion, and she thought of entering a convent, but it was felt that she could accomplish much more good in the world and a special Papal brief was issued permitting her to spend as much time as she wished in convents, but forbidding superiors to allow her to take the veil until the poignancy of her grief subsided and she might be able to make up her mind without being too much overborne by her sense of loss. Most of the rest of her life was spent in convents or in almost conventual seclusion. She wrote a series of poems, many of which are religious. A long series constitutes a sort of _In Memoriam_ for her dead husband. They are written in very charming Italian verse and a well-known critic and writer on Italian literature has described these poems "as penetrated with genuine feeling. They have that dignity and sweetness which belong to the spontaneous utterances of a noble heart." During the last fifteen years of her life she lived very retired in Rome and exercised her profound influence over many of the great men of the Renaissance and particularly over Michelangelo. Some idea of the place that she held in the cultured society of Italy at this time may be gathered from the fact that in 1528 Castiglione submitted his _"Il Cortigiano"_ to her in manuscript for her approval and criticism. She kept it for a considerable time, read portions of it to her friends, submitted others to them and then returned it with the highest praise. She declared that she was quite jealous of the persons that are quoted in the book, even though they were dead. A writer who knew this period very thoroughly and who had studied particularly the lives of the women of the Renaissance declared: "Vittoria Colonna was indeed a woman to be proud of: untouched by scandal, unspoiled by praise, incapable of any ungenerous action, unconvicted of one uncharitable word. Long in the midst of such religious and political dissensions {298} as divided and uprooted families, she yet preserved in all the relations of life that jewel of perfect loyalty which does not ask to be justified." Only too often it seems to be the impression that Vittoria Colonna stands almost alone in her supreme nobility of character, but that is only due to the fact that she has been deservedly much talked of. There are, however, many rivals in all that is best among the women of Italy at this time. The charm of certain of these women of the Renaissance can be best understood from the expressions of praise with regard to them that we have from the distinguished literary men of the time. One of them, Elizabeth Gonzaga, had some of the most beautiful things said with regard to her by men whose judgment and critical faculty commend them to the after world as great scholarly writers. In the prefatory epistle to his _"Cortigiano"_ Castiglione says in allusion to the death of this peerless lady, "but that which cannot be spoken without tears is that the Duchess, also, is dead. And if my mind be troubled also with the loss of so many friends that have left me in this life as it were in a wilderness full of sorrow, yet with how much more grief do I bear the affliction of my dear lady's death than of all the rest; since she was more worthy than all and I more bounden to her." Indeed Catiglione's great work was partly written as a memorial to her. Pietro Bembo, recalling the happy days he had spent at her court, says, "I have seen many excellent and noble women and have heard of some who are as illustrious for certain qualities, but in her alone among women all virtues were united and brought together. I have never seen nor heard of anyone who was her equal and know very few who have even come near her." Every city in Italy possessed some of these noble women at this time. Prominent among those who are not known as well as they deserve is Donna Catarina Fiesco or Adorno of Genoa, one of the saintly women of the time, who, in forgetfulness of self knew how to be so helpful to others in a wise and womanly way that she has been given the title of St. Catharine of Genoa. She was the daughter of one of the noble Genoese ruling families, the Fieschi, the daughter {299} of Conte Giacomo Fiesco, who was Viceroy of Naples and Papal Chamberlain during the first half of the fifteenth century. Catarina was born July 10, 1447, the third of seven daughters whose mother also came from an ancient house of Genoa enrolled in the first Libro d'Oro. Very early she chose to be a religious, but Giuliano Adorno, a son of Doge Antoniotto Adorno, fell in love with her and though his reputation was that of a young blade and sport, he was good-looking and handsome of figure, and Donna Catarina, having seen him several times at mass, fell in love with him. Political considerations helped on the match and indeed seemed to have been most powerful, for after Catarina had been told of Giuliano's wild ways she refused to marry him and finally was married in black, positively declining to don the customary red velvet robe and lavish ornaments of gold and jewels of Genoese brides. Their marriage, as Catarina evidently had dreaded, was not happy and after five years Catarina betook herself to a convent. After her departure her husband went from bad to worse, and finally, cast off by his indulgent father, was reduced to abject poverty and despair. His wife sought him out, lifted him up and together they took a house near the Spedale Maggiore where they received and cared for poor incurables. Five years later her husband died, "his death having paid all debts," and Catarina was elected prioress of the women's department of the hospital. She organized the nursing, reorganized the hospital service, especially as regards the poor, and took her official duties as prioress very seriously. She found time, however, to compose a number of little books for persons in distress of mind and of body, and some of them have been translated into French and Spanish. Her "Treatise on Purgatory," setting forth the strength of Christian piety in the face of death, was published in 1502 and had a wide popularity in the Latin countries of Europe. She wrote a series of dialogues that became very popular and were widely used by the parish clergy in dramatic form in the churches. The two characters in the dialogues were Good and Evil, and from rival pulpits these presented their various claims. The custom of having this dialogic form of church instruction is still extant in {300} Genoa. In 1509 she died, leaving all of her property and possessions to the hospital, and her body, miraculously preserved, reposes in a superb crystal casket within the chapel of the hospital. Of her, as Edgcumbe Staley says in his "Heroines of Genoa," the well-known Italian proverb has been quoted: _Vera felicitá senza Dio non si da_--True happiness without God there is none. Another of these distinguished intellectual women of the Renaissance in Italy was the venerable Battistina Vernazza, whose parents were famous for their benevolence and had a high place in the Libro d'Oro de' Benemeriti of Genoa. She was born in 1497. Early in life she showed remarkable talents as a student of Latin and a writer of verses in Latin and in the vernacular. She entered the Convento delle Grazie but declined to take the veil until both her parents gave their consent, and though her father was willing her mother refused to permit her to be separated from her. After her mother's early death she entered the convent and there became noted for her piety and learning. Her writings are mainly controversial and were very famous in her time. Letters of hers to well-known leaders of the Protestantizing party are extant. At the death of her father, her father's considerable fortune came to her. She applied it all to works of charity, and especially in the direction of the rescue of young girls from evil associations. She lived to be ninety years of age and her memory is still so green among the Genoese because of all that she did for the good of the people that in the quarter of the city where she was born the Municipal School for Girls bears her name of Battistina Vernazza. Even the smaller towns gave birth to great women, and one of the most distinguished women of the Century whose name is very little known, mainly because her modesty would have it so, is Angela of Merici, the distinguished founder of a religious order for the education of girls of all classes, whose work has endured down to our time and whose religious daughters are literally all over the world at the present day. It is probable that the work of no woman of the Renaissance has had so far-reaching an effect as that of this humble village maiden whose one asset in life was her thought for {301} others and for duty. An all too brief abstract of her story will be found in the chapter on Feminine Education. An important phase of the careers of the women of the Renaissance is the manliness and independence of spirit which became manifest. It was at this time that the word virago was first used but employed not as now as a mark of disrespect, but on the contrary as a high compliment. Catherine of Sforza, whose manly defence of her castle is well known and whose life exhibited a series of thoroughly courageous incidents, was known as the Virago of Forli, though at the same time she was hailed as "the best gentlewoman of Italy." Isabella Gonzaga manifests something of this same heroic vein and Clarice de Medici, the wife of Filippo Strozzi, is in the same group. These women stand out as remarkable, and yet many of the women of the Renaissance exhibited an independence of character which is usually thought to be of much later development. There are many educated people who are quite convinced that while the Renaissance possessed distinguished women deservedly famous for their unselfish character and their fine moral influence, it possessed an even greater proportion of women whose vices made them a scandal for all time and whose influence was far-reaching for evil. Indeed for many the name of Lucretia Borgia, which has become a byword for everything worst in human life, is supposed to be a better symbol of the Renaissance than that of Vittoria Colonna. Probably the best way--apart from the actual facts in the lives of women already cited--to show the absolute untruth of this very prevalent impression is to take the life of Lucretia Borgia herself, for it makes clear not only how absolutely lacking in historical confirmation are the ordinary traditions with regard to her, but on the contrary how well she deserves to be classed among the great good women of the Renaissance, all the scurrilous abuse of her that has accumulated to the contrary notwithstanding. There is probably nothing that shows how little of trust can be placed in contemporary documents unless these are critically considered, than the complete change of view with regard to the Borgia family, particularly Lucretia, which has taken place in the last few years, as a consequence {302} of the more careful scientific scholarly historical research of recent years. The facts in Lucretia's life are comparatively few and rather easy to understand. Its first part is shrouded in the calumnies so common with regard to the Borgias. They were Spaniards making their way in Italy and nothing was too bad to say of them. Her later life was all in the limelight of publicity and should be the basis of any judgment of her. When she was about twenty-four after two sad matrimonial experiences she was married by political arrangement to Alfonso, the son of Ercole, Duke of Ferrara. Before that marriage careful investigation as to her character was made and a special envoy sent for that purpose wrote that "there was nothing at all out of the way with Lucretia herself. She was sensible, discreet, of good and loving nature and her manners full of modesty and decorum; a good Christian filled with the fear of God. ... In truth such are her good qualities that I rest assured there is nothing to fear from her or rather everything to hope from her." After her marriage Lucretia lived for nearly twenty years at Ferrara. When she died in early middle life her funeral was followed to the tomb by all the people of the city, who revered her as a saint and looked up to her as one who had done everything that she could to make life happier for her people. She was buried in the Convent of the Sisters of the Corpus Christi, in the same tomb as the Mother of Alfonso, the Duchess Leonora, of whose goodness we have spoken, and her praises were on every tongue. Whatever there is defamatory that is said about Lucretia concerns the years before this marriage while she was living at Rome up to the age of twenty-three. A knowledge of that fact alone is quite sufficient to make the stories with regard to her unexampled viciousness very dubious. Gregorovius has recently re-examined all the documents and has completely vindicated her. She was merely the victim of the violent political hatreds of the time. To take the one item of poisoning with regard to which her name has been so infamous and her reputation so notorious, Garnett, in the "Cambridge Modern History," declares that there is only one case in which the Borgias are supposed to have used poison for which there is {303} any evidence, and that is very dubious. With that one Lucretia had nothing to do. In discussing her divorce from Sforza, he says: "The transaction also served to discredit in some measure the charges against the Borgias of secret poisoning, which would have been more easily and conveniently employed than the disagreeable and scandalous method of a legal process." Some of the tributes to Lucretia Borgia from her contemporaries are highly laudatory. Among her friends were some of the best people of the time. Aldus Manutius praises her to the skies, lauds her benevolence to the poor, her care for the afflicted and her ability as a ruler. There is no doubt at all that she was one of these wonderful women of the Renaissance whose administrative ability must be admired more than any other quality. During the absence of her husband she ruled the State with wonderful prudence, and yet with a justice tempered always with mercy. It was through her that a law was passed, protecting the Jews of Ferrara, that became a model for other similar legislation in the cities of Italy. It is interesting to trace the change of attitude of mind toward her on the part of those who either did not care for her or were actually bitterly opposed to her. Her sister-in-law, Isabella D'Este, became a real friend, as her letters attest, though at first she did not like at all the idea of the union of the house of D'Este with that of the Borgias, and it required all her father's force of will and all his political astuteness besides to secure her presence at the marriage. The letters of ten years later reveal a most intimate friendship between these two women. Within a year after her marriage she had completely won her husband, who was altogether indifferent at the beginning and who married her because of his father's insistence and entirely for political reasons. When her first baby died at birth her husband was most solicitous for her, anxious about her health and made a vow that he would go on a pilgrimage to Loretto for her recovery, a vow which he fulfilled just as soon as her convalescence was assured. The biographer of Bayard, the famous French Chevalier of the time, _sans peur et sans reproche_, declared apropos of the visit of Bayard to Madonna Lucretia at Ferrara: "I venture {304} to say that neither in her time nor for many years before has there been such a glorious princess. For she is beautiful and good, gentle and amiable to everyone." Gregorovius declares in his "Lucretia Borgia, According to Original Documents and Correspondence of Her Day": [Footnote 26] "Lucretia had won universal esteem and affection; she had become the mother of her people. She lent a ready ear to the suffering and helped all who were in need. She put aside, as Jovius, a contemporary, said, 'the pomps and vanities of the world to which she had been accustomed from childhood and gave herself up to pious works and founded and endowed convents and hospitals.'" She died at the early age of forty, so that the nearly twenty years of service for others represent not the aftermath of a long stormy life, when human passions had burnt themselves out, but the ripe years of maturity and highest vitality. [Footnote 26: Translated by Garner, Appleton, 1913, New York.] Caviceo even ventured when he wished to praise the famous Isabella Gonzaga to say that she approached the perfection of Lucretia. He adds, and Gregorovius has emphasized this opinion, "she redeemed the name of Borgia, which now was always mentioned with respect." Indeed there are few women who ever lived of whom such marvellous encomiums have been given by men who knew her well personally and who were themselves often among those in a period of great men and women whose memory the world will not willingly let die. Whatever of evil is said of her is said by writers of scandal and littleness in her own time, Italian enemies of the Spanish house of Borgia, which had come into Italy and had a great success. These vile traditions, the kitchen stories of the Renaissance, were gathered together and preserved because so many people are interested in what is evil rather than good. At a time when the greatness of the period in which she lived was ill appreciated and when religious motives tempted to credulity they came to be generally reported until Victor Hugo gathered them all together for his characterization of her and with Donizetti's opera popularized the idea that Lucretia was probably the worst woman who had ever lived. It has taken much writing of real history to modify this popular notion, which is not yet corrected, and nothing illustrates {305} better the fallibility of popular historical information than this Lucretia story. [Illustration: PALMA VECCHIO, ST. BARBARA] When she came to die her husband said of her, writing to his nephew in whose regard there was not the slightest question of hypocrisy or pretence: "I cannot write this without tears, knowing myself to be deprived of such a dear and sweet companion. For such her exemplary conduct and the tender love which existed between us made her to me." The greatest woman of the French Renaissance and probably the most influential of the women of the time, with the possible exception of Vittoria Colonna, was Marguerite of Angoulême. In English-speaking countries she is better known as Marguerite of Navarre, though in France she is sometimes spoken of also as Marguerite of Valois or of France. She was the sister of Francis I, King of France, and devoted in her affection towards him. Undoubtedly it was she more than any other who inspired her brother with the idea of founding the College of France, and it was she who was the patron and guardian of the French Renaissance. After Francis had been captured at the battle of Pavia and shipped as a prisoner to Spain she made the long, perilous, difficult journey that it was in those days from Paris to Madrid with sisterly devotion, and in spite of trying hardships stayed near her brother during his confinement. The world generally knows her as the author of the "Heptameron" and has condemned her rather severely because of its too great freedom of manners and morals. Our own generation, however, which from its youngest years reads in our daily newspapers much worse stories than Margaret ever wrote, should not be ready to condemn her. It is difficult to understand her writing of these stories unless one knows the conditions of the time. The license that had come in among the novelists led to the telling of many stories that even our age, accustomed to the greatest license in this matter, finds too frank. Margaret, whom her generation has agreed in calling a saint, hoped to undo the evil of such stories by telling them frankly and adding morals to them. The stories have been read and the morals neglected. Her idea was very much the same as the excuse made for the publication of many {306} criminal stories of all kinds in our time, that publicity makes for deterrence. The erroneous psychology of this attempt at justification for a serious breach of ethics is only too patent. Margaret's good intentions in the matter are undoubted. Good intentions, however, do not guarantee that acts will be without evil effects. Margaret was trying to correct the corruption of her time in very much the same way as many women have been aroused into activity in ours, only she made the sad mistake of using the wrong means by thinking that publicity or information would prove a safeguard against evil instead of an incentive to the very forms of vice that she was trying to correct--above all for the young. Her significance in literature is discussed in the chapter on French literature. Margaret's personal character is one of the most beautiful in history and it fully justifies the praise of her contemporaries and even Vittoria Colonna's words, which would seem fulsome. The most interesting phase of Marguerite's character is her devotion to the sick poor. Down at Alençon the large hospital owed its origin to her and her name was in benediction among the people because of all that she did. Hers was no mere distant service such as a queen might render because of the power she had to employ others, but she devoted herself to personal work for them that made them feel her saintly unselfishness. The king, her brother, gave her a grant for a foundling school in Paris. This was known as _La Maison des Enfants Rouges_, The House of the Red Children, because of the scarlet dresses which were the uniforms. Francis in his grant says that his sister had told him how these little children that had been picked up on the streets of Paris die when they are taken to the Hôtel Dieu and that they need the more special care of an institution for themselves and he is very glad to come to her assistance. When her own boy died at the age of a few months Marguerite, whose tender family affection can be very well appreciated from her relations with her brother, was stricken with grief. We have the naive description, however, of the strength of soul with which she bore it: "She went into her room, refusing the aid of any of the women attached to the Court, she thanked the Lord very humbly for all the good it had pleased {307} Him to do her." She went even farther than that, however, she forbade that there should be any public grief, had the Te Deum sung for joy in the church because the death meant the welcoming into Heaven of an angel and she had placards made to be posted throughout the city bearing the inscription, "The Lord hath given and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord." And yet she herself wore black after this and never changed it and after a time this became the formal color of ladies' dress at her court. One of the important women of the century whose administrative ability surpassed that of the men of the time is Mary of Burgundy, whose beautiful tomb is to be seen in Bruges. The monument is one of the gems of the old town, but is not more than befitting the character of the lady it was meant to commemorate. Her dealings with the proud burghers of the Netherlands were those of a sympathetic sovereign trying to assure prosperity to these thrifty towns whose trade made it possible for so many of their people to become wealthy and happy citizens. Had her mode of treating them descended to some of her successors we would have been spared that ugly record of nearly a hundred years of bloodshed and war and famine in the Low Countries, which makes one of the saddest blots on modern history. Her granting of privileges and conferring of rights with recognition of old customs in formal documents is now commemorated in many places in the modern art of the Low Countries, and these constitute her finest tribute and memorial. The last of the women of this century who deserves to be mentioned and without whom indeed any account of the century would be quite incomplete is probably the greatest of all the women of the period and perhaps the greatest intellectual woman who ever lived. The end of the chapter brings us back to Spain to Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada, whom the world knows as St. Teresa. It is true that most of her work was accomplished after the close of the century, but as she was born in 1515 and was therefore thirty-five years of age before Columbus' Century closed, receiving all of her training and formation of mind in the great Renaissance period, her place is naturally in this epoch. She is the most important {308} of the women of the Renaissance, though this is seldom realized, and her reputation instead of decreasing with the years has rather increased. Even within the last twenty years a number of lives of her was written in every language in Europe and no less than a dozen of them have appeared in English. The feminists of the modern time have turned to her as one of the great representative women of all time. It is worth while recording some of the great tributes to her. Her own Spanish compatriots call her lovingly their Doctor of the Church. At Rome at the entrance of the Vatican Basilica where appear in marble the Fathers and the Doctors of the Church you will see one single statue raised to a woman and bearing this inscription, _"Mater Spiritualium"_--Mother of Things Spiritual. It is the statue of Teresa who has been gloriously proclaimed the Mother of Spirituality, the Mistress of Mystical Theology and practically a Doctor of the Church, in the principles of the spiritual life. The French and the Spanish are almost at opposite poles in their critical appreciations, yet Teresa has been honored almost as much in France as in her native country. Men so different as Bossuet and Fénelon have united in proclaiming her their teacher in the science of the saints and have declared her books, "The Way of Perfection," "The Castle of the Soul," "The Book of Foundations" and "Spiritual Advice," the most wonderful contributions to human knowledge that have ever been made. Nor was her appeal only to the Latin races in Europe. The German mystics have always found a special attraction in St. Teresa's work and this was true not only among the Catholic students in Germany, but also at nearly all times among the Protestants. In the modern time Teresa has been the subject of many monographs by German writers. In English, though national feeling and religious prejudice might be expected to make Teresa little known or even deliberately neglected, her works came to be very well known. In the middle of the seventeenth century Crashaw became enamored (no other word will express his lofty sentiments) of her writings and literally thought that no one had ever had so high a vision of things other-worldly. George Eliot paid {309} her tribute in the preface to "Middlemarch," and while her own dissatisfaction with life makes that tribute somewhat grudging and half-hearted, there is no doubt that our greatest woman novelist of the nineteenth century had been very deeply influenced by the writings of the calm light of the sixteenth. Scarcely any writer has had as wide a European influence as this cloistered saint, who wrote only because her confessor commanded her to and who had no thought of style or of anything other than getting the thoughts that would come to her as simply as possible before her Spanish religious brethren. Her Spanish prose is a marvel of simple dignity and correctness representing the best Spanish prose, even down to our time. When Echegaray, the well-known Spanish novelist of our time, received the Nobel Prize for literature a few years ago, he was asked what he did for the perfection of his Spanish style. He declared that almost the only book that he read for the sake of its style was "The Letters of St. Teresa." We have nothing quite like these letters in English, though Cowper's letters approach nearest to them. They are full of simplicity, are deeply interesting in their detail of ordinary life and above all are full of humor. This is the quality that most people would be quite sure was lacking in the great Spanish nun. Those who would explain her visions and her mortification on the ground of hysteria or psycho-neurotic conditions would be undeceived at once in their estimation of her character did they but read her letters. The hysterical are above all lacking in a sense of humor and take themselves very seriously. Dante is probably the only writer in European literature with whom St. Teresa can properly be compared. She has the same power to convey all the deep significance of other-worldliness, the same universality of interest, the same marvellous quality that draws to her particularly those who are themselves of deeply poetic or profoundly spiritual nature. Men who have spent long years in the study and the experience of the things with which her writings are concerned, find them most wondrously full of meaning and are most willing to devote time to them. The editions of her various works would fill a very large library, and there is no doubt at all that the {310} writings of no woman who ever lived occupy so large a place in libraries all over the world at the present time as those of St. Teresa. Beside St. Thomas and Dante as a worthy member of a glorious trinity of writers, with regard to the subjects that have been most elusive though most alluring for men, St. Teresa deserves a place. Anyone who would think, however, that she was merely a mystic would be sadly mistaken in the estimate of her career. She was above all a thoroughly practical woman. Her many foundations of the reform Carmelites under the most discouraging circumstances show the indomitable will of the woman and her power to live to accomplish. It was she who said when her poverty was urged as a reason for not making further foundations, "Teresa and five ducats can do nothing, but Teresa with God and five ducats can do everything." There is no doubt now that she more than any other in Spain turned back the tide of the Reformation. Her advice was eagerly sought on all sides. While carefully maintaining her cloistered life, she made many friends and influenced all of them for what was best in them. Her reform of the Carmelites brought many enemies, above all because other religious orders recognized that they too would have to share in the reform, yet all was carried out to a marvellously successful issue with gentleness and sweetness, but with a firmness and courage that nothing could daunt and a power of accomplishment that nothing could balk. Those who think that Teresa's books are mere essays in pietism or pleasant reading for moments of spiritual exaltation will be sadly mistaken. For depth of meaning and profundity of aspiration after the unknowable, yet approaching it nearer than any other has ever done, St. Teresa's books are unmatched. For analysis of the soul and for the manner of its unfolding in its strivings after higher things, Teresa has no equal. Her pictures of celestial things are a constant reminder of Dante. Most people think of the "Inferno" as Dante's masterpiece. Those who know him best think rather of the "Purgatorio," but a few lofty, poetic souls, steeped in the spiritual, have found his "Paradiso" the sublimest of human documents. While there are constant reminders of the {311} "Purgatorio" in many of Teresa's writings, it is the "Paradise," however, that most frequently recurs in comparison. What Cardinal Manning said of the "Paradiso" may well be repeated of Teresa's mystical works. It has been said, "After the _'Summa'_ of St. Thomas nothing remains but the vision of God." To this Cardinal Manning added, "after the 'Paradiso' of Dante there remains nothing but the beatific vision." Those whose life and studies have best fitted them as judges have felt thus about the Spanish Doctress of the Church. Teresa was eminently human in every regard, and though what might be considered harsh with herself, she was always kind to those who were around her, and especially any who were in real suffering. She came by these qualities very naturally, for her father is noted as an extremely good man and exceptionally good to his servants and charitable toward the poor of Avila. Indeed Teresa's biographers insist so much on these qualities as to make it very clear that the spirit of the time is represented by this member of the old Spanish nobility, who took his duties towards others so seriously. Teresa was not one of the exceptional souls who find convent life easy and even consoling from the beginning, but on the contrary she has told herself that she found the first eight days of her convent life terrible. It seemed to her a prison. She had a physical fear of austerities and pious books bored her. Perhaps the one very human thought that tempted her more than any other to enter the convent was her feeling of independence. The idea of marriage was quite distasteful. As she expressed it, it was one thing to obey God, but quite another thing to bind oneself to obey a man for a lifetime. As if in compensation for all that the neurologists and psychiatrists had to say of her, she herself had something to say of nervous patients. For her, nervousness so-called was largely selfishness. While sympathetic for feelings of depression, she had no sympathy for those who would not throw them off by occupation of mind, but yielded to them. She said, "What is called melancholy is at bottom only a desire to have one's own way." She believed firmly that one could not be made good by many rules, but goodness had to come from within and from the spirit. She was quite impatient with the {312} religious visitors, that is, special superiors sent to make inspections of houses of religious who gave a number of new rules for the communities. She said: "I am so tired with having to read all these rules that I do not know what would become of me if I were obliged to keep them." It is easy to understand then why Cardinal Manning should have said that St. Teresa furnishes an example that "spirituality perfects common sense." She herself was one of the most sensible, joyous and charming persons. Miss Field in the _Atlantic_ for March, 1903, says: "Her charm, her sweetness, the loveliness of her conversation were irresistible." It was Cardinal Manning, I believe, who declared that "she was one of those sovereign souls that are born from time to time as if to show what her race was created for at first and to what it is still destined." Teresa once said: "God preserve me from those great nobles who can do something, yet who are such strange cranks." She reminded her nuns on more than one occasion when she found in them a tendency to go to too great lengths in austerity that we have a body as well as a soul, and that this body when disregarded revenges itself upon the soul. There are few subjects of importance in life on which St. Teresa has not expressed herself wisely, and to know her writings is to be able to quote many marvellous summations of worldly experience that the cloister might seem to have precluded in her. On the subject of the relation of low wages and virtue, Miss Repplier in the article on "Our Loss of Nerve" _(Atlantic Monthly_, September, 1913) quoted St. Teresa's profound comment which sums up so well our whole social situation "where virtue is well rooted provocations matter little." [Illustration: MOSTAERT, VIRGO DEIPARA (ANTWERP)] {313} CHAPTER IX FEMININE EDUCATION There is probably no more interesting phase of Columbus' Century for our time than its feminine education, for the education of women had a period of important development in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries which affected a very large number of women of the time and afforded abundant opportunity to all those who wished to obtain the highest intellectual culture. This was not, in spite of the apparently very prevalent impression to that effect, the first time that women had been given a chance to secure the higher education, for on the contrary whenever there was a new awakening of educational interest, women asked and obtained the privilege of sharing in it and showed how thoroughly they could take advantage of such opportunities as were afforded them. In the early days of the universities women had been welcomed not only among the students but also the professors. They had full charge of the department of women's diseases down in the south of Italy where the most important part of the university was the medical school, and then later at Bologna they had been professors in every department,--in law, when the law school was the central university feature, in mathematics, in literature, even in anatomy. As a consequence of the tradition thus established there has never been a century since the twelfth in which there have not been distinguished women professors at some of the Italian universities. Earlier when Charlemagne was reorganizing education on the continent with the help of the Irish and English monks, the women of the court attended the palace school as well as the men, and we have many records of their interest. The women of the Benedictine monasteries shared the interest of the Benedictines generally in literature, made many copies of books, possessed large and important libraries and even {314} became distinguished as writers. Hroswitha, the nun dramatist of the tenth century, who came into prominence in Columbus' Century because of the issuance of an edition of her work by Celtes, the German Renaissance humanist, is but one example of the literary interest in the Benedictine convents which must have been ardent and widespread. Later we have the works of the great Abbess Hildegarde, who wrote on many subjects and who was probably the most important writer of her time. This is certainly true so far as physical sciences are concerned. St. Bernard, who was her contemporary, has enjoyed more reputation in subsequent generations than Hildegarde but she was almost as well known in her own as the great founder of the Cistercians. Earlier still than Charlemagne or the foundation of the convent schools St. Brigid had established a college for women at Kildare, in Ireland, to which there came many of the nobility not only of Ireland itself but also of England and of the neighboring shores of Europe, seeking the opportunity for higher education. We have learned more of the details of this Irish phase of feminine education in recent years, and it has grown ever more and more important in the history of education. At every new phase of educational development, then, the women had had their share in the movement, and it is not surprising that when the Renaissance brought with it that deep interest in the ancient classics, that was known as the New Learning, women also had their share in this. The very first of the great Italian teachers of the Renaissance Vittorino da Feltre insisted that there should be two conditions for his teaching. One was that the young women should be allowed to take advantage of it as well as the young men and the other that the poor who desired to study should not be denied access to his classes. The magnificent success that he made of education at Mantua was soon followed by similar movements in other Italian cities and everywhere the tradition of feminine education for those who desired to have it, came into existence. Guarino's influence for feminine education is only less than that of Vittorino. As a consequence there was not a city of any importance in Italy in which there were not some women {315} noted for their knowledge of the classics and their interest in the New Learning, and in many of the cities there were distinguished woman students who, even in their early years, exhibited scholarly qualifications that made them famous. Vittorino da Feltre, the great teacher of the beginning Renaissance, had during the first half of the fifteenth century a school at Mantua, where on the border of the lake he was teaching a group of noble youths and maidens according to the high ideals of education which he has so well laid down. Their course of study included Latin, Greek, philosophy, mathematics, grammar, logic, music, singing and dancing. Besides this, however, his scholars were taught "to live the simple life, to tell the truth and to remember that true scholarship was inseparable from virtue and a sense of lofty gratitude towards the Creator." As might have been expected from the Greek traditions of education, which were then attracting so much attention, the training of the body was not neglected and various outdoor games were insisted on so that there might be a healthy mind in a healthy body. Some of the traditions of that school at Mantua make very interesting reading and show how much some of the intervening periods in the history of education degenerated from those early days. For instance, we hear that not infrequently when Vittorino wanted to make a passage of Virgil impressive his scholars were taken out to Pietole, which has been identified as probably the village of Andes, in which, according to Donatus, Virgil was born, and here in the shady groves Virgil would be read and discussed and then there would be games and a return to the castle. While Vittorino was broad in his selections in the classic authors, and Virgil and Cicero and Homer and Demosthenes were read with explanations and then certain passages required to be learned by heart so as to form their style, he was no pedant and no friend of any exhibition of mere erudition. His most important bit of advice for his students was "First be sure that you have something to say, then say it simply." No wonder one of the D'Estes declared "that for virtue, learning and a rare and excellent way of teaching good manners, this master surpassed all others." {316} It would be easy to think that perhaps the young noblewomen of the time got but a very superficial knowledge of the classics, but we have a tradition of Cecilia Gonzaga, the daughter of the reigning house of Mantua and Vittorino's favorite pupil, that she could read Chrysostom at the age of eight and could write Greek with singular purity at the age of twelve. No wonder we hear of her later as the marvel of the age. Evidently all prejudice with regard to feminine education was at an end when Bembo said: "A girl ought to learn Latin, it puts the finishing touch to her charm." Sandys in his Harvard lectures on the Revival of Learning, has told the story of some of these young women scholars of Vittorino da Feltre and Guarino with some interesting details which show that success in scholarship did not prove an inflater of vanity in the young women of the time nor impair their religious spirit. "Women, as well as men, retained a grateful remembrance of the intellectual training, which they had received from Guarino and Vittorino. Vittorino's pupil, Cecilia Gonzaga, a daughter of the ruling house of Mantua, whose fresh and simple grace may be admired in the medallion of Pisanello, was already learning Greek at the age of seven; while, among the pupils of Guarino, Isotta Nogarola was skilled in Latin verse and prose, and quoted Greek and Latin authors in the course of those learned letters to her tutor, which were not entirely approved by the public opinion of Verona. In cases such as these, the studious temper was often associated with retiring habits and with strong religious feeling; and, like Baptista dei Malatesti, the former correspondent of Leonardo Bruni, both of these learned ladies ultimately took the veil." While so much attention was paid to the classics, the great Italian authors were not neglected and the Italian girls of the Renaissance were brought up to know the classic literature of the vernacular. It was the custom to have Dante and Petrarch and Ariosto read to them while they were doing embroidery, and these charming young women of the Renaissance in every country in Europe had the reputation for doing most wonderful embroidery. They also learned to play on {317} various musical instruments, and their voices were cultivated to the best possible advantage. It is often a source of wonder where they got the time to do all these things. Some of the letters from the French and Spanish ambassadors at these various Italian courts tell of the marvellous ability of these charming young women. As a rule the ambassador's idea in writing such descriptions was to suggest the possibility of marriages being arranged between the scions of the noble houses of their own countries with these women. It was rather important, therefore, that there should not be much exaggeration or the ambassador might well be discredited. It is easy to think that with all this of intellectual life the young women of the time must have had very little exercise, especially in the outer air, and above all must not have indulged in what we think of as sport. The story of Vittorino da Feltre's school is a contradiction of this, and besides the traditions that have come to us show that every young woman of the nobility learned to ride horseback at this time. All of them could ride boldly. They hunted and many of them went hawking. Riding was of course an absolutely necessary accomplishment at that time, for carriages were very rare, and such as there were were almost impossibly uncomfortable for long journeys. Good roads had not as yet been made outside of the towns, and the only way to go visiting friends at any distance was on horseback. Many of these young women had to travel long distances, especially at the time of their marriage, and later on they sometimes accompanied their husbands on rather long journeys. In spite of their reputation for scholarship, we have not any very serious remains of their intellectual efforts, and yet some of them wrote poetry and prose well above the average in merit, and at least in Italy their works are still read by students of Italian literature. For instance, we have the poems of Lucretia de Medici, the mother of Lorenzo the Magnificent, who had been one of the Tornabuoni family, merchant princes of Florence, with many of the solid virtues of the middle class from which she sprang. Tradition tells us that she was ever her great son's most trusted councillor, and he has left it on record that he thought her the wisest. She was {318} noted for her princely alms, her endowment of poor convents, her dowries to orphan girls, and though it has sometimes been said that these were all so many bids for popularity, any such discount of her good works wrongs her deeply, for she was profoundly religious, took particular care to bring up her children piously, and it is to the fact that she wrote hymns for them that we owe the poetic works that have come to us and which rank high among this form of poetry. The best known of these women of the Renaissance, that is, the most famous for their learning, were the sisters D'Este, Isabella and Beatrice, of whom we have so many interesting traditions. The famous Battista Guarino of Verona was chosen as teacher for the girls, and with him they learned to read Cicero and Virgil and study the history of Greece. They learned Italian literature from the many distinguished literary men, some of them themselves gifted poets, who came to the beautiful palace and its gardens at Ferrara, and were welcomed by the well-known patron of learning, the Duke of Ferrara. They learned to read French at least and to enjoy Provençal poetry. Their mother, Leonora of Aragon, the daughter of Ferdinand, or as he is sometimes called, Ferrante, King of Naples, was herself a scholarly woman. The traditions of scholarship at the Court of Naples were deep, and of long duration. As their father was the famous scholar and patron of learning, Duke Ercole I, there was a precious heritage of culture on both sides. Their mother, however, was more known for her piety even than for her learning, though this was so noteworthy as to be historical. Her charities made her looked up to by all of her people until it is not surprising that the chroniclers of her time speak of her as a saint. [Illustration: BELLINI, MADONNA, ST. CATHERINE AND MARY MAGDALEN (VENICE)] Often it is said that only a few of the daughters of the nobility had the opportunity for the higher education, and it is even the custom to declare that most of these were instances where fathers had expected sons instead of daughters and then raised the girls as companions and gave them the education that ordinarily was reserved for boys. George Eliot's picture of the times as given in "Romola," has sometimes emphasized this, and she herself seems not to have been quite able to persuade herself that there were liberal and abundant {319} opportunities for the education of women in Italy towards the end of the fifteenth century. It was so difficult in her (George Eliot's) time for a woman to obtain education that it was almost impossible to bring oneself to think of ample facilities existing nearly four centuries before. Anyone who reads Burckhardt, however, or indeed any of the modern writers on the Renaissance, will not be likely to think that education was reserved for single daughters of families, or that they indeed had any better opportunities than others except for the fact that family attention was centred on them as it is now. Burckhardt notes that it was especially the wives and daughters of the _condottieri,_ that is, of the hired leaders of armies, the self-made men of the time, who were lifting themselves up into positions of prominence, who were the most frequent among the educated women of the Renaissance. The records are complete enough to show that there was probably as much, if not more, feminine education in Italy at least than in our own time. This will probably be hard for many people to believe, but, as I have said, no important city was without it. What may be called the important cities of that time nearly all contained less than 100,000 inhabitants and many of them had not more than ten to twenty thousand. When one finds schools for the higher education of women in every one of these it is easy to understand how widely diffused the feminine movement was. Lest it should be thought that the education provided for or allowed the women of the time was narrow in its scope, with so many limitations that intellectual development in the true sense of the word was hampered, it may be as well to recall that women were even encouraged in the public display of their talents. We read of the young princesses and their court attendants taking part in Latin plays given before the Pope and other high ecclesiastics, as well as visiting rulers at this time. We have the story of Ippolita Sforza saluting Pope Pius II, who had been the scholarly AEneas Sylvius before his elevation to the pontificate, with a graceful Latin address when he came to the Congress at Mantua. Another of the oratorical princesses of the time was Battista Montefeltro, who is famous for addresses delivered on many important occasions. {320} While the D'Estes have been probably better known, historians declare that the women of the House of Gonzaga reached the highest excellence in this Renaissance period of feminine education. Everywhere, however, woman received the opportunity for whatever education she desired. Down in Naples the old Greek traditions had survived, and when the disturbance of the Grecian Empire by the Turks brought about a reawakening of Greek culture in the south of Italy, the women shared it as well as the men. At the Court of Joanna or Giovanna, whose career is of special interest as an anticipation of the ill-fated Mary, Queen of Scots, many of the women reached high intellectual distinction. It is to these lofty Neapolitan educational influences that we owe the intellectual development of Vittoria Colonna. Everywhere, however, the same story might be told. At Rome, at Florence, at Verona, at Padua, even at Forli and Ravenna and Rimini, as well as at Genoa, though Genoa was so much more intent on making money than developing its culture, the women took excellent advantage of the opportunities for learning, often proved to be more successful in their studies than their brothers, and though they did not accomplish much that was to endure in the intellectual life, they seem to have been thoroughly respected by their contemporaries and looked up to as cultured, scholarly personalities. In his "Heroines of Genoa and the Rivieras," Edgcumbe Staley [Footnote 27] has said something of the productivity of the literary women even of Genoa during this period. Genoa was known as probably more interested in mere luxury and less interested in the intellectual life for its own sake than any of the cities of Italy with which we are familiar. The Genoese were the merchant princes whose wives and children, like our own, were much more occupied with the display of their wealth than in the development of a taste for art and letters and the cultivation of a true critical faculty. I have already mentioned some of the products of the Genoese intellectual life among women, however, and this will add to the impression that I think is so true that in proportion to the population there were just as many women interested in education and in {321} literature, women writers and poets in that time as there are in our own. Mr. Staley said: [Footnote 27: Scribner & Sons, New York.] "Among the glittering bevies of intellectual and virtuous damsels, who delighted in the beauties and revelled in the romances of the Villetta di Negro and similar pleasures, were such _gentildonne_ as Peretta Scarpa-Negrone and Livia Spinola, who wrote poems of the heart and the home; Benedetta--Livia's sister--and Caterina Gastadenghi--she sang and played the folk songs of Liguria; Leonora Cibo and Pellegrina Lescara, sweet translators of the 'Aeneid' of Virgil and the 'Odes' of Horace." These educated women of the Renaissance were particularly noted for the application of their education to the concerns of their home. Their artistic taste was exercised, as we have already shown, in selecting various ornaments for it and in directing artists in its decoration. They did not have many art objects around them, but what few there were had been made as a rule by distinguished artists and represented something of the personality of the mistresses of the household. But it must not be thought that they devoted themselves exclusively to the cult of beauty in things. They realized their influence for good over the men of their time and exercised it. The example of Vittoria Colonna is often cited in this regard, but not because it is exceptional, rather what was characteristic. These educated women of the Renaissance were model wives and mothers. They were sedulous for the education of their children, and the poetry that we have from them, or the letters that have been preserved, and which show very clearly their high intellectual development, were meant for their children or for their relatives. Their homes were evidently always their first thought. They planned their own dresses, often executed some of the decoration for them, or had them designed or made under their direction, bought beautiful books for the home, encouraged the illuminators and the embroiderers and beautiful needleworkers of the time, and in general proved to be ready and able to help through their households to give opportunities for the artists, but also for the artisans and the arts and crafts workers of the time. We find a number of their names on the list of Aldus' {322} regular customers at Venice, his subscribers, who made it possible by assuring him at least the cost of his books to go on with his magnificent editions of the classics. We have letters in which they complain of the cost of these first editions because there were other household expenses to be met, but undoubtedly they were always greatly helpful in the educational cause. Most interesting perhaps of all that they did is the beautiful gardens, which, now that our generation through better transportation facilities is able to live out of town, are coming to be more properly appreciated than before. The Renaissance gardens have been the subject of much writing and illustration in our magazines and books in recent years, and it must not be forgotten that we owe them above all to the women of the Renaissance. They invited artists and architects, who designed them, and trained landscape gardeners to execute them, but it was their interest that was most important. Their gardens came to be an enlargement of their houses, and in the sunny land of Italy afforded many refuges for pleasant living, even in the warmest weather, and for the privacy of even their crowds of guests, which made their homes welcome repairs for the nobility of the time. Perhaps the best criterion of the thoroughness of the education given women at this time is the influence exerted by the women of the period on art and artists and literary men of the time, and above all the cultivated taste displayed in their homes. A typical example is afforded by Isabelle D'Este whose _camerini_, her private apartments, are reproduced at South Kensington and described in one of their manuals on Interior Decoration in Italy in the fifteenth century and the sixteenth century. As these decorations for the dowager Duchess D'Este were made just about the middle of Columbus' Century, the authoritative description of them will be the best document. The Museum of South Kensington has had one side of her painting room reconstructed, and it shows, as no mere description could, the beauty of the apartment and the taste of its owner. A quotation from the description of the three rooms as given in the South Kensington Art Handbook "Italian Wall Decorations of the Fifteenth and Sixteenth Centuries" will {323} serve better than any praise to give an idea of the charming retreat that Isabella made for herself when her position as Dowager Duchess gave her the leisure as well as the opportunity to devote herself to the construction of a retreat which should reflect her personality. "The 'Grotta,' on the ground floor of the old Palazzo Bonnacolsi, remained set apart for her collections of art and for receptions; princes on their travels, ambassadors on their missions, travellers of distinction and artists came to visit her. She accumulated in it statues and rare objects, and even added a 'Cortile,' with fountains playing during the summer. But the three new rooms at the top of the 'Paradiso' became the object of her predilection, and it is amidst such surroundings, the real 'paradise' of Isabella D'Este, that historians must place her portrait. "The first room was dedicated to music, the favorite pursuit of Isabella. The cupboards were filled with beautiful instruments: mandolines, lutes, clavichords inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and made specially for her by Lorenzo of Pavia; and here stood the famous organ by the same master, the description of which is to be found in the princess's correspondence. Round the walls of this first room were reproduced views of towns in 'intarsia' of rare woods, and on one of the panels figured a few bars of a 'Strambotto,' composed by Okenghem to words dictated by Isabella, and signed by that famous singing master. On the ceiling was the 'Stave,' which exists in the coat-of-arms of the House of Este, and along the cornices friezes were formed of musical instruments carved in the wood. "In the second room, devoted to painting and also to study, six masterpieces by the greatest painters of the time adorned the walls above the panelling. "The third room was reserved for receptions. Everywhere in the ceiling, in the compartments, in the friezes (delicately carved in gilded stucco upon an azure background) are found the devices commented on at length by the humanists of her court: 'Alpha and Omega' and the golden candlestick with seven branches, on which a single light has resisted the effects of the wind, with the motto, _'Unum sufficit in tenebris;'_ and {324} everywhere is to be read the mysterious motto of which she was so proud, _'Nec Spe nec Metu,'_ the highest resolution of a strong mind, which henceforth 'without hope, without fear,' ended in solitude a tormented life. In the recess of the thick wall slightly raised above the floor, Isabella placed her writing table within reach of the shelves containing her favorite books; while she read there or wrote those letters addressed to the poets and artists of Italy, overflowing with enthusiasm for arts and letters, when she lifted her eyes beyond the tranquil waters at the mouth of the Po, towards Governolo, she would see coming the gilded Bucentaur with the coat-of-arms of Ferrara, which brought her news of her family, D'Este, and that of Aragon." Lucretia Borgia at Ferrara not only continued the tradition of aesthetic good taste so characteristic of the D'Este family into which she had married, but even her years as mistress of the palace at Ferrara mark an epoch in its history. She succeeded in securing the services of some of the greatest of the artists of this wonderful period, who came and contributed to the decoration of her private apartments. Unfortunately her _camerini,_ private apartments, in the Castello Rosso of Ferrara were destroyed by fire in 1634. They had been adorned with paintings by Bellini, Titian and Dosso Dossi, fitted into recesses of white marble carved by Antonio Lombardi. These rooms as elsewhere were of small size, real living rooms, reflecting the character of the personal taste of the owner. They were sanctuaries of art and of literature with selected libraries of chosen volumes in fine bindings and of music with beautiful musical instruments. Many of these women of the Renaissance in Italy were famous for their devotion to works of charity. Indeed I know nothing that is more admirable than the story of their care for the ailing poor. It is often presumed that between their interest in education and literature and the artists of the time, and above all their devotion to the pleasures of dress and decoration, silks and jewels and perfumes, then coming in so rapidly from the East, these women must have had very little time for anything but selfish display of their personal beauty or intellectual talent. The rapid accumulation of wealth, {325} proportionally at least as great as in our time, might very readily be supposed to direct them as it has many other generations from the more serious side of life. The actual story of their lives is very different. There were exceptions, who have unfortunately attracted more attention than others, of whom little that is good can be said. The proportion, however, who devoted themselves with a nobility of soul that deserves to be commemorated to unselfish care for those who needed it was very large. Mr. Staley in his "Heroines of Genoa" (p. 225) has a paragraph on this subject which well deserves to be recalled, for it refers almost entirely to the women of Columbus' Century, and it must not be forgotten that Genoa was much more of a commercial city, with a more rapid rise in wealth, than any other in Italy except possibly Venice, and the beautiful spirit of personal service for the poor is therefore all the more admirable. "Women in every age and land are prone much more to works of mercy and religion; of such surely was 'the crown of daughters of Genoa'--so-called by many writers. Benedettina Grimaldi, 'chaste, self-denying, amiable, charitable, moderate in dress and personal pleasures,' a munificent patroness of the great Ospedale di Pammatone, nursed patients suffering from plague and leprosy and endowed beds for their treatment and alleviation; Argentina, daughter of Signore Opicio Spinola, and wife of the Marchese di Monferrato: Violanta, daughter of Signore Gianandrea Doria; and Isabella, daughter of Signore Luca Fiasco, and wife of Luchino, Prince of Milan, were contemporaries in the beneficent field of charity. Devoted to the offices of religion, they proved the sincerity of their faith by their eleemosynary services to sick and dying men and women in prison and to debased mariners in port. Benevolent institutions were founded and endowed, under the style of 'Le Donne di Misericordia,' in 1478 and in 1497, 'La Campagnia del Mantiletto'--'Wearers of the Veil,' by the munificence of noble-hearted women. All these threw open to the suffering objects of their regard the healthful pleasure grounds of their villas, and it was no rare sight to find a lady, fashionably attired, seated under the {326} colonnade of a temple, or beneath a shady tree, talking to and cheering poor and friendless sufferers." The names of the princesses who were prominent in the feminine education of this time have led many to conclude that only women of the higher classes were given the chance to be educated at this time. To a certain extent this is true, but at all times it must be true, for they alone have the leisure for the intellectual life. To recall what the nobility of Italy were at this time is to appreciate better the real situation. They were the successful merchant-bankers and their descendants (as the House of Medici), leaders of victorious armies, the scions of old families, who had made their influence felt in the politics of their cities for from three, sometimes even less, to ten, rarely more generations, the children of great navigators or admirals, even of successful traders and manufacturers--as the glass makers of Murano and the merchant princes of Genoa--in a word they represented exactly the same elements of the population as our better-to-do classes of to-day. It was the daughters of these who were accorded and took so well at this time the opportunity for education and culture. Besides these there were not a few of what may be called the lower classes who became famous for their scholarship. This had always been true in Italy particularly. Catherine of Siena was a dyer's daughter. Dante's inamorata and her companions, whom we think of as cultured because of the poems addressed to them, were the daughters of men in trade. But in the Renaissance the opportunities even for the comparatively poor to obtain education were greatly widened, and it is evident that any of the young women of the time who had the ambition for learning might obtain it and undoubtedly many of them did. The tradition created by Vittorino da Feltre, according to which women and those of less means might obtain education, maintained itself and proved the seed of further developments in the liberal provision of opportunities for education for all classes. [Illustration: PINTURICCHIO, HOLY FAMILY (SIENA)] The names of a number of women scholars have come down to us who did not belong to the higher nobility, and some of {327} their achievements have become a part of the great tradition of scholarship of the time. Alessandra Scala and Cassandra Fedele, for instance, were among the most learned correspondents of Politian and were looked upon as ladies with whom deep questions of scholarship might be discussed seriously. Domitilla Trivulzio delivered Latin orations before thronged assemblies and women orators were quite common. The tradition that women should not speak in public did not obtain at all at this time in Italy and we hear much of their eloquence. The impression so prevalent at the present moment, that this is the first time in history that women have dared to proclaim their rights publicly, is quite erroneous and is founded on a deep ignorance of realities, with a corresponding characteristic presumption of knowledge. Isotta of Verona took part in public controversies with regard to the relative value of men and women in life. It is strangely familiar to find that, for instance, one of the subjects which she discussed was whether man or woman was most to be blamed for what happened in the Garden of Eden, and still more familiar to find that her argument was that man was the responsible party. These learned women, however, were touched also by the tender passion, and one of the most distinguished of the feminine scholars, Veronica de Gambara, comes down to us in history as a pattern of conjugal faithfulness, while Gaspara Stampa, the distinguished poetess, according to tradition, died of love. One of the little known scholars among the Women of the Renaissance, who deserves a better fate than oblivion, is Olympia Morata, a veritable prodigy of learning. She received most of her education at the court of Duchess Renée at Ferrara. When she came, at the age of twelve, to be the companion of the Duchess's daughter, she was already familiar with Greek and Latin literature. This is surprising enough, but her subsequent progress is even more remarkable. "At fourteen she wrote Latin letters and essayed to imitate the dialogues of Cicero and Plato. At sixteen she lectured at the University of Ferrara on the Ciceronian Paradoxes" (Sandys). At twenty she married a good German, of whom almost the only thing we know is that he was her husband, and she {328} died at the early age of twenty-nine at Heidelberg. When her literary remains were collected they were dedicated to one who was reputed "the most learned lady of her age, Queen Elizabeth of England." The movement for the education of women of this time would have been quite incomplete, however, if the women themselves had not taken part in the organization of feminine education. In treating of "The Women of the Century" I have already suggested that this important element of feminine education was not lacking. There is abundant evidence of the presence and enduring work of at least one great woman educator, in the sense of an organizer of educational methods, whose influence has been continuously felt in many parts of the world ever since and whose work is not only alive in our time but has shown its power to adapt itself even to the needs and demands of the twentieth-century woman. This is, after all, only what might be expected of an educator of this time, since the other accomplishments of her contemporaries have proved so lasting in their effects. This very interesting woman of Columbus' Century, whose life is comparatively little known, though her work occupies a very important place in the history of education ever since, was Angela Merici, the foundress of the Ursulines. When twenty years of age this daughter of the lesser Italian nobility became convinced that the great need of that time was the better instruction of young girls in Christian doctrine and their training in a thoroughly Christian life. She converted her home into a school, where at certain hours of the day she gathered all the little girls of her native town of Desenzano, a small municipality on the southwestern shore of Lake Garda in Lombardy, and gave them lessons in the elements of Christianity. The work, thus humbly begun, proved to have so many factors of worth in it that it very soon attracted attention. Before long she was invited to the neighboring city of Brescia to establish a similar school, but on a much larger scale and more ambitious scope. She did so all the more willingly because one day during her earlier life in the small town of Desenzano she had had a vision in which it was revealed to her that she was to found an association of young women {329} who would take vows of chastity and devote their lives to the religious training of young girls. After years of patient waiting and thoughtful consideration of the subject of organizing the education of young women and providing for continuance of her work--the delay mainly due to the fact that Angela feared that she might not be capable of accomplishing it properly--she came to the establishment of a religious order that would take up this service. When the constitutions which she had written were presented to Paul III, the Pope, who in spite of his resolve not to increase the number of religious orders, had felt compelled to approve the Jesuits after reading their constitutions because, as he said, he perceived "the finger of God is here"; also found himself forced to approve of those written by Angela Merici, saying to St. Ignatius, the founder of the Jesuits, as he did so, "I have given you sisters." What the Jesuits did for the education of young men during the next two centuries, the Ursulines did for the young women. They spread rapidly until they had communities in all the Catholic countries of Europe, and then houses were established beyond the seas in the Latin-American countries and almost wherever missionaries succeeded in founding churches. Mother Incarnation came to Quebec and is one of the most wonderful women in the early history of the continent. That was before the end of the seventeenth century. At the beginning of the eighteenth (1726) they established a house in New Orleans. When persecutions came the Ursulines were, as a rule, picked out as an object of special enmity by those who sought to injure the Church. During the French Revolution they were the special butt of the intolerance of the French Republic and gave many martyrs to the cause of religion. When the Kulturkampf came in Germany they were as specifically selected for banishment as the Jesuits, and indeed they have nearly always shared the fate of the Jesuits in times of trial. They have not been without special distinction by persecution even here in America. Their convent was burned down at Charlestown in Massachusetts during the bitter wave of feelings against the religious orders that had been aroused among Protestants in 1835. Their house was the very centre of {330} danger in the "Know Nothing" riots in Philadelphia some twenty years later. To-day, four centuries after their foundation, the institute is still actively alive and doing its work in every part of the world. When the first sisters elected Angela as their superior they asked that the name of the institute should be the Angelines, after her own name. She was shocked and insisted that, as their superior, she would require them to take the name of Ursulines in honor of St. Ursula. With all this humility, her personality was so pervasive that it still lives in all her houses. There are schools for young women in many of the States of the Union and in many parts of Canada. They are to be found in distant Alaska, teaching within the Arctic Circle. There are Ursulines under the equator, both on this continent, in Brazil and in Africa. This is only another example of the sort of work that the wonderful characters of Columbus' Century accomplished. Whatever they did had a vital force in it that made it live and prove a stimulus and an example to the generations and the centuries down to our own time. Angela of Merici, though almost unknown outside of the Catholic Church, was one of the very great women of the Renaissance. Probably no woman of the time, not even St. Teresa, has had so wide and deep an influence over succeeding generations as the retiring Angela of Merici. As might well be expected, the movement for feminine education which was felt so strongly in Italy affected France to a scarcely less degree. Indeed, there were much more intimate relations between the nobility of the two countries and among the scholars of the time all over Europe than is usually supposed. As all the scholarly writing was done in Latin, the barrier of language was removed and educational interests readily became very widely diffused. Early in Columbus' Century, Queen Anne of Bretagne is famous for her insistence on education for the women of the French Court. There was a school of Latin at which they all attended, but besides they were expected to know Italian as well as French, and while doing their needlework books were read to them that were calculated to enrich their memories and enhance their literary taste. Queen Anne believed very thoroughly in the fullest of {331} intellectual development for women, and yet insisted also on their duties as managers of their households, and above all as home-makers in the best sense of the term. She knew the dangers of merely intellectual education, and expressions of hers on this subject are often quoted. The court of Queen Marguerite of Navarre was at least as intellectual as that of Queen Anne, and besides it had the advantage of the deeper knowledge of the classics that had come in the meantime. Marguerite encouraged literature, and herself contributed to it. She had the large tolerance of mind of the educated woman and used it to protect some of those who had fallen under the suspicion, so rife at the time because of the religious troubles in Germany, of favoring or attempting to teach heretical doctrines. As a consequence, she has herself fallen under the suspicion of leanings towards heresy and sympathy with the reformers. This was only, however, to the extent in which that sympathy was shared by Erasmus and others of the time, who saw the abuses that needed correction and hoped that the reform movement would correct them, but who broke with it at once when they realized that revolution and not true reformation was intended. The correspondence between Vittoria Colonna and Marguerite is evidence at once of the intimate relations of the learned women of different countries and also of the sympathy existing between these two scholarly women whose influence over their contemporaries meant so much for the intellectual life of the time. The education given Mary Queen of Scots, which is mentioned later in this chapter, shows how much intellectual development was appreciated for the ruling classes of the time in France. There are certain expressions from some of these educated women, especially those without much to do, that are wonderful anticipations of some of the things that are heard very commonly now as regards the attitude of educated women toward man's suppression of her in the preceding time. How strangely familiar are these words from Louise Labé, the French poetess of the middle class, one of whose poems of passion will be found in the chapter on French literature. "The hour has now struck," she declared, "when man can no {332} longer shackle the honest liberty which our sex has so long yearned for, when women are to prove how deeply men have hitherto wronged them." That expression is not, however, any more familiar than one of the comments of a masculine contemporary on this occupation of the educated women of the time with political ideas, which is quoted by Miss Sichel in her "Men and Women of the French Renaissance": "Political women go on chattering as if it were they who did everything." The women of the time, however, occupied themselves with practical work of many kinds, and not merely with book-learning or political scheming. There is a tradition of a feminine architect of the Tuileries--Mlle. Perron (Porch) being her not inappropriate name. Many Frenchwomen were particularly interested in the diffusion of education among the poorer classes, and we have the story of many school foundations. Mlle. Ste. Beuve, who founded a school and took up her residence opposite to it, became very much interested in the pupils, whom she called her "bees," and whom she encouraged by prizes and distinctions of various kinds. After her death, by the request of the scholars her place was set at table in their midst for the occasions on which she used to come to them, for they felt that her spirit was still with them. Mlle. Saintonge wanted to take up the work of education, but was opposed by her father. She was very much misunderstood, and at one time was stoned by the children on the street. She began with the teaching of five little girls in a garret. Ten years later she was brought in procession by all the people to the great new convent school erected for her, because they realized now how much her work was to mean and how thoroughly unselfish was her devotion to the cause of education and uplift for their children. In the course of the single century after the beginning of our period over three hundred Ursuline schools were opened in France for the education of girls, and the opportunities for education were greatly extended. Perhaps the greatest surprise for most people in our time is the fine development of feminine education that took place in Spain during this period. English-speaking people have, {333} as a rule, inherited English prejudices with regard to Spain and are likely to be somewhat in the position of asking, Has any good ever come out of Spain? As a matter of fact, the century just after Columbus' Century belongs to Spain for achievement in every department of intellectual and artistic culture. Her literature, her painting, her philosophy, her educators ruled the world of thought and aesthetics. For those who know something of the high worth of Spanish achievement it is no surprise to learn that education reached a high standard of development in the peninsula during Columbus' Century and that, above all, feminine education was magnificently organized, so that the intellectual achievements of the women of this time deserve a high place in the world's history. All this is mainly due to the influence of Isabella of Castile, and has been known for as long as the history of this period has been properly understood. In his "History of Ferdinand and Isabella" Prescott has told the story of the education and scholarship of Spain with words of high praise. With regard to the feminine education of the time he said in the chapter on "Castilian Literature" (Vol. II): "In this brilliant exhibition, those of the other sex must not be omitted who contributed by their intellectual endowments to the general illumination of the period. Among them the writers of that day lavish their panegyrics on the Marchioness of Monteagudo, and Doña Maria Pacheco, of the ancient house of Mendoza, sisters of the historian, Don Diego Hurtado, and daughters of the accomplished Count of Tendilla, who, while ambassador at Rome, induced Martyr to visit Spain and who was grandson of the famous Marquis of Santillana, and nephew of the Grand Cardinal. This illustrious family, rendered yet more illustrious by its merits than its birth, is worthy of specification, as affording altogether the most remarkable combination of literary talent in the enlightened court of Castile. The queen's instructor in the Latin language was a lady named Doña Beatriz de Galindo, called from her peculiar attainments _La Latina_. Another lady, Doña Lucia de Medrano, publicly lectured on the Latin classics in the University of Salamanca. And another, Doña Francisca de Lebrija, {334} daughter of the historian of that name, filled the chair of rhetoric with applause at Alcalá. But our limits will not allow a further enumeration of names which should never be permitted to sink into oblivion, were it only for the rare scholarship, peculiarly rare in the female sex, which they displayed in an age comparatively unenlightened. Female education in that day embraced a wider compass of erudition, in reference to the ancient languages, than is common at present; a circumstance attributable, probably, to the poverty of modern literature at that time, and the new and general appetite excited by the revival of classical learning in Italy. I am not aware, however, that it was usual for learned ladies, in any other country than Spain, to take part in the public exercises of the gymnasium, and deliver lectures from the chairs of the universities. This peculiarity, which may be referred in part to the queen's influence, who encouraged the love of study by her own example as well as by personal attendance on the academic examinations, may have been also suggested by a similar usage, already noticed among the Spanish Arabs." [Footnote 28] [Footnote 28: While Prescott's information with regard to the education of Spanish women is very interesting, certain parts of this passage are amusing because they represent mid-nineteenth century ideas with regard to the Renaissance period. Prescott talks of the age as "comparatively unenlightened," but then at that time we had not taken to imitating Renaissance architecture, studying Renaissance literature and art, copying Renaissance book-making and binding, admiring the marvellous workers of the Renaissance in every department and wondering how we could get some of the superabundant intellectual and artistic life of that time into ours. Prescott's complacency is typically American of two generations ago. Since his time we have learned much more of the old-time phases of feminine education as I have reviewed them briefly at the beginning of this chapter. We have learned that every country in Europe had a corresponding feministic movement to that of Spain, with learned ladies in profusion everywhere. His innuendo at the end of his paragraph on the subject that the Spanish development was probably due to similar Arabian customs is of a piece with that marked tendency in his time to find any source for good except Christianity. The Christian nations were supposed to have done nothing worth while till the Reformation. The Middle Ages were still the dark ages and men were supposed to have accomplished nothing. I need scarcely say that we have changed all that and that now the later Middle Ages are looked upon as one of the most productive periods of human history.] {335} The English ladies of the Renaissance are quite as distinguished as their sisters of Italy, France and Spain for their interest in education and the intellectual life. The first one who deserves mention was, though a Queen of England, a Frenchwoman by birth. This was Margaret of Anjou, the wife of the unfortunate Henry VI. If her husband had possessed half the spirit or administrative ability of his wife, the future history of England might have been very different. As it was, the failure of Margaret to secure the throne either for her husband or her children, left it to the Tudors with all that their tyranny meant for England and with the unfortunate religious disturbances which came as a consequence of the headstrong ways of the passionate descendants of the Welsh knight. Margaret founded Queen's College, Cambridge, just about the beginning of Columbus' Century and gave that example of enlightened patronage of learning which was to bear ample fruit among the Englishwomen of the Renaissance during the succeeding centuries. One of her successors, Queen Elizabeth Woodville, who refounded Queen's College when it was threatened with disaster because of the impairment of its endowment and efficiency by the Wars of the Roses, is another of the enlightened patronesses of learning at this time. About the middle of Columbus' Century, Margaret Beaufort founded the Divinity Lectureships of Oxford and Cambridge, since known as the Margaret Lectureships. She refounded Christ's College and St. John's College in Cambridge a few years later. She also founded a free school at Wymbourn in Dorsetshire. Her own intellectual abilities and education are attested by her translation of the "Imitation of Christ" at this time. Her wise counsellor in all of her efforts for the benefit of education was the martyred Bishop Fisher, who has left us a panegyric of her which enables us to appreciate her place as one of the distinguished learned women of the Renaissance. Like nearly all of these women, she was interested not only in books, but also in artistic work of many kinds and believed that an educated woman's first duty must be the decoration of the home. She excelled in ornamental needlework at a time {336} when a great many of the noble ladies were accustomed to do this sort of art work and when many beautiful examples of it were produced. Another member of the nobility who became well known for her intellectual attainments was Mary, Countess of Arundel, the compiler of "Certain Ingenious Sentences," a collection of proverbial expressions that had a wide popularity at this time. Toward the end of our Century came the women on whom the Renaissance had a more direct influence. A great many of the daughters of the nobility were given the opportunity for the highest education, and many of them took it very brilliantly. The names of the distinguished women scholars, or at least of women who were noted for their attainments, are numerous and include many even of royal blood. Evidently feminine education had become the fashion, and many others must have been interested in it since it affected the great ladies so deeply. It would be quite impossible to think that what occupied so much the attention of the daughters of the highest nobility would not also prove a great attraction for many others. Perhaps the best known of the "blue stockings" of the time is Lady Jane Grey, of whose attainments we have so sympathetic an account from Roger Ascham. He says that she was deeply read in philosophy, and that she knew Latin, Greek, Hebrew, Chaldaic, Arabic and French. We are told that she cared much more to read her Greek authors than to go to routs and parties, or even to go hunting, which was the most fashionable amusement of the time. Besides, she knew music well and was particularly skilled in needlework. Indeed, there is none of these distinguished scholarly women of England of whose devotion to needlework we do not hear. Mary Queen of Scots comes at the very end of the century, and French rather than English or Scotch influence was at work in her education, but the roll of her distinguished teachers shows how seriously the question of proper education for the future queen was taken at this period. George Buchanan was her professor of Latin, she studied rhetoric with Fauchet, history with Pasquier and poetry with Ronsard. We have at least one very interesting Latin poem that has been {337} attributed to her, and if the attribution be correct it is excellent evidence for her scholarliness. [Footnote 29] [Footnote 29: "O Domine Deus! Speravi in te; O care mi Iesu! Nunc libera me: In dura catena, In misera poena Desidero te; Languendo, gemendo, Et genuflectendo Adoro, imploro, Ut liberes me!" ] Her rival, Elizabeth, was only seventeen years of age when the century closed, but this was also the age of Lady Jane Grey, when she was put to death, yet we hear much of her attainments and Elizabeth was one of her great scholarly rivals. Like Lady Jane, Elizabeth is said to have known five languages and to have studied music, philosophy, rhetoric and history to such good purpose that her accomplishments were much more than mediocre or conventional. With these examples before us there can be no doubt at all of the fashionableness of the higher education for women, and whatever is fashionable attracts the attention of all classes of women. Probably the best example of the provision of opportunities for even the highest education for women is to be found in Sir Thomas More's household. He thought that his girls should share equally with his boys in their opportunities for the new learning. His daughter Margaret is quite famous for her attainments, Erasmus and others having praised her so highly. She had a thorough knowledge of Greek and Latin and much more than a passing or superficial acquaintance with philosophy, astronomy, physics, arithmetic, logic, rhetoric and music. The affection of her father for her, his encouragement of her studies and the intimate relations between them have made her illustrious not only in the history of feminine education, but in world history. While near the end of his life More was Lord Chancellor, his family was not of the higher nobility, and he himself, as practically a self-made man, belonged only to the professional classes of the time. It seems not far-fetched, then, to conclude that a good many of the daughters of lawyers and physicians at this time must have had abundant opportunities afforded them for as much education as they cared to have, though of course they would {338} not have the advantages of More's children, which were due, however, not to his political importance, but to his friendship for the great scholars of the time. While Margaret is so well known it must not be forgotten, though we hear so much less of them, that More's two other daughters were also very well educated. Leland, the antiquary, wrote of "the three learned nymphs, great More's fair progeny." If so little is known of More's other daughters, it is probable that there were not a few others who had similar advantages to theirs, though no record of it is in history. Among the many demonstrations that this intellectual movement among women was not confined to Italy, nor even to the Southern nations, is the career of Charitas Pirkheimer, the Abbess of the Convent of the Poor Clares in Nuremberg. She became famous as an educated woman with whom many of the distinguished scholars of the Renaissance were proud to be associated. Her brother Wilibald, who was her guide and teacher, appreciated her so much that he dedicated several of his books to her, and in the preface of one, "On the Delayed Vengeance of the Deity," a Latin translation of Plutarch's treatise, he praises her education and her successful devotion to study. More disturbed than astonished, she protested that she was only the friend of scholars, but not herself a scholar. When Conrad Celtes published his collection of the works of Roswitha, he presented one of the first copies of the book to Charity Pirkheimer, and in a eulogy written on that occasion lauds her as one of the glorious ornaments of the German Fatherland. He enclosed a volume of his poems at the same time, and the good abbess very candidly asked him to devote himself rather to the study of the sacred books and the contemplation of high things than to the study of the sensual and low in the ancients. She was a great friend of Johann Butzbach and of Albrecht Dürer. Christopher Scheurl dedicated to her his book on "The Uses of the Mass," In his article in the Catholic Encyclopedia, Klemens Loffler says of her: "But all the praise she received excited no pride in Charitas; she remained simple, affable, modest and independent, uniting in perfect harmony high education and deep piety. It was thus she resisted the severe temptations which hung over the last ten years of her life." {339} [Illustration: DÜRER NATIVITY ] {340} Some expressions of the women of the Renaissance are famous for their wit and aptness. The famous reply of one of them, the Princess Christina of Denmark, may be taken as evidence that witty power of expression was not confined to the women of the Southern countries. Her picture by Holbein, "The Lady with the Cloak," is so well known that we seem to be able to recreate her personality rather completely. She was approached by the ambassadors of Henry VIII after the death of Jane Seymour with a proposal of marriage. Indeed, Holbein's picture was made for the purpose of giving the uxorious Henry an idea of the charms of the young woman. She was only eighteen at the time, but she was already the widow of Francesco Sforza, and she is said to have replied she would be quite willing to be the Queen of England if she had two heads and could be sure of retaining one of them. As she had only one, however, she could not take any risks in the matter. Julia Cartwright's life of her, recently published, shows what a clever woman of the Renaissance she was. Her reply is quite worthy of the Italian ladies of the time, some of whom were noted for their rather biting wit. One of the nobility in Italy having said that man's duty was to fight and not to take part in social ceremonies, one of the Gonzagas said; "It is too bad, then, that he does not hang himself up in a closet with his armor whenever he is not actually engaged in warfare." It is often assumed that intellectual development, and especially the higher education, has a tendency to take women away from that devout attitude of mind which makes them religious. There are many examples in the Renaissance time, however, which serve to disprove this idea. The smaller and more superficial minds may be thus affected. It is not true for the larger, more profound intelligence. St. Teresa, in her directions to the Mothers of houses as regards the reception of postulants, said: "Where there is ignorance and piety do not forget that the piety may evaporate and the ignorance remain." Many of the best-known intellectual ladies of the Renaissance time were deeply pious, Vittoria Colonna is a typical example, so in spite of the apparent testimony of her famous book to the contrary is Marguerite of Navarre. [Illustration: VIVARINI, ST. CLARE] {341} Lucretia Tornabuoni, the mother of Lorenzo the Magnificent, wrote some charming religious verse. The difference of opinion between Clarice dei Orsini, the wife of Lorenzo, and Politian as regards the teaching of religion to her children, in which she came off victor, is well known. Above all, these women were all close to the religious women of the time. Many of them spent some days every year at least, often some weeks, in favorite convents. They took their rest by following the daily exercises of the monastic life in various convents. Vittoria Colonna was noted for this, and during her widowhood spent very much time in this way. Nothing that I know contradicts so completely the slanders as to convent life at this time as these intimate relations with the religious. It is noteworthy that in our country and time, just in proportion as education for women is widely diffused, the practice of more intimate relations with convents grows more common. Many women of the world, teachers, writers, take a few days each year now for a retreat in a convent. Not a few of those who enter religion are very well educated. A great many of those who belong to the teaching orders are thoroughly trained, and often fine experts in their specialties. In the Renaissance period the daughters of the great noble houses sometimes entered religious orders. Not infrequently they met with opposition, and especially parental and family influence was exerted to divert them from their purpose. Paola and Cecilia Gonzaga both became religious. There was considerable family opposition, especially on her father's part, against Cecilia's accomplishment of her purpose, but her great teacher, Vittorino da Feltre, one of whose favorite pupils Cecilia was, took her side. When her father insisted on finding a husband for her, Vittorino urged that women should be allowed to choose their careers for themselves, and above all, if they felt the call to the spiritual and intellectual life, should be given the opportunity for the self-development that the peace and ordered life of the cloister afforded. Burckhardt has summed up the qualities of the women of {342} the Renaissance in a single sentence, that is worth while recalling. So much is said about the influence of the study of the classics in producing pagan ideas and looseness of morals and relaxation of old ethical standards during the Renaissance that it is well to recall what this deep student of the time thought. His words will be found to corroborate and sum up the character that we have been trying to paint of the women of the Renaissance in these pages: "Their distinction consisted in the fact that their beauty, disposition, education, virtue and piety combined to make them harmonious human beings." {343} CHAPTER X PHYSICAL SCIENCE OF THE CENTURY While it is universally conceded that the Renaissance was a supremely great period in all the arts and literature, in education and scholarship, and that its geographical discoveries made it noteworthy from another standpoint, there is a very prevalent impression that it was distinctly lacking in scientific development and that indeed the proper attitude of mind for successful scientific investigation was a much later evolution. Most of the discoveries of even basic notions in science are almost universally thought to have been reserved for our time or at least for generations much nearer to us than Columbus' Century. Nothing could well be less consonant with the actual history of science than any such impression. At many times before ours man has made great scientific progress. The greatest mystery of human history is that often after great discoveries were made they were somehow lost sight of. Over and over again men forget their previous knowledge and have to begin once more. There was one of these magnificent developments of scientific thought in every department during Columbus' Century and discoveries were made and conclusions reached which revolutionized other modes of scientific thinking just as much as Columbus' discovery of America revolutionized geography, or the work of Raphael or Michelangelo and Leonardo revolutionized the artistic thought of the world. When we recall that it was at this time that Copernicus set forth the theory which has probably more influenced human thinking than any other and that this discovery developed directly from the mathematics of the time and while Vesalius revolutionized anatomy, the discovery of the circulation of the blood began a similar revolution in physiology and the foundations of botany and of modern chemistry in their relations to medicine were laid, some idea of the greatness of the {344} scientific advance of this period will be realized. Mathematics, particularly, developed marvellously and it is always when new horizons are opening out in mathematics that the exact sciences are sure to have a period of wonderful progress. Beautiful hospitals were erected and whenever there are good hospitals, surgery makes progress and that care for the patient which constitutes the essential part of medicine at all times, receives careful attention. Above all the men of the Renaissance took it on themselves to edit and translate and publish the ancient classics of science and make them available for the study of their own and subsequent generations. The debt which the modern world owes to the Renaissance in this matter is only coming to be properly realized as a consequence of our own development of scholarship in this generation. Only the profound scholar is likely to appreciate properly how much we are indebted to the patient, time-taking work of this period in making books available. Not only the ancient classics but also the works of the Middle Ages on scientific subjects were all published. The early Christian scholars, the Arabians, and above all, the great teachers of the later Middle Ages were edited and printed as an enduring heritage for mankind. The index of the feeling of the time toward physical science as well as the interest of the scholars of the period in nearly every phase of it is illustrated by the life of Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa, who is usually known as Cusanus. He was a distinguished German churchman who was made Bishop of Brixen and afterwards Cardinal and who had the confidence of the Popes to such a degree that he was sent out as Legate for the correction of abuses in Germany. He was particularly interested in mathematics and the great German historian of mathematics. Cantor, devotes a score of pages to the advances in mathematics which we owe to Cusanus. According to tradition during his journeys over the rough roads in the rude carriage of the time, he studied the curve described through the air by a fly as it was carried round the wheel after alighting on the top of it. He recognized this as a particular kind of curve which we know now as the cycloid and he studied many of its peculiarities and suggested its mathematical import. {345} He was particularly interested in astronomy and declared that the earth was round, was not the centre of the universe and that it could not be absolutely at rest. As he put it in Latin: _terra igitur, quae centrum esse nequit, motu omni carere non potest._ He described very clearly how the earth moved around its own axis, and then he added what cannot but seem a surprising declaration for those who in our time think such an idea of much later origin, that he considered that the earth itself cannot be fixed, but moves as do the other stars in the heavens, _Consideravi quod terra ista non potest esse fixa sed movetur ut aliae stellae._ More surprising still, he even seems to have reached by anticipation some idea of the constitution of the sun. He said: "To a spectator on the surface of the sun the splendor which appears to us would be invisible since it contains as it were an earth for its central mass with a circumferential envelope of light and heat and between the two an atmosphere of water and clouds and of ambient air." These expressions occur mainly in a book _"De Docta Ignorantia,"_ in which the Cardinal points out how many things which even educated people think they know are quite wrong. His other books are on mathematics, though there is a little treatise on the correction of the calendar which shows how thoroughly the men of the time recognized the error that had crept into the year and how capable they were of making the correction. In a book of his on "Static Experiments" he has a very original discussion of laboratory methods for the study of disease which is eminently scientific, and which is described in the chapter on Medicine. The life of George von Peuerbach, also Puerbach and Purbachius, the Austrian astronomer, one of Cardinal Nicholas' proteges who lived to be scarcely forty and whose greatest work was done just at the beginning of Columbus' Century, is an excellent index of the scientific spirit of the time. About 1440, when he was not yet twenty years of age, he received the degree of Master of Philosophy and of the Liberal Arts with the highest honors at the University of Vienna. After this he seemed to have spent some time at postgraduate work in Vienna, especially in mathematics under Johann von Gmünden. Just about the beginning of Columbus' Century he went to {346} Italy. Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa became interested in him and secured him a lectureship on Astronomy at the University of Ferrara. During the next few years he refused offers of professorships, at Bologna and Padua, because he wanted to go back to Vienna to teach in his alma mater. There, with the true Renaissance spirit of non-specialism, he lectured on philology and classical literature, giving special postgraduate courses in mathematics and astronomy. It was at this time that Johann Müller, Regiomontanus, as he is known, came under his tutelage. Purbach deserves the name that has been given him of the father of mathematical astronomy in modern times. He introduced the decimal system to replace the cumbersome duodecimal method of calculation, which up to his time had been used in mathematical astronomy. He took up the translation of Ptolemy's "Almagest," replaced chords by sines and calculated tables of sines for every minute of arc for a radius of 600,000 units. This wonderful work of simplification naturally attracted wide attention. Cardinal Bessarion was brought in touch with him during a visit to Vienna and was impressed with his genius as an observer and a teacher. He suggested that the work on Ptolemy should not be done on the faulty Latin translation which was the only one available in Vienna at the moment, but on some of the Greek manuscripts of the great Alexandrian astronomer. He offered to secure them and also to provide for Purbach's support during the stay in Rome necessary for the study. The invitation was accepted on condition that his pupil Regiomontanus should go with him. Unfortunately, however, Purbach died before his journey to Rome. His works were very popular in his own time and his commentary on the "Almagest of Ptolemy" as completed by Regiomontanus became one of the standard text-books of the time. Altogether there are some twenty of his works extant and his "New Theory of the Planets" remained a favorite book of reference for astronomers even long after the publication of Copernicus. His industry must have been enormous but was after all not different from that of many of his contemporaries. Astronomy was to be the great stimulating physical science of the early part of Columbus' Century and Purbach's successor {347} in the chain of scientific genius at this time was his pupil Johann Müller, or as he has come to be known from the Latinization of the name of the place of his birth, Königsberg (in Franconia, not far from Munich), Regiomontanus. As we have said, young Müller made his studies with Purbach at Vienna, became very much interested in astronomy and mathematics, at his master's suggestion accompanied Cardinal Bessarion to Italy and under his patronage took up the work of providing an abridgment of Ptolemy's great work, the "Almagest," in a Latin translation for those who might be deterred from the Greek. Cardinal Bessarion became very much interested in him and gave him a chance to study in Italy. Müller chose Padua and spent nearly ten years there. Whenever anybody in almost any country in Europe wanted to secure opportunities for study beyond those afforded by his native land at this time he went down to Padua. Linacre, Vesalius, John Caius went there for medicine, Copernicus, a little later than Regiomontanus, for mathematics and astronomy and it was the ardently desired goal of many a student's wishes. Müller spent nearly ten years in Italy, most of it at Padua and at the age of about thirty-five returned to Germany to take up his life work. He settled down in Nuremberg, where in connection with Bernard Walther he secured the erection of an observatory. Nuremberg, because of its fine work in the metals, was the best place to obtain mechanical contrivances of all kinds, and many of these were used for the first time for scientific purposes at this observatory. It became quite a show place for visitors and while Nuremberg was developing the literary and artistic circles in which the Pirkheimers, Albrecht Dürer and the Vischers and Adam Kraft shone conspicuously, scientific interest in the city was at a similar high level. Müller made a series of observations of great value in the astronomy of the time and substituted Venus for the moon as a connecting link between observations of the sun, the stars and the earth. He recognized the influence of refraction in altering the apparent places of the stars and he introduced the use of the tangent in mathematics. His most important work for the time, however, was the publication of a series of astronomical {348} leaflets, _"Ephemerides Astronomicae"_ in which his observations were published and also a series of calendars for popular information. These announced the eclipses, solar and lunar, for years before their recurrence and gave a high standing to astronomy as a science. Some of these leaflets even reached Spain and Portugal and encouraged Spanish and Portuguese navigators with the thought that they could depend on observations of the stars for their guidance at sea. In a way, then, Regiomontanus' work prepared the path along which Columbus' discovery was made. Regiomontanus' work attracted so much attention that he was invited to Rome to become the Papal Astronomer and to take up the practical work of correcting the Calendar. Unfortunately he died not long after his arrival in Rome, though not before he had been chosen as Bishop of Regensberg (Ratisbon) as a tribute to his scholarship and his piety. He thus became a successor of Albertus Magnus (in the bishopric), who had been in his time one of the profoundest of scholars and greatest of scientists. The tradition of appreciation of scholarship and original research had evidently been maintained for the three centuries that separate the two bishop scientists. A distinguished scientific student born at Nuremberg the same year as Regiomontanus was Martin Behem or Behaim, the well-known navigator and cartographer, who on his return to Nuremberg in 1493 made the famous terrestrial globe which was meant to illustrate for his townsmen the present state of geography as the Spaniards and Portuguese had been remaking it. Behem's work is a striking testimony to the excellence of geographic knowledge at this time, and only for the preservation of this globe we could scarcely have believed in the modern time how correct were the notions of the scholars of the period with regard to the older continent at least. One of the great physical scientists of this time is Toscanelli, the physician, mathematician, astronomer and cosmographer, over whose connection with Columbus such a controversy has raged in recent years. He and Cardinal Cusanus were fellow students at the University of Padua, where Toscanelli's course consisted of mathematics, philosophy and medicine. He settled down as a practising physician in Florence and took up {349} scientific studies of many kinds which brought him into connection not only with the students of science, but with the scholars and artists of the time. Brunelleschi and he were intimate friends, but he was well known outside of Italy, and Regiomontanus often consulted him. His services to astronomy consist in the painstaking and exact observations on the orbit of the comets of 1433, 1449-50 and especially of Halley's comet on its appearance in 1456 and of the comets of May, 1457, June, July and August of the same year. These show a most accurate power of astronomical observation and profound mathematical knowledge for that time. His famous chart indicated just how a navigator might reach the coast of India by sailing westward, and Columbus is said to have carried a copy of this chart with him on his first voyage. Whether this is true or not, there is no doubt of Toscanelli's place in the history of science because of original work in astronomy, geodesy and geography. The most important protagonist of physical science during Columbus' Century, however, was undoubtedly Copernicus. Columbus gave the men of his time a new world, but Copernicus gave them a new creation. When early in the sixteenth century he published a preliminary sketch of his theory, one of his ecclesiastical friends remarked to him that he was giving his generation a new universe. There has probably never been a theory advanced which has changed men's modes of thinking with regard to the world they live in and their relation to it as the Copernican hypothesis has done, though it must not be forgotten that there are some as yet insuperable difficulties which keep it still in the class of scientific hypotheses. The earth had up to this time been universally thought of as the centre of the universe, much more important than any of the other bodies, sun, moon or stars, and all the others were thought to move around it. Their apparent movement was due to the rotation of the earth, which was quite unrecognized. The immense distances of space were entirely undreamt of. In the new order of thinking the earth became a minor planet of small size in our solar system which was of inconspicuous magnitude when compared to the totality of the other bodies of the universe. The acceptance of the new theory sank man in his own estimation very considerably. The change of point of view of {350} the meaning of the universe necessitated by the Copernican theory was ever so much greater than that demanded by evolution in our time. It took two centuries for men to adjust their thinking to these new ideas. Francis Bacon, a full century after Copernicus' time, declared emphatically that the Copernican theory did not explain the known facts of astronomy as well as the Ptolemaic theory. In Bacon's time Galileo was the subject of persecution and the reason for the persecution was that he was advancing a doctrine which no other great astronomer of his time accepted, and advancing it for reasons which have not held in the after-time. The Copernican theory came eventually to be accepted for quite different reasons from those advanced by Galileo. How Copernicus succeeded in coming to this magnificent generalization is indeed hard to understand. It is easier to get some notion of it, however, when his achievement is taken in connection with what was being done all around him at this time. Living in a century when great men were accomplishing triumphs in painting, sculpture, architecture that have been the wonder of the world ever since, and when geography was being revolutionized, and nearly every science awakened, it is not surprising that he should have reached a height of mathematical and astronomical expression beyond any that men had ever conceived before and that he should have surpassed many of the generations to come after him, by the clearness of his intuition of the astronomical mystery of the universe. Copernicus had not made many observations nor were such observations as had been made by him worked out with that painstaking accuracy which might be thought necessary to reach a great new conception of the universe. He had the genius to see from even the few and imperfect data that he had at hand what the true explanation of the diverse phenomena of the heavens was. He had no demonstrations to advance. He argued merely from analogy. Even Galileo, a century later, admitted to Cardinal Bellarmine that he had no strict demonstration of his views to offer, but that "the system seems to be true." While the feeling of many scientists in the modern time is that great discoveries come from patient {351} accumulation of accurate observations in large numbers, the history of science shows that almost invariably the epochal steps in progress have come from men who were comparatively young as a rule and who were not overloaded with the information of their time. The great artists of the Renaissance could probably have given no better reasons for their artistic conceptions than Copernicus for his stroke of genius, but they were all working at a time when somehow men were capable as they never have been since of these far-reaching intellectual achievements. Copernicus was a Pole who, like other students of his time, gladly welcomed the opportunity to go down to Italy for post-graduate work, studied with Novara at Padua mathematics and astronomy and was quite willing to add the study of medicine, because by so doing he could secure an extension of the length of time he would be allowed to remain in Italy. He then returned to be a canon of the Cathedral of Frauenberg, and spent forty years in quiet patient observation and in the practice of his medical profession not for money, but for the benefit of the poor and such friends of the chapter of the Cathedral as he was under obligations to because of the years they had supported him in Italy. He probably reached his great astronomical theory when he was about thirty. He did not publish the preliminary sketch of it for twenty-five years. He did not publish his great book until just before his death, keeping it by him, making changes in it and while thoroughly convinced of its importance, quite sure that, owing to its lack of definite demonstration, it would not be generally accepted. Like so many of these geniuses of the Renaissance he was a simple kindly man who had many good friends among those around him and who had one of the very happy lives accorded to those who, having some great thought and great work to occupy themselves with, have daily duties that afford them diversion and bring them into contact with friends in many ordinary relations in life. His humility of heart and simplicity of character, as well as his deep religious faith, can be very well appreciated from the prayer which at his own request was the only inscription upon his tombstone: "I ask not the {352} grace accorded to Paul, not that given to Peter; give me only the favor Thou didst show to the thief on the Cross." His attitude toward the reform movement, twenty years of which he lived through in Germany, is interesting. He was an intimate friend of Bishop Maurice Ferber of Ermland, who kept his see loyal to Rome at an epoch when the secularization of the Teutonic Order and the falling away of many bishops all around him make his position and that of his diocese noteworthy in the history of that place and time. Copernicus continued loyal to the old Church and in 1541 his great book _"De Revolutionibus Orbium Celestium"_ was dedicated to Pope Paul III, who accepted the dedication and until the Galileo matter brought Copemicanism prominently into question there was never any thought of Copernicus' book as containing matters opposed to faith. It was then placed on the _Index_, but only until some minor passages should be corrected which set forth the new theory as if it were an astronomical doctrine founded on facts and demonstrations and not a hypothesis still to be discussed by scientists. The scientific spirit of this century is often scouted because in spite of their scientific knowledge many of the astronomers and mathematicians of this time as well as, of course, other educated men following their example, could not quite rid themselves of the idea that the stars were powerful influences over man's life and health. The history of this idea, however, minimizes the objection. All down the centuries men like Roger Bacon, Albertus Magnus, Nicholas of Cusa, Marsilio Ficino and Pico della Mirandola insisted that there could be nothing in what we now call astrology. Men parted with the older ideas very slowly, however. Almost a hundred years after Columbus' Century even Galileo made horoscopes and seems to have thoroughly believed in them, though some of his prophecies were sadly mistaken. Kepler drew up horoscopes, confessing that he had not much confidence in them but that they were paid for much better than other mathematical work and he sadly needed the money. Lord Bacon could not quite persuade himself that there was nothing in astrology. As late as after the middle of the eighteenth century Mesmer's thesis for graduation in medicine at the University of Vienna, which {353} at that time had one of the best medical schools of Europe, was on the influence of the stars on human constitutions. It was accepted by the faculty and he got his degree. Even in our time, though now the educated contemn, the mass of the people still have not entirely rejected astrology. The men of Columbus' Century can scarcely be thought less of for having accepted it, though many of the scientists of the time did not. The counterpart to the great scientific genius that Copernicus was, the generalizer who discloses a new horizon, was to be found in his contemporary, Leonardo da Vinci, who was an inventor, a practical genius applying discoveries to everyday life. He solved most of the mechanical problems, invented locks for canals, the wheelbarrow and special methods of excavation, a machine for making files by machinery, run by a weight, a machine for sawing marble blocks instead of separating them by natural cleavage, the model of those still employed at Carrara, as well as machines for planing iron, for making vices, saws and planes, for spinning, for shearing the nap of cloth, as well as an artist's sketching stool, a color grinder, a spring to keep doors shut, a roasting jack, a hood for chimneys, movable derricks quite similar to those in use among us to-day, with contrivances for setting up marble columns on their bases, one of which in principle was used to set up Cleopatra's Needle on the Embankment in London in our time. A favorite field of invention was that of all sorts of apparatus relating to war, military engines, devices for pushing scaling ladders away from walls and many others. He was probably the greatest inventive genius in the world's history. He had an eminently practical mind. He devoted himself to the problem of flying, studied the wings of birds and produced a series of mechanical devices, tending toward the solution of that problem. Taine said of him: "Leonardo da Vinci is the inventor by anticipation of all the modern ideas and of all the modern curiosities, a universal and refined genius, a solitary and inappeasable investigator, pushing his divinations beyond his century so as at some times to reach ours." There was scarcely anything that he touched that he did not illuminate wonderfully by his genius. In studying the muscles of animals he invented a {354} dynamometer, he improved spectacles and studied the laws of light, invented the camera obscura and in his steam experiments anticipated Watt. A very curious feature of his work is his series of experiments with the steam gun, with which he was sure that great destruction might be worked. A very interesting invention of a scientific instrument of some precision by Leonardo was what may be called a weather gauge. This was made of a copper ring with a small rod of wood, which acted as a balance. On it were two little balls, one covered with wax and the other with material that absorbed moisture readily. When the air was saturated with moisture this ball grew heavy and inclined the beam till it touched one of the divisions marked on the copper ring set behind it. The degree of moisture could thus be seen and the weather, or at least changes in it, could be predicted. We have a whole series of such arrangements mainly in the shape of toys in the modern time. The hygroscopic qualities of cord or the tendency of certain colors to change their tints when more moisture is present are used to indicate approaching changes in the weather. Leonardo seems to have been the first to make use of this practically and he deserves the credit of priority in the invention. His studies in optics might almost naturally be expected from a painter so much occupied with color and whose intense curiosity prompted him to know not merely the use of things but the causes of and the reasons for them. He evolved much of the science of color vision, suggested the principles of optics that came to be known only much later, analyzed and explained the construction of the eye, invented the camera obscura in imitation of it and gave us a theory of color vision which is as good as any other that we have down to the present day. These optical studies alone might well be considered as enough to occupy an ordinary lifetime, but they seem to have been only the results of a series of interludes of the nature of recreation for Leonardo. He made his notes on the subject, filed them away with others, made no attempt to print his conclusions, probably found very few with whom he could discuss the subject, but he had satisfied himself. That was what he wanted. {355} After knowing such facts as this we are not surprised to learn of his anticipating by some sort of divination the laws of gravitation, the molecular composition of water, the motion of waves, the undulatory theory of light and heat, the earth's rotation and rotundity before Columbus' time and many other surprising things. One finds in his diary that he was planning the construction of a harbor and studying the music of the waves on the beach at the same time. Poggendorff, in his great Biographical Dictionary of prominent men of science, quotes Libri's "History of Mathematics in Italy" as authority for the declaration that Leonardo discovered capillarity and diffraction, made use of the signs + and -, knew the camera obscura (without a lens), made observations on resistance, on density, on the weight of the air, on dust figures, on vibrating surfaces and on friction and its effects. All sorts of machines came from Leonardo's hands. He had a positive genius for practical invention that has probably never been equalled, surely not surpassed, even down to our own day. His inventive faculty worked itself out, in machines of such variety as have never come from the brain of a single individual before. Nor were these merely primitive mechanical devices that we would surely despise now. On the contrary, nearly all of them have endured in principle at least and some of them almost as they came from him. Leonardo also did distinguished work in the biological sciences, so that Duval, Professor of Anatomy at the University of Paris and himself well known both for his researches in biology and his knowledge of the history of science, entitles an article with regard to him in the French _Revue Scientifique_ (Dec. 7, 1889), "A Biologist of the Fifteenth Century." His biological discoveries are discussed in the chapter on the Biological Sciences. Sometimes it is asserted by those who are so little familiar with the history of science that they venture on such assertions rather easily, that the true scientific spirit had not yet awakened and that while men were making many observations and acquiring new information they had not as yet the proper scientific attitude of mind to make really great discoveries. It is {356} rather amusing to be told that of a century when Copernicus and Vesalius and so many other distinguished modern scientists were alive. Some writers suggest that the true rising of the modern spirit of scientific inquiry did not come until Francis Bacon's time. Francis Bacon is one of the idols of the marketplace, but surely no serious student of history accords him the place in science that our English forbears gave him when they were insular enough to know very little about continental work, and above all about Italian workers. Francis Bacon, of course, had been long anticipated in all that concerns the inductive method in science by his much greater namesake Roger Bacon. In Columbus' Century however, a hundred years before Bacon's time, Bernardino Telesio, the Italian philosopher, stated fully the inductive method and recognized all its possibilities. In _Science_ for December 19, 1913, Professor Carmichael said of him: "He abandoned completely the purely intellectual sphere of the ancient Greeks and other thinkers prior to his time and proposed an inquiry into the data given by the senses. He held that from these data all true knowledge really comes. The work of Telesio, therefore, marks the fundamental revolution in scientific thought by which we pass over from the ancient to the modern methods. He was successful in showing that from Aristotle the appeal lay to nature, and he made possible the day when men would no longer treat the _ipse dixit_ of the Stagirite philosopher as the final authority in matters of science." The tendency of this century to make scientific principles of value for practical purposes is well illustrated by the references to the sympathetic telegraph which began to be much talked of at this time. According to the story as told, friends at a distance might be able to communicate with each other by having two dials around which the letters of the alphabet were arranged with a magnetic needle swinging free as the indicator. When the needle on one of the dials was moved to a letter, the other by magnetic attraction was supposed to turn to the same letter. This ingenious conceit has been attributed to Cardinal Bembo, one of the great scholars of the Renaissance, who was private secretary to Pope Leo X. His friend {357} Porta, the versatile philosopher, made it widely known by the vivid description which he gave of it in his celebrated work on "Natural Magic," published just after the close of Columbus' Century. A very important development in science came in the application of chemistry to medicine, both as regards physiology and pathology. Basil Valentine at the beginning of Columbus' Century led the way and Paracelsus did much to indicate what the advantage of the application of chemistry to medicine would be. Paracelsus compared the processes in the human body with chemical phenomena and declared that alterations in the chemical conditions of organs were the causes of disease. He set himself up in opposition to the humoral theory of the ancients and denied that the heart was the seat of heat manufacture in the body, for every portion of the system had, he asserted, its source of heat. It was through Paracelsus that chemistry was added to the medical curriculum and George Korn in his chapter on Medical Chemistry in Puschmann's "Handbook" attributes the foundation of certain professorships for chemistry at the universities of this time to Paracelsus' influence. Andreas Libavius did much to advance chemical science in various directions by his study and preparation of sulphuric acid and his recognition of the identity of the substance made from sulphur and saltpeter with that obtained from vitriol and alum. Studies of this kind brought a broad realization of the possibilities of chemistry. The spirit of the period as regards science and the development of the faculty of observation at this time is very well illustrated by Columbus' own observations on the declination of the magnetic needle during his first voyage across the ocean. Brother Potamian has told the story in "Makers of Electricity" (Fordham University Press, New York, 1909), page 22: "It is one of the gems in the crown of Columbus, that he observed, measured and recorded this strange behavior of the magnetic needle in his narrative of the voyage. True, he did not notice it until he was far out on the trackless ocean. A week had elapsed since he left the lordly Teneriffe, and a few days since the mountainous outline of Gomera had disappeared {358} from sight. The memorable night was that of September 13th, 1492. There was no mistaking it; the needle of the Santa Maria pointed a little west of north instead of due north. Some days later on September 17th, the pilots, having taken the sun's amplitude, reported that the variation had reached a whole point of the compass, the alarming amount of 11 degrees. "The surprise and anxiety which Columbus manifested on those occasions may be taken as indications that the phenomenon was new to him. As a matter of fact, however, his needles were not true even at the outset of the voyage from the port of Palos, where, though no one was aware of it, they pointed about 3° east of north. This angle diminished from day to day as the Admiral kept the prow of his caravel directed to the West, until it vanished altogether, after which the needles veered to the West, and kept moving westward for a time as the flagship proceeded on her voyage. "Columbus thus determined a place on the Atlantic in which the magnetic meridian coincided with the geographical and in which the needle stood true to the pole. Six years later, in 1498, Sebastian Cabot found another place on the same ocean, a little further north, in which the compass lay exactly in the north-and-south line. These two observations, one by Columbus and the other by Cabot, sufficed to determine the position of the agonic line, or line of no variation, for that locality and epoch. "The _Columbian_ line acquired at once considerable importance in the geographical and the political world, because of the proposal that was made to discard the Island of Ferro and take it for the prime meridian from which longitude would be reckoned east and west, and also because it was selected by Pope Alexander VI to serve as a line of reference in settling the rival claims of the kingdoms of Portugal and Castile with regard to their respective discoveries. It was decided that all recently discovered lands lying to the east of that line should belong to Portugal; and those of the west to Castile." The first observation of magnetic declination on land appears to have been made about the year 1510 by {359} George Hartmann, Vicar of the Church of St. Sebald, Nuremberg, who found it to be 6° East in Rome, where he was living at the time. He observed it also in Nuremberg, where the needle pointed ten degrees East of North. Columbus' explanation of the declination to his sailors is interesting. He kept silence about it at first, but when they grew alarmed, believing that the laws of nature were changing as they advanced farther and farther into the unknown, he told them that the needle did not point to the North Star, which had been called the Cynosure, but to a fixed point in the celestial sphere and that Polaris itself was not stationary, but had a rotational movement of its own, like all other heavenly bodies. They trusted him and their fears were allayed and a mutiny averted. When on his return to Spain he reported the many and definite observations on the variation of the compass which he had made he was told by the scientists of the time that he, and not the needle, was in error, because the latter was everywhere true to the pole. Just why they were sure it was so they could not tell, but they refused to believe even observations which showed that it was not so; though these were reported by a man who had just overturned quite as strong convictions by sailing westward and reaching land. It is such contradictions of what seem to be obviously first principles of science that in all ages have constituted great discoveries and required genius to make them. {360} CHAPTER XI BIOLOGICAL SCIENCES It is usually assumed that the biological sciences have developed in comparatively recent years and that above all nearly 500 years ago in the fifteenth century there could be no question of any developments that would be of any serious significance in the history of science. The word biology itself is only about a hundred years old and very often it is assumed that human interest in departments of knowledge begins with the naming of them. A period, however, that saw such magnificent work in the physical sciences and especially such a revolution of thought by means of observation as came through Copernicus' theory, was not likely to neglect the biological sciences entirely. As a matter of fact, biology, taking the word in its broadest sense, made some magnificent strides at this time. Perhaps no period until our own witnessed such significant advances in every department of the biological sciences. It is often said that the people of the Middle Ages had very little interest in the world around them. Indeed, surprise is often expressed that they should not have occupied themselves more with the wonderful book of nature lying so invitingly open before them and given themselves more to nature study. Some have even ventured to seek the reason and have thought that they found in it an exaggeration of interest in another world than this, and mediaeval lack of interest in natural truth has been attributed to over-occupation with the supernatural. Those who dare to think, however, that the people of the Middle Ages were not interested in nature know nothing at all of the great writers of that time. They are profoundly ignorant of the broad interests of those whom they so lightly criticise. Dante is full of nature study. More than any modern poet, with perhaps one or two exceptions, he has used his {361} knowledge of nature and of science to illustrate his meaning in many passages of his poetry. One needs but turn to the "Divine Comedy" almost anywhere to prove this. In his "Treatment of Nature in Dante." Professor Oscar Kuhns of Wesleyan University has demonstrated this beyond all doubt. Three voluminous encyclopaedias of knowledge, including many of the wonderful facts of nature, were compiled in the thirteenth century. Such men as Albertus Magnus, who has many volumes of scientific writing on natural subjects and who made collections and observations of all kinds, Roger Bacon, who has so many almost incredible anticipations of modern knowledge, and Thomas Aquinas, who used the facts of nature as known in his time for the basis of his philosophy quite as Aristotle did long before, all were enthusiastic nature students. They did not know many things which the modern schoolboy can easily learn, for we have accumulated a great deal of information; since not a little that they thought they knew was wrong,--but that has been true in every period of the world's history of science and even our own will not escape that inevitable law, but they knew ever so much more than is usually thought and what they knew was much more significant for real scientific progress than any but special students of their works have any idea of. It will not be surprising, then, to find that there were magnificent foundations laid in the biological sciences in Columbus' Century, and that indeed the work of this period represents some of the most important fundamental truths in these sciences. Anatomy, for instance, received a development during the Renaissance period that made it an independent scientific department. Men began to think again for themselves and make their own observations in the first half of the century. It is rather interesting to see the details that were added to the previous knowledge of anatomy, for these demonstrate the fact that they were observing accurately; A few examples will suffice to make this clear. Achillini noticed the _ductus choledochus_, the duct leading from the liver into the duodenum, and described the ilio-caecal valves. Berengar of Carpi corrected a number of mistakes that had existed in Mondino's _Anathomia_, the text-book {362} which had been most used since the beginning of the fourteenth century, and he discovered the foramina in the sphenoid bone. He will have, perhaps, still more of interest for our time, because he was the first to describe the vermiform appendix. He was also the first apparently to call attention to the fact that the thorax in men and the pelvis in women are wider in each case proportionately than in the other sex, and that roughly, while the feminine form is conical, the masculine is an inverted cone. Canani added much to the description of the muscles and was the first to notice the presence of valves in veins, discovering them in the _vena azygos_. Gabriele Zerbi noted the oblique and the circular muscles of the stomach and described the puncta lachrymalia, the ligamenta uteri and other anatomical details which had escaped description previously. His book on anatomy divided the bones and muscles and blood vessels into different chapters, and order was beginning to come out of the confusion that had existed because of the too-generalized teaching before. It is of the anatomists of this time that Puschmann in his "History of Medical Education" says, "The Italian anatomists had the habit of making the dissections of bodies for themselves, and it is for this reason that all the great anatomical discoveries of the time come from Italy. The anatomical schools of that country were the best in the world. All the greatest anatomists of the sixteenth century received their education there, and among the masters of the Italian schools are to be found the greatest names of which the science of anatomy can boast." Neuberger in his "Handbook of the History of Medicine" [Footnote 30] says, "The Italian professors, incited by the brilliant example of 'Mondino,' surpassed all the other anatomists of the world because they did not disdain to take in their own hands the anatomical scalpel, and it is for that reason that at this time anatomy in Italy was cultivated with greater breadth of vision than elsewhere. The Italian anatomists initiated at the end of the fifteenth century the most famous period in the history of the art of dissection {363} and became the teachers to the physicians of the whole world." [Footnote 30: Neuberger u. Pagel: _"Handbuch der Geschichte der Medicin";_ Jena, 1903, Vol. II, p. 23.] Martinotti in his "The Teaching of Anatomy in Bologna Before the Nineteenth Century" [Footnote 31] gives a very good idea of the thoroughly scientific spirit of their investigations and their ardent curiosity with regard to anatomical details, as these may be gathered from the commentaries of Berengar of Carpi. He says, for instance, "Let no one think that by word of mouth alone or the study of books, this science of anatomy" [he calls it discipline] "can be learned. For this the sight and touch are absolutely necessary." "Nor can any real knowledge of the members of the human body be obtained from a single dissection, for this a number of dissections are required." He himself says in suggesting with true scholarly spirit how little he knows in spite of his opportunities, in order that others may be encouraged to take as many opportunities as possible, "how many hundreds of cadavers have I not dissected." This expression is sometimes said to be an exaggeration, but it is in accord with the whole trend of Berengar's method of study. A dissection in the old time did not mean a complete study of the anatomy of the body by anatomical methods, but any opening of the body, in order to determine a particular point or to study any special part, was called an anatomy or dissection. Berengar insists frequently that a number of preparations and sections of the same viscus should be studied. He confesses that he had sectioned more than 100 cadavers in order to determine a question in brain anatomy and yet was not satisfied. [Footnote 31: G. Martinotti: _L'Insegnamento dell' Anatomia in Bologna Prima del Secolo XIX;_ Bologna, 1911.] The interests of the artists of the Renaissance in painting not merely the surface of things, but giving an idea of what they actually were, led to a great development of curiosity as to the constitution of human beings. Not a single great artist of the Renaissance failed to make dissections for himself, and the greater the artist, the more dissections, as a rule, we know he made. Michelangelo dissected portions at least of more than 100 bodies, and Leonardo da Vinci probably did even much more than that. He proposed at one time to write a {364} textbook of anatomy. Ordinarily, it would be presumed that any such proposition from an artist could scarcely be taken seriously in the sense of a scientific text-book to represent real contributions to anatomy as a science, though it might, of course, be valuable for artists. In recent years, however, the republication of the sketches of his dissections shows that Leonardo da Vinci might have written a very wonderful textbook of anatomy and that his plates are still valuable for the study of professed anatomists. William Hunter declared that "Leonardo was the greatest anatomist of this period," and, as altogether we have some 750 separate sketches of dissections which he had actually studied, some idea of how much he accomplished can be obtained. These sketches represent not merely the muscles and the skeleton, though they give these very well and especially suggest their functions very completely, but they also contain sketches of all the viscera and even cross-sections of the brain at different planes. This book alone, without anything further, would give Leonardo a distinguished place in the history of physiology as well as of anatomy. With all this in mind, it is amusing to know the impression rather prevalent among even educated people that there was Church opposition to dissection at this time, and to have such books as President White's "Warfare of Science with Theology" represent Vesalius a generation after this as dissecting in fear and trembling because of the danger he was incurring from the violation of ecclesiastical laws against dissection. No such laws were ever in existence, and dissection for scientific and artistic purposes was apparently much better provided for than it is even in our time, and above all much better cared for by the ecclesiastical authorities who might have hampered it so much, than it was in the English-speaking countries two or three generations ago, when ardent students of anatomy had either to "resurrect" bodies themselves or buy them--as many of them did--from "resurrectionists," with all the abuses connected with this practice, in order to secure anatomical material. The supreme development of anatomy in Columbus' Century came with Vesalius. After exhibiting his trend of mind {365} towards scientific and especially biological studies as a boy by the dissection of small animals, the suggestion for which had come to him from the study of Albertus Magnus' books, Vesalius went to Paris in order to find opportunities for anatomical study; but while profiting not a little there, he was rather disappointed because of the lack of facilities. The jealousy of his teacher, Sylvius, which he aroused, made his work still more difficult, so he went down to Italy, where he knew that he could secure material for dissection and opportunities for study. There, before he was twenty-five, they made him professor of anatomy at the University of Padua, and he had the opportunity to write his great text-book on anatomy, the _"De Fabrica Humani Corporis,"_ which has remained a classic down to our day. It would be rather difficult to enumerate all the discoveries that we owe to Vesalius. He well deserves the name of the Father of Modern Anatomy. Practically all of his productive life comes in Columbus' Century, and he illustrates how thorough the scientific men of the time were in their modes of thinking and ways of observation. Details that might have been expected to escape him are described most clearly. He was the first to point out that nerves penetrated muscles and to suggest the physiological function that they performed of bringing about contraction. He discovered the little blood vessels that enter bones, the nutrient arteries, but still more definitely described the nutrition of bones through the periosteum and its rich blood supply. He added greatly to the knowledge of the time as regards the anatomy of the abdominal wall and of the large organs of the abdominal cavity, especially the stomach and the liver. His descriptions of the sex organs are far in advance of all that his predecessors had known, and here his anatomical knowledge also became of value for suggestions in physiology,--the two cognate sciences were, as might be expected, developing together. Vesalius described the heart completely and suggested its mechanism, and yet could not get away from Galen's declaration that the blood passes through the septum of the heart. His description of blood vessels and their inner and outer coat shows how carefully his observations were made. He declared {366} afterwards that he was led to make these investigations by the memory of his dissection of the bladders with which he used to play as a boy and which he found to consist of several coats. There is scarcely a department of anatomy on which Vesalius' name is not stamped deeply. He devoted great care, for instance, to the examination of the brain, emphasized the distinction between the gray and white matter, described the corpus callosum, the septum lucidum, the pineal gland and the corpora quadrigemina. Two at least of Vesalius' disciples and assistants in teaching deserve to be named in the great development of anatomy that came at this time. One of them is Realdus Columbus, to whom we owe the discovery of the circulation of the blood in the lungs, and the other, Fallopius, whose name is familiar from its attachment to important structures in the body which he first described. Columbus we shall have more to say of under physiology, for the circulation of the blood was an important contribution to that science. Columbus' work was done at Rome, whither he was invited by the Popes to teach at the Papal Medical School, and where his directions and demonstrations were attended by cardinals, archbishops, and distinguished ecclesiastics. He had been Vesalius' prosector at Padua and had succeeded him at Bologna, and then was invited to Rome. He wrote a great text-book of anatomy, which was dedicated to Pope Paul IV, and it was one of the treasures of the Renaissance both because of the development of anatomy which it represents, and its value as one of the early beautifully printed and illustrated books of the medicine of this time. Fallopius, the gifted pupil of Vesalius, of whom Haeser, the modern historian of medicine, has said that he was "one of the most important of the many-sided physicians of the sixteenth century," followed his master's work, corrected some details of it and added many new facts. We are not quite sure of the time of his birth, but he was probably less than thirty, perhaps only twenty-five, when he became professor of anatomy at Ferrara. He subsequently occupied the chair of anatomy at Pisa, and later of anatomy and surgery at Padua. He {367} added much to what was known before about the internal ear and described in detail the tympanum and its relations to the osseous ring in which it is situated. He also described minutely the circular and oval windows and their communication with the vestibule and cochlea. He was the first to point out the connection between the mastoid cells and the middle ear. His description of the lachrymal passages in the eye was a marked advance on those of his predecessors, and he also gave a detailed account of the ethmoid bone and its cells in the nose. His contributions to the anatomy of the bones and muscles were very valuable. It was in myology particularly that he corrected Vesalius. He studied the organs of generation in both sexes, and his description of the canal or tube which leads from the ovary to the uterus attached his name to the structure. Another discovery, the little canal through which the facial nerve passes after leaving the auditory, is also called after him the _aquaeductus Fallopii._ Puschmann in his "History of Medical Education" says of Fallopius (p. 297): "He furnished valuable information upon the development of the bones and teeth, described the petrous bone more accurately, enriched myology by admirable descriptions of the muscles of the external ear, of the face, of the palate and of the tongue, made explicit statements upon the anastomotic connections of certain blood-vessels--for instance, of the carotid and vertebral arteries--and discovered the nervus trochlearis. He instituted accurate investigations upon particular parts of the organ of hearing and of the eye, by which he was able to give fuller information upon the _ligamentum ciliare,_ the _tunica hyaloidea,_ the lens, and other anatomical points." As great, if not greater, than either as an anatomist was Eustachius, to whom we owe a series of important discoveries. He studied particularly the renal system and the head. His name is enshrined in the Eustachian tube named after him. It has been said that after Eustachius' time very little was added to our knowledge of the gross anatomy of the teeth. He also made important discoveries in brain anatomy. Unfortunately his text-book was never finished, and the beautiful illustrations, the first copperplates for an anatomical work ever made, were {368} not published in his lifetime. They were faithfully preserved, however, in the Library of the Vatican, for, like Columbus, he was a professor at the Papal Medical School in Rome, and were published at the beginning of the eighteenth century by Lancisi, himself, another Papal physician. Another of the distinguished anatomists of the time was Aranzius, who was the Professor of Anatomy in the Papal University of Bologna for some thirty-two years just after the close of our period, having received his training, however, in our century. He gave the first correct account of the anatomy of the foetus and was the first to show that the muscles of the eye do not arise from the dura mater but from the margin of the optic cavity. He confirmed Columbus' views with regard to the course of the blood in passing from the left to the right side of the heart, and made a number of discoveries in the anatomy of the brain. To him we owe the term _hippocampus_, and he described the fourth ventricle very accurately, calling it the cistern of the cerebellum. The scientific development of physiology followed immediately, as might be expected, on that of anatomy. Indeed, Vesalius deserves almost as much credit for what he did for physiology as for his researches in anatomy. The functions of bones, muscles and organs were, as we have said, carefully discussed in connection with the descriptions of their form, location and relations to other organs. Probably the best way to present the advance made in physiology at this time is to review the important steps of progress toward that greatest generalization in modern physiology, the circulation of the blood. Much more had been known of it before this time than is usually thought, and probably even the ancients, especially in Greece, had more than a hint of it. Before Columbus' Century closed, the discovery of the pulmonary circulation was an accomplished fact, and there was more than an inkling of the existence of the general circulation. The full description of this was not made until afterwards, but it was not long delayed, and it came from a man who belongs to our time. It did not receive that thorough scientific statement which was to make it a fundamental principle in the biological science of the time until Harvey's day, nor indeed for some {369} time after Harvey's thoroughly scientific description and demonstration. [Footnote 32] [Footnote 32: How clearly Rabelais understood the function of the circulation, though he did not properly appreciate its physiological anatomy, may be readily seen from his famous passage on the circulation, in which he talks about the blood as "the rivulet of gold which is received with such joy by all the organs because it is their sole restorative." A portion of the passage is worth while quoting because it represents a popularization of the scientific knowledge of the time. Rabelais was writing not for physicians nor even medical students, but for the educated general public of the time. He said: "The Spleen draweth from the _Blood_ its terrestrial parts, _viz._, the Grounds, Lees or thick Substance settled in the bottom thereof, which you term _Melancholy;_ the Bottle of the Gall subtracts from thence all the superfluous _Choler:_ whence it is brought to another Shop or Workhouse to be yet better purified and refined, that is the Heart, which by its agitation of Diastolick and Systolick Motions so neatly subtiliseth and inflames it, that in the _right-side_ Ventricle it is brought to Perfection and through the Veins is sent to all the Members; each Parcel of the Body draws it then into itself, and after it's own fashion, is cherished and alimented by it: Feet, Hands, Thighs, Arms, Eyes, Ears, Back, Breast, yea, all; and thus it is that who before were _Lenders,_ now become _Debtors,_ The Heart doth in its _left-side_ Ventricle so thinnify the Blood that it thereby obtains the name of Spiritual; which being sent through the Arteries to all the members of the Body, serveth to warm and winnow or fan the other Blood which runneth through the Veins; The Lights never cease with its Lappets and Bellows to cool and refresh it; in Acknowledgment of which good the Heart through the Arterial Vein imparts unto it the choicest of it's Blood: At last it is made so fine and subtle within the _Rete Mirabile,_ that thereafter those _Animal Spirits_ are framed and composed of it; by means whereof the Imagination, Discourse, Judgment, Resolution, Deliberation, Ratiocination, and Memory have their Rise, Actings and Operations."] Harvey himself indeed has acknowledged his indebtedness to these men of preceding generations, and any fair-minded review of the subject makes it clear that there was a gradual progress towards this all-important generalization for several generations, and not that sudden discovery which is sometimes thought to have taken place. In 1546 Servetus, who had been Professor of Anatomy at Paris, but who had a tendency to dabble in theology that subsequently proved unfortunate for him, for, as will be recalled, he was burnt to death by Calvin {370} at Geneva in 1553, sent to Curio, who was teaching anatomy at Padua, a manuscript copy of his _"Restitutio Christianismi,"_ "The Restoration of Christendom," in which he described completely the circulation of the blood in the lungs. Because Servetus' description first appeared in a theological work, it has sometimes seemed to commentators that his expressions were scarcely more than accidental and that it was only by chance that he reached such a generalization. To say this, however, is to ignore Servetus' career. He was an investigator of a thoroughly scientific spirit, living in a time when discoveries, particularly in the biological sciences, were being made all round him, and he had made many dissections, had taught anatomy at the University of Paris and was exactly in the most appropriate position to make such a new discovery. He had done some distinguished work in botany, he had suggested some modifications in pharmacology which met with violent opposition, but have since been approved, and like so many of the men of the Renaissance he had "taken all knowledge for his province" with a wonderful degree of success. Unfortunately he invaded theology and then got into trouble. He had to fly from Paris, though probably the prosecution of him was due not a little to the enemies created by his uncompromising spirit in the controversy over the use of syrups. He was protected by the Archbishop of Vienne, who had him as physician for a dozen of years, and it was Calvin who denounced him to the Roman authorities in such a way that even the friendly Archbishop could no longer protect him. He was allowed to escape from jail by connivance, went to Geneva and there met his sad fate. It may not be true, as has been said, that by putting him to death Calvin put back the development of physiology for three-quarters of a century until Harvey's time, but undoubtedly Servetus' death was a very unfortunate incident for science. Just about this same time a series of discoveries in Italy led up to the thought of the existence of a circulation of the blood in lungs and body. Already in the first edition of his great text-book of anatomy in 1543, Vesalius had expressed doubts {371} with regard to the Galenic doctrine that the blood passed through the septum of the heart from one ventricle to another, and these doubts he emphasized in the second edition. In 1547 Cananus, Professor of Anatomy at Ferrara, observed the valves in the veins, and these are said to have been described even before this, though the doctrine of their existence and function was not generally accepted in science until after the more complete description made by Fabricius of Aquapendente, who was born in our century but did his important work afterwards. Columbus, who was teaching anatomy at the Papal University of the Sapienza in Rome, was even more complete and explicit in his description of the pulmonary circulation than had been Servetus. The question as to whether he knew of Servetus' discovery has never been absolutely settled, though there seems very little likelihood of it. Apparently the one possibility is that a copy of the edition of the _"Restitutio Christianismi"_ which was burned with its unfortunate author, may have been spared and found its way to Rome. Rome is indeed the least likely place for such a book to have wandered, and only two copies of that first edition are definitely known to have escaped. Of these Columbus could have known nothing. Harvey himself, to quote Professor Foster in his "History of Physiology," spoke of Columbus with respect as of a great authority. Columbus' work has sometimes been minimized in Western Europe, especially by the English, apparently in the fear lest recognition for him should lessen Harvey's glory. Harvey himself, however, quotes Columbus as an authority in his work on the circulation, and the Italian anatomist, who had been Vesalius' assistant, was undoubtedly a great teacher, investigator, dissector, experimenter, observer and writer with regard to a number of phases of medical science. He was the first to insist on demonstrations of living animals as valuable in the teaching of medicine. He declared that one could learn more about the functions of the body from the dissection of a single dog than from feeling the pulse for hours and merely studying Galen. He made demonstrations on living animals and was constantly engaged in trying to find out function as well as anatomical details. A number of workers in the medical {372} sciences toward the end of Columbus' Century were making experiments of various kinds on living and dead animals in order to develop physiology. Eustachius studied the kidneys experimentally, and the sensory functions were investigated very carefully and with the true scientific spirit. The completion of the discovery of the circulation of the blood came in the person of Caesalpinus, who had received all of his education in Columbus' Century. Anyone who reads his description of the systemic circulation cannot fail to recognize that he really understood it. His discovery did not impress his generation as did that of Harvey in the next generation, nor did he understand so thoroughly the significance of his discovery. The Italians, however, have quite rightly insisted on vindicating for him the merit of having discovered the circulation of the blood, and some of them have even suggested that Harvey learned of it from him, but nothing can dim Harvey's glory as a great trained observer and original genius, who appreciated thoroughly the nature of the revolution that his discovery would work in the medical sciences. Harvey himself would have been the first to deprecate the lessening of the glory that was due to his predecessors or to his great teachers in Italy, one of whom, Fabricius da Aquapendente, belongs partly to our century. Indeed, in his book on the circulation, Harvey has given more credit to his predecessors than many of his ardent English advocates are prone to do in the modern time. Professor Foster in his "Lectures on the History of Physiology During the Sixteenth, Seventeenth and Eighteenth Centuries," which were delivered as the Lane Lectures in San Francisco, and some of them also at Johns Hopkins, concedes Caesalpinus' priority of description. He says (page 33): "He thus appears to have grasped the important truth, hidden, it would seem, from all before him, that the heart, at its systole, discharges its contents into the aorta (and pulmonary artery), and at its diastole receives blood from the vena cava (and pulmonary vein). "Again in his 'Medical Questions,' he seems to have grasped the facts of the flow from the arteries to the veins, and of flow along the veins to the heart" {373} On page 35 of the same work Professor Foster says: "We must, therefore, admit that Caesalpinus had not only clearly grasped the pulmonary circulation, but had also laid hold of the systemic circulation; he recognized that the flow of blood to the tissues took place by the arteries and by the arteries alone, and that the return of the blood from the tissues took place by the veins and not by the arteries." Foster is prone to make little of Caesalpinus as a man of book-learning rather than experimental or observational knowledge and as a scholarly writer rather than a scientific discoverer. It must not be forgotten, however, that Caesalpinus, besides being a great anatomist, is one of the most important contributors to the botany of this time. He was the director of the first botanical garden regularly established in Italy, that at Pisa, which still exists, and he is called by Linnaeus the first true systematic botanist. His work on plants distributed more than 1500 plants into fifteen classes distinguished by their fruits. Every detail of the circulation is thus seen to have been understood, and Professor Foster has quoted the passages from Caesalpinus' books which make the necessity for such an admission very clear. The Italians have always claimed the discovery of the circulation for Caesalpinus, and the Southern nations of Europe generally have been inclined to favor that claim, though the Germans and English have refused to admit that even Caesalpinus' description, with all its clearness of detail, can be taken to mean that he understood the new doctrine that he thus was teaching. Besides, it is pointed out that Caesalpinus' new doctrines met with very little response and indeed scarcely any notice from his contemporaries. It must not be forgotten, however, that Harvey himself hesitated for some dozen years to publish his demonstration of the circulation of the blood, and there is good reason to believe that while he presented his views to his class in 1616 and wrote his treatise in 1619, he delayed its publication until 1628 and was even then apprehensive lest its appearance make "mankind his enemy." It is not surprising, then, in the light of this recognized attitude of the scientific mind of the time that Caesalpinus' declarations of half a century before should have been passed {374} over by scientists without proper recognition of their significance. Any account of the development of the biological sciences at this time would be quite incomplete without the great story of the botanists who laid the broad, deep foundation of their favorite science during this century. The first distinguished name among them is that of Leonardo da Vinci, the story of whose work in botany seems almost incredible until the actual notes of his observations are before one. While Leonardo has been thought of always as a painter and only recently has the idea of his greatness as a scientist become generally known, he deserves eminently to be classed as one of the greatest of scientific geniuses. It was in the biological sciences that he did his most wonderful work. He knew the anatomy of men and animals very well and studied whole series of questions touching living beings. He did work in botany, palaeontology, zoology, physiology, so that Duval did not hesitate to speak of him in the _Revue Scientifique_ [Footnote 33] as A Biologist of the Fifteenth Century. He made special observations on flying, on swimming, on the saving of life in shipwreck, on the mechanics of joints, on horse movement, so that he anticipated what we have learned by the camera. His special contribution to physiology was that certain acts of the nervous system are reflex, that is, without requiring attention from the higher centres. [Footnote 33: December 7, 1889.] His studies in color are among the most interesting done up to his time. These were not merely taken up from the physical standpoint but especially from the physiological, and his theory of color vision still attracts attention. He studied sound and made many valuable observations once more physiological as well as physical. His most interesting scientific conclusion was doubtless that with regard to fossils. Having met with them deep below the surface of the earth, he declared that they were not there by accident nor by any incompleteness of creation, but that they represented living things which had been covered up. He even suggested that marine fossils pointed to the fact that the sea had at some time covered this spot where {375} the fossils were found, though this was now far from water and well above its level. Some of his information with regard to botany was far ahead of his time. He not only knew that the rings seen in the wood of the trunk of a tree represent its age, one ring for each year, but he also knew how to deduce from the differing thickness of the various rings the particular kind of season and how favorable it was for growth. In Italy moisture represents to a great extent the most important element in a favorable year for plant growth. Leonardo seems to have shown by the story of certain years in the past that when moisture was abundant the rings of the trees were thicker than they had been in other years. He pointed out, too, that the core of the trunk of a tree, the heart of the wood as we call it, was not in the centre of the tree as a rule, but always a little to one side because the tree had more sunlight and heat on one side and grew more in that direction. He pointed out too that when a tree is injured an abundance of sap is carried to that spot in order to bring about repair, and that these processes of repair always make a super-abundance of tissue, as if to overstrengthen a weaker part--hence the irregularities that are likely to exist on a tree where injuries have been inflicted. The sketches of dissections of flowers found in his notebooks show how well he anticipated many methods of study and details of knowledge in botany supposed to be much more modern. They have proved as great a surprise as his anatomical plates. The professional botanists of this period have been very thoroughly reviewed by Professor Edward Lee Greene, Professor of Botany at the Catholic University and Associate in Botany in the United States National Museum, in his "Landmarks of Botanical History," which forms part of Volume LIV in the Smithsonian Miscellaneous Collections. He has called attention particularly to the work of the great German Fathers of modern botany during the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. There are five of them who deserve a prominent place in the history of botany. Otho Brunfelsius (1464-1534), Leonhardus Fuchsius (1506-1566), Hieronymus Tragus (1498-1554), Euricius Cordus (1486-1535) and Valerius Cordus (1515-1544). The four first named represent two distinct {376} kinds of botanical work. Brunfels and Fuchs busy themselves almost wholly with medical botany. Their one idea was to describe plants that could be used in medicine or make special additions to the diet. Most of their plant descriptions are copied from older authors, some of them even the Greeks, but for practical purposes they sought to render the identification of medical plants more easy and certain by supplying pictures of them. There had been botanical pictures before but they were miserable as a rule, and both Brunfels and Fuchs greatly improved the representations. As Greene says "these two might worthily have been styled Fathers of Plant Iconography." Books of botany must have been popular before this and indeed it was probably because of the ready sale of such works that Brunfels and Fuchs took up their elaboration of them. Their large picture books now made it possible for all sorts and conditions of men, lettered and illiterate, to identify some hundreds of useful plants; a thing which had never happened in the world before that day. They added little to scientific botany, however, but fortunately other men, Tragus and Valerius Cordus, laid serious scientific foundations for the true science of botany. Neither of these men wished to popularize botany so much as to make it possible for plants to be so described as to be readily identifiable by description. As Greene says "on Cordus' part it is unmistakable that there is a deliberate plan of creating a new phytography. Therefore and by study of the men and their books I think we shall perceive that in the Germany of the first half of the sixteenth century there were two fathers of plant iconography and two fathers of descriptive botany." Greene can scarcely say too much of the work of young Cordus. He says (page 272): "To understand the exalted character of this genius it is only necessary to canvass what the youth had also attained to along other and different lines at the same time. "In field work in Germany--for botany alone--not to speak of geology and mineralogy, in both of which he was, for his time, an expert--he had wrought out more results than had his older contemporaries, Brunfelsius, Tragus, and Fuchsius combined. In his repeated journeys to the great forests and {377} wildest mountain districts, it is estimated that he discovered several hundred new plants. Sprengel has given the Linnaean names of some twenty-five of these new discoveries of Cordus; and that is perhaps double or treble the number of novelties gathered in by the whole three above named; and they both were men of longer life and more or less extensive travel." Greene re-echoes the praise of a contemporary in terms which show us that this young man, who lived less than thirty years, had all the qualities of a modern successful scientific investigator. Indeed that contemporary description is worth while having near one as a catalogue of qualities of the men who in every age succeed in science as a rule. It comes from Riffius' Preface to Cordus' "Annotations on Dioscorides": "To the best possible education of an intellect naturally keen, there was united in him that happy temperament to which nothing is impossible, or even difficult of attainment. To these gifts he added a truly marvellous industry and assiduity in research; and above all, a most wonderfully retentive memory for everything he either saw in nature or read in books. In this he so greatly excelled as to be able to carry in mind in their entirety descriptions of things which he had not seen but was looking to find; thus having the descriptions always available whenever occasion called for the use of them." Conrad Gesner at Zurich declared that the four books of Cordus are "truly extraordinary because of the accuracy with which the plants are described. A century and a half later, Tournefort named Valerius Cordus as having been the first of all men to excel in plant description. Haller, the distinguished botanist and historian in Linnaeus' time, credited Valerius Cordus with having been "the first to teach independence of the poor descriptions of the ancients and to describe plants anew." Greene says of him: "One sees that in all his descriptions the same attention is given to the morphology and also to the life history of the plant in as far as this is known to him. In his practice of describing each species, both morphologically and biologically, he is a herald of our late nineteenth and early twentieth century writers who now that we have the microscope give life histories with minuteness of detail before impossible." {378} Evidently Columbus' period gave birth to men as great in the investigation of plants and as ardent in their desires to get the last details of truth as were the geographers and the navigators of the time to reach the ends of the earth and be able to map it out. There was a great wind of the spirit of investigation abroad and everywhere there were magnificent results from it. This school of botany in Germany with Valerius Cordus as the climax of it, whose untimely death before thirty was indeed an irremediable loss to science, illustrates this very well. While the most important contributions to the science of botany during that period came from the Germans, Italy did not lag far behind in this subject, and France, Spain and Portugal supplied their quota to the science. Above all, it is to the Italians that we owe editions of Theophrastus, Dioscorides and the elder Pliny, works which contained so much of information with regard to the science of botany in ancient times and the modern publication of which brought about a reawakening of interest in that subject corresponding to what was noted in connection with every other republication of classical thought in the various departments of the intellectual life. The most important of the botanists of Italy was Caesalpinus, professor of botany at Padua and director of the botanic garden there at the close of the Columbus' Century, but who was afterwards physician to Pope Clement VIII. To him, as we have seen in discussing the physiology of the time, we owe a complete description of the circulation of the blood in the century before Harvey. Caesalpinus is called by Linnaeus _primus verus systematicus,_ the first true systematic botanist. His work, _"De Plantis,"_ contains an immense amount of information and a complete classification of all the then known plants, some 1520 in number, into fifteen classes. The distinguishing characters of this classification are taken from the fruit and show careful observation and thoroughly scientific attention to details. Caesalpinus' place in the history of botany can be best appreciated from the praise of his colleagues in this department of science. John Ray, the English botanist of the end of the seventeenth century, in his history of plants declared that {379} Caesalpinus' book "On Plants" was indeed a work from which much might be learned. Fabrucci and Carl Fuchs declare Caesalpinus' treatise to be of first rank. Thomas Garzon, Pona of Verona and Balthazar and Michael Campi in the eighteenth century praised his work as thoroughly scientific. We have already quoted Linnaeus' opinion of him and the modern father of botany gladly accepted the suggestion of Plumier that a newly discovered plant should be given the name of Caesalpinus, in order that that name might be forever memorable in botany. Boerhaave, whom we think of much more as a physician than a botanist, but some of whose greatest work was done with regard to medical botany in the University garden of Leyden, advised a friend and disciple if he could buy any of Caesalpinus' works, to do so, for they were among the best on the subject. In France Ruellius, whose life is about equally divided between the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, was the physician to Francis I and a distinguished botanist. He wrote scientific descriptions of a large number of plants and put beside them the ordinary names which they were called in various countries as he had obtained them from peasants, farmers and country-people generally in his travels. His work was an important contribution to the science of botany. Toward the end of his life Ruellius, like his distinguished contemporary and colleague, Linacre in England, became a priest. Another important French contributor to the science is Pierre Belon of the first half of the sixteenth century, though he had an interest in many other biological sciences. He wrote a valuable treatise on coniferous plants and a monograph on birds. This has attracted particular attention, because in it "he compared the skeletons of birds and man in the same posture and nearly as possible, bone for bone." As Garrison in his "History of Medicine" (New York, 1913) says: "this was the first of these serial arrangements of homologies which Owen and Haeckel made famous." Belon travelled in Greece, Egypt and the Orient as well as widely in Europe, mainly in the interests of _materia medica,_ but everywhere picking up scientific information. In Spain and Portugal writers in botany are the medical {380} scientists and especially those who searched the Indies, West and East, for plants with medicinal virtues. They did much both for pure science and for medicine and some account of their work will be found in the chapter on "Medicine" and "America in Columbus' Century." As accumulators of information the biological scientists of all the countries of Europe during Columbus' Century probably contributed more to their various departments than their colleagues of any other corresponding period in the history of science, even our own. They had, of course, the advantage of fields ripe for the harvest, but they undoubtedly took full advantage of their opportunities. Of all of them might be said what Oliver Wendell Holmes said of the anatomists of the Renaissance. They gathered in the rich harvest of discovery like the harvesters in a grain field. After them in the next century came the gleaners, who found many scattered precious grains of knowledge that their predecessors with their rich harvest to care for had neglected. Finally, in the later time, came into the field the geese, who found here and there a grain of knowledge missed even by the gleaners and who made a great cackling whenever they found one. The kindly satirist was himself an anatomist, and we may take the exaggeration of his picture with proper discount, yet with a recognition that it has much more of truth than we always like to confess even to ourselves. {381} CHAPTER XII MEDICINE It is not surprising that there should have been a magnificent century of achievement in medicine at this time because their standards of medical education were at a high level and were well maintained. The medieval requirements for medical education had been three years of preliminary work at the university, four years in the medical schools, special courses in surgery if practice was to be in that department, and a year's experience with a physician before personal practice on one's own responsibility was allowed. The laws of the Emperor Frederick for the Two Sicilies in the thirteenth century were very strict in this matter and they constituted the standard which came to be very generally adopted. In the Italian universities the Papal charters explicitly demanded these requirements. [Footnote 34] [Footnote 34: For full details of this surprising, too little known formal development of medicine, see Walsh, "The Popes and Science," Fordham University Press, N. Y., 1907, where all the documents will be found.] We have a series of re-enactments on this subject just about the middle of the fifteenth century. Above all, clinical experience was required before the license to practise would be issued. In 1449 the medical Faculty of Paris required that graduates in medicine should diligently visit the hospitals or accompany a skilful practitioner in his visits to patients and refused to grant the license when this rule was not observed. In Ingolstadt graduates in medicine, according to the statutes of 1472, were obliged to take an oath that they would practise only as the representatives of their teacher, or of some other doctor of the faculty of that place, until they were considered skilful enough to receive the license for practice on their own responsibility. In the hospitals of this time, which were large and well arranged, thoroughly ventilated and capable of being well cleansed, {382} there was ample opportunity for clinical teaching and we know that it was taken. A manuscript of Galen of the fifteenth century which is preserved at Dresden has a number of initial miniatures, in which groups engaged in clinical instruction are noteworthy. In his "History of Medical Education," [Footnote 35] Puschmann notes the details of some of these. There is a picture of a patient suffering from some wasting disease, near whose bed stand a doctor and two nurses, while the doctor dictates a prescription to his pupils. There is a demonstration of leg ulcers by a physician to a pupil and a surgical operation on the leg performed by the pupil in the presence of his teacher, as well as the opening of an abscess in the axilla. There were hospitals in every town of 5,000 and this gave ample opportunities for clinical experience. When hospitals are numerous and well managed there must be physicians to attend on them and this provides opportunities for thorough study of patients. [Footnote 35: Translation by Hare, London, 1891.] The influences that were at work to lift medical education to a higher plane in practical efficiency may be judged from such expressions as those of Rabelais, who, in his letter on education in "Gargantua," suggests as preparatory studies for medicine, Greek and Latin with even a little Hebrew, for the sake of the Holy Scriptures, and natural science, especially zoology, botany and mineralogy, and "then carefully go over again the books of the Greek, Arabian and Latin physicians, not despising the Talmudists and Cabalists; and by frequent dissections acquire perfect knowledge of the outer world, the microcosm, which is man." He himself has shown in a number of passages that he had taken his own advice and even in his famous description of the anatomy of Lent in which his comparisons were formerly thought more or less fanciful, "they are extraordinarily apt and vivid and show deep knowledge of anatomy," while his descriptions of wounds show a competent familiarity with surgical anatomy. This might very well be expected, for Rabelais invented two surgical instruments, one for the reduction of fractures of the thigh bone and the other for operating in cases of strangulated hernia. He has at least one passage in which it is clear that he knew much more about the circulation of the blood than is usually supposed to have {383} been known in his time and which demonstrates that there had been a gradual accumulation of knowledge on this subject before Harvey's time. (See chapter on Biological Sciences.) The interest in medicine can be best realized from the large number of medical books that were printed almost immediately after the discovery of printing. After theology medicine was the subject most occupying the attention of printers. During Columbus' Century a whole series of the classics of medicine was reprinted and made available for wide reading. The patience and scholarship required for this can only be properly appreciated by those who know the labor of reading the crabbed handwriting of the old manuscripts and collating them and the time required to elucidate erroneous readings that had crept in through the negligence of copyists. The world owes an immense debt to the Renaissance for this work. To a great extent these books have been neglected for the last two centuries and we are only now coming to realize how much the scholarly interest of that time meant for subsequent generations. Many of these books are now being republished to the great benefit of medicine. Not only were Hippocrates and Galen and Celsus and the other classics republished, but also the writers of the intermediate time, Aëtius, Alexander of Tralles, the great Arabian writers and then the important contributors to medicine and surgery in the later Middle Ages. The value of the debt thus owed is growing in estimation every year. The publication of medical books, even during the score of years immediately after printing began to be employed, shows the intense interest in the subject. The first medical publication was a purgation calendar, that is, a list of the days of the year on which purgations should be practised. This was printed by Gutenberg, 1457. Heinrich von Pfolspeundt's "Treatise on Surgery" was printed in 1460; in 1470 medical treatises by Valescus de Tarenta, Jacopo de Dondis and Matthaeus Sylvaticus were printed. In 1471 treatises by Mesnë and Nicolaus Salernitanus were put in type. In 1472 the old _"Regimen Sanitatis"_ was printed and Bellegardo's monograph on "Pediatrics." In 1473 Simon of Genoa's "Medical Dictionary" was set up and in 1476 William of Salicet's "Cyrurgia" was given {384} to the press. In 1478 the first edition of Celsus was printed, and the first printed edition of Mondino's _"Anathomia"_ was ready for sale. In 1479 came the first edition of "Avicenna." In spite of the great losses of books that have taken place in the course of time because of fire, water, use and other enemies, we still possess many medical books printed practically in every year of the first quarter of a century after the discovery of printing. Unfortunately the neglect of these old classics during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries did more than all the other inimical elements put together in reducing the number of medical incunabula that we might have had. The first great medical teacher of Columbus' period was Nicholas Leonicenus, born in 1428, who studied medicine at Padua, lived for some ninety-six years and was professor of medicine at Ferrara for over sixty years. He translated the "Aphorisms" of Hippocrates and some of Galen's works into Latin, and occupied himself with the application of the principles laid down in these great classics in his practice, and above all, in his teaching. He made it the business of his life to oppose the Arabian over-medication and especially the use of many drugs on general principles, and he insisted on natural modes of cure, diet, water, exercise, fresh air and the correction of any morbid habits that might have been formed. Probably more than anyone else he influenced the medicine of the first half of Columbus' Century and his work has come to be well recognized in recent years with the growth of interest in the history of medicine. After him, one of the most important of the physicians of the time was Thomas Linacre, who, after studying some ten years in Italy, returned to England to become the attending physician to Henry VIII. His translations of Galen's works attracted wide attention and Erasmus, Linacre's friend, once declared that after Linacre's translation Galen now spoke much better Latin than he had Greek before. Linacre was a type of the learned physicians of the time and was one of the greatest scholars of the period. That scholarship did not make men impractical, Linacre's organization of the College of Physicians of England is abundant evidence. He found the practice of medicine on his return to England sadly degenerate, {385} because there was no competent authority to maintain proper standards of medical education and prosecute those who attempted to practise medicine without any proper training and sometimes, indeed, without any knowledge of the subject. Through the charter from the King, at first for London and subsequently for England, the duty of caring for the protection of the public against the illegal practice of medicine was committed to the Royal College of Physicians. Linacre organized and endowed it, and it continues to exist and exert an excellent influence over medical practice in England under its original charter down to the present time. Another of the distinguished contributors to medical practice at this time was John Caius, who also translated some of Galen's works and especially the _"De Medendi Methodo,"_ his edition containing a series of annotations from his teacher Montanus, and from his own observations on patients. He is deservedly best known for his little book on the Sweating Sickness, in which he exhibited his power of observation and his ability to describe what he saw. Gesner, the great European biologist of the time, who was on terms of intimate relation by correspondence with Caius and knew his work on plants and animals very well, styled him, in the preface to his _"Icones Animalium,"_ "a man of consummate erudition, fidelity and diligence as well as judgment," and in an epistle to Queen Elizabeth bestows upon him the eulogium of "the most learned physician of his age." Caius has the merit of introducing the regular practice of dissection into the English teaching of medicine. As Linacre had done, Caius too, as he grew older, used the money which he had accumulated as Royal physician and in the lucrative practice of medicine in London for academic foundations. Linacre founded chairs in Greek and medicine at Oxford and Cambridge, as well as the College of Physicians, and Caius, after having been the first president of Linacre's Royal College, founded Caius College at Cambridge, where he died in 1572. His last year of life had been disturbed by the looting of his rooms of a number of pious articles connected with the old Church to which he faithfully adhered, and Mr. Andrew Lang suggests that only Dr. Caius' timely, though untimely, death (he was but 63 years of age) prevented {386} him from sharing the fate of the pious articles associated with the old faith which he had cherished as faithfully as the tenets of that faith itself. One of the important teachers of medicine at this time was Giovanni de Monte, according to the custom of the time known by the Latinized name of Montanus. He was distinguished for his application of the humanities to medicine and his direct translations of Greek medical books into Latin, so as to avoid the errors which had come from the roundabout translation in the previous times of Greek into Arabian and then into Latin. To him, almost more than any other, is due the reputation that the medical school of Padua obtained at this time, for he gave a series of clinical lectures on the patients in the Hospital of St. Francis which were written down. They show how thorough were his observations and how suggestive his teaching. No wonder that he had pupils from all over Europe. His pupils thought of him as the Americans did of Louis during the early part of the nineteenth century. Many Germans went to hear him. It was a Polish student who reported some of his lectures and Dr. John Caius was, as we have said, one of his most ardent students. Montanus insisted on making careful inspections of the dead bodies in order to control his diagnosis, and the teaching at Padua under him was thoroughly practical and such as we are likely to think of as modern. [Illustration: TITIAN, PARACELSUS ] Quite different from the line of learned physicians who drew their inspiration from the Greek classics of medicine, was another of the great physicians of Columbus' period who ran counter to all the old medical traditions and dared to think for himself. This was Paracelsus, whose motto _"qui suus esse potest, non sit alterius"_--he who can form an opinion of his own should not borrow that of others--shows the independent character of the man. He broke away from the teachings of medicine in Latin and sought far and wide for anything and everything that might help in the cure of disease. He has been an extremely hard man for historians to estimate and appreciations of him have differed very greatly. There is no doubt at all that he did much to introduce chemical remedies of many kinds into medicine, though he was a decided opponent of the polypharmacy of his day, a heritage from the Arabian {387} physicians, who delighted in giving a large number of drugs. There are expressions of his which show how carefully he had thought out the problems of the practice of medicine. He said: "to be a true alchemist is to understand the chemistry of life." "Medicine is not merely a science but an art. It does not consist in compounding pills and plasters and drugs of all kinds, but it deals with the processes of life, which must be understood before they can be guided." Above all Paracelsus recognized that success in medicine depends on the treatment of the patient rather than his disease, and he insisted on the idea that nature was, as a rule, eminently curative of diseases rather than prone to make the affection worse, as physicians at so many times in the history of medicine seem to have thought. Paracelsus declared that "the knowledge of nature is the foundation of the science of medicine and a physician should be the servant of nature, not her enemy; he should be able to guide and direct her in her struggle for life and not by his unreasonable drugging throw fresh obstacles in the way of recovery." He appreciated very clearly the influence of the mind on the body and said "the powerful will may cure where a doubt will end in failure. The character of the physician may act more powerfully upon the patient than all the drugs employed." He realized also the place of the conditions surrounding the patient as helpful towards his cure. He said: "the physical surroundings of the patient may have a great influence upon the cure of his disease. Diet is an extremely important element of cure and the physician should know how to regulate the diet of the patient." He called attention to the fact that trained attendants sympathetic with the patient are far better for him than relatives who may be over-solicitous and show it, or neglectful because they wish the death of the patient. Paracelsus was the first to write on occupation diseases and his monograph on _"Bergsucht,"_ "miner's disease," is a monument to his power of observation. His clinical acuity is further exemplified by his recognition of the relation between cretinism and endemic goitre. He also wrote a booklet on mineral baths and analyzed mineral waters for bathing and drinking purposes, getting at the iron content of chalybeate {388} waters by testing with gallic acid, and the resultant ink reaction, and also demonstrating the presence of other salts. He did more than anyone else to establish properly in medicine the use of opium (as laudanum), mercury, lead, arsenic, and his chemical experiments taught him much about copper sulphate and potassium sulphate and he recognized zinc as an elementary substance. He did quite as much for medicine by his negative conclusions and his opposition to medical practices that had been common up to his time as by his positive observations. Indeed it might possibly be thought that there was more to his credit from the negative side. He set himself up in strenuous opposition to the silly uroscopy and uromancy by which physicians had deceived others and very often deceived themselves. Something of the value of the urine in medical diagnosis had been recognized in the Middle Ages, and then, as practically always happens in medicine, little-minded men had pretended to be able to learn much more from it than could possibly be revealed by it. Every disease came to have its specific urine and diagnosis and prognosis came to be largely dependent on changes in the color and character of the urine that were in themselves quite insignificant. Paracelsus brushed all this ridiculous nonsense aside, but of course, in doing so, made a great many enemies. Men are much more disturbed, as a rule, by having their false knowledge corrected than their real knowledge amended. Paracelsus also refused to accept the practically universal persuasion that every disease was an indication for blood-letting. He was sure that in a great many cases this practice did more harm than good. He felt the same way with regard to the almost universal purgation that was being practised for every form of ill. No one recognized better than he that there were poisonous substances in the body which produced serious affections. He was quite willing to be persuaded, too, that these poisonous substances could be at least to some extent removed from the body by purgatives. He feared, however, lest purgation might carry off with it many materials more beneficial to the body than the poisons it would drain were harmful. The idea of an autotoxemia or an autointoxication {389} is constantly recurring in medicine, and the supposed remedies for its cure prove subsequently nearly always to have done more harm than good. Medicine owes much to Paracelsus for his firm stand in this matter. Shakespeare's genius in intuition was right when in "All's Well That Ends Well" he ranged the modern German with one of the greatest of the ancients. "So say I, both of Galen and Paracelsus." Meyer in his "History of Chemistry" has summed up what Paracelsus accomplished by the co-ordination of chemistry and medicine. As it is not the purpose of the great German historian of chemistry to give a panegyric of Paracelsus but simply to indicate his place in the history of chemical evolution, that opinion must have great weight. He said, page 71: [Footnote 36] [Footnote 36: "A History of Chemistry, from Earliest Times to the Present Day: Being also an Introduction to the Study of the Science," by Ernst von Meyer, Professor of Chemistry in the Technical High School, Dresden; translated, with the author's sanction, by George McGowan, Ph.D.; third edition; London: Macmillan and Co., 1906.] "Paracelsus was the man who, in the first half of the sixteenth century, opened out new paths for chemistry and medicine by joining them together. To him is undoubtedly due the merit of freeing chemistry from the restrictive fetters of alchemy, by a clear definition of scientific aims. He taught that 'the object of chemistry is not to make gold but to prepare medicines.' True chemical remedies had been used now and again before his time, but Paracelsus differed from his predecessors in the theoretical motives which led him to employ them. He regarded the healthy human body as a combination of certain chemical matters; when these underwent change in any way, illness resulted, and the latter could therefore only be cured by means of chemical medicines. The foregoing sentence contains the quintessence of Paracelsus' doctrine; the principles of the old school of Galen were quite incompatible with it, these having nothing to do with chemistry." His contributions to surgery are almost more important than those to medicine, for he insisted on keeping wounds clean and deprecated the meddlesome surgery of the time. Cutting loose from everything that had been taught before his time, he {390} almost necessarily made many mistakes. Besides, in spite of his insistence on scientific demonstration, he accepted many things for which there was no good reason. His works, most of which we owe not directly to himself but to his students, contain many absurdities. There is no doubt at all, however, that he was a great genius and that the medicine of this century and of succeeding generations owes much to him. He well deserves the name of the Father of Pharmaceutical Chemistry which has sometimes been given to him. He represents one of the important links in the tradition of medicine and is a man who is ever more appreciated the more we have learned about him through recent studies of his writings." [Footnote 37] [Footnote 37: Even Paracelsus' mistakes have had something of genius in them. Above all, his influence has lived on through the generations. His doctrine of signatures and his study of the effects of poisons on the human system had more to do than anything else with the establishment of the therapeutic systems of Hahnemann and Rademacher.] We have some two score of books attributed to him, but probably less than a score are really his. Probably no one has ever had a higher view of medicine. He bases it on the relationship which man bears to nature as a whole and anticipates the very modern idea that disease is not a negation, but itself a phase of life. Magnetism represents a great force for him and some form of it is supposed to emanate from all bodies and place them in relation with each other. The influence of the stars on human constitutions is only one phase of this magnetism which binds all the world together. The superabundance of vitality in certain men gave them a magnetic influence over other men and this magnetic influence might even persist after death. Hence mummies were supposed to contain a certain astral balsam and the consumption of mummy substance gave wonderful vitality to ailing persons. Like scientists at all times, Paracelsus had to have his explanation for miracles. He suggested that saints were people with an abundance of vitality and some of this remained in their bodies after their deaths just in the same way as it remained in the bodies of mummies. It was sufficient, then, to come within the sphere of the influence of these bodies to be affected by it. Miracles, then, were not exceptions to the laws of nature but merely {391} fulfilment of laws that men were only just getting to understand. That has been the favorite mode of explanation for miracles ever since, though a new set of facts has always been adduced as the basis of the explanation. Of course Paracelsus believed in many absurdities. He suggests, for instance, that it is possible to transplant toothache into a tree after the following fashion. Having taken away a portion of the bark, a piece of the wood is cut and with it the gum is pricked until the blood flows. Then the piece of wood stained with blood is set again in its place in the tree and the bark is also replaced. He believed also in the vulnerary ointment, which could cure wounds, not by application to the wound itself but to the weapon. It was important, however, that the weapon should be stained with the blood from the wound. He had the feeling that the morbid elements of an affection or a wound were contained in the blood and might be neutralized even outside the body. The vulnerary ointment was composed of moss from the head of a dead person, preferably one who had been put to death for murder, mummy, human fat and human blood. It all seems so absurd to us now, but behind such prescriptions was the theory that some of the vital force of these human beings could be made over to the diseased person in order to add to his vitality. Many absurd prescriptions have been made on theories not nearly so reasonable as this of Paracelsus. To this period also belongs the name of Basil Valentine, who has been called the last of the alchemists and the first of the chemists. Just now we are passing through a phase of historical criticism which throws doubt on his real existence, though we have a series of books under his name published at the end of the sixteenth century. Tradition declares that he was a Benedictine monk living about the middle of the fifteenth century, who tested many forms of drugs with the idea of securing materials for the cure of human diseases. To him is attributed the discovery of hydrochloric acid, which he called the spirit of salt, sugar of lead, and a method of preparing sulphuric acid and probably ammonia. He is best known for his work on antimony and his book, "The Triumphant Chariot of Antimony," put that metal and its salts into medical practice {392} for centuries. The indication for it was that disease was largely due to a toxaemia or accumulation of poisons in the system, the modern idea of auto-toxaemia, and that these could be best removed by brisk purgation. The use of calomel subsequently, the theory underlying venesection and a great many of our modern surgical fads for the improvement of man's condition by taking something out of him have the same notion for basis. Basil Valentine's works are precious because they insist that physicians must know the drugs they use and their effects, not merely by reading about them, but by studying them on patients and on animals. He himself is said to have tried the effect of antimony on the swine belonging to the monastery in which he did his work, and other materials are said to have been tested in the same way. He is thus really a father of experimental medicine. He cannot say too much in deprecation of physicians who give medicines which they know little about for diseases about which they know less. In my sketch of him in "Catholic Churchmen in Science" (Dolphin Press, Philadelphia, 1907) I quote a passage from his "Triumphant Chariot of Antimony," in which he bitterly condemns the practice of physicians who give remedies knowing practically nothing about them, only that they have been recommended by someone else. It read like a diatribe of the modern time against allowing the manufacturing chemist to suggest drugs for medical practice. The passage makes very clear what is the secret of the mystery by which remedies come and go in medicine because of insufficient testing. Valentine said: "And whensoever I shall have occasion to contend in the school with such a Doctor, who knows not how himself to prepare his own medicines, but commits that business to another, I am sure I shall obtain the palm from him; for indeed, that good man knows not what medicines he prescribes to the sick; whether the color of them be white, black, grey or blew, he cannot tell; nor doth this wretched man know whether the medicine he gives be dry or hot, cold or humid; but he only knows that he found it so written in his Books, and thence pretends knowledge (or as it were, Possession) by Prescription of a very long time; yet he desires to further information. {393} Here again let it be lawful to exclaim, Good God, to what a state is the matter brought! what goodness of minde is in these men! what care do they take of the sick! Wo, wo to them! in the day of judgment they will find the fruit of their ignorance and rashness, then they will see Him Whom they pierced, when they neglected their Neighbor, sought after money and nothing else; whereas, were they cordial in their profession, they would spend Nights and Days in Labour that they might become more learned in their Art, whence more certain health would accrew to the sick with their Estimation and greater Glory to themselves. But since Labour is tedious to them, they commit the matter to Chance, and being secure of their Honour and content with their Fame, they (like Brawlers) defend themselves with a certain Garrulity, without any respect to Confidence or Truth." Another of the great physicians of the time was Cornelius Agrippa, born in 1486, of the old family of Nettesheim. Cornelius was at first the secretary of the Emperor Maximilian, then a warrior and finally a student of both law and medicine, yet all was accomplished so expeditiously that when he was but twenty-four the Parliament of Dole came in a body to hear his lectures on the Cabalistic Books of Reuchlin. He practised for a while as a physician at Geneva after having been an advocate at Metz and, with the tendency to wander that so many of the men of this time had, we find him afterwards at Freiburg, at Lyons, then for a time the physician of Louise of Savoy, but jealousy drove him from the Court and a little later we find him starving in Antwerp, and then in prison at Brussels. He passed through Cologne, was at Bonn for a time and is heard from in prison at Lyons. He seems to have run the whole gamut of human suffering. It is hard to know what he was imprisoned for, but he seems to have been a man who easily made enemies, refused to think that anyone else knew much and probably his necessities led him into the doing of things that were suspicious at least, if not actually criminal. Agrippa was very much interested in magnetism, quite taken with the idea of human magnetism and above all very much persuaded of the influence of the mind on the body. He felt {394} the place that autosuggestion or strong persuasion has in enabling men to accomplish anything and he said: "We must therefore in every work and application of things affect vehemently, imagine, hope and believe strongly, for that will be a great help." He was quite sure that the mind could influence the body strongly for healing purposes and would doubtless have been looked upon as an advocate of New Thought or Psychic Healing or some of the other schools of mental therapeutics in our time, though he believed also in the use of medicines and remedial measures. Another phase of his anticipation of some modern ideas may be still more interesting for our generation, though it only shows how prone human thought is to run in cycles and how hard it is to find anything new under the sun: it may be rather surprising to many to learn that Agrippa seems to have had a definite persuasion that woman was superior to man. He was what the French would have called "a feminist of the most modern." A book of his on the subject recently appeared as a bibliographic treasure in the London bookseller, Tregaskis' catalogue (No. 736). The title was: "Female Pre-Eminence: or The Dignity and Excellence of that Sex Above the Male." An Ingenious Discourse: Written originally in Latine, by Henry Cornelius Agrippa, Knight, Doctor of Physick, Doctor of Both Laws, and Privy-Counsellor to the Emperour Charles V. Done into English with additional advantages. By H. (Enry) C. (are) Printed by T. R. and M. D. and are to be sold by Henry Milion, 1670. The catalogue contains the note: "Strong arguments in favor of women's superiority. It is rendered into English, well embroidered with poetic imagery and rich in furiously entertaining passages." The most important scientific development for medicine came from pathological anatomy. This science is supposed as a rule to be of much later origin than the period we are occupied with, but the interest in the history of medicine in recent years has shown us how much of attention there was given to pathology and how many observations were accumulating in the published books of the Renaissance time. There was much more of such scientific observation in the Middle Ages than is usually thought. Three men at the beginning of {395} Columbus' Century, Professor Montagnana of Padua, Professor Savonarola of Ferrara, the grandfather of the martyred Dominican, and Professor Arcolani of Bologna, described a number of different lesions which they had noted in the many bodies that were being dissected at this time. In the next few years these observations multiply. Benedetti, the Professor of Anatomy at Padua and the founder of the anatomical theatre at that university, made reports on gall-stones and apoplexies. Benivieni, a simple practising physician at Florence, was probably the first to describe gall-stones and he has a very large number of pathological observations. He is the first that we know who made a number of autopsies with the definite idea of finding out the cause of death and he has come deservedly to be called, as a consequence, the Father of Pathological Anatomy. Allbutt, the Regius Professor of Medicine at the University of Cambridge, says of him: "Before Vesalius, before Eustachius, he opened the bodies of the dead as deliberately and clear-sightedly as any pathologist in the spacious times of Baillie, Bright and Addison," and Malgaigne has described his book as "the only work on pathology which owes nothing to anyone." It became the custom then to collect observations of this kind and Berengar of Carpi, the discoverer of the appendix, who had dissected a great many bodies, described a number of pathological changes. Aranzi, the professor of medicine and of anatomy in Bologna, has many observations of pathological finds in his book and paid special attention to tumors. Ingrassias, professor of anatomy at Naples, was also interested in pathology and, as specializing had become the fashion, his observations were mainly with regard to bones. Eustachius, the professor of anatomy in Rome, declares in the preface to his anatomical tables that he was the first to make autopsies for pathological purposes in Rome, and that he had collected an abundant amount of material. The publication of Eustachius' anatomy was delayed until long after his death and his pathological observations were never published. Columbus in Rome made a series of autopsies even on high ecclesiastics for the purpose of determining the cause of death and evidently the science of pathology was gradually coming into existence. Vesalius made a large number of pathological observations {396} and promised in his book on normal anatomy to publish them. Unfortunately he never did so, and his notes seem lost, though it is not impossible that the manuscript or some portion of it may yet be found in Spain. In many other countries besides Italy, however, pathological anatomy attracted much attention. Joost van Lom, often known by his Latin name of Jodocus Lommius, a physician in Brussels, who was royal physician to King Philip II, published three books of medical observations at Antwerp just after the close of Columbus' Century (1560) in which notes of all diseases and problems of prognosis are set forth. Johann Kentmann, a physician of Torgau, devoted a great deal of attention to the study of the formation of all kinds of calculi in human beings, biliary, salivary and intestinal. Francisco Valles, Professor of Medicine at the University of Alcalá in Spain, published a volume of Galen's _"De Locis Affectis,"_ in which he incorporated many notes of his own pathological observations. Jacques Houillier (Hollerius) published about the same time at Paris, where he was professor of medicine, a book on "Internal Diseases" with many pathological notes. Johann Weyer (Wierus) also added valuable pathological annotations to his writings. At the end of the century pathological anatomy as a definite department of medicine had been firmly established. Dodoens (Dodonaeus), Royal physician to the Emperor Maximilian II and Rudolph II, made a large number of valuable observations at autopsies and described cases of pneumonia, ulcers of the stomach, inflammation of the abdominal organs, aneurisms of the coronary arteries and of the arteries of the stomach, stony concretions in the lungs, purulent conditions of the ureters and kidney, and ergotism. Even more important for the science was the work of Schenck von Graffenberg, official physician at Freiburg in Breisgau, who gathered together a larger collection of observations on the diseases of separate organs than had ever been made since Hippocrates' time. He paid special attention to the pathological anatomy of these cases and while many of the observations were his own, a great many of them had been collected from friends. His work was done after the close of Columbus' Century, but he {397} himself was over twenty before the century closed and he was only carrying out the inspiration that had been given by workers in that tune. Pieter van Foreest (Petrus Forestus), a practising physician in Delft, deserves almost as much credit as Schenck von Graffenberg and much more than many of the professors in medicine and anatomy of this tune. He made a special study of the pathological conditions of the ordinary diseases and was indefatigable in collecting information. His own observations include more than 100 cases with autopsies. With this spirit abroad the future of scientific medicine was assured. A good idea of the accomplishment of the medical teachers of the time may be judged very well from the life of Fracastorius. Prof. Osler in his sketch of him published in his book, "An Alabama Student," [Footnote 38] says: "The scientific reputation of Fracastorius rests upon the work _'De Contagione.'_ It contains among other things three contributions of the first importance--a clear statement of the problems of contagion and infection, a recognition of typhus fever and a remarkable pronouncement on the contagiousness of phthisis." In the same sketch Osler adds: "Fracastorius draws a remarkable parallel between the processes of contagion and the fermentation of wine. It is not the same as putrefaction, which differs in the absence of any new generation and is accompanied with an abominable smell. Certain poisons resemble contagion in their action, but they differ essentially in not producing in the individual the principle or germ capable of acting on another poison." This discussion is wonderfully complete and thorough, yet conservative. Later Boyle declared that a time would come when someone would discover the cause of fermentation and probably at the same time throw light on the origin of contagious disease. That prophecy was fulfilled when Pasteur made his studies in the fermentation of wine and beer and then went on to lay the foundation of bacteriology. Fracastorius' thoroughly scientific spirit will be appreciated from the fact that, like Leonardo, he saw fossils in their true light and has the first reference in the history of science to the magnetic poles of the earth. [Footnote 38: Oxford Press, 1908.] {398} Men whose names are usually associated with surgery often manifested successful interest, and above all, power of observation in pure medicine. A single example may be taken in illustration. Anyone who thinks that observation and theory and investigation of arthritism is new or that we have occupied ourselves much more with the study of its symptoms than they did in the olden time should read Paré's chapters on Gout. He says that the word gout, which appealed to him as French, was probably used because the humors distil drop by drop, _goutte à goutte_ over the joints. Or perhaps because sometimes a single drop (goutte) of the humor of this disease causes very great pain. He describes the deposits of gypsum-like material, or stony matter like chalk, which occur in the affection. The severe pains which occur in connection with the disease Paré does not hesitate to attribute to alteration of the humors by a poison which he calls _"virus arthritique"_ He notes that the pains are distinctly influenced by atmospheric fluctuations, so that one may well say of the gouty that they carry with them an almanac which may serve them as a weather indicator all their lives. Serious complications can arise in gout if the humors of the disease involve other organs than the joints. He attributed inflammations of the liver, of the pleura, colicky disturbances of the intestines, to this cause. Continuous fevers represented for him the effect of the gouty toxin upon the large vessels, while paralyses might occur if the gouty toxin involved the "porosities" of the nerves. He described a sanguineous gout frequent in the springtime, especially among young people with acutely inflamed joints, the pain being most severe in the mornings and the urine red and dense. This is evidently acute rheumatic arthritis. Bilious gout occurred more among the middle-aged and the involved joints were yellow rather than red and the pain attained its maximum intensity in the early afternoons. The urine was lemon yellow in color but often cloudy. The third form was pituitary gout which occurred particularly in the winter, having as a main symptom coryza, affecting the old rather than the young, but usually without acute pain. The affected area is cold rather than hot to the touch and the discomfort is most noted during the night. The urine was pale in color and thick. {399} Melancholy gout, the fourth form of the disease, was also an affection of old age, producing a livid color in the joints and making them cold to the touch. The patients' pains were worse at intervals of three or four days and the urine had a deep cloudy color. Sanguineous gout was the most curable of these four and usually lasted two to three weeks; bilious gout was much more serious and often ended in death. Pituitary and melancholy gout were chronic diseases of long duration. It is rather easy to see Paré's powers of observation in all this. He jumped to conclusions and over-generalized, as men have always done and thus made mistakes. Down even to the present day, however, physicians have never quite got away from the tendency to group these acute and chronic painful conditions of joints under a single word, and rheumatism for many represents the key to a puzzle that still exists. An important development in medicine was the publication early in the sixteenth century of regulations by the Bishop of Bamberg and the Elector of Brandenburg, by which physicians or midwives were authorized to be summoned as experts in medico-legal cases. Medico-legal autopsies are on record long before this, though there was always serious objection to their performance because of the natural feeling of deterrence men have toward the destruction of the human body. In general, however, the basis of our legal medicine and the status of the physician in court as an expert was determined at this time. Probably nothing shows so well the great interest of this time in the development of medicine and particularly therapeutics, as the number of drugs imported from America and the East Indies, the many experiments and careful observations made with them and the books written about them. As a matter of fact no century has given us more new drugs of enduring value. Schaer in the chapter on the history of pharmacology and toxicology in modern times in Puschmann's "Handbook of the History of Medicine" has summed up the work of this period. Three well-known books of the time containing interesting scientific material were written by Gonzalo Fernandez, a personal friend of Columbus who, from his birthplace, is often known as Oviedo, Nicolas Monardes and Francisco Hernandez. Fernandez was the superintendent of the {400} government gold mines in South America, but after his return he wrote his great work, _"Historia General y Natural de las Indias."_ The second of these, Monardes, deserves well of pharmacology and all that relates to drugs through his famous collection of the natural products of America which became widely known through his description of them. [Footnote 39] Hernandez wrote on Mexican and Central American plants and his _"Historia Plantarum Novae Hispaniae"_ is an important source of information. Besides these, Pasi and Conti, Italians who had travelled in the East Indies, wrote books containing valuable observations on Oriental drugs and plants, and the Frenchman Bellonius (Pierre Belon) (See chapter on Biological Sciences) described Arabian, Persian and Indian products, while the Spaniard, Christobel Acosta, and the Portuguese, Garcia da Orta and Duarte Barbosa, visited various parts of the East and East African Malabar and wrote books which, while not specifically medical, had much to say with regard to the indigenous plants, especially such as either had been used by the natives for medical purposes or promised to be of significance in this way. The Portuguese apothecary Pirez directed a special letter with regard to Hindustan and Farther India and what might be expected for pharmacology from these regions to the king of Portugal which is of great importance. [Footnote 39: Monardes proved of so much interest that he was translated into English before the end of the sixteenth century, and his book was widely read.] The Belgian, Charles de l'Esclus, better known as a rule under his Latin name of Carolus Clusius, as professor of botany, director of the botanical garden and superintendent of the Museum in Vienna and later in Leyden, gathered together an immense amount of information, was in correspondence with all who were interested in botany and in pharmacology. He succeeded in making an encyclopedia of information with regard to these subjects that has ever since been considered one of the most important fundamental works in the history of this department of science. The spirit of the physicians of the time as regards scientific methods in clinical medicine and their attitude towards {401} observation as by far the most important means of obtaining medical truth is very well brought out by some passages written by John Hall, a poet and medical writer who wrote a translation of Lanfranc's _"Chirurgia Parva"_ published shortly after the close of Columbus' Century. To this was appended "A very Frutefull and Necessary Briefe Worke of Anatomie" and "An Historiall Expostulation: against the beastlye Abusers, both of Chyrurgerie and Physyke in our Tyme: with a Goodlye Doctrine and Instruction Necessarye to be marked & folowed of all Chirurgiens." In the Expostulation, which may be found in the Percy Society's republication of old texts for 1844, Dr. Hall said: "Galen also hath freely admonished that we ought not if we will be perfectly cunning to trust only to doctrine written in books, but rather to our proper eyes which are to be trusted above all other authors, yea! before Hippocrates and Galen." It is this trusting to observation rather than books that is, of course, the key-note of clinical medicine and of medical progress. The men of this time are often blamed for not having trusted to their observation more and to their books too much. There is no doubt that some of them erred rather seriously in this matter. Yet at all times in the history of medicine the great majority of physicians have not observed for themselves, but have taken their observation at second hand from others. Hall has insisted over and over again that as regards surgery the necessity for observation was extremely important. In the chapter on Surgery a quotation from his Expostulation on this matter will be found. Even in the department of mental diseases there were distinct contributions to the problems of this intricate specialty of great value. This is not so surprising, for above all the men of the Renaissance could see things for themselves and describe what they saw. Shakespeare represents the Renaissance in England and no one has ever succeeded so well as he in describing forms of the milder mental diseases as they occur in characters like Ophelia or King Lear. Paracelsus even attempted what has not been achieved yet, a definition of the insane person. "The person is sick in mind in whom the reasonable and unreasonable spirit are not present in proper {402} proportion and strength." He distinguished fools "who are animals without any sense" from the imbeciles and idiots "who are deranged beasts." His contemporary, Montanus, who was professor at Padua, and has been called the second Galen, treated of melancholy in his medical consultations and ascribed its etiology to _intemperies cerebri._ He recommended treatment by water, by venesection and by hellebore. Jean Fernel divided melancholy into what we now know as melancholy in the proper sense of the word and mania. He considered that both affections were due to disturbances of the fluids of the brain. Jodocus Lommius differentiated between delirium, phrenitis, melancholia and mania and described a particular variety of this last form as hydrophobia. William Rondelet, Professor at Montpellier, frankly abandoned all metaphysics in this subject and considered that melancholia was due either to a defect of the brain or to some disturbance of the body which brought about a sympathetic derangement of the brain, the stomach particularly being likely to do this. He gave a rather striking picture of the fixed ideas that take possession of those suffering from melancholia. He differentiated mania from melancholia by saying that the melancholia was due to a frigid humor, while mania was due to the malignity of the thin and bilious humors of the body. His contemporary, Francis Varreliora, described cases in which insanity had occurred as a consequence of love troubles and in which the cure of melancholy came about through the successful treatment of an affection such as haemorrhoids that had been disturbing the patient for a good while. It was a good many generations before medicine advanced very far beyond the ideas that were put forward by these physicians of the Renaissance in discussing their mental cases. The extent to which balneotherapy was appreciated in this century may be realized very well from the fact that just after the close of it Winternach mentions some seventy-five places in Europe where there were bathing establishments. About the same time Dr. Ruland of Regensburg, published a monograph of twenty-eight pages containing an alphabetically arranged list of diseases with the indication of the particular watering place that would do them good. Indeed just after {403} the close of Columbus' Century there is abundant evidence of the very great revival of interest in the old hydrotherapeutic methods which had taken place during the Renaissance. One of the most interesting things about the medicine of this century, that is often not appreciated, is that it did not go to that excess in the employment of certain means of treatment to which some of the succeeding centuries unfortunately did. Columbus' medical contemporaries corrected the Arabian abuse of polypharmacy, which had a tendency to manifest itself over and over again during the later Middle Ages in spite of the well directed efforts of thoughtful physicians to suppress it. The diffusion of a knowledge of the classic authors in medicine did more than anything else to secure its eradication at this time. Physicians used bleeding, but not in every case, as came to be the custom later, and not to the excess in which it was employed at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century. Poor Mirabeau, the orator of the French Revolution, under the best French skilled care a century ago, was bled some eighty ounces in the course of forty-eight hours. Under the impetus given by Basil Valentine's "Triumphant Chariot of Antimony" they used antimony frequently, but not at all to the extent that it was employed in the eighteenth century. Purgatives were much more abused in the later seventeenth and eighteenth centuries than during Columbus' Century. Under the immediate influence of the Greeks the physicians of this time were thoroughly conservative, and there is as little of regrettable therapeutics to be chronicled as at any time in the world's history. Jerome Cardan of this time is one of the geniuses of the history of science whose career is extremely difficult to understand. His mixture of credulity with a genuine scientific temper of mind that tests everything by experiment, combined with his wonderful ability in mathematics, adds to the difficulty of understanding him. He was a great believer in dreams but then that was because he was sure that so many of his own dreams had come true. He was a serious student of all the borderland subjects between spirit and matter and constituted a Psychic Research Society in himself, but with the tendency to accept the marvellous on general principles. He {404} heard that instruments which had been magnetized could be used for surgical operations without producing pain and having tried some experiments in the matter he announced this as a great discovery. He was sure that he had the power to magnetize others in such a way as to prevent pain, but, after all, it must not be forgotten that in these he only imitated what has attracted much attention at many times in the history of medicine and electricity. As the publisher of the formula for cubic equations he has a distinguished place in mathematics, and he was looked upon as one of the great thinkers of his time. His contributions to medicine, and the estimation he secured for the profession by his popularity among the great ones of Europe at this time, have made his life most interesting to our generation. Cardan's almost infantile absurdities have sometimes been cited as indicating a lack of the critical scientific spirit at this time. Anyone who recalls, however, the attitude of mind of some of the most prominent scientists of our time towards certain questions, as, for instance, vaccination, spiritism, and even phrenology and other psychic subjects, will not be likely to accept any criterion of lack of the critical faculty that might be set up arbitrarily, because a scientist exhibited a tendency to accept some things without as absolute proof as other men demand. Nearly all the great scientists had certain peculiarities in this regard and Cardan is only an exaggeration of this tendency. His absurdities have sometimes been quoted as if they represented common opinions of the learned men of this time and exhibited their lack of critical judgment, but no one has scored Cardan's absurd opinions more severely, nor called attention more emphatically to the fact that this great scientific genius accepted some childish trivialities, than his contemporary, Scaliger, who so often entered into controversies with him. An instructive contrast to some of Cardan's absurdities is a little book that has been a classic ever since in popular medicine, Louis Cornaro's "Means of Obtaining a Long and Healthy Life," which was published at this time (Padua, 1558). Editions of it have been issued in nearly every generation since. Cornaro, to give a sentence or two from Addison's essay {405} on the volume "was of an infirm constitution till about forty, when by obstinately persisting in the Rules recommended in this Book, he recovered a perfect state of health, insomuch, that at four-score he published this Treatise. He lived to give a fourth edition of it, and after having passed his hundredth year, died without pain or agony, like one who falls asleep. This Book is highly extolled by many eminent authors, and is written with such a spirit of cheerfulness and good sense, as are the natural concomitants of temperance and virtue." The little book insists very much on temperance in eating and drinking and is quite as sensible in its way as any popular book on medicine ever written. It is a living proof that in spite of the popular medical delusions of many kinds so frequent in this period, though not more frequent than they are in our own, men of sense could view the question of right living from the proper standpoint and give good advice with regard to it. In the preface to the latest American edition (New York, 1912) the publisher said: "The methods followed by Cornaro and the recommendations and suggestions submitted by him can be compared to advantage with the teachings of authorities of the present day, such as Metchnikoff. The book is now presented to the American public, not only as a literary and scientific curiosity, but as a manual of practical instruction." [Footnote 40] [Footnote 40: The first American edition, annotated by Mason L. Weems (Philadelphia, 1809), had with what might be thought characteristic American enterprise Benjamin Franklin's "Way to Wealth" as an Appendix.] It is interesting to bring together some of the sanitary regulations of this period because it is often presumed that it is only in our time that public care of the health has come to be recognized as a duty of the civil authorities. Wickersheimer in his "Medicine and Physicians in France, at the Time of the Renaissance," [Footnote 41] has gathered a number of the details. It was forbidden butchers in Paris to keep meat for sale more than two days in winter or thirty-six hours in summer. Hotel keepers were not allowed to kill their own meat because, as {406} they could cook it before selling it, it was easy for them to "dissimulate bad meats." Restaurateurs were forbidden to serve meat which had been warmed over or warmed-over soup or vegetables. Fish was guarded particularly by detailed regulations and heavy fines were inflicted for its sale, except under conditions that must have assured its absolute freshness. Butter and fish could not be sold in the same shop. It was forbidden to put coloring matter in butter, no matter what the form of color material used, and also to mix old butter with new. The sellers of spices were required by Louis XII to watch over the absolute cleanness of their mustard mills and to employ as workmen only those who were clean and in good health. Similar regulations existed for the bakers. In a word, they anticipated in many ways the pure food laws of our time. Unfortunately these regulations were allowed to fall into abeyance during the neglect of social order that characterized the notable degeneration of the eighteenth and earlier nineteenth centuries. [Footnote 41: _"La Médicine et Les Médecins en France à l'Époque de la Renaissance,"_ Paris: Thesis 1905.] Some of the popular hygiene of the time is very interesting and distinctly foreshadows practices of our own time. Erasmus gave directions to students for cleanliness. The hands were to be washed after each meal; a practice rendered necessary by the absence of forks and the nails were to be cut and cleaned every week. Gums and teeth were to be rubbed with a rough towel every day according to Montaigne, and various tooth powders were commonly employed. The feet and the hair ought to be washed at least once a week. Among foods, sea-fish were preferred to river fish and the livelier the fish the better it was liked. Shellfish were recommended by some and deprecated by others. Lobsters were usually counted difficult of digestion, and oysters and other shellfish shared in this prejudice. Popular traditions as to food were quite like our own. Peas were very much praised as an article of diet, spinach was considered to be good for torpid liver, water cress was said to have a favorable action on the bowels and lettuce as well as most of the material for green salads was declared to be sedative in action. Cucumbers were indigestible unless cooked, melons must be ripe and soft and without any spots in them or they were dangerous, and cabbage and onions were {407} praised or blamed as articles of food according to the particular part of the country from which one came. Even in the matter of drinks opinions were not so different from those which are held at the present time, though there was just as much disagreement as regards their effects as we are accustomed to. In Normandy, where apples were common and cider a familiar drink, cider was considered to be much better for men than wine. In the middle and South of France, however, wine was considered of the greatest value for health, and white wine was considered to be diuretic while red wine was recommended for diarrheic conditions. Wine was declared to be much more wholesome as a drink than water and there is no doubt at all that in this our colleagues of that time were eminently justified by their observations. Any water in the neighborhood of cities or considerable centres of population was almost sure to be contaminated by sewage of some description and to be distinctly dangerous. Wine was ever so much less likely to be followed by disease than water. There were many who recognized how much of evil was done by the abuse of wine however, and Renou declared that in that century wine had killed many more people than the sword. He declared that the abuse of wine led to degenerations of the brain and the liver, disturbances of the nerves, brought on tremors, convulsions, even paralysis, and was active in the production of dyspnoea and other serious conditions. Dr. Cramer calls attention [Footnote 42] to the fact that in 1481 the republic of Lucca in Italy elected three citizens to serve as a board of health. They were given plenary powers to act in case of epidemics. Their main purpose was to prevent the spread of infectious diseases. For this purpose they kept in touch with other countries, so as to be forewarned of places where epidemics were raging, and they had the right to forbid entrance into Lucca of persons, animals or goods until after a sufficient delay to insure the absence of infection or thorough disinfection. The word quarantine of course is very old, though often the idea is supposed to be new, and there seems no doubt that in most of the Italian cities health boards and health regulations anticipating many supposedly modern developments were in existence. There is even question of {408} the contagiousness of tuberculosis having been recognized at this time, and measures taken to prevent its spread. We know that scarcely more than a century after Columbus' period every principality in Italy has laws declaring tuberculosis contagious and regulating it. [Footnote 42: _Revue Médicale de la Suisse Romaine._ 1914, XXIX, No. I.] Sir Thomas More in his "Utopia" has a very curiously interesting paragraph with regard to the status of physicians in his ideal Republic, which shows what his own idea of the place of medicine in the world is. His long friendship with Linacre might very well have been expected to give him such a high estimation of the physician. It is all the more interesting because he expresses depreciation of his own profession of the law in "Utopia." What is striking in this passage is his recognition of the lofty place that medicine deserves to hold in the intellectual world as a department of philosophy and science. He emphasizes the fact that the less people need physicians the more they appreciate them, thus anticipating the modern idea that prevention rather than cure is the great basis for prestige in medical science. His fine tribute to the honor that medicine should have in the estimation of men will make his words a fitting close to this chapter on medicine in Columbus' Century. "One of my companions, Thricius Apinatus, happened to carry with him some of Hippocrates' works and Galen's 'Microtechne,' which they hold in great estimation, for though there is no nation in the world that need physic so little as they do, yet there is not any that honors it so much; they reckon the knowledge of it one of the most pleasantest and profitable parts of philosophy, by which as they search into the secrets of nature, so they not only find this study highly agreeable, but think that such inquiries are very acceptable to the Author of nature; and imagine, that as He, like the inventors of curious engines amongst mankind, has exposed this great machine of the universe to the view of the only creatures capable of contemplating it, so an exact and curious observer, who admires His workmanship, is much more acceptable to Him than one of the herd, who, like a beast incapable of reason, looks on this glorious scene with the eyes of a dull and unconcerned spectator." {409} CHAPTER XIII SURGERY Ordinarily it is assumed that surgery has received almost its only and its greatest development in our time. Probably no development of knowledge that has come to us in the recent revival of interest in the history of medicine has been more surprising than the finding that surgery had several periods of great progress before our time. One of these and the most important came during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. Another great phase of surgical advance, after a period of decline such as seems inevitable in all human affairs, occurred during the Renaissance. It had its origin in or at least was greatly influenced by the publication of the chapters on surgery in the Latin and Greek classics, though strange as that may sound to modern ears even more was probably accomplished for surgical development by the printing of the text-books of the later mediaeval surgeons. The new impetus thus given affected nearly every phase of surgery and accomplished ever so much more than we would be likely to think possible, only that the republication of old surgical text-books in recent years has proved such a revelation to us. As I have said in preceding chapters, one of the greatest debts of the modern time to the Renaissance is due for the printing of old books in the early days of printing. Scholars were willing to give liberally of their time and to devote patient labor to secure a good text for the printers, and somehow or other great printers succeeded in bringing out usually in magnificent editions, though of small size as regards the number of copies, not only the ancient but what we have now come to recognize as the mediaeval classics of medicine and surgery. The chapters on surgery in such writers as Aëtius, Alexander of Tralles and the Arab writers like Abulcassis are among the most important contributions to the medicine of {410} their time. The text-books on surgery of such men as Theodoric, Hugo of Lucca, the Four Masters, William of Salicet and Guy de Chauliac are landmarks in the history of a great surgical era. All of these were reprinted usually in magnificent editions during Columbus' Century. Without such reprinting at a cost of time and money that we can scarcely understand, many of these precious treasures of the history of medicine and surgery would almost surely have been lost. Certainly very few of them would have remained in the manuscript forms in which they then existed and at most, only in seriously mutilated conditions. There have been several centuries since when they would have been utterly neglected, for almost no hint of their value survived and there was an impression prevalent that no one knew anything either about medicine or surgery during the Middle Ages at all worthy of preservation. This publication of the old text-books gave an impetus to the surgeons of the time that brought about a great new era in surgery, though there were other important factors at work in producing this. Above all the development of anatomy made for a corresponding development in surgery and by increasing men's knowledge of the tissues through which operations had to be made, added to their confidence and decreased the mortality of surgical intervention. The magnificent hospitals of the time are of themselves the best possible evidence of proper care for patients, not alone in a medical, but also surgical way. It cannot be too often repeated that whenever hospitals are well built, properly cared for and suitably maintained, there is sure to be good medical practice and a fine development of surgery; whenever hospitals are neglected, medical and surgical practice both sink to a very low standard. Hospital construction reached a very high plane during the Renaissance period, only to sink afterwards, as did every other constructive effort for humanitarian purposes, to what Jacobsohn, the German historian of hospitals and care for the ailing, calls an indescribable level of degradation. Literally, the worst hospitals in the world's history were erected at the end of the eighteenth and the beginning of the nineteenth century. Hospital organization and maintenance inevitably sank in the same way. A corresponding decadence in medical and surgical practice could {411} not help but occur,--fortunately to be followed by the progress of our own time. There are many, however, who seem to think that because the twentieth century is so far ahead of the early nineteenth it must be correspondingly in advance of preceding centuries. This assumption constitutes the most important reason for the very common failure in our time to understand properly the history of medicine and surgery as well, indeed, as that of every phase of science. This was the period when gunpowder began to be used extensively in the operations of war and it is not surprising that a great deal of attention was given to gunshot surgery. We have four books, treatises in their way on gunshot wounds, that were written at this time by men of large experience. They made mistakes of course, there is no period in the world's history, even our own, when men have not made mistakes, but the surgeons of Columbus' Century accumulated an immense number of observations and gradually worked out a rather valuable set of suggestions with regard to the treatment of various kinds of wounds. At the beginning of the century they made the mistake of thinking that bullets caused both poisoned and burned wounds, and they were over-anxious to treat these imaginary consequences rather than the mechanical effects produced in their passage. They gradually worked out their problems however, even using experiment in order to show the effects of wounds. Braunschweig, Felix Würtz, De Vigo and Ferri are the classics of the time on gunshot wounds and their books have probably been more read in our generation than in any other since the end of the sixteenth century. Nothing is indeed more surprising than the recognition of the value of the observations made by these old-time surgeons which has come in the last twenty years. The greatest of the surgeons of Columbus' Century is the Frenchman, Ambroise Paré, who has come to be spoken of as the Father of Modern Surgery. He well deserves the title if we restrict it definitely to the modern time and do not conclude, as so many do, that there had been no surgery since the classical period, for, of course, there was a very great era of surgery during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, but as is the way with humanity a period of decadence occurred, {412} followed by another upward phase in the curve of history of which in his time Paré is the apex. It is to him that we owe the treatment of gunshot wounds by simple water dressings, or at most by aromatics. When he began his work they were treating gunshot wounds as if they were poisoned and burned wounds by pouring boiling oil along the track of the bullet. Paré ran out of oil on an historical occasion but found that the wounded left untreated recovered with less pain and complications than those subjected to the heroic remedy. He recognized the mistake and had the genius to correct it properly. He reinvented the ligature, though, of course, it had been in use a number of times before and had gone out because of the tendency to produce sepsis involved in it, and because so often secondary hemorrhage occurred from the coming away of the ligature in the suppuration which ensued. He deserves, as do several others, the credit of real invention in its use. Paré himself speaks of this discovery, which he made just at the close of Columbus' Century, as an inspiration which came to him through Divine Grace. In nearly every department of surgery Paré left his mark. He was a thoroughly practical surgeon. He suggested, as did also Maggi, the Italian surgeon at this time, exarticulation as an important mode of amputation. This consisted of the removal of an injured limb or a gangrenous member at the joint just above, because in this way there was less danger of complications and a better stump could be obtained for subsequent use. In order to demonstrate that gunshots did not make a burned wound he demonstrated that when balls are fired even into a bag of gunpowder it does not explode. Maggi [Footnote 43] independently made this same observation but went further and showed also that shot do not melt when they strike a hard surface and that balls of wax that are fired do not spread out {413} as if the wax were melted. This series of experiments made to demonstrate certain valuable points in gunshot surgery is quite worthy of the most modern time and indicates well the thoroughly scientific spirit that was abroad at this period. Paré also suggested that cut tendons should be sewed, the ends being carefully brought together and that no portion of the tongue should be removed after injury, but the parts should be brought together, for there was great power of healing in this organ. He advised the cutting of the uvula with a ligature gradually made tighter and he, as well as Franco, devised an apparatus to fill up the cleft in the bone of a defective palate and other similar mechanical appliances. [Footnote 43: Anyone who doubts the ability of the men of this time to discuss a practical scientific question from a thoroughly scientific standpoint with experimental demonstrations and close reasoning, should read Gurlt's account of Maggi's experiments with gunshot, and the German surgeon's comparison of the conclusions of this colleague of the early sixteenth century with the facts brought out by the discussion of the same subject after the Franco-German War of 1871 and the experiments which were made just afterwards along the same line.] [Illustration: HOLBEIN, DR. WILLIAM BUTTS ] Indeed from the mechanical side of surgery Paré is the most interesting. Orthopedics, that is the treatment mechanical and surgical of deformed children, in order to bring about their cure or at least the lessening of their deformity, is generally supposed to be new, but there are many suggestions for it in the Renaissance period. Helferich in his _"Geschichte der Chirurgie"_ in Puschmann's _"Handbuch"_ says, for instance, that Paré's orthopedic armamentarium was rather extensive. He used various apparatus and specially designed shoes with bandages in order to bring on the over-correction of club foot. He treated flat foot in various ways and particularly by the use of special shoes. He invented a corset with holes in it for ventilation to be worn for various torsions of the spine and other spinal deformities. He and Fallopius taught the value of resections for joint troubles of various kinds and even for deformities. Paré declared that _genu valgum,_ that is knock-knees, were due to similar causes as those which produced club foot, or at least that the affections were related. A very interesting incident in his experience is related by Paré in his memoirs with regard to one of these surprising cases of deep injury to the brain which seem inevitably fatal, yet the patient survives. It is, as suggested by Dr. Mumford, a replica of the well-known Harvard crowbar case, the most famous in American surgery, in which a quarry man recovered from his injury in spite of the fact that a tamping iron had passed completely through his head from beneath the chin upwards, coming out through the top of the skull. {414} The specimens from the case, secured long afterwards at the time of the man's death, may still be seen in the Harvard Museum. Paré's case was very similar but concerns a very important individual. Francis of Lorraine, Duke of Guise, was wounded before Boulogne, "with a thrust of a lance, which entered above the right eye, towards the nose, and passed out on the other side between the ear and the back of the neck, with so great a violence that the head of the lance, with a piece of wood, was broken and remained fast; so that it could not be drawn out save with extreme force with smith's pincers. Yet, notwithstanding the violence of the blow, which was not without fracture of bones, nerves, veins and arteries, and other parts torn and broken, my lord, by the grace of God, was healed." Without the corroboration of the possibility of this by our modern case, it is probable that there would be serious doubts as to it. The bone surgery of the Renaissance period is particularly interesting. Fallopius declared for the preservation of the periosteum of the bone just as far as was possible whenever there was bone disease or injury. We know now that the periosteum in healthy condition will bring about regeneration of bone, and it was evidently because of clinical observation of the satisfactory improvement that occurred in cases when the periosteum was interfered with just as little as possible that brought Fallopius to this conclusion. Their treatment of fractures was excellent and they secured good results. It was during this time that the older methods of using force in the reduction of dislocations yielded to the maxim that joints should be restored along the same path through which the dislocation took place. A series of surgeons at this time, notably Massa, Ingrassias and Vigo, wrote about spinal disease, describing "penetrating corruption" of the spine, persistent suppuration and the subsequent deformity, using the term _"ventositas spinae,"_ and others that would indicate their interest in what we know as Pott's Disease. Vigo described fractures of the inner table of the skull when the outer table is unbroken, and Argelata described depression without fracture as occurring in young folks. Considerable valuable advance was made in the treatment of fractures of the skull and injuries of the brain. Vigo {415} brought back the use of the crown trephine and did much to make the instrument popular. A great many surgeons invented a variety of instruments for lifting up depressed bone, or for removing fragments, and each one was sure that his particular type of instrument was the best to use. It is interesting to read Helferich's "History of Surgery" in Puschmann's _"Handbuch"_ on these and other points, because they are arranged in the order in which the discoveries and rediscoveries and inventions and reinventions were made. The Renaissance is particularly full of interesting surgical history. The late effects of brain injury, dementia, deafness and various forms of paralyses were carefully studied by such men as Fallopius, Paré and Della Croce. Various phases of surgery were taken up and discussed that are often supposed to be much more modern. The whole question of the transfusion of blood, for instance, attracted wide attention at this time. Magnus Pegelius of Rostock suggested that the artery of one patient should be fastened directly to the artery of another patient in order to bring about transfusion. The use of this method of treatment, after large losses of blood or in case of anaemia, is mentioned by a number of men. At least as much was hoped for from it as in our time from opotherapy. Jerome Cardan went farther than any in what he looked for from the transfusion of blood. He always saw the possibility of mystical results and his suggestion was that the transfusion of blood might bring about a change in the morals of individuals. It was even said that the use of animal's blood in the same way might bring about an endowment of the human individual with certain animal qualities of disposition. This is quite as absurd yet quite as reasonable as many of our surgical attempts at the reform of criminals by operation on their brains. In 1539 Benedictus noted the occurrence of hemophilia or bleeders' disease. This had been noticed before in the Middle Ages, but had been lost sight of. With regard to varicose veins the Renaissance abandoned the older methods of operation and suggested the use of bandages. Savonarola, the grandfather of Savonarola the Dominican, who was burnt to death in Florence, described various forms of bandages and suggested rest in the prone position {416} with the feet higher than the head for the relief of discomfort. Savonarola was much interested in the correction of deformities and classifies rather carefully the different forms of gibbosity of the spine, forward, backward and to the side, and suggests their treatment with bandages that may be put on when soft and pliable, but which harden after their application. Paré at the end of the century used a corset made of very thin perforated iron plates which he insisted should be well padded. This should be changed every three months and its shape often altered so as to suit the growth of the body and the changes brought about by itself. Some of the developments of surgical technique at this time are extremely interesting because they illustrate that accurate attention to detail and inventive ability in surgery that is usually supposed to be reserved for a much later time. Paré, for instance, invented a whole series of special apparatus for nearly every phase of corrective surgery, many of which have been mentioned. Fallopius insisted on bringing the muscles of the neck together and retaining them in position by sutures whenever they were severed, because results were nearly always excellent and function was restored. Every important surgeon of the time emphasized the sewing of severed tendons. Vidus Vidius invented a gold or silver tube to be used after tracheotomy in order to permit breathing through it, and suggested the use of this instrument also after injuries of the larynx. Monteux devised a magnet to aid in the extraction of swallowed iron objects that were caught in the throat. All the specialties developed wonderfully at this time. The story of the Caesarean operation attests the evolution of obstetrics. In 1500 Jacob Nufer, a veterinarian, performed this operation successfully on his own wife, and a number of others followed the example until within twenty-five years after the close of our period, Rousset counts up his cases of the operation as 15. Gynaecology and obstetrics always develop together, and Weyer, the Dutch physician and surgeon, who did so much to rid the world of the witchcraft delusion and point out its connection with what we know as hysterical manifestations, wrote a text-book on gynaecology, and Caspar {417} Wolff laid the deep foundations of the science of gynaecology at this time. Würtz, who comes after our period, but was deeply influenced by it, and who must indeed be considered as a follower of Paracelsus, insisted very much on the simple treatment of wounds and emphatically opposed the common custom of "thrusting clouts and rags, balsam, oil and salve into them." Such teaching would have much to do with making advances in gynaecology and obstetrics possible. Cabrol advised the removal of the breast for cancer and insisted on its complete removal and also of a part of the pectoral muscle, if that seemed to the operator to be necessary, because of actual or apparent involvement. Cabrol also declared that wounds of the heart were not necessarily fatal and gives the details of one which he himself had treated and had afterwards seen at autopsy, death having taken place from another condition. He mentions the fact that stags' hearts had been found in which there were definite indications of healed wounds so that the long-time tradition as to the fatality of heart wounds is not absolute. Della Croce taught that blood or pus or other fluid should be emptied out of the thorax by aspiration. He suggested the use of a cupping glass or a syringe, or in case of necessity even of the mouth for this purpose. He advised the placing of a metal tube in the thorax for drainage purposes. Arculanus advised the opening of empyemata by a perforation of the thorax that would permit drainage. If one had opened spontaneously and become chronic, a lower opening for better drainage should be made. Nor were they less ingenious in their suggestions as to surgical intervention in conditions within the abdomen. Riolanus explained ileus as thoroughly as anyone has ever done it and recognized exactly what the condition was and the only way by which it could be treated. Paré advised the letting out of gas from over-distended intestines when these could not easily be returned to the abdomen. Fioravanti reported a case of splenectomy with the recovery of the patient. All sorts of bougies for strictures were invented, and many suggestions as to instrumental relief in difficult strictures made. Savonarola suggested the extirpation of _ranula,_ evidently {418} after having had the experience that the mere emptying of this cyst of the gland beneath the tongue is practically always followed by the refilling of it. He gave the technique of puncture for ascites and has some interesting details of cases, including one in which a fall led to the traumatic evacuation of the fluid with subsequent cure. He recommended the puncture of the pleural cavity for pleural effusion, and above all for empyema whenever the case was in serious condition. A little bit later, Berengar of Carpi, who is usually considered much more important in anatomy than in surgery, discussed the question of fracture of the skull by _contrecoup,_ evidently after considerable experience. He detailed some cases of _extirpatio uteri_ for procidentia and developed the technique of inunctions of mercury for lues. Whether he was the first to do this or not we are not sure. There is no doubt that his practice attracted wide attention. He was visited by patients from all over the world and was summoned on consultations even to great distances in order to see members of the nobility. There probably never has been a more important discovery in therapeutics than the use of mercury for specific disease, and the men of this time to whom must be attributed the development of this phase of therapeutics deserve the highest praise. It required the most careful, patient, prolonged observation, and this was successfully given. While gunshot wounds were becoming so frequent as to claim much attention, wounds from swords and other sharp instruments causing ugly disfigurements were rather common. Cosmetic surgery attracted attention. It might be thought that owing to their ignorance of aseptic surgery there would be no possibility of any great development of plastic surgery at this time. As a matter of fact, however, not a little was done that was of great significance for the correction of disfigurements due to injury and unsightly congenital defects or scars after disease. A number of procedures for the correction of harelip and of cleft palate have already been noted. Just at the beginning of Columbus' Century the technique of the Brancas, father and son, for the restoration of noses that had been lost by injury or disease attracted wide attention. Their method was to make the new nose from the skin of the arm, {419} lifting a flap from the inner portion of the upper arm, fastening it to the forehead and bandaging the hand firmly on top of the head so as to keep the flap in place, fed by the circulation of the arm until it had obtained a firm hold, when the attachment to the arm was cut and the nose fashioned from the living tissue thus obtained. Vianeo and Aranzi both described methods of forming the nose, and it was suggested that a portion of the skin of the forehead might be used for that purpose. Defects of the lips and eyelids were cured by slipping tissues over and by freshening the edges and bringing them together. An extremely interesting surgical writer of the beginning of the sixteenth century is Michele Angelo Biondo, sometimes known by his Latin name of Blondus. There are some passages in his writings with regard to the use of warm water as the only proper dressing for wounds that are rather startling. He tells of some physicians of his time who, in place of liniments and all the various applications that are made by the "wax-dealers," simply wash off their wounds with warm water. He adds that these physicians insist that a great many surgical patients are not killed by their disease so much as by the custom of allowing them only small amounts of food and the unfortunate effect produced on them by the applications to their wounds. He adds further that these men are not wont to treat patients suffering from fevers by keeping them on a light diet, but on the contrary they give them wine and nourishing food instead of slops (ptisans). His comment is that this sensible method of supporting treatment unfortunately does not make much headway in the profession. Apparently it was too simple and natural to appeal to the physician of the time. He adds with fine irony, "It is said to be preferable to die methodically than to live empirically." Gurlt in his _"Geschichte der Chirurgie"_ (Berlin, 1898), to whom I owe most of what is here said of the work of these old surgeons, gives some further details of Biondo's treatment of wounds. After the staunching of the bleeding, the wound was to be cleansed and then covered with _oleum abjetinum,_ very probably oil of turpentine, one part to two parts of oil of roses. With regard to the use of water in the treatment of {420} wounds, Biondo said: "The most experienced of the older physicians held water in such dread that they would scarcely use it in removing dirt from the neighborhood of wounds. I myself, however, having seen the wonderful effect of water in wounded parts, cannot help but be amazed at its super-celestial virtue." In spite of this strong declaration, Biondo in his book gives chapters on all the old methods of treating wounds and the various applications that were supposed to work wonders in bringing about healing. The consequence was that the water doctrine was pushed into the background and probably attracted very little attention. Here was the germ of a great discovery, the use of boiled water, evidently with some experience behind it, and yet it was to remain untried, its true value unappreciated until four centuries later. Paracelsus, who brought about the revolution in medicine at this time, worked almost as great a change with regard to surgery. At least the principles that he laid down were as startlingly different from much of those accepted in his time and strikingly like those we have come to accept in our time. He insisted that to as great an extent as possible wounds should be left to nature, for there was a definite tendency to cure. He inveighed strongly against meddlesome surgery and declared that not a little of the subsequent complications in wounds were due to misdirected efforts at cure of them. He talked about _pestilence_ due to wounds, and declared that he had seen it spread epidemically from one patient to another in hospital wards. He discussed pyaemia as _Wundsucht,_ that is, an infectious disease produced from a wound. Paracelsus described gangrene and proclaimed its epidemic character. He is the first from whom we have a careful study of the effects of lightning and almost the first who believed that it was possible for a man to be struck by lightning and yet not be killed or even fatally injured. In general, the ideas of this time were not nearly so distant from our own as some of the intermediate periods have been. Fallopius described union by first intention as resembling that which occurred between two waxed surfaces when they were brought together in parallel lines and adhered. {421} Würtz described a wound fever, evidently erysipelas, and warned about the possibility of its becoming epidemic. Arceo, known also by his Latin name of Francisco Arceus, a Spanish surgeon, born near the end of the fifteenth century, illustrates the vitality of surgery in Spain at this time. He has a number of interesting surgical suggestions and has this to say with regard to club foot. The foot should be soaked thoroughly for thirty days in warm water in which some cereal has been cooked. Then the surgeon, taking the lame foot, should exert all his force to put it back into its due position and the form that he desires. This can usually be accomplished without difficulty or delay, partly because of the preceding softening of the tissues, but above all because of the tender age and soft tissues of the child. Then a bandage should be used to maintain the foot in this position until the correction becomes permanent. Ambroise Paré, as I have said, accomplished similar results, but he also used a number of forms of apparatus for the cure of club foot and for the prevention of contractures in the joints as a consequence of paralysis. He is the first surgeon whom we know to have interested himself in artificial hands, arms and legs for those deprived by amputation of members and the first to employ artificial eyes. Fabricius of Aquapendente, born in Columbus' period, but doing his work afterwards, recommends massage and bandaging for _pes varus_ and an iron shoe with side pieces for _pes valgus._ He made the correction gradual. He said, "I talk from experience, as I have had much to do with crooked legs, feet and backs and have made them straight and proper." That Germany was not without the distinctive spirit of the time by thoughtful work in surgery is made clear through the writings of Hugo von Pfolspeundt, which were found only a few years ago. In what relates to the mechanics of surgery he made many practical suggestions and inventions. For harelip he suggested that stitches should be placed on the mucous surface as well as on the skin surface, after the edges of the cleft had been freshened in order to be brought closely together and held in coaptation. He also suggested the use of a permanent weight extension for fractures and for certain {422} injuries of the joints. Perhaps his most interesting surgical development for us is a description of a silver tube with flanges to be inserted in the intestines when there were large wounds, or when the intestines had been severed, the ends being brought together carefully over the tube which was allowed to remain in situ. Pfolspeundt said that he had often seen these tubes used and the patient live for many years afterwards. This is an early form of what is known as the Murphy button in our time, though it was not the first suggestion of a mechanical device to aid the repair of intestinal injuries. One of the latest mediaeval surgeons had employed the trachea of an animal as the tube over which the wounded intestines were brought together. This became disintegrated after a while in the secretions, but remained intact until after thorough agglutination of the intestines had occurred. Pfolspeundt was not an educated man and did not even write his own German tongue with correctness, not to say elegance. He was just a practical devotee of surgery, probably not even a regularly practising physician, and yet his writings show how much there was that he knew of technical details, extremely important for surgical practice, that are usually supposed to be of much later origin. After all, some of our own distinguished surgeons have not been educated men in any sense of the word, and there has sometimes been the feeling that a surplus of information of what had been accomplished just before his time, sometimes deterred the physician, as well as the surgeon, from thinking independently about problems connected with practice and reaching valuable practical conclusions. Besides Pfolspeundt there are at least two other German surgeons of this time whose writings have come down to us that deserve a place in a history of distinguished accomplishment in Columbus' Century. One of these is Jerome of Brunschwig, whose name is spelled in many different ways, and the other is Hans von Gerssdorff. Brunschwig, or Braunschweig, used to be considered the oldest writer on surgery in German until the comparatively recent discovery of Hugo von Pfolspeundt's manuscript. He published his surgery in 1497, and it went through nine editions in a few years. It {423} contains a number of woodcuts, and these probably helped to give it its popularity. Brunschwig was very proud of his calling as a surgeon, and quotes what Galen, Rhazes, Abulcassis, Lanfranc and Guy de Chauliac had declared should be the qualities possessed by a surgeon and insisted particularly that he "should have deep knowledge and trained observation of anatomy, so that whenever it may be necessary to cut or cauterize, he shall know exactly in what regions to do it, so as to do just as little damage as possible and that he shall be capable of diagnosing joint conditions and know what important organs may be injured by bullet or other wounds with weapons and be able to judge of the danger of cutting down for their removal." He recommends above all that the young surgeon should invariably call an older and more experienced colleague, or even two, in consultation, if the case is very difficult, and he has doubts about it. Some of his details of technique are very interesting as showing how carefully he thought out even minor problems connected with the practice of surgery. For instance, he says as to wounds of the face, that as "the beauty of the countenance is what above every other thing makes men beautiful, the surgeon must take the greatest care that no ill-looking or ugly union should take place in it, and just as far as possible the parts should be brought together and kept in apposition, with as delicate means as possible, until healing has taken place." On the other hand he does not hesitate to discuss even fractures of the breast-bone, and says that if the patient expectorates blood it is a bad sign, for almost surely some of the arteries lying under the bone have been ruptured. He suggests position to help in the correction of deformity and displacement of the bone, and mentions that some of the older surgeons sought to raise it up by means of large dry cups. In fractures of the ribs similar recommendations were made, but Brunschwig was of the opinion that they did more harm than good. He recommended bandages, thickened with albumen, or leather moulded to the part, and he covered the thorax with a large binder. {424} There is no doubt at all that he knew very well the books of his predecessors and that he had thoughtfully adapted them in the way that had been taught him by his forty years of experience. He begins his book with a dedication to the praise of God and His Mother, not forgetting the honorable magistrates of the city of Strassburg. He says in the preface that he is tempted to write his book because there are many young, inexpert masters of surgery in the care of wounds who do not understand it and consequently inflict much harm on mankind. He hopes to be able to instruct them and also others who, living in the smaller towns and villages, have not had the opportunity to see the practice of surgery and yet must be able to help the ailing and injured. The picture of the position of the surgeon of the time is rather interesting. The next of the German surgeons of this period was Hans von Gerssdorff, who practised in Strassburg. His well-known work is the "Field Book of Surgery," in which he gives some of the experiences of long years as a military and municipal physician. The book was issued with a series of woodcuts, some of them anatomical but most of them surgical in interest, which are very well executed. His illustration of an amputation is the first one of this subject ever made, and there are many pictures of his instruments. We have only room to note some of his discussions of subjects usually not supposed to be thought of in his time. He discusses wounds of the liver, especially such as occur from large wounds of the abdomen, and says that if the liver substance itself has been wounded the issue will surely be fatal. If the liver is not wounded, yet appears in the wound, it should be replaced and the external wounds sewed. His discussions of wounds of the deep organs are all in about this same conservative strain. Gerssdorff has much to say with regard to contractures and anchyloses. When these deformities are to be corrected, the tissues around the joints should be softened by means of embrocations and the rubbing in of old oil, and the contractures gradually overcome by manipulation or by instrumental means. He invented a number of apparatus for stretching such contractures, and four of the large pictures reproduce them. They are partly in the shape of armor or {425} splints so arranged that they can be bent or made straight by means of a screw. There is also a screw arrangement for bringing about extension in various directions. He did not believe very much in going too slowly about the correction, for he declares that most of the contractures and anchyloses can be overcome in a few hours. In discussing amputations he mentions the use of anaesthetics by the older surgeons, and quotes from Guy de Chauliac the method of anaesthesia employed by him, but he thinks that better results are obtained without the use of such material. He had never employed anaesthetics himself, though he had performed over 100 amputations. Perhaps his Teutonic people were able to stand pain better than the patients of the Latin countries. The refusal to use anaesthetics is very interesting at this time, for the practice gradually disappeared and was forgotten. Gerssdorff warns particularly against the use of opium alone as a means of preventing pain, and Chauliac had done the same thing earlier. The spirit that the surgeons of the time were expected to have is very well illustrated by a passage from John Hall, written shortly after the close of Columbus' Century in his "Historian Expostulation," which is referred to more at length in the chapter on Medicine. He said, "I would therefore that all Chirurgiens should be learned, so would I have no man think himself learned otherwise than chiefly by experience, for learning in Chirurgery consisteth not in speculation only, nor in practice only, but in speculation well practised by experience." Dr. Hall made a series of rhyming verses which were meant to be helpful to the young surgeon to enable him to recall his duties readily. He urged him above all never to treat a case unless he understood it, when in doubt to call in a consultant and advises him after consultation to console the patient, but to talk seriously to some of the patient's friends. Above all not to disturb the patient's feelings. Among other excellent bits of good advice he insists very much on the knowledge of anatomy, and two of his rhyming stanzas regarding it seem worth while quoting to show the spirit in which he wrote: {426} "He is no true chirurgien That cannot show by arte The nature of every member Each from other apart. For in that noble handy work There doth nothing excell The knowledge of anatomy If it be learned well." In a chapter of this kind, almost needless to say, it is impossible to give any formal account of the surgery of the time. All that I have been able to do is to point out that in every country in Europe surgeons were thinking for themselves and facing most of our modern surgical problems and finding not inept solutions. There is scarcely a phase of our modern surgery from antisepsis and anaesthesia to technical details of various kinds, through plastic surgery, the use of apparatus, manipulation and many forms of instruments, which cannot be found in the surgical text-books of this time. Gurlt in his great "History of Surgery" has taken some 400 pages of a large octavo volume, with the excerpts in rather small type, to tell the story of the surgery of Columbus' Century. Helferich occupies several hundred pages of Puschmann's "Handbook of the History of Medicine" with the details of what was done by the period's surgeons. The specialties developed, and in all of them important contributions were made. The great independent, seeking temper of the era is as noteworthy in surgery as it is in every other department of intellectual effort at this time. {427} BOOK III THE BOOK OF THE WORDS CHAPTER I LATIN LITERATURE The Latin literature produced during Columbus' period, or at least the books written in Latin, are literally legion. There has seldom been an age of greater literary productivity, and in every department men wrote in Latin. It was the universal language of scholars. Every educated man understood it; whenever he wrote for educated men he employed it. When scholars of different languages met it was a ready resource. This custom did not begin to lose its hold until after the end of Columbus' Century, though it received a severe shock from Paracelsus' refusal to use anything but the vernacular and was given its death blow by the popularization of even theological subjects in the vernacular during the reformation movement. Latin continued for two centuries after Luther's time to be the medium of communication between scholars, but its use gradually went out in the depths of the degradation of scholarship in the eighteenth century. There are many who apparently can see only unmixed good in the gradual supersession of Latin by the various vernacular languages, but a universal academic language had many advantages. As a rule, an educated man needed to know only one language besides his own at this time. Practical education for scientific purposes, and above all for law and medicine and philosophy and theology, was very much simplified. Now the student of science must know, as a rule, at least two languages besides his own. In recent years we have come to recognize the need of a universal language, and hence the {428} successive waves of interest in newly-invented languages. Latin, however, besides its practical usefulness as a common tongue, rewarded the student of it by opening up to him a precious literature which made it well worth his while to have devoted time and labor to its acquisition. The most fertile period of modern Latin was undoubtedly the era of the Renaissance from 1450 to 1550, yet of all this Latin writing of Columbus' Century very little endures in the sense of being read for its own sake in our time. The old books have many of them gone up in value, but that is mainly because of their special significance in the history of their particular science or in the development of printing. Books like Vesalius' _"Fabrica Humani Corporis"_ have become classics that every scholarly student of medicine must have seen, though in practical value they have been superseded by later books. Some of the philosophical and theological works of the period and a number of the mystical and spiritual works are still read for their own sake, but with certain exceptions, like Thomas à Kempis' works and others that we shall mention, these are rather curiosities that appeal to the erudition of the special student than real living books to be consulted. An immense amount of Latin verse was written at this time. Sannazaro, one of the ablest members of the Academy of Naples, wrote a poem comparable in size to Virgil's AEneid on "The Birth of Christ." This is only one instance. There were literally hundreds of scholars at this time who thought because they could write Latin verses in which the rules of grammar and prosody were not violated, and above all if they could use the words that had been employed by their favorite Latin authors and repeat felicitously the expressions of Virgil and Horace and the classic poets generally, that they were making literature at least if not poetry. Men have always had such illusions, have always written what was only of interest for their own time and have had the pleasure and satisfaction derived from the occupation of mind and the anticipations of reputation and glory. None of this Latin poetry has survived, and indeed it is only a very rare specialist in Latin literature, and usually one who has devoted himself to Renaissance Latin, who is likely to know anything about it. Undoubtedly some {429} of it was eminently scholarly. There is no doubt either that not a little of it was of fair poetic quality. It was all, however, of distinctly academic character, and it has gone into the limbo of forgotten writing, which now contains such an immense amount of material. There is probably nothing which shows so clearly that the writer, and above all the poet, is born and not made, that it is originality of thought and not mode of expression that makes for enduring literature, as the fate of so much of the product of these Renaissance writers. On the other hand, there is nothing that better illustrates the value of originality of thought apart from style than the preservation as enduring influences upon mankind of a series of books in which style was probably the last thing that the author thought about, and the mode of expression had almost no place in his mind compared to his desire to set forth his thought effectively. Three of the books that have lived from this time and will, so far as human judgment can foresee, always continue to live, are Thomas à Kempis' _"De Imitatione Christi"_ Sir Thomas More's "Utopia" and St. Ignatius of Loyola's _"Exercitia Spiritualia"_ All three of them were written in Latin because that was the language in which they would appeal to most readers at the time. All three of the authors probably thought nothing at all about the language that they were using except for its convenience for others, inasmuch as it could be read by the men of all nations whom they most wished to reach. All of them are direct, simple, even forcible in their modes of expression, but there was surely little filing done and probably very little rewriting. Thomas à Kempis' book, almost without a doubt, flowed from his pen just in the way that his words flowed out of his full heart in the spiritual conferences that he gave to his brethren. There was probably never a thought given to verbal nicety except to secure as simple an expression of his overflowing ideas as possible. The "Utopia" is written in correct, but not classical Latin, and it is very likely that Erasmus would have found many faults of usage in it, while the Ciceronians of that time would surely have been horrified at the very thought of having to read such Latin and would scarcely be able to understand how anyone could write {430} such unCiceronian phrases. As was said of Michelangelo, St Ignatius wrote things rather than words, and the "Spiritual Exercises" are a mine of thought, but not a model of style in any sense. There has been question as to whether the "Imitation of Christ" was really written by Thomas à Kempis, but that question has now, I think, been definitely settled. Everything points to the authorship by the brother of the Common Life, who was born in the little town of Kempen and lived some seventy years in the Monastery of St. Agnes, acting as spiritual adviser to his brethren, giving them consolation and advice in times of trial, directing their thoughts always to the higher life. There are many Flemicisms, that is, Latin usages which were common in the Netherlands of this time, in most of the manuscripts. It has been argued that since these do not exist in all the manuscripts, the argument founded on them is not absolute. The preponderance of evidence, however, is for the Flemish copies as being nearer the original, and the absence of these special modes of expression in other manuscripts only indicates that a great many copyists of the time, particularly in Italy and France, were quite aware of these imperfections of language and endeavored to correct them out of their better knowledge of Latin. This only serves to show how little the style of the book had to do with its popularity and that it was the thought that appealed to the world of the time and has continued ever since to give the work wide popularity. À Kempis himself was born in the fourteenth century, but as he lived to be past ninety, dying in 1471, more than twenty years of his life, during which he was active and in possession of his faculties, were passed in our period. The "Imitation of Christ" was probably written some twenty years before Columbus' Century began, but did not take the definitive form in which we know it until about the beginning of our period. It has a right to a place, therefore, among the great works of the time. I have sometimes suggested that three men, whose names begin with _k_ sounds, accomplished magnificent broadenings of human knowledge at this time. Columbus discovered a new continent, Copernicus revealed a new universe and à Kempis unveiled a wonderful new world in man's own soul. {431} He did as much for the microcosm man as Copernicus for the cosmos or Columbus for our earth. Hitherto unexplored regions were laid bare and the beginning of the mapping out of them was made. More than either of his great contemporaries, however, à Kempis finished his work. Very little has been added to what he was able to accomplish for man's self-revelation in his little book. [Illustration: CIMA DA CONEGLIANO, CHRIST (DRESDEN)] The work did not spring into popularity at once, though it gradually began to be known and used by chosen spirits in many places, and some of the greatest of the men of the time learned to appreciate it. It is a charming testimony to the fact that a Kempis himself first did and then taught that he cared so little for the reputation attached to his work, that his name was not directly associated with it, and in the course of time there came to be some doubt about its authorship. "If thou wilt profitably know and learn," he had said, "desire to be unknown." It is one of the most difficult of tasks, but the humble brother of the Common Life who had written a sublimely beautiful book had learned it. He had written other books, indeed there are probably at least a dozen attributed to him on reasonably good evidence, yet had said, "In general we all need to be silent more than to speak, indeed there are few who are too slow to speak." None of his other books are quite equal to the "Imitation," yet many of them, as "The Little Garden of Roses" and "The Valley of Lilies," are well worth reading and exhibit many of the traits of charming simplicity, marvellous insight and psychological power that have given his greatest work its reputation. All down the centuries since men have admired and praised the "Imitation." It has not been a classic in the sense of a book that everyone praises and very few read, but on the contrary it has been the familiar reading of a great many of the chosen spirits among mankind ever since. To have been the favorite book of Sir Thomas More, Bossuet and Massillon, of Loyola and Bellarmine, of John Wesley, Samuel Johnson, Lamartine, La Harpe, Michelet, Leibnitz and Villemain is indeed a distinction. Nor has it appealed only to Christians, for men like Renan and Comte almost in our own time have praised it very highly. Far from its reading being confined {432} to scholars by profession or those much occupied with the things of the spirit, we find that it was the favorite reading of General Chinese Gordon, General Wolseley, the late Emperor Frederick and Stanley the explorer. George Eliot shows her deep appreciation of it in "The Mill on the Floss," where she says that "It works miracles to this day, turning bitter waters into sweetness." Sir James Stephen speaks of it as a work "which could not fail to attract notice and which commended itself to all souls driven to despair." The late Lord Russell of Killowen always carried a copy of it with him and used to read a chapter in it every day quite as Ignatius of Loyola had done three centuries and a half before. The frequent surprise is the contrast of the men devoted to it. Pobiedonostseff, the head of the Holy Russian Synod, the power behind the Czar for so long, used to read in it every day. St. Francis de Sales said of "The Imitation," "Its author is the Holy Spirit." Pascal said of it, "One expects only a book and finds a man." De Quincey declared: "Next to the Bible in European publicity and currency this book came forward as an answer to the sighing of Christian Europe for light from heaven." Dr. Samuel Johnson declared that "Thomas à Kempis must be a good book, as the world has opened its arms to receive it." The sentence in it which he repeated most frequently and which evidently had come home to him is "Be not angry that you cannot make others as you wish them to be, since you cannot make yourself as you wish to be." Matthew Arnold, whose religious views might possibly be thought to bias his judgment with regard to it and whose feeling for style might be supposed to be deterred by its lack of finish in language, called the "Imitation" "The most exquisite document after those of the New Testament of all that the Christian spirit has ever inspired." What may be more surprising to some, he even did not hesitate to add that "Its moral precepts are equal to the best ever furnished by the great masters of morals--Epictetus or Marcus Aurelius." Some of the expressions used with regard to the "Imitation" are among the most laudatory that have ever been used of any book. They come from men of all kinds, in all generations, {433} in all nations since, and many of them among the most respected of their time. Fontenelle declared the "Imitation" "the finest book ever issued from the hand of man." Caro, the French philosopher, compares it with other books famous in the same ethical line, only to put it on a pinnacle by itself. "Open the 'Imitation,'" he says, "after having read the _'De Officiis'_ of Cicero or the _'Enchiridion'_ of Epictetus, and you will feel yourself transported into another world as in a moment." Lamennais declared that the "Imitation" "has made more saints than all the books of controversy. The more one reads, the more one marvels. There is something celestial in the simplicity of this wonderful book." Henri Martin, the French historian, declared, "This book has not grown old and never will grow old, because it is the expression of the eternal tenderness of the soul. It has been the consolation of thousands--one might say of millions--of souls." Lamartine in his "Jocelyn" (and it must not be forgotten that Lamartine was an historian and a critic as well as a poet) wrote: "Harassed by an inward strife, I find in the 'Imitation' a new life-- Book obscure, unhonored, like to potter's clay. Yet rich in Gospel truths as flowers in May. Where loftiest wisdom, human and Divine, Peace to the troubled soul to speak, combine." La Harpe, a dramatist as well as a critic, whose "Cours de Littérature" was a standard text-book for so long, was in prison and sadly in need of comfort and consolation when he began to appreciate the "Imitation." There is almost no limit to his praise of it, and praise under these circumstances must indeed be considered to come from the heart. He wrote: "Never before or since have I experienced emotion so violent and yet so unexpectedly sweet--the words, 'Behold I am here,' echoing unceasingly in my heart, awakening its faculties and moving it to the uttermost depths." It is not surprising then to find that Dean Church says of it, "No book of human composition has been the companion of {434} so many serious hours, has been prized in widely different religious communions, has nerved and comforted so many and such different minds--preacher and soldier and solitary thinker--Christians, or even it may be those unable to believe." Dean Milman in his "Latin Christianity" declared "that this book supplies some imperious want in the Christianity of mankind, that it supplied it with a fulness and felicity which left nothing to be desired, its boundless popularity is the one unanswerable testimony." He even has some words of praise for a Kempis' style: "The style is ecclesiastical Latin, but the perfection of ecclesiastical Latin of pure and of sound construction." Dean Plumptre, whose studies of Dante and the great Greek poets gave him so good a right to judge of the place of books in the world's literature, is one of the worshippers at the shrine of the "Imitation." The Rev. Dr. Liddon, the great Greek lexicographer, called it "the very choicest of devotional works, the product of the highest Christian genius and one of the books that have touched the heart of the world." More than this could scarcely be said of any book. Was there ever a chorus of praise quite so harmonious? Did praise ever come from men by whom one could more wish to be praised? Evidently, the "Imitation of Christ" is for all men at all times. It is the poem of our common human nature. When Sir John Lubbock included the "Imitation" in his list of the hundred best books some people expressed surprise. The editor of the _Pall Mall Gazette_ invited the opinions of his readers on the subject, and some of the most distinguished of English churchmen, as well as many English men of distinction, said their praise of it publicly. Archdeacon Farrar, whose sympathies with the fourth book of the "Imitation" would certainly be very slight and whose opposition to many Catholic doctrines that à Kempis received devoutly might possibly be expected to prejudice him somewhat against it, wrote that "If all the books in the world were in a blaze the first twelve I should snatch from the flames would be the Bible, 'The Imitation of Christ,' 'Homer,' 'AEschylus,' 'Thucydides,' 'Tacitus,' 'Virgil,' 'Marcus Aurelius,' 'Dante,' 'Shakespeare,' 'Milton' and 'Wordsworth.'" {435} The men with whom à Kempis is thus placed in association are among the accepted geniuses of literary history before as well as since his time. It would not be difficult to make a sheaf of quotations each one of them scarcely less laudatory than this of Archdeacon Farrar. They come from all manner of men, devout and undevout, bookish and practical, spiritual and worldly, men of wide experience in life, who have done things that the world will not soon forget, and who, if any, have the right to speak for the race as regards the significance of life and what any book can mean for direction and guidance in the living of it and consolation in its trials and difficulties. Lamartine in his "Entretiens Familiers" called it "the poem of the soul," and declared that it "condensed into a few pages the practical philosophy of men of all climates and of all countries who have sought, have suffered, have studied and prayed in their tears ever since flesh suffered and the mind reflected." To adopt his term, the "Imitation" is literally a great poem. It is a creation and it is a vision. The poet is the creator and the seer. The greater he is, the more capable he is of taking the ordinary materials of life and making great poetry of them. The greater the poet, the more of mankind he appeals to. It is the vision of the experiences of man and not of individual men that the poet sees. What all have seen and felt, but none so well expressed is the theme of poetry. The more one reads of the "Imitation," the more one realizes all the truth of this characterization of it as poetry. If one takes passages of it as they have been put into rhythmic sentences the feeling of the poetry in them is brought home very clearly. For instance, this from Chapter XXII of the third book: "Why one has less, another more; Not ours to question this, but Thine With Whom each man's deserts are strictly watched. Wherefore, Lord God, I think it a great blessing Not to have much which outwardly seems worth Praise or glory--as men judge of them." Or if the ode--for such it really is--on Love from the fifth chapter of the third book be read alongside one of the great {436} choruses from the Greek tragedians, as above all some of those of Sophocles in "Antigone" or the "Oedipus at Colonos," the lofty poetic quality will be easier to grasp: "A great thing is love, A great good every way. Making all burdens light, Bearing all that is unequal, Carrying a burden without feeling it. Turning all bitterness to a sweet savor. The noble love of Jesus Impelleth men to good deeds And exciteth them always To desire that which is better. Love will tend upwards Nor be detained By things of earth It would be free. Nothing is sweeter than love, Nothing stronger, nothing higher. Nothing fuller, nothing better Nor more pleasant in heaven or earth. For love is born of God Nor can it rest Except in Him Above all things created. Love is swift, sincere. Pious, pleasant and delightsome. Brave, patient, faithful, Careful, long suffering, manly. Never seeking its own good; For where a man looks for himself He falls away from love." The next most significant book of the Latin literature of the time is Sir Thomas More's "Utopia." Few books are more surprising in the midst of their environment. Probably no one {437} has ever so risen above the social atmosphere around him and breathed the rarefied air of ideal social conditions as More in the "Utopia." It was written under the influence of his first acquaintance with Plato's "Republic" and as a result of his talks with that great French scholar and friend of Erasmus, Peter Giles, or as he is known in the history of scholarship, Aegidius. More discussed not merely literary topics, but the application of the Greek literature that they were both interested in to the contemporary politics of Europe and the social conditions of their time. Not yet thirty years of age, More's powers of observation were at their highest, and his principles of life had not yet been hardened into conventional form by actual contact with too many difficulties. With no experience as yet of government and with the highest ideals of fellowship and unselfishness, he wrote out a wonderful scheme of ideal government by which the happiness of mankind would be attained. He saw clearly through all the social illusions and the social problems, and with almost youthful enthusiasm put forth his solution of all the difficulties he saw. Undoubtedly the "Utopia" is the main literary monument of Sir Thomas More's great genius. Sir Sidney Lee in his "Great Englishmen of the Sixteenth Century" (Scribner's, 1904) declares that "it is as admirable in literary form as it is original in thought. It displays a mind rebelling in the power of detachment from the sentiment and the prejudices which prevailed in his personal environment. To a large extent this power of detachment was bred of his study of Greek literature." There is, perhaps, no greater series of compliments for the significance of the classics in education than the fact that these men of the Renaissance found in the Greek books not only the source of their literature, but also their art and architecture and even their science, and above all were given the breadth of mind to follow the suggestions that they met with. It must not be forgotten, however, that More was also deeply influenced by St. Augustine's _"De Civitate Dei"_ Evident traces of this can be found. It is known that he had been reading the work of the great Latin father of the Church and that he admired him very deeply. Without any narrowness or bigotry, inspired by Augustine's great work, it was a {438} Christian Republic of Plato that the future Lord Chancellor of England sketched for his generation. "Utopia" was published at the end of 1516 in Louvain, then probably the most prominent and undoubtedly the most cosmopolitan centre of academic learning in Europe. There were perhaps 5,000 students at the University there at the moment, and it was one of the large universities of the world. A new edition was published only four months later from a famous press in Paris, and within the year the great scholar-printer, Froben of Basel, produced what we would now call an _édition de luxe_ at the suggestion and under the editorship of Erasmus, and with illustrations by Erasmus' friend, for whom More was to be such a beneficent patron later in England--Hans Holbein. It is not surprising to hear that the book was warmly welcomed by all the scholars of Europe. The epithets which the publishers bestowed on it in the title page, _aureus, saluiatis, festivus_--a golden, wholesome, optimistic book--were adopted from expressions of opinion uttered by some of the best scholars of Europe. Erasmus was loud in his praise of it, it was warmly welcomed in France, it found its way everywhere among the scholars of Italy, it was read, though not too openly, in England, where there was some suspicion of its critical quality as regards English government and where Tudor wilfulness did not brook critical review of its acts. The book was eminently interesting; there probably never has been a _social Tendens_ novel before or since that has been so full of interest. The preliminary chapter of the book is, as Sidney Lee says, "a vivid piece of fiction which Defoe could not have excelled." More relates how he accidentally came upon his scholarly friend, Peter Giles, in the streets of Antwerp in conversation with an old sailor named Raphael or Ralph Hythlodaye. This name means an observer of trifles. More takes advantage of the current interest in the discoveries of the Western Continent by making him a sailor lately returned from a voyage to the New World under the command of Amerigo Vespucci. The name America after Amerigo was just gaining currency at that time and this added to the interest. Ralph had been impressed by the beneficent forms of {439} government which prevailed in the New World. He had also visited England and had noticed social evils there which called for speedy redress. The poor were getting poorer, the rich were getting richer, the degradation of the masses was sapping the strength of the country, the wrong things were in honor and social reform must come, it was hinted, or there would be social revolution. The book contained a fearless exposure of the social evils very commonly witnessed in every country in Europe at that time, though tinged more by More's experience in England than anywhere else. Since its publication, the book has been read in every generation that has taken its social problems seriously. It was not published in England until 1551, but was translated into English again by Bishop Burnet in a form that has made it an English classic. It contains such a surprising anticipation of so many suggestions for the relief of social evils that are now discussed that I have preferred to put a series of quotations from it in the Appendix in order to show how little there is new in human thinking, and above all how a sympathetic genius at any time succeeds in seeing clearly and solving as well the problems of mankind as at any other time, in utter contradiction of the so much talked of evolution that is presumed to bring these problems gradually before the bar of human justice and secure their amelioration. The book is worthy to be placed beside Plato's "Republic," and it will be more read in the near future than probably any other work of similar nature. In our own generation editions of it have been issued in every modern language and a number of editions in English. It is one of the enduring books of mankind that a scholar of any nation cannot afford to confess not having read and in which the social reformer will ever find suggestions for human uplift and the greatest happiness for the greatest number. The third great book of the Latin literature of the century is St. Ignatius's _"Exercitia Spiritualia."_ This is not a book to be read, however, but to be lived. It is a book of material for thought rather than of words to be conned. It has deeply influenced every generation of men ever since. If it had done nothing else but form all the members of his own order ever {440} since, that would be enough of itself to stamp it as a very great human document. It has, however, deeply influenced all the religious orders both of men and women since it was written, and is now the basis of nearly all of the formative exercises on which the modern religious life is based. It is undoubtedly the work of a great spiritual and intellectual genius who above all knew how to suppress himself. There is not a word too much in it, and the one complaint has been of an abbreviation beyond what would make it readily intelligible. Those who have studied it most deeply, however, find no difficulty of understanding, though they recognize the impossibility, unless perhaps after many years of devotion to it, of comprehending all of its precious significance. It is the directions for the spiritual life in shorthand, and it is surprising that a man should have committed it to all the possibilities of misunderstanding in its present form, but its lack of too great detail makes it all the more precious and leaves that room for the expression of the individuality of the one who gives the exercises that is so necessary. The fourth book that deserves a place in any account of the Latin literature of this period is Erasmus' _"Colloquia"_ though doubtless some might plead for a place for the _"Encomium Moriae,"_ which has had an academic immortality at least. The _"Colloquia"_ is eminently a book for scholars written in the elegant Latin that Erasmus could employ so effectively, and it went through many editions in his lifetime and has had many reprints ever since. It was distinctly a book of style rather than of matter and of academic rather than popular interest. Scholars at all times have turned to its pages for refreshment and information and have been regaled by its charming style and its wit. It is entirely too bitter to be always admirable, but many of its satirical parts give an excellent idea, though undoubtedly exaggerated if taken as a picture of the times, of the conditions of education at the moment. It has not been often translated, and hence, in our generally complacent ignorance of Latin, is less known in our time than in any other since its publication. Its career in comparison with the three other volumes of Latin literature in this chapter, its contemporaries, emphasizes the difference between the place of {441} style and thought in the world literature. The scholars of the period doubtless looked upon Erasmus' book as a very triumph of scholarship, a great contribution to world literature. "The Imitation of Christ," "Utopia" and the "Spiritual Exercises" were read originally not for themselves, but for a purpose. These have maintained an active life, however, while at most the _"Colloquia"_ has enjoyed a rather inanimate academic existence. This does not detract from the merit of the book, however, nor from that of Erasmus' other contributions to the Latin literature of the time. Latin was at best an adopted language, however, and the expression of native genius in it could scarcely be expected. The prose has been eminently more fortunate than the verse, and it is to the former, not the latter, that we turn in order to find some of the great contributions of the period to world literature. {442} CHAPTER II ITALIAN LITERATURE As I have said in the Introduction, in spite of the supreme greatness of the artistic products of Columbus' Century, its paintings, sculpture and architecture, the literature of the time was not only not neglected, but occupies a place in the history of culture only second to that of the Periclean age of Athens. For a long time, indeed, the Age of Leo X, as it was called, was considered to be a serious rival in its literary treasures to that marvellous period of Greek thinking and writing. Subsequently the literary world passed through a period of exaggerated critical depreciation of it. There has been, however, a growing tendency in recent years, indeed during the last half century, to restore older appreciation of the literature of this period and to value it highly. In every country in Europe there were books written during this time which not only will never die, but which are part of the familiar reading of the scholars at least of all time. Not that there are not many popular elements in this literature, but its scholarliness has made it a special favorite, and there are not a few books written at this time which no one with any pretence to education would willingly confess to being ignorant of. Ariosto, Machiavelli, Rabelais, Villon, Sir Thomas More, Erasmus, St. Teresa, Marguerite of Navarre and the Pleiades, as well as the Collects of the English Prayer Book, all these have an enduring significance in the realm of world literature that has brought about the publication of editions and translations of them in every cultivated language even in our generation over four centuries after their original production. [Illustration: TITIAN, ARIOSTO ] The Italian literature of the century is especially rich. It would be quite impossible to give it any adequate treatment in a chapter, for this is the Renaissance period, and the literature {443} of the Italian Renaissance has been treated in many volumes. The most important of the writers is undoubtedly Ariosto, who has been much more appreciated by his own people than by other countries, though at times of deep interest in literature he has always had a profound influence on writers beyond the bounds of Italy. Saintsbury, in "The Earlier Renaissance," has summed up his best qualities in some sentences that, considering the distance in time and place and temperament which separate poet and critic, may very well be taken as highest praise. Ariosto, he says, "is very nearly if not quite supreme in more than one respect. It may also be said that he never fails and that this freedom from failure is not due to tame faultlessness or a cowardly absence from the most difficult attempts--that it will go hard--but we must rank him, at lowest, just below the very greatest of all. Such a place is, I believe, his right even on the calculus of those who refuse the historic estimate or at least admit it with grudging. It has been said that as Rabelais he represents the greatest literature of his time penetrated most fully by the extra literary as well as the literary characteristics of that time; and it may be added not merely that few times have been so thoroughly represented, but that few have ever so thoroughly lent themselves to representation." With what is perhaps almost pardonable compatriotic enthusiasm, considering his really great merits as a poet, he has been called the Italian Homer, and his great work, _"Orlando Furioso"_ has been called "the most beautiful and varied and wonderful romantic poem that the literature of the world can boast of." In it are woven together with charming art the two great romantic cycles of Charlemagne and Arthur. It is the poetic apotheosis of chivalry written in wonderful perfection of style and taking form and with marvellous variety of incident. While the great poem has been a favorite rather with the Italians than with foreigners, when one realizes how deeply cultured Italian readers have been as a rule for all the centuries since Ariosto's time, it is probable that no higher compliment than this devotion of his compatriots could be paid to him. The "Orlando" has not been without honor, however, in foreign countries, among those whose opinion is most {444} to be valued. It cast into the shade the numberless poetical romances that had been written during the preceding century. None of the many imitations that it evoked have approached it either in beauty of form or style or in deep underlying human interest. Ariosto knew above all the human heart and had excellent control of pathos. He is especially capable in making the impossible or the improbable seem reasonable. Now, after four centuries, we know that he is of all time and belongs to the culture of all centuries. Modern readers unacquainted with the writings of the older time are often inclined to think that the interests of the older writers were very different from those of humanity to-day and that, as a consequence, the reading of them would surely be a great bore. Even a little reading of Ariosto would show how eminently human and for all time a classic writer is and how literally it is true that he is often a commentary on the morning paper. One or two of Ariosto's comparisons which show his interest in humanity and in life around him will serve to illustrate this. His observation of children is as close as that of Dante: "Like to a child that puts a fruit away When ripe, and then forgets where it is stored, If it should chance that after many a day Thither his step returns where is his hoard. He wonders to behold it in decay. Rotten and spoiled, and richness all outpoured; And what he loved of old with keen delight He hates, spurns, loathes, and flings away in spite." Like Dante, too, he was an observer of animals and noted especially the ways of dogs. "And as we see two dogs the combat wage, Whether by envy moved, or other hate, Approaching whet the teeth, nor yet engage. With eyes askance, and red as coals in grate, Then to their biting come, on fire with rage. With bitter cries, and backs with spite elate, {445} So came with swords and cries and many a taunt Circassia's knight and he of Chiaramont." Ariosto's other poems, besides his Epic, are of minor significance. He wrote a series of satires that are rather chatty essays, on subjects literary and personal, in verse, than satires in our sense of the word. Above all, Ariosto took his own disappointments in life good-humoredly, and his optimism would remind one of Cervantes in certain ways. Garnett in his "History of Italian Literature" (page 151) says, "His lyrical pieces are not remarkable, except one impressive sonnet in which he appears to express compunction for the irregularities of his life: "How may I deem that Thou in heaven wilt hear, O Lord divine, my fruitless prayer to Thee, If for all clamor of the tongue Thou see That yet unto the heart the net is dear? Sunder it Thou, who all behold'st so clear, Nor heed the stubborn will's oppugnancy. And this do Thou perform, ere, fraught with me, Charon to Tartarus his pinnace steer. By habitude of ill that veils Thy light. And sensual lure, and paths in error trod. Evil from good no more I know aright. Ruth for frail soul submissive to the rod May move a mortal; in her own despite To drag her heavenward is work of God." In Italy the _sacre rappresentazioni,_ as the Miracle and Mystery plays were called, had a distinct period of development, though not equal to that of the English, and good specimens of them have not been preserved for us. We have evidence of the influence of them, however, in the fact that some of the scholarly poets of the time wrote plays founded on the myths of the old Olympian religion after the model of some of these mystery plays. Politian's _"Orfeo"_ is perhaps the best example of this. It was little better than an improvisation composed in the short space of two days at Mantua on the {446} occasion of Cardinal Francesco Gonzaga's visit to his native town in 1472, but it marks an epoch in the evolution of Italian poetry. Addington Symonds has even gone so far as to say that "it is the earliest example of the secular drama, containing within the compass of its brief scenes the germ of the opera, the tragedy and the pastoral play." It contained portions that were to be sung as well as to be spoken, and there are episodes of _terza rima,_ Madrigals, a Carnival song, a Ballata as well as the choral passages that are distinctly operatic. After Orpheus has violated the law that he must not look upon his wife until they have reached the upper world, his complaint is of lyric quality that has something of the Grecian choric ode in it. Addington Symonds in his "Sketches and Studies in Southern Europe" has translated the passages so as to give an excellent idea of the character of the play: "Who hath laid laws on Love? Will pity not be given For one short look so full thereof? Since I am robbed of heaven, Since all my joy so great is turned to pain, I will go back and plead with Death again! TISIPHONE Nay, seek not back to turn! Vain is thy weeping, all thy words are vain. Eurydice may not complain Of aught but thee--albeit her grief is great. Vain are thy verses 'gainst the voice of fate! How vain thy song! For death is stern! Try not the backward path: thy feet refrain! The laws of the abyss are fixed and firm remain." Addington Symonds has given a number of examples of the popular Italian poetry of the Renaissance [Footnote 44] which show the qualities of this mode of literature very well, and above all illustrate how like in its character it is to the lighter modes of {447} verse at all times and especially our own. Politian, the great scholar whose learning filled the lecture rooms of Florence with students of all nations and whose critical and rhetorical works marked an epoch in the history of scholarship, was able to unbend at times and write _ballate,_ as they were called, though they were very different from our ballads, which were to be sung during the dances in the piazzas on summer evenings. Stanzas from some of these will serve to show their character. The last stanza, for instance, of his May Ballad is on the world-old theme, "Gather ye rose-buds while ye may." "I went a-roaming, maidens, one bright day. In a green garden in mid month of May. For when the full rose quits her tender sheath. When she is sweetest and most fair to see. Then is the time to place her in thy wreath, Before her beauty and her freshness flee. Gather ye therefore roses with great glee. Sweet girls, or ere their perfume pass away. I went a-roaming, maidens, one bright day, In a green garden in mid month of May." [Footnote 44: "Sketches and Studies in Southern Europe," New York, 1880] Many of the Italian scholars of the period gave the time to the writing of ballads, and one which has been ascribed to Lorenzo dei Medici is often quoted. In it the word _signore,_ which means lord, is used instead of the name of the lady, because she is the lord of the singer's soul. "How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free When my loved lord no longer smiles on me? One only comfort soothes my heart's despair. And mid this sorrow lends my soul some cheer; Unto my lord I ever yielded fair Service of faith untainted pure and clear; If then I die thus guiltless, on my bier It may be she will shed one tear for me. {448} How can I sing light-souled and fancy-free When my loved lord no longer smiles on me?" These ballads were often on the pagan theme of snatching life's opportunities while one might, a popular expression of the Renaissance time, an echo of Horace's _Carpe diem,_ "snatch the day," which the Roman had taken from his Greek models. Every now and then, however, there is a more serious note in the Carnival songs written to be sung during the revels at the Carnival time, when it is surprising to find such a thought emphasized. One of the best known of these Carnival songs is attributed to Lorenzo de' Medici: "Fair is youth and void of sorrow; But it hourly flies away. Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Naught ye know about to-morrow. Midas treads a wearier measure: All he touches turns to gold: If there be no taste of pleasure, What's the use of wealth untold? What's the joy his fingers hold, When he's forced to thirst for aye? Youths and maids, enjoy to-day; Naught ye know about to-morrow." [Illustration: PALMA VECCHIO, POET (SOMETIMES CALLED ARIOSTO)] After Lorenzo's death one of these Carnival songs, to express the grief of his people for him, written by Antonio Alamanni, was sung by maskers habited as skeletons who rode on a car of death, the music to it being that of a dead march. As a contrast to the less serious songs it is worth quoting: "Sorrow, tears, and penitence Are our doom of pain for aye: This dead concourse riding by Hath no cry but penitence! {449} E'en as you are, once were we: You shall be as now we are: We are dead men, as you see: We shall see you dead men, where Naught avails to take great care. After sins, of penitence. We too in the Carnival Sang our love-songs through the town Thus from sin to sin we all Headlong, heedless, tumbled down;-- Now we cry, the world around. Penitence! oh, penitence! Senseless, blind, and stubborn fools! Time steals all things as he rides: Honors, glories, states, and schools, Pass away, and naught abides; Till the tomb our carcass hides. And compels this penitence." Strange as it may seem, the Italian prose of Columbus' Century has had a wider vogue and influence than its poetry. Two literary springs in prose have flowed out of Italy--fiction and history. The greatest of modern historical writers is undoubtedly Machiavelli. His name has been so much deprecated because of the doctrines that he is thought to have suggested that very few people realize what a profound student of human nature he was and how deep was his philosophy. His famous book, _"Il Principe"_ (The Prince), was written within a decade of Columbus' death and at once attracted wide attention. This great political monograph is a calm analysis of the various methods whereby an ambitious conscienceless man may rise to sovereign power. It is usually supposed to be a setting forth of his own absolutely principleless philosophy. As a matter of fact, it is quite as much a lesson in politics for all the world, and while it might be studied faithfully by a man who wanted to usurp sovereign authority in a free state, it contains a series of lessons, which he who {450} runs may read, for all citizens to know just how the downfall of their liberties may be brought about. There probably was never a contribution to political philosophy that has attracted so much attention. It is one of the few books that the serious politicians of all countries and nearly every generation since Machiavelli's time have considered it worth while to read. As a matter of fact, it is esteemed so highly as a human document that it is almost considered a serious defect in scholarship for anyone who claims to be educated to confess ignorance of it. After a set of discourses on Livy, Machiavelli was commissioned to write the history of Florence. This is the first attempt in any literature to trace the political life of a people, showing all the forces at work upon them and the consequent effects. He places the portrait of Florence on the background of a very striking group of pictures drawn from Italian history. Necessarily, since he was employed at their suggestion for the purpose, the Medici are given a place of first rank and very great prominence. This was not mere subserviency, however, but was a very proper estimation of the role played by that house in the fortunes of Florence. He puts into the mouths of his historical characters speeches after the manner of Livy and Thucydides, and some of these speeches are masterpieces of Italian oratory. His style is vigorous and without any thought of ornamentation, informed only by the effort to express his meaning completely and forcibly. Later he wrote a play which John Addington Symonds, the English critic whose deep knowledge of Italian literature gives his opinion much weight, did not hesitate to call "the ripest and most powerful single play in the Italian language." There may be difference of opinion as to Machiavelli's place in philosophy, and above all in ethics, but there can be no doubt about his genius as an historian and a writer, as a profound student of men and their ways and one of the greatest contributors to political philosophy. We have come to discount all that has been said in derogation of Machiavelli's personal character, though it must not be forgotten that even in the older time there were men who realized that his book was an essay in political philosophy that {451} made a wonderful revelation and not in any sense a confession of personal opinions. It has been said that we owe the expression, "Old Nick," as used familiarly for the devil, to the fact that Machiavelli's first name Was Nicholas. Sam Butler long ago wrote: "Nick Machiavelli had ne'er a trick, Though he gave his name to our old Nick." In our own time some of the men whose wide knowledge and large experience have best fitted them to express an opinion on Machiavelli have been most emphatic in their high estimation of his character and influence. Above all, they have insisted on the enduring character of his work and the fact that it appeals to the essential in human nature, not to the passing fads of any single generation. Two such different men in intellectual training as John Morley and Lord Acton are agreed on this as they could not have agreed on most other things. Morley said that "Machiavelli was a contemporary of any age and a citizen of any country." Lord Acton said that he was "no vanishing type, but a constant and contemporary influence." Besides a novel, which we quote from later in this chapter, and his political and historical works, Machiavelli wrote a series of plays and poems which are of high literary value. Garnett in his "Italian Literature" says that "he came nearer than any contemporary, except Leonardo da Vinci, to approving himself a universal genius. No man of his time stands higher intellectually, and his want of moral elevation is largely redeemed by his ample endowment with the one virtue chiefly needful to an Italian of his day, but of which too many Italians were destitute--patriotism." Another of Columbus' great contemporaries among Italian writers was Guicciardini, the Italian historian (1483-1540). Unlike most of the great historians, he was a man of affairs. When less than twenty he was sent as Florentine Ambassador to the King of Spain, and in his early twenties, under Pope Leo X, governed Modena and Reggio with such talent as drew wide attention to him. He was the Lieutenant-General of the Anti-Imperial Army in 1527, later was one of the Eight at {452} Florence, and from 1531 to 1534 ruled Bologna as Papal Vice-Legate. He tells the story of Italy from 1492 to 1534 in great detail. He writes as an eye-witness who had himself been prominent in most of the scenes that he describes. The mass of matter is not allowed to obscure the picture as a whole, and the work has distinct literary value. Probably never in the world's history has such a description of events come from a man who was himself one of the most prominent actors in them. His work has been declared "the greatest historical work that had appeared since the beginning of the modern era" ("Encyclopaedia Britannica"). About the middle of the nineteenth century Guicciardini's hitherto unpublished works were given to the public in ten volumes and served to throw wonderful light on the historian himself. His _"Ricordi Politici"_ deserve to be placed beside Machiavelli's "Prince," and it is easy to understand, after reading them, that Guicciardini regarded his friend Machiavelli somewhat as "an amiable visionary or political enthusiast." There has probably never been a set of human documents that illuminated the heights and depths of humanity so well as these writings of the Renaissance. To read Machiavelli, Guicciardini's _"Ricordi,"_ Benvenuto Cellini's "Autobiography" and Rabelais is to see the contradictions that there are in this microcosm man better than is possible in any other way. If we but add Montaigne, who was educated in our century, the picture is complete. These men of the Renaissance saw clearly and deeply into humanity through the lens of themselves. Guicciardini, devoid of passion as well as of high moral standards in personal life, eminently loyal to his patrons at all times, just so far as administration of law went, and unquestionably able, possesses all that ordinarily is assumed to bring the admiration if not the respect of men, yet no one can read his "Reminiscences" without feeling the deepest repugnance for his cynicism, selfishness and distrust of men. Ranke has impugned his good faith as an historian, and his quondam repute is gone. It is this very contrast, as exhibited in his writings, that makes Guicciardini's works as valuable a contribution to the story of humanity as the many masterpieces of his contemporaries. {453} One of the writers of this time who must not be omitted, though his merit has not always been recognized, is Vasari, whose "Lives of the Painters" has interested every generation in every country who have occupied themselves much with the great artists. Himself an artist, living on intimate terms with many of the men whose lives he sketched and gathering anecdotes about them and rescuing many a personal trait from oblivion that otherwise would have been lost to posterity, Vasari succeeded in making an extremely valuable as well as interesting book. Some of his anecdotes have been discredited, and he has often been open to the criticism of lack of critical acumen in his compilations of materials, but his industry, his recognition of what was likely to be of interest and his untiring efforts to make his sketch as complete as possible, deserve the recognition which they have obtained. While his style is apparently most artless, he possesses, as Garnett has said, "either the science or the knack of felicitous composition to an extraordinary degree." It must not be forgotten that this apparent lack of art is often the highest art, and so it is not surprising to hear Vasari spoken of as the Herodotus of art. His good taste in art as well as in literature is demonstrated by his admiration for the first fruits of the early Tuscan school which were neglected in his day. He was one of the genial, lovable men of the time who made many friends. The most popularly interesting phase of the literature of the Renaissance and Columbus' Century for our time is doubtless the fiction that was written so plentifully and so widely read during the period. Whenever a large number of people become interested in reading, after a time more and more superficial reading is provided for them until finally the most trivial of story-telling becomes the vogue. This has happened at a number of times in the world's history. It can be traced in Rome with the decadence, in the Oriental countries, as Burton's edition of the "Thousand and One Nights" shows so clearly, and in our own time as well as during the fifteenth and sixteenth century. Another interesting development is the tendency for the fiction that is popular among the better and supposedly more educated classes, gradually {454} to be occupied more and more with sex problems and sexual questions of all kinds. Whenever many have leisure and a smattering of education, this occurs. It is quite noticeable during the Renaissance period, though a great many good stories were written of excellent literary quality without any tinge of this. The writing of novels in Italy had begun with Boccaccio in the fourteenth century, and continued with Sacchetti and Giovanni Il Fiorentino. About the middle of the fifteenth century, however, this mode of writing became all the fashion, and the number of novels, though of course by the word _novelle_ the Italians meant a short story, is almost without end. Very many of them have been lost, but a very large number have been preserved. The first of the writers of the time was Massuccio Salernitano, who flourished during the latter half of the fifteenth century and died towards its close. Doni has said of him, "Hail then to the name of Salernitano, who, scorning to borrow even a single word from Boccaccio, has produced a work which he may justly regard as his own." It is to him that we owe the first form of what afterwards became "Romeo and Juliet." Massuccio was a realist and called "Heaven to witness that the whole of his stories are a faithful narrative of events occurring during his own time." Fifty of his novels at least are extant. Often these novel writers did not attempt any other mode of literature, and indeed not infrequently were not scholarly in any sense of the word, but the next of the Italian novelists of the time, Savadino degli Arienti, was an accomplished scholar and historian. His history of his native city Bologna is still considered very valuable by his countrymen. He entitled his tales "Porretane" because he declared that they had been recited at the baths of Porreto, which was the favorite summer resort and place of public amusement for the Bolognese. The recital of these would be supposed to occupy somewhat the place that moving pictures do now. There is a variety of amusing adventures, witty stories, love tales, and sometimes tragic incidents for contrast. Besides his novels and his history, Ariente wrote an account of illustrious ladies, _Delle Donne Clare,_ dedicated to Giunipera Sforza Bentivoglio, {455} which shows very clearly how the women of the Renaissance, as we have come to know them, were appreciated by their masculine contemporaries very early in Columbus' Century. After Savadino comes Luigi da Porto. Crippled by a wound early in life, he turned from the army to literature and became the friend of many of the scholars of the time, especially Cardinal Bembo and members of the Gonzaga family. To him we owe "Juliet" in its best and purest form. It is the only story we have from him, but it secured world-wide reputation at the time and has never lost its interest for mankind. Porto was followed by Leonardo Illicini, another writer of a single novel which has been preserved and has gone through a number of editions. Illicini, or Licinio, as his name is sometimes given, was a physician, for a time the court physician to the Duke of Milan, afterwards professor of medicine at Ferrara and one of the distinguished philosophers of the time. Every man is said to have one good story in him, if he only has the time and energy to write it, and Illicini wrote his and attracted the attention of his distinguished friends and contemporaries by the nobleness and beauty of the sentiments which he incorporated into it and which make it a singular exception to the usual tenor of Italian novels. Like Illicini, Machiavelli, the historian and political philosopher, took it upon himself to write a novel which few people have read and yet which has a certain exaggeration of social satire which sets it rather closely in touch with our time. The story represents indeed a curious ever-recurring phase of the attitude that men are accustomed--for jest purposes only--to assume toward marriage. According to the story, the devils were very much disturbed over the fact that most of the married men who came to hell blamed their coming on their wives. Hell had been well enough so long as people were willing to admit that they were punished deservedly, but society there became very uncomfortable under this new dispensation. The devils resolved to send one of their number up to earth to find out about it. Belphagor, one of the fallen Archangels, having assumed the body of a handsome man of thirty and a large fortune, is commissioned {456} to marry and live with a wife for ten years. He finds no difficulty in getting a bride, having "soon attracted the notice of many noble citizens blessed with large families of daughters and small incomes. The former of these was soon offered to him, and Belphagor chose a very beautiful girl with the name of Onesta." The name, which signifies purity, is evidently chosen for a purpose by Machiavelli, for, while the wife is as pure as an angel, she has more than the pride of Lucifer. A good idea of the way the story develops can only be obtained by quoting a passage from the translation of the novel: "He had not long enjoyed the society of his beloved Onesta before he became tenderly attached to her, and was unable to behold her suffer the slightest inquietude or vexation. Now, along with her other gifts of beauty and nobility, the lady had brought into the house of Roderigo such an insufferable portion of pride that in this respect Lucifer himself could not equal her, for her husband, who had experienced the effects of both, was at no loss to decide which was the most intolerable of the two. Yet it became infinitely worse when she discovered the extent of Roderigo's attachment to her, of which she availed herself to obtain an ascendency over him and rule him with an iron rod. Not content with this, when she found he would bear it, she continued to annoy him with all kinds of insults and taunts, in such a way as to give him the most indescribable pain and uneasiness. For what with the influence of her father, her brothers, her friends and relatives, the duty of the matrimonial yoke, and the love he bore her, he suffered all for some time with the patience of a saint. It would be useless to recount the follies and extravagancies into which he ran in order to gratify her taste for dress and every article of the newest fashion, in which our city, ever so variable in its nature, according to its usual habits, so much abounds. Yet, to live upon easy terms with her, he was obliged to do more than this; he had to assist his father-in-law in portioning off his other daughters; and she next asked him to furnish one of her brothers with goods to sail for the Levant, another with silks for the West, while a third was to be set up in a goldbeater's establishment at Florence. In such objects the greatest part of his fortune was soon consumed. At length the carnival season was at hand; the festival of St. John was to be celebrated, and the whole city, as usual, was in a ferment. Numbers of the noblest families were about to vie with each other in the splendor of their parties, and the Lady Onesta, being resolved not to be outshone by her acquaintance, insisted that Roderigo should exceed them all in the richness of their feasts. For the reason above stated he submitted to her will; nor, indeed, would he have scrupled at doing much more, however difficult it {457} might have been, could he have flattered himself with a hope of preserving the peace and comfort of his household and of awaiting quietly the consummation of his ruin. But this was not the case, inasmuch as the arrogant temper of his wife had grown to such a height of asperity, by long indulgence, that he was at a loss in what way to act. His domestics, male and female, would no longer remain in the house, being unable to support for any length of time the intolerable life they led. The inconvenience which he suffered, in consequence of having no one to whom he could intrust his affairs, it is impossible to express. Even his own familiar devils, whom he had brought along with him, had already deserted him, choosing to return below rather than longer submit to the tyranny of his wife. Left, then, to himself, amidst his turbulent and unhappy life, and having dissipated all the ready money he possessed, he was compelled to live upon the hopes of the returns expected from his ventures in the East and the West. Being still in good credit, in order to support his rank, he resorted to bills of exchange; nor was it long before, accounts running against him, he found himself in the same situation as many other unhappy speculators in the market. Just as his case became extremely delicate, there arrived sudden tidings, both from the East and West, that one of his wife's brothers had dissipated the whole of Roderigo's profits in play, and that while the other was returning with a rich cargo uninsured, his ship had the misfortune to be wrecked, and he himself was lost." Belphagor fled and, having suffered much from his pursuers, finally escapes, and at the end of the novel is having a rather good time at the court of the King of France, where he has entered into possession of the daughter of the King and is attracting much appreciated attention from friends, relatives, courtiers, physicians and the clergy by the acts which he causes her to perform. An Italian to whom Belphagor had confided his secret comes to Court and recognizes the particular devil's activities. He tries to persuade Belphagor to leave his victim, but the demon refuses absolutely. Finally the Italian, catching Belphagor unawares, calls out that his wife is coming after him. With a shriek, the poor devil abandons his victim and is glad to find his way back to hell. During the first half of the sixteenth century there are a whole series of Italian novelists, each one of them the writer of many novels. One of the earliest of these is Firenzuola, who is said to have been a monk and who was a scholar, for among his collected works are a translation of "Apuleius' {458} Golden Ass," treatises on animals, two comedies, as well as critical and literary work of other kinds. After him came Cinthio, who wrote "Hecatomithi or Hundred Fables." He was a very prolific writer, perhaps the most popular in his own time, with recurring periods of popularity since. His praises were celebrated by nearly all the scholars of the period. His writing was vivid but daring, and the style shows the beginning of that degeneration, from over-consciousness of effort to make it scholarly, so often characteristic of a period when genius is giving place to mere talent. One of his stories furnished the incidents for Shakespeare's "Tragedy of Othello," and this has given Cinthio a place in the commentators on Shakespeare. Another of the Italian novelists whose memory has been frequently renewed for a similar reason was Matteo Bandello, who is often spoken of as the best from a literary standpoint, as he is the most voluminous of the Italian novelists of this period. He is almost the only one of them, besides Boccaccio, known beyond the confines of Italy, and though he was a priest and afterwards a bishop, his stories are as immoral as those of the other novelists of the time. Indeed, the most important characteristic of all this novel-writing in Italy is that most of the stories were quite without moral qualities, not a few of them were licentious and some of them made their appeal mainly through the liking for descriptions of cruelty to which mankind is apparently always attracted. In our time the corresponding reading is the daily newspaper. The stories of the crime and cruelty of the day before that are told each morning are about of the average length of these _novelle_ as written by the Italian novelists of the Renaissance. There is the same demand for them and they are just as much talked about. For literary quality the novels are infinitely higher than our modern newspaper stories. The interesting thing about these novels of indecency and cruelty is that the claim of their authors at least was that they were written in order to bring about reformation and the correction of evil by spreading the knowledge of it and so making people realize its hideousness. Whenever any excuse is given for our publication of the cruel and immoral details {459} of crime in our newspapers, it follows this same specious line of reasoning. Not a few of the writers of the popular novels were clergymen. Bandello was made a bishop, yet continued his writing of novels. It is perfectly possible for good, well-meaning men at any time to be mistaken in the accomplishment of a purpose, and popularity was as great a bait as the making of money is in our time. One of the most interesting contributions to Italian prose at this time is the "Autobiography" of Benvenuto Cellini, which finds its place very properly after the fiction of the period. The book has been famous in the modern time, particularly since Goethe translated it, and has gone through many editions in nearly every language in Europe. Long ago, Walpole pronounced it "more amusing than any novel," and it is probably rather as fiction than as genuine autobiography that it must be judged. The style is simple, direct, straightforward, and the wonderful romance has great historical value, for Cellini was in contact with most of the great men and many of the higher nobility of his time, and he has used his experiences as the groundwork of the story. It is hard to tell now how much of it may be true, for Cellini's great works of art would seem to contradict it, in so far as it represents him as a frequent brutal murderer, while the amount of labor that he must have given to the many works we have from him would seem to make impossible that he should have spent quite so much time as his life would hint in light living and idleness, while the affection of his contemporaries and their respect for him in his declining years would seem to be further contradiction. He was evidently one of those men who like to be thought worse than they really are and like so many of the artists of all times who are anxious to produce the impression that their works were flashes of genius and not the result of careful patient labor as well. One of the books that had a very wide influence at this period and which deserves much more than Benvenuto's romance to be thought typical of the time is Baldassare Castiglione's _"Cortigiano,"_ in which the author depicts the ideal courtier or gentleman of the time. The method of presentation is by a series of conversations held at the Court of {460} Urbino among the distinguished persons who frequented it in the time when most of the best-known characters of the Renaissance found their way occasionally up to the little hill town. Castiglione's standard for the gentleman is very high, not only in personal conduct, but especially in intellectual accomplishment. His purpose to draw the picture of a scholar-gentleman, the ideal of an accomplished knight, seemed to his contemporaries to have been successfully fulfilled. The book was widely read. It influenced not only Italy and France and the Latin-American countries, but above all affected the English deeply. Mr. Courthope says that, "Carried to the North of Europe and grafted on the still chivalrous manners of the English aristocracy, the ideal of Castiglione contributed to form the character of Sir Philip Sidney. Augustus Hare in his "Ladies of the Italian Renaissance" (New York, 1904) says: "Spenser declared that the aim of his book is the same: 'To fashion a gentleman in noble person, in virtuous and gentle discipline.' We might fill a volume with instances of the marvellous influence which the work of Castiglione had upon Elizabethan literature, as we hear it echoing through the sonnets of Shakespeare, Spenser's hymns 'Of Heavenly Love,' Ben Jonson, Marlowe, Burton, the poets and early dramatists, even the grave Ascham; and, amongst later writers, Shelley's 'Hymn to Intellectual Beauty' is steeped in the same Italian Platonism." As a rule, indeed, it may be said that what was best in the literature and art of the Italian Renaissance had a much wider influence than the worse elements in it. It is only in after-times that many of the unfortunately too human contributions to the intellectual life of this period have been revived among scholars and have come to be looked upon as expressive of the spirit of the time. In every movement there are always the lesser men whose notes are discordant and who exaggerate the significance of their own ideas and often exhibit the worst side of human nature. To conclude from them, however, as to the real temper of the time and its influence would be a sad mistake. Castiglione meant ever so much more in the Europe of his day than Cellini. The {461} "Courtier" sank deep into the minds of poets, artists and literary and educated folk of all classes and aroused what was best in those who were influencing their generation. The "Autobiography" was read much more widely, but mainly by people whose influence over others was to be slight, while the poets and writers and artists did not take it very seriously, but spent a leisure hour or two over it as over any other romance, and turned to their work again. {462} CHAPTER III FRENCH LITERATURE The French literature of Columbus' Century is but little, if at all, below that of Italy in world influence and interest. It was ushered in by that alluring character, the vagabond poet, Villon. He was twenty the first year of our century, and having, providentially for the world of literature, escaped hanging, wrote poetry that has always attracted the attention of poets of every land, and besides has had a popular vogue whenever men have looked beyond their own time and country for literary interests. Few poets of modern times have had among the educated of all countries so many ardent admirers--devotees they might well be called--as Villon. The power of expression of the Renaissance that was just opening was incarnate in him, and no one has ever said better what he sang, though his message was limited enough. His "Ladies of the Olden Time," probably addressed in its epilogue to Prince Charles of Orleans, his poetic contemporary, to whom it is said that he owed his being saved from hanging, is the best known, and is a typical example of his work which reveals the reason for its enduring qualities: "Say where--in what region be Flora that fair Roman dame, Hipparchia where, and Thais, she Who doth kindred beauty claim? Echo where? who back the same Voice from lake and river throws, Lovely beyond human frame: But--where are the last year's snows? * * * * * * Queen Blanche, white as lily is, Who used to sing with siren strain; {463} Bertha, Alice, Beatrice, Ermengarde who held the Maine, Joan, blessed maiden of Lorraine, At Rouen burnt by English foes. Where are they, O Virgin Queen? But--where are the last year's snows? Prince, nor in a week or year Bid me where they be disclose. Lest you still this burden hear. But--where are the last year's snows?" With Villon came Prince Charles of Orleans, of whom we would probably know very little except for the fact that twenty years of imprisonment in an English prison gave him the opportunity for devotion to poetry. His beautiful lines on the death of his wife are a _chef-d'oeuvre_ of mourning poetry and one of the gems of literature. The Prince's appeal to Death as to what has made Fate so bold as to take the noble Princess, who was his comfort, his life, his good, his pleasure, his richness, demanding why it had not rather taken himself, has been often translated. There is another of his little poems addressed to her which has often been quoted and yet cannot be quoted too often: "How God has made her good to see! So holy, full of grace, and fair; For the great gifts that in her be. All haste her praises to declare. Of her, what soul could weary be? Each day her beauty doth repair. How God has made her good to see! So holy, full of grace, and fair. So hither, nor beyond the sea. No damsel nor dame I know. Who can like her all graces show; Only in dreams such thought can be-- How God has made her good to see!" {464} One of Clement Marot's shorter poems contains his formula for what constitutes happiness in life. It is the same formula that has been in the mouths of all the poets at all times who have cared to express themselves on the subject, though some critics have been unkind enough to say that it was not always in their hearts--"Happy the man whose mind and care a few paternal acres share." Marot goes somewhat more into detail. His poem is an anticipation of the sonnet of the great master printer of Antwerp, Christopher Plantin, at the end of this century. Because of its many associations it deserves a place here: "This, Clement Marot! (if you wish to know) Can upon man a happy life bestow. Goods you don't earn, but by bequest acquire, A pleasant wholesome house and constant fire. Hated by none, yourself devoid of hate. And little meddling with affairs of state: A wise and simple life, true friends, and like A good plain fare, with nought the eyes to strike, With all in easy converse to combine: Pass careless nights, not careless made by wine; A wife to have--kind, joyous, chaste and bright; And well to sleep, which shorter makes the night: Contented with your rank, nor wish for higher; And neither death to fear, nor death desire This, Clement Marot! (if you wish to know) Can upon man a happy life bestow." Francis I was himself a poet, and his poems and letters were collected and published in the first half of the nineteenth century. "In default of a great talent, he had a real passion for poetry," says Imbert de Saint-Amand, and like the Trouvères he liked to make use of the lyre and sword by turns. Sainte-Beuve in his _"Portraits Littéraires"_ declared that "Francis I, from the day he ascended the throne, gave the signal for this puissant labor which was to aid in expanding and definitely polishing the French language. Thanks to the impulse given by him from above, there was soon a universal {465} clearing of the ground all around him." The verses in which he formulated one of the most melancholy and most striking judgments that ever monarch pronounced on the nothingness of the grandeurs of this lower world, deserve to be quoted: "The more my goods, the more my sorrow grows; The more my honors, less is my content; For one I gain, a hundred I desire. When nought I have, for nothing I lament; But having all, the fear doth me torment, Either to lose it or to make it worse. Tired, full well may I my misery mourn, Seeing I die of envy but to have a good. Which is my death and I esteem it life." The most important writer in France at this time, however, was undoubtedly Francis' sister, Margaret of Navarre or Angoulême. Her "Heptameron" has been widely read in practically every generation since her own, and though some doubt has been thrown on her authorship of it, it is probable that the age-long attribution to her must remain. The book is about as evil in its influence as any that was ever written. Its author was undoubtedly a saint. She had the best of intentions, and her work illustrates how easy it is for good intentions to go wrong. Hell was paved with good intentions then as now. As I have suggested in the chapter on Some Great Women of the Century, a corresponding mistake is being made by many good women now in the crusade of providing sex information as a protection for the young. Margaret's work is one of the best specimens of French prose of the time. Saintsbury, in his volume on "The Early Renaissance," calls it a very remarkable book which has, as a rule, been undervalued, "presenting almost equal attractions for those who read for mere amusement, to those who appreciate literature as literature, and to those who like extra literary puzzles of various kinds from authorship to allusion." Margaret's reputation has suffered more than was deserved from the condemnation of the "Heptameron." Her personality merits to be judged rather from the charming poetry of a {466} mystical character which she wrote. Her book, "Les Marguerites de la Marguerite des Princesses," is too well known to be much more than mentioned here. It has a charming grace and an exquisite delicacy. It is the true index to her character. As Imbert de Saint-Amand has said in his "Women of the Valois Court," "Poetry and religion were her two consolers." Her resolution when she looked at her crucifix and burst into poetry was: "It is my will and firm intent To be no more what I have been, Nor to amuse myself in this poor world. Seeing the griefs that reign there and abound. And which by day and night torment my heart." There are bursts of piety in her collection worthy of her great mystical contemporary, St. Teresa. The following would almost remind one of St. Teresa's cry, "I die that I may die." "Lord, when shall come the day I long to see, When by pure love I shall Be drawn to Thee? That nuptial day, O Lord, So long delays. That no content I find In wealth or praise. Wipe from these sorrowing eyes The tear that flows, And grant me Thy best gift, A sweet repose." The French poetess, Louise Labé, _la cordière,_ the cord-wainer's wife, as she was called, in reference to her husband's occupation, deserves a place because she represents at once the opportunities even of the lowly born of her sex for the higher education at this time, and her writings exhibit a natural grace and ardent passion that place them in a high rank of lyric poetry. Poetesses of passion there have been a-plenty since, {467} yet it is doubtful if many of them have surpassed much the French lady of the Renaissance from the middle classes. The sonnet form would seem highly unsuitable to us for such passionate expression, but it was the fashion to use it, and Louise Labé anticipates by some three hundred years Mrs. Browning's use of this form for a very similar purpose. One of her sonnets may very well be read beside some of those of Mrs. Browning. "As soon as ever I begin to take. In my soft bed, the rest which I desire, Forth from my frame does my sad soul retire, And hastes toward thee its eager way to make. Then in my tender heart, ere I awake. The bliss I gain to which I most aspire. The bliss for which to sigh I never tire. For which I weep as though my heart would break. A kindly sleep, O sleep to me so blest, Happy repose, full of tranquillity. Grant that each night I may renew my dream. And if my sad heart, by all love possest. Must ne'er be happy in reality. Yet while I sleep so let me falsely seem." The humor of the end of Columbus' Century is very well illustrated in some of the epigrams of Melin de Saint Gelais, like Marot, the son of a poet and brought up in poetic circles, who knew how to write elegant trivialities, or who was, as the French say, _maître en l'art de badiner avec élégance._ Curiously enough, it was he who imported the sonnet from Italy. It had been hitherto unknown to French poets, but was unfortunately, as it must seem to most of us, destined to eclipse the ballades, rondeaux, virelais and other poetic forms that had been for so long in vogue in France. I prefer to quote here two of his shorter epigramatic poems which serve to show how old the new is in wit and humor: "You find great fault with me, my friend. Because your neighbor I commend, And yet from you all praise withhold: {468} But say, why should I waste my time Praising your merits or your rhyme? You do it best a hundredfold." The second treats in vivid satire the eternal question of the honor due the scholar: "Friend! tell of these two things the just degree, Great learning or great wealth; the better which? I know not. But the learned still I see Paying great court and homage to the rich." The _"Défense et Illustration de la Langue Française,"_ which is the manifesto of the Pleiades, was written by Joachim du Bellay just at the end of Columbus' Century and published in February, 1550, according to the modern calendar, but 1549 in the old, which made the year begin on Lady Day (March 25). With that a group of men, most of them about twenty-five years of age, entered upon a new period of French literature. A sham middle age had been lingering on,--the mere remnants and echo of the Romance of the Rose, and now a new spirit was to enter into French literature. The genius of it had all been cradled in Columbus' Century. The poets of the Pleiades came to teach the modern note. Pierre Ronsard was the greatest of them, and in five years all Europe knew something of the new birth in French poetry. Two such very different minds as those of Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth of England became ardent admirers and indeed almost patrons of the new poets, and particularly of Ronsard. Many of the poems had been conceived, and some of the best were issued within a year or two after the close of what we have called Columbus' Century. The little lyric _"Mignonne! Allons voir si la Rose,"_ which has always been a favorite in every generation with any poetry in its soul, was known throughout Europe within a year of its publication in 1552. There is another ode of Ronsard's of much more serious vein which serves to show that the poets of the older time could think of other things besides love and beauty and the rose, and face the sterner problems of their time and sing the {469} meaning of them with poetic depth. Because its subject is quite as eternal in its interest as that of the love poems and has perhaps more significance for our time, I prefer to quote it: "Why, poor peasant, should you dread Sceptered hand or crowned head? They shall soon--slight shades--be sent The number of the dead t' augment. To all mortals--dost not wis?-- Death's wide gate e'er open is. There th' imperial soul must wend, There as speedily descend, Charon's fatal boat to find, As the soul of serf or hind. Courage you who delvers are; These great thunderbolts of war No more than yourselves shall go Armed with breastplate there below, As though battling as of yore. Mail shall profit them no more-- Lance and shield and battle blade-- Than shall you your scythe and spade. Rhadamanthus, judge severe, Be you sure no more will fear Armor in his dread abode Than the peasant's wooden goad; Nor does more or less admire Richest robe or mean attire, Or the gorgeous pageantry Where the king in state doth lie." Joachim du Bellay, snatched away at the early age of thirty-five after having passed many years in illness, owed his inspiration to write poetry to his reading of the classics. It was he who wrote the proclamation of the Pleiades which I have already mentioned. Had his fate been happier, doubtless there {470} would have been many great poems from him and he would have been a serious rival of his friend Ronsard. As it is, there are from his pen some poems that will always have an interest for the French and for the educated in every country. One of the more serious deserves to be quoted. "If, then, our life is shorter than a day Lost in all time; if the revolving year Hurries our days past hope to reappear; If all things born must fail and pass away-- What, O my prisoned soul, dost dream of? say! Why so much love our days of darkness here. If to take flight to an abode more dear, Well-feathered wings you on your shoulders sway? There is the good which ever soul desires. There the repose to which the world aspires, And there is love and pleasure evermore. There, O my soul, rapt to the highest skies, You will in actual substance recognize Th' ideal beauty which I now adore." In the French prose of our century there is Comines at the beginning, a not unworthy fourth in that wonderful quartette of French historical writers which began with Villehardouin at the end of the twelfth century, gave us Joinville in the thirteenth, Froissart in the fourteenth and Comines in the latter half of the fifteenth. He is one of the historians who will ever be read; with a political sagacity and philosophic outlook on history that give him a place of his own. He was no mere chronicler, and the individuality of his work, that quality by which history is raised into literature, sets him far above many a modern writer of what is called history, though it is merely a collection of materials for some historian who will inform them with a soul. At the end of the century there was Michel de L'Hôpital, whose orations, numerous memoirs and special treatises mainly connected with explanations of {471} law have the defects of legal writing at all times, and yet exhibit a power of expression that has seldom been equalled at any time. After Rabelais, undoubtedly the greatest of the prose writers of the time was Amyot, whose first work, a translation of a Greek romance, "Théagène et Chariclé," was published in 1546, and who, in the subsequent years of a life that reached almost to ninety, published his translations of Plutarch, a work for which he received the designation of preceptor of the royal children and the Bishopric of Auxerre. He was the grand almoner. Amyot's translation of Plutarch has been declared practically a new and original work. Montaigne said of it: "I am grateful to Amyot above all things for having had the wit to select so worthy and so suitable a work to present his country. We ignorant folk had been lost, had not this lifted us out of the mire; thanks to it, we now dare speak and write, and ladies give lessons out of it to school-masters; 'tis our breviary." For English-speaking people its significance is greatly enhanced from the consideration that it was really Amyot's version which, in the English dress of Florio, became Shakespeare's Plutarch. Anyone who knows how closely Shakespeare followed his Plutarch will appreciate, then, what an important influence on world literature Amyot was destined to have. This translation of Plutarch has come to be looked upon as probably one of the best translations ever made. It has sometimes been said that "to translate is to betray" and that the best translations are at most tapestries seen from the wrong side, but Amyot's "Plutarch" must be considered an exception to this rule. Erasmus said of Linacre's translation into Latin of Galen that it was better than the original Greek. Amyot's "Plutarch" has become a French classic, though the Greek author was by no means classic in the limited sense of the word in the original. Racine would read no other because he thought there was nothing to equal it in French. Amyot's works are a treasure house of the French language, and modern French critics often regret that many of his expressions have been allowed to sink into desuetude. {472} France glories in the possession of another of these striking characters of the Renaissance period, Rabelais, about the estimation of whose character and place in history, just as with regard to Machiavelli, the world has not quite made up its mind. There is no doubt at all as to his genius, nor his breadth of view and comprehensive grasp of the knowledge of his time, nor of his ability as a vigorous writer, though his crudities of style and frequent indulgence in vulgarity, have made him a writer largely for men, and even many of these have been deterred from the study of his writings because of the glaringness of these faults. His defects were largely those of his time, for they were accustomed to call a spade a spade in the Renaissance. It was not because of looseness of his own life that his crudities of style are so manifest. Careful investigations and research in our time have made it very clear that there are many misunderstandings with regard to his personal character which should be removed. Rabelais ran the whole gamut of life in his time. He was first a friar, then a monk, took his medical degrees at Montpellier, a physician who gained considerable prestige for his knowledge of medicine, a writer of books that were widely read, a scholar whose journeys to Rome gave him a breadth of knowledge unusual even in his time, and the intimate friend of some of the great and good churchmen and literary men of his time. The old legend which represented him as a gluttonous and wine-bibbing buffoon, wandering in revels as an unfrocked priest, must now be abandoned. His transitions from friar to monk, to physician, were all accomplished with due ecclesiastical permission, and in spite of the freedom of speech and liberalizing tendencies to be found in his writings he never got into serious trouble with the ecclesiastical authorities. Evidently he was looked upon as a genius whose good will might be depended on to keep him from serious heretical divagations, though occasionally his superabundant vital spirit would lead him into expressions that were often indiscreet and sometimes needed correction. His relations with Guillaume and Jean du Bellay and with the bishops of Maillezais and Montpellier, as well as the distinguished jurist, Tiraqueau, furnish most convincing proof of the high regard in which he was held not {473} only by men of his own rank, but by those far above him in power and station--Princes of the Church and patrons of humanism. In spite of their deterring vulgarity, his works have been much read ever since and are still often in the hands of scholars and those who want to appreciate one phase at least of the true inwardness and all-comprehensiveness of the spirit of the Renaissance. The number of Greek and Latin writers from whom he quotes is very large, and his reading must have been very wide. He seems also to have known some Hebrew. Very few of his contemporaries realized at all that in his writings he had made an enduring contribution not only to French, but to world literature. So good a critic, however, as Joachim du Bellay in the "Defence and Illustration of the French Tongue" alludes to him as the man "who has brought back Aristophanes to life and who imitates so well the satirical wit of Lucian." The fact that his book should be published at this time without its author incurring serious censure, much less persecution, is a proof that the usual persuasion of many who write on the history of this time that heresy-baiting was a favorite occupation of the Churchmen is unfounded and shows how absurd is the impression entertained by not a few that the slightest imprudence might have even fatal consequences. Men like Étienne Dolet and Giordano Bruno lost their lives at this time on heretical charges, but that was because their writings seemed to the Church, and above all the civil authorities of the time, to undermine authority and to propagate anarchy. This has always been a dangerous suspicion for a philosophic writer to fall under at any time, and is not without its serious dangers, social rather than legal, even in our time. In other matters, however, as the example of Rabelais shows, there was, if not a modern liberty, at least a large tolerance of expression, provided the thoughts were tempered by humor and the character of the writer known to be such that genuine ill-will or anarchic tendencies towards civil and ecclesiastical authorities were not the manifest purpose of the writings. The interest of our own generation in Rabelais is best {474} illustrated by the foundation in 1902 of the Société des Études Rabelaisiennes at Paris. The organ of the Society, the _Revue des Études Rabelaisiennes,_ made its first appearance in January, 1903, and has already added much to our knowledge of Rabelais. It has now been thoroughly demonstrated that Gargantua was a popular and folk-lore character long before Rabelais' time, and that he assumed the character only in order to give popular vogue to his own ideas. In spite of the cruder side of his work he has so much to say that is valuable with regard to education, valuable even for our time, so much of correction of popular errors and emphatic restatement of the philosophy of life by which men may secure their happiness, not through selfishness, but love for their fellowmen, that whenever men think deeply for themselves and do not merely drift in the wake of other thinkers, Rabelais will always attract attention. It is always a good sign when Rabelais becomes popular in France, for men are usually thinking more deeply than before. Like Dante, he is a touchstone of sincerity and honesty of thought and purpose among his countrymen. Rabelais is a most difficult man to sum up for those who are not French. Saintsbury in his "Earlier Renaissance" has perhaps furnished the best brief appreciation when he said: "On the pure credit side his (Rabelais') assets are so great that one can only marvel at the undervaluation of them by any competent auditor. . . . You _may_ say some things against him, and some of these _some_ things truly. But three things will remain. He is (let the competent gainsay it if they dare) one of the greatest writers of the world; he is one of the great satirists of the world; and he is--as not all great writers and very few great satirists have been--one who sincerely and strenuously loved his fellowmen." In the first paragraph of his "François Rabelais" [Footnote 45] (written for the French Men of Letters Series), Arthur Tilley, whose "Literature of the French Renaissance" had shown how competent he was to judge, has summed up the character and place of Rabelais. It is to Tilley that I owe most of the {475} details that are given here, and his paragraph will serve as a fitting conclusion. [Footnote 45: Lippincott, Phila., 1907.] "It is a characteristic of the very greatest writers that they sum up, with more or less completeness, the thought, the aspirations, and the temper of their age, and this not only for their own country, but for the whole civilized world. Of this select band is Rabelais. He is the embodiment not only of the early French Renaissance, but of the whole Renaissance in its earlier and fresher manifestations, in its devotion to humanism, in its restless and many-sided curiosity, in its robust enthusiasm, in its belief in the future of the human race." {476} CHAPTER IV SPANISH AND PORTUGUESE LITERATURE The Spanish literature of the period contains some all-important material of great significance not only for Spanish literature itself, but also for the literature of the world. In the chapter on Women of the Renaissance, I have called attention to the interest of Queen Isabella in things literary, and while she did not produce any formal literary work, her letters have been pronounced by the Spanish Academy classic documents in the Spanish language. The most important contribution to Spanish literature during the century came also from a woman, though she doubtless had as little thought of making literature when she wrote as did the Queen. This was St. Teresa, to whose works serious writers on spiritual subjects in all countries and at all times, often in spite of differences of belief, have turned as classics of spirituality. Her literary work consists of the treatises which she wrote by order of her confessors on mystical subjects and then her many letters. It is these last, particularly, that have been widely read in the modern time and that are world classics in their order. Probably no one has been more misunderstood than St. Teresa. She has come to be considered by many, who, as a rule, know nothing at all of her at first hand, as one of the almost impossible saintly personages whose hours of concentration in prayer and fasting and other mortifications have driven them into states of mind bordering on the irrational, if not frankly hysterical. Indeed she is often considered to be the most striking type of these. [Illustration: FRANCIA, VIRGIN WEEPING OVER BODY OF CHRIST (LONDON)] David Hannay, in his "The Later Renaissance" in Professor Saintsbury's series, Periods of European Literature (New York: Scribner's, 1898), who has read her works with care, says: "Her letters, which are not only the most attractive part of her writing, but even the most valuable, show her {477} not only as a great saint, but as a great lady with a very acute mind, a fine wit and an abounding good sense. Her own great character is stamped on every line. Nobody ever showed less of the merely emotional saintly character 'meandering about, capricious, melodious, weak, at the will of devout whim mainly.'" To get the real charm of St. Teresa's writings, one must read her letters, and from those it is almost impossible to take such selections as might be included in the brief space allowed here. Fortunately they have come to us as she wrote them. Fray Luis de Leon was himself literary enough to save them from a worthy father-confessor, who would have "improved upon and polished her periods." The world came near losing the marvellous language of which Crashaw said, "Oh it is not Spanish, but it is Heaven she spoke." Some idea of her simplicity and power of expression can be appreciated from the "Hymn to Christ Crucified," familiar to English readers in Dryden's version, which has been attributed also to St. Ignatius Loyola and St. Francis Xavier, but which seems more appropriately ascribed to the Seraphic Mother of Crashaw's burning words, "sweet incendiary," "undaunted daughter of desires" and "fair sister of the seraphin." The poem is, no matter who may have been its author, at least a striking example of the style of the time. "O God, Thou art the object of my love, Not for the hopes of endless joys above. Nor for the fear of endless pain below Which those who love Thee not must undergo: For me, and such as me, Thou once didst bear The ignominious cross, the nails, the spear, A thorny crown transpierced Thy sacred brow. What bloody sweats from every member flow! For me, in torture Thou resign'st Thy breath, Nailed to the cross, and sav'st me by Thy death: Say, can these sufferings fail my heart to move? What but Thyself can now deserve my love? Such as then was and is Thy love to me. Such is, and shall be still, my love to Thee. {478} Thy love, O Jesus, may I ever sing, O God of love, kind Parent, dearest King." The most original contribution of Spain to pure literature were the Tales of Chivalry, which became so popular at the end of the fifteenth century. _"Amadis de Gaul"_ is claimed by the French, but the French original has been lost and the Spanish one is not only well known, but characteristically Spanish, partaking of the very temper of the people. The first known edition is early in the sixteenth century, and within fifty years Spain produced twelve editions of it. A whole series of books of similar kind followed it. Many of these were totally lacking in literary quality, but they achieved popularity. Our own first novelists were literary folk. They have been succeeded by hack writers, who watch the fashion of the moment and make ever so much more money and sell ever so many more copies than did the great novelists. Something like this happened in Spain. These tales of chivalry have sometimes been made a matter of reproach to the intelligence of the Spaniards of the time, but then what shall we say of our own much more widespread occupation with stories if possible more trivial and absurd? We are not without tributes from distinguished men to the interest they found in some of these stories. The _"Palmerin de Inglaterra"_ which Cervantes' priest "would have kept in such a casket as that which Alexander found among Darius' spoils intended to guard the works of Homer," attracted so much attention from Edmund Burke that he avowed in the House of Commons that he had spent much time over it. Dr. Johnson confessed to having spent the leisure hours of a summer upon _"Felixmarte de Hircania." "Amadis de Gaul"_ classed by Cervantes' barber as "the best in that kind," is perhaps the only one of the tales of chivalry that a man need read. The usual assumption that it is a story of France, because of the word Gaul, is quite mistaken. Amadis is a British Knight, Gaul stands for Wales, Vindilisora is Windsor, while Bristol becomes Bristoya. The action occurs "not many years after the Passion of our Redeemer." There are marvellous adventures, something happens on every page, {479} combats with giants, magical spells of all kinds, miracles, hair-breadth escapes, last-moment rescues, till fidelity is rewarded and Amadis marries Oriana, daughter of the King of Britain, and they all live happy ever after. After the Tales of Chivalry came the Novelas de Picaros, picaresque novels we have called these Tales of Roguery in English. The two modes of fiction represent the opposite extremes. The tales of chivalry were almost entirely imaginary. The picaresque novels were rather naturalistic studies from low life. The first of these was the _"Celestina"_ but the one that was most influential is the _"Lazarillo de Tormes,"_ which curiously enough has been attributed, though on dubious evidence, to the famous Diego Hurtado de Mendoza and also to Fray Juan de Ortega of the Order of St. Jerome. The stories represent the ever-recurring tendency of mankind to be interested in a rogue, to be ready to laugh at his rascalities and especially his capacity for cheating his betters that has been used so effectively by Plautus and was the germ of the idea in the plot of Gil Bias and Scarron and probably suggested Shakespeare's "Jack Falstaff." There are phases of our modern fiction that display the same tendency. Fitzmaurice Kelly in his "Spanish Literature" (Appleton's Literatures of the World Series, New York, 1898) said of the _"Lazarillo de Tormes"_: "After three hundred years, it survives all its rivals, and may be read with as much edification and amusement as on the day of its first appearance. It set a fashion, a fashion that spread to all countries, and finds a nineteenth century manifestation in the pages of 'Pickwick'; but few of its successors match it in satirical humor, and none approach it in pregnant concision, where no word is superfluous, and where every word tells with consummate effect. Whoever wrote the book, he fixed forever the type of the comic prose epic as rendered by the needy, and he did it in such wise as to defy all competition." By a very curious contrast, the literature of Spanish origin from this century which has most influenced the world, being translated into all the languages and read and studied deeply, is exactly the opposite pole of these prose epics. For the {480} world's best-known writers on spirituality and mysticism have been Spaniards, the greatest of them lived at this time and they are still being read everywhere, edition after edition appearing in many languages. The great names among the mystics whose writings were either completed during our century, or at least the foundation for whose work was laid because their authors came to their maturity during this time, were John of Avila, Luis de Granada and Luis de Leon. John of Avila is the best known of these and occupied something of the position of master to the others. His most famous book, "The Spiritual Treatise," is still widely read in religious institutions and is familiar to all those who have made any serious study of the religious life. As there are and have been ever since his time hundreds of thousands of religious in the world, many of them representing the highest culture and good taste, "the apostle of Andalusia," as he was called, has had a large circle of chosen readers for all these centuries. His book is written with an ardent eloquence in the deeply spiritual passages, and as Hannay has said, "has always a large share of the religious quality of unction." There are many profoundly intelligent and seriously thoughtful men of our time who consider it one of the most wonderful books ever written. Luis de Granada's book, "The Guide for Sinners," was translated into all the languages of Europe and read not only by the clergy, but by the people. His book of "Prayer and Meditation on the Principal Mysteries of Faith" was much more in the hands of the clergy and religious, but was scarcely less famous. Luis de Leon's "Perfecta Casada" gained a wide reputation, and his other books on "The Names of Christ" and "The Book of Job" had a place in every important religious community in Europe. Two names in the Spanish poetry of this period are immortal in Spain, and their writings are familiar to the students of literature the world over. They are Boscan and Garcilaso de la Vega. The younger man, Garcilaso, sent Castiglione's _"Il Cortigiano"_ to Boscan and suggested its translation into Spanish. Fitzmaurice Kelly, in his "Spanish Literature," has said, "Though Boscan himself held translation to be a thing {481} meet for 'men of small parts,' his rendering is an almost perfect performance." This led Boscan to put into Spanish form many other Italian pieces, not so much by translation as by imitation more suited to the genius of the Spanish language. Not a great genius, not a lordly versifier, endowed with not one supreme gift, Boscan ranks as an unique instance in the annals of literature by virtue of his enduring and irrevocable victory. Garcilaso, his young friend, is far ahead of him in poetic genius. He was a soldier-poet, "taking now the sword and now the pen," as he said himself, and he died at the early age of thirty-three. His death occurred as the leader of a storming party in romantic circumstances, under the eye of the Emperor and the army. The first to climb the breach, he fell mortally wounded into the arms of the future translator of Ariosto and of his more intimate friend, the Marques de Lombay, whom the world knows best as St. Francis Borgia. "His illustrious descent, his ostentatious valor, his splendid presence, his seductive charm, his untimely death: all these, joined to his gift of song, combined to make him the hero of legend and the idol of a nation. Like Sir Philip Sidney, Garcilaso personified all accomplishments and all graces." Curiously enough it is not the martial but the pastoral that Garcilaso sings and "the light that never was on land or sea," of peace with poetic melancholy, that may so easily be the subject of criticism, yet has always been the favorite retreat of a great many poets at many recurring times. At the Western end of the Spanish Peninsula the Portuguese, distinct in language, had a literature of their own which reached its perfection just after Columbus' Century, but the promise of which can be seen during our period. The greatest of their poets is Camöens, whom the German critic Schlegel did not hesitate to place above not only his two great contemporaries of the sixteenth century, Ariosto and Tasso, but above all the modern epic poets and even above Virgil. His poem has been read in translation in all the languages of Europe. While it was not written in what we have called Columbus' Century, the poet had given evidence of the greatness of his genius before 1550, and some of the sonnets of his {482} early years have deservedly been looked upon as worthy perhaps of a place among the greatest examples in that form. Mrs. Browning's reason for calling her "Sonnets from the Portuguese" by that name was that probably the most beautiful love sonnets in the world had been written in that language. The Portuguese language was given the form in which it was to survive at this time, and it is always when a language is being formed that somehow geniuses come to round out its powers of expression and at the same time give it the form which it is to maintain partly as a consequence of their genius having expressed itself in it in certain enduring modes. Some of the shorter poems written by Camöens when he was a young man between twenty and twenty-five, that is, before the close of Columbus' Century, are so characteristic of the _vers de société_ at all times, and yet are such delightful bits of versification with here and there a touch of charming poetic quality, that they have more than passing interest for the modern time. I venture to quote several of them to illustrate their variety, but at the same time because, though all are attributed to Camöens, it is doubtful whether some of them were not written by others and afterwards transferred to him because of his greater fame. They illustrate very well the poetic vein of the Portuguese of the time, though ordinarily it is not assumed that Portugal was touched by the spirit of the Renaissance to any great degree or that her literature is of any significance. Most of them are with regard to love, though not all of them are as serious as the rondeau so often quoted: "Just like Love is yonder rose, Heavenly fragrance round it throws. Yet tears its dewy leaves disclose, And in the midst of briars it blows, Just like Love. Cull'd to bloom upon the breast. Since rough thorns the stem invest. They must be gather'd with the rest. And with it, to the heart be press'd. Just like Love. {483} And when rude hands the twin-buds sever They die--and they shall blossom never, --Yet the thorns be sharp as ever, Just like Love." In lighter vein is the canzonet to the lady who swore by her eyes, a custom which was rather common according to the tales of chivalry so popular shortly before this time. The first and last stanza will give a good idea of it: "When the girl of my heart is on perjury bent, The sweetest of oaths hides the falsest intent. And Suspicion, abash'd, from her company flies, When she smiles like an angel--and swears by her eyes. Then, dear one, I'd rather, thrice rather believe Whate'er you assert, even though to deceive. Than that you 'by your eyes' should so wickedly swear, And sin against heaven--for heaven is there!" At times the Portuguese poet could be rather serious. The two stanzas from the beginning of a canzonet, which contrasts the making of money with the doing of good as the proper aim of life, has often been quoted: "Since in this dreary vale of tears No certainty but death appears. Why should we waste our vernal years In hoarding useless treasure? No--let the young and ardent mind Become the friend of humankind, And in the generous service find A source of purer pleasure!" The poet is said to have fallen in love with a maid of honor at the court far above him in rank. For this impudence, he was banished from court, and unable to live so near, yet so far, resolved to go as a soldier to Africa. Somehow or other a {484} last meeting with her (she died at the early age of twenty) was managed before his departure, and he discovered in her eyes, as she bade him good-bye, the secret that she was as deeply in love as he. He went where duty called, fought bravely, losing the sight of an eye in one of the battles, and, loaded with martial honor, was permitted to return to court. When he returned, his inamorata was no more. The sonnet written when he learned the sad news is more artificial perhaps than he would have written in his maturity, but it and others gave Portuguese literature the fame for love sonnets which suggested to Mrs. Browning the title "Sonnets from the Portuguese" for her love poems: "Those charming eyes, within whose starry sphere Love whilom sat, and smil'd the hours away. Those braids of light that sham'd the beams of day. That hand benignant, and that heart sincere; Those virgin cheeks, which did so late appear Like snow-banks scatter'd with the blooms of May, Turn'd to a little cold and worthless clay. Are gone--forever gone--and perish here, --But not unbath'd by Memory's warmest tear! --Death! thou hast torn, in one unpitying hour. That fragrant plant, to which, while scarce a flow'r. The mellower fruitage of its prime was given; Love saw the deed--and as he lingered near, Sigh'd o'er the ruin, and return'd to Heav'n!" The literature of the Spanish peninsula was to have its flourishing period in the century following that we have called after Columbus, but there is enough of enduring literary products to show that men's minds were deeply affected by the great spirit of the time and to lay broad and deep foundations for the Golden Age of Spanish literature that was to follow so soon. {485} CHAPTER V ENGLISH LITERATURE The English literature of Columbus' Century obtained some of its triumphs very early in the period in a literary department, that of dramatics, in which other nations achieved little success. England in the latter part of the fifteenth century produced a series of plays whose high place in literature was only recognized properly during the past two or three generations. Ordinarily it is assumed that dramatic literature of serious significance did not develop in any modern language until much later than this time. Indeed, as a rule, the English drama of Shakespeare's time is supposed to be the first development of any importance in this department. The Spanish drama developed almost immediately after our Shakespearean period, the French came half a century later, and curiously enough Italy and Germany did not develop a national drama until the nineteenth century. The mystery and morality plays of the latter half of the fifteenth century in England have been revived in recent years and have illustrated beyond all doubt the genius of their authors and the fine evolution of drama at this time. Specimens that have been played in many places, in public performances, have proved to possess a gripping power over audiences, surpassing the dramatic literature of our own time, and the dramatic ability and genius of the men who wrote them has now come to be generally recognized. "Everyman," for instance, has been played to crowded houses in many of the large cities of the country, audiences listening intently for the two hours without an intermission and then paying the highest possible tribute by going out always in silence. The story is only a dramatic rendition of the place in life of the "four last things to be remembered"--death, judgment, heaven and hell--of interest to every man. Such a subject would seem to be quite out of harmony {486} with the temper of our time and above all with the mood in which our people attend the theatre. The man who wrote it and was able to give it such enduring interest was a dramatic genius of the first order, for he was able to take the familiar things of life, even those to which men are not prone to give much attention, and make them compelling. Mystery plays have come to have much more significance for us since the wide popularity of the Passion Play at Oberammergau. Thousands of people go up to the little village of scarcely more than a thousand inhabitants every ten years to see and hear the simple villagers tell the old, old story of the Passion and Death of Him that died on the Cross for us. Some, perhaps, of the attendance is due to the fact that it has become a fad to go, yet most of it is a real act of devotion, but to a shrine that is literary and truly dramatic as well as religious. From all over the world people have flocked to it and have confessed the dramatic force of the story in its simple setting in such a way as to make us realize what a powerful appeal the old mystery plays must have had for the people of the later Middle Ages when they came to their perfection of presentation. The appeal that the Passion Play had to the older folk, the Nativity Plays had for the children, though also for their elders and especially the women. It is exactly during Columbus' Century that these mystery and morality plays reached their highest development and greatest perfection of expression and presentation. In England this development proved to be the fertile field out of which sprang the great Elizabethan dramatic literature. There are all the elements of a great dramatic literature in them. There is simplicity and directness with the presentation of subjects that have the highest appeal and yet very humanly done, so that wit, and above all, humor, has its role, and the problems concerned are those which interest all mankind. So little is known about this phase of dramatic literature, though it represents such a charmingly simple expression of dramatic poetry, containing a lesson of sincerity, naturalness and occupation with the higher things, which our generation needs above all in order to be lifted out of the rut of over-attention to problem plays, that some review of it seems necessary not {487} only for a complete picture of the literature of Columbus' time, but also for the sake of the enduring social significance of this early dramatic literature. [Illustration: Page from early popular printed religious book (woodcut)] While we have greater examples of this mode of literature from England, in nearly every country in Europe the Passion Plays had a wonderful development toward the end of the fifteenth century. They were particularly striking, both in their literary value and their presentation in the Teutonic {488} countries and in England. There was a whole series of plays in England, many of which have come down to us. There is question whether "Everyman" was originally of Dutch or of English origin. The first production of it was as a translation of the Dutch _"Elkerlijk."_ In Germany, the period in which the Passion Play reached its highest development was from about 1450 to 1550. The great Frankfurt Passion Play, the Alsfelder and the Friedburger plays came at this time. Many other towns, however, had their special Passion Plays written for them and presented in their own way. There was the Vienna Passion, the St. Gall Passion and the Maestricht Passion. But there were Passion Plays also at Eger, at Augsburg, Freising and Lucerne. From very early times Passion Plays were given in various parts of the Tyrol, always attracting the deep attention of the people, and it is here that the single example which has survived still serves to show us how genuinely dramatic and how powerful in their appeal were these plays. [Footnote 46] [Footnote 46: It is almost amusing to be told that knowledge of the Scriptures was kept from the people at this time, before the Reformation, when these popular plays to which all the countryside flocked, and in which so many took part, were making them thoroughly familiar with all the details of Christ's life. There was much more than this, however, for connected with many of the Passion Plays were cycles of tableaux or presentations of special scenes in which, beginning with the Creation, the whole story of the Bible, and particularly those portions which are related to the coming of Christ, were set clearly before them. No better way of impressing upon the people the great truths of Christianity or the life of Christ as the central fact of the world's history could possibly have been imagined. The people were not encouraged to read difficult passages, which even the profoundest theologians find it hard to understand, to take their own meaning out of them and to argue about them, convicting everyone of heresy who did not agree with their interpretations of them, but they were taught the deep moral and religious significance of all the Old and New Testament. They learned the value of the Scriptures as literature as well as their quality as the underlying document of religion, but above all they were taught their relation to life. All this was so put before them that it came as an amusement and not a task, and from their earliest years they became familiar with the great thoughts underlying religion so as to secure its influence over them.] Dodsley's collection of Old English Plays, which, in its {489} fourth edition as edited by W. Carew Hazlitt (London, 1874), contains a number of old plays little known, is particularly rich in material from this century of Columbus. The series of morality plays, "The Interlude of the Four Elements," "Everyman," "The Pardoner and the Friar," "The World and the Child," "Hick's Corner," "God's Promises," and the "Four P's," are typical examples. They all show the true dramatic spirit, and while lacking the theatrical technique of modern plays, are almost infinitely superior in their expression of the realities of human interest and their revelation of the depths of human sympathy to the presentation of superficialities which now pass for drama. It was towards the end of Columbus' Century that the "Marriage of Witte and Science," which was not published until 1570, was written. This was marked off into five acts and the scenes designated, being the first play in which such an arrangement had been made. The modern dramatic mould was thus created. It is easy to understand that on the deep foundations, literary and technical, thus laid in the century before 1550, the great structure of the Elizabethan drama could be built up. How much the appreciation for the morality plays has risen may be judged very well from some recent expressions with regard to them by students of the drama. Everyone is particularly loud in praise of "Everyman." In the introduction to "Everyman with other Interludes" in the Everyman series, the writer says that "to turn from Bayle's play (one of the later moralities, 'God's Promises') to the heart-breaking realities of 'Everyman' is like turning from a volume of law to the edifying sermons of one of the gospels." He adds: "It was written, no doubt, like most of the plays in this volume, by a churchman; and he must have been a man of profound imagination and of the tenderest human soul conceivable. His ecclesiastical habit becomes clear enough before the end of the play, where he bids every man go and confess his sins. Like many of the more poignant scenes and passages in the miracle plays that follow it, this morality too leaves one exclaiming on how good a thing was the plain English of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries." {490} It would be a mistake to think that only the serious side of life was portrayed in these old dramas. Quite the contrary, they were full of humor, and the writer of the Introduction to Everyman, already quoted, says in this regard: "In these religious and moral interludes, the dramatic colouring, however crude, is real and sincere. The humours of a broad folk-comedy break through the Scriptural web continually in the guild plays like those in which Noah the ship-builder, or the proverbial three shepherds, appear in the pageant. Noah's unwilling wife in the 'Chester Deluge,' and Mak's canny wife in the Wakefield's shepherd's play, where the sheep-stealing scenes reveal a born Yorkshire humorist, offer a pair of gossips not easy to match for rude comedy. Mak's wife, like the shepherd's in the same pastoral, utters proverbs with every other breath: 'A woman's avyse helpys at the last!' 'So long goys the pott to the water, at last comys it home broken!' "'Now in hot, now in cold, Full woeful is the household That wants a woman!' And her play upon the old north-country asseveration, 'I'll eat my bairn,' "'If ever I you beguiled, That I eat this child That lies in this cradle,' (the child being the stolen sheep), must have caused townsfolk and countryfolk outrageous laughter. Mak's wife is indeed as memorable in her way as the Wife of Bath, Dame Quickly, or Mrs. Gamp." Some idea of the extent to which the men of this time went in attempting spectacles on a large scale may be appreciated from "Mary Magdalen," which combines elements of all the various kinds of religious plays of the time. It was a miracle play because it treats of the life and death of St. Mary Magdalen. It is a mystery play inasmuch as it introduces scenes from the Life of Christ. {491} [Illustration: PICTURE OF THEATRE ON TITLE PAGE OF COMEDIES OF TERENCE, STRASBURG (1490)] {492} It is a morality play because abstract personages are introduced upon the stage in the presentation of the struggle between good and evil in human life. Dr. Furnivall has divided the play into two parts, with fifty-one scenes altogether, twenty in the first and thirty-one in the second part. There is some evidence that some of the scenes were inserted only to give time for a shift of scenes. Probably they had two pageants or movable trucks which would remind one somewhat of the movable stage that was attempted in the last generation. The burning of the temple and some of the incidents of the wanderings at sea may very well have provided opportunity for spectacular effects of ambitious character. We have no record of how far they went in this regard, though some hints of attempts in the direction of surprising scenic introductions are to be found in contemporary documents, and we know that in Italy they staged an earthquake very effectively. The play of "The Four Elements" was written just at the beginning of the sixteenth century. The date of its writing is designated by one of the speeches of Experience in this play, who says: "Till now, within this twenty years. Westward be found new lands, That we never heard tell of before this By writing nor other means." The passage illustrates the tendency to make these plays instructive as well as entertaining, and many similar passages might be quoted to show that a definite effort was made to convey information by means of them, though, as a rule, this had much more reference to religion and to social life than to things more distant from every-day living. One of the important dramatic writers of the first half of our Columbus' Century was John Skelton, born about 1460, and who was one of the most prominent of literary men of England of his time. He had a series of literary quarrels with many of the prominent writers, Alexander Barclay and William Lily, the grammarian, among others, and for a time he {493} enjoyed the patronage of Wolsey, but apparently could not restrain his tendency to satire and so fell into the Cardinal's bad graces. Alexander Dyce edited his works in two volumes in 1843 and called particular attention to the genuine worth of his four dramatic compositions, the "Interlude of Virtue," the comedy called "Achidemoios," the "Nigramansir" (necromancer) and "Magnyfycence." Only one of these, the last, now remains, though there are traditions with regard to the others, and the single one left shows what precious material was lost. An even more important contributor to this mode of dramatic literature and very significant predecessor of Shakespeare was John Heywood, a friend and neighbor of Sir Thomas More in Hertfordshire, who wrote a series of dramatic works, consisting of five interludes. Of these the "Four P's" is the best known and is the typical example of this form of dramatic literature. Its full title is "A Very Mery Enterlude of A Palmer, A Pardoner, A Pothecary and A Pedlar," and the story turns on the contest arranged between them, and especially the first three, as to which could tell the greatest lie. Palmers were real or supposed returned pilgrims from the Holy Land, bearing palms as a symbol of their pilgrimage, and were noted as a rule for their ability to tell strong stories. Pardoners were wandering merchants who sold printed prayers and various objects of devotion to which indulgences, pardons, in the language of the day were attached. They too were noted for drawing the long bow. The Pothecary and the Pedlar, because of their familiar gossip with the people, knew all the news of the neighborhood in which they lived, and had the reputation of being able to add to the vividness and sensational qualities of stories so that the Four P's might very well be expected to give some fine illustrations of the ability to lie. The Palmer takes the prize in the contest with the very first story. All are agreed at once that no one can even hope to surpass it. The passage in which he does so is worth while quoting because it gives an illustration at once of the language and style as well as of the kind of humor to be found in Heywood's interludes: {494} "And this I would ye should understand, I have seen women five hundred thousand; And oft with them have long time tarried. Yet in all places where I have been, Of all the women that I have seen, I never saw or knew in my conscience Any one woman out of patience." Thus, quietly, and with this force of earnest asseveration, does the largest and most palpable lie leap out of the Palmer's lips. The contestants themselves are at once unanimous in their decision. Pothecary: "By the mass, there is a great lie!" Pardoner: "I never heard a greater, by our Lady!" Pedlar: "A greater! Nay, know ye any so great?" In his account of the Pardoner, Heywood does not hesitate to satirize many of the pretensions of this class and especially their catering to the superstition of the ignorant by the sale of impossible relics of all kinds. Catholics realize very well that such frauds are practised at all times. Even in our day men go around selling prayers, the recital of which is supposed to give thousands of years of indulgence and other like absurdities. Besides, the trade in manufactured relics is well known, and the ecclesiastical authorities have tried to regulate it at all times. Heywood has his Pardoner offer for sale such relics as a bit of the thumb nail of the Holy Trinity and a feather from the wing of the Holy Ghost and like impossible absurdities. Impositions in the name of religion are still with us. It is interesting to know that before the religious revolution they were fought with that best of weapons, satire. Before the end of Columbus' Century the first English comedy in the modern sense had been written. It was by Nicholas Udall and was called, from its hero, "Ralph Royster Doyster." He was a swaggering simpleton, a conceited fop of the time who is played upon by one Matthew Merrygreek, a needy humorist who represents the parasite of the old Latin drama under the influence of which this first English comedy was written. For Nicholas Udall was the Headmaster of Eton School, and the play in lively rhyming couplets, {495} interspersed with merry songs, was written to be played by the Eton boys according to their custom of having several plays each year. The play partakes somewhat of the nature of farce and contains a number of situations of the kind that have always drawn a laugh and will doubtless always continue to do so. In one of the scenes in the play, Ralph and his man are beaten in a brisk battle by the women of the play armed with broomsticks. A lesson in the need for punctuation is introduced, showing how completely the sense of writing can be reversed by putting the stops in the wrong places. Udall wrote some other plays, notably one called "Ezekias," used for the entertainment of Queen Elizabeth on her visit to Cambridge. The other form of literature besides the drama which came to ripe fruition at this time in England is also of a popular character. It consists of the stirring English ballads which were gathered into a volume by Bishop Percy in his "Reliques" at the end of the eighteenth century. There probably has never been more stirring martial singing than is to be found in the "Ancient Ballad of Chevy Chase" or "Adam Bell" or "Clym of the Clough." It has been well said that "in graphic terseness, in poetic simplicity, in fiery fervor, in tenderness of pathos, our modern poetry does not approach these old ballads." Sir Philip Sidney said of "Chevy Chase," "I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas that I found not my heart more moved than with a trumpet." While the language is simple, the verse rude, the thoughts rugged and the story over-full of sympathy for the outlaw, at all times, even the most refined, these ballads have stirred English hearts. The writers of them are unknown, but they had the genius of true poets, the power of vision and striking ability of expression. The ballads will live as long as our English tongue and will continue to be read even by the cultured, distant in every way from the rudeness of the time in which and the men for whom these ballads were written. After the Ballad Poetry of this period came quite naturally Sir Thomas Malory's _"Morte d'Arthur."_ There have been many and varying expressions of opinion with regard to the merit of this work, and it is at best a medley from many {496} sources. What Mr. Andrew Lang has called its "splendid patchwork" is harmonized and solemnized by the dignified conclusion "in tenderness and inexpiable sorrow." In spite of its many sources there is a unity of spirit and feeling, and Malory was an admirable narrator. Malory's vitality is attested by edition after edition in the nineteenth century. The book has an appeal to human nature that is eternal and that will always give it a distinguished place among the books of the educated at least. Of style in the literary sense of that term there is very little, and Malory's anomalous constructions have always puzzled grammarians, but as Garnett says in his English Literature, [Footnote 47] "These do not render him obscure for the readers of any period." Caxton laid English literature under an immense obligation by insuring the preservation of the work, through his selection of it to be one of his early-printed books. It has done credit to his taste in popular literature ever since. [Footnote 47: "English Literature: an Illustrated Record in Four Vols." Garnett and Gosse: New York, 1903.] In the latter part of the fifteenth and the first years of the sixteenth century a wonderful development of English poetry took place in Scotland. Just before Columbus' Century opened, James First of Scotland, who had been detained in an English prison for nineteen years, began the literature of Scotland in glorious fashion. The loneliness of these years prompted him to seek and gain that literary culture which has made his name famous in the world of letters. It is possible that the "King's Quair" (a quire or book), which is a poetical record of his sight of Jane Beaufort, granddaughter of John of Gaunt, from his prison window, and his winning her as his queen, may not be from his hand. There is no doubt at all, however, of his taste in literature, his patronage of it and of his establishment of the tradition which has made the English literature of Scotland so important during most of the centuries since. Four poets of the middle of Columbus' Century in Scotland deserve to be named, Blind Harry, Robert Henryson, Gawin Douglas and William Dunbar. All of them are still read affectionately by Scotchmen, but there are very few among the educated people of the English-speaking countries who would {497} care to confess ignorance of them, and to many they are favorite poets. Dunbar is the greatest of poets in English from Chaucer to Shakespeare, and Scottish critics at least have been loud in its praise. Mr. Craik says: "This admirable master, alike of serious and of comic song, may justly be styled the Chaucer of Scotland, whether we look to the wide range of his genius, or to his eminence in every style over all the poets of his country who preceded and all who for ages came after him. Burns is certainly the only name among the Scottish poets that can yet be placed on the same line with that of Dunbar; and even the inspired ploughman, though the equal of Dunbar in comic power and his superior in depth of passion, is not to be compared with the older poet either in strength or in general fertility of imagination." The two English poets of our period are Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey, and Sir Thomas Wyatt, who, in spite of inequality in merit, possess so much in common that their names are closely associated. How well they were appreciated in Elizabeth's time and how much their influence meant for Shakespeare's contemporaries may be judged from Puttenham's expression, who said in 1589: "Henry, Earl of Surrey, and Sir Thomas Wyatt, between whom I finde very little difference, I repute them for the two chief lanternes of light to all others that have since employed their pennes upon English Poesie; their conceits were loftie, their stiles stately, their conveyance cleanly, their termes proper, their metres sweete and well proportioned." To Surrey, English literature owes two important literary innovations--the introduction of the sonnet and the use of polished blank verse. The influence of Italy and of the classic authors can be seen very clearly, and his version of the second and fourth books of the AEneid, in what Milton called "English heroic verse without rhyme," was a fundamental influence in English poetry. His sonnets are mainly the amatory effusions which were becoming fashionable everywhere at this time and which Shakespeare indulged in in his turn a little later. Some of his biographers and editors have woven a series of fanciful theories over his relations to the {498} "fair Geraldine," in whose honor many of the best sonnets were written, but it is doubtful whether these love poems are anything more than the wandering poetic fancies of the time. Surrey's unmerited death on the scaffold at the early age of thirty has deepened the romantic interest that attaches to his name as a poet. Sir Thomas Wyatt, though more than a dozen years older than his friend Surrey, must be considered his disciple in poetry. He, too, wrote some of the new sonnets on the theme that occupied so many of the poets of the time--Love--but, as in the case of Surrey also, we have from him some satires and metrical versions of the psalms. Probably the greatest contribution to the English prose of the time is Sir Thomas More's "Life of Edward V." Mr. Hallam pronounced it "the first example of good English--pure and perspicuous, well chosen, without vulgarisms or pedantry." Many others have declared More the first great master of English prose and even the father of English prose. There have been dissentient voices among the critics from these high praises. There is no doubt, however, that More wrote a direct straightforward English that deeply influenced the course of English speech, and tradition has given him a high place among the great English orators. The language undoubtedly received a deep impress from him, and though his most important work in literature is "Utopia," written in Latin, his high place in English cannot be denied. Authorities on English have always recognized this, but owing to religious feelings, and the anti-Catholic tradition created during Elizabeth and James' time, More's work has been neglected, except by the deeper scholars. Samuel Johnson, in the "History of the English Language," prefixed to his dictionary, devotes nearly one-third of all the space that he takes for his purpose to More. He apologizes somewhat for his copiousness of quotation from the chancellor, but justifies it by saying that, "It is necessary to give a larger specimen both because the language was to a great degree formed and settled and because it appears from Ben Jonson that his works were considered as models of pure and elegant style." A recent writer, [Footnote 48] Prof. J. S. Phillimore, says of More's style: {499} "His usual prose has the easy elastic abundance of Boccaccio and a lawyer's love of proving a point exhaustively in controversy. But he has all the qualities of a great prose style: sonorous eloquence, less cumbersome than Milton; simplicity and lucidity of argument, with unfailing sense of the rhythms and harmonies of English sound. He is a master of Dialogue, the favorite vehicle of that age; neither too curiously dramatic in the ethopoia of the persons, nor yet allowing the form to become a hollow convention, the objector in his great Dialogue (the Quod he and Quod I) is anything but a man of straw. We can see that if Lucian was his early love he had not neglected Plato either. Elizabethan prose is tawdry and mannered compared with his: at his death Chaucer's thread is dropped, which none picked up till Clarendon and Dryden. With his colloquial, well-bred, unaffected ease, he is the ancestor of Swift. His style--so Erasmus tells us--was gained by long and careful studies and exercises; he took a discipline in Latin, of which the fruits were to appear in English, when the increasing gravity of the times warned him that it would be well to speak to a larger public than Latin could reach. Even where he is prolix--and that may seem prolix in black-letter folio which reads easy and pleasant enough in modern form--his merry humor is not long silent." [Footnote 48: _Dublin Review,_ July, 1913.] As in French, some of the translations into English at this period are almost as admirable prose as Amyot's "Plutarch." Even when the translations of the time have the quaintness of the English of that period, they are admirable in their closeness to the original and in a certain rhythm of their sentences. Of Berner's translation of Froissart's "Chronicles," Snell in "The Age of Transition" ("Handbooks of English Literature," Scribners) says: "The English is so thoroughly idiomatic that in reading it one loses all sensation of the book being merely an interpretation, and resigns one's self to its easy and familiar flow with the same joyful complacency as if it were an original work. On the other hand, if one insists on breaking the spell and comparing it with the French text, one is struck not only with the felicity, but also the fidelity of the rendering." The literary quality of the prose of the first half of the {500} sixteenth century in England is best revealed in the translations of the Scriptures done into the vernacular at this time and in the unequalled Collects of the English Prayerbook. Tyndale and Coverdale are responsible for the translations of the Scriptures, and to Cranmer is usually attributed the writing of the Collects, though, as has been said by Saintsbury, "this attribution derives but very faint corroboration from the Archbishop's known work." It was with these models of marvellously expressive, thoroughly idiomatic English, exquisite examples of style, that the translators of the King James version of the Bible were placed in a position to give us the wonderful fundamental literary work that was to come from their hand half a century later. It has been said that one argument of the most irresistible kind for the divine authorship of the Scriptures lies in the faculty which they have of making all the translations of them great literature. It was their influence that is felt in the English Prayerbook and in those parts of the Breviary which we owe to the first half of the sixteenth century. [Illustration: MANTEGNA. ST. GEORGE ] {501} CHAPTER VI SCHOLARSHIP IN ITALY One of the most important chapters in the great accomplishment of the men of this century is its scholarship--that is, the critical and appreciative knowledge of what men had written before their time and especially of the great classical works of antiquity. In this, almost needless to say, Italy is not only a pioneer, but was the _alma mater studiorum_--of whom Linacre was so proud--for those desirous of knowledge of the classics and true scholarship from all over the world. From every country, France, Spain, Germany, distant Poland and Denmark, as well as England, those looking for opportunities for study that could not be obtained at home flocked to Italy. Besides, Italian teachers are to be found teaching everywhere, though Italy herself proved no stepmother to those who came to be nurtured in good learning at her great institutions. Many a foreigner who had proved his ability was given a professorship and spent many years in teaching others in Italy as he had been taught himself. This is the age of printing, and it was of first importance that good editions of the classics should be printed as soon as possible in order to prevent any further degeneration of their texts and avoid all further risk of losing the precious treasures of antiquity. Scholars in Italy took up the making of good texts, and within a century after the invention of printing, all the important Greek and Latin authors had been published in scholarly editions, the texts of which still command respect. The amount of labor required for this, the judicious scholarship demanded, the patience that was needed and the unselfish devotion to a most trying task, only scholars can properly appreciate. No debt that we owe to the Renaissance is greater than this, what it accomplished for classical literature, and by far the greater part of this debt is owed to Italy. {502} Everywhere, that is, in every important city, there was a school of the New Learning, and usually some munificent patrons of what they came to call Humanism because it represented humanity's highest interests, supporting scholars who were writing and correcting manuscripts and afterwards forming libraries of the printed books and making it possible for the great printers to continue their work by subscribing for their first editions. Only that the Church was deeply interested in this new movement, it would have been quite impossible for it to have continued. Unfortunately, as always happens whenever men get new knowledge, many of them, that is, the restless and the smaller minds among them, who are always likely to be in a great majority in any new movement, were taken with the idea that they knew so much more than those who went before them that they could not be expected to accept old-fashioned ideas in religion and philosophy. Because of the disturbances produced by such restless characters, there sometimes seems at this time to be opposition between the Church and the New Learning. This false impression is partly due to the fact that in certain countries, notably Germany and England, the reform doctrines were, as pointed out by Gasquet, often called the New Learning, to which, of course, there was opposition. Most of the great classic scholars, however, were ecclesiastics, some of them of very high rank and influence in the councils of the Church, even Cardinals and Popes, and in general the vast majority of the prominent scholars were in the closest of sympathy with the ecclesiastical authorities. The exceptions are so few as to make the existence of this rule very clear, though so much of emphasis has been placed on the exceptions in the modern time that an entirely false impression with regard to Church opposition to education has been produced in a great many minds. The first name that deserves to be mentioned among the scholars of Italy is AEneas Sylvius of the family of Piccolomini, who is better known under the name of Pius II, which he bore as Pope. He is a typical example of the scholars of the Renaissance, in so far as that, as a younger man, his studies of classical antiquity led him to the expression of pagan ideas in life as well as in language. At the age of forty he {503} reformed and became as well known for his devotion as for his previous looseness of character. He was created Imperial Poet by the Emperor Frederick III, and his reputation for scholarship created a fashion in this regard that did great good for the rising movement of the New Learning. His influence as Pope continued this, though he made it the main business of his pontificate to organize Europe against the Turks so as to prevent the further increase of their power with all that would mean for the destruction of culture as well as religion. Indeed, his love for letters seems to have been at least as great an incentive for the organization of the crusade as his duty as an ecclesiastic. When he heard of the Fall of Constantinople, he exclaimed, "How many names of mighty men will perish! It is a second death to Homer and to Plato. The fount of the muses is dried up forevermore." How much he was thought of by his contemporaries and how much the example of his scholarship meant will be best appreciated from the Piccolomini Palace and other buildings of Pienza, but particularly the exquisitely beautiful Piccolomini Library at Siena. Pinturicchio's decorations for this library are only added testimony to the admiration of his generation. Sylvius' letter to Ladislas, the young king of Bohemia and Hungary who had sought his advice with regard to education, is one of the important documents in the history of education. It contains the oft-quoted passage with regard to the place of memory in education: "We must first insist upon the overwhelming importance of Memory, which is in truth the first condition of capacity for letters. A boy should learn without effort, retain with accuracy, and reproduce easily. Rightly is memory called 'the nursing mother of learning.' It needs cultivation, however, whether a boy be gifted with retentiveness or not. Therefore, let some passage from poet or moralist be committed to memory every day." One of the greatest scholars of the period and one of the leaders in the Renaissance movement towards the classics which brought about the reawakening of artistic and literary men at this time was Cardinal Bessarion, whose long life of over eighty years gave him nearly a quarter of a century in {504} Columbus' period. He came with the Emperor John Palaeologus to the Council of Ferrara in 1438, where his reputation for scholarship and vast erudition in all theological matters gave him great authority among the Greek Bishops. To him more than any other must be attributed the formal reunion with the Latin Church, which was the happy issue of that Council. To him, therefore, was committed the honor of reading the Greek formula of the Act of Union. Unfortunately, the union was but short-lived, but Bessarion changed to the Latin rite and in 1439 was created Cardinal. The Cardinal was high in favor with succeeding Popes and just at the beginning of Columbus' Century was sent as papal legate to Bologna, as "an angel of peace," in the hope that he would be able to quell the factional disturbances and pacify the divided interests. Cardinal Bessarion succeeded admirably in this difficult mission, calmed the internal dissensions and succeeded in introducing wise reforms into the city government and the administration of justice. His principal attention, however, was given to the University. He rebuilt the building and gathered there some of the most famous teachers of the world, encouraging particularly the study of the classics, and above all of Greek. He himself supplied out of his personal revenues whatever was lacking in the salaries, and he gathered around him a notable band of scholars, writers and poets, and began that magnificent outburst of interest in the intellectual life which was to make Bologna so famous. He continued to be active in his influence on the scholarship of Italy until well beyond eighty years of age, yet was always a factor in the practical life of his time. When he was eighty-one he wrote for Pope Paul II a letter on the organization of a new crusade against the Turks. When he was eighty-three he went on an embassy to Paris in order to bring about the union of the Western nations for a crusade. While at Rome during his later years, Bessarion gathered round him the scholars and writers in all departments. The scientists of the time particularly owe much to his patronage. He was a friend of Peurbach of Vienna, of Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa, of Regiomontanus and many others. In his house the first Accademia was founded, and he was known as the patron of {505} letters. He gathered an immense number of valuable manuscripts at very great expense, had copies of others made and gave his treasures at his death to found a library in Venice, his collection forming the nucleus of the famous library of St. Mark. After these two great Churchmen and patrons of learning and education, there are a series of scholars whose names deserve to be mentioned for the influence which they exerted on the learning of Europe at this time. At the beginning of our century came the Greeks, who were driven out of their native country by the conquest of the Turks. Demetrius Chalcondyles, Theodore Gaza, George Trebizond and Joannes Argyropulos, unable to pursue their studies in peace in the midst of the alarms produced by the Turks, reached Italy before the Fall of Constantinople. Gaza was lecturing on Demosthenes at Ferrara in 1448, where among his pupils was the subsequently distinguished German scholar Rudolph Agricola. The first year of our century Gaza was invited to Rome by Pope Nicholas V to fill the chair of philosophy and take a principal part in the plan which the Pope had conceived for the translation of the principal Greek classics. Gaza's translations were mainly concerned with scientific Greek works, Aristotle "On Mechanical Problems" and "On Animals" and Theophrastus' "Botany." For a time he withdrew to a monastery, but was recalled to Rome by Pope Paul II to take part in the _editio princeps_ of Gellius. After the death of Bessarion he retired once more to his monastery, where he died in 1475. His Greek grammar became famous and was used as a text-book by Budaeus in Paris and by Erasmus in Cambridge. He is described by Manutius as easily chief among the Latin and Greek scholars of his age, an age replete with scholarship be it said, and he is eulogized by Scaliger over a century later as _magnus vir et doctus,_ a great man and a learned. George Trebizond, after teaching for many years in Venice, was invited to Rome, where he became one of the Papal Secretaries. He also took part in the plan for translating the Greek classics, and his translations include the "Rhetoric and Problems of Aristotle" and "The Laws and Charmenides of Plato." Argyropulos taught first at Padua and then for {506} fifteen years under the patronage of the Medici at Florence. He, too, was invited to Rome by the Pope and was highly esteemed there. His part in the great plan of translation concerned mainly the works of Aristotle, whose "Ethics," "Politics," "Economics," "On the Soul" and "On Heaven" were all printed in his versions. He was the master of Politian, and his lectures were attended by Tiptoff, the Earl of Worcester, and by Reuchlin, the great German humanist. It was to Reuchlin that Argyropulos, after having heard him read and translate a passage of Thucydides, exclaimed with a sigh, "Lo! through our exile Greece has flown across the Alps." Chalcondyles, at the early age of twenty-six, made an immediate conquest of his Italian audience at Perugia in 1450. Subsequently he lectured at Padua, being the first teacher of Greek who received a salary at any of the Universities of Europe. For twenty years he lectured in Florence, and there prepared the _editio princeps_ of Homer, the first great Greek author to be printed. After the death of Lorenzo de Medici he withdrew to Milan and there edited "Isocrates" and "Suidas." His emendation of Greek texts is the best proof of his scholarship, and few men of his time equalled his power in this. He was noted for the gentleness of his disposition and his integrity of character, and he made many friends. There is a famous picture by Ghirlandajo in Santa Maria Novella at Florence which contains portraits of Ficino, Landino, Politian and Chalcondyles. The work of all of these men was greatly assisted by Pope Nicholas V, who was himself distinguished as a scholar in this scholarly time. During his pontificate in the first years of Columbus' Century he did more for the encouragement of learning than anyone else of the time. His wide knowledge of manuscripts made him personally an expert, and he gathered from all lands and is the founder of the Vatican collection of manuscripts. Besides the translations of Aristotle, Thucydides, Herodotus, Xenophon, Polybius and Epictetus, Diodorus Siculus, Strabo and Appian were translated under his direction. The catholicity of his taste, and above all the inclusion of the scientific books of the Greeks, is a tribute to the liberty of spirit of the Pope. On his death-bed he declared that his {507} greatest consolation was that he had been liberal in the rewarding of learned men. After the Papal influence, the most important factor for the encouragement of scholarship was the academies which were founded at this time. Lorenzo de Medici revived, after an interval of 1200 years, the ancient custom of celebrating the memory of Plato by an annual banquet. Out of this arose the _Accademia_ of Florence, nearly every one of the members of which were distinguished scholars. The best known among them are Landino and Ficino, both of whom had been Lorenzo's tutors, Pico della Mirandola and Politian. The first account that we have of the Academy is to be found in the introduction to Ficino's edition of Plato's "Symposium." He tells that his rendering of all the seven speeches in the "Symposium" was read aloud and discussed by five of the guests. Undoubtedly Ficino was the centre of the _Accademia_ and one of the greatest scholarly influences of the time. At the age of forty he took Holy Orders and was noted for the next twenty-five years, until his death, as a faithful priest whose scholarship was devoted to showing how Plato illuminated Christianity. In the latter part of his life he lectured on and translated Plotinus. The best known of these scholars in Florence was undoubtedly Politian, much more interested in Latin than in Greek, though Sandys, in his "History of Classical Scholarship" (Cambridge University Press, 1908), says that he was probably the first teacher in Italy whose mastery of Greek was equal to that of the Greek immigrants. Though he died at the early age of forty, we owe to him valuable textual criticisms of Lucretius, Propertius, Ovid, Statius, Ausonius, Celsus, Quintilian, Festus, and Catullus and Tibullus. His monograph on the chronology of Cicero's letters, his discussion of the use of the aspirate in Latin and Greek and of the differences between the aorist and the imperfect as illustrated by the signatures of Greek sculptors, as well as his power of solving textual difficulties, made him one of the great contributors to the magnificent work accomplished at this time for classical scientific grammar and erudition, as well as for the provision of proper texts of the classics for the world. Besides pure {508} literature, he was interested very much in law and made a special study of the "Pandects" of Justinian. He refused to follow those who slavishly imitated Cicero, and denounces the Ciceronians as the mere apes of Cicero. His expressions in the matter are famous. "To myself the face of a bull or a lion appears far more beautiful than that of an ape, although the ape has a closer resemblance to man. But, someone will say you do not express Cicero. I answer I am not Cicero, what I really express is myself." Academies were formed in other cities and accomplished excellent results for scholarship, though at times they fell under the suspicion of the authorities of dabbling in politics or of actually favoring political factions or even revolutionary ideas. Nearly always they owe their origin to the patronage of high ecclesiastics or those who were in very close sympathy with the Church and always they contained clergymen of distinction. After that of Florence the next in chronological order was that of Rome. There is even some question whether the Roman Academy was not the first in time, only it did not receive this name until after it had been adopted in Florence. The most important figure in the Roman Academy was the man who, for want of a better, assumed the old Roman name Pomponius Laetus. He was narrow enough of intellect to refuse to learn Greek, because he feared that it would spoil his Latin style. The members of the Roman Academy, under his ruling spirit, celebrated the foundation of Rome on the annual return of the festival of the Palilia, a custom which is still retained by many of the Roman academies. Pomponius did his gardening according to the precepts of Varro and Columella, the Latin writers on agriculture, and nothing pleased him better than to be regarded as a second Cato. It is to him that is due the revival of the regular performances of Plautus' plays. [Illustration: CORREGGIO, BLESSED VIRGIN AND ST. SEBASTIAN] Among the most important members of the Academy were Platina, who became the Librarian of the Vatican, and Sabellicus, who afterwards became the Prefect of the Library of San Marco in Venice. For a time, owing to suspicion of its political, perhaps also its religious, tendencies, the Roman Academy was suppressed and some of its members put in prison, but under Pope Sixtus IV it was revived and all its {509} old customs restored. Pomponius wrote commentaries on the whole of Virgil, on Sallust and Curtius, on Pliny's letters and Quintilian and on his agricultural favorites, Varro and Columella, and his equally great favorites, Festus and Nonius Marcellus, the grammarians. In order to complete his similarity with the old Romans, he had expressed the desire at one time in life that after death his body should simply be placed in an ancient Roman tomb on the Appian Way. When he died at the age of seventy he had changed the views of his earlier years and was given a magnificent Christian funeral. So great was the veneration for his scholarship that his obsequies in the Church of _Ara Coeli,_ in the midst of the Roman antiquities that he had loved so well, were attended, as Gregorovius tells us, by some forty bishops. This Roman Academy continued to exist, now flourishing, now occupied with trivialities, as is the way with such institutions, until the sack of Rome in 1527. As Sandys says ("Harvard Lectures on the Revival of Learning," Cambridge University Press, 1905), "Its palmy days were in the age of Leo X, when it included the most brilliant members of the literary society of Rome, men like the future Cardinals, Bembo and Sadoleto, as well as Paolo Giovio and Castiglione. It encouraged very much the study of Latin particularly, and its members wrote Latin poems and delivered Latin orations and above all encouraged the development of Roman Archaeology, the preservation of Roman remains of all kinds, the editing of books and the recovery of every possible phase of information with regard to Roman life." There were minor academies in Rome, one of which, the Vitruvian Academy, occupied itself mainly with architecture. But as was true also at Florence, where there were a number of minor academies, some at least of these were only cloaks for political discussions and organizations, and as a consequence brought other and more serious bodies of the same name under suspicion. The next academy of importance is that of Naples, which came into existence probably just about the beginning of Columbus' Century during the reign of Alfonso of Aragon, the magnanimous patron of learning. Its most prominent {510} members were Antonio of Palermo, whose Italian name of Beccadelli is often used; Pontano and Sannazzaro, the poets, and Laurentius Valla, the historian and professor of rhetoric. Valla subsequently became professor of rhetoric in Rome at the invitation of Pope Nicholas V, who wanted his assistance for the carrying out of the great plan of translations from Greek to Latin of all the great authors which he constantly cherished. Valla became Papal Secretary under Nicholas' successor, Pope Calixtus III, but unfortunately he died at the early age of fifty. He deserves extended notice because he is one of the founders of historical criticism, and he began that denunciation of exaggerated belief in Aristotle very proper in itself, but which unfortunately went too far and led to under-estimation of the medieval scholars who had studied Aristotle so sedulously, and even of Aristotle himself. His discussion of the Donation of Constantine attracted much attention and showed very clearly how scholarship might be used to good purpose for the correction of false notions even long after events had happened. The _Accademia_ at Venice deserves more than a passing mention because, though founded much later than the others, it set itself the very practical purpose of bringing about a systematic publication of the Greek classics. It was founded by Aldus in 1500, who called it the New Academy of Hellenists, and was as strongly Grecian as Pomponius' Academy was Roman. Its constitution was written in Greek, Greek was spoken at its meetings and Greek names were adopted by its Italian members. Fortiguerra of Pistoia, the Secretary of the Academy, thus became Carteromachus. The principal aim of the Academy was to produce in each month an edition of at least 1,000 copies of some good author. Among the honorary foreign members were Linacre, some of whose translations Aldus published, and Erasmus, who visited Venice in 1508 and who expressed himself as delighted with the opportunity to take part in the deliberations of the Academy. How successful the Academy was in its purpose of encouraging scholarly printing, all the world knows. Aldus produced no less than 27 _editiones principes_ of Greek authors and Greek works of reference. At the time of his death in 1515 all the {511} principal Greek classics had been printed. The Academy had been a large factor in helping him in this magnificent achievement, which meant more for scholarship throughout the whole of Europe than perhaps any other single movement occupying so short a time. There are many of the scholars of the Renaissance whose names are scarcely known outside of the narrow circle of modern specialists in their departments, though their influence was felt for many generations and their work is worthy of the highest praise. A typical example of these is Ambrogio Calepino, the Augustinian monk, to whom we owe the first great modern Latin dictionary. Under the title of "Cornucopia" it appeared first at Reggio in 1502 and was reprinted many times during the sixteenth century. The Alduses at Venice printed no less than eighteen editions of it. This lexicon came to be the groundwork on which subsequent lexicographers, recognizing its merit, built up their larger works. There was an edition of it in seven languages by Facciolati, printed at Pavia in 1718, which was reprinted many times. The name of Calepinus became a synonym for the word dictionary or lexicon and is frequently used, without capitalization as a common noun, in Italy during the subsequent generations. His magnificent work well deserved this recognition, for it is a monument of the classical scholarship of the first half of Columbus' Century. One of the greatest of the Italian scholars of the first half of, Columbus' Century was that distinguished member of the Florentine Academy whose books were the special favorites of Sir Thomas More, Giovanni Pico della Mirandola, who died at the early age of thirty-one after dreaming the dream of the unity of all knowledge and becoming absorbed in planning a vast work which was to form a complete system of knowledge. He had devoted himself to Greek and to Christian theology and philosophy and even rendered himself liable to suspicion by his delvings into Cabalistic lore and had deeply impressed the generation among whom he lived. His reputation as a marvellous precocious scholar, who died all untimely, still endures, and Sir Thomas More's study and discussion of his works gave him a reputation in England which added greatly {512} to his fame throughout the whole West of Europe. He was happy in his end, for he passed away on the very day in which the invader of Italy, Charles VIII of France, marched into Florence. Scholarship continued to hold the highest place in Italy until political troubles, and above all the sack of Rome in 1527, drew men's minds from peaceful pursuits, scattered libraries and made patronage of scholarship most difficult for rulers and ecclesiastics. {513} CHAPTER VII THE SCHOLARSHIP OF THE TEUTONIC COUNTRIES Germany and the closely-related Teutonic countries are the only part of Europe which did not create a distinct national literature during this Renaissance period. It is true that Hans Sachs' popular poetry comes from this time, and this has always been popular in Germany and has often been reprinted, but it has never had any influence on world literature and represents an almost solitary phenomenon in the history of German literature. The reformers wrote vigorous German prose, and in the controversial articles which were so frequent at the time, and above all in the translations of the Scriptures into the vernacular, laid the foundation of modern High German which must be traced to this period, but even Germans scarcely claim the existence of a German literature of the Renaissance. On the other hand, the scholarship of Germany at this time was as remarkable in its own way as Germany has ever been in subjects in which it was interested. Probably nowhere in Europe did scholarship penetrate more deeply among the people, and nowhere were freer opportunities for mastery in the classical languages afforded than along the Rhine, at Nüremberg and the neighboring cities and even in districts to the north of these. The German thought of the time was written in Latin and much of it was merely academic and passing in character. Some of it, however, as à Kempis' works, above all the "Imitation of Christ," were destined to an immortality of enduring influence. Not a little of the educational writings of Erasmus and those particularly of other students of the Brethren of the Common Life were to witness many revivals of interest down to our own day, when they are again attracting wide attention. Scholarship diverted the intellectual {514} energy that would have been devoted to the production of a national literature for the Germans, and must be studied deeply to appreciate the Germany of the time. For any proper understanding of scholarship outside of Italy during the Renaissance period, which corresponds with Columbus' Century, the most important preliminary is a knowledge of the institution and spirit and the work and pupils of the Brethren of the Common Life. The significance of their history has not been generally recognized, especially in English-speaking countries, until recent years, and even now many fail to appreciate its high import. Prejudice against religious orders, acquired through sympathy with the Reformation, obscured the value of this great factor in the education and scholarship of the Teutonic countries which can indeed scarcely be exaggerated. The order of the Common Life was, especially in the first half of what we have called Columbus' Century, the great foster mother of scholars whose reputations have deservedly lasted till our time and have now become imperishable landmarks in the history of scholarship. The mention of the names of such pupils of theirs as Agricola, Thomas à Kempis, Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa, Alexander Hegius and Wimpheling would be quite enough to afford ample proof of this. The members of this religious order took no vows, nor did they ask or receive alms. According to their constitution, they worked for their daily bread, though their first aim was to cultivate the life of the spirit, and they were required by their rules to devote themselves in connection with this purpose to their intellectual development, to education, the copying of classics and the writing of books. Their founder, Geert de Groote (1340-1384), belonged to a rather wealthy merchant family, and when he took orders he obtained ecclesiastical preferment as a canon at Utrecht and at Aachen. Somewhat like St. Francis of Assisi, in the midst of what might well seem a conventionally successful life, he fell ill and had the experience that Dean Stanley described when he said "things look different when viewed from the horizontal position." On his recovery, Geert de Groote resigned his canonries, gave his goods to the Carthusians and spent seven years in solitude. {515} thinking over the significance of life and what was man's true purpose in it. At the end of that time he came out to preach, and his preaching met with wonderful success. Thousands flocked to listen to him, and soon many young men wished to join with him in his simple mode of life, to be directed by him and to help him in his work. Almost without his wishing it, a religious community grew up around him, and when Geert de Groote died, near the end of the fourteenth century, his successor, Florence Radewyns, founded the famous monastery of Windesheim, the mother-house of the new religious life. These new religious taught especially the middle and lower classes, copied books and themselves wrote commentaries in language as simple as possible on all manner of spiritual subjects. Their schools became centres of the spiritual and intellectual life of the Low Countries and the Rhineland, and during the course of the fifteenth century they grew in numbers and in the attendance of scholars. Deventer, one of their most famous schools, counted over 2,000 students about the time of the discovery of America, and some of the greatest men of this first part of Columbus' Century had been students of the Brethren of the Common Life. Mr. Hamilton Mabie, in his collection of essays, "My Study Fire," has paid a worthy tribute to these dear old scholars and teachers which sums up succinctly and sympathetically their work and its significance. He said (page 92): "I confess that I can never read quite unmoved the story of the Brethren of the Common Life, those humble-minded, patient teachers and thinkers whose devotion and fire of soul for a century and a half made the choice treasures of Italian palaces and convents and universities a common possession along the low-lying shores of the Netherlands. The asceticism of this noble brotherhood was no morbid and divisive fanaticism; it was a denial of themselves that they might have the more to give. The visions which touched at times the bare walls of their cells with supernal beauty only made them the more eager to share their heaven of privilege with the sorely-burdened world without. Surely Virgil and Horace and the other masters of classic form were never more honored than {516} when these noble-minded lovers of learning and of their kind made their sounding lines familiar in peasant homes." Many people seem inclined to think that the education of the poor became possible only in our time. The guild schools of the Middle Ages are a contradiction of this, but the story of the Brethren of the Common Life shows how much organized effort was given to the educational care for poor students. In his "Life of Thomas à Kempis," Kettelwell has told what they did for the poor and also how broad and wide were the foundations of the education that they laid (p. 165): "But there was another safeguard which was of great service in preserving them (the Brethren) from being led away by fanaticism or wild enthusiasm, because it gave them a useful object and purpose in life to look after, and that was the encouragement they gave to intellectual pursuits and the interest they took in education. Much of the instruction given in schools at that time was often only within the reach of those who could pay for it, whilst there was no little defect in imparting it. . . . The Brothers of the Common Life, on the contrary, not only promoted the giving of instruction gratuitously, or assisted those unable to pay for it, and thus brought the arts of reading and writing within the reach of many that could not otherwise attain them; but, what was of more consequence, they infused into education quite a new life, and imparted to it a purer and nobler aim. "It is well known to the student of history that a great improvement in the character of education took place about this time, and that the advance of learning in the Northern parts of Germany is greatly indebted to the efforts of the Brothers of the Common Life. Though Gerard charged the members of the Brotherhood to look to Christ as the source of all light and truth, all life and peace, and without Whom all learning or gifts were but as vain shadows, yet he would not confine them to none but Christian authors. Among the ancient philosophers he would have his educated disciples to read the works of Plato and Aristotle, and valued the former for his excellent discourses in the person of Socrates. The morals of Seneca pleased him much, and he recommended them to the Brothers as a rich mine of wisdom. He himself {517} was versed in the art of medicine and knew something of law, and it is evident that some of his disciples were much esteemed for their knowledge of them. And from what Thomas à Kempis says of Gerard, he would have the clerics to study geometry, arithmetic, logic, grammar and other subjects. From which it will be perceived that the Brothers of the Common Life were urged to the pursuit of what at that time was a liberal and enlightened education, and consequently were the first in their generation, and in those parts, to promote and encourage it, and were thereby the less likely to be led away or inflated by an ignorant or foolish enthusiasm." They did copying, but under instructions made their copying of value for their own education. This was an important development (p. 167): "It had begun, as we have shown, in great simplicity under the blessing of God. To the young clerics he (their founder) had joined certain priests and laymen, thus making a mixed society. Idleness and accumulation of worldly goods had been the rock on which so many of the Monastic Orders had made shipwreck, and therefore, to the cultivation of the Interior life had been joined some useful employment and the pursuit of fine letters. And that the mind should not become enervated by the work of copying manuscripts being too long carried on as a mere manual operation, Gerard had prescribed to each of the clerics that he should make extracts of the finest sayings he met with, especially of the Fathers and of the Saints, and even make minutes of his own reflections, and inscribe them in a certain book called 'Rapiarium.' And, as the enthusiastic deacon of Deventer always joined example with precept, he himself transcribed and published many little works composed from the works of the Saints, most of which are now lost. It is doubtless from this custom, which Thomas à Kempis largely carried out in the early days of his connection with the Brotherhood, that we are mainly indebted for those many little devotional works which he afterwards wrote, at the head of which he places the books of the _'De Imitatione Christi.'"_ It would be easy to think that probably these good religious devoted themselves much more to the cultivation of piety than {518} of good literature, and that perhaps even their devotion to culture was rather superficial. As a matter of fact, however, their schools became famous for their thoroughness, and all along the Rhine the sons of "the butcher and the baker and the candlestick-maker" learned to read and write Latin fluently, corresponded in Latin letters and above all seem to have received very precious inspirations for the intellectual life that were not extinguished even by a merely money-making career. A good many of the graduates of their schools became famous in the German scholarship of this period. Not all of them became clergymen, though of course a great many did. Probably the most important of their students was Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa, the greatest and most original thinker of the fifteenth century. Strange as it may seem, his achievements in the intellectual life were nearly all made in mathematics and in science. His work is sketched in the chapter on Physical Science of the Century. Because of an important contribution to medicine, he has a chapter in my "Old-Time Makers of Medicine" (Fordham University Press, N. Y., 1911). The thoroughly practical character of Cusanus' mind and its education from books and experience can be readily appreciated from a paragraph of his with regard to the unification of his Fatherland, in which his far-seeing patriotism anticipated the most modern views. Cusanus was sent out as Papal Legate to Germany, just about the beginning of Columbus' Century, in order to correct abuses and bring Christendom into closer touch with the Holy See. During the course of his journeys in Germany he recognized all the weakness and the evils connected with the splitting up of the German people into many petty principalities. He saw clearly how much their union under one head would mean for the people themselves, their happiness and progress, and above all for the peace of mankind. Nearly four centuries before the actual accomplishment of the dream of the German Empire, he expressed himself very emphatically on this point, and curiously enough drew his main arguments from economic conditions and the failure of any assurance of lasting peace afforded by the existence of many petty governments. {519} It is characteristic of his very practical scientific bent of mind that he should have entered so far into the details of the accomplishment of his vision as to suggest the making of a budget and the giving of formal accounts of how the money was spent to the legislative body. [Illustration: CIMA DA CONEGLIANO, INCREDULITY OF ST. THOMAS (VENICE)] "The law and the kingdom should be placed under the protection of a single ruler or authority. The small separate governments of princes and counts consume a disproportionately large amount of revenue without furnishing any real security. For this reason we must have a single government, and for its support we must have a definite amount of the income from taxes and revenues yearly set aside by a representative parliament and before this parliament (_Reichstag_) must be given every year a definite account of the money that was spent during the preceding year." Some idea of the intellectual aspirations of the time and the attitude of men towards knowledge and truth may be gathered from a paragraph of Cardinal Cusanus, which is so comprehensive and so full of the love of wisdom in the best sense of the word as to be classical and to deserve a place in the notebook of every teacher. It may well be taken as the motto of the schools of the Brethren of the Common Life. "To know and to think, to see the truth with the eye of the mind, is always a joy. The older a man grows, the greater is the pleasure which it affords him, and the more he devotes himself to the search after truth, the stronger grows his desire of possessing it. As love is the life of the heart, so is the endeavor after knowledge and truth the life of the mind. In the midst of the movements of time, of the daily work of life, of its perplexities and contradictions, we should lift our gaze fearlessly to the clear vault of heaven, and seek ever to obtain a firmer grasp of and a keener insight into the origin of all goodness and beauty, the capacities of our own hearts and minds, the intellectual fruits of mankind throughout the centuries, and the wondrous works of nature around us, at the same time remembering always that in humility alone lies true greatness, and that knowledge and wisdom are alone profitable in so far as our lives are governed by them." One of the greatest of the students of the Brethren of the {520} Common Life is the famous Rudolph Agricola, who was educated at Deventer, but, with the intellectual curiosity characteristic of his time and the ardor for study and opportunities for intellectual development which was so often seen in Columbus' Century, wandered on to Erfurt, Louvain, and then Cologne and Paris in order to miss no possible educational opportunity. When he was twenty-five he went down to Italy, where he studied law and rhetoric at Pavia and then to Ferrara, where he studied Greek under Theodore Gaza. He held a political office for some time, but John of Dalberg, Bishop of Worms, recognizing his scholarship, secured for him the opportunity to teach at Heidelberg. He lectured on Aristotle and translated Lucian. Above all he was the great pioneer of humanism in Germany, and by his personal influence lighted a torch that was soon to illuminate the country. He wrote to Rudolph von Langen once when he was seeking a headmaster for the Cathedral School at Münster: "I entertain the highest hope that by your aid we shall one day wrest from proud Italy her vaunted glory of pre-eminence in education and literature." Jacob Wimpheling, who came later to be known as "the Schoolmaster of Germany," is another one of these students of the Brethren of the Common Life who reached distinction. He was educated at Schlettstadt in what is now Alsace. Like the others, he wandered far afield, however, for his scholarship. He studied at Freiburg and Erfurt and also at Heidelberg and was probably in Italy for a time. He returned to Heidelberg as professor, his lectures being mainly upon St. Jerome. In nearly every city in which he stayed for any length of time he founded literary societies and devoted himself to the reform of educational methods. He insisted above all on the importance of moral training in education, and has made it very clear that he felt that an educated man without high moral training was more dangerous for evil than one without education. His writings obtained a wide circulation and did much to determine the character of education for two centuries. His idea was that education should produce able and conscientious citizens rather than accomplished scholars. He was eminently practical in his way of looking at things and deprecated {521} the notion so common at many times in history that the storing of the memory with information, instead of the training of the mind by thoughtful work so as to make it capable of the best judgment when that is needed, is the true ideal in education. One of the pupils of Agricola in Greek, though he was an older man, was Alexander Hegius, who, during the last fifteen years of his life, which correspond almost exactly with the last fifteen years of the fifteenth century, made the school of Deventer the great educational centre of North Germany. Among his pupils at Deventer was Erasmus. Hegius did much to put an end to the older mediaeval ideas in education, which had become outworn, and to bring in the study of the classics. One of his great friends, Rudolph von Langen, was a student of Erfurt who visited Italy and came back full of enthusiasm for humanistic studies and finally succeeded in founding a school of the New Learning at Münster, where he was the Canon of the Cathedral Church. He tried to secure Hegius as the headmaster of this school, but had to be content with his pupil, Murmellius, who wrote a series of very useful textbooks at this time. The greatest of the pupils of the Brethren of the Common Life, who is also one of the greatest scholars of all time, is Desiderius Erasmus. Probably no better idea can be obtained of the high estimation in which scholarship was held at this time in Europe than from the career of Erasmus. He was welcomed everywhere. He was looked upon as one of the moving forces of the time. His opinions were eagerly sought, his books were read, he had the friendship not only of scholars, but of high ecclesiastics, the nobility and even royalty. He did an immense amount of work and exercised a deep influence over his time. His influence over England was especially deep, and he aided Dean Colet in his great design for the future school of St. Paul's by writing his treatise, _"De ratione Studii";_ he was a friend of Bishop Warham and of Sir Thomas More; through the influence of Bishop Fisher of Rochester he became Lady Margaret Professor of Divinity at Cambridge; in a word, he entered into all the intellectual life of the time everywhere. He was in Italy for years, helped Aldus, the printer, at Venice, drawing inspiration from the {522} libraries, the scholars and the classic remains. His many monographs and dialogues meant much for the diffusion of right views as to classical education. His editions of Latin authors comprise Seneca, Suetonius, certain works of Cicero, Pliny and Terence. His Greek texts include Aristotle and Ptolemy. He made recensions of St. Ambrose and St. Augustine and St. Chrysostom, with three editions of St. Jerome. His edition of the Greek Testament is probably more important than any of these. One of the important scholars and teachers of Germany at this time, though anyone who reviews his life work with some care will surely be inclined to think that his import has been exaggerated because of his connection with the reform movement, and that in comparison with many other scholars of the time he does not deserve that high pre-eminence of reputation which has been accorded him, was Philip Schwarzerd, who translated his family name of Black-earth into the Greek Melanchthon and is known by that name. He was but one of the many great German scholars at this time, though many people seem to think that he stands almost alone, a striking example of the supposed freedom of intellectual development that was ushered in by the Reformation. Melanchthon, through the influence of his uncle, Reuchlin, became Professor of Greek at Wittenberg. He had been a lecturer on Virgil, Terence and Cicero. During his teaching he wrote a Greek and Latin grammar and edited many editions of the classics and published a series of commentaries on Cicero, Terence, Sallust, Ovid, Quintilian, as well as selections from Aristotle's "Ethics" and "Politics." He was a gentle, kindly scholar, deeply Christian in his principles, without any sympathy at all with the paganizing spirit of many of the lesser humanists, above all outside of Germany. His gentler spirit was overborne by Luther's strong character. He is said to have told his mother on her death-bed that the old Church was a good one to die in, though the reformed might be well enough to live in. The spread of the Reformation in Germany led to the adoption of his text-books widely, hence his name _preceptor Germaniae._ Scholarship was not, however, confined to the Rhineland {523} and the Western part of Germany. Many of the cities of the Eastern portion had magnificent developments of education and classical scholarship at this time and shared in the art impulse of the period. Nuremberg, Augsburg, Innsbruck, Vienna, as well as Stuttgart, Ingoldstadt and Tübingen, shared in the movement. The great teacher in this part of Germany was Johann Reuchlin, who studied Greek at Paris and at Basel, as well as in Italy, taught at Basel, Orleans and Poitiers and then spent nearly twenty-five years in teaching at Stuttgart, Ingoldstadt and Tübingen, where he was Professor of Greek and of Hebrew. When he was but twenty he produced a Latin dictionary called _"Vocabularius Breviloquus,"_ noted for its brevity, conciseness and orderly arrangement, which passed through twenty editions in less than thirty years. He became so proficient in Latin, Greek and Hebrew that he was called "the three-tongued wonder of Germany." His Hebrew text-books gave a great impetus to the study of that language and literature in Germany. He was very highly thought of, was sent on various diplomatic missions to Italy, occupied important judicial positions under the government and wielded an immense influence over the men of his time. He died some five years after the beginning of the Lutheran movement, but had no sympathy with the Wittenberg professor's schismatic attitude. When he found that his nephew Melanchthon, for whom he had secured the chair of Greek at the University of Wittenberg, had attached himself to Luther, he expressed his disapproval and cancelled the bequest of his library, which had previously been destined for Melanchthon. Reuchlin was a representative of the widest culture of the time, a source of inspiration and incentive to scholarship for all who came in contact with him. A bitter controversy over some of his writings occupied the attention of all literary Germany during the early part of the sixteenth century, showing how widespread was interest in all intellectual questions at this time. The men who led in the defence of Reuchlin in this controversy were mainly Ulrich von Hutten, Johann Jaeger of Dornheim and Conrad Muth, or as he came to be known from his Latin name _Mutianus Rufas,_ another of the students of {524} the Brethren of the Common Life, a school-fellow of Erasmus at Deventer. He had subsequently studied in Italy, where he became an intimate of Pico della Mirandola and took the degree of Doctor in Law at Bologna. Sandys has told his story in his "History of Classical Scholarship" (page 257): "On his return he (Muth) settled at Gotha, where he placed, in golden letters, over the door of his canonical residence, the words BEATA TRANQUILLITAS, and thereafter devoted his thoughts to 'God and the Saints and the study of all Antiquity.' He took the keenest interest in his younger friends, the humianists of Erfurt, inspiring them with an eager desire for the spread of classical literature, a hatred for the pedantry and formalism of the old scholastic methods and a critical spirit which felt little reverence for the past. After organizing the victory of the humanists over the scholastic obscurantists of the day, their leader lived to see his 'tranquil' home ruthlessly plundered by a Protestant mob, at a time when the quiet waters of Humanism had been overwhelmed by the stronger stream of the Reformation." One of the great German scholars and editors of the Renaissance was Conrad Celtes, whose real name was Conrad Picket, but was changed with the typical classicizing tendency of the Renaissance to the antique form Celtes. He had received his education under such men as Bishop John of Dalberg and Rudolph Agricola, and then after travelling in Italy, where he was in intimate relations with Pomponius Laetus, Ficino and the famous printer Aldus Manutius, he was, on his return to Germany, crowned poet laureate at Nuremberg and there also received the doctor's degree. During his travels through the Northern countries, he founded, in imitation of the Roman Academy, literary societies in many of the cities. There was the _Societas Literarum Vistuliana,_ whose seat was at Cracow; the _Sodalitas Literarum Danubiana,_ founded originally in Hungary, but afterwards transferred to Vienna, and the _Sodalitas Literarum Rhenana,_ which had members along the Rhine. This last Academy was founded at Mainz the year before the discovery of America. Three of the most distinguished men of the time were among its members. {525} Johann von Dalberg, the Bishop of Worms, whose name occurs so often in the history of the scholars of the time because of his munificent patronage of learning, was its first president. The Abbot Trithemius of Trittenheim and Wilibald Pirkheimer of Nuremberg were among its prominent members. Trithemius spent much time and money in the collection of old manuscripts. Pirkheimer was eminent as a statesman and a patron of humanism and as a translator of Greek texts and a student of archaeology. Besides founding these academies, Celtes lectured in many universities and issued an edition of the writings of Hroswitha, the nun dramatist of the tenth century. It was such a surprise to his generation (it is scarcely less to ours, so little diffusion of true historical information is there) to find that there had been any literature in the convents along the Rhine in the tenth century, that for some time there was considerable discussion as to whether Celtes had not forged these writings, but it has been definitely settled on absolutely unimpeachable evidence that Celtes only edited manuscripts that he found. As Librarian of the Imperial Library, founded by Maximilian I of Vienna, Celtes gathered together many Greek and Latin manuscripts and generally exercised his influence to secure precious old documents from destruction by proper care for them. As a poet he attracted no little attention in his own time, though his poetry is not of a high order. He was the head of the Poets' Academy at Vienna, the first institution of its kind in Europe, and his influence as a scholar and a literary man was much more than his originality as a writer. He was an intimate friend of Charity Pirkheimer and many of the Nuremberg group of humanists, and some of the freedom of his poetry might seem to indicate a lack of religion, but these friendships apparently indicate carelessness in religious matters, but not rejection of religion. On a number of occasions Charity Pirkheimer reproved him for the freedom of his poetry. The careers of the Pirkheimers give a good idea of the interest in scholarship on the part of both men and women in Germany during this Renaissance period. Charity Pirkheimer, afterwards the Abbess of the Convent of the Poor Clares in Nuremberg, deserves mention in this regard as much as her {526} brother, but the sketch of her career properly finds a place among the Women of the Renaissance. Wilibald Pirkheimer deserves the immortality that his scholarship has secured for him. He translated Xenophon, Plato, Plutarch and Lucian into Latin, but the spirit of the time will be better understood when it is recalled that he also made translations of Euclid and Ptolemy. The ordinary assumption that interest in the old pagan authors lessened attachment to the Church is refuted by his translations of the Greek Fathers also into Latin. He was himself the author of a history of Germany which won for him the title of the German Xenophon. His interest in letters, however, was only one portion of his scholarship, for astronomy, mathematics and the natural sciences were not only favorite subjects of study, but fields in which he carried on successful investigation. Besides, he took up the study of numismatics with great assiduity, and helped to bring about a general recognition of its value as a distinct department of historical research. It was typical of the universality of the aesthetic interests of the men of the times in which he lived that Pirkheimer was also deeply attracted to art and that Albrecht Dürer was one of his closest friends. We owe to the great German artist a characteristic picture of the scholar. Like Erasmus, Wilibald Pirkheimer recognized the necessity for reform in the Church in Germany, and at the beginning of the reform movement he sided with Luther and wrote in defence of the German reformer and the doctrines that he was teaching. In the course of a few years, however, he came to see that the religious revolt, far from correcting the evils, was emphasizing them, and besides was so disturbing men's minds in Germany as to make the proper cultivation of the fine arts and literature impossible. In addition he soon learned that the so-called reformers were bent on disturbing the convent in Nuremberg in which so many of his feminine relatives found not only peace and happiness and the opportunity to cultivate the spiritual life, but also to live the intellectual life to the full measure of their desires. Charitas, his sister, was the Abbess of the Convent of St. Clare, and among the nuns there were another sister, Clare, and Wilibald's daughters, Catherine and Crescentia. {527} He wrote a defence of the monastic life for women, in which he pointed out the opportunities for peace, and joy in the cultivation of the intellectual life, as well as the spiritual life, enjoyed in these institutions. During the writing of this apologetic work he became himself entirely convinced of the necessity for adherence to the old Church. The relations of the humanists, the classical scholars and devotees of the New Learning in Germany, to the Church have been the subject of many and varying opinions. Sandys has summed this up very well in a paragraph which deserves to be quoted because of the importance of the subject, the authority of the writer and the probability that the position which he occupies as regards both Germany and the Church make him, as far as is possible in a subject so fraught with personal feelings, an impartial critic. He said (page 258): "The humanists of Germany may be divided into three successive schools distinguished from one another in their relation to the Church, (1) The Earlier or Scholastic Humanists, who were loyal supporters of the Church, while they were eager for a revival of classical learning and a new system of education. They are represented by the three great teachers of North Germany, Rudolfus Agricola, Rudolf von Langen and Alexander Hegius; also by Wimpheling, the restorer of education in South Germany; by Trithemius, one of the founders of the Rhenish Society of Literature, and by Eck, the famous opponent of Luther. They worked for the revival of learning in all branches of knowledge, while they hoped that the New Learning would remain subservient to the old theology. (2) The Intermediate or Rational Humanists, who took a rational view of Christianity and its creed, while they protested against the old scholasticism, and against the external abuses of the Church. 'They either did not support Luther, or soon deserted him, being conscious that his movement would lead to the destruction of all true culture.' Their leaders were Reuchlin and Erasmus, Conrad Muth, the Canon of Gotha. 'Their party and its true work of culture were shipwrecked by the tempest of the Reformation.' (3) The Later or Protestant Humanists, who were ready to 'protest' against {528} everything, young men of great talent, but of less learning, whose love of liberty sometimes lapsed into license. Their leading spirit was Ulrich von Hutten. In course of time, some of them became Rational Humanists; others, supporters of Luther. 'While Erasmus, Reuchlin and Muth viewed Luther's propaganda with distrust,' these younger Humanists 'flocked to the new standard of protest and revolt, and so doing brought culture into disgrace and shipwrecked the Revival of Learning in Germany.'" The earlier German humanists were not carried away by the idea that the only thing worth while studying was the New Learning, and that only the classics of Greece and Rome could form the proper substance of any right education. In the later period of German humanism this exaggeration was very common. In the earlier period, however, the place and the value of the German language itself is recognized, and due acknowledgments were made to the men of the later Middle Ages for all that they had accomplished for scholarship and for real progress in philosophy and theology. Janssen in the third volume of his "History of the German People" has sketched this very clearly (pages 1-3): "The earliest humanists had contemplated classical antiquity from the point of view of absolute faith in Christianity, and they had pressed the classics into the service of their creed. They valued the works of the ancient writers for the deeply religious nature of the ideas embodied in them; they regarded them as echoes of primaeval inspiration; but they were at the same time decided and active opponents of mere pagan systems of thought and life. They studied antiquity in a scientific spirit of exhaustive research, and they justified their incorporation of pagan materials into their systems of culture on the plea that these classic works were an indispensable groundwork of scholarship, a splendid means of mental gymnastic training for forming independent judgment and sharpening the intellect for the apprehension and presentation of truth. By the profounder knowledge they acquired of the intellectual life of the ancient world, they hoped to facilitate the understanding of the Scriptures and to put fresh life and reality into the contemporary systems of philosophical and theological {529} study. It was this motive that had inspired the unwearied labors of Nicholas of Cusa and his pupil Agricola in their efforts to graft the study of classic literature on the German University curriculum; that had led Alexander Hegius to make the classics the groundwork of education, and Jacob Wimpheling to write his epoch-making words. 'It is not the story of the heathen writers in itself which is dangerous to Christian culture,' said the latter, 'but the false apprehension and handling of them. It would undoubtedly be absolutely fatal if, as is often the case in Italy, by means of the classics, pagan ways of thought and life, prejudicial to pure Christian morality and the patriotic spirit of the rising generation, were spread abroad or were to creep into the teaching of our writers and poets. But, on the other hand, the legitimate use of the ancient writers might render the most invaluable services to Christianity and learning. Had not the Fathers of the Church themselves derived the greatest help in their explanations of Scripture from the study of these profane writers, and had they not in consequence recommended them to the veneration of Christian students? St. Gregory Nazienzen,' he went on to say, 'had described the opponents of classic study as the enemies of true learning, and Pope Gregory the Great had shown conclusively that classic study was a useful preparation and an indispensable aid to the understanding of theology.' "For the same reasons the leading theologians of the fifteenth century, Heynlin von Stein, Gregory Reisch, Geiler of Kaisersberg, Gabriel Viel, Johannes Trithemius, had been zealous advocates and promoters of the labors of the Christian humanists. "'With a good conscience,' says Trithemius, 'we can recommend the study of the ancient writers to all such as do not make use of them in a worldly spirit for mere intellectual sport, but for the serious cultivation of their mental powers, and who, after the example of the Fathers of the Church, seek to cull from them good fruit for the nourishment of Christian scholarship.'" These quotations will serve to show how clearly all the value of the classical studies to scholarship, yet all the danger to real education as well as to Christianity was recognized by {530} the scholars of this time. They represent a critical wisdom often presumed not to have been developed at this time. Critical judgment is supposed to be a much later evolution. Those who make such a presumption, however, are led by ignorance of the realities of the education and scholarship of this time which has only properly come into its own true appreciation in comparatively recent years. German scholarship during the Renaissance period, that is, in Columbus' Century before the Reformation came to disturb it, represented as fine an expression of German ability and intellectual genius as has ever come to that capable people. {531} CHAPTER VIII SCHOLARSHIP OUTSIDE OF ITALY AND GERMANY While Italy was literally the _alma mater studiorum_ during the Renaissance, and Germany probably accomplished more in scholarly education at this time that influenced succeeding generations than any other country except Italy, all the countries of Europe shared very largely in the New Learning and did much for classical scholarship before 1550. Indeed, it is probable that to a great many thoroughly educated students of this time the comparisons of achievement that I have suggested will seem invidious or at least uncalled for. Certainly no one appreciates more than I do the magnificent work of the scholarly humanists of France, Spain, Portugal and England during Columbus' Century. Each of them shared magnificently in the intellectual incentive that had been given by the reintroduction of classical studies and especially of Greek, and each of them, in fine compensation for the impetus lent them by the movement, gave back to it achievements in scholarship that swelled the tide and helped in the diffusion of Humanism throughout all of Western Europe at least. There are national accomplishments of all of these countries that are worthy of note, and each of them accomplished much at this time in education that will never be forgotten. Probably the easiest way to tell the extent of the scholarship of France during Columbus' Century is to say that many good authorities have declared that before the end of the century France had taken away from Italy the palm for classical scholarship. The first important teacher of the French was, however, an Italian, Jerome Aleander, who arrived in France shortly after the beginning of the sixteenth century with an introduction from Erasmus. He lectured on Greek as well as Latin, and probably also on Hebrew. He became Rector of {532} the University of Paris in 1512, but returned to Rome in 1517 and was appointed Librarian to the Vatican. His distinguished services for learning and the Church brought him a cardinal's hat, and he became one of the most prominent members of the Papal Court at this time. It was under his direction that the first Greek printing in France was done. Three of Plutarch's treatises on Morals were printed in Paris in 1509 in order to serve as text-books for his pupils. His successor as a teacher of the classics in Paris was the distinguished Frenchman Budaeus, who, before the end of his life, came to be looked upon as perhaps the most eminent of living scholars. He went on diplomatic missions to Popes Julius II and Leo X and thus became very much interested in the New Learning. He learned Greek for himself, and under Francis I and Henry II his fame as a Greek scholar, to quote Sandys, [Footnote 49] was "one of the glories of his country." "He opened a new era in the study of Roman Law by his annotations on the 'Pandects' of Justinian, and a little later he broke fresh ground as the first serious student of the Roman coinage in his treatise _'De Asse,'_ It was the ripe result of no less than nine years' research, and in twenty years passed through ten editions. Its abundant learning is said to have aroused the envy of Erasmus" (Sandys). [Footnote 49: "A History of Classical Scholarship," Cambridge University Press, 1908, p. 170.] His devotion to study became a proverb. It is said that even on his wedding day, by an exceptional act of self-denial, he limited his time of study to three hours only. It is interesting to learn that his wife shared his enthusiasm for study at least to the extent of aiding him in every possible way by devoted attention, which prevented him from being interrupted or harassed by any cares. Once, when he was busy reading in his library, one of the servants suddenly rushed in to inform him that the house was on fire. The scholar, without lifting up his eyes from his book, simply said: "Go and tell my wife; you know very well that I must not be bothered about household matters." He suffered greatly from headaches, which the best physicians of his day vainly endeavored to cure by the application of the actual cautery to his scalp. {533} After a time, however, it was suggested to him that what was needed was not a cure, but a better regulation of his life. He learned to take long walks, and spent some time each day cultivating his garden to the great alleviation of his headaches. His greatest contribution to the scholarship of the time was his successful urging of Francis I, helped as he was by that monarch's sister, Marguerite of Navarre, to establish the College de France, though for a time at the beginning it had no such ambitious title, but was called simply the Corporation of the Royal Readers. It had no official residences or even public lecture rooms. As was said at the time, "it was built on men." Budaeus' statue rightly stands before the College buildings now, for he was the real founder. The amount that was accomplished for genuine education and scholarship before the buildings were erected and the machinery of a college set going shows how much more men mean than an institution. This Corporation of the Royal Readers had at first teachers of Greek, Hebrew and Mathematics, five in number. The first two teachers in it were Pierre Danès, Danesius as he is known, who edited an important edition of Pliny and later of Justin Martyr and afterwards became Bishop of Lavaur and took an important part in the Council of Trent, and Jacques Toussain, an industrious scholar, the compiler of a Greek and Latin Dictionary. Three men are said to have attended Toussain's lectures for some time, whose influence on the after-time was to be very marked, and yet the contrast of whose characters is very striking. They were Ignatius Loyola, John Calvin and François Rabelais. Turnebus was also one of the students of Toussain, and himself later became a distinguished professor, first at Toulouse and afterwards as the successor of his master at Paris. Toussain had been famous for his erudition. He was a living library. Turnebus, though attracting great attention when a young man by his marvellous memory, became a specialist in Greek textual criticism. He published a series of Greek texts, including Aeschylus and Sophocles, just at the end of Columbus' Century, and edited Cicero's "Laws." He wrote commentaries on Varro and the elder Pliny. [Illustration: FRANCIS I LISTENING TO MACAULT's TRANSLATION OF DIODORUS SICULUS, TITLE PAGE OF WOOD-ENGRAVING (TORY)] We have from Montaigne, who was one of his pupils just as our century closes, a curiously interesting description of {534} Turnebus, which serves to show that the genus professor has been at all times about the same and that his pupils have loved him often just in proportion as they have found many things to laugh at in his dress and manners. It is, indeed, a distinction, {535} however, to have been the thus beloved master of Montaigne, himself no laggard in scholarliness. "I have seen Adrianus Turnebus, who, having never professed anything but studie and letters, wherein he was, in mine opinion, the worthiest man that lived these thousand years, . . . notwithstanding had no pedanticall thing about him but the wearing of his gowne, and some external fashions, that could not well be reduced and uncivilized to the courtiers' cut. For his inward parts, I deeme him to have been one of the most unspotted and truly honest minds that ever was. I have sundry times of purpose urged him to speake of matters farthest from his study, wherein he was so clear-sighted, and could with so quicke an apprehension conceive, and with so sound a judgment distinguish them, that he seemed never to have professed or studied other facultie than warre, and matters of state." The French educators of this time seem to have realized very well the true meaning of education. Rabelais is usually not taken seriously, except by students of his works who have given them much attention, but his books contain a number of most interesting contributions to this subject. His striking contrast between what education had been when he was a boy and in his old age, drawn by Gargantua, represents the great advance that took place in education at this time. The paragraphs may be taken as the testimony of a contemporary to the devotion to scholarship on the part of both men and women which then developed in France. He has the usual Renaissance contempt for Gothic culture, a contempt that exists even at the present time among those who know no better. "I had no supply of such teachers as thou hast had. The time was still dark, and savouring of the misery and calamity wrought by the Goths, who had entirely destroyed all good literature. But by Divine goodness its own light and dignity has been in my lifetime restored to letters, and I see such amendment therein that at present I should hardly be admitted into the first class of the little grammar-boys, although in my youthful days I was reputed, not without reason, as the most learned of that age. . . . {536} "But now all methods of teaching are restored, the study of the languages renewed--Greek, without which it is a disgrace for a man to style himself a scholar; Hebrew, Chaldean, Latin; impressions of books most elegant and correct are in use through printing, which has been invented in my time by Divine inspiration, as on the other side artillery has been invented by devilish suggestion. "All the world is full of knowing folk, of most learned preceptors, of most extensive libraries, so that I am of opinion that neither in the time of Plato, nor Cicero, nor Papinian was there ever such conveniency for study as is seen at this time. Nor must any hereafter adventure himself in public, or in any company, who shall not have been well polished in the workshop of Minerva. I do see robbers, hangmen, freebooters, grooms, of the present age, more learned than the doctors and preachers of my time. "What shall I say? Women and young girls have aspired to this praise and celestial manna of good learning. So much is this the case that at my present age I have been constrained to learn the Greek tongue which I had not contemned, like Cato, but which I had not had leisure to learn in my youth; and I do willingly delight myself in reading the Morals of Plutarch, the fine Dialogues of Plato, the Monuments of Pausanias, and the Antiquities of Athenaeus, whilst I wait for the hour when it shall please God my Creator to call me and command me to depart from this earth." With all his jesting, humorous spirit (some people would call it ludicrous buffoonery), Rabelais had no illusions with regard to the true meaning of education. The concluding sentences of Gargantua's letter to his son on Education may very well be taken as representing the serious side of Rabelais' views with regard to the place of religion in education and his profound recognition of the utter failure of any education which did not include moral training. His golden words, "science without conscience is the ruin of the soul," have often been quoted. It is doubtful, however, whether most people have realized how precious is the context in the midst of which these words occur. The whole passage is well worth while for educators at least to have near them: {537} "But because (according to the wise Solomon) wisdom entereth not into a malicious soul, and science without conscience is but the ruin of the soul, it behoveth thee to serve, love, and fear God, and in Him to put all thy thoughts and all thy hope, and to cleave to Him by faith formed of charity, so that thou mayest never be separated from Him by sin. "Hold in suspicion the deceits of the world. Set not thy heart on vanity; for this life passeth away, but the Word of the Lord endureth for ever. Be serviceable to all thy neighbors and love them as thyself. Revere thy preceptors. Flee from the company of those whom thou wouldst not resemble, and receive not in vain the graces which God hath given thee. "And when thou shalt perceive that thou hast attained unto all the knowledge that is acquired in those parts, return unto me, that I may see thee and give thee my blessing before I die. "My son, the peace and grace of our Lord be with thee. Amen." One of the important teachers at this time in France was Julius Caesar Scaliger, born in Italy, particularly famous for the part that he took in the controversy over Ciceronianism, and who defended Cicero from the attacks of Erasmus, maintaining that the Latin orator was absolutely perfect. Scaliger is notorious for having introduced the bitterest kind of personalities into classical controversy. Unfortunately, his example was widely followed. His son is the better known Scaliger, but was only ten years old at the time our century closes. His education gives an idea of the educational methods of the century. When he was but fourteen he was required to produce daily a short Latin declamation and to keep a written record of the perennial flow of his father's Latin verse. It was thus that he acquired his early mastery of Latin. But he was already conscious that "not to know Greek was to know nothing" (Sandys). In Spain there was a magnificent development of scholarship which began to make itself felt shortly after the discovery of America. Here, as elsewhere, contact with Italy gave the initiative. A Spanish nobleman, Guzman, who visited Italy during the Council of Florence, returned with translations of some of Cicero's works and of Quintilian, and interest was {538} awakened. Antonio of Lebrixa, commonly called Nebrisensis, after spending twenty years in Italy, returned in 1473 to lecture at Seville, Salamanca and Alcalá and to publish grammars of Latin and Greek as well as Hebrew. After this Barbosa, a pupil of Politian, taught Greek at Salamanca. Many of the Spanish bishops who visited Rome in the performance of their ecclesiastical obligations came back with manuscripts, and above all with awakened interest in classical studies to scatter the seeds of the New Learning. Indeed, this constituted a large factor in the great movement for humanism in all the Western countries at this time. The most important factor for Spanish culture and scholarship, however, was the famous Cardinal Ximenes, sometimes known by his family name of Cisneros. With a career of importance opening out before him in the ecclesiastical life, Ximenes, who had been the Grand Vicar to Cardinal Gonzales of Sigüenza, resigned that office to become a Franciscan of the Strict Observance. His administrative ability soon brought about his election as Guardian of his monastery, and he became known among his brethren for his devotion to the spiritual life. The year of the discovery of America he was selected as the confessor of Queen Isabella. He accepted with the condition that he should be allowed to live in his monastery and appear at Court only when sent for. He had much to do with the successful appeal of Columbus to her Majesty. Three years later he was chosen to succeed his friend Mendoza as Archbishop of Toledo. This post carried with it the Chancellorship of Castile at this time. Ximenes refused the dignity, and it was only after six months of delay, and then in obedience to the express command of the Pope, that he accepted it. As archbishop he continued to live as a simple Franciscan, devoting the greater part of the immense revenues attached to his see to the relief of the poor and particularly for the redemption of captives. Just at this time the activity of the Turks made this one of the burning social needs of the time. Ximenes was even reprimanded, it is said, by the Pope for neglecting the external splendor that belonged to his rank. He would not wear an episcopal dress, except in such a way {539} that his Franciscan habit might remain visible underneath. His fulfilment of his duties as Chancellor of Castile gave him ample opportunity for the exercise of his administrative ability and demonstrated his power and high sense of justice. He used his high office to the fullest extent to encourage culture and above all classical studies. In 1504 he founded the University of Alcalá, obtaining some of the most distinguished scholars from Bologna, Paris and the other Spanish universities to fill its chairs. Practically all the religious orders established houses at Alcalá in connection with the University. Among those who were attracted to Alcalá was Nuñez de Guzman, who brought out an edition of Seneca that earned the praise of Lipsius, and who besides suggested valuable emendations of Pliny's "Natural History." He also published, mainly at the suggestion of Cardinal Ximenes, it is said, an interlinear Latin rendering of Saint Basil's tract on the study of Greek literature. He is known as Pincianus from Pintia, the ancient name of Valladolid, his birthplace, and much of his enthusiasm for classical studies had been derived from visits to Italy during which he collected a number of manuscripts that he brought back with him as precious treasures. The great work of Cardinal Ximenes, however, was the publication under his patronage of the first Polyglot Bible, known as the Complutensian Polyglot from Complutum, the ancient name for Alcalá. This occupied fifteen years, cost an immense sum of money, considerably over a million of dollars in our values, occupied a great many scholars, attracted wide attention and above all created an interest in linguistic studies that spread all over the country and was felt even in other countries. This was completed only four months before the Cardinal's death and was dedicated to Leo X. Most of the revenues of his archbishopric, which had accumulated because of his careful use of them, he left to his beloved University of Alcalá. In spite of a self-denial in the matter of food and drink that had been carried to an extent which it was feared might injure his health, and what seemed to many even at that time, a serious deprivation of sleep for prayer and study, continued amid all his great administrative work,--for he was often regent of the kingdom and displayed great ability in {540} military organization--he lived to the age of eighty-one. He has been honored as a saint, though this honor has never been confirmed by any formal declaration. After this, the development of scholarship was comparatively easy. Men like Vives, Vergara, who published a Greek grammar, praised by many of the scholars of the time and thoroughly appreciated by Scaliger, and Sanchez, who was professor of Greek at Salamanca when he was but thirty-one, carried on the New Learning. Sanchez' text-book on Latin syntax called "The Minerva" came to be more used throughout Europe than almost any other. Haase declared that he had done more for Latin grammar than any of his predecessors, and Sir William Hamilton, the English philosopher, even held that the study of "Minerva" with the notes of the editors was more profitable than that of Newton's _"Principia."_ Sandys notes that "it is at any rate written in good Latin and the author shows a familiarity with the whole range of Latin literature as well as Aristotle and Plato." After this, indeed, grammar, the science of language, came to a great extent to be under the domination of Spanish minds. Nuñez, or as he is known by his Latin name Nunnesius of Valencia, who studied in Paris and was professor of Greek at Barcelona, was the author of an interesting little Greek grammar which, according to Sandys, differs little from those now used in schools. With the coming of the Jesuits, Emmanuel Alvarez produced the Latin grammar in which for the first time the principles of the language were formally laid down and the fancies of ancient grammarians laid aside. It became the text-book in all the Jesuit schools, has often been reprinted since, is the foundation of all our modern Latin grammars and is said by experienced teachers to surpass all its successors. Spain did not neglect other phases of scholarship, however. Agostino, after graduation at Salamanca, taught law at Padua and at Florence, became a member of the Papal Tribunal in Rome, studying the inscriptions and ancient monuments as well as the manuscripts of the old city. Later he became the Bishop of Lerida and then Archbishop of Taragona. He published a treatise on Roman Laws, often reprinted, but his masterpiece in classical archaeology was his {541} book on coins, inscriptions and other antiquities, published originally in Spanish and attracting wide, popular attention. Portugal follows in scholarship the rest of the peninsula and owed its initiative to contact with Italian sources. Resende taught Greek at Lisbon and Evora and counted among his pupils the famous Achilles Statius, whose career comes mainly after the conclusion of Columbus' Century, though he was twenty-six before the century closed and his scholarship is a product of our period. He won his high reputation in Rome by a work on ancient portraits and by commentaries on the _"Ars Poetica"_ of Horace, when he was not yet thirty, and confirmed this by subsequent fine work on Catullus and Tibullus. He was associated with Muretus in an edition of _Propertius,_ and his studies on the "Illustrious Men of Suetonius" attracted the attention of the learned world of his time and was highly praised by Casaubon. The Jesuit Father Alvarez, whose grammar I have already mentioned, though of Spanish extraction, lived in Portugal and was educated and taught there. The University of Coimbra took on renewed vigor just at the end of Columbus' Century and its classical school became famous especially under the Jesuits. The University became noted for its Teachers' College, for graduates who purposed to follow teaching as a vocation, and for its opportunities for the training of the teaching religious orders. England was often looked upon at the beginning of the Renaissance as so distant from the centres of culture on the Continent that very little was expected of her in scholarship. Of course, the same thing was more or less true with regard to Germany, not because of distance in space, but of speech. The peoples of the Latin languages felt a brotherhood to each other which they did not share with the Germans or English, whose speech it must be confessed, somewhat after the narrow fashion of the Greeks of the older times towards all nations not Greek in origin, they considered barbarous. It is always true that nations quite fail to understand each other, and our own attitude toward Italy at the present time, though the civilization and culture of the world owes more to Italy than to all the other nations of modern history put together, is typical of this constant tendency to national misunderstanding. {542} The Italians were very much surprised to have pupils from England rather early in Columbus' Century, and still more surprised apparently to have them succeed admirably. They soon came to appreciate them highly, and such men as Linacre, John Free and Caius were even made teachers at Italian universities. Over and over again, the Italians expressed their gratification at the spread of scholarship among the English and their congratulations on their success in the New Learning. The congratulations were amply deserved. Bishop Creighton, in his "Early Renaissance in England," [Footnote 50] says that the first English humanist was Lord Grey of Codnor, who went from Balliol College to Cologne, which was famous at the time for its general culture and education, but as he desired to get classical culture more particularly, he stole away to Florence at night lest his going should be hampered by the many friends that he had made at Cologne. He found much of interest at Florence, ordered a library there and then went to Padua, where he studied for a time. He was attracted to Ferrara, however, by the reputation of Guarino, and from there went to Rome, where the scholarly Nicholas V nominated him Bishop of Ely. One of the next of the great English scholars was John Free, a physician, whose expenses during his Italian trip were paid by Lord Grey, and who had no less success among the Italian scholars. The scholarly doctor was appointed Bishop of Bath in 1465, but died before his consecration. [Footnote 50: Cambridge University Press, 1895.] Perhaps the most interesting feature of Italy's welcome for these students from Britain, "which is situated outside the world," was the absolutely unprejudiced way in which they were chosen to important posts in the University in competition with the Italians. Reynold Chicheley, who studied at Ferrara under Guarino, became Rector of the universities there. John Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, compelled to leave England by political conditions at the beginning of the latter half of the fifteenth century, went to Venice and to the Holy Land and studied Latin at Padua, visited the aged Guarino at Ferrara, as Sandys in his "History of Classical Scholarship" tells us, and heard Argyropulos lecture on Greek. The Latin oration {543} which he delivered in the presence of Pope Pius II (AEneas Sylvius) is said to have drawn tears of joy from the eyes of the Pope because of the feeling of satisfaction that classical scholarship was now a world possession. Erasmus, who was certainly in a position to judge both because of his own scholarship and his many years of residence in England, wrote a letter in December, 1499, to a friend in Italy in highest praise of English scholarship. It is a panegyric of his English friends, but it is a glorious tribute: "I have found in England . . . so much learning and culture, and that of no common kind, but recondite, exact and ancient, Latin and Greek, that I now hardly want to go to Italy, except to see it. When I listen to my friend Colet, I can fancy I am listening to Plato himself. Who can fail to admire Grocyn, with all his encyclopaedic erudition? Can anything be more acute, more profound, more refined, than the judgment of Linacre? Has nature ever moulded anything gentler, pleasanter, or happier, than the mind of Thomas More?" In England, as elsewhere, the Reformation worked sad havoc on education. The confiscation of educational endowments and the suppression of monasteries and the scattering of their libraries almost put an end to scholarship in England. The descent in education continued until the end of the eighteenth century. Only in the past hundred years has England begun to recover lost ground. At this time men mainly studied Latin, but towards the end of the fifteenth century they took up Greek, The first Englishman who studied Greek in the revival of learning was William Selling, a Benedictine monk. Sandys tells us that "Night and day he was haunted by the vision of Italy, that next to Greece was the nursing mother of men of genius." He was the uncle of Linacre, who had the privilege of accompanying him on his embassy to the Pope in 1485. Modern English classical scholarship in both Greek and Latin begins with Linacre and his two friends, William Grocyn and William Latimer. Latimer was a great friend of Sir Thomas More. The younger of the group of English Greek scholars was William Lily, who, while on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, studied Greek in Rhodes. He was one of the poor scholars of history {544} who worked his way through school in the midst of all kinds of difficulties and privations. While earning his living in Venice he succeeded in keeping up his studies. Grocyn was one of the greatest of the Greek scholars of this generation in Europe. He proved that the book known as the "Ecclesiastical Hierarchy" was not by Dionysius the Areopagite, to whom it had been so long attributed, and thus gave the first proof of the critical scholarship of English students of Greek. Still another distinguished Greek scholar was John Fisher, afterwards Bishop Fisher, whose patron, Lady Margaret, under his direction did so much for education and particularly for classical scholarship in England. {545} APPENDIX I SIR THOMAS MORE AND MAN'S SOCIAL PROBLEMS There is a very general impression that this is the first time in history that the general social problems of humanity have been taken seriously and solutions of them deliberately sought. At least there is a very prevalent feeling that no generation before our time recognized all of these problems so well as we do and seriously tried to reach rational solutions in spite of vested interests of all kinds and old-time prejudices and traditions. Because Sir Thomas More's "Utopia" represents a complete contradiction of this complacent attitude of mind toward our sociological interests, it seems worth while to quote here a series of passages from his book which illustrate very well how as a young man of twenty-seven he faced all our social problems, which are of course those of humanity at all times when in a reasonably civilized condition, and saw as clearly as anyone has ever done, and expressed quite as thoroughly, the rational solutions of them. Perhaps the most surprising passage is that with regard to religious toleration, which in Utopia was complete. It has often been said that More himself afterwards, as Lord Chancellor, violated his own principles in the matter, but he has been ably defended from such imputations by some of the best lawyers of England. The supposed stain on his character is due to religious prejudices in those who write. After religion, the question of armament for nations is More's most important contribution to political science, and there is a full discussion of the evil of standing armies and of the foolish reasons for keeping the nations on a war footing. As might be expected, there is severe condemnation of the vulgar display of such objects as costly precious stones, and More has the children of the Utopians even make great fun of such childish barbaric tendencies. The over-value of gold is laughed to scorn. More's idea of a certificate of health before marriage anticipates many eugenic ideas of our day in a very simple way. The future Lord Chancellor had a fine appreciation for physicians, though surprisingly enough not so much for his own profession of lawyer, and his descriptions of the hospitals of Utopia shows how thoroughly they comprehended what a hospital should be and how little there is of any development in our modern plans for hospitals, though we are so inclined to think of these as a great evolution in hospital construction. {546} There are many other phases of thought that he introduces which are extremely interesting in our time. Indeed one can scarcely turn a page of the "Utopia" without finding that it fulfils what James Russell Lowell suggested as at least the accidental definition of a classic when he said that "to read a classic is to read a commentary on the morning paper." The books the Utopians were interested in show More's own breadth of interest in great literature, and the fact that the great scientific writers are included contradicts many modern notions as to the limitations of intellectual curiosity at this time. In Utopia they reject astrology, have music during meals, which are prepared in common, saving much time for the individuals, think that discipline is the watchword of education, have invented door springs, care for their forests, anticipating all our conservation ideas, and divided their time so that there is six hours of work and eight hours of sleep and the rest for culture and recreation. These are but examples chosen at random of the surprises that meet one constantly in the book. The passage with regard to religious toleration is all the more striking because, written in 1515, or at the latest 1516, it represents his opinion before the beginning of Luther's disturbance and just before that series of disturbances began in Europe which during the next three centuries was to prove of such serious detriment to art and literature and education, as well as the politics of Europe. It runs as follows: "At the first constitution of their government, Utopus having understood that before his coming among them the old inhabitants had been engaged in great quarrels concerning religion, by which they were so divided among themselves that he found it an easy thing to conquer them, since, instead of uniting their forces against him, every different party in religion fought by themselves. After he had subdued them he made a law that every man might be of what religion he pleased, and might endeavor to draw others to it by the force of argument and by amicable and modest ways, but without bitterness against those of other opinions; but that he ought to use no other force but that of persuasion, and was neither to mix with it reproaches nor violence; and such as did otherwise were to be condemned to banishment or slavery. "This law was made by Utopus, not only for preserving the public peace, which he saw suffered much by daily contentions and irreconcilable heats, but because he thought the interest of religion itself required it. He judged it not fit to determine anything rashly, and seemed to doubt whether those different forms of religion might not all come from God, who might inspire man in a different manner, and be pleased with this variety; he therefore thought it indecent and foolish for any man to threaten and terrify another to make him believe what did not appear to him true. And supposing that only one religion was really true, and the rest false, he imagined that the native force of truth would at last break forth and shine bright, if supported only by the strength of argument and attended to with a gentle and {547} unprejudiced mind; while, on the other hand, if debates were carried on with violence and tumults, as the most wicked are always the most obstinate, so the best and most holy religion might be choked with superstition, as corn is with briars and thorns; he therefore left men wholly to their liberty, that they might be free to believe as they should see cause; only he made a solemn and severe law against such as should so far degenerate from the dignity of human nature as to think that our souls died with our bodies, or that the world was governed by chance, without a wise over-ruling Providence: for they all formerly believed that there was a state of rewards and punishments to the good and bad after this life; and they now look on those that think otherwise as scarce fit to be counted men, since they degrade so noble a being as the soul, and reckon it no better than a beast's: thus they are far from looking on such men as fit for human society, or to be citizens of a well-ordered commonwealth; since a man of such principles must needs, as oft as he dares to do it, despise all their laws and customs: for there is no doubt to be made, that a man who is afraid of nothing but the law, and apprehends nothing after death, will not scruple to break through all the laws of his country, either by fraud or force, when by this means he may satisfy his appetites. They never raise any that hold these maxims, either to honors or to offices, nor employ them in any public trust, but despise them as men of base and sordid minds. Yet they do not punish them, because they lay this down as a maxim, that a man cannot make himself believe anything he pleases; nor do they drive any to dissemble their thoughts by threatenings, so that men are not tempted to lie or disguise their opinions; which being a sort of fraud, is abhorred by the Utopians: they take care indeed to prevent their disputing in defence of these opinions, especially before the common people: but they suffer, and even encourage them to dispute concerning them in private with their priest and other grave men, being confident that they will be cured of those mad opinions by having reason laid before them." Standing armies would seem to be a subject that would interest statesmen mainly in the present time. It would rather be expected that we had evolved the arguments we now use against them in comparatively recent years. Some of Sir Thomas More's remarks then are extremely interesting because they show the problem as we have it fairly stated and the reasons for and against armies set forth very simply, but very emphatically. Four hundred years has made no difference in the situation, though we are prone to think of evolution as having made great changes in that length of time. Only the evils have been emphasized. More said at the beginning almost of his "Utopia": "In France there is yet a more pestiferous sort of people, for the whole country is full of soldiers, still kept up in time of peace (if such a state of nation can be called a peace); and these are kept in pay upon the same account that you plead for those idle retainers upon noblemen: this being a maxim of those pretended statesmen, that it is necessary for public safety to have a good body of veteran soldiers ever in readiness. They think raw men {548} are not to be depended on, and they sometimes seek occasions for making war, that they may train up their soldiers in the art of cutting throats, or, as Sallust observed, 'for keeping their hands in use, that they may not grow dull by too long an intermission.' But France has learned to its cost how dangerous it is to feed such beasts. The fate of the Romans, Carthaginians and Syrians, and many other nations and cities, which were both overturned and quite ruined by those standing armies, should make others wiser." And still we can find no better reason for large armies than what Thucydides called [Greek text], "the balanced fear," which we have come to designate by the courtlier term, the balance of power. The passage in "Utopia" in which More discusses the wearing of fine clothes and of precious stones and jewels has often been quoted. After 400 years it will still come home with great force to all those who think seriously on the subject. Of course it is literal common sense, but then what has common sense ever availed against fashion? The mid-African wears brass rings and fancy calico because they are hard to get and expensive and therefore give distinction to their wearer. His cultured European brother--and sister--wears what is equally childish and barbaric because costly and distinctive and will doubtless continue to do so. Sir Thomas More's ideas on the subject are interesting, but will fall on quite as deaf ears in our generation as in all the others since his time. "I never saw a clearer instance of the opposite impressions that different customs make on people than I observed in the ambassadors of the Anemolians, who came to Amaurot when I was there. As they came to treat of affairs of great consequence, the deputies from several towns met together to wait for their coming. The ambassadors of the nations that lie near Utopia, knowing their customs and that fine clothes are in no esteem among them, that silk is despised, and gold is a badge of infamy, used to come very modestly clothed; but the Anemolians, lying more remote, and having had little commerce with them, understanding that they were coarsely clothed, and all in the same manner, took it for granted that they had none of these fine things among them of which they made no use; and they, being a vainglorious rather than a wise people, resolved to set themselves out with so much pomp that they should look like gods and strike the eyes of the poor Utopians with their splendor. Thus three ambassadors made their entry with a hundred attendants, all clad in garments of different colours, and the greater part in silk; the ambassadors themselves, who were of the nobility of their country, were in cloth of gold, and adorned with massy chains, earrings, and rings of gold; their caps were covered with bracelets set full of pearls and other gems--in a word, they were set out with all those things that among the Utopians were either the badges of slavery, the marks of infamy, or the playthings of children. It was not unpleasant to see, on the one side, how they looked big, when they compared their rich habits with the plain clothes of the {549} Utopians, who were come out in great numbers to see them make their entry; and, on the other, to observe how much they were mistaken in the impression which they hoped this pomp would have made on them. It appeared so ridiculous a show to all that they never stirred out of their country, and had not seen the customs of other nations, that though they paid some reverence to those that were the most meanly clad, as if they had been the ambassadors, yet when they saw the ambassadors themselves so full of gold and chains, they looked upon them as slaves and forbore to treat them with reverence. You might have seen the children who were grown big enough to despise their playthings, and who had thrown away their jewels, call to their mothers, push them gently, and cry out, 'See that great fool, that wears pearls and gems as if he were yet a child!' while their mothers very innocently replied, 'Hold your peace! this, I believe, is one of the ambassadors' fools.' Others censured the fashion of their chains, and observed, 'that they were of no use, for they were too slight to bind their slaves, who could easily break them; and, besides, hung so loose about them that they thought it easy to throw them away, and so get from them.' But after the ambassadors had stayed a day among them, and saw so vast a quantity of gold in their houses (which was as much despised by them as it was esteemed in other nations), and beheld more gold and silver in the chains and fetters of one slave than all their ornaments amounted to, their plumes fell, and they were ashamed of all that glory for which they had formerly valued themselves, and accordingly laid it aside--a resolution that they immediately took when, on their engaging in some free discourse with the Utopians, they discovered their sense of such things and their other customs. The Utopians wonder how any man should be so much taken with the glaring, doubtful lustre of a jewel or a stone, that can look up to a star or to the sun himself; or how any should value himself because his cloth is made of a finer thread; for, how fine soever that thread may be, it was once no better than the fleece of a sheep, and that sheep was a sheep still, for all its wearing it." (John G. Saxe told the last generation how great a difference it made whether one wore the product of an India plant or an India worm.) Immediately following this there is almost a more striking passage with regard to wealth and the changes that it makes in the attitude of the minds of men towards one another that would seem surely to have been written by a modern socialist. "They wonder much to hear that gold, which in itself is so useless a thing, should be everywhere so much esteemed that even man, for whom it was made, and by whom it has its value, should yet be thought of less value than this metal; that a man of lead, who has no more sense than a log of wood, and is as bad as he is foolish, should have many wise and good men to serve him, only because he has a great heap of that metal; and that if it should happen that by some accident or trick of law (which sometimes reduces as great changes as chance itself) all this wealth should pass from the master to the meanest varlet of his whole family, he himself would very soon become one of his servants, as if he were a thing that belonged to his wealth, and so were bound to follow {550} its fortune! But they much more admire and detest the folly of those who, when they see a rich man, though they neither owe him anything, nor are in any sort dependent on his bounty, yet, merely because he is rich, give him little less than divine honors, even though they know him to be so covetous and base-minded that, notwithstanding all his wealth, he will not part with one farthing of it to them as long as he lives!" Perhaps his greatest contribution to social ethics and the solution of social problems is to be found in his emphatic assertion of the right of the laborer to a living wage in the best sense of that much abused term and his insistent deprecation of the fact that laborers must not be exploited so as to enable men to accumulate great wealth that is sure to be abused. More believed in profit-sharing very heartily and had no hesitation in expressing himself. Above all, he deprecates the injustice worked by predatory wealth. It was the judicial mind of the greatest Lord Chancellor England has ever had, who, after speaking of the Utopian state as "that which alone of good right may claim and take upon it the name of commonwealth," continues: "Here now would I see, if any man dare be so bold as to compare with this equity, the justice of other nations; among whom, I forsake God, if I can find any sign or token of equity and justice. For what justice is this, that a rich goldsmith, or an usurer, or to be short, any of them which either do nothing at all, or else that which they do is such that it is not very necessary to the commonwealth, should have a pleasant and a wealthy living, either by idleness or unnecessary business, when in the meantime poor laborers, carters, ironsmiths, carpenters, and ploughmen, by so great and continual toil, as drawing and bearing beasts be scant able to sustain, and again so necessary toil, that without it no commonwealth were able to continue and endure one year, should get so hard and poor a living, and live so wretched and miserable a life, that the state and condition of the laboring beasts may seem much better and healthier? . . . And yet besides this the rich men, not only by private fraud but also by common laws, do every day pluck and snatch away from the poor some part of their daily living. . . . They invent and devise all means and manner of crafts, first how to keep safely without fear of losing that they have unjustly gathered together, and next how to hire and abuse the work and labor of the poor for as little money as may be. These devices when the rich men have decreed to be kept and observed under color of the commonalty, that is to say, also of the poor people, then they be made laws. . . . Therefore when I consider and weigh in my mind all these commonwealths which nowadays anywhere do flourish, so God help me, I can perceive nothing but a certain conspiracy of rich men procuring their own commodities under the name and title of commonwealth." Everywhere one finds supreme common sense. For instance, Sir Thomas More points out that while the Utopians "knew astronomy and were perfectly acquainted with the motions of the {551} heavenly bodies; and of many instruments, well contrived and divided, by which they very accurately compute the course and positions of the sun, moon and stars; but for the cheat of divining by the stars, by their oppositions or conjunctions, it has not so much as entered into their thoughts." This sentence was written about the time that Copernicus was working out his conclusions with regard to the Universe as we now know it. Most people might presume that astrology had by this time lost all its weight. More than a century later, however, Galileo and Kepler were drawing up horoscopes, and astrology was very commonly accepted during the seventeenth century. Even in the eighteenth century, Mesmer wrote a thesis for his doctorate at the University of Vienna on the influence of the stars on human constitutions. The really great thinkers in humanity had all of them refused to accept astrology, but it is a tribute to the genius of this man of thirty-seven who had been trained at the law to have reached so true a conclusion. Almost any page of "Utopia" furnishes a quotation that shows how penetrating was More's view of the significance of life not alone for his own time, but for all time. Literally I turned over the page from the quotation with regard to astrology and find this: "A life of pleasure is either a real evil, and in that case we ought not to assist others in their pursuit of it, but on the contrary to keep them from it all we can as from that which is most hurtful and deadly; or if it is a good thing, so that we not only may but ought to help others to it, why then ought not a man to begin with himself?" He has many sentences on that page with reference to the philosophy of what we now call learnedly hedonism. "They infer that if a man ought to advance the welfare and comfort of the rest of mankind, nature much more vigorously leads them to do this for themselves. They define virtue to be living according to nature, so they imagine that nature prompts all people on to seek after pleasure as the end of all they do." Ideas with regard to many modern questions are touched on only in passing and yet with sufficient detail to make us realize that problems that we are sometimes likely to think of as new were faced and solved in that older time. For instance, the question of afforestation and the necessity for keeping up a readily available supply of wood is touched on. "For one may there see reduced to practice not only all the art that the husbandman employs in manuring and improving an ill soil, but whole woods plucked up by the roots, and in other places new ones planted, where there were none before. Their principal motive for this is the convenience of carriage, that their timber may be either near their towns or growing on the banks of the sea, or of some rivers, so as to be floated to them; for it is a harder work to carry wood at a distance over land than corn." {552} One might think that perhaps so practical a man as More would not believe in the usefulness of books for his ideal republic and it might even be thought that, devoted to law and to politics, he would not be over-familiar with the classic authors. Here is his paragraph on the subject, however, that reveals at once his estimation and his tastes. "I happened to carry a great many books with me, instead of merchandise, when I sailed my fourth voyage; for I was so far from thinking of soon coming back that I rather thought never to have returned at all, and I gave them all my books, among which were many of Plato's and some of Aristotle's works: I had also Theophrastus on 'Plants,' which, to my great regret, was imperfect; for having laid it carelessly by, while we were at sea, a monkey had seized upon it, and in many places torn out the leaves. They have no books of grammar but Lascaris, for I did not carry Theodoras with me; nor have they any dictionaries but Hesichius and Dioscorides. They esteem Plutarch highly, and were much taken with Lucian's wit and with his pleasant way of writing. As for the poets, they have Aristophanes, Homer, Euripides, and Sophocles of Aldus's edition; and for historians, Thucydides, Herodotus and Herodian." His description of how the Utopians divide up their time is interesting from many standpoints. Six hours of work, eight hours of sleep and the rest to be employed in learned leisure with lectures, sports, games and various exercises is indeed an ideal that human nature would find hard to surpass at any period of the world's history. Such a division would probably make for human health and happiness better than anything that has ever been tried. "But they, dividing the day and the night into twenty-four hours, appoint six of these for work, three of which are before dinner and three after; they then sup, and at eight o'clock, counting from noon, go to bed and sleep eight hours: the rest of the time, besides that taken up in work, eating, and sleeping, is left to every man's discretion; yet they are not to abuse that interval to luxury and idleness, but must employ it in some proper exercise, according to their various inclinations, which is, for the most part, reading. It is ordinary to have public lectures every morning before daybreak, at which none are obliged to appear but those who are marked out for literature; yet a great many, both men and women, of all ranks, go to hear lectures of one sort or other, according to their inclinations: but if others that are not made for contemplation, choose rather to employ themselves at that time in their trades, as many of them do, they are not hindered, but are rather commended, as men that take care to serve their country. After supper they spend an hour in some diversion, in summer in their gardens, and in winter in the halls where they eat, where they entertain each other with music or discourse. They do not so much as know dice, or any such foolish or mischievous games. They have, however, two sorts of games not unlike our chess." {553} Probably the most striking testimony to the life and character of Sir Thomas More is to be found in the fact that writers who have studied his career most carefully are agreed that he exemplified all the great principles that he has laid down in his "Utopia" in his own environment and family life. Maurice Adams, in his Introduction to the Camelot edition of the "Utopia," says: "Utopia was but the author's home writ large. His beautiful house, on the river side at Chelsea, was, through his delight in social life and music, and through the wit and merriment of his nature, a dwelling of joy and mirth as well as of study and thought. It often rang with song, and was cheery with the laughter of children and grandchildren, he himself, in his own words, 'being merry, jocund and pleasant among them.' Erasmus, who was often his guest, has given us many delightful glimpses of his family life, of his children and their tasks, and the monkey and rabbits which amused their leisure. To the solitary and ever-wandering Erasmus, More's house was a haven of refuge from the discomforts and vexations of his bachelor existence. In one of his epistles he writes, 'More has built near London, upon the Thames, a modest yet commodious mansion. There he lives, surrounded by his numerous family, including his wife, his son and his son's wife, his three daughters and their husbands, with eleven grandchildren. There is not any man living so affectionate to his children as he, and he loveth his old wife as if she were a girl of fifteen. Such is the excellence of his disposition that whatever happeneth that could not be helped, he is as cheerful and as well pleased as though the best thing possible had been done. In More's house you would say that Plato's academy was revived again, only, whereas in the academy the discussion turned upon geometry and the power of numbers, the house at Chelsea is a veritable school of Christian religion. In it is none, man or woman, but readeth or studieth the liberal arts, yet is their chief care of piety. There is never any seen idle; the head of the house governs it: not only by a lofty carriage and oft rebukes, but by gentleness and amiable manners. Every member is busy in his place, performing his duty with alacrity; nor is sober mirth wanting." APPENDIX II AFTER THE REFORMATION It is such a commonplace of history as written in English, at least, that the beginnings of our modern progress are to be traced to the time when the movement called the Reformation freed men's minds from the domination of the Church, which had used every effort to keep men in darkness in order to secure their readier submission to Church teaching, that the tracing of all our modern developments to the century before the movement began may surprise many readers. Not only is it true, however, that for nearly a hundred years before the Reformation was there a climax of intellectual and artistic achievement in every department in every {554} country in Europe, but what is much more striking is that immediately after the "reform" movement set in, decadence made itself felt everywhere. Art in all its phases, painting, sculpture, architecture, education and scholarship, literature, and, above all, humanitarianism, reached magnificent expression during the first three quarters of Columbus' Century. In the fourth quarter, coincident with the spread of the reforming doctrines, decadence begins in nearly every phase of human activity and continues until the revolutions of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries gave a new stimulus to independent thinking. It has seemed necessary, owing to the position taken in the preceding pages, to illustrate these facts by quotations from well-known non-Catholic writers. No fallacy is cheaper than that of arguing because one set of events happens after another, therefore it is due to that other. It would take a much deeper and broader study of history than any that we have made here, or could make in our limited space, to trace the philosophy of the history of Columbus' Century and the succeeding centuries and to indicate the causes at work and their effects. All that can be pointed out here is that the facts of intellectual history represent an exact contradiction to the usually accepted impression that whatever is best in the modern time can be traced to the Reformation. On the contrary, immediately after the reform movement, human achievement declined for many generations, and the revival of the past hundred years represents a reversion to ideas and modes of thought current before the religious revolt and the evolution of which was interrupted by that movement. EDUCATION, BOOKS, INSTITUTIONS An historical opinion which is considered by a great many people who are sure that they are well informed to be quite above all question, is that the Reformation had a wonderfully beneficial effect on education. As a matter of fact, education, which had been at a very high degree of cultivation during the Renaissance period, began to decline immediately after the Reformation nearly everywhere in Europe, and only for the schools of the Jesuits, would have reached a serious depth of degradation. As it was, there is a steep descent in the Protestant countries, until in the eighteenth century Cardinal Newman thought that education at Oxford was at its lowest possible ebb, and when Winckelmann wanted to teach Greek in Germany he had to have his pupils write out copies of Plato, because no edition of the author had been issued in that country for two centuries. Authorities in the history of education have emphasized this, and no one more so than Professor Paulsen, who, after a wide academic experience throughout Germany, held at the end of his life the chair of philosophy at the University of Berlin. His book on the history of German education was {555} translated into English and published with an introduction by President Nicholas Murray Butler of Columbia University. One does not have to go very far in it before finding the great German authority's opinion with regard to the influence of the Reformation on education. He says: "After 1520, Humanism, an aristocratic and secular impulse, was overtaken and succeeded by a movement of vastly greater power and depth, the religious and popular movement of the Reformation. For a brief space the Reformation may well have seemed a reinforcement of Humanism, united as both these were in their hatred of scholastic philosophy and of Rome. Hutton and Luther are represented in pamphlets of the year 1520 as the two great champions of freedom. Inwardly, however, they were very different men, and very different were the goals to which they sought to lead the German people. Luther was a man of inward anti-rationalistic and anti-ecclesiastical religious feeling, and Hutton a man of rationalistic and libertinistic humanism. Hutton did not live to see the manifestation of this great contrast; but after 1522 or 1523, the eyes of the Humanists were open to the fact, and almost without exception they turned away from the Reformation as from something yet more hostile to learning than the old Church herself. In very truth, it appeared for the time as if the Reformation would be in its effects essentially hostile to culture. In the fearful tumults between 1520 and 1530 the universities and schools came to an almost complete standstill, and with the Church fell the institutions of learning which she had brought forth, so that Erasmus might well say, 'Where Lutheranism reigns, there is an end of letters.'" Those who hold a brief for the Reformation and its much vaunted beneficent influence on education may be tempted to retort that at least the German religious movement gave liberty of teaching to the German University. It is a constantly emphasized Protestant tradition that the incubus of the Church on teaching institutions before this time had been most serious in its consequences, and that developments in education had been prevented because of this. Those who assume that the reformers, so-called, introduced academic liberty into Germany will find very little support for any such claim in Professor Paulsen. Paulsen insists that exactly the opposite is true, and that far from bringing freedom of thought, the new religious movement still further shackled university and teaching freedom and the liberty of speech and writing, so that a sadly stilted period of educational development comes on the scene in Germany. He talks from the standpoint of his own department of philosophy, and evidently resents the shackles that were placed on freedom of speculation at this period. "During this period also a more determined effort was made to control instruction than at any period before or since. The fear of heresy, the extra anxiety to keep instruction well within orthodox lines, was not less intense at the Lutheran than at the Catholic institutions--perhaps it was even more so, because here doctrine {556} was not so well established, apostasy was possible in either of two directions, Catholicity or Calvinism. Even the philosophic faculty felt the pressure of this demand for correctness of doctrines. Thus came about these restrictions within the petty States and their narrow-minded established churches, which well-nigh stifled the intellectual life of the German people." A good deal of the misunderstanding of the effect of the reform movement on education is due to the fact that the novelty of the reformers' doctrines in religion and theology led to the use sometimes of the term, the New Learning, for their teaching. The same term, however, had come to be used for the study of the Latin and Greek classics, and the supposed opposition of the Church to the humanistic teachings is founded on the confusion of these two terms. Of course the ecclesiastics of the old Church opposed the New Learning in as far as it related to the reformers' doctrines with regard to free will, the lack of merit in good works and denials of other religious doctrines. They were, however, the most ardent patrons of the New Learning in as far as that term may be applied to the study of the classics. As a matter of fact, the Jesuits, founded at this time, based all their teaching on the classics and their schools spread all over Europe. As to the lack of interest in books, in education, in scholarship, even in the preservation of the great monuments of national literature after the change of religion in England, the easiest way to know it is to read Bishop Bale's account of what happened to the valuable books which had belonged to the old monastic and educational institutions at the Reformation. He approved of the suppression of the monasteries and was an ardent reformer, but he cannot help calling attention to the absolute neglect of the treasures of literature, not only on the part of the nobility and the common people, but on the part of the very universities themselves. It is easy to understand what an awful state of affairs there must have been to draw this indignant protest from so good a king's man and follower of the new order and protestant against everything Catholic. Bishop Bale said, in his preface to Leland's "New Year's Gift to Henry VIII," in 1549: "Never had we been offended for the loss of our libraries, being so many in number and in so desolate places, for the more part, if the chief monuments and most notable works of our excellent writers had been preserved. If there had been in every shire of England but one solemn library for the preservation of those noble works and preferment of good learning in our posterity, it had been yet somewhat. But to destroy all without consideration, a great number of them which purchased those superstitions mansions reserved of those library books . . . some to scour their candlesticks, and some to rub their boots. Some they sold to the grocers and soap-sellers, and some over sea to the book-binders, not in small number, but at times whole ships full to the wondering of {557} the foreign nations. Yea, the universities of this realm are not all clear in this detestable fact. But cursed is . . .(he) which seeketh to be fed with such ungodly gains and so deeply shameth his natural country. I know a merchant man, which shall at this time be nameless, that bought the contents of two noble libraries for forty shillings' price, a shame it is to be spoken. This stuff hath he occupied in the stead of gray paper by the space of more than these ten years, and yet he hath store enough for as many years to come. I judge this to be true, and utter it with heaviness, that neither the Britains under the Romans and Saxons, nor yet the English people under the Danes and Normans, had ever such damage of their learned monuments as we have seen in our time." It used to seem some condonation of these sad evils to say that the suppression of the monasteries was brought because of the evil lives of the monks. Protestant historians were wont to proclaim that they were plague-spots of immorality which had to be eradicated. The careful investigation of historians in our time has completely refuted any such conclusion as this. A few of the smaller monasteries were found not to be living up to their high ideals. A few, but a very few monks, were found to be unworthy of their calling. Even with all the desire that there was to discredit them, nothing could be found to say against the greater monasteries, and the governments had to employ other means in order to bring about their suppression with some shadow of legality. Creatures of the king were forced into the position of abbot and then by prearrangement surrendered the monasteries and their possessions to the crown. Every advance in critical history in modern times has tended more and more to the vindication of the monks. An American in our own time might well be expected to hold the balance straight without disturbance from old-time prejudices. Rev. Dr. George Hedges, Dean of the Episcopal Theological School, of Cambridge, Mass., in his "Fountains Abbey: The Story of a Medieval Monastery," said (p. 88): "The quiet judgment of the modern historian is in favor of the monks, and finds most of them to have been men of respectable and pious lives. The sober persons in white cassocks, who confessed faults in the chapter meeting and cheerfully suffered chastisement for them to which the man in the street gave not a moment's thought, had a passionate longing to be good. They were intent upon the living of a righteous life." He says, further quoting from Burke, "An enemy is a bad witness; a robber is a worse." EFFECT ON ART It is generally recognized now that the religious revolt ruined art. Religion had supplied the motives for great art, but most of these, and especially the tender feeling of reverence for the Mother of God and of the saints and the belief in angels, disappeared at {558} this time or were sadly hampered in their expression, and the whole tendency of the reform movement was iconoclastic. Image worship was one of the bitterest imputations against the old Church. It is curiously interesting to note that just in as much as art has developed in Protestant countries again, the churches have been raised from bare conventicles and meeting-houses to shrines of artistic beauty once more. It must not be forgotten, however, that this is quite contrary to the "protests" that were originally made against the old Church and that the ideas involved in this rejection of art in the Church, helped to lead many in artistic uncultured minds away from Catholicity in that time of storm and stress. In his chapter on Parish Life in England in his well-known book, "Before the Great Pillage," Rev. Augustus Jessop, who in spite of his bitter condemnation of what happened at and after the Reformation, has never, I believe, become a Catholic, tells of the marvellous beauty of the Church structures in the ages which used to be called dark and are now known to be full of light, and then tells what happened after the so-called Reformation. _"And we get fairly bewildered by the astonishing wealth of skill and artistic taste and aesthetic feeling which there must have been in this England of ours, in times which till lately we had assumed to be barbaric times._ Bewildered, I say, because we cannot understand how it all came to a dead stop in a single generation, not knowing that the frightful spoliation of our churches and other parish buildings, and the outrageous plunder of the parish guilds in the reign of Edward the Sixth by the horrible band of robbers that carried on their detestable work, effected such a hideous obliteration, such a clean sweep of the precious treasures that were dispersed in rich profusion over the whole land, that a dull despair of ever replacing what had been ruthlessly pillaged crushed the spirit of the whole nation, and _art died out in rural England, and King Whitewash and Queen Ugliness ruled supreme for centuries."_ (Italics ours.) Under art is, of course, included sculpture and architecture, as well as many of the artistic crafts. It is easy to understand that under the influence of the carping spirit of the Reformation all of these became decadent. Men gave up old-time faith for individual judgment of religious truth. The sterilizing influence of the controversial period which followed can be readily understood. Gerhard Hauptmann, the German dramatic poet, to whom the Nobel Prize for literature was recently awarded, characterized this decadence of art under the reformers in a very striking passage. "I, as a Protestant, have often had to regret that we purchased our freedom of conscience, our individual liberty, at entirely too high a price. In order to make room for a small, mean little plant of personal life we destroyed a whole garden of fancy, and hewed down a virgin forest of esthetic ideas. We went even so far {559} in the insanity of our weakness as to throw out of the garden of our souls the fruitful soil that had been accumulating for thousands of years, or else we ploughed it under sterile clay. "We have to-day, then, an intellectual culture that is well protected by a hedge of our personality, but within this hedge we have only delicate dwarf trees and unworthy plants, the poor progeny of great predecessors. We have telegraph lines, bridges and railroads, but there grow no churches and cathedrals, only sentry boxes and barracks. We need gardeners who will cause the present sterilizing process of the soil to stop and will enrich the surface by working up into it the rich layers beneath. In my workroom there is ever before me the photograph of St. Sebald's tomb. This rich German symbol arose from the invisible in the most luxurious developmental period of German art. As a formal product of that art, it is very difficult to appreciate it as it deserves. It seems to me as one of the most wonderful bits of work in the whole field of artistic accomplishment. The soul of all the great medieval period enwraps this silver coffin, giving to it a noble unity, and enthrones on the very summit of Death, Life as a growing child. Such a work could only have come to its perfection in the protected spaces of the old Mother Church." All the arts of decoration suffered similarly and no art failed to be affected unfavorably. Music, which had had one great period of development in the old Plain Chant in the later Middle Ages under ecclesiastical influence, was just entering on another and glorious development under the patronage of the Church when the reform movement began. Plain song had given such masterpieces as the Lamentations, of which Rockstro said that no sadder succession of single notes had ever been put together, and the Exultet sung in the Mass on Holy Saturday, which he declares represents a similarly high expression of joy. Now figured and harmonic music was about to have its place. Palestrina's Masses and St. Philip Neri's Oratorios were just beginning. The reformers, however, would have nothing to do with music. Congregational singing was adopted from the old Church, but for music as an art to uplift religion and add its tribute of devotion there was no place. Part song had originated in Church ceremonials, as dramatic literature originated in the ceremonies connected with the celebration of the various mysteries. Like every other human and natural aspiration, music was under suspicion in the new religion, and the consequence was a serious detriment to the development of the art. It was not until the gradual loosening of the bonds of the Puritanic elements in the Protestant religion that music began to come to her own again. DECLINE OF CHARITY In humanitarianism and the solution of social problems, the Reformation was particularly backward. The leaders in the new religions were so intent upon explaining their own doctrines and modes of thinking and gathering disciples and having other people {560} think as they did, that charitable works suffered severely. The destruction of the monasteries and convents left many needy, but there were but few to care for them. Above all, the new doctrine of justification by faith alone, which declared that good works were of no import so long as men believed in a particular way, took away the motive for much of the charitable work that had been done before. It is not surprising, then, that hospitals and the care of the ailing and the old reached a depth of degradation that is rather hard to understand. We in the twentieth century know how low hospital care and nursing had sunk in the early nineteenth century, and we have been inclined to think that it must have been much worse in the generations preceding. It is a surprise, then, to find that the first half of the nineteenth century represents what has been well called by Miss Nutting and Miss Dock, in their "History of Nursing," the Dark Period of Nursing, during which "the condition of the nursing art, the well-being of the patient and the status of the nurse all sank to an indescribable level of degradation." Jacobson, in his Essays on "The History of Care for the Ailing," [Footnote 51] traces just when this decadence began, not long after the reform movement succeeded in gaining a firm foothold, and he outlines in detail just how the descent came about. He says: [Footnote 51: Beiträge zur Geschichte des Krankencomforts, _Deutsche Krankenpflege Zeitung,_ 1898, in 4 parts.] "It is a remarkable fact that attention to the well-being of the sick, improvements in hospitals and institutions generally and to details of nursing care, had a period of complete and lasting stagnation after the middle of the seventeenth century, or from the close of the Thirty Years' War. Neither officials nor physicians took any interest in the elevation of nursing or in improving the condition of hospitals. During the first two-thirds of the eighteenth century, he proceeds to say, nothing was done to bring either construction or nursing to a better state. Solely among the religious orders did nursing remain an interest, and some remnants of technique survive. The result was that in this period the general level of nursing fell far below that of earlier periods. The hospitals of cities were like prisons, with bare, undecorated walls and little dark rooms, small rooms where no sun could enter, and dismal wards where fifty or one hundred patients were crowded together, deprived of all comforts and even of necessaries. In the municipal and state institutions of this period, the beautiful gardens, roomy halls, and springs of water of the old cloister hospital of the Middle Ages were not heard of, still less the comforts of their friendly interiors." The more careful study of the guilds, particularly, has served to show what an immense social wrong was done by this confiscation of what for the moment, strictly for government purposes, was called Church property. At the beginning of Henry VIII's reign, {561} it has been calculated by Toulmin Smith that there were some 30,000 guilds in England. These had very large sums in their treasuries. They responded to all the social needs that we are now only just waking up to once more. They provided old age and disability pensions, insurance against fire and flood, against loss by robbery, by imprisonment, and against the loss of cattle and farm products; there were forms of insurance against the loss of sight, against the loss of a limb or any other form of crippling. The amount of money confiscated from the treasuries of these guilds has been calculated at a value in our money of several hundred millions of dollars. When it is recalled that the census of England made in Elizabeth's time, just before the Great Armada was expected, showed a total population of less than five million, the amount of good that could be accomplished by this vast sum of money, not in the hands of a few, but distributed in 30,000 treasuries and used for social purposes, can be readily understood. After the reform in England, practically no more was heard of the guilds, and social wrongs began to be multiplied. SUPERSTITION AND TORTURE It is often said that with the Reformation came the end of superstition and of that exaggerated faith in religion which keeps people from using their reason and that over-attention to the things of the other world instead of this which keeps them from being practical and prosperous. The subsequent history, however, of the countries most affected by the German religious revolt, far from bearing out this declaration, shows how much harm came from the absence of a strong central religious authority and how much of loss to idealism there was in the diminution of the childlike faith which had meant so much, not only for religion, but for literature and for art in the preceding centuries. There was no obliteration of superstition, but superstition changed its object, and now, instead of being poetic, often became cruel and intolerant. The witchcraft delusion, for instance, which represented the worst manifestation of superstition which mankind has perhaps ever suffered from, affected the Protestant countries much more than the Catholic countries. Thousands and thousands of people were put to death as witches in Germany, and it was from the Protestant countries that the delusion spread, by psychic contagion, to the Catholic countries of Europe. Catholic countries not in intimate relations with Protestant countries, like Ireland, were not affected by it. Though Ireland has been the most Catholic of countries, not a witch has been put to death there, by any formal process of law, for over five hundred years. Here in America the witchcraft delusion is one of the sad blots on our history. Many other forms of superstition manifested themselves, and when there {562} were not religious motives there were other reasons. Men apparently cannot keep from being influenced by things they do not understand. Healers of all kinds take the place of the religious healing of the medieval period, and medical and scientific superstitions replace religious supercredulity. Electric belts and pads replace relics. Over-estimated remedies and utterly inefficient cures of all kinds are believed in much more now without reason than ever medieval folk allowed themselves to be carried away by religious superstitions. A similar historical error proclaims that torture and suffering for opinions and cruel punishment went out with the Reformation, or at least wherever that movement gained a firm foothold. This is absolutely untrue, for the trials of the witches everywhere were accompanied by torture, and cruel punishments were the rule, particularly in the Protestant countries. It is rather amusing sometimes to read, in newspaper and magazine articles, descriptions of the torture of the Inquisition and the heartlessness of medieval people, ecclesiastics in the same breath with the mention of the Iron Maiden and the famous torture boots of Nuremberg. These, however, were inventions not made for the Inquisition nor for the Middle Ages, but for the post-reformation period in Protestant Nuremberg. And it must not be forgotten that Nuremberg was one of the most cultivated cities of Germany and that its people were highly educated, and that it was exactly in such a reform city that torture and cruel punishments were invented and developed. Torture was one of the modes of getting at truth for legal purposes under the Roman law. It continued almost until our own time to be a legal mode of procedure. Even at the present time it has not entirely gone out, and while the means of physical torture are removed, the "third degree" and various phases of mental torment replace them. POLITICAL DECADENCE Above all, the political import of this movement, so often thought to be purely religious, must not be forgotten. The nobility lost at this time, to a great extent, their independence. The king became supreme, and the new nationalism which developed in Europe knit countries and peoples very close together which had only been very loosely connected before. Ferdinand was King of Aragon and Isabella Queen of Castile when their marriage brought these kingdoms together. Subsequent developments at this time made the Spanish peninsula a unit. Practically the same thing happened in France. Pope Julius II planned a united Italy. It was scarcely half a century after the close of Columbus' Century that the Scotch and English crowns became united. Many of the great nobles of these countries lost their prestige. The foolish extravagance of {563} the Field of the Cloth of Gold is said to have cost many a nobleman of France and England his estates, or at least made him absolutely independent in the favor of the king. In the midst of this political revolution a change in the prevailing religion made a very valuable asset for monarchs whose position was not over-secure or whose treasury was exhausted, for it handed over to them the care of the Church and its property as well as of the State and its revenues. This enabled them to confiscate large sums of money, to confer Church estates on noble favorites; but, above all, it left them without any strong organized ethical factor within the State to oppose any acts of injustice that they might do. Their Lord Chancellors had been bishops before, but now they were political favorites and often the veriest of time-servers. Lord Campbell's characterization of some of the English post-reformation chancellors is illuminating for this. The amount of political injustice that resulted is easy to understand, though it is not easy to comprehend how the people stood it. The constitution of the English House of Lords since the Reformation represents, by contrast, in a very striking way the difference between the old and the new in political matters. At the present time the House of Lords is almost exclusively hereditary. About one-seventh of its members are there by appointment or election, and a large part of even this moiety is chosen from the descendants of the hereditary nobility. Before the Reformation sixty per cent of the House of Lords consisted of the Lords Spiritual. Many of these were Bishops, but more of them were Abbots and Priors of Religious Houses, Masters and Generals of Religious Orders and other officials representing the monasteries as large landholders, who at the same time represented considerable bodies of peasantry, tillers of the soil of monasteries, who were so happy, as was often said, to be under the cross. Not a few of the bishops were the self-made sons of the middle class, or even the poor. A great many of the abbots and representatives of religious orders came from even the lower orders. They were men who had been chosen by their fellow-religious to rule over them because they were considered to have the best qualities of heart and soul for such positions. In the course of centuries a great many of these men were saints, that is, represented that character and disposition which made the men of the after-time declare that they had lived heroic lives of unselfishness and care for others. It is true that at times some of the Lords Spiritual were the sons of the nobility, favorites of kings, men who used political influence in order to secure Church preferment; but the proportion of these was never very large, and while many are known, it is because the history of many centuries is gone over for them. Probably no better second chamber for conservative legislation could {564} possibly be organized than this one of the House of Lords before the Reformation actually was. The majority of the men in it were representatives, not of one class, but of all the classes of England. There were always many peasants' sons and the sons of little tradesmen, and these men had often risen by merit and yet only under such circumstances as precluded family ambition at least, and usually their advancement was due to their known lack of personal ambition. As a rule, their unselfishness had been the principal trait by which they secured preferment. They had the best interests of the poor classes particularly at heart. Without any chance for ambition for themselves, without any desires for the enrichment of a family which did not exist for them, there were as many safeguards around their fulfilment of their duty as representatives of the people as can possibly be drawn. Even such safeguards will not prevent all abuses, but they come as near doing it as is possible. Nothing is more illuminating, as regards political conditions from a social standpoint, than this comparative study of the pre-reformation House of Lords with that of the present. In political freedom, the times after the Reformation represent decadence mainly because of the placing in the hands of the civil government the authority in both political and religious matters. As a consequence of the elimination of the Church authorities as independent factors in the life of the people instead of subservient to government officials, there was a serious inroad upon the rights as citizens that had been obtained by hard striving during preceding centuries. Modern political developments are not so much a new assertion of modern democracy as a reversion to the democratic principles of the Middle Ages. That will seem to many people profoundly paradoxical. It is only a paradox, however, to those who do not know the political life of the Middle Ages. Magna Charta was drawn up and signed, the fundamental laws of Spain and France adopted, the Golden Bull in Hungary promulgated, and the Swiss declaration of independence issued all in a single century of the preceding time--the thirteenth. Such principles as that there shall be no taxation without representation were then formulated, and the free cities acquired rights for their citizens and laid the foundation of that government of the people, by the people and for the people which is the basis of modern democracy. All this was seriously disturbed at the time of the reform movement, and a decadence similar to that which took place in humanitarianism and the hospital and nursing movement may be traced with regard to political liberty. It culminated at the end of the eighteenth century in that awful cataclysm of the French Revolution which tried to reassert all the old principles of political freedom and correct all the abuses at once and right the cumulated wrongs of centuries that was doomed to failure. The series of revolutions of the early {565} nineteenth century were needed to give people back something like the rights that they had had in the Middle Ages and to create a public sentiment once more favorable to democratic institutions. Hilaire Belloc, who probably knows the French Revolution as well as any in our generation, declared not long since that it represented an effort to bring the world back to those ideals of democracy which had developed in the Middle Ages. Our period represents exactly the end of the Middle Ages, and it is after the Reformation that the decadence of the fine old democratic spirit which had been fostered within the bounds of the old Church may be noted. Above all, popular happiness decreased and indeed almost disappeared throughout Europe as the result of the reform movement. Before that, the Church holy days, nearly twoscore in number in the year, provided ample opportunities for leisure and recreation, and the Church societies, by the giving of the mystery and morality plays, and the guilds by their banquets and outdoor meetings, the various "ales," as they were called, had furnished frequent occasions for hearty, healthy amusement. All this stopped with the Reformation. Puritanical conceptions of religion rubbed the holy days, that were also holidays, out of the year. We are now engaged in putting them back as anniversaries of national events and of the births of national heroes instead of the celebrations of Christian feasts and saints' days, as bank holidays and memorial days of various kinds. The sects became so much occupied with discussions of dogma that they took almost no interest in the amusements of the people. Now men met to dispute over doctrines that they could not understand, and instead of the beautiful ceremonies of the old religion, with their satisfying appeal to all the senses and their charm and teaching quality, even as mere spectacles, they listened to long-winded, dry-as-dust sermons as a matter of duty, and went home to sit gloomily in darkened rooms for the observance of what they called the Sabbath. Before the Reformation, the people, after the Church services, used to meet for games and recreation upon the green in front of the Church, and the young folks had had opportunities for their Sunday pleasures of all kinds. Only in recent years, with the breaking up of the bonds of Protestantism, have we gone back to revive medieval ways. The nations drew away from each other, and the internationalism that had been developing and that had been fostered by community of Church interest disappeared. National governments became more consolidated, but the peoples became more and more separated in sympathy. Until commerce developed in the modern time, that fine internationalism which had so often been exhibited in spirit, at least during the Middle Ages, was at an end. The Crusades had done much to break down the barriers of narrow nationalism. {566} The religious orders had still further fostered intercourse and increased sympathy among the nations. The universities, with their various nations among the students, had been nurturing grounds for better feeling among men. All this was now practically at an end. Not only that, but sectionalism in politics and sectarianism in religion drew men farther and farther apart and made them look upon those of other nations with less and less sympathy. The political change made for the concentration of power in the hands of rulers and the strengthening of the states for war, but it took away many of the rights of men and, above all, lessened their sympathies for their kind, except among their own people, and obliterated that spirit of good fellowship among the educated and cultured people of the world which had been so well nurtured in the time before. It is only during the later nineteenth century that there has come to be that spirit of friendly intercourse among nations once more which existed in the later medieval and earlier Renaissance periods. {567} INDEX Abbot Trithemius, 525 Academic liberty, 555 Academies, Italian, 508 Academy, of Naples, 509; of Noble Minds, 9; of Lorenzo de' Medici, 34; Roman, 509; Vitruvian, 509 Accademia at Venice, 510 Accademia dei Belli Arti, 196 Accidents, happy, xxv Achidemoios, 493 Achillini, 361 Acts and scenes division, 489 Adoration of the Lamb, Van Eyck, 71 Adoration of the Magi, Dürer, 72; Memling, 72 Advance of surgery, 414 AEgidius, 232, 437 AEneas Sylvius, 502, 543 AEschylus, 533 Age of Leo X, xl, 41 Agostino, 540 Agricola, Rudolph, xxxv, 505, 520, 524, 527 Agrippa, Cornelius, 393 Agrippa and New Thought, 394 Á Kempis, 517; and Marcus Aurelius, 432; and Epictetus, 432 Á Kempis' Imitation, 431; other books, 431 Alberti, Leon Battista, xxxi, xxxv, 114; De re aedificatoria, 114; San Francesco (Rimini), 115 Albertus Magnus, 348, 361 Alcalá, Paranimfo, 125; University of, 539 Aldus Manutius, 151, 303, 521; accomplishments, 154; advice to bores, 155; _editiones principes,_ 510 Aleander, Jerome, 531 Alessi, 122 Alexander VI, 228 Allegri, Antonio (Correggio), 66 Almagest of Ptolemy, 346 Almshouses at Stratford, 175 Amadis de Gaul, 478 Amerbach, Portrait of Boniface, 78 America, and Africa, colonized, 272; discovery of, xxv; first book printed in, 286-7; first printing press, 287; in Columbus' Century, 275 Amerigo Vespucci, 264 Amyot, translation of Plutarch, 471 Anaesthesia, 425 Anathemia, Mondino's, 361 Anatomy, pathological, 395; Renaissance and, 361; Teaching of, in Bologna, 363 Anchyloses, 424 Animuccia, xxxii, 143; brothers, 137 Anne of Bretagne, xxxix, 330 Annotations on Dioscorides Cordus, 337 Antimony, and auto-toxaemia, 392 Antonio Lebrixa, 538 Antonio of Palermo, 510 Antwerp, 110 Apollo and Marsyas, 56 Appendix, vermiform, 362 Apuleius, Golden Ass, 458 Aquinas, 361 Arabic types, 151 Arcadelt, 136 Archiepiscopal Palace Court, 126 Architecture, Michelangelo's, 40 Arcolani, 395 Arculanus, 417 Argelata, 414 Argyropulos, 506, 542 Ariosto, comparisons, 444; Italian humor, 445; Sonnet of, 445 Armor, 113 Arnold, Matthew, 432 Arras, 110 Art, and Savonarola, 57; after Reformation, 559 Art decadence, 98; Arthur, King-statue (Innsbrück): 103 Arts, deeds, and words, xxvii; The Book of the, xxviii Ascham, Roger, xxxv, 336 Asepsis, 418 Asse, De, 532 Astrology, 352 Asylums, 169; founded at Saragossa, Seville, Toledo, Valencia, and Valladolid, 203 Athenaeus, antiquities of, 536 Augsburg, 102 Australia, discovery of, 268 Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini, 459 Auto-toxaemia always with us, 392 B Balboa, 271 Baldung, Hans, 161 Bale, on neglect of books, 556 Ballad, Lorenzo dei Medici, 447 Ballate, 447 Balneotherapy, 402 Bandages, moulded, 423 Bandello, 458 Baptism of Christ (Verrocchio). 27 Baptista dei Malatesti, 316 Barbosa, 538 Barclay, Alexander, 492 Baronius, 182 Basil Valentine, 391 Bath, Wife of, 490 Bayard, 208 Beaufort, Margaret, 335 Beccadelli, 510 {568} Beckere, Peter, of Brussels, xxxi Bedlam, at London, 203 Bedlam, Hogarth's, 204 Bedlamites, 204 Beethoven, 88 Beguines, 178 Behem, Martin, 348 Bellarmine, 216 Bellay, Joachim du, 468, 469 Bellini, Angels Mourning over Christ, 63 Bellini, Presentation of Infant Christ, 63 Bellinis, the, xxix Belloc, Hilaire, 191 Belon, Pierre, 379 Bembo, Pietro, xlii, 298 Benivieni, 395 Benozzo Gozzoli, xxviii, 55 Benvenuto Cellini, xxx, 92 Berengar of Carpi, 361, 418 Berenson, 70 Bernardine of Feltre, 180 Bernard van Orley, 74 Bernini, 95 Bessarion, Cardinal, 346, 503; and Cusanus, 504; and Purbach, 504; and Regiomontanus, 504 Bibbiena, 34 Bible, Complutensian Polyglot, xxxv Blashfields, Italian Cities, 6 Blaubeuren, Stalls in, 99 Blind Harry, 496 Blondeel, 74 Blood, circulation of, 371; transfusion, 415 Boerhaave, 379 Bollandists, 216 Bologna, xxix; Papal University of, 368 Bonfigli, xxix, 55 Book, appreciation, 146; bindings old and new, 166; first American, 287; Massachusetts Bay Psalm, 287; making, decadence in, 148; illustration, 159 Books, illuminated, xxxiii; reform and destruction of, 556; twelve best, 434 Borgia, Aldus Manutius (Garnett), 303 Borgia, Lucretia, 301; at Ferrara, 303 Borgias, the, 302 Borgo, the Fire in the, 10 Borgognone, 117 Boscan, 480 Botticelli, xxviii, 53, 55, 56, 58, 75 Botticelli's Birth of Venus, 58; illustrations for Dante, 60: Madonna of the Magnificat, 59; Mythology, 59; Psychology, 58; Spring, 58; Tondi, 59 Bourbon, 208 Bourdischon, 80 Bourne, Prof., 277, 286, 287 Bouts, Dirk, 73 Bramante, xxxi, 117, 196; Church at Lodi, 116; Great Court of Hospital (Milan), 195; Santa Maria delle Grazie, 117 Brancas, surgeons, 418 Brantôme, xlii Braunschweig, 411 Bréboeuf, 213 Brethren of The Common Life, xxxv, 517 Bridgett, Life of Sir Thomas More, 240 Briggs, Prof., 259 Brothers, Do-Good Little, 202; of Mercy, 201 Browning, Mrs., 484 Bruges, 110; tombs at, 98; town hall at, 127; sculpture of, 98 Brunelleschi, xxxi, 349 Brunfels, 376 Bruno, Giordano, 473 Brunschwig, 422 Brussels, Broodhuis at, 127; Hôtel de Ville, 127; Maison du Roi. 137 Budaeus, 505, 532; absorption in study, 532 Budé, 532 Bugiardini, 10 Burckhardt, 91, 319, 341; on Leonardo, 31 Burdett, Hospitals and Asylums of the World, 205 Burgkmaier, Hans, 161 Burke, Edmund, 478 Burnett, Bishop, 232 Burnett's Utopia, 233 Burning Bush, 10 Butzbach, Johann, 338 C Cabot, John and Sebastian, 265 Cabrol, 417 Caesalpinus, xxxvii, 372, 379 Caesarean operation, 416 Cagliari, Paolo, 69 Caius, John, xxxviii, 229, 347, 385, 542 Caius College, 229 Calepinus, 511 Calixtus III, 510 Calvin, xlii, 246; and intolerance, 254 and Servetus, 255, 370; Loyola, Rabelais, fellow students, 533 Calvin's austerity, 253 Cambridge Modern History, 302 Camera del Eliodoro, 10 Camera del Incendio, 10 Camerini of women of Renaissance, 322 Camöens, xlii, 264; and Da Gama, 266 sonnet by, 484 Campbell, Lord, Lives of the Lord Chancellors of England, 241 Canani, 362 Cancer, surgery in, 417 Canossa, Counts of, 32 Canova, 96 Cantor, 344 Cape Verde Islands, discovery of, 262 Caprarola, Palace of, 122 Caracci, xxix Cardan, Jerome, 403 Carlo Dolci, 66 Carlo Maratta, xxix Carnival songs, 448 Carpaccio, xxix Cartoons of Raphael, 11 Cartwright, Julia, 340 Castiglione, Baldassare, 4, 298 Catherine, of England, xxxix; of Genoa, xl; of Sforza, 301 Caviceo, 304 Caxton, William, 151 Caxton's experience, 146 Celestina, 479 {569} Cellini, Benvenuto, 92, 206; _alto_ and _basso rilievo,_ 93; autobiography, 459; Christ by, 93; Perseus and Head of Medusa, 93 Celsus, 507 Celtes, 338, 524 Certosa at Pavia, xxx; sculpture, 95 Cervantes, 208; and books of chivalry, 478 Cespedes, The Last Supper, 83 Chalcondyles, 506 Champ Fleury, 158 Champlain, on Mexico, 288 Chanca, Dr., 284 Chancery, calendar cleared, 235; Court of, 234 Charity, decline of, after Reformation, 559 Charlemagne, 313; Coronation of, 10 Charles V, xxxiii, 208 Charles, of Orleans, xlii, 463 Charles the Bold's tomb, 98 Chaucer, 152 Chess, Game & Pleye of, 152 Chevy Chase, 495 Chicheley, 542 Chiericate Palace, 122 Chivalry, Tales of, 478 Christ the Light of the World, 73 Christ, Imitation of, xli, 430 Christi, De Imitatione, 429 Christina, Princess of Denmark, 340 Church, Dean, 433 Cicero, 522 Ciceronianism, 508 Cinthio, Hecatomithi or Hundred Fables, 458 Circulation of Blood, Caesalpinus, 369; Columbus, 366; Harvey, 368; Rabelais, 369; Servetus, 369 Circulation, systemic, 372 Cisneros, 538 Claude Goudimel, xxxii, 137 Claudio Monteverde, 143 Clément Marot, xlii Clocks, 113 Clopton, Sir Hugh, 131. 173, 175 Clouet, Elizabeth of Austria, 79 Clouets, 80 Club-foot surgery, 421 Clusius, Carolus, 400 Clym of the Clough, 495 Cobbett's History of Reformation, 257 Coimbra, Teachers' College at, 541 Colet, Dean, xxxv, 229, 235, 543 Colet, Dame, 229 Collects of the English Prayerbook, 500 College de France, xxxvi, 533 College of Santa Cruz, 279 Colombe, xxxi, 80, 104 Colombo, Francesco, 159 Colonists, English and Spanish, 276 Colonization, ancient and modern, 272 Columbus, character, xxvi; letter, 283; lifetime, xxvii Columbus, Realdus, xxxvii, 366 Columella, 508 Common Life, Brethren of, 514 Company of Jesus, 222 Condivi, 41 Conrad, 338 Contagion of tuberculosis, 408 Convents and educated women, 341 Copernicus, 223, 243, 349; and Reformation, 352 Copperplate engraving, 160 Copyright, lack of, 155 Cordova, 208 Cordus, Valerius, 376 Cornaro, 404 Cornelius à Lapide, 216 Corporation of the Royal Readers, 533 Correggio, xxix, 53, 66, 75, 92; and Leonardo, 67; and Michelangelo, 67 and Raphael, 67 Corsets, surgical, 416 Cortes, 269 Cortez, Martin, 263 Cortigiano and Cellini's autobiography, 461 Courteys, Jean, 122; Pierre, 122 Cousin, Jean, 80 Coverdale, 500 Coxcie, Michiel, 74 Cranach, 161 Cranmer, 500 Cretinism and endemic goitre, 387 Culture, Transmission of European, 278 Cusanus, 344, 518; and Bessarion, 504: love of truth, 519 D Da Imola, xxix Dalberg, Johann von, 525 Dame Quickly, 490 Danès, Pierre, 533 Danesius, 533 Daniel, 212 Dante, 149; sonnet by Michelangelo, 42 David, Gerard, 74, 97 Da Vinci, 44 (see Leonardo) Dean Colet, 229 Decadence, political, after Reformation, 562 Deed, The Book of the, xxxiii Defectives, Village care for, 203 Delacroix on Titian, 65 Delft, 110 Delirium, 402 Della Croce, 415 Della Porta, xxxi Della Robbia, 89 Della Robbias, xxx Denifle and Luther, 248 De Quincey, 432 D'Este, Isabella, 303; Beatrice, 318 Deventer, 517 De Vigo, 411 Dias, Bartholomew, 263 Dibden, 149 Dickenson, Study of the History of Music, 140 Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers, 152 Dietetics, popular, 406 Dionysius, the Areopagite, 544 Discoveries and drugs, 400 Diseases, occupation, 387; mental, 401 Disputa, 8 Dodsley's Old English Plays, 488 Doge's Palace, 120 Dolet, Etienne, 473 Dominant seventh, xxxii; chord of, 143 Donatello, xxx, 65, 70, 102 {570} Donatello's, Bambino Gesu, 87; St. Francis, 87; St. George, 87; St. John the Baptist, 87 Donizetti, Lucretia Borgia, 304 Dorothea de Juanes, 84 Dosso Dossi, xxix Douglas, Gawin, 496 Drake, Sir Francis, 288 Dream of the Knight, Raphael, 4 Drug abuses later, 403 Drugs, American and Oriental, 400 Dunbar, William, 496; Scotch Chaucer, 497 Dürer, Albert, xxix, 75, 99, 161. 378; Marriage of the Blessed Virgin, 163; Melancholia, 15; Nativity, 339; St. John the Baptist preaching, 100; wood-engravings, 161; writings, 77 Dussart, S. J., Father, on Memling, 73 E Echegaray on Teresa, 309 Educated women, number of, 320 Educated women's homes, 321 Education, feminine, xxxix; phases of feminine education, 313; physical training and feminine, 317; feminine, in Spain, 332; feminine, and Rabelais, 536; feminine, opportunities for, 320 Edward VI Grammar Schools, 173 Efficiency, Studies in (Leonardo), 26 Eliot's, George, Romola, 185 Elizabeth, 337; and Isabella, 293 Elizabeth, torture under, 189 Emperor Frederick, 432 Encomium Moriae, 77, 440 Englishmen of the Sixteenth Century, Sidney Lee, 437 English Prayerbook, Collects of the, 500 Engraving, copper, 162; wood, 162 Ephemerides Astronomicae, 348 Erasmus, xxxv, 223, 226, 259, 337, 521, 528; Colloquia, 440; on scholasticism, 245; on copyright, 155; and More, 226; Escala Espiritual, La, first American printed book, 287 Estienne the Elder, 157 Euclid, 526 Eustachius, xxxvii, 395; anatomical plates of, 164; discoveries, 367 Eustachian tube, 367 Evelyn, 181, 204 Everyman, 485 Exercitia Spiritualia, 429 Experts, medico-legal, 399 F Fabrica Humani Corporis, 365 Fabricius of Aquapendente, 421 Fallopius, 366, 415; discoveries, 367 Farnesina, 6 Farrar, Archdeacon, 434 Fathers of Church and Pagan Culture, 529 Fedele, Cassandra, 327 Felixmarte de Hircania, 478 Female pre-eminence, 394 Ferdinand and Isabella, xxxiii, 208, 292 Ferrara, xxix Ferri, 411 Festus, 507 Ficino, 34, 507, 524 Field, Miss, on St. Teresa, 312 Field of the Cloth of Gold, xxxiv, 255 Filippino Lippi, xxviii Fiorovanti, 417 Fisher, Bishop of Rochester, 237, 521 Florence, Academy at, 507; and social reforms, 184 Fontenelle, 433 Forli, Virago of, 301 Fortune, making a, 177 Foster, Professor, 372 Fouchet, Jean, 105 Fountain of the Innocents, xxxi Fouquet, Jehan, 80, 149; miniature painting from the Livy MSS., 150 Four Elements, the Interlude of, 489 Four P's, 489, 493 Fra Angelico, xxviii, 53, 92; angels of 54: Madonnas of, 54; paintings of, 54 Fra Bartolommeo, xxviii, 6, 56, 92; Descent from the Cross, 57; Lamentation over Christ, 57; Marriage of St. Catherine, 57; The Last Judgment, 57; Savonarola, 58 Fra Gioconda, 131, 159 Fracastorius, 397 Fracture of the skull by contrecoup, 418 Francia, 151 Francis I, xxxiii, 533; contempt of the world, 464-5 Frederick of Urbino, 2 Free, John, 542 Froissart translation, 470 Fuchs, 376 Furniture, 113 Fust, 146 G Gairdner, 256 Galileo and Copernicus, 350 Gammer Gurton's Needle, xlii Gamp, Mrs., 490 Garcilaso de la Vega, 285, 480 Garofalo, xxix Garnett, 302 Gaspara Stampa, 327 Gasquet, 502 Gaston de Foix, 208 Gaza, Theodore, 505, 520 Geert de Groote, 514 Geiler of Kaisersberg, 529 Genoa, Heroines of, 300 Gentile da Fabriano, xxix George Eliot on Teresa, 308 German People, History of the, 528 Germany, Preceptor of, 522; schoolmaster of, 520; the Humanists of, 527; three-tongued wonder of, 523: united, 519 Gerssdorff, Hans von, 422 Gesner, Conrad, 377, 385 Ghent, town hall of, 127 Ghirlandajo, 34, 55, 56, xxviii Giles, Peter, 232, 437 Giorgione, xxix, 63 Giotto, 65 Giulio Romano, xxix Glass-making, xxxiii God's promise, 494 {571} Goldsmiths sculptors, xxxii, 341 Gonzaga, Cecilia, 316; Elizabeth, 298; Isabella, 301, 304; Paola, 341; women of the house of, 320 Gonzagas, xxxix Good Hope, Cape of, 263 Gordon, General Chinese, 432 Goudimel, Claude, 137 Goujon, Jean, xxxi, 80, 105 Gounod, 140 Gout, bilious, 399; melancholy, 399; Paré on, 399; pituitary, 399; sanguine, 399 Gower, 152 Graft, political, 248 Grammar, Spanish specialty, 540 Granada, Cathedral at, 118-9 Greek, first book printed in, 151 Greene, Prof. Edward L., 375 Gregorovius, 302 Grey, Lady Jane, xl, 336; Lord, of Grimm, 5; Life of Michelangelo, 56; on Correggio, 66; on Michelangelo, 52 Grisar's Luther, 248 Grocyn, 543 Grolier, 156, 164, 166 Groote, Geert de, 514 Guarino, 542 Guercino, xxix Guicciardini, 451 Guido, xxiii Guilds, flourishing, xxxviii; insurance, 170; grammar schools of, 173; of the Holy Cross at Stratford, 172: social work of the, 170; the children of the, 171 Gunshot wounds, experiments in, 412 Gurlt, History of Surgery, 412 Gutenberg, 146 Guy de Chauliac, 410 Guzman, 537 Gynaecology and obstetrics, 416 H Hallam on Reformation, 246 Haller, 377 Hamboys, 136 Hannay, David, 476 Hans Holbein, 162 Hare, Augustus, 460 Harvey, 369 Headlam, Cecil, 102 Health, Board of, at Lucca, 407 Heart surgery, 417 Heathen writers and Christian culture, 529 Hebrew types, 151 Hellenists, new academy of, 510 Helyot, Lea Ordres Monastiques, 198 Hemophilia, 415 Henderson, The Story of Music, 135 Henry VIII, xxxiii, 246 Henry, the Navigator, xxxiii, 262 Henryson, Robert, 496 Heptameron, 305, 465 Hernandez, 399 Heynlin von Stein, 529 Heywood, John, 493 Higden, 151 Hildegarde, Abbess, 314 History of the English Reformation, 257 of the Popes, 220; of wood-engraving, 161 Hogarth's Bedlam, 204 Holbein, xxix, 77, 162; and the Iconoclasts, 78; religious pictures, 78 Hospital, first American, 287; of St. John at Bruges, 72, 199 Hospitals, 169; and surgery, 410; decline after Reformation, 560; decoration of, 199; gardens of, 199; in Spain, 201; medieval, 192; modern, 192; nursing, 198; of the Innocents, 90; old-time, 192; organization of, 197; private patients in, 197; Santo Spirito, 196; Sir Thomas More on, 200-201 Hôtel de Ville of Louvain, 124 Houillier (Holleris), Jacques, 396 Hours, Book of, 148 House of the Red Children, 306 Howard, Earl of Surrey, 497 Hroswitha, the nun dramatist, 314 Hugo von Pfolspeundt, 421 Hugo, Victor, on Lucretia Borgia, 304 Humanists, The, and antiquity, 528; and Christianity, 528; and England, 531; and France, 531; The Earlier or Scholastic, 527; The Intermediate or Rational, 527; The Later or Protestant, 527; Throughout all of Western Europe, 531; Portugal and, 531; Spain and, 531 Hunt, Bonavia, 138 Hunter, George Leland, on tapestries, 109 Hunter, William, 364 Hutchinson, Ann, 255 Hutten, Ulrich von, 523 Hydrophobia, 402 Hygiene, popular, 406 Hythlodaye, Raphael or Ralph, 438 I Ignatius Loyola, 208 (see St. Ignatius) Ignorantia, De Docta, 345 Illicini, 455 Incunabula, medical, 383 Indian manual training, 286 Indulgences, Luther and, 249; Manning and, 249; Newman and, 249 Ingrassias, 414 Innocents, Hospital of the, 90 Innsbrück, xxxi, 102 Inquisition in Spain, 295 Insane, Care for, in Spain, 203; Brutal suppression of in 1750, 205; Visiting, as entertainment, 204 Insanity, studies in, 401 Interlude of Virtue, 493 Isaac, Sacrifice of, 10 Isabella of Castile, xxxix; administration, 291; and Elizabeth, 293; children of, 292; benevolence of, 295; Indians and, 293; Inquisition and, 295; Letters of, 476; studies of, 291; style of, 292; unhappiness of, 293 Isabella D'Este's apartments, 323 Italian academies, 510; teachers everywhere, 501 Italy, best gentlewoman of, 301; graduate study of, 347, 501; medical world teaching in, 386 {572} J Jaeger, Johann, of Dornheim, 523 Janssen, 244, 528 Jan van Mabuse, 74 Jessop, Rev. Augustus, 174, 256; Before the Great Pillage, 257 Jesuit, astronomy, 218; bibliography, 216; competition, 214; constitution, 209 Missions in Brazil, Chile, China, India, Japan, North America, Mexico, Peru, 211; relations, 213; schools, 214; scientists, 217; students, 215; themes, 214 Jesuits, Bacon and, 215; bark, 213; Bancroft and, 213; Descartes and, 215 Harvey and, 218; instructors in Europe, 215; Kepler and, 218; meteorology and, 220: Parkman and, 215; philology and, 213; seismology, 220 Jewel boxes, 113 Jodocus Lommius, 396 Jogues, 213 John of Avila, 480 John of Bologna, Mercury, 94; Neptune, 94; Rape of Sabines, 95 John of Dalberg, 520, 524 John II of Portugal, 263 John, Prester, 263 Johnson, Samuel, 432; on More, 498 Joinville, 470 Joost van Lom, 396 Jörg, Syrlin, 99 Josquin, xxxii, 135; Ave Maria, 136 Juan de Borgona, 82 Juan de Juanes, 82 Julius II, Pope, 7; Tomb of, 37 Juste, Jean, xxxi, 105 Justinian, Pandects of, 532 Justin Martyr, 533 Justus of Ghent, 4, 74 K Kalkar, 164 Kelly, Fitz-Maurice, 479 Kettelwell, Life of Thomas à Kempis, 516 Kildare, 314 King's Highway, 289 King's Quair, 496 Kircher, 218 Kircherian Museum, 219 Kraft, xxxi; Adam, 101 Kraus, Professor, 9 L Labé, Louise (La Cordière), 331 Ladies of the Olden Time, 462 La Gioconda, 15 La Harpe, 433 Lallemant, 212 Lamartine, 433 Lamennais, 433 Lancisi, 368 Landino, 507 Lang, Mr. Andrew, 385 Langen, Rudolph von, 521, 527 Lapidé. 216 Lascaris' Grammar, 151 Las Casas, 186; 270; and Indian abuses, 187 Lasso, _princeps musicae,_ 138 Lassus, 138 Latimer, 543 Latin, universal academic language, 427 Latres of Mons, 137 Laws, pure food, 406 Lazarillo de Tormes, 479 Learning, New, 246; confusion of, 502 Lecky, 203 Lee, Mr. Sidney, 276, 437 Leland the antiquary, 176 Leonardo da Vinci, xxx, 1, 5, 55, 67, 75, 92, 102; and Michelangelo, 36; as biologist, 355; as engineer, 21; as scientist, 353; botany, 25; canals, 22; career, 26: dissection, 24; geology, 23; inventions, 21, 353; mechanical toys, 28; optics, 354; on war, 30; philosophy of life, 30; proposed text-books of anatomy, 364; studies in efficiency, 26; study of flying, 28; weather gauge, 354; zoölogy, 25 Leonardo's Christ, 17 Leonicenus, Nicholas, 384 Leopardi, xxx, 92 Leyden pulpit, 98 Liddon, 434 Lille, 110 Lilies, The Valley of, à Kempis, 431 Lily, William, 492, 543 Linacre, xxxv, xxxviii, 223, 228, 235; translations by, 471 L'Indaco, 10 Linnaeus, 378 Lippo Lippi, xxviii Literature, English Dramatic, 485; Latin, 428; mystical, 480; Portuguese, 481 Liver fatalities, 424 Livy, edition of, in 1543, 80; illuminations, 80 Lollardism, 256 Longevity, Cornaro on, 404 Lords, House of, before and after Reformation, 563 Lorenzo de' Medici, xxxv, xlii, 4, 40; poetry, 447; lament for, 448 Lorenzo di Credi, 55 Lorenzo Lotto, 63 Lo Spagna, xxix Lotti, Lorenzo, xxix Lotto, 7 Louvain university, 225; town hall of, 124 Low Countries, 307 Lubbock, Sir John, 434 Lübeck, 102 Luca delta Robbia, 89 Lucas van Leyden, 74, 161 Lucca health board, 407 Lucretia Borgia's apartments, 324; husband's grief, 305 (see Borgia) Lucretia Tornabuoni de' Medici, xlii, 317 Lucretius, 507 Luigi da Porto, 455 Luis de Granada, 480 Luis de Morales, 82 Luis de Vargas, 82 Luis de Leon, 480 Luther, 135, 246; and Denifle, 248; Grisar, 248; McGiffert, 251, 252; indulgences, 249; on divorce, 251; {573} permits bigamy, 251; relations to Zwingli, 250 M. Mabie, Mr. Hamilton, 515 Macaulay, 220; on the reformers, 258 MacFarren, Sir George A., 143 Machiavelli, 449: Acton on, 451; drama, 450; history, 450; Morley on, 451; novel, 455; place in literature, 450; style of, 450; "The Prince," 209 Madrigals, 446 Magellan, Ferdinand, 266; Straits of, 267 Maggi, 412 Magnet in surgery, 416 Magnetism, 390 _Maioli et amicorum,_ 166 Malory, Sir Thomas, 152, 495 Mania, 402 Mantegna, Andrea, xxix Manuzio, Paolo, 154 Marcantonio, 162 Marcellus, The Mass of, 139 Margaret of Anjou, 335 Margaret of Angoulême, or Navarre, or Valois, (See Marguerite.) Marguerita de Juanes, 84 Marguerite of Angoulême, (or Navarre, or Valois), xxxix; affection for brother, 305: charity, 306; grief, 306; Heptameron, 465; Marguerites de la Marguerite, 466; religious poetry, 466 Marguerite of Bourgogne, xxxix Marot's, Clement, sonnet on happiness, 464 Marquette, 213 Marriage of Witte and Science, 489 Martin of Bohemia, 263 Martinotti, 363 Martyr's _De Rebus Oceanicis, et Orbe Novo,_ 164 Mary of Burgundy's tomb, 98, 307 Mary, Queen of Scots, xxxix, 331, 336 Masaccio, xxviii, 65 Massa, 414 Massuccio Salernitano, 454 Masters, Four, of Salerno, 410 Matsys, Quentin, xxix, 73 Matthews, Brander, 166 Maximilian I, 525 McGiffert on Luther, 252 Medallion, xxxiii Medici, Clarice de', 301 Medici, Lorenzo de', (See Lorenzo.) Medicine and philosophy, 408; clinical, 382; incunabula of, 383; in Mexico, 281 legal, 408; medieval, 381; observation in, 401; printing and, 383; Rabelais on, 382; Renaissance in, 382 Meistersingers, 137 Melancholia, 402; Dürer, 15 Melancholy as self-will, 311 Melanchthon, 522; Servetus, 255 Melin de Saint Gelais, 467 Melozzo da Forli, 4, 65 Memling, xxix, 71, 97, 199 Memmelinc, 72 Memory, importance of, 503 Mercy, Brothers of, 201 Metal-engraving, 162 Method, inductive, 356 Mexico and Medicine, 281 Mexico's palaces, 288 Meyer, History of Chemistry, 389 Michelangelo, xxviii, xxx, xxxi, xlii, 1, 5, 6; admiration of, 43; age of, 51; and architecture, 40; and Dante, 41; and Leonardo, 36; and Vittoria Colonna, 47; as architect, painter, poet, sculptor, 52; dissection and, 44; early works, 35; handiness, 44; last words, 51; lack of jealousy, 43; little interest in books, 33; lonely, 45; modesty, 44; on matrimony, 45-6: personality, 47; Shakespeare and, 33, 41; the "divine master," 51 Michelangelo's David, 36; Moses, 38; religion, 49; St. Peter's (Rome), 116 Middle Ages, contempt for the, 245 Mignonne! Allons voir, 468 Milman, Dean, 434 Modernism, Renaissance, 244 Mona Lisa, 15 Monardes, 400 Monarquia Indiana, 279 Monasteries, evils of, 557; suppression of, 557 Montagnana, 395 Montaigne, 533 Montanus, 385, 386 Montefeltro, Battista, 319 Monte, Giovanni de, 386 Monti di Pietà, 180 More, Margaret, 337, 227 More, Sir Thomas, xxxv, xlii, 223, 259. 543; apology of, 233; as barrister, 226; as chancellor, 234; Confutation of Tindale and, 233: daughter of, 238; Deballation of Salem and Bizance, 233; Erasmus and, 226; family life, 226; household, 227; humor, 241; oath of supremacy, 236; obstinacy, 239; on hospitals, 200, 545; on marriage, 225; on physicians, 545; precocity, 224 Quoth He and Quoth I, 233; religious toleration, 545; sordid successors of, 242; standing armies and, 545; Supplication of Souls, 233 wealth display barbaric, 545 Moriae, Encomium, 241 Moroselli, 55 Morris, William, 148 Morte d' Arthur, 152, 495 Morton, Cardinal, xxxv; household of, 224 Moses, Michelangelo's, 38 Mouton, Jean, 143 Mummies, 390 Municipalata palace, 122 Muretus, 541 Murmellius, 521 Music, xxxii; Columbian, 134; Doctor of, 136; polyphonic, xxxii, 139 Musurus, handwriting of, 153 Muth, Conrad, Mutianus, Rufus, 523, 527 N. Nanini brothers, xxxii, 137 Nature imitates art, 70 Nature study, in Dante, 361; medieval, 360; Renaissance, 360 Nativity, Dürer, 339; Plays, 486 {574} Navarrete, 82 Navigation, French, 268 Neri, St. Philip, xxxii Nervousness, selfishness and, 311 Neuburger, 362 Newman, Cardinal, 181 Newton, xxvi New York, Discovery of, 268 Nicholas V, 510; chapel of, 53 Nicholas of Cusa, 27, 344, 518, 529; on truth, 519; on united Germany, 519 Nigramansir, 493 Novelas de Picaros, 479 Novelle, Italian, 454 Nuñez, 540 Nuremberg, xxxi, 75, 99; Bronze Founders of, 102; intellectual center, 347; Virgin of, 188 Nursing, Dark Period of, 193; decline after Reformation, 560; history of, 179; uniforms, 200 Nusquama, 233 Nutting and Dock History of Nursing, 179 O. Ockeghem, or Ockenheim, xxxii, 135 Olympia Morata, 327 Opera, xxxii Oratorio, xxxii Orlando Furioso, 443 Orthopedics, 413; Spain in, 421 Osler, Prof., 397 Ospedale Maggiore of Milan, 196 Oviedo, 399 P Padua, xxix Paganism and the New Learning, 529 Palace, Grimani, 120; Guadagni, 120; of Caprarola, 122; Pitti, 120; Riccardi, 120; Rucellai, 120; Thiene, 121; Tursi-Doria, 122; Vendramini, 120 Palestrina, xxxii, 136 Palilia, 508 Palladio, xxxi, 120 Palma Vecchio, xxix, 63 Palmerin de Inglaterra, 478 Pamplona, 206 Papal Physicians, Caesalpinus, 373; Columbus, 366; Eustachius, 367; Lancisi, 368 Papinian, 536 Paracelsus, xxxvii, 223, 386; Father of Pharmaceutical Chemistry, 390; medical chemistry and, 357; miracles and, 390; surgical hints, 419; wound epidemics and, 420 Paraguay Reductions, 212 Pardoner and the Friar, 489 Paré, xxxviii; Father of Modern Surgery, 411; on gout, 398; orthopedic armamentarium, 413 Pascal, 432 Passion Plays, 486, 488 Pater, Walter, 15, 58 Pathology, Aranzi, 395; Arcolani, 395; Benivieni, 395; Berengar, 395; Eustachius, 395; Montagnana, 395; Savonarola, 395; Vesalius, 395 Paul Preaching to the Athenians, 12 Pausanias, Monuments of, 536 Pavia, Battle of, xxxiv Peasant and Prince, 469 Perreal, 80 Perugino, xxix, 5, 7. 53, 55 Peruzzi, 7, 10, 17 Petau, or Petavius, 216 Peter of Pieve, 55 Pfolspeundt, Heinrich von, 383; advice to young surgeons, 423 Phillimore, Prof, J. S., 498 Phrenitis, 402 Physicians, Royal College of, 229; More's praise of, 408 Phytography, Cordus, 376 Picaresque novels, 479 Piccolomini, AEneas Sylvius, (See Pius II.) Pico della Mirandola, xlii, 9, 34, 223, 230, 507, 511, 524. Pierluigi of Palestrina, 142 Piero dei Franceschi, 65 Piero della Francesca, 4, 55 Pietà of Michelangelo, 36 Pillage, Before the Great, 174 Pilon, Germain, xxxi, 105 Pincianus, 539 Pinel, 203 Pinturicchio, xxix, 503 Pirkheimer, Charitas, or Charity, 330, 525; Conrad Celtes, 338; friend of scholars, 338 Pirkheimer, Wilibald, 338: Academy of Mainz, 524; friend of Dürer, 77; numismatics, mathematics, science, 526 Pius II, xxxv, 502, 543 Pizarro, 270 Placques, 112 Plant Iconography, 376 Plantin, Christopher, 464 Platina, 508 Plato, 8, 516, 526, 530 Platonic love, 48 Plays, Mystery and Miracle in England, 485; in Italy, 445; on the continent, 487; Morality, xlii; Nativity, 486; Passion, 488 Pledges, unredeemed, 180 Pleiades, xlii, 468 Pliny, 535; the Elder, 378 Plumptre, Dean, 434 Plutarch, 526, 536; morals of, 536 Poetry, Latin, 428; of passion, 467 Poggendorff, 219 Poliphilo, Dream of, 159 Politian, 34, 327, 507; Orfeo of, 445 Pollaiuolo, xxxii Polychronicon, 151 Polyglot, Complutensian, 539 Pomponius Laetus, 508, 524 Ponce, Maitre, 105 Pontano, 510 Portugal, scholarship in, 541 Porretane, 454 Portuguese, Sonnets from, 484 Pott's Disease, 414 Predestination, 254 Prescott, 293; on Ferdinand and Isabella, 333; on the Inquisition, 295; Isabella and Elizabeth contrasted, 293 Prieur, Barthélemy, 105 Prince, The, 449; and Peasant, 469 Printing, medical, 383 {575} Prohibitionist, early, 407 Propertius, 507 Ptolemy, 526; Almagest of, 346 Puerbach, or Purbachius, 345; and Bessarion, 504 Purgatory, Treatise on, 299 Puritan intolerance, 255 Puschmann, History of Medical Education, 362 Pyaemia, 420 Q Queen Elizabeth (see Elizabeth) Quentin Matsys, 97 Quintilian, 507 Quoth He and Quoth I, 233 R Rabelais, xlii; and feminine education, 536; and medicine, 382; circulation of blood and, 369; misunderstood, 472; place in literature, 474; Renaissance and, 475; tolerance of time, 473 Radewyns, Florence, 515 Ralph Royster Doyster, xlii, 494 Ranke, 220; on Guicciardini, 452 Raphael, 1, 67, 75, 92, 107; as archaeologist, 14; as art director, 14 Rapiarium, 517 Rea, Hope, 88 Recreation before Reformation, 565 Reductions of Paraguay, 212 Reformation, 243; and academic freedom, 555; and art, 554; and education, 554; and decadence, 554; and internationalism, 566; and House of Lords, 563; and political descent, 564; and popular happiness, 565; and progress, 553; and sectarianism, 566; Andrew Lang on, 258; Copernicus and, 352; Frederic Harrison on, 258; Macaulay on, 258; ruins art, 558; ruins scholarship, 555 Regiomontanus, 28, 223; and Bessarion, 504 Reisch, 529 Rembrandt, 15 Renaissance, xxvii; Italian, xxxi; ladies of the, 290; Science in, 343; The Later, 476 Repplier, Miss Agnes, "Our Loss of Nerve," 312 Reuchlin, xxxv, 523, 528; Cabalistic Books of, 393 Reuisch, 7 Revolt, Religious, in Germany, 243 Revolution, French Reactionary, 191 Rhodes, Cecil, and Cortes, 269; and Pizarro, 269; and Vasco da Gama, 269 Ribalta, xxix Ricci, Father, 211 Ricordi, 452 Robbia, Andrea della, Bambine of, 90 Robbia, Luca della, 89 Robusti, Jacopo, 68 Roman antiquities, 14 Rome, Ancient, Raphael's reconstruction, 14 Rome, Social Work at, 182 Romeo and Juliet, 454 Roses, Little Garden of, 431 Roses, Wars of the, 223 Rossetti, William, 93 Ronsard, 468 Rudolph von Langen, 520 Ruellius, 379 Rugs, Oriental, 107 Ruskin, xxvii; on Noble grotesque, 60; Stones of Venice, 60 Russell of Killowen, 432 S Sachs, Hans, 136 Sacristy of San Lorenzo, 40 Sahagun, 278 St. Ambrose, 522 St. Augustine, 522; De Civitate Dei, 437 St. Bernardine of Siena, 180 St. Brigid, 314 St. Catherine, of Genoa, 181, 298; Treatise on Purgatory, 299 St. Chrysostom, 522 St. Francis de Sales, 432 St. Francis Xavier, 210 St. George and St. Michael, 4 St. Gregory Nazienzen, 529 St. Ignatius Loyola, 182, 439; Spiritual Exercises of, xli, 439 St. Jerome, 522 St. Philip Neri, 137, 142; the Apostle of Rome, 181 St. Teresa, 307, 340, 476. (Sec also Teresa.) St. Sebald, shrine, 101 Saint-Amand, Imbert, 464 Sainte-Beuve, 464 Saintsbury, xl, 443 Salvers, 112 Sanchez, Minerva, 540 Sandys, 280, 524, 527, 532, 540 Sangallo, xxxi, 117 San Michele, xxxi, 120 Sannazaro, 510 Sansovino, xxxi, 102 Santa Croce Cathedral, xxxi Santi Raphael, 2 Sarto, Andrea del, xxviii Sassoferato, xxix Satire of Religious Abuses, 455 Savadino, degli Arienti, 454 Savonarola, 56, 183, 185; and art, 57; Benedict XIV, 185; Pius VII, 185; Raphael, 185; the reformer, 184; vindication of, 185 Scala, Alessandra, 327 Scaliger, 505. 537 Scent boxes, 113 Schoeffer, 146 Schaeuffelin, Hans, 161 Schenck von Graffenberg, 396 Schwarzerd (Melanchthon), 522 Scholarship, xxix; and wealth, 468; place of, xxxv; decadence in, 95; Teutonic, 513 Scholarship in Italy, decadence of, 512 Scholasticism, Erasmus and contempt, 245 Schongauer, Martin, 162 School of Athens, 8 Schubert, 140 Science, in Renaissance, 343; Jesuits and, 217; Progress of, xxxvii Sciences, Biological, 360 Scripture, knowledge of, 488 {576} Sculpture, Certosa, 95; decadence in, 95 Sebastiano Luciani, 63 Secchi, S. J.. Father, 218 Selling, William, 543 Seneca, 516, 522 Servetus, 369; and Calvin, 255 Seutonius, 522 Shakespeare and Michelangelo, 33 Sidney, Sir Philip, 481 Signorelli, 10, 56; and Melozzo, 65 Simon de Collines, 157; Book of Hours, 160 Sistine Chapel, 8; tapestries in, 111 Social Work and Workers, 169 Societas Literarum Danubiana, 524 Societas Literarum Vistuliana, 524 Socrates, 8, 516 Sodalitas Literarum Rhenana, 524 Sodoma, 7 Sophocles, 533 Sorel, Agnes, tomb of, 105 Spain, and care for insane, 203; architecture, 118; Feminine education, 333; in America, 278; scholarship, 537 Spanish America, 277; Literature, Golden age of, 484 Spiritual Life in shorthand, 440 Spirituality and common sense, 312 Splenectomy, 417 Springinklee, Hans, 161 Squarcione, xxix Staley, Edgcumbe, 300 Stanley, Dean, 514; the explorer, 432 Statius, 507 Staupitz, John von, 260 Stefano, Vanneo, xxxii Strachey, Henry, 8 Stratford, Chapel of Guild and Alms-houses at, 172, 176 Stratford-on-Avon, 131, 176 Suarez, 216 Superstition, Post-reformation, 561 Supper, Last, Leonardo's, 16 Supremacy oath, More and, 236 Surgeons, learned, 425 Surgery, and anatomy, 526; cosmetics in, 418; experience in, 425; hospitals and, 410 Sweating sickness, 383 Sylvaticus, 383 Sylvius, Matthaeus, 365, 383 Symonds, J. Addington, 41, 446 T Taft, President, on Philippines, 273 "Tag Day," 178 Taine, History of English Literature, 177, 353 Tales of Chivalry, 479; of Roguery, 479 Tapestries, Sistine, 11; art and, 107; Cluny, 111; Golden age of, 109; Morgan, 110; Rheims and, 109; Their Origin, History and Renaissance, 109 Tapestry, French and Flemish manufacture of, 110 Telegraph, sympathetic, 356 Telesio, Bernardino, 356 Terence, 522 Teresa de Cepeda y Ahumada, (St. Teresa), 307 Teresa, St., Crashaw on, 477; "Doctor of Church," 308; humor of, 310; hymn, 477 (see St. Teresa) Teresa, _mater spiritualium,_ 308; mystic, 310; power of, 310: style of, 309; writings, 477 (see St. Teresa) Terra Cottas, 89 Theater, Picture of, 491 Theophrastus Dioscorides, 378 Theodoric, 410 Thiene Palace, 121 Thompson, Francis, 207; Life of St. Ignatius, by, 221 Three Graces of the Tribune of Chantilly, 5 Tibullus, 508 Tilly, Arthur, on Rabelais, 474 Tindale, Confutation of, 233 Tintoretto, xxix, 53; Bacchus and Ariadne, 68 Tiptoft, Earl of Worcester, 542 Titian, xxix, 53, 75: Assumption by, 63; Bacchanals of, 64; Bacchus and Ariadne, 64; Entombment of Christ, 63; Presentation of Blessed Virgin, 63 Tolerance of Rabelais' time, 473 Torquemada, Juan de, 279 Torture, date of, 188; post-reformation, 561; under Tudors, 189 Tory, Geoffrey, 149, 156; Book of Hours, 157; King's printer, 158 Toscanelli, 28, 348 Tournai, 110 Tournefort, 377 Tours, xxxi Toussain, Jacques, 533 Tracheotomy tube, 416 Tragus, 376 Tramps, 171 Translations, Classic, 499 Trebizond, 505 Tregaskis, 149 Trithemius, 525, 527, 529; and Christian scholarship, 529 Trivulzio, Domitilla, 327 Troye, Recuyell, of the Historyes of, 152 Truth, Love of, Cusanus, 519 Turnebus, 533 Tursi-Doria Palace, 122 Tyndale, 500 Types, Arabian, 151; Anglo-Saxon, 151; Greek, 151; Hebrew, 151; Irish, 151; Italian, 151; Russian, 151; Syrian, 151 U Udall, Nicholas, 494 Ulm, Choir stalls of, 99 University of Lima, 279; of Mexico, 279 University, Papal charters, 281 Ursula, Shrine of St., 73 Ursulines, Charlestown fire, 329; foundation of, 329; in America, 329; New Orleans in 1726, 329 Utopia, xli, 232, 436; and Plato's Republic, 439; Astrology, 551; Author's home, 553; books in, 552; division of day in, 552; forest conservation, 551; life of pleasure in, 551; illustrations in, 162; More's, 429; Religious toleration in, 546; standing armies in, 547 {577} V Valentine, Basil, 357; works, 392 Valles, Francisco, 396 Valves in veins, 361 Van Eyck, brothers, xxix, 71, 97 Vanneo, Stefano, xxxii Vannucci, Pietro, 55 Van der Weyden, Roger, 71, 97 Varro, 508, 533 Vasari, xlii, 17, 87, 89, 107, 453; Herodotus of art, 453 Vasco da Gama, 263 Veit Stoss, 99 Velasquez, 15 Vendramini Palace, 120 Venturino, Francesco, 33 Vergara, 540 Vernacular, 246 Vernazza, Battistina, 300 Verona, Isotta of, 327 Veronese, xxix, 53; Marriage at Cana, 69 Veronica de Gambara, 327 Verrazano, 268 Verrocchio, xxx, 55, 90; Colleoni, 21 Vesalius, xxxvii, 25; Father of anatomy; 164, 365 Vespucci, Amerigo, 264 Vidus Vidius, 416 Viel, Gabriel, 529 Vignola, 122 Vigo, John de, 414 Villa of Pope Julius, 122 Villehardouin, 470 Villon, xxxvi, 462 Virago of Forli, 301 Virgil, study of, 315; birthplace of, 315 Virgins, youthful, 36 Vischer family, xxxi, 101, 104 Vischer, Peter, 101 Visualization, artistic, 70 Vittoria Colonna, xxxix; and Michelangelo, 47; character, 297; letter on honesty, 296; writings, 297 Vittorino da Feltre, 314 Vivarinis, xxix Vives, 540 W Warham, Archbishop; xxxv, 521 War, the climax of animal frenzy, (Leonardo), 30 Wars of the Roses, 223 Wasmann, S. J., Father, 219 Wealth and scholarship, 468 Wesley, John, 190, 259 West, The Call of the, 276 Weyden, Roger van der, xxix, 97 Weyer (Wierius), Johann, 396, 416 Wickersheimer, 405 William of Salicet, 410 Wimpheling, 520, 527, 529 Windesheim, 515 Wine, abuse of, 407 Winternach, 402 Witchcraft, 190 Wolff, Caspar, 417 Wolseley, General, 432 Wolsey, Cardinal, 234 Women, and Renaissance gardens, 322; chances of education for, 326; wrongs of, 332 Women's apartments, 322 Woodberry, 161 Wood-carving, Bruges, 98; German, 99 Wood-engraving, 161 Woodville, Elizabeth, 335 Worms, Diet of, xxxiv Wyatt, Sir Thomas, 497 Wynken de Worde, 151 Würtz, Felix, 411, 417 X Xenophon, German, 526 Ximenes, Cardinal, xxxv, 438 Z Zwingli, 250 
44493	----	HISTORY OF CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND. BY HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. _NEW EDITION._ TORONTO: ROSE-BELFORD PUBLISHING COMPANY, 60 YORK STREET. 1878. ANALYTICAL TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. STATEMENT OF THE RESOURCES FOR INVESTIGATING HISTORY, AND PROOFS OF THE REGULARITY OF HUMAN ACTIONS. THESE ACTIONS ARE GOVERNED BY MENTAL AND PHYSICAL LAWS: THEREFORE BOTH SETS OF LAWS MUST BE STUDIED, AND THERE CAN BE NO HISTORY WITHOUT THE NATURAL SCIENCES. PAGE Materials for writing history 1-3 Narrow range of knowledge possessed by historians 4-5 Object of the present work 6 Human actions, if not the result of fixed laws, must be due to chance or to supernatural interference 8 Probable origin of free-will and predestination 9-12 Theological basis of predestination, and metaphysical basis of free-will 12-16 The actions of men are caused by their antecedents, which exist either in the human mind or in the external world 18-20 Therefore history is the modification of man by nature, and of nature by man 20-21 Statistics prove the regularity of actions in regard to murder and other crimes 22-26 Similar proof respecting suicides 27-29 Also respecting the number of marriages annually contracted 31-32 And respecting the number of letters sent undirected 32 The historian must ascertain whether mind or nature has most influenced human actions; and therefore there can be no history without physical science 33-35 NOTE A. Passages from Kant on free-will and necessity 35-38 CHAPTER II. INFLUENCE EXERCISED BY PHYSICAL LAWS OVER THE ORGANIZATION OF SOCIETY AND OVER THE CHARACTER OF INDIVIDUALS. Man is affected by four classes of physical agents; namely, climate, food, soil, and the general aspect of nature 39-41 Operation of these agents on the accumulation of wealth 41-51 Their operation on the distribution of wealth 51-64 Illustrations of these principles from Ireland 65-67 From Hindustan 69-82 From Egypt 82-93 From Central America 93-94 And from Mexico and Peru 95 Operation of physical laws in Brazil 101-108 Influence of the general aspects of nature upon the imagination and the understanding 118-119 Under some aspects, nature is more prominent than man; under others, man more than nature 120 In the former case the imagination is more stimulated than the understanding, and to this class all the earliest civilizations belong 120-121 The imagination is excited by earthquakes and volcanoes 122-124 And by danger generally 125-126 Also by an unhealthy climate making life precarious 126-130 From these causes the civilizations exterior to Europe are mainly influenced by the imagination, those in Europe by the understanding 130-132 This proposition illustrated by a comparison between Hindustan and Greece 132-147 Further illustration from Central America 147-148 Chemical and physiological note on the connection between food and animal heat 148-151 CHAPTER III. EXAMINATION OF THE METHOD EMPLOYED BY METAPHYSICIANS FOR DISCOVERING MENTAL LAWS. In the last chapter, two leading facts have been established, which broadly separate Europe from other parts of the world 152-156 Hence it appears that of the two classes of mental and physical laws the mental are the more important for the history of Europe 156-157 Examination of the two metaphysical methods of generalizing mental laws 158-165 Failure of these methods 165-167 CHAPTER IV. MENTAL LAWS ARE EITHER MORAL OR INTELLECTUAL. COMPARISON OF MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL LAWS, AND INQUIRY INTO THE EFFECT PRODUCED BY EACH ON THE PROGRESS OF SOCIETY. The historical method of studying mental laws is superior to the metaphysical method 168-174 The progress of society is twofold, moral and intellectual 174-175 Comparison of the moral with the intellectual element 175 There is no evidence that the natural faculties of man improve 176-177 Progress, therefore, depends on an improvement in the circumstances under which the faculties come into play 178 The standard of action having varied in every age, the causes of action must be variable 179 But moral truths have not changed 179 And intellectual truths are constantly changing 181 Intellectual truths are the cause of progress 182 Ignorant men are mischievous in proportion to their sincerity 183-185 Illustrations of this from Rome and Spain 185-188 The diminution of religious persecution is owing to the progress of knowledge 188-190 The diminution of the warlike spirit is owing to the same cause 190-192 Illustrations from Russia and Turkey 195-197 As civilization advances, men of intellect avoid becoming soldiers 198 Illustrations of this from ancient Greece and modern Europe 198-202 The three principal ways in which the progress of knowledge has lessened the warlike spirit are: 1. The invention of gunpowder 203-209 2. The discoveries made by political economists 210-211 3. The application of steam to purposes of travelling 219-223 Inference to be drawn as to the causes of social progress 224-226 CHAPTER V. INQUIRY INTO THE INFLUENCE EXERCISED BY RELIGION, LITERATURE, AND GOVERNMENT. Recapitulation of preceding arguments 227 Moral feelings influence individuals, but do not affect society in the aggregate 228-229 This being as yet little understood, historians have not collected proper materials for writing history 230 Reasons why the present history is restricted to England 231-235 Comparison of the history of England with that of France 235-236 With that of Germany 237-240 With that of the United States of America 240-242 Necessity of ascertaining the fundamental laws of intellectual progress 243 Much may be gained in that respect from studying the histories of Germany, America, France, Spain, and Scotland 244-246 Deductive spirit in Scotland 246-252 Influence of religion on the progress of society 253-266 Illustration from the efforts of missionaries 254-256 Illustration from the Hebrews 257-258 Illustration from the early history of Christianity 259-262 And from Sweden and Scotland 263-266 Influence of literature on the progress of society 268-272 Influence of government on the progress of society 272-287 Illustrated by repeal of the corn-laws 273-274 The best legislation abrogates former legislation 275 The interference of politicians with trade has injured trade 276-278 Legislators have caused smuggling with all its attendant crimes 278-280 They have also increased hypocrisy and perjury 281-283 By their laws against usury they have increased usury 283-284 By other laws they have hindered the advance of knowledge 284-285 England has been less interfered with in these ways than other nations, and is therefore more prosperous than they 286-287 CHAPTER VI. ORIGIN OF HISTORY, AND STATE OF HISTORICAL LITERATURE DURING THE MIDDLE AGES. Conclusions arrived at by the preceding investigations 288 An inquiry into the changes in historical researches will throw light on the changes in society 289-290 The earliest histories are ballads 291-295 One cause of error in history was the invention of writing 296-300 A change of religion in any country also tends to corrupt its early history 300-307 But the most active cause of all was the influence of the clergy 307-308 Absurdities which were consequently believed 309-317 Illustration of this from the history of Charlemagne by Turpin 318-321 And from the history of the Britons by Geoffrey 321-325 The first improvement in writing history began in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries 325 But credulity was still prevalent, as is seen in Comines 327-328 And in the predictions of St[oe]ffler respecting the Deluge 330 Also in the work of Dr. Horst on the Golden Tooth 331-332 CHAPTER VII. OUTLINE OF THE HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH INTELLECT FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE SIXTEENTH TO THE END OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. This absurd way of writing history was the natural result of the state of the age 333 The spirit of doubt was a necessary precursor of improvement 334 Hence the supreme importance of scepticism 335-336 Origin of religious toleration in England 337 Hooker contrasted with Jewel 339-343 Scepticism and spirit of inquiry on other subjects 343-346 This tendency displayed in Chillingworth 347-350 Chillingworth compared with Hooker and Jewel 350 Subsequent movement in the same direction, and increasing indifference to theological matters 352-355 Great advantage of this 356-358 Under James I. and Charles I. this opposition to authority assumes a political character 359-361 Under Charles II. it takes a frivolous form at court 363 Influence of this spirit upon Sir Thomas Browne 365-367 Its influence upon Boyle 367-370 It causes the establishment of the Royal Society 371 Impetus now given to physical science, and attempts of the clergy to oppose it 372 The clergy are naturally hostile to physical science, because it lessens their own power 372-373 Illustration of this by the superstition of sailors and agriculturists as compared with soldiers and mechanics 375-380 Legislative improvements in the reign of Charles II. in spite of political degradation 380-386 These improvements were due to the sceptical and inquiring spirit 387-388 Aided by the vices of the king 388 And by his dislike of the church 389 He encouraged Hobbes, and neglected the ablest of the clergy 390-393 The clergy, to recover their ground, allied themselves with James II. 394-396 This alliance was dissolved by the Declaration of Indulgence 397-399 The clergy then united with the dissenters and brought about the Revolution of 1688 399-400 Importance of the Revolution 401-403 But the clergy regretted it, and repented of their own act 403 Hostility between them and William III. 405-410 Hence a schism in the church 410-413 Fresh encouragement thus given to scepticism 413-414 Convocation first despised, and then abolished 414-415 After the Revolution the ablest men confine themselves to secular professions, and avoided entering the church 415 The clergy lost all offices out of the church, and their numbers diminished in both Houses of Parliament 416-418 The church rallied for a moment under Anne 418-420 But was weakened by the dissenters, headed by Wesley and Whitefield 420-424 Theology separated from morals and from politics 424-426 Rapid succession of sceptical controversies 427-429 Knowledge begins to be diffused, and takes a popular form 430-433 Political meetings, and publication of parliamentary debates 433-434 Doctrine of personal representation, and idea of independence 436 Corresponding change in the style of authors 436-439 Hence great reforms became inevitable 439-440 This tendency was aided by George I. and George II. 441-443 But discouraged by George III., under whom began a dangerous political reaction 444-446 Ignorance of George III. 446 Subserviency of Pitt 446-449 Incompetence of other statesmen, and the king's hatred of great men 449-451 Deterioration of the House of Lords 451-455 Ability and accomplishments of Burke 458-461 He opposed the views of George III., and was neglected by him 462-467 Burke's subsequent hallucinations and violence 467-476 The king now favoured him 476-477 Policy of George III. respecting America 478-482 This policy reacted upon England 482-483 Policy in regard to France 483-486 This also reacted upon England 486 And produced arbitrary laws against the liberties of England 487-493 Which were zealously enforced by the executive 494-496 Gloomy political prospects of England late in the eighteenth century 496-498 But, owing to the progress of knowledge, a counter reaction was preparing 498-502 To which, and to the increasing power of public opinion, England owes her great reforms of the nineteenth century 502-505 LIST OF AUTHORS QUOTED. [In order to assist those who wish to verify my references, and also with the view of indicating the nature and extent of the materials which I have used, I have drawn up the following list of the principal works quoted. When no edition is mentioned, the size is 8vo _et infra_. When the name of the author is enclosed between brackets, the book is anonymous; but in such cases I have usually subjoined some authority who gives evidence of the authorship.] [Aarsens de Sommerdyck] Voyage d'Espagne, fait en l'année 1655. Paris, 1665. 4to. Barbier (_Dictionnaire des Ouvrages Anonymes_, vol. ii. p. 468, Paris, 1806) refers to an edition of 1666. Abd-Allatif, Relation de l'�gypte, traduite par Silvestre de Sacy. Paris, 1810. 4to. Aberdeen: Extracts from the Council Register of the Burgh of Aberdeen, from 1398 to 1570, printed for the Spalding Club. Aberdeen, 1844. 4to. Ibid., from 1570 to 1625, printed for the Spalding Club. Aberdeen, 1848. 4to. Abernethy (J.) The Hunterian Oration for the year 1819. London, 1819. Abernethy (M. I.) Physicke for the Soule. London, 1622. 4to. Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland from 1124 to 1707. London, 1814-1844. 11 vols. folio. Acts and Proceedings of the General Assemblies of the Kirk of Scotland, from 1560 to 1618. Edinburgh, 1839-1845. 3 vols. 4to. Acts of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland, from 1638 to 1842. Edinburgh, 1843. Adams (J.) Memoirs of the Life and Doctrines of John Hunter. 2nd edit. London, 1818. Adolphus (J.) History of England from the accession of George III. London, 1840-1845. 7 vols. Aguesseau (Chancelier d') Lettres inédites. Paris, 1823. 2 vols. Aikin (L.) Life of Addison. London, 1843. 2 vols. Albemarle (Earl of) Memoirs of the Marquis of Rockingham. Lond. 1852. 2 vols. Alberoni (Cardinal) The History of. London, 1719. Alison (Sir A.) History of Europe, from the commencement of the French Revolution to 1815. Edinburgh, 1849, 1850. 14 vols. Allen (J.) Rise and Growth of the Royal Prerogative in England. London, 1849. Anderson (J.) Prize Essay on the State of Society and Knowledge in the Highlands of Scotland. Edinburgh, 1827. Antequera (D. J. M.) Historia de la Legislacion Española. Madrid, 1849. Argyll (The Duke of) Presbytery Examined. London, 1848. Arnold (Dr.) Lectures on Modern History. London, 1843. Arnot (H.) The History of Edinburgh. Edinburgh, 1788. 4to. Asiatic Researches. London and Calcutta, 1799-1836. 20 vols. 4to. Aubrey (J.) Letters and Lives of Eminent Men. London, 1813. 2 vols. Audigier (M.) L'Origine des François. Paris, 1676. 2 vols. Azara (F.) Voyages dans l'Amérique Méridionale. Paris, 1809. 4 vols. Bacallar (V.) Commentarios de la Guerra de España, e Historia de su Rey Phelipe V. Genova. 2 vols. 4to (no date). Bacon (J. F.) Six Years in Biscay. London, 1838. Baillie (R.) Letters and Journals from 1637 to 1662, edited by D. Laing. Edinburgh, 1841-1842. 3 vols. Bain (A.) The Senses and the Intellect. London, 1855. Bakewell (R.) Introduction to Geology. London, 1838. Balfour (Sir J.) Historical Works, containing the Annals of Scotland. London, 1825. 4 vols. Balfour (J. H.) A Manual of Botany. London, 1849. Bancroft (G.) History of the American Revolution. London, 1852-1854. 3 vols. Bannatyne (J.) Journal of Transactions in Scotland, from 1570 to 1573. Edinburgh, 1806. Barante (M.) Tableau de la Littérature Française au XVIII^e Siècle. Paris, 1847. Barrington (D.) Observations on the Statutes. 5th edit. London, 1796. 4to. Barruel (L'Abbé) Mémoires pour l'Histoire du Jacobinisme. Hambourg, 1803. 5 vols. Barry (G.) History of the Orkney Islands. Edinburgh, 1805. 4to. Bassompierre (Maréchal de) Mémoires. Paris, 1822, 1823. 3 vols. Bates (G.) Account of the late Troubles in England. London, 1685. 2 vols. Baxter (R.) Life and Times, by himself. Published by M. Sylvester. London, 1696. Folio. 3 parts. Bazin (M. A.) Histoire de France sous Louis XIII. Paris, 1838. 4 vols. Beausobre (M.) Histoire Critique de Manichée et du Manichéisme. Amsterdam, 1734-9. 2 vols. 4to. Béclard (P. A.) �léments d'Anatomie Générale. Paris, 1852. Bedford Correspondence, edited by Lord J. Russell. 1842-1846. 3 vols. Beechey (F. W.) Voyage to the Pacific. London, 1831. 2 vols. Belsham (W.) History of Great Britain, from 1688 to 1802. London, 1805. 12 vols. [Of this work I have used only the last seven volumes, which refer to a period for which Belsham was a contemporary authority. The earlier volumes are worthless.] [Benoist] Histoire de l'�dit de Nantes. Delft, 1693-1695. 5 vols. 4to. Berkeley (Bishop of Cloyne) Works. London, 1843. 2 vols. Berwick (Maréchal de) Mémoires écrits par lui-même. Paris, 1778. 2 vols. Bichat (X.) Traité des Membranes. Paris, 1802. Bichat (X.) Anatomie Générale. Paris, 1821. 4 vols. Bichat (X.) Recherches sur la Vie et la Mort, édit. Magendie. Paris, 1829. Binning (H.) Sermons, edited by J. Cochrane. Edinburgh, 1839, 1840. 3 vols. Biographie Universelle. Paris, 1811-1828. 52 vols. Birch (T.) Life of Tillotson, Archbishop of Canterbury. London, 1753. Bisset (R.) Life of Edmund Burke. 2nd edit. London, 1800. 2 vols. Black (J.) Lectures on Chemistry, edited by John Robison. Edinburgh, 1803. 2 vols. 4to. Blackstone's Commentaries on the Laws of England. London, 1809. 4 vols. Blainville (D.) Physiologie Générale et Comparée. Paris, 1833. 3 vols. Blair (R.) Autobiography, from 1593 to 1636; with a continuation to 1680, by W. Row, edited by T. M'Crie for the Wodrow Society. Edinburgh, 1848. Blanqui (M.) Histoire de l'�conomie Politique en Europe. Paris, 1845. 2 vols. Bogue (D.) and Bennett (J.) History of the Dissenters, from 1688 to 1808. London, 1808-1812. 4 vols. Bohlen (P.) Das alte Indien, mit besonderer Rücksicht auf Aegypten. Königsberg, 1830. 2 vols. [Boisel] Journal du Voyage d'Espagne. Paris, 1669. 4to. See Barbier, _Dict. des Ouvr. Anonymes_, vol. ii. p. 621, Paris. 1806. Bordas-Demoulin, Le Cartésianisme. Paris, 1843. 2 vols. Bossuet (�vêque de Meaux) Discours sur l'Histoire Universelle. Paris, 1844. Boston (T.) Sermons. Glasgow, 1752. Boston (T.) Human Nature in its Four-fold State. Reprinted, London, 1809. Bouillaud (J.) Philosophie Médicale. Paris, 1836. Bouillé (M. de) Mémoires sur la Révolution Française. Paris, 1801-9. 2 vols. Bouillier (M.) Histoire des divers Corps de la Maison Militaire des Rois de France. Paris, 1818. Boulainvilliers (Comte) Histoire de l'Ancien Gouvernement de la France. La Haye, 1727. 3 vols. Bourgoing (J. F.) Tableau de l'Espagne Moderne, quatrième édition. Paris, 1807. 3 vols. Bouterwek (F.) History of Spanish and Portuguese Literature. London, 1823. 2 vols. Bowdich (T. E.) Mission to Ashantee. London, 1819. 4to. Bower (A.) History of the University of Edinburgh. Edinburgh, 1817-1830. 3 vols. Bowles (G.) Introduccion á la Historia Natural y á la Geografía Física de España. Tercera edicion. Madrid, 1789. 4to. Bowles (W. L.) Life of Bishop Ken. London, 1830, 1831. 2 vols. Boyle (R.) Works. London, 1744. 5 vols. folio. Brand (A.) Description of Orkney, Zetland, Pightland-Firth, and Caithness. Edinburgh, 1701. Brande (W. T.) A Manual of Chemistry. London, 1848. 2 vols. Brewster (Sir D.) Memoirs of Sir Isaac Newton. Edinburgh, 1855. 2 vols. Brienne (L. H. de Loménie) Mémoires inédits. Paris, 1828. 2 vols. Brissot (J. P.) Mémoires. Paris, 1830. 2 vols. British Association for Advancement of Science, Reports of. London, 1833-1853. 21 vols. Brodie (Sir B.) Lectures on Pathology and Surgery. London, 1846. Brodie (Sir B.) Physiological Researches. London, 1851. Brougham (Lord) Sketches of Statesmen in the time of George III. London, 1845. 6 vols. Brougham (Lord) Lives of Men of Letters and Science in the time of George III. London, 1845-1847. 2 vols. Brougham (Lord) Political Philosophy. 2nd edit. London, 1849. 3 vols. Broussais (F. J. V.) Examen des Doctrines Médicales. Paris, 1829-1834. 4 vols. Broussais (F. J. V.) Cours de Phrénologie. Paris, 1836. Brown (A.) History of Glasgow. Glasgow, 1795, and Edinburgh, 1797. 2 vols. Brown (T.) Lectures on the Philosophy of the Mind. Edinburgh, 1838. Browne (J.) History of the Highlands and of the Highland Clans. Glasgow, 1838. 4 vols. Browne (Sir Thomas) Works and Correspondence, by S. Wilkin. London, 1836. 4 vols. Buchanan (F.) Journey through Mysore, Canara, and Malabar. London, 1807. 3 vols. 4to. Buchanan (G.) Rerum Scoticarum Historia, cura Man. Abredoniæ, 1762. Buchanan (J.) Sketches of the North-American Indians. London, 1824. Buckingham (Duke of) Memoirs of George III. London, 1853. 2 vols. Bullock (W.) Travels in Mexico. London, 1824. Bulstrode (Sir R.) Memoirs of Charles I. and Charles II. London, 1721. Bunbury (Sir H.) Correspondence of Sir Thomas Hanmer. London, 1838. Bunsen (C. C. J.) Egypt's Place in Universal History. London, 1848-1854. 2 vols. Burckhardt (J. L.) Travels in Arabia. London, 1829. 2 vols. Burdach (C. F.) Traité de Physiologie considérée comme Science d'Observation. Paris, 1837-1841. 9 vols. Burke (E.) Correspondence with Laurence. London, 1827. Burke (E.) Works, by H. Rogers. London, 1841. 2 vols. Burke (E.) Correspondence between 1744 and 1797. London, 1844. 4 vols. Burnes (Sir A.) Travels into Bokhara. London, 1834. 3 vols. Burnet (Bishop Gr.) History of his own Time. Oxford, 1823. 6 vols. Burnet (Bishop G.) Lives and Characters, edit. Jebb. London, 1833. Burnet (Bishop G.) Memoirs of the Lives of James and William, Dukes of Hamilton and Castle-Herald. Oxford, 1852. Burton (J. H.) Life and Correspondence of David Hume. Edinburgh, 1846, 2 vols. Burton (J. H.) Lives of Simon Lord Lovat, and Duncan Forbes of Culloden. London, 1847. Burton (J. H.) Narratives from Criminal Trials in Scotland. London, 1852. 2 vols. Burton (J. H.) History of Scotland, from 1689 to 1748. London, 1853. 2 vols. Burton (R. F.) Sindh, and the Races in the Valley of the Indus. London, 1851. Burton (T.) 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STATEMENT OF THE RESOURCES FOR INVESTIGATING HISTORY, AND PROOFS OF THE REGULARITY OF HUMAN ACTIONS. THESE ACTIONS ARE GOVERNED BY MENTAL AND PHYSICAL LAWS: THEREFORE BOTH SETS OF LAWS MUST BE STUDIED, AND THERE CAN BE NO HISTORY WITHOUT THE NATURAL SCIENCES. Of all the great branches of human knowledge, history is that upon which most has been written, and which has always been most popular. And it seems to be the general opinion that the success of historians has, on the whole, been equal to their industry; and that if on this subject much has been studied, much also is understood. This confidence in the value of history is very widely diffused, as we see in the extent to which it is read, and in the share it occupies in all plans of education. Nor can it be denied that, in a certain point of view, such confidence is perfectly justifiable. It cannot be denied that materials have been collected which, when looked at in the aggregate, have a rich and imposing appearance. The political and military annals of all the great countries in Europe, and of most of those out of Europe, have been carefully compiled, put together in a convenient form, and the evidence on which they rest has been tolerably well sifted. Great attention has been paid to the history of legislation, also to that of religion: while considerable, though inferior, labour has been employed in tracing the progress of science, of literature, of the fine arts, of useful inventions, and, latterly, of the manners and comforts of the people. In order to increase our knowledge of the past, antiquities of every kind have been examined; the sites of ancient cities have been laid bare, coins dug up and deciphered, inscriptions copied, alphabets restored, hieroglyphics interpreted, and, in some instances, long-forgotten languages reconstructed and re-arranged. Several of the laws which regulate the changes of human speech have been discovered, and, in the hands of philologists, have been made to elucidate even the most obscure periods in the early migration of nations. Political economy has been raised to a science, and by it much light has been thrown on the causes of that unequal distribution of wealth which is the most fertile source of social disturbance. Statistics have been so sedulously cultivated, that we have the most extensive information, not only respecting the material interests of men, but also respecting their moral peculiarities; such as, the amount of different crimes, the proportion they bear to each other, and the influence exercised over them by age, sex, education, and the like. With this great movement physical geography has kept pace: the phenomena of climate have been registered, mountains measured, rivers surveyed and tracked to their source, natural productions of all kinds carefully studied, and their hidden properties unfolded: while every food which sustains life has been chemically analysed, its constituents numbered and weighed, and the nature of the connexion between them and the human frame has, in many cases, been satisfactorily ascertained. At the same time, and that nothing should be left undone which might enlarge our knowledge of the events by which man is affected, there have been instituted circumstantial researches in many other departments; so that in regard to the most civilized people, we are now acquainted with the rate of their mortality, of their marriages, the proportion of their births, the character of their employments, and the fluctuations both in their wages and in the prices of the commodities necessary to their existence. These and similar facts have been collected, methodized, and are ripe for use. Such results, which form, as it were, the anatomy of a nation, are remarkable for their minuteness; and to them there have been joined other results less minute, but more extensive. Not only have the actions and characteristics of the great nations been recorded, but a prodigious number of different tribes in all the parts of the known world have been visited and described by travellers, thus enabling us to compare the condition of mankind in every stage of civilization, and under every variety of circumstance. When we moreover add, that this curiosity respecting our fellow-creatures is apparently insatiable; that it is constantly increasing; that the means of gratifying it are also increasing, and that most of the observations which have been made are still preserved;--when we put all these things together, we may form a faint idea of the immense value of that vast body of facts which we now possess, and by the aid of which the progress of mankind is to be investigated. But if, on the other hand, we are to describe the use that has been made of these materials, we must draw a very different picture. The unfortunate peculiarity of the history of man is, that although its separate parts have been examined with considerable ability, hardly any one has attempted to combine them into a whole, and ascertain the way in which they are connected with each other. In all the other great fields of inquiry, the necessity of generalization is universally admitted, and noble efforts are being made to rise from particular facts in order to discover the laws by which those facts are governed. So far, however, is this from being the usual course of historians, that among them a strange idea prevails, that their business is merely to relate events, which they may occasionally enliven by such moral and political reflections as seem likely to be useful. According to this scheme, any author who from indolence of thought, or from natural incapacity, is unfit to deal with the highest branches of knowledge, has only to pass some years in reading a certain number of books, and then he is qualified to be an historian; he is able to write the history of a great people, and his work becomes an authority on the subject which it professes to treat. The establishment of this narrow standard has led to results very prejudicial to the progress of our knowledge. Owing to it, historians, taken as a body, have never recognized the necessity of such a wide and preliminary study as would enable them to grasp their subject in the whole of its natural relations. Hence the singular spectacle of one historian being ignorant of political economy; another knowing nothing of law; another nothing of ecclesiastical affairs and changes of opinion; another neglecting the philosophy of statistics, and another physical science: although these topics are the most essential of all, inasmuch as they comprise the principal circumstances by which the temper and character of mankind have been affected, and in which they are displayed. These important pursuits being, however, cultivated, some by one man, and some by another, have been isolated rather than united: the aid which might be derived from analogy and from mutual illustration has been lost; and no disposition has been shown to concentrate them upon history, of which they are, properly speaking, the necessary components. Since the early part of the eighteenth century, a few great thinkers have indeed arisen, who have deplored the backwardness of history, and have done everything in their power to remedy it. But these instances have been extremely rare: so rare, that in the whole literature of Europe there are not more than three or four really original works which contain a systematic attempt to investigate the history of man according to those exhaustive methods which in other branches of knowledge have proved successful, and by which alone empirical observations can be raised to scientific truths. Among historians in general, we find, after the sixteenth century, and especially during the last hundred years, several indications of an increasing comprehensiveness of view, and of a willingness to incorporate into their works subjects which they would formerly have excluded. By this means their assemblage of topics has become more diversified, and the mere collection and relative position of parallel facts has occasionally suggested generalizations no traces of which can be found in the earlier literature of Europe. This has been a great gain, in so far as it has familiarized historians with a wider range of thought, and encouraged those habits of speculation, which, though liable to abuse, are the essential condition of all real knowledge, because without them no science can be constructed. But, notwithstanding that the prospects of historical literature are certainly more cheering now than in any former age, it must be allowed that, with extremely few exceptions, they are only prospects, and that as yet scarcely anything has been done towards discovering the principles which govern the character and destiny of nations. What has been actually effected I shall endeavour to estimate in another part of this introduction: at present it is enough to say, that for all the higher purposes of human thought history is still miserably deficient, and presents that confused and anarchical appearance natural to a subject of which the laws are unknown, and even the foundation unsettled.[1] [1] A living writer, who has done more than any other to raise the standard of history, contemptuously notices 'l'incohérente compilation de faits déjà improprement qualifiée _d'histoire_.' _Comte_, _Philosophie Positive_, vol. v. p. 18. There is much in the method and in the conclusions of this great work with which I cannot agree; but it would be unjust to deny its extraordinary merits. Our acquaintance with history being so imperfect, while our materials are so numerous, it seems desirable that something should be done on a scale far larger than has hitherto been attempted, and that a strenuous effort should be made to bring up this great department of inquiry to a level with other departments, in order that we may maintain the balance and harmony of our knowledge. It is in this spirit that the present work has been conceived. To make the execution of it fully equal to the conception is impossible: still I hope to accomplish for the history of man something equivalent, or at all events analogous, to what has been effected by other inquirers for the different branches of natural science. In regard to nature, events apparently the most irregular and capricious have been explained, and have been shown to be in accordance with certain fixed and universal laws. This has been done because men of ability, and, above all, men of patient, untiring thought, have studied natural events with the view of discovering their regularity: and if human events were subjected to a similar treatment, we have every right to expect similar results. For it is clear that they who affirm that the facts of history are incapable of being generalized, take for granted the very question at issue. Indeed they do more than this. They not only assume what they cannot prove, but they assume what in the present state of knowledge is highly improbable. Whoever is at all acquainted with what has been done during the last two centuries, must be aware that every generation demonstrates some events to be regular and predictable, which the preceding generation had declared to be irregular and unpredictable: so that the marked tendency of advancing civilization is to strengthen our belief in the universality of order, of method, and of law. This being the case, it follows that if any facts, or class of facts, have not yet been reduced to order, we, so far from pronouncing them to be irreducible, should rather be guided by our experience of the past, and should admit the probability that what we now call inexplicable will at some future time be explained. This expectation of discovering regularity in the midst of confusion is so familiar to scientific men, that among the most eminent of them it becomes an article of faith: and if the same expectation is not generally found among historians, it must be ascribed partly to their being of inferior ability to the investigators of nature, and partly to the greater complexity of those social phenomena with which their studies are concerned. Both these causes have retarded the creation of the science of history. The most celebrated historians are manifestly inferior to the most successful cultivators of physical science: no one having devoted himself to history who in point of intellect is at all to be compared with Kepler, Newton, or many others that might be named.[2] And as to the greater complexity of the phenomena, the philosophic historian is opposed by difficulties far more formidable than is the student of nature; since, while on the one hand, his observations are more liable to those causes of error which arise from prejudice and passion, he, on the other hand, is unable to employ the great physical resource of experiment, by which we can often simplify even the most intricate problems in the external world. [2] I speak merely of those who have made history their main pursuit. Bacon wrote on it, but only as a subordinate object; and it evidently cost him nothing like the thought which he devoted to other subjects. It is not, therefore, surprising that the study of the movements of Man should be still in its infancy, as compared with the advanced state of the study of the movements of Nature. Indeed the difference between the progress of the two pursuits is so great, that while in physics the regularity of events, and the power of predicting them, are often taken for granted even in cases still unproved, a similar regularity is in history not only not taken for granted, but is actually denied. Hence it is that whoever wishes to raise history to a level with other branches of knowledge, is met by a preliminary obstacle; since he is told that in the affairs of men there is something mysterious and providential, which makes them impervious to our investigations, and which will always hide from us their future course. To this it might be sufficient to reply, that such an assertion is gratuitous; that it is by its nature incapable of proof; and that it is moreover opposed by the notorious fact that everywhere else increasing knowledge is accompanied by an increasing confidence in the uniformity with which, under the same circumstances, the same events must succeed each other. It will, however, be more satisfactory to probe the difficulty deeper, and inquire at once into the foundation of the common opinion that history must always remain in its present empirical state, and can never be raised to the rank of a science. We shall thus be led to one vast question, which indeed lies at the root of the whole subject, and is simply this: Are the actions of men, and therefore of societies, governed by fixed laws, or are they the result either of chance or of supernatural interference? The discussion of these alternatives will suggest some speculations of considerable interest. For, in reference to this matter, there are two doctrines, which appear to represent different stages of civilization. According to the first doctrine, every event is single and isolated, and is merely considered as the result of a blind chance. This opinion, which is most natural to a perfectly ignorant people, would soon be weakened by that extension of experience which supplies a knowledge of those uniformities of succession and of co-existence that nature constantly presents. If, for example, wandering tribes, without the least tincture of civilization, lived entirely by hunting and fishing, they might well suppose that the appearance of their necessary food was the result of some accident which admitted of no explanation. The irregularity of the supply, and the apparent caprice with which it was sometimes abundant and sometimes scanty, would prevent them from suspecting anything like method in the arrangements of nature; nor could their minds even conceive the existence of those general principles which govern the order of events, and by a knowledge of which we are often able to predict their future course. But when such tribes advance into the agricultural state, they, for the first time, use a food of which not only the appearance, but the very existence, seems to be the result of their own act. What they sow, that likewise do they reap. The provision necessary for their wants is brought more immediately under their own control, and is more palpably the consequence of their own labour. They perceive a distinct plan, and a regular uniformity of sequence, in the relation which the seed they put into the ground bears to the corn when arrived at maturity. They are now able to look to the future, not indeed with certainty, but with a confidence infinitely greater than they could have felt in their former and more precarious pursuits.[3] Hence there arises a dim idea of the stability of events; and for the first time there begins to dawn upon the mind a faint conception of what at a later period are called the Laws of Nature. Every step in the great progress will make their view of this more clear. As their observations accumulate, and as their experience extends over a wider surface, they meet with uniformities that they had never suspected to exist, and the discovery of which weakens that doctrine of chance with which they had originally set out. Yet a little further, and a taste for abstract reasoning springs up; and then some among them generalize the observations that have been made, and despising the old popular opinion, believe that every event is linked to its antecedent by an inevitable connexion, that such antecedent is connected with a preceding fact; and that thus the whole world forms a necessary chain, in which indeed each man may play his part, but can by no means determine what that part shall be. [3] Some of the moral consequences of thus diminishing the precariousness of food are noticed by M. Charles Comte in his _Traité de Législation_, vol. ii. pp. 273-275. Compare _Mill's History of India_, vol. i. pp. 180-181. But both these able writers have omitted to observe that the change facilitates a perception of the regularity of phenomena. Thus it is that, in the ordinary march of society, an increasing perception of the regularity of nature destroys the doctrine of Chance, and replaces it by that of Necessary Connexion. And it is, I think, highly probable that out of these two doctrines of Chance and Necessity there have respectively arisen the subsequent dogmas of Free Will and Predestination. Nor is it difficult to understand the manner in which, in a more advanced state of society, this metamorphosis would occur. In every country, as soon as the accumulation of wealth has reached a certain point, the produce of each man's labour becomes more than sufficient for his own support: it is therefore no longer necessary that all should work; and there is formed a separate class, the members of which pass their lives for the most part in the pursuit of pleasure; a very few, however, in the acquisition and diffusion of knowledge. Among these last there are always found some who, neglecting external events, turn their attention to the study of their own minds;[4] and such men, when possessed of great abilities, become the founders of new philosophies and new religions, which often exercise immense influence over the people who receive them. But the authors of these systems are themselves affected by the character of the age in which they live. It is impossible for any man to escape the pressure of surrounding opinions; and what is called a new philosophy or a new religion is generally not so much a creation of fresh ideas, but rather a new direction given to ideas already current among contemporary thinkers.[5] Thus, in the case now before us, the doctrine of Chance in the external world corresponds to that of Free Will in the internal: while the other doctrine of Necessary Connexion is equally analogous to that of Predestination; the only difference being that the first is a development by the metaphysician, the second by the theologian. In the first instance, the metaphysician setting out with the doctrine of Chance, carries into the study of the mind this arbitrary and irresponsible principle, which in its new field becomes Free Will; an expression by which all difficulties seem to be removed, since perfect freedom, itself the cause of all actions, is caused by none, but, like the doctrine of Chance, is an ultimate fact admitting of no further explanation.[6] In the second instance, the theologian taking up the doctrine of Necessary Connexion recasts it into a religious shape; and his mind being already full of conceptions of order and of uniformity, he naturally ascribes such undeviating regularity to the prescience of Supreme Power; and thus to the magnificent notion of One God there is added the dogma that by Him all things have from the beginning been absolutely pre-determined and preordained. [4] On the relation between this and the previous creation of wealth, see _Tennemann_, _Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. i. p. 30; 'Ein gewisser Grad von Cultur und Wohlstand ist eine nothwendige äussere Bedingung der Entwickelung des philosophischen Geistes. So lange der Mensch noch mit den Mitteln seiner Existenz und der Befriedigung seiner thierischen Bedürfnisse beschäftiget ist, so lange gehet die Entwickelung und Bildung seiner Geisteskräfte nur langsam von statten, und er nähert sich nur Schritt vor Schritt einer freiern Vernunftthätigkeit.' ... 'Daher finden wir, dass man nur in denen Nationen anfing zu philosophiren, welche sich zu einer beträchtlichen Stufe des Wohlstandes und der Cultur emporgehoben hatten.' Hence, as I shall endeavour to prove in the next chapter, the immense importance of the physical phenomena which precede and often control the metaphysical. In the history of the Greek mind we can distinctly trace the passage from physical to metaphysical inquiries. See _Grote's History of Greece_, vol. iv. p. 519, edit. 1847. That the atomic doctrine, in its relation to chance, was a natural precursor of Platonism, is remarked in _Broussais_, _Examen des Doctrines Médicales_, vol. i. pp. 53, 54, an able though one-sided work. Compare, respecting the Chance of the atomists, _Ritter's History of Ancient Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 553; an hypothesis, as Ritter says, 'destructive of all inner energy;' consequently antagonistic to the psychological hypothesis which subsequently sprang up and conquered it. That physical researches came first, is moreover attested by Diogenes Laertius: [Greek: Merê de philosophias tria, physikon, êthikon, dialektikon; physikon men, to peri kosmou, kai tôn en autô; êthikon de, to peri biou kai tôn pros hêmas; dialektikon de, to amphoterôn tous logous presbeuon; kai mechri men' Archelaou to physikon eidos ên apo de Sôkratous, hôs proeirêtai, to êthikon; apo de Zênônos tou 'Eleatou, to dialektikon.] _De Vitis Philosophorum Pro[oe]m._ segm. 18, vol. i. p. 12: compare lib. ii. segm. 16, vol. i. p. 89. [5] Beausobre has some good remarks on this in his learned work _Histoire Critique de Manichée_, vol. i. p. 179, where he says that the great religious heresies have been founded on previous philosophies. Certainly no one acquainted with the history of opinions will admit the sweeping assertion of M. Stahl that 'la philosophie d'un peuple a sa racine dans sa théologie.' _Klimrath_, _Travaux_, vol. ii. p. 454, Paris, 1843. [6] 'Also ist ein Wille, dem die blose gesetzgebende Form der Maxime allein zum Gesetze dienen kann, ein freier Wille.' _Kritik der praktischen Vernunft_ in _Kant's Werke_, vol. iv. p. 128. 'Hat selber für sich eigentlich keinen Bestimmungsgrund.' _Metaphysik der Sitten_ in _Werke_, vol. v. p. 12. 'Die unbedingte Causalität der Ursache.' _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_ in _Werke_, vol. ii. p. 339. See also _Prolegomena zu jeder künftigen Metaphysik_ in vol. iii. p. 268. These opposite doctrines of free will and predestination[7] do, no doubt, supply a safe and simple solution of the obscurities of our being; and as they are easily understood, they are so suited to the average capacity of the human mind, that even at the present day an immense majority of men are divided between them; and they have not only corrupted the sources of our knowledge, but have given rise to religious sects, whose mutual animosities have disturbed society, and too often embittered the relations of private life. Among the more advanced European thinkers there is, however, a growing opinion that both doctrines are wrong or, at all events, that we have no sufficient evidence of their truth. And as this is a matter of great moment, it is important, before we proceed further, to clear up as much of it as the difficulties inherent in these subjects will enable us to do. [7] That these doctrines, when treated according to the ordinary methods of reasoning, not only oppose but exclude each other, would be universally admitted if it were not for a desire generally felt to save certain parts of each: it being thought dangerous to give up free will on account of weakening moral responsibility, and equally dangerous to give up predestination on account of impugning the power of God. Various attempts have therefore been made to reconcile liberty with necessity, and make the freedom of man harmonize with the foreknowledge of the Deity. Compare on this point a remarkable letter from Locke to Molyneux (_Locke's Works_, vol. viii. p. 305), with the argument in one of Bentley's Sermons (_Monk's Life of Bentley_, vol. ii. pp. 7, 8); also _Ritter's Hist. of Ancient Philosophy_, vol. iv. pp. 143, 144; _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philosophie_, vol. iv. pp. 301-304; _Copleston's Inquiry into the Doctrines of Necessity and Predestination_, pp. 6, 7, 46, 69, 70, 85, 92, 108, 136; _Mosheim's Ecclesiastical Hist._, vol. i. p. 207, vol. ii. p. 96; _Neander's Hist. of the Church_, vol. iv. pp. 294, 389-391; _Bishop of Lincoln on Tertullian_, 1845, p. 323; _Hodgson on Buddhism_, in _Transac. of Asiatic Society_, vol. ii. p. 232. Whatever doubts may be thrown on the account which I have given of the probable origin of the ideas of free will and predestination, there can, at all events, be no dispute as to the foundation on which those ideas are now actually based. The theory of predestination is founded on a theological hypothesis; that of free will on a metaphysical hypothesis. The advocates of the first proceed on a supposition for which, to say the least of it, they have as yet brought forward no good evidence. They require us to believe that the Author of Creation, whose beneficence they at the same time willingly allow, has, notwithstanding His supreme goodness, made an arbitrary distinction between the elect and the non-elect; that He has from all eternity doomed to perdition millions of creatures yet unborn, and whom His act alone can call into existence: and that He has done this, not in virtue of any principle of justice, but by a mere stretch of despotic power.[8] This doctrine owes its authority among Protestants to the dark though powerful mind of Calvin; but in the early Church it was first systematically methodized by Augustin, who appears to have borrowed it from the Manicheans.[9] At all events, and putting aside its incompatibility with other notions which are supposed to be fundamental,[10] it must, in a scientific investigation, be regarded as a barren hypothesis, because, being beyond the province of our knowledge, we have no means of ascertaining either its truth or its falsehood. [8] Even Ambrose, who never went so far as Augustin, states this principle in its repulsive nakedness: 'Deus quos dignat vocat, quos vult religiosos facit.' _Neander_, vol. iv. p. 287. Calvin declares 'that God, in predestinating from all eternity one part of mankind to everlasting happiness, and another to endless misery, was led to make this distinction by no other motive than His own good pleasure and free will.' _Mosheim's Eccles. Hist._, vol. ii. p. 103, see also p. 100; and _Carwithen's Hist. of the Church of England_, vol. i. p. 552. [9] On the Manichæan origin of Augustin's opinions, compare _Potter_, _Esprit de l'Eglise_, vol. ii. p. 171, Paris, 1821; _Tomline's Refutation of Calvinism_, 1817, pp. 571-576; _Southey's Book of the Church_, 1824, vol. i. pp. 301, 302; _Matter_, _Hist. du Gnosticisme_, 1828, vol. i. p. 325. However, Beausobre (_Histoire de Manichée_, vol. ii. pp. 33-40) seems to have proved a difference between the election of Augustin and that of Basilides. [10] On the absurdity of 'an omnipotent arbitrary Deity,' and on the incongruity of such a combination with [Greek: physei kalon kai dikaion], see _Cudworth's Intellect. Syst._, vol. i. pp. 45, 419, vol. iii. p. 241, vol. iv. p. 160. See also _Theodicee_ in _Kant's Werke_, vol. vi. pp. 141, 142, and _Metaphysik der Sitten_ in vol. v. p. 332, upon 'den göttlichen Zweck in Ansehung des menschlichen Geschlechts.' The other doctrine, which has long been celebrated under the name of Free Will, is connected with Arminianism; but it in reality rests on the metaphysical dogma of the supremacy of human consciousness. Every man, it is alleged, feels and knows that he is a free agent: nor can any subtleties of argument do away with our consciousness of possessing a free will.[11] Now the existence of this supreme jurisdiction, which is thus to set at defiance all the ordinary methods of reasoning, involves two assumptions: of which the first, though possibly true, has never been proved; and the other is unquestionably false. These assumptions are, that there is an independent faculty called consciousness, and that the dictates of that faculty are infallible. But, in the first place, it is by no means certain that consciousness is a faculty; and some of the ablest thinkers have been of opinion that it is merely a state or condition of the mind.[12] Should this turn out to be the case, the argument falls to the ground; since, even if we admit that all the faculties of the mind, when completely exercised, are equally accurate, no one will make the same claim for every condition into which the mind itself may be casually thrown. However, waiving this objection, we may, in the second place, reply, that even if consciousness is a faculty, we have the testimony of all history to prove its extreme fallibility.[13] All the great stages through which, in the progress of civilization, the human race has successively passed, have been characterized by certain mental peculiarities or convictions, which have left their impress upon the religion, the philosophy, and the morals of the age. Each of these convictions has been to one period a matter of faith, to another a matter for derision;[14] and each of them has, in its own epoch, been as intimately bound up with the minds of men, and become as much a part of their consciousness, as is that opinion which we now term freedom of the will. Yet it is impossible that all these products of consciousness can be true, because many of them contradict each other. Unless, therefore, in different ages there are different standards of truth, it is clear that the testimony of a man's consciousness is no proof of an opinion being true; for if it were so, then two propositions diametrically opposed to each other might both be equally accurate. Besides this, another view may be drawn from the common operations of ordinary life. Are we not in certain circumstances conscious of the existence of spectres and phantoms; and yet is it not generally admitted that such beings have no existence at all? Should it be attempted to refute this argument by saying that such consciousness is apparent and not real, then I ask, What is it that judges between the consciousness which is genuine and that which is spurious?[15] If this boasted faculty deceives us in some things, what security have we that it will not deceive us in others? If there is no security, the faculty is not trustworthy. If there is a security, then, whatever it may be, its existence shows the necessity for some authority to which consciousness is subordinate, and thus does away with that doctrine of the supremacy of consciousness, on which the advocates of free will are compelled to construct the whole of their theory. Indeed, the uncertainty as to the existence of consciousness as an independent faculty, and the manner in which that faculty, if it exists, has contradicted its own suggestions, are two of the many reasons which have long since convinced me that metaphysics will never be raised to a science by the ordinary method of observing individual minds; but that its study can only be successfully prosecuted by the deductive application of laws which must be discovered historically, that is to say, which must be evolved by an examination of the whole of those vast phenomena which the long course of human affairs presents to our view. [11] Johnson said to Boswell, 'Sir, we _know_ our will is free, and there's an end on't.' _Boswell's Life of Johnson_, edit. Croker, 1848, p. 203. 'La question: Sommes-nous libres? me paraît au-dessous de la discussion. Elle est résolue par le témoignage de la conscience attestant que dans certains cas nous pourrions faire le contraire de ce que nous faisons.' _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philosophie_, I. Série, vol. i. pp. 190, 191. 'Die Freiheit des Menschen, als moralischen Wesens, gründet sich auf das sittliche Bewusstseyn.' _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philosophie_, vol. v. p. 161. That this is the only ground for believing in the freedom of the will is so evident, that we need not notice the mystical proof of Philo (_Ritter's Ancient Philosophy_, vol. iv. p. 447); nor the physical one of the Basilidian monads (_Beausobre_, _Hist. de Manichée_, vol. ii. p. 23); still less the argument of Bardesanes, who thought to demonstrate freedom by the variety of human customs! _Matter_, _Hist. du Gnosticisme_, vol. i. p. 323, which should be compared with _Burdach's Physiologie comme Science d'Observation_, vol. v. p. 50, Paris, 1839. [12] Mr. James Mill (_Analysis of the Mind_, vol. i. pp. 171, 172) says that consciousness and belief are the same, and that great error has arisen from calling 'consciousness a feeling distinct from all other feelings.' According to Locke (_Essay concerning Human Understanding_, book ii. chap. i., Works, vol. i. p. 89), 'consciousness is the perception of what passes in a man's own mind.' Brown (_Philosophy of the Mind_, pp. 67, 68) denies that consciousness is a faculty: and Sir W. Hamilton complains of 'Reid's degradation of consciousness into a special faculty.' _Notes to Reid's Works_, pp. 223, 297, 373. M. Cousin (_Hist. de la Philosophie_, II. Série, vol. i. p. 131) pronounces consciousness to be 'phénomène complexe;' and at p. 94, 'la _condition_ nécessaire de l'intelligence c'est la conscience:' while a still later writer (_Jobert's New System of Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 25) declares that 'we have the consciousness of our consciousness--this is certain.' The statement in Alciphron, Dialogue vii. (_Berkeley's Works_, vol. i. pp. 505, 506) is equally unsatisfactory: and what still further perplexes the question is the existence of what is now recognised as 'double consciousness.' See on this extraordinary phenomenon _Elliotson's Physiology_, pp. 367-369, 1165; _Mayo's Physiology_, pp. 195, 196; _Prichard's Treatise on Insanity_, pp. 450, 451; _Carpenter's Human Physiology_, p. 379. [13] This requires explanation. Consciousness is infallible as to the _fact_ of its testimony; but fallible as to the _truth_. That we are conscious of certain phenomena, is a proof that those phenomena exist in the mind, or are presented to it; but to say that this demonstrates the truth of the phenomena is to go a step further, and not only offer a testimony, but also pass a judgment. The moment we do this, we introduce the element of fallibility; because consciousness and judgment put together cannot be always right, inasmuch as judgment is often wrong. The late Blanco White, a thinker of considerable subtlety, says: 'The important distinction between _libertas a necessitate_ and _libertas a coactione_, is seldom attended to. Nothing whatever can _force_ my will: every man is more or less conscious of that fact: but at the same time we are, or may be, equally conscious that we are never decided without a motive.' _Life of B. White_, by Himself, 1845, vol. iii. p. 90. But how can a man be conscious 'that nothing whatever _can_ force his will'? This is not consciousness, but judgment: it is a judgment of what may be, not a consciousness of what is. If there is any meaning in the word 'consciousness,' it must refer solely to the present, and can never include future contingencies as to what _may_ be or _can_ be. [14] As Herder says, 'Was diese Nation ihrem Gedankenkreise unentbehrlich hält, daran hat jene nie gedacht oder hält es gar für schädlich.' _Ideen zur Gesch. der Menschheit_, vol. ii. p. 130. [15] Plato was struck by the extreme difficulty of finding a standard in the human mind whereby we may test the truth or falsehood of spectral phenomena and dreams. And the only conclusion to which this consummate thinker could arrive, was that whatever appears true to the individual mind is true for him: which, however, is an evasion of the problem, not a solution of it. See the Theætetus, where Plato, as usual, puts his own speculations into the mouth of Socrates. He opens the question at the beginning of sec. 39 (_Platonis Opera_, vol. iii. p. 426, edit. Bekker, Lond. 1826), [Greek: Mê toinun apolipômen rhson elleipon autou. lepetai de enupniôn te peri kai nosôn, tôn te allôn kai manias], &c. These are the supposed sources of error; but Socrates, after discussing them, and entangling Theætetus in a maze, sums up at the end of sec. 45, p. 434, [Greek: alêthês ara emoi êh emê aisthêsis.] See further, p. 515, on the formation of erroneous judgments; and respecting the assertions made by many of the Greeks that [Greek: pasa phantsia alêthês] and [Greek: pasa duxa alêthês], compare _Cudworth_, vol. iii. p. 379, vol. iv. p. 118. For physiological considerations concerning the preservation of consciousness in dreams and in insanity, see _Broussais_, _Examen des Doctrines Médicales_, vol. i. p. 406; his _Cours de Phrénologie_, p. 49; _Esquirol_, _Maladies Mentales_, vol. i. p. 97, vol. ii. p. 790; _Simon's Pathology_, p. 204; _Holland's Medical Notes_, p. 434; _Henle_, _Anatomie Générale_, vol. ii. p. 287; _Burdach_, _Traité de Physiologie_, vol. v. p. 223. See, too, the passages in Tennemann which connect this difficulty with the theory of representation (_Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. i. p. 357, vol. ii. pp. 119, 159, vol. iii. p. 406, vol. iv. p. 418); and the attempt of Berkeley (_Works_, vol. i. pp. 93, 101, 176) to turn it into a defence of his own system, on the ground that our belief respecting the external world may be as false when we are awake as when we dream. The solution offered by the Stoics is merely a verbal and unproved distinction: [Greek: diapherei de phantasia kai phantasma. phantasma men gar esti dokêsis dianoias oia ginetai kata tous upnous; phantasia de esti tupôsis en psuchê toutestin alloiôsis, hôs ho Chrusippos en tê duôdekatê peri psuchês uphistatai.] _Diog. Laert. de Vitis Philos._ lib. vii. segm. 50, vol. i. p. 395. Fortunately, however, for the object of this work, the believer in the possibility of a science of history is not called upon to hold either the doctrine of predestined events, or that of freedom of the will;[16] and the only positions which, in this stage of the inquiry, I shall expect him to concede are the following: That when we perform an action, we perform it in consequence of some motive or motives; that those motives are the results of some antecedents; and that, therefore, if we were acquainted with the whole of the antecedents, and with all the laws of their movements, we could with unerring certainty predict the whole of their immediate results. This, unless I am greatly mistaken, is the view which must be held by every man whose mind is unbiased by system, and who forms his opinions according to the evidence actually before him.[17] If, for example, I am intimately acquainted with the character of any person, I can frequently tell how he will act under some given circumstances. Should I fail in this prediction, I must ascribe my error not to the arbitrary and capricious freedom of his will, nor to any supernatural pre-arrangement, for of neither of these things have we the slightest proof; but I must be content to suppose either that I had been misinformed as to some of the circumstances in which he was placed, or else that I had not sufficiently studied the ordinary operations of his mind. If, however, I were capable of correct reasoning, and if, at the same time, I had a complete knowledge both of his disposition and of all the events by which he was surrounded, I should be able to foresee the line of conduct which, in consequence of those events, he would adopt.[18] [16] Meaning by free will, a cause of action residing in the mind, and exerting itself independently of motives. If any one says that we have this power of acting without motives, but that in the practical exercise of the power we are always guided by motives either conscious or unconscious--if any one says this, he asserts a barren proposition, which does not interfere with my views, and which may or may not be true, but which most assuredly no one has ever yet succeeded in proving. [17] That is, according to the phenomenal evidence presented to the understanding, and estimated by the ordinary logic with which the understanding is conversant. But Kant has made a most remarkable attempt to avoid the practical consequences of this, by asserting that freedom, being an idea produced by the reason, must be referred to transcendental laws of the reason; that is, to laws which are removed from the domain of experience, and cannot be verified by observation. In regard, however, to the scientific conceptions of the understanding (as distinguished from the Reason) he fully admits the existence of a Necessity destructive of Liberty. In Note A, at the end of this chapter, I shall put together the most important passages in which Kant unfolds this view. [18] This is, of course, an hypothetical case, merely given as an illustration. We never can know the whole of any man's antecedents, or even the whole of our own; but it is certain that the nearer we approach to a complete knowledge of the antecedent, the more likely we shall be to predict the consequent. Rejecting, then, the metaphysical dogma of free will, and the theological dogma of predestined events,[19] we are driven to the conclusion that the actions of men, being determined solely by their antecedents, must have a character of uniformity, that is to say, must, under precisely the same circumstances, always issue in precisely the same results. And as all antecedents are either in the mind or out of it, we clearly see that all the variations in the results, in other words, all the changes of which history is full, all the vicissitudes of the human race, their progress or their decay, their happiness or their misery, must be the fruit of a double action; an action of external phenomena upon the mind, and another action of the mind upon the phenomena. [19] The doctrine of providential interference is bound up with that of predestination, because the Deity, foreseeing all things, must have foreseen His own intention to interfere. To deny this foresight, is to limit the omniscience of God. Those, therefore, who hold that, in particular cases, a special providence interrupts the ordinary course of events, must also hold that in each case the interruption had been predestined; otherwise they impeach one of the Divine attributes. For, as Thomas Aquinas puts it (_Neander's History of the Church_, vol. viii. p. 176), 'knowledge, as knowledge, does not imply, indeed, causality; but in so far as it is a knowledge belonging to the artist who forms, it stands in the relation of causality to that which is produced by his art.' The same argument is stated by Alciphron, though not quite so conclusively; _Dialogue_ vii. sec. 20 in _Berkeley's Works_, vol. i. p. 515: and as to the impossibility of Omniscience having new knowledge or an afterthought, see _Hitchcock's Religion of Geology_, 1851, pp. 267, 328; an ingenious work, but one which leaves all the real difficulties untouched. Compare _Ritter's Hist. of Ancient Philos._ vol. iv. pp. 326, 327, with _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. vi. pp. 151, 342-345, vol. ix. pp. 81-94, vol. xi. p. 178; and in particular, the question raised (vol. viii. p. 242), 'Ob das Vorherwissen Gottes die Ursache der künftigen Dinge sey, oder nicht.' It was to meet all this, that some asserted the eternity of matter, and others the existence of two original principles, one good and one evil. _Beausobre_, _Histoire de Manichée_, vol. ii. pp. 145, 146, 252, 336. These are the materials out of which a philosophic history can alone be constructed. On the one hand, we have the human mind obeying the laws of its own existence, and, when uncontrolled by external agents, developing itself according to the conditions of its organization. On the other hand, we have what is called Nature, obeying likewise its laws; but incessantly coming into contact with the minds of men, exciting their passions, stimulating their intellect, and therefore giving to their actions a direction which they would not have taken without such disturbance. Thus we have man modifying nature, and nature modifying man; while out of this reciprocal modification all events must necessarily spring. The problem immediately before us, is to ascertain the method of discovering the laws of this double modification: and this, as we shall presently see, leads us into a preliminary inquiry as to which of the two modifications is the more important; that is to say, whether the thoughts and desires of men are more influenced by physical phenomena, or whether the physical phenomena are more influenced by them. For it is evident that whichever class is the more active, should if possible be studied before the other; and this, partly because its results will be more prominent, and therefore more easy to observe; and partly because by first generalizing the laws of the greater power we shall leave a smaller residue of unexplained facts than if we had begun by generalizing the laws of the lesser power. But, before entering into this examination, it will be convenient to state some of the most decisive proofs we now possess of the regularity with which mental phenomena succeed each other. By this means the preceding views will be considerably strengthened; and we shall, at the same time, be able to see what those resources are which have been already employed in elucidating this great subject. That the results actually effected are extremely valuable is evident, not only from the wide surface which the generalizations cover, but also from the extraordinary precautions with which they have been made. For while most moral inquiries have depended on some theological or metaphysical hypothesis, the investigations to which I allude are exclusively inductive; they are based on collections of almost innumerable facts, extending over many countries, thrown into the clearest of all forms, the form of arithmetical tables; and finally, they have been put together by men who, being for the most part mere government officials,[20] had no particular theory to maintain, and no interest in distorting the truth of the reports they were directed to make. [20] _Dufau_, _Traité de Statistique_, pp. 75, 148. The most comprehensive inferences respecting the actions of men, which are admitted by all parties as incontestable truths, are derived from this or from analogous sources; they rest on statistical evidence, and are expressed in mathematical language. And whoever is aware of how much has been discovered by this single method, must not only recognize the uniformity with which mental phenomena succeed each other, but must, I think, feel sanguine that still more important discoveries will be made, so soon as there are brought into play those other powerful resources which even the present state of knowledge will abundantly supply. Without, however, anticipating future inquiries, we are, for the moment, only concerned with those proofs of the existence of a uniformity in human affairs which statisticians have been the first to bring forward. The actions of men are by an easy and obvious division separated into two classes, the virtuous and the vicious; and as these classes are correlative, and when put together compose the total of our moral conduct, it follows that whatever increases the one, will in a relative point of view diminish the other; so that if we can in any period detect a uniformity and a method in the vices of a people, there must be a corresponding regularity in their virtues; or if we could prove a regularity in their virtues, we should necessarily infer an equal regularity in their vices; the two sets of actions being, according to the terms of the division, merely supplementary to each other.[21] Or, to express this proposition in another way, it is evident that if it can be demonstrated that the bad actions of men vary in obedience to the changes in the surrounding society, we shall be obliged to infer that their good actions, which are, as it were, the residue of their bad ones, vary in the same manner; and we shall be forced to the further conclusion, that such variations are the result of large and general causes, which, working upon the aggregate of society, must produce certain consequences, without regard to the volition of those particular men of whom the society is composed. [21] Some moralists have also established a third class of actions, which they call indifferent, as belonging neither to virtue nor to vice; and hence there arose the famous doctrine of probability, set up by several eminent Romish casuists, and hotly attacked by Pascal. But this, if we put aside its worst feature, namely its practical bearings, is merely a question of definition; inasmuch as every indifferent act must lean on the side either of evil or of good, and may therefore be referred to the category to which it inclines; and certainly every increase of vice diminishes virtue relatively, though not always absolutely. Among the Greek philosophers there was a schism on this point: [Greek: Areskei de autois] (i.e. the Stoics) [Greek: mêden meson einai aretês kai kakias; tôn peripatêtikôn metaxu aretês kai kakias einai legontôn tên prokopên]. _Diog. Laert. de Vitis Philosophorum_, lib. vii. segm. 127, vol. i. p. 445. Such is the regularity we expect to find, if the actions of men are governed by the state of the society in which they occur; while, on the other hand, if we can find no such regularity, we may believe that their actions depend on some capricious and personal principle peculiar to each man, as free will or the like. It becomes, therefore, in the highest degree important to ascertain whether or not there exists a regularity in the entire moral conduct of a given society; and this is precisely one of those questions for the decision of which statistics supply us with materials of immense value. For the main object of legislation being to protect the innocent against the guilty, it naturally followed that European governments, so soon as they became aware of the importance of statistics, should begin to collect evidence respecting the crimes they were expected to punish. This evidence has gone on accumulating, until it now forms of itself a large body of literature, containing, with the commentaries connected with it, an immense array of facts, so carefully compiled, and so well and clearly digested, that more may be learned from it respecting the moral nature of Man than can be gathered from all the accumulated experience of preceding ages.[22] But as it will be impossible in this Introduction to give anything like a complete statement of those inferences which, in the actual state of statistics, we are authorized to draw, I shall content myself with examining two or three of the most important, and pointing out the connexion between them. [22] I say this advisedly: and whoever has examined these subjects must be aware of the way in which writers on morals repeat the commonplace and hackneyed notions of their predecessors; so that a man, after reading everything that has been written on moral conduct and moral philosophy, will find himself nearly as much in the dark as when his studies first began. The most accurate investigators of the human mind have hitherto been the poets, particularly Homer and Shakespeare; but these extraordinary observers mainly occupied themselves with the concrete phenomena of life; and if they analyzed, as they probably did, they have concealed the steps of the process, so that now we can only verify their conclusions empirically. The great advance made by the statisticians consists in applying to these inquiries the doctrine of averages, which no one thought of doing before the eighteenth century. Of all offences, it might well be supposed that the crime of murder is one of the most arbitrary and irregular. For when we consider that this, though generally the crowning act of a long career of vice, is often the immediate result of what seems a sudden impulse; that when premeditated, its committal, even with the least chance of impunity, requires a rare combination of favourable circumstances for which the criminal will frequently wait; that he has thus to bide his time, and look for opportunities he cannot control; that when the time has come his heart may fail him; that the question whether or not he shall commit the crime may depend on a balance of conflicting motives, such as fear of the law, a dread of the penalties held out by religion, the prickings of his own conscience, the apprehension of future remorse, the love of gain, jealousy, revenge, desperation;--when we put all these things together, there arises such a complication of causes, that we might reasonably despair of detecting any order or method in the result of those subtle and shifting agencies by which murder is either caused or prevented. But now, how stands the fact? The fact is, that murder is committed with as much regularity, and bears as uniform a relation to certain known circumstances, as do the movements of the tides, and the rotations of the seasons. M. Quetelet, who has spent his life in collecting and methodizing the statistics of different countries, states, as the result of his laborious researches, that 'in everything which concerns crime, the same numbers re-occur with a constancy which cannot be mistaken; and that this is the case even with those crimes which seem quite independent of human foresight, such, for instance, as murders, which are generally committed after quarrels arising from circumstances apparently casual. Nevertheless, we know from experience that every year there not only take place nearly the same number of murders, but that even the instruments by which they are committed are employed in the same proportion.'[23] This was the language used in 1835 by confessedly the first statistician in Europe, and every subsequent investigation has confirmed its accuracy. For later inquiries have ascertained the extraordinary fact that the uniform reproduction of crime is more clearly marked, and more capable of being predicted, than are the physical laws connected with the disease and destruction of our bodies. Thus, for instance, the number of persons accused of crime in France between 1826 and 1844 was, by a singular coincidence, about equal to the male deaths which took place in Paris during the same period, the difference being that the fluctuations in the amount of crime were actually smaller than the fluctuations in the mortality; while a similar regularity was observed in each separate offence, all of which obeyed the same law of uniform and periodical repetition.[24] [23] 'Dans tout ce qui se rapporte aux crimes, les mêmes nombres se reproduisent avec une constance telle, qu'il serait impossible de la méconnaître, même pour ceux des crimes qui sembleraient devoir échapper le plus à toute prévision humaine, tels que les meurtres, puisqu'ils se commettent, en général, à la suite de rixes qui naissent sans motifs, et dans les circonstances, en apparence, les plus fortuites. Cependant l'expérience prouve que non-seulement les meurtres sont annuellement à peu près en même nombre, mais encore que les instrumens qui servent à les commettre sont employés dans les mêmes proportions.' _Quetelet sur l'Homme_, Paris, 1835, vol. i. p. 7; see also vol. ii. pp. 164, 247. [24] 'Thus in twenty years' observations, the number of persons accused of various crimes in France, and registered under their respective ages, scarcely varies at any age from year to year, comparing the proportion per cent. under each age with the totals. The number of persons accused in all France, in the years 1826 to 1844, was about equal to the deaths of males registered in Paris; but singularly enough, the former results are more regular than the latter, notwithstanding the accidental causes which might affect them;--notwithstanding even a revolution in Paris, which convulsed society and brought in a new dynasty.' _Brown on the Uniform Action of the Human Will_, in _The Assurance Magazine_, no. viii., July 1852, pp. 349, 350. That the variations in crime are less than those of mortality, is also noticed in _Statistique Morale_, pp. 18, 34, in _Mémoires de l'Académie de Belgique_, vol. xxi., Bruxelles, 1848, 4to. This, indeed, will appear strange to those who believe that human actions depend more upon the peculiarities of each individual than on the general state of society. But another circumstance remains behind still more striking. Among public and registered crimes there is none which seems so completely dependent on the individual as suicide. Attempts to murder or to rob may be, and constantly are, successfully resisted; baffled sometimes by the party attacked, sometimes by the officers of justice. But an attempt to commit suicide is much less liable to interruption. The man who is determined to kill himself is not prevented at the last moment by the struggles of an enemy; and, as he can easily guard against the interference of the civil power,[25] his act becomes as it were isolated; it is cut off from foreign disturbances, and seems more clearly the product of his own volition than any other offence could possibly be. We may also add that, unlike crimes in general, it is rarely caused by the instigation of confederates; so that men, not being goaded into it by their companions, are uninfluenced by one great class of external associations which might hamper what is termed the freedom of their will. It may, therefore, very naturally be thought impracticable to refer suicide to general principles, or to detect anything like regularity in an offence which is so eccentric, so solitary, so impossible to control by legislation, and which the most vigilant police can do nothing to diminish. There is also another obstacle that impedes our view: this is, that even the best evidence respecting suicide must always be very imperfect. In cases of drowning, for example, deaths are liable to be returned as suicides which are accidental; while, on the other hand, some are called accidental which are voluntary.[26] Thus it is, that self-murder seems to be not only capricious and uncontrollable, but also very obscure in regard to proof; so that on all these grounds it might be reasonable to despair of ever tracing it to those general causes by which it is produced. [25] The folly of lawgivers thinking that by their enactments they can diminish suicide, is exposed by M. C. Comte in his _Traité de Législation_, vol. i. p. 486. See also some good remarks by Jefferson, in his observations on criminal law in _Appendix to Jefferson's Memoirs, by Randolph_, vol. i. pp. 126, 127. Heber (_Journey through India_, vol. i. pp. 389, 390) found that the English Government had vainly attempted to check the suicides frequently committed at Benares by drowning: and in our country the interference of legislators is met by the perjury of jurors, since, as Bentham says, English juries do not hesitate to violate their oaths by declaring the suicide to be _non compos_. _Principles of Penal Law_, in _Bentham's Works_, edit. Bowring, 1843, vol. i. pp. 479, 480. In regard to the determination of the individual, and the impossibility of baffling his intention, there are cases recorded of persons who, being deprived of the ordinary means of destruction, put an end to life by holding their breath; while others effected their purpose by turning back the tongue so as to exclude air from the larynx. _Elliotson's Human Physiology_, pp. 491, 492. [26] This also applies to other cases besides those of drowning. See _Taylor's Medical Jurisprudence_, 1846, pp. 587, 597; and on the difficulty of always distinguishing a real suicide from an apparent one, see _Esquirol_, _Maladies Mentales_, vol. i. p. 575. From a third to a half of all suicides are by drowning. Compare _Dufau_, _Traité de Statistique_, p. 304; _Winslow's Anatomy of Suicide_, 1840, p. 277; _Quetelet_, _Statistique Morale_, p. 66. But among these, many are no doubt involuntary; and it is certain that popular opinion grossly exaggerates the length of time during which it is possible to remain under water. _Brodie's Surgery_, 1846, pp. 89-92. These being the peculiarities of this singular crime, it is surely an astonishing fact, that all the evidence we possess respecting it points to one great conclusion, and can leave no doubt on our minds that suicide is merely the product of the general condition of society, and that the individual felon only carries into effect what is a necessary consequence of preceding circumstances.[27] In a given state of society, a certain number of persons must put an end to their own life. This is the general law; and the special question as to who shall commit the crime depends, of course, upon special laws; which, however, in their total action, must obey the large social law to which they are all subordinate. And the power of the larger law is so irresistible, that neither the love of life nor the fear of another world can avail anything towards even checking its operation. The causes of this remarkable regularity I shall hereafter examine; but the existence of the regularity is familiar to whoever is conversant with moral statistics. In the different countries for which we have returns, we find year by year the same proportion of persons putting an end to their own existence; so that, after making allowance for the impossibility of collecting complete evidence, we are able to predict, within a very small limit of error, the number of voluntary deaths for each ensuing period; supposing, of course, that the social circumstances do not undergo any marked change. Even in London, notwithstanding the vicissitudes incidental to the largest and most luxurious capital in the world, we find a regularity greater than could be expected by the most sanguine believer in social laws; since political excitement, mercantile excitement, and the misery produced by the dearness of food, are all causes of suicide, and are all constantly varying.[28] Nevertheless, in this vast metropolis, about 240 persons every year make away with themselves; the annual suicides oscillating, from the pressure of temporary causes, between 266, the highest, and 213, the lowest. In 1846, which was the great year of excitement caused by the railway panic, the suicides in London were 266; in 1847 began a slight improvement, and they fell to 256; in 1848 they were 247; in 1849 they were 213; and in 1850 they were 229.[29] [27] 'Tout semble dépendre de causes déterminées. Ainsi, nous trouvons annuellement à peu près le même nombre de suicides, non-seulement en général, mais encore en faisant la distinction des sexes, celle des âges, ou même celle des instruments employés pour se détruire. Une année reproduit si fidèlement les chiffres de l'année qui a précédé, qu'on peut prévoir ce qui doit arriver dans l'année qui va suivre.' _Quetelet_, _Statistique Morale_, 1848, p. 35; see also p. 40. [28] On the causes of suicides, see _Burdach's Traité de Physiologie_, vol. v. pp. 476-478; and _Forry's Climate and its Endemic Influences_, p. 329. The latest researches of M. Casper confirm the statement of earlier statisticians, that suicide is more frequent among Protestants than among Catholics. _Casper_, _Denkwürdigkeiten zur medicinischen Statistik_, Berlin, 1846, p. 139. [29] See the tables in the _Assurance Magazine_, no. iv. p. 309, no. v. p. 34, no. viii. p. 350. These are the only complete consecutive returns of London suicides yet published; those issued by the police being imperfect. _Assurance Magazine_, no. v. p. 53. From inquiries made for me at the General Register Office, in January 1856, I learnt that there was an intention of completing the yearly returns, but I do not know if this has since been done. Such is some, and only some, of the evidence we now possess respecting the regularity with which, in the same state of society, the same crimes are necessarily reproduced. To appreciate the full force of this evidence, we must remember that it is not an arbitrary selection of particular facts, but that it is generalized from an exhaustive statement of criminal statistics, consisting of many millions of observations, extending over countries in different grades of civilization, with different laws, different opinions, different morals, different habits. If we add to this, that these statistics have been collected by persons specially employed for that purpose, with every means of arriving at the truth, and with no interest to deceive, it surely must be admitted that the existence of crime according to a fixed and uniform scheme, is a fact more clearly attested than any other in the moral history of man. We have here parallel chains of evidence formed with extreme care, under the most different circumstances, and all pointing in the same direction; all of them forcing us to the conclusion, that the offences of men are the result not so much of the vices of the individual offender as of the state of society into which that individual is thrown.[30] This is an inference resting on broad and tangible proofs accessible to all the world; and as such cannot be overturned, or even impeached, by any of those hypotheses with which metaphysicians and theologians have hitherto perplexed the study of past events. [30] 'L'expérience démontre en effet, avec toute l'évidence possible, cette opinion, qui pourra sembler paradoxale au premier abord, que _c'est la société qui prépare le crime, et que le coupable n'est que l'instrument qui l'exécute_.' _Quetelet sur l'Homme_, vol. ii. p. 325. Those readers who are acquainted with the manner in which in the physical world the operations of the laws of nature are constantly disturbed, will expect to find in the moral world disturbances equally active. Such aberrations proceed, in both instances, from minor laws, which at particular points meet the larger laws, and thus alter their normal action. Of this, the science of mechanics affords a good example in the instance of that beautiful theory called the parallelogram of forces; according to which the forces are to each other in the same proportion as is the diagonal of their respective parallelograms.[31] This is a law pregnant with great results; it is connected with those important mechanical resources, the composition and resolution of forces; and no one acquainted with the evidence on which it stands, ever thought of questioning its truth. But the moment we avail ourselves of it for practical purposes, we find that in its action it is warped by other laws, such as those concerning the friction of air, and the different density of the bodies on which we operate, arising from their chemical composition, or, as some suppose, from their atomic arrangement. Perturbations being thus let in, the pure and simple action of the mechanical law disappears. Still, and although the results of the law are incessantly disturbed, the law itself remains intact.[32] Just in the same way, the great social law, that the moral actions of men are the product not of their volition, but of their antecedents, is itself liable to disturbances which trouble its operation without affecting its truth. And this is quite sufficient to explain those slight variations which we find from year to year in the total amount of crime produced by the same country. Indeed, looking at the fact that the moral world is far more abundant in materials than the physical world, the only ground for astonishment is that these variations should not be greater; and from the circumstance that the discrepancies are so trifling, we may form some idea of the prodigious energy of those vast social laws, which, though constantly interrupted, seem to triumph over every obstacle, and which, when examined by the aid of large numbers, scarcely undergo any sensible perturbation.[33] [31] The diagonal always giving the resultant when each side represents a force; and if we look on the resultant as a compound force, a comparison of diagonals becomes a comparison of compounds. [32] A law of nature being merely a generalization of relations, and having no existence except in the mind, is essentially intangible; and therefore, however small the law may be, it can never admit of exceptions, though its operation may admit of innumerable exceptions. Hence, as Dugald Stewart (_Philosophy of the Mind_, vol. ii. p. 211) rightly says, we can only refer to the laws of nature 'by a sort of figure or metaphor.' This is constantly lost sight of even by authors of repute; some of whom speak of laws as if they were causes, and therefore liable to interruption by larger causes; while other writers pronounce them to be 'delegated agencies' from the Deity. Compare _Prout's Bridgewater Treatise_, pp. 318, 435, 495; _Sadler's Law of Population_, vol. ii. p. 67; _Burdach's Physiologie_, vol. i. p. 160. Mr. Paget, in his able work, _Lectures on Pathology_, vol. i. p. 481, vol. ii. p. 542, with much greater accuracy calls such cases 'apparent exceptions' to laws; but it would be better to say, 'exceptions to the operations of laws.' The context clearly proves that Mr. Paget distinctly apprehends the difference; but a slight alteration of this kind would prevent confusion in the minds of ordinary readers. [33] Mr. Rawson, in his _Inquiry into the Statistics of Crime in England and Wales_ (published in the _Journal of the Statistical Society_, vol. ii. pp. 316-344), says, p. 327, 'No greater proof can be given of the possibility of arriving at certain constants with regard to crime, than the fact which appears in the following table, that the greatest variation which has taken place during the last three years, in the proportion of any class of criminals at the same period of life, has not exceeded a half per cent.' See also _Report of British Association for 1839, Transac. of Sec._, p. 118. Indeed, all writers who have examined the evidence are forced to admit this regularity, however they may wish to explain it. M. Dufau (_Traité de Statistique_, p. 144) says, 'Les faits de l'ordre moral sont, aussi bien que ceux de l'ordre naturel, le produit de causes constantes et régulières,' &c.; and at p. 367, 'C'est ainsi que le monde moral se présente à nous, de ce point de vue, comme offrant, de même que le monde physique, un ensemble continu d'effets dus à des causes constantes et régulières, dont il appartient surtout à la statistique de constater l'action.' See to the same effect _Moreau-Christophe des Prisons en France_, Paris, 1838, pp. 53, 189. Nor is it merely the crimes of men which are marked by this uniformity of sequence. Even the number of marriages annually contracted, is determined, not by the temper and wishes of individuals, but by large general facts, over which individuals can exercise no authority. It is now known that marriages bear a fixed and definite relation to the price of corn;[34] and in England the experience of a century has proved that, instead of having any connexion with personal feelings, they are simply regulated by the average earnings of the great mass of the people:[35] so that this immense social and religious institution is not only swayed, but is completely controlled, by the price of food and by the rate of wages. In other cases, uniformity has been detected, though the causes of the uniformity are still unknown. Thus, to give a curious instance, we are now able to prove that even the aberrations of memory are marked by this general character of necessary and invariable order. The post-offices of London and of Paris have latterly published returns of the number of letters which the writers, through forgetfulness, omitted to direct; and, making allowance for the difference of circumstances, the returns are year after year copies of each other. Year after year the same proportion of letter-writers forget this simple act; so that for each successive period we can actually foretell the number of persons whose memory will fail them in regard to this trifling and, as it might appear, accidental occurrence.[36] [34] 'It is curious to observe how intimate a relation exists between the price of food and the number of marriages.' ... 'The relation that subsists between the price of food and the number of marriages is not confined to our own country; and it is not improbable that, had we the means of ascertaining the facts, we should see the like result in every civilized community. We possess the necessary returns from France; and these fully bear out the view that has been given.' _Porter's Progress of the Nation_, vol. ii. pp. 244, 245, London, 1838. [35] 'The marriage returns of 1850 and 1851 exhibit the excess which since 1750 has been invariably observed when the substantial earnings of the people are above the average.' _Journal of Statistical Society_, vol. xv. p. 185. [36] See _Somerville's Physical Geography_, vol. ii. pp. 409-411, which, says this able writer, proves that 'forgetfulness as well as free will is under constant laws.' But this is using the word 'free will' in a sense different from that commonly employed. To those who have a steady conception of the regularity of events, and have firmly seized the great truth that the actions of men, being guided by their antecedents, are in reality never inconsistent, but, however capricious they may appear, only form part of one vast scheme of universal order, of which we in the present state of knowledge can barely see the outline--to those who understand this, which is at once the key and the basis of history, the facts just adduced, so far from being strange, will be precisely what would have been expected and ought long since to have been known. Indeed, the progress of inquiry is becoming so rapid and so earnest, that I entertain little doubt that before another century has elapsed, the chain of evidence will be complete, and it will be as rare to find an historian who denies the undeviating regularity of the moral world, as it now is to find a philosopher who denies the regularity of the material world. It will be observed, that the preceding proofs of our actions being regulated by law, have been derived from statistics; a branch of knowledge which, though still in its infancy,[37] has already thrown more light on the study of human nature than all the sciences put together. But although the statisticians have been the first to investigate this great subject by treating it according to those methods of reasoning which in other fields have been found successful; and although they have, by the application of numbers, brought to bear upon it a very powerful engine for eliciting truth--we must not, on that account, suppose that there are no other resources remaining by which it may likewise be cultivated: nor should we infer that because the physical sciences have not yet been applied to history, they are therefore inapplicable to it. Indeed, when we consider the incessant contact between man and the external world, it is certain that there must be an intimate connexion between human actions and physical laws; so that if physical science had not hitherto been brought to bear upon history, the reason is, either that historians have not perceived the connexion, or else that, having perceived it, they have been destitute of the knowledge by which its workings can be traced. Hence there has arisen an unnatural separation of the two great departments of inquiry, the study of the internal and that of the external: and although, in the present state of European literature, there are some unmistakable symptoms of a desire to break down this artificial barrier, still it must be admitted that as yet nothing has been actually accomplished towards effecting so great an end. The moralists, the theologians, and the metaphysicians, continue to prosecute their studies without much respect for what they deem the inferior labours of scientific men; whose inquiries, indeed, they frequently attack, as dangerous to the interests of religion, and as inspiring us with an undue confidence in the resources of the human understanding. On the other hand, the cultivators of physical science, conscious that they are an advancing body, are naturally proud of their own success; and, contrasting their discoveries with the more stationary position of their opponents, are led to despise pursuits the barrenness of which has now become notorious. [37] Achenwall, in the middle of the eighteenth century, is usually considered to be the first systematic writer on statistics, and is said to have given them their present name. See _Lewis_, _Methods of Observation and Reasoning in Politics_, 1852, vol. i. p. 72; _Biographie Universelle_, vol. i. p. 140; _Dufau_, _Traité de Statistique_, pp. 9, 10. Even so late as 1800, the Bishop of Llandaff wrote to Sir John Sinclair, 'I must think the kingdom is highly indebted to you for bringing forward a species of knowledge (statistics) wholly new in this country, though not new in other parts of Europe.' _Sinclair's Correspondence_, vol. i. p. 230. Sinclair, notwithstanding his industry, was a man of slender powers, and did not at all understand the real importance of statistics, of which, indeed, he took a mere practical view. Since then statistics have been applied extensively to medicine; and still more recently, and on a smaller scale, to philology and to jurisprudence. Compare _Bouillaud_, _Philosophie Médicale_, pp. 96, 186; _Renouard_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. ii. pp. 474, 475; _Esquirol_, _Maladies Mentales_, vol. ii. pp. 665-667; _Holland's Medical Notes_, pp. 5, 472; _Vogel's Pathological Anatomy_, pp. 15-17; _Simon's Pathology_, p. 180; _Phillips on Scrofula_, pp. 70, 118, &c.; _Prichard's Physical Hist. of Mankind_, vol. iv. p. 414; _Eschbach_, _Etude du Droit_, pp. 392-394. It is the business of the historian to mediate between these two parties, and reconcile their hostile pretensions by showing the point at which their respective studies ought to coalesce. To settle the terms of this coalition, will be to fix the basis of all history. For since history deals with the actions of men, and since their actions are merely the product of a collision between internal and external phenomena, it becomes necessary to examine the relative importance of those phenomena; to inquire into the extent to which their laws are known; and to ascertain the resources for future discovery possessed by these two great classes, the students of the mind and the students of nature. This task I shall endeavour to accomplish in the next two chapters: and if I do so with anything approaching to success, the present work will at least have the merit of contributing something towards filling up that wide and dreary chasm, which, to the hindrance of our knowledge, separates subjects that are intimately related, and should never be disunited. * * * * * NOTE A. 'Der Begriff der Freiheit ist ein reiner Vernunftbegriff, der eben darum für die theoretische Philosophie transcendent, d. i. ein solcher ist, dem kein angemessenes Beispiel in irgend einer möglichen Erfahrung gegeben werden kann, welcher also keinen Gegenstand einer uns möglichen theoretischen Erkenntniss ausmacht, und schlechterdings nicht für ein constitutives, sondern lediglich als regulatives, und zwar nur bloss negatives Princip der speculativen Vernunft gelten kann, im praktischen Gebrauche der selben aber seine Realität durch praktische Grundsätze beweist, die, als Gesetze, eine Causalität der reinen Vernunft, unabhängig von allen empirischen Bedingungen (dem Sinnlichen überhaupt), die Willkühr zu bestimmen, und einen reinen Willen in uns beweisen, in welchem die sittlichen Begriffe und Gesetze ihren Ursprung haben.' _Metaphysik der Sitten_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. v. pp. 20, 21. 'Würden die Gegenstände der Sinnenwelt für Dinge an sich selbst genommen, und die oben angeführten Naturgesetze für Gesetze der Dinge an sich selbst, so wäre der Widerspruch' (_i.e._ between Liberty and Necessity) 'unvermeidlich. Ebenso, wenn das Subject der Freiheit gleich den übrigen Gegenständen als blose Erscheinung vorgestellt würde, so könnte ebensowohl der Widerspruch nicht vermieden werden; denn es würde ebendasselbe von einerlei Gegenständen in derselben Bedeutung zugleich bejaht und verneint werden. Ist aber Naturnothwendigkeit bloss auf Erscheinungen bezogen, und Freiheit bloss auf Dinge an sich selbst, so entspringt kein Widerspruch, wenn man gleich beide Arten von Causalität annimmt oder zugibt, so schwer oder unmöglich es auch sein möchte, die von der letzteren Art begreiflich zu machen.' ... 'Natur also und Freiheit eben demselben Dinge, aber in verschiedener Beziehung, einmal als Erscheinung, das andre Mal als einem Dinge an sich selbst ohne Widerspruch beigelegt werden können.' ... 'Nun kann ich ohne Widerspruch sagen: alle Handlungen vernünftiger Wesen, sofern sie Erscheinungen sind (in irgend einer Erfahrung angetroffen werden), stehen unter der Naturnothwendigkeit; eben dieselben Handlungen aber, bloss respective auf das vernünftige Subject und dessen Vermögen, nach blosser Vernunft zu handeln, sind frei.' _Prolegomena zu jeder künftigen Metaphysik_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. iii. pp. 268-270. 'Denn ein Geschöpf zu sein und als Naturwesen bloss dem Willen seines Urhebers zu folgen; dennoch aber als freihandelndes Wesen (welches seinen vom äusseren Einfluss unabhängigen Willen hat, der dem ersteren vielfältig zuwider sein kann), der Zurechnung fähig zu sein, und seine eigene That doch auch zugleich als die Wirkung eines höheren Wesens anzusehen: ist eine Vereinbarung von Begriffen, die wir zwar in der Idee einer Welt, als des höchsten Gutes, zusammen denken müssen; die aber nur der einsehen kann, welcher bis zur Kenntniss der übersinnlichen (intelligiblen) Welt durchdringt und die Art einsieht, wie sie der Sinnenwelt zum Grunde liegt.' _Theodicee_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. vi. p. 149. 'Nun wollen wir annehmen, die durch unsere Kritik nothwendig gemachte Unterscheidung der Dinge, als Gegenstände der Erfahrung, von eben denselben, als Dingen an sich selbst, wäre gar nicht gemacht, so müsste der Grundsatz der Causalität und mithin der Naturmechanismus in Bestimmung derselben durchaus von allen Dingen überhaupt als wirkenden Ursachen gelten. Von eben demselben Wesen also, z. B. der menschlichen Seele, würde ich nicht sagen können, ihr Wille sei frei, und er sei doch zugleich der Naturnothwendigkeit unterworfen, d. i. nicht frei, ohne in einen offenbaren Widerspruch zu gerathen; weil ich die Seele in beiden Sätzen in eben derselben Bedeutung, nämlich als Ding überhaupt (als Sache an sich selbst), genommen habe und, ohne vorhergehende Kritik, auch nicht anders nehmen konnte. Wenn aber die Kritik nicht geirrt hat, da sie das Object in zweierlei Bedeutung nehmen lehrt, nämlich als Erscheinung, oder als Ding an sich selbst; wenn die Deduction ihrer Verstandesbegriffe richtig ist, mithin auch der Grundsatz der Causalität nur auf Dinge im ersten Sinne genommen, nämlich so fern sie Gegenstände der Erfahrung sind, geht, eben dieselben aber nach der zweiten Bedeutung ihm nicht unterworfen sind, so wird eben derselbe Wille in der Erscheinung (den sichtbaren Handlungen) als dem Naturgesetze nothwendig gemäss und so fern nicht frei, und doch andererseits, als einem Dinge an sich selbst angehörig, jenem nicht unterworfen, mithin als frei gedacht, ohne dass hiebei ein Widerspruch vorgeht.' _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. ii. p. 24. 'Und hier zeigt die zwar gemeine, aber betrügliche Voraussetzung der absoluten Realität der Erscheinungen sogleich ihren nachtheiligen Einfluss, die Vernunft zu verwirren. Denn sind Erscheinungen Dinge an sich selbst, so ist Freiheit nicht zu retten. Alsdann ist Natur die vollständige und an sich hinreichend bestimmende Ursache jeder Begebenheit, und die Bedingung derselben ist jederzeit nur in der Reihe der Erscheinungen enthalten, die sammt ihrer Wirkung unter dem Naturgesetze nothwendig sind. Wenn dagegen Erscheinungen für Nichts mehr gelten, als sie in der That sind, nämlich nicht für Dinge an sich, sondern blosse Vorstellungen, die nach empirischen Gesetzen zusammenhängen, so müssen sie selbst noch Gründe haben, die nicht Erscheinungen sind.' ... 'Hier habe ich nur die Anmerkung machen wollen, dass, da der durchgängige Zusammenhang aller Erscheinungen in einem Context der Natur ein unnachlässliches Gesetz ist, dieses alle Freiheit nothwendig umstürzen müsste, wenn man der Realität der Erscheinungen hartnäckig anhängen wollte. Daher auch diejenigen, welche hierin der gemeinen Meinung folgen, niemals dahin haben gelangen können, Natur und Freiheit mit einander zu vereinigen.' _Kritik_, in _Werke_, vol. ii. pp. 419, 420. Finally, at p. 433, 'Man muss wohl bemerken, dass wir hiedurch nicht die Wirklichkeit der Freiheit, als eines der Vermögen, welche die Ursache von den Erscheinungen unserer Sinnenwelt enthalten, haben darthun wollen. Denn ausser dass dieses gar keine transcendentale Betrachtung, die bloss mit Begriffen zu thun hat, gewesen sein würde, so könnte es auch nicht gelingen, indem wir aus der Erfahrung niemals auf Etwas, was gar nicht nach Erfahrungsgesetzen gedacht werden muss, schliessen können. Ferner haben wir auch gar nicht einmal die Möglichkeit der Freiheit beweisen wollen; denn dieses wäre auch nicht gelungen, weil wir überhaupt von keinem Realgrunde und keiner Causalität aus blossen Begriffen _a priori_ die Möglichkeit erkennen können. Die Freiheit wird hier nur als transcendentale Idee behandelt, wodurch die Vernunft die Reihe der Bedingungen in der Erscheinung durch das sinnlich Unbedingte schlechthin aufzuheben denkt, dabei sich in eine Antinomie mit ihren eigenen Gesetzen, welche sie dem empirischen Gebrauche des Verstandes vorschreibt, verwickelt. Dass nun diese Antinomie auf einem blossen Scheine beruhe, und dass Natur der Causalität aus Freiheit wenigstens nicht widerstreite, das war das Einzige, was wir leisten konnten, und woran es uns auch einzig und allein gelegen war.' These passages prove that Kant saw that the phenomenal reality of Free Will is an indefensible doctrine: and as the present work is an investigation of the laws of phenomena, his transcendental philosophy does not affect my conclusions. According to Kant's view (and with which I am inclined to agree) the ordinary metaphysical and theological treatment of this dark problem is purely empirical, and therefore has no value. The denial of the supremacy of consciousness follows as a natural consequence, and is the result of the Kantian philosophy, and not, as is often said, the base of it. CHAPTER II. INFLUENCE EXERCISED BY PHYSICAL LAWS OVER THE ORGANIZATION OF SOCIETY AND OVER THE CHARACTER OF INDIVIDUALS. If we inquire what those physical agents are by which the human race is most powerfully influenced, we shall find that they may be classed under four heads: namely, Climate, Food, Soil, and the General Aspect of Nature; by which last, I mean those appearances which, though presented chiefly to the sight, have, through the medium of that or other senses, directed the association of ideas, and hence in different countries have given rise to different habits of national thought. To one of these four classes, may be referred all the external phenomena by which Man has been permanently affected. The last of these classes, or what I call the General Aspect of Nature, produces its principal results by exciting the imagination, and by suggesting those innumerable superstitions which are the great obstacles to advancing knowledge. And as, in the infancy of a people, the power of such superstitions is supreme, it has happened that the various Aspects of Nature have caused corresponding varieties in the popular character, and have imparted to the national religion peculiarities which, under certain circumstances, it is impossible to efface. The other three agents, namely, Climate, Food, and Soil, have, so far as we are aware, had no direct influence of this sort; but they have, as I am about to prove, originated the most important consequences in regard to the general organization of society, and from them there have followed many of those large and conspicuous differences between nations, which are often ascribed to some fundamental difference in the various races into which mankind is divided. But while such original distinctions of race are altogether hypothetical,[38] the discrepancies which are caused by difference of climate, food, and soil, are capable of a satisfactory explanation, and, when understood, will be found to clear up many of the difficulties which still obscure the study of history. I purpose, therefore, in the first place, to examine the laws of these three vast agents in so far as they are connected with Man in his social condition; and having traced the working of those laws with as much precision as the present state of physical knowledge will allow, I shall then examine the remaining agent, namely, the General Aspect of Nature, and shall endeavour to point out the most important divergencies to which its variations have, in different countries, naturally given rise. [38] I cordially subscribe to the remark of one of the greatest thinkers of our time, who says of the supposed differences of race, 'of all vulgar modes of escaping from the consideration of the effect of social and moral influences on the human mind, the most vulgar is that of attributing the diversities of conduct and character to inherent natural differences.' _Mill's Principles of Political Economy_, vol. i. p. 390. Ordinary writers are constantly falling into the error of assuming the existence of this difference, which may or may not exist but which most assuredly has never been proved. Some singular instances of this will be found in _Alison's History of Europe_, vol. ii. p. 336, vol. vi. p. 136, vol. viii. pp. 525, 526, vol. xiii. p. 347; where the historian thinks that by a few strokes of his pen he can settle a question of the greatest difficulty, connected with some of the most intricate problems in physiology. On the supposed relation between race and temperament, see _Comte_, _Philosophie Positive_, vol. iii. p. 355. Beginning, then, with climate, food, and soil, it is evident that these three physical powers are in no small degree dependent on each other: that is to say, there is a very close connexion between the climate of a country and the food which will ordinarily be grown in that country; while at the same time the food is itself influenced by the soil which produces it, as also by the elevation or depression of the land, by the state of the atmosphere, and, in a word, by all those conditions to the assemblage of which the name of Physical Geography is, in its largest sense, commonly given.[39] [39] As to the proper limits of physical geography, see _Prichard on Ethnology_, in _Report of the British Association for_ 1847, p. 235. The word 'climate' I always use in the narrow and popular sense. Dr. Forry and many previous writers make it nearly coincide with 'physical geography:' 'Climate constitutes the aggregate of all the external physical circumstances appertaining to each locality in its relation to organic nature.' _Forry's Climate of the United States and its Endemic Influences_, New York, 1842, p. 127. The union between these physical agents being thus intimate, it seems advisable to consider them not under their own separate heads, but rather under the separate heads of the effects produced by their united action. In this way we shall rise at once to a more comprehensive view of the whole question; we shall avoid the confusion that would be caused by artificially separating phenomena which are in themselves inseparable; and we shall be able to see more clearly the extent of that remarkable influence, which, in an early stage of society, the powers of Nature exercise over the fortunes of Man. Of all the results which are produced among a people by their climate, food, and soil, the accumulation of wealth is the earliest, and in many respects the most important. For although the progress of knowledge eventually accelerates the increase of wealth, it is nevertheless certain that, in the first formation of society, the wealth must accumulate before the knowledge can begin. As long as every man is engaged in collecting the materials necessary for his own subsistence, there will be neither leisure nor taste for higher pursuits; no science can possibly be created, and the utmost that can be effected will be an attempt to economise labour by the contrivance of such rude and imperfect instruments as even the most barbarous people are able to invent. In a state of society like this, the accumulation of wealth is the first great step that can be taken, because without wealth there can be no leisure, and without leisure there can be no knowledge. If what a people consume is always exactly equal to what they possess, there will be no residue, and therefore, no capital being accumulated, there will be no means by which the unemployed classes may be maintained.[40] But if the produce is greater than the consumption, an overplus arises, which, according to well-known principles, increases itself, and eventually becomes a fund out of which, immediately or remotely, every one is supported who does not create the wealth upon which he lives. And now it is that the existence of an intellectual class first becomes possible, because for the first time there exists a previous accumulation, by means of which men can use what they did not produce, and are thus enabled to devote themselves to subjects for which at an earlier period the pressure of their daily wants would have left them no time. [40] By unemployed classes, I mean what Adam Smith calls the unproductive classes; and though both expressions are strictly speaking inaccurate, the word 'unemployed' seems to convey more clearly than any other the idea in the text. Thus it is that of all the great social improvements the accumulation of wealth must be the first, because without it there can be neither taste nor leisure for that acquisition of knowledge on which, as I shall hereafter prove, the progress of civilization depends. Now, it is evident that among an entirely ignorant people, the rapidity with which wealth is created will be solely regulated by the physical peculiarities of their country. At a later period, and when the wealth has been capitalized, other causes come into play; but until this occurs, the progress can only depend on two circumstances: first on the energy and regularity with which labour is conducted, and secondly on the returns made to that labour by the bounty of nature. And these two causes are themselves the result of physical antecedents. The returns made to labour are governed by the fertility of the soil, which is itself regulated partly by the admixture of its chemical components, partly by the extent to which, from rivers or from other natural causes, the soil is irrigated, and partly by the heat and humidity of the atmosphere. On the other hand, the energy and regularity with which labour is conducted, will be entirely dependent on the influence of climate. This will display itself in two different ways. The first, which is a very obvious consideration, is, that if the heat is intense, men will be indisposed, and in some degree unfitted, for that active industry which in a milder climate they might willingly have exerted. The other consideration, which has been less noticed, but is equally important, is, that climate influences labour not only by enervating the labourer or by invigorating him, but also by the effect it produces on the regularity of his habits.[41] Thus we find that no people living in a very northern latitude have ever possessed that steady and unflinching industry for which the inhabitants of temperate regions are remarkable. The reason of this becomes clear, when we remember that in the more northern countries the severity of the weather, and, at some seasons, the deficiency of light, render it impossible for the people to continue their usual out-of-door employments. The result is, that the working classes being compelled to cease from their ordinary pursuits, are rendered more prone to desultory habits; the chain of their industry is as it were broken, and they lose that impetus which long-continued and uninterrupted practice never fails to give. Hence there arises a national character more fitful and capricious than that possessed by a people whose climate permits the regular exercise of their ordinary industry. Indeed, so powerful is this principle, that we may perceive its operation even under the most opposite circumstances. It would be difficult to conceive a greater difference in government, laws, religion, and manners, than that which distinguishes Sweden and Norway on the one hand, from Spain and Portugal on the other. But these four countries have one great point in common. In all of them, continued agricultural industry is impracticable. In the two southern countries, labour is interrupted by the heat, by the dryness of the weather, and by the consequent state of the soil. In the two northern countries, the same effect is produced by the severity of the winter and the shortness of the days. The consequence is, that these four nations, though so different in other respects, are all remarkable for a certain instability and fickleness of character; presenting a striking contrast to the more regular and settled habits which are established in countries whose climate subjects the working classes to fewer interruptions, and imposes on them the necessity of a more constant and unremitting employment.[42] [41] This has been entirely neglected by the three most philosophical writers on climate: Montesquieu, Hume, and M. Charles Comte in his _Traité de Législation_. It is also omitted in the remarks of M. Guizot on the influence of climate, _Civilisation en Europe_, p. 97. [42] See the admirable remarks in _Laing's Denmark_, 1852, pp. 204, 366, 367; though Norway appears to be a better illustration than Denmark. In _Rey's Science Sociale_, vol. i. pp. 195, 196, there are some calculations respecting the average loss to agricultural industry caused by changes in the weather; but no notice is taken of the connexion between these changes, when abrupt, and the tone of the national character. These are the great physical causes by which the creation of wealth is governed. There are, no doubt, other circumstances which operate with considerable force, and which, in a more advanced state of society, possess an equal, and sometimes a superior, influence. But this is at a later period; and looking at the history of wealth in its earliest stage, it will be found to depend entirely on soil and climate: the soil regulating the returns made to any given amount of labour; the climate regulating the energy and constancy of the labour itself. It requires but a hasty glance at past events, to prove the immense power of these two great physical conditions. For there is no instance in history of any country being civilized by its own efforts, unless it has possessed one of these conditions in a very favourable form. In Asia, civilization has always been confined to that vast tract where a rich and alluvial soil has secured to man that wealth without some share of which no intellectual progress can begin. This great region extends, with a few interruptions, from the east of Southern China to the western coasts of Asia Minor, of Ph[oe]nicia, and of Palestine. To the north of this immense belt, there is a long line of barren country which has invariably been peopled by rude and wandering tribes, who are kept in poverty by the ungenial nature of the soil, and who, as long as they remained on it, have never emerged from their uncivilized state. How entirely this depends on physical causes, is evident from the fact that these same Mongolian and Tartarian hordes have, at different periods, founded great monarchies in China, in India, and in Persia, and have, on all such occasions, attained a civilization nowise inferior to that possessed by the most nourishing of the ancient kingdoms. For in the fertile plains of Southern Asia,[43] nature has supplied all the materials of wealth; and there it was that these barbarous tribes acquired for the first time some degree of refinement, produced a national literature, and organized a national polity; none of which things they, in their native land, had been able to effect.[44] In the same way, the Arabs in their own country have, owing to the extreme aridity of their soil,[45] always been a rude and uncultivated people; for in their case, as in all others, great ignorance is the fruit of great poverty. But in the seventh century they conquered Persia;[46] in the eighth century they conquered the best part of Spain;[47] in the ninth century they conquered the Punjaub, and eventually nearly the whole of India.[48] Scarcely were they established in their fresh settlements, when their character seemed to undergo a great change. They, who in their original land were little else than roving savages, were now for the first time able to accumulate wealth, and, therefore, for the first time did they make some progress in the arts of civilization. In Arabia they had been a mere race of wandering shepherds;[49] in their new abodes they became the founders of mighty empires--they built cities, endowed schools, collected libraries; and the traces of their power are still to be seen at Cordova, at Bagdad, and at Delhi.[50] Precisely in the same manner, there is adjoining Arabia at the north, and only separated from it elsewhere by the narrow waters of the Red Sea, an immense sandy plain, which, covering the whole of Africa in the same latitude, extends westward until it reaches the shores of the Atlantic.[51] This enormous tract is, like Arabia, a barren waste;[52] and therefore, as in Arabia, the inhabitants have always been entirely uncivilized, acquiring no knowledge, simply because they have accumulated no wealth.[53] But this great desert is, in its eastern part, irrigated by the waters of the Nile, the overflowing of which covers the sand with a rich alluvial deposit, that yields to labour the most abundant, and indeed the most extraordinary, returns.[54] The consequence is, that in that spot, wealth was rapidly accumulated, the cultivation of knowledge quickly followed, and this narrow strip of land[55] became the seat of Egyptian civilization; a civilization which, though grossly exaggerated,[56] forms a striking contrast to the barbarism of the other nations of Africa, none of which have been able to work out their own progress, or emerge, in any degree, from the ignorance to which the penury of nature has doomed them. [43] This expression has been used by different geographers in different senses; but I take it in its common acceptation, without reference to the more strictly physical view of Ritter and his followers in regard to Central Asia. See _Prichard's Physical History of Mankind_, vol. iv. p. 278, edit. 1844. At p. 92, Prichard makes the Himalaya the southern boundary of Central Asia. [44] There is reason to believe that the Tartars of Thibet received even their alphabet from India. See the interesting Essay on Tartarian Coins in _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. iv. pp. 276, 277; and on the Scythian Alphabet, see vol. xii. p. 336. [45] In _Somerville's Physical Geography_, vol. i. p. 132, it is said that in Arabia there are 'no rivers;' but Mr. Wellsted (_Travels in Arabia_, vol. ii. p. 409) mentions one which empties itself into the sea five miles west of Aden. On the streams in Arabia, see _Meiners über die Fruchtbarkeit der Länder_, vol. i. pp. 149, 150. That the sole deficiency is want of irrigation appears from Burckhardt, who says (_Travels in Arabia_, vol. i. p. 240), 'In Arabia, wherever the ground can be irrigated by wells, the sands may be soon made productive.' And for a striking description of one of the oases of Oman, which shows what Arabia might have been with a good river system, see _Journal of Geographical Society_, vol. vii. pp. 106, 107. [46] Mr. Morier (_Journal of Geog. Soc._ vol. vii. p. 230) says, 'the conquest of Persia by the Saracens A.D. 651.' However, the fate of Persia was decided by the battles of Kudseah and Nahavund, which were fought in 638 and 641: see _Malcolm's History of Persia_, vol. i. pp. xvi. 139, 142. [47] In 712. _Hallam's Middle Ages_, vol. i. p. 369. [48] They were established in the Punjaub early in the ninth century, but did not conquer Guzerat and Malwa until five hundred years later. Compare Wilson's note in the _Vishnu Purana_, pp. 481, 482, with _Asiatic Researches_, vol. ix. pp. 187, 188, 203. On their progress in the more southern part of the Peninsula, see _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. iii. pp. 222, 223, vol. iv. pp. 28-30. [49] 'A race of pastoral barbarians.' _Dickinson on the Arabic Language_, in _Journal of Asiat. Society_, vol. v. p. 323. Compare _Reynier_, _Economie des Arabes_, pp. 27, 28; where, however, a very simple question is needlessly complicated. The old Persian writers bestowed on them the courteous appellation of 'a band of naked lizard-eaters.' _Malcolm's Hist. of Persia_, vol. i. p. 133. Indeed, there are few things in history better proved than the barbarism of a people whom some writers wish to invest with a romantic interest. The eulogy passed on them by Meiners is rather suspicious, for he concludes by saying, 'die Eroberungen der Araber waren höchst selten so blutig und zerstörend, als die Eroberungen der Tataren, Persen, Türken, u.s.w. in ältern und neuern Zeiten waren.' _Fruchtbarkeit der Länder_, vol. i. p. 153. If this is the best that can be said, the comparison with Tartars and Turks does not prove much; but it is singular that this learned author should have forgotten a passage in Diodorus Siculus which gives a pleasant description of them nineteen centuries ago on the eastern side: _Bibliothec. Hist._ lib. ii. vol. ii. p. 137. [Greek: echousi de bion lêstrikon, kai pollên tês homorou chôras katatrechontes lêsteuousin], &c. [50] The only branch of knowledge which the Arabians ever raised to a science was astronomy, which began to be cultivated under the caliphs about the middle of the eighth century, and went on improving until 'la ville de Bagdad fut, pendant le dixième siècle, le théâtre principal de l'astronomie chez les orientaux.' _Montucla_, _Histoire des Mathématiques_, vol. i. pp. 355, 364. The old Pagan Arabs, like most barbarous people living in a clear atmosphere, had such an empirical acquaintance with the celestial phenomena as was used for practical purposes; but there is no evidence to justify the common opinion that they studied this subject as a science. Dr. Dorn (_Transactions of the Asiatic Society_, vol. ii. p. 371) says, 'of a scientific knowledge of astronomy among them no traces can be discovered.' Beausobre (_Histoire de Manichée_, vol. i. p. 20) is quite enthusiastic about the philosophy of the Arabs in the time of Pythagoras! and he tells us, that 'ces peuples out toujours cultivé les sciences.' To establish this fact, he quotes a long passage from a life of Mohammed written early in the eighteenth century by Boulainvilliers, whom he calls, 'un des plus beaux génies de France.' If this is an accurate description, those who have read the works of Boulainvilliers will think that France was badly off for men of genius; and as to his life of Mohammed, it is little better than a romance: the author was ignorant of Arabic, and knew nothing which had not been already communicated by Maracci and Pococke. See _Biographie Universelle_, vol. v. p. 321. In regard to the later Arabian astronomers, one of their great merits was to approximate to the value of the annual precession much closer than Ptolemy had done. See _Grant's History of Physical Astronomy_, 1852, p. 319. [51] Indeed it goes beyond it: 'the trackless sands of the Sahara desert, which is even prolonged for miles into the Atlantic Ocean in the form of sandbanks.' _Somerville's Physical Geography_, vol. i. p. 149. For a singular instance of one of these sandbanks being formed into an island, see _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. ii. p. 284. The Sahara desert, exclusive of Bornou and Darfour, covers an area of 194,000 square leagues; that is, nearly three times the size of France, or twice the size of the Mediterranean. Compare _Lyell's Geology_, p. 694, with _Somerville's Connexion of the Sciences_, p. 294. As to the probable southern limits of the plateau of the Sahara, see _Richardson's Mission to Central Africa_, 1853, vol. ii. pp. 146, 156; and as to the part of it adjoining the Mandingo country, see _Mungo Park's Travels_, vol. i. pp. 237, 238. Respecting the country south of Mandara, some scanty information was collected by Denham in the neighbourhood of Lake Tchad. _Denham's Northern and Central Africa_, pp. 121, 122, 144-146. [52] Richardson, who travelled through it south of Tripoli, notices its 'features of sterility, of unconquerable barrenness.' _Richardson's Sahara_, 1848, vol. i. p. 86; and see the striking picture at p. 409. The long and dreary route from Mourzouk to Yeou, on Lake Tchad, is described by Denham, one of the extremely few Europeans who have performed that hazardous journey. _Denham's Central Africa_, pp. 2-60. Even on the shore of the Tchad there is hardly any vegetation, 'a coarse grass and a small bell-flower being the only plants that I could discover,' p. 90. Compare his remark on Bornou, p. 317. The condition of part of the desert in the fourteenth century is described in the _Travels of Ibn Batuta_, p. 233, which should be compared with the account given by Diodorus Siculus of the journey of Alexander to the temple of Ammon. _Bibliothec. Historic._ lib. xvii. vol. vii. p. 348. [53] Richardson, who travelled in 1850 from Tripoli to within a few days of Lake Tchad, was struck by the stationary character of the people. He says, 'neither in the desert nor in the kingdoms of Central Africa is there any march of civilization. All goes on according to a certain routine established for ages past.' _Mission to Central Africa_, vol. i. pp. 304, 305. See similar remarks in _Pallme's Travels in Kordofan_, pp. 108, 109. [54] Abd-Allatif, who was in Egypt early in the thirteenth century, gives an interesting account of the rising of the Nile, to which Egypt owes its fertility. _Abd-Allatif_, _Relation de l'Egypte_, pp. 329-340, 374-376, and Appendix, p. 504. See also on these periodical inundations. _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. iv. pp. 101-104; and on the half-astronomical half theological notions connected with them, pp. 372-377, vol. v. pp. 291, 292. Compare on the religious importance of the Nile _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. i. p. 409. The expression, therefore, of Herodotus (book ii. chap. v. vol. i. p. 484), [Greek: dôron tou potamou] is true in a much larger sense than he intended; since to the Nile Egypt owes all the physical peculiarities which distinguish it from Arabia and the great African desert. Compare _Heeren's African Nations_, vol. ii. p. 58; _Reynier_, _Economie des Arabes_, p. 3; _Postan's on the Nile and Indus_, in _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. vii. p. 275; and on the difference between the soil of the Nile and that of the surrounding desert, see _Volney_, _Voyage en Syrie et en Egypte_, vol. i. p. 14. [55] 'The average breadth of the valley from one mountain-range to the other, between Cairo in Lower, and Edfoo in Upper Egypt, is only about seven miles; and that of the cultivable land, whose limits depend on the inundation, scarcely exceeds five and a half.' _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. i. p. 216. According to Gerard, 'the mean width of the valley between Syene and Cairo is about nine miles.' Note in _Heeren's African Nations_, vol. ii. p. 62. [56] I will give one instance of this from an otherwise sensible writer, and a man too of considerable learning: 'As to the physical knowledge of the Egyptians, their cotemporaries gave them credit for the astonishing power of their magic; and as we cannot suppose that the instances recorded in Scripture were to be attributed to the exertion of supernatural powers, we must conclude that they were in possession of a more intimate knowledge of the laws and combinations of nature than what is professed by the most learned men of the present age.' _Hamilton's �gyptiaca_, pp. 61, 62. It is a shame that such nonsense should be written in the nineteenth century: and yet a still more recent author (_Vyse on the Pyramids_, vol. i. p. 28) assures us that 'the Egyptians, for especial purposes, were endowed with great wisdom and science.' Science properly so called, the Egyptians had none; and as to their wisdom, it was considerable enough to distinguish them from barbarous nations like the old Hebrews, but it was inferior to that of the Greeks, and it was of course immeasurably below that of modern Europe. These considerations clearly prove that of the two primary causes of civilization, the fertility of the soil is the one which in the ancient world exercised most influence. But in European civilization, the other great cause, that is to say, climate, has been the most powerful; and this, as we have seen, produces an effect partly on the capacity of the labourer for work, partly on the regularity or irregularity of his habits. The difference in the result has curiously corresponded with the difference in the cause. For, although all civilization must have for its antecedent the accumulation of wealth, still what subsequently occurs will be in no small degree determined by the conditions under which the accumulation took place. In Asia, and in Africa, the condition was a fertile soil, causing an abundant return; in Europe, it was a happier climate, causing more successful labour. In the former case, the effect depends on the relation between the soil and its produce; in other words, the mere operation of one part of external nature upon another. In the latter case, the effect depends on the relation between the climate and the labourer; that is, the operation of external nature not upon itself, but upon man. Of these two classes of relations, the first, being the less complicated, is the less liable to disturbance, and therefore came sooner into play. Hence it is, that, in the march of civilization, the priority is unquestionably due to the most fertile parts of Asia and Africa. But although their civilization was the earliest, it was very far, indeed, from being the best or most permanent. Owing to circumstances which I shall presently state, the only progress which is really effective depends, not upon the bounty of nature, but upon the energy of man. Therefore it is, that the civilization of Europe, which, in its earliest stage, was governed by climate, has shown a capacity of development unknown to those civilizations which were originated by soil. For the powers of nature, notwithstanding their apparent magnitude, are limited and stationary; at all events, we have not the slightest proof that they have ever increased, or that they will ever be able to increase. But the powers of man, so far as experience and analogy can guide us, are unlimited; nor are we possessed of any evidence which authorizes us to assign even an imaginary boundary at which the human intellect will, of necessity, be brought to a stand. And as this power which the mind possesses of increasing its own resources, is a peculiarity confined to man, and one eminently distinguishing him from what is commonly called external nature, it becomes evident that the agency of climate, which gives him wealth by stimulating his labour, is more favourable to his ultimate progress than the agency of soil, which likewise gives him wealth, but which does so, not by exciting his energies, but by virtue of a mere physical relation between the character of the soil and the quantity or value of the produce that it almost spontaneously affords. Thus far as to the different ways in which climate and soil affect the creation of wealth. But another point of equal, or perhaps of superior, importance remains behind. After the wealth has been created, a question arises as to how it is to be distributed; that is to say, what proportion is to go to the upper classes, and what to the lower. In an advanced stage of society, this depends upon several circumstances of great complexity, and which it is not necessary here to examine.[57] But in a very early stage of society, and before its later and refined complications have begun, it may, I think, be proved that the distribution of wealth is, like its creation, governed entirely by physical laws; and that those laws are moreover so active as to have invariably kept a vast majority of the inhabitants of the fairest portion of the globe in a condition of constant and inextricable poverty. If this can be demonstrated, the immense importance of such laws is manifest. For since wealth is an undoubted source of power, it is evident that, supposing other things equal, an inquiry into the distribution of wealth is an inquiry into the distribution of power, and, as such, will throw great light on the origin of those social and political inequalities, the play and opposition of which form a considerable part of the history of every civilized country. [57] Indeed many of them are still unknown; for, as M. Rey justly observes, most writers pay too exclusive an attention to the production of wealth, and neglect the laws of its distribution. _Rey_, _Science Sociale_, vol. iii. p. 271. In confirmation of this, I may mention the theory of rent, which was only discovered about half a century ago, and which is connected with so many subtle arguments that it is not yet generally adopted; and even some of its advocates have shown themselves unequal to defending their own cause. The great law of the ratio between the cost of labour and the profits of stock, is the highest generalization we have reached respecting the distribution of wealth; but it cannot be consistently admitted by anyone who holds that rent enters into price. If we take a general view of this subject, we may say that after the creation and accumulation of wealth have once fairly begun, it will be distributed among two classes, those who labour, and those who do not labour; the latter being, as a class, the more able, the former the more numerous. The fund by which both classes are supported is immediately created by the lower class, whose physical energies are directed, combined, and as it were economized, by the superior skill of the upper class. The reward of the workmen is called their wages; the reward of the contrivers is called their profits. At a later period, there will arise what may be called the saving class; that is, a body of men who neither contrive nor work, but lend their accumulations to those who contrive, and in return for the loan, receive a part of that reward which belongs to the contriving class. In this case, the members of the saving class are rewarded for their abstinence in refraining from spending their accumulations, and this reward is termed the interest of their money; so that there is made a threefold division--Interest, Profits, and Wages. But this is a subsequent arrangement, which can only take place to any extent when wealth has been considerably accumulated; and in the stage of society we are now considering, this third, or saving class, can hardly be said to have a separate existence.[58] For our present purpose, therefore, it is enough to ascertain what those natural laws are, which, as soon as wealth is accumulated, regulate the proportion in which it is distributed to the two classes of labourers and employers. Now, it is evident that wages being the price paid for labour, the rate of wages must, like the price of all other commodities, vary according to the changes in the market. If the supply of labourers outstrips the demand, wages will fall; if the demand exceeds the supply, they will rise. Supposing, therefore, that in any country there is a given amount of wealth to be divided between employers and workmen, every increase in the number of the workmen will tend to lessen the average reward each can receive. And if we set aside those disturbing causes by which all general views are affected, it will be found that, in the long-run, the question of wages is a question of population; for although the total sum of the wages actually paid depends upon the largeness of the fund from which they are drawn, still the amount of wages received by each man must diminish as the claimants increase, unless, owing to other circumstances, the fund itself should so advance as to keep pace with the greater demands made upon it.[59] [58] In a still more advanced stage, there is a fourth division of wealth, and part of the produce of labour is absorbed by rent. This, however, is not an element of price, but a consequence of it; and in the ordinary march of affairs, considerable time must elapse before it can begin. Rent, in the proper sense of the word, is the price paid for using the natural and indestructible powers of the soil, and must not be confused with rent commonly so called; for this last also includes the profits of stock. I notice this, because several of the opponents of Ricardo have placed the beginning of rent too early, by overlooking the fact that apparent rent is very often profits disguised. [59] 'Wages depend, then, on the proportion between the number of the labouring population, and the capital or other funds devoted to the purchase of labour; we will say, for shortness, the capital. If wages are higher at one time or place than at another, if the subsistence and comfort of the class of hired labourers are more ample, it is, and can be, for no other reason than because capital bears a greater proportion to population. It is not the absolute amount of accumulation or of production that is of importance to the labouring class; it is not the amount even of the funds destined for distribution among the labourers; it is the proportion between those funds and the numbers among whom they are shared. The condition of the class can be bettered in no other way than by altering that proportion to their advantage; and every scheme for their benefit which does not proceed on this as its foundation, is, for all permanent purposes, a delusion.' _Mill's Principles of Political Economy_, 1849, vol. i. p. 425. See also vol. ii. pp. 264, 265, and _M'Culloch's Political Economy_, pp. 379, 380. Ricardo, in his _Essay on the Influence of a Low Price of Corn_, has stated, with his usual terseness, the three possible forms of this question: 'The rise or fall of wages is common to all states of society, whether it be the stationary, the advancing, or the retrograde state. In the stationary state, it is regulated wholly by the increase or falling-off of the population. In the advancing state, it depends on whether the capital or the population advance at the more rapid course. In the retrograde state, it depends on whether population or capital decrease with the greater rapidity.' _Ricardo's Works_, p. 379. To know the circumstances most favourable to the increase of what may be termed the wages-fund is a matter of great moment, but is one with which we are not immediately concerned. The question we have now before us, regards not the accumulation of wealth, but its distribution; and the object is, to ascertain what those physical conditions are, which, by encouraging a rapid growth of population, over-supply the labour market, and thus keep the average rate of wages at a very low point. Of all the physical agents by which the increase of the labouring classes is affected, that of food is the most active and universal. If two countries, equal in all other respects, differ solely in this--that in one the national food is cheap and abundant, and in the other scarce and dear, the population of the former country will inevitably increase more rapidly than the population of the latter.[60] And, by a parity of reasoning, the average rate of wages will be lower in the former than in the latter, simply because the labour-market will be more amply stocked.[61] An inquiry, therefore, into the physical laws on which the food of different countries depends, is, for our present purpose, of the greatest importance; and fortunately it is one respecting which we are able, in the present state of chemistry and physiology, to arrive at some precise and definite conclusions. [60] The standard of comfort being of course supposed the same. [61] 'No point is better established, than that the supply of labourers will always ultimately be in proportion to the means of supporting them.' _Principles of Political Economy_, chap. xxi. in _Ricardo's Works_, p. 176. Compare _Smith's Wealth of Nations_, book i. chap. xi. p. 86, and _M'Culloch's Political Economy_, p. 222. The food consumed by man produces two, and only two, effects necessary to his existence. These are, first to supply him with that animal heat without which the functions of life would stop; and secondly, to repair the waste constantly taking place in his tissues, that is, in the mechanism of his frame. For each of these separate purposes there is a separate food. The temperature of our body is kept up by substances which contain no nitrogen, and are called non-azotized; the incessant decay in our organism is repaired by what are known as azotized substances, in which nitrogen is always found.[62] In the former case, the carbon of non-azotized food combines with the oxygen we take in, and gives rise to that internal combustion by which our animal heat is renewed. In the latter case, nitrogen having little affinity for oxygen,[63] the nitrogenous or azotized food is, as it were, guarded against combustion;[64] and being thus preserved, is able to perform its duty of repairing the tissues, and supplying those losses which the human organism constantly suffers in the wear and tear of daily life. [62] The division of food into azotized and non-azotized is said to have been first pointed out by Magendie. See _Müller's Physiology_, vol. i. p. 525. It is now recognised by most of the best authorities. See, for instance, _Liebig's Animal Chemistry_, p. 134; _Carpenter's Human Physiology_, p. 685; _Brande's Chemistry_, vol. ii. pp. 1218, 1870. The first tables of food constructed according to it were by Boussingault; see an elaborate essay by Messrs. Lawes and Gilbert on _The Composition of Foods_, in _Report of British Association for 1852_, p. 323: but the experiments made by these gentlemen are neither numerous nor diversified enough to establish a general law; still less can we accept their singular assertion, p. 346, that the comparative prices of different foods are a test of the nutriment they comparatively contain. [63] 'Of all the elements of the animal body, nitrogen has the feeblest attraction for oxygen; and, what is still more remarkable, it deprives all combustible elements with which it combines, to a greater or less extent, of the power of combining with oxygen, that is, of undergoing combustion.' _Liebig's Letters on Chemistry_, p. 372. [64] The doctrine of what may be called the protecting power of some substances is still imperfectly understood, and until late in the eighteenth century, its existence was hardly suspected. It is now known to be connected with the general theory of poisons. See _Turner's Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 516. To this we must probably ascribe the fact that several poisons which are fatal when applied to a wounded surface, may be taken into the stomach with impunity. _Brodie's Physiological Researches_, 1851, pp. 137, 138. It seems more reasonable to refer this to chemical laws than to hold, with Sir Benjamin Brodie, that some poisons 'destroy life by paralysing the muscles of respiration without immediately affecting the action of the heart.' These are the two great divisions of food;[65] and if we inquire into the laws which regulate the relation they bear to man, we shall find that in each division the most important agent is climate. When men live in a hot country, their animal heat is more easily kept up than when they live in a cold one; therefore they require a smaller amount of that non-azotized food, the sole business of which is to maintain at a certain point the temperature of the body. In the same way, they, in the hot country, require a smaller amount of azotized food, because on the whole their bodily exertions are less frequent, and on that account the decay of their tissues is less rapid.[66] [65] Prout's well-known division into saccharine, oily, and albuminous, appears to me of much inferior value, though I observe that it is adopted in the last edition of _Elliotson's Human Physiology_, pp. 65, 160. The division by M. Lepelletier into 'les alimens solides et les boissons' is of course purely empirical. _Lepelletier_, _Physiologie Médicale_, vol. ii. p. 100, Paris, 1832. In regard to Prout's classification, compare _Burdach's Traité de Physiologie_, vol. ix. p. 240, with _Wagner's Physiology_, p. 452. [66] The evidence of an universal connexion in the animal frame between exertion and decay, is now almost complete. In regard to the muscular system, see _Carpenter's Human Physiology_, pp. 440, 441, 581, edit. 1846: 'there is strong reason to believe the waste or decomposition of the muscular tissue to be in exact proportion to the degree in which it is exerted.' This perhaps would be generally anticipated even in the absence of direct proof; but what is more interesting, is that the same principle holds good of the nervous system. The human brain of an adult contains about one and a half per cent of phosphorus; and it has been ascertained, that after the mind has been much exercised, phosphates are excreted, and that in the case of inflammation of the brain their excretion (by the kidneys) is very considerable. See _Paget's Lectures on Surgical Pathology_, 1853, vol. i. pp. 6, 7, 434; _Carpenter's Human Physiology_, pp. 192, 193, 222; _Simon's Animal Chemistry_, vol. ii. p. 426; _Henle_, _Anatomie Générale_, vol. ii. p. 172. The reader may also consult respecting the phosphorus of the brain the recent very able work of MM. Robin et Verdeil, _Chimie Anatomique_, vol. i. p. 215, vol. ii. p. 348, Paris, 1853. According to these writers (vol. iii. p. 445), its existence in the brain was first announced by Hensing, in 1779. Since, therefore, the inhabitants of hot climates do, in their natural and ordinary state, consume less food than the inhabitants of cold ones, it inevitably follows that, provided other things remain equal, the growth of population will be more rapid in countries which are hot than in those which are cold. For practical purposes, it is immaterial whether the greater plenty of a substance by which the people are fed arises from a larger supply, or whether it arises from a smaller consumption. When men eat less, the result will be just the same as if they had more; because the same amount of nutriment will go farther, and thus population will gain a power of increasing more quickly than it could do in a colder country, where, even if provisions were equally abundant, they, owing to the climate, would be sooner exhausted. This is the first point of view in which the laws of climate are, through the medium of food, connected with the laws of population, and therefore with the laws of the distribution of wealth. But there is also another point of view, which follows the same line of thought, and will be found to strengthen the argument just stated. This is, that in cold countries, not only are men compelled to eat more than in hot ones, but their food is dearer, that is to say, to get it is more difficult, and requires a greater expenditure of labour. The reason of this I will state as briefly as possible, without entering into any details beyond those which are absolutely necessary for a right understanding of this interesting subject. The objects of food are, as we have seen, only two: namely, to keep up the warmth of the body, and repair the waste in the tissues.[67] Of these two objects, the former is effected by the oxygen of the air entering our lungs, and, as it travels through the system, combining with the carbon which we take in our food.[68] This combination of oxygen and carbon never can occur without producing a considerable amount of heat, and it is in this way that the human frame is maintained at its necessary temperature.[69] By virtue of a law familiar to chemists, carbon and oxygen, like all other elements, will only unite in certain definite proportions;[70] so that to keep up a healthy balance, it is needful that the food which contains the carbon should vary according to the amount of oxygen taken in: while it is equally needful that we should increase the quantity of both of these constituents whenever a greater external cold lowers the temperature of the body. Now it is obvious that in a very cold climate, this necessity of providing a nutriment more highly carbonized will arise in two distinct ways. In the first place, the air being denser, men imbibe at each inspiration a greater volume of oxygen than they would do in a climate where the air is rarefied by heat.[71] In the second place, cold accelerates their respiration, and thus obliging them to inhale more frequently than the inhabitants of hot countries, increases the amount of oxygen which they on an average take in.[72] On both these grounds the consumption of oxygen becomes greater: it is therefore requisite that the consumption of carbon should also be greater; since by the union of these two elements in certain definite proportions, the temperature of the body and the balance of the human frame can alone be maintained.[73] [67] Though both objects are equally essential, the former is usually the more pressing; and it has been ascertained by experiment, what we should expect from theory, that when animals are starved to death, there is a progressive decline in the temperature of their bodies; so that the proximate cause of death by starvation is not weakness, but cold. See _Williams's Principles of Medicine_, p. 36; and on the connexion between the loss of animal heat and the appearance of _rigor mortis_ in the contractile parts of the body, see _Vogel's Pathological Anatomy of the Human Body_, p. 532. Compare the important and thoughtful work of Burdach, _Physiologie comme Science d'Observation_, vol. v. pp. 144, 436, vol. ix. p. 231. [68] Until the last twenty or five-and-twenty years, it used to be supposed that this combination took place in the lungs; but more careful experiments have made it probable that the oxygen unites with the carbon in the circulation, and that the blood-corpuscules are the carriers of the oxygen. Compare _Liebig's Animal Chemistry_, p. 78; _Letters on Chemistry_, pp. 335, 336; _Turner's Chemistry_, vol. ii. p. 1319; _Müller's Physiology_, vol. i. pp. 92, 159. That the combination does not take place in the air-cells is moreover proved by the fact that the lungs are not hotter than other parts of the body. See _Müller_, vol. i. p. 348; _Thomson's Animal Chemistry_, p. 633; and _Brodie's Physiol. Researches_, p. 33. Another argument in favour of the red corpuscules being the carriers of oxygen, is that they are most abundant in those classes of the vertebrata which maintain the highest temperature; while the blood of invertebrata contains very few of them; and it has been doubted if they even exist in the lower articulata and mollusca. See _Carpenter's Human Physiol._ pp. 109, 532; _Grant's Comparative Anatomy_, p. 472; _Elliotson's Human Physiol._ p. 159. In regard to the different dimensions of corpuscules, see _Henle_, _Anatomie Générale_, vol. i. pp. 457-467, 494, 495; _Blainville_, _Physiologie Comparée_, vol. i. pp. 298, 299, 301-304; _Milne Edwards_, _Zoologie_, part i. pp. 54-56; _Fourth Report of British Association_, pp. 117, 118; _Simon's Animal Chemistry_, vol. i. pp. 103, 104; and, above all, the important observations of Mr. Gulliver (_Carpenter_, pp. 105, 106). These additions to our knowledge, besides being connected with the laws of animal heat and of nutrition, will, when generalized, assist speculative minds in raising pathology to a science. In the mean time I may mention the relation between an examination of the corpuscules and the theory of inflammation which Hunter and Broussais were unable to settle: this is, that the proximate cause of inflammation is the obstruction of the vessels by the adhesion of the pale corpuscules. Respecting this striking generalization, which is still on its trial, compare _Williams's Principles of Medicine_, 1848, pp. 258-265, with _Paget's Surgical Pathology_, 1853, vol. i. pp. 313-317; _Jones and Sieveking's Pathological Anatomy_, 1854, pp. 28, 105, 106. The difficulties connected with the scientific study of inflammation are evaded in _Vogel's Pathological Anatomy_, p. 418; a work which appears to me to have been greatly overrated. [69] On the amount of heat disengaged by the union of carbon and oxygen, see the experiments of Dulong, in _Liebig's Animal Chemistry_, p. 44; and those of Despretz, in _Thomson's Animal Chemistry_, p. 634. Just in the same way, we find that the temperature of plants is maintained by the combination of oxygen with carbon: see _Balfour's Botany_, pp. 231, 232, 322, 323. As to the amount of heat caused generally by chemical combination, there is an essay well worth reading by Dr. Thomas Andrews in _Report of British Association for 1849_, pp. 63-78. See also _Report for 1852, Transac. of Sec._ p. 40, and _Liebig and Kopp's Reports on the Progress of Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 34, vol. iii. p. 16, vol. iv. p. 20; also _Pouillet_, _Elémens de Physique_, Paris, 1832, vol. i. part i. p. 411. [70] The law of definite proportions, which, since the brilliant discoveries by Dalton, is the corner-stone of chemical knowledge, is laid down with admirable clearness in _Turner's Elements of Chemistry_, vol. i. pp. 146-151. Compare _Brande's Chemistry_, vol. i. pp. 139-144; _Cuvier_, _Progrès des Sciences_, vol. ii. p. 255; _Somerville's Connexion of the Sciences_, pp. 120, 121. But none of these writers have considered the law so philosophically as M. A. Comte, _Philosophie Positive_, vol. iii. pp. 133-176, one of the best chapters in his very profound, but ill-understood work. [71] 'Ainsi, dans des temps égaux, la quantité d'oxygène consommée par le même animal est d'autant plus grande que la température ambiante est moins élevée.' _Robin et Verdeil_, _Chimie Anatomique_, vol. ii. p. 44. Compare _Simon's Lectures on Pathology_, 1850, p. 188, for the diminished quantity of respiration in a high temperature; though one may question Mr. Simon's inference that _therefore_ the blood is more venous in hot countries than in cold ones. This is not making allowance for the difference of diet, which corrects the difference of temperature. [72] 'The consumption of oxygen in a given time may be expressed by the number of respirations.' _Liebig's Letters on Chemistry_, p. 314; and see _Thomson's Animal Chemistry_, p. 611. It is also certain that exercise increases the number of respirations; and birds, which are the most active of all animals, consume more oxygen than any others. _Milne Edwards_, _Zoologie_, part i. p. 88, part ii. p. 371; _Flourens_, _Travaux de Cuvier_, pp. 153, 154, 265, 266. Compare, on the connexion between respiration and the locomotive organs, _Beclard_, _Anatomie Générale_, pp. 39, 44; _Burdach_, _Traité de Physiologie_, vol. ix. pp. 485, 556-559; _Carus's Comparative Anatomy_, vol. i. pp. 99, 164, 358, vol. ii. pp. 142, 160; _Grant's Comparative Anatomy_, pp. 455, 495, 522, 529, 537; _Rymer Jones's Animal Kingdom_, pp. 369, 440, 692, 714, 720; _Owen's Invertebrata_, pp. 322, 345, 386, 505. Thus too it has been experimentally ascertained, that in human beings exercise increases the amount of carbonic-acid gas. _Mayo's Human Physiology_, p. 64; _Liebig and Kopp's Reports_, vol. iii. p. 359. If we now put these facts together, their bearing on the propositions in the text will become evident; because, on the whole, there is more exercise taken in cold climates than in hot ones, and there must therefore be an increased respiratory action. For proof that greater exercise is both taken and required, compare _Wrangel's Polar Expedition_, pp. 79, 102; _Richardson's Arctic Expedition_, vol. i. p. 385; _Simpson's North Coast of America_, pp. 49,88, which should be contrasted with the contempt for such amusements in hot countries. Indeed, in polar regions all this is so essential to preserve a normal state, that scurvy can only be kept off in the northern part of the American continent by taking considerable exercise: see _Crantz_, _History of Greenland_, vol. i. pp. 46, 62, 338. [73] See the note at the end of this chapter. Proceeding from these chemical and physiological principles, we arrive at the conclusion, that the colder the country is in which a people live, the more highly carbonized will be their food. And this, which is a purely scientific inference, has been verified by actual experiment. The inhabitants of the polar regions consume large quantities of whale-oil and blubber; while within the tropics such food would soon put an end to life, and therefore the ordinary diet consists almost entirely of fruit, rice, and other vegetables. Now it has been ascertained by careful analysis, that in the polar food there is an excess of carbon; in the tropical food an excess of oxygen. Without entering into details, which to the majority of readers would be distasteful, it may be said generally, that the oils contain about six times as much carbon as the fruits, and that they have in them very little oxygen;[74] while starch, which is the most universal, and, in reference to nutrition, the most important constituent in the vegetable world,[75] is nearly half oxygen.[76] [74] 'The fruits used by the inhabitants of southern climes do not contain, in a fresh state, more than 12 per cent. of carbon; while the blubber and train-oil which feed the inhabitants of polar regions contain 66 to 80 per cent. of that element.' _Liebig's Letters on Chemistry_, p. 320; see also p. 375, and _Turner's Chemistry_, vol. ii. p. 1315. According to Prout (_Mayo's Human Physiol._ p. 136), 'the proportion of carbon in oily bodies varies from about 60 to 80 per cent.' The quantity of oil and fat habitually consumed in cold countries is remarkable. Wrangel (_Polar Expedition_, p. 21) says of the tribes in the north-east of Siberia, 'fat is their greatest delicacy. They eat it in every possible shape; raw, melted, fresh, or spoilt.' See also _Simpson's Discoveries on the North Coast of America_, pp. 147, 404. [75] 'So common, that no plant is destitute of it.' _Lindley's Botany_, vol. i. p. 111; and at p. 121, 'starch is the most common of all vegetable productions.' Dr. Lindley adds (vol. i. p. 292), that it is difficult to distinguish the grains of starch secreted by plants from cytoblasts. See also on the starch-granules, first noticed by M. Link, _Reports on Botany by the Ray Society_, pp. 223, 370; and respecting its predominance in the vegetable world, compare _Thomson's Chemistry of Vegetables_, pp. 650-652, 875; _Brande's Chemistry_, vol. ii. p. 1160; _Turner's Chemistry_, vol. ii. p. 1236; _Liebig and Kopp's Reports_, vol. ii. pp. 97, 98, 122. [76] The oxygen is 49.39 out of 100. See the table in _Liebig's Letters on Chemistry_, p. 379. Amidin, which is the soluble part of starch, contains 53.33 per cent. of oxygen. See _Thomson's Chemistry of Vegetables_, p. 654, on the authority of Prout, who has the reputation of being an accurate experimenter. The connexion between this circumstance and the subject before us is highly curious: for it is a most remarkable fact, and one to which I would call particular attention, that owing to some more general law, of which we are ignorant, highly carbonized food is more costly than food in which comparatively little carbon is found. The fruits of the earth, of which oxygen is the most active principle, are very abundant; they may be obtained without danger, and almost without trouble. But that highly carbonized food, which in a very cold climate is absolutely necessary to life, is not produced in so facile and spontaneous a manner. It is not, like vegetables, thrown up by the soil; but it consists of the fat, the blubber, and the oil[77] of powerful and ferocious animals. To procure it, man must incur great risk and expend great labour. And although this is undoubtedly a contrast of extreme cases, still it is evident that the nearer a people approach to either extremity, the more subject will they be to the conditions by which that extremity is governed. It is evident that, as a general rule, the colder a country is, the more its food will be carbonized; the warmer it is, the more its food will be oxidized.[78] At the same time, carbonized food, being chiefly drawn from the animal world, is more difficult to obtain than oxidized food, which is drawn from the vegetable world.[79] The result has been that among nations where the coldness of the climate renders a highly carbonized diet essential, there is for the most part displayed, even in the infancy of society, a bolder and more adventurous character, than we find among those other nations whose ordinary nutriment, being highly oxidized, is easily obtained, and indeed is supplied to them, by the bounty of nature, gratuitously and without a struggle.[80] From this original divergence there follow many other consequences, which, however, I am not now concerned to trace; my present object being merely to point out how this difference of food affects the proportion in which wealth is distributed to the different classes. [77] Of which a single whale will yield 'cent vingt tonneaux.' _Cuvier_, _Règne Animal_, vol. i. p. 297. In regard to the solid food, Sir J. Richardson (_Arctic Expedition_, 1851, vol. i. p. 243) says that the inhabitants of the Arctic regions only maintain themselves by chasing whales and 'consuming blubber.' [78] It is said, that to keep a person in health, his food, even in the temperate parts of Europe, should contain 'a full eighth more carbon in winter than in summer.' _Liebig's Animal Chemistry_, p. 16. [79] The most highly carbonized of all foods are undoubtedly yielded by animals; the most highly oxidized by vegetables. In the vegetable kingdom there is, however, so much carbon, that its predominance, accompanied with the rarity of nitrogen, has induced chemical botanists to characterize plants as carbonized, and animals as azotized. But we have here to attend to a double antithesis. Vegetables are carbonized in so far as they are non-azotized; but they are oxidized in opposition to the highly carbonized animal food of cold countries. Besides this, it is important to observe that the carbon of vegetables is most abundant in the woody and unnutritious part, which is not eaten; while the carbon of animals is found in the fatty and oily parts, which are not only eaten, but are, in cold countries, greedily devoured. [80] Sir J. Malcolm (_History of Persia_, vol. ii. p. 380), speaking of the cheapness of vegetables in the East, says, 'in some parts of Persia fruit has hardly any value.' Cuvier, in a striking passage (_Règne Animal_, vol. i. pp. 73, 74), has contrasted vegetable with animal food, and thinks that the former, being so easily obtained, is the more natural. But the truth is that both are equally natural: though when Cuvier wrote scarcely anything was known of the laws which govern the relation between climate and food. On the skill and energy required to obtain food in cold countries, see _Wrangel's Polar Expedition_, pp. 70, 71, 191, 192; _Simpson's Discoveries on the North Coast of America_, p. 249; _Crantz_, _History of Greenland_, vol. i. pp. 22, 32, 105, 131, 154, 155, vol. ii. pp. 203, 265, 324. The way in which this proportion is actually altered has, I hope, been made clear by the preceding argument; but it may be useful to recapitulate the facts on which the argument is based. The facts, then, are simply these. The rate of wages fluctuates with the population; increasing when the labour-market is under-supplied, diminishing when it is over-supplied. The population itself, though affected by many other circumstances, does undoubtedly fluctuate with the supply of food; advancing when the supply is plentiful, halting or receding when the supply is scanty. The food essential to life is scarcer in cold countries than in hot ones; and not only is it scarcer, but more of it is required;[81] so that on both grounds smaller encouragement is given to the growth of that population from whose ranks the labour-market is stocked. To express, therefore, the conclusion in its simplest form, we may say, that there is a strong and constant tendency in hot countries for wages to be low, in cold countries for them to be high. [81] 'Cabanis' (_Rapports du Physique et du Moral_, p. 313) says, 'Dans les temps et dans les pays froids on mange et l'on agit davantage.' That much food is eaten in cold countries, and little in hot ones, is mentioned by numerous travellers, none of whom are aware of the cause. See _Simpson's Discov. on North Coast of America_, p. 218; _Custine's Russie_, vol. iv. p. 66; _Wrangel's Expedition_, pp. 21, 327; _Crantz_, _History of Greenland_, vol. i. pp. 145, 360; _Richardson's Central Africa_, vol. ii. p. 46; _Richardson's Sahara_, vol. i. p. 137; _Denham's Africa_, p. 37; _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. v. p. 144, vol. viii. p. 188; _Burckhardt's Travels in Arabia_, vol. ii. p. 265; _Niebuhr_, _Description de l'Arabie_, p. 45; _Ulloa's Voyage to South America_, vol. i. pp. 403, 408; _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. iii. p. 283, vol. vi. p. 85, vol. xix. p. 121; _Spix and Martius's Travels in Brazil_, vol. i. p. 164; _Southey's History of Brazil_, vol. iii. p. 848; _Volney_, _Voyage en Syrie et en Egypte_, vol. i. pp. 379, 380, 460; _Low's Sarawak_, p. 140. Applying now this great principle to the general course of history, we shall find proofs of its accuracy in every direction. Indeed, there is not a single instance to the contrary. In Asia, in Africa, and in America, all the ancient civilizations were seated in hot climates; and in all of them the rate of wages was very low, and therefore the condition of the labouring classes very depressed. In Europe, for the first time, civilization arose in a colder climate: hence the reward of labour was increased, and the distribution of wealth rendered more equal than was possible in countries where an excessive abundance of food stimulated the growth of population. This difference produced, as we shall presently see, many social and political consequences of immense importance. But before discussing them, it may be remarked that the only apparent exception to what has been stated is one which strikingly verifies the general law. There is one instance, and only one, of a great European people possessing a very cheap national food. This people, I need hardly say, are the Irish. In Ireland the labouring classes have for more than two hundred years been principally fed by potatoes, which were introduced into their country late in the sixteenth, or early in the seventeenth century.[82] Now, the peculiarity of the potato is, that until the appearance of the late disease, it was and perhaps still is, cheaper than any other food equally wholesome. If we compare its reproductive power with the amount of nutriment contained in it, we find that one acre of average land sown with potatoes will support twice as many persons as the same quantity of land sown with wheat.[83] The consequence is, that in a country where men live on potatoes, the population will, if other things are tolerably equal, increase twice as fast as in a country where they live on wheat. And so it has actually occurred. Until a very few years ago, when the face of affairs was entirely altered by pestilence and emigration, the population of Ireland was, in round numbers, increasing annually three per cent.; the population of England during the same period increasing one and a half per cent.[84] The result was, that in these two countries the distribution of wealth was altogether different. Even in England the growth of population is somewhat too rapid; and the labour-market being overstocked, the working classes are not sufficiently paid for their labour.[85] But their condition is one of sumptuous splendour, compared to that in which only a few years ago the Irish were forced to live. The misery in which they were plunged has no doubt always been aggravated by the ignorance of their rulers, and by that scandalous misgovernment which, until very recently, formed one of the darkest blots on the glory of England. The most active cause, however, was, that their wages were so low as to debar them, not only from the comforts, but from the common decencies of civilized life; and this evil condition was the natural result of that cheap and abundant food, which encouraged the people to so rapid an increase, that the labour-market was constantly gorged.[86] So far was this carried, that an intelligent observer who travelled through Ireland twenty years ago, mentioned that at that time the average wages were fourpence a day, and that even this wretched pittance could not always be relied upon for regular employment.[87] [82] Meyen (_Geography of Plants_, 1846, p. 313) says that the potato was introduced into Ireland in 1586; but according to Mr. M'Culloch (_Dictionary of Commerce_, 1849, p. 1048), 'potatoes, it is commonly thought, were not introduced into Ireland till 1610, when a small quantity was sent by Sir Walter Raleigh to be planted in a garden on his estate in the vicinity of Youghall.' Compare _Loudon's Encyclop. of Agriculture_, p. 845: 'first planted by Sir Walter Raleigh on his estate of Youghall, near Cork.' [83] Adam Smith (_Wealth of Nations_, book i. chap. xi. p. 67) supposes that it will support three times as many; but the statistics of this great writer are the weakest part of his work, and the more careful calculations made since he wrote bear out the statement in the text. 'It admits of demonstration that an acre of potatoes will feed double the number of people that can be fed from an acre of wheat.' _Loudon's Encyclop. of Agriculture_, 5th edit. 1844, p. 845. So, too, in _M'Culloch's Dict._ p. 1048, 'an acre of potatoes will feed double the number of individuals that can be fed from an acre of wheat.' The daily average consumption of an able-bodied labourer in Ireland is estimated at nine and a half pounds of potatoes for men, and seven and a half for women. See _Phillips on Scrofula_, 1846, p. 177. [84] _Malthus_, _Essay on Population_, vol. i. pp. 424, 425, 431, 435, 441, 442; _M'Culloch's Political Economy_, pp. 381, 382. [85] The lowest agricultural wages in our time have been in England about 1_s._ a day; while from the evidence collected by Mr. Thornton in 1845, the highest wages then paid were in Lincolnshire, and were rather more than 13_s._ a week; those in Yorkshire and Northumberland being nearly as high. _Thornton on Over-Population_, pp. 12-15, 24, 25. Godwin, writing in 1820, estimates the average at 1_s._ 6_d._ a day. _Godwin on Population_, p. 574. Mr. Phillips, in his work _On Scrofula_, 1846, p. 345, says, 'at present the ratio of wages is from 9_s._ to 10_s._' [86] The most miserable part, namely Connaught, in 1733, contained 242,160 inhabitants; and in 1821, 1,110,229. See _Sadler's Law of Population_, vol. ii. p. 490. [87] Mr. Inglis, who in 1834 travelled through Ireland with a particular view to its economical state, says, as the result of very careful inquiries, 'I am quite confident, that if the whole yearly earnings of the labourers of Ireland were divided by the whole number of labourers, the result would be under this sum--_Fourpence_ a day for the labourers of Ireland.' _Inglis_, _Journey throughout Ireland in 1834_, Lond. 1835, 2nd edit. vol. ii. p. 300. At Balinasloe, in the county of Galway, 'A gentleman with whom I was accidentally in company offered to procure, on an hour's warning, a couple of hundred labourers at fourpence even for temporary employment.' _Inglis_, vol. ii. p. 17. The same writer says (vol. i. p. 263), that at Tralee 'it often happens that the labourers, after working in the canal from five in the morning until eleven in the forenoon, are discharged for the day with the pittance of twopence.' Compare, in _Cloncurry's Recollections_, Dublin, 1849, p. 310, a letter from Dr. Doyle written in 1829, describing Ireland as 'a country where the market is always overstocked with labour, and in which a man's labour is not worth, at an average, more than threepence a day.' Such have been the consequences of cheap food in a country which, on the whole, possesses greater natural resources than any other in Europe.[88] And if we investigate on a larger scale the social and economical condition of nations, we shall see the same principle everywhere at work. We shall see that, other things remaining equal, the food of a people determines the increase of their numbers, and the increase of their numbers determines the rate of their wages. We shall moreover find, that when the wages are invariably low,[89] the distribution of wealth being thus very unequal, the distribution of political power and social influence will also be very unequal; in other words, it will appear that the normal and average relation between the upper and lower classes will, in its origin, depend upon those peculiarities of nature, the operations of which I have endeavoured to indicate.[90] After putting all these things together, we shall, I trust, be able to discern, with a clearness hitherto unknown, the intimate connexion between the physical and moral world; the laws by which that connexion is governed; and the reasons why so many ancient civilizations reached a certain stage of development, and then fell away, unable to resist the pressure of nature, or make head against those external obstacles by which their progress was effectually retarded. [88] It is singular that so acute a thinker as Mr. Kay should, in his otherwise just remarks on the Irish, entirely overlook the effect produced on their wages by the increase of population. _Kay's Social Condition of the People_, vol. i. pp. 8, 9, 92, 223, 306-324. This is the more observable, because the disadvantages of cheap food have been noticed not only by several common writers, but by the highest of all authorities on population, Mr. Malthus: see the sixth edition of his _Essay on Population_, vol. i. p. 469, vol. ii. pp. 123, 124, 383, 384. If these things were oftener considered, we should not hear so much about the idleness and levity of the Celtic race; the simple fact being, that the Irish are unwilling to work, not because they are Celts, but because their work is badly paid. When they go abroad, they get good wages, and therefore they become as industrious as any other people. Compare _Journal of Statistical Society_, vol. vii. p. 24, with _Thornton on Over-Population_, p. 425; a very valuable work. Even in 1799, it was observed that the Irish as soon as they left their own country became industrious and energetic. See _Parliamentary History_, vol. xxxiv. p. 222. So, too, in North America, 'they are most willing to work hard.' _Lyell's Second Visit to the United States_, 1849, vol. i. p. 187. [89] By low wages, I mean low reward of labour, which is of course independent both of the cost of labour and of the money-rate of wages. [90] In a recent work of considerable ingenuity (_Doubleday's True Law of Population_, 1847, pp. 25-29, 69, 78, 123, 124, &c.) it is noticed that countries are more populous when the ordinary food is vegetable than when it is animal; and an attempt is made to explain this on the ground that a poor diet is more favourable to fecundity than a rich one. But though the fact of the greater increase of population is indisputable, there are several reasons for being dissatisfied with Mr. Doubleday's explanation. 1st. That the power of propagation is heightened by poor living, is a proposition which has never been established physiologically; while the observations of travellers and of governments are not sufficiently numerous to establish it statistically. 2nd. Vegetable diet is as generous for a hot country as animal diet is for a cold country; and since we know that, notwithstanding the difference of food and climate, the temperature of the body varies little between the equator and the poles (compare _Liebig's Animal Chemistry_, p. 19; _Holland's Medical Notes_, p. 473; _Pouillet_, _Elémens de Physique_, vol. i. part i. p. 414; _Burdach's Traité de Physiologie_, vol. ix. p. 663), we have no reason to believe that there is any other normal variation, but should rather suppose that, in regard to all essential functions, vegetable diet and external heat are equivalent to animal diet and external cold. 3rd. Even conceding, for the sake of argument, that vegetable food increases the procreative power, this would only affect the number of births, and not the density of population; for a greater number of births may be, and often are, remedied by a greater mortality; a point in regard to which Godwin, in trying to refute Malthus, falls into serious error. _Godwin on Population_, p. 317. Since writing the above, I have found that these views of Mr. Doubleday's were in a great measure anticipated by Fourier. See _Rey_, _Science Sociale_; vol. i. p. 185. If, in the first place, we turn to Asia, we shall see an admirable illustration of what may be called the collision between internal and external phenomena. Owing to circumstances already stated, Asiatic civilization has always been confined to that rich tract where alone wealth could be easily obtained. This immense zone comprises some of the most fertile parts of the globe; and of all its provinces, Hindostan is certainly the one which for the longest period has possessed the greatest civilization.[91] And as the materials for forming an opinion respecting India are more ample than those respecting any other part of Asia,[92] I purpose to select it as an example, and use it to illustrate those laws which, though generalized from political economy, chemistry, and physiology, may be verified by that more extensive survey, the means of which history alone can supply. [91] I use the word 'Hindostan' in the popular sense, as extending south to Cape Comorin; though, properly speaking, it only includes the country north of the Nerbudda. Compare _Mill's History of India_, vol. ii. p. 178; _Bohlen_, _das alte Indien_, vol. i. p. 11; _Meiners über die Länder in Asien_, vol. i. p. 224. The word itself is not found in the old Sanscrit, and is of Persian origin. _Halhed's Preface to the Gentoo Laws_, pp. xx. xxi.; _Asiatic Researches_, vol. iii. pp. 368, 369. [92] So that, in addition to works published on their philosophy, religion, and jurisprudence, a learned geographer stated several years ago, that 'kein anderes Asiatisches Reich ist in den letzten drey Jahrhunderten von so vielen und so einsichtsvollen Europäern durchreist und beschrieben worden, als Hindostan.' _Meiners_, _Länder in Asien_, vol. i. p. 225. Since the time of Meiners, such evidence has become still more precise and extensive; and is, I think, too much neglected by M. Rhode in his valuable work on India: 'Dem Zwecke dieser Arbeit gemäss, betrachten wir hier nur Werke der Hindus selbst, oder Auszüge aus denselben als Quellen.' _Rhode_, _Religiöse Bildung der Hindus_, vol. i. p. 43. In India, the great heat of the climate brings into play that law already pointed out, by virtue of which the ordinary food is of an oxygenous rather than of a carbonaceous character. This, according to another law, obliges the people to derive their usual diet not from the animal, but from the vegetable world, of which starch is the most important constituent. At the same time the high temperature, incapacitating men for arduous labour, makes necessary a food of which the returns will be abundant, and which will contain much nutriment in a comparatively small space. Here, then, we have some characteristics, which, if the preceding views are correct, ought to be found in the ordinary food of the Indian nations. So they all are. From the earliest period the most general food in India has been rice,[93] which is the most nutritive of all the cerealia;[94] which contains an enormous proportion of starch;[95] and which yields to the labourer an average return of at least sixty fold.[96] [93] This is evident from the frequent and familiar mention of it in that remarkable relic of antiquity, the Institutes of Menu. See the _Institutes_, in _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. iii. pp. 87, 132, 156, 200, 215, 366, 400, 403, 434. Thus too, in the enumeration of Foods in _Vishnu Purana_, pp. 46, 47, rice is the first mentioned. See further evidence in _Bohlen_, _das alte Indien_, vol. i. p. 22, vol. ii. pp. 159, 160; _Wilson's Theatre of the Hindus_, vol. i. part ii. pp. 15, 16, 37, 92, 95, vol. ii. part ii. p. 35, part iii. p. 64; _Notes on the Ma-habharata_, in _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. vii. p. 141; _Travels of Ibn Batuta in Fourteenth Century_, p. 164; _Colebrooke's Digest of Hindu Law_, vol. i. p. 499, vol. ii. pp. 44, 48, 436, 569, vol. iii. pp. 11, 148, 205, 206, 207, 266, 364, 530; _Asiatic Researches_, vol. vii. pp. 299, 302; _Ward on the Hindoos_, vol. i. p. 209, vol. iii. p. 105. [94] 'It contains a greater proportion of nutritious matter than any of the cerealia.' _Somerville's Physical Geography_, vol. ii. p. 220. [95] It contains from 83.8 to 85.07 percent of starch. _Brande's Chemistry_, vol. ii. p. 1624; _Thomson's Chemistry of Organic Bodies_, p. 883. [96] It is difficult to collect sufficient evidence to strike an average; but in Egypt, according to Savary, rice 'produces eighty bushels for one.' _Loudon's Encyclop. of Agriculture_, p. 173. In Tennasserim, the yield is from 80 to 100. _Low's History of Tennasserim_, in _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. iii. p. 29. In South America, 250 fold, according to Spix and Martius (_Travels in Brazil_, vol. ii. p. 79); or from 200 to 300, according to Southey (_History of Brazil_, vol. iii. pp. 658, 806). The lowest estimate given by M. Meyen is forty fold; the highest, which is marsh rice in the Philippine Islands, 400 fold. _Meyen's Geography of Plants_, 1846, p. 301. Thus possible is it, by the application of a few physical laws, to anticipate what the national food of a country will be, and therefore to anticipate a long train of ulterior consequences. What in this case is no less remarkable, is that though in the south of the peninsula, rice is not so much used as formerly, it has been replaced, not by animal food, but by another grain called ragi.[97] The original rice, however, is so suited to the circumstances I have described, that it is still the most general food of nearly all the hottest countries of Asia,[98] from which at different times it has been transplanted to other parts of the world.[99] [97] _Elphinstone's History of India_, p. 7. Ragi is the Cynosurus Corocanus of Linnæus; and, considering its importance, it has been strangely neglected by botanical writers. The best account I have seen of it is in _Buchanan's Journey through the Countries of Mysore, Canara, and Malabar_, vol. i. pp. 100-104, 285, 286, 375, 376, 403, vol. ii. pp. 103, 104, vol. iii. pp. 239, 240, 296, 297. In the large cities, millet is generally used; of which 'a quantity sufficient for two meals may be purchased for about a halfpenny.' _Gibson on Indian Agriculture_, in _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. viii. p. 100. [98] _Marsden's History of Sumatra_, pp. 56, 59; _Raffles' History of Java_, vol. i. pp. 39, 106, 119, 129, 240; _Percival's Ceylon_, pp. 337, 364; _Transac. of Society of Bombay_, vol. ii. p. 155; _Transac. of Asiatic Society_, vol. i. p. 510; _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. i. pp. 228, 247, vol. ii. pp. 44, 64, 251, 257, 262, 336, 344, vol. iii. pp. 8, 25, 300, 340, vol. iv. pp. 82, 83, 104, vol. v. pp. 241, 246; _Asiatic Researches_, vol. v. pp. 124, 229, vol. xii. p. 148, vol. xvi. pp. 171, 172; _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. ii. p. 86, vol. iii. pp. 124, 295, 300, vol. v. p. 263, vol. viii. pp. 341, 359, vol. xix. pp. 132, 137. [99] Rice, so far as I have been able to trace it, has travelled westward. Besides the historical evidence, there are philological probabilities in favour of its being indigenous to Asia, and the Sanscrit name for it has been very widely diffused. Compare _Humboldt's Cosmos_, vol. ii. p. 472, with _Crawfurd's History of the Indian Archipelago_, vol. i. p. 358. In the fourteenth century, it was the common food on the Zanguebar Coast; and is now universal in Madagascar. _Travels of Ibn Batuta in Fourteenth Century_, p. 56; _Ellis's History of Madagascar_, vol. i. pp. 39, 297-304, vol. ii. p. 292; _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. iii. p. 212. From Madagascar its seeds were, according to _M'Culloch's Dictionary of Commerce_, p. 1105, carried to Carolina late in the seventeenth century. It is now cultivated in Nicaragua (_Squier's Central America_, vol. i. p. 38) and in South America (_Henderson's Hist. of Brazil_, pp. 292, 307, 395, 440, 488), where it is said to grow wild. Compare _Meyen's Geography of Plants_, pp. 291, 297, with _Azara_, _Voyages dans l'Amérique Méridionale_, vol. i. p. 100, vol. ii. p. 80. The ancient Greeks, though acquainted with rice, did not cultivate it; and its cultivation was first introduced into Europe by the Arabs. See _Humboldt_, _Nouvelle Espagne_, vol. ii. pp. 409, 410. In consequence of these peculiarities of climate, and of food, there has arisen in India that unequal distribution of wealth which we must expect to find in countries where the labour-market is always redundant.[100] If we examine the earliest Indian records which have been preserved--records between two and three thousand years old--we find evidence of a state of things similar to that which now exists, and which, we may rely upon it, always has existed ever since the accumulation of capital once fairly began. We find the upper classes enormously rich, and the lower classes miserably poor. We find those by whose labour the wealth is created, receiving the smallest possible share of it; the remainder being absorbed by the higher ranks in the form either of rent or of profit. And as wealth is, after intellect, the most permanent source of power, it has naturally happened that a great inequality of wealth has been accompanied by a corresponding inequality of social and political power. It is not, therefore, surprising that from the earliest period to which our knowledge of India extends, an immense majority of the people, pinched by the most galling poverty, and just living from hand to mouth, should always have remained in a state of stupid debasement, broken by incessant misfortune, crouching before their superiors in abject submission, and only fit either to be slaves themselves or to be led to battle to make slaves of others.[101] [100] So far as food is concerned, Diodorus Siculus notices the remarkable fertility of India, and the consequent accumulation of wealth. See two interesting passages in _Bibliothec. Hist._ lib. ii. vol. ii. pp. 49, 50, 108, 109. But of the economical laws of distribution he, like all the ancient writers, was perfectly ignorant. [101] An able and very learned apologist for this miserable people says, 'The servility so generally ascribed to the Hindu is never more conspicuous than when he is examined as an evidence. But if it be admitted that he acts as a slave, why blame him for not possessing the virtues of a free man? _The oppression of ages has taught him implicit submission._' _Vans Kennedy_, in _Transactions of the Society of Bombay_, vol. iii. p. 144. Compare the observations of Charles Hamilton in _Asiatic Researches_, vol. i. p. 305. To ascertain the precise value of the average rate of wages in India for any long period, is impossible; because, although the amount might be expressed in money, still the value of money, that is, its purchasing power, is subject to incalculable fluctuations, arising from changes in the cost of production.[102] But, for our present purpose, there is a method of investigation which will lead to results far more accurate than any statement could be that depended merely on a collection of evidence respecting the wages themselves. The method is simply this: that inasmuch as the wealth of a country can only be divided into wages, rent, profits, and interest, and inasmuch as interest is on an average an exact measure of profits,[103] it follows that if among any people rent and interest are both high, wages must be low.[104] If, therefore, we can ascertain the current interest of money, and the proportion of the produce of the soil which is absorbed by rent, we shall get a perfectly accurate idea of the wages; because wages are the residue, that is, they are what is left to the labourers after rent, profits, and interest have been paid. [102] The impossibility of having a standard of value, is clearly pointed out in _Turgot's Réflexions sur la Formation et la Distribution des Richesses_, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. v. pp. 51, 52. Compare _Ricardo's Works_, pp. 11, 28-30, 46, 166, 253, 270, 401, with _M'Culloch's Principles of Political Economy_, pp. 298, 299, 307. [103] _Smith's Wealth of Nations_, book i. chap. ix. p. 37; where, however, the proposition is stated rather too absolutely, since the risks arising from an insecure state of society must be taken into consideration. But that there is an average ratio between interest and profits is obvious, and is distinctly laid down by the Sanscrit jurists. See _Colebrooke's Digest of Hindu Law_, vol. i. pp. 72, 81. [104] Ricardo (_Principles of Political Economy_, chap. vi. in _Works_, p. 65) says, 'whatever increases wages, necessarily reduces profits.' And in chap. xv. p. 122, 'whatever raises the wages of labour, lowers the profits of stock.' In several other places he makes the same assertion, very much to the discomfort of the ordinary reader, who knows that in the United States, for instance, wages and profits are both high. But the ambiguity is in the language, not in the thought; and in these and similar passages Ricardo by wages meant cost of labour, in which sense the proposition is quite accurate. If by wages we mean the reward of labour, then there is no relation between wages and profits; for when rent is low, both of them may be high, as is the case in the United States. That this was the view of Ricardo is evident from the following passage: 'Profits, it cannot be too often repeated, depend on wages; not on nominal but real wages; not on the number of pounds that may be annually paid to the labourer, but on the number of days' work necessary to obtain those pounds.' _Political Economy_, chap. vii., _Ricardo's Works_, p. 82. Compare _Mill's Principles of Political Economy_, vol. i. p. 509, vol. ii. p. 225. Now it is remarkable, that in India both interest and rent have always been very high. In the _Institutes of Menu_, which were drawn up about B.C. 900,[105] the lowest legal interest for money is fixed at fifteen per cent., the highest at sixty per cent.[106] Nor is this to be considered as a mere ancient law now fallen into disuse. So far from that, the _Institutes of Menu_ are still the basis of Indian jurisprudence;[107] and we know on very good authority, that in 1810 the interest paid for the use of money varied from thirty-six to sixty per cent.[108] [105] I take the estimate of Mr. Elphinstone (_History of India_, pp. 225-228) as midway between Sir William Jones (_Works_, vol. iii. p. 56) and Mr. Wilson (_Rig Veda Sanhita_, vol. i. p. xlvii.). [106] _Institutes of Menu_, chap. viii. sec. 140-142, in _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. iii. p. 295. The subsequent Sanscrit commentators recognize nearly the same rate of interest, the minimum being fifteen per cent. See _Colebrooke's Digest of Hindu Law_, vol. i. pp. 29, 36, 43, 98, 99, 237, vol. ii. p. 70. [107] In _Colebrooke's Digest_, vol. i. p. 454, and vol. iii. p. 229, Menu is called 'the highest authority of memorial law,' and 'the founder of memorial law.' The most recent historian of India, Mr. Elphinstone, says (_Hist. of India_, p. 83) 'the code of Menu is still the basis of the Hindu jurisprudence; and the principal features remain unaltered to the present day.' This remarkable code is also the basis of the laws of the Burmese, and even of those of the Laos. _Journal of the Asiatic Society_, vol. ii. p. 271, vol. iii. pp. 28, 296, 332, vol. v. p. 252. [108] See, in _Mill's History of India_, vol. i. p. 317, the report of a committee of the House of Commons in 1810, in which it is stated that the ryots paid 'the heavy interest of three, four, and five per cent. per month.' Ward, writing about the same time, mentions as much as seventy-five per cent. being given, and this apparently without the lender incurring any extraordinary risk. _Ward on the Hindoos_, vol. ii. p. 190. Thus much as to one of the elements of our present calculation. As to the other element, namely, the rent, we have information equally precise and trustworthy. In England and Scotland, the rent paid by the cultivator for the use of land is estimated in round numbers, taking one farm with another, at a fourth of the gross produce.[109] In France, the average proportion is about a third;[110] while in the United States of North America it is well known to be much less, and, indeed, in some parts, to be merely nominal.[111] But in India the legal rent, that is, the lowest rate recognized by the law and usage of the country, is one-half of the produce; and even this cruel regulation is not strictly enforced, since in many cases rents are raised so high, that the cultivator not only receives less than half the produce, but receives so little as to have scarcely the means of providing seed to sow the ground for the next harvest.[112] [109] Compare the table in _Loudon's Encyclopædia of Agriculture_, p. 778, with _Mavor's note in Tusser's Five Hundred Points of Husbandry_, p. 195, Lond. 1812, and _M'Culloch's Statistical Account of the British Empire_, 1847, vol. i. p. 560. [110] This is the estimate I have received from persons well acquainted with French agriculture. The rent, of course, varies in each separate instance, according to the natural powers of the soil, according to the extent to which those powers have been improved, and according to the facilities for bringing the produce to market. But, notwithstanding these variations, there must be in every country an average rent, depending upon the operation of general causes. [111] Owing to the immense supply of land preventing the necessity of cultivating those inferior soils which older countries are glad to use, and are therefore willing to pay a rent for the right of using. In the United States, profits and wages (i.e. the reward of the labourer, not the cost of labour) are both high, which would be impossible if rent were also high. [112] See _Rammohun Roy on the Judicial and Revenue Systems of India_, 1832, pp. 59-61, 63, 69, 92, 94. At p. 69, this high authority says of the agricultural peasantry of Bengal: 'In an abundant season, when the price of corn is low, the sale of their whole crops is required to meet the demands of the landholder, leaving little or nothing for seed or subsistence to the labourer or his family.' In Cashmere, the sovereign received half the produce of the rice-crop, leaving the other half to the cultivator. _Moorcroft's Notices of Cashmere_, in _Journal of Geog. Society_, vol. ii. p. 266. The conclusion to be drawn from these facts is manifest. Rent and interest being always very high, and interest varying, as it must do, according to the rate of profits, it is evident that wages must have been very low; for since there was in India a specific amount of wealth to be divided into rent, interest, profits, and wages, it is clear that the first three could only have been increased at the expense of the fourth; which is saying, in other words, that the reward of the labourers was very small in proportion to the reward received by the upper classes. And though this, being an inevitable inference, does not require extraneous support, it may be mentioned that in modern times, for which alone we have direct evidence, wages have in India always been excessively low, and the people have been, and still are, obliged to work for a sum barely sufficient to meet the exigencies of life.[113] [113] Heber (_Journey through India_, vol. i. pp. 209, 356, 357, 359) gives some curious instances of the extremely low rate at which the natives are glad to work. As to the ordinary wages in India in the present century, see _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. i. p. 255, vol. v. p. 171; _Rammohun Roy on the Judicial and Revenue Systems_, pp. 105, 106; _Sykes's Statistics of the Deccan Reports of the British Association_, vol. vi. p. 321; _Ward's View of the Hindoos_, vol. iii. p. 207; _Colebrooke's Digest of Hindu Law_, vol. ii. p. 184. On wages in the south of India, the fullest information will be found in Buchanan's valuable work, _Journey through the Mysore, Canara, and Malabar_, vol. i. pp. 124, 125, 133, 171, 175, 216, 217, 298, 390, 415, vol. ii. pp. 12, 19, 22, 37, 90, 108, 132, 217, 218, 315, 481, 523, 525, 562, vol. iii. pp. 35, 181, 226, 298, 321, 349, 363, 398, 428, 555. I wish that all travellers were equally minute in recording the wages of labour; a subject of far greater importance than those with which they usually fill their books. On the other hand, the riches possessed by the upper classes have, owing to this mal-distribution of wealth, been always enormous, and sometimes incredible. See _Forbes's Oriental Memoirs_, vol. ii. p. 297; _Bohlen_, _das alte Indien_, vol. ii. p. 119; _Travels of Ibn Batuta_, p. 41; _Ward's Hindoos_, vol. iii. p. 178. The autobiography of the Emperor Jehangueir contains such extraordinary statements of his immense wealth, that the Editor, Major Price, thinks that some error must have been made by the copyist; but the reader will find in _Grote's History of Greece_ (vol. xii. pp. 229, 245) evidence of the treasures which it was possible for Asiatic rulers to collect in that state of society. The working of this unequal distribution is thus stated by Mr. Glyn (_Transac. of Asiatic Society_, vol. i. p. 482): 'The nations of Europe have very little idea of the actual condition of the inhabitants of Hindustan; they are more wretchedly poor than we have any notion of. Europeans have hitherto been too apt to draw their opinions of the wealth of Hindustan from the gorgeous pomp of a few emperors, sultans, nawabs, and rajahs; whereas a more intimate and accurate view of the real state of society would have shown that these princes and nobles were engrossing all the wealth of the country, whilst the great body of the people were earning but a bare subsistence, groaning under intolerable burdens, and hardly able to supply themselves with the necessaries of life, much less with its luxuries.' This was the first great consequence induced in India by the cheapness and abundance of the national food.[114] But the evil by no means stopped there. In India, as in every other country, poverty provokes contempt, and wealth produces power. When other things are equal, it must be with classes of men as with individuals, that the richer they are, the greater the influence they will possess. It was therefore to be expected, that the unequal distribution of wealth should cause an unequal distribution of power; and as there is no instance on record of any class possessing power without abusing it, we may easily understand how it was that the people of India, condemned to poverty by the physical laws of their climate, should have fallen into a degradation from which they have never been able to escape. A few instances may be given to illustrate, rather than to prove, a principle which the preceding arguments have, I trust, placed beyond the possibility of dispute. [114] Turner, who travelled in 1783 through the north-east of Bengal, says: 'Indeed, the extreme poverty and wretchedness of these people will forcibly appear, when we recollect how little is necessary for the subsistence of a peasant in these regions. The value of this can seldom amount to more than one penny per day, even allowing him to make his meal of two pounds of boiled rice, with a due proportion of salt, oil, vegetables, fish, and chili.' _Turner's Embassy to Tibet_, p. 11. Ibn Batuta, who travelled in Hindostan in the fourteenth century, says: 'I never saw a country in which provisions were so cheap.' _Travels of Ibn Batuta_, p. 194. To the great body of the Indian people the name of Sudras is given;[115] and the native laws respecting them contain some minute and curious provisions. If a member of this despised class presumed to occupy the same seat as his superiors, he was either to be exiled or to suffer a painful and ignominious punishment.[116] If he spoke of them with contempt, his mouth was to be burned;[117] if he actually insulted them, his tongue was to be slit;[118] if he molested a Brahmin, he was to be put to death;[119] if he sat on the same carpet with a Brahmin, he was to be maimed for life;[120] if, moved by the desire of instruction, he even listened to the reading of the sacred books, burning oil was to be poured into his ears;[121] if, however, he committed them to memory, he was to be killed;[122] if he were guilty of a crime, the punishment for it was greater than that inflicted on his superiors;[123] but if he himself were murdered, the penalty was the same as for killing a dog, a cat, or a crow.[124] Should he marry his daughter to a Brahmin, no retribution that could be exacted in this world was sufficient; it was therefore announced that the Brahmin must go to hell, for having suffered contamination from a woman immeasurably his inferior.[125] Indeed, it was ordered that the mere name of a labourer should be expressive of contempt, so that his proper standing might be immediately known.[126] And lest this should not be enough to maintain the subordination of society, a law was actually made forbidding any labourer to accumulate wealth;[127] while another clause declared, that even though his master should give him freedom, he would in reality still be a slave; 'for,' says the lawgiver--'for of a state which is natural to him, by whom can he be divested?'[128] [115] The Sudras are estimated by Ward (_View of the Hindoos_, vol. iii. p. 281) at 'three-fourths of the Hindoos.' At all events, they comprise the whole of the working classes; the Vaisyas not being husbandmen, as they are often called, but landlords, owners of cattle, and traders. Compare _Institutes of Menu_, chap. ix. sec. 326-333, in _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. iii. pp. 380, 381, with _Colebrooke's Digest_, vol. i. p. 15, from which it appears that the Vaisyas were always the masters, and that the Sudra was to 'rely on agriculture for his subsistence.' The division, therefore, between 'the industrious and the servile' (_Elphinstone's History of India_, p. 12) is too broadly stated, and we must, I think, take the definition of M. Rhode: 'Die Kaste der Sudras umfasst die ganze arbeitende, oder um Lohn dienende Classe des Volks.' _Relig. Bildung der Hindus_, vol. ii. p. 561. [116] 'Either be banished with a mark on his hinder parts, or the king shall cause a gash to be made on his buttock.' _Institutes of Menu_, chap. viii. sec. 281, in _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. iii. p. 315. See also _Ward's View of the Hindoos_, vol. iii. p. 67. [117] _Menu_, chap. viii. sec. 271, in _Jones's Works_, vol. iii. p. 314. [118] _Menu_, chap. viii. sec. 270. [119] 'If a Sudra gives much and frequent molestation to a Brahmin, the magistrate shall put him to death.' _Halhed's Code of Gentoo Laws_, p. 262. [120] _Halhed's Code of Gentoo Laws_, p. 207. As to the case of striking a Brahmin, see _Rammohun Roy on the Veds_, p. 227, 2nd edit. 1832. [121] 'And if a Sooder listens to the Beids of the Shaster, then the oil, heated as before, shall be poured into his ears; and arzeez and wax shall be melted together, and the orifice of his ears shall be stopped up therewith.' _Halhed_, p. 262. Compare the prohibition in _Menu_, chap. iv. sec. 99, chap. x. sec. 109-111, in _Jones's Works_, vol. iii. pp. 174, 398. [122] _Halhed_, p. 262: 'the magistrate shall put him to death.' In Mrichchakati, the judge says to a Sudra, 'If you expound the Vedas, will not your tongue be cut out?' _Wilson's Theatre of the Hindus_, vol. i. part ii. p. 170. [123] _Ward's View of the Hindoos_, vol. iv. p. 308. To this the only exception was in the case of theft. _Mill's History of India_, vol. i. pp. 193, 260. A Brahmin could 'on no account be capitally punished.' _Asiatic Researches_, vol. xv. p. 44. [124] _Menu_, chap. xi. sec. 132, in _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. iii. p. 422. [125] 'A Brahmin, if he take a Sudra to his bed as his first wife, sinks to the regions of torment.' _Institutes of Menu_, chap. iii. sec. 17, in _Jones_, vol. iii. p. 121. Compare the denial of funeral rites, in _Colebrooke's Digest of Hindu Law_, vol. iii. p. 328. And on the different hells invented by the Hindu clergy, see _Vishnu Purana_, p. 207; _Ward's View of the Hindoos_, vol. ii. pp. 182, 183; _Coleman's Mythology of the Hindus_, p. 113. The curious details in _Rhode_, _die Religiöse Bildung der Hindus_, vol. i. pp. 392, 393, rather refer to Buddhism, and should be compared with _Journal Asiatique_, I. série, vol. viii. pp. 80, 81, Paris, 1826. [126] _Menu_, chap. ii. sec. 31, in _Jones_, vol. iii. p. 87; also noticed in _Rhode_, _Relig. Bildung_, vol. ii. p. 561: 'sein Name soll schon Verachtung ausdrücken.' So, too, Mr. Elphinstone (_History of India_, p. 17): 'the proper name of a Sudra is directed to be expressive of contempt.' Compare _Origines du Droit_, in _[OE]uvres de Michelet_, vol. ii. p. 387, Bruxelles, 1840. [127] _Menu_, chap. x. sec. 129, in _Jones_, vol. iii. p. 401. This law is pointed out by Mill (_History of India_, vol. i. p. 195) as an evidence of the miserable state of the people, which, Mr. Wilson (note in p. 213) vainly attempts to evade. [128] 'A Sudra, though emancipated by his master, is not released from a state of servitude; for of a state which is natural to him, by whom can he be divested?' _Institutes of Menu_, chap. viii. sec. 414, in _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. iii. p. 333. By whom, indeed, could he be divested? I ween not where that power was by which so vast a miracle could be worked. For in India, slavery, abject, eternal slavery, was the natural state of the great body of the people; it was the state to which they were doomed by physical laws utterly impossible to resist. The energy of those laws is, in truth, so invincible, that wherever they have come into play, they have kept the productive classes in perpetual subjection. There is no instance on record of any tropical country, in which wealth having been extensively accumulated, the people have escaped their fate; no instance in which the heat of the climate has not caused an abundance of food, and the abundance of food caused an unequal distribution, first of wealth, and then of political and social power. Among nations subjected to these conditions, the people have counted for nothing; they have had no voice in the management of the state, no control over the wealth their own industry created. Their only business has been to labour; their only duty to obey. Thus there has been generated among them, those habits of tame and servile submission, by which, as we know from history, they have always been characterized. For it is an undoubted fact, that their annals furnish no instance of their having turned upon their rulers, no war of classes, no popular insurrections, not even one great popular conspiracy. In those rich and fertile countries there have been many changes, but all of them have been from above, not from below. The democratic element has been altogether wanting. There have been in abundance, wars of kings, and wars of dynasties. There have been revolutions in the government, revolutions in the palace, revolutions on the throne; but no revolutions among the people;[129] no mitigation of that hard lot which nature, rather than man, assigned to them. Nor was it until civilization arose in Europe, that other physical laws came into operation, and therefore other results were produced. In Europe, for the first time, there was some approach to equality, some tendency to correct that enormous disproportion of wealth and power, which formed the essential weakness of the greatest of the more ancient countries. As a natural consequence, it is in Europe that everything worthy of the name of civilization has originated; because there alone have attempts been made to preserve the balance of its relative parts. There alone has society been organized according to a scheme, not indeed sufficiently large, but still wide enough to include all the different classes of which it is composed, and thus, by leaving room for the progress of each, to secure the permanence and advancement of the whole. [129] An intelligent observer says, 'It is also remarkable how little the people of Asiatic countries have to do in the revolutions of their governments. They are never guided by any great and common impulse of feeling, and take no part in events the most interesting and important to their country and their own prosperity.' _M'Murdo on the Country of Sindh_, in _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. i. p. 250. Compare similar remarks in _Herder's Ideen zur Geschichte_, vol. iii. p. 114; and even in _Alison's History of Europe_, vol. x. pp. 419, 420. The way in which certain other physical peculiarities confined to Europe, have also accelerated the progress of Man by diminishing his superstition, will be indicated towards the end of this chapter; but as that will involve an examination of some laws which I have not yet noticed, it seems advisable, in the first place, to complete the inquiry now before us; and I therefore purpose proving that the line of argument which has been just applied to India, is likewise applicable to Egypt, to Mexico, and to Peru. For by thus including in a single survey, the most conspicuous civilizations of Asia, Africa, and America, we shall be able to see how the preceding principles hold good of different and distant countries; and we shall be possessed of evidence sufficiently comprehensive to test the accuracy of those great laws which, without such precaution, I might be supposed to have generalized from scanty and imperfect materials. The reasons why, of all the African nations, the Egyptians alone were civilized, have been already stated, and have been shown to depend on those physical peculiarities which distinguish them from the surrounding countries, and which, by facilitating the acquisition of wealth, not only supplied them with material resources that otherwise they could never have obtained, but also secured to their intellectual classes the leisure and the opportunity of extending the boundaries of knowledge. It is, indeed, true that, notwithstanding these advantages, they effected nothing of much moment; but this was owing to circumstances which will be hereafter explained; and it must, at all events, be admitted that they raised themselves far above every other people by whom Africa was inhabited. The civilization of Egypt being, like that of India, caused by the fertility of the soil, and the climate being also very hot,[130] there were in both countries brought into play the same laws; and there naturally followed the same results. In both countries we find the national food cheap and abundant: hence the labour-market over-supplied; hence a very unequal division of wealth and power; and hence all the consequences which such inequality will inevitably produce. How this system worked in India, I have just attempted to examine; and although the materials for studying the former condition of Egypt are much less ample, they are still sufficiently numerous to prove the striking analogy between the two civilizations, and the identity of those great principles which regulated the order of their social and political development. [130] Volney (_Voyage en Egypte_, vol. i. pp. 58-63) has a good chapter on the climate of Egypt. If we inquire into the most important circumstances which concerned the people of ancient Egypt, we shall see that they are exactly the counterpart of those that have been noticed in India. For, in the first place, as regards their ordinary food, what rice is to the most fertile parts of Asia, that are dates to Africa. The palm-tree is found in every country from the Tigris to the Atlantic;[131] and it supplies millions of human beings with their daily food in Arabia,[132] and in nearly the whole of Africa north of the equator.[133] In many parts of the great African desert it is indeed unable to bear fruit; but naturally it is a very hardy plant, and produces dates in such profusion, that towards the north of the Sahara they are eaten not only by man, but also by domestic animals.[134] And in Egypt, where the palm is said to be of spontaneous growth,[135] dates, besides being the chief sustenance of the people, are so plentiful, that from a very early period they have been given commonly to camels, the only beasts of burden generally used in that country.[136] [131] It is, however, unknown in South Africa. See the account of the Palmaceæ in _Lindley's Vegetable Kingdom_, 1847, p. 136, and _Meyen's Geog. of Plants_, p. 337. [132] 'Of all eatables used by the Arabs, dates are the most favourite.' _Burckhardt's Travels in Arabia_, vol. i. p. 56. See also, for proof of their abundance in the west of Arabia, vol. i. pp. 103, 157, 238, vol. ii. pp. 91, 100, 105, 118, 209, 210, 214, 253, 300, 331. And on the dates of Oman and the east of Arabia, see _Wellsted's Travels in Arabia_, vol. i. pp. 188, 189, 236, 276, 290, 349. Compare _Niebuhr_, _Description de l'Arabie_, pp. 142, 296. Indeed, they are so important, that the Arabs have different names for them according to the stages of their growth. Djewhari says, 'La dénomination _balah_ précède le nom _bosr_; car la datte se nomme d'abord _tala_, en suite _khalal_, puis _balah_, puis _bosr_, puis _rotab_, et enfin _tamr_.' _De Sacy's note to Abd-Allatif, Relation, de l'Egypte_, p. 74, and see p. 118. Other notices of the dates of Arabia will be found in _Travels of Ibn Batuta in Fourteenth Century_, p. 66; _Journal of Asiatic Soc._ vol. viii. p. 286; _Journal of Geograph. Soc._ vol. iv. p. 201, vol. vi. pp. 53, 55, 58, 66, 68, 74, vol. vii. p. 32, vol. ix. pp. 147, 151. [133] Heeren (_Trade of the African Nations_, vol. i. p. 182) supposes that in Africa, dates are comparatively little known south of 26° north lat. But this learned writer is certainly mistaken; and a reference to the following passages will show that they are common as far down as the parallel of Lake Tchad, which is nearly the southern limit of our knowledge of Central Africa; _Denham's Central Africa_, p. 295; _Clapperton's Journal_, in _Appendix to Denham_, pp. 34, 59; _Clapperton's Second Expedition_, p. 159. Further east they are somewhat scarcer, but are found much more to the south than is supposed by Heeren: see _Pallme's Kordofan_, p. 220. [134] 'Dates are not only the principal growth of the Fezzan oases, but the main subsistence of their inhabitants. All live on dates; men, women, and children, horses, asses, and camels, and sheep, fowls, and dogs.' _Richardson's Travels in the Sahara_, vol. ii. p. 323, and see vol. i. p. 343: as to those parts of the desert where the palm will not bear, see vol. i. pp. 387, 405, vol. ii. pp. 291, 363. Respecting the dates of western Africa, see _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. xii. p. 204. [135] 'It flourished spontaneously in the valley of the Nile.' _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. ii. p. 372. As further illustration of the importance to Africa of this beautiful plant, it may be mentioned, that from the high-palm there is prepared a peculiar beverage, which in some parts is in great request. On this, which is called palm-wine, see _M'William's Medical Expedition to the Niger_, pp. 71, 116; _Meredith's Gold Coast of Africa_, 1812, pp. 55, 56; _Laird and Oldfield's Expedition into the Interior of Africa_, 1837, vol. ii. pp. 170, 213; _Bowdich_, _Mission to Ashantee_, pp. 69, 100, 152, 293, 386, 392. But I doubt if this is the same as the palm-wine mentioned in _Balfour's Botany_, 1849, p. 532. Compare _Tuckey's Expedition to the Zaire_, pp. 155, 216, 224, 356. [136] _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. ii. pp. 175-178. See also on the abundance of dates, the extracts from an Arabian geographer in _Quatremère_, _Recherches sur l'Egypte_, pp. 220, 221. From these facts, it is evident that, taking Egypt as the highest type of African civilization, and India as the highest type of Asiatic civilization, it may be said that dates are to the first civilization what rice is to the second. Now it is observable, that all the most important physical peculiarities found in rice are also found in dates. In regard to their chemistry, it is well known that the chief principle of the nutriment they contain is the same in both; the starch of the Indian vegetable being merely turned into the sugar of the Egyptian. In regard to the laws of climate, their affinity is equally obvious; since dates, like rice, belong to hot countries, and flourish most in or near the tropics.[137] In regard to their increase, and the laws of their connexion with the soil, the analogy is also exact; for dates, just the same as rice, require little labour, and yield abundant returns, while they occupy so small a space of land in comparison with the nutriment they afford, that upwards of two hundred palm-trees are sometimes planted on a single acre.[138] [137] On their relation to the laws of climate, see the remarks respecting the geographical limits of their power of ripening, in _Jussieu's Botany_, edit. Wilson, 1849, p. 734. [138] 'In the valley of the Nile, a feddan (1-3/4 acre) is sometimes planted with 400 trees.' _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. ii. p. 178. At Moorzuk an entire date-palm is only worth about a shilling. _Richardson's Central Africa_, vol. i. p. 111. Thus striking are the similarities to which, in different countries, the same physical conditions naturally give rise. At the same time, in Egypt, as in India, the attainment of civilization was preceded by the possession of a highly fertile soil; so that, while the exuberance of the land regulated the speed with which wealth was created, the abundance of the food regulated the proportions into which the wealth was divided. The most fertile part of Egypt is the Said;[139] and it is precisely there that we find the greatest display of skill and knowledge, the splendid remains of Thebes, Carnac, Luxor, Dendera, and Edfou.[140] It is also in the Said, or as it is often called the Thebaid, that a food is used which multiplies itself even more rapidly than either dates or rice. This is the dhourra, which until recently was confined to Upper Egypt,[141] and of which the reproductive power is so remarkable, that it yields to the labourer a return of two hundred and forty for one.[142] In Lower Egypt the dhourra was formerly unknown; but, in addition to dates, the people made a sort of bread from the lotos, which sprang spontaneously out of the rich soil of the Nile.[143] This must have been a very cheap and accessible food; while to it there was joined a profusion of other plants and herbs, on which the Egyptians chiefly lived.[144] Indeed so inexhaustible was the supply, that at the time of the Mohammedan invasion there were, in the single city of Alexandria, no less than four thousand persons occupied in selling vegetables to the people.[145] [139] On the remarkable fertility of the Said, see _Abd-Allatif_, _Relation de l'Egypte_, p. 3. [140] The superiority of the ruins in Southern Egypt over those in the northern part is noticed by Heeren (_African Nations_, vol. ii. p. 69), and must, indeed, be obvious to whoever has studied the monuments. In the Said the Coptic was preserved longer than in Lower Egypt, and is known to philologists by the name of Misr. See _Quatremère_, _Recherches sur la Langue de l'Egypte_, pp. 20, 41, 42. See also on the Saidic, pp. 134-140, and some good remarks by Dr. Prichard (_Physical Hist._ vol. ii. p. 202); who, however, adopts the paradoxical opinion of Georgi respecting the origin of the language of the Thebaid. [141] Abd-Allatif (_Relation de l'Egypte_, p. 32) says, that in his time it was only cultivated in the Said. This curious work by Abd-Allatif was written in A.D. 1203. _Relation_, p. 423. Meiners thinks that Herodotus and other ancient writers refer to the dhourra without mentioning it: 'diese Durra muss daher im Herodot wie in andern alten Schriftstellern vorzüglich verstanden werden, wenn von hundert, zwey hundert, und mehrfältigen Früchten, welche die Erde trage, die Rede ist.' _Meiners_, _Fruchtbarkeit der Länder_, vol. i. p. 139. According to Volney, it is the Holcus Arundinaceus of Linnæus, and appears to be similar to millet; and though that accurate traveller distinguishes between them, I observe that Captain Haines, in a recent memoir, speaks of them as being the same. Compare Haines in _Journal of Geog. Soc._ vol. xv. p. 118, with _Volney_, _Voyage en Egypte_, vol. i. p. 195. [142] 'The return is in general not less than 240 for one; and the average price is about 3_s._ 9_d._ the ardeb, which is scarcely 3_d._ per bushel.' _Hamilton's �qyptiaca_, p. 420. In Upper Egypt, 'the doura constitutes almost the whole subsistence of the peasantry,' p. 419. At p. 96, Hamilton says, 'I have frequently counted 3,000 grains in one ear of doura, and each stalk has in general four or five ears.' For an account, of the dhourra bread, see _Volney_, _Voyage en Egypte_, vol. i. p. 161. [143] [Greek: Epean plêrês genêtai ho potamos, kai ta pedia pelagisê, phuetai en tô hudati krinea polla, ta Aiguptioi kaleousi lôton; tauta epean drepsôsi, auainousi pros hêlion; kai epeita to ek tou mesou tou lôtou tê mêkôni eon empheres, ptisantes poieuntai ex autou artous optous puri.] _Herodot._ ii. 92, vol. i. p. 688. [144] _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. ii. pp. 370-372, 400, vol. iv. p. 59. Abd-Allatif gives a curious account of the different vegetables grown in Egypt early in the thirteenth century. _Relation_, pp. 16-36, and the notes of De Sacy, pp. 37-134. On the [Greek: kyamos] of Herodotus there are some botanical remarks worth reading in the _Correspondence of Sir J. E. Smith_, vol. ii. pp. 224-232; but I doubt the assertion, p. 227, that Herodotus 'knew nothing of any other kind of [Greek: kyamos] in Egypt than that of the ordinary bean.' [145] 'When Alexandria was taken by Amer, the lieutenant of the Caliph Omer, no less than 4,000 persons were engaged in selling vegetables in that city.' _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. ii. p. 372, and see vol. i. p. 277, vol. iv. p. 60. Niebuhr (_Description de l'Arabie_, p. 136) says that the neighbourhood of Alexandria is so fertile, that 'le froment y rend le centuple.' See also on its rich vegetation, _Matter_, _Histoire de l'Ecole d'Alexandrie_, vol. i. p. 52. From this abundance of the national food, there resulted a train of events strictly analogous to those which took place in India. In Africa generally, the growth of population, though on the one hand stimulated by the heat of the climate, was on the other hand checked by the poverty of the soil. But on the banks of the Nile this restraint no longer existed,[146] and therefore the laws already noticed came into uncontrolled operation. By virtue of those laws, the Egyptians were not only satisfied with a cheap food, but they required that food in comparatively small quantities; thus by a double process, increasing the limit to which their numbers could extend. At the same time the lower orders were able to rear their offspring with the greater ease, because, owing to the high rate of temperature, another considerable source of expense was avoided; the heat being such that, even for adults, the necessary clothes were few and slight, while the children of the working classes were entirely naked; affording a striking contrast to those colder countries where, to preserve ordinary health, a supply of warmer and more costly covering is essential. Diodorus Siculus, who travelled in Egypt nineteen centuries ago, says, that to bring up a child to manhood did not cost more than twenty drachmas, scarcely thirteen shillings English money; a circumstance which he justly notices as a cause of the populousness of the country.[147] [146] The encouragement given to the increase of population by the fertility arising from the inundation of the Nile, is observed by many writers, but by none so judiciously as Malthus; _Essay on Population_, vol. i. pp. 161-163. This great work, the principles of which have been grossly misrepresented, is still the best which has been written on the important subject of population, though the author, from a want of sufficient reading, often errs in his illustrations; while he, unfortunately, had no acquaintance with those branches of physical knowledge which are intimately connected with economical inquiries. [147] [Greek: Trephousi de ta paidia meta tinos euchereias adapanou, kai pantelôs apistou ... anupodetôn de tôn pleistôn kai gymnôn trephomenon dia tên eukrasian tôn topôn, tên pasan dapanên oi goneis, achris an eis hêlikian elthê to teknon, ou pleiô poiousi drachmôn eikusi, di as aitias malista tên Aigupton sumbainei poluanthrôpia diapherein, kai dia touto pleistas echein megalôn ergôn kataskeuas.] _Bibliothec. Hist._ book i. chap. lxxx. vol. i. p. 238. To compress into a single sentence the preceding remarks, it may be said that in Egypt the people multiplied rapidly, because while the soil increased their supplies, the climate lessened their wants. The result was, that Egypt was not only far more thickly peopled than any other country in Africa, but probably more so than any in the ancient world. Our information upon this point is indeed somewhat scanty, but it is derived from sources of unquestioned credibility. Herodotus, who the more he is understood the more accurate he is found to be,[148] states that in the reign of Amasis there were said to have been twenty thousand inhabited cities.[149] This may, perhaps, be considered an exaggeration; but what is very observable is, that Diodorus Siculus, who travelled in Egypt four centuries after Herodotus, and whose jealousy of the reputation of his great predecessor made him anxious to discredit his statements,[150] does nevertheless, on this important point, confirm them. For he not only remarks that Egypt was at that time as densely inhabited as any existing country, but he adds, on the authority of records which were then extant, that it was formerly the most populous in the world, having contained, he says, upwards of eighteen thousand cities.[151] [148] Frederick Schlegel (_Philos. of Hist._ p. 247, London, 1846) truly says, 'The deeper and more comprehensive the researches of the moderns have been on ancient history, the more have their regard and esteem for Herodotus increased.' His minute information respecting Egypt and Asia Minor is now admitted by all competent geographers; and I may add, that a recent and very able traveller has given some curious proofs of his knowledge even of the western parts of Siberia. See Erman's valuable work, _Travels in Siberia_, vol. i. pp. 211, 297-301. [149] [Greek: 'Ep' Amasios de basileos legetai Aigyptos malis-a dê tote eudaimonêsai, kai ta apo tou potamou tê chôrê ginomena, kai ta apo tês chôrês toisi anthrôpoisi kai polis en autê genesthai tas apasas tote dismurias tas oikeomenas.] _Herodot._ book ii. chap. clxxvii. vol. i. pp. 881, 882. [150] Diodorus, who, though an honest and painstaking man, was in every respect inferior to Herodotus, says, impertinently enough, [Greek: osa men oun '�rodotos kai tines tôn tas Aiguptiôn prazeis sun-tazamenôn eschediakasin, ekousiôs prokrinantes tês alêtheias to paradoxologein, kai muthous plattein psuchagôgias eneka, parêsomen.] _Biblioth. Hist._ book i. chap. lxix. vol. i. p. 207. In other places he alludes to Herodotus in the same tone, without actually mentioning him. [151] [Greek: Poluanthrôpia de to men palaion polu proesche pantôn tôn gnôrizomenon topôn kata, tên oikoumenên, kai kath' êmas de oudenos tôn allôn dokei leipesthai. epi men gar tôn archaion chronôn esche kômas axiologous, kai poleis pleious tôn murion kai oktakischiliôn, ôs en tais anagraphais dranx esti katakechôrismenon.] _Diod. Sic. Biblioth. Hist._ book i. chap. xxxi. vol. i. p. 89. These were the only two ancient writers who, from personal knowledge, were well acquainted with the state of Egypt;[152] and their testimony is the more valuable because it was evidently drawn from different sources; the information of Herodotus being chiefly collected at Memphis, that of Diodorus at Thebes.[153] And whatever discrepancies there may be between these two accounts, they are both agreed respecting the rapid increase of the people, and the servile condition into which they had fallen. Indeed, the mere appearance of those huge and costly buildings, which are still standing, are a proof of the state of the nation that erected them. To raise structures so stupendous,[154] and yet so useless,[155] there must have been tyranny on the part of the rulers, and slavery on the part of the people. No wealth, however great, no expenditure, however lavish, could meet the expense which would have been incurred, if they had been the work of free men, who received for their labour a fair and honest reward.[156] But in Egypt, as in India, such considerations were disregarded, because everything tended to favour the upper ranks of society and depress the lower. Between the two there was an immense and impassable gap.[157] If a member of the industrious classes changed his usual employment, or was known to pay attention to political matters, he was severely punished;[158] and under no circumstances was the possession of land allowed to an agricultural labourer, to a mechanic, or indeed to any one except the king, the clergy, and the army.[159] The people at large were little better than beasts of burden; and all that was expected from them was an unremitting and unrequited labour. If they neglected their work, they were flogged; and the same punishment was frequently inflicted upon domestic servants, and even upon women.[160] These and similar regulations were well conceived; they were admirably suited to that vast social system, which, because it was based on despotism, could only be upheld by cruelty. Hence it was that, the industry of the whole nation being at the absolute command of a small part of it, there arose the possibility of rearing those vast edifices, which inconsiderate observers admire as a proof of civilization,[161] but which, in reality, are evidence of a state of things altogether depraved and unhealthy; a state in which the skill and the arts of an imperfect refinement injured those whom they ought to have benefited; so that the very resources which the people had created were turned against the people themselves. [152] Notwithstanding the positive assertions of M. Matter (_Hist. de l'Ecole d'Alexandrie_, vol. ii. p. 285; compare _Hist. du Gnosticisme_, vol. i. p. 48), there is no good evidence for the supposed travels in Egypt of the earlier Greeks, and it is even questionable if Plato ever visited that country. ('Whether he ever was in Egypt is doubtful.' _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. i. p. 60.) The Romans took little interest in the subject (_Bunsen_, vol. i. pp. 152-158); and, says M. Bunsen, p. 152, 'with Diodorus all systematic inquiry into the history of Egypt ceases, not only on the part of the Greeks, but of the ancients in general.' Mr. Leake, in an essay on the Quorra, arrives at the conclusion, that after the time of Ptolemy, the ancients made no additions to their knowledge of African geography. _Journal of Geographical Society_, vol. ii. p. 9. [153] See on this some good remarks in _Heeren's African Nations_, vol. ii. pp. 202-207; and as to the difference between the traditions of Thebes and Memphis, see _Matter_, _Histoire de l'Ecole d'Alexandrie_, vol. i. p. 7. The power and importance of the two cities fluctuated, both being at different periods the capital. _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. ii. pp. 54, 55, 244, 445, 446; _Vyse on the Pyramids_, vol. iii. pp. 27, 100; _Sharpe's History of Egypt_, vol. i. pp. 9, 19, 24, 34, 167, 185. [154] Sir John Herschel (_Disc. on Natural Philosophy_, p. 60) calculates that the great pyramid weighs twelve thousand seven hundred and sixty million pounds. Compare _Lyell's Principles of Geology_, p. 459, where the still larger estimate of six million tons is given. But according to Perring, the present quantity of masonry is 6,316,000 tons, or 82,110,000 cubic feet. See _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. ii. p. 155, London, 1854, and _Vyse on the Pyramids_, 1840, vol. ii. p. 113. [155] Many fanciful hypotheses have been put forward as to the purpose for which the pyramids were built; but it is now admitted that they were neither more nor less than tombs for the Egyptian kings! See _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. ii. pp. xvii. 88, 105, 372, 389; and _Sharpe's History of Egypt_, vol. i. p. 21. [156] For an estimate of the expense at which, one of the pyramids could be built in our time by European workmen, see _Vyse on the Pyramids_, vol. ii. p. 268. On account, however, of the number of disturbing causes, such calculations have little value. [157] Those who complain that in Europe this interval is still too great, may derive a species of satisfaction from studying the old extra-European civilizations. [158] _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. ii. pp. 8, 9. 'Nor was any one permitted to meddle with political affairs, or to hold any civil office in the state.' ... 'If any artizan meddled with political affairs, or engaged in any other employment than the one to which he had been brought up, a severe punishment was instantly inflicted upon him.' Compare _Diod. Sic. Bibliothec. Hist._ book i. chap. lxxiv. vol. i. p. 223. [159] _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. i. p. 263, vol. ii. p. 2; _Sharpe's History of Egypt_, vol. ii. p. 24. [160] _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. ii. pp. 41, 42, vol. iii. p. 69, vol. iv. p. 131. Compare Ammianus Marcellinus, in _Hamilton's �gyptiaca_, p. 309. [161] _Vyse on the Pyramids_, vol. i. p. 61, vol. ii. p. 92. That in such a society as this, much regard should be paid to human suffering, it would indeed be idle to expect.[162] Still, we are startled by the reckless prodigality with which, in Egypt, the upper classes squandered away the labour and the lives of the people. In this respect, as the monuments yet remaining abundantly prove, they stand alone and without a rival. We may form some idea of the almost incredible waste, when we hear that two thousand men were occupied for three years in carrying a single stone from Elephantine to Sais;[163] that the Canal of the Red Sea alone, cost the lives of a hundred and twenty thousand Egyptians;[164] and that to build one of the pyramids required the labour of three hundred and sixty thousand men for twenty years.[165] [162] 'Ein König ahmte den andern nach, oder suchte ihn zu übertreffen; indess das gutmüthige Volk seine Lebenstage am Baue dieser Monumente verzehren musste. So entstanden wahrscheinlich die Pyramiden und Obelisken Aegyptens. Nur in den ältesten Zeiten wurden sie gebauet: denn die spätere Zeit und jede Nation, die ein nützliches Gewerbe treiben lernte, bauete keine Pyramiden mehr. Weit gefehlt also, dass Pyramiden ein Kennzeichen von der Glückseligkeit und Aufklärung des alten Aegyptens seyn sollten, sind sie ein unwidersprechliches Denkmal von dem Aberglauben und der Gedankenlosigkeit sowohl der Armen, die da baueten, als der Ehrgeizigen, die den Bau befahlen.' _Herder's Ideen zur Geschichte_, vol. iii. pp. 103, 104: see also p. 293, and some admirable remarks in _Volney's Voyage en Egypte_, vol. i. pp. 240, 241. Even M. Bunsen, notwithstanding his admiration, says of one of the pyramids, 'the misery of the people, already grievously oppressed, was aggravated by the construction of this gigantic building.... The bones of the oppressors of the people who for two whole generations harassed hundreds of thousands from day to day,' &c. _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. ii. p. 176, a learned and enthusiastic work. [163] [Greek: Kai touto ekomizon men ep' etea tria dischilioi de oi prosetetachato andres agôgees.] _Herodot._ book ii. chap. clxxv. vol. i. p. 897. On the enormous weight of the stones which the Egyptians sometimes carried, see _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. i. p. 379; and as to the machines employed, and the use of inclined roads for the transit, see _Vyse on the Pyramids_, vol. i. p. 197, vol. iii. pp. 14, 38. [164] _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. i. p. 70: but this learned writer is unwilling to believe a statement so adverse to his favourite Egyptians. It is likely enough that there is some exaggeration; still no one can dispute the fact of an enormous and unprincipled waste of human life. [165] [Greek: Triakonta men yar kai ex muriades andrôn, ôs phasi, tais tôn ergôn leitourgais prosêdreusan, to de pan kataskeuasma telos esche mogis etôn eikosi dielthontôn.] _Diod. Sic. Bibliothec. Hist._ book i. ch. lxiii. vol. i. p. 188. If, passing from the history of Asia and Africa, we now turn to the New World, we shall meet with fresh proof of the accuracy of the preceding views. The only parts of America which before the arrival of the Europeans were in some degree civilized, were Mexico and Peru;[166] to which may probably be added that long and narrow tract which stretches from the south of Mexico to the Isthmus of Panama. In this latter country, which is now known as Central America, the inhabitants, aided by the fertility of the soil,[167] seem to have worked out for themselves a certain amount of knowledge; since the ruins still extant, prove the possession of a mechanical and architectural skill too considerable to be acquired by any nation entirely barbarous.[168] Beyond this, nothing is known of their history; but the accounts we have of such buildings as Copan, Palenque, and Uxmal, make it highly probable that Central America was the ancient seat of a civilization, in all essential points similar to those of India and Egypt; that is to say, similar to them in respect to the unequal distribution of wealth and power, and the thraldom in which the great body of the people consequently remained.[169] [166] 'When compared with other parts of the New World, Mexico and Peru may be considered as polished states.' _History of America_, book vii. in _Robertson's Works_, p. 904. See, to the same effect, _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. v. p. 355. [167] Compare _Squier's Central America_, vol. i. pp. 34, 244, 358, 421, vol. ii. p. 307, with _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. iii. p. 59, vol. viii. pp. 319, 323. [168] Mr. Squier (_Central America_, vol. ii. p. 68); who explored Nicaragua, says of the statues, 'the material, in every case, is a black basalt, of great hardness, which, with the best of modern tools, can only be cut with difficulty.' Mr. Stephens (_Central America_, vol. ii. p. 355) found at Palenque 'elegant specimens of art and models for study.' See also vol. iii. pp. 276, 389, 406, vol. iv. p. 293. Of the paintings at Chichen he says (vol. iv. p. 311), 'they exhibit a freedom of touch which could only be the result of discipline and training under masters.' At Copan (vol. i. p. 151), 'it would be impossible, with the best instruments of modern times, to cut stones more perfectly.' And at Uxmal (vol. ii. p. 431), 'throughout, the laying and polishing of the stones are as perfect as under the rules of the best modern masonry.' Our knowledge of Central America is almost entirely derived from these two writers; and although the work of Mr. Stephens is much the more minute, Mr. Squier says (vol. ii. p. 306), what I believe is quite true, that until the appearance of his own book in 1853, the monuments in Nicaragua were entirely unknown. Short descriptions of the remains in Guatemala and Yucatan will be found in _Larenaudière's Mexique et Guatemala_, pp. 308-327, and in _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. iii. pp. 60-63. [169] See the remarks on Yucatan in _Prichard's Physical History of Mankind_, vol. v. p. 348: 'a great and industrious, though perhaps, as the writer above cited (Gallatin) observes, an enslaved population. Splendid temples and palaces attest the power of the priests and nobles, while as usual no trace remains of the huts in which dwelt the mass of the nation.' But although the evidence from which we might estimate the former condition of Central America is almost entirely lost,[170] we are more fortunate in regard to the histories of Mexico and Peru. There are still existing considerable and authentic materials, from which we may form an opinion on the ancient state of those two countries, and on the nature and extent of their civilization. Before, however, entering upon this subject, it will be convenient to point out what those physical laws were which determined the localities of American civilization; or, in other words, why it was that in these countries alone, society should have been organized into a fixed and settled system, while the rest of the New World was peopled by wild and ignorant barbarians. Such an inquiry will be found highly interesting, as affording further proof of the extraordinary, and indeed irresistible, force with which the powers of nature have controlled the fortunes of man. [170] Dr. M'Culloh (_Researches concerning the Aboriginal History of America_, pp. 272-340) has collected from the Spanish writers some meagre statements respecting the early condition of Central America; but of its social state and history, properly so called, nothing is known; nor is it even certain to what family of nations the inhabitants belonged, though a recent author can find 'la civilisation guatemalienne ou misteco-zapotèque et mayaquiche vivante pour nous encore dans les ruines de Mitla et de Palenque.' _Mexique et Guatemala, par Larenaudière_, p. 8, Paris, 1843. Dr. Prichard, too, refers the ruins in Central America to 'the Mayan race:' see _Prichard on Ethnology_, in _Report of British Association for 1847_, p. 252. But the evidence for these and similar statements is very unsatisfactory. The first circumstance by which we must be struck, is that in America, as in Asia and Africa, all the original civilizations were seated in hot countries; the whole of Peru proper being within the southern tropic, the whole of Central America and Mexico within the northern tropic. How the heat of the climate operated on the social and political arrangements of India and Egypt, I have attempted to examine; and it has, I trust, been proved that the result was brought about by diminishing the wants and requirements of the people, and thus producing a very unequal distribution of wealth and power. But, besides this, there is another way in which the average temperature of a country affects its civilization, and the discussion of which I have reserved for the present moment, because it may be more clearly illustrated in America than elsewhere. Indeed, in the New World, the scale on which Nature works, being much larger than in the Old, and her forces being more overpowering, it is evident that her operations on mankind may be studied with greater advantage than in countries where she is weaker, and where, therefore, the consequences of her movements are less conspicuous. If the reader will bear in mind the immense influence which an abundant national food has been shown to exercise, he will easily understand how, owing to the pressure of physical phenomena, the civilization of America was, of necessity, confined to those parts where alone it was found by the discoverers of the New World. For, setting aside the chemical and geognostic varieties of soil, it may be said that the two causes which regulate the fertility of every country are heat and moisture.[171] Where these are abundant, the land will be exuberant; where they are deficient, it will be sterile. This rule is, of course, in its application subject to exceptions, arising from physical conditions which are independent of it; but if other things are equal, the rule is invariable. And the vast additions which, since the construction of isothermal lines, have been made to our knowledge of geographical botany, enable us to lay this down as a law of nature, proved not only by arguments drawn from vegetable physiology, but also by a careful study of the proportions in which plants are actually distributed in different countries.[172] [171] Respecting the connection between the vegetable productions of a country and its geognostic peculiarities, little is yet known; but the reader may compare _Meyen's Geography of Plants_, p. 64, with _Reports on Botany by the Ray Society_, 1846, pp. 70, 71. The chemical laws of soil are much better understood, and have a direct practical bearing on the use of manures. See _Turner's Chemistry_, vol. ii. pp. 1310-1314; _Brande's Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 691, vol. ii. pp. 1867-1869; _Balfour's Botany_, pp. 116-122; _Liebig and Kopp's Reports_, vol. ii. pp. 315, 328, vol. iii. p. 463, vol. iv. pp. 438, 442, 446. [172] As to the influence of heat and moisture on the geographical distribution of plants, see _Henslow's Botany_, pp. 295-300, and _Balfour's Botany_, pp. 560-563. Meyen (_Geog. of Plants_, p. 263) says, 'I, therefore, after allowing for local circumstances, bring the vegetation of islands also under the law of nature, according to which the number of species constantly increases with increasing heat and corresponding humidity.' On the effect of temperature alone, compare a note in _Erman's Siberia_, vol. i. pp. 64, 65, with _Reports on Botany by the Ray Society_, pp. 339, 340. In the latter work, it is supposed that heat is the most important of all single agents; and though this is probably true, still the influence of humidity is immense. I may mention as an instance of this, that it has been recently ascertained that the oxygen used by seeds during germination, is not always taken from the air, but is obtained by decomposing water. See the curious experiments of Edwards and Colin in _Lindley's Botany_, vol. ii. pp. 261, 262, London, 1848; and on the direct nourishment which water supplies to vegetables, see Burdache's great work, _Traité de Physiologie_, vol. ix. pp. 254, 398. A general survey of the continent of America will illustrate the connexion between this law and the subject now before us. In the first place, as regards moisture, all the great rivers in the New World are on the eastern coast, none of them on the western. The causes of this remarkable fact are unknown;[173] but it is certain that neither in North, nor in South America, does one considerable river empty itself into the Pacific; while on the opposite side there are numerous rivers, some of enormous magnitude, all of great importance, as the Negro, the La Plata, the San Francisco, the Amazon, the Orinoco, the Mississippi, the Alabama, the Saint John, the Potomac, the Susquehannah, the Delaware, the Hudson, and the Saint Lawrence. By this vast water-system the soil is towards the east constantly irrigated:[174] but towards the west there is in North America only one river of value, the Oregon;[175] while in South America, from the Isthmus of Panama to the Straits of Magellan, there is no great river at all. [173] There is a difference between the watersheds of the eastern and western ranges, which explains this in part, but not entirely; and even if the explanation were more satisfactory than it is, it is too proximate to the phenomenon to have much scientific value, and must itself be referred to higher geological considerations. [174] Of this irrigation some idea may be formed from an estimate that the Amazon drains an area of 2,500,000 square miles; that its mouth is 96 miles wide; and that it is navigable 2,200 miles from its mouth. _Somerville's Physical Geography_, vol. i. p. 423. Indeed, it is said in an essay on the Hydrography of South America (_Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. ii. p. 250), that 'with the exception of one short portage of three miles, water flows, and is for the most part navigable, between Buenos Ayres, in 35° south latitude, to the mouth of the Orinoco, in nearly 9° north.' See also on this river-system, vol. v. p. 93, vol. x. p. 267. In regard to North America, Mr. Rogers (_Geology of North America_, p. 8, _Brit. Assoc. for 1834_) says, 'the area drained by the Mississippi and all its tributaries is computed at 1,099,000 square miles.' Compare _Richardson's Arctic Expedition_, vol. ii. p. 164. [175] The Oregon, or Columbia as it is sometimes called, forms a remarkable botanical line, which is the boundary of the Californian flora. See _Reports on Botany by the Ray Society_, p. 113. But as to the other main cause of fertility, namely heat, we find in North America a state of things precisely the reverse. There we find that while the irrigation is on the east, the heat is on the west.[176] This difference of temperature between the two coasts is probably connected with some great meteorological law; for in the whole of the northern hemisphere, the eastern part of continents and of islands is colder than the western.[177] Whether, however, this is owing to some large and comprehensive cause, or whether each instance has a cause peculiar to itself, is an alternative, in the present state of knowledge, impossible to decide; but the fact is unquestionable, and its influence upon the early history of America is extremely curious. In consequence of it, the two great conditions of fertility have not been united in any part of the continent north of Mexico. The countries on the one side have wanted heat; those on the other side have wanted irrigation. The accumulation of wealth being thus impeded, the progress of society was stopped; and until, in the sixteenth century, the knowledge of Europe was brought to bear upon America, there is no instance of any people north of the twentieth parallel, reaching even that imperfect civilization to which the inhabitants of India and of Egypt easily attained.[178] On the other hand, south of the twentieth parallel, the continent suddenly changes its form, and, rapidly contracting, becomes a small strip of land, until it reaches the Isthmus of Panama. This narrow tract was the centre of Mexican civilization; and a comparison of the preceding arguments will easily show why such was the case; for the peculiar configuration of the land secured a very large amount of coast, and thus gave to the southern part of North America the character of an island. Hence there arose one of the characteristics of an insular climate, namely, an increase of moisture caused by the watery vapour which springs from the sea.[179] While, therefore, the position of Mexico near the equator gave it heat, the shape of the land gave it humidity; and this being the only part of North America in which these two conditions were united, it was likewise the only part which was at all civilized. There can be no doubt that if the sandy plains of California and southern Columbia, instead of being scorched into sterility, had been irrigated by the rivers of the east, or if the rivers of the east had been accompanied by the heat of the west, the result of either combination would have been that exuberance of soil by which, as the history of the world decisively proves, every early civilization was preceded. But inasmuch as, of the two elements of fertility, one was deficient in every part of America north of the twentieth parallel, it followed that, until that line was passed, civilization could gain no resting-place; and there never has been found, and we may confidently assert never will be found, any evidence that even a single ancient nation, in the whole of that enormous continent, was able to make much progress in the arts of life, or organize itself into a fixed and permanent society. [176] For proof that the mean temperature of the western coast of North America is higher than that of the eastern coast, see _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. ix. p. 380, vol. xi. pp. 168, 216; _Humboldt_, _la Nouvelle Espagne_, vol. i. pp. 42, 336; _Richardson's Arctic Expedition_, vol. ii. pp. 214, 218, 219, 259, 260. This is well illustrated by the botanical fact, that on the west coast the Coniferæ grow as high as 68° or 70° north latitude; while on the east their northern limit is 60°. See an Essay on the Morphology of the Coniferæ, in _Reports on Botany by the Ray Society_, p. 8, which should be compared with _Forry on the Climate of the United States and its Endemic Influences_, New York, 1842, p. 89. [177] 'Writers on climate have remarked that the eastern coasts of continents in the northern hemisphere have a lower mean temperature than the western coasts.' _Richardson on North American Zoology_, p. 129, _Brit. Assoc. for_ 1836: see also _Report for_ 1841, _Sections_, p. 28; _Davis's China_, vol. iii. pp. 140, 141; _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. xxii. p. 176. [178] The little that is known of the early state of the North-American tribes has been brought together by Dr. M'Culloh in his learned work, _Researches concerning America_, pp. 119-146. He says, p. 121, that they 'lived together without laws and civil regulations.' In that part of the world, the population has probably never been fixed; and we now know that the inhabitants of the north-east of Asia have at different times passed over to the north-west of America, as in the case of the Tschuktschi, who are found in both continents. Indeed, Dobell was so struck by the similarity between the North-American tribes and some he met with nearly as far west as Tomsk, that he believed their origin to be the same. See _Dobell's Travels in Kamtschatka and Siberia_, 1830, vol. ii. p. 112. And on this question of intercourse between the two continents, compare _Crantz's History of Greenland_, vol. i. pp. 259, 260, with _Richardson's Arctic Expedition_, vol. i. pp. 362, 363, and _Prichard's Physical History of Mankind_, vol. iv. pp. 458, 463, vol. v. pp. 371, 378. [179] From general physical considerations, we should suppose a relation between amount of rain and extent of coast; and in Europe, where alone we have extensive meteorological records, the connexion has been proved statistically. 'If the quantity of rain that falls in different parts of Europe is measured, it is found to be less, other things being equal, as we recede from the sea-shore.' _Kaemtz's Meteorology_, 1845, p. 139. Compare pp. 91, 94. Hence, no doubt, the greater rarity of rain as we advance north from Mexico. 'Au nord du 20°, surtout depuis les 22° au 30° de latitude, les pluies, que ne durent que pendant les mois de juin, de juillet, d'août et de septembre, sont peu fréquentes dans l'intérieur du pays.' _Humboldt_, _la Nouvelle Espagne_, vol. i. p. 46. Thus far as to the physical agents which controlled the early destinies of North America. But in reference to South America, a different train of circumstances came into play; for the law by virtue of which the eastern coasts are colder than the western, is not only inapplicable to the southern hemisphere, but is replaced by another law precisely the reverse. North of the equator, the east is colder than the west; south of the equator, the east is hotter than the west.[180] If now, we connect this fact with what has been noticed respecting the vast river-system which distinguishes the east of America from the west, it becomes evident that in South America there exists that coöperation of heat and humidity in which North America is deficient. The result is, that the soil in the eastern part of South America is remarkable for its exuberance, not only within the tropic, but considerably beyond it; the south of Brazil, and even part of Uruguay, possessing a fertility not to be found in any country of North America situated under a corresponding latitude. [180] 'The difference between the climates of the east and west coasts of continents and islands, has also been observed in the southern hemisphere but here the west coasts are colder than the east, while in the northern hemisphere the east coasts are the colder.' _Meyen's Geography of Plants_, 1846, p. 24. On a hasty view of the preceding generalizations, it might be expected that the eastern side of South America, being thus richly endowed by nature,[181] would have been the seat of one of those civilizations, which, in other parts of the world, similar causes produced. But if we look a little further, we shall find that what has just been pointed out, by no means exhausts even the physical bearings of this subject, and that we must take into consideration a third great agent, which has sufficed to neutralize the natural results of the other two, and to retain in barbarism the inhabitants of what otherwise would have been the most flourishing of all the countries of the New World. [181] Mr. Darwin, who has written one of the most valuable works ever published on South America, was struck by this superiority of the eastern coast; and he mentions that 'fruits which ripen well and are very abundant, such as the grape and fig, in latitude 41° on the east coast, succeed very poorly in a lower latitude on the opposite side of the continent.' _Darwin's Journal of Researches_, Lond. 1840, p. 268. Compare _Meyen's Geog. of Plants_, pp. 25, 188. So that the proposition of Daniell (_Meteorological Essays_, p. 104, sec. xiv.) is expressed too generally, and should be confined to continents north of the equator. The agent to which I allude is the trade-wind; a striking phenomenon, by which, as we shall hereafter see, all the civilizations anterior to those of Europe were greatly and injuriously influenced. This wind covers no less than 56° of latitude; 28° north of the equator, and 28° south of it.[182] In this large tract, which comprises some of the most fertile countries in the world, the trade-wind blows, during the whole year, either from the north-east or from the south-east.[183] The causes of this regularity are now well understood, and are known to depend partly on the displacement of air at the equator, and partly on the motion of the earth; for the cold air from the poles is constantly flowing towards the equator, and thus producing northerly winds in the northern hemisphere, and southerly winds in the southern. These winds are, however, deflected from their natural course by the movement of the earth, as it revolves on its axis from west to east. And as the rotation of the earth is, of course, more rapid at the equator than elsewhere, it happens that in the neighbourhood of the equator the speed is so great as to outstrip the movements of the atmosphere from the poles, and forcing them into another direction, gives rise to those easterly currents which are called trade-winds.[184] What, however, we are now rather concerned with, is not so much an explanation of the trade-winds, as an account of the way in which this great physical phenomenon is connected with the history of South America. [182] The trade-winds sometimes reach the thirtieth parallel. See _Daniell's Meteorological Essays_, p. 469. Dr. Traill (_Physical Geography_, Edin. 1838, p. 200), says, 'they extend to about 30° on each side of the equator:' but I believe they are rarely found so high; though Robertson is certainly wrong in supposing that they are peculiar to the tropics; _History of America_, book iv. in _Robertson's Works_, p. 781. [183] 'In the northern hemisphere the trade-wind blows from the north-east, and in the southern from the south-east.' _Meyen's Geog. of Plants_, p. 42. Compare _Walsh's Brazil_, vol. i. p. 112, vol. ii. p. 494; and on the 'tropical east-wind' of the Gulf of Mexico, see _Forry's Climate of the United States_, p. 206. Dr. Forry says that it has given to the growth of the trees 'an inclination from the sea.' [184] Respecting the causes of the trade-winds, see _Somerville's Connexion of the Physical Sciences_, pp. 136, 137; _Leslie's Natural Philosophy_, p. 518; _Daniell's Meteorological Essays_, pp. 44, 102, 476-481; _Kaemtz's Meteorology_, pp. 37-39; _Prout's Bridgewater Treatise_, pp. 254-256. The discovery of the true theory is often ascribed to Mr. Daniell; but Hadley was the real discoverer. _Note in Prout_, p. 257. The monsoons, which popular writers frequently confuse with the trade-winds, are said to be caused by the predominance of land, and by the difference between its temperature and that of the sea: see _Kaemtz_, pp. 42-45. On what may be called the conversion of the trades into monsoons, according to the laws very recently promulgated by M. Dove, see _Report of British Association for_ 1847 (_Transac. of Sections_, p. 30) and _Report for_ 1848, p. 94. The monsoons are noticed in _Humboldt's Cosmos_, vol. ii. p. 485; _Asiatic Researches_, vol. xviii. part i. p. 261; _Thirlwall's History of Greece_, vol. vii. pp. 13, 55; _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. ii. p. 90, vol. iv. pp. 8, 9, 148, 149, 169, vol. xi. p. 162, vol. xv. pp. 146-149, vol. xvi. p. 185, vol. xviii. pp. 67, 68, vol. xxiii. p. 112; _Low's Sarawak_, p. 30. The trade-wind, blowing on the eastern coast of South America, and proceeding from the east, crosses the Atlantic Ocean, and therefore reaches the land surcharged with the vapours accumulated in its passage. These vapours, on touching the shore, are, at periodical intervals, condensed into rain; and as their progress westward is checked by that gigantic chain of the Andes, which they are unable to pass,[185] they pour the whole of their moisture on Brazil, which, in consequence, is often deluged by the most destructive torrents.[186] This abundant supply, being aided by that vast river-system peculiar to the eastern part of America, and being also accompanied by heat, has stimulated the soil into an activity unequalled in any other part of the world.[187] Brazil, which is nearly as large as the whole of Europe, is covered with a vegetation of incredible profusion. Indeed, so rank and luxuriant is the growth, that Nature seems to riot in the very wantonness of power. A great part of this immense country is filled with dense and tangled forests, whose noble trees, blossoming in unrivalled beauty, and exquisite with a thousand hues, throw out their produce in endless prodigality. On their summit are perched birds of gorgeous plumage, which nestle in their dark and lofty recesses. Below, their base and trunks are crowded with brushwood, creeping plants, innumerable parasites, all swarming with life. There, too, are myriads of insects of every variety; reptiles of strange and singular form; serpents and lizards, spotted with deadly beauty: all of which find means of existence in this vast workshop and repository of Nature. And that nothing may be wanting to this land of marvels, the forests are skirted by enormous meadows, which, reeking with heat and moisture, supply nourishment to countless herds of wild cattle, that browse and fatten on their herbage; while the adjoining plains, rich in another form of life, are the chosen abode of the subtlest and most ferocious animals, which prey on each other, but which it might almost seem no human power can hope to extirpate.[188] [185] _Lyell's Principles of Geology_, pp. 201, 714, 715; see also _Somerville's Physical Geography_, vol. ii. p. 71. And on this confining power of the Cordillera of the Andes, see _Azara_, _Voyages dans l'Amérique Méridionale_, vol. i. p. 33. According to Dr. Tschudi, the eastern chain is properly the Andes, and the western the Cordillera; but this distinction is rarely made. _Tschudi's Travels in Peru_, p. 290. [186] On the rain of Brazil, see _Daniell's Meteorological Essays_, p. 335; _Darwin's Journal_, pp. 11, 33; _Spix and Martius's Travels in Brazil_, vol. ii. p. 113; _Gardner's Travels in Brazil_, pp. 53, 99, 114, 175, 233, 394. [187] Dr. Gardner, who looked at these things with the eye of a botanist, says that near Rio de Janeiro the heat and moisture are sufficient to compensate even the poorest soil; so that 'rocks, on which scarcely a trace of earth is to be observed, are covered with vellozias, tillandsias, melastomaceæ, cacti, orchideæ, and ferns, and all in the vigour of life.' _Gardner's Travels in Brazil_, p. 9. See also on this combination, _Walsh's Brazil_, vol. ii. pp. 297, 298, a curious description of the rainy season: 'For eight or nine hours a day, during some weeks, I never had a dry shirt on me; and the clothes I divested myself of at night, I put on quite wet in the morning. When it did not rain, which was very rare, there shone out in some places a burning sun; and we went smoking along, the wet exhaling by the heat, as if we were dissolving into vapour.' [188] On the natural history of Brazil, I have compared a few notices in _Swainson's Geography of Animals_, pp. 75-87, with _Cuvier_, _Règne Animal_, vol. i. p. 460, vol. ii. pp. 28, 65, 66, 89, vol. iv. pp. 51, 75, 258, 320, 394, 485, 561, vol. v. pp. 40, 195, 272, 334, 553; _Azara_, _Amérique Méridionale_, vol. i. pp. 244-388, and the greater part of vols. iii. and iv.; _Winckler_, _Geschichte der Botanik_, pp. 378, 576-578; _Southey's History of Brazil_, vol. i. p. 27, vol. iii. pp. 315, 823; _Gardner's Brazil_, pp. 18, 32-34, 41-44, 131, 330; _Spix and Martius's Brazil_, vol. i. pp. 207-209, 238-248, vol. ii. pp. 131, 160-163. And as to the forests, which are among the wonders of the world, _Somerville's Physical Geog._ vol. ii. pp. 204-206; _Prichard's Physical History_, vol. v. p. 497; _Darwin's Journal_, pp. 11, 24; _Walsh's Brazil_, vol. i. p. 145, vol. ii. pp. 29, 30, 253. Such is the flow and abundance of life by which Brazil is marked above all the other countries of the earth.[189] But, amid this pomp and splendour of Nature, no place is left for Man. He is reduced to insignificance by the majesty with which he is surrounded. The forces that oppose him are so formidable that he has never been able to make head against them, never able to rally against their accumulated pressure. The whole of Brazil, notwithstanding its immense apparent advantages, has always remained entirely uncivilized; its inhabitants wandering savages, incompetent to resist those obstacles which the very bounty of Nature had put in their way. For the natives, like every people in the infancy of society, are averse to enterprise; and being unacquainted with the arts by which physical impediments are removed, they have never attempted to grapple with the difficulties that stopped their social progress. Indeed, those difficulties are so serious, that during more than three hundred years the resources of European knowledge have been vainly employed in endeavouring to get rid of them. Along the coast of Brazil, there has been introduced from Europe a certain amount of that civilization, which the natives by their own efforts could never have reached. But such civilization, in itself very imperfect, has never penetrated the recesses of the country; and in the interior there is still found a state of things similar to that which has always existed. The people, ignorant, and therefore brutal, practising no restraint, and recognizing no law, continue to live on in their old and inveterate barbarism.[190] In their country, the physical causes are so active, and do their work on a scale of such unrivalled magnitude, that it has hitherto been found impossible to escape from the effects of their united action. The progress of agriculture is stopped by impassable forests, and the harvests are destroyed by innumerable insects.[191] The mountains are too high to scale, the rivers are too wide to bridge; every thing is contrived to keep back the human mind, and repress its rising ambition. It is thus that the energies of Nature have hampered the spirit of Man. Nowhere else is there so painful a contrast between the grandeur of the external world and the littleness of the internal. And the mind, cowed by this unequal struggle, has not only been unable to advance, but without foreign aid it would undoubtedly have receded. For even at present, with all the improvements constantly introduced from Europe, there are no signs of real progress; while, notwithstanding the frequency of colonial settlements, less than one-fiftieth of the land is cultivated.[192] The habits of the people are as barbarous as ever; and as to their numbers, it is well worthy of remark, that Brazil, the country where, of all others, physical resources are most powerful, where both vegetables and animals are most abundant, where the soil is watered by the noblest rivers, and the coast studded by the finest harbours--this immense territory, which is more than twelve times the size of France, contains a population not exceeding six millions of people.[193] [189] This extraordinary richness has excited the astonishment of all who have seen it. Mr. Walsh, who had travelled in some very fertile countries, mentions 'the exceeding fecundity of nature which characterizes Brazil.' _Walsh's Brazil_, vol. ii. p. 19. And a very eminent naturalist, Mr. Darwin, says (_Journal_, p. 29), 'In England, any person fond of natural history enjoys in his walks a great advantage, by always having something to attract his attention; but in these fertile climates, teeming with life, the attractions are so numerous that he is scarcely able to walk at all.' [190] Azara (_Amérique Méridionale_, vol. ii. pp. 1-168) gives a curious, but occasionally a disgusting account of the savage natives in that part of Brazil south of 16°, to which his observations were limited. And as to the inhabitants of other parts, see _Henderson's History of Brazil_, pp. 28, 29, 107, 173, 248, 315, 473; _M'Culloh's Researches concerning America_, p. 77; and the more recent account of Dr. Martius, in _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. ii. pp. 191-199. Even in 1817, it was rare to see a native in Rio de Janeiro (_Spix and Martius's Travels in Brazil_, vol. i. p. 142); and Dr. Gardner (_Travels in Brazil_, pp. 61, 62) says, that 'more than one nation of Indians in Brazil' have returned to that savage life from which they had apparently been reclaimed. [191] Sir C. Lyell (_Principles of Geology_, p. 682) notices 'the incredible number of insects which lay waste the crops in Brazil;' and Mr. Swainson, who had travelled in that country, says 'The red ants of Brazil are so destructive, and at the same time so prolific, that they frequently dispute possession of the ground with the husbandman, defy all his skill to extirpate their colonies, and fairly compel him to leave his fields uncultivated.' _Swainson on the Geography and Classification of Animals_, p. 87. See more about these insects in _Darwin's Journal_, pp. 37-43; _Southey's History of Brazil_, vol. i. pp. 144, 256, 333-335, 343, vol. ii. pp. 365, 642, vol. iii. p. 876; _Spix and Martius's Travels in Brazil_, vol. i. p. 259, vol. ii. p. 117; _Cuvier_, _Règne Animal_, vol. iv. p. 320. [192] The cultivated land is estimated at from 1-1/2 to 2 per cent. See _M'Culloch's Geog. Dict._ 1849, vol. i. p. 430. [193] During the present century, the population of Brazil has been differently stated at different times; the highest computation being 7,000,000, and the lowest 4,000,000. Comp. _Humboldt_, _Nouv. Espagne_, vol. ii. p. 855; _Gardner's Brazil_, p. 12; _M'Culloch's Geog. Dict._ 1849, vol. i. pp. 430, 434. Mr. Walsh describes Brazil as 'abounding in lands of the most exuberant fertility, but nearly destitute of inhabitants.' _Walsh's Brazil_, vol. i. p. 248. This was in 1828 and 1829, since which the European population has increased; but, on the whole, 6,000,000 seems to be a fair estimate of what can only be known approximatively. In _Alison's History_, vol. x. p. 229, the number given is 5,000,000; but the area also is rather understated. These considerations sufficiently explain why it is, that in the whole of Brazil there are no monuments even of the most imperfect civilization; no evidence that the people had, at any period, raised themselves above the state in which they were found when their country was first discovered. But immediately opposite to Brazil there is another country, which, though situated in the same continent, and lying under the same latitude, is subjected to different physical conditions, and therefore was the scene of different social results. This is the celebrated kingdom of Peru, which included the whole of the southern tropic, and which, from the circumstances just stated, was naturally the only part of South America where any thing approaching to civilization could be attained. In Brazil, the heat of the climate was accompanied by a twofold irrigation, arising first from the immense river-system incidental to the eastern coast; and secondly, from the abundant moisture deposited by the trade-winds. From this combination there resulted that unequalled fertility, which, so far as Man was concerned, defeated its own ends, stopping his progress by an exuberance, which, had it been less excessive, it would have aided. For, as we have clearly seen, when the productive powers of Nature are carried beyond a certain point, the imperfect knowledge of uncivilized men is unable to cope with them, or in any way turn them to their own advantage. If, however, those powers, being very active, are nevertheless confined within manageable limits, there arises a state of things similar to that noticed in Asia and Africa; where the profusion of Nature, instead of hindering social progress, favoured it, by encouraging that accumulation of wealth, without some share of which progress is impossible. In estimating, therefore, the physical conditions by which civilization was originally determined, we have to look, not merely at the exuberance, but also at what may be called the manageability of Nature; that is, we have to consider the ease with which the resources may be used, as well as the number of the resources themselves. Applying this to Mexico and Peru, we find that they were the countries of America where this combination most happily occurred. For though their resources were much less numerous than those of Brazil, they were far more easy to control; while at the same time the heat of the climate brought into play those other laws by which, as I have attempted to show, all the early civilizations were greatly influenced. It is a very remarkable fact, which, I believe, has never been observed, that even in reference to latitude, the present limit of Peru to the south corresponds with the ancient limit of Mexico to the north; while, by a striking, but to me perfectly natural coincidence, both these boundaries are reached before the tropical line is passed; the boundary of Mexico being 21° N. lat., that of Peru 21-1/2° S. lat.[194] [194] Vidaca being the most southerly point of the present Peruvian coast; though the conquests of Peru, incorporated with the empire, extended far into Chili, and within a few degrees of Patagonia. In regard to Mexico, the northern limit of the empire was 21°, on the Atlantic coast, and 19° on the Pacific. _Prescott's History of Mexico_, vol. i. p. 2. Such is the wonderful regularity which history, when comprehensively studied, presents to our view. And if we compare Mexico and Peru with those countries of the Old World which have been already noticed, we shall find, as in all the civilizations anterior to those of Europe, that their social phenomena were subordinate to their physical laws. In the first place, the characteristics of their national food were precisely those met with in the most flourishing parts of Asia and Africa. For although few of the nutritious vegetables belonging to the Old World were found in the New, their place was supplied by others exactly analogous to rice and dates; that is to say, marked by the same abundance, by the same facility of growth, and by the same exuberant returns; therefore, followed by the same social results. In Mexico and Peru, one of the most important articles of food has always been maize, which, we have every reason to believe, was peculiar to the American continent.[195] This, like rice and dates, is eminently the product of a hot climate; and although it is said to grow at an elevation of upwards of 7,000 feet,[196] it is rarely seen beyond the fortieth parallel,[197] and its exuberance rapidly diminishes with the diminution of temperature. Thus, for example, in New California, its average yield is seventy or eighty fold;[198] but in Mexico Proper the same grain yields three or four hundred fold, and, under very favourable circumstances, even eight hundred fold.[199] [195] A question has been raised as to the Asiatic origin of maize: _Reynier_, _Economie des Arabes_, pp. 94, 95. But later and more careful researches seem to have ascertained beyond much doubt that it was unknown before America was discovered. Compare _Meyen's Geography of Plants_, pp. 44, 303, 304; _Walckenaer's note in Azara, Amérique Méridionale_, vol. i. p. 149; _Cuvier_, _Progrès des Sciences Naturelles_, vol. ii. p. 354; _Cuvier_, _Eloges Historiques_, vol. ii. p. 178; _Loudon's Encyclopædia of Agriculture_, p. 829; _M'Culloch's Dict. of Commerce_, 1849, p. 831. The casual notices of maize by Ixtlilxochitl, the native Mexican historian, show its general use as an article of food before the arrival of the Spaniards: see _Ixtlilxochitl_, _Histoire des Chichimèques_, vol. i. pp. 53, 64, 240, vol. ii. p. 19. [196] 'Maize, indeed, grows to the height of 7,200 feet above the level of the sea, but only predominates between 3,000 and 6,000 of elevation.' _Lindley's Vegetable Kingdom_, 1847, p. 112. This refers to the tropical parts of South America; but the Zea Mais is said to have been raised on the slopes of the Pyrenees 'at an elevation of 3,000 to 4,000 feet.' See _Austen on the Forty Days' Maize_, in _Report of Brit. Assoc. for_ 1849, _Trans. of Sec._ p. 68. [197] M. Meyen (_Geog. of Plants_, p. 302) and Mr. Balfour (_Botany_, p. 567) suppose that in America 40° is about its limit; and this is the case in regard to its extensive cultivation; but it is grown certainly as high as 52°, perhaps as high as 54°, north latitude: see _Richardson's Arctic Expedition_, 1851, vol. ii. pp. 49, 234. [198] 'Sous la zone tempérée, entre les 33 et 38 degrés de latitude, par exemple dans la Nouvelle Californie, le maïs ne produit, en général, année commune, que 70 à 80 grains pour un.' _Humboldt_, _la Nouvelle Espagne_, vol. ii. p. 375. [199] 'La fécondité du Tlaolli, ou maïs mexicain, est au-delà de tout ce que l'on peut imaginer en Europe. La plante, favorisée par de fortes chaleurs et par beaucoup d'humidité, acquiert une hauteur de deux à trois mètres. Dans les belles plaines qui s'étendent depuis San Juan del Rio à Queretaro, par exemple dans les terres de la grande métairie de l'Esperanza, une fanègue de maïs en produit quelquefois huit cents. Des terrains fertiles en donnent, année commune, trois à quatre cents.' _Humboldt_, _Nouv. Espagne_, vol. ii. p. 374. Nearly the same estimate is given by Mr. Ward: see _Ward's Mexico_, vol. i. p. 32, vol. ii. p. 230. In Central America (Guatemala), maize returns three hundred for one. _Mexique et Guatemala, par Larenaudière_, p. 257. A people who derived their sustenance from a plant of such extraordinary fecundity, had little need to exercise their industrious energies; while at the same time they had every opportunity of increasing their numbers, and thus producing a train of social and political consequences similar to those which I have noticed in India and in Egypt. Besides this, there were, in addition to maize, other kinds of food to which the same remarks are applicable. The potato, which, in Ireland, has brought about such injurious effects by stimulating the growth of population, is said to be indigenous to Peru; and although this is denied by a very high authority,[200] there is, at all events, no doubt that it was found there in great abundance when the country was first discovered by the Europeans.[201] In Mexico, potatoes were unknown till the arrival of the Spaniards; but both Mexicans and Peruvians lived to a great extent on the produce of the banana; a vegetable whose reproductive powers are so extraordinary, that nothing but the precise and unimpeachable testimony of which we are possessed could make them at all credible. This remarkable plant is, in America, intimately connected with the physical laws of climate; since it is an article of primary importance for the subsistence of man whenever the temperature passes a certain point.[202] Of its nutritive powers, it is enough to say, that an acre sown with it will support more than fifty persons; whereas the same amount of land sown with wheat in Europe will only support two persons.[203] As to the exuberance of its growth, it is calculated that, other circumstances remaining the same, its produce is forty-four times greater than that of potatoes, and a hundred and thirty-three times greater than that of wheat.[204] [200] 'La pomme de terre n'est pas indigène au Pérou.' _Humboldt_, _Nouv. Espagne_, vol. ii. p. 400. On the other hand, Cuvier (_Histoire des Sciences Naturelles_, part ii. p. 185) peremptorily says, 'il est impossible de douter qu'elle ne soit originaire du Pérou:' see also his _Eloges Historiques_, vol. ii. p. 171. Compare _Winckler_, _Gesch. der Botanik_, p. 92: 'Von einem gewissen Carate unter den Gewächsen Peru's mit dem Namen papas aufgeführt.' [201] And has been used ever since for food. On the Peruvian potato compare _Tschudi's Travels in Peru_, pp. 178, 368, 386; _Ulloa's Voyage to South America_, vol. i. pp. 287, 288. In Southern Peru, at the height of 13,000 or 14,000 feet, a curious process takes place, the starch of the potato being frozen into saccharine. See a valuable paper by Mr. Bollaert in _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. xxi. p. 119. [202] Humboldt (_Nouv. Espagne_, vol. ii. p. 359) says, 'partout où la chaleur moyenne de l'année excède vingt-quatre degrés centigrades, le fruit du bananier est un objet de culture du plus grand intérêt pour la subsistance de l'homme.' Compare _Bullock's Mexico_, p. 281. [203] _M'Culloch's Geograph. Dict._, 1849, vol. ii. p. 315. [204] 'Je doute qu'il existe une autre plante sur le globe, qui, sur un petit espace de terrain, puisse produire une masse de substance nourrissante aussi considérable.' ... 'Le produit des bananes est par conséquent à celui du froment comme 133: 1--à celui des pommes de terre comme 44: l'_Humboldt_, _Nouvelle Espagne_, vol. ii. pp. 362, 363. See also _Prout's Bridgewater Treatise_, p. 333, edit. 1845; _Prescott's Peru_, vol. i. pp. 131, 132; _Prescott's Mexico_, vol. i. p. 114. Earlier notices, but very imperfect ones, of this remarkable vegetable may be found in _Ulloa's South America_, vol. i. p. 74; and in _Boyle's Works_, vol. iii. p. 590. It will now be easily understood why it was that, in all important respects, the civilizations of Mexico and Peru were strictly analogous to those of India and Egypt. In these four countries, as well as in a few others in Southern Asia and Central America, there existed an amount of knowledge, despicable indeed if tried by an European standard, but most remarkable if contrasted with the gross ignorance which prevailed among the adjoining and cotemporary nations. But in all of them there was the same inability to diffuse even that scanty civilization which they really possessed; there was the same utter absence of any thing approaching to the democratic spirit; there was the same despotic power on the part of the upper classes, and the same contemptible subservience on the part of the lower. For, as we have clearly seen, all these civilizations were affected by certain physical causes, which, though favourable to the accumulation of wealth, were unfavourable to a just subdivision of it. And as the knowledge of men was still in its infancy,[205] it was found impossible to struggle against these physical agents, or prevent them from producing those effects on the social organization which I have attempted to trace. Both in Mexico and in Peru, the arts, and particularly those branches of them which minister to the luxury of the wealthy classes, were cultivated with great success. The houses of the higher ranks were filled with ornaments and utensils of admirable workmanship; their chambers were hung with splendid tapestries; their dresses and their personal decorations betrayed an almost incredible expense; their jewels of exquisite and varied form; their rich and flowing robes embroidered with the rarest feathers, collected from the most distant parts of the empire: all supplying evidence of the possession of unlimited wealth, and of the ostentatious prodigality with which that wealth was wasted.[206] Immediately below this class came the people; and what their condition was, may be easily imagined. In Peru the whole of the taxes were paid by them; the nobles and the clergy being altogether exempt.[207] But as, in such a state of society, it was impossible for the people to accumulate property, they were obliged to defray the expenses of government by their personal labour, which was placed under the entire command of the state.[208] At the same time, the rulers of the country were well aware that, with a system like this, feelings of personal independence were incompatible; they therefore contrived laws by which, even in the most minute matters, freedom of action was controlled. The people were so shackled, that they could neither change their residence, nor alter their clothes, without permission from the governing powers To each man the law prescribed the trade he was to follow, the dress he was to wear, the wife he was to marry, and the amusements he was to enjoy.[209] Among the Mexicans the course of affairs was similar; the same physical conditions being followed by the same social results. In the most essential particular for which history can be studied, namely, the state of the people, Mexico and Peru are the counterpart of each other. For though there were many minor points of difference,[210] both were agreed in this, that there were only two classes--the upper class being tyrants, and the lower class being slaves. This was the state in which Mexico was found when it was discovered by the Europeans,[211] and towards which it must have been tending from the earliest period. And so insupportable had all this become, that we know, from the most decisive evidence, that the general disaffection it produced among the people was one of the causes which, by facilitating the progress of the Spanish invaders, hastened the downfall of the Mexican empire.[212] [205] The only science with which they had much acquaintance was astronomy, which the Mexicans appear to have cultivated with considerable success. Compare the remark of La Place, in _Humboldt_, _Nouvelle Espagne_, vol. i. p. 92, with _Prichard's Physical History_, vol. v. pp. 323, 329; _M'Culloch's Researches_, pp. 201-225; _Larenaudière's Mexique_, pp. 51, 52; _Humboldt's Cosmos_, vol. iv. p. 456; _Journal of Geog. Society_, vol. vii. p. 3. However, their astronomy, as might be expected, was accompanied by astrology: see _Ixtlilxochitl_, _Histoire des Chichimèques_, vol. i. p. 168, vol. ii. pp. 94, 111. [206] The works of art produced by the Mexicans and Peruvians are under-rated by Robertson: who, however, admits that he had never seen them. _History of America_, book vii., in _Robertson's Works_, pp. 909, 920. But during the present century considerable attention has been paid to this subject: and in addition to the evidence of skill and costly extravagance collected by Mr. Prescott, _History of Peru_, vol. i. pp. 28, 142; _History of Mexico_, vol. i. pp. 27, 28, 122, 256, 270, 307, vol. ii. pp. 115, 116, I may refer to the testimony of M. Humboldt, the only traveller in the New World who has possessed a competent amount of physical as well as historical knowledge. _Humboldt, Nouvelle Espagne_, vol. ii. p. 483, and elsewhere. Compare Mr. Pentland's observations on the tombs in the neighbourhood of Titicaca (_Jour. of Geog. Soc._ vol. x. p. 554) with _M'Culloh's Researches_, pp. 364-366; _Mexique par Larenaudière_, pp. 41, 42, 66; _Ulloa's South America_, vol. i. pp. 465, 466. [207] 'The members of the royal house, the great nobles, even the public functionaries, and the numerous body of the priesthood, were all exempt from taxation. The whole duty of defraying the expenses of the government belonged to the people.' _Prescott's History of Peru_, vol. i. p. 56. [208] Ondegardo emphatically says, 'Solo el trabajo de las personas era el tributo que se dava, porque ellos no poseian otra cosa.' _Prescott's Peru_, vol. i. p. 57. Compare _M'Culloh's Researches_, p. 359. In Mexico the state of things was just the same: 'Le petit peuple, qui ne possédait point de biens-fonds, et qui ne faisait point de commerce, payait sa part des taxes en travaux de différents genres; c'était par lui que les terres de la couronne étaient cultivées, les ouvrages publics exécutés, et les diverses maisons appartenantes à l'empereur construites ou entretenues.' _Larenaudière's Mexique_, p. 39. [209] Mr. Prescott notices this with surprise, though, under the circumstances, it was in truth perfectly natural. He says (_Hist. of Peru_, vol. i. p. 159), 'Under this extraordinary polity, a people, advanced in many of the social refinements, well skilled in manufactures and agriculture, were unacquainted, as we have seen, with money. They had nothing that deserved to be called property. They could follow no craft, could engage in no labour, no amusement, but such as was specially provided by law. They could not change their residence or their dress without a licence from the government. They could not even exercise the freedom which is conceded to the most abject in other countries--that of selecting their own wives.' [210] The Mexicans being, as Prichard says (_Physical History_, vol. v. p. 467), of a more cruel disposition than the Peruvians; but our information is too limited to enable us to determine whether this was mainly owing to physical causes or to social ones. Herder preferred the Peruvian civilization: 'der gebildetste Staat dieses Welttheils, Peru.' _Ideen zur Geschichte der Menschheit_, vol. i. p. 33. [211] See in _Humboldt's Nouvelle Espagne_, vol. i. p. 101, a striking summary of the state of the Mexican people at the time of the Spanish Conquest: see also _History of America_, book vii., in _Robertson's Works_, p. 907. [212] _Prescott's History of the Conquest of Mexico_, vol. i. p. 34. Compare a similar remark on the invasion of Egypt in _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. ii. p. 414. The further this examination is carried, the more striking becomes the similarity between those civilizations which flourished anterior to what may be called the European epoch of the human mind. The division of a nation into castes would be impossible in the great European countries; but it existed from a remote antiquity in Egypt, in India, and apparently in Persia.[213] The very same institution was rigidly enforced in Peru;[214] and what proves how consonant it was to that stage of society, is, that in Mexico, where castes were not established by law, it was nevertheless a recognised custom that the son should follow the occupation of his father.[215] This was the political symptom of that stationary and conservative spirit, which, as we shall hereafter see, has marked every country in which the upper classes have monopolized power. The religious symptom of the same spirit was displayed in that inordinate reverence for antiquity, and in that hatred of change, which the greatest of all the writers on America has well pointed out as an analogy between the natives of Mexico and those of Hindostan.[216] To this may be added, that those who have studied the history of the ancient Egyptians, have observed among that people a similar tendency. Wilkinson, who is well known to have paid great attention to their monuments, says that they were more unwilling than any other nation to alter their religious worship;[217] and Herodotus, who travelled in their country two thousand three hundred years ago, assures us that, while they preserved old customs, they never acquired new ones.[218] In another point of view, the similarity between these distant countries is equally interesting, since it evidently arises from the causes already noticed as common to both. In Mexico and Peru, the lower classes being at the disposal of the upper, there followed that frivolous waste of labour which we have observed in Egypt, and evidence of which may also be seen in the remains of those temples and palaces which are still found in several parts of Asia. Both Mexicans and Peruvians erected immense buildings, which were as useless as those of Egypt, and which no country could produce, unless the labour of the people were ill-paid and ill directed.[219] The cost of these monuments of vanity is unknown; but it must have been enormous; since the Americans, being ignorant of the use of iron,[220] were unable to employ a resource by which, in the construction of large works, labour is greatly abridged. Some particulars, however, have been preserved, from which an idea may be formed on this subject. To take, for instance, the palaces of their kings: we find that in Peru, the erection of the royal residence occupied, during fifty years, 20,000 men;[221] while that of Mexico cost the labour of no less than 200,000: striking facts, which, if all other testimonies had perished, would enable us to appreciate the condition of countries in which, for such insignificant purposes, such vast power was expended.[222] [213] That there were castes in Persia is stated by Firdousi; and his assertion, putting aside its general probability, ought to outweigh the silence of the Greek historians, who, for the most part, knew little of any country except their own. According to Malcolm, the existence of caste in the time of Jemsheed, is confirmed by some 'Mahomedan authors;' but he does not say who they were. _Malcolm's History of Persia_, vol. i. pp. 505, 506. Several attempts have been made, but very unsuccessfully, to ascertain the period in which castes were first instituted. Compare _Asiatic Researches_, vol. vi. p. 251; Heeren's _African Nations_, vol. ii. p. 121; _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. ii. p. 410; _Rammohun Roy on the Veds_, p. 269. [214] _Prescott's History of Peru_, vol. i. pp. 143, 156. [215] _Prescott's History of Mexico_, vol. i. p. 124. [216] 'Les Américains, comme les habitans de l'Indoustan, et comme tous les peuples qui ont gémi long-temps sous le despotisme civil et religieux, tiennent avec une opiniâtreté extraordinaire à leurs habitudes, à leurs m[oe]urs, à leurs opinions.... Au Mexique, comme dans l'Indoustan, il n'étoit pas permis aux fidèles de changer la moindre chose aux figures des idoles. Tout ce qui appartenoit au rite des Aztèques et des Hindous étoit assujéti à des lois immuables.' _Humboldt_, _Nouv. Espagne_, vol. i. pp. 95, 97. Turgot (_[OE]uvres_, vol. ii. pp. 226, 313, 314) has some admirable remarks on this fixity of opinion natural to certain states of society. See also _Herder's Ideen zur Geschichte_, vol. iii. pp. 34, 35; and for other illustrations of this unpliancy of thought, and adherence to old customs, which many writers suppose to be an eastern peculiarity but which is far more widely spread, and is, as Humboldt clearly saw, the result of an unequal distribution of power, compare _Turner's Embassy to Tibet_, p. 41; _Forbes's Oriental Memoirs_, vol. i. pp. 15, 164, vol. ii. p. 236; _Mill's History of India_, vol. ii. p. 214; _Elphinstone's History of India_, p. 48; _Otter's Life of Clarke_, vol. ii. p. 109; _Transac. of Asiatic Society_, vol. ii. p. 64; _Journal of Asiat. Society_, vol. viii. p. 116. [217] 'How scrupulous the Egyptians were, above all people, in permitting the introduction of new customs in matters relating to the gods.' _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. iii. p. 262. Compare p. 275. Thus, too, M. Bunsen notices the 'tenacity with which the Egyptians adhered to old manners and customs.' _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. ii. p. 64. See also some remarks on the difference between this spirit and the love of novelty among the Greeks, in _Ritter's History of Ancient Philosophy_, vol. iv. pp. 625, 626. [218] _Herodot._ book ii. chap. 79: [Greek: patriosi de chreômenoi nomoisi allon oudena epikteôntai]: and see the note in _Baehr_, vol. i. p. 660: '[Greek: nomous] priores interpretes explicarunt _cantilenas_, _hymnos_; Schweighæuserus rectius intellexit _instituta ac mores_.' In the same way, in Timæus, Plato represents an Egyptian priest saying to Solon, [Greek: Hellênes aei paides este, gerôn de Hellên ouk estin]. And when Solon asked what he meant, [Greek: Neoi este], was the reply, [Greek: tas psychas pantes; oudemian gar en autais echete di archaian akoên palaian doxan oude mathêma chronps polion ouden]. Chap. v. in _Platonis Opera_, vol. vii. p. 242, edit. Bekker, Lond. 1826. [219] The Mexicans appear to have been even more wantonly prodigal than the Peruvians. See, respecting their immense pyramids, one of which, Cholula had a base 'twice as broad as the largest Egyptian pyramid,' _M'Culloh's Researches_, pp. 252-256; _Bullock's Mexico_, pp. 111-115, 414; _Humboldt's Nouvelle Espagne_, vol. i. pp. 240, 241. [220] _Prescott's History of Mexico_, vol. i. p. 117, vol. iii. p. 341; and _Prescott's History of Peru_, vol. i. p. 145. See also _Haüy_, _Traité de Minéralogie_, Paris, 1801, vol. iv. p. 372. [221] _Prescott's History of Peru_, vol. i. p. 18. [222] Mr. Prescott (_History of Mexico_, vol. i. p. 153) says, 'We are not informed of the time occupied in building this palace; but 200,000 workmen, it is said, were employed on it. However this may be, it is certain that the Tezcucan monarchs, like those of Asia and ancient Egypt, had the control of immense masses of men, and would sometimes turn the whole population of a conquered city, including the women, into the public works. The most gigantic monuments of architecture which the world has witnessed would never have been reared by the hands of freemen.' The Mexican historian, Ixtlilxochitl, gives a curious account of one of the royal palaces. See his _Histoire de Chichiméques_, translated by Ternaux-Compans, Paris, 1840, vol. i. pp. 257-262, chap. xxxvii. The preceding evidence, collected from sources of unquestioned credibility, proves the force of those great physical laws, which, in the most flourishing countries out of Europe, encouraged the accumulation of wealth, but prevented its dispersion; and thus secured to the upper classes a monopoly of one of the most important elements of social and political power. The result was, that in all those civilizations the great body of the people derived no benefit from the national improvements; hence, the basis of the progress being very narrow, the progress itself was very insecure.[223] When, therefore, unfavourable circumstances arose from without, it was but natural that the whole system should fall to the ground. In such countries, society, being divided against itself, was unable to stand. And there can be no doubt that long before the crisis of their actual destruction, these one-sided and irregular civilizations had begun to decay; so that their own degeneracy aided the progress of foreign invaders, and secured the overthrow of those ancient kingdoms, which, under a sounder system, might have been easily saved. [223] This may be illustrated by a good remark of M. Matter, to the effect that when the Egyptians had once lost their race of kings, it was found impossible for the nation to reconstruct itself. _Matter_, _Histoire de l'Ecole d'Alexandrie_, vol. i. p. 68; a striking passage. In Persia, again, when the feeling of loyalty decayed, so also did the feeling of national power. _Malcolm's History of Persia_, vol. ii. p. 130. The history of the most civilized parts of Europe presents a picture exactly the reverse of this. Thus far as to the way in which the great civilizations exterior to Europe have been affected by the peculiarities of their food, climate, and soil. It now remains for me to examine the effect of those other physical agents to which I have given the collective name of Aspects of Nature, and which will be found suggestive of some very wide and comprehensive inquiries into the influence exercised by the external world in predisposing men to certain habits of thought, and thus giving a particular tone to religion, arts, literature, and, in a word, to all the principal manifestations of the human mind. To ascertain how this is brought about, forms a necessary supplement to the investigations just concluded. For, as we have seen that climate, food, and soil mainly concern the accumulation and distribution of wealth, so also shall we see that the Aspects of Nature concern the accumulation and distribution of thought. In the first case, we have to do with the material interests of Man; in the other case with his intellectual interests. The former I have analyzed as far as I am able, and perhaps as far as the existing state of knowledge will allow.[224] But the other, namely, the relation between the Aspects of Nature and the mind of Man, involves speculations of such magnitude, and requires such a mass of materials drawn from every quarter, that I feel very apprehensive as to the result; and I need hardly say, that I make no pretensions to anything approaching an exhaustive analysis, nor can I hope to do more than generalize a few of the laws of that complicated, but as yet unexplored, process by which the external world has affected the human mind, has warped its natural movements, and too often checked its natural progress. [224] I mean in regard to the physical and economical generalizations. As to the literature of the subject, I am conscious of many deficiencies, particularly in respect to the Mexican and Peruvian histories. The Aspects of Nature, when considered from this point of view, are divisible into two classes: the first class being those which are most likely to excite the imagination; and the other class being those which address themselves to the understanding commonly so called, that is, to the mere logical operations of the intellect. For although it is true that, in a complete and well-balanced mind, the imagination and the understanding each play their respective parts, and are auxiliary to each other, it is also true that, in a majority of instances, the understanding is too weak to curb the imagination and restrain its dangerous licence. The tendency of advancing civilization is to remedy this disproportion, and invest the reasoning powers with that authority, which, in an early stage of Society, the imagination exclusively possesses. Whether or not there is ground for fearing that the reaction will eventually proceed too far, and that the reasoning faculties will in their turn tyrannize over the imaginative ones, is a question of the deepest interest; but, in the present condition of our knowledge, it is probably an insoluble one. At all events, it is certain that nothing like such a state has yet been seen; since, even in this age, when the imagination is more under control than in any preceding one, it has far too much power; as might be easily proved, not only from the superstitions which in every country still prevail among the vulgar, but also from that poetic reverence for antiquity, which, though it has been long diminishing, still hampers the independence, blinds the judgment, and circumscribes the originality of the educated classes. Now, so far as natural phenomena are concerned, it is evident, that whatever inspires feelings of terror, or of great wonder, and whatever excites in the mind an idea of the vague and uncontrollable, has a special tendency to inflame the imagination, and bring under its dominion the slower and more deliberate operations of the understanding. In such cases, Man, contrasting himself with the force and majesty of Nature, becomes painfully conscious of his own insignificance. A sense of inferiority steals over him. From every quarter innumerable obstacles hem him in, and limit his individual will. His mind, appalled by the indefined and indefinable, hardly cares to scrutinize the details of which such imposing grandeur consists.[225] On the other hand, where the works of Nature are small and feeble, Man regains confidence; he seems more able to rely on his own power; he can, as it were, pass through and exercise authority in every direction. And as the phenomena are more accessible, it becomes easier for him to experiment on them, or to observe them with minuteness; an inquisitive and analytic spirit is encouraged, and he is tempted to generalize the appearances of Nature, and refer them to the laws by which they are governed. [225] The sensation of fear, even when there is no danger, becomes strong enough to destroy the pleasure that would otherwise be felt. See, for instance, a description of the great mountain boundary of Hindostan, in _Asiatic Researches_, vol. xi. p. 469: 'It is necessary for a person to place himself in our situation before he can form a just conception of the scene. The depth of the valley below, the progressive elevation of the intermediate hills, and the majestic splendour of the cloud-capped Himalaya, formed so grand a picture, that the mind was impressed with a sensation of dread rather than of pleasure.' Compare vol. xiv. p. 116, Calcutta, 1822. In the Tyrol, it has been observed, that the grandeur of the mountain scenery imbues the minds of the natives with fear, and has caused the invention of many superstitious legends. _Alison's Europe_, vol. ix. pp. 79, 80. Looking in this way at the human mind as affected by the Aspects of Nature, it is surely a remarkable fact, that all the great early civilizations were situated within and immediately adjoining the tropics, where those aspects are most sublime, most terrible, and where Nature is, in every respect, most dangerous to Man. Indeed, generally, in Asia, Africa, and America, the external world is more formidable than in Europe. This holds good not only of the fixed and permanent phenomena, such as mountains, and other great natural barriers, but also of occasional phenomena, such as earthquakes, tempests, hurricanes, pestilences; all of which are in those regions very frequent and very disastrous. These constant and serious dangers produce effects analogous to those caused by the sublimity of Nature, in so far, that in both cases there is a tendency to increase the activity of the imagination. For the peculiar province of the imagination being to deal with the unknown, every event which is unexplained, as well as important, is a direct stimulus to our imaginative faculties. In the tropics, events of this kind are more numerous than elsewhere; it therefore follows that in the tropics the imagination is most likely to triumph. A few illustrations of the working of this principle will place it in a clearer light, and will prepare the reader for the arguments based upon it. Of those physical events which increase the insecurity of Man, earthquakes are certainly among the most striking, in regard to the loss of life which they cause, as also in regard to their sudden and unexpected occurrence. There is reason to believe that they are always preceded by atmospheric changes which strike immediately at the nervous system, and thus have a direct physical tendency to impair the intellectual powers.[226] However this may be, there can be no doubt as to the effect they produce in encouraging particular associations and habits of thought. The terror which they inspire excites the imagination even to a painful extent, and, overbalancing the judgment, predisposes men to superstitious fancies. And what is highly curious, is, that repetition, so far from blunting such feelings, strengthens them. In Peru, where earthquakes appear to be more common than in any other country,[227] every succeeding visitation increases the general dismay; so that, in some cases, the fear becomes almost insupportable.[228] The mind is thus constantly thrown into a timid and anxious state: and men witnessing the most serious dangers, which they can neither avoid nor understand, become impressed with a conviction of their own inability, and of the poverty of their own resources.[229] In exactly the same proportion, the imagination is aroused, and a belief in supernatural interference actively encouraged. Human power failing, superhuman power is called in; the mysterious and the invisible are believed to be present; and there grow up among the people those feelings of awe and of helplessness, on which all superstition is based, and without which no superstition can exist.[230] [226] 'Une augmentation d'électricité s'y manifeste aussi presque toujours, et ils sont généralement annoncés par le mugissement des bestiaux, par l'inquiétude des animaux domestiques, et dans les hommes par cette sorte de malaise qui, en Europe, précède les orages dans les personnes nerveuses.' _Cuvier_, _Prog. des Sciences_, vol. i. p. 265. See also, on this 'Vorgefühl,' the observation of Von Hoff, in Mr. Mallet's valuable essay on earthquakes (_Brit. Assoc. for_ 1850, p. 68); and the 'foreboding' in _Tschudi's Peru_, p. 165; and a letter in _Nichols's Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. iv. p. 504. The probable connexion between earthquakes and electricity is noticed in _Bakewell's Geology_, p. 434. [227] 'Peru is more subject perhaps than any other country to the tremendous visitation of earthquakes.' _M'Culloch's Geog. Dict._ 1849. vol. ii. p. 499. Dr. Tschudi (_Travels in Peru_, p. 162) says of Lima, 'at an average forty-five shocks may be counted on in the year.' See also on the Peruvian earthquakes, pp. 43, 75, 87, 90. [228] A curious instance of association of ideas conquering the deadening effect of habit. Dr. Tschudi (_Peru_, p. 170), describing the panic, says, 'no familiarity with the phenomenon can blunt this feeling.' Beale (_South-Sea Whaling Voyage_, Lond. 1839, p. 205) writes, 'it is said at Peru, that the oftener the natives of the place feel those vibrations of the earth, instead of becoming habituated to them, as persons do who are constantly exposed to other dangers, they become more filled with dismay every time the shock is repeated, so that aged people often find the terror a slight shock will produce almost insupportable.' Compare _Darwin's Journal_, pp. 422, 423. So, too, in regard to Mexican earthquakes, Mr. Ward observes, that 'the natives are both more sensible than strangers of the smaller shocks, and more alarmed by them.' _Ward's Mexico_, vol. ii. p. 55. On the physiological effects of the fear caused by earthquakes, see the remarkable statement by Osiander in _Burdach's Physiologie comme Science d'Observation_, vol. ii. pp. 223, 224. That the fear should be not deadened by familiarity, but increased by it, would hardly be expected by speculative reasoners unacquainted with the evidence; and we find, in fact, that the Pyrrhonists asserted that [Greek: hoi goun seisma par' hois synechôs apotelountai, ou thaumazontai; oud' ho hêlios, hoti kath' hêmeran horatai.] _Diog. Laert. de Vitis Philos._ lib. ix. segm. 87, vol. i. p. 591. [229] Mr. Stephens, who gives a striking description of ancearthquake in Central America, emphatically says, 'I never felt myself so feeble a thing before.' _Stephens's Central America_, vol. i. p. 383. See also the account of the effects produced on the mind by an earthquake, in _Transac. of Soc. of Bombay_, vol. iii. p. 98, and the note at p. 105. [230] The effect of earthquakes in encouraging superstition, is noticed in Lyell's admirable work, _Principles of Geology_, p. 492. Compare a myth on the origin of earthquakes in _Beausobre_, _Histoire Critique de Manichée_, vol. i. p. 243. Further illustration of this may be found even in Europe, where such phenomena are, comparatively speaking, extremely rare. Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions are more frequent and more destructive in Italy, and in the Spanish and Portuguese peninsula, than in any other of the great countries; and it is precisely there that superstition is most rife, and the superstitious classes most powerful. Those were the countries where the clergy first established their authority, where the worst corruptions of Christianity took place, and where superstition has during the longest period retained the firmest hold. To this may be added another circumstance, indicative of the connexion between these physical phenomena and the predominance of the imagination. Speaking generally, the fine arts are addressed more to the imagination; the sciences to the intellect.[231] Now it is remarkable, that all the greatest painters, and nearly all the greatest sculptors, modern Europe has possessed, have been produced by the Italian and Spanish peninsulas. In regard to science, Italy has no doubt had several men of conspicuous ability; but their numbers are out of all proportion small when compared with her artists and poets. As to Spain and Portugal, the literature of those two countries is eminently poetic, and from their schools have proceeded some of the greatest painters the world has ever seen. On the other hand, the purely reasoning faculties have been neglected, and the whole Peninsula, from the earliest period to the present time, does not supply to the history of the natural sciences a single name of the highest merit; not one man whose works form an epoch in the progress of European knowledge.[232] [231] The greatest men in science, and in fact all very great men, have no doubt been remarkable for the powers of their imagination. But in art the imagination plays a far more conspicuous part than in science; and this is what I mean to express by the proposition in the text. Sir David Brewster, indeed, thinks that Newton was deficient in imagination: 'the weakness of his imaginative powers.' _Brewster's Life of Newton_, 1855, vol. ii. p. 133. It is impossible to discuss so large a question in a note; but to my apprehension, no poet, except Dante and Shakespeare, ever had an imagination more soaring and more audacious than that possessed by Sir Isaac Newton. [232] The remarks made by Mr. Ticknor on the absence of science in Spain, might be extended even further than he has done. See _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. iii. pp. 222, 223. He says, p. 237, that in 1771, the University of Salamanca being urged to teach the physical sciences, replied, 'Newton teaches nothing that would make a good logician or metaphysician, and Gassendi and Descartes do not agree so well with revealed truth as Aristotle does.' The manner in which the Aspects of Nature, when they are very threatening, stimulate the imagination,[233] and by encouraging superstition discourage knowledge, may be made still more apparent by one or two additional facts. Among an ignorant people, there is a direct tendency to ascribe all serious dangers to supernatural intervention; and a strong religious sentiment being thus aroused,[234] it constantly happens, not only that the danger is submitted to, but that it is actually worshipped. This is the case with some of the Hindus in the forest of Malabar;[235] and many similar instances will occur to whoever has studied the condition of barbarous tribes.[236] Indeed, so far is this carried, that in some countries the inhabitants, from feelings of reverential fear, refuse to destroy wild-beasts and noxious reptiles; the mischief these animals inflict being the cause of the impunity they enjoy.[237] [233] In _Asiatic Researches_, vol. vi. pp. 35, 36, there is a good instance of an earthquake giving rise to a theological fiction. See also vol. i. pp. 154-157; and compare _Coleman's Mythology of the Hindus_, p. 17. [234] See for example, _Asiatic Researches_, vol. iv. pp. 56, 57, vol. vii. p. 94; and the effect produced by a volcano, in _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol. v. p. 388. See also vol. xx. p. 8, and a practical recognition of the principle by Sextus Empiricus, in _Tennemann's Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. i. p. 292. Compare the use the clergy made of a volcanic eruption in Iceland (_Wheaton's History of the Northmen_, p. 42); and see further _Raffles' History of Java_, vol. i. pp. 29, 274, and _Tschudi's Peru_, pp. 64, 167, 171. [235] The Hindus in the Iruari forests, says Mr. Edye, 'worship and respect everything from which they apprehend danger.' _Edye on the Coast of Malabar_, in _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. ii. p. 337. [236] Dr. Prichard (_Physical History_, vol. iv. p. 501) says 'The tiger is worshipped by the Hajin tribe in the vicinity of the Garrows or Garrudus.' Compare _Transactions of Asiatic Society_, vol. iii. p. 66. Among the Garrows themselves, this feeling is so strong, that 'the tiger's nose strung round a woman's neck is considered as a great preservative in childbirth.' _Coleman's Mythology of the Hindus_, p. 321. The Seiks have a curious superstition respecting wounds inflicted by tigers (_Burne's Bokhara_, 1834, vol. iii. p. 140); and the Malasir believe that these animals are sent as a punishment for irreligion. _Buchanan's Journey through the Mysore_, vol. ii. p. 385. [237] The inhabitants of Sumatra are, for superstitious reasons, most unwilling to destroy tigers, though they commit frightful ravages. _Marsden's History of Sumatra_, pp. 149, 254. The Russian account of the Kamtschatkans says, 'besides the above-mentioned gods, they pay a religious regard to several animals from which they apprehend danger.' _Grieve's History of Kamtschatka_, p. 205. Bruce mentions that in Abyssinia, hyænas are considered 'enchanters' and the inhabitants 'will not touch the skin of a hyæna till it has been prayed over and exorcised by a priest.' _Murray's Life of Bruce_, p. 472. Allied to this, is the respect paid to bears (_Erman's Siberia_, vol. i. p. 492, vol. ii. pp. 42, 43); also the extensively-diffused worship of the serpent, whose wily movements are well calculated to inspire fear, and therefore rouse the religious feelings. The danger apprehended from noxious reptiles is connected with the Dews of the Zendavesta. See _Matter's Histoire du Gnosticisme_, vol. i. p. 380, Paris, 1828. It is in this way, that the old tropical civilizations had to struggle with innumerable difficulties unknown to the temperate zone, where European civilization has long flourished. The devastations of animals hostile to man, the ravages of hurricanes, tempests, earthquakes,[238] and similar perils, constantly pressed upon them, and affected the tone of their national character. For the mere loss of life was the smallest part of the inconvenience. The real mischief was, that there were engendered in the mind, associations which made the imagination predominate over the understanding; which infused into the people a spirit of reverence instead of a spirit of inquiry; and which encouraged a disposition to neglect the investigation of natural causes, and ascribe events to the operation of supernatural ones. [238] To give one instance of the extent to which these operate, it may be mentioned, that in 1815 an earthquake and volcanic eruption broke forth in Sumbawa, which shook the ground 'through an area of 1,000 miles in circumference,' and the detonations of which were heard at a distance of 970 geographical miles. _Somerville's Connexion of the Physical Sciences_, p. 283; _Hitchcock's Religion of Geology_, p. 190; _Low's Sarawak_, p. 10; _Bakewell's Geology_, p. 438. Everything we know of those countries proves how active this tendency must have been. With extremely few exceptions, health is more precarious, and disease more common, in tropical climates than in temperate ones. Now, it has been often observed, and indeed is very obvious, that the fear of death makes men more prone to seek supernatural aid than they would otherwise be. So complete is our ignorance respecting another life, that it is no wonder if even the stoutest heart should quail at the sudden approach of that dark and untried future. On this subject the reason is perfectly silent; the imagination, therefore, is uncontrolled. The operation of natural causes being brought to an end, supernatural causes are supposed to begin. Hence it is, that whatever increases in any country the amount of dangerous disease, has an immediate tendency to strengthen superstition, and aggrandize the imagination at the expense of the understanding. This principle is so universal, that, in every part of the world, the vulgar ascribe to the intervention of the Deity those diseases which are peculiarly fatal, and especially those which have a sudden and mysterious appearance. In Europe it used to be believed that every pestilence was a manifestation of the divine anger;[239] and this opinion, though it has long been dying away, is by no means extinct, even in the most civilized countries.[240] Superstition of this kind will of course be strongest, either where medical knowledge is most backward, or where disease is most abundant. In countries where both these conditions are fulfilled, the superstition is supreme; and even where only one of the conditions exists, the tendency is so irresistible, that, I believe, there are no barbarous people who do not ascribe to their good or evil deities, not only extraordinary diseases, but even many of the ordinary ones to which they are liable.[241] [239] In the sixteenth century, 'Les différentes sectes s'accordèrent néanmoins à regarder les maladies graves et dangereuses comme un effet immédiat de la puissance divine; idée que Fernel contribua encore à répandre davantage. On trouve dans Paré plusieurs passages de la Bible, cités pour prouver que la colère de Dieu est la seule cause de la peste, qu'elle suffit pour provoquer ce fléau, et que sans elle les causes éloignées ne sauraient agir.' _Sprengel_, _Histoire de la Médecine_, vol. iii. p. 112. The same learned writer says of the Middle Ages (vol. ii. p. 372), 'D'après l'esprit généralement répandu dans ces siècles de barbarie, on croyait la lèpre envoyée d'une manière immédiate par Dieu.' See also pp. 145, 346, 431. Bishop Heber says that the Hindus deprive lepers of caste and of the right of possessing property, because they are objects of 'Heaven's wrath.' _Heber's Journey through India_, vol. ii. p. 330. On the Jewish opinion, see _Le Clerc_, _Bibliothèque Universelle_, vol. iv. p. 402, Amsterdam, 1702. And as to the early Christians, see _Maury_, _Légendes Pieuses_, p. 68, Paris, 1843: though M. Maury ascribes to 'les idées orientales reçues par le christianisme,' what is due to the operation of a much wider principle. [240] Under the influence of the inductive philosophy, the theological theory of disease was seriously weakened before the middle of the seventeenth century; and by the middle, or at all events the latter half, of the eighteenth century, it had lost all its partisans among scientific men. At present it still lingers on among the vulgar; and traces of it may be found in the writings of the clergy, and in the works of other persons little acquainted with physical knowledge. When the cholera broke out in England, attempts were made to revive the old notion; but the spirit of the age was too strong for such efforts to succeed; and it may be safely predicted that men will never return to their former opinions, unless they first return to their former ignorance. As a specimen of the ideas which the cholera tended to excite, and of their antagonism to all scientific investigation, I may refer to a letter written in 1832 by Mrs. Grant, a woman of some accomplishments, and not devoid of influence (_Correspondence of Mrs. Grant_, London, 1844, vol. iii. pp. 216, 217), where she states that 'it appears to me great presumption to indulge so much as people do in speculation and conjecture about a disease so evidently a peculiar infliction, and different from all other modes of suffering hitherto known.' This desire to limit human speculation is precisely the feeling which long retained Europe in darkness; since it effectually prevented those free inquiries to which we are indebted for all the real knowledge we possess. The doubts of Boyle upon this subject supply a curious instance of the transitory state through which the mind was passing in the seventeenth century, and by which the way was prepared for the great liberating movement of the next age. Boyle, after stating both sides of the question, namely, the theological and the scientific, adds, 'and it is the less likely that these sweeping and contagious maladies should be always sent for the punishment of impious men, because I remember to have read in good authors, that as some plagues destroyed both men and beasts, so some other did peculiarly destroy brute animals of very little consideration or use to men, as cats,' &c. 'Upon these and the like reasons, I have sometimes suspected that in the controversy about the origin of the plague, namely, whether it be natural or supernatural, neither of the contending parties is altogether in the right; since it is very possible that some pestilences may not break forth without an extraordinary, though perhaps not immediate, interposition of Almighty God, provoked by the sins of men; and yet other plagues may be produced by a tragical concourse of merely natural causes.' _Discourse on the Air_, in _Boyle's Works_, vol. iv. pp. 288, 289. '_Neither of the contending parties is altogether in the right!_'--an instructive passage towards understanding the compromising spirit of the seventeenth century; standing midway, as it did, between the credulity of the sixteenth, and the scepticism of the eighteenth. [241] To the historian of the human mind, the whole question is so full of interest, that I shall refer in this note to all the evidence I have been able to collect: and whoever will compare the following passages may satisfy himself that there is in every part of the world an intimate relation between ignorance respecting the nature and proper treatment of a disease, and the belief that such disease is caused by supernatural power, and is to be cured by it. _Burton's Sindh_, p. 146, London, 1851; _Ellis's Polynesian Researches_, vol. i. p. 395, vol. iii. pp. 36, 41, vol. iv. pp. 293, 334, 375; _Cullen's Works_, Edinb. 1827, vol. ii. pp. 414, 434; _Esquirol_, _Maladies Mentales_, vol. i. pp. 274, 482; _Cabanis_, _Rapports du Physique et du Moral_, p. 277; _Volney_, _Voyage en Syrie_, vol. i. p. 426; _Turner's Embassy to Tibet_, p. 104; _Syme's Embassy to Ava_, vol. ii. p. 211; _Ellis's Tour through Hawaii_, pp. 282, 283, 332, 333; _Renouard_, _Histoire de la Médecine_, vol. i. p. 398; _Broussais_, _Examen des Doctrines Médicales_, vol. i. pp. 261, 262; _Grote's History of Greece_, vol. i. p. 485 (compare p. 251, and vol. vi. p. 213); _Grieve's History of Kamtschatka_, p. 217; _Journal of Statist. Soc._ vol. x. p. 10; _Buchanan's North American Indians_, pp. 256, 257; _Halkett's North American Indians_, pp. 36, 37, 388, 393, 394; _Catlin's North American Indians_, vol. i. pp. 35-41; _Briggs on the Aboriginal Tribes of India_, in _Report of Brit. Assoc. for 1850_, p. 172; _Transactions of Soc. of Bombay_, vol. ii. p. 30; _Percival's Ceylon_, p. 201; _Buchanan's Journey through the Mysore_, vol. ii. pp. 27, 152, 286, 528, vol. iii. pp. 23, 188, 253 (so, too, M. Geoffroy Saint Hilaire, _Anomalies de l'Organization_, vol. iii. p. 380, says that when we were quite ignorant of the cause of monstrous births, the phenomenon was ascribed to the Deity,--'de là aussi l'intervention supposée de la divinité;' and for an exact verification of this, compare _Burdach_, _Traité de Physiologie_, vol. ii. p. 247, with _Journal of Geog. Soc._ vol. xvi. p. 113); _Ellis's History of Madagascar_, vol. i. pp. 224, 225; _Prichard's Physical History_, vol. i. p. 207, vol. v. p. 492; _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. iii. p. 230, vol. iv. p. 158; _Asiatic Researches_, vol. iii. pp. 29, 156, vol. iv. pp. 56, 58, 74, vol. xvi. pp. 215, 280; _Neander's History of the Church_, vol. iii. p. 119; _Crawfurd's History of the Indian Archipelago_, vol. i. p. 328; _Low's Sarawak_, pp. 174, 261; _Cook's Voyages_, vol. i. p. 229; _Mariner's Tonga Islands_, vol. i. pp. 194, 350-360, 374, 438, vol. ii. pp. 172, 230; _Huc's Travels in Tartary and Thibet_, vol. i. pp. 74-77; _Richardson's Travels in the Sahara_, vol. i. p. 27; _M'Culloh's Researches_, p. 105; _Journal of Geog. Soc._ vol. i. p. 41, vol. iv. p. 260, vol. xiv. p. 37. And in regard to Europe, compare _Spence_, _Origin of the Laws of Europe_, p. 322; _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. iii. p. 443; _Phillips on Scrofula_, p. 255; _Otter's Life of Clarke_, vol. i. pp. 265, 266, which may be illustrated by the 'sacred' disease of Cambyses, no doubt epilepsy; see _Herodot._ lib. iii. chap. xxxiv. vol. ii. p. 63. Here, then, we have another specimen of the unfavourable influence, which, in the old civilizations, external phenomena exercised over the human mind. For those parts of Asia where the highest refinement was reached, are, from various physical causes, much more unhealthy than the most civilized parts of Europe.[242] This fact alone must have produced a considerable effect on the national character,[243] and the more so, as it was aided by those other circumstances which I have pointed out, all tending in the same direction. To this may be added, that the great plagues by which Europe has at different periods been scourged, have, for the most part, proceeded from the East, which is their natural birthplace, and where they are most fatal. Indeed, of those cruel diseases now existing in Europe, scarcely one is indigenous; and the worst of them were imported from tropical countries in and after the first century of the Christian era.[244] [242] Heat, moisture, and consequent rapid decomposition of vegetable matter, are certainly among the causes of this; and to them may perhaps be added the electrical state of the atmosphere in the tropics. Compare _Holland's Medical Notes_, p. 477; _M'William's Medical Expedition to the Niger_, pp. 157, 185; _Simon's Pathology_, p. 269; _Forry's Climate and its Endemic Influences_, p. 158. M. Lepelletier says, rather vaguely (_Physiologie Médicale_, vol. iv. p. 527), that the temperate zones are 'favorables à l'exercice complet et régulier des phénomènes vitaux.' [243] And must have strengthened the power of the clergy; for, as Charlevoix says with great frankness, 'pestilences are the harvests of the ministers of God.' _Southey's History of Brazil_, vol. ii. p. 254. [244] For evidence of the extra-European origin of European diseases, some of which, such as the small-pox, have passed from epidemics into endemics, compare _Encyclop. of the Medical Sciences_, 4to, 1847, p. 728; _Transactions of Asiatic Society_, vol. ii. pp. 54, 55; _Michaelis on the Laws of Moses_, vol. iii. p. 313; _Sprengel_, _Histoire de la Médecine_, vol. ii. pp. 33, 195; _Wallace's Dissertation on the Numbers of Mankind_, pp. 81, 82; _Huetiana_, Amst. 1723, pp. 132-135; _Sanders on the Small Pox_, Edinb. 1813, pp. 3-4; _Wilks's Hist. of the South of India_, vol. iii. pp. 16-21; _Clot-Bey de la Peste_, Paris, 1840, p. 227. Summing up these facts, it may be stated, that in the civilizations exterior to Europe, all nature conspired to increase the authority of the imaginative faculties, and weaken the authority of the reasoning ones. With the materials now existing, it would be possible to follow this vast law to its remotest consequences, and show how in Europe it is opposed by another law diametrically opposite, and by virtue of which the tendency of natural phenomena is, on the whole, to limit the imagination, and embolden the understanding: thus inspiring Man with confidence in his own resources, and facilitating the increase of his knowledge, by encouraging that bold, inquisitive, and scientific spirit, which is constantly advancing, and on which all future progress must depend. It is not to be supposed that I can trace in detail the way in which, owing to these peculiarities, the civilization of Europe has diverged from all others that preceded it. To do this, would require a learning and a reach of thought to which hardly any single man ought to pretend; since it is one thing to have a perception of a large and general truth, and it is another thing to follow out that truth in all its ramifications, and prove it by such evidence as will satisfy ordinary readers. Those, indeed, who are accustomed to speculations of this character, and are able to discern in the history of man something more than a mere relation of events, will at once understand that in these complicated subjects, the wider any generalization is, the greater will be the chance of apparent exceptions; and that when the theory covers a very large space, the exceptions may be innumerable, and yet the theory remain perfectly accurate. The two fundamental propositions which I hope to have demonstrated, are, 1st, That there are certain natural phenomena which act on the human mind by exciting the imagination; and 2dly, That those phenomena are much more numerous out of Europe than in it. If these two propositions are admitted, it inevitably follows, that in those countries where the imagination has received the stimulus, some specific effects must have been produced; unless, indeed, the effects have been neutralized by other causes. Whether or not there have been antagonistic causes, is immaterial to the truth of the theory, which is based on the two propositions just stated. In a scientific point of view, therefore, the generalization is complete; and it would perhaps be prudent to leave it as it now stands, rather than attempt to confirm it by further illustrations, since all particular facts are liable to be erroneously stated, and are sure to be contradicted by those who dislike the conclusions they corroborate. But in order to familiarize the reader with the principles I have put forward, it does seem advisable that a few instances should be given of their actual working: and I will, therefore, briefly notice the effects they have produced in the three great divisions of Literature, Religion, and Art. In each of these departments, I will endeavour to indicate how the leading features have been affected by the Aspects of Nature; and with a view of simplifying the inquiry, I will take the two most conspicuous instances on each side, and compare the manifestations of the intellect of Greece with those of the intellect of India: these being the two countries respecting which the materials are most ample, and in which the physical contrasts are most striking. If, then, we look at the ancient literature of India, even during its best period, we shall find the most remarkable evidence of the uncontrolled ascendency of the imagination. In the first place, we have the striking fact that scarcely any attention has been paid to prose composition; all the best writers having devoted themselves to poetry, as being most congenial to the national habits of thought. Their works on grammar, on law, on history, on medicine, on mathematics, on geography, and on metaphysics, are nearly all poems, and are put together according to a regular system of versification.[245] The consequence is, that while prose writing is utterly despised, the art of poetry has been cultivated so assiduously, that the Sanscrit can boast of metres more numerous and more complicated than have ever been possessed by any of the European languages.[246] [245] 'So verwandelt das geistige Leben des Hindu sich in wahre Poesie, und das bezeichnende Merkmal seiner ganzen Bildung ist: Herrschaft der Einbildungskraft über den Verstand; im geraden Gegensatz mit der Bildung des Europäers, deren allgemeiner Charakter in der Herrschaft des Verstandes über die Einbildungskraft besteht. Es wird dadurch begreiflich, dass die Literatur der Hindus nur eine poetische ist; dass sie überreich an Dichterwerken, aber arm am wissenschaftlichen Schriften sind; dass ihre heiligen Schriften, ihre Gesetze und Sagen poetisch, und grösstentheils in Versen geschrieben sind; ja dass Lehrbücher der Grammatik, der Heilkunde, der Mathematik und Erdbeschreibung in Versen verfasst sind.' _Rhode_, _Religiöse Bildung der Hindus_, vol. ii. p. 626. Thus, too, we are told respecting one of their most celebrated metaphysical systems, that 'the best text of the Sanchya is a short treatise in verse.' _Colebrooke on the Philosophy of the Hindus_, in _Transactions of Asiatic Society_, vol. i. p. 23. And in another place the same high authority says (_Asiatic Researches_, vol. x. p. 439), 'the metrical treatises on law and other sciences are almost entirely composed in this easy verse.' M. Klaproth, in an analysis of a Sanscrit history of Cashmere, says, 'comme presque toutes les compositions hindoues, il est écrit en vers.' _Journal Asiatique_, I. série, vol. vii. p. 8, Paris, 1825. See also, in vol. vi. pp. 175, 176, the remarks of M. Burnouf: 'Les philosophes indiens, comme s'ils ne pouvaient échapper aux influences poétiques de leur climat, traitent les questions de la métaphysique le plus abstraite par similitudes et métaphores.' Compare vol. vi. p. 4, 'le génie indien si poétique et si religieux;' and see _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philosophie_, II. série, vol. i. p. 27. [246] Mr. Yates says of the Hindus, that no other people have ever 'presented an equal variety of poetic compositions. The various metres of Greece and Rome have filled Europe with astonishment; but what are these, compared with the extensive range of Sanscrit metres under its three classes of poetical writing?' _Yates on Sanscrit Alliteration_, in _Asiatic Researches_, vol. xx. p. 159, Calcutta, 1836. See also on the Sanscrit metres, p. 321, and an Essay by Colebrooke, vol. x. pp. 389-474. On the metrical system of the Vedas, see Mr. Wilson's note in the _Rig Veda Sanhita_, vol. ii. p. 135. This peculiarity in the form of Indian literature is accompanied by a corresponding peculiarity in its spirit. For it is no exaggeration to say, that in that literature every thing is calculated to set the reason of man at open defiance. An imagination, luxuriant even to disease, runs riot on every occasion. This is particularly seen in those productions which are most eminently national, such as the Ramayana, the Mahabharat, and the Puranas in general. But we also find it even in their geographical and chronological systems, which of all others might be supposed least liable to imaginative flights. A few examples of the statements put forward in the most authoritative books, will supply the means of instituting a comparison with the totally opposite condition of the European intellect, and will give the reader some idea of the extent to which credulity can proceed, even among a civilized people.[247] [247] In Europe, as we shall see in the sixth chapter of this volume; the credulity was at one time extraordinary; but the age was then barbarous, and barbarism is always credulous. On the other hand, the examples gathered from Indian literature will be taken from the works of a lettered people, written in a language extremely rich, and so highly polished, that some competent judges have declared it equal, if not superior, to the Greek. Of all the various ways in which the imagination has distorted truth, there is none that has worked so much harm as an exaggerated respect for past ages. This reverence for antiquity is repugnant to every maxim of reason, and is merely the indulgence of a poetic sentiment in favour of the remote and unknown. It is, therefore, natural that, in periods when the intellect was comparatively speaking inert, this sentiment should have been far stronger than it now is; and there can be little doubt that it will continue to grow weaker, and that in the same proportion the feeling of progress will gain ground; so that veneration for the past will be succeeded by hope for the future. But formerly the veneration was supreme, and innumerable traces of it may be found in the literature and popular creed of every country. It is this, for instance, which inspired the poets with their notion of a golden age, in which the world was filled with peace, in which evil passions were stilled, and crimes were unknown. It is this, again, which gave to theologians their idea of the primitive virtue and simplicity of man, and of his subsequent fall from that high estate. And it is this same principle which diffused a belief that in the olden times, men were not only more virtuous and happy, but also physically superior in the structure of their bodies; and that by this means they attained to a larger stature, and lived to a greater age, than is possible for us, their feeble and degenerate descendants. Opinions of this kind, being adopted by the imagination in spite of the understanding, it follows that the strength of such opinions becomes, in any country, one of the standards by which we may estimate the predominance of the imaginative faculties. Applying this test to the literature of India, we shall find a striking confirmation of the conclusions already drawn. The marvellous feats of antiquity with which the Sanscrit books abound, are so long and so complicated, that it would occupy too much space to give even an outline of them; but there is one class of these singular fictions which is well worth attention, and admits of being briefly stated. I allude to the extraordinary age which man was supposed to have attained in former times. A belief in the longevity of the human race, at an early period of the world, was the natural product of those feelings which ascribed to the ancients an universal superiority over the moderns; and this we see exemplified in some of the Christian, and in many of the Hebrew writings. But the statements in these works are tame and insignificant when compared with what is preserved in the literature of India. On this, as on every subject, the imagination of the Hindus distanced all competition. Thus, among an immense number of similar facts, we find it recorded that in ancient times the duration of the life of common men was 80,000 years,[248] and that holy men lived to be upwards of 100,000.[249] Some died a little sooner, others a little later; but in the most flourishing period of antiquity, if we take all classes together, 100,000 years was the average.[250] Of one king, whose name was Yudhishthir, it is casually mentioned that he reigned 27,000 years;[251] while another, called Alarka, reigned 66,000.[252] They were cut off in their prime, since there are several instances of the early poets living to be about half-a-million.[253] But the most remarkable case is that of a very shining character in Indian history, who united in his single person the functions of a king and a saint. This eminent man lived in a pure and virtuous age, and his days were, indeed, long in the land; since, when he was made king, he was two million years old: he then reigned 6,300,000 years; having done which, he resigned his empire, and lingered on for 100,000 years more.[254] [248] 'The limit of life was vol. xvi. p. 456, Calcutta, 1828. 80,000 years.' _Asiatic Researches_. This was likewise the estimate of the Tibetan divines, according to whom men formerly 'parvenaient à l'âge de 80,000 ans.' _Journal Asiatique_, I. série, vol. iii. p. 199, Paris, 1823. [249] 'Den Hindu macht dieser Widerspruch nicht verlegen, da er seine Heiligen 100,000 Jahre und länger leben lässt.' _Rhode_, _Relig. Bildung der Hindus_, vol. i. p. 175. [250] In the _Dabistan_, vol. ii. p. 47, it is stated of the earliest inhabitants of the world, that 'the duration of human life in this age extended to one hundred thousand common years.' [251] Wilford (_Asiatic Researches_, vol. v. p. 242) says, 'When the Puranics speak of the kings of ancient times, they are equally extravagant. According to them, King Yudhishthir reigned seven-and-twenty thousand years.' [252] 'For sixty thousand and sixty hundred years no other youthful monarch except Alarka reigned over the earth.' _Vishnu Purana_, p. 408. [253] And sometimes more. In the Essay on Indian Chronology in _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. i. p. 325, we hear of 'a conversation between Valmic and Vyasa, ... two bards whose ages were separated by a period of 864,000 years.' This passage is also in _Asiatic Researches_, vol. ii. p. 399. [254] 'He was the first king, first anchoret, and first saint; and is therefore entitled Prathama-Raja, Prathama Bhicshacara, Prathama Jina, and Prathama Tirthancara. At the time of his inauguration as king, his age was 2,000,000 years. He reigned 6,300,000 years, and then resigned his empire to his sons: and having employed 100,000 years in passing through the several stages of austerity and sanctity, departed from this world on the summit of a mountain named Ashtapada.' _Asiatic Researches_, vol. ix. p. 305. The same boundless reverence for antiquity made the Hindus refer every thing important to the most distant periods; and they frequently assign a date which is absolutely bewildering.[255] Their great collection of laws, called the _Institutes of Menu_, is certainly less than 3,000 years old; but the Indian chronologists, so far from being satisfied with this, ascribe to them an age that the sober European mind finds a difficulty even in conceiving. According to the best native authorities, these Institutes were revealed to man about two thousand million years before the present era.[256] [255] 'Speculationen über Zahlen sind dem Inder so geläufig, dass selbst die Sprache einen Ausdruck hat für eine Unität mit 63 Nullen, nämlich Asanke, eben weil die Berechnung der Weltperioden diese enorme Grössen nothwendig machte, denn jene einfachen 12,000 Jahre schienen einem Volke, welches so gerne die höchstmögliche Potenz auf seine Gottheit übertragen mögte, viel zu geringe zu seyn.' _Bohlen_, _das alte Indien_, vol. ii. p. 298. [256] _Elphinstone's History of India_, p. 136, 'a period exceeding 4,320,000 multiplied by six times seventy-one.' All this is but a part of that love of the remote, that straining after the infinite, and that indifference to the present, which characterizes every branch of the Indian intellect. Not only in literature, but also in religion and in art, this tendency is supreme. To subjugate the understanding, and exalt the imagination, is the universal principle. In the dogmas of their theology, in the character of their gods, and even in the forms of their temples, we see how the sublime and threatening aspects of the external world have filled the mind of the people with those images of the grand and the terrible, which they strive to reproduce in a visible form, and to which they owe the leading peculiarities of their national culture. Our view of this vast process may be made clearer by comparing it with the opposite condition of Greece. In Greece, we see a country altogether the reverse of India. The works of nature, which in India are of startling magnitude, are in Greece far smaller, feebler, and in every way less threatening to man. In the great centre of Asiatic civilization, the energies of the human race are confined, and as it were intimidated, by the surrounding phenomena. Besides the dangers incidental to tropical climates, there are those noble mountains, which seem to touch the sky, and from whose sides are discharged mighty rivers, which no art can divert from their course, and which no bridge has ever been able to span. There, too, are impassable forests, whole countries lined with interminable jungle, and beyond them, again, dreary and boundless deserts; all teaching Man his own feebleness, and his inability to cope with natural forces. Without, and on either side, there are great seas, ravaged by tempests far more destructive than any known in Europe, and of such sudden violence, that it is impossible to guard against their effects. And, as if in those regions every thing combined to cramp the activity of Man, the whole line of coast, from the mouth of the Ganges to the extreme south of the peninsula, does not contain a single safe and capacious harbour, not one port that affords a refuge, which is perhaps more necessary there than in any other part of the world.[257] [257] Symes (_Embassy to Ava_, vol. iii. p. 278) says: 'From the mouth of the Ganges to Cape Comorin, the whole range of our continental territory, there is not a single harbour capable of affording shelter to a vessel of 500 tons burden.' Indeed, according to Percival, there is with the exception of Bombay, no harbour, 'either on the Coromandel or Malabar coasts, in which ships can moor in safety at all seasons of the year.' _Percival's Account of Ceylon_, pp. 2, 15, 66. But in Greece, the aspects of nature are so entirely different, that the very conditions of existence are changed. Greece, like India, forms a peninsula; but while in the Asiatic country every thing is great and terrible, in the European country every thing is small and feeble. The whole of Greece occupies a space somewhat less than the kingdom of Portugal,[258] that is about a fortieth part of what is now called Hindustan.[259] Situated in the most accessible part of a narrow sea, it had easy contact on the east with Asia Minor, on the west with Italy, on the south with Egypt. Dangers of all kinds were far less numerous than in the tropical civilizations. The climate was more healthy;[260] earthquakes were less frequent; hurricanes were less disastrous; wild-beasts and noxious animals less abundant. In regard to the other great features, the same law prevails. The highest mountains in Greece are less than one-third of the Himalaya, so that nowhere do they reach the limit of perpetual snow.[261] As to rivers, not only is there nothing approaching those imposing volumes which are poured down from the mountains of Asia, but nature is so singularly sluggish, that neither in Northern nor in Southern Greece do we find any thing beyond a few streams, which are easily forded, and which, indeed, in the summer season, are frequently dried up.[262] [258] 'Altogether its area is somewhat less than that of Portugal.' _Grote's History of Greece_, vol. ii. p. 302; and the same remark in _Thirlwall's History of Greece_, vol. i. p. 2, and in _Heeren's Ancient Greece_, 1845, p. 16. M. Heeren says, 'But even if we add all the islands, its square contents are a third less than those of Portugal.' [259] The area of Hindostan being, according to Mr. M'Culloch (_Geog. Dict._ 1849, vol. i. p. 993), 'between 1,200,000 and 1,300,000 square miles.' [260] In the best days of Greece, those alarming epidemics, by which the country was subsequently ravaged, were comparatively little known: see _Thirlwall's History of Greece_, vol. iii. p. 134, vol. viii. p. 471. This may be owing to large cosmical causes, or to the simple fact, that the different forms of pestilence had not yet been imported from the East by actual contact. On the vague accounts we possess of the earlier plagues, see _Clot-Bey de la Peste_, Paris, 1840. pp. 21, 46, 184. The relation even of Thucydides is more satisfactory to scholars than to pathologists. [261] 'Mount Guino, the highest point in Greece, and near its northern boundary, is 8,239 feet high.... No mountain in Greece reaches the limit of perpetual snow.' _M'Culloch's Geog. Dict._ 1849, vol. i. p. 924. Compare the table of mountains in Baker's Memoir on North Greece, in _Journal of Geographical Society_, vol. vii. p. 94, with _Bakewell's Geology_, pp. 621, 622. [262] 'Greece has no navigable river.' _M'Culloch's Geog. Dict._ vol. i. p. 924. 'Most of the rivers of Greece are torrents in early spring, and dry before the end of the summer.' _Grote's History of Greece_, vol. ii. p. 286. These striking differences in the material phenomena of the two countries gave rise to corresponding differences in their mental associations. For as all ideas must arise partly from what are called spontaneous operations in the mind, and partly from what is suggested to the mind by the external world, it was natural that so great an alteration in one of the causes should produce an alteration in the effects. The tendency of the surrounding phenomena was in India to inspire fear; in Greece to give confidence. In India Man was intimidated; in Greece he was encouraged. In India obstacles of every sort were so numerous, so alarming, and apparently so inexplicable, that the difficulties of life could only be solved by constantly appealing to the direct agency of supernatural causes. Those causes being beyond the province of the understanding, the resources of the imagination were incessantly occupied in studying them; the imagination itself was overworked, its activity became dangerous, it encroached on the understanding, and the equilibrium of the whole was destroyed. In Greece opposite circumstances were followed by opposite results. In Greece Nature was less dangerous, less intrusive, and less mysterious than in India. In Greece, therefore, the human mind was less appalled, and less superstitious; natural causes began to be studied; physical science first became possible; and Man, gradually waking to a sense of his own power, sought to investigate events with a boldness not to be expected in those other countries, where the pressure of Nature troubled his independence, and suggested ideas with which knowledge is incompatible. The effect of these habits of thought on the national religion must be very obvious to whoever has compared the popular creed of India with that of Greece. The mythology of India, like that of every tropical country, is based upon terror, and upon terror, too, of the most extravagant kind. Evidence of the universality of this feeling abounds in the sacred books of the Hindus, in their traditions, and even in the very form and appearance of their gods. And so deeply is all this impressed on the mind, that the most popular deities are invariably those with whom images of fear are most intimately associated. Thus, for example, the worship of Siva is more general than any other; and as to its antiquity, there is reason to believe that it was borrowed by the Brahmins from the original Indians.[263] At all events, it is very ancient, and very popular; and Siva himself forms, with Brahma and Vishnu, the celebrated Hindu Triad. We need not, therefore, be surprised that with this god are connected images of terror, such as nothing but a tropical imagination could conceive. Siva is represented to the Indian mind as a hideous being, encircled by a girdle of snakes, with a human skull in his hand, and wearing a necklace composed of human bones. He has three eyes; the ferocity of his temper is marked by his being clothed in a tiger's skin; he is represented as wandering about like a madman, and over his left shoulder the deadly cobra di capella rears its head. This monstrous creation of an awe-struck fancy has a wife Doorga, called sometimes Kali, and sometimes by other names.[264] She has a body of dark blue; while the palms of her hands are red, to indicate her insatiate appetite for blood. She has four arms, with one of which she carries the skull of a giant; her tongue protrudes, and hangs lollingly from her mouth; round her waist are the hands of her victims; and her neck is adorned with human heads strung together in a ghastly row.[265] [263] See Stevenson on _The Anti-Brahmanical Religion of the Hindus_, in _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. viii. pp. 331, 332, 336, 338. Mr. Wilson (_Journal_, vol. iii. p. 204) says, 'The prevailing form of the Hindu religion in the south of the peninsula was, at the commencement of the Christian era, and some time before it most probably, that of Siva.' See also vol. v. p. 85, where it is stated that Siva 'is the only Hindu god to whom honour is done at Ellora.' Compare _Transac. of Soc. of Bombay_, vol. iii. p. 521; _Heeren's Asiatic Nations_, 1846, vol. ii. pp. 62, 66. On the philosophical relations between the followers of Siva and those of Vishnu, see _Ritter's Hist. of Ancient Philosophy_, vol. iv. pp. 334, 335; and the noticeable fact (_Buchanan's Mysore_, vol. ii. p. 410), that even the Naimar caste, whose 'proper deity' is Vishnu, 'wear on their foreheads the mark of Siva.' As to the worship of Siva in the time of Alexander the Great, see _Thirlwall's History of Greece_, vol. vii. p. 36; and for further evidence of its extent, _Bohlen_, _das alte Indien_, vol. i. pp. 29, 147, 206, and _Transac. of Asiatic Society_, vol. ii. pp. 50, 294. [264] So it is generally stated by the Hindu theologians; but, according to Rammohun Roy, Siva had two wives. See _Rammohun Roy on the Veds_, p. 90. [265] On these attributes and representations of Siva and Doorga, see _Rhode_, _Religiöse Bildung der Hindus_, vol. ii. p. 241; _Coleman's Mythology of the Hindus_, pp. 63, 92; _Bohlen_, _das alte Indien_, vol. i. p. 207; _Ward's Religion of the Hindoos_, vol. i. pp. xxxvii. 27, 145; _Transac. of Society of Bombay_, vol. i. pp. 215, 221. Compare the curious account of an image supposed to represent Mahadeo, in _Journal Asiatique_, I. série, vol. i. p. 354, Paris, 1822. If we now turn to Greece, we find, even in the infancy of its religion, not the faintest trace of any thing approaching to this. For, in Greece, the causes of fear being less abundant, the expression of terror was less common. The Greeks, therefore, were by no means disposed to incorporate into their religion those feelings of dread natural to the Hindus. The tendency of Asiatic civilization was to widen the distance between men and their deities; the tendency of Greek civilization was to diminish it. Thus it is, that in Hindostan all the gods had something monstrous about them; as Vishnu with four hands, Brahma with five heads, and the like.[266] But the gods of Greece were always represented in forms entirely human.[267] In that country, no artist would have gained attention, if he had presumed to portray them in any other shape. He might make them stronger than men, he might make them more beautiful; but still they must be men. The analogy between God and Man, which excited the religious feelings of the Greeks, would have been fatal to those of the Hindus. [266] _Ward on the Religion of the Hindoos_, vol. i. p. 35; _Transac. of Society of Bombay_, vol. i. p. 223. Compare the gloss in the _Dabistan_, vol. ii. p. 202. [267] 'The Greek gods were formed like men, with greatly increased powers and faculties, and acted as men would do if so circumstanced, but with a dignity and energy suited to their nearer approach to perfection. The Hindu gods, on the other hand, though endued with human passions, have always something monstrous in their appearance, and wild and capricious in their conduct. They are of various colours, red, yellow, and blue; some have twelve heads, and most have four hands. They are often enraged without a cause, and reconciled without a motive.' _Elphinstone's History of India_, pp. 96, 97. See also _Erskine on the Temple of Elephanta_, in _Transac. of Society of Bombay_, vol. i. p. 246; and the _Dabistan_, vol. i. p. cxi. This difference between the artistic expressions of the two religions was accompanied by an exactly similar difference between their theological traditions. In the Indian books, the imagination is exhausted in relating the feats of the gods; and the more obviously impossible any achievement is, the greater the pleasure with which it was ascribed to them. But the Greek gods had not only human forms, but also human attributes, human pursuits, and human tastes.[268] The men of Asia, to whom every object of nature was a source of awe, acquired such habits of reverence, that they never dared to assimilate their own actions with the actions of their deities. The men of Europe, encouraged by the safety and inertness of the material world, did not fear to strike a parallel, from which they would have shrunk had they lived amid the dangers of a tropical country. It is thus that the Greek divinities are so different from those of the Hindus, that in comparing them we seem to pass from one creation into another. The Greeks generalized their observations upon the human mind, and then applied them to the gods.[269] The coldness of women was figured in Diana; their beauty and sensuality in Venus; their pride in Juno; their accomplishments in Minerva. To the ordinary avocations of the gods the same principle was applied. Neptune was a sailor; Vulcan was a smith; Apollo was sometimes a fiddler, sometimes a poet, sometimes a keeper of oxen. As to Cupid, he was a wanton boy, who played with his bow and arrows; Jupiter was an amorous and good-natured king; while Mercury was indifferently represented either as a trustworthy messenger, or else as a common and notorious thief. [268] 'In the material polytheism of other leading ancient nations, the Egyptians, for example, the incarnation of the Deity was chiefly, or exclusively, confined to animals, monsters, or other fanciful emblems.... In Greece, on the other hand, it was an almost necessary result of the spirit and grace with which the deities were embodied in human forms, that they should also be burdened with human interests and passions. Heaven, like earth, had its courts and palaces, its trades and professions, its marriages, intrigues, divorces.' _Mure's History of the Literature of Ancient Greece_, vol. i. pp. 471, 472. So, too, Tennemann (_Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. iii. p. 419): 'Diese Götter haben Menschengestalt.... Haben die Götter aber nicht nur menschliche Gestalt, sondern auch einen menschlichen Körper, so sind sie als Menschen auch denselben Unvollkommenheiten, Krankheiten und dem Tode unterworfen; dieses streitet mit dem Begriffe,' _i.e._ of Epicurus. Compare _Grote's History of Greece_, vol. i. p. 596: 'The mythical age was peopled with a mingled aggregate of gods, heroes, and men, so confounded together, that it was often impossible to distinguish to which class any individual name belonged.' See also the complaint of Xenophanes, in _Müller's Hist. of Lit. of Greece_, London, 1856, p. 251. [269] The same remark applies to beauty of form, which they first aimed at in the statues of men, and then brought to bear upon the statues of the gods. This is well put in Mr. Grote's important work, _History of Greece_, vol. iv. pp. 133, 134, edit. 1847. Precisely the same tendency to approximate human forces towards superhuman ones, is displayed in another peculiarity of the Greek religion. I mean, that in Greece we for the first time meet with hero-worship, that is, the deification of mortals. According to the principles already laid down, this could not be expected in a tropical civilization, where the Aspects of Nature filled Man with a constant sense of his own incapacity. It is, therefore, natural that it should form no part of the ancient Indian religion;[270] neither was it known to the Egyptians,[271] nor to the Persians,[272] nor, so far as I am aware, to the Arabians.[273] But in Greece, Man being less humbled, and, as it were, less eclipsed, by the external world, thought more of his own powers, and human nature did not fall into that discredit in which it elsewhere sank. The consequence was, that the deification of mortals was a recognized part of the national religion at a very early period in the history of Greece;[274] and this has been found so natural to Europeans, that the same custom was afterwards renewed with eminent success by the Romish Church. Other circumstances, of a very different character, are gradually eradicating this form of idolatry; but its existence is worth observing, as one of the innumerable illustrations of the way in which European civilization has diverged from all those that preceded it.[275] [270] 'But the worship of deified heroes is no part of that system.' _Colebrooke on the Vedas_, in _Asiatic Researches_, vol. viii. p. 495. [271] _Mackay's Religious Development_, vol. ii. p. 53, Lond. 1850. Compare _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. iv. pp. 148, 318; and _Matter_, _Histoire de l'Ecole d'Alexandrie_, vol. i. p. 2; the 'culte des grands hommes,' which afterwards arose in Alexandria (_Matter_, vol. i. p. 54), must have been owing to Greek influence. [272] There are no indications of it in the Zendavesta; and Herodotus says, that the Persians were unlike the Greeks, in so far as they disbelieved in a god having a human form; book i. chap. cxxxi. vol. i. p. 308: [Greek: ouk anthrôpophyeas enomisan tous theous, kataper hoi Hellênes einai]. [273] I am not acquainted with any evidence connecting this worship with the old Arabian religion; and it was certainly most alien to the spirit of Mohammedanism. [274] _Mure's History of the Literature of Greece_, vol. i. pp. 28, 500, vol. ii. p. 402: very good remarks on a subject handled unsatisfactorily by Coleridge; _Literary Remains_, vol. i. p. 185. Thirlwall (_History of Greece_, vol. i. p. 207) admits that 'the views and feelings out of which it (the worship of heroes) arose, seem to be clearly discernible in the Homeric poems.' Compare _Cudworth's Intellectual System_, vol. ii. pp. 226, 372. In the Cratylus, chap. xxxiii., Socrates is represented as asking, [Greek: Ouk oistha hoti hêmitheoi oi hêrôes]; _Platonis Opera_, vol. iv. p. 227, edit. Bekker, Lond. 1826. And in the next century, Alexander obtained for his friend, Hephæstion, the right of being 'worshipped as a hero' _Grote's History of Greece_, vol. xii. p. 339. [275] The adoration of the dead, and particularly the adoration of martyrs, was one great point of opposition between the orthodox church and the Manichæans (_Beausobre_, _Histoire Critique de Manichée_, vol. i. p. 316, vol. ii. pp. 651, 669); and it is easy to understand how abhorrent such a practice must have been to the Persian heretics. It is thus, that in Greece every thing tended to exalt the dignity of man, while in India every thing tended to depress it.[276] To sum up the whole, it may be said that the Greeks had more respect for human powers; the Hindus for superhuman. The first dealt more with the known and available; the other with the unknown and mysterious.[277] And by a parity of reasoning, the imagination, which the Hindus, being oppressed by the pomp and majesty of nature, never sought to control, lost its supremacy in the little peninsula of ancient Greece. In Greece, for the first time in the history of the world, the imagination was, in some degree, tempered and confined by the understanding. Not that its strength was impaired, or its vitality diminished. It was broken-in and tamed; its exuberance was checked, its follies were chastised. But that its energy remained, we have ample proof in those productions of the Greek mind which have survived to our own time. The gain, therefore, was complete; since the inquiring and sceptical faculties of the human understanding were cultivated, without destroying the reverential and poetic instincts of the imagination. Whether or not the balance was accurately adjusted, is another question; but it is certain that the adjustment was more nearly arrived at in Greece than in any previous civilization.[278] There can, I think, be little doubt that, notwithstanding what was effected, too much authority was left to the imaginative faculties, and that the purely reasoning ones did not receive, and never have received, sufficient attention. Still, this does not affect the great fact, that the Greek literature is the first in which this deficiency was somewhat remedied, and in which there was a deliberate and systematic attempt to test all opinions by their consonance with human reason, and thus vindicate the right of Man to judge for himself on matters which are of supreme and incalculable importance. [276] M. Cousin, in his eloquent and ingenious work (_Histoire de la Philosophie_, 3e série, vol. i. pp. 183, 187), has some judicious observations on what he calls 'l'époque de l'infini' of the East, contrasted with that 'du fini,' which began in Europe. But as to the physical causes of this, he only admits the grandeur of nature, overlooking those natural elements of mystery and of danger by which religious sentiments were constantly excited. [277] A learned orientalist says, that no people have made such efforts as the Hindus 'to solve, exhaust, comprehend, what is insolvable, inexhaustible, incomprehensible.' _Troyer's Preliminary Discourse on the Dabistan_, vol. i. p. cviii. [278] This is noticed by Tennemann, who, however, has not attempted to ascertain the cause: 'Die Einbildungskraft des Griechen war schöpferisch, sie schuf in seinem Innern neue Ideenwelten; aber er wurde doch nie verleitet, die idealische Welt mit der wirklichen zu verwechseln, weil sie immer mit einem richtigen Verstande und gesunder Beurtheilungskraft verbunden war.' _Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. i. p. 8; and vol. vi. p. 490, he says, 'Bei allen diesen Mängeln und Fehlern sind doch die Griechen die einzige Nation der alten Welt, welche Sinn für Wissenschaft hatte, und zu diesem Behufe forschte. Sie haben doch die Bahn gebrochen, und den Weg zur Wissenschaft geebnet.' To the same effect, _Sprengel_, _Histoire de la Médecine_, vol. i. p. 215. And on this difference between the Eastern and the European mind, see _Matter_, _Histoire du Gnosticisme_, vol. i. pp. 18, 233, 234. So, too, Kant (_Logik_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. i. p. 350), 'Unter allen Völkern haben also die Griechen erst angefangen zu philosophiren. Denn sie haben zuerst versucht, nicht an dem Leitfaden der Bilder die Vernunfterkenntnisse zu cultiviren, sondern _in abstracto_; statt dass die anderen Völker sich die Begriffe immer nur durch Bilder _in concreto_ verständlich zu machen suchten.' I have selected India and Greece as the two terms of the preceding comparison, because our information respecting those countries is most extensive, and has been most carefully arranged. But every thing we know of the other tropical civilizations confirms the views I have advocated respecting the effects produced by the Aspects of Nature. In Central America extensive excavations have been made; and what has been brought to light proves that the national religion was, like that of India, a system of complete and unmitigated terror.[279] Neither there nor in Mexico, nor in Peru, nor in Egypt, did the people desire to represent their deities in human forms, or ascribe to them human attributes. Even their temples are huge buildings, often constructed with great skill, but showing an evident wish to impress the mind with fear, and offering a striking contrast to the lighter and smaller structures which the Greeks employed for religious purposes. Thus, even in the style of architecture do we see the same principle at work; the dangers of the tropical civilization being more suggestive of the infinite, while the safety of the European civilization was more suggestive of the finite. To follow out the consequences of this great antagonism, it would be necessary to indicate how the infinite, the imaginative, the synthetic, and the deductive, are all connected; and are opposed, on the other hand, by the finite, the sceptical, the analytic, and the inductive. A complete illustration of this would carry me beyond the plan of this Introduction and would perhaps exceed the resources of my own knowledge; and I must now leave to the candour of the reader what I am conscious is but an imperfect sketch, but what may, nevertheless, suggest to him materials for future thought, and, if I might indulge the hope, may open to historians a new field, by reminding them that every where the hand of Nature is upon us, and that the history of the human mind can only be understood by connecting with it the history and the aspects of the material universe. [279] Thus, of one of the idols at Copan, 'The intention of the sculptor seems to have been to excite terror.' _Stephens's Central America_, vol. i. p. 152; at p. 159, 'The form of sculpture most generally used was a death's head.' At Mayapan (vol. iii. p. 133), 'representations of human figures or animals with hideous features and expressions, in producing which the skill of the artist seems to have been expended;' and again, p. 412, 'unnatural and grotesque faces.' * * * * * NOTE 36 to p. 61. As these views have a social and economical importance quite independent of their physiological value, I will endeavour, in this note, to fortify them still further, by showing that the connexion between carbonized food and the respiratory functions may be illustrated by a wider survey of the animal kingdom. The gland most universal among the different classes of animals is the liver;(a) and its principal business is to relieve the system of its superfluous carbon, which it accomplishes by secreting bile, a highly carbonized fluid.(b) Now, the connexion between this process and the respiratory functions is highly curious. For, if we take a general view of animal life, we shall find that the liver and lungs are nearly always compensatory; that is to say, when one organ is small and inert, the other is large and active. Thus, reptiles have feeble lungs, but a considerable liver;(c) and thus, too, in fishes, which have no lungs, in the ordinary sense of the word, the size of the liver is often enormous.(d) On the other hand, insects have a very large and complicated system of air tubes; but their liver is minute, and its functions are habitually sluggish.(e) If, instead of comparing the different classes of animals, we compare the different stages through which the same animal passes, we shall find further confirmation of this wide and striking principle. For the law holds good even before birth; since in the unborn infant the lungs have scarcely any activity, but there is an immense liver, which is full of energy and pours out bile in profusion.(f) And so invariable is this relation, that in man the liver is the first organ which is formed: it is preponderant during the whole period of f[oe]tal life; but it rapidly diminishes when, after birth, the lungs come into play, and a new scheme of compensation is established in the system.(g) [a] 'The most constant gland in the animal kingdom is the liver.' _Grant's Comp. Anat._ p. 576. See also _Béclard_, _Anat. Gén._ p. 18, and _Burdach_, _Traité de Physiol._ vol. ix. p. 580. Burdach says, 'Il existe dans presque tout le règne animal;' and the latest researches have detected the rudiments of a liver even in the Entozoa and Rotifera. _Rymer Jones's Animal Kingdom_, 1855, p. 183, and _Owen's Invertebrata_, 1855, p. 104. [b] Until the analysis made by Demarçay in 1837, hardly any thing was known of the composition of bile; but this accomplished chemist ascertained that its essential constituent is choleate of soda, and that the choleic acid contains nearly sixty-three per cent. of carbon. Compare _Thomson's Animal Chemistry_, pp. 59, 60, 412, 602, with _Simon's Chemistry_, vol. ii. pp. 17-21. [c] 'The size of the liver and the quantity of the bile are not proportionate to the quantity of the food and frequency of eating; but inversely to the size and perfection of the lungs.... The liver is proportionately larger in reptiles, which have lungs with large cells incapable of rapidly decarbonizing the blood.' _Good's Study of Medicine_, 1829, vol. i. pp. 32, 33. See _Cuvier_, _Règne Animal_, vol. ii. p. 2, on 'la petitesse des vaisseaux pulmonaires' of reptiles. [d] _Carus's Comparative Anatomy_, vol. ii. p. 230; _Grant's Comp. Anat._ pp. 385, 596; _Rymer Jones's Animal Kingdom_, p. 646. [e] Indeed it has been supposed by M. Gaëde that the 'vaisseaux biliares' of some insects were not 'sécréteurs;' but this opinion appears to be erroneous. See Latreille, in _Cuvier_, _Règne Animal_, vol. iv. pp. 297, 298. [f] 'La prédominance du foie avant la naissance' is noticed by Bichat (_Anatomie Générale_, vol. ii. p. 272), and by many other physiologists; but Dr. Elliotson appears to have been one of the first to understand a fact, the explanation of which we might vainly seek for in the earlier writers. 'The hypothesis, that one great use of the liver was, like that of the lungs, to remove carbon from the system, with this difference, that the alteration of the capacity of the air caused a reception of caloric into the blood, in the case of the lungs, while the hepatic excretion takes place without introduction of caloric, was, I recollect, a great favourite with me when a student.... The Heidelberg professors have adduced many arguments to the same effect. In the f[oe]tus, for whose temperature the mother's heat must be sufficient, the lungs perform no function; but the liver is of great size, and bile is secreted abundantly, so that the meconium accumulates considerably during the latter months of pregnancy.' _Elliotson's Human Physiology_, 1840, p. 102. In _Lepelletier's Physiologie Médicale_, vol. i. p. 466, vol. ii. pp. 14, 546, 550, all this is sadly confused. [g] 'The liver is the first-formed organ in the embryo. It is developed from the alimentary canal, and at about the third week fills the whole abdomen, and is one-half the weight of the entire embryo.... At birth it is of very large size, and occupies the whole upper part of the abdomen.... The liver diminishes rapidly after birth, probably from obliteration of the umbilical vein.' _Wilson's Human Anatomy_, 1851, p. 638. Compare _Burdach's Physiologie_, vol. iv. p. 447, where it is said of the liver in childhood, 'Cet organe croît avec lenteur, surtout comparativement aux poumons; le rapport de ceux-ci au foie étant à peu près de 1:3 avant la respiration, il était de 1:1.86 après l'établissement de cette dernière fonction.' See also p. 91, and vol. iii. p. 483; and on the predominance of the liver in f[oe]tal life, see the remarks of Serres (_Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire_, _Anomalies de l'Organisation_, vol. ii. p. 11), whose generalization is perhaps a little premature. These facts, interesting to the philosophic physiologist, are of great moment in reference to the doctrines advocated in this chapter. Inasmuch as the liver and lungs are compensatory in the history of their organization, it is highly probable that they are also compensatory in the functions they perform; and that what is left undone by one will have to be accomplished by the other. The liver, therefore, fulfilling the duty, as chemistry teaches us, of decarbonizing the system by secreting a carbonized fluid, we should expect, even in the absence of any further evidence, that the lungs would be likewise decarbonizing; in other words, we should expect that if, from any cause, we are surcharged with carbon, our lungs must assist in remedying the evil. This brings us, by another road, to the conclusion that highly carbonized food has a tendency to tax the lungs; so that the connexion between a carbonized diet and the respiratory functions, instead of being, as some assert, a crude hypothesis, is an eminently scientific theory, and is corroborated not only by chemistry, but by the general scheme of the animal kingdom, and even by the observation of embryological phenomena. The views of Liebig, and of his followers, are indeed supported by so many analogies, and harmonize so well with other parts of our knowledge, that nothing but a perverse hatred of generalization, or an incapacity for dealing with large speculative truths, can explain the hostility directed against conclusions which have been gradually forcing themselves upon us since Lavoisier, seventy years ago, attempted to explain the respiratory functions by subjecting them to the laws of chemical combination. In this, and previous notes (see in particular notes 30, 31, 35), I have considered the connexion between food respiration, and animal heat, at a length which will appear tedious to readers uninterested in physiological pursuits; but the investigation has become necessary, on account of the difficulties raised by experimenters, who, not having studied the subject comprehensively, object to certain parts of it. To mention what, from the ability and reputation of the author, is a conspicuous instance of this, Sir Benjamin Brodie has recently published a volume (_Physiological Researches_, 1851) containing some ingeniously contrived experiments on dogs and rabbits, to prove that heat is generated rather by the nervous system than by the respiratory organs. Without following this eminent surgeon into all its details, I may be permitted to observe, 1st, That, as a mere matter of history, no great physiological truth has ever yet been discovered, nor has any great physiological fallacy been destroyed, by such limited experiments on a single class of animals; and this is partly because in physiology a crucial instance is impracticable, owing to the fact that we deal with resisting and living bodies, and partly because every experiment produces an abnormal condition, and thus lets in fresh causes, the operation of which is incalculable; unless, as often happens in the inorganic world, we can control the whole phenomenon. 2nd, That the other department of the organic world, namely, the vegetable kingdom, has, so far as we are aware, no nervous system, but nevertheless possesses heat; and we moreover know that the heat is a product of oxygen and carbon (see note 32 to chapter ii.). 3d, That the evidence of travellers respecting the different sorts of food, and the different quantities of food, used in hot countries and in cold ones, is explicable by the respiratory and chemical theories of the origin of animal heat, but is inexplicable by the theory of the nervous origin of heat. CHAPTER III. EXAMINATION OF THE METHOD EMPLOYED BY METAPHYSICIANS FOR DISCOVERING MENTAL LAWS. The evidence that I have collected seems to establish two leading facts, which, unless they can be impugned, are the necessary basis of universal history. The first fact is, that in the civilizations out of Europe, the powers of nature have been far greater than in those in Europe. The second fact is, that those powers have worked immense mischief; and that while one division of them has caused an unequal distribution of wealth, another division of them has caused an unequal distribution of thought, by concentrating attention upon subjects which inflame the imagination. So far as the experience of the past can guide us, we may say, that in all the extra European civilizations, these obstacles are insuperable: certainly no nation has ever yet overcome them. But Europe, being constructed upon a smaller plan than the other quarters of the world--being also in a colder region, having a less exuberant soil, a less imposing aspect, and displaying in all her physical phenomena much greater feebleness--it was easier for Man to discard the superstitions which Nature suggested to his imagination; and it was also easier for him to effect, not, indeed, a just division of wealth, but something nearer to it, than was practicable in the older countries. Hence it is that, looking at the history of the world as a whole, the tendency has been, in Europe, to subordinate nature to man; out of Europe, to subordinate man to nature. To this there are, in barbarous countries, several exceptions; but in civilized countries the rule has been universal. The great division, therefore, between European civilization and non-European civilization, is the basis of the philosophy of history, since it suggests the important consideration, that if we would understand, for instance, the history of India, we must make the external world our first study, because it has influenced man more than man has influenced it. If, on the other hand, we would understand the history of a country like France or England, we must make man our principal study, because nature being comparatively weak, every step in the great progress has increased the dominion of the human mind over the agencies of the external world. Even in those countries where the power of man has reached the highest point, the pressure of nature is still immense; but it diminishes in each succeeding generation, because our increasing knowledge enables us not so much to control nature as to foretell her movements, and thus obviate many of the evils she would otherwise occasion. How successful our efforts have been, is evident from the fact, that the average duration of life constantly becomes longer, and the number of inevitable dangers fewer; and what makes this the more remarkable is, that the curiosity of men is keener, and their contact with each other closer, than in any former period; so that while apparent hazards are multiplied, we find from experience that real hazards are, on the whole, diminished.[280] [280] This diminution of casualties is undoubtedly one cause, though a slight one, of the increased duration of life; but the most active cause is a general improvement in the physical condition of man: see _Sir B. Brodie's Lectures on Pathology and Surgery_, p. 212; and for proof that civilized men are stronger than uncivilized ones, see _Quetelet_, _sur l'Homme_, vol. ii. pp. 67, 272; _Lawrence's Lectures on Man_, pp. 275, 276; _Ellis's Polynesian Researches_, vol. i. p. 98; _Whately's Lectures on Political Economy_, 8vo. 1831, p. 59; _Journal of the Statistical Society_, vol. xvii. pp. 32, 33; _Dufau_, _Traité de Statistique_, p. 107; _Hawkins's Medical Statistics_, p. 232. If, therefore, we take the largest possible view of the history of Europe, and confine ourselves entirely to the primary cause of its superiority over other parts of the world, we must resolve it into the encroachment of the mind of man upon the organic and inorganic forces of nature. To this all other causes are subordinate.[281] For we have seen that wherever the powers of nature reached a certain height, the national civilization was irregularly developed, and the advance of the civilization stopped. The first essential was, to limit the interference of these physical phenomena; and that was most likely to be accomplished where the phenomena were feeblest and least imposing. This was the case with Europe; it is accordingly in Europe alone, that man has really succeeded in taming the energies of nature, bending them to his own will, turning them aside from their ordinary course, and compelling them to minister to his happiness, and subserve the general purposes of human life. [281] The general social consequences of this I shall hereafter consider; but the mere economical consequences are well expressed by Mr. Mill: 'Of the features which characterize this progressive economical movement of civilized nations, that which first excites attention, through its intimate connexion with the phenomena of Production, is the perpetual, and, so far as human foresight can extend, the unlimited, growth of man's power over nature. Our knowledge of the properties and laws of physical objects shows no sign of approaching its ultimate boundaries; it is advancing more rapidly, and in a greater number of directions at once, than in any previous age or generation, and affording such frequent glimpses of unexplored fields beyond, as to justify the belief that our acquaintance with nature is still almost in its infancy.' _Mill's Principles of Polit. Economy_, vol. ii. pp. 246-7. All around us are the traces of this glorious and successful struggle. Indeed, it seems as if in Europe there was nothing man feared to attempt. The invasions of the sea repelled, and whole provinces, as in the case of Holland, rescued from its grasp, mountains cut through and turned into level roads; soils of the most obstinate sterility becoming exuberant, from the mere advance of chemical knowledge; while, in regard to electric phenomena, we see the subtlest, the most rapid, and the most mysterious of all forces, made the medium of thought, and obeying even the most capricious behests of the human mind. In other instances, where the products of the external world have been refractory, man has succeeded in destroying what he could hardly hope to subjugate. The most cruel diseases, such as the plague, properly so called, and the leprosy of the Middle Ages,[282] have entirely disappeared from the civilized parts of Europe; and it is scarcely possible that they should ever again be seen there. Wild beasts and birds of prey have been extirpated, and are no longer allowed to infest the haunts of civilised men. Those frightful famines, by which Europe used to be ravaged several times in every century,[283] have ceased; and so successfully have we grappled with them, that there is not the slightest fear of their ever returning with any thing like their former severity. Indeed, our resources are now so great, that we could at worst, only suffer from a slight and temporary scarcity: since, in the present state of knowledge, the evil would be met at the outset by remedies which chemical science could easily suggest.[284] [282] What this horrible disease once was, may be estimated from the fact, 'qu'au treizième siècle on comptait en France seulement, deux mille léproseries, et que l'Europe entière renfermait environ dix-neuf mille établissemens semblables.' _Sprengel_, _Histoire de la Médecine_, vol. ii. p. 374. As to the mortality caused by the plague, see _Clot-Bey_, _de la Peste_, Paris, 1840, pp. 62, 63, 185, 292. [283] For a curious list of famines, see an essay by Mr. Farr, in _Journal of the Statistical Society_, vol. ix. pp. 159-163. He says, that in the eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries, the average was, in England, one famine every fourteen years. [284] In the opinion of one of the highest living authorities, famine is, even in the present state of chemistry, 'next to impossible.' _Herschel's Discourse on Natural Philosophy_, p. 65. Cuvier (_Recueil des Eloges_, vol. i. p. 10) says that we have succeeded 'a rendre toute famine impossible.' See also _Godwin on Population_, p. 500; and for a purely economical argument to prove the impossibility of famine, see _Mill's Principles of Political Economy_, vol. ii. p. 258; and compare a note in _Ricardo's Works_, p. 191. The Irish famine may seem an exception: but it could have been easily baffled except for the poverty of the people, which frustrated our efforts to reduce it to a dearth. It is hardly necessary to notice how, in numerous other instances, the progress of European civilization has been marked by the diminished influence of the external world: I mean, of course, those peculiarities of the external world which have an existence independent of the wishes of man, and were not created by him. The most advanced nations do, in their present state, owe comparatively little to those original features of nature which, in every civilization out of Europe, exercised unlimited power. Thus, in Asia and elsewhere, the course of trade, the extent of commerce, and many similar circumstances, were determined by the existence of rivers, by the facility with which they could be navigated, and by the number and goodness of the adjoining harbours. But, in Europe, the determining cause is, not so much these physical peculiarities, as the skill and energy of man. Formerly the richest countries were those in which nature was most bountiful; now the richest countries are those in which man is most active. For, in our age of the world, if nature is parsimonious, we know how to compensate her deficiencies. If a river is difficult to navigate, or a country difficult to traverse, our engineers can correct the error, and remedy the evil. If we have no rivers, we make canals; if we have no natural harbours, we make artificial ones. And so marked is this tendency to impair the authority of natural phenomena, that it is seen even in the distribution of the people, since, in the most civilized parts of Europe, the population of the towns is everywhere outstripping that of the country; and it is evident that the more men congregate in great cities, the more they will become accustomed to draw their materials of thought from the business of human life, and the less attention they will pay to those peculiarities of nature, which are the fertile source of superstition, and by which, in every civilization out of Europe, the progress of man was arrested. From these facts it may be fairly inferred, that the advance of European civilization is characterized by a diminishing influence of physical laws, and an increasing influence of mental laws. The complete proof of this generalization can be collected only from history; and therefore I must reserve a large share of the evidence on which it is founded for the future volumes of this work. But that the proposition is fundamentally true must be admitted by whoever, in addition to the arguments just adduced, will concede two premiss is, neither of which seem susceptible of much dispute. The first premiss is, that we are in possession of no evidence that the powers of nature have ever been permanently increased; and that we have no reason to expect that any such increase can take place. The other premiss is, that we have abundant evidence that the resources of the human mind have become more powerful, more numerous, and more able to grapple with the difficulties of the external world; because every fresh accession to our knowledge supplies fresh means with which we can either control the operations of nature, or, failing in that, can foresee the consequences, and thus avoid what it is impossible to prevent; in both instances, diminishing the pressure exercised on us by external agents. If these premisses are admitted, we are led to a conclusion which is of great value for the purpose of this Introduction. For, if the measure of civilization is the triumph of the mind over external agents, it becomes clear, that of the two classes of laws which regulate the progress of mankind, the mental class is more important than the physical. This, indeed, is assumed by one school of thinkers as a matter of course, though I am not aware that its demonstration has been hitherto attempted by any thing even approaching an exhaustive analysis. The question, however, as to the originality of my arguments, is one of very trifling moment; but what we have to notice is, that in the present stage of our inquiry, the problem with which we started has become simplified, and a discovery of the laws of European history is resolved, in the first instance, into a discovery of the laws of the human mind. These mental laws, when ascertained, will be the ultimate basis of the history of Europe; the physical laws will be treated as of minor importance, and as merely giving rise to disturbances, the force and the frequency of which have, during several centuries, perceptibly diminished. If we now inquire into the means of discovering the laws of the human mind, the metaphysicians are ready with an answer; and they refer us to their own labours as supplying a satisfactory solution. It therefore becomes necessary to ascertain the value of their researches, to measure the extent of their resources, and, above all, to test the validity of that method which they always follow, and by which alone, as they assert, great truths can be elicited. The metaphysical method, though necessarily branching into two divisions, is, in its origin, always the same, and consists in each observer studying the operations of his own mind.[285] This is the direct opposite of the historical method; the metaphysician studying one mind, the historian studying many minds. Now, the first remark to make on this is, that the metaphysical method is one by which no discovery has ever yet been made in any branch of knowledge. Every thing we at present know has been ascertained by studying phenomena, from which all casual disturbances having been removed, the law remains as a conspicuous residue.[286] And this can only be done by observations so numerous as to eliminate the disturbances, or else by experiments so delicate as to isolate the phenomena. One of these conditions is essential to all inductive science; but neither of them does the metaphysician obey. To isolate the phenomenon is for him an impossibility; since no man, into whatever state of reverie he may be thrown, can entirely cut himself off from the influence of external events, which must produce an effect on his mind, even when he is unconscious of their presence. As to the other condition, it is by the metaphysician set at open defiance; for his whole system is based on the supposition that, by studying a single mind, he can get the laws of all minds; so that while he, on the one hand, is unable to isolate his observations from disturbances, he, on the other hand, refuses to adopt the only remaining precaution--he refuses so to enlarge his survey as to eliminate the disturbances by which his observations are troubled.[287] [285] 'As the metaphysician carries within himself the materials of his reasoning, he is not under a necessity of looking abroad for subjects of speculation or amusement.' _Stewart's Philosophy of the Mind_, vol. i. p. 462; and the same remark, almost literally repeated, at vol. iii. p. 260. Locke makes what passes in each man's mind the sole source of metaphysics, and the sole test of their truth. _Essay concerning Human Understanding_, in _Locke's Works_, vol. i. pp. 18, 76, 79, 121, 146, 152, 287, vol. ii. pp. 141, 243. [286] The deductive sciences form, of course, an exception to this; but the whole theory of metaphysics is founded on its inductive character, and on the supposition that it consists of generalized observations, and that from them alone the science of mind can be raised. [287] These remarks are only applicable to those who follow the purely metaphysical method of investigation. There is, however, a very small number of metaphysicians, among whom M. Cousin is the most eminent in France, in whose works we find larger views, and an attempt to connect historical inquiries with metaphysical ones; thus recognizing the necessity of verifying their original speculations. To this method there can be no objection, provided the metaphysical conclusions are merely regarded as hypothesis, which require verification to raise them to theories. But, instead of this cautious proceeding, the almost invariable plan is, to treat the hypothesis as if it were a theory already proved, and as if there remained nothing to do but to give historical illustrations of truths established by the psychologist. This confusion between illustration and verification appears to be the universal failing of those who, like Vico and Fichte, speculate upon historical phenomena _à priori_. This is the first and fundamental objection to which metaphysicians are exposed, even on the threshold of their science. But if we penetrate a little deeper, we shall meet with another circumstance, which, though less obvious, is equally decisive. After the metaphysician has taken for granted that, by studying one mind, he can discover the laws of all minds, he finds himself involved in a singular difficulty as soon as he begins to apply even this imperfect method. The difficulty to which I allude is one which, not being met with in any other pursuit, seems to have escaped the attention of those who are unacquainted with metaphysical controversies. To understand, therefore, its nature, it is requisite to give a short account of those two great schools, to one of which all metaphysicians must necessarily belong. In investigating the nature of the human mind, according to the metaphysical scheme, there are two methods of proceeding, both of which are equally obvious, and yet both of which lead to entirely different results. According to the first method, the inquirer begins by examining his sensations. According to the other method, he begins by examining his ideas. These two methods always have led, and always must lead, to conclusions diametrically opposed to each other. Nor are the reasons of this difficult to understand. In metaphysics, the mind is the instrument as well as the material on which the instrument is employed. The means by which the science must be worked out, being thus the same as the object upon which it works, there arises a difficulty of a very peculiar kind. This difficulty is, the impossibility of taking a comprehensive view of the whole of the mental phenomena; because, however extensive such a view may be, it must exclude the state of the mind by which, or in which, the view itself is taken. Hence we may perceive what, I think, is a fundamental difference between physical and metaphysical inquiries. In physics, there are several methods of proceeding, all of which lead to the same results. But in metaphysics, it will invariably be found, that if two men of equal ability, and equal honesty, employ different methods in the study of the mind, the conclusions which they obtain will also be different. To those who are unversed in these matters, a few illustrations will set this in a clearer light. Metaphysicians who begin by the study of ideas observe in their own minds an idea of space. Whence, they ask, can this arise? It cannot, they say, owe its origin to the senses, because the senses only supply what is finite and contingent; whereas the idea of space is infinite and necessary.[288] It is infinite, since we cannot conceive that space has an end; and it is necessary, since we cannot conceive the possibility of its non-existence. Thus far the idealist. But the sensualist, as he is called,[289]--he who begins, not with ideas, but with sensations, arrives at a very different conclusion. He remarks that we can have no idea of space until we have first had an idea of objects; and that the ideas of objects can only be the results of the sensations which those objects excite. As to the idea of space being necessary, this, he says, only results from the circumstance that we never can perceive an object which does not bear a certain position to some other object. This forms an indissoluble association between the idea of position and the idea of an object; and as this association is constantly repeated before us, we at length find ourselves unable to conceive an object without position, or, in other words, without space.[290] As to space being infinite, this, he says, is a notion we get by conceiving a continual addition to lines, or to surfaces, or to bulk, which are the three modifications of extension.[291] On innumerable other points we find the same discrepancy between the two schools. The idealist,[292] for example, asserts that our notions of cause, of time, of personal identity, and of substance, are universal and necessary; that they are simple; and that not being susceptible of analysis, they must be referred to the original constitution of the mind.[293] On the other hand, the sensationalist, so far from recognizing the simplicity of these ideas, considers them to be extremely complex, and looks upon their universality and necessity as merely the result of a frequent and intimate association.[294] [288] Compare _Stewart's Philosophy of the Mind_, vol. ii. p. 194, with _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philosophie_, II. série, vol. ii. p. 92. Among the Indian metaphysicians, there was a sect which declared space to be the cause of all things. _Journal of Asiatic Soc._ vol. vi. pp. 268, 290. See also the _Dabistan_, vol. ii. p. 40, which, however, was contrary to the Vedas. _Rammohun Roy on the Veds_, 1832, pp. 8, 111. In Spain, the doctrine of the infinity of space is heretical. _Doblado's Letters_, p. 96; which should be compared with the objection of Irenæus against the Valentinians, in _Beausobre_, _Histoire de Manichée_, vol. ii. p. 275. For the different theories of space, I may, moreover, refer to _Ritter's Hist. of Ancient Philosophy_, vol. i. pp. 451, 473, 477, vol. ii. p. 314, vol. iii. pp. 195-204; _Cudworth's Intellectual System_, vol. i. p. 191, vol. iii. pp. 230, 472; _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. ii. pp. 23, 62, 81, 120, 139, 147, 256, 334, 347; _Tennemann_, _Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. i. p. 109, vol. ii. p. 303, vol. iii. pp. 130-137, vol. iv. p. 284, vol. v. pp. 384-387, vol. vi. p. 99, vol. viii. pp. 87, 88, 683, vol. ix. pp. 257, 355, 410, vol. x. p. 79, vol. xi. pp. 195, 385-389. [289] This is the title conferred by M. Cousin upon nearly all the greatest English metaphysicians, and upon Condillac and all his disciples in France, their system having 'le nom mérité de sensualisme.' _Cousin_, _Histoire de la Philosophie_, II. série, vol. ii. p. 88. The same name is given to the same school, in _Feuchtersleben's Medical Psychology_, p. 52, and in _Renouard's Histoire de la Médecine_, vol. i. p. 346, vol. ii. p. 368. In _Jobert's New System of Philosophy_, vol. ii. p. 334, 8vo. 1849, it is called 'sensationalism,' which seems a preferable expression. [290] This is very ably argued by Mr. James Mill in his _Analysis of the Phenomena of the Human Mind_, vol. ii. pp. 32, 93-95, and elsewhere. Compare _Essay concerning Human Understanding_, in _Locke's Works_, vol. i. pp. 147, 148, 154, 157, and the ingenious distinction, p. 198, 'between the idea of the infinity of space, and the idea of a space infinite.' At p. 208, Locke sarcastically says, 'But yet, after all this, there being men who persuade themselves that they have clear, positive, comprehensive ideas of infinity, it is fit they enjoy their privilege; and I should be very glad (with some others that I know, who acknowledge they have none such) to be better informed by their communication.' [291] _Mill's Analysis of the Mind_, vol. ii. pp. 96, 97. See also the _Examination of Malebranche_, in _Locke's Works_, vol. viii. pp. 248, 249; and _Müller's Elements of Physiology_, vol. ii. p. 1081, which should be compared with _Comte_, _Philosophie Positive_, vol. i. p. 354. [292] I speak of idealists in opposition to sensationalists; though the word idealist is often used by metaphysicians in a very different sense. On the different kinds of idealism, see _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_, and _Prolegomena zu jeder künftigen Metaphysik_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. ii. pp. 223, 389, vol. iii. pp. 204, 210, 306, 307. According to him, the Cartesian idealism is empirical. [293] Thus, Dugald Stewart (_Philosophical Essays_, Edin. 1810, p. 33) tells us of 'the simple idea of personal identity.' And Reid (_Essays on the Powers of the Mind_, vol. i. p. 354) says, 'I know of no ideas or notions that have a better claim to be accounted simple and original than those of space and time.' In the Sanscrit metaphysics, time is 'an independent cause.' See the _Vishnu Purana_, pp. 10, 216. [294] 'As Space is a comprehensive word, including all positions, or the whole of synchronous order, so Time is a comprehensive word, including all successions, or the whole of successive order.' _Mill's Analysis of the Mind_, vol. ii. p. 100; and on the relation of time to memory, vol. i. p. 252. In _Jobert's New System of Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 33, it is said that 'time is nothing but the succession of events, and we know events by experience only.' See also p. 133, and compare respecting time _Condillac_, _Traité des Sensations_, pp. 104-114, 222, 223, 331-333. To the same effect is _Essay concerning Human Understanding_, book ii. chap. xiv., in _Locke's Works_, vol. i. p. 163; and see his second reply to the Bishop of Worcester, in _Works_, vol. iii. pp. 414-416; and as to the idea of substance, see vol. i. pp. 285-290, 292, 308, vol. iii. pp. 5, 10, 17. This is the first important difference which is inevitably consequent on the adoption of different methods. The idealist is compelled to assert, that necessary truths and contingent truths have a different origin.[295] The sensationalist is bound to affirm that they have the same origin.[296] The further these two great schools advance, the more marked does their divergence become. They are at open war in every department of morals, of philosophy, and of art. The idealists say that all men have essentially the same notion of the good, the true, and the beautiful. The sensationalists affirm that there is no such standard, because ideas depend upon sensations, and because the sensations of men depend upon the changes in their bodies, and upon the external events by which their bodies are affected. [295] Reid (_Essays on the Powers of the Mind_, vol. i. p. 281) says, that necessary truths 'cannot be the conclusions of the senses; for our senses testify only what is, and not what must necessarily be.' See also vol. ii. pp. 53, 204, 239, 240, 281. The same distinction is peremptorily asserted in _Whewell's Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences_, 8vo, 1847, vol. i. pp. 60-73, 140; and see _Dugald Stewart's Philosophical Essays_, pp. 123, 124. Sir W. Hamilton (_Additions to Reid's Works_, p. 754) says, that non-contingent truths 'have their converse absolutely incogitable.' But this learned writer does not mention how we are to know when anything is 'absolutely incogitable.' That we cannot cogitate an idea, is certainly no proof of its being incogitable; for it may be cogitated at some later period, when knowledge is more advanced. [296] This is asserted by all the followers of Locke; and one of the latest productions of that school declares, that 'to say that necessary truths cannot be acquired by experience, is to deny the most clear evidence of our senses and reason.' _Jobert's New System of Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 58. Such is a short specimen of the opposite conclusions to which the ablest metaphysicians have been driven, by the simple circumstance that they have pursued opposite methods of investigation. And this is the more important to observe, because, after these two methods have been employed, the resources of metaphysics are evidently exhausted.[297] Both parties agree that mental laws can only be discovered by studying individual minds, and that there is nothing in the mind which is not the result either of reflection or of sensation. The only choice, therefore, they have to make, is between subordinating the results of sensation to the laws of reflection, or else subordinating the results of reflection to the laws of sensation. Every system of metaphysics has been constructed according to one of these schemes; and this must always continue to be the case, because, when the two schemes are added together, they include the totality of metaphysical phenomena. Each process is equally plausible;[298] the supporters of each are equally confident; and, by the very nature of the dispute, it is impossible that any middle term should be found; nor can there ever be an umpire, because no one can mediate between metaphysical controversies without being a metaphysician, and no one can be a metaphysician without being either a sensationalist or an idealist; in other words, without belonging to one of those very parties whose claims he professes to judge.[299] [297] To avoid misapprehension, I may repeat, that, here and elsewhere, I mean by metaphysics, that vast body of literature which is constructed on the supposition that the laws of the human mind can be generalized _solely_ from the facts of individual consciousness. For this scheme, the word 'metaphysics' is rather inconvenient, but it will cause no confusion if this definition of it is kept in view by the reader. [298] What a celebrated historian of philosophy says of Platonism, is equally true of all the great metaphysical systems: 'Dass sie ein zusammenhängendes harmonisches Ganzes ausmachen (_i.e._ the leading propositions of it) fällt in die Augen.' _Tennemann_, _Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. ii. p. 527. And yet he confesses (vol. iii. p. 52) of it and the opposite system: 'und wenn man auf die Beweise siehet, so ist der Empirismus des Aristoteles nicht besser begründet als der Rationalismus des Plato.' Kant admits that there can be only one true system, but is confident that he has discovered what all his predecessors have missed. _Die Metaphysik der Sitten_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. v. p. 5, where he raises the question, 'ob es wohl mehr, als eine Philosophie geben könne.' In the _Kritik_, and in the _Prolegomena zujeder künftigen Metaphysik_, he says that metaphysics have made no progress, and that the study can hardly be said to exist. _Werke_, vol. ii. pp. 49, 50, vol. iii. pp. 166, 246. [299] We find a curious instance of this, in the attempt made by M. Cousin to found an eclectic school; for this very able and learned man has been quite unable to avoid the one-sided view which is to every metaphysician an essential preliminary; and he adopts that fundamental distinction between necessary ideas and contingent ideas, by which the idealist is separated from the sensationalist: 'la grande division des idées aujourd'hui établie est la division des idées contingentes et des idées nécessaires.' _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philosophie_, II. série, vol. i. p. 82: see also vol. ii. p. 92, and the same work, I. série, vol. i. pp. 249, 267, 268, 311, vol. iii. pp. 51-54. M. Cousin constantly contradicts Locke, and then says he has refuted that profound and vigorous thinker; while he does not even state the arguments of James Mill, who, as a metaphysician, is the greatest of our modern sensationalists, and whose views, whether right or wrong, certainly deserve notice from an eclectic historian of philosophy. Another eclectic, Sir W. Hamilton, announces (_Discussions on Philosophy_, p. 597) 'an undeveloped philosophy, which, I am confident, is founded upon truth. To this confidence I have come, not merely through the convictions of my own consciousness, but by finding in this system a centre and conciliation for the most opposite of philosophical opinions.' But, at p. 589, he summarily disposes of one of the most important of these philosophical opinions as 'the superficial edifice of Locke.' On these grounds, we must, I think, arrive at the conclusion, that as metaphysicians are unavoidably, and by the very nature of their inquiry, broken up into two completely antagonistic schools, the relative truth of which there are no means of ascertaining; as they, moreover, have but few resources, and as they use those resources according to a method by which no other science has ever been developed,--we, looking at these things, ought not to expect that they can supply us with sufficient data for solving those great problems which the history of the human mind presents to our view. And whoever will take the pains fairly to estimate the present condition of mental philosophy, must admit that, notwithstanding the influence it has always exercised over some of the most powerful minds, and through them over society at large, there is, nevertheless, no other study which has been so zealously prosecuted, so long continued, and yet remains so barren of results. In no other department has there been so much movement, and so little progress. Men of eminent abilities, and of the greatest integrity of purpose, have in every civilized country, for many centuries, been engaged in metaphysical inquiries; and yet at the present moment their systems, so far from approximating towards truth, are diverging from each other with a velocity which seems to be accelerated by the progress of knowledge. The incessant rivalry of the hostile schools, the violence with which they have been supported, and the exclusive and unphilosophic confidence with which each has advocated its own method,--all these things have thrown the study of the mind into a confusion only to be compared to that in which the study of religion has been thrown by the controversies of the theologians.[300] The consequence is, that if we except a very few of the laws of association, and perhaps I may add the modern theories of vision and of touch,[301] there is not to be found in the whole compass of metaphysics a single principle of importance, and at the same time of incontestable truth. Under these circumstances, it is impossible to avoid a suspicion that there is some fundamental error in the manner in which these inquiries have been prosecuted. For my own part, I believe that, by mere observation of our own minds, and even by such rude experiments as we are able to make upon them, it will be impossible to raise psychology to a science; and I entertain very little doubt that metaphysics can only be successfully studied by an investigation of history so comprehensive as to enable us to understand the conditions which govern the movements of the human race.[302] [300] Berkeley, in a moment of candour, inadvertently confesses what is very damaging to the reputation of his own pursuits: 'Upon the whole, I am inclined to think that the far greater part, if not all, of those difficulties which have hitherto amused philosophers, and blocked up the way to knowledge, are entirely owing to ourselves. That we have first raised a dust, and then complain we cannot see.' _Principles of Human Knowledge_, in _Berkeley's Works_, vol. i. p. 74. Every metaphysician and theologian should get this sentence by heart: 'That we have first raised a dust, and then complain we cannot see.' [301] Some of the laws of association, as stated by Hume and Hartley, are capable of historical verification, which would change the metaphysical hypothesis into a scientific theory. Berkeley's theory of vision, and Brown's theory of touch, have, in the same way, been verified physiologically; so that we now know what otherwise we could only have suspected. [302] In regard to one of the difficulties stated in this chapter as impeding metaphysicians, it is only just to quote the remarks of Kant: 'Wie aber das Ich, der ich denke, von dem Ich, das sich selbst anschaut, unterschieden (indem ich mir noch andere Anschauungsart wenigstens als möglich vorstellen kann), und doch mit diesem letzteren als dasselbe Subject einerlei sei, wie ich also sagen könne: Ich als Intelligenz und denkend Subject, erkenne mich selbst als gedachtes Object, so fern ich mir noch über das in der Anschauung gegeben bin, nur, gleich anderen Phänomenen, nicht wie ich vor dem Verstande bin, sondern wie ich mir erscheine, hat nicht mehr auch nicht weniger Schwierigkeit bei sich, als wie ich mir selbst überhaupt ein Object und zwar der Anschauung und innerer Wahrnehmungen sein könne.' _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. ii. p. 144. I am very willing to let the question rest on this: for to me it appears that both cases are not only equally difficult, but, in the present state of our knowledge, are equally impossible. CHAPTER IV. MENTAL LAWS ARE EITHER MORAL OR INTELLECTUAL. COMPARISON OF MORAL AND INTELLECTUAL LAWS, AND INQUIRY INTO THE EFFECT PRODUCED BY EACH ON THE PROGRESS OF SOCIETY. In the preceding chapter, it has, I trust, been made apparent, that, whatever may hereafter be the case, we, looking merely at the present state of our knowledge, must pronounce the metaphysical method to be unequal to the task, often imposed upon it, of discovering the laws which regulate the movements of the human mind. We are, therefore, driven to the only remaining method, according to which mental phenomena are to be studied, not simply as they appear in the mind of the individual observer, but as they appear in the actions of mankind at large. The essential opposition between these two plans is very obvious: but it may perhaps be well to bring forward further illustration of the resources possessed by each for the investigation of truth; and for this purpose, I will select a subject which, though still imperfectly understood, supplies a beautiful instance of the regularity with which, under the most conflicting circumstances, the great Laws of Nature are able to hold their course. The case to which I refer, is that of the proportion kept up in the births of the sexes; a proportion which if it were to be greatly disturbed in any country, even for a single generation, would throw society into the most serious confusion, and would infallibly cause a great increase in the vices of the people.[303] Now, it has always been suspected that, on an average, the male and female births are tolerably equal; but, until very recently, no one could tell whether or not they are precisely equal, or, if unequal, on which side there is an excess.[304] The births being the physical result of physical antecedents, it was clearly seen that the laws of the births must be in those antecedents; that is to say, that the causes of the proportion of the sexes must reside in the parents themselves.[305] Under these circumstances, the question arose, if it was not possible to elucidate this difficulty by our knowledge of animal physiology; for it was plausibly said, 'Since physiology is a study of the laws of the body,[306] and since all births are products resulting from the body, it follows that if we know the laws of the body, we shall know the laws of the birth.' This was the view taken by physiologists of our origin;[307] and this is precisely the view taken by metaphysicians of our history. Both parties believed that it was possible at once to rise to the cause of the phenomenon, and by studying its laws predict the phenomenon itself. The physiologist said, 'By studying individual bodies, and thus ascertaining the laws which regulate the union of the parents, I will discover the proportion of the sexes, because the proportion is merely the result to which the union gives rise.' Just in the same way, the metaphysician says, 'By studying individual minds, I will ascertain the laws which govern their movements; and in that way I will predict the movements of mankind, which are obviously compounded of the individual movements.'[308] These are the expectations which have been confidently held out, by physiologists respecting the laws of the sexes, and by metaphysicians respecting the laws of history. Towards the fulfilment, however, of these promises the metaphysicians have done absolutely nothing; nor have the physiologists been more successful, although their views have the support of anatomy, which admits of the employment of direct experiment, a resource unknown to metaphysics. But towards settling the present question, all this availed them nothing; and physiologists are not yet possessed of a single fact which throws any light on this problem: Is the number of male births equal to female births--is it greater, or is it less? [303] Thus we find that the Crusades, by diminishing the proportion of men to women in Europe, increased licentiousness. See a curious passage in _Sprengel_, _Histoire de la Médecine_, vol. ii. p. 376. In Yucatan, there is generally a considerable excess of women, and the result is prejudicial to morals. _Stephens's Central America_, vol. iii. pp. 380, 429. On the other hand, respecting the state of society produced by an excess of males, see _Mallet's Northern Antiquities_, p. 259; _Journal of Geographical Society_, vol. xv. p. 45, vol. xvi. p. 307; _Southey's Commonplace Book_, third series, p. 579. [304] On this question a variety of conflicting statements may be seen in the old writers. Goodman, early in the seventeenth century, supposed that more females were born than males. _Southey's Commonplace Book_, third series, p. 696. Turgot (_[OE]uvres_, vol. ii. p. 247) rightly says, 'il naît un peu plus d'hommes que de femmes;' but the evidence was too incomplete to make this more than a lucky guess; and I find that even Herder, writing in 1785, takes for granted that the proportion was about equal: 'ein ziemliches Gleichmass in den Geburten beider Geschlechter' (_Ideen zur Geschichte_, vol. ii. p. 149), and was sometimes in favour of girls, 'ja, die Nachrichten mehrerer Reisenden machen es wahrscheinlich, dass in manchen dieser Gegenden wirklich mehr Töchter als Söhne geboren werden.' [305] A question, indeed, has been raised as to the influence exercised by the state of the mind during the period of orgasm. But whatever this influence may be, it can only affect the subsequent birth through and by physical antecedents, which in every case must be regarded as the proximate cause. If, therefore, the influence were proved to exist, we should still have to search for physical laws: though such laws would of course be considered merely as secondary ones, resolvable into some higher generalization. [306] Some writers treat physiology as a study of the laws of life. But this, looking at the subject as it now stands, is far too bold a step, and several branches of knowledge will have to be raised from their present empirical state, before the phenomena of life can be scientifically investigated. The more rational mode seems to be, to consider physiology and anatomy as correlative; the first forming the dynamical, and the second forming the statical part of the study of organic structure. [307] 'Voulez-vous savoir de quoi dépend le sexe des enfants? Fernel vous répond, sur la foi des anciens, qu'il dépend des qualités de la semence du père et de la mère.' _Renouard_, _Histoire de la Médecine_, Paris, 1846, vol. ii. p. 106; see also, at p. 185, the opinion of Hippocrates, adopted by Galen; and similar views in _Lepelletier_, _Physiologie Médicale_, vol. iv. p. 332, and _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. i. pp. 252, 10, vol. ii. p. 115, vol. iv. p. 62. For further information as to the opinions which have been held respecting the origin of sexes, see _Beausobre_, _Histoire de Manichée_, vol. ii. p. 417; _Asiatic Researches_, vol. iii. pp. 358, 361; _Vishnu Purana_, p. 349; _Works of Sir William Jones_, vol. iii. p. 126; _Ritter's History of Ancient Philosophy_, vol. iii. p. 191; _Denham and Clapperton's Africa_, pp. 323, 324; _Maintenon_, _Lettres Inédites_, vol. ii. p. 62; and the view of Hohl (_Burdach's Physiologie_, vol. ii. p. 472), 'que les femmes chez lesquelles prédomine le système artériel procréent des garçons, au lieu que celles dont le système veineux a la prédominance mettent au monde des filles.' According to Anaxagoras the question was extremely simple: [Greek: kai arrena men apo tôn dexiôn, thêlea de apo tôn aristerôn.] _Diog. Laert._ ii. 9, vol. i. p. 85. [308] 'Le metaphysicien se voit comme la source de l'évidence et le confident de la nature: Moi seul, dit-il, je puis généraliser les idées, et découvrir le germe des événements qui se développent journellement dans le monde physique et moral; et c'est par moi seul que l'homme peut être éclairé.' _Helvetius_, _de l'Esprit_, vol. i. p. 86. Compare _Herder_, _Ideen zur Geschichte der Menschheit_, vol. ii. p. 105. Thus, too, M. Cousin (_Hist. de la Philosophie_, II. série, vol. i. p. 131) says, 'Le fait de la conscience transporté de l'individu dans l'espèce et dans l'histoire, est la clef de tous les développements de l'humanité.' These are questions to which all the resources of physiologists, from Aristotle down to our own time, afford no means of reply.[309] And yet at the present day we, by the employment of what now seems a very natural method, are possessed of a truth which the united abilities of a long series of eminent men failed to discover. By the simple experiment of registering the number of births and their sexes; by extending this registration over several years, in different countries,--we have been able to eliminate all casual disturbances, and ascertain the existence of a law which, expressed in round numbers, is, that for every twenty girls there are born twenty-one boys: and we may confidently say, that although the operations of this law are of course liable to constant aberrations, the law itself is so powerful, that we know of no country in which during a single year the male births have not been greater than the female ones.[310] [309] Considering the very long period during which physiology has been studied, it is remarkable how little the physiologists have contributed towards the great and final object of all science, namely, the power of predicting events. To me it appears that the two principal causes of this are, the backwardness of chemistry, and the still extremely imperfect state of the microscope, which even now is so inaccurate an instrument, that when a high power is employed, little confidence can be placed in it; and the examination, for instance, of the spermatozoa has led to the most contradictory results. In regard to chemistry, MM. Robin and Verdeil, in their recent great work, have ably proved what manifold relations there are between it and the further progress of our knowledge of the animal frame; though I venture to think that these eminent writers have shown occasionally an undue disposition to limit the application of chemical laws to physiological phenomena. See _Robin et Verdeil_, _Chimie Anatomique et Physiologique_, Paris, 1853, vol. i. pp. 20, 34, 167, 337, 338, 437, 661, vol. ii. pp. 136, 137, 508, vol. iii. pp. 135, 144, 183, 281, 283, 351, 547. The increasing tendency of chemistry to bring under its control what are often supposed to be purely organic phenomena, is noticed cautiously in _Turner's Chemistry_, vol. ii. p. 1308, London, 1847; and boldly in _Liebig's Letters on Chemistry_, 1851, pp. 250, 251. The connexion between chemistry and physiology is touched on rather too hastily in _Bouilland_, _Philosophie Médicale_, pp. 160, 257; _Broussais_, _Examen des Doctrines Médicales_, vol. iii. p. 166; _Brodie's Lectures on Pathology_, p. 48; _Henle_, _Traité d'Anatomie_, vol. i. pp. 25, 26; _Feuchtersleben's Medical Psychology_, p. 88; but better in _Holland's Medical Notes_, 1839, p. 270, a thoughtful and suggestive work. On the necessity of chemistry for increasing our knowledge of embryology, compare _Wagner's Physiology_, pp. 131, 132 note, with _Burdach_, _Traité de Physiologie_, vol. iv. pp. 59, 168. [310] It used to be supposed that some of the eastern countries formed an exception to this; but more precise observations have contradicted the loose statements of the earlier travellers, and in no part of the world, so far as our knowledge extends, are more girls born than boys; while in every part of the world for which we have statistical returns, there is a slight excess on the side of male births. Compare _Marsden's History of Sumatra_, p. 234; _Raffles' History of Java_, vol. i. pp. 81, 82; _Sykes on the Statistics of the Deccan_, in _Reports of British Association_, vol. vi. pp. 246, 261, 262; _Niebuhr_, _Description de l'Arabie_, p. 63; _Humboldt_, _Nouv. Espagne_, vol. i. p. 139; _McWilliam_, _Medical History of Expedition to the Niger_, p. 113; _Elliotson's Human Physiology_, p. 795; _Thomson's Hist. of Royal Society_, p. 531; _Sadler's Law of Population_, vol. i. pp. 507, 511, vol. ii. pp. 324, 335; _Paris and Fonblanque's Medical Jurisprudence_, vol. i. p. 259; _Journal of Statist. Soc._ vol. iii. pp. 263, 264, vol. xvii. pp. 46, 123; _Journal of Geographical Soc._ vol. xx. p. 17; _Fourth Report of British Association_, pp. 687, 689, _Report for_ 1842, pp. 144, 145; _Transac. of Sections for_ 1840, p. 174, _for_ 1847, p. 96, _for_ 1849, p. 87; _Dufau_, _Traité de Statistique_, pp. 24, 209, 210; _Burdach_, _Traité de Physiologie_, vol. ii. pp. 56, 57, 273, 274, 281, vol. v. p. 373; _Hawkins's Medical Statistics_, pp. 221, 222. The importance and the beautiful regularity of this law make us regret that it still remains an empirical truth, not having yet been connected with the physical phenomena by which its operations are caused.[311] But this is immaterial to my present purpose, which is only to notice the method by which the discovery has been made. For this method is obviously analogous to that by which I propose to investigate the operations of the human mind; while the old and unsuccessful method is analogous to that employed by the metaphysicians. As long as physiologists attempted to ascertain the laws of the proportion of sexes by individual experiments, they effected absolutely nothing towards the end they hoped to achieve. But when men became dissatisfied with these individual experiments, and instead of them, began to collect observations less minute, but more comprehensive, then it was that the great law of nature, for which during many centuries they had vainly searched, first became unfolded to their view. Precisely in the same way, as long as the human mind is only studied according to the narrow and contracted method of metaphysicians, we have every reason for thinking that the laws which regulate its movements will remain unknown. If, therefore, we wish to effect anything of real moment, it becomes necessary that we should discard those old schemes, the insufficiency of which is demonstrated by experience as well as by reason; and that we should substitute in their place such a comprehensive survey of facts as will enable us to eliminate those disturbances which, owing to the impossibility of experiment, we shall never be able to isolate. [311] In _Müller's Physiology_, vol. ii. p. 1657, a work of great authority, it is said, that 'the causes which determine the sex of the embryo are unknown, although it appears that the relative age of the parents has some influence over the sex of the offspring.' That the relative age of the parents does affect the sex of their children, may, from the immense amount of evidence now collected, be considered almost certain; but M. Müller, instead of referring to physiological writers, ought to have mentioned that the statisticians, and not the physiologists, were the first to make this discovery. On this curious question, see _Carpenter's Human Physiology_, p. 746; _Sadler's Law of Population_, vol. ii. pp. 333, 336, 342; _Journal of Statistical Society_, vol. iii. pp. 263, 264. In regard to animals below man, we find from numerous experiments, that among sheep and horses the age of the parents 'has a very great general influence upon the sex' of the offspring. _Elliotson's Physiology_, pp. 708, 709; and see _Cuvier_, _Progrès des Sciences Naturelles_, vol. ii. p. 406. As to the relation between the origin of sex and the laws of arrested development, compare _Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire_, _Hist. des Anomalies de l'Organisation_, vol. ii. pp. 33, 34, 73, vol. iii. p. 278, with _Lindley's Botany_, vol. ii. p. 81. In _Esquirol_, _Maladies Mentales_, vol. i. p. 302, there is a singular case recorded by Lamotte, which would seem to connect this question with pathological phenomena, though it is uncertain whether the epilepsy was an effect or a cognate symptom. The desire that I feel to make the preliminary views of this Introduction perfectly clear, is my sole apology for having introduced a digression which, though adding nothing to the strength of the argument, may be found useful as illustrating it, and will at all events enable ordinary readers to appreciate the value of the proposed method. It now remains for us to ascertain the manner in which, by the application of this method, the laws of mental progress may be most easily discovered. If, in the first place, we ask what this progress is, the answer seems very simple: that it is a two-fold progress, Moral and Intellectual; the first having more immediate relation to our duties, the second to our knowledge. This is a classification which has been frequently laid down, and with which most persons are familiar. And so far as history is a narration of results, there can be no doubt that the division is perfectly accurate. There can be no doubt that a people are not really advancing, if, on the one hand, their increasing ability is accompanied by increasing vice, or if, on the other hand, while they are becoming more virtuous, they likewise become more ignorant. This double movement, moral and intellectual, is essential to the very idea of civilization, and includes the entire theory of mental progress. To be willing to perform our duty is the moral part; to know how to perform it is the intellectual part: while the closer these two parts are knit together, the greater the harmony with which they work; and the more accurately the means are adapted to the end, the more completely will the scheme of our life be accomplished, and the more securely shall we lay a foundation for the further advancement of mankind. A question, therefore, now arises of great moment: namely, which of these two parts or elements of mental progress is the most important. For the progress itself being the result of their united action, it becomes necessary to ascertain which of them works more powerfully, in order that we may subordinate the inferior element to the laws of the superior one. If the advance of civilization, and the general happiness of mankind, depend more on their moral feelings than on their intellectual knowledge, we must of course measure the progress of society by those feelings; while if, on the other hand, it depends principally on their knowledge, we must take as our standard the amount and success of their intellectual activity. As soon as we know the relative energy of these two components, we shall treat them according to the usual plan for investigating truth; that is to say, we shall look at the product of their joint action as obeying the laws of the more powerful agent, whose operations are casually disturbed by the inferior laws of the minor agent. In entering into this inquiry, we are met by a preliminary difficulty, arising from the loose and careless manner in which ordinary language is employed on subjects that require the greatest nicety and precision. For the expression, Moral and Intellectual Progress, is suggestive of a serious fallacy. In the manner in which it is generally used, it conveys an idea that the moral and intellectual faculties of men are, in the advance of civilization, naturally more acute and more trustworthy than they were formerly. But this, though it may possibly be true, has never been proved. It may be that, owing to some physical causes still unknown, the average capacity of the brain is, if we compare long periods of time, becoming gradually greater; and that therefore the mind, which acts through the brain, is, even independently of education, increasing in aptitude and in the general competence of its views.[312] Such, however, is still our ignorance of physical laws, and so completely are we in the dark as to the circumstances which regulate the hereditary transmission of character, temperament,[313] and other personal peculiarities, that we must consider this alleged progress as a very doubtful point; and, in the present state of our knowledge, we cannot safely assume that there has been any permanent improvement in the moral or intellectual faculties of man, nor have we any decisive ground for saying that those faculties are likely to be greater in an infant born in the most civilized part of Europe, than in one born in the wildest region of a barbarous country.[314] [312] That the natural powers of the human brain are improving because they are capable of transmission, is a favourite doctrine with the followers of Gall, and is adopted by M. A. Comte (_Philosophie Positive_, vol. iv. pp. 384, 385); who, whoever, admits that it has never been sufficiently verified: 'sans que toutefois l'expérience ait encore suffisamment prononcé.' Dr. Prichard, whose habits of thought were very different, seems, nevertheless, inclined to lean in this direction; for his comparison of skulls led him to the conclusion, that the present inhabitants of Britain, 'either as the _result of many ages of greater intellectual cultivation_, or from some other cause, have, as I am persuaded, much more capacious braincases than their forefathers.' _Prichard's Physical History of Mankind_, vol. i. p. 305. Even if this were certain, it would not prove that the contents of the crania were altered, though it might create a presumption; and the general question must, I think, remain unsettled until the researches begun by Blumenbach, and recently continued by Morton, are carried out upon a scale far more comprehensive than has hitherto been attempted. Compare _Burdach_, _Traité de Physiologie_, vol. ii. p. 253; where, however, the question is not stated with sufficient caution. [313] None of the laws of hereditary descent connected with the formation of character, have yet been generalized; nor is our knowledge much more advanced respecting the theory of temperaments, which still remains the principal obstacle in the way of the phrenologists. The difficulties attending the study of temperaments, and the obscurity in which this important subject is shrouded, may be estimated by whoever will compare what has been said upon it by the following writers: _Müller's Physiology_, vol. ii. pp. 1406-1410; _Elliotson's Human Physiology_, pp. 1059-1062; _Blainville_, _Physiologie Générale et Comparée_, vol. i. pp. 168, 264, 265, vol. ii. pp. 43, 130, 214, 328, 329, vol. iii. pp. 54, 74, 118, 148, 149, 284, 285; _Williams's Principles of Medicine_, pp. 16, 17, 112, 113; _Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire_, _Anomalies de l'Organisation_, vol. i. pp. 186, 190; _Broussais_, _Examen des Doctrines Médicales_, vol. i. pp. 204, 205, vol. iii. p. 276; _Renouard_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. i. p. 326; _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. i. p. 380, vol. ii. p. 408, vol. iii. p. 21, vol. v. p. 325, vol. vi. p. 492; _Esquirol_, _Maladies Mentales_, vol. i. pp. 39, 226, 429, 594, vol. ii. p. 29; _Lepelletier_, _Physiol. Médicale_, vol. i. pp. 139, 281, vol. iii. pp. 372-429, vol. iv. pp. 93, 123, 133, 143, 148, 177; _Henle_, _Anatomie Générale_, vol. i. p. 474, vol. ii. pp. 288, 289, 316; _Bichat_, _Anatomie Générale_, vol. i. p. 207, vol. ii. p. 444, vol. iii. pp. 310, 507, vol. iv. pp. 281, 399, 400, 504; _Bichat sur la Vie_, pp. 80, 81, 234, 235; _Phillips on Scrofula_, p. 9; _Feuchtersleben's Medical Psychology_, pp. 143-145; _[OE]uvres de Fontenelle_, Paris, 1766, vol. v. p. 110; _Cullen's Works_, Edinb. 1827, vol. i. pp. 214-221; _Cabanis_, _Rapports du Physique et du Moral_, pp. 76-83, 229-261, 520-533; _Noble on the Brain_, pp. 370-376; _Combe's North America_, vol. i. pp. 126-128. Latterly, attention has been paid to the chemistry of the blood as it varies in the various temperaments; and this seems a more satisfactory method than the old plan of merely describing the obvious symptoms of the temperament. _Clark on Animal Physiology_, in _Fourth Report of the British Association_, p. 126; _Simon's Animal Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 236; _Wagner's Physiology_, p. 262. [314] We often hear of hereditary talents, hereditary vices, and hereditary virtues; but whoever will critically examine the evidence will find that we have no proof of their existence. The way in which they are commonly proved is in the highest degree illogical; the usual course being for writers to collect instances of some mental peculiarity found in a parent and in his child, and then to infer that the peculiarity was bequeathed. By this mode of reasoning we might demonstrate any proposition; since in all large fields of inquiry there are a sufficient number of empirical coincidences to make a plausible case in favour of whatever view a man chooses to advocate. But this is not the way in which truth is discovered; and we ought to inquire not only how many instances there are of hereditary talents, &c. but how many instances there are of such qualities not being hereditary. Until something of this sort is attempted, we can know nothing about the matter inductively: while, until physiology and chemistry are much more advanced, we can know nothing about it deductively. These considerations ought to prevent us from receiving statements (_Taylor's Medical Jurisprudence_, pp. 644, 678, and many other books) which positively affirm the existence of hereditary madness and hereditary suicide; and the same remark applies to hereditary disease (on which see some admirable observations in _Phillips on Scrofula_, pp. 101-120, London, 1846); and with still greater force does it apply to hereditary vices and hereditary virtues; inasmuch as ethical phenomena have not been registered as carefully as physiological ones, and therefore our conclusions respecting them are even more precarious. Whatever, therefore, the moral and intellectual progress of men may be, it resolves itself not into a progress of natural capacity,[315] but into a progress, if I may so say, of opportunity; that is, an improvement in the circumstances under which that capacity after birth comes into play. Here, then, lies the gist of the whole matter. The progress is one, not of internal power, but of external advantage. The child born in a civilized land is not likely, as such, to be superior to one born among barbarians; and the difference which ensues between the acts of the two children will be caused, so far as we know, solely by the pressure of external circumstances; by which I mean the surrounding opinions, knowledge, associations; in a word, the entire mental atmosphere in which the two children are respectively nurtured. [315] To what has been already stated, I will add the opinions of two of the most profound among modern thinkers. 'Men, I think, have been much the same for natural endowments in all times.' _Conduct of the Understanding_, in _Locke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 361. 'Les dispositions primitives agissent également chez les peuples barbares et chez les peuples policés; ils sont vraisemblablement les mêmes dans tous les lieux et dans tous les tems.... Plus il y aura d'hommes, et plus vous aurez de grands hommes ou d'hommes propres à devenir grands.' _Progrès de l'Esprit Humain_, in _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. ii. p. 264. The remarks of Dr. Brown (_Lectures on the Mind_, p. 57), if I rightly understand his rhetorical language, apply not to natural capacity, but to that which is acquired: see the end of his ninth Lecture. On this account it is evident, that if we look at mankind in the aggregate, their moral and intellectual conduct is regulated by the moral and intellectual notions prevalent in their own time. There are, of course, many persons who will rise above those notions, and many others who will sink below them. But such cases are exceptional, and form a very small proportion of the total amount of those who are nowise remarkable either for good or for evil. An immense majority of men must always remain in a middle state, neither very foolish nor very able, neither very virtuous nor very vicious, but slumbering on in a peaceful and decent mediocrity, adopting without much difficulty the current opinions of the day, making no inquiry, exciting no scandal, causing no wonder, just holding themselves on a level with their generation, and noiselessly conforming to the standard of morals and of knowledge common to the age and country in which they live. Now, it requires but a superficial acquaintance with history to be aware that this standard is constantly changing, and that it is never precisely the same even in the most similar countries, or in two successive generations in the same country. The opinions which are popular in any nation vary in many respects almost from year to year; and what in one period is attacked as a paradox or a heresy, is in another period welcomed as a sober truth; which, however, in its turn is replaced by some subsequent novelty. This extreme mutability in the ordinary standard of human actions shows that the conditions on which the standard depends must themselves be very mutable; and those conditions, whatever they may be, are evidently the originators of the moral and intellectual conduct of the great average of mankind. Here, then, we have a basis on which we can safely proceed. We know that the main cause of human actions is extremely variable; we have only, therefore, to apply this test to any set of circumstances which are supposed to be the cause, and if we find that such circumstances are not very variable, we must infer that they are not the cause we are attempting to discover. Applying this test to moral motives, or to the dictates of what is called moral instinct, we shall at once see how extremely small is the influence those motives have exercised over the progress of civilization. For there is, unquestionably, nothing to be found in the world which has undergone so little change as those great dogmas of which moral systems are composed. To do good to others; to sacrifice for their benefit your own wishes; to love your neighbour as yourself; to forgive your enemies; to restrain your passions; to honour your parents; to respect those who are set over you: these, and a few others, are the sole essentials of morals; but they have been known for thousands of years, and not one jot or tittle has been added to them by all the sermons, homilies, and text-books which moralists and theologians have been able to produce.[316] [316] That the system of morals propounded in the New Testament contained no maxim which had not been previously enunciated, and that some of the most beautiful passages in the Apostolic writings are quotations from pagan authors, is well known to every scholar; and so far from supplying, as some suppose, an objection against Christianity, it is a strong recommendation of it, as indicating the intimate relation between the doctrines of Christ and the moral sympathies of mankind in different ages. But to assert that Christianity communicated to man moral truths previously unknown, argues, on the part of the assertor, either gross ignorance or else wilful fraud. For evidence of the knowledge of moral truths possessed by barbarous nations, independently of Christianity, and for the most part previous to its promulgation, compare _Mackay's Religious Development_, vol. ii. pp. 376-380; _Mure's Hist. of Greek Literature_, vol. ii. p. 398, vol. iii. p. 380; _Prescott's History of Mexico_, vol. i. p. 31; _Elphinstone's History of India_, p. 47; _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. i. pp. 87, 168, vol. iii. pp. 105, 114; _Mill's History of India_, vol. i. p. 419; _Bohlen_, _das alte Indien_, vol. i. pp. 364-366; _Beausobre_, _Histoire de Manichée_, vol. i. pp. 318, 319; _Coleman's Mythology of the Hindus_, p. 193; _Transac. of Soc. of Bombay_, vol. iii. p. 198; _Transac. of Asiatic Society_, vol. i. p. 5, vol. iii. pp. 283, 284; _Asiatic Researches_, vol. vi. p. 271, vol. vii. p. 40, vol. xvi. pp. 130, 277, vol. xx. pp. 460, 461; _The Dabistan_, vol. i. pp. 328, 338; _Catlin's North-American Indians_, vol. ii. p. 243; _Syme's Embassy to Ava_, vol. ii. p. 389; _Davis's Chinese_, vol. i. p. 196, vol. ii. pp. 136, 233; _Journal Asiatique_, I. série, vol. iv. p. 77, Paris, 1824. But, if we contrast this stationary aspect of moral truths with the progressive aspect of intellectual truths, the difference is indeed startling.[317] All the great moral systems which have exercised much influence have been fundamentally the same; all the great intellectual systems have been fundamentally different. In reference to our moral conduct, there is not a single principle now known to the most cultivated Europeans, which was not likewise known to the ancients. In reference to the conduct of our intellect, the moderns have not only made the most important additions to every department of knowledge that the ancients ever attempted to study, but besides this, they have upset and revolutionized the old methods of inquiry; they have consolidated into one great scheme all those resources of induction which Aristotle alone dimly perceived; and they have created sciences, the faintest idea of which never entered the mind of the boldest thinker antiquity produced. [317] Sir James Mackintosh was so struck by the stationary character of moral principles, that he denies the possibility of their advance, and boldly affirms that no further discoveries can be made in morals: 'Morality admits no discoveries.... More than three thousand years have elapsed since the composition of the Pentateuch; and let any man, if he is able, tell me in what important respect the rule of life has varied since that distant period. Let the Institutes of Menu be explored with the same view; we shall arrive at the same conclusion. Let the books of false religion be opened; it will be found that their moral system is, in all its grand features, the same.... The fact is evident that no improvements have been made in practical morality.... The facts which lead to the formation of moral rules are as accessible, and must be as obvious, to the simplest barbarian as to the most enlightened philosopher.... The case of the physical and speculative sciences is directly opposite. There the facts are remote and scarcely accessible.... From the countless variety of the facts with which they are conversant, it is impossible to prescribe any bounds to their future improvement. It is otherwise with morals. They have hitherto been stationary; and, in my opinion, they are likely for ever to continue so.' _Life of Mackintosh, edited by his Son_, London, 1835, vol. i. pp. 119-122. Condorcet (_Vie de Turgot_, p. 180) says, 'La morale de toutes les nations a été la même;' and Kant (_Logik_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. i. p. 356), 'In der Moral-philosophie sind wir nicht weiter gekommen, als die Alten.' These are, to every educated man, recognized and notorious facts; and the inference to be drawn from them is immediately obvious. Since civilization is the product of moral and intellectual agencies, and since that product is constantly changing, it evidently cannot be regulated by the stationary agent; because, when surrounding circumstances are unchanged, a stationary agent can only produce a stationary effect. The only other agent is the intellectual one; and that this is the real mover may be proved in two distinct ways: first, because being, as we have already seen, either moral or intellectual, and being, as we have also seen, not moral, it must be intellectual; and, secondly, because the intellectual principle has an activity and a capacity for adaptation, which, as I undertake to show, is quite sufficient to account for the extraordinary progress that, during several centuries, Europe has continued to make. Such are the main arguments by which my view is supported; but there are also other and collateral circumstances which are well worthy of consideration. The first is, that the intellectual principle is not only far more progressive than the moral principle, but is also far more permanent in its results. The acquisitions made by the intellect are, in every civilized country, carefully preserved, registered in certain well-understood formulas, and protected by the use of technical and scientific language; they are easily handed down from one generation to another, and thus assuming an accessible, or, as it were, a tangible form, they often influence the most distant posterity, they become the heirlooms of mankind, the immortal bequest of the genius to which they owe their birth. But the good deeds effected by our moral faculties are less capable of transmission; they are of a more private and retiring character; while, as the motives to which they owe their origin are generally the result of self-discipline and of self-sacrifice, they have to be worked out by every man for himself; and thus, begun by each anew, they derive little benefit from the maxims of preceding experience, nor can they well be stored up for the use of future moralists. The consequence is, that although moral excellence is more amiable, and to most persons more attractive, than intellectual excellence, still, it must be confessed that, looking at ulterior results, it is far less active, less permanent, and, as I shall presently prove, less productive of real good. Indeed, if we examine the effects of the most active philanthropy, and of the largest and most disinterested kindness, we shall find that those effects are, comparatively speaking, short-lived; that there is only a small number of individuals they come in contact with and benefit; that they rarely survive the generation which witnessed their commencement; and that, when they take the more durable form of founding great public charities, such institutions invariably fall, first into abuse, then into decay, and after a time are either destroyed, or perverted from their original intention, mocking the effort by which it is vainly attempted to perpetuate the memory even of the purest and most energetic benevolence. These conclusions are no doubt very unpalatable; and what makes them peculiarly offensive is, that it is impossible to refute them. For the deeper we penetrate into this question, the more clearly shall we see the superiority of intellectual acquisitions over moral feeling.[318] There is no instance on record of an ignorant man who, having good intentions, and supreme power to enforce them, has not done far more evil than good. And whenever the intentions have been very eager, and the power very extensive, the evil has been enormous. But if you can diminish the sincerity of that man, if you can mix some alloy with his motives, you will likewise diminish the evil which he works. If he is selfish as well as ignorant, it will often happen that you may play off his vice against his ignorance, and by exciting his fears restrain his mischief. If, however, he has no fear, if he is entirely unselfish, if his sole object is the good of others, if he pursues that object with enthusiasm, upon a large scale, and with disinterested zeal, then it is that you have no check upon him, you have no means of preventing the calamities which, in an ignorant age, an ignorant man will be sure to inflict. How entirely this is verified by experience, we may see in studying the history of religious persecution. To punish even a single man for his religious tenets, is assuredly a crime of the deepest dye; but to punish a large body of men, to persecute an entire sect, to attempt to extirpate opinions, which, growing out of the state of society in which they arise, are themselves a manifestation of the marvellous and luxuriant fertility of the human mind,--to do this is not only one of the most pernicious, but one of the most foolish acts that can possibly be conceived. Nevertheless, it is an undoubted fact that an overwhelming majority of religious persecutors have been men of the purest intentions, of the most admirable and unsullied morals. It is impossible that this should be otherwise. For they are not bad-intentioned men, who seek to enforce opinions which they believe to be good. Still less are they bad men, who are so regardless of temporal considerations as to employ all the resources of their power, not for their own benefit, but for the purpose of propagating a religion which they think necessary to the future happiness of mankind. Such men as these are not bad, they are only ignorant; ignorant of the nature of truth, ignorant of the consequences of their own acts. But, in a moral point of view, their motives are unimpeachable. Indeed, it is the very ardour of their sincerity which warms them into persecution. It is the holy zeal by which they are fired that quickens their fanaticism into a deadly activity. If you can impress any man with an absorbing conviction of the supreme importance of some moral or religious doctrine; if you can make him believe that those who reject that doctrine are doomed to eternal perdition; if you then give that man power, and by means of his ignorance blind him to the ulterior consequences of his own act,--he will infallibly persecute those who deny his doctrine; and the extent of his persecution will be regulated by the extent of his sincerity. Diminish the sincerity, and you will diminish the persecution: in other words, by weakening the virtue you may check the evil. This is a truth of which history furnishes such innumerable examples, that to deny it would be not only to reject the plainest and most conclusive arguments, but to refuse the concurrent testimony of every age. I will merely select two cases, which, from the entire difference in their circumstances, are very apposite as illustrations: the first being from the history of Paganism, the other from the history of Christianity; and both proving the inability of moral feelings to control religious persecution. [318] One part of the argument is well stated by Cuvier, who says, 'Le bien que l'on fait aux hommes, quelque grand qu'il soit, est toujours passager; les vérités qu'on leur laisse sont éternelles.' _Cuvier_, _Eloges Historiques_, vol. ii. p. 304. I. The Roman emperors, as is well known, subjected the early Christians to persecutions, which, though they have been exaggerated, were frequent and very grievous. But what to some persons must appear extremely strange, is, that among the active authors of these cruelties, we find the names of the best men who ever sat on the throne; while the worst and most infamous princes were precisely those who spared the Christians, and took no heed of their increase. The two most thoroughly depraved of all the emperors were certainly Commodus and Elagabalus; neither of whom persecuted the new religion, or indeed adopted any measures against it. They were too reckless of the future, too selfish, too absorbed in their own infamous pleasures, to mind whether truth or error prevailed; and being thus indifferent to the welfare of their subjects, they cared nothing about the progress of a creed, which they, as Pagan emperors, were bound to regard as a fatal and impious delusion. They, therefore, allowed Christianity to run its course, unchecked by those penal laws which more honest, but more mistaken, rulers would assuredly have enacted.[319] We find, accordingly, that the great enemy of Christianity was Marcus Aurelius: a man of kindly temper, and of fearless, unflinching honesty, but whose reign was characterized by a persecution from which he would have refrained had he been less in earnest about the religion of his fathers.[320] And to complete the argument, it may be added, that the last and one of the most strenuous of the opponents of Christianity, who occupied the throne of the Cæsars, was Julian: a prince of eminent probity, whose opinions are often attacked, but against whose moral conduct even calumny itself has hardly breathed a suspicion.[321] [319] 'The first year of Commodus must be the epocha of the toleration. From all these authorities, it appears beyond exception, that Commodus put a stop to the persecution in the first year of his reign.... Not one writer, either heathen or Christian, makes Commodus a persecutor.' _Letters concerning the Thundering Legion_, in _Moyle's Works_, vol. ii. p. 266, London, 1726. 'Heliogabalus also, though in other respects the most infamous of all princes, and perhaps the most odious of all mortals, showed no marks of bitterness or aversion to the disciples of Jesus.' _Mosheim's Eccl. History_, vol. i. p. 66: see also _Milman's Hist. of Christianity_, London, 1840, vol. ii. p. 225. [320] Dr. Milman (_History of Christianity_, 1840, vol. ii. p. 159) says, 'A blameless disciple in the severest school of philosophic morality, the austerity of Marcus rivalled that of the Christians in its contempt of the follies and diversions of life; yet his native kindliness of disposition was not hardened or embittered by the severity or the pride of his philosophy. With Aurelius, nevertheless, Christianity found not only a fair and high-minded competitor for the command of the human mind; not only a rival in the exaltation of the soul of man to higher views and more dignified motives; but a violent and intolerant persecutor.' M. Guizot compares him with Louis IX. of France; and certainly there was in both an evident connexion between sincerity and persecution: 'Marc Auréle et saint Louis sont peut-être les deux seuls princes qui, en toute occasion, aient fait de leurs croyances morales la première règle de leur conduite: Marc Auréle, stoicien; saint Louis, chrétien.' _Guizot_, _Civilisation en France_, vol. iv. p. 142. Even Duplessis Mornay (_Mém._ vol. iv. p. 374) calls him 'le meilleur des empereurs payens;' and Ritter (_Hist. of Philos._ vol. iv. p. 222), 'the virtuous and noble emperor.' [321] Neander (_History of the Church_, vol. i. p. 122) observes, that the best emperors opposed Christianity, and that the worst ones were indifferent to its encroachments. The same remark, in regard to Marcus and Commodus, is made by Gibbon (_Decline and Fall_, chap. xvi. p. 220, Lond. 1836). Another writer, of a very different character, ascribes this peculiarity to the wiles of the devil: 'In the primitive times, it is observed that the best emperors were some of them stirred up by Satan to be the bitterest persecutors of the Church.' _Memoirs of Colonel Hutchinson_, p. 85. II. The second illustration is supplied by Spain; a country of which it must be confessed, that in no other have religious feelings exercised such sway over the affairs of men. No other European nation has produced so many ardent and disinterested missionaries, zealous self-denying martyrs, who have cheerfully sacrificed their lives in order to propagate truths which they thought necessary to be known. Nowhere else have the spiritual classes been so long in the ascendant; nowhere else are the people so devout, the churches so crowded, the clergy so numerous. But the sincerity and the honesty of purpose by which the Spanish people, taken as a whole, have always been marked, have not only been unable to prevent religious persecution, but have proved the means of encouraging it. If the nation had been more lukewarm, it would have been more tolerant. As it was, the preservation of the faith became the first consideration; and everything being sacrificed to this one object, it naturally happened that zeal begat cruelty, and the soil was prepared in which the Inquisition took root and flourished. The supporters of that barbarous institution were not hypocrites, but enthusiasts. Hypocrites are for the most part too supple to be cruel. For cruelty is a stern and unbending passion; while hypocrisy is a fawning and flexible art, which accommodates itself to human feelings, and flatters the weakness of men in order that it may gain its own ends. In Spain, the earnestness of the nation, being concentrated on a single topic, carried everything before it; and hatred of heresy becoming a habit, persecution of heresy was thought a duty. The conscientious energy with which that duty was fulfilled is seen in the history of the Spanish Church. Indeed, that the inquisitors were remarkable for an undeviating and incorruptible integrity, may be proved in a variety of ways, and from different and independent sources of evidence. This is a question to which I shall hereafter return; but there are two testimonies which I cannot omit, because, from the circumstances attending them, they are peculiarly unimpeachable. Llorente, the great historian of the Inquisition, and its bitter enemy, had access to its private papers; and yet, with the fullest means of information, he does not even insinuate a charge against the moral character of the inquisitors; but while execrating the cruelty of their conduct, he cannot deny the purity of their intentions.[322] Thirty years earlier, Townsend, a clergyman of the Church of England, published his valuable work on Spain;[323] and though, as a Protestant and an Englishman, he had every reason to be prejudiced against the infamous system which he describes, he also can bring no charge against those who upheld it; but having occasion to mention its establishment at Barcelona, one of its most important branches, he makes the remarkable admission, that all its members are men of worth, and that most of them are of distinguished humanity.[324] [322] By which, indeed, he is sorely puzzled. 'On reconnaîtra mon impartialité dans quelques circonstances où je fais remarquer chez les inquisiteurs des dispositions généreuses; ce qui me porte à croire que les atroces sentences rendues par le Saint-Office, sont plutôt une conséquence de ses lois organiques, qu'un effet du caractère particulier de ses membres.' _Llorente_, _Histoire Critique de l'Inquisition d'Espagne_, vol. i. p. xxiii.: compare vol. ii. pp. 267, 268, vol. iv. p. 153. [323] Highly spoken of by the late Blanco White, a most competent judge. See _Doblado's Letters from Spain_, p. 5. [324] 'It is, however, universally acknowledged, for the credit of the corps at Barcelona, that all its members are men of worth, and most of them distinguished for humanity.' _Townsend's Journey through Spain, in 1786 and 1787_, vol. i. p. 122, Lond. 1792. These facts, startling as they are, form a very small part of that vast mass of evidence which history contains, and which decisively proves the utter inability of moral feelings to diminish religious persecution. The way in which the diminution has been really effected by the mere progress of intellectual acquirements, will be pointed out in another part of this volume; when we shall see that the great antagonist of intolerance is not humanity, but knowledge. It is to the diffusion of knowledge, and to that alone, that we owe the comparative cessation of what is unquestionably the greatest evil men have ever inflicted on their own species. For that religious persecution is a greater evil than any other, is apparent, not so much from the enormous and almost incredible number of its known victims,[325] as from the fact that the unknown must be far more numerous, and that history gives no account of those who have been spared in the body, in order that they might suffer in the mind. We hear much of martyrs and confessors--of those who were slain by the sword, or consumed in the fire; but we know little of that still larger number who, by the mere threat of persecution, have been driven into an outward abandonment of their real opinions; and who, thus forced into an apostasy the heart abhors, have passed the remainder of their life in the practice of a constant and humiliating hypocrisy. It is this which is the real curse of religious persecution. For in this way, men being constrained to mask their thoughts, there arises a habit of securing safety by falsehood, and of purchasing impunity with deceit. In this way fraud becomes a necessary of life; insincerity is made a daily custom; the whole tone of public feeling is vitiated, and the gross amount of vice and of error fearfully increased. Surely, then, we have reason to say, that, compared to this, all other crimes are of small account; and we may well be grateful for that increase of intellectual pursuits which has destroyed an evil that some among us would even now willingly restore. [325] In 1546, the Venetian ambassador at the court of the Emperor Charles V. stated, in an official report to his own government on his return home, 'that in Holland and in Friesland, more than 30,000 persons have suffered death at the hands of justice for Anabaptist errors.' _Correspondence of Charles V. and his Ambassadors_, edited by William Bradford, Lond. 8vo, 1850, p. 471. In Spain, the Inquisition, during the eighteen years of Torquemada's ministry, punished, according to the lowest estimate, upwards of 105,000 persons, of whom 8,800 were burned. _Prescott's History of Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. i. p. 265. In Andalusia alone, during a single year, the Inquisition put to death 2,000 Jews, 'besides 17,000 who underwent some form of punishment less severe than that of the stake.' _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. i. p. 410. For other statistical evidence on this horrible subject, see _Llorente_, _Histoire de l'Inquisition_, vol. i. pp. 160, 229, 238, 239, 279, 280, 406, 407, 455, vol. ii. pp. 77, 116, 376, vol. iv. p. 31; and, above all, the summary at pp. 242-273. The principle I am advocating is of such immense importance in practice as well as in theory, that I will give yet another instance of the energy with which it works. The second greatest evil known to mankind--the one by which, with the exception of religious persecution, most suffering has been caused--is, unquestionably, the practice of war. That this barbarous pursuit is, in the progress of society, steadily declining, must be evident, even to the most hasty reader of European history.[326] If we compare one country with another, we shall find that for a very long period wars have been becoming less frequent; and now so clearly is the movement marked, that, until the late commencement of hostilities, we had remained at peace for nearly forty years: a circumstance unparalleled, not only in our own country, but also in the annals of every other country which has been important enough to play a leading part in the affairs of the world.[327] The question arises, as to what share our moral feelings have had in bringing about this great improvement. And if this question is answered, not according to preconceived opinions, but according to the evidence we possess, the answer will certainly be, that those feelings have had no share at all. For it surely will not be pretended that the moderns have made any discoveries respecting the moral evils of war. On this head nothing is now known that has not been known for many centuries. That defensive wars are just, and that offensive wars are unjust, are the only two principles which, on this subject, moralists are able to teach. These two principles were as clearly laid down, as well understood, and as universally admitted, in the Middle Ages, when there was never a week without war, as they are at the present moment, when war is deemed a rare and singular occurrence. Since, then, the actions of men respecting war have been gradually changing, while their moral knowledge respecting it has not been changing, it is palpably evident that the changeable effect has not been produced by the unchangeable cause. It is impossible to conceive an argument more decisive than this. If it can be proved that, during the last thousand years, moralists or theologians have pointed out a single evil caused by war, the existence of which was unknown to their predecessors,--if this can be proved, I will abandon the view for which I am contending. But if, as I most confidently assert, this cannot be proved, then it must be conceded that, no additions having been made on this subject to the stock of morals, no additions can have been made to the result which the morals produce.[328] [326] On the diminished love of war, which is even more marked than the actual diminution of war, see some interesting remarks in _Comte_, _Philosophie Positive_, vol. iv. pp. 488, 713, vol. vi. pp. 68, 424-436, where the antagonism between the military spirit and the industrial spirit is, on the whole, well worked out; though some of the leading phenomena have escaped the attention of this eminent philosopher, from his want of acquaintance with the history and present state of political economy. [327] In _Pellew's Life of Sidmouth_, 1847, vol. iii. p. 137, this prolonged peace is gravely ascribed to 'the wisdom of the adjustment of 1815;' in other words, to the proceedings of the Congress of Vienna! [328] Unless more zeal has been displayed in the diffusion of moral and religious principles; in which case it would be possible for the principles to be stationary, and yet their effects be progressive. But so far from this, it is certain that in the Middle Ages there were, relatively to the population, more churches than there are now; the spiritual classes were far more numerous, the proselyting spirit far more eager, and there was a much stronger determination to prevent purely scientific inferences from encroaching on ethical ones. Indeed, during the Middle Ages, the moral and religious literature outweighed all the profane literature put together; and surpassed it, not only in bulk, but also in the ability of its cultivators. Now, however, the generalizations of moralists have ceased to control the affairs of men, and have made way for the larger doctrine of expediency, which includes all interests and all classes. Systematic writers on morals reached their zenith in the thirteenth century, fell off rapidly after that period, were, as Coleridge well says, opposed by 'the genius of Protestantism:' and, by the end of the seventeenth century, became extinct in the most civilized countries; the _Ductor Dubitantium_ of Jeremy Taylor being the last comprehensive attempt of a man of genius to mould society solely according to the maxims of moralists. Compare two interesting passages in _Mosheim's Ecclesiast. Hist._, vol. i. p. 338, and _Coleridge's Friend_, vol. iii. p. 104. Thus far as to the influence exercised by moral feelings in increasing our distaste for war. But if, on the other hand, we turn to the human intellect, in the narrowest sense of the term, we shall find that every great increase in its activity has been a heavy blow to the warlike spirit. The full evidence for this I shall hereafter detail at considerable length; and in this Introduction I can only pretend to bring forward a few of those prominent points, which, being on the surface of history, will be at once understood. Of these points, one of the most obvious is, that every important addition made to knowledge increases the authority of the intellectual classes, by increasing the resources which they have to wield. Now, the antagonism between these classes and the military class is evident: it is the antagonism between thought and action, between the internal and the external, between argument and violence, between persuasion and force; or, to sum up the whole, between men who live by the pursuits of peace and those who live by the practice of war. Whatever, therefore, is favourable to one class, is manifestly unfavourable to the other. Supposing the remaining circumstances to be the same, it must happen, that as the intellectual acquisitions of a people increase, their love of war will diminish; and if their intellectual acquisitions are very small, their love of war will be very great.[329] In perfectly barbarous countries, there are no intellectual acquisitions; and the mind being a blank and dreary waste, the only resource is external activity,[330] the only merit personal courage. No account is made of any man, unless he has killed an enemy; and the more he has killed, the greater the reputation he enjoys.[331] This is the purely savage state; and it is the state in which military glory is most esteemed, and military men most respected.[332] From this frightful debasement, even up to the summit of civilization, there is a long series of consecutive steps; gradations, at each of which something is taken from the dominion of force, and something given to the authority of thought. Slowly, and one by one, the intellectual and pacific classes begin to arise; at first held in great contempt by warriors, but nevertheless gradually gaining ground, increasing in number and in power, and at each increase weakening that old military spirit, in which all other tendencies had formerly been absorbed. Trade, commerce, manufactures, law, diplomacy, literature, science, philosophy,--all these things, originally unknown, became organized into separate studies, each study having a separate class, and each class insisting on the importance of its own pursuit. Of these classes, some are, no doubt, less pacific than others; but even those which are the least pacific, are, of course, more so than men whose associations are entirely military, and who see in every fresh war that chance of personal distinction, from which, during peace, they are altogether debarred.[333] [329] Herder boldly asserts that man originally, and by virtue of his organization, is peaceably disposed; but this opinion is decisively refuted by the immense additions which, since the time of Herder, have been made to our knowledge of the feelings and habits of savages. 'Indessen ist's wahr, dass der Bau des Menschen vorzüglich auf die Vertheidigung, nicht auf den Angriff gerichtet ist: in diesem muss ihm die Kunst zu Hülfe kommen, in jener aber ist er von Natur das kräftigste Geschöpf der Erde. Seine Gestalt selbst lehret ihn also Friedlichkeit, nicht räuberische Mordverwüstung,--der Humanität erstes Merkmal.' _Ideen zur Geschichte_, vol. i. p. 185. [330] Hence, no doubt, that acuteness of the senses, natural, and indeed necessary, to an early state of society, and which, being at the expense of the reflecting faculties, assimilates man to the lower animals. See _Carpenter's Human Physiology_, p. 404; and a fine passage in _Herder's Ideen zur Geschichte_, vol. ii. p. 12: 'Das abstehende thierische Ohr, das gleichsam immer lauscht und horchet, das kleine scharfe Auge, das in der weitesten Ferne den kleinsten Rauch oder Staub gewahr wird, der weisse hervorbleckende, knochenbenagende Zahn, der dicke Hals und die zurückgebogene Stellung ihres Kopfes auf demselben.' Compare _Prichard's Physical Hist. of Mankind_, vol. i. pp. 292, 293; _Azara_, _Amérique Méridionale_, vol. ii. p. 18; _Wrangel's Polar Expedition_, p. 384; _Pallme's Travels in Kordofan_, pp. 132, 133. [331] 'Among some Macedonian tribes, the man who had never slain an enemy was marked by a degrading badge.' _Grote's History of Greece_, vol. xi. p. 397. Among the Dyaks of Borneo, 'a man cannot marry until he has procured a human head; and he that has several may be distinguished by his proud and lofty bearing, for it constitutes his patent of nobility.' _Earl's Account of Borneo_, in _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. iv. p. 181. See also _Crawfurd on Borneo_, in _Journal of Geog. Soc._, vol. xxiii. pp. 77, 80. And for similar instances of this absorption of all other ideas into warlike ones, compare _Journal of Geog. Soc._, vol. x. p. 357; _Mallet's Northern Antiquities_, pp. 158, 159, 195; _Thirlwall's Hist. of Greece_, vol. i. pp. 226, 284, vol. viii. p. 209; _Henderson's History of Brazil_, p. 475; _Southey's History of Brazil_, vol. i. pp. 126, 248; _Asiatic Researches_, vol. ii. p. 188, vol. vii. p. 193; _Transactions of Bombay Society_, vol. ii. pp. 51, 52; _Hoskins's Travels in Ethiopia_, p. 163; _Origines du Droit_, in _[OE]uvres de Michelet_, vol. ii. pp. 333, 334 note. So also the Thracians: [Greek: gês de ergatên atimotaton. to sên apo polemoi kai lêistuos, kalliston.] _Herodotus_, book v. chap. 6, vol. iii. p. 10, edit. Baehr. [332] Malcolm (_History of Persia_, vol. i. p. 204) says of the Tartars, 'There is only one path to eminence, that of military renown.' Thus, too, in the _Institutes of Timour_, p. 269: 'He only is equal to stations of power and dignity, who is well acquainted with the military art, and with the various modes of breaking and defeating hostile armies.' The same turn of mind is shown in the frequency and evident delight with which Homer relates battles--a peculiarity noticed in _Mure's Greek Literature_, vol. ii. pp. 63, 64, where an attempt is made to turn it into an argument to prove that the Homeric poems are all by the same author; though the more legitimate inference would be that the poems were all composed in a barbarous age. [333] To the prospect of personal distinction there was formerly added that of wealth; and in Europe, during the Middle Ages, war was a very lucrative profession, owing to the custom of exacting heavy ransom for the liberty of prisoners. See Barrington's learned work, _Observations on the Statutes_, pp. 390-393. In the reign of Richard II. 'a war with France was esteemed as almost the only method by which an English gentleman could become rich.' Compare _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. vi. p. 21. Sainte Palaye (_Mémoires sur l'ancienne Chevalerie_, vol. i. p. 311) says, 'La guerre enrichissoit alors par le butin, et par les rançons, celui qui la faisoit avec le plus de valeur, de vigilance et d'activité. La rançon étoit, ce semble, pour l'ordinaire, une année des revenus du prisonnier.' For an analogy with this, see _Rig Veda Sanhita_, vol. i. p. 208, sec. 3, and vol. ii. p. 265, sec. 13. In Europe, the custom of paying a ransom for prisoners-of-war survived the Middle Ages, and was only put an end to by the peace of Munster, in 1648. _Manning's Commentaries on the Law of Nations_, 1839, p. 162; and on the profits formerly made, pp. 157, 158. Thus it is that, as civilization advances, an equipoise is established, and military ardour is balanced by motives which none but a cultivated people can feel. But among a people whose intellect is not cultivated, such a balance can never exist. Of this we see a good illustration in the history of the present war.[334] For the peculiarity of the great contest in which we are engaged is, that it was produced, not by the conflicting interests of civilized countries, but by a rupture between Russia and Turkey, the two most barbarous monarchies now remaining in Europe. This is a very significant fact. It is highly characteristic of the actual condition of society, that a peace of unexampled length should have been broken, not, as former peaces were broken, by a quarrel between two civilized nations, but by the encroachments of the uncivilized Russians on the still more uncivilized Turks. At an earlier period, the influence of intellectual, and therefore pacific, habits was indeed constantly increasing, but was still too weak, even in the most advanced countries, to control the old warlike habits: hence there arose a desire for conquest, which often outweighed all other feelings, and induced great nations like France and England to attack each other on the slightest pretence, and seek every opportunity of gratifying the vindictive hatred with which both contemplated the prosperity of their neighbour. Such, however, is now the progress of affairs, that these two nations, laying aside the peevish and irritable jealousy they once entertained, are united in a common cause, and have drawn the sword, not for selfish purposes, but to protect the civilized world against the incursions of a barbarous foe. [334] I wrote this in 1855. This is the leading feature which distinguishes the present war from its predecessors. That a peace should last for nearly forty years, and should then be interrupted, not, as heretofore, by hostilities between civilized states, but by the ambition of the only empire which is at once powerful and uncivilized--is one of many proofs that a dislike to war is a cultivated taste peculiar to an intellectual people. For no one will pretend that the military predilections of Russia are caused by a low state of morals, or by a disregard of religious duties. So far from this, all the evidence we have shows that vicious habits are not more common in Russia than in France or England;[335] and it is certain that the Russians submit to the teachings of the church with a docility greater than that displayed by their civilized opponents.[336] It is, therefore, clear that Russia is a warlike country, not because the inhabitants are immoral, but because they are unintellectual. The fault is in the head, not in the heart. In Russia, the national intellect being little cultivated, the intellectual classes lack influence; the military class, therefore, is supreme. In this early stage of society, there is as yet no middle rank,[337] and consequently the thoughtful and pacific habits which spring from the middle ranks have no existence. The minds of men, deprived of mental pursuits,[338] naturally turn to warlike ones, as the only resource remaining to them. Hence it is that, in Russia, all ability is estimated by a military standard. The army is considered to be the greatest glory of the country: to win a battle, or outwit an enemy, is valued as one of the noblest achievements of life; and civilians, whatever their merits may be, are despised by this barbarous people, as beings of an altogether inferior and subordinate character.[339] [335] Indeed some have supposed that there is less immorality in Russia than in Western Europe; but this idea is probably erroneous. See _Stirling's Russia_, Lond. 1841, pp. 59, 60. The benevolence and charitable disposition of the Russians are attested by Pinkerton, who had good means of information, and was by no means prejudiced in their favour. See _Pinkerton's Russia_, Lond. 1833, pp. 335, 336. Sir John Sinclair also says they are 'prone to acts of kindness and charity.' _Sinclair's Correspondence_, vol. ii. p. 241. [336] The reverence of the Russian people for their clergy has attracted the attention of many observers, and is, indeed, too notorious to require proof. [337] A very observing and intelligent writer says, 'Russia has only two ranks--the highest and the lowest.' _Letters from the Baltic_, Lond. 1841, vol. ii. p. 185. 'Les marchands, qui formeraient une classe moyenne, sont en si petit nombre qu'ils ne peuvent marquer dans l'état: d'ailleurs presque tous sont étrangers; ... où donc trouver cette classe moyenne qui fait la force des états?' _Custine's Russie_, vol. ii. pp. 125, 126: see also vol. iv. p. 74. [338] A recent authoress, who had admirable opportunities of studying the society of St. Petersburg, which she estimated with that fine tact peculiar to an accomplished woman, was amazed at this state of things among classes surrounded with every form of luxury and wealth: 'a total absence of all rational tastes or literary topics.... Here it is absolutely _mauvais genre_ to discuss a rational subject--mere _pédanterie_ to be caught upon any topics beyond dressing, dancing, and a _jolie tournure_.' _Letters from the Baltic_, 1841, vol. ii. p. 233. M. Custine (_La Russie en 1839_, vol. i. p. 321) says 'Règle générale, personne ne profère jamais un mot qui pourrait intéresser vivement quelqu'un.' At vol. ii. p. 195, 'De toutes les facultés de l'intelligence, la seule qu'on estime ici c'est le tact.' Another writer of repute, M. Kohl, contemptuously observes, that in Russia, 'the depths of science are not even guessed at.' _Kohl's Russia_, 1842, Lond. p. 142. [339] According to Schnitzler, 'Precedence is determined, in Russia, by military rank; and an ensign would take the _pas_ of a nobleman not enrolled in the army, or occupying some situation giving military rank.' _M'Culloch's Geog. Dict._ 1849, vol. ii. p. 614. The same thing is stated in _Pinkerton's Russia_, 1833, p. 321. M. Erman, who travelled through great part of the Russian empire, says, 'In the modern language of St. Petersburg, one constantly hears a distinction of the greatest importance, conveyed in the inquiry which is habitually made respecting individuals of the educated class: Is he a plain-coat or a uniform?' _Erman's Siberia_, vol. i. p. 45. See also on this preponderance of the military classes, which is the inevitable fruit of the national ignorance, _Kohl's Russia_, pp. 28, 194; _Stirling's Russia under Nicholas the First_, p. 7; _Custine's Russie_, vol. i. pp. 147, 152, 252, 266, vol. ii. pp. 71, 128, 309, vol. iii. p. 328, vol. iv. p. 284. Sir A. Alison (_History of Europe_, vol. ii. pp. 391, 392) says, 'The whole energies of the nation are turned towards the army. Commerce, the law, and all civil employments, are held in no esteem; the whole youth of any consideration betake themselves to the profession of arms.' The same writer (vol. x. p. 566) quotes the remark of Bremner, that 'nothing astonishes the Russian or Polish noblemen so much as seeing the estimation in which the civil professions, and especially the bar, are held in Great Britain.' In England, on the other hand, opposite causes have produced opposite results. With us intellectual progress is so rapid, and the authority of the middle class so great, that not only have military men no influence in the government of the state, but there seemed at one time even a danger lest we should push this feeling to an extreme; and lest, from our detestation of war, we should neglect those defensive precautions which the enmity of other nations makes it advisable to adopt. But this at least we may safely say, that, in our country, a love of war is, as a national taste, utterly extinct. And this vast result has been effected, not by moral teachings, nor by the dictates of moral instinct; but by the simple fact, that in the progress of civilization there have been formed certain classes of society which have an interest in the preservation of peace, and whose united authority is sufficient to control those other classes whose interest lies in the prosecution of war. It would be easy to conduct this argument further, and to prove how, by an increasing love of intellectual pursuits, the military service necessarily declines, not only in reputation, but likewise in ability. In a backward state of society men of distinguished talents crowd to the army, and are proud to enrol themselves in its ranks. But, as society advances, new sources of activity are opened, and new professions arise, which, being essentially mental, offer to genius opportunities for success more rapid than any formerly known. The consequence is, that in England, where these opportunities are more numerous than elsewhere, it nearly always happens that if a father has a son whose faculties are remarkable, he brings him up to one of the lay professions, where intellect, when accompanied by industry, is sure to be rewarded. If, however, the inferiority of the boy is obvious, a suitable remedy is at hand: he is made either a soldier or a clergyman; he is sent into the army, or hidden in the church. And this, as we shall hereafter see, is one of the reasons why, as society advances, the ecclesiastical spirit and the military spirit never fail to decline. As soon as eminent men grow unwilling to enter any profession, the lustre of that profession will be tarnished: first its reputation will be lessened, and then its power will be abridged. This is the process through which Europe is actually passing, in regard both to the church and to the army. The evidence, so far as the ecclesiastical profession is concerned, will be found in another part of this work. The evidence respecting the military profession is equally decisive. For although that profession has in modern Europe produced a few men of undoubted genius, their number is so extremely small, as to amaze us at the dearth of original ability. That the military class, taken as a whole, has a tendency to degenerate, will become still more obvious if we compare long periods of time. In the ancient world, the leading warriors were not only possessed of considerable accomplishments, but were comprehensive thinkers in politics as well as in war, and were in every respect the first characters of their age. Thus--to give only a few specimens from a single people--we find that the three most successful statesmen Greece ever produced were Solon, Themistocles, and Epaminondas,--all of whom were distinguished military commanders. Socrates, supposed by some to be the wisest of the ancients, was a soldier; and so was Plato; and so was Antisthenes, the celebrated founder of the Cynics. Archytas, who gave a new direction to the Pythagorean philosophy; and Melissus, who developed the Eleatic philosophy--were both of them well-known generals, famous alike in literature and in war. Among the most eminent orators, Pericles, Alcibiades, Andocides, Demosthenes, and �schines were all members of the military profession; as also were the two greatest tragic writers, �schylus and Sophocles. Archilochus, who is said to have invented iambic verses, and whom Horace took as a model, was a soldier; and the same profession could likewise boast of Tyrtæus, one of the founders of elegiac poetry, and of Alcæus, one of the best composers of lyric poetry. The most philosophic of all the Greek historians was certainly Thucydides; but he, as well as Xenophon and Polybius, held high military appointments, and on more than one occasion succeeded in changing the fortunes of war. In the midst of the hurry and turmoil of camps, these eminent men cultivated their minds to the highest point that the knowledge of that age would allow: and so wide is the range of their thoughts, and such the beauty and dignity of their style, that their works are read by thousands who care nothing about the sieges and battles in which they were engaged. These were among the ornaments of the military profession in the ancient world; and all of them wrote in the same language, and were read by the same people. But in the modern world this identical profession, including many millions of men, and covering the whole of Europe, has never been able, since the sixteenth century, to produce ten authors who have reached the first class either as writers or as thinkers. Descartes is an instance of an European soldier combining the two qualities; he being as remarkable for the exquisite beauty of his style as for the depth and originality of his inquiries. This, however, is a solitary case; and there is, I believe, no second one of a modern military writer thus excelling in both departments. Certainly, the English army, during the last two hundred and fifty years, affords no example of it, and has, in fact, only possessed two authors, Raleigh and Napier, whose works are recognized as models, and are studied merely for their intrinsic merit. Still, this is simply in reference to style; and these two historians, notwithstanding their skill in composition, have never been reputed profound thinkers on difficult subjects, nor have they added anything of moment to the stock of our knowledge. In the same way, among the ancients, the most eminent soldiers were likewise the most eminent politicians, and the best leaders of the army were generally the best governors of the state. But here, again, the progress of society has wrought so great a change, that for a long period instances of this have been excessively rare. Even Gustavus Adolphus and Frederick the Great failed ignominiously in their domestic policy, and showed themselves as short-sighted in the arts of peace as they were sagacious in the arts of war. Cromwell, Washington, and Napoleon are, perhaps, the only first-rate modern warriors of whom it can be fairly said, that they were equally competent to govern a kingdom and command an army. And, if we look at England as furnishing a familiar illustration, we see this remark exemplified in our two greatest generals, Marlborough and Wellington. Marlborough was a man not only of the most idle and frivolous pursuits, but was so miserably ignorant, that his deficiencies made him the ridicule of his contemporaries; and of politics he had no other idea but to gain the favour of the sovereign by flattering his mistress, to desert the brother of that sovereign at his utmost need, and afterwards, by a double treachery, turn against his next benefactor, and engage in a criminal, as well as a foolish, correspondence with the very man whom a few years before he had infamously abandoned. These were the characteristics of the greatest conqueror of his age, the hero of a hundred fights, the victor of Blenheim and of Ramilies. As to our other great warrior, it is indeed true that the name of Wellington should never be pronounced by an Englishman without gratitude and respect: these feelings are, however, due solely to his vast military services, the importance of which it would ill become us to forget. But whoever has studied the civil history of England during the present century knows full well that this military chief, who in the field shone without a rival, and who, to his still greater glory be it said, possessed an integrity of purpose, an unflinching honesty, and a high moral feeling, which could not be surpassed, was nevertheless utterly unequal to the complicated exigencies of political life. It is notorious, that in his views of the most important legislative measures he was always in the wrong. It is notorious, and the evidence of it stands recorded in our Parliamentary Debates, that every great measure which was carried, every great improvement, every great step in reform, every concession to the popular wishes, was strenuously opposed by the Duke of Wellington, became law in spite of his opposition, and after his mournful declarations that by such means the security of England would be seriously imperilled. Yet there is now hardly a forward schoolboy who does not know that to these very measures the present stability of our country is mainly owing. Experience, the great test of wisdom, has amply proved, that those vast schemes of reform, which the Duke of Wellington spent his political life in opposing, were, I will not say expedient or advisable, but were indispensably necessary. That policy of resisting the popular will which he constantly advised is precisely the policy which has been pursued, since the Congress of Vienna, in every monarchy except our own. The result of that policy is written for our instruction: it is written in that great explosion of popular passion, which in the moment of its wrath upset the proudest thrones, destroyed princely families, ruined noble houses, desolated beautiful cities. And if the counsel of our great general had been followed, if the just demands of the people had been refused--this same lesson would have been written in the annals of our own land; and we should most assuredly have been unable to escape the consequence of that terrible catastrophe, in which the ignorance and selfishness of rulers did, only a few years ago, involve a large part of the civilized world. Thus striking is the contrast between the military genius of ancient times, and the military genius of modern Europe. The causes of this decay are clearly traceable to the circumstance that, owing to the immense increase of intellectual employments, few men of ability will now enter a profession into which, in antiquity, men of ability eagerly crowded, as supplying the best means of exercising those faculties which, in more civilized countries, are turned to a better account. This, indeed, is a very important change; and thus to transfer the most powerful intellects from the arts of war to the arts of peace, has been the slow work of many centuries, the gradual, but constant, encroachments of advancing knowledge. To write the history of those encroachments would be to write the history of the human intellect--a task impossible for any single man adequately to perform. But the subject is one of such interest, and has been so little studied, that though I have already carried this analysis farther than I had intended, I cannot refrain from noticing what appear to me to be the three leading ways in which the warlike spirit of the ancient world has been weakened by the progress of European knowledge. The first of these arose out of the invention of Gunpowder; which, though a warlike contrivance, has in its results been eminently serviceable to the interests of peace.[340] This important invention is said to have been made in the thirteenth century;[341] but was not in common use until the fourteenth, or even the beginning of the fifteenth, century. Scarcely had it come into operation, when it worked a great change in the whole scheme and practice of war. Before this time, it was considered the duty of nearly every citizen to be prepared to enter the military service, for the purpose either of defending his own country, or of attacking others.[342] Standing armies were entirely unknown; and in their place there existed a rude and barbarous militia, always ready for battle, and always unwilling to engage in those peaceful pursuits which were then universally despised. Nearly every man being a soldier, the military profession, as such, had no separate existence; or, to speak more properly, the whole of Europe composed one great army, in which all other professions were merged. To this the only exception was the ecclesiastical profession; but even that was affected by the general tendency, and it was not at all uncommon to see large bodies of troops led to the field by bishops and abbots, to most of whom the arts of war were in those days perfectly familiar.[343] At all events, between these two professions men were necessarily divided: the only avocations were war and theology; and if you refused to enter the church, you were bound to serve in the army. As a natural consequence, everything of real importance was altogether neglected. There were, indeed, many priests and many warriors, many sermons and many battles.[344] But, on the other hand, there was neither trade, nor commerce, nor manufactures; there was no science, no literature: the useful arts were entirely unknown; and even the highest ranks of society were unacquainted, not only with the most ordinary comforts, but with the commonest decencies of civilized life. [340] The consequences of the invention of gunpowder are considered very superficially by Frederick Schlegel (_Lectures on the History of Literature_, vol. ii. pp. 37, 38), and by Dugald Stewart (_Philosophy of the Mind_, vol. i. p. 262). They are examined with much greater ability, though by no means exhaustively, in _Smith's Wealth of Nations_, book v. chap. i. pp. 292, 296, 297; _Herder's Ideen zur Geschichte der Menschheit_, vol. iv. p. 301; _Hallam's Middle Ages_, vol. ii. p. 470. [341] From the following authorities, it appears impossible to trace it further back than the thirteenth century; and it is doubtful whether the Arabs were, as is commonly supposed, the inventors: _Humboldt's Cosmos_, vol. ii. p. 590; _Koch_, _Tableaux des Révolutions_, vol. i. p. 242; _Beckmann's History of Inventions_, 1846, vol. ii. p. 505; _Histoire Lit. de la France_, vol. xx. p. 236; _Thomson's History of Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 36; _Hallam's Middle Ages_, vol. i. p. 341. The statements in _Erman's Siberia_, vol. i. pp. 370, 371, are more positive than the evidence we are possessed of will justify; but there can be no doubt that a sort of gunpowder was at an early period used in China, and in other parts of Asia. [342] _Vattel, le Droit des Gens_, vol. ii. p. 129; _Lingard's History of England_, vol. ii. pp. 356, 357. Among the Anglo-Saxons, 'all free men and proprietors of land, except the ministers of religion, were trained to the use of arms, and always held ready to take the field at a moment's warning.' _Eccleston's English Antiquities_, p. 62. 'There was no distinction between the soldier and the citizen.' _Palgrave's Anglo-Saxon Commonwealth_, vol. i. p. 200. [343] On these warlike ecclesiastics, compare _Grose's Military Antiq._ vol. i. pp. 67-8; _Lingard's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. pp. 26, 183, vol. iii. p. 14; _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. iv. p. 458, vol. v. pp. 92, 402, 406; _Mosheim's Eccl. History_, vol. i. pp. 173, 193, 241; _Crichton's Scandinavia_, Edinb. 1838, vol. i. p. 220. Such opponents were the more formidable, because in those happy days it was sacrilege for a layman to lay hands on a bishop. In 1095 his Holiness the Pope caused a council to declare, 'Quòd qui apprehenderit episcopum omnino exlex fiat.' _Matthæi Paris Historia Major_, p. 18. As the context contains no limitation of this, it would follow that a man became spiritually outlawed if he, even in self-defence, took a bishop prisoner. [344] As Sharon Turner observes of England under the Anglo-Saxon government, 'war and religion were the absorbing subjects of this period.' _Turner's History of England_, vol. iii. p. 263. And a recent scientific historian says of Europe generally: 'alle Künste und Kenntnisse, die sich nicht auf das edle Kriegs-, Rauf- und Raubhandwerk bezogen, waren überflüssig und schädlich. Nur etwas Theologie war vonnöthen, um die Erde mit dem Himmel zu verbinden.' _Winckler, Geschichte der Botanik_, 1854, p. 56. But so soon as gunpowder came into use, there was laid the foundation of a great change. According to the old system, a man had only to possess, what he generally inherited from his father, either a sword or a bow, and he was ready equipped for the field.[345] According to the new system, new means were required, and the equipment became more costly and more difficult. First, there was the supply of gunpowder;[346] then there was the possession of muskets, which were expensive weapons, and considered difficult to manage.[347] Then, too, there were other contrivances to which gunpowder naturally gave rise, such as pistols, bombs, mortars, shells, mines, and the like.[348] All these things, by increasing the complication of the military art, increased the necessity of discipline and practice; while, at the same time, the change that was being effected in the ordinary weapons deprived the great majority of men of the possibility of procuring them. To suit these altered circumstances, a new system was organized: and it was found advisable to train up bodies of men for the sole purpose of war, and to separate them as much as possible from those other employments in which formerly all soldiers were occasionally engaged. Thus it was that there arose standing armies; the first of which were formed in the middle of the fifteenth century,[349] almost immediately after gunpowder was generally known. Thus, too, there arose the custom of employing mercenary troops; of which we find a few earlier instances, though the practice was not fully established until the latter part of the fourteenth century.[350] [345] In 1181, Henry II. of England ordered that every man should have either a sword or bow; which he was not to sell, but leave to his heir: 'cæteri autem omnes haberent wanbasiam, capellum ferreum, lanceam et gladium, vel arcum et sagittas: et prohibuit ne aliquis arma sua venderet vel invadiaret; sed cùm moreretur, daret illa propinquiori hæredi suo.' _Rog. de Hov. Annal. in Scriptores post Bedam_, p. 348 rev. In the reign of Edward I., it was ordered that every man possessing land to the value of forty shillings should keep 'a sword, bow and arrows, and a dagger.... Those who were to keep bows and arrows might have them out of the forest.' _Grose's Military Antiquities_, vol. ii. pp. 301, 302. Compare _Geijer's History of the Swedes_, part i. p. 94. Even late in the fifteenth century, there were at the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge, 'in each from four to five thousand scholars, all grown up, carrying swords and bows, and in great part gentry.' _Sir William Hamilton on the History of Universities_, in _Hamilton's Philosoph. Discussions_, p. 414. One of the latest attempts made to revive archery was a warrant issued by Elizabeth in 1596, and printed by Mr. Collier in the _Egerton Papers_, pp. 217-220, edit. Camden Soc. 1840. In the south-west of England, bows and arrows did not finally disappear from the muster-rolls till 1599; and in the meantime the musket gained ground. See _Yonge's Diary_, edit. Camden Soc. 1848, p. xvii. [346] It is stated by many writers that no gunpowder was manufactured in England until the reign of Elizabeth. _Camden's Elizabeth_, in _Kennett's History_, vol. ii. p. 388, London, 1719; _Strickland's Queens of England_, vol. vi. p. 223, Lond. 1843; _Grose's Military Antiquities_, vol. i. p. 378. But Sharon Turner (_History of England_, vol. vi. pp. 490, 491, Lond. 1839) has shown, from an order of Richard III. in the Harleian manuscripts, that it was made in England in 1483; and Mr. Eccleston (_English Antiquities_, p. 182, Lond. 1847) states, that the English both made and exported it as early as 1411: compare p. 202. At all events, it long remained a costly article; and even in the reign of Charles I., I find a complaint of its dearness, 'whereby the train-bands are much discouraged in their exercising.' _Parliament. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 655. In 1686, it appears from the _Clarendon Correspondence_, vol. i. p. 413, that the wholesale price ranged from about 2_l._ 10_s._ to 3_l._ per barrel. On the expense of making it in the present century, see _Liebig and Kopp's Reports on Chemistry_, vol. iii. p. 325, Lond. 1852. [347] The muskets were such miserable machines, that, in the middle of the fifteenth century, it took a quarter of an hour to charge and fire one. _Hallam's Middle Ages_, vol. i. p. 342. Grose (_Military Antiquities_, vol. i. p. 146, vol. ii. pp. 292, 337) says, that the first mention of muskets in England is in 1471; and that rests for them did not become obsolete until the reign of Charles I. In the recent edition of _Beckmann's History of Inventions_, Lond. 1846, vol. ii. p. 535, it is strangely supposed that muskets were 'first used at the battle of Pavia.' Compare _Daniel_, _Histoire de la Milice_, vol. i. p. 464, with _Smythe's Military Discourses_, in _Ellis's Original Letters_, p. 53, edit. Camden Society. [348] Pistols are said to have been invented early in the sixteenth century. _Grose's Military Antiq._ vol. i. pp. 102, 146. Gunpowder was first employed in mining towns in 1487. _Prescott's Hist. of Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. ii. p. 32; _Koch_, _Tableaux des Révolutions_, vol. i. p. 243; _Daniel_, _Histoire de la Milice Française_, vol. i. p. 574. Daniel (_Milice Française_, vol. i. pp. 580, 581) says that bombs were not invented till 1588; and the same thing is asserted in _Biographie Universelle_, vol. xv. p. 248: but, according to Grose (_Military Antiq._ vol. i. p. 387), they are mentioned by Valturinus in 1472. On the general condition of the French artillery in the sixteenth century, see _Relations des Ambassadeurs Vénitiens_, vol. i. pp. 94, 476, 478, Paris, 1838, 4to: a curious and valuable publication. There is some doubt as to the exact period in which cannons were first known; but they were certainly used in war before the middle of the fourteenth century. See _Bohlen_, _das alte Indien_, vol. ii. p. 63; _Daniel_, _Histoire de la Milice_, vol. i. pp. 441, 442. [349] _Blackstone's Commentaries_, vol. i. p. 413; _Daniel, Hist. de la Milice_, vol. i. p. 210, vol. ii. pp. 491, 493; _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. viii. p. 228. [350] The leading facts respecting the employment of mercenary troops are indicated with great judgment by Mr. Hallam, in his _Middle Ages_, vol. i. p. 328-337. The importance of this movement was soon seen, by the change it effected in the classification of European society. The regular troops being, from their discipline, more serviceable against the enemy, and also more immediately under the control of the government, it naturally followed that, as their merits became understood, the old militia should fall, first into disrepute, then be neglected, and then sensibly diminish. At the same time, this diminution in the number of undisciplined soldiers deprived the country of a part of its warlike resources, and therefore made it necessary to pay more attention to the disciplined ones, and to confine them more exclusively to their military duties. Thus it was that a division was first broadly established between the soldier and the civilian; and there arose a separate military profession,[351] which, consisting of a comparatively small number of the total amount of citizens, left the remainder to settle in some other pursuit.[352] In this way immense bodies of men were gradually weaned from their old warlike habits; and being, as it were, forced into civil life, their energies became available for the general purposes of society, and for the cultivation of those arts of peace which had formerly been neglected. The result was, that the European mind, instead of being, as heretofore, solely occupied either with war or with theology, now struck out into a middle path, and created those great branches of knowledge to which modern civilization owes its origin. In each successive generation this tendency towards a separate organization was more marked; the utility of a division of labour became clearly recognized; and by this means knowledge itself advanced, the authority of this middle or intellectual class correspondingly increased. Each addition to its power lessened the weight of the other two classes, and checked those superstitious feelings and that love of war, on which, in an early state of society, all enthusiasm is concentrated. The evidence of the growth and diffusion of this intellectual principle is so full and decisive, that it would be possible, by combining all the branches of knowledge, to trace nearly the whole of its consecutive steps. At present, it is enough to say, that, taking a general view, this third, or intellectual, class, first displayed an independent, though still a vague, activity in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries; that in the sixteenth century, this activity, assuming a distinct form, showed itself in religious outbreaks; that in the seventeenth century, its energy, becoming more practical, was turned against the abuses of government, and caused a series of rebellions, from which hardly any part of Europe escaped; and finally, that in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, it has extended its aim to every department of public and private life, diffusing education, teaching legislators, controlling kings, and, above all, settling on a sure foundation that supremacy of Public Opinion, to which not only constitutional princes, but even the most despotic sovereigns, are now rendered strictly amenable. [351] Grose (_Military Antiquities_, vol. i. pp. 310, 311) says, that until the sixteenth century, English soldiers had no professional dress, but 'were distinguished by badges of their leaders' arms, similar to those now worn by watermen.' It was also early in the sixteenth century that there first arose a separate military literature. _Daniel_, _Hist. de la Milice_, vol. i. p. 380: 'Les auteurs, qui ont écrit en détail sur la discipline militaire: or ce n'est guères que sous François I, et sous l'Empereur Charles V, que les Italiens, les François, les Espagnols et les Allemans ont commencé à écrire sur ce sujet.' [352] The change from the time when every layman was a soldier, is very remarkable. Adam Smith (_Wealth of Nations_, book v. chap. i. p. 291) says, 'Among the civilized nations of modern Europe, it is commonly computed, that not more than the one-hundredth part of the inhabitants of any country can be employed as soldiers, without ruin to the country which pays the expense of their service.' The same proportion is given in _Sadler's Law of Population_, vol. i. p. 292; and in _Grandeur et Décadence des Romains_, chap. iii.--_[OE]uvres de Montesquieu_, p. 130: also in _Sharpe's History of Egypt_, vol. i. p. 105; and in _Alison's History of Europe_, vol. xii. p. 318. These, indeed, are vast questions; and, without some knowledge of them, no one can understand the present condition of European society, or form the least idea of its future prospects. It is, however, sufficient that the reader can now perceive the way in which so slight a matter as the invention of gunpowder diminished the warlike spirit, by diminishing the number of persons to whom the practice of war was habitual. There were, no doubt, other and collateral circumstances which tended in the same direction; but the use of gunpowder was the most effectual, because, by increasing the difficulty and expense of war, it made a separate military profession indispensable; and thus, curtailing the action of the military spirit, left an overplus, an unemployed energy, which soon found its way to the pursuits of peace, infused into them a new life, and began to control that lust of conquest, which, though natural to a barbarous people, is the great enemy of knowledge, and is the most fatal of those diseased appetites by which even civilized countries are too often afflicted. The second intellectual movement, by which the love of war has been lessened, is much more recent, and has not yet produced the whole of its natural effects. I allude to the discoveries made by Political Economy: a branch of knowledge with which even the wisest of the ancients had not the least acquaintance, but which possesses an importance it would be difficult to exaggerate, and is, moreover, remarkable, as being the only subject immediately connected with the art of government that has yet been raised to a science. The practical value of this noble study, though perhaps only fully known to the more advanced thinkers, is gradually becoming recognized by men of ordinary education: but even those by whom it is understood seem to have paid little attention to the way in which, by its influence, the interests of peace, and therefore of civilization, have been directly promoted.[353] The manner in which this has been brought about, I will endeavour to explain, as it will furnish another argument in support of that great principle which I wish to establish. [353] The pacific tendencies of political economy are touched on very briefly in _Blanqui_, _Histoire de l'Economie Politique_, vol. ii. p. 207; and in _Twiss's Progress of Political Economy_, p. 240. It is well known, that, among the different causes of war, commercial jealousy was formerly one of the most conspicuous; and there are numerous instances of quarrels respecting the promulgation of some particular tariff, or the protection of some favourite manufacture. Disputes of this kind were founded upon the very ignorant, but the very natural notion, that the advantages of commerce depend upon the balance of trade, and that whatever is gained by one country must be lost by another. It was believed that wealth is composed entirely of money; and that it is, therefore, the essential interest of every people to import few commodities and much gold. Whenever this was done, affairs were said to be in a sound and healthy state; but, if this was not done, it was declared that we were being drained of our resources, and that some other country was getting the better of us, and was enriching itself at our expense.[354] For this the only remedy was to negotiate a commercial treaty, which should oblige the offending nation to take more of our commodities, and give us more of their gold: if, however, they refused to sign the treaty, it became necessary to bring them to reason; and for this purpose an armament was fitted out to attack a people who, by lessening our wealth, had deprived us of that money by which alone trade could be extended in foreign markets.[355] [354] This favourite doctrine is illustrated in a curious 'Discourse,' written in 1578, and printed in _Stow's London_, in which it is laid down, that if our exports exceed our imports, we gain by the trade; but that, if they are less, we lose. _Stow's London_, edit. Thoms, 1842, p. 205. Whenever this balance was disturbed, politicians were thrown into an agony of fear. In 1620, James I. said, in one of his long speeches, 'It's strange that my Mint hath not gone this eight or nine years; but I think the fault of the want of money is the uneven balancing of trade.' _Parl. History_, vol. i. p. 1179; see also the debate 'On the Scarcity of Money,' pp. 1194-1196. In 1620, the House of Commons, in a state of great alarm, passed a resolution, 'That the importation of tobacco out of Spain is one reason of the scarcity of money in this kingdom.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. i. p. 1198. In 1627, it was actually argued in the House of Commons that the Netherlands were being weakened by their trade with the East Indies, because it carried money out of the country! _Parl. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 220. Half a century later, the same principle was advocated by Sir William Temple in his Letters, and also in his Observations upon the United Provinces. _Temple's Works_, vol. i. p. 175, vol. ii. pp. 117, 118. [355] In 1672, the celebrated Earl of Shaftesbury, then Lord Chancellor, announced that the time had come when the English must go to war with the Dutch; for that it was 'impossible both should stand upon a balance; and that, if we do not master their trade, they will ours. They or we must truckle. One must and will give the law to the other. There is no compounding, where the contest is for the trade of the whole world.' _Somers' Tracts_, vol. viii. p. 39. A few months later, still insisting on the propriety of the war, he gave as one of his reasons that it 'was necessary to the trade of England that there should be a fair adjustment of commerce in the East Indies.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. iv. p. 587. In 1701, Stepney, a diplomatist and one of the lords of trade, published an essay, strongly insisting on the benefits which would accrue to English commerce by a war with France. _Somers' Tracts_, vol. xi. pp. 199, 217; and he says, p. 205, that one of the consequences of peace with France would be 'the utter ruin and destruction of our trade.' See also, in vol. xiii. p. 688, the remarks on the policy of William III. In 1743, Lord Hardwicke, one of the most eminent men of his time, said, in the House of Lords, 'If our wealth is diminished, it is time to ruin the commerce of that nation which has driven us from the markets of the Continent--by sweeping the seas of their ships, and by blockading their ports.' _Campbell's Lives of the Chancellors_, vol. v. p. 89. This misconception of the true nature of barter was formerly universal;[356] and being adopted even by the ablest politicians, was not only an immediate cause of war, but increased those feelings of natural hatred by which war is encouraged; each country thinking that it had a direct interest in diminishing the wealth of its neighbours.[357] In the seventeenth, or even late in the sixteenth century, there were, indeed, one or two eminent thinkers who exposed some of the fallacies upon which this opinion was based.[358] But their arguments found no favour with those politicians by whom European affairs were then administered. It is doubtful if they were known; and it is certain that, if known, they were despised by statesmen and legislators, who, from the constancy of their practical occupations, cannot be supposed to have sufficient leisure to master each new discovery that is successively made; and who in consequence are, as a body, always in the rear of their age. The result was, that they went blundering on in the old track, believing that no commerce could flourish without their interference, troubling that commerce by repeated and harassing regulations, and taking for granted that it was the duty of every government to benefit the trade of their own people by injuring the trade of others.[359] [356] In regard to the seventeenth century, see _Mill's History of India_, vol. i. pp. 41, 42. To this I may add, that even Locke had very confused notions respecting the use of money in trade. See _Essay on Money_, in _Locke's Works_, vol. iv.; and in particular pp. 9, 10, 12, 20, 21, 49-52. Berkeley, profound thinker as he was, fell into the same errors, and assumes the necessity of maintaining the balance of trade, and lessening our imports in proportion as we lessen our exports. See the _Querist_, Nos. xcix. clxi., in _Berkeley's Works_, vol. ii. pp. 246, 250: see also his proposal for a sumptuary law, in _Essay towards Preventing the Ruin of Great Britain_, in _Works_, vol. ii. p. 190. The economical views of Montesquieu (_Esprit des Lois_, livre xx. chap. xii. in _[OE]uvres_, p. 353) are as hopelessly wrong; while Vattel (_Droit des Gens_, vol. i. pp. 111, 117, 118, 206) goes out of his way to praise the mischievous interference of the English government, which he recommends as a pattern to other states. [357] The Earl of Bristol, a man of some ability, told the House of Lords, in 1642, that it was a great advantage to England for other countries to go to war with each other; because by that means we should get their money, or, as he called it, their 'wealth.' See his speech, in _Parl. History_, vol. ii. pp. 1274-1279. [358] Serra, who wrote in 1613, is said to have been the first to prove the absurdity of discouraging the exportation of the precious metals. See _Twiss on the Progress of Political Economy_, pp. 8, 12, 13. But I believe that the earliest approach towards modern economical discoveries is a striking essay published in 1581, and ascribed to William Stafford. It will be found in the _Harleian Miscellany_, vol. ix. pp. 139-192, edit. Park, 1812; and the title, _Brief Conceipt of English Policy_, gives an inadequate idea of what is, on the whole, the most important work on the theory of politics which had then appeared: since the author not only displays an insight into the nature of price and value, such as no previous thinker possessed, but he points out clearly the causes of that system of enclosures which is the leading economical fact in the reign of Elizabeth, and is intimately connected with the rise of the poor-laws. Some account of this essay is given by Dr. Twiss; but the original is easily accessible, and should be read by every student of English history. Among other heretical propositions, it recommends free trade in corn. [359] In regard to the interference of the English legislature, it is stated by Mr. M'Culloch (_Polit. Econ._ p. 269), on the authority of a committee of the House of Commons, that before the year 1820, 'no fewer than two thousand laws with respect to commerce had been passed at different periods.' It may be confidently asserted, that every one of those laws was an unmitigated evil, since no trade, and indeed no interest of any kind, can be protected by government without inflicting immeasurably greater loss upon the unprotected interests and trades; while, if the protection is universal, the loss will be universal. Some striking instances of the absurd laws which have been passed respecting trade, are collected in _Barrington's Observations on the Statutes_, pp. 279-285. Indeed, it was considered necessary that every parliament should do something in this way; and Charles II., in one of his speeches, says, 'I pray, contrive any good short bills which may improve the industry of the nation ... and so God bles your councils.' _Parl. History_, vol. iv. p. 291. Compare the remarks on the fishery-trade, in _Somers' Tracts_, vol. xii. p. 33. But in the eighteenth century, a long course of events, which I shall hereafter trace, prepared the way for a spirit of improvement, and a desire for reform, of which the world had then seen no example. This great movement displayed its energy in every department of knowledge; and now it was that a successful attempt was first made to raise Political Economy to a science, by discovering the laws which regulate the creation and diffusion of wealth. In the year 1776, Adam Smith published his _Wealth of Nations_; which, looking at its ultimate results, is probably the most important book that has ever been written, and is certainly the most valuable contribution ever made by a single man towards establishing the principles on which government should be based. In this great work, the old theory of protection as applied to commerce was destroyed in nearly all its parts;[360] the doctrine of the balance of trade was not only attacked, but its falsehood was demonstrated; and innumerable absurdities, which had been accumulating for ages, were suddenly swept away.[361] [360] To this the only exception of any moment is the view taken of the usury-laws, which Jeremy Bentham has the honour of demolishing. [361] Before Adam Smith, the principal merit is due to Hume; but the works of that profound thinker were too fragmentary to produce much effect. Indeed, Hume, notwithstanding his vast powers, was inferior to Smith in comprehensiveness as well as in industry. If the _Wealth of Nations_ had appeared in any preceding century, it would have shared the fate of the great works of Stafford and Serra; and although the principles which it advocated would, no doubt, have excited the attention of speculative thinkers, they would, in all probability, have produced no effect on practical politicians, or, at all events, would only have exercised an indirect and precarious influence. But the diffusion of knowledge had now become so general, that even our ordinary legislators were, in some degree, prepared for these great truths, which, in a former period, they would have despised as idle novelties. The result was, that the doctrines of Adam Smith soon found their way into the House of Commons;[362] and, being adopted by a few of the leading members, were listened to with astonishment by that great assembly, whose opinions were mainly regulated by the wisdom of their ancestors, and who were loth to believe that anything could be discovered by the moderns which was not already known to the ancients. But it is in vain that such men as these always set themselves up to resist the pressure of advancing knowledge. No great truth which has once been found has ever afterwards been lost; nor has any important discovery yet been made which has not eventually carried everything before it. Even so, the principles of Free Trade, as demonstrated by Adam Smith, and all the consequences which flow from them, were vainly struggled against by the most overwhelming majorities of both Houses of Parliament. Year by year the great truth made its way; always advancing, never receding.[363] The majority was at first deserted by a few men of ability, then by ordinary men, then it became a minority, then even the minority began to dwindle; and at the present day, eighty years after the publication of Smith's _Wealth of Nations_, there is not to be found any one of tolerable education who is not ashamed of holding opinions which, before the time of Adam Smith, were universally received. [362] The first notice I have observed of the _Wealth of Nations_ in Parliament is in 1783; and between then and the end of the century it is referred to several times, and latterly with increasing frequency. See _Parliamentary History_, vol. xxiii. p. 1152, vol. xxvi. pp. 481, 1035, vol. xxvii. p. 385, vol. xxix. pp. 834, 905, 982, 1065, vol. xxx. pp. 330, 333, vol. xxxii. p. 2, vol. xxxiii. pp. 353, 386, 522, 548, 549, 563, 774, 777, 778, 822, 823, 824, 825, 827, 1249, vol. xxxiv. pp. 11, 97, 98, 141, 142, 304, 473, 850, 901, 902, 903. It is possible that one or two passages may have been overlooked; but I believe that these are the only instances of Adam Smith being referred to during seventeen years. From a passage in _Pellew's Life of Sidmouth_, vol. i. p. 51, it appears that even Addington was studying Adam Smith in 1787. [363] In 1797, Pulteney, in one of his financial speeches, appealed to 'the authority of Dr. Smith, who, it was well said, would persuade the present generation and govern the next.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxiii. p. 778. In 1813, Dugald Stewart (_Philosophy of the Human Mind_, vol. ii. p. 472) announced that the doctrine of free trade 'has now, I believe, become the prevailing creed of thinking men all over Europe.' And in 1816, Ricardo said, 'The reasoning by which the liberty of trade is supported is so powerful, that it is daily obtaining converts. It is with pleasure that I see the progress which this great principle is making amongst those whom we should have expected to cling the longest to old prejudices.' _Proposals for an Economical Currency_, in _Ricardo's Works_, p. 407. Such is the way in which great thinkers control the affairs of men, and by their discoveries regulate the march of nations. And truly the history of this one triumph alone should be enough to repress the presumption of statesmen and legislators, who so exaggerate the importance of their craft as to ascribe great results to their own shifting and temporary contrivances. For, whence did they derive that knowledge, of which they are always ready to assume the merit? How did they obtain their opinions? How did they get at their principles? These are the elements of their success; and these they can only learn from their masters--from those great teachers, who, moved by the inspiration of genius, fertilize the world with their discoveries. Well may it be said of Adam Smith, and said, too, without fear of contradiction, that this solitary Scotchman has, by the publication of one single work, contributed more towards the happiness of man, than has been effected by the united abilities of all the statesmen and legislators of whom history has preserved an authentic account. The result of these great discoveries I am not here concerned to examine, except so far as they aided in diminishing the energy of the warlike spirit. And the way in which they effected this may be easily stated. As long as it was generally believed that the wealth of a country consists of its gold, it was of course also believed that the sole object of trade is to increase the influx of the precious metals; it, therefore, became natural that Government should be expected to take measures by which such influx could be secured. This, however, could only be done by draining other countries of their gold; a result which they, for precisely the same reasons, strenuously resisted. The consequence was, that any idea of real reciprocity was impossible: every commercial treaty was an attempt made by one nation to outwit another;[364] every new tariff was a declaration of hostility; and that which ought to be the most peaceable of all pursuits became one of the causes of those national jealousies and national animosities, by which war is mainly promoted.[365] But when it was once clearly understood that gold and silver are not wealth, but are merely the representatives of wealth; when men began to see that wealth itself solely consists of the value which skill and labour can add to the raw material, and that money is of no possible use to a nation except to measure and circulate their riches; when these great truths were recognized,[366] all the old notions respecting the balance of trade, and the supreme importance of the precious metals, at once fell to the ground. These enormous errors being dispersed, the true theory of barter was easily worked out. It was perceived, that if commerce is allowed to be free, its advantages will be shared by every country which engages in it; that, in the absence of monopoly, the benefits of trade are of necessity reciprocal; and that, so far from depending on the amount of gold received, they simply arise from the facility with which a nation gets rid of those commodities which it can produce most cheaply, and receives in return those commodities which it could only produce at a great expense, but which the other nation can, from the skill of its workmen, or from the bounty of nature, afford to supply at a lower rate. From this it followed, that, in a mercantile point of view, it would be as absurd to attempt to impoverish a people with whom we trade, as it would be in a tradesman to wish for the insolvency of a rich and frequent customer. The result is, that the commercial spirit, which formerly was often warlike, is now invariably pacific.[367] And although it is perfectly true that not one merchant out of a hundred is familiar with the arguments on which these economical discoveries are founded, that does not prevent the effect which the discoveries themselves produce on his own mind. The mercantile class is, like every other, acted upon by causes which only a few members of that class are able to perceive. Thus, for instance, of all the innumerable opponents of protection, there are very few indeed who can give valid reasons to justify their opposition. But this does not prevent the opposition from taking place. For an immense majority of men always follow with implicit submission the spirit of their own time; and the spirit of the time is merely its knowledge, and the direction that knowledge takes. As, in the ordinary avocations of daily life, everyone is benefited, in the increase of his comforts, and of his general security, by the progress of many arts and sciences, of which perhaps he does not even know the name, just so is the mercantile class benefited by those great economical discoveries which, in the course of two generations, have already effected a complete change in the commercial legislation of this country, and which are now operating slowly, but steadily, upon those other European states where, public opinion being less powerful, it is more difficult to establish great truths and extirpate old abuses. While, therefore, it is perfectly true, that among merchants, a comparatively small number are acquainted with political economy, it is not the less true that they owe a large part of their wealth to the political economists; who, by removing the obstacles with which the ignorance of successive governments had impeded trade, have now settled on a solid foundation that commercial prosperity which is by no means the least of our national glories. Most assuredly is it also true, that this same intellectual movement has lessened the chance of war, by ascertaining the principles which ought to regulate our commercial relations with foreign countries; by proving, not only the inutility, but the positive mischief, caused by interfering with them; and finally, by exploding those long-established errors, which, inducing men to believe that nations are the natural enemies of each other, encouraged those evil feelings, and fostered those national jealousies, to the strength of which the military spirit owed no small share of its former influence. [364] Sir Theodore Janson, in his _General Maxims of Trade_, published in 1713, lays it down as a principle universally recognized, that 'All the nations of Europe seem to strive who shall outwit one another in point of trade; and they concur in this maxim, that the less they consume of foreign commodities, the better it is for them.' _Somers' Tracts_, vol. xiii. p. 292. Thus, too, in a _Dialogue between an Englishman and a Dutchman_, published in 1700, the Dutchman is represented as boasting that his government had 'forced treaties of commerce exclusive to all other nations.' _Somers' Tracts_, vol. xi. p. 376. This is the system of 'narrow selfishness' denounced by Dr. Story, in his noble work, _Conflict of Laws_, 1841, p. 32. [365] 'It cannot, indeed, be denied that mistaken views of commerce, like those so frequently entertained of religion, have been the cause of many wars and of much bloodshed.' _M'Culloch's Principles of Political Economy_, p. 140. See also pp. 37, 38: 'It has made each nation regard the welfare of its neighbours as incompatible with its own: hence the reciprocal desire of injuring and impoverishing each other; and hence that spirit of commercial rivalry, which has been the immediate or remote cause of the greater number of modern wars.' [366] On the rapid diffusion during the present century of the principles worked out by the economists, compare _Laing's Sweden_, pp. 356-358, with a note to the last edition of _Malthus on Population_, 1826, vol. ii. pp. 354, 355. [367] 'The feelings of rival tradesmen, prevailing among nations, overruled for centuries all sense of the general community of advantage which commercial countries derive from the prosperity of one another; and that commercial spirit, which is now one of the strongest obstacles to wars, was during a certain period of European history their principal cause.' _Mill's Political Economy_, 1849, vol. ii. p. 221. This great change in the feelings of the commercial classes did not begin before the present century, and has not been visible to ordinary observers until the last five-and-twenty or thirty years; but it was foretold in a remarkable passage written by Herder in 1787; see his _Ideen zur Geschichte_, vol. iii. pp. 292, 293. The third great cause by which the love of war has been weakened, is the way in which discoveries respecting the application of Steam to the purposes of travelling have facilitated the intercourse between different countries, and thus aided in destroying that ignorant contempt which one nation is too apt to feel for another. Thus, for instance, the miserable and impudent falsehoods which a large class of English writers formerly directed against the morals and private character of the French, and, to their shame be it said, even against the chastity of French women, tended not a little to embitter the angry feelings then existing between the two first countries of Europe; irritating the English against French vices, irritating the French against English calumnies. In the same way, there was a time when every honest Englishman firmly believed that he could beat ten Frenchmen; a class of beings whom he held in sovereign contempt, as a lean and stunted race, who drank claret instead of brandy, who lived entirely off frogs; miserable infidels, who heard mass every Sunday, who bowed down before idols, and who even worshipped the Pope. On the other hand, the French were taught to despise us, as rude unlettered barbarians, without either taste or humanity; surly, ill-conditioned men, living in an unhappy climate, where a perpetual fog, only varied by rain, prevented the sun from ever being seen; suffering from so deep and inveterate a melancholy, that physicians had called it the English spleen; and under the influence of this cruel malady constantly committing suicide, particularly in November, when we were well known to hang and shoot ourselves by thousands.[368] [368] That there are more suicides in gloomy weather than in fine weather used always to be taken for granted, and was a favourite topic with the French wits, who were never weary of expatiating on our love of self-murder, and on the relation between it and our murky climate. Unfortunately for such speculations, the fact is exactly opposite to what is generally supposed, and we have decisive evidence that there are more suicides in summer than in winter. See _Quetelet sur l'Homme_, vol. ii. pp. 152, 158; _Tissot de la Manie du Suicide_, Paris, 1840, pp. 50, 149, 150; _Journal of Statistical Society_, vol. i. p. 102; _Winslow's Anatomy of Suicide_, 1840, pp. 131, 132; _Hawkins's Medical Statistics_, p. 170. Whoever has looked much into the older literature of France and England, knows that these were the opinions which the two first nations of Europe, in the ignorance and simplicity of their hearts, held respecting each other. But the progress of improvement, by bringing the two countries into close and intimate contact, has dissipated these foolish prejudices, and taught each people to admire, and, what is still more important, to respect each other. And the greater the contact, the greater the respect. For, whatever theologians may choose to assert, it is certain that mankind at large has far more virtue than vice, and that in every country good actions are more frequent than bad ones. Indeed, if this were otherwise, the preponderance of evil would long since have destroyed the human race, and not even have left a single man to lament the degeneracy of his species. An additional proof of this is the fact, that the more nations associate with each other, and the more they see and know of their fellow-creatures, the more quickly do ancient enmities disappear. This is because an enlarged experience proves that mankind is not so radically bad as we from our infancy are taught to believe. But if vices were really more frequent than virtues, the result would be, that the increasing amalgamation of society would increase our bad opinion of others; because, though we may love our own vices, we do not generally love the vices of our neighbours. So far, however, is this from being the actual consequence, that it has always been found that those whose extensive knowledge makes them best acquainted with the general course of human actions, are precisely those who take the most favourable view of them. The greatest observer and the most profound thinker is invariably the most lenient judge. It is the solitary misanthrope, brooding over his fancied wrongs, who is most prone to depreciate the good qualities of our nature, and exaggerate its bad ones. Or else it is some foolish and ignorant monk, who, dreaming away his existence in an idle solitude, flatters his own vanity by denouncing the vices of others; and thus declaiming against the enjoyments of life, revenges himself on that society from which by his own superstition he is excluded. These are the sort of men who insist most strongly on the corruption of our nature, and on the degeneracy into which we have fallen. The enormous evil which such opinions have brought about, is well understood by those who have studied the history of countries in which they are, and have been, most prevalent. Hence it is that, among the innumerable benefits derived from advancing knowledge, there are few more important than those improved facilities of communication,[369] which, by increasing the frequency with which nations and individuals are brought into contact, have, to an extraordinary extent, corrected their prejudices, raised the opinion which each forms of the other, diminished their mutual hostility, and thus diffusing a more favourable view of our common nature, have stimulated us to develop those boundless resources of the human understanding, the very existence of which it was once considered almost a heresy to assert. [369] Respecting which I will only mention one fact, in regard to our own country. By the returns of the Board of Trade, it appears that the passengers annually travelling by railway amounted in 1842 to nineteen millions; but in 1852 they had increased to more than eighty-six millions. _Journal of Statistical Society_, vol. xvi. p. 292. This is precisely what has occurred in modern Europe. The French and English people have, by the mere force of increased contact, learned to think more favourably of each other, and to discard that foolish contempt in which both nations formerly indulged. In this, as in all cases, the better one civilized country is acquainted with another, the more it will find to respect and to imitate. For of all the causes of national hatred, ignorance is the most powerful. When you increase the contact, you remove the ignorance, and thus you diminish the hatred.[370] This is the true bond of charity; and it is worth all the lessons which moralists and divines are able to teach. They have pursued their vocation for centuries, without producing the least effect in lessening the frequency of war. But it may be said without the slightest exaggeration, that every new railroad which is laid down, and every fresh steamer which crosses the Channel, are additional guarantees for the preservation of that long and unbroken peace which, during forty years, has knit together the fortunes and the interests of the two most civilized nations of the earth. [370] Of this, Mr. Stephens (in his valuable work, _Central America_, vol. i. pp. 247-8) relates an interesting instance in the case of that remarkable man Carrera: 'Indeed, in no particular had he changed more than in his opinion of foreigners; a happy illustration of the effect of personal intercourse in breaking down prejudices against individuals or classes.' Mr. Elphinstone (_History of India_, p. 195) says, 'Those who have known the Indians longest have always the best opinion of them: but _this is rather a compliment to human nature than to them, since it is true of every other people_.' Compare an instructive passage in _Darwin's Journal of Researches_, p. 421, with _Burdach_, _Traité de Physiologie comme Science d'Observation_, vol. ii. p. 61. I have thus, so far as my knowledge will permit, endeavoured to indicate the causes which have diminished religious persecution and war: the two greatest evils with which men have yet contrived to afflict their fellow-creatures. The question of the decline of religious persecution I have only briefly noticed, because it will be more fully handled in a subsequent part of this volume. Enough, however, has been advanced to prove how essentially it is an intellectual process, and how little good can be effected on this subject by the operation of moral feelings. The causes of the decline of the warlike spirit I have examined at considerable, and, perhaps, to some readers, at tedious length, and the result of that examination has been, that the decline is owing to the increase of the intellectual classes, to whom the military classes are necessarily antagonistic. In pushing the inquiry a little deeper, we have, by still further analysis, ascertained the existence of three vast though subsidiary causes, by which the general movement has been accelerated. These are--the invention of Gunpowder, the discoveries of Political Economy, and the discovery of improved means of Locomotion. Such are the three great modes or channels by which the progress of knowledge has weakened the old warlike spirit; and the way in which they have effected this has, I trust, been clearly pointed out. The facts and arguments which I have brought forward, have, I can conscientiously say, been subjected to careful and repeated scrutiny; and I am quite unable to see on what possible ground their accuracy is to be impugned. That they will be disagreeable to certain classes, I am well aware; but the unpleasantness of a statement is hardly to be considered a proof of its falsehood. The sources from which the evidence has been derived are fully indicated; and the arguments, I hope, fairly stated. And from them there results a most important conclusion. From them we are bound to infer, that the two oldest, greatest, most inveterate, and most widely-spread evils which have ever been known, are constantly, though, on the whole, slowly, diminishing; and that their diminution has been effected, not at all by moral feelings, nor by moral teachings, but solely by the activity of the human intellect, and by the inventions and discoveries which, in a long course of successive ages, man has been able to make. Since, then, in the two most important phenomena which the progress of society presents, the moral laws have been steadily and invariably subordinate to the intellectual laws, there arises a strong presumption that in inferior matters the same process has been followed. To prove this in its full extent, and thus raise the presumption to an absolute certainty, would be to write, not an Introduction to history, but the History itself. The reader must, therefore, be satisfied for the present with what, I am conscious, is merely an approach towards demonstration; and the complete demonstration must necessarily be reserved for the future volumes of this work: in which I pledge myself to show that the progress Europe has made from barbarism to civilization is entirely due to its intellectual activity; that the leading countries have now, for some centuries, advanced sufficiently far to shake off the influence of those physical agencies by which in an earlier state their career might have been troubled; and that although the moral agencies are still powerful, and still cause occasional disturbances, these are but aberrations, which, if we compare long periods of time, balance each other, and thus in the total amount entirely disappear. So that, in a great and comprehensive view, the changes in every civilized people are, in their aggregate, dependent solely on three things: first, on the amount of knowledge possessed by their ablest men; secondly, on the direction which that knowledge takes, that is to say, the sort of subjects to which it refers: thirdly, and above all, on the extent to which the knowledge is diffused, and the freedom with which it pervades all classes of society. These are the three great movers of every civilized country; and although their operation is frequently disturbed by the vices or the virtues of powerful individuals, such moral feelings correct each other, and the average of long periods remains unaffected. Owing to causes of which we are ignorant, the moral qualities do, no doubt, constantly vary; so that in one man, or perhaps even in one generation, there will be an excess of good intentions; in another an excess of bad ones. But we have no reason to think that any permanent change has been effected in the proportion which those who naturally possess good intentions bear to those in whom bad ones seem to be inherent. In what may be called the innate and original morals of mankind, there is, so far as we are aware, no progress. Of the different passions with which we are born, some are more prevalent at one time, some at another; but experience teaches us that, as they are always antagonistic, they are held in balance by the force of their own opposition. The activity of one motive is corrected by the activity of another. For to every vice there is a corresponding virtue. Cruelty is counteracted by benevolence; sympathy is excited by suffering; the injustice of some provokes the charity of others; new evils are met by new remedies, and even the most enormous offences that have ever been known have left behind them no permanent impression. The desolation of countries and the slaughter of men are losses which never fail to be repaired, and at the distance of a few centuries every vestige of them is effaced. The gigantic crimes of Alexander or Napoleon become after a time void of effect, and the affairs of the world return to their former level. This is the ebb and flow of history, the perpetual flux to which by the laws of our nature we are subject. Above all this, there is a far higher movement; and as the tide rolls on, now advancing, now receding, there is, amid its endless fluctuations, one thing, and one alone, which endures for ever. The actions of bad men produce only temporary evil, the actions of good men only temporary good; and eventually the good and the evil altogether subside, are neutralized by subsequent generations, absorbed by the incessant movements of future ages. But the discoveries of great men never leave us; they are immortal, they contain those eternal truths which survive the shock of empires, outlive the struggles of rival creeds, and witness the decay of successive religions. All these have their different measures and their different standards; one set of opinions for one age, another set for another. They pass away like a dream; they are as the fabric of a vision, which leaves not a rack behind. The discoveries of genius alone remain: it is to them we owe all that we now have, they are for all ages and all times; never young, and never old, they bear the seeds of their own life; they flow on in a perennial and undying stream; they are essentially cumulative, and, giving birth to the additions which they subsequently receive, they thus influence the most distant posterity, and after the lapse of centuries produce more effect than they were able to do even at the moment of their promulgation. CHAPTER V. INQUIRY INTO THE INFLUENCE EXERCISED BY RELIGION, LITERATURE, AND GOVERNMENT. By applying to the history of Man those methods of investigation which have been found successful in other branches of knowledge, and by rejecting all preconceived notions which would not bear the test of those methods, we have arrived at certain results, the heads of which it may now be convenient to recapitulate. We have seen that our actions, being solely the result of internal and external agencies, must be explicable by the laws of those agencies; that is to say, by mental laws and by physical laws. We have also seen that mental laws are, in Europe, more powerful than physical laws; and that, in the progress of civilization, their superiority is constantly increasing, because advancing knowledge multiplies the resources of the mind, but leaves the old resources of nature stationary. On this account, we have treated the mental laws as being the great regulators of progress; and we have looked at the physical laws as occupying a subordinate place, and as merely displaying themselves in occasional disturbances, the force and frequency of which have been long declining, and are now, on a large average, almost inoperative. Having, by this means, resolved the study of what may be called the dynamics of society into the study of the laws of the mind, we have subjected these last to a similar analysis; and we have found that they consist of two parts, namely, moral laws and intellectual laws. By comparing these two parts, we have clearly ascertained the vast superiority of the intellectual laws; and we have seen, that as the progress of civilization is marked by the triumph of the mental laws over the physical, just so is it marked by the triumph of the intellectual laws over the moral ones. This important inference rests on two distinct arguments. First, that moral truths being stationary, and intellectual truths being progressive, it is highly improbable that the progress of society should be due to moral knowledge, which for many centuries has remained the same, rather than to intellectual knowledge, which for many centuries has been incessantly advancing. The other argument consists in the fact, that the two greatest evils known to mankind have not been diminished by moral improvement; but have been, and still are, yielding to the influence of intellectual discoveries. From all this it evidently follows, that if we wish to ascertain the conditions which regulate the progress of modern civilization, we must seek them in the history of the amount and diffusion of intellectual knowledge; and we must consider physical phenomena and moral principles as causing, no doubt, great aberrations in short periods, but in long periods correcting and balancing themselves, and thus leaving the intellectual laws to act uncontrolled by these inferior and subordinate agents. Such is the conclusion to which we have been led by successive analyses, and on which we now take our stand. The actions of individuals are greatly affected by their moral feelings and by their passions; but these being antagonistic to the passions and feelings of other individuals, are balanced by them; so that their effect is, in the great average of human affairs, nowhere to be seen; and the total actions of mankind, considered as a whole, are left to be regulated by the total knowledge of which mankind is possessed. And of the way in which individual feeling and individual caprice are thus absorbed and neutralized, we find a clear illustration in the facts already brought forward respecting the history of crime. For by those facts it is decisively proved, that the amount of crime committed in a country is, year after year, reproduced with the most startling uniformity, not being in the least affected by those capricious and personal feelings to which human actions are too often referred. But if, instead of examining the history of crime year by year, we were to examine it month by month, we should find less regularity; and if we were to examine it hour by hour, we should find no regularity at all; neither would its regularity be seen, if, instead of the criminal records of a whole country, we only knew those of a single street, or of a single family. This is because the great social laws by which crime is governed, can only be perceived after observing great numbers or long periods; but in a small number, and a short period, the individual moral principle triumphs, and disturbs the operation of the larger and intellectual law. While, therefore, the moral feelings by which a man is urged to commit a crime, or to abstain from it, will produce an immense effect on the amount of his own crimes, they will produce no effect on the amount of crimes committed by the society to which he belongs; because, in the long-run, they are sure to be neutralized by opposite moral feelings, which cause in other men an opposite conduct. Just in the same way, we are all sensible that moral principles do affect nearly the whole of our actions; but we have incontrovertible proof that they produce not the least effect on mankind in the aggregate, or even on men in very large masses, provided that we take the precaution of studying social phenomena for a period sufficiently long, and on a scale sufficiently great, to enable the superior laws to come into uncontrolled operation. The totality of human actions being thus, from the highest point of view, governed by the totality of human knowledge, it might seem a simple matter to collect the evidence of the knowledge, and, by subjecting it to successive generalizations, ascertain the whole of the laws which regulate the progress of civilization. And that this will be eventually done, I do not entertain the slightest doubt. But, unfortunately, history has been written by men so inadequate to the great task they have undertaken, that few of the necessary materials have yet been brought together. Instead of telling us those things which alone have any value,--instead of giving us information respecting the progress of knowledge, and the way in which mankind has been affected by the diffusion of that knowledge,--instead of these things, the vast majority of historians fill their works with the most trifling and miserable details: personal anecdotes of kings and courts; interminable relations of what was said by one minister, and what was thought by another; and, what is worse than all, long accounts of campaigns, battles, and sieges, very interesting to those engaged in them, but to us utterly useless, because they neither furnish new truths, nor do they supply the means by which new truths may be discovered. This is the real impediment which now stops our advance. It is this want of judgment, and this ignorance of what is most worthy of selection, which deprives us of materials that ought long since to have been accumulated, arranged, and stored-up for future use. In other great branches of knowledge, observation has preceded discovery; first the facts have been registered, and then their laws have been found. But in the study of the history of Man, the important facts have been neglected, and the unimportant ones preserved. The consequence is, that whoever now attempts to generalize historical phenomena must collect the facts, as well as conduct the generalization. He finds nothing ready to his hand. He must be the mason as well as the architect; he must not only scheme the edifice, but likewise excavate the quarry. The necessity of performing this double labour entails upon the philosopher such enormous drudgery, that the limits of an entire life are unequal to the task; and history, instead of being ripe, as it ought to be, for complete and exhaustive generalizations, is still in so crude and informal a state, that not the most determined and protracted industry will enable any one to comprehend the really important actions of mankind, during even so short a period as two successive centuries. On account of these things, I have long since abandoned my original scheme; and I have reluctantly determined to write the history, not of general civilization, but of the civilization of a single people. While, however, by this means, we curtail the field of inquiry, we unfortunately diminish the resources of which the inquiry is possessed. For although it is perfectly true, that the totality of human actions, if considered in long periods, depends on the totality of human knowledge, it must be allowed that this great principle, when applied only to one country, loses something of its original value. The more we diminish our observations, the greater becomes the uncertainty of the average; in other words, the greater the chance of the operation of the larger laws being troubled by the operation of the smaller. The interference of foreign governments; the influence exercised by the opinions, literature, and customs of a foreign people; their invasions, perhaps even their conquests; the forcible introduction by them of new religions, new laws, and new manners,--all these things are perturbations, which, in a view of universal history, equalize each other, but which, in any one country, are apt to disturb the natural march, and thus render the movements of civilization more difficult to calculate. The manner in which I have endeavoured to meet this difficulty will be presently stated; but what I first wish to point out, are the reasons which have induced me to select the history of England as more important than any other, and therefore as the most worthy of being subjected to a complete and philosophic investigation. Now, it is evident that, inasmuch as the great advantage of studying past events consists in the possibility of ascertaining the laws by which they were governed, the history of any people will become more valuable in proportion as their movements have been least disturbed by agencies not arising from themselves. Every foreign or external influence which is brought to bear upon a nation is an interference with its natural development, and therefore complicates the circumstances we seek to investigate. To simplify complications, is, in all branches of knowledge, the first essential of success. This is very familiar to the cultivators of physical science, who are often able, by a single experiment, to discover a truth which innumerable observations had vainly searched; the reason being, that by experimenting on phenomena, we can disentangle them from their complications; and thus isolating them from the interference of unknown agencies, we leave them, as it were, to run their own course, and disclose the operation of their own law. This, then, is the true standard by which we must measure the value of the history of any nation. The importance of the history of a country depends, not upon the splendour of its exploits, but upon the degree to which its actions are due to causes springing out of itself. If, therefore, we could find some civilized people who had worked out their civilization entirely by themselves; who had escaped all foreign influence, and who had been neither benefited nor retarded by the personal peculiarities of their rulers,--the history of such a people would be of paramount importance; because it would present a condition of normal and inherent development; it would show the laws of progress acting in a state of isolation; it would be, in fact, an experiment ready-made, and would possess all the value of that artificial contrivance to which natural science is so much indebted. To find such a people as this is obviously impossible; but the duty of the philosophic historian is, to select for his especial study the country in which the conditions have been most closely followed. Now, it will be readily admitted, not only by ourselves, but by intelligent foreigners, that in England, during, at all events, the last three centuries, this has been done more constantly and more successfully than in any other country. I say nothing of the number of our discoveries, the brilliancy of our literature, or the success of our arms. These are invidious topics; and other nations may perhaps deny to us those superior merits which we are apt to exaggerate. But I take up this single position, that of all European countries, England is the one where, during the longest period, the government has been most quiescent, and the people most active; where popular freedom has been settled on the widest basis; where each man is most able to say what he thinks, and do what he likes; where every one can follow his own bent, and propagate his own opinions; where, religious persecution being little known, the play and flow of the human mind may be clearly seen, unchecked by those restraints to which it is elsewhere subjected; where the profession of heresy is least dangerous, and the practice of dissent most common; where hostile creeds flourish side by side, and rise and decay without disturbance, according to the wants of the people, unaffected by the wishes of the church, and uncontrolled by the authority of the state; where all interests, and all classes, both spiritual and temporal, are most left to take care of themselves; where that meddlesome doctrine called Protection was first attacked, and where alone it has been destroyed; and where, in a word, those dangerous extremes to which interference gives rise having been avoided, despotism and rebellion are equally rare, and concession being recognized as the groundwork of policy, the national progress has been least disturbed by the power of privileged classes, by the influence of particular sects, or by the violence of arbitrary rulers. That these are the characteristics of English history is notorious; to some men a matter of boast, to others of regret. And when to these circumstances we add, that England, owing to its insular formation,[371] was, until the middle of the last century, rarely visited by foreigners, it becomes evident that, in our progress as a people, we have been less affected than any other by the two main sources of interference, namely, the authority of government, and the influence of foreigners. In the sixteenth century, it became a fashion, among the English nobility, to travel abroad;[372] but it was by no means the fashion for foreign nobility to travel in England. In the seventeenth century, the custom of travelling for amusement spread so much, that, among the rich and idle classes, there were few Englishmen who did not, at least once in their life, cross the Channel; while the same classes in other countries, partly because they were less wealthy, partly from an inveterate dislike to the sea, hardly ever entered our island, unless compelled to do so on some particular business. The result was, that in other countries, and particularly in France and Italy, the inhabitants of the great cities became gradually accustomed to foreigners, and, like all men, were imperceptibly influenced by what they often saw. On the other hand, there were many of our cities in which none but Englishmen ever set their feet;[373] and inhabitants, even of the metropolis, might grow old without having once seen a single foreigner, except, perhaps, some dull and pompous ambassador taking his airing on the banks of the Thames. And although it is often said that, after the restoration of Charles II., our national character began to be greatly influenced by French example,[374] this, as I shall fully prove, was confined to that small and insignificant part of society which hung about the court; nor did it produce any marked effect upon the two most important classes,--the intellectual class, and the industrious class. The movement may, indeed, be traced in the most worthless parts of our literature,--in the shameless productions of Buckingham, Dorset, Etherege, Killigrew, Mulgrave, Rochester, and Sedley. But neither then, nor at a much later period, were any of our great thinkers influenced by the intellect of France;[375] on the contrary, we find in their ideas, and even in their style, a certain rough and native vigour, which, though offensive to our more polished neighbours, has at least the merit of being the indigenous product of our own country.[376] The origin and extent of that connexion between the French and English intellects which subsequently arose, is a subject of immense importance; but, like most others of real value, it has been entirely neglected by historians. In the present work, I shall attempt to supply this deficiency: in the mean time I may say, that although we have been, and still are, greatly indebted to the French for our improvement in taste, in refinement, in manners, and indeed in all the amenities of life, we have borrowed from them nothing absolutely essential, nothing by which the destinies of nations are permanently altered. On the other hand, the French have not only borrowed from us some very valuable political institutions, but even the most important event in French history is due, in no small degree, to our influence. Their revolution of 1789 was, as is well known, brought about, or, to speak more properly, was mainly instigated, by a few great men, whose works, and afterwards whose speeches, roused the people to resistance; but what is less known, and nevertheless is certainly true, is, that these eminent leaders learnt in England that philosophy and those principles by which, when transplanted into their own country, such fearful and yet such salutary results were effected.[377] [371] Coleridge well says, 'it is the chief of many blessings derived from the insular character and circumstances of our country, that our social institutions have formed themselves out of our proper needs and interests.' _Coleridge on the Constitution of the Church and State_, 8vo. 1830, pp. 20, 21. The political consequences of this were much noticed at the time of the French Revolution. See _Mémoires de La Fayette_, vol. i. p. 404, Bruxelles, 1837. [372] In another place, I shall collect the evidence of the rapidly increasing love of travelling in the sixteenth century; but it is interesting to observe, that during the latter half of the century there was first established the custom of appointing travelling tutors. Compare _Barrington's Observations on the Statutes_, p. 218, with a letter from Beza, written in 1598, in _Mémoires et Correspondence de Du Plessis Mornay_, vol. ix. p. 81. [373] In regard to the society of women, this was still more observable, even at a much later period; and when the Countess de Boufflers visited England, at the beginning of the reign of George III., 'on lui faisoit un mérite de sa curiosité de voir l'Angleterre; car on remarquoit qu'elle étoit la seule dame françoise de qualité qui fût venue en voyageuse depuis deux cents ans: on ne comprenoit point, dans cette classe, les ambassadrices, ni la duchesse de Mazarin, qui y étoient venues par nécessité.' _Dutens_, _Mémoires d'un Voyageur_, vol. i. p. 217. Compare _Mémoires de Madame de Genlis_, vol. viii. p. 241. [374] _Orme's Life of Owen_, p. 288; _Mahon's History of England_, vol. ii. p. 211; and many other writers. [375] The only Englishman of genius who, during this period, was influenced by the French mind, was Dryden; but this is chiefly apparent in his plays, the whole of which are now deservedly forgotten. His great works, and, above all, those wonderful satires, in which he distances every competitor, except Juvenal, are thoroughly national, and, as mere specimens of English, are, if I may express my own judgment, to be ranked immediately after Shakspeare. In Dryden's writings there are unquestionably many Gallicisms of expression, but few Gallicisms of thought; and it is by these last that we must estimate the real amount of foreign influence. Sir Walter Scott goes so far as to say, 'It will admit of question, whether any single French word has been naturalized upon the sole authority of Dryden.' _Scott's Life of Dryden_, p. 523, 8vo. 1808. Rather a bold assertion. As to the opinion of Fox, see Lord Holland's preface to _Fox's James II._, 4to. 1808, p. xxxii. [376] Another circumstance which has maintained the independence, and therefore increased the value, of our literature, is, that in no great country have literary men been so little connected with the government, or rewarded by it. That this is the true policy, and that to protect literature is to injure it, are propositions for the proof of which I must refer to chap. xi. of this volume--on the system of Louis XIV. In the mean time, I will quote the following words from a learned and, what is much better, a thoughtful writer: 'Nor must he who will understand the English institutions leave out of view the character of the enduring works which had sprung from the salient energy of the English mind. Literature had been left to develop itself. William of Orange was foreign to it; Anne cared not for it; the first George knew no English; the second not much.' _Bancroft's History of the American Revolution_, vol. ii. p. 48. Compare _Forster's Life of Goldsmith_, 1854, vol. i. pp. 93-96, vol. ii. p. 480. [377] See, for evidence of this influence of England, chap. v. of the second volume. It will not, I hope, be supposed, that by these remarks I mean to cast any reflection on the French: a great and admirable people; a people in many respects superior to ourselves; a people from whom we have still much to learn, and whose deficiencies, such as they are, arise from the perpetual interference of a long line of arbitrary rulers. But, looking at this matter historically, it is unquestionably true that we have worked out our civilization with little aid from them, while they have worked out theirs with great aid from us. At the same time, it must also be admitted, that our governments have interfered less with us than their governments have interfered with them. And without in the least prejudging the question as to which is the greater country, it is solely on these grounds that I consider our history more important than theirs: and I select for especial study the progress of English civilization, simply because, being less affected by agencies not arising from itself, we can the more clearly discern in it the normal march of society, and the undisturbed operation of those great laws by which the fortunes of mankind are ultimately regulated. After this comparison between the relative value of French and English history, it seems scarcely necessary to examine the claims which may be put forward for the history of other countries. Indeed, there are only two in whose favour any thing can be said: I mean Germany, considered as a whole, and the United States of North America. As to the Germans, it is undoubtedly true, that since the middle of the eighteenth century they have produced a greater number of profound thinkers than any other country, I might perhaps say, than all other countries put together. But the objections which apply to the French are still more applicable to the Germans. For the protective principle has been, and still is, stronger in Germany than in France. Even the best of the German governments are constantly interfering with the people; never leaving them to themselves, always looking after their interests, and meddling in the commonest affairs of daily life. Besides this, the German literature, though now the first in Europe, owes it origin, as we shall hereafter see, to that great sceptical movement, by which, in France, the Revolution was preceded. Before the middle of the eighteenth century, the Germans, notwithstanding a few eminent names, such as Kepler and Leibnitz, had no literature of real value; and the first impetus which they received, was caused by their contact with the French intellect, and by the influence of those eminent Frenchmen who, in the reign of Frederick the Great, flocked to Berlin,[378] a city which has ever since been the head-quarters of philosophy and science. From this there have resulted some very important circumstances, which I can here only briefly indicate. The German intellect, stimulated by the French into a sudden growth, has been irregularly developed; and thus hurried into an activity greater than the average civilization of the country requires. The consequence is, that there is no nation in Europe in which we find so wide an interval between the highest minds and the lowest minds. The German philosophers possess a learning, and a reach of thought, which places them at the head of the civilized world. The German people are more superstitious, more prejudiced, and, notwithstanding the care which the government takes of their education, more really ignorant, and more unfit to guide themselves, than are the inhabitants either of France or of England.[379] This separation and divergence of the two classes is the natural result of that artificial stimulus, which a century ago was administered to one of the classes, and which thus disturbed the normal proportions of society. Owing to this, the highest intellects have, in Germany, so outstripped the general progress of the nation, that there is no sympathy between the two parties; nor are there at present any means by which they may be brought into contact. Their great authors address themselves, not to their country, but to each other. They are sure of a select and learned audience, and they use what, in reality, is a learned language; they turn their mother-tongue into a dialect, eloquent indeed, and very powerful, but so difficult, so subtle, and so full of complicated inversions, that to their own lower classes it is utterly incomprehensible.[380] From this, there have arisen some of the most marked peculiarities of German literature. For, being deprived of ordinary readers, it is cut off from the influence of ordinary prejudice; and hence, it has displayed a boldness of inquiry, a recklessness in the pursuit of truth and a disregard of traditional opinions, which entitle it to the highest praise. But, on the other hand, this same circumstance has produced that absence of practical knowledge, and that indifference to material and physical interests, for which the German literature is justly censured. As a matter of course, all this has widened the original breach, and increased the distance which separates the great German thinkers from that dull and plodding class, which, though it lies immediately beneath them, still remains uninfluenced by their knowledge, and uncheered by the glow and fire of their genius. [378] The history of this remarkable, though short-lived, union between the French and German intellects will be traced in the next volume; but its first great effect, in stimulating, or rather in creating, the German literature, is noticed by one of the most learned of their own writers: 'Denn einestheils war zu diesen Gegenständen immer die lateinische Sprache gebraucht und die Muttersprache zu wenig cultivirt worden, anderntheils wurden diese Schriften auch meistentheils nur von Gelehrten, und zwar Universitätsgelehrten, für welche sie auch hauptsächlich bestimmt waren, gelesen. Gegen die Mitte des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts, als mehrere englische und französische Werke gelesen und übersetzt wurden, und durch die Vorliebe des Königs von Preussen Friedrichs II., der von Franzosen gebildet worden war, französische Gelehrte besonders geehrt und angestellt wurden, entstand ein Wetteifer der Deutschen, auch in dem schriftlichen Vortrage nicht zurück zu bleiben, und die Sprache hob sich bald zu einem hohen Grade von Vollkommenheit.' _Tennemann_, _Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. xi. pp. 286, 287. [379] A popular view of the system of national education established in Germany will be found in _Kay's Social Condition and Education of the People of Europe_, vol. ii. pp. 1-344. But Mr. Kay, like most literary men, overrates the advantages of literary acquirements, and underrates that education of the faculties which neither books nor schools can impart to a people who are debarred from the exercise of civil and political rights. In the history of the protective spirit (chaps. ix. and x. of the present volume), I shall return to this subject, in connexion with France; and in the next volume I shall examine it in regard to German civilization. In the mean time, I must be allowed to protest against the account Mr. Kay has given of the results of compulsory education; an agreeable picture, drawn by an amiable and intelligent writer, but of the inaccuracy of which I possess decisive evidence. Two points only I will now refer to: 1st. The notorious fact, that the German people, notwithstanding their so-called education, are unfit to take any share in political matters, and have no aptitude for the practical and administrative parts of government. 2nd. The fact, equally notorious to those who have studied the subject, that there are more popular superstitions in Prussia, the most educated part of Germany, than there are in England; and that the tenacity with which men cling to them is greater in Prussia than in England. For illustration of the practical working, in individual cases, of compulsory education, and of the hardship it causes, see a scandalous occurrence, related in _Laing's Notes of a Traveller_, 8vo. 1842, p. 165, first series; and on the physical evils produced by German education, see _Phillips on Scrofula_, London, 1846, pp. 253, 254, where there is some useful evidence of the consequences of 'that great German sin of over-regulation.' [380] This is well stated by Mr. Laing, by far the ablest traveller who has published observations on European society: 'German authors, both the philosophic and the poetic, address themselves to a public far more intellectual, and more highly cultivated, than our reading public.... In our literature, the most obscure and abstruse of metaphysical or philosophical writers _take the public mind in a far lower state_, simply cognisant of the meaning of language, and possessed of the ordinary reasoning powers.... The social influence of German literature is, consequently, confined within a narrower circle. It has no influence on the mind of the lower, or even of the middle classes in active life, who have not the opportunity or leisure to screw their faculties up to the pitch-note of their great writers. The reading public must devote much time to acquire the knowledge, tone of feeling, and of imagination, necessary to follow the writing public. The social economist finds accordingly in Germany the most extraordinary dulness, inertness of mind, and ignorance, below a certain level, with the most extraordinary intellectual development, learning, and genius, at or above it.' _Laing's Notes of a Traveller_, first series, pp. 266, 267. The same acute observer says, in a later work (_Notes_, third series, 8vo. 1852, p. 12): 'The two classes speak and think in different languages. The cultivated German language, the language of German literature, is not the language of the common man, nor even of the man far up in the middle ranks of society,--the farmer, tradesman, shopkeeper.' See also pp. 351, 352, 354. It is singular that so clear and vigorous a thinker as Mr. Laing evidently is, should have failed in detecting the cause of this peculiar phenomenon. In America, on the other hand, we see a civilization precisely the reverse of this. We see a country, of which it has been truly said, that in no other are there so few men of great learning, and so few men of great ignorance.[381] In Germany, the speculative classes and the practical classes are altogether disunited; in America, they are altogether fused. In Germany, nearly every year brings forward new discoveries, new philosophies, new means by which the boundaries of knowledge are to be enlarged. In America, such inquiries are almost entirely neglected: since the time of Jonathan Edwards no great metaphysician has appeared; little attention has been paid to physical science; and, with the single exception of jurisprudence,[382] scarcely anything has been done for those vast subjects on which the Germans are incessantly labouring. The stock of American knowledge is small, but it is spread through all classes; the stock of German knowledge is immense, but it is confined to one class. Which of these two forms of civilization is the more advantageous, is a question we are not now called upon to decide. It is enough for our present purpose, that in Germany, there is a serious failure in the diffusion of knowledge; and, in America, a no less serious one in its accumulation. And as civilization is regulated by the accumulation and diffusion of knowledge, it is evident that no country can even approach to a complete and perfect pattern, if, cultivating one of these conditions to an excess, it neglects the cultivation of the other. Indeed, from this want of balance and equilibrium between the two elements of civilization, there have arisen in America and in Germany those great but opposite evils, which, it is to be feared, will not be easily remedied; and which, until remedied, will certainly retard the progress of both countries, notwithstanding the temporary advantages which such one-sided energy does for the moment always procure. [381] 'Je ne pense pas qu'il y ait de pays dans le monde où, proportion gardée avec la population, il se trouve aussi peu d'ignorants et moins de savants qu'en Amérique.' _Tocqueville de la Démocratie en Amérique_, vol. i. p. 91. [382] The causes of this exception I shall endeavour to trace in the next volume; but it is interesting to notice, that, as early as 1775, Burke was struck by the partiality of the Americans for works on law. See _Burke's Speech_, in _Parliamentary History_, vol. xviii. p. 495; or in _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 188. He says: 'In no country perhaps in the world is the law so general a study. The profession itself is numerous and powerful; and in most provinces it takes the lead. The greater number of the deputies sent to the Congress were lawyers. But all who read--and most do read--endeavour to obtain some smattering in that science. I have been told by an eminent bookseller, that in no branch of his business, after tracts of popular devotion, were so many books as those on the law exported to the plantations. The colonists have now fallen into the way of printing them for their own use. I hear that they have sold nearly as many of Blackstone's Commentaries in America as in England.' Of this state of society, the great works of Kent and Story were, at a later period, the natural result. On the respect at present felt for the legal profession, see _Lyell's Second Visit to the United States_, 1849, vol. i. p. 45; and as to the judges, _Combe's N. America_, vol. ii. p. 329. I have very briefly, but I hope fairly, and certainly with no conscious partiality, endeavoured to estimate the relative value of the history of the four leading countries of the world. As to the real greatness of the countries themselves, I offer no opinion; because each considers itself to be first. But, unless the facts I have stated can be controverted, it certainly follows, that the history of England is, to the philosopher, more valuable than any other; because he can more clearly see in it the accumulation and diffusion of knowledge going hand-in-hand; because that knowledge has been less influenced by foreign and external agencies; and because it has been less interfered with, either for good or for evil, by those powerful, but frequently incompetent men, to whom the administration of public affairs is entrusted. It is on account of these considerations, and not at all from those motives which are dignified with the name of patriotism, that I have determined to write the history of my own country, in preference to that of any other; and to write it in a manner as complete, and as exhaustive, as the materials which are now extant will enable me to do. But, inasmuch as the circumstances already stated, render it impossible to discover the laws of society solely by studying the history of a single nation, I have drawn up the present Introduction in order to obviate some of the difficulties with which this great subject is surrounded. In the earlier chapters, I have attempted to mark out the limits of the subject considered as a whole, and fix the largest possible basis upon which it can rest. With this view, I have looked at civilization as broken into two vast divisions: the European division, in which Man is more powerful than Nature; and the non-European division, in which Nature is more powerful than Man. This has led us to the conclusion, that national progress, in connexion with popular liberty, could have originated in no part of the world except in Europe; where, therefore, the rise of real civilization, and the encroachments of the human mind upon the forces of nature, are alone to be studied. The superiority of the mental laws over the physical, being thus recognized as the groundwork of European history, the next step has been, to resolve the mental laws into moral and intellectual, and prove the superior influence of the intellectual ones in accelerating the progress of Man. These generalizations appear to me the essential preliminaries of history, considered as a science; and, in order to connect them with the special history of England, we have now merely to ascertain the fundamental condition of intellectual progress, as, until that is done, the annals of any people can only present an empirical succession of events, connected by such stray and casual links as are devised by different writers, according to their different principles. The remaining part of this Introduction will, therefore, be chiefly occupied in completing the scheme I have sketched, by investigating the history of various countries in reference to those intellectual peculiarities on which the history of our own country supplies no adequate information. Thus, for instance, in Germany, the accumulation of knowledge has been far more rapid than in England; the laws of the accumulation of knowledge may, on that account, be most conveniently studied in German history, and then applied deductively to the history of England. In the same way, the Americans have diffused their knowledge much more completely than we have done; I, therefore, purpose to explain some of the phenomena of English civilization by those laws of diffusion, of which, in American civilization, the workings may be most clearly seen, and hence the discovery most easily made. Again, inasmuch as France is the most civilized country in which the protective spirit is very powerful, we may trace the occult tendencies of that spirit among ourselves, by studying its obvious tendencies among our neighbours. With this view, I shall give an account of French history, in order to illustrate the protective principle, by showing the injury it has inflicted on a very able and enlightened people. And, in an analysis of the French Revolution, I shall point out how that great event was a reaction against the protective spirit; while, as the materials for the reaction were drawn from England, we shall also see in it the way in which the intellect of one country acts upon the intellect of another; and we shall arrive at some results respecting that interchange of ideas which is likely to become the most important regulator of European affairs. This will throw much light on the laws of international thought; and, in connexion with it, two separate chapters will be devoted to a History of the Protective Spirit, and an Examination of its relative intensity in France and England. But the French, as a people, have, since the beginning or middle of the seventeenth century, been remarkably free from superstition; and, notwithstanding the efforts of their government, they are very averse to ecclesiastical power: so that, although their history displays the protective principle in its political form, it supplies little evidence respecting its religious form; while, in our own country, the evidence is also scanty. Hence, my intention is, to give a view of Spanish history; because in it we may trace the full results of that protection against error which the spiritual classes are always eager to afford. In Spain, the church has, from a very early period, possessed more authority, and the clergy have been more influential, both with the people and the government, than in any other country; it will, therefore, be convenient to study in Spain the laws of ecclesiastical development, and the manner in which that development affects the national interests. Another circumstance, which operates on the intellectual progress of a nation, is the method of investigation that its ablest men habitually employ. This method can only be one of two kinds; it must be either inductive, or deductive. Each of these belongs to a different form of civilization, and is always accompanied by a different style of thought, particularly in regard to religion and science. These differences are of such immense importance, that, until their laws are known, we cannot be said to understand the real history of past events. Now, the two extremes of the difference are, undoubtedly, Germany and the United States; the Germans being pre-eminently deductive, the Americans inductive. But Germany and America are, in so many other respects, diametrically opposed to each other, that I have thought it expedient to study the operations of the deductive and inductive spirit in countries between which a closer analogy exists; because the greater the similarity between two nations, the more easily can we trace the consequences of any single divergence, and the more conspicuous do the laws of that divergence become. Such an opportunity occurs in the history of Scotland, as compared with that of England. Here we have two nations, bordering on each other, speaking the same language, reading the same literature, and knit together by the same interests. And yet it is a truth, which seems to have escaped attention, but the proof of which I shall fully detail, that, until the last thirty or forty years, the Scotch intellect has been even more entirely deductive than the English intellect has been inductive. The inductive tendencies of the English mind, and the almost superstitious reverence with which we cling to them, have been noticed with regret by a few, and a very few, of our ablest men.[383] On the other hand, in Scotland, particularly during the eighteenth century, the great thinkers, with hardly an exception, adopted the deductive method. Now, the characteristic of deduction, when applied to branches of knowledge not yet ripe for it, is, that it increases the number of hypotheses from which we reason downwards, and brings into disrepute the slow and patient ascent peculiar to inductive inquiry. This desire to grasp at truth by speculative, and, as it were, foregone conclusions, has often led the way to great discoveries; and no one, properly instructed, will deny its immense value. But when it is universally followed, there is imminent danger lest the observation of mere empirical uniformities should be neglected; and lest thinking men should grow impatient at those small and proximate generalizations which, according to the inductive scheme, must invariably precede the larger and higher ones. Whenever this impatience actually occurs, there is produced serious mischief. For these lower generalizations form a neutral ground, which speculative minds and practical minds possess in common, and on which they meet. If this ground is cut away, the meeting is impossible. In such case, there arises among the scientific classes an undue contempt for inferences which the experience of the vulgar has drawn, but of which the laws seem inexplicable; while, among the practical classes, there arises a disregard of speculations so wide, so magnificent, and of which the intermediate and preliminary steps are hidden from their gaze. The results of this in Scotland are highly curious, and are, in several respects, similar to those which we find in Germany; since in both countries the intellectual classes have long been remarkable for their boldness of investigation and their freedom from prejudice, and the people at large equally remarkable for the number of their superstitions and the strength of their prejudices. In Scotland this is even more striking than in Germany; because the Scotch, owing to causes which have been little studied, are, in practical matters, not only industrious and provident, but singularly shrewd. This, however, in the higher departments of life, has availed them nothing; and, while there is no country which possesses a more original, inquisitive, and innovating literature than Scotland does, so also is there no country, equally civilized, in which so much of the spirit of the Middle Ages still lingers, in which so many absurdities are still believed, and in which it would be so easy to rouse into activity the old feelings of religious intolerance. [383] Particularly Coleridge and Mr. John Mill. But, with the greatest possible respect for Mr. Mill's profound work on Logic, I must venture to think that he has ascribed too much to the influence of Bacon in encouraging the inductive spirit, and too little to those other circumstances which gave rise to the Baconian philosophy, and to which that philosophy owes its success. The divergence, and indeed the hostility, thus established between the practical and speculative classes, is the most important fact in the history of Scotland, and is partly cause and partly effect of the predominance of the deductive method. For this descending scheme being opposed to the ascending or inductive scheme, neglects those lower generalizations which are the only ones that both classes understand, and, therefore, the only ones where they sympathize with each other. The inductive method, as popularized by Bacon, gave great prominence to these lower or proximate truths; and this, though it has often made the intellectual classes in England too utilitarian, has at all events saved them from that state of isolation in which they would otherwise have remained. But in Scotland the isolation has been almost complete, because the deductive method has been almost universal. Full evidence of this will be collected in the third volume; but, that I may not leave the subject entirely without illustration, I will notice very briefly the principal instances that occurred during those three generations in which Scotch literature reached its highest excellence. During this period, which comprises nearly a century, the tendency was so unmistakable as to form a striking phenomenon in the annals of the human mind. The first great symptom was a movement begun by Simson, professor at the University of Glasgow, and continued by Stewart, professor at the University of Edinburgh. These able men made strenuous efforts to revive the pure Greek geometry, and depreciate the algebraic or symbolical analysis.[384] Hence there arose among them, and among their disciples, a love of the most refined methods of solution, and a contempt for those easier, but less elegant ones, which we owe to algebra.[385] Here we clearly see the isolating and esoteric character of a scheme which despises what ordinary understandings can quickly master, and which had rather proceed from the ideal to the tangible, than mount from the tangible to the ideal. Just at the same time, the same spirit was displayed, in another branch of inquiry, by Hutcheson, who, though an Irishman by birth, was educated in the University of Glasgow, and was professor there. In his celebrated moral and æsthetic researches, he, in the place of inductive reasoning from palpable facts, substituted deductive reasoning from impalpable principles; ignoring the immediate and practical suggestions of the senses, and believing that by a hypothetical assumption of certain laws, he could descend upon the facts, instead of rising from the facts in order to learn the laws.[386] His philosophy exercised immense influence among metaphysicians;[387] and his method of working downwards, from the abstract to the concrete, was adopted by another and a still greater Scotchman, the illustrious Adam Smith. How Smith favoured the deductive form of investigation is apparent in his _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, likewise in his _Essay on Language_,[388] and even in his fragment on the _History of Astronomy_, in which he, from general considerations, undertook to prove what the march of astronomical discovery must have been, instead of first ascertaining what it had been.[389] The _Wealth of Nations_, again, is entirely deductive, since in it Smith generalizes the laws of wealth, not from the phenomena of wealth, nor from statistical statements, but from the phenomena of selfishness; thus making a deductive application of one set of mental principles to the whole set of economical facts.[390] The illustrations with which his great book abounds are no part of the real argument: they are subsequent to the conception; and if they were all admitted, the work, though less interesting and perhaps less influential, would, in a scientific point of view, be equally valuable. To give another instance: the works of Hume, his metaphysical essays alone excepted, are all deductive; his profound economical inquiries are essentially _a priori_, and might have been written without any acquaintance with those details of trade and finance from which, according to the inductive scheme, they should have been generalized.[391] Thus, too, in his _Natural History of Religion_, he endeavoured simply by reflection, and independently of evidence, to institute a purely speculative investigation into the origin of religious opinions.[392] In the same way, in his _History of England_, instead of first collecting the evidence, and then drawing inferences from it, he began by assuming that the relations between the people and the government must have followed a certain order, and he either neglected or distorted the facts by which this supposition was contradicted.[393] These different writers, though varying in their principles, and in the subjects they studied, were all agreed as to their method; that is to say, they were all agreed to investigate truth rather by descent than by ascent. The immense social importance of this peculiarity I shall examine in the third volume, where I shall endeavour to ascertain how it affected the national civilization, and caused some curious contrasts with the opposite, and more empirical, character of English literature. In the meantime, and merely to state what will be hereafter proved, I may add, that the deductive method was employed, not only by those eminent Scotchmen I have mentioned, but was carried into the speculative _History of Civil Society_ by Ferguson; into the study of legislation by Mill; into the study of jurisprudence by Mackintosh; into geology by Hutton; into thermotics by Black and Leslie; into physiology by Hunter, by Alexander Walker, and by Charles Bell; into pathology by Cullen; into therapeutics by Brown and Currie. [384] Simson was appointed in 1711; and even before he began to lecture, he drew up 'a translation of the three first books of L'Hospital's Conic Sections, in which geometrical demonstrations are substituted for the algebraical of the original, according to Mr. Simson's early taste on this subject.' _Trail's Life and Writings of Robert Simson_, 1812, 4to. p. 4. This was probably the rudiment of his work on Conic Sections, published in 1735. _Montucla_, _Histoire des Mathématiques_, vol. iii. p. 12. On the difference between the ancient and modern schemes, there are some ingenious, though perhaps scarcely tenable, remarks in Dugald Stewart's _Philosophy of the Mind_, vol. ii. pp. 354 seq. and p. 380. See also _Comte_, _Philosophie Positive_, vol. i. pp. 383-395. Matthew Stewart, the mathematical professor at Edinburgh, was the father of Dugald. See, respecting him and his crusade against the modern analysis, _Bower's History of the University of Edinburgh_, vol. ii. pp. 357-360, vol. iii. p. 249; and a strange passage in _First Report of the British Association_, p. 59. [385] One of Simson's great reasons for recommending the old analysis, was that it was 'more elegant' than the comparatively modern practice of introducing algebraic calculations into geometry. See _Trail's Simson_, 1812, 4to. pp. 27, 67; a valuable work, which Lord Brougham, in his hasty life of Simson, calls, 'a very learned and exceedingly ill-written, indeed hardly readable' book. _Brougham's Men of Letters and Science_, vol. i. p. 482, 8vo. 1845. Dr. Trail's style is clearer, and his sentences are less involved, than Lord Brougham's; and he had moreover the great advantage of understanding the subject upon which he wrote. [386] Sir James Mackintosh (_Dissertation on Ethical Philosophy_, p. 208) says of Hutcheson, 'To him may also be ascribed that proneness to multiply ultimate and original principles in human nature, which characterized the Scottish school till the second extinction of a passion for metaphysical speculation in Scotland.' There is an able view of Hutcheson's philosophy in _Cousin_, _Histoire de la Philosophie_, I. série, vol. iv. pp. 31 seq.; written with clearness and eloquence, but perhaps overpraising Hutcheson. [387] On its influence, see a letter from Mackintosh to Parr, in _Memoirs of Mackintosh_, by his Son, vol. i. p. 334. Compare _Letters from Warburton to Hurd_, pp. 37, 82. [388] Which is added to his _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, edit. 1822, 2 volumes. Compare a letter which Smith wrote in 1763 on the origin of language (in _Nichols's Literary Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. iii. pp. 515, 516), which exhibits, on a small scale, the same treatment, as distinguished from a generalization of the facts which are supplied by a comprehensive comparison of different languages. Dr. Arnold speaks slightingly of such investigations. He says, 'Attempts to explain the phenomena of language _a priori_ seem to me unwise.' _Arnold's Miscellaneous Works_, p. 385. This would lead into a discussion too long for a note, but it appears to me that those _a priori_ inferences are, to the philologist, what hypotheses are to the inductive natural philosopher; and if this be the case, they are extremely important, because no really fruitful experiment ever can be made unless it is preceded by a judicious hypothesis. In the absence of such an hypothesis, men may grope in the dark for centuries, accumulating facts without obtaining knowledge. [389] See, for instance, his attempt to prove, from general reasonings concerning the human mind, that there was a necessary relation in regard to the order in which men promulgated the system of concentric spheres and that of eccentric spheres and epicycles. _History of Astronomy_, in _Smith's Philosophical Essays_, 1795, 4to. pp. 31, 36, which it may be convenient to compare with _Whewell's Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences_, 1847, vol. ii. pp. 53, 60, 61. This striking fragment of Adam Smith's is probably little read now; but it is warmly praised by one of the greatest living philosophers, M. A. Comte, in his _Philosophie Positive_, vol. vi. p. 319. [390] The two writers who have inquired most carefully into the method which political economists ought to follow, are Mr. John Mill (_Essays on Unsettled Questions of Political Economy_, 1844, pp. 120-164) and Mr. Rae (_New Principles of Political Economy_, 1834, pp. 328-351). Mr. Rae, in his ingenious work, objects to Adam Smith that he transgressed the rules of the Baconian philosophy, and thus prevented his inferences from being as valuable as they would have been if he had treated his subject inductively. But Mr. Mill, with great force of reasoning, has proved that the deductive plan is the only one by which political economy can be raised to a science. He says, p. 143, political economy is 'essentially an _abstract_ science, and its method is the method _a priori_;' and at p. 146, that the _a posteriori_ method is 'altogether inefficacious.' To this I may add, that the modern theory of rent, which is now the corner-stone of political economy, was got at, not by generalizing economical facts, but by reasoning downwards after the manner of geometricians. Indeed, those who oppose the theory of rent, always do so on the ground that it is contradicted by facts; and then, with complete ignorance of the philosophy of method, they infer that therefore the theory is wrong. See, for instance, _Jones on the Distribution of Wealth_, 8vo. 1831: a book containing some interesting facts, but vitiated by this capital defect of method. See also _Journal of Statistical Society_, vol. i. p. 317, vol. vi. p. 322; where it is said that economical theories should be generalized from statistical facts. Compare vol. xvii. p. 116, vol. xviii. p. 101. [391] A striking instance has lately come to light of the sagacity with which Hume employed this method. See _Burton's Life and Correspondence of Hume_, vol. ii. p. 486; where we find, that immediately Hume had read the _Wealth of Nations_, he detected Smith's error concerning rent being an element of price: so that it now appears that Hume was the first to make this great discovery, as far as the idea is concerned; though Ricardo has the merit of proving it. [392] The historical facts he introduces are merely illustrations; as any one will see who will read _The Natural History of Religion_, in _Hume's Philos. Works_, Edinb. 1826, vol. iv. pp. 435-513. I may mention, that there is a considerable similarity between the views advocated in this remarkable essay and the religious stages of _Comte's Philosophie Positive_; for Hume's early form of polytheism is evidently the same as M. Comte's fetichism, from which both these writers believe that monotheism subsequently arose, as a later and more refined abstraction. That this was the course adopted by the human mind is highly probable, and is confirmed by the learned researches of Mr. Grote. See his _History of Greece_, vol. i. pp. 462, 497, vol. v. p. 22. The opposite and more popular opinion, of monotheism preceding idolatry, was held by most of the great earlier writers, and is defended by many moderns, and among others by Dr. Whewell (_Bridgewater Treatise_, p. 256), who expresses himself with considerable confidence: see also _Letters from Warburton to Hurd_, p. 239. Compare _Thirlwall's History of Greece_, vol. i. p. 183, Lond. 1835, with the 'einige Funken des Monotheismus' of Kant, _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. ii. p. 455. [393] That is to say, he treated historical facts as merely illustrative of certain general principles, which he believed could be proved without the facts; so that, as M. Schlosser (_History of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. ii. p. 76) well says, 'History with Hume was only a subordinate pursuit, only a means by which he might introduce his philosophy,' &c. Considering how little is known of the principles which govern social and political changes, there can be no doubt that Hume was premature in the application of this method; but it is absurd to call the method dishonest, since the object of his History was, not to _prove_ conclusions, but to _illustrate_ them: and he therefore thought himself justified in selecting the illustrations. I am simply stating his views, without at all defending them; indeed, I believe that in this respect he was seriously in the wrong. This is an outline of the plan I purpose to follow in the present Introduction, and by means of which I hope to arrive at some results of permanent value. For by studying different principles in those countries where they have been most developed, the laws of the principles will be more easily unfolded than if we had studied them in countries where they are very obscure. And, inasmuch as, in England, civilization has followed a course more orderly, and less disturbed, than in any other country, it becomes the more necessary, in writing its history, to use some resources like those which I have suggested. What makes the history of England so eminently valuable is, that nowhere else has the national progress been so little interfered with, either for good or for evil. But the mere fact that our civilization has, by this means, been preserved in a more natural and healthy state, renders it incumbent on us to study the diseases to which it is liable, by observing those other countries where social disease is more rife. The security and the durability of civilization must depend on the regularity with which its elements are combined, and on the harmony with which they work. If any one element is too active, the whole composition will be in danger. Hence it is, that although the laws of the composition of the elements will be best ascertained wherever we can find the composition most complete, we must, nevertheless, search for the laws of each separate element wherever we can find the element itself most active. While, therefore, I have selected the history of England, as that in which the harmony of the different principles has been longest maintained, I have, precisely on that account, thought it advisable to study each principle separately in the country where it has been most powerful, and where, by its inordinate development, the equilibrium of the entire structure has been disturbed. By adopting these precautions, we shall be able to remove many of the difficulties which still beset the study of history. Before, however, entering that wide field which now lies in our way, it will be well to clear up some preliminary points, which I have not yet noticed, and the discussion of which may obviate certain objections that might otherwise be raised. The subjects to which I allude, are Religion, Literature, and Government: three topics of vast importance, and which, in the opinion of many persons, are the prime movers of human affairs. That this opinion is altogether erroneous will be amply proved in the present work; but as the opinion is widely spread, and is very plausible, it is necessary that we should at once come to some understanding respecting it, and inquire into the real nature of that influence, which these three great powers do actually exercise over the progress of civilization. Now, in the first place, it is evident that if a people were left entirely to themselves, their religion, their literature, and their government would be, not the causes of their civilization, but the effects of it. Out of a certain condition of society certain results naturally follow. Those results may, no doubt, be tampered with by some external agency; but if that is not done, it is impossible that a highly civilized people, accustomed to reason and to doubt, should ever embrace a religion of which the glaring absurdities set reason and doubt at defiance. There are many instances of nations changing their religion, but there is no instance of a progressive country voluntarily adopting a retrogressive religion; neither is there any example of a declining country ameliorating its religion. It is of course true, that a good religion is favourable to civilization, and a bad one unfavourable to it. Unless, however, there is some interference from without, no people will ever discover that their religion is bad until their reason tells them so; but if their reason is inactive, and their knowledge stationary, the discovery will never be made. A country that continues in its old ignorance will always remain in its old religion. Surely nothing can be plainer than this. A very ignorant people will, by virtue of their ignorance, incline towards a religion full of marvels; a religion which boasts of innumerable gods, and which ascribes every occurrence to the immediate authority of those gods. On the other hand, a people whose knowledge makes them better judges of evidence, and who are accustomed to that most difficult task, the practice of doubting, will require a religion less marvellous, less obtrusive; one that taxes their credulity less heavily. But will you, therefore, say, that the badness of the first religion causes the ignorance; and that the goodness of the second religion causes the knowledge? Will you say, that when one event precedes another, the one which comes first is the effect, and the one which follows afterwards is the cause? This is not the way in which men reason on the ordinary affairs of life; and it is difficult to see why they should reason thus respecting the history of past events. The truth is, that the religious opinions which prevail in any period are among the symptoms by which that period is marked. When the opinions are deeply rooted, they do, no doubt, influence the conduct of men; but before they can be deeply rooted, some intellectual change must first have taken place. We may as well expect that the seed should quicken in the barren rock, as that a mild and philosophic religion should be established among ignorant and ferocious savages. Of this innumerable experiments have been made, and always with the same result. Men of excellent intentions, and full of a fervent though mistaken zeal, have been, and still are, attempting to propagate their own religion among the inhabitants of barbarous countries. By strenuous and unremitting activity, and frequently by promises, and even by actual gifts, they have, in many cases, persuaded savage communities to make a profession of the Christian religion. But whoever will compare the triumphant reports of the missionaries with the long chain of evidence supplied by competent travellers, will soon find that such profession is only nominal, and that these ignorant tribes have adopted, indeed, the ceremonies of the new religion, but have by no means adopted the religion itself. They receive the externals, but there they stop. They may baptize their children; they may take the sacrament; they may flock to the church. All this they may do, and yet be as far removed from the spirit of Christianity as when they bowed the knee before their former idols. The rites and forms of a religion lie on the surface; they are at once seen, they are quickly learned, easily copied by those who are unable to penetrate to that which lies beneath. It is this deeper and inward change which alone is durable; and this the savage can never experience while he is sunk in an ignorance that levels him with the brutes by which he is surrounded. Remove the ignorance, and then the religion may enter. This is the only course by which ultimate benefit can be effected. After a careful study of the history and condition of barbarous nations, I do most confidently assert, that there is no well attested case of any people being permanently converted to Christianity, except in those very few instances where missionaries, being men of knowledge, as well as men of piety, have familiarized the savage with habits of thought, and, by thus stimulating his intellect, have prepared him for the reception of those religious principles, which, without such stimulus, he could never have understood.[394] [394] A writer of great authority has made some remarks on this, which are worth attending to: 'Ce fut alors que les Jésuites pénétrèrent dans la Chine pour y prêcher l'évangile. Ils ne tardèrent pas à s'apercevoir qu'un des moyens les plus efficaces pour s'y maintenir, en attendant le moment que le ciel avoit marqué pour éclairer ce vaste empire, étoit d'étaler des connoissances astronomiques.' _Montucla_, _Histoire des Mathématiques_, vol. i. p. 468; and see vol. ii. pp. 586, 587. Cuvier delicately hints at the same conclusion. He says of Emery: 'Il se souvenait que l'époque où le christianisme a fait le plus de conquêtes, et où ses ministres ont obtenu le plus de respect, est celle où ils portaient chez les peuples convertis les lumières des lettres, en même temps que les vérités de la religion, et où ils formaient à la fois dans les nations l'ordre le plus éminent et le plus éclairé.' _Cuvier_, _Eloges Historiques_, vol. iii. p. 170. Even Southey (_History of Brazil_, vol. ii. p. 378) says: 'Missionaries have always complained of the fickleness of their converts; and they must always complain of it, till they discover that some degree of civilization must precede conversion, or at least accompany it.' And see to the same effect, _Halkett's Notes on the North American Indians_, pp. 352, 353; and _Combe's North America_, vol. i. p. 250, vol. ii. p. 353. It is in this way that, looking at things upon a large scale, the religion of mankind is the effect of their improvement, not the cause of it. But, looking at things upon a small scale, or taking what is called a practical view of some short and special period, circumstances will occasionally occur which disturb this general order, and apparently reverse the natural process. And this, as in all such cases, can only arise from the peculiarities of individual men; who, moved by the minor laws which regulate individual actions, are able, by their genius or their energy, to interfere with the operation of those greater laws which regulate large societies. Owing to circumstances still unknown, there appear, from time to time, great thinkers, who, devoting their lives to a single purpose, are able to anticipate the progress of mankind, and to produce a religion or a philosophy, by which important effects are eventually brought about. But, if we look into history, we shall clearly see that, although the origin of a new opinion may be thus due to a single man, the result which the new opinion produces will depend on the condition of the people among whom it is propagated. If either a religion or a philosophy is too much in advance of a nation, it can do no present service, but must bide its time, until the minds of men are ripe for its reception. Of this innumerable instances will occur to most readers. Every science and every creed has had its martyrs; men exposed to obloquy, or even to death, because they knew more than their contemporaries, and because society was not sufficiently advanced to receive the truths which they communicated. According to the ordinary course of affairs, a few generations pass away, and then there comes a period when these very truths are looked upon as commonplace facts; and a little later, there comes another period, in which they are declared to be necessary, and even the dullest intellects wonder how they could ever have been denied. This is what happens when the human mind is allowed to have fair play, and to exercise itself, with tolerable freedom, in the accumulation and diffusion of knowledge. If, however, by violent, and therefore by artificial, means, this same society is prevented from exercising its intellect, then the truths, however important they may be, can never be received. For why should certain truths be rejected in one age, and acknowledged in another? The truths remain the same; their ultimate recognition must, therefore, be due to a change in the society which now accepts what it had before despised. Indeed, history is full of evidence of the utter inefficiency even of the noblest principles, when they are promulgated among a very ignorant nation. Thus it was that the doctrine of One God, taught to the Hebrews of old, remained for many centuries altogether inoperative. The people to whom it was addressed had not yet emerged from barbarism; they were, therefore, unable to raise their minds to so elevated a conception. Like all other barbarians, they craved after a religion which would feed their credulity with incessant wonders; and which, instead of abstracting the Deity to a single essence, would multiply their gods until they covered every field, and swarmed in every forest. This is the idolatry which is the natural fruit of ignorance; and this it is to which the Hebrews were perpetually recurring. Notwithstanding the most severe and unremitting punishments, they, at every opportunity, abandoned that pure theism which their minds were too backward to receive, and relapsed into superstitions which they could more easily understand,--into the worship of the golden calf, and the adoration of the brazen serpent. Now, and in this age of the world, they have long ceased to do these things. And why? Not because their religious feelings are more easily aroused, or their religious fears more often excited. So far from this, they are dissevered from their old associations; they have lost for ever those scenes by which men might well have been moved. They are no longer influenced by those causes which inspired emotions, sometimes of terror, sometimes of gratitude. They no longer witness the pillar of cloud by day, or the pillar of fire by night; they no longer see the Law being given from Sinai, nor do they hear the thunder rolling from Horeb. In the presence of these great appeals, they remained idolaters in their hearts, and whenever an opportunity occurred, they became idolaters in their practice, and this they did because they were in that state of barbarism, of which idolatry is the natural product. To what possible circumstance can their subsequent change be ascribed, except to the simple fact, that the Hebrews, like all other people, as they advanced in civilization, began to abstract and refine their religion, and, despising the old worship of many gods, thus by slow degrees elevated their minds to that steady perception of One Great Cause, which, at an earlier period, it had been vainly attempted to impress upon them? Thus intimate is the connexion between the opinions of a people and their knowledge; and thus necessary is it that, so far as nations are concerned, intellectual activity should precede religious improvement. If we require further illustrations of this important truth, we shall find them in the events which occurred in Europe soon after the promulgation of Christianity. The Romans were, with rare exceptions, an ignorant and barbarous race; ferocious, dissolute, and cruel. For such a people, Polytheism was the natural creed; and we read, accordingly, that they practised an idolatry which a few great thinkers, and only a few, ventured to despise. The Christian religion, falling among these men, found them unable to appreciate its sublime and admirable doctrines. And when, a little later, Europe was overrun by fresh immigrations, the invaders, who were even more barbarous than the Romans, brought with them those superstitions which were suited to their actual condition. It was upon the materials arising from these two sources that Christianity was now called to do her work. The result is most remarkable. For after the new religion seemed to have carried all before it, and had received the homage of the best part of Europe, it was soon found that nothing had been really effected. It was soon found that society was in that early stage in which superstition is inevitable; and in which men, if they do not have it in one form, will have it in another. It was in vain that Christianity taught a simple doctrine, and enjoined a simple worship. The minds of men were too backward for so great a step, and required more complicated forms, and a more complicated belief. What followed is well known to the students of ecclesiastical history. The superstition of Europe, instead of being diminished, was only turned into a fresh channel. The new religion was corrupted by the old follies. The adoration of idols was succeeded by the adoration of saints; the worship of the Virgin was substituted for the worship of Cybele;[395] Pagan ceremonies were established in Christian churches; not only the mummeries of idolatry, but likewise its doctrines, were quickly added, and were incorporated and worked into the spirit of the new religion; until, after a lapse of a few generations, Christianity exhibited so grotesque and hideous a form, that its best features were lost, and the lineaments of its earlier loveliness altogether destroyed.[396] [395] This is curiously illustrated by the fact, that the 25th of March, which is now called Lady-day, in honour of the Virgin Mary, was, in Pagan times, called Hilaria, and was dedicated to Cybele, the mother of the gods. Compare _Blunt's Vestiges of Ancient Manners_, 8vo. 1823, pp. 51-55, with _Hampson's Medii �vi Kalendarium_, 8vo. 1841, vol. i. pp. 56, 177. [396] On this interesting subject, the two best English books are, _Middleton's Letter from Rome_, and _Priestley's History of the Corruption of Christianity_; the former work being chiefly valuable for ritual corruptions, the latter work for doctrinal ones. _Blunt's Vestiges of Ancient Manners_ is also worth reading; but is very inferior to the two treatises just named, and is conceived in a much narrower spirit. After some centuries were passed, Christianity slowly emerged from these corruptions; many of which, however, even the most civilized countries have not yet been able to throw off.[397] Indeed, it was found impossible to effect even the beginning of a reform, until the European intellect was, in some degree, roused from its lethargy. The knowledge of men, gradually advancing, made them indignant at superstitions which they had formerly admired. The way in which their indignation increased, until, in the sixteenth century, it broke out into that great event which is well called the Reformation, forms one of the most interesting subjects in modern history. But, for our present purpose, it is enough to keep in mind the memorable and important fact that, for centuries after Christianity was the established religion of Europe, it failed to bear its natural fruit, because its lot was cast among a people whose ignorance compelled them to be superstitious, and who, on account of their superstition, defaced a system which, in its original purity, they were unable to receive.[398] [397] The large amount of Paganism which still exists in every Christian sect, forms an argument against an ingenious distinction which M. Bunsen has made between the change of a religion and that of a language; alterations in a religion being, as he supposes, always more abrupt than those in a language. _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. i. pp. 358, 359. [398] It was necessary, says M. Maury, that the church 'se rapprochât davantage de l'esprit grossier, inculte, ignorant du barbare.' _Maury_, _Légendes Pieuses du Moyen Age_, p. 101. An exactly similar process has taken place in India, where the Puranas are to the Vedas what the works of the Fathers are to the New Testament. Compare _Elphinstone's History of India_, pp. 87, 88, 98; _Wilson's Preface to the Vishnu Parana_, p. 7; and _Transactions of Bombay Society_, vol. i. p. 205. So that as M. Max Müller well expresses it, the Puranas are 'a secondary formation of Indian mythology.' _Müller on the Languages of India_, in _Reports of British Association for 1847_, p. 324. Indeed, in every page of history, we meet with fresh evidence of the little effect religious doctrines can produce upon a people, unless preceded by intellectual culture. The influence exercised by Protestantism, as compared with Catholicism, affords an interesting example of this. The Catholic religion bears to the Protestant religion exactly the same relation that the Dark Ages bear to the sixteenth century. In the Dark Ages, men were credulous and ignorant; they therefore produced a religion which required great belief and little knowledge. In the sixteenth century, their credulity and ignorance, though still considerable, were rapidly diminishing, and it was found necessary to organize a religion suited to their altered circumstances: a religion more favourable to free inquiry; a religion less full of miracles, saints, legends, and idols; a religion of which the ceremonies were less frequent, and less burdensome; a religion which should discourage penance, fasting, confession, celibacy, and those other mortifications which had long been universal. All this was done by the establishment of Protestantism; a mode of worship which, being thus suited to the age, made, as is well known, speedy progress. If this great movement had been allowed to proceed without interruption, it would, in the course of a few generations, have overthrown the old superstition, and established in its place a simpler and less troublesome creed; the rapidity with which this was done, being, of course, proportioned to the intellectual activity of the different countries. But, unfortunately, the European governments, who are always meddling in matters with which they have no concern, thought it their duty to protect the religious interests of the people; and making common cause with the Catholic clergy, they, in many instances, forcibly stopped the heresy, and thus arrested the natural development of the age. This interference was, in nearly all cases, well intended, and is solely to be ascribed to the ignorance of rulers respecting the proper limits of their functions: but the evils caused by this ignorance it would be difficult to exaggerate. During almost a hundred and fifty years, Europe was afflicted by religious wars, religious massacres, and religious persecutions; not one of which would have arisen, if the great truth had been recognised, that the state has no concern with the opinions of men, and no right to interfere, even in the slightest degree, with the form of worship which they may choose to adopt. This principle was, however, formerly unknown, or at all events unheeded; and it was not until the middle of the seventeenth century that the great religious contests were brought to a final close, and the different countries settled down into their public creeds; which, in the essential points, have never since been permanently altered; no nation having, for more than two hundred years, made war upon another on account of its religion; and all the great Catholic countries having, during the same period, remained Catholic, all the great Protestant ones remained Protestant. From this it has arisen, that, in several of the European countries, the religious development has not followed its natural order, but has been artificially forced into an unnatural one. According to the natural order, the most civilized countries should all be Protestants, and the most uncivilized ones Catholics. In the average of instances this is actually the case; so that many persons have been led into the singular error, of ascribing all modern enlightenment to the influence of Protestantism; overlooking the important fact, that until the enlightenment had begun, Protestantism was never required. But although, in the ordinary course of affairs, the advance of the Reformation would have been the measure, and the symptom, of that advance of knowledge by which it was preceded, still, in many cases, the authority of the government and of the church acted as disturbing causes, and frustrated the natural progress of religious improvement. And, after the treaty of Westphalia had fixed the political relations of Europe, the love of theological strife so greatly subsided, that men no longer thought it worth their while to raise a religious revolution, and to risk their lives in an attempt to overturn the creed of the state. At the same time, governments, not being themselves particularly fond of revolutions, have encouraged this stationary condition; and very naturally, and, as it appears to me, very wisely, have made no great alteration, but have left the national establishments as they found them; that is to say, the Protestant ones Protestant, and the Catholic ones Catholic. Hence it is, that the national religion professed by any country at the present moment, is no decisive criterion of the present civilization of the country; because the circumstances which fixed the religion occurred long since, and the religion remains endowed and established by the mere continuance of an impetus which was formerly given. Thus far as to the origin of the ecclesiastical establishments of Europe. But, in their practical consequences, we see some results which are highly instructive. For many countries owing their national creed, not to their own proper antecedents, but to the authority of powerful individuals, it will be invariably found, that in such countries the creed does not produce the effects which might have been expected from it, and which, according to its terms, it ought to produce. Thus, for instance, the Catholic religion is more superstitious, and more intolerant, than the Protestant; but it by no means follows, that those countries which profess the former creed, must be more superstitious, and more intolerant, than those which profess the latter. So far from this, the French are not only quite as free from those odious qualities as are the most civilized Protestants, but they are more free from them than some Protestant nations, as the Scotch and the Swedes. Of the highly-educated class, I am not here speaking; but of the clergy, and of the people generally, it must be admitted, that in Scotland there is more bigotry, more superstition, and a more thorough contempt for the religion of others, than there is in France. And in Sweden, which is one of the oldest Protestant countries in Europe,[399] there is, not occasionally, but habitually, an intolerance and a spirit of persecution, which would be discreditable to a Catholic country; but which is doubly disgraceful when proceeding from a people who profess to base their religion on the right of private judgment.[400] [399] The doctrines of Luther were first preached in Sweden in 1519; and, in 1527, the principles of the Reformation were formally adopted in an assembly of the States at Westeraas, which enabled Gustavus Vasa to seize the property of the church. _Geijer's History of the Swedes_, part i. pp. 110, 118, 119; _Mosheim's Ecclesiastical History_, vol. ii. p. 22; _Crichton and Wheaton's History of Scandinavia_, vol. i. pp. 399, 400. The apostasy proceeded so favourably, that De Thou (_Histoire Univ._ vol. xiii. p. 312) says, in 1598, 'Il y avoit déjà si long-tems que ce culte étoit établi en Suède, qu'il étoit comme impossible de trouver, soit parmi le peuple, soit parmi les seigneurs, quelqu'un qui se souvînt d'avoir vu dans ce roïaume l'exercice public de la religion catholique.' [400] On the state of things in 1838, see some curious, and indeed shameful, details in _Laing's Sweden_, 8vo. London, 1839. Mr. Laing, though himself a Protestant, truly says, that in Protestant Sweden there 'is inquisition law, working in the hands of a Lutheran state-church, as strongly as in Spain or Portugal in the hands of a Roman Catholic Church.' _Laing's Sweden_, p. 324. In the seventeenth century, it was ordered by the Swedish Church, and the order was confirmed by government, that 'if any Swedish subject change his religion, he shall be banished the kingdom, and lose all right of inheritance, both for himself and his descendants.... If any bring into the country teachers of another religion, he shall be fined and banished.' _Burton's Diary_, vol. iii. p. 387, 8vo. 1828. To this may be added, that it was not till 1781 that Roman Catholics were allowed to exercise their religion in Sweden. See _Crichton's History of Scandinavia_, Edinb. 1838, vol. ii. p. 320. See also, on this intolerant spirit, _Whitelocke's Journal of the Swedish Embassy_, vol. i. pp. 164, 412, vol. ii. p. 312. These things show, what it would be easy to prove by a wider induction, that when, from special, or, as they are called, accidental causes, any people profess a religion more advanced than themselves, it will not produce its legitimate effect.[401] The superiority of Protestantism over Catholicism consists in its diminution of superstition and intolerance, and in the check which it gives to ecclesiastical power. But the experience of Europe teaches us, that when the superior religion is fixed among an inferior people, its superiority is no longer seen. The Scotch and the Swedes,--and to them might be added some of the Swiss cantons,--are less civilized than the French, and are therefore more superstitious. This being the case, it avails them little that they have a religion better than the French. It avails them little that, owing to circumstances which have long since passed away, they, three centuries ago, adopted a creed to which the force of habit, and the influence of tradition, now oblige them to cling. Whoever has travelled in Scotland with sufficient attention to observe the ideas and opinions of the people, and whoever will look into Scotch theology, and read the history of the Scotch Kirk, and the proceedings of the Scotch Assemblies and Consistories, will see how little the country has benefited by its religion, and how wide an interval there is between its intolerant spirit and the natural tendencies of the Protestant Reformation. On the other hand, whoever will subject France to a similar examination, will see an illiberal religion accompanied by liberal views, and a creed full of superstitions professed by a people among whom superstition is comparatively rare. [401] We see a good instance of this in the case of the Abyssinians, who have professed Christianity for centuries; but, as no pains were taken to cultivate their intellect, they found the religion too pure for them: they, therefore, corrupted it, and, down to the present moment, they have not made the slightest progress. The accounts given by Bruce of them are well known; and a traveller, who visited them in 1839, says: 'Nothing can be more corrupt than the nominal Christianity of this unhappy nation. It is mixed up with Judaism, Mahommedanism, and idolatry, and is a mass of rites and superstitions which cannot mend the heart.' _Kraff's Journal at Ankobar_, in _Journal of Geographical Society_, vol. x. p. 488; see also vol. xiv. p. 13: and for a similar state of things in America, see the account of the Quiché Indians, in _Stephens's Central America_, vol. ii. pp. 191, 192. Compare _Squier's Central America_, vol. i. pp. 322, 323, with _Halkett's North-American Indians_, pp. 29, 212, 268. For further confirmation of this view, in another part of the world, see _Tuckey's Expedition to the Zaire_, pp. 79, 80, 165. The simple fact is, that the French have a religion worse than themselves; the Scotch have a religion better than themselves. The liberality of France is as ill suited to Catholicism, as the bigotry of Scotland is ill suited to Protestantism. In these, as in all similar cases, the characteristics of the creed are overpowered by the characteristics of the people; and the national faith is, in the most important points, altogether inoperative, because it does not harmonize with the civilization of the country in which it is established. How idle, then, it is to ascribe the civilization to the creed; and how worse than foolish are the attempts of government to protect a religion which, if suited to the people, will need no protection, and, if unsuited to them, will work no good! If the reader has seized the spirit of the preceding arguments, he will hardly require that I should analyze with equal minuteness the second disturbing cause, namely, Literature. It is evident, that what has already been said respecting the religion of a people, is, in a great measure, applicable to their literature. Literature,[402] when it is in a healthy and unforced state, is simply the form in which the knowledge of a country is registered; the mould in which it is cast. In this, as in the other cases we have considered, individual men may of course take great steps, and rise to a great height above the level of their age. But if they rise beyond a certain point, their present usefulness is impaired; if they rise still higher, it is destroyed.[403] When the interval between the intellectual classes and the practical classes is too great, the former will possess no influence, the latter will reap no benefit. This is what occurred in the ancient world, when the distance between the ignorant idolatry of the people and the refined systems of philosophers was altogether impassable;[404] and this is the principal reason why the Greeks and Romans were unable to retain the civilization which they for a short time possessed. Precisely the same process is at the present moment going on in Germany, where the most valuable part of literature forms an esoteric system, which, having nothing in common with the nation itself, produces no effect on the national civilization. The truth is, that although Europe has received great benefit from its literature, this is owing, not to what the literature has originated, but to what it has preserved. Knowledge must be acquired, before it can be written; and the only use of books is, to serve as a storehouse in which the treasures of the intellect are safely kept, and where they may be conveniently found. Literature, in itself, is but a trifling matter; and is merely valuable as being the armory in which the weapons of the human mind are laid up, and from which, when required, they can be quickly drawn. But he would be a sorry reasoner, who, on that account, should propose to sacrifice the end, that he might obtain the means; who should hope to defend the armory by giving up the weapons, and who should destroy the treasure, in order to improve the magazine in which the treasure is kept. [402] I use the word literature, not as opposed to science, but in its larger sense, including everything which is written--'taking the term literature in its primary sense, of an application of letters to the records of facts or opinions.' _Mure's History of the Literature of Greece_, vol. iv. p. 50. [403] Compare _Tocqueville_, _Démocratie en Amérique_, vol. ii. p. 130, with some admirable remarks on the Sophists in _Grote's History of Greece_, vol. viii. p. 481. Sir W. Hamilton, whose learning respecting the history of opinions is well known, says, 'Precisely in proportion as an author is in advance of his age, is it likely that his works will be neglected.' _Hamilton's Discussions on Philosophy_, p. 186. Thus, too, in regard to the line arts, Sir Joshua Reynolds (_Fourth Discourse_, in _Works_, vol. i. p. 363) says, 'Present time and future may be considered as rivals; and he who solicits the one, must expect to be discountenanced by the other.' [404] Hence the intellectually exclusive and, as M. Neander well terms it, 'aristocratic spirit of antiquity.' _Neander's History of the Church_, vol. i. pp. 40, 97, vol. ii. p. 31. This is constantly overlooked by writers who use the word 'democracy' loosely; forgetting that, in the same age, democracies of politics may be very common, while democracies of thought are very rare. For proof of the universal prevalence formerly of this esoteric and aristocratic spirit, see the following passages: _Ritter's History of Ancient Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 338, vol. iii. pp. 9, 17; _Tennemann_, _Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. ii. pp. 200, 205, 220; _Beausobre_, _Histoire Critique de Manichée_, vol. ii. p. 41; _Matter_, _Histoire du Gnosticisme_, vol. i. p. 13, vol. ii. pp. 83, 370; _Sprengel_, _Histoire de la Médecine_, vol. i. p. 250; _Grote's History of Greece_, vol. i. p. 561, vol. iv. p. 544; _Thirlwall's History of Greece_, vol. ii. p. 150, vol. vi. p. 95; _Warburton's Works_, vol. vii. pp. 962, 972, 4to. 1788; _Sharpe's History of Egypt_, vol. ii. p. 174; _Cudworth's Intellect. System_, vol. ii. pp. 114, 365, 443, vol. iii. p. 20. Yet this is what many persons are apt to do. From literary men, in particular, we hear too much of the necessity of protecting and rewarding literature, and we hear too little of the necessity of that freedom and boldness, in the absence of which the most splendid literature is altogether worthless. Indeed, there is a general tendency, not to exaggerate the advantages of knowledge,--for that is impossible,--but to misunderstand what that is in which knowledge really consists. Real knowledge, the knowledge on which all civilization is based, solely consists in an acquaintance with the relations which things and ideas bear to each other and to themselves; in other words, in an acquaintance with physical and mental laws. If the time should ever come when all these laws are known, the circle of human knowledge will then be complete; and, in the interim, the value of literature depends upon the extent to which it communicates either a knowledge of the laws, or the materials by which the laws may be discovered. The business of education is to accelerate this great movement, and thus increase the fitness and aptitude of men, by increasing the resources which they possess. Towards this purpose, literature, so far as it is auxiliary, is highly useful. But to look upon an acquaintance with literature as one of the objects of education, is to mistake the order of events, and to make the end subservient to the means. It is because this is done, that we often find what are called highly educated men, the progress of whose knowledge has been actually retarded by the activity of their education. We often find them burdened by prejudices, which their reading, instead of dissipating, has rendered more inveterate.[405] For literature, being the depository of the thoughts of mankind, is full, not only of wisdom, but also of absurdities. The benefit, therefore, which is derived from literature, will depend, not so much upon the literature itself, as upon the skill with which it is studied, and the judgment with which it is selected. These are the preliminary conditions of success; and if they are not obeyed, the number and the value of the books in a country become a matter quite unimportant. Even in an advanced stage of civilization, there is always a tendency to prefer those parts of literature which favour ancient prejudices, rather than those which oppose them; and in cases where this tendency is very strong, the only effect of great learning will be, to supply the materials which may corroborate old errors, and confirm old superstitions. In our time such instances are not uncommon; and we frequently meet with men whose erudition ministers to their ignorance, and who the more they read, the less they know. There have been states of society in which this disposition was so general, that literature has done far more harm than good. Thus, for example, in the whole period from the sixth to the tenth centuries, there were not in all Europe more than three or four men who dared to think for themselves; and even they were obliged to veil their meaning in obscure and mystical language. The remaining part of society was, during these four centuries, sunk in the most degrading ignorance. Under these circumstances, the few who were able to read, confined their studies to works which encouraged and strengthened their superstition, such as the legends of the saints, and the homilies of the fathers. From these sources they drew those lying and impudent fables, of which the theology of that time is principally composed.[406] These miserable stories were widely circulated, and were valued as solid and important truths. The more the literature was read, the more the stories were believed; in other words, the greater the learning, the greater the ignorance.[407] And I entertain no doubt, that if, in the seventh and eighth centuries, which were the worst part of that period,[408] all knowledge of the alphabet had for a while been lost, so that men could no longer read the books in which they delighted, the subsequent progress of Europe would have been more rapid than it really was. For when the progress began, its principal antagonist was that credulity which the literature had fostered. It was not that better books were wanting, but it was that the relish for such books was extinct. There was the literature of Greece and Rome, which the monks not only preserved, but even occasionally looked into and copied. But what could that avail such readers as they? So far from recognizing the merit of the ancient writers, they were unable to feel even the beauties of their style, and they trembled at the boldness of their inquiries. At the first glimpse of the light, their eyes were blinded. They never turned the leaves of a pagan author without standing aghast at the risk they were running; and they were in constant fear, lest by imbibing any of his opinions, they should involve themselves in a deadly sin. The result was, that they willingly laid aside the great master-pieces of antiquity; and in their place they substituted those wretched compilations, which corrupted their taste, increased their credulity, strengthened their errors, and prolonged the ignorance of Europe, by embodying each separate superstition in a written and accessible form, thus perpetuating its influence, and enabling it to enfeeble the understanding even of a distant posterity. [405] Locke has noticed this 'learned ignorance,' for which many men are remarkable. See a fine passage in the _Essay on Human Understanding_, book iii. chap. x. in _Locke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 27, and similar remarks in his _Conduct of the Understanding_, vol. ii. pp. 350, 364, 365, and in his _Thoughts on Education_, vol. viii. pp. 84-87. If this profound writer were now alive what a war he would wage against our great universities and public schools, where innumerable things are still taught which no one is concerned to understand, and which few will take the trouble to remember. Compare _Condorcet_, _Vie de Turgot_, pp. 255, 256 note. [406] The statistics of this sort of literature would prove a curious subject for inquiry. No one, I believe, has thought it worth while to sum them up; but M. Guizot has made an estimate that the Bollandist collection contains more than twenty-five thousand lives of saints; 'à en juger par approximation, ils contiennent plus de 25,000 vies de saints.' _Guizot_, _Histoire de la Civilisation en France_, vol. ii. p. 32. It is said (_Ledwich's Antiquities of Ireland_, p. 62) that of St. Patrick alone, there were sixty-six biographers before Joceline. [407] For, as Laplace observes, in his remarks on the sources of error in connexion with the doctrine of probabilities, 'C'est à l'influence de l'opinion de ceux que la multitude juge les plus instruits, et à qui elle a coutume de donner sa confiance sur les plus importants objets de la vie, qu'est due la propagation de ces erreurs qui, dans les temps d'ignorance, ont couvert la face du monde.' _Bouillaud_, _Philosophie Médicale_, p. 218. [408] M. Guizot (_Civilisation en France_, vol. ii. pp. 171, 172) thinks that, on the whole, the seventh was even worse than the eighth; but it is difficult to choose between them. It is in this way that the nature of the literature possessed by a people is of very inferior importance, in comparison with the disposition of the people by whom the literature is to be read. In what are rightly termed the Dark Ages, there was a literature in which valuable materials were to be found; but there was no one who knew how to use them. During a considerable period, the Latin language was a vernacular dialect;[409] and, if men had chosen, they might have studied the great Latin authors. But to do this, they must have been in a state of society very different from that in which they actually lived. They, like every other people, measured merit by the standard commonly received in their own age; and, according to their standard, the dross was better than the gold. They, therefore, rejected the gold, and hoarded up the dross. What took place then is, on a smaller scale, taking place now. Every literature contains something that is true, and much that is false; and the effect it produces will chiefly depend upon the skill with which the truth is discriminated from the falsehood. New ideas, and new discoveries, possess prospectively an importance difficult to exaggerate; but until the ideas are received, and the discoveries adopted, they exercise no influence, and, therefore, work no good. No literature can ever benefit a people, unless it finds them in a state of preliminary preparation. In this respect, the analogy with religious opinions is complete. If the religion and the literature of a country are unsuited to its wants, they will be useless, because the literature will be neglected, and the religion will be disobeyed. In such cases, even the ablest books are unread, and the purest doctrines despised. The works fall into oblivion; the faith is corrupted by heresy. [409] Some of the results of Latin being colloquially employed by the monks are judiciously stated in _Herder's Ideen zur Geschichte der Menschheit_, vol. iv. pp. 202, 203. The remarks on this custom by Dugald Stewart refer to a later period. _Stewart's Philosophy of the Mind_, vol. iii. pp. 110, 111. The other opinion to which I have referred is, that the civilization of Europe is chiefly owing to the ability which has been displayed by the different governments, and to the sagacity with which the evils of society have been palliated by legislative remedies. To any one who has studied history in its original sources, this notion must appear so extravagant, as to make it difficult to refute it with becoming gravity. Indeed, of all the social theories which have ever been broached, there is none so utterly untenable, and so unsound in all its parts, as this. In the first place, we have the obvious consideration, that the rulers of a country have, under ordinary circumstances, always been the inhabitants of that country; nurtured by its literature, bred to its traditions, and imbibing its prejudices. Such men are, at best, only the creatures of the age, never its creators. Their measures are the result of social progress, not the cause of it. This may be proved, not only by speculative arguments, but also by a practical consideration, which any reader of history can verify for himself. No great political improvement, no great reform, either legislative or executive, has ever been originated in any country by its rulers. The first suggesters of such steps have invariably been bold and able thinkers, who discern the abuse, denounce it, and point out how it is to be remedied. But long after this is done, even the most enlightened governments continue to uphold the abuse, and reject the remedy. At length, if circumstances are favourable, the pressure from without becomes so strong, that the government is obliged to give way; and, the reform being accomplished, the people are expected to admire the wisdom of their rulers, by whom all this has been done. That this is the course of political improvement, must be well known to whoever has studied the law-books of different countries in connexion with the previous progress of their knowledge. Full and decisive evidence of this will be brought forward in the present work; but, by way of illustration, I may refer to the abolition of the corn-laws, undoubtedly one of the most remarkable facts in the history of England during this century. The propriety, and, indeed, the necessity, of their abolition, is now admitted by every one of tolerable information; and the question arises, as to how it was brought about. Those Englishmen who are little versed in the history of their country will say, that the real cause was the wisdom of Parliament; while others, attempting to look a little further, will ascribe it to the activity of the Anti-Corn-Law League, and the consequent pressure put upon Government. But whoever will minutely trace the different stages through which this great question successively passed, will find, that the Government, the Legislature, and the League, were the unwitting instruments of a power far greater than all other powers put together. They were simply the exponents of that march of public opinion, which on this subject had begun nearly a century before their time. The steps of this vast movement I shall examine on another occasion; at present it is enough to say, that soon after the middle of the eighteenth century, the absurdity of protective restrictions on trade was so fully demonstrated by the political economists, as to be admitted by every man who understood their arguments, and had mastered the evidence connected with them. From this moment, the repeal of the corn-laws became a matter, not of party, nor of expediency, but merely of knowledge. Those who knew the facts, opposed the laws; those who were ignorant of the facts, favoured the laws. It was, therefore, clear, that whenever the diffusion of knowledge reached a certain point, the laws must fall. The merit of the League was, to assist this diffusion; the merit of the Parliament was, to yield to it. It is, however, certain, that the members both of League and Legislature could at best only slightly hasten what the progress of knowledge rendered inevitable. If they had lived a century earlier, they would have been altogether powerless, because the age would not have been ripe for their labours. They were the creatures of a movement which began long before any of them were born; and the utmost they could do was, to put into operation what others had taught, and repeat, in louder tones, the lessons they had learned from their masters. For, it was not pretended, they did not even pretend themselves, that there was anything new in the doctrines which they preached from the hustings, and disseminated in every part of the kingdom. The discoveries had long since been made, and were gradually doing their work; encroaching upon old errors, and making proselytes in all directions. The reformers of our time swam with the stream: they aided what it would have been impossible long to resist. Nor is this to be deemed a slight or grudging praise of the services they undoubtedly rendered. The opposition they had to encounter was still immense; and it should always be remembered, as a proof of the backwardness of political knowledge, and of the incompetence of political legislators, that although the principles of free trade had been established for nearly a century by a chain of arguments as solid as those on which the truths of mathematics are based, they were to the last moment strenuously resisted; and it was only with the greatest difficulty that Parliament was induced to grant what the people were determined to have, and the necessity of which had been proved by the ablest men during three successive generations. I have selected this instance as an illustration, because the facts connected with it are undisputed, and, indeed, are fresh in the memory of us all. For it was not concealed at the time, and posterity ought to know, that this great measure, which, with the exception of the Reform Bill, is by far the most important ever passed by a British parliament, was, like the Reform Bill, extorted from the legislature by a pressure from without; that it was conceded, not cheerfully, but with fear; and that it was carried by statesmen who had spent their lives in opposing what they now suddenly advocated. Such was the history of these events; and such likewise has been the history of all those improvements which are important enough to rank as epochs in the history of modern legislation. Besides this, there is another circumstance worthy the attention of those writers who ascribe a large part of European civilization to measures originated by European governments. This is, that every great reform which has been effected, has consisted, not in doing something new, but in undoing something old. The most valuable additions made to legislation have been enactments destructive of preceding legislation; and the best laws which have been passed, have been those by which some former laws were repealed. In the case just mentioned, of the corn-laws, all that was done was to repeal the old laws, and leave trade to its natural freedom. When this great reform was accomplished, the only result was, to place things on the same footing as if legislators had never interfered at all. Precisely the same remark is applicable to another leading improvement in modern legislation, namely, the decrease of religious persecution. This is unquestionably an immense boon; though, unfortunately, it is still imperfect, even in the most civilized countries. But it is evident that the concession merely consists in this: that legislators have retraced their own steps, and undone their own work. If we examine the policy of the most humane and enlightened governments, we shall find this to be the course they have pursued. The whole scope and tendency of modern legislation is, to restore things to that natural channel from which the ignorance of preceding legislation has driven them. This is one of the great works of the present age; and if legislators do it well, they will deserve the gratitude of mankind. But though we may thus be grateful to individual lawgivers, we owe no thanks to lawgivers, considered as a class. For since the most valuable improvements in legislation are those which subvert preceding legislation, it is clear that the balance of good cannot be on their side. It is clear, that the progress of civilization cannot be due to those who, on the most important subjects, have done so much harm, that their successors are considered benefactors, simply because they reverse their policy, and thus restore affairs to the state in which they would have remained, if politicians had allowed them to run on in the course which the wants of society required. Indeed, the extent to which the governing classes have interfered, and the mischiefs which that interference has produced, are so remarkable, as to make thoughtful men wonder how civilization could advance, in the face of such repeated obstacles. In some of the European countries, the obstacles have, in fact, proved insuperable, and the national progress is thereby stopped. Even in England, where, from causes which I shall presently relate, the higher ranks have for some centuries been less powerful than elsewhere, there has been inflicted an amount of evil, which, though much smaller than that incurred in other countries, is sufficiently serious to form a melancholy chapter in the history of the human mind. To sum up these evils would be to write a history of English legislation; for it may be broadly stated, that, with the exception of certain necessary enactments respecting the preservation of order, and the punishment of crime, nearly everything which has been done, has been done amiss. Thus, to take only such conspicuous facts as do not admit of controversy, it is certain that all the most important interests have been grievously damaged by the attempts of legislators to aid them. Among the accessories of modern civilization, there is none of greater moment than trade, the spread of which has probably done more than any other single agent to increase the comfort and happiness of man. But every European government which has legislated respecting trade, has acted as if its main object were to suppress the trade, and ruin the traders. Instead of leaving the national industry to take its own course, it has been troubled by an interminable series of regulations, all intended for its good, and all inflicting serious harm. To such a height has this been carried, that the commercial reforms which have distinguished England during the last twenty years, have solely consisted in undoing this mischievous and intrusive legislation. The laws formerly enacted on this subject, and too many of which are still in force, are marvellous to contemplate. It is no exaggeration to say, that the history of the commercial legislation of Europe presents every possible contrivance for hampering the energies of commerce. Indeed, a very high authority, who has maturely studied this subject, has recently declared, that if it had not been for smuggling, trade could not have been conducted, but must have perished, in consequence of this incessant interference.[410] However paradoxical this assertion may appear, it will be denied by no one who knows how feeble trade once was, and how strong the obstacles were which opposed it. In every quarter, and at every moment, the hand of government was felt. Duties on importation, and duties on exportation; bounties to raise up a losing trade, and taxes to pull down a remunerative one; this branch of industry forbidden, and that branch of industry encouraged; one article of commerce must not be grown, because it was grown in the colonies; another article might be grown and bought, but not sold again, while a third article might be bought and sold, but not leave the country. Then, too, we find laws to regulate wages; laws to regulate prices; laws to regulate profits; laws to regulate the interest of money; custom-house arrangements of the most vexatious kind, aided by a complicated scheme, which was well called the sliding-scale,--a scheme of such perverse ingenuity, that the duties constantly varied on the same article, and no man could calculate beforehand what he would have to pay. To this uncertainty, itself the bane of all commerce, there was added a severity of exaction, felt by every class of consumers and producers. The tolls were so onerous, as to double and often quadruple the cost of production. A system was organized, and strictly enforced, of interference with markets, interference with manufactories, interference with machinery, interference even with shops. The towns were guarded by excisemen, and the ports swarmed with tide-waiters, whose sole business was to inspect nearly every process of domestic industry, peer into every package, and tax every article; while, that absurdity might be carried to its extreme height, a large part of all this was by way of protection: that is to say, the money was avowedly raised, and the inconvenience suffered, not for the use of the government, but for the benefit of the people; in other words, the industrious classes were robbed, in order that industry might thrive. [410] 'C'est à la contrebande que le commerce doit de n'avoir pas péri sous l'influence du régime prohibitif; tandis que ce régime condamnait les peuples à s'approvisionner aux sources les plus éloignées, la contrebande rapprochait les distances, abaissait les prix, et neutralisait l'action funeste des monopoles.' _Blanqui_, _Histoire de l'Economie, Politique en Europe_, Paris, 1845, vol. ii. pp. 25, 26. Such are some of the benefits which European trade owes to the paternal care of European legislators. But worse still remains behind. For the economical evils, great as they were, have been far surpassed by the moral evils which this system produced. The first inevitable consequence was, that, in every part of Europe, there arose numerous and powerful gangs of armed smugglers, who lived by disobeying the laws which their ignorant rulers had imposed. These men, desperate from the fear of punishment,[411] and accustomed to the commission of every crime, contaminated the surrounding population; introduced into peaceful villages vices formerly unknown; caused the ruin of entire families; spread, wherever they came, drunkenness, theft, and dissoluteness; and familiarized their associates with those coarse and swinish debaucheries which were the natural habits of so vagrant and lawless a life.[412] The innumerable crimes arising from this,[413] are directly chargeable upon the European governments by whom they were provoked. The offences were caused by the laws; and now that the laws are repealed, the offences have disappeared. But it will hardly be pretended, that the interests of civilization have been advanced by such a policy as this. It will hardly be pretended, that we owe much to a system which, having called into existence a new class of criminals, at length retraces its steps; and, though it thus puts an end to the crime, only destroys what its own acts had created. [411] The 19 Geo. II. c. 34, made 'all forcible acts of smuggling, carried on in defiance of the laws, or _even in disguise to evade them_, felony without benefit of clergy.' _Blackstone's Commentaries_, vol. iv. p. 155. Townsend, who travelled through France in 1786, says, that when any of the numerous smugglers were taken, 'some of them are hanged, some are broken upon the wheel, and some are burnt alive.' _Townsend's Spain_, vol. i. p. 85, edit. 1792. On the general operation of the French laws against smugglers in the eighteenth century, compare _Tucker's Life of Jefferson_, vol. i. pp. 213, 214, with _Parliamentary History_, vol. ix. p. 1240. [412] In a work of considerable ability, the following account is given of the state of things in England and France so late as the year 1824: 'While this was going forward on the English coast, the smugglers on the opposite shore were engaged, with much more labour, risk, and expense, in introducing English woollens, by a vast system of fraud and lying, into the towns, past a series of custom-houses. In both countries, there was an utter dissoluteness of morals connected with these transactions. Cheating and lying were essential to the whole system; drunkenness accompanied it; contempt for all law grew up under it; honest industry perished beneath it; and it was crowned with murder.' _Martineau's History of England during Thirty Years' Peace_, vol. i. p. 341, 8vo. 1849. [413] For evidence of the extraordinary extent to which smuggling was formerly carried, and that not secretly, but by powerful bodies of armed men, see _Parliamentary History_, vol. ix. pp. 243, 247, 1290, 1345, vol. x. pp. 394, 405, 530, 532, vol. xi. p. 935. And on the number of persons engaged in it, compare _Tomline's Life of Pitt_, vol. i. p. 359: see also _Sinclair's History of the Public Revenue_, vol. iii. p. 232; _Otter's Life of Clarke_, vol. i. p. 391. In France, the evil was equally great. M. Lemontey says, that early in the eighteenth century, 'la contrebande devenait une profession ouverte, et des compagnies de cavalerie désertèrent tout entières leurs étendards pour suivre contre le fisc cette guerre populaire.' _Lemontey_, _Essai sur l'Etablissement monarchique de Louis XIV_, p. 430. According to Townsend, there were, in 1786, 'more than 1500 smugglers in the Pyrenees.' _Townsend's Journey through Spain_, vol. i. p. 84. It is unnecessary to say, that these remarks do not affect the real services rendered to society by every tolerably organized government. In all countries, a power of punishing crime, and of framing laws, must reside somewhere; otherwise the nation is in a state of anarchy. But the accusation which the historian is bound to bring against every government which has hitherto existed is, that it has overstepped its proper functions, and, at each step, has done incalculable harm. The love of exercising power has been found to be so universal, that no class of men who have possessed authority have been able to avoid abusing it. To maintain order, to prevent the strong from oppressing the weak, and to adopt certain precautions respecting the public health, are the only services which any government can render to the interests of civilization. That these are services of immense value, no one will deny; but it cannot be said, that by them civilization is advanced, or the progress of Man accelerated. All that is done is, to afford the opportunity of progress; the progress itself must depend upon other matters. And that this is the sound view of legislation, is, moreover, evident from the fact, that as knowledge is becoming more diffused, and as an increasing experience is enabling each successive generation better to understand the complicated relations of life; just in the same proportion are men insisting upon the repeal of those protective laws, the enactment of which was deemed by politicians to be the greatest triumph of political foresight. Seeing, therefore, that the efforts of government in favour of civilization are, when most successful, altogether negative; and seeing too, that when those efforts are more than negative, they become injurious,--it clearly follows, that all speculations must be erroneous which ascribe the progress of Europe to the wisdom of its rulers. This is an inference which rests not only on the arguments already adduced, but on facts which might be multiplied from every page of history. For no government having recognized its proper limits, the result is, that every government has inflicted on its subjects great injuries; and has done this nearly always with the best intentions. The effects of its protective policy in injuring trade, and, what is far worse, in increasing crime, have just been noticed; and to these instances, innumerable others might be added. Thus, during many centuries, every government thought it was its bounden duty to encourage religious truth, and discourage religious error. The mischief this has produced is incalculable. Putting aside all other considerations, it is enough to mention its two leading consequences; which are, the increase of hypocrisy, and the increase of perjury. The increase of hypocrisy is the inevitable result of connecting any description of penalty with the profession of particular opinions. Whatever may be the case with individuals, it is certain that the majority of men find an extreme difficulty in long resisting constant temptation. And when the temptation comes to them in the shape of honour and emolument, they are too often ready to profess the dominant opinions, and abandon, not indeed their belief, but the external marks by which that belief is made public. Every man who takes this step is a hypocrite; and every government which encourages this step to be taken, is an abettor of hypocrisy and a creator of hypocrites. Well, therefore, may we say, that when a government holds out as a bait, that those who profess certain opinions shall enjoy certain privileges, it plays the part of the tempter of old, and, like the Evil One, basely offers the good things of this world to him who will change his worship and deny his faith. At the same time, and as a part of this system, the increase of perjury has accompanied the increase of hypocrisy. For legislators, plainly seeing that proselytes thus obtained could not be relied upon, have met the danger by the most extraordinary precautions; and compelling men to confirm their belief by repeated oaths, have thus sought to protect the old creed against the new converts. It is this suspicion as to the motives of others, which has given rise to oaths of every kind and in every direction. In England, even the boy at college is forced to swear about matters which he cannot understand, and which far riper minds are unable to master. If he afterwards goes into Parliament, he must again swear about his religion; and at nearly every stage of political life he must take fresh oaths; the solemnity of which is often strangely contrasted with the trivial functions to which they are the prelude. A solemn adjuration of the Deity being thus made at every turn, it has happened, as might have been expected, that oaths, enjoined as a matter of course, have at length degenerated into a matter of form. What is lightly taken, is easily broken. And the best observers of English society,--observers too whose characters are very different, and who hold the most opposite opinions,--are all agreed on this, that the perjury habitually practised in England, and of which government is the immediate creator, is so general, that it has become a source of national corruption, has diminished the value of human testimony, and shaken the confidence which men naturally place in the word of their fellow-creatures.[414] [414] Archbishop Whately says, what hardly any thinking man will now deny, 'If oaths were abolished--leaving the penalties for false witness (no unimportant part of our security) unaltered--I am convinced that, on the whole, testimony would be more trustworthy than it is.' _Whately's Elements of Rhetoric_, 8vo. 1850, p. 47. See also on the amount of perjury caused by English legislation, _Jeremy Bentham's Works_, edit. Bowring, vol. ii. p. 210, vol. v. pp. 191-229, 454-466, vol. vi. pp. 314, 315; _Orme's Life of Owen_, p. 195; _Locke's Works_, vol. iv. p. 6; _Berkeley's Works_, vol. ii. p. 196; _Whiston's Memoirs_, pp. 33, 411-413; _Hamilton's Discussions on Philosophy and Literature_, pp. 454, 522, 527, 528. Sir W. Hamilton sums up: 'But if the perjury of England stands pre-eminent in the world, the perjury of the English Universities, and of Oxford in particular, stands pre-eminent in England,' p. 528. Compare _Priestley's Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 374 and _Baker's Life of Sir Thomas Bernard_, 1819, pp. 188, 189. The open vices, and, what is much more dangerous, the hidden corruption, thus generated in the midst of society by the ignorant interference of Christian rulers, is indeed a painful subject; but it is one which I could not omit in an analysis of the causes of civilization. It would be easy to push the inquiry still further, and to show how legislators, in every attempt they have made to protect some particular interests, and uphold some particular principles, have not only failed, but have brought about results diametrically opposite to those which they proposed. We have seen that their laws in favour of industry have injured industry; that their laws in favour of religion have increased hypocrisy; and that their laws to secure truth have encouraged perjury. Exactly in the same way, nearly every country has taken steps to prevent usury, and keep down the interest of money; and the invariable effect has been to increase usury, and raise the interest of money. For, since no prohibition, however stringent, can destroy the natural relation between demand and supply, it has followed, that when some men want to borrow, and other men want to lend, both parties are sure to find means of evading a law which interferes with their mutual rights.[415] If the two parties were left to adjust their own bargain undisturbed, the usury would depend on the circumstances of the loan; such as the amount of security, and the chance of repayment. But this natural arrangement has been complicated by the interference of government.[416] A certain risk being always incurred by those who disobey the law, the usurer, very properly, refuses to lend his money unless he is also compensated for the danger he is in from the penalty hanging over him. This compensation can only be made by the borrower, who is thus obliged to pay what in reality is a double interest: one interest for the natural risk on the loan, and another interest for the extra risk from the law. Such, then, is the position in which every European legislature has placed itself. By enactments against usury, it has increased what it wished to destroy; it has passed laws, which the imperative necessities of men compel them to violate: while, to wind up the whole, the penalty for such violation falls on the borrowers; that is, on the very class in whose favour the legislators interfered.[417] [415] 'L'observation rigoureuse de ces loix seroit destructive de tout commerce; aussi ne sont-elles pas observées rigoureusement.' _Mémoire sur les Prêts d'Argent_, sec. xiv., in _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. v. pp. 278, 279. Compare _Ricardo's Works_, pp. 178, 179, with _Condorcet_, _Vie de Turgot_, pp. 53, 54, 228. [416] Aided by the church. Ecclesiastical councils contain numerous regulations against usury; and, in 1179, Pope Alexander ordered that usurers were not to be buried: 'Quia in omnibus ferè locis crimen usurarum invaluit; ut multi negotiis prætermissis quasi licitè usuras exerceant; et qualiter utriusque testamenti pagina condemnetur, non attendunt: ideò constituimus, ut usurarii manifesti nec ad communionem recipiantur altaris, nec Christianam, si in hoc peccato decesserint, accipiant sepulturam, sed nec oblationem eorum quisquam accipiat.' _Rog. de Hoved. Annal. in Rerum Anglicarum Scriptores post Bedam_, p. 335, Lond. 1596, folio. In Spain, the Inquisition took cognizance of usury. See _Llorente_, _Histoire de l'Inquisition_, vol. i. p. 339. Compare _Ledwich's Antiquities of Ireland_, p. 133. [417] The whole subject of the usury laws has been treated by Bentham in so complete and exhaustive a manner, that I cannot do better than refer the reader to his admirable 'Letters.' A part only of the question is discussed, and that very imperfectly, in _Rey's Science Sociale_, vol. iii. pp. 64, 65. On the necessity of usury to mitigate the effects of a commercial panic, see _Mill's Principles of Political Economy_, vol. ii. p. 185. In the same meddling spirit, and with the same mistaken notions of protection, the great Christian governments have done other things still more injurious. They have made strenuous and repeated efforts to destroy the liberty of the press, and prevent men from expressing their sentiments on the most important questions in politics and religion. In nearly every country, they, with the aid of the church, have organized a vast system of literary police; the sole object of which is, to abrogate the undoubted right of every citizen to lay his opinions before his fellow-citizens. In the very few countries where they have stopped short of these extreme steps, they have had recourse to others less violent, but equally unwarrantable. For even where they have not openly forbidden the free dissemination of knowledge, they have done all that they could to check it. On all the implements of knowledge, and on all the means by which it is diffused, such as paper, books, political journals, and the like, they have imposed duties so heavy, that they could hardly have done worse if they had been the sworn advocates of popular ignorance. Indeed, looking at what they have actually accomplished, it may be emphatically said, that they have taxed the human mind. They have made the very thoughts of men pay toll. Whoever wishes to communicate his ideas to others, and thus do what he can to increase the stock of our acquirements, must first pour his contributions into the imperial exchequer. That is the penalty inflicted on him for instructing his fellow-creatures. That is the blackmail which government extorts from literature; and on receipt of which it accords its favour, and agrees to abstain from further demands. And what causes all this to be the more insufferable, is the use which is made of these and similar exactions, wrung from every kind of industry, both bodily and mental. It is truly a frightful consideration, that knowledge is to be hindered, and that the proceeds of honest labour, of patient thought, and sometimes of profound genius, are to be diminished, in order that a large part of their scanty earnings may go to swell the pomp of an idle and ignorant court, minister to the caprice of a few powerful individuals, and too often supply them with the means of turning against the people resources which the people called into existence. These, and the foregoing statements, respecting the effects produced on European society by political legislation, are not doubtful or hypothetical inferences, but are such as every reader of history may verify for himself. Indeed, some of them are still acting in England; and, in one country or another, the whole of them may be seen in full force. When put together, they compose an aggregate so formidable, that we may well wonder how, in the face of them, civilization has been able to advance. That, under such circumstances, it has advanced, is a decisive proof of the extraordinary energy of Man; and justifies a confident belief, that as the pressure of legislation is diminished, and the human mind less hampered, the progress will continue with accelerated speed. But it is absurd, it would be a mockery of all sound reasoning, to ascribe to legislation any share in the progress; or to expect any benefit from future legislators, except that sort of benefit which consists in undoing the work of their predecessors. This is what the present generation claims at their hands; and it should be remembered that what one generation solicits as a boon, the next generation demands as a right. And, when the right is pertinaciously refused, one of two things has always happened: either the nation has retrogaded, or else the people have risen. Should the government remain firm, this is the cruel dilemma in which men are placed. If they submit, they injure their country; if they rebel, they may injure it still more. In the ancient monarchies of the East, their usual plan was to yield; in the monarchies of Europe, it has been to resist. Hence those insurrections and rebellions which occupy so large a space in modern history, and which are but repetitions of the old story, the undying struggle between oppressors and oppressed. It would, however, be unjust to deny, that in one country the fatal crisis has now for several generations been successfully averted. In one European country, and in one alone, the people have been so strong and the government so weak, that the history of legislation, taken as a whole, is, notwithstanding a few aberrations, the history of slow, but constant concession: reforms which would have been refused to argument, have been yielded from fear; while from the steady increase of democratic opinions, protection after protection, and privilege after privilege, have, even in our time, been torn away; until the old institutions, though they retain their former name, have lost their former vigour, and there no longer remains a doubt as to what their fate must ultimately be. Nor need we add, that in this same country, where, more than in any other of Europe, legislators are the exponents and the servants of the popular will, the progress has, on this account, been more undeviating than elsewhere; there has been neither anarchy nor revolution; and the world has been made familiar with the great truth, that one main condition of the prosperity of a people is, that its rulers shall have very little power, that they shall exercise that power very sparingly, and that they shall by no means presume to raise themselves into supreme judges of the national interests, or deem themselves authorized to defeat the wishes of those for whose benefit alone they occupy the post entrusted to them. CHAPTER VI. ORIGIN OF HISTORY, AND STATE OF HISTORICAL LITERATURE DURING THE MIDDLE AGES. I have now laid before the reader an examination of those conspicuous circumstances to which the progress of civilization is commonly ascribed; and I have proved that such circumstances, so far from being the cause of civilization, are at best only its effects; and that although religion, literature, and legislation do, undoubtedly, modify the condition of mankind, they are still more modified by it. Indeed, as we have clearly seen, they, even in their most favourable position, can be but secondary agents; because, however beneficial their apparent influence may be, they are themselves the product of preceding changes, and their results will vary according to the variations of the society on which they work. It is thus that, by each successive analysis, the field of the present inquiry has been narrowed, until we have found reason to believe that the growth of European civilization is solely due to the progress of knowledge, and that the progress of knowledge depends on the number of truths which the human intellect discovers, and on the extent to which they are diffused. In support of this proposition, I have, as yet, only brought forward such general arguments as establish a very strong probability; which, to raise to a certainty, will require an appeal to history in the widest sense of the term. Thus to verify speculative conclusions by an exhaustive enumeration of the most important particular facts, is the task which I purpose to execute so far as my powers will allow; and in the preceding chapter I have briefly stated the method according to which the investigation will be conducted. Besides this, it has appeared to me that the principles which I have laid down may also be tested by a mode of proceeding which I have not yet mentioned, but which is intimately connected with the subject now before us. This is, to incorporate with an inquiry into the progress of the history of Man, another inquiry into the progress of History itself. By this means, great light will be thrown on the movements of society; since there must always be a connexion between the way in which men contemplate the past, and the way in which they contemplate the present; both views being in fact different forms of the same habits of thought, and therefore presenting, in each age, a certain sympathy and correspondence with each other. It will, moreover, be found, that such an inquiry into what I call the history of history, will establish two leading facts of considerable value. The first fact is, that during the last three centuries, historians, taken as a class, have shown a constantly increasing respect for the human intellect, and an aversion for those innumerable contrivances by which it was formerly shackled. The second fact is, that during the same period, they have displayed a growing tendency to neglect matters once deemed of paramount importance, and have been more willing to attend to subjects connected with the condition of the people and the diffusion of knowledge. These two facts will be decisively established in the present Introduction; and it must be admitted, that their existence corroborates the principles which I have propounded. If it can be ascertained, that as society has improved, historical literature has constantly tended in one given direction, there arises a very strong probability in favour of the truth of those views towards which it is manifestly approaching. Indeed, it is a probability of this sort which makes it so important for the student of any particular science to be acquainted with its history; because there is always a fair presumption that when general knowledge is advancing, any single department of it, if studied by competent men, is also advancing, even when the results may have been so small as to seem unworthy of attention. Hence it becomes highly important to observe the way in which, during successive ages, historians have shifted their ground; since we shall find that such changes have in the long-run always pointed to the same quarter, and are, in reality, only part of that vast movement by which the human intellect, with infinite difficulty, has vindicated its own rights, and slowly emancipated itself from those inveterate prejudices which long impeded its action. With a view to these considerations, it seems advisable that, when examining the different civilizations into which the great countries of Europe have diverged, I should also give an account of the way in which history has been commonly written in each country. In the employment of this resource, I shall be mainly guided by a desire to illustrate the intimate connexion between the actual condition of a people and their opinions respecting the past; and, in order to keep this connexion in sight, I shall treat the state of historical literature, not as a separate subject, but as forming part of the intellectual history of each nation. The present volume will contain a view of the principal characteristics of French civilization until the great Revolution; and with that there will be incorporated an account of the French historians, and of the remarkable improvements they introduced into their own departments of knowledge. The relation which these improvements bore to the state of society from which they proceeded, is very striking, and will be examined at some length; while, in the next volume, the civilization and the historical literature of the other leading countries will be treated in a similar manner. Before, however, entering into these different subjects, it has occurred to me, that a preliminary inquiry into the origin of European history would be interesting, as supplying information respecting matters which are little known, and also as enabling the reader to understand the extreme difficulty with which history has reached its present advanced, but still very imperfect, state. The materials for studying the earliest condition of Europe have long since perished; but the extensive information we now possess concerning barbarous nations will supply us with a useful resource, because they have all much in common; the opinions of extreme ignorance being, indeed, every where the same, except when modified by the differences which nature presents in various countries. I have, therefore, no hesitation in employing the evidence which has been collected by competent travellers, and drawing inferences from it respecting that period of the European mind, of which we have no direct knowledge. Such conclusions will, of course, be speculative; but, during the last thousand years, we are quite independent of them, inasmuch as every great country has had chroniclers of its own since the ninth century, while the French have an uninterrupted series since the sixth century. In the present chapter, I intend to give specimens of the way in which, until the sixteenth century, history was habitually written by the highest European authorities. Its subsequent improvement during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, will be related under the separate heads of the countries where the progress was made; and as history, previous to the improvement, was little else than a tissue of the grossest errors, I will, in the first place, examine the leading causes of its universal corruption, and indicate the steps by which it was so disfigured that, during several centuries, Europe did not possess a single man who had critically studied the past, or who was even able to record with tolerable accuracy the events of his own time. At a very early period in the progress of a people, and long before they are acquainted with the use of letters, they feel the want of some resource, which in peace may amuse their leisure, and in war may stimulate their courage. This is supplied to them by the invention of ballads; which form the groundwork of all historical knowledge, and which, in one shape or another, are found among some of the rudest tribes of the earth. They are, for the most part, sung by a class of men whose particular business it is thus to preserve the stock of traditions. Indeed, so natural is this curiosity as to past events, that there are few nations to whom these bards or minstrels are unknown. Thus, to select a few instances, it is they who have preserved the popular traditions, not only of Europe,[418] but also of China, Tibet, and Tartary;[419] likewise of India,[420] of Scinde,[421] of Belochistan,[422] of Western Asia,[423] of the islands of the Black Sea,[424] of Egypt,[425] of Western Africa,[426] of North America,[427] of South America,[428] and of the islands in the Pacific.[429] [418] For an account of the ancient bards of Gaul, see the _Benedictine Hist. Lit. de la France_, vol. i. part i. pp. 25-28. Those of Scotland are noticed in _Barry's Hist. of the Orkney Islands_, p. 89; and for a modern instance in the island of Col, near Mull, see _Otter's Life of Clarke_, vol. i. p. 307. As to the Irish bards in the seventh century, see _Sharon Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. iii. p. 571. Spenser's account of them in the sixteenth century (_Somers Tracts_, vol. i. pp. 590, 591) shows that the order was then falling into contempt; and in the seventeenth century this is confirmed by Sir William Temple; _Essay on Poetry_, in _Temple's Works_, vol. iii. pp. 431, 432. But it was not till the eighteenth century that they became extinct; for Mr. Prior (_Life of Goldsmith_, vol. i. pp. 36, 37) says, that Carolan, 'the last of the ancient Irish bards,' died in 1738. Without them the memory of many events would have been entirely lost; since, even at the end of the seventeenth century, there being no registers in Ireland, the ordinary means of recording facts were so little known, that parents often took the precaution of having the names and ages of children marked on their arms with gunpowder. See _Kirkman's Memoirs of Charles Macklin_, 8vo. 1799, vol. i. pp. 144, 145, a curious book. Compare, respecting Carolan, _Nichols's Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. vii. pp. 688-694. [419] On these Toolholos, as they are called, see _Huc's Travels in Tartary, Thibet, and China_, vol. i. pp. 65-67. Huc says, p. 67, 'These poet-singers, who remind us of the minstrels and rhapsodists of Greece, are also very numerous in China; but they are, probably, no where so numerous or so popular as in Thibet.' [420] On the bards of the Deccan, see _Wilks's History of the South of India_, 4to. 1810, vol. i. pp. 20, 21, and _Transac. of the Bombay Soc._ vol. i. p. 162. For those of other parts of India, see _Heber's Journey_, vol. ii. pp. 452-455; _Burnes on the North-west Frontier of India_, in _Journal of Geog. Soc._ vol. iv. pp. 110, 111; _Prinsep_, in _Journal of Asiat. Soc._ vol. viii. p. 395; _Forbes's Oriental Memoirs_, vol. i. pp. 376, 377, 543; and _Asiatic Researches_, vol. ix. p. 78. They are mentioned in the oldest Veda, which is also the oldest of all the Indian books. See _Rig Veda Sanhita_, vol. i. p. 158. [421] See _Burton's Sindh_, p. 56, 8vo. 1851. [422] _Burton's Sindh_, p. 59. [423] _Burnes's Travels into Bokhara_, 8vo. 1834, vol. ii. pp. 107, 115, 116. [424] _Clarke's Travels_, 8vo. 1816, vol. ii. p. 101. [425] Compare _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. ii. p. 304, with _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. i. p. 96, vol. ii. p. 92. [426] I have mislaid my note on the bards of Western Africa, and can only refer to a hasty notice in _Mungo Park's Travels_, vol. i. p. 70. 8vo. 1817. [427] _Buchanan's Sketches of the North-American Indians_, p. 337. [428] _Prescott's History of Peru_, vol. i. pp. 31, 32, 117. [429] _Ellis_, _Polynesian Researches_, vol. i. pp. 85, 199, 411; _Ellis_, _Tour through Hawaii_, p. 91. Compare _Cook's Voyages_, vol. v. p. 237, with _Beechey's Voyage to the Pacific_, vol. ii. p. 106. Some of these ballads have been collected, but, I believe, not published. See _Cheever's Sandwich Islands_, 8vo. 1851, p. 181. In all these countries, letters were long unknown; and, as a people in that state have no means of perpetuating their history except by oral tradition, they select the form best calculated to assist their memory; and it will, I believe, be found that the first rudiments of knowledge consist always of poetry, and often of rhyme.[430] The jingle pleases the ear of the barbarian, and affords a security that he will hand it down to his children in the unimpaired state in which he received it.[431] This guarantee against error increases still further the value of these ballads; and instead of being considered as a mere amusement, they rise to the dignity of judicial authorities.[432] The allusions contained in them, are satisfactory proofs to decide the merits of rival families, or even to fix the limits of those rude estates which such a society can possess. We therefore find, that the professed reciters and composers of these songs are the recognized judges in all disputed matters; and as they are often priests, and believed to be inspired, it is probably in this way that the notion of the divine origin of poetry first arose.[433] These ballads will, of course, vary, according to the customs and temperaments of the different nations, and according to the climate to which they are accustomed. In the south they assume a passionate and voluptuous form; in the north they are rather remarkable for their tragic and warlike character.[434] But, notwithstanding these diversities, all such productions have one feature in common. They are not only founded on truth, but making allowance for the colourings of poetry, they are all strictly true. Men who are constantly repeating songs which they constantly hear, and who appeal to the authorized singers of them as final umpires in disputed questions, are not likely to be mistaken on matters, in the accuracy of which they have so lively an interest.[435] [430] It is a singular proof of the carelessness with which the history of barbarous nations has been studied, that authors constantly assert rhyme to be a comparatively recent contrivance; and even Pinkerton, writing to Laing in 1799, says, 'Rhyme was not known in Europe till about the ninth century.' _Pinkerton's Literary Correspondence_, vol. ii. p. 92. The truth is, that rhyme was not only known to the ancient Greeks and Romans, but was used, long before the date Pinkerton mentions, by the Anglo-Saxons, by the Irish, by the Welsh, and, I believe, by the Brétons. See _Mure's Hist. of the Literature of Greece_, vol. ii. p. 113; _Hallam's Lit. of Europe_, vol. i. p. 31; _Villemarqué_, _Chants Populaires de la Bretagne_, vol. i. pp. lviii. lix. compared with _Souvestre_, _les Derniers Bretons_, p. 143; _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. iii. pp. 383, 643, vol. vii. pp. 324, 328, 330. Rhyme is also used by the Fantees (_Bowdich_, _Mission to Ashantee_, p. 358); by the Persians (_Transac. of Bombay Soc._ vol. ii. p. 82); by the Chinese (_Transac. of Asiatic Soc._ vol. ii. pp. 407, 409, and _Davis's Chinese_, vol. ii. p. 269); by the Malays (_Asiatic Researches_, vol. x. pp. 176, 196); by the Javanese (_Crawfurd's Hist. of the Indian Archipelago_, vol. ii. pp. 19, 20); and by the Siamese (_Transac. of Asiatic Soc._ vol. iii. p. 299). [431] The habit thus acquired, long survives the circumstances which made it necessary. During many centuries, the love of versification was so widely diffused, that works in rhyme were composed on nearly all subjects, even in Europe; and this practice, which marks the ascendency of the imagination, is, as I have shown, a characteristic of the great Indian civilization, where the understanding was always in abeyance. On early French historians who wrote in rhyme, see _Monteil_, _Hist. des divers Etats_, vol. vi. p. 147. Montucla (_Hist. des Mathémat._ vol. i. p. 506) mentions a mathematical treatise, written in the thirteenth century, 'en vers techniques.' Compare the remarks of Matter (_Hist. de l'Ecole d'Alexandrie_, vol. ii. pp. 179-183) on the scientific poetry of Aratus; and on that of Hygin, p. 250. Thus, too, we find an Anglo-Norman writing 'the Institutes of Justinian in verse;' _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. vii. p. 307: and a Polish historian composing 'his numerous works on genealogy and heraldry mostly in rhyme.' _Talvi's Language and Literature of the Slavic Nations_, 8vo. 1850, p. 246. Compare _Origines du Droit Français_, in _[OE]uvres de Michelet_, vol. ii. p. 310. [432] Mr. Ellis, a missionary in the South-Sea Islands, says of the inhabitants, 'Their traditionary ballads were a kind of standard, or classical authority, to which they referred for the purpose of determining any disputed fact in their history.' And when doubts arose, 'as they had no records to which they could at such times refer, they could only oppose one oral tradition to another; which unavoidably involved the parties in protracted, and often obstinate debates.' _Ellis_, _Polynesian Researches_, vol. i. pp. 202, 203. Compare _Elphinstone's Hist. of India_, p. 66; _Laing's Heimskringla_, 8vo. 1844, vol. i. pp. 50, 51; _Twell's Life of Pocock_, edit. 1816, p. 143. [433] The inspiration of poetry is sometimes explained by its spontaneousness (_Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philosophie_, II^e série, vol. i. pp. 135, 136); and there can be no doubt that one cause of the reverence felt for great poets, is the necessity they seem to experience of pouring out their thoughts without reference to their own wishes. Still, it will, I believe, be found, that the notion of poetry being a divine art is most rife in those states of society in which knowledge is monopolised by the bards, and in which the bards are both priests and historians. On this combination of pursuits, compare a note in _Malcolm's Hist. of Persia_, vol. i. p. 90, with _Mure's Hist. of the Lit. of Greece_, vol. i. p. 148, vol. ii. p. 228, and _Petrie's_ learned work, _Ecclesiastical Architecture of Ireland_, Dublin, 1845, p. 354. For evidence of the great respect paid to bards, see _Mallet's Northern Antiquities_, pp. 234-236; _Wheaton's Hist. of the Northmen_, pp. 50, 51; _Wright's Biog. Brit. Lit._ vol. i. p. 3; _Warton's Hist. of English Poetry_, 1840, vol. i. pp. xxvi. xl.; _Grote's Hist. of Greece_, vol. ii. p. 182, 1st edit.; and on their important duties, see the laws of M[oe]lmund, _Villemarqué_, _Chants Populaires de la Bretagne_, 1846, vol. i. pp. v. and vi.; _Thirlwall's Hist. of Greece_, vol. i. p. 229; and _Origines du Droit_, in _[OE]uvres de Michelet_, vol. ii. p. 372. [434] _Villemarqué_, _Chants Populaires_, vol. i. p. lv. [435] As to the general accuracy of the early ballads, which has been rashly attacked by several writers, and among others by Sir Walter Scott, see _Villemarqué_, _Chants Populaires_, vol. i. pp. xxv.-xxxi., and _Talvi's Slavic Nations_, p. 150. On the tenacity of oral tradition, compare _Niebuhr's History of Rome_, 1847, vol. i. p. 230, with _Laing's Denmark_, pp. 197, 198, 350; _Wheaton's Hist. of the Northmen_, pp. 38, 39, 57-59. Another curious illustration of this is, that several barbarous nations continue to repeat the old traditions in the old words, for so many generations, that at length the very language becomes unintelligible to the majority of those who recite them. See _Mariner's Account of the Tonga Islands_, vol. i. p. 156, vol. ii. p. 217, and _Catlin's North-American Indians_, vol. i. p. 126. This is the earliest, and most simple, of the various stages through which history is obliged to pass. But, in the course of time, unless unfavourable circumstances intervene, society advances, and, among other changes, there is one in particular of the greatest importance: I mean the introduction of the art of writing, which, before many generations are passed, must effect a complete alteration in the character of the national traditions. The manner in which this occurs has, so far as I am aware, never been pointed out; and it will, therefore, be interesting to attempt to trace some of its details. The first, and perhaps the most obvious consideration, is that the introduction of the art of writing gives permanence to the national knowledge, and thus lessens the utility of that oral information, in which all the acquirements of an unlettered people must be contained. Hence it is, that as a country advances, the influence of tradition diminishes, and traditions themselves become less trustworthy.[436] Besides this, the preservers of these traditions lose, in this stage of society, much of their former reputation. Among a perfectly unlettered people, the singers of ballads are, as we have already seen, the sole depositories of those historical facts on which the fame, and often the property, of their chieftains principally depend. But, when this same nation becomes acquainted with the art of writing, it grows unwilling to intrust these matters to the memory of itinerant singers, and avails itself of its new art to preserve them in a fixed and material form. As soon as this is effected, the importance of those who repeat the national traditions is sensibly diminished. They gradually sink into an inferior class, which, having lost its old reputation, no longer consists of those superior men to whose abilities it owed its former fame.[437] Thus we see, that although, without letters, there can be no knowledge of much importance, it is nevertheless true, that their introduction is injurious to historical traditions in two distinct ways: first by weakening the traditions, and secondly by weakening the class of men whose occupation it is to preserve them. [436] That the invention of letters would at first weaken the memory, is noticed in Plato's Phædrus, chap. 135 (_Platonis Opera_, vol. i. p. 187, edit. Bekker, Lond. 1826); where, however, the argument is pushed rather too far. [437] This inevitable decline in the ability of the bards is noticed, though, as it appears to me, from a wrong point of view, in _Mure's Literat. of Greece_, vol. ii. p. 230. But this is not all. Not only does the art of writing lessen the number of traditionary truths, but it directly encourages the propagation of falsehoods. This is effected by what may be termed a principle of accumulation, to which all systems of belief have been deeply indebted. In ancient times, for example, the name of Hercules was given to several of those great public robbers who scourged mankind, and who, if their crimes were successful, as well as enormous, were sure after their death to be worshipped as heroes.[438] How this appellation originated is uncertain; but it was probably bestowed at first on a single man, and afterwards on those who resembled him in the character of their achievements.[439] This mode of extending the use of a single name is natural to a barbarous people;[440] and would cause little or no confusion, as long as the traditions of the country remained local and unconnected. But as soon as these traditions became fixed by a written language, the collectors of them, deceived by the similarity of name, assembled the scattered facts, and, ascribing to a single man these accumulated exploits, degraded history to the level of a miraculous mythology.[441] In the same way, soon after the use of letters was known in the North of Europe, there was drawn up by Saxo Grammaticus the life of the celebrated Ragnar Lodbrok. Either from accident or design, this great warrior of Scandinavia, who had taught England to tremble, had received the same name as another Ragnar, who was prince of Jutland about a hundred years earlier. This coincidence would have caused no confusion, as long as each district preserved a distinct and independent account of its own Ragnar. But, by possessing the resource of writing, men became able to consolidate the separate trains of events, and, as it were, fuse two truths into one error. And this was what actually happened. The credulous Saxo put together the different exploits of both Ragnars, and, ascribing the whole of them to his favourite hero, has involved in obscurity one of the most interesting parts of the early history of Europe.[442] [438] Varro mentions forty-four of these vagabonds, who were all called Hercules. See a learned article in _Smith's Biog. and Mythology_, vol. ii. p. 401, 8vo. 1846. See also _Mackay's Religious Development of the Greeks and Hebrews_, vol. ii. pp. 71-79. On the relation between Hercules and Melcarth, compare _Matter_, _Hist. du Gnosticisme_, vol. i. p. 257, with _Heeren's Asiatic Nations_, vol. i. p. 295, 8vo. 1846. And as to the Hercules of Egypt, _Prichard's Analysis of Egyptian Mythology_, 1838, pp. 109, 115-119. As to the confusion of the different Hercules by the Dorians, see _Thirlwall's Hist. of Greece_, vol. i. p. 257; and compare p. 130. [439] This appears to be the opinion of Frederick Schlegel; _Schlegel's Lectures on the History of Literature_, Edinb. 1818, vol. i. p. 260. [440] The habit of generalizing names precedes that more advanced state of society in which men generalize phenomena. If this proposition is universally true, which I take it to be, it will throw some light on the history of disputes between the nominalists and the realists. [441] We may form an idea of the fertility of this source of error from the fact, that in Egypt there were fifty-three cities bearing the same name: 'L'auteur du Kamous nous apprend qu'il y a en Egypte cinquante-trois villes du nom de Schobra: en effet, j'ai retrouvé tous ces noms dans les deux dénombremens déjà cités.' _Quatremère_, _Recherches sur la Langue et la Littérature de l'Egypte_, p. 199. [442] On this confusion respecting Ragnar Lodbrok, see _Geijer's History of Sweden_, part i. pp. 13, 14; _Lappenberg's Anglo-Saxon Kings_, vol. ii. p. 31; _Wheaton's Hist. of the Northmen_, p. 150; _Mallet's Northern Antiquities_, p. 383; _Crichton's Scandinavia_, vol. i. p. 116. A comparison of these passages will justify the sarcastic remark of Koch on the history of Swedish and Danish heroes; _Koch_, _Tableau des Révolutions_, vol. i. p. 57 note. The annals of the North afford another curious instance of this source of error. A tribe of Finns, called Quæns, occupied a considerable part of the eastern coast of the Gulf of Bothnia. Their country was known as Quænland; and this name gave rise to a belief that, to the north of the Baltic, there was a nation of Amazons. This would easily have been corrected by local knowledge; but, by the use of writing, the flying rumour was at once fixed; and the existence of such a people is positively affirmed in some of the earliest European histories.[443] Thus, too, Abo, the ancient capital of Finland, was called Turku, which, in the Swedish language, means a market-place. Adam of Bremen, having occasion to treat of the countries adjoining the Baltic,[444] was so misled by the word Turku, that this celebrated historian assures his readers that there were Turks in Finland.[445] [443] _Prichard's Physical Hist. of Mankind_, vol. iii. p. 273. The Norwegians still give to the Finlanders the name of Quæner. See _Dillon's Lapland and Iceland_, 8vo. 1840, vol. ii. p. 221. Compare _Laing's Sweden_, pp. 45, 47. The Amazon river in South America owes its name to a similar fable. _Henderson's Hist. of Brazil_, p. 453; _Southey's Hist. of Brazil_, vol. i. p. 112; _M'Culloh's Researches concerning America_, pp. 407, 408; and _Journal of Geog. Soc._ vol. xv. p. 65, for an account of the wide diffusion of this error. [444] Sharon Turner (_Hist. of England_, vol. iv. p. 30) calls him 'the Strabo of the Baltic;' and it was from him that most of the geographers in the Middle Ages derived their knowledge of the North. [445] 'It was called in Finnish _Turku_, from the Swedish word _torg_, which signifies a market-place. The sound of this name misled Adam of Bremen into the belief that there were Turks in Finland.' _Cooley's Hist. of Maritime and Inland Discovery_, London, 1830, vol. i. p. 211. To these illustrations many others might be added, showing how mere names deceived the early historians, and gave rise to relations which were entirely false, and might have been rectified on the spot; but which, owing to the art of writing, were carried into distant countries, and thus placed beyond the reach of contradiction. Of such cases, one more may be mentioned, as it concerns the history of England. Richard I., the most barbarous of our princes, was known to his contemporaries as the Lion; an appellation conferred upon him on account of his fearlessness, and the ferocity of his temper.[446] Hence it was said that he had the heart of a lion; and the title C[oe]ur de Lion not only became indissolubly connected with his name, but actually gave rise to a story, repeated by innumerable writers, according to which he slew a lion in single combat.[447] The name gave rise to the story; the story confirmed the name; and another fiction was added to that long series of falsehoods of which history mainly consisted during the Middle Ages. [446] The chronicler of his crusade says, that he was called Lion on account of his never pardoning an offence: 'Nihil injuriarum reliquit inultum: unde et unus (_i.e._ the King of France) dictus est Agnus a Griffonibus, alter Leonis nomen accepit.' _Chronicon Ricardi Divisiensis de Rebus gestis Ricardi Primi_, edit. Stevenson, Lond. 1838, p. 18. Some of the Egyptian kings received the name of Lion 'from their heroic exploits.' _Vyse on the Pyramids_, vol. iii. p. 116. [447] See Price's learned Preface to _Warton's History of English Poetry_, vol. i. p. 21; and on the similar story of Henry the Lion, see _Maury_, _Légendes du Moyen Age_, p. 160. Compare the account of Duke Godfrey's conflict with a bear, in _Matthæi Paris Historia Major_, p. 29, Lond. 1684, folio. I should not be surprised if the story of Alexander and the Lion (_Thirlwall's History of Greece_, vol. vi. p. 305) were equally fabulous. The corruptions of history, thus naturally brought about by the mere introduction of letters, were, in Europe, aided by an additional cause. With the art of writing, there was, in most cases, also communicated a knowledge of Christianity; and the new religion not only destroyed many of the Pagan traditions, but falsified the remainder, by amalgamating them with monastic legends. The extent to which this was carried would form a curious subject for inquiry; but one or two instances of it will perhaps be sufficient to satisfy the generality of readers. Of the earliest state of the great Northern nations we have little positive evidence; but several of the lays in which the Scandinavian poets related the feats of their ancestors, or of their contemporaries, are still preserved; and, notwithstanding their subsequent corruption, it is admitted by the most competent judges that they embody real and historical events. But in the ninth and tenth centuries, Christian missionaries found their way across the Baltic, and introduced a knowledge of their religion among the inhabitants of Northern Europe.[448] Scarcely was this effected, when the sources of history began to be poisoned. At the end of the eleventh century, Sæmund Sigfussen, a Christian priest, gathered the popular, and hitherto unwritten, histories of the North into what is called the Elder Edda; and he was satisfied with adding to his compilation the corrective of a Christian hymn.[449] A hundred years later, there was made another collection of the native histories; but the principle which I have mentioned, having had a longer time to operate, now displayed its effects still more clearly. In this second collection, which is known by the name of the Younger Edda, there is an agreeable mixture of Greek, Jewish, and Christian fables; and, for the first time in the Scandinavian annals, we meet with the widely diffused fiction of a Trojan descent.[450] [448] The first missionary was Ebbo, about the year 822. He was followed by Anschar, who afterwards pushed his enterprise as far as Sweden. The progress was, however, slow; and it was not till the latter half of the 11th century that Christianity was established firmly in the North. See _Neander's Hist. of the Church_, vol. v. pp. 373, 374, 379, 380, 400-402; _Mosheim's Eccles. Hist._ vol. i. pp. 188, 215, 216; _Barry's Hist. of the Orkney Islands_, p. 125. It is often supposed that some of the Danes in Ireland were Christians as early as the reign of Ivar I.; but this is a mistake, into which Ledwich fell by relying on a coin, which in reality refers to Ivar II. _Petrie's Ecclesiastical Architecture of Ireland_, p. 225; and _Ledwich's Antiquities of Ireland_, p. 159. [449] Mr. Wheaton (_History of Northmen_, p. 60) says, that Sæmund 'merely added one song of his own composition, of a moral and Christian religious tendency; so as thereby to consecrate and leaven, as it were, the whole mass of Paganism.' [450] _Wheaton's Hist. of the Northmen_, pp. 89, 90; _Mallet's Northern Antiquities_, pp. 377, 378, 485; _Schlegel's Lectures on the History of Literature_, vol. i. p. 265. Indeed, these interpolations are so numerous, that the earlier German antiquaries believed the Edda to be a forgery by the northern monks,--a paradox which Müller refuted more than forty years ago. _Note in Wheaton_, p. 61. Compare _Palgrave's English Commonwealth, Anglo-Saxon Period_, vol. i. p. 135. If, by way of further illustration, we turn to other parts of the world, we shall find a series of facts confirming this view. We shall find that, in those countries where there has been no change of religion, history is more trustworthy and connected than in those countries where such a change has taken place. In India, Brahmanism, which is still supreme, was established at so early a period, that its origin is lost in the remotest antiquity.[451] The consequence is, that the native annals have never been corrupted by any new superstition; and the Hindus are possessed of historic traditions more ancient than can be found among any other Asiatic people.[452] In the same way, the Chinese have for upwards of 2,000 years preserved the religion of Fo, which is a form of Buddhism.[453] In China, therefore, though the civilization has never been equal to that of India, there is a history, not, indeed, as old as the natives would wish us to believe, but still stretching back to several centuries before the Christian era, from whence it has been brought down to our own times in an uninterrupted succession.[454] On the other hand, the Persians, whose intellectual development was certainly superior to that of the Chinese, are nevertheless without any authentic information respecting the early transactions of their ancient monarchy.[455] For this I can see no possible reason, except the fact, that Persia, soon after the promulgation of the Koran, was conquered by the Mohammedans, who completely subverted the Parsee religion, and thus interrupted the stream of the national traditions.[456] Hence it is that, putting aside the myths of the Zendavesta, we have no native authorities for Persian history of any value, until the appearance, in the eleventh century, of the Shah Nameh; in which, however, Ferdousi has mingled the miraculous relations of those two religions by which his country had been successively subjected.[457] The result is, that if it were not for the various discoveries which have been made, of monuments, inscriptions, and coins, we should be compelled to rely on the scanty and inaccurate details in the Greek writers for our knowledge of the history of one of the most important of the Asiatic monarchies.[458] [451] As is evident from the conflicting statements made by the best orientalists, each of whom has some favourite hypothesis of his own respecting its origin. It is enough to say, that we have no account of India existing without Brahmanism; and as to its real history, nothing can be understood, until more steps have been taken towards generalizing the laws which regulate the growth of religious opinions. [452] Dr. Prichard (_Physical Hist. of Mankind_, vol. iv. pp. 101-105) thinks that the Hindus have a history beginning B.C. 1391. Compare _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. i. pp. 311, 312. Mr. Wilson says, that even the genealogies in the Puranas are, 'in all probability, much more authentic than has been sometimes supposed.' Wilson's note in _Mill's Hist. of India_, vol. i. pp. 161, 162. See also his preface to the _Vishnu Purana_, p. lxv.; and _Asiatic Researches_, vol. v. p. 244. [453] _Journal of Asiatic Soc._ vol. vi. p. 251; _Herder_, _Ideen zur Geschichte_, vol. iv. p. 70; _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. i. p. 104. I learn from a note in _Erman's Siberia_, vol. ii. p. 306, that one of the missionaries gravely suggests that 'Buddhism originated in the errors of the Manichæans, and is therefore but an imitation of Christianity.' [454] M. Bunsen says, that the Chinese have 'a regular chronology, extending back 3,000 years B.C.' _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. i. p. 240. See also _Humboldt's Cosmos_, vol. ii. p. 475, vol. iv. p. 455; _Renouard_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. i. pp. 47, 48; and the statements of Klaproth and Rémusat, in _Prichard's Physical Hist._ vol. iv. pp. 476, 477. The superior exactness of the Chinese annals is sometimes ascribed to their early knowledge of printing, with which they claim to have been acquainted in B.C. 1100. _Meidinger's Essay_, in _Journal of Statistical Society_, vol. iii. p. 163. But the fact is, that printing was unknown in China till the ninth or tenth century after Christ, and moveable types were not invented before 1041. _Humboldt's Cosmos_, vol. ii. p. 623; _Transac. of Asiatic Society_, vol. i. p. 7; _Journal Asiatique_, vol. i. p. 137, Paris, 1822; _Davis's Chinese_, vol. i. pp. 174, 178, vol. iii. p. 1. There are some interesting papers on the early history of China in _Journal of Asiat. Soc._ vol. i. pp. 57-86, 213-222, vol. ii. pp. 166-171, 276-287. [455] 'From the death of Alexander (323 B.C.) to the reign of Ardeshir Babegan (Artaxerxes), the founder of the Sassanian dynasty (200 A.D.), a period of more than five centuries, is almost a blank in the Persian history.' _Troyer's Preliminary Discourse to the Dabistan_, 8vo. 1843, vol. i. pp. lv. lvi. See to the same effect _Erskine on the Zend-Avesta_, in _Transac. of Soc. of Bombay_, vol. ii. pp. 303-305; and _Malcolm's Hist. of Persia_, vol. i. p. 68. The ancient Persian traditions are said to have been Pehlvi; _Malcolm_, vol. i. pp. 501-505; but if so, they have all perished, p. 555: compare Rawlinson's note in _Journal of Geog. Soc._ vol. x. p. 82. [456] On the antagonism between Mohammedanism and the old Persian history, see a note in _Grote's Hist. of Greece_, vol. i. p. 623. Even at present, or, at all events, during this century, the best education in Persia consisted in learning the elements of Arabic grammar, 'logic, jurisprudence, the traditions of their prophet, and the commentaries on the Koran.' _Vans Kennedy on Persian Literature_, in _Transac. of Bombay Society_, vol. ii. p. 62. In the same way the Mohammedans neglected the old history of India, and would, no doubt, have destroyed or corrupted it; but they never had anything like the hold of India that they had of Persia, and, above all, they were unable to displace the native religion. However, their influence, so far as it went, was unfavourable; and Mr. Elphinstone (_Hist. of India_, p. 468) says, that till the sixteenth century there was no instance of a Mussulman carefully studying Hindu literature. [457] On the Shah Nameh, see _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. iv. pp. 544, 545, vol. v. p. 594; _Mill's Hist. of India_, vol. ii. pp. 64, 65; _Journal of Asiatic Society_, vol. iv. p. 225. It is supposed by a very high authority that the Persian cuneiform inscriptions 'will enable us, in the end, to introduce something like chronological accuracy and order into the myths and traditions embodied in the Shah Nameh.' _Rawlinson on the Inscriptions of Assyria and Babylonia_, in _Journal of Asiat. Soc._ vol. xii. p. 446. [458] On the ignorance of the Greeks respecting Persian history, see Vans Kennedy, in _Transac. of Soc. of Bombay_, vol. ii. pp. 119, 127-129, 136. Indeed, this learned writer says (p. 138) he is 'inclined to suspect that no Greek author ever derived his information from any native of Persia Proper, that is, of the country to the east of the Euphrates.' See also on the perplexities in Persian chronology, _Grote's Hist. of Greece_, vol. vi. p. 496, vol. ix. p. 3, vol. x. p. 405; and _Donaldson's New Cratylus_, 1839, p. 87 note. As to the foolish stories which the Greeks relate respecting Achæmenes, compare _Malcolm's Hist. of Persia_, vol. i. p. 18, with _Heeren's Asiatic Nations_, vol. i. p. 243. Even Herodotus, who is invaluable in regard to Egypt, is not to be relied upon for Persia; as was noticed long ago by Sir W. Jones, in the preface to his _Nader Shah_ (_Jones's Works_, vol. v. p. 540), and is partly admitted by Mr. Mure (_History of the Literature of Ancient Greece_, vol. iv. p. 338, 8vo. 1853). Even among more barbarous nations, we see the same principle at work. The Malayo-Polynesian race is well known to ethnologists, as covering an immense series of islands, extending from Madagascar to within 2,000 miles of the western coast of America.[459] The religion of these widely scattered people was originally Polytheism, of which the purest forms were long preserved in the Philippine Islands.[460] But in the fifteenth century, many of the Polynesian nations were converted to Mohammedanism;[461] and this was followed by a process precisely the same as that which I have pointed out in other countries. The new religion, by changing the current of the national thoughts, corrupted the purity of the national history. Of all the islands in the Indian Archipelago, Java was the one which reached the highest civilization.[462] Now, however, the Javanese have not only lost their historical traditions, but even those lists of their kings which are extant are interpolated with the names of Mohammedan saints.[463] On the other hand, we find that in the adjacent island of Bali, where the old religion is still preserved,[464] the legends of Java are remembered and cherished by the people.[465] [459] That is, to Easter Island, which appears to be its furthest boundary (_Prichard's Phys. Hist._ vol. v. p. 6); and of which there is a good account in _Beechey's Voyage to the Pacific_, vol. i. pp. 43-58, and a notice in _Jour. of Geog. Society_, vol. i. p. 195. The language of Easter Island has been long known to be Malayo-Polynesian; for it was understood by a native of the Society Islands, who accompanied Cook (_Cook's Voyages_, vol. iii. pp. 294, 308; and _Prichard_, vol. v. p. 147: compare _Marsden's History of Sumatra_, p. 164). Ethnologists have not usually paid sufficient honour to this great navigator, who was the first to remark the similarity between the different languages in Polynesia proper. _Cook's Voyages_, vol. ii. pp. 60, 61, vol. iii. pp. 230, 280, 290, vol. iv. p. 305, vol. vi. p. 230, vol. vii. p. 115. As to Madagascar being the western limit of this vast race of people, see _Asiatic Researches_, vol. iv. p. 222; _Reports on Ethnology by Brit. Assoc. for 1847_, pp. 154, 216, 250; and _Ellis's Hist. of Madagascar_, vol. i. p. 133. [460] Also the seat of the Tagala language; which, according to William Humboldt, is the most perfect of all the forms of the Malayo-Polynesian. _Prichard's Physical Hist._ vol. v. pp. 36, 51, 52. [461] _Marsden's History of Sumatra_, p. 281. De Thou (_Hist. Univ._ vol. xiii. p. 59) supposes that the Javanese did not become Mohammedans till late in the sixteenth century; but it is now known that their conversion took place at least a hundred years earlier, the old religion being finally abolished in 1478. See _Crawfurd's Hist. of the Indian Archipelago_, vol. ii. p. 312; _Low's Sarawak_, p. 96; and _Raffles' Hist. of Java_, vol. i. pp. 309, 349, vol. ii. pp. 1, 66, 254. The doctrines of Mohammed spread quickly; and the Malay pilgrims enjoy the reputation, in modern times, of being among the most scrupulously religious of those who go to the Hadj. _Burckhardt's Arabia_, vol. ii. pp. 96, 97. [462] The Javanese civilization is examined at great length by William Humboldt, in his celebrated work, _Ueber die Kawi Sprache_, Berlin, 1836. From the evidence supplied by some early Chinese writings, which have only recently been published, there are good grounds for believing that the Indian Colonies were established in Java in the first century after Christ. See _Wilson on the Foe Kue Ki_, in _Journal of Asiat. Soc._ vol. v. p. 137; compare vol. vi. p. 320. [463] _Crawfurd's Hist. of the Indian Archipelago_, vol. ii. p. 297. Compare with this the exactness with which, even in the island of Celebes, the dates were preserved 'before the introduction of Mahomedanism.' _Crawfurd_, vol. i. p. 306. For similar Footnote: instances of royal genealogies being obscured by the introduction into them of the names of gods, see _Kemble's Saxons in England_, vol. i. pp. 27, 335. [464] _Asiatic Researches_, vol. x. p. 191, vol. xiii. p. 128. In the Appendix to _Raffles' Hist. of Java_, vol. ii. p. cxlii., it is said, that 'in Bali not more than one in two hundred, if so many, are Mahomedans.' See also p. 65, and vol. i. p. 530. [465] Indeed, the Javanese appear to have no other means of acquiring the old Kawi traditions than by learning them from natives of Bali. See note to an Essay on the Island of Bali, in _Asiatic Researches_, vol. xiii. p. 162, Calcutta, 1820, 4to. Sir Stamford Raffles (_Hist. of Java_, vol. i. p. 400) says, 'It is chiefly to Bali that we must look for illustrations of the ancient state of the Javans.' See also p. 414. It would be useless to adduce further evidence respecting the manner in which, among an imperfectly civilized people, the establishment of a new religion will always affect the accuracy of their early history. I need only observe, that in this way the Christian priests have obscured the annals of every European people they converted, and have destroyed or corrupted the traditions of the Gauls,[466] of the Welsh, of the Irish,[467] of the Anglo-Saxons,[468] of the Sclavonic nations,[469] of the Finns,[470] and even of the Icelanders.[471] [466] Respecting the corruption of Druidical traditions in Gaul by Christian priests, see _Villemarqué_, _Chants Populaires de la Bretagne_, Paris, 1846, vol. i. pp. xviii. xix. [467] The injury done to the traditions handed down by Welsh and Irish bards, is noticed in Dr. Prichard's valuable work, _Physical Hist. of Mankind_, vol. iii. p. 184, 8vo, 1841. See also _Warton's Hist. of English Poetry_, vol. i. p. xxxvii. note. [468] See the remarks on Beowulf, in _Wright's Biog. Brit. Lit._ vol. i. p. 7, 8vo, 1842. See also pp. 13, 14: and compare _Kemble's Saxons in England_, vol. i. p. 331. [469] _Talvi's Language and Literature of the Slavic Nations_, 8vo, 1850, p. 231. The Pagan songs of the Slovaks, in the north-west of Hungary, were for a time preserved; but even they are now lost. _Talvi_, p. 216. [470] The monkish chroniclers neglected the old Finnish traditions; and allowing them to perish, preferred the inventions of Saxo and Johannes Magnus. _Prichard's Physical Hist._ vol. iii. pp. 284, 285. [471] For an instance in which the monks have falsified the old Icelandic traditions, see Mr. Keightley's learned book on _Fairy Mythology_, 8vo, 1850, p. 159. Besides all this, there occurred other circumstances tending in the same direction. Owing to events which I shall hereafter explain, the literature of Europe, shortly before the final dissolution of the Roman Empire, fell entirely into the hands of the clergy, who were long venerated as the sole instructors of mankind. For several centuries, it was extremely rare to meet with a layman who could read or write; and of course it was still rarer to meet with one able to compose a work. Literature, being thus monopolized by a single class, assumed the peculiarities natural to its new masters.[472] And as the clergy, taken as a body, have always looked on it as their business to enforce belief, rather than encourage inquiry, it is no wonder if they displayed in their writings the spirit incidental to the habits of their profession. Hence, as I have already observed, literature, during many ages, instead of benefiting society, injured it, by increasing credulity, and thus stopping the progress of knowledge. Indeed, the aptitude for falsehood became so great, that there was nothing men were unwilling to believe. Nothing came amiss to their greedy and credulous ears. Histories of omens, prodigies, apparitions, strange portents, monstrous appearances in the heavens, the wildest and most incoherent absurdities, were repeated from mouth to mouth, and copied from book to book, with as much care as if they were the choicest treasures of human wisdom.[473] That Europe should ever have emerged from such a state, is the most decisive proof of the extraordinary energy of Man, since we cannot even conceive a condition of society more unfavourable to his progress. But it is evident, that until the emancipation was effected, the credulity and looseness of thought which were universal, unfitted men for habits of investigation, and made it impossible for them to engage in a successful study of past affairs, or even record with accuracy what was taking place around them.[474] [472] The Rev. Mr. Dowling, who looks back with great regret to this happy period, says, 'Writers were almost universally ecclesiastics. Literature was scarcely anything but a religious exercise; for everything that was studied, was studied with a reference to religion. The men, therefore, who wrote history, wrote ecclesiastical history.' _Dowling's Introduction to the Critical Study of Ecclesiastical History_, 8vo, 1838, p. 56; a work of some talent, but chiefly interesting as a manifesto by an active party. [473] Thus, for instance, a celebrated historian, who wrote at the end of the twelfth century says of the reign of William Rufus: 'Ejusdem regis tempore, ut ex parte supradictum est, in sole, luna, et stellis multa signa visa sunt, mare quoque littus persæpe egrediebatur, et homines et animalia submersit, villas et domos quamplures subvertit. In pago qui Barukeshire nominatur, ante occisionem regis sanguis de fonte tribus septimanis emanavit. Multis etiam Normannis diabolus in horribili specie se frequenter in silvis ostendens, plura cum eis de rege et Ranulfo, et quibusdam aliis locutus est. Nec mirum, nam illorum tempore ferè omnis legum siluit justitia, causisque justitiæ subpositis, sola in principibus imperabat pecunia.' _Rog. de Hoveden Annal. in Scriptores post Bedam_, p. 268. See also the same work, pp. 356-358; and compare _Matthæi Westmonast. Flores Historiarum_, part i. pp. 266, 289, part ii. p. 298. [474] Even the descriptions of natural objects which historians attempted in the Middle Ages, were marked by the same carelessness. See some good observations by Dr. Arnold, on Bede's account of the Solent Sea. _Arnold's Lectures on Modern History_, pp. 102, 103. If, therefore, we recur to the facts just cited, we may say that, omitting several circumstances altogether subordinate, there were three leading causes of the corruption of the history of Europe in the Middle Ages. The first cause was, the sudden introduction of the art of writing, and the consequent fusion of different local traditions, which, when separate, were accurate, but when united were false. The second cause was, the change of religion; which acted in two ways, producing not merely an interruption of the old traditions, but also an interpolation of them. And the third cause, probably the most powerful of all, was, that history became monopolized by a class of men whose professional habits made them quick to believe, and who, moreover, had a direct interest in increasing the general credulity, since it was the basis upon which their own authority was built. By the operation of these causes, the history of Europe became corrupted to an extent for which we can find no parallel in any other period. That there was, properly speaking, no history, was the smallest part of the inconvenience; but, unhappily, men, not satisfied with the absence of truth, supplied its place by the invention of falsehood. Among innumerable instances of this, there is one species of inventions worth noticing, because they evince that love of antiquity, which is a marked characteristic of those classes by whom history was then written. I allude to fictions regarding the origin of different nations, in all of which the spirit of the Middle Ages is very discernible. During many centuries, it was believed by every people that they were directly descended from ancestors who had been present at the siege of Troy. That was a proposition which no one thought of doubting.[475] The only question was, as to the details of so illustrious a lineage. On this, however, there was a certain unanimity of opinion; since, not to mention inferior countries, it was admitted that the French were descended from Francus, whom everybody knew to be the son of Hector; and it was also known that the Britons came from Brutus, whose father was no other than �neas himself.[476] [475] In _Le Long's Bibliothèque Historique de la France_, vol. ii. p. 3, it is said, that the descent of the kings of France from the Trojans was universally believed before the sixteenth century: 'Cette descendance a été crue véritable près de huit cents ans, et soutenue par tous les écrivains de notre histoire; la fausseté n'en a été reconnue qu'au commencement du seizième siècle.' Polydore Vergil, who died in the middle of the sixteenth century, attacked this opinion in regard to England, and thereby made his history unpopular. See _Ellis's Preface to Polydore Vergil_, p. xx. 4to, 1844, published by the Camden Society. 'He discarded Brute, as an unreal personage.' In 1128, Henry I., king of England, inquired from a learned man respecting the early history of France. The answer is preserved by an historian of the thirteenth century: 'Regum potentissime, inquiens, sicut pleræque gentes Europæ, ita Franci a Trojanis originem duxerunt.' _Matthæi Paris Hist. Major_, p. 59. See also _Rog. de Hov. in Scriptores post Bedam_, p. 274. On the descent of the Britons from Priam and �neas, see _Matthæi Westmonast. Flores Historiarum_, part i. p. 66. Indeed, at the beginning of the fourteenth century, their Trojan origin was stated as a notorious fact, in a letter written to Pope Boniface by Edward I., and signed by the English nobility. See _Warton's Hist. of English Poetry_, vol. i. pp. 131, 132; and _Campbell's Lives of the Chancellors_, vol. i. p. 185. [476] The general opinion was, that Brutus, or Brute, was the son of �neas; but some historians affirmed that he was the great-grandson. See _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. i. p. 63, vol. vii. p. 220. Touching the origin of particular places, the great historians of the Middle Ages are equally communicative. In the accounts they give of them, as well as in the lives they write of eminent men, the history usually begins at a very remote period; and the events relating to their subject are often traced back, in an unbroken series, from the moment when Noah left the ark, or even when Adam passed the gates of Paradise.[477] On other occasions, the antiquity they assign is somewhat less; but the range of their information is always extraordinary. They say, that the capital of France is called after Paris, the son of Priam, because he fled there when Troy was overthrown.[478] They also mention that Tours owed its name to being the burial-place of Turonus, one of the Trojans;[479] while the city of Troyes was actually built by the Trojans, as its etymology clearly proves.[480] It was well ascertained that Nuremberg was called after the Emperor Nero;[481] and Jerusalem after King Jebus,[482] a man of vast celebrity in the Middle Ages, but whose existence later historians have not been able to verify. The river Humber received its name because, in ancient times, a king of the Huns had been drowned in it.[483] The Gauls derived their origin, according to some, from Galathia, a female descendant of Japhet; according to others, from Gomer, the son of Japhet.[484] Prussia was called after Prussus, a brother of Augustus.[485] This was remarkably modern; but Silesia had its name from the prophet Elisha--from whom, indeed, the Silesians descended;[486] while as to the city of Zurich, its exact date was a matter of dispute, but it was unquestionably built in the time of Abraham.[487] It was likewise from Abraham and Sarah that the gipsies immediately sprung.[488] The blood of the Saracens was less pure, since they were only descended from Sarah--in what way it is not mentioned; but she probably had them by another marriage, or, may be, as the fruit of an Egyptian intrigue.[489] At all events, the Scotch certainly came from Egypt; for they were originally the issue of Scota, who was a daughter of Pharaoh, and who bequeathed to them her name.[490] On sundry similar matters, the Middle Ages possessed information equally valuable. It was well known that the city of Naples was founded on eggs;[491] and it was also known, that the order of St. Michael was instituted in person by the archangel, who was himself the first knight, and to whom, in fact, chivalry owes its origin.[492] In regard to the Tartars, that people, of course, proceeded from Tartarus; which some theologians said was an inferior kind of hell, but others declared to be hell itself.[493] However this might be, the fact of their birth-place being from below was indisputable, and was proved by many circumstances which showed the fatal and mysterious influence they were able to exercise. For the Turks were identical with the Tartars; and it was notorious, that since the Cross had fallen into Turkish hands, all Christian children had ten teeth less than formerly; a universal calamity, which there seemed to be no means of repairing.[494] [477] In the _Notes to a Chronicle of London from 1089 to 1483_, pp. 183-187, edit. 4to, 1827, there is a pedigree, in which the history of the bishops of London is traced back, not only to the migration of Brutus from Troy, but also to Noah and Adam. Thus, too, Goropius, in his history of Antwerp, written in the sixteenth century: 'Vond zoowell de Nederlandsche taal als de Wysbegeerte van Orpheus in de ark van Noach.' _Van Kampen_, _Geschiedenis der Letteren_, 8vo, 1821, vol. i. p. 91; see also p. 86. In the thirteenth century, Mathew Paris (_Historia Major_, p. 352) says of Alfred, 'Hujus genealogia in Anglorum historiis perducitur usque ad Adam primum parentem.' See, to the same effect, _Matthæi Westmonast. Flores Historiarum_, part i. pp. 323, 324, 415. In William of Malmesbury's Chronicle (_Scriptores post Bedam_, p. 22 rev.) the genealogy of the Saxon kings is traced back to Adam. For other, and similar, instances, see a note in _Lingard's History of England_, vol. i. p. 403. And Mr. Ticknor (_History of Spanish Literature_, vol. i. p. 509) mentions that the Spanish chroniclers present 'an uninterrupted succession of Spanish kings from Tubal, a grandson of Noah.' [478] Monteil, in his curious book, _Histoire des divers Etats_, vol. v. p. 70, mentions the old belief 'que les Parisiens sont du sang des rois des anciens Troyens, par Paris, fils de Priam.' Even in the seventeenth century this idea was not extinct; and Coryat, who travelled in France in 1608, gives another version of it. He says, 'As for her name of Paris, she hath it (as some write) from Paris, the eighteenth king of Gallia Celtica, whom some write to have been lineally descended from Japhet, one of the three sons of Noah, and to have founded this city.' _Coryat's Crudities_, 1611, reprinted 1776, vol. i. pp. 27, 28. [479] 'Erat ibi quidam Tros nomine Turonus Bruti nepos.... De nomine ipsius prædicta civitas Turonis vocabulum nacta est; quia ibidem sepultus fuit.' _Galfredi Monumet. Hist. Briton._ lib. i. cap. xv. p. 19. And Mathew of Westminster, who wrote in the fourteenth century, says (_Flores Historiarum_, part i. p. 17): 'Tros nomine Turnus.... De nomine verò ipsius Turonorum civitas vocabulum traxit, quia ibidem, ut testatur Homerus, sepultus fuit.' [480] 'On convient bien que les Troyens de notre Troyes sont du sang des anciens Troyens.' _Monteil_, _Divers Etats_, vol. v. p. 69. [481] Monconys, who was in Nuremberg in 1663, found this opinion still held there; and he seems himself half inclined to believe it; for, in visiting a castle, he observes, 'Mais je ne sçai si c'est un ouvrage de Néron, comme l'on le dit, et que même le nom de Nuremberg en vient.' _Voyages de Monconys_, vol. iv. p. 141, edit. Paris, 1695. [482] 'Deinceps regnante in ea Jebusæo, dicta Jebus, et sic ex Jebus et Salem dicta est Jebussalem. Unde post dempta _b_ littera et addita _r_, dicta est Hierusalem.' _Matthæi Paris Historia Major_, p. 43. This reminds me of another great writer, who was one of the fathers, and was moreover a saint, and who, says M. Matter, 'dérive les Samaritains du roi Samarius, fils de Canaan.' _Matter_, _Hist. du Gnosticisme_, vol. i. p. 41. [483] 'Humber rex Hunnorum ... ad flumen diffugiens, submersus est intra ipsum, et nomen suum flumini reliquit.' _Matthæi Westmonast. Flores Historiarum_, part i. p. 19. [484] These two opinions, which long divided the learned world, are stated in _Le Long_, _Bibliothèque Historique de la France_, vol. ii. pp. 5, 49. [485] See a curious allusion to this in _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. viii. p. 160; where, however, it is erroneously supposed to be a Russian invention. [486] 'The Silesians are not without voluminous writers upon their antiquities; and one of them gravely derives the name and descent of his country from the prophet Elisha.' _Adams's Letters on Silesia_, p. 267, Lond. 8vo, 1804. [487] In 1608, Coryat, when in Zurich, was 'told by the learned Hospinian that their city was founded in the time of Abraham.' _Coryat's Crudities_, vol. i. Epistle to the Reader, sig. D. I always give the most recent instance I have met with, because, in the history of the European intellect, it is important to know how long the spirit of the Middle Ages survived in different countries. [488] They were 'seuls enfants légitimes' of Abraham and Sarah. _Monteil_, _Divers Etats_, vol. v. p. 19. [489] Mathew Paris, who is apprehensive lest the reputation of Sarah should suffer, says, 'Saraceni perversé se putant ex Sara dici; sed veriùs Agareni dicuntur ab Agar; et Ismaelitæ, ab Ismaele filio Abrahæ.' _Hist. Major_, p. 357. Compare a similar passage in _Mezeray_, _Histoire de France_, vol. i. p. 127: 'Sarrasins, ou de la ville de Sarai, ou de Sara femme d'Abraham, duquel ils se disent faussement légitimes héritiers.' After this, the idea, or the fear of the idea, soon died away; and Beausobre (_Histoire Critique de Manichée_, vol. i. p. 24) says: 'On dérive vulgairement le nom de Sarrasins du mot arabe Sarah, ou Sarak, qui signifie effectivement voleur.' A good example of a secular turn given to a theological etymology. For a similar case in northern history, see _Whitelocke's Journal of the Swedish Embassy_, vol. i. pp. 190, 191. [490] Early in the fourteenth century, this was stated, in a letter to the Pope, as a well-known historical fact. See _Lingard's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 187: 'They are sprung from Scota the daughter of Pharaoh, who landed in Ireland, and whose descendants wrested, by force of arms, the northern half of Britain from the progeny of Brute.' [491] Mr. Wright (_Narratives of Sorcery_, 8vo, 1851, vol. i. p. 115) says, 'The foundation of the city of Naples upon eggs, and the egg on which its fate depended, seem to have been legends generally current in the Middle Ages;' and he refers to _Montfaucon_, _Monumens de la Mon. Fr._ vol. ii. p. 329, for proof, that by the statutes of the order of the Saint Esprit, 'a chapter of the knights was appointed to be held annually in castello ovi incantati in mirabili periculo.' [492] 'The order of Saint Michael, in France, pretends to the possession of a regular descent from Michael the Archangel, who, according to the enlightened judgment of French antiquarians, was the premier chevalier in the world; and it was he, they say, who established the earliest chivalric order in Paradise itself.' _Mills's Hist. of Chivalry_, vol. i. pp. 363, 364. [493] The etymology of Tartars from Tartarus is ascribed to the piety of Saint Louis in _Prichard's Physical History_, vol. iv. p. 278; but I think that I have met with it before his time, though I cannot now recover the passage. The earliest instance I remember is in 1241, when the saint was twenty-six years old. See a letter from the emperor Frederick, in _Matthæi Paris Historia Major_, p. 497: 'Pervenissent dicti Tartari (imo Tartarei),' &c; and on the expression of Louis, see p. 496: 'Quos vocamus Tartaros ad suas Tartareas sedes.' Since the thirteenth century, the subject has attracted the attention of English divines; and the celebrated theologian Whiston mentions 'my last famous discovery, or rather my revival of Dr. Giles Fletcher's famous discovery, that the Tartars are no other than the ten tribes of Israel, which have been so long sought for in vain.' _Memoirs of the Life and Writings of William Whiston_, p. 575. Compare, on the opinions held respecting the Tartars, _Journal Asiatique_, I^e série, vol. vi. p. 374, Paris, 1825. [494] Peignot (_Dict. des Livres_, vol. ii. p. 69, Paris, 1806) says, that Rigord, in his history of Philip Augustus, assures his readers 'que depuis que la vraie croix a été prise par les Turcs, les enfans n'ont plus que 20 ou 23 dents, au lieu qu'ils en avaient 30 ou 32 auparavant.' Even in the fifteenth century, it was believed that the number of teeth had diminished from 32 to 22, or at most 24. See _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. ii. pp. 481, 482, Paris, 1815. Compare _Hecker on the Black Death_, pp. 31, 32, in his learned work, _Epidemics of the Middle Ages_, published by the Sydenham Society. Other points relating to the history of past events were cleared up with equal facility. In Europe during many centuries, the only animal food in general use was pork; beef, veal, and mutton, being comparatively unknown.[495] It was, therefore, with no small astonishment that the crusaders, on returning from the East, told their countrymen that they had been among a people who, like the Jews, thought pork unclean, and refused to eat it. But the feelings of lively wonder which this intelligence excited, were destroyed as soon as the cause of the fact was explained. The subject was taken up by Mathew Paris, the most eminent historian during the thirteenth century, and one of the most eminent during the Middle Ages.[496] This celebrated writer informs us, that the Mohammedans refuse to eat pork on account of a singular circumstance which happened to their prophet. It appears that Mohammed, having, on one occasion, gorged himself with food and drink till he was in a state of insensibility, fell asleep on a dunghill, and, in this disgraceful condition, was seen by a litter of pigs. The pigs attacked the fallen prophet, and suffocated him to death; for which reason his followers abominate pigs, and refuse to partake of their flesh.[497] This striking fact explains one great peculiarity of the Mohammedans;[498] and another fact, equally striking, explains how it was that their sect came into existence. For it was well known, that Mohammed was originally a cardinal, and only became a heretic because he failed in his design of being elected pope.[499] [495] In the sacred books of the Scandinavians, pork is represented as the principal food, even in heaven. See _Mallet's Northern Antiquities_, p. 105. It was the chief food of the Irish in the twelfth century: _Ledwich_, _Antiquities of Ireland_, Dublin, 1804, p. 370; and also of the Anglo-Saxons at an earlier period: _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. iii. p. 22. In France it was equally common, and Charlemagne kept in his forests immense droves of pigs. _Note in Esprit des Lois_, in _[OE]uvres de Montesquieu_, p. 513. In Spain those who did not like pork were tried by the Inquisition as suspected Jews: _Llorente_, _Hist. de l'Inquisition_, vol. i. pp. 269, 442, 445. Late in the sixteenth century, there was a particular disease, said to be caused by the quantity of it eaten in Hungary. _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. iii. p. 93; and even at present, the barbarous Lettes are passionately fond of it. _Kohl's Russia_, pp. 386, 387. In the middle of the sixteenth century, I find that Philip II., when in England, generally dined on bacon; of which he ate so much, as frequently to make himself very ill. See _Ambassades de Messieurs de Noailles en Angleterre_, vol. v. pp. 240, 241, edit. 1763. The ambassador writes, that Philip was 'grand mangeur oultre mesure,' and used to consume large quantities 'de lard, dont il faict le plus souvent son principal repas.' In the Middle Ages, 'les Thuringiens payaient leur tribut en porcs, la denrée la plus précieuse de leur pays.' _[OE]uvres de Michelet_, vol. ii. p. 389. [496] Sismondi (_Hist. des Français_, vol. vii. pp. 325, 326) passes a high eulogy upon him; and Mosheim (_Ecclesiast. History_, vol. i. p. 313) says: 'Among the historians (of the thirteenth century), the first place is due to Mathew Paris; a writer of the highest merit, both in point of knowledge and prudence.' [497] _Matthæi Paris Historia Major_, p. 362. He concludes his account by saying, 'Unde adhuc Saraceni sues præ cæteris animalibus exosas habent et abominabiles.' Mathew Paris obtained his information from a clergyman, 'quendam magni nominis celebrem prædicatorem,' p. 360. According to Mathew of Westminster, the pigs not only suffocated Mohammed, but actually ate the greater part of him: 'In maxima parte a porcis corrosum invenerunt.' _Matthæi Westmonast. Flores Historiarum_, part i. p. 215. [498] By a singular contradiction, the African Mohammedans now 'believe that a great enmity subsists between hogs and Christians.' _Mungo Park's Travels_, vol. i. p. 185. Many medical authors have supposed that pork is peculiarly unwholesome in hot countries; but this requires confirmation: and it is certain, that it is recommended by Arabian physicians, and is more generally eaten both in Asia and in Africa than is usually believed. Comp. _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. ii. p. 323; _Volney_, _Voyage en Syrie_, vol. i. p. 449; _Buchanan's Journey through the Mysore_, vol. ii. p. 88, vol. iii. p. 57; _Raffles' Hist. of Java_, vol. ii. p. 5; _Ellis's Hist. of Madagascar_, vol. i. pp. 201, 403, 416; _Cook's Voyages_, vol. ii. p. 265; _Burnes's Travels into Bokhara_, vol. iii. p. 141. As facts of this sort are important physiologically and socially, it is advisable that they should be collected; and I therefore add, that the North-American Indians are said to have 'a disgust for pork.' _Journal of the Geog. Society_, vol. xv. p. 30; and that Dobell (_Travels_, vol. ii. p. 260, 8vo, 1830) says, 'I believe there is more pork eaten in China than in all the rest of the world put together.' [499] This idea, which was a favourite one in the Middle Ages, is said to have been a Rabbinical invention. See _Lettres de Gui Patin_, vol. iii. p. 127: 'que Mahomet, le faux prophète, avait été cardinal; et que, par dépit de n'avoir été pape, il s'étoit fait hérésiarque.' In regard to the early history of Christianity, the great writers of the Middle Ages were particularly inquisitive; and they preserved the memory of events, of which otherwise we should have been entirely ignorant. After Froissart, the most celebrated historian of the fourteenth century, was certainly Mathew of Westminster, with whose name, at least, most readers are familiar. This eminent man directed his attention, among other matters, to the history of Judas, in order to discover the circumstances under which the character of that arch-apostate was formed. His researches seem to have been very extensive; but their principal results were, that Judas, when an infant, was deserted by his parents, and exposed on an island called Scarioth, from whence he received the name of Judas Iscariot. To this the historian adds, that after Judas grew up, he, among other enormities, slew his own father, and then married his own mother.[500] The same writer, in another part of his history, mentions a fact interesting to those who study the antiquities of the Holy See. Some questions had been raised as to the propriety of kissing the pope's toe, and even theologians had their doubts touching so singular a ceremony. But this difficulty also was set at rest by Mathew of Westminster, who explains the true origin of the custom. He says, that formerly it was usual to kiss the hand of his holiness; but that towards the end of the eighth century, a certain lewd woman, in making an offering to the pope, not only kissed his hand, but also pressed it. The pope--his name was Leo--seeing the danger, cut off his hand, and thus escaped the contamination to which he had been exposed. Since that time, the precaution has been taken of kissing the pope's toe instead of his hand; and lest any one should doubt the accuracy of this account, the historian assures us that the hand, which had been cut off five or six hundred years before, still existed in Rome, and was indeed a standing miracle, since it was preserved in the Lateran in its original state, free from corruption.[501] And as some readers might wish to be informed respecting the Lateran itself, where the hand was kept, this also is considered by the historian, in another part of his great work, where he traces it back to the emperor Nero. For it is said that this wicked persecutor of the faith, on one occasion, vomited a frog covered with blood, which he believed to be his own progeny, and therefore caused to be shut up in a vault, where it remained hidden for some time. Now, in the Latin language, _latente_ means hidden, and _rana_ means a frog; so that, by putting these two words together, we have the origin of the Lateran, which, in fact, was built where the frog was found.[502] [500] See the ample details in _Matthæi Westmonast. Flores Historiarum_, part i. pp. 86, 87; and at p. 88, 'Judas matrem suam uxorem duxerat, et quòd patrem suum occiderat.' [501] This took place in the year 798. _Matthæi Westmonast. Flores Historiarum_, part i. p. 293. The historian thus concludes his relation: 'Et statutum est nunc quòd numquam extunc manus Papæ ab offerentibus deoscularetur, sed pes. Cùm ante fuerat consuetudo quòd manus, non pes, deoscularetur. In hujus miraculi memoriam reservatur adhuc manus abscissa in thesauro lateranensi, quam dominus custodit incorruptam ad laudem matris suæ.' [502] '... Ita ut Nero se puero gravidum existimaret.... Tandem dolore nimio vexatus, medicis ait: Accelerate tempus partus, quia languore vix anhelitum habeo respirandi. Tunc ipsum ad vomitum impotionaverunt, et ranam visu terribilem, humoribus infectam, et sanguine edidit cruentatam.... Unde et pars illa civitatis, ut aliqui dicunt, ubi rana latuerat, Lateranum, à latente rana, nomen accepit.' _Matthæi Westmonast._ part i. p. 98. Compare the account given by Roger of Hoveden, of a woman who vomited two toads. _Script. post Bedam_, p. 457 rev. In the Middle Ages there were many superstitions respecting these animals, and they appear to have been used by heralds as marks of degradation. See _Lankester's Memorials of Ray_, p. 197. It would be easy to fill volumes with similar notions, all of which were devoutly believed in those ages of darkness, or, as they have been well called, Ages of Faith. Those, indeed, were golden days for the ecclesiastical profession, since the credulity of men had reached a height which seemed to ensure to the clergy a long and universal dominion. How the prospects of the church were subsequently darkened, and how the human reason began to rebel, will be related in another part of this Introduction, where I shall endeavour to trace the rise of that secular and sceptical spirit to which European civilization owes its origin. But, before closing the present chapter, it may be well to give a few more illustrations of the opinions held in the Middle Ages; and, for this purpose, I will select the two historical accounts, which, of all others, were the most popular, exercised most influence, and were most universally believed. The histories to which I refer, are those of Arthur and Charlemagne; both of which bear the names of dignitaries of the church, and were received with the respect due to their illustrious authors. That concerning Charlemagne is called the Chronicle of Turpin, and purports to be written by Turpin, archbishop of Rheims, a friend of the emperor and his companion in war.[503] From some passages it contains, there is reason to think that it was really composed at the beginning of the twelfth century;[504] but, in the Middle Ages, men were not nice in these matters, and no one was likely to dispute its authenticity. Indeed, the name of an archbishop of Rheims was sufficient recommendation; and we find accordingly, that in the year 1122 it received the formal approbation of the pope;[505] and that Vincent de Beauvais, one of the most celebrated writers in the thirteenth century, and tutor to the sons of Louis IX., mentions it as a work of value, and as being the principal authority for the reign of Charlemagne.[506] [503] '... Ego Turpinus in valle Caroli loco præfato, astante rege,' &c. _De Vita Caroli Magni_, p. 74, edit. Ciampi. [504] Turner (_History of England_, vol. vii. pp. 250-268) has attempted to prove that it was written by Calixtus II.; but his arguments, though ingenious and learned, are not decisive. Warton (_Hist. Eng. Poetry_, vol. i. p. 128) says it was composed about 1110. [505] The pope 'statuit historiam Sancti Caroli descriptam a beato Turpino Remensi Archiepiscopo esse authenticam.' _Note in Turner_, vol. vii. p. 250. [506] In his famous Speculum, 'il recommande spécialement les études historiques, dont il paraît que la plupart de ses contemporains méconnaissaient l'utilité; mais lorsqu'il indique les sources où il puisera ce genre d'instruction, c'est Turpin qu'il désigne comme le principal historien de Charlemagne.' _Histoire Littéraire de la France_, vol. xviii. p. 474, Paris, 1835, 4to; see also p. 517; and on its influence in Spain, see _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. i. pp. 222, 223. A book thus generally read, and sanctioned by such competent judges, must be a tolerable standard for testing the knowledge and opinions of those times. On this account, a short notice of it will be useful for our present purpose, as it will enable us to understand the extreme slowness with which history has improved, and the almost imperceptible steps by which it advanced, until fresh life was breathed into it by the great thinkers of the eighteenth century. In the Chronicle of Turpin, we are informed that the invasion of Spain by Charlemagne took place in consequence of the direct instigation of St. James, the brother of St. John.[507] The apostle, being the cause of the attack, adopted measures to secure its success. When Charlemagne besieged Pamplona, that city made an obstinate resistance; but as soon as prayers were offered up by the invaders, the walls suddenly fell to the ground.[508] After this, the emperor rapidly overran the whole country, almost annihilated the Mohammedans, and built innumerable churches.[509] But, the resources of Satan are inexhaustible. On the side of the enemy, a giant now appeared, whose name was Fenacute, and who was descended from Goliath of old.[510] This Fenacute was the most formidable opponent the Christians had yet encountered. His strength was equal to that of forty men;[511] his face measured one cubit; his arms and legs four cubits; his total height was twenty cubits. Against him Charlemagne sent the most eminent warriors; but they were easily discomfited by the giant; of whose prodigious force some idea may be formed from the fact, that the length even of his fingers was three palms.[512] The Christians were filled with consternation. In vain did more than twenty chosen men advance against the giant; not one returned from the field; Fenacute took them all under his arms, and carried them off into captivity.[513] At length the celebrated Orlando came forward, and challenged him to mortal combat. An obstinate fight ensued; and the Christian, not meeting with the success he expected, engaged his adversary in a theological discussion.[514] Here the pagan was easily defeated; and Orlando, warmed by the controversy, pressed on his enemy, smote the giant with his sword, and dealt him a fatal wound. After this, the last hope of the Mohammedans was extinct; the Christian arms had finally triumphed, and Charlemagne divided Spain among those gallant followers who had aided him in effecting its conquest.[515] [507] _Caroli Magni Historia_, edit. Ciampi, pp. 3-5. [508] '... Muri collapsi funditus corruerunt.' _De Vita Caroli_, p. 5. On this, Ciampi, in his notes on Turpin, gravely says (pp. 94, 95): 'Questo fatto della presa di Pamplona è reso maraviglioso per la subitanea caduta delle mura, a somiglianza delle mura di Gerico.' This reminds me of a circumstance mentioned by Monconys, who, on visiting Oxford in 1663, was shown a horn which was preserved in that ancient city, because it was said to be made in the same way as that by which the walls of Jericho were blown down: 'Les Juifs tiennent que leurs ancêtres se servirent de pareilles pour abbattre les murailles de Jérico.' _Voyages de Monconys_, vol. iii. p. 95, edit. Paris, 1695. [509] _De Vita Caroli_, cap. v. pp. 11, 12; is headed 'De ecclesiis quas Carolus fecit.' [510] 'Gigas nomine Fenacutus, qui fuit de genere Goliat.' _De Vita Caroli_, p. 39. [511] 'Vim xl. fortium possidebat.' p. 39. [512] 'Erat enim statura ejus quasi cubitis xx., facies erat longa quasi unius cubiti, et nasus illius unius palmi mensurati, et brachia et crura ejus quatuor cubitorum erant, et digiti ejus tribus palmis,' p. 40. [513] _De Vita Caroli_, p. 40. [514] Ibid. pp. 43-47. [515] _De Vita Caroli_, p. 52. On the twelve peers of Charlemagne, in connexion with Turpin, see _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. v. pp. 246, 537, 538, vol. vi. p. 534. On the history of Arthur, the Middle Ages possessed information equally authentic. Different accounts had been circulated respecting this celebrated king;[516] but their comparative value was still unsettled, when, early in the twelfth century, the subject attracted the attention of Geoffrey, the well-known Archdeacon of Monmouth. This eminent man, in A.D. 1147, published the result of his inquiries, in a work which he called _History of the Britons_.[517] In this book, he takes a comprehensive view of the whole question; and not only relates the life of Arthur, but also traces the circumstances which prepared the way for the appearance of that great conqueror. In regard to the actions of Arthur, the historian was singularly fortunate, inasmuch as the materials necessary for that part of his subject were collected by Walter Archdeacon of Oxford, who was a friend of Geoffrey, and who, like him, took great interest in the study of history.[518] The work is, therefore, the joint composition of the two archdeacons; and is entitled to respect, not only on this account, but also because it was one of the most popular of all the productions of the Middle Ages. [516] The Welsh, however, accused Gildas of having thrown his history 'into the sea.' _Palgrave's Anglo-Saxon Commonwealth_, vol. i. p. 453. The industrious Sharon Turner (_Hist. of England_, vol. i. pp. 282-295) has collected a great deal of evidence respecting Arthur; of whose existence he, of course, entertains no doubt. Indeed, at p. 292, he gives us an account of the discovery, in the twelfth century, of Arthur's body! [517] In _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. vii. pp. 269, 270, it is said to have appeared in 1128; but Mr. Wright (_Biog. Brit. Lit._ vol. ii. p. 144) seems to have proved that the real date is 1147. [518] Geoffrey says, 'A Gualtero Oxinefordensi in multis historiis peritissimo viro audivit' (_i.e. ille_ Geoffrey) 'vili licet stylo, breviter tamen propalabit, quæ pr[oe]lia inclytus ille rex post victoriam istam, in Britanniam reversus, cum nepote suo commiserit.' _Galfredi Monumetensis Historia Britonum_, lib. xi. sec. i. p. 200. And in the dedication to the Earl of Gloucester, p. 1, he says, 'Walterus Oxinefordensis archidiaconus, vir in oratoria arte atque in exoticis historiis eruditus.' Compare _Matthæi Westmonast. Flores Historiarum_, part i. p. 248. The earlier part of this great history is occupied with the result of those researches which the Archdeacon of Monmouth had made into the state of Britain before the accession of Arthur. With this we are not so much concerned; though it may be mentioned, that the archdeacon ascertained that, after the capture of Troy, Ascanius fled from the city, and begat a son, who became father to Brutus.[519] In those days, England was peopled by giants, all of whom were slain by Brutus; who, having extirpated the entire race, built London, settled the affairs of the country, and called it, after himself, by the name of Britain.[520] The archdeacon proceeds to relate the actions of a long line of kings who succeeded Brutus, most of whom were remarkable for their abilities, and some were famous for the prodigies which occurred in their time. Thus, during the government of Rivallo, it rained blood for three consecutive days;[521] and when Morvidus was on the throne, the coasts were infested by a horrid sea-monster, which, having devoured innumerable persons, at length swallowed the king himself.[522] [519] _Galfredi Historia Britonum_, pp. 3, 4. [520] 'Erat tunc nomen insulæ Albion, quæ a nemine, exceptis paucis gigantibus, inhabitabatur.... Denique Brutus de nomine suo insulam Britanniam, sociosque suos Britones appellat.' _Galf. Hist. Britonum_, p. 20. [521] 'In tempore ejus tribus diebus cecidit pluvia sanguinea, et muscarum affluentia; quibus homines moriebantur.' _Hist. Brit._ p. 36. [522] 'Advenerat namque ex partibus Hibernici maris inauditæ feritatis bellua, quæ incolas maritimos sine intermissione devorabat. Cumque fama aures ejus attigisset, accossit ipse ad illam, et solus cum sola congressus est. At cum omnia tela sua in illam in vanum consumpsisset, acceleravit monstrum illud, et apertis faucibus ipsum velut pisciculum devoravit.' _Hist. Brit._ p. 51. These and similar matters are related by the Archdeacon of Monmouth as the fruit of his own inquiries; but in the subsequent account of Arthur, he was aided by his friend the Archdeacon of Oxford. The two archdeacons inform their readers, that King Arthur owed his existence to a magical contrivance of Merlin, the celebrated wizard; the particulars of which they relate with a minuteness which, considering the sacred character of the historians, is rather remarkable.[523] The subsequent actions of Arthur did not belie his supernatural origin. His might nothing was able to withstand. He slew an immense number of Saxons; he overran Norway, invaded Gaul, fixed his court at Paris, and made preparations to effect the conquest of all Europe.[524] He engaged two giants in single combat, and killed them both. One of these giants, who inhabited the Mount of St. Michael, was the terror of the whole country, and destroyed all the soldiers sent against him, except those he took prisoners, in order to eat them while they were yet alive.[525] But he fell a victim to the prowess of Arthur; as also did another giant, named Ritho, who was, if possible, still more formidable. For Ritho, not content with warring on men of the meaner sort, actually clothed himself in furs which were entirely made of the beards of the kings he had killed.[526] [523] The particulars of the intrigue are in _Galf. Hist. Brit._ pp. 151, 152. For information respecting Merlin, see also _Matthæi Westmonast. Flores Historiarum_, part i. pp. 161, 162; and _Naudé_, _Apologie pour les Grands Hommes_, pp. 308, 309, 318, 319, edit. Amsterdam, 1712. [524] _Hist. Britonum_, pp. 167-170; a brilliant chapter. [525] 'Sed et plures capiebat quos semivivos devorabat.' _Hist. Brit._ p. 181. [526] 'Hic namque ex barbis regum quos peremerat, fecerat sibi pelles, et mandaverat Arturo ut barbam suam diligenter excoriaret, atque excoriatam sibi dirigeret: ut quemadmodum ipse ceteris præerat regibus, ita quoque in honorem ejus ceteris barbis ipsam superponeret.' _Galf. Hist. Brit._ p. 184. Such were the statements which, under the name of history, were laid before the world in the twelfth century; and that, too, not by obscure writers, but by high dignitaries of the church. Nor was anything wanting by which the success of the work might be ensured. Its vouchers were the Archdeacon of Monmouth, and the Archdeacon of Oxford; it was dedicated to Robert Earl of Gloucester, the son of Henry I.; and it was considered so important a contribution to the national literature, that its principal author was raised to the bishopric of Asaph,--a preferment which he is said to owe to his success in investigating the annals of English history.[527] A book thus stamped with every possible mark of approbation, is surely no bad measure of the age in which it was admired. Indeed, the feeling was so universal, that, during several centuries, there are not more than two or three instances of any critic suspecting its accuracy.[528] A Latin abridgment of it was published by the well-known historian, Alfred of Beverley;[529] and, in order that it might be more generally known, it was translated into English by Layamon,[530] and into Anglo-Norman, first by Gaimar, and afterwards by Wace;[531] zealous men, who were anxious that the important truths it contained should be diffused as widely as circumstances would allow. [527] 'It was partly, perhaps, the reputation of this book, which procured its author the bishopric of St. Asaph.' _Life of Geoffrey of Monmouth_, in _Wright's Biog. Brit. Lit._ vol. ii. p. 144, 8vo, 1846. According to the Welsh writers, he was Bishop of Llandaff. See _Stephens's Literature of the Kymry_, 8vo, 1849, p. 323. [528] Mr. Wright (_Biog. Brit. Lit._ vol. ii. p. 146) says: 'Within a century after its first publication, it was generally adopted by writers on English history; and during several centuries, only one or two rare instances occur of persons who ventured to speak against its veracity.' And Sir Henry Ellis says of Polydore Vergil, who wrote early in the sixteenth century, 'For the repudiation of Geoffrey of Monmouth's history, Polydore Vergil was considered almost as a man deprived of reason. Such were the prejudices of the time.' _Polydore Vergil's English Hist._ vol. i. p. x. edit. Ellis, 1846, 4to. See also, on its popularity, _Lappenberg's Hist. of the Anglo-Saxon Kings_, vol. i. p. 102. In the seventeenth century, which was the first sceptical century in Europe, men began to open their eyes on these matters; and Boyle, for example, classes together 'the fabulous labours of Hercules, and exploits of Arthur of Britain.' _Boyle's Works_, vol. iv. p. 425. [529] _Wright's Biog. Brit. Lit._ vol. ii. p. 156; _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. vii. p. 282. [530] According to Mr. Wright (_Biog. Brit._ vol. ii. p. 439), it was translated through the medium of Wace. But it would be more correct to say, that Layamon made the absurdities of Geoffrey the basis of his work, rather than translated them; for he amplifies 15,000 lines of Wace's _Brut_ into 32,000 of his own jargon. See _Sir F. Madden's Preface to Layamon's Brut_, 8vo, 1847, vol. i. p. xiii. I cannot refrain from bearing testimony to the great philological value of this work of Layamon's, by the publication of which its accomplished editor has made an important contribution towards the study of the history of the English language. So far, however, as Layamon is concerned, we can only contemplate with wonder an age of which he was considered an ornament. [531] _Wright's Biog. Brit. Lit._ vol. ii. pp. 151, 207; _Hallam's Literature of Europe_, vol. i. p. 35. It will hardly be necessary that I should adduce further evidence of the way in which history was written during the Middle Ages; for the preceding specimens have not been taken at random, but have been selected from the ablest and most celebrated authors; and as such present a very favourable type of the knowledge and judgment of Europe in those days. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, there appeared, for the first time, faint signs of an approaching change;[532] but this improvement was not very marked until late in the sixteenth century, or even early in the seventeenth. The principal steps of this interesting movement will be traced in another part of the Introduction, when I shall show, that although in the seventeenth century the progress was unmistakable, there was no attempt to take a comprehensive view of history until nearly the middle of the eighteenth century; when the subject was studied, first by the great French thinkers, then by one or two of the Scotch, and, some years later, by the Germans. This reformation of history was connected, as I shall point out, with other intellectual changes, which corresponded to it, and which affected the social relations of all the principal countries of Europe. But, without anticipating what will be found in another part of this volume, it is sufficient to say, that not only was no history written before the end of the sixteenth century, but that the state of society was such as to make it impossible for one to be written. The knowledge of Europe was not yet ripe enough to enable it to be successfully applied to the study of past events. For we are not to suppose that the deficiencies of the early historians were caused by a lack of natural abilities. The average intellect of men is probably always the same; but the pressure exercised on them by society is constantly varying. It was, therefore, the general condition of society, which, in former days, compelled even the ablest writers to believe the most childish absurdities. Until that condition was altered, the existence of history was impossible, because it was impossible to find any one who knew what was most important to relate, what to reject, and what to believe. [532] Of which Froissart is the earliest instance; since he is the first who took a secular view of affairs, all the preceding historians being essentially theological. In Spain, too, we find, late in the fourteenth century, a political spirit beginning to appear among historians. See the remarks on Ayala, in _Ticknor's Hist. of Spanish Lit._ vol. i. pp. 165, 166; where, however, Mr. Ticknor represents Froissart as more unworldly than he really was. The consequence was, that even when history was studied by men of such eminent abilities as Macchiavelli and Bodin, they could turn it to no better account than to use it as a vehicle for political speculations; and in none of their works do we find the least attempt to rise to generalizations large enough to include all the social phenomena. The same remark applies to Comines, who, though inferior to Macchiavelli and Bodin, was an observer of no ordinary acuteness, and certainly displays a rare sagacity in his estimation of particular characters. But this was due to his own intellect; while the age in which he lived made him superstitious, and, for the larger purposes of history, miserably shortsighted. His shortsightedness is strikingly shown in his utter ignorance of that great intellectual movement, which, in his own time, was rapidly overthrowing the feudal institutions of the Middle Ages; but to which he never once alludes, reserving his attention for those trivial political intrigues in the relation of which he believed history to consist.[533] As to his superstition, it would be idle to give many instances of that; since no man could live in the fifteenth century without having his mind enfeebled by the universal credulity. It may, however, be observed, that though he was personally acquainted with statesmen and diplomatists, and had, therefore, the fullest opportunity of seeing how enterprises of the fairest promise are constantly ruined, merely by the incapacity of those who undertake them, he, on all important occasions, ascribes such failure, not to the real cause, but to the immediate interference of the Deity. So marked, and so irresistible, was the tendency of the fifteenth century, that this eminent politician, a man of the world, and well skilled in the arts of life, deliberately asserts that battles are lost, not because the army is ill supplied, nor because the campaign is ill conceived, nor because the general is incompetent; but because the people or their prince are wicked, and Providence seeks to punish them. For, says Comines, war is a great mystery; and being used by God as the means of accomplishing his wishes, He gives victory, sometimes to one side, sometimes to the other.[534] Hence, too, disturbances occur in the state, solely by divine disposition; and they never would happen, except that princes or kingdoms, having become prosperous, forget the source from which their prosperity proceeded.[535] [533] On this, Arnold says, truly enough, 'Comines's Memoirs are striking from their perfect unconsciousness: the knell of the Middle Ages had been already sounded, yet Comines has no other notions than such as they had tended to foster; he describes their events, their characters, their relations, as if they were to continue for centuries.' _Arnold's Lectures on Modern History_, p. 118. To this I may add, that whenever Comines has occasion to mention the lower classes, which is very rarely the case, he speaks of them with great contempt. See two striking instances in _Mémoires de Philippe de Comines_, vol. ii. pp. 277, 287, edit. Paris, 1826. [534] He says, that a field of battle is 'un des accomplissemens des [oe]uvres que Dieu a commencées aucunes fois par petites mouvetez et occasions, et en donnant la victoire aucunes fois à l'un, et aucunes fois à l'autre: et est cecy mystère si grand, que les royaumes et grandes seigneuries en prennent aucunes fois fins et désolations, et les autres accroissement, et commencement de régner.' _Mém. de Comines_, vol. i. pp. 361, 362. Respecting the wanton invasion of Italy, he says, that the expedition might have been easily ruined if the enemy had thought of poisoning the wells or the food: 'mais ils n'y eussent point failly, s'ils y eussent voulu essayer; mais il est de croire que nostre sauveur et rédempteur Jésus-Christ leur ostoit leur vouloir.' vol. iii. p. 154. So, he adds, p. 155, 'pour conclure l'article, semble que nostre seigneur Jésus-Christ ait voulu que toute la gloire du voyage ait esté attribuée à luy.' Compare the _Institutes of Timour_, p. 7; an instructive combination of superstition and ferocity. [535] 'Mais mon advis est que cela ne se fait que par disposition divine; car quand les princes ou royaumes out esté en grande prospérité ou richesses, et ils ont mesconnoissance dont procède telle grâce, Dieu leur dresse un ennemi ou ennemie, dont nul ne se douteroit, comme vous pouvez voir par les rois nommez en la Bible, et par ce que puis peu d'années en avez veu en cette Angleterre, et en cette maison de Bourgogne et autres lieux que avez veu et voyez tous les jours.' _Mém. de Comines_, vol. i. pp. 388, 389. See also his remarks on the Duke of Burgundy, vol. ii. p. 179; and in particular, his extraordinary digression, livre v. chap. xviii. vol. ii. pp. 290-298. Such attempts as these, to make politics a mere branch of theology,[536] are characteristic of the time; and they are the more interesting, as the work of a man of great ability, and of one, too, who had grown old in the experience of public life. When views of this sort were advocated, not by a monk in his cloister, but by a distinguished statesman, well versed in public affairs, we may easily imagine what was the average intellectual condition of those who were every way his inferiors. It is but too evident, that from them nothing could be expected; and that many steps had yet to be taken, before Europe could emerge from the superstition in which it was sunk, and break through those grievous impediments which hindered its future progress. [536] Dr. Lingard (_Hist. of England_, vol. i. p. 357) says, 'From the doctrine of a superintending providence, the piety of our ancestors had drawn a rash but very convenient inference, that success is an indication of the Divine will, and that, of course, to resist a victorious competitor, is to resist the judgment of heaven:' see also p. 114. The last vestige of this once universal opinion is the expression, which is gradually falling into disuse, of 'appealing to the God of Battles.' But, though much remained to be done, there can be no doubt that the movement onward was uninterrupted, and that, even while Comines was writing, there were unequivocal symptoms of a great and decisive change. Still, they were only indications of what was approaching; and about a hundred years elapsed, after his death, before the progress was apparent in the whole of its results. For, though the Protestant Reformation was a consequence of this progress, it was for some time unfavourable to it, by encouraging the ablest men in the discussion of questions inaccessible to human reason, and thus diverting them from subjects in which their efforts would have been available for the general purposes of civilization. Hence we find, that little was really accomplished until the end of the sixteenth century, when, as we shall see in the next two chapters, the theological fervour began to subside in England and France, and the way was prepared for that purely secular philosophy, of which Bacon and Descartes were the exponents, but by no means the creators.[537] This epoch belongs to the seventeenth century, and from it we may date the intellectual regeneration of Europe; just as from the eighteenth century we may date its social regeneration. But during the greater part of the sixteenth century, the credulity was still universal, since it affected not merely the lowest and most ignorant classes, but even those who were best educated. Of this innumerable proofs might be given; though, for the sake of brevity, I will confine myself to two instances, which are particularly striking, from the circumstances attending them, and from the influence they exercised over men who might be supposed little liable to similar delusions. [537] See _Guizot_, _Civilisation en Europe_, p. 166; the best passage in that able, but rather unequal work: 'Parcourez l'histoire du v^e au xvi^e siècle; c'est la théologie qui possède et dirige l'esprit humain; toutes les opinions sont empreintes de théologie; les questions philosophiques, politiques, historiques, sont toujours considérées sous un point de vue théologique. L'église est tellement souveraine dans l'ordre intellectuel, que même les sciences mathématiques et physiques sont tenues de se soumettre à ses doctrines. L'esprit théologique est en quelque sort le sang qui a coulé dans les veines du monde européen jusqu'à Bacon et Descartes. Pour la première fois, Bacon en Angleterre, et Descartes en France, ont jeté l'intelligence hors des voies de la théologie.' A noble passage, and perfectly true: but what would have been the effect produced by Bacon and Descartes, if, instead of living in the seventeenth century, they had lived in the seventh? Would their philosophy have been equally secular; or, being equally secular, would it have been equally successful? At the end of the fifteenth, and early in the sixteenth century, St[oe]ffler, the celebrated astronomer, was professor of mathematics at Tübingen. This eminent man rendered great services to astronomy, and was one of the first who pointed out the way of remedying the errors in the Julian calendar, according to which time was then computed.[538] But neither his abilities nor his knowledge could protect him against the spirit of his age. In 1524, he published the result of some abstruse calculations, in which he had been long engaged, and by which he had ascertained the remarkable fact, that in that same year the world would again be destroyed by a deluge. This announcement, made by a man of such eminence, and made, too, with the utmost confidence, caused a lively and universal alarm.[539] News of the approaching event was rapidly circulated, and Europe was filled with consternation. To avoid the first shock, those who had houses by the sea, or on rivers, abandoned them;[540] while others, perceiving that such measures could only be temporary, adopted more active precautions. It was suggested that, as a preliminary step, the Emperor Charles V. should appoint inspectors to survey the country, and mark those places which, being least exposed to the coming flood, would be most likely to afford a shelter. That this should be done, was the wish of the imperial general, who was then stationed at Florence, and by whose desire a work was written recommending it.[541] But the minds of men were too distracted for so deliberate a plan; and besides, as the height of the flood was uncertain, it was impossible to say whether it would not reach the top of the most elevated mountains. In the midst of these and similar schemes, the fatal day drew near, and nothing had yet been contrived on a scale large enough to meet the evil. To enumerate the different proposals which were made and rejected, would fill a long chapter. One proposal is, however, worth noticing, because it was carried into effect with great zeal, and is, moreover, very characteristic of the age. An ecclesiastic of the name of Auriol, who was then professor of canon law at the University of Toulouse, revolved in his own mind various expedients by which this universal disaster might be mitigated. At length it occurred to him that it was practicable to imitate the course which, on a similar emergency, Noah had adopted with eminent success. Scarcely was the idea conceived, when it was put into execution. The inhabitants of Toulouse lent their aid; and an ark was built, in the hope that some part, at least, of the human species might be preserved, to continue their race, and repeople the earth, after the waters should have subsided, and the land again become dry.[542] [538] Compare _Biog. Univ._ vol. xliii. p. 577, with _Montucla_, _Hist. des Mathématiques_, vol. i. p. 678. [539] Naudé mentions, that in France it drove many persons almost mad: 'In Gallia parum afuit quin ad insaniam homines non paucos periculi metu (diluvium) adegerit.' _Bayle_, in voce _Stofflerus_, note B. [540] 'Nam Petrus Cirvellus Hispanorum omnium sui temporis doctissimus, cum theologiæ, in almo Complutensi gymnasio, lectoris munere fungeretur, et vero multos, ut ipsemet inquit, fluviis vel mari finitimos populos, jam stupido metu perculsos, domicilia ac sedes mutare vidisset, ac prædia, supellectilem, bonaque omnia, contra justum valorem sub actione distrahere, ac alia loca vel altitudine, vel siccitate magis secura requirere, sui officii esse putavit, in publica illa consternatione, quam de nihilo excitare persuasum non habebat,' &c. _Bayle_, note B. [541] Ibid. [542] In addition to the account in Bayle, the reader may refer to _Biog. Univ._ vol. iii. p. 88, vol. xxxi. p. 283, vol. xliii. pp. 577, 578; _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. iii. p. 251; _Delambre_, _Hist. de l'Astronomie du Moyen Age_, Paris, 1819, 4to, p. 376; _Montucla_, _Hist. des Mathématiques_, vol. i. p. 622; _Dict. Philosoph._, article _Astrologie_, in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxxvii. pp. 148, 149. About seventy years after this alarm had passed away, there happened another circumstance, which for a time afforded occupation to the most celebrated men in one of the principal countries of Europe. At the end of the sixteenth century, terrible excitement was caused by a report that a golden tooth had appeared in the jaw of a child born in Silesia. The rumour, on being investigated, turned out to be too true. It became impossible to conceal it from the public; and the miracle was soon known all over Germany, where, being looked on as a mysterious omen, universal anxiety was felt as to what this new thing might mean. Its real import was first unfolded by Dr. Horst. In 1595, this eminent physician published the result of his researches, by which it appears that, at the birth of the child, the sun was in conjunction with Saturn, at the sign Aries. The event, therefore, though supernatural, was by no means alarming. The golden tooth was the precursor of a golden age, in which the emperor would drive the Turks from Christendom, and lay the foundations of an empire that would last for thousands of years. And this, says Horst, is clearly alluded to by Daniel, in his well-known second chapter, where the prophet speaks of a statue with a golden head.[543] [543] This history of the golden tooth is partly related by De Thou: see his _Hist. Univ._ vol. xi. pp. 634, 635. And on the controversy to which it gave rise, compare _Hist. des Oracles_, chap. iv., in _[OE]uvres de Fontenelle_, vol. ii. pp. 219, 220, ed. Paris, 1766; _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. iii. pp. 247-249; _Biog. Univ._, vol. xx. p. 579. CHAPTER VII. OUTLINE OF THE HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH INTELLECT FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE SIXTEENTH TO THE END OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. It is difficult for an ordinary reader, living in the middle of the nineteenth century, to understand, that only three hundred years before he was born, the public mind was in the benighted state disclosed in the preceding chapter. It is still more difficult for him to understand that the darkness was shared not merely by men of an average education, but by men of considerable ability, men in every respect among the foremost of their age. A reader of this sort may satisfy himself that the evidence is indisputable; he may verify the statements I have brought forward, and admit that there is no possible doubt about them; but even then he will find it hard to conceive that there ever was a state of society in which such miserable absurdities were welcomed as sober and important truths, and were supposed to form an essential part of the general stock of European knowledge. But a more careful examination will do much to dissipate this natural astonishment. In point of fact, so far from wondering that such things were believed, the wonder would have been if they were rejected. For in those times, as in all others, every thing was of a piece. Not only in historical literature, but in all kinds of literature, on every subject--in science, in religion, in legislation--the presiding principle was a blind and unhesitating credulity. The more the history of Europe anterior to the seventeenth century is studied, the more completely will this fact be verified. Now and then a great man arose, who had his doubts respecting the universal belief; who whispered a suspicion as to the existence of giants thirty feet high, of dragons with wings, and of armies flying through the air; who thought that astrology might be a cheat, and necromancy a bubble; and who even went so far as to raise a question respecting the propriety of drowning every witch and burning every heretic. A few such men there undoubtedly were; but they were despised as mere theorists, idle visionaries, who, unacquainted with the practice of life, arrogantly opposed their own reason to the wisdom of their ancestors. In the state of society in which they were born, it was impossible that they should make any permanent impression. Indeed, they had enough to do to look to themselves, and provide for their own security; for, until the latter part of the sixteenth century, there was no country in which a man was not in great personal peril if he expressed open doubts respecting the belief of his contemporaries. Yet it is evident, that until doubt began, progress was impossible. For, as we have clearly seen, the advance of civilization solely depends on the acquisitions made by the human intellect, and on the extent to which those acquisitions are diffused. But men who are perfectly satisfied with their own knowledge, will never attempt to increase it. Men who are perfectly convinced of the accuracy of their opinions, will never take the pains of examining the basis on which they are built. They look always with wonder, and often with horror, on views contrary to those which they inherited from their fathers; and while they are in this state of mind, it is impossible that they should receive any new truth which interferes with their foregone conclusions. On this account it is, that although the acquisition of fresh knowledge is the necessary precursor of every step in social progress, such acquisition must itself be preceded by a love of inquiry, and therefore by a spirit of doubt; because without doubt there will be no inquiry, and without inquiry there will be no knowledge. For knowledge is not an inert and passive principle, which comes to us whether we will or no; but it must be sought before it can be won; it is the product of great labour and therefore of great sacrifice. And it is absurd to suppose that men will incur the labour, and make the sacrifice, for subjects respecting which they are already perfectly content. They who do not feel the darkness, will never look for the light. If on any point we have attained to certainty, we make no further inquiry on that point; because inquiry would be useless, or perhaps dangerous. The doubt must intervene, before the investigation can begin. Here, then, we have the act of doubting as the originator, or, at all events, the necessary antecedent, of all progress. Here we have that scepticism, the very name of which is an abomination to the ignorant; because it disturbs their lazy and complacent minds; because it troubles their cherished superstitions; because it imposes on them the fatigue of inquiry; and because it rouses even sluggish understandings to ask if things are as they are commonly supposed, and if all is really true which they from their childhood have been taught to believe. The more we examine this great principle of scepticism, the more distinctly shall we see the immense part it has played in the progress of European civilization. To state in general terms, what in this Introduction will be fully proved, it may be said, that to scepticism we owe that spirit of inquiry, which, during the last two centuries, has gradually encroached on every possible subject; has reformed every department of practical and speculative knowledge; has weakened the authority of the privileged classes, and thus placed liberty on a surer foundation; has chastized the despotism of princes; has restrained the arrogance of the nobles; and has even diminished the prejudices of the clergy. In a word, it is this which has remedied the three fundamental errors of the olden time: errors which made the people, in politics too confiding; in science too credulous; in religion too intolerant. This rapid summary of what has actually been effected, may perhaps startle those readers to whom such large investigations are not familiar. The importance, however, of the principle at issue is so great, that I purpose in this Introduction to verify it by an examination of all the prominent forms of European civilization. Such an inquiry will lead to the remarkable conclusion, that no single fact has so extensively affected the different nations as the duration, the amount, and above all the diffusion, of their scepticism. In Spain, the church, aided by the Inquisition, has always been strong enough to punish sceptical writers, and prevent, not indeed the existence, but the promulgation of sceptical opinions.[544] By this means the spirit of doubt being quenched, knowledge has for several centuries remained almost stationary; and civilization, which is the fruit of knowledge, has also been stationary. But in England and France, which, as we shall presently see, are the countries where scepticism first openly appeared, and where it has been most diffused, the results are altogether different; and the love of inquiry being encouraged, there has arisen that constantly-progressive knowledge to which these two great nations owe their prosperity. In the remaining part of this volume, I shall trace the history of this principle in France and England, and examine the different forms under which it has appeared, and the way in which those forms have affected the national interests. In the order of the investigation, I shall give the precedence to England; because, for the reasons already stated, its civilization must be deemed more normal than that of France; and therefore, notwithstanding its numerous deficiencies, it approaches the natural type more closely than its great neighbour has been able to do. But as the fullest details respecting English civilization will be found in the body of the present work, I intend in the Introduction to devote merely a single chapter to it, and to consider our national history simply in reference to the immediate consequences of the sceptical movement; reserving for a future occasion those subsidiary matters which, though less comprehensive, are still of great value. And as the growth of religious toleration is undoubtedly the most important of all, I will, in the first place, state the circumstances under which it appeared in England in the sixteenth century; and I will then point out how other events, which immediately followed, were part of the same progress, and were indeed merely the same principles acting in different directions. [544] On the influence of the French literature, which, late in the eighteenth century, crept into Spain in spite of the church, and diffused a considerable amount of scepticism among the most educated classes, compare _Llorente_, _Hist. de l'Inquisition_, vol. i. p. 322, vol. ii. p. 543, vol. iv. pp. 98, 99, 102, 148; _Doblado's Letters from Spain_, pp. 115, 119, 120, 133, 231, 232; _Lord Holland's Foreign Reminiscences_, edit. 1850, p. 76; _Southey's Hist. of Brazil_, vol. iii. p. 607; and an imperfect statement of the same fact in _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. x. p. 8. In regard to the Spanish colonies, compare _Humboldt_, _Nouv. Espagne_, vol. ii. p. 818, with _Ward's Mexico_, vol. i. p. 83. A careful study of the history of religious toleration will prove, that in every Christian country where it has been adopted, it has been forced upon the clergy by the authority of the secular classes.[545] At the present day, it is still unknown to those nations among whom the ecclesiastical power is stronger than the temporal power; and as this, during many centuries, was the general condition, it is not wonderful that, in the early history of Europe, we should find scarcely a trace of so wise and benevolent an opinion. But at the moment when Elizabeth mounted the throne of England, our country was about equally divided between two hostile creeds; and the queen, with remarkable ability, contrived during some time so to balance the rival powers, as to allow to neither a decisive preponderance. This was the first instance which had been seen in Europe of a government successfully carried on without the active participation of the spiritual authority; and the consequence was, that for several years the principle of toleration, though still most imperfectly understood, was pushed to an extent which is truly surprising for so barbarous an age.[546] Unhappily, after a time, various circumstances, which I shall relate in their proper place, induced Elizabeth to change a policy which she, even with all her wisdom, perhaps considered to be a dangerous experiment, and for which the knowledge of the country was as yet hardly ripe. But although she now allowed the Protestants to gratify their hatred against the Catholics, there was, in the midst of the sanguinary scenes which followed, one circumstance very worthy of remark. Although many persons were most unquestionably executed merely for their religion, no one ventured to state their religion as the cause of their execution.[547] The most barbarous punishments were inflicted upon them; but they were told that they might escape the punishment by renouncing certain principles which were said to be injurious to the safety of the state.[548] It is true, that many of these principles were such as no Catholic could abandon without at the same time abandoning his religion, of which they formed an essential part. But the mere fact that the spirit of persecution was driven to such a subterfuge, showed that a great progress had been made by the age. A most important point, indeed, was gained when the bigot became a hypocrite; and when the clergy, though willing to burn men for the good of their souls, were obliged to justify their cruelty by alleging considerations of a more temporal, and, as they considered, a less important character.[549] [545] Nearly two hundred years ago, Sir William Temple observed that in Holland the clergy possessed less power than in other countries; and that, therefore, there existed an unusual amount of toleration. _Observations upon the United Provinces_, in _Temple's Works_, vol. i. pp. 157-162. About seventy years later, the same inference was drawn by another acute observer, Le Blanc, who, after mentioning the liberality which the different sects displayed towards each other in Holland, adds, 'La grande raison d'une harmonie si parfaite est que tout s'y régle par les séculiers de chacune de ces religions, et qu'on n'y souffriroit pas des ministres, dont le zèle imprudent pourroit détruire cette heureuse correspondance.' _Le Blanc_, _Lettres d'un Français_, vol. i. p. 73. I merely give these as illustrations of an important principle, which I shall hereafter prove. [546] 'In the first eleven years of her reign, not one Roman Catholic was prosecuted capitally for religion.' _Neal's Hist. of the Puritans_, vol. i. p. 444; and the same remark in _Collier's Eccles. Hist._ vol. vii. p. 252, edit. 1840. [547] Without quoting the impudent defence which Chief-Justice Popham made, in 1606, for the barbarous treatment of the Catholics (_Campbell's Chief Justices_, vol. i. p. 225), I will give the words of the two immediate successors of Elizabeth. James I. says: 'The trewth is, according to my owne knowledge, the late queene of famous memory never punished any Papist for religion.' _Works of King James_, London, 1616, folio, p. 252. And Charles I. says: 'I am informed, neither Queen Elizabeth nor my father did ever avow that any priest in their times was executed merely for religion.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 713. [548] This was the defence set up in 1583, in a work called _The Execution of Justice in England_, and ascribed to Burleigh. See _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. pp. 146, 147; and _Somers Tracts_, vol. i. pp. 189-208: 'a number of persons whom they term as martyrs,' p. 195; and at p. 202, the writer attacks those who have 'entitled certain that have suffered for treason to be martyrs for religion.' In the same way, the opponents of Catholic Emancipation in our time, found themselves compelled to abandon the old theological ground, and to defend the persecution of the Catholics rather by political arguments than by religious ones. Lord Eldon, who was by far the most influential leader of the intolerant party, said, in a speech in the House of Lords, in 1810, that 'the enactments against the Catholics were meant to guard, not against the abstract opinions of their religion, but against the political dangers of a faith which acknowledged a foreign supremacy.' _Twiss's Life of Eldon_, vol. i. p. 435; see also pp. 483, 501, 577-580. Compare _Alison's Hist._ vol. vi. pp. 379 seq., a summary of the debate in 1805. [549] Mr. Sewell seems to have this change in view in his _Christian Politics_, 8vo, 1844, p. 277. Compare _Coleridge's note_ in _Southey's Life of Wesley_, vol. i. p. 270. An able writer says of the persecutions which, in the seventeenth century, the Church of England directed against her opponents: 'This is the stale pretence of the clergy in all countries, after they have solicited the government to make penal laws against those they call heretics or schismaticks, and prompted the magistrates to a vigorous execution, then they lay all the odium on the civil power for whom they have no excuse to allege, but that such men suffered, not for religion, but for disobedience to the laws.' _Somers Tracts_, vol. xii. p. 534. See also _Butler's Mem. of the Catholics_, vol. i. p. 389, and vol. ii. pp. 44-46. A remarkable evidence of the change that was then taking place, is found in the two most important theological works which appeared in England during the reign of Elizabeth. _Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity_ was published at the end of the sixteenth century,[550] and is still considered one of the greatest bulwarks of our national church. If we compare this work with _Jewel's Apology for the Church of England_, which was written thirty years before it,[551] we shall at once be struck by the different methods these eminent writers employed. Both Hooker and Jewel were men of learning and genius. Both of them were familiar with the Bible, the Fathers, and the Councils. Both of them wrote with the avowed object of defending the Church of England; and both of them were well acquainted with the ordinary weapons of theological controversy. But here the resemblance stops. The men were very similar; their works are entirely different. During the thirty years which had elapsed, the English intellect had made immense progress; and the arguments which in the time of Jewel were found perfectly satisfactory, would not have been listened to in the time of Hooker. The work of Jewel is full of quotations from the Fathers and the Councils, whose mere assertions, when they are uncontradicted by Scripture, he seems to regard as positive proofs. Hooker, though he shows much respect to the Councils, lays little stress upon the Fathers, and evidently considered that his readers would not pay much attention to their unsupported opinions. Jewel inculcates the importance of faith; Hooker insists upon the exercise of reason.[552] The first employs all his talents in collecting the decisions of antiquity, and in deciding upon the meaning which they may be supposed to bear. The other quotes the ancients, not so much from respect for their authority, as with the view of illustrating his own arguments. Thus, for instance, both Hooker and Jewel assert the undoubted right of the sovereign to interfere in ecclesiastical affairs. Jewel, however, fancied that he had proved the right, when he had pointed out that it was exercised by Moses, by Joshua, by David, and by Solomon.[553] On the other hand, Hooker lays down that this right exists, not because it is ancient, but because it is advisable; and because it is unjust to suppose that men who are not ecclesiastics will consent to be bound by laws which ecclesiastics alone have framed.[554] In the same opposite spirit do these great writers conduct their defence of their own church. Jewel, like all the authors of his time, had exercised his memory more than his reason; and he thinks to settle the whole dispute by crowding together texts from the Bible, with the opinions of the commentators upon them.[555] But Hooker, who lived in the age of Shakespeare and Bacon, found himself constrained to take views of a far more comprehensive character. His defence rests neither upon tradition nor upon commentators, nor ever upon revelation; but he is content that the pretensions of the hostile parties shall be decided by their applicability to the great exigencies of society, and by the ease with which they adapt themselves to the general purposes of ordinary life.[556] [550] The first four books, which are in every point of view the most important, were published in 1594. _Walton's Life of Hooker_, in _Wordsworth's Ecclesiast. Biog._ vol. iii. p. 509. The sixth book is said not to be authentic; and doubts have been thrown upon the seventh and eighth books; but Mr. Hallam thinks that they are certainly genuine. _Literature of Europe_, vol. ii. pp. 24, 25. [551] _Jewel's Apology_ was written in 1561 or 1562. See _Wordsworth's Eccles. Biog._ vol. iii. p. 313. This work, the Bible, and _Fox's Martyrs_, were ordered, in the reign of Elizabeth, 'to be fixed in all parish churches, to be read by the people.' _Aubrey's Letters_, vol. ii. p. 42. The order, in regard to Jewel's _Defence_, was repeated by James I. and Charles I. _Butler's Mem. of the Catholics_, vol. iv. p. 413. [552] 'Wherefore the natural measure whereby to judge our doings is, the sentence of Reason determining and setting down what is good to be done.' _Eccl. Polity_, book i. sec. viii. in _Hooker's Works_, vol. i. p. 99. He requires of his opponents, 'not to exact at our hands for every action the knowledge of some place of Scripture out of which we stand bound to deduce it, as by divers testimonies they seek to enforce; but rather, as the truth is, so to acknowledge, that _it sufficeth if such actions be framed according to the law of reason_.' Book ii. sec. i. _Works_, vol. i. p. 151. 'For men to be tied and led by authority, as it were with a kind of captivity of judgment, and, though there be reason to the contrary, not to listen unto it, but to follow, like beasts, the first in the herd, they know not nor care not whither: this were brutish. Again, that authority of men should prevail with men, either against or above Reason, is no part of our belief. Companies of learned men, be they never so great and reverend, are to yield unto Reason.' Book ii. sec. vii. vol. i. pp. 182, 183. In book v. sec. viii. vol. ii. p. 23, he says, that even 'the voice of the church' is to be held inferior to reason. See also a long passage in book vii. sec. xi. vol. iii. p. 152; and on the application of reason to the general theory of religion, see vol. i. pp. 220-223, book iii. sec. viii. Again, at p. 226: 'Theology, what is it, but the science of things divine? What science can be attained unto, without the help of natural discourse and Reason?' And he indignantly asks those who insist on the supremacy of faith, 'May we cause our faith without Reason to appear reasonable in the eyes of men?' vol. i. p. 230. [553] After referring to Isaiah, he adds: 'Præter, inquam, hæc omnia, ex historiis et optimorum temporum exemplis videmus pios principes procurationem ecclesiarum ab officio suo nunquam putasse alienam. 'Moses civilis magistratus, ac ductor populi, omnem religionis, et sacrorum rationem, et accepit a Deo, et populo tradidit, et Aaronem episcopum de aureo vitulo, et de violata religione, vehementer et graviter castigavit. Josue, etsi non aliud erat, quàm magistratus civilis, tamen cùm primùm inauguraretur et præficeretur populo, accepit mandata nominatim de religione, deque colendo Deo. 'David rex, cùm omnis jam religio, ab impio rege Saule prorsus esset dissipata, reduxit arcam Dei, hoc est, religionem restituit: nec tantùm adfuit ut admonitor aut hortator operis, sed etiam psalmos et hymnos dedit, et classes disposuit, et pompam instituit, et quodammodo præfuit sacerdotibus. 'Salomon rex ædificavit templum Domino, quod ejus pater David animo tantùm destinaverat: et postremò orationem egregiam habuit ad populum de religione, et cultu Dei; et Abiatharum episcopum postea summovit, et in ejus locum Sadocum surrogavit.' _Apolog. Eccles. Anglic._ pp. 161, 162. [554] He says that, although the clergy may be supposed more competent than laymen to regulate ecclesiastical matters, this will practically avail them nothing: 'It were unnatural not to think the pastors and bishops of our souls a great deal more fit than men of secular trades and callings; howbeit, when all which the wisdom of all sorts can do is done, for the devising of laws in the church, it is the general consent of all that giveth them the form and vigour of laws; without which they could be no more unto us than the counsels of physicians to the sick.' _Ecclesiastical Polity_, book viii. sec. vi. vol. iii. p. 303. He adds, p. 326: 'Till it be proved that some special law of Christ hath for ever annexed unto the clergy alone the power to make ecclesiastical laws, we are to hold it a thing most _consonant with equity and reason_, that no ecclesiastical laws be made in a Christian commonwealth, without consent as well of the laity as of the clergy, but least of all without consent of the highest power.' [555] 'Quòd si docemus sacrosanctum Dei evangelium, et veteres episcopos, atque ecclesiam primitivam nobiscum facere.' If this be so, then, indeed, 'speramus, neminem illorum' (his opponents) 'ita negligentem fore salutis suæ, quin ut velit aliquando cogitationem suscipere, ad utros potiùs se adjungat.' _Apolog. Eccles. Anglic._ p. 17. At p. 53, he indignantly asks if any one will dare to impeach the Fathers: 'Ergo Origenes, Ambrosius, Augustinus, Chrysostomus, Gelasius, Theodoretus erant desertores fidei catholicæ? Ergo tot veterum episcoporum et doctorum virorum tanta consensio nihil aliud erat quàm conspiratio hæreticorum? Aut quod tum laudabatur in illis, id nunc damnatur in nobis? Quodque in illis erat catholicum, id nunc mutatis tantùm hominum voluntatibus, repentè factum est schismaticum? Aut quod olim erat verum, nunc statim, quia istis non placet, erit falsum?' His work is full of this sort of eloquent, but, as it appears to our age, pointless declamation. [556] This large view underlies the whole of the _Ecclesiastical Polity_. I can only afford room for a few extracts, which will be illustrations rather than proofs: the proof will be obvious to every competent reader of the work itself. 'True it is, the ancienter the better ceremonies of religion are; howbeit not absolutely true and without exception; _but true only so far forth as those different ages do agree_ in the state of those things for which, at the first, those rites, orders, and ceremonies were instituted.' vol. i. p. 36. 'We count those things perfect which want nothing requisite for the end whereto they were instituted.' vol. i. p. 191. 'Because when a thing doth cease to be available unto the end which gave it being, the continuance of it must then of necessity appear superfluous.' And even of the laws of God, he boldly adds: 'Notwithstanding the authority of their Maker, the mutability of that end for which they are made doth also make them changeable.' vol. i. p. 236. 'And therefore laws, though both ordained of God himself, and the end for which they were ordained continuing, may notwithstanding cease, if by alteration of persons or times they be found unsufficient to attain unto that end.' vol. i. p. 238. At p. 240: 'I therefore conclude, that neither God's being Author of laws for government of his church, nor his committing them unto Scripture, is any reason sufficient wherefore all churches should for ever be bound to keep them without change.' See, too, vol. iii. p. 169, on 'the exigence of necessity.' Compare pp. 182, 183, and vol. i. p. 323, vol. ii. pp. 273, 424. Not a vestige of such arguments can be found in Jewel; who, on the contrary, says (_Apologia_, p. 114), 'Certè in religionem Dei nihil gravius dici potest, quàm si ea accusetur novitatis. Ut enim in Deo ipso, ita in ejus cultu nihil oportet esse novum.' It requires but little penetration to see the immense importance of the change which these two great works represent. As long as an opinion in theology was defended by the old dogmatic method, it was impossible to assail it without incurring the imputation of heresy. But when it was chiefly defended by human reasoning, its support was seriously weakened. For by this means the element of uncertainty was let in. It might be alleged, that the arguments of one sect are as good as those of another; and that we cannot be sure of the truth of our principles, until we have heard what is to be said on the opposite side. According to the old theological theory, it was easy to justify the most barbarous persecution. If a man knew that the only true religion was the one which he professed, and if he also knew that those who died in a contrary opinion were doomed to everlasting perdition--if he knew these things beyond the remotest possibility of a doubt, he might fairly argue, that it is merciful to punish the body in order to save the soul, and secure to immortal beings their future salvation, even though he employed so sharp a remedy as the halter or the stake.[557] But if this same man is taught to think that questions of religion are to be settled by reason as well as by faith, he can scarcely avoid the reflection, that the reason even of the strongest minds is not infallible, since it has led the ablest men to the most opposite conclusions. When this idea is once diffused among a people, it cannot fail to influence their conduct. No one of common sense and common honesty will dare to levy upon another, on account of his religion, the extreme penalty of the law, when he knows it possible that his own opinions may be wrong, and that those of the man he has punished may be right. From the moment when questions of religion begin to evade the jurisdiction of faith, and submit to the jurisdiction of reason, persecution becomes a crime of the deepest dye. Thus it was in England in the seventeenth century. As theology became more reasonable, it became less confident, and therefore more merciful. Seventeen years after the publication of the great work of Hooker, two men were publicly burned by the English bishops, for holding heretical opinions.[558] But this was the last gasp of expiring bigotry; and since that memorable day, the soil of England has never been stained by the blood of a man who has suffered for his religious creed.[559] [557] Archbishop Whately has made some very good remarks on this. See his _Errors of Romanism traced to their Origin in Human Nature_, pp. 237, 238. [558] Their names were Legat and Wightman, and they suffered in 1611: see the contemporary account in _Somers Tracts_, vol. ii. pp. 400-408. Compare _Blackstone's Comment._ vol. iv. p. 49; _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. i. pp. 143, 144; and note in _Burton's Diary_, vol. i. p. 118. Of these martyrs to their opinions, Mr. Hallam says: 'The first was burned by King, bishop of London; the second by Neyle, of Litchfield.' _Const. Hist._ vol. i. pp. 611, 612. [559] It should be mentioned, to the honour of the Court of Chancery, that late in the sixteenth, and early in the seventeenth century, its powers were exerted against the execution of those cruel laws, by which the Church of England was allowed to persecute men who differed from its own views. See _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. ii. pp. 135, 176, 231. We have thus seen the rise of that scepticism which in physics must always be the beginning of science, and in religion must always be the beginning of toleration. There is, indeed, no doubt that in both cases individual thinkers may, by a great effort of original genius, emancipate themselves from the operation of this law. But in the progress of nations no such emancipation is possible. As long as men refer the movements of the comets to the immediate finger of God, and as long as they believe that an eclipse is one of the modes by which the Deity expresses his anger, they will never be guilty of the blasphemous presumption of attempting to predict such supernatural appearances. Before they could dare to investigate the causes of these mysterious phenomena, it is necessary that they should believe, or at all events that they should suspect, that the phenomena themselves were capable of being explained by the human mind. In the same way, until men are content in some degree to bring their religion before the bar of their own reason, they never can understand how it is that there should be a diversity of creeds, or how any one can differ from themselves without being guilty of the most enormous and unpardonable crime.[560] [560] 'To tax any one, therefore, with want of reverence, because he pays no respect to what we venerate, is either irrelevant, or is a mere confusion. The fact, so far as it is true, is no reproach, but an honour; because to reverence all persons and all things is absolutely wrong: reverence shown to that which does not deserve it, is no virtue; no, nor even an amiable weakness, but a plain folly and sin. But if it be meant that he is wanting in proper reverence, not respecting what is really to be respected, that is assuming the whole question at issue, because what we call divine, he calls an idol; and as, supposing that we are in the right, we are bound to fall down and worship, so, supposing him to be in the right, he is no less bound to pull it to the ground and destroy it.' _Arnold's Lectures on Modern History_, pp. 210, 211. Considering the ability of Dr. Arnold, considering his great influence, and considering his profession, his antecedents, and the character of the university in which he was speaking, it must be allowed that this is a remarkable passage, and one well worthy the notice of those who wish to study the tendencies of the English mind during the present generation. If we now continue to trace the progress of opinions in England, we shall see the full force of these remarks. A general spirit of inquiry, of doubt, and even of insubordination, began to occupy the minds of men. In physics, it enabled them, almost at a blow, to throw off the shackles of antiquity, and give birth to sciences founded not on notions of old, but on individual observations and individual experiments.[561] In politics, it stimulated them to rise against the government, and eventually bring their king to the scaffold. In religion, it vented itself in a thousand sects, each of which proclaimed, and often exaggerated, the efficiency of private judgment.[562] The details of this vast movement form one of the most interesting parts of the history of England: but without anticipating what I must hereafter relate, I will at present mention only one instance, which, from the circumstances attending it, is very characteristic of the age. The celebrated work by Chillingworth on the _Religion of Protestants_, is generally admitted to be the best defence which the Reformers have been able to make against the Church of Rome.[563] It was published in 1637,[564] and the position of the author would induce us to look for the fullest display of bigotry that was consistent with the spirit of his time. Chillingworth had recently abandoned the creed which he now came forward to attack; and he, therefore, might be expected to have that natural inclination to dogmatize with which apostasy is usually accompanied. Besides this, he was the godson and the intimate friend of Laud,[565] whose memory is still loathed, as the meanest, the most cruel, and the most narrowminded man who ever sat on the episcopal bench.[566] He was, moreover, a fellow of Oxford, and was a constant resident at that ancient university, which has always been esteemed as the refuge of superstition, and which has preserved to our own day its unenviable fame.[567] If now we turn to the work that was written under these auspices, we can scarcely believe that it was produced in the same generation, and in the same country, where, only twenty-six years before, two men had been publicly burned because they advocated opinions different to those of the established church. It is, indeed, a most remarkable proof of the prodigious energy of that great movement which was now going on, that its pressure should be felt under circumstances the most hostile to it which can possibly be conceived; and that a friend of Laud, and a fellow of Oxford, should, in a grave theological treatise, lay down principles utterly subversive of that theological spirit which for many centuries had enslaved the whole of Europe. [561] On the connexion between the rise of the Baconian philosophy and the change in the spirit of theologians, compare _Comte_, _Philosophie Positive_, vol. v. p. 701, with _Whately on Dangers to Christian Faith_, pp. 148, 149. It favoured, as Tennemann (_Gesch. der Philos._ vol. x. p. 14) says, the 'Belebung der selbstthätigen Kraft des menschlichen Geistes;' and hence the attack on the inductive philosophy in _Newman's Development of Christian Doctrine_, pp. 179-183. But Mr. Newman does not seem to be aware how irrevocably we are now pledged to the movement which he seeks to reverse. [562] The rapid increase of heresy in the middle of the seventeenth century is very remarkable, and it greatly aided civilization in England by encouraging habits of independent thought. In Feb. 1646-7, Boyle writes from London, 'There are few days pass here, that may not justly be accused of the brewing or broaching of some new opinion. Nay, some are so studiously changling in that particular, they esteem an opinion as a diurnal, after a day or two scarce worth the keeping. If any man have lost his religion, let him repair to London, and I'll warrant him he shall find it: I had almost said too, and if any man has a religion, let him but come hither now, and he shall go near to lose it.' _Birch's Life of Boyle_, in _Boyle's Works_, vol. i. pp. 20, 21. See also _Bates's Account of the late Troubles_, edit. 1685, part ii. p. 219, on 'that unbridled licentiousness of hereticks which grew greater and greater daily.' Compare to the same effect _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. i. p. 289; _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 608; and _Carwithen's Hist. of the Church of England_, vol. ii. p. 203: 'sectaries began to swarm.' [563] Not to quote the opinions of inferior men respecting Chillingworth, it is enough to mention, that Lord Mansfield said he was 'a perfect model of argumentation.' _Butler's Reminiscences_, vol. i. p. 126. Compare a letter from Warburton, in _Nichols's Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. iv. p. 849. [564] _Des Maizeaux_, _Life of Chillingworth_, p. 141. [565] _Aubrey's Letters and Lives_, vol. ii. p. 285; _Des Maizeaux_, _Life of Chillingworth_, pp. 2, 9. The correspondence between Laud and Chillingworth is supposed to be lost. _Des Maizeaux_, p. 12. Carwithen (_Hist. of the Church of England_, vol. ii. p. 214) says, 'Laud was the godfather of Chillingworth.' [566] The character of Laud is now well understood and generally known. His odious cruelties made him so hated by his contemporaries, that after his condemnation, many persons shut up their shops, and refused to open them till he was executed. This is mentioned by Walton, an eye-witness. See _Walton's Life of Sanderson_, in _Wordsworth's Eccles. Biog._ vol. iv. p. 429. [567] A modern writer suggests, with exquisite simplicity, that Chillingworth derived his liberal principles _from_ Oxford: 'the very same college which nursed the high intellect and tolerant principles of Chillingworth.' _Bowles's Life of Bishop Ken_, vol. i. p. xxi. In this great work, all authority in matters of religion is openly set at defiance. Hooker, indeed, had appealed from the jurisdiction of the Fathers to the jurisdiction of reason; he had, however, been careful to add, that the reason of individuals ought to bow before that of the church, as we find it expressed in great Councils, and in the general voice of ecclesiastical tradition.[568] But Chillingworth would hear of none of these things. He would admit of no reservations which tended to limit the sacred right of private judgment. He not only went far beyond Hooker in neglecting the Fathers,[569] but he even ventured to despise the Councils. Although the sole object of his work was to decide on the conflicting claims of the two greatest sects into which the Christian Church has broken, he never quotes as authorities the Councils of that very church respecting which the disputes were agitated.[570] His strong and subtle intellect, penetrating the depths of the subject, despised that sort of controversy which had long busied the minds of men. In discussing the points upon which the Catholics and Protestants were at issue, he does not inquire whether the doctrines in question met the approval of the early church, but he asks if they are in accordance with human reason; and he does not hesitate to say that, however true they may be, no man is bound to believe them if he finds that they are repugnant to the dictates of his own understanding. Nor will he consent that faith should supply the absence of authority. Even this favourite principle of theologians is by Chillingworth made to yield to the supremacy of the human reason.[571] Reason, he says, gives us knowledge; while faith only gives us belief, which is a part of knowledge, and is, therefore, inferior to it. It is by reason, and not by faith, that we must discriminate in religious matters; and it is by reason alone that we can distinguish truth from falsehood. Finally, he solemnly reminds his readers, that in religious matters no one ought to be expected to draw strong conclusions from imperfect premises, or to credit improbable statements upon scanty evidence; still less, he says, was it ever intended that men should so prostitute their reason, as to believe with infallible faith that which they are unable to prove with infallible arguments.[572] [568] Hooker's undue respect for the Councils of the Church is noticed by Mr. Hallam, _Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 213. Compare the hesitating remarks in _Coleridge's Literary Remains_, vol. iii. pp. 35, 36. [569] Reading the Fathers he contemptuously calls travelling on a 'north-west discovery.' _Chillingworth's Religion of Protestants_, p. 366. Even to Augustine, who was probably the ablest of them, Chillingworth pays no deference. See what he says at pp. 196, 333, 376; and as to the authority of the Fathers in general, see pp. 252, 346. Chillingworth observed, happily enough, that churchmen 'account them fathers when they are for them, and children when they are against them.' _Calamy's Life_, vol. i. p. 253. [570] As to the supposed authority of Councils, see _Religion of Protestants_, pp. 132, 463. It affords curious evidence of the slow progress of theologians to observe the different spirit in which some of our clergy consider these matters. See, for instance, _Palmer on the Church_, 1839, vol. ii. pp. 150-171. In no other branch of inquiry do we find this obstinate determination to adhere to theories which all thinking men have rejected for the last two centuries. [571] Indeed, he attempts to fasten the same doctrine upon the Catholics; which, if he could have done, would of course have ended the controversy. He says, rather unfairly, 'Your church you admit, because you think you have reason to do so; so that by you, as well as Protestants, all is finally resolved into your own reason.' _Relig. of Protest._ p. 134. [572] 'God desires only that we believe the conclusion, as much as the premises deserve; that the strength of our faith be equal or proportionable to the credibility of the motives to it.' _Relig. of Protest._ p. 66. 'For my part, I am certain that God hath given us our reason to discern between truth and falsehood; and he that makes not this use of it, but believes things he knows not why, I say it is by chance that he believes the truth, and not by choice; and I cannot but fear that God will not accept of this sacrifice of fools.' p. 133. 'God's spirit, if he please, may work more,--a certainty of adherence beyond a certainty of evidence; but neither God doth, nor man may, require of us, as our duty, to give a greater assent to the conclusion than the premises deserve; to build an infallible faith upon motives that are only highly credible and not infallible; as it were a great and heavy building upon a foundation that hath not strength proportionate.' p. 149. 'For faith is not knowledge, no more than three is four, but eminently contained in it; so that he that knows, believes, and something more; but he that believes many times does not know--nay, if he doth barely and merely believe, he doth never know.' p. 412. See also p. 417. No one of ordinary reflection can fail to perceive the manifest tendency of these opinions. But what is more important to observe is, the process through which, in the march of civilization, the human mind had been obliged to pass before it could reach such elevated views. The Reformation, by destroying the dogma of an infallible church, had of course weakened the reverence which was paid to ecclesiastical antiquity. Still, such was the force of old associations, that our countrymen long continued to respect what they had ceased to venerate. Thus it was, that Jewel, though recognizing the supreme authority of the Bible, had, in cases where it was silent or ambiguous, anxiously appealed to the early church, by whose decision he supposed all difficulties could be easily cleared. He, therefore, only used his reason to ascertain the discrepancies which existed between Scripture and tradition; but when they did not clash, he paid what is now considered a superstitious deference to antiquity. Thirty years after him came Hooker;[573] who made a step in advance, and laying down principles from which Jewel would have shrunk with fear, did much to weaken that which it was reserved for Chillingworth utterly to destroy. Thus it is, that these three great men represent the three distinct epochs of the three successive generations in which they respectively lived. In Jewel, reason is, if I may so say, the superstructure of the system; but authority is the basis upon which the superstructure is built. In Hooker, authority is only the superstructure, and reason is the basis.[574] But in Chillingworth, whose writings were harbingers of the coming storm, authority entirely disappears, and the whole fabric of religion is made to rest upon the way in which the unaided reason of man shall interpret the decrees of an omnipotent God. [573] On the connexion between the Reformation and the views advocated in the _Ecclesiastical Polity_, compare _Newman's Development of Christian Doctrine_, p. 47, with some able remarks by Locke, in _King's Life of Locke_, vol. ii. pp. 99-101. Locke, who was anything but a friend to the church, was a great admirer of Hooker, and in one place calls him 'the arch-philosopher.' _Essay on Government_, in _Locke's Works_, vol. iv. p. 380. [574] The opposition between Jewel and Hooker was so marked, that some of the opponents of Hooker quoted against him Jewel's Apology. See _Wordsworth's Eccl. Biog._ vol. iii. p. 513. Dr. Wordsworth calls this 'curious;' but it would be much more curious if it had not happened. Compare the remarks made by the Bishop of Limerick (_Parr's Works_, vol. ii. p. 470, _Notes on the Spital Sermon_), who says, that Hooker 'opened that fountain of reason,' &c.; language which will hardly be considered too strong by those who have compared the _Ecclesiastical Polity_ with the theological works previously produced by the English church. The immense success of this great work of Chillingworth, must have aided that movement of which it is itself an evidence.[575] It formed a decisive vindication of religious dissent;[576] and thus justified the breaking up of the Anglican church, which the same generation lived to witness. Its fundamental principle was adopted by the most influential writers of the seventeenth century,--such as Hales, Owen, Taylor, Burnet, Tillotson, Locke, and even the cautious and time-serving Temple; all of whom insisted upon the authority of private judgment, as forming a tribunal from which no one had the power of appeal. The inference to be drawn from this seems obvious.[577] If the ultimate test of truth is individual judgment, and if no one can affirm that the judgments of men, which are often contradictory, can ever be infallible, it follows of necessity that there is no decisive criterion of religious truth. This is a melancholy, and, as I firmly believe, a most inaccurate conclusion; but it is one which every nation must entertain, before it can achieve that great work of toleration, which, even in our own country, and in our own time, is not yet consummated. It is necessary that men should learn to doubt, before they begin to tolerate; and that they should recognize the fallibility of their own opinions, before they respect the opinions of their opponents.[578] This great process is far from being yet completed in any country; and the European mind, barely emerged from its early credulity, and from an overweening confidence in its own belief, is still in a middle, and, so to say, a probationary stage. When that stage shall be finally passed, when we shall have learned to estimate men solely by their character and their acts, and not at all by their theological dogmas, we shall then be able to form our religious opinions by that purely transcendental process, of which in every age glimpses have been granted to a few gifted minds. That this is the direction in which things are now hastening, must be clear to every one who has studied the progress of modern civilization. Within the short space of three centuries, the old theological spirit has been compelled, not only to descend from its long-established supremacy, but to abandon those strongholds to which, in the face of advancing knowledge, it has vainly attempted to secure a retreat. All its most cherished pretensions it has been forced gradually to relinquish.[579] And although in England a temporary prominence has recently been given to certain religious controversies, still the circumstances attending them show the alteration in the character of the age. Disputes which, a century ago, would have set the whole kingdom in a flame, are now regarded with indifference by the vast majority of educated men. The complications of modern society, and the immense variety of interests into which it is divided, have done much to distract the intellect, and to prevent it from dwelling upon subjects which a less-occupied people would deem of paramount importance. Besides this, the accumulations of science are far superior to those of any former age, and offer suggestions of such surpassing interest, that nearly all our greatest thinkers devote to them the whole of their time, and refuse to busy themselves with matters of mere speculative belief. The consequence is, that what used to be considered the most important of all questions, is now abandoned to inferior men, who mimic the zeal, without possessing the influence of those really great divines whose works are among the glories of our early literature. These turbulent polemics have, indeed, distracted the church by their clamour, but they have not made the slightest impression upon the great body of English intellect; and an overwhelming majority of the nation is notoriously opposed to that monastic and ascetic religion which it is now vainly attempted to reconstruct. The truth is, that the time for these things has gone by. Theological interests have long ceased to be supreme; and the affairs of nations are no longer regulated according to ecclesiastical views.[580] In England, where the march has been more rapid than elsewhere, this change is very observable. In every other department we have had a series of great and powerful thinkers, who have done honour to their country, and have won the admiration of mankind. But for more than a century, we have not produced a single original work in the whole field of controversial theology. For more than a century, the apathy on this subject has been so marked, that there has been made no addition of value to that immense mass of divinity which, among thinking men, is in every successive generation losing something of its former interest.[581] [575] Des Maizeaux (_Life of Chillingworth_, pp. 220, 221) says: 'His book was received with a general applause; and, what perhaps never happened to any other controversial work of that bulk, two editions of it were published within less than five months.... The quick sale of a book, and especially of a book of controversy, in folio, is a good proof that the author hit the taste of his time.' See also _Biographia Britannica_, edit. Kippis, vol. iii. pp. 511, 512. [576] Or, as Calamy cautiously puts it, Chillingworth's work 'appeared to me to go a great way towards the justifying of moderate conformity.' _Calamy's Life_, vol. i. p. 234. Compare _Palmer on the Church_, vol. i. pp. 267, 268; and what is probably an allusion to Chillingworth in _Doddridge's Correspond. and Diary_, vol. ii. p. 81. See also the opinion of Hobbes, in _Aubrey's Letters and Lives_, vol. ii. pp. 288, 629. [577] A short but able view of the aspect which the English mind now began to assume, will be found in _Stäudlin_, _Geschichte der theologischen Wissenschaften_, vol. ii. pp. 95 seq. [578] In _Whately's Dangers to Christian Faith_, pp. 188-198, there is a perspicuous statement of the arguments now commonly received against coercing men for their religious opinions. But the most powerful of these arguments are based entirely upon expediency, which would have insured their rejection in an age of strong religious convictions. Some, and only some, of the theological difficulties respecting toleration, are noticed in _Coleridge's Lit. Remains_, vol. i. pp. 312-315; and in another work (_The Friend_, vol. i. p. 73), he mentions, what is the real fact 'that same indifference which makes toleration so easy a virtue with us.' See also _Archdeacon Hare's Guesses at Truth_, 2nd series, 1848, p. 278; and _Nichols's Illustrations of Lit. Hist._ vol. v. p. 817: 'a spirit of mutual toleration and forbearance has appeared (at least one good consequence of religious indifference).' [579] It would be idle to offer proofs of so notorious a fact; but the reader will be interested by some striking remarks in _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. i. pp. 228, 229. [580] A writer intimately acquainted with the social condition of the great European countries, says: 'Ecclesiastical power is almost extinct as an active element in the political or social affairs of nations or of individuals, in the cabinet or in the family circle; and a new element, literary power, is taking its place in the government of the world.' _Laing's Denmark_, 1852, p. 82. On this natural tendency in regard to legislation, see _Meyer_, _Esprit des Institut. Judiciaires_, vol. i. p. 267 note; and a good summary in _Stäudlin_, _Gesch. der theolog. Wissenschaften_, vol. ii. pp. 304, 305. It is not surprising to find that many of the clergy complain of a movement so subversive of their own power. Compare _Ward's Ideal of a Christian Church_, pp. 40, 108-111, 388; _Sewell's Christian Politics_, pp. 276, 277, 279; _Palmer's Treatise on the Church_, vol. ii. p. 361. It is thus that everything is tending to confirm the remarkable prediction of Sir James Mackintosh, that 'church-power (unless some revolution, auspicious to priestcraft, should replunge Europe in ignorance) will certainly not survive the nineteenth century.' _Mem. of Mackintosh_, vol. i. p. 67. [581] 'The "divines" in England at the present day, her bishops, professors, and prebendaries, are not theologians. They are logicians, chemists, skilled in the mathematics, historians, poor commentators upon Greek poets.' _Theodore Parker's Critical and Miscellaneous Writings_, 1848, p. 302. At p. 33, the same high authority says: 'But, within the present century, what has been written in the English tongue, in any department of theological scholarship, which is of value and makes a mark on the age? The _Bridgewater Treatises_, and the new edition of _Paley_,--we blush to confess it,--are the best things.' Sir William Hamilton (_Discussions on Philosophy_, 1852, p. 699) notices the decline of 'British theology,' though he appears ignorant of the cause of it. The Rev. Mr. Ward (_Ideal of a Christian Church_, p. 405) remarks, that 'we cannot wonder, however keenly we may mourn, at the decline and fall of dogmatic theology.' See also _Lord Jeffrey's Essays_, vol. iv. p. 337: 'Warburton, we think, was the last of our great divines.... The days of the Cudworths and Barrows, the Hookers and Taylors, are long gone by.' Dr. Parr was the only English theologian since Warburton who possessed sufficient learning to retrieve this position; but he always refused to do so, being, unconsciously to himself, held back by the spirit of his age. Thus, we find him writing to Archbishop Magee, in 1823: 'As to myself, I long ago determined not to take any active part in polemical theology.' _Parr's Works_, vol. vii. p. 11. In the same way, since the early part of the eighteenth century, hardly any one has carefully read the Fathers, except for mere historical and secular purposes. The first step was taken about the middle of the seventeenth century, when the custom of quoting them in sermons began to be abandoned. _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. i. pp. 329, 330; _Orme's Life of Owen_, p. 184. After this they rapidly fell into contempt; and the Rev. Mr. Dowling (_Study of Ecclesiast. History_, p. 195) asserts, that 'Waterland, who died in 1740, was the last of our great patristical scholars.' To this I may add, that nine years subsequent to the death of Waterland, the obvious decay of professional learning struck Warburton, afterwards Bishop of Gloucester, so much, that he wrote to Jortin, somewhat roughly, 'anything makes a divine among our parsons.' See his _Letter_, written in 1749, in _Nichols's Illustrations of Lit. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 173; and for other evidence of the neglect by the clergy of their ancient studies, see _Jones's Memoirs of Horne, Bishop of Norwich_, pp. 68, 184; and the complaint of Dr. Knowler, in 1766, in _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. ii. p. 130. Since then, attempts have been made at Oxford to remedy this tendency; but such attempts, being opposed by the general march of affairs, have been, and must be, futile. Indeed, so manifest is the inferiority of these recent efforts, that one of the most active cultivators in that field frankly admits, that, in point of knowledge, his own party has effected nothing; and he even asserts, with great bitterness, that 'it is melancholy to say it, but the chief, perhaps the only, English writer who has any claim to be considered an ecclesiastical historian, is the infidel Gibbon.' _Newman on the Develop. of Christ. Doct._ p. 5. These are only some of the innumerable signs, which must be discerned by every man who is not blinded by the prejudices of an imperfect education. An immense majority of the clergy,--some from ambitious feelings, but the greater part, I believe, from conscientious motives,--are striving to check the progress of that scepticism which is now gathering in upon us from every quarter.[582] It is time that these well-intentioned, though mistaken, men should see the delusion under which they labour. That by which they are so much alarmed, is the intermediate step which leads from superstition to toleration. The higher order of minds have passed through this stage, and are approaching what is probably the ultimate form of the religious history of the human race. But the people at large, and even some of those who are commonly called educated men, are only now entering that earlier epoch in which scepticism[583] is the leading feature of the mind. So far, therefore, from our apprehensions being excited by this rapidly-increasing spirit, we ought rather to do everything in our power to encourage that which, though painful to some, is salutary to all; because by it alone can religious bigotry be effectually destroyed. Nor ought we to be surprised that, before this can be done, a certain degree of suffering must first intervene.[584] If one age believes too much, it is but a natural reaction that another age should believe too little. Such are the imperfections of our nature, that we are compelled, by the very laws of its progress, to pass through those crises of scepticism and of mental distress, which to a vulgar eye are states of national decline and national shame; but which are only as the fire by which the gold must be purged before it can leave its dross in the pot of the refiner. To apply the imagery of the great allegorist, it is necessary that the poor pilgrim, laden with the weight of accumulated superstitions, should struggle through the Slough of Despond and the Valley of Death, before he can reach that glorious city, glittering with gold and with jewels, of which the first sight is sufficient recompense for his toils and his fears. [582] As some writers, moved by their wishes rather than by their knowledge, seek to deny this, it may be well to observe, that the increase of scepticism since the latter part of the eighteenth century is attested by an immense mass of evidence, as will appear to whoever will compare the following authorities: _Whately's Dangers to Christian Faith_, p. 87; _Kay's Social Condition of the People_, vol. ii. p. 506; _Tocqueville_, _de la Démocratie_, vol. iii. p. 72; _J. H. Newman on Development_, pp. 28, 29; _F. W. Newman's Natural History of the Soul_, p. 197; _Parr's Works_, vol. ii. p. 5, vol. iii. pp. 688, 689; _Felkin's Moral Statistics_, in _Journal of Statist. Soc._ vol. i. p. 541; _Watson's Observations on the Life of Wesley_, pp. 155, 194; _Matter_, _Hist. du Gnosticisme_, vol. ii. p. 485; _Ward's Ideal of a Christian Church_, pp. 266, 267, 404; _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. pp. 129, 142, vol. iii. p. 509; _Priestley's Memoirs_, vol. i. pp. 127, 128, 446, vol. ii. p. 751; _Cappe's Memoirs_, p. 367; _Nichols's Lit. Anec. of Eighteenth Century_, vol. iv. p. 671, vol. viii. p. 473; _Nichols's Illust. of Lit. Hist._ vol. v. p. 640; _Combe's Notes on the United States_, vol. ii. pp. 171, 172, 183. [583] It has been suggested to me by an able friend, that there is a class of persons who will misunderstand this expression; and that there is another class who, without misunderstanding it, will intentionally misrepresent its meaning. Hence, it may be well to state distinctly what I wish to convey by the word 'scepticism.' By scepticism I merely mean hardness of belief; so that an increased scepticism is an increased perception of the difficulty of proving assertions; or, in other words, it is an increased application, and an increased diffusion, of the rules of reasoning, and of the laws of evidence. This feeling of hesitation and of suspended judgment has, in every department of thought, been the invariable preliminary to all the intellectual revolutions through which the human mind has passed; and without it, there could be no progress, no change, no civilization. In physics, it is the necessary precursor of science; in politics, of liberty; in theology, of toleration. These are the three leading forms of scepticism; it is, therefore, clear, that in religion the sceptic steers a middle course between atheism and orthodoxy, rejecting both extremes, because he sees that both are incapable of proof. [584] What a learned historian has said of the effect which the method of Socrates produced on a very few Greek minds, is applicable to that state through which a great part of Europe is now passing: 'The Socratic dialectics, clearing away from the mind its mist of fancied knowledge, and laying bare the real ignorance, produced an immediate effect, like the touch of the torpedo. The newly-created consciousness of ignorance was alike unexpected, painful, and humiliating,--a season of doubt and discomfort, yet combined with an internal working and yearning after truth, never before experienced. Such intellectual quickening, which could never commence until the mind had been disabused of its original illusion of false knowledge, was considered by Socrates not merely as the index and precursor, but as the indispensable condition of future progress.' _Grote's Hist. of Greece_, vol. viii. pp. 614, 615, 8vo, 1851. Compare _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. ii. pp. 572, 577. 'So ist der Skeptizismus ein Ruheplatz für die menschliche Vernunft, da sie sich über ihre dogmatische Wanderung besinnen und den Entwurf von der Gegend machen kann, wo sie sich befindet, um ihren Weg fernerhin mit mehrerer Sicherheit wählen zu können, aber nicht ein Wohnplatz zum beständigen Aufenthalte.... So ist das skeptische Verfahren zwar an sich selbst für die Vernunftfragen nicht befriedigend, aber doch vorübend, um ihre Vorsichtigkeit zu erwecken und auf gründliche Mittel zu weisen, die sie in ihren rechtmässigen Besitzen sichern können.' During the whole of the seventeenth century, this double movement of scepticism and of toleration continued to advance; though its progress was constantly checked by the two successors of Elizabeth, who in every thing reversed the enlightened policy of the great queen. These princes exhausted their strength in struggling against the tendencies of an age they were unable to understand; but, happily, the spirit which they wished to quench had reached a height that mocked their control. At the same time, the march of the English mind was still farther aided by the nature of those disputes which, during half a century, divided the country. In the reign of Elizabeth, the great contest had been between the church and its opponents; between those who were orthodox, and those who were heretical. But in the reigns of James and Charles, theology was for the first time merged in politics. It was no longer a struggle of creeds and dogmas; but it was a struggle between those who favoured the crown, and those who supported the parliament. The minds of men, thus fixed upon matters of real importance, neglected those inferior pursuits that had engrossed the attention of their fathers.[585] When, at length, public affairs had reached their crisis, the hard fate of the king, which eventually advanced the interests of the throne, was most injurious to those of the church. There can, indeed, be no doubt that the circumstances connected with the execution of Charles, inflicted a blow upon the whole system of ecclesiastical authority, from which, in this country, it has never been able to recover. The violent death of the king excited the sympathies of the people; and by thus strengthening the hands of the royalists, hastened the restoration of the monarchy.[586] But the mere name of that great party which had risen to power, was suggestive of the change that, in a religious point of view, was taking place in the national mind. It was, indeed, no light thing, that England should be ruled by men who called themselves Independents; and who, under that title, not only beat back the pretensions of the clergy, but professed an unbounded contempt for all those rites and dogmas which the clergy had, during many centuries, continued to amass.[587] True it is, that the Independents did not always push to their full extent the consequences of their own doctrines.[588] Still, it was a great matter to have those doctrines recognized by the constituted authorities of the state. Besides this, it is important to remark, that the Puritans were more fanatical than superstitious.[589] They were so ignorant of the real principles of government, as to direct penal laws against private vices; and to suppose that immorality could be stemmed by legislation.[590] But, notwithstanding this serious error, they always resisted the aggressions even of their own clergy; and the destruction of the old episcopal hierarchy, though perhaps too hastily effected, must have produced many beneficial results. When the great party by whom these things were accomplished, was at length overthrown, the progress of events still continued to tend in the same direction. After the Restoration, the church, though reinstated in her ancient pomp, had evidently lost her ancient power.[591] At the same time, the new king, from levity, rather than from reason, despised the disputes of theologians, and treated questions of religion with what he considered a philosophic indifference.[592] The courtiers followed his example, and thought they could not err in imitating him, whom they regarded as the Lord's anointed. The results were such as must be familiar even to the most superficial readers of English literature. That grave and measured scepticism, by which the Independents had been characterized, lost all its decorum when it was transplanted into the ungenial atmosphere of a court. The men by whom the king was surrounded, were unequal to the difficulties of suspense; and they attempted to fortify their doubts by the blasphemous expression of a wild and desperate infidelity. With scarcely an exception, all those writers who were most favoured by Charles, exhausted the devices of their ribald spirit, in mocking a religion, of the nature of which they were profoundly ignorant. These impious buffooneries would, by themselves, have left no permanent impression on the age; but they deserve attention, because they were the corrupt and exaggerated representatives of a more general tendency. They were the unwholesome offspring of that spirit of disbelief, and of that daring revolt against authority, which characterized the most eminent Englishmen during the seventeenth century. It was this which caused Locke to be an innovator in his philosophy, and an Unitarian in his creed. It was this which made Newton a Socinian; which forced Milton to be the great enemy of the church, and which not only turned the poet into a rebel, but tainted with Arianism the _Paradise Lost_. In a word, it was the same contempt for tradition, and the same resolution to spurn the yoke, which, being first carried into philosophy by Bacon, was afterwards carried into politics by Cromwell; and which, during that very generation, was enforced in theology by Chillingworth, Owen, and Hales; in metaphysics by Hobbes and Glanvil; and in the theory of government by Harrington, Sydney, and Locke. [585] Dr. Arnold, whose keen eye noted this change, says (_Lectures on Modern History_, p. 232), 'What strikes us predominantly, is, that what, in Elizabeth's time, was a controversy between divines, was now a great political contest between the crown and the parliament.' The ordinary compilers, such as Sir A. Alison (_Hist. of Europe_, vol. i. p. 51), and others, have entirely misrepresented this movement; an error the more singular, because the eminently political character of the struggle was recognized by several contemporaries. Even Cromwell, notwithstanding the difficult game he had to play, distinctly stated, in 1655, that the origin of the war was not religious. See _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. iii. p. 103; and corroborative evidence in _Walker's History of Independency_, part i. p. 132. James I. also saw that the Puritans were more dangerous to the state than to the church: 'do not so far differ from us in points of religion, as in their confused form of policy and parity; being ever discontented with the present government, and impatient to suffer any superiority; which maketh their sects insufferable in any well-governed commonwealth.' _Speech of James I._, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. i. p. 982. See also the observations ascribed to De Foe, in _Somers Tracts_, vol. ix. p. 572: 'The king and parliament fell out about matters of civil right; ... the first difference between the king and the English parliament did not respect religion, but civil property.' [586] See _Clarendon's Hist. of the Rebellion_, p. 716. Sir W. Temple, in his _Memoirs_, observes, that the throne of Charles II. was strengthened by 'what had passed in the last reign.' _Temple's Works_, vol. ii. p. 344. This may be illustrated by the remarks of M. Lamartine on the execution of Louis XVI. _Hist. des Girondins_, vol. v. pp. 86-7: 'Sa mort, au contraire, aliénait de la cause française cette partie immense des populations qui ne juge les événements humains que par le c[oe]ur. La nature humaine est pathétique; la république l'oublia, elle donna à la royauté quelque chose du martyre, à la liberté quelque chose de la vengeance. Elle prépara ainsi une réaction contre la cause républicaine, et mit du côté de la royauté la sensibilité, l'intérêt, les larmes d'une partie des peuples.' [587] The energy with which the House of Commons, in 1646, repelled the pretensions of 'the Assembly of Divines,' is one of many proofs of the determination of the predominant party not to allow ecclesiastical encroachments. See the remarkable details in _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. pp. 459-463; see also p. 1305. As a natural consequence, the Independents were the first sect which, when possessed of power, advocated toleration. Compare _Orme's Life of Owen_, pp. 63-75, 102-111; _Somers Tracts_, vol. xii. p. 542; _Walker's Hist. of Independency_, part ii. pp. 50, 157, part iii. p. 22; _Clarendon's Hist. of the Rebellion_, pp. 610, 640. Some writers ascribe great merit to Jeremy Taylor for his advocacy of toleration (_Heber's Life of Taylor_, p. xxvii.; and _Parr's Works_, vol. iv. p. 417); but the truth is that when he wrote the famous _Liberty of Prophesying_, his enemies were in power; so that he was pleading for his own interests. When, however, the Church of England again obtained the upper hand, Taylor withdrew the concessions which he had made in the season of adversity. See the indignant remarks of Coleridge (_Lit. Remains_, vol. iii. p. 250), who, though a great admirer of Taylor, expresses himself strongly on this dereliction: see also a recently published _Letter to Percy, Bishop of Dromore_, in _Nichols's Illustrations of Lit. History_, vol. vii. p. 464. [588] However, Bishop Short (_History of the Church of England_, 8vo, 1847, pp. 452, 458) says, what is undoubtedly true, that the hostility of Cromwell to the church was not theological, but political. The same remark is made by Bishop Kennet. _Note_ in _Burton's Diary_, vol. ii. p. 479. See also _Vaughan's Cromwell_, vol. i. p. xcvii.; and on the generally tolerant spirit of this great man, see _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 14; and the evidence in _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. iii. pp. 37-47. But the most distinct recognition of the principle, is in a _Letter from Cromwell to Major-General Crawford_, recently printed in _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. i. pp. 201, 202, 8vo, 1846. In it Cromwell writes, 'Sir, the state, in choosing men to serve it, takes no notice of their opinions; if they be willing faithfully to serve it--that satisfies.' See additional proof in _Carwithen's Hist. of the Church of Engl._ vol. ii. pp. 245, 249. [589] No one can understand the real history of the Puritans, who does not take this into consideration. In the present Introduction, it is impossible to discuss so large a subject; and I must reserve it for the future part of this work, in which the history of England will be specially treated. In the mean time, I may mention, that the distinction between fanaticism and superstition is clearly indicated, but not analyzed, by Archbishop Whately, in his _Errors of Romanism traced to their Origin in Human Nature_, p. 49. This should be compared with _Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. iii. pp. 81-89, Edinb. 1826, on the difference between enthusiasm and superstition; a difference which is noticed, but, as it appears to me, misunderstood, by Maclaine, in his _Additions to Mosheim's Ecclesiast. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 38. [590] Compare _Barrington's Observations on the Statutes_, p. 143, with _Burton's Diary of the Parliaments of Cromwell_, vol. i. pp. xcviii. 145, 392, vol. ii. pp. 35, 229. In 1650, a second conviction of fornication was made felony, without benefit of clergy; but, after the Restoration, Charles II. and his friends found this law rather inconvenient; so it was repealed. See _Blackstone's Commentaries_, vol. iv. p. 65. [591] See _Life of Ken, by a Layman_, edit. 1854, vol. i. p. 51. At p. 129, the same writer says, with sorrow, 'The church recovered much of her temporal possessions, but not her spiritual rule.' The power of the bishops was abridged 'by the destruction of the court of high-commission.' _Short's Hist. of the Church of England_, p. 595. See also, on the diminished influence of the Church-of-England clergy after the Restoration, _Southey's Life of Wesley_, vol. i. pp. 278, 279; and _Watson's Observations on the Life of Wesley_, pp. 129-131. [592] Buckingham and Halifax, the two men who were perhaps best acquainted with Charles II., both declared that he was a deist. Compare _Lingard's Hist. of Engl._ vol. viii. p. 127, with _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. v. p. 55. His subsequent conversion to Catholicism is exactly analogous to the increased devotion of Louis XIV. during the later years of his life. In both cases, superstition was the natural refuge of a worn-out and discontented libertine, who had exhausted all the resources of the lowest and most grovelling pleasures. The progress which the English intellect was now making towards shaking off ancient superstitions,[593] was still further aided by the extraordinary zeal displayed in the cultivation of the physical sciences. This, like all great social movements, is clearly traceable to the events by which it was preceded. It was partly cause, and partly effect, of the increasing incredulity of the age. The scepticism of the educated classes made them dissatisfied with those long-established opinions, which only rested on unsupported authority; and this gave rise to a desire to ascertain how far such notions might be verified or refuted by the real condition of things. A curious instance of the rapid progress of this spirit may be found in the works of an author who was one of the most eminent among the mere literary men of his time. While the Civil War was barely decided, and three years before the execution of the king, Sir Thomas Browne published his celebrated work, called _Inquiries into Vulgar and Common Errors_.[594] This able and learned production has the merit of anticipating some of those results which more modern inquirers have obtained;[595] but it is chiefly remarkable, as being the first systematic and deliberate onslaught ever made in England upon those superstitious fancies which were then prevalent respecting the external world. And what is still more interesting is, that the circumstances under which it appeared make it evident, that while the learning and genius of the author belonged to himself, the scepticism which he displayed respecting popular belief was forced on him by the pressure of the age. [593] One of the most curious instances of this may be seen in the destruction of the old notions respecting witchcraft. This important revolution in our opinions was effected, so far as the educated classes are concerned, between the Restoration and the Revolution; that is to say, in 1660, the majority of educated men still believed in witchcraft; while in 1688, the majority disbelieved it. In 1665, the old orthodox view was stated by Chief-Baron Hale, who, on a trial of two women for witchcraft, said to the jury: 'That there are such creatures as witches, I make no doubt at all; for, first, the Scriptures have affirmed so much; secondly, the wisdom of all nations hath provided laws against such persons, which is an argument of their confidence of such a crime.' _Campbell's Lives of the Chief Justices_, vol. i. pp. 565, 566. This reasoning was irresistible, and the witches were hung; but the change in public opinion began to affect even the judges, and after this melancholy exhibition of the Chief-Baron, such scenes became gradually rarer; though Lord Campbell is mistaken in supposing (p. 563) that this was 'the last capital conviction in England for the crime of bewitching.' So far from this, three persons were executed at Exeter for witchcraft in 1682. See _Hutchinson's Historical Essay concerning Witchcraft_, 1720, pp. 56, 57. Hutchinson says: 'I suppose these are the last three that have been hanged in England.' If, however, one may rely upon a statement made by Dr. Parr, two witches were hung at Northampton in 1705; and in '1712, five other witches suffered the same fate at the same place.' _Parr's Works_, vol. iv. p. 182, 8vo, 1828. This is the more shameful, because, as I shall hereafter prove, from the literature of that time, a disbelief in the existence of witches had become almost universal among educated men; though the old superstition was still defended on the judgment-seat and in the pulpit. As to the opinions of the clergy, compare _Cudworth's Intellect. Syst._ vol. iii. pp. 345, 348; _Vernon Correspond._ vol. ii. pp. 302, 303; _Burt's Letters from the North of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 220, 221; _Wesley's Journals_, pp. 602, 713. Wesley, who had more influence than all the bishops put together, says: 'It is true, likewise, that the English in general, and, indeed, most of the men of learning in Europe, have given up all accounts of witches and apparitions as mere old wives' fables. I am sorry for it.... The giving up witchcraft is, in effect, giving up the Bible.... But I cannot give up, to all the Deists in Great Britain, the existence of witchcraft, till I give up the credit of all history, sacred and profane.' However, all was in vain. Every year diminished the old belief; and in 1736, a generation before Wesley had recorded these opinions, the laws against witchcraft were repealed, and another vestige of superstition effaced from the English statute-book. See _Barrington on the Statutes_, p. 407; _Note_ in _Burton's Diary_, vol. i. p. 26; _Harris's Life of Hardwicke_, vol. i. p. 307. To this it may be interesting to add, that in Spain a witch was burned so late as 1781. _Ticknor's Hist. of Spanish Literature_, vol. iii. p. 238. [594] The first edition was published in 1646. _Works of Sir Thomas Browne_, vol. ii. p. 163. [595] See the notes in Mr. Wilkin's edition of _Browne's Works_, Lond. 1836, vol. ii. pp. 284, 360, 361. In or about 1633, when the throne was still occupied by a superstitious prince; when the Church of England was at the height of her apparent power; and when men were incessantly persecuted for their religious opinions--this same Sir Thomas Browne wrote his _Religio Medici_,[596] in which we find all the qualities of his later work, except the scepticism. Indeed, in the _Religio Medici_, there is shown a credulity that must have secured the sympathy of those classes which were then dominant. Of all the prejudices which at that time were deemed an essential part of the popular creed, there was not one which Browne ventured to deny. He announces his belief in the philosopher's stone;[597] in spirits, and tutelary angels;[598] and in palmistry.[599] He not only peremptorily affirms the reality of witches, but he says that those who deny their existence are not merely infidels, but atheists.[600] He carefully tells us that he reckons his nativity, not from his birth, but from his baptism; for before he was baptized, he could not be said to exist.[601] To these touches of wisdom, he moreover adds, that the more improbable any proposition is, the greater his willingness to assent to it; but that when a thing is actually impossible, he is on that very account prepared to believe it.[602] [596] The precise date is unknown; but Mr. Wilkin supposes that it was written 'between the years 1633 and 1635.' Preface to _Religio Medici_, in _Browne's Works_, vol. ii. p. 4. [597] Ibid. vol. ii. p. 58. [598] Ibid. vol. ii. p. 47. [599] Or, as he calls it, 'chiromancy.' _Religio Medici_, in _Browne's Works_, vol. ii. p. 89. [600] 'For my part, I have ever believed, and do now know, that there are witches. They that doubt of these, do not only deny them, but spirits; and are obliquely, and upon consequence, a sort, not of infidels, but atheists.' Ibid. vol. ii. pp. 43, 44. [601] 'From this I do compute or calculate my nativity.' Ibid. vol. ii. p. 64. [602] _Religio Medici_, sec. ix. in _Browne's Works_, vol. ii. pp. 13, 14: unfortunately too long to extract. This is the 'credo quia impossibile est,' originally one of Tertullian's absurdities, and once quoted in the House of Lords by the Duke of Argyle, as 'the ancient religious maxim.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xi. p. 802. Compare the sarcastic remark on this maxim in the _Essay concerning Human Understanding_, book iv. chap. xviii. _Locke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 271. It was the spirit embodied in this sentence which supplied Celsus with some formidable arguments against the Fathers. _Neander's Hist. of the Church_, vol. i. pp. 227, 228. Such were the opinions put forth by Sir Thomas Browne in the first of the two great works he presented to the world. But in his _Inquiries into Vulgar Errors_, there is displayed a spirit so entirely different, that if it were not for the most decisive evidence, we could hardly believe it to be written by the same man. The truth, however, is, that during the twelve years which elapsed between the two works, there was completed that vast social and intellectual revolution, of which the overthrow of the church and the execution of the king were but minor incidents. We know from the literature, from the private correspondence, and from the public acts of that time, how impossible it was, even for the strongest minds, to escape the effects of the general intoxication. No wonder, then, that Browne, who certainly was inferior to several of his contemporaries, should have been affected by a movement which they were unable to resist. It would have been strange, indeed, if he alone had remained uninfluenced by that sceptical spirit, which, because it had been arbitrarily repressed, had now broken all bounds, and in the reaction soon swept away those institutions which vainly attempted to stop its course. It is in this point of view that a comparison of the two works becomes highly interesting, and, indeed, very important. In this, his later production, we hear no more about believing things because they are impossible; but we are told of 'the two great pillars of truth, experience and solid reason.'[603] We are also reminded that one main cause of error is 'adherence unto authority;'[604] that another is, 'neglect of inquiry;'[605] and, strange to say, that a third is 'credulity.'[606] All this was not very consistent with the old theological spirit; and we need not, therefore, be surprised that Browne not only exposes some of the innumerable blunders of the Fathers,[607] but, after speaking of errors in general, curtly adds: 'Many others there are, which we resign unto divinity, and perhaps deserve not controversy.'[608] [603] _Inquiries into Vulgar and Common Errors_, book iii. chap. xxviii. in _Browne's Works_, vol. ii. p. 534. [604] Ibid. book i. chap. vii. vol. ii. p. 225. [605] 'A supinity, or neglect of inquiry.' Ibid. book i. chap. v. vol. ii. p. 211. [606] 'A third cause of common errors is the credulity of men.' Book i. chap. v. vol. ii. p. 208. [607] See two amusing instances in vol. ii. pp. 267, 438. [608] _Vulgar and Common Errors_, book vii. chap. xi., in _Browne's Works_, vol. iii. p. 326. The difference between these two works is no bad measure of the rapidity of that vast movement which, in the middle of the seventeenth century, was seen in every branch of practical and speculative life. After the death of Bacon, one of the most distinguished Englishmen was certainly Boyle, who, if compared with his contemporaries, may be said to rank immediately below Newton, though, of course, very inferior to him as an original thinker.[609] With the additions he made to our knowledge we are not immediately concerned; but it may be mentioned, that he was the first who instituted exact experiments into the relation between colour and heat;[610] and by this means, not only ascertained some very important facts, but laid a foundation for that union between optics and thermotics, which, though not yet completed, now merely waits for some great philosopher to strike out a generalization large enough to cover both, and thus fuse the two sciences into a single study. It is also to Boyle, more than to any other Englishman, that we owe the science of hydrostatics, in the state in which we now possess it.[611] He is the original discoverer of that beautiful law, so fertile in valuable results, according to which the elasticity of air varies as its density.[612] And, in the opinion of one of the most eminent modern naturalists, it was Boyle who opened up those chemical inquiries, which went on accumulating until, a century later, they supplied the means by which Lavoisier and his contemporaries fixed the real basis of chemistry, and enabled it for the first time to take its proper stand among those sciences that deal with the external world.[613] [609] Monk (_Life of Bentley_, vol. i. p. 37) says, that Boyle's discoveries 'have placed his name in a rank second only to that of Newton;' and this, I believe, is true, notwithstanding the immense superiority of Newton. [610] Compare _Powell on Radiant Heat_ (_Brit. Assoc._ vol. i. p. 287), with _Lloyd's Report on Physical Optics_, 1834, p. 338. For the remarks on colours, see _Boyle's Works_, vol. ii. pp. 1-40; and for the account of his experiments, pp. 41-80; and a slight notice in _Brewster's Life of Newton_, vol. i. pp. 155, 156, 236. It is, I think, not generally known, that Power is said to be indebted to Boyle for originating some of his experiments on colours. See a letter from Hooke, in _Boyle's Works_, vol. v. p. 533. [611] Dr. Whewell (_Bridgewater Treatise_, p. 266) well observes, that Boyle and Pascal are to hydrostatics what Galileo is to mechanics, and Copernicus, Kepler, and Newton to astronomy. See also on Boyle, as the founder of hydrostatics, _Thomson's Hist. of the Royal Society_, pp. 397, 398; and his _Hist. of Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 204. [612] This was discovered by Boyle about 1650, and confirmed by Mariotte in 1676. See _Whewell's Hist. of the Inductive Sciences_, vol. ii. pp. 557, 588; _Thomson's Hist. of Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 215; _Turner's Chemistry_, vol. i. pp. 41, 200; _Brande's Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 363. This law has been empirically verified by the French Institute, and found to hold good for a pressure even of twenty-seven atmospheres. See _Challis on the Mathematical Theory of Fluids_, in _Sixth Report of Brit. Assoc._ p. 226; and _Herschel's Nat. Philos._ p. 231. Although Boyle preceded Mariotte by a quarter of a century, the discovery is rather unfairly called the law of Boyle and Mariotte; while foreign writers, refining on this, frequently omit the name of Boyle altogether, and term it the law of Mariotte! See, for instance, _Liebig's Letters on Chemistry_, p. 126; _Monteil Divers Etats_, vol. viii. p. 122; _Kaemtz's Meteorology_, p. 236; _Comte_, _Philos. Pos._ vol. i. pp. 583, 645, vol. ii. pp. 484, 615; _Pouillet_, _Elémens de Physique_, vol. i. p. 339, vol. ii. pp. 58, 183. [613] 'L'un des créateurs de la physique expérimentale, l'illustre Robert Boyle, avait aussi reconnu, dès le milieu du dix-septième siècle, une grande partie des faits qui servent aujourd'hui de base à cette chimie nouvelle.' _Cuvier_, _Progrès des Sciences_, vol. i. p. 30. The 'aussi' refers to Rey. See also _Cuvier_, _Hist. des Sciences Naturelles_, part ii. pp. 322, 346-349. A still more recent writer says, that Boyle 'stood, in fact, on the very brink of the pneumatic chemistry of Priestley; he had in his hand the key to the great discovery of Lavoisier.' _Johnston on Dimorphous Bodies_, in _Reports of Brit. Assoc._ vol. vi. p. 163. See further respecting Boyle, _Robin et Verdeil_, _Chimie Anatomique_, Paris, 1853, vol. i. pp. 576, 577, 579, vol. ii. p. 24; and _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. iv. p. 177. The application of these discoveries to the happiness of Man, and particularly to what may be called the material interests of civilization, will be traced in another part of this work; but what I now wish to observe, is the way in which such investigations harmonized with the movement I am attempting to describe. In the whole of his physical inquiries, Boyle constantly insists upon two fundamental principles: namely, the importance of individual experiments, and the comparative unimportance of the facts which, on these subjects, antiquity has handed down.[614] These are the two great keys to his method: they are the views which he inherited from Bacon, and they are also the views which have been held by every man who, during the last two centuries, has added anything of moment to the stock of human knowledge. First to doubt,[615] then to inquire, and then to discover, has been the process universally followed by our great teachers. So strongly did Boyle feel this, that though he was an eminently religious man,[616] he gave to the most popular of his scientific works the title of _The Sceptical Chemist_; meaning to intimate, that until men were sceptical concerning the chemistry of their own time, it would be impossible that they should advance far in the career which lay before them. Nor can we fail to observe that this remarkable work, in which such havoc was made with old notions, was published in 1661,[617] the year after the accession of Charles II., in whose reign the spread of incredulity was indeed rapid, since it was seen not only among the intellectual classes, but even among the nobles and personal friends of the king. It is true, that in that rank of society, it assumed an offensive and degenerate form. But the movement must have been one of no common energy which, in so early a stage, could thus penetrate the recesses of the palace, and excite the minds of the courtiers; a lazy and feeble race, who from the frivolity of their habits are, under ordinary circumstances, predisposed to superstition, and prepared to believe whatever the wisdom of their fathers has bequeathed to them. [614] This disregard of ancient authority appears so constantly in his works, that it is difficult to choose among innumerable passages which might be quoted. I will select one which strikes me as well expressed, and is certainly very characteristic. In his _Free Inquiry into the vulgarly received Notion of Nature_, he says (_Boyle's Works_, vol. iv. p. 359), 'For I am wont to judge of opinions as of coins: I consider much less, in any one that I am to receive, whose inscription it bears, than what metal it is made of. It is indifferent enough to me whether it was stamped many years or ages since, or came but yesterday from the mint.' In other places he speaks of the 'schoolmen' and 'gownmen' with a contempt not much inferior to that expressed by Locke himself. [615] In his _Considerations touching Experimental Essays_, he says (_Boyle's Works_, vol. i. p. 197), 'Perhaps you will wonder, Pyrophilus, that in almost every one of the following essays I should speak so doubtingly, and use so often _perhaps_, _it seems_, _it is not improbable_, and such other expressions as argue a diffidence of the truth of the opinions I incline to,' &c. Indeed, this spirit is seen at every turn. Thus his _Essay on Crystals_, which, considering the then state of knowledge, is a remarkable production, is entitled 'Doubts and Experiments touching the curious Figures of Salts.' _Works_, vol. ii. p. 488. It is, therefore, with good reason that M. Humboldt terms him 'the cautious and doubting Robert Boyle.' _Humboldt's Cosmos_, vol. ii. p. 730. [616] On the sincere Christianity of Boyle, compare _Burnet's Lives and Characters_, edit. Jebb, 1833, pp. 351-360; _Life of Ken, by a Layman_, vol. i. pp. 32, 33; _Whewell's Bridgewater Treatise_, p. 273. He made several attempts to reconcile the scientific method with the defence of established religious opinions. See one of the best instances of this, in _Boyle's Works_, vol. v. pp. 38, 39. [617] _The Sceptical Chemist_ is in _Boyle's Works_, vol. i. pp. 290-371. It went through two editions in the author's lifetime, an unusual success for a book of that kind. _Boyle's Works_, vol. i. p. 375, vol. iv. p. 89, vol. v. p. 345. I find from a letter written in 1696 (_Fairfax Correspondence_, vol. iv. p. 344), that Boyle's works were then becoming scarce, and that there was an intention of reprinting the whole of them. In regard to the _Sceptical Chemist_, it was so popular, that it attracted the attention of Monconys, a French traveller, who visited London in 1663, and from whom we learn that it was to be bought for four shillings, 'pour quatre chelins.' _Voyages de Monconys_, vol. iii. p. 67, edit. 1695; a book containing some very curious facts respecting London in the reign of Charles II.; but, so far as I am aware, not quoted by any English historian. In _Sprengel's Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. v. pp. 78-9, there is a summary of the views advocated in the _Sceptical Chemist_, respecting which Sprengel says, 'Ce fut cependant aussi en Angleterre que s'élevèrent les premiers doutes sur l'exactitude des explications chimiques.' In everything this tendency was now seen. Everything marked a growing determination to subordinate old notions to new inquiries. At the very moment when Boyle was prosecuting his labours, Charles II. incorporated the Royal Society, which was formed with the avowed object of increasing knowledge by direct experiment.[618] And it is well worthy of remark, that the charter now first granted to this celebrated institution declares that its object is the extension of natural knowledge, as opposed to that which is supernatural.[619] [618] 'From the nature and constitution of the Royal Society, the objects of their attention were necessarily unlimited. The physical sciences, however, or those which are promoted by experiment, were their declared objects; and experiment was the method which they professed to follow in accomplishing their purpose.' _Thomson's Hist. of the Royal Society_, p. 6. When the society was first instituted, experiments were so unusual, that there was a difficulty of finding the necessary workmen in London. See a curious passage in _Weld's Hist. of the Royal Society_, 1848, vol. ii. p. 88. [619] Dr. Paris (_Life of Sir H. Davy_, 1831, vol. ii. p. 178) says, 'The charter of the Royal Society states, that it was established for the improvement of _natural_ science. This epithet _natural_ was originally intended to imply a meaning, of which very few persons, I believe, are aware. At the period of the establishment of the society, the arts of witchcraft and divination were very extensively encouraged; and the word _natural_ was therefore introduced in contradistinction to _supernatural_.' The charters granted by Charles II. are printed in _Weld's History of the Royal Society_, vol. ii. pp. 481-521. Evelyn (_Diary,_ 13 _Aug._ 1662, vol. ii. p. 195) mentions, that the object of the Royal Society was 'natural knowledge.' See also _Aubrey's Letters and Lives_, vol. ii. p. 358; _Pulteney's Hist. of Botany_, vol. ii. pp. 97, 98; and on the distinction thus established in the popular mind between natural and supernatural, compare _Boyle's Works_, vol. ii. p. 455, vol. iv. pp. 288, 359. It is easy to imagine with what terror and disgust these things were viewed by those inordinate admirers of antiquity who, solely occupied in venerating past ages, are unable either to respect the present or hope for the future. These great obstructors of mankind played, in the seventeenth century, the same part as they play in our own day, rejecting every novelty, and therefore opposing every improvement. The angry contest which arose between the two parties, and the hostility directed against the Royal Society, as the first institution in which the idea of progress was distinctly embodied, are among the most instructive parts of our history, and on another occasion I shall relate them at considerable length. At present it is enough to say, that the reactionary party, though led by an overwhelming majority of the clergy, was entirely defeated; as, indeed, was to be expected, seeing that their opponents had on their side nearly all the intellect of the country, and were moreover reinforced by such aid as the court could bestow. The progress was, in truth, so rapid as to carry away with it some of the ablest members even of the ecclesiastical profession; their love of knowledge proving too strong for the old traditions in which they had been bred. But these were exceptional cases, and, speaking generally, there is no doubt that in the reign of Charles II. the antagonism between physical science and the theological spirit was such as to induce nearly the whole of the clergy to array themselves against the science, and seek to bring it into discredit. Nor ought we to be surprised that they should have adopted this course. That inquisitive and experimental spirit which they wished to check was not only offensive to their prejudices, but it was also detrimental to their power. For, in the first place, the mere habit of cultivating physical science taught men to require a severity of proof which it was soon found that the clergy were, in their own department, unable to supply. And, in the second place, the additions made to physical knowledge opened new fields of thought, and thus tended still further to divert attention from ecclesiastical topics. Both these effects would of course be limited to the comparatively few persons who were interested in scientific inquiries: it is, however, to be observed, that the ultimate results of such inquiries must have been extended over a far wider surface. This may be called their secondary influence; and the way in which it operated is well worth our attention, because an acquaintance with it will go far to explain the reason of that marked opposition which has always existed between superstition and knowledge. It is evident, that a nation perfectly ignorant of physical laws will refer to supernatural causes all the phenomena by which it is surrounded.[620] But so soon as natural science begins to do its work, there are introduced the elements of a great change. Each successive discovery, by ascertaining the law that governs certain events, deprives them of that apparent mystery in which they were formerly involved.[621] The love of the marvellous becomes proportionably diminished; and when any science has made such progress as to enable those who are acquainted with it to foretell the events with which it deals, it is clear that the whole of those events are at once withdrawn from the jurisdiction of supernatural, and brought under the authority of natural powers.[622] The business of physical philosophy is, to explain external phenomena with a view to their prediction; and every successful prediction which is recognised by the people causes a disruption of one of those links which, as it were, bind the imagination to the occult and invisible world. Hence it is that, supposing other things equal, the superstition of a nation must always bear an exact proportion to the extent of its physical knowledge. This may be in some degree verified by the ordinary experience of mankind. For if we compare the different classes of society, we shall find that they are superstitious in proportion as the phenomena with which they are brought in contact have or have not been explained by natural laws. The credulity of sailors is notorious, and every literature contains evidence of the multiplicity of their superstitions, and of the tenacity with which they cling to them.[623] This is perfectly explicable by the principle I have laid down. Meteorology has not yet been raised to a science; and the laws which regulate winds and storms being in consequence still unknown, it naturally follows, that the class of men most exposed to their dangers should be precisely the class which is most superstitious.[624] On the other hand, soldiers live upon an element much more obedient to man, and they are less liable than sailors to those risks which defy the calculations of science. Soldiers, therefore, have fewer inducements to appeal to supernatural interference; and it is universally observed, that as a body they are less superstitious than sailors. If, again, we compare agriculturists with manufacturers, we shall see the operation of the same principle. To the cultivators of land, one of the most important circumstances is the weather, which, if it turn out unfavourable, may at once defeat all their calculations. But science not having yet succeeded in discovering the laws of rain, men are at present unable to foretell it for any considerable period; the inhabitant of the country is, therefore, driven to believe that it is the result of supernatural agency, and we still see the extraordinary spectacle of prayers offered up in our churches for dry weather or for wet weather; a superstition which to future ages will appear as childish as the feelings of pious awe with which our fathers regarded the presence of a comet, or the approach of an eclipse. We are now acquainted with the laws which determine the movements of comets and eclipses; and as we are able to predict their appearance, we have ceased to pray that we may be preserved from them.[625] But because our researches into the phenomena of rain happen to have been less successful,[626] we resort to the impious contrivance of calling in the aid of the Deity to supply those deficiencies in science which are the result of our own sloth; and we are not ashamed, in our public churches, to prostitute the rites of religion by using them as a cloak to conceal an ignorance we ought frankly to confess.[627] The agriculturist is thus taught to ascribe to supernatural agency the most important phenomena with which he is concerned;[628] and there can be no doubt that this is one of the causes of those superstitious feelings by which the inhabitants of the country are unfavourably contrasted with those of the town.[629] But the manufacturer, and, indeed, nearly every one engaged in the business of cities, has employments, the success of which being regulated by his own abilities, has no connexion with those unexplained events that perplex the imagination of the cultivators of the earth. He who, by his ingenuity, works up the raw material, is evidently less affected by uncontrollable occurrences, than he by whom the raw material is originally grown. Whether it is fair, or whether it is wet, he pursues his labours with equal success, and learns to rely solely upon his own energy, and the cunning of his own arm. As the sailor is naturally more superstitious than the soldier, because he has to deal with a more unstable element; just in the same way is the agriculturist more superstitious than the mechanic, because he is more frequently and more seriously affected by events which the ignorance of some men makes them call capricious, and the ignorance of other men makes them call supernatural. [620] The speculative view of this tendency has been recently illustrated in the most comprehensive manner by M. Auguste Comte, in his _Philosophie Positive_; and his conclusions in regard to the earliest stage of the human mind are confirmed by everything we know of barbarous nations; and they are also confirmed, as he has decisively proved, by the history of physical science. In addition to the facts he has adduced, I may mention, that the history of geology supplies evidence analogous to that which he has collected from other departments. A popular notion of the working of this belief in supernatural causation may be seen in a circumstance related by Combe. He says, that in the middle of the eighteenth century the country west of Edinburgh was so unhealthy, 'that every spring the farmers and their servants were seized with fever and ague.' As long as the cause of this was unknown, 'these visitations were believed to be sent by Providence;' but after a time the land was drained, the ague disappeared, and the inhabitants perceived that what they had believed to be supernatural was perfectly natural, and that the cause was the state of the land, not the intervention of the Deity. _Combe's Constitution of Man_, Edinb. 1847, p. 156. [621] I say apparent mystery, because it does not at all lessen the real mystery. But this does not affect the accuracy of my remark, inasmuch as the people at large never enter into such subtleties as the difference between Law and Cause; a difference, indeed, which is so neglected, that it is often lost sight of even in scientific books. All that the people know is, that events which they once believed to be directly controlled by the Deity, and modified by Him, are not only foretold by the human mind, but are altered by human interference. The attempts which Paley and others have made to solve this mystery by rising from the laws to the cause, are evidently futile, because to the eye of reason the solution is as incomprehensible as the problem; and the arguments of the natural theologians, in so far as they are arguments, must depend on reason. As Mr. Newman truly says, 'A God uncaused and existing from eternity, is to the full as incomprehensible as a world uncaused and existing from eternity. We must not reject the latter theory as incomprehensible; for so is every other possible theory.' _Newman's Natural History of the Soul_, 1849, p. 36. The truth of this conclusion is unintentionally confirmed by the defence of the old method, which is set up by Dr. Whewell in his _Bridgewater Treatise_, pp. 262-5; because the remarks made by that able writer refer to men who, from their vast powers, were most likely to rise to that transcendental view of religion which is slowly but steadily gaining ground among us. Kant, probably the deepest thinker of the eighteenth century, clearly saw that no arguments drawn from the external world could prove the existence of a First Cause. See, among other passages, two particularly remarkable in _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_, _Kant's Werke_, vol. ii. pp. 478, 481, on 'der physikotheologische Beweis.' [622] This is tersely expressed by M. Lamennais: 'Pourquoi les corps gravitent-ils les uns vers les autres? Parceque Dieu l'a voulu, disaient les anciens. Parceque les corps s'attirent, dit la science.' _Maury_, _Légendes du Moyen Age_, p. 33. See to the same effect _Mackay's Religious Development_, 1850, vol. i. pp. 5, 30, 31, and elsewhere. See also a partial statement of the antithesis in _Copleston's Inquiry into Necessity and Predestination_, p. 49; an ingenious but overrated book. [623] I much regret that I did not collect proof of this at an earlier period of my reading. But having omitted taking the requisite notes, I can only refer, on the superstition of sailors to _Heber's Journey through India_, vol. i. p. 423; _Richardson's Travels in the Sahara_, vol. i. p. 11; _Burckhardt's Travels in Arabia_, vol. ii. p. 347; _Davis's Chinese_, vol. iii. pp. 16, 17; _Travels of Ibn Batuta in the Fourteenth Century_, p. 43; _Journal of Asiat. Soc._ vol. i. p. 9; _Works of Sir Thomas Browne_, vol. i. p. 130; _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. iv. p. 566; _Burnes's Travels into Bokhara_, vol. iii. p. 53; _Leigh Hunt's Autobiography_, 1850, vol. ii. p. 255; _Cumberland's Memoirs_, 1807, vol. i. pp. 422-425; _Walsh's Brazil_, vol. i. pp. 96, 97; _Richardson's Arctic Expedition_, vol. i. p. 93; _Holcroft's Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 207, vol. iii. p. 197. [624] Andokides, when accused before the dikastery at Athens, said, 'No, dikasts; the dangers of accusation and trial are human, but the dangers encountered at sea are divine.' _Grote's Hist. of Greece_, vol. xi. p. 252. Thus, too, it has been observed, that the dangers of the whale-fishery stimulated the superstition of the Anglo-Saxons. See _Kemble's Saxons in England_, vol. i. pp. 390, 391. Erman, who mentions the dangerous navigation of the Lake of Baikal, says, 'There is a saying at Irkutsk, that it is only upon the Baikal, in the autumn, that a man learns to pray from his heart.' _Erman's Travels in Siberia_, vol. ii. p. 186. [625] In Europe, in the tenth century, an entire army fled before one of those appearances, which would now scarcely terrify a child: 'Toute l'armée d'Othon se dispersa subitement à l'apparition d'une éclipse de soleil, qui la remplit de terreur, et qui fut regardée comme l'annonce du malheur qu'on attendait depuis longtemps.' _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. ii. p. 368. The terror inspired by eclipses was not finally destroyed before the eighteenth century; and in the latter half of the seventeenth century they still caused great fear both in France and in England. See _Evelyn's Diary_, vol. ii. p. 52, vol. iii. p. 372; _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. ii. p. 366; _Lettres de Patin_, vol. iii. p. 36. Compare _Voyages de Monconys_, vol. v. p. 104, with _Hare's Guesses at Truth_, 2nd series, pp. 194, 195. There probably never has been an ignorant nation whose superstition has not been excited by eclipses. For evidence of the universality of this feeling, see _Symes's Embassy to Ava_, vol. ii. p. 296; _Raffles' Hist. of Java_, vol. i. p. 530; _Southey's Hist. of Brazil_, vol. i. p. 354, vol. ii. p. 371; _Marsden's Hist. of Sumatra_, p. 159; _Niebuhr_, _Description de l'Arabie_, p. 105; _Moffat's Southern Africa_, p. 337; _Mungo Park's Travels_, vol. i. p. 414; _Moorcroft's Travels in the Himalayan Provinces_, vol. ii. p. 4; _Crawfurd's Hist. of the Indian Archipelago_, vol. i. p. 305; _Ellis's Polynesian Researches_, vol. i. p. 331; _Mackay's Religious Development_, vol. i. p. 425; _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. iii. p. 176, vol. vi. p. 16; _Wilson's Note_ in the _Vishnu Purana_, p. 140; _Wilson's Theatre of the Hindus_, vol. i. part ii. p. 90; _Montucla_, _Hist. des Mathématiques_, vol. i. p. 444; _Asiatic Researches_, vol. xii. p. 484; _Ward's View of the Hindoos_, vol. i. p. 101; _Prescott's Hist. of Peru_, vol. i. p. 123; _Kohl's Russia_, p. 374; _Thirlwall's Hist. of Greece_, vol. iii. p. 440, vol. vi. p. 216; _Murray's Life of Bruce_, p. 103; _Turner's Embassy to Tibet_, p. 289; _Grote's Hist. of Greece_, vol. vii. p. 432, vol. xii. pp. 205, 557; _Journal Asiatique_, I^e série, vol. iii. p. 202, Paris, 1823; _Clot-Bey_, _de la Peste_, Paris, 1840, p. 224. In regard to the feelings inspired by comets, and the influence of Bayle in removing those superstitions late in the seventeenth century, compare _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philosoph._, vol. xi. p. 252; _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. iii. p. 415; _Lettres de Sevigné_, vol. iv. p. 336; _Autobiography of Sir S. D'Ewes_, edit. Halliwell, vol. i. pp. 122, 123, 136. [626] On the peculiar complications which have retarded meteorology, and thus prevented us from accurately predicting the weather, compare _Forbes on Meteorology_, in _Second Report of British Association_, pp. 249-251; _Cuvier_, _Progrès des Sciences_, vol. i. pp. 69, 248; _Kaemtz's Meteorology_, pp. 2-4; _Prout's Bridgewater Treatise_, pp. 290-295; _Somerville's Physical Geog._ vol. ii. pp. 18, 19. But all the best authorities are agreed that this ignorance cannot last long; and that the constant advance which we are now making in physical science will eventually enable us to explain even these phenomena. Thus, for instance, Sir John Leslie says, 'It cannot be disputed, however, that all the changes which happen in the mass of our atmosphere, involved, capricious, and irregular as they may appear, are yet the necessary results of principles as fixed, and perhaps as simple, as those which direct the revolutions of the solar system. Could we unravel the intricate maze, we might trace the action of each distinct cause, and hence deduce the ultimate effects arising from their combined operation. With the possession of such data, we might safely predict the state of the weather at any future period, as we now calculate an eclipse of the sun or moon, or foretell a conjunction of the planets.' _Leslie's Natural Philosophy_, p. 405: see also p. 185, and the remarks of Mr. Snow Harris (_Brit. Assoc. for 1844_, p. 241), and of Mr. Hamilton (_Journal of Geog. Soc._ vol. xix. p. xci.) Thus, too, Dr. Whewell (_Bridgewater Treatise_, p. 3) says, that 'the changes of winds and skies are produced by causes, of whose rules "no philosophical mind" will doubt the fixity.' [627] This connexion between ignorance and devotion is so clearly marked, that many nations have a separate god for the weather, to whom they say their prayers. In countries where men stop short of this, they ascribe the changes to witchcraft, or to some other supernatural power. See _Mariner's Tonga Islands_, vol. ii. pp. 7, 108; _Tuckey's Expedit. to the Zaire_, pp. 214, 215; _Ellis's Hist. of Madagascar_, vol. ii. p. 354; _Asiatic Researches_, vol. vi. pp. 193, 194, 297, vol. xvi. pp. 223, 342; _Southey's Hist. of Brazil_, vol. iii. p. 187; _Davis's Chinese_, vol. ii. p. 154; _Beausobre_, _Hist. de Manichée_, vol. ii. p. 394; _Cudworth's Intellect. Syst._ vol. ii. p. 539. The Hindus refer rain to supernatural causes in the _Rig Veda_, which is the oldest of their religious books; and they have held similar notions ever since. _Rig Veda Sanhita_, vol. i. pp. xxx. 10, 19, 26, 145, 175, 205, 224, 225, 265, 266, vol. ii. pp. 28, 41, 62, 110, 153, 158, 164, 166, 192, 199, 231, 258, 268, 293, 329; _Journal of Asiatic Soc._ vol. iii. p. 91; _Coleman's Mythol. of the Hindus_, p. 111; _Ward's View of the Hindoos_, vol. i. p. 38. See further two curious passages in the _Dabistan_, vol. i. p. 115, vol. ii. p. 337; and on the 'Rain-makers,' compare _Catlin's North-American Indians_, vol. i. pp. 134-140, with _Buchanan's North-American Indians_, pp. 258, 260: also a precisely similar class in Africa (_Moffat's Southern Africa_, pp. 305-325), and in Arabia (_Niebuhr_, _Desc. de l'Arabie_, pp. 237, 238). Coming to a state of society nearer our own, we find that in the ninth century it was taken for granted in Christian countries that wind and hail were the work of wizards (_Neander's Hist. of the Church_, vol. vi. pp. 118, 139); that similar views passed on to the sixteenth century, and were sanctioned by Luther (_Maury_, _Légendes Pieuses_, pp. 18, 19); and finally, that when Swinburne was in Spain, only eighty years ago, he found the clergy on the point of putting an end to the opera, because they 'attributed the want of rain to the influence of that ungodly entertainment.' _Swinburne's Travels through Spain in 1775 and 1776_, vol. i. p. 177, 2nd edit. London, 1787. [628] See some remarks by the Rev. Mr. Ward, which strike me as rather incautious, and which certainly are dangerous to his own profession, as increasing the hostility between it and science, in _Ward's Ideal of a Christian Church_, p. 278. What Coleridge has said, is worth attending to: see _The Friend_, vol. iii. pp. 222, 223. [629] M. Kohl, whose acuteness as a traveller is well known, has found that the agricultural classes are the 'most blindly ignorant and prejudiced' of all. _Kohl's Russia_, p. 365. And Sir R. Murchison, who has enjoyed extensive means of observation, familiarly mentions the 'credulous farmers.' _Murchison's Siluria_, p. 61. In Asia, exactly the same tendency has been noticed: see _Marsden's Hist. of Sumatra_, p. 63. Some curious evidence of agricultural superstitions respecting the weather may be seen in _Monteil_, _Hist. des divers Etats_, vol. iii. pp. 31, 39. It would be easy, by an extension of these remarks, to show how the progress of manufactures, besides increasing the national wealth, has done immense service to civilization, by inspiring Man with a confidence in his own resources;[630] and how, by giving rise to a new class of employments, it has, if I may so say, shifted the scene in which superstition is most likely to dwell. But to trace this would carry me beyond my present limits; and the illustrations already given are sufficient to explain how the theological spirit must have been diminished by that love of experimental science, which forms one of the principal features in the reign of Charles II.[631] [630] In this point of view, the opposite tendencies of agriculture and manufactures are judiciously contrasted by Mr. Porter, at the end of his essay on the _Statistics of Agriculture_, _Journal of the Statist. Soc._ vol. ii. pp. 295, 296. [631] Indeed, there never has been a period in England in which physical experiments were so fashionable. This is merely worth observing as a symptom of the age, since Charles II. and the nobles were not likely to add, and did not add, anything to our knowledge; and their patronage of science, such as it was, degraded it rather than advanced it. Still, the prevalence of the taste is curious; and in addition to the picture drawn by Mr. Macaulay (_Hist. of England_, 1st edit. vol. i. pp. 408-412), I may refer the reader to _Monconys' Voyages_, vol. iii. p. 31; _Sorbiere's Voyage to England_, pp. 32, 33; _Evelyn's Diary_, vol. ii. pp. 199, 286; _Pepys' Diary_, vol. i. p. 375, vol. ii. p. 34, vol. iii. p. 85, vol. iv. p. 229; _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. i. pp. 171, 322, vol. ii. p. 275; _Burnet's Lives_, p. 144; _Campbell's Chief-Justices_, vol. i. p. 582. I have now laid before the reader what I conceive to be the point of view from which we ought to estimate a period whose true nature seems to me to have been grievously misunderstood. Those political writers who judge events without regard to that intellectual development of which they are but a part, will find much to condemn, and scarcely anything to approve, in the reign of Charles II. By such authors, I shall be censured for having travelled out of that narrow path in which history has been too often confined. And yet I am at a loss to perceive how it is possible, except by the adoption of such a course, to understand a period which, on a superficial view, is full of the grossest inconsistencies. This difficulty will be rendered very obvious, if we compare for a moment the nature of the government of Charles with the great things which, under that government, were peaceably effected. Never before was there such a want of apparent connexion between the means and the end. If we look only at the characters of the rulers, and at their foreign policy, we must pronounce the reign of Charles II. to be the worst that has ever been seen in England. If, on the other hand, we confine our observations to the laws which were passed, and to the principles which were established, we shall be obliged to confess that this same reign forms one of the brightest epochs in our national annals. Politically and morally, there were to be found in the government all the elements of confusion, of weakness, and of crime. The king himself was a mean and spiritless voluptuary, without the morals of a Christian, and almost without the feelings of a man.[632] His ministers, with the exception of Clarendon, whom he hated for his virtues, had not one of the attributes of statesmen, and nearly all of them were pensioned by the crown of France.[633] The weight of taxation was increased,[634] while the security of the kingdom was diminished.[635] By the forced surrender of the charters of the towns, our municipal rights were endangered.[636] By shutting the exchequer, our national credit was destroyed.[637] Though immense sums were spent in maintaining our naval and military power, we were left so defenceless, that when a war broke out, which had long been preparing, we seemed suddenly to be taken by surprise. Such was the miserable incapacity of the government, that the fleets of Holland were able, not only to ride triumphant round our coasts, but to sail up the Thames, attack our arsenals, burn our ships, and insult the metropolis of England.[638] Yet, notwithstanding all these things, it is an undoubted fact, that in this same reign of Charles II. more steps were taken in the right direction than had been taken, in any period of equal length, during the twelve centuries we had occupied the soil of Britain. By the mere force of that intellectual movement, which was unwittingly supported by the crown, there were effected, in the course of a few years, reforms which changed the face of society.[639] The two great obstacles by which the nation had long been embarrassed, consisted of a spiritual tyranny and a territorial tyranny: the tyranny of the church and the tyranny of the nobles. An attempt was now made to remedy these evils; not by palliatives, but by striking at the power of the classes who did the mischief. For now it was that a law was placed on the statute-book, taking away that celebrated writ, which enabled the bishops or their delegates to cause those men to be burned whose religion was different to their own.[640] Now it was that the clergy were deprived of the privilege of taxing themselves, and were forced to submit to an assessment made by the ordinary legislature.[641] Now, too, there was enacted a law forbidding any bishop, or any ecclesiastical court, to tender the _ex-officio_ oath, by which the church had hitherto enjoyed the power of compelling a suspected person to criminate himself.[642] In regard to the nobles, it was also during the reign of Charles II. that the House of Lords, after a sharp struggle, was obliged to abandon its pretensions to an original jurisdiction in civil suits; and thus lost for ever an important resource for extending its own influence.[643] It was in the same reign that there was settled the right of the people to be taxed entirely by their representatives; the House of Commons having ever since retained the sole power of proposing money bills, and regulating the amount of imposts, merely leaving to the Peers the form of consenting to what has been already determined.[644] These were the attempts which were made to bridle the clergy and the nobles. But there were also effected other things of equal importance. By the destruction of the scandalous prerogatives of Purveyance and Preemption, a limit was set to the power of the sovereign to vex his refractory subjects.[645] By the Habeas Corpus Act, the liberty of every Englishman was made as certain as law could make it; it being guaranteed to him, that if accused of crime, he, instead of languishing in prison, as had often been the case, should be brought to a fair and speedy trial.[646] By the Statute of Frauds and Perjuries, a security hitherto unknown was conferred upon private property.[647] By the abolition of general impeachments, an end was put to a great engine of tyranny, with which powerful and unscrupulous men had frequently ruined their political adversaries.[648] By the cessation of those laws which restricted the liberty of printing, there was laid the foundation of that great Public Press, which, more than any other single cause, has diffused among the people a knowledge of their own power, and has thus, to an almost incredible extent, aided the progress of English civilization.[649] And, to complete this noble picture, there were finally destroyed those feudal incidents, which our Norman conquerors had imposed,--the military tenures; the court of wards; the fines for alienation; the right of forfeiture for marriage by reason of tenure; the aids, the homages, the escuages, the primer seisins; and all those mischievous subtleties, of which the mere names sound in modern ears as a wild and barbarous jargon, but which pressed upon our ancestors as real and serious evils.[650] [632] His treatment of his young wife immediately after marriage is perhaps the worst thing recorded of this base and contemptible prince. _Lister's Life of Clarendon_, vol. ii. pp. 145-153. This is matter of proof; but Burnet (_Own Time_, vol. i. p. 522, and vol. ii. p. 467) whispers a horrible suspicion, which I cannot believe to be true, even of Charles II., and which Harris, who has collected some evidence of his astounding profligacy, does not mention, though he quotes one of the passages in Burnet. _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. v. pp. 36-43. However, as Dr. Parr says, in reference to another accusation against him, 'There is little occasion to blacken the memory of that wicked monarch, Charles II., by the aid of invidious conjectures.' _Notes on James II._ in _Parr's Works_, vol. iv. p. 477. Compare _Fox's History of James II._ p. 71. [633] Even Clarendon has been charged with receiving bribes from Louis XIV.; but for this there appears to be no good authority. Compare _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. pp. 66, 67 note, with _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. iii, p. 213. [634] _Lister's Life of Clarendon_, vol. ii. p. 377; _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. iv. pp. 340-344. [635] Immediately after the Restoration, the custom began of appointing to naval commands incompetent youths of birth, to the discouragement of those able officers who had been employed under Cromwell. Compare _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. i. p. 290, with _Pepys' Diary_, vol. ii. p. 413, vol. iii. pp. 68, 72. [636] _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. v. pp. 323-328. The court was so bent on abrogating the charter of the city of London, that Saunders was made chief-justice for the express purpose. See _Campbell's Chief-Justices_, vol. ii. p. 59. Roger North says (_Lives of the Norths_, vol. ii. p. 67), 'Nothing was accounted at court so meritorious as the procuring of charters, as the language then was.' Compare _Bulstrode's Memoirs_, pp. 379, 388. [637] The panic caused by this scandalous robbery is described by De Foe; _Wilson's Life of De Foe_, vol. i. p. 52. See also _Calamy's Life of Himself_, vol. i. p. 78; _Parker's Hist. of his Own Time_, pp. 141-143. The amount stolen by the king is estimated at 1,328,526_l._ _Sinclair's Hist. of the Revenue_, vol. i. p. 315. According to Lord Campbell, 'nearly a million and a half.' _Lives of the Chancellors_, vol. iv. p. 113. [638] There is a very curious account in _Pepys' Diary_, vol. iii. pp. 242-264, of the terror felt by the Londoners on this occasion. Pepys himself buried his gold (p. 261 and pp. 376-379). Evelyn (_Diary_, vol. ii. p. 287) says: 'The alarme was so greate, that it put both country and citty into a paniq, feare, and consternation, such as I hope I shall never see more; every body was flying, none knew why or whither.' [639] The most important of these reforms were carried, as is nearly always the case, in opposition to the real wishes of the ruling classes. Charles II. and James II. often said of the Habeas Corpus Act, 'that a government could not subsist with such a law.' _Dalrymple's Memoirs_, vol. ii. p. 104. Lord-Keeper Guilford was even opposed to the abolition of military tenures. 'He thought,' says his brother, 'the taking away of the tenures a desperate wound to the liberties of the people of England.' _Lives of the Norths_, vol. ii. p. 82. These are the sort of men by whom great nations are governed. A passage in _Life of James, by Himself_, edit. Clarke, vol. ii. p. 621, confirms the statement in Dalrymple, so far as James is concerned. This should be compared with a letter from Louis XIV., in the Barillon correspondence. Appendix to _Fox's James II._ p. cxxiv. [640] _Blackstone's Commentaries_, vol. iv. p. 48; _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. iii. p. 431. This destruction of the writ _De Hæretico comburendo_ was in 1677. It is noticed in _Palmer's Treatise on the Church_, vol. i. p. 500; and in _Collier's Ecclesiast. Hist._ vol. viii. p. 478. [641] This was in 1664. See the account of it in _Collier's Ecclesiast. Hist._ vol. viii. pp. 463-466. Collier, who is evidently displeased by the change, says: 'The consenting, therefore, to be taxed by the temporal Commons, makes the clergy more dependent on a foreign body, takes away the right of disposing of their own money, and lays their estates in some measure at discretion.' See also, on the injury this has inflicted on the church, _Lathbury's Hist. of Convocation_, pp. 259, 260. And Coleridge (_Literary Remains_, vol. iv. pp. 152, 153) points this out as characterizing one of the three 'grand evil epochs of our present church.' So marked, however, was the tendency of that time, that this most important measure was peaceably effected by an arrangement between Sheldon and Clarendon. See the notes by Onslow in _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. i. p. 340, vol. iv. pp. 508, 509. Compare Lord Camden's statement (_Parl. Hist._ vol. xvi. p. 169) with the speech of Lord Bathurst (vol. xxii. p. 77); and of Lord Temple on Tooke's case (vol. xxxv. p. 1357). Mr. Carwithen (_Hist. of the Church of England_, vol. ii. p. 354, Oxford, 1849) grieves over 'this deprivation of the liberties of the English clergy.' [642] 13 Car. II. c. 12. Compare _Stephens's Life of Tooke_, vol. i. pp. 169, 170, with _Blackstone's Commentaries_, vol. iii. p. 101. Mr. Hallam (_Const. Hist._ vol. i. pp. 197, 198) has adduced evidence of the way in which the clergy were accustomed to injure their opponents by the _ex-officio_ oath. [643] This was the issue of the famous controversy respecting Skinner, in 1669; and 'from this time,' says Mr. Hallam, 'the Lords have tacitly abandoned all pretensions to an original jurisdiction in civil suits.' _Const. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 184. There is an account of this case of Skinner, which was connected with the East-India Company, in _Mill's Hist. of India_, vol. i. pp. 102, 103. [644] _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. pp. 189-192; and _Eccleston's English Antiquities_, p. 326. The disputes between the two houses respecting taxation, are noticed very briefly in _Parker's Hist. of his Own Time_, pp. 135, 136. [645] The 'famous rights of purveyance and preemption' were abolished by 12 Car. II. c. 24. _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 11. Burke, in his magnificent speech on Economical Reform, describes the abuses of the old system of purveyance. _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 239. See also _Kemble's Saxons in England_, vol. ii. p. 88, note; _Barrington on the Statutes_, pp. 183-185, 237; _Lingard's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. pp. 338, 339; _Sinclair's Hist. of the Revenue_, vol. i. p. 232; _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. p. 1299. These passages will give an idea of the iniquities practised under this 'right,' which, like most gross injustices, was one of the good old customs of the British constitution, being at least as ancient as Canute. See _Allen on the Royal Prerogative_, p. 152. Indeed, a recent writer of considerable learning (_Spence_, _Origin of the Laws of Europe_, p. 319) derives it from the Roman law. A bill had been brought in to take it away in 1656. See _Burton's Cromwellian Diary_, vol. i. p. 81. When Adam Smith wrote, it still existed in France and Germany. _Wealth of Nations_, book iii. chap. ii. p. 161. [646] On the Habeas Corpus Act, which became law in 1679, see _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. iii. pp. 345-347; _Mackintosh_, _Revolution of 1688_, p. 49; and _Lingard's Hist. of England_, vol. viii. p. 17. The peculiarities of this law, as compared with the imitations of it in other countries, are clearly stated in _Meyer_, _Esprit des Institutions Judiciaires_, vol. ii. p. 283. Mr. Lister (_Life of Clarendon_, vol. ii. p. 454) says: 'Imprisonment in gaols beyond the seas was not prevented by law till the passing of the Habeas Corpus Act, in 1679.' [647] Blackstone (_Commentaries_, vol. iv. p. 439) calls this 'a great and necessary security to private property;' and Lord Campbell (_Chancellors_, vol. iii. p. 423) terms it 'the most important and most beneficial piece of juridical legislation of which we can boast.' On its effects, compare Jones's valuable _Commentary on Isæus_ (_Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. iv. p. 239) with _Story's Conflict of Laws_, pp. 521, 522, 627, 884; and _Tayler on Statute Law_, in _Journal of Statistical Society_, vol. xvii. p. 150. [648] Lord Campbell (_Lives of the Chancellors_, vol. iii. p. 247) says, that the struggle in 1667 'put an end to general impeachments.' [649] Printing at first was regulated by royal proclamations; then by the Star-chamber; and afterwards by the Long Parliament. The decrees of the Star-chamber were taken as the basis of 13 and 14 Car. II. c. 33; but this act expired in 1679, and was not renewed during the reign of Charles II. Compare _Blackstone's Comment._ vol. iv. p. 152, with _Hunt's Hist. of Newspapers_, vol. i. p. 154, and _Fox's Hist. of James II._ p. 146. [650] The fullest account I have seen in any history, of this great Revolution, which swept away the traditions and the language of feudalism, is that given in _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. iv. pp. 369-378. But Harris, though an industrious collector, was a man of slender ability, and not at all aware of the real nature of a change, of which the obvious and immediately practical results formed the smallest part. The true point of view is, that it was a formal recognition by the legislature that the Middle Ages were extinct, and that it was necessary to inaugurate a more modern and innovating policy. Hereafter I shall have occasion to examine this in detail, and show how it was merely a symptom of a revolutionary movement. In the meantime the reader may refer to the very short notices in _Dalrymple's Hist. of Feudal Property_, p. 89; _Blackstone's Comment._ vol. ii. pp. 76, 77; _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 11; _Parl. Hist._ vol. iv. pp. 53, 167, 168; _Meyer_, _Institutions Judiciaires_, vol. ii. p. 58. These were the things which were done in the reign of Charles II.; and if we consider the miserable incompetence of the king, the idle profligacy of his court, the unblushing venality of his ministers, the constant conspiracies to which the country was exposed from within, and the unprecedented insults to which it was subjected from without; if we, moreover, consider that to all this there were added two natural calamities of the most grievous description,--a Great Plague, which thinned society in all its ranks, and scattered confusion through the kingdom, and a Great Fire, which, besides increasing the mortality from the pestilence, destroyed in a moment those accumulations of industry by which industry itself is nourished;--if we put all these things together, how can we reconcile inconsistencies apparently so gross? How could so wonderful a progress be made in the face of these unparalleled disasters? How could such men, under such circumstances, effect such improvements? These are questions which our political compilers are unable to answer; because they look too much at the peculiarities of individuals, and too little at the temper of the age in which those individuals live. Such writers do not perceive that the history of every civilized country is the history of its intellectual development, which kings, statesmen, and legislators are more likely to retard than to hasten; because, however great their power may be, they are at best the accidental and insufficient representatives of the spirit of their time; and because, so far from being able to regulate the movements of the national mind, they themselves form the smallest part of it, and, in a general view of the progress of Man, are only to be regarded as the puppets who strut and fret their hour upon a little stage; while, beyond them, and on every side of them, are forming opinions and principles which they can scarcely perceive, but by which alone the whole course of human affairs is ultimately governed. The truth is, that the vast legislative reforms, for which the reign of Charles II. is so remarkable, merely form a part of that movement, which, though traceable to a much earlier period, had only for three generations been in undisguised operation. These important improvements were the result of that bold, sceptical, inquiring, and reforming spirit, which had now seized the three great departments of Theology, of Science, and of Politics. The old principles of tradition, of authority, and of dogma, were gradually becoming weaker; and of course, in the same proportion, there was diminished the influence of the classes by whom those principles were chiefly upheld. As the power of particular sections of society thus declined, the power of the people at large increased. The real interests of the nation began to be perceived, so soon as the superstitions were dispersed by which those interests had long been obscured. This, I believe, is the real solution of what at first seems a curious problem,--namely, how it was that such comprehensive reforms should have been accomplished in so bad, and in many respects so infamous, a reign. It is, no doubt, true, that those reforms were essentially the result of the intellectual march of the age; but, so far from being made in spite of the vices of the sovereign, they were actually aided by them. With the exception of the needy profligates who thronged his court, all classes of men soon learned to despise a king who was a drunkard, a libertine, and a hypocrite; who had neither shame nor sensibility; and who, in point of honour, was unworthy to enter the presence of the meanest of his subjects. To have the throne filled for a quarter of a century by such a man as this, was the surest way of weakening that ignorant and indiscriminate loyalty, to which the people have often sacrificed their dearest rights. Thus, the character of the king, merely considered from this point of view, was eminently favourable to the growth of national liberty.[651] But the advantage did not stop there. The reckless debaucheries of Charles made him abhor everything approaching to restraint; and this gave him a dislike to a class, whose profession, at least, pre-supposes a conduct of more than ordinary purity. The consequence was, that he, not from views of enlightened policy, but merely from a love of vicious indulgence, always had a distaste for the clergy; and, so far from advancing their power, frequently expressed for them an open contempt.[652] His most intimate friends directed against them those coarse and profligate jokes which are preserved in the literature of the time; and which, in the opinion of the courtiers, were to be ranked among the noblest specimens of human wit. From men of this sort the church had, indeed, little to apprehend; but their language, and the favour with which it was received, are part of the symptoms by which we may study the temper of that age. Many other illustrations will occur to most readers; I may, however, mention one, which is interesting on account of the eminence of the philosopher concerned in it. The most dangerous opponent of the clergy in the seventeenth century, was certainly Hobbes, the subtlest dialectician of his time; a writer, too, of singular clearness, and, among British metaphysicians, inferior only to Berkeley. This profound thinker published several speculations very unfavourable to the church, and directly opposed to principles which are essential to ecclesiastical authority. As a natural consequence, he was hated by the clergy; his doctrines were declared to be highly pernicious; and he was accused of wishing to subvert the national religion, and corrupt the national morals.[653] So far did this proceed, that, during his life, and for several years after his death, every man who ventured to think for himself was stigmatized as a Hobbist, or, as it was sometimes called, a Hobbian.[654] This marked hostility on the part of the clergy was a sufficient recommendation to the favour of Charles. The king, even before his accession, had imbibed many of his principles;[655] and, after the Restoration, he treated the author with what was deemed a scandalous respect. He protected him from his enemies; he somewhat ostentatiously hung up his portrait in his own private room at Whitehall;[656] and he even conferred a pension on this, the most formidable opponent who had yet appeared against the spiritual hierarchy.[657] [651] Mr. Hallam has a noble passage on the services rendered to English civilization by the vices of the English court: 'We are, however, much indebted to the memory of Barbara Duchess of Cleveland, Louisa Duchess of Portsmouth, and Mrs. Eleanor Gwyn. We owe a tribute of gratitude to the Mays, the Killigrews, the Chiffinches, and the Grammonts. They played a serviceable part in ridding the kingdom of its besotted loyalty. They saved our forefathers from the Star-chamber and the High-commission court; they laboured in their vocation against standing armies and corruption; they pressed forward the great ultimate security of English freedom--the expulsion of the House of Stuart.' _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 50. [652] Burnet (_Own Time_, vol. i. p. 448) tells us that, in 1667, the king, even at the council-board, expressed himself against the bishops, and said, that the clergy 'thought of nothing but to get good benefices, and to keep a good table.' See also, on his dislike to the bishops, vol. ii. p. 22; and _Pepys' Diary_, vol. iv. p. 2. In another place, vol. iv. p. 42, Pepys writes: 'And I believe the hierarchy will in a little time be shaken, whether they will or no; the king being offended with them, and set upon it, as I hear.' Evelyn, in a conversation with Pepys, noticed with regret such conduct of Charles, 'that a bishop shall never be seen about him, as the king of France hath always.' _Pepys_, vol. iii. p. 201. Evelyn, in his benevolent way, ascribes this to 'the negligence of the clergy;' but history teaches us that the clergy have never neglected kings, except when the king has first neglected them. Sir John Reresby gives a curious account of a conversation Charles II. held with him respecting 'mitred heads,' in which the feeling of the king is very apparent. _Reresby's Travels and Memoirs_, p. 238. [653] On the animosity of the clergy against Hobbes, and on the extent to which he reciprocated it, compare _Aubrey's Letters and Lives_, vol. ii. pp. 532, 631; _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. x. p. 111; with the angry language of Burnet (_Own Time_, vol. i. p. 322), and of Whiston (_Memoirs_, p. 251). See also _Wood's Athenæ Oxonienses_, edit. Bliss, vol. iii. p. 1211. Monconys, who was in London in 1663, says of Hobbes, 'Il me dit l'aversion que tous les gens d'église tant catholiques que protestans avoient pour lui.' _Monconys' Voyages_, vol. iii. p. 43; and p. 115, 'M. Hobbes, que je trouvai toujours fort ennemi des prêtres catholiques et des protestans.' About the same time, Sorbiere was in London; and he writes respecting Hobbes: 'I know not how it comes to pass, the clergy are afraid of him, and so are the Oxford mathematicians and their adherents; wherefore his majesty (Charles II.) was pleased to make a very good comparison when he told me, he was like a bear, whom they baited with dogs to try him.' _Sorbiere's Voyage to England_, p. 40. [654] This was a common expression for whoever attacked established opinions late in the seventeenth, and even early in the eighteenth century. For instances of it, see _Baxter's Life of Himself_, folio, 1696, part iii. p. 48; _Boyle's Works_, vol. v. pp. 505, 510; _Monk's Life of Bentley_, vol. i. p. 41; _Vernon Correspond._ vol. iii. p. 13; _King's Life of Locke_, vol. i. p. 191; _Brewster's Life of Newton_, vol. ii. p. 149. [655] Burnet says, they 'made deep and lasting impressions on the king's mind.' _Own Time_, vol. i. p. 172. [656] A likeness, by Cooper. See _Wood's Athenæ Oxonienses_, edit. Bliss, vol. iii. p. 1208. [657] _Sorbiere's Voyage to England_, p. 39; _Wood's Athenæ Oxonienses_, vol. iii. p. 1208. On the popularity of the works of Hobbes in the reign of Charles II. compare _Pepys' Diary_, vol. iv. p. 164, with _Lives of the Norths_, vol. iii. p. 339. If we look for a moment at the ecclesiastical appointments of Charles, we shall find evidence of the same tendency. In his reign, the highest dignities in the church were invariably conferred upon men who were deficient either in ability or in honesty. It would perhaps be an over-refinement to ascribe to the king a deliberate plan for lowering the reputation of the episcopal bench; but it is certain, that if he had such a plan, he followed the course most likely to effect his purpose. For it is no exaggeration to say, that, during his life, the leading English prelates were, without exception, either incapable or insincere; they were unable to defend what they really believed, or else they did not believe what they openly professed. Never before were the interests of the Anglican church so feebly guarded. The first Archbishop of Canterbury appointed by Charles was Juxon, whose deficiencies were notorious; and of whom his friends could only say, that his want of ability was compensated by the goodness of his intentions.[658] When he died, the king raised up as his successor Sheldon, whom he had previously made Bishop of London; and who not only brought discredit on his order by acts of gross intolerance,[659] but who was so regardless of the common decencies of his station, that he used to amuse his associates, by having exhibitions in his own house, imitating the way in which the Presbyterians delivered their sermons.[660] After the death of Sheldon, Charles appointed to the archbishopric Sancroft; whose superstitious fancies exposed him to the contempt even of his own profession, and who was as much despised as Sheldon had been hated.[661] In the rank immediately below this, we find the same principle at work. The three Archbishops of York, during the reign of Charles II., were Frewen, Stearn, and Dolben; who were so utterly devoid of ability, that notwithstanding their elevated position, they are altogether forgotten, not one reader out of a thousand having ever heard their names.[662] [658] Bishop Burnet says of him, at his appointment: 'As he was never a great divine, so he was now superannuated.' _Own Time_, vol. i. p. 303. [659] Of which his own friend, Bishop Parker, gives a specimen. See _Parker's History of his own Time_, pp. 31-33. Compare _Neal's Hist. of the Puritans_, vol. iv. p. 429; _Wilson's Mem. of De Foe_, vol. i. p. 46. [660] In 1669, Pepys was at one of these entertainments, which took place not only at the house, but in the presence of the archbishop. See the scandalous details in _Pepys' Diary_, vol. iv. pp. 321, 322; or in _Wilson's De Foe_, vol. i. pp. 44, 45. [661] Burnet, who knew Sancroft, calls him 'a poor-spirited and fearful man' (_Own Time_, vol. iii. p. 354); and mentions (vol. iii. p. 138) an instance of his superstition, which will be easily believed by whoever has read his ridiculous sermons, which D'Oyly has wickedly published. See Appendix to _D'Oyly's Sancroft_, pp. 339-420. Dr. Lake says that everybody was amazed when it was known that Sancroft was to be archbishop. _Lake's Diary_, 30th Dec. 1677, p. 18, in vol. i. of the _Camden Miscellany_, 1847, 4to. His character, so far as he had one, is fairly drawn by Dr. Birch: 'slow, timorous, and narrow-spirited, but at the same time a good, honest, and well-meaning man.' _Birch's Life of Tillotson_, p. 151. See also respecting him, _Macaulay's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 616, vol. iii. p. 77, vol. iv. pp. 40-42. [662] Frewen was so obscure a man, that there is no life of him either in _Chalmers's Biographical Dictionary_, or in Rose's more recent, but inferior work. The little that is known of Stearn, or Sterne, is unfavourable. Compare _Burnet_, vol. ii. p. 427, with _Baxter's Life of Himself_, folio, 1696, part ii. p. 338. And of Dolben I have been unable to collect anything of interest, except that he had a good library. See the traditionary account in _Jones's Memoirs of Bishop Horne_, p. 66. Such appointments as these are indeed striking; and what makes them more so, is, that they were by no means necessary; they were not forced on the king by court intrigue, nor was there a lack of more competent men. The truth seems to be, that Charles was unwilling to confer ecclesiastical promotion upon any one who had ability enough to increase the authority of the church, and restore it to its former pre-eminence. At his accession, the two ablest of the clergy were undoubtedly Jeremy Taylor and Isaac Barrow. Both of them were notorious for their loyalty; both of them were men of unspotted virtue; and both of them have left a reputation which will hardly perish while the English language is remembered. But Taylor, though he had married the king's sister,[663] was treated with marked neglect; and, being exiled to an Irish bishopric, had to pass the remainder of his life in what, at that time, was truly called a barbarous country.[664] As to Barrow, who, in point of genius, was probably superior to Taylor,[665] he had the mortification of seeing the most incapable men raised to the highest posts in the church, while he himself was unnoticed; and, notwithstanding that his family had greatly suffered in the royal cause,[666] he received no sort of preferment until five years before his death, when the king conferred on him the mastership of Trinity College, Cambridge.[667] [663] His wife was Joanna Bridges, a bastard of Charles I. Compare _Notes and Queries_, vol. vii. p. 305, with _Heber's Life of Jeremy Taylor_, in _Taylor's Works_, vol. i. p. xxxiv. Bishop Heber, p. xxxv. adds, 'But, notwithstanding the splendour of such an alliance, there is no reason to believe that it added materially to Taylor's income.' [664] Coleridge (_Lit. Remains_, vol. iii. p. 208) says, that this neglect of Jeremy Taylor by Charles 'is a problem of which perhaps his virtues present the most probable solution.' [665] Superior, certainly, in comprehensiveness, and in the range of his studies; so that it is aptly said by a respectable authority, that he was at once 'the great precursor of Sir Isaac Newton, and the pride of the English pulpit.' _Wordsworth's Ecclesiast. Biog._ vol. iv. p. 344. See also, respecting Barrow, _Montucla_, _Hist. des Mathémat._ vol. ii. pp. 88, 89, 359, 360, 504, 505, vol. iii. pp. 436-438. [666] 'His father having suffered greatly in his estate by his attachment to the royal cause.' _Chalmers's Biog. Dict._ vol. iv. p. 39. [667] Barrow, displeased at not receiving preferment after the Restoration, wrote the lines: 'Te magis optavit rediturum Carole nemo; Et sensit nemo te rediisse minus.' _Hamilton's Life of Barrow_, in _Barrow's Works_, Edinb. 1845, vol. i. p. xxiii. It is hardly necessary to point out how all this must have tended to weaken the church, and accelerate that great movement for which the reign of Charles II. is remarkable.[668] At the same time, there were many other circumstances which, in this preliminary sketch, it is impossible to notice, but which were stamped with the general character of revolt against ancient authority. In a subsequent volume, this will be placed in a still clearer light, because I shall have an opportunity of bringing forward evidence which, from the abundance of its details, would be unsuited to the present Introduction. Enough, however, has been stated, to indicate the general march of the English mind, and supply the reader with a clue by which he may understand those still more complicated events, which, as the seventeenth century advanced, began to thicken upon us. [668] Everything Mr. Macaulay has said on the contempt into which the clergy fell in the reign of Charles II. is perfectly accurate; and from evidence which I have collected, I know that this very able writer, of whose immense research few people are competent judges, has rather understated the case than overstated it. On several subjects I should venture to differ from Mr. Macaulay; but I cannot refrain from expressing my admiration of his unwearied diligence, of the consummate skill with which he has arranged his materials, and of the noble love of liberty which animates his entire work. These are qualities which will long survive the aspersions of his puny detractors,--men who, in point of knowledge and ability, are unworthy to loosen the shoe-latchet of him they foolishly attack. A few years before the death of Charles II., the clergy made a great effort to recover their former power by reviving those doctrines of Passive Obedience and Divine Right, which are obviously favourable to the progress of superstition.[669] But as the English intellect was now sufficiently advanced to reject such dogmas, this futile attempt only increased the opposition between the interests of the people as a body, and the interests of the clergy as a class. Scarcely had this scheme been defeated, when the sudden death of Charles placed on the throne a prince whose most earnest desire was to restore the Catholic church, and reinstate among us that mischievous system which openly boasts of subjugating the reason of Man. This change in affairs was, if we consider it in its ultimate results, the most fortunate circumstance which could have happened to our country. In spite of the difference of their religion, the English clergy had always displayed an affection towards James, whose reverence for the priesthood they greatly admired; though they were anxious that the warmth of his affections should be lavished on the Church of England and not on the Church of Rome. They were sensible of the advantages which would accrue to their own order, if his piety could be turned into a new channel.[670] They saw that it was for his interest to abandon his religion; and they thought that to a man so cruel and so vicious, his own interest would be the sole consideration.[671] The consequence was, that in one of the most critical moments of his life, they made in his favour a great and successful effort; and they not only used all their strength to defeat the bill by which it was proposed to exclude him from the succession, but when the measure was rejected, they presented an address to Charles, congratulating him on the result.[672] When James actually mounted the throne, they continued to display the same spirit. Whether they still hoped for his conversion, or whether, in their eagerness to persecute the dissenters, they overlooked the danger to their own church, is uncertain; but it is one of the most singular and unquestionable facts in our history, that for some time there existed a strict alliance between a Protestant hierarchy and a Popish king.[673] The terrible crimes which were the result of this compact are but too notorious. But what is more worthy of attention is, the circumstance that caused the dissolution of this conspiracy between the crown and the church. The ground of the quarrel was an attempt made by the king to effect, in some degree, a religious toleration. By the celebrated Test and Corporation Acts, it had been ordered, that all persons who were employed by government should be compelled, under a heavy penalty, to receive the sacrament according to the rites of the English church. The offence of James was, that he now issued what was called a Declaration of Indulgence, in which he announced his intention of suspending the execution of these laws.[674] From this moment, the position of the two great parties was entirely changed. The bishops clearly perceived that the statutes which it was thus attempted to abrogate, were highly favourable to their own power; and hence, in their opinion, formed an essential part of the constitution of a Christian country. They had willingly combined with James, while he assisted them in persecuting men who worshipped God in a manner different from themselves.[675] So long as this compact held good, they were indifferent as to matters which they considered to be of minor importance. They looked on in silence, while the king was amassing the materials with which he hoped to turn a free government into an absolute monarchy.[676] They saw Jeffreys and Kirke torturing their fellow-subjects; they saw the gaols crowded with prisoners, and the scaffold streaming with blood.[677] They were well pleased that some of the best and ablest men in the kingdom should be barbarously persecuted; that Baxter should be thrown into prison, and that Howe should be forced into exile. They witnessed with composure the most revolting cruelties, because the victims of them were the opponents of the English church. Although the minds of men were filled with terror and with loathing, the bishops made no complaint. They preserved their loyalty unimpaired, and insisted on the necessity of humble submission to the Lord's anointed.[678] But the moment James proposed to protect against persecution those who were hostile to the church; the moment he announced his intention of breaking down that monopoly of offices and of honours which the bishops had long secured for their own party;--the moment this took place, the hierarchy became alive to the dangers with which the country was threatened from the violence of so arbitrary a prince.[679] The king had laid his hand on the ark, and the guardians of the temple flew to arms. How could they tolerate a prince who would not allow them to persecute their enemies? How could they support a sovereign who sought to favour those who differed from the national church? They soon determined on the line of conduct it behoved them to take. With an almost unanimous voice, they refused to obey the order by which the king commanded them to read in their churches the edict for religious toleration.[680] Nor did they stop there. So great was their enmity against him they had recently cherished, that they actually applied for aid to those very dissenters whom, only a few weeks before, they had hotly persecuted; seeking by magnificent promises to win over to their side men they had hitherto hunted even to the death.[681] The most eminent of the Nonconformists were far from being duped by this sudden affection.[682] But their hatred of Popery, and their fear of the ulterior designs of the king, prevailed over every other consideration; and there arose that singular combination between churchmen and dissenters, which has never since been repeated. This coalition, backed by the general voice of the people, soon overturned the throne, and gave rise to what is justly deemed one of the most important events in the history of England. [669] _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. pp. 142, 143, 153-156; from which it appears that this movement began about 1681. The clergy, as a body, are naturally favourable to this doctrine; and the following passage, published only twelve years ago, will give the reader an idea of the views that some of them entertain. The Rev. Mr. Sewell (_Christian Politics_, Lond. 1844, p. 157) says, that the reigning prince is 'a being armed with supreme physical power by the hand and permission of Providence; as such, the lord of our property, the master of our lives, the fountain of honour, the dispenser of law, before whom each subject must surrender his will and conform his actions.... Who, when he errs, errs as a man, and not as a king, and is responsible, not to man, but to God.' And at p. 111, the same writer informs us that the church, 'with one uniform, unhesitating voice, has proclaimed the duty of "passive obedience."' See also on this slavish tenet, as upheld by the church, _Wordsworth's Ecclesiast. Biog._ vol. iv. p. 668; _Life of Ken, by a Layman_, vol. ii. p. 523; _Lathbury's Hist. of Convocation_, p. 228; _Lathbury's Nonjurors_, pp. 50, 135, 197; and a letter from Nelson, author of the _Fasts and Festivals_, in _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. iv. p. 216. With good reason, therefore, did Fox tell the House of Commons, that 'by being a good churchman, a person might become a bad citizen.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxix. p. 1377. [670] The Archbishop of Canterbury, in 1678, was engaged in an attempt to convert James; and in a letter to the Bishop of Winchester, he notices the 'happy consequences' which would result from his success. See this characteristic letter in _Clarendon Corresp._ vol. ii. pp. 465, 466. See also the motives of the bishops, candidly but broadly stated, in Mr. Wilson's valuable work, _Life of De Foe_, vol. i. p. 74. [671] In a high-church pamphlet, published in 1682, against the Bill of Exclusion, the cause of James is advocated; but the inconvenience he would suffer by remaining a Catholic is strongly insisted upon. See the wily remarks in _Somers Tracts_, vol. viii. pp. 258, 259. [672] _Wordsworth's Ecclesiast. Biog._ vol. iv. p. 665. On their eagerness against the bill, see _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. v. p. 181; _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. ii. p. 246; _Somers Tracts_, vol. x. pp. 216, 253; _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. iii. p. 353; _Carwithen's Hist. of the Church of England_, vol. ii. p. 431. [673] At the accession of James II. 'the pulpits throughout England resounded with thanksgivings; and a numerous set of addresses flattered his Majesty, in the strongest expressions, with assurances of unshaken loyalty and obedience, without limitation or reserve.' _Neal's Hist. of the Puritans_, vol. v. p. 2. See also _Calamy's Life_, vol. i. p. 118. [674] On the 18th March, 1687, the king announced to the Privy Council that he had determined 'to grant, by his own authority, entire liberty of conscience to all his subjects. On the 4th April appeared the memorable Declaration of Indulgence.' _Macaulay's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 211; and see _Life of James II._, edited by Clarke, vol. ii, p. 112. There is a summary of the Declaration in _Neal's Hist. of the Puritans_, vol. v. pp. 30, 31. As to the second Declaration, see _Macaulay_, vol. ii. pp. 344, 345; _Clarendon Correspond._ vol. ii. p. 170. [675] It was in the autumn of 1685, that the clergy and the government persecuted the dissenters with the greatest virulence. See _Macaulay's Hist._ vol. i. pp. 667, 668. Compare _Neal's Hist. of the Puritans_, vol. v. pp. 4-12, with a letter from Lord Clarendon, dated 21st December 1685, in _Clarendon Correspond._ vol. i. p. 192. It is said (_Burnet's Own Time_, vol. iii. pp. 175, 176), that on many occasions the church party made use of the ecclesiastical courts to extort money from the Nonconformists; and for confirmation of this, see _Mackintosh's Revolution of 1688_, pp. 173, 640. [676] It appears from the accounts in the War Office, that James, even in the first year of his reign, had a standing army of nearly 20,000 men. _Mackintosh's Revolution_, pp. 3, 77, 688: 'A disciplined army of about 20,000 men was, for the first time, established during peace in this island.' As this naturally inspired great alarm, the king gave out that the number did not exceed 15,000. _Life of James II._, edited by Clarke, vol. ii. pp. 52, 57. [677] Compare _Burnet_, vol. iii. pp. 55-62, with _Dalrymple's Memoirs_, vol. i. part i. book ii. pp. 198-203. Ken, so far as I remember, was the only one who set his face against these atrocities. He was a very humane man, and did what he could to mitigate the sufferings of the prisoners in Monmouth's rebellion; but it is not mentioned that he attempted to stop the persecutions directed against the innocent Nonconformists, who were barbarously punished, not because they rebelled, but because they dissented. _Life of Ken, by a Layman_, vol. i. p. 298. [678] 'From the conduct of the clergy in this and the former reign, it is quite clear, that if the king had been a Protestant, of the profession of the Church of England, or even a quiet, submissive Catholic, without any zeal for his religion,--confining himself solely to matters of state, and having a proper respect for church property,--he might have plundered other Protestants at his pleasure, and have trampled upon the liberties of his country, without the danger of resistance.' _Wilson's Life of De Foe_, vol. i. p. 136. Or, as Fox says, 'Thus, as long as James contented himself with absolute power in civil matters, and did not make use of his authority against the church, everything went smooth and easy.' _Fox's Hist. of James II._, p. 165. [679] Compare _Neal's Hist. of the Puritans_, vol. v. p. 58, with _Life of James II._, edit. Clarke, vol. ii. p. 70; where it is well said, that the clergy of the Church of England 'had preached prerogative and the sovereign power to the highest pitch, while it was favourable to them; but when they apprehended the least danger from it, they cried out as soon as the shoe pinched, though it was of their own putting on.' See also pp. 113, 164. What their servility was to the crown, while they thought that the crown was with them, may be estimated from the statement of De Foe: 'I have heard it publicly preached, that if the king commanded my head, and sent his messengers to fetch it, I was bound to submit, and stand while it was cut off.' _Wilson's Life of De Foe_, vol. i. p. 118. [680] D'Oyly (_Life of Sancroft_, p. 164) says, 'On the whole, it is supposed that not more than 200 out of the whole body of clergy, estimated at 10,000, complied with the king's requisition.' 'Only seven obeyed in the city of London, and not above 200 all England over.' _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. iii. p. 218. On Sunday, 20th May 1688, Lord Clarendon writes: 'I was at St. James's church; in the evening I had an account that the Declaration was read only in four churches in the city and liberties.' _Clarendon Corresp._ vol. ii. pp. 172, 173. When this conduct became known, it was observed that the church 'supported the crown only so long as she dictated to it; and became rebellious at the moment when she was forbidden to be intolerant.' _Mackintosh's Revolution of 1688_, p. 255. [681] The first advances were made when the Declaration of the king in favour of 'liberty of conscience' was on the point of being issued, and immediately after the proceedings at Oxford had shown his determination to break down the monopoly of offices possessed by the church. 'The clergy at the same time prayed and entreated the dissenters to appear on their side, and stand by the Establishment, making large promises of favour and brotherly affection if ever they came into power.' _Neal's Hist. of the Puritans_, vol. v. p. 29. See also, at pp. 58, 59, the conciliating letter from the Archbishop of Canterbury after the Declaration. 'Such,' says Neal, 'such was the language of the church in distress!' Compare _Birch's Life of Tillotson_, p. 153; _Ellis's Correspond._ vol. ii. p. 63; _Ellis's Orig. Letters_, 2nd series, vol. iv. p. 117; _Mackintosh's Revolution_, p. 286; _Somers Tracts_, vol. ix. p. 132; _Macaulay's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. pp. 218, 219. [682] See the indignant language of De Foe _Wilson's Life of De Foe_, vol. i. pp. 130, 131, 133, 134; and a _Letter from a Dissenter to the Petitioning Bishops_, in _Somers Tracts_, vol. ix. pp. 117, 118. The writer says: 'Pray, my lords, let me ask you a question. Suppose the king, instead of his Declaration, had issued out a proclamation, commanding justices of the peace, constables, informers, and all other persons, to be more rigorous, if possible, against dissenters, and do their utmost to the perfect quelling and destroying them; and had ordered this to be read in your churches in the time of divine service,--would you have made any scruple of that?' Thus it was, that the proximate cause of that great revolution which cost James his crown, was the publication by the king of an edict of religious toleration, and the consequent indignation of the clergy at seeing so audacious an act performed by a Christian prince. It is true, that if other things had not conspired, this alone could never have effected so great a change. But it was the immediate cause of it, because it was the cause of the schism between the church and the throne, and of the alliance between the church and the dissenters. This is a fact never to be forgotten. We ought never to forget, that the first and only time the Church of England has made war upon the crown, was when the crown had declared its intention of tolerating, and in some degree protecting, the rival religions of the country.[683] There is no doubt that the Declaration which was then issued was illegal, and that it was conceived in an insidious spirit. But declarations equally illegal, equally insidious, and much more tyrannical, had on other occasions been made by the sovereign, without exciting the anger of the clergy.[684] These are things which it is good for us to ponder. These are lessons of inestimable value for those to whom it is given, not, indeed, to direct, but in some degree to modify, the march of public opinion. As to the people in general, it is impossible for them to exaggerate the obligations which they and all of us owe to the Revolution of 1688. But let them take heed that superstition does not mingle with their gratitude. Let them admire that majestic edifice of national liberty, which stands alone in Europe like a beacon in the midst of the waters; but let them not think that they owe anything to men who, in contributing to its erection, sought the gratification of their own selfishness, and the consolidation of that spiritual power which by it they fondly hoped to secure. [683] That this was the immediate cause, so far as the head of the church-party was concerned, is unblushingly avowed by the biographer and defender of the then Archbishop of Canterbury. 'The order published from the king in council, May 4th, 1688, directing the archbishops and bishops to send to the clergy in their respective dioceses the Declaration for Liberty of Conscience, to be publicly read in all the churches of the kingdom, made it impossible for the Archbishop of Canterbury to abstain any longer from engaging in an open and declared opposition to the counsels under which the king was now unhappily acting.' _D'Oyly's Life of Sancroft_, p. 151. [684] Some writers have attempted to defend the clergy, on the ground that they thought it illegal to publish a declaration of this kind. But such a defence is incompatible with their doctrine of passive obedience; and besides this, it was contradicted by precedents and decisions of their own. Jeremy Taylor, in his _Ductor Dubitantium_, their great work of authority, asserts that 'the unlawful proclamations and edicts of a true prince may be published by the clergy in their several charges.' _Heber's Life of Taylor_, p. cclxxxvi. Heber adds: 'I wish I had not found this in Taylor; and I thank Heaven that the principle was not adopted by the English clergy in 1687.' But why was it not adopted in 1687? Simply because in 1687 the king attacked the monopoly enjoyed by the clergy; and therefore the clergy forgot their principle, that they might smite their enemy. And what makes the motives of this change still more palpable is, that as late as 1681, the Archbishop of Canterbury caused the clergy to read a Declaration issued by Charles II.; and that in a revised copy of the Liturgy he had also added to the rubric to the same effect. See _Neal's Hist. of the Puritans_, vol. v. p. 56. Compare _Calamy's Own Life_, vol. i. pp. 199, 200; _Mackintosh's Revolution_, pp. 242, 243; _D'Oyly's Life of Sancroft_, p. 152; _King's Life of Locke_, vol. i. p. 259; _Life of James II._, edit. Clarke, vol. ii. p. 156. It is, indeed, difficult to conceive the full amount of the impetus given to English civilization by the expulsion of the House of Stuart. Among the most immediate results, may be mentioned the limits that were set to the royal prerogative;[685] the important steps that were taken towards religious toleration;[686] the remarkable and permanent improvement in the administration of justice;[687] the final abolition of a censorship over the press;[688] and, what has not excited sufficient attention, the rapid growth, of those great monetary interests by which, as we shall hereafter see, the prejudices of the superstitious classes have in no small degree been counterbalanced.[689] These are the main characteristics of the reign of William III.; a reign often aspersed, and little understood,[690] but of which it may be truly said, that, taking its difficulties into due consideration, it is the most successful and the most splendid recorded in the history of any country. But these topics rather belong to the subsequent volumes of this work; and at present we are only concerned in tracing the effects of the Revolution upon that ecclesiastical power by which it was immediately brought about. [685] They are summed up in a popular pamphlet ascribed to Lord Somers, and printed in _Somers Tracts_, vol. x. pp. 263, 264. The diminished respect felt for the crown after 1688 is judiciously noticed in _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. i. p. 9. [686] The Toleration Act was passed in 1689. A copy of it is given by the historians of the dissenters, who call it their Magna Charta. See _Bogue and Bennett's History of the Dissenters_, vol. i. pp. 187-198. The historian of the Catholics equally allows that the reign of William III. is 'the era from which their enjoyment of religious toleration may be dated.' _Butler's Memoirs of the Catholics_, vol. iii. pp. 122, 139. This is said by Mr. Butler in regard, not to the Protestant dissenters, but to the Catholics; so that we have the admission of both parties as to the importance of this epoch. Even the shameful act forced upon William in 1700 was, as Mr. Hallam truly says, evaded in its worst provisions. _Const. Hist._ vol. ii. pp. 332, 333. [687] _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. iv. pp. 102, 355, and his _Chief-Justices_, vol. ii. pp. 95, 116, 118, 136, 142, 143. See also _Barrington's Observations on the Statutes_, pp. 23, 102, 558; and even _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. i. p. 236, vol. ix. p. 243; an unwary concession from such an enemy to popular liberty. [688] This was effected before the end of the seventeenth century. See _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. iv. pp. 121, 122. Compare Lord Camden on Literary Property, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvii. p. 994; _Hunt's History of Newspapers_, vol. i. pp. 161, 162; _Somers Tracts_, vol. xiii. p. 555; and a more detailed account in _Macaulay's Hist. of England_, vol. iv. pp. 348 seq. 540 seq.; though Mr. Macaulay in ascribing, p. 353, so much to the influence of Blount, has not, I think, sufficiently dwelt on the operation of larger and more general causes. [689] Mr. Cooke (_Hist. of Party_, vol. ii. pp. 5, 148) notices this remarkable rise of the monied classes early in the eighteenth century; but he merely observes, that the consequence was to strengthen the Whig party. Though this is undoubtedly true, the ultimate results, as I shall hereafter point out, were far more important than any political or even economical consequences. It was not till 1694 that the Bank of England was established; and this great institution at first met with the warmest opposition from the admirers of old times, who thought it must be useless because their ancestors did without it. See the curious details in _Sinclair's Hist. of the Revenue_, vol. iii. pp. 6-9; and on the connexion between it and the Whigs, see _Macaulay's Hist. of England_, vol. iv. p. 502. There is a short account of its origin and progress in _Smith's Wealth of Nations_, book ii. chap. ii. p. 130. [690] Frequently misunderstood, even by those who praise it. Thus, for instance, a living writer informs us that, 'great as have been the obligations which England owes, in many different views, to the Revolution, it is beyond all question the greatest, that it brought in a sovereign instructed in the art of overcoming the ignorant impatience of taxation which is the invariable characteristic of free communities; and thus gave it a government capable of turning to the best account the activity and energy of its inhabitants, at the same time that it had the means given it of maintaining their independence.' _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. vii. p. 5. This, I should suppose, is the most eccentric eulogy ever passed on William III. Scarcely had the clergy succeeded in expelling James, when the greater number of them repented of their own act.[691] Indeed, even before he was driven from the country, several things had occurred to make them doubt the policy of the course they were pursuing. During the last few weeks that he was allowed to reign, he had shown symptoms of increasing respect for the English hierarchy. The archbishopric of York had so long been vacant, as to cause a belief that it was the intention of the crown either to appoint to it a Catholic, or else to seize its revenues.[692] But James, to the delight of the church, now filled up this important office by nominating Lamplugh, who was well known to be a stanch churchman and a zealous defender of episcopal privileges.[693] Just before this, the king also rescinded the order by which the Bishop of London had been suspended from the exercise of his functions.[694] To the bishops in general he made great promises of future favour;[695] some of them, it was said, were to be called to his privy council; and, in the meantime, he cancelled that ecclesiastical commission which, by limiting their power, had excited their anger.[696] Besides this, there occurred some other circumstances which the clergy now had to consider. It was rumoured, and it was generally believed, that William was no great admirer of ecclesiastical establishments; and that, being a friend to toleration, he was more likely to diminish the power than increase the privileges of the English hierarchy.[697] It was also known that he favoured the Presbyterians, whom the Church not unreasonably regarded as her bitterest enemies.[698] And when, in addition to all this, William, on mere grounds of expediency, actually abolished episcopacy in Scotland, it became evident that, by thus repudiating the doctrine of divine right, he had directed a great blow against those opinions on which, in England, ecclesiastical authority was based.[699] [691] On their sudden repentance, and on the causes of it, see _Neal's Hist. of the Puritans_, vol. v. p. 71. [692] _Mackintosh's Revolution of 1688_, pp. 81, 191. After the death of Archbishop Dolben, 'the see was kept vacant for more than two years,' and Cartwright hoped to obtain it. See _Cartwright's Diary_, by Hunter, 4to, 1843, p. 45. In the same way, we find from a letter to the Archbishop of Canterbury (_Clarendon Corresp._ vol. i. p. 409) that in May 1686 uneasiness was felt because the Irish bishoprics were not filled up. Compare _Burnet_, vol. iii. p. 103. Carwithen (_Hist. of the Ch. of England_, vol. ii. p. 492) says, that James had intended to raise the Jesuit Petre to the archbishopric. [693] Lamplugh was translated from the bishopric of Exeter to the archbishopric of York in November 1688. See the contemporary account in the _Ellis Correspondence_, vol. ii. p. 303, and _Ellis's Original Letters_, second series, vol. iv. p. 151. He was a most orthodox man; and not only hated the dissenters, but showed his zeal by persecuting them. _Wilson's Life of De Foe_, vol. i. pp. 94, 95. Compare an anecdote of him in _Baxter's Life of Himself_, folio, 1696, part iii. pp. 178, 179. [694] In a letter, dated London, 29th September 1688 (_Ellis_, _Correspondence_, vol. ii. p. 224, and _Ellis's Orig. Letters_, second series, vol. iv. p. 128), it is stated, that the Bishop of London's 'suspension is taken off.' See also _Somers Tracts_, vol. ix. p. 215. This is the more observable, because, according to Johnstone, there was an intention, in December 1687, of depriving him. _Mackintosh's Revolution_, pp. 211, 212. [695] This disposition on the part of the king again to favour the bishops and the church became a matter of common remark in September 1688. See _Ellis Correspond._ vol. ii. pp. 201, 202, 209, 219, 224, 225, 226, 227; _Clarendon Correspond._ vol. ii. pp. 188, 192. Sir John Reresby, who was then in London, writes, in October 1688, that James 'begins again to court the Church of England.' _Reresby's Memoirs_, p. 357. Indeed, the difficulties of James were now becoming so great, that he had hardly any choice. [696] _Ellis Correspond._ vol. ii. p. 211; _Life of James II._, edit. Clarke, vol. ii. p. 189. [697] In November 1687, it was said that he wished the dissenters to have 'entire liberty for the full exercise of their religion,' and to be freed 'from the severity of the penal laws.' _Somers Tracts_, vol. ix. p. 184. This is the earliest distinct notice I have seen of William's desire to deprive the church of the power of punishing nonconformists; but after he arrived in England his intentions became obvious. In January 1688-9 the friends of the church complained 'that the countenance he gave the dissenters gave too much cause of jealousy to the Church of England.' _Clarendon Correspond._ vol. ii. p. 238. Compare _Neal's Hist. of the Puritans_, vol. v. p. 81; _Bogue and Bennett's Hist. of the Dissenters_, vol. ii. p. 318; _Birch's Life of Tillotson_, pp. 156, 157; _Somers Tracts_, vol. x. p. 341, vol. xi. p. 108. Burnet, in his summary of the character of William, observes that, 'his indifference as to the forms of church-government, and his being zealous for toleration, together with his cold behaviour towards the clergy, gave them generally very ill impressions of him.' _Own Time_, vol. iv. p. 550. At p. 192 the bishop says, 'He took no notice of the clergy, and seemed to have little concern in the matters of the church or of religion.' [698] Sir John Reresby, who was an attentive observer of what was going on, says, 'The prince, upon his arrival, seemed more inclined to the Presbyterians than to the members of the church; which startled the clergy.' _Reresby's Memoirs_, p. 375: see also pp. 399, 405: 'the church-people hated the Dutch, and had rather turn Papists than receive the Presbyterians among them.' Compare _Evelyn's Diary_, vol. iii. p. 281: 'the Presbyterians, our new governors.' [699] Burnet (_Own Time_, vol. iv. p. 50) says of the clergy in 1689: 'The king was suspected by them, by reason of the favour showed to dissenters; but chiefly for his abolishing episcopacy in Scotland, and his consenting to the setting up presbytery there.' On this great change, compare _Bogue and Bennett's History of Dissenters_, vol. ii. pp. 379-384; _Barry's Hist. of the Orkney Islands_, p. 257; _Neal's Hist. of the Puritans_, vol. v. pp. 85, 86: and on the indignation felt by the Anglican clergy at the abolition of episcopacy in Scotland, see a contemporary pamphlet in _Somers Tracts_, vol. ix. pp. 510, 516, where fears are expressed lest William should effect a similar measure in England. The writer very fairly observes, p. 522, 'For if we give up the _jus divinum_ of episcopacy in Scotland, we must yield it also as to England. And then we are wholly precarious.' See also vol. x. pp. 341, 503; _Lathbury's Hist. of Convocation_, pp. 277, 278; and _Macpherson's Original Papers_, vol. i. p. 509. While these things were agitating the public mind, the eyes of men were naturally turned upon the bishops, who, though they had lost much of their former power, were still respected by a large majority of the people as the guardians of the national religion. But at this critical moment they were so blinded, either by their ambition or by their prejudices, that they adopted a course which of all others was the most injurious to their reputation. They made a sudden attempt to reverse that political movement of which they were themselves the principal originators. Their conduct on this occasion amply confirms that account of their motives which I have already given. If, in aiding those preliminary measures by which the Revolution was effected, they had been moved by a desire of relieving the nation from despotism, they would have eagerly welcomed that great man at whose approach the despot took to flight. This is what the clergy would have done, if they had loved their country better than they loved their order. But they pursued a precisely opposite course; because they preferred the petty interests of their own class to the welfare of the great body of the people, and because they would rather that the country should be oppressed than that the church should be humbled. Nearly the whole of the bishops and clergy had, only a few weeks before, braved the anger of their sovereign sooner than read in their churches an edict for religious toleration, and seven of the most influential of the episcopal order had, in the same cause, willingly submitted to the risk of a public trial before the ordinary tribunals of the land. This bold course they professed to have adopted, not because they disliked toleration, but because they hated tyranny. And yet when William arrived in England, and when James stole away from the kingdom like a thief in the night, this same ecclesiastical profession pressed forward to reject that great man, who, without striking a blow, had by his mere presence saved the country from the slavery with which it was threatened. We shall not easily find in modern history another instance of such gross inconsistency, or rather, let us say, of such selfish and reckless ambition. For this change of plan, far from being concealed, was so openly displayed, and the causes of it were so obvious, that the scandal was laid bare before the whole country. Within the space of a few weeks the apostasy was consummated. The first in the field was the Archbishop of Canterbury, who, anxious to retain his office, had promised to wait upon William. But when he saw the direction things were likely to take, he withdrew his promise, and would not recognize a prince who showed such indifference to the sacred order.[700] Indeed, so great was his anger, that he sharply rebuked his chaplain for presuming to pray for William and Mary, although they had been proclaimed with the full consent of the nation, and although the crown had been delivered to them by the solemn and deliberate act of a public convention of the estates of the realm.[701] While such was the conduct of the primate of England, his brethren were not wanting to him in this great emergency of their common fate. The oath of allegiance was refused not only by the Archbishop of Canterbury, but also by the Bishop of Bath and Wells, by the Bishop of Chester, by the Bishop of Chichester, by the Bishop of Ely, by the Bishop of Gloucester, by the Bishop of Norwich, by the Bishop of Peterborough, and by the Bishop of Worcester.[702] As to the inferior clergy, our information is less precise; but it is said that about six hundred of them imitated their superiors in declining to recognize for their king him whom the country had elected.[703] The other members of this turbulent faction were unwilling, by so bold a measure, to incur that deprivation of their livings with which William would probably have visited them. They, therefore, preferred a safer and more inglorious opposition, by which they could embarrass the government without injuring themselves, and could gain the reputation of orthodoxy without incurring the pains of martyrdom. [700] _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. iii. p. 340. Burnet, who had the best means of information, says, 'Though he had once agreed to it, yet would not come.' Lord Clarendon, in his _Diary_, 3rd January 1688-9, writes, that the archbishop expressed to him on that day his determination neither to call on William nor even to send to him (_Clarendon Correspond._ vol. ii. p. 240); and this resolution appears to have been taken deliberately: 'he was careful not to do it, for the reasons he formerly gave me.' [701] See the account given by his chaplain Wharton, in _D'Oyly's Life of Sancroft_, p. 259, where it is stated that the archbishop was very irate ('vehementer excandescens'), and told him, 'that he must thenceforward desist from offering prayers for the new king and queen, or else from performing the duties of his chapel.' See also _Birch's Life of Tillotson_, p. 144. Thus too the Bishop of Norwich declared 'that he would not pray for King William and Queen Mary.' _Clarendon Correspond._ vol. ii. p. 263. The same spirit was universal among the high-church clergy; and when public prayers were offered up for the king and queen, they were called by the nonjurors 'the immoral prayers,' and this became a technical and recognized expression. _Life of Ken, by a Layman_, vol. ii. pp. 648, 650. [702] _Lathbury's Hist. of the Nonjurors_, p. 45; _D'Oyly's Sancroft_, p. 260. [703] Nairne's Papers mention, in 1693, 'six hundred ministers who have not taken the oaths.' _Macpherson's Orig. Papers_, vol. i. p. 459. The effect which all this produced on the temper of the nation may be easily imagined. The question was now narrowed to an issue which every plain man could at once understand. On the one side, there was an overwhelming majority of the clergy.[704] On the other side there was all the intellect of England, and all her dearest interests. The mere fact that such an opposition could exist without kindling a civil war, showed how the growing intelligence of the people had weakened the authority of the ecclesiastical profession. Besides this, the opposition was not only futile, but it was also injurious to the class that made it.[705] For it was now seen that the clergy only cared for the people as long as the people cared for them. The violence with which these angry men[706] set themselves against the interests of the nation clearly proved the selfishness of that zeal against James, of which they had formerly made so great a merit. They continued to hope for his return, to intrigue for him, and in some instances to correspond with him; although they well knew that his presence would cause a civil war, and that he was so generally hated that he dared not show his face in England unless protected by the troops of a foreign and hostile power.[707] [704] The only friends William possessed among the clergy were the low-churchmen, as they were afterwards called; and it is supposed that they formed barely a tenth of the entire body in 1689: 'We should probably overrate their numerical strength, if we were to estimate them at a tenth part of the priesthood.' _Macaulay's Hist. of England_, vol. iii. p. 74. [705] The earliest allusion I have seen to the injury the clergy were inflicting on the church, by their conduct after the arrival of William, is in _Evelyn's Diary_, vol. iii. p. 273,--a curious passage, gently hinting at the 'wonder of many,' at the behaviour of 'the Archbishop of Canterbury, and some of the rest.' With Evelyn, who loved the church, this was an unpleasant subject; but others were less scrupulous; and in parliament, in particular, men did not refrain from expressing what must have been the sentiments of every impartial observer. In the celebrated debate, in January 1688-9, when the throne was declared vacant, Pollexfen said: 'Some of the clergy are for one thing, some for another; I think they scarce know what they would have.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. v. p. 55. In February, Maynard, one of the most influential members, indignantly said: 'I think the clergy are out of their wits; and I believe, if the clergy should have their wills, few or none of us should be here again.' _Ibid._ vol. v. p. 129. The clergy were themselves bitterly sensible of the general hostility; and one of them writes, in 1694: 'The people of England, who were so excessively enamoured of us when the bishops were in the tower, that they hardly forbore to worship us, are now, I wish I could say but cool and very indifferent towards us.' _Somers Tracts_, vol. ix. p. 525. The growing indignation against the clergy, caused by their obvious desire to sacrifice the country to the interests of the church, is strikingly displayed in a letter from Sir Roland Gwyne, written in 1710, and printed in _Macpherson's Orig. Papers_, vol. ii. p. 207. [706] They are so called by Burnet: 'these angry men, that had raised this flame in the church.' _Own Time_, vol. v. p. 17. [707] Indeed, the high-church party, in their publications, distinctly intimated, that if James were not recalled, he should be reinstated by a foreign army. _Somers Tracts_, vol. x. pp. 377, 405, 457, 462. Compare _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 138. Burnet (_Own Time_, vol. iv. pp. 361, 362) says, they were 'confounded' when they heard of the peace of 1697; and Calamy (_Life of Himself_, vol. ii. p. 322) makes the same remark on the death of Louis XIV.: 'It very much puzzled the counsels of the Jacobites, and spoiled their projects.' But this was not the whole of the damage which, in those anxious times, the church inflicted upon herself. When the bishops refused to take the oaths to the new government, measures were adopted to remove them from their sees; and William did not hesitate to eject by force of law the Archbishop of Canterbury and five of his brethren.[708] The prelates, smarting under the insult, were goaded into measures of unusual activity. They loudly proclaimed that the powers of the church, which had long been waning, were now extinct.[709] They denied the right of the legislature to pass a law against them. They denied the right of the sovereign to put that law into execution.[710] They not only continued to give themselves the title of bishops, but they made arrangements to perpetuate the schism which their own violence had created. The Archbishop of Canterbury, as he insisted upon being called, made a formal renunciation of his imaginary right into the hands of Lloyd,[711] who still supposed himself to be Bishop of Norwich, although William had recently expelled him from his see. The scheme of these turbulent priests was then communicated to James, who willingly supported their plan for establishing a permanent feud in the English church.[712] The result of this conspiracy between the rebellious prelates and the pretended king, was the appointment of a series of men who gave themselves out as forming the real episcopacy, and who received the homage of every one who preferred the claims of the church to the authority of the state.[713] This mock succession of imaginary bishops continued for more than a century;[714] and, by dividing the allegiance of churchmen, lessened the power of the church.[715] In several instances, the unseemly spectacle was exhibited of two bishops for the same place; one nominated by the spiritual power, the other nominated by the temporal power. Those who considered the church as superior to the state, of course attached themselves to the spurious bishops; while the appointments of William were acknowledged by that rapidly increasing party, who preferred secular advantages to ecclesiastical theories.[716] [708] _D'Oyly's Life of Sancroft_, p. 266; _Wordsworth's Eccl. Biog._ iv. p. 683. [709] Sancroft, on his death-bed, in 1693, prayed for the 'poor suffering church, which, by this revolution, is almost destroyed.' _D'Oyly's Sancroft_, p. 311; and _Macpherson's Original Papers_, vol. i. p. 280. See also _Remarks_, published in 1693 (_Somers Tracts_, vol. x. p. 504) where it is said, that William had, 'as far as possible he could, dissolved the true old Church of England;' and that, 'in a moment of time, her face was so altered, as scarce to be known again.' [710] 'Ken, though deprived, never admitted in the secular power the right of deprivation; and it is well known that he studiously retained his title.' _Bowles's Life of Ken_, vol. ii. p. 225. Thus, too, Lloyd, so late as 1703, signs himself, 'Wm. Nor.' (_Life of Ken, by a Layman_, vol. ii. p. 720); though, having been legally deprived, he was no more bishop of Norwich than he was emperor of China. And Sancroft, in the last of his letters, published by D'Oyly (_Life_, p. 303), signs 'W. C.' [711] The strange document, by which he appointed Dr. Lloyd his vicar-general, is printed in Latin, in _D'Oyly's Sancroft_, p. 295, and in English, in _Life of Ken, by a Layman_, vol. ii. p. 640. [712] _Lathbury's Hist. of the Nonjurors_, p. 96; _Life of Ken, by a Layman_, vol. ii. pp. 641, 642. [713] The struggle between James and William was essentially a struggle between ecclesiastical interests and secular interests; and this was seen as early as 1689, when, as we learn from Burnet, who was much more a politician than a priest, 'the church was as the word given out by the Jacobite party, under which they might more safely shelter themselves,' _Own Time_, vol. iv. p. 57. See also, on this identification of the Jacobites with the church, _Birch's Life of Tillotson_, p. 222; and the argument of Dodwell, pp. 246, 247, in 1691. Dodwell justly observed, that the successors of the deprived bishops were schismatical, in a spiritual point of view; and that, 'if they should pretend to lay authority as sufficient, they would overthrow the being of a church as a society.' The bishops appointed by William were evidently intruders, according to church principles; and as their intrusion could only be justified according to lay principles, it followed that the success of the intrusion was the triumph of lay principles over church ones. Hence it is, that the fundamental idea of the rebellion of 1688, is the elevation of the state above the church; just as the fundamental idea of the rebellion of 1642, is the elevation of the commons above the crown. [714] According to Dr. D'Oyly (_Life of Sancroft_, p. 297), Dr. Gordon 'died in London, November 1779, and is supposed to have been the last nonjuring bishop.' In _Short's Hist. of the Church of England_, p. 583, Lond. 1847, it is also stated, that 'this schism continued till 1779.' But Mr. Hallam (_Const. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 404) has pointed out a passage in the _State Trials_, which proves that another of the bishops, named Cartwright, was still living at Shrewsbury in 1793; and Mr. Lathbury (_Hist. of the Nonjurors_, Lond. 1845, p. 412) says, that he died in 1799. [715] Calamy (_Own Life_, vol. i. pp. 328-330, vol. ii. pp. 338, 357, 358) gives an interesting account of these feuds within the church, consequent upon the revolution. Indeed, their bitterness was such, that it was necessary to coin names for the two parties; and, between 1700 and 1702, we, for the first time, hear the expressions, high-church and low-church. See _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. iv. p. 447, vol. v. p. 70. Compare _Wilson's Life of De Foe_, vol. ii. p. 26; _Parl. Hist._ vol. vi. pp. 162, 498. On the difference between them, as it was understood in the reign of Anne, see _Somers Tracts_, vol. xii. p. 532, and _Macpherson's Orig. Papers_, vol. ii. p. 166. On the dawning schism in the church, see the speech of Sir T. Littleton, in 1690, _Parl. Hist._ vol. v. p. 593. Hence many complained that they could not tell which was the real church. See curious evidence of this perplexity in _Somers Tracts_, vol. ix. pp. 477-481. [716] The alternative is fairly stated in a letter written in 1691 (_Life of Ken, by a Layman_, vol. ii. p. 599): 'If the deprived bishop be the only lawful bishop, then the people and clergy of his diocese are bound to own him, and no other; then all the bishops who own the authority of a new archbishop, and live in communion with him, are schismatics; and the clergy who live in communion with schismatical bishops are schismatics themselves; and the whole Church of England now established by law is schismatical.' Such were some of the events which, at the end of the seventeenth century, widened the breach that had long existed between the interests of the nation and the interests of the clergy.[717] There was also another circumstance which considerably increased this alienation. Many of the English clergy, though they retained their affection for James, did not choose to brave the anger of the government, or risk the loss of their livings. To avoid this, and to reconcile their conscience with their interest, they availed themselves of a supposed distinction between a king by right and a king in possession.[718] The consequence was, that while with their lips they took an oath of allegiance to William, they in their hearts paid homage to James; and, while they prayed for one king in their churches, they were bound to pray for another in their closets.[719] By this wretched subterfuge, a large body of the clergy were at once turned into concealed rebels; and we have it on the authority of a contemporary bishop, that the prevarication of which these men were notoriously guilty was a still further aid to that scepticism, the progress of which he bitterly deplores.[720] [717] Lord Mahon (_Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 245) notices, what he terms, the 'unnatural alienation between the church and state,' consequent upon the Revolution of 1688: and on the diminished power of the church caused by the same event, see _Phillimore's Mem. of Lyttleton_, vol. i. p. 352. [718] The old absurdity of _de facto_ and _de jure_; as if any man could retain a right to a throne which the people would not allow him to occupy! [719] In 1715, Leslie, by far the ablest of them, thus states their position: 'You are now driven to this dilemma,--swear, or swear not; if you swear, you kill the soul; and if you swear not, you kill the body, in the loss of your bread.' _Somers Tracts_, vol. xiii. p. 686. The result of the dilemma was what might have been expected; and a high-church writer, in the reign of William III., boasts (_Somers Tracts_, vol. x. p. 344) that the oaths taken by the clergy were no protection to the government: 'not that the government receives any security from oaths.' Whiston, too, says in his _Memoirs_, p. 30: 'Yet do I too well remember that the far greatest part of those of the university and clergy that then took the oaths to the government, seemed to me to take them with a doubtful conscience, if not against its dictates.' This was in 1693; and, in 1710, we find: 'There are now circumstances to make us believe that the Jacobite clergy have the like instructions to take any oaths, to get possession of a pulpit for the service of the cause, to bellow out the hereditary right, the pretended title of the Pretender.' _Somers Tracts_, vol. xii. p. 641. A knowledge of this fact, or, at all events, a belief of it, was soon diffused; and, eight years later, the celebrated Lord. Cowper, then lord chancellor, said, in the House of Lords, 'that his majesty had also the best part of the landed, and all the trading interest; _that as to the clergy, he would say nothing--but that it was notorious that the majority of the populace had been poisoned, and that the poison was not yet quite expelled_.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. vii. p. 541; also given, but not quite _verbatim_, in _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. iv. p. 365. [720] 'The prevarication of too many in so sacred a matter contributed not a little to fortify the growing atheism of the present age.' _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. iii. p. 381. See also, to the same effect, vol. iv. pp. 176, 177; and a remarkable passage in _Somers Tracts_, vol. xii. p. 573. I need hardly add, that it was then usual to confuse scepticism with atheism; though the two things are not only different, but incompatible. In regard to the quibble respecting _de facto_ and _de jure_, and the use made of it by the clergy, the reader should compare _Wilson's Mem. of De Foe_, vol. i. pp. 171, 172; _Somers Tracts_, vol. ix. p. 531; _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. iv. p. 409; and a letter from the Rev. Francis Jessop, written in 1717, in _Nichols's Lit. Illustrations_, vol. iv. pp. 120-123. As the eighteenth century advanced, the great movement of liberation rapidly proceeded. One of the most important of the ecclesiastical resources had formerly been Convocation; in which the clergy, by meeting in a body, were able to discountenance in an imposing manner whatever might be hostile to the church; and had, moreover, an opportunity, which they sedulously employed, of devising schemes favourable to the spiritual authority.[721] But, in the progress of the age, this weapon also was taken from them. Within a very few years after the Revolution, Convocation fell into general contempt;[722] and, in 1717, this celebrated assembly was finally prorogued by an act of the crown, it being justly considered that the country had no further occasion for its services.[723] Since that period, this great council of the English church has never been allowed to meet for the purpose of deliberating on its own affairs, until a few years ago, when, by the connivance of a feeble government, it was permitted to reassemble. So marked, however, has been the change in the temper of the nation, that this once formidable body does not now retain even a semblance of its ancient influence; its resolutions are no longer feared, its discussions are no longer studied; and the business of the country continues to be conducted without regard to those interests which, only a few generations ago, were considered by every statesman to be of supreme importance.[724] [721] Among which must be particularly mentioned the practice of censuring all books that encouraged free inquiry. In this respect, the clergy were extremely mischievous. See _Lathbury's Hist. of Convocation_, pp. 124, 286, 338, 351; and _Wilson's Life of De Foe_, vol. ii. p. 170. [722] In 1704, Burnet (_Own Time_, vol. v. p. 138) says of Convocation, 'but little opposition was made to them, as very little regard was had to them.' In 1700, there was a squabble between the upper and lower house of Convocation for Canterbury; which, no doubt, aided these feelings. See _Life of Archbishop Sharp_, edited by Newcome, vol. i. p. 348, where this wretched feud is related with great gravity. [723] Charles Butler (_Reminiscences_, vol. ii. p. 95) says, that the final prorogation was in 1720; but, according to all the other authorities I have met with, it was in 1717. See _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 395; _Lathbury's Hist. of Convocation_, p. 385; _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. i. p. 302; _Monk's Life of Bentley_, vol. ii. p. 350. [724] A letter, written by the Rev. Thomas Clayton in 1727, is worth reading, as illustrating the feelings of the clergy on this subject. He asserts, that one of the causes of the obvious degeneracy of the age is, that, owing to Convocation not being allowed to meet, 'bold and impious books appear barefaced to the world without any public censure.' See this letter in _Nichols's Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. iv. pp. 414-416; and compare with it, _Letters between Warburton and Hurd_, pp. 310-312. Indeed, immediately after the Revolution, the tendency of things became too obvious to be mistaken, even by the most superficial observers. The ablest men in the country no longer flocked into the church, but preferred those secular professions in which ability was more likely to be rewarded.[725] At the same time, and as a natural part of the great movement, the clergy saw all the offices of power and emolument, which they had been used to hold, gradually falling out of their hands. Not only in the dark ages, but even so late as the fifteenth century, they were still strong enough to monopolize the most honourable and lucrative posts in the empire.[726] In the sixteenth century, the tide began to turn against them, and advanced with such steadiness, that, since the seventeenth century, there has been no instance of any ecclesiastic being made lord chancellor;[727] and, since the beginning of the eighteenth century, there has been no instance of one receiving any diplomatic appointment, or, indeed, holding any important office in the state.[728] Nor has this increasing ascendency of laymen been confined to the executive government. On the contrary, we find in both Houses of Parliament the same principle at work. In the early and barbarous periods of our history, one half of the House of Lords consisted of temporal peers; the other half of spiritual ones.[729] By the beginning of the eighteenth century, the spiritual peers, instead of forming one-half of the upper house, had dwindled away to one-eighth;[730] and, in the middle of the nineteenth century, they have still further shrunk to one-fourteenth:[731] thus supplying a striking numerical instance of that diminution of ecclesiastical power which is an essential requisite of modern civilization. Precisely in the same way, more than fifty years have elapsed since any clergyman has been able to take his seat as a representative of the people; the House of Commons having, in 1801, formally closed their doors against a profession which, in the olden time, would have been gladly admitted, even by the proudest and most exclusive assembly.[732] In the House of Lords, the bishops still retain their seats; but their precarious tenure is everywhere remarked, and the progress of public opinion is constantly pointing to a period, which cannot now be far distant, when the Peers will imitate the example set by the Commons, and will induce the legislature to relieve the upper house of its spiritual members; since they, by their habits, their tastes, and their traditions, are evidently unfitted for the profane exigencies of political life.[733] [725] On the decline of ability in ecclesiastical literature, see note 38 in this chapter. In 1685, a complaint was made that secular professions were becoming more sought after than ecclesiastical ones. See _England's Wants_, sec. lvi. in _Somers Tracts_, vol. ix. p. 231, where the writer mournfully states, that in his time 'physic and law, professions ever acknowledged in all nations to be inferior to divinity, are generally embraced by gentlemen, and sometimes by persons nobly descended, and _preferred much above the divine's profession_.' This preference was, of course, most displayed by young men of intellect; and a large amount of energy being thus drawn off from the church, gave rise to that decay of spirit and of general power which has been already noticed; and which is also indicated by Coleridge, in his remarks on the 'apologising theology' which succeeded the Revolution. _Coleridge's Lit. Remains_, vol. iii. pp. 51, 52, 116, 117, 119. Compare _Stephen's Essays on Ecclesiast. Biog._ 2d edit. 1850, vol. ii. p. 66, on 'this depression of theology;' and _Hare's Mission of the Comforter_, 1850, p. 264, on the 'intellectually feebler age.' Evelyn, in 1691, laments the diminished energy then beginning to be observed among 'young preachers.' _Evelyn's Diary_, vol. iii. p. 309; and for another notice, in 1696, of this 'dead and lifeless way of preaching,' see _Life of Cudworth_, p. 35, in vol. i. of _Cudworth's Intellect Syst._ [726] Sharon Turner, describing the state of things in England in the fifteenth century, says, 'Clergymen were secretaries of government, the privy seals, cabinet councillors, treasurers of the crown, ambassadors, commissioners to open parliament, and to Scotland; presidents of the king's council, supervisors of the royal works, chancellors, keepers of the records, the masters of the rolls, and even the physicians, both to the king and to the duke of Gloucester, during the reign of Henry VI. and afterwards.' _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. vi. p. 132. On their enormous wealth, see _Eccleston's English Antiquities_, p. 146: 'In the early part of the fourteenth century, it is calculated that very nearly one-half of the soil of the kingdom was in the hands of the clergy.' [727] In 1625, Williams bishop of Lincoln was dismissed from his office of lord-keeper; and Lord Campbell observes (_Lives of the Chancellors_, vol. ii. p. 492): 'This is the last time that an ecclesiastic has held the great seal of England; and, notwithstanding the admiration in some quarters of mediæval usages, I presume the experiment is not likely to be soon repeated.' [728] Monk (_Life of Bentley_, vol. i. p. 222) says, that Dr. John Robinson, bishop of Bristol, was 'lord privy seal, and plenipotentiary at the treaty of Utrecht; and is the last ecclesiastic in England who has held any of the high offices of state.' A high-church writer, in 1712, complains of the efforts that were being made to 'thrust the churchmen out of their places of power in the government.' _Somers Tracts_, vol. xiii. p. 211. [729] In and after the reign of Henry III. 'the number of archbishops, bishops, abbots, priors, and ecclesiastical persons was for the most part equal to, and very often far exceeded, the number of the temporal lords and barons.' _Parry's Parliaments and Councils of England_, London, 1839, p. xvii. Of this Mr. Parry gives several instances; the most remarkable of which is, that 'in 49 Henry III., 120 prelates, and only 23 temporal lords, were summoned.' This, of course, was an extreme case. [730] See an analysis of the House of Lords, in 1713, in _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. i. pp. 43-45; from which it appears that the total was 207, of whom 26 were spiritual. This includes the Catholics. [731] By the returns in Dod for 1854, I find that the House of Lords contains 436 members, of whom 30 belong to the episcopal bench. [732] For different accounts, and of course different views, of this final expulsion of the clergy from the House of Commons, see _Pellew's Life of Sidmouth_, vol. i. pp. 419, 420; _Stephens's Mem. of Tooke_, vol. ii. pp. 247-260; _Holland's Mem. of the Whig Party_, vol. i. pp. 178-180; _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. vii. p. 148; _Twiss's Life of Eldon_, vol. i. p. 263; _Adolphus's Hist. of George III._, vol. vii. p. 487. [733] That the banishment of the clergy from the lower house was the natural prelude to the banishment of the bishops from the upper, was hinted at the time, and with regret, by a very keen observer. In the discussion 'on the Bill to prevent Persons in Holy Orders from sitting in the House of Commons,' Lord Thurlow 'mentioned the tenure of the bishops at this time, and said, if the bill went to disfranchise the lower orders of the clergy, it might go the length of _striking at the right of the reverend bench opposite to seats in that house_; though he knew it had been held that the reverend prelates sat, in the right of their baronies, as temporal peers.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxv. p. 1542. While the fabric of superstition was thus tottering from internal decay, and while that ecclesiastical authority which had formerly played so great a part was gradually yielding to the advance of knowledge, there suddenly occurred an event which, though it might naturally have been expected, evidently took by surprise even those whom it most interested. I allude, of course, to that great religious revolution, which was a fitting supplement to the political revolution which preceded it. The dissenters, who were strengthened by the expulsion of James, had by no means forgotten those cruel punishments which the Church of England, in the days of her power, had constantly inflicted upon them; and they felt that the moment had now come when they could assume towards her a bolder front than that on which they had hitherto ventured.[734] Besides this, they had in the mean time received fresh causes of provocation. After the death of our great king William III., the throne was occupied by a foolish and ignorant woman, whose love for the clergy would, in a more superstitious age, have led to dangerous results.[735] Even as it was, a temporary reaction took place, and during her reign the church was treated with a deference which William had disdained to show.[736] The natural consequence immediately followed. New measures of persecution were devised, and fresh laws were passed against those Protestants who did not conform to the doctrines and discipline of the English church.[737] But after the death of Anne the dissenters quickly rallied; their hopes revived,[738] their numbers continued to increase, and in spite of the opposition of the clergy, the laws against them were repealed.[739] As by these means they were placed more on a level with their opponents, and as their temper was soured by the injuries they had recently received, it was clear that a great struggle between the two parties was inevitable.[740] For by this time the protracted tyranny of the English clergy had totally destroyed those feelings of respect which, even in the midst of hostility, often linger in the mind; and by the influence of which, if they had still existed, the contest might perhaps have been averted. But such motives of restraint were now despised; and the dissenters, exasperated by incessant persecution,[741] determined to avail themselves of the declining power of the church. They had resisted her when she was strong; it was hardly to be expected that they would spare her when she was feeble. Under two of the most remarkable men of the eighteenth century, Whitefield, the first of theological orators,[742] and Wesley, the first of theological statesmen,[743] there was organized a great system of religion, which bore the same relation to the Church of England that the Church of England bore to the Church of Rome. Thus, after an interval of two hundred years, a second spiritual Reformation was effected in our country. In the eighteenth century the Wesleyans were to the Bishops what, in the sixteenth century, the Reformers were to the Popes.[744] It is indeed true, that the dissenters from the Church of England, unlike the dissenters from the Church of Rome, soon lost that intellectual vigour for which at first they were remarkable. Since the death of their great leaders, they have not produced one man of original genius; and since the time of Adam Clarke, they have not had among them even a single scholar who has enjoyed an European reputation. This mental penury is perhaps owing, not to any circumstances peculiar to their sect, but merely to that general decline of the theological spirit, by which their adversaries have been weakened as well as themselves.[745] Be this as it may, it is at all events certain, that the injury they have inflicted on the English church is far greater than is generally supposed, and, I am inclined to think, is hardly inferior to that which in the sixteenth century Protestantism inflicted upon Popery. Setting aside the actual loss in the number of its members,[746] there can be no doubt that the mere formation of a Protestant faction, unopposed by the government, was a dangerous precedent; and we know from contemporary history that it was so considered by those who were most interested in the result.[747] Besides this, the Wesleyans displayed an organization so superior to that of their predecessors the Puritans, that they soon became a centre round which the enemies of the church could conveniently rally. And, what is perhaps still more important, the order, regularity, and publicity, by which their proceedings have usually been marked, distinguished them from other sects; and by raising them as it were to the dignity of a rival establishment, have encouraged the diminution of that exclusive and superstitious respect which was once paid to the Anglican hierarchy.[748] [734] It is impossible now to ascertain the full extent to which the Church of England, in the seventeenth century, persecuted the dissenters; but Jeremy White is said to have had a list of sixty thousand of these sufferers between 1660 and 1688, of whom no less than five thousand died in prison. _Bogue and Bennett's Hist. of the Dissenters_, vol. i. p. 108. On the cruel spirit which the clergy displayed in the reign of Charles II. compare _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. v. p. 106; _Orme's Life of Owen_, p. 344; _Somers Tracts_, vol. xii. p. 534. Indeed, Harwood frankly said in the House of Commons, in 1672, 'Our aim is to bring all dissenting men into the Protestant church, and he that is not willing to come into the church should not have ease.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. iv. p. 530. On the zeal with which this principle was carried out, see an account, written in 1671, in _Somers Tracts_, vol. vii. pp. 586-615; and the statement of De Foe, in _Wilson's Life of De Foe_, vol. ii. pp. 443-444. [735] Besides the correspondence which the Duchess of Marlborough preserved for the instruction of posterity, we have some materials for estimating the abilities of Anne in the letters published in _Dalrymple's Memoirs_. In one of them Anne writes, soon after the Declaration for Liberty of Conscience was issued, 'It is a melancholy prospect that all we of the Church of England have. All the sectaries may now do what they please. Every one has the free exercise of their religion, on purpose, no doubt, to ruin us, which I think to all impartial judges is very plain.' _Dalrymple's Memoirs_, appendix to book v. vol. ii. p. 173. [736] See a notable passage in _Somers Tracts_, vol. xii. p. 558, which should be compared with Wilson's _Life of De Foe_, vol. iii. p. 372. [737] _Bogue and Bennett's History of the Dissenters_, vol. i. pp. 228-230, 237, 260-277; and _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. pp. 396, 397. Mr. Hallam says, 'It is impossible to doubt for an instant, that if the queen's life had preserved the Tory government for a few years, every vestige of the toleration would have been effaced.' It appears from the _Vernon Correspond._ vol. iii. p. 228, Lond. 1841, that soon after the accession of Anne, there was a proposal 'to debar dissenters of their votes in elections;' and we know from Burnet (_Own Time_, vol. v. pp. 108, 136, 137, 218) that the clergy would have been glad if Anne had displayed even more zeal against them than she really did. [738] _Bogue and Bennett's Hist. of the Dissenters_, vol. iii. p. 118. In Ivimey's _History of the Baptists_, it is said that the death of Anne was an 'answer to the dissenters' prayers.' _Southey's Commonplace Book_, third series, p. 135; see also p. 147, on the joy of the dissenters at the death of this troublesome woman. [739] Two of the worst of them, 'the act against occasional conformity, and that restraining education, were repealed in the session of 1719.' _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 398. The repeal of the act against occasional conformity was strenuously opposed by the archbishops of York and of Canterbury (_Bogue and Bennett's Hist. of the Dissenters_, vol. iii. p. 132); but their opposition was futile; and when the Bishop of London, in 1726, wished to strain the Act of Toleration, he was prevented by Yorke, the attorney-general. See the pithy reply of Yorke, in _Harris's Life of Hardwicke_, vol. i. pp. 193, 194. [740] At the end of the seventeenth century, great attention was excited by the way in which the dissenters were beginning to organize themselves into societies and synods. See, in the _Vernon Correspond._ vol. ii. pp. 128-130, 133, 156, some curious evidence of this, in letters written by Vernon, who was then secretary of state; and on the apprehensions caused by the increase of their schools, and by their systematic interference in elections, see _Life of Archbishop Sharp_, edited by Newcome, vol. i. pp. 125, 358. The church was eager to put down all dissenters' schools; and in 1705, the Archbishop of York told the House of Lords that he 'apprehended danger from the increase of dissenters, and particularly from the many academies set up by them.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. vi. pp. 492, 493. See also, on the increase of their schools, pp. 1351, 1352. [741] In _Somers Tracts_, vol. xii. p. 684, it is stated, that in the reign of Charles II. 'this hard usage had begotten in the dissenters the utmost animosity against the persecuting churchmen.' Their increasing discontent, in the reign of Anne, was observed by Calamy. See _Calamy's Own Life_, vol. ii. pp. 244, 255, 274, 284, 285. [742] If the power of moving the passions be the proper test by which to judge an orator, we may certainly pronounce Whitefield to be the greatest since the apostles. His first sermon was delivered in 1736 (_Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. ii. pp. 102, 122); his field-preaching began in 1739 (_Southey's Life of Wesley_, vol. i. pp. 196, 197); and the eighteen thousand sermons which he is said to have poured forth during his career of thirty-four years (_Southey's Wesley_, vol. ii. p. 531) produced the most astonishing effects on all classes, educated and uneducated. For evidence of the excitement caused by this marvellous man, and of the eagerness with which his discourses were read as well as heard, see _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. ii. pp. 546, 547, and his _Illustrations_, vol. iv. pp. 302-304; _Mem. of Franklin, by Himself_, vol. i. pp. 161-167; _Doddridge's Correspond._ vol. iv. p. 55; _Stewart's Philos. of the Mind_, vol. iii. pp. 291, 292; _Lady Mary Montagu's Letters_, in her Works, 1803, vol. iv. p. 162; _Correspond. between Ladies Pomfret and Hartford_, 2nd edit. 1806, vol. i. pp. 138, 160-162; _Marchmont Papers_, vol. ii. p. 377. [743] Of whom Mr. Macaulay has said (_Essays_, vol. i. p. 221, 3rd edit.), that his 'genius for government was not inferior to that of Richelieu;' and strongly as this is expressed, it will hardly appear an exaggeration to those who have compared the success of Wesley with his difficulties. [744] It was in 1739 that Wesley first openly rebelled against the church, and refused to obey the Bishop of Bristol, who ordered him to quit his diocese. _Southey's Life of Wesley_, vol. i. pp. 226, 243. In the same year he began to preach in the fields. See the remarkable entry in his _Journals_, p. 78, 29th March, 1739. [745] They frankly confess that 'indifference has been another enemy to the increase of the dissenting cause.' _Bogue and Bennett's Hist. of the Dissenters_, vol. iv. p. 320. In _Newman's Development of Christian Doctrine_, pp. 39-43, there are some remarks on the diminished energy of Wesleyanism, which Mr. Newman seems to ascribe to the fact that the Wesleyans have reached that point in which 'order takes the place of enthusiasm.' p. 43. This is probably true; but I still think that the larger cause has been the more active one. [746] Walpole, in his sneering way, mentions the spread of Methodism in the middle of the eighteenth century (_Walpole's Letters_, vol. ii. pp. 266, 272); and Lord Carlisle, in 1775, told the House of Lords (_Parl. Hist._ vol. xviii. p. 634) 'that Methodism was daily gaining ground, particularly in the manufacturing towns;' while, to come down still later, it appears from a letter by the Duke of Wellington to Lord Eldon(_Twiss's Life of Eldon_, vol. ii. p. 35) that about 1808 it was making proselytes in the army. These statements, though accurate, are somewhat vague; but we have other and more precise evidence respecting the rapid growth of religious dissent. According to a paper found in one of the chests of William III., and printed by Dalrymple (_Memoirs_, vol. ii. part ii., appendix to chapter i. p. 40), the proportion in England of conformists to nonconformists was as 22-4/5 to 1. Eighty-four years after the death of William, the dissenters, instead of comprising only a twenty-third, were estimated at 'a fourth part of the whole community.' Letter from Watson to the Duke of Rutland, written in 1786, in _Life of Watson, Bishop of Llandaff_, vol. i. p. 246. Since then, the movement has been uninterrupted; and the returns recently published by government disclose the startling fact, that on Sunday, 31st March 1851, the members of the Church of England who attended morning service only exceeded by one-half the Independents, Baptists, and Methodists who attended at their own places of worship. See the Census Table, in _Journal of Statist. Soc._ vol. xviii. p. 151. If this rate of decline continues, it will be impossible for the Church of England to survive another century the attacks of her enemies. [747] The treatment which the Wesleyans received from the clergy, many of whom were magistrates, shows what would have taken place if such violence had not been discouraged by the government. See _Southey's Life of Wesley_, vol. i. pp. 395-406. Wesley has himself given many details, which Southey did not think proper to relate, of the calumnies and insults to which he and his followers were subjected by the clergy. See _Wesley's Journals_, pp. 114, 145, 178, 181, 198, 235, 256, 275, 375, 562, 619, 637, 646. Compare _Watson's Observations on Southey's Wesley_, pp. 173, 174; and for other evidence of the treatment of those who differed from the church, see _Correspondence and Diary of Doddridge_, vol. ii. p. 17, vol. iii. pp. 108, 131, 132, 144, 145, 156. Grosley, who visited England in 1765, says of Whitefield, 'The ministers of the established religion did their utmost to baffle the new preacher; they preached against him, representing him to the people as a fanatic, a visionary, &c. &c.; in fine, they opposed him with so much success, that they caused him to be pelted with stones in every place where he opened his mouth to the public.' _Grosley's Tour to London_, Lond. 1772, vol. i. p. 356. [748] That Wesleyanism encouraged dissent by imparting to it an orderly character, which in some degree approximated to church-discipline, is judiciously observed in _Bogue and Bennett's History of the Dissenters_, vol. iii. pp. 165, 166. But these writers deal rather too harshly with Wesley; though there is no doubt that he was a very ambitious man, and over-fond of power. At an early period of his career he began to aim at objects higher than those attempted by the Puritans, whose efforts, particularly in the sixteenth century, he looked at somewhat contemptuously. Thus, for instance, in 1747, only eight years after he had revolted against the church, he expresses in his Journal his wonder 'at the weakness of those holy confessors' (the Elizabethan Puritans), 'many of whom spent so much of their time and strength in disputing about surplice and hoods, or kneeling at the Lord's Supper!' _Journals_, p. 249, March 13th, 1747. Such warfare as this would have ill satisfied the soaring mind of Wesley; and from the spirit which pervades his voluminous Journals, as well as from the careful and far-seeing provisions which he made for managing his sect, it is evident that this great schismatic had larger views than any of his predecessors, and that he wished to organize a system capable of rivalling the established church. But these things, interesting as they are, only formed a single step of that vast process by which the ecclesiastical power was weakened, and our countrymen thus enabled to secure a religious liberty, imperfect indeed, but far superior to that possessed by any other people. Among the innumerable symptoms of this great movement, there were two of peculiar importance. These were, the separation of theology, first from morals, and then from politics. The separation from morals was effected late in the seventeenth century; the separation from politics before the middle of the eighteenth century. And it is a striking instance of the decline of the old ecclesiastical spirit, that both of these great changes were begun by the clergy themselves. Cumberland, bishop of Peterborough, was the first who endeavoured to construct a system of morals without the aid of theology.[749] Warburton, bishop of Gloucester, was the first who laid down that the state must consider religion in reference, not to revelation, but to expediency; and that it should favour any particular creed, not in proportion to its truth, but solely with a view to its general utility.[750] Nor were these mere barren principles, which subsequent inquirers were unable to apply. The opinions of Cumberland, pushed to their furthest extent by Hume,[751] were shortly afterwards applied to practical conduct by Paley,[752] and to speculative jurisprudence by Bentham and Mill;[753] while the opinions of Warburton, spreading with still greater rapidity, have influenced our legislative policy, and are now professed, not only by advanced thinkers, but even by those ordinary men, who, if they had lived fifty years earlier, would have shrunk from them with unassembled fear.[754] [749] Mr. Hallam (_Lit. of Europe_, vol. iii. p. 390) says, that Cumberland 'seems to have been the first Christian writer who sought to establish systematically the principles of moral right independently of revelation.' See also, on this important change, _Whewell's Hist. of Moral Philosophy in England_, pp. 12, 54. The dangers always incurred by making theology the basis of morals are now pretty well understood; but by no writer have they been pointed out more clearly than by M. Charles Comte: see the able exposition in his _Traité de Législation_, vol. i. pp. 223-247. There is a short and unsatisfactory account of Cumberland's book in _Mackintosh's Ethical Philosophy_, pp. 134-137. He was a man of considerable learning, and is noticed by M. Quatremère as one of the earliest students of Coptic. _Quatremère sur la Langue et la Littérature de l'Egypte_, p. 89. He was made a bishop in 1691, having published the _De Legibus_ in 1672. _Chalmers's Biog. Dict._ vol. xi. pp. 133, 135. [750] This was in his work entitled _The Alliance between Church and State_, which first appeared, according to Hurd (_Life of Warburton_, 1794, 4to, p. 13), in 1736, and, as may be supposed, caused great scandal. The history of its influence I shall trace on another occasion; in the mean time, the reader should compare, respecting its tendency, _Palmer on the Church_, vol. ii. pp. 313, 322, 323; _Parr's Works_, vol. i. pp. 657, 665, vol. vii. p. 128; _Whately's Dangers to Christian Faith_, p. 190; and _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. iii. p. 18. In January 1739-40, Warburton writes to Stukeley (_Nichols's Illustrations_, vol. ii. p. 53): 'But you know how dangerous new roads in theology are, by the clamour of the bigots against me.' See also some letters which passed between him and the elder Pitt in 1762, on the subject of expediency, printed in _Chatham Correspond._ vol. ii. pp. 184 seq. Warburton writes, p. 190, 'My opinion is, and ever was, that the state has nothing at all to do with errors in religion, nor the least right so much as to attempt to repress them.' To make such a man a bishop was a great feat for the eighteenth century, and would have been an impossible one for the seventeenth. [751] The relation between Cumberland and Hume consists in the entirely secular plan according to which both investigated ethics; in other respects, there is great difference between their conclusions; but if the anti-theological method is admitted to be sound, it is certain that the treatment of the subject by Hume is more consequential from the premisses, than is that by his predecessor. It is this which makes Hume a continuator of Cumberland; though with the advantage, not only of coming half a century after him, but of possessing a more comprehensive mind. The ethical speculations of Hume are in the third book of his _Treatise of Human Nature_ (_Hume's Philosophical Works_, Edin. 1826, vol. ii. pp. 219 seq.), and in his _Inquiry concerning the Principles of Morals_, ibid. vol. iv. pp. 237-365. [752] The moral system of Paley, being essentially utilitarian, completed the revolution in that field of inquiry; and as his work was drawn up with great ability, it exercised immense influence in an age already prepared for its reception. His _Moral and Political Philosophy_ was published in 1785; in 1786 it became a standard book at Cambridge; and by 1805 it had 'passed through fifteen editions.' _Meadley's Memoirs of Paley_, pp. 127, 145. Compare _Whewell's Hist. of Moral Philosophy_, p. 176. [753] That the writings of these two eminent men form part of the same scheme, is well known to those who have studied the history of the school to which they belong; and on the intellectual relation they bore to each other, I cannot do better than refer to a very striking letter by James Mill himself, in _Bentham's Works_, edit. Bowring, vol. x. pp. 481, 482. [754] The repeal of the Test Act, the admission of Catholics into Parliament, and the steadily increasing feeling in favour of the admission of the Jews, are the leading symptoms of this great movement. On the gradual diffusion among us of the doctrine of expediency, which, on all subjects not yet raised to sciences, ought to be the sole regulator of human actions, see a remarkable, but a mournful letter, written in 1812, in the _Life of Wilberforce_, vol. iv. p. 28. See also the speech of Lord Eldon in 1828, in _Twiss's Life of Eldon_, vol. ii. p. 203. Thus it was that, in England, theology was finally severed from the two great departments of ethics and of government. As, however, this important change was at first not of a practical, but solely of an intellectual character, its operation was, for many years, confined to a small class, and has not yet produced the whole of those results which we have every reason to anticipate. But there were other circumstances which tended in the same direction, and which, being known to all men of tolerable education, produced effects more immediate, though perhaps less permanent. To trace their details, and point out the connexion between them, will be the business of part of the future volumes of this work: at present, I can only glance at the leading features. Of these, the most prominent were: The great Arian controversy, which, rashly instigated by Whiston, Clarke, and Waterland, disseminated doubts among nearly all classes;[755] the Bangorian controversy, which, involving matters of ecclesiastical discipline hitherto untouched, led to discussions dangerous to the power of the church;[756] the great work of Blackburne on the Confessional, which at one moment almost caused a schism in the Establishment itself;[757] the celebrated dispute respecting miracles between Middleton, Church, and Dodwell, continued, with still larger views, by Hume, Campbell, and Douglas; [758] the exposure of the gross absurdities of the Fathers, which, already begun by Daillé and Barbeyrac, was followed up by Cave, Middleton, and Jortin; the important and unrefuted statements of Gibbon, in his fifteenth and sixteenth chapters; the additional strength conferred on those chapters by the lame attacks of Davis, Chelsum, Whitaker, and Watson;[759] while, not to mention inferior matters, the century was closed amid the confusion caused by that decisive controversy between Porson and Travis, respecting the text of the Heavenly Witnesses, which excited immense attention,[760] and was immediately accompanied by the discoveries of geologists, in which, not only was the fidelity of the Mosaic cosmogony impugned, but its accuracy was shown to be impossible.[761] These things, following each other in rapid and startling succession, perplexed the faith of men, disturbed their easy credulity, and produced effects on the public mind, which can only be estimated by those who have studied the history of that time in its original sources. Indeed, they cannot be understood, even in their general bearings, except by taking into consideration some other circumstances with which the great progress was intimately connected. [755] From a curious passage in _Hutton's Life of Himself_, p. 27, we learn that, in 1739, the scepticism of the Anti-Trinitarians had penetrated among the tradesmen at Nottingham. Compare, respecting the spread of this heresy, _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. viii. p. 375; _Priestley's Memoirs_, vol. i. pp. 25, 26, 53; _Doddridge's Correspond. and Diary_, vol. ii. p. 477, note; and on Peirce, who took an active part, and whom Whiston boasts of having corrupted, see _Whiston's Memoirs_, pp. 143, 144. Sharp, who was Archbishop of York when the controversy began, foresaw its dangerous consequences. _Life of Sharp_, edited by Newcome, vol. ii. pp. 7, 8, 135, 136. See further _Maclaine's note_ in _Mosheim's Ecclesiast. Hist._ vol. ii. pp. 293, 294; _Lathbury's Hist. of Convocation_, pp. 338, 342, 351; and a note in _Butler's Reminisc._ vol. i. pp. 206, 207. [756] Mr. Butler (_Mem. of the Catholics_, vol. iii. pp. 182-184, 347-350) notices with evident pleasure the effect of this famous controversy in weakening the Anglican Church. Compare _Bogue and Bennett's Hist. of the Dissenters_, vol. iii. pp. 135-141. Whiston (_Memoirs_, p. 244) says: 'And, indeed, this Bangorian controversy seemed for a great while to engross the attention of the public.' See more about it in _Lathbury's Hist. of Convocation_, pp. 372-383; _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. i. p. 152, vol. ix. pp. 433, 434, 516; _Nichols's Illustrations_, vol. i. p. 840; _Bishop Newton's Life of Himself_, pp. 177, 178. [757] _The Confessional_, a most able attack on the subscription of creeds and articles, was published in 1766; and, according to a contemporary observer, 'it excited a general spirit of inquiry.' _Cappe's Memoirs_, pp. 147, 148. The consequence was, that in 1772 a society was instituted by Blackburne and other clergy of the Church of England, with the avowed object of doing away with all subscriptions in religion. _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. i. p. 570; _Illustrations_, vol. vi. p. 854. A petition against the Articles was at once drawn up, signed by 200 clergy (_Adolphus's George III._ vol. i. p. 506), and brought before the House of Commons. In the animated debate which followed, Sir William Meredith said that 'the Thirty-nine Articles of the Church of England were framed when the spirit of free inquiry, when liberal and enlarged notions, were yet in their infancy.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvii. p. 246. He added, p. 247: 'Several of the Articles are absolutely unintelligible, and, indeed, contradictory and absurd.' Lord George Germain said: 'In my apprehension, some of the Articles are incomprehensible, and some self-contradictory;' p. 265. Mr. Sawbridge declared that the Articles are 'strikingly absurd;' Mr. Salter that they are 'too absurd to be defended;' and Mr. Dunning that they are 'palpably ridiculous,' p. 294. For further information on this attempt at reform, see _Disney's Life of Jebb_, pp. 31-36; _Meadley's Mem. of Paley_, pp. 88-94; _Hodgson's Life of Porteus_, pp. 38-40; _Memoirs of Priestley_, vol. ii. p. 582; and a characteristic notice in _Palmer's Treatise on the Church_, vol. i. pp. 270, 271. [758] Hume says, that on his return from Italy in 1749, he found 'all England in a ferment on account of Dr. Middleton's _Free Inquiry_.' _Hume's Life of Himself_, in his _Works_, vol. i. p. 7. See also, on the excitement caused by this masterly attack, _Nichols's Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. ii. p. 176; which should be compared with _Doddridge's Correspond._ vol. iv. pp. 536, 537: and on the 'miraculous controversy' in general, see _Porteus's Life of Secker_, 1797, p. 38; _Phillimore's Mem. of Lyttleton_, vol. i. p. 161; _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. ii. pp. 440, 527, vol. iii. pp. 535, 750, vol. v. pp. 417, 418, 600; _Hull's Letters_, 1778, vol. i. p. 109; _Warburton's Letters to Hurd_, pp. 49, 50. [759] _Gibbon's Decline and Fall_ has now been jealously scrutinized by two generations of eager and unscrupulous opponents; and I am only expressing the general opinion of competent judges when I say, that by each successive scrutiny it has gained fresh reputation. Against his celebrated fifteenth and sixteenth chapters, all the devices of controversy have been exhausted; but the only result has been, that while the fame of the historian is untarnished, the attacks of his enemies are falling into complete oblivion. The work of Gibbon remains; but who is there who feels any interest in what was written against him? [760] On the effect produced by these matchless letters of Porson, see _Harford's Life of Bishop Burgess_, p. 374; and as to the previous agitation of the question in England, see _Calamy's Own Life_, vol. ii. pp. 442, 443; _Monk's Life of Bentley_, vol. ii. pp. 16-19, 146, 286-289; _Butler's Reminiscences_, vol. i. p. 211. Compare _Somers Tracts_, vol. xii. p. 137, vol. xiii. p. 458. [761] The sceptical character of geology was first clearly exhibited during the last thirty years of the eighteenth century. Previously, the geologists had, for the most part, allied themselves with the theologians; but the increasing boldness of public opinion now enabled them to institute independent investigations, without regard to doctrines hitherto received. In this point of view, much was effected by the researches of Hutton, whose work, says Sir Charles Lyell, contains the first attempt 'to explain the former changes of the earth's crust by reference exclusively to natural agents.' _Lyell's Principles of Geology_, p. 50. To establish this method was, of course, to dissolve the alliance with the theologians; but an earlier symptom of the change was seen in 1773, that is, fifteen years before Hutton wrote: see a letter in _Watson's Life of Himself_, vol. i. p. 402, where it is stated that the 'freethinkers' attacked the 'Mosaic account of the world's age, especially since the publication of Mr. Brydone's _Travels Through Sicily and Malta_.' According to Lowndes (_Bibliographer's Manual_, vol. i. p. 279), Brydone's book was published in 1773; and in 1784 Sir William Jones notices the tendency of these inquiries: see his _Discourse on the Gods of Greece, Italy, and India_, in which he observes (_Works_, vol. i. p. 233) with regret, that he lived in 'an age when some intelligent and virtuous persons are inclined to doubt the authenticity of the accounts delivered by Moses concerning the primitive world.' Since then, the progress of geology has been so rapid, that the historical value of the writings of Moses is abandoned by all enlightened men, even among the clergy themselves. I need only refer to what has been said by two of the most eminent of that profession, Dr. Arnold and Mr. Baden Powell. See the observations of Arnold in _Newman's Phases of Faith_, p. 111 (compare pp. 122, 123); and the still more decisive remarks in _Powell's Sermons on Christianity without Judaism_, 1856, pp. 38, 39. For other instances, see _Lyell's Second Visit to the United States_, 1849, vol. i. pp. 219, 220. For, in the mean time, an immense change had begun, not only among speculative minds, but also among the people themselves. The increase of scepticism stimulated their curiosity; and the diffusion of education supplied the means of gratifying it. Hence, we find that one of the leading characteristics of the eighteenth century, and one which pre-eminently distinguished it from all that preceded, was a craving after knowledge on the part of those classes from whom knowledge had hitherto been shut out. It was in that great age, that there were first established schools for the lower orders on the only day they had time to attend them,[762] and newspapers on the only day they had time to read them.[763] It was then that there were first seen, in our country, circulating libraries;[764] and it was then, too, that the art of printing, instead of being almost confined to London, began to be generally practised in country-towns.[765] It was also in the eighteenth century, that the earliest systematic efforts were made to popularize the sciences, and facilitate the acquisition of their general principles, by writing treatises on them in an easy and untechnical style:[766] while, at the same time, the invention of Encyclopædias enabled their results to be brought together, and digested in a form more accessible than any hitherto employed.[767] Then, too, we first meet with literary periodical reviews; by means of which large bodies of practical men acquired information, scanty indeed, but every way superior to their former ignorance.[768] The formation of societies for purchasing books now became general;[769] and, before the close of the century, we hear of clubs instituted by reading men among the industrious classes.[770] In every department, the same eager curiosity was shown. In the middle of the eighteenth century, debating societies sprung up among tradesmen;[771] and this was followed by a still bolder innovation, for, in 1769, there was held the first public meeting ever assembled in England, the first in which it was attempted to enlighten Englishmen respecting their political rights.[772] About the same time, the proceedings in our courts of law began to be studied by the people, and communicated to them through the medium of the daily press.[773] Shortly before this, political newspapers arose,[774] and a sharp struggle broke out between them and the two Houses of Parliament touching the right of publishing the debates; the end of which was, that both houses, though aided by the crown, were totally defeated; and, for the first time, the people were able to study the proceedings of the national legislature, and thus gain some acquaintance with the national affairs.[775] Scarcely was this triumph completed, when fresh stimulus was given by the promulgation of that great political doctrine of personal representation,[776] which must eventually carry all before it; and the germ of which may be traced late in the seventeenth century, when the true idea of personal independence began to take root and flourish.[777] Finally, it was reserved for the eighteenth century to set the first example of calling on the people to adjudicate upon those solemn questions of religion in which hitherto they had never been consulted, although it is now universally admitted that to their growing intelligence these, and all other matters, must ultimately be referred.[778] [762] It is usually supposed that Sunday-schools were began by Raikes, in 1781; but, though he appears to have been the first to organize them on a suitable scale, there is no doubt that they were established by Lindsey, in or immediately after 1765. See _Cappe's Memoir's_, pp. 118, 122; _Harford's Life of Burgess_, p. 92; _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. iii. pp. 430, 431, vol. ix. p. 540; _Chalmers's Biog. Dict._ vol. xxv. p. 485; _Journ. of Stat. Soc._ vol. x. p. 196, v. xiii. p. 265; _Hodgson's Life of Porteus_, p. 92. It is said, in _Spencer's Social Statics_, p. 343, that the clergy of the Church of England were, as a body, opposed to the establishment of Sunday-schools. (Compare _Watson's Observations on Southey's Wesley_, p. 149.) At all events, they increased rapidly, and by the end of the century had become common. See _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. v. pp. 678, 679; _Nichols's Illustrations_, vol. i. p. 460; _Life of Wilberforce_, vol. i. p. 180, vol. ii. p. 296; _Wesley's Journals_, pp. 806, 897. [763] Mr. Hunt (_Hist. of Newspapers_, vol. i. p. 273) makes no mention of Sunday newspapers earlier than a notice by Crabbe in 1785; but in 1799, Lord Belgrave said, in the House of Commons, that they first appeared 'about the year 1780.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxiv. p. 1006. In 1799, Wilberforce tried to have a law enacted to suppress them. _Life of Wilberforce_, vol. ii. pp. 338, 424. [764] When Franklin came to London, in 1725, there was not a single circulating library in the metropolis. See _Franklin's Life of Himself_, vol. i. p. 64; and, in 1697, 'the only library in London which approached the nature of a public library was that of Sion College, belonging to the London clergy.' _Ellis's Letters of Literary Men_, p. 245. The exact date of the earliest circulating library I have not yet ascertained; but, according to Southey (_The Doctor_, edit. Warter, 1848, p. 271), the first set up in London was about the middle of the eighteenth century, by Samuel Fancourt. Hutton (_Life of Himself_, p. 279) says, 'I was the first who opened a circulating library in Birmingham, in 1751.' Other notices of them, during the latter half of the century, will be found in _Coleridge's Biographia Literaria_, vol. ii. p. 329, edit. 1847; _Leigh Hunt's Autobiography_, vol. i. p. 260; _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. iii. pp. 648, 682; _Nichols's Illustrations_, vol. i. p. 424; _Whewell's Hist. of Moral Philosophy_, p. 190; _Sinclair's Correspond._ vol. i. p. 143. Indeed, they increased so rapidly, that some wise men proposed to tax them, 'by a licence, at the rate of 2_s._ 6_d._ per 100 volumes per annum.' _Sinclair's Hist. of the Revenue_, vol. iii. p. 268. [765] In 1746, Gent, the well-known printer, wrote his own life. In this curious work, he states, that in 1714 there were 'few printers in England, except London, at that time; none then, I am sure, at Chester, Liverpool, Whitehaven, Preston, Manchester, Kendal, and Leeds, as for the most part now abound.' _Life of Thomas Gent_, pp. 20, 21. (Compare a list of country printing-houses, in 1724, in _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. i. p. 289.) How this state of things was remedied, is a most important inquiry for the historian; but in this note I can only give a few illustrations of the condition of different districts. The first printing-office in Rochester was established by Fisher, who died in 1786 (_Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. iii. p. 675); the first in Whitby, was in 1770 (_Illustrations_, vol. iii. p. 787); and Richard Greene, who died in 1793, 'was the first who brought a printing-press to Lichfield' (_Ibid._ vol. vi. p. 320). In the reign of Anne, there was not a single bookseller in Birmingham (_Southey's Commonplace Book_, 1st series, 1849, p. 568); but, in 1749, we find a printer established there (_Hull's Letters_, Lond. 1778, vol. i. p. 92); and, in 1774, there was a printer even in Falkirk (_Parl. Hist._ vol. xvii. p. 1099). In other parts the movement was slower; and we are told that, about 1780, 'there was scarcely a bookseller in Cornwall.' _Life of Samuel Drew, by his Son_, 1834, pp. 40, 41. [766] Desaguliers and Hill were the two first writers who gave themselves up to popularizing physical truths. At the beginning of the reign of George I. Desaguliers was 'the first who read lectures in London on experimental philosophy.' _Southey's Commonplace Book_, 3d series, 1850, p. 77. See also _Penny Cyclopædia_, vol. viii. p. 430; and, on his elementary works, compare _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. vi. p. 81. As to Hill, he is said to have set the example of publishing popular scientific works in numbers; a plan so well suited to that inquisitive age, that, if we believe Horace Walpole, he 'earned fifteen guineas a week.' _Letter to Henry Zouch_, January 3rd, 1761, in _Walpole's Letters_, vol. iv. p. 117, edit. 1840. In the latter half of the eighteenth century, the demand for books on the natural sciences rapidly increased (see, among many other instances which might be quoted, a note in _Pulteney's Hist. of Botany_, vol. ii. p. 180); and, early in the reign of George III., Priestley began to write popularly on physical subjects. (_Memoirs of Priestley_, vol. i. pp. 288, 289.) Goldsmith did something in the same direction (_Prior's Life of Goldsmith_, vol. i. pp. 414, 469, vol. ii. p. 198); and Pennant, whose earliest work appeared in 1766, was 'the first who treated the natural history of Britain in a popular and interesting style.' _Swainson on the Study of Natural History_, p. 50. In the reign of George II., publishers began to encourage elementary works on chemistry. _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. ix. p. 763. [767] In 1704, 1708, and 1710, Harris published his _Dictionary of Arts and Sciences_; and from this, according to _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. ix. pp. 770, 771, has 'originated all the other dictionaries and cyclopædias that have since appeared.' Compare vol. v. p. 659; and _Bogue and Bennett's Hist. of the Dissenters_, vol. iv. p. 500. [768] Late in the seventeenth century, an attempt was first made in England to establish literary journals. _Hallam's Lit. of Europe_, vol. iii. p. 539; and _Dibdin's Bibliomania_, 1842, p. 16. But reviews, as we now understand the word, meaning a critical publication, were unknown before the accession of George II.; but, about the middle of his reign, they began to increase. Compare _Wright's England under the House of Hanover_, 1848, vol. i. p. 304, with _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. iii. pp. 507, 508. At an earlier period, the functions of reviews were performed, as Monk says, by pamphlets. _Monk's Life of Bentley_, vol. i. p. 112. [769] As we find from many casual notices of book clubs and book societies. See, for example, _Doddridge's Correspond._ vol. ii. pp. 57, 119; _Jesse's Life of Selwyn_, vol. ii. p. 23; _Nichols's Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. v. pp. 184, 824, 825; _Wakefield's Life of Himself_, vol. i. p. 528; _Memoirs of Sir J. E. Smith_, vol. i. p. 8; _Life of Roscoe, by his Son_, vol. i. p. 228 (though this last was perhaps a circulating library). [770] 'Numerous associations or clubs, composed principally of reading men of the lower ranks.' _Life of Dr. Currie, by his Son_, vol. i. p. 175. [771] Of which the most remarkable was that called the Robin-Hood Society; respecting which the reader should compare _Campbell's Lives of the Chancellors_, vol. vi. p. 373; _Grosley's London_, vol. i. p. 150; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvii. p. 301; _Southey's Commonplace Book_, 4th series, p. 339; _Forster's Life of Goldsmith_, vol. i. p. 310; _Prior's Life of Goldsmith_, vol. i. pp. 419, 420; _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 75; _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. iii. p. 154. [772] 'From the summer of 1769 is to be dated the first establishment of public meetings in England.' _Albemarle's Mem. of Rockingham_, vol. ii. p. 93. 'Public meetings, ... through which the people might declare their newly-acquired consciousness of power, ... cannot be distinctly traced higher than the year 1769; but they were now (_i.e._ in 1770) of daily occurrence.' _Cooke's Hist. of Party_, vol. iii. p. 187. See also _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 420. [773] The most interesting trials were first noticed in newspapers towards the end of the reign of George II. _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. v. p. 52, vol. vi. p. 54. [774] In 1696, the only newspapers were weekly; and the first daily paper appeared in the reign of Anne. Compare _Simmonds's Essay on Newspapers_, in _Journal of Statist. Society_, vol. iv. p. 113, with _Hunt's Hist. of Newspapers_, vol. i. pp. 167, 175, vol. ii. p. 90; and _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. iv. p. 80. In 1710, they, instead of merely communicating news, as heretofore, began to take part in 'the discussion of political topics' (_Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 443); and, as this change had been preceded a very few years by the introduction of cheap political pamphlets (see a curious passage in _Wilson's Life of De Foe_, vol. ii. p. 29), it became evident that a great movement was at hand in regard to the diffusion of such inquiries. Within twenty years after the death of Anne, the revolution was completed; and the press, for the first time in the history of the world, was made an exponent of public opinion. The earliest notice of this new power which I have met in parliament, is in a speech delivered by Danvers, in 1738; which is worth quoting, both because it marks an epoch, and because it is characteristic of that troublesome class to which the man belonged. 'But I believe,' says this distinguished legislator,--'but I believe the people of Great Britain are governed by a power that never was heard of, as a supreme authority, in any age or country before. This power, sir, does not consist in the absolute will of the prince, in the direction of parliament, in the strength of an army, in the influence of the clergy, neither, sir, is it a petticoat government: but, sir, it is the government of the press. The stuff which our weekly newspapers are filled with, is received with greater reverence than acts of parliament; and the sentiments of one of these scribblers have more weight with the multitude than the opinion of the best politician in the kingdom.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. x. p. 448. [775] This great contest was brought to a close in 1771 and 1772; when, as Lord Campbell says, 'the right of publishing parliamentary debates was substantially established.' _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. v. p. 511, vol. vi. p. 90. For further information respecting this important victory, see _Cooke's Hist. of Party_, vol. iii. pp. 179-184; _Almon's Correspond. of Wilkes_, 1805, vol. v. p. 63; _Stephens's Mem. of Tooke_, vol. i. pp. 329-351; _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. v. p. 290; and, on its connexion with _Junius's Letters_, see _Forster's Life of Goldsmith_, vol. ii. pp. 183, 184. George III., always consistent and always wrong, strenuously opposed this extension of the popular rights. In 1771, he wrote to Lord North: 'It is highly necessary that this strange and lawless method of publishing debates in the papers should be put a stop to. But is not the House of Lords the best court to bring such miscreants before; as it can fine, as well as imprison, and has broader shoulders to support the odium of so salutary a measure?' _App. to Mahon_, vol. v. p. xlviii.; and _note_ in _Walpole's George III._ vol. iv. p. 280, where the words, 'in the papers,' are omitted; but I copy the letter, as printed by Lord Mahon. In other respects, both versions are the same; so that we now know the idea George III. had of what constituted a miscreant. [776] Lord John Russell, in his work on the _History of the English Constitution_, says: 'Dr. Jebb, and after him Mr. Cartwright, broached the theory of personal representation;' but this appears to be a mistake, since the theory is said to have been first put forward by Cartwright, in 1776. Compare _Russell on the Constitution_, 1821, pp. 240, 241, with _Life and Corresp. of Cartwright_, 1826, vol. i. pp. 91, 92. A letter in the _Life of Dr. Currie_, vol. ii. pp. 307-314, shows the interest which even sober and practical men were beginning to feel in the doctrine before the end of the century. [777] On this I have a philological remark of some interest,--namely, that there is reason to believe that 'the word "independence," in its modern acceptation,' does not occur in our language before the early part of the eighteenth century. See _Hare's Guesses at Truth_, 2nd series, 1848, p. 262. A similar change, though at a later period, took place in France. See the observations on the word 'individualisme,' in _Tocqueville_, _Démocratie en Amérique_, vol. iv. p. 156; and in the later work, by the same author, _L'Ancien Régime_, Paris, 1856, pp. 148, 149. [778] Archbishop Whately (_Dangers to Christian Faith_, pp. 76, 77) says: 'Neither the attacks on our religion, nor the evidences in its support, were, to any great extent, brought forward in a popular form, till near the close of the last century. On both sides, the learned (or those who professed to be such) seem to have agreed in this,--that the mass of the people were to acquiesce in the decision of their superiors, and neither should, nor could, exercise their own minds on the question.' This is well put, and quite true; and should be compared with the complaint in _Wakefield's Life of Himself_, vol. ii. p. 21; _Nichols's Lit. Anec. of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. viii. p. 144; and _Hodgson's Life of Bishop Porteus_, pp. 73, 74, 122, 125, 126. See also a speech by Mansfield, in 1781 (_Parl. Hist._ vol. xxii. p. 265), when an attempt was made to put down the 'Theological Society.' The whole debate is worth reading; not on account of its merits, but because it supplies evidence of the prevailing spirit. In connexion with all this, there was a corresponding change in the very form and make of our literature. The harsh and pedantic method, which our great writers had long been accustomed to employ, was ill suited to an impetuous and inquisitive generation, thirsting after knowledge, and therefore intolerant of obscurities formerly unheeded. Hence it was that, early in the eighteenth century, the powerful, but cumbrous, language, and the long, involved sentences, so natural to our ancient authors, were, notwithstanding their beauty, suddenly discarded, and were succeeded by a lighter and simpler style, which, being more rapidly understood, was better suited to the exigencies of the age.[779] [779] Coleridge (_Lit. Remains_, vol. i. pp. 230 seq.) has made some interesting remarks on the vicissitudes of English style; and he justly observes, p. 238, that, 'after the Revolution, the spirit of the nation became much more commercial than it had been before; a learned body, or clerisy, as such, gradually disappeared; and literature in general began to be addressed to the common, miscellaneous public.' He goes on to lament this change; though, in that, I disagree with him. See also _The Friend_, vol. i. p. 19, where he contrasts the modern style with 'the stately march and difficult evolutions' of the great writers of the seventeenth century. Compare, on this alteration, the preface to Nader Shah, in _Works of Sir W. Jones_, vol. v. p. 544. See also, in _Harford's Life of Burgess_, pp. 40, 41, a curious letter from Monboddo, the last of our really great pedants, mourning over this characteristic of modern composition. He terms it contemptuously a 'short cut of a style;' and wishes to return to 'the true ancient taste,' with plenty of 'parentheses!' The truth is, that this movement was merely part of that tendency to approximate the different classes of society which was first clearly seen in the eighteenth century, and which influenced not only the style of author, but also their social habits. Hume observes that, in the 'last age,' learned men had separated themselves too much from the world; but that, in his time, they were becoming more 'conversible.' _Essay V._, in _Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. iv. pp. 539, 540. That 'philosophers' were growing men of the world, is also noticed in a curious passage in _Alciphron_, dial. i., in _Berkeley's Works_, vol. i. p. 312; and, respecting the general social amalgamation, see a letter to the Countess of Bute, in 1753, in _Works of Lady Mary Montagu_, edit. 1803, vol. iv. pp. 194, 195. As to the influence of Addison, who led the way in establishing the easy, and therefore democratic, style, and who, more than any single writer, made literature popular, compare _Aikin's Life of Addison_, vol. ii. p. 65, with _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 7. Subsequently a reaction was attempted by Johnson, Gibbon, and Parr; but this, being contrary to the spirit of the age, was short-lived. The extension of knowledge being thus accompanied by an increased simplicity in the manner of its communication, naturally gave rise to a greater independence in literary men, and a greater boldness in literary inquiries. As long as books, either from the difficulty of their style, or from the general incuriosity of the people, found but few readers, it was evident that authors must rely upon the patronage of public bodies, or of rich and titled individuals. And, as men are always inclined to flatter those upon whom they are dependent, it too often happened that even our greatest writers prostituted their abilities by fawning upon the prejudices of their patrons. The consequence was that literature, so far from disturbing ancient superstitions, and stirring up the mind to new inquiries, frequently assumed a timid and subservient air, natural to its subordinate position. But now all this was changed. Those servile and shameful dedications;[780] that mean and crouching spirit; that incessant homage to mere rank and birth; that constant confusion between power and right; that ignorant admiration for everything which is old, and that still more ignorant contempt for everything which, is new:--all these features became gradually fainter: and authors, relying upon the patronage of the people, began to advocate the claims of their new allies with a boldness upon which they could not have ventured in any previous age.[781] [780] And the servility was, for the most part, well paid; indeed, rewarded far more than it was worth. During the sixteenth, seventeenth, and early part of the eighteenth century, a sum of money was invariably presented to the author in return for his dedication. Of course, the grosser the flattery, the larger the sum. On the relation thus established between authors and men of rank, and on the eagerness with which even eminent writers looked to their patrons for gratuities, varying from 40_s._ to 100_l._, see _Drake's Shakespeare and his Times_, 1817, 4to. vol. ii. p. 225; _Monk's Life of Bentley_, vol. i. pp. 194, 309; _Whiston's Memoirs_, p. 203; _Nichols's Illustrations_, vol. ii. p. 709; _Harris's Life of Hardwicke_, vol. iii. p. 35; _Bunbury's Life of Hanmer_, p. 81. Compare a note in _Burton's Diary_, vol. iii. p. 52; and as to the importance of fixing on a proper person to whom to dedicate, see _Ellis's Letters Lit. Men_, pp. 231-234; and the matter-of-fact remark in _Bishop Newton's Life_, p. 14; also, _Hughes's Letters_, edit. 1773, vol. iii. p. xxxi. appendix. About the middle of the eighteenth century was the turning-point of this deplorable condition; and Watson, for instance, in 1769, laid it down as a rule, 'never to dedicate to those from whom I expected favours.' _Watson's Life of Himself_, vol. i. p. 54. So, too, Warburton, in 1758, boasts that his dedication was not, as usual, 'occupied by trifles or falsehoods.' See his letter, in _Chatham Correspond._ vol. i. p. 315. Nearly at the same period, the same change was effected in France, where D'Alembert set the example of ridiculing the old custom. See _Brougham's Men of Letters_, vol. ii. pp. 439, 440; _Correspond. de Madame Dudeffand_, vol. ii. p. 148; and _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xl. p. 41, vol. lxi. p. 285. [781] When Le Blanc visited England, in the middle of the reign of George II., the custom of authors relying upon the patronage of individuals was beginning to die away, and the plan of publishing by subscription had become general. See the interesting details in _Le Blanc_, _Lettres d'un Français_, vol. i. pp. 305-308; and for the former state of things, see vol. ii. pp. 148-153. Burke, who came to London in 1750, observes, with surprise, that 'writers of the first talents are left to the capricious patronage of the public. Notwithstanding discouragement, literature is cultivated to a high degree.' _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 21. This increasing independence also appears from the fact that, in 1762, we find the first instance of a popular writer attacking public men by name; authors having previously confined themselves 'to the initials only of the great men whom they assailed.' _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. v. p. 19. The feud between literature and rank may be further illustrated by an entry in Holcroft's Diary for 1798, _Mem. of Holcroft_, vol. iii. p. 28. From all these things there resulted consequences of vast importance. From this simplification, independence, and diffusion[782] of knowledge, it necessarily happened, that the issue of those great disputes to which I have alluded became, in the eighteenth century, more generally known than would have been possible in any preceding century. It was now known that theological and political questions were being constantly agitated, in which genius and learning were on one side, and orthodoxy and tradition on the other. It became known that the points which were mooted were not only as to the credibility of particular facts, but also as to the truth of general principles, with which the interests and happiness of Man were intimately concerned. Disputes which had hitherto been confined to a very small part of society began to spread far and wide, and suggest doubts that served as materials for national thought. The consequence was, that the spirit of inquiry became every year more active, and more general; the desire for reform constantly increased; and if affairs had been allowed to run on in their natural course, the eighteenth century could not have passed away without decisive and salutary changes both in the church and the state. But soon after the middle of this period, there unfortunately arose a series of political combinations which disturbed the march of events, and eventually produced a crisis so full of danger, that, among any other people, it would certainly have ended either in a loss of liberty or in a dissolution of government. This disastrous reaction, from the effects of which England has, perhaps, barely recovered, has never been studied with anything like the care its importance demands; indeed, it is so little understood, that no historian has traced the opposition between it and that great intellectual movement of which I have just sketched an outline. On this account, as also with the view of giving more completeness to the present chapter, I intend to examine its most important epochs, and point out, so far as I am able, the way in which they are connected with each other. According to the scheme of this Introduction, such an inquiry must, of course, be very cursory, as its sole object is to lay a foundation for those general principles, without which history is a mere assemblage of empirical observations, unconnected, and therefore unimportant. It must likewise be remembered, that as the circumstances about to be considered were not social, but political, we are the more liable to err in our conclusions respecting them; and this partly because the materials for the history of a people are more extensive, more indirect, and therefore less liable to be garbled, than are those for the history of a government; and partly because the conduct of small bodies of men, such as ministers and kings, is always more capricious, that is to say, less regulated by known laws, than is the conduct of those large bodies collectively called society, or a nation.[783] With this precautionary remark, I will now endeavour to trace what, in a mere political point of view, is the reactionary and retrogressive period of English history. [782] In England, the marked increase in the number of books took place during the latter half of the eighteenth century, and particularly after 1756. See some valuable evidence in _Journal of the Statistical Society_, vol. iii. pp. 383, 384. To this I may add, that between 1753 and 1792, the circulation of newspapers was more than doubled. _Hunt's Hist. of Newspapers_, vol. i. p. 252. [783] The apparent caprice and irregularity in small numbers arise from the perturbations produced by the operation of minor and usually unknown laws. In large numbers, these perturbations have a tendency to balance each other; and this I take to be the sole foundation of the accuracy obtained by striking an average. If we could refer all phenomena to their laws, we should never use averages. Of course, the expression _capricious_ is, strictly speaking, inaccurate, and is merely a measure of our ignorance. It must be considered as a most fortunate circumstance, that after the death of Anne,[784] the throne should be occupied for nearly fifty years by two princes, aliens in manners and in country, of whom one spoke our language but indifferently, and the other knew it not at all.[785] The immediate predecessors of George III. were, indeed, of so sluggish a disposition, and were so profoundly ignorant of the people they undertook to govern,[786] that, notwithstanding their arbitrary temper, there was no danger of their organizing a party to extend the boundaries of the royal prerogative.[787] And as they were foreigners, they never had sufficient sympathy with the English church to induce them to aid the clergy in their natural desire to recover their former power.[788] Besides this, the fractious and disloyal conduct of many of the hierarchy must have tended to alienate the regard of the sovereign, as it had already cost them the affection of the people.[789] [784] The temporary political reaction under Anne is well related by Lord Cowper, in his _Hist. of Parties_, printed in appendix to _Campbell's Lives of the Chancellors_, vol. iv. p. 411, 412. This able work of Lord Campbell's, though rather inaccurate for the earlier period, is particularly valuable for the history of the eighteenth century. [785] See _Reminiscences of the Courts of George I. and George II. by Horace Walpole_, pp. lv. xciv.; and _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. i. pp. 100, 235. The fault of George II. was in his bad pronunciation of English; but George I. was not even able to pronounce it badly, and could only converse with his minister, Sir Robert Walpole, in Latin. The French court saw this state of things with great pleasure; and in December 1714, Madame de Maintenon wrote to the Princess des Ursins (_Lettres inédites de Maintenon_, vol. iii. p. 157): 'On dit que le nouveau roi d'Angleterre se dégoûte de ses sujets, et que ses sujets sont dégoûtés de lui. Dieu veuille remettre le tout en meilleur ordre!' On the effect this produced on the language spoken at the English court, compare _Le Blanc_, _Lettres d'un Français_, vol. i. p. 159. [786] In 1715, Leslie writes respecting George I., that he is 'a stranger to you, and altogether ignorant of your language, your laws, customs, and constitution.' _Somers Tracts_, vol. xiii. p. 703. [787] Great light has been thrown upon the character of George II. by the recent publication of _Lord Hervey's Memoirs_; a curious work, which fully confirms what we know from other sources respecting the king's ignorance of English politics. Indeed, that prince cared for nothing but soldiers and women; and his highest ambition was to combine the reputation of a great general with that of a successful libertine. Besides the testimony of Lord Hervey, it is certain, from other authorities, that George II. was despised as well as disliked, and was spoken of contemptuously by observers of his character, and even by his own ministers. See the _Marchmont Papers_, vol. i. pp. 29, 181, 187. In reference to the decline of the royal authority, it is important to observe, that since the accession of George I. none of our sovereigns have been allowed to be present at state deliberations. See _Bancroft's American Revolution_, vol. ii. p. 47, and _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. iii. p. 191. [788] See the remarks said to be written by Bishop Atterbury, in _Somers Tracts_, vol. xiii. p. 534, contrasting the affection Anne felt for the church with the coldness of George I. The whole of the pamphlet (pp. 521-541) ought to be read. It affords a curious picture of a baffled churchman. [789] The ill-feeling which the Church of England generally bore against the government of the two first Georges was openly displayed, and was so pertinaceous as to form a leading fact in the history of England. In 1722, Bishop Atterbury was arrested, because he was known to be engaged in a treasonable conspiracy with the Pretender. As soon as he was seized, the church offered up prayers for him. 'Under the pretence,' says Lord Mahon,--'under the pretence of his being afflicted with the gout, he was publicly prayed for in most of the churches of London and Westminster.' _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 38. See also _Parl. Hist._ vol. vii. p. 988, and vol. viii. p. 347. At Oxford, where the clergy have long been in the ascendant, they made such efforts to instill their principles as to call down the indignation of the elder Pitt, who, in a speech in Parliament in 1754, denounced that university, which he said had for many years 'been raising a succession of treason--there never was such a seminary!' _Walpole's Mem. of George II._ vol. i. p. 413. Compare the _Bedford Correspondence_, vol. i. pp. 594, 595, with _Harris's Life of Hardwicke_, vol. ii. p. 383; and on the temper of the clergy generally after the death of Anne, _Parl. Hist._ vol. vii. pp. 541, 542; _Bowles's Life of Ken_, vol. ii. pp. 188, 189; _Monk's Life of Bentley_, vol. i. pp. 370, 426. The immediate consequence of this was very remarkable. For the government and the dissenters, being both opposed by the church, naturally combined together: the dissenters using all their influence against the Pretender, and the government protecting them against ecclesiastical prosecutions. See evidence of this in _Doddridge's Correspond. and Diary_, vol. i. p. 30, vol. ii. p. 321, vol. iii. pp. 110, 125, vol. iv. pp. 428, 436, 437; _Hutton's Life of Himself_, pp. 159, 160; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxviii. pp. 11, 393, vol. xxix. pp. 1434, 1463; _Memoirs of Priestley_, vol. ii. p. 506; _Life of Wakefield_, vol. i. p. 220. These circumstances, though in themselves they may be considered trifling, were in reality of great importance, because they secured to the nation the progress of that spirit of inquiry, which, if there had been a coalition between the crown and the church, it would have been attempted to stifle. Even as it was, some attempts were occasionally made; but they were comparatively speaking rare, and they lacked the vigour which they would have possessed, if there had been an intimate alliance between the temporal and spiritual authorities. Indeed, the state of affairs was so favourable, that the old Tory faction, pressed by the people and abandoned by the crown, was unable for more than forty years to take any share in the government.[790] At the same time, considerable progress, as we shall hereafter see, was made in legislation; and our statute-book, during that period, contains ample evidence of the decline of the powerful party by which England had once been entirely ruled. [790] 'The year 1762 forms an era in the history of the two factions, since it witnessed the destruction of that monopoly of honours and emoluments which the Whigs had held for forty-five years.' _Cooke's Hist. of Party_, vol. ii. p. 406. Compare _Albemarle's Memoirs of Rockingham_, vol. ii. p. 92. Lord Bolingbroke clearly foresaw what would happen in consequence of the accession of George I. Immediately after the death of Anne, he wrote to the Bishop of Rochester: 'But the grief of my soul is this, I see plainly that the Tory party is gone.' _Macpherson's Original Papers_, vol. ii. p. 651. But by the death of George II. the political aspect was suddenly changed, and the wishes of the sovereign became once more antagonistic to the interests of the people. What made this the more dangerous was, that, to a superficial observer, the accession of George III. was one of the most fortunate events that could have occurred. The new king was born in England, spoke English as his mother tongue,[791] and was said to look upon Hanover as a foreign country, whose interests were to be considered of subordinate importance.[792] At the same time, the last hopes of the House of Stuart were now destroyed;[793] the Pretender himself was languishing in Italy, where he shortly after died; and his son, a slave to vices which seemed hereditary in that family, was consuming his life in an unpitied and ignominious obscurity.[794] [791] Grosley, who visited England only five years after the accession of George III., mentions the great effect produced upon the English when they heard the king pronounce their language without 'a foreign accent.' _Grosley's Tour to London_, vol. ii. p. 106. It is well known that the king, in his first speech, boasted of being a Briton; but what is, perhaps, less generally known is, that the honour was on the side of the country: 'What a lustre,' said the House of Lords in their address to him,--'what a lustre does it cast upon the name of Briton when you, sir, are pleased to esteem it amongst your glories!' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xv. p. 986. [792] _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxix. p. 955; _Walpole's Mem. of George III._ vol. i. pp. 4, 110. [793] The accession of George III. is generally fixed on as the period when English Jacobinism became extinct. See _Butler's Reminiscences_, vol. ii. p. 92. At the first court held by the new king, it was observed, says Horace Walpole, that 'the Earl of Litchfield, Sir Walter Bagot, and the principal Jacobites went to court.' _Walpole's Mem. of George III._ vol. i. p. 14. Only three years earlier the Jacobites had been active; and in 1757, Rigby writes to the Duke of Bedford: 'Fox's election at Windsor is very doubtful. There is a Jacobite subscription of 5,000_l._ raised against him, with Sir James Dashwood's name at the head of it.' _Bedford Correspond._ vol. ii. p. 261. [794] Charles Stuart was so stupidly ignorant, that at the age of twenty-five he could hardly write, and was altogether unable to spell. _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. iii. pp. 165, 166, and appendix, p. ix. After the death of his father, in 1766, this abject creature, who called himself king of England, went to Rome, and took to drinking. _Ibid._ vol. iii. pp. 351-353. In 1779, Swinburne saw him at Florence, where he used to appear every night at the opera, perfectly drunk. _Swinburne's Courts of Europe_, vol. i. pp. 253-255; and in 1787, only the year before he died, he continued the same degrading practice. See a letter from Sir J. E. Smith, written from Naples in March 1787, in _Smith's Correspond._ vol. i. p. 208. Another letter, written as early as 1761 (_Grenville Papers_, vol. i. p. 366), describes 'the young Pretender always drunk.' And yet these circumstances, which appeared so favourable, did of necessity involve the most disastrous consequences. The fear of a disputed succession being removed, the sovereign was emboldened to a course on which he otherwise would not have ventured.[795] All those monstrous doctrines respecting the rights of kings, which the Revolution was supposed to have destroyed, were suddenly revived.[796] The clergy, abandoning the now hopeless cause of the Pretender, displayed the same zeal for the House of Hanover which they had formerly displayed for the House of Stuart. The pulpits resounded with praises of the new king, of his domestic virtues, of his piety, but above all of his dutiful attachment to the English church. The result was, the establishment of an alliance between the two parties more intimate than any that had been seen in England since the time of Charles I.[797] Under their auspices, the old Tory faction rapidly rallied, and were soon able to dispossess their rivals of the management of the government. This reactionary movement was greatly aided by the personal character of George III.; for he, being despotic as well as superstitious, was equally anxious to extend the prerogative, and strengthen the church. Every liberal sentiment, everything approaching to reform, nay, even the mere mention of inquiry, was an abomination in the eyes of that narrow and ignorant prince. Without knowledge, without taste, without even a glimpse of one of the sciences, or a feeling for one of the fine arts, education had done nothing to enlarge a mind which nature had more than usually contracted.[798] Totally ignorant of the history and resources of foreign countries, and barely knowing their geographical position, his information was scarcely more extensive respecting the people over whom he was called to rule. In that immense mass of evidence now extant, and which consists of every description of private correspondence, records of private conversation and of public acts, there is not to be found the slightest proof that he knew any one of those numerous things which the governor of a country ought to know; or, indeed, that he was acquainted with a single duty of his position, except that mere mechanical routine of ordinary business, which might have been effected by the lowest clerk in the meanest office in his kingdom. [795] On the connexion between the decline of the Stuart interest and the increased power of the crown under George III., compare _Thoughts on the Present Discontents_, in _Burke's Works_, vol. i. pp. 127, 128, with _Watson's Life of Himself_, vol. i. p. 136; and for an intimation that this result was expected, see _Grosley's London_, vol. ii. p. 252. [796] _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. v. p. 245: 'The divine indefeasible right of kings became the favourite theme--in total forgetfulness of its incompatibility with the parliamentary title of the reigning monarch.' Horace Walpole (_Mem. of George III._ vol. i. p. 16) says, that in 1760 'prerogative became a fashionable word.' [797] The respect George III. always displayed for church-ceremonies formed of itself a marked contrast with the indifference of his immediate predecessors; and the change was gratefully noticed. Compare _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. v. pp. 54, 55, with the extract from Archbishop Secker, in _Bancroft's American Revolution_, vol. i. p. 440. For other evidence of the admiration both parties felt and openly expressed for each other, see an address from the bishop and clergy of St. Asaph (_Parr's Works_, vol. vii. p. 352), and a letter from the king to Pitt (_Russell's Memorials of Fox_, vol. iii. p. 251), which should be compared with _Priestley's Memoirs_, vol. i. pp. 137, 138. [798] The education of George III. had been shamefully neglected; and when he arrived at manhood he never attempted to repair its deficiencies, but remained during his long life in a state of pitiable ignorance. Compare _Brougham's Statesmen_, vol. i. pp. 13-15; _Walpole's Mem. of George III._ vol. i. p. 55; _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. iv. pp. 54, 207. The course of proceeding which such a king as this was likely to follow could be easily foreseen. He gathered round his throne that great party, who, clinging to the tradition of the past, have always made it their boast to check the progress of their age. During the sixty years of his reign, he, with the sole exception of Pitt, never willingly admitted to his councils a single man of great ability;[799] not one whose name is associated with any measure of value either in domestic or in foreign policy. Even Pitt only maintained his position in the state by forgetting the lessons of his illustrious father, and abandoning those liberal principles in which he had been educated, and with which he entered public life. Because George III. hated the idea of reform, Pitt not only relinquished what he had before declared to be absolutely necessary,[800] but did not hesitate to persecute to the death the party with whom he had once associated in order to obtain it.[801] Because George III. looked upon slavery as one of those good old customs which the wisdom of his ancestors had consecrated, Pitt did not dare to use his power for procuring its abolition, but left to his successors the glory of destroying that infamous trade, on the preservation of which his royal master had set his heart.[802] Because George III. detested the French, of whom he knew as much as he knew of the inhabitants of Kamtchatka or of Tibet, Pitt, contrary to his own judgment, engaged in a war with France by which England was seriously imperilled, and the English people burdened with a debt that their remotest posterity will be unable to pay.[803] But, notwithstanding all this, when Pitt, only a few years before his death, showed a determination to concede to the Irish some small share of their undoubted rights, the king dismissed him from office; and the king's friends, as they were called,[804] expressed their indignation at the presumption of a minister who could oppose the wishes of so benign and gracious a master.[805] And when, unhappily for his own fame, this great man determined to return to power, he could only recover office by conceding that very point for which he had relinquished it; thus setting the mischievous example of the minister of a free country sacrificing his own judgment to the personal prejudices of the reigning sovereign. [799] See some good remarks by Lord John Russell in his Introduction to the _Bedford Correspondence_, vol. iii. p. lxii. [800] In a motion for reform in Parliament in 1782, he declared that it was 'essentially necessary.' See his speech, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxii. p. 1418. In 1784 he mentioned 'the necessity of a parliamentary reform,' vol. xxiv. p. 349; see also pp. 998, 999. Compare _Disney's Life of Jebb_, p. 209. Nor is it true, as some have said, that he afterwards abandoned the cause of reform because the times were unfavourable to it. On the contrary, he, in a speech delivered in 1800, said (_Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxv. p. 47): 'Upon this subject, sir, I think it right to state the inmost thoughts of my mind; I think it right to declare my most decided opinion, that, _even if the times were proper for experiments, any, even the slightest, change in such a constitution must be considered as an evil_.' It is remarkable that, even as early as 1783, Paley appears to have suspected the sincerity of Pitt's professions in favour of reform. See _Meadley's Memoirs of Paley_, p. 121. [801] In 1794 Grey taunted him with this in the House of Commons: 'William Pitt, the reformer of that day, was William Pitt, the prosecutor, ay and persecutor too, of reformers now.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxi. p. 532; compare vol. xxxiii. p. 659. So, too, Lord Campbell (_Chief-Justices_, vol. ii. p. 544): 'He afterwards tried to hang a few of his brother reformers who continued steady in the cause.' See further, on this damning fact in the career of Pitt, _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. vii. p. 105; _Brougham's Statesmen_, vol. ii. p. 21; _Belsham's History_, vol. ix. pp. 79, 242; _Life of Cartwright_, vol. i. p. 198; and even a letter from the mild and benevolent Roscoe, in _Life of Roscoe, by his Son_, vol. i. p. 113. [802] Such was the king's zeal in favour of the slave-trade, that in 1770 'he issued an instruction under his own hand commanding the governor (of Virginia), upon pain of the highest displeasure, to assent to no law by which the importation of slaves should be in any respect prohibited or obstructed.' _Bancroft's American Revolution_, vol. iii. p. 456: so that, as Mr. Bancroft indignantly observes, p. 469, while the courts of law had decided 'that as soon as any slave set his foot on English ground he becomes free, the king of England stood in the path of humanity, and made himself the pillar of the colonial slave-trade.' The shuffling conduct of Pitt in this matter makes it hard for any honest man to forgive him. Compare _Brougham's Statesmen_, vol. ii. pp. 14, 103-105; _Russell's Mem. of Fox_, vol. iii. pp. 131, 278, 279; _Belsham's Hist. of Great Britain_, vol. x. pp. 34, 35; _Life of Wakefield_, vol. i. p. 197; _Porter's Progress of the Nation_, vol. iii. p. 426; _Holland's Mem. of the Whig Party_, vol. ii. p. 157; and the striking remarks of Francis, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxii. p. 949. [803] That Pitt wished to remain at peace, and was hurried into the war with France by the influence of the court, is admitted by the best-informed writers, men in other respects of different opinions. See, for instance, _Brougham's Statesmen_, vol. ii. p. 9; _Rogers's Introduction to Burke's Works_, p. lxxxiv.; _Nicholls's Recollections_, vol. ii. pp. 155, 200. [804] The mere existence of such a party, with such a name, shows how, in a political point of view, England was receding during this period from the maxims established at the Revolution. Respecting this active faction, compare the indignant remarks of Burke (_Works_, vol. i. p. 133) with _Albemarle's Rockingham_, vol. i. pp. 5, 307; _Buckingham's Mem. of George III._ vol. i. p. 284, vol. ii. p. 154; _Russell's Mem. of Fox_, vol. i. pp. 61, 120, vol. ii. pp. 50, 77; _Bedford Correspond._ vol. iii. p. xlv.; _Parr's Works_, vol. viii. p. 513; _Butler's Reminiscences_, vol. i. p. 74; _Burke's Correspond._ vol. i. p. 352; _Walpole's George III._ vol. iv. p. 315; _The Grenville Papers_, vol. ii. pp. 33, 34, vol. iii. p. 57, vol. iv. p. 79, 152, 219, 303; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvi. pp. 841, 973, vol. xviii. pp. 1005, 1246, vol. xix. pp. 435, 856, vol. xxii. pp. 650, 1173. [805] See an extraordinary passage in _Pellew's Life of Sidmouth_, vol. i. p. 334. As it was hardly possible to find other ministers, who to equal abilities would add equal subservience, it is not surprising that the highest offices were constantly filled by men of notorious incapacity.[806] Indeed, the king seemed to have an instinctive antipathy to everything great and noble. During the reign of George II. the elder Pitt had won for himself a reputation which covered the world, and had carried to an unprecedented height the glories of the English name.[807] He, however, as the avowed friend of popular rights, strenuously opposed the despotic principles of the court; and for this reason he was hated by George III. with a hatred that seemed barely compatible with a sane mind.[808] Fox was one of the greatest statesmen of the eighteenth century, and was better acquainted than any other with the character and resources of those foreign nations with which our own interests were intimately connected.[809] To this rare and important knowledge he added a sweetness and an amenity of temper which extorted the praises even of his political opponents.[810] But he, too, was the steady supporter of civil and religious liberty; and he, too, was so detested by George III., that the king, with his own hand, struck his name out of the list of privy councillors,[811] and declared that he would rather abdicate the throne than admit him to a share in the government.[812] [806] This decline in the abilities of official men was noticed by Burke, in 1770, as a necessary consequence of the new system. Compare _Thoughts on the Present Discontents_ (_Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 149) with his striking summary (_Parl. Hist._ vol. xvi. p. 879) of the degeneracy during the first nine years of George III. 'Thus situated, the question at last was not, who could do the public business best, but who would undertake to do it at all. Men of talents and integrity would not accept of employments where they were neither allowed to exercise their judgment nor display the rectitude of their hearts.' In 1780, when the evil had become still more obvious, the same great observer denounced it in his celebrated address to his Bristol constituents. 'At present,' he says, 'it is the plan of the court to make its servants insignificant.' _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 257. See further _Parr's Works_, vol. iii. pp. 256, 260, 261. [807] The military success of his administration is related in very strong language, but not unfairly, in _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. iv. pp. 108, 185, 186, and see the admirable summary in _Brougham's Statesmen_, vol. i. pp. 33, 34: and for evidence of the fear with which he inspired the enemies of England, compare _Mahon_, vol. v. p. 165 note; _Bedford Correspond._ vol. iii. pp. 87, 246, 247; _Walpole's Letters to Mann_, vol. i. p. 304, edit. 1843; _Walpole's Mem. of George III._ vol. ii. p. 232; and the reluctant admission in _Georgel, Mémoires_, vol. i. pp. 79, 80. [808] Lord Brougham (_Sketches of Statesmen_, vol. i. pp. 22, 33) has published striking evidence of what he calls 'the truly savage feelings' with which George III. regarded Lord Chatham (compare _Russell's Mem. of Fox_, vol. i. p. 129). Indeed, the sentiments of the king were even displayed in the arrangements at the funeral of the great minister. _Note in Adolphus's Hist. of George III._ vol. ii. p. 568; and for other evidence of ill-will, see two notes from the king to Lord North, in _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. vi. appendix, pp. lii. liv.; _The Grenville Papers_, vol. ii. p. 386; _Bancroft's American Revolution_, vol. i. p. 438. [809] Lord Brougham (_Sketches of Statesmen_, vol. i. p. 219) says: 'It may be questioned if any politician, in any age, ever knew so thoroughly the various interests and the exact position of all the countries with which his own had dealings to conduct or relations to maintain.' See also _Parr's Works_, vol. iv. pp. 14, 15; _Russell's Mem. of Fox_, vol. i. pp. 320, 321, vol. ii. pp. 91, 243; _Bisset's Life of Burke_, vol. i. p. 338. [810] Burke, even after the French Revolution, said, that Fox 'was of the most artless, candid, open, and benevolent disposition, disinterested in the extreme; of a temper mild and placable even to a fault, without one drop of gall in his whole constitution.' Speech on the Army Estimates in 1790, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxviii. p. 356. For further evidence, compare _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. vii. p. 171; _Holland's Mem. of the Whig Party_, vol. i. pp. 3, 273; _Trotter's Mem. of Fox_, pp. xi. xii., 24, 178, 415. [811] _Adolphus's Hist. of George III._ vol. vi. p. 692. A singular circumstance connected with this wanton outrage is related in the _Mem. of Holcroft_, vol. iii. p. 60. [812] Compare _Adolphus's Hist. of George III._ vol. iv. pp. 107, 108, with _Russell's Mem. of Fox_, vol. i. pp. 191, 287, 288, vol. ii. p. 44. Dutens, who had much intercourse with English politicians, heard of the threat of abdication in 1784. _Dutens's Mémoires_, vol. iii. p. 104. Lord Holland says, that during the fatal illness of Fox, 'the king had watched the progress of Mr. Fox's disorder. He could hardly suppress his indecent exultation at his death.' _Holland's Mem. of the Whig Party_, vol. ii. p. 49. While this unfavourable change was taking place in the sovereign and ministers of the country, a change equally unfavourable was being effected in the second branch of the imperial legislature. Until the reign of George III., the House of Lords was decidedly superior to the House of Commons in the liberality and general accomplishments of its members. It is true, that in both houses there prevailed a spirit which must be called narrow and superstitious, if tried by the larger standard of the present age. But among the peers such feelings were tempered by an education that raised them far above those country gentlemen and ignorant fox-hunting squires of whom the lower house was then chiefly composed. From this superiority in their knowledge, there naturally followed a larger and more liberal turn of thought than was possessed by those who were called the representatives of the people. The result was, that the old Tory spirit, becoming gradually weaker in the upper house, took refuge in the lower; where, for about sixty years after the Revolution, the high-church party and the friends of the Stuarts formed a dangerous faction.[813] Thus, for instance, the two men who rendered the most eminent services to the Hanoverian dynasty, and therefore to the liberties of England, were undoubtedly Somers and Walpole. Both of them were remarkable for their principles of toleration, and both of them owed their safety to the interference of the House of Lords. Somers, early in the eighteenth century, was protected by the peers from the scandalous prosecution instituted against him by the other house of parliament.[814] Forty years after this, the Commons, who wished to hunt Walpole to the death, carried up a bill encouraging witnesses to appear against him by remitting to them the penalties to which they might be liable.[815] This barbarous measure had been passed through the lower house without the least difficulty; but in the Lords it was rejected by a preponderance of nearly two to one.[816] In the same way the Schism Act, by which the friends of the church subjected the dissenters to a cruel persecution,[817] was hurried through the Commons by a large and eager majority.[818] In the Lords, however, the votes were nearly balanced; and although the bill was passed, amendments were added by which the violence of its provisions was in some degree softened.[819] [813] In 1725, the Duke of Wharton, in a letter to the Pretender, after mentioning some proceedings in the Commons, adds, 'In the House of Lords our number is so small, that any behaviour there will be immaterial.' _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. appendix, p. xxiii. See also, respecting the greater strength of the Tories in the House of Commons, _Somers Tracts_, vol. xi. p. 242, vol. xiii. pp. 524, 531; _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. iv. p. 158; _Campbell's Chief-Justices_, vol. ii. p. 156. [814] Compare _Vernon Correspond._ vol. iii. p. 149, with _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. iv. p. 504. Burnet says, 'All the Jacobites joined to support the pretensions of the Commons.' The Commons complained that the Lords had shown 'such an indulgence to the person accused as is not to be paralleled in any parliamentary proceedings.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. v. p. 1294. See also their angry remonstrance, pp. 1314, 1315. [815] _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. iii. p. 122. [816] 'Content, 47; non-content, 92.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xii. p. 711. Mr. Phillimore (_Mem. of Lyttleton_, vol. i. p. 213) ascribes this to the exertions of Lord Hardwicke; but the state of parties in the upper house is sufficient explanation; and even in 1735 it was said that 'the Lords were betwixt the devil and the deep sea,' the devil being Walpole. _Marchmont Papers_, vol. ii. p. 59. Compare _Bishop Newton's Life of Himself_, p. 60. [817] See an account of some of its provisions in _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. i. pp. 80, 81. The object of the bill is frankly stated in _Parl. Hist._ vol. vi. p. 1349, where we are informed that 'as the farther discouragement and even ruin of the dissenters was thought necessary for accomplishing this scheme, it was begun with the famous Schism Bill.' [818] By 237 to 126. _Parl. Hist._ vol. vi. p. 1351. [819] _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. i. p. 83; _Bunbury's Correspond. of Hanmer_, p. 48. The bill was carried in the Lords by 77 against 72. This superiority of the upper house over the lower was, on the whole, steadily maintained during the reign of George II.;[820] the ministers not being anxious to strengthen the high-church party in the Lords, and the king himself so rarely suggesting fresh creations as to cause a belief that he particularly disliked increasing their numbers.[821] [820] 'If we scrutinize the votes of the peers from the period of the revolution to the death of George II., we shall find a very great majority of the old English nobility to have been the advocates of Whig principles.' _Cooke's Hist. of Party_, vol. iii. p. 363. [821] Compare _Harris's Life of Hardwicke_, vol. iii. p. 519, with the conversation between Sir Robert Walpole and Lord Hervey, in _Hervey's Mem. of George II._ vol. ii. p. 251, edit. 1848. It was reserved for George III., by an unsparing use of his prerogative, entirely to change the character of the upper house, and thus lay the foundation for that disrepute into which since then the peers have been constantly falling. The creations he made were numerous beyond all precedent; their object evidently being to neutralize the liberal spirit hitherto prevailing, and thus turn the House of Lords into an engine for resisting the popular wishes, and stopping the progress of reform.[822] How completely this plan succeeded, is well known to the readers of our history; indeed, it was sure to be successful, considering the character of the men who were promoted. They consisted almost entirely of two classes: of country gentlemen, remarkable for nothing but their wealth, and the number of votes their wealth enabled them to control;[823] and of mere lawyers, who had risen to judicial appointments partly from their professional learning, but chiefly from the zeal with which they repressed the popular liberties, and favoured the royal prerogative.[824] [822] _Cooke's Hist. of Party_, vol. iii. pp. 363, 364, 365, 463; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xviii. p. 1418, vol. xxiv. p. 493, vol. xxvii. p. 1069, vol. xxix. pp. 1334, 1494, vol. xxxiii. pp. 90, 602, 1315. [823] This was too notorious to be denied; and in the House of Commons, in 1800, Nicholls taunted the Government with 'holding out a peerage, or elevation to a higher rank in the peerage, to every man who could procure a nomination to a certain number of seats in parliament.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxv. p. 762. So, too, Sheridan, in 1792, said (vol. xxix. p. 1333), 'In this country peerages had been bartered for election interest.' [824] On this great influx of lawyers into the House of Lords, most of whom zealously advocated arbitrary principles, see _Belsham's Hist. of Great Britain_, vol. vii. pp. 266, 267; _Adolphus's Hist. of George III._ vol. iii. p. 363; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxv. p. 1523. That this is no exaggerated description, may be ascertained by any one who will consult the lists of the new peers made by George III. Here and there we find an eminent man, whose public services were so notorious that it was impossible to avoid rewarding them; but, putting aside those who were in a manner forced upon the sovereign, it would be idle to deny that the remainder, and of course the overwhelming majority, were marked by a narrowness and illiberality of sentiment which, more than anything else, brought the whole order into contempt.[825] No great thinkers; no great writers; no great orators; no great statesmen; none of the true nobility of the land,--were to be found among the spurious nobles created by George III. Nor were the material interests of the country better represented in this strange composition. Among the most important men in England, those engaged in banking and commerce held a high place: since the end of the seventeenth century their influence had rapidly increased; while their intelligence, their clear, methodical habits, and their general knowledge of affairs, made them every way superior to those classes from whom the upper house was now recruited. But in the reign of George III. claims of this sort were little heeded; and we are assured by Burke, whose authority on such a subject no one will dispute, that there never had been a time in which so few persons connected with commerce were raised to the peerage.[826] [825] It was foretold at the time, that the effect of the numerous creations made during Pitt's power would be to lower the House of Lords. Compare _Butler's Reminiscences_, vol. i. p. 76, with Erskine's speech in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxix. p. 1330; and see Sheridan's speech, vol. xxxiii. p. 1197. But their language, indignant as it is, was restrained by a desire of not wholly breaking with the court. Other men, who were more independent in their position, and cared nothing for the chance of future office, expressed themselves in terms such as had never before been heard within the walls of Parliament. Rolle, for instance, declared that 'there had been persons created peers during the present minister's power, who were not fit to be his grooms.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxvii. p. 1198. Out of doors, the feeling of contempt was equally strong; see _Life of Cartwright_, vol. i. p. 278; and see the remark even of the courtly Sir W. Jones, on the increasing disregard for learning shown by 'the nobles of our days.' _Preface to Persian Grammar_, in _Jones's Works_, vol. ii. p. 125. [826] In his _Thoughts on French Affairs_, written in 1791, he says, 'At no period in the history of England have so few peers been taken out of trade, or from families newly created by commerce.' _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 566. Indeed, according to Sir Nathaniel Wraxall (_Posthumous Memoirs_, vol. i. pp. 66, 67, Lond. 1836), the only instance when George III. broke this rule was when Smith the banker was made Lord Carrington. Wraxall is an indifferent authority, and there may be other cases; but they were certainly very few, and I cannot call any to mind. It would be endless to collect all the symptoms which mark the political degeneracy of England during this period; a degeneracy the more striking, because it was opposed to the spirit of the time, and because it took place in spite of a great progress, both social and intellectual. How that progress eventually stopped the political reaction, and even forced it to retrace its own steps, will appear in another part of this work; but there is one circumstance which I cannot refrain from noticing at some length, since it affords a most interesting illustration of the tendency of public affairs, while at the same time it exhibits the character of one of the greatest men, and, Bacon alone excepted, the greatest thinker, who has ever devoted himself to the practice of English politics. The slightest sketch of the reign of George III. would indeed be miserably imperfect if it were to omit the name of Edmund Burke. The studies of this extraordinary man not only covered the whole field of political inquiry,[827] but extended to an immense variety of subjects, which, though apparently unconnected with politics, do in reality bear upon them as important adjuncts; since, to a philosophic mind, every branch of knowledge lights up even those that seem most remote from it. The eulogy passed upon him by one who was no mean judge of men,[828] might be justified, and more than justified, by passages from his works, as well as by the opinions of the most eminent of his contemporaries.[829] Thus it is, that while his insight into the philosophy of jurisprudence has gained the applause of lawyers,[830] his acquaintance with the whole range and theory of the fine arts has won the admiration of artists;[831] a striking combination of two pursuits, often, though erroneously, held to be incompatible with each other. At the same time, and notwithstanding the occupations of political life, we know on good authority, that he had paid great attention to the history and filiation of languages;[832] a vast subject, which within the last thirty years has become an important resource for the study of the human mind, but the very idea of which had, in its large sense, only begun to dawn upon a few solitary thinkers. And, what is even more remarkable, when Adam Smith came to London full of those discoveries which have immortalized his name, he found to his amazement that Burke had anticipated conclusions the maturing of which cost Smith himself many years of anxious and unremitting labour.[833] [827] Nicholls, who knew him, says, 'The political knowledge of Mr. Burke might be considered almost as an encyclopædia; every man who approached him received instruction from his stores.' _Nicholls's Recollections_, vol. i. p. 20. [828] 'The excursions of his genius are immense. His imperial fancy has laid all nature under tribute, and has collected riches from every scene of the creation, and every walk of art.' _Works of Robert Hall_, London, 1846, p. 196. So, too, Wilberforce says of him, 'He had come late into Parliament, and had had time to lay in vast stores of knowledge. The field from which he drew his illustrations was magnificent. Like the fabled object of the fairy's favours, whenever he opened his mouth pearls and diamonds dropped from him.' _Life of Wilberforce_, vol. i. p. 159. [829] Lord Thurlow is said to have declared, what I suppose is now the general opinion of competent judges, that the fame of Burke would survive that of Pitt and Fox. _Butler's Reminiscences_, vol. i. p. 169. But the noblest eulogy on Burke was pronounced by a man far greater than Thurlow. In 1790, Fox stated in the House of Commons, 'that if he were to put all the political information which he had learnt from books, all which he had gained from science, and all which any knowledge of the world and its affairs had taught him, into one scale, and the improvement which he had derived from his right hon. friend's instruction and conversation were placed in the other, he should be at a loss to decide to which to give the preference.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxviii. p. 363. [830] Lord Campbell (_Lives of the Chief-Justices_, vol. ii. p. 443) says, 'Burke, a philosophic statesman, deeply imbued with the scientific principles of jurisprudence.' See also, on his knowledge of law, _Butler's Reminiscences_, vol. i. p. 131; and _Bisset's Life of Burke_, vol. i. p. 230. [831] Barry, in his celebrated Letter to the Dilettanti Society, regrets that Burke should have been diverted from the study of the fine arts into the pursuit of politics, because he had one of those 'minds of an admirable expansion and catholicity, so as to embrace the whole concerns of art, ancient as well as modern, domestic as well as foreign.' _Barry's Works_, vol. ii. p. 538, 4to, 1809. In the _Annual Register_ for 1798, p. 329, 2nd edit., it is stated that Sir Joshua Reynolds 'deemed Burke the best judge of pictures that he ever knew.' See further _Works of Sir J. Reynolds_, Lond. 1846, vol. i. p. 185; and _Bisset's Life of Burke_, vol. ii. p. 257. A somewhat curious conversation between Burke and Reynolds, on a point of art, is preserved in _Holcroft's Memoirs_, vol. ii. pp. 276, 277. [832] See a letter from Winstanley, the Camden Professor of Ancient History, in _Bisset's Life of Burke_, vol. ii. pp. 390, 391, and in _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 427. Winstanley writes, 'It would have been exceedingly difficult to have met with a person who knew more of the philosophy, the history, and filiation of languages, or of the principles of etymological deduction, than Mr. Burke.' [833] Adam Smith told Burke, 'after they had conversed on subjects of political economy, that he was the only man who, without communication, thought on these topics exactly as he did.' _Bisset's Life of Burke_, vol. ii. p. 429; and see _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 58; and on his knowledge of political economy, _Brougham's Sketches of Statesmen_, vol. i. p. 205. To these great inquiries, which touch the basis of social philosophy, Burke added a considerable acquaintance with physical science, and even with the practice and routine of mechanical trades. All this was so digested and worked into his mind, that it was ready on every occasion; not, like the knowledge of ordinary politicians, broken and wasted in fragments, but blended into a complete whole, fused by a genius that gave life even to the dullest pursuits. This, indeed, was the characteristic of Burke, that in his hands nothing was barren. Such was the strength and exuberance of his intellect, that it bore fruit in all directions, and could confer dignity upon the meanest subjects, by showing their connexion with general principles and the part they have to play in the great scheme of human affairs. But what has always appeared to me still more remarkable in the character of Burke, is the singular sobriety with which he employed his extraordinary acquirements. During the best part of his life, his political principles, so far from being speculative, were altogether practical. This is particularly striking, because he had every temptation to adopt an opposite course. He possessed materials for generalization far more ample than any politician of his time, and he had a mind eminently prone to take large views. On many occasions, and indeed whenever an opportunity occurred, he showed his capacity as an original and speculative thinker. But the moment he set foot on political ground, he changed his method. In questions connected with the accumulation and distribution of wealth he saw that it was possible, by proceeding from a few simple principles, to construct a deductive science available for the commercial and financial interests of the country. Further than this he refused to advance, because he knew that, with this single exception, every department of politics was purely empirical, and was likely long to remain so. Hence it was, that he recognized in all its bearings that great doctrine, which even in our own days is too often forgotten, that the aim of the legislator should be, not truth, but expediency. Looking at the actual state of knowledge, he was forced to admit, that all political principles have been raised by hasty induction from limited facts; and that, therefore, it is the part of a wise man, when he adds to the facts, to revise the induction, and, instead of sacrificing practice to principles, modify the principles that he may change the practice. Or, to put this in another way, he lays it down that political principles are at the best but the product of human reason; while political practice has to do with human nature and human passions, of which reason forms but a part;[834] and that, on this account, the proper business of a statesman is, to contrive the means by which certain ends may be effected, leaving it to the general voice of the country to determine what those ends shall be, and shaping his own conduct, not according to his own principles, but according to the wishes of the people for whom he legislates, and whom he is bound to obey.[835] [834] 'Politics ought to be adjusted, not to human reasonings, but to human nature; of which the reason is but a part, and by no means the greatest part.' _Observations on a late State of the Nation_, in _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 113. Hence the distinction he had constantly in view between the generalizations of philosophy, which ought to be impregnable, and those of politics, which must be fluctuating; and hence in his noble work, _Thoughts on the Cause of the present Discontents_, he says (vol. i. p. 136), 'No lines can be laid down for civil or political wisdom. They are a matter incapable of exact definition.' See also p. 151, on which he grounds his defence of the spirit of party; it being evident that if truth were the prime object of the political art, the idea of party, as such, would be indefensible. Compare with this the difference between 'la vérité en soi' and 'la vérité sociale,' as expounded by M. Rey in his _Science Sociale_, vol. ii. p. 322, Paris, 1842. [835] In 1780 he plainly told the House of Commons that 'the people are the masters. They have only to express their wants at large and in gross. We are the expert artists; we are the skilful workmen, to shape their desires into perfect form, and to fit the utensil to the use. They are the sufferers, they tell the symptoms of the complaint; but we know the exact seat of the disease, and how to apply the remedy according to the rules of art. How shocking would it be to see us pervert our skill into a sinister and servile dexterity, for the purpose of evading our duty, and _defrauding our employers, who are our natural lords_, of the object of their just expectations!' _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 254. In 1777, in his _Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol_ (_Works_, vol. i. p. 216), 'In effect, to follow, not to force, the public inclination; to give a direction, a form, a technical dress, and a specific sanction, to the general sense of the community,--is the true end of legislature.' In his _Letter on the Duration of Parliament_ (vol. ii. p. 430), 'It would be dreadful, indeed, if there was any power in the nation capable of resisting its unanimous desire, or even the desire of any very great and decided majority of the people. The people may be deceived in their choice of an object. _But I can scarcely conceive any choice they can make to be so very mischievous, as the existence of any human force capable of resisting it._' So, too, he says (vol. i. pp. 125, 214), that when government and the people differ, government is generally in the wrong: compare pp. 217, 218, 276, vol. ii. p. 440. And to give only one more instance, but a very decisive one, he, in 1772, when speaking on a Bill respecting the Importation and Exportation of Corn, said, 'On this occasion I give way to the present Bill, not because I approve of the measure in itself, but because I think it prudent to yield to the spirit of the times. _The people will have it so; and it is not for their representatives to say nay._ I cannot, however, help entering my protest against the general principles of policy on which it is supported, because I think them extremely dangerous.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvii. p. 480. It is these views, and the extraordinary ability with which they were advocated, which make the appearance of Burke a memorable epoch in our political history.[836] We had, no doubt, other statesmen before him, who denied the validity of general principles in politics; but their denial was only the happy guess of ignorance, and they rejected theories which they had never taken the pains to study. Burke rejected them because he knew them. It was his rare merit that, notwithstanding every inducement to rely upon his own generalizations, he resisted the temptation; that, though rich in all the varieties of political knowledge, he made his opinions subservient to the march of events; that he recognized as the object of government, not the preservation of particular institutions, nor the propagation of particular tenets, but the happiness of the people at large; and, above all, that he insisted upon an obedience to the popular wishes, which no statesman before him had paid, and which too many statesmen since him have forgotten. Our country, indeed, is still full of those vulgar politicians, against whom Burke raised his voice; feeble and shallow men, who, having spent their little force in resisting the progress of reform, find themselves at length, compelled to yield; and then, so soon as they have exhausted the artifices of their petty schemes, and, by their tardy and ungraceful concessions, have sown the seed of future disaffection, they turn upon the age by which they have been baffled; they mourn over the degeneracy of mankind; they lament the decay of public spirit; and they weep for the fate of a people, who have been so regardless of the wisdom of their ancestors, as to tamper with a constitution already hoary with the prescription of centuries. [836] The effect which Burke's profound views produced in the House of Commons, where, however, few men were able to understand them in their full extent, is described by Dr. Hay, who was present at one of his great speeches; which, he says, 'seemed a kind of new political philosophy.' _Burke's Correspond._ vol. i. p. 103. Compare a letter from Lee, written in the same year, 1766, in _Forster's Life of Goldsmith_, vol. ii. pp. 38, 39; and in _Bunbury's Correspond. of Hanmer_, p. 458. Those who have studied the reign of George III. will easily understand the immense advantage of having a man like Burke to oppose these miserable delusions; delusions which have been fatal to many countries, and have more than once almost ruined our own.[837] They will also understand that, in the opinion of the king, this great statesman was, at best, but an eloquent declaimer, to be classed in the same category with Fox and Chatham; all three ingenious men, but unsafe, unsteady, quite unfit for weighty concerns, and by no means calculated for so exalted an honour as admission into the royal councils. In point of fact, during the thirty years Burke was engaged in public life, he never once held an office in the cabinet;[838] and the only occasions on which he occupied even a subordinate post, were in those very short intervals when the fluctuations of politics compelled the appointment of a liberal ministry. Indeed the part taken by Burke in public affairs must have been very galling to a king who thought everything good that was old, and everything right that was established.[839] For, so far was this remarkable man in advance of his contemporaries, that there are few of the great measures of the present generation which he did not anticipate, and zealously defend. Not only did he attack the absurd laws against forestalling and regrating,[840] but, by advocating the freedom of trade, he struck at the root of all similar prohibitions.[841] He supported those just claims of the Catholics,[842] which, during his lifetime, were obstinately refused; but which were conceded, many years after his death, as the only means of preserving the integrity of the empire. He supported the petition of the Dissenters, that they might be relieved from the restrictions to which, for the benefit of the Church of England, they were subjected.[843] Into other departments of politics he carried the same spirit. He opposed the cruel laws against insolvents,[844] by which, in the time of George III., our statute-book was still defaced; and he vainly attempted to soften the penal code,[845] the increasing severity of which was one of the worst features of that bad reign.[846] He wished to abolish the old plan of enlisting soldiers for life;[847] a barbarous and impolitic practice, as the English legislature began to perceive several years later.[848] He attacked the slave-trade;[849] which, being an ancient usage, the king wished to preserve, as part of the British constitution.[850] He refuted,[851] but, owing to the prejudices of the age, was unable to subvert, the dangerous power exercised by the judges, who, in criminal prosecutions for libel, confined the jury to the mere question of publication; thus taking the real issue into their own hands, and making themselves the arbiters of the fate of those who were so unfortunate as to be placed at their bar.[852] And, what many will think not the least of his merits, he was the first in that long line of financial reformers to whom we are deeply indebted.[853] Notwithstanding the difficulties thrown in his way, he carried through Parliament a series of bills, by which several useless places were entirely abolished, and, in the single office of paymaster-general, a saving effected to the country of 25,000_l._ a year.[854] [837] Burke was never weary of attacking the common argument, that, because a country has long flourished under some particular custom, therefore the custom must be good. See an admirable instance of this in his speech on the power of the attorney-general to file informations _ex officio_; where he likens such reasoners to the father of Scriblerus, who 'venerated the rust and canker which exalted a brazen pot-lid into the shield of a hero.' He adds: 'But, sir, we are told that the time during which this power existed, is the time during which monarchy most flourished: and what, then, can no two things subsist together but as cause and effect? May not a man have enjoyed better health during the time that he walked with an oaken stick, than afterwards, when he changed it for a cane, without supposing, like the Druids, that there are occult virtues in oak, and that the stick and the health were cause and effect?' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvi. pp. 1190, 1191. [838] This, as Mr. Cooke truly says, is an instance of aristocratic prejudice; but it is certain that a hint from George III. would have remedied the shameful neglect. _Cooke's Hist. of Party_, vol. iii. p. 277, 278. [839] It is easy to imagine how George III. must have been offended by such sentiments as these: 'I am not of the opinion of those gentlemen who are against disturbing the public repose; I like a clamour whenever there is an abuse. The fire-bell at midnight disturbs your sleep, but it keeps you from being burnt in your bed. The hue and cry alarms the county, but preserves all the property of the province.' Burke's speech on Prosecutions for Libels, in 1771, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvii. p. 54. [840] He moved their repeal. _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxvi. p. 1169. Even Lord Chatham issued, in 1766, a proclamation against forestallers and regraters, very much to the admiration of Lord Mahon, who says, 'Lord Chatham acted with characteristic energy.' _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. v. p. 166. More than thirty years later, and after Burke's death, Lord Kenyon, then chief-justice, eulogised these preposterous laws. _Holland's Mem. of the Whig Party_, vol. i. p. 167. Compare _Adolphus's Hist. of George III._ vol. vii. p. 406; and _Cockburn's Memorials of his Time_, Edinb. 1856, p. 73. [841] 'That liberality in the commercial system, which, I trust, will one day be adopted.' _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 223. And, in his letter to Burgh (_Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 409), 'But that to which I attached myself the most particularly, was to fix the principle of a free trade in all the ports of these islands, as founded in justice, and beneficial to the whole; but principally to this, the seat of the supreme power.' [842] _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 467; _Burke's Works_, vol. i. pp. 263-271, 537-561, vol. ii. pp. 431-447. He refutes (vol. i. p. 548) the notion that the coronation oath was intended to bind the crown in its legislative capacity. Compare _Mem. of Mackintosh_, vol. i. pp. 170, 171, with _Butler's Reminiscences_, vol. i. p. 134. [843] _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvii. pp. 435, 436, vol. xx. p. 306. See also _Burke's Correspondence_, vol. ii. pp. 17, 18; and _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 143. [844] _Burke's Works_, vol. i. pp. 261, 262, part of his speech at Bristol. [845] _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 317. See also his admirable remarks, in _Works_, vol. ii. p. 417; and his speech, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxviii. p. 146. [846] On this increasing cruelty of the English laws, compare _Parr's Works_, vol. iv. pp. 150, 259, with _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxii. p. 271, vol. xxiv. p. 1222, vol. xxvi. p. 1057, vol. xxviii. p. 143; and, in regard to the execution of them, see _Life of Romilly, by Himself_, vol. i. p. 65; and _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. ix. p. 620. [847] In one short speech (_Parl. Hist._ vol. xx. pp. 150, 151), he has almost exhausted the arguments against enlistment for life. [848] In 1806, that is nine years after the death of Burke, parliament first authorized enlistment for a term of years. See an account of the debates in _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. vii. pp. 380-391. Compare _Nichols's Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. v. p. 475; and _Holland's Mem. of the Whig Party_, vol. ii. p. 116. [849] _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 316; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxvii. p. 502, vol. xxviii. pp. 69, 96; and _Life of Wilberforce_, vol. i. pp. 152, 171, contain evidence of his animosity against the slave-trade, and a more than sufficient answer to the ill-natured, and, what is worse, the ignorant, remark about Burke, in the _Duke of Buckingham's Mem. of George III._ vol. i. p. 350. [850] On the respect which George III. felt for the slave-trade, see note 259 to this chapter. I might also have quoted the testimony of Lord Brougham: 'The court was decidedly against abolition. George III. always regarded the question with abhorrence, as savouring of innovation.' _Brougham's Statesmen_, vol. ii. p. 104. Compare _Combe's North America_, vol. i. p. 332. [851] _Burke's Works_, vol. ii. pp. 490-496; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvii. pp. 44-55, a very able speech, delivered in 1771. Compare a letter to Dowdeswell, in _Burke's Correspond._ vol. i. pp. 251, 252. [852] The arguments of Burke anticipated, by more than twenty years, Fox's celebrated Libel Bill, which was not passed till 1792; although, in 1752, juries had begun, in spite of the judges, to return general verdicts on the merits. See _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. v. pp. 238, 243, 341-345, vol. vi. p. 210; and _Meyer_, _Institutions Judiciaires_, vol. ii. pp. 204, 205, Paris, 1823. [853] Mr. Farr, in his valuable essay on the statistics of the civil service (in _Journal of Statist. Soc._ vol. xii. pp. 103-125), calls Burke 'one of the first and ablest financial reformers in parliament,' p. 104. The truth, however, is, that he was not only one of the first, but the first. He was the first man who laid before parliament a general and systematic scheme for diminishing the expenses of government; and his preliminary speech on that occasion is one of the finest of all his compositions. [854] _Prior's Life of Burke_, pp. 206, 234. See also, on the retrenchments he effected, _Sinclair's Hist. of the Revenue_, vol. ii. pp. 84, 85; _Burke's Correspond._ vol. iii. p. 14; and _Bisset's Life of Burke_, vol. ii. pp. 57-60. These things alone are sufficient to explain the animosity of a prince whose boast it was, that he would bequeath the government to his successor in the same state as that in which he had received it. There was, however, another circumstance by which the royal feelings were still further wounded. The determination of the king to oppress the Americans was so notorious that, when the war actually broke out, it was called the 'king's war,' and those who opposed it were regarded as the personal enemies of their sovereign.[855] In this, however, as in all other questions, the conduct of Burke was governed, not by traditions and principles, such as George III. cherished, but by large views of general expediency. Burke, in forming his opinions respecting this disgraceful contest, refused to be guided by arguments respecting the right of either party.[856] He would not enter into any discussion as to whether a mother country has the right to tax her colonies, or whether the colonies have a right to tax themselves. Such points he left to be mooted by those politicians who, pretending to be guided by principles, are, in reality, subjugated by prejudice.[857] For his own part he was content to compare the cost with the gain. It was enough for Burke that, considering the power of our American colonies, considering their distance from us, and considering the probability of their being aided by France, it was not advisable to exercise the power; and it was, therefore, idle to talk of the right. Hence he opposed the taxation of America, not because it was unprecedented, but because it was inexpedient. As a natural consequence he likewise opposed the Boston-Port Bill, and that shameful bill, to forbid all intercourse with America, which was not inaptly called the starvation plan; violent measures, by which the king hoped to curb the colonies, and break the spirit of those noble men, whom he hated even more than he feared.[858] [855] In 1788, Lord Rockingham said, in the House of Lords, 'Instead of calling the war, the war of parliament, or of the people, it was called the king's war, his majesty's favourite war.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xix. p. 857. Compare _Cooke's Hist. of Party_, vol. iii. p. 235, with the pungent remarks in _Walpole's George III._ vol. iv. p. 114. Nicholls (_Recollections_, vol. i. p. 35) says: 'The war was considered as the war of the king personally. Those who supported it were called the king's friends; while those who wished the country to pause, and reconsider the propriety of persevering in the contest, were branded as disloyal.' [856] 'I am not here going into the distinction of rights, nor attempting to mark their boundaries. I do not enter into these metaphysical distinctions; I hate the very sound of them.' Speech on American taxation in 1774, in _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 173. In 1775 (vol. i. p. 192): 'But my consideration is narrow, confined, and wholly limited to the policy of the question.' At p. 183: we should act in regard to America, not 'according to abstract ideas of right, by no means according to mere general theories of government; the resort to which appears to me, in our present situation, no better than arrant trifling.' In one of his earliest political pamphlets, written in 1769, he says, that the arguments of the opponents of America 'are conclusive; conclusive as to right; but the very reverse as to policy and practice,' vol. i. p. 112. Compare a letter, written in 1775, in _Burke's Correspond._ vol. ii. p. 12. [857] In 1766, George III. writes to Lord Rockingham (_Albemarle's Rockingham_, vol. i. pp. 271, 272): 'Talbot is as right as I can desire, in the Stamp Act; strong for our declaring our right, but willing to repeal!' In other words, willing to offend the Americans, by a speculative assertion of an abstract right, but careful to forego the advantage which that right might produce. [858] The intense hatred with which George III. regarded the Americans, was so natural to such a mind as his, that one can hardly blame his constant exhibition of it during the time that the struggle was actually impending. But what is truly disgraceful is, that, after the war was over, he displayed this rancour on an occasion when, of all others, he was bound to suppress it. In 1786, Jefferson and Adams were in England officially, and, as a matter of courtesy to the king, made their appearance at court. So regardless, however, was George III. of the common decencies of his station, that he treated these eminent men with marked incivility, although they were then paying their respects to him in his own palace. See _Tucker's Life of Jefferson_, vol. i. p. 220; and _Mem. and Corresp. of Jefferson_, vol. i. p. 54. It is certainly no faint characteristic of those times, that a man like Burke, who dedicated to politics abilities equal to far nobler things, should, during thirty years, have received from his prince neither favour nor reward. But George III. was a king whose delight it was to raise the humble and exalt the meek. His reign, indeed, was the golden age of successful mediocrity; an age in which little men were favoured, and great men depressed; when Addington was cherished as a statesman, and Beattie pensioned as a philosopher; and when, in all the walks of public life, the first conditions of promotion were, to fawn upon ancient prejudices, and support established abuses. This neglect of the most eminent of English politicians is highly instructive; but the circumstances which followed, though extremely painful, have a still deeper interest, and are well worth the attention of those whose habits of mind lead them to study the intellectual peculiarities of great men. For, at this distance of time, when his nearest relations are no more, it would be affectation to deny that Burke, during the last few years of his life, fell into a state of complete hallucination. When the French Revolution broke out, his mind, already fainting under the weight of incessant labour, could not support the contemplation of an event so unprecedented, so appalling, and threatening results of such frightful magnitude. And, when the crimes of that great revolution, instead of diminishing, continued to increase, then it was that the feelings of Burke finally mastered his reason; the balance tottered; the proportions of that gigantic intellect were disturbed. From this moment, his sympathy with present suffering was so intense, that he lost all memory of the tyranny by which the sufferings were provoked. His mind, once so steady, so little swayed by prejudice and passion, reeled under the pressure of events which turned the brains of thousands.[859] And whoever will compare the spirit of his latest works with the dates of their publication, will see how this melancholy change was aggravated by that bitter bereavement, from which he never rallied, and which alone was sufficient to prostrate the understanding of one in whom the severity of the reason was so tempered, so nicely poised, by the warmth of the affections. Never, indeed, can there be forgotten those touching, those exquisite allusions to the death of that only son, who was the joy of his soul, and the pride of his heart, and to whom he fondly hoped to bequeath the inheritance of his imperishable name. Never can we forget that image of desolation under which the noble old man figured his immeasurable grief 'I live in an inverted order. They who ought to have succeeded me, have gone before me. They who should have been to me as posterity, are in the place of ancestors.... The storm has gone over me, and I lie like one of those old oaks which the late hurricane has scattered about me. I am stripped of all my honours; I am torn up by the roots, and lie prostrate on the earth.'[860] [859] All great revolutions have a direct tendency to increase insanity, as long as they last, and probably for some time afterwards: but in this, as in other respects, the French revolution stands alone in the number of its victims. On the horrible, but curious subject of madness caused by the excitement of the events which occurred in France late in the eighteenth century, compare _Prichard on Insanity in relation to Jurisprudence_, 1842, p. 90; his _Treatise on Insanity_, 1835, pp. 161, 183, 230, 339; _Esquirol_, _Maladies Mentales_, vol. i. pp. 43, 53, 54, 66, 211, 447, vol. ii. pp. 193, 726; _Feuchtersleben's Medical Psychology_, p. 254; _Georget, De la Folie_, p. 156; _Pinel, Traité sur l'Aliénation Mentale_, pp. 30, 108, 109, 177, 178, 185, 207, 215, 257, 349, 392, 457, 481; _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. iii. p. 112. [860] _Burke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 268. It would, perhaps, be displaying a morbid curiosity, to attempt to raise the veil, and trace the decay of so mighty a mind.[861] Indeed, in all such cases, most of the evidence perishes; for those who have the best opportunities of witnessing the infirmities of a great man, are not those who most love to relate them. But it is certain, that the change was first clearly seen immediately after the breaking out of the French Revolution; that it was aggravated by the death of his son; and that it became progressively worse till death closed the scene.[862] In his _Reflections on the French Revolution_; in his _Remarks on the Policy of the Allies_: in his _Letter to Elliot_; in his _Letter to a Noble Lord_; and in his _Letters on a Regicide Peace_, we may note the consecutive steps of an increasing, and at length an uncontrollable, violence. To the single principle of hatred of the French Revolution, he sacrificed his oldest associations and his dearest friends. Fox, as is well known, always looked up to Burke as to a master, from whose lips he had gathered the lessons of political wisdom.[863] Burke, on his side, fully recognized the vast abilities of his friend, and loved him for that affectionate disposition, and for those winning manners, which, it has often been said, none who saw them could ever resist. But now, without the slightest pretence of a personal quarrel, this long intimacy[864] was rudely severed. Because Fox would not abandon that love of popular liberty which they had long cherished in common, Burke, publicly, and in his place in parliament, declared that their friendship was at an end; for that he would never more hold communion with a man who lent his support to the French people.[865] At the same time, and indeed the very evening on which this occurred, Burke, who had hitherto been remarkable for the courtesy of his manners,[866] deliberately insulted another of his friends, who was taking him home in his carriage; and, in a state of frantic excitement, insisted on being immediately set down, in the middle of the night, in a pouring rain, because he could not, he said, remain seated by 'a friend to the revolutionary doctrines of the French.'[867] [861] The earliest unmistakable instances of those violent outbreaks which showed the presence of disease, were in the debates on the regency bill, in February 1789, when Sir Richard Hill, with brutal candour, hinted at Burke's madness, even in his presence. _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxvii. p. 1249. Compare a letter from Sir William Young, in _Buckingham's Mem. of George III._ 1853, vol. ii. p. 73; 'Burke finished his wild speech in a manner next to madness.' This was in December 1788; and, from that time until his death, it became every year more evident that his intellect was disordered. See a melancholy description of him in a letter, written by Dr. Currie in 1792 (_Life of Currie_, vol. ii. p. 150); and, above all, see his own incoherent letter, in 1796, in his _Correspond. with Laurence_, p. 67. [862] His son died in August 1794 (_Burke's Correspond._ vol. iv. p. 224); and his most violent works were written between that period and his own death, in July 1797. [863] 'This disciple, as he was proud to acknowledge himself.' _Brougham's Statesmen_, vol. i. p. 218. In 1791, Fox said, that Burke 'had taught him everything he knew in politics.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxix. p. 379. See also _Adolphus's Hist. of George III._ vol. iv. pp. 472, 610; and a letter from Fox to Parr, in _Parr's Works_, vol. vii. p. 287. [864] It had begun in 1766, when Fox was only seventeen. _Russell's Mem. of Fox_, vol. i. p. 26. [865] On this painful rupture, compare with the _Parliamentary History, Holland's Mem. of the Whig Party_, vol. i. pp. 10, 11; _Prior's Life of Burke_, pp. 375-379; _Tomline's Life of Pitt_, vol. ii. pp. 385-395. The complete change in Burke's feelings towards his old friend also appears in a very intemperate letter, written to Dr. Laurence in 1797. _Burke's Correspond. with Laurence_, p. 152. Compare _Parr's Works_, vol. iv. pp. 67-80, 84-90, 109. [866] Which used to be contrasted with the bluntness of Johnson; these eminent men being the two best talkers of their time. See _Bisset's Life of Burke_, vol. i. p. 127. [867] _Rogers's Introduction to Burke's Works_, p. xliv.; _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 384. Nor is it true, as some have supposed, that this mania of hostility was solely directed against the criminal part of the French people. It would be difficult, in that or in any other age, to find two men of more active, or indeed enthusiastic benevolence, than Condorcet and La Fayette. Besides this, Condorcet was one of the most profound thinkers of his time, and will be remembered as long as genius is honoured among us.[868] La Fayette was no doubt inferior to Condorcet in point of ability; but he was the intimate friend of Washington, on whose conduct he modelled his own,[869] and by whose side he had fought for the liberties of America: his integrity was, and still is, unsullied: and his character had a chivalrous and noble turn, which Burke, in his better days, would have been the first to admire.[870] Both, however, were natives of that hated country whose liberties they vainly attempted to achieve. On this account, Burke declared Condorcet to be guilty of 'impious sophistry;'[871] to be a 'fanatic atheist, and furious democratic republican;'[872] and to be capable of 'the lowest, as well as the highest and most determined villainies.'[873] As to La Fayette, when an attempt was made to mitigate the cruel treatment he was receiving from the Prussian government, Burke not only opposed the motion made for that purpose in the House of Commons, but took the opportunity of grossly insulting the unfortunate captive, who was then languishing in a dungeon.[874] So dead had he become on this subject, even to the common instincts of our nature, that, in his place in parliament, he could find no better way of speaking of this injured and high-souled man, than by calling him a ruffian: 'I would not,' says Burke,--'I would not debase my humanity by supporting an application in behalf of such a horrid ruffian.'[875] [868] There is an interesting account of the melancholy death of this remarkable man in _Lamartine_, _Hist. des Girondins_, vol. viii. pp. 76-80; and a contemporary relation in _Musset-Pathay_, _Vie de Rousseau_, vol. ii. pp. 42-47. [869] This is the honourable testimony of a political opponent; who says, that after the dissolution of the Assembly 'La Fayette se conforma à a conduite de Washington, qu'il avait pris pour modèle.' _Cassagnac_, _Révolution Française_, vol. iii. pp. 370, 371. Compare the grudging admission of his enemy Bouillé, _Mém. de Bouillé_, vol. i. p. 125; and for proofs of the affectionate intimacy between Washington and La Fayette, see _Mém. de Lafayette_, vol. i. pp. 16, 21, 29, 44, 55, 83, 92, 111, 165, 197, 204, 395, vol. ii. p. 123. [870] The Duke of Bedford, no bad judge of character, said in 1794, that La Fayette's 'whole life was an illustration of truth, disinterestedness, and honour.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxi. p. 664. So, too, the continuator of Sismondi (_Hist. des Français_, vol. xxx. p. 355), 'La Fayette, le chevalier de la liberté d'Amérique;' and Lamartine (_Hist. des Girondins_, vol. iii. p. 200), 'Martyr de la liberté après en avoir été le héros.' Ségur, who was intimately acquainted with him, gives some account of his noble character, as it appeared when he was a boy of nineteen. _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. i. pp. 106, 107. Forty years later, Lady Morgan met him in France; and what she relates shows how little he had changed, and how simple his tastes and the habits of his mind still were. _Morgan's France_, vol. ii. pp. 285-312. Other notices, from personal knowledge, will be found in _Life of Roscoe_, vol. ii. p. 178; and in _Trotter's Mem. of Fox_, pp. 319 seq. [871] 'The impious sophistry of Condorcet.' _Letter to a Noble Lord_, in _Burke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 273. [872] _Thoughts on French Affairs_ in _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 574. [873] 'Condorcet (though no marquis, as he styled himself before the Revolution) is a man of another sort of birth, fashion, and occupation from Brissot; but in every principle and every disposition, to the lowest as well as the highest and most determined villainies, fully his equal.' _Thoughts on French Affairs_, in _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 579. [874] 'Groaning under the most oppressive cruelty in the dungeons of Magdeburg.' _Belsham's Hist. of Great Brit._ vol. ix. p. 151. See the afflicting details of his sufferings, in _Mém. de Lafayette_, vol. i. p. 479, vol. ii. pp. 75, 77, 78, 80, 91, 92; and on the noble equanimity with which he bore them, see _De Staël_, _Rév. Françoise_, Paris, 1820, vol. ii. p. 103. [875] It is hardly credible that such language should have been applied to a man like La Fayette; but I have copied it from the _Parliamentary History_, vol. xxxi. p. 51, and from _Adolphus_, vol. v. p. 593. The only difference is, that in Adolphus the expression is 'I would not debase my humanity;' but in the _Parl. Hist._, 'I would not debauch my humanity.' But both authorities are agreed as to the term 'horrid ruffian' being used by Burke. Compare _Burke's Correspondence with Laurence_, pp. 91, 99. As to France itself, it is 'Cannibal Castle;'[876] it is 'the republic of assassins;'[877] it is 'a hell;'[878] its government is composed of 'the dirtiest, lowest, most fraudulent, most knavish, of chicaners;'[879] its National Assembly are 'miscreants;'[880] its people are 'an allied army of Amazonian and male cannibal Parisians;'[881] they are 'a nation of murderers;'[882] they are 'the basest of mankind;'[883] they are 'murderous atheists;'[884] they are 'a gang of robbers;'[885] they are 'the prostitute outcasts of mankind;'[886] they are 'a desperate gang of plunderers, murderers, tyrants, and atheists.'[887] To make the slightest concessions to such a country in order to preserve peace, is offering victims 'on the altars of blasphemed regicide;'[888] even to enter into negotiations is 'exposing our lazar sores at the door of every proud servitor of the French republic, where the court-dogs will not deign to lick them.'[889] When our ambassador was actually in Paris, he 'had the honour of passing his mornings in respectful attendance at the office of a regicide pettifogger;'[890] and we were taunted with having sent a 'peer of the realm to the scum of the earth.'[891] 'France has no longer a place in Europe; it is expunged from the map; its very name should be forgotten.[892] Why, then, need men travel in it? Why need our children learn its language? and why are we to endanger the morals of our ambassadors? who can hardly fail to return from such a land with their principles corrupted, and with a wish to conspire against their own country.'[893] [876] _Burke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 319. In every instance I quote the precise words employed by Burke. [877] _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 279. [878] Burke's speech, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxi. p. 379. [879] _Burke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 335. [880] _Burke's Corresp._ vol. iii. p. 140. [881] _Burke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 322. [882] _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxx. p. 115. [883] _Ibid._ p. 112. [884] _Ibid._ p. 188. [885] _Ibid._ p. 435. [886] _Ibid._ p. 646; the concluding sentence of one of Burke's speeches in 1793. [887] _Ibid._ vol. xxxi. p. 426. [888] _Burke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 320. [889] _Ibid._ p. 286. [890] _Ibid._ p. 322. [891] _Ibid._ p. 318. [892] _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxviii. p. 353, vol. xxx. p. 390; _Adolphus_, vol. iv. p. 467. [893] In the _Letters on a Regicide Peace_, published the year before he died, he says, 'These ambassadors may easily return as good courtiers as they went: but can they ever return from that degrading residence loyal and faithful subjects; or with any true affection to their master, or true attachment to the constitution, religion, or laws of their country? There is great danger that they who enter smiling into this Tryphonian cave, will come out of it sad and serious conspirators; and such will continue as long as they live.' _Burke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 282. He adds in the same work, p. 381, 'Is it for this benefit we open "the usual relations of peace and amity?" Is it for this our youth of both sexes are to form themselves by travel? Is it for this that with expense and pains we form their lisping infant accents to the language of France?... Let it be remembered, that no young man can go to any part of Europe without taking this place of pestilential contagion in his way; and, whilst the less active part of the community will be debauched by this travel, whilst children are poisoned at these schools, our trade will put the finishing hand to our ruin. No factory will be settled in France, that will not become a club of complete French Jacobins. The minds of young men of that description will receive a taint in their religion, their morals, and their politics, which they will in a short time communicate to the whole kingdom.' This is sad, indeed, from such a man as Burke once was; but what remains, shows still more clearly how the associations and composition of his mind had been altered. He who, with humanity not less than with wisdom, had strenuously laboured to prevent the American war, devoted the last few years of his life to kindle a new war, compared to which that with America was a light and trivial episode. In his calmer moments, no one would have more willingly recognized that the opinions prevalent in any country are the inevitable results of the circumstances in which that country had been placed. But now he sought to alter those opinions by force. From the beginning of the French Revolution, he insisted upon the right, and indeed upon the necessity, of compelling France to change her principles;[894] and, at a later period, he blamed the allied sovereigns for not dictating to a great people the government they ought to adopt.[895] Such was the havoc circumstances had made in his well-ordered intellect, that to this one principle he sacrificed every consideration of justice, of mercy, and of expediency. As if war, even in its mildest form, were not sufficiently hateful, he sought to give to it that character of a crusade[896] which increasing knowledge had long since banished: and loudly proclaiming that the contest was religious rather than temporal, he revived old prejudices in order to cause fresh crimes.[897] He also declared that the war should be carried on for revenge as well as for defence, and that we must never lay down our arms until we had utterly destroyed the men by whom the Revolution was brought about.[898] And, as if these things were not enough, he insisted that this, the most awful of all wars, being begun, was not to be hurried over; although it was to be carried on for revenge as well as for religion, and the resources of civilized men were to be quickened by the ferocious passions of crusaders, still it was not to be soon ended; it was to be durable; it must have permanence; it must, says Burke, in the spirit of a burning hatred, be protracted in a long war: 'I speak it emphatically, and with a desire that it should be marked, in a _long_ war.'[899] [894] In _Observations on the Conduct of the Minority_, 1793, he says, that during four years he had wished for 'a general war against jacobins and jacobinism.' _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 611. [895] For, in the first place, 'the united sovereigns very much injured their cause by admitting that they had nothing to do with the interior arrangements of France.' _Heads for Consideration on the Present State of Affairs_, written in November 1792, in _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 583. And that he knew that this was not merely a question of destroying a faction, appears from the observable circumstance, that even in January 1791 he wrote to Trevor respecting war, 'France is weak indeed, divided and deranged; but God knows, when the things came to be tried, whether the invaders would not find that their enterprise _was not to support a party, but to conquer a kingdom_.' _Burke's Correspond._ vol. iii. p. 184. [896] As Lord J. Russell truly calls it, _Mem. of Fox_, vol. iii. p. 34. See also _Schlosser's Eighteenth Century_, vol. ii. p. 93, vol. v. p. 109, vol. vi. p. 291; _Nicholls's Recollections_, vol. i. p. 300; _Parr's Works_, vol. iii. p. 242. [897] 'We cannot, if we would, delude ourselves about the true state of this dreadful contest. _It is a religious war._' _Remarks on the Policy of the Allies_, in _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 600. [898] See the long list of proscriptions in _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 604. And the principle of revenge is again advocated in a letter written in 1793, in _Burke's Correspond._ vol. iv. p. 183. And in 1794, he told the House of Commons that 'the war must no longer be confined to the vain attempt of raising a barrier to the lawless and savage power of France; but must be directed to the only rational end it can pursue; namely, the entire destruction of the desperate horde which gave it birth.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxi. p. 427. [899] _Letters on a Regicide Peace_, in _Burke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 291. In this horrible sentence, perhaps the most horrible ever penned by an English politician, the italics are not my own; they are in the text. It was to be a war to force a great people to change their government. It was to be a war carried on for the purpose of punishment. It was also to be a religious war. Finally, it was to be a long war. Was there ever any other man who wished to afflict the human race with such extensive, searching, and protracted calamities? Such cruel, such reckless, and yet such deliberate opinions, if they issued from a sane mind, would immortalize even the most obscure statesman, because they would load his name with imperishable infamy. For where can we find, even among the most ignorant or most sanguinary politicians, sentiments like these? Yet they proceed from one who, a very few years before, was the most eminent political philosopher England has ever possessed. To us it is only given to mourn over so noble a wreck. More than this no one should do. We may contemplate with reverence the mighty ruin; but the mysteries of its decay let no man presume to invade, unless, to use the language of the greatest of our masters, he can tell how to minister to a diseased mind, pluck the sorrows which are rooted in the memory, and raze out the troubles that are written in the brain. It is a relief to turn from so painful a subject, even though we descend to the petty, huckstering politics of the English court. And truly, the history of the treatment experienced by the most illustrious of our politicians, is highly characteristic of the prince under whom he lived. While Burke was consuming his life in great public services, labouring to reform our finances, improve our laws, and enlighten our commercial policy,--while he was occupied with these things, the king regarded him with coldness and aversion.[900] But when the great statesman degenerated into an angry brawler; when, irritated by disease, he made it the sole aim of his declining years to kindle a deadly war between the two first countries of Europe, and declared that to this barbarous object he would sacrifice all other questions of policy, however important they might be;[901]--then it was that a perception of his vast abilities began to dawn upon the mind of the king. Before this, no one had been bold enough to circulate in the palace even a whisper of his merits. Now, however, in the successive, and eventually the rapid decline of his powers, he had fallen almost to the level of the royal intellect; and now he was first warmed by the beams of the royal favour. Now he was a man after the king's own heart.[902] Less than two years before his death, there was settled upon him, at the express desire of George III., two considerable pensions;[903] and the king even wished to raise him to the peerage, in order that the House of Lords might benefit by the services of so great a counsellor.[904] [900] 'I know,' said Burke, in one of those magnificent speeches which mark the zenith of his intellect,--'I know the map of England as well as the noble lord, or as any other person; and I know that the way I take is not the road to preferment.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvii. p. 1269. [901] See, among many other instances, an extraordinary passage on 'Jacobinism,' in his _Works_, vol. ii. p. 449, which should be compared with a letter he wrote in 1792, respecting a proposed coalition ministry, _Correspond._ vol. iii. pp. 519, 520: 'But my advice was, that as a foundation of the whole, the political principle must be settled as the preliminary, namely, "a total hostility to the French system, at home and abroad."' [902] The earliest evidence I have met with of the heart of George III. beginning to open towards Burke, is in August 1791; see in _Burke's Correspondence_, vol. iii. p. 278, an exquisitely absurd account of his reception at the levee. Burke must have been fallen, indeed, before he could write such a letter. [903] 'Said to have originated in the express wish of the king.' _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 489. Mr. Prior estimates these pensions at 3,700_l._ a-year; but if we may rely on Mr. Nicholls, the sum was even greater: 'Mr. Burke was rewarded with two pensions, estimated to be worth 40,000_l._' _Nicholls's Recollections_, vol. i. p. 136. Burke was sixty-five; and a pension of 3,700_l._ a-year would not be worth 40,000_l._, as the tables were then calculated. The statement of Mr. Prior is, however, confirmed by Wansey, in 1794. See _Nichols's Lit. Anec. of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. iii. p. 81. [904] _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 460; _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. iii. p. 81; _Bisset's Life of Burke_, vol. ii. p. 414. This digression respecting the character of Burke has been longer than I had anticipated; but it will not, I hope, be considered unimportant; for, in addition to the intrinsic interest of the subject, it illustrates the feelings of George III. towards great men, and it shows what the opinions were which in his reign it was thought necessary to hold. In the sequel of this work, I shall trace the effect of such opinions upon the interests of the country, considered as a whole; but for the object of the present Introduction, it will be sufficient to point out the connexion in one or two more of those prominent instances, the character of which is too notorious to admit of discussion. Of these leading and conspicuous events, the American war was the earliest, and for several years it almost entirely absorbed the attention of English politicians. In the reign of George II. a proposal had been made to increase the revenue by taxing the colonies; which, as the Americans were totally unrepresented in parliament, was simply a proposition to tax an entire people without even the form of asking their consent. This scheme of public robbery was rejected by that able and moderate man who was then at the head of affairs; and the suggestion, being generally deemed impracticable, fell to the ground, and seems, indeed, hardly to have excited attention.[905] But what was deemed by the government of George II. to be a dangerous stretch of arbitrary power, was eagerly welcomed by the government of George III. For the new king, having the most exalted notion of his own authority, and being, from his miserable education, entirely ignorant of public affairs, thought that to tax the Americans for the benefit of the English, would be a masterpiece of policy. When, therefore, the old idea was revived, it met with his cordial acquiescence; and when the Americans showed their intention of resisting this monstrous injustice, he was only the more confirmed in his opinion that it was necessary to curb their unruly will. Nor need we be surprised at the rapidity with which such angry feelings broke out. Indeed, looking, on the one hand, at the despotic principles which, for the first time since the Revolution, were now revived at the English court; and looking, on the other hand, at the independent spirit of the colonists,--it was impossible to avoid a struggle between the two parties; and the only questions were, as to what form the contest would take, and towards which side victory was most likely to incline.[906] [905] 'It had been proposed to Sir Robert Walpole to raise the revenue by imposing taxes on America; but that minister, who could foresee beyond the benefit of the actual moment, declared it must be a bolder man than himself who should venture on such an expedient.' _Walpole's George III._ vol. ii. p. 70. Compare _Phillimore's Mem. of Lyttleton_, vol. ii. p. 662; _Bancroft's American Revolution_, vol. i. p. 96; _Belsham's Hist. of Great Britain_, vol. v. p. 102. [906] That some sort of rupture was unavoidable, must, I think, be admitted; but we are not bound to believe the assertion of Horace Walpole, who says (_Mem. of George II._ vol. i. p. 397) that in 1754 he predicted the American rebellion. Walpole, though a keen observer of the surface of society, was not the man to take a view of this kind; unless, as is hardly probable, he heard an opinion to that effect expressed by his father. Sir Robert Walpole may have said something respecting the increasing love of liberty in the colonies; but it was impossible for him to foresee how that love would be fostered by the arbitrary proceedings of the government of George III. On the part of the English government, no time was lost. Five years after the accession of George III., a bill was brought into parliament to tax the Americans;[907] and so complete had been the change in political affairs, that not the least difficulty was found in passing a measure which, in the reign of George II., no minister had dared to propose. Formerly, such a proposal, if made, would certainly have been rejected; now the most powerful parties in the state were united in its favour. The king, on every occasion, paid a court to the clergy, to which, since the death of Anne, they had been unaccustomed; he was, therefore, sure of their support, and they zealously aided him in every attempt to oppress the colonies.[908] The aristocracy, a few leading Whigs alone excepted, were on the same side, and looked to the taxation of America as a means of lessening their own contributions.[909] As to George III., his feelings on the subject were notorious;[910] and the more liberal party not having yet recovered from the loss of power consequent on the death of George II., there was little fear of difficulties from the cabinet; it being well known that the throne was occupied by a prince whose first object was to keep ministers in strict dependence on himself, and who, whenever it was practicable, called into office such weak and flexible men as would yield unhesitating submission to his wishes.[911] [907] The general proposition was introduced in 1764; the bill itself early in 1765. See _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. v. pp. 82, 85; and _Grenville Papers_, vol. ii. pp. 373, 374. On the complete change of policy which this indicated, see _Brougham's Polit. Philos._ part iii. p. 328. [908] The correspondence of that time contains ample proof of the bitterness of the clergy against the Americans. Even in 1777, Burke wrote to Fox: 'The Tories do universally think their power and consequence involved in the success of this American business. The clergy are astonishingly warm in it; and what the Tories are when embodied and united with their natural head, the crown, and animated by their clergy, no man knows better than yourself.' _Burke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 390. Compare _Bishop Newton's Life of Himself_, pp. 134, 157. [909] 'The overbearing aristocracy desired some reduction of the land tax, at the expense of America.' _Bancroft's Hist. of the American Revolution_, vol. ii. p. 414. The merchants, on the other hand, were opposed to these violent proceedings. See, on this contrast between the landed and commercial interests, a letter from Lord Shelburne, in 1774, and another from Lord Camden, in 1775, in _Chatham Correspond._ vol. iv. pp. 341, 401. See also the speeches of Trecothick and Vyner, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvi. p. 507, vol. xviii. p. 1361. [910] It was believed at the time, and it is not improbable, that the king himself suggested the taxation of America, to which Grenville at first objected. Compare _Wraxall's Mem. of his own Time_, vol. ii. pp. 111, 112, with _Nicholl's Recollections_, vol. i. pp. 205, 386. This may have been merely a rumour; but it is quite consistent with everything we know of the character of George III., and there can, at all events, be no doubt as to his feelings respecting the general question. It is certain that he over-persuaded Lord North to engage in the contest with America, and induced that minister to go to war, and to continue it even after success had become hopeless. See _Bancroft's American Revolution_, vol. iii. pp. 307, 308; _Russell's Mem. of Fox_, vol. i. pp. 247, 254; and the _Bedford Correspond._ vol. iii. p. li. See also, in regard to the repeal of the Stamp Act, the _Grenville Papers_, vol. iii. p. 373; a curious passage, with which Lord Mahon, the last edition of whose history was published in the same year (1853), appears to have been unacquainted. _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. v. p. 139. In America the sentiments of the king were well known. In 1775, Jefferson writes from Philadelphia: 'We are told, and everything proves it true, that he is the bitterest enemy we have.' _Jefferson's Correspond._ vol. i. p. 153. And in 1782 Franklin writes to Livingston, 'The king hates us most cordially.' _Life of Franklin_, vol. ii. p. 126. [911] 'A court,' as Lord Albemarle observes,--'a court that required ministers to be, not the public servants of the state, but the private domestics of the sovereign.' _Albemarle's Mem. of Rockingham_, vol. i. p. 248. Compare _Bancroft's American Revolution_, vol. ii. p. 109. In the same way, Burke, in 1767, writes: 'His majesty never was in better spirits. He has got a ministry weak and dependent; and, what is better, willing to continue so.' _Burke's Correspond._ vol. i. p. 133. Ten years later, Lord Chatham openly taunted the king with this disgraceful peculiarity: 'Thus to pliable men, not capable men, was the government of this once glorious empire intrusted.' _Chatham's Speech in 1777_, in _Adolphus_, vol. ii. pp. 499, 500. Everything being thus prepared, there followed those events which were to be expected from such a combination. Without stopping to relate details which are known to every reader, it may be briefly mentioned that, in this new state of things, the wise and forbearing policy of the preceding reign was set at naught, and the national councils guided by rash and ignorant men, who soon brought the greatest disasters upon the country, and within a few years actually dismembered the empire. In order to enforce the monstrous claim of taxing a whole people without their consent, there was waged against America a war ill-conducted, unsuccessful, and, what is far worse, accompanied by cruelties disgraceful to a civilized nation.[912] To this may be added, that an immense trade was nearly annihilated; every branch of commerce was thrown into confusion;[913] we were disgraced in the eyes of Europe;[914] we incurred an expense of 140,000,000_l._;[915] and we lost by far the most valuable colonies any nation has ever possessed. [912] For some evidence of the ferocity with which this war was conducted by the English, see _Tucker's Life of Jefferson_, vol. i. pp. 138, 139, 160; _Jefferson's Mem. and Correspond._ vol. i. pp. 352, 429, vol. ii. pp. 336, 337; _Almon's Correspond. of Wilkes_, vol. v. pp. 229-232, edit. 1805; _Adolphus's Hist. of George III._ vol. ii. pp. 362, 391. These horrible cruelties were frequently mentioned in parliament, but without producing the least effect on the king or his ministers. See _Parl. Hist._ vol. xix. pp. 371, 403, 423, 424, 432, 438, 440, 477, 487, 488, 489, 567, 578, 579, 695, 972, 1393, 1394, vol. xx. p. 43. Among the expenses of the war which government laid before parliament, one of the items was for 'five gross of scalping knives.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xix. pp. 971, 972. See further _Mém. de Lafayette_, vol. i. pp. 23, 25, 99. [913] In Manchester, 'in consequence of the American troubles, nine in ten of the artisans in that town had been discharged from employment.' This was stated in 1766, by no less an authority than Conway. _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. v. p. 135. As the struggle became more obstinate the evil was more marked, and ample evidence of the enormous injury inflicted on England will be found by comparing _Franklin's Correspondence_, vol. i. p. 352; _Adolphus's Hist. of George III._ vol. ii. p. 261; _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 111; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xviii. pp. 734, 951, 963, 964, vol. xix. pp. 259, 341, 710, 711, 1072; _Walpole's Mem. of George III._ vol. ii. p. 218. [914] Even Mr. Adolphus, in his Tory history, says, that in 1782 'the cause of Great Britain seemed degraded to the lowest state; ill success and the prevalent opinion of mismanagement rendered the espousal of it among the selfish powers of the continent almost disreputable.' _Hist. of George III._ vol. iii. pp. 391, 392. For proof of the opinions held in foreign countries respecting this, I cannot do better than refer to _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. iii. pp. 184, 185; _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. ix. p. 377; _Soulavie_, _Mém. de Louis XVI._ vol. iv. pp. 363, 364; _Koch_, _Tableau des Révolutions_, vol. ii. pp. 190-194; _Mem. of Mallet du Pan_, vol. i. p. 37. [915] Sir John Sinclair, in his _Hist. of the Revenue_, vol. ii. p. 114, says 139,171,876_l._ Such were the first fruits of the policy of George III. But the mischief did not stop there. The opinions which it was necessary to advocate in order to justify this barbarous war, recoiled upon ourselves. In order to defend the attempt to destroy the liberties of America, principles were laid down which, if carried into effect, would have subverted the liberties of England. Not only in the court, but in both houses of parliament, from the episcopal bench, and from the pulpits of the church-party, there were promulgated doctrines of the most dangerous kind--doctrines unsuited to a limited monarchy, and, indeed, incompatible with it. The extent to which this reaction proceeded is known to very few readers, because the evidence of it is chiefly to be found in the parliamentary debates, and in the theological literature, particularly the sermons of that time, none of which are now much studied. But, not to anticipate matters belonging to another part of this work, it is enough to say that the danger was so imminent as to make the ablest defenders of popular liberty believe that everything was at stake; and that if the Americans were vanquished, the next step would be to attack the liberties of England, and endeavour to extend to the mother-country the same arbitrary government which by that time would have been established in the colonies.[916] [916] Dr. Jebb, an able observer, thought that the American war 'must be decisive of the liberties of both countries.' _Disney's Life of Jebb_, p. 92. So, too, Lord Chatham wrote in 1777, 'poor England will have fallen upon her own sword.' _The Grenville Papers_, vol. iv. p. 573. In the same year, Burke said of the attempt made to rule the colonies by military force, 'that the establishment of such a power in America will utterly ruin our finances (though its certain effect), is the smallest part of our concern. It will become an apt, powerful, and certain engine for the destruction of our freedom here.' _Burke's Works_, vol. ii. p. 399. Compare vol. i. pp. 189, 210; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvi. pp. 104, 107, 651, 652, vol. xix. pp. 11, 1056, vol. xx. p. 119, vol. xxi. p. 907. Hence it was that Fox wished the Americans to be victorious (_Russell's Mem. of Fox_, vol. i. p. 143); for which some writers have actually accused him of want of patriotism! Whether or not these fears were exaggerated, is a question of considerable difficulty; but after a careful study of that time, and a study too from sources not much used by historians, I feel satisfied that they who are best acquainted with the period will be the most willing to admit that, though the danger may have been overrated, it was far more serious than men are now inclined to believe. At all events, it is certain that the general aspect of political affairs was calculated to excite great alarm. It is certain, that during many years, the authority of the crown continued to increase, until it reached a height of which no example had been seen in England for several generations. It is certain that the Church of England exerted all her influence in favour of those despotic principles which the king wished to enforce. It is also certain that, by the constant creation of new peers, all holding the same views, the character of the House of Lords was undergoing a slow but decisive change; and that, whenever a favourable opportunity arose, high judicial appointments and high ecclesiastical appointments were conferred upon men notorious for their leaning towards the royal prerogative. These are facts which cannot be denied; and, putting them together, there remains, I think, no doubt, that the American war was a great crisis in the history of England, and that if the colonists had been defeated, our liberties would have been for a time in considerable jeopardy. From that risk we were saved by the Americans, who with heroic spirit resisted the royal armies, defeated them at every point, and at length, separating themselves from the mother-country, began that wonderful career, which, in less than eighty years, has raised them to an unexampled prosperity, and which to us ought to be deeply interesting, as showing what may be effected by the unaided resources of a free people. Seven years after this great contest had been brought to a successful close, and the Americans, happily for the interests of mankind, had finally secured their independence, another nation rose up and turned against its rulers. The history of the causes of the French Revolution will be found in another part of this volume; at present we have only to glance at the effects it produced upon the policy of the English government. In France, as is well known, the movement was extremely rapid; the old institutions, which were so corrupted as to be utterly unfit for use, were quickly destroyed; and the people, frenzied by centuries of oppression, practised the most revolting cruelties, saddening the hour of their triumph by crimes that disgraced the noble cause for which they struggled. All this, frightful as it was, did nevertheless form a part of the natural course of affairs; it was the old story of tyranny exciting revenge, and revenge blinding men to every consequence except the pleasure of glutting their own passions. If, under these circumstances, France had been left to herself, the Revolution, like all other revolutions, would soon have subsided, and a form of government have arisen suited to the actual condition of things. What the form would have been, it is impossible now to say; that, however, was a question with which no foreign country had the slightest concern. Whether it should be an oligarchy, or a despotic monarchy, or a republic, it was for France to decide; but it was evidently not the business of any other nation to decide for her. Still less was it likely that, on so delicate a point, France would submit to dictation from a country which had always been her rival, and which not unfrequently had been her bitter and successful enemy. But these considerations, obvious as they are, were lost upon George III., and upon those classes which were then in the ascendant. The fact that a great people had risen against their oppressors disquieted the consciences of men in high places. The same evil passions, and indeed the same evil language, which a few years before were directed against the Americans, were now turned against the French; and it was but too clear that the same results would follow.[917] In defiance of every maxim of sound policy, the English ambassador was recalled from France simply because that country chose to do away with the monarchy, and substitute a republic in its place. This was the first decisive step towards an open rupture, and it was taken, not because France had injured England, but because France had changed her government.[918] A few months later, the French, copying the example of the English in the preceding century,[919] brought their king to a public trial, sentenced him to die, and struck off his head in the midst of his own capital. It must be allowed that this act was needless, that it was cruel, and that it was grossly impolitic. But it is palpably evident that they who consented to the execution were responsible only to God and their country; and that any notice of it from abroad, which bore the appearance of a threat, would rouse the spirit of France, would unite all parties into one, and would induce the nation to adopt as its own a crime of which it might otherwise have repented, but which it could not now abjure without incurring the shame of having yielded to the dictation of a foreign power. [917] In 1792, and therefore before the war broke out, Lord Lansdowne, one of the extremely few peers who escaped from the prevailing corruption, said,'The present instance recalled to his memory the proceedings of this country previous to the American war. The same abusive and degrading terms were applied to the Americans that were now used to the National Convention,--_the same consequences might follow_.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxx. p. 155. [918] Compare _Belsham's Hist. of Great Britain_, vol. viii. p. 490, with _Tomline's Life of Pitt_, vol. ii. p. 548. The letter to Lord Gower, the English minister in Paris, is printed in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxx. pp. 143, 144. Its date is 17th August, 1792. [919] Just before the Revolution, Robert de Saint-Vincent pertinently remarked, by way of caution, that the English 'have dethroned seven of their kings, and beheaded the eighth.' _Mem. of Mallet du Pan_, vol. i. p. 146; and we are told in _Alison's Europe_ (vol. ii. pp. 199, 296, 315), that in 1792 Louis 'anticipated the fate of Charles I.' Compare _Williams's Letters from France_, 2nd edit. 1796, vol. iv. p. 2. In England, however, as soon as the fate of the king was known, the government, without waiting for explanation, and without asking for any guarantee as to the future, treated the death of Louis as an offence against itself, and imperiously ordered the French residents to quit the country:[920] thus wantonly originating a war which lasted twenty years, cost the lives of millions, plunged all Europe into confusion, and, more than any other circumstance, stopped the march of civilization, by postponing for a whole generation those reforms, which, late in the eighteenth century, the progress of affairs rendered indispensable. [920] Belsham (_Hist. of Great Britain_, vol. viii. p. 525) supposes, and probably with reason, that the English government was bent upon war even before the death of Louis; but it appears (_Tomline's Pitt_, vol. ii. p. 599) that it was not until the 24th of January 1793, that Chauvelin was actually ordered to leave England, and that this was in consequence of 'the British ministers having received information of the execution of the king of France.' Compare _Belsham_, vol. viii. p. 530. The common opinion, therefore, seems correct, that the proximate cause of hostilities was the execution of Louis. See _Alison's Hist._ vol. ii. p. 522, vol. v. p. 249, vol. vi. p. 656; and _Newmarch_, in _Journal of Statist. Soc._ vol. xviii. p. 108. The European results of this, the most hateful, the most unjust, and the most atrocious war, England has ever waged against any country, will be hereafter considered;[921] at present I confine myself to a short summary of its leading effects on English society. [921] Lord Brougham (_Sketches of Statesmen_, vol. i. p. 79) rightly says of this war, that 'the youngest man living will not survive the fatal effects of this flagrant political crime.' So eager, however, was George III. in its favour, that when Wilberforce separated himself from Pitt on account of the war, and moved an amendment on the subject in the House of Commons, the king showed his spite by refusing to take any notice of Wilberforce the next time he appeared at court. _Life of Wilberforce_, vol. ii. pp. 10, 72. What distinguishes this sanguinary contest from all preceding ones, and what gives to it its worst feature, is, that it was eminently a war of opinions,--a war which we carried on, not with a view to territorial acquisitions, but with the object of repressing that desire for reforms of every kind, which had now become the marked characteristic of the leading countries of Europe.[922] As soon, therefore, as hostilities began the English government had a twofold duty to perform it had to destroy a republic abroad, and it had to prevent improvement at home. The first of these duties it fulfilled by squandering the blood and the treasure of England, till it had thrown nearly every family into mourning, and reduced the country to the verge of national bankruptcy. The other duty it attempted to execute by enacting a series of laws intended to put an end to the free discussion of political questions, and stifle that spirit of inquiry which was every year becoming more active. These laws were so comprehensive, and so well calculated to effect their purpose, that if the energy of the nation had not prevented their being properly enforced, they would either have destroyed every vestige of popular liberty, or else have provoked a general rebellion. Indeed, during several years the danger was so imminent, that, in the opinion of some high authorities, nothing could have averted it, but the bold spirit with which our English juries, by their hostile verdicts, resisted the proceedings of government, and refused to sanction laws which the crown had proposed, and to which a timid and servile legislature had willingly consented.[923] [922] In 1793 and subsequently, it was stated both by the opposition, and also by the supporters of government, that the war with France was directed against doctrines and opinions, and that one of its main objects was to discourage the progress of democratic institutions. See, among many other instances, _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxx. pp. 413, 417, 1077, 1199, 1200, 1283, vol. xxxi. pp. 466, 592, 649, 680, 1036, 1047, vol. xxxiii. pp. 603, 604; _Nicholls's Recollections_, vol. ii. pp. 156, 157. [923] Lord Campbell (_Lives of the Chancellors_, vol. vi. p. 449) says, that if the laws passed in 1794 had been enforced, 'the only chance of escaping servitude would have been civil war.' Compare _Brougham's Statesmen_, vol. i. p. 237, vol. ii. pp. 63, 64, on our 'escape from proscription and from arbitrary power ... during the almost hopeless struggle from 1793 to 1801.' Both these writers pay great and deserved honour to the successful efforts of Erskine with juries. Indeed the spirit of our jurors was so determined, that in 1794, at Tooke's trial, they only consulted eight minutes before bringing in a verdict of acquittal. _Stephens's Mem. of Horne Tooke_, vol. ii. p. 147; see also, on this crisis, _Life of Cartwright_, vol. i. p. 210. The people sympathised throughout with the victims; and while the trial of Hardy was pending, the attorney-general, Scott, was always mobbed when he left the court, and on one occasion his life was in danger. _Twiss's Life of Eldon_, vol. i. pp. 185, 186. Compare _Holcroft's Memoirs_, vol. ii. pp. 180, 181. We may form some idea of the magnitude of the crisis by considering the steps which were actually taken against the two most important of all our institutions, namely, the freedom of the public press, and the right of assembling in meetings for the purpose of public discussion. These are, in a political point of view, the two most striking peculiarities which distinguish us from every other European people. As long as they are preserved intact, and as long as they are fearlessly and frequently employed, there will always be ample protection against those encroachments on the part of government which cannot be too jealously watched, and to which even the freest country is liable. To this may be added, that these institutions possess other advantages of the highest order. By encouraging political discussion, they increase the amount of intellect brought to bear upon the political business of the country. They also increase the total strength of the nation, by causing large classes of men to exercise faculties which would otherwise lie dormant, but which by these means are quickened into activity, and become available for other purposes of social interest. But in the period we are now considering, it was deemed advisable that the influence of the people should be lessened; it was, therefore, thought improper that they should strengthen their abilities by exercising them. To relate the details of that bitter war, which, late in the eighteenth century, the English government carried on against every kind of free discussion, would lead me far beyond the limits of this Introduction; and I can only hastily refer to the vindictive prosecutions, and, whenever a verdict was obtained, the vindictive punishments, of men like Adams, Bonney, Crossfield, Frost, Gerald, Hardy, Holt, Hodson, Holcroft, Joyce, Kidd, Lambert, Margarot, Martin, Muir, Palmer, Perry, Skirving, Stannard, Thelwall, Tooke, Wakefield, Wardie, Winterbotham: all of whom were indicted, and many of whom were fined, imprisoned, or transported, because they expressed their sentiments with freedom, and because they used language such as in our time is employed with perfect impunity, by speakers at public meetings, and by writers in the public press. As, however, juries in several cases refused to convict men who were prosecuted for these offences, it was determined to recur to measures still more decisive. In 1795, a law was passed, by which it was manifestly intended to put an end for ever to all popular discussions either on political or religious matters. For by it every public meeting was forbidden, unless notice of it were inserted in a newspaper five days beforehand;[924] such notice to contain a statement of the objects of the meeting, and of the time and place where it was to assemble. And, to bring the whole arrangement completely under the supervision of government, it was ordered, that not only should the notice, thus published, be signed by householders, but that the original manuscript should be preserved, for the information of the justices of the peace, who might require a copy of it: a significant threat, which, in those days, was easily understood.[925] It was also enacted that, even after these precautions had been taken, any single justice might compel the meeting to disperse, if, in his opinion, the language held by the speakers was calculated to bring the sovereign or the government into contempt; while, at the same time, he was authorized to arrest those whom he considered to be the offenders.[926] The power of dissolving a public meeting, and of seizing its leaders, was thus conferred upon a common magistrate, and conferred too without the slightest provision against its abuse. In other words, the right of putting an end to all public discussions on the most important subjects, was lodged in the hands of a man appointed by the crown, and removable by the crown at its own pleasure. To this it was added, that if the meeting should consist of twelve, or upwards of twelve persons, and should remain together for one hour after being ordered to separate,--in such case, the penalty of death was to be inflicted, even if only twelve disobeyed this the arbitrary command of a single and irresponsible magistrate.[927] [924] 'Five days at least.' _Stat. 36 George III._ c. 8, § 1. This applied to meetings 'holden for the purpose or on the pretext of considering of or preparing any petition, complaint, remonstrance, or declaration, or other address to the king, or to both houses, or either house, of parliament, for alteration of matters established in church or state, or for the purpose or on the pretext of deliberating upon any grievance in church or state.' The only exceptions allowed were in the case of meetings called by magistrates, officials, and the majority of the grand jury. [925] The insertor of the notice in the newspaper 'shall cause such notice and authority to be carefully preserved, ... and cause a true copy thereof (if required) to be delivered to any justice of the peace for the county, city, town, or place where such person shall reside, or where such newspaper shall be printed, and who shall require the same.' _36 George III._ c. 8, § 1. [926] C. 8, §§ 6 and 7, referring to 'meetings on notice;' and to persons holding language which shall even 'tend to incite.' These two sections are very remarkable. [927] 'It shall be adjudged,' says the Act, 'felony without benefit of clergy; and the offenders therein shall be adjudged felons, and shall suffer death as in case of felony without benefit of clergy.' _36 George III._ c. 8, § 6. In 1799, another law was passed, forbidding any open field, or place of any kind, to be used for lecturing, or for debating, unless a specific license for such place had been obtained from the magistrates. It was likewise enacted, that all circulating-libraries, and all reading-rooms, should be subject to the same provision; no person, without leave from the constituted authorities, being permitted to lend on hire in his own house, newspapers, pamphlets, or even books of any kind.[928] Before shops of this sort could be opened, a license must first be obtained from two justices of the peace; which, however, was to be renewed at least once a year, and might be revoked at any intermediate period.[929] If a man lent books without the permission of the magistrates, or if he allowed lectures or debates, 'on any subject whatever,' to be held under his roof, then, for such grievous crime, he was to be fined 100_l._ a-day; and every person who aided him, either by presiding over the discussion, or by supplying a book, was for each offence to be fined 20_l._ The proprietor of so pernicious an establishment was not only to suffer from these ruinous fines, but was declared liable to still further punishment as the keeper of a disorderly house.[930] [928] _Stat. 39 George III._ c. 79, § 15. [929] The license 'shall be in force for the space of one year and no longer, or for any less space of time therein to be specified; and which license it shall be lawful for the justices of the peace' &c. 'to revoke and declare void, and no longer in force, by any order of such justices; ... and thereupon such license shall cease and determine, and be thenceforth utterly void and of no effect.' _39 George III._ c. 79, § 18. [930] Such things are so incredible, that I must again quote the words of the Act: 'Every house, room, or place, which shall be opened or used as a place of meeting for the purpose of reading books, pamphlets, newspapers, or other publications, and to which any person shall be admitted by payment of money' (if not regularly licensed by the authorities), ... 'shall be deemed a disorderly house;' and the person opening it shall 'be otherwise punished as the law directs in case of disorderly houses.' _39 George III._ c. 79, § 15. The germ of this law may be found in _36 George III._ c. 8, § § 12, 13, 14, 15, 16. Nowhere are the weakest parts of the human mind more clearly seen than in the history of legislation. To modern ears it sounds somewhat strange, that the owner of a public reading-room should not only incur extravagant fines, but should also be punished as the keeper of a disorderly house; and that all this should happen to him, simply because he opened his shop without asking permission from the local magistrates. Strange, however, as this appears, it was, at all events, consistent, since it formed part of a regular plan for bringing, not only the actions of men, but even their opinions, under the direct control of the executive government. Thus it was that the laws, now for the first time passed, against newspapers, were so stringent, and the prosecution of authors so unrelenting, that there was an evident intention to ruin every public writer who expressed independent sentiments.[931] These measures, and others of a similar character, which will hereafter be noticed, excited such alarm, that, in the opinion of some of the ablest observers, the state of public affairs was becoming desperate, perhaps irretrievable. The extreme despondency with which, late in the eighteenth century, the best friends of liberty looked to the future, is very observable, and forms a striking feature in their private correspondence.[932] And although comparatively few men venture to express such sentiments in public, Fox, whose fearless temper made him heedless of risk, openly stated what would have checked the government, if anything could have done so. For this eminent statesman, who had been minister more than once, and was afterwards minister again, did not hesitate to say, from his place in parliament, in 1795, that if these, and other shameful laws which were proposed, should be actually passed, forcible resistance to the government would be merely a question of prudence; and that the people, if they felt themselves equal to the conflict, would be justified in withstanding the arbitrary measures by which their rulers sought to extinguish their liberties.[933] [931] See the particulars in _Hunt's Hist. of Newspapers_, vol. i. pp. 281-4. Mr. Hunt says, p. 284: 'In addition to all these laws, directed solely towards the press, other statutes were made to bear upon it, for the purpose of repressing the free expression of popular opinion.' In 1793, Dr. Currie writes: 'The prosecutions that are commenced by government all over England against printers, publishers, &c. would astonish you; and most of these are for offences committed many months ago. The printer of the _Manchester Herald_ has had seven different indictments preferred against him for paragraphs in his paper; and six _different_ indictments for selling or disposing of six different copies of Paine,--all previous to the _trial_ of Paine. The man was opulent, supposed worth 20,000_l._; but these different actions will ruin him, as they were intended to do.' _Currie's Life_, vol. i. pp. 185, 186. See also a letter from Roscoe to Lord Lansdowne, in _Life of Roscoe_, vol. i. p. 124; and _Mem. of Holcroft_, vol. ii. pp. 151, 152: 'Printers and booksellers all over the kingdom were hunted out for prosecution.' See further, _Life of Cartwright_, vol. i. pp. 199, 200; _Adolphus's Hist. of George III._ vol. v. pp. 525, 526; _Mem. of Wakefield_, vol. ii. p. 69. [932] In 1793, Dr. Currie, after mentioning the attempts made by government to destroy the liberty of the press, adds: 'For my part, I foresee troubles, and conceive the nation was never in such a dangerous crisis.' _Currie's Mem._ vol. i. p. 186. In 1795, Fox writes (_Russell's Mem. of Fox_, vol. iii. pp. 124, 125): 'There appears to me to be no choice at present, but between an absolute surrender of the liberties of the people and a vigorous exertion, attended, I admit, with considerable hazard, at a time like the present. My view of things is, I own, very gloomy; and I am convinced that, in a very few years, this government will become completely absolute, or that confusion will arise of a nature almost as much to be deprecated as despotism itself.' In the same year, Dr. Raine writes (_Parr's Works_, vol. vii. p. 533): 'The mischievous conduct of men in power has long made this country an uneasy dwelling for the moderate and peaceful man; their present proceedings render our situation alarming, and our prospects dreadful.' See also p. 530. In 1796, the Bishop of Llandaff writes (_Life of Watson_, vol. ii. pp. 36, 37): 'The malady which attacks the constitution (influence of the crown) is without remedy; violent applications might be used; their success would be doubtful, and I, for one, never wish to see them tried.' Compare vol. i. p. 222. And, in 1799, Priestley dreaded a revolution; but, at the same time, thought there was 'no longer any hope of a peaceable and gradual reform.' _Mem. of Priestley_, vol. i. pp. 198, 199. [933] In this memorable declaration, Fox said, that 'he had a right to hope and expect that these bills, which positively repealed the Bill of Rights, and cut up the whole of the constitution by the roots, by changing our limited monarchy into an absolute despotism, would not be enacted by parliament against the declared sense of a great majority of the people. If, however, ministers were determined, by means of the corrupt influence they possessed in the two houses of parliament, to pass the bills in direct opposition to the declared sense of a great majority of the nation, and they should be put in force with all their rigorous provisions, if his opinion were asked by the people as to their obedience, he should tell them, that it was no longer a question of moral obligation and duty, but of prudence. It would, indeed, be a case of extremity alone which could justify resistance; and the only question would be, whether that resistance was prudent.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxii. p. 383. On this, Windham remarked, and Fox did not deny, that 'the meaning obviously was, that the right hon. gentleman would advise the people, whenever they were strong enough, to resist the execution of the law;' and to this both Sheridan and Grey immediately assented, pp. 385-387. Nothing, however, could stop the government in its headlong career. The ministers, secure of a majority in both houses of parliament, were able to carry their measures in defiance of the people, who opposed them by every mode short of actual violence.[934] And as the object of these new laws was, to check the spirit of inquiry, and prevent reforms, which the progress of society rendered indispensable, there were also brought into play other means subservient to the same end. It is no exaggeration to say, that for some years England was ruled by a system of absolute terror.[935] The ministers of the day, turning a struggle of party into a war of proscription, filled the prisons with their political opponents, and allowed them, when in confinement, to be treated with shameful severity.[936] If a man was known to be a reformer, he was constantly in danger of being arrested; and if he escaped that, he was watched at every turn, and his private letters were opened as they passed through the post-office.[937] In such cases, no scruples were allowed. Even the confidence of domestic life was violated. No opponent of government was safe under his own roof, against the tales of eavesdroppers and the gossip of servants. Discord was introduced into the bosom of families, and schisms caused between parents and their children.[938] Not only were the most strenuous attempts made to silence the press, but the booksellers were so constantly prosecuted that they did not dare to publish a work if its author were obnoxious to the court.[939] Indeed, whoever opposed the government was proclaimed an enemy to his country.[940] Political associations and public meetings were strictly forbidden. Every popular leader was in personal danger; and every popular assemblage was dispersed, either by threats or by military execution. That hateful machinery, familiar to the worst days of the seventeenth century, was put into motion. Spies were paid; witnesses were suborned; juries were packed.[941] The coffee-houses, the inns, and the clubs, were filled with emissaries of the government, who reported the most hasty expressions of common conversation.[942] If, by these means, no sort of evidence could be collected, there was another resource, which was unsparingly used. For, the habeas-corpus act being constantly suspended, the crown had the power of imprisoning without inquiry, and without limitation, any person offensive to the ministry, but of whose crime no proof was attempted to be brought.[943] [934] 'Never had there appeared, in the memory of the oldest man, so firm and decided a plurality of adversaries to the ministerial measures, as on this occasion (_i.e._ in 1795): the interest of the public seemed so deeply at stake, that individuals, not only of the decent, but of the most vulgar professions, gave up a considerable portion of their time and occupations in attending the numerous meetings that were called in every part of the kingdom, to the professed intent of counteracting this attempt of the ministry.' _Note in Parl. History_, vol. xxxii. p. 381. It was at this period that Fox made the declaration which I have quoted in the previous note. [935] It was called at the time the 'Reign of Terror;' and so indeed it was for every opponent of government. See _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. vi. p. 441; _Mem. of Wakefield_, vol. ii. p. 67; and _Trotter's Mem. of Fox_, p. 10. [936] 'The iniquitous system of secret imprisonment, under which Pitt and Dundas had now filled all the gaols with parliamentary reformers; men who were cast into dungeons without any public accusation, and from whom the habeas-corpus suspension act had taken every hope of redress.' _Cooke's Hist. of Party_, vol. iii. p. 447. On the cruelty with which these political opponents of government were treated when in prison, see _Stephens's Mem. of Tooke_, vol. ii. pp. 121, 125, 423; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxiv. pp. 112, 113, 126, 129, 170, 515, vol. xxxv. pp. 742, 743; _Cloncurry's Recollections_, pp. 46, 86, 87, 140, 225. [937] _Life of Currie_, vol. ii. p. 160; _Stephens's Mem. of Tooke_, vol. ii. pp. 118, 119. [938] In 1793, Roscoe writes: 'Every man is called on to be a spy upon his brother.' _Life of Roscoe_, vol. i. p. 127. Compare Fox's statement (_Parl. Hist._ vol. xxx. p. 21), that what government had done was, 'to erect every man, not merely into an inquisitor, but into a judge, a spy, an informer,--to set father against father, brother against brother; and in this way you expect to maintain the tranquillity of the country.' See also vol. xxx. p. 1529; and a remarkable passage, in _Coleridge's Biog. Lit._ (vol. i. p. 192), on the extent of 'secret defamation,' in and after 1793. For further evidence of this horrible state of society, see _Mem. of Holcroft_, vol. ii. pp. 150, 151; _Stephens's Mem. of Horne Tooke_, vol. ii. pp. 115, 116. [939] There was even considerable difficulty in finding a printer for Tooke's great philological work, _The Diversions of Purley_. See _Stephens's Mem. of Tooke_, vol. ii. pp. 345-348. In 1798, Fox wrote to Cartwright (_Life of Cartwright_, vol. i. p. 248): 'The decision against Wakefield's publisher appears to me decisive against the liberty of the press; and, indeed, after it, one can hardly conceive how any prudent tradesman can venture to publish anything that can, in any way, be disagreeable to the ministers.' [940] Those who opposed the slave-trade were called jacobins, and 'enemies to the ministers;' and the celebrated Dr. Currie was pronounced to be a jacobin, and an 'enemy to his country,' because he remonstrated against the shameful manner in which the English government, in 1800, allowed the French prisoners to be treated. _Life of Currie_, vol. i. pp. 330, 332; _Life of Wilberforce_, vol. i. pp. 342-344, vol. ii. pp. 18, 133; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxx. p. 654, vol. xxxi. p. 467, vol. xxxiii. p. 1387, vol. xxxiv. pp. 1119, 1485. [941] _Life of Cartwright_, vol. i. p. 209; _Hunt's Hist. of Newspapers_, vol. ii. p. 104; _Belsham's Hist._ vol. ix. p. 227; _Adolphus's Hist._ vol. vi. p. 264; _Annual Register for 1795_, pp. 156, 160; _Stephens's Mem. of Tooke_, vol. ii. p. 118; _Life of Currie_, vol. i. p. 172; _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. vi. p. 316, vol. vii. p. 316; _Life of Wilberforce_, vol. iv. pp. 369, 377; _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxi. pp. 543, 667, 668, 1067, vol. xxxii. pp. 296, 302, 366, 367, 374, 664, vol. xxxv. pp. 1538, 1540; _Holcroft's Memoirs_, vol. ii. p. 190. [942] In addition to the passages referred to in the preceding note; compare _Hutton's Life of Himself_, p. 209, with _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. vi. p. 441, vol. vii. p. 104, and _Adolphus's Hist. of George III._ vol. vi. p. 45. In 1798, Caldwell wrote to Sir James Smith (_Correspondence of Sir J. E. Smith_, vol. ii. p. 143): 'The power of the crown is become irresistible. The new scheme of inquisition into every man's private circumstances is beyond any attempt I have ever heard of under Louis XIV.' [943] In 1794, Fox said, in his speech on the habeas-corpus suspension bill: 'Every man who talked freely, every man who detested, as he did from his heart, this war, might be, and would be, in the hands and at the mercy of ministers. Living under such a government, and being subject to insurrection, comparing the two evils, he confessed, he thought the evil they were pretending to remedy, was less than the one they were going to inflict by the remedy itself.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxi. p. 509. In 1800, Lord Holland stated, in the House of Lords, that, of 'the seven years of the war, the habeas-corpus act had been suspended five; and, of the multitudes who had been imprisoned in virtue of that suspension, few had been brought to trial, and only one convicted.' vol. xxxiv. pp. 1486. See also vol. xxxv. pp. 609, 610. On the effect of the suspension of the habeas-corpus act upon literature, see _Life of Currie_, vol. i. p. 506. Such was the way in which, at the end of the eighteenth century, the rulers of England, under pretence of protecting the institutions of the country, oppressed the people, for whose benefit alone those institutions ought to exist. Nor was even this the whole of the injury they actually inflicted. Their attempts to stop the progress of opinions were intimately connected with that monstrous system of foreign policy, by which there has been entailed upon us a debt of unexampled magnitude. To pay the interest of this, and to meet the current expenses of a profuse and reckless administration, taxes were laid upon nearly every product of industry and of nature. In the vast majority of cases, these taxes fell upon the great body of the people,[944] who were thus placed in a position of singular hardship For the upper classes not only refused to the rest of the nation the reforms which were urgently required, but compelled the country to pay for the precautions which, in consequence of the refusal, it was thought necessary to take. Thus it was that the government diminished the liberties of the people, and wasted the fruit of their industry, in order to protect that very people against opinions which the growth of their knowledge had irresistibly forced upon them. [944] See decisive evidence of this, in _Porter's Progress of the Nation_, vol. ii. pp. 283-285; and, on the enormous increase of expense and taxation, see _Pellew's Life of Sidmouth_, vol. i. p. 358, vol. ii. p. 47. It is not surprising that, in the face of these circumstances, some of the ablest observers should have despaired of the liberties of England, and should have believed that, in the course of a few years, a despotic government would be firmly established. Even we, who, looking at these things half a century after they occurred, are able to take a calmer view, and who moreover possess the advantages of a larger knowledge, and a riper experience, must nevertheless allow that, so far as political events were concerned, the danger was more imminent than at any moment since the reign of Charles I. But what was forgotten then, and what is too often forgotten now, is, that political events form only one of the many parts which compose the history of a great country. In the period we have been considering, the political movement was, no doubt, more threatening than it had been for several generations. On the other hand, the intellectual movement was, as we have seen, highly favourable, and its influence was rapidly spreading. Hence it was that, while the government of the country tended in one direction, the knowledge of the country tended in another; and while political events kept us back, intellectual events urged us forward. In this way, the despotic principles that were enforced were, in some degree, neutralized; and although it was impossible to prevent them from causing great suffering, still the effect of that suffering was to increase the determination of the people to reform a system under which such evils could be inflicted. For while they felt the evils, the knowledge which they had obtained made them see the remedy. They saw that the men who were at the head of affairs were despotic; but they saw, too, that the system must be wrong, which could secure to such men such authority. This confirmed their dissatisfaction, and justified their resolution to effect some fresh arrangement, which should allow their voices to be heard in the councils of the state.[945] And that resolution, I need hardly add, grew stronger and stronger, until it eventually produced those great legislative reforms which have already signalized the present century, have given a new tone to the character of public men, and changed the structure of the English parliament. [945] A careful observer of what was going on late in the eighteenth century, expresses what, early in the nineteenth century, was becoming the conviction of most men of plain, sound understanding, who had no interest in the existing corruption: 'Immoderate taxation, the result of the unnecessary wars of the reign of George III., is the cause of our embarrassments; and that immoderate taxation has been occasioned by the House of Commons being composed of men not interested to protect the property of the people.'--_Nicholl's Recollections_, vol. i. p. 213. It is thus that, in the latter part of the eighteenth century, the increase and diffusion of knowledge were in England, directly antagonistic to the political events which occurred during the same period. The extent and the nature of that antagonism I have endeavoured to explain, as clearly as the complexity of the subject, and the limits of this Introduction, enable me to do. We have seen that, looking at our country as a whole, the obvious tendency of affairs was to abridge the authority of the church, the nobles, and the crown, and thus give greater play to the power of the people. Looking, however, at the country, not as a whole, but looking merely at its political history, we find that the personal peculiarities of George III., and the circumstances under which he came to the throne, enabled him to stop the great progress, and eventually cause a dangerous reaction. Happily for the fortunes of England, those principles of liberty which he and his supporters wished to destroy, had before his reign become so powerful, and so widely diffused, that they not only resisted this political reaction, but seemed to gain fresh strength from the contest. That the struggle was arduous, and at one time extremely critical, it is impossible to deny. Such, however, is the force of liberal opinions, when they have once taken root in the popular mind, that notwithstanding the ordeal to which they were exposed, and notwithstanding the punishments inflicted on their advocates, it was found impossible to stifle them; it was found impossible even to prevent their increase. Doctrines subversive of every principle of freedom were personally favoured by the sovereign, openly avowed by the government, and zealously defended by the most powerful classes; and laws in accordance with these doctrines were placed on our statute-book, and enforced in our courts. All, however, was in vain. In a few years that generation began to pass away; a better one succeeded in its place; and the system of tyranny fell to the ground. And thus it is, that in all countries which are even tolerably free, every system must fall if it opposes the march of opinions, and gives shelter to maxims and institutions repugnant to the spirit of the age. In this sort of contest, the ultimate result is never doubtful. For the vigour of an arbitrary government depends merely on a few individuals, who, whatever their abilities may be, are liable, after their death, to be replaced by timid and incompetent successors. But the vigour of public opinion is not exposed to these casualties; it is unaffected by the laws of mortality; it does not flourish to-day and decline to-morrow; and so far from depending on the lives of individual men, it is governed by large general causes, which, from their very comprehensiveness, are in short periods scarcely seen, but on a comparison of long periods, are found to outweigh all other considerations, and reduce to insignificance those little stratagems by which princes and statesmen think to disturb the order of events, and mould to their will the destinies of a great and civilized people. These are broad and general truths, which will hardly be questioned by any man who, with a competent knowledge of history, has reflected much on the nature and conditions of modern society. But during the period we have been considering, they were utterly neglected by our political rulers, who not only thought themselves able to check the growth of opinions, but entirely mistook the very end and object of government. In those days, it was believed that government is made for the minority, to whose wishes the majority are bound humbly to submit. It was believed that the power of making laws must always be lodged in the hands of a few privileged classes; that the nation at large has no concern with those laws, except to obey them;[946] and that it is the duty of a wise government to secure the obedience of the people by preventing them from being enlightened by the spread of knowledge.[947] We may surely deem it a remarkable circumstance, that these notions, and the schemes of legislation founded upon them, should, within half a century, have died away so completely, that they are no longer advocated, even by men of the most ordinary abilities. What is still more remarkable is, that this great change should have been effected, not by any external event, nor by a sudden insurrection of the people, but by the unaided action of moral force,--the silent, though overwhelming pressure of public opinion. This has always seemed to me a decisive proof of the natural, and, if I may so say, the healthy march of English civilization. It is a proof of an elasticity, and yet a sobriety of spirit, such as no other nation has ever displayed. No other nation could have escaped from such a crisis, except by passing through a revolution, of which the cost might well have exceeded the gain. The truth, however, is, that in England the course of affairs, which I have endeavoured to trace since the sixteenth century, had diffused among the people a knowledge of their own resources, and a skill and independence in the use of them, imperfect, indeed, but still far superior to that possessed by any other of the great European countries. Besides this, other circumstances, which will be hereafter related,[948] had, so early as the eleventh century, begun to affect our national character, and had assisted in imparting to it that sturdy boldness, and, at the same time, those habits of foresight, and of cautious reserve, to which the English mind owes its leading peculiarities. With us, therefore, the love of liberty has been tempered by a spirit of prudence, which has softened its violence, without impairing its strength. It is this which, more than once, has taught our countrymen to bear even considerable oppression rather than run the risk of rising against their oppressors. It has taught them to stay their hands; it has taught them to husband their force until they can use it with irresistible effect. To this great and valuable habit we owe the safety of England late in the eighteenth century. If the people had risen, they would have staked their all; and what the result of that desperate game would have been, no man can say. Happily for them, and for their posterity, they were content to wait yet a little; they were willing to bide their time, and watch the issue of things. Of this noble conduct their descendants reap the reward. After the lapse of a few years, the political crisis began to subside, and the people re-entered on their former rights. For although their rights had been in abeyance, they were not destroyed, simply because the spirit still existed by which they were originally won. Nor can any one doubt that, if those evil days had been prolonged, that same spirit which had animated their fathers in the reign of Charles I. would have again broken forth, and society have been convulsed by a revolution, the bare idea of which is frightful to contemplate. In the mean time, all this was avoided; and although popular tumults did arise in different parts of the country, and although the measures of government caused a disaffection of the most serious kind,[949] still the people, taken as a whole, remained firm, and patiently reserved their force till a better time, when, for their benefit, a new party was organized in the state, by whom their interests were successfully advocated even within the walls of parliament. [946] Bishop Horsley, the great champion of the existing state of things, said in the House of Lords, in 1795, that he 'did not know what the mass of the people in any country had to do with the laws, but to obey them.' _Cooke's Hist. of Party_, vol. iii. p. 435. Compare _Godwin on Population_, p. 569. [947] Lord Cockburn (_Life of Jeffrey_, 1852, vol. i. pp. 67, 68) says: 'If there was any principle that was reverenced as indisputable by almost the whole adherents of the party in power sixty, or even fifty, or perhaps even forty years ago, it was that the ignorance of the people was necessary for their obedience to the law.' One argument was, 'that to extend instruction, would be to multiply the crime of forgery!' _Porter's Progress of the Nation_, vol. iii. p. 205. [948] See chapters ix. and x., on the history of the protective spirit. [949] Sir A. Alison notices in his _History_, (vol. iv. p. 213) 'how widely the spirit of discontent was diffused' in 1796; and the only wonder is, that the people were able to keep it in bounds. That, however, is a question which writers of his stamp never consider. This great and salutary reaction began early in the present century; but the circumstances which accompanied it are so extremely complicated, and have been so little studied, that I cannot pretend in this Introduction to offer even a sketch of them. It is sufficient to say, what must be generally known, that for nearly fifty years the movement has continued with unabated speed. Everything which has been done, has increased the influence of the people. Blow after blow has been directed against those classes which were once the sole depositaries of power. The Reform Bill, the Emancipation of the Catholics, and the Repeal of the Corn-laws, are admitted to be the three greatest political achievements of the present generation. Each of these vast measures has depressed a powerful party. The extension of the suffrage has lessened the influence of hereditary rank, and has broken up that great oligarchy of landowners, by which the House of Commons had long been ruled. The abolition of Protection has still further enfeebled the territorial aristocracy; while those superstitious feelings by which the ecclesiastical order is mainly upheld, received a severe shock, first by the repeal of the Test and Corporation Acts, and afterwards by the admission of Catholics into the legislature; steps which are with reason regarded as supplying precedents of mischievous import for the interests of the Established Church.[950] These measures, and others which are now obviously inevitable, have taken, and will continue to take, power from particular sections of society, in order to confer it upon the people at large. Indeed, the rapid progress of democratic opinions is a fact which no one in the present day ventures to deny. Timid and ignorant men are alarmed at the movement; but that there is such a movement is notorious to all the world. No one now dares to talk of bridling the people, or of resisting their united wishes. The utmost that is said is, that efforts should be made to inform them as to their real interests, and enlighten public opinion; but every one allows that, so soon as public opinion is formed, it can no longer be withstood. On this point all are agreed; and this new power, which is gradually superseding every other, is now obeyed by those very statesmen who, had they lived sixty years ago, would have been the first to deny its authority, ridicule its pretensions, and, if possible, extinguish its liberty. [950] Bishop Burgess, in a letter to Lord Melbourne, bitterly complained that Catholic emancipation was 'the extinction of the purely Protestant character of the British legislature.' _Harford's Life of Burgess_, p. 506: see also pp. 238, 239, 369, 370. There can be no doubt that the bishop rightly estimated the danger to his own party; and as to the Corporation and Test Acts, which, says another bishop (_Tomline's Life of Pitt_, vol. ii. p. 604), 'were justly regarded as the firmest bulwarks of the British constitution,' the feeling was so strong, that at an episcopal meeting in 1787, there were only two members who were willing to repeal these persecuting laws. See _Bishop Watson's Life of Himself_, vol. i. p. 262. Lord Eldon, who to the last stood up for the church, pronounced the bill for repealing these acts to be a 'revolutionary bill.' _Twiss's Life of Eldon_, vol. ii. p. 202. Such is the great gap which separates the public men of our time from those who nourished under that bad system which George III. sought to perpetuate. And it is evident, that this vast progress was brought about rather by destroying the system, than by improving the men. It is also evident, that the system perished because it was unsuited to the age; in other words, because a progressive people will never tolerate an unprogressive government. But it is a mere matter of history, that our legislators, even to the last moment, were so terrified by the idea of innovation, that they refused every reform until the voice of the people rose high enough to awe them into submission, and forced them to grant what, without such pressure, they would by no means have conceded. These things ought to serve as a lesson to our political rulers. They ought also to moderate the presumption of legislators, and teach them that their best measures are but temporary expedients, which it will be the business of a later and riper age to efface. It would be well if such considerations were to check the confidence, and silence the loquacity, of those superficial men, who, raised to temporary power, think themselves bound to guarantee certain institutions, and uphold certain opinions. They ought clearly to understand, that it does not lie within their function thus to anticipate the march of affairs, and provide for distant contingencies. In trifling matters, indeed, this may be done without danger; though, as the constant changes in the laws of every country abundantly prove, it is also done without benefit. But in reference to those large and fundamental measures which bear upon the destiny of a people, such anticipation is worse than useless,--it is highly injurious. In the present state of knowledge, politics, so far from being a science, is one of the most backward of all the arts; and the only safe course for the legislator is, to look upon his craft as consisting in the adaptation of temporary contrivances to temporary emergencies.[951] His business is to follow the age, and not at all to attempt to lead it. He should be satisfied with studying what is passing around him; and should modify his schemes, not according to the notions he has inherited from his fathers, but according to the actual exigencies of his own time. For he may rely upon it, that the movements of society have now become so rapid, that the wants of one generation are no measure of the wants of another; and that men, urged by a sense of their own progress, are growing weary of idle talk about the wisdom of their ancestors, and are fast discarding those trite and sleepy maxims which have hitherto imposed upon them, but by which they will not consent to be much longer troubled. [951] Sir C. Lewis, though in his learned work he over-estimates the resources possessed by politicians, does nevertheless allow that they are rarely able to anticipate the manner in which their measures will work. _Lewis on the Methods of Observation and Reasoning in Politics_, 1852, vol. ii. pp. 360-362. A writer of repute, M. Flassan, says (_Hist. de la Diplomatie_, vol. i. p. 19): 'On doit être très-indulgent sur les erreurs de la politique, à cause de la facilité qu'il y a à en commettre, erreurs auxquelles la sagesse même quelquefois entraîne.' The first part of this sentence is true enough; but it conveys a truth which ought to repress that love of interfering with the natural march of affairs which still characterizes politicians, even in the freest countries. * * * * * END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET Transcriber's Notes: The original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. Inconsistent hyphenation and accents are as in the original if not marked as a misprint. Text in italics has been marked with underscores (_text_). The ligature oe has been marked as [oe]. The sign ^ has been used as a superscript. The table below lists all corrections applied to the original text. p. v: -5 -> 4-5 p. vi: 154-156 -> 152-156 p. xi: the authorship -> the authorship. p. xvii: his Life, written by Himself. -> himself. p. xix: edit. Meibomius. Amstel. -> Amstel, p. xxi: Diplomatie Erançaise -> Française p. xxi: London, 1818. 2 vols -> vols. p. xxviii: A Journey though -> through p. xxxvi: of 1569. London, 1840 -> 1840. p. xxxviii: Literature. London, 1849 -> 1849. p. xli: The Journals of. London -> The Journals of London p. xlii: Camd. Soc. 1848 4to -> 1848. 4to. p. 10: lib. ii. segm. 16, vol -> vol. p. 22: not always absolutely, -> absolutely. p. 40: vol. vi. p. 136. -> 136, p. 54: with the greater rapidity. -> rapidity.' p. 57: one and a half per cent. -> cent p. 60: Carus' Comparative Anatomy -> Carus's p. 64: when it is over-supplied -> over-supplied. p. 64: 'Cabanis -> 'Cabanis' p. 64: _Burckhardt's Travels in Arabia_ -> _Arabia_, p. 64: Déscrition -> Description p. 64: Ulloa' -> Ulloa's p. 64: vol. i. pp. 379, 380, 460,; -> 460; p. 66: Phillip's on Scrofula -> Phillips p. 69: So too, in North America -> So, too, in North America p. 70: Theatre of the Indus -> Hindus p. 72: Craufurd's History -> Crawfurd's History p. 72: _Journal of Geograph. Society_, vol -> vol. p. 72: l'AmériqueMéridionale -> l'Amérique Méridionale p. 80: he be divested? -> divested?' p. 84: 170, 213; _Bowditch_ -> _Bowdich_ p. 94: throughout, the laying -> 'throughout p. 97: in nearly 9° north. -> north.' p. 97: p.113. -> p. 113. p. 103: vol. ii. p. 113, -> vol. ii. p. 113; p. 108: was 21°,on the -> was 21°, on the p. 109: of elevation. -> elevation.' p. 111: l.'_Humboldt_ -> l'_Humboldt_ p. 113: belonged to the people. -> people.' p. 119: natural progress -> natural progress. p. 122: _Brit. Assoc. for_ 1850, p. 68; -> p. 68); p. 123: comme Science d' Observation -> d'Observation p. 126: they apprehend danger. -> danger.' p. 126: Garrows or Garrudus. -> Garrudus.' p. 130: vol. i. p. 41; -> 41, p. 130: _Phillips on Scrofula_, p. 255: -> 255; p. 133: _Religiöse Bildung der Hindus_, vol -> vol. p. 135: _Asiatic Researches_ -> _Asiatic Researches_. p. 137: Speculationen über Zahlen -> 'Speculationen p. 143: Müller's Hist -> Müller's Hist. p. 147: Stephen's Central America -> Stephens's p. 148: _Béclard_. -> _Béclard_, p. 150: The views of Liebeg -> Liebig p. 158: can be raised -> can be raised. p. 158: _Locke's Works_, vol. i, -> vol. i. p. 164: generalized _solely_ from from the -> _solely_ from the p. 167: ich mir noch and ere -> andere p. 170: _Asiatic Researches_, vol. iii, -> vol. iii. p. 171: promises the metphysicians -> metaphysicians p. 177: Geoffroy Saint Hilaire -> Saint-Hilaire p. 177: _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. i. p. 380; -> p. 380, p. 183: vol. ii. p. 304 -> 304. p. 193: Ideen zur Gesckichte -> Ideen zur Geschichte p. 197: l'intelligence, la seule q'uon -> qu'on p. 205: and a dagger -> dagger. p. 207: sur ce sujet. -> sujet.' p. 208: became clearly recognied -> recognized p. 211: balancing of trade. -> trade.' p. 212: _Mill's History of India_, vol -> vol. p. 215: pp. 834, 905 -> 905, p. 249: Nichol's Literary Illustrations -> Nichols's p. 256: le plus éclairé. -> éclairé.' p. 267: _Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. ii, -> vol. ii. p. 293: vol. iii. pp. 383. -> 383, p. 294: [OE]uvresde -> [OE]uvres de p. 295: Poetry, 1840 -> 1840, p. 302: have for upwards of 2000 years -> 2,000 years p. 302: extending back 3000 years -> 3,000 years p. 304: from Madagascar to within 2000 miles -> 2,000 miles p. 304: in Polynesia Proper -> proper p. 310: Troyens, par Pàris -> Paris p. 314: vol. ii. p. 389 -> 389. p. 315: prædicatorem,' p. 360 -> 360. p. 325: progress was unmistakeable -> unmistakable p. 330: of mathematics at Tubingen -> Tübingen p. 332: _Biog. Univ._ -> _Biog. Univ._, p. 342: 'Quodque in illis -> Quodque in illis p. 358: pp. 572, 577 -> 577. p. 375: _Richardson's Travels in the Sahara_, vol. i. p 11 -> p. 11 p. 378: Cudworth's Intellect -> Intellect. p. 379: affected by uncontrolable -> uncontrollable p. 389: In another place, vol -> vol. p. 392: Chalmers' Biographical -> Chalmers's p. 393: Chalmers' Biog. -> Chalmers's Biog. p. 397: vol. ii. pp. 52. -> 52, p. 400: De Foe (_Wilson's -> De Foe _Wilson's p. 404: September 1688 (_Ellis_ -> _Ellis_, p. 409: _Parl. Hist._ vol. v -> vol. v. p. 411: vol. ii. pp. 640. -> p. 640. p. 412: 72 Calamy -> 172 Calamy p. 423: Southey's Wesley, pp -> pp. p. 425: Whateley's Dangers -> Whately's p. 426: Hist.of Moral -> Hist. of Moral p. 429: eighteenth century. Proviously -> Previously p. 434: vol. ii. p. 29), it become -> became p. 437: with plenty of 'parentheses'! -> 'parentheses!' p. 442: such efforts to instil -> instill p. 445: _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. v -> vol. v. p. 447: So too Lord Campbell -> So, too, Lord Campbell p. 449: rectitude of their hearts. -> hearts.' p. 451: Dutens' Mémoires -> Dutens's p. 453: So too Sheridan -> So, too, Sheridan p. 465: the very sound of them. -> them.' p. 467: vol. i. pp. 43. -> 43, p. 468: _Buckingham's Mem. of George III._ 1853. -> 1853, p. 474: the united sovereigns -> 'the united sovereigns p. 475: a _long_ war. -> war.' p. 477: _Bisset's Life of Burke_, vol -> vol. p. 480: 'Without stopping to relate -> Without stopping to relate p. 481: vol. i. p. 352, -> vol. i. p. 352; p. 481: says 139,171,876_l_ -> 139,171,876_l._ p. 487: Stephen's Mem. of -> Stephens's p. 493: immediately assented, p. 385-387. -> pp. 385-387. p. 494: _Stephens's Mem. of Tooke_, vol -> vol. p. 494: Compare Fox's statment -> statement p. 494: to erect every man,not -> man, not p. 494: Mem. of Horne Tooke -> Mem. of Horne Tooke, p. 496: See also vol. xxxv. p. 609, 610. -> pp. 609, 610. 
42824	----	Internet Archive (https://archive.org) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original 182 illustrations. See 42824-h.htm or 42824-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42824/42824-h/42824-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42824/42824-h.zip) Images of the original pages are available through Internet Archive. See https://archive.org/details/scenescharacters00cuttuoft Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by curly brackets is superscripted (example: o{r} Lady). SCENES AND CHARACTERS OF THE MIDDLE AGES [Illustration: _King Henry the Eighth's Army._] SCENES & CHARACTERS OF THE MIDDLE AGES by THE REV. EDWARD L. CUTTS, B.A. Late Hon. Sec. of the Essex Archæolocical Society With One Hundred and Eighty-Two Illustrations THIRD EDITION London: Alexander Moring Limited The De La More Press 32 George Street Hanover Square W 1911 CONTENTS. THE MONKS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. CHAP. PAGE I. THE ORIGIN OF MONACHISM 1 II. THE BENEDICTINE ORDERS 6 III. THE AUGUSTINIAN ORDER 18 IV. THE MILITARY ORDERS 26 V. THE ORDERS OF FRIARS 36 VI. THE CONVENT 54 VII. THE MONASTERY 70 THE HERMITS AND RECLUSES OF THE MIDDLE AGES. I. THE HERMITS 93 II. ANCHORESSES, OR FEMALE RECLUSES 120 III. ANCHORAGES 132 IV. CONSECRATED WIDOWS 152 THE PILGRIMS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. I. PILGRIMS 157 II. OUR LADY OF WALSINGHAM AND ST. THOMAS OF CANTERBURY 176 THE SECULAR CLERGY OF THE MIDDLE AGES. I. THE PAROCHIAL CLERGY 195 II. CLERKS IN MINOR ORDERS 214 III. THE PARISH PRIEST 222 IV. CLERICAL COSTUME 232 V. PARSONAGE HOUSES 252 THE MINSTRELS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. I. 267 II. SACRED MUSIC 284 III. GUILDS OF MINSTRELS 298 THE KNIGHTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. I. SAXON ARMS AND ARMOUR 311 II. ARMS AND ARMOUR, FROM THE NORMAN CONQUEST DOWNWARDS 326 III. ARMOUR OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY 338 IV. THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY 353 V. KNIGHTS-ERRANT 369 VI. MILITARY ENGINES 380 VII. ARMOUR OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY 394 VIII. THE KNIGHT'S EDUCATION 406 IX. ON TOURNAMENTS 423 X. MEDIÆVAL BOWMEN 439 XI. FIFTEENTH CENTURY AND LATER ARMOUR 452 THE MERCHANTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. I. BEGINNINGS OF BRITISH COMMERCE 461 II. THE NAVY 475 III. THE SOCIAL POSITION OF THE MEDIÆVAL MERCHANTS 487 IV. MEDIÆVAL TRADE 503 V. COSTUME 518 VI. MEDIÆVAL TOWNS 529 THE MONKS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. CHAPTER I. THE ORIGIN OF MONACHISM. We do not aim in these chapters at writing general history, or systematic treatises. Our business is to give a series of sketches of mediæval life and mediæval characters, looked at especially from the artist's point of view. And first we have to do with the monks of the Middle Ages. One branch of this subject has already been treated in Mrs. Jameson's "Legends of the Monastic Orders." This accomplished lady has very pleasingly narrated the traditionary histories of the founders and saints of the orders, which have furnished subjects for the greatest works of mediæval art; and she has placed monachism before her readers in its noblest and most poetical aspect. Our humbler task is to give a view of the familiar daily life of ordinary monks in their monasteries, and of the way in which they enter into the general life without the cloister;--such a sketch as an art-student might wish to have who is about to study that picturesque mediæval period of English history for subjects for his pencil. The religious orders occupied so important a position in mediæval society, that they cannot be overlooked by the historical student; and the flowing black robe and severe intellectual features of the Benedictine monk, or the coarse frock and sandalled feet of the mendicant friar, are too characteristic and too effective, in contrast with the gleaming armour and richly-coloured and embroidered robes of the sumptuous civil costumes of the period, to be neglected by the artist. Such an art-student would desire first to have a general sketch of the whole history of monachism, as a necessary preliminary to the fuller study of any particular portion of it. He would wish for a sketch of the internal economy of the cloister; how the various buildings of a monastery were arranged; and what was the daily routine of the life of its inmates. He would seek to know under what circumstances these recluses mingled with the outer world. He would require accurate particulars of costumes and the like antiquarian details, that the accessories of his picture might be correct. And, if his monks are to be anything better than representations of monkish habits hung upon "lay figures," he must know what kind of men the Middle Age monks were intellectually and morally. These particulars we proceed to supply as fully as the space at our command will permit. Monachism arose in Egypt. As early as the second century we read of men and women who, attracted by the charms of a peaceful, contemplative life, far away from the fierce, sensual, persecuting heathen world, betook themselves to a life of solitary asceticism. The mountainous desert on the east of the Nile valley was their favourite resort; there they lived in little hermitages, rudely piled up of stones, or hollowed out of the mountain side, or in the cells of the ancient Egyptian sepulchres, feeding on pulse and herbs, and water from the neighbouring spring. One of the frescoes in the Campo Santo, at Pisa, by Pietro Laurati, engraved in Mrs. Jameson's "Legendary Art," gives a curious illustration of this phase of the eremitical life. It gives us a panorama of the desert, with the Nile in the foreground, and the rock caverns, and the little hermitages built among the date-palms, and the hermits at their ordinary occupations: here is one angling in the Nile, and another dragging out a net; there is one sitting at the door of his cell shaping wooden spoons. Here, again, we see them engaged in those mystical scenes in which an over-wrought imagination pictured to them the temptations of their senses in visible demon-shapes--beautiful to tempt or terrible to affright; or materialised the spiritual joys of their minds in angelic or divine visions: Anthony driving out with his staff the beautiful demon from his cell, or rapt in ecstasy beneath the Divine apparition.[1] Such pictures of the early hermits are not infrequent in mediæval art--one, from a fifteenth century MS. Psalter in the British Museum (Domit. A. xvii. f. 4 v), will be found in a subsequent chapter of this book. We can picture to ourselves how it must have startled the refined Græco-Egyptian world of Alexandria when occasionally some man, long lost to society and forgotten by his friends, reappeared in the streets and squares of the city, with attenuated limbs and mortified countenance, with a dark hair-cloth tunic for his only clothing, with a reputation for exalted sanctity and spiritual wisdom, and vague rumours of supernatural revelations of the unseen world; like another John Baptist sent to preach repentance to the luxurious citizens; or fetched, perhaps, by the Alexandrian bishop to give to the church the weight of his testimony to the ancient truth of some doctrine which began to be questioned in the schools. Such men, when they returned to the desert, were frequently accompanied by numbers of others, whom the fame of their sanctity and the persuasion of their preaching had induced to adopt the eremitical life. It is not to be wondered at that these new converts should frequently build, or select, their cells in the neighbourhood of that of the teacher whom they had followed into the desert, and should continue to look up to him as their spiritual guide. Gradually, this arrangement became systematised; a number of separate cells, grouped round a common oratory, contained a community of recluses who agreed to certain rules and to the guidance of a chosen head; an enclosure wall was generally built around this group, and the establishment was called a _laura_. The transition from this arrangement of a group of anchorites occupying the anchorages of a laura under a spiritual head, to that of a community living together in one building under the rule of an abbot, was natural and easy. The authorship of this coenobite system is attributed to St. Anthony, who occupied a ruined castle in the Nile desert, with a community of disciples, in the former half of the fourth century. The coenobitical institution did not supersede the eremitical; both continued to flourish together in every country of Christendom.[2] The first written code of laws for the regulation of the lives of these communities was drawn up by Pachomius, a disciple of Anthony's. Pachomius is said to have peopled the island of Tabenne, in the Nile, with coenobites, divided into monasteries, each of which had a superior, and a dean to every ten monks; Pachomius himself being the general director of the whole group of monasteries, which are said to have contained eleven hundred monks. The monks of St. Anthony are represented in ancient Greek pictures with a black or brown robe, and often with a tau cross of blue upon the shoulder or breast. St. Basil, afterwards bishop of Cesaræa, who died A.D. 378, introduced monachism into Asia Minor, whence it spread over the East. He drew up a code of laws founded upon the rule of Pachomius, which was the foundation of all succeeding monastic institutions, and which is still the rule followed by all the monasteries of the Greek Church. The rule of St. Basil enjoins poverty, obedience, and chastity, and self-mortification. The habit both of monks and nuns was, and still is, universally in the Greek Church, a plain, coarse, black frock with a cowl, and a girdle of leather, or cord. The monks went barefooted and barelegged, and wore the Eastern tonsure, in which the hair is shaved in a crescent off the fore part of the head, instead of the Western tonsure, in which it is shaved in a circle off the crown. Hilarion is reputed to have introduced the Basilican institution into Syria; St. Augustine into Africa; St. Martin of Tours into France; St. Patrick into Ireland, in the fifth century. The early history of the British Church is enveloped in thick obscurity, but it seems to have derived its Christianity (indirectly perhaps) from an Eastern source, and its monastic system was probably derived from that established in France by St. Martin, the abbot-bishop of Tours. One remarkable feature in it is the constant union of the abbatical and episcopal offices; this conjunction, which was foreign to the usage of the church in general, seems to have obtained all but universally in the British, and subsequently in the English Church. The British monasteries appear to have been very large; Bede tells us that there were no less than two thousand one hundred monks in the monastic establishment of Bangor in the sixth century, and there is reason to believe that the number is not overstated. They appear to have been schools of learning. The vows do not appear to have been perpetual; in the legends of the British saints we constantly find that the monks quitted the cloister without scruple. The legends lead us to imagine that a provost, steward, and deans, were the officers under the abbot; answering, perhaps, to the prior, cellarer, and deans of Benedictine institutions. The abbot-bishop, at least, was sometimes a married man. CHAPTER II. THE BENEDICTINE ORDERS. In the year 529 A.D., St. Benedict, an Italian of noble birth and great reputation, introduced into his new monastery on Monte Cassino--a hill between Rome and Naples--a new monastic rule. To the three vows of obedience, poverty, and chastity, which formed the foundation of most of the old rules, he added another, that of manual labour (for seven hours a day), not only for self-support, but also as a duty to God and man. Another important feature of his rule was that its vows were perpetual. And his rule lays down a daily routine of monastic life in much greater detail than the preceding rules appear to have done. The rule of St. Benedict speedily became popular, the majority of the existing monasteries embraced it; nearly all new monasteries for centuries afterwards adopted it; and we are told, in proof of the universality of its acceptation, that when Charlemagne caused inquiries to be made about the beginning of the eighth century, no other monastic rule was found existing throughout his wide dominions. The monasteries of the British Church, however, do not appear to have embraced the new rule. St. Augustine, the apostle of the Anglo-Saxons, was prior of the Benedictine monastery which Gregory the Great had founded upon the Celian Hill, and his forty missionaries were monks of the same house. It cannot be doubted that they would introduce their order into those parts of England over which their influence extended. But a large part of Saxon England owed its Christianity to missionaries of the native church sent forth from the great monastic institution at Iona and afterwards at Lindisfarne, and these would doubtless introduce their own monastic system. We find, in fact, that no uniform rule was observed by the Saxon monasteries; some seem to have kept the rule of Basil, some the rule of Benedict, and others seem to have modified the ancient rules, so as to adapt them to their own circumstances and wishes. We are not surprised to learn that under such circumstances some of the monasteries were lax in their discipline; from Bede's accounts we gather that some of them were only convents of secular clerks, bound by certain rules, and performing divine offices daily, but enjoying all the privileges of other clerks, and even sometimes being married. Indeed, in the eighth century the primitive monastic discipline appears to have become very much relaxed, both in the East and West, though the popular admiration and veneration of the monks was not diminished. In the illuminations of Anglo-Saxon MSS. of the ninth and tenth centuries, we find the habits of the Saxon monks represented of different colours, viz., white, black, dark brown, and grey.[3] In the early MS. Nero C. iv., in the British Museum, at f. 37, occurs a very clearly drawn group of monks in white habits; another group occurs at f. 34, rather more stiffly drawn, in which the margin of the hood and the sleeves is bordered with a narrow edge of ornamental work. About the middle of the ninth century, however, Archbishop Dunstan reduced all the Saxon monasteries to the rule of St. Benedict; not without opposition on the part of some of them, and not without rather peremptory treatment on his part; and thus the Benedictine rule became universal in the West. The habit of the Benedictines consisted of a white woollen cassock, and over that an ample black gown and a black hood. We give here an excellent representation of a Benedictine monk, from a book which formerly belonged to St. Alban's Abbey, and now is preserved in the British Museum (Nero D. vii. f. 81). The book is the official catalogue which each monastery kept of those who had been benefactors to the house, and who were thereby entitled to their grateful remembrance and their prayers. In many cases the record of a benefaction is accompanied by an illuminated portrait of the benefactor. In the present case, he is represented as holding a golden tankard in one hand and an embroidered cloth in the other, gifts which he made to the abbey, and for which he is thus immortalised in their _Catalogus Benefactorum_. Other illustrations of Benedictine monks, of early fourteenth century date, may be found in the Add. MS. 17,687, at f. 3; again at f. 6, where a Benedictine is preaching; and again at f. 34, where one is preaching to a group of nuns of the same order; and at f. 41, where one is sitting writing at a desk (as in the scriptorium, probably). Yet again in the MS. Royal 20 D. vii., is a picture of St. Benedict preaching to a group of his monks. A considerable number of pictures of Benedictine monks, illustrating a mediæval legend of which they are the subject, occur in the lower margin of the MS. Royal 10 E. iv., which is of late thirteenth or early fourteenth century date. A drawing of Abbot Islip of Westminster, who died A.D. 1532, is given in the "Vetusta Monumenta," vol. iv. Pl. xvi. In working and travelling they wore over the cossack a black sleeveless tunic of shorter and less ample dimensions. [Illustration: _Benedictine Monk._] The female houses of the order had the same regulations as those of the monks; their costume too was the same, a white under garment, a black gown and black veil, with a white wimple around the face and neck. They had in England, at the dissolution of the monasteries, one hundred and twelve monasteries and seventy-four nunneries.[4] For illustration of an abbess see the fifteenth century MS. Royal 16 F. ii. at f. 137. The Benedictine rule was all but universal in the West for four centuries; but during this period its observance gradually became relaxed. We cannot be surprised if it was found that the seven hours of manual labour which the rule required occupied time which might better be devoted to the learned studies for which the Benedictines were then, as they have always been, distinguished. We should have anticipated that the excessive abstinence, and many other of the mechanical observances of the rule, would soon be found to have little real utility when simply enforced by a rule, and not practised willingly for the sake of self-discipline. We are not therefore surprised, nor should we in these days attribute it as a fault, that the obligation to labour appears to have been very generally dispensed with, and some humane and sensible relaxations of the severe ascetic discipline and dietary of the primitive rule to have been very generally adopted. Nor will any one who has any experience of human nature expect otherwise than that among so large a body of men--many of them educated from childhood[5] to the monastic profession--there would be some who were wholly unsuited for it, and some whose vices brought disgrace upon it. The Benedictine monasteries, then, at the time of which we are speaking, had become different from the poor retired communities of self-denying ascetics which they were originally. Their general character was, and continued throughout the Middle Ages to be, that of wealthy and learned bodies; influential from their broad possessions, but still more influential from the fact that nearly all the literature, and art, and science of the period was to be found in their body. They were good landlords to their tenants, good cultivators of their demesnes; great patrons of architecture, and sculpture, and painting; educators of the people in their schools; healers of the sick in their hospitals; great almsgivers to the poor; freely hospitable to travellers; they continued regular and constant in their religious services; but in housing, clothing, and diet, they lived the life of temperate gentlemen rather than of self-mortifying ascetics. Doubtless, as we have said, in some monasteries there were evil men, whose vices brought disgrace upon their calling; and there were some monasteries in which weak or wicked rulers had allowed the evil to prevail. The quiet, unostentatious, every-day virtues of such monastics as these were not such as to satisfy the enthusiastical seeker after monastical perfection. Nor were they such as to command the admiration of the unthinking and illiterate, who are always more prone to reverence fanaticism than to appreciate the more sober virtues, who are ever inclined to sneer at religious men and religious bodies who have wealth, and are accustomed to attribute to a whole class the vices of its disreputable members. The popular disrepute into which the monastics had fallen through their increased wealth, and their departure from primitive monastical austerity, led, during the next two centuries, viz., from the beginning of the tenth to the end of the eleventh, to a series of endeavours to revive the primitive discipline. The history of all these attempts is very nearly alike. Some young monk of enthusiastic disposition, disgusted with the laxity or the vices of his brother monks, flies from the monastery, and betakes himself to an eremitical life in a neighbouring forest or wild mountain valley. Gradually a few men of like earnestness assemble round him. He is at length induced to permit himself to be placed at their head as their abbot, requires his followers to observe strictly the ancient rule, and gives them a few other directions of still stricter life. The new community gradually becomes famous for its virtues; the Pope's sanction is obtained for it; its followers assume a distinctive dress and name; and take their place as a new religious order. This is in brief the history of the successive rise of the Clugniacs, the Carthusians, the Cistercians, and the orders of Camaldoli and Vallombrosa and Grandmont; they all sprang thus out of the Benedictine order, retaining the rule of Benedict as the groundwork of their several systems. Their departures from the Benedictine rule were comparatively few and trifling, and need not be enumerated in such a sketch as this: they were in fact only reformed Benedictines, and in a general classification may be included with the parent order, to which these rivals imparted new tone and vigour. The following account of the foundation of Clairvaux by St. Bernard will illustrate these general remarks. It is true that the founding of Clairvaux was not technically the founding of a new order, for it had been founded fifteen years before in Citeaux; but St. Bernard was rightly esteemed a second founder of the Cistercians, and his going forth from the parent house to found the new establishment at Clairvaux was under circumstances which make the narrative an excellent illustration of the subject. "Twelve monks and their abbot," says his life in the "Acta Sanctorum," "representing our Lord and his apostles, were assembled in the church. Stephen placed a cross in Bernard's hands, who solemnly, at the head of his small band, walked forth from Citeaux.... Bernard struck away to the northward. For a distance of nearly ninety miles he kept this course, passing up by the source of the Seine, by Chatillon, of school-day memories, till he arrived at La Ferté, about equally distant between Troyes and Chaumont, in the diocese of Langres, and situated on the river Aube. About four miles beyond La Ferté was a deep valley opening to the east. Thick umbrageous forests gave it a character of gloom and wildness; but a gushing stream of limpid water which ran through it was sufficient to redeem every disadvantage. In June, A.D. 1115, Bernard took up his abode in the valley of Wormwood, as it was called, and began to look for means of shelter and sustenance against the approaching winter. The rude fabric which he and his monks raised with their own hands was long preserved by the pious veneration of the Cistercians. It consisted of a building covered by a single roof, under which chapel, dormitory, and refectory were all included. Neither stone nor wood hid the bare earth, which served for floor. Windows scarcely wider than a man's hand admitted a feeble light. In this room the monks took their frugal meals of herbs and water. Immediately above the refectory was the sleeping apartment. It was reached by a ladder, and was, in truth, a sort of loft. Here were the monks' beds, which were peculiar. They were made in the form of boxes or bins of wooden planks, long and wide enough for a man to lie down in. A small space, hewn out with an axe, allowed room for the sleeper to get in or out. The inside was strewn with chaff, or dried leaves, which, with the woodwork, seem to have been the only covering permitted.... The monks had thus got a house over their heads; but they had very little else. They had left Citeaux in June. Their journey had probably occupied them a fortnight, their clearing, preparations, and building, perhaps two months; and thus they would be near September when this portion of their labour was accomplished. Autumn and winter were approaching, and they had no store laid by. Their food during the summer had been a compound of leaves intermixed with coarse grain. Beech-nuts and roots were to be their main support during the winter. And now to the privations of insufficient food was added the wearing out of their shoes and clothes. Their necessities grew with the severity of the season, till at last even salt failed them; and presently Bernard heard murmurs. He argued and exhorted; he spoke to them of the fear and love of God, and strove to rouse their drooping spirits by dwelling on the hopes of eternal life and Divine recompense. Their sufferings made them deaf and indifferent to their abbot's words. They would not remain in this valley of bitterness; they would return to Citeaux. Bernard, seeing they had lost their trust in God, reproved them no more; but himself sought in earnest prayer for release from their difficulties. Presently a voice from heaven said, 'Arise, Bernard, thy prayer is granted thee.' Upon which the monks said, 'What didst thou ask of the Lord?' 'Wait, and ye shall see, ye of little faith,' was the reply; and presently came a stranger who gave the abbot ten livres." William of St. Thierry, the friend and biographer of St. Bernard, describes the external aspect and the internal life of Clairvaux. We extract it as a sketch of the highest type of monastic life, and as a corrective of the revelations of corrupter life among the monks which find illustration in these pages. "At the first glance as you entered Clairvaux by descending the hill you could see it was a temple of God; and the still, silent valley bespoke, in the modest simplicity of its buildings, the unfeigned humility of Christ's poor. Moreover, in this valley full of men, where no one was permitted to be idle, where one and all were occupied with their allotted tasks, a silence deep as that of night prevailed. The sounds of labour, or the chants of the brethren in the choral service, were the only exceptions. The order of this silence, and the fame that went forth of it, struck such a reverence even into secular persons that they dreaded breaking it--I will not say by idle or wicked conversation, but even by pertinent remarks. The solitude, also, of the place--between dense forests in a narrow gorge of neighbouring hills--in a certain sense recalled the cave of our father St. Benedict, so that while they strove to imitate his life, they also had some similarity to him in their habitation and loneliness.... Although the monastery is situated in a valley, it has its foundations on the holy hills, whose gates the Lord loveth more than all the dwellings of Jacob. Glorious things are spoken of it, because the glorious and wonderful God therein worketh great marvels. There the insane recover their reason, and although their outward man is worn away, inwardly they are born again. There the proud are humbled, the rich are made poor, and the poor have the Gospel preached to them, and the darkness of sinners is changed into light. A large multitude of blessed poor from the ends of the earth have there assembled, yet have they one heart and one mind; justly, therefore, do all who dwell there rejoice with no empty joy. They have the certain hope of perennial joy, of their ascension heavenward already commenced. In Clairvaux they have found Jacob's ladder, with angels upon it; some descending, who so provide for their bodies that they faint not on the way; others ascending, who so rule their souls that their bodies hereafter may be glorified with them. "For my part, the more attentively I watch them day by day, the more do I believe that they are perfect followers of Christ in all things. When they pray and speak to God in spirit and in truth, by their friendly and quiet speech to Him, as well as by their humbleness of demeanour, they are plainly seen to be God's companions and friends. When, on the other hand, they openly praise God with psalmody, how pure and fervent are their minds, is shown by their posture of body in holy fear and reverence, while by their careful pronunciation and modulation of the psalms, is shown how sweet to their lips are the words of God--sweeter than honey to their mouths. As I watch them, therefore, singing without fatigue from before midnight to the dawn of day, with only a brief interval, they appear a little less than the angels, but much more than men.... "As regards their manual labour, so patiently and placidly, with such quiet countenances, in such sweet and holy order, do they perform all things, that although they exercise themselves at many works, they never seem moved or burdened in anything, whatever the labour may be. Whence it is manifest that that Holy Spirit worketh in them who disposeth of all things with sweetness, in whom they are refreshed, so that they rest even in their toil. Many of them, I hear, are bishops and earls, and many illustrious through their birth or knowledge; but now, by God's grace, all acceptation of persons being dead among them, the greater any one thought himself in the world, the more in this flock does he regard himself as less than the least. I see them in the garden with hoes, in the meadows with forks or rakes, in the fields with scythes, in the forest with axes. To judge from their outward appearance, their tools, their bad and disordered clothes, they appear a race of fools, without speech or sense. But a true thought in my mind tells me that their life in Christ is hidden in the heavens. Among them I see Godfrey of Peronne, Raynald of Picardy, William of St. Omer, Walter of Lisle, all of whom I knew formerly in the old man, whereof I now see no trace, by God's favour. I knew them proud and puffed up; I see them walking humbly under the merciful hand of God." The first of these reformed orders was the CLUGNIAC, so called because it was founded, in the year 927, at Clugny, in Burgundy, by Odo the Abbot. The Clugniacs formally abrogated the requirement of manual labour required in the Benedictine rule, and professed to devote themselves more sedulously to the cultivation of the mind. The order was first introduced into England in the year 1077 A.D., at Lewes, in Sussex; but it never became popular in England, and never had more than twenty houses here, and they small ones, and nearly all of them founded before the reign of Henry II. Until the fourteenth century they were all priories dependent on the parent house of Clugny; though the prior of Lewes was the High Chamberlain, and often the Vicar-general, of the Abbot of Clugny, and exercised a supervision over the English houses of the order. The English houses were all governed by foreigners, and contained more foreign than English monks, and sent large portions of their surplus revenues to Clugny. Hence they were often seized, during war between England and France, as alien priories. But in the fourteenth century many of them were made denizen, and Bermondsey was made an abbey, and they were all discharged from subjection to the foreign abbeys. The Clugniacs retained the Benedictine habit. At Cowfold Church, Sussex, still remains a monumental brass of Thomas Nelond, who was prior of Lewes at his death, in 1433 A.D., in which he is represented in the habit of his order.[6] [Illustration: _Carthusian Monk._] In the year 1084 A.D., the CARTHUSIAN order was founded by St. Bruno, a monk of Cologne, at Chartreux, near Grenoble. This was the most severe of all the reformed Benedictine orders. To the strictest observance of the rule of Benedict they added almost perpetual silence; flesh was forbidden even to the sick; their food was confined to one meal of pulse, bread, and water, daily. It is remarkable that this the strictest of all monastic rules has, even to the present day, been but slightly modified; and that the monks have never been accused of personally deviating from it. The order was numerous on the Continent, but only nine houses of the order were ever established in England. The principal of these was the Charterhouse (Chartreux), in London, which, at the dissolution, was rescued by Thomas Sutton to serve one at least of the purposes of its original foundation--the training of youth in sound religious learning. There were few nunneries of the order--none in England. The Carthusian habit consisted of a white cassock and hood, over that a white scapulary--a long piece of cloth which hangs down before and behind, and is joined at the sides by a band of the same colour, about six inches wide; unlike the other orders, they shaved the head entirely. The representation of a Carthusian monk, on previous page, is reduced from one of Hollar's well-known series of prints of monastic costumes. Another illustration may be referred to in a fifteenth century book of Hours (Add.), at f. 10, where one occurs in a group of religious, which includes also a Benedictine and a Cistercian abbot, and others. [Illustration: _Cistercian Monk._] In 1098 A.D., arose the CISTERCIAN order. It took the name from Citeaux (Latinised into Cistercium), the house in which the new order was founded by Robert de Thierry. Stephen Harding, an Englishman, the third abbot, brought the new order into some repute; but it is to the fame of St. Bernard, who joined it in 1113 A.D., that the speedy and widespread popularity of the new order is to be attributed. The order was introduced into England at Waverly, in Surrey, in 1128 A.D. The Cistercians professed to observe the rule of St. Benedict with rigid exactness, only that some of the hours which were devoted by the Benedictines to reading and study, the Cistercians devoted to manual labour. They affected a severe simplicity; their houses were to be simple, with no lofty towers, no carvings or representation of saints, except the crucifix; the furniture and ornaments of their establishments were to be in keeping--chasubles of fustian, candlesticks of iron, napkins of coarse cloth, the cross of wood, and only the chalice might be of precious metal. The amount of manual labour prevented the Cistercians from becoming a learned order, though they did produce a few men distinguished in literature; they were excellent farmers and horticulturists, and are said in early times to have almost monopolised the wool trade of the kingdom. They changed the colour of the Benedictine habit, wearing a white gown and hood over a white cassock; when they went beyond the walls of the monastery they also wore a black cloak. St. Bernard of Clairvaux is the great saint of the order. They had seventy-five monasteries and twenty-six nunneries in England, including some of the largest and finest in the kingdom. The cut represents a group of Cistercian monks, from a MS. (Vitellius A. 13) in the British Museum. It shows some of them sitting with hands crossed and concealed in their sleeves--an attitude which was considered modest and respectful in the presence of superiors; some with the cowl over the head. It will be observed that some are and some are not bearded. [Illustration: _Group of Cistercian Monks._] The Cistercian monk, whom we give in the opposite woodcut, is taken from Hollar's plate. Other reformed Benedictine orders which arose in the eleventh century, viz., the order of CAMALDOLI, in 1027 A.D., and that of VALLOMBROSA, in 1073 A.D., did not extend to England. The order of the GRANDMONTINES had one or two alien priories here. The preceding orders differ among themselves, but the rule of Benedict is the foundation of their discipline, and they are so far impressed with a common character, and actuated by a common spirit, that we may consider them all as forming the Benedictine family. CHAPTER III. THE AUGUSTINIAN ORDERS. We come next to another great monastic family which is included under the generic name of Augustinians. The Augustinians claim the great St. Augustine, Bishop of Hippo, as their founder, and relate that he established the monastic communities in Africa, and gave them a rule. That he did patronise monachism in Africa we gather from his writings, but it is not clear that he founded any distinct order; nor was any order called after his name until the middle of the ninth century. About that time all the various denominations of clergy who had not entered the ranks of monachism--priests, canons, clerks, &c.--were incorporated by a decree of Pope Leo III. and the Emperor Lothaire into one great order, and were enjoined to observe the rule which was then known under the name of St. Augustine, but which is said to have been really compiled by Ivo de Chartres from the writings of St. Augustine. It was a much milder rule than the Benedictine. The Augustinians were divided into Canons Secular and Canons Regular. The CANONS SECULAR OF ST. AUGUSTINE were in fact the clergy of cathedral and collegiate churches, who lived in community on the monastic model; their habit was a long black cassock (the parochial clergy did not then universally wear black); over which, during divine service, they wore a surplice and a fur tippet, called an _almuce_, and a four-square black cap, called a _baret_; and at other times a black cloak and hood with a leather girdle. According to their rule they might wear their beards, but from the thirteenth century downwards we find them usually shaven. In the Canon's Yeoman's tale, from which the following extract is taken, Chaucer gives us a pen-and-ink sketch of a canon, from which it would seem that even on a journey he wore the surplice and fur hood under the black cloak:-- "Ere we had ridden fully five mile, At Brighton under Blee us gan atake [overtake] A man that clothed was in clothes blake, And underneath he wered a surplice. * * * * * And in my hearte wondren I began What that he was, till that I understood How that his cloak was sewed to his hood,[7] For which when I had long avised me, I deemed him some chanon for to be. His hat hung at his back down by a lace." The hat which hung behind may have been like that of the abbot in a subsequent woodcut; but he wore his hood; and Chaucer, with his usual humour and life-like portraiture, tells us how he had put a burdock leaf under his hood because of the heat:-- "A clote-leaf he had laid under his hood For sweat, and for to keep his head from heat." Chaucer rightly classes the canons rather with priests than monks:-- "All be he monk or frere, Priest or chanon, or any other wight." The canon whom we give in the wood-cut over-leaf, from one of Hollar's plates, is in ordinary costume. An engraving of a semi-choir of canons in their furred tippets from the MS. Domitian xvii, will be found in a subsequent chapter on the Secular Clergy. There are numerous existing monumental brasses in which the effigies of canons are represented in choir costume, viz., surplice and amice, and often with a cope over all; they are all bareheaded and shaven. We may mention specially that of William Tannere, first master of Cobham College (died 1418 A.D.), in Cobham Church, Kent, in which the almuce, with its fringe of bell-shaped ornaments, over the surplice, is very distinctly shown; it is fastened at the throat with a jewel. The effigy of Sir John Stodeley, canon, in Over Winchendon Church, Bucks (died 1505), is in ordinary costume, an under garment reaching to the heels, over that a shorter black cassock, girded with a leather girdle, and over all a long cloak and hood. The CANONS REGULAR OF ST. AUGUSTINE were perhaps the least ascetic of the monastic orders. Enyol de Provins, a minstrel (and afterwards a monk) of the thirteenth century, says of them: "Among them one is well shod, well clothed, and well fed. They go out when they like, mix with the world, and talk at table." They were little known till the tenth or eleventh century, and the general opinion is, that they were first introduced into England, at Colchester, in the reign of Henry I., where the ruins of their church, of Norman style, built of Roman bricks, still remain. Their habit was like that of the secular canons--a long black cassock, cloak and hood, and leather girdle, and four-square cap; they are distinguished from the secular canons by not wearing the beard. According to Tanner, they had one hundred and seventy-four houses in England--one hundred and fifty-eight for monks, and sixteen for nuns; but the editors of the last edition of the "Monasticon" have recovered the names of additional small houses, which make up a total of two hundred and sixteen houses of the order. [Illustration: _Canon of St. Augustine._] The Augustinian order branches out into a number of denominations; indeed, it is considered as the parent rule of all the monastic orders and religious communities which are not included under the Benedictine order; and retrospectively it is made to include all the distinguished recluses and clerics before the institution of St. Benedict, from the fourth to the sixth century. The most important branch of the Regular Canons is the PREMONSTRATENSIAN, founded by St. Norbert, a German nobleman, who died in 1134 A.D.; his first house, in a barren spot in the valley of Coucy, in Picardy, called Pré-montre, gave its name to the order. The rule was that of Augustine, with a severe discipline superadded; the habit was a coarse black cassock, with a white woollen cloak and a white four-square cap. Their abbots were not to use any episcopal insignia. The Premonstratensian nuns were not to sing in choir or church, and to pray in silence. They had only thirty-six houses in England, of which Welbeck was the chief; but the order was very popular on the Continent, and at length numbered one thousand abbeys and five hundred nunneries. Under this rule are also included the GILBERTINES, who were founded by a Lincolnshire priest, Gilbert of Sempringham, in the year 1139 A.D. There were twenty-six houses of the order, most of them in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire; they were all priories dependent upon the house of Sempringham, whose head, as prior-general, appointed the priors of the other houses, and ruled absolutely the whole order. All the houses of this order were double houses, that is, monks and nuns lived in the same enclosure, though with a rigid separation between their two divisions. The monks followed the Augustinian rule; the nuns followed the rule of the Cistercian nuns. The habit was a black cassock, a white cloak, and hood lined with lambskin. The "Monasticon" gives very effective representations (after Hollar) of the Gilbertine monk and nun. The NUNS OF FONTEVRAUD was another female order of Augustinians, of which little is known. It was founded at Fontevraud in France, and three houses of the order were established in England in the time of Henry II.; they had monks and nuns within the same enclosure, and all subject to the rule of an abbess. The BONHOMMES were another small order of the Augustinian rule, of little repute in England; they had only two houses here, which, however, were reckoned among the greater abbeys, viz., Esserug in Bucks, and Edindon in Wilts. The female ORDER OF OUR SAVIOUR, or, as they are usually called, the BRIGITTINES, were founded by St. Bridget of Sweden, in 1363 A.D. They were introduced into England by Henry V., who built for them the once glorious nunnery of Sion House. At the dissolution, the nuns fled to Lisbon, where their successors still exist. Some of the relics and vestments which they carried from Sion House have been carefully preserved ever since, and are now in the possession of the Earl of Shrewsbury.[8] Their habit was like that of the Benedictine nuns--a black tunic, white wimple and veil, but is distinguished by a black band on the veil across the forehead. Other small offshoots of the great Augustinian tree were those which observed the rule of St. Austin according to the regulations of St. Nicholas of Arroasia, which had four houses here; and those which observed the order of St. Victor, which had three houses. We may refer the reader to two MS. illuminations of groups of religious for further illustration of their costumes. One is in the beautiful fourteenth century MS. of Froissart in the British Museum (Harl. 4,380, at f. 18 v). It represents a dying pope surrounded by a group of representative religious, cardinals, &c. Among them are one in a brown beard, and with no appearance of tonsure (? a hermit); another in a white scapular and hood (? a Carthusian); another in a black cloak and hood over a white frock (? a Cistercian); another in a brown robe and hood, tonsured. Again, in the MS. Tiberius B iii. article 3, f. 6, the text speaks of "Convens of monkys, chanons and chartreus, celestynes, freres and prestes, palmers, pylgreymys, hermytes, and reclus," and the illuminator has illustrated it with a row of religious--first a Benedictine abbot; then a canon with red cassock and almuce over surplice; then a monk with white frock and white scapular banded at the sides, as in Hollar's cut given above, is clearly the Carthusian; then comes a man in brown, with a knotted girdle, holding a cross staff and a book, who is perhaps a friar; then one in white surplice over red cassock, who is the priest; then a hermit, in brown cloak over dark grey gown; and in the background are partly seen two pilgrims and a monk. Other illustrations of monks are frequent in the illuminated MSS. The HOSPITALS of the Middle Ages deserve a more extended notice than we can afford them here. Some were founded at places of pilgrimage and along the high roads, for the entertainment of poor pilgrims and travellers. Thus at St. Edmund's Bury there was St. John's Hospital, or God's House, without the south gate; and St. Nicholas Hospital, without the east gate; and St. Peter's Hospital, without the Risley gate; and St. Saviour's Hospital, without the north gate--all founded and endowed by abbots of St. Edmund. At Reading there was the Hospital of St. Mary Magdalene, for twelve leprous persons and chaplains; and the Hospital of St. Lawrence, for twenty-six poor people and for the entertainment of strangers and pilgrims--both founded by abbots of Reading; one at the gate of Fountains Abbey, for poor persons and travellers; one at Glastonbury, under the care of the almoner, for poor and infirm persons; &c., &c. Indeed, they were scattered so profusely up and down the country that the last edition of the "Monasticon" enumerates no less than three hundred and seventy of them. Those for the poor had usually a little chamber for each person, a common hall in which they took their meals, a chapel in which they attended daily service. They usually were under the care and government of one or more clergymen; sometimes in large hospitals of a prior and bretheren, who were Augustinian canons. The canons of some of these hospitals had special statutes in addition to the general rules, and were distinguished by some peculiarity of habit; for example, the canons of the Hospital of St. John Baptist at Coventry wore a cross on the breast of their black cassock, and a similar one on the shoulder of their cloak. The poor people were also under a simple rule, and were regarded as part of the community. The accompanying woodcut enables us to place a group of them before the eye of the reader. It is from one of the initial letters of the deed (Harl. 1,498) by which Henry VII. founded a fraternity of thirteen poor men (thirteen was a favourite number for such hospitals) in Westminster Abbey, who were to be under the governance of the monks, and to repay the king's bounty by their prayers. The group represents the abbot and some of the monks, and behind them some of the bedesmen, each of whom has the royal badge--the rose and crown--on the shoulder of his habit, and holds in his hand his rosary, the symbol of his prayers. Happily some of these ancient foundations have continued to the present day, and the brethren may be seen yet in coats of antique fashion, with a cross or other badge on the sleeve. Examples of the architecture of the buildings may be seen in the Bede Houses in Higham Ferrers Churchyard, built by Archbishop Chechele in 1422; St. Thomas's Hospital, Northampton; Wyston's Hospital, Leicester; Ford's Hospital, Coventry; the Alms Houses at Sherborne; the Leicester Hospital at Warwick, &c. Mr. Turner, in the "Domestic Architecture," says that there exists a complete chronological series from the twelfth century downwards. [Illustration: _Bedesmen. Temp. Hen. VII._] Hospitals were also established for the treatment of the sick, of which St. Bartholomew's Hospital is perhaps our most illustrious instance. It was founded to be an infirmary for the sick and infirm poor, a lying-in hospital for women--there were sisters on the hospital staff, and if the women happened to die in hospital their children were taken care of till seven years of age. The staff usually consisted of a community living under monastic vows and rule, viz., a prior and a number of brethren who were educated and trained to the treatment of sickness and disease, and one or more of whom were also priests; a college, in short, of clerical physicians and surgeons and hospital dressers, who devoted themselves to the service of the sick poor as an act of religion, and had always in mind our Lord's words, "Inasmuch as ye do it to one of the least of these my brethren, ye do it unto me." In the still existing church of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, in Smithfield, is a monument of the founder "Rahere, first canon and prior," which is, however, of much later date, probably of about 1410 A.D.; his recumbent effigy, and the kneeling figures of two of his canons beside him, afford good authorities for costume. They have been engraved in the "Vetusta Monumenta," vol. ii. Pl. xxxvi. The building usually consisted of a great hall in which the sick lay, a chapel for their worship, apartments for the hospital staff, and other apartments for guests. We are not aware of any examples in England so perfect as some which exist in other countries, and we shall therefore borrow some foreign examples in illustration of the subject. The commonest form of these hospitals seems to have been a great hall divided by pillars into a centre and aisles, in which rows of beds were arranged; with a chapel in a separate building at one end of the hall, and other buildings irregularly disposed in a courtyard; as at the Hôtel Dieu of Chartres, a building of 1153 A.D.,[9] and the Salle des Morts at Ourscamp.[10] At Tonerre we find a modification of the above plan. The hospital is still a vast hall, but is divided by timber partitions along the side walls into little separate cells. Above these cells, against the side walls, and projecting partly over the cells, are two galleries, along which the attendants might walk and look down into the cells. At the east end of this hall two bays were screened off for the chapel, so that they who were able might go up into the chapel, and they who could not rise from their beds could still take part in the service.[11] At Tartoine, near Laon la Fère, is a hospital on a different plan: a hall, with cells on one side of it, is placed on one side of a square courtyard, and the chapel and lodgings for the brethren on another side of the court.[12] CHAPTER IV. THE MILITARY ORDERS. We have already sketched the history of the rise of monachism in the fourth century out of the groups of Egyptian eremites, and the rapid spread of the institution, under the rule of Basil, over Christendom; the adoption in the west of the new rule of Benedict in the sixth century; the rise of the reformed orders of Benedictines in the tenth and eleventh centuries; and the institution in the eleventh and twelfth centuries of a new group of orders under the milder discipline of the Augustinian rule. We come now to a class of monastics who are included under the Augustinian rule, since that rule formed the basis of their discipline, but whose striking features of difference from all other religious orders entitle them to be reckoned as a distinct class, under the designation of the Military Orders. When the history of the mendicant orders which arose in the thirteenth century has been read, it will be seen that these military orders had anticipated the active religious spirit which formed the characteristic of the friars, as opposed to the contemplative religious spirit of the monks. But that which peculiarly characterises the military orders, is their adoption of the chivalrous crusading spirit of the age in which they arose: they were half friars, half crusaders. The order of the KNIGHTS OF THE TEMPLE was founded at Jerusalem in 1118 A.D., during the interval between the first and second crusades, and in the reign of Baldwin I. Hugh de Payens, and eight other brave knights, in the presence of the king and his barons, and in the hands of the Patriarch, bound themselves into a fraternity which embraced the fundamental monastic vows of obedience, poverty, and chastity; and, in addition, as the special object of the fraternity, they undertook the task of escorting the companies of pilgrims from the coast up to Jerusalem, and thence on the usual tour to the Holy Places. For the open country was perpetually exposed to the incursions of irregular bands of Saracen and Turkish horsemen, and death or slavery was the fate which awaited any caravan of helpless pilgrims whom the infidel descried as they swept over the plains, or whom they could waylay in the mountain passes. The new knights undertook besides to wage a continual war in defence of the Cross against the infidel. The canons of the Temple at Jerusalem gave the new fraternity a piece of ground adjoining the Temple for the site of their home, and hence they took their name of Knights of the Temple; and they gradually acquired dependent houses, which were in fact strong castles, whose ruins may still be seen, in many a strong place in Palestine. Ten years after, when Baldwin II. sent envoys to Europe to implore the aid of the Christian powers in support of his kingdom against the Saracens, Hugh de Payens was sent as one of the envoys. His order received the approval of the Council of Troyes, and of Pope Eugene III., and the patronage of St. Bernard, who became the great preacher of the second crusade; and when Hugh de Payens returned to Palestine, he was at the head of three hundred knights of the noblest houses of Europe, who had become members of the order. Endowments, too, for their support flowed in abundantly; and gradually the order established dependent houses on its estates in nearly every country of Europe. The order was introduced into England in the reign of King Stephen; at first its chief house, "the Temple,"[13] was on the south side of Holborn, London, near Southampton Buildings; afterwards it was removed to Fleet Street, where the establishment still remains, long since converted to other uses; but the original church, with its round nave, after the form of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre at Jerusalem,[14] still continues a monument of the wealth and grandeur of the ancient knights. They had only five other houses in England, which were called Preceptories, and were dependent upon the Temple in London. The knights wore the usual armour of the period; but while other knights wore the flowing surcoat of the twelfth or thirteenth centuries, or the tight-fitting jupon of the fourteenth, or the tabard of the fifteenth, of any colour which pleased their taste, and often embroidered with their armorial bearings, the Knights of the Temple were distinguished by wearing this portion of their equipment of white, with a red cross over the breast; and over all a long flowing white mantle, with a red cross on the shoulder; they also wore the monastic tonsure. In the early fourteenth century MS. in the British Museum, Royal 1,696, at f. 335, is a representation of Eracles, Prior at Jerusalem, the Prior of the Hospital, and the Master of the Temple, sent to France to ask for succour. The illumination shows us the King of France sitting on his throne, and before him is standing a religious in mitre and crozier, who is no doubt Eracles, and another in a peculiarly shaped black robe, with a cross patee on the left shoulder, who is either Hugh de Payens the Templar, or Raymond de Puy the Hospitaller, but which it is difficult to determine. Again, in the fine fourteenth century MS., Nero E. 2, at f. 345 v, is a representation of the trial of the Templars: there are three of them standing before the Pope and the King of France, dressed in a grey tunic, and over that a black mantle with a red cross on the left breast, and a pointed hood over the shoulders. Folio 350 represents the Master of the Temple being burnt to death in presence of the king and nobles. Again, in the fine MS. Royal 20, c. viii., of the time of our Richard II., at f. 42 and f. 48, are representations of the same scenes. Folio 42 is a group of Templars habited in long black coat, fitting close up to the neck, like the ordinary civil robes of the time, with a pointed hood (like that with which we are familiar in the portraits of Dante), with a cross patee on the right shoulder; the hair is tonsured. At f. 45 is the burning of a group of Templars (not tonsured), and at f. 48 the burning of the Master of the Temple and another (tonsured). Their banner was of a black and white striped cloth, called _beauseant_, which word they adopted as a war-cry. The rule allowed three horses and a servant to each knight. Married knights were admitted, but there were no sisters of the order. The order was suppressed with circumstances of gross injustice and cruelty in the fourteenth century, and the bulk of their estates was given to the Hospitallers. The knight here given, from Hollar's plate, is a prior of the order, in armour of the thirteenth century. [Illustration: _A Knight Templar._] The KNIGHTS OF ST. JOHN OF JERUSALEM, or the Knights Hospitallers, originally were not a military order; they were founded about 1092 by the merchants of Amalfi, in Italy, for the purpose of affording hospitality to pilgrims in the Holy Land. Their chief house, which was called the Hospital, was situated at Jerusalem, over against the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; and they had independent hospitals in other places in the Holy Land, which were frequented by the pilgrims. Their kindness to the sick and wounded soldiers of the first crusade made them popular, and several of the crusading princes endowed them with estates; while many of the crusaders, instead of returning home, laid down their arms, and joined the brotherhood of the Hospital. During this period of their history their habit was a plain black robe, with a linen cross upon the left breast. At length their endowments having become greater than the needs of their hospitals required, and incited by the example of the Templars, a little before established, Raymond de Puy, the then master of the hospital, offered to King Baldwin II. to reconstruct the order on the model of the Templars. From this time the two military orders formed a powerful standing army for the defence of the kingdom of Jerusalem. When Palestine was finally lost to the Christians, the Knights of St. John passed into the Isle of Cyprus, afterwards to the Isle of Rhodes, and, finally, to the Isle of Malta,[15] maintaining a constant warfare against the infidel, and doing good service in checking the westward progress of the Mohammedan arms. In the latter part of their history, and down to a recent period, they conferred great benefits by checking the ravages of the corsairs of North Africa on the commerce of the Mediterranean and the coast towns of Southern Europe. They patrolled the sea in war-galleys, rowed by galley-slaves, each of which carried a force of armed soldiers--inferior brethren of the order, officered by its knights. They are not even now extinct. The order was first introduced into England in the reign of Henry I., at Clerkenwell; which continued the principal house of the order in England, and was styled the Hospital. The Hospitallers had also dependent houses, called Commanderies, on many of their English estates, to the number of fifty-three in all. The houses of the military knights in England were only cells, erected on the estates with which they had been endowed, in order to cultivate those estates for the support of the order, and to form depôts for recruits; _i.e._ for novices, where they might be trained, not in learning like Benedictines, or agriculture like Cistercians, or preaching like Dominicans, but in piety and in military exercises. A plan and elevation of the Commandery of Chabburn, Northumberland, are engraved in Turner's "Domestic Architecture," vol. iii. p. 197. The superior of the order in England sat in Parliament, and was accounted the first lay baron. When on military duty the knights wore the ordinary armour of the period, with a red surcoat marked with a white cross on the breast, and a red mantle with a white cross on the shoulder. Some of their churches in England possibly had circular naves, like the church of the Temple in Jerusalem; out of the four "round churches," which remain, one belonged to the Knights of the Hospital. The chapel at Chabburn is a rectangular building. There were many sisters of the order, but only one house of them in England. One of two earlier representations of knights of the order may be noted here. In a MS. in the Library at Ghent, of the date of our Edward IV., is a picture of John Lonstrother, prior of the order; he wears a long sleeveless gown over armour. It is engraved in the "Archælogia," xiii. 14. The MS. Add. 18,143 in the British Museum is said in a note at the beginning of the volume to have been the missal of Phillippe de Villiers de l'Isle Adam, the famous Grand Master of the Order of St. John of Jerusalem from 1521 to 1534. In the frontispiece is a portrait of the Grand Master in a black robe lined with fur, and a cross patee on the breast. On the opposite page is another portrait of him in a robe of different fashion, with a cross rather differently shaped. The monument of the last English Prior, Sir Thomas Tresham, in his robes as prior of the order, still remains in Rushton Church, Northants. A fine portrait of a Knight of Malta is in the National Gallery. The Hospitaller given on the preceding page, from Hollar's plate, is a (not very good) representation of one in the armour of the early part of the fourteenth century, with the usual knight's _chapeau_, instead of the mail hood or the basinet, on his head. [Illustration: _A Knight Hospitaller._] It will be gathered from the authorities of the costume of the Knights of the Temple and of the Hospital here noted, that when we picture to ourselves the knights on duty in the Holy Land or elsewhere, it should be in the armour of their period with the uniform surcoat of their order; but when we desire to realise their appearance as they were to be ordinarily seen, in chapel or refectory, or about their estates, or forming part of any ordinary scene of English life, it must be in the long cassock-like gown, with the cross on the shoulder, and the tonsured head, described in the above authorities, which would make their appearance resemble that of other religious persons. Other military orders, which never extended to England, were the order of TEUTONIC KNIGHTS, a fraternity similar to that of the Templars, but consisting entirely of Germans; and the order of OUR LADY OF MERCY, a Spanish knightly order in imitation of that of the Trinitarians. One other order of religious--the TRINITARIANS--we have reserved for this place, because while by their rule they are classed among the Augustinian orders, the object of their foundation gives them an affinity with the military orders, and their mode of pursuing that object makes their organisation and life resemble that of friars. The moral interest of their work, and its picturesque scenes and associations, lead us to give a little larger space to them than we have been able to do to most of the other orders. It is difficult for us to realise that the Mohammedan power seemed at one time not unlikely to subjugate all Europe; and that after their career of conquest had been arrested, the Mohammedan states of North Africa continued for centuries to be a scourge to the commerce of Europe, and a terror to the inhabitants of the coasts of the Mediterranean. They scoured the Great Sea with their galleys, and captured ships; they made descents on the coasts, and plundered towns and villages; and carried off the captives into slavery, and retreated in safety with their booty, to their African harbours. It is only within quite recent times that the last of these strongholds was destroyed by an English fleet, and that the Greek and Italian feluccas have ceased to fear the Algerine pirates. We have already briefly stated how the Hospitallers, after their original service was ended by the expulsion of the Christians from the Holy Land, settled first at Cyprus, then at Rhodes, and did good service as a bulwark against the Mohammedan progress; and lastly, as Knights of Malta, acted as the police of the Mediterranean, and did their best to oppose the piracies of the Corsairs. But in spite of the vigilance and prowess of the knights, many a merchant ship was captured, many a fishing village was sacked, and many captives, men, women, and children of all ranks of society, were carried off into slavery; and their slavery was a cruel one, exaggerated by the scorn and hatred bred of antagonism in race and religion, and made ruthless by the recollection of ages of mutual injuries. The relations and friends of the unhappy captives, where they were people of wealth and influence, used every exertion to rescue those who were dear to them, and their captors were ordinarily willing to set them to ransom; but hopeless indeed was the lot of those--and they, of course, were the great majority--who had no friends rich enough to help them. The miserable fate of these helpless ones moved the compassion of some Christ-like souls. John de Matha, born, in 1154, of noble parents in Provence, with Felix de Valois, retired to a desert place, where, at the foot of a little hill, a fountain of cold water issued forth; a white hart was accustomed to resort to this fountain, and hence it had received the name of Cervus Frigidus, represented in French by (or representing the French?) Cerfroy. There, about A.D. 1197, these two good men--the Clarkson and Wilberforce of their time--arranged the institution of a new Order for the Redemption of Captives. The new order received the approval of the Pope Innocent III., and took its place among the recognised orders of the church. This Papal approval of their institution constituted an authorisation from the head of the church to seek alms from all Christendom in furtherance of their object. Their rules directed that one-third of their income only should be reserved for their own maintenance, one-third should be given to the poor, and one-third for the special object of redeeming captives. The two philanthropists preached throughout France, collecting alms, and recruiting men who were willing to join them in their good work. In the first year they were able to send two brethren to Africa, to negotiate the redemption of a hundred and eighty-six Christian captives; next year, John himself went, and brought back a thankful company of a hundred and ten; and on a third voyage, a hundred and twenty more; and the order continued to flourish,[16] and established a house of the order in Africa, as its agent with the infidel. They were introduced into England by Sir William Lucy of Charlecote, on his return from the Crusade; who built and endowed for them Thellesford Priory in Warwickshire; and subsequently they had eleven other houses in England. St. Rhadegunda was their tutelary saint. Their habit was white, with a Greek cross of red and blue on the breast--the three colours being taken to signify the three persons of the Holy Trinity, viz., the white, the Eternal Father; the blue, which was the transverse limb of the cross, the Son; and the red, the charity of the Holy Spirit. The order were called TRINITARIANS, from their devotion to the Blessed Trinity, all their houses being so dedicated, and hence the significance of their badge; they were commonly called MATHURINS, after the name of their founder; and BRETHREN OF THE ORDER OF THE HOLY TRINITY FOR THE REDEMPTION OF CAPTIVES, from their object. * * * * * Before turning from the monks to the friars, we must devote a brief sentence to the ALIEN PRIORIES. These were cells of foreign abbeys, founded upon estates which English proprietors had given to the foreign houses. After the expenses of the establishment had been defrayed, the surplus revenue, or a fixed sum in lieu of it, was remitted to the parent house abroad. There were over one hundred and twenty of them when Edward I., on the breaking out of the war with France, seized upon them, in 1285, as belonging to the enemy. Edward II. appears to have pursued the same course; and, again, Edward III., in 1337. Henry IV. only reserved to himself, in time of war, what these houses had been accustomed to pay to the foreign abbeys in time of peace. But at length they were all dissolved by act of Parliament in the second year of Henry V., and their possessions were devoted for the most part to religious and charitable uses. CHAPTER V. THE ORDERS OF FRIARS. We have seen how for three centuries, from the beginning of the tenth to the end of the twelfth, a series of religious orders arose, each aiming at a more successful reproduction of the monastic ideal. The thirteenth century saw the rise of a new class of religious orders, actuated by a different principle from that of monachism. The principle of monachism, we have said, was seclusion from mankind, and abstraction from worldly affairs, for the sake of religious contemplation. To this end monasteries were founded in the wilds, far from the abodes of men; and he who least often suffered his feet or his thoughts to wander beyond the cloister was so far the best monk. The principle which inspired the FRIARS was that of devotion to the performance of active religious duties among mankind. Their houses were built in or near the great towns; and to the majority of the brethren the houses of the order were mere temporary resting-places, from which they issued to make their journeys through town and country, preaching in the parish churches, or from the steps of the market-crosses, and carrying their ministrations to every castle and every cottage. "I speke of many hundred years ago, For now can no man see non elves mo; For now the great charity and prayers Of lymytours and other holy freres That serchen every land and every stream As thick as motis in the sunne-beam, Blessing halls, chambers, kitchens, and bowers, Cities and burghs, castles high and towers, Thorps and barns, shippons and dairies, This maketh that there been no fairies. For there as wont to walken was an elf, There walketh now the lymytour himself In undermeles and in morwenings,[17] And sayeth his matins and his holy things, As he goeth in his lymytacioun."--_Wife of Bath's Tale._ They were, in fact, home missionaries; and the zeal and earnestness of their early efforts, falling upon times when such an agency was greatly needed, produced very striking results. "Till the days of Martin Luther," says Sir James Stephen, "the church had never seen so great and effectual a reform as theirs.... Nothing in the histories of Wesley or of Whitefield can be compared with the enthusiasm which everywhere welcomed them, or with the immediate visible result of their labours." In the character of St. Francis, notwithstanding its superstition and exaggerated asceticism, there is something specially attractive: in his intense sympathy with the sorrows and sufferings of the poor, his tender and respectful love for them as members of Christ, his heroic self-devotion to their service for Christ's sake, in his vivid realisation of the truth that birds, beasts, and fishes are God's creatures, and our fellow-creatures. In the work of both Francis and Dominic there is much which is worth careful study at the present day. Now, too, there is a mass of misery in our large towns huge and horrible enough to kindle the Christ-like pity of another Francis; in country as well as town there are ignorance and irreligion enough to call forth the zeal of another Dominic. In our Sisters of Mercy we see among women a wonderful rekindling of the old spirit of self-sacrifice, in a shape adapted to our time; we need not despair of seeing the same spirit rekindled among men, freed from the old superstitions and avoiding the old blunders, and setting itself to combat the gigantic evils which threaten to overwhelm both religion and social order. Both these reformers took great pains to fit their followers for the office of preachers and teachers, sending them in large numbers to the universities, and founding colleges there for the reception of their students. With an admirable largeness of view, they did not confine their studies to theology, but cultivated the whole range of Science and Art, and so successful were they, that in a short time the professional chairs of the universities of Europe were almost monopolised by the learned members of the mendicant orders.[18] The constitutions required that no one should be licensed as a general preacher until he had studied theology for three years; then a provincial or general chapter examined into his character and learning; and, if these were satisfactory, gave him his commission, either limiting his ministry to a certain district (whence he was called in English a _limitour_, like Chaucer's Friar Hubert), or allowing him to exercise it where he listed (when he was called a _lister_). This authority to preach, and exercise other spiritual functions, necessarily brought the friars into collision with the parochial clergy;[19] and while a learned and good friar would do much good in parishes which were cursed with an ignorant, or slothful, or wicked pastor, on the other hand, the inferior class of friars are accused of abusing their position by setting the people against their pastors whose pulpits they usurped, and interfering injuriously with the discipline of the parishes into which they intruded. For it was not very long before the primitive purity and zeal of the mendicant orders began to deteriorate. This was inevitable; zeal and goodness cannot be perpetuated by a system; all human societies of superior pretensions gradually deteriorate, even as the Apostolic Church itself did. But there were peculiar circumstances in the system of the mendicant orders which tended to induce rapid deterioration. The profession of mendicancy tended to encourage the use of all those little paltry arts of popularity-hunting which injure the usefulness of a minister of religion, and lower his moral tone: the fact that an increased number of friars was a source of additional wealth to a convent, since it gave an increased number of collectors of alms for it, tended to make the convents less scrupulous as to the fitness of the men whom they admitted. So that we can believe the truth of the accusations of the old satirists, that dissolute, good-for-nothing fellows sought the friar's frock and cowl, for the license which it gave to lead a vagabond life, and levy contributions on the charitable. Such men could easily appropriate to themselves a portion of what was given them for the convent; and they had ample opportunity, away from the control of their ecclesiastical superiors, to spend their peculations in dissolute living.[20] We may take, therefore, Chaucer's Friar John, of the Sompnour's Tale, as a type of a certain class of friars; but we must remember that at the same time there were many earnest, learned, and excellent men in the mendicant orders; even as Mawworm and John Wesley might flourish together in the same body. [Illustration: _Costumes of the Four Orders of Friars._] The convents of friars were not independent bodies, like the Benedictine and Augustinian abbeys; each order was an organised body, governed by the general of the order, and under him, by provincial priors, priors of the convents, and their subordinate officials. There are usually reckoned four orders of friars--the Dominicans, Franciscans, Carmelites, and Augustines. "I found there freres, All the foure orders, Techynge the peple To profit of themselves." _Piers Ploughman_, l. 115. The four orders are pictured together in the woodcut on the preceding page from the thirteenth century MS. Harl. 1,527. They were called _Friars_ because, out of humility, their founders would not have them called _Father_ and _Dominus_, like the monks, but simply _Brother_ (_Frater, Frère, Friar_). The DOMINICANS and FRANCISCANS arose simultaneously at the beginning of the thirteenth century. Dominic, an Augustinian canon, a Spaniard of noble birth, was seized with a zeal for converting heretics, and having gradually associated a few ecclesiastics with himself, he at length conceived the idea of founding an order of men who should spend their lives in preaching. Simultaneously, Francis, the son of a rich Italian merchant, was inspired with a design to establish a new order of men, who should spend their lives in preaching the Gospel and doing works of charity among the people. These two men met in Rome in the year 1216 A.D., and some attempt was made to induce them to unite their institutions in one; but Francis was unwilling, and the Pope sanctioned both. Both adopted the Augustinian rule, and both required not only that their followers personally should have no property, but also that they should not possess any property collectively as a body; their followers were to work for a livelihood, or to live on alms. The two orders retained something of the character of their founders: the Dominicans that of the learned, energetic, dogmatic, and stern controversialist; they were defenders of the orthodox faith, not only by argument, but by the terrors of the Inquisition, which was in their hands; even as their master is, rightly or wrongly, said to have sanctioned the cruelties which were used against the Albigenses when his preaching had failed to convince them. The Franciscans retained something of the character of the pious, ardent, fanciful enthusiast from whom they took their name. [Illustration: _S. Dominic and S. Francis._] Dominic gave to his order the name of Preaching Friars; more commonly they were styled Dominicans, or, from the colour of their habits, Black Friars[21]--their habit consisting of a white tunic, fastened with a white girdle, over that a white scapulary, and over all a black mantle and hood, and shoes; the lay brethren wore a black scapulary. The woodcut which we give on the preceding page of two friars, with their names, DOMINIC and FRANCIS, inscribed over them, is taken from a representation in a MS. of the end of the thirteenth century (Sloan 346), of a legend of a vision of Dominic related in the "Legenda Aurea," in which the Virgin Mary is deprecating the wrath of Christ, about to destroy the world for its iniquity, and presenting to him Dominic and Francis, with a promise that they will convert the world from its wickedness. The next woodcut is from Hollar's print in the "Monasticon." An early fifteenth century illustration of a Dominican friar, in black mantle and brown hood over a white tunic, may be found on the last page of the Harleian MS., 1,527. A fine picture of St. Dominic, by Mario Zoppo (1471-98), in the National Gallery, shows the costume admirably; he stands preaching, with book and rosary in his left hand. The Dominican nuns wore the same dress with a white veil. They had, according to the last edition of the "Monasticon," fifty-eight houses in England. [Illustration: _A Dominican Friar._] The Franciscans were styled by their founder Fratri Minori--lesser brothers, Friars Minors; they were more usually called Grey Friars, from the colour of their habits, or Cordeliers, from the knotted cord which formed their characteristic girdle. Their habit was originally a grey tunic with long loose sleeves (but not quite so loose as those of the Benedictines), a knotted cord for a girdle, and a black hood; the feet always bare, or only protected by sandals. In the fifteenth century the colour of the habit was altered to a dark brown. The woodcut is from Hollar's print. A picture of St. Francis, by Felippino Lippi (1460-1505), in the National Gallery shows the costume very clearly. Piers Ploughman describes the irregular indulgences in habit worn by less strict members of the order:-- "In cutting of his cope Is more cloth y-folden Than was in Frauncis' froc, When he them first made. And yet under that cope A coat hath he, furred With foyns or with fichews Or fur of beaver, And that is cut to the knee, And quaintly y-buttoned Lest any spiritual man Espie that guile. Fraunceys bad his brethren Barefoot to wenden. Now have they buckled shoon For blenying [blistering] of ther heels, And hosen in harde weather Y-hamled [tied] by the ancle." A beautiful little picture of St. Francis receiving the stigmata may be found in a Book of Offices of the end of the fourteenth century (Harl. 2,897, f. 407 v.). Another fifteenth-century picture of the same subject is in a Book of Hours (Harl. 5,328, f. 123). Some fine sixteenth-century authorities for Franciscan costumes are in the MS. life of St. Francis (Harl. 3,229, f. 26). The principal picture represents St. Bonaventura, a saint of the order, in a gorgeous cope over his brown frock and hood, seated writing in his cell; through the open door is seen a corridor with doors opening off it to other cells. In the corners of the page are other pictures of St. Anthony of Padua, and St. Bernardine, and another saint, and St. Clare, foundress of the female order of Franciscans. A very good illumination of two Franciscans in grey frocks and hoods, girded with rope and barefooted, will be found in the MS. Add. 17,687 of date 1498. The Franciscan nuns, or Minoresses, or Poor Clares, as they were sometimes called, from St. Clare, the patron saint and first nun of the order, wore the same habit as the monks, only with a black veil instead of a hood. For another illustration of minoresses see MS. Royal 1,696, f. 111, v. The Franciscans were first introduced into England, at Canterbury, in the year 1223 A.D., and there were sixty-five houses of the order in England, besides four of minoresses. [Illustration: _A Franciscan Friar._] While the Dominicans retained their unity of organisation to the last, the Franciscans divided into several branches, under the names of Minorites, Capuchins, Minims, Observants, Recollets, &c. The CARMELITE FRIARS had their origin, as their name indicates, in the East. According to their own traditions, ever since the days of Elijah, whom they claim as their founder, the rocks of Carmel have been inhabited by a succession of hermits, who have lived after the pattern of the great prophet. Their institution as an order of friars, however, dates from the beginning of the thirteenth century, when Albert, Patriarch of Jerusalem, gave them a rule, founded upon, but more severe than, that of St. Basil; and gave them a habit of white and red stripes, which, according to tradition, was the fashion of the wonder-working mantle of their prophet-founder. The order immediately spread into the West, and Pope Honorius III. sanctioned it, and changed the habit to a white frock over a dark brown tunic; and very soon after, the third general of the order, an Englishman, Simon Stock, added the scapulary, of the same colour as the tunic, by which they are to be distinguished from the Premonstratensian canons, whose habit is the same, except that it wants the scapulary. From the colour of the habit the popular English name for the Carmelites was the White Friars. Sir John de Vesci, an English crusader, in the early part of the thirteenth century, made the ascent of Mount Carmel, and found these religious living there, claiming to be the successors of Elijah. The romantic incident seems to have interested him, and he brought back some of them to England, and thus introduced the order here, where it became more popular than elsewhere in Europe, but it was never an influential order. They had ultimately fifty houses in England. [Illustration: _A Carmelite Friar._] The AUSTIN FRIARS were founded in the middle of the thirteenth century. There were still at that time some small communities which were not enrolled among any of the great recognised orders, and a great number of hermits and solitaries, who lived under no rule at all. Pope Innocent IV. decreed that all these hermits, solitaries, and separate communities, should be incorporated into a new order, under the rule of St. Augustine, with some stricter clauses added, under the name of Ermiti Augustini, Hermits of St. Augustine, or, as they were popularly called, Austin Friars. Their exterior habit was a black gown with broad sleeves, girded with a leather belt, and black cloth hood. There were forty-five houses of them in England. There were also some minor orders of friars, who do not need a detailed description. The Crutched (crossed) Friars, so called because they had a red cross on the back and breast of their blue habit, were introduced into England in the middle of the thirteenth century, and had ten houses here. The Friars de Poenitentiâ, or the Friars of the Sack, were introduced a little later, and had nine houses. And there were six other friaries of obscure orders. But all these minor mendicant orders--all except the four great orders, the Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustinians, and Carmelites--were suppressed by the Council of Lyons, A.D. 1370. Chaucer lived in the latter half of the fourteenth century, when, after a hundred and forty years' existence, the orders of friars, or at least many individuals of the orders, had lost much of their primitive holiness and zeal. His avowed purpose is to satirise their abuses; so that, while we quote him largely for the life-like pictures of ancient customs and manners which he gives us, we must make allowance for the exaggerations of a satirist, and especially we must not take the faulty or vicious individuals, whom it suits his purpose to depict, as fair samples of the whole class. We have a nineteenth-century satirist of the failings and foibles of the clergy, to whom future generations will turn for illustrations of the life of cathedral towns and country parishes. We know how wrongly they would suppose that Dr. Proudie was a fair sample of nineteenth-century bishops, or Dr. Grantley of archdeacons "of the period," or Mr. Smylie of the evangelical clergy; we know there is no real bishop, archdeacon, or incumbent among us of whom those characters, so cleverly and amusingly, and in one sense so truthfully, drawn, are anything but exaggerated likenesses. With this caution, we do not hesitate to borrow illustrations of our subject from Chaucer and other contemporary writers. In his description of Friar Hubert, who was one of the Canterbury pilgrims, he tells us how-- "Full well beloved and familiar was he With frankelins over all in his countrie; And eke with worthy women of the town,[22] For he had power of confession, As said himself, more than a curate, For of his order he was licenciate. Full sweetely heard he confession, And pleasant was his absolution. He was an easy man to give penance There as he wist to have a good pittance, For unto a poor order for to give, Is signe that a man is well y-shrive. * * * * * His tippet was aye farsed[23] full of knives And pinnés for to give to fairé wives. And certainly he had a merry note, Well could he sing and playen on a rote.[24] * * * * * And over all there as profit should arise, Courteous he was, and lowly of service. There was no man no where so virtuous, He was the beste beggar in all his house, And gave a certain ferme for the grant None of his brethren came in his haunt." As to his costume:-- "For there was he not like a cloisterer, With threadbare cope, as is a poor scholar, But he was like a master or a pope, Of double worsted was his semi-cope,[25] That round was as a bell out of the press." In the Sompnour's tale the character, here merely sketched, is worked out in detail, and gives such a wonderfully life-like picture of a friar, and of his occupation, and his intercourse with the people, that we cannot do better than lay considerable extracts from it before our readers:-- "Lordings there is in Yorkshire, as I guess, A marsh country y-called Holderness, In which there went a limitour[26] about To preach, and eke to beg, it is no doubt. And so befel that on a day this frere Had preached at a church in his mannére, And specially aboven every thing Excited he the people in his preaching To trentals,[27] and to give for Goddé's sake, Wherewith men mighten holy houses make, There as divine service is honoured, Not there as it is wasted and devoured.[28] 'Trentals,' said he, 'deliver from penance Ther friendés' soules, as well old as young, Yea, when that they are speedily y-sung. Not for to hold a priest jolly and gay, He singeth not but one mass[29] of a day, Deliver out,' quoth he, 'anon[30] the souls. Full hard it is, with flesh-hook or with owles To be y-clawed, or to burn or bake: Now speed you heartily, for Christé's sake.' And when this frere had said all his intent, With _qui cum patre_[31] forth his way he went; When folk in church had given him what they lest He went his way, no longer would he rest." Then he takes his way through the village with his brother friar (it seems to have been the rule for them to go in couples) and a servant after them to carry their sack, begging at every house. "With scrippe and tipped staff, y-tucked high, In every house he gan to pore and pry; And begged meal or cheese, or ellés corn. His fellow had a staff tipped with horn, A pair of tables all of ivory, And a pointel y-polished fetisly, And wrote always the namés, as he stood, Of allé folk that gave them any good, As though that he woulde for them pray. 'Give us a bushel of wheat, or malt, or rye, A Goddé's kichel,[32] or a trippe of cheese; Or ellés what you list, we may not chese;[33] A Godde's halfpenny, or a mass penny, Or give us of your bran, if ye have any, A dagon[34] of your blanket, dearé dame, Our sister dear (lo! here I write your name): Bacon or beef, or such thing as you find.' A sturdy harlot[35] went them aye behind, That was their hosté's man, and bare a sack, And what men gave them laid it on his back. And when that he was out at door, anon He planed away the names every one, That he before had written on his tables; He served them with triffles[36] and with fables." At length he comes to a house in which, the goodwife being _devôte_, he has been accustomed to be hospitably received:-- "So along he went, from house to house, till he Came to a house where he was wont to be Refreshed more than in a hundred places. Sick lay the husbandman whose that the place is; Bedrid upon a couché low he lay: '_Deus hic_,' quoth he, 'O Thomas, friend, good day' Said this frere, all courteously and soft. 'Thomas,' quoth he, 'God yield[37] it you, full oft Have I upon this bench fared full well, Here have I eaten many a merry meal.' And from the bench he drove away the cat, And laid adown his potent[38] and his hat, And eke his scrip, and set himself adown: His fellow was y-walked into town Forth with his knave, into that hostlery Where as he shope him thilké night to lie 'O deré master,' quoth this sické man, 'How have ye fared since that March began? I saw you not this fourteen night and more.' 'God wot,' quoth he, 'laboured have I full sore; And specially for thy salvation Have I sayd many a precious orison, And for our other friendes, God them bless. I have this day been at your church at messe, And said a sermon to my simple wit. * * * * * And there I saw our dame. Ah! where is she?' 'Yonder I trow that in the yard she be,' Saidé this man, 'and she will come anon.' 'Eh master, welcome be ye, by St. John!' Saide this wife; 'how fare ye heartily?' This friar ariseth up full courteously, And her embraceth in his armés narwe,[39] And kisseth her sweet, and chirketh as a sparrow With his lippes: 'Dame,' quoth he, 'right well. As he that is your servant every deal.[40] Thanked be God that you gave soul and life, Yet saw I not this day so fair a wife In all the churché, God so save me.' 'Yea, God amendé defaults, sire,' quoth she: 'Algates welcome be ye, by my fay.' '_Graunt mercy_, dame; that have I found alway. But of your great goodness, by your leve, I wouldé pray you that ye not you grieve, I will with Thomas speak a little throw; These curates be so negligent and slow To searchen tenderly a conscience. In shrift, in preaching, is my diligence, And study, on Peter's words and on Paul's, I walk and fishen Christian menne's souls, To yield our Lord Jesu his proper rent; To spread his word is set all mine intent.' 'Now, by your faith, dere sir,' quoth she, 'Chide him well for Seinté Charitee. He is as angry as a pissemire,'" &c. Whereupon the friar begins at once to scold the goodman:-- "'O Thomas, _je vous die_, Thomas, Thomas, This maketh the fiend, this must be amended. Ire is a thing that high God hath defended,[41] And therefore will I speak a word or two.' 'Now, master,' quoth the wife, 'ere that I go, What will ye dine? I will go thereabout.' 'Now, dame,' quoth he, '_je vous dis sans doubte_, Have I not of a capon but the liver, And of your white bread but a shiver, And after that a roasted piggé's head (But I ne would for me no beast were dead), Then had I with you homely suffisance; I am a man of little sustenance, My spirit hath his fostering in the Bible. My body is aye so ready and so penible To waken, that my stomach is destroyed. I pray you, dame, that ye be not annoyed, Though I so friendly you my counsel shew. By God! I n'old[42] have told it but a few.' 'Now, sir,' quoth she, 'but one word ere I go. My child is dead within these weekés two, Soon after that ye went out of this town.'[43] 'His death saw I by revelation,' Said this frere, 'at home in our dortour.[44] I dare well say that ere that half an hour After his death, I saw him borne to blisse In mine vision, so God me wisse. So did our sexton and our fermerere,[45] That have been trué friars fifty year; They may now, God be thanked of his loan, Make their jubilee and walke alone.'"[46] We do not care to continue the blasphemous lies with which he plays upon the mother's tenderness for her dead babe. At length, addressing the sick goodman, he continues:-- "'Thomas, Thomas, so might I ride or go, And by that lord that cleped is St. Ive, N'ere[47] thou our brother, shouldest thou not thrive, In our chapter pray we[48] day and night To Christ that he thee send hele and might[49] Thy body for to welden hastily.' 'God wot,' quoth he, 'I nothing thereof feel, So help me Christ, as I in fewé years Have spended upon divers manner freres Full many a pound, yet fare I never the bet.' The frere answered, 'O Thomas, dost thou so? What need have you diverse friars to seche? What needeth him that hath a perfect leech[50] To seeken other leches in the town? Your inconstancy is your confusion. Hold ye then me, or elles our convent, To pray for you is insufficient? Thomas, that jape is not worth a mite; Your malady is for we have too lite.[51] Ah! give that convent half a quarter of oates; And give that convent four and twenty groats; And give that friar a penny and let him go; Nay, nay, Thomas, it may nothing be so; What is a farthing worth parted in twelve?" And so he takes up the cue the wife had given him, and reads him a long sermon on anger, quoting Seneca, and giving, for instances, Cambyses and Cyrus, and at length urges him to confession. To this-- "'Nay,' quoth the sick man, 'by Saint Simon, I have been shriven this day by my curate.' * * * * * 'Give me then of thy gold to make our cloister,'" and again he proclaims the virtues and morals of his order. "'For if ye lack our predication,[52] Then goth this world all to destruction. For whoso from this world would us bereave, So God me save, Thomas, by your leave, He would bereave out of this world the sun,'" &c. And so ends with the ever-recurring burden:-- "'Now, Thomas, help for Sainte Charitee.' This sicke man wax well nigh wood for ire,[53] He woulde that the frere had been a fire, With his false dissimulation;" and proceeds to play a practical joke upon him, which will not bear even hinting at, but which sufficiently shows that superstition did not prevent men from taking great liberties, expressing the utmost contempt of these men. Moreover,-- "His mennie which had hearden this affray, Came leaping in and chased out the frere." Thus ignominiously turned out of the goodman's house, the friar goes to the court-house of the lord of the village:-- "A sturdy pace down to the court he goth, Whereat there woned[54] a man of great honour, To whom this friar was alway confessour; This worthy man was lord of that village. This frere came, as he were in a rage, Whereas this lord sat eating at his board. * * * * * This lord gan look, and saide, '_Benedicite!_ What, frere John! what manner of world is this? I see well that something there is amiss.'" We need only complete the picture by adding the then actors in it:-- "The lady of the house aye stille sat, Till she had herde what the friar said." And "Now stood the lorde's squire at the board, That carved his meat, and hearde every word Of all the things of which I have you said." And it needs little help of the imagination to complete this contemporary picture of an English fourteenth-century village, with its lord and its well-to-do farmer, and its villagers, its village inn, its parish church and priest, and the fortnightly visit of the itinerant friars. * * * * * We have now completed our sketch of the rise of the religious orders, and of their general character; we have only to conclude this portion of our task with a brief history of their suppression in England. Henry VIII. had resolved to break with the pope; the religious orders were great upholders of the papal supremacy; the friars especially were called "the pope's militia;" the king resolved, therefore, upon the destruction of the friars. The pretext was a reform of the religious orders. At the end of the year 1535 a royal commission undertook the visitation of all the religious houses, above one thousand three hundred in number, including their cells and hospitals. They performed their task with incredible celerity--"the king's command was exceeding urgent;" and in ten weeks they presented their report. The small houses they reported to be full of irregularity and vice; while "in the great solemne monasteries, thanks be to God, religion was right well observed and kept up." So the king's decree went forth, and parliament ratified it, that all the religious houses of less than £200 annual value should be suppressed. This just caught all the friaries, and a few of the less powerful monasteries for the sake of impartiality. Perhaps the monks were not greatly moved at the destruction which had come upon their rivals; but their turn very speedily came. They were not suppressed forcibly; but they were induced to surrender. The patronage of most of the abbacies was in the king's hands, or under his control. He induced some of the abbots by threats or cajolery, and the offer of place and pension, to surrender their monasteries into his hand; others he induced to surrender their abbatial offices only, into which he placed creatures of his own, who completed the surrender. Some few intractable abbots--like those of Reading, Glastonbury, and St. John's, Colchester, who would do neither one nor the other--were found guilty of high treason--no difficult matter when it had been made high treason by act of Parliament to "publish in words" that the king was an "heretic, schismatic, or tyrant"--and they were disposed of by hanging, drawing, and quartering. The Hospitallers of Clerkenwell were still more difficult to deal with, and required a special act of Parliament to suppress them. Those who gave no trouble were rewarded with bishoprics, livings, and pensions; the rest were turned adrift on the wide world, to dig, or beg, or starve. We are not defending the principle of monasticism; it may be that, with the altered circumstances of the church and nation, the day of usefulness of the monasteries had passed. But we cannot restrain an expression of indignation at the shameless, reckless manner of the suppression. The commissioners suggested, and Bishop Latimer entreated in vain, that two or three monasteries should be left in every shire for religious, and learned, and charitable uses; they were all shared among the king and his courtiers. The magnificent churches were pulled down; the libraries, of inestimable value, were destroyed; the alms which the monks gave to the poor, the hospitals which they maintained for the old and impotent, the infirmaries for the sick, the schools for the people--all went in the wreck; and the tithes of parishes which were in the hands of the monasteries, were swallowed up indiscriminately--they were not men to strain at such gnats while they were swallowing camels--some three thousand parishes, including those of the most populous and important towns, were left impoverished to this day. No wonder that the fountains of religious endowment in England have been dried up ever since;--and the course of modern legislation is not calculated to set them again a-flowing. CHAPTER VI. THE CONVENT. Having thus given a sketch of the history of the various monastic orders in England, we proceed to give some account of the constitution of a convent, taking that of a Benedictine monastery as a type, from which the other orders departed only in minor particulars. The _convent_ is the name especially appropriate to the body of individuals who composed a religious community. These were the body of cloister monks, lay and clerical; the professed brethren, who were also lay and clerical; the clerks; the novices; and the servants and artificers. The servants and artificers were of course taken from the lower ranks of society; all the rest were originally of the most various degrees of rank and social position. We constantly meet with instances of noble men and women, knights and ladies, minstrels and merchants, quitting their secular occupations at various periods of their life, and taking the religious habit; some of them continuing simply professed brethren, others rising to high offices in their order. Scions of noble houses were not infrequently entered at an early age as novices, either devoted to the religious life by the piety of their parents, or, with more worldly motives, thus provided with a calling and a maintenance; and sometimes considerable interest was used to procure the admittance of novices into the great monasteries. Again, the children of the poor were received into the monastic schools, and such as showed peculiar aptitude were sometimes at length admitted as monks,[55] and were eligible, and were often chosen, to the highest ecclesiastical dignities. The whole convent was under the government of the _abbot_, who, however, was bound to govern according to the rule of the order. Sometimes he was elected by the convent; sometimes the king or some patron had a share in the election. Frequently there were estates attached to the office, distinct from those of the convent; sometimes the abbot had only an allowance out of the convent estates; but always he had great power over the property of the convent, and bad abbots are frequently accused of wasting the property of the house, and enriching their relatives and friends out of it. The abbots of some of the more important houses were mitred abbots, and were summoned to Parliament. In the time of Henry VIII. twenty-four abbots and the prior of Coventry had seats in the House of Peers.[56] The abbot did not live in common with his monks; he had a separate establishment of his own within the precincts of the house, sometimes over the entrance gate, called the Abbot's Lodgings.[57] He ate in his own hall, slept in his own chamber, had a chapel, or oratory, for his private devotions, and accommodation for a retinue of chaplains and servants. His duty was to set to his monks an example of observance of the rule, to keep them to its observance, to punish breaches of it, to attend the services in church when not hindered by his other duties, to preach on holy days to the people, to attend chapter and preach on the rule, to act as confessor to the monks. But an abbot was also involved in many secular duties; there were manors of his own, and of the convent's, far and near, which required visiting; and these manors involved the abbot in all the numerous duties which the feudal system devolved upon a lord towards his tenants, and towards his feudal superior. The greater abbots were barons, and sometimes were thus involved in such duties as those of justices in eyre, military leaders of their vassals, peers of Parliament. Hospitality was one of the great monastic virtues. The usual regulation in convents was that the abbot should entertain all guests of gentle degree, while the convent entertained all others. This again found abundance of occupation for my lord abbot in performing all the offices of a courteous host, which seems to have been done in a way becoming his character as a lord of wealth and dignity; his table was bountifully spread, even if he chose to confine himself to pulse and water; a band of wandering minstrels was always welcome to the abbot's hall to entertain his gentle and fair guests; and his falconer could furnish a cast of hawks, and his forester a leash of hounds, and the lord abbot would not decline to ride by the river or into his manor parks to witness and to share in the sport. In the Harl. MS. 1,527, at fol. 108 (?), is a picture of an abbot on horseback casting off a hawk from his fist. A pretty little illustration of this abbatial hospitality occurs in Marie's "Lay of Ywonec."[58] A baron and his family are travelling in obedience to the royal summons, to keep one of the high festivals at Caerleon. In the course of their journey they stop for a night at a spacious abbey, where they are received with the greatest hospitality. "The good abbot, for the sake of detaining his guests during another day, exhibited to them the whole of the apartments, the dormitory, the refectory, and the chapter-house, in which last they beheld a splendid tomb covered with a superb pall fringed with gold, surrounded by twenty waxen tapers in golden candlesticks, while a vast silver censer, constantly burning, filled the air with fumes of incense." [Illustration: _A Benedictine Abbot._] An abbot's ordinary habit was the same as that of his monks. In the processions which were made on certain great feasts he held his crosier, and, if he were a mitred abbot, he wore his mitre: this was also his parliamentary costume. We give on the opposite page a beautiful drawing of a Benedictine abbot of St. Alban's, thus habited, from the _Catalogus Benefactorum_ of that abbey. When the abbot celebrated high mass on certain great festivals he wore the full episcopal costume. Thomas Delamere, abbot of St. Alban's, is so represented in his magnificent sepulchral brass in that abbey, executed in his lifetime, circa 1375 A.D. Richard Bewferest, abbot of the Augustine canons of Dorchester, Oxfordshire, has a brass in that church, date circa 1520 A.D., representing him in episcopal costume, bareheaded, with his staff; and in the same church is an incised gravestone, representing Abbot Roger, circa 1510 A.D., in full episcopal vestments. Abbesses bore the crosier in addition to the ordinal costume of their order; the sepulchral brass of Elizabeth Harvey, abbess of the Benedictine Abbey of Elstow, Bedfordshire, circa 1530 A.D., thus represents her, in the church of that place. Our representation of a Benedictine abbess on the previous page is from the fourteenth century MS. Royal, 2 B. vii. [Illustration: _Benedictine Abbess and Nun._] Under the abbot were a number of officials (_obedientiarii_), the chief of whom were the Prior, Precentor, Cellarer, Sacrist, Hospitaller, Infirmarer, Almoner, Master of the Novices, Porter, Kitchener, Seneschal, &c. It was only in large monasteries that all these officers were to be found; in the smaller houses one monk would perform the duties of several offices. The officers seem to have been elected by the convent, subject to the approval of the abbot, by whom they might be deposed. Some brief notes of the duties of these obedientiaries will serve to give a considerable insight into the economy of a convent. And first for the _Prior_:-- In some orders there was only one abbey, and all the other houses were priories, as in the Clugniac, the Gilbertine, and in the Military and the Mendicant orders. In all the orders there were abbeys, which had had distant estates granted to them, on which either the donor had built a house, and made it subject to the abbey; or the abbey had built a house for the management of the estates, and the celebration of divine and charitable offices upon them. These priories varied in size, from a mere cell containing a prior and two monks, to an establishment as large as an abbey; and the dignity and power of the prior varied from that of a mere steward of the distant estate of the parent house, to that of an autocratic head, only nominally dependent on the parent house, and himself in everything but name an abbot. The majority of the female houses of the various orders (except those which were especially female orders, like the Brigittines, &c.) were kept subject to some monastery, so that the superiors of these houses usually bore only the title of prioress, though they had the power of an abbess in the internal discipline of the house. One cannot forbear to quote at least a portion of Chaucer's very beautiful description of his prioress, among the Canterbury pilgrims:-- "That of her smiling ful simple was and coy." She sang the divine service sweetly; she spoke French correctly, though with an accent which savoured of the Benedictine convent at Stratford-le-Bow, where she had been educated, rather than of Paris; she behaved with lady-like delicacy at table; she was cheerful of mood, and amiable; with a pretty affectation of courtly breeding, and a care to exhibit a reverend stateliness becoming her office:-- "But for to speken of her conscience, She was so charitable and so piteous, She would wepe if that she saw a mouse Caught in a trappe, if it were dead or bled; Of smalé houndés had she that she fed With rosted flesh, and milk, and wastel bread; But sore wept she if one of them were dead, Or if men smote it with a yerdé smerte; And all was conscience and tendre herte. Ful semély her wimple y-pinched was; Her nose tretis,[59] her eyen grey as glass, Her mouth full small, and thereto soft and red, And sickerly she had a fayre forehed-- It was almost a spanné broad I trow, And hardily she was not undergrow."[60] Her habit was becoming; her beads were of red coral gauded with green, to which was hung a jewel of gold, on which was-- "Written a crowned A, And after, _Amor vincit omnia_. Another nun also with her had she, That was her chapelleine, and priestés three." But in abbeys the chief of the obedientiaries was styled prior; and we cannot, perhaps, give a better idea of his functions than by borrowing a naval analogy, and calling him the abbot's first lieutenant; for, like that officer in a ship, the prior at all times carried on the internal discipline of the convent, and in the abbot's absence he was his vicegerent; wielding all the abbot's powers, except those of making or deposing obedientiaries and consecrating novices. He had a suite of apartments of his own, called the prior's chamber, or the prior's lodging; he could leave the house for a day or two on the business of the house, and had horses and servants appropriated to his use; whenever he entered the monks present rose out of respect; some little license in diet was allowed him in refectory, and he might also have refreshment in his own apartments; sometimes he entertained guests of a certain condition in his prior's chamber. Neither the prior, nor any of the obedientiaries, wore any distinctive dress or badge of office. In large convents he was assisted by a sub-prior. The _Sub-prior_ was the prior's deputy, sharing his duties in his residence, and fulfilling them in his absences. The especial functions appropriated to him seem to have been to say grace at dinner and supper, to see that all the doors were locked at five in the evening, and keep the keys until five next morning; and, by sleeping near the dormitory door, and by making private search, to prevent wandering about at night. In large monasteries there were additional sub-priors. The _Chantor_, or _Precentor_, appears to come next in order and dignity, since we are told that he was censed after the abbot and prior. He was choir-master; taught music to the monks and novices; and arranged and ruled everything which related to the conduct of divine service. His place in church was in the middle of the choir on the right side; he held an instrument in his hand, as modern leaders use a bâton; and his side of the choir commenced the chant. He was besides librarian, and keeper of the archives, and keeper of the abbey seal. He was assisted by a _Succentor_, who sat on the left side of the choir, and led that half of the choir in service. He assisted the chantor, and in his absence undertook his duties. The _Cellarer_ was in fact the steward of the house; his modern representative is the bursar of a college. He had the care of everything relating to the provision of the food and vessels of the convent. He was exempt from the observance of some of the services in church; he had the use of horses and servants for the fulfilment of his duties, and sometimes he appears to have had separate apartments. The cellarer, as we have said, wore no distinctive dress or badge; but in the _Catalogus Benefactorum_ of St. Alban's there occurs a portrait of one "Adam Cellarius," who for his distinguished merit had been buried among the abbots in the chapter-house, and had his name and effigy recorded in the _Catalogus_; he is holding two keys in one hand and a purse in the other, the symbols of his office; and in his quaint features--so different from those of the dignified abbot whom we have given from the same book--the limner seems to have given us the type of a business-like and not ungenial cellarer. [Illustration: _Adam the Cellarer._] The _Sacrist_, or _Sacristan_ (whence our word sexton), had the care and charge of the fabric, and furniture, and ornaments of the church, and generally of all the material appliances of divine service. He, or some one in his stead, slept in a chamber built for him in the church, in order to protect it during the night. There is such a chamber in St. Alban's Abbey Church, engraved in the _Builder_ for August, 1856. There was often a sub-sacrist to assist the sacrist in his duties. The duty of the _Hospitaller_ was, as his name implies, to perform the duties of hospitality on behalf of the convent. The monasteries received all travellers to food and lodging for a day and a night as of right, and for a longer period if the prior saw reason to grant it.[61] A special hall was provided for the entertainment of these guests, and chambers for their accommodation. The hospitaller performed the part of host on behalf of the convent, saw to the accommodation of the guests who belonged to the convent, introduced into the refectory strange priests or others who desired and had leave to dine there, and ushered guests of degree to the abbot to be entertained by him. He showed the church and house at suitable times to guests whose curiosity prompted the desire. Every abbey had an infirmary, which was usually a detached building with its own kitchen and chapel, besides suitable apartments for the sick, and for aged monks, who sometimes took up their permanent residence in the infirmary, and were excused irksome duties, and allowed indulgences in food and social intercourse. Not only the sick monks, but other sick folk were received into the infirmary; it is a very common incident in mediæval romances to find a wounded knight carried to a neighbouring monastery to be healed. The officer who had charge of everything relating to this department was styled the _Infirmarer_. He slept in the infirmary, was excused from some of the "hours;" in the great houses had two brethren to assist him besides the necessary servants, and often a clerk learned in pharmacy as physician. The _Almoner_ had charge of the distribution of the alms of the house. Sometimes money was left by benefactors to be distributed to the poor annually at their obits; the distribution of this was confided to the almoner. One of his men attended in the abbot's chamber when he had guests, to receive what alms they chose to give to the poor. Moneys belonging to the convent were also devoted to this purpose; besides food and drink, the surplus of the convent meals. He had assistants allowed him to go and visit the sick and infirm folk of the neighbourhood. And at Christmas he provided cloth and shoes for widows, orphans, poor clerks, and others whom he thought to need it most. The _Master of the Novices_ was a grave and learned monk, who superintended the education of the youths in the schools of the abbey, and taught the rule to those who were candidates for the monastic profession. The _Porter_ was an officer of some importance; he was chosen for his age and gravity; he had an apartment in the gate lodge, an assistant, and a lad to run on his messages. But sometimes the porter seems to have been a layman. And, in small houses and in nunneries, his office involved other duties, which we have seen in great abbeys distributed among a number of officials. Thus, in Marie's "Lay le Fraine," we read of the porter of an abbey of nuns:-- "The porter of the abbey arose, And did his office in the close; Rung the bells, and tapers light, Laid forth books and all ready dight. The church door he undid," &c.; and in the sequel it appears that he had a daughter, and therefore in all probability was a layman. The _Kitchener_, or _Cook_, was usually a monk, and, as his name implies, he ruled in the kitchen, went to market, provided the meals of the house, &c. [Illustration: _Alan Middleton._] The _Seneschal_ in great abbeys was often a layman of rank, who did the secular business which the tenure of large estates, and consequently of secular offices, devolved upon abbots and convents; such as holding manorial courts, and the like. But there was, Fosbroke tells us, another officer with the same name, but of inferior dignity, who did the convent business of the prior and cellarer which was to be done out of the house; and, when at home, carried a rod and acted as marshal of the guest-hall. He had horses and servants allowed for the duties of his office; and at the Benedictine Abbey of Winchcombe he had a robe of clerk's cloth once a year, with lamb's fur for a supertunic, and for a hood of budge fur; he had the same commons in hall as the cellarer, and £2 every year at Michaelmas. Probably an officer of this kind was Alan Middleton, who is recorded in the _Catalogus_ of St. Alban's as "collector of rents of the obedientiaries of that monastery, and especially of those of the bursar." _Prudenter in omnibus se agebat_, and so, deserving well of the house, they put a portrait of him among their benefactors, clothed in a blue robe, of "clerk's cloth" perhaps, furred at the wrists and throat with "lamb's fur" or "budge fur;" a small tonsure shows that he had taken some minor order, the penner and inkhorn at his girdle denote the nature of his office; and he is just opening the door of one of the abbey tenants to perform his unwelcome function. They were grateful men, these Benedictines of St. Alban's; they have immortalised another of their inferior officers, _Walterus de Hamuntesham, fidelis minister hujus ecclesiæ_, because on one occasion he received a beating at the hands of the rabble of St. Alban's--_inter villanos Sci Albani_--while standing up for the rights and liberties of the church. [Illustration: _Walter of Hamuntesham attacked by a Mob._] Next in dignity after the obedientiaries come the _Cloister Monks_; of these some had received holy orders at the hands of the bishop, some not. Their number was limited. A cloister monk in a rich abbey seems to have been something like in dignity to the fellow of a modern college, and a good deal of interest was sometimes employed to obtain the admission of a youth as a novice, with a view to his ultimately arriving at this dignified degree. Next in order come the _Professed Brethren_. These seem to be monks who had not been elected to the dignity of cloister monks; some of them were admitted late in life. Those monks who had been brought up in the house were called _nutriti_, those who came later in life _conversi_; the lay brothers were also sometimes called _conversi_. There were again the _Novices_, who were not all necessarily young, for a _conversus_ passed through a noviciate; and even a monk of another order, or of another house of their own order, and even a monk from a cell of their own house, was reckoned among the novices. There were also the _Chaplains_ of the abbot and other high officials; and frequently there were other clerics living in the monastery, who served the chantries in the abbey church, and the churches and chapels which belonged to the monastery and were in its neighbourhood. Again, there were the _Artificers and Servants_ of the monastery: millers, bakers, tailors, shoemakers, smiths, and similar artificers, were often a part of a monastic establishment. And there were numerous men-servants, grooms, and the like: these were all under certain vows, and were kept under discipline. In the Cistercian abbey of Waverley there were in 1187 A.D. seventy monks and one hundred and twenty _conversi_, besides priests, clerks, servants, &c. In the great Benedictine abbey of St. Edmund's Bury, in the time of Edward I., there were eighty monks; fifteen chaplains attendant on the abbot and chief officers; about one hundred and eleven servants in the various offices, chiefly residing within the walls of the monastery; forty priests, officiating in the several chapels, chantries, and monastic appendages in the town; and an indefinite number of professed brethren. The following notes will give an idea of the occupations of the servants. In the time of William Rufus the servants at Evesham numbered--five in the church, two in the infirmary, two in the cellar, five in the kitchen, seven in the bakehouse, four brewers, four menders, two in the bath, two shoemakers, two in the orchard, three gardeners, one at the cloister gate, two at the great gate, five at the vineyard, four who served the monks when they went out, four fishermen, four in the abbot's chamber, three in the hall. At Salley Abbey, at the end of the fourteenth century, there were about thirty-five servants, among whom are mentioned the shoemaker and barber, the prior's chamberlain, the abbot's cook, the convent cook and baker's mate, the baker, brewers, tailor, cowherd, waggoners, pages of the kitchen, poultry-keeper, labourers, a keeper of animals and birds, bailiffs, foresters, shepherds, smiths: there are others mentioned by name, without a note of their office. But it was only a few of the larger houses which had such numerous establishments as these; the majority of the monasteries contained from five to twenty cloister monks. Some of the monasteries were famous as places of education, and we must add to their establishment a number of children of good family, and the learned clerks or ladies who acted as tutors; thus the abbey of St. Mary, Winchester, in 1536, contained twenty-six nuns, five priests, thirteen lay sisters, thirty-two officers and servants, and twenty-six children, daughters of lords and knights, who were brought up in the house. Lastly, there were a number of persons of all ranks and conditions who were admitted to "fraternity." Among the Hospitallers (and probably it was the same with the other orders) they took oath to love the house and brethren, to defend the house from ill-doers, to enter that house if they did enter any, and to make an annual present to the house. In return, they were enrolled in the register of the house, they received the prayers of the brethren, and at death were buried in the cemetery. Chaucer's Dominican friar (p. 48), writes the names of those who gave him donations in his "tables." In the following extract from Piers Ploughman's Creed, an Austin friar promises more definitely to have his donors enrolled in the fraternity of his house:-- "And gyf thou hast any good, And will thyself helpen, Help us herblich therewith. And here I undertake, Thou shalt ben brother of oure hous, And a book habben, At the next chapetre, Clerliche enseled. And then our provincial Hath power to assoylen Alle sustren and brethren That beth of our ordre." _Piers Ploughman's Creed_, p. 645. In the book of St. Alban's, which we have before quoted, there is a list of many persons, knights and merchants, ladies and children, vicars and rectors, received _ad fraternitatem hujus monasterii_. In many cases portraits of them are given: they are in the ordinary costume of their time and class, without any badge of their monastic fraternisation. Chaucer gives several sketches which enable us to fill out our realisation of the monks, as they appeared outside the cloister associating with their fellow-men. He includes one among the merry company of his Canterbury pilgrims; and first in the Monk's Prologue, makes the Host address the monk thus:-- "'My lord, the monk,' quod he ... 'By my trothe I can not tell youre name. Whether shall I call you my Lord Dan John, Or Dan Thomas, or elles Dan Albon? Of what house be ye by your father kin? I vow to God thou hast a full fair skin; It is a gentle pasture ther thou goest, Thou art not like a penaunt[62] or a ghost. Upon my faith thou art some officer, Some worthy sextern or some celerer. For by my father's soul, as to my dome, Thou art a maister when thou art at home; No poure cloisterer, ne non novice, But a governor both ware and wise.'" Chaucer himself describes the same monk in his Prologue thus:-- "A monk there was, a fayre for the maisterie, An out-rider that lovered venerie,[63] A manly man to be an abbot able. Ful many a dainty horse had he in stable; And when he rode men might his bridle hear Gingling in a whistling wind as clear, And eke as loud as doth the chapel bell, Whereas this lord was keeper of the cell. The rule of Saint Maur and of Saint Benet, Because that it was old and somedeal strait, This ilke monk let olde thinges pace, And held after the newe world the trace. He gave not of the text a pulled hen, That saith, that hunters been not holy men; Ne that a monk, when he is regneless,[64] Is like a fish that is waterless; That is to say, a monk out of his cloister: This ilke text he held not worth an oyster. And I say his pinion was good. Why should he study, and make himselven wood, Upon a book in cloister alway to pore, Or swinkin with his handis, and labour, As Austin bid? How shall the world be served? Therefore he was a prickasoure aright: Greyhounds he had as swift as fowls of flight; Of pricking and of hunting for the hare Was all his lust, for no cost would he spare. I saw his sleeves purfled at the hand With gris, and that the finest of the land. And for to fasten his hood under his chin He had of gold y-wrought a curious pin: A love-knot in the greater end there was. * * * * * His bootis supple, his horse in great estate; Now certainly he was a fair prelate." Again, in the "Shipman's Tale" we learn that such an officer had considerable freedom, so that he was able to pay very frequent visits to his friends. The whole passage is worth giving:-- "A marchant whilom dwelled at St. Denise, That riche was, for which men held him wise. * * * * * This noble marchant held a worthy house, For which he had all day so great repair For his largesse, and for his wife was fair. What wonder is? but hearken to my tale. Amonges all these guestes great and small There was a monk, a fair man and a bold, I trow a thirty winters he was old, That ever anon was drawing to that place. This youngé monk that was so fair of face, Acquainted was so with this goodé man, Sithen that their firste knowledge began, That in his house as familiar was he As it possible is any friend to be. And for as mochel as this goodé man, And eke this monk, of which that I began, Were bothé two y-born in one village, The monk him claimeth as for cosinage; And he again him said not onés nay, But was as glad thereof, as fowl of day; For to his heart it was a great plesaunce; Thus ben they knit with eterne alliance, And eche of them gan other for to ensure Of brotherhood, while that life may endure." Notwithstanding his vow of poverty, he was also able to make presents to his friends, for the tale continues:-- "Free was Dan John, and namely of despence As in that house, and full of diligence To don plesaunce, and also great costage; He not forgat to give the leaste page In all that house, but, after their degree, He gave the lord, and sithen his mennie, When that he came, some manner honest thing; For which they were as glad of his coming As fowl is fain when that the sun upriseth." Chaucer does not forget to let us know how it was that this monk came to have such liberty and such command of means:-- "This noble monk, of which I you devise, Hath of his abbot, as him list, licence (Because he was a man of high prudence, And eke an officer), out for to ride To see their granges and their barnés wide." CHAPTER VII. THE MONASTERY. We proceed next to give some account of the buildings which compose the fabric of a monastery. And first as to the site. The orders of the Benedictine family preferred sites as secluded and remote from towns and villages as possible. The Augustinian orders did not cultivate seclusion so strictly; their houses are not unfrequently near towns and villages, and sometimes a portion of their conventual church--the nave, generally--formed the parish church. The Friaries, Colleges of secular canons, and Hospitals, were generally in or near the towns. There is a popular idea that the monks chose out the most beautiful and fertile spots in the kingdom for their abodes. A little reflection would show that the choice of the site of a new monastery must be confined within the limits of the lands which the founder was pleased to bestow upon the convent. Sometimes the founder gave a good manor, and gave money besides, to help to build the house upon it; sometimes what was given was a tract of unreclaimed land, upon which the first handful of monks squatted like settlers in a new country. Even the settled land, in those days, was only half cultivated; and on good land, unreclaimed or only half reclaimed, the skill and energy of a company of first-rate farmers would soon produce great results; barren commons would be dotted over with sheep, and rushy valleys would become rich pastures covered with cattle, and great clearings in the forest would grow green with rye and barley. The revenues of the monastic estates would rapidly augment; little of them would be required for the coarse dress and frugal fare of the monks; they did not, like the lay landowners, spend them on gilded armour and jewelled robes, and troops of armed retainers, and tournaments, and journeys to court; and so they had enough for plentiful charity and unrestricted hospitality, and the surplus they spent upon those magnificent buildings whose very ruins are among the architectural glories of the land. The Cistercians had an especial rule that their houses should be built on the lowest possible sites, in token of humility; but it was the general custom in the Middle Ages to choose low and sheltered sites for houses which were not especially intended as strongholds, and therefore it is that we find nearly all monasteries in sheltered spots. To the monks the neighbourhood of a stream was of especial importance: when headed up it supplied a pond for their fish, and water-power for their corn-mill. If, therefore, there were within the limits of their domain a quiet valley with a rivulet running through it, that was the site which the monks would select for their house. And here, beside the rivulet, in the midst of the green pasture land of the valley dotted with sheep and kine, shut in from the world by the hills, whose tops were fringed with the forest which stretched for miles around, the stately buildings of the monastery would rise year after year; the cloister court, and the great church, and the abbot's lodge, and the numerous offices, all surrounded by a stone wall with a stately gate-tower, like a goodly walled town, and a suburban hamlet of labourers' and servants' cottages sheltering beneath its walls. There was a certain plan for the arrangement of the principal buildings of a monastery, which, with minor variations, was followed by nearly all the monastic orders, except the Carthusians. These latter differed from the other orders in this, that each monk had his separate cell, in which he lived, and ate, and slept apart from the rest, the whole community meeting only in church and chapter.[65] Our limits will not permit us to enter into exceptional arrangements. The nucleus of a monastery was the cloister court. It was a quadrangular space of green sward, around which were arranged the cloister buildings, viz., the church, the chapter-house, the refectory, and the dormitory.[66] The court was called the Paradise--the blessed garden in which the inmates passed their lives of holy peace. A porter was often placed at the cloister-gate, and the monks might not quit its seclusion, nor strangers enter to disturb its quiet, save under exceptional circumstances. The cloister-court had generally, though it is doubtful whether it was always the case, a covered ambulatory round its four sides. The ambulatories of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries have usually an open arcade on the side facing the court, which supports the groined roof. In the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, instead of an open arcade, we usually find a series of large traceried windows, tolerably close together; in many cases they were glazed, sometimes with painted glass, and formed doubtless a grand series of scriptural or historical paintings. The blank wall opposite was also sometimes painted. This covered ambulatory was not merely a promenade for the monks; it was the place in which the convent assembled regularly every day, at certain hours, for study and meditation; and in some instances (_e.g._, at Durham) a portion of it was fitted up with little wooden closets for studies for the elder monks, with book-cupboards in the wall opposite for books. The monks were sometimes buried in the cloister, either under the turf in the open square, or beneath the pavement of the ambulatory. There was sometimes a fountain at the corner of the cloister, or on its south side near the entrance to the refectory, at which the monks washed before meals. The church was always the principal building of a monastery. Many of them remain entire, though despoiled of their shrines, and tombs, and altars, and costly furniture, and many more remain in ruins, and they fill us with astonishment at their magnitude and splendour. Our existing cathedrals were, in fact, abbey churches; nine or ten of them were the churches of Benedictine monasteries, the remainder of secular Augustines. But these, the reader may imagine, had the wealth of bishops and the offerings of dioceses lavished upon them, and may not be therefore fair examples of ordinary abbey churches. But some of them originally were ordinary abbey churches, and were subsequently made Episcopal sees, such as Beverley, Gloucester, Christ Church Oxford, and Peterborough, which were originally Benedictine abbey churches; Bristol was the church of a house of regular canons; Ripon was the church of a college of secular canons. The Benedictine churches of Westminster and St. Alban's, and the collegiate church of Southwell, are equal in magnitude and splendour to any of the cathedrals; and the ruins of Fountains, and Tintern, and Netley, show that the Cistercians equalled any of the other orders in the magnitude and beauty of their churches. It is indeed hard to conceive that communities of a score or two of monks should have built such edifices as Westminster and Southwell as private chapels attached to their monasteries. And this, though it is one aspect of the fact, is not the true one. They did not build them for private chapels to say their daily prayers in; they built them for temples in which they believed that the Eternal and Almighty condescended to dwell; to whose contemplation and worship they devoted their lives. They did not think of the church as an appendage to their monastery, but of their monastery as an appendage to the church. The cloister, under the shadow and protection of the church, was the court of the Temple, in which its priests and Levites dwelt. The church of a monastery was almost always a cross church, with a nave and aisles; a central tower (in Cistercian churches the tower was only to rise one story above the roof); transepts, which usually have three chapels on the north side of each transept, or an aisle divided into three chapels by parclose screens; a choir with or without aisles; a retro-choir or presbytery; and often a Lady chapel, east of the presbytery, or in some instances parallel with the choir. The entrance for the monks was usually on the south side opposite to the eastern alley of the cloisters; there was also in Cistercian churches, and in some others, a newel stair in the south transept, by means of which the monks could descend from their dormitory (which was in the upper story of the east side of the cloister court) into the church for the night services, without going into the open air. The principal entrance for the laity was on the north side, and was usually provided with a porch. The great western entrance was chiefly used for processions; the great entrance gate in the enclosure wall of the abbey being usually opposite to it or nearly so. In several instances stones have been found, set in the pavements of the naves of conventual churches, to mark the places where the different members of the convent were to stand before they issued forth in procession, amidst the tolling of the great bell, with cross and banner, and chanted psalms, to meet the abbot at the abbey-gate, on his return from an absence, or any person to whom it was fitting that the convent should show such honour. [Illustration: _A Semi-choir of Franciscan Friars._] The internal arrangements of an abbey-church were very nearly like those of our cathedrals. The convent occupied the stalls in the choir; the place of the abbot was in the first stall on the right-hand (south) side to one entering from the west--it is still appropriated to the dean in cathedrals; in the corresponding stall on the other side sat the prior; the precentor sat in the middle stall on the right or south side; the succentor in the middle stall on the north side. The beautiful little picture of a semi-choir of Franciscan friars on the opposite page is from a fourteenth-century psalter in the British Museum (Domitian, A. 17). It is from a large picture, which gives a beautiful representation of the interior of the choir of the church. The picture is worth careful examination for the costume of the friars--grey frock and cowl, with knotted cord girdle and sandalled feet; some wearing the hood drawn over the head, some leaving it thrown back on the neck and shoulders; one with his hands folded under his sleeves like the Cistercians at p. 17. The precentor may be easily distinguished in the middle stall beating time, with an air of leadership. There is much character in all the faces and attitudes--_e.g._, in the withered old face on the left, with his cowl pulled over his ears to keep off the draughts, or the one on the precentor's left, a rather burly friar, evidently singing bass.[67] On the next page is an engraving from the same MS. of a similar semi-choir of minoresses, which also is only a portion of a large church interior. [Illustration: _A Semi-choir of Minoresses._] When there was a shrine of a noted saint[68] it was placed in the presbytery, behind the high-altar; and here, and in the choir aisles, were frequently placed the monuments of the abbots, and of founders and distinguished benefactors of the house; sometimes heads of the house and founders were buried in the chapter-house. It would require a more elaborate description than our plan will admit to endeavour to bring before the mind's-eye of the reader one of these abbey churches before its spoliation;--when the sculptures were unmutilated and the paintings fresh, and the windows filled with their stained glass, and the choir hung with hangings, and banners and tapestries waved from the arches of the triforium, and the altar shone gloriously with jewelled plate, and the monuments[69] of abbots and nobles were still perfect, and the wax tapers burned night and day[70] in the hearses, throwing a flickering light on the solemn effigies below, and glancing upon the tarnished armour and the dusty banners[71] which hung over the tombs, while the cowled monks sat in their stalls and prayed. Or when, on some high festival, the convent walked round the lofty aisles in procession, two and two, clad in rich copes over their coarse frocks, preceded by cross and banner, with swinging censers pouring forth clouds of incense, while one of those angelic boy's voices which we still sometimes hear in cathedrals chanted the solemn litany--the pure sweet ringing voice floating along the vaulted aisles, until it was lost in the swell of the chorus of the whole procession--_Ora! Ora! Ora! pro nobis!_ * * * * * The Cloister was usually situated on the south side of the nave of the church, so that the nave formed its north side, and the south transept a part of its eastern side; but sometimes, from reasons of local convenience, the cloister was on the north side of the nave, and then the relative positions of the other buildings were similarly transposed. The Chapter-house was always on the east side of the court. In establishments of secular canons it seems to have been always multi-sided[72] with a central pillar to support its groining, and a lofty, conical, lead-covered roof. In these instances it is placed in the open space eastward of the cloister, and is usually approached by a passage from the east side of the cloister court. In the houses of all the other orders[73] the chapter-house is rectangular, even where the church is a cathedral. Usually, then, the chapter-house is a rectangular building on the east side of the cloister, and its longest axis is east and west; at Durham it has an eastern apse.[74] It was a large and handsome room, with a good deal of architectural ornament;[75] often the western end of it is divided off as a vestibule or ante-room; and generally it is so large as to be divided into two or three aisles by rows of pillars. Internally, rows of stalls or benches were arranged round the walls for the convent; there was a higher seat at the east end for the abbot or prior, and a desk in the middle from which certain things were read. Every day after the service called Terce, the convent walked in procession from the choir to the chapter-house, and took their proper places. When the abbot had taken his place, the monks descended one step and bowed; he returned their salutation, and all took their seats. A sentence of the rule of the order was read by one of the novices from the desk, and the abbot, or in his absence the prior, delivered an explanatory or hortatory sermon upon it; then from another portion of the book was read the names of brethren, and benefactors, and persons who had been received into fraternity, whose decease had happened on that day of the year; and the convent prayed a _requiescant in pace_ for their souls, and the souls of all the faithful departed this life. Then members of the convent who had been guilty of slight breaches of discipline confessed them, kneeling upon a low stool in the middle, and on a bow from the abbot, intimating his remission of the breach, they resumed their seats. If any had a complaint to make against any brother, it was here made and adjudged.[76] Convent business was also transacted. The woodcut gives an example of the kind. Henry VII. had made grants to Westminster Abbey, on condition that the convent should perform certain religious services on his behalf;[77] and in order that the services should not fall into disuse, he directed that yearly, at a certain period, the chief-justice, or the king's attorney, or the recorder of London, should attend in chapter, and the abstract of the grant and agreement between the king and the convent should be read. The grant which was thus to be read still exists in the British Museum; it is written in a volume superbly bound, with the royal seals attached in silver cases; it is from the illuminated letter at the head of one of the deeds in this book[78] that our woodcut is taken. It rudely represents the chapter-house, with the chief-justice and a group of lawyers on one side, the abbot and convent on the other, and a monk reading the grant from the desk in the middle. [Illustration: _Monks and Lawyers in Chapter-house._] Lydgate's "Life of St. Edmund" (Harl. 2,278) was written A.D. 1433, by command of his abbot--he was a monk of St. Edmund's Bury--on the occasion of King Henry VI. being received-- "Of their chapter a brother for to be;" that is, to the fraternity of the house. An illumination on f. 6 seems to represent the king sitting in the abbot's place in the chapter-house, with royal officers behind him, monks in their places on each side of the chapter-house, the lectern in the middle, and a group of clerks at the west end. It is probably intended as a picture of the scene of the king's being received to fraternity. Adjoining the south transept is usually a narrow apartment; the description of Durham, drawn up soon after the Dissolution, says that it was the "Locutory." Another conjecture is that it may have been the vestry. At Netley it has a door at the west, with a trefoil light over it, a two-light window at the east, two niches, like monumental niches, in its north and south walls, and a piscina at the east end of its south wall. Again, between this and the chapter-house is often found a small apartment, which some have conjectured to be the penitential cell. In other cases it seems to be merely a passage from the cloister-court to the space beyond; in which space the abbot's lodging is often situated, so that it may have been the abbot's entrance to the church and chapter. In Cistercian houses there is usually another long building south of the chapter-house, its axis running north and south. This was perhaps in its lower story the Frater-house, a room to which the monks retired after refection to converse, and to take their allowance of wine, or other indulgences in diet which were allowed to them; and some quotations in Fosbroke would lead us to imagine that the monks dined here on feast days. It would answer to the great chamber of mediæval houses, and in some respects to the Combination-room[79] of modern colleges. The upper story of this building was probably the Dormitory. This was a long room, with a vaulted or open timber roof, in which the pallets were arranged in rows on each side against the wall. The prior or sub-prior usually slept in the dormitory, with a light burning near him, in order to maintain order. The monks slept in the same habits[80] which they wore in the day-time. About the middle of the south side of the court, in Cistercian houses, there is a long room, whose longer axis lies north and south, with a smaller room on each side of it, which was probably the Refectory. In other houses, the refectory forms the south side of the cloister court, lying parallel with the nave of the church. Very commonly it has a row of pillars down the centre, to support the groined roof. It was arranged, like all mediæval halls, with a dais at the upper end and a screen at the lower. In place of the oriel window of mediæval halls, there was a pulpit, which was often in the embrasure of a quasi-oriel window, in which one of the brethren read some edifying book during meals. The remaining apartments of the cloister-court it is more difficult to appropriate. In some of the great Cistercian houses whose ground-plan can be traced--as Fountains, Salley, Netley, &c.--possibly the long apartment which is found on the west side of the cloister was the hall of the Hospitium, with chambers over it. Another conjecture is, that it was the house of the lay brethren. In the uncertainty which at present exists on these points of monastic arrangement, we cannot speak with any degree of certainty; but we throw together some data on the subject in the subjoined note.[81] The Scriptorium is said to have been usually over the chapter-house. It was therefore a large apartment, capable of containing many persons, and, in fact, many persons did work together in it in a very business-like manner at the transcription of books. For example, William, Abbot of Herschau, in the eleventh century, as stated by his biographer: "Knowing, what he had learned by laudable experience, that sacred reading is the necessary food of the mind, made twelve of his monks very excellent writers, to whom he committed the office of transcribing the holy Scriptures, and the treatises of the Fathers. Besides these, there were an indefinite number of other scribes, who wrought with equal diligence on the transcription of other books. Over them was a monk well versed in all kinds of knowledge, whose business it was to appoint some good work as a task for each, and to correct the mistakes of those who wrote negligently."[82] The general chapter of the Cistercian order, held in A.D. 1134, directs that the same silence should be maintained in the scriptorium as in the cloister. Sometimes perhaps little separate studies of wainscot were made round this large apartment, in which the writers sat at their desks. Sometimes this literary work was carried on in the cloister, which, being glazed, would be a not uncomfortable place in temperate weather, and a very comfortable place in summer, with its coolness and quiet, and the peep through its windows on the green court and the fountain in the centre, and the grey walls of the monastic buildings beyond; the slow footfall of a brother going to and fro, and the cawing of the rooks in the minster tower, would add to the dreamy charm of such a library.[83] Odo, Abbot of St. Martin's, at Tournay, about 1093, "used to exult in the number of writers the Lord had given him; for if you had gone into the cloister you might in general have seen a dozen young monks sitting on chairs in perfect silence, writing at tables carefully and artificially constructed. All Jerome's commentaries on the Prophets, all the works of St. Gregory, and everything that he could find of St. Augustine, Ambrose, Isodore, Bede, and the Lord Anselm, then Abbot of Bec, and afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, he caused to be transcribed. So that you would scarcely have found such a monastery in that part of the country, and everybody was begging for our copies to correct their own." Sometimes little studies of wainscot were erected in the cloisters for the monks to study or transcribe in. At Gloucester Cathedral, at Beaulieu, and at Melrose, for example, there are traces of the way in which the windows of the cloisters were enclosed and turned into such studies.[84] [Illustration: _Monk in Scriptorium._] There are numerous illuminations representing monks and ecclesiastics writing; they sit in chairs of various kinds, some faldstools, some armed chairs, some armed backed; and they have desks and bookstands before them of various shapes, commonly a stand with sloping desk like a Bible lectern, not unfrequently a kind of dumb-waiter besides on which are several books. We see also in these illuminations the forms of the pens, knives, inkstands, &c., which were used. We will only mention two of unusual interest. One is in a late fourteenth-century Psalter, Harl. 2,897, at p. 186, v., where St. Jude sits writing his Epistle in a canopied chair, with a shelf across the front of the chair to serve as a desk; a string with a weight at the end holds his parchment down, and there is a bench beside, on which lies a book. A chair with a similar shelf is at f. 12 of the MS. Egerton, 1,070. Our woodcut on the preceding page is from a MS. in the Library of Soissons. We also find representations of ecclesiastics writing in a small cell which may represent the enclosed scriptoria--_e.g._ St. Bonaventine writing, in the MS. Harl. 3,229; St. John painting, in the late fifteenth-century MS. Add. 15,677, f. 35. The Abbot's Lodging sometimes formed a portion of one of the monastic courts, as at St. Mary, Bridlington, where it formed the western side of the cloister-court; but more usually it was a detached house, precisely similar to the contemporary unfortified houses of laymen of similar rank and wealth. No particular site relative to the monastic buildings was appropriated to it; it was erected wherever was most convenient within the abbey enclosure. The principal rooms of an abbot's house are the Hall, the Great Chamber, the Kitchen, Buttery, Cellars, &c., the Chambers, and the Chapel. We must remember that the abbots of the greater houses were powerful noblemen; the abbots of the smaller houses were equal in rank and wealth to country gentlemen. They had a very constant succession of noble and gentle guests, whose entertainment was such as their rank and habits required. This involved a suitable habitation and establishment; and all this must be borne in mind when we endeavour to picture to ourselves an abbot's lodging. To give an idea of the magnitude of some of the abbots' houses, we may record that the hall of the Abbot of Fountains was divided by two rows of pillars into a centre and aisles, and that it was 170 feet long by 70 feet wide.[85] Half a dozen noble guests, with their retinues of knights and squires, and men-at-arms and lacqueys, and all the abbot's men to boot, would be lost in such a hall. On the great feast-days it might, perhaps, be comfortably filled. But even such a hall would hardly contain the companies who were sometimes entertained, on such great days for instance as an abbot's installation-day, when it is on record that an abbot of one of the greater houses would give a feast to three or four thousand people. Of the lodgings of the superiors of smaller houses, we may take that of the Prior of St. Mary's, Bridlington, as an example. It is very accurately described by King Henry's commissioners; it formed the west side of the cloister-court; it contained a hall with an undercroft, eighteen paces long from the screen to the dais,[86] and ten paces wide; on its north side a great chamber, twenty paces long and nineteen wide; at the west end of the great chamber the prior's sleeping-chamber, and over that a garret; on the east side of the same chamber a little chamber and a closet; at the south end of the hall the buttery and pantry, and a chamber called the Auditor's Chamber; at the same end of the hall a fair parlour, called the Low Summer Parlour; and over it another fair chamber; and adjoining that three little chambers for servants; at the south end of the hall the Prior's Kitchen, with three houses covered with lead, and adjoining it a chamber called the South Cellarer's Chamber.[87] [Illustration: _A Present of Fish._] There were several other buildings of a monastery, which were sometimes detached, and placed as convenience dictated. The Infirmary especially seems to have been more commonly detached; in many cases it had its own kitchen, and refectory, and chapel, and chambers, which sometimes were arranged round a court, and formed a complete little separate establishment. The Hospitium, or Guest-house, was sometimes detached; but more usually it seems to have formed a portion of an outer court, westward of the cloister-court, which court was entered from the great gates, or from one of the outer gates of the abbey. In Cistercian houses, as we have said, the guest-house, with its hall below and its chambers above, perhaps occupied the west side of the cloister-court, and would therefore form the eastern range of buildings of this outer court. At St. Mary's, Bridlington, where the prior's lodging occupied this position, the "lodgings and stables for strangers" were on the north side of this outer court. The guest-houses were often of great extent and magnificence. The Guesten-hall of St. Augustine's, Canterbury, still remains, and is a very noble building, 150 feet long by 50 broad, of Norman date, raised on an undercroft. The Guesten-hall of Worcester also remains, a very noble building on an undercroft, with a fine carved timber roof, and portions of the painting which decorated the wall behind the dais still visible.[88] Besides the hall, the guest-house contained often a great-chamber (answering to our modern drawing-room) and sleeping-chambers, and a chapel, in which service was performed for guests--for in those days it was the custom always to hear prayers before dinner and supper. Thus, at Durham, we are told that "a famous house of hospitality was kept within the abbey garth, called the Guest-hall, and was situate in the west side, towards the water. The sub-prior of the house was the master thereof, as one appointed to give entertainment to all estates, noble, gentle, or what other degree soever, came thither as strangers. Their entertainment was not inferior to that of any place in England, both for the goodness of their diet, the clean and neat furniture of their lodgings, and generally all things necessary for travellers; and, with this entertainment, no man was required to depart while he continued honest and of good behaviour. This hall was a stately place, not unlike the body of a church, supported on each side by very fine pillars, and in the midst of the hall a long range for the fire. The chambers and lodgings belonging to it were kept very clean and richly furnished." At St. Albans, the Guest-house was an enormous range of rooms, with stabling for three hundred horses. There is a passage in the correspondence of Coldingham Priory (published by the Surties Society, 1841, p. 52) which gives us a graphic sketch of the arrival of guests at a monastery:--"On St. Alban's-day, June 17 [year not given--it was towards the end of Edward III.], two monks, with a company of certain secular persons, came riding into the gateway of the monastery about nine o'clock in the morning. This day happened to be Sunday, but they were hospitably and reverently received, had lodgings assigned them, a special mass service performed for them, and after a refection and washing their feet, it being supposed that they were about to pursue their journey to London the next morning, they were left at an early hour to take repose. While the bell was summoning the rest of the brotherhood to vespers, the monk who had been in attendance upon them (the hospitaller) having gone with the rest to sing his chant in the choir, the secular persons appear to have asked the two monks to take a walk with them to look at the Castle of Durham," &c.[89] There could hardly have been any place in the Middle Ages which could have presented such a constant succession of picturesque scenes as the Hospitium of a monastery. And what a contrast must often have existed between the Hospitium and the Cloister. Here a crowd of people of every degree--nobles and ladies, knights and dames, traders with their wares, minstrels with their songs and juggling tricks, monks and clerks, palmers, friars, beggars--bustling about the court or crowding the long tables of the hall; and, a few paces off, the dark-frocked monks, with faces buried in their cowls, pacing the ambulatory in silent meditation, or sitting at their meagre refection, enlivened only by the monotonous sound of the novice's voice reading a homily from the pulpit! Many of the remaining buildings of the monastery were arranged around this outer court. Ingulphus tells us that the second court of the Saxon monastery of Croyland (about 875 A.D.) had the gate on the north, and the almonry near it--a very usual position for it; the shops of the tailors and shoe-makers, the hall of the novices, and the abbot's lodgings on the east; the guest-hall and its chambers on the south; and the stable-house, and granary, and bake-house on the west. The Gate-house was usually a large and handsome tower, with the porter's lodge on one side of the arched entrance; and often a strong room on the other, which served as the prison of the manor-court of the convent; and often a handsome room over the entrance, in which the manorial court was held. In the middle of the court was often a stone cross, round which markets and fairs were often held. In the "Vision of Piers Ploughman" an interesting description is given of a Dominican convent of the fourteenth century. We will not trouble the reader with the very archaic original, but will give him a paraphrase of it. The writer says that, on approaching, he was so bewildered by their magnitude and beauty, that for a long time he could distinguish nothing certainly but stately buildings of stone, pillars carved and painted, and great windows well wrought. In the quadrangle he notices the cross standing in the centre, surrounded with tabernacle-work: he enters the minster (church), and describes the arches carved and gilded, the wide windows full of shields of arms and merchants' marks on stained glass, the high tombs under canopies, with armed effigies in alabaster, and lovely ladies lying by their sides in many gay garments. He passes into the cloister and sees it pillared and painted, and covered with lead and paved with tiles, and conduits of white metal pouring their water into latten (bronze) lavatories beautifully wrought. The chapter-house he says was wrought like a great church, carved and painted like a parliament-house. Then he went into the fratry, and found it a hall fit for a knight and his household, with broad boards (tables) and clean benches, and windows wrought as in a church. Then he wandered all about-- "And seigh halles ful heigh, and houses ful noble, Chambres with chymneys, and chapeles gaye, And kychenes for an high kynge in castels to holden, And their dortoure ydight with dores ful stronge, Fermerye, and fraitur, with fele more houses, And all strong stone wall, sterne opon heithe, With gay garites and grete, and ich whole yglazed, And other houses ynowe to herberwe the queene." The churches of the friars differed from those of monks. They were frequently composed either of a nave only or a nave and two (often very narrow) aisles, without transepts, or chapels, or towers; they were adapted especially for preaching to large congregations--_e.g._ the Austin Friars' Church in the City of London, lately restored; St. Andrew's Hall, Norwich. In Viollet le Duc's "Dictionary of Architecture" is given a bird's-eye view of the monastery of the Augustine Friars of St. Marie des Vaux Verts, near Brussels, which is a complete example of one of these houses.[90] Every monastery had a number of dependent establishments of greater or less size: cells on its distant estates; granges on its manors; chapels in places where the abbey tenants were at a distance from a church; and often hermitages under its protection. A ground-plan and view of one of these cells, the Priory of St. Jean-les-Bons-hommes, of the end of the twelfth century, still remaining in a tolerably perfect state, is given by Viollet le Duc (Dict Arch., i. 276, 277). It is a miniature monastery, with a little cloistered court, surrounded by the usual buildings: an oratory on the north side; on the east a sacristy, and chapter-house, and long range of buildings, with dormitory over; on the south side the refectory and kitchen; and another exterior court, with stables and offices. The preceptory of Hospitallers at Chibburn, Northumberland, which remains almost as the knights left it, is another example of these small rural houses. It is engraved in Turner's "Domestic Architecture," vol. ii. p. 197. It also consists of a small court, with a chapel about forty-five feet long, on the west side; and other buildings, which we cannot appropriate, on the remaining sides. Of the monastic cells we have already spoken in describing the office of prior. The one or two brethren who were placed in a cell to manage the distant estates of the monastery would probably be chosen rather for their qualities as prudent stewards than for their piety. The command of money which their office gave them, and their distance from the supervision of their ecclesiastical superiors, brought them under temptation, and it is probably in these cells, and among the brethren who superintended the granges, and the officials who could leave the monastery at pleasure on the plea of convent business, that we are to look for the irregularities of which the Middle-Age satirists speak. The monk among Chaucer's "Canterbury Pilgrims" was prior of a cell, for we read that-- "When he rode, men might his bridel here Gingeling in a whistling sound, as clere And eke as loud _as doth the chapelle belle, Ther as this lord was keeper of the celle_." The monk on whose intrigue "The Shipman's Tale" is founded, was probably the cellarer of his convent:-- "This noble monk of which I you devise, Had of his abbot, as him list, licence; Because he was a man of high prudence, And eke an officer, out for to ride To seen his granges and his bernes wide." [Illustration: _An Abbot travelling._] The abbot, too, sometimes gave license to the monks to go and see their friends, or to pass two or three days at one or other of the manors of the house for recreation; and sometimes he took a monk with him on his own journeys. In a MS. romance, in the British Museum (Add. 10,293, f. 11), is a representation of a monk with his hood on, journeying on horseback. We give here, from the St. Alban's Book (Nero, D. vii.), a woodcut of an abbot on horseback, with a hat over his hood--"an abbot on an ambling pad;" he is giving his benediction in return to the salute of some passing traveller. Hermitages or anchorages sometimes depended on a monastery, and were not necessarily occupied by brethren of the monastery, but by any one desirous to embrace this mode of life whom the convent might choose. The hermit, however, probably, usually wore the habit of the order. The monastery often supplied the hermit with his food. In a picture in the MS. romance, before quoted (Add. 10,292, f. 98), is a representation of a knight-errant on horseback, conversing by the way with a clerk, who is carrying bread and wine to a hermitage. The woodcut with which we conclude, from the Harleian MS., 1,527, represents the characteristic costume of three orders of religious with whom we have been concerned--a bishop, an abbot, and a clerk. [Illustration: _Bishop, Abbot, and Clerk._] THE HERMITS AND RECLUSES OF THE MIDDLE AGES. CHAPTER I. THE HERMITS. We have already related, in a former chapter (p. 3), that the ascetics who abandoned the stirring world of the Ægypto-Greek cities, and resorted to the Theban desert to lead a life of self-mortification and contemplation, frequently associated themselves into communities, and thus gave rise to the coenobitical orders of Christendom. But there were others who still preferred the solitary life; and they had their imitators in every age and country of the Christian world. We have not the same fulness of information respecting these solitaries that we have respecting the great orders of monks and friars; but the scattered notices which remain of them, when brought together, form a very curious chapter in the history of human nature, well worthy of being written out in full. The business of the present paper, however, is not to write the whole chapter, but only to select that page of it which relates to the English solitaries, and to give as distinct a picture as we can of the part which the Hermits and Recluses played on the picturesque stage of the England of the Middle Ages. We have to remember, at the outset, that it was not all who bore the name of Eremite who lived a solitary life. We have already had occasion to mention that Innocent IV., in the middle of the thirteenth century, found a number of small religious communities and solitaries, who were not in any of the recognised religious orders, and observed no authorised rule; and that he enrolled them all into a new order, with the rule of St. Augustine, under the name of Eremiti Augustini. The new order took root, and flourished, and gave rise to a considerable number of large communities, very similar in every respect to the communities of friars of the three orders previously existing. The members of these new communities did not affect seclusion, but went about among the people, as the Dominicans, and Franciscans, and Carmelites did. The popular tongue seems to have divided the formal title of the new order, and to have applied the name of _Augustine_, or, popularly, _Austin Friars_, to these new communities of friars; while it reserved the distinctive name of _Eremites_, or Hermits, for the religious, who, whether they lived absolutely alone, or in little aggregations of solitaries, still professed the old eremitical principle of seclusion from the world. These hermits may again be subdivided into Hermits proper, and Recluses. The difference between them was this: that the hermit, though he professed a general seclusion from the world, yet, in fact, held communication with his fellow-men as freely as he pleased, and might go in and out of his hermitage as inclination prompted, or need required; the recluse was understood to maintain a more strict abstinence from unnecessary intercourse with others, and had entered into a formal obligation not to go outside the doors of his hermitage. In the imperfect notices which we have of them, it is often impossible to determine whether a particular individual was a hermit or a recluse; but we incline to the opinion that of the male solitaries few had taken the vows of reclusion; while the female solitaries appear to have been all recluses. So that, practically, the distinction almost amounts to this--that the male solitaries were hermits, and the females recluses. Very much of what we have to say of the mediæval solitaries, of their abodes, and of their domestic economy, applies both to those who had, and to those who had not, made the further vow of reclusion. We shall, therefore, treat first of those points which are common to them, and then devote a further paper to those things which are peculiar to the recluses. * * * * * The popular idea of a hermit is that of a man who was either a half-crazed enthusiast, or a misanthrope--a kind of Christian Timon--who abandoned the abodes of men, and scooped out for himself a cave in the rocks, or built himself a rude hut in the forest; and lived there a half-savage life, clad in sackcloth or skins,[91] eating roots and wild fruits, and drinking of the neighbouring spring; visited occasionally by superstitious people, who gazed and listened in fear at the mystic ravings, or wild denunciations, of the gaunt and haggard prophet. This ideal has probably been derived from the traditional histories, once so popular,[92] of the early hermit-saints; and there may have been, perhaps, always an individual or two of whom this traditional picture was a more or less exaggerated representation. But the ordinary English hermit of the Middle Ages was a totally different type of man. He was a sober-minded and civilised person, who dressed in a robe very much like the robes of the other religious orders; lived in a comfortable little house of stone or timber; often had estates, or a pension, for his maintenance, besides what charitable people were pleased to leave him in their wills, or to offer in their lifetime; he lived on bread and meat, and beer and wine, and had a chaplain to say daily prayers for him, and a servant or two to wait upon him; his hermitage was not always up in the lonely hills, or deep-buried in the shady forests--very often it was by the great high roads, and sometimes in the heart of great towns and cities. This summary description is so utterly opposed to all the popular notions, that we shall take pains to fortify our assertions with sufficient proofs; indeed, the whole subject is so little known that we shall illustrate it freely from all the sources at our command. And first, as it is one of our especial objects to furnish authorities for the pictorial representation of these old hermits, we shall inquire what kind of dress they did actually wear in place of the skins, or the sackcloth, with which the popular imagination has clothed them. We should be inclined to assume _a priori_ that the hermits would wear the habit prescribed by Papal authority for the Eremiti Augustini, which, according to Stevens, consisted of "a white garment, and a white scapular over it, when they are in the house; but in the choir, and when they go abroad, they put on, over all, a sort of cowl and a large hood, both black, the hood round before, and hanging down to the waist in a point, being girt with a black leather thong." And in the rude woodcuts which adorn Caxton's "Vitas Patrum," or "Lives of the Hermits," we do find some of the religious men in a habit which looks like a gown, with the arms coming through slits, which may be intended to represent a scapular, and with hoods and cowls of the fashion described; while others, in the same book, are in a loose gown, in shape more like that of a Benedictine. Again, in Albert Durer's "St. Christopher," as engraved by Mrs. Jameson, in her "Sacred and Legendary Art," p. 445, the hermit is represented in a frock and scapular, with a cowl and hood. But in the majority of the representations of hermits which we meet with in mediæval paintings and illuminated manuscripts, the costume consists of a frock, sometimes girded, sometimes not, and over it an ample gown, like a cloak, with a hood; and in the cases where the colour of the robe is indicated, it is almost always indicated by a light brown tint.[93] It is not unlikely that there were varieties of costume among the hermits. Perhaps those who were attached to the monasteries of monks and friars, and who seem to have been usually admitted to the fraternity of the house,[94] may have worn the costume of the order to which they were attached; while priest-hermits serving chantries may have worn the usual costume of a secular priest. Bishop Poore, who died 1237, in his "Ancren Riewle," speaks of the fashion of the dress to be worn, at least by female recluses, as indifferent. Bilney, speaking especially of the recluses in his day, just before the Reformation, says, "their apparell is indifferent, so it be dissonant from the laity." In the woodcuts, from various sources, which illustrate this paper, the reader will see for himself how the hermits are represented by the mediæval artists, who had them constantly under their observation, and who at least tried their best to represent faithfully what they saw. The best and clearest illustration which we have been able to find of the usual costume in which the hermits are represented, we here give to the reader. It is from the figure of St. Damasus, one of the group in the fine picture of "St. Jerome," by Cosimo Roselli (who lived from 1439 to 1506), now in the National Gallery. The hermit-saint wears a light-brown frock, and scapular, with no girdle, and, over all, a cloak and hood of the same colour, and his naked feet are protected by wooden clogs. [Illustration: _St. Damasus, Hermit._] Other illustrations of hermits may be found in the early fourteenth century MS. Romances Additional 10,293 f. 335, and 10,294 f. 95. In the latter case there are two hermits in one hermitage; also in Royal 16 G. vi. Illustrations of St. Anthony, which give authorities for hermit costume, and indications of what hermitages were, abound in the later MSS.; for example, in King René's "Book of Hours" (Egerton 1,070), at f. 108, the hermit-saint is habited in a grey frock and black cloak with a T-cross on the breast; he holds bell and book and staff in his hands. In Egerton 1,149, of the middle of the fifteenth century. In Add. 15,677, of the latter part of the fifteenth century, at f. 150, is St. Anthony in brown frock and narrow scapulary, with a grey cloak and hood and a red skull cap; he holds a staff and book; his hermitage, in the background, is a building like a little chapel with a bell-cot on the gable, within a grassy enclosure fenced with a low wattled fence. Add. 18,854, of date 1525 A.D., f. 146, represents St. Anthony in a blue-grey gown and hood, holding bell, rosary, and staff, entering his hermitage, a little building with a bell-cot on the gable. A man could not take upon himself the character of a hermit at his own pleasure. It was a regular order of religion, into which a man could not enter without the consent of the bishop of the diocese, and into which he was admitted by a formal religious service. And just as bishops do not ordain men to holy orders until they have obtained a "title," a place in which to exercise their ministry, so bishops did not admit men to the order of Hermits until they had obtained a hermitage in which to exercise their vocation. The form of the vow made by a hermit is here given, from the Institution Books of Norwich, lib. xiv. fo. 27a ("East Anglian," No. 9, p. 107). "I, John Fferys, nott maridd, promyt and avowe to God, o{r} Lady Sent Mary, and to all the seynts in heven, in the p'sence of you reverend fadre in God, Richard bishop of Norwich, the wowe of chastite, after the rule of sent paule the heremite. In the name of the fadre, sone, and holy gost. JOHN FFERERE. xiij. meii, anno dni. MLVCIIIJ. in capella de Thorpe." We summarize the service for habiting and blessing a hermit[95] from the pontifical of Bishop Lacy of Exeter, of the fourteenth century.[96] It begins with several psalms; then several short prayers for the incepting hermit, mentioning him by name.[97] Then follow two prayers for the benediction of his vestments, apparently for different parts of his habit; the first mentioning "hec indumenta humilitatem cordis et mundi contemptum significancia,"--these garments signifying humility of heart, and contempt of the world; the second blesses "hanc vestem pro conservande castitatis signo,"--this vestment the sign of chastity. The priest then delivers the vestments to the hermit kneeling before him, with these words, "Brother, behold we give to thee the eremitical habit (_habitum heremiticum_), with which we admonish thee to live henceforth chastely, soberly, and holily; in holy watchings, in fastings, in labours, in prayers, in works of mercy, that thou mayest have eternal life, and live for ever and ever." And he receives them saying, "Behold, I receive them in the name of the Lord; and promise myself so to do according to my power, the grace of God, and of the saints, helping me." Then he puts off his secular habit, the priest saying to him, "The Lord put off from thee the old man with his deeds;" and while he puts on his hermit's habit, the priest says, "The Lord put on thee the new man, which, after God, is created in righteousness and true holiness." Then follow a collect and certain psalms, and finally the priest sprinkles him with holy water, and blesses him. Men of all ranks took upon them the hermit life, and we find the popular writers of the time sometimes distinguishing among them; one is a "hermit-priest,"[98] another is a "gentle hermit," not in the sense of the "gentle hermit of the dale," but meaning that he was a man of gentle birth. The hermit in whose hermitage Sir Launcelot passed long time is described as a "gentle hermit, which sometime was a noble knight and a great lord of possessions, and for great goodness he hath taken him unto wilful poverty, and hath forsaken his possessions, and his name is Sir Baldwin of Britain, and he is a full noble surgeon, and a right good leech." This was the type of hermit who was venerated by the popular superstition of the day: a great and rich man who had taken to wilful poverty, or a man who lived wild in the woods--a St. Julian, or a St. Anthony. A poor man who turned hermit, and lived a prosaic, pious, useful life, showing travellers the way through a forest, or over a bog, or across a ferry, and humbly taking their alms in return, presented nothing dramatic and striking to the popular mind; very likely, too, many men adopted the hermit life for the sake of the idleness and the alms,[99] and deserved the small repute they had. It is _àpropos_ of Sir Launcelot's hermit above-mentioned that the romancer complains "for in those days it was not with the guise of hermits as it now is in these days. For there were no hermits in those days, but that they have been men of worship and prowess, and those hermits held great households, and refreshed people that were in distress." We find the author of "Piers Ploughman" making the same complaint. We have, as in other cases, a little modernised his language:-- "But eremites that inhabit them by the highways, And in boroughs among brewers, and beg in churches, All that holy eremites hated and despised, (As riches, and reverences, and rich men's alms), These lollers,[100] latche drawers,[101] lewd eremites, Covet on the contrary. Nor live holy as eremites, That lived wild in woods, with bears and lions. Some had livelihood from their lineage[102] and of no life else; And some lived by their learning, and the labour of their hands. Some had foreigners for friends, that their food sent; And birds brought to some bread, whereby they lived. All these holy eremites were of high kin, Forsook land and lordship, and likings of the body. But these eremites that edify by the highways Whilome were workmen--webbers, and tailors, And carter's knaves, and clerks without grace. They held a hungry house. And had much want, Long labour, and light winnings. And at last espied That lazy fellows in friar's clothing had fat cheeks. Forthwith left they their labour, these lewd knaves, And clothed them in copes as they were clerks, Or one of some order [of monks or friars], or else prophets [eremites]." This curious extract from "Piers Ploughman" leads us to notice the localities in which hermitages were situated. Sometimes, no doubt, they were in lonely and retired places among the hills, or hidden in the depths of the forests which then covered so large a portion of the land. On the next page is a very interesting little picture of hermit life, from a MS. Book of Hours, executed for Richard II. (British Museum, Domitian, A. xvii., folio 4 v.) The artist probably intended to represent the old hermits of the Egyptian desert, Piers Ploughman's-- "Holy eremites, That lived wild in woods With bears and lions;" but, after the custom of mediæval art, he has introduced the scenery, costume, and architecture of his own time. Erase the bears, which stand for the whole tribe of outlandish beasts, and we have a very pretty bit of English mountain scenery. The stags are characteristic enough of the scenery of mediæval England. The hermitage on the right seems to be of the ruder sort, made in part of wattled work. On the left we have the more usual hermitage of stone, with its little chapel bell in a bell-cot on the gable. The venerable old hermit, coming out of the doorway, is a charming illustration of the typical hermit, with his venerable beard, and his form bowed by age, leaning with one hand on his cross-staff, and carrying his rosary in the other. The hermit in the illustration hereafter given from the "History of Launcelot," on page 114, leans on a similar staff; it would seem as if such a staff was a usual part of the hermit's equipment.[103] The hermit in Albert Dürer's "St. Christopher." already mentioned, also leans on a staff, but of rather different shape. Here is a companion-picture, in pen and ink, from the "Morte d'Arthur:"--"Then he departed from the cross [a stone cross which parted two ways in waste land, under which he had been sleeping], on foot, into a wild forest. And so by prime he came unto an high mountain, and there he found an hermitage, and an hermit therein, which was going to mass. And then Sir Launcelot kneeled down upon both his knees, and cried out, 'Lord, mercy!' for his wicked works that he had done. So when mass was done, Sir Launcelot called the hermit to him, and prayed him for charity to hear his confession. 'With a good will,' said the good man." [Illustration: _Hermits and Hermitages._] But many of the hermitages were erected along the great highways of the country, and especially at bridges and fords,[104] apparently with the express view of their being serviceable to travellers. One of the hermit-saints set up as a pattern for their imitation was St. Julian, who, with his wife, devoted his property and life to showing hospitality to travellers; and the hermit who is always associated in the legends and pictures with St. Christopher, is represented as holding out his torch or lantern to light the giant ferryman, as he transports his passengers across the dangerous ford by which the hermitage was built. When hostelries, where the traveller could command entertainment for hire, were to be found only in the great towns, the religious houses were the chief resting-places of the traveller; not only the conventual establishments, but the country clergy also were expected to be given to hospitality.[105] But both monasteries and country parsonages often lay at a distance of miles of miry and intricate by-road off the highway. We must picture this state of the country and of society to ourselves, before we can appreciate the intentions of those who founded these hospitable establishments; we must try to imagine ourselves travellers, getting belated in a dreary part of the road, where it ran over a bleak wold, or dived through a dark forest, or approached an unknown ford, before we can appreciate the gratitude of those who suddenly caught the light from the hermit's window, or heard the faint tinkle of his chapel bell ringing for vespers. Such incidents occur frequently in the romances. Here is an example:--"Sir Launcelot rode all that day and all that night in a forest; and at the last, he was ware of an hermitage and a chapel that stood between two cliffs; and then he heard a little bell ring to mass, and thither he rode, and alighted, and tied his horse to the gate, and heard mass." Again: "Sir Gawayne rode till he came to an hermitage, and there he found the good man saying his even-song of our Lady. And there Sir Gawayne asked harbour for charity, and the good man granted it him gladly." We shall, perhaps, most outrage the popular idea of a hermit, when we assert that hermits sometimes lived in towns. The extract from "Piers Ploughman's Vision," already quoted, tells us of-- "Eremites that inhabit them In boroughs among brewers." The difficulty of distinguishing between hermits proper and recluses becomes very perplexing in this part of our subject. There is abundant proof, which we shall have occasion to give later, that recluses, both male and female, usually lived in towns and villages, and these recluses are sometimes called hermits, as well as by their more usual and peculiar name of anchorites and anchoresses. But we are inclined to the opinion, that not all the male solitaries who lived in towns were recluses. The author of "Piers Ploughman's Vision" speaks of the eremites who inhabited in boroughs as if they were of the same class as those who lived by the highways, and who ought to have lived in the wildernesses, like St. Anthony. The theory under which it was made possible for a solitary, an eremite, a man of the desert, to live in a town, was, that a churchyard formed a solitary place--a desert--within the town. The curious history which we are going to relate, seems to refer to hermits, not to recluses. The Mayor of Sudbury, under date January 28, 1433, petitioned the Bishop of Norwich, setting forth that the bishop had refused to admit "Richard Appleby, of Sudbury, conversant with John Levynton, of the same town, heremyte, to the order of Hermits, unless he was sure to be inhabited in a solitary place where virtues might be increased, and vice exiled;" and that therefore "we have granted hym, be the assent of all the sayd parish and cherch reves, to be inhabited with the sayd John Levynton in his solitary place and hermytage, whych y{t} is made at the cost of the parysh, in the cherchyard of St. Gregory Cherche, to dwellen togedyr as (long as) yey liven, or whiche of them longest liveth;" and thereupon the mayor prays the bishop to admit Richard Appleby to the order. This curious incident of two solitaries living together has a parallel in the romance of "King Arthur." When the bold Sir Bedivere had lost his lord King Arthur, he rode away, and, after some adventures, came to a chapel and an hermitage between two hills, "and he prayed the hermit that he might abide there still with him, to live with fasting and prayers. So Sir Bedivere abode there still with the hermit; and there Sir Bedivere put upon him poor clothes, and served the hermit full lowly in fasting and in prayers." And afterwards (as we have already related) Sir Launcelot "rode all that day and all that night in a forest. And at the last he was ware of an hermitage and a chapel that stood between two cliffs, and then he heard a little bell ring to mass; and thither he rode, and alighted, and tied his horse to the gate and heard mass." He had stumbled upon the hermitage in which Sir Bedivere was living. And when Sir Bedivere had made himself known, and had "told him his tale all whole," "Sir Launcelot's heart almost burst for sorrow, and Sir Launcelot threw abroad his armour, and said,--'Alas! who may trust this world?' And then he kneeled down on his knees, and prayed the hermit for to shrive him and assoil him. And then he besought the hermit that he might be his brother. And he put an habit upon Sir Launcelot, and there he served God day and night with prayers and fastings." And afterwards Sir Bors came in the same way. And within half a year there was come Sir Galahad, Sir Galiodin, Sir Bleoberis, Sir Villiers, Sir Clarus, and Sir Gahalatine. "So these seven noble knights abode there still: and when they saw that Sir Launcelot had taken him unto such perfection, they had no list to depart, but took such an habit as he had. Thus they endured in great penance six years, and then Sir Launcelot took the habit of priesthood, and twelve months he sung the mass; and there was none of these other knights but that they read in books, and helped for to sing mass, and ring bells, and did lowly all manner of service. And so their horses went where they would, for they took no regard in worldly riches." And after a little time Sir Launcelot died at the hermitage: "then was there weeping and wringing of hands, and the greatest dole they made that ever made man. And on the morrow the bishop-hermit sung his mass of requiem." The accompanying wood-cut, from one of the small compartments at the bottom of Cosimo Roselli's picture of St. Jerome, from which we have already taken the figure of St. Damasus, may serve to illustrate this incident. It represents a number of hermits mourning over one of their brethren, while a priest in the robes proper to his office, stands at the head of the bier and says prayers, and his deacon stands at the foot, holding a processional cross. The contrast between the robes of the priest and those of the hermits is lost in the woodcut; in the original the priest's cope and amys are coloured red, while those of the hermits are tinted with light brown. [Illustration: _Funeral Service of a Hermit._] If the reader has wondered how the one hermitage could accommodate these seven additional habitants, the romancer does not forget to satisfy his curiosity: a few pages farther we read--"So at the season of the night they went all to their beds, for they all lay in one chamber." It was not very unusual for hermitages to be built for more than one occupant; but probably, in all such cases, each hermit had his own cell, adjoining their common chapel. This was the original arrangement of the hermits of the Thebais in their laura. The great difference between a hermitage with more than one hermit, and a small cell of one of the other religious orders, was that in such a cell one monk or friar would have been the prior, and the others subject to him; but each hermit was independent of any authority on the part of the other; he was subject only to the obligation of his rule, and the visitation of his bishop. The life[106] of the famous hermit, Richard of Hampole, which has lately been published for the first time by the Early English Text Society, will enable us to realise in some detail the character and life of a mediæval hermit of the highest type. Saint Richard was born[107] in the village of Thornton, in Yorkshire. At a suitable age he was sent to school by the care of his parents, and afterwards was sent by Richard Neville, Archdeacon of Durham, to Oxford, where he gave himself specially to theological study. At the age of nineteen, considering the uncertainty of life and the awfulness of judgment, especially to those who waste life in pleasure or spend it in acquiring wealth, and fearing lest he should fall into such courses, he left Oxford and returned to his father's house. One day he asked of his sister two of her gowns (tunicas), one white, the other grey, and a cloak and hood of his father's. He cut up the two gowns, and fashioned out of them and of the hooded cloak an imitation of a hermit's habit, and next day he went off into a neighbouring wood bent upon living a hermit life. Soon after, on the vigil of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, he went to a certain church, and knelt down to pray in the place which the wife of a certain worthy knight, John de Dalton, was accustomed to occupy. When the lady came to church, her servants would have turned out the intruder, but she would not permit it. When vespers were over and he rose from his knees, the sons of Sir John, who were students at Oxford, recognised him as the son of William Rolle, whom they had known at Oxford. Next day Richard again went to the same church, and without any bidding put on a surplice and sang mattins and the office of the mass with the rest. And when the gospel was to be read at mass, he sought the blessing of the priest, and then entered the pulpit and preached a sermon to the people of such wonderful edification that many were touched with compunction even to tears, and all said they had never heard before a sermon of such power and efficacy. After mass Sir John Dalton invited him to dinner. When he entered into the manor he took his place in a ruined building, and would not enter the hall, according to the evangelical precept, "When thou art bidden to a wedding sit down in the lowest room, and when he that hath bidden thee shall see it he will say to thee, Friend, go up higher;" which was fulfilled in him, for the knight made him sit at table with his own sons. But he kept such silence at dinner that he did not speak one word; and when he had eaten sufficiently he rose before they took away the table and would have departed, but the knight told him this was contrary to custom, and made him sit down again. After dinner the knight had some private conversation with him, and being satisfied that he was not a madman, but really seemed to have the vocation to a hermit's life, he clothed him at his own cost in a hermit's habit, and retained him a long time in his own house, giving him a solitary chamber (_locum mansionis solitariæ_)[108] and providing him with all necessaries. Our hermit then gave himself up to ascetic discipline and a contemplative life. He wrote books; he counselled those who came to him. He did both at the same time; for one afternoon the lady of the house came to him with many other persons and found him writing very rapidly, and begged him to stop writing and speak some words of edification to them; and he began at once and continued to address them for two hours with admirable exhortations to cultivate virtue and to put away worldly vanities, and to increase the love of their hearts for God; but at the same time he went on writing as fast as before. He used to be so absorbed in prayer that his friends took off his torn cloak, and when it had been mended put it on him again, without his knowing it. Soon we hear of his having temptations like those which assailed St. Anthony, the devil tempting him in the form of a beautiful woman. He was specially desirous to help recluses and those who required spiritual consolation, and who were vexed by evil spirits. At length Lady Dalton died, and (whether as a result of this is not stated) the hermit left his cell and began to move from place to place. One time he came near the cell of Dame Margaret, the recluse of Anderby in Richmondshire, and was told that she was dumb and suffering from some strange disease, and went to her. And he sat down at the window of the house of the recluse,[109] and when they had eaten, the recluse felt a desire to sleep; and being oppressed with sleep her head fell towards the window at which St. Richard was reclined. And when she had slept a little, leaning somewhat on Richard, suddenly she was seized with a convulsion, and awoke with her power of speech restored. He wrote many works of ascetic and mystical divinity which were greatly esteemed. The Early English Text Society has published some specimens in the work from which these notices are gathered, which show that his reputation as a devotional writer was not undeserved. At length he settled at Hampole, where was a Cistercian nunnery. Here he died, and in the church of the nunnery he was buried. We are indebted for the Officium and Legenda from which we have gathered this outline of his life to the pious care of the nuns of Hampole, to whom the fame of Richard's sanctity was a source of great profit and honour. That he had a line of successors in his anchorage is indicated by the fact hereafter stated (p. 128), that in 1415 A.D., Lord Scrope left by will a bequest to Elizabeth, late servant to the anchoret of Hampole. [Illustration: _Sir Launcelot and a Hermit._] There are indications that these hermitages were sometimes mere bothies of branches; there is a representation of one, from which we here give a woodcut, in an illuminated MS. romance of Sir Launcelot, of early fourteenth-century date (British Museum, Add. 10,293, folio 118 v., date 1316): we have already noticed another of wattled work.[110] There are also caves[111] here and there in the country which are said by tradition to have been hermitages: one is described in the _Archæological Journal_, vol. iv., p. 150. It is a small cave, not easy of access, in the side of a hill called Carcliff Tor, near Rowsley, a little miserable village not far from Haddon Hall. In a recess, on the right side as you enter the cave, is a crucifix about four feet high, sculptured in bold relief in the red grit rock out of which the cave is hollowed; and close to it, on the right, is a rude niche, perhaps to hold a lamp. St. Robert's Chapel, at Knaresborough, Yorkshire, is a very excellent example of a hermitage.[112] It is hewn out of the rock, at the bottom of a cliff, in the corner of a sequestered dell. The exterior, a view of which is given below, presents us with a simply arched doorway at the bottom of the rough cliff, with an arched window on the left, and a little square opening between, which looks like the little square window of a recluse. Internally we find the cell sculptured into the fashion of a little chapel, with a groined ceiling, the groining shafts and ribs well enough designed, but rather rudely executed. There is a semi-octagonal apsidal recess at the east end, in which the altar stands; a piscina and a credence and stone seat in the north wall; a row of sculptured heads in the south wall, and a grave-stone in the middle of the floor. This chapel appears to have been also the hermit's living room. The view of the exterior, and of the interior and ground-plan, are from Carter's "Ancient Architecture," pl. lxvii. Another hermitage, whose chapel is very similar to this, is at Warkworth. It is half-way up the cliff, on one side of a deep, romantic valley, through which runs the river Coquet, overhung with woods. The chapel is hewn out of the rock, 18 feet long by 7-1/2 wide, with a little entrance-porch on the south, also hewn in the rock; and, on the farther side, a long, narrow apartment, with a small altar at the east end, and a window looking upon the chapel altar. This long apartment was probably the hermit's living room; but when the Earls of Northumberland endowed the hermitage for a chantry priest, the priest seems to have lived in a small house, with a garden attached, at the foot of the cliff. The chapel is groined, and has Gothic windows, very like that of Knaresborough. A minute description of this hermitage, and of the legend connected with it, is given in a poem called "The History of Warkworth" (4to, 1775), and in a letter in Grose's "Antiquities," vol. iii., is a ground-plan of the chapel and its appurtenances. A view of the exterior, showing its picturesque situation, will be found in Herne's "Antiquities of Great Britain," pl. 9. [Illustration: _Exterior View of St. Robert's Chapel, Knaresborough._] [Illustration: _Interior View of St. Robert's Chapel._] There is a little cell, or oratory, called the hermitage, cut out of the face of a rock near Dale Abbey, Derbyshire. On the south side are the door and three windows; at the east end, an altar standing upon a raised platform, both cut out of the rock; there are little niches in the walls, and a stone seat all round.[113] There is another hermitage of three cells at Wetheral, near Carlisle, called Wetheral Safeguard, or St. Constantine's Cells--Wetheral Priory was dedicated to St. Constantine, and this hermitage seems to have belonged to the priory. It is not far from Wetheral Priory, in the face of a rock standing 100 feet perpendicularly out of the river Eden, which washes its base; the hill rising several hundred feet higher still above this rocky escarpment. The hermitage is at a height of 40 feet from the river, and can only be approached from above by a narrow and difficult path down the face of the precipice. It consists of three square cells, close together, about 10 feet square and 8 feet high; each with a short passage leading to it, which increases its total length to about 20 feet. These passages communicate with a little platform of rock in front of the cells. At a lower level than this platform, by about 7 feet, there is a narrow gallery built up of masonry; the door to the hermitage is at one end of it, so that access to the cells can only be obtained by means of a ladder from this gallery to the platform of rock 7 feet above it. In the front of the gallery are three windows, opposite to the three cells, to give them light, and one chimney. An engraving will be found in Hutchinson's "History of Cumberland," vol. i. p. 160, which shows the picturesque scene--the rocky hill-side, with the river washing round its base, and the three windows of the hermitage, half-way up, peeping through the foliage; there is also a careful plan of the cells in the letterpress. [Illustration: _Ground-Plan of St. Robert's Chapel._] A chapel, and a range of rooms--which communicate with one another, and form a tolerably commodious house of two floors, are excavated out of a rocky hill-side, called Blackstone Rock, which forms the bank of the Severn, near Bewdley, Worcestershire. A view of the exterior of the rock, and a plan and section of the chambers, are given both in Stukeley's "Itinerarium Curiosum," pls. 13 and 14, and in Nash's "History of Worcestershire," vol. ii. p. 48. [Illustration] At Lenton, near Nottingham, there is a chapel and a range of cells excavated out of the face of a semicircular sweep of rock, which crops out on the bank of the river Leen. The river winds round the other semicircle, leaving a space of greensward between the rock and the river, upon which the cells open. Now, the whole place is enclosed, and used as a public garden and bowling-green, its original features being, however, preserved with a praiseworthy appreciation of their interest. In former days this hermitage was just within the verge of the park of the royal castle of Nottingham; it was doubtless screened by the trees of the park; and its inmates might pace to and fro on their secluded grass-plot, fenced in by the rock and the river from every intruding foot, and yet in full view of the walls and towers of the castle, with the royal banner waving from its keep, and catch a glimpse of the populous borough, and see the parties of knights and ladies prance over the level meadows which stretched out to the neighbouring Trent like a green carpet, embroidered in spring and autumn by the purple crocus, which grows wild there in myriads. Stukeley, in his "Itinerarium Curiosum," pl. 39, gives a view and ground-plan of these curious cells. Carter also figures them in his "Ancient Architecture," pl. 12, and gives details of a Norman shaft and arch in the chapel. But nearly all the hermitages which we read of in the romances, or see depicted in the illuminations and paintings, or find noticed in ancient historical documents, are substantial buildings of stone or timber. Here is one from folio 56 of the "History of Launcelot" (Add. 10,293): the hermit stands at the door of his house, giving his parting benediction to Sir Launcelot, who, with his attendant physician, is taking his leave after a night's sojourn at the hermitage. In the paintings of the Campo Santo, at Pisa (engraved in Mrs. Jameson's "Sacred and Legendary Art"), which represent the hermits of the Egyptian desert, some of the hermitages are caves, some are little houses of stone. In Caxton's "Vitas Patrum" the hermitages are little houses; one has a stepped gable; another is like a gateway, with a room over it.[114] They were founded and built, and often endowed, by the same men who founded chantries, and built churches, and endowed monasteries; and from the same motives of piety, charity, or superstition. And the founders seem often to have retained the patronage of the hermitages, as of valuable benefices, in their own hands.[115] A hermitage was, in fact, a miniature monastery, inhabited by one religious, who was abbot, and prior, and convent, all in one: sometimes also by a chaplain,[116] where the hermit was not a priest, and by several lay brethren, _i.e._ servants. It had a chapel of its own, in which divine service was performed daily. It had also the apartments necessary for the accommodation of the hermit, and his chaplain--when one lived in the hermitage--and his servants, and the necessary accommodation for travellers besides; and it had often, perhaps generally, its court-yard and garden. The chapel of the hermitage seems not to have been appropriated solely to the performance of divine offices, but to have been made useful for other more secular purposes also. Indeed, the churches and chapels in the Middle Ages seem often to have been used for great occasions of a semi-religious character, when a large apartment was requisite, _e.g._ for holding councils, for judicial proceedings, and the like. Godric of Finchale, a hermit who lived about the time of Henry II.,[117] had two chapels adjoining his cell; one he called by the name of St. John Baptist, the other after the Blessed Virgin. He had a kind of common room, "communis domus," in which he cooked his food and saw visitors; but he lived chiefly, day and night, in the chapel of St. John, removing his bed to the chapel of St. Mary at times of more solemn devotion. In an illumination on folio 153 of the "History of Launcelot," already quoted (British Mus., Add. 10,293), is a picture of King Arthur taking counsel with a hermit in his hermitage. The building in which they are seated has a nave and aisles, a rose-window in its gable, and a bell-turret, and seems intended to represent the chapel of the hermitage. Again, at folio 107 of the same MS. is a picture of a hermit talking to a man, with the title,--"Ensi y come une hermites prole en une chapele de son hermitage,"--"How a hermit conversed in the chapel of his hermitage." It may, perhaps, have been in the chapel that the hermit received those who sought his counsel on spiritual or on secular affairs. In addition to the references which have already been given to illustrations of the subject in the illuminations of MSS., we call the special attention of the student to a series of pictures illustrating a mediæval story of which a hermit is the hero, in the late thirteenth century MS. Royal 10 E IV.; it begins at folio 113 v., and runs on for many pages, and is full of interesting passages. We also add a few lines from Lydgate's unpublished "Life of St Edmund," as a typical picture of a hermit, drawn in the second quarter of the fifteenth century:-- "--holy Ffremund though he were yonge of age, And ther he bilte a litel hermitage Be side a ryver with al his besy peyne, He and his fellawis that were in nombre tweyne. "A litel chapel he dide ther edifie, Day be day to make in his praiere, In the reverence only off Marie And in the worshipe of her Sone deere, And the space fully off sevene yeere Hooly Ffremund, lik as it is founde, Leved be frut and rootes off the grounde. "Off frutes wilde, his story doth us telle, Was his repast penance for t' endure, To stanch his thurst drank water off the welle And eet acorns to sustene his nature, Kernelles off notis [nuts] when he myhte hem recure. To God alway doying reverence, What ever he sent took it in patience." And in concluding this chapter let us call to mind Spenser's description of a typical hermit and hermitage, while the originals still lingered in the living memory of the people:-- "At length they chaunst to meet upon the way An aged sire, in long blacke weedes yclad, His feet all bare, his head all hoarie gray, And by his belt his booke he hanging had; Sober he seemde, and very sagely sad, And to the ground his eyes were lowly bent, Simple in shew, and voide of malice bad; And all the way he prayed as he went, And often knockt his brest as one that did repent. "He faire the knight saluted, louting low, Who faire him quited, as that courteous was; And after asked him if he did know Of strange adventures which abroad did pas. 'Ah! my dear sonne,' quoth he, 'how should, alas! Silly[118] old man, that lives in hidden cell, Bidding his beades all day for his trespas, Tidings of war and worldly trouble tell? With holy father sits not with such things to mell.'[119] * * * * * Quoth then that aged man, 'The way to win Is wisely to advise. Now day is spent, Therefore with me ye may take up your in For this same night.' The knight was well content; So with that godly father to his home he went. "A little lowly hermitage it was, Down in a dale, hard by a forest's side, Far from resort of people that did pass In traveill to and froe; a little wyde There was an holy chappell edifyde, Wherein the hermite dewly wont to say His holy things, each morne and eventyde; Hereby a chrystall streame did gently play, Which from a sacred fountaine welled forth alway. "Arrived there, the little house they fill; Ne look for entertainment where none was; Rest is their feast, and all things at their will: The noblest mind the best contentment has. With fair discourse the evening so they pas; For that old man of pleasing words had store, And well could file his tongue as smooth as glas; He told of saintes and popes, and evermore He strowd an Ave-Mary after and before."[120] _Faery Queen_, i. 1, 29, 33, 34, 35. CHAPTER II. ANCHORESSES, OR FEMALE RECLUSES. And now we proceed to speak more particularly of the recluses. The old legend tells us that John the Hermit, the contemporary of St. Anthony, would hold communication with no man except through the window of his cell.[121] But the recluses of more modern days were not content to quote John the Egyptian as their founder. As the Carmelite friars claimed Elijah, so the recluses, at least the female recluses, looked up to Judith as the foundress of their mode of life, and patroness of their order. Mabillon tells us that the first who made any formal rule for recluses was one Grimlac, who lived about 900 A.D. The principal regulations of his rule are, that the candidate for reclusion, if a monk, should signify his intention a year beforehand, and during the interval should continue to live among his brethren. If not already a monk, the period of probation was doubled. The leave of the bishop of the diocese was to be first obtained, and if the candidate were a monk, the leave of his abbot and convent also. When he had entered his cell, the bishop was to put his seal upon the door, which was never again to be opened,[122] unless for the help of the recluse in time of sickness or on the approach of death. Successive councils published canons to regulate this kind of life. That of Millo, in 692, repeats in substance the rule of Grimlac. That of Frankfort, in 787, refers to the recluses. The synod of Richard de la Wich, Bishop of Chichester, A.D. 1246, makes some canons concerning them: "Also we ordain to recluses that they shall not receive or keep any person in their houses concerning whom any sinister suspicion might arise. Also that they have narrow and proper windows; and we permit them to have secret communication with those persons only whose gravity and honesty do not admit of suspicion."[123] Towards the end of the twelfth century a rule for anchorites was written by Bishop Richard Poore[124] of Chichester, and afterwards of Salisbury, who died A.D. 1237, which throws abundant light upon their mode of life; for it is not merely a brief code of the regulations obligatory upon them, but it is a book of paternal counsels, which enters at great length, and in minute detail, into the circumstances of the recluse life, and will be of great use to us in the subsequent part of this chapter. There were doubtless different degrees of austerity among the recluses; but, on the whole, we must banish from our minds the popular[125] idea that they inhabited a living grave, and lived a life of the extremest mortification. Doubtless there were instances in which religious enthusiasm led the recluse into frightful and inhuman self-torture, like that of Thaysis, in the "Golden Legend:" "She went to the place whiche th' abbot had assygned to her, and there was a monasterye of vyrgyns; and there he closed her in a celle, and sealed the door with led. And the celle was lytyll and strayte, and but one lytell wyndowe open, by whyche was mynistred to her poor lyvinge; for the abbot commanded that they shold gyve to her a lytell brede and water."[126] Thaysis submitted to it at the command of Abbot Pafnucius, as penance for a sinful life, in the early days of Egyptian austerity; and now and then throughout the subsequent ages the self-hatred of an earnest, impassioned nature, suddenly roused to a feeling of exceeding sinfulness; the remorse of a wild, strong spirit, conscious of great crimes; or the enthusiasm of a weak mind and morbid conscience, might urge men and women to such self-revenges, to such penances, as these. Bishop Poore gives us episodically a pathetic example, which our readers will thank us for repeating here. "Nothing is ever so hard that love doth not make tender, and soft, and sweet. Love maketh all things easy. What do men and women endure for false love, and would endure more! And what is more to be wondered at is, that love which is faithful and true, and sweeter than any other love, doth not overmaster us as doth sinful love! Yet I know a man who weareth at the same time both a heavy cuirass[127] and haircloth, bound with iron round the middle too, and his arms with broad and thick bands, so that to bear the sweat of it is severe suffering. He fasteth, he watcheth, he laboureth, and, Christ knoweth, he complaineth, and saith that it doth not oppress him; and often asks me to teach him something wherewith he might give his body pain. God knoweth that he, the most sorrowful of men, weepeth to me, and saith that God hath quite forgotten him, because He sendeth him no great sickness; whatever is bitter seems sweet to him for our Lord's sake. God knoweth love doth this, because, as he often saith to me, he could never love God the less for any evil thing that He might do to him, even were He to cast him into hell with those that perish. And if any believe any such thing of him, he is more confounded than a thief taken with his theft. I know also a woman of like mind that suffereth little less. And what remaineth but to thank God for the strength that He giveth them; and let us humbly acknowledge our own weakness, and love their merit, and thus it becomes our own. For as St. Gregory says, love is of so great power that it maketh the merit of others our own, without labour." But though powerful motives and great force of character might enable an individual here and there to persevere with such austerities, when the severities of the recluse life had to be reduced to rule and system, and when a succession of occupants had to be found for the vacant anchorholds, ordinary human nature revolted from these unnatural austerities, and the common sense of mankind easily granted a tacit dispensation from them; and the recluse life was speedily toned down in practice to a life which a religiously-minded person, especially one who had been wounded and worsted in the battle of life, might gladly embrace and easily endure. Usually, even where the cell consisted of a single room, it was large enough for the comfortable abode of a single inmate, and it was not destitute of such furnishing as comfort required. But it was not unusual for the cell to be in fact a house of several apartments, with a garden attached: and it would seem that the technical "cell" within which the recluse was immured, included house and garden, and everything within the boundary wall.[128] It is true that many of the recluses lived entirely, and perhaps all partly, upon the alms of pious and charitable people. An alms-box was hung up to receive contributions, as appears from "Piers Ploughman,"-- "In ancres there a box hangeth." And in the extracts hereafter given from the "Ancren Riewle," we shall find several allusions to the giving of alms to recluses as a usual custom. But it was the bishop's duty, before giving license for the building of a reclusorium, to satisfy himself that there would be, either from alms or from an endowment, a sufficient maintenance for the recluse. Practically, they do not seem often to have been in want; they were restricted as to the times when they might eat flesh-meat, but otherwise their abstemiousness depended upon their own religious feeling on the subject; and the only check upon excess was in their own moderation. They occupied themselves, besides their frequent devotions, in reading, writing, illuminating, and needlework; and though the recluses attached to some monasteries seem to have been under an obligation of silence, yet in the usual case the recluse held a perpetual levee at the open window, and gossiping and scandal appear to have been among her besetting sins. It will be our business to verify and further to illustrate this general sketch of the recluse life. [Illustration: _Sir Percival at the Reclusorium._] And, first, let us speak more in detail of their habitations. The reclusorium, or anchorhold, seems sometimes to have been, like the hermitage, a house of timber or stone, or a grotto in a solitary place. In Sir T. Mallory's "Prince Arthur" we are introduced to one of these, which afforded all the appliances for lodging and entertaining even male guests. We read:--"Sir Percival returned again unto the recluse, where he deemed to have tidings of that knight which Sir Launcelot followed. And so he kneeled at her window, and anon the recluse opened it, and asked Sir Percival what he would. 'Madam,' said he, 'I am a knight of King Arthur's court, and my name is Sir Percival de Galis.' So when the recluse heard his name, she made passing great joy of him, for greatly she loved him before all other knights of the world; and so of right she ought to do, for she was his aunt. And then she commanded that the gates should be opened to him, and then Sir Percival had all the cheer that she might make him, and all that was in her power was at his commandment." But it does not seem that she entertained him in person; for the story continues that "on the morrow Sir Percival went unto the recluse," _i.e._, to her little audience-window, to propound his question, "if she knew that knight with the white shield." Opposite is a woodcut of a picture in the MS. "History of Sir Launcelot" (Royal 14, E. III. folio 101 v.), entitled, "Ensi q Percheva retourna à la rencluse qui estait en son hermitage."[129] In the case of these large remote anchorholds, the recluse must have had a chaplain to come and say mass for her every day in the chapel of her hermitage.[130] But in the vast majority of cases, anchorholds were attached to a church either of a religious house, or of a town, or of a village; and in these situations they appear to have been much more numerous than is at all suspected by those who have not inquired into this little-known portion of our mediæval antiquities. Very many of our village churches had a recluse living within or beside them, and it will, perhaps, especially surprise the majority of our readers to learn that these recluses were specially numerous in the mediæval towns.[131] The proofs of this fact are abundant; here are some. Henry, Lord Scrope, of Masham, by will, dated 23rd June, 1415, bequeathed to every anchoret[132] and recluse dwelling in London or its suburbs 6_s._ 8_d._; also to every anchoret and recluse dwelling in York and its suburbs 6_s._ 8_d._ From other sources we learn more about these York anchorets and recluses. The will of Adam Wigan, rector of St. Saviour, York (April 20, 1433, A.D.)[133], leaves 3_s._ 4_d._ to Dan John, who dwelt in the Chapel of St. Martin, within the parish of St. Saviour. The female recluses of York were three in number in the year 1433, as we learn from the will of Margaret, relict of Nicholas Blackburne:[134] "Lego tribus reclusis Ebor.," ij_s._ Where their cells were situated we learn from the will of Richard Rupell (A.D. 1435[135]), who bequeaths to the recluse in the cemetery of the Church of St. Margaret, York, five marks; and to the recluse in the cemetery of St. Helen, in Fishergate, five marks; and to the recluse in the cemetery of All Saints, in North Street, York, five marks. They are also all three mentioned in the will of Adam Wigan, who leaves to the anchorite enclosed in Fishergate 2_s._; to her enclosed near the church of St. Margaret 2_s._; to her enclosed in North Street, near the Church of All Saints, 2_s._ The will of Lady Margaret Stapelton, 1465 A.D.,[136] mentions anchorites in Watergate and Fishergate, in the suburbs of York, and in another place the anchorite of the nunnery of St. Clement, York. At Lincoln, also, we are able to trace a similar succession of anchoresses. In 1383 A.D., William de Belay, of Lincoln, left to an anchoress named Isabella, who dwelt in the Church of the Holy Trinity, in Wigford, within the city of Lincoln, 13_s._ 4_d._ In 1391, John de Sutton left her 20_s._; in 1374, John de Ramsay left her 12_d._ Besides these she had numerous other legacies from citizens. In 1453, an anchoress named Matilda supplied the place of Isabella, who we may suppose had long since gone to her reward. In that year John Tilney--one of the Tilneys of Boston--left "Domine Matilde incluse infra ecclesiam sanctæ Trinitatis ad gressus in civitate Lincoln, vj_s._ viij_d._" In 1502, Master John Watson, a chaplain in Master Robert Flemyng's chantry, left xij_d._ to the "ankers" at the Greese foot. This Church of the Holy Trinity "ad gressus" seems to have been for a long period the abode of a female recluse.[137] The will of Roger Eston, rector of Richmond, Yorkshire, A.D. 1446, also mentions the recluses in the city of York and its suburbs. The will of Adam Wilson also mentions Lady Agnes, enclosed at (_apud_) the parish church of Thorganby, and anchorites (female) at Beston and Pontefract. Sir Hugh Willoughby, of Wollaton, in 1463 bequeathed 6_s._ 5_d._ to the anchoress of Nottingham.[138] The will of Lady Joan Wombewell, A.D. 1454,[139] also mentions the anchoress of Beyston. The will of John Brompton, of Beverley, A.D. 1444,[140] bequeaths 3_s._ 4_d._ to the recluse by the Church of St. Giles, and 1_s._ 6_d._ to anchorite at the friary of St. Nicholas of Beverley. Roger Eston also leaves a bequest to the anchorite of his parish of Richmond, respecting whom the editor gives a note whose substance is given elsewhere. In a will of the fifteenth century[141] we have a bequest "to the ancher in the wall beside Bishopsgate, London."[142] In the will of St. Richard, Bishop of Chichester,[143] we have bequests to Friar Humphrey, the recluse of Pageham, to the recluse of Hogton, to the recluse of Stopeham, to the recluse of Herringham; and in the will of Walter de Suffield, Bishop of Norwich, bequests to "anchers" and recluses in his diocese, and especially to his niece Ela, _in reclusorio_ at Massingham.[144] Among the other notices which we have of solitaries living in towns, Lydgate mentions one in the town of Wakefield. Morant says there was one in Holy Trinity churchyard, Colchester. The episcopal registers of Lichfield show that there was an anchorage for several female recluses in the churchyard of St. George's Chapel, Shrewsbury. The will of Henry, Lord Scrope, already quoted, leaves 100_s._ and the pair of beads which the testator was accustomed to use to the anchorite of Westminster: it was his predecessor, doubtless, who is mentioned in the time of Richard II.: when the young king was going to meet Wat Tyler in Smithfield, he went to Westminster Abbey, "then to the church, and so to the high altar, where he devoutedly prayed and offered; after which he spake with the anchore, to whom he confessed himself."[145] Lord Scrope's will goes on to bequeath 40_s._ to Robert, the recluse of Beverley; 13_s._ 4_d._ each to the anchorets of Stafford, of Kurkebeck, of Wath, of Peasholme, near York, of Kirby, Thorganby, near Colingworth, of Leek, near Upsale, of Gainsburgh, of Kneesall, near South Well, of Dartford, of Stamford, living in the parish church there; to Thomas, the chaplain dwelling continually in the church of St. Nicholas, Gloucester; to Elizabeth, late servant to the anchoret of Hamphole; and to the recluse in the house of the Dominicans at Newcastle; and also 6_s._ 8_d._ to every other anchorite and anchoritess that could be easily found within three months of his decease. We have already had occasion to mention that there were several female recluses, in addition to the male solitaries, in the churchyards of the then great city of Norwich. The particulars which that laborious antiquary, Blomfield, has collected together respecting several of them will throw a little additional light upon our subject, and fill up still further the outlines of the picture which we are engaged in painting. There was a hermitage in the churchyard of St. Julian, Norwich, which was inhabited by a succession of anchoresses, some of whose names Blomfield records:--Dame Agnes, in 1472; Dame Elizabeth Scot, in 1481; Lady Elizabeth, in 1510; Dame Agnes Edrigge, in 1524. The Lady Julian, who was the anchoress in 1393, is said to have had two servants to attend her in her old age. "She was esteemed of great holiness. Mr. Francis Peck had a vellum MS. containing an account of her visions." Blomfield says that the foundations of the anchorage might still be seen in his time, on the east side of St. Julian's churchyard. There was also an anchorage in St. Ethelred's churchyard, which was rebuilt in 1305, and an anchor continually dwelt there till the Reformation, when it was pulled down, and the grange, or tithe-barn, at Brakendale was built with its timber; so that it must have been a timber house of some magnitude. Also in St. Edward's churchyard, joining to the church on the north side, was a cell, whose ruins were still visible in Blomfield's time, and most persons who died in Norwich left small sums towards its maintenance. In 1428 Lady Joan was anchoress here, to whom Walter Ledman left 20_s._, and 40_d._ to each of her servants. In 1458, Dame Anneys Kite was the recluse here; in 1516, Margaret Norman, widow, was buried here, and gave a legacy to the lady anchoress by the church. St. John the Evangelist's Church, in Southgate, was, about A.D. 1300, annexed to the parish of St. Peter per Montergate, and the Grey Friars bought the site; they pulled down the whole building, except a small part left for an anchorage, in which they placed an anchor, to whom they assigned part of the churchyard for his garden. Also there used anciently to be a recluse dwelling in a little cell joining to the north side of the tower of St. John the Baptist's Church, Timber Hill, but it was down before the Dissolution. Also there was an anchor, or hermit, who had an anchorage in or adjoining to All Saints' Church. Also in Henry III.'s time a recluse dwelt in the churchyard of St. John the Baptist, and the Holy Sepulchre, in Ber Street. In the monastery of the Carmelites, or White Friars, at Norwich, there were two anchorages--one for a man, who was admitted brother of the house, and another for a woman, who was admitted sister thereof. The latter was under the chapel of the Holy Cross, which was still standing in Blomfield's time, though converted into dwelling-houses. The former stood by St. Martin's Bridge, on the east side of the street, and had a small garden to it, which ran down to the river. In 1442, December 2nd, the Lady Emma, recluse, or anchoress, and religious sister of the Carmelite order, was buried in their church. In 1443, Thomas Scroope was anchorite in this house. In 1465, Brother John Castleacre, a priest, was anchorite. In 1494 there were legacies given to the anchor of the White Friars. This Thomas Scroope was originally a Benedictine monk; in 1430 he became anchorite here (being received a brother of the Carmelite order), and led an anchorite's life for many years, seldom going out of his cell but when he preached; about 1446 Pope Eugenius made him Bishop of Down, which see he afterwards resigned, and came again to his convent, and became suffragan to the Bishop of Norwich. He died, and was buried at Lowestoft, being near a hundred years old. The document which we are about to quote from Whittaker's "History of Whalley" (pp. 72 and 77), illustrates many points in the history of their anchorholds. The anchorage therein mentioned was built in a parish churchyard, it depended upon a monastery, and was endowed with an allowance in money and kind from the monastery; it was founded for two recluses; they had a chaplain and servants; and the patronage was retained by the founder. The document will also give us some very curious and minute details of the domestic economy of the recluse life; and, lastly, it will give us an historical proof that the assertions of the contemporary satirists, of the laxity[146] with which the vows were sometimes kept, were not without foundation. "In 1349, Henry, Duke of Lancaster, granted in trust to the abbot and convent of Whalley rather large endowments to support two recluses (women) in a certain place within the churchyard of the parish church of Whalley, and two women servants to attend them, there to pray for the soul of the duke, &c.; to find them seventeen ordinary loaves, and seven inferior loaves, eight gallons of better beer, and 3_d._ per week; and yearly ten large stock-fish, one bushel of oatmeal, one of rye, two gallons of oil for lamps, one pound of tallow for candles, six loads of turf, and one load of faggots; also to repair their habitations; and to find a chaplain to say mass in the chapel of these recluses daily; their successors to be nominated by the duke and his heirs. On July 6, 15th Henry VI., the king nominated Isole de Heton, widow, to be an _anachorita_ for life, _in loco ad hoc ordinato juxta ecclesiam parochialem de Whalley_. Isole, however, grew tired of the solitary life, and quitted it; for afterwards a representation was made to the king that 'divers that had been anchores and recluses in the seyd place aforetyme, have broken oute of the seyd place wherein they were reclusyd, and departyd therefrom wythout any reconsilyation;' and that Isole de Heton had broken out two years before, and was not willing to return; and that divers of the women that had been servants there had been with child. So Henry VI. dissolved the hermitage, and appointed instead two chaplains to say mass daily, &c." Whittaker thinks that the hermitage occupied the site of some cottages on the west side of the churchyard, which opened into the churchyard until he had the doors walled up. There was a similar hermitage for several female recluses in the churchyard of St. Romauld, Shrewsbury, as we learn from a document among the Bishop of Lichfield's registers,[147] in which he directs the Dean of St. Chadd, or his procurator, to enclose Isolda de Hungerford an anchorite in the houses of the churchyard of St. Romauld, where the other anchorites dwell. Also in the same registry there is a precept, dated Feb. 1, 1310, from Walter de Langton, Bishop, to Emma Sprenghose, admitting her an anchorite in the houses of the churchyard of St. George's Chapel, Salop, and he appoints the archdeacon to enclose her. Another license from Roger, Bishop of Lichfield, dated 1362, to Robert de Worthin, permitting him, on the nomination of Queen Isabella, to serve God in the reclusorium built adjoining (_juxta_) the chapel of St. John Baptist in the city of Coventry, has been published _in extenso_ by Dugdale, and we transcribe it for the benefit of the curious.[148] Thomas Hearne has printed an Episcopal Commission, dated 1402, for enclosing John Cherde, a monk of Ford Abbey. Burnett's "History of Bristol" mentions a commission opened by Bishop William of Wykham, in August, 1403, for enclosing Lucy de Newchurch, an anchoritess in the hermitage of St. Brendon in Bristol. Richard Francis, an ankret, is spoken of as _inter quatuor parietes pro christi inclusus_ in Langtoft's "Chronicle," ij. 625. CHAPTER III. ANCHORAGES. Just as in a monastery, though it might be large or small in magnitude, simple or gorgeous in style, with more or fewer offices and appendages, according to the number and wealth of the establishment, yet there was always a certain suite of conventual buildings, church, chapter refectory, dormitory, &c., arranged in a certain order, which formed the cloister; and this cloister was the nucleus of all the rest of the buildings of the establishment; so, in a reclusorium, or anchorhold, there was always a "cell" of a certain construction, to which all things else, parlours or chapels, apartments for servants and guests, yards and gardens, were accidental appendages. Bader's rule for recluses in Bavaria[149] describes the dimensions and plan of the cell minutely; the _domus inclusi_ was to be 12 feet long by as many broad, and was to have three windows--one towards the choir (of the church to which it was attached), through which he might receive the Holy Sacrament; another on the opposite side, through which he might receive his victuals; and a third to give light, which last ought always to be closed with glass or horn. The reader will have already gathered from the preceding extracts that the reclusorium was sometimes a house of timber or stone within the churchyard, and most usually adjoining the church itself. At the west end of Laindon Church, Essex, there is a unique erection of timber, of which we here give a representation. It has been modernised in appearance by the insertion of windows and doors; and there are no architectural details of a character to reveal with certainty its date, but in its mode of construction--the massive timbers being placed close together--and in its general appearance, there is an air of considerable antiquity. It is improbable that a house would be erected in such a situation after the Reformation, and it accords generally with the descriptions of a recluse house. Probably, however, many of the anchorholds attached to churches were of smaller dimensions; sometimes, perhaps, only a single little timber apartment on the ground floor, or sometimes probably raised upon an under croft, according to a common custom in mediæval domestic buildings. Very probably some of those little windows which occur in many of our churches, in various situations, at various heights, and which, under the name of "low side windows," have formed the subject of so much discussion among ecclesiologists, may have been the windows of such anchorholds. The peculiarity of these windows is that they are sometimes merely a square opening, which originally was not glazed, but closed with a shutter; sometimes a small glazed window, in a position where it was clearly not intended to light the church generally; sometimes a window has a stone transom across, and the upper part is glazed, while the lower part is closed only by a shutter. It is clear that some of these may have served to enable the anchorite, living in a cell _outside_ the church, to see the altar. It seems to have been such a window which is alluded to in the following incident from Mallory's "Prince Arthur:"--"Then Sir Launcelot armed him and took his horse, and as he rode that way he saw a chapel where was a recluse, which had a window that she might see up to the altar; and all aloud she called Sir Launcelot, because he seemed a knight arrant.... And (after a long conversation) she commanded Launcelot to dinner." In the late thirteenth-century MS., Royal 10 E. IV. at f. 181, is a representation of a recluse-house, in which, besides two two-light arched windows high up in the wall, there is a smaller square "low side window" very distinctly shown. Others of these low side windows may have been for the use of wooden anchorholds built _within_ the church, combining two of the usual three windows of the cell, viz., the one to give light, and the one through which to receive food and communicate with the outer world. There is an anchorhold still remaining in a tolerably unmutilated state at Rettenden, Essex. It is a stone building of fifteenth-century date, of two stories, adjoining the north side of the chancel. It is entered by a rather elaborately moulded doorway from the chancel. The lower story is now used as a vestry, and is lighted by a modern window broken through its east wall; but it is described as having been a dark room, and there is no trace of any original window. In the north wall, and towards the east, is a bracket, such as would hold a small statue or a lamp. In the west side of this room, on the left immediately on entering it from the chancel, is the door of a stone winding stair (built up in the nave aisle, but now screened towards the aisle by a very large monument), which gives access to the upper story. This story consists of a room which very exactly agrees with the description of a recluse's cell (see opposite woodcut). On the south side are two arched niches, in which are stone benches, and the back of the easternmost of these niches is pierced by a small arched window, now blocked up, which looked down upon the altar. On the north side is a chimney, now filled with a modern fireplace, but the chimney is a part of the original building; and westward of the chimney is a small square opening, now filled with modern glazing, but the hook upon which the original shutter hung still remains. This window is not splayed in the usual mediæval manner, but is recessed in such a way as to allow the head of a person to look out, and especially down, with facility. On the exterior this window is about 10 feet from the ground. In this respect it resembles the situation of a low side window in Prior Crawden's Chapel, Ely Cathedral,[150] which is on the first floor, having a room, lighted only by narrow slits, beneath it; and at the Sainte Chapelle, in Paris, which also has an undercroft, there is a similar example of a side window, at a still greater height from the ground. The east side of the Rettenden reclusorium has now a modern window, probably occupying the place of the original window which gave light to the cell. The stair-turret at the top of the winding staircase, seems to have been intended to serve for a little closet: it obtained some light through a small loop which looked out into the north aisle of the church; the wall on the north side of it is recessed so as to form a shelf, and a square slab of stone, which looks like a portion of a thirteenth-century coffin-stone, is laid upon the top of the newel, and fitted into the wall, so as to form another shelf or little table. [Illustration: _Laindon Church, Essex._] [Illustration: _Reclusorium, or Anchorhold, at Rettenden, Essex._] At East Horndon Church, Essex, there are two transept-like projections from the nave. In the one on the south there is a monumental niche in the south wall, upon the back of which are the indents of the brasses of a man and wife and several children; and there is a tradition, with which these indents are altogether inconsistent, that the heart of the unfortunate Queen Anne Bullen is interred therein. Over this is a chamber, open to the nave, and now used as a gallery, approached by a modern wooden stair; and there is a projection outside which looks like a chimney, carried out from this floor upwards. The transeptal projection on the north side is very similar in plan. On the ground floor there is a wide, shallow, cinque-foil headed niche (partly blocked) in the east wall; and there is a wainscot ceiling, very neatly divided into rectangular panels by moulded ribs of the date of about Henry VIII. The existence of the chamber above was unknown until the present rector discovered a doorway in the east wall of the ground floor, which, on being opened, gave access to a stone staircase behind the east wall, which led up into a first-floor chamber, about 12 feet from east to west, and 8 feet from north to south: the birds had had access to it through an unglazed window in the north wall for an unknown period, and it was half filled with their nests; the floor planks were quite decayed. There is no trace of a chimney here. It is now opened out to the nave to form a gallery. Though we do not find in these two first-floor chambers the arrangements which could satisfy us that they were recluse cells, yet it is very probable that they were habitable chambers, inhabited, if not by recluses, perhaps by chantry priests, serving chantry chapels of the Tyrrells. Mr. M. H. Bloxam, in an interesting paper in the Transactions of the Lincoln Diocesan Architectural Society, mentions several other anchorholds:--"Adjoining the little mountain church of S. Patricio, about five miles from Crickhowel, South Wales, is an attached building or cell. It contains on the east side a stone altar, above which is a small window, now blocked up, which looked towards the altar of the church; but there was no other internal communication between this cell and the church, to the west end of which it is annexed; it appears as if destined for a recluse who was also a priest." Mr. Bloxam mentions some other examples, very much resembling the one described at Rettenden. The north transept of Clifton Campville Church, Staffordshire, a structure of the fourteenth century, is vaulted and groined with stone; it measures 17 feet from north to south, and 12 feet from east to west. Over this is a loft or chamber, apparently an anchorhold or _domus inclusi_, access to which is obtained by means of a newell staircase in the south-east angle, from a doorway at the north-east angle of the chancel. A small window on the south side of this chamber, now blocked up, afforded a view into the interior of the church. The roof of this chamber has been lowered, and all the windows blocked up. "On the north side of the chancel of Chipping Norton Church, Oxfordshire, is a revestry which still contains an ancient stone altar, with its appurtenances, viz., a piscina in the wall on the north side, and a bracket for an image projecting from the east wall, north of the altar. Over this revestry is a loft or chamber, to which access is obtained by means of a staircase in the north-west angle. Apertures in the wall enabled the recluse, probably a priest, here dwelling, to overlook the chancel and north aisle of the church. "Adjoining the north side of the chancel of Warmington Church, Warwickshire, is a revestry, entered through an ogee-headed doorway in the north wall of the chancel, down a descent of three steps. This revestry contains an ancient stone altar, projecting from a square-headed window in the east wall, and near the altar, in the same wall, is a piscina. In the south-west angle of this revestry is a flight of stone steps, leading up to a chamber or loft. This chamber contains, in the west wall, a fire-place, in the north-west angle a retiring-closet, or jakes, and in the south wall a small pointed window, of decorated character, through which the high-altar in the chancel might be viewed. In the north wall there appears to have been a pointed window, filled with decorated tracery, and in the east wall is another decorated window. This is one of the most interesting and complete specimens of the _domus inclusi_ I have met with."[151] The chamber which is so frequently found over the porch of our churches, often with a fireplace, and sometimes with a closet within it, may probably have sometimes been inhabited by a recluse. Chambers are also sometimes found in the towers of churches.[152] Mr. Bloxam mentions a room, with a fire-place, in the tower of Upton Church, Nottinghamshire. Again, at Boyton Church, Wiltshire, the tower is on the north side of the church, "and adjoining the tower on the west side, and communicating with it, is a room which appears to have been once permanently inhabited, and in the north-east angle of this room is a fire-place." At Newport, Salop, the first floor of the tower seems to have been a habitable chamber, and has a little inner chamber corbelled out at the north-west angle of the tower. We have already hinted that it is not improbable that timber anchorholds were sometimes erected inside our churches. Or perhaps the recluse lived in the church itself, or, more definitely, in a par-closed chantry chapel, without any chamber being purposely built for him. The indications which lead us to this supposition are these: there is sometimes an ordinary domestic fire-place to be found inside the church. For instance, in the north aisle of Layer Marney Church, Essex, the western part of the aisle is screened off for the chantry of Lord Marney, whose tomb has the chantry altar still remaining, set crosswise at the west end of the tomb; in the eastern division of the aisle there is an ordinary domestic fire-place in the north wall. There is a similar fire-place, of about the same date, in Sir Thomas Bullen's church of Hever, in Kent. Again, we sometimes find beside the low side-windows already spoken of, an arrangement which shows that it was intended for some one habitually to sit there. Thus, at Somerton, Oxfordshire, on the north side of the chancel, is a long and narrow window, with decorated tracery in the head; the lower part is divided by a thick transom, and does not appear to have been glazed. In the interior the wall is recessed beside the window, with a sort of shoulder, exactly adapted to give room for a seat, in such a position that its occupant would get the full benefit of the light through the glazed upper part of the little window, and would be in a convenient position for conversing through the unglazed lower portion of it. At Elsfield Church, Oxfordshire, there is an early English lancet window, similarly divided by a transom, the lower part, now blocked up, having been originally unglazed, and the sill of the window in the interior has been formed into a stone seat and desk. We reproduce here a view of the latter from the "Oxford Architectural Society's Guide to the Neighbourhood of Oxford." Perhaps in such instances as these, the recluse may have been a priest serving a chantry altar, and licensed, perhaps, to hear confessions,[153] for which the seat beside the little open window would be a convenient arrangement. Lord Scrope's will has already told us of a chaplain dwelling continually (_commoranti continuo_) in the Church of St. Nicholas, Gloucester, and of an anchorite living in the parish church of Stamford. There is a low side-window at Mawgan Church, Cornwall. In the south-east angle between the south transept and the chancel, the inner angle at the junction of the transept and chancel walls is cut away, from the floor upwards, to the height of six feet, and laterally about five feet in south and east directions from the angle. A short octagonal pillar, six feet high, supports all that remains of the angle of these walls, whilst the walls themselves rest on two flat segmental arches of three feet span. A low diagonal wall is built across the angle thus exposed, and a small lean-to roof is run up from it into the external angle enclosing a triangular space within. In this wall the low side-window is inserted. The sill of the window is four feet from the pavement. Further eastward a priest's door seems to have formed part of the arrangement. The west jamb of the doorway is cut away so that from this triangular space and from the transept beyond a view is obtained of the east window. [Illustration: _Window, Elsfield Church._] The position of the low side-windows at Grade, Cury, and Landewednack is the same as that of Mawgan, but the window itself is different in form, those at Grade and at Cury being small oblong openings, the former 1 ft. 9 in. by 1 ft. 4 in., the sill only 1 ft. 9 in. from the ground; the latter is 1 ft. by 11 in., the sill 3 ft. 4 in. from ground. At Landewednack the window has two lights, square headed, 2 ft. 6 in. by 1 ft. 4 in., sill 4 ft. 3-1/2 in. from ground. A large block of serpentine rock is fixed in the ground beneath the window in a position convenient for a person standing but not kneeling at the window.[154] Knighton gives us some particulars of a recluse priest who lived at Leicester. "There was," he says, "in those days at Leicester, a certain priest, hight William of Swynderby, whom they commonly called William the Hermit, because, for a long time, he had lived the hermitical life there; they received him into a certain chamber within the church, because of the holiness they believed to be in him, and they procured for him victuals and a pension, after the manner of other priests."[155] In the "Test. Ebor.," p. 244, we find a testator leaving "to the chantry chapel of Kenby my red vestment, ... also the great missal and the great portifer, which I bought of Dominus Thomas Cope, priest and anchorite in that chapel." Blomfield also (ii. 75) tells us of a hermit, who lived in St. Cuthbert's Church, Thetford, and performed divine service therein. Who has not, at some time, been deeply impressed by the solemn stillness, the holy calm, of an empty church? Earthly passions, and cares, and ambitions, seemed to have died away; one's soul was filled with a spiritual peace. One stood and listened to the wind surging against the walls outside, as the waves of the sea may beat against the walls of an ingulfed temple; and one felt as effectually secluded from the surge and roar of the worldly life outside the sacred walls, as if in such a temple at the bottom of the sea. One gazed upon the monumental effigies, with their hands clasped in an endless prayer, and their passionless marble faces turned for ages heavenward, and read their mouldering epitaphs, and moralized on the royal preacher's text--"All is vanity and vexation of spirit." And then one felt the disposition--and, perhaps, indulged it--to kneel before the altar, all alone with God, in that still and solemn church, and pour out one's high-wrought thoughts before Him. At such times one has probably tasted something of the transcendental charm of the life of a recluse priest. One could not sustain the tension long. Perhaps the old recluse, with his experience and his aids, could maintain it for a longer period. But to him, too, the natural reaction must have come in time; and then he had his mechanical occupations to fell back upon--trimming the lamps before the shrines, copying his manuscript, or illuminating its initial letters; perhaps, for health's sake, he took a daily walk up and down the aisle of the church, whose walls re-echoed his measured footfalls; then he had his oft-recurring "hours" to sing, and his books to read; and, to prevent the long hours which were still left him in his little par-closed chapel from growing too wearily monotonous, there came, now and then, a tap at the shutter of his "parlour" window, which heralded the visit of some poor soul, seeking counsel or comfort in his difficulties of this world or the next, or some pilgrim bringing news of distant lands, or some errant knight seeking news of adventures, or some parishioner come honestly to have a dish of gossip with the holy man, about the good and evil doings of his neighbours. There is a pathetic anecdote in Blomfield's "Norfolk," which will show that the spirit and the tradition of the old recluse priests survived the Reformation. The Rev. Mr. John Gibbs, formerly rector of Gessing, in that county, was ejected from his rectory in 1690 as a non-juror. "He was an odd but harmless man, both in life and conversation. After his ejection he dwelt in the north porch chamber, and laid on the stairs that led up to the rood-loft, between the church and chancel, having a window at his head, so that he could lie in his couch, and see the altar. He lived to be very old, and was buried at Frenze." * * * * * Let us turn again to the female recluse, in her anchor-house outside the church. How was her cell furnished? It had always a little altar at the east end, before which the recluse paid her frequent devotions, hearing, besides, the daily mass in church through her window, and receiving the Holy Sacrament at stated times. Bishop Poore advises his recluses to receive it only fifteen times a year. The little square unglazed window was closed with a shutter, and a black curtain with a white cross upon it also hung before the opening, through which the recluse could converse without being seen. The walls appear to have been sometimes painted--of course with devotional subjects. To complete the scene add a comfortable carved oak chair, and a little table, an embroidery frame, and such like appliances for needlework; a book of prayers, and another of saintly legends, not forgetting Bishop Poore's "Ancren Riewle;" a fire on the hearth in cold weather, and the cat, which Bishop Poore expressly allows, purring beside it; and lastly paint in the recluse, in her black habit and veil, seated in her chair; or prostrate before her little altar; or on her knees beside her church window listening to the chanted mass; or receiving her basket of food from her servant, through the open parlour window; or standing before its black curtain, conversing with a stray knight-errant; or putting her white hand through it, to give an alms to some village crone or wandering beggar. A few extracts from Bishop Poore's "Ancren Riewle," already several times alluded to, will give life to the picture we have painted. Though intended for the general use of recluses, it seems to have been specially addressed, in the first instance, to three sisters, who, in the bloom of youth, forsook the world, and became the tenants of a reclusorium. It would seem that in such cases each recluse had a separate cell, and did not communicate, except on rare occasions, with her fellow inmates; and each had her own separate servant to wait upon her. Here are some particulars as to their communication with the outer world. "Hold no conversation with any man out of a church window, but respect it for the sake of the Holy Sacrament which ye see there through;[156] and at other times (other whiles) take your women to the window of the house (huses thurle), other men and women to the parlour-window to speak when necessary; nor ought ye (to converse) but at these two windows." Here we have three windows; we have no difficulty in understanding which was the church-window, and the parlour-window--the window _pour parler_; but what was the house-window, through which the recluse might speak to her servant? Was it merely the third glazed window, through which she might, if it were convenient, talk with her maid, but not with strangers, because she would be seen through it? or was it a window in the larger anchorholds, between the recluse cell, and the other apartment in which her maid lived, and in which, perhaps, guests were entertained? The latter seems the more probable explanation, and will receive further confirmation when we come to the directions about the entertainment of guests. The recluse was not to give way to the very natural temptation to put her head out of the open window, to get sometimes a wider view of the world about her. "A peering anchoress, who is always thrusting her head outward," he compares to "an untamed bird in a cage"--poor human bird! In another place he gives a more serious exhortation on the same subject "Is not she too forward and foolhardy who holds her head boldly forth on the open battlements while men with crossbow bolts without assail the castle? Surely our foe, the warrior of hell, shoots, as I ween, more bolts at one anchoress than at seventy and seven secular ladies. The battlements of the castle are the windows of their houses; let her not look out at them, lest she have the devil's bolts between her eyes before she even thinks of it." Here are directions how to carry on her "parlements":--"First of all, when you have to go to your parlour-window, learn from your maid who it is that is come; ... and when you must needs go forth, go forth in the fear of God to a priest, ... and sit and listen, and not cackle." They were to be on their guard even with religious men, and not even confess, except in presence of a witness. "If any man requests to see you (_i.e._ to have the black curtain drawn aside), ask him what good might come of it.... If any one become so mad and unreasonable that he puts forth his hand toward the window-cloth (curtain), shut the window (_i.e._ close the shutter) quickly, and leave him; ... and as soon as any man falls into evil discourse, close the window, and go away with this verse, that he may hear it, 'The wicked have told me foolish tales, but not according to thy law;' and go forth before your altar, and say the 'Miserere.'" Again, "Keep your hands within your windows, for handling or touching between a man and an anchoress is a thing unnatural, shameful, wicked," &c. The bishop adds a characteristic piece of detail to our picture when he speaks of the fair complexions of the recluses because not sunburnt, and their white hands through not working, both set in strong relief by the black colour of the habit and veil. He says, indeed, that "since no man seeth you, nor ye see any man, ye may be content with your clothes white or black." But in practice they seem usually to have worn black habits, unless, when attached to the church of any monastery, they may have worn the habit of the order. They were not to wear rings, brooches, ornamented girdles, or gloves. "An anchoress," he says, "ought to take sparingly (of alms), only that which is necessary (_i.e._ she ought not to take alms to give away again). If she can spare any fragments of her food, let her send them away (to some poor person) privately out of her dwelling. For the devil," he says elsewhere, "tempts anchoresses, through their charity, to collect to give to the poor, then to a friend, then to make a feast." "There are anchoresses," he says, "who make their meals with their friends without; that is too much friendship." The editor thinks this to mean that some anchoresses left their cells, and went to dine at the houses of their friends; but the word is _gistes_ (guests), and, more probably, it only means that the recluse ate her dinner in her cell while a guest ate hers in the guest-room of the reclusorium, with an open window between, so that they could see and converse with one another. For we find in another place that she was to maintain "silence always at meals; ... and if any one hath a guest whom she holds dear, she may cause her maid, as in her stead, to entertain her friend with glad cheer, and she shall have leave to open her window once or twice, and make signs to her of gladness." But "let no _man_ eat in your presence, except he be in great need." The narrative already given at p. 109, of the visit of St. Richard the hermit to Dame Margaret the recluse of Anderby, also shows that in exceptional cases a recluse ate with men. The incident of the head of the recluse, in her convulsive sleep, falling at the window at which the hermit was reclining, and leaning partly upon him,[157] is explained by the theory that they were sitting in separate apartments, each close by this house window, which was open between them. As we have already seen, in the case of Sir Percival, a man might even sleep in the reclusorium; and so the Rule says, "let no man sleep within your walls" as a general rule; "if, however, great necessity should cause your house to be used" by travellers, "see that ye have a woman of unspotted life with you day and night." As to their occupations, he advises them to make "no purses and blodbendes of silk, but shape and sew and mend church vestments, and poor people's clothes, and help to clothe yourselves and your domestics." "An anchoress must not become a school-mistress, nor turn her house into a school for children. Her maiden may, however, teach any little girl concerning whom it might be doubtful whether she should learn among the boys."[158] Doubtless, we are right in inferring from the bishop's advice not to do certain things, that anchoresses were in the habit of doing them. From this kind of evidence we glean still further traits. He suggests to them that in confession they will perhaps have to mention such faults as these, "I played or spoke thus in the church; went to the play in the churchyard;[159] looked on at this, or at the wrestling, or other foolish sports; spoke thus, or played, in the presence of secular men, or of religious men, in a house of anchorites, and at a different window than I ought; or, being alone in the church, I thought thus." Again he mentions, "Sitting too long at the parlour-window, spilling ale, dropping crumbs." Again we find, "Make no banquetings, nor encourage any strange vagabonds about the gate." But of all their failings, gossiping seems to have been the besetting sin of anchoresses. "People say of anchoresses that almost every one hath an old woman to feed her ears, a prating gossip, who tells her all the tales of the land, a magpie that chatters to her of everything that she sees or hears; so that it is a common saying, from mill and from market, from smithy and from anchor-house, men bring tidings." Let us add the sketch drawn of them by the unfavourable hand of Bilney the Reformer, in his "Reliques of Rome," published in 1563, and we have done:--"As touching the monastical sect of recluses, and such as be shutte up within walls, there unto death continuall to remayne, giving themselves to the mortification of carnal effects, to the contemplation of heavenly and spirituall thinges, to abstinence, to prayer, and to such other ghostly exercises, as men dead to the world, and havyng their lyfe hidden with Christ, I have not to write. Forasmuch as I cannot fynde probably in any author whence the profession of anckers and anckresses had the beginning and foundation, although in this behalf I have talked with men of that profession which could very little or nothing say of the matter. Notwithstanding, as the Whyte Fryers father that order on Helias the prophet (but falsely), so likewise do the ankers and ankresses make that holy and virtuous matrone Judith their patroness and foundress; but how unaptly who seeth not? Their profession and religion differeth as far from the manners of Judith as light from darknesse, or God from the devill, as shall manifestly appere to them that will diligentlye conferre the history of Judith with their life and conversation. Judith made herself a privy chamber where she dwelt (sayth the scripture), being closed in with her maydens. Our recluses also close themselves within the walls, but they suffer no man to be there with them. Judith ware a smoche of heare, but our recluses are both softly and finely apparalled. Judith fasted all the days of her lyfe, few excepted. Our recluses eate and drinke at all tymes of the beste, being of the number of them _qui curios simulant et Bacchanalia vivunt_. Judith was a woman of a very good report. Our recluses are reported to be superstitious and idolatrous persons, and such as all good men flye their company. Judith feared the Lord greatly, and lyved according to His holy word. Our recluses fear the pope, and gladly doe what his pleasure is to command them. Judith lyved of her own substance and goods, putting no man to charge. Our recluses, as persons only borne to consume the good fruits of the erth, lyve idely of the labour of other men's handes. Judith, when tyme required, came out of her closet, to do good unto other. Our recluses never come out of their lobbies, sincke or swimme the people. Judith put herself in jeopardy for to do good to the common countrye. Our recluses are unprofitable clods of the earth, doing good to no man. Who seeth not how farre our ankers and ankresses differe from the manners and life of this vertuous and godly woman Judith, so that they cannot justly claime her to be their patronesse? Of some idle and superstitious heremite borrowed they their idle and superstitious religion. For who knoweth not that our recluses have grates of yron in theyr spelunckes, and dennes out of the which they looke, as owles out of an yvye todde, when they will vouchsafe to speake with any man at whose hand they hope for advantage? So reade we in 'Vitis Patrum,' that John the Heremite so enclosed himself in his hermitage that no person came in unto him; to them that came to visite him he spoke through a window onely. Our ankers and ankresses professe nothing but a solitary lyfe in their hallowed house, wherein they are inclosed wyth the vowe of obedience to the pope, and to their ordinary bishop. Their apparel is indifferent, so it be dissonant from the laity. No kind of meates they are forbidden to eat. At midnight they are bound to say certain prayers. Their profession is counted to be among other professions so hardye and so streight that they may by no means be suffered to come out of their houses except it be to take on them an harder and streighter, which is to be made a bishop." It is not to be expected that mediæval paintings should give illustrations of persons who were thus never visible in the world. In the pictures of the hermits of the Egyptian desert, on the walls of the Campo Santo at Pisa, we see a representation of St. Anthony holding a conversation with St. John the Hermit, who is just visible through his grated window, "like an owl in an ivy tod," as Bilney says; and we have already given a picture of Sir Percival knocking at the door of a female recluse. Bilney says, that they wore any costume, "so it were dissonant from the laity;" but in all probability they commonly wore a costume similar in colour to that of the male hermits. The picture which we here give of an anchoress, is taken from a figure of St. Paula, one of the anchorite saints of the desert, in the same picture of St. Jerome, which has already supplied us, in the figure of St. Damasus, with our best picture of the hermit's costume. [Illustration: _St. Paula._] The service for enclosing a recluse[160] may be found in some of the old Service Books. We derive the following account of it from an old black-letter _Manuale ad usum percelebris ecclesie Sarisburiensis_ (London, 1554), in the British Museum. The rubric before the service orders that no one shall be enclosed without the bishop's leave; that the candidate shall be closely questioned as to his motives; that he shall be taught not to entertain proud thoughts, as if he merited to be set apart from intercourse with common men, but rather on account of his own infirmity it was good that he should be removed from contact with others, that he might be kept out of sin himself, and not contaminate them. So that the recluse should esteem himself to be condemned for his sins, and shut up in his solitary cell as in a prison, and unworthy, for his sins, of the society of men. There is a note, that this office shall serve for both sexes. On the day before the ceremony of inclusion, the _Includendus_--the person about to be inclosed--was to confess, and to fast that day on bread and water; and all that night he was to watch and pray, having his wax taper burning, in the monastery,[161] near his inclusorium. On the morrow, all being assembled in church, the bishop, or priest appointed by him, first addressed an exhortation to the people who had come to see the ceremony, and to the includendus himself, and then began the service with a response, and several appropriate psalms and collects. After that, the priest put on his chasuble, and began mass, a special prayer being introduced for the includendus. After the reading of the gospel, the includendus stood before the altar, and offered his taper, which was to remain burning on the altar throughout the mass; and then, standing before the altar-step, he read his profession, or if he were a layman (and unable to read), one of the chorister boys read it for him. And this was the form of his profession:--"I, brother (or sister) N, offer and present myself to serve the Divine Goodness in the order of Anchorites, and I promise to remain, according to the rule of that order, in the service of God, from henceforth, by the grace of God, and the counsel of the Church." Then he signed the document in which his profession was written with the sign of the cross, and laid it upon the altar on bended knees. Then the bishop or priest said a prayer, and asperged with holy water the habit of the includendus; and he put on the habit, and prostrated himself before the altar, and so remained, while the priest and choir sang over him the hymn _Veni Creator Spiritus_, and then proceeded with the mass. First the priest communicated, then the includendus, and then the rest of the congregation; and the mass was concluded. Next his wax taper, which had all this time been burning on the altar, was given to the includendus, and a procession was formed; first the choir; then the includendus, clad in his proper habit, and carrying his lighted taper; then the bishop or priest, in his mass robes; and then the people following; and so they proceeded, singing a solemn litany, to the cell. And first the priest entered alone into the cell, and asperged it with holy water, saying appropriate sentences; then he consecrated and blessed the cell, with prayers offered before the altar of its chapel. The third of these short prayers may be transcribed: "Benedic domine domum istam et locum istum, ut sit in eo sanitas, sanctitas, castitas, virtus, victoria, sanctimonia, humilitas, lenitas, mansuetudo, plenitudo, legis et obedientæ Deo Patre et Filio et Spiritui Sancto et sit super locum istum et super omnes habitantes in eo tua larga benedictio, ut in his manufactis habitaculis cum solemtate manentes ipsi tuum sit semper habitaculum. Per dominum," &c. Then the bishop or priest came out, and led in the includendus, still carrying his lighted taper, and solemnly blessed him. And then--a mere change in the tense of the rubric has an effect which is quite pathetic; it is no longer the _includendus_, the person to be enclosed, but the _inclusus_, the enclosed one, he or she upon whom the doors of the cell have closed for ever in this life--then the enclosed is to maintain total and solemn silence throughout, while the doors are securely closed, the choir chanting appropriate psalms. Then the celebrant causes all the people to pray for the inclusus privately, in solemn silence, to God, for whose love he has left the world, and caused himself to be inclosed in that strait prison. And after some concluding prayers, the procession left the inclusus to his solitary life, and returned, chanting, to the church, finishing at the step of the choir. One cannot read this solemn--albeit superstitious--service, in the quaint old mediæval character, out of the very book which has, perhaps, been used in the actual enclosing of some recluse, without being moved. Was it some frail woman, with all the affections of her heart and the hopes of her earthly life shattered, who sought the refuge of this living tomb? was it some man of strong passions, wild and fierce in his crimes, as wild and fierce in his penitence? or was it some enthusiast, with the over-excited religious sensibility, of which we have instances enough in these days? We can see them still, in imagination, prostrate, "in total and solemn silence," before the wax taper placed upon the altar of the little chapel, and listening while the chant of the returning procession grows fainter and fainter in the distance. Ah! we may scornfully smile at it all as a wild superstition, or treat it coldly as a question of mere antiquarian interest; but what broken hearts, what burning passions, have been shrouded under that recluse's robe, and what wild cries of human agony have been stifled under that "total and solemn silence!" When the processional chant had died away in the distance, and the recluse's taper had burnt out on his little altar, was that the end of the tragedy, or only the end of the first act? Did the broken heart find repose? Did the wild spirit grow tame? Or did the one pine away and die like a flower in a dungeon, and the other beat itself to death against the bars of its self-made cage? CHAPTER IV. CONSECRATED WIDOWS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. Besides all other religious people living under vows, in community in monasteries, or as solitaries in their anchorages, there were also a number of Widows vowed to that life and devoted to the service of God, who lived at home in their own houses or with their families. This was manifestly a continuation, or imitation, of the primitive Order of Widows, of whom St. Paul speaks in his first Epistle to Timothy (ch. v.). For although religious women, from an early period (fourth century), were usually nuns, the primitive Orders of Deaconesses and Widows did not altogether cease to exist in the Church. The Service Books[162] contain offices for their benediction; and though it is probable that in fact a deaconess was very rarely consecrated in the Western Church, yet the number of allusions to widows throughout the Middle Ages leads us to suspect that there may have been no inconsiderable number of them. A common form of commission[163] to a suffragan bishop includes the consecrating of widows. From the Pontifical of Edmund Lacey, Bishop of Exeter, of the fourteenth century, we give a sketch of the service.[164] It is the same in substance as those in the earlier books. First, a rubric states that though a widow may be blessed on any day, it is more fitting that she be blessed on a holy day, and especially on the Lord's day. Between the Epistle and the Gospel, the bishop sitting on a faldstool facing the people, the widow kneeling before the bishop is to be interrogated if she desires, putting away all carnal affections, to be joined as a spouse to Christ. Then she shall publicly in the vulgar tongue profess herself, in the bishop's hands, resolved to observe perpetual continence. Then the bishop blesses her habit (clamidem), saying a collect. Then the bishop, genuflecting, begins the hymn _Veni Creator Spiritus_; the widow puts on the habit and veil, and the bishop blesses and gives her the ring; and with a final prayer for appropriate virtues and blessings, the ordinary service of Holy Communion is resumed, special mention of the widow being made therein. These collects are of venerable age, and have much beauty of thought and expression. The reader may be glad to see one of them as an example, and as an indication of the spirit in which people entered into these religious vows: "O God, the gracious inhabiter of chaste bodies and lover of uncorrupt souls, look we pray Thee, O Lord, upon this Thy servant, who humbly offers her devotion to Thee. May there be in her, O Lord, the gift of Thy spirit, a prudent modesty, a wise graciousness, a grave gentleness, a chaste freedom; may she be fervent in charity and love nothing beside Thee (_extra te_); may she live praiseworthy and not desire praise; may she fear Thee and serve Thee with a chaste love; be Thou to her, O Lord, honour, Thou delight; be Thou in sorrow her comfort, in doubt her counsellor; be Thou to her defence in injury, in tribulation patience, in poverty abundance, in fasting food, in sickness medicine. By Thee, whom she desires to love above all things, may she keep what she has vowed; so that by Thy help she may conquer the old enemy, and cast out the defilements of sin; that she may be decorated with the gift of fruit sixty fold,[165] and adorned with the lamps of all virtues, and by Thy grace may be worthy to join the company of the elect widows. This we humbly ask through Jesus Christ our Lord." In a paper in the "Surrey Transactions," vol. iii. p. 208, Mr. Baigent, the writer of it, finds two, and only two, entries of the consecration of widows in the Episcopal Registers of Winchester, which go back to the early part of the reign of Edward I. The first of these is on May 4, 1348, of the Lady Aleanor Giffard, probably, says Mr. Baigent, the widow of John Giffard, of Bowers Giffard, in Essex. The other entry, on October 18, 1379, is of the Benediction of Isabella Burgh, the widow of a citizen of London (whose will is given by Mr. Baigent), and of Isabella Golafre, widow of Sir John Golafre. The profession of the widow is given in old French, and a translation of it in old English, as follows: "In ye name of God, Fader and Sone and Holy Ghost. Iche Isabelle Burghe, that was sometyme wyfe of Thomas Burghe, wyche that is God be taught helpynge the grace of God [the parallel French is, Quest à Dieu commande ottriaunte la grace de Dieu] behote [promise] conversione of myn maners, and make myn avows to God, and to is swete moder Seynte Marie and to alle seintz, into youre handes leve [dear] fader in God, William be ye grace of God Bisshope of Wynchestre, that fro this day forward I schal ben chaste of myn body and in holy chastite kepe me treweliche and devouteliche all ye dayes of myn life." Another form of profession is written on the lower margin of the Exeter Pontifical, and probably in the handwriting of Bishop Lacy: "I, N., wedowe, avowe to God perpetuall chastite of my body from henceforward, and in the presence of the honorable fadyr in God, my Lord N., by the grace of God, Bishop of N., I promyth sabilly to leve in the Church, a wedowe. And this to do, of myne own hand I subscribe this writing: _Et postea faciat signum crucis_." Another example of a widow in the Winchester registers is that of Elizabeth de Julien, widow of John Plantagenet, Earl of Kent, who made that vow to Bishop William de Edyndon, but afterwards married Sir Eustache Dabrichecourt, September 29, 1360, whereupon proceedings were commenced against her by the Archbishop of Canterbury, who imposed on her a severe and life-long penance. She survived her second husband many years, and dying in 1411, was buried in the choir of the Friars Minor at Winchester, near the tomb of her first husband. The epitaph on the monumental brass of Joanna Braham, A.D. 1519, at Frenze, in Norfolk, describes her as "Vidua ac Deo devota." In the Book of the Knight of La Tour-Landry is a description of a lady who, if she had not actually taken the vows of widowhood, lived the life we should suppose to be that of a vowess. "It is of a good lady whiche longe tyme was in wydowhode. She was of a holy lyf, and moste humble and honourable, as the whiche every yere kepte and held a feste upon Crystemasse-day of her neyghbours bothe farre and nere, tyll her halle was ful of them. She served and honoured eche one after his degree, and specially she bare grete reverence to the good and trewe wymmen, and to them whiche has deservyd to be worshipped. Also she was of suche customme that yf she knewe any poure gentyll woman that shold be wedded she arayed her with her jewels. Also she wente to the obsequye of the poure gentyll wymmen, and gaf there torches, and all such other lumynary as it neded thereto. Her dayly ordenaunce was that she rose erly ynough, and had ever freres, and two or three chappellayns whiche sayd matyns before her within her oratorye; and after she herd a hyhe masse and two lowe, and sayd her servyse full devoutely; and after this she wente and arayed herself, and walked in her gardyn, or else aboute her plase, sayenge her other devocions and prayers. And as tyme was she wente to dyner; and after dyner, if she wyste and knewe ony seke folke or wymmen in theyr childbedde, she went to see and vysited them, and made to be brought to them of her best mete. And then, as she myght not go herself, she had a servant propyer therefore, whiche rode upon a lytell hors, and bare with him grete plente of good mete and drynke for to gyve to the poure and seke folk there as they were. And after she had herd evensonge she went to her souper, yf she fasted not. And tymely she wente to bedde; made her styward to come to her to wete what mete sholde be had the next daye, and lyved by good ordenaunce, and wold be purveyed byfore of alle such thynge that was nedefull for her household. She made grete abstynence, and wered the hayre[166] upon the Wednesday and upon the Fryday.... And she rose everye night thre tymes, and kneled downe to the ground by her bedde, and redryd thankynges to God, and prayd for al Crysten soules, and dyd grete almes to the poure. This good lady, that wel is worthy to be named and preysed, had to name my lady Cecyle of Ballavylle.... She was the most good and curtoys lady that ever I knewe or wyste in ony countrey, and that lesse was envious, and never she wold here say ony evyll of no body, but excused them, and prayd to God that they myght amende them, and that none was that knewe what to hym shold happe.... She had a ryhte noble ende, and as I wene ryht agreable to God; and as men say commonely, of honest and good lyf cometh ever a good ende." In post-Reformation times there are biographies of holy women which show that the idea of consecrated widowhood was still living in the minds of the people. Probably the dress commonly worn by widows throughout their widowhood is a remnant of the mediæval custom. THE PILGRIMS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. CHAPTER I. The fashion of going on pilgrimage seems to have sprung up in the fourth century. The first object of pilgrimage was the Holy Land. Jerome said, at the outset, the most powerful thing which can be said against it; viz., that the way to heaven is as short from Britain as from Jerusalem--a consolatory reflection to those who were obliged, or who preferred, to stay at home; but it did not succeed in quenching the zeal of those many thousands who desired to see, with their own eyes, the places which had been hallowed by the presence and the deeds of their Lord--to tread, with their own footsteps, "Those holy fields Over whose acres walked those blessed feet, Which "eighteen" hundred years ago were nailed For our advantage on the bitter cross;"[167] to kneel down and pray for pardon for their sins upon that very spot where the Great Sacrifice for sin was actually offered up; to stand upon the summit of Mount Olivet, and gaze up into that very pathway through the sky by which He ascended to His kingdom in Heaven. We should, however, open up too wide a field if we were to enter into the subject of the early pilgrims to the Holy Land;[168] to trace their route from Britain, usually _viâ_ Rome, by sea and land; to describe how a pilgrim passenger-traffic sprung up, of which adventurous ship-owners took advantage; how hospitals[169] were founded here and there along the road, to give refuge to the weary pilgrims, until they reached the Hospital _par excellence_, which stood beside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre; how Saxon kings made treaties to secure their safe conduct through foreign countries;[170] how the Order of the Knights of the Temple was founded to escort the caravans of pilgrims from one to another of the holy places, and protect them from marauding Saracens and Arabs; how the Crusades were organised partly, no doubt, to stem the course of Mahommedan conquest, but ostensibly to wrest the holy places from the hands of the infidel: this part of the subject of pilgrimage would occupy too much of our space here. Our design is to give a sketch of the less known portion of the subject, which relates to the pilgrimages which sprung up in after-times, when the veneration for the holy places had extended to the shrines of saints; and when, still later, veneration had run wild into the grossest superstition, and crowds of sane men and women flocked to relic-worships, which would be ludicrous if they were not so pitiable and humiliating. This part of the subject forms a chapter in the history of the manners of the Middle Ages, which is little known to any but the antiquarian student; but it is an important chapter to all who desire thoroughly to understand what were the modes of thought and habits of life of our English forefathers in the Middle Ages. [Illustration: _Thirteenth Century Pilgrims (the two Disciples at Emmaus)._] The most usual foreign pilgrimages were to the Holy Land, the scene of our Lord's earthly life; to Rome, the centre of western Christianity; and to the shrine of St. James at Compostella.[171] The number of pilgrims to these places must have been comparatively limited; for a man who had any regular business or profession could not well undertake so long an absence from home. The rich of no occupation could afford the leisure and the cost; and the poor who chose to abandon their lawful occupation could make these pilgrimages at the cost of others; for the pilgrim was sure of entertainment at every hospital, or monastery, or priory, probably at every parish priest's rectory and every gentleman's hall,[172] on his way; and there were not a few poor men and women who indulged a vagabond humour in a pilgrim's life. The poor pilgrim repaid his entertainer's hospitality by bringing the news of the countries[173] through which he had passed, and by amusing the household after supper with marvellous saintly legends, and traveller's tales. He raised a little money for his inevitable travelling expenses by retailing holy trifles and curiosities, such as were sold wholesale at all the shrines frequented by pilgrims, and which were usually supposed to have some saintly efficacy attached to them. Sometimes the pilgrim would take a bolder flight, and carry with him some fragment of a relic--a joint of a bone, or a pinch of dust, or a nail-paring, or a couple of hairs of the saint, or a rag of his clothing; and the people gladly paid the pilgrim for thus bringing to their doors some of the advantages of the holy shrines which he had visited. Thus Chaucer's Pardoner--"That strait was comen from the Court of Rome"-- "In his mail[174] he had a pilwebere,[175] Which as he saidé was oure Lady's veil; He said he had a gobbet of the sail Thatte St. Peter had whan that he went Upon the sea, till Jesu Christ him hent.[176] He had a cross of laton full of stones;[177] And in a glass he haddé piggés bones.[178] But with these relics whanné that he fond A poure parson dwelling upon lond, Upon a day he gat him more monie Than that the parson gat in monthes tweie. And thus with feined flattering and japes, He made the parson and the people his apes." In a subsequent chapter, on the Merchants of the Middle Ages, will be found some illustrations of mediæval shipping, which also illustrate the present subject. One is a representation of Sir John Mandeville and his companions in mantle, hat, and staff, just landed at a foreign town on their pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Another represents Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, in mantle, hat, and staff, embarking in his own ship on his departure for a similar pilgrimage. Another illustration in the subsequent chapter on Secular Clergy represents Earl Richard at Rome, being presented to the Pope. But those who could not spare time or money to go to Jerusalem, or Rome, or Compostella, could spare both for a shorter expedition; and pilgrimages to English shrines appear to have been very common. By far the most popular of our English pilgrimages was to the shrine of St. Thomas-à-Becket, at Canterbury, and it was popular not only in England, but all over Europe. The one which stood next in popular estimation, was the pilgrimage to Our Lady of Walsingham. But nearly every cathedral and great monastery, and many a parish church besides, had its famous saint to whom the people resorted. There was St. Cuthbert at Durham, and St. William at York, and little St. William at Norwich, and St. Hugh at Lincoln, and St. Edward Confessor at Westminster, and St. Erkenwald in the cathedral of London, and St. Wulstan at Worcester, and St. Swithin at Winchester, and St. Edmund at Bury, and SS. Etheldreda and Withburga at Ely, and many more, whose remains were esteemed holy relics, and whose shrines were frequented by the devout. Some came to pray at the tomb for the intercession of the saint in their behalf; or to seek the cure of disease by the touch of the relic; or to offer up thanks for deliverance believed to have been vouchsafed in time of peril through the saint's prayers; or to obtain the number of days' pardon--_i.e._ of remission of their time in purgatory--offered by Papal bulls to those who should pray at the tomb. Then there were famous roods, the Rood of Chester and of Bromholme; and statues of the Virgin, as Our Lady of Wilsden, and of Boxley, and of this, that, and the other place. There were scores of holy wells besides, under saintly invocations, of which St. Winifred's well with her chapel over it still remains an excellent example.[179] Some of these were springs of medicinal water, and were doubtless of some efficacy in the cures for which they were noted; in others a saint had baptized his converts; others had simply afforded water to a saint in his neighbouring cell.[180] Before any man[181] went on pilgrimage, he first went to his church, and received the Church's blessing on his pious enterprise, and her prayers for his good success and safe return. The office of pilgrims (_officium peregrinorum_) may be found in the old service-books. We give a few notes of it from a Sarum missal, date 1554, in the British Museum.[182] The pilgrim is previously to have confessed. At the opening of the service he lies prostrate before the altar, while the priest and choir sing over him certain appropriate psalms, viz. the 24th, 50th, and 90th. Then follow some versicles, and three collects, for safety, &c., in which the pilgrim is mentioned by name, "thy servant, N." Then he rises, and there follows the benediction of his scrip and staff; and the priest sprinkles the scrip with holy water, and places it on the neck of the pilgrim, saying, "In the name of, &c., take this scrip, the habit of your pilgrimage, that, corrected and saved, you may be worthy to reach the thresholds of the saints to which you desire to go, and, your journey done, may return to us in safety." Then the priest delivers the staff, saying, "Take this staff, the support of your journey, and of the labour of your pilgrimage, that you may be able to conquer all the bands of the enemy, and to come safely to the threshold of the saints to which you desire to go, and, your journey obediently performed, return to us with joy." If any one of the pilgrims present is going to Jerusalem, he is to bring a habit signed with the cross, and the priest blesses it:--"... we pray that Thou wilt vouchsafe to bless this cross, that the banner of the sacred cross, whose figure is signed upon him, may be to Thy servant an invincible strength against the evil temptations of the old enemy, a defence by the way, a protection in Thy house, and may be to us everywhere a guard, through our Lord, &c." Then he sprinkles the habit with holy water, and gives it to the pilgrim, saying, "Take this habit, signed with the cross of the Lord our Saviour, that by it you may come safely to his sepulchre, who, with the Father," &c. Then follows mass; and after mass, certain prayers over the pilgrims, prostrate at the altar; then, "let them communicate, and so depart in the name of the Lord." The service runs in the plural, as if there were usually a number of pilgrims to be dispatched together. [Illustration: _Lydgate's Pilgrim._] There was a certain costume appropriate to the pilgrim, which old writers speak of under the title of pilgrims' weeds; the illustrations of this paper will give examples of it. It consisted of a robe and hat, a staff and scrip. The robe called _sclavina_ by Du Cange, and other writers, is said to have been always of wool, and sometimes of shaggy stuff, like that represented in the accompanying woodcut of the latter part of the fourteenth century, from the Harleian MS., 4,826. It seems intended to represent St. John Baptist's robe of camel's hair. Its colour does not appear in the illuminations, but old writers speak of it as grey. The hat seems to be commonly a round hat, of felt, and, apparently, does not differ from the hats which travellers not uncommonly wore over their hoods in those days.[183] The pilgrim who was sent on pilgrimage as a penance seems usually to have been ordered to go barefoot, and probably many others voluntarily inflicted this hardship upon themselves in order to heighten the merit and efficacy of their good deed. They often also made a vow not to cut the hair or beard until the pilgrimage had been accomplished. But the special insignia of a pilgrim were the staff and scrip. In the religious service with which the pilgrims initiated their journey, we have seen that the staff and scrip are the only insignia mentioned, except in the case of one going to the Holy Land, who has a robe signed with the cross; the staff and the scrip were specially blessed by the priest, and the pilgrim formally invested with them by his hands. The staff, or bourdon, was not of an invariable shape. On a fourteenth-century grave-stone at Haltwhistle, Northumberland, it is like a rather long walking-stick, with a natural knob at the top. In the cut from Erasmus's "Praise of Folly," which forms the frontispiece of Mr. Nichols's "Pilgrimages of Canterbury and Walsingham," it is a similar walking-stick; but, usually, it was a long staff, some five, six, or seven feet long, turned in the lathe, with a knob at the top, and another about a foot lower down. Sometimes a little below the lower knob there is a hook, or a staple, to which we occasionally find a water-bottle or a small bundle attached. The hook is seen on the staff of Lydgate's pilgrim (p. 163). Sir John Hawkins tells us[184] that the staff was sometimes hollowed out into a kind of flute, on which the pilgrim could play. The same kind of staff we find in illuminated MSS. in the hands of beggars and shepherds, as well as pilgrims. The scrip was a small bag, slung at the side by a cord over the shoulder, to contain the pilgrim's food and his few necessaries.[185] Sometimes it was made of leather; but probably the material varied according to the taste and wealth of the pilgrim. We find it of different shape and size in different examples. In the monumental effigy of a pilgrim of rank at Ashby-de-la-Zouch, the scrip is rather long, widest at bottom, and is ornamented with three tassels at the bottom, something like the bag in which the Lord Chancellor carries the great seal, and it has scallop shells fixed upon its front. In the grave-stone of a knight at Haltwhistle, already alluded to, the knight's arms, sculptured upon the shield on one side of his grave cross, are a _fess_ between three _garbs_ (_i.e._ wheat-sheaves); and a _garb_ is represented upon his scrip, which is square and otherwise plain. The tomb of Abbot Chillenham, at Tewkesbury, has the pilgrim's staff and scrip sculptured upon it as an architectural ornament; the scrip is like the mediæval purse, with a scallop shell on the front of it, very like that on p. 163.[186] The pilgrim is sometimes represented with a bottle, often with a rosary, and sometimes with other conveniences for travelling or helps to devotion. There is a very good example in Hans Burgmaier's "Images de Saints, &c., of the Familly of the Emp. Maximilian I." fol. 112. [Illustration: _Pilgrim, from Erasmus's "Praise of Folly."_] But though the conventional pilgrim is always represented with robe, and hat, and staff, and scrip, the actual pilgrim seems sometimes to have dispensed with some, if not with all, of these insignia. For example, Chaucer minutely describes the costume of the principal personages in his company of Canterbury Pilgrims, and he not only does not describe what would have been so marked and picturesque features in their appearance, but his description seems to preclude the pilgrim's robe and hat. His knight is described in the ordinary jupon, "Of fustian he wered a jupon." And the squire-- "Short was his gowne with sleves long and wide." And the yeoman-- "Was clad in cote and hood of green." And the serjeant of the law-- "Rode but homely in a medlee cote, Girt with a seint[187] of silk with barres small." The merchant was in motley-- "And on his hed a Flaundrish bever hat." And so with all the rest, they are clearly described in the ordinary dress of their class, which the pilgrim's robe would have concealed. It seems very doubtful whether they even bore the especial insignia of staff and scrip. Perhaps when men and women went their pilgrimage on horseback, they did not go through the mere form of carrying a long walking-staff. The equestrian pilgrim, of whom we shall give a woodcut hereafter, though he is very correctly habited in robe and hat, with pilgrim signs on each, and his rosary round his neck, does not carry the bourdon. The only trace of pilgrim costume about Chaucer's Pilgrims, is in the Pardoner-- "A vernicle hadde he sewed in his cappe"-- but that was a sign of a former pilgrimage to Rome; and it is enough to prove--if proof were needed--that Chaucer did not forget to clothe his personages in pilgrim weeds, but that they did not wear them. But besides the ordinary insignia of pilgrimage, every pilgrimage had its special signs, which the pilgrim on his return wore conspicuously upon his hat or his scrip, or hanging round his neck, in token that he had accomplished that particular pilgrimage. The pilgrim who had made a long pilgrimage, paying his devotions at every shrine in his way, might come back as thickly decorated with signs as a modern soldier, who has been through a stirring campaign, with medals and clasps. The pilgrim to the Holy Land had this distinction above all others, that he wore a special sign from the very hour that he took the vow upon him to make that most honourable pilgrimage. This sign was a cross, formed of two strips of coloured cloth sewn upon the shoulder of the robe; the English pilgrim wore the cross of white, the French of red, the Flemish of green. Some, in their fierce earnestness, had the sacred sign cut into their flesh; in the romance of "Sir Isumbras," we read-- "With a sharpe knyfe he share A cross upon his shoulder bare." Others had it branded upon them with a hot iron; one pilgrim in the "Mirac. de S. Thomæ" of Abbot Benedict gives the obvious reason, that though his clothes should be torn away, no one should be able to tear the cross from his breast. At the end of the _Officium peregrinorum_, which we have described, we find a rubric calling attention to the fact, that burning the cross in the flesh is forbidden by the canon law on pain of the greater excommunication; the prohibition is proof enough that at one time it was a not uncommon practice. But when the pilgrim reached the Holy Land, and had visited the usual round of the holy places, he became entitled to wear the palm in token of his accomplishment of that great pilgrimage; and from this badge he derived the name of Palmer. How the palm was borne does not quite certainly appear; some say that it was a branch of palm, which the returning pilgrim bore in his hand or affixed to the top of his staff;[188] but probably in the general case it was in the shape of sprigs of palm sewn crosswise upon the hat and scrip. The Roman pilgrimage seems always to have ranked next in popular estimation to that of the Holy Land;[189] and with reason, for Rome was then the great centre of the religion and the civilization of Western Christendom. The plenary indulgence which Boniface VIII. published in 1300, to all who should make the Jubilee pilgrimage to Rome, no doubt had its effect in popularizing this pilgrimage _ad limina apostolorum_. Two hundred thousand pilgrims, it is said, visited Rome in one month during the first Jubilee; and succeeding popes shortened the interval between these great spiritual fairs, first to fifty, then to thirty-three, and lastly to twenty-five years. The pilgrim to Rome doubtless visited many shrines in that great Christian capital, and was entitled to wear as many signs; but the chief signs of the Roman pilgrimage were a badge with the effigies of St. Peter and St. Paul, the cross-keys, and the vernicle. Concerning the first, there is a grant from Innocent III. to the arch-priest and canons of St. Peter's at Rome,[190] which confirms to them (or to those to whom they shall concede it) the right to cast and to sell the lead or pewter signs, bearing the effigies of the Apostles Peter and Paul, with which those who have visited their threshold decorate themselves for the increase of their devotion and a testimony of their pilgrimage. Dr. Rock says[191] "that a friend of his has one of these Roman pilgrim signs, which was dug up at Launde Abbey, Leicestershire. It is of copper, in the shape of a quatrefoil, one and three-quarter inches in diameter, and has the cross-keys on one side, the other side being plain." An equestrian pilgrim represented in Hans Burgmaier's "Der Weise Koenige," seems to bear on his cloak and his hat the cross-keys. The vernicle was the kerchief of Veronica, with which, said a very popular legend, she wiped the brow of the Saviour, when he fainted under His cross in the Via Dolorosa, and which was found to have had miraculously transferred to it an imprint of the sacred countenance. Chaucer's Pardoner, as we have already seen-- "Strait was comen from the Court of Rome," and, therefore, "A vernicle had he sewed upon his cap." The sign of the Compostella pilgrimage was the scallop shell.[192] The legend which the old Spanish writers give in explanation of the badge is this:--When the body of the saint was being miraculously conveyed in a ship without sails or oars, from Joppa to Galicia, it passed the village of Bonzas, on the coast of Portugal, on the day that a marriage had been celebrated there. The bridegroom with his friends were amusing themselves on horseback on the sands, when his horse became unmanageable and plunged into the sea; whereupon the miraculous ship stopped in its voyage, and presently the bridegroom emerged, horse and man, close beside it. A conversation ensued between the knight and the saint's disciples on board, in which they apprised him that it was the saint who had saved him from a watery grave, and explained the Christian religion to him. He believed, and was baptized there and then. And immediately the ship resumed its voyage, and the knight came galloping back over the sea to rejoin his astonished friends. He told them all that had happened, and they too were converted, and the knight baptized his bride with his own hand. Now, when the knight emerged from the sea, both his dress and the trappings of his horse were covered with scallop shells; and, therefore, the Galicians took the scallop shell as the sign of St. James. The legend is found represented in churches dedicated to St. James, and in ancient illuminated MSS.[193] The scallop shell is not unfrequently found in armorial bearings. It is hardly probable that it would be given to a man merely because he had made the common pilgrimage to Compostella; perhaps it was earned by service under the banner of Santiago, against the Moors in the Spanish crusades. The Popes Alexander III., Gregory IX., and Clement V., granted a faculty to the Archbishops of Compostella, to excommunicate those who sell these shells to pilgrims anywhere except in the city of Santiago, and they assign this reason, because the shells are the badge of the Apostle Santiago.[194] The badge was not always an actual shell, but sometimes a jewel made in the shape of a scallop shell. In the "Journal of the Archæological Association," iii. 126, is a woodcut of a scallop shell of silver gilt, with a circular piece of jet set in the middle, on which is carved an equestrian figure of Santiago. The chief sign of the Canterbury pilgrimage was an ampul (_ampulla_, a flask); we are told all about its origin and meaning by Abbot Benedict, who wrote a book on the miracles of St. Thomas.[195] The monks had carefully collected from the pavement the blood of the martyr which had been shed upon it, and preserved it as one of the precious relics. A sick lady who visited the shrine, begged for a drop of this blood as a medicine; it worked a miraculous cure, and the fame of the miracle spread far and wide, and future pilgrims were not satisfied unless they too might be permitted the same high privilege. A drop of it used to be mixed with a chalice full of water, that the colour and flavour might not offend the senses, and they were allowed to taste of it. It wrought, says the abbot, miraculous cures; and so, not only vast crowds came to take this strange and unheard-of medicine, but those who came were anxious to take some of it home for their sick friends and neighbours. At first they put it into wooden vessels, but these were split by the liquid; and many of the fragments of these vessels were hung up about the martyr's tomb in token of this wonder. At last it came into the head of a certain young man to cast little flasks--_ampullæ_--of lead and pewter. And then the miracle of the breaking ceased, and they knew that it was the Divine will that the Canterbury medicine should be carried in these ampullæ throughout the world, and that these ampullæ should be recognised by all the world as the sign of this pilgrimage and these wonderful cures. At first the pilgrims had carried the wooden vases concealed under their clothes; but these ampullæ were carried suspended round the neck; and when the pilgrims reached home, says another authority,[196] they hung these ampullæ in their churches for sacred relics, that the glory of the blessed martyr might be known throughout the world. Some of these curious relics still exist. They are thin, flat on one side, and slightly rounded on the other, with two little ears or loops through which a cord might be passed to suspend them. The mouth might have been closed by solder, or even by folding over the edges of the metal. There is a little flask figured in Gardner's "History of Dunwich," pl. iii., which has a T upon the side of it, and which may very probably have been one of these ampullæ. But one of a much more elaborate and interesting type is here engraved, from an example preserved in the museum at York. The principal figure is a somewhat stern representation of the blessed archbishop; above is a rude representation of his shrine; and round the margin is the rhyming legend--"Optimus egrorum: Medicus fit Thoma bonorum" ("Thomas is the best physician for the pious sick"). On the reverse of the ampul is a design whose intention is not very clear; two monks or priests are apparently saying some service out of a book, and one of them is laying down a pastoral staff; perhaps it represents the shrine with its attendants. From the style of art, this design may be of the early part of the thirteenth century. But though this ampul is clearly designated by the monkish writers, whom we have quoted, as the special sign of the Canterbury pilgrimage, there was another sign which seems to have been peculiar to it, and that is a bell. Whether these bells were hand-bells, which the pilgrims carried in their hands, and rang from time to time, or whether they were little bells, like hawks' bells, fastened to their dress--as such bells sometimes were to a canon's cope--does not certainly appear. W. Thorpe, in the passage hereafter quoted at length from Fox, speaks of "the noise of their singing and the sound of their piping, and the jangling of their Canterbury bells," as a body of pilgrims passed through a town. One of the prettiest of our wild-flowers, the _Campanula rotundifolia_, which has clusters of blue, bell-like flowers, has obtained the common name of Canterbury Bells.[197] There were other religious trinkets also sold and used by pilgrims as mementoes of their visit to the famous shrine. The most common of them seems to have been the head of St. Thomas,[198] cast in various ornamental devices, in silver or pewter; sometimes it was adapted to hang to a rosary,[199] more usually, in the examples which remain to us, it was made into a brooch to be fastened upon the cap or hood, or dress. In Mr. C. R. Smith's "Collectanea Antiqua," vol. i. pl. 31, 32, 33, and vol. ii. pl. 16, 17, 18, there are representations of no less than fifty-one English and foreign pilgrims' signs, of which a considerable proportion are heads of St. Thomas. The whole collection is very curious and interesting.[200] [Illustration: _The Canterbury Ampulla._] The ampul was not confined to St. Thomas of Canterbury. When his ampuls became so very popular, the guardians of the other famous shrines adopted it, and manufactured "waters," "aquæ reliquiarum," of their own. The relic of the saint, which they were so fortunate as to possess, was washed with or dipped in holy water, which was thereupon supposed to possess--diluted--the virtues of the relic itself. Thus there was a "Durham water," being the water in which the incorruptible body of St. Cuthbert had been washed at its last exposure; and Reginald of Durham, in his book on the admirable virtues of the blessed Cuthbert,[201] tells us how it used to be carried away in ampuls, and mentions a special example in which a little of this pleasant medicine poured into the mouth of a sick man, cured him on the spot. The same old writer tells us how the water held in a bowl that once belonged to Editha, queen and saint, in which a little bit of rag, which had once formed part of St. Cuthbert's garments, was soaked, acquired from these two relics so much virtue that it brought back health and strength to a dying clerk who drank it. In Gardner's "History of Dunwich" (pl. iii.) we find drawings of ampullæ like those of St. Thomas, one of which has upon its front a W surmounted by a crown, which it is conjectured may be the pilgrim sign of Our Lady of Walsingham, and contained, perhaps, water from the holy wells at Walsingham, hereinafter described. Another has an R surmounted by one of the symbols of the Blessed Virgin, a lily in a pot; the author hazards a conjecture that it may be the sign of St. Richard of Chichester. The pilgrim who brought away one of these flasks of medicine, or one of these blessed relics, we may suppose, did not always hang it up in church as an _ex voto_, but sometimes preserved it carefully in his house for use in time of sickness, and would often be applied to by a sick neighbour for the gift of a portion of the precious fluid out of his ampul, or for a touch of the trinket which had touched the saint. In the "Collectanea Antiqua," is a facsimile of a piece of paper bearing a rude woodcut of the adoration of the Magi, and an inscription setting forth that "Ces billets ont touché aux troi testes de saints Rois a Cologne: ils sont pour les voyageurs contre les malheurs des chemins, maux de teste, mal caduque, fièures, sorcellerie, toute sorte de malefice, et morte soubite." It was found upon the person of one William Jackson, who having been sentenced for murder in June, 1748-9, was found dead in prison a few hours before the time of his execution. It was the charmed billet, doubtless, which preserved him from the more ignominious death. We find a description of a pilgrim in full costume, and decorated with signs, in "Piers Ploughman's Vision." He was apparelled-- "In pilgrym's wise. He bare a burdoun[202] y-bounde with a broad list, In a withwinde-wise y-wounden about; A bolle[203] and a bagge he bare by his side, An hundred of ampulles; on his hat seten Signes of Synay[204] and shells of Galice,[205] And many a crouche[206] on his cloke and keys of Rome, And the vernicle before, for men sholde knowe, And se bi his signes, whom he sought hadde. These folk prayed[207] hym first fro whence he came? 'From Synay,' he seide, 'and from our Lordes Sepulcre: In Bethlem and in Babiloyne I have ben in bothe; In Armonye[208] and Alesaundre, in many other places. Ye may se by my signes, that sitten in my hat, That I have walked ful wide in weet and in drye, And sought good seintes for my soules helthe.'" The little bit of satire, for the sake of which this model pilgrim is introduced, is too telling--especially after the wretched superstitions which we have been noticing--to be omitted here. "Knowest thou?" asks the Ploughman-- "'Kondest thou aught a cor-saint[209] that men calle Truthe? Canst thou aught weten[210] us the way where that wight dwelleth?'" "Nay," replies the much-travelled pilgrim-- "'Nay, so me God helpe, I saw nevere palmere with pyke and with scrippe Ask after hym, ever til now in this place.'" CHAPTER II. OUR LADY OF WALSINGHAM AND ST. THOMAS OF CANTERBURY. We shall not wonder that these various pilgrimages were so popular as they were, when we learn that there were not only physical panaceas to be obtained, and spiritual pardons and immunities to be procured at the shrines of the saints, but that moreover the journey to them was often made a very pleasant holiday excursion. Far be it from us to deny that there was many a pilgrim who undertook his pilgrimage in anything but a holiday spirit, and who made it anything but a gay excursion; many a man who sought, howbeit mistakenly, to atone for wrong done, by making himself an outcast upon earth, and submitting to the privations of mendicant pilgrimage; many a one who sought thus to escape out of reach of the stings of remorse; many a one who tore himself from home and the knowledge of friends, and went to foreign countries to hide his shame from the eyes of those who knew him. Certainly, here and there, might have been met a man or a woman, whose coarse sackcloth robe, girded to the naked skin, and unshod feet, were signs of real if mistaken penitence; and who carried grievous memories and a sad heart through every mile of his weary way. We give here, from Hans Burgmaier's "Images de Saints, &c., de la Famille de l'Empereur Maximilian I.," a very excellent illustration of a pilgrim of this class. But this was not the general character of the home pilgrimages of which we are especially speaking. In the great majority of cases they seem to have been little more than a pleasant religious holiday.[211] No doubt the general intention was devotional; very likely it was often in a moment of religious fervour that the vow was taken; the religious ceremony with which the journey was begun, must have had a solemnising effect; and doubtless when the pilgrim knelt at the shrine, an unquestioning faith in all the tales which he had heard of its sanctity and occasional miraculous power, and the imposing effect of the scene, would affect his mind with an unusual religious warmth and exaltation. But between the beginning and the end of the pilgrimage there was a long interval, which we say--not in a censorious spirit--was usually occupied by a very pleasant excursion. The same fine work which has supplied us with so excellent an illustration of an ascetic pilgrim, affords another equally valuable companion-picture of a pilgrim of the more usual class. He travels on foot, indeed, staff in hand, but he is comfortably shod and clad; and while the one girds his sackcloth shirt to his bare body with an iron chain, the other has his belt well furnished with little conveniences of travel. It is quite clear that the journey was not necessarily on foot, the voluntary pilgrims might ride if they preferred it.[212] Nor did they beg their bread as penitential pilgrims did; but put good store of money in their purse at starting, and ambled easily along the green roads, and lived well at the comfortable inns along their way. [Illustration: _Pilgrim in Hair Shirt and Cloak._] In many instances when the time of pilgrimage is mentioned, we find that it was the spring; Chaucer's pilgrims started-- "When that April with his showerés sote The drouth of March had perced to the root;" and Fosbroke "apprehends that Lent was the usual time for these pilgrimages." It was the custom for the pilgrims to associate in companies; indeed, since they travelled the same roads, about the same time of year, and stopped at the same inns and hospitals, it was inevitable; and they seem to have taken pains to make the journey agreeable to one another. Chaucer's "hoste of the Tabard" says to his guests:-- "Ye go to Canterbury: God you speed, The blisful martyr quité you your mede; And well I wot, as ye go by the way, Ye shapen you to talken and to play; For trewely comfort and worthe is none, To riden by the way dumb as a stone." Even the poor penitential pilgrim who travelled barefoot did not travel, all the way at least, on the hard and rough highway. Special roads seem to have been made to the great shrines. Thus the "Pilgrim's Road" may still be traced across Kent, almost from London to Canterbury; and if the Londoner wishes for a pleasant and interesting home excursion, he may put a scrip on his back, and take a bourdon in his hand, and make a summer's pilgrimage on the track of Chaucer's pilgrims. The pilgrim's road to Walsingham is still known as the "Palmer's Way" and the "Walsingham Green Way." It may be traced along the principal part of its course for sixty miles in the diocese of Norwich. The common people used to call the Milky Way the Walsingham Way. Dr. Rock tells us[213] that "besides its badge, each pilgrimage had also its gathering cry, which the pilgrims shouted out as, at the grey of morn, they slowly crept through the town or hamlet where they had slept that night." By calling aloud upon God for help, and begging the intercession of that saint to whose shrine they were wending, they bade all their fellow pilgrims to come forth upon their road and begin another day's march.[214] After having said their prayers and told their beads, occasionally did they strive to shorten the weary length of the way by song and music. As often as a crowd of pilgrims started together from one place, they seem always to have hired a few singers and one or two musicians to go with them. Just before reaching any town, they drew themselves up into a line, and thus walked through its streets in procession, singing and ringing their little hand-bells, with a player on the bagpipes at their head. They ought in strictness, perhaps, to have been psalms which they sung, and the tales with which they were accustomed to lighten the way ought to have been saintly legends and godly discourses; but in truth they were of very varied character, according to the character of the individual pilgrims. The songs were often love-songs; and though Chaucer's poor parson of a town preached a sermon and was listened to, yet the romances of chivalry or the loose faiblieux which were current probably formed the majority of the real "Canterbury tales." In Foxe's "Acts and Monuments," we have a very graphic and amusing little sketch of a company of pilgrims passing through a town:-- W. Thorpe tells Archbishop Arundel, "When diverse men and women will go thus after their own willes, and finding out one pilgrimage, they will order with them before to have with them both men and women that can well synge wanton songs; and some other pilgrims will have with them bagge-pipes, so that every towne they come throwe, what with the noyse of their singing and with the sound of their pipyng, and with the jingling of their Canterbury belles, and with barking out of dogges after them, that they make more noise than if the kinge came there awaye with all his clarions, and many other minstrelles. And if these men and women be a moneth on their pilgrimage, many of them shall be an half year after great janglers, tale-tellers, and liars." The archbishop defends the fashion, and gives us further information on the subject, saying "that pilgremys have with them both syngers and also pipers, that when one of them that goeth barefoote striketh his toe upon a stone, and hurteth him sore, and maketh him to blede, it is well done that he or his fellow begyn than a songe, or else take out of his bosom a bagge-pipe, for to drive away with such myrthe the hurte of his fellow; for with soche solace the travell and weriness of pylgremes is lightly and merily broughte forth." Erasmus's colloquy entitled "Peregrinatio Religionis ergo," enables us to accompany the pilgrim to the shrine of Our Lady of Walsingham, and to join him in his devotions at the shrine. We shall throw together the most interesting portions of the narrative from Mr. J. G. Nichols's translation of it. "It is," he says, "the most celebrated place throughout all England,[215] nor could you easily find in that island the man who ventures to reckon on prosperity unless he yearly salute her with some small offering according to his ability." "The town of Walsingham," he says, "is maintained by scarcely anything else but the number of its visitors." The shrine of Our Lady was not within the priory church; but on the north side was the wooden chapel dedicated to "Our Lady," about twenty-three feet by thirteen, enclosed within a chapel of stone forty-eight feet by thirty, which Erasmus describes as unfinished. On the west of the church was another wooden building, in which were two holy wells also dedicated to the Virgin. Erasmus describes these "holy places." "Within the church, which I have called unfinished, is a small chapel made of wainscot, and admitting the devotees on each side by a narrow little door. The light is small, indeed scarcely any but from the wax lights. A most grateful fragrance meets the nostrils. When you look in, you would say it was the mansion of the saints, so much does it glitter on all sides with jewels, gold, and silver. In the inner chapel one canon attends to receive and take charge of the offerings," which the pilgrims placed upon the altar. "To the east of this is a chapel full of wonders. Thither I go. Another guide receives me. There we worshipped for a short time. Presently the joint of a man's finger is exhibited to us, the largest of three; I kiss it; and then I ask whose relics were these? He says, St. Peter's. The Apostle? I ask. He said, Yes. Then observing the size of the joint, which might have been that of a giant, I remarked, Peter must have been a man of very large size. At this, one of my companions burst into a laugh; which I certainly took ill, for if he had been quiet the attendant would have shown us all the relics. However, we pacified him by offering a few pence. Before the chapel was a shed, which they say was suddenly, in the winter season, when everything was covered with snow, brought thither from a great distance. Under this shed are two wells full to the brink; they say the spring is sacred to the Holy Virgin. The water is wonderfully cold, and efficacious in curing the pains of the head and stomach. We next turned towards the heavenly milk of the Blessed Virgin" (kept apparently in another chapel); "that milk is kept on the high-altar; in the centre of which is Christ; at his right hand for honour's sake, his mother; for the milk personifies the mother. As soon as the canon in attendance saw us, he rose, put on his surplice, added the stole to his neck, prostrated himself with due ceremony, and worshipped; anon he stretched forth the thrice-holy milk to be kissed by us. On this, we also, on the lowest step of the altar, religiously fell prostrate; and having first called upon Christ, we addressed the Virgin with a little prayer like this, which I had prepared for the purpose.... "'A very pious prayer; what reply did she make?' "Each appeared to assent, if my eyes were not deceived. For the holy milk seemed to leap a little, and the Eucharist shone somewhat brighter. Meanwhile the ministering canon approached us, saying nothing, but holding out a little box, such as are presented by the toll collectors on the bridges in Germany. I gave a few pence, which he offered to the Virgin." The visitor on this occasion being a distinguished person, and performing a trifling service for the canons, was presented by the sub-prior with a relic. "He then drew from a bag a fragment of wood, cut from a beam on which the Virgin Mother had been seen to rest. A wonderful fragrance at once proved it to be a thing extremely sacred. For my part, having received so distinguished a present, prostrate and with uncovered head, I kissed it three or four times with the highest veneration, and placed it in my purse. I would not exchange that fragment, small as it is, for all the gold in the Tagus. I will enclose it in gold, but so that it may shine through crystal." He is also shown some relics not shown to ordinary visitors. "Several wax candles are lighted, and a small image is produced, neither excelling in material nor workmanship; but in virtue most efficacious. He then exhibited the golden and silver statues. 'This one,' says he, 'is entirely of gold; this is silver gilt; he added the weight of each, its value, and the name of the donor.[216] Then he drew forth from the altar itself, a world of admirable things, the individual articles of which, if I were to proceed to describe, this day would not suffice for the relation. So that pilgrimage terminated most fortunately for me. I was abundantly gratified with sights; and I bring away this inestimable gift, a token bestowed by the Virgin herself. "'Have you made no trial of the powers of your wood?' "I have: in an inn, before the end of three days, I found a man afflicted in mind, for whom charms were then in preparation. This piece of wood was placed under his pillow, unknown to himself; he fell into a sleep equally deep and prolonged; in the morning he rose of whole mind." * * * * * Chaucer left his account of the Canterbury Pilgrimage incomplete; but another author, soon after Chaucer's death, wrote a supplement to his great work, which, however inferior in genius to the work of the great master, yet admirably serves our purpose of giving a graphic contemporary picture of the doings of a company of pilgrims to St. Thomas, when arrived at their destination. Erasmus, too, in the colloquy already so largely quoted, enables us to add some details to the picture. The pilgrims of Chaucer's continuator arrived in Canterbury at "mydmorowe." Erasmus tells us what they saw as they approached the city. "The church dedicated to St. Thomas, erects itself to heaven with such majesty, that even from a distance it strikes religious awe into the beholders.... There are two vast towers that seem to salute the visitor from afar, and make the surrounding country far and wide resound with the wonderful booming of their brazen bells." Being arrived, they took up their lodgings at the "Chequers."[217] "They toke their In and loggit them at midmorowe I trowe Atte Cheker of the hope, that many a man doth know." And mine host of the "Tabard," in Southwark, their guide, having given the necessary orders for their dinner, they all proceeded to the cathedral to make their offerings at the shrine of St. Thomas. At the church door they were sprinkled with holy water as they entered. The knight and the better sort of the company went straight to their devotions; but some of the pilgrims of a less educated class, began to wander about the nave of the church, curiously admiring all the objects around them. The miller and his companions entered into a warm discussion concerning the arms in the painted glass windows. At length the host of the "Tabard" called them together and reproved them for their negligence, whereupon they hastened to make their offerings:-- "Then passed they forth boystly gogling with their hedds Kneeled down to-fore the shrine, and hertily their beads They prayed to St. Thomas, in such wise as they couth; And sith the holy relikes each man with his mouth Kissed, as a goodly monk the names told and taught. And sith to other places of holyness they raught, And were in their devocioune tyl service were al done." Erasmus gives a very detailed account of these "holy relikes," and of the "other places of holiness":-- "On your entrance [by the south porch] the edifice at once displays itself in all its spaciousness and majesty. To that part any one is admitted. There are some books fixed to the pillars, and the monument of I know not whom. The iron screens stop further progress, but yet admit a view of the whole space, from the choir to the end of the church. To the choir you mount by many steps, under which is a passage leading to the north. At that spot is shown a wooden altar, dedicated to the Virgin, but mean, nor remarkable in any respect, unless as a monument of antiquity, putting to shame the extravagance of these times. There the pious old man is said to have breathed his last farewell to the Virgin when his death was at hand. On the altar is the point of the sword with which the head of the most excellent prelate was cleft, and his brain stirred, that he might be the more instantly despatched. The sacred rust of this iron, through love of the martyr, we religiously kissed. Leaving this spot, we descended to the crypt. It has its own priests. There was first exhibited the perforated skull of the martyr, the forehead is left bare to be kissed, while the other parts are covered with silver. At the same time is shown a slip of lead, engraved with his name _Thomas Acrensis_.[218] There also hang in the dark the hair shirts, the girdles and bandages with which that prelate subdued his flesh; striking horror with their very appearance, and reproaching us with our indulgence and our luxuries. From hence we returned into the choir. On the north side the aumbrics were unlocked. It is wonderful to tell what a quantity of bones was there brought out: skulls, jaw-bones, teeth, hands, fingers, entire arms; on all which we devoutly bestowed our kisses; and the exhibition seemed likely to last for ever, if my somewhat unmanageable companion in that pilgrimage had not interrupted the zeal of the showman. "'Did he offend the priest?' "When an arm was brought forward which had still the bloody flesh adhering, he drew back from kissing it, and even betrayed some weariness. The priest presently shut up his treasures. We next viewed the table of the altar, and its ornaments, and then the articles which are kept under the altar, all most sumptuous; you would say Midas and Croesus were beggars if you saw that vast assemblage of gold and silver. After this we were led into the sacristy. What a display was there of silken vestments, what an array of golden candlesticks!... From this place we were conducted back to the upper floor, for behind the high-altar you ascend again as into a new church. There, in a little chapel, is shown the whole figure of the excellent man, gilt and adorned with many jewels. Then the head priest (prior) came forward. He opened to us the shrine in which what is left of the body of the holy man is said to rest. A wooden canopy covers the shrine, and when that is drawn up with ropes, inestimable treasures are opened to view. The least valuable part was gold; every part glistened, shone, and sparkled with rare and very large jewels, some of them exceeding the size of a goose's egg. There some monks stood around with much veneration; the cover being raised we all worshipped. The prior with a white rod pointed out each jewel, telling its name in French, its value, and the name of its donor, for the principal of them were offerings sent by sovereign princes.... From hence we returned to the crypt, where the Virgin Mother has her abode, but a somewhat dark one, being edged in by more than one screen. "'What was she afraid of?' "Nothing, I imagine, but thieves; for I have never seen anything more burdened with riches. When lamps were brought, we beheld a more than royal spectacle.... Lastly we were conducted back to the sacristy; there was brought out a box covered with black leather; it was laid upon the table and opened; immediately all knelt and worshipped. "'What was in it?' "Some torn fragments of linen, and most of them retaining marks of dirt.... After offering us a cup of wine, the prior courteously dismissed us." When Chaucer's pilgrims had seen such of this magnificence as existed in their earlier time, noon approaching, they gathered together and went to their dinner. Before they left the church, however, they bought signs "as the manner was," to show to all men that they had performed this meritorious act. "There as manere and custom is, signes there they bought For men of contre' should know whom they had sought. Each man set his silver in such thing as they liked, And in the meen while the miller had y-piked His bosom full of signys of Canterbury broches. Others set their signys upon their hedes, and some upon their cap, And sith to dinner-ward they gan for to stapp." The appearance of these shrines and their surroundings is brought before our eyes by the pictures in a beautiful volume of Lydgate's "History of St. Edmund" in the British Museum (Harl. 2,278). At f. 40 is a representation of the shrine of St. Edmund in the abbey church of St. Edmund's Bury. At f. 9 a still better representation of it, showing the iron grille which enclosed it, a monk worshipping at it, and a clerk with a wand, probably the custodian whose duty it was to show the various jewels and relics--as the prior did to Erasmus at Canterbury. At f. 47 is another shrine, with some people about it who have come in the hope of receiving miraculous cures; still another at f. 100 v., with pilgrims praying round it. At f. 109 a shrine, with two monks in a stall beside it saying an office, a clerk and others present. At f. 10 v. a shrine with a group of monks. Other representations of shrines (all no doubt intended to represent the one shrine of St. Edmund, but differing in details) are to be found at f. 108 v., 117, &c. In the MS. Roman "D'Alexandre," of the latter half of the fourteenth century, in the Bodleian Library, at f. 2,660, is a very good representation of the shrine of St. Thomas the Apostle, with several people about it, and in front are two pilgrims in rough habits, a broad hat slung over the shoulder, and a staff. We have hitherto spoken of male pilgrims; but it must be borne in mind that women of all ranks were frequently to be found on pilgrimage;[219] and all that has been said of the costume and habits of the one sex applies equally to the other. We give here a cut of a female pilgrim with scrip, staff, and hat, from Pl. 134 of Strutt's "Dresses and Habits of the People of England," who professes to take it from the Harleian MS. 621. We also give a picture of a pilgrim monk (Cotton. MS. Tiberius, A. 7.) who bears the staff and scrip, but is otherwise habited in the proper costume of his order. [Illustration: _Female Pilgrim._ (Strutt, pl. 134.)] [Illustration: _Pilgrim Monk._] When the pilgrim had returned safely home, it was but natural and proper that as he had been sent forth with the blessing and prayers of the church, he should present himself again in church to give thanks for the accomplishment of his pilgrimage and his safe return. We do not find in the service-books--as we might have expected--any special service for this occasion, but we find sufficient indications that it was the practice. Knighton tells us, for example, of the famous Guy, Earl of Warwick, that on his return from his pilgrimage to the Holy Land, before he took any refreshment, he went to all the churches in the city to return thanks. Du Cange tells us that palmers were received on their return home with ecclesiastical processions; but perhaps this was only in the case of men of some social importance. We have the details of one such occasion on record:[220] William de Mandeville, Earl of Essex, assumed the cross, and after procuring suitable necessaries, took with him a retinue, and among them a chaplain to perform divine offices, for all of whom he kept a daily table. Before he set out he went to Gilbert, Bishop of London, for his license and benediction. He travelled by land as far as Rome, over France, Burgundy, and the Alps, leaving his horse at Mantua. He visited every holy place in Jerusalem and on his route; made his prayers and offerings at each; and so returned. Upon his arrival, he made presents of silk cloths to all the churches of his see, for copes or coverings of the altars. The monks of Walden met him in procession, in albes and copes, singing, "Blessed is he who cometh in the name of the Lord;" and the earl coming to the high-altar, and there prostrating himself, the prior gave him the benediction. After this he rose, and kneeling, offered some precious relics in an ivory box, which he had obtained in Jerusalem and elsewhere. This offering concluded, he rose, and stood before the altar; the prior and convent singing the _Te Deum_. Leaving the church he went to the chapter, to give and receive the kiss of peace from the prior and monks. A sumptuous entertainment followed for himself and his suite; and the succeeding days were passed in visits to relatives and friends, who congratulated him on his safe return. [Illustration: From "Le Pélerinage de la Vie Humaine" (French National Library).] Du Cange says that palmers used to present their scrips and staves to their parish churches. And Coryatt[221] says that he saw cockle and mussel shells, and beads, and other religious relics, hung up over the door of a little chapel in a nunnery, which, says Fosbroke, were offerings made by pilgrims on their return from Compostella. The illuminated MS., Julius E. VI., illustrates, among other events of the life of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, various scenes of his pilgrimage to Rome and to Jerusalem. In an illumination (subsequently engraved in the chapter on Merchants) he is seen embarking in his own ship; in another, he is presented to the Pope and cardinals at Rome[222] (subsequently engraved in the chapter on Secular Clergy); in another, he is worshipping at the Holy Sepulchre, where he hung up his shield in remembrance of his accomplished vow. The additional MS. 24,189, is part of St. John Mandeville's history of his travels, and its illuminations in some respects illustrate the voyage of a pilgrim of rank. Hans Burgmaier's "Images de Saints," &c.,--from which we take the figure on the next page,--affords us a very excellent contemporary illustration of a pilgrim of high rank, with his attendants, all in pilgrim costume, and wearing the signs which show us that their pilgrimage has been successfully accomplished. Those who had taken any of the greater pilgrimages would probably be regarded with a certain respect and reverence by their untravelled neighbours, and the agnomen of Palmer or Pilgrim, which would naturally be added to their Christian name--as William the Palmer, or John the Pilgrim--is doubtless the origin of two sufficiently common surnames. The tokens of pilgrimage sometimes even accompanied a man to his grave, and were sculptured on his monument. Shells have not unfrequently been found in stone coffins, and are taken with great probability to be relics of the pilgrimage, which the deceased had once taken to Compostella, and which as sacred things, and having a certain religious virtue, were strewed over him as he was carried upon his bier in the funeral procession, and were placed with him in his grave. For example, when the grave of Bishop Mayhew, who died in 1516, in Hereford Cathedral, was opened some years ago, there was found lying by his side, a common, rough, hazel wand, between four and five feet long, and about as thick as a man's finger; and with it a mussel and a few oyster-shells. Four other instances of such hazel rods, without accompanying shells, buried with ecclesiastics, had previously been observed in the same cathedral.[223] The tomb of Abbot Cheltenham, at Tewkesbury, has the spandrels ornamented with shields charged with scallop shells, and the pilgrim staff and scrip are sculptured on the bosses of the groining of the canopy over the tomb. There is a gravestone at Haltwhistle, Northumberland, to which we have already more than once had occasion to refer,[224] on which is the usual device of a cross sculptured in relief, and on one side of the shaft of the cross are laid a sword and shield, charged with the arms of Blenkinsop, a fess between three garbs, indicating, we presume, that the deceased was a knight; on the other side of the shaft of the cross are laid a palmer's staff, and a scrip, bearing also garbs, and indicating that the knight had been a pilgrim. [Illustration: _Pilgrim on Horseback._] In the church of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, Leicestershire, there is, under a monumental arch in the wall of the north aisle, a recumbent effigy, a good deal defaced, of a man in pilgrim weeds. A tunic or gown reaches half-way down between the knee and ankle, and he has short pointed laced boots; a hat with its margin decorated with scallop-shells lies under his head, his scrip tasselled and charged with scallop-shells is at his right side, and his rosary on his left, and his staff is laid diagonally across the body. The costly style of the monument,[225] the lion at his feet, and above all a collar of SS. round his neck, prove that the person thus commemorated was a person of distinction. In the churchyard of Llanfihangel-Aber-Cowen, Carmarthenshire, there are three graves,[226] which are assigned by the local tradition to three holy palmers, "who wandered thither in poverty and distress, and being about to perish for want, slew each other: the last survivor buried his fellows and then himself in one of the graves which they had prepared, and pulling the stone over him, left it, as it is, ill adjusted." Two of the headstones have very rude demi-effigies, with a cross patée sculptured upon them. In one of the graves were found, some years ago, the bones of a female or youth, and half-a-dozen scallop-shells. There are also, among the curious symbols which appear on mediæval coffin-stones, some which are very likely intended for pilgrim staves. There is one at Woodhorn, Northumberland, engraved in the "Manual of Sepulchral Slabs and Crosses," and another at Alnwick-le-Street, Yorkshire, is engraved in Gough's "Sepulchral Monuments," vol. i. It may be that these were men who had made a vow of perpetual pilgrimage, or who died in the midst of an unfinished pilgrimage, and therefore the pilgrim insignia were placed upon their monuments. If every man and woman who had made a pilgrimage had had its badges carved upon their tombs, we should surely have found many other tombs thus designated; but, indeed, we have the tombs of men who we know had accomplished pilgrimages to Jerusalem, but have no pilgrim insignia upon their tombs. Other illustrations of pilgrim costume may be found scattered throughout the illuminated MSS. References to some of the best of them are here added. In the Royal, 1,696, at f. 163, is a good drawing of St. James as a pilgrim. In the Add. MS. 17,687, at f. 33, another of the pilgrim saints with scrip and staff; in the MS. Nero E 2, a half-length of the saint with a scallop-shell in his hat; in the MS. 18,143, of early sixteenth-century date, at f. 57 v., another. In Lydgate's "History of St. Edmund," already quoted for its pictures of shrines, there are also several good pictures of pilgrims. On f. 79 is a group of three pilgrims, who appear again in different parts of the history, twice on page 80, and again at 84 and 85. At f. 81 the three pilgrims have built themselves a hermitage and chapel, surrounded by a fence of wicker-work. In Henry VII.'s chapel, Westminster, the figure of a pilgrim is frequently introduced in the ornamental sculpture of the side chapels and on the reredos, in allusion, no doubt, to the pilgrims who figure in the legendary history of St. Edmund the Confessor. Having followed the pilgrim to his very tomb, there we pause. We cannot but satirise the troops of mere religious holiday-makers, who rode a pleasant summer's holiday through the green roads of merry England, feasting at the inns, singing amorous songs, and telling loose stories by the way; going through a round of sight-seeing at the end of it; and drinking foul water in which a dead man's blood had been mingled, or a dead man's bones had been washed. But let us be allowed to indulge the hope that every act of real, honest, self-denial--however mistaken--in remorse for sin, for the sake of purity, or for the honour of religion, did benefit the honest, though mistaken devotee. Is _our_ religion so perfect and so pure, and is _our_ practice so exactly accordant with it, that we can afford to sit in severe judgment upon honest, self-denying error? THE SECULAR CLERGY OF THE MIDDLE AGES. CHAPTER I. THE PAROCHIAL CLERGY. The present organisation of the Church of England dates from the Council of Hertford, A.D. 673. Before that time the Saxon people were the object of missionary operations, carried on by two independent bodies, the Italian mission, having its centre at Canterbury, and the Celtic mission, in Iona. The bishops who had been sent from one or other of these sources into the several kingdoms of the Heptarchy, gathered a body of clergy about them, with whom they lived in common at the cathedral town; thence they made missionary progresses through the towns and villages of the Saxon "bush;" returning always to the cathedral as their head-quarters and home. The national churches which sprang from these two sources were kept asunder by some differences of discipline and ceremonial rather than of doctrine. These differences were reconciled at the Council of Hertford, and all the churches there and then recognised Theodore, Archbishop of Canterbury, as the Metropolitan of all England. To the same archbishop we owe the establishment of the parochial organisation of the Church of England, which has ever since continued. He pointed out to the people the advantage of having the constant ministrations of a regular pastor, instead of the occasional visits of a missionary. He encouraged the thanes to provide a dwelling-house and a parcel of glebe for the clergyman's residence; and permitted that the tithe of each manor--which the thane had hitherto paid into the common church-fund of the bishop--should henceforth be paid to the resident pastor, for his own maintenance and the support of his local hospitalities and charities; and lastly, he permitted each thane to select the pastor for his own manor out of the general body of the clergy. Thus naturally grew the whole establishment of the Church of England; thus each kingdom of the Heptarchy became, in ecclesiastical language, a diocese, each manor a parish; and thus the patronage of the benefices of England became vested in the lords of the manors. At the same time that a rector was thus gradually settled in every parish, with rights and duties which soon became defined, and sanctioned by law, the bishop continued to keep a body of clergy about him in the cathedral, whose position also gradually became defined and settled. The number of clergy in the cathedral establishment became settled, and they acquired the name of canons; they were organised into a collegiate body, with a dean and other officers. The estates of the bishops were distinguished from those of the body of canons. Each canon had his own house within the walled space about the cathedral, which was called the Close, and a share in the common property of the Chapter. Besides the canons, thus limited in number, there gradually arose a necessity for other clergymen to fulfil the various duties of a cathedral. These received stipends, and lodged where they could in the town; but in time these additional clergy also were organised into a corporation, and generally some benefactor was found to build them a quadrangle of little houses within, or hard by, the Close, and often to endow their corporation with lands and livings. The Vicars' Close at Wells is a very good and well-known example of these supplementary establishments. It is a long quadrangle, with little houses on each side, a hall at one end, and a library at the other, and a direct communication with the cathedral. There also arose in process of time many collegiate churches in the kingdom, which, resembled the cathedral establishments of secular canons in every respect, except that no bishop had his see within their church. Some of the churches of these colleges of secular canons were architecturally equal to the cathedrals. Southwell Minster, for example, is not even equalled by many of the cathedral churches. It would occupy too much space to enter into any details of the constitution of these establishments. These canons may usually be recognised in pictures by their costume. The most characteristic features were the square cap and the furred amys. The amys was a fur cape worn over the shoulders, with a hood attached, and usually has a fringe of the tails of the fur or sometimes of little bells, and two long ends in front. In the accompanying very beautiful woodcut we have a semi-choir of secular canons, seated in their stalls in the cathedral, with the bishop in his stall at the west end. They are habited in surplices, ornamented with needlework, beneath which may be seen their robes, some pink, some blue in colour.[227] One in the subsellæ seems to have his furred amys thrown over the arm of his stall; his right-hand neighbour seems to have his hanging over his shoulder. He, and one in the upper stalls, have round skull caps (birettas); others have the hood on their heads, where it assumes a horned shape, which may be seen in other pictures of canons. The woodcut is part of a full-page illumination of the interior of a church, in the Book of Hours of Richard II., in the British Museum (Domit. xvii.). [Illustration] These powerful ecclesiastical establishments continued to flourish throughout the Middle Ages; their histories must be sought in Dugdale's "Monasticon," or Britton's or Murray's "Cathedrals," or the monographs of the several cathedrals. In the registers of the cathedrals there exists also a vast amount of unpublished matter, which would supply all the little life-like details that historians usually pass by, but which we need to enable us really to enter into the cathedral life of the Middle Ages. The world is indebted to Mr. Raine for the publication of some such details from the registry of York, in the very interesting "York Fabric Rolls," which he edited for the Surtees Society. To return to the Saxon rectors. By the end of the Saxon period of our history we find the whole kingdom divided into parishes, and in each a rector resident. Probably the rectors were often related to the lords of the manors, as is natural in the case of family livings; they were not a learned clergy; speaking generally they were a married clergy; in other respects, too, they did not affect the ascetic spirit of monasticism; they ate and drank like other people; farmed their own glebes; spent a good deal of their leisure in hawking and hunting, like their brothers, and cousins, and neighbours; but all their interests were in the people and things of their own parishes; they seem to have performed their clerical functions fairly well; and they were bountiful to the poor; in short, they seem to have had the virtues and failings of the country rectors of a hundred years ago. After the Norman conquest several causes concurred to deprive a large majority of the parishes of the advantage of the cure of well-born, well-endowed rectors, and to supply their places by ill-paid vicars and parochial chaplains. First among these causes we may mention the evil of impropriations, from which so many of our parishes are yet suffering, and of which this is a brief explanation. Just before the Norman conquest there was a great revival of the monastic principle; several new orders of monks had been founded; and the religious feeling of the age set in strongly in favour of these religious communities which then, at least, were learned, industrious, and self-denying. The Normans founded many new monasteries in England, and not only endowed them with lands and manors, but introduced the custom of endowing them also with the rectories of which they were patrons. They gave the benefice to the convent, and the convent, as a religious corporation, took upon itself the office of rector, and provided a vicar to perform the spiritual duties of the cure. The apportionment of the temporalities of the benefice usually was, that the convent took the great tithe, which formed the far larger portion of the benefice, and gave the vicar the small tithe, and (if it were not too large) the rectory-house and glebe for his maintenance. The position of a poor vicar, it is easy to see, was very different in dignity and emolument, and in prestige in the eyes of his parishioners, and the means of conferring temporal benefits upon them, from that of the old rectors his predecessors in the cure. By the time of the Reformation, about half of the livings of England and Wales had thus become impropriate to monasteries, cathedral chapters, corporations, guilds, &c.; and since the great tithe was not restored to the parishes at the dissolution of the religious houses, but granted to laymen together with the abbey-lands, about half the parishes of England are still suffering from this perversion of the ancient Saxon endowments. Another cause of the change in the condition of the parochial clergy was the custom of papal provisors. The popes, in the thirteenth century, gradually assumed a power of nominating to vacant benefices. Gregory IX. and Innocent IV., who ruled the church in the middle of this century, are said to have presented Italian priests to all the best benefices in England. Many of these foreigners, having preferment in their own country, never came near their cures, but employed parish chaplains to fulfil their duties, and sometimes neglected to do even that. Edward III. resisted this invasion of the rights of the patrons of English livings, and in the time of Richard II. it was finally stopped by the famous statute of Præmunire (A.D. 1392). The custom of allowing one man to hold several livings was another means of depriving parishes of a resident rector, and handing them over to the care of a curate. The extent to which this system of Pluralities was carried in the Middle Ages seems almost incredible; we even read of one man having from four to five hundred benefices. Another less known abuse was the custom of presenting to benefices men who had taken only the minor clerical orders. A glance at the lists of incumbents of benefices in any good county history will reveal the fact that rectors of parishes were often only deacons, sub-deacons, or acolytes.[228] It is clear that in many of these cases--probably in the majority of them--the men had taken a minor order only to qualify themselves for holding the temporalities of a benefice, and never proceeded to the priesthood at all; they employed a chaplain to perform their spiritual functions for them, while they enjoyed the fruits of the benefice as if it were a lay fee, the minor order which they had taken imposing no restraint upon their living an entirely secular life.[229] It is clear that a considerable number of priests were required to perform the duties of the numerous parishes whose rectors were absent or in minor orders, who seem to have been called parochial chaplains. The emolument and social position of these parochial chaplains were not such as to make the office a desirable one; and it would seem that the candidates for it were, to a great extent, drawn from the lower classes of the people. Chaucer tells us of his poor parson of a town, whose description we give below, that "With him there was a _ploughman_ was his brother." In the Norwich corporation records of the time of Henry VIII. (1521 A.D.), there is a copy of the examination of "Sir William Green," in whose sketch of his own life, though he was only a pretended priest, we have a curious history of the way in which many a poor man's son did really attain the priesthood. He was the son of a labouring man, learned grammar at the village grammar school for two years, and then went to day labour with his father. Afterwards removing to Boston, he lived with his aunt, partly labouring for his living, and going to school as he had opportunity. Being evidently a clerkly lad, he was admitted to the minor orders, up to that of acolyte, at the hands of "Friar Graunt," who was a suffragan bishop in the diocese of Lincoln. After that he went to Cambridge, where, as at Boston, he partly earned a livelihood by his labour, and partly availed himself of the opportunities of learning which the university offered, getting his meat and drink of alms. At length, having an opportunity of going to Rome, with two monks of Whitby Abbey (perhaps in the capacity of attendant, one Edward Prentis being of the company, who was, perhaps, his fellow-servant to the two monks), he there endeavoured to obtain the order of the priesthood, which seems to have been conferred rather indiscriminately at Rome, and without a "title;" but in this he was unsuccessful. After his return to England he laboured for his living, first with his brother in Essex, then at Cambridge, then at Boston, then in London. At last he went to Cambridge again, and, by the influence of Mr. Coney, obtained of the Vice-Chancellor a licence under seal to collect subscriptions for one year towards an exhibition to complete his education in the schools, as was often done by poor scholars.[230] Had he obtained money enough, completed his education, and obtained ordination in due course, it would have completed the story in a regular way. But here he fell into bad hands, forged first a new poor scholar's licence, and then letters of orders, and then wandered about begging alms as an unfortunate, destitute priest; he may furnish us with a type of the idle and vagabond priests, of whom there were only too many in the country, and of whom Sir Thomas More says, "the order is rebuked by the priests' begging and lewd living, which either is fain to walk at rovers and live upon trentals (thirty days' masses), or worse, or to serve in a secular man's house."[231] The original of this sketch is given at length in the note below.[232] This custom of poor scholars gaining their livelihood and the means of prosecuting their studies by seeking alms was very common. It should be noticed here that the Church in the Middle Ages was the chief ladder by which men of the lower ranks were able to climb up--and vast numbers did climb up--into the upper ranks of society, to be clergymen, and monks, and abbots, and bishops, statesmen, and popes. Piers Ploughman, in a very illiberal strain, makes it a subject of reproach-- "Now might each sowter[233] his son setten to schole, And each beggar's brat in the book learne, And worth to a writer and with a lorde dwelle, Or falsly to a frere the fiend for to serven. So of that beggar's brat a Bishop that worthen, Among the peers of the land prese to sythen; And lordes sons lowly to the lorde's loute, Knyghtes crooketh hem to, and coucheth ful lowe; And his sire a sowter y-soiled with grees,[234] His teeth with toyling of lether battered as a sawe." The Church was the great protector and friend of the lower classes of society, and that on the highest grounds. In this very matter of educating the children of the poor, and opening to such as were specially gifted a suitable career, we find so late as the date of the Reformation, Cranmer maintaining the rights of the poor on high grounds. For among the Royal Commissioners for reorganising the cathedral establishment at Canterbury "were more than one or two who would have none admitted to the Grammar School but sons or younger brothers of gentlemen. As for others, husbandmen's children, they were more used, they said, for the plough and to be artificers than to occupy the place of the learned sort. Whereto the Archbishop said that poor men's children are many times endowed with more singular gifts of nature, which are also the gifts of God, as eloquence, memory, apt pronunciation, sobriety, and such like; and also commonly more apt to study than is the gentleman's son, more delicately educated. Hereunto it was, on the other part, replied that it was for the ploughman's son to go to plough, and the artificer's son to apply to the trade of his parent's vocation; and the gentleman's children are used to have the knowledge of government and rule of the commonwealth. 'I grant,' replied the Archbishop, 'much of your meaning herein as needful in a commonwealth; but yet utterly to exclude the ploughman's son and the poor man's son from the benefit of learning, as though they were unworthy to have the gifts of the Holy Ghost bestowed upon them as well as upon others, was much as to say as that Almighty God should not be at liberty to bestow his great gifts of grace upon any person, but as we and other men shall appoint them to be employed according to our fancy, and not according to his most goodly will and pleasure, who giveth his gifts of learning and other perfections in all sciences unto all kinds and states of people indifferently." * * * * * Besides the rectors and vicars of parishes, there was another class of beneficed clergymen in the middle ages, who gradually became very numerous, viz., the chantry priests. By the end of the ante-Reformation period there was hardly a church in the kingdom which had not one or more chantries founded in it, and endowed for the perpetual maintenance of a chantry priest, to say mass daily for ever for the soul's health of the founder and his family. The churches of the large and wealthy towns had sometimes ten or twelve such chantries. The chantry chapel was sometimes built on to the parish church, and opening into it; sometimes it was only a corner of the church screened off from the rest of the area by openwork wooden screens. The chantry priest had sometimes a chantry-house to live in, and estates for his maintenance, sometimes he had only an annual income, charged on the estate of the founder. The chantries were suppressed, and their endowments confiscated, in the reign of Edward VI., but the chantry chapels still remain as part of our parish churches, and where the parclose screens have long since been removed, the traces of the chantry altar are still very frequently apparent to the eye of the ecclesiastical antiquary. Sometimes more than one priest was provided for by wealthy people. Richard III. commenced the foundation of a chantry of one hundred chaplains, to sing masses in the cathedral church of York; the chantry-house was begun, and six altars were erected in York Minster, when the king's death at Bosworth Field interrupted the completion of the magnificent design.[235] We have next to add to our enumeration of the various classes of the mediæval clergy another class of chaplains, whose duties were very nearly akin to those of the chantry priests. These were the guild priests. It was the custom throughout the middle ages for men and women to associate themselves in religious guilds, partly for mutual assistance in temporal matters, but chiefly for mutual prayers for their welfare while living, and for their soul's health when dead. These guilds usually maintained a chaplain, whose duty it was to celebrate mass daily for the brethren and sisters of the guild. These guild priests must have been numerous, _e.g._, we learn from Blomfield's "Norfolk," that there were at the Reformation ten guilds in Windham Church, Norfolk, seven at Hingham, seven at Swaffham, seventeen at Yarmouth, &c. Moreover, a guild, like a chantry, had sometimes more than one guild priest. Leland tells us the guild of St. John's, in St. Botolph's Church, Boston, had ten priests, "living in a fayre house at the west end of the parish church yard." In St. Mary's Church, Lichfield, was a guild which had five priests.[236] The rules of some of these religious guilds may be found in Stow's "Survey of London," _e.g._, of St. Barbara's guild in the church of St. Katherine, next the Tower of London (in book ii. p. 7 of Hughes's edition.) We find bequests to the guild priests, in common with other chaplains, in the ancient wills, _e.g._, in 1541, Henry Waller, of Richmond, leaves "to every gyld prest of thys town, vi{d}. y{t} ar at my beryall."[237] Dr. Rock says,[238] "Besides this, every guild priest had to go on Sundays and holy days, and help the priests in the parochial services of the church in which his guild kept their altar. All chantry priests were bidden by our old English canons to do the same." The brotherhood priest of the guild of the Holy Trinity, at St. Botolph's, in London, was required to be "meke and obedient unto the qu'er in alle divine servyces duryng hys time, as custome is in the citye amonge alle other p'sts." Sometimes a chantry priest was specially required by his foundation deed to help in the cure of souls in the parish, as in the case of a chantry founded in St. Mary's, Maldon, and Little Bentley, Essex;[239] sometimes the chantry chapel was built in a hamlet at a distance from the parish church, and was intended to serve as a chapel of ease, and the priest as an assistant curate, as at Foulness Island and Billericay, both in Essex. But it is very doubtful whether the chantry priests generally considered themselves bound to take any share in the parochial work of the parish.[240] In the absence of any cure of souls, the office of chantry or guild priest was easy, and often lucrative; and we find it a common subject of complaint, from the fourteenth to the sixteenth centuries, that it was preferred to a cure of souls; and that even parochial incumbents were apt to leave their parishes in the hands of a parochial chaplain, and seek for themselves a chantry or guild, or one of the temporary engagements to celebrate annals, of which there were so many provided by the wills of which we shall shortly have to speak. Thus Chaucer reckons, among the virtues of his poore parson, that-- "He set not his benefice to hire, And let his shepe accomber in the mire, And runne to London to Saint Poule's, To seken him a chauntrie for soules, Or with a brotherhood to be with-held, But dwelt at home, and kepte well his fold." So also Piers Ploughman-- "Parsons and parisshe preistes, pleyned hem to the bisshope, That hire parishes weren povere sith the pestilence tyme, To have a licence and leve at London to dwelle And syngen ther for symonie, for silver is swete." Besides the chantry priests and guild priests, there was a great crowd of priests who gained a livelihood by taking temporary engagements to say masses for the souls of the departed. Nearly every will of the period we are considering provides for the saying of masses for the soul of the testator. Sometimes it is only by ordering a fee to be paid to every priest who shall be present at the funeral, sometimes by ordering the executors to have a number of masses, varying from ten to ten thousand, said as speedily as may be; sometimes by directing that a priest shall be engaged to say mass for a certain period, varying from thirty days to forty or fifty years. These casual masses formed an irregular provision for a large number of priests, many of whom performed no other clerical function, and too often led a dissolute as well as an idle life. Archbishop Islip says in his "Constitutions:"[241]--"We are certainly informed, by common fame and experience, that modern priests, through covetousness and love of ease, not content with reasonable salaries, demand excessive pay for their labours, and receive it; and do so despise labour and study pleasure, that they wholly refuse, as parish priests, to serve in churches or chapels, or to attend the cure of souls, though fitting salaries are offered them, that they may live in a leisurely manner, by celebrating annals for the quick and dead; and so parish churches and chapels remain unofficiated, destitute of parochial chaplains, and even proper curates, to the grievous danger of souls." Chaucer has introduced one of this class into the Canon's Yeoman's tale:-- "In London was a priest, an annueller,[242] That therein dwelled hadde many a year, Which was so pleasant and so serviceable Unto the wife there as he was at table That she would suffer him no thing to pay For board ne clothing, went he never so gay, And spending silver had he right ynoit."[243] Another numerous class of the clergy were the domestic chaplains. Every nobleman and gentleman had a private chapel in his own house, and an ecclesiastical establishment attached, proportionate to his own rank and wealth. In royal houses and those of the great nobles, this private establishment was not unfrequently a collegiate establishment, with a dean and canons, clerks, and singing men and boys, who had their church and quadrangle within the precincts of the castle, and were maintained by ample endowments. The establishment of the royal chapel of St. George, in Windsor Castle, is, perhaps, the only remaining example. The household book of the Earl of Northumberland gives us very full details of his chapel establishment, and of their duties, and of the emoluments which they received in money and kind. They consisted of a dean, who was to be a D.D. or LL.D. or B.D., and ten other priests, and eleven gentlemen and six children, who composed the choir.[244] But country gentlemen of wealth often maintained a considerable chapel establishment. Henry Machyn, in his diary,[245] tells us, in noticing the death of Sir Thomas Jarmyn, of Rushbrooke Hall, Suffolk, in 1552, that "he was the best housekeeper in the county of Suffolk, and kept a goodly chapel of singing men." Knights and gentlemen of less means, or less love of goodly singing men, were content with a single priest as chaplain.[246] Even wealthy yeomen and tradesmen had their domestic chaplain. Sir Thomas More says,[247] there was "such a rabel [of priests], that every mean man must have a priest in his house to wait upon his wife, which no man almost lacketh now." The chapels of the great lords were often sumptuous buildings, erected within the precincts, of which St. George's, Windsor, and the chapel within the Tower of London may supply examples. Smaller chapels erected within the house were still handsome and ecclesiastically-designed buildings, of which examples may be found in nearly every old castle and manor house which still exists; _e.g._, the chapel of Colchester Castle of the twelfth century, of Ormsbro Castle of late twelfth century, of Beverstone Castle of the fourteenth century, engraved in Parker's "Domestic Architecture," III. p. 177; that at Igtham Castle of the fifteenth century, engraved in the same work, III. p. 173; that at Haddon Hall of the fifteenth century. In great houses, besides the general chapel, there was often a small oratory besides for the private use of the lord of the castle, in later times called a closet; sometimes another oratory for the lady, as in the case of the Earl of Northumberland.[248] In some of these domestic chapels we find a curious internal arrangement; the western part of the apartment is divided into two stories by a wooden floor. This is the case also with the chapel of the preceptory of Chobham, Northumberland, of the Coyston Almshouses at Leicester (Parker's "Dom. Arch."). It is the case in one of the chapels in Tewkesbury Abbey Church, and in the case of a priory church in Norway. In some cases it was probably to accommodate the tenants of different stories of the house. The frequency with which in later times the lord of the house had a private gallery in the chapel (a similar arrangement occasionally occurs in parish churches) leads us to conjecture that in these cases of two floors the upper floor was for the members of the family, and the lower for the servants of the house. These chapels were thoroughly furnished with vessels, books, robes, and every usual ornament, and every object and appliance necessary for the performance of the offices of the church, with a splendour proportioned to the means of the master of the house. From the Household Book of the Earl of Northumberland, we gather that the chapel had three altars, and that my lord and my lady had each a closet, _i.e._, an oratory, in which there were other altars. The chapel was furnished with hangings, and had a pair of organs. There were four antiphoners and four grails--service books--which were so famous for their beauty, that, at the earl's death, Wolsey intimated his wish to have them. We find mention, too, of the suits of vestments and single vestments, and copes and surplices, and altar-cloths for the five altars. All these things were under the care of the yeoman of the vestry, and were carried about with the earl at his removals from one to another of his houses. Minute catalogues and descriptions of the furniture of these domestic chapels may also be found in the inventories attached to ancient wills.[249] We shall give hereafter a picture of one of these domestic chaplains, viz., of Sir Roger, chaplain of the chapel of the Earl of Warwick at Flamstead. There is a picture of another chaplain of the Earl of Warwick in the MS. Life of R. Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick (Julius E. IV.), where the earl and his chaplain are represented sitting together at dinner. Besides the clergy who were occupied in these various kinds of spiritual work, there were also a great number of priests engaged in secular occupations. Bishops were statesmen, generals, and ambassadors, employing suffragan bishops[250] in the work of their dioceses. Priests were engaged in many ways in the king's service, and in that of noblemen and others. Piers Ploughman says:-- "Somme serven the kyng, and his silver tellen, In cheker and in chauncelrie, chalangen his dettes, Of wardes and of wardemotes, weyves and theyves. And some serven as servantz, lordes and ladies, And in stede of stywardes, sitten and demen." The domestic chaplains were usually employed more or less in secular duties. Thus such services are regularly allotted to the eleven priests in the chapel of the Earls of Northumberland; one was surveyor of my lord's lands, and another my lord's secretary. Mr. Christopher Pickering, in his will (A.D. 1542), leaves to "my sarvands John Dobson and Frances, xx{s}. a-pece, besydes ther wages; allso I gyve unto Sir James Edwarde my sarvand," &c.; and one of the witnesses to the will is "Sir James Edwarde, preste," who was probably Mr. Pickering's chaplain.[251] Sir Thomas More says, every man has a priest to wait upon his wife; and in truth the chaplain seems to have often performed the duties of a superior gentleman usher. Nicholas Blackburn, a wealthy citizen of York, and twice Lord Mayor, leaves (A.D. 1431-2) a special bequest to his wife "to find her a gentlewoman, and a priest, and a servant."[252] Lady Elizabeth Hay leaves bequests in this order, to her son, her chaplain, her servant, and her maid.[253] CHAPTER II. CLERKS IN MINOR ORDERS. It is necessary, to a complete sketch of the subject of the secular clergy, to notice, however briefly, the minor orders, which have so long been abolished in the reformed Church of England, that we have forgotten their very names. There were seven orders through which the clerk had to go, from the lowest to the highest step in the hierarchy. The Pontifical of Archbishop Ecgbert gives us the form of ordination for each order; and the ordination ceremonies and exhortations show us very fully what were the duties of the various orders, and by what costume and symbols of office we may recognise them. But these particulars are brought together more concisely in a document of much later date, viz., in the account of the degradation from the priesthood of Sir William Sawtre, the first of the Lollards who died for heresy, in the year 1400 A.D., and a transcript of it will suffice for our present purpose. The archbishop, assisted by several bishops, sitting on the bishop's throne in St. Paul's--Sir William Sawtre standing before him in priestly robes--proceeded to the degradation as follows:--"In the name, &c., we, Thomas, &c., degrade and depose you from the order of priests, and in token thereof we take from you the paten and the chalice, and deprive you of all power of celebrating mass; we also strip you of the chasuble, take from you the sacerdotal vestment, and deprive you altogether of the dignity of the priesthood. Thee also, the said William, dressed in the habit of a deacon, and having the book of the gospels in thy hands, do we degrade and depose from the order of deacons, as a condemned and relapsed heretic; and in token hereof we take from thee the book of the gospels, and the stole, and deprive thee of the power of reading the gospels. We degrade thee from the order of subdeacons, and in token thereof take from thee the albe and maniple. We degrade thee from the order of an acolyte, taking from thee in token thereof this small pitcher and taper staff. We degrade thee from the order of an exorcist, and take from thee in token thereof the book of exorcisms. We degrade thee from the order of reader, and take from thee in token thereof the book of divine lessons. Thee also, the said William Sawtre, vested in a surplice as an ostiary,[254] do we degrade from that order, taking from thee the surplice and the keys of the church. Furthermore, as a sign of actual degradation, we have caused the crown and clerical tonsure to be shaved off in our presence, and to be entirely obliterated like a layman; we have also caused a woollen cap to be put upon thy head, as a secular layman." The word _clericus_--clerk--was one of very wide and rather vague significance, and included not only the various grades of clerks in orders, of whom we have spoken, but also all men who followed any kind of occupation which involved the use of reading and writing; finally, every man who could read might claim the "benefit of clergy," _i.e._, the legal immunities of a clerk. The word is still used with the same comprehensiveness and vagueness of meaning. Clerk in Orders is still the legal description of a clergyman; and men whose occupation is to use the pen are still called clerks, as lawyers' clerks, merchants' clerks, &c. Clerks were often employed in secular occupations; for example, Alan Middleton, who was employed by the convent of St. Alban's to collect their rents, and who is represented on page 63 ante in the picture from their "Catalogus Benefactorum" (Nero D. vii., British Museum), is tonsured, and therefore was a clerk. Chaucer gives us a charming picture of a poor clerk of Oxford, who seems to have been a candidate for holy orders, and is therefore germane to our subject:-- "A clerke there was of Oxenforde also, That unto logike hadde long ygo, As lene was his horse as is a rake, And he was not right fat, I undertake, But looked holwe and thereto soberly. Ful thredbare was his overest courtepy,[255] For he hadde getten him yet no benefice, Ne was nought worldly to have an office.[256] For him was lever han at his beddes hed A twenty bokes, clothed in black or red, Of Aristotle and his philosophie, Than robes riche, or fidel or sautrie. But all be that he was a philosophre, Yet hadde he but little gold in cofre, But all that he might of his frendes hente,[257] On bokes and on lerning he it spente; And besely gan for the soules praye Of hem that yave him wherewith to scholaie,[258] Of studie toke he moste cure and hede. Not a word spake he more than was nede, And that was said in forme and reverence, And short and quike, and ful of high sentence. Souning in moral vertue was his speche, And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche." In the Miller's Tale Chaucer gives us a sketch of another poor scholar of Oxford. He lodged with a carpenter, and "A chambre had he in that hostelerie, Alone withouten any compaynie, Ful fetisly 'ydight with herbés sweet." His books great and small, and his astrological apparatus "On shelvés couched at his beddé's head, His press ycovered with a falding red, And all about there lay a gay sautrie On which he made on nightés melodie So swetély that all the chamber rung, And _Angelus ad Virginem_ he sung." We give a typical illustration of the class from one of the characters in a Dance of Death at the end of a Book of the Hours of the Blessed Virgin Mary, in the British Museum. It is described beneath as "Un Clerc."[259] [Illustration: _A Clerk._] One of this class was employed by every parish to perform certain duties on behalf of the parishioners, and to assist the clergyman in certain functions of his office. The Parish Clerk has survived the revolution which swept away the other minor ecclesiastical officials of the middle ages, and still has his legal status in the parish church. Probably many of our readers will be surprised to hear that the office is an ancient one, and will take interest in a few original extracts which throw light on the subject. In the wills he frequently has a legacy left, together with the clergy--_e.g._, "Item I leave to my parish vicar iij{s.} iiij{d.} Item I leave to my parish clerk xij{d.} Item I leave to every chaplain present at my obsequies and mass iiij{d.}" (Will of John Brompton, of Beverley, merchant, 1443.)[260] Elizabeth del Hay, in 1434, leaves to "every priest ministering at my obsequies vi{d.}; to every parish clerk iiij{d.}; to minor clerks to each one ij{d.}"[261] Hawisia Aske, of York, in 1450-1 A.D., leaves to the "parish chaplain of St. Michael iij{s.} iiij{d.}; to every chaplain of the said church xx{d.}; to the parish clerk of the said church xx{d.}; to the sub-clerk of the same church x{d.}"[262] John Clerk, formerly chaplain of the chapel of the Blessed Mary Magdalen, near York, in 1449, leaves to "the parish clerk of St. Olave, in the suburbs of York, xij{d.}; to each of the two chaplains of the said church being present at my funeral and mass iiij{d.}; to the parish clerk of the said church iiij{d.}; to the sub-clerk of the said church ij{d.}; among the little boys of the said church wearing surplices iiij{d.}, to be distributed equally."[263] These extracts serve to indicate the clerical staff of the several churches mentioned. From other sources we learn what his duties were. In 1540 the parish of Milend, near Colchester, was presented to the archdeacon by the rector, because in the said church there was "nother clerke nor sexten to go withe him in tyme of visitacion [of the sick], nor to helpe him say masses, nor to rynge to servyce."[264] And in 1543 the Vicar of Kelveden, Essex, complains that there is not "caryed holy water,[265] nor ryngyng to evensonge accordyng as the clerke shuld do, with other dutees to him belongyng."[266] In the York presentations we find a similar complaint at Wyghton in 1472; they present that the parish clerk does not perform his services as he ought, because when he ought to go with the vicar to visit the sick, the clerk absents himself, and sends a boy with the vicar.[267] The clerk might be a married man, for in 1416 Thomas Curtas, parish clerk of the parish of St. Thomas the Martyr, is presented, because with his wife he has hindered, and still hinders, the parish clerk of St. Mary Bishophill, York [in which parish he seems to have lived] from entering his house on the Lord's days with holy water, as is the custom of the city. Also it is complained that the said Thomas and his wife refuse to come to hear divine service at their parish church, and withdraw their oblations.[268] In the Royal MS., 10, E iv., is a series of illustrations of a mediæval tale, which turns on the adventures of a parish clerk, as he goes through the parish aspersing the people with holy water. Two of the pictures will suffice to show the costume and the holy water-pot and aspersoir, and to indicate how he went into all the rooms of the house--now into the kitchen sprinkling the cook, now into the hall sprinkling the lord and lady who are at breakfast. In the woodcut on p. 241, will be seen how he precedes an ecclesiastical procession, sprinkling the people on each side as he goes. The subsequent description (p. 221) of the parish clerk Absolon, by Chaucer, indicates that sometimes--perhaps on some special festivals--the clerk went about censing the people instead of sprinkling them. [Illustration: _The Parish Clerk sprinkling the Cook._] [Illustration: _The Parish Clerk sprinkling the Knight and Lady._] To continue the notes of a parish clerk's duties, gathered from the churchwardens' presentations: at Wyghton, in 1510, they find "a faut with our parish clerk yt he hath not done his dewtee to ye kirk, yt is to say, ryngyng of ye morne bell and ye evyn bell; and also another fawt [which may explain the former one], he fyndes yt pour mene pays hym not his wages."[269] At Cawood, in 1510 A.D., we find it the duty of the parish clerk "to keepe ye clok and ryng corfer [curfew] at dew tymes appointed by ye parrish, and also to ryng ye day bell."[270] He had his desk in church near the clergyman, perhaps on the opposite side of the chancel, as we gather from a presentation from St. Maurice, York, in 1416, that the desks in the choir on both sides, especially where the parish chaplain and parish clerk are accustomed to sit, need repair.[271] A story in Matthew Paris[272] tells us what his office was worth: "It happened that an agent of the pope met a petty clerk of a village carrying water in a little vessel, with a sprinkler and some bits of bread given him for having sprinkled some holy water, and to him the deceitful Roman thus addressed himself: 'How much does the profit yielded to you by this church amount to in a year?' To which the clerk, ignorant of the Roman's cunning, replied, 'To twenty shillings I think;' whereupon the agent demanded the per-centage the pope had just demanded on all ecclesiastical benefices. And to pay that small sum this poor man was compelled to hold schools for many days, and by selling his books in the precincts, to drag on a half-starved life." The parish clerks of London formed a guild, which used to exhibit miracle plays at its annual feast, on the green, in the parish of St. James, Clerkenwell. The parish clerks always took an important part in the conduct of the miracle plays; and it was natural that when they united their forces in such an exhibition on behalf of their guild the result should be an exhibition of unusual excellence. Stow tells us that in 1391 the guild performed before the king and queen and whole court three days successively, and that in 1409 they produced a play of the creation of the world, whose representation occupied eight successive days. The Passion-play, still exhibited every ten years at Ober-Ammergau, has made all the world acquainted with the kind of exhibition in which our forefathers delighted. These miracle-plays still survive also in Spain, and probably in other Roman Catholic countries. Chaucer has not failed to give us, in his wonderful gallery of contemporary characters (in the Miller's Tale), a portrait of the parish clerk:-- "Now was ther of that churche a parish clerk, The which that was ycleped Absolon. Crulle was his here,[273] and as the gold it shon, And strouted as a fanne large and brode; Ful streight and even lay his jolly shode. His rode[274] was red, his eyen grey as goos, With Poules windowes carven on his shoos, In hosen red he went ful fetisly,[275] Yclad he was ful smal and proprely, All in a kirtle of a light waget,[276] Ful faire and thicke ben the pointes set. An' therupon he had a gay surplise, As white as is the blossome upon the rise.[277] A mery child he was, so God me save, Wel coud he leten blod, and clippe, and shave, And make a chartre of lond and a quitance; In twenty manere could he trip and dance, (After the scole of Oxenforde tho) And playen songes on a smal ribible.[278] Therto he song, sometime a loud quinible.[278] And as wel could he play on a giterne. In all the toun n'as brewhouse ne taverne That he ne visited with his solas, Ther as that any galliard tapstere was. This Absolon, that joly was and gay, Goth with a censor on the holy day, Censing the wives of the parish faste,[279] And many a lovely loke he on hem caste. * * * * * Sometime to shew his lightnesse and maistrie, He plaieth Herode on a skaffold hie." CHAPTER III. THE PARISH PRIEST. We shall obtain further help to a comprehension of the character, and position, and popular estimation of the mediæval seculars--the parish priests--if we compare them first with the regulars--the monks and friars--and then with their modern representatives the parochial clergy. One great point of difference between the regulars and the seculars was that the monks and friars affected asceticism, and the parish priests did not. The monks and friars had taken the three vows of absolute poverty, voluntary celibacy, and implicit obedience to the superior of the convent. The parish priests, on the contrary, had their benefices and their private property; they long resisted the obligations of celibacy, which popes and councils tried to lay upon them; they were themselves spiritual rulers in their own parishes, subject only to the constitutional rule of the bishop. The monks professed to shut themselves up from the world, and to mortify their bodily appetites in order the better, as they considered, to work out their own salvation. The friars professed to be the schools of the prophets, to have the spirit of Nazariteship, to be followers of Elijah and John Baptist, to wear sackcloth, and live hardly, and go about as preachers of repentance. The secular clergy had no desire and felt no need to shut themselves up from the world like monks; they did not feel called upon, with the friars, to imitate John Baptist, "neither eating nor drinking," seeing that a greater than he came "eating and drinking" and living the common life of men. They rather looked upon Christian priests and clerks as occupying the place of the priests and Levites of the ancient church, set apart to minister in holy things like them, but not condemned to poverty or asceticism any more than they were. The difference told unfavourably for the parish clergy in the popular estimation; for the unreasoning crowd is always impressed by the dramatic exhibition of austerity of life and the profession of extraordinary sanctity, and undervalues the virtue which is only seen in the godly regulation of a life of ordinary every-day occupations. The lord monks were the aristocratic order of the clergy. Their convents were wealthy and powerful, their minsters and houses were the glory of the land, their officials ranked with the nobles, and the greatness of the whole house reflected dignity upon each of its monks. The friars were the popular order of the clergy. The Four Orders were great organizations of itinerant preachers; powerful through their learning and eloquence, their organization, and the Papal support; cultivating the favour of the people by which they lived by popular eloquence and demagogic arts. Between these two great classes stood the secular clergy, upon whom the practical pastoral work of the country fell. A numerous body, but disorganized; diocesan bishops acting as statesmen, and devolving their ecclesiastical duties on suffragans; rectors refusing to take priests' orders, and living like laymen; the majority of the parishes practically served by parochial chaplains; every gentleman having his own chaplain dependent on his own pleasure; hundreds of priests engaged in secular occupations. Between the secular priests and the friars, as we have seen, pp. 46 _et seq._, there was a direct rivalry and a great deal of bitter feeling. The friars accused the parish priests of neglect of duty and ignorance in spiritual things and worldliness of life, and came into their parishes whenever they pleased, preaching and visiting from house to house, hearing confessions and prescribing penances, and carrying away the offerings of the people. The parish priests looked upon the friars as intruders in their parishes, and accused them of setting their people against them and undermining their spiritual influence; of corrupting discipline, by receiving the confessions of those who were ashamed to confess to their pastor who knew them, and enjoining light penances in order to encourage people to come to them; and lastly, of using all the arts of low popularity-seeking in order to extract gifts and offerings from their people. We have already given one contemporary illustration of this from Chaucer, at p. 46 _ante_. We add one or two extracts from Piers Ploughman's Vision. In one place of his elaborate allegory he introduces Wrath, saying:-- "I am Wrath, quod he, I was sum tyme a frere, And the convent's gardyner for to graff impes[280] On limitoures and listers lesyngs I imped Till they bere leaves of low speech lordes to please And sithen thier blossomed abrode in bower to hear shriftes. And now is fallen therof a fruite, that folk have well liever Shewen her shriftes to hem than shryve hem to ther parsones. And now, parsons have perceyved that freres part with hem, These possessioners preache and deprave freres, And freres find hem in default, as folk beareth witness."--v. 143. And again on the same grievance of the friars gaining the confidence of the people away from their parish priests-- "And well is this y-holde: in parisches of Engelonde, For persones and parish prestes: that shulde the peple shryve, Ben curatoures called: to know and to hele. Alle that ben her parishens: penaunce to enjoine, And shulden be ashamed in her shrifte: an shame maketh hem wende, And fleen to the freres: as fals folke to Westmynstere, That borwith and bereth it thider."[281] When we compare the mediæval seculars with the modern clergy, we find that the modern clergy form a much more homogeneous body. In the mediæval seculars the bishop was often one who had been a monk or friar; the cathedral clergy in many dioceses were regulars. Then, besides the parsons and parochial chaplains, who answer to our incumbents and curates, there were the chantry and gild priests, and priests who "lived at rovers on trentals;" the great number of domestic chaplains must have considerably affected the relations of the parochial clergy to the gentry. Of the inferior ecclesiastical people, deacons, sub-deacons, acolytes, readers, exorcists, and ostiaries it is probable that in an ordinary parish there would be only a parish clerk and a boy-acolyte; in larger churches an ostiary besides, answering to our verger, and in cathedrals a larger staff of minor officials; but it is doubtful whether there was any real working staff of sub-deacons, readers, exorcists, any more than we in these days have a working order of deacons; men passed through those orders on their way upwards to the priesthood, but made no stay in them. But a still greater difference between the mediæval secular clergy and the modern parochial clergy is in their relative position with respect to society generally. The homogeneous body of "the bishops and clergy" are the only representatives of a clergy in the eyes of modern English society; the relative position of the secular clergy in the eyes of the mediæval world was less exclusive and far inferior. The seculars were only one order of the clergy, sharing the title with monks and friars, and they were commonly held as inferior to the one in wealth and learning, and to the other in holiness and zeal. Another difference between the mediæval seculars and the modern clergy is in the superior independence of the latter. The poor parochial chaplain was largely dependent for his means of living on the fees and offerings of his parishioners. The domestic chaplain was only an upper servant. Even the country incumbent, in those feudal days when the lord of the manor was a petty sovereign, was very much under the influence of the local magnate. In some primitive little villages, where the lord of the manor continues to be the sovereign of his village, it is still the fashion for the clergyman not to begin service till the squire comes. The Book of the Knight of La Tour Landry gives two stories which serve to show that the deference of the clergyman to the squire was sometimes carried to very excessive lengths in the old days of which we are writing. "I have herde of a knight and of a lady that in her youthe delited hem to rise late. And so they used longe, tille many tymes that thei lost her masse, and made other of her parisshe to lese it, for the knight was lorde and patron of the chirche, and therfor the priest durst not disobeye hym. And so it happed that on a Sunday the knight sent unto the chirche that thei shulde abide hym. And whane he come, it was passed none, wherfor thir might not that day have no masse, for every man saide it was passed tyme of the day, and therfor thei durst not singe. And so that Sunday the knight, the lady, and alle the parisshe was without masse, of the whiche the pepelle were sori, but thir must needs suffre." And on a night there came a vision to the parson, and the same night the knight and lady dreamed a dream. And the parson came to the knight's house, and he told him his vision, and the priest his, of which they greatly marvelled, for their dreams were like. "And the priest said unto the knight, 'There is hereby in a forest an holy ermyte that canne telle us what this avision menithe.' And than thei yede to hym, and tolde it hym fro point to point, and as it was. And the wise holi man, the which was of blessed lyff, expounded and declared her avision." The other story is of "a ladi that dwelled faste by the chirche, that toke every day so long time to make her redy that it made every Sunday the person of the chirche and the parisshenes to abide after her. And she happed to abide so longe on a Sunday that it was fer dayes, and every man said to other, 'This day we trow shall not this lady be kemed and arraied.'" * * * * * The condition of the parochial clergy being such as we have sketched, it might seem as if the people stood but a poor chance of being Christianly and virtuously brought up. But when we come to inquire into that part of the question the results are unexpectedly satisfactory. The priests in charge of parishes seem, on the whole, to have done their duty better than we should have anticipated; and the people generally had a knowledge of the great truths of religion, greater probably than is now generally possessed--it was taught to them by the eye in sculptures, paintings, stained glass, miracle plays; these religious truths were probably more constantly in their minds and on their lips than is the case now--they occur much more frequently in popular literature; and though the people were rude and coarse and violent and sensual enough, yet it is probable that religion was a greater power among them generally than it is now; there was probably more crime, but less vice; above all, an elevated sanctity in individuals was probably more common in those times than in these. One interesting evidence of the actual mode of pastoral ministrations in those days is the handbooks, which were common enough, teaching the parish priest his duties. The Early English Text Society has lately done us a service by publishing one of these manuals of "Instructions for Parish Priests," which will enable us to give some notes on the subject. "Great numbers," says the editor, "of independent works of this nature were produced in the Middle Ages. There is probably not a language or dialect in Europe that has not now, or had not once, several treatises of this nature among its early literature. The growth of languages, the Reformation, and the alteration in clerical education consequent on that great revolution, have caused a great part of them to perish or become forgotten. A relic of this sort fished up from the forgotten past is very useful to us as a help towards understanding the sort of life our fathers lived. To many it will seem strange that these directions, written without the least thought of hostile criticism, when there was no danger in plain speaking, and no inducements to hide or soften down, should be so free from superstition. We have scarcely any of the nonsense which some people still think made up the greater part of the religion of the Middle Ages, but instead thereof good sound morality, such as it would be pleasant to hear preached at the present day." The book in question is by John Myrk, a canon regular of St. Austin, of Lilleshall, in Shropshire; the beautiful ruins of his monastery may still be seen in the grounds of the Duke of Sutherland's shooting-box at Lilleshall. He tells us that he translated it from a Latin book called "Pars Oculi." It is worthy of note that a former prior of Lilleshall, Johannes Miræus, had written a work on the same subject, called "Manuale Sacerdotis," to which John Myrk's bears much resemblance, both in subject and treatment. The editor's sketch of the argument of the "Instructions to Parish Priests" will help us to give a sufficient idea of its contents for our present purpose. The author begins by telling the parish priest what sort of man he himself should be. Not ignorant, because "Whenne the blynde ledeth the blynde Into the dyche they fallen both." He must himself be an example to his people:-- "What thee nedeth hem to teche And whyche thou muste thy self be, For lytel is worth thy prechynge If thou be of evyle lyvynge." He must be chaste, eschew lies and oaths, drunkenness, gluttony, pride, sloth, and envy. Must keep from taverns, trading, wrestling, and shooting, and the like manly sports; from hunting, hawking, and dancing. Must not wear cutted clothes or pyked shoes, or dagger, but wear becoming clothes, and shave his crown and beard. Must be given to hospitality, both to poor and rich, read his psalter, and remember doomsday; return good for evil, eschew jesting and ribaldry, despise the world, and follow after virtue. The priest must not be content with knowing his own duties. He must be prepared to teach those under his charge all that Christian men and women should do and believe. We are told that when any one has done a sin he must not continue long with it on his conscience, but go straight to the priest and confess it, lest he should forget before the great shriving time at Eastertide. Pregnant women, especially, are to go to their shrift, and receive the Holy Communion at once. Our instructor is very strict on the duties of midwives--women they were really in those days, and properly licensed to their office by the ecclesiastical authorities. They are on no account to permit children to die unbaptized. If there be no priest at hand, they are to administer that sacrament themselves if they see danger of death. They must be especially careful to use the right form of words, such as our Lord taught; but it does not matter whether they say them in Latin or English, or whether the Latin be good or bad, so that the intention be to use the proper words. The water, and the vessel that contained it, are not to be again employed in domestic use, but to be burned or carried to the church and cast into the font. If no one else be at hand, the parents themselves may baptize their children. All infants are to be christened at Easter and Whitsuntide in the newly-blessed fonts, if there have not been necessity to administer the Sacrament before. Godparents are to be careful to teach their godchildren the _Pater Noster_, _Ave Maria_, and _Credo_; and are not to be sponsors to their godchildren at their Confirmation, for they have already contracted a spiritual relationship. Before weddings banns are to be asked on three holidays, and all persons who contract irregular marriages, and the priests, clerks, and others that help thereat, are cursed for the same. The real presence of the body and blood of our Saviour in the Sacrament of the Altar is to be fully held; but the people are to bear in mind that the wine and water given them after they have received Communion is not a part of the Sacrament. It is an important thing to behave reverently in church, for the church is God's house, not a place for idle prattle. When people go there they are not to jest, or loll against the pillars and walls, but kneel down on the floor and pray to their Lord for mercy and grace. When the Gospel is read they are to stand up, and sign themselves with the cross; and when they hear the Sanctus bell ring, they are to kneel and worship their Maker in the Blessed Sacrament. All men are to show reverence when they see the priest carrying the Host to the sick. He is to teach them the "Our Father," and "Hail, Mary," and "I believe," of which metrical versions are given, with a short exposition of the Creed. The author gives some very interesting instructions about churchyards, which show that they were sometimes treated with shameful irreverence. It was not for want of good instructions that our ancestors, in the days of the Plantagenets, played at rustic games, and that the gentry held their manorial courts, over the sleeping-places of the dead. Of witchcraft we hear surprisingly little. Myrk's words are such that one might almost think he had some sceptical doubts on the subject. Not so with usury: the taking interest for money, or lending anything to get profit thereby, is, we are shown, "a synne full grevus." After these and several more general instructions of a similar character, the author gives a very good commentary on the Creed, the Sacraments, the Commandments, and the deadly sins. The little tract ends with a few words of instruction to priests as to the "manner of saying mass, and of giving Holy Communion to the sick." On several subjects the author gives very detailed instructions and advice as to the best way of dealing with people, and his counsels are so right and sensible, that they might well be read now, not out of mere curiosity, but for profit. Here is his conclusion, as a specimen of the English and versification:-- "Hyt ys I-made hem[282] to schonne That have no bokes of here[283] owne, And other that beth of mene lore That wolde fayn conne[284] more, And those that here-in learnest most, Thonke yerne the Holy Gost, That geveth wyt to eche mon To do the gode that he con, And by hys travayle and hys dede Geveth hym heven to hys mede; The mede and the joye of heven lyht God us graunte for hys myht. Amen." That these instructions were not thrown away upon the mediæval parish priests we may infer from Chaucer's beautiful description of the poor parson of a town, who was one of his immortal band of Canterbury Pilgrims, which we here give as a fitting conclusion of this first part of our subject:-- "A good man there was of religioun, That was a poure persone of a toun; But riche he was of holy thought and werk. He was also a lerned man, a clerk, That Criste's gospel trewely wolde preche, His parishens devoutly wolde he teche. Benigne he was and wonder diligent, And in adversite ful patient; And such he was yproved often sithes. Full loth were he to cursen for his tithes, But rather wolde he given out of doubte Unto his poure parishens about, Of his offering and eke of his substance. He could in litel thing have suffisance. Wide was his parish, and houses fer asunder, But he ne left nought for no rain ne thunder, In sikenesse and in mischief to visite The farthest in his parish much and lite,[285] Upon his fete, and in his hand a staff. This noble ensample to his sheep he gaf[286] That first he wrought, and afterward he taught. Out of the gospel he the wordes caught, And this figure he added yet thereto, That if gold rusté what should iren do? For if a priest be foul, on whom we trust, No wonder is a léwéd man to rust; Well ought a preest ensample for to give, By his clenenesse how his shepe shulde live. He sette not his benefice to hire, And lefte his sheep accumbered in the mire, And ran unto London, unto Seint Poules, To seeken him a chanterie for souls, Or with a brotherhede to be withold, But dwelt at home and kepté well his fold. He was a shepherd and no mercenare; And though he holy were and vertuous, He was to sinful men not despitous,[287] Ne of his speché dangerous ne digne,[288] But in his teaching discrete and benigne. To drawen folk to heaven with fairénesse, By good ensample was his businesse. But it were any persone obstinat, What so he were of highe or low estate, Him wolde he snibben[289] sharply for the nones, A better preest I trow that nowhere none is. He waited after no pomp ne reverence, Ne maked him no spiced[290] conscience, But Christés lore, and his apostles twelve, He taught, but first he followed it himselve." Thus, monk, and friar, and hermit, and recluse, and rector, and chantry priest, played their several parts in mediæval society, until the Reformation came and swept away the religious orders and their houses, the chantry priests and their superstitions, and the colleges of seculars, with all their good and evil, and left only the parish churches and the parish priests remaining, stripped of half their tithe, and insufficient in number, in learning, and in social _status_ to fulfil the office of the ministry of God among the people. Since then, for three centuries the people have multiplied, and the insufficiency of the ministry has been proportionately aggravated. It has been left to our day to complete the work of the Reformation by multiplying bishops and priests, and creating an order of deacons, re-distributing the ancient revenues and supplying what more is needed, and by effecting a general reorganization of the ecclesiastical establishment to adapt it to the actual spiritual needs of the people. CHAPTER IV. CLERICAL COSTUME. We proceed to give some notes on the costume of the secular clergy; first the official costume which they wore when performing the public functions of their order, and next the ordinary costume in which they walked about their parishes and took part in the daily affairs of the mediæval society of which they formed so large and important a part. The first branch of this subject is one of considerable magnitude; it can hardly be altogether omitted in such a series of papers as this, but our limited space requires that we should deal with it as briefly as may be. Representations of the pope occur not infrequently in ancient paintings. His costume is that of an archbishop, only that instead of the usual mitre he wears a conical tiara. In later times a cross with three crossbars has been used by artists as a symbol of the pope, with two crossbars of a patriarch, and with one crossbar of an archbishop; but Dr. Rock assures us that the pope never had a pastoral staff of this shape, but of one crossbar only; that patriarchs of the Eastern Church used the cross of two bars, but never those of the Western Church; and that the example of Thomas-à-Becket with a cross of two bars, in Queen Mary's Psalter (Royal, 2 B. vii.) is a unique example (and possibly an error of the artist's). A representation of Pope Leo III. from a contemporary picture is engraved in the "Annales Archæologique," vol. viii. p. 257; another very complete and clear representation of the pontifical costume of the time of Innocent III. is engraved by Dr. Rock ("Church of our Fathers," p. 467) from a fresco painting at Subiaco, near Rome. Another representation, of late thirteenth-century date, is given in the famous MS. called the "Psalter of Queen Mary," in the British Museum (Royal, 2 B. vii.); there the pope is in nothing more than ordinary episcopal costume--alb, tunic, chasuble, without the pall--and holds his cross-staff of only one bar in his right hand, and his canonical tiara has one crown round the base. Beside him stands a bishop in the same costume, except that he wears the mitre and holds a crook. A good fourteenth-century representation of a pope and cardinals is in the MS. August. V. f. 459. We give a woodcut of the fifteenth century, from a MS. life of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, in the British Museum (Julius E. iv. f. 207); the subject is the presentation of the pilgrim earl to the pope, and it enables us to bring into one view the costumes of pope, cardinal, and bishop. A later picture of considerable artistic merit may be found in Hans Burgmair's "Der Weise König," where the pope, officiating at a royal marriage, is habited in a chasuble, and has the three crowns on his tiara. [Illustration: _Pope, Cardinal, and Bishop._] The cardinalate is not an ecclesiastical "order." Originally the name was applied to the priests of the chief churches of Rome, who formed the chapter of the Bishop of Rome. In later times they were the princes of the papal sovereignty, and the dignity was conferred not only upon the highest order of the hierarchy, but upon priests, deacons,[291] and even upon men who had only taken minor orders to qualify themselves for holding office in the papal kingdom. The red hat, which became their distinctive symbol, is said to have been given them first by Innocent VI. at the Council of Lyons in 1245; and De Curbio says they first wore it in 1246, at the interview between the pope and Louis IX. of France. A representation of it may be seen in the MS. Royal, 16 G. vi., which is engraved in the "Pictorial History of England," vol. i. 869. Another very clear and good representation of the costume of a cardinal is in the plate in Hans Burgmair's "Der Weise König," already mentioned; a group of them is on the right side of the drawing, each with a fur-lined hood on his head, and his hat over the hood. It is not the hat which is peculiar to cardinals, but the colour of it, and the number of its tassels. Other ecclesiastics wore the hat of the same shape, but only a cardinal wears it of scarlet. Moreover, a priest wore only one tassel to each string, a bishop three, a cardinal seven. It was not the hat only which was scarlet. Wolsey, we read, was in the habit of dressing entirely in scarlet for his ordinary costume. In the Decretals of Pope Gregory, Royal, 10 E. iv. f. 3 v., are representations of cardinals in red gown and hood and hat. On the following page they are represented, in _pontificalibus_. The archbishop wore the habit of a bishop, his differences being in the crosier and pall.[292] His crozier had a cross head instead of a curved head like the bishop's. Over the chasuble he wore the pall, which was a flat circular band, or collar, placed loosely round the shoulders, with long ends hanging down behind and before, made of lambs' wool, and marked with a number of crosses. Dr. Rock has engraved[293] two remarkably interesting early representations of archbishops of Ravenna, in which a very early form of the pontifical garments is given, viz., the sandals, alb, stole, tunic, chasuble, pall, and tonsure. They are not represented with either mitre or staff. Other representations of archbishops may be found of the eleventh century in the Bayeux tapestry, and of the thirteenth in the Royal MS., 2 B. vii. In the Froissart MS., Harl. 4,380, at f. 170, is a fifteenth-century representation of the Archbishop of Canterbury in ordinary dress--a lavender-coloured gown and red liripipe. The bishop wore the same habit as the priest, with the addition of sandals, gloves, a ring, the pastoral staff with a curved head, and the mitre. The chasuble was only worn when celebrating the Holy Communion; on any other ceremonial occasion the cope was worn, _e.g._, when in choir, as in the woodcut on p. 197: or when preaching, as in a picture in the Harl. MS. 1319, engraved in the "Pictorial History of England," vol. i. 806; or when attending parliament. In illuminated MSS. bishops are very commonly represented dressed in alb and cope only, and this seems to have been their most usual habit. If the bishop were a monk or friar he wore the cope over the robe proper to his order. We might multiply indefinitely references to representations of bishops and other ecclesiastics in the illuminated MS. We will content ourselves with one reference to a beautifully drawn figure in the psalter of the close of the 14th century (Harl. 2,897, f. 380). In the early fourteenth-century MS. (Royal, 14 E. iii. at ff. 16 and 25), we find two representations of a bishop in what we may suppose was his ordinary unofficial costume; he wears a blue-grey robe and hood with empty falling sleeves, through which appear the blue sleeves of his under robe; it is the ordinary civil and clerical costume of the period, but he is marked out as a bishop by a white mitre. In the Pontifical of the middle of the fifteenth century, already referred to (Egerton, 1067) at f. 186 in the representation of the ceremony of the feet-washing, the bishop in a long black sleeveless robe[294] over a white alb, and a biretta. The earliest form of the mitre was that of a simple cap, like a skull-cap, of which there is a representation, giving in many respects a clear and elaborate picture of the episcopal robes, in a woodcut of St. Dunstan in the MS. Cotton, Claudius A. iii.[295] In this early shape it has already the infulæ--two narrow bands hanging down behind. In the twelfth century it is in the form of a large cap, with a depression in the middle, which produces two blunt horns at the sides. There is a good representation of this in the MS. Cotton, Nero C. iv. f. 34, which has been engraved by Strutt, Shaw, and Dr. Rock. In the Harl. MS. 5,102, f. 17, is a picture of the entombment of an archbishop, in which is well shown the transition shape of the mitre from the twelfth century, already described, to the cleft and pointed shape which was used in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. The depression is here deepened into a partial cleft, and the mitre is put on so that the horns come before and behind, instead of at the sides, but the horns are still blunt and rounded. The archbishop's gloves in this picture are white, like the mitre, and in shape are like mittens, _i.e._, not divided into fingers. The shape in the thirteenth and fourteenth century presented a stiff low triangle in front and behind, with a gap between them. It is well shown in a MS. of the close of the twelfth century, Harl. 2,800, f. 6, and, in a shape a little further developed, in the pictures in the Royal MS., 2 B. vii., already noticed. In the fifteenth century the mitre began to be made taller, and with curved sides, as seen in the beautiful woodcut of a bishop and his canons in choir given in our last chapter, p. 197. The latest example in the English Church is in the brass of Archbishop Harsnett, in Chigwell Church, in which also occur the latest examples of the alb, stole, dalmatic, and cope. The pastoral staff also varied in shape at different times. The earliest examples of it are in the representations of St. Mark and St. Luke,[296] in the "Gospels of MacDurnan," in the Lambeth Library, a work of the middle of the ninth century. St. Luke's staff is short, St. Mark's longer than himself; in both cases the staff terminates with a plain, slightly reflexed curve of about three-fourths of a circle. Some actual examples of the metal heads of these Celtic pastoral staves remain; one is engraved in the "Archæologia Scotica," vol. ii., another is in the British Museum; that of the abbots of Clonmacnoise, and that of the ancient bishops of Waterford, are in the possession of the Duke of Devonshire. They were all brought together in 1863 in the Loan Exhibition at South Kensington. One of the earliest English representations of the staff is in the picture of the consecration of a church, in a MS. of the ninth century, in the Rouen Library, engraved in the "Archæologia," vol xxv. p. 17, in the "Pictorial History of England," and by Dr. Rock, ii. p. 24. Here the staff is about the length of an ordinary walking-stick, and is terminated by a round knob. Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, is represented on his great seal with a short staff, with a tau-cross or crutch head. An actually existing staff of this shape, which belonged to Gerard, Bishop of Limoges, who died in 1022, is engraved in the "Annales Archæologique," vol. x. p. 176. The staves represented in illuminations of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries have usually a plain spiral curve of rather more than a circle;[297] in later times they were ornamented with foliage, and sometimes with statuettes, and were enamelled and jewelled. Numerous representations and actual examples exist; some may be seen in the South Kensington Museum. From early in the fourteenth century downward, a napkin of linen or silk is often found attached by one corner to the head of the staff, whose origin and meaning seem to be undetermined. The official costume of the remaining orders, together with the symbols significant of their several offices, are well brought out in the degradation of W. Sawtre, already given at p. 214. Some of the vestments there mentioned may need a few words of explanation. The alb was a kind of long coat with close fitting sleeves made of white[298] linen, and usually, at least during the celebration of divine service, ornamented with four to six square pieces of cloth of gold, or other rich stuff, or of goldsmith's work, which were placed on the skirt before and behind, on the wrist of each sleeve, and on the back and breast. The dalmatic of the deacon was a kind of tunic, reaching generally a little below the knees, and slit some way up the sides, and with short, broad sleeves; it was usually ornamented with a broad hem, which passed round the side slits. The sub-deacon's tunicle was like the dalmatic, but rather shorter, and less ornamented. The cope was a kind of cloak, usually of rich material, fastened across the chest by a large brooch; it was worn by priests in choir and in processions, and on other occasions of state and ceremony. The chasuble was the Eucharistic vestment; originally it was a circle of rich cloth with a slit in the middle, through which the head was passed, and then it fell in ample folds all round the figure. Gradually it was made oval in shape, continually decreasing in width, so as to leave less of the garment to encumber the arms. In its modern shape it consists of two stiff rectangular pieces of cloth, one piece falling before, the other behind, and fastened together at the shoulders of the wearer. The ancient inventories of cathedrals, abbeys, and churches show us that the cope and chasuble were made in every colour, of every rich material, and sometimes embroidered and jewelled. Indeed, all the official robes of the clergy were of the costliest material and most beautiful workmanship which could be obtained. England was celebrated for its skill in the arts employed in their production, and an anecdote of the time of Henry III. shows us that the English ecclesiastical vestments excited admiration and cupidity even at Rome. Their richness had nothing to do with personal pride or luxury on the part of the priests. They were not the property of the clergy, but were generally presented to the churches, to which they belonged in perpetuity; and they were made thus costly on the principle of honouring the divine worship. As men gave their costliest material and noblest Art for the erection of the place in which it was offered, so also for the appliances used in its ministration, and the robes of the ministrants. In full sacerdotal habit the priests wore the apparelled alb, and stole, and over that the dalmatic, and either the cope or the chasuble over all, with the amys thrown back like a hood over the cope or chasuble. Representations of priests _in pontificalibus_ abound in illuminated MSS., and in their monumental effigies, to such an extent that we need hardly quote any particular examples. Representations of the inferior orders are comparatively rare. Examples of deacons may be found engraved in Dr. Rock's "Church of our Fathers," i. 376, 378, 379, 443, and 444. Two others of early fourteenth-century date may be found in the Add. MS. 10,294, f. 72, one wearing a dalmatic of cloth of gold, the other of scarlet, over the alb. Two others of the latter part of the fourteenth century are seen in King Richard II.'s Book of Hours (Dom. A. xvii. f. 176), one in blue dalmatic embroidered with gold, the other red embroidered with gold. A monumental effigy of a deacon under a mural arch at Avon Dassett, Warwickshire, was referred to by Mr. M. H. Bloxam, in a recent lecture at the Architectural Museum, South Kensington. The effigy, which is of the thirteenth century, is in alb, stole, and dalmatic. We are indebted to Mr. Bloxam for a note of another mutilated effigy of a deacon of the fourteenth century among the ruins of Furness Abbey; he is habited in the alb only, with a girdle round the middle, whose tasselled knobs hang down in front. The stole is passed across the body from the left shoulder, and is fastened together at the right hip. Dr. Rock, vol. i. p. 384, engraves a very good representation of a ninth-century sub-deacon in his tunicle, holding a pitcher in one hand and an empty chalice in the other; and in vol. ii. p. 89, an acolyte, in what seems to be a surplice, with a scarlet hood--part of his ordinary costume--over it, the date of the drawing being _cir._ 1395 A.D. We have already noted the costume of an ostiary at p. 215. In the illuminations we frequently find an inferior minister attending upon a priest when engaged in his office, but in many cases it is difficult to determine whether he is deacon, sub-deacon, or acolyte, _e.g._--in the early fourteenth-century MS., Add. 10,294, at f. 72, is a priest officiating at a funeral, attended by a minister, who is habited in a pink under robe--his ordinary dress--and over it a short white garment with wide loose sleeves, which may be either a deacon's dalmatic, or a sub-deacon's tunic, or an acolyte's surplice. In the Add. MS. 10,293, at f. 154, is a representation of a priest celebrating mass in a hermitage, with a minister kneeling behind him, habited in a white alb only, holding a lighted taper. Again, in the MS. Royal, 14 E. iii. f. 86, is a picture of a prior dressed like some of the canons in our woodcut from Richard II.'s Book of Hours, in a blue under robe, white surplice, and red stole crossed over the breast, and his furred hood on his head; he is baptizing a heathen king, and an attendant minister, who is dressed in the ordinary secular habit of the time, stands beside, holding the chrismatory. In the same history of Richard Earl of Warwick which we have already quoted, there is at f. 213 v., a boy in a short surplice with a censer. In the early fourteenth-century MS., Royal, 14 E. iii. at f. 84 v., is a picture of a bishop anointing a king; an attendant minister, who carries a holy water vessel and aspersoir, is dressed in a surplice over a pink tunic. The surplice is found in almost as many and as different shapes in the Middle Ages as now; sometimes with narrow sleeves and tight up to the neck; sometimes with shorter and wider sleeves and falling low at the neck; sometimes longer and sometimes shorter in the skirt; never, however, so long as altogether to hide the cassock beneath. In addition to the references already given, it may be sufficient to name as further authorities for ecclesiastical costumes generally:--for Saxon times, the Benedictional of St. Ethelwold, engraved in the Archæologia; for the thirteenth century, Queen Mary's Psalter, Royal, 2 B. vii.; for the fourteenth, Royal, 20, c. vii.; for the fifteenth century, Lydgate's "Life of St. Edmund;" for the sixteenth century, Hans Burgmaier's "Der Weise König," and the various works on sepulchral monuments and monumental brasses. [Illustration: _Coronation Procession of Charles V. of France._] The accompanying woodcut from Col. Johnes's Froissart, vol. i. p. 635, representing the coronation procession of Charles V. of France, will help us to exhibit some of the orders of the clergy with their proper costume and symbols. First goes the aquabajalus, in alb, sprinkling holy water; then a cross-bearer in cassock and surplice; then two priests, in cassock, surplice, and cope; then follows a canon in his cap (biretta), with his furred amys over his arm.[299] * * * * * But the clergy wore these robes only when actually engaged in some official act. What was their ordinary costume is generally little known, and it is a part of the subject in which we are especially interested in these papers. From the earliest times of the English Church downwards it was considered by the rulers of the Church that clergymen ought to be distinguished from laymen not only by the tonsure, but also by their dress. We do not find that any uniform habit was prescribed to them, such as distinguished the regular orders of monks and friars from the laity, and from one another; but we gather from the canons of synods, and the injunctions of bishops, that the clergy were expected to wear their clothes not too gay in colour, and not too fashionably cut; that they were to abstain from wearing ornaments or carrying arms; and that their horse furniture was to be in the same severe style. We also gather from the frequent repetition of canons on the subject, and the growing earnestness of their tone, that these injunctions were very generally disregarded. We need not take the reader through the whole series of authorities which may be found in the various collections of councils; a single quotation from the injunctions of John (Stratford) Archbishop of Canterbury, A.D. 1342, will suffice to give us a comprehensive sketch of the general contents of the whole series. "The external costume often shows the internal character and condition of persons; and though the behaviour of clerks ought to be an example and pattern of the laity, yet the abuse of clerks, which has gained ground more than usually in these days in tonsures, in garments, in horse trappings, and other things, has now generated an abominable scandal among the people, while persons holding ecclesiastical dignities, rectories, honourable prebends, and benefices with cure of souls, even when ordained to holy orders, scorn to wear the crown (which is the token of the heavenly kingdom and of perfection), and, using the distinction of hair extended almost to the shoulders like effeminate persons, walk about clothed in a military rather than a clerical outer habit, viz., short, or notably scant, and with excessively wide sleeves, which do not cover the elbows, but hang down, lined, or, as they say, turned up with fur or silk, and hoods with tippets of wonderful length, and with long beards; and rashly dare, contrary to the canonical sanctions, to use rings indifferently on their fingers; and to be girt with zones, studded with precious stones of wonderful size, with purses engraved with various figures, enamelled and gilt, and attached to them (_i.e._ to the girdle), with knives, hanging after the fashion of swords, also with buskins red and even checked, green shoes and peaked and cut[300] in many ways, with cruppers (_croperiis_) to their saddles, and horns hanging to their necks, capes and cloaks furred openly at the edges to such an extent, that little or no distinction appears of clerks from laymen, whereby they render themselves, through their demerits, unworthy of the privilege of their order and profession. "We therefore, wishing henceforward to prevent such errors, &c., command and ordain, that whoever obtain ecclesiastical benefices in our province, especially if ordained to holy orders, wear clerical garments and tonsure suitable to their status; but if any clerks of our province go publicly in an outer garment short, or notably scant, or in one with long or excessively wide sleeves, not touching the elbow round about, but hanging, with untonsured hair and long beard, or publicly wear their rings on their fingers, &c., if, on admonition, they do not reform within six months, they shall be suspended, and shall only be absolved by their diocesan, and then only on condition that they pay one-fifth of a year's income to the poor of the place through the diocesan," &c., &c. The authorities tried to get these canons observed. Grostête sent back a curate who came to him for ordination "dressed in rings and scarlet like a courtier."[301] Some of the vicars of York Cathedral[302] were presented in 1362 A.D. for being in the habit of going through the city in short tunics, ornamentally trimmed, with knives and baselards[303] hanging at their girdles. But the evidence before us seems to prove that it was not only the acolyte-rectors, and worldly-minded clerics, who indulged in such fashions, but that the secular clergy generally resisted these endeavours to impose upon them anything approaching to a regular habit like those worn by the monks and friars, and persisted in refusing to wear sad colours, or to cut their coats differently from other people, or to abstain from wearing a gold ring or an ornamented girdle. In the drawings of the secular clergy in the illuminated MSS., we constantly find them in the ordinary civil costume. Even in representations of the different orders and ranks of the secular clergy drawn by friendly hands, and intended to represent them _comme il faut_, we find them dressed in violation of the canons. We have already had occasion to notice a bishop in a blue-grey gown and hood, over a blue under-robe; and a prior performing a royal baptism, and canons performing service under the presidency of their bishop, with the blue and red robes of every-day life under their ritual surplices. The MSS. furnish us with an abundance of other examples, _e.g._--In the early fourteenth-century MS., Add. 10,293, at f. 131 v., is a picture showing "how the priests read before the barony the letter which the false queen sent to Arthur." One of the persons thus described as priests has a blue gown and hood and black shoes, the other a claret-coloured gown and hood and red shoes. [Illustration: _Dns. Ricardus de Threton, Sacerdos._] But our best examples are those in the book (Cott. Nero D. vii.) before quoted, in which the grateful monks of St. Alban's have recorded the names and good deeds of those who had presented gifts or done services to the convent. In many cases the scribe has given us a portrait of the benefactor in the margin of the record; and these portraits supply us with an authentic gallery of typical portraits of the various orders of society of the time at which they were executed. From these we have taken the three examples we here present to the reader. On f. 100 v. is a portrait of one Lawrence, a clerk, who is dressed in a brown robe; another clerk, William by name, is in a scarlet robe and hood; on f. 93 v., Leofric, a deacon, is in a blue robe and hood. The accompanying woodcut, from folio 105, is Dns. Ricardus de Threton, sacerdos,--Sir Richard de Threton, priest,--who was executor of Sir Robert de Thorp, knight, formerly chancellor of the king, and who gave twenty marks to the convent. Our woodcut gives only the outlines of the full-length portrait. In the original the robe and hood are of full bright blue, lined with white; the under sleeves, which appear at the wrists, are of the same colour; and the shoes are red. At f. 106 v. is Dns. Bartholomeus de Wendone, rector of the church of Thakreston, and the character of the face leads us to think that it may have been intended for a portrait. His robe and hood and sleeves are scarlet, with black shoes. Another rector, Dns. Johannes Rodland (at f. 105), rector of the church of Todyngton, has a green robe and scarlet hood. Still another rector, of the church of Little Waltham, is represented half-length in pink gown and purple hood. On f. 108 v. is the full-length portrait which is here represented. It is of Dns. Rogerus, chaplain of the chapel of the Earl of Warwick, at Flamsted. Over a scarlet gown, of the same fashion as those in the preceding pictures, is a pink cloak lined with blue; the hood is scarlet, of the same suit as the gown; the buttons at the shoulder of the cloak are white, the shoes red. It will be seen also that all three of these clergymen wear the moustache and beard. [Illustration: _Dns. Barth. de Wendone, Rector._] [Illustration: _Dns. Rogerus, Capellanus._] Dominus Robertus de Walsham, precentor of Sarum (f. 100 v.), is in his choir habit, a white surplice, and over it a fur amys fastened at the throat with a brooch. Dns. Robertus de Hereforde, Dean of Sarum (f. 101), has a lilac robe and hood fastened by a gold brooch. There is another dean, Magister Johnnes Appleby, Dean of St. Paul's, at f. 105, whose costume is not very distinctly drawn. It may be necessary to assure some of our readers, that the colours here described were not given at the caprice of a limner wishing to make his page look gay. The portraits were perhaps imaginary, but the personages are habited in the costume proper to their rank and order. The series of Benedictine abbots and monks in the same book are in black robes; other monks introduced are in the proper habit of their order; a king in his royal robes; a knight sometimes in armour, sometimes in the civil costume of his rank, with a sword by his side, and a chaplet round his flowing hair; a lady in the fashionable dress of the time; a burgher in his proper habit, with his hair cut short. And so the clergy are represented in the dress which they usually wore; and, for our purpose, the pictures are more valuable than if they were actual portraits of individual peculiarities of costume, because we are the more sure that they give us the usual and recognised costume of the several characters. Indeed, it is a rule, which has very rare exceptions, that the mediæval illuminators represented contemporary subjects with scrupulous accuracy. We give another representation from the picture of John Ball, the priest who was concerned in Wat Tyler's rebellion, taken from a MS. of Froissart's Chronicle, in the Bibliothèque Impériale at Paris. The whole picture is interesting; the background is a church, in whose churchyard are three tall crosses. Ball is preaching from the pulpit of his saddle to the crowd of insurgents who occupy the left side of the picture. In the Froissart MS. Harl. 4,380, at f. 20, is a picture of _un vaillant homme et clerque nommé Maistre Johan Warennes_, preaching against Pope Boniface; he is in a pulpit panelled in green and gold, with a pall hung over the front, and the people sit on benches before him; he is habited in a blue robe and hood lined with white. [Illustration: _John Ball, Priest._] The author of Piers Ploughman, carping at the clergy in the latter half of the fourteenth century, says it would be better "If many a priest bare for their baselards and their brooches, A pair of beads in their hand, and a book under their arm. Sire[304] John and Sire Geffrey hath a girdle of silver, A baselard and a knife, with botons overgilt." A little later, he speaks of proud priests habited in patlocks,--a short jacket worn by laymen,--with peaked shoes and large knives or daggers. And in the poems of John Audelay, in the fifteenth century, a parish priest is described in "His girdle harnesched with silver, his baselard hangs by." In the wills of the clergy they themselves describe their "togas" of gay colours, trimmed with various furs, and their ornamented girdles and purses, and make no secret of the objectionable knives and baselards. In the Bury St. Edmunds Wills, Adam de Stanton, a chaplain, A.D. 1370, bequeaths one girdle, with purse and knife, valued at 5_s._--a rather large sum of money in those days. In the York wills, John Wynd-hill, Rector of Arnecliffe, A.D. 1431, bequeaths a pair of amber beads, such as Piers Ploughman says a priest ought "to bear in his hand, and a book under his arm;" and, curiously enough, in the next sentence he leaves "an English book of Piers Ploughman;" but he does not seem to have been much influenced by the popular poet's invectives, for he goes on to bequeath two green gowns and one of murrey and one of sanguine colour, besides two of black, all trimmed with various furs; also, one girdle of sanguine silk, ornamented with silver, and gilded, and another zone of green and white, ornamented with silver and gilded; and he also leaves behind him--_proh pudor_--his best silver girdle, and a baselard with ivory and silver handle. John Gilby, Rector of Knesale, 1434-5, leaves a red toga, furred with byce, a black zone of silk with gilt bars, and a zone ornamented with silver. J. Bagule, Rector of All Saints, York, A.D. 1438, leaves a little baselard, with a zone harnessed with silver, to Sir T. Astell, a chaplain. W. Duffield, a chantry priest at York, A.D. 1443, leaves a black zone silvered, a purse called a "gypsire," and a white purse of "Burdeux." W. Siverd, chaplain, leaves to H. Hobshot a hawk-bag; and to W. Day, parochial chaplain of Calton, a pair of hawk-bag rings; and to J. Sarle, chaplain, "my ruby zone, silvered, and my toga, furred with 'bevers;'" and to the wife of J. Bridlington, "a ruby purse of satin." R. Rolleston, provost of the church of Beverley, A.D. 1450, leaves a "toga lunata" with a red hood, a toga and hood of violet, a long toga and hood of black, trimmed with martrons, and a toga and hood of violet. J. Clyft, chaplain, A.D. 1455, leaves a zone of silk, ornamented with silver. J. Tidman, chaplain, A.D. 1458, a toga of violet and one of meld. C. Lassels, chaplain, A.D. 1461, a green toga and a white zone, silvered. T. Horneby, rector of Stokesley, A.D. 1464, a red toga and hood; and, among the Richmondshire Wills, we find that of Sir Henry Halled, Lady-priest of the parish of Kirby-in-Kendal, in 1542 A.D. (four years before the suppression of the chantries), who leaves a short gown and a long gown, whose colour is not specified, but was probably black, which seems by this time to have been the most usual clerical wear. The accompanying woodcut will admirably illustrate the ornamented girdle, purse, and knife, of which we have been reading. It is from a MS. of Chaucer's poem of the Romaunt of the Rose (Harl. 4,425, f. 143), and represents a priest confessing a lady in a church. The characters in the scene are, like the poem, allegorical; the priest is Genius, and the lady is Dame Nature; but it is not the less an accurate picture of a confessional scene of the latter part of the fourteenth century. The priest is habited in a robe of purple, with a black cap and a black liripipe attached to it, brought over the shoulder to the front, and falling over the arm. The tab, peeping from beneath the cap above the ear, is red; the girdle, purse, and knife, are, in the original illumination, very clearly represented. In another picture of the same person, at f. 106, the black girdle is represented as ornamented with little circles of gold. [Illustration: _A Priest Confessing a Lady._] Many of these clergymen had one black toga with hood _en suite_--not for constant use in divine service, for, as we have already seen, they are generally represented in the illuminations with coloured "togas" under their surplices,--but perhaps, for wear on mourning occasions. Thus, in the presentations of York Cathedral, A.D. 1519, "We thynke it were convenient that whene we fetche a corse to the churche, that we shulde be in our blak abbettes [habits] mornyngly, w{t} our hodes of the same of our hedes, as is used in many other places."[305] At the time of the Reformation, when the English clergy abandoned the mediæval official robes, they also desisted from wearing the tonsure, which had for many centuries been the distinguishing mark of a cleric, and they seem generally to have adopted the academical dress, for the model both of their official and their ordinary dress. The Puritan clergy adopted a costume which differed little, if at all, from that of the laity of the same school. But it is curious that this question of clerical dress continued to be one of complaint on one side, and resistance on the other, down to the end of our ecclesiastical legislation. The 74th canon of 1603 is as rhetorical in form, and as querulous in tone, and as minute in its description of the way in which ecclesiastical persons should, and the way in which they should not, dress, as is the Injunction of 1342, which we have already quoted. "The true, ancient, and flourishing churches of Christ, being ever desirous that their prelacy and clergy might be had as well in outward reverence, as otherwise regarded for the worthiness of their ministry, did think it fit, by a prescript form of decent and comely apparel, to have them known to the people, and thereby to receive the honour and estimation due to the special messengers and ministers of Almighty God: we, therefore, following their grave judgment and the ancient custom of the Church of England, and hoping that in time new fangleness of apparel in some factious persons will die of itself, do constitute and appoint, that the archbishops and bishops shall not intermit to use the accustomed apparel of their degree. Likewise, all deans, masters of colleges, archdeacons, and prebendaries, in cathedrals and collegiate churches (being priests or deacons), doctors in divinity, law, and physic, bachelors in divinity, masters of arts, and bachelors of law, having any ecclesiastical living, shall wear gowns with standing collars, and sleeves straight at the hands, or wide sleeves, as is used in the universities, with hoods or tippets of silk or sarcenet, and square caps; and that all other ministers admitted, or to be admitted, into that function, shall also usually wear the like apparel as is aforesaid, except tippets only. We do further in like manner ordain, that all the said ecclesiastical persons above mentioned shall usually wear on their journeys cloaks with sleeves, commonly called Priests' Cloaks, without guards, welts, long buttons, or cuts. And no ecclesiastical person shall wear any coif, or wrought night-cap, but only plain night caps of black silk, satin, or velvet. In all which particulars concerning the apparel here prescribed, our meaning is not to attribute any holiness or special worthiness to the said garments, but for decency, gravity, and order, as is before specified. In private houses and in their studies the said persons ecclesiastical may use any comely and scholarlike apparel, provided that it be not cut or pinkt; and that in public they go not in their doublet and hose without coats or cassocks; and that they wear not any light-coloured stockings. Likewise, poor beneficed men and curates (not being able to provide themselves long gowns) may go in short gowns of the fashion aforesaid." The portraits prefixed to the folio works of the great divines of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries have made us familiar with the fact, that at the time of the Reformation the clergy wore the beard and moustache. They continued to wear the cassock and gown as their ordinary out-door costume until as late as the time of George II.; but in the fashion of doublet and hose, hats, shoes, and hair, they followed the custom of other gentlemen. Mr. Fairholt, in his "Costume in England," p. 327, gives us a woodcut from a print of 1680 A.D., which admirably illustrates the ordinary out-door dress of a clergyman of the time of William and Mary. CHAPTER V. PARSONAGE HOUSES. When, in our endeavour to realise the life of these secular clergymen of the Middle Ages, we come to inquire, What sort of houses did they live in? how were these furnished? what sort of life did their occupants lead? what kind of men were they? it is curious how little seems to be generally known on the subject, compared with what we know about the houses and life and character of the regular orders. Instead of gathering together what others have said, we find ourselves engaged in an original investigation of a new and obscure subject. The case of the cathedral and collegiate clergy, and that of the isolated parochial clergy, form two distinct branches of the subject. The limited space at our disposal will not permit us to do justice to both; the latter branch of the subject is less known, and perhaps the more generally interesting, and we shall therefore devote the bulk of our space to it. We will only premise a few words on the former branch. The bishop of a cathedral of secular canons had his house near his cathedral, in which he maintained a household equal in numbers and expense to that of the secular barons among whom he took rank; the chief difference being, that the spiritual lord's family consisted rather of chaplains and clerks than of squires and men-at-arms. The bishop's palace at Wells is a very interesting example in an unusually perfect condition. Britton gives an engraving of it as it appeared before the reign of Edward VI. The bishop besides had other residences on his manors, some of which were castles like those of the other nobility. Farnham, the present residence of the see of Winchester, is a noble example, which still serves its original purpose. Of the cathedral closes many still remain sufficiently unchanged to enable us to understand their original condition. Take Lincoln for example. On the north side of the church, in the angle between the nave and transept, was the cloister, with the polygonal chapter-house on the east side. The lofty wall which enclosed the precincts yet remains, with its main entrance in the middle of the west wall, opposite the great doors of the cathedral. This gate, called the Exchequer Gate, has chambers over it, devoted probably to the official business of the diocese. There are two other smaller gates at the north-east and south-east corners of the close, and there is a postern on the south side. The bishop's palace, whose beautiful and interesting ruins and charming grounds still remain, occupied the slope of the southern hill outside the close. The vicar's court is in the corner of the close near the gateway to the palace grounds. A fourteenth-century house, which was the official residence of the chaplain of one of the endowed chantries, still remains on the south side of the close, nearly opposite the choir door. On the east side of the close the fifteenth-century houses of several of the canons still remain, and are interesting examples of the domestic architecture of the time. It is not difficult from these data to picture to ourselves the original condition of this noble establishment when the cathedral, with its cloister and chapter-house, stood isolated in the middle of the green sward, and the houses of the canons and chaplains formed a great irregular quadrangle round it, and the close walls shut them all in from the outer world, and the halls and towers of the bishop's palace were still perfect amidst its hanging gardens enclosed within their own walls, the quadrangle of houses which had been built for the cathedral vicars occupying a corner cut out of the bishop's grounds beside his gateway. And we can repeople the restored close. Let it be on the morning of one of the great festivals; let the great bells be ringing out their summons to high mass; and we shall see the dignified canons in amice and cap crossing the green singly on their way from their houses to their stalls in the choir; the vicars conversing in a little group as they come across from their court; the surpliced chorister boys under the charge of their schoolmaster; a band of minstrels with flutes, and hautboys, and viols, and harps, and organs, coming in from the city, to use their instruments in the rood-loft to aid the voices of the choir; scattered clerks and country clergy, and townspeople, are all converging to the great south door; and last of all the lord bishop, in cope and mitre, emerges from his gateway, preceded by his cross-bearer, attended by noble or royal guests, and followed by a suite of officials and clerks; while over all the great bells ring out their joyous peal to summon the people to the solemn worship of God in the mother church of the vast diocese. * * * * * But we must turn to our researches into the humbler life of the country rectors and vicars. And first, what sort of houses did they live in? We have not been able to find one of the parsonage houses of an earlier date than the Reformation still remaining in a condition sufficiently unaltered to enable us to understand what they originally were. There is an ancient rectory house of the fourteenth century at West Deane, Sussex,[306] of which we give a ground-plan and north-east view on the following page; but the rectory belonged to the prior and convent of Benedictine Monks of Wilmington, and this house was probably their grange, or cell, and may have been inhabited by two of their monks, or by their tenant, and not by the parish priest. Again, there is a very picturesque rectory house, of the fifteenth century, at Little Chesterton, near Cambridge,[307] but this again is believed to have been a grange, or cell, of a monastic house. In the absence of actual examples, we are driven to glean what information we can from other sources. There remain to us a good many of the deeds of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, by which, on the impropriation of the benefices, provision was made for the permanent endowment of vicarages in them. In the majority of cases the old rectory house was assigned as the future vicarage house, and no detailed description of it was necessary; but in the deed by which the rectories of Sawbridgeworth, in Herts, and Kelvedon, in Essex, were appropriated to the convent of Westminster, we are so fortunate as to find descriptions of the fourteenth-century parsonage houses, one of which is so detailed as to enable any one who is acquainted with the domestic architecture of the time to form a very definite picture of the whole building. In the case of Sawbridgeworth, the old rectory house was assigned as the vicarage house, and is thus described--"All the messuage which is called the priest's messuage, with the houses thereon built, that is to say, one hall with two chambers, with a buttery, cellar, kitchen, stable, and other fitting and decent houses, with all the garden as it is enclosed with walls to the said messuage belonging." The description of the parsonage house at Kelvedon is much more definite and intelligible. For this the deed tells us the convent assigned--"One hall situate in the manor of the said abbot and convent near the said church, with a chamber and soler at one end of the hall and with a buttery and cellar at the other. Also one other house in three parts, that is to say, for a kitchen with a convenient chamber in the end of the said house for guests, and a bakehouse. Also one other house in two parts, next the gate at the entrance of the manor, for a stable and cowhouse. He (the vicar) shall also have a convenient grange, to be built within a year at the expense of the prior and convent. He shall also have the curtilage with the garden adjoining to the hall on the north side, as it is enclosed with hedges and ditches." The date of the deed is 1356 A.D., and it speaks of these houses as already existing. Now the common arrangement of a small house at that date, and for near a century before and after, was this, "a hall in the centre, with a soler at one end and offices at the other."[308] A description which exactly agrees with the account of the Kelvedon house, and enables us to say with great probability that in the Sawbridgeworth "priest's messuage" also, the two chambers were at one end of the hall, and the buttery, cellar, and kitchen at the other, the stable and other fitting and decent houses being detached from and not forming any portion of the dwelling house. [Illustration: _Rectory House, West Deane, Sussex._] [Illustration: A Entrance door. B Windows. C Cellar window. D Entrance to stair. E A recess. F Fire-place. ft. in. Length of exterior 35 6 Width of interior 14 10 Thickness of wall 2 6 Height of rooms 8 0] Confining ourselves, however, to the Kelvedon house, a little study will enable us to reconstruct it conjecturally with a very high probability of being minutely accurate in our conjectures. First of all, a house of this character in the county of Essex would, beyond question, be a timber house. To make our description clearer we have given a rough diagram of our conjectural arrangement. Its principal feature was, of course, the "one hall" (A). We know at once what the hall of a timber house of this period of architecture would be. It would be a rather spacious and lofty apartment, with an open timber roof; the principal door of the house would open into the "screens" (D), at the lower end of the hall, and the back door of the house would be at the other end of the screens. At the upper end of the hall would be the raised dais (B), at which the master of the house sat with his family. The fireplace would either be an open hearth in the middle of the hall, like that which still exists in the fourteenth-century hall at Penshurst Place, Kent, or it would be an open fireplace, under a projecting chimney, at the further side of the hall, such as is frequently seen in MS. illuminations of the small houses of the period. There was next "a chamber and soler at one end of the hall." The soler of a mediæval house was the chief apartment after the hall, it answered to the "great chamber" of the sixteenth century, and to the parlour or drawing-room of more modern times. It was usually adjacent to the upper end of the hall, and built on transversely to it, with a window at each end. It was usually raised on an undercroft, which was used as a storeroom or cellar, so that it was reached by a stair from the upper end of the hall. Sometimes, instead of a mere undercroft, there was a chamber under the soler, which was the case here, so that we have added these features to our plan (C). Next there was "a buttery and cellar at the other" end of the hall. In the buttery in those days were kept wine and beer, table linen, cups, pots, &c.: and in the cellar the stores of eatables which, it must be remembered, were not bought in weekly from the village shop, or the next market town, but were partly the produce of the glebe and tithe, and partly were laid in yearly or half-yearly at some neighbouring fair. The buttery and cellar--they who are familiar with old houses, or with our colleges, will remember--are always at the lower end of the hall, and open upon the screens, with two whole or half doors side by side; we may therefore add them thus upon our plan (H, I). [Illustration: _Conjectural Plan of Rectory-House at Kelvedon, Essex._] The deed adds, "Also one other house in three parts." In those days the rooms of a house were not massed compactly together under one roof, but were built in separate buildings more or less detached, and each building was called a house; "One other house in three parts, that is to say, a kitchen with a convenient chamber at one end of the said house for guests, and a bakehouse." "The kitchen," says Mr. Parker, in his "Domestic Architecture," "was frequently a detached building, often connected with the hall by a passage or alley leading from the screens;" and it was often of greater relative size and importance than modern usage would lead us to suppose; the kitchens of old monasteries, mansion houses, and colleges often have almost the size and architectural character of a second hall. In the case before us it was a section of the "other house," and probably occupied its whole height, with an open timber roof (G). In the disposition of the bakehouse and convenient chamber for guests which were also in this other house, we meet with our first difficulty; the "chamber" might possibly be over the bakehouse, which took the usual form of an undercroft beneath the guest chamber; but the definition that the house was divided "in three parts" suggests that it was divided from top to bottom into three distinct sections. Inclining to the latter opinion, we have so disposed these apartments in our plan (F, E). The elevation of the house may be conjectured with as much probability as its plan. Standing in front of it we should have the side of the hall towards us, with the arched door at its lower end, and perhaps two windows in the side with carved wood tracery[309] in their heads. To the right would be the gable end of the chamber with soler over it; the soler would probably have a rather large arched and traceried window in the end, the chamber a smaller and perhaps square-headed light. On the left would be the building, perhaps a lean-to, containing the buttery and cellar, with only a small square-headed light in front. The accompanying wood-cut of a fourteenth-century house, from the Add. MSS. 10,292, will help to illustrate our conjectural elevation of Kelvedon Rectory. It has the hall with its great door and arched traceried window, and at the one end a chamber and soler over it. It only wants the offices at the other end to make the resemblance complete.[310] [Illustration: _A Fourteenth Century House._] Of later date probably and greater size, resembling a moated manor house, was the rectory of Great Bromley, Essex, which is thus described in the terrier of 1610 A.D.: "A large parsonage house compass'd with a Mote, a Gate-house, with a large chamber, and a substantial bridge of timber adjoining to it, a little yard, an orchard, and a little garden, all within the Mote, which, together with the Circuit of the House, contains about half an Acre of Ground; and without the Mote there is a Yard, in which there is another Gate-house and a stable, and a hay house adjoining; also a barn of 25 yards long and 9 yards wide, and about 79 Acres and a-half of glebeland."[311] The outbuildings were perhaps arranged as a courtyard outside the moat to which the gate-house formed an entrance, so that the visitor would pass through this outer gate, through the court of offices, over the bridge, and through the second gate-house into the base court of the house. This is the arrangement at Ightham Mote, Kent. The parish chaplains seem to have had houses of residence provided for them. The parish of St. Michael-le-Belfry, York, complained in its visitation presentment, in the year 1409, that there was no house assigned for the parish chaplain or for the parish clerk. That they were small houses we gather from the fact that in some of the settlements of vicarages it is required that a competent house shall be built for the vicar where the parish chaplain has been used to live; _e.g._ at Great Bentley, Essex, it was ordered in 1323, that the vicars "shall have one competent dwelling-house with a sufficient curtilage, where the parish chaplain did use to abide, to be prepared at the cost of the said prior and convent."[312] And at the settlement of the vicarage of St. Peter's, Colchester, A.D. 1319, it was required that "the convent of St. Botolph's, the impropriators, should prepare a competent house for the vicar in the ground of the churchyard where a house was built for the parish chaplain of the said church." At Radwinter, Essex, we find by the terrier of 1610 A.D., that there were two mansions belonging to the benefice, "on the south side of the church, towards the west end, one called the great vicarage, and in ancient time the Domus Capellanorum, and the other the less vicarage," which latter "formerly served for the ease of the Parson, and, as appears by evidence, first given to the end that if any of the parish were sick, the party might be sure to find the Parson or his curate near the church ready to go and visit him." At the south-west corner of the churchyard of Doddinghurst, Essex, there still exists a little house of fifteenth-century date, which may have been such a curate's house. From a comparison of these parsonages with the usual plan and arrangement of the houses of laymen of the fourteenth century, may be made the important deduction that the houses of the parochial clergy had no ecclesiastical peculiarities of arrangement; they were not little monasteries or great recluse houses, they were like the houses of the laity; and this agrees with the conclusions to which we have arrived already by other roads, that the secular clergy lived in very much the same style as laymen of a similar degree of wealth and social standing. The poor clerk lived in a single chamber of a citizen's house; the town priest had a house like those of the citizens; the country rector or vicar a house like the manor houses of the smaller gentry. As to the furniture of the parsonage, the wills of the clergy supply us with ample authorities. We will select one of about the date of the Kelvedon parsonage house which we have been studying, to help us to conjecturally furnish the house which we have conjecturally built. Here is an inventory of the goods of Adam de Stanton, a chaplain, date 1370 A.D., taken from Mr. Tymms's collection of Bury wills. "Imprimis, in money vi{s.} viii{d.} and i seal of silver worth ijs." The money will seem a fair sum to have in hand when we consider the greater value of money then and especially the comparative scarcity of actual coin. The seal was probably his official seal as chaplain of an endowed chantry; we have extant examples of such seals of the beneficed clergy. "Item, iij brass pots and i posnet worth xj{s.} vj{d.} Item, in plate, xxij{d.} Item, a round pot with a laver, j{s.} vj{d.,}" probably an ewer and basin for washing the hands, like those still used in Germany, &c. "Item, in iron instruments, vj{s.} viiij{d.} and vj{d.,}" perhaps fire-dogs and poker, spit, and pothook. "Item, in pewter vessels, iiij{s.} ij{d.,}" probably plates, dishes, and spoons. "Item, of wooden utensils," which, from comparison with other inventories of about the same period, we suppose may be boards and trestles for tables, and benches, and a chair, and perhaps may include trenchers and bowls. "Item, i portiforum, x{s.,}" a book of church service so called, which must have been a handsome one to be worth ten shillings, perhaps it was illuminated. "Item, j book de Lege and j Par Statutorum, and j Book of Romances.[313] Item, j girdle with purse and knife, v{s.}" on which we have already commented in our last chapter. "Item, j pair of knives for the table, xij{d.} Item, j saddle with bridle and spurs, iij{s.} Item, of linen and woollen garments, xxviij{s.} and xij{d.} Item, of chests and caskets, vj{s.} ij{d.,}" Chests and caskets then served for cupboards and drawers.[314] If we compare these clerical inventories with those of contemporary laymen of the same degree, we shall find that a country parson's house was furnished like a small manor house, and that his domestic economy was very like that of the gentry of a like income. Matthew Paris tells us an anecdote of a certain handsome clerk, the rector of a rich church, who surpassed all the knights living around him in giving repeated entertainments and acts of hospitality.[315] But usually it was a rude kind of life which the country squire or parson led, very like that which was led by the substantial farmers of a few generations ago, when it was the fashion for the unmarried farm labourers to live in the farm-house, and for the farmer and his household all to sit down to meals together. These were their hours:-- "Rise at five, dine at nine, Sup at five, and bed at nine, Will make a man live to ninety-and-nine." The master of the house sat in the sole arm-chair, in the middle of the high table on the dais, with his family on either side of him; and his men sat at the movable tables of boards and trestles, with a bench on each side, which we find mentioned in the inventories: or the master sat at the same table with his men, only he sat above the salt and they below; he drank his ale out of a silver cup while they drank it out of horn; he ate white bread while they ate brown, and he a capon out of his curtilage while they had pork or mutton ham; he retired to his great chamber when he desired privacy, which was not often perhaps; and he slept in a tester bed in the great chamber, while they slept on truckle beds in the hall. One item in the description of the Kelvedon parsonage requires special consideration, and opens up a rather important question as to the domestic economy of the parochial clergy over and above what we have hitherto gleaned. "The convenient chamber for guests" there mentioned was not a best bedroom for any friend who might pay him a visit. It was a provision for the efficient exercise of the hospitality to which the beneficed parochial clergy were bound. It is a subject which perhaps needs a little explanation. In England there were no inns where travellers could obtain food and lodging until the middle of the fourteenth century; and for long after that period they could only be found in the largest and most important towns; and it was held to be a part of the duty of the clergy to "entertain strangers," and be "given to hospitality." It was a charity not very likely to be abused; for, thanks to bad roads, unbridged fords, no inns, wild moors, and vast forests haunted by lawless men, very few travelled, except for serious business; and it was a real act of Christian charity to afford to such travellers the food and shelter which they needed, and would have been hard put to it to have obtained otherwise. The monasteries, we all know, exercised this hospitality on so large a scale, that in order to avoid the interruption a constant succession of guests would have made in the seclusion and regularity of conventual life, they provided special buildings for it, called the hospitium or guest house, a kind of inn within the walls, and they appointed one of the monks, under the name of the hospitaller or guest master, to represent the convent in entertaining the guests. Hermitages also, we have seen, were frequently built along the high roads, especially near bridges and fords, for the purpose of aiding travellers. Along the road which led towards some famous place of pilgrimage hospitals, which were always religious foundations, were founded especially for the entertainment of poor pilgrims. And the parochial clergy were expected to exercise a similar hospitality. Thus in the replies of the rectors of Berkshire to the papal legate, in 1240 A.D., they say that "their churches were endowed and enriched by their patrons with lands and revenues for the especial purpose that the rectors of them should receive guests, rich as well as poor, and show hospitality to laity as well as clergy, according to their means, as the custom of the place required."[316] Again, in 1246, the clergy, on a similar occasion, stated that "a custom has hitherto prevailed, and been observed in England, that the rectors of parochial churches have always been remarkable for hospitality, and have made a practice of supplying food to their parishioners who were in want, ... and if a portion of their benefices be taken away from them, they will be under the necessity of refusing their hospitality, and abandoning their accustomed offices of piety. And if these be withdrawn, they will incur the hatred of those subject to them [their parishioners], and will lose the favour of passers-by [travellers] and their neighbours."[317] Again, in 1253 A.D., Bishop Grostête, in his remonstrance to the Pope, says of the foreigners who were intruded into English benefices, that they "could not even take up their residence, to administer to the wants of the poor, and to receive travellers."[318] There is an interesting passage illustrative of the subject quoted in Parker's "Domestic Architecture," i. p. 123. Æneus Sylvius, afterwards Pope Pius II., describing his journey from Scotland into England, in the year 1448, says that he entered a large village in a wild and barbarous part of the country, about sunset, and "alighted at a rustic's house, and supped there with the priest of the place and the host." The special mention of the priest in the first place almost leads us to conjecture that the foreign ecclesiastic had first gone to the priest of the place for the usual hospitality, and had been taken on by him to the manor house--for the "rustic" seems to have been a squire--as better able to afford him a suitable hospitality. Sundry pottages, and fowls, and geese, were placed on the table, but there was neither bread nor wine. He had, however, brought with him a few loaves and a roundel of wine, which he had received at a certain monastery. Either a stranger was a great novelty, or the Italian ecclesiastic had something remarkable in his appearance, for he says all "the people of the place ran to the house to stare at him." Kelvedon being on one of the great high roads of the country, its parson would often be called upon to exercise his duty of hospitality, hence the provision of a special guest chamber in the parsonage house. And so in our picture of the domestic economy and ordinary life of a mediæval country parson we must furnish his guest chamber, and add a little to the contents of buttery and cellar, to provide for his duty of hospitality; and we must picture him not always sitting in solitary dignity at his high table on the dais, but often playing the courteous host to knight and lady, merchant, minstrel, or pilgrim; and after dinner giving the broken meat to the poor, who in the days when there was no poor law were the regular dependants on his bounty. THE MINSTRELS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. CHAPTER I. It would carry us too far a-field to attempt to give a sketch of the early music of the principal nations of antiquity, such as might be deduced from the monuments of Egypt and Nineveh and Greece. We may, however, briefly glance at the most ancient minstrelsy of the Israelites; partly for the sake of the peculiar interest of the subject itself, partly because the early history of music is nearly the same in all nations, and this earliest history will illustrate and receive illustration from a comparison with the history of music in mediæval England. Musical instruments, we are told by the highest of all authorities, were invented in the eighth generation of the world--that is in the third generation before the flood--by Tubal, "the Father of all such as handle the harp and organ, both stringed and wind instruments." The ancient Israelites used musical instruments on the same occasions as the mediæval Europeans--in battle; in their feasts and dances; in processions, whether of religious or civil ceremony; and in the solemnising of divine worship. The trumpet and the horn were then, as always, the instruments of warlike music--"If ye go to war then shall ye blow an alarm with the silver trumpets."[319] The trumpet regulated the march of the hosts of Israel through the wilderness. When Joshua compassed Jericho, the seven priests blew trumpets of rams' horns. Gideon and his three hundred discomfited the host of the Midianites with the sound of their trumpets. The Tabret was the common accompaniment of the troops of female dancers, whether the occasion were religious or festive. Miriam the prophetess took a timbrel in her hand, and all the women went out after her with timbrels and with dances, singing a solemn chorus to the triumphant song of Moses and of the Children of Israel over the destruction of Pharaoh in the Red Sea,-- "Sing ye to the Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously; The horse and his rider hath he thrown into the sea."[320] Jephthah's daughter went to meet her victorious father with timbrels and dances:-- "The daughter of the warrior Gileadite, From Mizpeh's tower'd gate with welcome light, With timbrel and with song." And so, when King Saul returned from the slaughter of the Philistines, after the shepherd David had killed their giant champion in the valley of Elah, the women came out of all the cities to meet the returning warriors "singing and dancing to meet King Saul, with tabrets, with joy, and with instruments of music;" and the women answered one another in dramatic chorus-- "Saul hath slain his thousands, And David his ten thousands."[321] Laban says that he would have sent away Jacob and his wives and children, "with mirth and with songs, with tabret and with harp." And Jeremiah prophesying that times of ease and prosperity shall come again for Israel, says: "O Virgin of Israel, thou shalt again be adorned with thy tabrets, and shalt go forth in the dances of them that make merry."[322] In their feasts these and many other instruments were used. Isaiah tells us[323] that they had "the harp, and the viol, the tabret, and pipe, and wine in their feasts;" and Amos tells us of the luxurious people who lie upon beds of ivory, and "chant to the sound of the viol, and invent to themselves instruments of music like David," and drink wine in bowls, and anoint themselves with the costliest perfumes. Instruments of music were used in the colleges of Prophets, which Samuel established in the land, to accompany and inspire the delivery of their prophetical utterances. As Saul, newly anointed, went up the hill of God towards the city, he met a company of prophets coming down, with a psaltery, and a tabret, and a pipe, and a harp before them, prophesying; and the spirit of the Lord came upon Saul when he heard, and he also prophesied.[324] When Elisha was requested by Jehoram to prophesy the fate of the battle with the Moabites, he said: "Bring me a minstrel; and when the minstrel played, the hand of the Lord came upon him, and he prophesied." When David brought up the ark from Gibeah, he and all the house of Israel played before the Lord on all manner of instruments made of firwood, even on harps, psalteries, timbrels, cornets, and cymbals.[325] And in the song which he himself composed to be sung on that occasion,[326] he thus describes the musical part of the procession:-- "It is well seen how thou goest, How thou, my God and King, goest to the sanctuary; The singers go before, the minstrels follow after, In the midst are the damsels playing with the timbrels." The instruments appointed for the regular daily service of the Temple "by David, and Gad the king's seer, and Nathan the prophet, for so was the commandment of the Lord by his prophets," were cymbals, psalteries, and harps, which David made for the purpose, and which were played by four thousand Levites. Besides the instruments already mentioned,--the harp, tabret, timbrel, psaltery, trumpet, cornet, cymbal, pipe, and viol,--they had also the lyre, bag-pipes, and bells; and probably they carried back with them from Babylon further additions, from the instruments of "all peoples, nations, and languages" with which they would become familiarised in that capital of the world. But from the time of Tubal down to the time when the royal minstrel of Israel sang those glorious songs which are still the daily solace of thousands of mankind, and further down to the time when the captive Israelites hanged their unstrung harps upon the willows of Babylon, and could not sing the songs of Zion in a strange land, the harp continued still the fitting accompaniment of the voice in all poetical utterance of a dignified and solemn character:--the recitation of the poetical portions of historical and prophetical Scripture, for instance, would be sustained by it, and the songs of the psalmists of Zion were accompanied by its strains. And thus this sketch of the history of the earliest music closes, with the minstrel harp still in the foreground; while in the distance we hear the sound of the fanfare of cornet, flute, harp, sackbut, psaltery, dulcimer, and all kinds of music, which were concerted on great occasions; such as that on which they resounded over the plain of Dura, to bow that bending crowd of heads, as the ripe corn bends before the wind, to the great Image of Gold:--an idolatry, alas! which the peoples, nations, and languages still perform almost as fervently as of old. * * * * * The northern Bard, or Scald, was the father of the minstrels of mediæval Europe. Our own early traditions afford some picturesque anecdotes, proving the high estimation in which the character was held by the Saxons and their kindred Danes; and showing that they were accustomed to wander about to court, and camp, and hall; and were hospitably received, even though the Bard were of a race against which his hosts were at that very time encamped in hostile array. We will only remind the reader of the Royal Alfred's assumption of the character of a minstrel, and his visit in that disguise to the Danish camp (A.D. 878); and of the similar visit, ten years after, of Anlaff the Danish king to the camp of Saxon Athelstane. But the earliest anecdote of the kind we shall have hereafter to refer to, and may therefore here detail at length. It is told us by Geoffrey of Monmouth, that Colgrin, the son of Ella, who succeeded Hengist in the leadership of the invading Saxons, was shut up in York, and closely besieged by King Arthur and his Britons. Baldulf, the brother of Colgrin, wanted to gain access to him, to apprise him of a reinforcement which was coming from Germany. In order to accomplish this design, he assumed the character of a minstrel. He shaved his head and beard; and dressing himself in the habit of that profession, took his harp in his hand. In this disguise he walked up and down the trenches without suspicion, playing all the while upon his instrument as a harper. By little and little he approached the walls of the city; and, making himself known to the sentinels, was in the night drawn up by a rope. The harper continued throughout the Middle Ages to be the most dignified of the minstrel craft, the reciter, and often the composer, of heroic legend and historical tale, of wild romance and amorous song. Frequently, and perhaps especially in the case of the higher class of harpers, he travelled alone, as in the cases which we have already seen of Baldulf, and Alfred, and Anlaff. But he also often associated himself with a band of minstrels, who filled up the intervals of his recitations and songs with their music, much as vocal and instrumental pieces are alternated in our modern concerts. With a band of minstrels there was also very usually associated a mime, who amused the audience with his feats of agility and leger-de-main. The association appears at first sight somewhat undignified--the heroic harper and the tumbler--but the incongruity was not peculiar to the Middle Ages; the author of the "Iliad" wrote the "Battle of the Frogs,"--the Greeks were not satisfied without a satiric drama after their grand heroic tragedy; and in these days we have a farce or a pantomime after Shakspeare. We are not all Heraclituses, to see only the tragic side of life, or Democrituses, to laugh at everything; the majority of men have faculties to appreciate both classes of emotion; and it would seem, from universal experience, that, as the Russian finds a physical delight in leaping from a vapour-bath into the frozen Neva, so there is some mental delight in the sudden alternate excitation of the opposite emotions of tragedy and farce. If we had time to philosophise, we might find the source of the delight deeply seated in our nature:--alternate tears and laughter--it is an epitome of human life! In the accompanying woodcut from a Late Saxon MS. in the British Museum (Cott. Tiberius C. vi.) we have a curious evidence of the way in which custom blinded men to any incongruity there may be in the association of the harper and the juggler, for here we have David singing his Psalms and accompanying himself on the harp, the dove reminding us that he sang and harped under the influence of inspiration. He is accompanied by performers who must be Levites; and yet the Saxon illuminator was so used to see a mime form one of a minstrel band, that he has introduced one playing the common feat of tossing three knives and three balls. [Illustration: _Saxon Band of Minstrels._] The Saxons were a musical people. We learn from Bede's anecdote of the poet Cædmon, that it was usual at their feasts to pass the harp round from hand to hand, and every man was supposed to be able to sing in his turn, and accompany himself on the instrument. They had a considerable number of musical instruments. In a MS. in the British Museum, Tiberius C. vi., folios 16 v., 17 v., 18, are a few leaves of a formal treatise on the subject, which give us very carefully drawn pictures of different instruments, with their names and descriptions. There are also illustrations of them in the Add. 11,695, folios 86, 86 v., 164, 170 v., 229, and in Cleopatra E. viii. Among them are the Psaltery of various shapes, the Sambuca or sackbut, the single and double Chorus, &c. Other instruments we find in Saxon MSS. are the lyre, viol, flute, cymbals, organ, &c. A set of hand-bells (carillons) which the player struck with two hammers, was a favourite instrument. We often find different instruments played together. At folio 93 v. of the MS. Claudius B iv. there is a group of twelve female harpists playing together; one has a small instrument, probably a kind of lyre, the rest have great harps of the same pattern. They probably represent Miriam and the women of Israel joining in the triumphal song of Moses over the destruction of the Egyptians in the Red Sea. [Illustration: _Saxon Organ._] The organ, already introduced into divine service, became, under the hands of St. Dunstan, a large and important instrument. William of Malmesbury says that Dunstan gave many to churches which had pipes of brass and were inflated with bellows. In a MS. psalter in Trinity College, Cambridge, is a picture of one of considerable size, which has no less than four bellows played by four men. It is represented in the accompanying wood-cut. The Northmen who invaded and gave their name to Normandy, took their minstrels with them; and the learned assert that it was from them that the troubadours of Provence learned their art, which ripened in their sunny clime into _la joyeuse science_, and thence was carried into Italy, France, and Spain. It is quite certain that minstrelsy was in high repute among the Normans at the period of the Conquest. Every one will remember how Taillefer, the minstrel-knight, commenced the great battle of Hastings. Advancing in front of the Norman host, he animated himself and them to a chivalric daring by chanting the heroic tale of Charlemagne and his Paladins, at the same time showing feats of skill in tossing his sword into the air; and then rushed into the Saxon ranks, like a divinely-mad hero of old, giving in his own self-sacrifice an augury of victory to his people. From the period of the Conquest, authorities on the subject of which we are treating, though still not so numerous as could be desired, become too numerous to be all included within the limits to which our space restricts us. The reader may refer to Wharton's "History of English Poetry," to Bishop Percy's introductory essay to the "Reliques of Early English Poetry," and to the introductory essay to Ellis's "Early English Metrical Romances," for the principal published authorities. For a series of learned essays on mediæval musical instruments he may consult M. Didron's "Annales Archæologiques," vol. iii. pp. 76, 142, 260; vol. iv. pp. 25, 94; vol. vi. p. 315; vol. vii. pp. 92, 157, 244, 325; vol. viii. p. 242; vol. ix. pp. 289, 329.[327] We propose only from these and other published and unpublished materials to give a popular sketch of the subject. Throughout this period minstrelsy was in high estimation with all classes of society. The king himself, like his Saxon[328] predecessors, had a king's minstrel, or king of the minstrels, who probably from the first was at the head of a band of royal minstrels.[329] This fashion of the royal court, doubtless, like all its other fashions, obtained also in the courts of the great nobility (several instances will be observed in the sequel), and in their measure in the households of the lesser nobility. Every gentleman of estate had probably his one, two, or more minstrels as a regular part of his household. It is not difficult to discover their duties. In the representations of dinners, which occur plentifully in the mediæval MSS., we constantly find musicians introduced; sometimes we see them preceding the servants, who are bearing the dishes to table--a custom of classic usage, and which still lingers to this day at Queen's College, Oxford, in the song with which the choristers usher in the boar's head on Christmas-day, and at our modern public dinners, when the band strikes up "Oh the Roast Beef of Old England," as that national dish is brought to table. We give here an illustration of such a scene from a very fine MS. of the early part of the fourteenth century, in the British Museum (marked Royal 2 B vii., f. 184 v. and 185). A very fine representation of a similar scene occurs at the foot of the large Flemish Brass of Robert Braunche and his two wives in St. Margaret's Church, Lynn; the scene is intended as a delineation of a feast given by the corporation of Lynn to King Edward III. Servants from both sides of the picture are bringing in that famous dish of chivalry, the peacock with his tail displayed; and two bands of minstrels are ushering in the banquet with their strains: the date of the brass is about 1364 A.D. In the fourteenth-century romance of "Richard Coeur de Lion," we read of some knights who have arrived in presence of the romance king whom they are in quest of; dinner is immediately prepared for them; "trestles," says Ellis in his abstract of it, "were immediately set; a table covered with a silken cloth was laid; a rich repast, ushered in by the sound of trumpets and shalms, was served up."[330] [Illustration: _A Royal Dinner._] Having introduced the feast, the minstrels continued to play during its progress. We find numerous representations of dinners in the illuminations, in which one or two minstrels are standing beside the table, playing their instruments during the progress of the meal. In a MS. volume of romances of the early part of the fourteenth century in the British Museum (Royal 14 E iii.), the title-page of the romance of the "Quête du St. Graal" (at folio 89 of the MS.) is adorned with an illumination of a royal banquet; a squire on his knee (as in the illustration given on opposite page) is carving, and a minstrel stands beside the table playing the violin; he is dressed in a parti-coloured tunic of red and blue, and wears his hat. In the Royal MS. 2 B vii., at folio 168, is a similar representation of a dinner, in which a minstrel stands playing the violin; he is habited in a red tunic, and is bareheaded. At folio 203 of the same MS. (Royal 2 B vii.), is another representation of a dinner, in which two minstrels are introduced; one (wearing his hood) is playing a cittern, the other (bareheaded) is playing a violin: and these references might be multiplied. [Illustration: _Royal Dinner of the time of Edward IV._] We reproduce here, in further illustration of the subject, engravings of a royal dinner of about the time of our Edward IV., "taken from an illumination of the romance of the Compte d'Artois, in the possession of M. Barrois, a distinguished and well-known collector in Paris."[331] The other is an exceedingly interesting representation of a grand imperial banquet, from one of the plates of Hans Burgmair, in the volume dedicated to the exploits of the Emperor Maximilian, contemporary with our Henry VIII. It represents the entrance of a masque, one of those strange entertainments, of which our ancestors, in the time of Henry and Elizabeth, were so fond, and of which Mr. C. Kean some years ago gave the play-going world of London so accurate a representation in his _mise en scene_ of Henry VIII. at the Princess's Theatre. The band of minstrels who have been performing during the banquet, are seen in the left corner of the picture. [Illustration: _Imperial Banquet._] So in "The Squier's Tale" of Chaucer, where Cambuscan is "holding his feste so solempne and so riche." "It so befel, that after the thridde cours, While that this king sat thus in his nobley,[332] Harking his ministralles her[333] thinges play, Beforne him at his bord deliciously," &c. The custom of having instrumental music as an accompaniment of dinner is still retained by her Majesty and by some of the greater nobility, by military messes, and at great public dinners. But the musical accompaniment of a mediæval dinner was not confined to instrumental performances. We frequently find a harper introduced, who is doubtless reciting some romance or history, or singing chansons of a lighter character. He is often represented as sitting upon the floor, as in the accompanying illustration, from the Royal MS., 2 B vii., folio 71 b. Another similar representation occurs at folio 203 b of the same MS. In the following very charming picture, from a MS. volume of romances of early fourteenth century date in the British Museum (Additional MS., 10,292, folio 200), the harper is sitting upon the table. [Illustration: _Harper._] Gower, in his "Confessio Amantis," gives us a description of a scene of the kind. Appolinus is dining in the hall of King Pentapolin, with the king and queen and their fair daughter, and all his "lordes in estate." Appolinus was reminded by the scene of the royal estate from which he is fallen, and sorrowed and took no meat; therefore the king bade his daughter take her harp and do all that she can to enliven that "sorry man." "And she to dou her fader's hest, Her harpe fette, and in the feste Upon a chaire which thei fette, Her selve next to this man she sette." [Illustration: _Royal Harper._] Appolinus in turn takes the harp, and proves himself a wonderful proficient, and "When he hath harped all his fille, The kingis hest to fulfille, A waie goth dishe, a waie goth cup, Doun goth the borde, the cloth was up, Thei risen and gone out of the halle." In the sequel, the interesting stranger was made tutor to the princess, and among other teachings, "He taught hir till she was certeyne Of harpe, citole, and of riote, With many a tewne and many a note, Upon musike, upon measure, And of her harpe the temprure, He taught her eke, as he well couth." Another occasion on which their services would be required would be for the dance. Thus we read in the sequel of "The Squire's Tale," how the king and his "nobley," when dinner was ended, rose from table, and, preceded by the minstrels, went to the great chamber for the dance:-- "Wan that this Tartar king, this Cambuscán, Rose from his bord ther as he sat ful hie; Beforne him goth the loudé minstralcie, Til he come to his chambre of parements,[334] Theras they sounden divers instruments, That it is like an Heaven for to here. Now dauncen lusty Venus children dere," &c. In the tale of Dido and Æneas, in the legend of "Good Women," he calls it especially the dancing chamber:-- "To dauncing chambers full of paraments, Of riché bedés[335] and of pavements, This Eneas is ledde after the meat." [Illustration: _Mediæval Dance._] But the dance was not always in the great chamber. Very commonly it took place in the hall. The tables were only movable boards laid upon trestles, and at the signal from the master of the house, "A hall! a hall!" they were quickly put aside; while the minstrels tuned their instruments anew, and the merry folly at once commenced. In the illustration, of early fourteenth-century date, which we give on the preceding page, from folio 174 of the Royal MS., 2 B vii., the scene of the dance is not indicated; the minstrels themselves appear to be joining in the saltitation which they inspire. In the next illustration, reproduced from Mr. Wright's "Domestic Manners of the English," we have a curious picture of a dance, possibly in the gallery, which occupied the whole length of the roof of most fifteenth-century houses; it is from M. Barrois's MS. of the "Compte D'Artois," of fifteenth-century date. In all these instances the minstrels are on the floor with the dancers, but in the latter part of the Middle Ages they were probably--especially on festal occasions--placed in the music gallery over the screens, or entrance-passage, of the hall. [Illustration: _A Dance in the Gallery._] Marriage processions were, beyond doubt, attended by minstrels. An illustration of a band consisting of tabor, bagpipes, regal, and violin, heading a marriage procession, may be seen in the Roman d'Alexandre (Bodleian Library) at folio 173; and at folios 173 and 174 the wedding feast is enlivened by a more numerous band of harp, gittern, violin, regal, tabor, bagpipes, hand-bells, cymbals, and kettle-drums--which are carried on a boy's back.[336] CHAPTER II. SACRED MUSIC. Every nobleman and gentleman in the Middle Ages, we have seen, had one or more minstrels as part of his household, and among their other duties they were required to assist at the celebration of divine worship. Allusions occur perpetually in the old romances, showing that it was the universal custom to hear mass before dinner, and even-song before supper, _e.g._: "And so they went home and unarmed them, and so to even-song and supper.... And on the morrow they heard mass, and after went to dinner, and to their counsel, and made many arguments what were best to do."[337] "The Young Children's Book," a kind of mediæval "Chesterfield's Letters to his Son," published by the Early English Text Society, from a MS. of about 1500 A.D., in the Bodleian Library, bids its pupils-- "Aryse be tyme oute of thi bedde, And blysse[338] thi brest and thi forhede, Then wasche thi handes and thi face, Keme thi hede and ask God grace The to helpe in all thi workes; Thou schalt spede better what so thou carpes. Then go to the chyrche and here a massé, There aske mersy for thi trespasse. When thou hast done go breke thy faste With mete and drynk a gode repast." In great houses the service was performed by the chaplain in the chapel of the hall or castle, and it seems probable that the lord's minstrels assisted in the musical part of the service. The organ doubtless continued to be, as we have seen it in Saxon times, the most usual church instrument. Thus the King of Hungary in "The Squire of Low Degree," tells his daughter:-- "Then shal ye go to your even song, With tenours and trebles among; * * * * Your quere nor organ song shal want With countre note and dyscant; The other half on organs playing, With young children ful fayn synging." And in inventories of church furniture in the Middle Ages we find organs enumerated:[339] Not only the organ, but all instruments in common use, were probably also used in the celebration of divine worship. We meet with repeated instances in which David singing the psalms is accompanied by a band of musicians, as in the Saxon illumination on p. 272, and again in the initial letter of this chapter, which is taken from a psalter of early thirteenth-century date in the British Museum (Harl. 5,102). The men of those days were in some respects much more real and practical, less sentimental and transcendental, than we in religious matters. We must have everything relating to divine worship of different form and fashion from ordinary domestic appliances, and think it irreverent to use things of ordinary domestic fashion for religious uses, or to have domestic things in the shapes of what we call religious art. They had only one art, the best they knew, for all purposes; and they were content to apply the best of that to the service of God. Thus to their minds it would not appear at all unseemly that the minstrels who had accompanied the divine service in chapel should walk straight out of chapel into the hall, and tune their instruments anew to play symphonies, or accompany chansons during dinner, or enliven the dance in the great chamber in the evening--no more unseemly than that their master and his family should dine and dance as well as pray. The chapel royal establishment of Edward IV. consisted of trumpets, shalms, and pipes, as well as voices; and we may be quite sure that the custom of the royal chapel was imitated by noblemen and gentlemen of estate. A good fifteenth-century picture of the interior of a church, showing the organ in a gallery, is engraved in the "Annales Archæologiques," vol. xii., p. 349. A very good representation of an organ of the latter part of the sixteenth century (1582) is in the fine MS. Plut. 3,469, folio 27.[340] An organ of about this date is still preserved in that most interesting old Manor House, Igtham Mote, in Kent. They were sometimes placed at the side of the chancel, sometimes in the rood-loft, which occupied the same relative position in the choir which the music gallery did in the hall. In the MSS. we not unfrequently find the ordinary musical instruments placed in the hands of the angels; _e.g._, in the early fourteenth-century MS. Royal 2 B. vii., in a representation of the creation, with the morning stars singing together, and all the sons of God shouting for joy, an angelic choir are making melody on the trumpet, violin, cittern, shalm (or psaltery), and harp. There is another choir of angels at p. 168 of the same MS., two citterns and two shalms, a violin and trumpet. Similar representations occur very significantly in churches. On the arch of the Porta Della Gloria of Saragossa Cathedral, of the eleventh century, from which there is a cast at the entrance to the South Kensington Museum, are a set of angel minstrels with musical instruments. In the bosses of the ceiling of Tewkesbury Abbey Church we find angels playing the cittern (with a plectrum), the harp (with its cover seen enveloping the lower half of the instrument)[341] and the cymbals. A set of angel musicians is sculptured on the rood loft of York Minster. In the triforum of the nave of Exeter Cathedral is a projecting gallery for the minstrels, with sculptures of them on the front playing instruments.[342] In the choir of Lincoln Cathedral, some of the noble series of angels which fill the spandrels of its arcades, and which have given to it the name of the Angel Choir, are playing instruments, viz., the trumpet, double pipe, pipe and tabret, dulcimer, viol and harp. They represent the heavenly choir attuning their praises in harmony with the human choir below: "Therefore with angels and archangels, and with all the company of heaven, we laud and magnify thy glorious name." There is a band of musicians sculptured on the grand portal of the Cathedral at Rheims; a sculptured capital from the church of St. Georges de Bocherville, now in the Museum at Rouen, represents eleven crowned figures playing different instruments.[343] On the chasse of St. Ursula at Bruges are angels playing instruments beautifully painted by Hemling.[344] We cannot resist the temptation to introduce here another charming little drawing of an angelic minstrel, playing a psaltery, from the Royal MS. 14 E iii.; others occur at folio 1 of the same MS. The band of village musicians with flute, violin, clarinet, and bass-viol, whom most of us have seen occupying the singing-gallery of some country church, are the representatives of the band of minstrels who occupied the rood-lofts in mediæval times. [Illustration: _The Morning Stars singing together._] [Illustration: _An Angel Minstrel._] Clerical censors of manners during the Middle Ages frequently denounce the dissoluteness of minstrels, and the minstrels take their revenge by lampooning the vices of the clergy. Like all sweeping censures of whole classes of men, the accusations on both sides must be received cautiously. However, it is certain that the minstrels were patronised by the clergy. We shall presently find a record of the minstrels of the Bishop of Winchester in the fourteenth century; and the Ordinance of Edward II., quoted at p. 296, tells us that minstrels flocked to the houses of prelates as well as of nobles and gentlemen. In the thirteenth century, that fine sample of an English bishop, Grostête of Lincoln, was a great patron of minstrel science: he himself composed an allegorical romance, the Chasteau d'Amour. Robert de Brunne, in his English paraphrase of Grostête's Manuel de Peches (begun in 1303), gives us a charming anecdote of the Bishop's love of minstrelsy. "Y shall yow telle as y have herde, Of the bysshope seyut Robérde, Hys to-name ys Grostet. Of Lynkolne, so seyth the gest He loved moche to here the harpe, For mannys witte hyt makyth sharpe. Next hys chaumber, besyde his stody, Hys harpers chaumbre was fast therby. Many tymes be nyght and dayys, He had solace of notes and layys. One askede hym onys resun why He hadde delyte in mynstralsy? He answered hym on thys manere Why he helde the harper so dere. The vertu of the harpe, thurghe skylle and ryght, Wyl destroy the fendes myght; And to the croys by gode skylle Ys the harpe lykened weyle. Tharfor gode men, ye shul lere Whan ye any gleman here, To wurschep Gode al youre powére, As Dauyde seyth yn the sautére." We know that the abbots lived in many respects as other great people did; they exercised hospitality to guests of gentle birth in their own halls, treated them to the diversions of hunting and hawking over their manors and in their forests, and did not scruple themselves to partake in those amusements; possibly they may have retained minstrels wherewith to solace their guests and themselves. It is quite certain at least that the wandering minstrels were welcome guests at the religious houses; and Warton records many instances of the rewards given to them on those occasions. We may record two or three examples. The monasteries had great annual feasts, on the ecclesiastical festivals, and often also in commemoration of some saint or founder; there was a grand service in church, and a grand dinner afterwards in the refectory. The convent of St. Swithin, in Winchester, used thus to keep the anniversary of Alwyne the Bishop; and in the year A.D. 1374 we find that six minstrels, accompanied by four harpers, performed their minstrelsies at dinner, in the hall of the convent, and during supper sang the same gest in the great arched chamber of the prior, on which occasion the chamber was adorned, according to custom on great occasions, with the prior's great dorsal (a hanging for the wall behind the table), having on it a picture of the three kings of Cologne. These minstrels and harpers belonged partly to the Royal household in Winchester Castle, partly to the Bishop of Winchester. Similarly at the priory of Bicester, in Oxfordshire, in the year A.D. 1432, the treasurer of the monastery gave four shillings to six minstrels from Buckingham, for singing in the refectory, on the Feast of the Epiphany, a legend of the Seven Sleepers. In A.D. 1430 the brethren of the Holie Crosse at Abingdon celebrated their annual feast; twelve priests were hired for the occasion to help to sing the dirge with becoming solemnity, for which they received four pence each; and twelve minstrels, some of whom came from the neighbouring town of Maidenhead, were rewarded with two shillings and four pence each, besides their share of the feast and food for their horses. At Mantoke Priory, near Coventry, there was a yearly obit; and in the year A.D. 1441, we find that eight priests were hired from Coventry to assist in the service, and the six minstrels of their neighbour, Lord Clinton, of Mantoke Castle, were engaged to sing, harp, and play, in the hall of the monastery, at the grand refection allowed to the monks on the occasion of that anniversary. The minstrels amused the monks and their guests during dinner, and then dined themselves in the painted chamber (_camera picta_) of the monastery with the sub-prior, on which occasion the chamberlain furnished eight massy tapers of wax to light their table. These are instances of minstrels formally invited by abbots and convents to take part in certain great festivities; but there are proofs that the wandering minstrel, who, like all other classes of society, would find hospitality in the guest-house of the monastery, was also welcomed for his minstrel skill, and rewarded for it with guerdon of money, besides his food and lodging. Warton gives instances of entries in monastic accounts for disbursements on such occasions; and there is an anecdote quoted by Percy of some dissolute monks who one evening admitted two poor priests whom they took to be minstrels, and ill-treated and turned them out again when they were disappointed of their anticipated gratification. On the next page is a curious illumination from the Royal MS. 2 B vii., representing a friar and a nun themselves making minstrelsy. [Illustration: _Nun and Friar with Musical Instruments._] At tournaments the scene was enlivened by the strains of minstrels, and horses and men inspirited to the charge by the loud fanfare of their instruments. Thus in "The Knight's Tale," at the tournament of Palamon and Arcite, as the king and his company rode to the lists:-- "Up gon the trumpets and the melodie, And to the listés ride the companie." And again:-- "Then were the gates shut, and cried was loude Now do your devoir youngé knightés proud. The heralds left their pricking up and down, Now ringen trumpets loud and clarioun. There is no more to say, but East and West In go the spearés sadly in the rest; In goeth the sharpé spur into the side; There see men who can just and who can ride. Men shiveren shaftés upon shieldés thick, He feeleth thro the hearte-spoon the prick." In actual war only the trumpet and horn and tabor seem to have been used. In "The Romance of Merlin" we read of "Trumpés beting, tambours classing" in the midst of a battle; and again, in Chaucer's "Knight's Tale"-- "Pipes, trumpets, nakeres,[345] and clariouns That in the battle blowen bloody sounds;" and again, on another occasion-- "The trumping and the tabouring, Did together the knights fling." There are several instances in the Royal MS., 2 B vii., in which trumpeters are sounding their instruments in the rear of a company of charging chevaliers. Again, when a country knight and his neighbour wished to keep their spears in practice against the next tournament, or when a couple of errant knights happened to meet at a manor-house, the lists were rudely staked out in the base-court of the castle, or in the meadow under the castle-walls; and, while the ladies looked on and waved their scarfs from the windows or the battlements, and the vassals flocked round the ropes, the minstrels gave animation to the scene. In the illustration on p. 414 from the title-page of the Royal MS., 14 E iii., a fine volume of romances of early fourteenth-century date, we are made spectators of a scene of the kind; the herald is arranging the preliminaries between the two knights who are about to joust, while a band of minstrels inspire them with their strains. Not only at these stated periods, but at all times, the minstrels were liable to be called upon to enliven the tedium of their lord or lady with music and song; the King of Hungary (in "The Squire of Low Degree"), trying to comfort his daughter for the loss of her lowly lover by the promise of all kinds of pleasures, says that in the morning-- "Ye shall have harpe, sautry, and songe, And other myrthes you among." And again a little further on, after dinner-- "When you come home your menie amonge, Ye shall have revell, daunces, and songe; Lytle children, great and smale, Shall syng as doth the nightingale." And yet again, when she is gone to bed-- "And yf ye no rest can take, All night mynstrels for you shall wake." Doubtless many of the long winter evenings, when the whole household was assembled round the blazing wood fire in the middle of the hall, would be passed in listening to those interminable tales of chivalry which my lord's chief harper would chant to his harp, while his fellows would play a symphony between the "fyttes." Of other occasions on which the minstrels would have appropriate services to render, an entry in the Household Book of the Percy family in A.D. 1512 gives us an indication: There were three of them at their castle in the north, a tabret, a lute, and a rebec; and we find that they had a new-year's gift, "xx_s._ for playing at my lordes chamber doure on new yeares day in the mornynge; and for playing at my lordes sone and heire's chamber doure, the lord Percy, ii_s._; and for playing at the chamber dours of my lord's yonger sonnes, my yonge masters, after viii. the piece for every of them." * * * * * But besides the official minstrels of kings, nobles, and gentlemen, bishops, and abbots, and corporate towns, there were a great number of "minstrels unattached," and of various grades of society, who roamed abroad singly or in company, from town to town, from court to camp, from castle to monastery, flocking in great numbers to tournaments and festivals and fairs, and welcomed everywhere. The summer-time was especially the season for the wanderings of these children of song,[346] as it was of the knight-errant[347] and of the pilgrim[348] also. No wonder that the works of the minstrels abound as they do with charming outbursts of song on the return of the spring and summer, and the delights which they bring. All winter long the minstrel had lain in some town, chafing at its miry and unsavoury streets, and its churlish, money-getting citizens; or in some hospitable castle or manor-house, perhaps, listening to the wind roaring through the broad forests, and howling among the turrets overhead, until he pined for freedom and green fields; his host, perchance, grown tired of his ditties, and his only occupation to con new ones; this, from the "Percy Reliques," sounds like a verse composed at such a time:-- "In time of winter alange[349] it is! The foules lesen[350] her bliss! The leves fallen off the tree; Rain alangeth[351] the countree." No wonder they welcomed the return of the bright, warm days, when they could resume their gay, adventurous, open-air life, in the fresh, flowery meadows, and the wide, green forest glades; roaming to town and village, castle and monastery, feast and tournament; alone, or in company with a band of brother minstrels; meeting by the way with gay knights adventurous, or pilgrims not less gay--if they were like those of Chaucer's company; welcomed everywhere by priest and abbot, lord and loon. These are the sort of strains which they carolled as they rested under the white hawthorn, and carelessly tinkled an accompaniment on their harps:-- "Merry is th' enté of May; The fowles maketh merry play; The time is hot, and long the day. The joyful nightingale singeth, In the grene mede flowers springeth. * * * * "Merry it is in somer's tide; Fowles sing in forest wide; Swaines gin on justing ride, Maidens liffen hem in pride." The minstrels were often men of position and wealth. Rayer, or Raherus, the first of the king's minstrels whom we meet with after the Conquest, founded the Priory and Hospital of St. Bartholomew, in Smithfield, London, in the third year of Henry I., A.D. 1102, and became the first prior of his own foundation. He was not the only minstrel who turned religious. Foulquet de Marseille, first a merchant, then a minstrel of note--some of his songs have descended to these days--at length turned monk, and was made abbot of Tournet, and at length Archbishop of Toulouse, and is known in history as the persecutor of the Albigenses: he died in 1231 A.D. It seems to have been no unusual thing for men of family to take up the wandering, adventurous life of the minstrel, much as others of the same class took up the part of knight adventurous; they frequently travelled on horseback, with a servant to carry their harp; flocking to courts and tournaments, where the graceful and accomplished singer of chivalrous deeds was perhaps more caressed than the large-limbed warrior who achieved them; and obtained large rewards, instead of huge blows, for his guerdon. There are some curious anecdotes showing the kind of people who became minstrels, their wandering habits, their facility of access to all companies and places, and the uses which were sometimes made of their privileges. All our readers will remember how Blondel de Nesle, the minstrel of Richard Coeur de Lion, wandered over Europe in search of his master. There is a less known instance of a similar kind and of the same period. Ela, the heiress of D'Evereux, Earl of Salisbury, had been carried abroad and secreted by her French relations in Normandy. To discover the place of her concealment, a knight of the Talbot family spent two years in exploring that province; at first under the disguise of a pilgrim; then, having found where she was confined, in order to gain admittance, he assumed the dress and character of a harper; and being a jocose person, exceedingly skilled in the Gests of the ancients, he was gladly received into the family. He succeeded in carrying off the lady, whom he restored to her liege lord the king, who bestowed her in marriage, not upon the adventurous knight-minstrel, as ought to have been the ending of so pretty a novelet, but upon his own natural brother, William Longespée, to whom she brought her earldom of Salisbury in dower. Many similar instances, not less valuable evidences of the manners of the times because they are fiction, might be selected from the romances of the Middle Ages; proving that it was not unusual for men of birth and station[352] to assume, for a longer or shorter time, the character and life of the wandering minstrel. But besides these gentle minstrels, there were a multitude of others of the lower classes of society, professors of the joyous science; descending through all grades of musical skill, and of respectability of character. We find regulations from time to time intended to check their irregularities. In 1315 King Edward II. issued an ordinance addressed to sheriffs, &c., as follows: "Forasmuch as ... many idle persons under colour of mynstrelsie, and going in messages[353] and other faigned busines, have been and yet be receaved in other men's houses to meate and drynke, and be not therwith contented yf they be not largely considered with gyftes of the Lordes of the Houses, &c.... We wyllyng to restrayne such outrageous enterprises and idlenes, &c., have ordeyned ... that to the houses of Prelates, Earls, and Barons, none resort to meate and drynke unless he be a mynstrell, and of these mynstrels that there come none except it be three or four mynstrels of honour at most in one day unless he be desired of the Lorde of the House. And to the houses of meaner men, that none come unlesse he be desired; and that such as shall come so holde themselves contented with meate and drynke, and with such curtesie as the Master of the House wyl shewe unto them of his owne good wyll, without their askyng of any thyng. And yf any one do against this ordinaunce at the first tyme he to lose his minstrelsie, and at the second tyme to forsweare his craft, and never to be received for a minstrell in any house." This curious ordinance gives additional proof of several facts which we have before noted, viz., that minstrels were well received everywhere, and had even become exacting in their expectations; that they used to wander about in bands; and the penalties seem to indicate that the minstrels were already incorporated in a guild. The first positive evidence of such a guild is in the charter (already alluded to) of 9th King Edward IV., A.D. 1469, in which he grants to Walter Haliday, _Marshall_, and seven others, his own minstrels, a charter by which he restores a Fraternity or perpetual Guild (such as he understands the brothers and sisters of the Fraternity of Minstrels had in times past), to be governed by a marshall, appointed for life, and by two wardens, to be chosen annually, who are empowered to admit brothers and sisters into the guild, and are authorised to examine the pretensions of all such as affect to exercise the minstrel profession; and to regulate, govern, and punish them throughout the realm--those of Chester excepted. It seems probable that the King's Minstrel, or the King of the Minstrels, had long previously possessed an authority of this kind over all the members of the profession, and that the organization very much resembled that of the heralds. The two are mentioned together in the Statute of Arms for Tournaments, passed in the reign of Edward I., A.D. 1295. "E qe nul Roy de Harraunz ne Menestrals[354] portent privez armez:" that no King of the Heralds or of the Minstrels shall carry secret weapons. That the minstrels attended all tournaments we have already mentioned. The heralds and minstrels are often coupled in the same sentence; thus Froissart tells us that at a Christmas entertainment given by the Earl of Foix, there were many minstrels, as well his own as strangers, "and the Earl gave to Heraulds and Minstrelles the sum of fyve hundred frankes; and gave to the Duke of Tourayne's mynstreles gowns of cloth of gold furred with ermine, valued at 200 frankes."[355] CHAPTER III. GUILDS OF MINSTRELS. It is not unlikely that the principal minstrel of every great noble exercised some kind of authority over all minstrels within his lord's jurisdiction. There are several famous instances of something of this kind on record. The earliest is that of the authority granted by Ranulph, Earl of Chester, to the Duttons over all minstrels of his jurisdiction; for the romantic origin of the grant the curious reader may see the Introductory Essay to Percy's "Reliques," or the original authorities in Dugdale's "Monasticon," and D. Powel's "History of Cambria." The ceremonies attending the exercise of this authority are thus described by Dugdale, as handed down to his time:--viz., "That at Midsummer fair there, all the minstrels of that countrey resorting to Chester, do attend the heir of Dutton from his lodging to St. John's Church (he being then accompanied by many gentlemen of the countrey), one of the minstrels walking before him in a surcoat of his arms, depicted on taffeta; the rest of his fellows proceeding two and two, and playing on their several sorts of musical instruments. And after divine service ended, gave the like attendance on him back to his lodging; where a court being kept by his (Mr. Dutton's) steward, and all the minstrels formally called, certain orders and laws are usually made for the better government of that society, with penalties on those that transgress." This court, we have seen, was exempted from the jurisdiction of the King of the Minstrels by Edward IV., as it was also from the operation of all Acts of Parliament on the subject down to so late a period as the seventeenth year of George II., the last of them. In the fourth year of King Richard II., John[356] of Gaunt created a court of minstrels at Tutbury, in Staffordshire, similar to that at Chester; in the charter (which is quoted in Dr. Plott's "History of Staffordshire," p. 436) he gives them a King of the Minstrels and four officers, with a legal authority over the men of their craft in the five adjoining counties of Stafford, Derby, Notts, Leicester, and Warwick. The form of election, as it existed at a comparatively late period, is fully detailed by Dr. Plott. [Illustration: _The Beverley Minstrels._] Another of these guilds was the ancient company or fraternity of minstrels in Beverley, of which an account is given in Poulson's "Beverlac" (p. 302). When the fraternity originated we do not know; but they were of some consideration and wealth in the reign of Henry VI., when the Church of St. Mary's, Beverley, was built; for they gave a pillar to it, on the capital of which a band of minstrels are sculptured, of whom we here re-produce a drawing from Carter's "Ancient Painting and Sculpture," to which we shall have presently to ask the reader's further attention. The oldest existing document of the fraternity is a copy of laws of the time of Philip and Mary. They are similar to those by which all trade guilds were governed: their officers were an alderman and two stewards or sears (_i.e._ seers, searchers); the only items in their laws which throw much additional light upon our subject are the one already partly quoted, that they should not take "any new brother except he be mynstrell to some man of honour or worship (proving that men of honour and worship still had minstrels), or waite[357] of some towne corporate or other ancient town, or else of such honestye and conyng as shall be thought laudable and pleasant to the hearers there." And again, "no myler, shepherd, or of other occupation, or husbandman, or husbandman servant, playing upon pype or other instrument, shall sue any wedding, or other thing that pertaineth to the said science, except in his own parish." We may here digress for a moment to say that the shepherds, throughout the Middle Ages, seem to have been as musical as the swains of Theocritus or Virgil; in the MS. illuminations we constantly find them represented playing upon instruments; we give a couple of goatherds from the MS. Royal 2 B vii. folio 83, of early fourteenth-century date. [Illustration: _Goatherds playing Musical Instruments._] [Illustration: _Shepherd with Bagpipes._] Besides the pipe and horn, the bagpipe was also a rustic instrument. There is a shepherd playing upon one in folio 112 of the same MS.; and again, in the early fourteenth-century MS. Royal 2 B vi., on the reverse of folio 8, is a group of shepherds, one of whom plays a small pipe, and another the bagpipes. Chaucer (3rd Book of the "House of Fame") mentions-- "Pipes made of greené corne, As have these little herd gromes, That keepen beastés in the bromes." It is curious to find that even at so late a period as the time of Queen Mary, the shepherds still officiated at weddings and other merrymakings in their villages, so as to excite the jealousy of the professors of the joyous science. The accompanying wood-cut, from a MS. in the French National library, may represent such a rustic merry-making. [Illustration: _Rustic Merry-making._] One might, perhaps, have been disposed to think that the good minstrels of Beverley were only endeavouring to revive usages which had fallen into desuetude; but we find that in the time of Elizabeth the profession of minstrelsy was sufficiently universal to call for the inquiry, in the Injunctions of 1559, "Whether any minstrells, or any other persons, do use to sing any songs or ditties that be vile or unclean." Ben Jonson gives us numerous allusions to them: _e.g._, in the "Tale of a Tub," old Turve talks of "old Father Rosin, the chief minstrel here--chief minstrel, too, of Highgate; she has hired him, and all his two boys, for a day and a half." They were to be dressed in bays, rosemary, and ribands, to precede the bridal party across the fields to church and back, and to play at dinner. And so in "Epicoene," act iii. sc. 1:-- "Well, there be guests to meat now; how shall we do for music?" [for Morose's wedding.] _Clerimont._--The smell of the venison going thro' the street will invite one noise of fiddlers or other. _Dauphine._--I would it would call the trumpeters hither! _Clerimont._--Faith, there is hope: they have intelligence of all feasts. There's a good correspondence betwixt them and the London cooks: 'tis twenty to one but we have them. And Dryden, so late as the time of William III., speaks of them-- "These fellows Were once the minstrels of a country show, Followed the prizes through each paltry town, By trumpet cheeks and bloated faces known." There were also female minstrels throughout the Middle Ages; but, as might be anticipated from their irregular wandering life, they bore an indifferent reputation. The romance of "Richard Coeur de Lion" says that it was a female minstrel, and, still worse, an Englishwoman, who recognised and betrayed the knight-errant king and his companions, on their return from the Holy Land, to his enemy, the "King of Almain." The passage is worth quoting, as it illustrates several of the traits of minstrel habits which we have already recorded. After Richard and his companions had dined on a goose, which they cooked for themselves at a tavern-- "When they had drunken well afin, A minstralle com therin, And said 'Gentlemen, wittily, Will ye have any minstrelsey?' Richard bade that she should go. That turned him to mickle woe! The minstralle took in mind,[358] And saith, 'Ye are men unkind; And if I may, ye shall for-think[359] Ye gave neither meat nor drink. For gentlemen should bede[360] To minstrels that abouten yede[361] Of their meat, wine, and ale; For los[362] rises of minstrale.' She was English, and well true By speech, and sight, and hide, and hue." Stow tells that in 1316, while Edward II. was solemnizing his Feast of Pentecost in his hall at Westminster, sitting royally at table, with his peers about him, there entered a woman adorned like a minstrel, sitting on a great horse, trapped as minstrels then used, who rode round about the tables showing her pastime. The reader will remember the use which Sir E. B. Lytton has made of a troop of tymbesteres in "The Last of the Barons," bringing them in at the epochs of his tale with all the dramatic effect of the Greek chorus: the description which he gives of their habits is too sadly truthful. The daughter of Herodias dancing before Herod is scornfully represented by the mediæval artists as a female minstrel performing the tumbling tricks which were part of their craft. We give a representation of a female minstrel playing the tambourine from the MS. Royal, 2 B vii. folio 182. [Illustration: _Female Minstrel._] A question of considerable interest to artists, no less than to antiquaries, is whether the minstrels were or not distinguished by any peculiar costume or habit. Bishop Percy[363] and his followers say that they were, and the assertion is grounded on the following evidences: Baldulph, the Saxon, in the anecdote already related, when assuming the disguise of a minstrel, is described as shaving his head and beard, and dressing himself in the habit of that profession. Alfred and Aulaff were known at once to be minstrels. The two poor priests who were turned out of the monastery by the dissolute monks were at first mistaken for minstrels. The woman who entered Westminster Hall at King Edward the Second's Pentecost feast was adorned like a minstrel, sitting on a great horse, trapped as minstrels then used. The Knight of La Tour-Landry (chap. xvii) tells a story which shows that the costume of minstrels was often conspicuous for richness and fashion: "As y have herde telle, Sir Piere de Luge was atte the feste where as were gret foyson of lordes, ladies, knightes, and squieres, and gentilwomen, and so there came in a yonge squier before hem that was sette atte dyner and salued the companie, and he was clothed in a cote-hardy[364] upon the guyse of Almayne, and in this wise he come further before the lordes and ladies, and made hem goodly reverence. And so the said Sir Piere called this yonge squier with his voys before alle the statis, and saide unto hym and axed hym, where was his fedylle or hys ribible, or suche an instrument as longethe unto a mynstralle. 'Syr,' saide the squier, 'I canne not medille me of such thinge, it is not my craft nor science.' 'Sir,' saide the knight, 'I canne not trowe that ye saye, for ye be counterfait in youre araye and lyke unto a mynstralle; for I have knowe herebefore alle youre aunsetours, and the knightes and squiers of youre kin, which were alle worthie men; but I sawe never none of hem that were [wore] counterfait, nor that clothed hem in such array.' And thanne the yonge squier answered the knight and saide, 'Sir, by as moche as it mislykithe you it shalle be amended,' and cleped a pursevant and gave him the cote-hardy. And he abled hym selff in an other gowne, and come agen into the halle, and thanne the anncyen knight saide openly, 'This yonge squier shalle have worshipe for he hath trowed and do bi the counsaile of the elder withoute ani contraryenge.'" In the time of Henry VII. we read of nine ells of _tawny_ cloth for three minstrels; and in the "History of Jack of Newbury," of "a noise [_i.e._ band] of musicians in _townie_ coats, who, putting off their caps, asked if they would have music." And lastly, there is a description of the person who personated "an ancient mynstrell" in one of the pageants which were played before Queen Elizabeth at her famous visit to Kenilworth, which is curious enough to be quoted. "A person, very meet seemed he for the purpose, of a forty-five years old, apparalled partly as he would himself. His cap off; his head seemly rounded tonsterwise;[365] fair kembed, that with a sponge daintily dipped in a little capon's grease was finely smoothen, to make it shine like a mallard's wing. His beard smugly shaven; and yet his shirt after the new trick, with ruffs fair starched, sleeked and glistering like a paire of new shoes, marshalled in good order with a setting stick and strut, that every ruff stood up like a wafer. A side (_i.e._ long) gown of Kendal Green, after the freshness of the year now, gathered at the neck with a narrow gorget, fastened afore with white clasp and keeper close up to the chin; but easily, for heat to undo when he list. Seemly begirt in a red caddis girdle: from that a pair of capped Sheffield knives hanging a' two sides. Out of his bosom drawn forth a lappel of his napkin (_i.e._ handkerchief) edged with a blue lace, and marked with a true love, a heart, and a D. for Damian, for he was but a batchelor yet. His gown had side (_i.e._ long) sleeves down to midleg, slit from the shoulder to the hand, and lined with white cotton. His doublet sleeves of black worsted: upon them a pair of paynets (perhaps points) of tawny chamlet laced along the wrist with blue threaden points, a weall towards the hand of fustian-a-napes. A pair of red neather socks. A pair of pumps on his feet, with a cross cut at the toes for corns: not new, indeed, yet cleanly blackt with soot, and shining as a shoeing horn. About his neck a red ribband suitable to his girdle. His harp in good grace dependant before him. His wrest tyed to a green lace, and hanging by; under the gorget of his gown a fair flaggon chain (pewter for) silver, as a squire-minstrel[366] of Middlesex that travelled the country this summer season, unto fairs and worshipful men's houses. From this chain hung a scutcheon, with metal and colour resplendant upon his breast, of the ancient arms of Islington," to which place he is represented as belonging. From these authorities Percy would deduce that the minstrels were tonsured and apparelled very much after the same fashion as priests. The pictorial authorities do not bear out any such conclusion. There are abundant authorities for the belief that the dress of the minstrels was remarkable for a very unclerical sumptuousness; but in looking through the numerous ancient representations of minstrels we find no trace of the tonsure, and no peculiarity of dress; they are represented in the ordinary costume of their time; in colours blue, red, grey, particoloured, like other civilians; with hoods, or hats, or without either; frequently the different members of the same band of minstrels present all these differences of costume, as in the instance here given, from the title-page of the fourteenth century MS. Add., 10,293; proving that the minstrels did not affect any uniformity of costume whatever. [Illustration: _A Band of Minstrels._] The household minstrels probably wore their master's badge[367] (liveries were not usual until a late period); others the badge of their guild. Thus in the Morte Arthur, Sir Dinadan makes a reproachful lay against King Arthur, and teaches it an harper, that hight Elyot, and sends him to sing it before King Mark and his nobles at a great feast. The king asked, "Thou harper, how durst thou be so bold to sing this song before me?" "Sir," said Elyot, "wit you well I am a minstrell, and I must doe as I am commanded of these lords that _I bear the armes of_;" and in proof of the privileged character of the minstrel we find the outraged king replying, "Thou saiest well, I charge thee that thou hie thee fast out of my sight." So the squire-minstrel of Middlesex, who belonged to Islington, had a chain round his neck, with a scutcheon upon it, upon which were blazoned the arms of Islington. And in the effigies of the Beverley minstrels, which we have given on page 298, we find that their costume is the ordinary costume of the period, and is not alike in all; but that each of them has a chain round his neck, to which is suspended what is probably a scutcheon, like that of the Islington minstrel. In short, a careful examination of a number of illustrations in illuminated MSS. of various dates, from Saxon downwards, leaves the impression that minstrels wore the ordinary costume of their period, more or less rich in material, or fashionable in cut, according to their means and taste; and that the only distinctive mark of their profession was the instrument which each bore, or, as in the case of the Kenilworth minstrel, the tuning wrest hung by a riband to his girdle; and in the case of a household minstrel the badge of the lord whom he served. [Illustration: _Cymbals and Trumpets._] [Illustration: _Regals and Double Pipe_ (Royal 2 B vii).] [Illustration: _Regals or Organ_ (Royal, 14 E iii).] The forms of the most usual musical instruments of various periods may be gathered from the illustrations which have already been given. The most common are the harp, fiddle, cittern or lute, hand-organ, the shalm or psaltery, the pipe and tabor, pipes of various sizes played like clarionets, but called flutes, the double pipe, hand-bells, trumpets and horns, bagpipes, tambourine, tabret, drum, and cymbals. Of the greater number of these we have already incidentally given illustrations; we add, on the last page, other illustrations, from the Royal MS., 2 B vii., and Royal MS. 14 E iii. In the fourteenth century new instruments were invented. Guillaume de Marhault in his poem of "Le Temps Pastour," gives us an idea of the multitude of instruments which composed a grand concert of the fifteenth century; he says[368]-- "Là je vis tout en un cerne Viole, rubebe, guiterne, L'enmorache, le micamon, Citole et Psalterion, Harpes, tabours, trompes, nacaires, Orgues, cornes plus de dix paires, Cornemuse, flajos et chevrettes Douceines, simbales, clochettes, Tymbre, la flauste lorehaigne, Et le grand cornet d'Allemayne, Flacos de sans, fistule, pipe, Muse d'Aussay, trompe petite, Buisine, eles, monochorde, Ou il n'y a qu'une corde; Et muse de blet tout ensemble. Et certainment il me semble Qu' oncques mais tèle mélodie Ne feust oncques vene ne oye; Car chascun d'eux, selon l'accort De son instrument sans descort, Vitole, guiterne, citole, Harpe, trompe, corne, flajole, Pipe, souffle, muse, naquaire, Taboure et qu cunque ou put faire De dois, de peune et à l'archet, Ois et vis en ce porchet." In conclusion we give a group of musical instruments from one of the illustrations of "Der Weise König," a work of the close of the fifteenth century. [Illustration: _Musical Instruments of the 15th Century._] THE KNIGHTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. CHAPTER I. SAXON ARMS AND ARMOUR. We proceed, in this division of our work, to select out of the inexhaustible series of pictures of mediæval life and manners contained in illuminated MSS., a gallery of subjects which will illustrate the armour and costume, the military life and chivalric adventures, of the Knights of the Middle Ages; and to append to the pictures such explanations as they may seem to need, and such discursive remarks as the subjects may suggest. For the military costume of the Anglo-Saxon period we have the authority of the descriptions in their literature, illustrated by drawings in their illuminated MSS.; and if these leave anything wanting in definiteness, the minutest details of form and ornamentation may often be recovered from the rusted and broken relics of armour and weapons which have been recovered from their graves, and are now preserved in our museums. Saxon freemen seem to have universally borne arms. Tacitus tells us of their German ancestors, that swords were rare among them, and the majority did not use lances, but that spears, with a narrow, sharp and short head, were the common and universal weapon, used either in distant or close fight; and that even the cavalry were satisfied with a shield and one of these spears. The law in later times seems to have required freemen to bear arms for the common defence; the laws of Gula, which are said to have been originally established by Hacon the Good in the middle of the eighth century, required every man who possessed six marks besides his clothes to furnish himself with a red shield and a spear, an axe or a sword; he who was worth twelve marks was to have a steel cap also; and he who was worth eighteen marks a byrnie, or shirt of mail, in addition. Accordingly, in the exploration of Saxon graves we find in those of men "spears and javelins are extremely numerous," says Mr. C. Roach Smith, "and of a variety of shapes and sizes."... "So constantly do we find them in the Saxon graves, that it would appear no man above the condition of a serf was buried without one. Some are of large size, but the majority come under the term of javelin or dart." The rusty spear-head lies beside the skull, and the iron boss of the shield on his breast; the long, broad, heavy, rusted sword is comparatively seldom found beside the skeleton; sometimes, but rarely, the iron frame of a skull-cap or helmet is found about the head. [Illustration: _Saxon Soldiers._] An examination of the pictures in the Saxon illuminated MSS. confirms the conclusion that the shield and spear were the common weapons. Their bearers are generally in the usual civil costume, and not infrequently are bare-headed. The spear-shaft is almost always spoken of as being of ash-wood; indeed, the word _æsc_ (ash) is used by metonymy for a spear; and the common poetic name for a soldier is _æsc-berend_, or _æsc-born_, a spear-bearer; just as, in later times, we speak of him as a swordsman. We learn from the poets that the shield--"the broad war disk"--was made of linden-wood, as in Beowulf:-- "He could not then refrain, but grasped his shield the yellow linden, drew his ancient sword." From the actual remains of shields, we find that the central boss was of iron, of conical shape, and that a handle was fixed across its concavity by which it was held in the hand. The helmet is of various shapes; the commonest are the three represented in our first four wood-cuts. The most common is the conical shape seen in the large wood-cut on p. 316. [Illustration: _Saxon Horse Soldiers._] The Phrygian-shaped helmet, seen in the single figure on p. 314 is also a very common form; and the curious crested helmet worn by all the warriors in our first two wood-cuts of Saxon soldiers is also common. In some cases the conical helmet was of iron, but perhaps more frequently it was of leather, strengthened with a frame of iron. In the group of four foot soldiers in our first wood-cut, it will be observed that the men wear tunics, hose, and shoes; the multiplicity of folds and fluttering ends in the drapery is a characteristic of Saxon art, but the spirit and elegance of the heads is very unusual and very admirable. Our first three illustrations are taken from a beautiful little MS. of Prudentius in the Cottonian Library, known under the press mark, Cleopatra C. IV. The illuminations in this MS. are very clearly and skilfully drawn with the pen; indeed, many of them are designed with so much spirit and skill and grace, as to make them not only of antiquarian interest, but also of high artistic merit. The subjects are chiefly illustrations of Scripture history or of allegorical fable; but, thanks to the custom which prevailed throughout the Middle Ages of representing all such subjects in contemporary costume, and according to contemporary manners and customs, the Jewish patriarchs and their servants afford us perfectly correct representations of Saxon thanes and their _cheorls_; Goliath, a perfect picture of a Saxon warrior, armed _cap-à-pied_; and Pharaoh and his nobles of a Saxon Basileus and his witan. Thus, our second wood-cut is an illustration of the incident of Lot and his family being carried away captives by the Canaanitish kings after their successful raid against the cities of the plain; but it puts before our eyes a group of the armed retainers of a Saxon king on a military expedition. It will be seen that they wear the ordinary Saxon civil costume, a tunic and cloak; that they are all armed with the spear, all wear crested helmets; and the last of the group carries a round shield suspended at his back. The variety of attitude, the spirit and life of the figures, and the skill and gracefulness of the drawing, are admirable. Another very valuable series of illustrations of Saxon military costume will be found in a MS. of Ælfric's Paraphrase of the Pentateuch and Joshua, in the British Museum (Cleopatra B. IV.); at folio 25, for example, we have a representation of Abraham pursuing the five kings in order to rescue Lot: in the version of the Saxon artist the patriarch and his Arab servants are translated into a Saxon thane and his house carles, who are represented marching in a long array which takes up two bands of drawing across the vellum page. [Illustration: _Saxon Soldier, in Leather Armour._] The Anglo-Saxon poets let us know that chieftains and warriors wore a body defence, which they call a byrnie or a battle-sark. In the illuminations we find this sometimes of leather, as in the wood-cut here given from the Prudentius which has already supplied us with two illustrations. It is very usually Vandyked at the edges, as here represented. But the epithets, "iron byrnie," and "ringed byrnie," and "twisted battle-sark," show that the hauberk was often made of iron mail. In some of the illuminations it is represented as if detached rings of iron were sewn flat upon it: this may be really a representation of a kind of jazerant work, such as was frequently used in later times, or it may be only an unskilful way of representing the ordinary linked mail. A document of the early part of the eighth century, given in Mr. Thorpe's Anglo-Saxon Laws, seems to indicate that at that period the mail hauberk was usually worn only by the higher ranks. In distinguishing between the eorl and the cheorl it says, if the latter thrive so well that he have a helmet and byrnie and sword ornamented with gold, yet if he have not five hydes of land, he is only a cheorl. By the time of the end of the Saxon era, however, it would seem that the men-at-arms were usually furnished with a coat of fence, for the warriors in the battle of Hastings are nearly all so represented in the Bayeux tapestry. In Ælfric's Paraphrase, already mentioned (Cleopatra B. IV.), at folio 64, there is a representation of a king clothed in such a mail shirt, armed with sword and shield, attended by an armour-bearer, who carries a second shield but no offensive weapon, his business being to ward off the blows aimed at his lord. We should have given a wood-cut of this interesting group, but that it has already been engraved in the "Pictorial History of England" (vol. i.) and in Hewitt's "Ancient Armour" (vol. i. p. 60). This king with his shield-bearer does not occur in an illustration of Goliath and the man bearing a shield who went before him, nor of Saul and his armour-bearer, where it would be suggested by the text; but is one of the three kings engaged in battle against the cities of the plain; it seems therefore to indicate a Saxon usage. Another of the kings in the same picture has no hauberk, but only the same costume as the warrior in the wood-cut on the next page. In the Additional MS. 11,695, in the British Museum, a work of the eleventh century, there are several representations of warriors thus fully armed, very rude and coarse in drawing, but valuable for the clearness with which they represent the military equipment of the time. At folio 194 there is a large figure of a warrior in a mail shirt, a conical helmet, strengthened with iron ribs converging to the apex, the front rib extending downwards, into what is called a nasal, _i.e._, a piece of iron extending downwards over the nose, so as to protect the face from a sword-cut across the upper part of it. At folio 233 of the same MS. is a group of six warriors, two on horseback and four on foot. We find them all with hauberk, iron helmets, round shields, and various kinds of leg defences; they have spears, swords, and one of the horsemen bears a banner of characteristic shape, _i.e._, it is a right-angled triangle, with the shortest side applied to the spear-shaft, so that the right angle is at the bottom. [Illustration: No. 4.] A few extracts from the poem of Beowulf, a curious Saxon fragment, which the best scholars concur in assigning to the end of the eighth century, will help still further to bring these ancient warriors before our mind's eye. Here is a scene in King Hrothgar's hall: "After evening came and Hrothgar had departed to his court, guarded the mansion countless warriors, as they oft ere had done, they bared the bench-floor it was overspread with beds and bolsters, they set at their heads their disks of war, their shield-wood bright; there on the bench was over the noble, easy to be seen, his high martial helm, his ringed byrnie and war-wood stout." Beowulf's funeral pole is said to be-- "with helmets, war brands, and bright byrnies behung." And in this oldest of Scandinavian romances we have the natural reflections-- "the hard helm shall adorned with gold from the fated fall; mortally wounded sleep those who war to rage by trumpet should announce; in like manner the war shirt which in battle stood over the crash of shields the bite of swords shall moulder after the warrior; the byrnie's ring may not after the martial leader go far on the side of heroes; there is no joy of harp no glee-wood's mirth, no good hawk swings through the hall, nor the swift steed tramps the city place. Baleful death has many living kinds sent forth." Reflections which Coleridge summed up in the brief lines-- "Their swords are rust, Their bones are dust, Their souls are with the saints, we trust." The wood-cut on page 316 is taken from a collection of various Saxon pictures in the British Museum, bound together in the volume marked Tiberius C. VI., at folio 9. Our wood-cut is a reduced copy. In the original the warrior is seven or eight inches high, and there is, therefore, ample room for the delineation of every part of his costume. From the embroidery of the tunic, and the ornamentation of the shield and helmet, we conclude that we have before us a person of consideration, and he is represented as in the act of combat; but we see his armour and arms are only those to which we have already affirmed that the usual equipment was limited. The helmet seems to be strengthened with an iron rim and converging ribs, and is furnished with a short nasal. The figure is without the usual cloak, and therefore the better shows the fashion of the tunic. The banding of the legs was not for defence, it is common in civil costume. The quasi-banding of the forearm is also sometimes found in civil costume; it seems not to be an actual banding, still less a spiral armlet, but merely a fashion of wearing the tunic sleeve. We see how the sword is, rather inartificially, slung by a belt over the shoulder; how the shield is held by the iron handle across its hollow spiked umbo; and how the barbed javelin is cast. On the preceding page of this MS. is a similar figure, but without the sword. There were some other weapons frequently used by the Saxons which we have not yet had occasion to mention. The most important of these is the axe. It is not often represented in illuminations, and is very rarely found in graves, but it certainly was extensively in use in the latter part of the Anglo-Saxon period, and was perhaps introduced by the Danes. The house carles of Canute, we are expressly told, were armed with axes, halberds, and swords, ornamented with gold. In the ship which Godwin presented to Hardicanute, William of Malmesbury tells us the soldiers wore two bracelets of gold on each arm, each bracelet weighing sixteen ounces; they had gilt helmets; in the right hand they carried a spear of iron, and in the left a Danish axe, and they wore swords hilted with gold. The axe was also in common use by the Saxons at the battle of Hastings. There are pictorial examples of the single axe in the Cottonian MS., Cleopatra C. VIII.; of the double axe--the bipennis--in the Harleian MS., 603; and of various forms of the weapon, including the pole-axe, in the Bayeux tapestry. The knife or dagger was also a Saxon weapon. There is a picture in the Anglo-Saxon MS. in the Paris Library, called the Duke de Berri's Psalter, in which a combatant is armed with what appears to be a large double-edged knife and a shield, and actual examples of it occur in Saxon graves. The _seax_, which is popularly believed to have been a dagger and a characteristic Saxon weapon, seems to have been a short single-edged slightly curved weapon, and is rarely found in England. It is mentioned in Beowulf:--he-- "drew his deadly seax, bitter and battle sharp, that he on his byrnie bore." The sword was usually about three feet long, two-edged and heavy in the blade. Sometimes, especially in earlier examples, it is without a guard. Its hilt was sometimes of the ivory of the walrus, occasionally of gold, the blade was sometimes inlaid with gold ornaments and runic verses. Thus in Beowulf-- "So was on the surface of the bright gold with runic letters rightly marked, set and said, for whom that sword, costliest of irons, was first made, with twisted hilt and serpent shaped." The Saxons indulged in many romantic fancies about their swords. Some swordsmiths chanted magical verses as they welded them, and tempered them with mystical ingredients. Beowulf's sword was a-- "tempered falchion that had before been one of the old treasures; its edge was iron tainted with poisonous things hardened with warrior blood; never had it deceived any man of those who brandished it with hands." Favourite swords had names given them, and were handed down from father to son, or passed from champion to champion, and became famous. Thus, again, in Beowulf, we read-- "He could not then refrain, but grasped his shield, the yellow linden, drew his ancient sword that among men was a relic of Eanmund, Ohthere's son, of whom in conflict was, when a friendless exile, Weohstan the slayer with falchions edges, and from his kinsmen bore away the brown-hued helm, the ringed byrnie, the old Eotenish[369] sword which him Onela had given." There is a fine and very perfect example of a Saxon sword in the British Museum, which was found in the bed of the river Witham, at Lincoln. The sheath was usually of wood, covered with leather, and tipped, and sometimes otherwise ornamented with metal. The spear was used javelin-wise, and the warrior going into battle sometimes carried several of them. They are long-bladed, often barbed, as represented in the woodcut on p. 316, and very generally have one or two little cross-bars below the head, as in cuts on pp. 313 and 314. The Saxon artillery, besides the javelin, was the bow and arrows. The bow is usually a small one, of the old classical shape, not the long bow for which the English yeomen afterwards became so famous, and which seems to have been introduced by the Normans. In the latest period of the Saxon monarchy, the armour and weapons were almost identical with those used on the Continent. We have abundant illustrations of them in the Bayeux tapestry. In that invaluable historical monument, the minutest differences between the Saxon and Norman knights and men-at-arms seem to be carefully observed, even to the national fashions of cutting the hair; and we are therefore justified in assuming that there were no material differences in the military equipment, since we find none indicated, except that the Normans used the long bow and the Saxons did not. We have abstained from taking any illustrations from the tapestry, because the whole series has been several times engraved, and is well known, or, at least, is easily accessible, to those who are interested in the subject. We have preferred to take an illustration from a MS. in the British Museum, marked Harleian 2,895, from folio 82 v. The warrior, who is no less a person than Goliath of Gath, has a hooded hauberk, with sleeves down to the elbow, over a green tunic. The legs are tinted blue in the drawing, but seem to be unarmed, except for the green boots, which reach half way to the knee. He wears an iron helmet with a nasal, and the hood appears to be fastened to the nasal, so as to protect the lower part of the face. The large shield is red, with a yellow border, and is hung from the neck by a chain. The belt round his waist is red. The well-armed giant leans upon his spear, looking down contemptuously on David, whom it has not been thought necessary to include in our copy of the picture. The group forms a very appropriate filling-in of the great initial letter B of the Psalm _Benedictus Dns. Ds. Ms. qui docet manus meas ad prælium et digitos meos ad bellum_ (Blessed be the Lord my God, who teacheth my hands to war and my fingers to fight). In the same MS., at folio 70, there are two men armed with helmet and sword, and at folio 81 v. a group of armed men on horseback, in sword, shield, and spurs. It may be convenient to some of our readers, if we indicate here where a few other examples of Saxon military costume may be found which we have noted down, but have not had occasion to refer to in the above remarks. [Illustration] In the MS. of Prudentius (Cleopatra C. VIII.), from which we have taken our first three woodcuts, are many other pictures well worth study. On the same page (folio 1 v.) as that which contains our wood-cut p. 312, there is another very similar group on the lower part of the page; on folio 2 is still another group, in which some of the faces are most charming in drawing and expression. At folio 15 v. there is a spirited combat of two footmen, armed with sword and round shield, and clad in short leather coats of fence, vandyked at the edges. At folio 24 v. is an allegorical female figure in a short leather tunic, with shading on it which seems to indicate that the hair of the leather has been left on, and is worn outside, which we know from other sources was one of the fashions of the time. In the MS. of Ælfric's Paraphrase (Claud. B. iv.) already quoted, there are, besides the battle scene at folio 24 v., in which occurs the king and his armour-bearer, at folio 25 two long lines of Saxon horsemen marching across the page, behind Abraham, who wears a crested Phrygian helm. On the reverse of folio 25 there is another group, and also on folios 62 and 64. On folio 52 is another troop, of Esau's horsemen, marching across the page in ranks of four abreast, all bareheaded and armed with spears. At folio 96 v. is another example of a warrior, with a shield-bearer. The pictures in the latter part of this MS. are not nearly so clearly delineated as in the former part, owing to their having been tinted with colour; the colour, however, enables us still more completely to fill in to the mind's eye the distinct forms which we have gathered from the former part of the book. The large troops of soldiers are valuable, as showing us the style of equipment which was common in the Saxon militia. There is another MS. of Prudentius in the British Museum of about the same date, and of the same school of art, though not quite so finely executed, which is well worth the study of the artist in search of authorities for Saxon military (and other) costume, and full of interest for the amateur of art and archæology. Its press mark is Cottonian, Titus D. XVI. On the reverse of folio 2 is a group of three armed horsemen, representing the confederate kings of Canaan carrying off Lot, while Abraham, at the head of another group of armed men, is pursuing them. On folio 3 is another group of armed horsemen. After these Scripture histories come some allegorical subjects, conceived and drawn with great spirit. At folio 6 v., "_Pudicitia pugnat contra Libidinem_," Pudicitia being a woman armed with hauberk, helmet, spear, and shield. On the opposite page Pudicitia--in a very spirited attitude--is driving her spear through the throat of Libido. On folio 26 v., "_Discordia vulnerat occulte Concordium_." Concord is represented as a woman armed with a loose-sleeved hauberk, helmet, and sword. Discord is lifting up the skirt of Concord's hauberk, and thrusting a sword into her side. In the Harleian MS. 2,803, is a Vulgate Bible, of date about 1170 A.D.; there are no pictures, only the initial letters of the various books are illuminated. But while the illuminator was engaged upon the initial of the Second Book of Kings, his eye seems to have been caught by the story of Saul's death in the last chapter of the First Book, which happens to come close by in the parallel column of the great folio page:--_Arripuit itaqu, gladium et erruit sup. eum_ (Therefore Saul took a sword, and fell upon it); and he has sketched in the scene with pen-and-ink on the margin of the page, thus affording us another authority for the armour of a Saxon king when actually engaged in battle. He wears a hauberk, with an ornamented border, has his crown on his head, and spurs on his heels; has placed his sword-hilt on the ground, and fallen upon it. In the Additional MS. 11,695, on folio 102 v., are four armed men on horseback, habited in hauberks without hoods. Two of them have the sleeves extending to the wrist, two have loose sleeves to the elbow only, showing that the two fashions were worn contemporaneously. They all have mail hose; one of them is armed with a bow, the rest with the sword. There are four men in similar armour on folio 136 v. of the same MS. Also at folio 143, armed with spear, sword, and round ornamented shield. At folio 222 v. are soldiers manning a gate-tower. When the soldiers so very generally wore the ordinary citizen costume, it becomes necessary, in order to give a complete picture of the military costume, to say a few words on the dress which the soldier wore in common with the citizen. The tunic and mantle composed the national costume of the Saxons. The tunic reached about to the knee: sometimes it was slit up a little way at the sides, and it often had a rich ornamented border round the hem, extending round the side slits, making the garment almost exactly resemble the ecclesiastical tunic or Dalmatic. It had also very generally a narrower ornamental border round the opening for the neck. The tunic was sometimes girded round the waist. The Saxons were famous for their skill in embroidery, and also in metal-work; and there are sufficient proofs that the tunic was often richly embroidered. There are indications of it in the wood-cut on p. 316; and in the relics of costume found in the Saxon graves are often buckles of elegant workmanship, which fastened the belt with which the tunic was girt. The mantle was in the form of a short cloak, and was usually fastened at the shoulder, as in the wood-cuts on pp. 312, 313, 314, so as to leave the right arm unencumbered by its folds. The brooch with which this cloak was fastened formed a very conspicuous item of costume. They were of large size, some of them of bronze gilt, others of gold, beautifully ornamented with enamels; and there is this interesting fact about them, they seem to corroborate the old story, that the Saxon invaders were of three different tribes--the Jutes, Angles, and Saxons--who subdued and inhabited different portions of Britain. For in Kent and the Isle of Wight, the settlements of the Jutes, brooches are found of circular form, often of gold and enamelled. In the counties of Yorkshire, Derby, Leicester, Nottingham, Northampton, and in the eastern counties, a large gilt bronze brooch of peculiar form is very commonly found, and seems to denote a peculiar fashion of the Angles, who inhabited East Anglia, Mercia, and Northumbria. Still another variety of fashion, shaped like a saucer, has been discovered in the counties of Gloucester, Oxford, and Buckingham, on the border between the Mercians and West Saxons. It is curious to find these peculiar fashions thus confirming the ancient and obscure tradition about the original Saxon settlements. The artist will bear in mind that the Saxons seem generally to have settled in the open country, not in the towns, and to have built timber halls and cottages after their own custom, and to have avoided the sites of the Romano-British villas, whose blackened ruins must have thickly dotted at least the southern and south-eastern parts of the island. They appear to have built no fortresses, if we except a few erected at a late period, to check the incursions of the Danes. But they had the old Roman towns left, in many cases with their walls and gates tolerably entire. In the Saxon MS. Psalter, Harleian 603, are several illuminations in which walled towns and gates are represented. But we do not gather that they were very skilful either in the attack or defence of fortified places. Indeed, their weapons and armour were of a very primitive kind, and their warfare seems to have been conducted after a very unscientific fashion. Little chance had their rude Saxon hardihood against the military genius of William the Norman and the disciplined valour of his bands of mercenaries. CHAPTER II. ARMS AND ARMOUR, FROM THE NORMAN CONQUEST DOWNWARDS. The Conquest and subsequent confiscations put the land of England so entirely into the hands of William the Conqueror, that he was able to introduce the feudal system into England in a more simple and symmetrical shape than that in which it obtained in any other country of Europe. The system was a very intelligible one. The king was supposed to be the lord of all the land of the kingdom. He retained large estates in his own hands, and from these estates chiefly he derived his personal followers and his royal revenues. The rest of the land he let in large lordships to his principal nobles, on condition that they should maintain for the defence of the kingdom a certain number of men armed after a stipulated fashion, and should besides aid him on certain occasions with money payments, with which we have at present no concern. These chief tenants of the crown followed the example of the sovereign. Each retained a portion of the land in his own hands, and sub-let the rest in estates of larger or smaller size, on condition that each noble or knight who held of him should supply a proportion of the armed force he was required to furnish to the royal standard, and contribute a proportion of the money payments for which he was liable to be called upon. Each knight let the farms on his manor to his copyholders, on condition that they provided themselves with the requisite arms, and assembled under his banner when called upon for military suit and service; and they rendered certain personal services, and made certain payments in money or in kind besides, in lieu of rent. Each manor, therefore, furnished its troop of soldiers; the small farmers, perhaps, and the knight's personal retainers fighting on foot, clad in leather jerkins, and armed with pike or bow; two or three of his greater copyholders in skull caps and coats of fence; his younger brothers or grown-up sons acting as men-at-arms and esquires, on horseback, in armour almost or quite as complete as his own; while the knight himself, on his war horse, armed from top to toe--_cap-à-pied_--with shield on arm and lance in hand, with its knight's pennon fluttering from the point, was the captain of the little troop. The troops thus furnished by his several manors made up the force which the feudal lord was bound to furnish the king, and the united divisions made up the army of the kingdom. Besides this feudal army bound to render suit and service at the call of its sovereign, the laws of the kingdom also required all men of fit age--between sixteen and sixty--to keep themselves furnished with arms, and made them liable to be called out _en masse_ in great emergencies. This was the _Posse Comitatus_, the force of the county, and was under the command of the sheriff. We learn some particulars on the subject from an assize of arms of Henry II., made in 1181, which required all his subjects being free men to be ready in defence of the realm. Whosoever holds one knight's fee, shall have a hauberk, helmet, shield and lance, and every knight as many such equipments as he has knight's fees in his domain. Every free layman having ten marks in chattels shall have a habergeon, iron cap, and lance. All burgesses and the whole community of freemen shall have each a coat of fence (padded and quilted, a _wambeys_), iron cap, and lance. Any one having more arms than those required by the statute, was to sell or otherwise dispose of them, so that they might be utilised for the king's service, and no one was to carry arms out of the kingdom. There were two great points of difference between the feudal system as introduced into England and as established on the Continent. William made all landowners owe fealty to himself, and not only the tenants _in capite_. And next, though he gave his chief nobles immense possessions, these possessions were scattered about in different parts of the kingdom. The great provinces which had once been separate kingdoms of the Saxon heptarchy, still retained, down to the time of the Confessor, much of their old political feeling. Kentish men, for example, looked on one another as brothers, but Essex men, or East Anglians, or Mercians, or Northumbrians, were foreigners to them. If the Conqueror had committed the blunder of giving his great nobles all their possessions together, Rufus might have found the earls of Mercia or Northumbria semi-independent, as the kings of France found their great vassals of Burgundy, and Champagne, and Normandy, and Bretagne. But, by the actual arrangement, every county was divided; one powerful noble had a lordship here, and another had half-a-dozen manors there, and some religious community had one or two manors between. The result was, that though a combination of great barons was powerful enough to coerce John or Henry III., or a single baron like Warwick was powerful enough, when the nobility were divided into two factions, to turn the scale to one side or the other, no one was ever able to set the power of the crown at defiance, or to establish a semi-independence; the crown was always powerful enough to enforce a sufficiently arbitrary authority over them all. The consequence was that there was little of the clannish spirit among Englishmen. They rallied round their feudal superior, but the sentiment of loyalty was warmly and directly towards the crown. We must not, however, pursue the general subject further than we have done, in order to obtain some apprehension of the position in the body politic occupied by the class of persons with whom we are specially concerned. Of their social position we may perhaps briefly arrive at a correct estimate, if we call to mind that nearly all our rural parishes are divided into several manors, which date from the Middle Ages, some more, some less remotely; for as population increased and land increased in value, there was a tendency to the subdivision of old manors and the creation of new ones out of them. Each of these manors, in the times to which our researches are directed, maintained a family of gentle birth and knightly rank. The head of the family was usually a knight, and his sons were eligible for, and some of them aspirants to, the same rank in chivalry. So that the great body of the knightly order consisted of the country gentlemen--the country _squires_ we call them now, then they were the country _knights_--whose wealth and social importance gave them a claim to the rank; and to these we must add such of their younger brothers and grown-up sons as had ambitiously sought for and happily achieved the chivalric distinction by deeds of arms. The rest of the brothers and sons who had not entered the service of the Church as priest or canon, monk or friar, or into trade, continued in the lower chivalric and social rank of squires. When we come to look for authorities for the costume and manners of the knights of the Middle Ages, we find a great scarcity of them for the period between the Norman Conquest and the beginning of the Edwardian era. The literary authorities are not many; there are as yet few of the illuminated MSS., from which we derive such abundant material in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries;[370] the sepulchral monuments are not numerous; the valuable series of monumental brasses has not begun; the Bayeux tapestry, which affords abundant material for the special time to which it relates, we have abstained from drawing upon; and there are few subjects in any other class of pictorial art to help us out. The figure of Goliath, which we gave in our last chapter (p. 322), will serve very well for a general representation of a knight of the twelfth century. In truth, from the Norman Conquest down to the introduction of plate armour at the close of the thirteenth century, there was wonderfully little alteration in the knightly armour and costume. It would seem that the body armour consisted of garments of the ordinary fashion, either quilted in their substance to deaden the force of a blow, or covered with _mailles_ (rings) on the exterior, to resist the edge of sword or point of lance. The ingenuity of the armourer showed itself in various ways of quilting, and various methods of applying the external defence of metal. Of the quilted armours we know very little. In the illuminations is often seen armour covered over with lines arranged in a lozenge pattern, which perhaps represents garments stuffed and sewn in this commonest of all patterns of quilting; but it has been suggested that it may represent lozenged-shaped scales, of horn or metal, fastened upon the face of the garments. In the wood-cut here given from the MS. Caligula A. vii., we have one of the clearest and best extant illustrations of this quilted armour. In the mail armour there seem to have been different ways of applying the _mailles_. Sometimes it is represented as if the rings were sewn by one edge only, and at such a distance that each overlapped the other in the same row, but the rows do not overlap one another. Sometimes they look as if each row of rings had been sewn upon a strip of linen or leather and then the strips applied to the garment. Sometimes the rings were interlinked, as in a common steel purse, so that the garment was entirely of steel rings. Very frequently we find a surcoat or chausses represented, as if rings or little discs of metal were sewn flat all over the garment. It is possible that this is only an artistic way of indicating that the garment was covered with rings, after one of the methods above described; but it is also possible that a light armour was composed of rings thus sparely sewn upon a linen or leather garment. It is possible also that little round plates of metal or horn were used in this way for defence, for we have next to mention that _scale_ armour is sometimes, though rarely, found; it consisted of small scales, usually rectangular, and probably usually of horn, though sometimes of metal, attached to a linen or leather garment. [Illustration: _Quilted Armour._] The shield and helmet varied somewhat in shape at various times. The shield in the Bayeux tapestry was kite-shaped, concave, and tolerably large, like that of Goliath on p. 322. The tendency of its fashion was continually to grow shorter in proportion to its width, and flatter. The round Saxon target continued in use throughout the Middle Ages, more especially for foot-soldiers. The helmet, at the beginning of the period, was like the old Saxon conical helmet, with a nasal; and this continued in occasional use far into the fourteenth century. About the end of the twelfth century, the cylindrical helmet of iron enclosing the whole head, with horizontal slits for vision, came into fashion. Richard I. is represented in one on his second great seal. A still later fashion is seen in the next woodcut, p. 334. William Longespée, A.D. 1227, has a flat-topped helmet. The only two inventions of the time seem to be, first, the surcoat, which began to be worn over the hauberk about the end of the twelfth century. The seal of King John is the first of the series of great seals in which we see it introduced. It seems to have been of linen or silk. The other great invention of this period was that of armorial bearings, properly so called. Devices painted upon the shield were common in classical times. They are found ordinarily on the shields in the Bayeux tapestry, and were habitually used by the Norman knights. In the Bayeux tapestry they seem to be fanciful or merely decorative; later they were symbolical or significant. But it was only towards the close of the twelfth century that each knight assumed a fixed device, which was exclusively appropriated to him, by which he was known, and which became hereditary in his family. The offensive weapons used by the knights were most commonly the sword and spear. The axe and mace are found, but rarely. The artillery consisted of the crossbow, which was the most formidable missile in use, and the long bow, which, however, was not yet the great arm of the English yeomanry which it became at a later period; but these were hardly the weapons of knights and gentlemen, though men-at-arms were frequently armed with the crossbow, and archers were occasionally mounted. The sling was sometimes used, as were other very rude weapons, by the half-armed crowd who were often included in the ranks of mediæval armies. We have said that there is a great scarcity of pictorial representations of the military costume of the thirteenth century, and of the few which exist the majority are so vague in their definition of details, that they add nothing to our knowledge of costume, and have so little of dramatic character, as to throw no light on manners and customs. Among the best are some knightly figures in the Harleian Roll, folio 6, which contains a life of St. Guthlac of about the end of the twelfth century. The figures are armed in short-sleeved and hooded hauberk; flat-topped iron helmet, some with, some without, the nasal; heater-shaped shield and spear; the legs undefended, except by boots like those of the Goliath on p. 322. The Harleian MS. 4,751, a MS. of the beginning of the thirteenth century, shows at folio 8 a group of soldiers attacking a fortification; it contains hints enough to make one earnestly desire that the subject had been more fully and artistically worked out. The fortification is represented by a timber projection carried on brackets from the face of the wall. Its garrison is represented by a single knight, whose demi-figure only is seen; he is represented in a short-sleeved hauberk, with a surcoat over it having a cross on the breast. He wears a flat-topped cylindrical helmet, and is armed with a crossbow. The assailants would seem to be a rabble of half-armed men; one is bareheaded, and armed only with a sling; others have round hats, whether of felt or iron does not appear; one is armed in a hooded hauberk and carries an axe, and a cylindrical helmet also appears amidst the crowd. In the Harleian MS. 5,102, of the beginning of the thirteenth century, at folio 32, there is a representation of the martyrdom of St. Thomas of Canterbury, which gives us the effigies of the three murderers in knightly costume. They all wear long-sleeved hauberks, which have the peculiarity of being slightly slit up the sides, and the tunic flows from beneath them. Fitzurse (known by the bear on his shield) has leg defences fastened behind, like those in our next woodcut, p. 334, and a circular iron helmet. One of the others wears a flat-topped helmet, and the third has the hood of mail fastened on the cheek, like that in the same woodcut. The drawing is inartistic, and the picture of little value for our present purposes. The Harleian MS. 3,244 contains several MSS. bound together. The second of these works is a Penitential, which has a knightly figure on horseback for its frontispiece. It has an allegorical meaning, and is rather curious. The inscription over the figure is _Milicia est vita hominis super terram_. (The life of man upon the earth is a warfare.) The knightly figure represents the Christian man in the spiritual panoply of this warfare; and the various items of armour and arms have inscriptions affixed to tell us what they are. Thus over the helmet is _Spes futuri gaudii_ (For a helmet the hope of salvation); his sword is inscribed, _Verbum di_; his spear, _Persevancia_; its pennon, _Regni cælesti desiderium_, &c. &c. The shield is charged with the well-known triangular device, with the enunciation of the doctrine of the Trinity, _Pater est Deus_, &c., _Pater non est Filius_, &c. The knight is clad in hauberk, with a rather long flowing surcoat; a helmet, in general shape like that in the next woodcut, but not so ornamental; he has chausses of mail; shield, sword, and spear with pennon, and prick spurs; but there is not sufficient definiteness in the details, or character in the drawing, to make it worth while to reproduce it. But there is one MS. picture which fully atones for the absence of others by its very great merit. It occurs in a small quarto of the last quarter of the thirteenth century, which contains the Psalter and Ecclesiastical Hymns. Towards the end of the book are several remarkably fine full-page drawings, done in outline with a pen, and partially tinted with colour; large, distinct, and done with great spirit and artistic skill. The first on the verso of folio 218 is a king; on the opposite page is the knight, who is here given on a reduced scale; on the opposite side of the page is St. Christopher, and on the next page an archbishop. The figure of the knight before us shows very clearly the various details of a suit of thirteenth-century armour. In the hauberk will be noticed the mode in which the hood is fastened at the side of the head, and the way in which the sleeves are continued into gauntlets, whose palms are left free from rings, so as to give a firmer grasp. The thighs, it will be seen, are protected by haut-de-chausses, which are mailed only in the exposed parts, and not on the seat. The legs have chausses of a different kind of armour. In the MS. drawings we often find various parts of the armour thus represented in different ways, and, as we have already said, we are sometimes tempted to think the unskilful artist has only used different modes of representing the same kind of mail. But here the drawing is so careful, and skilful, and self-evidently accurate, that we cannot doubt that the defence of the legs is really of a different kind of armour from the mail of the hauberk and haut-de-chausses. The surcoat is of graceful fashion, and embroidered with crosses, which appear also on the pennon, and one of them is used as an ornamental genouillière on the shoulder. The helmet is elaborately and very elegantly ornamented. The attitude of the figure is spirited and dignified, and the drawing unusually good. Altogether we do not know a finer representation of a knight of this century. [Illustration: _Knight of the latter part of the Thirteenth Century._] A few, but very valuable, authorities are to be found in the sculptural monumental effigies of this period. The best of them will be found in Stothard's "Monumental Effigies," and his work not only brings these examples together, and makes them easily accessible to the student, but it has this great advantage, that Stothard well understood his subject, and gives every detail with the most minute accuracy, and also elucidates obscure points of detail. Those in the Temple Church, that of William Longespée in Salisbury Cathedral, and that of Aymer de Valence in Westminster Abbey, are the most important of the series. Perhaps, after all, the only important light they add to that already obtained from the MSS. is, they help us to understand the fabrication of the mail-armour, by giving it in fac-simile relief. There are also a few foreign MSS., easily accessible, in the library of the British Museum, which the artist student will do well to consult; but he must remember that some of the peculiarities of costume which he will find there are foreign fashions, and are not to be introduced in English subjects. For example, the MS. Cotton, Nero, c. iv., is a French MS. of about 1125 A.D., which contains some rather good drawings of military subjects. The Additional MS. 14,789, of German execution, written in 1128 A.D., contains military subjects; among them is a figure of Goliath, in which the Philistine has a hauberk of chain mail, and chausses of jazerant work, like the knight in the last woodcut. The Royal MS. 20 D. i., is a French MS., very full of valuable military drawings, executed probably at the close of the thirteenth century, belonging, however, in the style of its Art and costume, rather to the early part of the next period than to that under consideration. The MS. Addit. 17,687, contains fine and valuable German drawings, full of military authorities, of about the same period as the French MS. last mentioned. [Illustration: _Knight and Men-at-Arms of the end of the Thirteenth Century._] The accompanying wood-cut represents various peculiarities of the armour in use towards the close of the thirteenth century. It is taken from the Sloane MS. 346, which is a metrical Bible. In the original drawing a female figure is kneeling before the warrior, and there is an inscription over the picture, _Abygail placet iram regis David_ (Abigail appeases the anger of King David). So that this group of a thirteenth-century knight and his men-at-arms is intended by the mediæval artist to represent David and his followers on the march to revenge the churlishness of Nabal. The reader will notice the round plates at the elbows and knees, which are the first _visible_ introduction of plate armour--breastplates, worn under the hauberk, had been occasionally used from Saxon times. He will observe, too, the leather gauntlets which David wears, and the curious defences for the shoulders called _ailettes_: also that the shield is hung round the neck by its strap (_guige_), and the sword-belt round the hips, while the surcoat is girded round the waist by a silken cord. The group is also valuable for giving us at a glance three different fashions of helmet. David has a conical bascinet, with a movable visor. The man immediately behind him wears an iron hat, with a wide rim and a raised crest, which is not at all unusual at this period. The other two men wear the globular helmet, the most common head-defence of the time. [Illustration: _Knight of the end of the Thirteenth Century._] The next cut is a spirited little sketch of a mounted knight, from the same MS. The horse, it may be admitted, is very like those which children draw nowadays, but it has more life in it than most of the drawings of that day; and the way in which the knight sits his horse is much more artistic. The picture shows the equipment of the knight very clearly, and it is specially valuable as an early example of horse trappings, and as an authority for the shape of the saddle, with its high pommel and croupe. The inscription over the picture is, _Tharbis defendit urbem Sabea ab impugnanti Moysi_; and over the head of this cavalier is his name _Moyses_--Moses, as a knight of the end of the thirteenth century! CHAPTER III. ARMOUR OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. In arriving at the fourteenth century, we have reached the very heart of our subject. For this century was the period of the great national wars with France and Scotland; it was the time when the mercenaries raised in the Italian wars first learnt, and then taught the world, the trade of soldier and trained their captains in the art of war; it was the period when the romantic exploits and picturesque trappings of chivalry were in their greatest vogue; the period when Gothic art was at its highest point of excellence. It was a period, too, of which we have ample knowledge from public records and serious histories, from romance writers in poetry and prose, from Chaucer and Froissart, from MS. illuminations and monumental effigies. Our difficulty amid such a profusion of material is to select that which will be most serviceable to our special purpose. Let us begin with some detailed account of the different kinds and fashions of armour and equipment. In the preceding period, it has been seen, the most approved knightly armour was of mail. The characteristic feature of the armour of the fourteenth century is the intermixture of mail and plate. We see it first in small supplementary defences of plate introduced to protect the elbow and knee-joints. Probably it was found that the rather heavy and unpliable sleeve and hose of mail pressed inconveniently upon these joints; therefore the armourer adopted the expedient which proved to be the "thin end of the wedge" which gradually brought plate armour into fashion. He cut the mail hose in two; the lower part, which was then like a modern stocking, protected the leg, and the upper part protected the thigh, each being independently fastened below and above the knee, leaving the knee unprotected. Then he hollowed a piece of plate iron so as to form a cap for the knee, called technically a _genouillière_, within which the joint could work freely without chafing or pressure; perhaps it was padded or stuffed so as to deaden the effect of a blow; and it was fashioned so as effectually to cover all the part left undefended by the mail. The sleeve of the hauberk was cut in the same way, and the elbow was defended by a cap of plate-iron called a _coudière_. Early examples of these two pieces of plate armour will be seen in the later illustrations of our last chapter, for they were introduced a little before the end of the thirteenth century. The two pieces of plate were introduced simultaneously, and they appear together in the woodcut of David and his men in our last chapter; but we often find the genouillière used while the arm is still defended only by the sleeve of the hauberk, as in the first woodcut in the present chapter, and again in the cut on p. 348. It is easy to see that the pressure of the chausses of mail upon the knee in riding would be constant and considerable, and a much more serious inconvenience than the pressure upon the elbow in the usual attitude of the arm. [Illustration: _Men-at-Arms, Fourteenth Century._] Next, round plates of metal, called _placates_ or _roundels_, were applied to shield the armpits from a thrust; and sometimes they were used also at the elbow to protect the inner side of the joint where, for the convenience of motion, it was destitute of armour. An example of a roundel at the shoulder will be seen in one of the men-at-arms in the woodcut on p. 339. Another curious fashion which very generally prevailed at this time--that is, at the close of the thirteenth and beginning of the fourteenth century--was the _ailette_. It was a thin, oblong plate of metal, which was attached behind the shoulder. It would to some extent deaden the force of a blow directed at the neck, but it would afford so inartificial and ineffective a defence, that it is difficult to believe it was intended for anything more than an ornament. It is worn by the foremost knight in the cut on p. 335. Perhaps the next great improvement was to protect the foot by a shoe made of plates of iron overlapping, like the shell of a lobster, the sole being still of leather. Then plates of iron, made to fit the limb, were applied to the shin and the upper part of the forearm, and sometimes a small plate is applied to the upper part of the arm in the place most exposed to a blow. Then the shin and forearm defences were enlarged so as to enclose the limb completely, opening at the side with a hinge, and closing with straps or rivets. Then the thigh and the upper arm were similarly enclosed in plate. It is a little difficult to trace exactly the changes which took place in the body defences, because all through this period it was the fashion to wear a surcoat of some kind, which usually conceals all that was worn beneath it. It is however probable that at an early period of the introduction of plate a breastplate was introduced, which was worn over the hauberk, and perhaps fastened to it. Then, it would seem, a back plate was added also, worn over the hauberk. Next, the breast and back plate were made to enclose the whole of the upper part of the body, while only a skirt of mail remained; _i.e._ a garment of the same shape as the hauberk was worn, unprotected with mail, where the breast and back plate would come upon it, but still having its skirt covered with rings. In an illumination in the MS., is a picture of a knight putting off his jupon, in which the "pair of plates," as Chaucer calls them in a quotation hereafter given, is seen, tinted blue (steel colour), with a skirt of mail. At this time the helmet had a fringe of mail, called the _camail_, attached to its lower margin, which fell over the body armour, and defended the neck. It is clearly seen in the hindermost knight of the group in the woodcut on p. 339, and in the effigy of John of Eltham, on p. 342. It is not difficult to see the superiority of defence which plate afforded over mail. The edge of sword or axe would bite upon the mail; if the rings were unbroken, still the blow would be likely to bruise; and in romances it is common enough to hear of huge cantles of mail being hewn out by their blows, and the doughty champions being spent with loss of blood. But many a blow would glance off quite harmless from the curved and polished, and well-tempered surface of plate; so that it would probably require not only a more dexterous blow to make the edge of the weapon bite at all on the plate, but also a harder blow to cut into it so as to wound. In "Prince Arthur" we read of Sir Tristram and Sir Governale--"they avoided their horses, and put their shields before them, and they strake together with bright swords like men that were of might, and either wounded other wondrous sore, so that the blood ran upon the grass, and of their harness they had hewed off many pieces." And again, in a combat between Sir Tristram and Sir Elias, after a course in which "either smote other so hard that both horses and knights went to the earth," "they both lightly rose up and dressed their shields on their shoulders, with naked swords in their hands, and they dashed together like as there had been a flaming fire about them. Thus they traced and traversed, and hewed on helms and hauberks, and cut away many pieces and cantles of their shields, and either wounded other passingly sore, so that the hot blood fell fresh upon the earth." We have said that a surcoat of some kind was worn throughout this period, but it differed in shape at different times, and had different names applied to it. In the early part of the time of which we are now speaking, _i.e._ when the innovation of plate armour was beginning, the loose and flowing surcoat of the thirteenth century was still used, and is very clearly seen in the nearest of the group of knights in woodcut on p. 339. It was usually of linen or silk, sleeveless, reached halfway between the knee and ankle, was left unstiffened to fall in loose folds, except that it was girt by a silk cord round the waist, and its skirts flutter behind as the wearer gallops on through the air. The change of taste was in the direction of shortening the skirts of the surcoat, and making it scantier about the body, and stiffening it so as to make it fit the person without folds; at last it was tightly fitted to the breast and back plate, and showed their outline; and it was not uncommonly covered with embroidery, often of the armorial bearings of the wearer. The former garment is properly called a surcoat, and the latter a jupon; the one is characteristic of the greater part of the thirteenth century, the latter of the greater part of the fourteenth. But the fashion did not change suddenly from the one to the other; there was a transitional phase called the _cyclas_, which may be briefly described. The cyclas opened up the sides instead of in front, and it had this curious peculiarity, that the front skirt was cut much shorter than the hind skirt--behind it reached to the knees, but in front not very much below the hips. The fashion has this advantage for antiquarians, that the shortness of the front skirt allows us to see a whole series of military garments beneath, which are hidden by the long surcoat and even by the shorter jupon, A suit of armour of this period is represented in the Roman d'Alexandre (Bodleian Library), at folio 143 v., and elsewhere in the MS. The remainder of the few examples of the cyclas which remain, and which, so far as our observation extends, are all in sepulchral monuments, range between the years 1325 and 1335, the shortening of the cyclas enables us to see. We have chosen for our illustration the sepulchral effigy in Westminster Abbey of John of Eltham, the second son of King Edward II., who died in 1334. Here we see first and lowest the hacqueton; then the hauberk of chain mail, slightly pointed in front, which was one of the fashions of the time, as we see it also in the monumental brasses of Sir John de Creke, at Westley-Waterless, Cambridgeshire, and of Sir J. D'Aubernoun, the younger, at Stoke D'Abernon, Surrey; over the hauberk we see the ornamented gambeson; and over all the cyclas. It is a question whether knights generally wore this whole series of defences, but the monumental effigies are usually so accurate in their representations of actual costume, that we must conclude that at least on occasions of state solemnity they were all worn. In the illustration it will be seen that the cyclas is confined, not by a silk cord, but by a narrow belt, while the sword-belt of the thirteenth century is still worn in addition. The jupon is seen in the two knights tilting, in the woodcut on p. 348. In the knight on the left will be seen how it fits tightly, and takes the globular shape of the breastplate. It will be noticed that on this knight the skirt of the jupon is scalloped, on the other it is plain. The jupon was not girded with a silk cord or a narrow belt; it was made to fit tight without any such fastening. The sword-belt worn with it differs in two important respects from that worn previously. It does not fall diagonally across the person, but horizontally over the hips; and it is not merely a leather belt ornamented, but the leather foundation is completely concealed by plates of metal in high relief, chased, gilt, and filled with enamels, forming a gorgeous decoration. The general form will be seen in the woodcut on p. 350, but its elaboration and splendour are better understood on an examination of some of the sculptured effigies, in which the forms of the metal plates are preserved in facsimile, with traces of their gilding and colour still remaining. [Illustration: _John of Eltham._] It would be easy, from the series of sculptured effigies in relief and monumental brasses, to give a complete chronological view of these various changes which were continually progressing throughout the fourteenth century. But this has already been done in the very accessible works by Stothard, the Messrs. Waller, Mr. Boutell, and Mr. Haines, especially devoted to monumental effigies and brasses. It will be more in accordance with the plan we have laid down for ourselves, if we take from the less known illuminations of MSS. some subjects which will perhaps be less clear and fine in detail, but will have more life and character than the formal monumental effigies. We must, however, pause to mention some other kinds of armour which were sometimes used in place of armour of steel. And first we may mention leather. Leather was always more or less used as a cheap kind of defence, from the Saxon leather tunic with the hair left on it, down to the buff jerkin of the time of the Commonwealth, and even to the thick leather gauntlets and jack boots of the present Life Guardsman. But at the time of which we are speaking pieces of armour of the same shape as those we have been describing were sometimes made, for the sake of lightness, of _cuir bouilli_ instead of metal. Cuir bouilli was, as its name implies, leather which was treated with hot water, in such a way as to make it assume a required shape; and often it was also impressed, while soft, with ornamental devices. It is easy to see that in this way armour might be made possessing great comparative lightness, and yet a certain degree of strength, and capable, by stamping, colouring, and gilding, of a high degree of ornamentation. It was a kind of armour very suitable for occasions of mere ceremonial, and it was adopted in actual combat for parts of the body less exposed to injury; for instance, it seems to be especially used for the defence of the lower half of the legs. We shall find presently, in the description of Chaucer's Sire Thopas, the knight adventurous, that "his jambeux were of cuirbouly." In external form and appearance it would be so exactly like metal armour that it may be represented in some of the ornamental effigies and MSS. drawings, where it has the appearance of, and is usually assumed to be, metal armour. Another form of armour, of which we often meet with examples in drawings and effigies, is one in which the piece of armour appears to be studded, at more or less distant regular intervals, with small round plates. There are two suggestions as to the kind of armour intended. One is, that the armour thus represented was a garment of cloth, silk, velvet, or other textile material, lined with plates of metal, which are fastened to the garment with metal rivets, and that the heads of these rivets, gilt and ornamented, were allowed to be seen powdering the coloured face of the garment by way of ornament. Another suggestion is that the garment was merely one of the padded and quilted armours which we shall have next to describe, in which, as an additional precaution, metal studs were introduced, much as an oak door is studded with iron bolts. An example of it will be seen in the armour of the forearms of King Meliadus in the woodcut on p. 350. Chaucer seems to speak of this kind of defence, in his description of Lycurgus at the great tournament in the "Knight's Tale," under the name of coat armour:-- "Instede of cote-armure on his harnais, With nayles yelwe and bryght as any gold, He had a bere's skin cole-blake for old." Next we come to the rather large and important series of quilted defences. We find the names of the _gambeson_, _hacqueton_, and _pourpoint_, and sometimes the _jacke_. It is a little difficult to distinguish one from the other in the descriptions; and in fact they appear to have greatly resembled one another, and the names seem often to have been used interchangeably. The gambeson was a sleeved tunic of stout coarse linen, stuffed with flax and other common material, and sewn longitudinally. The hacqueton was a similar garment, only made of buckram, and stuffed with cotton; stiff from its material, but not so thick and clumsy as the gambeson. The pourpoint was very like the hacqueton, only that it was made of finer material, faced with silk, and stitched in ornamental patterns. The gambeson and hacqueton were worn under the armour, partly to relieve its pressure upon the body, partly to afford an additional defence. Sometimes they were worn, especially by the common soldiers, without any other armour. The pourpoint was worn over the hauberk, but sometimes it was worn alone, the hauberk being omitted for the sake of lightness. The jacke, or jacque, was a tunic of stuffed leather, and was usually worn by the common soldiers without other armour, but sometimes as light armour by knights. In the first wood-cut on the next page, from the Romance of King Meliadus, we have a figure which appears to be habited in one of these quilted armours, perhaps the hacqueton. There is another figure in the same group, in a similar dress, with this difference--in the first the skirt seems to fall loose and light, in the second the skirt seems to be stuffed and quilted like the body of the garment. At folio 214 of the same Romance is a squire, attendant upon a knight-errant, who is habited in a similar hacqueton to that we have represented; the squires throughout the MS. are usually quite unarmed. In the monumental effigy of Sir Robert Shurland, who was made a knight-banneret in 1300, we seem to have a curious and probably unique effigy of a knight in the gameson. We give a woodcut of it, reduced from Stothard's engraving. The smaller figure of the man placed at the feet of the effigy is in the same costume, and affords us an additional example. Stothard conjectures that the garment in the effigy of John of Eltham (1334 A.D.), whose vandyked border appears beneath his hauberk, is the buckram of the hacqueton left unstuffed, and ornamentally scalloped round the border. In the MS. of King Meliadus, at f. 21, and again on the other side of the leaf, is a knight, whose red jupon, slit up at the sides, is thrown open by his attitude, so that we see the skirt of mail beneath, which is silvered to represent metal; and beneath that is a scalloped border of an under habit, which is left white, and, if Stothard's conjecture be correct, is another example of the hacqueton under the hauberk. But the best representation which we have met with of the quilted armours is in the MS. of the Romance of the Rose (Harleian, 4,425), at folio 133, where, in a battle scene, one knight is conspicuous among the blue steel and red and green jupons of the other knights by a white body armour quilted in small squares, with which he wears a steel bascinet and ringed camail. He is engraved on p. 389. [Illustration: _Squire in Hacqueton._] [Illustration: _Sir Robert Shurland._] And now to turn to a description of some of the MS. illuminations which illustrate this chapter. That on p. 339 is a charming little subject from a famous MS. (Royal 2 B. VII.) of the beginning of the Edwardian period, which will illustrate half-a-dozen objects besides the mere suit of knightly armour. First of all there is the suit of armour on the knight in the foreground, the hooded hauberk and chausses of mail and genouillières, the chapeau de fer, or war helm, and the surcoat, and the shield. But we get also a variety of helmets, different kinds of weapons, falchion and axe, as well as sword and spear, and the pennon attached to the spear; and, in addition, the complete horse trappings, with the ornamental crest which was used to set off the arching neck and tossing head. Moreover, we learn that this variety of arms and armour was to be found in a single troop of men-at-arms; and we see the irregular but picturesque effect which such a group presented to the eyes of the monkish illuminator as it pranced beneath the gateway into the outer court of the abbey, to seek the hospitality which the hospitaller would hasten to offer on behalf of the convent. This mixture of armour and weapons is brought before us by Chaucer in his description of Palamon's party in the great tournament in the "Knight's Tale:"-- "And right so ferden they with Palamon, With him ther wenten knights many one, Som wol ben armed in an habergeon, And in a brestplate and in a gipon; And some wol have a pair of plates large; And some wol have a Pruce shield or a targe; And some wol ben armed on his legge's wele, And have an axe, and some a mace of stele, Ther was no newe guise that it was old, Armed they weren, as I have you told, Everich after his opinion." The illustration here given and that on p. 350 are from a MS. which we cannot quote for the first time without calling special attention to it. It is a MS. of one of the numerous romances of the King Arthur cycle, the Romance of the King Meliadus, who was one of the Companions of the Round Table. The book is profusely illustrated with pictures which are invaluable to the student of military costume and chivalric customs. They are by different hands, and not all of the same date, the earlier series being probably about 1350, the later perhaps as late as near the end of the century. In both these dates the MS. gives page after page of large-sized pictures drawn with great spirit, and illustrating every variety of incident which could take place in single combat and in tournament, with many scenes of civil and domestic life besides. Especially there is page after page in which, along the lower portion of the pages, across the whole width of the book, there are pictures of tournaments. There is a gallery of spectators along the top, and in some of these--especially in those at folio 151 v. and 152, which are sketched in with pen and ink, and left uncoloured--there are more of character and artistic drawing than the artists of the time are usually believed to have possessed. Beneath this gallery is a confused mêlée of knights in the very thickest throng and most energetic action of a tournament. The wood-cut on p. 348 represents one out of many incidents of a single combat. It does not do justice to the drawing, and looks tame for want of the colouring of the original; but it will serve to show the armour and equipment of the time. The victor knight is habited in a hauberk of banded mail, with gauntlets of plate, and the legs are cased entirely in plate. The body armour is covered by a jupon; the tilting helmet has a knight's chapeau and drapery carrying the lion crest. The armour in the illumination is silvered to represent metal. The knight's jupon is red, and the trappings of his helmet red, with a golden lion; his shield bears gules, a lion rampant argent; the conquered knight's jupon is blue, his shield argent, two bandlets gules. We see here the way in which the shield was carried, and the long slender spear couched, in the charge. [Illustration: _Jousting._] The next wood-cut hardly does credit to the charming original. It represents the royal knight-errant himself sitting by a fountain, talking with his squire. The suit of armour is beautiful, and the face of the knight has much character, but very different from the modern conventional type of a mediæval knight-errant. His armour deserves particular examination. He wears a hauberk of banded mail; whether he wears a breastplate, or pair of plates, we are unable to see for the jupon, but we can see the hauberk which protects the throat above the jupon, and the skirt of it where the attitude of the wearer throws the skirt of the jupon open at the side. It will be seen that the sleeves of the hauberk are not continued, as in most examples, over the hands, or even down to the wrist; but the forearm is defended by studded armour, and the hands by gauntlets which are probably of plate. The leg defences are admirably exhibited; the hose of banded mail, the knee cap, and shin pieces of plate, and the boots of overlapping plates. The helmet also, with its royal crown and curious double crest, is worth notice. In the original drawing the whole suit of armour is brilliantly executed. The armour is all silvered to represent steel, the jupon is green, the military belt gold, the helmet silvered, with its drapery blue powdered with gold fleurs-de-lis, and its crown, and the fleur-de-lis which terminate its crest, gold. The whole dress and armour of a knight of the latter half of the fourteenth century are described for us by Chaucer in a few stanzas of his Rime of Sire Thopas:-- "He didde[371] next his white lere Of cloth of lake fine and clere A breche and eke a sherte; And next his shert an haketon, And over that an habergeon, For percing of his herte. And over that a fine hauberk, Was all ye wrought of Jewes werk, Full strong it was of plate; And over that his coat armoure, As white as is the lily floure, In which he could debate.[372] His jambeux were of cuirbouly,[373] His swerde's sheth of ivory, His helm of latoun[374] bright, His sadel was of rewel bone, His bridle as the sonne shone, Or as the mone-light[375] His sheld was all of gold so red, And therein was a bore's hed, A charboncle beside; And then he swore on ale and bred, How that the geaunt shuld be ded, Betide what so betide. His spere was of fine cypres, That bodeth warre and nothing pees, The hed ful sharpe yground. His stede was all of dapper gray. It goth an amble in the way, Ful softely in londe." [Illustration: _A Knight-Errant._] There is so much of character in his squire's face in the same picture, and that character so different from our conventional idea of a squire, that we are tempted to give a sketch of it on p. 352, as he leans over the horse's back talking to his master. This MS. affords us a whole gallery of squires attendant upon their knights. At folio 66 v. is one carrying his master's spear and shield, who has a round cap with a long feather, like that in the woodcut. In several other instances the squire rides bareheaded, but has his hood hanging behind on his shoulders ready for a cold day or a shower of rain. In another place the knight is attended by two squires, one bearing his master's tilting helmet on his shoulder, the other carrying his spear and shield. In all cases the squires are unarmed, and mature men of rather heavy type, different from the gay and gallant youths whom we are apt to picture to ourselves as the squires of the days of chivalry attendant on noble knights adventurous. In other cases we see the squires looking on very phlegmatically while their masters are in the height of a single combat; perhaps a knight adventurous was not a hero to his squire. But again we see the squire starting into activity to catch his master's steed, from which he has been unhorsed by an antagonist of greater strength or skill, or good fortune. We see him also in the lists at a tournament, handing his master a new spear when he has splintered his own on an opponent's shield; or helping him to his feet when he has been overthrown, horse and man, under the hoofs of prancing horses. [Illustration: _The Knight-Errant's Squire._] CHAPTER IV. THE DAYS OF CHIVALRY. We have no inclination to deny that life is more safe and easy in these days than it was in the Middle Ages, but it certainly is less picturesque, and adventurous, and joyous. This country then presented the features of interest which those among us who have wealth and leisure now travel to foreign lands to find. There were vast tracts of primeval forest, and wild unenclosed moors and commons, and marshes and meres. The towns were surrounded by walls and towers, and the narrow streets of picturesque, gabled, timber houses were divided by wide spaces of garden and grove, above which rose numerous steeples of churches full of artistic wealth. The villages consisted of a group of cottages scattered round a wide green, with a village cross in the middle, and a maypole beside it. And there were stately monasteries in the rich valleys; and castles crowned the hills; and moated manor-houses lay buried in their woods; and hermitages stood by the dangerous fords. The high roads were little more than green lanes with a narrow beaten track in the middle, poached into deep mud in winter; and the by-roads were bridle-paths winding from village to village; and the costumes of the people were picturesque in fashion, bright in colour, and characteristic. The gentleman pranced along in silks and velvets, in plumed hat, and enamelled belt, and gold-hilted sword and spurs, with a troop of armed servants behind him; the abbot, in the robe of his order, with a couple of chaplains, all on ambling palfreys; the friar paced along in serge frock and sandals; the minstrel, in gay coat, sang snatches of lays as he wandered along from hall to castle, with a lad at his back carrying his harp or gittern; the traders went from fair to fair, taking their goods on strings of pack horses; a pilgrim, passed now and then, with staff and scrip and cloak; and, now and then, a knight-errant in full armour rode by on his war-horse, with a squire carrying his helm and spear. It was a wild land, and the people were rude, and the times lawless; but every mile furnished pictures for the artist, and every day offered the chance of adventures. The reader must picture to himself the aspect of the country and the manners of the times, before he can appreciate the spirit of knight-errantry, to which it is necessary that we should devote one of these chapters on the Knights of the Middle Ages. The knight-errant was usually some young knight who had been lately dubbed, and who, full of courage and tired of the monotony of his father's manor-house, set out in search of adventures. We could envy him as, on some bright spring morning, he rode across the sounding drawbridge, followed by a squire in the person of some young forester as full of animal spirits and reckless courage as himself; or, perhaps, by some steady old warrior practised in the last French war, whom his father had chosen to take care of him. We sigh for our own lost youth as we think of him, with all the world before him--the mediæval world, with all its possibilities of wild adventure and romantic fortune; with caitiff knights to overthrow at spear-point, and distressed damsels to succour; and princesses to win as the prize of some great tournament; and rank and fame to gain by prowess and daring, under the eye of kings, in some great stricken field. The old romances enable us to follow such an errant knight through all his travels and adventures; and the illuminations leave hardly a point in the history unillustrated by their quaint but naïve and charming pictures. Tennyson has taken some of the episodes out of these old romances, and filled up the artless but suggestive stories with the rich detail and artistic finish which adapt them to our modern taste, and has made them the favourite subjects of modern poetry. But he has left a hundred others behind; stories as beautiful, with words and sentences here and there full of poetry, destined to supply material for future poems and new subjects for our painters. It is our business to quote from these romances some of the scenes which will illustrate our subject, and to introduce some of the illuminations that will present them to the eye. In selecting the literary sketches, we shall use almost exclusively the translation which Sir Thomas Mallory made, and Caxton printed, of the cycle of Prince Arthur romances, because it comprises a sufficient number for our purpose, and because the language, while perfectly intelligible and in the best and most vigorous English, has enough of antique style to give the charm which would be wanting if we were to translate the older romances into modern phraseology. In the same way we shall content ourselves with selecting pictorial illustrations chiefly from MSS. of the fourteenth century, the date at which many of these romances were brought into the form in which they have descended to us. [Illustration: _A Squire._] A knight was known to be a knight-errant by his riding through the peaceful country in full armour, with a single squire at his back, as surely as a man is now recognised as a fox-hunter who is seen riding easily along the strip of green sward by the roadside in a pink coat and velvet cap. "Fair knight," says Sir Tristram, to one whom he had found sitting by a fountain, "ye seem for to be a knight-errant by your arms and your harness, therefore dress ye to just with one of us:" for this was of course inevitable when knights-errant met; the whole passage is worth transcribing:--"Sir Tristram and Sir Kay rode within the forest a mile or more. And at the last Sir Tristram saw before him a likely knight and a well-made man, all armed, sitting by a clear fountain, and a mighty horse near unto him tied to a great oak, and a man [his squire] riding by him, leading an horse that was laden with spears. Then Sir Tristram rode near him, and said, 'Fair knight, why sit ye so drooping, for ye seem to be an errant knight by your arms and harness, and therefore dress ye to just with one of us or with both.' Therewith that knight made no words, but took his shield and buckled it about his neck, and lightly he took his horse and leaped upon him, and then he took a great spear of his squire, and departed his way a furlong." And so we read in another place:--"Sir Dinadan spake on high and said, 'Sir Knight, make thee ready to just with me, for it is the custom of all arrant knights one for to just with another.' 'Sir,' said Sir Epinogris, 'is that the rule of your arrant knights, for to make a knight to just whether he will or not?' 'As for that, make thee ready, for here is for me.' And therewith they spurred their horses, and met together so hard that Sir Epinogris smote down Sir Dinadan"--and so taught him the truth of the adage "that it is wise to let sleeping dogs lie." But they did not merely take the chance of meeting one another as they journeyed. A knight in quest of adventures would sometimes station himself at a ford or bridge, and mount guard all day long, and let no knight-errant pass until he had jousted with him. Thus we read "then they rode forth all together, King Mark, Sir Lamorake, and Sir Dinadan, till that they came unto a bridge, and at the end of that bridge stood a fair tower. Then saw they a knight on horseback, well armed, brandishing a spear, crying and proffering himself to just." And again, "When King Mark and Sir Dinadan had ridden about four miles, they came unto a bridge, whereas hoved a knight on horseback, and ready to just. 'So,' said Sir Dinadan unto King Mark, 'yonder hoveth a knight that will just, for there shall none pass this bridge but he must just with that knight.'" And again: "They rode through the forest, and at the last they were ware of two pavilions by a priory with two shields, and the one shield was renewed with white and the other shield was red. 'Thou shalt not pass this way,' said the dwarf, 'but first thou must just with yonder knights that abide in yonder pavilions that thou seest.' Then was Sir Tor ware where two pavilions were, and great spears stood out, and two shields hung on two trees by the pavilions." In the same way a knight would take up his abode for a few days at a wayside cross where four ways met, in order to meet adventures from east, west, north, and south. Notice of adventures was sometimes affixed upon such a cross, as we read in "Prince Arthur": "And so Sir Galahad and he rode forth all that week ere they found any adventure. And then upon a Sunday, in the morning, as they were departed from an abbey, they came unto a cross which departed two ways. And on that cross were letters written which said thus: _Now ye knights-errant that goeth forth for to seek adventures, see here two ways_," &c. Wherever they went, they made diligent inquiry for adventures. Thus "Sir Launcelot departed, and by adventure he came into a forest. And in the midst of a highway he met with a damsel riding on a white palfrey, and either saluted other: 'Fair damsel,' said Sir Launcelot, 'know ye in this country any adventures?' 'Sir Knight,' said the damsel, 'here are adventures near at hand, an thou durst prove them.' 'Why should I not prove adventures,' said Sir Launcelot, 'as for that cause came I hither?'" And on another occasion, we read, Sir Launcelot passed out of the (King Arthur's) court to seek adventures, and Sir Ector made him ready to meet Sir Launcelot, and as he had ridden long in a great forest, he met with a man that was like a forester.--These frequent notices of "riding long through a great forest" are noticeable as evidences of the condition of the country in those days.--"Fair fellow," said Sir Ector, "knowest thou in this country any adventures which be here nigh at hand?" "Sir," said the forester, "this country know I well, and here within this mile is a strong manor and well ditched"--not well walled; it was the fashion of the Middle Ages to choose low sites for their manor-houses, and to surround them with moats--such moats are still common round old manor-houses in Essex--"and by that manor on the left hand is a fair ford for horses to drink, and over that ford there groweth a fair tree, and thereon hangeth many fair shields that belonged some time unto good knights; and at the hole of the tree hangeth a bason of copper and laten; and strike upon that bason with the end of the spear thrice, and soon after thou shalt hear good tidings, and else hast thou the fairest grace that many a year any knight had that passed through this forest." [Illustration: _Preliminaries of Combat in Green Court of Castle._] Every castle offered hope, not only of hospitality, but also of a trial of arms; for in every castle there would be likely to be knights and squires glad of the opportunity of running a course with bated spears with a new and skilful antagonist. Here is a picture from an old MS. which represents the preliminaries of such a combat on the green between the castle walls and the moat. In many castles there was a special tilting-ground. Thus we read, "Sir Percivale passed the water, and when he came unto the castle gate, he said to the porter, 'Go thou unto the good knight within the castle, and tell him that here is came an errant knight to just with him.' 'Sir,' said the porter, 'ride ye within the castle, and there shall ye find a common place for justing, that lords and ladies may behold you.'" At Carisbrook Castle, in the Isle of Wight, the tilting-ground remains to this day; a plot of level green sward, with raised turfed banks round it, that at the same time served as the enclosure of the lists, and a vantage-ground from which the spectators might see the sport. At Gawsworth, also, the ancient tilting-ground still remains. But in most castles of any size, the outer court afforded room enough for a course, and at the worst there was the green meadow outside the castle walls. In some castles they had special customs; just as in old-fashioned country-houses one used to be told it was "the custom of the house" to do this and that; so it was "the custom of the castle" for every knight to break three lances, for instance, or exchange three strokes of sword with the lord--a quondam errant knight be sure, thus creating adventures for himself at home when marriage and cares of property forbade him to roam in search of them. Thus, in the Romance:--"Sir Tristram and Sir Dinadan rode forth their way till they came to some shepherds and herdsmen, and there they asked if they knew any lodging or harbour thereabout." "Forsooth, fair lords," said the herdsmen, "nigh hereby is a good lodging in a castle, but such a custom there is that there shall no knight be lodged but if he first just with two knights, and if ye be beaten, and have the worse, ye shall not be lodged there, and if ye beat them, ye shall be well lodged." The Knights of the Round Table easily vanquished the two knights of the castle, and were hospitably received; but while they were at table came Sir Palomides, and Sir Gaheris, "requiring to have the custom of the castle." "And now," said Sir Tristram, "must we defend the custom of the castle, inasmuch as we have the better of the lord of the castle." Here is the kind of invitation they were sure to receive from gentlemen living peaceably on their estates, but sympathising with the high spirit and love of adventure which sent young knights a-wandering through their woods and meadows, and under their castle walls:--Sir Tristram and Sir Gareth "were ware of a knight that came riding against [towards] them unarmed, and nothing about him but a sword; and when this knight came nigh them he saluted them, and they him again. 'Fair knights,' said that knight, 'I pray you, inasmuch as ye are knights errant, that ye will come and see my castle, and take such as ye find there, I pray you heartily.' And so they rode with him to his castle, and there they were brought to the hall that was well appareled, and so they were unarmed and set at a board." We have already heard in these brief extracts of knights lodging at castles and abbeys: we often find them received at manor-houses. Here is one of the most graphic pictures:--"Then Sir Launcelot mounted upon his horse and rode into many strange and wild countries, and through many waters and valleys, and evil was he lodged. And at the last, by fortune, it happened him against a night to come to a poor courtilage, and therein he found an old gentleman, which lodged him with a good will, and there he and his horse were well cheered. And when time was, his host brought him to a fair garret over a gate to his bed. There Sir Launcelot unarmed him, and set his harness by him, and went to bed, and anon he fell in sleep. So, soon after, there came one on horseback, and knocked at the gate in great haste. And when Sir Launcelot heard this, he arose up and looked out at the window, and saw by the moonlight three knights that came riding after that one man, and all three lashed upon him at once with their swords, and that one knight turned on them knightly again, and defended himself." And Sir Launcelot, like an errant knight, "took his harness and went out at the window by a sheet," and made them yield, and commanded them at Whit Sunday to go to King Arthur's court, and there yield them unto Queen Guenever's grace and mercy; for so errant knights gave to their lady-loves the evidences of their prowess, and did them honour, by sending them a constant succession of vanquished knights, and putting them "unto her grace and mercy." Very often the good knight in the midst of forest or wild found a night's shelter in a friendly hermitage, for hermitages, indeed, were established partly to afford shelter to belated travellers. Here is an example. Sir Tor asks the dwarf who is his guide, "'Know ye any lodging?' 'I know none,' said the dwarf; 'but here beside is an hermitage, and there ye must take such lodging as ye find.' And within a while they came to the hermitage and took lodging, and there was grass and oats and bread for their horses. Soon it was spread, and full hard was their supper; but there they rested them all the night till on the morrow, and heard a mass devoutly, and took their leave of the hermit, and Sir Tor prayed the hermit to pray for him, and he said he would, and betook him to God; and so he mounted on horseback, and rode towards Camelot." But sometimes not even a friendly hermitage came in sight at the hour of twilight, when the forest glades darkened, and the horse track across the moor could no longer be seen, and the knight had to betake himself to a soldier's bivouac. It is an incident often met with in the Romances. Here is a more poetical description than usual:--"And anon these knights made them ready, and rode over holts and hills, through forests and woods, till they came to a fair meadow full of fair flowers and grass, and there they rested them and their horses all that night." Again, "Sir Launcelot rode into a forest, and there he met with a gentlewoman riding upon a white palfrey, and she asked him, 'Sir Knight, whither ride ye?' 'Certainly, damsel,' said Sir Launcelot, 'I wot not whither I ride, but as fortune leadeth me.'... Then Sir Launcelot asked her where he might be harboured that night. 'Ye shall none find this day nor night, but to-morrow ye shall find good harbour.' And then he commended her unto God. Then he rode till he came to a cross, and took that for his host as for that night. And he put his horse to pasture, and took off his helm and shield, and made his prayers to the cross, that he might never again fall into deadly sin, and so he laid him down to sleep, and anon as he slept it befel him that he had a vision," with which we will not trouble the reader; but we commend the incident to any young artist in want of a subject for a picture: the wayside cross where the four roads meet in the forest, the gnarled tree-trunks with their foliage touched with autumn tints, and the green bracken withering into brown and yellow and red, under the level rays of the sun which fling alternate bars of light and shade across the scene; and the noble war-horse peacefully grazing on the short sweet forest grass, and the peerless knight in glorious gilded arms, with his helmet at his feet, and his great spear leaned against a tree-trunk, kneeling before the cross, with his grave noble face, and his golden hair gleaming in the sun-light, "making his prayers that he might never again fall into deadly sin." In the old monumental brasses in which pictures of the knightly costume are preserved to us with such wonderful accuracy and freshness, it is very common to find the knight represented as lying with his tilting helm under his head by way of pillow. One would take it for a mere artistic arrangement for raising the head of the recumbent figure, and for introducing this important portion of his costume, but that the Romances tell us that knights did actually make use of their helm for a pillow; a hard pillow, no doubt--but we have all heard of the veteran who kicked from under his son's head the snowball which he had rolled together for a pillow at his bivouac in the winter snow, indignant at his degenerate effeminacy. Thus we read of Sir Tristram and Sir Palomides, "They mounted upon their horses, and rode together into the forest, and there they found a fair well with clear water burbelling. 'Fair Sir,' said Sir Tristram, 'to drink of that water have I a lust.' And then they alighted from their horses, and then were they ware by them where stood a great horse tied to a tree, and ever he neighed, and then were they ware of a fair knight armed under a tree, lacking no piece of harness, save his helm lay under his head. Said Sir Tristram, 'Yonder lieth a fair knight, what is best to do?' 'Awake him,' said Sir Palomides. So Sir Tristram waked him with the end of his spear." They had better have let him be, for the knight, thus roused, got him to horse and overthrew them both. Again, we read how "Sir Launcelot bad his brother, Sir Lionel, to make him ready, for we two, said he, will seek adventures. So they mounted upon their horses, armed at all points, and rode into a deep forest, and after they came into a great plain, and then the weather was hot about noon, and Sir Launcelot had great lust to sleep. Then Sir Lionel espied a great apple-tree that stood by a hedge, and said, 'Brother, yonder is a fair shadow; there may we rest us, and our horses.' 'It is well said, fair brother,' said Sir Launcelot, 'for all the seven year I was not so sleepy as I am now.' And so they alighted there, and tied their horses unto sundry trees, and so Sir Launcelot laid him down under an apple-tree, and laid his helm under his head. And Sir Lionel waked while he slept." [Illustration: _Knights, Damsel, and Squire._] The knight did not, however, always trust to chance for shelter, and risk a night in the open air. Sometimes we find he took the field in this mimic warfare with a baggage train, and had his tent pitched for the night wherever night overtook him, or camped for a few days wherever a pleasant glade, or a fine prospect, or an agreeable neighbour, tempted him to prolong his stay. And he would picket his horse hard by, and thrust his spear into the ground beside the tent door, and hang his shield upon it. Thus we read:--"Now turn we unto Sir Launcelot, that had long been riding in a great forest, and at last came into a low country, full of fair rivers and meadows, and afore him he saw a long bridge, and three pavilions stood thereon of silk and sendal of divers hue, and without the pavilions hung three white shields on truncheons of spears, and great long spears stood upright by the pavilions, and at every pavilion's door stood three fresh squires, and so Sir Launcelot passed by them, and spake not a word." We may say here that it was not unusual for people in fine weather to pitch a tent in the courtyard or garden of the castle, and live there instead of indoors, or to go a-field and pitch a little camp in some pleasant place, and spend the time in justing and feasting, and mirth and minstrelsy. We read in one of the Romances how "the king and queen--King Arthur and Queen Guenever, to wit--made their pavilions and their tents to be pitched in the forest, beside a river, and there was daily hunting, for there were ever twenty knights ready for to just with all them that came in at that time." And here, in the woodcut below, is a picture of the scene. Usually, perhaps, there was not much danger in these adventures of a knight-errant. There was a fair prospect of bruises, and a risk of broken bones if he got an awkward fall, but not more risk perhaps than in the modern hunting-field. Even if the combat went further than the usual three courses with bated spears, if they did draw swords and continue the combat on foot, there was usually no more real danger than in a duel of German students. But sometimes cause of anger would accidentally rise between two errant knights, or the combat begun in courtesy would fire their hot blood, and they would resolve "worshipfully to win worship, or die knightly on the field," and a serious encounter would take place. There were even some knights of evil disposition enough to take delight in making every combat a serious one; and some of the adventures in which we take most interest relate how these bloodthirsty bullies, attacking in ignorance some Knight of the Round Table, got a well-deserved bloodletting for their pains. [Illustration: _King, &c., in Pavilion before Castle._] We must give one example of a combat--rather a long one, but it combines many different points of interest. "So as they (Merlin and King Arthur) went thus talking, they came to a fountain, and a rich pavilion by it. Then was King Arthur aware where a knight sat all armed in a chair. 'Sir Knight,' said King Arthur, 'for what cause abidest thou here, that there may no knight ride this way, but if he do just with thee; leave that custom.' 'This custom,' said the knight, 'have I used, and will use maugre who saith nay, and who is grieved with my custom, let him amend it that will.' 'I will amend it,' saith King Arthur. 'And I shall defend it,' saith the knight. Anon he took his horse, and dressed his shield, and took a spear; and they met so hard either on other's shield, that they shivered their spears. Therewith King Arthur drew his sword. 'Nay, not so,' saith the knight, 'it is fairer that we twain run more together with sharp spears.' 'I will well,' said King Arthur, 'an I had any more spears.' 'I have spears enough,' said the knight. So there came a squire, and brought two good spears, and King Arthur took one, and he another; so they spurred their horses, and came together with all their might, that either break their spears in their hands. Then King Arthur set hand to his sword. 'Nay,' said the knight, 'ye shall do better; ye are a passing good juster as ever I met withal; for the love of the high order of knighthood let us just it once again.' 'I assent me,' said King Arthur. Anon there were brought two good spears, and each knight got a spear, and therewith they ran together, that King Arthur's spear broke to shivers. But the knight hit him so hard in the middle of the shield, that horse and man fell to the earth, wherewith King Arthur was sore angered, and drew out his sword, and said, 'I will assay thee, Sir Knight, on foot, for I have lost the honour on horseback.' 'I will be on horseback,' said the knight. Then was King Arthur wrath, and dressed his shield towards him with his sword drawn. When the knight saw that, he alighted for him, for he thought it was no worship to have a knight at such advantage, he to be on horseback, and the other on foot, and so alighted, and dressed himself to King Arthur. Then there began a strong battle with many great strokes, and so hewed with their swords that the cantels flew on the field, and much blood they bled both, so that all the place where they fought was all bloody; and thus they fought long and rested them, and then they went to battle again, and so hurtled together like two wild boars, that either of them fell to the earth. So at the last they smote together, that both their swords met even together. But the sword of the knight smote King Arthur's sword in two pieces, wherefore he was heavy. Then said the knight to the king, 'Thou art in my danger, whether me list to slay thee or save thee; and but thou yield thee as overcome and recreant, thou shalt die.' 'As for death,' said King Arthur, 'welcome be it when it cometh, but as to yield me to thee as recreant, I had liever die than be so shamed.' And therewithal the king leapt upon Pelinore, and took him by the middle, and threw him down, and rased off his helmet. When the knight felt that he was a dread, for he was a passing big man of might; and anon he brought King Arthur under him, and rased off his helmet, and would have smitten off his head. Therewithal came Merlin, and said, 'Knight, hold thy hand.'" [Illustration: _Knights Justing._] Happy for the wounded knight if there were a religious house at hand, for there he was sure to find kind hospitality and such surgical skill as the times afforded. King Bagdemagus had this good fortune when he had been wounded by Sir Galahad. "I am sore wounded," said he, "and full hardly shall I escape from the death. Then the squire fet [fetched] his horse, and brought him with great pain to an abbey. Then was he taken down softly and unarmed, and laid in a bed, and his wound was looked into, for he lay there long and escaped hard with his life." So Sir Tristram, in his combat with Sir Marhaus, was so sorely wounded, "that unneath he might recover, and lay at a nunnery half a year." Such adventures sometimes, no doubt, ended fatally, as in the case of the unfortunate Sir Marhaus, and there was a summary conclusion to his adventures; and there was nothing left but to take him home and bury him in his parish church, and hang his sword and helmet over his tomb.[376] Many a knight would be satisfied with the series of adventures which finished by laying him on a sick bed for six months, with only an ancient nun for his nurse; and as soon as he was well enough he would get himself conveyed home on a horse litter, a sadder and a wiser man. The modern romances have good mediæval authority, too, for making marriage a natural conclusion of their three volumes of adventures; we have no less authority for it than that of Sir Launcelot:--"Now, damsel," said he, at the conclusion of an adventure, "will ye any more service of me?" "Nay, sir," said she at this time, "but God preserve you, wherever ye go or ride, for the courtliest knight thou art, and meekest to all ladies and gentlewomen that now liveth. But, Sir Knight, one thing me thinketh that ye lack, ye that are a knight wifeless, that ye will not love some maiden or gentlewoman, for I could never hear say that ye loved any of no manner degree, wherefore many in this country of high estate and low make great sorrow." "Fair damsel," said Sir Launcelot, "to be a wedded man I think never to be, for if I were, then should I be bound to tarry with my wife, and leave arms and tournaments, battles and adventures." We have only space left for a few examples of the quaint and poetical phrases that, as we have said, frequently occur in these Romances, some of which Tennyson has culled, and set like uncut mediæval gems in his circlet of "Idyls of the King." In the account of the great battle between King Arthur and his knights against the eleven kings "and their chivalry," we read "they were so courageous, that many knights shook and trembled for eagerness," and "they fought together, that the sound rang by the water and the wood," and "there was slain that morrow-tide ten thousand of good men's bodies." The second of these expressions is a favourite one; we meet with it again: "when King Ban came into the battle, he came in so fiercely, that the stroke resounded again from the water and the wood." Again we read, King Arthur "commanded his trumpets to blow the bloody sounds in such wise that the earth trembled and dindled." He was "a mighty man of men;" and "all men of worship said it was merry to be under such a chieftain, that would put his person in adventure as other poor knights did." CHAPTER V. KNIGHTS-ERRANT. In the British Museum are two volumes containing a rather large number of illuminated pictures which have been cut out of MSS., chiefly of the early fourteenth century, by some collector who did not understand how much more valuable they would have been, even as pictures, if left each by itself in the appropriate setting of its black letter page, than when pasted half-a-dozen together in a scrap-book. That they are severed from the letterpress which they were intended to illustrate is of the less importance, because they seem all to be illustrations of scenes in romances, and it is not difficult to one who is well versed in those early writings either to identify the subjects or to invent histories for them. Each isolated picture affords a subject in which an expert, turning the book over and explaining it to an amateur, would find material for a little lecture on mediæval art and architecture, costume, and manners. In presenting to the reader the subjects which illustrate this chapter, we find ourselves placed by circumstances in the position of being obliged to treat them like those scrap-book pictures of which we have spoken, viz., as isolated pictures, illustrating generally our subject of the Knights of the Middle Ages, needing each its independent explanation. The first subject represents a scene from some romance, in which the good knight, attended by his squire, is guided by a damsel on some adventure. As in the scene which we find in Caxton's "Prince Arthur": "And the good knight, Sir Galahad, rode so long, till that he came that night to the castle of Carberecke; and it befel him that he was benighted in an hermitage. And when they were at rest there came a gentlewoman knocking at the door, and called Sir Galahad, and so the hermit came to the door to ask what she would. Then she called the hermit, Sir Ulfric, 'I am a gentlewoman that would speak with the knight that is with you.' Then the good man awaked Sir Galahad, and bade him rise and speak 'with a gentlewoman which seemeth hath great need of you.' Then Sir Galahad went to her, and asked what she would. 'Sir Galahad,' said she, 'I will that you arm you and mount upon your horse and follow me, for I will show you within these three days the highest adventure that ever knight saw.' Anon, Sir Galahad armed him, and took his horse and commended him to God, and bade the gentlewoman go, and he would follow her there as she liked. So the damsel rode as fast as her palfrey might gallop till that she came to the sea." [Illustration: _Lady, Knight, and Squire._] Here then we see the lady ambling through the forest, and she rides as ladies rode in the middle ages, and as they still ride, like female centaurs, in the Sandwich Islands. She turns easily in her saddle, though going at a good pace, to carry on an animated conversation with the knight. He, it will be seen, is in hauberk and hood of banded mail, with the curious ornaments called _ailettes_--little wings--at his shoulders. He seems to have _genouillières_--knee-pieces of plate; but it is doubtful whether he has also plate armour about the leg, or whether the artist has omitted the lines which would indicate that the legs were, as is more probably the case, also protected by banded mail. He wears the prick spur; and his body-armour is protected from sun and rain by the surcoat. Behind him prances his squire. The reader will not fail to notice the character which the artist has thrown into his attitude and the expression of his features. It will be seen that he is not armed, but wears the ordinary civil costume, with a hood and hat; he carries his master's spear, and the shield is suspended at his back by its guige or strap; its hollow shape and the rampant lion emblazoned on it will not be overlooked. Romance writers are sometimes accused of forgetting that their heroes are human, and need to eat and drink and sleep. But this is hardly true of the old romancers, who, in relating knightly adventures, did not draw upon their imagination, but described the things which were continually happening about them; and the illuminators in illustrating the romances drew from the life--the life of their own day--and this it is which makes their pictures so naive and truthful in spite of their artistic defects, and so valuable as historical authorities. In the engraving above is a subject which would hardly have occurred to modern romancer or illustrator. The crowd of tents tells us that the scene is cast in the "tented field," either of real war or of the mimic war of some great tournament. The combat of the day is over. The modern romancer would have dropped the curtain for the day, to be drawn up again next morning when the trumpets of the heralds called the combatants once more to the field. Our mediæval illuminator has given us a charming episode in the story. He has followed the good knight to his pavilion pitched in the meadow hard by. The knight has doffed his armour, and taken his bath, and put on his robes of peace, and heard vespers, and gone to supper. The lighted candles show that it is getting dusk. It is only by an artistic license that the curtains of the tent are drawn aside to display the whole interior; in reality they were close drawn; these curtains are striped of alternate breadths of gay colours--gold and red and green and blue. Any one who has seen how picturesque a common bell tent, pitched on the lawn, looks from the outside, when one has been tempted by a fine summer evening to stay out late and "have candles," will be able to perceive how picturesque the striped curtains of this pavilion would be, how eminently picturesque the group of such pavilions here indicated, with the foliage of trees overhead and the grey walls and towers of a mediæval town in the background, with the stars coming out one by one among the turrets and spires sharply defined against the fading sky. [Illustration: _Knight at Supper._] The knight, like a good chevalier and humane master, has first seen his war-horse groomed and fed. And what a sure evidence that the picture is from the life is this introduction of the noble animal sharing the shelter of the tent of his master, who waits for supper to be served. The furniture of the table is worth looking at--the ample white table-cloth, though the table is, doubtless, only a board on trestles; and the two candlesticks of massive and elegant shape, show that the candlesticks now called altar-candlesticks are only of the ordinary domestic mediæval type, obsolete now in domestic use, but still retained, like so many other ancient fashions, in ecclesiastical use. There, too, are the wine flagon and cup, and the salt between them; the knife is at the knight's right hand. We almost expect to see the squire of the last picture enter from behind, bearing aloft in both hands a fat capon on an ample pewter platter. The little subject which is next engraved will enable us to introduce from the Romance of Prince Arthur a description of an adventure and a graphic account of the different turns and incidents of a single combat, told in language which is rich in picturesque obsolete words. "And so they rode forth a great while till they came to the borders of that country, and there they found a full fair village, with a strong bridge like a fortress.[377] And when Sir Launcelot and they were at the bridge, there start forth before them many gentlemen and yeomen, which said, 'Fair lord, ye may not pass over this bridge and this fortress but one of you at once, therefore choose which of you shall enter within this bridge first.' Then Sir Launcelot proffered himself first to enter within this bridge. 'Sir,' said Sir La Cote Male Taile, 'I beseech you let me enter first within this fortress, and if I speed well I will send for you, and if it happen that I be slain there it goeth; and if so be that I am taken prisoner then may ye come and rescue me.' 'I am loath,' said Sir Launcelot, 'to let you take this passage.' 'Sir,' said he, 'I pray you let me put my body in this adventure.' 'Now go your way,' said Sir Launcelot, 'and God be your speed.' So he entered, and anon there met with him two brethren, the one hight Sir Pleine de Force and that other hight Sir Pleine de Amours; and anon they met with Sir La Cote Male Taile, and first Sir La Cote Male Taile smote down Sir Pleine de Force, and soon after he smote down Sir Pleine de Amours; and then they dressed themselves to their shields and swords, and so they bade Sir La Cote Male Taile alight, and so he did, and there was dashing and foining with swords. And so they began full hard to assay Sir La Cote Male Taile, and many great wounds they gave him upon his head and upon his breast and upon his shoulders. And as he might ever among he gave sad strokes again. And then the two brethren traced and traversed for to be on both hands of Sir La Cote Male Taile. But by fine force and knightly prowess he got them afore him. And so then when he felt himself so wounded he doubled his strokes, and gave them so many wounds that he felled them to the earth, and would have slain them had they not yielded them. And right so Sir La Cote Male Taile took the best horse that there was of them two, and so rode forth his way to that other fortress and bridge, and there he met with the third brother, whose name was Sir Plenorius, a full noble knight, and there they justed together, and either smote other down, horse and man, to the earth. And then they two avoided their horses and dressed their shields and drew their swords and gave many sad strokes, and one while the one knight was afore on the bridge and another while the other. And thus they fought two hours and more and never rested. Then Sir La Cote Male Taile sunk down upon the earth, for what for wounds and what for blood he might not stand. Then the other knight had pity of him, and said, 'Fair young knight, dismay you not, for if ye had been fresh when ye met with me, as I was, I know well I should not have endured so long as ye have done, and therefore for your noble deeds and valiantness I shall show you great kindness and gentleness in all that ever I may.' And forthwith the noble knight, Sir Plenorius, took him up in his arms and led him into his tower. And then he commended him the more and made him for to search him and for to stop his bleeding wounds. 'Sir,' said Sir La Cote Male Taile, 'withdraw you from me, and hie you to yonder bridge again, for there will meet you another manner knight than ever I was.' Then Sir Plenorius gat his horse and came with a great spear in his hand galloping as the hurl wind had borne him towards Sir Launcelot, and then they began to feutre[378] their spears, and came together like thunder, and smote either other so mightily that their horses fell down under them; and then they avoided their horses and drew out their swords, and like two bulls they lashed together with great strokes and foins; but ever Sir Launcelot recovered ground upon him, and Sir Plenorius traced to have from about him, and Sir Launcelot would not suffer that, but bore him backer and backer, till he came nigh the gate tower, and then said Sir Launcelot, 'I know thee well for a good knight, but wot thou well thy life and death is in my hands, and therefore yield thou to me and thy prisoners.' The other answered not a word, but struck mightily upon Sir Launcelot's helm that fire sprang out of his eyes; then Sir Launcelot doubled his strokes so thick and smote at him so mightily that he made him to kneel upon his knees, and therewith Sir Launcelot lept upon him, and pulled him down grovelling; then Sir Plenorius yielded him and his tower and all his prisoners at his will, and Sir Launcelot received him and took his troth." We must tell briefly the chivalrous sequel. Sir Launcelot offered to Sir La Cote Male Taile all the possessions of the conquered knight, but he refused to receive them, and begged Sir Launcelot to let Sir Plenorius retain his livelihood on condition he would be King Arthur's knight,--"'Full well,' said Sir Launcelot, 'so that he will come to the court of King Arthur and become his man and his three brethren. And as for you, Sir Plenorius, I will undertake, at the next feast, so there be a place void, that ye shall be Knight of the Round Table.' Then Sir Launcelot and Sir La Cote Male Taile rested them there, and then they had merry cheer and good rest and many good games, and there were many fair ladies." In the woodcut we see Sir La Cote Male Taile, who has just overthrown Sir Pleine de Force at the foot of the bridge, and the gentlemen and yeomen are looking on out of the windows and over the battlements of the gate tower. [Illustration: _Defending the Bridge._] The illuminators are never tired of representing battles and sieges; and the general impression which we gather from them is that a mediæval combat must have presented to the lookers-on a confused _melée_ of rushing horses and armoured men in violent action, with a forest of weapons overhead--great swords, and falchions, and axes, and spears, with pennons fluttering aloft here and there in the breeze of the combat. We almost fancy we can see the dust caused by the prancing horses, and hear the clash of weapons and the hoarse war-cries, and sometimes can almost hear the shriek which bursts from the maddened horse, or the groan of the man who is wounded and helpless under the trampling hoofs. The woodcut introduced represents such a scene in a very spirited way. But it is noticeable among a hundred similar scenes for one incident, which is very unusual, and which gives us a glimpse of another aspect of mediæval war. It will be seen that the combat is taking place outside a castle or fortified town; and that, on a sudden, in the confusion of the combat, a side gate has been opened, and the bridge lowered, and a solid column of men-at-arms, on foot, is marching in military array across the bridge, in order to turn the flank of the assailant chivalry. We do not happen to know a representation of this early age of anything so thoroughly soldierly in its aspect as this sally. The incident itself indicates something more like regular war than the usual confused mingling of knights so well represented on the left side of the picture. The fact of men-at-arms, armed _cap-a-pied_, acting on foot, is not very usual at this period; their unmistakable military order, as they march two and two with shields held in the same attitude and spears sloped at the same angle, speaks of accurate drill. The armorial bearings on the shield of one of the foremost rank perhaps point out the officer in command. [Illustration: _A Sally across the Drawbridge._] It seems to be commonly assumed that the soldiers of the Middle Ages had little, if anything, like our modern drill and tactics; that the men were simply put into the field in masses, according to some rude initial plan of the general, but that after the first charge the battle broke up into a series of chance-medley combats, in which the leaders took a personal share; and that the only further piece of generalship consisted in bringing up a body of reserve to strengthen a corps which was giving ground, or to throw an overwhelming force upon some corps of the enemy which seemed to waver. It is true that we find very little information about the mediæval drill or tactics, but it is very possible that there was more of both than is commonly supposed. Any man whose duty it was to marshal and handle a body of troops would very soon, even if left to his own wit, invent enough of drill to enable him to move his men about from place to place, and to put them into the different formations necessary to enable them effectively to act on the offensive or defensive under different circumstances. A leader whose duty it was to command several bodies of troops would invent the elements of tactics, enough to enable him to combine them in a general plan of battle, and to take advantage of the different turns of the fight. Experience would rapidly ripen the knowledge of military men, and of experience they had only too much. It is true that the armies of mediæval England consisted chiefly of levies of men who were not professional soldiers, and the officers and commanders were marked out for leadership by their territorial possessions, not by their military skill. But the men were not unaccustomed to their weapons, and were occasionally mustered for feudal display; and the country gentlemen who officered them were trained to military exercises as a regular part of their education, and, we may assume, to so much of military skill as was necessary to fulfil their part as knights. Then there were mercenary captains, who by continuous devotion to war acquired great knowledge and experience in all military affairs; and the men who had to do with them, either as friends or foes, learnt from them. We need only glance down the line of our kings to find abundance of great captains among them--William the Conqueror, and Stephen, and Richard I., and Edward I. and III., and Henry IV. and V., and Edward IV., and Richard III. And military skill equal to the direction of armies was no less common among the nobility; and ability to take command of his own contingent was expected of every one who held his lands on condition of being always ready and able to follow his lord's banner to the field. In the Saxon days the strength of the army seems to have consisted of footmen, and their formation was generally in close and deep ranks, who, joining their shoulders together, formed an impenetrable defence; wielding long heavy swords and battle-axes, they made a terrible assault. Some insight into the tactics of the age is given by William of Malmesbury's assertion that at Hastings the Normans made a feigned flight, which drew the Saxons from their close array, and then turning upon them, took them at advantage; and repeated this manoeuvre more than once at the word of command. The strength of the Norman armies, on the other hand, consisted of knights and mounted men-at-arms. The military engines were placed in front, and commenced the engagement with their missiles; the archers and slingers were placed on the wings. The crowd of half-armed footmen usually formed the first line; the mounted troops were drawn up behind them in three lines, whose successive charges formed the main attack of the engagement. Occasionally, however, dismounted men-at-arms seem to have been used by some skilful generals with great effect. In several of the battles of Stephen's reign, this unusual mode appears to have been followed, under the influence of the foreign mercenary captains in the king's pay. Generals took pains to secure any possible advantage from the nature of the ground, and it follows that the plan of the battle must have turned sometimes on the defence or seizure of some commanding point which formed the key of the position. Ambuscades were a favourite device of which we not unfrequently read, and night surprises were equally common. We read also occasionally of stratagems, especially in the capture of fortresses, which savour rather of romance than of the stem realities of war. In short, perhaps the warfare of that day was not so very inferior in military skill to that of our own times as some suppose. In our last war the charge at Balaklava was as chivalrous a deed as ever was done in the Middle Ages, and Inkerman a fight of heroes; but neither of them displayed more military science than was displayed by the Norman chivalry who charged at Hastings, or the Saxon billmen whose sturdy courage all but won the fatal day. CHAPTER VI. MILITARY ENGINES. To attempt to represent the knights in their manor-houses and castles would be to enter upon an essay on the domestic and military architecture of the Middle Ages, which would be beyond the plan of these sketches of the mediæval chivalry. The student may find information on the subject in Mr. Parker's "Domestic Architecture," in Grose's "Military Antiquities," in Viollet le Duc's "Architecture du Moyen Age," and scattered over the publications of the various antiquarian and architectural societies. We must, however, say a few words as to the way in which the knight defended his castle when attacked in it, and how he attacked his neighbour's castle or his enemy's town, in private feud or public war. It seems to be a common impression that the most formidable aspect of mediæval war was a charge of knights with vizor down and lance in rest; and that these gallant cavaliers only pranced their horses round and round the outer margin of the moat of a mediæval castle, or if they did dismount and try to take the fortress by assault, would rage in vain against its thick walls and barred portcullis; as in the accompanying woodcut from a MS. romance of the early part of the 14th century (Add. 10,292, f. v., date A.D. 1316), where the king on his curveting charger couches his lance against the castle wall, and has only his shield to oppose to the great stone which is about to be hurled down upon his head. The impression is, no doubt, due to the fact that many people have read romances, ancient and modern, which concern themselves with the personal adventures of their heroes, but have not read mediæval history, which tells--even more than enough--of battles and sieges. They have only had the knight put before them--as in the early pages of these chapters--in the pomp and pageantry of chivalry. They have not seen him as the captain and soldier, directing and wielding the engines of war. Suppose the king and his chivalry in the following woodcut to be only summoning the castle; and suppose them, on receiving a refusal to surrender, to resolve upon an assault. They retire a few hundred yards and dismount, and put their horses under the care of a guard. Presently they return supported by a strong body of archers, who ply the mail-clad defenders with such a hail of arrows that they are driven to seek shelter behind the battlements. Seizing that moment, a party of camp followers run forward with a couple of planks, which they throw over the moat to make a temporary bridge. They are across in an instant, and place scaling-ladders against the walls. The knights, following close at their heels, mount rapidly, each man carrying his shield over his head, so that the bare ladder is converted into a covered stair, from whose shield-roof arrows glint and stones roll off innocuous. It is easy to see that a body of the enemy might thus, in a few minutes, effect a lodgment on the castle-wall, and open a way for the whole party of assailants into the interior. [Illustration: _Summoning the Castle._] But the assailed may succeed in throwing down the ladders; or in beating the enemy off them by hurling down great stones ready stored against such an emergency, or heaving the coping-stones off the battlements; or they may succeed in preventing the assailants from effecting a lodgment on the wall by a hand to hand encounter; and thus the assault may be foiled and beaten off. Still our mediæval captain has other resources; he will next order up his "gyns," _i.e._ engines of war. The name applies chiefly to machines constructed for the purpose of hurling heavy missiles. The ancient nations of antiquity possessed such machines, and the knowledge of them descended to mediæval times. There seems, however, to be this great difference between the classical and the mediæval engines, that the former were constructed on the principle of the bow, the latter on the principle of the sling. The classical _ballista_ was, in fact, a huge cross-bow, made in a complicated way and worked by machinery. The mediæval _trebuchet_ was a sling wielded by a gigantic arm of wood. In mediæval Latin the ancient name of the ballista is sometimes found, but in the mediæval pictures the principle of the engines illustrated is always that which we have described. We meet also in mediæval writings with the names of the _mangona_ and _mangonella_ and the _catapult_, but they were either different names for the same engine, or names for different species of the same genus. The woodcut here introduced from the MS. Add. 10,294, f. 81 V., gives a representation of a trebuchet. A still earlier representation--viz., of the thirteenth century--of machines of the same kind is to be found in the Arabic MS. quoted in a treatise, "Du feu Grégois," by MM. Favé and Reinaud, and leads to the supposition that the sling principle in these machines may have been introduced from the East. There are other representations of a little later date than that in the text (viz., about A.D. 1330) in the Royal MS. 16 G. VI., which are engraved in Shaw's "Dresses and Decorations." We also possess a contemporary description of the machine in the work of Gilles Colonne (who died A.D. 1316), written for Philip the Fair of France.[379] "Of _perriers_," he says, "there are four kinds, and in all these machines there is a beam which is raised and lowered by means of a counterpoise, a sling being attached to the end of the beam to discharge the stone. Sometimes the counterpoise is not sufficient, and then they attach ropes to it to move the beam." This appears to be the case in our illustration. The rope seems to be passed through a ring in the platform of the engine, so that the force applied to the rope acts to the greater advantage in aid of the weight of the beam. "The counterpoise may either be fixed or movable, or both at once. In the fixed counterpoise a box is fastened to the end of the beam, and filled with stones or sand, or any heavy body." One would not, perhaps, expect such a machine to possess any precision of action, but according to our author the case was far otherwise. "These machines," he continues, "anciently called _trabutium_, cast their missiles with the utmost exactness, because the weight acts in a uniform manner. Their aim is so sure, that one may, so to say, hit a needle. If the gyn carries too far, it must be drawn back or loaded with a heavier stone; if the contrary, then it must be advanced or a smaller stone supplied; for without attention to the weight of the stone, one cannot hope to reach the given mark." "Others of these machines have a movable counterpoise attached to the beam, turning upon an axis. This variety the Romans called _biffa_. The third kind, which is called _tripantum_, has two weights, one fixed to the beam and the other movable round it. By this means it throws with more exactness than the _biffa_, and to a greater distance than the trebuchet. The fourth sort, in lieu of weights fixed to the beam, has a number of ropes, and is discharged by means of men pulling simultaneously at the cords. This last kind does not cast such large stones as the others, but it has the advantage that it may be more rapidly loaded and discharged than they. In using the perriers by night it is necessary to attach a lighted body to the projectile. By this means one may discover the force of the machine, and regulate the weight of the stone accordingly."[380] This, then, is the engine which our captain, repulsed in his attempt to take the place by a _coup de main_, has ordered up, adjusting it, no doubt, like a good captain, with his own eye and hand, until he has got it, "so to say, to hit a needle," on the weak points of the place. It was usual in great sieges to have several of them, so that a whole battery might be set to work to overmaster the defence. [Illustration: _The Assault._] We must bear in mind that similar engines were, it is probable, usually mounted on the towers of the castle. We should judge from the roundness of the stones which the defenders in both the preceding woodcuts are throwing down by hand upon the enemy immediately beneath, that they are the stones provided for the military engines. We find that, as in modern times cannon is set to silence the cannon of the enemy, so that a battle becomes, for a time at least, an artillery duel, so engine was set to silence engine. In the account which Guillaume des Ormes gives of his defence of the French town of Carcasonne in 1240 A.D., he says: "They set up a mangonel before our barbican, when we lost no time in opposing to it from within an excellent Turkish petrary, which played upon the mangonel and those about it, so that when they essayed to cast upon us, and saw the beam of our petrary in motion, they fled, utterly abandoning their mangonel." There was also an engine called an _arbalast_, or _spurgardon_, or _espringale_, which was a huge cross-bow mounted on wheels, so as to be movable like a field-piece; it threw great pointed bolts with such force as to pass successively through several men. If the engines of the besiegers were silenced, or failed to produce any decisive impression on the place, the captain of the assailants might try the effect of the ram. We seldom, indeed, hear of its use in the Middle Ages, but one instance, at least, is recorded by Richard of Devizes, who says that Richard I., at the siege of Messina, forced in the gates of the city by the application of the battering-ram, and so won his way into the place, and captured it. The walls of mediæval fortifications were so immensely thick, that a ram would be little likely to break them. The gates, too, of a castle or fortified gate-tower were very strong. If the reader will look at the picture of a siege of a castle, given on page 373, he will see a representation of a castle-gate, which will help him to understand its defences. First he will see that the drawbridge is raised, so that the assailant has to bridge the moat before he can bring his battering-ram to bear. Suppose the yawning gulf bridged with planks or filled in with fascines, and the ram brought into position, under fire from the loops of the projecting towers of the gate as well as from the neighbouring battlements, then the bridge itself forms an outer door which must first be battered down. Behind it will be found the real outer-door, made as strong as oak timber and iron bolts can make it. That down, there is next the grated portcullis seen in two previous woodcuts, against which the ram would rattle with a great clang of iron; but the grating, with its wide spaces, and having plenty of "play" in its stone groove, would baffle the blows by the absence of a solid resistance, and withstand them by the tenacity of wrought-iron. Even if the bars were bent and torn till they afforded a passage, the assailants would find themselves in the narrow space within the gate-tower confronted by another door, and exposed to missiles poured upon them from above. It is, perhaps, no wonder that we hear little of the use of the ram in mediæval times; though it might be useful occasionally to drive in some ill-defended postern. The use of the regular mine for effecting a breach in the wall of a fortified place was well known, and often brought to bear. The miners began their work at some distance, and drove a shaft underground towards the part of the fortifications which seemed most assailable; they excavated beneath the foundations of the wall, supporting the substructure with wooden props until they had finished their work. Then they set fire to the props, and retired to see the unsupported weight of the wall bringing it down in a heap of ruins. The operation of mining was usually effected under the protection of a temporary pent-house, called a _cat_ or _sow_. William of Malmesbury describes the machine as used in the siege of Jerusalem, at the end of the eleventh century. "It is constructed," he says, "of slight timbers, the roof covered with boards and wicker-work, and the sides protected with undressed hides, to protect those who are within, who proceed to undermine the foundations of the walls." Our next woodcut gives a very clear illustration of one of these machines, which has been moved on its wheels up to the outer wall of a castle, and beneath its protection a party of men-at-arms are energetically plying their miner's tools, to pick away the foundation, and so allow a portion of the wall to settle down and leave an entrance. The methods in which this mode of attack was met were various. We all remember the Border heroine, who, when her castle was thus attacked, declared she would make the sow farrow, viz., by casting down a huge fragment of stone upon it. That this was one way of defence is shown in the woodcut, where one of the defenders, with energetic action, is casting down a huge stone upon the sow. That the roof was made strong enough to resist such a natural means of offence is shown by the stones which are represented as lodged all along it. Another more subtle counteraction, shown in the woodcut, was to pour boiling water or boiling oil upon it, that it might fall through the interstices of the roof, and make the interior untenable. No doubt means were taken to make the roof liquid-tight, for the illustration represents another mode of counteraction (of which we have met with no other suggestion), by driving sharp-pointed piles into the roof, so as to make holes and cracks through which the boiling liquid might find an entrance. If these means of counteracting the work of the cat seemed likely to be unavailing, it still remained to throw up an inner line of wall, which, when the breach was made, should extend from one side to the other of the unbroken wall, and so complete the circumvallation. This, we have evidence, was sometimes done with timber and planks, and a sort of scaffolding was erected on the inner side, which maintained the communication along the top of the walls, and enabled the soldiers to man the top of this wooden wall and offer a new resistance to the besiegers as they poured into the breach. The mine was also, in ancient as in modern times, met by a counter-mine. [Illustration: _The Cat._ (Royal, 16 G VI.)] Another usual machine for facilitating the siege of fortified places was a movable tower. Such an engine was commonly prepared beforehand, and taken to pieces and transported with the army as a normal part of the siege-train. When arrived at the scene of operations, it was put together at a distance, and then pushed forward on wheels, until it confronted the walls of the place against which it was to operate. It was intended to put the besiegers on a level and equality with the besieged. From the roof the assailants could command the battlements and the interior of the place, and by their archers could annoy the defence. A movable part of the front of the tower suddenly let fall upon the opposite battlements, at once opened a door and formed a bridge, by which the besiegers could make a rush upon the walls and effect a lodgment if successful, or retreat if unsuccessful to their own party. Such a tower was constructed by Richard I. in Cyprus, as part of his preparation for his Crusade. An illustration of a tower thus opposed to a castle--not a very good illustration--is to be found in the Royal MS., 16 G. VI., at folio 278 v. Another, a great square tower, just level with the opposing battlements, with a kind of sloping roof to ward off missiles, is shown in the MS. _Chroniques d'Angleterres_ (Royal 16, E. IV.), which was illuminated for Edward IV. Again, at f. 201 of the same MS., is another representation of wooden towers opposed to a city. If the besieged could form a probable conjecture as to the point of the walls towards which the movable tower, whose threatening height they saw gradually growing at a bow-shot from their walls, would be ultimately directed, they sometimes sent out under cover of night and dug pitfalls, into which, as its huge bulk was rolled creaking forward, its fore wheels might suddenly sink, and so the machine fall forward, and remain fixed and useless. As it approached, they also tried to set it on fire by missiles tipped with combustibles. If it fairly attained its position, they assailed every loop and crevice in it with arrows and crossbow bolts, and planted a strong body of men-at-arms on the walls opposite to it, and in the neighbouring towers, to repel the "boarders" in personal combat. A bold and enterprising captain did not always wait for the approach of these engines of assault, but would counter-work them as he best could from the shelter of his walls. He would sometimes lower the drawbridge, and make a sudden sally upon the unfinished tower or the advancing sow, beat off the handful of men who were engaged about it, pile up the fragments and chips lying about, pour a few pots of oil or tar over the mass, and set fire to it, and return in triumph to watch from his battlements how his fiery ally would, in half an hour, destroy his enemy's work of half a month. In the early fourteenth century MS. Add. 10,294, at fol. 740, we have a small picture of a fight before a castle or town, in which we see a column of men-at-arms crossing the drawbridge on such an expedition. And again, in the plates in which Hans Burgmaier immortalised the events of the reign of the Emperor Maximilian, a very artistic representation of a body of men-at-arms, with their long lances, crowding through the picturesque gate and over the drawbridge, brings such an incident vividly before us. The besiegers on their part did not neglect to avail themselves of such shelter as they could find or make from the shot and from the sallies of the enemy, so as to equalise as much as practicable the conditions of the contest. The archers of the castle found shelter behind the merlons of the battlements, and had the windows from which they shot screened by movable shutters; as may be seen in the next woodcut of the assault on a castle. It would have put the archers of the assailants at a great disadvantage if they had had to stand out in the open space, exposed defenceless to the aim of the foe; all neighbouring trees which could give shelter were, of course, cut down, in order to reduce them to this defenceless condition, and works were erected so as to command every possible coigne of vantage which the nooks and angles of the walls might have afforded. But the archers of the besiegers sought to put themselves on more equal terms with their opponents by using the _pavis_ or _mantelet_. The pavis was a tall shield, curved so as partly to envelop the person of the bearer, broad at the top and tapering to the feet. We sometimes see cross-bowmen carrying it slung at their backs (as in Harl. 4,379, and Julius E. IV., f. 219, engraved on p. 294), so that after discharging a shot they could turn round and be sheltered by the great shield while they wound up their instrument for another shot. Sometimes this shield seems to have been simply three planks of wood nailed together, which stood upright on the ground, and protected the soldier effectively on three sides. There are illustrations of it in the MS. Royal 20 C vii. (temp. Rich. II.), at f. 19, f. 24 v., and f. 29 v., and in the MS. Harl. 4,382, f. 133 v. and f. 154 v. The mantelet was a shield still more ample, and capable of being fixed upright by a prop, so that it formed a kind of little movable fort which the bowman, or man-at-arms, could carry out and plant before the walls, and thence discharge his missiles, or pursue any other operation, in comparative safety from the smaller artillery of the enemy. The most interesting example which we have met of the employment of the pavis and mantelet, is in a picture in the Harl. MS. 4,425, at f. 133. The woodcut on the previous page represents only a portion of the picture, the whole of which is well worth study. The reader will see at once that we have here the work of a draughtsman of far superior skill to that of the limners of the rude illuminations which we have previously given. The background really gives us some adequate idea of the appearance of an Edwardian castle with its barbican and drawbridge, its great tower with the heads of the defenders just peeping over the battlements. We must call attention to the right-hand figure in the foreground, who is clad in a _pourpoint_, one of the quilted armours which we have formerly described, because it is the best illustration of this species of armour we have met with. But the special point for which we give the woodcut here, is to illustrate the use of the mantelet. It will be seen--though somewhat imperfectly, from the fragment of the engraving introduced--that these defences have been brought up to the front of the attacking party in such numbers as to form an almost continuous wall, behind which the men-at-arms are sheltered; on the right are great fixed mantelets, with a hole in the middle of each, through which the muzzle of a gun is thrust; while the cannoniers work their guns as behind the walls of a fort. [Illustration: _Use of the Pavis, etc._] [Illustration: _Cannon and Mortar._] Similar movable defences, variously constructed, continued to be used down to a very late period. For example, in some large plans of the array of the army of Henry VIII., preserved in the British Museum (Cottonian MS., Augustus III., f. 1 v.), the cannon are flanked by huge mantelets of timber, which protect the cannoniers. In the one engraved between pp. 454 and 455, we see a representation of the commencement of the battle, showing some of the mantelets overthrown by the assault of soldiers armed with poleaxes. In modern warfare the sharpshooter runs out into the open, carrying a sand-bag by way of pavis, behind which he lies and picks off the enemy, and the artillery throw up a little breastwork, or mantelet, of sand-bags. Sometimes the besieging army protected itself by works of a still more permanent kind. It threw up embankments with a pallisade at top, or sometimes constructed a breastwork, or erected a fort, of timber. For example, in the Royal MS. 14 E. IV., at f. 14, we have a picture of an assault upon a fortified place, in which the besiegers have strengthened their position by a timber breastwork. It is engraved at p. 443; the whole picture is well worth study. Again, in the Cottonian MS., Augustus V., at folio 266, is a camp with a wooden fence round it. An army in the field often protected its position in a similar way. So far back as the eleventh century the historians tell us that William the Conqueror brought over a timber fort with him to aid his operations. The plan of surrounding the camp with the waggons and baggage of the army is perhaps one of the most primitive devices of warfare, and we find it used down to the end of the period which is under our consideration. In the MS. already mentioned, Augustus III., on the reverse of folio 4, is a picture of an army of the time of Henry VIII. encamped by a river, and enclosed on the open sides by the baggage, and by flat-bottomed boats on their carriages, which we suppose have been provided for the passage of the stream. The siege of Bedford Castle, as described by Roger Wendover, in the year 1224, gives a good historical instance of the employment of these various modes of attacking a stronghold at that period. The castle was being held against the king, who invested it in person. Two towers of wood were raised against the walls, and filled with archers; seven mangonels cast ponderous stones from morning to night; sappers approached the walls under the cover of the cat. First the barbican, then the outer bailey was taken. A breach in the second wall soon after gave the besiegers admission to the inner bailey. The donjon still held out, and the royalists proceeded to approach it by means of their sappers. A sufficient portion of the foundations having been removed, the stancheons were set on fire, one of the angles sank deep into the ground, and a wide rent laid open the interior of the keep. The garrison now planted the royal standard on the walls, and sent the women to implore mercy. But a severe example was made of the defenders, in order to strike terror among the disaffected in other parts of the realm.[381] [Illustration: _Cannon._] Among the occasional warlike contrivances, stinkpots were employed to repel the enemy, and the Greek fire was also occasionally used. A representation of the use of stinkpots, and also of the mode of using the Greek fire, may be seen in the Royal MS. 18 E. V., at f. 207 (date 1473 A.D.). Those more terrible engines of war which ultimately revolutionised the whole art of warfare, which made the knight's armour useless, and the trebuchet and arbalest the huge toys of an unscientific age, were already introduced; though they were yet themselves so immature, that for a time military men disputed whether the old long bow or the new fire-arm was the better weapon, and the trebuchet still held its place beside the cannon. In the old illuminations we find mediæval armour and fire-arms together in incongruous conjunction. The subject of the use of gunpowder is one of so much interest, that it deserves to be treated in a separate chapter. CHAPTER VII. ARMOUR OF THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY. In former papers we have seen the characteristic feature of the armour of Saxon, Norman, and Early English times, down to the latter part of the thirteenth century, was that of mail armour--_i.e._ composed of rings sewn upon garments of something like the ordinary shape--tunic, hose, and hood--or linked together into the shape of such garments. The fourteenth century was a period of transition from mail armour to plate. First it was found convenient to protect the elbow and knee with conical caps made out of a plate of steel; then the upper arm and fore arm, the thigh and leg, were encased in separate pieces of armour made to fit to the limbs; in place of the old helmet worn over the mail hood, a globular bascinet of plate was used, with a fringe of mail attached to it, falling over the shoulders; in place of the hauberk of mail, a globular plate to protect the breast, and another the back, connected at the sides, with a deep skirt of mail attached to them, falling over the hips. In the old days of mail armour a flowing surcoat was worn over it, to protect it from wet, dust, and the heat of the sun; in the fourteenth century the body-armour was covered with a close-fitting jupon of rich material and colour, embroidered with the arms of the wearer, and girded by a rich enamelled horizontal belt. The characteristic of the armour of the fifteenth century was that it consisted of a complete suit of plate; the fringe of the bascinet being replaced by a gorget of plate, the skirt of mail by horizontal overlapping plates; and for some time no covering was worn over the armour, but the knightly vanity of the time delighted in the glittering splendour of the burnished steel. Later in the century, however, mail came again into considerable use, in short sleeves for the protection of the upper arm, and in skirts, which were doubtless found more convenient to the horseman than the solid plates of overlapping steel. It also seems to have been found practically inconvenient to dispense with some textile covering over the armour; and a considerable variety of such coverings was used, according to the caprice of the wearer. Numerous diversified experiments in the construction of armour were tried, and we commonly find in pictures of the time a great variety of fashions, both of armour and weapons, brought together in the same troop of warriors. It is a matter of interest to the antiquary to trace out the rise of all these various fashions and to determine when they went out of fashion again; but for our present purpose it is enough to point out the salient features of the military costume of the century, and, as varieties are brought before us in the illustrations from ancient MSS. which we proceed to introduce to our readers, to point out their meaning and interest. Let us begin, then, with a picture which will afford us, in the left-hand figure, a typical illustration of the complete plate-armour of the century, and proceed to describe the various pieces of which it is composed. His head is protected by a bascinet of steel, without visor to protect the face, though the picture represents him as actually engaged in the thick of a battle; but the steel gorget is brought up so as to protect the lower part of the face. It is not unfrequent to find the knights of this period with the face similarly exposed. Probably the heat and the difficulty of breathing caused by the visor were considered to outweigh the additional safety which it afforded. The neck is protected by a gorget of plate; and instead of the globular breastplate and skirt of mail worn under the gay jupon of the fourteenth century, the body is cased in two pairs of plates, which open with hinges at the sides, the lower plates coming to a point at the back and breast. In this illustration the whole suit of armour presents an unrelieved surface of burnished steel, the outlines of the various pieces of armour being marked by a narrow line of gold. But it was very usual for one of the two breastplates to be covered with silk or velvet embroidered. This will be seen in the armour of the archer from the same picture, in which the upper plate is covered with blue, powdered with gold spots arranged in trefoils. So in the woodcut on p. 399 the upper breastplate of the knight nearest to the spectator is blue with gold spots, while in the further knight the upper plate is red. Turning again to the knight before us, his shoulders are protected by pauldrons. These portions of the armour differ much in different examples; they were often ridged, so as to prevent a blow from glancing off to the neck, and sometimes they have a kind of standing collar to protect the neck from a direct stroke. Sometimes the pauldron of the left shoulder is elaborately enlarged and strengthened to resist a blow, while the right shoulder is more simply and lightly armed, so as to offer as little hindrance as possible to the action of the sword arm. The upper arm is protected by brassarts, and the fore arm by vambraces, the elbows by coudières, while the gussets at the armpit and elbow are further guarded by roundels of plate. It will be seen that the gauntlets are not divided into fingers, but three or four plates are attached, like the plates of a lobster, to the outside of a leathern gauntlet, to protect the hand without interfering with the tenacity of its grasp of the weapon. The lower part of the body is protected by a series of overlapping plates, called taces. In most of the examples which we give of this period, the taces have a mail skirt or fringe attached to the lowest plate. Sometimes the taces came lower down over the thighs and rendered any further defence unnecessary; sometimes, as in the example before us, separate plates, called tuilles, were attached by straps to the lowest tace, so as to protect the front of the thigh without interfering with the freedom of motion. The legs are cased in cuissarts and jambarts, and the knee protected by genouillières; and as the tuilles strengthen the defence of the thigh, the shin has an extra plate for its more efficient defence. The feet seem in this example to be simply clothed with shoes, like those of the archer, instead of being defended by pointed sollerets of overlapping plates, like those seen in our other illustrations. [Illustration: _Man-at-Arms and Archer of the Fifteenth Century._] It will be noticed that in place of the broad military belt of the fourteenth century, enriched with enamelled plates, the sword is now suspended by a narrow strap, which hangs diagonally across the body. The knight is taken from a large picture in the MS. _Chroniques d'Angleterre_ (Royal 14, E. IV., f. 192 v.), which represents a party of French routed by a body of Portuguese and English. In front of the knight lies his horse pierced with several arrows, and the dismounted rider is preparing to continue the combat on foot with his formidable axe. The archer is introduced from the same picture, to show the difference between his half armour and the complete panoply of the knight. In the archer's equipment the body is protected by plates of steel and a skirt of mail, the upper arm by a half-sleeve of mail, and the head by a visored helmet; but the rest of the body is unarmed. Our next illustration is from a fine picture in the same MS. (at f. ccxv.), which represents how the Duke of Lancaster and his people attacked the forts that defended the harbour of Brest. The background represents a walled and moated town--Brest--with the sea and ships in the distance; on the left of the picture the camp of the duke, defended by cannon; and in the foreground a skirmish of knights. It is a curious illustration of the absence of rigid uniformity in the military equipment of these times, that each suit of armour in this picture differs from every other; so that this one picture supplies the artist with fourteen or fifteen different examples of military costume, all clearly delineated with a gorgeous effect of colouring. Some of these suits are sufficiently represented in others of our illustrations. We have again selected one which stands in contrast with all the rest from the absence of colour; most of the others have the upper breastplate coloured, and the helmet unvisored, or with the visor raised. This gives us a full suit of armour unrelieved by colour, except in the helmet-feather, sword-belt, and sheath, which are all gilt. The unusual shape of the helmet will be noticed, and it will be seen that there is a skirt or fringe of mail below the taces. The horse is a grey, with trappings of red and gold, his head protected by a steel plate. In the cut on p. 403 one of the horses will be found to have the neck also defended by overlapping plates of steel. The shape of the deep military saddle is also well seen in this illustration. [Illustration: _Knight of the Fifteenth Century._] The next woodcut is also only a part of a large picture which forms the frontispiece of the second book of the same MS. (f. lxii.). It represents a sally of the garrison of Nantes on the English, who are besieging it. Like the preceding picture, it is full of interesting examples of different armours. Our illustration selects several of them. The knight nearest to us has the upper plate of his breastplate covered with a blue covering powdered with gold spots, and riveted to the steel plate beneath by the two steel studs on the shoulder-blades. Between the series of narrow taces and the vandyked fringe of mail is a skirt of blue drapery, which perhaps partially hides the skirt of mail, allowing only its edge to appear. The gorget is also of mail; and the gusset of mail at the armpit is left very visible by the action of the arm. The further knight has his upper breastplate and skirt red. The horses are also contrasted in colour; the nearer horse is grey, with red and gold trappings; the further horse black, with blue and gold trappings. The man-at-arms who lies prostrate under the horse-hoofs is one of the garrison, who has been pierced by the spear whose truncheon lies on the ground beside him. His equipment marks him out as a man of the same military grade as the archer on p. 396, though the axe which he wields indicates that he is a man-at-arms. His body-armour is covered by a surcoat of blue, laced down the front; he wears a gorget and skirt of mail. His feet, like those of the men on p. 396, seem not to be covered with armour, and his hands are undefended by gloves. [Illustration: _Group of English Knights and French Men-at-Arms._] The unarmed man on the left is one of the English party, in ordinary civil costume, apparently only a spectator of the attack. His hose are red, his long-pointed shoes brown, his short-skirted but long-sleeved gown is blue, worn over a vest of embroidered green and gold, which is seen at the sleeves and the neck; the cuffs are red, and he wears a gold chain and gilded sword-belt and sheath, and carries a walking staff. The contrast which he affords to the other figures adds interest and picturesqueness to the group. The illustration on the next page from the Royal MS., 18 E. V., f. 310 v., forms the frontispiece to a chapter of Roman History, and is a mediæval representation of no less a personage than Julius Cæsar crossing the Rubicon. The foremost figure is Cæsar. He is in a complete suit of plate-armour; over his armour he wears a very curious drapery like a short tabard without sleeves; it is of a yellow brown colour, but of what material it is not possible to determine. There is great diversity in the fashion of the surcoat worn over the armour at this time. One variety is seen in the fallen man-at-arms in the preceding woodcut; and a similar surcoat, loosely fastened by three or four buttons down the front, instead of tightly laced all the way down, is not uncommon. In another picture, a knight in full plate-armour wears a short gown, with hanging sleeves, of the ordinary civilian fashion, like that worn by the gentleman on the left-hand side of the preceding cut. Out of a whole troop of Roman soldiers who follow Cæsar, we have taken only two as sufficient for our purpose of showing varieties of equipment. The first has the fore arm protected by a vambrace, but instead of pauldrons and brassarts the shoulders and arms are protected by sleeves of mail. The taces also are short, with a deep skirt of mail below them. The head defence looks in the woodcut like one of the felt hats that knights frequently wore when travelling, to relieve the head of the weight of the helmet, which was borne behind by a squire; but it is coloured blue, and seems to be of steel, with a white bandeau round it. The reader will notice the "rest" in which the lance was laid to steady it in the charge, screwed to the right breast of the breastplate; he will notice also the long-pointed solleret, the long neck of the spur, and the triangular stirrup, and the fashion of riding with a long stirrup, the foot thrust home into the stirrup, and the toe pointed downwards. The third figure wears a gorget with a chin-piece, and a visored bascinet; the whole of his body armour is covered by a handsome pourpoint, which is red, powdered with gold spots; the pauldrons are of a different fashion from those of Cæsar, and the coudière is finished with a spike. [Illustration: _Julius Cæsar crossing the Rubicon._] The next woodcut does less justice than usual to the artistic merits of the illumination from which it is taken. It is from a fine MS. of the Romance of the Rose (Harl. 4,925, folio cxxx. v.); the figures are allegorical. The great value of the painting is in the rounded form of the breastplates and helmets, and the play of light and shade, and variety of tint, upon them; the solid heavy folds of the mail skirts and sleeves are also admirably represented; and altogether the illuminations of this MS give an unusually life-like idea of the actual pictorial effect of steel armour and the accompanying trappings. The arms and legs of these two figures are unarmed; those of the figure in the foreground are painted red, those of the other figure blue; the shield is red, with gold letters. The deep mail skirts, with taces and tuilles, were in common wear at the close of the fifteenth century, and on into the sixteenth. [Illustration: _Allegorical Figures._] [Illustration: _A Knight at the hall-door._] The little woodcut of a knight at the hall-door illustrates another variety of skirt; in place of taces and mail skirt, we have a skirt covered with overlapping plates, probably of horn or metal. This knight wears gloves of leather, undefended by armour. The last illustration in this chapter is from the valuable MS. Life and Acts of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick (Julius E. IV.), from which we shall hereafter give some other more important subjects. The present is part of a fight before Calais, in which Philip Duke of Burgundy was concerned on one side, and Humphrey Duke of Gloucester, Richard Earl of Warwick, and Humphrey Earl of Stafford on the other. In the background of the picture is a view of Calais, with its houses, walls, and towers, washed by the sea. The two figures are taken from the foreground of the battle-scene, which occupies the major part of the picture. The helmets, it will be seen, are iron hats with a wide brim which partially protects the face; they have a considerable amount of ornament about them. Both warriors are armed in a single globular breastplate (the combination of two plates went out of fashion towards the end of the fifteenth century); one has short taces and a deep mail skirt, the other has deeper taces and tuilles besides. The knight on the left side has his left shoulder protected by a pauldron, which covers the shoulder and partially overlaps the breastplate, and has a high collar to protect the neck and face from a sweeping horizontal blow. It will be seen that the sollerets have lost the long-pointed form, though they have not yet reached the broad-toed shape which became fashionable with Henry VIII. The equipment of the horses deserves special examination. They are fully caparisoned, and armed on the face and neck, with plumes of feathers and magnificent bridles; it will be seen, also, that the point of the saddle comes up very high, and is rounded so as partly to enclose the thigh, and form a valuable additional defence. At a period a little later, this was developed still further in the construction of the tilting saddles, so as to make them a very important part of the system of defence. [Illustration: _The Duke of Gloucester and the Earl of Warwick._] How perfect the armour at length became may be judged from the fact that in many battles very few of the completely armed knights were killed--sometimes not one; their great danger was in getting unhorsed and ridden over and stifled in the press. Another danger to the unhorsed knight is pointed out in a graphic passage of the History of Philip de Comines, with which we will conclude this chapter. After one of the battles at which he was himself present, he says: "We had a great number of stragglers and servants following us, all of which flocked about the men-of-arms being overthrown, and slew the most of them. For the greatest part of the said stragglers had their hatchets in their hands, wherewith they used to cut wood to make our lodgings, with the which hatchets they brake the vizards of their head-pieces and then clave their heads; for otherwise they could hardly have been slain, they were so surely armed, so that there were ever three or four about one of them." It is not necessary to infer that these unfortunate men-at-arms who were thus cracked, as if they were huge crustaceans, were helpless from wounds, or insensible from their fall. It was among the great disadvantages of plate-armour, that when a man was once in it he could not get out again without help; nay, he was sometimes so securely fastened in it that the aid must come in the shape of an armourer's tools; and the armour was sometimes so cumbrous that when he was once down he could not get up again--a castle of steel on his war-horse, a helpless log when overthrown. CHAPTER VIII. THE KNIGHT'S EDUCATION. The manner of bringing up a youth of good family in the Middle Ages was not to send him to a public school and the university, nor to keep him at home under a private tutor, but to put him into the household of some nobleman or knight of reputation to be trained up in the principles and practices of chivalry.[382] First, as a page, he attended on the ladies of the household, and imbibed the first principles of that high-bred courtesy and transcendental devotion to the sex which are characteristic of the knight. From the chaplain of the castle he gained such knowledge of book-learning as he was destined to acquire--which was probably more extensive than is popularly supposed. He learnt also to sing a romance, and accompany himself on the harp, from the chief of the band of minstrels who wore his lord's livery. As a squire he came under the more immediate supervision of his lord; was taught by some experienced old knight or squire to back a horse and use his weapons; and was stirred to emulation by constant practice with his fellow-squires. He attended upon his lord in time of peace, carved his meat and filled his cup, carried his shield or helmet on a journey, gave him a fresh lance in the tournament, raised him up and remounted him when unhorsed, or dragged him out of the press if wounded; followed him to battle, and acted as subaltern officer of the troop of men-at-arms who followed their lord's banner. It is interesting to see how the pictures in the illuminated MSS. enable us to follow the knight's history step by step. In the following woodcut we see him as a child in long clothes, between the knight his father, and his lady mother, who sit on a bench with an embroidered _banker_[383] thrown over its seat, making an interesting family group. [Illustration] The woodcut on the next page shows us a group of pages imbibing chivalrous usages even in their childish sports, for they are "playing at jousting." It is easy to see the nature of the toy. A slip of wood forms the foundation, and represents the lists; the two wooden knights are movable on their horses by a pin through the hips and saddle; when pushed together in mimic joust, either the spears miss, and the course must be run again, or each strikes the other's breast, and one or other gives way at the shock, and is forced back upon his horse's back, and is vanquished. This illustration is from Hans Burgmair's famous illustrations of the life of the Emperor Maximilian. A similar illustration is given in Strutt's "Sports and Pastimes." A third picture, engraved in the _Archæological Journal_, vol. ii. p. 173, represents a squire carving before his lord at a high feast, and illustrates a passage in Chaucer's description of his squire among the Canterbury Pilgrims, which we here extract (with a few verbal alterations, to make it more intelligible to modern ears) as a typical picture of a squire, even more full of life and interest than the pictorial illustrations:-- "With him ther was his son, a younge squire, A lover and a lusty bacheler; His lockes crull as they were laide in presse, Of twenty yere of age he was I guess. Of his stature he was of even lengthe, And wonderly deliver, and grete of strengthe. He hadde be some time in chevachie, In Flanders, in Artois, and in Picardie, And borne him wel, as of so litel space, In hope to standen in his ladies grace. Embroidered was he, as it were a mede Alle ful of freshe flowres, white and rede. Singing he was or floyting alle the day, He was as freshe as is the moneth of May. Short was his gowne, with sleves long and wide, Wel coude he sitte on hors, and fayre ride. He coude songes make, and wel endite, Juste and eke dance, and wel poutraie and write. So hot he loved that by nightertale He slep no more than doth a nightingale. Curteis he was, lowly and servisable, And carf before his fader at the table." [Illustration] Young noblemen and eldest sons of landed gentlemen were made knights, as a matter of course, when they had attained the proper age. Many others won for themselves this chivalric distinction by their deeds of arms in the field, and sometimes in the lists. The ceremony was essentially a religious one, and the clergy used sometimes to make a knight. In the Royal 14. E. IV. f. 89, we see a picture of Lancelot being made a knight, in which an abbess even is giving him the accolade by a stroke of the hand. But usually, though religious ceremonies accompanied the initiation, and the office for making a knight still remains in the Roman Office Book, some knight of fame actually conferred "the high order of knighthood." It was not unusual for young men of property who were entitled to the honour by birth and heirship to be required by the king to assume it, for the sake of the fine which was paid to the crown on the occasion. Let us here introduce, as a pendant to Chaucer's portrait of the squire already given, his equally beautiful portrait of a knight; not a young knight-errant, indeed, but a grave and middle-aged warrior, who has seen hard service, and is valued in council as well as in field:-- "A knight ther was, and that a worthy man, That from the time that he firste began To riden out, he loved chivalry, Trouthe and honour, fredom and curtesie. Ful worthie was he in his lorde's werre, And thereto hadde he ridden, no man ferre, As wel in Christendom as in Hethenesse, And ever honoured for his worthinesse. At Alesandre he was when it was wonne, Ful oftentime he hadde the bord begonne, Aboven all nations in Pruce. * * * * * At many a noble army hadde he be, At mortal batailles had he been fiftene, And foughten for our faith in Tramisene In listes thries, and ever slaine his fo. * * * * * And tho that he was worthy he was wise, And of his port as meke as is a mayde: He never yet no vilanie had sayde In alle his lif unto any manere wyht. He was a very parfit gentle knight. But for to tellen you of his arraie, His hors was good, but he was not gaie; Of fustian he wered a jupon, All besmotred with his habergeon. For he was late ycom fro his viage, And wente for to don his pilgrimage." Men who are in the constant habit of bearing arms are certain to engage in friendly contests with each other; it is the only mode in which they can acquire skill in the use of their weapons, and it affords a manly pastime. That such men should turn encounters with an enemy into trials of skill, subject to certain rules of fairness and courtesy, though conducted with sharp weapons and in deadly earnest, is also natural.[384] And thus we are introduced to a whole series of military exercises and encounters, from the mere holiday pageant in which the swords are of parchment and the spears headless, to the wager of battle, in which the combatants are clad in linen, while their weapons are such as will lop off a limb, and the gallows awaits the vanquished. Homer shows us how the Greek battles were little else than a series of single combats, and Roman history furnishes us with sufficient examples of such combats preluding the serious movements of opposing armies, and affording an augury, it was believed, of their issue. Sacred history supplies us with examples of a similar kind. In the story of Goliath we have the combat of two champions in the face of the hosts drawn up in battle array. A still more striking incident is that where Abner and the servants of Ishbosheth, and Joab and the servants of David, met accidentally at the pool of Gibeon. "And they sat down the one on the one side of the pool, and the other on the other. And Abner said to Joab, Let the young men now arise and play before us. And Joab said, Let them arise." So twelve men on each side met, "and they caught every one his fellow by the head, and thrust his sword in his fellow's side, so they fell down together." And afterwards the lookers-on took to their arms, and "there was a very sore battle that day; and Abner was beaten, and the men of Israel, before the servants of David."[385] Our own history contains incidents enough of the same kind, from Tailefer the minstrel-warrior, who rode ahead of the army of Duke William at Hastings, singing the song of Roland and performing feats of dexterity in the use of horse and weapons, and then charging alone into the ranks of the Saxon men, down to the last young aide-de-camp who has pranced up to the muzzle of the guns to "show the way" to a regiment to which he had brought an order to carry a battery. In the Middle Ages these combats, whether they were mere pageants[386] or sportive contests with more or less of the element of danger, or were waged in deadly earnest, were, in one shape or other, of very common occurrence, and were reduced to system and regulated by legislation. When only two combatants contended, it was called jousting. If only a friendly trial of skill was contemplated, the lances were headed with a small coronal instead of a sharp point; if the sword were used at all it was with the edge only, which would very likely inflict no wound at all on a well-armed man, or at most only a flesh wound, not with the point, which might penetrate the opening of the helmet or the joints of the armour, and inflict a fatal hurt. This was the _joute à plaisance_. If the combatants were allowed to use sharp weapons, and to put forth all their force and skill against one another, this was the _joute à l'outrance_, and was of common enough occurrence. When many combatants fought on each side, it was called a tournament. Such sports were sometimes played in gorgeous costumes, but with weapons of lath, to make a spectacle in honour of a festal occasion. Sometimes the tournament was with bated weapons, but was a serious trial of skill and strength. And sometimes the tournament was even a mimic battle, and then usually between the adherents of hostile factions which sought thus to gratify their mutual hatreds, or it was a chivalrous incident in a war between two nations. With these general introductory remarks, we shall best fulfil our purpose by at once proceeding to bring together a few illustrations from ancient sources, literary and pictorial, of these warlike scenes. A MS. in the Egerton Collection, in the British Museum, gives us a contemporary account of the mode in which it was made known to knights ambitious of honour and their ladies' praise when and where opportunities of winning them were to be found. The heralds-at-arms of the king, or lord, or noble, or knight, or lady who designed to give a joust, went forth on horseback to castle and town, and sometimes from court to court of foreign countries, clad in their gay insignia of office, attended by a trumpeter; and in every castle court they came to, and at every market cross, first the trumpeter blew his blast and then the herald-at-arms made his proclamation as follows:--"Wee herawldes of armes beryng shields of devise, here we yeve in knowledge unto all gentilmen of name and of armys, that there bee VI gentilmen of name and of armes that for the gret desire and woorship that the seide VI gentilmen have, have taken upon them to bee the third day of May next coomyng before the high and mighty redowtid ladyes and gentilwoomen in this high and most honourable court. And in their presence the seide six gentilmen there to appear at IX of the clock before noone, and to juste aginst all coomers without, the seide day unto VI of the clok at aftir noone, and then, by the advyse of the seide ladyes and gentel women, to give unto the best juster withoute[387] a dyamaunde of xl{li}, and unto the nexte beste juster a rubie of xx{li}, and to the third well juster a saufir of x{li}. And on the seide day there beyng officers of armys shewyng their mesure of theire speris garneste, that is, cornal, vamplate, and grapers all of acise, that they shall just with. And that the comers may take the length of the seide speirs with the avise of the seide officers of armes that shall be indifferent unto all parties unto the seide day."[388] Then we have a description of the habiliments required for a knight's equipment for such an occasion, which includes a suit of armour and a horse with his trappings; an armourer with hammer and pincers to fasten the armour; two servants on horseback well beseen, who are his two squires; and six servants on foot all in one suit. As the day approaches knights and ladies begin to flock in from all points of the compass. Some are lodged in the castle, some find chambers in the neighbouring town, and some bring tents with them and pitch them under the trees in the meadows without the castle. At length the day has arrived, and the knights are up with sunrise and bathe, and then are carefully armed by their squires and armourers. This is so important a matter that it is no wonder we find several minute descriptions of the way in which every article of clothing and armour is to be put on and fastened, illustrated with pictures of the knight in the several stages of the process. Two such descriptions with engravings are given in the twenty-ninth volume of the "Archæologia," taken from the work of a master of fence, of date 1400. Another description, "How a man shall be armyed at his ease when he shall fight on foot," is given in the Lansdowne MS. under our notice. The same description is given in the tenth volume of the _Archæological Journal_, p. 226, from a MS. in the possession of Lord Hastings of the date of Henry VI., accompanied by an engraving from an illumination in the MS. showing the knight with his legs fully armed, his body clothed in the undergarment on which the gussets of mail are sewed, while the rest of his armour and his weapons are arranged on a bench beside him. The weapons are a glaive and a pole-axe, which were the usual weapons assigned to the combatants in serious duels on foot. When all is ready, and the company are assembled, the MS. tells us what next takes place:--"The VI gentilmen must come into the felde unharnsyd, and their helmys borne before them, and their servants on horseback berying either of them a spere garneste, that is the VI speres which the seide VI servaunts shall ride before them into the felde, and as the seide VI gentilmen be coomyn before the ladyes and gentilwoomen. Then shall be sent an herowde of armys up unto the ladyes and gentilwoomen, saying on this wise: High and mighty, redowtyd, and right worchyfull ladyes and gentilwoomen, theis VI gentilmen hav coome into your presence and recommende them all unto your gode grace in as lowly wise as they can, besechyng you for to geve unto the iii best justers without a diamonde, and a rubie, and a saufir unto them that ye think best can deserve it. Then this message is doone. Then the VI gentilmen goth into the tellwys[389] and doth on their helmys." [Illustration: _Preliminaries of a Combat._] [Illustration: _Termination of the Combat._] Then comes the jousting. Probably, first of all, each of the six champions in turn runs one or more courses with a stranger knight; then, perhaps, they finish by a miniature tournament, all six together against six of the strangers. Each strange knight who comes into the field has to satisfy the officer-at-arms that he is a "gentilman of name and of arms," and to take oath that he has no secret weapons or unfair advantage. The woodcut represents this moment of the story. This being ascertained, they take their places at the opposite ends of the lists, the presiding herald cries to let go, and they hurl together in the midst, with a clang of armour, and a crash of broken spears, amidst the shouts of the spectators and the waving of kerchiefs and caps. If the course be successfully run, each breaks his lance full on the breastplate or helm of his adversary, but neither is unhorsed; they recover their steeds with rein and spur, and prance away amidst applause. If one knight is unhorsed, or loose his stirrup, he is vanquished, and retires from the game. If the jousting were not the mere sport which the MS. puts before us, but were a _joute à l'outrance_, the next woodcut represents a very probable variation in this point of the game. At length, when all have run their courses, the MS. resumes its directions: "And when the heraldes cry _à lóstel! à lóstel!_ then shall all the VI. gentlemen within unhelme them before the seide ladies, and make their obeisaunce, and goo home unto their lodgings and change them." Then, continues the MS.: "The gentilmen[390] without comyn into the presence of the ladies. Then comys foorth a lady by the advise of all the ladyes and gentilwomen, and gives the diamounde unto the best juster withoute, saying in this wise:--'Sir, theis ladyes and gentilwomen thank you for your disporte and grete labour that ye have this day in their presence. And the saide ladyes and gentilwomen seyn that ye have best just this day; therefore the seide ladyes and gentilwomen geven you this diamounde, and send you much joy and worship of your lady.' Thus shall be doone with the rubie and with the saufre unto the other two next the best justers. This doon, then shall the heralde of armys stande up all on hygh, and shall sey withall in high voice:--'John hath well justed, Ric. hath justed better, and Thomas hath justed best of all.' Then shall he that the diamound is geve unto take a lady by the hande and bygene the daunce, and when the ladyes have dauncid as long as them liketh, then spyce wyne and drynk, and then avoide."[391] [Illustration: _Spectators of a Tournament._] The last woodcut, greatly reduced from one of the fine tournament scenes in the MS. history of the Roi Meliadus, already several times quoted in this work, shows the temporary gallery erected for the convenience of the ladies and other spectators to witness the sports. The tent of one of the knights is seen in the background, and an indication of the hurly-burly of the combat below. A larger illustration of a similar scene from this fine MS. will be given hereafter. The next woodcut is from the MS. Life and Acts of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick (Julius E. IV., folio 217). It represents "howe a mighty Duke chalenged Erle Richard for his lady sake, and in justyng slewe the Duke and then the Empresse toke the Erle's staff and bear from a knight shouldre, and for great love and fauv{r} she sette it on her shouldre. Then Erle Richard made one of perle and p'cious stones, and offered her that, and she gladly and lovynglee reseaved it." The picture shows the Duke and Earl in the crisis of the battle. It would seem from the pieces of splintered spears, which already lie on the ground, that a previous course had been run with equal fortune; but in this second course the doughty Earl has just driven his lance half a yard through his unfortunate challenger's breast. In the background we see the Emperor Sigismund, and the Empress taking the Earl's badge from the neck of the Earl's knight. The whole incident, so briefly told and so naïvely illustrated, is very characteristic of the spirit of chivalry. As we close the page the poor nameless Duke's life-blood seems to be smeared, not only over his own magnificent armour, but over the hand of the Empress and the Emperor's purple who presided over the scene; and while we seem to hear the fanfaronade with which the trumpeters are cracking their cheeks, we hear mingling with it the groan of the mighty Duke thus slain "for his lady sake." [Illustration: _How a mighty Duke fought Earl Richard for his Lady's sake._] A whole chapter might be well dedicated to the special subject of judicial combats. We must, however, content ourselves with referring the reader to authorities both literary and artistic, and to some anecdotes illustrative of the subject. In the Lansdowne MS. 285, copied for Sir John Paxton, will be found directions for the complete arming of a man who is to engage on foot in a judicial combat, with a list of the things, such as tent, table, chair, &c., which he should take into the field with him. The same MS. contains (article 8) the laws of the combat--"the ordinance and forme of fighting within listes," as settled by Thomas Duke of Gloucester, Constable of England, in the time of Richard II. Also in Tiberius E. VIII. there are directions for making a duel before the king. There are other similar documents in the same book, _e.g._ Of the order of knighthood, justs and prizes to be given thereat: The Earl of Worcester's orders for jousts and triumphs: Declaration of a combat within lists. The MS. Tiberius B. VIII. contains the form of benediction of a man about to fight, and of his shield, club, and sword. For a picture of a combat on foot in lists see Royal 16 E. IV. (MS. "Chronique d'Angleterre," written for King Edward IV.) at f. 264.[392] In the "Archæologia," vol. xxix., p. 348-361, will be found a paper on Judicial Duels in Germany, with a series of curious drawings of about the year 1400 A.D., representing the various phases of the combat. Plate 31, fig. 5, shows the combatant in the act of being armed; fig. 6, receiving Holy Communion in church before the combat. Plate 32, fig. 2, the oath in the lists, the combatant seated armed in an arm-chair with his attendants about him, his weapons around, and--ominously enough--a bier standing by, covered with a pall, ready to carry him off the ground if slain. Plate 34, fig. 2, shows the vanquished actually being laid in his coffin; and fig. 3 shows the victor returning thanks in church for his victory. Plate 37 is another series of subjects showing the different positions of attack and defence with the pole-axe. Several very good and spirited representations of these duels of the time of our Henry VIII. may be found in the plates of Hans Burgmaier's Der Weise Könige. As an example of the wager of battle we will take an account of one related by Froissart between a squire called Jaques de Grys and a knight, Sir John of Carougne. It is necessary to the understanding of some of the incidents of the narrative to state what was the origin of the duel. The knight and the squire were friends, both of the household of the Earl of Alençon. Sir John de Carougne went over sea for the advancement of his honour, leaving his lady in his castle. On his return his lady informed him that one day soon after his departure his friend Jaques de Grys paid a visit to her, and made excuses to be alone with her, and then by force dishonoured her. The knight called his and her friends together, and asked their counsel what he should do. They advised that he should make his complaint to the Earl. The Earl called the parties before him, when the lady repeated her accusation; but the squire denied it, and called witnesses to prove that at four o'clock on the morning of the day on which the offence was stated to have been committed he was at his lord the Earl's house, while the Earl himself testified that at nine o'clock he was with himself at his levée. It was impossible for him between those two hours--that is, four hours and a half--to have ridden twenty-three leagues. "Whereupon the Erl sayd to the lady that she dyd but dreame it, wherefore he wolde maynteyne his squyre, and commanded the lady to speke noe more of the matter. But the knyght, who was of great courage, and well trusted and byleved his wife, would not agree to that opinion, but he wente to Parys and shewed the matter there to the parlyament, and there appeled Jaques de Grys, who appered and answered to his appele." The plea between them endured more than a year and a half. At length "the parlyament determined that there shold be batayle at utterance between them.... And the Kynge sent to Parys, commandynge that the journey and batayle bytwene the squyer and the knight sholde be relonged tyl his comynge to Parys: and so his commaundement was obeyed.... "Then the lystes were made in a place called Saynt Katheryne, behynde the Temple. There was so moche people that it was mervayle to beholde; and on the one syde of the lystes there was made grete scaffoldes, that the lordes myght the better se the battayle of the ij champions; and so they bothe came to the felde, armed at all places, and there eche of them was set in theyr chayre."[393] "The Erie of Saynt Poule governed John of Carougne, and the Erle of Alanson's company with Jaques de Guys. And when the knyght entered into the felde, he came to his wyfe who was there syttinge in a chayre, covered in blacke, and he seyd to her thus,--Dame, by your enformacyon and in your quarele I do put my lyfe in adventure as to fyght with Jaques le Grys; ye knowe if the cause be just and true. Syr, sayd the lady, it is as I have sayd; wherfore ye may fyght surely, the cause is good and true. With those wordes the knyghte kyssed the lady and toke her by the hande, and then blessyd her, and so entered into the felde. The lady sate styll in the blacke chayre in her prayers to God and to the Vyrgyne Mary, humbly prayenge them, by theyr specyall grace, to sende her husbande the vyctory accordynge to the ryght he was in. The lady was in grete hevynes, for she was not sure of her lyfe; for yf her husbande sholde have been discomfyted she was judged without remedy to be brente and her husbande hanged. I cannot say whether she repented her or not yt the matter was so forwarde, that bothe she and her husbande were in grete peryle; howbeit fynally she must as then abyde the adventure. Then these two champyons were set one agaynst another, and so mounted on theyr horses and behaved them nobly, for they knew what pertayned to deades of armes. There were many lordes and knyghtes of France that were come thyder to se that batayle: ye two champyons parted at theyr first metyng, but none of them dyd hurte other; and upon the justes they lyghted on foote to performe their batayle, and soe fought valyauntly; and fyrst John of Carougne was hurt in the thyghe, whereby al his friendes were in grete fear; but after that he fought so valyauntly that he bette down his adversary to the erthe, and thruste his sworde in his body, and so slew hym on the felde; and then he demaunded yf he had done his devoyre or not; and they answered that he had valyauntly acheved his batayle. Then Jaques le Grys was delyvered to the hangman of Parys, and he drew him to the gybet of Mount Faucon and there hanged hym up. Then John of Carougne came before the Kynge and kneeled downe and ye Kynge made hym to stand up before hym, and the same day the kynge caused to be delyvered to hym a thousand frankes, and reteyned hym to be of his chambre with a pencyon of ij hundred poundes by the yere durynge the term of his lyfe; then he thanked the Kynge and the lordes, and wente to his wyfe and kyssed her, and then they wente togyder to the churche of Our Lady in Parys, and made theyr offerynge and then retourned to theyr lodgynges. Then this Syr John of Carougne taryed not long in France, but wente to vysyte the Holy Sepulture." CHAPTER IX. ON TOURNAMENTS. The romances, confirmed as they are by such documents as we have referred to in our last paper, may be taken as perfectly safe authorities on all that relates to the subject of tournaments, and they seize upon their salient features, and offer them in a picturesque form very suitable to our purpose. We will take all our illustrations, as in former chapters, from Malory's "History of Prince Arthur." Here is a statement of the way in which a tournament was arranged and published: "So it befel, that Sir Galahalt the haughty Prince was lord of the country of Surluse, whereof came many good knights. And this noble prince was a passing good man of arms, and ever he held a noble fellowship together. And he came unto King Arthur's court, and told him all his intent, how he would let do cry a justs in the country of Surluse, the which country was within the lands of King Arthur, and that he asked leave for to let cry a justs. 'I will well give you leave,' said King Arthur, 'but wot you well that I may not be there.' So in every good town and castle of this land was made a cry, that in the country of Surluse Sir Galahalt the haughty prince should make justs that should last eight days, and how the haughty prince, with the help of Queen Guenever's knights, should just against all manner of men that would come. When the cry was known kings, princes, dukes, and earls, barons, and many noble knights made them ready to be at that justs." So we read in another place how as Sir Tristram was riding through the country in search of adventures, "he met with pursevants, and they told him that there was made a great cry of a tournament between King Carados of Scotland and the King of Northgales, and either should just against other at the Castle of Maidens. And these pursevants sought all the country for the good knights, and in especial King Carados let seek for Sir Launcelot, and the King of Northgales let seek for Sir Tristram." Then we find how all the reckless knights-errant suddenly become prudent, in order to keep themselves fresh and sound for this great tournament. Thus: "Sir Kay required Sir Tristram to just; and Sir Tristram in a manner refused him, because he would not go hurt nor bruised to the Castle of Maidens; and therefore he thought to have kept him fresh and to rest him." But his prudence was not proof against provocation, for when Sir Kay persisted, he rode upon him and "smote down Sir Kay, and so rode on his way." So Sir Palomides said, "Sir, I am loth to do with that knight, and the cause why for as to-morrow the great tournament shall be, and therefore I will keep me fresh, by my will." But being urged he consented: "Sir, I will just at your request, and require that knight to just with me, and often I have seen a man have a fall at his own request;" a sage reflection which was prophetic. It was Sir Launcelot in disguise whom he was moved thus to encounter; and Sir Launcelot "smote him so mightily that he made him to avoid his saddle, and the stroke brake his shield and hawberk, and had he not fallen he had been slain." No doubt a great company would be gathered on the eve of the tournament, and there would be much feasting and merriment, and inquiry what knights were come to just, and what prospects had this man and the other of honour and lady's grace, or of shame and a fall. Here is such an incident:--"Then Sir Palomides prayed Queen Guenever and Sir Galahalt the haughty prince to sup with him, and so did both Sir Launcelot and Sir Lamorake and many good knights; and in the midst of their supper in came Sir Dinadan, and he began to rail. 'Well,' said Sir Dinadan unto Sir Launcelot, 'what the devil do you in this country, for here may no mean knights win no worship for thee; and I ensure thee that I shall never meet thee no more, nor thy great spear, for I may not sit in my saddle when that spear meet me; I shall beware of that boisterous spear that thou bearest.' Then laughed Queen Guenever and the haughty prince that they might not sit at table. Thus they made great joy till the morrow; and then they heard mass, and blew to the field. And Queen Guenever and all their estates were set, and judges armed clean with their shields for to keep the right." [Illustration: _State Carriage of the Fourteenth Century._] It would take up too much space to transcribe the account of the tournament; the romancers and chroniclers dwell on every stroke, and prolong the narrative through page after page. We leave the reader to imagine to himself the crowd of meaner knights "hurtling together like wild boars," and "lashing at each other with great strokes"; and can only tell one or two unusual deeds which caused most talk among the knights and ladies, and supplied new matter for the heralds and minstrels to record. How Sir Launcelot rushed against Sir Dinadan with the "boisterous spear" he had deprecated, and bore him back on his horse croup, that he lay there as dead, and had to be lifted off by his squires; and how Sir Lamorake struck Sir Kay on the helm with his sword, that he swooned in the saddle; and how Sir Tristram avoided Sir Palomides' spear, and got him by the neck with both his hands, and pulled him clean out of his saddle, and so bore him before him the length of ten spears, and then, in the presence of them all, let him fall at his adventure; "until at last the haughty prince cried 'Hoo!' and then they blew to lodging, and every knight unarmed him and went to the great feast." We may, however, quote one brief summary of a tournament which gives us several pictures worth adding to our story:--"Sir Launcelot mounted his horse and rode into a forest and held no high way. And as he looked afore him he saw a fair plain, and beside that plain stood a fair castle, and before that castle were many pavilions of silk and of divers hue; and him seemed that he saw there five hundred knights riding on horseback; and there was two parties; they that were of the castle were all in black, their horses and their trappings black; and they that were without were all upon white horses with white trappours. And every each hurled to other, whereof Sir Launcelot marvelled greatly. And at the last him thought that they of the castle were put unto the worst; and then thought Sir Launcelot for to help the weaker part in increasing of his chivalry. And so Sir Launcelot thrust in among the parties of the castle, and smote down a knight, both horse and man, to the earth: and then he rushed here and there and did marvellous deeds of arms; but always the white knights held them nigh about Sir Launcelot, for to weary him and win him. And at the last, as a man may not ever endure, Sir Launcelot waxed so faint of fighting, and was so weary of great deeds, that he might not lift up his arms for to give one stroke." [Illustration: _Cabriolet of the Fourteenth Century._] Now for some extracts to illustrate the prize of the tournament: "Turn we unto Ewaine, which rode westward with his damsel, and she brought him there as was a tournament nigh the march of Wales. And at that tournament Sir Ewaine smote down thirty knights, wherefore the prize was given him, and the prize was a jerfawcon and a white steed trapped with a cloth of gold." Sir Marhaus was equally fortunate under similar circumstances:--"He departed, and within two days his damsel brought him to where as was a great tournament, that the Lady de Vaux had cried; and who that did best should have a rich circlet of gold worth a thousand besants. And then Sir Marhaus did so nobly that he was renowned to have smitten down forty knights, and so the circlet of gold was rewarded to him." Again:--"There was cried in this country a great just three days. And all the knights of this country were there, and also the gentlewomen. And who that proved him the best knight should have a passing good sword and a circlet of gold, and the circlet the knight should give to the fairest lady that was at those justs. And this knight Sir Pelleas was the best knight that was there, and there were five hundred knights, but there was never man that Sir Pelleas met withal but that he struck him down or else from his horse. And every day of the three days he struck down twenty knights; therefore they gave him the prize. And forthwithal he went there as the Lady Ettarde was, and gave her the circlet, and said openly that she was the fairest lady that was there, and that he would prove upon any knight that would say nay." [Illustration: _A Tournament._] The accompanying woodcut is a reduced copy of the half of one of the many tournament scenes which run along the lower part of the double page of the MS. romance of "Le Roi Meliadus," already so often alluded to. They are, perhaps, the most spirited of all the contemporary pictures of such scenes, and give every variety of incident, not out of the imagination of a modern novelist, but out of the memory of one who had frequented deeds of arms and noted their incidents with an artist's eye. For an actual historical example of the tournament in which a number of knights challengers undertake to hold the field against all comers, we will take the passage of arms at St. Inglebert's, near Calais, in the days of Edward III., because it is very fully narrated by Froissart, and because the splendid MS. of Froissart in the British Museum (Harl. 4,379) supplies us with a magnificent picture of the scene. Froissart tells that it happened in this wise:--"In ye dayes of King Charles there was an Englisshe knyght called Sir Peter Courteney, a valyaunt knight in armes, came out of Englande into Fraunce to Paris, and demanded to do armes with Sir Guy of Tremoyle[394] in the presence of the king or of suche as wolde se them. Sir Guy wolde not refuce his offre, and in the presence of the kyng and of other lordes they were armed on a daye and ran togeyder one course; and then the kyng wolde not suffre them to ryn agayne togeyther, wherwith the English knyght was ryt evyl content, for, as he shewed, he wolde have furnysshed his chalenge to the uttrance; but he was apeased with fayre wordes, and it was sayde to hym that he had done ynough and ought to be content therewith. The kyng and the duke of Burgoyne gave hym fayre gyftes and presentes. Than he returned agayne towardes Calays, and the lorde of Clary, who was a friscay and a lusty knyght, was charged to convey hym." One night they lodged at Lucen, where lived the Countess of St. Paul, sister to King Richard of England, whose first wife had been a cousin of Sir Peter's, and who therefore received them gladly. In the course of the evening the countess asked Sir Peter whether he was content with the entertainment he had met with in France. Whereupon the knight complained of the interruption of his combat, swore he should say wherever he went that he could find none in France to do armes with him; that had a French knight, for example the Lord of Clary then present, come into England and desired to do armes, he would have found enough to answer his challenge. The Lord of Clary having Sir Peter then placed under his safe conduct by the king, held his tongue till he had brought him within the English territory about Calais; then he challenged Sir Peter, and next day they met. "Then they toke their speares with sharpe heades wel fyled, and spurred their horses and rune togeyder. The fyrst course fayled, wherwith they were bothe sore displeased. At the seconde juste they mette so togeyder, that the Lord of Clary struke the Englysshe knyght throughe the targe and throughe the shoulder a handfull, and therwith he fell from his horse to the erthe.... Then the Lord of Clary departed with his company, and the Englysshemen led Sir Peter Courtney to Calays to be healed of his hurtes." This incident stirred up several young French knights to undertake some feat of arms. "There was thre gentylmen of highe enterprise and of great valure, and that they well shewed as ye shall here. Fyrst there was the yonge Sir Bouciquaut, the other Sir Raynold of Roy, and the thirde the Lorde of Saynt Pye. These thre knyghtes were chamberleyns with the kyng, and well-beloved of hym. These thre being at Mountpellier among the ladyes and damosels, they toke on them to do armes on the fronter beside Calais the next somer after ... abyding all knyghtes and squiers straungers the terme of xxx dayes whosoever wolde juste with them in justes of peace or of warre. And because the enterprise of these thre knyghtes seemed to the French kyng and his counsalye to be an high enterprice, then it was said to them that they shulde putte it into writyng, because the kyng wolde se the artycles thereof, that if they were to high or to outraygous that the kyng might amende them; bycause the kyng nor his counsalye wolde not sustayne any thynge that shoulde be unresonable. These thre knyghtes answered and said, 'It is but reson that we do this; it shall be done.' Then they toke a clerk and caused him to write as forthwith:--'For the great desyre that we have to come to the knowledge of noble gentlemen, knights and squires, straungers as well of the realme of France, as elsewhere of farre countreys, we shall be at Saynt Inglebertes, in the marches of Calays, the twenty day of the month of May next commying, and there contynewe thirtye dayes complete, the Frydayes onely excepte; and to delyver all manner of knyghtes and squyers, gentlemen, straungers of any manner of nacyon whatsoever they be, that wyll come thyder for the breakynge of fiyve speares, outher sharpe or rokettes at their pleasure,'" &c. The challenge was "openly declared and publyshed, and especially in the realme of Englande," for it was in truth specially intended at English knights, and they alone appear to have accepted the challenge. "For in England knyghtes and squiers were quyckened to the mater, and ware in gret imagynacions to know what they might best do. Some said it shulde be greatly to their blame and reproche such an enterprise taken so nere to Calays without they passed the see and loke on those knyghtes that shulde do arms there. Such as spake most of the mater was, first, Syr Johan of Holande Erle of Huntyngdon, who had great desyre to go thyder, also Sir Johan Courtney ... and dyvers others, more than a hundred knyghtes and squiers, all then sayed, 'Let us provyde to go to Calays, for the knyghtes of Fraunce hath not ordayned that sporte so nere our marches but to the entent to see us there; and surely they have done well and do lyke good companions, and we shall not fayle them at their busynes.' This mater was so publisshed abrode in Englande, that many such as had no desyn to do dedes of armes ther on self, yet they sayd they wolde be there to loke on them that shulde. So at the entryng in of ye joly fresshe month of May these thre young knyghtes of Fraunce come to the Abbay of Saynt Ingilbertes, and they ordayned in a fayre playne between Calays and Saynt Ingilbertes thre fresh grene pavilyons to be pyght up, and at the entre of every pavylyon there hanged two sheldes with the armes of the knyghtes, one shelde of peace, another of warre; and it was ordayned that such as shulde ryn and do dedes of armes shulde touche one of the sheldes or cause it to be touched. And on the xxi day of the moneth of May, accordyng as it had been publisshed, there the French knyghtes were redy in the place to furnish their enterprise. And the same day knyghtes and squiers issued out of Calays, suche as wolde just, and also such other as had pleasure to regarde that sporte; and they came to the place appoynted and drew all on the one parte: the place to juste in was fayre green and playne. Sir Johan Hollande first sent to touche the shelde of warre of Syr Bociquaut, who incontinent issued out of his pavylyon redy mounted, with shelde and speare: these two knyghtes drew fro other a certayne space, and when each of them had well advysed other, they spurred their horses and came together rudely, and Bociquaut struke the Erle of Huntingdon through the shelde, and the speare head glente over his arme and dyd hym no hurt; and so they passed further and turned and rested at their pease. This course was greatly praysed. The second course they met without any hurt doygne; and the third course their horses refused and wolde not cope." And so Froissart goes on to describe, in page after page, how the English knights, one after another, encountered the three challengers with various fortune, till at last "they ran no more that day, for it was nere night. Then the Englysshmen drew togeder and departed, and rode to Calays, and there devysed that night of that had been done that day; in likewyse the Frenchmen rode to Saint Ingilbertes and communed and devysed of yt had been done ye same day." "The Tuesday, after masse, all suche as shulde just that day or wolde gyve the lookyng on, rode out of Calis and came to the place appoynted, and the Frenchmen were redy there to recyve them: the day was fayre and hot." And so for four days the sports continued. In many cases the course failed through fault of horse or man; the commonest result of a fair course was that one or both the justers were unhelmed; a few knights were unhorsed; one knight was wounded, the spear passing through the shield and piercing the arm, where "the spere brake, and the trunchon stucke styll in the shelde and in the knyhte's arme; yet for all yt the knyght made his turn and came to his place fresshly." The illuminator has bestowed two large and beautiful pictures on this famous deed of arms. One at folio 230 represents the knights parading round the lists to show themselves before the commencement of the sports. Our woodcut on page 434 is reduced from another picture at folio 43, which represents the actual combat. There are the three handsome pavilions of the knights challengers, each with its two shields--the shield of peace and the shield of war--by touching which each juster might indicate whether he chose to fight "in love or in wrath." There are the galleries hung with tapestries, in which sit the knights and ladies "as had pleasure to regard that sporte." There are the groups of knights, and the judges of the field; and there in the foreground are two of the gallant knights in full career, attended by their squires. It will be interesting to the artist to know something of the colours of the knightly costumes. The knight on this side the barrier has his horse trapped in housings of blue and gold, lined with red, and the bridle to match; the saddle is red. The knight is in armour of steel, his shield is emblazoned _or_, three hearts _gules_; he bears as a crest upon his helmet two streamers of some transparent material like lawn. His antagonist's horse is trapped with red and gold housings, and bridle to match. He wears a kind of cape on his shoulders of cloth of gold; his shield is blue. Of the knights on the (spectator's) left of the picture, one has horse trappings of gold and red embroidery lined with plain red, his shield yellow (not gold) with black bearings; another has blue and gold trappings, with shield red, with white bearings. Of the knights on the right, one has horse-trappings blue and gold laced with red, and shield red and white; the other trappings red and gold, shield yellow. The squires are dressed thus: the limbs encased in armour, the body clothed in a jupon, which is either green embroidery on red ground or red embroidery on green ground. The pavilions are tinted red, with stripes of a darker red. The shields of the challengers are--on the left tent, _azure_, three hearts _argent_; on the middle, _vert_, three hearts _or_; on the right, _or_, three hearts _gules_. [Illustration: _The Feat of Arms at St. Inglebert's._] We have drawn upon the romancer and the historian to illustrate the subject; we have cited ancient documents, and copied contemporary pictures; we will call upon the poet to complete our labour. Chaucer, in the Knight's Tale, gives a long account of a just _à l'outrance_ between Palamon and Arcite and a hundred knights a-side, which came to pass thus: Palamon and Arcite, two cousins and sworn brothers-in-arms, had the misfortune both to fall in love with Emily, the younger sister of Ipolyta, the Queen of Theseus Duke-regnant of Athens. Theseus found the two young men, one May morning, in the wood engaged in a single combat. "This Duke his courser with his spurres smote, And at a start he was betwixt them two, And pulled out his sword and cried Ho! No more, up pain of losing of your head." After discovering the cause of their enmity, the Duke ordained that that day fifty weeks each should bring a hundred knights ready to fight in the lists on his behalf-- "And whether he or thou Shall with his hundred as I speak of now Slay his contrary or out of listes drive, Him shall I given Emilie to wive." Each of the rivals rode through the country far and near during the fifty weeks, to enlist valiant knights to make up his hundred; and on the eve of the appointed day each party rode into Athens; and, says Chaucer, "never did so small a band comprise so noble a company of knights":-- "For every wight that loved chevalrie, And wolde, his thankes, have a lasting name, Hath praied that he might ben of that game, And well was he that thereto chosen was." And the poet goes on with this testimony to the chivalrous feeling of his own time:-- "For if there fell to-morrow such a case, Ye knowen well that every lusty knyght That loveth par amour, and hath his might, Were it in Engleland or elleswhere, They wolde, hir thankes, willen to be there." At length the day arrives:-- "Gret was the feste in Athens thilke day. * * * * * And on the morrow when the day gan spring, Of horse and harness, noise and clattering There was in all the hostelries about: And to the palace rode there many a rout Of lordes upon stedes and palfries. There mayst thou see devising of harness So uncouth and so riche, and wrought so well, Of goldsmithry, of brouding, and of steel; The shieldes bright, testeres, and trappours; Gold-hewen helms, hawberks, cote-armures; Lordes in parements on their coursers, Knyghts of retenue and eke squires, Nailing the speares and helms buckeling, Gniding of shields with lainers lacing; There, as need is, they were nothing idle. The foaming steedes on the golden bridle Gnawing, and fast the armourers also With file and hammer pricking to and fro; Yeomen on foot, and commons many a one, With shorte staves thick as they may gon; Pipes, trompes, nakeres, and clariouns, That in the battaille blowen bloody sounes. The palais full of people up and down. * * * * * Duke Theseus is at a window sette, Arraied right as he were a god in throne; The people presseth thitherward full soon Him for to see, and do him reverence, And eke to hearken his heste and his sentence. An herauld on a scaffold made an O[395] Till that the noise of the people was ydo; And when he saw the people of noise all still, Thus shewed he the mighty Dukes will." The Duke's will was, that none of the combatants should use any shot (_i.e._ any missile), or poleaxe, or short knife, or short pointed sword, but they were to run one course with sharp spears and then-- "With long sword or with mace to fight their fill." However, any one who was forcibly drawn to a stake--of which one was planted at each end of the lists--should be _hors de combat_; and if either of the leaders was slain or disabled or drawn to the stake, the combat should cease. "Up goe the trumpets and the melodie And to the listes rode the compaynie. By ordinance throughout the city large Hanged with cloth of gold, and not with serge. * * * * * And thus they passen through the citie And to the listes comen they be-time It was not of the day yet fully prime, When set was Theseus full rich and high, Ipolita the queen and Emilie, And other ladies in degrees about, Unto the seates presseth all the rest." Then Arcite and his hundred knights enter through the western side of the lists under a red banner, and Palamon and his company at the same moment, under a white banner, enter by the eastern gates. "And in two ranges fayre they hem dresse, When that their names read were every one, That in their number guile were there none. Then were the gates shut, and cried was loud, 'Do now your devoir, young knyghtes proud.' The herauldes left there pricking up and down; Then ringen trompes loud and clarioun; There is no more to say, but east and west, In go the speres quickly into rest, In goeth the sharpe spur into the side; There see men who can juste and who can ride; There shiver shafts upon sheldes thick, He feeleth through the herte-spoon the prick. Up springen speres, twenty foot in hyhte, Out go the swords as the silver bright The helmes they to-hewen and to-shred; Out bursts the blood with sterne streames red. With mighty maces the bones they to-brest. He through the thickest of the throng gan thrust, There stumble steedes strong, and down goth all. He rolleth under foot as doth a ball! He foineth on his foe with a truncheon, And he him hurteth, with his horse adown; He through the body is hurt and sith ytake, Maugre his head, and brought unto the stake." At last it happened to Palamon-- "That by the force of twenty is he take Unyolden, and drawen to the stake. And when that Theseus had seen that sight, Unto the folk that foughten thus eche one He cried 'Ho! no more, for it is done!' The troumpors with the loud minstralcie, The herauldes that so loude yell and crie, Been in their joy for wele of Don Arcite. * * * * * This fierce Arcite hath off his helm ydone, And on a courser, for to show his face, He pusheth endilong the large place, Looking upward upon this Emilie, And she towards him cast a friendly eye;" when, alas! his horse started, fell, and crushed the exulting victor, so that he lay bruised to death in the listes which had seen his victory. After a decent time of mourning, by Theseus's good offices, Emily accepts her surviving lover: "And thus with alle blisse and melodie Hath Palamon ywedded Emelie." The two curious woodcuts[396] on pages 425 and 426 show the style of carriage associated--grotesquely associated, it seems to our eyes--with the armour and costume of the Middle Ages. No. 1 might represent Duke Theseus going in state through the streets of Athens, hung with tapestry and cloth of gold, to the solemn deed of arms of Palamon and Arcite. No. 2 may represent to us the merry Sir Dinadan driving to the tournament of the Castle of Maidens. CHAPTER X. MEDIÆVAL BOWMEN. The archers of England were so famous during the Middle Ages that we feel special interest in knowing something about them. As early as the Conquest we find the Norman archers giving the invader a great advantage over the Saxons, who had not cultivated this arm with success. Their equipment and appearance may be seen in the Bayeux tapestry; most of them are evidently unarmed, but some are in armour like that of the men-at-arms. Usually the quiver hangs at the side; yet occasionally at the back, so that the arrows are drawn out over the shoulder; both fashions continued in later times. In one case, at least, an archer, in pursuit of the flying Saxons, is seen on horseback; but it may be doubted whether at this period, as was the case subsequently, some of the archers were mounted, or whether an archer has leaped upon a riderless horse to pursue the routed enemy. The bow was of the simplest construction, not so long as it afterwards became; the arrows were barbed and feathered. Each archer--in later times, at least--commonly carried two dozen arrows "under his belt." He also frequently bore a stake sharpened at both ends, so that in the field, when the front ranks fixed their stakes in the ground with their points sloping outward, and the rear rank fixed theirs in the intermediate spaces, they formed a _cheval de frise_ against cavalry, and, with the flanks properly cared for, they could hold their ground even against the steel-clad chivalry. Latterly also the archers were sometimes protected by a great movable shield; this they fixed upright by a rest, and behind it were sheltered from the adverse bowmen. The archer also carried a sword, so that he could defend himself, if attacked, hand to hand; or act on the offensive with the main body of foot when his artillery was expended. By the twelfth century there are stories on record which show that the English bowmen had acquired such skill as to make their weapon a very formidable one. Richard of Devizes tells us that at the siege of Messina the Sicilians were obliged to leave their walls unmanned, "because no one could look abroad but he would have an arrow in his eye before he could shut it." In the thirteenth century the archer became more and more important. He always began the battle at a distance, as the artillery do in modern warfare, before the main bodies came up to actual hand-to-hand fighting. We find in this century a regular use of mounted corps of bowmen and cross-bowmen; and the knights did not scorn to practise the use of this weapon, and occasionally to resort to it on a special occasion in the field. Some of the bowmen continue to be found, in the MS. illustrations, more or less fully armed, but the majority seem to have worn only a helmet of iron, and perhaps half armour of leather, or often nothing more than a woollen jerkin. The cross-bow, or arbalest, does not appear to have been used in war until the close of the twelfth century. It was not equal to the long-bow in strong and skilful hands, because a powerful and skilful bowman, while he could probably send his shaft with as much force as a cross-bow, could shoot half-a-dozen arrows while the cross-bow was being wound up to discharge a second bolt; but still, once introduced, the mechanical advantage which the cross-bow gave to men of ordinary strength and of inferior skill caused it to keep its ground, until the invention of fire-arms gradually superseded both long-bow and arbalest. The bow of the cross-bow seems to have been usually of steel; some of them were strung by putting the foot into a loop at the end of the stock, and pulling the cord up to its notch by main force: an illustration of this early form appears in the arbalester shooting from the battlement of the castle in the early fourteenth-century illumination on p. 381, and another at p. 382; but the more powerful bows required some mechanical assistance to bring the string to its place. In a picture in the National Gallery of the Martyrdom of St. Sebastian, by Antonio Pollajuolo, of Florence, A.D. 1475, an arbalester has a cord attached to his belt, and a pulley running on it, with a hook to catch the bow-string, so that, putting his foot into the loop at the end of the stock, looping the end of the cord on to a hook at its butt, and catching the bow-string by the pulley, he could, by straightening himself, apply the whole force of his body to the stringing of his weapon. More frequently, however, a little winch was used, by which the string was wound into its place with little expenditure of strength. One of the men in the cut on the next page is thus stringing his bow, and it is seen again in the cut on p. 449. The arrow shot by the cross-bow was called a bolt or quarrel; it was shorter and stouter than an ordinary arrow, with a heavier head. The arbalester seems to have carried fifty bolts into the field with him; the store of bolts was carried by waggons which followed the army. We have already said that there were, from the thirteenth century, bodies of mounted arbalesters. But the far larger proportion of archers, of both arms, were footmen, who were usually placed in front of the array to commence the engagement. The arbalest, however, was more used on the Continent than in England; and hence the long-bow came to be especially considered the national arm of the English, while the Genoese became famous as arbalesters. The superior rapidity of fire gave the English archer the same advantage over his foemen that the needle-gun gave to the Prussians in the late war. Later on, in the fourteenth century, the battle seems to have been usually begun by the great machines for throwing stones and darts which then played the part of modern cannon, while the bowmen were placed on the flanks. Frequently, also, archers were intermixed with the horsemen, so that a body of spearmen with archers among them would play the part which a body of dragoons did in more modern warfare, throwing the opposing ranks into confusion with missiles, before charging upon them hand to hand. In the fourteenth century the bow had attained the climax of its reputation as a weapon, and in the French wars many a battle was decided by the strength and skill and sturdy courage of the English bowmen. Edward III. conferred honour on the craft by raising a corps of archers of the King's Guard, consisting of 120 men, the most expert who could be found in the kingdom. About the same period the French kings enrolled from their allies of Scotland the corps of Scottish Archers of the Guard, who were afterwards so famous. We have already given a good illustration of the long-bowman from the Royal MS. 14, E. IV., a folio volume illustrated with very fine pictures executed for our King Edward IV. From the same MS. we now take an illustration of the cross-bow. The accompanying cut is part of a larger picture which represents several interesting points in a siege. On the right is a town surrounded by a moat; the approach to the bridge over the moat is defended by an outwork, and the arbalesters in the cut are skirmishing with some bowmen on the battlements and angle-turrets of this outwork. On the left of the picture are the besiegers. They have erected a wooden castle with towers, surrounded by a timber breast-work. In front of this breast-work is an elaborate cannon of the type of that represented in the cut on page 392. At a little distance is a battery of one cannon elevated on a wooden platform, and screened by a breast-work of basket-work, which was a very usual way of concealing cannon down to the time of Henry VIII. [Illustration: _Bowmen and Arbalesters._] The man on the right of the cut wears a visored helmet, but it has no amail; his body is protected by a skirt of mail, which appears at the shoulders and hips, and at the openings of his blue surcoat; the legs are in brown hose, and the feet in brown shoes. The centre figure has a helmet and camail, sleeves of mail, and iron breastplate of overlapping plates; the upper plate and the skirt are of red spotted with gold; his hose and shoes are of dark grey. The third man has a helmet with camail, and the body protected by mail, which shows under the arm, but he has also shoulder-pieces and elbow-pieces of plate; his surcoat is yellow, and his hose red. The artist has here admirably illustrated the use of the crossbow. In one case we see the archer stringing it by help of a little winch; in the next he is taking a bolt out of the quiver at his side with which to load his weapon; in the third we have the attitude in which it was discharged. [Illustration: _Arbalesters._] The illustration above, from a fourteenth-century MS. (Cott. Julius, E. IV. f. 219), represents a siege. A walled town is on the right, and in front of the wall, acting on the part of the town, are the cross-bowmen in the cut, protected by great shields which are kept upright by a rest. The men seem to be preparing to fire, and the uniformity of their attitude, compared with the studied variety of attitude of groups of bowmen in other illustrations, suggests that they are preparing to fire a volley. On the left of the picture is sketched a group of tents representing the camp of the besiegers, and in front of the camp is a palisade which screens a cannon of considerable length. The whole picture is only sketched in with pen and ink. The woodcut here given (Royal 14, E. IV. f. xiv.) forms part of a large and very interesting picture. In the middle of the picture is a castle with a bridge, protected by an advanced tower, and a postern with a drawbridge drawn up. Archers, cross-bowmen, and men-at-arms man the battlements. In front is a group of men-at-arms and tents, with archers and cross-bowmen shooting up at the defenders. On the right is a group of men-at-arms who seem to be meditating an attack by surprise upon the postern. On the left, opposed to the principal gate, is the timber fort shown in the woodcut. Its construction, of great posts and thick slabs of timber strengthened with stays and cross-beams, is well indicated. There seem to be two separate works: one is a battery of two cannon, the cannon having wheeled carriages; the other is manned by archers. It is curious to see the mixture of arms--long-bow, cross-bow, portable fire-arm, and wheeled cannon, all used at the same time; indeed, it may be questioned whether the earlier fire-arms were very much superior in effect to the more ancient weapons which they supplanted. No doubt many an archer preferred the long-bow, with which he could shoot with truer aim than with a clumsy hand-gun; and perhaps a good catapult was only inferior to one of the early cannon in being a larger and heavier engine. [Illustration: _Timber Fort._] At fol. l v. of the same MS., a wooden tower and lofty breast-work have been thrown up in front of a town by the defenders as an additional protection to the usual stone tower which defends the approach to the bridge. The assailants are making an assault on this breast-work, and need ladders to scale it; so that it is evident the defenders stand on a raised platform behind their timber defence. See a similar work at f. xlviij., which is mounted with cannon. The practice of archery by the commonalty of England was protected and encouraged by a long series of legislation. As early as Henry I. we find an enactment--which indicates that such accidents happened then as do unhappily in these days, when rifle-shooting is become a national practice--that if any one practising with arrows or with darts should by accident slay another, it was not to be punished as a crime. In the fourteenth century, when the archer had reached the height of his importance in the warfare of the time, many enactments were passed on the subject. Some were intended to encourage, and more than encourage, the practice by the commonalty of what had become the national arm. In 1363, and again in 1388, statutes were passed calling upon the people to leave their popular amusements of ball and coits and casting the stone and the like, on their festivals and Sundays, and to practise archery instead. "Servants and labourers shall have bows and arrows, and use the same the Sundays and holidays, and leave all playing at tennis or foot-ball, and other games called coits, dice, casting the stone, kailes, and other such inopportune games." In 1482 a statute says that the dearness of bows has driven the people to leave shooting, and practise unlawful games, though the king's subjects are perfectly disposed to shoot; and it therefore regulates the price of bows. This crude legislation, of course, failed to remedy the evil, for if the bowyers could not sell them at a profit, they would cease to make them, or rather to import the wood of which they were made, since the best yew for bows came from abroad, English yew not supplying pieces sufficiently long without knots. Accordingly, in 1483, another statute required all merchants sending merchandise to England from any place from which bow-staves were usually exported, to send four bow-staves for every ton of merchandise, and two persons were appointed at each port to inspect the staves so sent, and mark and reject those which were not good and sufficient. Still later the erection of butts was encouraged in every parish to prevent the accidents which the statute of Henry I. had directed justice to wink at; and traces of them still remain in the names of places, as in Newington Butts; and still more frequently in the names of fields, as the "butt-field." Our history of ancient artillery would be imperfect without a few words on the modern artillery of metal balls propelled from hollow tubes by the explosive force of gunpowder, which superseded the slings and bows and darts, the catapults and trebuchets and mangonels and battering-rams, which had been used from the beginning of warfare in the world, and also drove out of use the armour, whether of leather, bone, or steel, which failed to pay in security of person against shot and cannon-ball for its weight and encumbrance to the wearer. A good deal of curious inquiry has been bestowed upon the origin of this great agent in the revolution of modern warfare. The Chinese and Arabs are generally regarded as the first inventors of gunpowder; among Europeans its invention has been attributed to Marcus Graecus, Albertus Magnus, Barthold Schwaletz, and Roger Bacon. The first written evidence relating to the existence of cannon is in the ordinances of Florence, in the year 1326, wherein authority is given to the Priors Gonfalionieri and twelve good men to appoint persons to superintend the manufacture of cannons and iron balls for the defence of the Commune Camp and territory of the Republic. J. Barbour, the poet, is usually quoted as an authority for the use of cannon "crakeys of war," by Edward III., in his Scottish campaign, in the year 1327. But since Barbour was not born till about that year, and did not write till 1375, his authority was not contemporary and may be doubted, especially since there is strong negative evidence to the contrary: _e.g._ that all the army accounts of this campaign still remain, and no mention of guns or gunpowder is to be found in them. In 1338, however, there is unquestionable evidence that cannon of both iron and brass were employed on board English ships of war. In an inventory of things delivered that year by John Starling, formerly clerk of the king's vessels, to Helmyng, keeper of the same, are noted "un canon de fer ov ii chambers, un autre de bras ove une chamber, iii canons de fer of v chambres, un handgonne," &c. In explanation of the two and five chambers, it appears that these earliest cannon were breechloaders, and each cannon had several movable chambers to contain the charges. The same year, 1338, gives the first French document relating to cannon. It is doubly interesting; first because it relates to the provision made for an expedition against Southampton in that year, and secondly because it was a curious attempt to combine the cannon and the arbalest, in other words, to make use of the force of gunpowder for propelling the old short quarrel. It was an iron fire-arm provided with forty-eight bolts (carreaux) made of iron and feathered with brass. We learn that a tube received the arrow, which was wrapped round with leather at the butt to make it fit closely, and this tube fitted to a box, or chamber, which contained the charge and was kept in its place by a wedge.[397] In 1339 it is recorded that the English used cannon at the siege of Cambray. In 1346 experiments on improved cannon were made by Peter of Bruges, a famous maker, before the consuls of Tournay. At the siege of Calais, in 1347, the English built a castle of wood, and armed it with bombards. In the household expenses of Edward III., commencing 1344, are payments to "engyners lvii., artillers vi., gunners vi.," who each received sixpence a day. The date of the first appearance of cannon in the field is still disputed; some say they were used at Crecy in the year 1346. Certainly, in 1382, the men of Ghent carried guns into the field against the Brugeois; and at the combat of Pont-de-Comines, in the same year, we read _bombardes portatives_ were used. [Illustration: _Long-bow, Arquebus, Cannon, and Greek Fire._] We have already given several illustrations of cannon. Siege cannon for throwing heavy balls which did not need very great accuracy of aim, soon superseded entirely the more cumbrous military engines which were formerly used for the same purpose. But hand-guns were not at first so greatly superior to bows, and did not so rapidly come into exclusive use. And yet a good deal of inventive ingenuity was bestowed upon their improvement and development. The "Brown Bess" of our great continental war was a clumsy weapon after all, and it may fairly be doubted whether a regiment armed with it could have stood against a row of Robin Hood's men with their long-bows. It was really left to our day to produce a portable fire-arm which would fire as rapidly, as far, and with as accurate an aim as Robin Hood's men could shoot their cloth-yard shafts six hundred years ago; and yet it is curious to find some of the most ingenious inventions of the present day anticipated long since: there are still preserved in the Tower armoury breech-loaders and revolving chambers and conical shot of the time of Henry VIII. The woodcut on the preceding page, which is from the MS. Royal 14, E. IV., contains several figures taken from one of the large illuminations that adorn the MS.; it affords another curious illustration of the simultaneous use of various forms of projectiles. On the right side is an archer, with his sheaf at his belt and his sword by his side. On the left is a man-at-arms in a very picturesque suit of complete armour, firing a hand-gun of much more modern form than those in the former woodcut. A small wheeled cannon on the ground shows the contemporary form of that arm, while the pikes beside it help to illustrate the great variety of weapons in use. The cross-bowman here introduced is from the same illumination; he is winding up his weapon with a winch, like the cross-bowman on p. 442; his shield is slung at his back. [Illustration: _Cross-bow._] But we have specially to call attention to the two men who are throwing shells, which are probably charged with Greek fire. This invention, which inspired such terror in the Middle Ages, seems to have been discovered in the east of Europe, and to have been employed as early as the seventh century. We hear much of its use in the Crusades, by the Greeks, who early possessed the secret of its fabrication. They used it either by ejecting it through pipes to set fire to the shipping or military engines, or to annoy and kill the soldiers of the enemy; or they cast it to a distance by means of vessels charged with it affixed to javelins; or they hurled larger vessels by means of the great engines for casting stones; or they threw the fire by hand in a hand-to-hand conflict; or used hollow maces charged with it, which were broken over the person of the enemy, and the liquid fire poured down, finding its way through the crevices of his armour. It was, no doubt, a terrible sight to see a man-at-arms or a ship wrapped in an instant in liquid flames; and what added to the terror it inspired was that the flames could not be extinguished by water or any other available appliance. On the introduction of the use of gunpowder in European warfare, Greek fire seems also to have been experimented upon, and we find several representations of its use in the MS. drawings where it is chiefly thrown by hand to set fire to shipping; in the present example, however, it is used in the field. [Illustration: _Battering-ram._] Lastly, in the above cut we give a representation of the battering-ram from an interesting work which illustrates all the usual military engines.[398] It contains curious contrivances for throwing up scaling-ladders and affixing them to the battlements, from which the inventors of our fire-escapes may have borrowed suggestions; and others for bridging wide moats and rivers with light scaffolding, which could be handled and fixed as easily and quickly as the scaling-ladders. The drawing of the ram only indicates that the machine consists of a heavy square beam of timber, provided, probably, with a metal head, which is suspended by a rope from a tall frame, and worked by manual strength. The cut is especially interesting as an illustration of the style of armour of the latter part of the fifteenth century. It gives the back as well as the front of the figure, and also several varieties of helmet. CHAPTER XI. FIFTEENTH CENTURY ARMOUR. As the fifteenth century advanced the wars of the Roses gave urgent reason for attention to the subject of defensive armour; and we find, accordingly, that the fashions of armour underwent many modifications, in the attempt to give the wearer more perfect protection for life and limb. It would be tedious to enter into the minute details of these changes, and the exact date of their introduction; we must limit ourselves to a brief history of the general character of the new fashions. The horizontal bands of armour called _taces_, depending from the corslet, became gradually narrower; while the pieces which hung down in front of the thighs, called _tuilles_, became proportionately larger. In the reigns of Richard III. and Henry VII. the knightly equipment reached its strangest forms. Besides the usual close-fitting pieces which protected the arms, the elbow-piece was enlarged into an enormous fan-like shape that not only protected the elbow itself, but overlapped the fore arm, and by its peculiar shape protected the upper arm up to the shoulder. The shoulder-pieces also were strengthened, sometimes by several super-imposed overlapping plates, sometimes by hammering it out into ridges, sometimes by the addition of a _passe garde_--a kind of high collar which protected the neck from a sweeping side blow. The breastplate is globular in shape, and often narrow at the waist; from it depend narrow _taces_ and _tuilles_, and under the _tuilles_ we often find a deep skirt of mail. When broad-toed shoes came into fashion, the iron shoes of the knight followed the fashion; and at the same time, in place of the old gauntlet in which the fingers were divided, and each finger protected by several small plates of metal, the leather glove was now furnished at the back of the hand with three or four broad over-lapping plates, like those of a lobster, each of which stretched across the whole hand. These alterations may have added to the strength of the armour, but it was at the cost of elegance of appearance. A suit of armour embossed with ornamental patterns, partially covered with a blue mantle, may be seen in the fifteenth-century Book of Hours, Harl. 5,328, f. 77. In the time of Henry VIII., in place of the _taces_ and _tuilles_ for the defence of the body and thighs, a kind of skirt of steel, called _lamboys_, was introduced, which was fluted and ribbed vertically, so as to give it very much the appearance of a short petticoat. Henry VIII. is represented in this costume in the equestrian figure on his great seal. And a suit of armour of this kind, a very magnificent one, which was presented to the king by the Emperor Maximilian on the occasion of his marriage to Katharine of Arragon, is preserved in the Tower armoury. A good sketch of a suit of this kind will be seen in one of the pikemen--the fifth from the right hand--in the nearest rank of the army in the engraving of King Henry VIII.'s army, which faces page 455. The armour of this reign was sometimes fashioned in exact imitation of the shape of the ordinary garments of a gentleman of the time, and engraved and inlaid in imitation of their woven or embroidered ornamentation. In the tournament armour of the time the defences were most complete, but unwieldy and inelegant. The front of the saddle had a large piece of armour attached, which came up to protect the trunk, and was bent round to encase each thigh. A clearly drawn representation of this will be found in a tilting scene in the illumination on f. 15 v. of the MS. Add. 24,189, date _circa_ 1400 A.D. There are several examples of it in the Tower armoury. The shield was also elaborately shaped and curved, to form an outer armour for the defence of the whole of the left side. Instead of the shield there was sometimes an additional piece of armour, called the _grand garde_, screwed to the breastplate, to protect the left side and shoulder; while the great spear had also a piece of armour affixed in front of the grasp, which not only protected the hand, but was made large enough to make a kind of shield for the right arm and breast. There was also sometimes a secondary defence affixed to the upper part of the breastplate, which stood out in front of the face. These defences for thigh and breast will be observed in the woodcut of the "playing at tournament," on p. 408; and in the combat of the Earl of Warwick, p. 418, will be seen how the _grande garde_ is combined with the _volante_ piece which came in front of the face. Behind such defences the tilter must have been almost invulnerable. On the other hand, his defences were so unwieldy that he must have got into his saddle first, and then have been packed securely into his armour; and when there, he could do nothing but sit still and hold his spear in rest--it seems impossible for him even to have struck a single sword stroke. James I.'s remark on armour was especially true of such a suit: "It was an admirable invention which preserved a man from being injured, and made him incapable of injuring any one else." [Illustration: _Combat on Foot._] There are several very good authorities for the military costume of the reign of Henry VIII. easily accessible to the student and artist. The roll preserved in the College of Arms which represents the tournament held at Westminster, A.D. 1510, in honour of the birth of the son of Henry and Katharine of Arragon, has been engraved in the "Vetusta Monumenta." The painting of the Field of the Cloth of Gold at Hampton Court is another contemporary authority full of costumes of all kinds. The engravings of Hans Burgmaier, in the _Triumphs of Maximilian_ and the _Weise Könige_ contain numerous authorities very valuable for the clearness and artistic skill with which the armour is depicted. We have given an illustration, on the preceding page, reduced from one of the plates of the latter work, which represents a combat of two knights, on foot. The armour is partly covered by a surcoat; in the left-hand figure it will be seen that it is fluted. The shields will be noticed as illustrating one of the shapes then in use. But our best illustration is from a contemporary drawing in the British Museum (Aug. III., f. 4), which represents Henry VIII.'s army, and gives us, on a small scale, and in very sketchy but intelligible style, a curious and valuable picture of the military equipment of the period. We have two armies drawn up in battle array, and the assault is just commenced. The nearer army has its main body of pikemen, who, we know from contemporary writers, formed the main strength of an army at this time, and for long after. In front of them are two lines of arquebusiers. Their front is protected by artillery, screened by great _mantelets_ of timber. The opposing army has similarly its main body of pikemen, and its two lines of arquebusiers; the first line engaged in an assault upon the enemy's artillery. On the left flank of its main body is the cavalry; and there seems to be a reserve of pikemen a little distance in the rear, behind a rising ground. Tents pitched about a village represent the head-quarters of the army, and baggage waggons on the left of the picture show that the artist has overlooked nothing. A fortress in the distance seems to be taking part in the engagement with its guns. There are other similar pictures in the same volume, some of which supply details not here given, or not so clearly expressed. At folio 1 are two armies, each with a van of musketeers three deep, a main body of pikemen eleven deep, and a third line of musketeers three deep. The cavalry are more distinctly shown than in the picture before us, as being men-at-arms in full armour, with lances. At folio 3 the drummers, fifers, and baggage and camp followers are shown. In the _Weise Könige_,[399] on plate 44, is a representation of a camp surrounded by the baggage waggons; on plates 91 and 96 a square fort of timber in the field of battle; on plates 57, 84, &c., are cannons surrounded by mantelets, some of wicker probably filled with earth; on plate 60 is a good representation of a column of troops defiling out of the gate of a city. The following account, from Grafton's Chronicle, of the array in which Henry VIII. took the field when he marched to the siege of Boulogne, will illustrate the picture:-- "The xxj. day of July (1513), when all thinges by counsayle had bene ordered concernyng the order of battaile, the king passed out of the town of Calice in goodly array of battaile, and toke the field. And notwithstandyng that the forewarde and the rerewarde of the kinges great armye were before Tyrwin, as you have heard, yet the king of his own battaile made three battailes after the fassion of the warre. The Lord Lisle, marshall of the hoste, was captain of the foreward, and under him three thousand men; Sir Rychard Carew, with three hundred men, was the right-hand wing to the foreward; and the Lord Darcy, with three hundred men, was wing on the left hande; the scowrers and fore-ryders of this battaile were the Northumberland men on light geldings. The Erle of Essex was lieutenaunt-generall of the speres, and Sir John Pechy was vice-governour of the horsemen. Before the king went viij. hundred Almaynes, all in a plump by themselves. After them came the standard with the red dragon, next the banner of our ladie, and next after the banner of the Trinitie: under the same were all the kinges housholde servauntes. Then went the banner of the armes of Englande, borne by Sir Henry Guilforde, under which banner was the king himselfe, with divers noblemen and others, to the number of three thousand men. The Duke of Buckyngham, with sixe hundred men, was on the kinges left hande, egall with the Almaynes; in like wise on the right hande was Sir Edward Pournynges, with other sixe hundred men egall with the Almaynes. The Lord of Burgoynie, with viij. hundred men, was wing on the right hande; Sir William Compton, with the retinue of the Bishop of Winchester, and Master Wolsey, the king's almoner,[400] to the number of viij. hundred, was in manner of a rereward. Sir Anthony Oughtred and Sir John Nevell, with the kinges speres that followed, were foure hundred; and so the whole armie were xj. thousand and iij. hundred men. The Mayster of the Ordinaunce set forth the kinges artillerie, as fawcons, slinges, bombardes, cartes with powder, stones, bowes, arrowes, and suche other thinges necessary for the fielde; the whole number of the carriages were xiij. hundreth; the leaders and dryvers of the same were xix hundreth men; and all these were rekened in the battaile, but of good fightyng men there were not full ix. thousande. Thus in order of battayle the king rode to Sentreyla." [Illustration: _Pikeman._] A little after we have a description of the king's camp, which will illustrate the other pictures above noted. "Thursedaie, the fourth daye of Auguste, the king, in good order of battaile, came before the city of Tyrwyn, and planted his siege in most warlike wise; his camp was environed with artillerie, as fawcons, serpentines, crakys, hagbushes, and tryed harowes, spien trestyles, and other warlike defence for the savegard of the campe. The king for himselfe had a house of timber, with a chimney of iron; and for his other lodgings he had great and goodlye tents of blewe waterworke, garnished with yellow and white, and divers romes within the same for all officers necessarie. On the top of the pavalions stoode the kinges bestes, holding fanes, as the lion, the dragon, the greyhound, the antelope, the Done Kowe.[401] Within, all the lodginge was paynted full of the sunnes rising: the lodginge was a hundred xxv. foote in length." At folio 5 of the MS. already referred to (Aug. III.) is a connected arrangement of numerous tents, as if to form some such royal quarters. But at folio 8 are two gorgeous _suites_ of tents, which can hardly have been constructed for any other than a very great personage. One _suite_ is of red, watered, with gold ornamentation; the other is of green and white stripes (or rather gores), with a gilded cresting along the ridge, and red and blue fringe at the eaves. Our next engravings are from coloured drawings at f. 9, in the same MS., and respectively represent very clearly the half-armour worn by the pikeman and the arquebusier, and the weapons from which they took their name. In the reign of Elizabeth and James I. armour was probably very little worn; but every country knight and esquire possessed a suit of armour, which usually hung in his hall over his chair of state, surrounded by corslets and iron hats, pikes and halberts, cross-bows and long-bows, wherewith to arm his serving-men and tenants, if civil troubles or foreign invasion should call the fighting-men of the country into the field.[402] The knights and esquires of these times are also commonly represented in armour, kneeling at the prayer-desk, in their monumental effigies. The fashion of the armour differs from that of preceding reigns. The elaborate ingenuities of the latter part of the fifteenth century have been dispensed with, and the extravagant caprices also by which the armour of Henry VIII.'s time imitated in steel the fashion of the ordinary costume of the day are equally abandoned. The armour is simply made to fit the breast, body, arms, and legs; the thighs being protected by a modification of the _tuilles_ in the form of a succession of overlapping plates (_tassets_ or _cuisses_) which reach from the corslet to the knee. [Illustration: _Arquebusier._] The civil war of the Great Rebellion offers a tempting theme, but we must limit ourselves to the notice that few, except great noblemen when acting as military leaders, ever wore anything like a complete suit of armour. A beautiful suit, inlaid with gold, which belonged to Charles I., is in the Tower armoury. But knights are still sometimes represented in armour in their monumental effigies. A breast and back-plate over a leather coat, and a round iron cap, were commonly worn both by cavalry and infantry. In the time of Charles II. and James II., and William and Mary, officers still wore breastplates, and military leaders were sometimes painted in full armour, though it may be doubted whether they ever actually wore it. As late as the present century, officers, in some regiments at least, wore a little steel gorget, rather as a distinction than a defence. But even yet our horse-guards remain with their breast and back-plates and helmets, and their thick leather boots, to show us how bright steel and scarlet, waving plumes and embroidered banners, trained chargers and gay trappings, give outward bravery and chivalric grace to the holiday aspect of the sanguinary trade of war. THE MERCHANTS OF THE MIDDLE AGES. CHAPTER I. THE BEGINNINGS OF BRITISH COMMERCE. In the remotest antiquity, before European civilisation dawned in Greece, Britain was already of some commercial importance. In those days, before the art of tempering iron was discovered, copper occupied the place which iron now fills. But an alloy of tin was requisite to give to copper the hardness and edge needed to fit it for useful tools for the artisan, for arrow and spear heads for the hunter, and for the warrior's sword and shield; and there were only two places known in the world where this valuable metal could be obtained--Spain and Britain. For ages the Phoenician merchants and their Carthaginian colonists had a monopoly of this commerce, as they only had the secret of the whereabouts of the "Isles of Tin." It is very difficult for us to realise to ourselves how heroic was the daring of those early adventurers. We, who have explored the whole earth, and by steam and telegraph brought every corner of it within such easy reach; we, to whom it is a very small matter to make a voyage with women and children to the other side of the world; we, who walk down to the pier to see the ships return from the under world, keeping their time as regularly as the Minster clock--we cannot comprehend what it was to them, to whom the tideless sunny Mediterranean was "The Great Sea," about which they groped cautiously from one rocky headland to another in fine weather, and laid up in harbour for the winter; to whom the Pillars of Hercules were the western boundary of the world, beyond which the weird ocean with its great tides and mountain-waves stretched without limit towards the sunset; we cannot comprehend the heroic daring of the men who, in those little ships, without compass, came from the easternmost shores of the Great Sea, ventured through its western portal into this outer waste, and steered boldly northwards towards the unknown regions of ice and darkness. Our readers will remember that Strabo tells us how, when Rome became the rival of Carthage, the Romans tried to discover the route to these mysterious islands. He relates how the master of a Carthaginian vessel, finding himself pursued by one whom the Romans had appointed to watch him, purposely ran his vessel aground, and thus sacrificing ship and cargo to the preservation of the national secret, was repaid on his return out of the public treasury. The trade, which included lead and hides as well as tin, when it left the hands of the Phoenicians, did not, however, fall into those of the Romans, but took quite a different channel. The Greek colony of Marseilles became then the emporium from which the world was supplied; but the scanty accounts we have received imply that it was not conveyed there direct on ship-board, but that the native ships and traders of the Gallic towns on the coasts of the Continent conveyed the British commerce across the Channel, and thence transported it overland to Marseilles. The Britons, however, had ships, and it is interesting to know of what kind were the prototypes of the vast and magnificent vessels which in later days have composed the mercantile navy of Great Britain. They were a kind of large basket of wickerwork, in shape like a walnut shell, strengthened by ribs of wood, covered on the outside with hides.[403] Such constructions seem very frail, but they were capable of undertaking considerable voyages. Pliny quotes the old Greek historian Timæus as affirming that the Britons used to make their way to an island at the distance of six days' sail in boats made of osiers and covered with skins. Solinus states that in his time the communication between Britain and Ireland was kept up on both sides by means of these vessels. Two passages in Adamson, quoted by Macpherson,[404] tell us that the people sailed in them from Ireland as far as Orkney, and on one occasion we hear of one of these frail vessels advancing as far into the Northern Ocean as fourteen days with full sail before a south wind. The common use of such vessels, and the fact of this intercommunication between England and Ireland and the islands farther north, seem to imply, at least, some coasting and inter-insular traffic: ships are the instruments either of war or commerce. The invasion of Julius Cæsar opened up the island to the knowledge of the civilised world, and there are indications that in the interval of a hundred years between his brief campaign and the actual conquest under Claudius, a commerce sprang up between the south and south-east of Britain and the opposite coasts of the Continent. In this interval the first British coinage was struck, and London became the chief emporium of Britain. When the island became a province of the Roman empire, active commercial intercourse was carried on between it and the rest of the empire. Its chief production was corn, of which large quantities were exported, so that Britain was to the northern part of the empire what Sicily was to the southern. Besides, the island exported cattle, hides, and slaves; British hunting dogs were famous, and British oysters and pearls. The imports would include all the articles of convenience and luxury used by the civilised inhabitants. We do not know with certainty whether this foreign commerce was carried on by British vessels or not. History has only preserved the record of the military navy. But when we know that the British fleet, which had been raised to control the piratical enterprises of the Saxons and Northmen, was so powerful that its admiral, Carausius, was able to seize upon a share of the empire, and that his successor in command, Allectus, was able, though for a shorter period, to repeat the exploit, we may conclude that the natives of the island must have acquired considerable knowledge and experience of maritime affairs, and were very likely to turn their acquirements in the direction of commerce. Many of the representations of Roman ships, to be found in works on Roman antiquities, would illustrate this part of the subject; we may content ourselves with referring the reader to a representation, in Witsen's "Sheeps Bouw," of a Roman ship being laden with merchandise: a half-naked porter is just putting on board a sack, probably of corn, which is being received by a man in Roman armour; it brings the salient features of the trade at once before our eyes. The Saxon invasion overwhelmed the civilisation which was then widely spread over Britain; and of the history of the country for a long time after that great event we are profoundly ignorant. It appears that the Saxons after their settlement in England completely neglected the sea, and it was not until the reign of Alfred, towards the end of the ninth century, that they again began to build ships, and not until some years later that foreign commerce was carried on in English vessels. In these later Saxon times, however, considerable intercourse took place with the Continent. There was a rage among Saxon men, and women too, for foreign pilgrimages; and thousands of persons were continually going and coming between England and the most famous shrines of Europe, especially those of Rome, the capital city of Western Christendom. Among these travellers were some whose object was traffic, probably in the portable articles of jewellery for which the Saxon goldsmiths were famous throughout Europe. It seems probable that some of these merchants were accustomed to adopt the pilgrims' character and habit in order to avail themselves of the immunities and hospitalities accorded to them; and, perhaps, on the other hand, some of those whose first object was religion, carried a few articles for sale to eke out their expenses. This, probably, is the explanation of the earliest extant document bearing on Saxon commerce, which is a letter from the Emperor Charlemagne to Offa, King of the Mercians, in which he says: "Concerning the strangers, who, for the love of God and the salvation of their souls, wish to repair to the thresholds of the blessed Apostles, let them travel in peace without any trouble; nevertheless, if any are found among them not in the service of religion, but in the pursuit of gain, let them pay the established duties at the proper places. We also will that merchants shall have lawful protection in our kingdom; and if they are in any place unjustly aggrieved, let them apply to us or our judges, and we shall take care that ample justice be done them." The latter clause seems clearly to imply that English merchants in their acknowledged character were also to be found in the dominions of the great Emperor. The next notice we find of Saxon foreign commerce is equally picturesque, and far more important. It is a law passed in the reign of King Athelstan, between 925 and 950, which enacts that every merchant who shall have made three voyages over the sea in a ship and cargo of his own should have the rank of a thane, or nobleman. It will throw light upon this law, if we mention that it stands side by side with another which gives equally generous recognition to success in agricultural pursuits: every one who had so prospered that he possessed five hides of land, a hall, and a church, was also to rank as a thane. The law indicates the usual way in which foreign commerce was carried on by native merchants. The merchant owned his own ship, and laded it with his own cargo, and was his own captain, though he might, perhaps, employ some skilful mariner as his ship-master; and, no doubt, his crew was well armed for protection from pirates. In these days a ship is often chartered to carry a cargo to a particular port, and there the captain obtains another cargo, such as the market affords him, to some other port, and so he may wander over the world in the most unforeseen manner before he finds a profitable opportunity of returning to his starting-place. So, probably, in those times the spirited merchant would not merely oscillate between home and a given foreign point, but would carry on a traffic of an adventurous and hazardous but exciting kind, from one of the great European ports to another. From a volume of Saxon dialogues in the British Museum (Tiberius, A. III.), apparently intended for a school-book, which gives information of various kinds in the form of question and answer, Mr. S. Turner quotes a passage that illustrates our subject in a very interesting way. The merchant is introduced as one of the characters, to give an account of his occupation and way of life. "I am useful," he says, "to the king and to ealdormen, and to the rich, and to all people. I ascend my ship with my merchandise, and sail over the sea-like places, and sell my things, and buy dear things which are not produced in this land, and I bring them to you here with great danger over the sea; and sometimes I suffer shipwreck with the loss of all my things, scarcely escaping myself." The question, "What do you bring us?" demands an account of the imports, to which he answers, "Skins, silks, costly gems, and gold; various garments, pigment, wine, oil, ivory, and onchalcus (perhaps brass); copper, tin, silver, glass, and such like." The author has omitted to make his merchant tell us what things he exported, but from other sources we gather that they were chiefly wool, slaves, probably some of the metals, viz., tin and lead, and the goldsmith's work and embroidery for which the Saxons were then famous throughout Europe. The dialogue brings out the principle which lies at the bottom of commerce by the next question, "Will you sell your things here as you bought them there?" "I will not, because what would my labour profit me? I will sell them here, dearer than I bought them there, that I may get some profit to feed me, my wife, and children." For the silks and ivory, our merchant would perhaps have to push his adventurous voyage as far as Marseilles or Italy. Corn, which used to be the chief export in British and Roman times, appears never to have been exported by the Saxons; they were a pastoral, rather than an agricultural, people. The traffic in slaves seems to have been regular and considerable. The reader will remember how the sight of a number of fair English children exposed for sale in the Roman market-place excited Gregory's interest, and led ultimately to Augustine's mission. The contemporary account of Wolfstan, Bishop of Worcester, at the time of the Conquest, speaks of similar scenes to be witnessed in Bristol, from which port slaves were exported to Ireland--probably to the Danes, who were then masters of the east coast. "You might have seen with sorrow long ranks of young people of both sexes, and of the greatest beauty, tied together with ropes, and daily exposed to sale: nor were these men ashamed--O horrid wickedness--to give up their nearest relations, nay their own children, to slavery." The good bishop induced them to abandon the trade, "and set an example to all the rest of England to do the same." Nevertheless, William of Malmesbury, who wrote nearly a century later, says that the practice of selling even their nearest relations into slavery had not been altogether abandoned by the people of Northumberland in his own memory. Already, on the death of Ethelbert, in 1016, the citizens of London had arrived at such importance, that, in conjunction with the nobles who were in the city, they chose a king for the whole English nation, viz., Edmund Ironside; and again on the death of Canute, in 1036, they took a considerable part in the election of Harold. At the battle of Hastings the burgesses of London formed Harold's body-guard. A few years previously, Canute, on his pilgrimage to Rome, met the Emperor Conrade and other princes, from whom he obtained for all his subjects, whether merchants or pilgrims, exemption from the heavy tolls usually exacted on the journey to Rome. During the peaceful reign of Edward the Confessor a much larger general intercourse seems to have sprung up with the Continent, and the commerce of England to have greatly increased. For this we have the testimony of William of Poictiers, William the Conqueror's chaplain, who says, speaking of the time immediately preceding the Conquest, "The English merchants to the opulence of their country, rich in its own fertility, added still greater riches and more valuable treasures. The articles imported by them, notable both for their quantity and their quality, were to have been hoarded up for the gratification of their avarice, or to have been dissipated in the indulgence of their luxurious inclinations. But William seized them, and bestowed part on his victorious army, and part on the churches and monasteries, while to the Pope and the Church of Rome he sent an incredible mass of money in gold and silver, and many ornaments that would have been admired even in Constantinople." We are not able to give any authentic contemporary illustration of the shipping of this period. Those which are given by Strutt are not really representations of the ships of the period: Byzantine Art still exercised a powerful influence over Saxon Art, and the illuminators frequently gave traditional forms; and the ships introduced by Strutt, though executed by a Saxon artist, are probably copied from Byzantine authorities. The Bayeux tapestry is probably our earliest trustworthy authority for a British ship, and it gives a considerable number of illustrations of them, intended to represent in one place the numerous fleet which William the Conqueror gathered for the transport of his army across the Channel; in another place the considerable fleet with which Harold hoped to bar the way. The one we have chosen is the duke's own ship; it displays at its mast-head the banner which the Pope had blessed, and the trumpeter on the high poop is also an evidence that it is the commander's ship. In the present case the trumpeter is known, from contemporary authority, to have been only wood gilded; but in many of the subsequent illustrations we shall also find a trumpeter, or usually two, who were part of the staff of the commander, and perhaps were employed in signalling to other ships of the fleet. [Illustration: _William the Conqueror's Ship._] The Conquest checked this thriving commerce. William's plunder of the Saxon merchants, which was probably not confined to London, must have gone far to ruin those who were then engaged in it; the general depression of Saxon men for a long time after would prevent them or others from reviving it; and the Normans themselves were averse from mercantile pursuits. In the half-century after the Conquest we really know little or nothing of the history of commerce. The charters of the first Norman kings make no mention of it. Stephen's troubled reign must have been very unfavourable to it. Still foreign merchants would seek a market where they could dispose of their goods, and the long and wise reign of Henry II. enabled English commerce, not only to recover, but to surpass its ancient prosperity. An interesting account of London, given by William FitzStephen, about 1174, in the introduction to a Life of à Becket, gives much information on our subject: he says that "no city in the world sent out its wealth and merchandise to so great a distance," but he does not enumerate the exports. Among the articles brought to London by foreign merchants he mentions gold, spices, and frankincense from Arabia; precious stones from Egypt; purple cloths from Bagdad; furs and ermines from Norway and Russia; arms from Scythia; and wines from France. The citizens he describes as distinguished above all others in England for the elegance of their manners and dress, and the magnificence of their tables. There were in the city and suburbs thirteen large conventual establishments and 120 parish churches. He adds that the dealers in the various sorts of commodities, and the labourers and artizans of every kind, were to be found every day stationed in their several distinct places throughout the city, and that a market was held every Friday in Smithfield for the sale of horses, cows, hogs, &c.; the citizens were distinguished from those of other towns by the appellation of barons; and Malmesbury, an author of the same age, also tells us that from their superior opulence, and the greatness of the city, they were considered as ranking with the chief people or nobility of the kingdom. The great charter of King John provided that all merchants should have protection in going out of England and in coming back to it, as well as while residing in the kingdom or travelling about in it, without any impositions or payments such as to cause the destruction of their trade. During the thirteenth century, it seems probable that much of the foreign commerce of the country was carried on by foreign merchants, who imported chiefly articles of luxury, and carried back chiefly wool, hides, and leather, and the metals found in England. But there were various enactments to prevent foreign merchants from engaging in the domestic trade of the country. In the fourteenth century commerce received much attention from government, and many regulations were made in the endeavour to encourage it, or rather to secure as much of its profits as possible to English, and leave as little as possible to foreign, merchants. Our limits do not allow us to enter into details on the subject, and our plan aims only at giving broad outside views of the life of the merchants of the Middle Ages. Let us introduce here an illustration of the ships in which the commerce was conducted. Perhaps the only illustration to be derived from the MS. illuminations of the thirteenth century is one in the Roll of St. Guthlac, which is early in the century, and gives a large and clear picture of St. Guthlac in a ship with a single mast and sail, steered by a paddle consisting of a pole with a short cross handle at the top, like the poles with which barges are still punted along, and expanding at bottom into a short spade-like blade. Some of the seals of this century also give rude representations of ships: one of H. de Neville gives a perfectly crescent-shaped hull with a single mast supported by two stays; that of Hugo de Burgh has a very high prow and stern, which reminds us of the build of modern _prahus_. Another, of the town of Monmouth, has a more artistic representation of a ship of similar shape, but the high prow and stern are both ornamented with animals' heads, like the prow of William the Conqueror's ship. The Psalter of Queen Mary, which is of early fourteenth-century date, gives an illustration of the building of Noah's ark, which is a ship of the shape found in the Bayeux tapestry, with a sort of house within it. The illustration we give opposite from the Add. MS. 3,983, f. 6, was also executed early in the fourteenth century, and though rude it is valuable as one of the earliest examples of a ship with a rudder of the modern construction; it also clearly indicates the fact that these early vessels used oars as well as sails. The usual mode of steering previous to, and for some time subsequent to, this time was with a large broad oar at the ship's counter, worked in a noose of rope (a _gummet_) or through a hole in a piece of wood attached to the vessel's side. The first mode will be found illustrated in the Add. MS. 24,189, at f. 30, and the second at f. 5 in the same MS. The men of this period were not insensible to the value of a means of propelling a vessel independently of the wind; and employed human muscle as their motive power. Some of the great trading cities of the Mediterranean used galleys worked by oars, not only for warfare, but for commercial purposes: _e.g._ in 1409 A.D., King Henry granted to the merchants of Venice permission to bring their carracks, galleys, and other vessels, laden with merchandise, to pass over to Flanders, return and sell their cargoes without impediment, and sail again with English merchandise and go back to their own country. [Illustration: _A Ship, Early Fourteenth Century._] A very curious and interesting MS. (Add. 27,695) recently acquired by the British Museum, which appears to be of Genoese Art, and of date about A.D. 1420, enables us to give a valuable illustration of our subject. It occupies the whole page of the MS.; we have only given the lower half, of the size of the original. It appears to represent the siege of Tripoli. The city is in the upper part of the page; our cut represents the harbour and a suburb of the town. It is clearly indicated that it is low water, and the high-water mark is shown in the drawing by a different colour. Moreover, a timber pier will be noticed, stretching out between high and low-water mark, and a boat left high and dry by the receding tide. In the harbour are ships of various kinds, and especially several of the galleys of which we have spoken. The war-galley may be found fully illustrated in Witsen's "Sheep's Bouw," p. 186. [Illustration: _A Harbour in the Fourteenth Century._] [Illustration: _An Early Representation of the Whale Fishery._] The same MS., in the lower margin of folio 9 v., has an exceedingly interesting picture of a whaling scene, which we are very glad to introduce as a further illustration of the commerce and shipping of this early period. It will be seen that the whale has been killed, and the successful adventurers are "cutting out" the blubber very much after the modern fashion. CHAPTER II. THE MERCHANT NAVY. The history of the merchant navy in the Middle Ages is very much mixed up with that of the military navy. In the time of the earlier Norman kings we seem not to have had any war-ships. The king had one or two ships for his own uses, and hired or impressed others when he needed them; but they were only ships of burden, transports by which soldiers and munitions of war were conveyed to the Continent and back, as occasion required. If hostile vessels encountered one another at sea, and a fight ensued, it seems to have been a very simple business: the sailors had nothing to do with the fighting, they only navigated the ships; the soldiers on board discharged their missiles at one another as the ships approached, and when the vessels were laid alongside, they fought hand to hand. The first ships of war were a revival of the classical war-galleys. We get the first clear description of them in the time of Richard I., from Vinesauf, the historian of the second Crusade. He compares them with the ancient galleys, and says the modern ones were long, low in the water, and slightly built, rarely had more than two banks of oars, and were armed with a "spear" at the prow for "ramming." Gallernes were a smaller kind of galleys with only one bank of oars. From this reign the sovereign seems to have always maintained something approaching to a regular naval establishment, and to have aimed at keeping the command of the narrow seas. In the reign of John we find the king had galleys and galliases, and another kind of vessels which were probably also a sort of galley, called "long ships," used to guard the coasts, protect the ports, and maintain the police of the seas. The accompanying drawing, from one of the illuminations in the famous MS. of Froissart's Chronicle, in the British Museum (Harl. 4,379), is perhaps one of the clearest and best contemporary illustrations we have of these mediæval galleys. It will be seen that it consists of a long low open boat, with outrigger galleries for the rowers, while the hold is left free for merchandise, or, as in the present instance, for men-at-arms. It has a forecastle like an ordinary ship; the shields of the men-at-arms who occupy it are hung over the bulwarks; the commander stands at the stern under a pent-house covered with tapestry, bearing his shield, and holding his leader's truncheon. A close examination of the drawing seems to show that there are two men to each oar; we know from other sources that several men were sometimes put to each oar. The difference in costume between the soldiers and the sailors is conspicuous. The former are men-at-arms in full armour--one on the forecastle is very distinctly shown; the sailors are entirely unarmed, except the man at the stroke-oar, probably an officer, who wears an ordinary hat of the period, the rest wear the hood drawn over the head. The ship in the same illustration is an ordinary ship of burden, filled with knights and men-at-arms; the trumpeters at the stern indicate that the commander of the fleet is on board this ship; he will be seen amidships, with his visor raised and his face towards the spectator, with shield on arm and truncheon in hand. [Illustration: _Ship and Galley._] If the reader is curious to see illustrations of the details of a naval combat, there are a considerable number to be found in the illuminated MSS.; as in MS. Nero, D. iv., at folio 214, of the latter part of the thirteenth century; in some tolerably clearly drawn in the "Chronique de S. Denis" (Royal, 20, cvii.), of the time of our Richard II., at folio 18, and again at folio 189 v. Other representations of ships occur at folios 25, 26 v., 83, 136 v. (a bridge of boats), 189 v., and 214 of the same MS. These ships continued to a late period to be small compared with our notion of a ship, and most rude in their arrangements. They were great undecked boats, with a cabin only in the bows, beneath the raised platform which formed the forecastle; and the crew of the largest ships was usually from twenty-five to thirty men. An illumination in the MS. of Froissart's Chronicle (Harl. 4,379), folio 104 v., shows a ship, in which a king and his suite are about to embark, from such a point of view that we see the interior of the ship in the perspective, and find that there is a cabin only in the prow. The earliest notice of cabins occurs in the year A.D. 1228, when a ship was sent to Gascony with some effects of the king's, and 4_s._ 6_d._ was paid for making a chamber in the same ship for the king's wardrobe, &c. In A.D. 1242 the king and queen went to Gascony; and convenient chambers were ordered to be built in the ship for their majesties' use, which were to be wainscoted--like that probably in Earl Richard of Warwick's ship in the present woodcut. This engraving, taken from Rouse's MS. Life of Richard Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick (British Museum, Julius, E. IV.), of the latter part of the fourteenth century, gives a very clear representation of a ship and its boat. The earl is setting out on his pilgrimage to the Holy Land. In the foreground we see him with his pilgrim's staff in hand, stepping into the boat which is to carry him to his ship lying at anchor in the harbour. The costume of the sailors is illustrated by the men in the boat. The vessel is a ship of burden, but such a one as kings and great personages had equipped for their own uses; resembling an ordinary merchant-ship in all essentials, but fitted and furnished with more than usual convenience and sumptuousness. In Earl Richard's ship the sail is emblazoned with his arms, and the pennon, besides the red cross of England, has his badges of the bear and ragged staff; the ragged staff also appears on the castle at the mast-head. The castle, which all ships of this age have at the stern, is in this case roofed in and handsomely ornamented, and no doubt formed the state apartment of the earl. There is also a castle at the head of the ship, though it is not very plainly shown in the drawing. It consists of a raised platform, the round-headed entrance to the cabin beneath it is seen in the picture; the two bulwarks also which protect it at the sides are visible, though their meaning is not at first sight obvious. A glance at the forecastle of the other ships in our illustrations will enable the reader to understand its construction and use. Besides the boat which is to convey the earl on board, another boat will be seen hanging at the ship's quarter. [Illustration: _Ship of Richard Earl of Warwick._] The next woodcut is taken from the interesting MS. in the British Museum (Add. 24,189, f. 3 v.), from which we have borrowed other illustrations, containing pictures of subjects from the travels of Sir John Mandeville. We have introduced it to illustrate two peculiarities: the first is the way of steering by a paddle passed through a gummet of rope, still, we see, in use in the latter part of the fourteenth century, long after the rudder had been introduced; and the use of lee-boards to obviate the lee-way of the ship, and make it hold its course nearer to the wind. The high, small, raised castle in the stern is here empty, and the forecastle is curiously defended by a palisade, instead of the ordinary bulwarks. Another representation of the use of lee-boards occurs at folio 5 of the same MS. [Illustration: _Sir J. Mandeville on his Voyage to Palestine._] But though the royal navy was small, as we have said, in case of need there was a further naval force available. The ancient ports of Kent and Sussex, called the Cinque Ports, with their members (twelve neighbouring ports incorporated with them), were bound by their tenure, upon forty days' notice, to supply the king with fifty-seven ships, containing twenty-one men and a boy in each ship, for fifteen days, once in the year, at their own expense, if their service was required. Thus _e.g._ a mandate of the 18th Rich. II., addressed to John de Beauchamp, Constable of Dover Castle, and Warden of the Cinque Ports, after reciting this obligation, requires fifty-seven ships, each having a master and twenty men well armed and arrayed to meet him at Bristol; stating further, that at the expiration of the fifteen days the ships and men should be at the king's own charges and pay, so long as he should have the use of them, viz., the master of each ship to have 6_d._, the constable 6_d._, and each of the other men 3_d._, per day. In the year A.D. 1205 we have a list of royal galleys and vessels of war ready for service; and it is instructive to see where they were stationed: there were at London 5, Newhaven 2, Sandwich 3, Romney 4, Rye 2, Winchelsea 2, Shoreham 5, Southampton 2, Exeter 2, Bristol 3, Ipswich 2, Dunwich 5, Lyme 5, Yarmouth 3, in Ireland 5, at Gloucester 1--total 51; and the Cinque Ports furnished 52; so that there were ready for sea more than 100 galleys or "men-of-war." If the occasion required a greater force than that which the Cinque Ports were required to furnish, the king was at liberty to issue his royal mandate, and impress merchant ships. Thus, in May, 1206 A.D., the Barons of the Cinque Ports were commanded to be at Portsmouth by a certain date with all the service they owed; and writs were also issued to all such merchants, masters, and seamen, as might meet the king's messengers on the sea, to repair to Portsmouth, and enter the king's service; and the royal galleys were sent to cruise at sea to arrest ships and send them in. Again, in A.D. 1442, the Commons in Parliament stated the necessity of having an armed force upon the sea, and pointed out the number of ships and men that it would be proper to employ: viz., eight ships with fore-stages carrying 150 men each, and that there should be attendant upon each ship a barge carrying eighty men, and a balynfer carrying forty men; and that four spynes, or pinnaces, carrying twenty-five men each, would be necessary. The Commons also pointed out the individual ships which it recommended to be obtained to compose this force: viz., at Bristol the _Nicholas of the Tower_, and _Katherine of Burtons_; at Dartmouth the Spanish ship that was the Lord Poyntz's, and Sir Philip Courtenay's great ship. In the port of London two great ships, one called _Trinity_, and the other _Thomas_. At Hull a great ship called Taverner's, the name _Grace-dieu_. At Newcastle a great ship called _The George_. They also state where the barges, balynfers, and pinnaces may be obtained. Some of these may have been royal ships, but not all of them. Of the _Grace-dieu_ of Hull, we know from Rymer (xi., 258) that John Taverner of Hull, mariner, having made a ship as large as a great carrack, or larger, had granted to him that the said ship, by reason of her unusual magnitude, should be named the _Grace-dieu_ carrack, and enjoy certain privileges in trade. On a great emergency, a still more sweeping impressment of the mercantile fleet was made: _e.g._, Henry V., in his third year, directed Nicholas Manslyt, his sergeant-at-arms, to arrest all ships and vessels in every port in the kingdom, of the burden of twenty tons and upwards, for the king's service; and Edward IV., in his fourteenth year, made a similar seizure of all ships of over sixteen tons burden. On the other hand, the king hired out his ships to merchants when they were not in use. Thus, in 1232 A.D., John Blancboilly had the custody of King Henry III.'s great ship called the _Queen_, for his life, to trade wherever he pleased, paying an annual rent of eighty marks; and all his lands in England were charged with the fulfilment of the contract. In 1242 directions were given to surrender the custody of the king's galleys in Ireland to the sailors of Waterford, Drogheda, and Dungaroon, to trade with in what way they could, taking security for their rent and restoration. The royal ships, however, maintained the police of the seas very inefficiently, and a _petite guerre_ seems to have been carried on continually between the ships of different countries, and even between the ships of different seaports; while downright piracy was not at all uncommon. When these injuries were inflicted by the ships of another nation, the injured men often sought redress through their own government from the government of the people who had injured them, and the mediæval governments generally took up warmly any such complaints. But the merchants not unfrequently took the law into their own hands. In the twelfth century, _e.g._, it happened to a merchant of Berwick, Cnut by name, that one of his ships, having his wife on board, was seized by a piratical Earl of Orkney, and burnt. Cnut spent 100 marks in having fourteen stout vessels suitably equipped to go out and punish the offender. And so late as 1378 a sort of private naval war was carried on between John Mercer, a merchant of Perth, and John Philpott of London. Mercer's father had for some time given assistance to the French by harassing the merchant ships of England; and in 1377, being driven by foul weather on the Yorkshire coast, he was caught, and imprisoned in Scarborough Castle. Thereupon the son carried on the strife. Collecting a little fleet of Scottish, French, and Spanish ships, he captured several English merchantmen off Scarborough, slaying their commanders, putting their crews in chains, and appropriating their cargoes. Philpott, the mayor of London, at his own cost, collected a number of vessels, put in them 1,000 armed men, and sailed for the north. Within a few weeks he had retaken the captured vessels, had effectually beaten their captors, and, in his turn, had seized fifteen Spanish ships laden with wine, which came in his way. On his return to London he was summoned before the council to answer for his conduct in taking an armed force to sea without the king's leave. But he boldly told the council: "I did not expose myself, my money, and my men to the dangers of the sea that I might deprive you and your colleagues of your knightly fame, nor that I might win any for myself, but in pity for the misery of the people and the country, which from being a noble realm with dominion over other nations, has through your supineness become exposed to the ravages of the vilest race, and since you would not lift a hand in its defence, I exposed myself and my property for the safety and deliverance of our country." The ships of the Cinque Ports seem to have been at frequent feud with those of the other ports of the kingdom (see Matthew Paris under A.D. 1242). For example, in 1321 Edward II. complained of the great dissension and discord which existed between the people of the privileged Cinque Ports and the men and mariners of the western towns of Poole, Weymouth, Melcombe, Lyme, Southampton, &c.; and of the homicide, depredation, ship-burning, and other evil acts resulting therefrom. But in place of taking vigorous measures to repress these disorders, the king did not apparently find himself able to do more than issue a proclamation against them. When so loose a morality prevailed among seafaring men, and the police of the seas was so badly maintained, it follows almost as a matter of course that piracy should flourish. The people of Brittany, and especially the men of St. Malo, at one time were accustomed to roam the sea as the old sea-kings did, plundering merchant-ships, making descents on the coasts of England, exacting contributions and ransoms from the towns. In the time of Alfred it would seem by one of his laws as if English vessels sometimes pillaged their own coasts.[405] About the year 1242 a Sir William de Marish, who was accused of murder and treason, took refuge in the Isle of Lundy, whence he robbed the merchantmen passing to and fro, and made descents on the coast. He was building a galley in which to carry on his piracies when he was taken and hanged. The spirit that lingered to very recent times among the "wreckers" of remote spots on our coast seems to have prevailed largely in the days of which we are writing. A foreigner was regarded as a "natural enemy," and his ships and goods as a legitimate prize, when they could be seized with impunity. So in 1227 A.D. we find a mariner named Dennis committed to Newgate for being present when a Spanish ship was plundered and her crew slain at Sandwich. In the same year the inhabitants of some towns in Norfolk were accused of robbing a Norwegian ship. And, to give a later example, in 1470 some Spanish merchants applied to King Edward IV. for compensation for the loss of seven vessels, alleged to have been piratically taken from them by the people of Sandwich, Dartmouth, Plymouth, and Jersey. Yet there is a Saxon law as early as King Ethelred, which gives immunities to merchant ships, even in time of war, which the Council of Paris a few years ago hardly equalled:--"If a merchant ship, even if it belonged to an enemy, entered any port in England, she was to have 'frith,' that is peace, and freedom from molestation, provided it was not driven or chased into port; but even if it were chased, and it reached any frith burgh, and the crew escaped into the burgh, then the crew and whatever they brought with them were to have 'frith.'" The shipping of the time of Henry VIII. is admirably illustrated in Holbein's famous painting at Hampton Court. The great vessel of his reign, the _Henri Grace à Dieu_, is also illustrated in the _Archæologia_. Both these subjects are so well-known, or so easily accessible, that we do not think it necessary to reproduce them here. In the MS. Aug. 1, will be found a large size drawing of a galley intended to be built for King Henry VIII. The discovery of the sea-passage to India, and of the new world, opened up to commerce a new career of heroic adventure and the prospect of fabulous wealth. England was not backward in entering upon this course. In truth, although Sebastian Cabot was not an Englishman by birth, we claim the honour of his discoveries for England, inasmuch as he was resident among us, and was fitted out from Bristol, at the cost of English merchants, on his voyages of discovery. It was in this career--which was part discover, part conquest, part commerce--that our Hawkinses, and Drakes, and Frobishers, and Raleighs were trained. And besides those historic names, there were scores of men who fitted out ships and entered upon the roads these pioneers had opened up, and completed their discoveries, and created the commerce whose possibility they had indicated. The limitation of our subject to the mediæval period forbids us to enter further upon this tempting theme. But we may complete our brief series of illustrations of merchant shipping by giving a picture of one of the gallant little ships--little, indeed, compared with the ships which are now employed in our great lines of sea-traffic--in which those heroes accomplished their daring voyages. The woodcut is a reproduction from the frontispiece of one of Hulsius' curious tracts on naval affairs, and represents the ship _Victoria_, in which Magellan sailed round the world, passing through the straits to which he gave his name. The epitaph that the author has subjoined to the engraving tells briefly the story of the famous ship:-- "Prima ego velivolvis ambivi cursibus orbem Magellane novo te duce ducta freto. Ambivi meritoque dicor _Victoria_: Sunt mihi Vela, alæ, precium, gloria, pugna, mare." The ship, it will be seen, is not very different in general features from those of the Middle Ages which we have been considering. It has the high prow and stern with their castles, it has shields outside the bulwarks, in imitation of the way in which, as we have seen in former illustrations, the mediæval men-at-arms hung their shields over the bulwark of the ship in which they sailed. But it has decks (apparently two), and is armed with cannon at the bows and stern. [Illustration: _The Ship Victoria._] CHAPTER III. THE SOCIAL POSITION OF THE MEDIÆVAL MERCHANTS. Though the commerce of England has now attained to such vast dimensions, and forms so much larger a proportion of the national wealth and greatness than at any former period, yet we are inclined to think that, in the times of which we write, the pursuit of commerce held a higher and more honourable place in the esteem of all classes than it does with us. It is true that one class was then more distinctly separated from another, by costume and some external habits of life; the knight and the franklin, the monk and the priest, the trader and the peasant, always carried the badges of their position upon them; and we, with our modern notions, are apt to think that the man who was marked out by his very costume as a trader must have been "looked down upon" by what we call the higher classes of society. No doubt something of this feeling existed; but not, we think, to the same extent as now. Trade itself was not then so meanly considered. Throughout the Middle Ages the upper classes were themselves engaged in trade in various ways. In the disposal of the produce of his estates the manorial lord engaged in trade, and purchased at fairs and markets the stores he needed for himself and his numerous dependants. Noblemen and bishops, abbots and convents, nay kings themselves, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, had ships which, commanded and manned by their servants, traded for their profit with foreign countries. In the thirteenth century the Cistercian monks had become the greatest wool-merchants in the kingdom. In the fifteenth century Edward IV. carried on a considerable commerce for his own profit. Just as now, when noblemen and gentlemen commonly engage in agriculture, and thus farming comes to be considered less vulgar than trade, so, then, when dignified ecclesiastics, noblemen, and kings engaged in trade, it must have helped to soften caste prejudices against the professional pursuit of commerce.[406] A considerable number of the traders of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries were cadets of good families. Where there were half a dozen sons in a knightly family, the eldest succeeded to the family estate and honours: of the rest, one might become a lawyer; another might have a religious vocation, and, as a secular priest, take the family living, or obtain a stall in the choir of the neighbouring monastery; a third might prefer the profession of arms, and enter into the service of some great lord or of the king, or find employment for his sword and lance, and pay for himself and the dozen men who formed the "following of his lance," in the wars which seldom ceased in one part of Europe or another; another son might engage in trade, either in a neighbouring town or in one of the great commercial cities of the time, as Bristol, Norwich, or London.[407] The leading men of the trading class stood side by side with the leading men of the other classes. They were consulted by the king on the affairs of the kingdom, were employed with bishops and nobles on foreign embassies, were themselves ennobled. And the greatness which men attain in any class reflects honour on the whole class. The Archbishop of Canterbury's high position gives social consideration to the poor curate, who may one day also be archbishop; and the Lord Chancellor's to the now briefless barrister who may attain to the woolsack. The great free towns of the German Empire reflected honour on every town of Europe; and the merchant princes of Venice and Florence and the Low Countries on the humblest member of their calling. But what, perhaps, more than anything else tended to maintain the social consideration of traders, was their incorporation into wealthy and powerful guilds; and the civil freedom and political weight of the towns. The rather common-looking man, in a plain cloth gown and flat cap, jogging along the high road on a hack, with great saddle-bags, is not to be compared in appearance with the knight who prances past him on a spirited charger, with a couple of armed servants at his heels; and the trader pulls his horse to the side of the road, and touches his bonnet as the cavalcade passes him in a cloud of dust; but the knight glances at his fellow-traveller's hood as he passes, and recognises in him a member of the great Guild of Merchants of the Staple, and returns his courtesy. The nobleman, jostling at court against a portly citizen in a furred gown with a short dagger and inkhorn at his belt, sees in him an alderman of one of those great towns by whose help the king maintains the balance of power against the feudal aristocracy. Yet, after all, why should the merchant be "a rather common-looking man," and the alderman a "portly citizen"? We are all apt to let our sober sense be fooled by our imagination. Thus we are apt to have in our minds abstract types of classes of men: our ideal knight is gallant in bearing, gay in apparel, chivalrous in character; while our ideal merchant is prosaic and closefisted in character, plain and uncourtly in manner and speech. A moment's thought would be enough to remind us that Nature does not anticipate or adapt herself to class distinctions: the knight and the merchant, we have seen, might be brothers, reared up in the same old manor-house; and the elder son might be naturally a clown, though fortune made him Sir Hugh; while the cadet might be full of intelligence and spirit, dignified and courteous, though fortune had put a flat cap instead of a helmet on his head, and a pen instead of a lance into his hand. Our plan limits us to mere glances at the picturesque outside aspect of things. Let us travel across England, and see what we can learn on our subject from the experiences of our journey. A right pleasant journey, too, in the genial spring-time or early summer. It must be taken on horseback; for, though sometimes we shall find ourselves on a highway between one great town and another, yet, for the most part, our road is along bridle-paths, across heath and moor; through miles of "greenwood;" across fords; over wide unenclosed wolds and downs dotted with sheep; through valleys where oxen feed in the deep meadowland; with comparatively little arable, covered with the green blades of rye and barley, oats, and a little wheat-- "Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky." Now and then we ride through a village of cottages scattered about the village-green; and see, perhaps, the parish-priest, in cassock and biretta, coming out of the village-church from his mass. Further on we pass the moated manor-house of a country knight, or the substantial old timber-built house of a franklin, with the blue wood-smoke puffing in a volume out of the louvre of the hall, and curling away among the great oak-trees which overshadow it. We may stay there and ask for luncheon, and be sure of a hearty welcome: Chaucer tells us, "His table dormant in the hall alway Stands ready covered, all the longe day." Then a strong castle comes in sight on a rising ground, with its picturesque group of walls and towers, and the donjon-tower rising high in the midst, surmounted by the banner of its lord. We seek out the monasteries for their hospitable shelter at nights: they are the inns of mediæval England; and we gaze in admiration as we approach them and enter their courts. From outside we see a great enclosure-wall, over which rise the clerestories and towers of a noble minster-church; and when we have entered through the gate-house we find the cloister court, with its convent buildings for the monks, and another court of offices, and the guest-house for the entertainment of travellers, and the abbot's-house--a separate establishment, with a great hall and chambers and chapel, like the manor-house of a noble; so that, surrounded by its wall, with strong entrance-towers, the monastery looks like a great castle or a little town; and we doff our hats to the dignified-looking monk who is ambling out of the great gate on his mule, as to the representative of the noble community which has erected so grand a house, and maintains there its hospitalities and charities, schools and hospitals, and offers up, seven times a day in the choir, a glorious service of praise to Almighty God, and of prayer for the welfare of His church and people. But from time to time, also, we approach and ride through the towns, which are studded as thickly over the land as castles or monasteries. Each surrounded by a fair margin of common meadowland, out of which rise the long line of strong walls with angle towers, with picturesque machicolations and overhanging pent-houses; and the great gate-towers with moat, drawbridge, and barbican. Over the wall numerous church-towers and spires are seen rising from a forest of gables, making a goodly show. We enter, and find wide streets of handsome picturesque houses, with abundance of garden and orchard ground behind them, and guildhalls and chapels, the head-quarters of the various guilds and companies. The traders are wealthy, and indulge in conveniences which are rare in the franklin's house, and even the lord's castle; and live a more refined mode of life than the old rude, if magnificent, feudal life. Look at the extent of the town, at its strong defences; estimate the wealth it contains; think of the clannish spirit of its guilds; see the sturdy burghers, who turn out at the sound of the town-bell, in half armour, with pike and bow, to man the walls; consider the chiefs of the community, men of better education, wider experience of the world, deeper knowledge of political affairs, than most of their countrymen, many of them of the "gentleman" class by birth and breeding, men of perfect self-respect, and of high public spirit. If our journey terminates at one of the seaports, as Hull, or Lynn, or Dover, or Hythe, or Bristol, we find--in addition to the usual well-walled town, with houses and noble churches and guildhalls--a harbour full of merchant-ships, and exchanges full of foreign merchants; and we soon learn that these are the links which join England to the rest of the world in a period of peace, and enable her in time of war to make her power felt beyond the seas. Many of these towns have inherited their walls and their civic freedom from Roman times: they stood like islands amid the flood of the Saxon invasion; they received their charters from Norman kings, and maintained them against Norman barons. Each of them is a little republic amidst the surrounding feudalism; each citizen is a freeman, when everybody else is the sworn liege-man of some feudal lord. These experiences of our ride across England will have left their strong impressions on our minds. The castles will have impressed our minds with a sense of the feudal power and chivalric state of the territorial class; and the monasteries with admiration of the grandeur and learning and munificence and sanctity of the religious orders; and the towns with a feeling of solid respect for the wealth and power and freedom and civilisation of the trader class of the people. [Illustration: _Entry of Queen Isabel of Bavaria into Paris_, A.D. 1389.] Our first illustration forms part of a large picture in the great Harleian MS. of Froissart's Chronicle (Harl. 2,397, f. 3), and represents Isabel of Bavaria, Queen of Charles VII., making her entry into Paris attended by noble dames and lords of France, on Sunday, 20th of August, in the year of our Lord 1389. There was a great crowd of spectators, Froissart tells us, and the _bourgeois_ of Paris, twelve hundred, all on horseback, were ranged in pairs on each side of the road, and clothed in a livery of gowns of baudekyn green and red. The Queen, seated in her canopied litter, occupies the middle of the picture, in robe and mantle of blue powdered with _fleur-de-lis_, three noblemen walking on each side in their robes and coronets. The page and ladies, who follow on horseback, are not given in our woodcut. The Queen has just arrived at the gate of the city; through the open door may be seen a bishop (? the Archbishop of Paris) in a cope of blue powdered with gold _fleur-de-lis_, holding a gold and jewelled box, which perhaps contains the chrism for her coronation. On the wall overlooking the entrance is the king with ladies of the court, and perched on the angle of the wall is the court jester in his cap and bauble. On the left of the picture are the burgesses of Paris; their short gowns are of green and red as described; the hats, which hang over their shoulders, are black. On the opposite side of the road (not represented in the cut) is another party of burgesses, who wear their hats, the bands falling on each side of the face. In the background are the towers and spires of the city, and the west front of Notre-Dame, rising picturesquely above the city-wall. Some of the merchant-princes of the Middle Ages have left a name which is still known in history, or popular in legend. First, there is the De la Pole family, whose name is connected with the history of Hull. Wyke-upon-Hull was a little town belonging to the convent of Selby, when Edward III. saw its capabilities and bought it of the monks, called it Kingston-upon-Hull, and, by granting trading and civil privileges to it, induced merchants to settle there. De la Pole, a merchant of the neighbouring port of Ravensern, was one of the earliest of these immigrants; and Hull owes much of its greatness to his commercial genius and public spirit. Under his inspiration bricks were introduced from the Low Countries to build its walls and the great church: much of the latter yet remains. He rose to be esteemed the greatest merchant in England. Edward III. honoured him by visiting him at his house in Hull, and in time made him Chief Baron of his Exchequer, and a Knight Banneret. In the following reign we find him engaged, together with the most distinguished men in the kingdom, in affairs of state and foreign embassies. His son, who also began life as a merchant at Hull, was made by Richard II. Earl of Suffolk and Lord Chancellor. In the end a royal alliance raised the merchant's children to the height of power; and designs of a still more daring ambition at length brought about their headlong fall and ruin. William Cannynges, of Bristol, was another of these great merchants. On his monument in the magnificent church of St. Mary Redcliffe, of which he was the founder, it is recorded that on one occasion Edward IV. seized shipping of his to the amount of 2,470 tons, which included ships of 400, 500, and even 900 tons. Richard Whittington, the hero of the popular legend, was a London merchant, thrice Lord Mayor. He was not, however, of the humble origin stated by the legend, but a cadet of the landed family of Whittington, in Gloucestershire. What is the explanation of the story of his cat has not been satisfactorily made out by antiquaries. Munificence was one of the characteristics of these great merchants. De la Pole, we have seen, built the church at Hull; Cannynges founded one of the grandest parish churches yet remaining in all England; Whittington founded the College of the Holy Spirit and St. Mary, a charitable foundation which has long ceased to exist. Sir John Crosby was an alderman of London in the reign of Edward IV., and allied his family with the highest nobility. His house still remains in Bishopsgate, the only one left of the great city merchants' houses: Stowe describes it as very large and beautiful, and the highest at that time in London. Richard III. took up his residence and received his adherents there, when preparing for his usurpation of the crown. Monuments remaining to this day keep alive the memory of other great merchants, which would otherwise have perished. In the series of monumental brasses, several of the earliest and most sumptuous are memorials of merchants. There was an engraver of these monuments living in England in the middle of the fourteenth century, whose works in that style of art have not been subsequently surpassed: Gough calls him the "Cellini of the fourteenth century." He executed a grand effigy for Thomas Delamere, abbot of St. Alban's Abbey; and the same artist executed two designs, no less sumptuous and meritorious as works of art, for two merchants of the then flourishing town of Lynn, in Norfolk. One is to Adam de Walsokne, "formerly burgess of Lynn," who died in 1349 A.D., and Margaret his wife; it contains very artistically drawn effigies of the two persons commemorated, surmounted by an ornamental canopy on a diapered field. The other monumental brass represents Robert Braunche, A.D. 1364, and his two wives. A feature of peculiar interest in this design is a representation, running along the bottom, of an entertainment which Braunche, when mayor of Lynn, gave to King Edward III. There was still a third brass at Lynn, of similar character, of Robert Attelathe--now, alas! lost. Another monument, apparently by the same artist, exists at Newark, to the memory of Alan Fleming, a merchant, who died in 1361 A.D. Hundreds of churches yet bear traces of the munificence of these mediæval traders. The noble churches which still exist in what are now comparatively small places, in Lincolnshire, Norfolk, and Suffolk, are monuments of the merchants of the staple who lived in those eastern counties; and monuments, and merchants' marks, and sometimes inscriptions cut in stone or worked in flint-work in the fabrics themselves, afford data from which the local antiquary may glean something of their history. Many interesting traces of mediæval traders' houses remain too in out-of-the-way places, where they seem quite overlooked. The little town of Coggeshall, for example, is full of interesting bits of domestic architecture--the traces of the houses of the "Peacockes" and other families, merchants of the staple and clothmakers, who made it a flourishing town in the fifteenth century; the monumental brasses of some of them remain in the fine perpendicular church, which they probably rebuilt. Or, to go to the other side of the kingdom, at the little town of Northleach, among the Cotswold Hills, is a grand church, with evidences in the sculpture and monuments that the wool-merchants there contributed largely to its building. It contains an interesting series of small monumental brasses, which preserve their names and costumes, and those of their wives and children; and the merchants' marks which were painted on their woolpacks appear here as honourable badges on their monuments. There are traces of their old houses in the town. A general survey of all these historical facts and all these antiquarian remains will confirm the assertion with which we began this chapter, that at least from the early part of the fourteenth century downwards, the mediæval traders earned great wealth and spent it munificently, possessed considerable political influence, and occupied an honourable social position beside the military and ecclesiastical orders. We must not omit to notice the illustrations which our subject may derive from Chaucer's ever-famous gallery of characters. Here is the merchant of the Canterbury cavalcade of merry pilgrims:-- "A merchant was there with a forked beard, In mottély, and high on horse he sat, And on his head a Flaundrish beaver hat, His bote's clapsed fayre and fetisly,[408] His reasons spake he full solempnely, Sounding alway the increase of his winning, He would the sea were kept, for any thing, Betwixen Middleburgh and Orewell. Well could he in exchanges sheldes[409] sell, This worthy man full well his wit beset; There weste no wight that he was in debt, So steadfastly didde he his governance With his bargeines and with his chevisance,[410] Forsooth he was a worthy man withal; But, sooth to say, I n'ot how men him call."[411] Of the trader class our great author gives us also some examples:-- "An haberdasher and a carpenter, A webber, a dyer, and a tapiser, Were all yclothed in one livery, Of a solempne and great fraternitie, Full fresh and new their gear y-piked was Their knives were ychaped, not with brass. But all with silver wrought full clene and well, Their girdles and their pouches every deal. Well seemed each of them a fair burgess To sitten in a gild-hall on the dais. Each one for the wisdom that he can, Was likely for to be an alderman. For chattles hadden they enough and rent, And eke their wives would it well assent, And elles certainly they were to blame, It is full fair to be ycleped madame, And for to go to vigils all before, And have a mantle royally upbore." The figures on the next page from a monument to John Field, Alderman of London, and his son, are interesting and characteristic. Mr. Waller, from whose work on monumental brasses the woodcut is taken, has been able to discover something of the history of Alderman Field. John Field, senior, was born about the beginning of the fifteenth century, but nothing is known of his early life. In 1449 he had clearly risen to commercial eminence in London, since he was in that year appointed one of fifteen commissioners to treat with those of the Duke of Burgundy concerning the commercial interests of the two countries in general, and specially to frame regulations for the traffic in wool and wool-fells brought to the staple at Calais. Of these commissioners five were of London, three of Boston, three of Hull, and one of Ipswich. These names, says Mr. Waller, probably comprise the chief mercantile wealth and intelligence in the eastern ports of the kingdom at this period. In 1454 he was made sheriff, and subsequently was elected alderman, but never served the office of mayor; which, says the writer, may be accounted for by the fact that in the latter part of his life he was afflicted with bodily sickness, and on that ground in 1463 obtained a grant from the then lord mayor, releasing him from all civic services. The alderman acquired large landed estates in Kent and Hertfordshire, in which he was succeeded by his eldest son John, the original of the second effigy, who only survived his father the short term of three years. The brasses have been inlaid with colour; the alderman's gown of the father with red enamel, and its fur-lining indicated by white metal; the tabard of arms of the son is also coloured according to its proper heraldic blazoning--_gules_, between three eagles displayed _argent_, _guetté de sangue_, a fesse _or_. The unfinished inscription runs, "Here lyeth John Feld, sometyme alderman of London, a merchant of the stapull of Caleys, the which deceased the xvj day of August, in the yere of our Lord God mcccclxxiiij. Also her' lyeth John his son, squire, y{e} which deceased y{e} iiij day of May y{e} yere of".... The monumental slab is ornamented with four shields of arms: the first of the city of London, the second of the merchants of the staple, the third bears the alderman's merchant's-mark, and the fourth the arms which appear on the tabard of his son, the esquire, to whom, perhaps, they had been specially granted by the College of Arms. The father's costume is a long gown edged with fur, a leather girdle from which hang his gypcire (or purse) and rosary, over which is worn his alderman's gown. The son wears a full suit of armour of the time of Edward IV., with a tabard of his arms. The execution of the brass is unusually careful and excellent. [Illustration: _Monumental Brass of Alderman Field and his Son_, A.D. 1474.] The third woodcut, from the Harleian MS. 4,379, f. 64, represents the execution, in Paris, of a famous captain of robbers, Aymerigol Macel. The scaffold is enclosed by a hoarding; at the nearer corners are two friars, one in brown and one in black, probably a Franciscan and a Dominican; the official, who stands with his hands resting on his staff superintending the executioner, has a gown of red with sleeves lined with white fur, his bonnet is black turned up also with white fur. In the background are the timber houses on one side of the place, with the people looking out of their windows; a signboard will be seen standing forth from one of the houses. The groups of people in the distance and those in the foreground give the costumes of the ordinary dwellers in a fourteenth-century city. The man on the left has a pink short gown, trimmed with white fur; his hat, the two ends of a liripipe hanging over his shoulders, and his purse and his hose, are black. The man on his right has a long blue gown and red hat and liripipe; the man between them and a little in front, a brown long gown and black hat. The man on horseback on the left wears a very short green gown, red hose, and black hat; the footman on his left, a short green gown and red hat and liripipe; and the man on his left, a black jacket and black hat fringed. The man on horseback, with a foot-boy behind holding on by the horse's tail, has a pink long gown, black hat and liripipe, purse, and girdle; the one on the right of the picture, a long blue gown with red hat, liripipe, and purse. Just behind him (unhappily not included in the woodcut) is a touch of humour on the part of the artist. His foot-boy is stealing an apple out of the basket of an apple-woman, who wears a blue gown and red hood, with the liripipe tucked under her girdle; she has a basket of apples on each arm, and another on her head. Still further to the right is a horse whose rider has dismounted, and the foot-boy is sitting on the crupper behind the saddle holding the reins. [Illustration: _An Execution in Paris._] The last cut is taken from the painted glass at Tournay of the fifteenth century, and represents _marchands en gros_. This illustration of a warehouse with the merchant and his clerk, and the men and the casks and bales, and the great scales, in full tide of business, is curious and interesting. Chaucer once more, in the "Shipman's Tale," gives us an illustration of our subject. Speaking of a merchant of St. Denys, he says:-- "Up into his countour house goth he, To reken with himselvin, wel may be, Of thilke yere how that it with him stood, And how that he dispended had his good, And if that he encreased were or non. His bookes and his bagges many one He layeth before him on his counting bord. Ful riche was his tresor and his hord; For which ful fast his countour done he shet, And eke he n'olde no man shuld him let Of his accountes for the mene time; And thus he sat till it was passed prime." [Illustration: _Marchands en Gros, Fifteenth Century._] The counting-board was a board marked with squares, on which counters were placed in such a way as to facilitate arithmetical operations. We have also a picture of him setting out on a business journey attended by his apprentice:-- "But so bifell this marchant on a day Shope him to maken ready his array Toward the town of Brugges for to fare To byen there a portion of ware. * * * * * The morrow came, and forth this marchant rideth To Flaundersward, his prentis wel him gideth. Til he came into Brugges merily. Now goth this marchant fast and bisily About his nede, and bieth and creanceth; He neither playeth at the dis ne danceth, But as a marchant shortly for to tell He ledeth his lif, and ther I let him dwell." CHAPTER IV. MEDIÆVAL TRADE. It is difficult at first to believe it possible that the internal trade of mediæval England was carried on chiefly at great annual fairs for the wholesale business, at weekly markets for the chief towns, and by means of itinerant traders, of whom the modern pedlar is the degenerate representative, for the length and breadth of the country. In order to understand the possibility, we must recall to our minds how small comparatively was the population of the country. It was about two millions at the Norman Conquest, it had hardly increased to four millions by the end of the fifteenth century, it was only five millions in the time of William III. Nearly every one of our towns and villages then existed; but the London, and Bristol, and Norwich, and York of the fourteenth century, though they were relatively important places in the nation, were not one-tenth of the size of the towns into which they have grown. Manchester, and Leeds, and Liverpool, and a score of other towns, existed then, but they were mere villages; and the country population was thinly scattered over a half-reclaimed, unenclosed, pastoral country. To begin with the fairs. The king exercised the sole power of granting the right to hold a fair. It was sought by corporations, monasteries, and manorial lords, in order that they might profit, first by the letting of ground to the traders who came to dispose of their wares, next by the tolls which were levied on all merchandise brought for sale, and on the sales themselves; and then indirectly by the convenience of getting a near market for the produce the neighbourhood had to sell, and for the goods it desired to buy. The annexed woodcut, from the MS. Add. 24,189, represents passengers paying toll on landing at a foreign port, and perhaps belongs in strictness to an earlier part of our subject. The reader will notice the picturesque custom-house officers, the landing-places, and the indications of town architecture. The next illustration, from painted glass at Tournay (from La Croix and Seré's "Moyen Age et la Renaissance") shows a group of people crossing the bridge into a town, and the collector levying the toll. The oxen and pigs, the country-wife on horseback, with a lamb laid over the front of her saddle, represent the country-people and their farm-produce; the pack-horse and mule on the left, with their flat-capped attendant, are an interesting illustration of the itinerant trader bringing in his goods. The toll-collector seems to be, from his dress and bearing, a rather dignified official, and the countryman recognises it by touching his hat to him. The river and its wharves, and the boats moored alongside, and the indication of the town gates and houses, make up a very interesting sketch of mediæval life. [Illustration: _Passengers paying Toll._] [Illustration: _Traders entering a Town._] There were certain great fairs to which traders resorted from all parts of the country. The great fair at Nijni Novgorod, and in a lesser degree the fair of Leipsic, remain to help us to realise such gatherings as Bartholomew Fair used to be. Even now the great horse-fair at Horncastle, and the stock-fair at Barnet, may help us to understand how it answered the purpose of buyers and sellers to meet annually at one general rendezvous. The gathering into one centre of the whole stock on sale and the whole demand for it, was not only in other ways a convenience to buyers and sellers, but especially it regulated the general prices current of all vendibles, and checked the capricious variations which a fluctuating local supply and demand would have created in the then condition of the country and of commerce. The king sometimes, by capricious exercises of his authority in the subject of fairs, seriously interfered with the interests of those who frequented them--_e.g._ by granting license to hold a new fair which interfered with one already established; by licensing a temporary fair, and forbidding trade to be carried on elsewhere during its continuance. Thus in 1245 A.D. Henry II. proclaimed a fair at Westminster to be held for fifteen days, and required all the London traders to shut up their shops and bring their goods to the fair. It happened that the season was wet; few consequently came to the fair, and the traders' goods were injured by the rain which penetrated into their temporary tents and stalls. He repeated the attempt to benefit Westminster four years afterwards, with a similar result. Of course when great crowds were gathered together for days in succession, and money was circulating abundantly, there would be others who would seek a profitable market besides the great dealers in woolfels and foreign produce. The sellers of ribbands and cakes would be there, purveyors of food and drink for the hungry and thirsty multitude, caterers for the amusement of the people, minstrels and jugglers, exhibitors of morality-plays and morrice-dancers, and still less reputable people. And so, besides the men who came for serious business, there would be a mob of pleasure-seekers also. The crowd of people of all ranks and classes from every part of the country, with the consequent variety of costume in material, fashion, and colour--the knight's helm and coat of mail, or embroidered _jupon_ and plumed bonnet, the lady's furred gown and jewels, the merchant's sober suit of cloth, the minstrel's gay costume and the jester's motley, the monk's robe and cowl, and the peasant's smockfrock, continually in motion up and down the streets of the temporary canvas town, the music of the minstrels, the cries of the traders, the loud talk and laughter of the crowd--must have made up a picturesque scene, full of animation. When the real business of the country had found other channels, the fairs still continued--and in many places still continue--as mere "pleasure-fairs;" still the temporary stalls lining the streets, and the drinking-booths and shows, preserve something of the old usages and outward aspect, though, it must be confessed, they are dreary, desolate relics of what the mediæval fairs used to be. The fair was usually proclaimed by sound of trumpet, before which ceremony it was unlawful to begin traffic, or after the conclusion of the legal term for which the fair was granted. A court of _pie-poudre_ held its sittings for the cognizance of offences committed in the fair. Many of our readers will remember the spirited description of such a fair in Sir Walter Scott's novel of "The Betrothed." In the great towns were shops in which retail trade was daily carried on, but under very different conditions from those of modern times. The various trades seem to have been congregated together, and the trading parts of the town were more concentrated than is now the case; in both respects resembling the bazaars of Eastern towns. Thus in London the tradesmen had shops in the Cheap, which resembled sheds, and many of them were simply stalls. But they did not limit themselves to their dealings there; they travelled about the country also. The mercers dealt in toys, drugs, spices, and small wares generally; their stocks being of the same miscellaneous description as that of a village-shop of the present day. The station of the mercers of London was between Bow Church and Friday Street, and here round the old cross of Cheap they sold their goods at little standings or stalls, surrounded by those belonging to other trades. The trade of the modern grocer was preceded by that of the pepperer, which was often in the hands of Lombards and Italians, who dealt also in drugs and spices. The drapers were originally manufacturers of cloth; to drape meaning to make cloth. The trade of the fishmonger was divided into two branches, one of which dealt exclusively in dried fish, then a very common article of food. The goldsmiths had their shops in the street of Cheap; but fraudulent traders of their craft, and not members of their guild, set up shops in obscure lanes, where they sold goods of inferior metal. A list of the various trades and handicrafts will afford a general idea of the trade of the town. Before the 50th of Edward III. (1376 A.D.) the "mysteries" or trades of London, who elected the Common Council of the city, were thirty-two in number; but they were increased by an ordinance of that year to forty-eight, which were as follows:--grocers, masons, ironmongers, mercers, brewers, leather-dressers, drapers, fletchers, armourers, fishmongers, bakers, butchers, goldsmiths, skinners, cutlers, vintners, girdlers, spurriers, tailors, stainers, plumbers, saddlers, cloth-measurers, wax-chandlers, webbers, haberdashers, barbers, tapestry-weavers, braziers, painters, leather-sellers, salters, tanners, joiners, cappers, pouch-makers, pewterers, chandlers, hatters, woodmongers, fullers, smiths, pinners, curriers, horners. As a specimen of a provincial town we may take Colchester. A detailed description of this town in the reign of Edward III. shows that it contained only 359 houses, some built of mud, others of timber. None of the houses had any but latticed windows. The town-hall was of stone, with handsome Norman doorway. It had also a royal castle, three or more religious houses--one a great and wealthy abbey--several churches, and was surrounded by the old Roman wall. The number of inhabitants was about three thousand. Yet Colchester was the capital of a large district of country, and there were only about nine towns in England of greater importance. In the year 1301 all the movable property of the town, including the furniture and clothing of the inhabitants, was estimated, for the purpose of a taxation, to be worth £518, and the details give us a curious picture of the times. The tools of a carpenter consisted of a broad axe, value 5_d._, another 3_d._, an adze 2_d._, a square 1_d._, a _noveyn_ (probably a spokeshave) 1_d._, making the total value of his tools 1_s._ The tools and stock of a blacksmith were valued at only a few shillings, the highest being 12_s._ The stock-in-trade and household goods of a tanner were estimated at £9 17_s._ 10_d._ A mercer's stock was valued at £3, his household property at £2 9_s._ The trades carried on there were the twenty-nine following:--Baker, barber, blacksmith, bowyer, brewer, butcher, carpenter, carter, cobbler, cook, dyer, fisherman, fuller, furrier, girdler, glass-seller, glover, linen-draper, mercer and spice-seller, miller, mustard and vinegar seller, old clothes-seller, tailor, tanner, tiler, weaver, wood-cutter, and wool-comber. Our woodcut, from the MS. Add. 27,695, which has already supplied us with several valuable illustrations, represents a mediæval shop of a high class, probably a goldsmith's. The shopkeeper eagerly bargaining with his customer is easily recognised, the shopkeeper's clerk is making an entry of the transaction, and the customer's servant stands behind him, holding some of his purchases; flagons and cups and dishes seem to be the principal wares; heaps of money lie on the table, which is covered with a handsome tablecloth, and in the background are hung on a "perch," for sale, girdles, a hand-mirror, a cup, a purse, and sword. [Illustration: _A Goldsmith's Shop._] Here, from "Le Pélerinage de la Vie Humaine," in the French National Library,[412] is another illustration of a mediæval shop. This is a mercer's, and the merceress describes her wares in the following lines:-- "Quod sche, 'Gene[413] I schal the telle Mercerye I have to selle In boystes,[414] soote oynementes,[415] Therewith to don allegementes[416] To ffolkes which be not gladde, But discorded and malade. I have kyves, phylletys, callys, At ffestes to hang upon walles; Kombes no mo than nyne or ten, Bothe for horse and eke ffor men; Mirrours also, large and brode, And ffor the syght wonder gode; Off hem I have ffull greet plenté, For ffolke that haven volunté Byholde himselffe therynne.'" In some provincial towns, as Nottingham, the names of several of the streets bear witness to an aggregation of traders of the same calling. Bridlesmith Gate was clearly the street in which the knights and yeomen of the shire resorted for their horse-furniture and trappings, and in the open stalls of Fletcher Gate sheaves of arrows were hung up for sale to the green-coated foresters of neighbouring Sherwood. The only trace of the custom we have left is in the butcheries and shambles which exist in many of our towns, where the butchers' stalls are still gathered together in one street or building. [Illustration: _French National Library._] But the greater part of the trade of the towns was transacted on market-days. Then the whole neighbourhood flocked in, the farmers to sell their farm produce, their wives and daughters with their poultry and butter and eggs for the week's consumption of the citizens, and to carry back with them their town-purchases. In every market-town there was usually a wide open space--the market-place--for the accommodation of this weekly traffic; in the principal towns were several market-places, appropriated to different kinds of produce: _e.g._ at Nottingham, besides the principal market-place--a vast open space in the middle of the town, surrounded by overhanging houses supported on pillars, making open colonnades like those of an Italian town--there was a "poultry" adjoining the great market, and a "butter-cross" in the middle of a small square, in which it is assumed the women displayed their butter. In an old-fashioned provincial market-town, the market-day is still the one day in the week on which the streets are full of bustle and the shops of business, while on the other days of the week the town stagnates; it must have been still more the case in the old times of which we write. In some instances there seems reason to think a weekly market was held in places which had hardly any claim to be called towns--mere villages, on whose green the neighbourhood assembled for the weekly market. Round the green, perhaps, a few stalls and booths were erected for the day; pedlars probably supplied the shop element; and artificers from neighbouring towns came in for the day, as in some of our villages now the saddler and the shoemaker and the watchmaker attend once a week to do the makings and mendings which are required. There are still to be seen in a few old-fashioned towns and remote country places market-crosses in the market-place or on the village-green. They usually consist of a tall cross of stone, round the lower part of whose shaft a penthouse of stone or wood has been erected to shelter the market-folks from rain and sun. There is such a cross at Salisbury; a good example of a village market-cross at Castle Combe, in Gloucestershire, one of wood at Shelford, in Cambridgeshire, and many others up and down the country, well worthy of being collected and illustrated by the antiquary before they are swept away. Our illustration, from the painted glass at Tournay, represents a market scene, the women sitting on their low stools, with their baskets of goods displayed on the ground before them. The female on the left seems to be filling up her time by knitting; the woman on the right is paying her market dues to the collector, who, as in the cut on p. 505, is habited as a clerk. The background appears to represent a warehouse, where transactions of a larger kind are going on. [Illustration: _A Market Scene._] But the inhabitants of rural districts were not altogether dependent on a visit to the nearest market for their purchases. The pursuit of gain enlisted the services of numerous itinerant traders, who traversed the land in all directions, calling at castle and manor house, monastery, grange, and cottage; and by the tempting display of pretty objects, and the handy supply of little wants, brought into healthy circulation many a silver penny which would otherwise have jingled longer in the owner's _gypcire_, or rested in the hoard in the homely stocking-foot. An entry in that mine of curious information, the York Fabric Rolls, reveals an incident in the pedlar's mode of dealing. It is a presentation, that is, a complaint, made to the Archbishop by the churchwardens of the parish of Riccall, in Yorkshire, under the date 1519 A.D. They represent, in the dog-Latin of the time: "_Item, quod Calatharii_ (_Anglice_ Pedlars), _veniunt diebus festis in porticum ecclesiæ et ibidem vendunt mercimonium suum_." That _Calatharii_--that is to say, Pedlars--come into the church-porch on feast-days, and there sell their merchandise. From another entry in the same records it seems that sometimes the chapmen congregated in such numbers that the gathering assumed the proportions of an irregular weekly market. Thus among the presentations in 1416, is one from St. Michael de Berefredo, St. Michael-le-Belfry, in the city of York, which states, "The parishioners say that a common market of vendibles is held in the churchyard on Sundays and holidays, and divers things and goods and rushes are exposed there for sale." The complaint is as early as the fourth century; for we find St. Basil mentioning as one abuse of the great church-festivals, that men kept markets at these times and places under colour of making better provision for the feasts which were kept thereat. The presentation from Riccall carries us back into the old times, and enables us to realise a picturesque and curious incident in their primitive mode of life. A little consideration will enable us to see how such a practice arose, and how it could be tolerated by people who had at least so much respect for religion as to come to church on Sundays and holidays. When we call to mind the state of the country districts, half reclaimed, half covered with forest and marsh and common, traversed chiefly by footpaths and bridle-roads, we shall understand how isolated a life was led by the inhabitants of the country villages and hamlets, and farmhouses and out-lying cottages. It was only on Sundays and holidays that neighbours met together. On those days the goodman mounted one of his farm-horses, put his dame behind him on a pillion, and jogged through deep and miry ways to church, while the younger and poorer came sauntering along the footpaths. One may now stand in country churchyards on a Sunday afternoon, and watch the people coming in all directions, across the fields, under copse, and over common, climbing the rustic styles, crossing the rude bridge formed by a tree-trunk thrown over the sparkling trout-stream, till all the lines converge at the church porch. And one has felt that those paths--many of them ploughed up every year and made every year afresh by the feet of the wayfarer--are among the most venerable relics of ancient times. And here among the ancient laws of Wales is one which assures us that our conjecture is true: "Every habitation," it says, "ought to have two good paths (convenient right of road), one to its church, and one to its watering-place." Very pleasant in summer these church-paths to the young folks who saunter along them in couples or in groups, but very disagreeable in wet wintery weather, and in difficult at all times to the old and infirm. Another presentation out of the York Fabric Rolls, gives us a contemporary picture of these church paths, seen under a gloomy aspect: In A.D. 1472, the people of Haxley complain to the Archdeacon that they "inhabit so unresonablie fer from ther parisch cherche that the substaunce (majority) of the said inhabitauntes for impotensaye and feblenes, farrenes (farness == distance) of the way, and also for grete abundance of waters and perlouse passages at small brigges for peple in age and unweldye, between them and ther next parische cherche, they may not come with ese or in seasonable tyme at ther saide parische cherche as Cristen people should, and as they wold," and so they pray for leave and help for a chaplain of their own. We must remember, too, that our ante-Reformation forefathers did not hold modern doctrines concerning the proper mode of observing Sundays and holydays. They observed them more in the way which makes us still call a day of leisure and recreation a "holiday;" they observed them all in much the same spirit as we still observe some of them, such as Christmas-day and Whitsuntide. When they had duly served God at _matins_ and mass, they thought it no sin to spend the rest of the day in lawful occupations, and rather laudable than otherwise to spend it in innocent recreations. The Riccall presentation gives us a picture which, no doubt, might have been seen in many another country-place on a Sunday or saint-day. The pedlar lays down his pack in the church-porch--and we will charitably suppose assists at the service--and then after service he is ready to spread out his wares on the bench of the porch before the eyes of the assembled villagers and make his traffickings, ecclesiastical canons to the contrary notwithstanding, and so save himself many a weary journey along the devious ways by which his customers have to return in the evening to their scattered homes. The complaint of the churchwardens does not seem to be directed against the traffic so much as against its being conducted in the consecrated precincts. Let the pedlar transfer his wares to the steps of the village-cross, and probably no one would have complained; but then, though they who wanted anything might have sought him there, he would have lost the chance of catching the eye of those who did not want anything, and tempting them to want and buy--a course for which we must not blame our pedlar too much, since we are told it is the essence of commerce, on a large as on a small scale, to create artificial wants and supply them. In the late thirteenth-century MS. Royal, 10 Ed. IV., are some illuminations of a mediæval story, which afford us very curious illustrations of a pedlar and his pack. At f. 149, the pedlar is asleep under a tree, and monkeys are stealing his pack, which is a large bundle, bound across and across with rope, with a red strap attached to the rope by which it is slung over the shoulder. On the next page the monkeys have opened the wrapper, showing that it covered a kind of box, and the mischievous creatures are running off with the contents, among which we can distinguish a shirt and some circular mirrors. On f. 150, the monkeys have conveyed their spoil up into the tree, and we make out a purse and belt, a musical pipe, a belt and dagger, a pair of slippers, a hood and gloves, and a mirror. On the next page, a continuation of the same subject, we see a pair of gloves, a man's hat, a woman's head-kerchief; and again, on p. 151, we have, in addition, hose, a mirror, a woman's head-dress, and a man's hood. These curious illuminations sufficiently indicate the usual contents of a pedlar's pack. [Illustration: _Pack-horses._] In the Egerton MS., 1,070, of the fourteenth century, at f. 380, is a representation of the flight into Egypt, in which Joseph is represented carrying a round pack by a stick over the shoulder, which probably illustrates the usual mode of carrying a pack or a pedestrian's personal luggage. Other illustrations of the pedlar of the latter part of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries will be found in the series of the Dance of Death. A former illustration has shown us a pack-horse and mule, the means by which those itinerant traders chiefly carried their merchandise over the country. But some kinds of goods would not bear packing into ordinary bundles of the kind there shown; for such goods, boxes or trunks, slung on each side of a pack-saddle, were used. We are able to give an illustration of them from an ancient tapestry figured in the fine work on "Anciennes Tapisseries" by Achille Jubinal. It is only a minor incident in the background of the picture, but is represented with sufficient clearness. Another mode of carrying personal baggage is represented in the fifteenth-century MS. Royal, 15 E. V., where a gentleman travelling on horseback is followed by two servants, each with a large roll of baggage strapped to the croupe of his saddle. The use of pack-horses has not even yet (or had not a few years ago) utterly died out of England. The writer saw a string of them in the Peak of Derbyshire, employed in carrying ore from the mines. The occasional occurrence of the pack-horse as the sign of a roadside inn also helps to keep alive the remembrance of this primitive form of "luggage-train." Many of our readers may have travelled with a valise at their saddle-bow and a cloak strapped to the croupe; the fashion, even now, is not quite out of date. CHAPTER V. COSTUME. We have, in a former chapter, given some pictures from illuminated MSS., in illustration of the costume and personal appearance of the merchants of the Middle Ages; but they are on such a scale as not to give much characteristic portraiture--except in the example of the bourgeoise of Paris, in the illumination from Froissart, on page 492--and they inadequately represent the minute details of costume. We shall endeavour in this chapter to bring our men more vividly before the eye of the reader in dress and feature. The "Catalogus Benefactorum" of St. Alban's Abbey, to which we have been so often indebted, will again help us with some pictures of unusual character. They are of the fourteenth century, and illustrate people of the burgess class who were donors to the abbey; the peculiarity of the representation is, that they are half-length portraits on an unusually large scale for MS. illuminations. When we call them portraits, we do not mean absolutely to assert that the originals sat for their pictures, and that the artist tried to make as accurate a portrait as he could; but it is probable that the donations were recorded and the pictures executed soon after the gifts were made, therefore, presumedly, in the lifetime of the donors. It is, moreover, probable that the artist was resident in the monastery or in the dependent town, and was, consequently, acquainted with the personal appearance of his originals; and in that case, even if the artist had not his subjects actually before his eyes at the time he painted these memorials, it is likely that he would, at least from recollection, give a general _vraisemblance_ to his portrait. The faces are very dissimilar, and all have a characteristic expression, which confirms us in the idea that they are not mere conventional portraits. They seem to be chiefly tradespeople rather than merchants of the higher class, and of the latter half of the fourteenth century. Here, for example, are William Cheupaign and his wife Johanna, who gave to the Abbey-church two tenements in the Halliwelle Street. One of the tenements is represented in the picture, a single-storied house of timber, thatched, with a carved stag's head as a finial to its gable. This William also gave, for the adornment of the church, several frontals, with gold, roses embroidered on a black ground; also he gave a belt to make a _morse_ (fastening or brooch) for the principal copes, with a figure of a swan in the _morse_, beautifully made of goldsmith's work; also he gave to the refectory a wooden drinking-bowl or cup, handsomely ornamented with silver, with a cover of the same wood. He wears a green hood lined with red; his wife is habited in a white hood. [Illustration: _William and Johanna Cheupaign._] The next picture represents Johanna de Warn, who also gave what is described as a well-built house, with a louvre, in St. Alban's town. This house, again, is of timber, with traceried windows, an arched doorway with ornamental hinges to the door, and an unusually large and handsome louvre. This louvre was doubtless in the roof of the hall, and probably over a fire-hearth in the middle of the hall, such as that which still exists in the fourteenth-century hall at Pevensey, Kent. The lady's face is strong corroboration of the theory that these are portraits. [Illustration: _Johanna de Warn._] Next is the portrait of a man in a robe, fastened in front with great buttons, and a hood drawn round a strongly marked face, reminding us altogether of the portraits of Dante. [Illustration: _A Gentleman in Civilian Dress._] The last which we take from this curious series is the picture of William de Langley, who gave to the monastery a well-built house in Dagnale Street, in the town of St. Alban's, for which the monastery received sixty shillings per annum, which Geoffrey Stukeley held at the time of writing. William de Langley is a man of regular features, partly bald, with pointed beard and moustache, the kind of face that might so easily have been merely conventional, but which has really much individuality of expression. The house--his benefaction--represented beside him, is a two-storied house; three of the square compartments just under the eaves are seen, by the colouring of the illumination, to be windows; it is timber-built and tiled, and the upper story overhangs the lower. The gable is finished with a weather-vane, which, in the original, is carried beyond the limits of the picture. The dots in the empty spaces of all these pictures are the diapering of the coloured background. [Illustration: _William de Langley._] But curious as these early portraits are, and interesting for their character and for their costume, as far as they go, they still fail to give us complete illustrations of the dresses of the people. For these we shall have to resort to a class of illustrations which we have hitherto, for the most part, avoided--that of monumental brasses. Now we recur to them because they give us what we want--the _minutiæ_ of costume--in far higher perfection than we can find it elsewhere. Again, instead of selecting one from one part of the country and another from another, we have thought that it would add interest to the series of illustrations to take as many as possible from one church, whose grave-stones happen to furnish us with a continuous series at short intervals of the effigies of the men who once inhabited the old houses of the town of Northleach, in Gloucestershire. This series, however, does not go back so far as the earliest extant monumental brass of a merchant; we therefore take a first example from another source. We have already mentioned the three grand effigies of Robert Braunche and Adam Walsokne of Lynne, and Alan Fleming of Newark; we select from them the effigy of Robert Braunche, merchant of Lynn, of date 1367 A.D. We have taken his single figure out of the grand composition which forms, perhaps, the finest monumental brass in existence. The costume is elegantly simple. A tunic reaches to the ankle, with a narrow line of embroidery at the edges; the sleeves do not reach to the elbow, but fall in two hanging lappets, while the arm is seen to be covered by the tight sleeves of an under garment, ornamented rather than fastened by a close row of buttons from the elbow to the wrist. Over the tunic is a hood, which covers the upper part of the person, while the head part falls behind. The hood in this example fits so tightly to the figure that the reader might, perhaps, think it doubtful whether it is really a second garment over the tunic; but in the contemporary and very similar effigy of Adam de Walsokne, it is quite clear that it is a hood. The plain leather shoes laced across the instep will also be noticed. If the reader should happen to compare this woodcut with the engraving of the same figure in Boutell's "Monumental Brasses," he will, perhaps, be perplexed by finding that the head here given is different from that which he will find there. We beg to assure him that our woodcut is correct. Mr. Boutell's artist, by some curious error, has given to his drawing of Braunche the head of Alan Fleming of Newark; and to Fleming he has given Braunche's head. We feel quite sure that every one of artistic feeling will be thankful for being made acquainted with the accompanying effigy of a merchant of Northleach, whose inscription is lost, and his name, therefore, unknown. The brass is of the highest merit as a work of art, and has been very carefully and accurately engraved, and is worthy of minute examination. The costume, which is of about the year 1400 A.D., it will be seen, consists of a long robe buttoned down the front, girded with a highly-ornamented belt; the enlarged plate at the end of the strap is ornamented with a T, probably the initial of the wearer's Christian name. By his side hangs the _anlace_, or dagger, which was worn by all men of the middle class who did not wear a sword, even by the secular clergy. Over all is a cloak, which opens at the right side, so as to give as much freedom as possible to the right arm, and to this cloak is attached a hood, which falls over the shoulders. The hands are covered with half gloves. The wool-pack at his feet shows his trade of wool-merchant. Over the effigy is an elegant canopy, which it is not necessary for our purpose to give, but it adds very much to the beauty and sumptuousness of the monument. [Illustration: _Robert Braunche, of Lynn._] [Illustration: _Wool Merchant from Northleach Church._] Next in the series is John Fortey, A.D. 1458, whose costume is not so elegant as that of the last figure, but it is as distinctly represented. The tunic is essentially the same, but shorter, reaching only to the mid-leg; with sleeves of a peculiar shape which, we know from other contemporary monuments, was fashionable at that date. It is fastened with a girdle, though a less ornamental one than that of the preceding figure, and is lined and trimmed at the wrists with fur. Very similar figures of Hugo Bostock and his wife, in Wheathamstead Church, Herts, are of date 1435; these latter effigies are specially interesting as the parents of John de Wheathamstede, the thirty-third abbot of St. Alban's. [Illustration: _John Fortey, from Northleach Church._] The next is an interesting figure, though far inferior in artistic merit and beauty to those which have gone before. The name here again is lost, but a fragment remaining of the inscription gives the date MCCCC., with a blank for the completion of the date; the same is the case with the date of his wife's death, so that both effigies may have been executed in the lifetime of the persons. The date is probably a little later than 1400. The face is so different from the previous ones that it may not be unnecessary to say that great pains have been taken to make it an accurate copy of the original, and it has been drawn and engraved by the same hand as the others. The manifest endeavour to indicate that the deceased was an elderly man, induces us to suspect that some of its peculiarity may arise from its being not a mere conventional brass, such as the monumental brass artists doubtless "kept to order," but one specially executed with a desire to make it more nearly resemble the features of the deceased. If, as we have conjectured, it was executed in his lifetime, this, perhaps, may account for its differing from the conventional type. His dress is the gown worn by civilians at the period, with a _gypcire_, or purse, hung at one side of his girdle, and his rosary at the other. [Illustration: _Wool Merchants from Northleach Church._] Lastly, we give the effigy of another nameless wool-merchant of Northleach, who is habited in a gown of rather stiffer material than the robes of his predecessors, trimmed with fur at the neck and feet and wrists. The inscription recording his name and date of death is lost, but a curious epitaph, also engraved on the brass, remains, as follows:-- "Farewell my frends, the tyde abideth no man, I am departed from hence, and so shall ye; But in this passage the best songe that I can Is requiem eternam. Now then graunte it me, When I have ended all myn adversitie, Graunte me in Puradise to have a mansion, That shed thy blode for my redemption." The mention of fur in these effigies suggests the restrictions in this matter imposed by the sumptuary laws by which the king and his advisers sought from time to time to restrain the extravagance of the lieges. By the most important of these acts, passed in 1362, the Lord Mayor of London and his wife were respectively allowed to wear the array of knights bachelors and their wives; the aldermen and recorder of London, and the mayors of other cities and towns, that of esquires and gentlemen having property to the yearly value of £40. No man having less than this, or his wife or daughter, shall wear any fur of martrons (martin's?) letuse, pure grey, or pure miniver. Merchants, citizens, and burgesses, artificers and people of handicraft, as well within the City of London as elsewhere, having goods and chattels of the clear value of £500, are allowed to dress like esquires and gentlemen of £100 a year; and those possessing property to the amount of £1,000, like landed proprietors of £200 a year. There are some further features in these monumental brasses worth notice. Knightly effigies often have represented at their feet lions, the symbols of their martial courage. Some of our wool-merchants have a sheep at their feet, as the symbol of their calling: one is given in the woodcut accompanying. In another, in the same church, the merchant has one foot on a sheep and the other on a wool-pack; here the two significant symbols are combined--the sheep stands on the wool-pack. In both examples the wool-pack has a mark upon it; in the former case it is something like the usual "merchant's mark," in the latter it is two shepherds' crooks, which seem to be his badge, for another crook is laid beside the wool-pack. At the feet of the effigy of John Fortey, p. 523, is also his merchant's mark enclosed in an elegant wreath, here represented. The initials I and F are the initials of his name; the remainder of the device is his trade-mark. We give two other merchants' marks of the two last of our series of effigies. If the reader cares to see other examples of these marks, and to learn all the little that is known about them, he may refer to a paper by Mr. Ewing, in vol. iii. of "Norfolk Archæology." [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] [Illustration] We have in a former chapter (p. 498) given from his monumental brass a figure of Alderman Field, of the date 1574, habited in a tunic edged with fur, girded at the waist, with a _gypcire_ and rosary at the girdle, and over all an alderman's gown. In St. Paul's Church, Bedford, is another brass of Sir William Harper, Knight, Alderman, and Lord Mayor of London,[417] who died in A.D. 1573; he wears a suit of armour of that date, with an alderman's robe forming a drapery about the figure, but thrown back so as to conceal as little of the figure as possible. In the Abbey Church at Shrewsbury is an effigy of a mayor of that town in armour, with a mayor's gown of still more modern shape. The brasses of Sir M. Rowe, Lord Mayor of London, 1567, and Sir H. Rowe, Lord Mayor 1607, both kneeling figures, formerly in Hackney Church, are engraved in Robinson's history of that parish. And in many of the churches in and about London, and other of the great commercial towns of the Middle Ages, monumental effigies exist, with which, were it necessary, we might extend these notes of illustrations of civic costume. In further explanation of civil costume from MSS. illuminations we refer the artist to the Harleian "Romance of the Rose" (Harl. 4,425, f. 47), where he will find a beautiful drawing, in which appears a man in a long blue gown, open a little at the breast and showing a pink under-robe, a black hat, and a liripipe of the kind already given in the citizens of Paris p. 54; he wears his purse by his side, and is presenting money to a beggar. At f. 98 is another in similar costume, with a "penner" at his belt in addition to his purse. There is nothing to prove that these men are merchants, except that they are represented in the streets of a town, and that their costume is such as was worn by merchants of the time. With these costumes of civilians before our eyes we wish to use them in illustration of a subject which was touched upon in a former section of this work, viz., the Secular Clergy of the Middle Ages. We there devoted some pages to a discussion of the ordinary every-day costume of the clergy, and stated that there was no professional peculiarity about it, but that it was in shape like that worn by contemporary civilians of the better class, and in colour blue and red and other colours, but seldom black. If the reader will turn back to pp. 244, 245, and 246, he will find some woodcuts of the clergy in ordinary costume; let him compare them now with these costumes of merchants. For example, take the woodcut of Roger the Chaplain, on p. 245, and compare it with the brass from Northleach, p. 522. The style of art is very different, but in spite of this the resemblance in costume will be readily seen; the gown reaching to the ankle, and over it the cloak fastened with three buttons at the right shoulder, with the hood falling back over the shoulders; the half-gloves are the same in both, and the shoes with their latchet over the instep. Then turn to the priest on p. 246, and it will be seen that he wears the gown girded at the waist, with a purse hung at the girdle, and the flat cap with long liripipe, which we have described in the costumes of these merchants. Lastly, let the reader look at these brasses of wool-staplers, and compare the gown they wore with the cassock now adopted by the clergy, and it will be seen that they are identical--_i.e._ the clergy continue to wear the gown which all civilians wore three or four hundred years ago; and in the same manner the academic gown which the clergy wear, in common with all university men, is only the gown which all respectable citizens wore in the time of Henry VIII. and Elizabeth. CHAPTER VI. MEDIÆVAL TOWNS. Mediæval towns in England had one of four origins; some were those of ancient Roman foundation, which had lived through the Saxon invasion, like Lincoln, Chester, and Colchester. Others again grew up gradually in the neighbourhood of a monastery. The monastery was founded in a wilderness, but it had a number of artisans employed about it; travellers resorted to its _hospitium_ as to an inn; it was perhaps a place of pilgrimage; the affairs of the Lord Abbot, and the business of the large estates of the convent, brought people constantly thither; and so gradually a town grew up, as at St. Alban's, St. Edmundsbury, &c. In other cases it was not a religious house, but a castle of some powerful and wealthy lord, which drew a population together under the shelter of its walls--as at Norwich, where the lines of the old streets follow the line of the castle-moat; or Ludlow, on the other side of the kingdom, which gathered round the Norman Castle of Ludlow. But there is a third category of mediæval towns which did not descend from ancient times, or grow by accidental accretion in course of time, but were deliberately founded and built in the mediæval period for specific purposes; and in these we have a special interest from our present point of view. There was a period, beginning in the latter part of the eleventh and extending to the close of the fourteenth century, when kings and feudal lords, from motives of high policy, fostered trade with anxious care; encouraged traders with countenance, protection, and grants of privileges; and founded commercial towns, and gave them charters which made them little independent, self-governing republics, in the midst of the feudal lords and ecclesiastical communities which surrounded them. In England we do not find so many of these newly founded towns as on the Continent; here towns were already scattered abundantly over the land, and what was needed was to foster their growth; but our English kings founded such towns in their continental dominions. Edward I. planted numerous free towns, especially in Guienne and Aquitaine, in order to raise up a power in his own interest antagonistic to that of the feudal lords. Other continental sovereigns did the same, _e.g._ Alphonse of Poitiers, the brother of St. Louis, in his dominion of Toulouse. But in England we have a few such cases. The history of the foundation of Hull will afford us an example. When Edward I. was returning from Scotland after the battle of Dunbar, he visited Lord Wakes of Barnard Castle. While hunting one day, he was led by the chase to the hamlet of Wyke-upon-Hull, belonging to the convent of Meaux. The king perceived at once the capabilities of the site for a fortress for the security of the kingdom, and a port for the extension of commerce. He left the hunt to take its course, questioned the shepherds who were on the spot about the depth of the river, the height to which the tides rose, the owner of the place, and the like. He sent for the Abbot of Meaux, and exchanged with him other lands for Wyke. Then he issued a proclamation offering freedom and great commercial privileges to all merchants who would build and inhabit there. He erected there a manor-house for himself; incorporated the town as a free borough in 1299 A.D.; by 1312 the great church was built; by 1322 the town was fortified with a wall and towers; and the king visited it from time to time on his journeys to the north. The family of De la Pole, who settled there from the first, ably seconded the king's intentions. Kingston-upon-Hull became one of the great commercial towns of the kingdom. The De la Poles rose rapidly to wealth and the highest rank. Michael de la Pole "builded a goodly-house of brick, against the west end of St. Mary's Church, like a palace, with a goodly orchard and garden at large, enclosed with brick. He builded also three houses in the town besides, whereof every one hath a tower of brick." Leland the antiquary, of the time of Queen Elizabeth, has left us a description and bird's-eye plan of the town in his day, which is highly interesting. Of our English towns, those which are of Roman origin were laid out at first on a comprehensive plan, and they have the principal streets tolerably straight, and crossing at right angles. The great majority of the towns which grew as above described are exceedingly irregular; but this irregularity, so important an element in the picturesqueness of mediæval towns, is quite an accidental one. When the mediæval builders laid out a town _de novo_, they did it in the most methodical manner; laying out the streets wide, straight, at equal distances, and crossing rectangularly; appropriating proper sites for churches, town-halls, and other public purposes, and regulating the size and plan of the houses. It is to the continental towns we must especially look for examples; but we find when Edward I. was building his free towns there, he sent for Englishmen to lay them out for him. A similar opportunity occurred at Winchelsea, where the same plan was pursued. The old town of Winchelsea was destroyed by the sea in 1287, and the king determined to rebuild this cinque-port. The chief owners of the new site were a knight, Sir J. Tregoz, one Maurice, and the owners of Battle Abbey. The king compounded with them for their rights over seventy acres of land, and sent down the Bishop of Ely, who was Lord Treasurer, to lay out the new town. The monarch accorded the usual privileges to settlers, and gave help towards the fortifications. The town was laid out in streets which divided the area into rectangular blocks; two blocks were set apart for churches, and there were two colleges of friars within the town. Somehow the place did not flourish; it was harried by incursions of the French before the fortifications were completed, people were not attracted to it, the whole area was never taken up, and it continues to this day shrunk up into one corner of its walled area. Three of the old gates, and part of the walls, and portions of three or four houses, are all that remain of King Edward's town. [Illustration: _View of Jerusalem._] [Illustration: _The Canterbury Pilgrims._] The woodcut on the preceding page, from a MS. of Lydgate's "Storie of Thebes" (Royal 18 D. II.), gives a general view of a town. The travellers in the foreground are a group of Canterbury pilgrims. In these mediæval times the population of these towns was not so diverse as it afterwards became; the houses were of various classes, from that of the wealthy merchant, which was a palace--like that of Michael de la Pole at Hull, or that of Sir John Crosby in London--down to the cottage of the humble craftsman, but the mediæval town possessed no such squalid quarters as are to be found in most of our modern towns. The inhabitants were chiefly merchants, manufacturers, and craftsmen of the various guilds. Just as in the military order, all who were permanently attached to the service of a feudal lord were lodged in his castle or manor and its dependencies; as all who were attached to a religious community were lodged in and about the monastery; as in farm-houses, a century ago, the labouring men lived in the house; so in towns all the clerks, apprentices, and work-people lodged in the house of their master; the apprentices of every craftsman formed part of his family; there were no lodgings in the usual sense of the word. In the great towns, and especially in the suburbs, were hostelries which received travellers, adventurers, minstrels, and all the people who had no fixed establishment; and often in the outskirts of the town without the walls, houses of inferior kind sprang up like parasites, and harboured the poor and dangerous classes. The bird's-eye views of the county towns in the corners of Speed's _Maps of the most famous Places of the World_, are well worth study. They give representations of the condition of many of our towns in the time of Elizabeth, while they were still for the most part in their ancient condition, with walls and gates, crosses, pillories, and maypoles still standing, and indicated in the engravings. Perhaps one of the most perfect examples we have left of a small mediæval town is Conway; it is true, no very old houses appear to be left in it, but the streets are probably on their old lines, and the walls and gates are perfect--the latter, especially, giving us some picturesque features which we do not find remaining in the gates of other towns. Taken in combination with the adjoining castle it is architecturally one of the most unchanged corners of England. We have also a few old houses still left here and there, sufficient to form a series of examples of various dates, from the twelfth century downwards. We must refer the reader to Turner's "Domestic Architecture" for notices of them. A much greater number of examples, and in much more perfect condition, exist in the towns of the Continent, for which reference should be made to Viollet le Duc's "Dictionary of Architecture." All that our plan requires, and our space admits, is to give a general notion of what a citizen's house in a mediæval town was like. The houses of wealthy citizens were no doubt mansions comparable with the unembattled manor-houses of the country gentry. We have already quoted Leland's description of that of Michael de la Pole at Hull, of the fourteenth century, and Crosby Hall in Bishopsgate Street. St. Mary's Hall, at Coventry, is a very perfect example of the middle of the fifteenth century. Norwich also possesses one or more houses of this character. The house of an ordinary citizen had a narrow frontage, and usually presented its gable to the street; it had very frequently a basement story, groined, which formed a cellar, and elevated the first floor of the house three or four feet above the level of the street. At Winchelsea the vaulted basements of three or four of the old houses remain, and show that the entrance to the house was by a short stone stair alongside the wall; under these stairs was the entrance into the cellar, beside the steps a window to the cellar, and over that the window of the first floor. Here, as was usually the case, the upper part of the house was probably of wood, and it was roofed with tiles. On the first floor was the shop, and beside it an alley leading to the back of the house, and to a straight stair which gave access to the building over the shop, which was a hall or common living-room occupying the whole of the first floor. The kitchen was at the back, near the hall, or sometimes the cooking was done in the hall itself. A private stair mounted to the upper floor, which was the sleeping apartment, and probably was often left in one undivided garret; the great roof of the house was a wareroom or storeroom, goods being lifted to it by a crane which projected from a door in the gable. The town of Cluny possesses some examples, very little modernised, of houses of this description of the twelfth century. Others of the thirteenth century are at St. Antonin, and in the Rue St. Martin, Amiens. Others of subsequent date will be found in the Dictionary of Viollet le Duc, vol. vi., pp. 222-271, who gives plans, elevations, and perspective sketches which enable us thoroughly to understand and realise these picturesque old edifices. Our own country will supply us with abundance of examples of houses, both of timber and stone, of the fifteenth century. Nowhere, perhaps, are there better examples than at Shrewsbury, where they are so numerous, in some parts (_e.g._ in the High Street and in Butcher Row), as to give a very good notion of the picturesque effect of a whole street--of a whole town of them. But it must be admitted that the continental towns very far exceed ours in their antiquarian and artistic interest. In the first place, the period of great commercial prosperity occurred in these countries in the Middle Ages, and their mediæval towns were in consequence larger and handsomer than ours. In the second place, there has been no great outburst of prosperity in these countries since to encourage the pulling down the mediæval houses to make way for modern improvements; while in England our commercial growth, which came later, has had the result of clearing away nearly all of our old town-houses, except in a few old-fashioned places which were left outside the tide of commercial innovations. In consequence, a walk through some of the towns of Normandy will enable the student and the artist better to realise the picturesque effect of an old English town, than any amount of diligence in putting together the fragments of old towns which remain to us. In some of the German towns, also, we find the old houses still remaining, apparently untouched, and the ancient walls, mural towers, and gateways still surrounding them. The illuminations in MSS. show that English towns were equally picturesque, and that the mediæval artists appreciated them. The illustrations in our last chapter on pp. 519, 520, give an idea of the houses inhabited by citizens in such a town as St. Alban's. In the "Roman d'Alexandre," in the Bodleian Library, Oxford, a whole street of such houses is rudely represented, some with the gable to the street, some with the side, all with the door approached by an exterior stair, most of them with the windows apparently unglazed, and closed at will by a shutter. We might quote one MS. after another, and page after page. We will content ourselves with noting, for exterior views, the Royal MS. 18 E. V. (dated 1473 A.D.), at 3 E. V., f. 117 v., a town with bridge and barbican, and the same still better represented at f. 179; and we refer also to Hans Burgmaier's "Der Weise Könige," which abounds in picturesque bits of towns in the backgrounds of the pictures. For exteriors the view of Venice in the "Roman d'Alexandre" is full of interest, especially as we recognise that it gives some of the remaining features--the Doge's Palace, the Cathedral, the columns in the Piazzeta--and it is therefore not merely a fancy picture, as many of the town-views in the MS. are, which are supposed to represent Jerusalem,[418] Constantinople, and other cities mentioned in the text. This Venice view shows us that at that time the city was lighted by lanterns hung at the end of poles extended over the doors of the houses. It gives us a representation of a butcher's shop and other interesting features. [Illustration: _A Mediæval Street and Town Hall._] The illustration on the preceding page is also a very interesting street-view of the fifteenth century, from a plate in Le Croix and Seré's "Moyen Age," vol. Corporations et Metiers, Plate 8. Take first the right-hand side of the engraving, remove the forest of picturesque towers and turrets with their spirelets and vanes which appear over the roofs of the houses (in which the artist has probably indulged his imagination as to the effect of the other buildings of the town beyond), and we have left a sober representation of part of a mediæval street--a row of lofty timber houses with their gables turned to the street. We see indications of the usual way of arranging the timber frame-work in patterns; there are also indications of pargeting (_e.g._ raised plaster ornamentation) and of painting in some of the panels. On the ground-floor we have a row of shops protected by a projecting pent-house; the shop-fronts are open unglazed arches, with a bench across the lower part of the arch for a counter, while the goods are exposed above. In the first shop the tradesman is seen behind his counter ready to cry "what d'ye lack" to every likely purchaser; at the second shop is a customer in conversation with the shopkeeper; at the third the shopkeeper and his apprentice seem to be busy displaying their goods. Some of the old houses in Shrewsbury, as those in Butcher Row, are not unlike these, and especially their shops are exactly of this character. When we turn to the rest of the engraving we find apparently some fine building in which, perhaps, again the artist has drawn a little upon vague recollections of civic magnificence, and his perspective is not quite satisfactory. Perhaps it is some market-house or guildhall, or some such building, which is represented; with shops on the ground-floor, and halls and chambers above. The entrance-door is ornamented with sculpture, the panels of the building are filled with figures, which are either painted or executed in plaster, in relief. The upper part of the building is still unfinished, and we see the scaffolds, and the cranes conveying mortar and timber, and the masons yet at work. In the shop on the right of the building, we note the usual open shop-front with its counter, and the tradesman with a pair of scales; in the interior of the shop is an assistant who seems to be, with vigorous action, pounding something in a mortar, and so we conjecture the shop to be that of an apothecary. The costume of the man crossing the street, in long gown girded at the waist, may be compared with the merchants given in our last chapter, and with those in an engraving of a market-place at p. 499. The figure at a bench in the left-hand corner of the engraving may perhaps be one of the workmen engaged upon the building; not far off another will be seen hauling up a bucket of mortar, by means of a pulley, to the upper part of the building; the first mason seems to wear trousers, probably overalls to protect his ordinary dress from the dirt of his occupation. Of later date are the pair of views given opposite from the margin of one of the pictures in "The Alchemy Book" (Plut. 3,469) a MS. in the British Museum of early sixteenth-century date. The nearest house in the left-hand picture shows that the shops were still of the mediæval character; several of the houses have signs on projecting poles. There are other examples of shops in the nearest house of the right-hand picture, a public fountain opposite, and a town-gate at the end of the street. We see in the two pictures, a waggon, horsemen, and carts, a considerable number of people standing at the shops, at the doors of their houses, and passing along the street, which has no foot pavement. [Illustration: _Mediæval Streets._] The accompanying cut from Barclay's "Shippe of Fools," gives a view in the interior of a mediæval town. The lower story of the houses is of stone, the upper stories of timber, projecting. The lower stories have only small, apparently unglazed windows, while the living rooms with their oriels and glazed lattices are in the first floor. The next cut, from a MS. in the French National Library, gives the interior of the courtyard of a great house. We notice the portion of one of the towers on the left, the draw-well, the external stair to the principal rooms on the first floor, the covered unglazed gallery which formed the mode of communication from the different apartments of the first floor, and the dormer windows. [Illustration: _A Town, from Barclay's Shippe of Fools._] A whole chapter might be written on the inns of mediæval England. We must content ourselves with giving references to pictures of the exterior of two country ale-houses--one in the Royal MS. 10 E. IV., at f. 114 v., which has a broom projecting over the door by way of sign; and another in the "Roman d'Alexandre" in the Bodleian--and with reproducing here two pictures of the interiors of hostelries from Mr. Wright's "Domestic Manners and Customs of the Middle Ages." They represent the sleeping accommodation of these ancient inns. In the first, from the "Quatre Fils d'Aymon," a MS. romance of the latter part of the fourteenth century, in the French National Library, the beds are arranged at the side of the apartment in separate berths, like those of a ship's cabin, or like the box beds of the Highlands of Scotland. It is necessary, perhaps, to explain that the artist has imagined one side of the room removed, so as to introduce into his illustration both the mounted traveller outside and the interior of the inn. [Illustration: _Courtyard of a House._ (French National Library.)] In the next woodcut, from Royal MS. 18 D. II., the side of the hostelry next to the spectator is supposed to be removed, so as to bring under view both the party of travellers approaching through the corn-fields, and the same travellers tucked into their truckle beds and fast asleep. The sign of the inn will be noticed projecting over the door, with a brush hung from it. Many houses displayed signs in the Middle Ages; the brush was the general sign of a house of public entertainment. On the bench in the common dormitory will be seen the staves and scrips of the travellers, who are pilgrims. [Illustration: _An Inn._ (French National Library.)] A fragment of a romance of "Floyre and Blanchefleur," published by the Early English Text Society, illustrates the mediæval inn. We have a little modernised the very ancient original. Floris is travelling with a retinue of servants, in the hope of finding his Blanchefleur:-- "To a riche city they bothe ycome, Whaire they have their inn ynome[419] At a palais soothe riche; The lord of their inn has non his liche,[420] Him fell gold enough to honde, Bothe in water and in lande, He hadde yled his life ful wide." _i.e._ he had travelled much, had great experience of life, and had gained gold both by sea and land. Besides houses entirely devoted to the entertainment of travellers, it was usual for citizens to take travellers into their houses, and give them entertainment for profit; it would seem that Floris and his servants had "taken up their inn" at the house of a burgess; he is called subsequently, "a burgess that was wel kind and curteis:"-- "This Child he sette next his side, Glad and blithe they weren alle So many as were in the halle; But Floris not ne drank naught, Of Blanchefleur was all his thought." [Illustration: _An Inn._] The lady of the inn perceiving his melancholy, speaks to her husband about him:-- "Sire takest thou no care How this child mourning sit Mete ne drink he nabit, He net[421] mete ne he ne drinketh Nis[422] he no marchaunt as me thinketh." From which we gather that their usual guests were merchants. The host afterwards tells Floris that Blanchefleur had been at his house a little time before, and that-- "Thus therein this other day Sat Blanchefleur that faire may, In halle, ne in bower, ne at board Of her ne herde we never a word But of Floris was her mone He hadde in herte joie none." Floris was so rejoiced at the news, that he caused to be brought a cup of silver and a robe of minever, which he offered to his host for his news. In the morning-- "He took his leave and wende his way, And for his nighte's gesting He gaf his host an hundred schillinge." One feature of a town which requires special mention is the town-hall. As soon as a town was incorporated, it needed a large hall in which to transact business and hold feasts. The wealth and magnificence of the corporation were shown partly in the size and magnificence of its hall. Trade-guilds similarly had their guildhalls; when there was one great guild in a town, its hall was often the town-hall; when there were several, the guilds vied with one another in the splendour of their halls, feasts, pageants, &c. The town-halls on the Continent exceed ours in size and architectural beauty. That at St. Antoine, in France, is an elegant little structure of the thirteenth century. The Belgian town-halls at Bruges, &c., are well known from engravings. We are not aware of the existence of any town-halls in England of a date earlier than the fifteenth century. That at Leicester is of the middle of the fifteenth century. The town-hall at Lincoln, over the south gate, is of the latter half of the century; that at Southampton, over the north gate, about the same date: it was not unusual for the town-hall to be over one of the gates. Of the early part of the sixteenth century we have many examples. They are all of the same type--a large oblong hall, of stone or timber, supported on pillars, the open colonnade beneath being the market-place. That at Salisbury is of stone; at Wenlock (which has been lately restored), of timber. There are others at Hereford, Ross, Leominster, Ashburton, Guildford, &c. The late Gothic Bourse at Antwerp is an early example of the cloistered, or covered courts, which, at the end of the fifteenth century, began to be built for the convenience of the merchants assembling at a certain hour to transact business. The covered bridge of the Rialto was used as the Exchange at Venice. None of our towns have the same relative importance which belonged to them in the Middle Ages. In the latter part of the period of which we write it was very usual for the county families to have town-houses in the county town, or some other good neighbouring town, and there they came to live in the winter months. When the fashion began we hardly know. Some of the fine old timber houses remaining in Shrewsbury are said to have been built by Shropshire families for their town-houses. The gentry did not in those times go to London for "the season." The great nobility only used to go to court, which was held three times a year; then parliament sat, the king's courts of law were open, and the business of the nation was transacted. They had houses at the capital for their convenience on these occasions, which were called inns, as Lincoln's Inn, &c. But it is only from a very recent period, since increased facilities of locomotion made it practicable, that it has been the fashion for all people in a certain class of society to spend "the season" in London. As a consequence the country gentry no longer have houses in the provincial towns; even the better classes of those whose occupation lies in them live in their suburbs, and the towns are rapidly changing their character, physically, socially, and morally, for the worse. London is becoming rapidly the one great town in England. The great manufacturers have agencies in London; if people are going to furnish a house or to buy a wedding outfit they come up to London; the very artisans and rustics in search of a day's holiday are whirled up to London in an excursion train. While London in consequence is extending so widely as to threaten to convert all England into a mere suburb of the metropolis of the British empire. INDEX. Abbesses, costume of, 57 Abbey, infirmary of, 61 Abbey-church, internal arrangement of, 75 Abbot, duties of, 55; his habit, 57 Abbot-bishop, 5 Abbot's lodgings, 55, 84 Alien Priories, 34 Ampulla, the Canterbury, 171-73 Anchorages, 132 Anchoresses, bequests to, 129; Judith the foundress and patroness of the order of, 120; sketch of, 146 Anchorholds, 130, 134, 138 Anchorites, bequests to, 125-27; rule for, 121; their mode of life, 121 Angel minstrels, 286-88 Anglo-Saxons, St. Augustine the Apostle of the, 6 Arbalesters, the Genoese famous as, 441 Archers, 438; corps of enrolled as body guards by Edward III. and French kings, 412; importance of in battle, 440; mounted corps of, _ib._; Norman, equipment of at time of Conquest, 438; skill of English, 440 Archery, practice of by commonality of England protected and encouraged by legislation, 445, 446 Armorial bearings, date of invention of, 331 Armour, details of a suit of thirteenth century, 333; differences in suits of mediæval, 398, 399; little worn in the reigns of Elizabeth and James I., 458; many modifications of in fifteenth century, 452; of King Henry VIII.'s reign, 453; of the fourteenth century, 338 _et seq._; of the fifteenth century, 394 _et seq._; various kinds of early, 329, 330, 335, 336 Arquebusier, 458 Artillery, ancient, 446; date of first appearance in field disputed, 447; first evidence as to the existence of, 440, 447 Augustinians, order of the, 18 Austin friars, order of, 44, 94 Banker, the mediæval, 407 Bard, anecdotes concerning the, 271-73; the father of the minstrels of mediæval Europe, 270 Basilican Institution, introduction of into Africa by St. Augustine, 4; into France by St. Martin of Tours, _ib._; into Ireland by St. Patrick, _ib._; into Syria by Hilarion, _ib._ Battering-ram, 385, 450, 451 Bede houses, 24 Benedictine monks, habit of, 1-7; orders, 17 Benefices, abuses in connection with, 200 Bonhommes, the, 21 Brigittines (female Order of Our Saviour), 21 Britain, exports of when a Roman province, 463 British Church, early history of the, 4 coinage, date of fast, 463 commerce, the beginnings of, 461 Camaldoli, order of, 17 Canons, Secular, cathedral establishments of, 196; their costume, 197, 198 Canterbury pilgrimage, chief sign of the, its origin and meaning, 170 _et seq._ Carmelite friars, order of, 43 Carthusian order, founded by St. Bruno, 15; Charterhouse (Chartreux) principal house of in England, 15 Carthusians, Cistercians, Clugniacs, and the orders of Camaldoli and Vallambrosa and Grandmont, history of the successive rise of the, 10 Castle, mode of assaulting a, 381; various methods of attacking a, 392 Castles, counter-mines used by defenders of mediæval, 387; Greek fire and stinkpots employed in repelling assailants of, 392; mines used for effecting breaches in walls of, 385; places of hospitality as well as of trials of arms, 358 Cells, monastic, 89 Chantry chapels, bequests to, 140 priests, 136, 204, 206 Chapels, private, curious internal arrangement of, 211; establishments of, 208-10 Chaplains, domestic, 208, 210, 212 Christendom, coenobitical orders of, 93 Church of England, date of present organization of, 195 Cinque Ports, 480; ships of the, frequently at war with those of other ports of the kingdom, 483 Cistercian order, founded by Robert de Thierry, 16; introduced into England A.D. 1128, _ib._; St. Bernard of Clairvaux the great saint of the, 17 Clairvaux, external aspect and internal life of, 12; founded by St. Bernard, 11 Clergy, comparison between mediæval seculars and modern, 224, 225; extracts from injunctions of John, Archbishop of Canterbury, on robes of the, 242, 243, 250, 251; form of degradation for heresy, 214, 215; friars a popular order of, 223; parochial, cause of change in condition of the, 193; rivalry between friars and secular, 223; secular, 214; stories illustrating deference of for squire in olden days, 225, 226; wills of the, 248, 249 Clerical costume of archbishop, 234-236; of bishop, 235; of cardinal, 234; of minor orders, 214, 215; of pope, 232, 233 _Clericus_, meaning of the word, 215 Clugniac, order of, 14 Coffin-stones, mediæval, curious symbols on, 193 Combat, a mediæval, 375, 376 Commerce, checked by the Conquest, 468; discovery of sea-passage to India opens up to a career of adventure, 485; earliest extant document bearing on Saxon, 464; of England greatly increased during reign of Edward the Confessor, 467; receives much attention from Government during fourteenth century, 470; recovers and surpasses its ancient prosperity in reign of Henry II., 469; the pioneers of, 485 Compostella pilgrimage, legend in connection with badge of the, 169; offerings made by pilgrims on return from, 190 Convent, the, officials of: abbot, 55; almoner, 62; artificers and servants, 65; cellarer, 60; chantor, _ib._; chaplains, 65; cloister monks, 64; hospitaller, 61; infirmarer, 62; kitchener, 63; master of the novices, 62; novices, 65; porter, 62; precentor, 58; prior, 58; Professed Brethren, 65; sacrist, 61; seneschal, 63; subprior, 60; succentor, _ib._ Council of Hertford, 195; differences affecting parochial clergy reconciled at, _ib._ Council of Lyons, suppression of minor mendicant orders by, 44; red hat of cardinal first given by Innocent VI. at, 234 Counting-board, the, 501 Cross-bow, not used in war till close of twelfth century, 440; various forms of, _ib._ Croyland, monastery of, 87 Crusades, objects for which they were organised, 159 Crutched friars, order of, 44 Deaconesses, order of, 152 De Poenetentia friars, order of, 44 Dominican friar, Chaucer's, 46 friars, order of, 40 Dunstan, Archbishop, reduces all Saxon monasteries to rule of St. Benedict, 7 Education, monasteries famous places of, 66 Edwardian period, armour and arms of the, 347 Egyptian Desert, hermits of the, 148 Eremeti Augustini, order of, 94, 96; their habit, 96 Eremetical life, curious illustration of, 2 Fairs, sole power of granting right to hold exercised by king, 503; great, 506 Feudal system, introduction of into England by William the Conqueror, 326; points of difference between Continental and English, 327 Fontevraud, nuns of, 21 Franciscan friars, order of, 40; the several branches of, 43 nuns, habit of the, 43 Free towns, mediæval, 530; Hull an example of one of the, _ib._; manner of laying out, 531-38 Friars, orders of: Austin, 44; Carmelites, 43; Crutched, 44; de Poenetentia, 44; Dominicans, 40; Franciscans, 40 Chaucer's type of a certain class of, 39; convents of, _ib._; pictures of ancient customs and manners of, 45; the principle which inspired them, 36 Gilbertines, founded by Gilbert of Sempringham, 21 Godrie of Finchale, 116 Grandmontines, order of, 17 Greek Church, costume of monks and nuns in the, 4; rule of St. Basil followed by all monasteries of, _ib._ fire, 449; used in the Crusades, _ib._ Grimlac, rule of, 120, 121 Guesten-halls, 86, 87 Guild priests, 205; bequests to, 206; duties of, _ib._ Guilds of minstrels, 298; laws regulating them, 299, 300 Hampton Court, shipping of time of Henry VIII. illustrated at, 484 Harper, the mediæval, 271 _et seq._ Henry VIII.'s army, 455; account of its taking the field, 456; description of the king's camp, 458 Heresy, form of degradation for, 214, 215 Hermit, a modern, 119; form of vow made by mediæval, 98; popular idea of a, 95; service for habiting and blessing a, 99; superstition with regard to a, 100; typical pictures of a, 117-19 Hermitages, localities of, 101; descriptions of, 111-17 Hermit-saints, traditional histories of the early, 95 n.; their costume, 98 Hermits, curious history relating to, 104 Holy Land, early pilgrims to the, 158; pilgrim entitled to wear palm on accomplishment of pilgrimage to, 167; special sign worn by pilgrims to, _ib._ "Holy Reliques," an account of, 185-87 Horses, equipment of in fifteenth century, 404; trappings of at tournaments, 433 Hospitals of the Middle Ages, 23, 24; foreign examples of, 25 Hospitium, contrast between the Cloister and the, 87; resorted to by travellers, 529 Houses, description of, given by mediæval traders to various churches and monasteries, 519 Impropriation, evil of, 199 Iona, monastic institution at, 6 Inventories, clerical, 261, 262; of church furniture, 285 "Isles of Tin," 461 Jewellery, portable, Saxon goldsmiths famous for, 464 Jousting, 348, 349, 365, 411, 415 Judicial combats, anecdotes illustrative of, 419; various authorities on the subject of, _ib._ Kelvedon Parsonage, 261, 263, 265 Knight, manner of bringing up a, 406; Chaucer's portrait of a, 409, 410 Knight-errant, armour and costume of a royal, 349, 350; graphic account of incidents in single combat of a, 373-75; squire of a, 352 Knight-errantry, romances of, 354 _et seq._ Knighthood, won by deeds of arms in the field and in the lists, 409 Knight Hospitaller, a, 31 Knights of Malta, 33 of St. John of Jerusalem, order of, 29-32 of the Temple, order of, 26, 29, 159 Knights, noblemen and eldest sons of landed gentry made, 408; ceremony of making essentially a religious one, 409; equipment of reached its strangest form in reigns of Richard III. and Henry VII. 452 Knights-errant, 369 _et seq._ Knights of the Middle Ages, armour, arms, and costume of the, 311 _et seq._; scarcity of authorities for costume and manners of the, 329; quaint and poetic phrases in romances of the, 367, 368 Laura, the, 3; original arrangement of the hermits in their, 107 Lindisfarne, monastic institution at, 6 Long-bow, the national arm of the English, 441; attains climax of its reputation during fourteenth century, 441 London, burgesses of at battle of Hastings, 467; date of its becoming chief emporium of Britain, 463; importance of its citizens previous to Conquest, 467; interesting account of mediæval, 469; "mysteries," or trades of, 508; regulations as to dress of merchants, citizens, and burgesses of the city of, 525 Lord-monks, 223 Marseilles, as a Greek colony, the chief emporium of the world, 462 Mediæval dance, a, 281, 282 England, inns of and their signs, 540-44; picturesque aspect of, 489-92; population of, 503; town-halls of, 545; town houses of county families of, _ib._ life and characters, sketches of, from an artist's point of view, 1 shops, descriptions of, 509, 510 towns, 529; best specimens of to be found in Normandy and Germany, 535; Conway a perfect example of one of the, 534; gradual growth of, 529; houses of, 534, 535; inhabitants of, 533; mode of lodging of population of, _ib._; numerous on the Continent from eleventh to fourteenth centuries, 530; picturesque views of streets and shops of, 537-40; some built for specific purposes, 529 trade, 503 _et seq._ Merchant, mediæval, an account of his occupation and way of life, 465, 466; curious epitaph on a brass relating to a, 525; effigy of a at Northleach, 523 Merchant guilds, 489 navy, the, 475 ships, early, 470, 471; king at liberty to impress, 481, 482 Merchants, commerce of England, during thirteenth century, carried on by foreign, 470; details of dresses worn by mediæval, 521; early English, 465; law conferring rank on, 465; munificence of the mediæval, 495; private naval wars carried on between, 482, 483; provision in charter of King John as to, 469; social position of the mediæval, 487, 488; various classes of distinguished by costume, 487 Middle Ages, armour of the, 329-36; archers of England famous during the, 439; combats of the, 411; consecrated widows of the, 152; costume of tradespeople of the, 519; description of the combat between King Arthur and a knight of the, 365, 366; drill and tactics of the soldiers of the, 377-79; engines of war of the, 382, 383; habitations of secular clergy in the, 252-54; harper the most dignified of the minstrel craft throughout the, 271; hermits and recluses of the, 93 _et seq._; hospitals of the, 23-25; hospitium of a monastery in the, 87; houses of the, 519, 520; itinerant traders of the, 513, 517; manner of bringing up a youth of good family in the, 406; merchant navy of the, 475; merchant princes of the, 493, 494; merchants of the, 461 _et seq._; minstrels part of regular establishment of nobles and gentry of the, 275; monks of the, 1 _et seq._; primitive mode of life of rural English population of the, 513; ships of the, 470-71; sketch of life led by a country parson in the, 262, 263; sumptuary laws regulating dress of merchants of the, 525; system of Pluralities in the, 200 Military engines, 382 _et seq._ exercises and encounters, 410 _et seq._ orders: Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, 29; Knights of the Temple, 26; Our Lady of Mercy, 32; Teutonic Knights, _ib._; Trinitarians, 32-34 Minstrels, mediæval, assist in musical part of divine service, 285; costume of, 304-309; curious anecdotes concerning, 294, 295; duties of, 275 _et seq._; female, 302, 303; incorporated in a guild, 297; marriage processions attended by, 282, 283; often men of position and worth, 294, 295; part of regular establishment of nobles and gentry, 275-77; patronised by the clergy, 288; singular ordinance relating to, 296; tournaments enlivened by the strains of, 291, 292; welcome guests at the religious houses, 289, 290 "Minstrels unattached," 293, 294 Miracle-plays, parish clerks took an important part in, 220; survival of in Spain, 221 Minstrelsy, in high repute among the Normans, 274; Grostête of Lincoln a great patron of, 288; Israelitish compared with music of mediæval England, 267 Mitre, earliest form of the, 236; transition shape of the from twelfth century, _ib._ Monachism, origin of, 1-5 Monasteries, Benedictine, 9; British, 5; Saxon, 7; suppression of, 52 Monastery, arrangement of a Carthusian, 71; description of a, 72 _et seq._; graphic sketch of the arrival of guests at a, 87 Monastic orders, traditionary histories of the founders and saints of, 1 _et seq._; their suppression in England, 52 Monk, cell of a Carthusian, 123; pilgrim, 188 Monks, abodes of, 70; lord, 223 Monumental brasses, 19, 57, 276, 494, 495, 497, 521, 527; _minutiæ_ of costume of middle ages supplied from, 521; peculiar features in, 526 Movable tower, a, 387 Music, sketch of the earliest history of, 267-70 Musical instruments, date of invention of, 267; occasions when used, _ib._; names of, _ib._ _et seq._; used in the colleges of the prophets, 269; Saxon, 273; learned essays on mediæval, 274; used in celebration of divine worship, 285; forms of, 309, 310 Order for the Redemption of Captives, 33, 34; their habit, 34; their rules, _ib._ Ostiary, costume of an, 215 n. Our Lady of Mercy, order of, 32 Our Lady of Walsingham, shrine of, 180, 181; a relic from, _ib._ Pachomius, written code of laws by, 4 Palmers, 189, 190; graves of three holy, 193 Parish clerk, frequently the recipient of a legacy, 217; his duties, 218, 220; office of an ancient, _ib._; worth of his office, 220 priests, early handbooks for, 227; instructions for, 162 n.; points of difference between monks and friars and the, 222 Parochial clergy, 195, 196; domestic economy of the early, 263-65; organization of the established by Archbishop of Canterbury, 195 Parsonage houses, early, 254 _et seq._; description of, 259; furniture of, 261, 262 Pastoral staff, earliest examples of the, 237 Pedlars, their mode of dealing in mediæval times, 513, 515, 517 Pilgrim, an equestrian, 168; the female, 188; the penitential, 178 Pilgrimage, chief sign of the Canterbury, 170; chief signs of the Roman, 168; Holy Land first object of, 175; mendicant, 176; palmers, on return from, received with ecclesiastical processions, 189; practice to return thanks on returning from, 189; relics of, 191, 192; saying of Jerome as to, 157; special roads to the great shrines of, 178; sign of the Compostella, 169; usual places for, 159 Pilgrimages, a pleasant religious holiday, 176; gathering cry of, 178; popular English, 161, 162 Pilgrims, 159, 160; costume of, 164, 177; description of staff and scrip of, 164-66; graphic sketch of a company of passing through a town, 179; insignia of, 164, 192, 193; office of, 162-64; special signs of, 167; singers and musicians employed by, 179; vow made by, 164 Pioneers of commerce, the, 485 Piracy, prevalence of in mediæval times, 483, 484 Plate armour, first introduction of, 336 "Pleasure fairs," 507 Priest-hermits, costume of, 97 Priesthood, curious history of way in which many poor men's sons attained to the, 201 Prior, functions of, 59 Prioress, Chaucer's description of a, 58 Recluse, service for enclosing a, 148, 150 Recluses, bequests to, 128, 129; canons concerning, 121; cells of female, 142; curious details of the life of, 130; dress of female, 97; giving of alms to, 123; hermitages for female, 130, 131; popular idea as to the life of, 121; sketch of, 146-48 Reclusorium, the, 124, 125, 132 Rectors, Saxon, 198, 199 Reformed Benedictine orders, 17 Regular Canons, Premonstratensian branch of, founded by St. Norbert, 21 Rettenden, reclusorium at, 135, 137 Richard of Hampole, life of, 107-10 Rome, pilgrimage to, 168; number of pilgrims visiting, 168; description of relics at, 182, 183 n. Sacred music, 284 Salby abbey, staff of servants at, 66 Saxon soldiers, costume of, 312-18, 322-24; ornaments of, 324, 325; romantic fancies in connection with swords of, 320; weapons used by, 316, 318, 319, 321 Saxons, the, a musical people, 272; a pastoral rather than an agricultural race, 466; corn not exported by the, _ib._; famous throughout Europe for goldsmiths' work and embroidery, _ib._; rage among the for foreign pilgrimages, 464; traffic in slaves considerable during time of the, 466 Scottish Archers of the Guard, enrolment of the, 442 Secular clergy, comparison between costume of and that of mediæval merchants, 528; costume of the, 232 _et seq._ Shrines, pictures of, 187 Siege, interesting points in a mediæval, 442 Solitaries, mediæval, 94; curious incident relating to two, 105 Spenser's description of a typical hermit and hermitage, 118, 119 Squires, duties of, 352 St. Anthony, coenobite system attributed to, 4; monks of, _ib._ St. Augustine, Canons Secular of, 18; their costume, _ib._; Canons Regular of, 20; Chaucer's pen-and-ink sketch of one of the order, 19 St. Basil, abuse of great church festivals mentioned by, 513; introduction of Monachism into Asia Minor by, 4; rule of, _ib._ St. Benedict, his rule, 6, 7; Archbishop Dunstan reduces all Saxon monasteries to rule of, 7 St. Clare, foundress of the female order of Franciscans, 43 St. Edmund's Bury, abbey of, 65 St. Francis, character of, 37 St. Jean-les-Bons-hommes, priory of, 89 St. John the Hermit, 148 St. Mary, Winchester, abbey of, 66 Sumptuary laws, 525; civil costume regulated by, 527, 528 Teutonic Knights, order of, 32 Tilting-ground, remains of, to be seen at Carisbrook Castle, 359 Timber fort, 444; used by William the Conqueror, 391 Tournament, 412; a miniature, 415; an historical example of the, 429, 430; description of encounter between French and English knights at a, 432; directions for the, 415-17; form of challenge for a, 431; form of proclamation inviting to a, 412, 413; habiliments required by knights at a, _ib._; incidents relating to a, 424, 430; manner of arranging a, 423; mode of arming knights for the, 413; pictures illustrating various scenes of the, 432, 433; prizes of the, 427; the _joute à outrance_, 412; the _joute à plaisance_, _ib._; weapons used at a, 415 Tournaments, feasting and merriment usual at, 424; the mediæval romances safe authorities on all relating to the subject of, 423; unusual deeds performed at, 426, 427 Town-halls, architectural beauty of continental, 544; date of earliest English, 545 Towns, provincial, market-days in mediæval, 511, 572; specimens of various in time of Edward III., 508-10 Traveller, religious houses chiefly the resting-places of the, 103, 490 Trinitarians, order of, 32-34 Vallombrosa, order of, 17 Vestments, mediæval official, description of, 237-241; abandoned at time of Reformation, 250 Wager of Battle, account of a mediæval, 420-22 Walter of Hamuntesham, beating of by rabble, 64 War-ships, cannon of both iron and brass employed on board English, A.D. 1338, 447; costume of sailors and soldiers of mediæval, 477; description of early, 475 _et seq._; list of English, A.D. 1205, and where stationed, 481 Waverley, Cistercian abbey of, 65 Westminster Abbey, grants made by Henry VIII. to, 79 Whale fishing, early, 474 Widowhood, description of a lady who took the vows of, 155, 156 Widows, order of, 152; dress worn by, 156; profession or vow of, 154; service for consecration of, 152, 153 William of Swynderby, 140 Wills, inventories attached to ancient, 211, 212 n. Wool merchants, costume of mediæval, 523, 525 THE END. THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH FOOTNOTES: [1] We cannot put down all these supernatural tales as fables or impostures; similar tales abound in the lives of the religious people of the Middle Ages, and they are not unknown in modern days: _e.g._, Luther's conflict with Satan in the Wartzburg, and Colonel Gardiner's vision of the Saviour. Which of them (if any) are to be considered true supernatural visions, which may be put down as the natural results of spiritual excitement on the imagination, which are mere baseless legends, he would be a very self-confident critic who professed in all cases to decide. [2] Besides consulting the standard authorities on the archæology of the subject, the student will do well to read Mr. Kingsley's charming book, "The Hermits of the Desert." [3] Strutt's "Dress and Habits of the People of England." [4] This is the computation of Tanner in his "Notitia Monastica;" but the editors of the last edition of Dugdale's "Monasticon," adding the smaller houses or cells, swell the number of Benedictine establishments in England to a total of two hundred and fifty-seven. [5] If a child was to be received his hand was wrapped in the hanging of the altar, "and then," says the rule of St. Benedict, "let them offer him." The words are "Si quas forte de nobilibus offert filium suum Deo in monasterio, si ipse puer minore ætate est, parentes ejus faciant petitionem et manum pueri involvant in pallu altaris, et sic eum offerunt" (c. 59). The Abbot Herman tells us that in the year 1055 his mother took him and his brothers to the monastery of which he was afterwards abbot. "She went to St. Martin's (at Tournay), and delivered over her sons to God, placing the little one in his cradle upon the altar, amidst the tears of many bystanders" (Maitland's "Dark Ages," p. 78). The precedents for such a dedication of an infant to an ascetic life are, of course, the case of Samuel dedicated by his mother from infancy, and of Samson and John Baptist, who were directed by God to be consecrated as Nazarites from birth. A law was made prohibiting the dedication of children at an earlier age than fourteen. At f. 209 of the MS. Nero D. vii., is a picture of St. Benedict, to whom a boy in monk's habit is holding a book, and he is reading or preaching to a group of monks. [6] Engraved in Boutell's "Monumental Brasses." [7] Probably this means that he had "clocks"--little bell-shaped ornaments--sewn to the lower margin of his tippet or hood. [8] Mrs. Jameson, "Legends of the Monastic Orders," p. 137. [9] Viollet le Duc's "Dictionary of Architecture," vol. vi. p. 104. [10] Ibid. vi. 107. [11] Ibid. vi. 112. [12] Ibid. vi. 112. [13] All its houses were called Temples, as all the Carthusian houses were called Chartereux (corrupted in England into Charterhouse). [14] Of the four round churches in England, popularly supposed to have been built by the Templars, the Temple Church in London was built by them; that of Maplestead, in Essex, by the Hospitallers; that of Northampton by Simon de St. Liz, first Norman Earl of Northampton, twice a pilgrim to the Holy Land; and that of Cambridge by some unknown individual. [15] The order was divided into nations--the English knights, the French knights, &c.--each nation having a separate house, situated at different points of the island, for its defence. These houses, large and fine buildings, still remain, and many unedited records of the order are said to be still preserved on the island. [16] An order, called our Lady of Mercy, was founded in Spain in 1258, by Peter Nolasco, for a similar object, including in its scope not only Christian captives to the infidel, but also all slaves, captives, and prisoners for debt. [17] Afternoons and mornings. [18] As an indication of their zeal in the pursuit of science it is only necessary to mention the names of Friar Roger Bacon, the Franciscan, and Friar Albert-le-Grand (Albertus Magnus), the Dominican. The Arts were cultivated with equal zeal--some of the finest paintings in the world were executed for the friars, and their own orders produced artists of the highest excellence. Fra Giacopo da Turrita, a celebrated artist in mosaic of the thirteenth century, was a Franciscan, as was Fra Antonio da Negroponti, the painter; Fra Fillippo Lippi, the painter, was a Carmelite; Fra Bartolomeo, and Fra Angelico da Fiesole--than whom no man ever conceived more heavenly visions of spiritual loveliness and purity--were Dominicans. [19] "By his (_i.e._ Satan's) queyntise they comen in, The curates to helpen, But that harmed hem hard And help them ful littel."--_Piers Ploughman's Creed._ [20] The extract from Chaucer on p. 46, lines 4, 5, 6, seem to indicate that an individual friar sometimes "farmed" the alms of a district, paying the convent a stipulated sum, and taking the surplus for himself. [21] In France, Jacobins. [22] Wives of burgesses. [23] Stuffed. [24] Musical instrument so called. [25] Piers Ploughman (creed 3, line 434), describing a burly Dominican friar, describes his cloak or cope in the same terms, and describes the under gown, or kirtle, also:-- "His cope that beclypped him Wel clean was it folden, Of double worsted y-dyght Down to the heel. His kirtle of clean white, Cleanly y-served, It was good enough ground Grain for to beren." [26] A limitour, as has been explained above, was a friar whose functions were limited to a certain district of country; a lister might exercise his office wherever he listed. [27] Thirty masses for the repose of a deceased person. [28] Viz., in convents of friars, not in monasteries of monks and by the secular clergy. [29] He was forbidden to say more. [30] A convent of friars used to undertake masses for the dead, and each friar saying one the whole number of masses was speedily completed, whereas a single priest saying his one mass a day would be very long completing the number, and meantime the souls were supposed to be in torment. [31] The usual way of concluding a sermon, in those days as in these, was with an ascription of praise, "Who with the Father," &c. [32] Cake. [33] Choose. [34] Slip or piece. [35] Hired man. [36] Trifles. [37] Requite. [38] Staff. [39] Closely. [40] Part. [41] Forbidden. [42] Would not. [43] The good man also said he had not seen the friar "this fourteen nights:"--Did a limitour go round once a fortnight? [44] The dormitory of the convent. [45] Infirmarer. [46] Aged monks and friars lived in the Infirmary, and had certain privileges. [47] Wert thou not. [48] Implying, whether truly or not, that he had been enrolled in the fraternity of the house, and was prayed for, with other benefactors, in chapter. [49] Health and strength. [50] Doctor. [51] Little. [52] Preaching; he was probably a preaching friar--_i.e._, a Dominican. [53] Waxed nearly mad. [54] Lived. [55] "On the foundation," as we say now of colleges and endowed schools. [56] "Maysters of divinite Her matynes to leve, And cherliche [richly] as a cheveteyn His chaumbre to holden, With chymene and chaple, And chosen whom him list, And served as a sovereyn, And as a lord sytten." _Piers Ploughman_, l. 1,157. [57] Just as heads of colleges now have their Master's, or Provost's, or Principal's Lodge. The constitution of our existing colleges will assist those who are acquainted with them in understanding many points of monastic economy. [58] Ellis's "Early English Romances." [59] Long and well proportioned. [60] She was of tall stature. [61] "And as touching the almesse that they (the monks) delt, and the hospitality that they kept, every man knoweth that many thousands were well received of them, and might have been better, if they had not so many great men's horse to fede, and had not bin overcharged with such idle gentlemen as were never out of the abaies (abbeys)."--_A complaint made to Parliament not long after the dissolution, quoted in Coke's Institutes._ [62] A person doing penance. [63] Hunting. [64] Without state. [65] A plan of the Chartreuse of Clermont is given by Viollet le Duc (Dict. of Architec., vol. i. pp. 308, 309), and the arrangements of a Carthusian monastery were nearly the same in all parts of Europe. It consists of a cloister-court surrounded by about twenty square enclosures. Each enclosure, technically called a "cell," is in fact a little house and garden, the little house is in a corner of the enclosure, and consists of three apartments. In the middle of the west side of the cloister-court is the oratory, whose five-sided apsidal sanctuary projects into the court. In a small outer court on the west is the prior's lodgings, which is a "cell" like the others, and a building for the entertainment of guests. See also a paper on the Carthusian priory of Mount Grace, near Thirsk, read by Archdeacon Churton before the Yorkshire Architectural Society, in the year 1850. [66] A bird's-eye view of Citeaux, given in Viollet le Duc's "Dictionary of Architecture," vol. i. p. 271, will give a very good notion of a thirteenth-century monastery. Of the English monasteries Fountains was perhaps one of the finest, and its existing remains are the most extensive of any which are left in England. A plan of it will be found in Mr. Walbran's "Guide to Ripon." See also plan of Furness, _Journal of the Archæological Association_, vi. 309; of Newstead (an Augustinian house), ibid. ix. p. 30; and of Durham (Benedictine), ibid. xxii. 201. [67] A double choir of the fifteenth century is in King René's Book of Hours (Egerton, 1,070), at folio 54. Another semi-choir of Religious of late fifteenth and early sixteenth century date, very well drawn, may be found in Egerton, 2,125, f. 117, v. [68] Lydgate's Life of St. Edmund, a MS. executed in 1473 A.D., preserved in the British Museum (Harl. 2,278), gives several very good representations of the shrine of that saint at St. Edmund's Bury, with the attendant monks, pilgrims worshipping, &c. [69] "Tombes upon tabernacles, tiled aloft, * * * * * Made of marble in many manner wise, Knights in their conisantes clad for the nonce, All it seemed saints y-sacred upon earth, And lovely ladies y-wrought lyen by their sides In many gay garments that were gold-beaten." _Piers Ploughman's Creed._ [70] Henry VII. agreed with the Abbot and Convent of Westminster that there should be four tapers burning continually at his tomb--two at the sides, and two at the ends, each eleven feet long, and twelve pounds in weight; thirty tapers, &c., in the hearse; and four torches to be held about it at his weekly obit; and one hundred tapers nine feet long, and twenty-four torches of twice the weight, to be lighted at his anniversary. [71] "For though a man in their mynster a masse wolde heren, His sight shal so be set on sundrye werkes, The penons and the pornels and poyntes of sheldes Withdrawen his devotion and dusken his heart." _Piers Ploughman's Vision._ [72] The chapter-houses attached to the cathedrals of York, Salisbury, and Wells, are octagonal; those of Hereford and Lincoln, decagonal; Lichfield, polygonal; Worcester is circular. All these were built by secular canons. [73] There are only two exceptions hitherto observed: that of the Benedictine Abbey of Westminster, which is polygonal, and that of Thornton Abbey, of regular canons, which is octagonal. [74] And at Norwich it appears to have had an eastern apse. See ground-plan in Mr. Mackenzie E. C. Walcott's "Church and Conventual Arrangement," p. 85. [75] Piers Ploughman describes the chapter-house of a Benedictine convent:-- "There was the chapter-house, wrought as a great church, Carved and covered and quaintly entayled [sculptured]; With seemly selure [ceiling] y-set aloft, As a parliament house y-painted about." [76] In the "Vision of Piers Ploughman" one of the characters complains that if he commits any fault-- "They do me fast fridays to bread and water, And am challenged in the chapitel-house as I a child were;" and he is punished in a childish way, which is too plainly spoken to bear quotation. [77] See note on p. 76. [78] The woodcut on a preceding page (23) is from another initial letter of the same book. [79] A room adjoining the hall, to which the fellows retire after dinner to take their wine and converse. [80] The ordinary fashion of the time was to sleep without any clothing whatever. [81] In the plan of the ninth-century Benedictine monastery of St. Gall, published in the _Archæological Journal_ for June, 1848, the dormitory is on the east, with the calefactory under it; the refectory on the south, with the clothes-store above; the cellar on the west, with the larders above. In the plan of Canterbury Cathedral, a Benedictine house, as it existed in the latter half of the twelfth century, the church was on the south, the chapter-house and dormitory on the east, the refectory, parallel with the church, on the north, and the cellar on the west. At the Benedictine monastery at Durham, the church was on the north, the chapter-house and locutory on the east, the refectory on the south, and the dormitory on the west. At the Augustinian Regular Priory of Bridlington, the church was on the north, the fratry (refectory) on the south, the chapter-house on the east, the dortor also on the east, up a stair twenty steps high, and the west side was occupied by the prior's lodgings. At the Premonstratensian Abbey of Easby, the church is on the north, the transept, passage, chapter-house, and small apartments on the east, the refectory on the south, and on the west two large apartments, with a passage between them. The Rev. J. F. Turner, Chaplain of Bishop Cozin's Hall, Durham, describes these as the common house and kitchen, and places the dormitory in a building west of them, at a very inconvenient distance from the church. [82] Maitland's "Dark Ages." [83] At Winchester School, until a comparatively recent period, the scholars in the summer time studied in the cloisters. [84] For much curious information about scriptoria and monastic libraries, see Maitland's "Dark Ages," quoted above. [85] The hall of the Royal Palace of Winchester, erected at the same period, was 111 feet by 55 feet 9 inches. [86] Its total length would perhaps be about twenty-four paces. [87] The above woodcut, from the Harleian MS. 1,527, represents, probably, the cellarer of a Dominican convent receiving a donation of a fish. It curiously suggests the scene depicted in Sir Edwin Landseer's "Bolton Abbey in the Olden Time." [88] See an account of this hall, with pen-and-ink sketches by Mr. Street, in the volume of the Worcester Architectural Society for 1854. [89] Quoted by Archdeacon Churton in a paper read before the Yorkshire Architectural Society in 1853. [90] Ground-plans of the Dominican Friary at Norwich, the Carmelite Friary at Hulne and the Franciscan Friary at Kilconnel, may be found in Walcott's "Church and Conventual Arrangement." [91] In the National Gallery is a painting by Fra Angelico, in which is a hermit clad in a dress woven of rushes or flags. [92] "The Wonderful and Godly History of the Holy Fathers Hermits," is among Caxton's earliest-printed books. Piers Ploughman ("Vision") speaks of-- "Anthony and Egidius and other holy fathers Woneden in wilderness amonge wilde bestes In spekes and in spelonkes, seldom spoke together. Ac nobler Antony ne Egedy ne hermit of that time Of lions ne of leopards no livelihood ne took, But of fowles that fly, thus find men in books." And again-- "In prayers and in penance putten them many, All for love of our Lord liveden full strait, In hope for to have heavenly blisse As ancres and heremites that holden them in their cells And coveten not in country to kairen [walk] about For no likerous lifelihood, their liking to please." And yet again-- "Ac ancres and heremites that eaten not but at nones And no more ere morrow, mine almesse shall they have, And of my cattle to keep them with, that have cloisters and churches, Ac Robert Run-about shall nought have of mine." _Piers Ploughman's Vision._ [93] Piers Ploughman ("Vision") describes himself at the beginning of the poem as assuming the habit of a hermit-- "In a summer season when soft was the sun In habit as a hermit unholy of works, Went wild in this world, wonders to hear, All on a May morning on Malvern Hills," &c. And at the beginning of the eighth part he says-- "Thus robed in _russet_ I roamed about All a summer season." [94] For the custom of admitting to the fraternity of a religious house, see p. 66. [95] "Officium induendi et benedicendi heremitam." [96] We are indebted to Mr. M. H. Bloxam for a copy of it. [97] "_Famulus tuus N._" It is noticable that the masculine gender is used all through, without any such note as we find in the Service for Inclosing (which we shall have to notice hereafter), that this service shall serve for both sexes. [98] The hermit who interposed between Sir Lionel and Sir Bors, and who was killed by Sir Lionel for his interference (Malory's "Prince Arthur," III, lxxix.), is called a "hermit-priest." Also, in the Episcopal Registry of Lichfield, we find the bishop, date 10th February, 1409, giving to Brother Richard Goldeston, late Canon of Wombrugge, now recluse at Prior's Lee, near Shiffenall, license to hear confessions. [99] "Great loobies and long, that loath were to swink [work], Clothed them in copes to be known from others, And shaped them hermits their ease to have." [100] Wanderers. [101] Breakers out of their cells. [102] Kindred. [103] In "Piers Ploughman" we read that-- "Hermits with hoked staves Wenden to Walsingham;" These hooked staves may, however, have been pilgrim staves, not hermit staves. The pastoral staff on the official seal of Odo, Bishop of Bayeux, was of the same shape as the staff above represented. A staff of similar shape occurs on an early grave-stone at Welbeck Priory, engraved in the Rev. E. L. Cutts's "Manual of Sepulchral Slabs and Crosses," plate xxxv. [104] Blomfield, in his "History of Norfolk," 1532, says, "It is to be observed that hermitages were erected, for the most part, near great bridges (see _Mag. Brit._, On Warwickshire, p. 597, Dugdale, &c., and Badwell's 'Description of Tottenham') and high roads, as appears from this, and those at Brandon, Downham, Stow Bardolph, in Norfolk, and Erith, in the Isle of Ely, &c." [105] In the settlement of the vicarage of Kelvedon, Essex, when the rectory was impropriated to the abbot and convent of Westminster, in the fourteenth century, it was expressly ordered that the convent, besides providing the vicar a suitable house, should also provide a hall for receiving guests. See subsequent chapter on the Secular Clergy. [106] From the "Officium et Legenda de Vita Ricardi Rolle." [107] When is not stated; he died in 1349. [108] Afterwards it is described as a cell at a distance from the family, where he was accustomed to sit solitary and to pass his time in contemplation. In doing this Sir John Dalton and his wife were, according to the sentiment of the time, following the example of the Shunammite and her husband, who made for Elisha a little chamber on the wall, and set for him there a bed, and a table, and a stool, and a candlestick (2 Kings iv. 10). The Knight of La Tour Landry illustrates this when in one of his tales (ch. xcv.) he describes the Shunammite's act in the language of mediæval custom: "This good woman had gret devocion unto this holy man, and required and praied hym for to come to her burghe and loged in her hous, and her husbonde and she made a chambre solitaire for this holy man, where as he might use his devocions and serve God." [109] Either the little window through which she communicated with the outer world, or perhaps (as suggested further on) a window between her cell and a guest-chamber in which she received visitors. [110] A hermitage, partly of stone, partly of timber, may be seen in the beautiful MS. Egerton 1,147, f. 218 v. [111] A very good representation of a cave hermitage may be found in the late MS. Egerton, 2,125, f. 206 v. Also in the Harl. MS. 1,527, at f. 14 v., is a hermit in a cave; and in Royal 10 E IV. f. 130, here a man is bringing the hermit food and drink. [112] Eugene Aram's famous murder was perpetrated within it. See Sir E. L. Bulwer's description of the scene in his "Eugene Aram." [113] See view in Stukeley's "Itin. Curios.," pl. 14. [114] Suggesting the room so often found over a church porch. [115] In the year 1490, a dispute having arisen between the abbot and convent of Easby and the Grey Friars of Richmond, on the one part, and the burgesses of Richmond, on the other part, respecting the disposition of the goods of Margaret Richmond, late anchoress of the same town, it was at length settled that the goods should remain with the warden and brethren of the friars, after that her debts and the repair of the anchorage were defrayed, "because the said anchoress took her habit of the said friars," and that the abbot and convent should have the disposition of the then anchoress, Alison Comeston, after her decease; and so to continue for evermore between the said abbot and warden, as it happens that the anchoress took her habit of religion. And that the burgesses shall have the nomination and free election of the said anchoress for evermore from time to time when it happens to be void, as they have had without time of mind. (Test. Ebor. ii. 115.) [116] In June 5, 1356, Edward III. granted to brother Regnier, hermit of the Chapel of St. Mary Magdalen, without Salop, a certain plot of waste called Shelcrosse, contiguous to the chapel, containing one acre, to hold the same to him and his successors, hermits there, for their habitation, and to find a chaplain to pray in the chapel for the king's soul, &c. (Owen and Blakeway's "History of Shrewsbury," vol. ii. p. 165). "Perhaps," say our authors, "this was the eremitical habitation in the wood of Suttona (Sutton being a village just without Salop), which is recorded elsewhere to have been given by Richard, the Dapifer of Chester, to the monks of Salop." [117] "Vita S. Godrici," published by the Surtees Society. [118] Simple. [119] Meddle. [120] Since the above was written, the writer has had an opportunity of visiting a hermitage very like those at Warkworth, Wetheral, Bewdley, and Lenton, still in use and habitation. It is in the parish of Limay, near Mantes, a pretty little town on the railway between Rouen and Paris. Nearly at the top of a vine-clad hill, on the north of the valley of the Seine, in which Mantes is situated, a low face of rock crops out. In this rock have been excavated a chapel, a sacristy, and a living-room for the hermit; and the present hermit has had a long refectory added to his establishment, in which to give his annual dinner to the people who come here, one day in the year, in considerable numbers, on pilgrimage. The chapel differs from those which we have described in the text in being larger and ruder; it is so wide that its rocky roof is supported by two rows of rude pillars, left standing for that purpose by the excavators. There is an altar at the east end. At the west end is a representation of the Entombment; the figure of our Lord, lying as if it had become rigid in the midst of the writhing of his agony, is not without a rude force of expression. One of the group of figures standing about the tomb has a late thirteenth-century head of a saint placed upon the body of a Roman soldier of the Renaissance period. There is a grave-stone with an incised cross and inscription beside the tomb; and in the niche on the north side is a recumbent monumental effigy of stone, with the head and hands in white glazed pottery. But whether these things were originally placed in the hermitage, or whether they are waifs and strays from neighbouring churches, brought here as to an ecclesiastical peep-show, it is hard to determine; the profusion of other incongruous odds and ends of ecclesiastical relics and fineries, with which the whole place is furnished, inclines one to the latter conjecture. There is a bell-turret built on the rock over the chapel, and a chimney peeps through the hill-side, over the sacristy fireplace. The platform in front of the hermitage is walled in, and there is a little garden on the hill above. The curé of Limay performs service here on certain days in the year. The hermit will disappoint those who desire to see a modern example of "An aged sire, in long black weedes yclad, His feet all bare, his beard all hoarie gray." He is an aged sire, seventy-four years old; but for the rest, he is simply a little, withered, old French peasant, in a blue blouse and wooden sabots. He passes his days here in solitude, unless when a rare party of visitors ring at his little bell, and, after due inspection through his _grille_, are admitted to peep about his chapel and his grotto, and to share his fine view of the valley shut in by vine-clad hills, and the Seine winding through the flat meadows, and the clean, pretty town of Mantes _le jolie_ in the middle, with its long bridge and its cathedral-like church. Whether he spends his time "Bidding his beades all day for his trespas," we did not inquire; but he finds the hours lonely. The good curé of Limay wishes him to sleep in his hermitage, but, like the hermit-priest of Warkworth, he prefers sleeping in the village at the foot of the hill. [121] One of the little hermitages represented in the Campo Santo series of paintings of the old Egyptian hermit-saints (engraved in Mrs. Jameson's "Legends of the Monastic Orders") has a little grated window, through which the hermit within (probably this John) is talking with another outside. [122] That recluses did, however, sometimes quit their cells on a great emergency, we learn from the Legenda of Richard of Hampole already quoted, where we are told that at his death Dame Margaret Kyrkley, the recluse of Anderby, on hearing of the saint's death, hastened to Hampole to be present at his funeral. [123] Wilkins's "Concilia," i. 693. [124] Several MSS. of this rule are known under different names. Fosbroke quotes one as the rule of Simon de Gandavo (or Simon of Ghent), in Cott. MS. Nero A xiv.; another in Bennet College, Cambridge; and another under the name of Alfred Reevesley. See Fosbroke's "British Monachism," pp. 374-5. The various copies, indeed, seem to differ considerably, but to be all derived from the work ascribed to Bishop Poore. All these books are addressed to female recluses, which is a confirmation of the opinion which we have before expressed, that the majority of the recluses were women. [125] Thus the player-queen in _Hamlet_, iii. 2:-- "Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light! Sport and repose lock from me, day, and night! To desperation turn my trust and hope! An anchor's cheer in prison be my scope! Each opposite, that blanks the face of joy, Meet what I would have well, and it destroy," &c. [126] A cell in the north-west angle of Edington Abbey Church, Wilts, seems to be of this kind. [127] The wearing a cuirass, or hauberk of chain mail, next the skin became a noted form of self-torture; those who undertook it were called _Loricati_. [128] The cell of a Carthusian monk, as we have stated, consisted of a little house of three apartments and a little garden within an inclosure wall. [129] This very same picture is given also in another MS. of about the same date, marked Add. 10,294, at folio 14. [130] As was probably the case at Warkworth, the hermit living in the hermitage, while the chantry priest lived in the house at the foot of the hill. [131] "Eremites that inhabiten By the highways, And in boroughs among brewers." _Piers Ploughman's Vision._ [132] Probably "anchoret" means male, and "recluse" female recluse. [133] Test. Vetust., ii. 25. [134] Ibid. ii. 47. [135] Ibid. ii. 56. [136] Ibid. ii. 271. [137] Note p. 87 to "Instructions for Parish Priests," Early English Text Society. [138] Test. Vetust., ii. 131. [139] Ibid. 178. [140] Ibid. ii. 98. [141] Ibid. 356. [142] Other bequests to recluses occur in the will of Henry II., to the recluses (_incluses_) of Jerusalem, England, and Normandy. [143] Sussex Archæol. Coll., i. p. 174. [144] Blomfield's "Norfolk," ii. pp. 347-8. See also the bequests to the Norwich recluses, _infra_. [145] Stow's Chronicle, p. 559. [146] In the "Ancren Riewle," p. 129, we read, "Who can with more facility commit sin than the false recluse?" [147] Owen and Blakeway's "History of Shrewsbury." [148] "Rogerus, &c., delecto in Christo filio Roberto de Worthin, cap. salutem, &c. Precipue devotionis affectum, quem ad serviendum Deo in reclusorio juxta capellam Sancti Joh. Babtiste in civitate Coventriensi constructo, et spretis mundi deliciis et ipsius vagis discurribus contemptis, habere te asseres, propensius intuentes, ac volentes te, consideratione nobilis domine, domine Isabelle Regine Anglie nobis pro te supplicante in hujus laudabili proposito confovere, ut in prefato reclusorio morari possis, et recludi et vitam tuam in eodam ducere in tui laudibus Redemptoris, licentiam tibi quantum in nobis est concedi per presentes, quibus sigillum nostrum duximus apponendum. Dat apud Heywood, 5 Kal. Dec. M.D. A.D. MCCCLXII, et consecrationis nostræ tricessimo sexto."--DUGDALE'S _Warwickshire_, 2nd Edit., p. 193. [149] Fosbroke's "British Monachism," p. 372. [150] Engraved in the _Archæological Journal_, iv. p. 320. [151] Reports of the Lincoln Diocesan Archæological Society for 1853, pp. 359-60. [152] Peter, Abbot of Clugny, tells us of a monk and priest of that abbey who had for a cell an oratory in a very high and remote steeple-tower, consecrated to the honour of St. Michael the archangel. "Here, devoting himself to divine meditation night and day, he mounted high above mortal things, and seemed with the angels to be present at the nearer vision of his Maker." [153] In the Lichfield Registers we find that, on February 10, 1409, the bishop granted to Brother Richard Goldestone, late canon of Wombrugge, now recluse at Prior's Lee, near Shiffenale, license to hear confessions. (History of Whalley, p. 55.) [154] Paper by J. J. Rogers, _Archæological Journal_, xi. 33. [155] Twysden's "Henry de Knighton," vol. ii. p. 2665. [156] The translator of this book for the Camden Society's edition of it, says "therein," but the word in the original Saxon English is "ther thurgh." It refers to the window looking into the church, through which the recluse looked down daily upon the celebration of the mass. [157] "Caput suum decidit ad fenestram ad quam se reclinabit sanctus Dei Ricardus." [158] In one of the stories of Reginald of Durham we learn that a school, according to a custom then "common enough," was kept in the church of Norham on Tweed, the parish priest being the teacher. (Wright's "Domestic Manners of the Middle Ages," p. 117.) [159] These two expressions seem to imply that recluses sometimes went out of their cell, not only into the church, but also into the churchyard. We have already noticed that the technical word "cell" seems to have included everything within the enclosure wall of the whole establishment. Is it possible that in the case of anchorages adjoining churches, the churchyard wall represented this enclosure, and the "cell" included both church and churchyard? [160] A commission given by William of Wykham, Bishop of Winchester, for enclosing Lucy de Newchurch as an anchoritess in the hermitage of St. Brendun, at Bristol, is given in Burnett's "History and Antiquities of Bristol," p. 61. [161] "In monasterio inclusorio suo vicino;" it seems as if the writer of the rubric were specially thinking of the inclusoria within monasteries. [162] The Ordo Romanus. The Pontifical of Egbert. The Pontifical of Bishop Lacey. [163] _Guardian_ newspaper, Feb. 7, 1870. [164] Surrey Society's Transactions, vol. iii. p. 218. [165] The same collect, with a few variations, was used also in the consecration of nuns. Virgin chastity was held to bring forth fruit a hundred fold; widowed chastity, sixty fold; married chastity, thirty fold. [166] Hair-cloth garment worn next the skin for mortification. [167] King Henry IV., Pt. I., Act i. Sc. 1. [168] There have come down to us a series of narratives of pilgrimages to the Holy Land. One of a Christian of Bordeaux as early as 333 A.D.; that of S. Paula and her daughter, about 386 A.D., given by St. Jerome; of Bishop Arculf, 700 A.D.; of Willebald, 725 A.D.; of Sæwulf, 1102 A.D.; of Sigurd the Crusader, 1107 A.D.; of Sir John de Mandeville, 1322-1356.--_Early Travels in Palestine_ (Bohn's Antiq. Lib.). [169] At the present day, the Hospital of the Pellegrini at Rome is capable of entertaining seven thousand guests, women as well as men; to be entitled to the hospitality of the institution, they must have walked at least sixty miles, and be provided with a certificate from a bishop or priest to the effect that they are _bonâ-fide_ pilgrims. (Wild's "Last Winter in Rome." Longmans: 1865.) [170] In the latter part of the Saxon period of our history there was a great rage for foreign pilgrimage; thousands of persons were continually coming and going between England and the principal shrines of Europe, especially the threshold of the Apostles at Rome. They were the subject of a letter from Charlemagne to King Offa:--"Concerning the strangers who, for the love of God and the salvation of their souls, wish to repair to the thresholds of the blessed Apostles, let them travel in peace without any trouble." Again, in the year 1031 A.D., King Canute made a pilgrimage to Rome (as other Saxon kings had done before him) and met the Emperor Conrad and other princes, from whom he obtained for all his subjects, whether merchants or pilgrims, exemptions from the heavy tolls usually exacted on the journey to Rome. [171] At the marriage of our Edward I., in 1254, with Leonora, sister of Alonzo of Castile, a protection to English pilgrims was stipulated for; but they came in such numbers as to alarm the French, and difficulties were thrown in the way. In the fifteenth century, Rymer mentions 916 licences to make the pilgrimage to Santiago granted in 1428, and 2,460 in 1434. [172] King Horn, having taken the disguise of a palmer--"Horn took bourden and scrip"--went to the palace of Athulf and into the hall, and took his place among the beggars "in beggar's row," and sat on the ground.--_Thirteenth Century Romance of King Horn_ (Early English Text Society). That beggars and such persons did usually sit on the ground in the hall and wait for a share of the food, we learn also from the "Vision of Piers Ploughman," xii. 198-- "Right as sum man gave me meat, and set me amid the floor, I have meat more than enough, and not so much worship As they that sit at side table, or with the sovereigns of the hall, But sit as a beggar boardless by myself on the ground." [173] In the romance of King Horn, the hero meets a palmer and asks his news-- "A palmere he there met And fair him grette [greeted]: Palmer, thou shalt me tell All of thine spell." [174] Wallet. [175] Pillow covering. [176] Called or took. [177] _i.e._ Latten (a kind of bronze) set with (mock) precious stones. [178] Pretending them to be relics of some saint. [179] See "Archæological Journal," vol. iii. p. 149. [180] Mr. Taylor, in his edition of "Blomfield's Norfolk," enumerates no less than seventy places of pilgrimage in Norfolk alone. [181] A man might not go without his wife's consent, nor a wife without her husband's:-- "To preche them also thou might not wonde [fear, hesitate], Both to wyf and eke husbande, That nowther of hem no penance take, Ny non a vow to chastity make, Ny no pylgrimage take to do But if bothe assente thereto. * * * * * Save the vow to Jherusalem, That is lawful to ether of them." _Instructions for Parish Priests._ (Early English Text Society.) [182] Marked 3,395 d. 4to. The footnote on a previous page (p. 158) leads us to conjecture that in ancient as in modern times the pilgrim may have received a certificate of his having been blessed as a pilgrim, as now we give certificates of baptism, marriage, and holy orders. [183] See woodcut on p. 90. [184] "History of Music." [185] "Conscience then with Patience passed, Pilgrims as it were, Then had Patience, as pilgrims have, in his poke vittailes." _Piers Ploughman's Vision_, xiii. 215. [186] Grose's "Gloucestershire," pl. lvii. [187] Girdle. [188] One of the two pilgrims in our first cut, p. 158, carries a palm branch in his hand; they represent the two disciples at Emmaus, who were returning from Jerusalem. [189] The existence of several accounts of the stations of Rome in English prose and poetry as early as the thirteenth century (published by the Early English Text Society), indicates the popularity of this pilgrimage. [190] Innocente III., Epist. 536, lib. i., t. c., p. 305, ed. Baluzio. (Dr. Rock's "Church of our Fathers.") [191] "Church of our Fathers," vol. iii. p. 438, note. [192] It is seen on the scrip of Lydgate's Pilgrim in the woodcut on p. 163. See a paper on the Pilgrim's Shell, by Mr. J. E. Tennant, in the _St. James's Magazine_, No. 10, for Jan., 1862. [193] "Anales de Galicia," vol. i. p. 95. Southey's "Pilgrim to Compostella." [194] "Anales de Galicia," vol. i. p. 96, quoted by Southey, "Pilgrim to Compostella." [195] Dr. Rock's "Church of our Fathers," iii. 424. [196] "Vita S. Thomæ apud Willebald," folio Stephani, ed. Giles, i. 312. [197] The lily of the valley was another Canterbury flower. It is still plentiful in the gardens in the precincts of the cathedral. [198] The veneration of the times was concentrated upon the blessed head which suffered the stroke of martyrdom; it was exhibited at the shrine and kissed by the pilgrims; there was an abbey in Derbyshire dedicated to the Beauchef (beautiful head), and still called Beauchief Abbey. [199] The late T. Caldecot, Esq., of Dartford, possessed one of these. [200] A very beautiful little pilgrim sign of lead found at Winchester is engraved in the "Journal of the British Archæological Association," No. 32, p. 363. [201] Dr. Rock's "Church of our Fathers," vol. iii. p. 430. [202] Fosbroke has fallen into the error of calling this a burden bound to the pilgrim's back with a list: it is the bourdon, the pilgrim's staff, round which a list, a long narrow strip of cloth, was wound cross-wise. We do not elsewhere meet with this list round the staff, and it does not appear what was its use or meaning. We may call to mind the list wound cross-wise round a barber's pole, and imagine that this list was attached to the pilgrim's staff for use, or we may remember that a vexillum, or banner, is attached to a bishop's staff, and that a long, narrow riband is often affixed to the cross-headed staff which is placed in our Saviour's hand in mediæval representations of the Resurrection. The staff in our cut, p. 163, looks as if it might have such a list wound round it. [203] Fosbrooke, and Wright, and Dr. Rock, all understand this to be a bowl. Was it a bottle to carry drink, shaped something like a gourd, such as we not unfrequently find hung on the hook of a shepherd's staff in pictures of the annunciation to the shepherds, and such as the pilgrim from Erasmus's "Praise of Folly," bears on his back? [204] Sinai. [205] Galice--Compostella in Galicia. [206] Cross. [207] Asked: people ask him first of all from whence he is come. [208] Armenia. [209] Holy body, object of pilgrimage. [210] Tell us. [211] The Knight of La Tour Landry, in one of his stories, tells us: "There was a young lady that had her herte moche on the worlde. And there was a squier that loved her and she hym. And for because that she might have better leiser to speke with hym, she made her husbande to understande that she had vowed in diverse pilgrimages; and her husband, as he that thought none evelle and wolde not displese her, suffered and held hym content that she should go wherin her lust.... Alle thei that gone on pilgrimage to a place for foul plesaunce more than devocion of the place that thei go to, and covereth thaire goinge with service of God, fowlethe and scornethe God and our Ladie, and the place that thei goo to."--_Book of La Tour Landry_, chap. xxxiv. [212] "I was a poor pilgrim," says one ("History of the Troubadours," p. 300), "when I came to your court; and have lived honestly and respectably in it on the wages you have given me; restore to me my mule, my wallet, and my staff, and I will return in the same manner as I came." [213] "Church of our Fathers," vol. iii. p. 442. [214] Thus Pope Calixtus tells us ("Sermones Bib. Pat.," ed. Bignio, xv. 330) that the pilgrims to Santiago were accustomed before dawn, at the top of each town, to cry with a loud voice, "Deus Adjuva!" "Sancte Jacobe!" "God Help!" "Santiago!" [215] Surely he should have excepted St. Thomas's shrine? [216] In the _Guardian_ newspaper of Sept. 5, 1860, a visitor to Rome gives a description of the exhibition of relics there, which forms an interesting parallel with the account in the text: "Shortly before Ash-Wednesday a public notice ('Invito Sagro') is issued by authority, setting forth that inasmuch as certain of the principal relics and 'sacra immagini' are to be exposed during the ensuing season of Lent, in certain churches specified, the confraternities of Rome are exhorted by the pope to resort in procession to those churches.... The ceremony is soon described. The procession entered slowly at the west door, moved up towards the altar, and when the foremost were within a few yards of it, all knelt down for a few minutes on the pavement of the church to worship. At a signal given by one of the party, they rose, and slowly defiled off in the direction of the chapel wherein is preserved the column of the flagellation (?). By the way, no one of the other sex may ever enter that chapel, except on one day in the year--the very day of which I am speaking; and on _that_ day men are as rigorously excluded. Well, all knelt again for a few minutes, then rose, and moved slowly towards the door, departing as they came, and making way for another procession to enter. It was altogether a most interesting and agreeable spectacle. Utterly alien to our English tastes and habits certainly; but the institution evidently suited the tastes of the people exactly, and I dare say may be conducive to piety, and recommend itself to their religious instincts. Coming from their several parishes, and returning, they chant psalms. "It follows naturally to speak a little more particularly about the adoration of relics, for this is just another of those many definite religious acts which make up the sum of popular devotion, and supply the void occasioned by the entire discontinuance of the old breviary offices. In the 'Diario Romano' (a little book describing what is publicly transacted, of a religious character, during every day in the year), daily throughout Lent, and indeed on every occasion of unusual solemnity (of which, I think, there are eighty-five in all), you read 'Stazione' at such a church. This (whatever it may imply beside) denotes that relics are displayed for adoration in that church on the day indicated. The pavement is accordingly strewed with box, lights burn on the altar, and there is a constant influx of visitors to that church throughout the day. For example, at St. Prisca's, a little church on the Aventine, there was a 'Stazione,' 3rd April. In the Romish Missal you will perceive that on the Feria tertia Majoris hebdomadæ (this year April 3), there is _Statio ad S. Priscam_. A very interesting church, by the way, it proved, being evidently built on a site of immense antiquity--traditionally said to be the house of Prisca. You descend by thirty-one steps into the subterranean edifice. At this little out-of-the-way church, there were strangers arriving all the time we were there. Thirty young Dominicans from S. Sabina, hard by, streamed down into the crypt, knelt for a time, and then repaired to perform a similar act of worship above, at the altar. The friend who conducted me to the spot, showed me, in the vineyard immediately opposite, some extraordinary remains of the wall of Servius Tullius. On our return we observed fresh parties straggling towards the church, bent on performing their 'visits.' It should, perhaps, be mentioned that prayers have been put forth by authority, to be used on such occasions. "I must not pass by this subject of relics so slightly, for it evidently occupies a considerable place in the public devotions of a Roman Catholic. Thus the 'Invito Sagro,' already adverted to, specifies _which_ relics will be displayed in each of the six churches enumerated--(_e.g._ the heads of SS. Peter and Paul, their chains, some wood of the cross, &c.)--granting seven years of indulgence for every visit, by whomsoever paid; and promising plenary indulgence to every person who, after confessing and communicating, shall thrice visit each of the aforesaid churches, and pray for awhile on behalf of holy church. There are besides, on nine chief festivals, as many great displays of relics at Rome, the particulars of which may be seen in the 'Année Liturgique,' pp. 189-206. I witnessed _one_, somewhat leisurely, at the Church of the Twelve Apostles, on the afternoon of the 1st of May. There was a congregation of about two or three hundred in church, while somebody in a lofty gallery displayed the relics, his companion proclaiming with a loud voice what each was: 'Questo e il braccio,' &c., &c., which such an one gave to this 'alma basilica,'--the formula being in every instance very sonorously intoned. There was part of the arm of S. Bartholomew and of S. James the Less; part of S. Andrew's leg, arm, and cross; part of one of S. Paul's fingers; one of the nails with which S. Peter was crucified; S. Philip's right foot; liquid blood of S. James; some of the remains of S. John the Evangelist, of the Baptist, of Joseph, and of the Blessed Virgin; together with part of the manger, cradle, cross, and tomb of our Lord, &c., &c.... I have dwelt somewhat disproportionally on relics, but they play so conspicuous a part in the religious system of the country, that in enumerating the several substitutes which have been invented for the old breviary services, it would not be nearly enough to have discussed the subject in a few lines. A visit paid to a church where such objects are exposed, is a distinct as well as popular religious exercise; and it always seemed to me to be performed with great reverence and devotion." [217] From Mr. Wright's "Archæological Album," p. 19. [218] This slip of lead had probably been put into his coffin. He is sometimes called Thomas of Acre. [219] Of Chaucer's Wife of Bath we read:-- "Thrice had she been at Jerusalem, And haddé passed many a strangé stream; At Rome she haddé been, and at Boloyne, In Galice, at St. James, and at Coloyne." [220] Dugdale's "Monasticon." [221] "Crudities," p. 18. [222] In Lydgate's "Life of St. Edmund" (Harl. 2,278) is a picture of King Alkmund on his pilgrimage, at Rome, receiving the Pope's blessing, in which the treatment of the subject is very like that of the illumination in the text. [223] The shells indicate a pilgrimage accomplished, but the rod may not have been intended to represent the pilgrim's bourdon. In the Harl. MS. 5,102, fol. 68, a MS. of the beginning of the thirteenth century, is a bishop holding a slender rod (not a pastoral staff), and at fol. 17 of the same MS. one is putting a similar rod into a bishop's coffin. The priors of small cathedrals bore a staff without crook, and had the privilege of being arrayed in pontificals for mass; choir-rulers often bore staves. Dr. Rock, in the "Church of our Fathers," vol. iii., pt. II, p. 224, gives a cut from a late Flemish Book of Hours, in which a priest, sitting at confession, bears a long rod. [224] It is engraved in Mr. Boutell's "Christian Monuments in England and Wales," p. 79. [225] Engraved in Nichols's "Leicestershire," vol. iii., pl. ii., p. 623. [226] Engraved in the "Manual of Sepulchral Slabs and Crosses," by the Rev. E. L. Cutts, pl. lxxiii. [227] It will be shown hereafter that secular priests ordinarily wore dresses of these gay colours, all the ecclesiastical canons to the contrary notwithstanding. [228] Here is a good example from Baker's "Northamptonshire:"--"Broughton Rectory: Richard Meyreul, sub-deacon, presented in 1243. Peter de Vieleston, deacon, presented in 1346-7. Though still only a deacon, he had previously been rector of Cottisbrook from 1342 to 1345." Matthew Paris tells us that, in 1252, the beneficed clergy in the diocese of Lincoln were urgently persuaded and admonished by their bishop to allow themselves to be promoted to the grade of priesthood, but many of them refused. The thirteenth Constitution of the second General Council of Lyons, held in 1274, ordered curates to reside and to take priests' orders within a year of their promotion; the lists above quoted show how inoperative was this attempt to remedy the practice against which it was directed. [229] A writer in the _Christian Remembrancer_ for July, 1856, says:--"During the fourteenth century it would seem that half the number of rectories throughout England were held by acolytes unable to administer the sacrament of the altar, to hear confessions, or even to baptise. Presented to a benefice often before of age to be ordained, the rector preferred to marry and to remain a layman, or at best a clerk in minor orders.... In short, during the time to which we refer, rectories were looked upon and treated as lay fees." [230] See Chaucer's poor scholar, hereinafter quoted, who-- "busily gan for the soulis pray Of them that gave him wherewith to scholaie." [231] "Dialogue on Heresies," book iii. c. 12. [232] "Norwich Corporation Records." Sessions Book of 12th Henry VII. Memorand.--That on Thursday, Holyrood Eve, in the xijth of King Henry the VIIJ., Sir William Grene, being accused of being a spy, was examined before the mayor's deputy and others, and gave the following account of himself:--"The same Sir William saieth that he was borne in Boston, in the countie of Lincoln, and about xviij yeres nowe paste or there about, he dwellyd with Stephen at Grene, his father at Wantlet, in the saide countie of Lincolne, and lerned gramer by the space of ij yeres; after that by v or vj yeres used labour with his said father, sometyme in husbandrie and other wiles with the longe sawe; and after that dwelling in Boston at one Genet a Grene, his aunte, used labour and other wiles goyng to scole by the space of ij years, and in that time receyved benet and accolet [the first tonsure and acolytate] in the freres Austens in Boston of one frere Graunt, then beying suffragan of the diocese of Lincoln ["Frere Graunt" was William Grant, titular Bishop of Pavada, in the province of Constantinople. He was Vicar of Redgewell, in Essex, and Suffragan of Ely, from 1516 to 1525.--_Stubbs's Registrum Sacrum Anglicanum_]; after that dwelling within Boston wt. one Mr. Williamson, merchaunt, half a yere, and after that dwellinge in Cambridge by the space of half a yere, used labour by the day beryng of ale and pekynge of saffron, and sometyme going to the colleges, and gate his mete and drynke of almes; and aft that the same Sir William, with ij monks of Whitby Abbey, and one Edward Prentis, went to Rome, to thentent for to have ben made p'st, to which order he could not be admitted; and after abiding in Larkington, in the countie of Essex, used labour for his levyng wt. one Thom. Grene his broder; and after that the same Sr. Will. cam to Cambridge, and ther teried iiij or v wekes, and gate his levynge of almes; and after, dwelling in Boston, agen laboured with dyvs persones by vij or viij wekes; and after that dwelling in London, in Holborn, with one Rickerby, a fustian dyer, about iij wekes, and after that the same William resorted to Cambridge, and ther met agen wt. the said Edward Prentise; and at instance and labour of one Mr. Cony, of Cambridge, the same Will. Grene and Edward Prentise obteyned a licence for one year of Mr. Cappes, than being deputee to the Chancellor of the said univ'sitie, under his seal of office, wherby the same Will. and Edward gathered toguether in Cambridgeshire releaff toward their exhibicon to scole by the space of viij weks, and after that the said Edward departed from the company of the same William. And shortly after that, one Robert Draper, scoler, borne at Feltham, in the countee of Lincoln, accompanyed wt. the same Willm., and they forged and made a newe licence, and putte therin ther bothe names, and the same sealed wt. the seale of the other licence granted to the same Will. and Edward as is aforeseid, by which forged licence the same Will. and Robt. gathered in Cambridgeshire and other shires. At Coventre the same Will. and Robt. caused one Knolles, a tynker, dwelling in Coventre, to make for them a case of tynne mete for a seale of a title which the same Robt. Draper holdde of Makby Abbey. And after that the same Willm. and Robt. cam to Cambridge, and ther met wt. one Sr. John Manthorp, the which hadde ben lately before at Rome, and ther was made a prest; and the same Robert Draper copied out the bulle of orders of deken, subdeken, and p'stehod for the same Willm.; and the same Willm. toke waxe, and leyed and p'st it to the prynte of the seale of the title that the said Robert had a Makby aforeseid, and led the same forged seale in the casse of tynne aforeseid, and with labels fastned ye same to his said forged bull. And sithen the same Willm. hath gathered in dyvers shires, as Northampton, Cambridge, Suffolk, and Norfolk, alway shewyng and feyning hymself that he hadde ben at Rome, and ther was made preste, by means whereof he hath receyved almes of dyvers and many persones."--_Norfolk Archæology_, vol. iv. p. 342. [233] Cobbler. [234] Grease. [235] York Fabric Rolls, p. 87, note. [236] "Church of our Fathers," ii. 441. [237] Richmond Wills. [238] "Church of our Fathers," ii. 408, note. [239] Newcourt's "Repertorium." [240] Johnson's "Canons," ii. 421. Ang. Cath. Lib. Edition. [241] Johnson's "Canons," ii. 421. [242] One who sang annual or yearly masses for the dead. [243] Enough. [244] Chapel of Earl of Northumberland, from the Household Book of Henry Algernon, fifth Earl of Northumberland, born 1477, and died 1527. ("Antiq. Repertory," iv. 242.); First, a preist, a doctour of divinity, a doctor of law, or a bachelor of divinitie, to be dean of my lord's chapell. _It._ A preist for to be surveyour of my lorde's landes. _It._ A preist for to be secretary to my lorde. _It._ A preist for to be amner to my lorde. _It._ A preist for to be sub-dean for ordering and keaping the queir in my lorde's chappell daily. _It._ A preist for a riding chaplein for my lorde. _It._ A preist for a chaplein for my lorde's eldest son, to waite uppon him daily. _It._ A preist for my lorde's clark of the closet. _It._ A preist for a maister of gramer in my lorde's hous. _It._ A preist for reading the Gospell in the chapel daily. _It._ A preist for singing of our Ladies' mass in the chapell daily. The number of these persons as chapleins and preists in houshould are xi. The gentlemen and children of my lorde's chappell which be not appointed to attend at no time, but only in exercising of Godde's service in the chapell daily at matteins, Lady-mass, hyhe-mass, evensong, and compeynge:-- First, a bass. _It._ A second bass. Third bass. A maister of the childer, or counter-tenor. Second and third counter-tenor. A standing tenour. A second, third, and fourth standing tenor. The number of theis persons, as gentlemen of my lorde's chapell, xi. Children of my lorde's chappell:-- Three trebles and three second trebles. In all six. A table of what the Earl and Lady were accustomed to offer at mass on all holydays "if he keep chappell," of offering and annual lights paid for at Holy Blood of Haillis (Hales, in Gloucestershire), our Lady of Walsingham, St. Margaret in Lincolnshire, our Lady in the Whitefriars, Doncaster, of my lord's foundation:-- Presents at Xmas to Barne, Bishop of Beverley and York, when he comes, as he is accustomed, yearly. Rewards to the children of his chapell when they do sing the responde called Exaudivi at the mattynstime for xi. in vespers upon Allhallow Day, 6_s._ 8_d._ On St. Nicholas Eve, 6_s._ 8_d._ To them of his lordshipe's chappell if they doe play the play of the Nativitie upon Xmas Day in the mornynge in my lorde's chapell before his lordship, xx_s._ For singing "Gloria in Excelsis" at the mattens time upon Xmas Day in the mg. To the Abbot of Miserewle (Misrule) on Xmas. To the yeoman or groom of the vestry for bringing him the hallowed taper on Candlemas Day. To his lordship's chaplains and other servts. that play the Play before his lordship on Shrofetewsday at night, xx_s._ That play the Play of Resurrection upon Estur Daye in the mg. in my lorde's chapell before his lordship. To the yeoman or groom of the vestry on Allhallows Day for syngynge for all Cristynne soles the saide nyhte to it be past mydnyght, 3_s._ 4_d._ The Earl and Lady were brother and sister of St. Christopher Gilde of Yorke, and pd. 6_s._ 8_d._ each yearly, and when the Master of the Gild brought my lord and my lady for their lyverays a yard of narrow violette cloth and a yard of narrow rayed cloth, 13_s._ 4_d._ (_i.e._, a yard of each to each). And to Procter of St. Robert's of Knasbrughe, when my lord and lady were brother and sister, 6_s._ 8_d._ each. At pp. 272-278, is an elaborate programme of the ordering of my lord's chapel for the various services, from which it appears that there were organs, and several of the singing men played them in turn. At p. 292 is an order about the washing of the linen for the chapel for a year. Surplices washed sixteen times a year against the great feasts--eighteen surplices for men, and six for children--and seven albs to be washed sixteen times a year, and "five aulter-cloths for covering of the alters" to be washed sixteen times a year. Page 285 ordered that the vestry stuff shall have at every removal (from house to house) one cart for the carrying the nine antiphoners, the four grailles, the hangings of the three altars in the chapel, the surplices, the altar-cloths in my lord's closet and my ladie's, and the sort (suit) of vestments and single vestments and copes "accopeed" daily, and all other my lord's chapell stuff to be sent afore my lord's chariot before his lordship remove. [Cardinal Wolsey, after the Earl's death, intimated his wish to have the books of the Earl's chapel, which a note speaks of as fine service books.--P. 314.] [245] Edited by Mr. Gough Nichols for the Camden Society. [246] Richard Burré, a wealthy yeoman and "ffarmer of the parsonage of Sowntyng, called the Temple, which I holde of the howse of St. Jonys," in 19 Henry VIII. wills that Sir Robert Bechton, "my chaplen, syng ffor my soule by the span of ix. yers;" and further requires an obit for his soul for eleven years in Sompting Church.--("Notes on Wills," by M. A. Lower, "Sussex Archæological Collections," iii. p. 112.) [247] "Dialogue of Heresies," iii. c. 12. [248] See note on previous page, "the altar-cloths in my lord's closet and my ladie's." [249] Of the inventories to be found in wills, we will give only two, of the chapels of country gentlemen. Rudulph Adirlay, Esq. of Colwick ("Testamenta Eboracensia," p. 30), Nottinghamshire, A.D. 1429, leaves to Alan de Cranwill, his chaplain, a little missal and another book, and to Elizabeth his wife "the chalice, vestment, with two candelabra of laton, and the little missal, with all other ornaments belonging to my chapel." In the inventories of the will of John Smith, Esq., of Blackmore, Essex, A.D. 1543, occur: "In the chappell chamber--Item a long setle yoyned. In the chappell--Item one aulter of yoyner's worke. Item a table with two leaves of the passion gilt. Item a long setle of waynscott. Item a bell hanging over the chapel. Chappell stuff: Copes and vestments thre. Aulter fronts foure. Corporall case one; and dyvers peces of silk necessary for cusshyons v. Thomas Smith (to have) as moche as wyll serve his chappell, the resydue to be solde by myn executours." The plate and candlesticks of the chapel are not specially mentioned; they are probably included among the plate which is otherwise disposed of, and "the xiiiij latyn candlestyckes of dyvers sorts," elsewhere mentioned.--_Essex Archæological Society's Transactions_, vol. iii. p. 60. [250] See the Rev. W. Stubbs's learned and laborious "Registrum Sacrum Anglicanum," which gives lists of the suffragan (as well as the diocesan) bishops of the Church of England. [251] "Richmondshire Wills," p. 34. [252] "Test. Ebor.," 220. [253] Ibid., p. 39. [254] In a pontifical of the middle of the fifteenth century, in the British Museum, (Egerton, 1067) at f. 19, is an illumination at the beginning of the service for ordering an ostiary, in which the act is represented. The bishop, habited in a green chasuble and white mitre, is delivering the keys to the clerk, who is habited in a surplice over a black cassock, and is tonsured. At f. 35 of the same MS. is a pretty little picture, showing the ordination of priests; and at f. 44 v., of the consecration of bishops. Other episcopal acts are illustrated in the same MS.: confirmation at f. 12; dedication of a church, f. 100; consecration of an altar, f. 120; benediction of a cemetery, f. 149 v.; consecration of chalice and paten, f. 163; reconciling penitents, f. 182 and f. 186 v.; the "feet-washing," f. 186. [255] Outer short cloak. [256] Was not sufficiently a man of the world to be fit for a secular occupation. [257] Obtain. [258] To pursue his studies. [259] For another good illustration of a clerk of time of Richard II. see the illumination of that king's coronation in the frontispiece of the MS. Royal, 14, E iv., where he seems to be in attendance on one of the bishops. He is habited in blue cassock, red liripipe, black purse, with penner and inkhorn. [260] "Test. Ebor.," vol. ii. p. 98. [261] Ibid., vol. ii. p. 38. [262] "Test. Ebor.," vol. ii. p. 143. [263] Ibid., vol. ii. p. 149. [264] Archdeacon Hale's "Precedents in Criminal Causes," p. 113. [265] From the duty of carrying holy water, mentioned here and in other extracts, the clerk derived the name of _aqua bajulus_, by which he is often called, _e.g._, in many of the places in Archdeacon Hale's "Precedents in Criminal Causes." [266] Ibid., p. 122. [267] York Fabric Rolls, p. 257. [268] Ibid., p. 248. [269] York Fabric Rolls, p. 265. [270] Ibid., p. 266. [271] Ibid., p. 248. [272] Bohn's Edition, ii. 388. [273] Hair. [274] Complexion. [275] Neatly. [276] _Watchet_, a kind of cloth. [277] Small twigs or trees. [278] Musical instruments. [279] As the parish clerk of St. Mary, York, used to go to the people's houses with holy water on Sundays. [280] Grafted lies. [281] As debtors flee to sanctuary at Westminster, and live on what they have borrowed, and set their creditors at defiance. [282] Them. [283] Their. [284] Know. [285] Great and little. [286] Gave. [287] Angry. [288] Difficult nor proud. [289] Smite, rebuke. [290] Scrupulous. [291] Cardinal Otho, the Papal legate in England in the time of Henry III., was a deacon (Matthew Paris, Sub. Ann. 1237); Cardinal Pandulph, in King John's time, was a sub-deacon (R. Wendover, Sub. Ann. 1212). [292] There is a very fine drawing of an archbishop in _pontificalibus_ of the latter part of the thirteenth century in the MS. Royal, 2 A. f. 219 v. [293] "Church of our Fathers," i. 319. [294] In a Spanish Book of Hours (Add. 1819-3), at f. 86 v., is a representation of an ecclesiastic in a similar robe of dark purple with a hood, he wears a cardinal's hat and holds a papal tiara in his hand. [295] Engraved by Dr. Rock, ii. 97. [296] Engraved in the _Archæological Journal_, vii. 17 and 19. [297] A plain straight staff is sometimes seen in illuminations being put into a bishop's grave; such staves have been actually found in the coffins of bishops. [298] The alb was often of coloured materials. We find coloured albs in the mediæval inventories. In Louandre's "Arts Somptuaires," vol. i. xi. siecle, is a picture of the canons of St. Martin of Tours in blue albs. Their costume is altogether worth notice. [299] For another ecclesiastical procession which shows very clearly the costume of the various orders of clergy, see Achille Jubinal's "Anciennes Tapisseries," plate ii. [300] _Incisis_, cut and slashed so as to show the lining. [301] Monumenta Franciscana, lxxxix. Master of the Rolls' publications. [302] York Fabric Rolls, p. 243. [303] This word, which will frequently occur, means a kind of ornamental dagger, which was worn hanging at the girdle in front by civilians, and knights when out of armour. The instructions to parish priests, already quoted, says-- In honeste clothes thow muste gon Baselard ny bawdryke were thou non. [304] The honorary title of Sir was given to priests down to a late period. A law of Canute declared a priest to rank with the second order of thanes--_i.e._, with the landed gentry. "By the laws, armorial, civil, and of arms, a priest in his place in civil conversation is always before any esquire, as being a knight's fellow by his holy orders, and the third of the three Sirs which only were in request of old (no baron, viscount, earl, nor marquis being then in use), to wit, Sir King, Sir Knight, and Sir Priest.... But afterwards Sir in English was restrained to these four,--Sir Knight, Sir Priest, and Sir Graduate, and, in common speech, Sir Esquire; so always, since distinction of titles were, Sir Priest was ever the second."--A Decacordon of Quodlibetical Questions concerning Religion and State, quoted in Knight's Shakespeare, Vol. I. of Comedies, note to Sc. I, Act i. of "Merry Wives of Windsor." In Shakespeare's characters we have _Sir Hugh Evans_ and _Sir Oliver Martext_, and, at a later period still, "Sir John" was the popular name for a priest. Piers Ploughman (Vision XI. 304) calls them "God's knights," And also in the Psalter says David to overskippers, _Psallite Deo nostro, psallite; quoniam rex terre Deus Israel; psallite sapienter_. The Bishop shall be blamed before God, as I leve [believe] That crowneth such goddes knightes that conneth nought _sapienter_ Synge ne psalmes rede ne segge a masse of the day. Ac never neyther is blameless the bisshop ne the chapleyne, For her either is endited; and that of _ignorancia Non excusat episcopos, nec idiotes prestes_. [305] York Fabric Rolls, p. 268. [306] Described and engraved in the Sussex Archæological Collections, vii. f. 13. [307] Described and engraved in Mr. Parker's "Domestic Architecture." [308] Parker's "Domestic Architecture," ii. p. 87. [309] There are numerous curious examples of fifteenth-century timber window-tracery in the Essex churches. [310] The deed of settlement of the vicarage of Bulmer, in the year 1425, gives us the description of a parsonage house of similar character. It consisted of one hall with two chambers annexed, the bakehouse, kitchen, and larder-house, one chamber for the vicar's servant, a stable, and a hay-soller (_Soler_, loft), with a competent garden. Ingrave rectory house was a similar house; it is described, in a terrier of 1610, as "a house containing a hall, a parlour, a buttery, two lofts, and a study, also a kitchen, a milk-house, and a house for poultry, a barn, a stable and a hay-house."--_Newcourt_, ii. p. 281. Ingatestone rectory, in the terrier of 1610, was "a dwelling-house with a hall, a parlour, and a chamber within it; a study newly built by the then parson; a chamber over the parlour, and another within that with a closet; without the dwelling-house a kitchen and two little rooms adjoining to it, and a chamber over them; two little butteries over against the hall, and next them a chamber, and one other chamber over the same; without the kitchen there is a dove-house, and another house built by the then parson; a barn and a stable very ruinous."--_Newcourt_, ii. 348. Here, too, we seem to have an old house with hall in the middle, parlour and chamber at one end and two butteries at the other, in the midst of successive additions. There is also a description of the rectory house of West Haningfield, Essex, in Newcourt, ii. 309, and of North Bemfleet, ii. 46. [311] Newcourt's "Repertorum," ii. 97. [312] Newcourt, ii. 49. [313] George Darell, A.D. 1432, leaves one book of statutes, containing the statutes of Kings Edward III., Richard II., and Henry IV.; one book of law, called "Natura Brevium;" one Portus, and one Par Statutorum Veterum.--_Testamenta Eboracensia_, ii. p. 27. [314] There are other inventories of the goods of clerics, which will help to throw light upon their domestic economy at different periods, _e.g._, of the vicar of Waghen, A.D. 1462, in the York Wills, ii. 261, and of a chantry priest, A.D. 1542, in the Sussex Archæological Collections, iii. p. 115. [315] Bohn's Edition, vol. ii. p. 278. [316] Matthew Paris, vol. i. p. 285 (Bohn's edition). [317] Ibid., vol. ii. p. 193. [318] Ibid., vol iii. p. 48. [319] Numb. x. 9. [320] Exod. xv. 21. [321] 1 Sam. xviii. 7. [322] Jer. xxxi. 4. [323] Is. v. 12. [324] 1 Sam. x. 5. [325] 2 Sam. vi. 5. [326] Psalm lxviii. [327] Also a paper read before the London and Middlesex Architectural Society in June, 1871. [328] The king's minstrel of the last Saxon king is mentioned in Domesday Book as holding lands in Gloucestershire. [329] In the reign of Henry I., Rayer was the King's Minstrel. Temp. Henry II., it was Galfrid, or Jeffrey. Temp. Richard I., Blondel, of romantic memory. Temp. Henry III., Master Ricard. It was the Harper of Prince Edward (afterwards King Edward I.) who brained the assassin who attempted the Prince's life, when his noble wife Eleanor risked hers to extract the poison from the wound. In Edward I.'s reign we have mention of a King Robert, who may be the impetuous minstrel of the Prince. Temp. Edward II., there occur two: a grant of houses was made to William de Morley, the King's Minstrel, which had been held by his predecessor, John de Boteler. At St. Bride's, Glamorganshire, is the insculpt effigy of a knightly figure, of the date of Edward I., with an inscription to John le Boteler; but there is nothing to identify him with the king of the minstrels. Temp. Richard II., John Camuz was the king of his minstrels. When Henry V. went to France, he took his fifteen minstrels, and Walter Haliday, their Marshal, with him. After this time the chief of the royal minstrels seems to have been styled _Marshal_ instead of King; and in the next reign but one we find a _Sergeant_ of the Minstrels. Temp. Henry VI., Walter Haliday was still Marshal of the Minstrels; and this king issued a commission for _impressing_ boys to supply vacancies in their number. King Edward IV. granted to the said long-lived Walter Haliday, Marshal, and to seven others, a charter for the restoration of a Fraternity or Gild, to be governed by a marshal and two wardens, to regulate the minstrels throughout the realm (except those of Chester). The minstrels of the royal chapel establishment of this king were thirteen in number; some trumpets, some shalms, some small pipes, and other singers. The charter of Edward IV. was renewed by Henry VIII. in 1520, to John Gilman, his then marshal, on whose death Hugh Wodehouse was promoted to the office. [330] Ellis's "Early English Metrical Romances" (Bohn's edition), p. 287. [331] From Mr. T. Wright's "Domestic Manners of the English." [332] Among his nobles. [333] Their. [334] Great chamber, answering to our modern drawing-room. [335] Couches. [336] For other illustrations of musical instruments see a good representation of Venus playing a rote, with a plectrum in the right hand, pressing the strings with the left, in the Sloane MS. 3,985, f. 44 v. Also a band, consisting of violin, organistrum (like the modern hurdy-gurdy), harp, and dulcimer, in the Harl. MS. 1,527; it represents the feast on the return of the prodigal son. In the Arundel MS. 83, f. 155, is David with a band of instruments of early fourteenth-century date, and other instruments at f. 630. In the early fourteenth-century MS. 28,162, at f. 6 v., David is tuning his harp with a key; at f. 10 v. is Dives faring sumptuously, with carver and cup-bearer, and musicians with lute and pipe. [337] Mallory's "History of Prince Arthur," vol. i. p. 44. [338] Viz., by making the sign of the cross upon them. [339] Edward VI.'s commissioners return a pair of organs in the church of St. Peter Mancroft, Norwich, which they value at 40_s._, and in the church of St. Peter, Parmentergate, in the same city, a pair of organs which they value at £10 (which would be equal to about £70 or £80 in these days), and soon after we find that 8_d._ were "paied to a carpenter for makyng of a plaunche (a platform of planks) to sette the organs on." [340] Another, with kettle-drums and trumpets, in the MS. Add. 27,675, f. 13. [341] A harp with its case about the lower part is in the Add. MS. 18,854, f. 91. [342] There are casts of these in the Mediæval Court of the Crystal Palace. [343] "Annales Archæologiques," vol. vi. p. 315. [344] Ibid., vol. ix. p. 329. [345] Kettle-drums. [346] In the account of the minstrel at Kenilworth, subsequently given, he is described as "a squiere minstrel of Middlesex, that travelled the country this summer time." [347] "Miri it is in somer's tide Swainés gin on justing ride." [348] "Whanne that April with his shourés sote," &c. "Than longen folk to gon on pilgrimages." [349] Tedious, irksome. [350] Lose their. [351] Renders tedious. [352] Fontenelle ("Histoire du Théâtre," quoted by Percy) tells us that in France, men, who by the division of the family property had only the half or the fourth part of an old seignorial castle, sometimes went rhyming about the world, and returned to acquire the remainder of their ancestral castle. [353] In the MS. illuminations of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, the messenger is denoted by peculiarities of equipment. He generally bears a spear, and has a very small, round target (or, perhaps, a badge of his lord's arms) at his girdle--_e.g._, in the MS. Add. 11,639 of the close of the thirteenth century, folio 203 v. In the fifteenth century we see messengers carrying letters openly, fastened in the cleft of a split wand, in the MS. of about the same date, Harl. 1,527, folio 1,080, and in the fourteenth century MS. Add. 10,293, folio 25; and in Hans Burgmaier's Der Weise Könige. [354] It is right to state that one MS. of this statute gives Mareschans instead of Menestrals; but the reading in the text is that preferred by the Record Commission, who have published the whole of the interesting document. [355] In the romance of Richard Coeur de Lion we read that, after the capture of Acre, he distributed among the "heralds, disours, tabourers, and trompours," who accompanied him, the greater part of the money, jewels, horses, and fine robes which had fallen to his share. We have many accounts of the lavish generosity with which chivalrous lords propitiated the favourable report of the heralds and minstrels, whose good report was fame. [356] May we infer from the exemption of the jurisdiction of the Duttons, and not of that of the court of Tutbury and the guild of Beverley, that the jurisdiction of the King of the Minstrels over the whole realm was established after the former, and before the latter? The French minstrels were incorporated by charter, and had a king in the year 1330, forty-seven years before Tutbury. In the ordonnance of Edward II., 1315, there is no allusion to such a general jurisdiction. [357] One of the minstrels of King Edward the Fourth's household (there were thirteen others) was called the _wayte_; it was his duty to "pipe watch." In the romance of "Richard Coeur de Lion," when Richard, with his fleet, has come silently in the night under the walls of Jaffa, which was besieged on the land side by the Saracen army:-- "They looked up to the castel, They heard no pipe, ne flagel,[A] They drew em nigh to land, If they mighten understand, And they could ne nought espie, Ne by no voice of minstralcie, That quick man in the castle were." And so they continued in uncertainty until the spring of the day, then "A wait there came, in a kernel,[B] And piped a nott in a flagel." And when he recognised King Richard's galleys, "Then a merrier note he blew, And piped, 'Seigneurs or sus! or sus! King Richard is comen to us!'" [A] Flageolet. [B] Battlement. [358] Was offended. [359] Repent. [360] Give. [361] Travel. [362] Praise. [363] Introduction to his "Reliques of Early English Poetry." [364] The close-fitting outer garment worn in the fourteenth century, shown in the engravings on p. 350. [365] Which Percy supposes to mean "tonsure-wise," like priests and monks. [366] Percy supposes from this expression that there were inferior orders, as yeomen-minstrels. May we not also infer that there were superior orders, as knight-minstrels, over whom was the king-minstrel? for we are told "he was but a batchelor (whose chivalric signification has no reference to matrimony) yet." We are disposed to believe that this was a real minstrel. Langham tells us that he was dressed "partly as he would himself:" probably, the only things which were not according to his wont, were that my Lord of Leicester may have given him a new coat; that he had a little more capon's grease than usual in his hair; and that he was set to sing "a solemn song, warranted for story, out of King Arthur's Acts," instead of more modern minstrel ware. [367] Heralds in the fourteenth century bore the arms of their lord on a small scutcheon fastened at the side of their girdle. [368] "Annales Archæologiques," vii. p. 323. [369] "Eoten," a giant; "Eotenish," made by or descended from the giants. [370] The Harl. MS. 603, of the close of the eleventh century, contains a number of military subjects rudely drawn, but conveying suggestions which the artist will be able to interpret and profit by. In the Add. MS. 28,107, of date A.D. 1096, at f. 25 v., is a Goliath; and at f. 1,630 v., a group of soldiers. [371] _Didde_--did on next his white skin. [372] _Debate_--contend. [373] _Cuirbouly_--stamped leather. [374] _Latoun_--brass. [375] Compare Tennyson's description of Sir Lancelot, in the "Lady of Shalot." "His gemmy bridle glittered free, Like to some branch of stars we see; Hung in the golden galaxy, As he rode down to Camelot." [376] In the MS. Royal, 1,699, is a picture in which are represented a sword and hunting-horn hung over a tomb. The helmet, sword, and shield of Edward the Black Prince still hang over his tomb in Canterbury Cathedral; Henry IV.'s saddle and helmet over his tomb in Westminster Abbey; and in hundreds of parish churches helmets, swords, gauntlets, spurs, &c., still hang over the tombs of mediæval knights. [377] Probably a bridge with a tower to defend the approach to it. [378] Couch. [379] Hewitt's "Ancient Armour," i. p. 349. [380] The album of Villars de Honnecourt, of the thirteenth century, contains directions for constructing the trebuchet. [381] Hewitt's "Ancient Armour," i. 361. [382] For much curious detail on this subject see "The Babee's Book," published by the Early English Text Society. [383] A cover for a bench. [384] In illustration of the way in which actual warfare was sometimes treated as if it were a chivalrous trial of skill, take the following anecdote from Froissart; on the occasion when the French had bribed Amery de Puy, the governor, to betray Calais, and fell into the ambush which Edward III. set for them, and the king himself fought under the banner of Sir Walter Murray:--"The Kyng lyht on the Lord Eustace of Rybemount, who was a strong and a hardy knyht; there was a long fyht bytwene hym and the kyng that it was joy to beholde them.... The knight strake the kyng the same day two tymes on his knees; but finally the kynge himself toke hym prisoner, and so he yelded his sword to the kyng and sayd, Sir Knyght, I yeled me as your prisoner, he knewe not as then that it was the kyng." In the evening the king gave a supper in the castle, at which the French prisoners sat as guests; and, "when supper was done and the tables take away, the kyng taryed styll in the hall with his knyghtes and with the Frenchmen, and he was bare-heeded, savyng a chapelet of fyne perles that he ware on his heed. Than the kyng went fro one to another of the Frenchmen.... Than the kyng come to Sir Eustace of Rybamont, and joyously to hym he said, 'Sir Eustace, ye are the knyht in the worlde that I have sene moost valyant assayle his ennemyes and defende hymselfe, nor I never founde knyght that ever gave me so moche ado, body to body, as ye have done this day; wherefore I give you the price above all the knyghtes of my court by ryht sentence.' Then the kyng took the chapelet that was upon his heed, beying bothe faire, goodly, and ryche, and sayd, 'Sir Eustace, I gyve you this chapelet for the best doar in armes in this journey past of either party, and I desire you to bere it this yere for the love of me; say whersover ye come that I dyd give it you; and I quyte you your prison and ransom, and ye shall depart to-morowe if it please you.'" [385] 2 Samuel ii. [386] Such as that which took place at Windsor Park in the sixth year of Edward I., for which, according to a document in the Record Office at the Tower (printed in the "Archælogia," vol. xvii. p. 297), it appears that the knights were armed in a tunic and surcoat, a helmet of leather gilt or silvered, with crests of parchment, a wooden shield, and a sword of parchment, silvered and strengthened with whalebone, with gilded hilts. [387] _i.e._, of the strangers. The challengers are afterwards called the gentlemen within. [388] For other forms of challenge, and some very romantic challenges at full length, see the Lansdowne MS. 285. [389] Probably the tilt-house (the shed or tent which they have in the field at one end of the lists). [390] The Lansdowne MS. says "gentlewomen," an obvious error; it is correctly given as above in the Hastings MS. [391] Dugdale, in his "History of Warwickshire," gives a curious series of pictures of the famous combat between John Astle and Piers de Massie in the year 1438, showing the various incidents of the combat. [392] The Harleian MS. No. 69, is a book of certain triumphs, containing proclamations of tournaments, statutes of arms for their regulation, and numerous other documents relating to the subject. From folio 20 and onwards are given pictures of combats; folio 22 v. represents spear-play at the barriers; folio 23, sword-play at the barriers, &c. [393] In the picture given by Dugdale of the combat between John Astle and Piers de Massie, the combatants are represented each sitting in his chair--a great carvad chair, something like the coronation chair in Westminster Abbey. [394] Tremouille. [395] "Oyez!" or perhaps "Ho!" [396] From Mr. Wright's "Domestic Manners and Customs of the Middle Ages." [397] "Ancient Cannon in Europe," by Lieut. Brackenbury. [398] See also Viollet le Duc's "Dictionary of Architecture." [399] The British Museum does not possess this fine work, but a copy of it is accessible to the public in the Library of the South Kensington Museum. [400] Afterwards cardinal. [401] Dun Cow. [402] "He is so hung round," says Truewit, in Ben Jonson's _Epicoene_, "with pikes, halberds, petronels, calivers, and muskets, that he looks like a justice of peace's hall." Clement Sysley, of Eastbury House, near Barking, bequeathed in his will the "gonnes, pikes, cross-bows, and other weapons, to Thomas Sysley, to go with the house, and remain as standards for ever in Eastbury Hall." [403] A sketch illustrating their construction may be found in Witsen's "Sheeps Bouw." Appendix, Plate 10. [404] "History of Commerce." [405] Sir Harris Nicholas' "History of the British Navy," vol. i. p. 21. [406] In our own day we see the scorn of trade being rapidly softened down. Many of our commercial houses are almost as important as a department of State, and are conducted in much the same way. The principals of these houses are often considerable landholders besides, have been educated at the public schools and universities, and are frankly received as equals in all societies. On the other hand, the nobility are putting their younger sons into trade. At this moment, we believe, the brother-in-law of a princess of England is in a mercantile house. [407] _Avarice_, in "Piers Ploughman's Vision," v. 255, says:-- "I have ymade many a knyht both mercer and draper That payed nevere for his prentishode not a paire of gloves." [408] Neatly, properly. [409] Shields, _i.e._ _écus_, French crowns. [410] Agreement for borrowing money. [411] Know not his name. [412] From Mr. Wright's "Domestic Manners and Customs of the Middle Ages." [413] If. [414] Boxes. [415] Sweet ointments. [416] To give relief. [417] Engraved in Fisher's Bedfordshire Collections, and in the London and Middlesex Archæological Society's Proceedings for 1870, p. 66. [418] Take the woodcut on p. 531, from MS. Royal, 15 E. I., f. 436. [419] Taken. [420] Like. [421] N'et, _i.e._ does not eat. [422] N'is, _i.e._ is not. 
38680	----	[Transcriber's notes] This is derived from these copies on the Internet Archive: http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924029759630 (1920) http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924014712875 (1907) The two editions are combined because of missing pages in one and missing images in the other. Page numbers in this book are indicated by numbers enclosed in curly braces, e.g. {99}. They have been located where page breaks occurred in the original book. Obvious spelling errors have been corrected but "inventive" and inconsistent spelling is left unchanged. [End Transcriber's notes] BY THE SAME AUTHOR FORDHAM UNIVERSITY PRESS SERIES MAKERS OF MODERN MEDICINE Lives of the men to whom nineteenth century medical science owes most. Second Edition. New York, 1910. $3.00 net. THE POPES AND SCIENCE The story of Papal patronage of the sciences and especially medicine. 45th thousand. New York, 1911. $3.00 net. MAKERS OF ELECTRICITY Lives of the men to whom important advances in electricity are due. In collaboration with Brother Potamian, F. S. C, Sc.D. (London), Professor of Physics at Manhattan College. New York, 1909. $2.50 net. EDUCATION, HOW OLD THE NEW Addresses in the history of education on various occasions. 3rd thousand. New York, 1911. $2.50 net. OLD-TIME MAKERS OF MEDICINE The story of the students and teachers of the sciences related to medicine during the Middle Ages. New York, 1911, $2.50 net. MODERN PROGRESS AND HISTORY. Academic addresses on how old the new is in Education, Medicine, Dentistry, Politics, etc. New York, 1912. $2.50 act. THE CENTURY OF COLUMBUS The story of the Renaissance $3.50 net. THE DOLPHIN PRESS SERIES CATHOLIC CHURCHMEN IN SCIENCE First, second and third series, each $1.00 net. PSYCHOTHERAPY Lectures on The Influence of the Mind on the Body delivered at Fordham University School of Medicine. Appletons, New York, 1912. $6.50 net. {i} {ii} [Illustration] LE BEAU DIEU (AMIENS) {iii} THE THIRTEENTH Greatest of Centuries BY JAMES J. WALSH, K.C.St.G., M.D., Ph.D., LL.D, LITT. D. (Georgetown), Sc.D. (Notre Dame) MEDICAL DIRECTOR, SCHOOL OF SOCIOLOGY, FORDHAM UNIVERSITY; PROFESSOR OF PHYSIOLOGICAL PSYCHOLOGY AT CATHEDRAL COLLEGE, NEW YORK; LECTURER IN PSYCHOLOGY, MARYWOOD COLLEGE, SCRANTON AND ST. MARY'S COLLEGE, PLAINFIELD; TRUSTEE OF THE CATHOLIC SUMMER SCHOOL OF AMERICA; MEMBER OF THE NEW YORK ACADEMY OF MEDICINE, OF THE GERMAN AND FRENCH AND ITALIAN SOCIETIES OF THE HISTORY OF MEDICINE, A.M.A., A.A.A.S., ETC. _Popular Edition_ _ (Sixtieth Thousand)_ CATHOLIC SUMMER SCHOOL PRESS New York, 1920 {iv} _ Copyright 1907_ James J. Walsh Set up and stereotyped 1907 (first edition 2,000) Reprinted with Appendix 1909 Georgetown edition enlarged and extra illustrated 1910 Fourth edition reprinted with additions (6th thousand) 1912 Fifth edition, Knights of Columbus, 50,000, 1912-1913. Made by THE SUPERIOR PRINTING CO AKRON, OHIO {v} To Right Rev. Monsignor M. J. Lavelle, Rector of St. Patrick's Cathedral, New York, sometime President of the Catholic Summer School, to whose fatherly patronage this book is largely due, and without whose constant encouragement it would not have been completed, it is respectfully and affectionately dedicated by the author. {vi} PROEM. (EPIMETHEUS.) WAKE again, Teutonic Father-ages, Speak again, beloved primeval creeds; Flash ancestral spirit from your pages, Wake the greedy age to noble deeds. ..... Ye who built the churches where we worship, Ye who framed the laws by which we move, Fathers, long belied, and long forsaken, Oh, forgive the children of your love! (PEOMETHEUS.) There will we find laws which shall interpret, Through the simpler past, existing life; Delving up from mines and fairy caverns Charmed blades to cut the age's strife. _--Rev. Charles Kingsley.--The Saints' Tragedy._ {vii} PREFACE. "Why take the style of these heroic times? For nature brings not back the mastodon--Nor we those times; and why should any man Remodel models?" What Tennyson thus said of his own first essay in the Idyls of the King, in the introduction to the Morte D'Arthur, occurs as probably the aptest expression of most men's immediate thought with regard to such a subject as The Thirteenth, Greatest of Centuries. Though Tennyson was confessedly only remodeling the thoughts of the Thirteenth Century, we would not be willing to concede-- "That nothing new was said, or else. Something so said, 'twas nothing," for the loss of the Idyls would make a large lacuna in the literature of the Nineteenth Century, "if it is allowed to compare little things with great," a similar intent to that of the Laureate has seemed sufficient justification for the paradox the author has tried to set forth in this volume. It may prove "nothing worth, mere chaff and draff much better burnt," but many friends have insisted they found it interesting. Authors usually blame friends for their inflictions upon the public, and I fear that I can find no better excuse, though the book has been patiently labored at, with the idea that it should represent some of the serious work that is being done by the Catholic Summer School on Lake Champlain, {viii} now completing nearly a decade and a half of its existence. This volume is, it is hoped, but the first of a series that will bring to a wider audience some of the thoughts that have been gathered for Summer School friends by many workers, and will put in more permanent form contributions that made summer leisure respond to the Greek term for school. The object of the book is to interpret, in terms that will be readily intelligible to this generation, the life and concerns of the people of a century who, to the author's mind, have done more for human progress than those of any like period in human history. There are few whose eyes are now holden as they used to be, as to the surpassing place in the history of culture of the last three centuries of the Middle Ages. Personally the author is convinced, however, that only a beginning of proper appreciation has come as yet, and he feels that the solution of many problems that are vexing the modern world, especially in the social order, are to be found in these much misunderstood ages, and above all in that culmination of medieval progress--the period from 1200 to 1300. The subject was originally taken up as a series of lectures in the extension course of the Catholic Summer School, as given each year in Lent and Advent at the Catholic Club, New York City. Portions of the material were subsequently used in lectures in many cities in this country from Portland, Me., to Portland, Ore., St. Paul, Minn., to New Orleans, La. The subject was treated _in extenso_ for the Brooklyn Institute of Arts and Sciences in 1906, after which publication was suggested. The author does not flatter himself that the book adequately represents the great period which it claims to present. The subject has been the central idea of studies in leisure moments for a dozen years, and during many wanderings in Europe but there will doubtless prove to be errors in detail, for which the author would crave the indulgence of more serious students {ix} of history. The original form in which the material was cast has influenced the style to some extent, and has made the book more wordy than it would otherwise have been, and has been the cause of certain repetitions that appear more striking in print than they seemed in manuscript. There were what seemed good reasons for not delaying publication, however, and leisure for further work at it, instead of growing, was becoming more scant. It is intrusted to the tender mercies of critics, then, and the benevolent reader, if he still may be appealed to, for the sake of the ideas it contains, in spite of their inadequate expression. PREFACE. (GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY EDITION). This third edition is published under the patronage of Georgetown University as a slight token of appreciation for the degree of Doctor of Letters, conferred on the author for this work at the last Commencement. This issue has been enlarged by the addition of many illustrations selected to bring out the fact that all the various parts of Europe shared in the achievements of the time and by an appendix containing in compendium Twenty-Six Chapters that Might Have Been. Each of these brief sketches could easily have been extended to the average length of the original chapters. It was impossible to use all the material that was gathered. These hints of further sources are now appended so as to afford suggestions for study to those who may care to follow up the idea of the Thirteenth as The Greatest of Centuries, that is, of that period in human existence when man's thoughts on all the important human interests were profoundly valuable for future generations and their accomplishments models for all the after time. {x} PREFACE. (FOURTH EDITION). Many of the now rather numerous readers and hearers of this book, for it has been read in the refectories of over 200 religious communities, have said that the title seemed almost deterring at first because of the high claim that is set up for a medieval century. To mitigate the possible initial deterrent effect of the paradox of the Thirteenth as the Greatest of Centuries, it has seemed worth while in this edition then to premise a series of quotations from some of the most distinguished historical writers in English of our own time which amply justify the claim here set up. Frederic Harrison, Macaulay, Freeman, and Fiske are sufficiently different in themselves to make their agreement in supreme admiration for the Thirteenth Century very striking. In spite of their lack of sympathy with many things in the period, all of them emphatically declare that it is the source of most that is great and good since, and that while we have added details, we have failed to surpass its artistic and intellectual achievement in all the 700 years that have elapsed. August 15, 1912. PREFACE. (FIFTH EDITION). After the success of the Knights of Columbus edition of the Popes and Science of which 40,000 were issued it gives me great pleasure to accede to the request of the Supreme Officers of the Order to permit them to issue a correspondingly large edition of the present volume. The good work which the Knights of Columbus have thus done in diffusing a knowledge of the true relations of the Church to science,--generous patronage and encouragement, instead of supposed opposition,--will, I think, be greatly furthered by the wide distribution of the information contained in this volume with regard to the supremely helpful attitude of the Church towards art and architecture, literature, education and above all the important social problems, which is so well illustrated during the great period of the Thirteenth Century. I sincerely hope that brother Knights of Columbus will find in the book some of that renewal of devotion to Mother Church that came as the result of my own studies of this glorious period of her history, when her action was untrammelled by political considerations and when she was free to express herself in every great movement for the benefit of humanity. Feast of the Immaculate Conception, 1912. {xi} FREDERIC HARRISON, MACAULAY, FREEMAN, AND FISKE ON THE PLACE OF THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY IN HISTORY Of all the epochs of effort after a new life, that of the age of Aquinas, Roger Bacon, St. Francis, St. Louis, Giotto, and Dante is the most purely spiritual, the most really constructive, and indeed the most truly philosophic. . . . The whole thirteenth century is crowded with creative forces in philosophy, art, poetry, and statesmanship as rich as those of the humanist _Renaissance_. And if we are accustomed to look on them as so much more limited and rude it is because we forget how very few and poor were their resources and their instruments. In creative genius Giotto is the peer, if not the superior of Raphael. Dante had all the qualities of his three chief successors and very much more besides. It is a tenable view that in inventive fertility and in imaginative range, those vast composite creations--the Cathedrals of the Thirteenth Century, in all their wealth of architectural statuary, painted glass, enamels, embroideries, and inexhaustible decorative work may be set beside the entire painting of the sixteenth century. Albert and Aquinas, in philosophic range, had no peer until we come down to Descartes, nor was Roger Bacon surpassed in versatile audacity of genius and in true encyclopaedic grasp by any thinker between him and his namesake the Chancellor. In statesmanship and all the qualities of the born leader of men we can only match the great chiefs of the Thirteenth Century by comparing them with the greatest names three or even four centuries later. Now this great century, the last of the true Middle Ages, which as it drew to its own end gave birth to Modern Society, has a special character of its own, a character that gives it an abiding and enchanting interest. We find in it a harmony of power, a universality of endowment, a glow, an aspiring ambition and confidence such as we never find in later centuries, at least so generally and so permanently diffused. . . . The Thirteenth Century was an era of no special character. It was in nothing one-sided and in nothing discordant. It had great thinkers, great rulers, great teachers, great poets, {xii} great artists, great moralists, and great workmen. It could not be called the material age, the devotional age, the political age, or the poetic age in any special degree. It was equally poetic, political, industrial, artistic, practical, intellectual, and devotional. And these qualities acted in harmony on a uniform conception of life with a real symmetry of purpose. There was one common creed, one ritual, one worship, one sacred language, one Church, a single code of manners, a uniform scheme of society, a common system of education, an accepted type of beauty, a universal art, something like a recognized standard of the Good, the Beautiful, and the True. One-half of the world was not occupied in ridiculing or combating what the other half was doing. Nor were men absorbed in ideals of their own, while treating the ideals of their neighbors as matters of indifference and waste of power. Men as utterly different from each other, as were Stephen Langton, St. Francis, Thomas Aquinas, Roger Bacon, Dante, Giotto, St. Louis, Edward I--all profoundly accepted one common order of ideas, equally applying to things of the intellect, of moral duty, of action, and of the soul--to public and private life at once--and they could all feel that they were all together working out the same task. It may be doubted if that has happened in Europe ever since.--Frederic Harrison, _A Survey of the Thirteenth Century in the Meaning of History and Other Historical Pieces_. Macmillan, 1908. * * * The sources of the noblest rivers which spread fertility over continents, and bear richly laden fleets to the sea, are to be sought in wild and barren mountain tracts, incorrectly laid down in maps, and rarely explored by travellers. To such a tract the history of our country during the Thirteenth Century may not unaptly be compared. Sterile and obscure as is that portion of our annals, it is there that we must seek for the origin of our freedom, our prosperity, and our glory. Then it was that the great English people was formed, that the national character began to exhibit those peculiarities which it has ever since retained, and that our fathers became emphatically islanders, islanders not merely in geographical position, but in their politics, their feelings, and their manners. Then first appeared with distinctness that constitution which has ever since, through all changes, preserved its identity; that constitution of which all the other free constitutions in the world are copies, and which, in spite of some defects, deserves to be regarded as the best under which any great {xiii} society has ever yet existed during many ages. Then it was that the House of Commons, the archetype of all the representative assemblies which now meet, either in the old or in the new world, held its first sittings. Then it was that the common law rose to the dignity of a science, and rapidly became a not unworthy rival of the imperial jurisprudence. Then it was that the courage of those sailors who manned the rude barks of the Cinque Ports first made the flag of England terrible on the seas. Then it was that the most ancient colleges which still exist at both the great national seats of learning were founded. Then was formed that language, less musical indeed than the languages of the south, but in force, in richness, in aptitude for all the highest purposes of the poet, the philosopher, and the orator, inferior to the tongue of Greece alone. Then too appeared the first faint dawn of that noble literature, the most splendid and the most durable of the many glories of England.--Macaulay. * * * This time of fusion during which all direct traces of foreign conquest were got rid of, was naturally the time during which the political and social institutions of the country gradually took on that form which distinguishes modern England, the England of the last 600 years from the older England of the first 600 years of English history. ... By the time of Edward I, though the English tongue had not yet finally displaced French, it had assumed the main characters which distinguished its modern from its ancient form. In architecture a great change had taken place, by which the Romanesque style gave way to the so-called Gothic. The subordinate arts had taken prodigious strides. The sculpture of the thirteenth century is parted from that of the twelfth by a wider gap than any that parts these centuries, in law or language. _And in the root of the matter in our law and constitution itself those changes have been made which wrought the body politic of England into a shape which has left future ages nothing to do but to improve in detail_. (Italics ours.) In short the great destructive and creative age of Europe and civilized Asia passed over England as it passed over other lands. The age which saw the Eastern Empire fall beneath the arms of the Frank and the Eastern Caliphate before the arms of the Mogul--the age which saw the true power and glory of the Western Empire buried in the grave of the Wonder of the World--the age which ruled that the warriors of the Cross should work their will in Spain and in Prussia {xiv} and should not work their Will in the Holy Land itself--the age which made Venice mistress of the Eastern seas, and bade Florence stand forth as the new type of democratic freedom--the age which changed the nominal kingship of the Lord of Paris and Orleans into the mighty realm of Philip Augustus and Philip the Fair--this age of wonders did its work of wonder in England also.--Freeman, _The Norman Conquest_, Vol. V, page 606. Oxford, The Clarendon Press, 1876. * * * The moment when this interaction might have seemed on the point of reaching a complete and harmonious result was the glorious thirteenth century, the culminating moment of the Holy Roman Empire. Then, as in the times of Caesar or Trajan, there might have seemed to be a union among civilized men, in which the separate life of individuals and localities was not submerged. In that golden age, alike of feudal system of empire and of Church, there were to be seen the greatest monarchs, in fullest sympathy with their peoples, that Christendom has ever known--an Edward I, a St. Louis, a Frederick II. Then when in the Pontificates of Innocent III and his successors the Roman Church reached its apogee, the religious yearning of men sought expressions in the sublimest architecture the world has seen. Then Aquinas summed up in his profound speculations the substance of Catholic theology, and while the morning twilight of modern science might be discerned in the treatises of Roger Bacon, while wandering minstrelsy revealed the treasures of modern speech, soon to be wrought under the hands of Dante and Chaucer into forms of exquisite beauty, the sacred fervor of the apostolic ages found itself renewed in the tender and mystic piety of St. Francis of Assisi. It was a wonderful time, but after all less memorable as the culmination of medieval empire and medieval church than as the dawning of the new era in which we live to-day. * * * While wave after wave of Germanic colonization poured over Romanized Europe, breaking down old boundary lines and working sudden and astonishing changes on the map, setting up in every quarter baronies, dukedoms, and kingdoms fermenting with vigorous political life; while for twenty generations this salutary but wild and dangerous work was going on, there was never a moment when the imperial sway of {xv} Rome was quite set aside and forgotten, there was never a time when union of some sort was not maintained through the dominion which the Church had established over the European mind. When we duly consider this great fact in its relations to what went before and what came after, it is hard to find words fit to express the debt of gratitude which modern civilization owes to the Roman Catholic Church. When we think of all the work, big with promise of the future, that went on in those centuries which modern writers in their ignorance used once to set apart and stigmatize as the "Dark Ages"; when we consider how the seeds of what is noblest in modern life were then painfully sown upon the soil which Imperial Rome had prepared; when we think of the various work of a Gregory, a Benedict, a Boniface, an Alfred, a Charlemagne, we feel that there is a sense in which the most brilliant achievements of pagan antiquity are dwarfed in comparison with these. Until quite lately, indeed, the student of history has had his attention too narrowly confined to the ages that have been pre-eminent for literature and art--the so-called classical ages--and thus his sense of historical perspective has been impaired.--Fiske, _The Beginnings of New England, or The Puritan Theocracy in its Relations to Civil and Religions Liberty_. {xvi} {xvii} CONTENTS. CHAPTER I INTRODUCTION, THE THIRTEENTH, GREATEST OF CENTURIES. 1 Deeds and men of a marvellous period. Evolution and man. No intellectual development in historical period. The wonderful medieval pre-renaissance. Our Gothic ancestors. Education for the classes and masses. Universities, cathedrals, arts, and crafts. Origins in art. Supreme literature in every language. Origins in law and liberty. Beginnings of modern democracy. CHAPTER II UNIVERSITIES AND PREPARATORY SCHOOLS. 18 Origins of universities. Triumph of invention. Character unchanged ever since. University evolution, Salerno, Bologna, Paris, Oxford, Cambridge, Italian, French and Spanish Universities. Origin of preparatory schools. Cathedral colleges. Decree of the Council of Lateran, every cathedral to have a school and metropolitan churches to have colleges. Attendance at these preparatory schools. CHAPTER III WHAT AND HOW THEY STUDIED AT THE UNIVERSITIES. 33 Education of the Middle Ages usually ridiculed. Ignorance of critics. Scholastics laughed at by those only who know them, but at second hand. "Logic, ethics and metaphysics owe to scholasticism a precision, unknown to the ancients themselves" (Condorcet.) Teaching methods. Scholarly interests quite as in our own day. Magnetism in literature. A magnetic engine. Aquinas and the indestructibility of matter and the conservation of energy. Roger Bacon's four grounds of human ignorance. Prophecy of explosives for motor purposes. Correction of the calendar. Contributions to optics. Experiment as the basis of scientific knowledge. Whewell's appreciation. Albertus Magnus and the natural sciences Humboldt's praise for his physical geography. Contributions to botany. Declaration with regard to foolish popular notions. The {xviii} great group of scientific men at the University of Paris. Robert of Sorbonne's directions how to study. Education of the heart as well as the head. CHAPTER IV THE NUMBER OF STUDENTS AND DISCIPLINE. 58 Largest universities of all time. More students to the population than at any time since. Discussion as to the numbers in attendance. Comparative average ages of students. How such numbers were supported. Working their way through college. Some reasons for false impressions, as to university attendance. M. Compayré's paragraph on education in the Middle Ages. Supposed ignorance. The monks at the universities. How many students clerical. College abuses and discipline. The "nations," the under-graduate committee on discipline. Teaching practical democracy. CHAPTER V POST-GRADUATE WORK AT THE UNIVERSITIES. 78 Medieval universities and additions to knowledge. Original work done, their best apology. Extensive writings of professors. Enthusiasm of students who copied their books. Post-graduate work in theology and in philosophy. Period of the scholastics. Graduates in law and collections and digests. Post-graduate work in medicine most important. Teaching by case histories. The significance of dropsy, suture of divided nerves, healing by first intention. William of Salicet and his pupil Lanfranc. The danger of the separation of surgery from medicine. Red light and smallpox. Mondaville and Arnold of Villanova. The republication of old texts. The supposed bull forbidding anatomy. The supposed bull forbidding chemistry. The encouragement of science in the medieval universities. CHAPTER VI THE BOOK OF THE ARTS AND POPULAR EDUCATION. 96 The Gothic Cathedrals, the stone books of medieval arts. St. Hugh of Lincoln. Wealth of meaning in the Cathedrals. Their power to please. Gothic architecture everywhere, but no slavish imitation. English, French, German, and Italian Gothic. Spanish Gothic. Gothic ideas in modern architecture. Beauty of details. Sculpture. Gothic Statuary, not stiff, nor ugly. Most affinity with Greek sculpture (Reinach). The Angel Choir at Lincoln. {xix} The marvellous stained glass of the period,--Lincoln, York, Chartres, Bourges. Storied windows and their teachings. Beauty and utility in the arts. Magnificent needlework, the Cope of Ascoli. The Cathedral as an educator. The Great Stone Book, which he who ran must read. Symbolism of the Cathedrals. The great abbeys, the monasteries, municipal and domestic architecture of the century. Furniture and decorations. Ruskin on Giotto's tower. CHAPTER VII ARTS AND CRAFTS--GREAT TECHNICAL SCHOOLS. 124 Solution of problems of social unrest. Blessed is the man who has found his work. Merrie England. The workman's pleasure in his work. Influence of the Church in the arts and crafts movement. Rivalry in building the Cathedrals. Organization of technical instruction. Correction of optical illusions. The village blacksmith and carpenter. Comparative perfection of the work done then and now. The trade guilds and the training of workmen. The system of instruction, apprentice, journeyman, master. The masterpiece. Social co-operation and fraternity. Mystery plays and social education. CHAPTER VIII GREAT ORIGINS IN PAINTING. 138 Rise of painting. Franciscans and Dominicans, patrons of art. St. Francis' return to nature, the incentive of art. Cimabue's Madonna. Gaddi. Guido, Ugolino and Duccio of Siena. Berlinghieri of Lucca, Giunta of Pisa. Giotto the master. His work at Assisi, Verona, Naples, Rome. Marvellous universal appreciation of art. Contrast with other times. False notions with regard to Gothic art. Sadness not a characteristic. The beauty of the human form divine. CHAPTER IX LIBRARIES AND BOOKMEN. 149 Monastic regulations for collecting and lending books. Library rules. Circulating libraries. The Abbey of St. Victor, the Sorbonne, St. Germain des Prés, and Notre Dame. Fines for misuse of books. Library catalogues. Library of La Ste. Chapelle. First medical library at the Hotel Dieu. How books were collected. Exchange of books. Special revenue for the libraries in the monasteries. Book collecting and bequests by ecclesiastics. Cost of books. Franciscan and Dominican libraries. Richard De Bury's {xx} Philobiblon. How books were valued. Richard a typical bookman. His place in history. Illuminated books. The most interesting and original of all time (Humphreys). St. Louis' beautiful books. CHAPTER X THE CID, THE HOLY GRAIL, THE NIBELUNGEN. 166 Literature equal to accomplishment in other lines. Architecture and literature, and the expression of national feelings. National epics of three western-most nations informed within the same half century. The Cid, its unity of authorship and action. Martial interest and spirited style. Tender domestic scenes. Psychological analysis. Walter Mapes, and the Arthur Legends. Authorship and place in literature. Launcelot one of the greatest heroes ever invented. Unity of authorship of Nibelungen. Place in literature. Modern interest. Influence of these epics on national poetry. CHAPTER XI MEISTERSINGERS, MINNESINGERS, TROUV�RES, TROUBADOURS. 182 A great century of song. The high character of women, as represented in these songs. Nature-poetry, and love. Walter Von der Vogelweide, Hartman Von Aue, Wolfram Von Eschenbach, Conrad Von Kirchberg. The Troubadours and their love songs. Selections from Arnaud de Marveil, Arnaud Daniel, Bertrand de Born, William of St. Gregory, and Peyrols. CHAPTER XII GREAT LATIN HYMNS. 194 Greatest poetic bequest of the period. Place of rhyme in Latin. Latin hymns the first native poetry in the language. Influence of their charm of rhyme and rhythm on the developing languages of Europe. Supremacy of the Dies Irae, its many admirers. Other surpassing Latin Hymns. Celtic origin of rhyme. The Stabat Mater, some translations. Critical faculty in hymn selection. Jerusalem the Golden, its place in Christian song. Aquinas' hymn, the Pange Lingua, its popularity. Musical expression of feeling and plain chant. The best examples from this period. Invention of part music, its adaptation and development in popular music. {xxi} CHAPTER XIII THE THREE MOST READ BOOKS. 209 A generation and the books it reads. Reynard the Fox, the Golden Legend, and the Romance of the Rose. "Reynard the most profoundly humorous book ever written." Powers of the author as observer. Besides Gulliver's Travels, Don Quixote and Pilgrim's Progress. Its relations to Uncle Remus and many other animal stories. The place of the Golden Legend in literature. Longfellow's use of it. The Romance of the Rose for three centuries the most read book in Europe. The answer to the charge of dullness. The Rose as a commentary on the morning paper. The abuse of wealth as the poet saw it in the Thirteenth Century. Praise of "poverty light heart and gay." CHAPTER XIV SOME THIRTEENTH CENTURY PROSE. 221 Prose of the century as great as the poetry. Medieval Latin unappreciated but eminently expressive. The prose style, simple, direct and nicely accurate. Saintsbury's opinion as to the influence on modern literature of the scholastic philosophers' style. The chroniclers and the modern war correspondent. Villehardouin, Jocelyn of Brakelond, Joinville, Matthew of Paris. Vincent of Beauvais and the first encyclopedia. Pagel's opinion of Vincent's style. Durandus' famous work on symbolism. Examples of his style. The Scriptures as the basis of style. CHAPTER XV ORIGIN OF DRAMA. 238 St. Francis and the first nativity play. Earlier mystery plays. Chester cycle. Humorous passages introduced. Complete bible story represented. Actors' wages and costumes. Innocent diversion and educational influence. Popular interest. Everyman in our own day. Comparison with the passion play at Oberammergau. The drama as an important factor in popular education. Active as well as passive participation in great poetry. Anticipation of a movement only just beginning again. CHAPTER XVI FRANCIS, THE SAINT--THE FATHER OF THE RENAISSANCE. 254 The Renaissance, so-called. Before the Renaissance. Gothic architecture and art. Francis the father of the real Renaissance. {xxii} Matthew Arnold and "the poor little man of God." St. Francis as a literary man. The canticle of the Sun. St. Francis' career. The simple life. Ruskin on Francis' poverty. St. Francis in the last ten years. The disciples who gathered around him. A century of Franciscans. The third order of St. Francis. Kings and queens, nobles and scholars hail St. Francis as father. What the religious orders accomplished. St. Clare and the second order. CHAPTER XVII AQUINAS, THE SCHOLAR. 270 The nobility and education. Studies at Cologne and Paris. The distinguished faculty of Paris in his time. _Summa Contra Gentiles_. Pope Leo XIII. and Aquinas' teaching. Foundations of Christian apologetics. Characteristic passages from Aquinas. Necessity for revelation of God's existence. Explanation of Resurrection. Liberty in Aquinas' writings. Greatness of Aquinas and his contemporaries and the subsequent decadence of scholasticism. Contemporary appreciation of St. Thomas. His capacity for work. His sacred poetry. CHAPTER XVIII LOUIS, THE MONARCH. 289 The greatest of rulers. His relations as a son, as a husband, as a father. His passion for justice. Interest in education, in books, in the encyclopedia. Tribute of Voltaire. Guizot's praise. The righting of wrongs. Letters to his son. Affection for his children. Regard for monks. Would have his children enter monasteries. Treatment of the poor. Attitude towards lepers. One of nature's noblemen. Louis and the crusades. Bishop Stubbs, on the real meaning of the crusades. Louis' interest in the crusades not a stigma, but an added reason for praise. CHAPTER XIX DANTE, THE POET. 300 Dante not a solitary phenomenon. A Troubadour. His minor poems and prose works. His wonderful Sonnets. The growth of appreciation for him. Italian art, great as it kept nearer to Dante. Tributes from Italy's' greatest literary men. Michael Angelo's sonnets to him. A world poet. English admiration old and new. Tributes of the two great English Cardinals. Dean Church's Essay. Ruskin on the Grotesque on {xxiii} Dante. German critical appreciation. Humboldt's tribute. America's burden of praise. Dante and the modern thinker. His wonderful powers of observation. Comparison with Milton. His place as one of the supreme poets of all times. A type of the century. CHAPTER XX THE WOMEN OF THE CENTURY. 319 Women of the century worthy of the great period. St. Clare of Assisi's place in history. Happiness. The supper at the Portiuncula. Peace, in the cloister and woman's influence. Equality of sexes in the religious orders. St. Elizabeth of Hungary, the first settlement worker. "Dear St. Elizabeth's" influence on women since her time. Blanche of Castile as Queen and mother. Her influence as a ruler. Difficulties with her daughter-in-law. Mabel Rich, the London tradesman's wife, and her sons. Isabella Countess of Arundel and courageous womanly dignity. Women's work in the century. Service of the sick. Co-education in Italy. Reason for absence in France and England. Women professors at Italian universities. Feminine education four times in history. Reasons for decline. Women in the literature of the century. The high place accorded them by the poets of every country. Dante's tribute to their charm without a hint of the physical. CHAPTER XXI CITY HOSPITALS--ORGANIZED CHARITY. 337 Charity occupied a co-ordinate place to education. Pope Innocent III. organized both. His foundations of the City hospitals of the world, the Santo Spirito at Rome the model. Rise of hospitals in every country, Virchow's tribute to Innocent III. Care for lepers in special hospitals and eradication of this disease. The meaning of this for the modern time and tuberculosis. Special institutions for erysipelas which prevented the spread of this disease. The organization of charity. The monasteries and the people. The freeing of prisoners held in slavery. Two famous orders for this purpose. CHAPTER XXII GREAT ORIGINS IN LAW. 350 Legal origins most surprising feature of the century. Significance of Magna Charta. Excerpts that show its character. The church, widows and orphans, common pleas, international law, no {xxiv} tax without consent, rights of freemen. Development of meaning as time and progress demanded it. Bracton's digest of the common law. Edward I. the English Justinian. Simon de Montfort. Real estate laws. CHAPTER XXIII JUSTICE AND LEGAL DEVELOPMENT. 364 Legal origins in other countries besides England. Montalembert and France. St. Louis and the enforcement of law. Fehmic courts of Germany and our vigilance committees. Andrew II., and the "Golden Bull, that legalized anarchy" in Hungary. Laws of Poland. The Popes and legal codification; Innocent III, Gregory IX. Commentaries on law at the universities. Pope Boniface VIII, the canonist. Origin of "no taxation without representation." CHAPTER XXIV DEMOCRACY, CHRISTIAN SOCIALISM AND NATIONALITY. 375 Origins in popular self-government. Representation in the governing body. German free cities. Swiss declaration of independence. Christian socialism and "the three eights." Saturday half-holiday, and the vigils of holy-days. Christian fraternity and the guilds. Organization of charity. The guild merchant and fraternal solidarity. The guild of the Holy Cross, Stratford, and its place in town government and education. Progress of democracy. How the crusades strengthened the democratic spirit. Their place in the history of human liberty and of nationality. CHAPTER XXV GREAT EXPLORERS AND THE FOUNDATION OF GEOGRAPHY. 392 Geography's wonderful development. Modern problems, Thibet explored, Lhasa entered. This perhaps the greatest triumph of the century. Marco Polo's travels. Former mistrust now unstinted admiration. Striking observations of Polo. John of Carpini's travels in the Near East. Colonel Yule on the Book of the Tartars. Friar William of Rubruquis' travels in Tartary. Anticipations of modern opinions as to language. Some details of description. Friar Odoric and his Irish companion. The Praemonstratensian Hayton. Franciscan missionary zeal supplied for our geographical societies. Idle monks. {xxv} CHAPTER XXVI GREAT BEGINNINGS OF MODERN COMMERCE. 415 This is the most interesting phase for our generation. Hanseatic League and obscurity of its origin. League of Lombard cities and effect of crusades. Importance of Hansa. Enforcement of its decrees. Confederation of cities from England to Central Russia. Surprising greatness of the cities. Beginnings of international law. Commerce and peace. Origins of coast regulation. Fraternal initiations and their equivalents in the aftertime. Origins in hazing. Commerce and liberty. Fostering of democracy. International comity. APPENDIX I So-called history. 430 APPENDIX II TWENTY-SIX CHAPTERS THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 432 I. America in the Thirteenth Century--Papal documents. II. A representative upper house. III. The parish, and training in citizenship. IV. The chance to rise. V. Insurance--fire, marine, robbery, against injustice. VI. Old age pensions, disability wages. VII. Ways and means of charity--organized charity. VIII. Scientific universities, investigation, writing. IX. Medical education and high professional status. X. Magnetism--first perpetual motion inventor--the North Pole. XI. Biological theories--evolution, recapitulation. XII. The Pope of the century--Innocent III. XIII. International arbitration. XIV. Bible revision. XV. Fiction of the century. XVI. Great orators. XVII. Great beginnings of English literature. XVIII. Origins of music. XIX. Refinement and table manners. XX. Textiles, satins, brocades, laces, needlework. XXI. Glass-making. XXII. Inventions. XXIII. Industry and trade. XXIV. Fairs and markets. XXV. Intensive farming. XXVI. Cartography and the teaching of geography--Hereford Map of the World. APPENDIX III CRITICISMS, COMMENTS, DOCUMENTS. 464 Human progress. The century of origins. Education. Technical education of the masses. How it all stopped. Comfort and poverty. Comfort and happiness. Comfort and health. Hygiene. Wages and the condition of working people. Interest and loans. The eighteenth lowest of centuries. {xxvi} {xxvii} LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 1. Le Beau Dieu (Amiens)--Frontispiece (ii) 2. Virgin with the Divine Child (Mosaic, St. Mark's, Venice)--Opposite page 5 3. Pulpit (N. Pisano, Siena)--Opposite page 8 4. Archangel Michael (Giovanni Pisano, Pisa)--Opposite page 13 5. Christ (Andrea Pisano, Florence)--Opposite page 13 6. Sta. Reparata (Andrea Pisano, Florence)--Opposite page 13 7. Paschal Candlestick (Baptistery, Florence)--Opposite page 15 8. Reliquary (Cathedral Orvieto, Ugolino di Vieri)--Opposite page 15 9. The Church in Symbol (Paris)--On page 17 10. Adoration of Magi (Pulpit, Siena, Nic. Pisano)--Opposite page 22 11. Cathedral (Lincoln)--Opposite page 28 12. Cathedral (York)--Opposite page 28 13. Cloister of St. John Lateran (Rome)--Opposite page 32 14. Jacques Coeur's House (Bourges)--On page 32 15. Rathhaus (Tangermünde)--Opposite page 42 16. Cathedral (Hereford)--Opposite page 44 17. Cathedral (York, East)--Opposite page 44 18. Single Flying Buttress--On page 57 19. Christ Driving Out Money Changers (Giotto)--Opposite page 64 20. Bride from Marriage of Cana (Giotto)--Opposite page 64 21. Head (Mosaic, St. Mark's, Venice)--Opposite page 64 22. Head of Blessed Virgin Annunciation--Opposite page 64 23. Petrarch Portraits by Benozzo Gozzoli--Opposite page 71 24. Dante Portraits by Benozzo Gozzoli--Opposite page 71 25. Giotto Portraits by Benozzo Gozzoli--Opposite page 71 26. Screen (Hereford)--Opposite page 87 27. Doorway of Sacristy (Bourges)--Opposite page 87 28. Double Flying Buttress--On page 95 29. Angel Choir (Lincoln)--Opposite page 96 30. Cathedral (Amiens)--Opposite page 105 31. Cathedral (Rheims)--Opposite page 107 32. Cloister of St. Paul's (without the walls, Rome)--Opposite page 112 33. Cathedral (Bourges)--Opposite page 116 34. Cathedral (Chartres)--Opposite page 116 35. Durham Castle and Cathedral--Opposite page 120 36. King John's Castle (Limerick)--Opposite page 120 37. Giotto's Tower (Florence)--Opposite page 122 38. Palazzo Vecchio (Florence) Campanile (Giotto)--Opposite page 122 {xxviii} 39. Fountain (Perugia) [Town Pump]--Opposite page 126 40. Lavatoio (Todi) [Public Wash-House]--Opposite page 126 41. Reliquary (Limoges Museo, Florence)--Opposite page 133 42. Crucifix (Duomo, Siena)--Opposite page 133 43. Madonna, Cimabue (Rucellai Chapel, Santa Maria Novella, Florence)-- Opposite page 136 44. St. Francis' Marriage with Poverty (Giotto, Assisi)--Opposite page 144 45. Espousal of St. Catherine (Gaddi, XIII. Century pupil, Perugia)-- Opposite page 147 46. Group from Visitation (Rheims)--On page 148 47. Monument of Cardinal de Bray (Arnolfo)--Opposite page 156 48. Decoration (XIII. Cent. Psalter MSS.)--On page 165 49. Santa Maria Sopra Minerva (Rome's Gothic Cathedral)--Opposite page 168 50. Crozier (obverse and reverse)--On page 181 51. Tower of Scaligers--On page 193 52. St. Francis Prophesies the Death of Celano (Giotto, Upper Ch., Assisi)--Opposite page 197 53. Virgin and Child (Pisa, Campo Santo, Giov. Pisano)--Opposite page 200 54. Entombment of Blessed Virgin--On page 208 55. St. Christopher (alto relievo, Venice)--Opposite page 214 56. Madonna and Child (Giov. Pisano, Padua)--Opposite page 214 57. Tower (Lincoln)--On page 220 58. Porta Romana Gate, Florence (N. Pisano)--Opposite page 226 59. Ponte Alle Grazie (Lapo)--Opposite page 226 60. Church and Cloisters, San Antonio (Padua)--Opposite page 232 61. St. Catherine's (Lübeck)--Opposite page 232 62. Stone Carving (Paris)--On page 237 63. The First Nativity Play (Giotto, Upper Church of Assisi)--Opposite page 240 64. Palazzo Buondelmonti (Florence)--Opposite page 248 65. Palazzo Tolomei (Siena)--Opposite page 248 66. Capital (Lincoln)--On page 253 67. The Glorification of St. Francis (Giotto, Lower Church of Assisi)-- Opposite page 256 68. St. Francis (Church of the Frari, Venice, Nic. Pisano)--Opposite page 261 69. St. Clare--Three Franciscans (Giotto)--Opposite page 264 70. St. Louis--Three Franciscans (Giotto)--Opposite page 264 71. St. Elizabeth--Three Franciscans (Giotto)--Opposite page 264 72. Side Capital (Lincoln)--On page 269 73. Notre Dame (Paris)--Opposite page 290 74. La Sainte Chapelle (Paris)--Opposite page 294 [missing] 75. Cathedral (Orvieto)--Opposite page 294 [missing] {xxix} 76. Apostle (la Sainte Chapelle, Paris)--Opposite page 296 77. Decoration (Queen Mary's Psalter, XIII. Century MS.)--On page 299 78. Portrait of Dante (Giotto, in the Bargello, Florence)--Opposite page 300 79. Torre del Fame (Dante, Pisa)--Opposite page 306 80. Palazzo Pretorio (Todi)--Opposite page 306 81. Angel (Rheims)--On page 318 82. St. Clare Bids the Dead St. Francis Good-bye (Giotto, Up. Ch. Assisi)--Opposite page 320 83. Church (Doberan, Germany)--Opposite page 322 84. San Damiano (Assisi)--Opposite page 322 85. St. Elizabeth's Cathedral (Marburg)--Opposite page 325 86. Marriage of the Blessed Virgin (Giotto, Padua)--Opposite page 328 87. Mosaic (St. Mark's, Venice, 1220)--Opposite page 333 88. Stone Carving (Amiens)--On page 336 89. Hospital of the Holy Ghost (Lübeck)--Opposite page 341 90. Charity (Giotto)--Opposite page 347 91. Fortitude (Giotto)--Opposite page 347 92. Hope (Giotto)--Opposite page 347 93. Hospital Interior--On page 349 94. Tower (Marburg)--On page 363 95. City Gate (Neubrandenburg)--Opposite page 368 96. Rathhaus (Stralsund)--Opposite page 368 97. Portrait of Pope Boniface VIII. (Giotto, Rome)--Opposite page 372 98. Decoration (XIII. Cent. Psalter)--On page 374 99. Doorway (Lincoln)--Opposite page 381 100. Nave (Durham)--Opposite page 381 101. Broken Arch (St. Mary's, York, Climax of Gothic)--Opposite page 381 102. Animals from Bestiarium (XIII. Cent. MS.)--On page 391 103. Door of Giotto's Tower (Florence)--Opposite page 405 104. Principal Door of Baptistery (Pisa)--Opposite page 405 105. Palazzo dei Consoli (Gubbio)--Opposite page 417 106. Palazzo Zabarella (Padua)--Opposite page 417 107. Rathhaus (Lübeck)--Opposite page 422 108. City Gate (Neubrandenburg)--Opposite page 426 109. Minster (Chorin, Germany)--Opposite page 426 110. Hinge from Schlestadt--On page 429 111. Portion of Letter of Innocent III., Mentioning Greenland--On page 433 112. Double Pivoted Compass Needle--On page 441 113. Peregrinus' Compass--On page 442 114. Portion of MS. of Ormulum--On page 450 115. Key of Map of World (Hereford)--On page 461 116. Map of World (Hereford)--Opposite page 463 {xxx} {1} I INTRODUCTION THE THIRTEENTH, THE GREATEST OF CENTURIES It cannot but seem a paradox to say that the Thirteenth was the greatest of centuries. To most people the idea will appear at once so preposterous that they may not even care to consider it. A certain number, of course, will have their curiosity piqued by the thought that anyone should evolve so curious a notion. Either of these attitudes of mind will yield at once to a more properly receptive mood if it is recalled that the Thirteenth is the century of the Gothic cathedrals, of the foundation of the university, of the signing of Magna Charta, and of the origin of representative government with something like constitutional guarantees throughout the west of Europe. The cathedrals represent a development in the arts that has probably never been equaled either before or since. The university was a definite creation of these generations that has lived and maintained its usefulness practically in the same form in which it was then cast for the seven centuries ever since. The foundation stones of modern liberties are to be found in the documents which for the first time declared the rights of man during this precious period. A little consideration of the men who, at this period, lived lives of undying influence on mankind, will still further attract the attention of those who have not usually grouped these great characters together. Just before the century opened, three great rulers died at the height of their influence. They are still and will always be the subject of men's thoughts and of literature. They were Frederick Barbarossa, Saladin, and Richard Coeur De Lion. They formed but a suggestive prelude of what was to come in the following century, when such {2} great monarchs as St. Louis of France, St. Ferdinand of Spain, Alfonso the Wise of Castile, Frederick II of Germany, Edward I, the English Justinian, Rudolph of Hapsburg, whose descendants still rule in Austria, and Robert Bruce, occupied the thrones of Europe. Was it by chance or Providence that the same century saw the rise of and the beginning of the fall of that great Eastern monarchy which had been created by the genius for conquest of Jenghiz Khan, the Tartar warrior, who ruled over all the Eastern world from beyond what are now the western confines of Russia, Poland, and Hungary, into and including what we now call China. But the thrones of Europe and of Asia did not monopolize the great men of the time. The Thirteenth Century claims such wonderful churchmen as St. Francis and St. Dominic, and while it has only the influence of St. Hugh of Lincoln, who died just as it began, it can be proud of St. Edmund of Canterbury, Stephen Langton, and Robert Grosseteste, all men whose place in history is due to what they did for their people, and such magnificent women as Queen Blanche of Castile, St. Clare of Assisi, and St. Elizabeth of Hungary. The century opened with one of the greatest of the Popes on the throne, Innocent III, and it closed with the most misunderstood of Popes, who is in spite of this one of the worthiest successors of Peter, Boniface VIII. During the century there had been such men as Honorius IV, the Patron of Learning, Gregory IX, to whom Canon Law owes so much, and John XXI, who had been famous as a scientist before becoming Pope. There are such scholars as St. Thomas of Aquin, Albertus Magnus, Roger Bacon, St. Bonaventure, Duns Scotus, Raymond Lully, Vincent of Beauvais, and Alexander of Hales, and such patrons of learning as Robert of Sorbonne, and the founders of nearly twenty universities. There were such artists as Gaddi, Cimabue, and above all Giotto, and such literary men as the authors of the Arthur Legends and the Nibelungen, the Meistersingers, the Minnesingers, the Troubadours, and Trouvères, and above all Dante, who is universally considered now to be one of the greatest literary men of all times, but who was not, as is so often thought and said, a solitary phenomenon in the period, but only the culmination of a great literary movement that had to have {3} some such supreme expression of itself as this in order to properly round out the cycle of its existence. If in addition it be said that this century saw the birth of the democratic spirit in many different ways in the various countries of Europe, but always in such form that it was never quite to die out again, the reasons for talking of it as possibly the greatest of centuries will be readily appreciated even by those whose reading has not given them any preliminary basis of information with regard to this period, which has unfortunately been shrouded from the eyes of most people by the fact, that its place in the midst of the Middle Ages would seem to preclude all possibility of the idea that it could represent a great phase of the development of the human intellect and its esthetic possibilities. There would seem to be one more or less insuperable objection to the consideration of the Thirteenth as the greatest of centuries, and that arises from the fact that the idea of evolution has consciously and unconsciously tinged the thoughts of our generation to such a degree, that it seems almost impossible to think of a period so far in the distant past as having produced results comparable with those that naturally flow from the heightened development of a long subsequent epoch. Whatever of truth there may be in the great theory of evolution, however, it must not be forgotten that no added evidence for its acceptance can be obtained from the intellectual history of the human race. We may be "the heirs of all the ages in the foremost files of time," but one thing is certain, that we can scarcely hope to equal, and do not at all think of surpassing, some of the great literary achievements of long past ages. In the things of the spirit apparently there is very little, if any, evolution. Homer wrote nearly three thousand years ago as supreme an expression of human life in absolute literary values as the world has ever known, or, with all reverence for the future be it said, is ever likely to know. The great dramatic poem Job emanated from a Hebrew poet in those earlier times, and yet, if judged from the standpoint of mere literature, is as surpassing an expression of human intelligence in the presence of the mystery of evil as has ever come from the mind of man. We are no nearer the solution of the problem of {4} evil in life, though thousands of years have passed and man has been much occupied with the thoughts that disturbed the mind of the ruler of Moab. The Code of Hammurabi, recently discovered, has shown very definitely, that men could make laws nearly five thousand years ago as well calculated to correct human abuses as those our legislators spend so much time over at present, and the olden time laws were probably quite as effective as ours can hope to be, for all our well intentioned purpose and praiseworthy efforts at reform. It used to be a favorite expression of Virchow, the great German pathologist, who was, besides, however, the greatest of living anthropologists, that from the history of the human race the theory of evolution receives no confirmation of any kind. His favorite subject, the study of skulls, and their conformation in the five thousand years through which such remains could be traced, showed him absolutely no change. For him there had been also no development in the intellectual order in human life during the long period of human history. Of course this is comparatively brief if the long aeons of geological times be considered, yet some development might be expected to manifest itself in the more than two hundred generations that have come and gone since the beginning of human memory. Perhaps, then, the prejudice with regard to evolution and its supposed effectiveness in making the men of more recent times superior to those of the past, may be considered to have very little weight as an _a priori_ objection to the consideration of the Thirteenth Century as representing the highest stage in human accomplishment. So far as scientific anthropology goes there is utter indifference as to the period that may be selected as representing man at his best. To most people the greater portion of surprise with regard to the assertion of the Thirteenth as the greatest of centuries will be the fact that the period thus picked out is almost in the heart of the Middle Ages. It would be not so amazing if the fifth century before Christ, which produced such marvelous accomplishments in letters and art and philosophy among the Greeks, was chosen as the greatest of human epochs. There might not even be so much of unpreparedness of mind if that supreme century of Roman History, from fifty years before Christ to fifty years after, were picked out for such signal notice. [Illustration] VIRGIN WITH THE DIVINE CHILD (MOSAIC, ST. MARK'S, VENICE) {5} We have grown accustomed, however, to think of the Middle Ages as hopelessly backward in the opportunities they afforded men for the expression of their intellectual and artistic faculties, and above all for any development of that human liberty which means so much for the happiness of the race and must constitute the basis of any real advance worth while talking about in human affairs. It is this that would make the Thirteenth Century seem out of place in any comparative study for the purpose of determining proportionate epochal greatness. The spirit breathes where it will, however, and there was a mighty wind of the spirit of human progress abroad in that Thirteenth Century, whose effects usually miss proper recognition in history, because people fail to group together in their minds all the influences in our modern life that come to us from that precious period. All this present volume pretends to do is to gather these scattered details of influence in order to make the age in which they all coincided so wonderfully, be properly appreciated. If we accept the usual historical division which places the Middle Ages during the thousand years between the fall of the Roman Empire, in the Fifth Century and the fall of the Grecian Empire of Constantinople, about the middle of the Fifteenth, the Thirteenth Century must be considered the culmination of that middle age. It is three centuries before the Renaissance, and to most minds that magical word represents the beginning of all that is modern, and therefore all that is best, in the world. Most people forget entirely how much of progress had been made before the so-called Renaissance, and how many great writers and artists had been fostering the taste and developing the intelligence of the people of Italy long before the fall of Constantinople. The Renaissance, after all, means only the re-birth of Greek ideas and ideals, of Greek letters and arts, into the modern world. If this new birth of Greek esthetics had not found the soil thoroughly prepared by the fruitful labor of three centuries before, history would not have seen any such outburst of artistic and literary accomplishments as actually came at the end of the Fifteenth and during the Sixteenth centuries. {6} In taking up the thesis, The Thirteenth the Greatest of Centuries, it seems absolutely necessary to define just what is meant by the term great, in its application to a period. An historical epoch, most people would concede at once, is really great just in proportion to the happiness which it provides for the largest possible number of humanity. That period is greatest that has done most to make men happy. Happiness consists in the opportunity to express whatever is best in us, and above all to find utterance for whatever is individual. An essential element in it is the opportunity to develop and apply the intellectual faculties, whether this be of purely artistic or of thoroughly practical character. For such happiness the opportunity to rise above one's original station is one of the necessary requisites. Out of these opportunities there comes such contentment as is possible to man in the imperfect existence that is his under present conditions. Almost as important a quality in any epoch that is to be considered supremely great, is the difference between the condition of men at the beginning of it and at its conclusion. The period that represents most progress, even though at the end uplift should not have reached a degree equal to subsequent periods, must be considered as having best accomplished its duty to the race. For purposes of comparison it is the amount of ground actually covered in a definite time, rather than the comparative position at the end of it, that deserves to be taken into account. This would seem to be a sort of hedging, as if the terms of the comparison of the Thirteenth with other centuries were to be made more favorable by the establishment of different standards. There is, however, no need of any such makeshift in order to establish the actual supremacy of the Thirteenth Century, since it can well afford to be estimated on its own merits alone, and without any allowances because of the stage of cultural development at which it occurred. John Ruskin once said that a proper estimation of the accomplishments of a period in human history can only be obtained by careful study of three books--The Book of the Deeds, The Book of the Arts, and the Book of the Words, of the given epoch. The Thirteenth Century may be promptly ready for this judgment of what it accomplished for men, of {7} what it wrote for subsequent generations, and of the artistic qualities to be found in its art remains. In the Book of the Deeds of the century what is especially important is what was accomplished for men, that is, what the period did for the education of the people, not alone the classes but the masses, and what a precious heritage of liberty and of social coordination it left behind. To most people it will appear at once that if the most important chapter of Thirteenth Century accomplishment is to be found in the Book of its Deeds and the deeds are to be judged according to the standard just given of education and liberty, then there will be no need to seek further, since these are words for which it is supposed that there is no actual equivalent in human life and history for at least several centuries after the close of the Thirteenth. As a matter of fact, however, it is in this very chapter that the Thirteenth Century will be found strongest in its claim to true greatness. The Thirteenth Century saw the foundation of the universities and their gradual development into the institutions of learning which we have at the present time. Those scholars of the Thirteenth Century recognized that, for its own development and for practical purposes, the human intellect can best be trained along certain lines. For its preliminary training, it seemed to them to need what has since come to be called the liberal arts, that is, a knowledge of certain languages and of logic, as well as a thorough consideration of the great problems of the relation of man to his Creator, to his fellow-men, and to the universe around him. Grammar, a much wider subject than we now include under the term, and philosophy constituted the undergraduate studies of the universities of the Thirteenth Century. For the practical purposes of life, a division of post-graduate study had to be made so as to suit the life design of each individual, and accordingly the faculties of theology, for the training of divines; of medicine, for the training of physicians; and of law, for the training of advocates, came into existence. We shall consider this subject in more detail in a subsequent chapter, but it will be clear at once that the university, as organized by these wise generations of the Thirteenth Century, has come down unchanged to us in the modern time. We {8} still have practically the same methods of preliminary training and the same division of post-graduate studies. We specialize to a greater degree than they did, but it must not be forgotten that specialism was not unknown by any means in the Thirteenth Century, though there were fewer opportunities for its practical application to the things of life. If this century had done nothing else but create the instrument by which the human mind has ever since been trained, it must be considered as deserving a place of the very highest rank in the periods of human history. It is, however, much more for what it accomplished for the education of the masses than for the institutions it succeeded in developing for the training of the classes, that the Thirteenth Century merits a place in the roll of fame. This declaration will doubtless seem utterly paradoxical to the ordinary reader of history. We are very prone to consider that it is only in our time that anything like popular education has come into existence. As a matter of fact, however, the education afforded to the people in the little towns of the Middle Ages, represents an ideal of educational uplift for the masses such as has never been even distantly approached in succeeding centuries. The Thirteenth Century developed the greatest set of technical schools that the world has ever known. The technical school is supposed to be a creation of the last half century at the outside. These medieval towns, however, during the course of the building of their cathedrals, of their public buildings and various magnificent edifices of royalty and for the nobility, succeeded in accomplishing such artistic results that the world has ever since held them in admiration, and that this admiration has increased rather than diminished with the development of taste in very recent years. Nearly every one of the most important towns of England during the Thirteenth Century was erecting a cathedral. Altogether some twenty cathedrals remain as the subject of loving veneration and of frequent visitation for the modern generation. There was intense rivalry between these various towns. Each tried to surpass the other in the grandeur of its cathedral and auxiliary buildings. Instead of lending workmen to one another there was a civic pride in accomplishing for one's native town whatever was best. [Illustration] PULPIT (PISANO, SIENA) {9} Each of these towns, then, none of which had more than twenty thousand inhabitants except London, and even that scarcely more, had to develop its own artist-artisans for itself. That they succeeded in doing so demonstrates a great educational influence at work in arts and crafts in each of these towns. We scarcely succeed in obtaining such trained workmen in proportionately much fewer numbers even with the aid of our technical schools, and while these Thirteenth Century people did not think of such a term, it is evident that they had the reality and that they were able to develop artistic handicraftsmen--the best the world has ever known. With all this of education abroad in the lands, it is not surprising that great results should have flowed from human efforts and that these should prove enduring even down to our own time. Accomplishments of the highest significance were necessarily bound up with opportunities for self-expression, so tempting and so complete, as those provided for the generations of the Thirteenth Century. The books of the Words as well as of the Arts of the Thirteenth Century will be found eminently interesting, and no period has ever furnished so many examples of wondrous initiative, followed almost immediately by just as marvelous progress and eventual approach to as near perfection as it is perhaps possible to come in things human. Ordinarily literary origins are not known with sufficient certainty as to dates for any but the professional scholar to realize the scope of the century's literature. Only a very little consideration, however, is needed to demonstrate how thoroughly representative of what is most enduring in literary expression in modern times, are the works in every country that had origin in this century. There was not a single country in civilized Europe which did not contribute its quota and that of great significance to the literary movement of the time. In Spain there came the Cid and certain accompanying products of ballad poetry which form the basis of the national literature and are still read not only by scholars and amateurs, but even by the people generally, because of the supreme human interest in them. In England, the beginning of the Thirteenth Century saw the putting {10} into shape of the Arthur Legends in the form in which they were to appeal most nearly to subsequent generations. Walter Map's work in these was, as we shall see, one of the great literary accomplishments of all time. Subsequent treatments of the same subject are only slight modifications of the theme which he elaborated, and Mallory's and Spenser's and even our own Tennyson's work derive their interest from the humanly sympathetic story, written so close to the heart of nature in the Thirteenth Century that it will always prove attractive. In Germany, just at the same time, the Nibelungen-Lied was receiving the form in which it was to live as the great National epic. The Meistersingers also were accomplishing their supreme work of Christianizing and modernizing the old German and Christian legends which were to prove such a precious heritage of interest for posterity. In the South of Germany the Minnesingers sang their tuneful strains and showed how possible it was to take the cruder language of the North, and pour forth as melodious hymns of praise to nature and to their beloved ones as in the more fluent Southern tongues. Most of this was done in the old Suabian high German dialect, and the basis of the modern German language was thus laid. The low German was to prove the vehicle for the original form of the animal epic or stories with regard to Reynard, the Fox, which were to prove so popular throughout all of Europe for all time thereafter. In North France the Trouvères were accomplishing a similar work to that of the Minnesingers in South Germany, but doing it with an original genius, a refinement of style characteristic of their nation, and a finish of form that was to impress itself upon French literature for all subsequent time. Here also Jean de Meun and Guillaume de Lorris wrote the Romance of the Rose, which was to remain the most popular book in Europe down to the age of printing and for some time thereafter. At the South of France the work of the Troubadours, similar to that of the Trouvères and yet with, a spirit and character all its own, was creating a type of love songs that the world recurs to with pleasure whenever the lyrical aspect of poetry becomes fashionable. The influence of the Troubadours was to be felt in Italy, and before the end of the {11} Thirteenth Century there were many writers of short poems that deserve a place in what is best in literature. Men like Sordello, Guido Cavalcanti, Cino da Pistoia, and Dante da Maiano, deserve mention in any historical review of literature, quite apart from the influence which they had on their great successor, the Prince of Italian poets and one of the immortal trio of the world's supreme creative singers--Dante Alighieri. With what must have seemed the limit of conceit he placed himself among the six greatest poets, but posterity breathes his name only with those of Homer and Shakespeare. Dante, in spite of his giant personality and sublime poetic genius, is not an exception nor a solitary phenomenon in the course of the century, but only a worthy culmination of the literary movement which, beginning in the distant West in Spain and England, gradually worked eastward quite contrary to the usual trend of human development and inspired its greatest work in the musical Tuscan dialect after having helped in the foundation of all the other modern languages. Dante is the supreme type of the Thirteenth Century, the child of his age, but the great master whom medieval influences have made all that he is. That he belongs to the century there can be no doubt, and of himself alone he would be quite sufficient to lift any period out of obscurity and place it among the favorite epochs, in which the human mind found one of those opportune moments for the expression of what is sublimest in human thought. It is, however, the bock of the Arts of the Thirteenth Century that deserves most to be thumbed by the modern reader intent on learning something of this marvelous period of human existence. There is not a single branch of art in which the men of this generation did not accomplish excelling things that have been favorite subjects for study and loving imitation ever since. Perhaps the most marvelous quality of the grand old Gothic cathedrals, erected during the Thirteenth Century, is not their impressiveness as a whole so much as their wonderful finish in detail. It matters not what element of construction or decoration be taken into consideration, always there is an approach to perfection in accomplishment in some one of the cathedrals that shows with what thoroughness the men of the {12} time comprehended what was best in art, and how finally their strivings after perfection were rewarded as bountifully as perhaps it has ever been given to men to realize. Of the major arts--architecture itself, sculpture and painting--only a word will be said here since they will be treated more fully in subsequent chapters. No more perfect effort at worthy worship of the Most High has ever been accomplished than is to be seen in the Gothic cathedrals in every country in Europe as they exist to the present day. While the movement began in North France, and gradually spread to other countries, there was never any question of mere slavish imitation, but on the contrary in each country Gothic architecture took on a national character and developed into a charming expression of the special characteristics of the people for whom and by whom it was made. English Gothic is, of course, quite different to that of France; Spanish Gothic has a character all its own; the German Gothic cathedrals partake of the heavier characteristics of the Northern people, while Italian Gothic adds certain airy decorative qualities to the French model that give renewed interest and inevitably indicate the origin of the structures. In painting, Cimabue's work, so wonderfully appreciated by the people of Florence that spontaneously they flocked in procession to do honor to his great picture, was the beginning of modern art. How much was accomplished before the end of the century will be best appreciated when the name of Giotto is mentioned as the culmination of the art movement of the century. As we shall see, the work done by him, especially at Assisi, has been a source of inspiration for artists down even to our own time, and there are certain qualities of his art, especially his faculty for producing the feeling of solidity in his paintings, in which very probably he has never been surpassed. Gothic cathedrals in other countries did not lend themselves so well as subjects of inspiration for decorative art, but in every country the sacred books in use in the cathedral were adorned, at the command of the artistic impulse of the period, in a way that has made the illuminated missals and office books of the Thirteenth Century perhaps the most precious that there are in the history of book-making. {opp13} [Illustration] ARCHANGEL MICHAEL (GIOVANNI PISANO, PISA) [Illustration] CHRIST (ANDREA PISANO, FLORENCE) [Illustration] STA. REPARATA (ANDREA PISANO, FLORENCE) {13} It might be thought that in sculpture, at least, these Thirteenth-Century generations would prove to be below the level of that perfection and artistic expression which came so assuredly in other lines. It is true that most of the sculptures of the period have defects that make them unworthy of imitation, though it is in the matter of technique that they fail rather than in honest effort to express feelings appropriately within the domain of chiseled work. On the other hand there are some supreme examples of what is best in sculpture to be found among the adornments of the cathedrals of the period. No more simply dignified rendition of the God Man has ever been made in stone than the statue of Christ, which with such charming appropriateness the people of Amiens have called _le Beau Dieu_, their beautiful God, and that visitors to their great cathedral can never admire sufficiently, admirably set off, as it is, in its beautiful situation above the main door of the great cathedral. Other examples are not lacking, as for instance some of the Thirteenth-Century effigies of the French kings and queens at St. Denis, and some of the wonderful sculptures at Rheims. In its place as a subsidiary art to architecture for decorative purposes, sculpture was even more eminently successful. The best example of this is the famous Angel Choir of Lincoln, one of the most beautiful things that ever came from the hand of man and whose designation indicates the belief of the centuries that only the angels could have made it. In the handicrafts most nearly allied to the arts, the Thirteenth Century reigns supreme with a splendor unapproached by what has been accomplished in any other century. The iron work of their gates and railings, even of their hinges and latches and locks, has been admired and imitated by many generations since. When a piece of it is no longer of use, or loosens from the crumbling woodwork to which it was attached, it is straightway transported to some museum, there to be displayed not alone for its antiquarian interest, but also as a model and a suggestion to the modern designer. This same thing is true of the precious metal work of the times also, at least as regards the utensils and ornaments employed in the sacred services. The chalices and other sacred {14} vessels were made on severely simple lines and according to models which have since become the types of such sacred utensils for all times. The vestments used in the sacred ceremonials partook of this same character of eminently appropriate handiwork united to the chastest of designs, executed with supreme taste. The famous cope of Ascoli which the recent Pierpont Morgan incident brought into prominence a year or so ago, is a sample of the needlework of the times that illustrates its perfection. It is said by those who are authorities in the matter that Thirteenth-Century needlework represents what is best in this line. It is not the most elaborate, nor the most showy, but it is in accordance with the best taste, supremely suitable to the objects of which it formed a part. It is, after all, only an almost inevitable appendix to the beautiful work done in the illumination of the sacred books, that the sacred vestments should have been quite as supremely artistic and just as much triumphs of art. As a matter of fact, every minutest detail of cathedral construction and ornamentation shared in this artistic triumph. Even the inscriptions, done in brass upon the gravestones that formed part of the cathedral pavements, are models of their kind, and rubbings from them are frequently taken because of their marvelous effectiveness as designs in Gothic tracery. Their bells were made with such care and such perfection that, down to the present time, nothing better has been accomplished in this handicraft, and their marvelous retention of tone shows how thorough was the work of these early bell-makers. The triumph of artistic decoration in the cathedrals, however, and the most marvelous page in the book of the Arts of the century, remains to be spoken of in their magnificent stained-glass windows. Where they learned their secret of glass-making we know not. Artists of the modern time, who have spent years in trying to perfect their own work in this line, would give anything to have some of the secrets of the glass-makers of the Thirteenth Century. Such windows as the Five Sisters at York, or the wonderful Jesse window of Chartres with some of its companions, are the despair of the modern {15} artists in stained glass. The fact that their glass-making was not done at one, or even a few, common centers, but was apparently executed in each of these small medieval towns that were the site of a cathedral, only adds to the marvel of how the workmen of the time succeeded so well in accomplishing their purpose of solving the difficult problems of stained glasswork. {opp15} [Illustration ] PASCHAL CANDLESTICK (BAPTISTERY, FLORENCE) [Illustration:] RELIQUARY (CATHEDRAL ORVIETO, UGOLINO DI VIERI) If, to crown all that has been said about the Thirteenth Century, we now add a brief account of what was accomplished for men in the matter of liberty and the establishment of legal rights, we shall have a reasonably adequate introduction to this great subject. Liberty is thought to be a word whose true significance is of much more recent origin than the end of the Middle Ages. The rights of men are usually supposed to have received serious acknowledgment only in comparatively recent centuries. The recalling of a few facts, however, will dispel this illusion and show how these men of the later middle age laid the foundation of most of the rights and privileges that we are so proud to consider our birthright in this modern time. The first great fact in the history of modern liberty is the signing of Magna Charta which took place only a little after the middle of the first quarter of the Thirteenth Century. The movement that led up to it had arisen amongst the guildsmen as well as the churchmen and the nobles of the preceding century. When the document was signed, however, these men did not consider that their work was finished. They kept themselves ready to take further advantage of the necessities of their rulers and it was not long before they had secured political as well as legal rights. Shortly after the middle of the Thirteenth Century the first English parliament met, and in the latter part of that half century it became a formal institution with regularly appointed times of meeting and definite duties and privileges. Then began the era of law in its modern sense for the English people. The English common law took form and its great principles were enunciated practically in the terms in which they are stated down to the present day. Bracton made his famous digest of the English common law for the use of judges and lawyers and it became a standard work of reference. Such it {16} has remained down to our own time. At the end of the century, during the reign of Edward I, the English Justinian, the laws of the land were formulated, lacunae in legislation filled up, rights and privileges fully determined, real-estate laws put on a modern basis, and the most important portions of English law became realities that were to be modified but not essentially changed in all the after time. This history of liberty and of law-making, so familiar with regard to England, must be repeated almost literally with regard to the continental nations. In France, the foundation of the laws of the kingdom were laid during the reign of Louis IX, and French authorities in the history of law, point with pride, to how deeply and broadly the foundations of French jurisprudence were laid. Under Louis's cousin, Ferdinand III of Castile, who, like the French monarch, has received the title of Saint, because of the uprightness of his character and all that he did for his people, forgetful of himself, the foundations of Spanish law were laid, and it is to that time that Spanish jurists trace the origin of nearly all the rights and privileges of their people. In Germany there is a corresponding story. In Saxony there was the issue of a famous book of laws, which represented all the grants of the sovereigns, and all the claims of subjects that had been admitted by monarchs up to that time. In a word, everywhere there was a codification of laws and a laying of foundations in jurisprudence, upon which the modern superstructure of law was to rise. This is probably the most surprising part of the Thirteenth Century. When it began men below the rank of nobles were practically slaves. Whatever rights they had were uncertain, liable to frequent violation because of their indefinite character, and any generation might, under the tyranny of some consciousless monarch, have lost even the few privileges they had enjoyed before. At the close of the Thirteenth Century this was no longer possible. The laws had been written down and monarchs were bound by them as well as their subjects. Individual caprice might no longer deprive them arbitrarily of their rights and hard won privileges, though tyranny might still assert itself and a submissive generation might, for a time, {17} allow themselves to be governed by measures beyond the domain of legal justification. Any subsequent generation might, however, begin anew its assertion of its rights from the old-time laws, rather than from the position to which their forbears had been reduced by a tyrant's whim. Is it any wonder, then, that we should call the generations that gave us the cathedrals, the universities, the great technical schools that were organized by the trades guilds, the great national literatures that lie at the basis of all our modern literature, the beginnings of sculpture and of art carried to such heights that artistic principles were revealed for all time, and, finally, the great men and women of this century--for more than any other it glories in names that were born not to die--is it at all surprising that we should claim for the period which, in addition to all this, saw the foundation of modern law and liberty, the right to be hailed--the greatest of human history? [Illustration] THE CHURCH [SYMBOLIZED] (PARIS) {18} II UNIVERSITIES AND PREPARATORY SCHOOLS. To see, at once, how well the Thirteenth deserves the name of the greatest of centuries, it is necessary, only, to open the book of her deeds and read therein what was accomplished during this period for the education of the men of the time. It is, after all, what a generation accomplishes for intellectual development and social uplift that must be counted as its greatest triumph. If life is larger in its opportunities, if men appreciate its significance better, if the development of the human mind has been rendered easier, if that precious thing, whose name, education, has been so much abused, is made readier of attainment, then the generation stamps itself as having written down in its book of deeds, things worthy for all subsequent generations to read. Though anything like proper appreciation of it has come only in very recent times, there is absolutely no period of equal length in the history of mankind in which so much was not only attempted, but successfully accomplished for education, in every sense of the word, as during the Thirteenth Century. This included, not only the education of the classes but also the education of the masses. For the moment, we shall concern ourselves only with the education offered to, and taken advantage of by so many, in the universities of the time. It was just at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century that the great universities came into being as schools, in which all the ordinary forms of learning were taught. During the Twelfth Century, Bologna had had a famous school of law which attracted students from all over Europe. Under Irnerius, canon and civil law secured a popularity as subjects of study such as they never had before. The study of the old Roman Law brought back with it an interest in the Latin classics, and the beginning of the true new birth--the real renaissance--of modern education must be traced from here. At Paris there was a theological school attached to {19} the cathedral which gradually became noted for its devotion to philosophy as the basis of theology, and, about the middle of the Twelfth Century, attracted students from every part of the civilized world. As was the case at Bologna, interest after a time was not limited to philosophy and theology; other branches of study were admitted to the curriculum and a university in the modern sense came into existence. During the first quarter of the Thirteenth Century both of these schools developed faculties for the teaching of all the known branches of knowledge. At Bologna faculties of arts, of philosophy and theology, and finally of medicine, were gradually added, and students flocked in ever increasing numbers to take advantage of these additional opportunities. At Paris, the school of medicine was established early in the Thirteenth Century, and there were graduates in medicine before the year 1220. Law came later, but was limited to Canon law to a great extent, Orleans having a monopoly of civil law for more than a century. These two universities, Bologna and Paris, were, in every sense of the word, early in the century, real universities, differing in no essential from our modern institutions that bear the same name. If the Thirteenth Century had done nothing else but put into shape this great instrument for the training of the human mind, which has maintained its effectiveness during seven centuries, it must be accorded a place among the epoch-making periods of history. With all our advances in modern education we have not found it necessary, or even advisable, to change, in any essential way, this mold in which the human intellect has been cast for all these years. If a man wants knowledge for its own sake, or for some practical purpose in life, then here are the faculties which will enable him to make a good beginning on the road he wishes to travel. If he wants knowledge of the liberal arts, or the consideration of man's duties to himself, to his fellow-man and to his Creator, he will find in the faculties of arts and philosophy and theology the great sources of knowledge in these subjects. If, on the other hand, he wishes to apply his mind either to the disputes of men about property, or to their injustices toward one another and the correction of abuses, then the faculty of law will {20} supply his wants, and finally the medical school enables him, if he wishes, to learn all that can be known at a given time with regard to man's ills and their healing. We have admitted the practical-work subjects into university life, though not without protest, but architecture, engineering, bridge-building and the like, in which the men of the Thirteenth Century accomplished such wonders, were relegated to the guilds whose technical schools, though they did not call them by that name, were quite as effective practical educators as even the most vaunted of our modern university mechanical departments. It is rather interesting to trace the course of the development of schools in our modern sense of the term, because their evolution recapitulates, to some degree at least, the history of the individual's interest in life. The first school which acquired a European reputation was that of Salernum, a little town not far from Naples, which possessed a famous medical school as early as the ninth century, perhaps earlier. This never became a university, though its reputation as a great medical school was maintained for several centuries. This first educational opportunity to attract a large body of students from all over the world concerned mainly the needs of the body. The next set of interests which man, in the course of evolution develops, has to do with the acquisition and retention of property and the maintenance of his rights as an individual. It is not surprising, then, to find that the next school of world-wide reputation was that of law at Bologna which became the nucleus of a great university. It is only after man has looked out for his bodily needs and his property rights, that he comes to think of his duties toward himself, his fellow-men, and his Creator, and so the third of these great medieval schools, in time, was that of philosophy and theology, at Paris. It is sometimes thought that the word university applied to these institutions after the aggregation of other faculties, was due to the fact that there was a universality of studies, that all branches of knowledge might be followed in them. The word university, however, was not originally applied to the school itself, which, if it had all the faculties of the modern university, was, in the Thirteenth Century, called a _studium generale_. The Latin word universitas had quite a different {21} usage at that time. Whenever letters were formally addressed to the combined faculties of a _studium generale_ by reigning sovereigns, or by the Pope, or by other high ecclesiastical authorities, they always began with the designation, Universitas Vestra, implying that the greeting was to all of the faculty, universally and without exception. Gradually, because of this word constantly occurring at the beginning of letters to the faculty, the term universitas came to be applied to the institution. [Footnote 1] [Footnote 1: Certain other terms that occur in these letters of greeting to university officials have a more than passing interest. The rector of the university, for instance, was always formally addressed as Amplitudo Vestra, that is, Your Ampleness. Considering the fact that not a few of the rectors of the old time universities, all of whom were necessarily ecclesiastics, must have had the ampleness of girth so characteristic of their order under certain circumstances, there is an appropriateness about this formal designation which perhaps appeals more to the risibilities of the modern mind than to those of medieval time.] While the universities, as is typically exemplified by the histories of Bologna and Paris, and even to a noteworthy degree of Oxford, grew up around the cathedrals, they cannot be considered in any sense the deliberate creation, much less the formal invention, of any particular set of men. The idea of a university was not born into the world in full panoply as Minerva from the brain of Jove. No one set about consciously organizing for the establishment of complete institutions of learning. Like everything destined to mean much in the world the universities were a natural growth from the favoring soil in which living seeds were planted. They sprang from the wonderful inquiring spirit of the time and the marvelous desire for knowledge and for the higher intellectual life that came over the people of Europe during the Thirteenth Century. The school at Paris became famous, and attracted pupils during the Twelfth Century, because of the new-born interest in scholastic philosophy. After the pupils had gathered in large numbers their enthusiasm led to the establishment of further courses of study. The same thing was true at Bologna, where the study of Law first attracted a crowd of earnest students, and then the demand for broader education led to the establishment of other faculties. {22} Above all, there was no conscious attempt on the part of any supposed better class to stoop down and uplift those presumably below it. As we shall see, the students of the university came mainly from the middle class of the population. They became ardently devoted to their teachers. As in all really educational work, it was the man and not the institution that counted for much. In case of disagreement of one of these with the university authorities, not infrequently there was a sacrifice of personal advantage for the moment on the part of the students in order to follow a favorite teacher. Paris had examples of this several times before the Thirteenth Century, and notably in the case of Abelard had seen thousands of students follow him into the distant desert where he had retired. Later on, when abuses on the part of the authorities of Paris limited the University's privileges, led to the withdrawal of students and the foundation of Oxford, there was a community of interest on the part of certain members of the faculty and thousands of students. This movement was, however, distinctly of a popular character, in the sense that it was not guided by political or other leaders. Nearly all of the features of university life during the Thirteenth Century, emphasize the democracy of feeling of the students, and make it clear that the blowing of the wind of the spirit of human liberty and intellectual enthusiasm influencing the minds of the generation, rather than any formal attempt on the part of any class of men deliberately to provide educational opportunities, is the underlying feature of university foundation and development. While the great universities of Paris, Bologna, and Oxford were, by far, the most important, they must not be considered as the only educational institutions deserving the name of universities, even in our modern sense, that took definite form during the Thirteenth Century. In Italy, mainly under the fostering care of ecclesiastics, encouraged by such Popes as Innocent III, Gregory IX, and Honorius IV, nearly a dozen other towns and cities saw the rise of Studia Generalia eventually destined, and that within a few decades after their foundation, to have the complete set of faculties, and such a number of teachers and of students as merited for them the name of University. {opp23} [Illustration] ADORATION OF MAGI (PULPIT, SIENA, NIC. PISANO). {23} Very early in the century Vicenza, Reggio, and Arezzo became university towns. Before the first quarter of the century was finished there were universities at Padua, at Naples, and at Vercelli. In spite of the troublous times and the great reduction in the population of Rome there was a university founded in connection with the Roman Curia, that is the Papal Court, before the middle of the century, and Siena and Piacenza had founded rival university institutions. Perugia had a famous school which became a complete university early in the Fourteenth Century. Nor were other countries much behind Italy in this enthusiastic movement. Montpelier had, for over a century before the beginning of the thirteenth, rejoiced in a medical school which was the most important rival of that at Salernum. At the beginning this reflected largely the Moorish element in educational affairs in Europe at this time. During the course of the Thirteenth Century Montpelier developed into a full-fledged university though the medical school still continued to be the most important faculty. Medical students from all over the world flocked to the salubrious town to which patients from all over were attracted, and its teachers and writers of medicine have been famous in medical history ever since. How thorough was the organization of clinical medical work at Montpelier may perhaps best be appreciated from the fact, noted in the chapter on City Hospitals--Organized Charity, that when Pope Innocent III. wished to establish a model hospital at Rome with the idea that it would form an exemplar for other European cities, he sent down to Montpelier and summoned Guy, the head of the Hospital of the Holy Ghost in that city, to the Papal Capital to establish the Roman Hospital of the Holy Ghost and, in connection with it, a large number of hospitals all over Europe. A corresponding state of affairs to that of Montpelier is to be noted at Orleans, only here the central school, around which the university gradually grouped itself, was the Faculty of Civil Law. Canon law was taught at Paris in connection with the theological course, but there had always been objection to the admission of civil law as a faculty on a basis of equality with the other faculties. There was indeed {24} at this time some rivalry between the civil and the canon law and so the study of civil law was relegated to other universities. Even early in the Twelfth Century Orleans was famous for its school of civil law in which the exposition of the principles of the old Roman law constituted the basis of the university course. During the Thirteenth Century the remaining departments of the university gradually developed, so that by the close of the century, there seem to be conservative claims for over one thousand students. Besides these three, French universities were also established at Angers, at Toulouse, and the beginnings of institutions to become universities early in the next century are recorded at Avignon and Cahors. Spain felt the impetus of the university movement early in the Thirteenth Century and a university was founded at Palencia about the end of the first decade. This was founded by Alfonso XII. and was greatly encouraged by him. It is sometimes said that this university was transferred to Salamanca about 1230, but this is denied by Denifle, whose authority in matters of university history is unquestionable. It seems not unlikely that Salamanca drew a number of students from Palencia but that the latter continued still to attract many students. About the middle of the Thirteenth Century the university of Valladolid was founded. Before the end of the century a fourth university, that of Lerida, had been established in the Spanish peninsula. Spain was to see the greatest development of universities during the Fourteenth Century. It was not long after the end of the Thirteenth Century before Coimbra, in Portugal, began to assume importance as an educational institution, though it was not to have sufficient faculty and students to deserve the more ambitious title of university for half a century. While most people who know anything about the history of education realize the important position occupied by the universities during the Thirteenth Century and appreciate the estimation in which they were held and the numbers that attended them, very few seem to know anything of the preparatory schools of the time, and are prone to think that all the educational effort of these generations was exhausted in connection {25} with the university. It is often said, as we shall see, that one reason for the large number of students reported as in attendance at the universities during the Thirteenth Century is to be found in the fact that these institutions practically combined the preparatory school and the academy of our time with the university. The universities are supposed to have been the only centers of education worthy of mention. There is no doubt that a number of quite young students were in attendance at the universities, that is, boys from 12 to 15 who would in our time be only in the preparatory school. We shall explain, however, in the chapter on the Numbers in Attendance at the Universities that students went to college much younger in the past and graduated much earlier than they do in our day, yet apparently, without any injury to the efficacy of their educational training. In the universities of Southern Europe it is still the custom for boys to graduate with the degree of A. B. at the age of 15 to 16, which supposes attendance at the university, or its equivalent in under-graduate courses, at the age of 12 or even less. There is no need, however, to appeal to the precociousness of the southern nations in explanation of this, since there are some good examples of it in comparatively recent times here in America. Most of the colleges in this country, in the early part of the nineteenth century and the end of the eighteenth, graduated young men of 16 and 17 and thought that they were accomplishing a good purpose, in allowing them to get at their life work in early manhood. Many of the distinguished divines who made names in educational work are famous for their early graduations. Dr. Benjamin Rush, of Philadelphia, whom the medical profession of this country hails as the Father of American Medicine, graduated at Princeton at 15. He must have begun his college course, therefore, about the age of 12. This may be considered inadvisable in our generation, but, it must be remembered that there are many even in our day, who think that our college men are allowed to get at their life-work somewhat too late for their own good. It must be emphasized, moreover, that in many of the university towns there were also preparatory schools. Courses {26} were not regularly organized until well on in the Thirteenth Century, but younger brothers and friends of students as well as of professors would not infrequently be placed under their care and thus be enabled to receive their preparation for university work. At Paris, Robert Sorbonne founded a preparatory school for that institution under the name of the College of Calvi. Other colleges of this kind also existed in Paris. This custom of having a preparatory school in association with the university has not been abandoned even in our own day, and it has some decided advantages from an educational standpoint, though perhaps these are not enough to balance certain ethical disadvantages almost sure to attach to such a system, disadvantages which ultimately led in the Middle Ages to the prohibition that young students should be taken at the universities under any pretext. The presence of these young students in university towns probably did add considerably to the numbers reported as in attendance. It must not be thought, however, that there were no formal preparatory schools quite apart from university influence. This thought has been the root of more misunderstanding of the medieval system of education than almost any other. As a matter of fact there were preliminary and preparatory schools, what we would now call academies and colleges, in connection with all of the important monasteries and with every cathedral. Schools of less importance were required by a decree of a council held at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century to be maintained in connection with every bishop's church. During the Thirteenth Century there were some twenty cathedrals in various parts of England; each one had its cathedral school. Besides these there were at least as many important abbeys, nearly a dozen of them immense institutions, in which there were fine libraries, large writing rooms, in which copies of books were being constantly made, many of the members of the communities of which were university men, and around which, therefore, there clung an atmosphere of bookishness and educational influence that made them preparatory schools of a high type. The buildings themselves were of the highest type of architecture; the community life was well calculated to bring out what was best in the {27} intellectuality of members of the community, and, then, there was a rivalry between the various religious orders which made them prepare their men well in order that they might do honor to the order when they had the opportunity later, as most of those who had the ability and the taste actually did have, to go to one or other of the universities. This system of preparatory schools need not be accepted on the mere assumption that the monasteries and churches must surely have set about such work, because there is abundant evidence of the actual establishment and maintenance of such schools. With regard to the monasteries there can be no doubt, because it was the members of the religious orders who particularly distinguished themselves at the universities, and the histories of Oxford, Cambridge, and Paris are full of their accomplishments. They succeeded in obtaining the right to have their own houses at the universities and to have their own examinations count in university work, in order that they might maintain their influence over the members of the orders during the precious formative period of their intellectual life. With regard to the church schools there is convincing evidence of another kind. In the chapter on the foundation of City Hospitals we have detailed on the authority of Virchow all that Innocent III. accomplished for the hospital system of Europe. This chapter was published originally in the form of a lecture from the historical department of the Medical School of Fordham University and a reprint of it was sent to a distinguished American educator well known for his condemnation of supposed church intolerance in the matter of education and scientific development. He said that he was glad to have it because it confirmed and even broadened the idea that he had long cherished, that the Church had done more for Charity during the despised Middle Ages than national governments had ever been able to accomplish since, though it was all the more surprising to him that it should not have under the circumstances, done more for education, since this might have prevented some of the ills that charity had afterward to relieve. This expression very probably represents the state of mind of very many scholars with regard to this period. The Church is supposed to have interested herself {28} in charity almost to the exclusion of educational influence. Charity is of course admitted to be her special work, yet these scholars cannot help but regret that more was not done in social prophylaxis by the encouragement of education. In the light of this almost universal expression it is all the more interesting to find that such opinions are founded entirely on a lack of knowledge of what was done in education, since the same Pope, in practically the same way and by the exertion of the same prestige and ecclesiastical authority, did for education just what he did for charity in the matter of the hospitals and the ailing poor. Virchow, as we shall see, declared that to Innocent III. is due the foundation of practically all the city hospitals in Europe. If the effect of certain of the decrees issued in his papacy be carefully followed, it will be found that practically as many schools as hospitals owe their origin to his beneficent wisdom and his paternal desire to spread the advantages of Christianity all over the civilized world. This policy with regard to the hospitals led to the foundation before the end of the century of at least one hospital in every diocese of all the countries which were more closely allied with the Holy See. There is extant a decree issued by the famous council of Lateran, in 1215, a council in which Innocent's authority was dominant, requiring the establishment of a Chair of Grammar in connection with every cathedral in the Christian world. This Chair of Grammar included at least three of the so-called liberal arts and provided for what would now be called, the education of a school preparatory to a university. Before this, Innocent III, [Footnote 2] who had himself received the benefit of the best education of the time, having spent some years at Rome and later at Paris and at Bologna, had encouraged the sending of students to these universities in every way. [Footnote 2: Most of the details of what was accomplished for education by Pope Innocent III, and all the references needed to supply further information, can be found in the _Hestoire Litteratire de la France_, recent volumes of which were issued by the French Institute, though the magnificent work itself was begun by Benedictines of St. Maur, who completed some fifteen volumes. The sixteenth volume, most of which is written by Dauñou, is especially valuable for this period. Du Boulay, in his History of the University of Paris, will furnish additional information with regard to Pope Innocent's relations to education throughout Europe, especially, of course, in what regards the University of Paris.] [Illustration] CATHEDRAL (YORK) [Illustration] CATHEDRAL (LINCOLN) {29} Bishops who came to Rome were sure to hear inculcated the advisability of a taste for letters in clergymen, hear it said often enough that such a taste would surely increase the usefulness of all churchmen. Schools had been encouraged before the issuance of the decree. This only came as a confirmatory document calculated to perpetuate the policy that had already been so prominently in vogue in the church for over fifteen years of the Pope's reign. It was meant, too, to make clear to hesitant and tardy bishops, who might have thought that the papal interest in education was merely personal, that the policy of the church was concerned in it and recalled them to a sense of duty in the matter, since the ordinary enthusiasm for letters, even with the added encouragement of the Pope, did not suffice to make them realize the necessity for educational establishments. The institution of the schools of grammar in connection with cathedrals was well adapted to bring about a definite increase in the opportunities for book learning for those who desired it. In connection with the cathedrals there was always a band of canons whose duty it was to take part in the singing of the daily office. Their ceremonial and ritual duties did not, however, occupy them more than a few hours each day. During the rest of the time they were free to devote themselves to any subject in which they might be interested and had ample time for teaching. The requirement that there should be at least a school of grammar in connection with every cathedral afforded definite opportunity to such of these ecclesiastics as had intellectual tastes to devote themselves to the spread of knowledge and of culture, and this reacted, as can be readily understood, to make the whole band of canons more interested in the things of the mind, and to make the cathedral even more the intellectual center of the district than might otherwise have been the case. For the metropolitan churches a more far-reaching regulation was made by this same council of Lateran under the inspiration of the Pope himself. These important Archiepiscopal cathedrals were required to maintain professors of three chairs. One of these was to teach grammar, a second philosophy, and a third canon law. Under these designations there was practically included much of what is now studied not only in preparatory {30} schools but also at the beginning of University courses. The regulation was evidently intended to lead eventually to the formation of many more universities than were then in existence, because already it had become clear that the traveling of students to long distances and their gathering in such large numbers in towns away from home influences, led to many abuses that might be obviated if they could stay in their native cities, or at least did not have to leave their native provinces. This was a far-seeing regulation that, like so many other decrees of the century, manifests the very practical policy of the Pope in matters of education as well as charity. As a matter of fact this decree did lead to the gradual development of about twenty universities during the Thirteenth Century, and to the establishment of a number of other schools so important in scope and attendance that their evolution into universities during the Fourteenth Century became comparatively easy. This formal church law, moreover, imposed upon ecclesiastical authorities the necessity for providing for even higher education in their dioceses and made them realize that it was entirely in sympathy with the church's spirit and in accord with the wish of the Father of Christendom, that they should make as ample provision for education as they did for charity, though this last was supposed to be their special task as pastors of the Christian flock. All this important work for the foundation of preparatory schools in every diocese and of the preliminary organization of teaching institutions that might easily develop into universities, as they actually did in a score of cases in metropolitan cities, was accomplished under the first Pope of the Thirteenth Century, Innocent III. His successors kept up this good work. Pope Honorius III., his immediate successor, went so far in this matter as to depose a bishop who had not read Donatus, the popular grammarian of the time. The bishop evidently was considered unfit, as far as his mental training went, to occupy the important post of head of a diocese. Pope Gregory IX., the nephew of Innocent III., was one of the most important patrons of the study of law in this period (see Legal Origins in Other Countries), and encouraged the collection of the decrees of former Popes so as to make them available for purposes of study as well as for court use. He is famous for {31} having protected the University of Paris during some of the serious trouble with the municipal authorities, when the large increase of the number of students in attendance at the University had unfortunately brought about strained relations between town and gown. Pope Innocent IV. by several decrees encouraged the development of the University of Paris, increased its rights and conferred new privileges. He also did much to develop the University of Toulouse, and especially to raise its standard and make it equal to that of Paris as far as possible. The patronage of Toulouse on the part of the Pope is all the more striking because the study of civil law was here a special feature and the ecclesiastical authorities were often said to have looked askance at the rising prominence of civil law, since it threatened to diminish the importance of canon law; and the cultivation of it, only too frequently, seemed to give rise to friction between civil and ecclesiastical authorities. While the pontifical court of Innocent IV. was maintained at Lyons it seemed, according to the Literary History of France, [Footnote 3] more like an academy of theology and of canon law than the court of a great monarch whose power was acknowledged throughout the world, or a great ecclesiastic who might be expected to be occupied with details of Church government. [Footnote 3: Histoire Litteratire de la France, Vol. XVI, Introductory Discourse.] Succeeding Popes of the century were not less prominent in their patronage of education. Pope Alexander IV. supported the cause of the Mendicant Friars against the University of Paris, but this was evidently with the best of intentions. The mendicants came to claim the privilege of having houses in association with the university in which they might have lectures for the members of their orders, and asked for due allowance in the matter of degrees for courses thus taken. The faculty of the University did not want to grant this privilege, though it was acknowledged that some of the best professors in the University were members of the Mendicant orders, and we need only mention such names as Albertus Magnus and St. Thomas Aquinas from the Dominicans, and St. Bonaventure, Roger Bacon and Duns Scotus from the Franciscans, to show the truth of this assertion. To give such a privilege {32} seemed a derogation of the faculty rights and the University refused. Then the Holy See interfered to insist that the University must give degrees for work done, rather than merely for regulation attendance. The best possible proof that Pope Alexander cannot be considered as wishing to injure or even diminish the prestige of the University in any way, is to be found in the fact that he afterwards sent two of his nephews to Paris to attend at the University. All these Popes, so far mentioned, were not Frenchmen and therefore could have no national feeling in the matter of the University of Paris or of the French universities in general. It is not surprising to find that Pope Urban IV., who was a Frenchman and an alumnus of the University of Paris, elevated many French scholars, and especially his fellow alumni of Paris, to Church dignitaries of various kinds. After Urban IV., Nicholas IV. who succeeded him, though once more an Italian, founded chairs in the University of Montpelier, and also a professorship in a school that it was hoped would develop into a university at Gray in Franche Comte. In a word, looked at from every point of view, it must be admitted that the Church and ecclesiastical authorities were quite as much interested in education as in charity during this century, and it is to them that must be traced the foundation of the preparatory schools, as well as the universities, and the origin and development of the great educational movement that stamps this century as the greatest in human history. [Illustration] JACQUES COEUR'S HOUSE (BOURGES) [Illustration] CLOISTER OF ST. JOHN LATERAN (ROME) {33} III WHAT AND HOW THEY STUDIED AT THE UNIVERSITIES. It is usually the custom for text books of education to dismiss the teaching at the universities of the Middle Ages with some such expression as: "The teachers were mainly engaged in metaphysical speculations and the students were occupied with exercises in logic and in dialectics, learning in long drawn out disputations how to use the intellectual instruments they possessed but never actually applying them. All knowledge was supposed to be amenable to increase through dialectical discussion and all truth was supposed, to be obtainable as the conclusion of a regular syllogism." Great fun especially is made of the long-winded disputations, the time-taking public exercises in dialectics, the fine hair-drawn distinctions presumably with but the scantiest basis of truth behind them and in general the placing of words for realities in the investigation of truth and the conveyance of information. The sublime ignorance of educators who talk thus about the century that saw the rise of the universities in connection with the erection of the great Cathedrals, is only equaled by their assumption of knowledge. It is very easy to make fun of a past generation and often rather difficult to enter into and appreciate its spirit. Ridicule comes natural to human nature, alas! but sympathy requires serious mental application for understanding's sake. Fortunately there has come in recent years a very different feeling in the minds of many mature and faithful students of this period, as regards the Middle Ages and its education. Dialectics may seem to be a waste of time to those who consider the training of the human mind as of little value in comparison with the stocking of it with information. Dialectical training will probably not often enable men to earn more money than might have otherwise been the case. This will be {34} eminently true if the dialectician is to devote himself to commercial enterprises in his future life. If he is to take up one of the professions, however, there may be some doubt as to whether even his practical effectiveness will not be increased by a good course of logic. There is, however, another point of view from which this matter of the study of dialectics may be viewed, and which has been taken very well by Prof. Saintsbury of the University of Edinburgh in a recent volume on the Thirteenth Century. He insists in a passage which we quote at length in the chapter on the Prose of the Century, that if this training in logic had not been obtained at this time in European development, the results might have been serious for our modern languages and modern education. He says: "If at the outset of the career of the modern languages, men had thought with the looseness of modern thought, had indulged in the haphazard slovenliness of modern logic, had popularized theology and vulgarized rhetoric, as we have seen both popularized and vulgarized since, we should indeed have been in evil case." He maintains that "the far-reaching educative influence in mere language, in mere system of arrangement and expression, must be considered as one of the great benefits of Scholasticism." This is, after all, only a similar opinion to that evidently entertained by Mr. John Stuart Mill, who, as Prof. Saintsbury says, was not often a scholastically-minded philosopher, for he quotes in the preface of his logic two very striking opinions from very different sources, the Scotch philosopher, Hamilton, and the French philosophical writer, Condorcet. Hamilton said, "It is to the schoolmen that the vulgar languages are indebted for what precision and analytical subtlety they possess." Condorcet went even further than this, and used expressions that doubless will be a great source of surprise to those who do not realize how much of admiration is always engendered in those who really study the schoolmen seriously and do not take opinions of them from the chance reading of a few scattered passages, or depend for the data of their judgment on some second-hand authority, who thought it clever to abuse these old-time thinkers. Condorcet thought them far in advance of the old Greek philosophers for, he said, "Logic, ethics, and metaphysics {35} itself, owe to scholasticism a precision unknown to the ancients themselves." With regard to the methods and contents of the teaching in the undergraduate department of the university, that is, in what we would now call the arts department, there is naturally no little interest at the present time. Besides the standards set up and the tests required can scarcely fail to attract attention. Professor Turner, in his History of Philosophy, has summed up much of what we know in this matter in a paragraph so full of information that we quote it in order to give our readers the best possible idea in a compendious form of these details of the old-time education. "By statutes issued at various times during the Thirteenth Century it was provided that the professor should read, that is expound, the text of certain standard authors in philosophy and theology. In a document published by Denifle, (the distinguished authority on medieval universities) and by him referred to the year 1232, we find the following works among those prescribed for the Faculty of Arts: Logica Vetus (the old Boethian text of a portion of the Organon, probably accompanied by Porphyry's Isagoge); Logica Nova (the new translation of the Organon); Gilbert's Liber Sex Principorium; and Donatus's Barbarismus. A few years later (1255), the following works are prescribed: Aristotle's Physics, Metaphysics, De Anima, De Animalibus, De Caelo et Mundo, Meteorica, the minor psychological treatises and some Arabian or Jewish works, such as the Liber de Causis and De Differentia Spirititus et Animae." "The first degree for which the student of arts presented himself was that of bachelor. The candidate for this degree, after a preliminary test called responsiones (this regulation went into effect not later than 1275), presented himself for the determination which was a public defense of a certain number of theses against opponents chosen from the audience. At the end of the disputation, the defender summed up, or determined, his conclusions. After determining, the bachelor resumed his studies for the licentiate, assuming also the task of cursorily explaining to junior students some portion of the Organon. The test for the degree of licentiate consisted {36} in a _collatio_, or exposition of several texts, after the manner of the masters. The student was now a licensed teacher; he did not, however, become magister, or master of arts, until he had delivered what was called the _inceptio_, or inaugural lecture, and was actually installed (_birrettatio_). If he continued to teach he was called _magisier actu regens_; if he departed from the university or took up other work, he was called _magister non regens_. It may be said that, as a general rule, the course of reading was: (1) for the bachelor's degree, grammar, logic, and psychology; (2) for the licentiate, natural philosophy; (3) for the master's degree, ethics, and the completion of the course of natural philosophy." Quite apart from the value of its methods, however, scholasticism in certain of its features had a value in the material which it discussed and developed that modern generations only too frequently fail to realize. With regard to this the same distinguished authority whom we quoted with regard to dialectics, Prof. Saintsbury, does not hesitate to use expressions which will seem little short of rankly heretical to those who swear by modern science, and yet may serve to inject some eminently suggestive ideas into a sadly misunderstood subject. "Yet there has always in generous souls who have some tincture of philosophy, subsisted a curious kind of sympathy and yearning over the work of these generations of mainly disinterested scholars, who, whatever they were, were thorough, and whatever they could not do, could think. _And there, have even, in these latter days, been some graceless ones who have asked whether the Science of the nineteenth century, after an equal interval, will be of any more positive value--whether it will not have even less comparative interest than that which appertains to the Scholasticism of the Thirteenth."_ In the light of this it has seemed well to try to show in terms of present-day science some of the important reflections with regard to such problems of natural history, as magnetism, the composition of matter, and the relation of things physical to one another, which we now include under the name science, some of the thoughts that these scholars of the Thirteenth Century were thinking and were developing for the benefit of the {37} enthusiastic students who flocked to the universities. We will find in such a review though it must necessarily be brief many more anticipations of modern science than would be thought possible. To take the example for the moment of magnetism which is usually considered to be a subject entirely of modern attention, a good idea of the intense interest of this century in things scientific, can be obtained from the following short paragraph in which Brother Potamian in his sketch of Petrus Peregrinus, condenses the references to magnetic phenomena that are found in the literature of the time. Most of the writers he mentions were not scientists in the ordinary sense of the word but were literary men, and the fact that these references occur shows very clearly that there must have been wide-spread interest in such scientific phenomena, since they had attracted the attention of literary writers, who would not have spoken of them doubtless, but that they knew that in this they would be satisfying as well as exciting public interest. "Abbot Neckam, the Augustinian (1157-1217), distinguished between the properties of the two ends of the lodestone, and gives in his De Utensilibus, what is perhaps the earliest reference to the mariner's compass that we have. Albertus Magnus, the Dominican (1193-1280), in his treatise De Mineralibus, enumerates different kinds of natural magnets and states some of the properties commonly attributed to them; the minstrel, Guyot de Provins, in a famous satirical poem, written about 1208, refers to the directive quality of the lodestone and its use in navigation, as do also Cardinal de Vitry in his Historia Orientialis (1215-1220), Brunetto Latini, poet, orator and philosopher (the teacher of Dante), in his Tresor des Sciences, a veritable library, written in Paris in 1260; Raymond Lully, the enlightened Doctor, in his treatise, De Contemplatione, begun in 1272, and Guido Guinicelli, the poet-priest of Bologna, who died in 1276." [Footnote 4] [Footnote 4: The letter of Petrus Peregrinus on the Magnet, A. D. 1269, translated by Bro. Arnold, M. Sc., with an Introductory Note by Bro. Potamian, N. Y., 1904.] {38} The metaphysics of the medieval universities have come in for quite as much animadversion, not to say ridicule, as the dialectics. None of its departments is spared in the condemnation, though most fun is made of the gropings of the medieval mind after truth in the physical sciences. The cosmology, the science of matter as it appealed to the medieval mind, is usually considered to have been so entirely speculative as to deserve no further attention. We have presumably, learned so much by experimental demonstration and original observation in the physical sciences, that any thinking of the medieval mind along these lines may, in the opinion of those who know nothing of what they speak, be set aside as preposterous, or at best nugatory. It will surely be a source of surprise, then, to find that in the consideration of the composition of matter and of the problem of the forces connected with it, the minds of the medieval schoolmen were occupied with just the same questions that have been most interesting to the Nineteenth Century and that curiously enough the conclusions they reached, though by very different methods of investigation, were almost exactly the same as those to which modern physical scientists have attained by their refined methods of investigation. One or two examples will suffice, I think, to show very clearly that the students of the Thirteenth Century had presented to them practically the same problems with regard to matter, its origin and composition, as occupy the students of the present generation. For instance Thomas Aquinas usually known as St. Thomas, in a series of lectures given at the University of Paris toward the end of the third quarter of the Thirteenth Century, stated as the most important conclusion with regard to matter, that _"Nihil omnino in nihilum redigetur_,"' "Nothing at all will ever be reduced to nothingness." By this it was very evident from the context that he meant that matter would never be annihilated and could never be destroyed. It might be changed in various ways but it could never go back into the nothingness from which it had been taken by the creative act. Annihilation was pronounced as not being a part of the scheme of things as far as the human mind could hope to fathom its meaning. In this sentence, then, Thomas of Aquin was proclaiming the {39} doctrine of the indestructibility of matter. It was not until well on in the nineteenth century that the chemists and physicists of modern times realized the truth of this great principle. The chemists had seen matter change its form in many ways, had seen it disappear apparently in the smoke of fire or evaporate under the influence of heat, but investigation proved that if care were taken in the collection of the gases that came off under these circumstances, of the ashes of combustion and of the residue of evaporation, all the original material that had been contained in the supposedly disappearing substance could be recovered or at least completely accounted for. The physicists on their part had realized this same truth and finally there came the definite enunciation of the absolute indestructibility of matter. St. Thomas' conclusion "Nothing at all will ever be reduced to nothingness" had anticipated this doctrine by nearly seven centuries. What happened in the Nineteenth Century was that there came an experimental demonstration of the truth of the principle. The principle itself, however, had been reached long before by the human mind by speculative processes quite as inerrable in their way as the more modern method of investigation. When St. Thomas used the aphorism "Nothing at all will ever be reduced to nothingness" there was another signification that he attached to the words quite as clearly as that by which they expressed the indestructibility of matter. For him _Nihil_ or nothing meant neither _matter_ nor _form_, that is, neither the material substance nor the energy which is contained in it. He meant then, that no energy would ever be destroyed as well as no matter would ever be annihilated. He was teaching the conservation of energy as well as the indestructibility of matter. Here once more the experimental demonstration of the doctrine was delayed for over six centuries and a half. The truth itself, however, had been reached by this medieval master-mind and was the subject of his teaching to the university students in Paris in the Thirteenth Century. These examples should, I think, serve to illustrate that the minds of medieval students were occupied with practically the same questions as those which are now taught to the university students of our day. There are, however, some even {40} more striking anticipations of modern teaching that will serve to demonstrate this community of educational interests in spite of seven centuries of time separation. In recent years we have come to realize that matter is not the manifold material we were accustomed to think it when we accepted the hypothesis that there were some seventy odd different kinds of atoms, each one absolutely independent of any other and representing an ultimate term in science. The atomic theory from this standpoint has proved to be only a working hypothesis that was useful for a time, but that our physicists are now agreed must not be considered as something absolute. Radium has been observed changing into helium and the relations of atoms to one another as they are now known, make it almost certain that all of them have an underlying sub-stratum the same in all, but differentiated by the dynamic energies with which matter in its different forms is gifted. Sir Oliver Lodge has stated this theory of the constitution of matter very clearly in recent years, and in doing so has only been voicing the practically universal sentiment of those who have been following the latest developments in the physical sciences. Strange as it may appear, this was exactly the teaching of Aquinas and the schoolmen with regard to the constitution of matter. They said that the two constituting principles of matter were prime matter and form. By prime matter they meant the material sub-stratum the same in all material things. By form they meant the special dynamic energy which, entering into prime matter, causes it to act differently from other kinds and gives it all the particular qualities by which we recognize it. This theory was not original with them, having been adopted from Aristotle, but it was very clearly set forth, profoundly discussed, and amply illustrated by the schoolmen. In its development this theory was made to be of the greatest help in the explanation of many other difficulties with regard to living as well as non-living things in their hands. The theory has its difficulties, but they are less than those of any other theory of the constitution of matter, and it has been accepted by more philosophic thinkers since the Thirteenth Century than any other doctrine of similar nature. It may be said that it was reached only by deduction and not by experimental observation. Such an expression, {41} however, instead of being really an objection is rather a demonstration of the fact that great truths may be reached by deduction yet only demonstrated by inductive methods many centuries later. Of course it may well be said even after all these communities of interest between the medieval and the modern teaching of the general principles of science has been pointed out, that the universities of the Middle Ages did not present the subjects under discussion in a practical way, and their teaching was not likely to lead to directly beneficial results in applied science. It might well he responded to this, that it is not the function of a university to teach applications of science but only the great principles, the broad generalizations that underlie scientific thinking, leaving details to be filled in in whatever form of practical work the man may take up. Very few of those, however, who talk about the purely speculative character of medieval teaching have manifestly ever made it their business to know anything about the actual facts of old-time university teaching by definite knowledge, but have rather allowed themselves to be guided by speculation and by inadequate second-hand authorities, whose dicta they have never taken the trouble to substantiate by a glance at contemporary authorities on medieval matters. It will be interesting to quote for the information of such men, the opinion of the greatest of medieval scientists with regard to the reason why men do not obtain real knowledge more rapidly than would seem ought to be the case, from the amount of work which they have devoted to obtaining it. Roger Bacon, summing up for Pope Clement the body of doctrine that he was teaching at the University of Oxford in the Thirteenth Century, starts out with the principle that there are four grounds of human ignorance. "These are first, trust in inadequate authority; second, the force of custom which leads men to accept too unquestioningly what has been accepted before their time; third, the placing of confidence in the opinion of the inexperienced; and fourth, the hiding of one's own ignorance with the parade of a superficial wisdom." Surely no one will ever be able to improve on these four grounds for human ignorance, and they continue to be as {42} important in the twentieth century as they were in the Thirteenth. They could only have emanated from an eminently practical mind, accustomed to test by observation and by careful searching of authorities, every proposition that came to him. Professor Henry Morley, Professor of English Literature at University College, London, says of these grounds for ignorance of Roger Bacon, in his English Writers, Volume III, page 321: "No part of that ground has yet been cut away from beneath the feet of students, although six centuries ago the Oxford friar clearly pointed out its character. We still make sheep walks of second, third, and fourth and fiftieth-hand references to authority; still we are the slaves of habit; still we are found following too frequently the untaught crowd; still we flinch from the righteous and wholesome phrase, 'I do not know'; and acquiesce actively in the opinion of others that we know what we appear to know. Substitute honest research, original and independent thought, strict truth in the comparison of only what we really know with what is really known by others, and the strong redoubt of ignorance has fallen." The number of things which Roger Bacon succeeded in discovering by the application of the principle of testing everything by personal observation, is almost incredible to a modern student of science and of education who has known nothing before of the progress in science made by this wonderful man. He has been sometimes declared to be the discoverer of gunpowder, but this is a mistake since it was known many years before by the Arabs and by them introduced into Europe. He did study explosives very deeply, however, and besides learning many things about them realized how much might be accomplished by their use in the after-time. He declares in his Opus Magnum: "That one may cause to burst forth from bronze, thunderbolts more formidable than those produced by nature. A small quantity of prepared matter occasions a terrible explosion accompanied by a brilliant light. One may multiply this phenomenon so far as to destroy a city or an army." Considering how little was known about gunpowder at this time, this was of itself a marvelous anticipation of what might be accomplished by it. [Illustration] RATHHAUS (TANGERM�NDE) Bacon prophesied, however, much more than merely {43} destructive effects from the use of high explosives, and indeed it is almost amusing to see how closely he anticipated some of the most modern usages of high explosives for motor purposes. He seems to have concluded that some time the apparently uncontrollable forces of explosion would come under the control of man and be harnessed by him for his own purposes. He realized that one of the great applications of such a force would be for transportation. Accordingly he said: "Art can construct instruments of navigation such that the largest vessels governed by a single man will traverse rivers and seas more rapidly than if they were filled with oarsmen. One may also make carriages which without the aid of any animal will run with remarkable swiftness." [Footnote 5] When we recall that the very latest thing in transportation are motor-boats and automobiles driven by gasoline, a high explosive, Roger Bacon's prophesy becomes one of these weird anticipations of human progress which seem almost more than human. [Footnote 5: These quotations are taken from Ozanam's Dante and Catholic Philosophy, published by the Cathedral Library Association, New York, 1897. ] It was not with regard to explosives alone, however, that Roger Bacon was to make great advances and still more marvelous anticipations in physical science. He was not, as is sometimes claimed for him, either the inventor of the telescope or of the theory of lenses. He did more, however, than perhaps anyone else to make the principles of lenses clear and to establish them on a mathematical basis. His traditional connection with the telescope can probably be traced to the fact that he was very much interested in astronomy and the relations of the heavens to the earth. He pointed out very clearly the errors which had crept into the Julian calendar, calculated exactly how much of a correction was needed in order to restore the year to its proper place, and suggested the method by which future errors of this kind could be avoided. His ideas were too far beyond his century to be applied in a practical way, but they were not to be without their effect and it is said that they formed the basis of the subsequent correction of the calendar in the time of Pope Gregory XIII three centuries later. {44} It is rather surprising to find how much besides the theory of lenses Friar Bacon had succeeded in finding out in the department of optics. He taught, for instance, the principle of the aberration of light, and, still more marvelous to consider, taught that light did not travel instantaneously but had a definite rate of motion, though this was extremely rapid. It is rather difficult to understand how he reached this conclusion since light travels so fast that as far as regards any observation that can be made upon earth, the diffusion is practically instantaneous. It was not for over three centuries later that Römer, the German astronomer, demonstrated the motion of light and its rate, by his observations upon the moons of Jupiter at different phases of the earth's orbit, which showed that the light of these moons took a definite and quite appreciable time to reach the earth after their eclipse by the planet was over. We are not surprised to find that Bacon should praise those of his contemporaries who devoted themselves to mathematics and to experimental observations in science. Of one of his correspondents who even from distant Italy sent him his observations in order that he might have the great Franciscan's precious comments on them. Bacon has given quite a panegyric. The reasons for his praise, however, are so different from those which are ordinarily proclaimed to have been the sources of laudation in distant medieval scientific circles, that we prefer to quote Bacon's own words from the Opus Tertium. Bacon is talking of Petrus Peregrinus and says: "I know of only one person who deserves praise for his work in experimental philosophy, for he does not care for the discourses of men and their wordy warfare, but quietly and diligently pursues the works of wisdom. Therefore, what others grope after blindly, as bats in the evening twilight, this man contemplates in all their brilliancy because he is a master of experiment. Hence, he knows all natural science whether pertaining to medicine and alchemy, or to matters celestial and terrestrial. "He has worked diligently in the smelting of ores as also in the working of minerals; he is thoroughly acquainted with all sorts of arms and implements used in military service and in hunting, besides which he is skilled in agriculture and in the measurement of lands. {45} It is impossible to write a useful or correct treatise in experimental philosophy without mentioning this man's name. Moreover, he pursues knowledge for its own sake; for if he wished to obtain royal favor, he could easily find sovereigns who would honor and enrich him." [Illustration] CATHEDRAL (YORK) [Illustration] CATHEDRAL (HEREFORD) Lest it should be thought that these expressions of laudatory appreciation of the great Thirteenth Century scientist are dictated more by the desire to magnify his work and to bring out the influence in science of the Churchmen of the period, it seems well to quote an expression of opinion from the modern historian of the inductive sciences, whose praise is scarcely if any less outspoken than that of others whom we have quoted and who might be supposed to be somewhat partial in their judgment. This opinion will fortify the doubters who must have authority and at the same time sums up very excellently the position which Roger Bacon occupies in the History of Science. Dr. Whewell says that Roger Bacon's Opus Majus is "the encyclopedia and Novam Organon of the Thirteenth Century, a work equally wonderful with regard to its general scheme and to the special treatises with which the outlines of the plans are filled up. The professed object of the work is to urge the necessity of a reform in the mode of philosophizing, to set forth the reasons why knowledge had not made a greater progress, to draw back attention to the sources of knowledge which had been unwisely neglected, to discover other sources which were yet almost untouched, and to animate men in the undertaking by a prospect of the vast advantages which it offered. In the development of this plan all the leading portions of science are expanded in the most complete shape which they had at that time assumed; and improvements of a very wide and striking kind are proposed in some of the principal branches of study. Even if the work had no leading purposes it would have been highly valuable as a treasure of the most solid knowledge and soundest speculations of the time; even if it had contained no such details it would have been a work most remarkable for its general views and scope." It is only what might have been expected, however, from {46} Roger Bacon's training that he should have made great progress in the physical sciences. At the University of Paris his favorite teacher was Albertus Magnus, who was himself deeply interested in all the physical sciences, though he was more concerned with the study of chemical problems than of the practical questions which were to occupy his greatest pupil. There is no doubt at all that Albertus Magnus accomplished a great amount of experimental work in chemistry and had made a large series of actual observations. He was a theologian as well as a philosopher and a scientist. Some idea of the immense industry of the man can be obtained from the fact that his complete works as published consist of some twenty large folio volumes, each one of which contains on the average at least 500,000 words. Among these works are many treatises relating to chemistry. The titles of some of them will serve to show how explicit was Albert in his consideration of various chemical subjects. He has treatises concerning Metals and Minerals; concerning Alchemy; A Treatise on the Secret of Chemistry; A Concordance, that is a Collection of observations from many sources with regard to the Philosopher's Stone; A Brief Compend on the Origin of the Metals; A Treatise on Compounds; most of these are to be found in his works under the general heading "Theatrum Chemicum." It is not surprising for those who know of Albert's work, to find that his pupil Roger Bacon defined the limits of chemistry very accurately and showed that he understood exactly what the subject and methods of investigation must be, in order that advance should be made in it. Of chemistry he speaks in his "Opus Tertium" in the following words: "There is a science which treats of the generation of things from their elements and of all inanimate things, as of the elements and liquids, simple and compound, common stones, gems and marble, gold and other metals, sulphur, salts, pigments, lapis lazuli, minium and other colors, oils, bitumen, and infinite more of which we find nothing in the books of Aristotle; nor are the natural philosophers nor any of the Latins acquainted with these things." In physics Albertus Magnus was, if possible, more advanced {47} and progressive even than in chemistry. His knowledge in the physical sciences was not merely speculative, but partook to a great degree of the nature of what we now call applied science. Humboldt, the distinguished German natural philosopher of the beginning of the Nineteenth Century, who was undoubtedly the most important leader in scientific thought in his time and whose own work was great enough to have an enduring influence in spite of the immense progress of the Nineteenth Century, has summed up Albert's work and given the headings under which his scientific research must be considered. He says: "Albertus Magnus was equally active and influential in promoting the study of natural science and of the Aristotelian philosophy. His works contain some exceedingly acute remarks on the organic structure and physiology of plants. One of his works bearing the title of 'Liber Cosmographicus de Natura Locorum,' is a species of physical geography. I have found in it considerations on the dependence of temperature concurrently on latitude and elevation, and on the effect of different angles of incidence of the sun's rays in heating the ground, _which have excited my surprise_." To take up some of Humboldt's headings in their order and illustrate them by quotations from Albert himself and from condensed accounts as they appear in his biographer Sighart and in Christian Schools and Scholars [Footnote 6], will serve to show at once the extent of Albert's knowledge and the presumptuous ignorance of those who make little of the science of the medieval period. When we have catalogued, for instance, the many facts with regard to astronomy and the physics of light that are supposed to have come to human ken much later, yet may be seen to have been clearly within the range of Albert's knowledge, and evidently formed the subject of his teaching at various times at both Paris and Cologne, for they are found in his authentic works, we can scarcely help but be amused at the pretentious misconception that has relegated their author to a place in education so trivial as is that which is represented in many minds by the term scholastic. [Footnote 6: Christian Schools and Scholars. Drane.] "He decides that the Milky Way is nothing but a vast {48} assemblage of stars, but supposes naturally enough that they occupy the orbit which receives the light of the sun. The figures visible on the moon's disc are not, he says, as hitherto has been supposed, reflections of the seas and mountains of the earth, but configurations of her own surface. He notices, in order to correct it, the assertion of Aristotle that lunar rainbows appear only twice in fifty years; 'I myself,' he says have observed two in a single year.' He has something to say on the refraction of a solar ray, notices certain crystals which have a power of refraction, and remarks that none of the ancients and few moderns were acquainted with the properties of mirrors." Albert's great pupil Roger Bacon is rightly looked upon as the true father of inductive science, an honor that history has unfortunately taken from him to confer it undeservedly on his namesake of four centuries later, but the teaching out of which Roger Bacon was to develop the principles of experimental science can be found in many places in his master's writings. In Albert's tenth book, wherein he catalogues and describes all the trees, plants, and herbs known in his time, he observes: "All that is here set down is the result of our own experience, or has been borrowed from authors whom we know to have written what their personal experience has confirmed: for in these matters experience alone can give certainty" (_experimentum solum certificat in talibus_). "Such an expression," says his biographer, "which might have proceeded from the pen of (Francis) Bacon, argues in itself a prodigious scientific progress, and shows that the medieval friar was on the track so successfully pursued by modern natural philosophy. He had fairly shaken off the shackles which had hitherto tied up discovery, and was the slave neither of Pliny nor of Aristotle." Botany is supposed to be a very modern science and to most people Humboldt's expression that he found in Albertus Magnus's writings some "exceedingly acute remarks on the organic structure and physiology of plants" will come as a supreme surprise. A few details with regard to Albert's botanical knowledge, however, will serve to heighten that surprise and to show, that the foolish tirades of modern sciolists, {49} who have often expressed their wonder that with all the beauties of nature around them, these scholars of the Middle Ages did not devote themselves to nature study, are absurd, because if the critics but knew it there was profound interest in nature and all her manifestations and a series of discoveries that anticipated not a little of what we consider most important in our modern science. The story of Albert's botanical knowledge has been told in a single very full paragraph by his biographer. Sighart also quotes an appreciative opinion from a modern German botanist which will serve to dispel any doubts with regard to Albert's position in botany that modern students might perhaps continue to harbor, unless they had good authority to support their opinion, though of course it will be remembered that the main difference between the medieval and the modern mind is only too often said to be, that the medieval required an authority while the modern makes its opinion for itself. Even the most skeptical of modern minds however, will probably be satisfied by the following paragraph. "He was acquainted with the sleep of plants, with the periodical opening and closing of blossoms, with the diminution of sap through evaporation from the cuticle of the leaves, and with the influence of the distribution of the bundles of vessels on the folial indentations. His minute observations on the forms and variety of plants intimate an exquisite sense of floral beauty. He distinguished the star from the bell-floral, tells us that a red rose will turn white when submitted to the vapor of sulphur and makes some very sagacious observations on the subject of germination. . . . The extraordinary erudition and originality of this treatise (his tenth book) has drawn from M. Meyer the following comment: 'No Botanist who lived before Albert can be compared to him, unless Theophrastus, with whom he was not acquainted; and after him none has painted nature in such living colors or studied it so profoundly until the time of Conrad Gesner and Cesalpino.' All honor, then, to the man who made such astonishing progress in the science of nature as to find no one, I will not say to surpass, but even to equal him for the space of three centuries." {50} We point out in the chapter on Geography and Exploration how much this wonderful Thirteenth Century added to the knowledge of geographical science. Even before the great explorers of this time, however, had accomplished their work, this particular branch of science had made such great progress as would bring it quite within the domain of what we call the science of geography at the present time. When we remember how much has been said about the ignorance of the men of the later Middle Ages as regards the shape of the earth and its inhabitants, and how many foolish notions they are supposed to have accepted with regard to the limitation of possible residents of the world and the queer ideas as to the antipodes, the following passages taken from Albert's biographer will serve better than anything else to show how absurdly the traditional notions with regard to this time and its knowledge, have been permitted by educators to tinge what are supposed to be serious opinions with regard to the subject matters of education in that early university period: "He treats as fabulous the commonly-received idea, in which Bede had acquiesced, that the region of the earth south of the equator was uninhabitable, and considers, that from the equator to the South Pole, the earth was not only habitable, but in all probability actually inhabited, except directly at the poles, where he imagines the cold to be excessive. If there be any animals there, he says, they must have very thick skins to defend them from the rigor of the climate, and they are probably of a white color. The intensity of cold, is however, tempered by the action of the sea. He describes the antipodes and the countries they comprise, and divides the climate of the earth into seven zones. He smiles with a scholar's freedom at the simplicity of those who suppose that persons living at the opposite region of the earth must fall off, an opinion that can only rise out of the grossest ignorance, 'for when we speak of the lower hemisphere, this must be understood merely as relatively to ourselves.' It is as a geographer that Albert's superiority to the writers of his own time chiefly appears. Bearing in mind the astonishing ignorance which then prevailed on this subject, it is truly admirable to find him correctly tracing the chief mountain chains of Europe, with the rivers which take {51} their source in each; remarking on portions of coast which have in later times been submerged by the ocean, and islands which have been raised by volcanic action above the level of the sea; noticing the modification of climate caused by mountains, seas and forests, and the division of the human race whose differences he ascribes to the effect upon them of the countries they inhabit! In speaking of the British Isles he alludes to the commonly-received idea that another distant island called Tile or Thule, existed far in the Western Ocean, uninhabitable by reason of its frightful climate, but which, he says, has perhaps not yet been visited by man." Nothing will so seriously disturb the complacency of modern minds as to the wonderful advances that have been made in the last century in all branches of physical science as to read Albertus Magnus' writings. Nothing can be more wholesomely chastening of present day conceit than to get a proper appreciation of the extent of the knowledge of the Schoolmen. Albertus Magnus' other great pupil besides Roger Bacon was St. Thomas Aquinas. If any suspicion were still left that Thomas did not appreciate just what the significance of his teachings in physics was, when he announced that neither matter nor force could ever be reduced to nothingness, it would surely be removed by the consideration that he had been for many years in intimate relations with Albert and that he had probably also been close to Roger Bacon. After association with such men as these, any knowledge he displays with regard to physical science can scarcely be presumed to have been stumbled upon unawares. St. Thomas himself has left three treatises on chemical subjects and it is said that the first occurrence of the word amalgam can be traced to one of these treatises. Everybody was as much interested then, as we are at the present time, in the transformation of metals and mercury with its silvery sheen, its facility to enter into metallic combinations of all kinds, and its elusive ways, naturally made it the center of scientific interest quite as radium is at the present moment. Further material with regard to St. Thomas and also to the subject of education will be found in the chapter, Aquinas the Scholar. After this brief review of only a few of the things that they taught in science at the Thirteenth Century universities, most {52} people will scarcely fail to wonder how such peculiar erroneous impressions with regard to the uselessness of university teaching and training have come to be so generally accepted. The fault lies, of course, with those who thought they knew something about university teaching, and who, because they found a few things that now look ridiculous, as certain supposed facts of one generation always will to succeeding generations who know more about them, thought they could conclude from these as to the character of the whole content of medieval education. It is only another example of what Artemus Ward pointed out so effectively when he said that "there is nothing that makes men so ridiculous as the knowing so many things that aint so." We have been accepting without question ever so many things that simply are not so with regard to these wonderful generations, who not only organized the universities but organized the teaching in them on lines not very different from those which occupy people seven centuries later. What would be the most amusing feature, if it were not unfortunately so serious an arraignment of the literature that has grown up around these peculiar baseless notions with regard to scholastic philosophy, is the number of men of science who have permitted themselves to make fun of certain supposed lucubrations of the great medieval philosophers. It is not so very long ago that, as pointed out by Harper in the Metaphysics of the School, Professor Tate in a lecture on Some Recent Advances in Physical Science repeated the old slander that even Aquinas occupied the attention of his students with such inane questions as: "How many angels could dance on the point of a needle?" Modern science very proudly insists that it occupies itself with observations and concerns itself little with authority. Prof. Tate in this unhappy quotation, shows not only that he has made no personal studies in medieval philosophy but that he has accepted a very inadequate authority for the statements which he makes with as much confidence as if they had been the result of prolonged research in this field. Many other modern scientists (?) have fallen into like blunders. (For Huxley's opinion see Appendix.) The modern student, as well as the teacher, is prone to wonder what were the methods of study and the habits of life {53} of the students of the Thirteenth Century, and fortunately we have a short sketch, written by Robert of Sorbonne, the famous founder of the Sorbonne, in which he gives advice to attendants at that institution as to how they should spend their time, so that at least we are able to get a hint of the ideals that were set before the student. Robert, whose long experience of university life made him thoroughly competent to advise, said: "The student who wishes to make progress ought to observe six essential rules. "First: He ought to consecrate a certain hour every day to the study of a determined subject, as St. Bernard counselled his monks in his letter to the Brothers of the Mont Dieu. "Second: He ought to concentrate his attention upon what he reads and ought not to let it pass lightly. There is between reading and study, as St. Bernard says, the same difference as between a host and a guest, between a passing salutation exchanged in the street and an embrace prompted by an unalterable affection. "Third: He ought to extract from the daily study one thought, some truth or other, and engrave it deeply upon his memory with special care. Seneca said _'Cum multa percurreris in die, unum tibi elige quod illa die excoquas'_--When you have run over many things in a day select one for yourself which you should digest well on that day. "Fourth: Write a resume of it, for words which are not confided to writing fly as does the dust before the wind. "Fifth: Talk the matter over with your fellow-students, either in the regular recitation or in your familiar conversation. This exercise is even more profitable than study for it has as its result the clarifying of all doubts and the removing of all the obscurity that study may have left. Nothing is perfectly known unless it has been tried by the tooth of disputation. "Sixth: Pray, for this is indeed one of the best ways of learning. St. Bernard teaches that study ought to touch the heart and that one should profit by it always by elevating the heart to God, _without, however, interrupting the study_." Sorbonne proceeds in a tone that vividly recalls the modern university professor who has seen generation after generation {54} of students and has learned to realize how many of them waste their time. "Certain students act like fools; they display great subtility over nonsensical subjects and exhibit themselves devoid of intelligence with regard to their most important studies. So as not to seem to have lost their time they gather together many sheets of parchment, make thick volumes of note books out of them, with many a blank interval, and cover them with elegant binding in red letters. Then they return to the paternal domicile with their little sack filled up with knowledge which can be stolen from them by any thief that comes along, or may be eaten by rats or by worms or destroyed by fire or water. "In order to acquire instruction the student must abstain from pleasure and not allow himself to be hampered by material cares. There was at Paris not long since two teachers who were great friends. One of them had seen much, had read much and used to remain night and day bent over his books. He scarcely took the time to say an 'Our Father.' Nevertheless he had but four students. His colleague possessed a much less complete library, was less devoted to study and heard mass every morning before delivering his lecture. In spite of this, his classroom was full. 'How do you do it?' asked his friend. 'It is very simple,' said his friend smiling. 'God studies for me. I go to mass and when I come back I know by heart all that I have to teach.'" "Meditation," so Sorbonne continues, "is suitable not only for the master, but the good student ought also to go and take his promenade along the banks of the Seine, not to play there, but in order to repeat his lesson and meditate upon it." These instructions for students are not very different from those that would be issued by an interested head of a university department to the freshmen of the present day. His insistence, especially on the difference between reading and study, might very well be taken to heart at the present time, when there seems to be some idea that reading of itself is sufficient to enable one to obtain an education. The lesson of learning one thing a day and learning that well, might have been selected as a motto for students for all succeeding generations with manifest advantage to the success of college study. {55} In other things Sorbonne departs further from our modern ideas in the matter of education, but still there are many even at the present time who will read with profound sympathy his emphatic advice to the University students that they must educate their hearts as well as their intellects, and make their education subserve the purpose of bringing them closer to God. A word about certain customs that prevailed more or less generally in the universities at this time, and that after having been much misunderstood will now be looked at more sympathetically in the light of recent educational developments will not be out of place here. One of the advantages of modern German university education has often been acclaimed to be the fact that students are tempted to make portions of their studies in various cities, since all the courses are equalized in certain ways, so that the time spent at any one of them will be counted properly for their degrees. It has long been recognized that travel makes the best possible complement to a university course, and even when the English universities in the Eighteenth Century sank to be little more than pleasant abiding places where young men of the upper classes "ate their terms," the fact that it was the custom "to make the grand tour" of continental travel, supplied for much that was lacking in the serious side of their education. Little as this might be anticipated as a feature of the ruder times of the Thirteenth Century, when travel was so difficult, it must be counted as one of the great advantages for the inquiring spirits of the time. Dante, besides attending the universities in Italy, and he certainly was at several of them, was also at Paris at one time and probably also at Oxford. Professor Monroe in his text book in the History of Education has stated this custom very distinctly. "With the founding of the universities and the establishment of the nations in practically every university, it became quite customary for students to travel from university to university, finding in each a home in their appropriate nation. Many, however, willing to accept the privileges of the clergy and the students without undertaking their obligations, adopted this wandering life as a permanent one. Being a privileged order, they readily found a living, or made it by begging. A monk of {56} the early university period writes: 'The scholars are accustomed to wander throughout the whole world and visit all the cities, and their many studies bring them understanding. For in Paris they seek a knowledge of the liberal arts; of the ancient writers at Orleans; of medicine at Salernum; of the black art at Toledo; and in no place decent manners.'" With regard to the old monk's criticism it must be remembered that old age is always rather depreciative in criticism of the present and over-appreciative of what happened in the past _se pueris_. Abuses always seem to be creeping in that are going to ruin the force of education, yet somehow the next generation succeeds in obtaining its intellectual development in rather good shape. Besides as we must always remember in educational questions, evils are ever exaggerated and the memory of them is prone to live longer and to loom up larger than that of the good with which they were associated and to which indeed, as anyone of reasonable experience in educational circles knows, they may constitute by comparison only a very small amount. Undoubtedly the wanderings of students brought with it many abuses, and if we were to listen to some of the stories of foreign student life in Paris in our own time, we might think that much of evil and nothing of good was accomplished by such wandering, but inasmuch as we do so we invite serious error of judgment. Another striking feature of university life which constituted a distinct anticipation of something very modern in our educational system, was the lending of professors of different nationalities among the universities. It is only at the beginning of the Twentieth Century that we have reestablished this custom. In the Thirteenth Century, however, Albertus Magnus taught for a time at Cologne and then later at Paris and apparently also at Rome. St. Thomas of Aquin, after having taught for a time at Paris, lectured in various Italian universities and then finally at the University of Rome to which he was tempted by the Popes. Duns Scotus, besides teaching in Oxford, taught also at Paris. Alexander of Hales before him seems to have done the same thing. Roger Bacon, after studying at the University of Paris, seems to have commenced teaching there, though most of his professional work was {57} accomplished at the University of Oxford. Raymond Lully probably had professional experiences at several Spanish Universities besides at Paris. In a word, if a man were a distinguished genius he was almost sure to be given the opportunity to influence his generation at a number of centers of educational life, and not be confined as has been the case in the centuries since to but one or at most, and that more by accident than intent, to perhaps two. In a word there is not a distinctive feature of modern university life that was not anticipated in the Thirteenth Century. [Illustration] FLYING BUTTRESS (AMIENS) {58} IV THE NUMBER OF STUDENTS AND DISCIPLINE. For most people the surprise of finding that the subjects with which the students were occupied at the universities of the Thirteenth Century were very much the same as those which claim the attention of modern students, will probably be somewhat mitigated by the thought that after all there were only few in attendance at the universities, and as a consequence only a small proportion of the population shared in that illumination, which has become so universal in the spread of opportunities for the higher education in these later times. While such an impression is cherished by many even of those who think that they know the history of education, and unfortunately are considered _by others_ to be authorities on the subject, it is the falsest possible idea that could be conceived of this medieval time with which we are concerned. We may say at once that it is a matter of comparatively easy collation of statistics to show, that in proportion to the population of the various countries, there were actually more students taking advantage of the opportunity to acquire university education in the Thirteenth Century, than there were at any time in the Nineteenth Century, or even in the midst of this era of widespread educational opportunities in the Twentieth Century. Most people know the traditions which declare that there were between twenty and thirty thousand students at the University of Paris toward the end of the Thirteenth Century. At the same time there were said to have been between fifteen and twenty thousand students at the University of Bologna. Correspondingly large numbers have been reported for the University of Oxford and many thousands were supposed to be in attendance at the University of Cambridge. It is usually considered, however, that these figures are gross exaggerations. It is easy to assert this but rather difficult to prove. As a matter of fact the nearer one comes to the actual times in the {59} history of education, the more definitely do writers speak of these large numbers of students in attendance. For instance Gascoigne, who says that there were thirty thousand students at the University of Oxford at the end of the Thirteenth Century, lived himself within a hundred years of the events of which he talks, and he even goes so far as to declare that he saw the rolls of the University containing this many names. There is no doubt at all about his evidence in the matter and there is no mistake possible with regard to his figures. They were written out in Latin, not expressed in Arabic or Roman numerals, the copying of which might so easily give opportunities for error to creep in. In spite of such evidence it is generally conceded that to accept these large numbers would be almost surely a mistake. There were without any doubt many thousands of students at the Thirteenth Century universities. There were certainly more students at the University of Paris in the last quarter of the Thirteenth Century than there were at any time during the Nineteenth Century. This of itself is enough to startle modern complacency out of most of its ridiculous self-sufficiency. There can be scarcely a doubt that the University of Bologna at the time of its largest attendance had more students than any university of modern times, proud as we may be (and deservedly) of our immense institutions of learning. With regard to the English universities the presence of very large numbers is much more doubtful. Making every allowance, however, there can be no hesitation in saying that Oxford had during the last quarter of the Thirteenth Century a larger number than ever afterwards within her walls and that Cambridge, though never so numerous as her rival, had a like good fortune. Professor Laurie of Edinburgh, a very conservative authority and one not likely to concede too much to the Middle Ages in anything, would allow, as we shall see, some ten thousand students to Oxford. Others have claimed more than half that number for Cambridge as the lowest possible estimate. Even if it be conceded, as has sometimes been urged, that all those in service in the universities were also counted as students, these numbers would not be reduced very materially and it must not be {60} forgotten that, in those days of enthusiastic striving after education, young men were perfectly willing to take up even the onerous duties of personal services to others, in order to have the opportunity to be closely in touch with a great educational institution and to receive even a moderate amount of benefit from its educational system. In our own time there are many students who are working their way through the universities, and in the Thirteenth Century when the spirit of independence was much less developed, and when any stigma that attached to personal service was much less felt than it is at the present time, there were many more examples of this earnest striving for intellectual development. If we discuss the situation in English-speaking countries as regards the comparative attendance at the universities in the Thirteenth Century and in our own time, we shall be able to get a reasonably good idea of what must be thought in this matter. The authorities are neither difficult of consultation nor distant, and comparatively much more is known about the population of England at this time than about most of the continental countries. England was under a single ruler, while the geographical divisions that we now know by the name of France, Spain, Italy and Germany were the seats of several rulers at least and sometimes of many, a circumstance which does not favor our obtaining an adequate idea of the populations. That but two universities provided all the opportunities for whatever higher education there was in England at this time, would of itself seem to stamp the era as backward in educational matters. A little consideration of the comparative number of students with reference to the population of the country who were thus given the opportunity for higher education--and took advantage of it--at that time and the present, will show the unreasonableness of such an opinion. It is not so easy as might be imagined to determine just what was the population even of England in the Thirteenth Century. During Elizabeth's reign there were, according to the census, an estimate made about the time of the great Armada, altogether some four millions of people. Froude, accepts this estimate as representing very well the actual number of the population. Certainly there were not more {61} than five millions at the end of the Sixteenth Century. Lingard, who for this purpose must be considered as a thoroughly conservative authority, estimates that there were not much more than two millions of people in England at the end of the Twelfth Century. This is probably not an underestimate. At the end of the Thirteenth Century there were not many more than two millions and a half of people in the country. At the very outside there were, let us say, three millions. Out of this meagre population, ten thousand students were, on the most conservative estimate, taking advantage of the opportunities for the higher education that were provided for them at the universities. At the present moment, though we pride ourselves on the numbers in attendance at our universities, and though the world's population is so much more numerous and the means of transportation so much more easy, we have very few universities as large as these of the Thirteenth Century. No American university at the present moment has as large a number of students as had Oxford at the end of the Thirteenth Century, and of course none of them compares at all with Paris or Bologna in this respect. Even the European universities, as we have suggested, fall behind their former glory from this standpoint. In the attendance to the number of population the comparison is even more startling for those who have not thought at all of the Middle Ages as a time of wonderful educational facilities and opportunities. In the greater City of New York as we begin the Twentieth Century there are perhaps fifteen thousand students in attendance at educational institutions which have university privileges. I may say that this is a very liberal allowance. At universities in the ordinary sense of the word there are not more than ten thousand students and the remainder is added in order surely to include all those who may be considered as doing undergraduate work in colleges and schools of various kinds. Of these fifteen thousand at least one-fourth come from outside of the greater city, and there are some who think that even one-third would not be too large a number to calculate as not being drawn directly from our own population. Connecticut and New Jersey furnish large numbers of students and then, besides, the post-graduate schools {62} of the universities have very large numbers in attendance even from distant states and foreign countries. It will be within the bounds of truth, then, to say, that there are between ten and twelve thousand students, out of our population of more than four millions in Greater New York taking advantage of the opportunities for the higher education provided by our universities and colleges. At the end of the Thirteenth Century in England there were at least ten thousand students out of a population of not more and very probably less than three millions, who were glad to avail themselves of similar opportunities. This seems to be perfectly fair comparison and we have tried to be as conservative as possible in every way in order to bring out the truth in the matter. It can scarcely fail to be a matter of supreme surprise to find that a century so distant as the Thirteenth, should thus equal our own vaunted Twentieth Century in the matter of opportunities for the higher education afforded and taken advantage of. It has always been presumed that the Middle Ages, while a little better than the Dark Ages, were typical periods in which there was little, if any desire for higher education and even fewer opportunities. It was thought that there was constant repression of the desire for knowledge which springs so eternally in the human heart and that the Church, or at least the ecclesiastical authorities of the time, set themselves firmly against widespread education, because it would set people to thinking for themselves. As a matter of fact, however, every Cathedral and every monastery became a center of educational influence, and even the poorest, who showed special signs of talent, obtained the opportunity to secure knowledge to the degree that they wished. It is beyond doubt or cavil, that at no time in the world's history have so many opportunities for the higher education been open to all classes as during the Thirteenth Century. In order to show how thoroughly conservative are the numbers in attendance at the universities that I have taken, I shall quote two good recent authorities, one of them Professor Laurie, the Professor of the Institutes and History of Education in the University of Edinburgh, and the other Thomas Davidson, a well-known American authority on educational {63} subjects. Each of their works from which I shall quote has been published or revised within the last few years. Professor Laurie in "The Rise and Early Constitution of the University with a Survey of the Medieval Education," which formed one of the International Educational Series, edited by Commissioner Harris and published by Appleton, said: "When one hears of the large number of students who attended the earliest universities--ten thousand and even twenty thousand at Bologna, an equal, and at one time a greater, number at Paris, and thirty thousand at Oxford--one cannot help thinking that the numbers have been exaggerated. There is certainly evidence that the Oxford attendance was never so great as has been alleged (see Anstey's 'Mon Acad.'); but when we consider that attendants, servitors, college cooks, etc., were regarded as members of the university community, and that the universities provided for a time the sole recognized training grounds for those wishing to enter the ecclesiastical or legal or teaching professions, I see no reason to doubt the substantial accuracy of the tradition as to attendance--especially when we remember that at Paris and Oxford a large number were mere boys of from twelve to fifteen years of age." As to the inclusion of servitors, we have already said that many, probably, indeed, most of them, were actual students working their way through the university in these enthusiastic days. Professor Laurie's authority for the assertion that a large number of the students at Paris and Oxford were mere boys, is a regulation known to have existed at one of these universities requiring that students should not be less than twelve years of age. Anyone who has studied medieval university life, however, will have been impressed with the idea, that the students were on the average older at the medieval universities rather than younger than they are at the present time. The rough hazing methods employed, almost equal to those of our own day! would seem to indicate this. Besides, as Professor Laurie confesses in the next paragraph, many of the students were actually much older than at present. Our university courses are arranged for young men between 17 and 22, but that is, to fall back on Herbert Spencer, presumably because the period of infancy is {64} lengthening with the evolution of the race. There are many who consider that at the present time students are too long delayed in the opportunity to get at the professional studies, and that it is partly the consequence of this that the practical branches are so much more taken up under the elective system. As we said in the chapter on Universities and Preparatory Schools, in Italy and in other southern countries, it is not a surprising thing to have a young man graduate at the age of 16 or 17 with his degree of A. B., after a thoroughly creditable scholastic career. This means that he began his university work proper under 13 years of age; so that we must judge the medieval universities to some extent at least with this thought in mind. Mr. Thomas Davidson in his "History of Education," [Footnote 7] in the chapter on The Medieval University has a paragraph in which he discusses the attendance, especially during the Thirteenth Century, and admits that the numbers, while perhaps not so large as have been reported, were very large in comparison to modern institutions of the same kind, and frankly concedes that education rose during these centuries which are often supposed to have been so unfavorable to educational development, to an amazing height scarcely ever surpassed. He says: [Footnote 7: A History of Education, by Thomas Davidson, author of Aristotle and Ancient Educational Ideas. New York: Scribners, 1900.] "The number of students reported as having attended some of the universities in those early days almost passes belief; _e. g._ Oxford is said to have had thirty thousand about the year 1300, and half that number even as early as 1224. The numbers attending the University of Paris were still greater. These numbers become less surprising when we remember with what poor accommodations--a bare room and an armful of straw--the students of those days were content, and what numbers of them even a single teacher like Abelard could, long before draw into lonely retreats. That in the Twelfth and following centuries there was no lack of enthusiasm for study, notwithstanding the troubled condition of the times, is very clear. The instruction given at the universities, moreover, reacted upon the lower schools, raising their standard and supplying them with competent teachers. Thus, in the Thirteenth and {65} Fourteenth centuries, education rose in many European states to a height which it had not attained since the days of Seneca and Quintilian." {opp64} [Illustration] CHRIST DRIVING OUT MONEY CHANGERS (GIOTTO) [Illustration] HEAD FROM ANNUNCIATION (GIOTTO) [Illustration] BRIDE MARRIAGE AT CANA (GIOTTO) [Illustration] SAINT'S HEAD (MOSAIC, ST. MARK'S VENICE) A very serious objection that would seem to have so much weight as to preclude all possibility of accepting as true the large numbers mentioned, is the fact that it is very hard to understand how such an immense number of students could have been supported in any town of the Middle Ages. This objection has carried so much weight to some minds as to make them give up the thought of large numbers at the medieval universities. Professor Laurie has answered it very effectively, however, and in his plausible explanation gives a number of points which emphasize the intense ardor of these students of the Middle Ages in their search for knowledge, and shows how ready they were to bear serious trials and inconveniences, not to say absolute sufferings and hardships, in order that they might have opportunities for the higher education. The objection then redounds rather to the glory of the medieval universities than lessens their prestige, either as regards numbers or the enthusiasm of their students. "The chief objection to accepting the tradition (of large numbers at the universities) lies in the difficulty of seeing how in those days, so large a number of the young men of Europe could afford the expense of residence away from their homes. This difficulty, however, is partly removed when we know that many of the students were well to do, that a considerable number were matured men, already monks and canons, and that the endowments of Cathedral schools also were frequently used to enable promising scholars to attend foreign universities. Monasteries also regularly sent boys of thirteen and fourteen to university seats. A papal instruction of 1335 required every Benedictine and Augustinian community to send boys to the universities in the proportion of one in twenty of their residents. Then, state authorities ordered free passages for all who were wending their way through the country to and from the seat of learning. In the houses of country priests--not to speak of the monastery hospitals--traveling scholars were always accommodated gratuitously, and even local subscriptions were frequently made to help them on their way. {66} Poor traveling scholars were, in fact, a medieval institution, and it was considered no disgrace for a student to beg and receive alms for his support." After reading these authoritative opinions, it would be rather difficult to understand the false impressions which have obtained so commonly for the last three centuries with regard to education in the Middle Ages, if we did not realize that history, especially for English-speaking people, has for several centuries been written from a very narrow standpoint and with a very definite purpose. About a century ago the Comte de Maistre said in his Soirées de St. Petersburg, that history for the three hundred years before his time "had been a conspiracy against the truth." Curiously enough the editors of the Cambridge Modern History in their first volume on the Renaissance, re-echoed this sentiment of the French historical writer and philosopher. They even use the very words "history has been a conspiracy against the truth" and proclaim that if we are to get at truth in this generation, we must go behind all the classical historians, and look up contemporary documents and evidence and authorities once more for ourselves. It is the maintenance of a tradition that nothing good could possibly have come out of the Nazareth of the times before the Reformation, that has led to this serious misapprehension of the true position of those extremely important centuries in modern education--the Thirteenth and the Fourteenth. To those who know even a little of what was accomplished in these centuries, it is supremely amusing to read the childish treatment accorded them and the trivial remarks that even accredited historians of education make with regard to them. Occasionally, however, the feeling of the reader who knows something of the subject is not one of amusement, but far from it. There are times when one cannot help but feel that it is not ignorance, but a deliberate purpose to minimize the importance of these times in culture and education, that is at the basis of some of the utterly mistaken remarks that are made. We shall take occasion only to give one example of this, but that will afford ample evidence of the intolerant spirit that characterizes the work of some even of the supposedly most enlightened historians of education. The quotation will be from Compayré's {67} "History of Pedagogy" which is, I understand, in use in nearly every Normal School in this country and is among the books required in many Normal School examinations. M. Compayré in an infamous paragraph which bears the title "The Intellectual Feebleness of the Middle Age," furnishes an excellent example of how utterly misunderstood, if not deliberately misrepresented, has been the whole spirit and content and the real progressiveness of education in this wonderful period. After some belittling expressions as to the influence of Christianity on education--expressions utterly unjustified by the facts--he has this to say with regard to the Thirteenth Century, which is all the more surprising because it is the only place where he calls any attention to it. He says: "In 1291, of all the monks in the convent of St. Gall, there was not one who could read and write. It was so difficult to find notaries public, that acts had to be passed verbally. The barons took pride in their ignorance. Even after the efforts of the Twelfth Century, instruction remained a luxury for the common people; it was the privilege of the ecclesiastics and even they did not carry it very far. The Benedictines confess that the mathematics were studied only for the purpose of calculating the date of Easter." This whole paragraph of M. Compayré (the rest must be read to be appreciated), whose history of education was considered to be of such value that it was deemed worthy of translation by the President of a State Normal School and that it has been adopted as a work of reference, in some cases of required study, in many of the Normal Schools throughout the country, is a most wonderful concoction of ingredients, all of which are meant to dissolve every possible idea that people might have of the existence of any tincture of education during the Middle Ages. There is only one fact which deeply concerns us because it refers to the Thirteenth Century. M. Compayré says that in 1291 of all the monks of the Convent of Saint Gall there was not one who could read and write. This single fact is meant to sum up the education of the century for the reader. Especially it is meant to show the student of pedagogy how deeply sunk in ignorance were the monks and all the ecclesiastics of this period. {68} Before attempting to say anything further it may be as well to call attention to the fact that in the original French edition the writer did not say that there was not a single monk. He said, "There was but one monk, who could read and write." Possibly it seemed to the translator to make the story more complete to leave out this one poor monk and perhaps one monk more or less, especially a medieval monk, may not count for very much to modern students of education. There are those of us, however, who consider it too bad to obliterate even a single monk in this crude way and we ask that he shall be put back. There _was one_ who could read and write and carry on the affairs of the monastery. Let us have him at least, by all means. In the year 1291 when M. Compayré says that there was but a single monk at the monastery of St. Gall who could read and write, he, a professor himself at a French Normal School, must have known very well that there were over twenty thousand students at the University of Paris, almost as many at the University of Bologna, and over five thousand, some authorities say many more than this (Professor Laurie would admit more than ten thousand), at the University of Oxford, though all Christian Europe at this time did not have a population of more than 15,000,000 people. He must have known, too, or be hopelessly ignorant in educational matters, that many of the students at these universities belonged to the Franciscans and Dominicans, and that indeed many of the greatest teachers at the universities were members of these monastic orders. Of this he says nothing, however. All that he says is "Education was the privilege of the ecclesiastics and they did not carry it very far." This is one way of writing a history of education. It is a very effective way of poisoning the wells of information and securing the persistence of the tradition that there was no education until after the beginning of the Sixteenth Century. Meantime one can scarcely help but admire the ingenuity of deliberate purpose that uses the condition of the monastery of St. Gall to confirm his statement. St. Gall had been founded by Irish monks probably about the beginning of the Eighth Century. It had been for at least three centuries a center of education, civilization and culture, as well as of religion, for the {69} barbarians who had settled in the Swiss country after the trans-migration of nations. The Irish had originally obtained their culture from Christian Missionaries, and now as Christian Missionaries they brought it back to Europe and accomplished their work with wonderful effectiveness. St. Gall was for centuries a lasting monument to their efforts. After the Tenth Century, however, the monastery began to degenerate. It was almost directly in the path of armies which so frequently went down to Italy because of the German interest in the Italian peninsula and the claims of the German emperor. After a time according to tradition, the emperor insisted that certain of the veterans of his army should be received and cared for in their old age at St. Gall. Gradually this feature of the institution became more and more prominent until in the Thirteenth Century it had become little more than a home for old soldiers. In order to live on the benefices of the monastery these men had to submit to ecclesiastical regulations and wear the habit. They were, it is true, a sort of monk, that is, they were willing, for the sake of the peace and ease which it brought, to accept the living thus provided for them and obey to some degree at least the rules of the monastery. It is not surprising that among these there should have been only one who could read and write. The soldiers of the time despised the men of letters and prided themselves on not being able to write. That a historian of pedagogy, however, should take this one fact in order to give students an idea of the depth of ignorance of the Middle Ages, is an exhibition of some qualities in our modern educated men, that one does not like to think of as compatible with the capacity to read and write. It would indeed be better not to be able to read and write than thus to read and write one's own prejudices into history, and above all the history of education. Compayré's discussion of the "Causes of the Ignorance" of the Middle Ages in the next paragraph, is one of the most curious bits of special pleading by a man who holds a brief for one side of the question, that I think has ever been seen in what was to be considered serious history. He first makes it clear how much opposed the Christian Church was to education, then he admits that she did some things which cannot be denied, but minimizes their significance. Then he concludes that it was not {70} the fault of the Church, but in this there is a precious bit of damning by faint praise. It would be impossible for any ordinary person who had only Compayré for authority to feel anything after reading the paragraph, but that Christianity was a serious detriment and surely not a help to the cause of progress in education. I quote part of the paragraph: "What were the permanent causes of that situation which lasted for ten centuries? The Catholic Church has sometimes been held responsible for this. Doubtless the Christian doctors did not always profess a very warm sympathy for intellectual culture. Saint Augustine has said: It is the ignorant who gain possession of heaven (indocti coelum rapiunt.) Saint Gregory the Great, a Pope of the Sixth Century, declared that he would blush to have the holy word conform to the rules of grammar. Too many Christians, in a word, confounded ignorance with holiness. Doubtless, towards the Seventh Century, the darkness still hung thick over the Christian Church. Barbarians invaded the Episcopate, and carried with them their rude manners. Doubtless, also, during the feudal period the priest often became a soldier, and remained ignorant. It would, however, be unjust to bring a constructive charge against the Church of the Middle Age, and to represent it as systematically hostile to instruction. Directly to the contrary, it is the clergy who, in the midst of the general barbarism, preserved some vestiges of the ancient culture. The only schools of that period are the Episcopal and claustral schools, the first annexed to the Bishops' palaces, the second to the monasteries. The religious orders voluntarily associated manual labor with mental labor. As far back as 530, St. Benedict founded the Convent of Monte Cassino, and drew up statutes which made reading and intellectual labor a part of the daily life of the monks." When this damning by faint praise is taken in connection with the paragraph in which only a single monk at the Monastery of St. Gall is declared to have been able to read and write, the utterly false impression that is sure to result, can be readily understood even by those who are not sympathetic students of the Middle Ages. This is how our histories of education have been written as a rule, and as a consequence the most precious period in modern education, its great origin, has been ignored even by professional scholars, to the great detriment not only of historical knowledge but also of any proper appreciation of the evolution of education. Portraits Bennozo Gozzoli [Illustration] PETRARCA OMNIUM VIRTUTUM MONARCA [Illustration] GIOTTO, PICTOR EXIMIUS [Illustration] DANTE THEOLOGUS NULLIUS DOGMATIS EXPERS {71} It will be said by those who do not appreciate the conditions that existed in the Middle Ages, that these numbers at the universities seeking the higher education, mean very little for the culture of the people, since practically all of those in attendance at the universities belonged to the clerical order. There is no doubt that most students were clerics in the Thirteenth Century. This did not mean, however, that they had taken major orders or had in any way bound themselves irrevocably to continue in the clerical vocation. The most surprising thing about the spread of culture and the desire for the higher education during the Thirteenth Century, is that they developed in spite of the fact that the rulers of the time were all during the century, embroiled in war either with their neighbors or with the nobility. Anyone who wanted to live a quiet, intellectual life turned naturally to the clerical state, which enabled him to escape military duties and gave him opportunities for study, as well as protection from many exactions that might otherwise be levied upon him. The church not only encouraged education, but supplied the peaceful asylums in which it might be cultivated to the heart's content of the student. While this clerical state was a necessity during the whole time of residence at the university, it was not necessarily maintained afterward. Many of the clerics did not even have minor orders--orders which it is well understood carry with them no absolute obligation of continuing in the clerical state. Sextons and their assistants were clerics. When the word canon originally came into use it meant nothing more than that the man was entered on the rolls of a church and received some form of wages therefrom. Students at the universities were by ecclesiastical courtesy then, clerics (from which comes the word clerk, one who can read and write) though not in orders, and it was because of this that the university was able to maintain the rights of students. It was well understood that after graduation men might take up the secular life and indeed most of them did. In succeeding chapters we shall see examples of this and discuss the question further. Professors at the {72} universities had to maintain their clerical condition so that even professors of law and of medicine were not allowed to marry. This law continued long beyond the Thirteenth Century, however. Professors of medicine were the first to be freed from the obligation of celibacy, but not until the middle of the Fifteenth Century at Paris, while other professors were bound thus for a full century later. Certain minor teaching positions at Oxford are still under this law, which evidently has seemed to have some advantage or it would not have been maintained. It might perhaps be thought that only the wealthier class, the sons of the nobility and of the wealthy merchants of the cities had opportunities at the universities. As a matter of fact, however, the vast majority of the students was drawn from the great middle class. The nobility were nearly always too occupied with their pleasures and their martial duties to have time for the higher education. The tradition that a nobleman should be an educated gentleman had not yet come in. Indeed many of the nobility during the Thirteenth Century rather prided themselves on the fact that they not only had no higher education, but that they did not know even how to read and write. When we reflect, then, on the large numbers who went to the universities, it adds to our surprise to realize that they were drawn from the burgher class. It is evident that many of the sons even of the poor were afforded opportunities in different ways at the universities of the time. Tradition shows that from the earliest time there were foundations on which poor students could live, and various arrangements were made by which, aside from these, they might make their living while continuing their studies. Working one's way through the university was more common in the Thirteenth Century than it is at the present day, though we are proud of the large numbers who now succeed in the double task of supporting and educating themselves, with excellent success in both enterprises. There are many stories of poor students who found themselves about to be obliged to give up their studies, encountering patrons of various kinds who enabled them to go on with their education. There is a very pretty set of legends with regard to St. Edmund of Canterbury in this matter. He bears this name {73} because he was afterward the sainted primate of England. For many years he taught at the University of Oxford. The story is told of a clerical friend sending him up a student to Oxford and asking that his bills be sent to him. St. Edmund's answer was that he would not be robbed of an opportunity of doing good like this, and he took upon himself the burden of caring for the student. At the time there were many others dependent on his bounty and his reputation was such that he was enabled to help a great many through the benefactions of friends, who found no higher pleasure in life than being able to come generously to Edmund's assistance in his charities. Those who know the difficulty of managing very large bodies of students will wonder inevitably, how the medieval universities, with their less formal and less complete organizations, succeeded in maintaining discipline for all these thousands of students. Most people will remember at once all the stories of roughness, of horse play, of drinking and gaming or worse that they have heard of the medieval students and will be apt to conclude that they are not to be wondered at after all, since it must have been practically impossible for the faculties of universities to keep order among such vast numbers. As a matter of fact, however, the story of the origin and maintenance of discipline in these universities is one of the most interesting features of university life. The process of discipline became in itself a very precious part of education, as it should be of course in any well regulated institution of learning. The very fact, moreover, that in spite of these large numbers and other factors that we shall call attention to in a moment, comparatively so few disgraceful stories of university life have come down to us, and the other and still more important fact that the universities could be kept so constantly at the attainment of their great purpose for such numbers, is itself a magnificent tribute to those who succeeded in doing it, and to the system which was gradually evolved, not by the faculty alone but by teachers and students for university government. With regard to the discipline of the medieval universities not much is known and considerable of what has been written on this obscure subject wears an unfavorable tinge, because it is unfortunately true that "the good men do is oft interred with {74} their bones" while the evil has an immortality all its own. The student escapades of the universities, the quarrels between town and gown, the stories of the evils apparently inevitable, where many young men are congregated--the hazing, the rough horse play, the carousing, the immoralities--have all come down to us, while it is easy to miss the supreme significance of the enthusiasm for learning that in these difficult times gathered so many students together from distant parts of the world, when traveling was so difficult and dangerous, and kept them at the universities for long years in spite of the hardships and inconveniences of the life. With regard to our modern universities the same thing is true, and the outside world knows much more of the escapades of the few, the little scandals of college life, that scarcely make a ripple but are so easily exaggerated, and so frequently repeated and lose nothing by repetition, the waste of time in athletics, in gambling, in social things, than of the earnest work and the successful intellectual progress and interests of the many. This should be quite enough to make the modern university man very slow to accept the supposed pictures of medieval student life, which are founded mainly on the worse side of it. Goodness is proverbially uninteresting, a happy people has no history and the ordinary life of the university student needs a patient sympathetic chronicler; and such the medieval universities have not found as yet. But they do not need many allowances, if it will only be remembered under what discouragements they labored and how much they accomplished. The reputation of the medieval universities has suffered from this very human tendency to be interested in what is evil and to neglect the good. Even as it is, however, a good deal with regard to the discipline of the universities in the early times is known and does not lose in interest from the fact, that the main factor in it was a committee of the students themselves working in conjunction with the faculty, and thus anticipating what is most modern in the development of the disciplinary regime of our up-to-date universities. At first apparently, in the schools from which the universities originated there was no thought of the necessity for discipline. The desire for education was considered to be sufficient to keep men occupied in {75} such a way that further discipline would not be necessary. It can readily be understood that the crowds that flocked to hear Abelard in Paris, and who were sufficiently interested to follow him out to the Desert of the Paraclete when he was no longer allowed to continue his lectures in connection with the school at Paris, would have quite enough of ruling from the internal forum of their supreme interest, not to need any discipline in the external forum. In the course of time, however, with the coming of even greater numbers to the University of Paris, and especially when the attendance ran up into many thousands, some form of school discipline became an absolute necessity. This developed of itself and in a very practical way. The masters seem to have had very little to do with it at the beginning since they occupied themselves entirely with their teaching and preparation for lectures. What was to become later one of the principal instruments of discipline was at first scarcely more than a social organization among the students. Those who came from different countries were naturally attracted to one another, and were more ready to help each other. When students first came they were welcomed by their compatriots who took care to keep them from being imposed upon, enabled them to secure suitable quarters and introduced them to university customs generally, so that they might be able to take advantage, as soon as possible, of the educational opportunities. The friendships thus fostered gradually grew into formal organizations, the so-called "nations." These began to take form just before the beginning of the Thirteenth Century. They made it their duty to find lodgings for their student compatriots, and evidently also to supply food on some cooperative plan for at least the poorer students. Whenever students of a particular nationality were injured in any way, their "nation" as a formal organization took up their cause and maintained their rights, even to the extent of an appeal to formal process of law before the magistrates, if necessary. The nations were organized before the faculties in the universities were formally recognized as independent divisions of the institution, and they acted as intermediaries between the university head and the students, making themselves responsible for discipline to no slight {76} degree. At the beginning of the Thirteenth Century in Paris all the students belonged to one or other of four nations, the Picard, the Norman, the French, which embraced Italians, Spaniards, Greeks and Orientals, and the English which embraced the English, Irish, Germans, Poles (heterogeneous collection we would consider it in these modern days) and in addition all other students from the North of Europe. Professor Laurie, of the University of Edinburgh, in his Rise and Early Constitution of Universities in the International Educational Series [Footnote 8] says: [Footnote 8: The Rise and Early Constitution of Universities, with a survey of Medieval Education, by S. S. Laurie, LL.D., Professor of the Institutes and History of Education in the University of Edinburgh. New York, D. Appleton & Company, 1901.] "The subdivisions of the nations were determined by the localities from which the students and masters came. Each subdivision elected its own dean and kept its own matriculation-book and money-chest. The whole "nation" was represented, it is true, by the elected procurators; but the deans of the subdivisions were regarded as important officials, and were frequently, if not always, assessors of the procurators. The procurators, four in number, were elected, not by the students as in Bologna and Padua, but by the students and masters. Each nation with its procurator and deans was an independent body, passing its own statutes and rules, and exercising supervision over the lodging-houses of the students. They had each a seal as distinguished from the university seal, and each procurator stood to his "nation" in the same relation as the Rector did to the whole university. The Rector, again, was elected by the procurators, who sat as his assessors, and together they constituted the governing body; but this for purposes of discipline, protection and defense of privileges chiefly, the _consortium magistrorum_ regulating the schools. But so independent were the nations that the question whether each had power to make statutes that overrode those of the _universitas_, was still a question so late as the beginning of the Seventeenth Century." It is typical of the times that the governing system should thus have grown up of itself and from amongst the students, rather than that it should have been organized by the teachers {77} and imposed upon the university. The nations represented the rise of that democratic spirit, which was to make itself felt in the claims for the recognition of rights for all the people in most of the countries during the Thirteenth Century, and undoubtedly the character of the government of the student body at the universities fostered this spirit and is therefore to a noteworthy degree, responsible for the advances in the direction of liberty which are chronicled during this great century. This was a form of unconscious education but none the less significant for that, and eminently practical in its results. At this time in Europe there was no place where the members of the community who flocked in largest numbers to the universities, the sons of the middle classes, could have any opportunities to share in government or learn the precious lessons of such participation, except at the universities. There gradually came an effort on the part of the faculties to lessen many of the rights of the nations of the universities, but the very struggle to maintain these on the part of the student body, was of itself a precious training against the usurpation of privileges that was to be of great service later in the larger arena of national politics, and the effects of which can be noted in every country in Europe, nowhere more than in England, where the development of law and liberty was to give rise to a supreme heritage of democratic jurisprudence for the English speaking peoples of all succeeding generations. {78} V POST-GRADUATE WORK AT THE UNIVERSITIES. In modern times it has often been said that no university can be considered to be doing its proper work unless, besides teaching, it is also adding to the existing body of knowledge by original research. Because of unfortunate educational traditions, probably the last thing in the world that would enter into the minds of most people to conceive as likely to be found in the history of the universities of the Thirteenth Century, would be original research in any form. In spite of this almost universal false impression, original work of the most valuable kind, for much of which workers would be considered as amply deserving of their doctorates in the various faculties of the post-graduate departments of the most up-to-date of modern universities, was constantly being accomplished during this wonderful century. It is, as a matter of fact, with this phase of university activity that the modern educator is sure to have more sympathy than with any other, once the significant details of the work become clear. All surprise that surpassing original work was accomplished will cease when it is recalled that, besides creating the universities themselves, this century gave us the great Cathedrals--a well-spring of originality, and a literature in every civilized country of Europe that has been an inspiration to many subsequent generations. At last men had the time to devote to the things of the mind. During what are called the Dark Ages, a term that must ever be used with the realization that there are many bright points of light in them, men had been occupied with wars and civic and political dissensions of all kinds, and had been gradually climbing back to the heights of interest in intellectual matters which had been theirs before the invasion of the barbarians and the migration of nations. With the rebirth of intellectual interests there came an intense curiosity to know everything and to investigate every manifestation. {79} Everything that men touched was novel, and the wonderful advances they made can only be realized from actual consultation of their works, while the reader puts himself as far as possible at the same mental point of view from which they surveyed the world and their relations to it. The modern university prides itself on the number of volumes written by its professors and makes it a special feature of its announcements to call attention to its at least supposed additions to knowledge in this mode. It must have been immensely more difficult to preserve the writings of the professors of the medieval universities for they had to be copied out laboriously by hand, yet we have an enormous number of large volumes of their works, on nearly every intellectual topic, that have been carefully preserved. There are some twenty closely printed large folio volumes of the writings of Albertus Magnus that have come down to us. For two centuries, until the time of printing, ardent students must have been satisfied to spend much time in preserving these. While mainly devoted to theology, they treat of nearly everything else, and at least one of the folio volumes is taken up almost exclusively with physical science. St. Thomas Aquinas has as many volumes to his credit and his work is even of more importance. Duns Scotus died at a very early age, scarcely more than forty, yet his writings are voluminously extensive and have been carefully preserved, for few men had as enthusiastic students as he. Alas! that his name should be preserved for most people only in the familiar satiric appellation 'dunce.' The modern educator will most rejoice at the fact that the students of the time must have indeed been devoted to their masters to set themselves to the task of copying out their work so faithfully for, as Cardinal Newman has pointed out, it is the personal influence of the master, rather than the greatness of the institution, that makes education effective. First with regard to philosophy, the mistress of all studies, whose throne has been shaken but not shattered in these ultimate times. After all it must not be forgotten that this was the great century of the development of scholastic philosophy. While this scholastic philosophy is supposed by many students of modern philosophy to be a thing of the past, it still continues {80} to be the basis of the philosophical teaching in the Catholic seminaries and universities throughout the world. Catholic philosophers are well known as conservative thinkers and writers, and yet are perfectly free to confess that they consider themselves the nearer to truth the nearer they are to the great scholastic thinkers of the Thirteenth Century. Even in the circle of students of philosophy who are outside the influence of scholasticism, there is no doubt that in recent years an opinion much more favorable to the Schoolmen has gradually arisen. This has been due to a study of scholastic sources. Only those despise and talk slightingly of scholasticism who either do not know it at all or know it only at second hand. With regard to the system of thought, as such, ever is it true, that the more close the acquaintanceship the more respect there is for it. With regard to theology the case is even stronger than with regard to philosophy. Practically all of the great authorities in theology belong to the Thirteenth Century. It is true that men like Saint Anselm lived before this time and were leaders in the great movement that culminated in our century. Saint Anselm's book, _Cur Deus Homo_, is indeed one of the best examples of the combination of scholastic philosophy and theology that could well be cited. It is a triumph of logical reasoning, applied to religious belief. Besides, it is a great classic and any one who can read it unmoved by admiration for the thinker who, so many centuries ago, could so trenchantly lay down his thesis and develop it, must be lacking in some of the qualities of human admiration. The writers of the Thirteenth Century in theology are beyond even Anselm in their marvelous powers of systematizing thought. One need only mention such names as Albertus Magnus, Thomas Aquinas, Bonaventure. Duns Scotus, and Raymond Lully to make those who are at all acquainted with the history of the time realize, that this is not an idle expression of the enthusiasm of a special votary of the Thirteenth Century. As we shall see in discussing the career of Saint Thomas Aquinas, the Catholic Church still continues to teach scholastic theology on exactly the same lines as were laid down by this great doctor of the church in his teaching at the University of Paris. Amid the crumbling of many Christian systems of {81} thought, as upheld by the various protestant sects, there has been a very general realization that the Catholic Church has built up the only edifice of Christian apologetics, which will stand the storms of time and the development of human knowledge. Confessedly this edifice is founded on Thirteenth Century scholasticism. Pope Leo XIII., than whom, even in the estimation of those who are least sympathetic toward his high office, there was no man of more supremely practical intelligence in our generation, insisted that St. Thomas Aquinas must in general principle at least, be the groundwork of the teaching of philosophy and theology as they are to form the minds of future Catholic apologists. The scholastic theology and philosophy of the Thirteenth Century have come to us in absolute purity. The huge tomes which represent the indefatigable labors of these ardent scholars were well preserved by the subsequent generation which thought so much of them, and in spite of the absence of printing have come down to us in perfectly clear texts. It is easy to neglect them and to say that a study of them is not worth while. They represent, however, the post-graduate work and the research in the department of philosophy and theology of these days, and any university of modern time would consider itself honored by having their authors among its professors and alumni. Any one who does not think so need only turn to the volumes themselves and read them with understanding and sympathy, and there will be another convert to the ranks of that growing multitude of scholars, who have learned to appreciate the marvelous works of our university colleagues of the Thirteenth Century. With regard to law, not much need be said here, since it is well understood that the foundations of our modern jurisprudence (see chapters on Legal Origins), as well as the methods of teaching law, were laid in the Thirteenth Century and the universities were the most active factors, direct and indirect, in this work. The University of Bologna developed from a law school. Toward the end of the Twelfth Century Irnerius revived the study of the old Roman law and put the curriculum of modern Civil Law on a firm basis. A little later Gratian made his famous collection of decretals, which are the basis of Canon {82} Law. Great popes, during the Thirteenth Century, beginning with Innocent III., and continuing through such worthy emulators as Gregory IX. and Boniface VIII., made it the special glory of their pontificates to collect the decrees of their predecessors and arrange and publish them, so that they might be readily available for consultation. French law assumed its modern form, and the basis of French jurisprudence was laid, under Louis IX., who called to his assistance, in this matter, the Professors of Law at the University of Paris, with many of whom he was on the most intimate terms. His cousin, Ferdinand of Castile, laid the foundation of the Spanish law about the same time under almost similar circumstances, and with corresponding help. The study of law in the English universities helped to the formulation of the principles of the English Common Law in such simple connected form as made them readily accessible for consultation. Just before the beginning of the last quarter of the Thirteenth Century, Bracton, of whose work much more will be said in a subsequent chapter, drew up the digest of the English Common Law, which has been the basis of English jurisprudence ever since. It took just about a century for these countries, previously without proper codification of the principles of their laws, to complete the fundamental work to such a degree, that it is still the firm substructure on which rests all our modern laws. Legal origins, in our modern sense, came not long before the Thirteenth Century; at its end the work was finished, to all intents and purposes. Of the influence of the universities and of the university law departments, in all this there can be no doubt. The incentive, undoubtedly, came from their teachings. The men who did so much for legal origins of such far-reaching importance, were mainly students of the universities of the time, whose enthusiasm for work had not subsided with the obtaining of their degrees. It is in medicine, however, much more than in law or theology, that the eminently practical character of university teaching during the Thirteenth Century can be seen, at least in the form in which it will appeal to a scientific generation. We are so accustomed to think that anything like real progress in medicine, and especially in surgery, has only come in very {83} recent years, that it is a source of great surprise to find how much these earnest students of a long distant century anticipated the answers to problems, the solutions of which are usually supposed to be among the most modern advances. Professor Allbutt, the Regius professor of Physic in the University of Cambridge, a position, the occupant of which is always a leader in English medical thought, the present professor being one of the world's best authorities in the history of medicine, recently pointed out some of these marvels of old-time medicine and surgery. In an address On the Historical Relations of Medicine and Surgery to the end of the Sixteenth Century, delivered at the Congress of Arts and Sciences at the St. Louis Exposition in 1904, he (Prof. Allbutt) spoke with regard to one of the great university medical teachers of the Thirteenth Century as follows: "Both for his own great merits, as an original and independent observer, and as the master of Lanfranc, William Salicet (Guglielmo Salicetti of Piacenza, in Latin G. Placentinus de Saliceto--now Cadeo), was eminent among the great Italian physicians of the latter half of the Thirteenth Century. Now these great Italians were as distinguished in surgery as in medicine, and William was one of the protestants of the period against the division of surgery from inner medicine; a division which he regarded as a separation of medicine from intimate touch with nature. Like Lanfranc and the other great surgeons of the Italian tradition, and unlike Franco and Ambroise Paré, he had the advantage of the liberal university education of Italy; but, like Paré and Wurtz, he had large practical experience in hospital and on the battlefield. He practised first at Bologna, afterward in Verona. William fully recognised that surgery cannot be learned from books only. His Surgery contains many case histories, for he rightly opined that good notes of cases are the soundest foundation of good practice; and in this opinion and method Lanfranc followed him. William discovered that dropsy may be due to a '_durities renum_'; he substituted the knife for the Arabist abuse of the cautery; he investigated the causes of the failure of healing by first intention; he described the danger of wounds of the neck; he sutured divided nerves; he forwarded the diagnosis of {84} suppurative disease of the hip, and he referred chancre and phagedaena to their real causes." This paragraph sets forth some almost incredible anticipations of what are usually considered among the most modern phases of medicine and surgery. Perhaps the most surprising thing is the simple statement that Salicet recognized that surgery cannot be learned from books alone. His case histories are instructive even to the modern surgeon who reads them. His insistence on his students making careful notes of their cases as the soundest foundation of progress in surgery, is a direct contradiction of nearly everything that has been said in recent years about medieval medicine and especially the teaching of medicine. (See Appendix.) William's great pupil, Lanfranc, followed him in this, and Lanfranc encouraged the practise at the University of Paris. There is a note-book of a student at the University of Paris, made toward the end of the Thirteenth Century, carefully preserved in the Museum of the University of Berlin. This notebook was kept during Lanfranc's teaching and contains some sketches of dissections, as well as some illustrations of operative procedures, as studied with that celebrated surgeon. The tradition of case histories continued at the University of Paris down to the beginning of modern surgery. Some of the doctrines in medicine that William of Salicet stated so clearly, sound surprisingly modern. The connection, for instance, between dropsy and _durities renum_ (hardening of the kidneys) shows how wonderfully observant the old master was. At the present time we know very little more about the dropsical condition associated with chronic Bright's disease than the fact that it constantly occurs where there is a sclerosis or contraction of the kidney. Bright in his study of albuminuria and contracted kidney practically taught us no more than this, except that he added the further symptom of the presence of albumin in the urine. It must have been only as the result of many carefully studied cases, followed by autopsies, that any such doctrine could have come into existence. There is a dropsy that occurs with heart disease; there is also a dropsy in connection with certain affections of the liver, and yet the most frequent cause is just this hardening of the kidneys {85} spoken of by this middle-of-the-Thirteenth Century Italian professor of medicine, who, if we would believe so many of the historians of medicine, was not supposed to occupy himself at all with ante and post-mortem studies of patients, but with the old-time medical authorities. Almost more surprising than the question of dropsy is the investigation as to the causes of the failure of healing by first intention. The modern surgeon is very apt to think that he is the only one who ever occupied himself with the thought, that wounds might be made to heal by first intention and without the occurrence of suppuration or granulation. Certainly no one would suspect any interest in the matter as far back as the Thirteenth Century. William of Salicet, however, and Lanfranc, both of them occupied themselves much with this question and evidently looked at it from a very practical standpoint. Many careful observations must have been made and many sources of observational error eliminated to enable these men to realize the possibilities of primary union, especially, knowing as they did, nothing at all about the external causes of suppuration and considering, as did surgeons for nearly seven centuries afterward, that it was because of something within the patient's tissues that the cases of suppuration had their rise. Unfortunately, the pioneer work done by William and his great disciple did not have that effect upon succeeding generations which it should have had. There was a question in men's minds as to whether nature worked better by primary union or by means of the suppurative process. In the next century surgeons took the wrong horn of the dilemma and even so distinguished a surgeon as Guy de Chauliac, who has been called, not without good cause, the father of surgery, came to the conclusion that suppuration was practically a necessary process in the healing of large wounds at least, and that it must be encouraged rather than discouraged. This doctrine did not have its first set-back until the famous incident in Ambroise Paré's career, when one morning after a battle, coming to his patients expecting to find many of them very severely ill, he found them on the contrary in better condition than the others for whom he had no forebodings. In accord with old custom {86} he poured boiling oil into the wounds of all patients, but the great surgeon's supply of oil had failed the day before and he used plain water to cleanse the wounds of a number, fearing the worst for them, however, because of the poison that must necessarily stay in their wounds and then had the agreeable disappointment of finding these patients in much better condition than those whom he had treated with all the rules of his art, as they then were. Even this incident, however, did not serve to correct entirely the old idea as to the value of suppuration and down to Lister's time, that is almost the last quarter of the Nineteenth Century, there is still question of the value of suppuration in expediting the healing of wounds, and we hear of laudable pus and of the proper inflammatory reaction that is expected to bring about wound repair. The danger of wounds of the neck is, of course, not a modern doctrine, and yet very few people would think for a moment that it could be traced back to the middle of the Thirteenth Century and to a practical teacher of surgery in a medieval Italian university. Here once more there is evidence of the work of a careful observer who has seen patients expire in a few minutes as the result of some serious incident during the course of operations upon the neck. He did not realize that the danger was due, in many cases, to the sucking in of air into the large veins, but even at the present time this question is not wholly settled and the problem as to the danger of the presence of air is still the subject of investigation. As to the suture of divided nerves, it would ordinarily and as a matter of course be claimed by most modern historians of surgery and by practically all surgeons, as an affair entirely of the last half century. William of Salicet, however, neglected none of the ordinary surgical procedures that could be undertaken under the discouraging surgical circumstances in which he lived. The limitations of anesthesia, though there was much more of this aid than there has commonly been any idea of, and the frequent occurrence of suppuration must have been constant sources of disheartenment. His insistence on the use of the knife rather than on the cautery shows how much he appreciated the value of proper healing. It is from such a man that we might expect the advance by careful {87} investigation as to just what tissues had been injured, with the idea of bringing them together in such juxtaposition as would prevent loss of function and encourage rapid and perfect union. {opp87} [Illustration] SCREEN (HEREFORD) [Illustration] DOORWAY OF SACRISTY (BOURGES) Perhaps to the ordinary individual William's reference of certain known venereal affections to their proper cause, will be the most astonishing in this marvelous list of anticipations of what is supposed to be very modern. The whole subject of venereal disease in anything like a scientific treatment of it is supposed to date from the early part of the Sixteenth Century. There is even question in certain minds as to whether the venereal diseases did not come into existence, or at least were not introduced from America or from some other distant country that the Europeans had been exploring about this time. William's studies in this subject, however, serve to show that nothing escaped his watchful eye and that he was in the best sense of the word a careful observer and must have been an eminently suggestive and helpful teacher. What has thus been learned about him will serve of itself and without more ado, to stamp all that has been said about the unpractical character of the medical teaching of the medieval universities as utterly unfounded. Because men have not taken the trouble to look up the teaching of these times, and because their works were until recent years buried in old folios, difficult to obtain and still more difficult to read when obtained, it has been easy to ignore their merit and even to impugn the value of their teaching completely. William of Salicet was destined, moreover, to be surpassed in some ways by his most distinguished pupil, Lanfranc, who taught at the University of Paris at the end of the Thirteenth Century. Of Lanfranc, in the address already quoted from, Professor Allbutt has one very striking paragraph that shows how progressive was the work of this great French surgeon, and how fruitful had been the suggestive teaching of his great master. He says: "Lanfranc's 'Chirurgia Magna' was a great work, written by a reverent but independent follower of Salicet. He distinguished between venous and arterial hemorrhage, and used styptics (rabbit's fur, aloes, and white of egg was a popular styptic in elder surgery), digital compression for an hour, or in severe cases ligature. His chapter on injuries of the head {88} is one of the classics of medieval surgery. Clerk (cleric) as he was, Lanfranc nevertheless saw but the more clearly the danger of separating surgery from medicine." Certain assertions in this paragraph deserve, as in the case of Lanfranc's master, to be discussed, because of their anticipations of what is sometimes thought to be very modern in surgery. The older surgeons are supposed to have feared hemorrhage very much. It is often asserted that they knew little or nothing about the ligature and that their control of hemorrhage was very inadequate. As a matter of fact, however, it was not primary hemorrhage that the old surgeons feared, but secondary hemorrhage. Suppuration often led to the opening of an important artery, and this accident, as can well be understood, was very much dreaded. Surgeons would lose their patients before they could come to their relief. How thoroughly Lanfranc knew how to control primary hemorrhage can be appreciated from the quotation just made from Dr. Allbutt's address. The ligature is sometimes said to have been an invention of Ambroise Paré, but, as a matter of fact, it had been in use for at least three centuries before his time, and perhaps even longer. Usually it is considered that the difficult chapter of head injuries, with all the problems that it involves in diagnosis and treatment, is a product of the Nineteenth Century. Hence do we read, with all the more interest, Allbutt's declaration that Lanfranc wrote what is practically a classical monograph, on the subject. It is not so surprising, then, to find that the great French surgeon was far ahead of his generation in other matters, or that he should even have realized the danger of separating surgery from medicine. Both the Regius professors of medicine at the two great English universities, Cambridge and Oxford, have, since the beginning of the Twentieth Century, made public expression of their opinion that the physician should see more of the work of the surgeon, and should not depend on the autopsy room for his knowledge of the results of internal disease. Professor Osler, particularly, has emphasized his colleague, Professor Allbutt's opinion in this matter. That a surgical professor at the University of Paris, in the Thirteenth Century, should have anticipated these two leaders {89} of medical thought in the Twentieth Century, would not be so surprising, only that unfortunately the history of medieval teaching has, because of prejudice and a lamentable tradition, not been read aright. Occasionally one finds a startling bit of anticipation of what is most modern, in medicine as well as in surgery. For instance, toward the end of the Thirteenth Century, a distinguished English professor of medicine, known as Gilbert, the Englishman, was teaching at Montpelier, and among other things, was insisting that the rooms of patients suffering from smallpox should be hung entirely with red curtains, and that the doors and the windows should be covered with heavy red hangings. He claimed that this made the disease run a lighter course, with lessened mortality, and with very much less disfigurement. Smallpox was an extremely common disease in the Thirteenth Century, and he probably had many chances for observation. It is interesting to realize that one of the most important observations made at the end of the Nineteenth Century by Dr. Finsen, the Danish investigator whose studies in light and its employment in therapeutics, drew to him the attention of the world, and eventually the Nobel prize of $40,000 for the greatest advance in medicine was, that the admission of only red light to the room of smallpox patients modified the disease very materially, shortened its course, often prevented the secondary fever, and almost did away completely with the subsequent disfigurement. It is evident that these men were searching and investigating for themselves, and not following blindly in the footsteps of any master. It has often been said that during the Middle Ages it was a heresy to depart, ever so little, from the teaching of Galen. Usually it is customary to add that the first writer to break away from Galen, effectually, was Vesalius, in his De Fabrica Corporis Humani, published toward the end of the second quarter of the Sixteenth Century. It may be said, in passing, that, as a matter of fact, Vesalius, though he accomplished much by original investigation, did not break so effectually with Galen as would have been for the best in his own work, and, especially, for its influence on his successors. He certainly did not set an example of independent research {90} and personal observation, any more fully, than did the medical teachers of the Thirteenth Century already mentioned, and some others, like Mondaville and Arnold of Villanova, whose names well deserve to be associated with them. One reason why it is such a surprise to find how thoroughly practical was the teaching of the Thirteenth Century university medical schools, is because it has somehow come to be a very general impression that medicine was taught mainly by disputations, and by the consultation of authorities, and that it was always more important to have a passage of Galen to support a medical notion, than, to have an original observation. This false impression is due to the fact that the writers of the history of medical education have, until recent years, drawn largely on their imaginations, and have not consulted the old-time medical books. In spite of the fact that printing was not discovered for more than two centuries later, there are many treatises on medicine that have come down to us from this early time, and the historians of medicine now have the opportunity, and are taking the trouble, to read them with a consequent alteration of old-time views, as to the lack of encouragement for original observation, in the later Middle Ages. These old tomes are not easy reading, but nothing daunts a German investigator bound to get to the bottom of his subject, and such men as Pagel and Puschmann have done much to rediscover for us medieval medicine. The French medical historians have not been behind their German colleagues and magnificent work has been accomplished, especially by the republication of old texts. William of Salicet's surgery was republished by Pifteau at Toulouse in 1898. Mondaville's Surgery was republished under the auspices of the Society for the Publication of old French Texts in 1897 and 1898. These republications have made the works of the old-time surgeons readily available for study by all interested in our great predecessors in medicine, all over the world. Before this, it has always been necessary to get to some of the libraries in which the old texts were preserved, and this, of course, made it extremely difficult for the ordinary teacher of the history of medicine to know anything about them. Besides, old texts are such difficult reading that few, except the most earnest of students, {91} have patience for them, and they are so time-taking as to be practically impossible for modern, hurried students. Unfortunately, writers of the history of medicine filled up this gap in their knowledge, only too frequently, either out of their imaginations, or out of their inadequate authorities, with the consequence of inveterating the old-time false impression with regard to the absence of anything of medical or surgical interest, even in the later Middle Ages. Another and much more serious reason for the false impression with regard to the supposed blankness of the middle age in medical progress, was the notion, quite generally accepted, and even yet not entirely rejected, by many, that the Church was opposed to scientific advance in the centuries before the reformation so-called, and that even the sciences allied to medicine, fell under her ban. For instance, there is not a history of medicine, so far as I know, published in the English language, which does not assert that Pope Boniface VIII., by a Bull promulgated at the end of the Thirteenth Century, forbade the practise of dissection. To most people, it will, at once, seem a natural conclusion, that if the feeling against the study of the human body by dissection had reached such a pass as to call forth a papal decree in the matter, at the end of the century, all during the previous hundred years, there must have been enough ecclesiastical hampering of anatomical work to prevent anything like true progress, and to preclude the idea of any genuinely progressive teaching of anatomy. There is not the slightest basis for this bit of false history except an unfortunate, it is to be hoped not intentional, misapprehension on the part of historical writers as to the meaning of a papal decree issued by Boniface VIII. in the year 1300. He forbade, under pain of excommunication, the boiling of bodies and their dismemberment in order that thus piecemeal they might be transported to long distances for burial purposes. It is now well known that the Bull was aimed at certain practises which had crept in, especially among the Crusaders in the East. When a member of the nobility fell a victim to wounds or to disease, his companions not infrequently dismembered the body, boiled it so as to prevent putrefaction, or at least delay decay, and then transported it long distances to his home, in {92} order that he might have Christian burial in some favorite graveyard, and that his friends might have the consolation of knowing where his remains rested. The body of the Emperor Frederick Barbarosa, who died in the East, is said to have been thus treated. Boniface was one of the most broadly educated men of his time, who had been a great professor of canon and civil law at Paris when younger, and realized the dangers involved in such a proceeding from a sanitary standpoint, and he forbade it, requiring that the bodies should be buried where the persons had died. He evidently considered that the ancient custom of consecrating a portion of earth for the purpose of burial in order that the full Christian rites might be performed, was quite sufficient for noble as for common soldier. For this very commendable sanitary regulation Boniface has been set down by historians of medicine as striking a death blow at the development of anatomy for the next two centuries. As a matter of fact, however, anatomy continued to be studied in the universities after this Bull as it had been before, and it is evident that never by any misapprehension as to its meaning was the practise of dissection lessened. Curiously enough the history of human dissection can only be traced with absolute certainty from the time immediately after this Bull. It is during the next twenty-five years at the University of Bologna, which was always closely in touch with the ecclesiastical authorities in Italy and especially with the Pope, that the foundations of dissection, as the most important practical department of medical teaching, were laid by Mondino, whose book on dissection continued to be the text book used in most of the medical schools for the next two centuries. Guy de Chauliac who studied there during the first half of the Fourteenth Century says he saw many dissections made there. It was at Montpellier, about the middle of the century, when the Popes were at Avignon not far away, that Guy de Chauliac himself made attendance at dissections obligatory for every student, and obtained permission to use the bodies of criminals for dissection purposes. At the time Chauliac occupied the post of chamberlain to the Popes. All during the Fourteenth and Fifteenth centuries constant progress was making in anatomy, especially in Italy, and some of it was accomplished at Rome {93} by distinguished teachers of anatomy who had been summoned by the popes to their capital in order to add distinction to the teaching staff at the famous Papal School of Science, the Sapienza, to which were attached during the next two centuries many of the distinguished scientific professors of the time. This story with regard to the papal prohibition of dissection has no foundation in the history of the times. It has had not a little to do, however, with making these times very much misunderstood and one still continues to see printed references to the misfortune, which is more usually called a crime, that prevented the development of a great humanitarian science because of ecclesiastical prejudice. This story with regard to anatomy, however, is not a whit worse than that which is told of chemistry in almost the same terms. At the beginning of the Fourteenth Century Pope John XXII. is said to have issued a Bull forbidding chemistry under pain of excommunication, which according to some writers in the matter is said to have included the death penalty. It has been felt in the same way as with regard to anatomy, that this was only the culmination of a feeling in ecclesiastical circles against chemistry which must have hampered its progress all during the Thirteenth Century. An examination of the so-called Bull with regard to chemistry, it is really only a decree, shows even less reason for the slander of Pope John XXII. than of Boniface VIII. John had been scarcely a year on the papal throne when he issued this decree forbidding "alchemies" and inflicting a punishment upon those who practised them. The first sentence of the title of the document is: "Alchemies are here prohibited and those who practise them or procure their being done are punished." This is evidently all of the decree that those who quoted it as a prohibition of chemistry seem ever to have read. Under the name "alchemies," Pope John, as is clear from the rest of the document, meant a particular kind of much-advertised chemical manipulations. He forbade the supposed manufacture of gold and silver. The first sentence of his decree shows how thoroughly he recognized the falsity of the pretensions of the alchemists in this matter. "Poor themselves," he says, "the alchemists promise riches which are not forthcoming." He then forbids them further to impose upon the poor people {94} whose confidence they abuse and whose good money they take to return them only base-metal or none at all. The only punishment inflicted for the doing of these "alchemies" on those who might transgress the decree was not death or imprisonment, but that the pretended makers of gold and silver should be required to turn into the public treasury as much gold and silver as had been paid them for their alchemies, the money thus paid in to go to the poor. As in the case of the Bull with regard to anatomy, it is very clear that by no possible misunderstanding at the time was the development of the science of chemistry hindered by this papal document. Chemistry had to a certain extent been cultivated at the University of Paris, mainly by ecclesiastics. Both Aquinas and his master Albertus wrote treatises on chemical subjects. Roger Bacon devoted much time to it as is well known, and for the next three centuries the history of chemistry has a number of names of men who were not only unhampered by the ecclesiastical authorities, but who were themselves usually either ecclesiastics, or high in favor with the churchmen of their time and place. This is true of Hollandus, of Arnold of Villanova, of Basil Valentine, and finally of the many abbots and bishops to whom Paracelsus in his time acknowledged his obligations for aid in his chemical studies. Almost needless to say it has been impossible, in a brief sketch of this kind limited to a single chapter, to give anything like an adequate idea of what the enthusiastic graduate students and professors of the Thirteenth Century succeeded in accomplishing. It is probably this department of University life, however, that has been least understood, or rather we should say most persistently misunderstood. The education of the time is usually supposed to be eminently unpractical, and great advances in the departments of knowledge that had important bearings on human life and its relations were not therefore thought possible. It is just here, however, that sympathetic interpretation and the pointing out of the coordination of intellectual work often considered to be quite distinct from university influences were needed. It is hoped then that this short sketch will prove sufficient to call the attention of modern educators to a field that has been neglected, or at least has {95} received very little cultivation compared to its importance, but which must be sedulously worked, if our generation is to understand with any degree of thoroughness the spirit manifested and the results attained by the medieval universities. [Illustration] DOUBLE FLYING BUTTRESS (RHEIMS) {96} VI THE BOOK OF THE ARTS AND POPULAR EDUCATION. The most important portion of the history of the Thirteenth Century and beyond all doubt the most significant chapter in the book of its arts, is to be found in the great Gothic Cathedrals, so many of which were erected at this time and whose greatest perfection of finish in design and in detail came just at the beginning of this wonderful period. We are not concerned here with the gradual development of Gothic out of the older Romanesque architectural forms, nor with the Oriental elements that may have helped this great evolution. All that especially concerns us is the fact that the generations of the Thirteenth Century took the Gothic ideas in architecture and applied them so marvelously, that thereafter it could be felt that no problem of structural work had been left unsolved and no feature of ornament or decoration left untried or at least unsuggested. The great center of Gothic influence was the North of France, but it spread from here to every country in Europe, and owing to the intimate relations existing between England and France because of the presence of the Normans in both countries, developed almost as rapidly and with as much beauty, and effectiveness as in the mother country. It is in fact in England just before the Thirteenth Century, that the spirit which gave rise to the Cathedrals can be best observed at work and its purposes most thoroughly appreciated. The great Cathedral at Lincoln had some of its most important features before the beginning of the Thirteenth Century and this was doubtless due to the famous St. Hugh of Lincoln, who was a Frenchman by birth and whose experience in Normandy in early life enabled him successfully to set about the creation of a Gothic Cathedral in the country that had become his by adoption. {opp96} [Illustration] ANGEL CHOIR (LINCOLN) {97} Hugh himself was so great of soul, so deeply interested in his people and their welfare, so ready to make every sacrifice for them even to the extent of incurring the enmity of his King (even Froude usually so unsympathetic to medieval men and things has included him among his Short Studies of Great Subjects), that one cannot help but think that when he devoted himself to the erection of the magnificent Cathedral, he realized very well that it would become a center of influence, not only religious but eminently educational, in its effects upon the people of his diocese. The work was begun then with a consciousness of the results to be attained and the influence of the Cathedral must not be looked upon as accidental. He must have appreciated that the creating of a work of beauty in which the people themselves shared, which they looked on as their own property, to which they came nearly every second day during the year for religious services, would be a telling book out of which they would receive more education than could come to them in any other way. Of course we cannot hope in a short chapter or two to convey any adequate impression of the work that was done in and for the Cathedrals, nor the even more important reactionary influence they had in educating the people. Ferguson says: [Footnote 9 ] [Footnote 9: Ferguson--History of Architecture. N. Y., Dodd, Mead & Co.] "The subject of the cathedrals, their architecture and decoration is, in fact, practicably inexhaustible. . . . Priests and laymen worked with masons, painters, and sculptors, and all were bent on producing the best possible building, and improving every part and every detail, till the amount of thought and contrivance accumulated in any single structure is almost incomprehensible. If any one man were to devote a lifetime to the study of one of our great cathedrals--assuming it to be complete in all its medieval arrangements--it is questionable whether he would master all its details, and fathom all the reasonings and experiments which led to the glorious result before him. And when we consider that not in the great cities alone, but in every convent and in every parish, thoughtful professional men were trying to excel what had been done and was doing, by their predecessors and their fellows, we shall {98} understand what an amount of thought is built into the walls of our churches, castles, colleges, and dwelling houses. If any one thinks he can master and reproduce all this, he can hardly fail to be mistaken. My own impression is that not one tenth part of it has been reproduced in all the works written on the subject up to this day, and much of it is probably lost and never again to be recovered for the instruction and delight of future ages." This profound significance and charming quality of the cathedrals is usually unrecognized by those who see them only once or twice, and who, though they are very much interested in them for the moment, have no idea of the wealth of artistic suggestion and of thoughtful design so solicitously yet happily put into them by their builders. People who have seen them many times, however, who have lived in close touch with them, who have been away from them for a time and have come back to them, find the wondrous charm that is in these buildings. Architects and workmen put their very souls into them and they will always be of interest. It is for this reason, that the casual visitor at all times and in all moods finds them ever a source of constantly renewed pleasure, no matter how many times they may be seen. Elizabeth Robbins Pennell has expressed this power of Cathedrals to please at all times, even after they have been often seen and are very well known, in a recent number of the _Century_, in describing the great Cathedral of Notre Dame, "Often as I have seen Notre Dame," she says, "the marvel of it never grows less. I go to Paris with no thought of time for it, busy about many other things and then on my way over one of the bridges across the river perhaps, I see it again on its island, the beautiful towers high above the houses and palaces and the view now so familiar strikes me afresh with all the wonder of my first impression." This is we think the experience of everyone who has the opportunity to see much of Notre Dame. The present writer during the course of his medical studies spent many months in daily view of the Cathedral and did a good deal of work at the old Morgue, situated behind the Cathedral. Even at the end of his stay he was constantly finding new beauties in {99} the grand old structure and learning to appreciate it more and more as the changing seasons of a Paris fall and winter and spring, threw varying lights and shadows over it. It was like a work of nature, never growing old, but constantly displaying some new phase of beauty to the passers-by. Mrs. Pennell resents only the restorations that have been made. Generations down even to our time have considered that they could rebuild as beautifully as the Thirteenth Century constructors; some of them even have thought that they could do better, doubtless, yet their work has in the opinion of good critics served only to spoil or at least to detract from the finer beauty of the original plan. No wonder that R. M. Stevenson, who knew and loved the old Cathedral so well, said: "Notre Dame is the only un-Greek thing that unites majesty, elegance, and awfulness." Inasmuch as it does so it is a typical product of this wonderful Thirteenth Century, the only serious rival the Greeks have ever had. But of course it does not stand alone. There are other Cathedrals built at the same time at least as handsome and as full of suggestions. Indeed in the opinion of many critics it is inferior in certain respects to some three or four of the greatest Gothic Cathedrals. It cannot be possible that these generations builded so much better than they knew, that it is only by a sort of happy accident that their edifices still continue to be the subject of such profound admiration, and such endless sources of pleasure after seven centuries of experience. If so we would certainly be glad to have some such happy accident occur in our generation, for we are building nothing at the present time with regard to which we have any such high hopes. Of course the generations of Cathedral builders knew and appreciated their own work. The triumph of the Thirteenth Century is therefore all the more marked and must be considered as directly due to the environment and the education of its people. We have then in the study of their Cathedrals the keynote for the modern appreciation of the character and the development of their builders. It will be readily understood, how inevitably fragmentary must be our consideration of the Cathedrals, yet there is the consolation that they are the best known feature of Thirteenth {100} Century achievement and that consequently all that will be necessary will be to point out the significance of their construction as the basis of the great movement of education and uplift in the century. Perhaps first a word is needed with regard to the varieties of Gothic in the different countries of Europe and what they meant in the period. Probably, the most interesting feature of the history of Gothic architecture, at this period, is to be found in the circumstance that, while all of the countries erected Gothic structures along the general lines which had been laid down by its great inventors in the North and Center of France, none of the architects and builders of the century, in other countries, slavishly followed the French models. English Gothic is quite distinct from its French ancestor, and while it has defects it has beauties, that are all its own, and a simplicity and grandeur, well suited to the more rugged character of the people among whom it developed. Italian Gothic has less merits, perhaps, than any of the other forms of the art that developed in the different nations. In Italy, with its bright sunlight, there was less crying need for the window space, for the provision of which, in the darker northern countries, Gothic was invented, but, even here the possibilities of decorated architecture along certain lines were exhausted more fully than anywhere else, as might have been expected from the esthetic spirit of the Italians. German Gothic has less refinement than any of the other national forms, yet it is not lacking in a certain straightforward strength and simplicity of appearance, which recommends it. The Germans often violated the French canons of architecture, yet did not spoil the ultimate effect. St. Stephen's in Vienna has many defects, yet as a good architectural authority has declared it is the work of a poet, and looks it. A recent paragraph with regard to Spanish Gothic in an article on Spain, by Havelock Ellis, illustrates the national qualities of this style very well. As much less is generally known about the special development of Gothic architecture in the Spanish peninsula, it has seemed worth while to quote it at some length: "Moreover, there is no type of architecture which so {101} admirably embodies the romantic spirit as Spanish Gothic. Such a statement implies no heresy against the supremacy of French Gothic. But the very qualities of harmony and balance of finely tempered reason, which make French Gothic so exquisitely satisfying, softened the combination of mysteriously grandiose splendor with detailed realism, in which lies the essence of Gothic as the manifestation of the romantic spirit. Spanish Gothic at once by its massiveness and extravagance and by its realistic naturalness, far more potently embodies the spirit of medieval life. It is less esthetically beautiful but it is more romantic. In Leon Cathedral, Spain possesses one of the very noblest and purest examples of French Gothic--a church which may almost be said to be the supreme type of the Gothic ideal, of a delicate house of glass finely poised between buttresses; but there is nothing Spanish about it. For the typical Gothic of Spain we must go to Toledo and Burgos, to Tarragona and Barcelona. Here we find the elements of stupendous size, of mysterious gloom, of grotesque and yet realistic energy, which are the dominant characters, alike of Spanish architecture and of medieval romance." Those who think that the Gothic architecture came to a perfection all its own by a sort of wonderful manifestation of genius in a single generation, and then stayed there, are sadly mistaken. There was a constant development to be noted all during the Thirteenth Century. This development was always in the line of true improvement, while just after the century closed degeneration began, decoration became too important a consideration, parts were over-loaded with ornament, and the decadence of taste in Gothic architecture cannot escape the eye even of the most untutored. All during the Thirteenth Century the tendency was always to greater lightness and elegance. One is apt to think of these immense structures as manifestations of the power of man to overcome great engineering difficulties and to solve immense structural problems, rather than as representing opportunities for the expression of what was most beautiful and poetic in the intellectual aspirations of the generations. But this is what they were, and their architects were poets, for in the best sense of the {102} etymology of the word they were creators. That their raw material was stone and mortar rather than words was only an accident of their environment. Each of the architects succeeded in expressing himself with wonderful individuality in his own work in each Cathedral. The improvements introduced by the Thirteenth Century people into the architecture that came to them, were all of a very practical kind, and were never suggested for the sake of merely adding to opportunities for ornamentation. In this matter, skillful combinations of line and form were thought out and executed with wonderful success. At the beginning of the century, delicate shafts of marble, highly polished, were employed rather freely, but as these seldom carried weight, and were mainly ornamental in character, they were gradually eliminated, yet, without sacrificing any of the beauty of structure since combinations of light and shade were secured by the composition of various forms, and the use of delicately rounded mouldings alternated with hollows, so as to produce forcible effects in high light and deep shadow. In a word, these architects and builders, of the Thirteenth Century, set themselves the problem of building effectively, making every portion count in the building itself, and yet, securing ornamental effects out of actual structure such as no other set of architects have ever been able to surpass, and, probably, only the Greek architects of the Periclean period ever equaled. Needless to say, this is the very acme of success in architectural work, and it is for this reason that the generations of the after time have all gone back so lovingly to study the work of this period. It might be thought, that while Gothic architecture was a great invention in its time and extremely suitable for ecclesiastical or even educational edifices of various kinds, its time of usefulness has passed and that men's widening experience in structural work, ever since, has carried him far away from it. As a matter of fact, most of our ecclesiastical buildings are still built on purely Gothic lines, and a definite effort is made, as a rule, to have the completed religious edifice combine a number of the best features of Thirteenth Century Gothic. With what {103} success this has been accomplished can best be appreciated from the fact, that none of the modern structures attract anything like the attention of the old, and the Cathedrals of this early time still continue to be the best asset of the towns in which they are situated, because of the number of visitors they attract. Far from considering Gothic architecture outlived, architects still apply themselves to it with devotion because of the practical suggestions which it contains, and there are those of wide experience, who still continue to think it the most wonderful example of architectural development that has ever come, and even do not hesitate to foretell a great future for it. Reinach, in his Story of Art Throughout the Ages, [Footnote 10] has been so enthusiastic in this matter that a paragraph of his opinion must find a place here. Reinach, it may be said, is an excellent authority, a member of the Institute of France, who has made special studies in comparative architecture, and has written works that carry more weight than almost any others of our generation: [Footnote 10: Scribners, New York, 1905.] "If the aim of architecture, considered as an art, should be to free itself as much as possible from subjection to its materials, it may be said that no buildings have more successfully realized this ideal than the Gothic churches. And there is more to be said in this connection. Its light and airy system of construction, the freedom and slenderness of its supporting skeleton, afford, as it were, a presage of an art that began to develop in the Nineteenth Century, that of metallic architecture. With the help of metal, and of cement reinforced by metal bars, the moderns might equal the most daring feats of the Gothic architects. It would even be easy for them to surpass them, without endangering the solidity of the structure, as did the audacities of Gothic art. In the conflicts that obtain between the two elements of construction, solidity and open space, everything seems to show that the principle of free spaces will prevail, that the palaces and houses of the future will be flooded with air and light, that the formula popularized by Gothic architecture has a great future before it, and that following the revival of the Graeco-Roman style from {104} the Sixteenth Century, to our own day, we shall see a yet more enduring renaissance of the Gothic style applied to novel materials." It would be a mistake, however, to think that the Gothic Cathedrals were impressive only because of their grandeur and immense size. It would be still more a mistake to consider them only as examples of a great development in architecture. They are much more than this; they are the compendious expression of the art impulses of a glorious century. Every single detail of the Gothic Cathedrals is not only worthy of study but deserving of admiration, if not for itself, then always for the inadequate means by which it was secured, and most of these details have been found worthy of imitation by subsequent generations. It is only by considering the separate details of the art work of these Cathedrals that the full lesson of what these wonderful people accomplished can be learned. There have been many centuries since, in which they would be entirely unappreciated. Fortunately, our own time has come back to a recognition of the greatness of the art impulse that was at work, perfecting even what might be considered trivial portions of the cathedrals, and the brightest hope for the future of our own accomplishment is founded on this belated appreciation of old-time work. It has been said that the medieval workman was a lively symbol of the Creator Himself, in the way in which he did his work. It mattered not how obscure the portion of the cathedral at which he was set, he decorated it as beautifully as he knew how, without a thought that his work would be appreciated only by the very few that might see it. Trivial details were finished with the perfection of important parts. Microscopic studies in recent years have revealed beautiful designs on pollen grains and diatoms which are far beneath the possibilities of human vision, and have only been discovered by lens combinations of very high powers of the compound microscope. Always these beauties have been there though hidden away from any eye. It was as if the Creator's hand could not touch anything without leaving it beautiful as well as useful. {opp105} [Illustration] CATHEDRAL (AMIENS) {105} To as great extent as it is possible perhaps for man to secure such a desideratum, the Thirteenth Century workman succeeded in this same purpose. It is for this reason more than even for the magnificent grandeur of the design and the skilful execution with inadequate means, that makes the Gothic Cathedral such a source of admiration and wonder. To take first the example of sculpture. It is usually considered that the Thirteenth Century represented a time entirely too early in the history of plastic art for there to have been any fine examples of the sculptor's chisel left us from it. Any such impression, however, will soon be corrected if one but examines carefully the specimens of this form of art in certain Cathedrals. As we have said, probably no more charmingly dignified presentation of the human form divine in stone has ever been made than the figure of Christ above the main door of the cathedral of Amiens, which the Amiennois so lovingly call their "beautiful God." There are some other examples of statuary in the same cathedral that are wonderful specimens of the sculptor's art, lending itself for decorative purposes to architecture. This is true for a number of the Cathedrals. The statues in themselves are not so beautiful, but as portions of a definite piece of structural work such as a doorway or a facade, they are wonderful models of how all the different arts became subservient to the general effect to be produced. It was at Rheims, however, that sculpture reached its acme of accomplishment, and architects have been always unstinted in their praise of this feature of what may be called the Capitol church of France. Those who have any doubts as to the place of Gothic art itself in art history and who need an authority always to bolster up the opinion that they may hold, will find ample support in the enthusiastic opinion of an authority whom we have quoted already. The most interesting and significant feature of his ardent expression of enthusiasm is his comparison of Romanesque with Gothic art in this respect. The amount of ground covered from one artistic mode to the other is greater than any other advance in art that has ever been made. After all, the real value of the work of the period must be judged, rather by the amount of progress that has {106} been made than by the stage of advance actually reached, since it is development rather than accomplishment that counts in the evolution of the race. On the other hand it will be found that Reinach's opinion of the actual attainments of Gothic art are far beyond anything that used to be thought on the subject a half century ago, and much higher than any but a few of the modern art critics hold in the matter. He says: "In contrast to this Romanesque art, as yet in bondage to convention, ignorant or disdainful of nature, the mature Gothic art of the Thirteenth Century appeared as a brilliant revival or realism. The great sculptors who adorned the Cathedrals of Paris, Amiens, Rheims, and Chartres with their works, were realists in the highest sense of the word. They sought in Nature not only their knowledge of human forms, and of the draperies that cover them, but also that of the principles of decoration. Save in the gargoyles of cathedrals and in certain minor sculptures, we no longer find in the Thirteenth Century those unreal figures of animals, nor those ornaments, complicated as nightmares, which load the capitals of Romanesque churches; the flora of the country, studied with loving attention, is the sole, or almost the sole source from which decorators take their motives. It is in this charming profusion of flowers and foliage that the genius of Gothic architecture is most freely displayed. One of the most admirable of its creations is the famous Capital of the Vintage in Notre Dame at Rheims, carved about the year 1250. Since the first century of the Roman Empire art had never imitated Nature so perfectly, nor has it ever since done so with a like grace and sentiment." Reinach defends Gothic Art from another and more serious objection which is constantly urged against it by those who know only certain examples of it, but have not had the advantage of the wide study of the whole field of artistic endeavor in the Thirteenth Century, which this distinguished member of the Institute of France has succeeded in obtaining. It is curious what unfounded opinions have come to be prevalent in art circles because, only too often, writers with regard to the Cathedrals have spent their time mainly in the large cities, or along the principal arteries of travel, and have not realized {107} that some of the smaller towns contained work better fitted to illustrate Gothic Art principles than those on which they depended for their information. If only particular phases of the art of any one time, no matter how important, were to be considered in forming a judgment of it, that judgment would almost surely be unfavorable in many ways because of the lack of completeness of view. This is what has happened unfortunately with regard to Gothic art, but a better spirit is coming in this matter, with the more careful study of periods of art and the return of reverence for the grand old Middle Ages. {opp107} [Illustration] CATHEDRAL (RHEIMS) Reinach says: "There are certain prejudices against this admirable, though incomplete, art which it is difficult to combat. It is often said, for instance, that all Gothic figures are stiff and emaciated. To convince ourselves of the contrary we need only study the marvelous sculpture of the meeting between Abraham and Melchisedech, in Rheims Cathedral; or again in the same Cathedral, the Visitation, the seated Prophet, and the standing Angel, or the exquisite Magdalen of Bordeaux Cathedral. What can we see in these that is stiff, sickly, and puny? The art that has most affinity with perfect Gothic is neither Romanesque nor Byzantine, but the Greek art of from 500 to 450 B. C. By a strange coincidence, the Gothic artists even reproduce the somewhat stereotyped smile of their forerunners." Usually it is said that the Renaissance brought the supreme qualities of Greek plastic art back to life, but here is a thoroughly competent critic who finds them exhibited long before the Fifteenth Century, as a manifestation of what the self-sufficient generations of the Renaissance would have called Gothic, meaning thereby, barbarous art. What has been said of sculpture, however, can be repeated with even more force perhaps with regard to every detail of construction and decoration. Builders and architects did make mistakes at times, but, even their mistakes always reveal an artist's soul struggling for expression through inadequate media. Many things had to be done experimentally, most things were being done for the first time. Everything had an originality of its own that made its execution something more than merely a secure accomplishment after previous careful {108} tests. In spite of this state of affairs, which might be expected sadly to interfere with artistic execution, the Cathedrals, in the main, are full of admirable details not only worthy of imitation, but that our designers are actually imitating or at least finding eminently suggestive at the present time. To begin with a well known example of decorative effect which is found in the earliest of the English Cathedrals, that of Lincoln. The nave and choir of this was finished just at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century. The choir is so beautiful in its conception, so wonderful in its construction, so charming in its finish, so satisfactory in all its detail, though there is very little of what would be called striving after effect in it, that it is still called the Angel Choir. The name was originally given it because it was considered to be so beautiful even during the Thirteenth Century, that visitors could scarcely believe that it was constructed by human hands and so the legend became current that it was the work of angels. If the critics of the Thirteenth Century, who had the opportunity to see work of nearly the same kind being constructed in many parts of England, judged thus highly of it, it is not surprising that modern visitors should be unstinted in their praise. It is interesting to note as representative of the feeling of a cultured modern scientific mind that Dr. Osler said not long ago, in one of his medical addresses, that probably nothing more beautiful had ever come from the hands of man than this Angel Choir at Lincoln. As to who were the designers, who conceived it, or the workmen who executed it, we have no records. It is not unlikely that the famous Hugh of Lincoln, the great Bishop to whom the Cathedral owes its foundation and much of its splendor, was responsible to no little extent for this beautiful feature of his Cathedral church. The workmen who made it were artist-artisans in the best sense of the word and it is not surprising that other beautiful architectural features should have flourished in a country where such workmen could be found. Almost as impressive as the Angel Choir was the stained glass work at Lincoln. The rose windows are among the most beautiful ever made and one of them is indeed considered a gem of its kind. The beautiful colors and wonderful {109} effectiveness of the stained glass of these old time Cathedrals cannot be appreciated unless the windows themselves are actually seen. At Lincoln there is a very impressive contrast that one can scarcely help calling to attention and that has been very frequently the subject of comment by visitors. During the Parliamentary time, unfortunately, the stained glass at Lincoln fell under the ban of the Puritans. The lower windows were almost completely destroyed by the soldiers of Cromwell's army. Only the rose windows owing to their height were preserved from the destroyer. There was an old sexton at the Cathedral, however, for whom the stained glass had become as the apple of his eye. As boy and man he had lived in its beautiful colors as they broke the light of the rising and the setting sun and they were too precious to be neglected even when lying upon the pavement of the Cathedral in fragments. He gathered the shattered pieces into bags and hid them away in a dark corner of the crypt, saving them at least from the desecration of being trampled to dust. Long afterwards, indeed almost in our own time, they were found here and were seen to be so beautiful that regardless of the fact that they could not be fitted together in anything like their former places, they were pieced into windows and made to serve their original purpose once more. It so happened that new stained glass windows for the Cathedral of Lincoln were ordered during the Nineteenth Century. These were made at an unfortunate time in stained glass making and are as nearly absolutely unattractive, to say nothing worse, as it is possible to make stained glass. The contrast with the antique windows, fragmentary as they are, made up of the broken pieces of Thirteenth Century glass is most striking. The old time colors are so rich that when the sun shines directly on them they look like jewels. No one pays the slightest attention, unless perhaps the doubtful compliment of a smile be given, to the modern windows which were, however, very costly and the best that could be obtained at that time. More of the stained glass of the Thirteenth Century is preserved at York where, because of the friendship of General Ireton, the town and the Cathedral were spared the worst ravages of the Parliamentarians. As a consequence York still {110} possesses some of the best of its old time windows. It is probable that there is nothing more beautiful or wonderful in its effectiveness than the glass in the Five Sisters window at York. This is only an ordinary lancet window of five compartments--hence the name--in the west front of the Cathedral. There are no figures on the window, it is only a mass of beautiful greyish green tints which marvelously subdues the western setting sun at the vesper hour and produces the most beautiful effects in the interior of the Cathedral. Here if anywhere one can realize the meaning of the expression dim religious light. In recent years, however, it has become the custom for so many people to rave over the Five Sisters that we are spared the necessity of more than mentioning it. Its tints far from being injured by time have probably been enriched. There can be no doubt at all, however, of the artistic tastes and esthetic genius of the man who designed it. The other windows of the Cathedral were not unworthy of this triumph of art. How truly the Cathedral was a Technical School can be appreciated from the fact that it was able to inspire such workmen to produce these wondrous effects. Experts in stained glass work have often called attention to the fact that the windows constructed in the Thirteenth Century were not only of greater artistic value but were also more solidly put together. Many of the windows made in the century still maintain their places, in spite of the passage of time, though later windows are sometimes dropping to pieces. It might be thought that this was due to the fact that later stained glass workers were more delicate in the construction of their windows in order not to injure the effect of the stained glass. To some extent this is true, but the stained glass workers of the Thirteenth Century preserve the effectiveness of their artistic pictures in glass, though making the frame work very substantial. This is only another example of their ability to combine the useful with the beautiful so characteristic of the century, stamping practically every phase of its accomplishment and making their work more admirable because its usefulness does not suffer on account of any strained efforts after supposed beauties. Though it is somewhat out of place here we cannot refrain {111} from pointing out the educational value of this stained glass work. Some of the stories on these windows gave details of many passages from the Bible, that must have impressed them upon the people much more than any sermon or reading of the text could possibly have accomplished. They were literally sermons in glass that he who walked by had to read whether he would or not. When we remember that the common people in the Middle Ages had no papers to distract them, and no books to turn to for information, such illustrations as were provided by the stained glass windows, by the painting and the statuary decorations of the Cathedrals, must have been studied with fondest devotion even apart from religious sentiment and out of mere inquisitiveness. The famous "prodigal" window at Chartres is a good example of this. Every detail of the story is here pictorially displayed in colors, from the time when the young man demands his patrimony through all the various temptations he met with in being helped to spend it, there being a naive richness of detail in the matter of the temptations that is quite medieval, from the boon companions who first led him astray to the depths of degradation which he finally reached before he returned to his father,--even the picture of the fatted calf is not lacking. On others of these windows there are the stories of the Patron Saints of certain crafts. The life of St. Crispin the shoemaker is given in rather full detail. The same is true of St. Romain the hunter who was the patron of the furriers. The most ordinary experiences of life are pictured and the methods by which these were turned to account in making the craftsman a saint, must have been in many ways an ideally uplifting example for fellow craftsmen whenever they viewed the window. This sort of teaching could not be without its effect upon the poor. It taught them that there was something else in life besides money getting and that happiness and contentment might be theirs in a chosen occupation and the reward of Heaven at the end of it all, for at the top of these windows the hand of the Almighty is introduced reaching down from Heaven to reward his faithful servants. It is just by such presentation of ideals even to the poor, that {112} the Thirteenth Century differs from the modern time in which even the teaching in the schools seems only to emphasize the fact that men must get money, honestly if they can, but must get money, if they would have what is called success in life. Another very interesting feature of these windows is the fact that they were usually the gifts of the various Guilds and so represented much more of interest, for the members. It is true that in France, particularly, the monarchs frequently presented stained glass windows and in St. Louis time this was so common that scarcely a French Cathedral was without one or more testimonials of this kind to his generosity; but most of the windows were given by various societies among the people themselves. How much the construction of such a window when it was well done, would make for the education in taste of those who contributed to the expense of its erection, can scarcely be over-estimated. There was besides a friendly rivalry in this matter in the Thirteenth Century, which served to bring out the talents of local artists and by the inevitably suggested comparisons eventually served to educate the taste of the people. It must not be thought, however, that it was only in stained glass and painting and sculpture--the major arts--that these workmen attained their triumphs. Practically every detail of Cathedral construction is a monument to the artistic genius of the century, to the wonderful inspiration afforded the workmen and to the education provided by the Guilds which really maintained, as we shall see, a kind of Technical School with the approbation and the fostering care of the ecclesiastics connected with the Cathedrals. An excellent example of a very different class of work may be noted in the hinges of the Cloister door of the Cathedral at York. Personally I have seen three art designers sketching these at the same time only one of whom was an Englishman, another coming from the continent and the third from America. The hinge still swings the heavy oak door of the Thirteenth Century. The arborization of the metal as it spreads out from the main shaft of the hinge is beautifully decorative in effect. {opp112} [Illustration] CLOISTER OF ST. PAUL'S (WITHOUT THE WALLS, ROME) A little study of the hinge seems to show that these branching portions were so arranged as to make the mechanical {113} moment of the swinging door less of a dead weight than it would have been if the hinge were a solid bar of iron. Besides the spreading of the branches over a wide surface serves to hold the woodwork of the door thoroughly in place. While the hinge was beautiful, then it was eminently useful from a good many standpoints, and trivial though it might be considered to be, it was in reality a type of all the work accomplished in connection with these Thirteenth Century Cathedrals. According to the old Latin proverb "_omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci_," he scores every point who mingles the useful with the beautiful, and certainly the Thirteenth Century workman succeeded in accomplishing the desideratum to an eminent degree. This mingling of the useful and the beautiful is of itself a supreme difference between the Thirteenth Century generations and our own. Mr. Yeats, the well known Irish poet, in bidding farewell to America some years ago said to a party of friends, that no country could consider itself to be making real progress in culture until the very utensils in the kitchen were beautiful as well as useful. Anything that is merely useful is hideous, and anyone who can handle such things with impunity has not true culture. In the Thirteenth Century they never by any chance made anything that was merely useful, especially not if it was to be associated with their beloved Cathedral. An excellent example of this can be found in their Chalices and other ceremonial utensils which were meant for Divine Service. As we have said elsewhere The Craftsman, the journal of the Arts and Crafts Movement in this country not long since compared a Chalice of the Thirteenth Century with the prize cups which are offered for yacht races and other competitions in this country. We may say at once that the form which the Chalice received during the Thirteenth Century is that which constitutes to a great extent the model for this sacred vessel ever since and the comparison with the modern design is therefore all the more interesting. In spite of the fact that money is no object as a rule in the construction of many of the modern prize cups, they compare unfavorably according to the writer in The Craftsman with the old time chalices. There is a tendency to over ornamentation which {114} spoils the effectiveness of the lines of the metal work in many cases and there is also only too often, an attempt to introduce forms of plastic art which do not lend themselves well to this class of work. It is in design particularly that the older workman excels his modern colleague though usually there are suggestions from several sources for present day work. In a word the Thirteenth Century Chalice was much more admirable than the modern piece of metal work, because the lines were simpler, the combination of beauty with utility more readily recognizable and the obtrusiveness of the ornamentation much less marked. This same thing is true for other even coarser forms of metal work in connection with the Cathedrals, and anyone who has seen some of the beautiful iron screens built for Cathedral choirs in the olden times will realize that even the worker in iron must have been an artist as well as a blacksmith. The effect produced, especially in the dim light of the Cathedral, is often that of delicate lace work. To appreciate the strength of the screen one must actually test it with the hands. This of itself represents a very charming adaptation of what might be expected to be rough work meant for protective purposes into a suitable ornament. Some of the gates of the old churchyards are very beautiful in their designs and have often been imitated in quite recent years, for the gates of country places, for our modern millionaires. The Reverend Augustus Jessopp who has written much with regard to the times before the Reformation, says that he has found in his investigations, that not infrequently such gates were made by the village blacksmiths. Most of the old parish records are lost because of the suppression of the parishes as well as the monasteries in Henry the Eighth's time. Some of the original documents are, however, preserved and among them are receipts from the village blacksmith, for what we now admire as specimens of artistic ironwork and corresponding receipts from the village carpenter, for woodwork that we now consider of equally high order. There were carved bench ends and choir stalls which seem to have been produced in this way. Just how these generations of the Thirteenth Century, in little towns of less than ten thousand inhabitants, {115} succeeded in raising up artisans in numbers, capable of doing such fine work, and yet content to make their living at such ordinary occupations, is indeed hard to understand. It must not be forgotten, moreover, that though there was not much furniture during the Thirteenth Century what little there was, was as a rule very carefully and artistically made. Thirteenth Century benches and tables are famous. Cathedrals and castles worked together in inspiring and giving occupation to these wonderful workmen. It was not only the workmen engaged in the construction of the edifices proper who made the beautiful things and created marvelously artistic treasures during this century. All the adornments of the Cathedrals and especially everything associated in any intimate way with the religious service was sure to be executed with the most delicate taste. The vestments of the time are some of the most beautiful that have ever been made. The historians of needlework tell us that this period represents the most flourishing era of artistic accomplishment with the needle of all modern history. One example of this has secured a large share of notoriety in quite recent years. An American millionaire bought the famous piece of needlework known as the Cope of Ascoli. This is an example of the large garment worn over the shoulders in religious processions and at benediction. The price paid for the garment is said to have been $60,000. This was not considered extortionate or enforced, as the Cope was declared by experts to be one of the finest pieces of needlework in the world. The jewels which originally adorned it had been removed so that the money was paid for the needlework itself. After a time it became clear that the Cope had been stolen before being sold, and accordingly it was returned to the Italian government who presented the American millionaire with a medal for his honesty. We have spoken of the Cathedrals as great stone books, in which he who ran, might read, even though he were not able to read in the technical sense of the term. This has been an old-time expression with regard to the Cathedrals, but not even its inventor perhaps, and certainly not most of those who have repeated it have realized how literally true was the saying. I {116} have elsewhere quoted from Reinach's Story of Art Throughout the Ages as an authority on the subject. His re-statement of the intellectual significance for the people of the Cathedrals of their towns, in which it must be remembered that they had a personal interest because in a sense they were really theirs, and they felt their ownership quite as much as a modern member of a parish feels with regard to his church, emphasizes and illuminates this subject to a wonderful degree. The realization that the information of the time was deliberately woven into these great stone structures, mainly of course for decorative purposes, but partly also with the idea of educating the people, is a startling confirmation of the idea that education was the most important and significant work of this great century. "The Gothic Cathedral is a perfect encyclopedia of human knowledge. It contains scenes from the Scriptures and the legends of saints; motives from the animal and vegetable kingdom; representations of the seasons of agricultural labor, of' the arts and sciences and crafts, and finally moral allegories, as, for instance, ingenious personifications of the virtues and the vices. In the Thirteenth Century a learned Dominican, Vincent of Beauvais, was employed by St. Louis to write a great work which was to be an epitome of all the knowledge of his times. This compilation, called The Mirror of the World, is divided into four parts: The Mirror of Nature, The Mirror of Science, the Moral Mirror, and the Historical Mirror. A contemporary archaeologist, M. E. Male, has shown that the works of art of our great cathedrals are a translation into stone of the Mirror of Vincent of Beauvais, setting aside the episodes from Greek and Roman History, which would have been out of place. It was not that the imagers had read Vincent's work; but that, like him, they sought to epitomise all the knowledge of their contemporaries. The first aim of their art is not to please, but to teach; they offer an encyclopedia for the use of those who cannot read, translated by sculptor or glass-painter into a clear and precise language, under the lofty direction of the Church which left nothing to chance. It was present always and everywhere, advising and superintending the artist, leaving him to his own devices only when he {117} modelled the fantastic animals of the gargoyles, or borrowed decorative motives from the vegetable kingdom." [Footnote 11] [Footnote 11: Reinach--The Story of Art Throughout the Ages. Scribner's, 1904.] [Illustration] CATHEDRAL (BOURGES) [Illustration: ] CATHEDRAL (CHARTRES) As to how much the cathedrals held of meaning for those who built them and worshiped in them, only a careful study of the symbolism of the time will enable the present-day admirer to understand. Modern generations have lost most of their appreciation of the significance of symbolism. The occupation of mind with the trivial things that are usually read in our day, leaves little or no room for the study of the profounder thought an artist may care to put into his work, and so the modern artist tells his story as far as possible without any of this deeper significance, since it would only be lost. In the Thirteenth Century, however, everything artistic had a secondary meaning. Literature was full of allegories, even the Arthur Legends were considered to be the expression of the battle of a soul with worldly influences as well as a poetic presentation of the story of the old time British King. The Gothic Cathedrals were a mass of symbolism. This will perhaps be best understood from the following explanation of Cathedral symbolism, which we take from the translation of Durandus's work on the meaning of the Divine Offices, a further account of which will be found in the chapter on The Prose of the Century. "Far away and long ere we can catch the first view of the city itself, the three spires of its Cathedral, rising high above its din and turmoil, preach to us of the Most High and Undivided Trinity. As we approach, the Transepts, striking out crosswise, tell of the Atonement. The Communion of Saints is set forth by the chapels clustering around Choir and Nave: the mystical weathercock bids us to watch and pray and endure hardness; the hideous forms that are seen hurrying from the eaves speak the misery of those who are cast out of the church; spire, pinnacle, and finial, the upward curl of the sculptured foliage, the upward spring of the flying buttress, the sharp rise of the window arch, the high thrown pitch of the roof, all these, overpowering the horizontal tendency of string course and parapet, teach us, that vanquishing earthly desires, we also should ascend in heart and mind. Lessons of holy {118} wisdom are written in the delicate tracery of the windows; the unity of many members is shadowed forth by the multiplex arcade; the duty of letting our light shine before men, by the pierced and flowered parapet that crowns the whole. "We enter. The triple breadth of Nave and Aisles, the triple height of Pier arch, Triforium, and Clerestory, the triple length of Choir, Transepts, and Nave, again set forth the HOLY TRINITY. And what besides is there that does not tell of our Blessed SAVIOUR? that does not point out "HIM First" in the two-fold western door; "HIM Last" in the distant altar; "HIM Midst," in the great Rood; "HIM Without End," in the monogram carved on boss and corbel, in the Holy Lamb, in the Lion of the tribe of Judah, in the Mystic Fish? Close by us is the font; for by regeneration we enter the Church; it is deep and capacious; for we are buried in Baptism with CHRIST; it is of stone, for HE is the Rock; and its spiry cover teaches us, if we be indeed risen from its waters with HIM, to seek those things which are above. Before us in long-drawn vista are the massy piers, which are the Apostles and Prophets--they are each of many members, for many are the Graces in every Saint, there is beautifully delicate foliage round the head of all; for all were plentiful in good works. Beneath our feet are the badges of worldly pomp and glory, the graves of Kings and Nobles and Knights; all in the Presence of God as dross and worthlessness. Over us swells the vast valley of the high pitched roof; from the crossing and interlacing of its curious rafters hang fadeless flowers and fruits which are not of earth; from its hammer-beams project wreaths and stars such as adorn heavenly beings; in its center stands the LAMB as it has been slain; from around HIM the celestial Host, Cherubim and Seraphim, Thrones, Principalities, and Powers, look down peacefully on the worshipers below. Harpers there are among them harping with their harps; for one is the song of the Church in earth and in Heaven. Through the walls wind the narrow cloister galleries; emblems of the path by which holy hermits and anchorets whose conflicts were known only to their GOD, have reached their Home. And we are compassed about with a mighty cloud of witnesses; the rich deep glass of the windows teems {119} with saintly forms, each in its own fair niche, all invested with the same holy repose; there is the glorious company of the Apostles; the goodly fellowship of the Prophets; the noble army of Martyrs; the shining band of Confessors; the jubilant chorus of the Virgins; there are Kings, who have long since changed an earthly for an heavenly crown; and Bishops who have given in a glad account to the Shepherd and Bishop of souls. But on none of these things do we rest; piers, arch behind arch, windows, light behind light, arcades, shaft behind shaft, the roof, bay behind bay, the Saints around us, the Heavenly Hierarchy above with dignity of preeminence still increasing eastward, each and all, lead on eye and soul and thought to the Image of the Crucified Saviour as displayed on the great East window. Gazing steadfastly on that we pass up the Nave, that is through the Church Militant, till we reach the Rood Screen, the barrier between it and the Church Triumphant, and therein shadowing forth the death of the Faithful. High above it hangs on His Triumphant Cross the image of Him who by His death hath overcome death; on it are portrayed Saints and Martyrs, His warriors who, fighting under their LORD have entered into rest and inherit a tearless eternity. They are to be our examples, and the seven lamps above them typify those graces of the SPIRIT, by Whom alone we can tread in their steps. The screen itself glows with gold and crimson; with gold, for they have on their heads golden crowns; with crimson, for they passed the Red Sea of Martyrdom, to obtain them. And through the delicate network, and the unfolding Holy Doors, we catch faint glimpses of the Chancel beyond. There are the massy stalls; for in Heaven is everlasting rest; there are the Sedilia, emblems of the seats of' the Elders round the Throne; there is the Piscina; for they have washed their robes and made them white; and there heart and soul and life of all, the Altar with its unquenched lights, and golden carvings, and mystic steps, and sparkling jewels; even CHRIST Himself, by Whose only Merits we find admission to our Heavenly Inheritance. Verily, as we think on the oneness of its design, we may say: Jerusalem edificatur ut civitas cujus participatio ejus in idipsum." {120} It is because of all this wealth of meaning embodied in them, that the Cathedrals of this old time continue to be so interesting and so unfailingly attractive even to our distant and so differently constituted generation. [Footnote 12] [Footnote 12: Those who care to realize to some degree all the Wonderful symbolic meaning of the ornamentation of some of these cathedrals, should read M. Huysman's book La Cathedrale, which has, we believe, been translated into English. Needless to say it has been often in our hands in compiling this chapter, and the death of its author as this chapter is going through the press poignantly recalls all the beauty of his work.] We cannot close this chapter on the Book of the Arts leaving the impression that only the Church Architecture of the time deserves to be considered in the category of, great art influences. There were many municipal buildings, some stately castles, and a large number of impressively magnificent Abbeys and Monasteries, besides educational and charitable institutions built at this same time. The town halls of some of the great Hansa towns, that is, the German free cities that were members of the Hanseatic League, present some very striking examples of the civil architecture of the period. It has the same characteristics that we have discussed in treating of the Cathedrals. While wonderfully impressive, it was eminently suitable for the purpose for which it was intended and the decorations always forming integral parts of the structure, sounded the note of the combination of beauty with utility which is so characteristic of every phase of the art accomplishment of the century. Some of the castles would deserve special description by themselves but unfortunately space forbids more than a passing mention. Certain castellated fortresses still standing in England and Ireland come from the time of King John, and are excellent examples of the stability and forceful character of this form of architecture in the Thirteenth Century. It is interesting to find that when we come to build in the Twentieth Century in America, the armories which are to be used for the training of our militia and the storage of arms and ammunition, many of the ideas used in their construction are borrowed from this olden time. {opp120} [Illustration] DURHAM CASTLE AND CATHEDRAL [Illustration] KING JOHN'S CASTLE (LIMERICK) There is a famous castle in Limerick, Ireland, built in John's time which constituted an {121} excellent example of this and which has doubtlessly often been studied and more or less imitated. One portion of Kenilworth Castle in England dates from the Thirteenth Century and has been often the subject of careful study by modern architects. The same thing might be said of many others. With regard to the English Abbeys too much cannot be said in praise of their architecture and it has been the model for large educational and municipal buildings ever since. St. Mary's Abbey at York, though only a few scattered fragments of its beauties are to be seen and very little, of its walls still stand, is almost as interesting as Yorkminster, the great Cathedral itself. There were many such abbeys as this built in England during the Thirteenth Century--more than a dozen of them at least and probably a full score. All of them are as distinguished in the history of architecture as the English Cathedrals. It will be remembered that what is now called Westminster Abbey was not a Cathedral church, but only a monastery church attached to the Abbey of Westminster and this, the only well preserved example of its class furnishes an excellent idea of what these religious institutions signify in the Thirteenth Century. They meant as much for the art impulse as the Cathedrals themselves. One feature of these monastic establishments deserves special mention. The cloisters were usually constructed so beautifully as to make them veritable gems of the art of the period. These cloisters were the porticos usually surrounding a garden of the monastery within which the Monks could walk, shaded from the sun, and protected from the rain and the snow. They might very easily have been hideously useful porches, especially as they were quite concealed from the outer world as a rule, and those not belonging to the order were not admitted to them except on very special occasions. The name cloister signifies an enclosed place and lay persons were not ordinarily admitted to them. Those who know anything about them will recall what beautiful constructive work was put into them. Certain examples as that of St. John Lateran in Rome and the Cloister of St. Paul's without the walls some five miles from Rome, constructed during the {122} Thirteenth Century and under the influence of the same great art movement as gave the Cathedrals, are the most beautiful specimens that now remain. The only thing that they can be compared with is the famous Angel Choir at Lincoln which indeed they recall in many ways. The pictures of these two Cloisters which we present will give some idea of their beauty. To be thoroughly appreciated, however, they must be seen, for there is a delicacy of finish about every detail that makes them an unending source of admiration and brings people back again and again to see them, yet always to find something new and apparently unnoticed before. It might be thought that the studied variety in the columns so that no two are of exactly the same form, would produce a bizarre effect. The lack of symmetry that might result, from this same feature could be expected to spoil their essential beauty. Neither of these effects has been produced, however. The Cloisters were, moreover, not purple patches on monasteries, but ever worthy portions of very beautiful buildings. All of these buildings were furnished as regards their metal work, their wood work, and the portions that lent themselves to decoration, in the same spirit as the Cathedrals themselves. The magnificent tables and benches of the Thirteenth Century are still considered to be the best models of simplicity of line with beauty of form and eminent durability in the history of furniture making. The fashion for Colonial furniture in our own time has brought us nearer to such Thirteenth Century furniture making than has been true at any other time in history. Here once more there was one of these delightful combinations of beauty and utility which is so characteristic of the century. Even the kitchen utensils were beautiful as well as useful and the Irish poet might have been satisfied to his heart's content. {opp122} [Illustration] PALAZZO VECCHIO (ARNULFO, FLORENCE) CAMPANILE (GIOTTO) [Illustration] GIOTTO'S TOWER (FLORENCE) Certain other architectural forms were wonderfully developed during the Thirteenth Century and the opening years of the Fourteenth Century while men trained during the former period were still at work. Giotto's tower, for instance, must be considered a Thirteenth Century product since its architect was well past thirty-five years of age before the Thirteenth {123} Century closed and all his artistic character had been formed under its precious inspiration. It is a curious reflection on modern architecture, that some of the modern high business buildings are saved from being hideous just in as much as they approach the character of some of these tower-like structures of the Thirteenth Century. The first of New York's skyscrapers which is said to have escaped the stigma of being utterly ugly, as most of them are, because of their appeal to mere utility, was the New York Times Building which is just Giotto's tower on a large scale set down on Broadway at the beginning of the Twentieth Century. Seen from a mile away the effect is exactly that of the great Florentine architect's beautiful structure and this was of course the deliberate intention of the modern architect. Anyone who would think, however, that our modern business building with its plain walls recalls in any adequate sense its great pattern, should read what Mr. Ruskin has said with regard to the wealth of meaning that is to be found in Giotto's tower. Into such structures just as into the Cathedrals, the architects and builders of the time succeeded in putting a whole burden of suggestion, which to the generations of the time in which they were built, accustomed to the symbolism of every art feature in life around them, had a precious wealth of significance that we can only appreciate after deep study and long contemplation. We have felt that only the quotation from Mr. Ruskin himself can fully illustrate what we wish to convey in this matter. "Of these representations of human art under heavenly guidance, the series of basreliefs which stud the base of this tower of Giotto's must be held certainly the chief in Europe. At first you may be surprised at the smallness of their scale in proportion to their masonry; but this smallness of scale enabled the master workmen of the tower to execute them with their own hands; and for the rest, in the very finest architecture, the decoration of most precious kind is usually thought of as a jewel, and set with space round it--as the jewels of a crown, or the clasp of a girdle." {124} VII ARTS AND CRAFTS--GREAT TECHNICAL SCHOOLS The most interesting social movement in our time is undoubtedly that of the arts and crafts. Its central idea is to lift the workmen up above the mere machine that he is likely to become, as the result of the monotonous occupation at some trade, that requires him only to do a constantly repeated series of acts, or direct, one little portion of machinery and so kills the soul in him. Of course, the other idea that a generation of workmen shall be created, who will be able to make beautiful things, for the use of the household as well as the adornment of the house is another principal purpose. Too many people have mistaken this entirely secondary aim of the movement for its primary end. It is because of the effect upon the workman himself of the effort to use his intellect in the designing, his taste in the arrangement, and his artisan skill for the execution of beautiful things, that the arts and crafts movement has its appeal to the generality of mankind. The success of the movement promises, to do more, to solve social problems than all the socialistic agitation that is at present causing so much dismay in some quarters and raising so many hopes that are destined to be disappointed in the hearts of the laboring classes. The solution of the problem of social unrest is to be found, not in creating new wants for people and giving them additional wages that will still further stimulate their desire to have many things that will continue to be in spite of increased wages beyond their means, but rather to give them such an interest in their life work that their principal source of pleasure is to be found in their occupation. Unfortunately work has come to be looked upon as a drudgery and as men must spend the greater portion of their lives, at least the vast majority of them must, in doing something that will enable them to make a living, it is clear that unhappiness {125} and discontent will still continue. Blessed is the man who has found his work, blessed is the man to whom his work appeals with so much interest that he goes from it with a longing to be able to finish what he has been at, and comes back to it with a prospect that now he shall be able to accomplish what time and perhaps fatigue would not allow him to proceed with the day before. This is the best feature of the promises held out by the arts and crafts movement, that men shall be interested in the work they do. This may seem to some people an unrealizable idea and a poetic aspiration rather than a possible actuality. A little study of what was accomplished in this line during the Thirteenth Century, will surely prove even to the most skeptical how much of success is capable of being realized in this matter. The men who worked around the Cathedrals were given opportunities to express themselves and the best that was in them as no class of workmen before or since have ever had the opportunity. Every single portion of the Cathedral was to be made as beautiful as the mind of man could conceive, his taste could plan and his hands could achieve. As a consequence the carpenter had the chance to express himself in the woodwork, the village blacksmith the opportunity to display his skill in such small ironwork as the hinges or the latch for the door and every workman felt called upon to do the best that was in him. It is easy to understand under these circumstances with what interest the men must have applied themselves to their tasks. They were, as a rule, the designers as well as the executors of the work assigned them. They planned and executed in the rough and tried, then modified and adapted, until finally as we know of most of the Cathedrals, their finished product was as nearly perfect in most particulars as it is ordinarily given to man to achieve. Their aim above all was to make such a combination of utility with beauty of line yet simplicity of finish, as would make their work worthy counterparts of all the other portions of the Cathedral. The sense of competition must have stirred men to the very depths of their souls and yet it was not the heartless rivalry that crushes when it succeeds, but the inspiring emulation that makes one do as well as or better than others, though not necessarily in such a way as to {126} belittle others' efforts by contrast or humble them by triumph. {opp126} [Illustration] FOUNTAIN (PERUGIA) [TOWN PUMP] [Illustration] LAVATOIO (TODI) [PUBLIC WASH-HOUSE] In these old medieval days England used to be called Merrie England and it is easy to understand that workmen would be profoundly merry at heart, when they had the consciousness of accomplishing such good work. Men must have almost tardily quitted their labor in the evening while they hoped and strove to accomplish something that would be worthy of the magnificent building in which so many of their fellow workmen were achieving triumphs of handicraftsmanship. Each went home to rest for the night, but also to dream over what he might be able to do and awoke in the morning with the thought that possibly to-day would see some noteworthy result. This represents the ideal of the workman's life. He has an interest quite apart from the mere making of money. The picture of the modern workman by contrast looks vain and sordid. The vast majority of our workmen labor merely because they must make enough money to-day, in order that they may be able to buy food enough so as to get strength to work to-morrow. Of interest there is very little. Day after day there is the task of providing for self and others. Only this and nothing more. Is it any wonder that there should be social unrest and discontentment? How can workmen be merry unless with the artificial stimulus of strong drink, when there is nothing for them to look forward to except days and weeks and years of labor succeeding one another remorselessly, and with no surcease until Nature puts in her effective demand for rest, or the inevitable end comes. It would be idle to say that these men who knew how to make the beautiful things for these cathedrals were not conscious of the perfection of the work that they were accomplishing. The very fact that each in his own line was achieving such beautiful results must have stamped him as thoroughly capable of appreciating the work of others. The source of pleasure that there must have been therefore, in some twenty towns in England alone, to see their Cathedral approaching completion, must have been of itself a joy far beyond anything we can imagine as possible for the workmen of the present day. The interest in it was supreme and was only heightened by the fact that it was being done by relatives and friends and brother workmen, even {127} though they might be rivals, and that whatever was done was redounding first to the glory of the Lord to whom they turned with so much confidence in these ages of faith, and secondly, and there was scarcely less satisfaction in the thought, to the reputation of their native town and their fellow-townsmen. This is the feature of the life of the lower classes in the Thirteenth Century which most deserves to be studied in our time. We hear much of people being kept in ignorance and in servitude. Men who talk this way know nothing at all of the lives of the towns of the Middle Ages and are able to appreciate not even in the slightest degree the wonderful system of education, that made life so much fuller of possibilities for intellectual development for all classes and for happiness in life, than any other period of which we know. This phase of the Thirteenth Century is at once the most interesting, the most significant for future generations, and the most important in its lessons for all time. We have been following up thus far the exemplification in the Thirteenth Century of John Ruskin's saying, that if you wish to get at the real significance of the achievements of a period in history, you must read the book of its deeds, the book of its arts and the book of its words. We have been turning over a few of the pages of the book of the deeds of the Thirteenth Century in studying the history of the establishment of the universities and of the method and content of university teaching. After all the only deeds that ought to count in the history of mankind are those that are done for men--that have accomplished something for the uplift of mankind. History is unfortunately occupied with deeds of many other kinds, and it is perhaps the saddest blot on our modern education, that it is mainly the history of deeds that have been destructive of man, of human happiness and in only too many cases of human rights and human liberties, that are supposed to be most worthy of the study of the rising generation. History as written for schools is to a great extent a satire on efforts for social progress. We shall continue the study of the book of the deeds of the Thirteenth Century and its most interesting and important chapter, that of the education of the masses. We shall find in what was accomplished in educating the people of the {128} Thirteenth Century, the model of the form of education which in spite of our self-complacency does not exist, but must come in our time, if our education is to fulfill its real purpose. Perhaps the most interesting phase of this question of the education of the masses will be the fact that in studying this book of the deeds, we shall have also to study once more the book of the arts of the Thirteenth Century. All their best accomplishment was linked with achievement and progress in art. Yet it was from the masses that the large number of artist-artisans of workmen with the true artistic spirit came, who in this time in nearly every part of Europe, created masterpieces of art in every department which have since been the admiration of the world. We may say at once that the opportunity for the education of the masses was furnished in connection with the Cathedrals. In the light of what we read in these great stone books, it is a constant source of surprise that the Church should be said to have been opposed to education. Reinach in his Story of Art throughout the Ages says: "The Church was not only rich and powerful in the Middle Ages; it dominated and directed all the manifestations of human activity. There was practically no art but the art it encouraged, the art it needed to construct and adorn its buildings, carve its ivories and its reliquaries, and paint its glass and its missals. Foremost among the arts it fostered was architecture, which never played so important a part in any other society. Even now, when we enter a Romanesque or Gothic church, we are impressed by the might of that vast force of which it is the manifestation, a force which shaped the destinies of Europe for a thousand years." It was as the result of this demand for art that the technical schools naturally developed around the Cathedrals. To take the example of England alone, during the Thirteenth Century some twenty cathedrals were erected in various parts of the country. Most of these were built in what we would now call small towns, indeed some of them would be considered scarcely more than villages. There were no large cities, in praise be it spoken, during the Thirteenth Century, and it must not be forgotten that the whole population of England at the beginning {129} of the century was scarcely more than two millions of people and did not reach three millions even at the end of it. Every rood of ground did not perhaps maintain its man, but every part of England had its quota of population so that there could not be many crowded centers. Even London probably at no time during the century had more than twenty-five thousand inhabitants and Oxford during the palmiest days of the University was perhaps the most populous place in the land. There was a rivalry in the building of Cathedrals, and as the main portion of the buildings were erected in the short space of a single century, a feeling of intense competition was rife so that there was very little possibility of procuring workmen from other towns. Each town had to create not only its cathedral but the workmen who would finish it in all its details. When we consider that a Cathedral like Salisbury was practically completed in the short space of about twenty-five years, it becomes extremely difficult to understand just how this little town succeeded in apparently accomplishing the impossible. It has often been said that artists cannot be obtained merely because of a demand for them and that they are the slow creation of rather capricious nature. It is only another way of saying that the artist is born, not made. Nature then must have been in a particularly fruitful mood and tense during the Thirteenth Century, for there is no doubt at all of the wonderful artistic beauty of the details of these Gothic cathedrals. While nature's beneficence meant much, however, the training of the century probably meant even more and the special form of popular education which developed well deserves the attention of all other generations. It may be said at once that education in our sense of teaching everybody to read and write there was none. There were more students at the universities to the number of the population than in the Twentieth Century as we have seen, but people who were not to devote themselves in after life to book learning, were not burdened with acquisitions of doubtful benefit, which might provide stores of useless information for them, or enable them to while away hours of precious time reading trash, or make them conceited with the thought that because they had absorbed some of the opinions of others on things in general, {130} they had a right to judge of most things under the sun and a few other things besides. The circulation of our newspapers and the records of the books in demand at our libraries, show how much a knowledge of reading means for most of our population. Popular education of this kind may, and does benefit a few, but it works harm to a great many. Of education in the sense of training the faculties so that the individual might express whatever was in him and especially that he might bring out what was best in him, there was much. Take again the example of England. There was considerably less in population than there is in Greater New York at the present time, yet there was some twenty places altogether in which they were building Cathedrals during this century, that would be monuments of artistic impulse and accomplishment for all future time. Any city in this country would be proud to have any one of these English cathedrals of the Thirteenth Century as the expression of its taste and power to execute. We have tried to imitate them more or less in many places. In order to accomplish our purpose in this matter, though, we deliberately did everything on a much smaller and less ambitious scale than the people of the small English towns of seven centuries ago, and our results do not bear comparison for a moment with theirs, we had to appeal to other parts of the country and even to Europe for architects and designers, and even had to secure the finished products of art from distant places. This too, in spite of the fact that we are seven centuries later and that our education is supposed to be developed to a high extent. If there were twenty places of instruction in Greater New York where architects and artist workers in iron and glass, and metal of all kinds, and wood and stone, were being trained to become such finished artisans as were to be found in twenty different little towns of England in the Thirteenth Century, we should be sure that our manual training schools and our architectural departments of universities and schools of design were wonderfully successful. When we find this to be true of the England of the Thirteenth Century we can conclude that somehow better opportunities for art education must have been supplied in those times than in our own, and though we do not find the mention or {131} records of formal schools, we must look patiently for the methods of instruction that enabled these generations to accomplish so much. Needless to say such attainments do not come spontaneously in a large number of people, but must be carefully fostered and are the result of that greatest factor in education, environment. It will not be hard to find where the ambitious youth of England even of the workman class found opportunities for technical education of the highest character in these little towns. This was never merely theoretic, though, it was sufficiently grounded in principle to enable men to solve problems in architecture and engineering, in decoration and artistic arrangement, such as are still sources of anxiety for modern students of these questions. To take but a single example, it will be readily appreciated that the consideration of the guilds of builders of the Cathedrals as constituting a great technical school, is marvelously emphasized by certain recent observations with regard to architects' and builders' methods in the Cathedrals. There is a passage in Evelyn's Diary in which he describes certain corrections that were introduced into Old St. Paul's Cathedral, London (the Gothic edifice predecessor of the present classical structure), in order to remove appearances of dissymmetry and certain seeming mistakes of construction. This passage was always so misunderstood that editors usually considered it to be defective in some way and as the classical critics always fall back on an imperfect text for insoluble difficulties, so somehow Evelyn was considered as either not having understood what he intended to say, or else the printer failed to put in all the words that he wrote. It was the modern readers, however, not Evelyn nor his printer who were mistaken. Mr. Goodyear of the Brooklyn Institute of Arts and Sciences has proved by a series of photographs and carefully made observations, that many of the old Gothic Cathedrals have incorporated into them by their builders, optical corrections which correspond to those made by the Greeks in their building in the classical period, which have been the subject of so much admiration to the moderns. The medieval architects and builders knew nothing of these classical architectural refinements. They learned for themselves by actual experience the necessity for making such optical {132} corrections and then introduced them so carefully, that it is not until the last decade or so that their presence has been realized. It is only by an educational tradition of the greatest value that the use of such a refinement could become as general as Professor Goodyear has found it to be. Besides the practical work then, and the actual exercise of craftsmanship and of design which the apprentices obtained from the guild, there was evidently a body of very definite technical information conveyed to them, or at least to certain chosen spirits among them, which carried on precious traditions from place to place. This same state of affairs must of course have existed with regard to stained glass work, the making of bells and especially the finer work in the precious metals. Practical metallurgy must have been studied quite as faithfully as in any modern technical school, at least so far as its practical purposes and application were concerned. Here we have the secret of the technical schools revealed. It is extremely interesting to study the details of the very practical organization by which this great educational movement in the arts and crafts was brought about. It was due entirely to the trades' and merchants' guilds of the time. In the cathedral towns the trades' guilds preponderated in influence. There gathered around each of these cathedrals during the years when work was most active, numbers of workmen engaged at various occupations requiring mechanical skill and long practice at their trade. These workmen were all affiliated with one another and they were gradually organized into trades' unions that had a certain independent existence. There was the guild of the stone workers; the guild of the metal workers--in some places divided into a guild of iron workers and a guild of gold workers, or workers in precious metals; there was the guild of the wood workers and then of the various other forms of occupation connected with the supplying of finished or unfinished materials for the cathedral. In association with these were established guilds of tailors, bakers, butchers, all affiliated in a merchants' guild which maintained the rights of its members as well as the artisans' guilds. Some idea of the number and variety of these can be obtained from the list given in the chapter on the Origin of the Drama. {opp133} [Illustration] RELIQUARY (LIMOGES MUSEO, FLORENCE) [Illustration] CRUCIFIX (DUOMO, SIENA) {133} These were the workmen who not only accomplished such brilliant results in art work, but also succeeded in training other workmen so admirably for every line of artistic endeavor. It is somewhat difficult to understand just how a village carpenter did wood-carving of so exquisite a design and such artistic finish of detail that it has remained a subject of admiration for centuries. It is quite as difficult to understand how one of the village blacksmiths of the time made a handsome gate, that has been the constant admiration of posterity ever since, or designed huge hinges for doors that artists delight to copy, or locks and latches and bolts that are transported to our museums to be looked at with interest, not only because they are antiques, but for the wonderful combination of the beautiful and the useful which they illustrate. We are assured, however, by the Rev. Augustus Jessopp, that he has seen in the archives of the old English parishes, some of the receipts for the bills of these village workmen as we would term them, for the making of these beautiful specimens of arts and crafts. The surprise grows greater when we realize that these beautiful objects were made not alone in one place or even in a few places, but in nearly every town of any size in England and France and Italy and Germany and Spain at various times during the Thirteenth Century, and that at any time a town of considerably less than ten thousand inhabitants seemed to be able to obtain among its own inhabitants, men who could make such works of art not as copies nor in servile imitation of others, but with original ideas of their own, and make them in such perfection that in many cases they have remained the models for future workmen for many centuries. Even the bells for the cathedrals seem to have been cast in practically all cases in the little town in which they were to be used. It may be added that these bells of the Thirteenth Century represent the highest advances in bell making that have ever been attained and that their form and composition have simply been imitated over and over again since that time. Even the finer precious metal work such as chalices and the various sacred vessels and objects used in the church services, were not obtained from a distance but were made at home. An article that appeared a few years ago in The Craftsman {134} (Syracuse, N. Y.), a magazine published in the interests of the Arts and Crafts movement, called attention to how much more beautifully the Thirteenth Century workman in the precious metals accomplished his artistic purpose than does the corresponding workman of the present day. A definite comparison, was made between some typical chalices of the Thirteenth Century and some prize cups which were made without regard to cost, as rewards for yachting and other competitions in the Twentieth Century. The artist workman of the olden time knew how to combine the beautiful with the useful, to use decoration just enough not to offend good taste, to make the lines of his work eminently artistic and in general to turn out a fine work of art. The modern prize cup is usually made by one of the large firms engaged in such work who employ special designers for the purpose, such designs ordinarily passing through the trained hands of a series of critics before being accepted, and only after this are turned over to the modern skilled workmen to be executed in metal. All this ought to assure the more artistic results; that they do not according to the writer in The Craftsman, demonstrates how much such success is a matter of men and of individual taste rather than of method. We have already called attention to the fact that in needlework and in other arts connected with the provision of church ornaments and garments, the success of the Thirteenth Century workers was quite as great. The Cope of Ascoli considered by experts to be one of the most beautiful bits of needlework ever made is an example of this. Many other examples are to be found in the treasuries of churches and monasteries, in spite of the ravages of time and only too often of intolerant and unfortunate destruction by so-called reformers, who could see no beauty in even the most beautiful things if they ran counter to certain of their religious prejudices. The training necessary for the production of such beautiful objects of handicraftsmanship was obtained through the guilds themselves. The boy in the small town who thought that he had a liking for a certain trade or craft was received as an apprentice in it. If during the course of a year or more he demonstrated his aptness for his chosen craft, he was allowed to {135} continue his labor of assisting the workmen in various ways, and indeed very early in the history of the guilds was bound over to some particular workman, who usually supplied him with board and clothing, though with no other remuneration during his years of apprenticeship. After four or five years, always, however, with the understanding that he had shown a definite talent for his chosen trade, he was accepted among the workmen of the lowest grade, the journeymen, who usually went traveling in order to perfect their knowledge of the various methods by which their craft maintained itself and the standard of its workmanship in the different parts of the country. During these three years of "journeying" a striking development was likely to take place in the mind of the ambitious young workman. His _wanderjahre_ came just at the most susceptible period, sometime between 17 and 25, they continued for three years or more, and the young workman if at all ambitious was likely to see many men and methods and know much of the cities and towns of his country before he returned to his native place. Sometimes these craft-wanderings took him even into France, where he learned methods and secrets so different to those at home. After these years if he wished to settle down in his native town or in some other, having brought evidence of the accomplishment of his apprenticeship and then of his years as a journeyman, he became an applicant for full membership in the guild to which his years of training had been devoted. He was not admitted, however, until he had presented to the officials of the organization a piece of work showing his skill. This might be only a hinge, or a lock for a door, but on the other hand it might be a design for an important window or a delicate piece of wood or stone-carving. If it was considered worthy of the standard of workmanship of the guild it was declared to be a masterpiece. This is where the fine old English word masterpiece comes from. The workman was then admitted as a master workman and became a full member of the guild. This membership carried with it a number of other rights besides that of permission to work as a master-workman at full wages whenever the guild was employed. Guilds had certain privileges conferred on them by the towns in which they lived, {136} by the nobles for whom they worked and the ecclesiastical authorities on whose various church structures they were employed. At the beginning of the Thirteenth Century at least, feudal ideas prevailed to such an extent that no one was supposed to enjoy any rights or privileges except those which had been conferred on him by some authority. Besides the workmen of the same guild were bound together by ties, so that any injury inflicted on one of them was considered to be done to the whole body. When human rights were much less recognized than has come to be the case since, this constituted an important source of protection against many forms of injury and infringement of rights. Besides the privileges, however, the guild possessed certain other decided advantages which made membership desirable, even though it involved the fulfilment of certain duties. In the various towns in England, after the introduction during the Thirteenth Century of the practice of having mystery plays in the various towns, the guild claimed and obtained the privilege of giving these at various times during the year. The guild of the goldsmiths would give the performance of one portion of the Old Testament; the guild of the tailors another; the guild of the butchers and so on for each of the trades and crafts still another, so that during the year a whole cycle of the mysteries of the Christian religion in type and in reality were exhibited to the people of each region. Almost needless to say, on such festive occasions, for the plays were given on important feast days, the people from the countryside flocked in to see them and the influence was widespread. What was most important, however, was the influence on those who took part in the plays, of such intimate contact for a prolonged period with the simplicity of style, the sublimity of thought, the concentration of purpose and the effectiveness of expression of the Scriptures and the Scripture narratives even in their dramatized form. The fact of actually taking part in these performances meant ever so much more than merely viewing them as an outsider. It is doubtless to this intimate relationship with the great truths of Christianity that the profound devotion so characteristic of the accomplishments of the arts and crafts, during the Thirteenth Century, must be to no little extent attributed. {opp136} [Illustration ] MADONNA, CIMABUE (RUCELLAI CHAPEL, SANTA MARIA NOVELLA, FLORENCE) {137} Their beautiful work could only have come from men of profoundest faith, but also it could not have come from those who were ignorant of the basis of what they accepted on faith. In other words, there was a mental training with regard to some of the sublimest truths of life and its significance, the creation of a Christian philosophy of life, that made the workman see clearly the great truths of religion and so be able to illustrate them by his handiwork. Education of a higher order than this has never been conceived of, and the very lack of tedious formality in it only made it all the more effectual in action. Other duties were involved in membership in the guild. All the members were bound to attend church services regularly and to perform what is known as their religious duties at periodic intervals, that is, the rule of the guild required them to go to mass on Sundays and holy days, to abstain from manual labor on such days unless there was absolute necessity for it, and to go to confession and communion several times a year. Besides they were bound to contribute to the support of such of their fellow-members as were sick and unable to work or as had been injured. A very interesting phase of this duty toward sick members existed at least in some parts of the country. A workman was supposed to pass one night at certain intervals on his turn, in helping to nurse a fellow-workman who was seriously hurt or who was very ill. It was considered that the family were quite worn out enough with the care of the sick man during the day, and so one of his brother guildsmen came to relieve them of this duty at night. It is a custom that is still maintained in certain country places but which of course has passed out of use entirely in our unsympathetic city life. In a word, there was a thorough education not only in the life work that made for wages and family support, but also in those precious social duties that make for happiness and contentment in life. {138} VIII GREAT ORIGINS IN PAINTING. [Footnote 13] [Footnote 13: Most of this chapter is taken from the work on Italian painting (La Peinture Italienne depuis les origines jusqu'a la fin du xv Siecle, par Georges Lafenestre, Paris Ancienne Maison Quantin Libraries-Imprimeries Reunies, May & Motteroz, Directeurs, rue Saint-Benoit. Nouvelle Edition), which forms one of the series of text books for instruction in art at L'Ecole Des Beaux-Arts--the famous French Government Art School in Paris. It may be said that this collection of art manuals is recognized as an authority on all matters treated of, having been crowned by the Academie Des Beaux-Arts with the prize Bordin. There is no better source of information with regard to the development of the arts and none which can be more readily consulted nor with more assurance as to the facts and opinions exposed.] At the commencement of the Thirteenth Century the movement of emancipation in every phase of thought and life in Italy went on apace with an extraordinary ardor. After a very serious struggle the Italian republics were on the point of forcing the German Empire to recognize them. Everywhere in the first enthusiasm of their independence which had been achieved by valiant deeds and aspirations after liberty as lofty as any in modern times, the cities, though united in confederations they were acting as independent rivals, brought to all enterprises, lay or religious foundations, commercial or educational institutions, a wonderful youthful activity and enterprise. The papacy allied with them favored this movement in its political as well as its educational aspects and strengthened the art movement of the time. Christianity under their guidance, by the powerful religious exaltation which it inspired in the hearts of all men, became a potent factor in all forms of art. From Pope Innocent III to Boniface VIII probably no other series of Popes have been so misunderstood and so misrepresented by subsequent generations, as certainly the Popes of no other century did so much to awaken the enthusiasm of Christians for all modes of religious development, and be it said though credit for this is {139} only too often refused them, also for educational, charitable and social betterment. The two great church institutions of the time that were destined to act upon the people more than any others were the Franciscan and Dominican orders--the preachers and the friars minor, who were within a short time after their formation to have such deep and widespread influence on all strata of society. Both of these orders from their very birth showed themselves not only ready but anxious to employ the arts as a means of religious education and for the encouragement of piety. Their position in this matter had an enormous influence on art and on the painters of the time. The Dominicans, as became their more ambitious intellectual training and their purpose as preachers of the word, demanded encyclopedic and learned compositions; the Franciscans asked for loving familiar scenes such as would touch the hearts of the common people. Both aided greatly in helping the artist to break away from the old fashioned formalism which was no longer sufficient to satisfy the new ardors of men's souls. In this way they prepared the Italian imagination for the double revolution which was to come. It was the great body of legends which grew up about St. Francis particularly, all of them bound up with supreme charity for one's neighbor, with love for all living creatures even the lowliest, with the tenderest feelings for every aspect of external nature, which appealed to the painters as a veritable light in the darkness of the times. It was especially in the churches founded by the disciples of "the poor little man of Assisi," that the world saw burst forth before the end of the century, the first grand flowers of that renewal of art which was to prove the beginning of modern art history. It is hard to understand what would have happened to the painters of the time without the spirit that was brought into the world by St. Francis' beautifully simple love for all and every phase of nature around him. This it was above all that encouraged the return to nature that soon supplanted Oriental formalism. It was but due compensation that the greatest works of the early modern painters should have been done in St. Francis' honor. Besides this the most important factor in art was the revival of the thirst for knowledge, which arose among the more intellectual portions of the {140} communities and developed an enthusiasm for antiquity which was only a little later to become a veritable passion. The most important phase of Italian art during the Thirteenth Century is that which developed at Florence. It is with this that the world is most familiar. It began with Cimabue, who commenced painter, in the quaint old English phrase, not long before the middle of the century and whose great work occupies the second half of it. There are not wanting some interesting traditions of certain other Florentine painters before his time as Marchisello, of the early part of the century, Lapo who painted, in 1261, the facade of the Cathedral at Pistoia, and Fino di Tibaldi who painted a vast picture on the walls of the Municipal Palace about the middle of the century, but they are so much in the shadow of the later masters' work as to be scarcely known. Everywhere Nature began to reassert herself. The workers in Mosaic even, who were occupied in the famous baptistry at Florence about the middle of the century, though they followed the Byzantine rules of their art, introduced certain innovations which brought the composition and the subjects closer to nature. These are enough to show that there was a school of painting and decoration at Florence quite sufficient to account for Cimabue's development, without the necessity of appealing to the influence over him of wandering Greek artists as has sometimes been done. Though he was not the absolute inventor of all the new art modes as he is sometimes supposed to be, Cimabue was undoubtedly a great original genius. Like so many others who have been acclaimed as the very first in a particular line of thought or effort, his was only the culminating intelligence which grasped all that had been done before, assimilated it and made it his own. As a distinct exception to the usual history of such great initiators, this father of Italian painting was rich, born of a noble family, but of a character that was eager for work and with ambition to succeed in his chosen art as the mainspring of life. At his death, as the result of his influence, artists had acquired a much better social position than had been theirs before, and one that it was comparatively easy for his successors to maintain. His famous Madonna which was subsequently borne in triumph from his studio to the Church of {141} Santa Maria Novella, placed the seal of popular approval on the new art, and the enthusiasm it evoked raised the artist for all time from the plane of a mere worker in colors to that of a member of a liberal profession. Even before this triumph his great picture had been deemed worthy of a visit by Charles of Anjou, the French King, who was on a visit to Florence and according to tradition ever afterwards the portion of the city in which it had been painted and through which it was carried in procession, bore by reason of these happy events the name Borgo Allegri--Ward of Joy. This picture is still in its place in the Rucellai chapel and is of course the subject of devoted attention on the part of visitors. Lafenestre says of it, that this monument of Florentine art quite justifies the enthusiasm of contemporaries if we compare it with the expressionless Madonnas that preceded it. There is an air of beneficent dignity on the features quite unlike the rigidity of preceding art, and there is besides an attractive suppleness about the attitude of the body which is far better proportioned than those of its predecessors. Above all there is a certain roseate freshness about the colors of the flesh which are pleasant substitutes for the pale and greenish tints of the Byzantines. It did not require more than this to exalt the imaginations of the people delivered from their old-time conventional painting. It was only a ray of the dawn after a dark night, but it announced a glorious sunrise of art and the confident anticipations of the wondrous day to come, aroused the depths of feeling in the peoples' hearts. Life and nature went back into art once more; no wonder their re-apparition was saluted with so much delight. Two other Madonnas painted by him, one at Florence in the Academy, the other in Paris in the Louvre, besides his great Mosaic in the apse of the Cathedral at Pisa, serve to show with what prudence Cimabue introduced naturalistic qualities into art, while always respecting the tradition of the older art and preserving the solemn graces and the majestic style of monumental painting. The old frescoes of the upper church at Assisi which represent episodes in the life of St. Francis have also been attributed to Cimabue, but evidently were done by a number of artists probably under his direction. It is easy to {142} see from them what an important role the Florentine artist played in directing the gropings of his assistant artists. After Cimabue the most important name at Florentine in the Thirteenth Century is that of his friend, Gaddo Gaddi, whose years of life correspond almost exactly with those of his great contemporary. His famous Coronation of the Virgin at Santa Maria de Fiore in Florence shows that he was greatly influenced by the new ideas that had come into art. Greater than either of these well-known predecessors however, was Giotto the friend of Dante, whose work is still considered worthy of study by artists because of certain qualities in which it never has been surpassed nor quite outgrown. From Giotto, however, we shall turn aside for a moment to say something of the development of art in other cities of Italy, for it must not be thought that Florence was the only one to take up the new art methods which developed so marvelously during the Thirteenth Century. Even before the phenomenal rise of modern art in Florence, at Pisa, at Lucca and especially at Siena, the new wind of the spirit was felt blowing and some fine inspirations were realized in spite of hampering difficulties of all kinds. The Madonna of Guido in the Church of St. Dominic at Siena is the proof of his emancipation. Besides him Ugolino, Segna and Duccio make up the Siena school and enable this other Tuscan city to dispute even with Florence the priority of the new influence in art. At Lucca Bonaventure Berlinghieri flourished and there is a famous St. Francis by him only recently found, which proves his right to a place among the great founders of modern art. Giunta of Pisa was one of those called to Assisi to paint some of the frescoes in the upper church. He is noted as having striven to make his figures more exact and his colors more natural. He did much to help his generation away from the conventional expressions of the preceding time and he must for this reason be counted among the great original geniuses in the history of art. The greatest name in the art of the Thirteenth Century is of course that of Giotto. What Dante did for poetry and Villani for history, their compatriot and friend did for painting. Ambrogio de Bondone familiarly called Ambrogiotto (and with the abbreviating habit that the Italians have always had for the names of all those of whom they thought much shortened to {143} Giotto, as indeed Dante's name had been shortened from Durante) was born just at the beginning of the last quarter of the Thirteenth Century. According to a well-known legend he was guarding the sheep of his father one day and passing his time sketching a lamb upon a smooth stone with a soft pebble when Cimabue happened to be passing. The painter struck by the signs of genius in the work took the boy with him to Florence, where he made rapid progress in art and soon surpassed even his master. The wonderful precocity of his genius may be best realized from the fact that at the age of twenty he was given the commission of finishing the decorations of the upper Church at Assisi, and in fulfilling it broke so completely with the Byzantine formalism of the preceding millennium, that he must be considered the liberator of art and its deliverer from the chains of conventionalism into the freedom of nature. It is no wonder that critics and literary men have been so unstinted in his praise. Here is an example: "In the Decamerone it is said of him 'that he was so great a genius that there was nothing in nature he had not so reproduced that it was not only like the thing, but seemed to be the thing itself.' Eulogies of this tenor on works of art are, it is quite true, common to all periods alike, to the most accomplished of classical antiquity as well as to the most primitive of the Middle Age; and they must only be accepted relatively, according to the notion entertained by each period of what constitutes truth and naturalness. And from the point of view of his age, Giotto's advance towards nature, considered relatively to his predecessors, was in truth enormous. What he sought was not merely the external truth of sense, but also the inward truth of the spirit. Instead of solemn images of devotion, he painted pictures in which the spectator beheld the likeness of human beings in the exercise of activity and intelligence. His merit lies, as has been well said, in 'an entirely new conception of character and facts.'" [Footnote 14] [Footnote 14: History of Ancient, Early Christian and Medieval Painting from the German of the late Dr. Alfred Woltmann, Professor at the Imperial University of Strasburg, and Karl Woertmann, Professor at the Royal Academy of Arts, Dusselford. Edited by Sidney Colvin, M. A., Dodd, Mead & Co., N. Y., 1894.] {144} Lafenestre, in his history of Italian painting for the Beaux-Arts of Paris already referred to, says that what has survived of Giotto's work justifies the enthusiasm of his contemporaries. None of his predecessors accomplished anything like the revolution that he worked. He fixed the destinies of art in Italy at the moment when Dante fixed those of literature. The stiff, confused figures of the mosaics and manuscripts grew supple under his fingers and the confusion disappeared. He simplified the gestures, varied the expression, rectified the proportions. Perhaps the best example of his work is that of the upper Church of Assisi, all accomplished before he was thirty. What he had to represent were scenes of life almost contemporary yet already raised to the realm of poetry by popular admiration. He interpreted the beautiful legend of the life of the Saint preserved by St. Bonaventure, and like the subject of his sketches turned to nature at every step of his work. If his figures are compared with those of the artists of the preceding generations, their truth to life and natural expressions easily explain the surprise and the rapture of his contemporaries. Beautiful as are the pictures of the Upper Church, however, ten years after their completion Giotto's genius can be seen to have taken a still higher flight by the study of the pictures on the vast ceilings of the Lower Church. The four compartments contain the Triumph of Chastity, the Triumph of Poverty, the Triumph of Obedience, and the Glorification of St. Francis. The ideal and the real figures in these compositions are mingled and grouped with admirable clearness and inventive force. To be appreciated properly they must be seen and studied _in situ_. Many an artist has made the pilgrimage to Assisi and none has come away disappointed. Never before had an artist dared to introduce so many and such numerous figures, yet all were done with a variety and an ease of movement that is eminently pleasing and even now are thoroughly satisfying to the artistic mind. After his work at Assisi some of the best of Giotto's pictures are to be found in the Chapel of the Arena at Padua. Here there was a magnificent opportunity and Giotto took full advantage of it. The whole story of Christ's life is told in the fourteen episodes of the life of his Mother which were painted here by Giotto. For their sake Padua as well as {145} Assisi has been a favorite place of pilgrimage for artists ever since and never more so than in our own time. {opp144} [Illustration] ST. FRANCIS' MARRIAGE WITH POVERTY (GIOTTO, ASSISI) No greater tribute to the century in which he lived could possibly be given than to say that his genius was recognized at once, and he was sought from one end of Italy to another by Popes and Kings, Republics and Princes, Convents and Municipalities, all of which competed for the privilege of having this genius work for them with ever increasing enthusiasm. It is easy to think and to say that it is no wonder that such a transcendent genius was recognized and appreciated and received his due reward. Such has not usually been the case in history, however. On the contrary, the more imposing the genius of an artist, or a scientist, or any other great innovator in things human, the more surely has he been the subject of neglect and even of misunderstanding and persecution. The very fact that Giotto lifted art out of the routine of formalism in which it was sunk might seem to be enough to assure failure of appreciation. Men do not suddenly turn round to like even great innovations, when they have long been satisfied with something less and when their principles of criticism have been formed by their experience with the old. We need not go farther back than our own supposedly illuminated Nineteenth Century to find some striking examples of this. Turner, the great English landscapist, failed of appreciation for long years and had to wait till the end of his life to obtain even a small meed of reward. The famous Barbizon School of French Painters is a still more striking example. They went back to nature from the classic formalism of the early Nineteenth Century painters just as Giotto went back to nature from Byzantine conventionalism. The immediate rewards in the two cases were very different and the attitude of contemporaries strikingly contrasted. Poor Millet did his magnificent work in spite of the fact that his family nearly starved. Only that Madame Millet was satisfied to take more than a fair share of hardships for herself and the family in order that her husband might have the opportunity to develop his genius after his own way, we might not have had the magnificent pictures which Millet sold for a few paltry francs that barely kept {146} the wolf from the door, and for which the next generation has been paying almost fabulous sums. All through the Thirteenth Century this characteristic will be found that genius did not as a rule lack appreciation. The greater the revolution a genuinely progressive thinker and worker tried to accomplish in human progress, the more sure was he to obtain not only a ready audience, but an enthusiastic and encouraging following. This is the greatest compliment that could be paid to the enlightenment of the age. Men's minds were open and they were ready and willing to see things differently from what they had been accustomed to before. This constitutes after all the best possible guarantee of progress. It is, however, very probably the last thing that we would think of attributing to these generations of the Thirteenth Century, who are usually said very frankly to have been wrapped up in their own notions, to have been only too ready to accept things on authority rather than by their own powers of observation and judgment, and to have been clingers to the past rather than lookers to the present and the future. Giotto's life shows better than any other how much this prejudiced view of the Thirteenth Century and perforce of the Middle Age needs to be corrected. During forty years Giotto responded to every demand, and made himself suffice for every call, worked in nearly every important city of Italy, enkindling everywhere he went the new light of art. Before the end of the century he completed a cartoon for the famous picture of the Boat of Peter which was to adorn the Facade of St. Peter's. He was in Rome in 1300, the first jubilee year, arranging the decorations at St. John Lateran. The next year he was at Florence, working in the Palace of the Podesta. And so it went for full two score years. He was at Pisa, at Lucca, at Arezzo, at Padua, at Milan, then he went South to Urbino, to Rome and then even to Naples. Unfortunately the strain of all this work proved too much for him and he was carried away at the comparatively early age of sixty in the midst of his artistic vigor and glory. {opp147} [Illustration] ESPOUSAL OF ST. CATHERINE (GADDI, XIII. CENTURY PUPIL, PERUGIA) The art of the Middle Ages and especially at the time of the beginnings of modern art in the Thirteenth Century, is commonly supposed to be inextricably bound up with certain {147} influences which place it beyond the pale of imitation for modern life. It has frequently been said, that this art besides being too deeply mystical and pietistic, is so remote from ordinary human feelings as to preclude a proper understanding of it by the men of our time and certainly prevent any deep sympathy. The pagan element in art which entered at the time of the Renaissance and which emphasized the joy of life itself and the pleasure of mere living for its own sake, is supposed to have modified this sadder aspect of things in the earlier art, so that now no one would care to go back to the pre-Renaissance day. There has been so much writing of this kind that has carried weight, that it is no wonder that the impression has been deeply made. It is founded almost entirely on a misunderstanding, however. Reinach whom we have quoted before completely overturns this false notion in some paragraphs which bring out better than any others that we know something of the true significance of the Thirteenth Century art in this particular. Those who think that Gothic art was mainly gloomy in character, or if not absolutely sad at heart that it always expressed the sadder portion of religious feelings, who consider that the ascetic side of life was always in the ascendant and the brighter side of things seldom chosen, for pictorial purposes, should recall that the Gothic Cathedrals themselves are the most cheery and lightsome buildings, that indeed they owe their character as creations of a new idea in architecture to the determined purpose of their builders to get admission for all possible light in the dreary Northern climates. The contradiction of the idea that Gothic art in its essence was gloomy will at once be manifest from this. Quite apart from this, however, if Gothic art be studied for itself and in its subjects, that of the Thirteenth Century particularly will be found far distant from, anything that would justify the criticism of over sadness. Reinach (in his Story of Art Throughout the Middle Ages) has stated this so clearly that we prefer simply to quote the passage which is at once authoritative and informing: "It has also been said that Gothic art bears the impress of ardent piety and emotional mysticism, that it dwells on the suffering of Jesus, of the Virgin, and of the martyrs with harrowing persistency. Those who believe this have never studied {148} Gothic art. It is so far from the truth that, as a fact, the Gothic art of the best period, the Thirteenth Century, never represented any sufferings save those of the damned. The Virgins are smiling and gracious, never grief stricken. There is not a single Gothic rendering of the Virgin weeping at the foot of the cross. The words and music of the Stabat Mater, which are sometimes instanced as the highest expression of the religion of the Middle Ages, date from the end of the Thirteenth Century at the very earliest, and did not become popular till the Fifteenth Century. Jesus himself is not represented as suffering, but with a serene and majestic expression. The famous statue known as the Beau Dieu d'Amiens may be instanced as typical." [Illustration] GROUP FROM VISITATION (RHEIMS) {149} IX LIBRARIES AND BOOKMEN. As the Thirteenth Century begins some 250 years before the art of printing was introduced, it would seem idle to talk of libraries and especially of circulating libraries during this period and quite as futile to talk of bookmen and book collectors. Any such false impression, however, is founded entirely upon a lack of knowledge of the true state of affairs during this wonderful period. A diocesan council held in Paris in the year 1212, with other words of advice to religious, recalled to them the duty that they had to lend such books as they might possess, with proper guarantee for their return, of course, to those who might make good use of them. The council, indeed, formally declared that the lending of books was one of the works of mercy. The Cathedral chapter of Notre Dame at Paris was one of the leaders in this matter and there are records of their having lent many books during the Thirteenth Century. At most of the abbeys around Paris there were considerable libraries and in them also the lending custom obtained. This is especially true of the Abbey of St. Victor of which the rule and records are extant. Of course it will be realized that the number of books was not large, but on the other hand it must not be forgotten that many of them were works of art in every particular, and some of them that have come down to us continue to be even to the present day among the most precious bibliophilic treasures of great state and city libraries. Their value depends not alone on their antiquity but on their perfection as works of art. In general it may be said that the missals and office books, and the prayer books made for royal personages and the nobility at this time, are yet counted among the best examples of bookmaking the world has ever seen. It is not surprising that such should be the case since these books were mainly meant for use in the Cathedrals and the chapels, and these edifices were so beautiful in every detail that the generations that erected them {150} could not think of making books for use in them, that would be unworthy of the artistic environment for which they were intended. With the candlesticks, the vessels, and implements used in the ceremonial surpassing works of art, with every form of decoration so nearly perfect as to be a source of unending admiration, with the vestments and altar linens specimens of the most exquisite handiwork of their kind that had ever been made, the books associated with them had to be excellent in execution, expressive of the most refined taste and finished with an attention utterly careless of the time and labor that might be required, since the sole object was to make everything as absolutely beautiful as possible. Hence there is no dearth of wonderful examples of the beautiful bookmaking of this century in all the great libraries of the world. The libraries themselves, moreover, are of surpassing interest because of their rules and management, for little as it might be expected this wonderful century anticipated in these matters most of our very modern library regulations. The bookmen of the time not only made beautiful books, but they made every provision to secure their free circulation and to make them available to as many people as was consonant with proper care of the books and the true purposes of libraries. This is a chapter of Thirteenth Century history more ignored perhaps than any other, but which deserves to be known and will appeal to our century more perhaps than to any intervening period. The constitutions of the Abbey St. Victor of Paris give us an excellent idea at once of the solicitude with which the books were guarded, yet also of the careful effort that was made to render them useful to as many persons as possible. One of the most important rules at St. Victor was that the librarian should know the contents of every volume in the library, in order to be able to direct those who might wish to consult the books in their selection, and while thus sparing the books unnecessary handling also save the readers precious time. We are apt to think that it is only in very modern times that this training of librarians to know their books so as to be of help to the readers was insisted on. Here, however, we find it in full force seven centuries ago. It would be much more difficult in the present day to know all the books confided to his care, but some of the {151} librarians at St. Victor were noted for the perfection of their knowledge in this regard and were often consulted by those who were interested in various subjects. In his book on the Thirteenth Century [Footnote 15 ] M. A. Lecoy de la Marche says that in France, at least, circulating libraries were quite common. As might be expected of the people of so practical a century, it was they who first established the rule that a book might be taken out provided its value were deposited by the borrower. Such lending libraries were to be found at the Sorbonne, at St. Germain des Prés, as well as at Notre Dame. There was also a famous library at this time at Corbie but practically every one of the large abbeys had a library from which books could be obtained. Certain of the castles of the nobility, as for instance that of La Ferte en Ponthieu, had libraries, with regard to which there is a record, that the librarian had the custom of lending certain volumes, provided the person was known to him and assumed responsibility for the book. [Footnote 15: Le Treizieme Siecle Litteraire et Scientifique, Lille, 1857.] Some of the regulations of the libraries of the century have an interest all their own from the exact care that was required with regard to the books. The Sorbonne for instance by rule inflicted a fine upon anyone who neglected to close large volumes after he had been making use of them. Many a librarian of the modern times would be glad to put into effect such a regulation as this. A severe fine was inflicted upon any library assistant who allowed a stranger to go into the library alone, and another for anyone who did not take care to close the doors. It seems not unlikely that these regulations, as M. Lecoy de la Marche says, were in vigor in many of the ecclesiastical and secular libraries of the time. Some of the regulations of St. Victor are quite as interesting and show the liberal spirit of the time as well as indicate how completely what is most modern in library management was anticipated. The librarian had the charge of all the books of the community, was required to have a detailed list of them and each year to have them in his possession at least three times. On him was placed the obligation to see that the books were not destroyed in any way, either by parasites of any kind or by {152} dampness. The librarian was required to arrange the books in such a manner as to make the finding of them prompt and easy. No book was allowed to be borrowed unless some pledge for its safe return were left with the librarian. This was emphasized particularly for strangers who must give a pledge equal to the value of the book. In all cases, however, the name of the borrower had to be taken, also the title of the book borrowed, and the kind of pledge left. The larger and more precious books could not be borrowed without the special permission of the superior. The origin of the various libraries in Paris is very interesting as proof that the mode of accumulating books was nearly the same as that which enriches university and other such libraries at the present time. The library of La St. Chapelle was founded by Louis IX, and being continuously enriched by the deposit therein of the archives of the kingdom soon became of first importance. Many precious volumes that were given as presents to St. Louis found their way into this library and made it during his lifetime the most valuable collection of books in Paris. Louis, moreover, devoted much time and money to adding to the library. He made it a point whenever on his journeys he stopped, at abbeys or other ecclesiastical institutions, to find out what books were in their library that were not at La Saint Chapelle and had copies of these made. His intimate friendship with Robert of Sorbonne, with St. Thomas of Aquin, with Saint Bonaventure, and above all with Vincent of Beauvais, the famous encyclopedist of the century, widened his interest in books and must have made him an excellent judge of what he ought to procure to complete the library. It was, as we shall see, Louis' munificent patronage that enabled Vincent to accumulate that precious store of medieval knowledge, which was to prove a mine of information for so many subsequent generations. From the earliest times certain books, mainly on medicine, were collected at the Hotel Dieu, the great hospital of Paris, and this collection was added to from time to time by the bequests of physicians in attendance there. This was doubtless the first regular hospital library, though probably medical books had also been collected at Salernum. The principal colleges of the universities also made collections of books, some of them {153} very valuable, though as a rule, it would seem as if no attempt was made to procure any other books than those which were absolutely needed for consultation by the students. The best working library at Paris was undoubtedly that of the Sorbonne, of which indeed its books were for a long time its only treasures. For at first the Sorbonne was nothing but a teaching institution which only required rooms for its lectures, and usually obtained these either from the university authorities or from the Canons of the Cathedral and possessed no property except its library. From the very beginning the professors bequeathed whatever books they had collected to its library and this became a custom. It is easy to understand that within a very short time the library became one of the very best in Europe. While most of the other libraries were devoted mainly to sacred literature, the Sorbonne came to possess a large number of works of profane literature. Interesting details with regard to this library of the Sorbonne and its precious treasures have been given by M. Leopold Delisle, in the second volume of Le Cabinet des Manuserits, describing the MSS. of the Bibliothèque Nationale at Paris. According to M. Lecoy de la Marche, this gives an excellent idea of the persevering efforts which must have been required, to bring together so many bibliographic treasures at a time when books were such a rarity, and consequently enables us better almost than anything else, to appreciate the enthusiasm of the scholars of these early times and their wonderful efforts to make the acquisition of knowledge easier, not only for their own but for succeeding generations. When we recall that the library of the Sorbonne was, during the Thirteenth Century, open not only to the professors and students of the Sorbonne itself, but also to those interested in books and in literature who might come from elsewhere, provided they were properly accredited, we can realize to the full the thorough liberality of spirit of these early scholars. Usually we are prone to consider that this liberality of spirit, even in educational matters, came much later into the world. In spite of the regulations demanding the greatest care, it is easy to understand that after a time even books written on vellum or parchment would become disfigured and worn under the ardent fingers of enthusiastic students, when comparatively so {154} few copies were available for general use. In order to replace these worn-out copies every abbey had its own scriptorium or writing room, where especially the younger monks who were gifted with plain handwriting were required to devote certain hours every day to the copying of manuscripts. Manuscripts were borrowed from neighboring libraries and copied, or as in our modern day exchanges of duplicate copies were made, so as to avoid the risk that precious manuscripts might be subject to on the journeys from one abbey to another. How much the duty of transcription was valued may be appreciated from the fact, that in some abbeys every novice was expected to bring on the day of his profession as a religious, a volume of considerable size which had been carefully copied by his own hands. Besides these methods of increasing the number of books in the library, a special sum of money was set aside in most of the abbeys for the procuring of additional volumes for the library by purchase. Usually this took the form of an ecclesiastical regulation requiring that a certain percentage of the revenues should be spent on the libraries. Scholars closely associated with monasteries frequently bequeathed their books and besides left money or incomes to be especially devoted to the improvement of the library. It is easy to understand that with all these sources of enrichment many abbeys possessed noteworthy libraries. To quote only those of France, important collections of books were to be found at Cluny, Luxeuil, Fleury, Saint-Martial, Moissac, Mortemer, Savigny, Fourcarmont, Saint Père de Chartres, Saint Denis, Saint-Maur-des-Fossés, Saint Corneille de Compiègne, Corbie, Saint-Amand, Saint-Martin de Tournai, where Vincent de Beauvais said that he found the greatest collections of manuscripts that existed in his time, and then especially the great Parisian abbeys already referred to, Saint-Germain-des-Prés, Saint Victor, Saint-Martin-des-Champs, the precious treasures of which are well known to all those who are familiar with the Bibliothèque Nationale of Paris, of whose manuscript department their relics constitute the most valuable nucleus. Some of the bequests of books that were made to libraries at this time are interesting, because they show the spirit of the {155} testators and at the same time furnish valuable hints as to the consideration in which books were held and the reverent care of their possessors for them. Peter of Nemours, the Bishop of Paris, when setting out on the crusades with Louis IX. bequeathed to the famous Abbey of St. Victor, his Bible in 22 volumes, which was considered one of the finest copies of the scriptures at that time in existence. To the Abbey of Olivet he gave his Psalter with Glosses, besides the Epistles of St. Paul and his Book of Sentences, by which is evidently intended the well-known work with that title by the famous Peter Lombard. Finally he gave to the Cathedral of Paris all the rest of his books. Besides these he had very little to leave. It is typical of the reputation of Paris in that century and the devotion of her churchmen to learning and culture, that practically all of the revenues that he considered due him for his personal services had been invested in books, which he then disposed of in such a way as would secure their doing the greatest possible good to the largest number of people. His Bible was evidently given to the abbey of St. Victor because it was the sort of work that should be kept for the occasional reference of the learned rather than the frequent consultation of students, who might very well find all that they desired in other and less valuable copies. His practical intention with regard to his books can be best judged from his gift to Notre Dame, which, as we have noted already possessed a very valuable library that was allowed to circulate among properly accredited scholars in Paris. According to the will of Peter Ameil, Archbishop of Narbonne, which is dated 1238, he gave his books for the use of the scholars whom he had supported at the University of Paris and they were to be deposited in the Library at Notre Dame, but on condition that they were not to be scattered for any reason nor any of them sold or abused. The effort of the booklover to keep his books together is characteristic of all the centuries since, only most people will be surprised to find it manifesting itself so early in bibliophilic history. The Archbishop reserved from his books, however, his Bible for his own church. Before his death he had given the Dominicans in his diocese many books from his library. This churchman of the first half of the {156} Thirteenth Century seems evidently to deserve a prominent place among the bookmen of all times. There are records of many others who bequeathed libraries and gave books during their lifetime to various institutions, as may be found in the Literary History of France, [Footnote 16] already mentioned, as well as in the various histories of the University of Paris. Many of these gifts were made on condition that they should not be sold and the constantly recurring condition made by these booklovers is that their collections should be kept together. The libraries of Paris were also in the market for books, however, and there is proof that the Sorbonne purchased a number of volumes because the cost price of them was noted inside the cover quite as libraries do in our own days. When we realize the forbidding cost of them, it is surprising that there should be so much to say about them and so many of them constantly changing hands. An ordinary folio volume probably cost from 400 to 500 francs in our values, that is between $80 and $100. [Footnote 16: Histoire Litteraire de la France, by the Benedictines of St. Maur.] While the older abbeys of the Benedictines and other earlier religious orders possessed magnificent collections of books, the newer orders of the Thirteenth Century, the Mendicants, though as their name indicates they were bound to live by alms given them by the faithful, within a short time after their foundation began to take a prominent part in the library movement. It was in the southern part of France that the Dominicans were strongest and so there is record of regulations for libraries made at Toulouse in the early part of the Thirteenth Century. In Paris, in 1239, considerable time and discussion was devoted in one of the chapters of the order to the question of how books should be kept, and how the library should be increased. With regard to the Franciscans, though their poverty was, if possible, stricter, the same thing is known before the end of the century. In both orders arrangements were made for the copying of important works and it is, of course, to the zeal and enthusiasm of the younger members of these orders for this copying work, that we owe the preservation by means of a large number of manuscript copies, of the {157} voluminous writings of such men as Albertus Magnus, St. Thomas, Duns Scotus and others. {opp156} [Illustration] MONUMENT OF CARDINAL DE BRAY (ARNOLFO) While the existence of libraries of various kinds, and even circulating libraries, in the Thirteenth Century may seem definitely settled, it will appear to most people that to speak of book collecting at this time must be out of place. That fad is usually presumed to be of much later origin and indeed to be comparatively recent in its manifestations. We have said enough already, however, of the various collections of books in libraries especially in France to show that the book collector was abroad, but there is much more direct evidence of this available from an English writer. Richard de Bury's Philobiblon is very well known to all who are interested in books for their own sake, but few people realize that this book practically had its origin in the Thirteenth Century. The writer was born about the beginning of the last quarter of that century, had completed his education before its close, and it is only reasonable to attribute to the formative influences at work in his intellectual development as a young man, the germs of thought from which were to come in later life the interesting book on bibliophily, the first of its kind, which was to be a treasure for book-lovers ever afterwards. Philobiblon tells us, among other things, of Richard's visits to the continent on an Embassy to the Holy See and on subsequent occasions to the Court of France, and the delight which he experienced in handling many books which he had never seen before, in buying such of them as his purse would allow, or his enthusiasm could tempt from their owners and in conversing with those who could tell him about books and their contents. Such men were the chosen comrades of his journeys, sat with him at table, as Mr. Henry Morley tells us in his English Writers (volume IV, page 51), and were in almost constant fellowship with him. It was at Paris particularly that Richard's heart was satisfied for a time because of the great treasures he found in the magnificent libraries of that city. He was interested, of course, in the University and the opportunity for intellectual employment afforded by Academic proceedings, but above all he found delight in books, which monks and monarchs and professors and churchmen of all kinds and scholars {158} and students had gathered into this great intellectual capital of Europe at that time. Anyone who thinks the books were not valued quite as highly in the Thirteenth Century as at the present time should read the Philobiblon. He is apt to rise from the reading of it with the thought that it is the modern generations who do not properly appreciate books. One of the early chapters of Philobiblon argues that books ought always to be bought whatever they cost, provided there are means to pay for them, except in two cases, "when they are knavishly overcharged, or when a better time for buying is expected." "That sun of men, Solomon," Richard says, "bids us buy books readily and sell them unwillingly, for one of his proverbs runs, 'Buy the truth and sell it not, also wisdom and instruction and understanding.'" Richard in his own quaint way thought that most other interests in life were only temptations to-draw men away from books. In one famous paragraph he has naively personified books as complaining with regard to the lack of attention men now display for them and the unworthy objects, in Richard's eyes at least, upon which they fasten their affections instead, and which take them away from the only great life interest that is really worth while--books. "Yet," complain books, "in these evil times we are cast out of our place in the inner chamber, turned out of doors, and our place taken by dogs, birds, and the two-legged beast called woman. But that beast has always been our rival, and when she spies us in a corner, with no better protection than the web of a dead spider, she drags us out with a frown and violent speech, laughing us to scorn as useless, and soon counsels us to be changed into costly head-gear, fine linen, silk and scarlet double dyed, dresses and divers trimmings, linens and woolens. And so," complain the books still, "we are turned out of our homes, our coats are torn from our backs, our backs and sides ache, we lie about disabled, our natural whiteness turns to yellow--without doubt we have the jaundice. Some of us are gouty, witness our twisted extremities. Our bellies are griped and wrenched and are consumed by worms; on each side the dirt cleaves to us, nobody binds up our wounds, we lie ragged and weep in dark corners, or meet with Job upon a dunghill, or, as seems hardly fit to be said, we are hidden in abysses of the {159} sewers. We are sold also like slaves, and lie as unredeemed pledges in taverns. We are thrust into cruel butteries, to be cut up like sheep and cattle; committed to Jews, Saracens, heretics and Pagans, whom we always dread as the plague, and by whom some of our forefathers are known to have been poisoned." Richard De Bury must not be thought to have been some mere wandering scholar of the beginning of the Fourteenth Century, however, for he was, perhaps, the most important historical personage, not even excepting royalty or nobility, of this era and one of the striking examples of how high a mere scholar might rise in this period quite apart from any achievement in arms, though this is usually supposed to be almost the only basis of distinguished reputation and the reason for advancement at this time. While he was only the son of a Norman knight, Aungervyle by name, born at Bury St. Edmund's, he became the steward of the palace and treasurer of the royal wardrobe, then Lord Treasurer of England and finally Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal. While on a mission to the Pope he so commended himself to the Holy See that it was resolved to make him the next English bishop. Accordingly he was made Bishop of Durham shortly after and on the occasion of his installation there was a great banquet at which the young King and Queen, the Queen Mother Isabelle, the King of Scotland, two Archbishops, five bishops, and most of the great English lords were present. At this time the Scots and the English were actually engaged in war with one another and a special truce was declared, in order to allow them to join in the celebration of the consecration of so distinguished an individual to the See of Durham near the frontier. Before he was consecrated Bishop, Richard De Bury had been for some time the treasurer of the kingdom. Before the end of the year in which he was consecrated he became Lord Chancellor, at a time when the affairs of the kingdom needed a master hand and when the French and the Scots were seriously disturbing English peace and prosperity. He resigned his office of Chancellor, as Henry Morley states, only to go abroad in the royal service as ambassador that he might exercise his own trusted sagacity in carrying out the peaceful policy he had {160} advised. During this diplomatic mission to the continent he visited the courts of Paris, of Flanders, of Hainault and of Germany. He succeeded in making terms of peace between the English king and the Counts of Hainault and Namur, the Marquis of Juliers and the Dukes of Brabant and Guelders. This would seem to indicate that he must be considered as one of the most prominent men of Europe at this time. His attitude toward books is then all the more noteworthy. Many people were surprised that a great statesman like Gladstone in the Nineteenth Century, should have been interested in so many phases of thought and of literature and should himself have been able to find the time to contribute important works to English letters. Richard De Bury was at least as important a man in his time as Gladstone in ours, and occupied himself as much with books as the great English commoner. This is what will be the greatest source of surprise to those who in our time have been accustomed to think, that the great scholars deeply interested in books who were yet men of practical worth in helping their generation in its great problems, are limited to modern times and are least of all likely to be found in the heart of the Middle Ages. In spite of his occupations as a politician and a bookman, Richard De Bury was noted for his faithfulness in the fulfilment of his duties as a churchman and a bishop. It is worthy of note that many of the important clergymen of England, who were to find the highest church preferment afterwards, were among the members of his household at various times and that the post of secretary to the bishop, particularly, was filled at various times by some of the best scholars of the period, men who were devoted friends to the bishop, who dedicated their works to him and generally added to the reputation that stamped him as the greatest scholar of England and one of the leading lights of European culture of his time. This is not so surprising when we realize that to be a member of Richard's household was to have access to the best library in England, and that many scholars were naturally ambitious to have such an opportunity, and as the results showed many took advantage of it. Among Richard of Durham's chaplains were Thomas Bradwardine who afterwards became Archbishop of Canterbury, Richard Fitzraufe, subsequently Archbishop of {161} Armagh, Walter Seagrave, afterwards Bishop of Chichester, and Richard Bentworth, who afterwards became Bishop of London Among the distinguished scholars who occupied the post were Robert Holcot, John Manduit, the astronomer of the Fourteenth Century, Richard Kilmington, a distinguished English theologian, and Walter Burley, a great commentator on Aristotle, who dedicated to the bishop, who had provided him with so many opportunities for study, his Commentaries upon the Politics and Ethics of the ancient Greek philosopher. That Richard's love for books and the time he had necessarily devoted to politics did not dry up the fountains of charity in his heart, nor cause him to neglect his important duties as the pastor of the people and especially of the poor, we know very well from certain traditions with regard to his charitable donations. According to a standing rule in his household eight quarters of wheat were regularly every week made into bread and given to the poor. In his alms giving Richard was as careful and as discriminating as in his collection of books, and he used a number of the regularly organized channels in his diocese to make sure that his bounty should be really helpful and should not encourage lack of thrift. This is a feature of charitable work that is supposed to be modern, but the personal service of the charitably inclined in the Thirteenth Century, far surpassed in securing this even the elaborate organization of charity in modern times. Whenever the bishop traveled generous alms were distributed to the poor people along the way. Whenever he made the journey between Durham and New Castle eight pounds sterling were set aside for this purpose; five pounds for each journey between Durham and Stockton or Middleham, and five marks between Durham and Auckland. Money had at that time at least ten times the purchasing power which it has at present, so that it will be easy to appreciate the good bishop's eminent liberality. That Richard was justified in his admiration of the books of the time we know from those that remain, for it must not be thought for a moment that because the making of books was such a time-taking task in the Thirteenth Century, they were not therefore made beautiful. On the contrary, as we shall see {162} shortly, no more beautiful books have ever been made than at this time. This of itself would show how precious in the eyes of the collectors of the time their books were, since they wanted to have them so beautifully made and were satisfied to pay the high prices that had to be demanded for such works of art. Very few books of any size cost less than the equivalent of $100 in our time and illuminated books cost much higher than this, yet seem never to have been a drug on the market. Indeed, considering the number of them that are still in existence to this day, in spite of the accidents of fire, and water, and war, and neglect, and carelessness, and ignorance, there must have been an immense number of very handsome books made by the generations of the Thirteenth Century. While illumination was not an invention of the Thirteenth Century, as indeed were very few of the great art features of the century, during this time book decoration was carried to great perfection and reached that development which artists of the next century were to improve on in certain extrinsic features, though the intrinsic qualities were to remain those which had been determined as the essential characteristics of this branch of art in the earlier time. The Thirteenth Century, for instance, saw the introduction of the miniature as a principal feature and also the drawing out of initials in such a way as to make an illuminated border for the whole side of the page. After the development thus given to the art in the Thirteenth Century further evolution could only come in certain less important details. In this the Thirteenth Century generations were accomplishing what they had done in practically everything else that they touched, laying foundations broad and deep and giving the superstructure the commanding form which future generations were only able to modify to slight degree and not always with absolute good grace. Humphreys in his magnificent volume on The Illuminated Books of the Middle Ages, which according to its title contains an account of the development and progress of the art of illumination as a distinct branch of pictorial ornamentation from the Fourth to the Seventeenth centuries, [Footnote 17] has some very striking words of praise for Thirteenth Century illuminations and the artists who made them. He says: [Footnote 17: The Illuminated Books of the Middle Ages, by Henry Noel Humphreys Longman. Green, Brown and Longmans, London, 1848.] {163} "Different epochs of the art of illumination present widely different and distinct styles; the most showy and the best known, though the least pure and inventive in design, being that of the middle and end of the Fifteenth Century; whilst the period perhaps the least generally known, that of the Thirteenth Century, may be considered as the most interesting and original, many of the best works of that period displaying an astonishing variety and profusion of invention. The manuscript, of which two pages form the opposite plate, may be ranked among the most elaborate and profusely ornamented of the fine books of that era; every page being sufficient to make the fortune of the modern decorator by the quaint and unexpected novelties of inventions which it displays at every turn of its intricate design." The illuminations of the century then are worthy of the time and also typical of the general work of the century. It is known by experts for its originality and for the wealth of invention displayed in the designs. Men did not fear that they might exhaust their inventive faculty, nor display their originality sparingly, in order that they might have enough to complete other work. As the workmen of the Cathedrals, the artist illuminators devoted their very best efforts to each piece of work that came to their hands, and the results are masterpieces of art in this as in every other department of the period. The details are beautifully wrought, showing the power of the artist to accomplish such a work and yet his designs are never overloaded, at least in the best examples of the century, with details of ornamentation that obscure and minimize the effect of the original design. This fault was to be the error of his most sophisticated successors two centuries later. Nor must it be thought the high opinion of the century is derived from the fact that only a very few examples of its illumination and bookmaking are now extant, and that these being the chosen specimens give the illumination of the century a higher place than it might otherwise have. Many examples {164} have been preserved and some of them are the most beautiful books that were made. Paris was particularly the home of this form of art in the Thirteenth Century, and indeed the school established there influenced all the modes of illumination everywhere, so much so that Dante speaks of the art with the epithet "Parisian," as if it were exclusively done there. The incentive to the development of this form of art came from St. Louis who, as we have said, was very much interested in books. His taste as exhibited in La Sainte Chapelle was such as to demand artistic excellence of high grade in this department of art, which has many more relations with the architecture of the period, and especially with the stained glass, than might possibly be thought at the present time, for most of the decoration of books partook of the character of the architectural types of the moment. Among the most precious treasures from the century are three books which belonged to St. Louis himself. One of these is the Hours or Office Book; a second, is his Psalter, which contains some extremely beautiful initials; a third, which is in the Library of the Arsenal at Paris, is sometimes known as the Prayer Book of St. Louis himself, though a better name for it would be the Prayer Book of Queen Blanche, for it was made at Louis' orders for his mother, the famous Blanche of Castile, and is a worthy testimonial of the affectionate relations which existed between mother and son. Outside of Paris there are preserved many books of great value that come from this century. One of them, a Bestiarum or Book of Beasts, is in the Ashmoleam Museum at Oxford. This is said to be a very beautiful example of the illumination of the Thirteenth Century, but it is even more interesting because it shows the efforts of the artists of the time to copy nature in the pictures of animals as they are presented. There is said to be an acuity of observation and a vigor of representation displayed in the book which is highly complimentary to the powers of the Thirteenth Century artists. Even these brief notes of the books and libraries of the Thirteenth Century, will serve to make clear how enthusiastic was the interest of the generations of this time in beautiful books and in collections of them that were meant for show as {165} well as for practical usefulness. There is perhaps nothing more amusing in the attitude of modern generations with regard to the Middle Ages, than the assumption that all the methods of education and of the distribution of knowledge worth while talking about, are the inventions of comparatively modern times. The fact that libraries were also a creation of that time and that most of the regulations which are supposed to be the first fruit of quite recent science in the circulation of books had been adopted by these earlier generations, is commonly ignored utterly, though it is a precious bit of knowledge that cannot help but increase our sympathy with those bookmen of the olden times, who thought so much of their books, yet wished to share the privilege of their use with all those who would employ them properly, and who, in their great practical way succeeded in working out the scheme by which many people could have the opportunity of consulting the treasures they thought so much of, without risk of their loss or destruction, even though use might bring some deterioration of their value. [Illustration] DECORATION (XIII. CENT. PSALTER MSS.) {166} X THE CID, THE HOLY GRAIL, THE NIBELUNGEN. Anyone who has studied even perfunctorily the Books of the Arts and of the Deeds of the Thirteenth Century, who has realized its accomplishments in enduring artistic creations, sublime and exemplary models and inspirations for all after time, who has appreciated what it succeeded in doing for the education of the classes and of the masses, the higher education being provided for at least as large a proportion of the people as in our present century, while the creation of what were practically great technical schools that culled out of the masses the latent geniuses who could accomplish supreme artistic results in the arts and crafts and did more and better for the masses than any subsequent generation, can scarcely help but turn with interest to read the Book of the Words of the period and to find out what forms of literature interested this surprising people. One is almost sure to think at the first moment of consideration that the literature will not be found worthy of the other achievements of the times. In most men's minds the Thirteenth Century does not readily call up the idea of a series of great works in literature, whose influence has been at all as profound and enduring as that of the universities in the educational order, or of the Cathedrals in the artistic order. This false impression, however, is due only to the fact that the literary creations of the Thirteenth Century are so diverse in subject and in origin, that they are very seldom associated with each other, unless there has been actual recognition of their contemporaneousness from deliberate calling to mind of the dates at which certain basic works in our modern literatures were composed. It is not the least surprise that comes to the student of the Thirteenth Century, to find that the great origins of what well deserves the name of classic modern literature, comprising a series of immortal works in prose and poetry, were initiated by the contemporaries of the makers of the {167} universities and the builders of the Cathedrals. If we stop to think for a moment it must be realized, that generations who succeeded in expressing themselves so effectively in other departments of esthetics could scarcely be expected to fail in literature alone, and they did not. From the Cid in Spain, through the Arthur Legends in England, the Nibelungen in Germany, the Minnesingers and the Meistersingers in the southern part of what is now the German Empire, the Trouvères in North France, the Troubadours in South France and in Italy, down to Dante, who was 35 before the century closed, there has never been such a mass of undying literature written within a little more than a single hundred years, as came during the period from shortly before 1200 down to 1300. Great as was the Fifth Century before Christ in this matter it did not surpass the Thirteenth Century after Christ in its influence on subsequent generations. We have already pointed out in discussing the Cathedrals that one of the most characteristic features of the Gothic architecture was the marvelous ease with which it lent itself to the expression of national peculiarities. Norman Gothic is something quite distinct from German Gothic which arose in almost contiguous provinces, but so it is also from English Gothic; these two were very closely related in origin and undoubtedly the English Cathedrals owe much to the Norman influence so prevalent in England at the end of the Twelfth Century, and the beginning of the Thirteenth Century. Italian Gothic has the principal characteristic peculiarities of the architectural style which passes under the name developed to a remarkable degree, and yet its finished product is far distant from any of the three other national forms that have been mentioned, yet is not lacking in a similar interest. Spanish Gothic has an identity of its own that has always had a special appeal for the traveler. Any one who has ever visited the shores of the Baltic sea and has seen what was accomplished in such places as Stralsund, Greifswald, Lübeck, and others of the old Hansa towns, will appreciate still more the power of Gothic to lend itself to the feelings of the people and to the materials that they had at hand. Here in the distant North they were far away from any sources of the stone that would ordinarily be deemed absolutely {168} necessary for Gothic construction. How effectively they used brick for ecclesiastical edifices can only be realized by those who have seen the remains of the Gothic monuments of this portion of Europe. The distinguishing mark of all these different styles is the eminent opportunity for the expression of nationality which, they afford. It might be expected that since they were all Gothic, most of them would be little better than servile copies, or at best scarce more than good imitations of the great originals of the North of France. As a matter of fact, the assertion of national characteristics, far from destroying the effectiveness of Gothic, rather added new beauties to this style of architecture. This was true even occasionally when mistakes were made by architects and designers. As Ferguson has said in his History of Architecture, St. Stephen's at Vienna is full of architectural errors and yet the attractiveness of the Cathedral remains. It was a poet who designed it and something of his poetic soul gleams out of the material structure after the lapse of centuries. In nearly this same way the literatures of the different countries during the Thirteenth Century are eminently national and mirror with quite wonderful appropriateness the characteristics of the various people. This is true even when similar subjects, as for instance the Graal stories, are treated from nearly the same standpoint by the two Teutonic nations, the Germans and the English. Parsifal and Galahad are national as well as poetic heroes with a distinction of character all their own. As we shall see, practically every nation finds in this century some fundamental expression of its national feeling that has been among its most cherished classics ever since. {opp168} [Illustration] SANTA MARIA SOPRA MINERVA (ROME'S GOTHIC CATHEDRAL) The first of these in time is the Cid, which was written in Spain during the latter half of the Twelfth Century, but probably took its definite form just about the beginning of the Thirteenth. It might well be considered that this old-fashioned Spanish ballad would have very little of interest for modern readers, and yet there are very few scholars of the past century who have not been interested in this literary treasure. Critics of all nations have been unstinted in their praise of it. Since the Schlegels recalled world attention to Spanish {169} literature, it has been considered almost as unpardonable for anyone who pretended to literary culture not to have read the Cid, as it would be not to have read Don Quixote. As is true of all the national epics founded upon a series of ballads which had been collecting in the mouth of the people for several centuries before a great poetic genius came to give them their supreme expression, there has been some doubt expressed as to the single authorship of Cid. We shall find the same problem to be considered when we come to discuss the Nibelungen Lied. A half a century ago or more the fashion of the critics for insisting on the divided authorship of such poems was much more prevalent than it is at present. At that time a great many scholars, following the initiative of Wolf and the German separatist critics, declared even that the Homeric poems were due to more than one mind. There are still some who cling to this idea with regard to many of these primal national epics, but at the present time most literary men are quite content to accept the idea of a single authorship. With regard to the Cid in this matter Mr. Fitzmaurice Kelly, in his Short History of Spanish Literature in the Literatures of the World Series, says very simply: "There is a unity of conception and of language which forbids our accepting the Poema (del Cid) as the work of several hands; and the division of the poem into several cantares is managed with a discretion which argues a single artistic intelligence. The first part closes with the marriage of the hero's daughters; the second with the shame of the Infantes de Carrion, and the proud announcement that the Kings of Spain are sprung from the Cid's loins. In both the singer rises to the level of his subject, but his chiefest gust is in the recital of some brilliant deed of arms." The Spanish ballad epic is a characteristic example of the epics formed by the earliest poetic genius of a country, on the basis of the patriotic stories of national origin that had been accumulating for centuries. Of course the Cid had to be the Christian hero who did most in his time against the Moslem in Spain. So interesting has his story been made, and so glorious have been his deeds as recorded by the poets, that there has been even some doubt of his existence expressed, but that he {170} was a genuine historical character seems to be clear. Many people will recall the Canons' argument in the forty-ninth chapter of Don Quixote in which Cervantes, evidently speaking for himself, says: "That there was a Cid no one will deny and likewise a Bernardo Del Carpio, but that they performed all the exploits ascribed to them, I believe there is good reason to doubt." The Cid derives his name from the Arabic Seid which means Lord and owes his usual epithet. El Campeador (champion), to the fact that he was the actual champion of the Christians against the Moors at the end of the Eleventh Century. How gloriously his warlike exploits have been described may be best appreciated from the following description of his charge at Alcocer: "With bucklers braced before their breasts, with lances pointing low. With stooping crests and heads bent down above the saddle-bow. All firm of hand and high of heart they roll upon the foe. And he that in good hour was born, his clarion voice rings out, And clear above the clang of arms is heard his battle-shout, 'Among them, gentlemen! Strike home for the love of charity! The Champion of Bivar is here--Ruy Diaz--I am he!' Then bearing where Bermuez still maintains unequal fight. Three hundred lances down they come, their pennons flickering white; Down go three hundred Moors to earth, a man to every blow; And, when they wheel, three hundred more, as charging back they go. It was a sight to see the lances rise and fall that day; The shivered shields and riven mail, to see how thick they lay; The pennons that went in snow-white come out a gory red; The horses running riderless, the riders lying dead; While Moors call on Muhamed, and 'St. James!' the Christians cry." While the martial interest of such early poems would be generally conceded, it would usually be considered that they would be little likely to have significant domestic, and even {171} what might be called romantic, interests. The Cid's marriage is the result of not what would exactly be called a romance nowadays, though in ruder times there may have been a certain sense of sentimental reparation in it at least. He had killed in fair fight the father of a young woman, who being thus left without a protector appealed to the king to appoint one for her. In the troublous Middle Ages an heiress was as likely to be snapped up by some unsuitable suitor, more literally but with quite as much haste, as in a more cultured epoch. The king knew no one whom he could trust so well with the guardianship of the rich and fair young orphan than the Cid, of whose bravery and honor he had had many proofs. Accordingly he suggested him as a protector and the Cid himself generously realizing how much the fair Jimena had lost by the death of her father consented, and in a famous passage of the poem, a little shocking to modern ideas, it must be confessed, frankly states his feelings in the matter: "And now before the altar the bride and bridegroom stand, And when to fair Jimena the Cid stretched forth his hand, He spake in great confusion: 'Thy father have I slain Not treacherously, but face to face, my just revenge to gain For cruel wrong; a man I slew, a man I give to thee; In place of thy dead father, a husband find in me.' And all who heard well liked the man, approving what he said; Thus Rodrigo the Castilian his stately bride did wed." There are tender domestic scenes between the Cid and his wife and his daughters, which serve to show how sincere was his affection and with what sympathetic humanity a great poet knew how to depict the tender natural relations which have an interest for all times. Some of these domestic scenes are not unworthy to be placed beside Homer's picture of the parting of Hector and Andromache, though there is more naive self-consciousness in the work of the Spanish bard, than in that of his more artistic colleague of the Grecian olden times. There is particularly a famous picture of the duties of noble ladies in Spain of this time and of the tender solicitude of a father for his daughters' innocence, that is quite beyond expectation at {172} the hands of a poet whose forte was evidently war and its alarms, rather than the expression of the ethical qualities of home life. The following passage, descriptive of the Cid's parting from his wife, will give some idea of these qualities better than could be conveyed in any other way: "Thou knowest well, señora, he said before he went, To parting from each other our love doth not consent; But love and joyance never may stand in duty's way, And when the king commandeth the noble must obey. Now let discretion guide thee, thou art of worthy name; While I am parted from thee, let none in thee find blame. Employ thy hours full wisely, and tend thy household well, Be never slothful, woe and death with idleness do dwell. Lay by thy costly dresses until I come again. For in the husband's absence let wives in dress be plain; And look well to thy daughters, nor let them be aware. _Lest they comprehend the danger because they see thy care, And lose unconscious innocence. At home they must abide, For the safety of the daughter is at the mother's side_. Be serious with thy servants, with strangers on thy guard, With friends be kind and friendly, and well thy household ward, To no one show my letters, thy best friends may not see. Lest reading them they also may guess of thine to me. And if good news they bring thee, and woman-like dost seek The sympathy of others, with thy daughters only speak. * * * Farewell, farewell, Jimena, the trumpet's call I hear! One last embrace, and then he mounts the steed without a peer." The touch of paternal solicitude and prudence in the passage we have put in italics is so apparently modern, that it can scarcely fail to be a source of surprise, coming as it does from that crude period at the end of the Twelfth Century when such minute psychological observation as to young folks' ways would be little expected, and least of all in the rough warrior {173} hero or his poet creator, whose notions of right and wrong are, to judge from many passages of the poem, so much coarser than those of our time. After the Cid in point of time, the next enduring poetic work that was destined to have an influence on all succeeding generations, was the series of the Arthur Legends as completed in England. As in the case of the Cid these stories of King Arthur's Court, his Knights and his Round Table, had been for a long time the favorite subject of ballad poets among the English people. Just where they originated is not very clear, though it seems most likely that the original inspiration came from Celtic sources. These old ballads, however, had very little of literary form and it was not until the end of the Twelfth and the beginning of the Thirteenth Century that they were cast in their present mold, after having passed through the alembic of the mind of a great poetic and literary genius, which refined away the dross and left only the pure gold of supremely sympathetic human stories. To whom we owe this transformation is not known with absolute certainty, though the literary and historical criticism of the last quarter of a century seems to have made it clear that the work must be attributed to Walter Map or Mapes, an English clergyman who died during the first decade of the Thirteenth Century. His claims to the authorship of the Graal legend in its artistic completeness and to the invention of the character of Lancelot, which is one of the great triumphs of the Arthur legends as they were told at this time, have been much discussed by French and English critics. This discussion has perhaps been best summarized by Mr. Henry Morley, the late Professor of Literature at the University of London, whose third volume of English writers contains an immense amount of valuable information with regard to the literary history, not alone of England at this time but practically of all the countries of Europe. Mr. Morley's plan was conceived with a breath of view that makes his work a very interesting and authoritative guide in the literary matters of the time. His summation of the position of critical opinion with regard to the authorship of the Arthur Legends deserves to be quoted in its entirety: "The Arthurian Romances were, according to this opinion. {174} all perfectly detached tales, till in the Twelfth Century Robert de Borron (let us add, at Map's suggestion) translated the first Romance of the St. Graal as an introduction to the series, and shortly afterwards Walter Map added his Quest of the Graal, Lancelot, and Mort Artus. The way for such work had been prepared by Geoffrey of Monmouth's bold setting forward of King Arthur as a personage of history, in a book that was much sought and discussed, and that made the Arthurian Romances a fresh subject of interest to educated men. "But M. Paulin Paris, whose opinions, founded upon a wide acquaintance with the contents of old MSS. I am now sketching, and in part adopting, looked upon Walter Map as the soul of this work of Christian spiritualisation. Was the romance of the St. Graal Latin, before it was French? He does not doubt that it was. He sees in it the mysticism of the subtlest theologian. It was not a knight or a jongleur who was so well read in the apocryphal gospels, the legends of the first Christian centuries, rabbinical fancies, and old Greek mythology; and there is all this in the St. Graal. There is a theory, too, of the sacrifice of the mass, an explanation of the Saviour's presence in the Eucharist, that is the work, he says, of the loftiest and the most brilliant imagination. These were not matters that a knight of the Twelfth Century would dare to touch. They came from an ecclesiastic and a man of genius. But if so, why should we refuse credit to the assertion, repeated in every MS. that they were first written in Latin? The earliest MSS. are of a date not long subsequent to the death of Walter Map, Latinist, theologian, wit, and Chaplain to King Henry II., who himself took the liveliest interest in Breton legends. King Henry, M. Paris supposes, wished them to be collected, but how? Some would prefer one method, some another; Map reconciled all. He satisfied the clergy, pleased the scholar, filled the chasms in the popular tales, reconciled contradictions, or rejected inconsistencies, and by him also the introductory tale of the Graal was first written in Latin for Robert de Borron to translate into French." The best literary appreciation of Map's genius, apart, of course, from the fact that all generations ever since have acknowledged the supreme human interest and eminently {175} sympathetic quality of his work, is perhaps to be found in certain remarks of the modern critics who have made special studies in these earlier literary periods. Prof. George Saintsbury, of the University of Edinburgh, for instance, in the second volume of Periods of English Literature, [Footnote 18] has been quite unstinted in his praise of this early English writer. He has not hesitated even to say in a striking passage that Map, or at least the original author of the Launcelot story, was one of the greatest of literary men and deserves a place only next to Dante in this century so preciously full of artistic initiative. [Footnote 18: The Flourishing of Romance and the Rise of Allegory, by George Saintsbury, Professor of Rhetoric and English Literature in the University of Edinburgh (New York, Charles Scribner & Sons, 1897).] "Whether it was Walter Map, or Chrestien de Troyes, or both, or neither to whom the glory of at once completing and exalting the story is due, I at least have no pretension to decide. Whoever did it, if he did it by himself, was a great man indeed--a man second to Dante among the men of the Middle Age. Even if it was done by an irregular company of men, each patching and piecing the other's efforts, the result shows a marvelous 'wind of the spirit' abroad and blowing on that company." Prof. Saintsbury then proceeds to show how much even readers of Mallory miss of the greatness and especially of the sympathetic humanity of the original poem, and in a further passage states his firm conviction that the man who created Lancelot was one of the greatest literary inventors and sympathetic geniuses of all times, and that his work is destined, because the wellsprings of its action are so deep down in the human heart, to be of interest to generations of men for as long as our present form of civilization lasts. "Perhaps the great artistic stroke in the whole legend, and one of the greatest in all literature, is the concoction of a hero who should be not only 'Like Paris handsome, and like Hector brave,' but more heroic than Paris and more interesting than Hector--not only a 'greatest knight,' but at once the sinful lover of his queen and the champion who should himself all but achieve and in the person of his son actually achieve, the sacred {176} adventure of the Holy Graal. If, as there seems no valid reason to disbelieve, the hitting upon this idea, and the invention or adoption of Lancelot to carry it out, be the work of Walter Mapes (or Map), then Walter Mapes is one of the great novelists of the world, and one of the greatest of them. If it was some unknown person (it could hardly be Chrestien, for in Chrestien's form the Graal interest belongs to Percevale, not to Lancelot or Galahad), then the same compliment must be paid to that person unknown. Meanwhile the conception and execution of Lancelot, to whomsoever they may be due, are things most happy. Entirely free from the faultlessness which is the curse of the classical hero; his unequaled valor not seldom rewarded only by reverses; his merits redeemed from mawkishness by his one great fault, yet including all virtues that are themselves most amiable, and deformed by no vice that is actually loathsome; the soul of goodness in him always warring with his human frailty--Sir Lancelot fully deserves the noble funeral eulogy pronounced over his grave, felt by all the elect to be, in both senses, one of the first of all extant pieces of perfect English prose." To appreciate fully how much Walter Map accomplished by his series of stories with regard to King Arthur's Court, it should be remembered that poets and painters have in many generations ever since found subjects for their inspiration within the bounds of the work which he created. After all, the main interest of succeeding poets who have put the legends into later forms, has centered more in the depth of humanity that there is in the stories, than in the poetic details for which they themselves have been responsible. In succeeding generations poets have often felt that these stories were so beautiful that they deserved to be retold in terms readily comprehensible to their own generation. Hence Malory wrote his Morte D'Arthur for the Fifteenth Century, Spenser used certain portions of the old myths for the Sixteenth, and the late Poet-laureate set himself once more to retell the Idyls of the King for the Nineteenth Century. Each of these was adding little but new literary form, to a work that genius had drawn from sources so close to the heart of human nature, that the stories were always to remain of enduring interest. {177} For the treasure of poesy with which humanity was enriched when he conceived the idea of setting the old ballads of King Arthur into literary form, more must be considered as due to the literary original writer than to any of his great successors. This is precisely the merit of Walter Map. Of some of his less ambitious literary work we have many examples that show us how thoroughly interested he was in all the details of human existence, even the most trivial. He had his likes and dislikes, he seems to have had some disappointed ambition that made him rather bitter towards ecclesiastics, he seems to have had some unfortunate experiences, especially with the Cistercians, though how much of this is assumed rather than genuine, is hard to determine at this modern day. Many of the extremely bitter things he says with regard to the Cistercians might well be considered as examples of that exaggeration, which in certain minds constitutes one modality of humor, rather than as serious expressions of actual thought. It is hard, for instance, to take such an expression as the following as more than an example of this form of jesting by exaggeration. Map heard that a Cistercian had become a Jew. His comment was: "If he wanted to get far from the Cistercians why didn't he become a Christian." From England the transition to Germany is easy. Exactly contemporary with the rise of the Arthur Legends in England to that standard of literary excellence that was to give them their enduring poetic value, there came also the definite arrangement and literary transformation of the old ballads of the German people, into that form in which they were to exert a lasting influence upon the German language and national feeling. The date of the Nibelungen Lied has been set down somewhat indefinitely as between 1190 and 1220. Most of the work was undoubtedly accomplished after the beginning of the Thirteenth Century and in the form in which we have it at present, there seems to be no doubt that much was done after the famous meeting of the Meistersingers on the Wartburg--the subject of song and story and music drama ever since, which took place very probably in the year 1207. With regard to the Nibelungen Lied, as in the case of the other great literary arrangements of folk-ballads, there has been question as to the {178} singleness of authorship. Here, however, as with regard to Homer and the Cid, the trend of modern criticism has all been towards the attribution of the poem to one writer, and the internal evidence of similarity of expression constantly maintained, a certain simplicity of feeling and naïveté of repetition seems to leave no doubt in the matter. As regards the merits of the Nibelungen Lied as a great work of literature, there has been very little doubt in the English-speaking world at least, because of the enthusiastic recognition accorded it by German critics and the influence of German criticism in all branches of literature over the whole Teutonic race during the Nineteenth Century. English admiration for the poem began after Carlyle's introduction of it to the English reading public in his essays. Since this time it has come to be very well known and yet, notwithstanding all that has been said about it no English critic has expressed more fully the place of the great German poem in world literature, than did this enthusiastic pro-German of the first half of the Nineteenth Century. For those for whom Carlyle's Essays are a sealed book because of loss of interest in him with the passage of time, the citation of some of his appreciative critical expressions may be necessary. "Here in the old Frankish (Oberdeutsch) dialect of the Nibelungen, we have a clear decisive utterance, and in a real system of verse, not without essential regularity, great liveliness and now and then even harmony of rhythm. Doubtless we must often call it a diffuse diluted utterance; at the same time it is genuine, with a certain antique garrulous heartiness, and has a rhythm in the thoughts as well as the words. The simplicity is never silly; even in that perpetual recurrence of epithets, sometimes of rhymes, as where two words, for instance lip (body), lif (leib) and wip (woman), weib (wife) are indissolubly wedded together, and the one never shows itself without the other following--there is something which reminds us not so much of poverty, as of trustfulness and childlike innocence. Indeed a strange charm lies in those old tones, where, in gay dancing melodies, the sternest tidings are sung to us; and deep floods of sadness and strife play lightly in little {179} purling billows, like seas in summer. It is as a meek smile, in whose still, thoughtful depths a whole infinitude of patience, and love, and heroic strength lie revealed. But in other cases too, we have seen this outward sport and inward earnestness offer grateful contrasts, and cunning excitement; for example, in Tasso; of whom, though otherwise different enough, this old Northern Singer has more than once reminded us. There too, as here, we have a dark solemn meaning in light guise; deeds of high temper, harsh self-denial, daring and death, stand embodied in that soft, quick-flowing joyfully-modulated verse. Nay farther, as if the implement, much more than we might fancy, had influenced the work done, these two poems, could we trust our individual feeling, have in one respect the same poetical result for us; in the Nibelungen as in the Gerusalemme, the persons and their story are indeed brought vividly before us, yet not near and palpably present; it is rather as if we looked on that scene through an inverted telescope, whereby the whole was carried far away into the distance, the life-large figures compressed into brilliant miniatures, so clear, so real, yet tiny, elf-like and beautiful as well as lessened, their colors being now closer and brighter, the shadows and trivial features no longer visible. This, as we partly apprehend, comes of singing epic poems; most part of which only pretend to be sung. Tasso's rich melody still lives among the Italian people; the Nibelungen also is what it professes to be, a song." The story of the Nibelungen would ordinarily be supposed to be so distant from the interests of modern life, as scarcely to hold the attention of a reader unless he were interested in it from a scholarly or more or less antiquarian standpoint. For those who think thus, however, there is only one thing that will correct such a false impression and that is to read the Nibelungen itself. It has a depth of simplicity and a sympathetic human interest all its own but that reminds one more of Homer than of anything else in literature, and Homer has faults but lack of interest is not one of them. From the very beginning the story of the young man who does not think he will marry, and whose mother does not think that any one is good enough for him, and of the young woman who is sure that no one will come that will attract enough of her attention so as to compel {180} her to subject herself to the yoke of marriage, are types of what is so permanent in humanity, that the readers' attention is at once caught. After this the fighting parts of the story become the center of interest and hold the attention in spite of the refining influences that later centuries are supposed to have brought to humanity. Hence it is that Prof. Saintsbury in the second volume of his Periods of European Literature, already quoted from, is able to say much of the modern interest in the story. "There may be," as he says, "too many episodic personages--Deitrich of Bern, for instance, has extremely little to do in this galley. But the strength, thoroughness, and in its own savage way, charm of Kriemhild's character, and the incomparable series of battles between the Burgundian princes and Etzel's men in the later cantos--cantos which contain the very best poetical fighting in the history of the world--far more than redeem this. The Nibelungen Lied is a very great poem; and with Beowulf (the oldest but the least interesting on the whole), Roland (the most artistically finished in form), and the poem of the Cid (the cheerfullest and perhaps the fullest of character), composes a quartette of epics with which the literary story of the great European literary nations most appropriately begins. In bulk, dramatic completeness, and a certain furia, the Nibelungen Lied, though the youngest and probably the least original is the greatest of the four." Less need be said of the Nibelungen than of the Cid or Walter Map's work because it is much more familiar, and even ordinary readers of literature have been brought more closely in touch with it because of its relation to the Wagnerian operas. Even those who know the fine old German poems only passingly, will yet realize the supreme genius of their author, and those who need to have the opinions of distinguished critics to back them before they form an estimate for themselves, will not need to seek far in our modern literature to find lofty praises of the old German epic. With even this brief treatment no reader will doubt that there is in these three epics, typical products of the literary spirit of three great European nations whose literatures rising high above these deep firm substructures, were to be of the greatest {181} influence in the development of the human mind, and yet were to remain practically always within the limits of thought and feeling that had been traced by these old founders of literature of the early Thirteenth Century, whose work, like that of their contemporaries in every other form of artistic expression, was to be the model and the source of inspiration for future generations. [Illustration] CROZIER (OBVERSE AND REVERSE) {182} XI MEISTERSINGERS, MINNESINGERS, TROUV�RES, TROUBADOURS. It would be a supreme mistake to think because the idea of literature in the Thirteenth Century is usually associated with the Arthur Legends, the Nibelungen and Dante, that all of the literary content of the century was inevitably serious in character or always epical in form. As a matter of fact the soul of wit and humor had entered into the body social, as we shall see in subsequent chapters, and the spirit of gaiety and the light-hearted admiration for nature found as frequent expression as at any time in history. With these as always in literary history there came outbursts of love in lyric strains that were not destined to die. While the poets of South Germany and of Italy sang of love that was of the loftiest description, never mingled with anything of the merely sensual, their tuneful trifles are quite as satisfying to the modern ear in both sense and sound as any of the more elaborate _vers de societé_ of the modern times. The German poets particularly did not hesitate to emphasize the fact that sensuality had no part in Minne--their pretty term for love--and yet they sang with all the natural grace and fervid rapture of the Grecian poets of the old pagan times, worshiping at the shrines of fleshly goddesses, or singing to the frail beauties of an unmoral period. Nothing in the history of literature is better proof that ideal love can, unmixed with anything sensual, inspire lyric outbursts of supreme and enduring beauty, than the poems of the Minnesingers and of some of the French and Italian Troubadours of this period. It is easier to understand Dante's position in this matter after reading the poems of his predecessors in the Thirteenth Century. For this feeling of the lofty character of the love they sang was not, in spite of what is sometimes said, confined only to the Germans, though as is well known from time immemorial the {183} Teutonic feeling towards woman was by racial influence of higher character than that of the southern Nations. As Mr. H. J. Chaytor says in the introduction to his Troubadours of Dante, there came a gradual change over the mind of the Troubadour about the beginning of the Thirteenth Century and "seeing that love was the inspiring force to good deeds," the later Troubadours gradually dissociated their love from the object which had aroused it. Among them, "as among the Minnesingers, love is no longer sexual passion, it is rather the motive to great works, to self-surrender, to the winning an honorable name as Courtier and Poet." Mr. Chaytor then quotes the well known lines from Bernart de Ventadorn, one of the Troubadours to whom Dante refers, and whose works Dante seems to have read with special attention since their poems contain similar errors of mythology. "for indeed I know Of no more subtle passion under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid. Not only to keep down the base in man. But teach high thought and amiable words. And courtliness and the desire of fame. And love of truth and all that makes a man." A sentiment surely that will be considered as true now as it ever was, be the time the Thirteenth Century or earlier or later, and that represents the best solution of social problems that has ever been put forward--nature's own panacea for ills that other remedies at best only palliate. In the early Nineteenth Century Carlyle said of this period what we may well repeat here: "We shall suppose that this Literary Period is partially known to all readers. Let each recall whatever he has learned or figures regarding it; represent to himself that brave young heyday of Chivalry and Minstrelsy when a stern Barbarossa, a stern Lion-heart, sang sirventes, and with the hand that could wield the sword and sceptre twanged the melodious strings, when knights-errant tilted, and ladies' eyes rained bright influences; and suddenly, as at sunrise, the whole earth had grown {184} vocal and musical. Then truly was the time of singing come; for princes and prelates, emperors and squires, the wise and the simple, men, women and children, all sang and rhymed, or delighted in hearing it done. It was a universal noise of Song; as if the Spring of Manhood had arrived, and warblings from every spray, not, indeed, without infinite twitterings also, which, except their gladness, had no music, were bidding it welcome." This is the keynote of the Century--song, blithesome and gay as the birds, solemn and harmonious as the organ tones that accord so well with the great Latin hymns--everywhere song. "Believers," says Tieck, the great collector of Thirteenth Century poetry, "sang of Faith; Lovers of Love; Knights described knightly actions and battles; and loving, believing knights were their chief audience. The Spring, Beauty, Gaiety, were objects that could never tire; great duels and deeds of arms carried away every hearer, the more surely the stronger they were painted; and as the pillars and dome of the Church encircled the flock, so did Religion, as the Highest, encircle Poetry and Reality; and every heart, in equal love, humbled itself before her." The names of the Meistersingers are well-known to musical lovers at least, because of the music drama of that name and the famous war of the Wartburg. The most familiar of all of them is doubtless Walter von der Vogelweide who, when he was asked where he found the tuneful melodies for his songs, said that he learned them from the birds. Those who recall Longfellow's pretty ballad with regard to Walter and his leaving all his substance to feed the birds over his grave near Nuremberg's minster towers, will not find it surprising that this Meistersinger's poetry breathes the deepest love of Nature, and that there is in it a lyric quality of joy in the things of Nature that we are apt to think of as modern, until we find over and over again in these bards, that the spirit of the woods and of the fields and of the spring time, meant as much for them as for any follower of the Wordsworth school of poetry in the more conscious after-time. This from Walter with regard to the May will serve to illustrate very well this phase of his work. {185} Gentle May, thou showerest fairly Gifts afar and near; Clothest all the woods so rarely, And the meadows here; O'er the heath new colors glow; Flowers and clover on the plain. Merry rivals, strive amain Which can fastest grow. Lady! part me from my sadness. Love me while 'tis May; Mine is but a borrowed gladness If thou frown alway; Look around and smile anew! All the world is glad and free; Let a little joy from thee Fall to my lot too! Walter could be on occasion, however, as serious as any of the Meistersingers and is especially known for his religious poems. It is not surprising that any one who set woman on so high a pedestal as did Walter, should have written beautiful poems to the Blessed Virgin. He was the first, so it is said, to express the sentiment: "Woman, God bless her, by that name, for it is a far nobler name than lady." Occasionally he can be seriously didactic and he has not hesitated even to express some sentiments with regard to methods of education. Among other things he discusses the question as to whether children should be whipped or not in the process of education and curiously enough takes the very modern view that whipping is always a mistake. In this, of course, he disagrees with all the practical educators of his time, who considered the rod the most effective instrument for the education of children and strictly followed the scriptural injunction about sparing the rod and spoiling the child. Walter's opinion is for that reason all the more interesting: "Children with rod ruling-- 'Tis the worst of schooling. Who is honor made to know. Him a word seems as a blow." {186} The birds were always a favorite subject for poetic inspiration on the part of the Minnesingers. Bird music rapt poetic souls into ecstasies in which the passage of time was utterly unnoticed. It is from the Thirteenth Century that comes the beautiful legend with regard to the monk who, having wondered how time could be kept from dragging in Heaven, was permitted to listen to the song of a bird one day in the forest and when he awoke from his rapture and went back to his convent found that a hundred years had passed, that all of the monks of his acquaintance were dead, and while his name was found on the rolls of the monastery, after it there was a note that he had disappeared one day and had never been heard of afterwards. Almost in the same tenor as this is a pretty song from Dietmar von Eist, written at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century, and which was a type of the charming songs that were to be so characteristic of the times: There sat upon the linden-tree A bird, and sung its strain; So sweet it sung that as I heard My heart went back again. It went to one remember'd spot, It saw the rose-tree grow. And thought again the thoughts of love, There cherished long ago. A thousand years to me it seems Since by my fair I sate; Yet thus to be a stranger long Is not my choice, but fate; Since then I have not seen the flowers, Nor heard the birds' sweet song; My joys have all too briefly past. My griefs been all too long. Hartman von Aue was a contemporary of Walter's and is best known for his romantic stories. It is rather curiously interesting to find that one of the old chroniclers considers it a great mark of distinction that, though Hartman was a knight, he was able to read and write whatever he found written in {187} books. It must not be forgotten, however, that not all of these poets could read and write, and that indeed so distinguished a literary man as Wolfram von Eschenbach, the author of Percival, the story on which Wagner founded his opera of Parsifal, could neither read nor write. He had developed a very wonderful memory and was able to store faithfully his poems in the course of their composition so that he was above the need of pen and paper. Hartman is most famous for having written the story of Poor Henry, which Longfellow has chosen so effectively for his Golden Legend. Hartman's appreciation of women can be judged from the following lines, which accord her an equal share in her lord's glory because of her sufferings in prayer at home. Glory be unto her whose word Sends her dear lord to bitter fight; Although he conquer by his sword. She to the praise has equal right; He with the sword in battle, she at home with prayer. Both win the victory, and both the glory share. Occasionally one finds, as we have said, among the little songs of the Minnesingers of the time such tuneful trifles as could be included very appropriately in a modern collection of _vers de société_, or as might even serve as a love message on a modern valentine or a Christmas card. The surprise of finding such things at such a time will justify the quotation of one of them from Brother Wernher, who owes his title of brother not to his membership in any religious order, very probably, but to the fact that he belonged to the brotherhood of the poets of the time. Since creation I was thine; Now forever thou art mine. I have shut thee fast In my heart at last. I have dropped the key In an unknown sea. Forever must thou my prisoner be! {188} Wolfram von Eschenbach was the chief of a group of poets who at the close of the Twelfth and beginning of the Thirteenth centuries gathered about the Landgraf Hermann of Thuringen in his court on the Wartburg, at the foot of which lies Eisenach, in the present Grand Duchy of Saxe-Weimar. They shaped tales of knightly adventure, blended with reflection, spiritual suggestion, and a grace of verse that represented the best culture of the court, and did not address itself immediately to the people. Wolfram was a younger son of one of the lower noble Bavarian families settled at Eschenbach, nine miles from Ausbach, in Middle Franconia. He had a poor little home of his own, Wildenberg, but went abroad to seek adventures as a knight, and tell adventures as a poet welcome to great lords, and most welcome to the lavish friend of poets, Hermann of Thuringen, at whose court on the Wartburg he remained twenty years, from 1195 to 1215, in which latter year his "Parzival" was finished. From some passages in his poem it may safely be inferred that he was happily married, and had children. The Landgraf Hermann died in 1216, and, was succeeded by Ludwig, husband of St. Elizabeth. We cannot ascribe to English writers alone the spiritualizing of the Grail Legends, when there is Wolfram's "Parzival" drawing from the same cycle of myths a noble poem of the striving to bind earthly knighthood to the ever-living God. While Gawain, type of the earthly knight wins great praise in love and chivalry, Parzival--Percival--finds his way on from childhood up, through humble searchings of the spirit, till he is ruler in the kingdom of the soul, where he designs that Lohengrin, his eldest son, shall be his successor, while Kardeiss, his younger son, has rule over his earthly possessions. How beautifully the Minnesingers could enter into the spirit of nature and at the same time how much the spirit of Spring has always been prone to appeal to poetic sensibilities may be judged from the following song of Conrad of Kirchberg, which is translated very closely and in the same meter as the original old high German poem. It is very evident that none of the spirit of Spring was lost on this poet of the olden time, nor on the other hand that any possibility of poetic expression was missed by him. There is a music in the lilt of the verselets, {189} eminently suggestive of the lyric effect that the new birth of things had on the poet himself and that he wished to convey to his readers. Of this, however, every one must judge for himself and so we give the poem as it may be found in Roscoe's edition of Sismondi's Literature of the South of Europe. May, sweet May, again is come; May, that frees the land from gloom. Up, then, children, we will go Where the blooming roses grow. In a joyful company We the bursting flowers will see; Up! your festal dress prepare! Where gay hearts are meeting, there May hath pleasures most inviting Heart, and sight, and ear delighting: Listen to the bird's sweet song. Hark! how soft it floats along! Courtly dames our pleasures share. Never saw I May so fair; Therefore, dancing will we go: Youths rejoice, the flowrets blow; Sing ye! join the chorus gay! Hail this merry, merry May! At least as beautiful in their tributes to their lady loves and their lyric descriptions of the beauties of Spring, were the Troubadours whose tuneful trifles, sometimes deserving of much more serious consideration than the application of such a term to them would seem to demand, have come down to us though the centuries. One of the best known of these is Arnaud de Marveil, who was born in very humble circumstances but who succeeded in raising himself by his poetic genius to be the companion of ruling princes and the friend of the high nobility. Among the provencals he has been called the great Master of Love, though this is a name which Petrarch reserves especially for Arnaud Daniel, while he calls Marveil the less famous of the Arnauds. An example of his work as the Poet of Love, that is typical of what is usually considered to have {190} been the favorite mode of the Troubadour poets runs as follows: All I behold recalls the memory Of her I love. The freshness of the hour Th' enamell'd fields, the many coloured flower, Speaking of her, move me to melody. Had not the poets, with their courtly phrase, Saluted many a fair of meaner worth, I could not now have render'd thee the praise So justly due, of "Fairest of the Earth." To name thee thus had been to speak thy name, And waken, o'er thy cheek, the blush of modest shame. An example of the love of nature which characterizes some of Arnaud de Marveil's work will serve to show how thoroughly he entered into the spirit of the spring-time and how much all the sights and sounds of nature found an echo in his poetic spirit. The translation of this as of the preceding specimen from Arnaud is taken from the English edition of the Historical View of the Literature of the South of Europe by Sismondi, and this translation we owe to Thomas Roscoe, the well known author of the life of Lorenzo the Magnificent, who considering that Sismondi does not furnish enough of specimens of this Troubadour poet, inserts the following verses, for the translation of which he acknowledges himself indebted to the kindness of friends, a modest concealment doubtless of his own work: Oh! how sweet the breeze of April, Breathing soft as May draws near! While, through nights of tranquil beauty, Songs of gladness meet the ear: Every bird his well-known language Uttering in the morning's pride, Revelling in joy and gladness By his happy partner's side. When, around me, all is smiling, When to life the young birds spring, Thoughts of love, I cannot hinder, Come, my heart inspiriting-- Nature, habit, both incline me In such joy to bear my part: With such sounds of bliss around me Could I wear a sadden'd heart? {191} His description of his lady love is another example of his worship of nature in a different strain, which serves to show that a lover's exaggeration of the qualities of his lady is not a modern development of _la belle passion_. Fairer than the far-famed Helen, Lovelier than the flow'rets gay. Snow-white teeth, and lips truth-telling, Heart as open as the day; Golden hair, and fresh bright roses-- Heaven, who formed a thing so fair. Knows that never yet another Lived, who can with thee compare. A single stanza from a love-song by Bertrand De Born will show better than any amount of critical appreciation how beautifully he can treat the more serious side of love. While the Troubadours are usually said to have sung their love strains in less serious vein than their German brother poets of the North, this has the ring of tenderness and truth about it and yet is not in these qualities very different from others of his songs that are well known. The translation we have chosen is that made by Roscoe who has rendered a number of the songs of the Troubadours into English verse that presents an excellent equivalent of the original. Bertrand is insisting with his lady-love that she must not listen to the rumors she may hear from others with regard to his faithfulness. I cannot hide from thee how much I fear The whispers breathed by flatterers in thine ear Against my faith. But turn not, oh, I pray! That heart so true, so faithful, so sincere. So humble and so frank, to me so dear. Oh, lady! turn it not from me away. {192} At times one is surprised to find pretty tributes to nature even in the midst of songs that are devoted to war. The two things that were nearest the hearts of these Troubadour poets were war and their lady-loves, but the beauties of nature became mixed up not only with their love songs but also with their battle hymns, or at least with their ardent descriptions of military preparations and the glories of war. An excellent example of this is to be found in the following stanza written by William of Saint Gregory, a Troubadour who is best known for his songs of war rather than of tenderness. The beautiful spring delights me well. When flowers and leaves are growing; And it pleases my heart to hear the swell Of the birds' sweet chorus flowing In the echoing wood; And I love to see all scattered around Pavilions and tents on martial ground; And my spirit finds it good To see on the level plains beyond Gay knights and steeds caparison'd. Occasionally the Troubadours indulge in religious poetry though usually not of a mystical or profoundly devotional character. Even the famous Peyrols, who is so well known for his love songs, sometimes wandered into religious poetry that was not unworthy to be placed beside his lyric effusions on other topics. Peyrols is best known perhaps for his lamentations over King Richard the Lion Heart's fate, for he had been with that monarch on the crusade, and like most of the Troubadours who went with the army, drank in deep admiration for the poetic king. After his visit to the Holy Land on this occasion one stanza of his song in memory of that visit runs as follows: [Footnote 19: Translated by Roscoe.] {193} I have seen the Jordan river, I have seen the holy grave. Lord! to thee my thanks I render For the joys thy goodness gave, Showing to my raptured sight The spot whereon thou saw'st the light. Vessel good and favoring breezes, Pilot, trusty, soon shall we Once more see the towers of Marseilles Rising o'er the briny sea. Farewell, Acre, farewell, all. Of Temple or of Hospital: Now, alas! the world's decaying. When shall we once more behold Kings like lion-hearted Richard, France's monarch, stout and bold? [Illustration] TOWER OF SCALIGERS (VERONA) {194} XII GREAT LATIN HYMNS AND CHURCH MUSIC. One of the most precious bequests of the Thirteenth Century to all the succeeding centuries is undoubtedly the great Latin hymns. These sublime religious poems, comparable only to the Hebrew psalms for their wondrous expression of the awe and devotion of religious feeling, present the beginnings of rhymed poetry, yet they have been acclaimed by competent modern critics as among the greatest poems that ever came from the mind of man. They come to us from this period and were composed, most of them at least, during the Thirteenth Century itself, a few, shortly before it, though all of them received during this century the stamp of ecclesiastical and popular approval, which made them for many centuries afterward the principal medium of the expression of congregational devotion and the exemplar and incentive for vernacular poetry. It is from these latter standpoints that they deserve the attention of all students of literature quite apart from their significance as great expressions of the mind of these wondrous generations. These Latin hymns have sometimes been spoken of with perhaps a certain degree of contempt as "rhymed Latin poetry," as if the use of rhyme in conjunction with Latin somehow lowered the dignity of the grand old tongue in which Cicero wrote his graceful periods and Horace sang his tuneful odes. As a matter of fact, far from detracting from the beauties of Latin expression, these hymns have added new laurels to the glory of the language and have shown the wonderful possibilities of the Roman speech in the hands of generations long after the classical period. If they served no other purpose than to demonstrate beyond cavil how profoundly the scholars of this generation succeeded in possessing themselves of the genius of the Latin language, they would serve to contradict the foolish critics who talk of the education of the period as superficial, or as negligent of everything but scholastic philosophy and theology. {195} At least one distinguished philologist, Professor F. A. March, who has now for the better part of half a century occupied the chair of comparative philology at Lafayette College, does not hesitate to say that the Latin hymns represent an expression of the genius of the Latin people and language, more characteristic than the classical poetry even of the golden or silver ages. "These hymns," he says, "were the first original poetry of the people in the Latin language, unless perhaps those Latin critics may be right who think they find in Livy a prose rendering of earlier ballads. The so-called classic poetry was an echo of Greece, both in substance and in form. The matter and meters were both imitated and the poems were composed for the lovers of Grecian art in the Roman Court. It did not spring from the people, but the Christian hymns were proper folk poetry, the Bible of the people--their Homeric poems. Their making was not so much speech as action. They were in substance festive prayers, the simplest rhythmic offering of thanks and praise to the Giver of Light and of rest both natural and spiritual, at morning and evening and at other seasons, suited to the remembrance and rhythmical rehearsal of the truths of the Bible." Prof. March's opinion has been echoed by many another enthusiastic student of these wonderful hymns. It is only those who do not know them who fail to grow enthusiastic about them. This of itself would stamp these great poems as worthy of careful study. There is, however, an additional reason for modern interest in them. These hymns were sung by the whole congregation at the many services that they attended in the medieval period. In this regard it seems well to recall, that it was the custom to go to church much oftener then than at present. Besides the Sundays there were many holy days of obligation, that is, religious festivals on which attendance at Church was obligatory, and in addition a certain number of days of devotion on which, because of special reverence for some particular saint, or in celebration of some event in the life of the Lord or his saints, the people of special parts of the country found themselves drawn to attendance on church services. It seems probable that instead of the sixty or so times a year that is now obligatory, people went to Church during the Thirteenth {196} Century more than a hundred times in the year. Twice a week then, at least, there was the uplifting cultural influence of this congregational singing of wonderful hymns that are among the greatest poems ever written and that belong to literature of the very highest order. The educational value of such intimate contact with what is best in literary expression could scarcely fail to have a distinct effect upon the people. It is idle to say that the hymns being in Latin they were not understood, since the language of them was close akin to the spoken tongues, the subjects were eminently familiar mysteries of religion and constant repetition and frequent explanation must have led to a very general comprehension even by the least educated classes. For anyone with any pretension to education they must have been easy to understand, since Latin was practically a universal language. It is not always realized by the students whose interests have been mainly confined to modern literature, in what estimation these Latin hymns have been held by those who are in the best position to be able to judge critically of their value as poetry. Take for example the Dies Irae, confessedly the greatest of them, and it will be found that many of the great poets and literary men of the Nineteenth Century have counted it among their favorite poems. Such men as Goethe, Friedrich and August Schlegel, Scott, Milman and Archbishop Trench were enthusiastic in its praise. While such geniuses as Dryden, Johnson and Jeremy Taylor, and the musicians Mozart and Hayden, avowed supreme admiration for it. Herder, Fichte and August Schlegel besides Crashaw, Drummond, Roscommon, Trench and Macaulay gave the proof of their appreciation of the great Thirteenth Century hymn by devoting themselves to making translations of it, and Goethe's use of it in Faust and Scott's in the Lay of the Last Minstrel, show how much poets, whose sympathies were not involved in its religious aspects, were caught by its literary and esthetic merit. In very recent times the Latin hymns have been coming more to their own again and such distinguished critics as Prof. Henry Morley, and Prof. George Saintsbury, have not hesitated to express their critical appreciation of these hymns as great {197} literature. Prof. Saintsbury says in his volume of the Thirteenth Century literature: [Footnote 20] [Footnote 20: The Flourishing of Romance and the Rise of Allegory, Volume II. of Periods of European Literature, Edited by George Saintsbury, New York, Scribners, 1899.] {opp197} [Illustration] ST. FRANCIS PROPHESIES THE DEATH OF CELANO (GIOTTO, UPPER CH., ASSISI) "It will be more convenient to postpone to a later chapter of this volume a consideration of the exact way in which Latin sacred poetry affected the prosody of the vernacular; but it is well here to point out that almost all the finest and most famous examples of the medieval hymns, with perhaps the sole exception of the Veni Sancte Spiritus, date from the Twelfth and Thirteenth centuries. Ours (that is, from this period) are the stately rhythms of Adam of St. Victor, and the softer ones of St. Bernard the Greater. It was at this time that Jacopone da Todi, in the intervals of his eccentric vernacular exercises, was inspired to write the Stabat Mater. From this time comes that glorious descant of Bernard of Morlaix, in which, the more its famous and very elegant English paraphrase is read beside it (Jerusalem the Golden), the more does the greatness and the beauty of the original appear. "And from this time comes the greatest of all hymns, and one of the greatest of all poems, the Dies Irae. There have been attempts--more than one of them--to make out that the Dies Irae is no such wonderful thing after all; attempts which are, perhaps, the extreme examples of that cheap and despicable paradox which thinks to escape the charge of blind docility by the affectation of heterodox independence. The judgment of the greatest (and not always of the most pious) men of letters of modern times may confirm those who are uncomfortable without authority in a different opinion. Fortunately there is not likely ever to be lack of those who, authority or no authority, in youth and in age, after much reading or without much, in all time of their tribulation and in all time of their wealth, will hold these wonderful triplets, be they Thomas of Celano's or another's, as nearly or quite the most perfect wedding of sound to sense that they know." This seems almost the limit of praise but Prof. Saintsbury can say even more than this: "It would be possible, indeed, to {198} illustrate a complete dissertation on the methods of expression in serious poetry from the fifty-one lines of the Dies Irae. Rhyme, alliteration, cadence, and adjustment of vowel and consonant values--all these things receive perfect expression in it, or, at least, in the first thirteen stanzas, for the last four are a little inferior. It is quite astonishing to reflect upon the careful art or the felicitous accident of such a line as: Tuba mirum spargens sonum, with the thud of the trochee falling in each instance in a different vowel; and still more on the continuous sequence of five stanzas, from _Judex ergo_ to _non sit cassus_, in which not a word could be displaced or replaced by another without loss. The climax of verbal harmony, corresponding to and expressing religious passion and religious awe, is reached in the last-- Quaerens me sedisti lassus, Redemisti crucem passus: Tantus labor non sit cassus! where the sudden change from the dominant _e_ sounds (except in the rhyme foot) of the first two lines to the _a's_ of the last is simply miraculous and miraculously assisted by what may be called the internal sub-rhyme of _sedisti_ and _redemisti_. This latter effect can rarely be attempted without a jingle: there is no jingle here, only an ineffable melody. After the Dies Irae, no poet could say that any effect of poetry was, as far as sound goes, unattainable, though few could have hoped to equal it, and perhaps no one except Dante and Shakespeare has fully done so." Higher praise than this could scarcely be given and it comes from an acknowledged authority, whose interests are moreover in secular rather than religious literature, and whose enthusiastic praise is therefore all the more striking. Here in America, Schaff, whose critical judgment in religious literature is unquestionable and whose sympathies with the old church and her hymns were not as deep as if he had been a Roman Catholic, has been quite as unstinted in laudation. "This marvelous hymn is the acknowledged masterpiece of Latin poetry, and the most sublime of all uninspired hymns. {199} ... The secret of its irresistible power lies in the awful grandeur of the theme, the intense earnestness and pathos of the poet, the simple majesty and solemn music of its language, the stately meter, the triple rhyme, and the vowel assonances, chosen in striking adaptation to the sense--all combining to produce an overwhelming effect, as if we heard the final crash of the universe, the commotion of the opening graves, the trumpet of the archangel summoning the quick and the dead, and saw the 'king of tremendous majesty' seated on the throne of justice and of mercy, and ready to dispense everlasting life and everlasting woe." Neale says of Thomas Aquinas' great hymn the Pange Lingua: "This hymn contests the second place among those of the Western Church, with the 'Vexilla Regis,' the 'Stabat Mater,' the 'Jesu Dulcis Memoria,' the 'Ad Regias Agni Dapes,' the 'Ad Supernam,' and one or two others, leaving the 'Dies Irae' in its unapproachable glory," thus furnishing another supreme testimony to the hymn we have been discussing, which indeed only needs to be read to be appreciated, since it will inevitably tempt to successive readings and these bring with them ever and ever increasing admiration, showing in this more than in any other way that it is a work of sublime genius. With regard to rhyme particularly the triumph of art and the influence of the Latin hymns is undoubted. This latest beauty of poetry reached its perfection of expression in the Latin hymns. It is rather curious to trace its gradual development. It constitutes the only feature of literature which apparently did not come to us from the East. The earlier specimens of poetry of which we know anything among the Oriental nations other than the Hebrews, are beautiful examples of the possibilities of rhythm and the beginnings of meter. As poetry goes westward meter becomes as important as rhythm in poetry and these two qualities differentiated it from prose. Both of these literary modes, however, are eastern in origin. Rhyme comes from the distant West and seems to have originated in the alliteration invented by the Celtic bards. The vowel assonance was after a time completed by the addition of consonantal assonance and then the invention of rhyme was completed. The first fully rhymed hymns seem to have been written by the {200} Irish monks and carried over to the Continent by them on their Christianizing expeditions, after the irruption of the barbarians had obliterated the civilization of Europe. During the Tenth and Eleventh centuries rhyme developed mainly in connection with ecclesiastical poetry. During the Twelfth and Thirteenth centuries it reached an acme of evolution which has never been surpassed during all the succeeding generations. It must not be thought that, because so much attention is given to the Dies Irae, this constitutes the only supremely great hymn of the Thirteenth Century. There are at least five or six others that well deserve to be mentioned in the same breath. One of them, the famous Stabat Mater of Jacopone da Todi, has been considered by some critics as quite as beautiful as the Dies Irae in poetic expression, though below it as poetry because of the lesser sublimity of its subject. Certainly no more marvelously poetic expression of all that is saddest in human sorrow has ever been put into words, than that which is to be found in these stanzas of the Franciscan Monk who had himself known all the depths of human sorrow and trial. Most people know the opening stanzas of it well enough to scarce need their presentation and yet it is from the poem itself, and not from any critical appreciation of it, that its greatness must be judged. {opp200} [Illustration] VIRGIN AND CHILD (PISA, CAMPO SANTO, GIOV. PISANO) Stabat mater dolorosa Juxta crucem lacrymosa, Dum pendebat filius, Cuius animan gementem, Contristantem at dolentem Pertransivit gladius. O quam tristis et afflicta Fuit illa benedicta Mater unigeniti. Quae moerebat et dolebat Et tremebat, dum videbat Nati poenas inclyti. Quis est homo, qui non fleret, Matrem Christi si videret, In tanto supplicio? Quis non posset contristari, Piam matrem contemplari Dolentem cum filio! {201} As in the case of the Dies Irae there have been many translations of the Stabat Mater, most of them done by poets whose hearts were in their work and who were accomplishing their purpose as labors of love. While we realize how many beautiful translations there are, it is almost pitiful to think what poor English versions are sometimes used in the devotional exercises of the present day. One of the most beautiful translations is undoubtedly that by Denis Florence MacCarthy, who has been hailed as probably the best translator into English of foreign poetry that our generation has known, and whose translations of Calderon present the greatest of Spanish poets, in a dress as worthy of the original as it is possible for a poet to have in a foreign tongue. MacCarthy has succeeded in following the intricate rhyme plan of the Stabat with a perfection that would be deemed almost impossible in our harsher English, which does not readily yield itself to double rhymes and which permits frequency of rhyme as a rule only at the sacrifice of vigor of expression. The first three stanzas, however, of the Stabat Mater will serve to show how well MacCarthy accomplished his difficult task: By the cross, on which suspended. With his bleeding hands extended, Hung that Son she so adored, Stood the mournful Mother weeping. She whose heart, its silence keeping. Grief had cleft as with a sword. O, that Mother's sad affliction-- Mother of all benediction-- Of the sole-begotten One; Oh, the grieving, sense-bereaving, Of her heaving breast, perceiving The dread sufferings of her Son. What man is there so unfeeling. Who, his heart to pity steeling. Could behold that sight unmoved? Could Christ's Mother see there weeping, See the pious Mother keeping Vigil by the Son she loved? {202} A very beautiful translation in the meter of the original was also made by the distinguished Irish poet, Aubrey de Vere. The last two stanzas of this translation have been considered as perhaps the most charmingly effective equivalent in English for Jacopone's wonderfully devotional termination that has ever been written. May his wounds both wound and heal me; His blood enkindle, cleanse, anneal me; Be his cross my hope and stay: Virgin, when the mountains quiver, From that flame which burns for ever, Shield me on the judgment-day. Christ, when he that shaped me calls me, When advancing death appalls me. Through her prayer the storm make calm: When to dust my dust returneth Save a soul to thee that yearneth; Grant it thou the crown and palm. Even distinguished professors of philosophy and theology occasionally indulged themselves in the privilege of writing these Latin hymns and, what is more surprising, succeeded in making poetry of a very high order. At least two of the most distinguished professors in these branches at the University of Paris in the latter half of the Thirteenth Century, must be acknowledged as having written hymns that are confessedly immortal, not because of any canonical usage that keeps them alive, but because they express in very different ways, in wondrously beautiful language some of the sublimest religious thoughts of their time. These two are St. Bonaventure, the Franciscan, and St. Thomas of Aquin, the Dominican. St. Bonaventure's hymns on the Passion and Cross of Christ represent what has been most beautifully sung on these subjects in all the ages. St. Thomas' poetic work centers around the Blessed Sacrament in whose honor he was so ardent and so devoted {203} that the composition of the office for its feast was confided to him by the Pope. The hymns he wrote, far from being the series of prosy theological formulas that might have been expected perhaps under such circumstances, are great contributions to a form of literature which contains more gems of purest ray in its collection than almost any other. St. Thomas' poetic jewels shine with no borrowed radiance, and their effulgence is not cast into shadow even by the greatest of their companion pieces among the Latin hymns of a wonderfully productive century. Neale's tribute to one of them has already been quoted in an earlier part of this chapter. It has indeed been considered almost miraculous, that this profoundest of thinkers should have been able to attain within the bounds of rhyme and rhythm, the accurate expression of some of the most intricate theological thoughts that have ever been expressed, and yet should have accomplished his purpose with a clarity of language, a simplicity and directness of words, a poetic sympathy of feeling, and an utter devotion, that make his hymns great literature in the best sense of the word. One of them at least, the Pange Lingua Gloriosi, has been in constant use in the church ever since his time, and its two last stanzas beginning with Tantum Ergo Sacramentum, are perhaps the most familiar of all the Latin hymns. Few of those most familiar with it realize its place in literature, the greatness of its author, or its own marvelous poetic merits. It must not be forgotten that at the very time when these hymns were most popular the modern languages were just assuming shape. Even at the end of the Thirteenth Century none of them had reached anything like the form that it was to continue to hold, except perhaps the Italian and to some extent the Spanish. When Dante wrote his Divine Comedy at the beginning of the Fourteenth Century, he was tempted to use the Latin language, the common language of all the scholars of his day, and the language ordinarily used for any ambitious literary project for nearly a century later. It will not be forgotten that when Petrarch in the Fourteenth Century wrote his epic, Africa, on which he expected his fame as a poet to rest, he preferred to use the Latin language. Fortunately Dante was large enough of mind to realize, that the vulgar {204} tongue of the Italians would prove the best instrument for the expression of the thoughts he wished to communicate, and so he cast the Italian language into the mold in which it has practically ever since remained. His very hesitation, however, shows how incomplete as yet were these modern languages considered by the scholars who used them. It was at this very formative period, however, that the people on whose use of the nascent modern languages their future character depended, were having dinned into their ears in the numerous church services, the great Latin hymns with their wonderful finish of expression. Undoubtedly one of the most effective factors of whatever of sweetness there is in the modern tongues, must be attributed to this influence exerted all unconsciously upon the minds of the people. The rhythm and the expressiveness of these magnificent poems could scarcely fail to stamp itself to some degree upon the language, crude though it might be, of the people who had become so familiar with them. It is, then, to no small extent because of the influence of these Latin hymns that our modern languages possess a rhythmic melodiousness that in time enabled them to become the instruments for poetic diction in such a way as to satisfy all the requirements of the modern ear in rhyme, and rhythm, and meter. A striking corresponding effect upon the exactness of expression in the modern languages, it will be noticed, is pointed out in the chapter on the Prose of the Century as representing, according to Professor Saintsbury, the greatest benefit that was derived from the exaggerated practise of dialectic disputation in the curriculum of the medieval Universities. Those who would think that the Thirteenth Century was happy in creative genius but lacking in the critical faculty that would enable it to select the best, not only of the hymns presented by its own generations but also of those which came from the preceding centuries, should make themselves acquainted with the history of these Latin hymns. Just before the Thirteenth Century the monks of the famous Abbey of St. Victor took up the writing of hymns with wonderful success and two of them, Adam and Hugh, became not only the favorites of their own but of succeeding generations. The Thirteenth {205} Century received the work of these men and gave them a vogue which has continued down to our own time. Some of the hymns that were thus acclaimed and made popular are among the greatest contributions to this form of literature, and while they have had periods of eclipse owing to bad taste in the times that followed, the reputation secured during the Thirteenth Century has always been sufficient to recall them to memory and bring men again to a realization of their beauty when a more esthetic generation came into existence. One of the hymns of the immediately preceding time, which attained great popularity during the Thirteenth Century--a popularity that reflects credit on those among whom it is noted as well as upon the great hymn itself--was Bernard of Cluny's or Bernard of Morlaix's hymn, concerning the contempt of the world, many of the ideas of which were to be used freely in the book bearing this title written by the first Pope of the century, Innocent III, whose name is usually, though gratuitously associated with quite other ideas than those of contempt for worldly grandeur. The description of the New Jerusalem to come, which is found at the beginning of this great poem, is the basis of all the modern religious poems on this subject. Few hymns have been more praised. Schaff, in his Christ in Song says: "This glowing description is the sweetest of all the new Jerusalem Hymns of Heavenly Homesickness which have taken their inspiration from the last two chapters of Revelation." The extreme difficulty of the meter which its author selected and which would seem almost to preclude the possibility of expressing great connected thought, especially in so long a poem, became under the master hand of this poetic genius, whose command of the Latin language is unrivaled, the source of new beauties for his poem. Besides maintaining the meter of the old Latin hexameters he added double rhymes in each line and yet had every alternate line also end in a rhyme. To appreciate the difficulty this must be read. {206} Hora novissima, tempora pessima sunt, vigilemus, Ecce minaciter imminet arbiter ille supremus Imminet, imminet ut mala terminet, aequa coronet. Recta remuneret, anxia liberet, aethera donet, Auferat aspera duraque pondera mentis onustae, Sobria muniat, improba puniat, utraque juste. Hic breve vivitur, hic breve plangitur, hic breve fletur; Non breve vivere, non breve plangere retribuetur; O retributio! stat brevis actio, vita perennis; O retributio! coelica mansio stat lue plenis; Quid datur et quibus? aether egentibus et cruce dignis, Sidera vermibus, optima sontibus, astra malignis. There are many versions, but few translators have dared to attempt a close imitation of the original meter. Its beauty is so great, however, that even the labor required for this has not deterred some enthusiastic admirers. Our English tongue, however, does not lend itself readily to the production of hexameters, though in these lines the rhyme and rhythm has been caught to some extent: "These are the latter times, these are not better times; Let us stand waiting; Lo! how with, awfulness, He, first in lawfulness, Comes arbitrating." Even from this it may be realized that Doctor Neale is justified in his enthusiastic opinion that "it is the most lovely, in the same way that the Dies Irae is the most sublime, and the Stabat Mater the most pathetic, of medieval poems." While it scarcely has a place here properly, a word must be said with regard to the music of the Thirteenth Century. It might possibly be thought that these wondrous rhymes had been spoiled in their effectiveness by the crude music to which they were set. To harbor any such notion, however, would only be another exhibition of that intellectual snobbery which concludes that generations so distant could not have anything worth the consideration of our more developed time. The music of the Thirteenth Century is as great a triumph as any other feature of its accomplishment. It would be clearly absurd to suppose, that the people who created the Cathedrals and made every element associated with the church ceremonial so beautiful as to attract the attention of all generations since, could have failed to develop a music suitable to these {207} magnificent fanes. As a matter of fact no more suitable music for congregational singing than the Gregorian Chant, which reached the acme of its development in the Thirteenth Century, has been invented, and the fact that the Catholic Church, after having tried modern music, is now going back to this medieval musical mode for devotional expression, is only a further noteworthy tribute to the enduring character of another phase of Thirteenth Century accomplishment. Rockstro, who wrote the article on Plain Chant for Grove's Dictionary of Music and for the Encyclopedia Britannica, declared that no more wonderful succession of single notes, had even been strung into melodies so harmoniously adapted to the expression of the words with which they were to be sung, than some of these Plain Chants of the Middle Ages and especially of the Thirteenth Century. No more sublimely beautiful musical expression of all the depths there are in sadness has ever found its way into music, than what is so simply expressed in the Lamentations as they are sung in the office called Tenebrae during Holy Week. Even more beautiful in its joyousness is the marvelous melody of the Exultet which is sung in the Office of Holy Saturday. This latter is said to be the sublimest expression of joyful sound that has ever come from the human heart and mind. In a word, in music as in every other artistic department, the men of the Thirteenth Century reached a standard that has never been excelled and that remains to the present day as a source of pleasure and admiration for intellectual men, and will continue to be so for numberless generations yet unborn. Nor must it be thought that the Thirteenth Century men and women were satisfied with Church music alone. About the middle of the century part singing came into use in the churches at the less formal ceremonials, and soon spread to secular uses. As the Mystery Plays gave rise to the modern drama, so church music gave birth to the popular music of the time. In England, particularly, about the middle of the century, various glee songs were sung, portions of which have come down to us, and a great movement of folk music was begun. Before the end of the century the interaction of church and secular music had given rise to many of the modes of modern musical {208} development, and the musical movement was as substantially begun as were any of the other great artistic and intellectual movements which this century so marvelously initiated. This subject, of course, is of the kind that needs to be studied in special works if any satisfactory amount of information is to be obtained, but even the passing hint of it which we have been able to give will enable the reader to realize the important place of the Thirteenth Century in the development of modern music. [Illustration] ENTOMBMENT OF BLESSED VIRGIN (NOTRE DAME, PARIS) {209} XIII THREE MOST READ BOOKS OF THE CENTURY. Three books were more read than any others during the Thirteenth Century, that is, of course, apart from Holy Scriptures, which contrary to the usually accepted notion in this matter, were frequently the subject of study and of almost daily contact in one way or another by all classes of people. These three books were, Reynard the Fox, that is the series of stories of the animals in which they are used as a cloak for a satire upon man and his ways, called often the Animal Epic; the Golden Legend, which impressed Longfellow so much that he spent many years making what he hoped might prove for the modern world a bit of the self-revelation that this wonderful old medieval book has been for its own and subsequent generations; and, finally, the Romance of the Rose, probably the most read book during the Thirteenth and Fourteenth and most of the Fifteenth centuries in all the countries of Europe. Its popularity can be well appreciated from the fact that, though Chaucer was much read, there are more than three times as many manuscript copies of The Romance of the Rose in existence as of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, and it was one of the earliest books to see the light in print. [Footnote 21] [Footnote 21: It was a favorite occupation some few years ago to pick out what were considered the ten best books. Sir John Lubbock first suggested, that it would be an interesting thing to pick out the ten books which, if one were to be confined for life, should be thought the most likely to be of enduring interest. If this favorite game were to be played with the selection limited to the authors of a single century, it is reasonably sure that most educated people would pick out the thirteenth century group of ten for their exclusive reading for the rest of life, rather than any other. An experimental list of ten books selected from the thirteenth century writers would include the Cid, the Legends of King Arthur, the Nibelungen Lied, the Romance of the Rose, Reynard the Fox, the Golden Legend, the Summa of St. Thomas Aquinas, Parsifal or Perceval by Wolfram von Eschenbach, Durandus's Symbolism and Dante. As will readily be appreciated by anyone who knows literature well, these are eminently books of enduring interest. When it is considered that in making this list no call is made upon Icelandic Literature nor Provençal Literature, both of which are of supreme interest, and both reached their maturity at this time, the abounding literary wealth of the century will be understood.] {210} It has become the fashion in recent years, to take the pains from time to time to find out which are the most read books. The criterion of worth thus set up is not very valuable, for unfortunately for the increase in readers, there has not come a corresponding demand for the best books nor for solid literature. The fact that a book has been the best seller, or the most read for a time, usually stamps it at once as trivial or at most as being of quite momentary interest and not at all likely to endure. It is all the more interesting to find then, that these three most read books of the Thirteenth Century, have not only more than merely academic interest at the present time, but that they are literature in the best sense of the word. They have always been not only a means of helping people to pass the time, the sad office to which the generality of books has been reduced in our time, but a source of inspiration for literary men in many generations since they first became popular. The story of Reynard the Fox is one of the most profoundly humorous books that was ever written. Its satire was aimed at its own time yet it is never for a moment antiquated for the modern reader. At a time when, owing to the imperfect development of personal rights, it would have been extremely dangerous to satirize as the author does very freely, the rulers, the judges, the nobility, the ecclesiastical authorities and churchmen, and practically all classes of society, the writer, whose name has, unfortunately for the completeness of literary history, not come down to us, succeeded in painting all the foibles of men and pointing out all the differences there are between men's pretensions and their actual accomplishments. All the methods by which the cunning scoundrel could escape justice are exploited. The various modes of escaping punishment by direct and indirect bribery, by pretended repentance and reformation, by cunning appeal to the selfishness of judges, are revealed with the fidelity to detail of a modern muckraker; yet, all of it with a humanly humorous quality which, while it takes away nothing from the completeness of the exposure, removes most of the bitterness that probably would have made the satire fail of its purpose. While every class in the community of the time comes in for satirical allusions, that give us a better idea of how closely the men and the women {211} of the time resembled those of our own, than is to be found in any other single literary work that has been preserved for us from this century, or, indeed, any other, the series of stories seemed to be scarcely more than a collection of fables for children, and probably was read quite unsuspectingly by those who are so unmercifully satirized in it, though doubtless, as is usually noted in such cases, each one may have applied the satire of the story as he saw it to his neighbor and not to himself. A recent editor has said very well of Reynard the Fox that it is one of the most universal of books in its interest for all classes. Critics have at all times been ready to praise and few if any have found fault. It is one of the books that answers well to what Cardinal Newman declared to be at least the accidental definition of a classic; it pleases in childhood, in youth, in middle age and even in declining years. It is because of the eternal verity of the humanity in the book, that with so much truth Froude writing of Reynard can say: "It is not addressed to a passing mode of folly or of profligacy, but it touches the perennial nature of mankind, laying bare our own sympathies, and tastes, and weaknesses, with as keen and true an edge as when the living world of the old Suabian poet winced under its earliest utterance." The writer who traced the portraits must be counted one of the great observers of all time. As is the case with so many creative artists of the Thirteenth Century, though this is truer elsewhere than in literature, the author is not known. Perhaps he thought it safer to shroud his identity in friendly obscurity, rather than expose himself to the risks the finding of supposed keys to his satire might occasion. Too much credit must not be given to this explanation, however, though some writers have made material out of it to exploit Church intolerance, which the conditions do not justify. We are not sure who wrote the Arthur Legends, we do not know the author of the Cid, even all-pervasive German scholarship has not settled the problem of the writer of the Nibelungen, and the authorship of the Dies Irae is in doubt, though all of these would be sources of honor and praise rather than danger. Authors had evidently not as yet become sophisticated to the extent of {212} seeking immortality for their works. They even seem to have been indifferent as to whether their names were associated with them or not. Enough for them apparently to have had the satisfaction of doing, all else seemed futile. The original of Reynard the Fox was probably written in the Netherlands, though it may be somewhat difficult for the modern mind to associate so much of wit and humor with the Dutchmen of the Middle Ages. It arose there about the time that the Cid came into vogue in Spain, the Arthur Legends were being put into shape in England, and the Nibelungen reaching its ultimate form in Germany. Reynard thus fills up the geographical chart of contemporary literary effort for the Thirteenth Century, since France and Italy come in for their share in other forms of literature, and no country is missing from the story of successful, enduring accomplishment in letters. It was written from so close to the heart of Nature, that it makes a most interesting gift book even for the Twentieth Century child, and yet will be read with probably even more pleasure by the parents. With good reason another recent editor has thus summed up the catholicity of its appeal to all generations: "This book belongs to the rare class which is equally delightful to children and to their elders. In this regard it may be compared to 'Gulliver's Travels,' 'Don Quixote' and 'Pilgrim's Progress.' For wit and shrewd satire and for pure drollery both in situations and descriptions, it is unsurpassed. The animals are not men dressed up in the skin of beasts, but are throughout true to their characters, and are not only strongly realized but consistently drawn, albeit in so simple and captivating a way that the subtle art of the narrator is quite hidden, and one is aware only of reading an absorbingly interesting and witty tale." To have a place beside Gulliver, the old Spanish Knight and Christian, shows the estimation in which the book is held by those who are best acquainted with it. The work is probably best known through the version of it which has come to us from the greatest of German poets, Goethe, whose Reineke Fuchs has perhaps had more sympathetic readers and a wider audience than any other of Goethe's {213} works. The very fact that so deeply intellectual a literary man should have considered it worth his while to devote his time to making a modern version of it, shows not only the estimation in which he held it, but also affords excellent testimony to its worth as literature, for Goethe, unlike most poets, was a fine literary critic, and one who above all knew the reasons for the esthetic faith that was in him. Animal stories in every age, however, have been imitations of it much more than is usually imagined. While the author probably obtained the hint for his work from some of the old-time fables as they came to him by tradition, though we have no reason to think that AEsop was familiar to him and many for thinking the Greek fabulist was not, he added so much to this simple literary mode, transformed it so thoroughly from child's literature to world literature, that the main merit of modern animal stories must be attributed to him. Uncle Remus and the many compilations of this kind that have been popular in our own generation, owe much more to the animal Epic than might be thought possible by one not familiar with the original Thirteenth Century work. Every language has a translation of the Animal Epic and most of the generations since have been interested and amused by the quaint conceits, which enable the author to picture so undisguisedly, men and women under animal garb. It discloses better than any other specimen of the literature of the time that men and women do not change even in the course of centuries, and that in the heart of the Middle Ages a wise observer could see the foibles of humanity just as they exist at the present time. Any one who thinks that evolution after seven centuries should have changed men somewhat in their ethical aspects, at least, made their aspirations higher and their tendencies less commonplace, not to say less degenerative, should read one of the old versions of Reynard the Fox and be convinced that men and women in the Thirteenth Century were quite the same as we are familiar with them at the present moment. The second of the most read books of the century is the famous Legenda Aurea or, as it has been called in English, the Golden Legend, written by Jacobus de Voragine, the distinguished Dominican preacher and writer (born during the first half of the Thirteenth Century, died just at its close), who, {214} after rising to the higher grades in his own order, became the Archbishop of Genoa. His work at once sprang into popular favor and continued to be perhaps the most widely read book, with the exception of the Holy Scriptures, during the Fourteenth and Fifteenth centuries. It was one of the earliest books printed in Italy, the first edition appearing about 1570, and it is evident that it was considered that its widespread popularity would not only reimburse the publisher, but would help the nascent art of printing by bringing it to the attention of a great many people. Its subject is very different from that of the modern most read books; librarians do not often have to supply lives of Saints nowadays, though some similarities of material with that of books now much in demand help to account for its vogue. Jacobus de Voragine's work consisted of the lives of the greater Saints of the Church since the time of Christ, and detailed especially the wonderful things that happened in their lives, some of which of course were mythical and all of them containing marvelous stories. This gave prominence to many legends that have continued to maintain their hold upon the popular imagination ever since. With all this adventitious interest, however, the book contained a solid fund of information with regard to the lives of the Saints, and besides it taught the precious lessons of unselfishness and the care for others of the men who had come to be greeted by the title of Saint. The work must have done not a little to stir up the faith, enliven the charity, and build up the characters of the people of the time, and certainly has fewer objections than most popular reading at any period of the world's history. For young folks the wonderful legends afforded excellent and absolutely innocuous exercise of the functions of the imagination quite as well as our own modern wonder books or fairy tales, while the stories themselves presented many descriptive portions out of which subjects for decorative purposes could readily be obtained. It must be set down as another typical distinction of the Thirteenth Century and an addition to its greatness, that it should have made the Golden Legend popular and thus preserved it for future generations, who became {215} deeply interested in it, as in most of the other precious heritages they received from this great original century. {opp214} [Illustration] MADONNA AND CHILD (GIOV. PISANO, PADUA) [Illustration] ST. CHRISTOPHER (ALTO RELIEVO, VENICE) The third of the most read books of the century, The Romance of the Rose, is not so well known except by scholars as is the Animal Epic or perhaps even the Golden Legend. Anyone who wants to understand the burden of the time, however, and who wishes to put himself in the mood and the tense to comprehend not only the other literature of the era, and in this must be included even Dante, but also the social, educational, and even scientific movements of the period, must become familiar with it. It has been well said that a knowledge and study of the three most read books of the century, those which we have named, will afford a far clearer insight into the daily life and the spirit working within the people for whom they were written, than the annals of the wars or political struggles that were waged during the same period between kings and nobles. For this clearer insight a knowledge of the Romance of the Rose is more important than of the others. It provides a better introduction to the customs and habits, the manners of thought and of action, the literary and educational interests of the people of the Thirteenth Century, than any mere history, however detailed, could. In this respect it resembles Homer who, as Froude declares, has given us a better idea of Greek life than a whole encyclopedia of classified information would have done. The intimate life stories of no other periods in history are so well illustrated, nor so readily to be comprehended, as those of Homer and the authors of the medieval Romaunt. The Romance of the Rose continued to be for more than two centuries the most read book in Europe. Every one with any pretense to scholarship or to literary taste in any European country considered it necessary to be familiar with it, and without exaggeration what Lowell once declared with regard to Don Quixote, that it would be considered a mark of lack of culture to miss a reference to it in any country in Europe, might well have been repeated during the Fourteenth and Fifteenth centuries of the Romance of the Rose. It has in recent years been put into very suitable English dress by Mr. F. S. Ellis and published among the Temple Classics, thus placing it {216} within easy reach of English readers. Mr. Ellis must certainly be considered a suitable judge of the interest there is in the work. He spent several years in translating its two and twenty thousand six hundred and eight lines and yet considers that few books deserve as much attention as this typical Thirteenth Century allegory. He says: "The charge of dulness once made against this highly imaginative and brilliant book, successive English writers, until quite recent times have been content to accept the verdict, though Professor Morley and others have of late ably repelled the charge. If further testimony were necessary as to the falsity of the accusation, and the opinion of one who has found a grateful pastime in translating it might be considered of any weight, he would not hesitate to traverse the attribution of dulness, and to assert that it is a poem of extreme interest, written as to the first part with delicate fancy, sweet appreciation of natural beauty, clear insight, and skilful invention, while J. de Meun's continuation is distinguished by vigor, brilliant invention, and close observation of human nature. The Thirteenth Century lives before us." The Rose is written on a lofty plane of literary value, and the fact that it was so popular, speaks well for the taste of the times and for the enthusiasm of the people for the more serious forms of literature. Not that the Romance of the Rose is a very serious book itself, but if we compare it with the popular publications which barely touch the realities of life in the modern time, it will seem eminently serious. In spite of the years that have elapsed since its original publication it has not lost all its interest, even for a casual reader, and especially for one whose principal study is mankind in its varying environment down the ages, for it presents a very interesting picture of men and their ways in this wonderful century. Here, as in the stories of Reynard the Fox, one is brought face to face with the fact that men and women have not changed and that the peccadillos of our own generation have their history in the Middle Ages also. Take, for instance, the question of the too great love of money which is now the subject of so much writing and sermonizing. One might think that at least this was {217} modern. Here, however, is what the author of the Romance of the Rose has to say about it: Three cruel vengeances pursue These miserable wretches who Hoard up their worthless wealth: great toil Is theirs to win it; then their spoil They fear to lose; and lastly, grieve Most bitterly that they must leave Their hoards behind them. Cursed they die Who living, lived but wretchedly; For no man, if he lack of love. Hath peace below or joy above. If those who heap up wealth would show Fair love to others, they would go Through life beloved, and thus would reign Sweet happy days. If they were fain, Who hold so much of good to shower around Their bounty unto those they found In need thereof, and nobly lent Their money, free from measurement Of usury (yet gave it not To idle gangrel men), I wot That then throughout the land were seen No pauper carl or starveling quean. But lust of wealth doth so abase Man's heart, that even love's sweet grace Bows down before it; men but love Their neighbors that their love may prove A profit, and both bought and sold Are friendships at the price of gold. Nay, shameless women set to hire Their bodies, heedless of hell-fire; It is after reading a passage like this in a book written in the Thirteenth Century that one feels the full truth of that expression of the greatest of American critics, James Russell Lowell, which so often comes back to mind with regard to the works of this century, that to read a classic is like reading a commentary on the morning paper. When this principle is {218} applied the other way, I suppose it may be said, that when a book written in the long ago sounds as if it were the utterance of some one aroused by the evils round him in our modern life, then it springs from so close to the heart of nature that it is destined to live and have an influence far beyond its own time. The Romance of the Rose, written seven centuries ago, now promises to have renewed youth in the awakening of interest in our Gothic ancestors and their accomplishments, before the over-praised renaissance came to trouble the stream of thought and writing. Other passages serve to show how completely the old-time poet realized all the abuses of the desire for wealth, and how much it makes men waste their lives over unessentials, instead of trying to make existence worth while for themselves and others. Here is an arraignment of the strenuous life of business every line of which is as true for us as it was for the poet's generation: 'Tis truth (though some 'twill little please) To hear the trader knows no ease; For ever in his soul a prey To anxious care of how he may Amass more wealth: this mad desire Doth all his thought and actions fire. Devising means whereby to stuff His barns and coffers, for 'enough' He ne'er can have, but hungreth yet His neighbors' goods and gold to get. It is as though for thirst he fain Would quaff the volume of the Seine At one full draught, and yet should fail To find its waters of avail To quench his longing. What distress, What anguish, wrath, and bitterness Devour the wretch! fell rage and spite Possess his spirit day and night. And tear his heart; the fear of want Pursues him like a spectre gaunt. The more he hath, a wider mouth He opes, no draught can quench his drouth. {219} The old poet pictures the happiness of the poor man by contrast, and can in conclusion depict even more pitilessly the real poverty of spirit of the man who "having, struggleth still to get" and never stops to enjoy life itself by helping his fellows: Light-heart and gay Goes many a beggar by the way, But little heeding though his back Be bent beneath a charcoal sack. They labor patiently and sing. And dance, and laugh at whatso thing Befalls, for havings care they nought. But feed on scraps and chitlings bought Beside St. Marcel's, and dispend Their gains for wassail, then, straight wend Once more to work, not grumblingly. But light of heart as bird on tree Winning their bread without desire To fleece their neighbors. Nought they tire Of this their round, but week by week In mirth and work contentment seek; Returning when their work is done Once more to swill the jovial tun. And he who what he holds esteems Enough, is rich beyond the dreams Of many a dreary usurer, And lives his life-days happier far; For nought it signifies what gains The wretched usurer makes, the pains Of poverty afflict him yet Who having, struggleth still to get. The pictures are as true to life at the beginning of the Twentieth Century as they were in the latter half of the Thirteenth. There are little touches of realism in both the pictures, which show at once how acute an observer, how full of humor his appreciation, and yet how sympathetic a writer the author of the Romance was, and at the same time reveal something of the sociological value of his work. It discloses what is so easily concealed under the mask of formal historical writing and {220} tells us of the people rather than of the few great ones among them, or those whom time and chance had made leaders of men. It seems long to read but as a recent translator has said, it represents only the file of a newspaper for eighteen months, and while it talks of quite as trivial things as the modern newspaper, the information is of a kind that is likely to do more good, and prove of more satisfaction, than the passing crimes and scandals that now occupy over-anxious readers. [Illustration] CENTRAL TOWER (LINCOLN) {221} XIV SOME THIRTEENTH CENTURY PROSE. It would be unpardonable to allow the notion to be entertained that it was only in poetry that the writers of the Thirteenth Century succeeded in creating works of enduring influence. Some of the prose writings of the time are deeply interesting for many reasons. Modern prose was in its formative period, and the evolution of style, as of other things in the making, is proverbially worthy of more serious study than even the developed result. The prose writings of the Thirteenth Century were mainly done in Latin, but that was not for lack of command over the vernacular tongues, as we shall see, but because this was practically a universal language. This century had among other advantages that subsequent ages have striven for unsuccessfully, our own most of all, a common medium of expression for all scholars at least. There are, however, the beginnings of Prose in all the modern languages and it is easy to understand that the Latin of the time had a great influence on the vernacular and that the modes of expression which had become familiar in the learned tongue, were naturally transferred to the vulgar speech, as it was called, whenever accuracy of thought and nicety of expression invited such transmutation. With regard to the Latin of the period it is the custom of many presumably well-educated men to sniff a little and say deprecatingly, that after all much cannot be expected from the writers of the time, since they were dependent on medieval or scholastic Latin for the expression of their ideas. This criticism is supposed to do away with any idea of the possibility of there having been a praiseworthy prose style, at this time in the Middle Ages. In the chapter on the Latin Hymns, we call attention to the fact that this same mode of criticism was supposed to preclude all possibility of rhymed Latin, as worthy to occupy a prominent place in literature. The widespread {222} encouragement of this false impression has, as a matter of fact, led to a neglect of these wonderful poems, though they may in the opinion of competent critics, even be considered as representing the true genius of the Latin language and its powers of poetic expression better than the Greek poetic modes, which were adopted by the Romans, but which, with the possible exception of their two greatest poets, never seem to have acquired that spontaneity that would characterize a native outburst of lingual vitality. As for the philosophic writers of the century that great period holds in this, as in other departments, the position of the palmiest time of the Middle Ages. To it belongs Alexander Hales, the Doctor Irrefragabilis who disputes with Aquinas the prize for the best example of the Summa Theologiae; Bonaventure the Mystic, and writer of beautiful hymns; Roger Bacon, the natural philosopher; Vincent of Beauvais, the encyclopedist. While of the four, greatest of all, Albertus Magnus, the "Dumb Ox of Cologne," was born seven years before its opening, his life lasted over four-fifths of it; that of Aquinas covered its second and third quarters; Occam himself, though his main exertions lie beyond this century, was probably born before Aquinas died; while John Duns Scotus hardly outlived the century's close by a decade. Raymond Lully, one of the most characteristic figures of Scholasticism and of the medieval period (with his "great art" of automatic philosophy), who died in 1315, was born as early as 1235. Peter the Spaniard, Pope and author of the Summulae Logicales, the grammar of formal logic for ages as well of several medieval treatises that have attracted renewed attention in our day, died in 1277. With regard to what was accomplished in philosophic and theologic prose, examples will be found in the chapter on St. Thomas Aquinas, which prove beyond all doubt the utter simplicity, the directness, and the power of the prose of the Thirteenth Century. In the medical works of the time there was less directness, but always a simplicity that made them commendable. In general, university writers were influenced by the scholastic methods and we find it reflected constantly in their works. In the minds of many people this would be {223} enough at once to condemn it. It will usually be found, however, as we have noted before, that those who are readiest to condemn scholastic writing know nothing about it, or so little that their opinion is not worth considering. Usually they have whatever knowledge they think they possess, at second hand. Sometimes all that they have read of scholastic philosophy are some particularly obscure passages on abstruse subjects, selected by some prejudiced historian, in order to show how impossible was the philosophic writing of these centuries of the later Middle Ages. There are other opinions, however, that are of quite different significance and value. We shall quote but one of them, written by Professor Saintsbury of the University of Edinburgh, who in his volume on the Flourishing of Romance and the Rise of Allegory (the Twelfth and Thirteenth centuries) of his Periods of European Literature, has shown how sympathetically the prose writing of the Thirteenth Century may appeal even to a scholarly modern, whose main interests have been all his life in literature. Far from thinking that prose was spoiled by scholasticism. Prof. Saintsbury considers that scholasticism was the fortunate training school in which all the possibilities of modern prose were brought out and naturally introduced into the budding languages of the time. He says: "However this may be" (whether the science of the Nineteenth Century after an equal interval will be of any more positive value, whether it will not have even less comparative interest than that which appertains to the scholasticism of the Thirteenth Century) "the claim modest, and even meager as it may seem to some, which has been here once more put forward for this scholasticism--the claim of a far-reaching educative influence in mere language, in mere system of arrangement and expression, will remain valid. If at the outset of the career of modern languages, men had thought with the looseness of modern thought, had indulged in the haphazard slovenliness of modern logic, had popularized theology and vulgarized rhetoric, as we have seen both popularized and vulgarized since, we should indeed have been in evil case. It used to be thought clever to moralize and to felicitate mankind over the rejection of the stays, the fetters, the prison in which its {224} thought was medievally kept. The justice or the injustice, the taste or the vulgarity of these moralizings, of these felicitations, may not concern us here. But in expression, as distinguished from thought, the value of the discipline to which these youthful languages was subjected is not likely now to be denied by any scholar who has paid attention to the subject. It would have been perhaps a pity if thought had not gone through other phases; it would certainly have been a pity if the tongues had been subjected to the fullest influence of Latin constraint. But that the more lawless of them benefited by that constraint there can be no doubt whatever. The influence of form which the best Latin hymns of the Middle Ages exercised in poetry, the influence in vocabulary and in logical arrangement which scholasticism exercised in prose are beyond dispute: and even those who will not pardon literature, whatever its historic and educative importance be, for being something less than masterly in itself, will find it difficult to maintain the exclusion of the Cur Deus Homo, and impossible to refuse admission to the Dies Irae." Besides this philosophic and scientific prose, there were two forms of writing of which this century presents a copious number of examples. These are the chronicles and biographies of the time and the stories of travelers and explorers. These latter we have treated in a separate chapter. The chronicles of the time deserve to be studied with patient attention by anyone who wishes to know the prose writers of the century and the character of the men of that time and their outlook on life. It is usually considered that chroniclers are rather tiresome old fogies who talk much and say very little, who accept all sorts of legends on insufficient authority and who like to fill up their pages with wonderful things regardless of their truth. In this regard it must not be forgotten that in times almost within the memory of men still alive, Herodotus now looked upon deservedly as the Father of History and one of the great historical writers of all time, was considered to have a place among these chroniclers, and his works were ranked scarcely higher, except for the purity of their Greek style. The first of the great chroniclers in a modern tongue was the famous Geoffrey de Villehardouin, who was not only a writer {225} of, but an actor in the scenes which he describes. He was enrolled among the elite of French Chivalry, in that Crusade at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century, which resulted in the foundation of the Greco-Latin Empire. His book entitled "The Conquest of Constantinople," includes the story of the expedition during the years from 1198 to 1207. Modern war correspondents have seldom succeeded in giving a more vivid picture of the events of which they were witnesses than this first French chronicler of the Thirteenth Century. It is evident that the work was composed with the idea that it should be recited, as had been the old poetic Chansons de Geste, in the castles of the nobles and before assemblages of the people, perhaps on fair days and other times when they were gathered together. The consequence is that it is written in a lively straightforward style with direct appeals to its auditors. It contains not a few passages of highly poetic description which show that the chronicler was himself a literary man of no mean order and probably well versed in the effusions of the old poets of this country. His description of the fleet of the Crusaders as it was about to set sail for the East and then his description of its arrival before the imposing walls of the Imperial City, are the best examples of this, and have not been surpassed even by modern writers on similar topics. Though the French writer was beyond all doubt not familiar with the Grecian writers and knew nothing of Xenophon, there is a constant reminder of the Greek historian in his work. Xenophon's simple directness, his thorough-going sincerity, the impression he produces of absolute good faith and confidence in the completeness of the picture, so that one feels that one has been present almost at many of the scenes described, are all to be encountered in his medieval successor. Villehardouin went far ahead of his predecessors, the chroniclers of foregoing centuries, in his careful devotion to truth. A French writer has declared that to Villehardouin must be ascribed the foundation of historical probity. None of his facts, stated as such, has ever been impugned, and though his long speeches must necessarily have been his own composition, there seems no doubt that they contain the ideas which had been expressed on various occasions, and besides were composed with due reference to {226} the character of the speaker and convey something of his special style of expression. Prof. Saintsbury in his article in the Encyclopedia Britannica on Villehardouin, sums up very strikingly the place that this first great vernacular historian's book must occupy. He says: "It is not impertinent, and at the same time an excuse for what has been already said, to repeat that Villehardouin's book, brief as it is, is in reality one of the capital books of literature, not merely for its merit, but because it is the most authentic and the most striking embodiment in the contemporary literature of the sentiments which determined the action of a great and important period of history. There are but very few books which hold this position, and Villehardouin's is one of them. If every other contemporary record of the crusades perished, we should still be able by aid of this to understand and realize what the mental attitude of crusaders, of Teutonic Knights, and the rest was, and without this we should lack the earliest, the most undoubtedly genuine, and the most characteristic of all such records. The very inconsistency with which Villehardouin is chargeable, the absence of compunction with which he relates the changing of a sacred religious pilgrimage into something by no means unlike a mere filibustering raid on a great scale, add a charm to the book. For, religious as it is, it is entirely free from the very slightest touch of hypocrisy or, indeed, of self-consciousness of any kind. The famous description of the Crusades, _gesta Dei per Francos_, was evidently to Villehardouin a plain matter-of-fact description and it no more occurred to him to doubt the divine favor being extended to the expeditions against Alexius or Theodore than to doubt that it was shown to expeditions against Saracens and Turks." {opp226} [Illustration] PONTE ALLE GRAZIE (FLORENCE, LAPO) [Illustration] PORTA ROMANA GATE, (FLORENCE, N. PISANO) It was especially in the exploitation of biographical material that the Thirteenth Century chroniclers were at their best. Any one who recalls Carlyle's unstinted admiration of Jocelyn of Brakelonds' life of Abbot Sampson in his essays Past and Present, will be sure that at least one writer in England had succeeded in pleasing so difficult a critic in this rather thorny mode of literary expression. It is easy to say too much or too little about the virtues and the vices of a man whose biography one has chosen to write. Jocelyn's simple, straightforward story {227} would seem to fulfill the best canons of modern criticism in this respect. Probably no more vivid picture of a man and his ways was ever given until Boswell's Johnson. Nor was the English chronicler alone in this respect. The Sieur de Joinville's biographical studies of the life of Louis IX. furnish another example of this literary mode at its best, and modern writers of biography could not do better than go back to read these intimate pictures of the life of a great king, which are not flattered nor overdrawn but give us the man as he actually was. The English biographic chronicler of the olden time could picture exciting scenes without any waste of words. A specimen of his work will serve to show the merit of his style. After reading it one is not likely to be surprised that Carlyle should have so taken the Chronicler to heart nor been so enthusiastic in his praise. It is the very type of that impressionism in style that has once more in the course of time become the fad of our own day. "The abbot was informed that the church of Woolpit was vacant, Walter of Coutances being chosen to the bishopric of Lincoln. He presently convened the prior and great part of the convent, and taking up his story thus began: 'You well know what trouble I had in respect of the church of Woolpit; and in order that it should be obtained for your exclusive use I journeyed to Rome at your instance, in the time of the schism between Pope Alexander and Octavian. I passed through Italy at that time when all clerks bearing letters of our lord the Pope Alexander were taken. Some were imprisoned, some hanged, and some, with nose and lips cut off, sent forward to the pope, to his shame and confusion. I, however, pretended to be Scotch; and putting on the garb of a Scotchman, and the gesture of one, I often brandished my staff, in the way they use that weapon called, a gaveloc, at those who mocked me, using threatening language, after the manner of the Scotch. To those that met and questioned me as to who I was, I answered nothing, but, "Ride ride Rome, turne Cantwereberei." This did I to conceal myself and my errand, and that I should get to Rome safer in the guise of a Scotchman. "'Having obtained letters from the pope, even as I wished, on my return I passed by a certain castle, as my way led me {228} from the city; and behold the officers thereof came about me, laying hold upon me, and saying, "This vagabond who makes himself out to be a Scotchman is either a spy or bears letters from the false pope Alexander." And while they examined my ragged clothes, and my boots, and my breeches, and even the old shoes which I carried over my shoulders, after the fashion of the Scotch, I thrust my hand into the little wallet which I carried, wherein was contained the letter of our lord the pope, placed under a little cup I had for drinking. The Lord God and St. Edmund so permitting, I drew out both the letter and the cup together, so that, extending my arm aloft, I held the letter underneath the cup. They could see the cup plain enough, but they did not see the letter; and so I got clear out of their hands, in the name of the Lord. Whatever money I had about me they took away; therefore I had to beg from door to door, without any payment, until I arrived in England.'" Another excellent example of the biographic prose of the century, though this is the vernacular, is Joinville's life of St. Louis, without doubt one of the precious biographical treasures of all times. It contains a vivid portrait of Louis IX., made by a man who knew him well personally, took part with him in some of the important actions of the book, and in general was an active personage in the affairs of the time. Those who think that rapid picturesque description such as vividly recalls deeds of battle was reserved for the modern war correspondent, should read certain portions of Joinville's book. As an example we have ventured to quote the page on which the seneschal historian himself recounts the role which he played in the famous battle of Mansourah, at which, with the Count de Soissons and Pierre de Neuville, he defended a small bridge against the enemy under a hail of arrows. He says: "Before us there were two sergeants of the king, one of whom was named William de Boon and the other John of Gamaches. Against these the Turks who had placed themselves between the river and the little tributary, led a whole mob of villains on foot, who hurled at them clods of turf or whatever came to hand. Never could they make them recoil upon us, however. As a last resort the Turks sent forward a foot soldier {229} who three times launched Greek fire at them. Once William de Boon received the pot of green fire upon his buckler. If the fire had touched anything on him he would have been entirely burned up. We at the rear were all covered by arrows which had missed the Sergeants. It happened that I found a waistcoat which had been stuffed by one of the Saracens. I turned the open side of it towards me and made a shield out of the vest which rendered me great service, for I was wounded by their arrows in only five places though my horse was wounded in fifteen. One of my own men brought me a banner with my arms and a lance. Every time then that we saw that they were pressing the Royal Sergeants we charged upon them and they fled. The good Count Soissons, from the point at which we were, joked with me and said 'Senechal, let us hoot out this rabble, for by the headdress of God (this was his favorite oath) we shall talk over this day you and I many a time in our ladies' halls.'" We have said that the writing of the Thirteenth Century must have been done to a great extent for the sake of the women of the time, and that its very existence was a proof that the women possessed a degree of culture, that might not be realized from the few details that have been preserved to us of their education and habits of life. In this last passage of Joinville we have the proof of this, since evidently the telling of the stories of these days of battle was done mainly in order that the women folks might have their share in the excitement of the campaign, and might be enabled vividly to appreciate what the dangers had been and how gloriously their lords had triumphed. At every period of the world's history it was true that literature was mainly made for women and that some of the best portions of it always concerned them very closely. We have purposely left till last, the greatest of the chroniclers of the Thirteenth Century, Matthew Paris, the Author of the Historia Major, who owes his surname doubtless to the fact that he was educated at the University of Paris. Instead of trying to tell anything about him from our own slight personal knowledge, we prefer to quote the passage from Green's History of the English People, in which one of the greatest of our modern English historians pays such a magnificent tribute to his colleague of the earlier times: {230} "The story of this period of misrule has been preserved for us by an annalist whose pages glow with the new outburst of patriotic feeling which this common expression of the people and the clergy had produced. Matthew Paris is the greatest, as he is in reality the last of our monastic historians. The school of St. Albans survived indeed till a far later time, but the writers dwindle into mere annalists whose view is bounded by the Abbey precincts, and whose work is as colorless as it is jejune. In Matthew the breadth and precision of the narrative, the copiousness of his information on topics whether national or European, the general fairness and justice of his comments, are only surpassed by the patriotic fire and enthusiasm of the whole. He had succeeded Roger of Wendover as Chronicler of St. Albans; and the Greater Chronicle, with the abridgement of it which has long passed under the name of Matthew of Westminster, a "History of the English," and the "Lives of the Earlier Abbots," were only a few among the voluminous works which attest his prodigious industry. He was an eminent artist as well as a historian, and many of the manuscripts which are preserved are illustrated by his own hand. A large circle of correspondents--bishops like Grosseteste, ministers like Hubert de Burgh, officials like Alexander de Swinford--furnished him with minute accounts of political and ecclesiastical proceedings. Pilgrims from the East and Papal agents brought news of foreign events to his scriptorium at St. Albans. He had access to and quotes largely from state documents, charters, and exchequer rolls. The frequency of the royal visits to the abbey brought him a store of political intelligence and Henry himself contributed to the great chronicle which has preserved with so terrible a faithfulness the memory of his weakness and misgovernment. On one solemn feast-day the King recognized Matthew, and bidding him sit on the middle step between the floor and the throne, begged him to write the story of the day's proceedings. While on a visit to St. Albans he invited him to his table and chamber, and enumerated by name two hundred and fifty of the English barons for his information. But all this royal patronage has left little mark on his work. "_The case,_" as he says, "_of historical writers is hard, for if they tell the truth they provoke men, and if they write what is false they offend God._" {231} With all the fullness of the school of court historians, such as Benedict or Hoveden, Matthew Paris combines an independence and patriotism which is strange to their pages. He denounces with the same unsparing energy the oppression of the Papacy and the King. His point of view is neither that of a courtier nor of a Churchman, but of an Englishman, and the new national tone of his chronicle is but an echo of the national sentiment which at last bound nobles and yeomen and Churchmen together into an English people." We of the Twentieth Century are a people of information and encyclopedias rather than of literature, so that we shall surely appreciate one important specimen of the prose writing of the Thirteenth Century since it comprises the first modern encyclopedia. Its author was the famous Vincent of Beauvais. Vincent consulted all the authors, sacred and profane, that he could possibly lay hands on, and the number of them was indeed prodigious. It has often been said by men supposed to be authorities in history, that the historians of the Middle Ages had at their disposition only a small number of books, and that above all they were not familiar with the older historians. While this was true as regards the Greek, it was not for the Latin historical writers. Vincent of Beauvais has quotations from Caesar's De Bello Gallico, from Sallust's Catiline and Jugurtha, from Quintus Curtius, from Suetonius and from Valerius Maximus and finally from Justin's Abridgement of Trogus Pompeius. Vincent had the advantage of having at his disposition the numerous libraries of the monasteries throughout France, the extent of which, usually unrealized in modern times, will be appreciated from our special chapter on the subject. Besides he consulted the documents in the chapter houses of the Cathedrals especially those of Paris, of Rouen, of Laon, of Beauvais and of Bayeux, which were particularly rich in collections of documents. It might be thought that these libraries and archives would be closely guarded. Far from being closed to writers from the outer world they were accessible to all to such an extent, indeed, that a number of them are mentioned by Vincent as public institutions. {232} His method of collecting his information is interesting, because it shows the system employed by him is practically that which has obtained down to our own day. He made use for his immense investigation of a whole army of young assistants, most of whom were furnished him by his own order, the Dominicans. He makes special mention in a number of places of quotations due to their collaboration. The costliness of maintaining such a system would have made the completion of the work absolutely impossible were it not for the liberality of King Louis IX., who generously offered to defray the expenses of the composition. Vincent has acknowledged this by declaring in his prefatorial letter to the King that, "you have always liberally given assistance even to the work of gathering the materials." {opp232} [Illustration] ST. CATHERINE'S (L�BECK) [Illustration] CHURCH AND CLOISTERS, SAN ANTONIO (PADUA) Vincent's method of writing is quite as interesting as his method of compilation of facts. The great Dominican was not satisfied with being merely a source of information. The philosophy of history has received its greatest Christian contribution from St. Augustine's City of God. In this an attempt was made to trace the meaning and causal sequence of events as well as their mere external connection and place in time. In a lesser medieval way Vincent tried deliberately to imitate this and besides writing history attempted to trace the philosophy of it. For him, as for the great French philosophic historian Bossuet in his Universal History five centuries later, everything runs its provided race from the creation to the redemption and then on toward the consummation of the world. He describes at first the commencements of the Church from the time of Abel, through its progress under the Patriarchs, the Prophets, Judges, Kings, and leaders of the people, down to the Birth of Christ. He traces the history of the Apostles and of the first Disciples, though he makes it a point to find place for the famous deeds of the great men of Pagan antiquity. He notes the commencement of Empires and Kingdoms, their glory, their decadence, their ruin, and the Sovereigns who made them illustrious in peace and war. There was much that was defective in the details of history as they were traced by Vincent, much that was lacking in completeness, but the intention was evidently the best, and patience and labor were devoted to the {233} sources of history at his command. Perhaps never more than at the present moment have we been in a position to realize that history at its best can be so full of defects even after further centuries of consultation of documents and printed materials, that we are not likely to be in the mood to blame this first modern historian very much. As for the other portions of his encyclopedia, biographic, literary and scientific, they were not only freely consulted by his contemporaries and successors, but we find traces of their influence in the writings and also in the decorative work of the next two centuries. We have already spoken of the use of his book in the provision of subjects for the ornamentation of Cathedrals and the same thing might be said of edifices of other kinds. Nor must it be thought that Vincent has only a historic or ecclesiastical interest. Dr. Julius Pagel, in his Chapter on Medicine in the Middle Ages in Puschmann's Hand-Book of the History of Medicine, [Footnote 22] says, "that there were three writers whose works were even more popular than those of Albertus Magnus. These three were Bartholomew, the Englishman; Thomas, of Cantimprato, and Vincent, of Beauvais, the last of whom must be considered as one of the most important contributors to the generalization of scientific knowledge, not alone in the Thirteenth but in the immediately succeeding centuries. His most important work was really an encyclopedia of the knowledge of his time. It was called the Greater Triple Mirror and there is no doubt that it reflected the knowledge of his period. He had the true scientific spirit and constantly cites the authorities from whom his information was derived. He cites hundreds of authors and there is scarcely a subject that he does not touch on. One book of his work is concerned with human anatomy, and the concluding portion of it is an abbreviation of history carried down to the year 1250." [Footnote 22: Puschmann. Hand-Buch der Geschichte der Medizin, Jena, Fischer, 1902.] It might be considered that such a compend of information would be very dry-as-dust reading and that it would be fragmentary in character and little likely to be attractive except to a serious student. Dr. Pagel's opinion does not agree with this _a priori_ impression. He says with regard to it: {234} "The language is clear, readily intelligible, and the information is conveyed usually in an excellent, simple style. Through the introduction of interesting similes the contents do not lack a certain taking quality, so that the reading of the work easily becomes absorbing." This is, I suppose, almost the last thing that might be expected of a scientific teacher in the Thirteenth Century, because, after all, Vincent of Beauvais must be considered as one of the schoolmen, and they are supposed to be eminently arid, but evidently, if we are to trust this testimony of a modern German physician, only by those who have not taken the trouble to read them. One of the most important works of Thirteenth Century prose is the well-known Rationale Divinorum Officiorum (Significance of the Divine Offices) written by William Durandus, the Bishop of Mende, in France, whose tomb and its inscription in the handsome old Gothic Cathedral of Santa Maria Sopra Minerva, in Rome, shares with the body of St. Catherine of Sienna the honor of attracting so many visitors. The book has been translated into English under the title. The Symbolism of Churches and Church Ornaments, and has been very widely read. It was very popular in the Thirteenth Century, and the best possible idea of its subsequent reputation can be gathered from the fact, that the Rationale was the first work from the pen of an uninspired writer to be accorded the privilege of being printed. The Editio Princeps, a real first edition of supreme value, appeared from the press of John Fust in 1459. The only other books that had been printed at that time were the Psalters of 1457 and 1459. This edition is, of course, of the most extreme rarity. According to the English translators of Durandus the beauty of the typography has seldom been exceeded. The style of Durandus has been praised very much by the critics of succeeding centuries for its straightforwardness, simplicity and brevity. Most of these qualities it evidently owes to the hours spent by its author in the reading of Holy Scriptures. Durandus fashioned his style so much on the sacred writings that most of his book possesses something of the impressive character of the Bible itself. The impression derived from it is that of reading a book on a religious subject written {235} in an eminently suitable tone and spirit. Most of this impression must be attributed without doubt to the fact, that Durandus has not only formed his style on the Scriptures, but has actually incorporated Scriptural expressions in his writings to such an extent as to make them mostly a scriptural composition. This, far from being a fault, appears quite appropriate in his book because of its subject and the method of treatment. A quotation from the proeme (as it is in the quaint spelling of the English translation) will give the best idea of this. "All things, as pertain to offices and matters ecclesiastical, be full of divine significations and mysterious, and overflow with celestial sweetness; if so be that a man be diligent in his study of them, and know how to draw HONEY FROM THE ROCK, AND OIL FROM THE HARDEST STONE. But who KNOWETH THE ORDINANCES OF HEAVEN, OR CAN FIX THE REASONS THEREOF UPON THE EARTH? for he that prieth into their majesty, is overwhelmed by the glory of them. Of a truth THE WELL IS DEEP, AND I HAVE NOTHING TO DRAW WITH: unless he giveth it unto me WHO GIVETH TO ALL MEN LIBERALLY, AND UPBRAIDETH NOT: so that WHILE I JOURNEY THROUGH THE MOUNTAINS I may DRAW WATER WITH JOY OUT OF THE WELLS OF SALVATION. Wherefore albeit of the things handed down from our forefathers, capable we are not to explain all, yet if among them there be any thing which is done without reason it should be forthwith put away. Wherefore, I, WILLIAM, by the alone tender mercy of God, Bishop of the Holy Church which is in Mende, will knock diligently at the door, if so be that THE KEY OF DAVID will open unto me: that the King may BRING ME INTO HIS TREASURE? and shew unto me the heavenly pattern which was shewed unto Moses in the mount: so that I may learn those things which pertain to Rites Ecclesiastical whereof they teach and what they signify: and that I may be able plainly to reveal and make manifest the reasons of them, by HIS help, WHO HATH ORDAINED STRENGTH OUT OF THE MOUTH OF BABES AND SUCKLINGS: WHOSE SPIRITS BLOWETH WHERE IT {236} LISTETH: DIVIDING TO EACH SEVERALLY AS IT WILL to the praise and glory of the Trinity." This passage alone of Durandus would serve as an excellent refutation of the old-time Protestant tradition, fortunately now dying out though not as yet entirely eradicated, which stated so emphatically that the Bible was not allowed to be read before Luther's time. Those who wish to obtain a good idea of Durandus' style and the way he presents his material, can obtain it very well from his chapter on Bells, the first two paragraphs of which we venture to quote. They will be found quite as full of interesting information in their way as any modern writer might have brought together, and have the dignity and simplicity of the best modern prose. "Bells are brazen vessels, and were first invented in Nola, a city of Campania. Wherefore the larger bells are called Campanae, from Campania the district, and the smaller Nolae, from Nola the town. "You must know that bells, by the sound of which the people assembleth together to the church to hear, and the Clergy to preach, IN THE MORNING THE MERCY OF GOD AND HIS POWER BY NIGHT do signify the silver trumpets, by which under the Old Law the people was called together unto sacrifice. (Of these trumpets we shall speak in our Sixth Book.) For just as the watchmen in a camp rouse one another by trumpets, so do the Ministers of the Church excite each other by the sound of bells to watch the livelong night against the plots of the Devil. Wherefore our brazen bells are more sonorous than the trumpets of the Old Law, because then GOD was known in Judea only, but now in the whole earth. They be also more durable: For they signify that the teaching of the New Testament will be more lasting than the trumpets and sacrifices of the Old Law, namely, even unto the end of the world. "Again bells do signify preachers, who ought after the likeness of a bell to exhort the faithful unto faith: the which was typified in that the LORD commanded Moses to make a vestment for the High Priest who entered into the Holy of Holies. Also the cavity of the bell denoteth the mouth of the preacher, {237} according to the saying of the Apostle, I AM BECOME AS SOUNDING BRASS ON A TINKLING CYMBAL." Of course there are what we would be apt to consider exaggerations of symbolic meanings and far-fetched explanations and references, but this was of the taste of the time and has not in subsequent centuries been so beyond the canons of good taste as at present. Durandus goes on to tell that the hardness of the metal of the bell signifies fortitude in the mind of the preacher, that the wood of the frame on which the bell hangeth doth signify the wood of our Lord's Cross, that the rope by which the bell is strung is humility and also showeth the measure of life, that the ring in the length of the rope is the crown of reward for perseverance unto the end, and then proceeds to show why and how often the bells are rung and what the significance of each ringing is. He explains why the bells are silent for three days before Easter and also during times of interdict, and gives as the justification for this last the quotation from the Prophet "I WILL MAKE THY TONGUE CLEAVE TO THE ROOF OF THY MOUTH FOR THEY ARE A REBELLIOUS HOUSE." Even these few specimens of the prose of the Thirteenth Century, will serve to show that the writers of the period could express themselves with a vigor and directness which have made their books interesting reading for generations long after their time, and which stamp their authors as worthy of a period that found enduring and adequate modes of expression for every form of thought and feeling. [Illustration] STONE CARVING (PARIS) {238} XV ORIGIN OF THE DRAMA. The last place in the world, perhaps, that one would look for a great impulse to the development of the modern drama, which is entirely a new invention, an outgrowth of Christian culture and has practically no connection with the classic drama, would be in the life of St. Francis of Assisi. His utter simplicity, his thorough-going and cordial poverty, his sincere endeavor all during his life to make little of himself, might seem quite enough to forbid any thought of him as the father of a literary movement of this kind. "The poor little man of God," however, as he liked to call himself, in his supreme effort to get back to nature and out of the ways of the conventional world, succeeded in accomplishing a number of utterly unexpected results. His love for nature led to his wonderful expression of his feelings in his favorite hymn, one of the first great lyrical outbursts in modern poetry, a religious poem which as we shall see in the chapter on the Father of the Renaissance, Renan declares can only be appreciated properly by comparing it with the old Hebrew psalms, beside which it is worthy to be placed. Those who know the life of St. Francis best will easily appreciate how dramatic, though unconsciously so, were all the actions of his life. After all, his utter renunciation of all things, his taking of holy poverty to be his bride, his address to the birds, his sisters, his famous question of the butcher as to why he killed his brothers, the sheep, his personification of the sun and the moon and even of the death of the body as his brothers and sisters, are all eminently dramatic moments. His life is full of incidents that lent themselves, because of their dramatic quality, to the painters of succeeding centuries as the subjects of their striking pictures. Before the end of the century Giotto had picked out some of the most interesting of these for the decorative illustration of the upper church at {239} Assisi. During the succeeding century, the author of the Little Flowers of St. Francis, embodied many of these beautiful scenes in his little work, where they have been the favorite reading of poets for many centuries since. It should not be such a surprise as it might otherwise be, then, to find that St. Francis may be considered in one sense as the father of the modern drama. The story is a very pretty one and has an additional value because it has been illustrated by no less a brush than that of Giotto. One Christmas Eve just at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century, St. Francis gathered round him some of the poor people living outside of the town of Assisi, in order to recall vividly to them the great event which had taken place on that night so many centuries before. A little figure of a child, dressed in swaddling clothes, was laid on some straw in a manger with the breath of the nearby animals to warm it. To this manger throne of the Child King of Bethlehem, there came in adoration, after the hymns that recalled the angels' visit, first some of the shepherds from the surrounding country and then some of the country people who represented the kings from the East with their retinues, bringing with them their royal gifts. After this little scene, probably one of the first Nativity plays that had ever been given, St. Francis, according to the old legend, took the little image in his arms and in an excess of devotion pressed it to his heart. According to the old-time story, the infant came to life in his embrace and putting its little arms around his neck embraced him in return. Of course our modern generation is entirely too devoted to "common sense" to accept any such pretty, pious story as this as more than a beautiful poetic legend. The legend has provided a subject for poet and painter many a time in subsequent centuries. Perhaps never has it been used with better effect than by Giotto, whose representation is one of the favorite pictures on the wall of the upper church of Assisi. Whether the little baby figure of the play actually came to life in his arms or not we do not know, but one thing is certain, that infant modern dramatic literature did come to life at the moment and that before the end of the Thirteenth Century it was to have a vigor and an influence that made it {240} one of the great factors in the social life of the period. The Franciscans were soon spread over the world. With filial reverence they took with them all the customs of their loved Father of Assisi, and especially such as appealed to the masses and brought home to them in a vivid way the great truths of religion. By the middle of the century many of the towns had cycles of mystery plays given at various times during the year, associated with the different feasts and illustrating and enforcing the lessons of the liturgy for the people in a manner so effective that it has probably never been equaled before or since. While the most potent factor in the dissemination of the early religious drama can be traced to Francis and the Franciscans, they were but promoters of a movement already well begun. Mystery plays were attempted before the Thirteenth Century in England and in North France. There is a well-known story from Matthew Paris, who wrote about the middle of the Thirteenth Century, of one Geoffrey who afterwards became Abbot of St. Albans. While yet a secular he borrowed certain precious religious vestments to be used in some sort of a miracle play in honor of St. Catherine. During the performance of the play, these vestments were destroyed by fire and Geogory was so much afflicted by the misfortune that in a spirit of reparation he became a religious in the Abbey of St. Albans. This must have been about the beginning of the Twelfth Century. Towards the end of this century mystery plays were not infrequent, though not in anything like the developed form nor popular character which they acquired during the Thirteenth Century. Fitz Stephen, writing the life of St. Thomas a Becket, towards the end of the Twelfth Century, contrasts the holier plays of London in his days with the theatrical spectacles of ancient Rome. The plays he mentioned were, however, scarcely more than slight developments of Church ceremonial with almost literal employment of scripture and liturgical language. {opp240} [Illustration] ST. FRANCIS' NATIVITY PLAY (GIOTTO) The first cycle of mystery plays of which there is definite mention is that of Chester. According to the proclamation of the Chester plays, the representation of this cycle dates in some form from the mayoralty of John Arneway, who was the {241} Mayor of Chester, between 1268 and 1276. Of the series of plays as given in the Thirteenth Century there are few remains. It is probable, even, that at this early date they were not acted in English but in French. English plays were probably first given in some of the Cathedral towns along the east coast of England, and perhaps York should have the credit of this innovation. It is easy to understand how the simpler dramatic additions to the ritual of the Church would inevitably develop in the earnest and very full religious life of the people which came with the building of the cathedrals, the evolution of Church ceremonial and the social life fostered by the trade-guilds of the time. While we have none of the remains of the actual plays of the Thirteenth Century, there is no doubt that an excellent idea of their form and content can be gathered from the English mystery plays, that have recently been edited in modern form and which serve to show the characteristics of the various cycles. It might perhaps be thought that these mystery plays would not furnish any great amount of entertainment for the populace, especially after they had seen them a certain number of times. The yearly repetition might naturally be expected to bring with it before long a satiety that would lead to inattention. As is well known, however, there is an enduring interest about these old religious stories that makes them of much greater attractiveness than most ordinary historical traditions. Many a faithful reader of the Bible finds constantly renewed interest in the old Biblical stories in spite of frequent repetition. Their significance to the eye of faith in the Middle Ages gave them, beyond any doubt, that quality which in any literary work will exemplify and fulfill Horace's dictum, _decies repetita placebit_. Besides, it must not be forgotten that the men and women of the Thirteenth Century had not the superficial facilities of the printing press to cloy their intellectual curiosity, and by trivial titillation make them constantly crave novelty. It must not be thought, in spite of the fact that these were religious plays, that they were always so serious as to be merely instructive without being amusing. A large fund of amusement was injected into the old biblical stories by the {242} writers of the different cycles and undoubtedly the actors themselves added certain personal elements in this matter, which still further enhanced some of the comical aspects of the solemn stories. Nearly always the incidents of the Scriptural narrative though followed more or less literally, were treated with a large humanity that could scarcely fail to introduce elements of humor into the dramatic performances. Such liberties, however, were taken only with characters not mentioned by the Bible--the inventions of the writers. A series of quotations from the Chester Cycle of Plays will best illustrate this. We give them in the quaint spelling of the oldest version extant. The scene we quote is from the play dealing with Noah's flood and pictures Noah's wife as a veritable shrew. NOYE-- Wyffe, in this vessel we shall be kepte: My children and thou, I woulde in ye lepte. Noye's Wiffe-- In fayth, Noye, I hade as leffe thou slepte! For all thy frynishe fare, I will not doe after thy reade. Noye-- Good wyffe, doe nowe as I thee bydde. Noye's Wiffe-- Be Christe! not or I see more neede, Though thou stande all the daye and stare. Noye-- Lorde, that wemen be crabbed aye, And non are meke, I dare well saye. This is well seene by me to daye, In witnesse of you ichone (each one). Goodwiffe, lett be all this beare, That thou maiste in this place heare; For all the wene that thou arte maister, And so thou arte, by Sante John! All Noah's artful concession of his wife's mastery in the household does not avail to move her and so he tries objurgation. Noye-- Wiffe, come in: why standes thou their? Thou arte ever frowarde, I dare well sweare; Come in, one Godes halfe! tyme yt were, For feare leste that we drowne. {243} Noye's Wiffe-- Yes, sir, sette up youer saile, And rowe fourth with evill haile, For withouten (anye) fayle I will not oute of this towne; But I have my gossippes everyechone, One foote further I will not gone: The shall not drowne, by Sainte John! And I may save ther life. The loven me full well, by Christe! But thou lett them into thy cheiste, (ark) Elles rowe nowe wher thee leiste, And gette thee a newe wiffe. It is evident that he will not succeed so Noah, wise doubtless with the wisdom of experience, forbears to urge but appeals to her sons to bring her. NOYE-- Seme, sonne, loe! thy mother is wrawe: Forsooth, such another I doe not knowe. Sem-- Father, I shall fetch her in, I trowe, Withoutten anye fayle.-- Mother, my father after thee sends. And byddes thee into yeinder shippe wende. Loke up and see the wynde. For we bene readye to sayle. Noye's Wiffe-- Seme, goe againe to hym, I saie; I will not come theirin to daye. Noye-- Come in, wiffe, in twentye devilles waye! Or elles stand there without. Ham-- Shall we all feche her in? Noye-- Yea, sonnes, in Christe blessinge and myne! I woulde you hied you be-tyme. For of this flude I am in doubte. Jeffatte-- Mother, we praye you all together. For we are heare, youer owne childer. Come into the shippe for feare of the weither, For his love that you boughte! {244} Noye's Wiffe-- That will not I, for all youer call, But I have my gossippes all. Sem-- In faith, mother, yett you shalle, Wheither thou wylte or (nought). _(Her sons bring her in; as she steps aboard she is greeted by Noah.)_ Noye-- Welckome, wiffe, into this botte. Noye's Wiffe-- Have thou that for thy note! (_Giving her husband a cuff on the head_). Noye-- Ha, ha! Marye, this is hotte! It is good for to be still. Ha! children, me thinkes my botte remeves, Our tarryinge heare highlye me greves, Over the lande the watter spreades; God doe as he will. This quotation will give a good idea of the human interest of these Mystery Plays and serve to show that they did not fail in dramatic power for any lack of humor or acute observation. It would be easy to illustrate this much more amply. The opportunities to enjoy these plays were abundant. We have said that the Chester Cycle is the one of which there is earliest mention. The method of its presentation has been described by Mr. Henry Morley in the fourth volume of his English Writers. He says: "There were scaffolds erected for spectators in those places to which the successive pageants would be drawn; and a citizen who on the first day saw in any place the first pageant (that of the Fall of Lucifer), if he kept his place and returned to it in good time on each successive morning, would see the Scripture story, as thus told, pass in its right order before him. Each pageant was drawn on four or six wheels, and had a room in which the actors and properties were concealed, under the upper room or stage on which they played." Mr. Morley then describes the action of the various parts of the cycle, showing how clearly the lessons of the Old Testament history and its symbolic and typical meaning were pointed out so that the spectators could not miss them. {245} How completely the story of the Bible was told may be judged from the order of the Pageants of the Play of Corpus Christi, in the time of the mayoralty of William Alne, in the third year of the reign of King Henry V., compiled by Roger Burton, town clerk. 1. Tanners. God the Father Almighty creating and forming the heavens, angels and archangels, Lucifer and the angels that fell with him to hell. 2. Plasterers. God the Father, in his own substance, creating the earth and all which is therein, in the space of five days. 3. Cardmakers. God the Father creating Adam of the clay of the earth and making Eve of Adam's rib, and inspiring them with the breath of life. 4. Fullers. God forbidding Adam and Eve to eat of the tree of life. 5. Coopers. Adam and Eve and a tree betwixt them; the serpent deceiving them with apples; God speaking to them and cursing the serpent, and with a sword driving them out of paradise. 6. Armourers. Adam and Eve, an angel with a spade and distaff assigning them work. 7. Gaunters (Glovers). Abel and Cain offering victims in sacrifice. 8. Shipwrights. God warning Noah to make an Ark of floatable wood, 9. Pessoners (Fishmongers) and Mariners. Noah in the Ark, with his wife; the three sons of Noah with their wives; with divers animals. 10. Parchment-makers, Bookbinders. Abraham sacrificing his son, Isaac, on an altar, a boy with wood and an angel. 11. Hosiers. Moses lifting up the serpent in the wilderness; King Pharaoh; eight Jews wondering and expecting. 12. Spicers. A Doctor declaring the sayings of the prophets of the future birth of Christ. Mary; an angel saluting her; Mary saluting Elizabeth. 13. Pewterers, Founders. Mary, Joseph wishing to put her away; an angel speaking to them that they go to Bethlehem. {246} 14. Tylers. Mary, Joseph, a midwife; the Child born, lying in a manger betwixt an ox and an ass, and an angel speaking to the shepherds, and to the players in the next pageant. 15. Chandlers. The shepherds talking together, the star in the East; an angel giving the shepherds the good tidings of the Child's birth. 16, 17. Orfevers (Goldsmiths), Goldbeaters, Moneymakers. The three kings coming from the East, Herod asking them about the child Jesus; the son of Herod, two counsellors, and a messenger. Mary with the Child, a star above, and the three kings offering gifts. How completely the people of each town were engaged in the presentation of the plays, can be judged from the following supplementary list of the other trade guilds that took parts. Many of them bear quaint names, which are now obsolete. They included the girdellers, makers of girdles; nailers, sawyers, lorymers (bridle makers), the spurriers (makers of spurs), the fevers or smiths, the curriers, the plumbers, the pattern-makers, the bottlers, the cap-makers, the skinners, the bladesmiths, the scalers, the buckle-makers, the cordwainers, the bowyers (makers of bows), the fletchers (arrow-featherers), the tilemakers, the hayresters (workers in horse hair), the boilers (bowl-makers), the tunners, the sellers or saddlers; the fuystours (makers of saddle tree), the verrours (glaziers), the broggours (brokers), the dubbers (refurbishers of clothes), the luminers or illuminators, the scriveners, the drapers, the potters, the weavers, the hostlers and mercers. The men of no occupation, however menial it may seem to us, were barred. Each of these companies had a special pageant with a portion of the Old or New Testament to represent and in each succeeding year spent much of their spare time in preparing for their dramatic performance, studying and practising their parts and making everything ready for competition with their brother craftsmen in the other pageants. Only those who know the supreme educative value of dramatic representations for those actively interested in them, will appreciate all that these plays meant for popular education in the best sense of the word, but all can readily understand how much they stood for in popular occupation of mind with high thoughts and how {247} much they must have acted as a preventive of debasing dissipations. It is extremely interesting to follow out some of the details of the management of these Mystery Plays. We shall find in even the meagre accounts that we have of them, sufficient to show us that men were not expected to work for nothing, nor even to be satisfied with what compensation there might be in the honor of being chosen for certain parts, nor in the special banquets that were provided for the actors after the performances. A definite salary was paid to each of the actors according to the importance of the part he took. Not only this, but the loans of garments for costume purposes, or of furniture or other material for stage properties, was repaid by definite sums of money. These are not large, but, considering the buying power of money at that time and the wages paid workmen, which enabled them to live at least as well, comparatively, as modern workmen, the compensation is ample. Mr. Morley, in the fourth volume of his "English Writers," has given us some of these details and as they have a special social interest and the old documents rejoice in a comic literalness of statement, they deserve citation. When about to set up a play, each guild chose for itself a competent manager, to whom it gave the rule of the pageant, and voted a fixed sum for its expenses. The play-book and the standing wardrobe and other properties were handed over to him, and he was accountable, of course, for their return after the close of the performances. The manager had to appoint his actors, to give them their several parts written out for them (perhaps by the prompter, who was a regular official), and to see to the rehearsals, of which there would be two for an old play and at least five for a new one. At rehearsal time, as well as during the great performance the actors ate and drank at the cost of the guild, ending all with a supper, at which they had roast beef and roast goose, with wine for the chiefs, and beer for the rest. The actors were paid, of course, according to the length of their parts and quantity of business in them, not their dignity. Thus in a play setting forth the Trial and Crucifixion of our Lord, the actors of Herod and Caiaphas received each 3s. 4d.; {248} the representative of Annas, 2s. 2d.; and of Christ 2s.; which was also the sum paid to each actor in the parts of His executioners, and 6d. more than was paid for acting the Devil or Judas. In the united plays of the "Descent into Hell" and the "Ascension," the payment was to the actor who represented Christ, 1s. 6d.; and 1s. 4d. to him who played the Devil. In one play we find this gradation of the scale of payment to performers:--"Paid, for playing of Peter, xvid.; to two damsels, xiid.; to the demon, vid.; to Fawston for hanging Judas, ivd.; paid to Fawston for cock-crowing, ivd." {opp248} [Illustration] PALAZZO BUONDELMONTE (FLORENCE) [Illustration] PALAZZO TOLOMEI (SIENA) Of the costume of the actors, and of the stage furniture a tolerably clear notion is also to be drawn from the Coventry account-books, of which Mr. Sharp printed all that bears upon such questions. They record, of course, chiefly repairs and renewals of stage properties and wardrobe. "In one year Pilate has a new green cloak, in another a new hat. Pilate's wife was Dame Procula, and we have such entries as, 'For mending of Dame Procula's garments, viid.' 'To reward to Mrs. Grimsby for lending of her gear for Pilate's wife, xiid.' 'For a quart of wine for hiring Porcula's gown, iid.' No actor had naked hands. Those not in masks had their faces prepared by a painter. The costume of each part was traditional, varied little in the course of years, and much of it was originally designed after the pictures and painted sculpture in the churches. As in those medieval decorations, gilding was used freely; the performer of Christ wore a gilt peruke and beard, so did Peter, and probably all the Apostles or saints who would be represented on church walls with a gilt nimbus." Christ's coat was of white sheep-skin, painted and gilded, with a girdle and red sandals. The part of the High Priests Caiaphas and Annas were often played in ecclesiastical robes hired from a church, a practice (one sad result of which because of fire has already been noted) that was eventually condemned as likely to lead to disrespect for sacred objects. Herod, who wore a mask, was set up as a sceptred royal warrior in a gilt and silvered helmet, in armour and gown of blue satin, with such Saracen details of dress as the Crusaders connected with the worship of Mahomet, including the crooked faulchion, which was gilt. The tormentors of Christ wore jackets of black {249} buckram with nails and dice upon them. The Virgin Mary was crowned, as in her images. The angels wore white surplices and wings. The devil also had wings, and was played in an appropriate mask and leather dress trimmed with feathers and hair. He was, as the Prologue to the Chester Plays describes him, "the devil in his feathers all ragged and rent," or, as the Coventry account-books show, carried three pounds of hair upon his hose. There was probably no greater impulse for social uplift and for real education of the masses than these mystery and morality plays, in which the people took part themselves and in which, as a consequence of the presence of friends in the various roles, the spectators had a livelier interest than would have been otherwise the case under even the most favorable circumstances, or with elaborate presentation. In recent years there has come the realization that the drama may thus be made a real educational influence. Unfortunately at the present time, whatever of influence it has is exerted almost exclusively upon the better-to-do classes, who have so many other opportunities for educational uplift. These plays during the Thirteenth Century brought the people intimately into contact with the great characters of Old Testament and New Testament history, and besides giving them precious religious information, which of itself, however, might mean very little for true education, helped them to an insight into character and to a right appreciation of human actions and a sympathy with what was right even though it entailed suffering, such as could not have otherwise been obtained. Of course it is easy to say that such dramas constantly repeated, the subjects always the same and only the cast varying from year to year, would become intolerably familiar and might after a time degenerate into the merely contemptible. As a matter of fact, however, they did not. These old stories of religious heroes were written so close to the heart of nature, involved so intimately all the problems of life that they are of undying interest. Their repetition was only from year to year and this did not give the opportunity for the familiarity which breeds contempt. Besides, though the plays in the various cycles existed in definite forms there seems no doubt that {250} certain changes were made by the players themselves and by the managers of the plays from time to time, and indeed such changes of the text of a play as we know from present-day experience, are almost inevitable. It might be urged, too, that the people themselves would scarcely be possessed of the histrionic talent necessary to make the plays effective. Ordinarily, however, as we know from our modern city life, much less of the actor's art is needed than of interest in the action, to secure the attention of the gallery. It must not be assumed too readily, however, that the guilds which were able to supply men for the great artistic decoration of the cathedrals of the Thirteenth Century, could not supply actors who would so enter into the artistic expression of a part as to represent it to the life. The actor is more born than made, in spite of the number of schools of acting that are supposed to be turning out successful rivals of Roscius, on recurring graduation days. It must not be forgotten that the only example of these mystery plays which is still left to us is the Passion Play at Oberammergau, and that is one of the world's greatest spectacles. On the last occasion when it was given about half a million of people from all over the world, many of them even from distant America and Australia, found their way into the Tyrolese Mountains in order to be present at it. It is only the old, old, old story of the Passion and death of the Lord. It is represented by villagers chosen from among the inhabitants of a little village of fourteen hundred inhabitants, who while they have a distinct taste for the artistic and produce some of the best wood-carving done anywhere in Europe, thus approximating very interestingly the Thirteenth Century peoples, are not particularly noted for their education, nor for their dramatic ability. No one who went up to see the Passion Play came away dissatisfied either with the interest of the play or with its manner of representation. It is distinctly an example of how well men and women do things when they are thoroughly interested in them, and when they are under the influence of an old-time tradition according to which they must have the ability to accomplish what is expected of them. Such a tradition actually existed during the Thirteenth and Fourteenth centuries, leading to a gradual development of {251} dramatic power both in writers and actors, that eventually was to result in the magnificent outburst of dramatic genius during the Elizabethan period. For it must not be forgotten, that mystery and morality plays continued to hold the stage down almost, if not quite, to the time of Shakespeare's early manhood, and he probably saw the Coventry Cycle of plays acted. While we have a certain number of these old-time plays, most of them, of course, have disappeared by time's attrition during the centuries before the invention of printing, when they were handed round only in manuscript form. Of some of these plays we shall have something to say after a moment, stopping only to call attention to the fact that in this literary mode of the mystery and morality plays, dramatic literature in English reached a height of development which has been equaled only by our greatest dramatic geniuses. Within the last few years most of the large cities of the English-speaking world, besides the more important universities, have been given the opportunity to hear one of the great products of this form of literary activity. "Everyman" is probably as great a play as there is in English and comparable with the best work of Shakespeare, Marlowe and Jonson. Its author only took the four last things to be remembered--Death, Judgment, Heaven and Hell--the things which must come to every man, and wrote his story around them, yet he did it with such artistic effectiveness as to make his drama a triumph of literary execution. The Mystery Plays were as interesting in their way to the medieval generations as "Everyman" to us. As may be seen from the list quoted from Mr. Morley, practically all the significant parts of the Bible story were acted by these craftsmen. Too much can scarcely be said of the educational value of such dramatic exercises; the Bible itself with its deep religious teachings, with its simple but sublime style, with its beautiful poetry, entered for a time into the very lives of these people. No wonder that our English speech during these centuries became saturated with biblical thoughts and words. Anyone who has ever had any experience with amateur theatricals when a really great play was given, will be able to realize how much more thoroughly every quality, dramatic, literary, poetic, even lyric {252} and historical, that there might be in the drama, entered into the hearts and minds of those who took part. It is this feature that is especially deserving of attention with regard to these mystery plays which began in the Thirteenth Century. The people's interest in them, lifted them out of themselves and their trivial round of life into the higher life of this great religious poetry. On the other hand the teachings of the Bible came down from the distant plane on which they might otherwise have been set and entered into the very life of the people. Their familiarity with scripture made it a something not to be discussed merely, but to be applied in their everyday affairs. Besides this, the organization of the company to give the play and the necessity for the display and exercise of taste in the costumes and of ingenuity in the stage settings, were of themselves of great educative value. The rivalry that naturally existed between the various companies chosen from the different guilds only added to the zest with which rehearsals were taken up, and made the play more fully occupy the minds of those actively engaged in its preparation. For several dull winter months before Easter time there was an intense preoccupation of mind with great thoughts and beautiful words, instead of with the paltry round of daily duties, which would otherwise form the burden of conversation. Gossip and scandal mongering had fewer opportunities since people's minds were taken up by so much worthier affairs. The towns in which the plays were given never had more than a few thousand inhabitants and most of them must have been personally interested in some way in the play. The Jesuits, whose acumen for managing students is proverbial, have always considered it of great importance to have their students prepare plays several times a year. Their reason is the occupation of mind which it affords as well as the intellectual and elocutionary training that comes with the work. What they do with premeditation, the old guilds did unconsciously but even more effectively, and their success must be considered as one of the social triumphs of this wonderful Thirteenth Century. Only in recent years has the idea succeeded in making way in government circles on the continent, that the giving of free dramatic entertainments for the poor would form an excellent {253} addition to other educational procedures. Such performances have new been given for nearly a score of years in Berlin. After all, the subvention allowed by government to the great theaters and opera houses in Europe is part of this same policy, though unfortunately they are calculated to affect only the upper classes, who need the help and the stimulus of great dramatic art and great music less than the lower classes, who have so little of variety or of anything that makes for uplift in their lives. In the Thirteenth Century this very modern notion was anticipated in such a way as to benefit the very poorest of the population, and that not only passively, that is by the hearing of dramatic performances, but also actively, by taking parts in them and so having all the details of the action and the words impressed upon them. [Illustration] CAPITAL (LINCOLN) {254} XVI FRANCIS THE SAINT--THE FATHER OF THE RENAISSANCE. The Renaissance is often thought of as a movement which originated about the middle of the Fifteenth Century. Careful students sometimes trace its origin back somewhat further. In recent years it has come to be realized, however, that the great intellectual development which came during the century after the fall of Constantinople in Italy, and gradually spread to all the civilized countries of Europe, had been preparing for at least two centuries and a half. While the period from the middle of the Fifteenth to the end of the Sixteenth Centuries well deserves the name of Renaissance, because one of the most important fructifying principles of the movement was the rebirth of Greek ideas into the modern world after the dispersion of Greek scholars by the Turkish advance into the Byzantine Empire, the term must not be allowed to carry with it the mistaken notion which only too often has been plausibly accepted, that there was a new birth of poetic, literary and esthetic ideas at this time, just as if there had been nothing worth considering in these lines before. Any such notion as this would be the height of absurdity in the light of the history of the previous centuries in Italy. It was a cherished notion of the people of the Renaissance themselves that they were the first to do artistic and literary work, hence they invented the term Gothic, meaning thereby barbarous, for the art of the preceding time, but in this they were only exercising that amusing, self-complacency which each generation deems its right. Succeeding generations adopting their depreciative term have turned it into one of glory so that Gothic art is now in highest honor. Fortunately in recent years there has come, as we have said, a growing recognition of the fact that the real beginning of modern art lies much farther back in history, and that the real {255} father of the Italian Renaissance is a man whom very few people in the last three centuries have appreciated at his true worth. Undoubtedly the leader in that great return to nature, which constitutes the true basis of modern poetic and artistic ideas of all kinds, was St. Francis of Assisi. "The poor little man of God," as in his humility he loved to call himself, would surely be the last one to suspect that he should ever come to be thought of as the initiator of a great movement in literature and art. Such he was, however, in the highest sense of the term and because of the modern appreciation of him in this regard, publications concerning him have been more frequent during the last ten years than with regard to almost any other single individual. We have under our hand at the present moment what by no means claims to be a complete bibliography of St. Francis' life and work, yet we can count no less than thirty different works in various languages (not reckoning translations separate from the originals) which have issued from the press during the last ten years alone. This gives some idea of present day interest in St. Francis. It must not be thought, however, that it is only in our time that these significant tributes have been paid him. Much of his influence in literature and art, as well as in life, was recognized by the southern nations all during the centuries since his death. That it is only during the last century that other nations have come to appreciate him better, and especially have realized his literary significance, has been their loss and that of their literatures. At the beginning of the Nineteenth Century Görres, the German historian who was so sympathetic towards the Middle Ages, wrote of St. Francis as one of the Troubadours, and even did not hesitate to add that without St. Francis at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century there would have been no Dante at the end. Renan, the well-known French rationalist historian and literateur, did not hesitate to proclaim St. Francis one of the great religious poets of all time and his famous Canticle of the Sun as the greatest religious poem since the Hebrew Psalms were written. It was from Renan that Matthew Arnold received his introduction to St. Francis as a literary man, and his own studies led him to write the famous passages in the Essays in Criticism, which are usually so much a source of {256} surprise to those who think of Mr. Arnold as the rationalizing critic, rather than the sympathetic admirer of a medieval saint. "In the beginning of the Thirteenth Century, when the clouds and storms had come, when the gay sensuous pagan life was gone, when men were not living by the senses and understanding, when they were looking for the speedy coming of Antichrist, there appeared in Italy, to the north of Rome, in the beautiful Umbrian country at the foot of the Appennines, a figure of the most magical power and charm, St. Francis. His century is, I think, the most interesting in the history of Christianity after its primitive age; more interesting than even the century of the Reformation; and one of the chief figures, perhaps the very chief, to which this interest attaches itself, is St. Francis. And why? Because of the profound popular instinct which enabled him, more than any man since the primitive age, to fit religion for popular use. He brought religion to the people. He founded the most popular body of ministers of religion that has ever existed in the Church. He transformed monachism by uprooting the stationary monk, delivering him from the bondage of property, and sending him, as a mendicant friar, to be a stranger and sojourner, not in the wilderness, but in the most crowded haunts of men, to console them and to do them good. This popular instinct of his is at the bottom of his famous marriage with poverty. Poverty and suffering are the condition of the people, the multitude, the immense majority of mankind; and it was towards this people that his soul yearned. "He listens," it was said of him, "to those to whom God himself will not listen." Matthew Arnold has thus surprisingly summed up Francis' age and his work. With a sympathy that could scarcely be expected from the man for whom the Deity had become merely "a stream of tendency that makes for righteousness," he realized the influence that this supreme lover of a personal God had over his generation, and his brother poet soul flew to its affinity in spite of the apparently insurmountable obstacle of' extreme aloofness of spiritual temperament. {opp256} [Illustration: ] THE GLORIFICATION OF ST. FRANCIS (GIOTTO, LOWER CHURCH OF ASSISI) Matthew Arnold proceeds: "So in return, as no other man, St. Francis was listened to. When an Umbrian town or village heard of his approach, the {257} whole population went out in joyful procession to meet him, with green boughs, flags, music, and songs of gladness. The master, who began with two disciples, could in his own lifetime (and he died at forty-five) collect to keep Whitsuntide with him, in presence of an immense multitude, five thousand of his Minorites. He found fulfilment to his prophetic cry: "I hear in my ears the sound of the tongues of all the nations who shall come unto us; Frenchmen, Spaniards, Germans, Englishmen. The Lord will make of us a great people, even unto the ends of the earth." When we reach the next paragraph the secret of this surprising paradoxical sympathy is out. It is the literary and esthetic side of St. Francis that has appealed to him, and like Renan he does not hesitate to give "the poor little man of God" a place among the great original geniuses of all time, associating his name with that of Dante. "Prose could not satisfy this ardent soul, and he made poetry. Latin was too learned for this simple, popular nature, and he composed in his mother tongue, in Italian. The beginnings of the mundane poetry of the Italians are in Sicily, at the court of kings; the beginnings of their religious poetry are in Umbria, with St. Francis. His are the humble upper waters of a mighty stream: at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century, it is St. Francis, at the end, Dante. Now it happens that St. Francis, too, like the Alexandrian songstress, has his hymn for the sun, for Adonis; Canticle of the Sun, Canticle of the Creatures, the poem goes by both names. Like the Alexandrian hymn, it is designed for popular use, but not for use by King Ptolemy's people; artless in language, irregular in rhythm, it matches with the childlike genius that produced it, and the simple natures that loved and repeated it." Probably the most satisfactory translation for those who may not be able to appreciate the original of this sublime hymn that has evoked so many tributes, is the following literal rendering into English in which a quite successful attempt to give the naif rhythm of the original Italian, which necessarily disappears in any formal rhymed translation, has been made by Father Paschal Robinson of the Order of St. Francis for his recent edition of the writings of St. Francis. [Footnote 23] [Footnote 23: Philadelphia, The Dolphin Press, 1906.] {258} "Here begin the praises of the Creatures which the Blessed Francis made to the praise and honor of God while he was ill at St. Damian's: Most high, omnipotent, good Lord, Praise, glory and honor and benediction all, are Thine. To Thee alone do they belong, most High, And there is no man fit to mention Thee. Praise be to Thee, my Lord, with all Thy creatures. Especially to my worshipful brother sun, The which lights up the day, and through him dost Thou brightness give; And beautiful is he and radiant with splendor great; Of Thee, Most High, signification gives. Praised be my Lord, for sister moon and for the stars, In heaven Thou hast formed them clear and precious and fair. Praised be my Lord for brother wind And for the air and clouds and fair and every kind of weather. By the which Thou givest to Thy creatures nourishment. Praised be my Lord for sister water, The which is greatly helpful and humble and precious and pure. Praised be my Lord for brother fire, By the which Thou lightest up the dark. And fair is he and gay and mighty and strong. Praised be my Lord for our sister, mother earth. The which sustains and keeps us And brings forth diverse fruits with grass and flowers bright. Praised be my Lord for those who for Thy love forgive And weakness bear and tribulation. Blessed those who shall in peace endure, For by Thee, Most High, shall they be crowned. Praised be my Lord for our sister, the bodily death. From the which no living man can flee. {259} Woe to them who die in mortal sin; Blessed those who shall find themselves in Thy most holy will, For the second death shall do them no ill. Praise ye and bless ye my Lord, and give Him thanks, And be subject unto Him with great humility." Except for his place in literature and art, the lives of few men would seem to be of so little interest to the modern time as that of St. Francis of Assisi, yet it is for the man himself that so many now turn to him. His spirit is entirely opposed to the sordid principles that have been accepted as the basis of success in modern life. His idea was that happiness consisted in being free from unsatisfied desires rather than seeking to secure the satisfaction of his wishes. Duty was self-denial, not self-seeking under any pretext. He stripped himself literally of everything and his mystic marriage to the Lady Poverty was, so far as he was concerned, as absolute a reality, as if the union had been actual instead of imaginary. The commonplace details of his early years seem all the more interesting from these later developments, and have been the subject of much sympathetic study in recent years. St. Francis' father was a cloth merchant and St. Francis had been brought up and educated as became the son of a man whose commercial journeys often took him to France. It was indeed while his father was absent on one of these business expeditions that Francis was born and on his father's return received from him the name of Francisco--the Frenchman--in joyful commemoration of his birth. As he grew up he did not differ from the ordinary young man of his time, but seems to have taken the world and its pleasures quite as he found them and after the fashion of those around him. At the age of twenty-five he fell seriously ill and then, for the first time, there came to him the realization of the true significance of life. As Dean Stanley said shortly before his death, "life seemed different when viewed from the horizontal position." Life lived for its own sake was not worth while. To Francis there came the realization that when God Himself became man he lived his life for others. Francis {260} set about literally imitating him. Enthusiastic students of his life consider him the great type of genuine Christian, the most real disciple of Christ who ever lived. Some money and goods that came into his hands having been disposed of for the poor, Francis' father made serious objection and Francis was brought before the ecclesiastical authorities. It was at this moment that he stripped himself of everything that he had, the Bishop even having to provide a cloak to cover his nakedness, and became the wonderful apostle to the poor that he remained during all the rest of his life. Curious as it must ever seem, it was not long before he had many who wished to imitate him and who insisted on becoming his disciples and followers. St. Francis had had no idea how infectious his example was to prove. Before his death his disciples could be numbered by the thousands and the great order of the Franciscans, that for centuries was to do so much work, had come into existence not by any conscious planning, but by the mere force of the great Christian principles that were the guiding factors in St. Francis' own life. Ruskin in his Mornings in Florence in discussing Giotto's famous picture of St. Francis' renunciation of his inheritance, and his incurrence thereby of his father's anger, has a characteristic passage that sounds the very keynote of the Saint's life and goes to the heart of things. In it he explains the meaning of this apparently contradictory incident in St. Francis' life, since Francis' great virtue was obedience, yet here, apparently as a beginning of his more perfect Christian life, is an act of disobedience. After Ruskin's explanation, however, it is all the more difficult to understand the present generation's revival of interest in Francis unless it be attributed to a liking for contrast. "That is the meaning of St. Francis' renouncing his inheritance; and it is the beginning of Giotto's gospel of Works. Unless this hardest of deeds be done first--this inheritance of mammon and the world cast away,--all other deeds are useless. You cannot serve, cannot obey, God and mammon. No charities, no obedience, no self-denials, are of any use while you are still at heart in conformity with the world. You go to church, because the world goes. You keep Sunday, because your {261} neighbor keeps it. But you dress ridiculously because your neighbors ask it; and you dare not do a rough piece of work, because your neighbors despise it. You must renounce your neighbor, in his riches and pride, and remember him in his distress. That is St. Francis' 'disobedience.'" {opp261} [Illustration] ST. FRANCIS (CHURCH OF THE FRARI, VENICE, NIC. PISANO) In spite of Ruskin's charming explanation of St. Francis' place in history, and his elucidation of the hard passages in his life, most people will only find it more difficult, after these explanations, to understand the modern acute reawakening of interest in St. Francis. Our generation in its ardent devotion to the things of this world does not seem a promising field for the evangel, "Give up all thou hast and follow me." The mystery of St. Francis' attraction only deepens the more we know of him. An American Franciscan has tried to solve the problem and his words are worth quoting. Father Paschal Robinson, O. S. M., in his "The True St. Francis" says:-- "What is the cause of the present widespread homage to St. Francis? It is, of course, far too wide a question to allow the present writer to do more than make a few suggestions. First and foremost, we must ever reckon with the perennial charm of the Saint's personality, which seems to wield an ineffable influence over the hearts of men--drawing and holding those of the most different habits of mind, with a sense of personal sympathy. Perhaps no other man, unless it be St. Paul, ever had such wide reaching, all-embracing sympathy: and it may have been wider than St. Paul's, for we find no evidence in the great apostle of a love for nature and of animals. This exquisite Franciscan spirit, as it is called, which is the very perfume of religion--this spirit at once so humble, so tender, so devout, so akin to 'the good odor of Christ'--passed out into the whole world and has become a permanent source of inspiration. A character at once so exhalted and so purified as St. Francis was sure to keep alive an ideal; and so he does. From this one can easily understand St. Francis' dominance among a small but earnest band of enthusiasts now pointing the world back to the reign of the spirit. It was this same gentle idealism of St. Francis which inspired the art of the Umbrian people; it was this which was translated into the paintings of the greatest artists. No school of painting has ever been penetrated with {262} such pure idealism as the Umbrian; and this inspiration, at once religious and artistic, came from the tomb of the _poverello_ above which Giotto had painted his mystical frescoes. The earnest quasi-religious study of the medieval beginnings of western art has therefore rightly been set down as another cause for some of the latter-day pilgrimages to Assisi. In like manner, the scientific treatment of the Romance literature leads naturally to St. Francis as to the humble upper waters of a mighty stream; at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century is St. Francis, at the end is Dante. It was Matthew Arnold, we believe, who first held up the poor man of Assisi as a literary type--a type as distinct and formal as the author of the _Divine Comedy_. 'Prose,' he says, 'could not easily satisfy the saint's ardent soul, and so he made poetry.' 'It was,' writes Ozanam, 'the first cry of a nascent poetry which has grown and made itself heard through the world.'" Considering how thoroughly impractical Francis seemed to be in his life, it can scarcely help but be a source of ever increasing wonder that he succeeded in influencing, his generation so widely and so thoroughly. It is evident that there were many men of the time tired of the more or less strenuous life, which chained them either to the cares of business or tempted them for the sake of the bubble reputation into a military career. To these St. Francis' method of life came with an especially strong appeal. The example of his neglect of worldly things and of his so thoroughly maintained resolve not to be harassed by the ordinary cares of life, and especially not to take too much thought of the future, penetrated into all classes. While it made the rich realize how much of their lives they were living merely for the sake of others, it helped the poor to be satisfied, since here was a sublime and complete recognition of the fact that an existence without cares was better than one with many cares, such as were sure to come to those who wrought ever and anon increase of the goods of this world. Such ideas may seen to be essentially modern, but anyone who will turn to the chapter on The Three Most Read Books of the Century and read the passages from the "Romance of the Rose" on wealth and poverty, will know better than to think them anything but perennial. {263} Men gathered around St. Francis then and pleaded to be allowed to follow his mode of life. Some of the men who thus came to him were the choice spirits of the times. Thomas of Celano, who was to be one of the Master's favorite disciples and subsequently to be his most authoritative biographer, was one of the great literary geniuses of all times, the author of the sublime Dies Irae. While most of his first companions were men of such extreme simplicity of mind that the world has been rather in an amused than admiring attitude with regard to them, there can be no doubt that this simplicity was of itself an index not only of their genuine sincerity of heart, but of a greatness of mind that set them above the ordinary run of mankind and made them live poetry when they did not write it. The institute established by St. Francis was destined, in the course of the century, to attract to it some of the great men of every country. Besides Thomas of Celano there was, in Italy, Anthony of Padua, almost as famous as his master for the beauty of his saintly life; Jacopone Da Todi, the well-known author of the Stabat Mater, a hymn that rivals in poetic genius, the Dies Irae; Bonaventure, the great teacher of philosophy and theology at the University of Paris, and the writer of some of the sublimest treatises of mystical theology that were to be text books for the members of the Franciscan order, and of many other religious bodies for centuries after his death, indeed down to even our own times. There was Roger Bacon, in England, the famous teacher of science at Paris and at Oxford; and that Subtle Doctor, Duns Scotus, whose influence in philosophical speculation was destined never quite to disappear, and many others, the pick of the generations in which they lived, all proud to look up to Francis of Assisi as their father; all glad of the opportunity that the order gave them, to pass their lives in peace, far from the madding crowd with its strifes and competition, providing them constantly with opportunities to live their own lives, to find their own souls, to cultivate their own individualities untrammelled by worldly cares. Francis' success in this matter and the propaganda of his influence will not be so surprising to Americans of this generation, if they will only recall what is still a precious memory in {264} the minds of men who are yet alive, that efforts to found a community not unlike that of the Franciscans in certain ways, attracted widespread attention even in our own country half a century ago. After all, the men who gathered at Brook Farm had ideas and ideals not so distant from those cherished by St. Francis and the early members of the Franciscan Order. Their main effort was also to get away from worldly cares and have the opportunity to work out their philosophy of life far from the disturbing influence of city life, in the peaceful pursuit of only such agricultural efforts as might be necessary to ensure them simple sustenance, yet at the same time enforce from them such exercise in the open air as would guarantee the preservation of health. The men of Brook Farm were, in the eyes of their generation, quite as far from practical ideas as were the early Franciscans. It must not be forgotten, however, that these men who thus attempted in the Nineteenth Century what St. Francis succeeded in accomplishing in the Thirteenth, in their subsequent careers succeeded in impressing themselves very strongly upon the life of the American people. Much of what is best in our Nineteenth Century life would be lost if the Brook farmers and what they accomplished were to be removed from it. Men of ideals are usually also men of working ideas, as these two experiences in history would seem to show. {opp264} [Illustration] ST. ELIZABETH--THREE FRANCISCANS (GIOTTO) [Illustration] ST. LOUIS--THREE FRANCISCANS (GIOTTO) [Illustration] ST. CLARE--THREE FRANCISCANS (GIOTTO) It was not alone for the men of his generation, however, that Francis was destined to furnish a refuge from worldly care and a place of peace and thoughtful life. We have already said that it was by chance, certainly without any conscious intention on Francis' part that the Franciscan order for men which is usually spoken of as the First Order came into existence. The last thing in the world very probably that would ever have entered into the mind of Francis when he began to lead the simple life of a poor little man of God, was the founding of a religious order for women. We tell elsewhere the story, of St. Clare's interest in St. Francis' mode of life and of the trials that she underwent in order to obtain permission and opportunity to fashion her own life in the same way. The problem was even more serious for women than for men. St. Francis considered that they should not be {265} allowed to follow the Franciscan custom of going out to seek alms and yet required that they should live in absolute poverty, possessing nothing and supporting themselves only by the contributions of the faithful and the work of their hands. St. Clare attempted the apparently impossible and solved the problem of a new career for the women of her time. It was not very long before St. Clare's example proved as infective as that of St. Francis himself. While in the beginning the members of her family had been the most strenuous objectors against her taking up such an unwonted mode of existence it was not long before she was joined in the monastery of St. Damian where her little community was living, by her sister who was to become almost as famous as herself under the name of St. Agnes, and by her mother and other near relatives, from Assisi and the neighborhood. This Second Order of St. Francis to which only women were admitted proved to have in it the germ of as active life as that of the first order. Before the end of the Thirteenth Century there were women Franciscans in every country in Europe. These convents furnished for women a refuge from the worried, hurried, over-busy life around them that proved quite as attractive as the similar opportunity for the men. For many hundreds of years down even to our own time, women were to find in the quiet obscurity of such Franciscan convents a peaceful, happy life in which they occupied themselves with simple conventual duties, with manual labor in their monastery gardens, with the making of needle work in which they became the most expert in the world, with the illuminating of missals and office books of such artistic beauty that they have become the most precious treasures of our great libraries, and with the long hours of prayer by which they hoped to accomplish as much in making the world better as if they devoted themselves to ardent efforts of reform which, of course, the circumstances of the time would not have permitted. Finally there was the Third Order of St. Francis, which was to gather to itself so many of the distinguished people of the century whose occupations and obligations would not permit them to live the conventual life, but who yet felt that they must be attached by some bond to this beautiful sanctity that was {266} entering into all the better life of the century. The Third Order was established so as to permit all the world to become Franciscans to whatever degree it considered possible, and to share in the sublime Christianity of the founder whom they all admired so much, even if they were not able to imitate his sublimer virtues. Into this Third Order of St. Francis most of the finer spirits of the time entered with enthusiasm. We need only recall that Louis IX. of France, the greatest Monarch of the century, considered it a special privilege to be a follower of the humble Francis, and that St. Elizabeth of Hungary, the daughter of a king, the wife and mother of a ruling prince, gave another example of the far-reachingness of Francis' work. Dante was another of the great members of the Third Order and was buried in the habit of St. Francis, glorying in the thought of the brotherhood this gave him with the saint he loved so much. All down the centuries since, other distinguished men in many countries of Europe were proud to claim the same distinction. Modern science is supposed to be unorthodox in its tendencies and electricity is the most recent of the sciences in development. Three of the great founders in electricity, Volta, Galvani and Ampere, were members of the Third Order of St. Francis and at least one of them, Galvani, insisted on being buried in the habit of the order six centuries after the death of his father Francis in order to show how much he appreciated the privilege. There is no man who lived in the Thirteenth Century who influenced the better side of men more in all the succeeding ages down to and including our own time, than the poor little man of God of Assisi. He is just coming into a further precious heritage of uplift for the men of our time, that is surprising for those who are so buried in the merely material that they fail to realize how much the ideal still rules the minds of thinking men, but that seems only natural and inevitable to those who appreciate all the attractiveness there is in a simple life lived without the bootless hurry, the unattaining bustle and the over-strained excitement of the strenuous existence. What St. Francis and his order accomplished in Italy another great Saint, Dominic, was achieving in the West. The {267} fact that another order similar to that of St. Francis in many respects, yet differing from it in a number of essential particulars, should have arisen almost at the same time shows how profoundly the spirit of organization of effort had penetrated into the minds of these generations of the Thirteenth Century. While poverty was to be the badge of St. Dominic's followers as well as those of St. Francis, learning was to replace the simplicity which St. Francis desired for his sons. The order of preachers began at once to give many eminent scholars to the Church, and for three centuries there was not a single generation that did not see as Dominicans some of the most intellectual men of Europe. Leaders they were in philosophy, in the development of thought, in education, and in every phase of ecclesiastical life. The watch dogs of the Lord, (Domini Canes) they were called, punning on their name because everwhere, they were in the van of defense against the enemies of Christianity. That the Thirteenth Century should have given rise to two such great religious orders stamps it as a wonderfully fruitful period for religion as well as for every other phrase of human development. In order to understand what these great founders tried to do, the work of these two orders must be considered together. They have never ceased, during all the intervening seven centuries, to be the source of great influence in the religious world. They have proven refuges for many gentle spirits at all times and have been the homes of learning, as well as of piety. While occasionally their privileges have been abused, and men have taken advantage of the opportunities to be idle and luxurious, this has happened much seldomer than the world imagines. Not a single century has failed to show men among them whom the world honors as Saints, and whose lives have been examples of what can be accomplished by human nature at its best. They have been literally schools of unselfishness, and men have learned to think less of themselves and more of their labor by the contemplation of the lives of these begging friars. What they did for England, the Rev. Augustus Jessopp, a non-conformist clergyman in England, has recently told very well, and the more one studies their history, the higher the estimation of them; and the more one knows of {268} them, the less does one talk of their vices. Green in his "History of the English People" has paid them a tribute that it is well to remember:-- "To bring the world back again within the pale of the Church was the aim of two religious orders which sprang suddenly to life at the opening of the Thirteenth Century. The zeal of the Spaniard Dominic was aroused at the sight of the lordly prelates who sought by fire and sword to win the Albigensian heretics to the faith. 'Zeal,' he cried, 'must be met by zeal, lowliness by lowliness, false sanctity by real sanctity, preaching lies by preaching truth.' His fiery ardor and rigid orthodoxy were seconded by the mystical piety, the imaginative enthusiasm of Francis of Assisi. The life of Francis falls like a stream of tender light across the darkness of the time. In the frescoes of Giotto or the verse of Dante we see him take Poverty for his bride. He strips himself of all: he flings his very clothes at his father's feet, that he may be one with Nature and God. His passionate verse claims the moon for his sister and the sun for his brother; he calls on his brother the Wind, and his sister the Water. His last faint cry was a 'Welcome, Sister Death.' Strangely as the two men differed from each other, their aim was the same, to convert the heathen, to extirpate heresy, to reconcile knowledge with orthodoxy, to carry the Gospel to the poor. The work was to be done by the entire reversal of the older monasticism, by seeking personal salvation in effort for the salvation of their fellow-men, by exchanging the solitary of the cloister for the preacher, the monk for a friar. To force the new 'brethren' into entire dependence on those among whom they labored the vow of Poverty was turned into a stern reality; the 'Begging Friars' were to subsist on the alms of the poor, they might possess neither money nor lands, the very houses in which they lived were to be held in trust for them by others. The tide of popular enthusiasm which welcomed their appearance swept before it the reluctance of Rome, the jealousy of the older orders, the opposition of the parochial priesthood. Thousands of brethren gathered in a few years around Francis and Dominic, and the begging preachers, clad in their coarse frock of serge, with the girdle of rope around their waist, wandered barefooted as {269} missionaries over Asia, battled with heresy in Italy and Gaul, lectured in the Universities, and preached and toiled among the poor." [Illustration] SIDE CAPITAL (LINCOLN) {270} XVII AQUINAS THE SCHOLAR. No one of all the sons of the Thirteenth Century, not even Dante himself, so typifies the greatness of the mentality of the period as does Thomas, called from his birthplace Aquinas, or of Aquin, on whom his own and immediately succeeding generations because of what they considered his almost more than human intellectual acumen, bestowed the title of Angelical Doctor, while the Church for the supremely unselfish character of his life, formally conferred the title of Saint. The life of Aquinas is of special interest, because it serves to clarify many questions as to the education of the Thirteenth Century and to correct many false impressions that are only too prevalent with regard to the intellectual life of the period. Though Aquinas came of a noble family which was related to many of the Royal houses of Europe and was the son of the Count of Aquino, then one of the most important of the non-reigning noble houses of Italy, his education was begun in his early years and was continued in the midst of such opportunities as even the modern student might well envy. It is often said that the nobility at this time, paid very little attention to the things of the intellect and indeed rather prided themselves on their ignorance of even such ordinary attainments as reading and writing. While this was doubtless true for not a few of them, Aquinas's life stands in open contradiction with the impression that any such state of mind was at all general, or that there were not so many exceptions as to nullify any such supposed rule. Evidently those who wished could and did take advantage of educational opportunities quite as in our day. Aquinas's early education was received at the famous monastery of Monte Cassino in Southern Italy, where the Benedictines for more than six centuries had been providing magnificent opportunities for the studious youth of Italy and for serious-minded students from all over Europe. {271} When he was scarcely more than a boy he proceeded to the University of Naples, which at that time, under the patronage of the Emperor Frederick II., was being encouraged not only to take the place so long held by Salernum in the educational world of Europe, but also to rival the renowned Universities of Paris and Bologna. Here he remained until he was seventeen years of age when he resolved to enter the Dominican Order, which had been founded only a short time before by St. Dominic, yet had already begun to make itself felt throughout the religious and educational world of the time. Just as it is the custom to declare that as a rule, the nobility cared little for education, so it is more or less usual to proclaim that practically only the clergy had any opportunities for the higher education during the Thirteenth Century. Thomas had evidently been given his early educational opportunities, however, without any thought of the possibility of his becoming a clergyman. His mother was very much opposed to his entrance among the Dominicans, and every effort was made to picture to him the pleasures and advantages that would accrue to him because of his noble connections, in a life in the world. Thomas insisted, however, and his firm purpose in the matter finally conquered even the serious obstacles that a noble family can place in the way of a boy of seventeen, as regards the disposition of his life in a way opposed to their wishes. The Dominicans realized the surpassing intelligence of the youth whom they had received and accordingly he was sent to be trained under the greatest teacher of their order, the famous Albert the Great, who was then lecturing at Cologne. Thomas was not the most brilliant of scholars as a young man and seems even to have been the butt of his more successful fellow-students. They are said to have called him the dumb one, or sometimes because of his bulkiness even as a youth, the dumb ox. Albert himself, however, was not deceived in his estimation of the intellectual capacity of his young student, and according to tradition declared, that the bellowings of this ox would yet be heard throughout all Christendom. After a few years spent at Cologne, Thomas when he was in his early twenties, accompanied Albert who had been called to {272} Paris. It was at Paris that Thomas received his bachelor's degree and also took out his license to teach--the doctor's degree of our time. After this some years further were spent at Cologne and then the greatness of the man began to dawn on his generation. He was called back to Paris and became one of the most popular of the Professors at that great University in the height of her fame, at a time when no greater group of men has perhaps ever been gathered together, than shared with him the honors of the professors' chairs at that institution. "Albert the Great, Roger Bacon, St. Bonaventure, and St. Thomas Aquinas, form among themselves, so to speak, a complete representation of all the intellectual powers: they are the four doctors who uphold the chair of philosophy in the temple of the Middle Ages. Their mission was truly the reestablishment of the sciences, but not their final consummation. They were not exempt from the ignorances and erroneous opinions of their day, yet they did much to overcome them and succeeded better than is usually acknowledged in introducing the era of modern thought. Often, the majesty, I may even say the grace of their conceptions, disappears under the veil of the expressions in which they are clothed; but these imperfections are amply atoned for by superabundant merits. Those Christian philosophers did not admit within themselves the divorce, since their day become so frequent, between the intellect and the will; their lives were uniformly a laborious application of their doctrines. They realized in its plenitude the practical wisdom so often dreamed of by the ancients--the abstinence of the disciples of Pythagoras, the constancy of the stoics, together with humility and charity, virtues unknown to the antique world. Albert the Great and St. Thomas left the castles of their noble ancestors to seek obscurity in the cloisters of St. Dominic: the former abdicated, and the latter declined, the honors of the Church. It was with the cord of St. Francis that Roger Bacon and St. Bonaventure girded their loins; when the last named was sought that the Roman purple might be placed upon his shoulders, he begged the envoys to wait until he finished washing the dishes of the convent. Thus they did not withdraw themselves {273} within the exclusive mysteries of an esoteric teaching; they opened the doors of their schools to the sons of shepherds and artisans, and, like their Master, Christ, they said: "Come all!" After having broken the bread of the word, they were seen distributing the bread of alms. The poor knew them and blessed their names. Even yet, after the lapse of six hundred years, the dwellers in Paris kneel round the altar of the Angel of the School, and the workmen of Lyons deem it an honor once a year to bear upon their brawny shoulders the triumphant remains of the 'Seraphic Doctor.'" For most modern students and even scholars educated in secular universities the name of Aquinas is scarcely more than a type, the greatest of them, it is true, of the schoolmen who were so much occupied with distant, impractical and, to say the least, merely theoretic metaphysical problems, in the later Middle Ages. It is true that the renewed interest in Dante in recent years in English speaking countries, has brought about a revival of attention in Aquinas's work because to Dante, the Angelical Doctor, as he was already called, meant so much, and because the Divine Comedy has been declared often and often, by competent critics, to be the Summa Theologiae of St. Thomas of Aquin in verse. Even this adventitious literary interest, however, has not served to lift the obscurity in which Aquinas is veiled for the great majority of scholarly people, whose education has been conducted according to modern methods and present-day ideas. As showing a hopeful tendency to recognize the greatness of these thinkers of the Middle Ages it is interesting to note that about five years ago one of St. Thomas's great works--the Summa Contra Gentiles--was placed on the list of subjects which a candidate may at his option offer in the final honor school of the _litterae humaniores_ at Oxford. There has come a definite appreciation of the fact that this old time philosopher represents a phase of intellectual development that must not be neglected, and that stands for such educational influence as may well be taken advantage of even in our day of information rather than mental discipline. For the purposes of this course Father Rickaby, S. J., has prepared an annotated translation of the great philosophic work under the title, {274} "Of God and His Creatures," which was published by Burns and Oates of London, 1905. This will enable those for whom the Latin of St. Thomas was a stumbling block, to read the thoughts of the great scholastic, in translation at least, and it is to be hoped that we shall hear no more of the trifling judgments which have so disgraced our English philosophical literature. The fact that Pope Leo XIII., by a famous papal bull, insisted that St. Thomas should be the standard of teaching in philosophy and theology in all the Catholic institutions of learning throughout the world, aroused many thinkers to a realization of the fact that far from being a thing of the dead and distant past, Thomas's voice was still a great living force in the world of thought. To most people Leo XIII. appealed as an intensely practical and thoroughly modern ruler, whose judgment could be depended on even with regard to teaching problems in philosophy and theology. There was about him none of the qualities that would stamp him as a far-away mystic whose thoughts were still limited by medieval barriers. The fact that in making his declaration the Pope was only formulating as a rule, what had spontaneously become the almost constant practice and tradition of Catholic schools and universities, of itself served to show how great and how enduring was St. Thomas's influence. In the drawing together of Christian sects that has inevitably come as a result of the attacks made upon Christianity by modern materialists, and then later by those who would in their ardor for the higher criticism do away with practically all that is divine in Christianity, there has come a very general realization even on the part of those outside of her fold, that the Roman Catholic Church occupies a position more solidly founded on consistent logical premises and conclusions than any of the denominations. Without her aid Christian apologetics would indeed be in sad case. Pope Leo's declaration only emphasizes the fact, then, that the foundation stone of Christian apologetics was laid by the great work of St. Thomas, and that to him more than any other is due that wonderful coordination of secular and religious knowledge, which appoints for each of these branches of knowledge its {275} proper place, and satisfies the human mind better than any other system of philosophic thought. This is the real panegyric of St. Thomas, and it only adds to the sublimity of it that it should come nearly six centuries and a half after his death. To only a bare handful of men in the history of the human race, is it given thus to influence the minds of subsequent generations for so long and to have laid down the principles of thought that are to satisfy men for so many generations. This is why, in any attempt at even inadequate treatment of the greatness of the Thirteenth Century, Thomas Aquinas, who was its greatest scholar, must have a prominent place. The present generation has had sufficient interest in him aroused, however, amply to justify such a giving of space. When Leo XIII. made his recommendation of St. Thomas it was not as one who had merely heard of the works of the great medieval thinker, or knew them only by tradition, or had slightly dipped into them as a dilettante, but as one who had been long familiar with them, who had studied the Angelical Doctor in youth, who had pondered his wisdom in middle age, and resorted again and again to him for guidance in the difficulties of doctrine in maturer years, and the difficulties of morals such as presented themselves in his practical life as a churchman. It was out of the depths of his knowledge of him, that the great Pope, whom all the modern world came to honor so reverently before his death, drew his supreme admiration for St. Thomas and his recognition of the fact that no safer guide in the thorny path of modern Christian apologetics could be followed, than this wonderful genius who first systematized human thought as far as the relations of Creator to creature are considered, in the heyday of medieval scholarship and university teaching. Those who have their knowledge of scholastic philosophy at second hand, from men who proclaim this period of human development as occupied entirely with fruitless discussion of metaphysical theories, will surely think that they could find nothing of interest for them in St. Thomas's writings. It is true the casual reader may not penetrate far enough into his writing to realize its significance and to appreciate its depth of knowledge, but the serious student finds constant {276} details of supreme interest because of their applications to the most up-to-date problems. We venture to quote an example that will show this more or less perfectly according to the special philosophic interest of readers. It is St. Thomas's discussion of the necessity there was for the revelation of the truth of the existence of God. His statement of the reasons why men, occupied with the ordinary affairs of life, would not ordinarily come to this truth unless it were revealed to them, though they actually have the mental capacity to reach it by reason alone, will show how sympathetically the Saint appreciated human conditions as they are. "If a truth of this nature were left to the sole inquiry of reason, three disadvantages would follow. One is that the knowledge of God would be confined to few. The discovery of truth is the fruit of studious inquiry. From this very many are hindered. Some are hindered by a constitutional unfitness, their natures being ill-disposed to the acquisition of knowledge. They could never arrive by study at the highest grade of human knowledge, which consists in the knowledge of God. Others are hindered by the claims of business and the ties of the management of property. There must be in human society some men devoted to temporal affairs. These could not possibly spend time enough in the learned lessons of speculative inquiry to arrive at the highest point of human inquiry, the knowledge of God. Some again are hindered by sloth. The knowledge of the truths that reason can investigate concerning God presupposes much previous knowledge; indeed almost the entire study of philosophy is directed to the knowledge of God. Hence, of all parts of philosophy that part stands over to be learned last, which consists of metaphysics dealing with (divine things). Thus only with great labour of study is it possible to arrive at the searching out of the aforesaid truth; and this labour few are willing to undergo for sheer love of knowledge. "Another disadvantage is that such as did arrive at the knowledge or discovery of the aforesaid truth would take a long time over it on account of the profundity of such truth, and the many prerequisites to the study, and also because in youth and early manhood the soul, tossed to and fro on the {277} waves of passion, is not fit for the study of such high truth; only in settled age does the soul become prudent and scientific, as the philosopher says. Thus if the only way open to the knowledge of God were the way of reason, the human race would (remain) in thick darkness of ignorance: as the knowledge of God, the best instrument for making men perfect and good, would accrue only to a few after a considerable lapse of time. "A third disadvantage is that, owing to the infirmity of our judgment and the perturbing force of imagination, there is some admixture of error in most of the investigations of human reason. This would be a reason to many for continuing to doubt even of the most accurate demonstrations, not perceiving the force of the demonstration, and seeing the divers judgments, of divers persons who have the name of being wise men. Besides, in the midst of much demonstrated truth there is sometimes an element of error, not demonstrated but asserted on the strength of some plausible and sophistic reasoning that is taken for a demonstration. And therefore it was necessary for the real truth concerning divine things to be presented to men with fixed certainty by way of faith. Wholesome, therefore, is the arrangement of divine clemency, whereby things even that reason can investigate are commanded to be held on faith, so that all might be easily partakers of the knowledge of God, and that without doubt and error (Book I. cix)." A still more striking example of Thomas's eminently sympathetic discussion of a most difficult problem, is to be found in his treatment of the question of the Resurrection of the Body. The doctrine that men will rise again on the last day with the same bodies that they had while here on earth, has been a stumbling block for the faith of a great many persons from the beginning of Christianity. In recent times the discovery of the indestructibility of matter, far from lessening the skeptical elements in this problem as might have been anticipated, has rather emphasized them. While the material of which man's body was composed is never destroyed, it is broken up largely into its original elements and is used over and over again in many natural processes, and even enters into the composition of other men's bodies during the long succeeding generations. Here is a problem upon which it would {278} ordinarily be presumed at once, that a philosophic writer of the Thirteenth Century could throw no possible light. We venture to say, however, that the following passage which we quote from an article on St. Thomas in a recent copy of the Dublin _Review_, represents the best possible solution of the problem, even in the face of all our modern advance in science. "What does not bar numerical unity in a man while he lives on uninterruptedly (writes St. Thomas), clearly can be no bar to the identity of the arisen man with the man that was. In a man's body, while he lives, there are not always the same parts in respect of matter but only in respect of species. In respect of matter there is a flux and reflux of parts. Still that fact does not bar the man's numerical unity from the beginning to the end of his life. The form and species of the several parts continue throughout life, but the matter of the parts is dissolved by the natural heat, and new matter accrues through nourishment. Yet the man is not numerically different by the difference of his component parts at different ages, although it is true that the material composition of the man at one stage of his life is not his material composition at another. Addition is made from without to the stature of a boy without prejudice to his identity, for the boy and the adult are numerically the same man." In a word, Aquinas says that we recognize that the body of the boy and of the man are the same though they are composed of quite different material. With this in mind the problem of the Resurrection takes on quite a new aspect from what it held before. What we would call attention to, however, is not so much the matter of the argument as the mode of it. It is essentially modern in every respect. Not only does Thomas know that the body changes completely during the course of years, but he knows that the agent by which the matter of the parts is dissolved is "the natural heat," while "new matter accrues through nourishment." The passage contains a marvelous anticipation of present-day physiology as well as a distinct contribution to Christian apologetics. This coordination of science and theology, though usually thought to be lacking among scholastic philosophers, is constantly typical of their mode of thought and discussion, and this example, far from {279} being exceptional, is genuinely representative of them, as all serious students of scholasticism know. Perhaps the last thing for which the ordinary person would expect to find a great modern teacher recommending the reading of St. Thomas would be to find therein the proper doctrine with regard to liberty and the remedies for our modern social evils. Those who will recall, however, how well the generations of the Thirteenth Century faced social problems even more serious than ours--for the common people had no rights at all [at] the beginning of the century, yet secured them with such satisfaction as to lay the foundation of the modern history of liberty--will realize that the intellectual men of the time must have had a much better grasp of the principles underlying such problems, than would otherwise be imagined. As a matter of fact, St. Thomas's treatment of Society, its rights and duties, and the mutual relationship between it and the individual, is one of the triumphs of his wonderful work in ethics. It is no wonder, then, that the great Pope of the end of the Nineteenth Century, whose encyclicals showed that he understood very thoroughly these social evils of our time, recognized their tendencies and appreciated their danger, recommended as a remedy for them the reading of St. Thomas. Pope Leo said: "Domestic and civil society, even, which, as all see, is exposed to great danger from the plague of perverse opinions, would certainly enjoy a far more peaceful and a securer existence if more wholesome doctrine were taught in the academies and schools--one more in conformity with the teaching of the Church, such as is contained in the works of Thomas Aquinas. "For the teachings of Thomas on the true meaning of liberty--which at this time is running into license--on the divine origin of all authority, on laws and their force, on the paternal and just rule of princes, on obedience to the higher powers, on mutual charity one towards another--on all of these and kindred subjects, have very great and invincible force to overturn those principles of the new order which are well known to be dangerous to the peaceful order of things and to public safety." {280} For this great Pope, however, there was no greater teacher of any of the serious philosophical, ethical and theological problems than this Saint of the Thirteenth Century. His position in the matter would only seem exaggerated to those who do not appreciate Pope Leo's marvelous practical intelligence, and Saint Thomas's exhaustive treatment of most of the questions that have always been uppermost in the minds of men. While, with characteristic humility, he considered himself scarcely more than a commentator on Aristotle, his natural genius was eminently original and he added much more of his own than what he took from his master. There can be no doubt that his was one of the most gifted minds in all humanity's history and that for profundity of intelligence he deserves to be classed with Plato and Aristotle, as his great disciple Dante is placed between Homer and Shakespeare. Those who know St. Thomas the best, and have spent their lives in the study of him, not only cordially welcomed but ardently applauded Pope Leo's commendation of him, and considered that lofty as was his praise there was not a word they would have changed even in such a laudatory passage as the following: "While, therefore, we hold that every word of wisdom, every useful thing by whomsoever discovered or planned, ought to be received with a willing and grateful mind. We exhort you, Venerable Brethren, in all earnestness to restore the golden wisdom of St. Thomas, and to spread it far and wide for the defense and beauty of the Catholic faith, for the good of society, and for the advantage of all the sciences. The wisdom of St. Thomas, We say--for if anything is taken up with too great subtlety by the scholastic doctors, or too carelessly stated--if there is anything that ill agrees with the discoveries of a later age, or, in a word, improbable in whatever way, it does not enter Our mind, to propose that for imitation to Our age. Let carefully selected teachers endeavor to implant the doctrines of Thomas Aquinas in the minds of students, and set forth clearly his solidity and excellence over others. Let the academies already founded or to be founded by you illustrate and defend this doctrine, and use it for refutation of prevailing errors. But, lest the false for the true or the corrupt for the pure be drunk in, be watchful that the doctrine of Thomas {281} be drawn from his own fountains, or at least from those rivulets which derived from the very fount, have thus far flowed, according to the established agreement of learned men, pure and clear; be careful to guard the minds of youth from those which are said to flow thence, but in reality are gathered from strange and unwholesome streams." Tributes quite as laudatory are not lacking from modern secular writers and while there have been many derogatory remarks, these have always come from men who either knew Aquinas only at second hand, or who confess that they had been unable to read him understandingly. The praise all comes from men who have spent years in the study of his writings. A recent writer in the Dublin _Review_ (January, 1906) sums up his appreciation of one of St. Thomas's works, his masterly book in philosophy, as follows: "The _Summa contra Gentiles_ is an historical monument of the first importance for the history of philosophy. In the variety of its contents, it is a perfect encyclopedia of the learning of the day. By it we can fix the high-water mark of Thirteenth Century thought, for it contains the lectures of a doctor second to none in the great school of thought then flourishing--the University of Paris. It is by the study of such books that one enters into the mental life of the period at which they were written; not by the hasty perusal of histories of philosophy. No student of the Contra Gentiles is likely to acquiesce in the statement that the Middle Ages were a time when mankind seemed to have lost the power of thinking for themselves. Medieval people thought for themselves, thoughts curiously different from ours and profitable to study." Here is a similar high tribute for Aquinas's great work on Theology from his modern biographer, Father Vaughan: "The 'Summa Theologica' is a mighty synthesis, thrown into technical and scientific form, of the Catholic traditions of East and West, of the infallible dicta of the Sacred Page, and of the most enlightened conclusions of human reason, gathered from the soaring intuitions of the Academy, and the rigid severity of the Lyceum. "Its author was a man endowed with the characteristic notes of the three great Fathers of Greek Philosophy: he possessed {282} the intellectual honesty and precision of Socrates, the analytical keenness of Aristotle, and that yearning after wisdom and light which was the distinguishing mark of 'Plato the divine,' and which has ever been one of the essential conditions of the highest intuitions of religion." As a matter of fact it was the very greatness of Thomas Aquinas, and the great group of contemporaries who were so close to him, that produced an unfortunate effect on subsequent thinking and teaching in Europe. These men were so surpassing in their grasp of the whole round of human thought, that their works came to be worshiped more or less as fetishes, and men did not think for themselves but appealed to them as authorities. It is a great but an unfortunate tribute to the scholastics of the Thirteenth Century that subsequent generations for many hundred years not only did not think that they could improve on them, but even hesitated to entertain the notion that they could equal them. Turner in his History of Philosophy has pointed out this fact clearly and has attributed to it, to a great extent, the decadence of scholastic philosophy. "The causes of the decay of scholastic philosophy were both internal and external. The internal causes are to be found in the condition of Scholastic philosophy at the beginning of the Fourteenth Century. The great work of Christian syncretism had been completed by the masters of the preceding period; revelation and science had been harmonized; contribution had been levied on the pagan philosophies of Greece and Arabia, and whatever truth these philosophies had possessed had been utilized to form the basis of a rational exposition of Christian revelation. The efforts of Roger Bacon and of Alfred the Great to reform scientific method had failed; the sciences were not cultivated. There was, therefore, no source of development, and nothing was left for the later Scholastics except to dispute as to the meaning of principles, to comment on the text of this master or of that, and to subtilize to such an extent that Scholasticism soon became a synonym for captious quibbling. The great Thomistic principle that in philosophy the argument from authority is the weakest of all arguments was forgotten; Aristotle, St. Thomas, or Scotus became the criterion of truth, and as Solomon, whose youthful wisdom had {283} astonished the world, profaned his old age by the worship of idols, the philosophy of the schools, in the days of its decadence, turned from the service of truth to prostrate itself before the shrine of a master. Dialectic, which in the Thirteenth Century had been regarded as the instrument of knowledge, now became an object of study for the sake of display; and to this fault of method was added a fault of style--an uncouthness and barbarity of terminology which bewilder the modern reader." The appreciation of St. Thomas in his own time is the greatest tribute to the critical faculty of the century that could be made. "Genius is praised but starves," in the words of the old Roman poet. Certainly most of the geniuses of the world have met with anything but their proper meed of appreciation in their own time. This is not true, however, during our Thirteenth Century. We have already shown how the artists, and especially Giotto, (at the end of the Thirteenth Century Giotto was only twenty-four years old) were appreciated, and how much attention Dante began to attract from his contemporaries, and we may add that all the great scholars of the period had a following that insured the wide publication of their works, at a time when this had to be accomplished by slow and patient hand-labor. The appreciation for Thomas, indeed, came near proving inimical to his completion of his important works in philosophy and theology. Many places in Europe wanted to have the opportunity to hear him. We have only reintroduced the practise of exchanging university professors in very recent years. This was quite a common practise in the Thirteenth Century, however, and so St. Thomas, after having been professor at Paris and later at Rome, taught for a while at Naples and then at a number of the Italian universities. Everywhere he went he was noted for the kindliness of his disposition and for his power to make friends. Looked upon as the greatest thinker of his time it would be easy to expect that there should be some signs of consciousness of this, and as a consequence some of that unpleasant self-assertion which so often makes great intellectual geniuses unpopular. Thomas, however, never seems to have had any over-appreciation of his own talents, but, realizing how little he knew compared to {284} the whole round of knowledge, and how superficial his thinking was compared to the depth of the mysteries he was trying, not to solve but to treat satisfactorily, it must be admitted that there was no question of conceit having a place in his life. This must account for the universal friendship of all who came in contact with him. The popes insisted on having him as a professor at the Roman university in which they were so much interested, and which they wished to make one of the greatest universities of the time. Here Thomas was brought in contact with ecclesiastics from all over the world and helped to form the mind of the time. Those who think the popes of the Middle Ages opposed to education should study the records of this Roman university. Thomas became the great friend of successive popes, some of whom had been brought in contact with him during his years of studying and teaching at Rome and Paris. This gave him many privileges and abundant encouragement, but finally came near ruining his career as a philosophic writer and teacher, since his papal friends wished to raise him to high ecclesiastical dignities. Urban IV. seems first to have thought of this but his successor Clement IV., one of the noblest churchmen of the period, who had himself wished to decline the papacy, actually made out the Bull, creating Thomas Archbishop of Naples. When this document was in due course presented to Aquinas, far from giving him any pleasure it proved a source of grief and pain. He saw the chance to do his life-work slipping from him. This was so evident to his friend the Pope that he withdrew the Bull and St. Thomas was left in peace during the rest of his career, and allowed to prosecute that one great object to which he had dedicated his mighty intellect. This was the summing up of all human knowledge in a work that would show the relation of the Creator to the creature, and apply the great principles of Greek philosophy to the sublime truths of Christianity. Had Thomas consented to accept the Archbishopric of Naples in all human probability, as Thomas's great English biographer remarks, the Summa Theologica would never have been written. It seems not unlikely that the dignity was pressed upon him by the Pope partly at the solicitation of powerful members of {285} his family, who hoped in this to have some compensation for their relative's having abandoned his opportunities for military and worldly glory. It is fortunate that their efforts failed, and it is only one of the many examples in history of the short-sightedness there may be in considerations that seem founded on the highest human prudence. Thomas was left free then to go on with his great work, and during the next five years he applied every spare moment to the completion of his Summa. More students have pronounced this the greatest work ever written than is true for any other text-book that has ever been used in schools. That it should be the basis of modern theological teaching after seven centuries is of itself quite sufficient to proclaim its merit. The men who are most enthusiastic about it are those who have used it the longest and who know it the best. St. Thomas's English biographer, the Very Rev. Roger Bede Vaughan, who is a worthy member of that distinguished Vaughan family who have given so many zealous ecclesiastics to the English Church and so many scholars to support the cause of Christianity, can scarcely say enough of this great work, nor of its place in the realm of theology. When it is recalled that Father Vaughan was not a member of St. Thomas's own order, the Dominicans, but of the Benedictines, it will be seen that it was not because of any _esprit de corps_, but out of the depths of his great admiration for the saint, that his words of praise were written: "It has been shown abundantly that no writer before the Angelical's day could have created a synthesis of all knowledge. The greatest of the classic Fathers have been treated of, and the reasons of their inability are evident. As for the scholastics who more immediately preceded the Angelical, their minds were not ripe for so great and complete a work: the fullness of time had not yet come. Very possibly had not Albert the Great and Alexander (of Hales) preceded him, St. Thomas would not have been prepared to write his master-work; just as, most probably, Newton would never have discovered the law of gravitation had it not been for the previous labors of Galileo and of Kepler. But just as the English astronomer stands solitary in his greatness, though surrounded and {286} succeeded by men of extraordinary eminence, so also the Angelical stands by himself alone, although Albertus Magnus was a genius, Alexander was a theological king, and Bonaventure a seraphic doctor. Just as the Principia is a work unique, unreachable, so, too, is the 'Summa Theologica' of the great Angelical. Just as Dante stands alone among the poets, so stands St. Thomas in the schools." Probably the most marvelous thing about the life of St. Thomas is his capacity for work. His written books fill up some twenty folios in their most complete edition. This of itself would seem to be enough to occupy a lifetime without anything more. His written works, however, represent apparently only the products of his hours at leisure. He was only a little more than fifty when he died and he had been a university professor at Cologne, at Bologna, at Paris, at Rome, and at Naples. In spite of the amount of work that he was thus asked to do, his order, the Dominican, constantly called on him to busy himself with certain of its internal affairs. On one occasion at least he visited England in order to attend a Dominican Chapter at Oxford, and the better part of several years at Paris was occupied with his labors to secure for his brethren a proper place in the university, so that they might act as teachers and yet have suitable opportunities for the education and the discipline of the members of the Order. Verily it would seem as though his days must have been at least twice as long as those of the ordinary scholar and student to accomplish so much; yet he is only a type of the monks of the Middle Ages, of whom so many people seem to think that their principal traits were to be fat and lazy. Thomas was fat, as we know from the picture of him which shows him before a desk from which a special segment has been removed to accommodate more conveniently a rather abnormal abdominal development, but as to laziness, surely the last thing that would occur to anyone who knows anything about him, would be to accuse him of it. Clearly those who accept the ancient notion of monkish laziness will never understand the Middle Ages. The great educational progress of the Thirteenth Century was due almost entirely to monks. {287} There is another extremely interesting side to the intellectual character of Thomas Aquinas which is usually not realized by the ordinary student of philosophy and theology, and still less perhaps by those who are interested in him from an educational standpoint. This is his poetical faculty. For Thomas as for many of the great intellectual geniuses of the modern time, the sacrament of the Holy Eucharist was one of the most wondrously satisfying devotional mysteries of Christianity and the subject of special devotion. In our own time the great Cardinal Newman manifested this same attitude of mind. Thomas because of his well-known devotion to the Blessed Sacrament, was asked by the Pope to write the office for the then recently established feast of Corpus Christi. There are always certain hymns incorporated in the offices of the different Feast days. It might ordinarily have been expected that a scholar like Aquinas would write the prose portions of the office, leaving the hymns for some other hand, or selecting hymns from some older sacred poetry. Thomas, however, wrote both hymns and prose, and, surprising as it may be, his hymns are some of the most beautiful that have ever been composed and remain the admiration of posterity. It must not be forgotten in this regard that Thomas's career occurred during the period when Latin hymn writing was at its apogee. The Dies Irae and the Stabat Mater were both written during the Thirteenth Century, and the most precious Latin hymns of all times were composed during the century and a half from 1150 to 1300. Aquinas's hymns do not fail to challenge comparison even with the greatest of these. While he had an eminently devotional subject, it must not be forgotten that certain supremely difficult theological problems were involved in the expression of devotion to the Blessed Sacrament. In spite of the difficulties, Thomas succeeded in making not only good theology but great poetry. A portion of one of his hymns, the Tantum Ergo, has been perhaps more used in church services than any other, with the possible exception of the Dies Irae. Another one of his beautiful hymns that especially deserves to be admired, is less well known and so I have ventured to quote three selected stanzas of it, as an illustration {288} of Thomas's command over rhyme and rhythm in the Latin tongue. [Footnote 24] Adoro te devote, latens Deitas, Quae sub his figuris vere latitas. Tibi se cor meum totum subjicit, Quia te contemplans totum deficit. Visus, tactus, gustus, in te fallitur, Sed auditu solo tute creditur: Credo quidquid dixit Dei filius Nihil veritatis verbo verius. And the less musical but wonderfully significative fourth, stanza-- Plagas sicut Thomas non intueor, Deum tamen meum te confiteor, Fac me tibi semper magis credere, In te spem habere, te diligere. Only the ardent study of many years will give anything like an adequate idea of the great schoolman's universal genius. I am content if I have conveyed a few hints that will help to a beginning of an acquaintance with one of the half dozen supreme minds of our race. [Footnote 24: The following translation made by Justice O'Hagan renders sense and sound into English as adequately perhaps as is possible: Hidden God, devoutly I adore thee, Truly present underneath these veils: All my heart subdues itself before thee. Since it all before thee faints and fails. Not to sight, or taste, or touch be credit. Hearing only do we trust secure; I believe, for God the Son hath said it-- Word of truth that ever shall endure. ... Though I look not on thy wounds with Thomas, Thee, my Lord, and thee, my God, I call: Make me more and more believe thy promise, Hope in thee, and love thee over all. ] {289} XVIII ST. LOUIS THE MONARCH. If large numbers of men are to be ruled by one of their number, as seems more or less inevitable in the ordinary course of things, then, without doubt, the best model of what such a monarch's life should be, is to be found in that of Louis IX., who for nearly half a century was the ruler of France during our period. Of all the rulers of men of whom we have record in history he probably took his duties most seriously, with most regard for others, and least for himself and for his family. There is not a single relation of life in which he is not distinguished and in which his career is not worth studying, as an example of what can be done by a simple, earnest, self-forgetful man, to make life better and happier for all those who come in contact with him. His relations with his mother are those of an affectionate son in whom indeed, from his easy compliance with her wishes in his younger years one might suspect some weakness, but whose strength of character is displayed at every turn once he himself assumed the reins of government. After many years of ruling however, when his departure on the Crusade compelled him to be absent from the kingdom it was to her he turned again to act as his representative and the wisdom of the choice no one can question. As a husband Louis' life was a model, and though he could not accomplish the impossible, and was not able to keep the relations of his mother and his wife as cordial as he would have liked them to be, judging from human experience generally it is hard to think this constitutes any serious blot on his fair name. As a father, few men have ever thought less of material advantages for their children, or more of the necessity for having them realize that happiness in life does not consist in the possession of many things, but rather in the accomplishment of duty and in the recognition of the fact that the giving of happiness to others {290} constitutes the best source of felicity for one's self. His letters and instructions to his children, as preserved for us by Joinville and other contemporaries, give us perhaps the most taking picture of the man that we have, and round out a personality, which, while it has in the telling French phrase "the defects of its virtues," is surely one of the most beautiful characters that has ever been seen upon earth, in a man who took an active and extremely important part in the great events of the world of his time. The salient points of his character are his devotion to the three great needs of humanity as they present themselves in his time. He made it the aim of his life that men should have justice, and education, and when for any misfortune they needed it,--charity; and every portion of his career is taken up with successful achievement in these great departments of social action. It is well known that when he became conscious that the judges sometimes abused their power and gave sentences for partial reasons, the monarch himself took up the onerous duty of hearing appeals and succeeded in making the judges of his kingdom realize, that only the strictest justice would save them from the king's displeasure, and condign punishment. For an unjust judge there was short shrift. The old tree at Versailles, under which he used to hear the causes of the poor who appealed to him, stood for many centuries as a reminder of Louis' precious effort to make the dispensing of justice equal to all men. When the duty of hearing appeals took up too much of his time it was transferred to worthy shoulders, and so the important phase of jurisprudence in France relating to appeals, came to be thoroughly established as a part of the organic law of the kingdom. {opp290} [Illustration] NOTRE DAME (PARIS) As regards education, too much can not be said of Louis' influence. It is to him more than to anybody else that the University of Paris owes the success it achieved as a great institution of learning at the end of the Thirteenth Century. Had the monarch been opposed to the spread of education with any idea that it might possibly undermine his authority, had he even been indifferent to it, Paris would not have come to be the educational center of the world. As it was, Louis not only encouraged it in every way, but also acted as the patron of great {291} subsidiary institutions which were to add to its prestige and enhance its facilities. Among the most noteworthy is the Sorbonne. La Sainte Chapelle deserves to be mentioned, however, and the library attached to it, which owed its foundation and development to Louis, were important factors in attracting students to Paris and in furnishing them interestingly suggestive material for thought and the development of taste during their residence there. His patronage of Vincent of Beauvais, the encyclopedist, was but a further manifestation of his interest in everything educational. His benefactions to the Hotel Dieu must be considered rather under the head of charity, and yet they also serve to represent his encouragement of medical education and of the proper care for the poor in educated hands. Voltaire, to whom Louis' character as a supreme believer in revealed religion must have been so utterly unsympathetic, and whose position as the historical symbol of all that Voltaire most held in antipathy in medievalism, might have been expected to make the French philosopher avoid mention of him since he could not condemn, has been forced into some striking utterances in praise of Louis, one of which we quote: "Louis IX appeared to be a prince destined to reform Europe, if she could have been reformed, to render France triumphant and civilized, and to be in all things a pattern for men. His piety which was that of an anchorite, did not deprive him of any kingly virtue. A wise economy took nothing from his liberality. A profound policy was combined with strict justice and he is perhaps the only sovereign who is entitled to this praise; prudent and firm in counsel, intrepid without rashness in his wars, he was as compassionate as if he had always been unhappy. No man could have carried virtue further." Guizot, the French statesman and historian, whose unbending Calvinism made the men and institutions of the Middle Ages almost incomprehensible to him from their Catholic aspects, has much of good to say of Louis, though there is not wanting rather definite evidence of the reluctance of his admiration: "The world has seen more profound politicians on the throne, greater generals, men of more mighty and brilliant intellect, princes who have exercised a more powerful influence {292} over later generations and events subsequent to their own times; but it has never seen such a king as this St. Louis, never seen a man possessing sovereign power and yet not contracting the vices and passions which attend it, displaying upon the throne in such a high degree every human virtue purified and ennobled by Christian faith. St. Louis did not give any new or personal impulse to his age; he did not strongly influence the nature or the development of civilization in France; whilst he endeavored to reform the gravest abuses of the feudal system by the introduction of justice and public order, he did not endeavor to abolish it either by the substitution of a pure monarchy, or by setting class against class in order to raise the royal authority high above all. He was neither an egotist nor a scheming diplomatist; he was, in all sincerity, in harmony with his age and sympathetic alike with the faith, the institutions, the customs, and the tastes of France in the Thirteenth Century. And yet, both in the Thirteenth Century and in later times St. Louis stands apart as a man of profoundly original character, an isolated figure without any peer among his contemporaries or his successors. As far as it was possible in the Middle Ages, he was an ideal man, king, and Christian." Guizot goes even further than this when he says, "It is reported that in the Seventeenth Century, during the brilliant reign of Louis XIV., Montecuculli, on learning of the death of his illustrious rival, Turenne, said to his officers, 'A man has died to-day who did honor to mankind.' St. Louis did honor to France, to royalty, to humanity, and to Christianity. This was the feeling of his contemporaries, and after six centuries it is still confirmed by the judgment of the historian." Of Louis' wonderful influence for good as a ruler all historians are agreed in talking in the highest terms. His private life however, is even more admirable for our purpose of bringing out the greatness of the Thirteenth Century. Of course many legends and myths have gathered around his name, but still enough remains of absolutely trustworthy tradition and even documentary evidence, to make it very clear that he was a man among men, a nobleman of nature's making, who in any position of life would have acquitted himself with a perfection sure to make his life worthy of admiration. One of the most {293} striking traits of his character is his love of justice, his insatiable desire to render to all men what was rightly theirs. A biographer has told the story that gives the most telling proof of this in relating the solicitude with which he tried to right all the wrongs not only of his own reign, but of those of his predecessors, before he set out on the Crusade. He wished to have the absolute satisfaction that he, nor his, owed any man any reparation, as the most precious treasure he could take with him on his perilous expedition. He wished even to undo any wrongs that might have been done in his name though he was entirely unconscious of them. "As he wished to be in a state of grace at the moment of departure, and to take with him to the Holy Land a quiet conscience by leaving the kingdom in as happy a condition as possible, he resolved to carry out one of the noblest measures ever undertaken by a king. By his order, inquisitors were sent into all the provinces annexed to the royal dominion since the accession of Philip Augustus. All those who had been maltreated or despoiled by the bailiffs, seneschals, provosts, sergeants, and other representatives of the royal authority, came to declare their wrongs to these newly appointed judges, and to demand the reparation which was due to them; the number was great, since for forty years there had been much suffering in the country districts and even in the towns .... The royal officers had too often acted as if they were in a conquered country; they believed themselves to be safe from observation, so that they might do as they pleased. The people had much to endure during these forty years, and it was a noble idea to make reparation freely and with elaborate care. No prince had been known, of his own accord and at his own cost, to redress the wrongs inflicted on the people during the reigns of his father and grandfather. This made an immense impression, which lasted for centuries. Blanche's son was not merely a good king, he became the unrivalled sovereign, the impeccable judge, the friend and consoler of his subjects." It is no wonder that so inappeasable a lover of justice should commend that virtue above all others to his son. When we read his letters to that son who was to be his successor, in the light of Louis' own career, we appreciate with what utter {294} sincerity they were written. Louis realized that simple justice between men would undo more of the world's wrongs than most of the vaunted cures for social ills, which are only too often the result of injustice. "Dear son," he writes in his Instruction, "if you come to reign, do that which befits a king, that is, be so just as to deviate in nothing from justice, whatever may befall you. If a poor man goes to law with one who is rich, support the poor rather than the rich man until you know the truth, and when the truth is known, do that which is just. And if it happen that any man has a dispute with yourself, maintain the cause of your adversary before the council so as not to appear partial to your own cause, until the truth is known. Unless you do this, those who are of the council may fear to speak against you, and this ought not to be. . . . And if you find that you possess anything unjustly acquired, either in your time or in that of your predecessors, make restitution at once, however great its value, either in land, money, or any other thing. . . . If the matter is doubtful and you cannot find out the truth, follow the advice of trusty men, and make such an agreement as may fully deliver your soul and that of your predecessors. If you hear that your predecessors have made restitution of anything, take great trouble to discover if anything more should be restored, and if you find that this is the case, restore it at once so as to deliver your own soul and that of your predecessors." "The education of his children, their future position and well-being, engrossed the attention of the King as entirely, and were subjects of as keen an interest, as if he had been a father with no other task than the care of his children. After supper they followed him to his apartment, where he made them sit around him for a time whilst he instructed them in their duty; he then sent them to bed. He would direct their attention particularly to the good and bad actions of Princes. He used to visit them in their own apartment when he had any leisure, inquire as to their progress, and like a second Tobias, give them excellent instruction .... On Maundy Thursday, he and his children used to wash the feet of a dozen poor persons, give them large alms, and afterward wait upon them whilst they dined. The King together with his son-in-law {295} King Thibault, whom he loved and looked upon as his own son, carried the first poor man to the hospital of Compiègne, and his two oldest sons, Louis and Philippe, carried the second. They were accustomed to act with him in all things, showing him great reverence, and he desired that they and Thibault should also obey him implicitly in everything that he commanded." Anyone who still retains any trace of the old-fashioned notion, which used to be unfortunately a commonplace among English speaking people, that the medieval Monks were unworthy of their great calling, and that the monasteries were the homes of lazy, fat-witted men whose only object in taking up the life was to secure an easy means of livelihood, will be thoroughly undeceived, if he but read with some attention the stories of Louis' relations to the monasteries. In all his journeys he stopped in them, he always asked to see their libraries, he insisted on not being treated better than the community and in every way he tried to show his esteem for them. There is a story which may or may not be true in the "Little Flowers of St. Francis," which comes from almost a contemporary source, however, that once on his travels he called on Brother Giles, the famous simple-minded companion of St. Francis, of whom so many delightfully humorous stories are told. Brother Giles received his affectionate greeting but said never a word in return. After the first words the King himself said nothing, but both sat and communed in silence for some time, and then the King departed apparently well-pleased with his visit. Needless to say when Brother Giles told the story of the King of France having called on him there was a commotion in the community. But by this time the King was far distant on his way. Indeed Louis took so many opportunities to stop in monasteries and follow monastic regulations as to prayer and the taking of meals while there, that he quite disgusted some of the members of his retinue who were most with him. One of the ladies of the court in her impatience at him for this, is once said to have remarked under such indiscreet circumstances that it was reported to Louis, that she wished they had a man and not a monk for King. Louis is said to have asked her very {296} gently if she would prefer that he spend most of his time in sport and in excesses of various kinds. Even such remarks, however, had no effect in turning him from his purpose to live as simply and as beneficently for others as possible. His genuine appreciation of the monks must be recognized from his wishes with regard to his children. On the other hand his readiness to secure their happiness as far as possible in the way they wished for themselves shows the tenderness of his fatherly heart. A modern biographer has said of him:-- "He was very anxious that his three children born in the East during the Crusade--Jean Tristan, Pierre, and Blanche--and even his eldest daughter Isabella, should enter the monastic life, which he looked upon as the most likely to insure their salvation; he frequently exhorted them to take this step, writing letters of the greatest tenderness and piety, especially to his daughter Isabella; but, as they did not show any taste for it, he did not attempt to force their inclinations. Thenceforth, he busied himself in making suitable marriages for them, and establishing them according to their rank; at the same time he gave them the most judicious advice as to their conduct and actions in the world upon which they were entering. When he was before Tunis and found that he was sick unto death, he gave the instructions which he had written out in French with his own hand to his eldest son, Philip. They are models of virtue, wisdom and paternal tenderness, worthy of a King and a Christian." Perhaps the most interesting feature of St. Louis' life was his treatment of the poor. He used literally to recall the fact that they must stand to him in the place of God. "Whatever you do to the least of these you do even unto me" was a favorite expression frequently in his mouth. He waited on them personally and no matter how revolting their appearance would not be deterred from this personal service. It is easy to understand that his courtiers did not sympathize with this state of mind, though Louis used to encourage them not only by his example but by personal persuasion. Every Holy Thursday he used to wash the feet of twelve poor people at a public ceremonial, in honor of the washing of the feet of the Apostles by Christ. {opp296} [Illustration] APOSTLE (LA SAINTE CHAPELLE, PARIS) It must not be thought moreover, that such a {297} proceeding was perhaps less repugnant to the feelings of the men of that time than they are to the present generation. It might be considered that the general paucity of means for maintaining personal cleanliness in medieval times would make the procedure less disgusting. As a proof of the contrary of this we have the words of Joinville who tells of the following conversation:-- "Many a time," says Joinville, "I have seen him cut their bread for them, and pour out their drink. One day he asked me if I washed the feet of the poor on Maundy Thursday. "Sire," I answered, "What, the feet of those dirty wretches! No indeed, I shall never wash them." "Truly," replied the King, "you have spoken ill, for you ought not to despise that which God intended for your instruction. I pray you, therefore, first of all for the love of God, and then by your love towards me, that you make a habit of washing their feet." Even more striking than this however, was his attitude toward the lepers of the time. These poor creatures were compelled to live apart from the population and were not allowed to approach healthy individuals. They were of exceeding interest to Louis however, who took every opportunity to mitigate the trials and hardships of their existence. Whenever he met them on his journeys he insisted on abundant alms being given them, and gave orders that every possible provision for their welfare, consonant with the care that their affection should not be permitted to spread, be made for them. Over and over again he greeted them as his brothers and when his retinue feared to approach them, would himself go to them, in order to console them by his words and his exhibition of personal interest. There is an incident told of his having on one occasion, when a muddy stream intervened between him and some lepers, forded the stream alone in order to get to them, and neither any personal fear of contagion nor any natural repugnance was permitted to deter him from this sublime work of charity. It is no wonder that his people proclaimed him a saint, that is "one who thinks first of others and only second of himself," even during his lifetime. The only supposed blot upon Louis' character is the denunciation by certain modern writers of what they call the fanaticism, {298} which prompted him to go on the Crusades instead of remaining at home properly to care for his people. The opinion with regard to the place that must be assigned to the Crusades as a factor in history and national as well as European development, has changed very much in recent years. Formerly it was the custom almost entirely to condemn them and to look upon them as a serious mistake. Such ideas however, are only entertained by those who do not realize the conditions under which they were undertaken or the important results which flowed from them. Bishop Stubbs in his lectures on Medieval and Modern History, delivered while he was professor of History at Oxford, has been at some pains to correct this false notion, and his passage constitutes one of the best apologies for Louis' interest in the Crusades which could be written. He said:-- "The Crusades are not, in my mind, either the popular delusions that our cheap literature has determined them to be, nor papal conspiracies against kings and peoples, as they appear to Protestant controversialists; nor the savage outbreak of expiring barbarism, thirsting for blood and plunder, nor volcanic explosions of religious intolerance. I believe them to have been in their deep sources, and in the minds of their best champions, and in the main tendency of their results, capable of ample justification. They were the first great effort of medieval life to go beyond the pursuit of selfish and isolated ambitions; they were the trial-feat of the young world, essaying to use, to the glory of God and the benefit of man, the arms of its new knighthood. That they failed in their direct object is only what may be alleged against almost every great design which the great disposer of events has moulded to help the world's progress; for the world has grown wise from the experience of failure, rather than by the winning of high aims. That the good they did was largely leavened with evil may be said of every war that has ever been waged; that bad men rose by them while good men fell, is and must be true, wherever and whenever the race is to the swift and the battle to the strong. But that in the end they were a benefit to the world no one who reads can doubt; and that in their course they brought out a love for all that is heroic in human nature, the love of freedom, the honor of prowess, sympathy with sorrow, {299} perseverance to the last, the chronicles of the age abundantly prove; proving, moreover, that it was by the experience of these times that the forms of those virtues were realized and presented to posterity." [Footnote 25] [Footnote 25: Stubbs, "Seventeen Lectures on Medieval and Modern History," p. 180.] With the stigma of supposed imprudence or foolhardiness for having gone on the Crusade turned into a new cause for honor, Louis must be considered as probably the greatest monarch who ever occupied an important throne. Instead of being surprised that such a monarch should have come in the heart of the Middle Ages and during a century so distant as the Thirteenth, readers must now be ready to appreciate to some degree at least the fact, that his environment instead of being a hindrance in any sense of the word to the development of Louis' greatness, should rather be considered as one of the principal sources of it. Louis' character was representative of the men of that time and exhibits in their most striking form the qualities that were set up as ideals in that period. If the century had produced nothing else but Louis, it would have to be considered as a great epoch in history, for he was no mere accident but typically a son of his age. If this is but properly appreciated the true significance not only of Louis' life but the period in which he lived will be better understood than would be possible by any other means. Those who want to know the men of this wonderful century as they actually were should study Louis' life in detail, for we have been only able to hint at its most striking characteristics. {opp300} [Illustration] DECORATION (QUEEN MARY'S PSALTER, XIII. CENTURY MS.) {300} XIX DANTE THE POET. It is only too often the custom to talk of Dante as a solitary phenomenon in his time. Even Carlyle who knew well and properly appreciated many things in medieval life and letters and especially in the literary productions of the Thirteenth Century said, that in Dante "ten silent centuries found a voice." Anyone who has followed what we have had to say with regard to the Thirteenth Century will no longer think of Dante as standing alone, but will readily appreciate that he is only the fitting culmination of a great literary era. After having gone over even as hurriedly as has been necessary in our brief space, what was accomplished in every country of Europe in literature that was destined to live not only because of the greatness of the thoughts, but also for the ultimateness of its expression, we should expect some surpassing literary genius at the end of the period. It seems almost inevitable indeed that a supreme poet, whose name stands above all others but one or two at the most in the whole history of the race, should have lived in the Thirteenth Century, and should have summed up effectually in himself all the greatness of the century and enshrined its thoughts in undying verse for all future generations. {opp300} [Illustration] PORTRAIT OF DANTE (GIOTTO, IN THE BARGELLO, FLORENCE) When Dante himself dares to place his name with those of the men whom he considered the five greatest poets of all time, it seems sublimest egotism. At first thought many will at once conclude that his reason for so doing was, that in the unlettered times his critical faculty was not well developed and as he knew that his work far surpassed that of his contemporaries, he could scarcely help but conclude that his place must be among the great poets. Any such thought however, is entirely due to lack of knowledge of the conditions of Dante's life and education. He had been in the universities of Italy, and in his exile had visited Paris and probably also Oxford. He knew the poets of his country well. He appreciated them {301} highly. It was the consciousness of genius that made him place himself so high and not any faulty comparison with others. Succeeding generations have set him even higher than the place chosen by himself and now we breathe his name only with those of Homer and Shakespeare, considering that these three sublime immortals are so far above all other poets that there is scarcely a second to them. Dante is the most universal of poets. He has won recognition from all nations, and he has been the favorite reading of the most diverse times and conditions of men. From the very beginning he has been appreciated, and even before his death men had begun to realize something of the supremacy of his greatness. Commentaries on his works that have been preserved down to our own day were written almost during his lifetime. Only supreme interest could have tempted men to multiply these by the hard labor of patient handwriting. Petrarch who as a young man, was his contemporary, recognized him as the Prince of Italian poets who had composed in their common tongue, and even was tempted to say that the subtle and profound conceptions of the Commedia could not have been written without the special gift of the Holy Ghost. Boccaccio was wont to speak of him as the Divine Poet, and tells us that he had learned that Petrarch deliberately held aloof from the Commedia, through fear of losing his originality if he came under the spell of so great a master. Very few realize how great a poet Dante must be considered even if only the effusions of his younger years were to be taken as the standard of his poetical ability. Some of his sonnets are as beautiful of their kind as are to be found in this form of poetry. His description of his lady-love is famous among sonnets of lovers and may only be compared with some of the Sonnets from the Portuguese in our own day, or with one or two of Camoens' original sonnets in the Portuguese, for lofty praise of the beloved in worthy numbers. After reading Dante's sonnets it is easy to understand how a half century later Petrarch was able to raise the sonnet form to an excellence that was never to be surpassed. With a beginning like this it is no wonder that the sonnet became so popular in Europe during the next three centuries, and that every young poet, {302} down to Shakespeare's time, had an attack of sonneteering just as he might have had an attack of the measles. The first one of a pair of sonnets that are considered supreme in their class deserves a place here as an example of Dante's poetic faculty in this form, for which he is so much less known than he ought to be. He sees completely fullest bliss abound Who among ladies sees my Lady's face; Those that with her do go are surely bound To give God thanks for such exceeding grace. And in her beauty such strange might is found. That envy finds in other hearts no place; So she makes them walk with her, clothed all round With love and faith and courteous gentleness. The sight of her makes all things lowly be; Nor of herself alone she gives delight. But each through her receiveth honor due. And in her acts is such great courtesy, That none can recollect that wondrous sight. Who sighs not for it in Love's sweetness true. It will be noted that Dante has nothing to say of the personal appearance of his beloved. This is true, however, of the whole series of poems to and about her. He never seems to have thought for a moment of her physical qualities. What he finds worthy to praise is her goodness which shines out from her features so that everyone rejoices in it, while a sweetness fills the heart as if a heavenly visitor had come. For him her supreme quality is that, with all her beauty, envy finds no place in others' hearts because she is so clothed around with love and faith and courteous gentleness. It has often been said that Shakespeare did not describe the physical appearances of his heroines because he realized that this meant very little, but then Shakespeare had to write for the stage and realized that blondes and brunettes, especially in the olden time, could not be made to order and that it was better to leave the heroine's physical appearance rather vague. It would be expected, however, that Dante, with his Southern temperament, would have dwelt on the physical perfections of his fair. The next {303} sonnet, however, of the best known group emphasizes his abstraction of all physical influence in the matter and insists on her goodness and the womanly beauty of her character. It will be found in our chapter on Women of the Century. In his earlier years Dante considered himself one of the Troubadours, and there can be no doubt that if he had never written the Divine Comedy, he still would have been remembered as one of the great poets who wrote of love in this Thirteenth Century. Not only does he deserve a place among the greatest of the Minnesingers, the Trouvères, and the Troubadours, but he is perhaps the greatest of them. That he should have sung as he did at the end of the century only shows that he was in the stream of literary evolution and not being merely carried idly along, but helping to guide it into ever fairer channels. Dante's minor poems would have made enduring fame for any poet of less genius than himself. His prose works deserve to be read by anyone who wishes to know the character of this greatest of poets, and also to appreciate what the educational environment of the Thirteenth Century succeeded in making out of good intellectual material when presented to it. Dante's works are the real treasury of information of the most precious kind with regard to the century, since they provide the proper standpoint from which to view all that it accomplished. While Dante was a supreme singer among the poets of a great song time, it was only natural, in the light of what we know about the literary product of the rest of this century, that he should have put into epic form the supreme product of his genius. With the great national epics in every country of Europe--the Cid, the Arthur Legends, and the Nibelungen, at the beginning of this century, and the epical poems of the Meistersingers during its first half, it is not surprising, but on the contrary rather what might have been confidently looked for, that there should have arisen a great national epic in Italy before the end of the century. The Gothic art movement spread through all these countries, and so did the wind of the spirit of esthetic accomplishment which blew the flame of national literature in each country into a mighty blaze, that not only was {304} never to be extinguished, but was to be a beacon light in the realm of national literatures forever after. We have already said a word of the well-known contemporary admiration for the poet but it should be realized that due appreciation of Dante continued in Italy during all the time when Italian art and literature was at its highest. It dwindled only at periods of decadence and lack of taste. Cornelius' law with regard to Dante's influence on art is very well known, Italian art according to him, has been strong and vigorous just in proportion as it has worked under Dante's influence, while it became weak and sensuous as that influence declined. This has held true from the very beginning and has been as true for literature as for art. When the Italians became interested in trivialities and gave themselves up to weak imitations of the classics, or to pastoral poetry that was not a real expression of feeling but a passing fancy of literary folk, then Dante was for a time in obscurity. Even at the height of the Renaissance, however, when Greek was at the acme of its interest and the classics occupied so much attention that Dante might be expected to be eclipsed, the great thinkers and critics of the time still worshipped at the shrine of their great master of Italian verse. The best proof of this is to be found in Michael Angelo's famous sonnets in praise of Dante, the second of which would seem to exhaust all that can be said in praise of a brother poet. Into the dark abyss he made his way; Both nether worlds he saw, and in the might Of his great soul beheld God's splendour bright. And gave to us on earth true light of day: Star of supremest worth with its clear ray. Heaven's secrets he revealed to us through our dim sight. And had for guerdon what the base world's spite Oft gives to souls that noblest grace display, Full ill was Dante's life-work understood, His purpose high, by that ungrateful state. That welcomed all with kindness but the good. Would I were such, to bear like evil fate, To taste his exile, share his lofty mood. For this I'd gladly give all earth calls great. {305} In the first of this pair of sonnets, however, Michael Angelo gave if possible even higher praise than this. It will be recalled that he himself, besides being the greatest of sculptors and one of the greatest of painters and architects in a wonderfully productive period, was also a very great poet. These sonnets to Dante, the one to his crucifix, and one to Vittoria Colonna, are the best proof of this. He knew how to chisel thoughts into wonderfully suitable words quite as well as marble into the beautiful forms that grew under his hands. With all his greatness, and he must have been conscious of it, he thinks that he would be perfectly willing to give up all that earth calls great, simply to share Dante's lofty mood even in his exile. No greater tribute has ever been paid by one poet to another than this, and Michael Angelo's genius was above all critical, never thoughtlessly laudatory. As emphasizing the highest enlightened taste of a great epoch this has seemed to deserve a place here also. What should be said of him speech may not tell; His splendor is too great for men's dim sight; And easier 'twere to blame his foes aright Than for his poorest gifts to praise him well. He tracked the path that leads to depths of Hell To teach us wisdom, scaled the eternal height. And heaven with open gates did him invite. Who in his own loved city might not dwell. Ungrateful country step-dame of his fate. To her own loss: full proof we have in this That souls most perfect bear the greatest woe. Of thousand things suffice in this to state: No exile ever was unjust as his, Nor did the world his equal ever know. In England, in spite of distance of country, race and language, the appreciation of Dante began very early. Readers of Chaucer know the great Italian as the favorite poet of the Father of English poetry, and over and over again he has expressed the feeling of how much greater than anything he could hope to do was Dante's accomplishment. Readers will remember how Chaucer feels unable to tell the story of {306} Ugolino and his starving sons in the Hunger Tower, and refers those interested in the conclusion of the tale to Dante. After the religious revolt of the early Sixteenth Century Dante was lost sight of to a great extent. His temper was too Catholic to be appreciated by Puritan England, and the Elizabethans were too much occupied with their own creation of a great national literature, to have any time for appreciation of a foreigner so different in spirit from their times. With the coming of the Oxford Movement, however, Dante at once sprang into favor, and a number of important critical appreciations of him reintroduced him to a wide reading public in England, most of whom were among the most cultured of the island. This renewed interest in Dante gave rise to some of the best critical appreciations in any language. Dean Church's famous essay is the classic English monograph on Dante, and its opening paragraph sounds the keynote of critical opinion among English speaking people. "The Divina Commedia is one of the landmarks of history. More than a magnificent poem, more than the beginning of a language and the opening of a national literature, more than the inspirer of art and the glory of a great people, it is one of those rare and solemn monuments of the mind's power which measure and test what it can reach to, which rise up ineffaceably and forever as time goes on, marking out its advance by grander divisions than its centuries, and adopted as epochs by the consent of all who come after. It stands with the Iliad and Shakespeare's Plays, with the writings of Aristotle and Plato, with the Novum Organon and the Principia, with Justinian's Code, with the Parthenon and St. Peter's. It is the first Christian Poem, and it opens European literature as the Iliad did that of Greece and Rome. And, like the Iliad, it has never become out of date; it accompanies in undiminished freshness the literature which it began." {opp306} [Illustration] TORRE DEL FAME (DANTE, PISA) [Illustration] PALAZZO PRETORIO (TODI) No better introduction to Dante could be obtained than this from Dean Church. Those who have found it difficult to get interested in the great Florentine poet, and who have been prone to think that perhaps the pretended liking for him on the part of many people was an affectation rather than a sincere expression of opinion, should read this essay and learn {307} something of the wealth of sympathy there is in Dante for even the man of these modern times. Our Thirteenth Century poet is not easy to read but there is probably no reading in all the world that brings with it so much of intellectual satisfaction, so much of awakening of the best feelings in man, so many glimpses into the depths of his being, as some lines from Dante pondered under favorable circumstances. Like one of these Gothic cathedrals of the olden times he never grows old, but, on the contrary, every favorite passage seems to have a new message for each mood of the reader. This is particularly true for the spiritual side of man's being as has been pointed out by Dean Church in a well-known passage toward the end of his essay. "Those who know the Divina Commedia best will best know how hard it is to be the interpreter of such a mind; but they will sympathize with the wish to call attention to it. They know, and would wish others also to know, not by hearsay, but by experience, the power of that wonderful poem. They know its austere yet submitting beauty; they know what force there is in its free and earnest and solemn verse to strengthen, to tranquillize, to console. It is a small thing that it has the secret of Nature and Man; that a few keen words have opened their eyes to new sights in earth, and sea, and sky; have taught them new mysteries of sound; have made them recognize, in distinct image of thought, fugitive feelings, or their unheeded expression, by look, or gesture, or motion; that it has enriched the public and collective memory of society with new instances, never to be lost, of human feeling and fortune; has charmed mind and ear by the music of its stately march, and the variety and completeness of its plan. But besides this, they know how often its seriousness has put to shame their trifling, its magnanimity their faint-heartedness, its living energy their indolence, its stern and sad grandeur rebuked low thoughts, its thrilling tenderness overcome sullenness and assuaged distress, its strong faith quelled despair, and soothed perplexity, its vast grasp imparted the sense of harmony to the view of clashing truth. They know how often they have found in times of trouble, if not light, at least that deep sense of reality, permanent though unseen, which is more than light can {308} always give--in the view which it has suggested to them of the judgments and love of God." As might have been expected from the fact of Dante's English popularity paralleling the Oxford Movement, both the great English Cardinals who were such prominent agents in that movement, looked upon him as a favorite author. Both of them have given him precious tributes. Newman's lofty compliment was the flattery of imitation when he wrote the Dream of Gerontius, that poem for poets which has told the men of our generation more about the immediate hereafter than anything written in these latter centuries. No poet of the intervening period, or of any other time, has so satisfactorily presented the after world as these writers so distant in time, so different in environment,--the one an Italian of the Thirteenth, the other an Englishman of the Nineteenth Century. Cardinal Manning's tribute was much more formal though not less glorious. It occurs in the introduction to Father Bowden's English edition of the German critic Hettinger's appreciation of Dante, and deserves a place here because it shows how much a representative modern churchman thinks of the great Florentine poet. "There are three works which always seem to me to form a triad of Dogma, of Poetry, and of Devotion,--The Summa of St. Thomas, The Divina Commedia, and the Paradisus Animae (a manual of devotional exercises by Horstius). All three contain the same outline of Faith. St. Thomas traces it on the intellect, Dante upon the imagination, and the Paradisus Animae upon the heart. The poem unites the book of Dogma and the book of Devotion, clothed in conceptions of intensity and of beauty which have never been surpassed nor equalled. No uninspired hand has ever written thoughts so high in words, so resplendent as the last stanza of the Divina Commedia. It was said of St. Thomas, _'Post Summan Thomae nihil restat nisi lumen gloriae_'--After the Summa of Thomas nothing is left except the light of glory. It may be said of Dante, _'Post Dantis Paradisum nihil restat nisi visio Dei_,'--After Dante's Paradise nothing is left except the vision of God." Of course John Ruskin had a thorough-going admiration for so great a spiritual thinker as Dante and expressed it in no {309} uncertain terms. With his wonderful power to point out the significance of unexpected manifestations of human genius, Ruskin has even succeeded in minimizing one of the great objections urged against Dante, better perhaps than could be done by anyone else, for English speaking people at least. For many readers Dante is almost unbearable, because of certain grotesque elements they find in him. This has been the source and cause of more unfavorable criticism than anything else in the great Florentine's writings. Ruskin of course saw it but appreciated it at its proper significance, and has made clear in a passage that every Dante reader needs to go over occasionally, in order to assure himself that certain unusual things in Dante's attitude towards life are an expression rather of the highest human genius and its outlook on life, than some narrow limitation of medievalism. Ruskin said:-- "I believe that there is no test of greatness in nations, periods, nor men more sure than the development, among them or in them, of a noble grotesque, and no test of comparative smallness or limitation, of one kind or another, more sure than the absence of grotesque invention or incapability of understanding it. I think that the central man of all the world, as representing in perfect balance the imaginative, moral and intellectual faculties, all at their highest is Dante; and in him the grotesque reaches at once the most distinct and the most noble development to which it was ever brought in the human mind. Of the grotesqueness in our own Shakespeare I need hardly speak, nor of its intolerableness to his French critics; nor of that of AEschylus and Homer, as opposed to the lower Greek writers; and so I believe it will be found, at all periods, in all minds of the first order." Great reverence for Dante might have been expected in Italy but the colder Northern nations shared it. In Germany modern admiration for Dante began with that great wave of critical appreciation which entered into German literature with the end of the Eighteenth and the beginning of the Nineteenth Century. As might almost have been expected, Frederick Schlegel was one of the first modern German admirers of Dante, though his brother August, whose translations of Shakespeare began that series of German studies of {310} Shakespeare which has been so fruitful during the past century, was also an open admirer of the medieval poet. Since then there has practically been no time when Germany has not had some distinguished Dante scholar, and when it has not been supplying the world with the products of profound study and deep scholarship with regard to him. The modern educational world has come to look so confidently toward Germany for the note of its critical appreciation, that the Dante devotion of the Germans will be the best possible encouragement for those who need to have the feeling, that their own liking is shared by good authorities, before they are quite satisfied with their appreciation. Dean Plumptre has summed up the Dante movement in Germany in a compendious paragraph that must find a place here. "In the year 1824, Scartazzini, the great Dante scholar of the Nineteenth Century, recognizes a new starting point. The period of neglect of supercilious criticism comes to an end, and one of reverence, admiration and exhaustive study begins. His account of the labors of German scholars during the sixty years that have followed fills a large part of his volume. Translations of the Commedia by Kopisch, Kannegiesser, Witte, Philalethes (the nom de plume of John, King of Saxony), Josefa Von Hoffinger, of the Minor Poems by Witte and Krafft, endless volumes and articles on all points connected with Dante's life and character, the publications of the Deutsche Dante-Gesellschaft from 1867 to 1877, present a body of literature which has scarcely a parallel in history. It is no exaggeration to say that the Germans have taught Italians to understand and appreciate their own poet, just as they have at least helped to teach Englishmen to understand Shakespeare." Nor must it be thought that only the literary lights of Germany thoroughly appreciated the great Florentine. The greater the genius of the man the more his admiration for Dante if he but once becomes interested in him. A noteworthy example of this is Alexander Von Humboldt the distinguished German scientist, who was generally looked upon as perhaps the greatest thinker in European science during the first quarter of the Nineteenth Century. He is said to have been very faithful in his study of Dante and has expressed his admiration in no {311} uncertain terms. Curiously enough he found much to admire him for in matters scientific, for while it is not generally realized, Dante was an acute observer of Nature and has given expression in his works to many observations with regard to subjects that would now be considered within the scope of natural science, in a way to anticipate many supposedly modern bits of information. With regard to this Humboldt said in his Cosmos:-- "When the glory of the Aramaic Greek and Roman dominion--or I might almost say, when the ancient world had passed away,--we find in the great and inspired founder of a new era, Dante Alighieri, occasional manifestations of the deepest sensibility to the charms of the terrestrial life of Nature, whenever he abstracts himself from the passionate and subjective control of that despondent mysticism which constituted the general circle of his ideas." How little Humboldt seems to have realized in his own absorption in external nature, that the qualities he blames in Dante are of the very essence of his genius, rounding out his humanity to an interest in all man's relations, supernatural as well as natural, and that without them he would not be the world poet for all time that he is. In America Dante came to his own almost as soon as literature obtained her proper place in our new country. The first generation of distinctly literary men comprise the group at Cambridge including Longfellow, Emerson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Charles Eliot Norton, James Russell Lowell, and others of minor importance. It soon became a favorite occupation among these men to give certain leisure hours to Dante. The Cambridge Dante society added not a little to the world's knowledge of the poet. Longfellow's translation and edition of Dante's works was a monumental achievement, for which its author is likely to be remembered better by future generations than perhaps for any of his original work. Future generations are likely to remember James Russell Lowell for his essays on Dante and Shakespeare better than for anything else. His Dante monograph is as magnificently illuminating as that of Dean Church's and perhaps even more satisfying to critical readers. That these men should have been content to give so much of their time to the study of the Thirteenth {312} Century poet shows in what appreciation he must be held by the rest of us if we would give him his due place in literature. There are many misunderstandings with regard to Dante which apparently only some serious study of the poet serves to remove satisfactorily. Most people consider that he was a distant, prophetic, religious genius, and that his poetry has in it very little of sympathy for humanity. While it is generally conceded that he saw man projected on the curtain of eternity, and realized all his relationships to the universe and to his Creator better than perhaps any other poet of all time, it is usually thought that one must have something of the medieval frame of mind in order to read him with interest and admiration. Such impressions are largely the result of reading only a few lines of Dante, and, finding them difficult of thorough comprehension, allowing one's self to be forced to the conclusion that he is not of interest to the modern reader. The Inferno being the first part of Dante's great poem is the one oftenest read in this passing fashion and so many ideas with regard to Dante are derived from this portion, which is not only not the masterpiece of the work but, if taken alone, sadly misrepresents the genius of the poet. His is no morbid sentimentality and does not need the adventitious interest of supreme suffering. As a matter of fact the Purgatorio is a much better introduction to Dante's real greatness, and is considered by the generality of Dante scholars as the more humanly sympathetic if not really the supreme expression of his creative faculty. The ascent of the Mount of Expiation with its constant note of hope and the gradually increasing facility of the ascent as the summit is approached, touches condolent cords in the human heart and arouses feelings that are close to what is best in human aspiration in spite of its consciousness of defect. Over and over again in the Purgatorio one finds evidence of Dante's wonderful powers of observation. The poet is first of all according to the etymology of the word a creator, one who gives life to the figments of his imagination so that we recognize them as vital manifestations of human genius, but is also the seer, the man who sees deeper into things and sees more of them than anyone else. Ordinarily Dante is considered by those who do not know him as not having been an observer of things human and around him in life. There are passages in his works, however, that entirely refute this. [Illustration] ANGEL (RHEIMS) {313} The story that he went about the cities of North Italy during his exile, with countenance so gloomy and stare so fixed that men pointed to him and spoke of him as one who had visited Hell, and the other tradition, however well it may be founded, that the women sometimes pointed him out to their children and then used the memory of him as a bogy man to scare them into doing unpleasant things afterwards, would seem to indicate that he had occupied himself very little with the things around him, and that above all he had paid very little attention to the ways of childhood. He has shown over and over again, especially in the Purgatorio, that the simplest and most natural actions of child-life had been engraved upon his heart for he uses them with supreme truth in his figures. He knows how "An infant seeks his mother's breast When fear or anguish vex his troubled heart,"-- but he knows too, how the child who has done wrong, confesses its faults. "As little children, dumb with shame's keen smart. Will listening stand with eyes upon the ground. Owning their faults with penitential heart, So then stood I." There is a passage in the Inferno in which he describes so vividly the rescue of a child from the flames by its mother that Plumptre has even ventured to suggest that Dante himself may have been the actual subject of the rescue. Because it helps to an appreciation of Dante's intensity of expression and poignancy of vision the passage itself, with Plumptre's comment, seems deserving of quotation: "Then suddenly my Guide his arms did fling Around me, as a mother, roused by cries, Sees the fierce flames around her gathering And takes her boy, nor ever halts but flies. Caring for him than for herself far more, Though one scant shift her only robe supplies." {314} It must not be thought, however, that Dante's quality as an observer was limited to the actions of human beings. His capacity to see many other things is amply manifested in his great poem. Even the smallest of living things, that would surely be thought beneath his notice, became the subject of similies that show how much everything in nature interested the spirit of genius. The passage with regard to the ants has often been quoted, and is indeed a surprising manifestation of nature study at an unexpected time and from an entirely unanticipated quarter. Dante saw the souls of those who were so soon to enter into the realm of blessedness, and who were already in the last circle of purgatory, greeting each other with the kiss of peace and his picturesque simile for it is:-- "So oft, within their dusk brown host, proceed This ant and that, till muzzle muzzle meet; Spying their way, or how affairs succeed." As for the birds his pages are full of references to them and all of his bird similies are couched in terms that show how sympathetically observant he was of their habits and ways. He knows their different methods of flying in groups and singly, he has observed them on their nests and knows their wonderful maternal anxiety for their young, and describes it with a vividness that would do credit to a naturalist of the modern time who had made his home in the woods. Indeed some of his figures taken from birds constitute examples of the finest passages of poetic description of living nature that have ever been written. The domestic animals, moreover, especially the cat and the dog, come in for their share of this sympathetic observance, and he is able to add greatly to the vividness of the pictures he paints by his references to the well-known habits of these animals. It is no wonder that the tradition has grown up that he was fond of such pets and possessed several of them that were well-known to the early commentators on his poems, and the subject of no little erudition. Nothing escaped the attention of this acute observer in the world around him, and over and over again one finds surprising bits of observation with regard to natural phenomena usually supposed to be quite out of the range of the interest of {315} medieval students generally, and above all of literary men of this Middle Age. Alexander Von Humboldt calls attention in a well-known passage in his Cosmos to the wonderful description of the River of Light in the Thirtieth Canto of the Paradiso. "I saw a glory like a stream flow by. In brightness rushing and on either shore Were banks that with spring's wondrous hues might vie. And from that river living sparks did soar, And sank on all sides in the flow'rets' bloom, Like precious rubies set in golden ore. Then, as if drunk with all the rich perfume, Back to the wondrous torrent did they roll, And as one sank another filled its room." Humboldt explains this as follows, with a suggestion that deserves to be remembered. "It would almost seem as if this picture had its origin in the poet's recollection of that peculiar and rare phosphorescent condition of the ocean in which luminous points appear to rise from the breaking waves, and, spreading themselves over the surface of the waters, convert the liquid plain into a moving sea of sparkling stars." Probably the best way for a modern to realize how much of interest there may be for him in Dante is to consider the great Italian epic poet in comparison with our greatest of English epic poets, Milton. While any such comparison in the expressive Latin phrase is sure to walk lame, it serves to give an excellent idea of the methods of the two men in the illustration of their ideas. We venture therefore to quote a comparison between these two poets from a distinguished critic who knows both of them well, and whose modern training in English methods of thought, would seem to make him likely to be partial to the more modern poet though as a matter of fact he constantly leans toward the great medieval bard. "The poetry of Milton differs from that of Dante as the hieroglyphics of Egypt differ from the picture-writing of Mexico. The images which Dante employs speak for themselves; they stand simply for what they are. Those of Milton have a {316} signification which is often discernible only to the initiated. . . . However strange, however grotesque, he never shrinks from describing it. He gives us the shape, the color, the sound, the smell, the taste; he counts the numbers; he measures the size. His similies are the illustrations of a traveler. Unlike those of other poets, and especially of Milton, they are introduced in a plain business-like manner, not for the sake of any of the beauty in the objects from which they are drawn; not for the sake of any ornament they may impart to the poem; but simply in order to make the meaning of the writer as clear to the reader as it is to himself." "Still more striking is the similarity between Dante and Milton. This may be said to lie rather in the kindred nature of their subjects, and in the parallel development of their minds, than in any mere external resemblance. In both the man was greater than the poet, the souls of both were 'like a star and dwelt apart.' Both were academically trained in the deepest studies of their age; the labour which made Dante lean made Milton blind. The 'Doricke sweetnesse' of the English poet is not absent from the tender pages of the Vita Nuova. The middle life of each was spent in active controversy; each lent his services to the state; each felt the quarrels of his age to be the 'business of posterity,' and left his warnings to ring in the ears of a later time. The lives of both were failures. 'On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues,' they gathered the concentrated experience of their lives into one immortal work, the quintessence of their hopes, their knowledge, and their sufferings. But Dante is something more than this. Milton's voice is grown faint to us--we have passed into other modes of expression and of thought." The comparison with Vergil is still more striking and more favorable to the Italian poet. "Dante's reputation has passed through many vicissitudes, and much trouble has been spent by critics in comparing him with other poets of established fame. Read and commented upon in the Italian universities in the generation immediately succeeding his death, his name bcame obscured as the sun of the Renaissance rose higher towards its meridian. In the Seventeenth Century he was less read than Petrarch, Tasso, or Ariosto; in the Eighteenth he was {317} almost universally neglected. His fame is now fully vindicated. Translations and commentaries issue from every press in Europe and America. Dante Societies are formed to investigate the difficulties of his works. He occupies in the lecture-rooms of regenerated Italy a place by the side of those great masters whose humble disciple he avowed himself to be. The Divine Comedy is indeed as true an epic as the AEneid, and Dante is as real a classic as Vergil. His metre is as pliable and flexible to every mood of emotion, his diction as plaintive and as sonorous. Like him he can immortalize by a simple expression, a person, a place, or a phase of nature. Dante is even truer in description than Vergil, whether he paints the snow falling in the Alps, or the homeward flight of birds, or the swelling of an angry torrent. But under this gorgeous pageantry of poetry there lies a unity of conception, a power of philosophic grasp, an earnestness of religion, which to the Roman poet were entirely unknown." If we would have a very recent opinion as to the position of Dante as a literary man and as a great intellectual force, perhaps no better can be obtained than from some recent expressions of Mr. Michael Rossetti, whose Italian descent, English training, and literary and artistic heredity, seem to place him in an ideal position for writing this generation's ultimate judgment with regard to the great poet of the Thirteenth Century. In his Literature of Italy he said:-- "One has to recur time after time, to that astounding protagonist, phenomenon and hero, Dante Alighieri. If one were to say that Italian literature consists of Dante, it would, no doubt, be an exaggeration, and a gross one, and yet it would contain a certain ultimate nucleus of truth." "Dante fixed the Italian language, and everyone had to tread in his vestiges. He embodied all the learning and thought of his age and transcended them. He went far ahead of all his predecessors, contemporaries, and successors; he wrote the first remarkable book in Italian prose, La Vita Nuova; and a critical exposition of it in the Convito; in Latin, a linguistic treatise, the De Vulgari Eloquio, which upholds the Vulgare Illustre, or speech of the best cultivated classes, markedly in Tuscany and Bologna, against the common dialects; and a {318} political study, De Monarchia, of the most fundamental quality, which even to us moderns continues to be sane and convincing in its essence, though its direct line of argument has collapsed; and finally, and most important by far, he produced in La Commedia Divina the one poem of modern Europe that counter-balances Shakespeare and challenges antiquity. This is the sole book which makes it a real pity for anyone to be ignorant of Italian. Regarded singly, it is much the most astonishing poem in the world, dwarfing all others by its theme, pulverizing most of them by its majesty and sustainment, unique in the force of its paraded personality and the thunderous reverberation of its judgments on the living and the dead." {319} XX THE WOMEN OF THE CENTURY. In generations whose men proved so unending in initiative and so forceful in accomplishment, so commanding in intelligence, so persistent in their purposes, so acute in their searching, so successful in their endeavors, the women of the time could not have been unworthy of them. Some hints of this have been already given, in what has been said about the making of furnishings for the church, especially in the matter of needlework and the handpainting of various forms of ornaments. There are further intimations in the histories of the time, though unfortunately not very definite information, with regard to even more ambitious accomplishments by the women of the period. There are, for instance, traditions that the designs for some of the Cathedrals and certainly for portions of many of them came from women's hands. It is in the ethical sphere, however, that women accomplished great things during the Thirteenth Century. Their influence stood for what was best and highest in the life of the time and their example encouraged not only their own generation, but many people in many subsequent generations "to look up, not down, to look within, not without" for happiness, and to trust that "God's in his heaven and all's well with the world." There are a number of women of the time whose names the race will not let die. While if the ordinary person were asked to enumerate the great women of the Thirteenth Century it would be rare to find one able properly to place them, as soon as their names are mentioned, it will be recognized that they succeeded in accomplishing work of such significance that the world is not likely to let the reputation of it perish. Some of these names are household words. The bearers of them have been written of at length in quite recent years in English as well as in other languages. Their work was of the kind that ordinarily stands quite apart from the course of history and {320} so dates are usually not attached to it. It is thought of as a portion of the precious heritage of mankind rather than as belonging to any particular period. Three names occur at once. They are St. Clare of Assisi, St. Elizabeth of Hungary, and Queen Blanche of Castile, the mother of St. Louis. To these should be added Queen Berengaria, the sister of Blanche, and the mother of Ferdinand of Castile; Mabel Rich, the London tradesman's wife, the mother of St. Edmund of Canterbury; and Isabella, the famous Countess of Arundel. The present day interest in St. Francis of Assisi, has brought St. Clare under the lime-light of publicity. There is no doubt at all that her name is well worthy to be mentioned along with his and that she, like him, must be considered one of the strongest and most beautiful characters of all time. She was the daughter of a noble family at Assisi, who, having heard St. Francis preach, became impressed with the idea that she too should have the opportunity to live the simple life that St. Francis pictured. Of course her family opposed her in any such notion. That a daughter of theirs should take up with a wandering preacher, who at that time was looked on not a little askance by the regular religious authorities, and whose rags, and poverty made him anything but a proper associate for a young lady of noble birth, could not but seem an impossible idea. Accordingly Clare ran away from home and told Francis that she would never go back and that he must help her to live her life in poverty just as he was doing himself. He sent her to a neighboring convent to be cared for, and also very probably so as to be assured of her vocation. After a time a special convent home for Clare and some other young women, who had become enamored with the life of poverty and simplicity was established, and to this Clare's sister Agnes came as a postulant. By this time apparently the family had become reconciled to Clare's absence from home, but they would not stand another daughter following such a foolish example. Accordingly Agnes was removed from the convent by force after a scene which caused the greatest excitement in the little town. It was not long, however, before Agnes returned to the convent and within a few years their mother followed them, and became one of the most fervent members of the little community. {opp320} [Illustration] ST. CLARE'S FAREWELL TO THE DEAD ST. FRANCIS (GIOTTO) {321} The peace and happiness that came with this life of absolute poverty soon attracted many other women and Clare was asked to establish houses at a distance. Gradually the order of Poor Clares, the second order of St. Francis, thus came into existence. When it was necessary to draw up constitutions for the order, Clare showed not only the breadth of her intelligence, but the depth of her knowledge of human nature, and her appreciation of what was absolutely necessary in order to keep her order from degeneration. Against the counsels of all the ecclesiastics of her time, including many cardinals and even a Pope, she insisted on the most absolute poverty as the only basis for the preservation of the spirit of her second order of St. Francis. Her character was well manifested in this contest from which she came out victorious. Her body has been miraculously preserved and may still be seen at Assisi. Anyone who has seen the strongly set lips and full firm chin of the body in the crypt of San Damiano, can easily understand the strength of purpose and of character of this young woman who moulded a generation to her will. The story is told of her, that once when the Saracens invaded Italy and attacked the convent, she mounted the walls with a monstrance containing the Blessed Sacrament in her hands, and the marauders turned away in consternation from the stern brave figure that confronted them, and bothered the nuns no more. After St. Francis' death she, more than anyone else, succeeded in maintaining the spirit of the Franciscan order in the way in which St. Francis would have it go. Long after her death a copy of the original rules was found in the fold of her garments and did much to restore the Franciscan life to its primitive simplicity and purpose, so that even after she was no more on earth, she was still the guardian and promoter of St. Francis' work. If one wants to know how much of happiness there came to her in life one should read the famous passage which describes her visit to St. Francis, and how she and he with sisters and brothers around them broke bread together, with a sweetness that was beyond human. The passage is to be found in the "Little Flowers of St. Francis of Assisi" which was written {322} within a century after the occurrences described. It recalls nothing so much as the story of the disciples at Emaus and is worthy to be thought of beside the Scripture story. [Footnote 26] [Footnote 26: When came the day ordained by Francis, Saint Clare with one companion passed forth from out the convent and with the companions of Saint Francis to bear her company came unto Saint Mary of the Angels, and devoutly saluted the Virgin Mary before her altar, where she had been shorn and veiled; so they conducted her to see the house, until such time as the hour for breaking bread was come. And in the meantime Saint Francis let make ready the table on the bare ground, as he was wont to do. And the hour of breaking bread being come, they set themselves down together. Saint Francis and Saint Clare, and one of the companions of Saint Francis with the companion of Saint Clare, and all the other companions took each his place at the table with all humility. And at the first dish, Saint Francis began to speak of God so sweetly, so sublimely and so wondrously, that the fulness of Divine grace came down on them, and they all were wrapt in God. And as they were thus wrapt, with eyes and hands uplift to heaven, the folk of Assisi and Bettona and the country round about, saw that Saint Mary of the Angels, and all the House, and the wood that was just hard by the house, were burning brightly, and it seemed as it were a great fire that filled the church and the House and the whole wood together: for the which cause the folk of Assisi ran thither in great haste to quench the flames, believing of a truth that the whole place was all on fire. But coming closer up to the House and finding no fire at all, they entered within and found Saint Francis and Saint Clare and all their company in contemplation rapt in God and sitting around that humble board. Whereby of a truth they understood that this had been a heavenly flame and no earthly one at all, which God had let appear miraculously, for to show and signify the fire of love divine wherewith the souls of those holy brothers and holy nuns were all aflame; wherefor they got them gone with great consolation in their hearts and with holy edifying. Then after some long space. Saint Francis and Saint Clare, together with all the others, returning to themselves again and feeling of good comfort from the spiritual food took little heed of the food of the body.] {opp322} [Illustration] CHURCH (DOBERAN, GERMANY) [Illustration] SAN DAMIANO (ASSISI) What Saint Clare accomplished as her life work was the making of a new vocation for women. There are always a certain number of women who look for peace and quiet rather than the struggle for existence. For these the older monasteries did not supply a place unless they were of the wealthier class as a rule. Among the Poor Clares women of all classes were received. In this way a great practical lesson in equality was {323} taught. Women did not have to marry, perhaps unsuitable, often even objectionable men, simply in order to have a mode of life. They could join one of these communities and though in absolute poverty, with many hours each day devoted to meditation and prayer, had time to give to beautiful needlework, to painting and book illumination, and to other feminine occupations; and might thus pass long, happy lives, apart from the bustle of the strenuous time. Italy at this time, it must be recalled, was a seething cauldron of political and military strife. Wars were waged, and struggles of all kinds engaged in for precedence and power. These women got away from this unfortunate state of affairs. Occasionally in times of pestilence, when they were specially needed, as happened at least once in Saint Clare's life, they took care of the ailing and lent their convent as a hospital. Above all they stood in the eyes of their generation for chosen people who saw things differently from others. They taught the great lesson of not caring too much for the things of this world and of not living one's life in order to get admiration though usually envy comes, nor idle praise for qualities they either do not possess or that are not worthy of notice. They showed people the real value of this life by its reflection upon the other. Many a man turned aside from ambitious schemes that would have injured others, because of the kindly influence of these unselfish women and because of the memory of a sister, or an aunt whose sacrificing life was thus a rebuke to his foolish selfishness. Other women learned something of the vanity of human things by learning to value the character of these Poor Clares and realizing how much of happiness came to them from the accomplishment of their simple duties. Professor Osler said, in his lecture on Science and Immortality, of these self-forgetting ones:--"The serene faith of Socrates with the cup of Hemlock at his lips, the heroic devotion of a St. Francis or a St. Teresa, but more often for each one of us the beautiful life of some good woman whose-- Eyes are homes of silent prayer, . . . Whose loves in higher love endure. {324} do more to keep alive among the Laodiceans a belief in immortality than all the preaching in the land." This is what St. Clare accomplished for her own generation and her influence is still a great living force in the world. What especially should attract the attention of the modern time is the perfect basis of equality on which the Franciscan and Dominican orders of men and of women were organized. Each community had the opportunity to elect its own superiors. The rules were practically the same for the first (for men) and the second (for women) order of St. Francis, except that while the first order were supposed to live on alms collected by begging from door to door, this menial obligation was not imposed upon the women, who were expected to be supported by alms brought to their convents by the faithful, and by the labor of their own hands. This equality of men and women in the monastic establishments became widespread after the Thirteenth Century and made itself felt in the social order of the time as a factor for feminine uplift. Undoubtedly Saint Clare's work in the foundation of the second order of St. Francis must be held responsible to no small degree for this. Before her death, there were half a dozen scions of royal families in various parts of Europe who had become members of her order, and literally hundreds of the daughters of the nobility, many of them of high rank, had put off their dignity and position in the world, to become poor daughters of Saint Clare. They did so for the peace and the happiness of the vocation, and the opportunity to seek their souls and live their lives in their own quiet way, which her convents afforded them. {opp325} [Illustration] ST. ELIZABETH'S CATHEDRAL (MARBURG) After Saint Clare, the best known woman of the Thirteenth Century is undoubtedly Saint Elizabeth of Hungary, of whom the world knows some pretty legends, while the serious historian recognizes that she was the first settlement worker of history. As a child she wandered down from the castle walls in which she lived and saw the poor in their suffering. She felt so much for them that she stripped herself of most of her garments and finally even of her shoes in order to clothe them. When she was taken to task for this, she said that she had suffered whatever inconvenience there was in it only for a few minutes while the poor had suffered all their lives. She became {325} the wife of the Duke of Thuringia, and there were three years of ideal happiness with her husband and her children. When he went away on the Crusade she gave herself up to the care of the poor. When he died, though she was only twenty, and according to tradition one of the handsomest women of her time, she devoted herself still more to her poor and even went to live among them. She tried to teach them, as do the settlement workers of the modern time, something of the true significance of life, to bring them to realize to some degree at least, that so many of the things they so vainly desire are not worth thinking about, but that happiness consists in lopping off one's desires rather than trying vainly, as it must ever be, to satisfy them. It is no wonder that throughout all Germany she came to be called "the dear St. Elizabeth." Literally thousands of women since her time have turned to read the story of her beautiful devotion to charity, and have been incited by her example to do more and more for the poor around them. Those who know it only through Kingsley's, "The Saint's Tragedy," though this is disfigured by many failures to understand parts of her career and her environment, can scarcely fail to realize that hers was one of the world's sublimely beautiful characters. All she attempted in the thorny paths of charity was accomplished in such a practical way that the amount of good done was almost incalculable. The simple recital of what she did as it has often been told, is the story of a great individuality that impressed itself deeply upon its generation and left the example of a precious life to act as a leaven for good in the midst of the social fermentations of succeeding generations. Yet Elizabeth succeeded in accomplishing all this in spite of the fact that she was born the daughter of a king and married the reigning prince of one of the most important ducal houses in Germany. One would expect to find that her life had been long, so many traditions have gathered around her name. She was twenty when her husband died, and she survived him only four years. Literally she had accomplished a long space in a short time and her generation in raising in her honor the charming Gothic Cathedral at Marburg, one of the most {326} beautiful in Germany, was honoring itself nobly as well as her. It is the greatest monument to a woman in all the world. The next great woman of the century also belonged to a reigning family and is for obvious historical reasons better known, perhaps, than her Saint contemporaries. This was Blanche, daughter of the King of Castile, but intimately related to the English royal family. Married to Louis VIII of France she is known principally as the mother of Louis IX. She ruled France for many years while her boy was a minor and when he came to the age, when he might ordinarily assume the reins of government, he voluntarily permitted his mother to continue her regency for some time longer. France was probably happier under her than under any ruler that the country has ever had with the possible exception of her son Louis. She succeeded in suppressing to a great extent the quarrels so common among the nobility, she strengthened and centralized the power of the crown, she began the correction of abuses in the administration of justice which her son was to complete so well, she organized charity in various ways, and the court was an example to the kingdom of simple dignified life, without any abuse of power, or wealth, or passion. No wonder that when Louis went on the Crusade, he left his mother to reign in his stead confident that all would go well. If one needed a demonstration that women can rule well there is an excellent example in the life of Blanche. Personally she seems to have had not only an amiable but a deeply intellectual character. She encouraged education and beautiful book-making and the Gothic architecture which was developing in France so wonderfully during her period. Of course she also worshipped her boy Louis, but how much her motherly tenderness was tempered with the most beautiful Christian feeling can be understood from the famous expression attributed to her on good authority, that she "would rather see her boy dead at her feet, than have him commit a mortal offense against his God or his neighbor." One might almost say that it is no wonder that Louis became a saint. As a matter of fact he attributed to his mother whatever of goodness there was in himself. There is a touch of humanity in the picture, however, a trait that shows, that Blanche was a woman, {327} though it is a fault which draws our sympathy to her even more surely than if she were the type of perfection she might have been without it. She did not get on well with her daughter-in-law and one of the trials of Louis' life, as we have said, was to keep the scales evenly balanced between his mother and his wife, both of whom he loved very dearly. After Blanche's life there could be no doubt that a woman, when given the opportunity, can manage men and administer government quite as well as any masculine member of the race, and the Thirteenth Century had given another example of its power to bring out what was best in its fortunate children. One of the most interesting women of the Thirteenth Century was neither a Saint nor a member of the nobility, but only the wife of a simple London merchant. This was Mabel Rich, the mother of Saint Edmund of Canterbury. Edmund is one of the striking men of a supreme century. He had been a student at Paris, and later a professor at Oxford. Then, he became the treasurer of the Cathedral at Salisbury about the time when, not a little through his influence, that magnificent edifice was receiving the form which was to make it one of the world's great churches for all time. Later he was the Archbishop of Canterbury and while defending the rights of his church and his people, came under the ban of Henry III, and spent most of the latter years of his life in exile on the continent. Edmund insisted that he owed more to his mother than to any other single factor in life. With her two boys, aged ten and fourteen, Mabel Rich was left to care for the worldly concerns of the household as well as for their education. When they were twelve and sixteen, with many misgivings she sent them off to the University of Paris to get their education. Edmund tells how besides packing their linen very carefully she also packed a hairshirt for each of them, which they were to wear occasionally according to their promise to her, to remind them that they must not look for ease and comfort in life, above all must not yield to sensual pleasures, but must be ready to suffer many little troubles voluntarily, in order that they might be able to resist temptation when severer trials came. Mabel Rich believed in discipline, as a factor in education, and thought that character was formed by habits of fortitude in resisting {328} petty annoyances until, finally, even serious troubles were easy to bear. Both of her sons proved worthy of her maternal solicitude. Edmund tells how the poor around her home in London blessed her for her charity. All during his life the thought of his mother was uppermost in his mind, and in the immortality that has been given his name, because of the utter forgetfulness of self which characterized his life, his mother has been associated. Unfortunately details are lacking that would show us something of the manner of living of this strong woman of the people, but we know enough to make us realize that she was a fine type of the Christian mother, memory of whose goodness means more not only for her children but for all those who come in contact with her, than all the sermons and pious exhortations that they hear, and often, such is the way of human nature, even than the divine commandments or the personal conscience of those whom she loves. There were noble women among the gentlewomen of England at this time too, and though space will not let us dwell on them, at least one must be mentioned. This is the famous Isabella, Countess of Arundel, who with a dignity which, Matthew Paris says, was more than that of woman, reproached Henry III (1252), when he sought to browbeat her. She made bold to tell the king, "You govern neither us nor yourself well." On this the king, with a sneer and a grin, said with a loud voice, "Ho, ho, my lady countess, have the noblemen of England granted you a charter and struck a bargain with you to become their spokeswoman because of your eloquence?" She answered, "My liege, the nobles have made no charter, but you and your father have made a charter, and you have sworn to observe it inviolably, and yet many times have you extorted money from your subjects and have not kept your word. Where are the liberties of England, often reduced to writing, so often granted, so often again denied?" [Footnote 27] [Footnote 27: Medieval England, English Feudal Society, from the Norman Conquest to the Middle of the Fourteenth Century, by Mary Bateson.] The question of womanly occupations apart from their household duties will be of great interest to our generation. {opp328} [Illustration] MARRIAGE OF THE BLESSED VIRGIN (GIOTTO, PADUA) A hint of one form of woman's occupation has already been {329} given in discussing the needlework done for the Cathedrals and especially the Cope of Ascoli. It must not be forgotten that this was the age not alone of Cathedrals but also of monasteries and of convents. In all of these convents every effort was made to have whatever was associated with the religious ceremonial as beautiful as possible. Hence it was that needlework rose to a height of accomplishment such as has never been reached since according to the best authorities, and many examples of it have come down to us to confirm such an opinion. This needlework was done not only for religious purposes, however, but also as presents for Kings and Queens and the nobility, and such presents proved to be exemplars of artistic beauty that must have helped to raise the taste of the time. This was essentially woman's work, and in their distant castles the women of the households of the nobility occupied themselves with it to much better effect than their sisters of the modern time with the grievous burden of their so-called social duties. Miss Bateson [Footnote 28: Ibidem.] has given a pretty, yet piquant picture of woman at these occupations. She says:--"There are not wanting Thirteenth Century satires to tell the usual story of female levities, and of female devotion to the needle, to German work and pierced work, Saracen work and combed work, cutout work and wool-work, and a multitude of other "works" to which the clue seems to be now wholly lost. Whilst the women are thus engaged, the one who knows most reads to them, the others listen attentively, and do not sleep as they do at mass, 'pur la prise de vanite dont ont grant leesce (joy).' The 'opus anglicum' consisted of chain-stitch in circles, with hollows, made by a heated iron rod, to represent shadows. A cope of this work was made by Rose de Burford at Edward II's order, and sent to Rome. One, known as the Syon cope, passed into the possession of the nuns of Syon, Isleworth, and can be seen at the Victoria and Albert Museum." Another form of woman's work that came to prominence during the century was the service in hospitals. While the records of the hospitals of the Holy Ghost, which under Innocent Third's fostering care spread so widely throughout Europe in this century, are mainly occupied with the institutions of {330} the Brothers of the Holy Ghost, there were many hospitals under the care of women, and indeed there was an almost universally accepted idea, that women patients and obstetrical cases should be cared for by women rather than men. It is easy to make little of the hospitals of this time but any such thought will be the result of ignorance rather than of any serious attempt to know what was actually accomplished. The sisters' hospitals soon usurped the most prominent place in the life of the time and during succeeding centuries gradually replaced those which had been originally under the control of men. It was recognized that nursing was a much more suitable occupation for the gentler sex and that there were many less abuses than when men were employed. The success of these hospitals in gradually eradicating leprosy and in keeping down the death-rate from St. Anthony's fire, or erysipelas, shows how capable they were of accomplishing great humanitarian work. Perhaps the most interesting feature of the story of woman's position during the Thirteenth Century is that at the Italian universities at least, co-education was not only admitted in principle but also in practice, and many women were in attendance at the universities. In the West of Europe this feature did not exist. It is a startling comment on how comparatively trivial a thing may change the course of history, that the lamentable Heloise and Abelard incident at the University of Paris during the Twelfth Century, precluded all subsequent possibility of the admission of women students to the University of Paris. Oxford, it will be remembered, was formed by the withdrawal of students from the University of Paris, and the same tradition was maintained. Cambridge was a grand-daughter of the University of Paris and the French and Spanish universities must all be considered as standing in the relation of its direct descendants. The unfortunate experience at Paris shaped the policy as to the co-education of the sexes for all these. It would have been too much to expect that university authorities would take the risks which had been so clearly demonstrated even with regard to a distinguished professor, and so co-education was excluded. It is not easy to say what proportion of women there were {331} in attendance at the university of Bologna during the Thirteenth Century. Apparently it should not be difficult to take the lists of the matriculates as far as they have been preserved and by a little calculation obtain rather exact figures. Italy, like most of the Latin countries, differs from the Teutonic regions in not being quite so exact in the distribution of names to the different sexes, that the first name inevitably determines whether the individual is male or female. It is not an unusual thing even at the present day for a man to have as a first name in Italy, or France, or Spain, the equivalent of our name Mary. On the other hand, not a few girls are called by men's names and without the feminine termination which is so distinctive among the English speaking peoples. In the olden times this was still more the case. Until very recently at least, if not now, every child born in Venice was given two names at its baptism--Maria and Giovanni--in honor of the two great patron saints of the city and then the parents might add further names if they so desired. A matriculation list of the University of Bologna then, tells very little that is absolute with regard to the sex of the matriculates. All that we know for sure is that there were women students at the University of Bologna apparently from the beginning of the Thirteenth Century, and that some of them secured the distinction of being made Professors. Of one of these there is a pretty legend told, which seems to illustrate the fact that charming young women of profound intellectual qualities did not lose the characteristic modesty and thoughtfulness for others of their sex, because of their elevation to university professorship. This young woman, Maria di Novella, when only twenty-five became the Professor of mathematics at the University of Bologna. According to tradition she was very pretty and as is usual in life was not unaware of that happy accident. She feared that her good looks might disturb the thoughts of her students during her lessons and accordingly she delivered her lectures from behind a curtain. The story may, of course, be only a myth. One of the best woman educators that I know once said to me, that if the tradition with regard to her beauty were true, then she doubted the rest of the story, but then women are not always the best judges of the {332} actions of other women and especially is this true when there is question of a grave and learned elderly woman passing judgment on a young and handsome professor of mathematics. The Italians became so much impressed with the advisability of permitting women to study at the universities, that a certain amount of co-education has existed all down the centuries in Italy and not a century has passed since the Thirteenth, which has not chronicled the presence of at least one distinguished woman professor at some Italian university. Indeed it was doubtless the traditional position of tolerance in this matter that made it seem quite natural for women, when the Renaissance period came around, to take their places beside their brothers and their cousins in the schools where the new learning was being taught. It may be rather difficult for some to understand how with this opening wedge for the higher education of women well placed, the real opportunity for widespread feminine education should only have come in our own time. This last idea, however, which would represent ours as the only generation which has given women adequate opportunities for intellectual development, is one of those self-complacent bits of flattery of ourselves and our own period that is so irritatingly characteristic of recent times. There have been at least three times in the world's history before our own when as many women as wanted them, in the class most interested in educational matters, were given the opportunities for the higher education. As a matter of fact whenever there have been novelties introduced into educational systems, women have demanded and quite naturally--since, "What a good woman wants," said a modern saint, "is the will of God"--have obtained the privilege of sharing the educational opportunities of the time. This was true in Charlemagne's time when the women of the court attended the lectures in the traveling palace school the great Charles founded and fostered. It was true four centuries later, as we have seen, when a great change in educational methods was introduced with the foundation of the universities. It was exemplified again when the "New Learning" came in and the study of the classics took the place of the long hours spent in scholastic disputation, that had previously occupied {333} so much university attention. In our own time it was the introduction of the study of the social sciences particularly, with the consequent appearance of many novelties in the educational curriculum, that once more was the signal for women asking and quite naturally obtaining educational privileges. {opp333} [Illustration] MOSAIC (ST. MARK'S, VENICE, 1220) Each of the previous experiences in the matter of feminine education has been followed by a considerable period during which there was a distinct incuriousness on the part of women in educational matters. Of course that is only an analogy and though history is worth studying, only because the lessons of the past are the warnings of the future, yet this does not foretell a lessening of feminine interest in educational matters, after a few generations of experience of its vanity to make up to them for the precious special privileges of their nature, the proper enjoyment and exercise of which it is so likely to hamper. It would be interesting to know just why feminine education, after a period of efflorescence during the Thirteenth Century, retrograded during the next century. There have been some ungallant explanations offered, which we mention merely because of their historical interest but without any hint of their having any real significance in the matter. A distinguished German educational authority has called attention to the fact that a well-known prepared food, for which Bologna is famous, is first heard of about the time that the higher education for women came into vogue at the Italian universities. Towards the end of the same century a special kind of pudding, since bearing the name of its native city, Bologna, which might very well have taken the place of an ordinary dessert, also began to come into prominence. This German writer suggests then, that possibly the serving of meals consisting of these forms of prepared food, which did not require much household drudgery and did not necessitate the bending over the kitchen range or whatever took its place in those days, may have led the men to grumble about the effects of the higher education. After all, he adds, though the women get whatever they want, when they ask for it seriously, if it proves after a time that the men do not want them to have it, then women lose interest and care for it no longer. This, of course, must be taken with the proverbial grain of salt, though it {334} illustrates certain phases of the domestic life of the time as well as affording a possible glimpse into the inner circle of the family life. The real story of woman's intellectual position in the century is to be found in its literature. How deep was the general culture of the women of the Thirteenth Century, in Italy at least, can be judged from the Sonnets of Dante and his friends to their loved ones at the end of this century. Some of the most beautiful poetry that was ever written was inspired by these women and like the law of hydrostatics, it is one of the rules of the history of poetry, that inspiration never rises higher than its source and that poetry addressed to women is always the best index of the estimation in which they are held, the reflection of the highest qualities of the objects to which it is addressed. Anyone who reads certain of the sonnets of Dante, or of his friends Guido Cavalcanti or Gino da Pistoia or Dante da Maiano, will find ready assurance of the high state of culture and of intellectual refinement that must have existed among the women to whom they were dedicated. This same form of reasoning will apply also with regard to the women of the South of France to whom the Troubadours addressed their poetry; to those of the north of France who were greeted by the Trouvères; and those of the south of Germany for whom the Minnesingers tuned their lyres and invoked the Muses to enable them to sing their praises properly. It would seem sometimes to be forgotten that poetry generally is written much more for women than for men. Everyone realizes that for one man who has read Tennyson's "Idyls of the King" there are probably five women to whom they have been a source of delight. When we think of the Thirteenth Century as not affording opportunities of intellectual culture for its women, we should ask ourselves where then did the Meistersingers and the poets of England, Germany and France who told their romantic tales in verse find an audience, if it was not among the women. The stories selected by the Meistersingers are just those which proved so popular to feminine readers of Tennyson in the Nineteenth Century, and the chosen subjects of interest in the stories show that men and women have not changed much during the intervening centuries. The literature of any {335} period reflects the interest of the women in it and, as interest is itself an index of intellectual development, Thirteenth Century literature must be taken as the vivid reflection of the cultural character of the women of the time, and this is of itself the highest possible tribute to their intelligence and education. On the other hand the best possible testimony to the estimation of women during the Thirteenth Century, is to be found in the attitude of the men of the generations towards them, as it is clearly to be seen in the literature of the time. In the Holy Graal, the Cid, the Minnesingers and the Meistersingers, woman occupies the higher place in life and it is recognized that she is the highest incentive to good, unfortunately also sometimes to evil, but always the best reward that men can have for their exertions in a great cause. The supreme tribute to woman comes at the end of the century in Dante's apotheosis of her in the Divine Comedy. In this it is a woman who inspires, a woman who leads, a woman who is the reward of man's aspirations, and though the symbolism may be traced to philosophy, the influence of an actual woman in it all is sure beyond all doubt. Nor must it be thought that it was merely in this highest flight of his imagination that this greatest of poets expressed such lofty sentiments with regard to women. Anyone who thinks this does not know Dante's minor poems, which contain to women in the flesh and above all to one of them, the most wonderful tributes that have ever been paid to woman. Take this one of his sonnets for instance. So gentle and so fair she seems to be. My Lady, when she others doth salute, That every tongue becomes, all trembling, mute, And every eye is half afraid to see; She goes her way and hears men's praises free. Clothed in a garb of kindness, meek and low. And seems as if from heaven she came, to show Upon the earth a wondrous mystery: To one who looks on her she seems so kind, That through the eye a sweetness fills the heart, Which only he can know who doth it try. {336} And through her face there breatheth from her mind A spirit sweet and full of Love's true art, Which to the soul saith, as it cometh, "Sigh." It will be noted that though this contains the highest possible praise of the woman whom he loved, it has not a single reference to any of her physical perfections, or indeed to any of those charms that poets usually sing. We have already called attention to this, that it is not the beauty of her face or her figure that has attracted him, but the charm of her character, which all others must admire--which even women do not envy, it is so beautiful--that constitutes the supreme reason for Dante's admiration. Nor must it be thought that this is a unique example of Dante's attitude in this matter; on the contrary, it is the constant type of his expression of feeling. The succeeding sonnet in his collection is probably quite as beautiful as the first quoted, and yet is couched in similar terms. It will be found in the chapter on Dante the Poet. Need we say more to prove that the women of the century were worthy of the men and of the supreme time in which they lived; that they were the fit intellectual companions of perhaps the greatest generation of men that ever lived? [Illustration] STONE CARVING (AMIENS) {337} XXI CITY HOSPITALS--ORGANIZED CHARITY. While the Thirteenth Century was engaged in solving the problems of the higher education and of technical education for the masses, and was occupied so successfully, as we have seen, with the questions of the rights of man and the development of law and of liberty, other and more directly social and humanitarian works were not neglected. There had been hospitals in existence from even before the Christian era, but they had been intended rather for the chronic ailments and as the name implies, for the furnishing of hospitality to strangers and others who had for the time no habitation, than for the care of the acutely ill. In the country places there was a larger Christian charity which led people to care even for the stranger, and there was a sense of human duty that was much more binding than in the modern world. The acutely ill were not infrequently taken into the houses of even those who did not know them, and cared for with a solicitude difficult to understand in this, colder time. This was not so much typical of the times, however, as of the social conditions, since we have many stories of such events in our colonial days. In the cities, however, which began more and more to be a feature of life in the Thirteenth Century, though they counted their inhabitants only by a few thousands where ours count them by hundreds of thousands, the need of some other method of caring for such cases made itself distinctly felt. At the end of the Twelfth and the beginning of the Thirteenth centuries this need became demandingly manifest, and the consequence was a movement that proved to be of great and far-reaching practical benevolence. It is to the first Pope of the Thirteenth Century, Innocent III., that we owe the modern city hospital as we have it at the present time, with its main purpose to care for the acutely ill who may have no one to take care of them properly, as well as for those who have been injured or {338} who have been picked up on the street and whose friends are not in a position to care for them. The deliberateness with which Innocent III. set about the establishment of the mother city hospital of the world, is a striking characteristic of the genius of the man and an excellent illustration of the practical character of the century of which he is so thoroughly representative. Pope Innocent recognized the necessity for the existence of a city hospital in Rome and by inquiry determined that the model hospital for this purpose existed down at Montpelier in connection with the famous medical school of the university there. Montpelier had succeeded to the heritage of the distinguished reputation in medical matters which had been enjoyed by Salernum, not far from Naples, during the Ninth, Tenth, and Eleventh centuries. The shores of the Mediterranean have always been recognized as possessing a climate especially suitable for invalids and with the diminution of the influence of the Salernitan school, a transfer of its prestige to Montpelier, where the close relationship with Spain had given the medical schools the advantage of intimate contact with the medicine of the Arabs, is not a matter of surprise. At Montpelier the hospital arrangements made by Guy de Montpelier were especially efficient. The hospital of which he had charge was under the care of the members of the order of the Holy Spirit. Pope Innocent summoned Guy, or Guido as he was known after this, to Rome and founded for him the hospital of the Holy Spirit in the Borgo, not far from St. Peter's, where it still exists. This was the mother and model hospital for the world. Visitors to Rome saw it, and could not fail to admire its great humanitarian work. Bishops from all over the world on their official visits to the head of the Church, admired the policy under which the hospital was conducted, recognized the interest of the Pope in it, and went back to their homes to organize institutions of the same kind. How many of these were established in various parts of Europe is hard to determine. Virchow in his History of the Foundations of the German Hospitals, has a list of over one hundred towns in Germany in which hospitals of the Holy Spirit, or medical institutions modeled on this hospital at Rome were founded. {339} Many of these towns were comparatively small. Most of them contained at the time less than five thousand inhabitants, so that it can be said without hesitation, that practically every town of any importance, at least in Germany, came under the influence of this great philanthropic hospital movement. With regard to other countries, it is more difficult to determine the number of places in which such institutions were established. As both France and Italy were, however, much more closely in touch with the Holy See at this time, it would be surprising if they had not been affected as much as Germany by the Pope's enthusiasm in the matter. We do know that in various large cities, as in Florence, Siena, Paris and London, there was a development of existing hospitals and the establishment of new ones, that points to a distinct community of interest in the hospital movement. At Paris, the Hotel Dieu was moved from the Petit Pont, where it had been, to its present situation and received large extensions in size and in usefulness. It was at this time, particularly, that it received donations for endowment purposes that would enable it to be self-supporting. A number of bequests of property, the rent of which was to be paid to the hospital, were made, and the details of some of these bequests have an interest of their own. Houses were not numbered at this time but were distinguished by various signs, usually figures of different kinds that formed part of their facade. The Hotel Dieu acquired the houses with the image of St. Louis, with the sign of the golden lion of Flanders, with the image of the butterfly, with the group of the three monkeys, with the image of the wolf, with the image of the iron lion, with the cross of gold, with the chimneys, etc. The Hotel Dieu, indeed, seems to have become practically a fully endowed institution during the course of the Thirteenth Century, for there are apparently no records of special revenues voted by the city or the king, though there are such records with regard to other places. For instance the Hospital of St. Louis received the right to collect a special tax on all the salt that came into the city. In England the hospital movement during the Thirteenth Century is evidently quite as active as in Germany, at least as far as the records go. These refer mainly to London and show {340} that the influence of the work of Innocent III. and his enthusiasm was felt in the English capital. The famous St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London had been a Priory founded at the beginning of the Twelfth Century, which took care of the poor and the ailing, but at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century it became more frankly a hospital in the modern sense of the word. St. Thomas' Hospital, which remains to the present day one of the great medical institutions of London, was founded by Richard, Prior of Bermondsey, in 1213. Bethlehem or Bedlam, which afterwards became a hospital for the insane, was founded about the middle of the Thirteenth Century. The name Bedlam is a corruption of Bethlehem, since adopted into the English language to express a place where fools do congregate. Bridewell and Christ's Hospital, which were the other two of the institutions long known as the five Royal Hospitals of London, also seem either to have been founded, or to have received a great stimulus and reorganization in the Thirteenth Century, but both ceased after some time to be places for the reception, of the ailing and became, one of them a prison and the other a school. The names of some of these institutions became associated with that of Edward VI. about the middle of the Sixteenth Century. For this, however, there was no proper justification, since, at most, all that was accomplished within the reign of the boy king, was the reestablishment of institutions formerly in existence which had been confiscated under the laws of Henry VIII., but the necessity for whose existence had been made very clear, because of the suffering entailed upon the many ailing poor by the fact, that in their absence there was nowhere for them to go to be cared for. As Gairdner points out in his History of the English Church in the Sixteenth Century, "Edward has left a name in connection with charities and education which critical scholars find to be little justified by fact." The supposed foundation of St. Thomas' Hospital was only the reestablishment of this institution, and even when it was granted by him to the citizens of London, this was not, as Gairdner says, "without their paying for it." How much all this hospital movement owes to Innocent III. will be best appreciated from Virchow's account of the German {341} hospitals, the great German Scientist not being one of those at all likely to exaggerate, the beneficent influence of the Popes, he says: "The main cause decisive in influencing and arousing interest of the people of the time in the hospitals of the Holy Ghost was the Papal enthusiasm in the matter. The beginning of their history is connected with the name of that Pope, who made the boldest and farthest-reaching attempt to gather the sum of human interest into the organization of the Catholic Church. The hospitals of the Holy Ghost were one of the many means by which Innocent III. thought to bind humanity to the Holy See. And surely it was one of the most effective. Was it not calculated to create the most profound impression, to see how the mighty Pope who humbled emperors and deposed kings, who was the unrelenting adversary of the Albigenses, turned his eyes sympathetically upon the poor and sick, sought the helpless and the neglected on the streets, and saved the illegitimate children from death in the waters. There is something conciliating and fascinating in the fact that at the very same time at which the Fourth Crusade was inaugurated through his influence, the thought of founding a great organization of an essentially humane character to extend throughout all Christendom, was also taking form in his soul; and that in the same year (1204) in which the new Latin Empire was founded in Constantinople, the newly erected hospital of the Santo Spirito, by the Old Bridge across the Tiber, was blessed and dedicated as the future center of this universal humanitarian organization." {opp341} [Illustration] HOSPITAL OF THE HOLY GHOST (L�BECK) Virchow, of course, considers Innocent's action as due to the entirely interested motive of binding the Catholic world to the Holy See. Others, however, who have studied Innocent's life even more profoundly, have not considered his purpose as due to any such mean motive. Hurter who wrote a history of Pope Innocent III., the researches for which he began as a Protestant with the idea that in the life of this Pope better than anywhere else the pretensions of the papacy could be most effectively exposed, but who was so taken by the character of the man that before he completed his history he had become a Catholic, looks at it in a very different way. Even Virchow himself quotes {342} Hurter's opinion, though not without taking some exceptions to it. Hurter said with regard to charitable foundations in his history of Pope Innocent III.: "All benevolent institutions which the human race still enjoys, all care for the deserted and needy through every stage of suffering from the first moment of birth to the return of the material part to earth, have had their origin in the church. Some of them directly, some of them indirectly through the sentiments and feelings which she aroused, strengthened and vivified into action. The church supplied for them the model and sometimes even the resources; that these great humanitarian needs were not neglected and their remedies not lacking in any respect is essentially due to her influence upon human character." With regard to this Virchow says that hospitals had existed among the Arabs and among the Buddhists in the distant East, "nevertheless," he adds, "it may be recognized and admitted, that it was reserved for the Roman Catholic Church and above all for Innocent III., to establish institutions for the care of those suffering from diseases." A corresponding hospital movement that received considerable attention within the Thirteenth Century was the erection of Leproseries or hospitals for the care of lepers. Leprosy had become quite common in Europe during the Middle Ages, and the contact of the West with the East during the Crusades had brought about a notable increase of the disease. It is not definitely known how much of what was called leprosy at that time really belonged to the specific disease now known as lepra. There is no doubt that many affections which have since come to be considered as quite harmless and non-contagious, were included under the designation leprosy by the populace and even by physicians incapable as yet of making a proper differential diagnosis. Probably severe cases of eczema and other chronic skin diseases, especially when complicated by the results of wrongly directed treatment or of lack of cleansing, were sometimes pronounced to be leprosy. Certain of the severer forms of what is now known as psoriasis--a non-contagious skin disease--running a very slow course and sometimes extremely obstinate to treatment, were almost surely included under the diagnosis of leprosy. Personally I have seen {343} in the General Hospital in Vienna, a patient who had for many months been compelled by the villagers among whom he lived to confine himself to his dwelling, sustained by food that was thrown into him at the window by the neighbors who were fearful of the contagiousness of his skin disease, yet he was suffering from only a very neglected case of psoriasis. There is no doubt, however, of the existence of actual leprosy in many of the towns of the West from the Twelfth to the Fifteenth centuries, and the erection of these special hospitals proved the best possible prophylactic against the further spread of the disease. Leprosy is contagious, but only mildly so. Years of association with lepers may and usually does bring about the communication of the disease to those around them, especially if they do not exercise rather carefully certain precise precautions as to cleanliness, after personal contact or after the handling of things which have previously been in the leper's possession. As the result of the existence of these houses of segregation, leprosy disappeared during the course of the next three centuries and thus a great hygienic triumph was obtained by sanitary regulation. This successful hygienic and sanitary work, which brought about practically the complete obliteration of leprosy in the Middle Ages, furnished the first example of the possibility of eradicating a disease that had become a scourge to mankind. That this should have been accomplished by a movement that had its greatest source in the Thirteenth Century, is all the more surprising, since we are usually accustomed to think of the people of those times, as sadly lacking in any interest in sanitary matters. The significance of the success of the segregation movement was lost upon men down almost to our own time. This was, however, because it was considered that most of the epidemic diseases were conveyed by the air. They were thought infectious and due to a climatic condition rather than to contagion, that is conveyed by actual contact with the person having the disease or something that had touched him, which is the view now held. With the beginning of the crusade against tuberculosis in the latter part of the Nineteenth Century, however, the most encouraging factor for those engaged in it, was the history of the success of segregation methods and careful {344} prevention of the spread of the disease which had been pursued against leprosy. In a word the lessons in sanitation and prophylaxis of the Thirteenth Century are only now bearing fruit, because the intervening centuries did not have sufficient knowledge to realize their import and take advantage of them. Pope Innocent III. was not the only occupant of the papal throne whose name deserves to be remembered with benedictions in connection with the hospital movement of the Thirteenth Century. His successors took up the work of encouragement where he had left it at his death and did much to bring about the successful accomplishment of his intentions in even wider spheres. Honorius III. is distinguished by having made into an order the Antonine Congregation of Vienna, which was especially devoted to the care of patients suffering from the holy fire and from various mutilations. The disease known as the holy fire seems to have been what is called in modern times erysipelas. During the Middle Ages it received various titles such as St. Anthony's fire, St. Francis' fire, and the like, the latter part of the designation evidently being due to the intense redness which characterizes the disease, and which can be compared to nothing better than the erythema consequent upon a rather severe burn. This affection was a great deal commoner in the Middle Ages than in later times, though it must not be forgotten that its disappearance has come mainly in the last twenty-five years. It is now known to be a contagious disease and indeed, as Oliver Wendell Holmes pointed out over half a century ago, may readily be carried from place to place by the physician in attendance. It does not always manifest itself as erysipelas when thus carried, however, and the merit of Dr. Holmes' work was in pointing out the fact that physicians who attended patients suffering from erysipelas and then waited on obstetrical cases, were especially likely to carry the infection which manifested itself as puerperal fever. A number of cases of this kind were reported and discussed by him, and there is no doubt that his warning served to save many precious lives. Of course nothing was known of this in the Thirteenth Century, yet the encouragement given to this religious order, which devoted itself practically exclusively to the care in special {345} hospitals of erysipelas, must have had not a little effect in bringing about a limitation of the spread of the disease. In such hospitals patients were not likely to come in contact with many persons and consequently the contagion-radius of the disease was limited. In our own time immediate segregation of cases when discovered has practically eradicated it, so that many a young physician, even though ten years in practise, has never seen a case of it. It was so common in America during the Civil War and for half a century prior thereto, that there were frequent epidemics of it in hospitals and it was generally recognized that the disease was so contagious that when it once gained a foothold in a hospital, nearly every patient suffering from an open wound was likely to be affected by it. It is interesting then to learn that these people of the Middle Ages attempted to control the disease by erecting special hospitals for it, though unfortunately we are not in a position to know just how much was accomplished by these means. A congregation devoted to the special care of the disease had been organized, as we have said, early in the Thirteenth Century. At the end of this century this was given the full weight of his amplest approval by Pope Boniface VIII., who conferred on it the privilege of having priests among its members. It will be remembered that Pope Boniface VIII. is said to have issued the Bull which forbade the practise of dissection. The decretal in question, however, which was not a Bull, only regulated, as I have shown, the abuse which had sprung up of dismembering bodies and boiling them in order to be able to carry them to a distance for burial, and was in itself an excellent hygienic measure. Many orders for the care of special needs of humanity were established during the Thirteenth Century. It is from this period that most of the religious habits worn by women originate. These used to be considered rather cumbersome for such a serious work as the nursing and care of the sick, but in recent years quite a different view has been taken. The covering of the head, for instance, and the shearing of the hair must have been of distinct value in preventing communication of certain diseases. There has been a curious assimilation in the last few years, of the dress required to be worn by nurses in operating {346} rooms to that worn by most of the religious communities. The head must be completely covered, and the garments worn are of material that can be washed. It will be recalled that the headdresses of religious, being as a rule of spotless white, must be renewed frequently and therefore must be kept in a condition of what is practically surgical cleanliness. While this was not at all the intention of those who adopted the particular style of headdress worn by religious, yet their choice has proved, in what may well be considered a Providential way, to be an excellent protective for the patients against certain dangers that would inevitably have been present, if their dress had been the ordinary one of the women of their class during these many centuries of hospital nursing by religious women. The organization of charity is supposed to be a feature of social life that was reserved for these modern times. A subsequent chapter on Democracy, Christian Socialism and National Patriotism, shows how false this notion is from one standpoint; a little additional interpretation will show that the generations which organized the hospitals, took care of the lepers in such a way as to prevent their becoming sources of infection for others, and segregated such severe contagious diseases as erysipelas, not only knew how to organize charitable efforts, but were able to accomplish their purposes in this matter in such a way, that the friction of the charity organization itself absorbed as little as possible of the beneficent energy put into it, and much less than is the case in our own time. Besides the monasteries were really active centers of charity organization of the most practical character. They not only gave to the people when their necessities required it, but they were active employers of labor and in times of scarcity constantly made large sacrifices in order to keep their people employed, and even the community itself went on short rations in order that the suffering in the neighborhood might not be extreme. In times of prosperity there were, no doubt, abuses in monasteries, but no one ever accused them of neglecting the poor during times of famine. While the Thirteenth Century was so intent upon the relief of the social needs consequent upon illness and injury, it did not neglect other forms of social endeavor. One of the crying {347} evils of the Thirteenth Century was the fact that mariners and merchants, as well as pilgrims to the Holy Land, were not infrequently captured by corsairs from the northern coast of Africa, and sold into slavery. At times, if there was hope of a very large ransom, news of the condition of these poor victims might find its way to their homes. As a rule, however, they were as much lost to family and friends as if they had actually been swallowed up by the sea, which was usually concluded to have been their fate. The hardships thus endured and the utter helplessness of their conditions made them fitting subjects for special social effort. The institution which was to provide relief for this sad state of affairs had its rise in a typically Thirteenth Century way--what, doubtless, the modern world would be apt to think of as characteristically medieval--but the result achieved was as good an example of practical benevolence as has ever been effected in the most matter-of-fact of centuries. {opp347} [Illustration] CHARITY (GIOTTO) [Illustration] FORTITUDE (GIOTTO) [Illustration] HOPE (GIOTTO) Shortly after the beginning of the Thirteenth Century two very intelligent men, whose friends honored them very much for the saintliness of their lives--meaning by saintliness not only their piety but their thoughtfulness for others before themselves--had a dream in which they saw poor captives held in slavery and asking for some one out of Christian charity to come and ransom them. One of these men was John of Matha, a distinguished teacher of Theology at the University of Paris. The other was Felix of Valois, more distinguished for his piety than his learning, but by no means an ignorant man. On the same night, though living at a distance from one another, they had this identical dream. Having told it next day to some friends, it happened that after a time it came to their mutual knowledge that the other had had a similar vision. The circumstance seemed so striking to them that they applied to the Pope for an interpretation of it. The Pope, who was Innocent III., the founder of city hospitals, saw in it a magnificent opportunity for the foundation of another great Christian charity. Accordingly in interpreting it, he directed their thoughts toward the redemption of Christian captives taken by the Saracens. He has as a consequence been regarded as the founder of the order of Trinitarians (A. D. 1198), and did, in {348} fact, draft its Rule. It was called, from its object, Ordo de Redemptione Captivorum, (Order for the Redemption of Captives), but its members were more generally known as Trinitarians. They wore a white habit, having a red and blue cross on the breast. They were well received in France, where they had originated, were the recipients of large sums of money to be devoted to the objects of the order, and had large accessions to their number, among whom were many distinguished by ability and profound learning. In the year 1200 the first company of ransomed captives arrived from Morocco, and one may easily imagine their joy on again regaining their freedom and beholding once more their friends and native land. The members of this order were sometimes called Mathurins, from the title of the first church occupied by them in Paris. They spread rapidly in Southern France, through Spain, Italy, England, Saxony, and Hungary, and foundations of a similar kind were also opened for women. Cerfroid, in the diocese of Meaux, where the first house of the order was opened, became the residence of the General (minister generalis). There was a fine field for their labors in Spain, where the Moors were constantly at war with the Christians. The self-sacrificing spirit of these religious, which led them to incur almost any dangers in the accomplishment of their purpose, was only equaled by their zeal in arousing interest for the poor captives. They became the accredited agents for the ransoming of prisoners, and also for their exchange and even the Mahometans learned to trust and eventually to reverence them. When they could not ransom at once they thus succeeded in ameliorating the conditions in which slave prisoners were kept, and proved a great source of consolation to them. Another order, having the same object in view but differing somewhat in its constitution, was founded in 1218, by Peter of Nolasco, a distinguished Frenchman, and Raymond of Pennafort the famous authority on canon law. In this, too, medieval supernaturalism evolved the usual practical results. In consequence of a vision, the order was placed under the special protection of the Blessed Virgin, and called the Order of the Blessed Virgin of Mercy (Ordo. B. Mariae de Mercede). Its {349} members bound themselves by vow to give their fortunes and to serve as soldiers in the cause. Their devotion was so ardent that for the accomplishment of their purpose they vowed if necessary to make a sacrifice of their very persons, as Peter actually did in Africa, for the redemption of Christian captives. Hence their members were divided into Knights who wore a white uniform, and Brothers, who took orders and provided for the spiritual wants of the community. Gregory IX., admiring the heroic devotion of these intrepid men, approved the order. Many thousands of captive Christians who would otherwise have dragged out a miserable existence as slaves among the Mahometans of North Africa, were thus rescued and restored to their families and a life of freedom and happiness in Europe. This was a fine practical example of Abolitionism worthy of study and admiration. [Illustration] HOSPITAL INTERIOR {350} XXII GREAT ORIGINS IN LAW. Perhaps the most surprising phase of Thirteenth Century history is that much of what is most valued and most valuable in our modern laws, especially as they concern the fundamental rights of man, is to be found clearly expressed in the great lawmaking of the Thirteenth Century. It can scarcely fail to astonish those who look upon the Middle Ages as hopelessly barren in progress, to find that human liberty in its development reached such a pass before the end of the Middle Ages, or that any period so long before the Renaissance and the reformation so-called, could be picked out as representing a distinctive epoch in supremely liberal legislation. After careful study, the surprise is apt to be rather that there should have been comparatively so little advance since that time, seeing how much the generations of this marvelous century were able to accomplish in definitely formulating principles of human rights. The first great document in the laws of the Thirteenth Century is, of course, Magna Charta, signed in 1215, the foundation of all the liberties of English speaking people ever since. Perhaps the highest possible tribute to the Great Charter is the fact that it has grown in the estimation of intelligent men, rather than lost significance. In quite recent years it has become somewhat the custom to belittle its import and its influence. But it must not be forgotten that over and over again in times of national crises in England, Magna Charta has been confidently appealed to as a fundamental law too sacred to be altered, as a talisman containing some magic spell capable of averting national calamity. Bishop Stubbs said of it, that "the Great Charter was the first supreme act of the nation after it had realized its own identity." Perhaps in nothing does its supremacy as basic legislation for national purposes so shine forth, as from the fact that it is {351} not a vague statement of great principles, not a mere declaration of human rights, not a documentary rehearsal of fundamental legalities, but a carefully collected series of practical declarations for the solution of the problems that were then disturbing the peace of the kingdom, and leading to charge and countercharge of infringement of right on the part of the king and his subjects. As might have been expected from the men of the Thirteenth Century--from the generations who more than any other in all human history succeeded in uniting the useful with the beautiful in everything from the decoration of their churches and other great architectural structures to the ordinary objects of everyday life--it was of eminently practical character. While it is the custom to talk much of Magna Charta and to praise its wonderful influence there are very few people who have ever actually read its provisions. The classics are said to be books that everyone praises but no one reads, and Magna Charta and the Constitution of the United States are documents that are joined in the same fate. A little consideration of some of the chapters of the Charter will give an excellent idea of its thoroughly straightforward practicalness, though it may serve also to undeceive those who would expect to find in this primal document a lofty statement of abstract human rights, such as the men of the Thirteenth Century were never conscious of, since their thoughts were always in the concrete and their efforts were bent to the solution of the problems lying just before them, and not to the lifting of all the burdens that human nature has to bear. Before this, of course, there had been some development of legislation to furnish the basis for what was to come in the Thirteenth Century. The famous Constitutions of Clarendon under Henry II. and the Assizes of Clarendon (quite a different matter) and of North Hampton and the Forest under Henry II., gave assurances of rights that had only existed somewhat shadily before. According to the Constitutions of Clarendon sworn men gave their verdict in cases from their own knowledge. This was, of course, quite a different matter from the giving of a verdict from knowledge obtained through witnesses at a trial, but the germ of the jury trial can be seen. It was not, however, until the next reign that the men of England {352} did not merely wait for the free gifts of legal rights but demanded and obtained them. There was a new hitherto undreamt-of spirit abroad in the Thirteenth Century, by which men dared to ask for the rights they considered should be theirs. The opening chapter of Magna Charta states especially the subjects of the rights that are guaranteed by the document. It is not surprising then, to find that the first subject is the Church and that the most extensive guarantees are made that the English Church liberties shall be inviolate. Churchmen had been largely concerned in the movement which secured the signing of Magna Charta, and then after all, as must never be forgotten, the Church at this time was distinctly felt by all to be the spiritual expression of the religious aspirations of the people. Over the concluding sentence of this chapter, "the grant of the unwritten liberties to all freemen of our kingdom," there has been no little discussion. There are some who would consider that it applied to all Englishmen above the condition of villeins or serfs, while there are others who would limit its application practically to those nobly born in the kingdom. Posterity undoubtedly came to translate it in the broader sense, so that, whatever the original intention, the phrase became as a grant eventually to all free Englishmen. Chapter I.: "In the first place we have granted to God, and by this our present charter confirmed for us and our heirs for ever, that the English Church shall be free, and shall have her rights entire, and her liberties inviolate; and we will that it be thus observed; which is apparent from this that the freedom of elections, which is reckoned most important and very essential to the English Church, we of our pure and unconstrained will, did grant, and by our charter confirm and did obtain the ratification of the same from our lord, Pope Innocent III. before the quarrel arose between us and our barons, and this we will observe, and our will is that it be observed in good faith by our heirs for ever. We have also granted to all freemen of our kingdom, for us and for our heirs for ever, all the underwritten liberties, to be had and held by them and their heirs, of us and our heirs for ever." Perhaps the most interesting feature of Magna Charta is to {353} be found in the fact, that it did actually in most cases come to be applied ever so much wider than had apparently been the original intention. It was in this sense a vital document as it were, since it had within itself the power of developing so as to suit the varying circumstances for which recourse was had to it. There is no doubt at all of the good faith of the men who appealed to it, nor of their firm persuasion that the document actually intended what they claimed to find in it. Modern criticism has succeeded in stripping from the original expressions many of the added meanings that posterity attached to them, but in so doing has really not lessened the estimation in which Magna Charta must be held. The position is indeed noteworthily analagous to that of the original deposit of faith and the development of doctrine which has taken place. Higher criticism has done much to show how little of certain modern ideas was apparently contained explicitly in the original formulas of Christian faith, and yet by so doing has not lessened our beliefs, but has rather tended to make us realize the vitality of the original Christian tenets. As everything living in God's creation, they have developed by a principle implanted within them to suit the evolutionary conditions of man's intelligence and the developing problems that they were supposed to offer solutions for. The comparison, of course, like all comparisons, must walk a little lame, since after all Magna Charta is a human document, and yet the very fact that it should have presented itself under so many varying conditions, ever with new significance to succeeding generations of thinking men, is the best evidence of how nearly man's work at its best may approach that of the Creator. It is an exemplification, in a word, of the creative genius of the century, a worthy compeer of the other accomplishments which have proved so enduring and so capable of making their influence felt even upon distant generations. It is of the very essence of the practicality of Magna Charta that among the early chapters of the important document--Chapter VII.--is one that concerns widows and their property rights immediately after the death of their husbands. Previous chapters had discussed questions of guardianship and inheritance, since it was especially minors who in this rude period {354} were likely to suffer from the injustice of the crown, of their over-lords in the nobility, and even from their guardians. While Magna Charta, then, begins with the principles for the regulation of matters of property as regards children, it proceeds at once to the next class most liable to injustice because of their inability to properly defend themselves by force of arms--the widows. Chapter VII.: "A widow, after the death of her husband, shall forthwith and without difficulty have her marriage portion and inheritance; nor shall she give anything for her dower or for her marriage portion, or for the inheritance which she and her husband held on the day of the death of that husband; and she may remain in the house of her husband for forty days after his death, within which time her dower shall be assigned to her." Chapter VIII.: "Let no widow be compelled to marry, so long as she prefers to live without a husband; provided always that she gives security not to marry without our consent, if she holds of us, or without the consent of the lord of whom she holds, if she holds of another." The first of these provisions serves to show very well how early in the history of English jurisprudence a thoroughgoing respect for woman's legal rights began to have a place. The beginning Thirteenth Century made an excellent start in their favor. For some reason the movement for justice thus initiated did not continue, but suffered a sad interruption down almost to our own times. The second of these provisions for widows, embodied in Chapter VIII., sounds a little queer to the modern ear. This protection of widows from compulsion to marry is apt to seem absolutely unnecessary in these modern days. Some of the unmarried are indeed prone to think, perhaps, that widows have more than their due opportunity in this matter without any necessity for protecting them from compulsion. Of course it is to be understood that it was not always so much the charms of the lady herself that must be protected from compulsion, as those of the property which she inherited and the political and martial influence that she might be expected to bring her husband. In these troublous times when disputes with {355} appeals to arms were extremely frequent, it was important to have the regulation, that after the death of a husband there should be no sudden unbalancing of political power because of the compelled marriage of the widow of some powerful noble. In certain subsequent chapters up to the twelfth there is question mainly of the rights of the Jews, as money-lenders, to collect their debts with interest after the death of the principal to whom it was loaned. For instance, according to Chapter X., the debt shall not bear interest while the heir is under age and if the debt fell to the hands of the crown, nothing but the principal was to be taken. In Chapter XI. if any one died indebted to the Jews his wife should have her dower and pay nothing of that debt. For children under age the same principle held and they had a right to the provision of necessaries in keeping with the condition of their father. This last clause has been perpetuated in the practice of our courts, as some consider even to the extent of an abuse, so that debtors cannot collect from the income of a young man to whom money has been left, if by so doing the income should be impaired to such an extent as to make his method of living unsuitable to the condition in life to which he was born and brought up. Chapter XII. has been the subject of more discussion perhaps than any other. McKechnie, the most recent commentator on Magna Charta, says of it: [Footnote 29] [Footnote 29: Magna Carta, a Commentary on the Great Charter of King John, with an Historical Introduction by William Sharp McKechnie, M.D., LL.B., D. Phil. Glasgow, James Maclehose and Sons, Publishers to the University, 1905.] "This is a famous clause, greatly valued at the time it was framed because of its precise terms and narrow scope (which made evasion difficult), and even more highly valued in after days for exactly opposite reasons. It came indeed to be interpreted in a broad general sense by enthusiasts who, with the fully-developed British constitution before them, read the clause as enunciating the modern doctrine that the Crown can impose no financial burden whatsoever on the people without consent of Parliament." Readers may judge for themselves from the tenor of the {356} chapter, how wide a latitude in interpretation it not only permits, but invites. Chapter XII.: "No scutage nor aid shall be imposed in our kingdom, unless by common counsel of our kingdom, except for ransoming our person, for making our eldest son a knight, and for once marrying our eldest daughter; and for these there shall not be levied more than a reasonable aid. In like manner it shall be done concerning aids from the citizens of London." There is no doubt that it is hard to read in this chapter all that has been found in it by enthusiastic appellants to Magna Charta at many times during the succeeding centuries. As a matter of fact, however, within half a century after it had been promulgated, it was appealed to confidently as one of the reasons why an English Parliament should meet if the King required special levies of money for the purpose of carrying on war. It was during the sixth and seventh decades of the Thirteenth Century that the great principle of English Legislation: "There shall be no taxation without representation"--which six centuries later was to be appealed to by the American Colonies as the justification for their war for independence, gradually came to be considered as a fundamental principle of the relationship between the government and the people. That it had its origin in Magna Charta there seems no doubt, and it is only another example of that unconscious development of a vital principle which, as we know from History, took place so often with regard to chapters of the Great Charter. Undoubtedly one of the most important chapters of Magna Charta is the very brief one, No. 17, which concerns itself with the holding of a Court of Common Pleas. The whole of the chapter is, "Common Pleas shall not follow our Court but shall be held in some fixed place." This represented a distinct step in advance in the dispensing of justice. It is a little bit hard for us to understand, but all departments of government were originally centered in the king and his household--the court--which attended to royal and national business of every kind. As pointed out by Mr. McKechnie in his Magna Charta, the court united in itself the functions of the modern cabinet of the administrative department--the home office, the foreign office and the admiralty, and of the various legal tribunals. It {357} was the parent of the Court at St. James and the courts at Westminster. Almost needless to say, it is from the fact that the dispensing of justice was a function of royalty, that the places of holding trials are still called courts. According to this chapter of Magna Charta, thereafter ordinary trials, Common Pleas, did not have to follow the Court, that is the royal household, in its wanderings through various parts of the kingdom, but they were held at an appointed place. In the days of Henry II. the entire machinery of royal justice had to follow the monarch as he passed, sometimes on the mere impulse of the moment, from one of his favorite hunting-seats to another. Crowds thronged after him in hot pursuit, since it was difficult to transact business of moment before the court without being actually present. This entailed almost intolerable delay, extreme annoyance and great expense upon litigants, who brought their pleas for the king's decision. There is an account of the hardships which this system inflicted upon suitors told of one celebrated case. Richard D'Anesty gives a graphic record of his journeyings in search of justice throughout a period of five years, during which he visited in the king's wake most parts of England, Normandy, Aquitaine, and Anjou. Ultimately successful he paid dearly for his legal triumph. He had to borrow at a ruinous rate of interest in order to meet his enormous expenses, mostly for traveling, and was scarcely able to discharge his debts. All litigation then, that did not directly involve the crown or criminal procedures, could be tried thereafter by a set of judges who sat permanently in some fixed spot, which though not named was probably intended from the beginning to be Westminster. Hence it has been said by distinguished English jurists that Magna Charta gave England a Capital. On the other hand Chapter XXIV. insured justice in criminal cases by reserving these pleas to judges appointed by the crown. This short chapter reads: "No sheriff, constable, coroner, or others of our bailiffs shall hold pleas of our Crown." This last expression did not necessarily mean matters concerned with royal business as might be thought, but had in King John's time come to signify criminal trials of all kinds. It is easy to understand that those accused of crime would look confidently for {358} justice to the representative of the central government, while they dreaded the jurisdiction of the less responsible officials resident in the counties, who had a wide-spread reputation for cruelty and oppression, and for a venality that it was hard to suppress. It would seem as though these quotations would serve to make even the casual reader appreciate how thoroughly Magna Charta deserves the reputation which it has borne now for nearly seven centuries, of an extremely valuable fundamental document in the history of the liberties of the English speaking people. Some of the subsequent chapters may be quoted without comment because they show with what careful attention to detail the rights of the people were guaranteed by the Charter, and how many apparently trivial things were considered worthy of mention. We may call attention to the fact that in Chapters forty-one and forty-two there are definite expressions of guarantee for the rights even of aliens, which represent a great advance over the feelings in this respect that had animated the people of a century or so before, and foreshadow the development of that international comity which is only now coming to be the distinguishing mark of our modern civilization. "A freeman shall not be amerced for a small offence, except in accordance with the degree of the offence; and for a grave offence he shall be amerced in accordance with the gravity of his offence, yet saving always his 'contentment'; and a merchant in the same way, saving his wares; and a villein shall be amerced in the same way, saving his wainage--if they have fallen into our mercy; and none of the aforesaid amercements shall be imposed except by the oath of honest men of the neighborhood. "If any freeman shall die intestate, his chattels shall be distributed by the hands of the nearest kinsfolk and friends, under the supervision of the church, saving to everyone the debts which the deceased owed to him. "No constable or other bailiff of ours shall take corn or other provisions from anyone without immediately tendering money therefor, unless he can have postponement thereof by permission of the seller. "No sheriff or bailiff of ours, or any other person shall take {359} the horses or carts of any freeman for transport duty, against the will of the said freeman. "All kydells for the future shall be removed altogether from the Thames and Medway, and throughout all England, except upon the sea coast. "Nothing in the future shall be taken or given for a writ of inquisition of life or limbs, but freely it shall be granted, and never denied. "No bailiff for the future shall put any man to his 'law' upon his own mere word of mouth, without credible witnesses brought for this purpose. "No freeman shall be arrested or detained in prison, or deprived of his freehold, or outlawed, or banished, or in any way molested, and we will not set forth against him, nor send against him, unless by the lawful judgment of his peers and by the law of the land. "To no one will we sell, to no one will we refuse or delay, right or justice. "All merchants shall have safe and secure exit from England, and entry to England, with the right to tarry there and to move about as well by land as by water, for buying and selling by the ancient and right customs, quit from all evil tolls, except (in time of war) such merchants as are of the land at war with us. And if such are found in our land at the beginning of the war, they shall be detained without injury to their bodies or goods, until information be received by us, or by our chief justiciar, how the merchants of our land found in the land at war with us are treated and if our men are safe there, the others shall be safe in our land. "It shall be lawful in future for any one (excepting always those imprisoned or outlawed in accordance with the law of the kingdom, and natives of any country at war with us, and merchants, who shall be treated as is above provided) to leave our kingdom, and to return, safe and secure by land and water, except for a short period in time of war, on grounds of public policy--reserving always the allegiance due to us. "We will appoint as justices, constables, sheriffs or bailiffs only such as know the law of the realm and mean to observe it well. {360} "We shall have, moreover, the same respite and the same manner in rendering justice concerning the disafforestation or retention of those forests which Henry our father and Richard our brother afforested and concerning the wardship of lands which are of the fief of another (namely, such wardships as we have hitherto had by reason of a fief, which any one held of us by knight's service) and concerning abbeys founded on other fiefs than our own, in which the lord of the fee claims to have right; and when we have returned, or if we desist from our expedition, we will immediately grant full justice to all who complain of such things. "All fines made with us unjustly and against the law of this land, and all amercements imposed unjustly and against the law of this land, shall be entirely remitted, or else it shall be done concerning them according to the decision of the five and twenty barons of whom mention is made below, in the clause for securing the peace, or according to the judgment of the majority of the same, along with the aforesaid Stephen Archbishop of Canterbury, if he can be present, and such others as he may wish to bring with him for this purpose, and if he cannot be present the business shall nevertheless proceed without him, provided always that if any one or more of the aforesaid five and twenty barons are in a similar suit, they shall be removed as far as concerns this particular judgment, others being substituted in their places after having been selected by the rest of the same five and twenty for this purpose only, and after having been sworn. "Moreover, all the aforesaid customs and liberties, the observance of which we have granted in our kingdom as far as pertains to us towards our men, shall be observed by all of our kingdom, as well by clergy as by laymen, as far as pertains to them towards their men. "And, on this head, we have caused to be made out letters patent of Stephen, Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry, Archbishop of Dublin, the bishops aforesaid, and Master Pandulf, as evidence of this clause of security and of the aforesaid concessions." These last provisions show how closely the Church was bound up with the securing and maintenance of the rights of {361} the English people. The clauses we have quoted just before, need no comment to show how sturdily the spirit of liberty strode abroad even at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century, for Magna Charta was signed in 1215. The rest of the century was to see great advances in liberty and human rights, even beyond the guarantees of the Great Charter. Magna Charta, glorious as it was, was only the beginning of that basic legislation which was to distinguish the Thirteenth Century in England. About the middle of the century Bracton began his collection of the laws of the land which has since been the great English classic of the Common Law. His work was accomplished while he was the Chief Justiciary during the reign of Henry III. For many years before he had occupied various judicial positions, as Justice Itinerant of the counties of Nottingham and Derby and for seventeen years his name appears as one of the justices of the Aula Regis. This experience put him in an eminently fitting position to be the mouthpiece of English practice and law applications, and his book was at once accepted as an authority. It is a most comprehensive and systematic work in five volumes, bearing the title De Legibus et Consuetudinibus Angliae, and was modeled after the Institutes of Justinian. It was during the reign of Edward I., the English Justinian as he has been called, that the English Common Law came to its supreme expression, and this monarch has rightly been placed among the great benefactors of mankind for his magnanimous generosity in securing the legal rights of his subjects and framing English liberties for all time. Not a little of Edward's greatness as a law-maker and his readiness to recognize the rights of his subjects, with his consequent willingness to have English law arranged and published, must be attributed to his connection during his earlier years as Prince of Wales with the famous Simon De Montfort. To this man more than to any other the English speaking people owe the development of those constitutional rights, which gradually came to be considered inalienably theirs during the Thirteenth Century. He is undoubtedly one of the very great characters of history and the Thirteenth Century is by so much greater for having been the scene of his labors, during so many years, for the {362} establishment of constitutional limitations to the power of the monarch, and the uplifting of the rights of subjects not only among the nobility, but also among the lower classes. It was in Edward's time that the English Common Law was fashioned into the shape in which it was to exist for many centuries afterwards. How true this is may perhaps best be judged by the fact that even the laws with regard to real estate have not been changed in essence since that time, though medieval titles to land would seem to be so different to those of the present day. According to the Encyclopedia Britannica the changes which have been made since that time have been mainly due to the action of equity and legislation, the latter sometimes interpreted by the courts in a manner very different from the intention of Parliament. The same authority is responsible for the statement that the reign of Edward I., is notable for three leading real estate statutes which are still law. One of these was with regard to Mortmain, while the important statute known as _Quia Emptores_ (the eighteenth of Chapter I. of the Laws of Edward I.) had the practical effect of making the transfer of land thenceforward, more of a commercial and less of a legal transaction. It is to this same period that is owed the writ _Elegit_ which introduced the law practice of a creditor's remedy over real estate. How little was accomplished in the matter of law-making in subsequent centuries, may be gathered from the fact that Mr. James Williams who writes the article on real estate in the Encyclopedia Britannica ninth edition, says that from 1290 to the reign of Henry VIII., that is down to the Sixteenth Century, there is no statute of the first importance dealing with real estate. In a word, then, it may be said that these law-makers of the Thirteenth Century anticipated most of the legal difficulties of the after-time. Their statutory provisions, as in the case of the chapters of Magna Charta, seemed originally only to have a narrow application to certain urgent legal questions of the time, but proved eventually to contain in themselves the essence of legal principles that could be applied in circumstances such as the original law-maker had not even imagined. This is indeed the typical triumph of the century in every line of endeavor, that while apparently it devoted itself only to the {363} narrow problems of its own time, its solutions of them whether in art and architecture or decoration, in literary expression or poetic effectiveness, in educational methods or social uplift, always proved so complete, so thoroughly human in the broadest sense of that word and so consonant with development, that their work did not have to be done over again. No greater praise than this could be bestowed. [Illustration] SPIRE OF ST. ELIZABETH'S (MARBURG) {364} XXIII JUSTICE AND LEGAL DEVELOPMENT. It must not be thought because we have devoted so much time to the triumphs of English law-making in the Thirteenth Century that, therefore, there is little or nothing to be said about this same admirable feature of the time in other countries. As a matter of fact every nation in Europe saw the foundation of its modern legal system laid, and was responsive witness to the expression of the first principles of popular rights and popular liberties. Montalembert in his Life of St. Elizabeth of Hungary [Footnote 30] makes no mention in the Introduction which is really a panegyric of the Thirteenth Century, of the progress of English law-making, and yet considers that he is able to bring together enough evidence to show that legislation had its acme of development just at this time. His paragraph on the subject will serve as the best possible preface to the scant treatment of continental law-making and enforcement of justice in this period, that our limited space will allow. He says: [Footnote 30: Life of St. Elizabeth of Hungary by the Count De Montalembert, translated by Francis Deming Hoyt, New York, Longman's, Green and Company, 1904.] "Legislation never, perhaps, had a more illustrious period. On the one hand, the Popes, supreme authorities in matters of law as well as of faith, gave to canon law the fullest development possible to this magnificent security of Christian civilization; sat themselves as judges with exemplary assiduity, published immense collections, and founded numerous schools. On the other hand, that period gave birth to most of the national legislation of the various states of Europe; the great _Mirrors_ of Swabia and Saxony, the first laws published in the German language by Frederick II. at the diet of Mentz, and the code given by him to Sicily; in France, the Institutes of St. Louis, together with the _Common Law_ of Pierre des Fontaines, {365} and the _Statutes of Beauvoisis_ of Philip of Beaumanoir; and lastly the French version of the _Assizes of Jerusalem_, in which is to be found the most complete résumé now extant of Christian and chivalric law. All these precious monuments of the old Christian organization of the world are preserved in the native languages of the various people, and are distinguished, less even by this fact than by their generous and pious spirit, from that pernicious Roman law, the progress of which was destined soon to change all the principles of the former." Most of Montalembert's paragraph refers to the law-making in France with which he is naturally more familiar. He has supplied ample material for consultation for those who wish to follow out this interesting theme further. Even more significant, however, than the law-making in France, were the new ideas with regard to the enforcement in law that came in during the reign of Louis IX. We have not had to wait until this generation to realize, that as a rule it is not the absence of law so much as the lack of enforcement of such laws as exist, that gives rise to many of the injustices between men. St. Louis made it his business to bring about the enforcement of the laws with proper construction of their terms in such a way as to secure the rights of all. He himself sat under the famous old oak of Versailles as a Court of Appeals, reviewing especially the cases of the poor. It soon came to be known, that it would be a sad occasion for any and every court official who was found to have given judgment against the poor because of partiality or the yielding to unlawful influence. On the other hand, in order to keep the right of appeal from being abused, punishments were meted out to those who made appeals without good reason. Finding that he was unable to hear so many causes as were appealed to him, Louis chose Stephen Boileau to act as Chief Justice and committed the care of proper legal enforcement with confidence into his hands. Boileau had become famous by having condemned some very near relatives, under circumstances such that relationship might have been expected to weigh down the wrong side of the scales of justice, and in a few years he enhanced his reputation by the utter disregard of all motives in the settlement of suits at law, except those of {366} the strictest justice. How much Louis himself did in order to safeguard the rights of the poor can be judged from the famous incident told by all his biographers, in which he risked the enmity of the most powerful among his barons, in order to secure the punishment of one of them who had put two students to death. This was the first time that the rights of men, as men, were asserted and it constitutes the best possible testimony to the development of law and true liberty in France. "Three young nobles of the county of Flanders were surprised, together with the abbot of St. Nicholas, in a wood pertaining to Coucy, with bows and arrows. Although they had neither dogs nor hunting implements, they were found guilty of having gone out to hunt and were hanged. The abbot and several women of their families made complaint to the king, and Enguerrard was arrested and taken to the Louvre. The king summoned him before him; he appeared, having with him the King of Navarre, the King of Burgundy, the counts of Bar, Soissons, Brittany, and Blois, the Archbishop of Rheims, Sire John of Thorote, and nearly all the great men in the kingdom. The accused said that he wished to take counsel, and he retired with most of the seigneurs who had accompanied him, leaving the king alone with his household. When he returned, John of Thorote, in his name, said that he would not submit to this inquiry, since his person, his honour, and his heritage were at stake, but that he was ready to do battle, denying that he had hanged the three young men, or ordered them to be hanged. His only opponents were the abbot and the women, who were there to ask for justice. The king answered that in causes in which the poor, the churches, and persons worthy of pity, took part, it was not fitting to decide them in battle; for it was not easy to find anyone to fight for such sorts of people against the barons of the kingdom. He said that his action against the accused was no new thing, and he alleged the example of his predecessor Philip Augustus. He therefore agreed to the request of the complainants, and caused Enguerrard to be arrested by the sergeants and taken to the Louvre. All prayers were useless; St. Louis refused to hear them, rose from his seat, and the barons went away astonished and confused. {367} "They did not, however, consider that they were beaten. They again came together; the King of Navarre, the Count of Brittany, and with them the Countess of Flanders, who ought rather to have intervened for the victims. It was as if they had conspired against the king's power and honour; for they were not content to implore Coucy's release, but asserted that he could not be kept in prison. The Count of Brittany maintained that the king had no right to institute inquiries against the barons of his kingdom in matters which concerned their persons, their heritage or their honour. The king replied, 'You did not speak thus in former times when the barons in direct dependence upon you came before me with complaints against yourself, and offered to sustain them in battle. You then said that to do battle was not in the way of justice.' The barons put forward a final argument, namely, that according to the customs of the kingdom, the king could only judge the accused and punish him in person after an inquiry to which he had refused to submit. The king was resolute, and declared that neither the rank of the guilty man nor the power of his friends should prevent him from doing full justice. Coucy's life was, however, spared. The fact that he had not been present at the judgment, nor at the execution, prevailed in his favour. By the advice of his counsellors, the king condemned him to pay 1200 livres parisis, which, considering the difference in the purchasing power of money, may be estimated at considerably more than 400,000 pounds, and he sent this sum to St. John of Acre for the defense of Palestine. The wood in which the young men were hanged was confiscated to the abbey of St. Nicholas. The condemned man was also constrained to found three perpetual chapelries for the souls of his victims, and he forfeited jurisdiction over his woods and fish ponds, so that he was forbidden to imprison or execute for any offense which had to do with them. Since Enguerrard's defender, John of Thorote, had in his anger told the barons that the king would do well to hang them all, the king, who had been told of this, sent for him and said, 'How comes it, John, that you have said I should hang my barons? I certainly will not have them hanged, but I will punish them when they do amiss.' John of Thorote denied that he had said this, and offered to {368} justify himself on the oath of twenty or thirty knights. The king would not carry the matter further, and let him go." One of the best evidences of the development of the spirit of law in Germany during this time is the establishment of the famous Fehmic Courts, or Vehmgerichte, which achieved their highest importance during the Thirteenth Century. As with regard to the universities, there is a tradition that carries the origin of these courts back to the time of Charlemagne. They are much more likely to have been developments out of the relics of the ancient free courts of the old Teutonic Tribe. The first definite knowledge of their existence cannot be traced much earlier than a decade or two before the Thirteenth Century. They had their principal existence in Westphalia. Practically the whole country between the Rhine and the Weser was ruled to a subordinate degree by these Fehmic courts. During the Thirteenth Century they were used only in the most beneficial and liberal spirit, supplying a means of redress at a time when the public administration of justice was almost completely in abeyance. As a matter of fact, before their establishment disregard for authority to the extent of utter lawlessness prevailed in this part of Germany. {opp368} [Illustration] CITY GATE (NEUBRANDENBURG) [Illustration] RATHHAUS (STRALSUND) The significance of these courts has sometimes been missed. They arose, however, out of the justice loving spirit of the people themselves and were meant to supply legal enforcements when the regularly constituted authorities were unable to secure them. They remind one very much of the vigilance committees, which in our own country, in the cities of the distant West, bravely and with the admirable prudence of the race, have so often supplied the place of regular courts and have brought justice and order out of the chaos of lawlessness. The last place most people would expect their prototypes, however, would be here in the Germany of the Thirteenth Century. How much these Vehmgerichte accomplished during the Thirteenth and Fourteenth centuries it would be difficult to say. They represent an outgrowth of the spirit of the people themselves, that constitutes another striking feature of the practical side of the generations of the Thirteenth Century. They had much more to do with bringing about the development of the modern acute sense of justice among the Teutonic peoples {369} than is usually thought. They are the German expression of the same feelings that in England dictated trial by jury, and secured for the English speaking people of all time the precious privileges of even-handed justice and the right to be judged by one's peers. It was not alone in the western countries of Europe that great advances were made in liberty. The democratic spirit that was abroad made itself felt everywhere and the foundations of rights for the people were laid even in central Europe, in countries which ordinarily are thought of at this time as scarcely more than emerging from barbarism. Hungary may be cited as an example. Andrew II. is usually set down by narrow-minded historians as having been entirely too visionary in his character, and the fact that he led the fifth Crusade, apparently even more fruitless than were most of the others, is supposed to be an additional proof of this. Even Duruy in his History of the Middle Ages says of him, "he organized a state of anarchy by decreeing his Golden Bull, that if the King should violate the privileges of the nobility, they should be permitted to resist him by force and such resistance should not be treated as rebellion." As a matter of fact, his people were thus granted a constitution more liberal even than that of Magna Charta, but containing quite similar provisions in many respects, and the curious historical analogy is heightened when we recall that at the two ends of civilized Europe these constitutions were given in the same decade. One cannot help but wonder whether the Saxon elements which were in both peoples, for many Saxon and Frisian colonists had been induced to settle in certain parts of Transylvania just half a century before, did not have much to do with this extremely interesting development in Hungary, so like the corresponding evolution of the democratic spirit among their western kinsfolk. In Poland the development in law came a little later but evidently as the result of the same factors that were at work during the Thirteenth Century. Casimir the Great, who was born shortly after the close of the Thirteenth Century, gave wise laws to Poland which have constituted the basis of Polish law ever since. At this time Poland was one of the most important countries in Europe. Casimir, besides giving laws to {370} his people, also founded a university for them and in every way encouraged the development of such progress as would make his subjects intelligently realize their own rights and maintain them, apparently foreseeing that thus the King would be better able to strengthen himself against the many enemies that surrounded him in central Europe. How much the great Popes of the century accomplished for the foundation and development of law, can only be appreciated by those who realize the extent of their contributions to the codification of canon law. It was the arrangement of this in definite shape that put the civil jurists of the time at work setting their house in order. Innocent III., who is deservedly called _Pater Juris_, devoted a great deal of his wonderful energy and genius to the arrangement of canon law. This placed for the first time the canon law on an absolutely sure footing and filled up many gaps that formerly existed. Gregory IX. commissioned his chaplain, the famous Raymond of Pennafort, who had been a professor of canon law in the University of Bologna, to codify all the decretals since the time of Gratian. This work was officially promulgated in 1234, four years of labor having been devoted to it. The laws are in the form of decisions pronounced in cases submitted to the Pope from all parts of Christendom, including many from the distant East and not a few from England and Scotland. Gregory's decretals were published in five books; a supplement under the name of the sixth book was published under Pope Boniface VIII. in 1298. In this for the first time abstract rules of law are laid down extracted from actual judgments. A compendium of Roman Law was added so as to approximate canon and civil procedure. This gives the best possible idea of how deeply the popes and the authorities in canon law of the century were laying the foundations of canonical practise and procedure for all times. The origins of modern law are to be found here, and yet not, as might be anticipated because of the distance in time, in such a confused or unmanageable fashion that they are not worth while consulting, but on the contrary with such clarity and distinctness and with such orderly arrangement, that they have been the subjects of study on the part of distinguished {371} jurists for most of the centuries ever since, and have never lost their interest for the great lawyers and canonists, who prefer to know things from the foundation rather than accept them at second hand. Some of the commentaries, or glosses as they were called, on canon law serve to give an excellent idea of the legal ability as well as the intellectual acumen of the canon lawyers of the century. The system of teaching was oral, and careful study was devoted to original authorities in law. Explanatory notes were added by the professors to their copies of the text. When later these texts were given out or lent for transcription, the notes were also copied, usually being written in the margin. After a time the commentary, however, proved to be, for students at least, as important as the text and so was transcribed by itself and was called an apparatus, that is a series of mechanical helps, as it were, to the understanding of the text. Of the names of some of the most distinguished glossatores the memory has been carefully preserved because they produced so much effect on legal teaching. The gloss written on Gratian by Joannes Teutonicus (John the German), probably during the first decade of the Thirteenth Century, was revised and supplemented by Bartholomew of Brescia about the middle of the Thirteenth Century. Some ten years later Bernard of Parma wrote a commentary on the decretals of Gregory. All of these are important fundamental works in canon law, and they were of very great influence in bringing out the principles of law and showing the basis on which they were founded. It is almost needless to say that they aroused additional interest and made the subject much more easy of approach than it had been. The fact that all of these magnificent contributions to the science and literatures of law should have been made during our Thirteenth Century, serves only to emphasize the fact that everything that men touched during this period was sure to be illuminated by the practical genius of the time, and put into a form in which for many centuries it was to be appealed to as a model and an authority in its own line. How much of legal commentary writing there was besides these, can be readily understood from the fact that these represent the activity only of the University of Bologna {372} which was, it is true, the greatest of universities in its law department, but it must not be forgotten that many other universities throughout Europe also had distinguished professors of law at this time. All this would seem to be of little interest for the secular law-making of the period, but it must not be forgotten that civil law was closely related to canon law at all times and that the development of canon law always meant a renewed evolution of the principles, and practise, and procedure of the civil law. In such countries as Scotland, indeed, the canon law formed the basis of the civil jurisprudence and its influence was felt even for centuries after the so-called reformation. On the other hand it must not be forgotten that the popes and the ecclesiastics helped to fight the battles of the middle and lower classes against the king and the nobility in practically every country in Europe. A very striking example of this is to be found in the life of that much misunderstood Pope Boniface VIII., the last pope of the century, who had received his legal training at Bologna, and who was one of the great jurists of his time. Circumstances differ so much, however, and obscure realities to such a degree, that at the present time we need the light of sympathetic interpretation to enable us to realize what Boniface accomplished. {opp372} [Illustration] PORTRAIT OF POPE BONIFACE VIII. (GIOTTO, ROME) He did much to complete in his time that arrangement and codification of canon law which his predecessors during the Thirteenth Century had so efficiently commenced. Like Innocent III. he has been much maligned because of his supposed attempt to make the governments of the time subservient to the Pope and to make the Church in each nation independent of the political government. With regard to the famous Bull Clericis Laicos, "thrice unhappy in name and fortune" as it has been designated, much more can be said in justification than is usually considered to be the case. Indeed the Rev. Dr. Barry, whose "Story of the Papal Monarchy" in the Stories of the Nations series has furnished the latest discussion of this subject, does not hesitate to declare that the Bull far from being subversive of political liberties or expressive of too arrogant a spirit on the part of the Church, was really an expression of a great principle that was to become very prominent in {373} modern history, and the basis of many of the modern declarations of rights against the claims of tyranny. He says in part: "Imprudent, headlong, but in its main contention founded on history, this extraordinary state-paper declared that the laity had always been hostile to the clergy, and were so now as much as ever. But they possessed no jurisdiction over the persons, no claims on the property of the church, though they had dared to exact a tenth, nay, even a half, of its income for secular objects, and time-serving prelates had not resisted. Now, on no title whatsoever from henceforth should such taxes be levied without permission of the Holy See. Every layman, though king or emperor, receiving these moneys fell by that very act under anathema; every churchman paying them was deposed from his office; universities guilty of the like offense were struck with interdict. "Robert of Winchelsea, Langton's successor as primate, shared Langton's views. He was at this moment in Rome, and had doubtless urged Boniface to come to the rescue of a frightened, down-trodden clergy, whom Edward I. would not otherwise regard. In the Parliament at Bury, this very year, the clerics refused to make a grant. Edward sealed up their barns. The archbishop ordered that in every cathedral the pope's interdiction should be read. Hereupon the chief-justice declared the whole clergy outlawed; they might be robbed or murdered without redress. Naturally, not a few gave way; a fifth, and then a fourth, of their revenue was yielded up. But Archbishop Robert alone, with all the prelates except Lincoln against him, and the Dominicans preaching at Paul's cross on behalf of the king, stood out, lost his lands, and was banished to a country parsonage. War broke out in Flanders. It was the saving of the archbishop. At Westminster Edward relented and apologized. He confirmed the two great charters; he did away with illegal judgments that infringed them. Next year the primate excommunicated those royal officers who had seized goods or persons belonging to the clergy, and all who had violated Magna Charta. The Church came out of this conflict exempt, or, more truly a self-governing estate of the realm. It must be considered as {374} having greatly concurred towards the establishment of that fundamental law invoked long after by the thirteen American Colonies, 'No taxation without representation,' which is the corner stone of British freedom." We have so often heard it said that there is nothing new under the sun, that finally the expression has come to mean very little, though its startling truth sometimes throws vivid light on historical events. Certainly the last place in the world that one would expect to find if not the origin, for all during the Thirteenth Century this great principle had been gradually asserting itself, at least, a wondrous confirmation of the principle on which our American revolution justified itself, would be in a papal document of the end of the Thirteenth Century. Here, however, is a distinguished scholar, who insists that the Colonists' contention that there must be no taxes levied unless they were allowed representation in some way in the body which determined the mode and the amount of taxation, received its first formal justification in history at the hands of a Roman Pontiff, nearly five centuries before the beginning of the quarrel between the Colonies and the Mother Country. The passage serves to suggest how much of what is modern had its definite though unsuspected origin, in this earlier time. [Illustration] DECORATION THIRTEENTH CENTURY PSALTER MS. {375} XXIV DEMOCRACY, CHRISTIAN SOCIALISM AND NATIONALITY. Democracy is a word to conjure with but it is usually considered that the thing it represents had its origin in the modern world much later than the period with which we are occupied. The idea that the people should be ready to realize their own rights, to claim their privileges and to ask that they should be allowed to rule themselves, is supposed ordinarily to be a product of the last century or two. Perhaps in this matter more than any other does the Thirteenth Century need interpretation to the modern mind, yet we think that after certain democratic factors and developments in the life of this period are pointed out and their significance made clear, it will become evident that the foundations of our modern democracy were deeply laid in the Thirteenth Century, and that the spirit of what was best in the aspiration of people to be ruled by themselves, for themselves, and of themselves had its birth in this precious seed time of so much that is important for our modern life. Lest it should be thought that this idea of the development of democracy has been engendered merely in the enthusiastic ardor of special admiration for the author's favorite century, it seems well to call attention to the fact that historians in recent years have very generally emphasized the role that the Thirteenth Century played in the development of freedom. A typical example may be quoted from the History of Anglo-Saxon Freedom by Professor James K. Hosmer, [Footnote 31] who does not hesitate to say that "while in England representative government was gradually developing during this century, in Germany the cities were beginning to send deputies to the Imperial Parliament and the Emperor, Frederick II., was allowing a certain amount of representation in the {376} Government of Sicily. In Spain, Alfonso the Wise, of Castile, permitted the cities to send representatives to the Cortez, and in France this same spirit developed to such a degree that a representative parliament met at the beginning of the Fourteenth Century." In none of these countries, however, unfortunately did the spirit of representative government continue to develop as in England and in many of them the privileges obtained in the Thirteenth Century were subsequently lost. [Footnote 31: Scribners, New York, 1890.] Certain phases of the rise of the democratic spirit have already been discussed, and the reader can only be referred to them now with the definite idea of recognizing in them the democratic tendencies of the time. What we have said about the trade guilds constitutes one extremely important element of the movement which will be further discussed in this chapter. After this comes the guild merchant in its various forms. After all the Hanseatic League was only one manifestation of these guilds. Its widespread influence in awakening in people's minds the realization that they could do for themselves much more, and secure success in their endeavors much better by their own united efforts, than by anything that their accepted political rulers could do or at least would do for them, will be readily appreciated by all who read that chapter. Hansa must have been a great enlightener for the Teutonic peoples. The History of the league shows over and over again their political rulers rather interfering with than fostering their commercial prosperity. These rulers were always more than a little jealous of the wealth which the citizens of these growing towns in their realm were able to accumulate, and they showed it on more than one occasion. The history of the Hansa towns exhibits the citizens doing everything to dissemble the feelings of disaffection that inevitably came to them as the result of their appreciation of the fact, that they could rule themselves so much better than they were being ruled, and that they could accomplish so much more for themselves by their commercial combination with other cities than had ever been done for them by these hereditary princes, who claimed so much yet gave so little in their turn. The training in self-government that came with the {377} necessities for defense as well as for the protection of commercial visitors from other cities in the league, who trustfully came to deal with their people, was an education in democracy such as could not fail to bring results. The rise of the free cities in Germany represents the growth of the democratic spirit down to our own time, better than any other single set of manifestations that we have. The international relations of these cities did more, as we have said, to broaden men's minds and make them realize the brotherhood of man in spite of national boundaries than any other factor in human history. Commerce has always been a great leveler and such it proved to be in these early days in Germany, only it must not be thought that these German cities had but faint glimmerings of the great purpose they were engaged in, for seldom has the spirit of popular government risen higher than with them. How clearly the Teutonic mind had grasped the idea of democracy can be best appreciated perhaps from the attitude of the Swiss in this matter. These hardy mountaineers whose difficult country and rather severe climate separate them effectually from the other nations, soon learned the advisability of ruling themselves for their own benefit. Before the end of the Thirteenth Century they had formed a defensive and offensive union among themselves against the Hapsburgs, and though for a time overborne by the influence of this house after its head ascended the Imperial throne, immediately on Rudolph's death they proceeded to unite themselves still more firmly together. They then formed the famous league of 1291 which represents so important a step in the democracy of modern times. The formal document which constituted this league a federal government deserves to be quoted. It is the first great declaration of independence, and its ideas were to crop out in many another declaration in the after times. It is an original document in the strictest sense of the word. It runs as follows: "Know all men that we, the people of the valley of Uri, the community of the valley of Schwiz, and the mountaineers of the lower valley, seeing the malice of the times, have solemnly agreed and bound ourselves by oath to aid and defend each other with all our might and main, with our lives and property, {378} both within and without our boundaries each at his own expense, against every enemy whatever who shall attempt to molest us, either singly or collectively. This is our ancient covenant. Whoever hath a lord let him obey him according to his bounden duty. We have decreed that we shall accept no magistrate in our valleys who shall have obtained his office for a price, or who is not a native or resident among us. Every difference among us shall be decided by our wisest men; and whoever shall reject their award shall be compelled by the other confederates. Whoever shall wilfully commit a murder shall suffer death, and he who shall attempt to screen the murderer from justice shall be banished from our valleys. An incendiary shall lose his privileges as a free member of the community, and whoever harbors him shall make good the damage. Whoever robs or molests another shall make full restitution out of the property he possesses among us. Everyone shall acknowledge the authority of a chief magistrate in either of the valleys. If internal quarrels arise, and one of the parties shall refuse fair satisfaction, the confederates shall support the other party. This covenant for our common weal, shall, God willing, endure forever." In England democracy was fostered in the guilds, which, as we have already seen in connection with the cathedrals, proved the sources of education and intellectual development in nearly every mode of thought and art. The most interesting feature of these guilds was the fact that they were not institutions suggested to the workmen and tradesmen by those above them, but were the outgrowth of the spirit of self help and organization which, came over mankind during this century. At the beginning they were scarcely more than simple beneficial associations meant to be aids in times of sickness and trial, and to make the parting of families and especially the death of the head of the family not quite so difficult for the survivors, since affiliated brother workmen remained behind who would care for them. During this century, however, the spirit of democracy, that is the organized effort of the people to take care of themselves, better their conditions, and add to their own happiness, led to the development of the guilds in a fashion that it is rather difficult for generations of the modern time to {379} understand, for our trades' unions do not, as yet at least, present anything that quite resembles their work in our times. It was because of the effective social work of these guilds that Urbain Gohier, the well-known French socialist and writer on sociological subjects, was able to say not long ago in the North American Review: "When the workmen of the European Continent demand 'the three eights'--eight hours of work, eight hours of rest and refreshment, physical and mental, and eight hours of sleep--some of them are aware of the fact that this reform already exists in the Anglo-Saxon countries; but all are ignorant of this other fact that, during the Middle Ages, in an immense number of labor corporations and cities, a work-day was often only nine, eight and even seven hours long. Nor have they ever been told that every Saturday, and on the eve of over two dozen holidays, work was stopped everywhere at four o'clock." The Saturday half holiday began it may be said even earlier, namely at the Vesper Hour which according to medieval church customs was some time between two and three p. m. and the same was true on the vigils, as the eves of the important church festivals were called. The only possible way to give a reasonably good idea of the spirit of the old-time guilds which succeeded in accomplishing such a wonderful social revolution, is to quote some of their rules, which serve to show their intents and purposes at least, even though they may not always have fulfilled their aims. Their rules regard two things particularly--the religious and the social functions of the guild. There was a fine for absence from the special religious services held for the members but also a fine of equal amount for absence from the annual banquet. In this they resemble the rules of the religious orders which were coming to be widely known at the end of the Twelfth and the beginning of the Thirteenth Century, and according to which the members of the religious community were required quite as strictly to be present at daily recreation, that is, at the hour of conversation after meals, as at daily prayer. An interesting phase of the social rules of the guild is that a member was expected to bring his wife with him, or if not his wife then his sweetheart. They were franker in these matters {380} in this simpler age and doubtless the custom encouraged matrimony a little bit more than our modern colder customs. As giving a fair idea of the ordinances of the pre-Reformation guilds in their original shape the rules of the Guild of St. Luke at Lincoln, may be cited. St. Luke had been chosen as patron because according to tradition he was an artist as well as an evangelist. The patron saint was chosen always so that he might be a model of life as well as a protector in Heaven. Its members were the painters, guilders, stainers, and alabaster men of the city. The first rule provides that on the Sunday next after the feast of St. Luke all the brothers and sisters of the Guild shall, with their officers, go in procession from an appointed place, carrying a great candle, to the Cathedral Church of Lincoln, and there every two of the brethren and sisters shall offer one half-penny or more after their devotion, and then shall offer the great candle before an image of St. Luke within the church. And any who were absent without lawful cause shall forfeit one pound of wax to the sustentation of the said great candle. On the same Sunday, "for love and amity and good communication to be had for the several weal of the fraternity," the guildmen dined together, every brother paying for himself and his wife, or sweetheart, the sum of four pence. Absentees were fined one pound of wax towards the aforesaid, candle. The third rule provided that four "mornspeeches"--that its business meetings--should be held each year, "for ordering and good rule to be had and made amongst them." Absentees from a mornspeech forfeited one pound of wax to St. Luke's candle. Another rule provided that the decision of ambiguities or doubts about the forfeitures prescribed should be referred to the mayor and four aldermen of the city. Rules 4 to 11, and also 13, regulate the taking of apprentices and the setting up in trade; forbid the employing of strangers; provide for the settlement of disputes and the examination of work not sufficiently done after the sample. Already the tendency to limit the number of workmen that might be employed which was later to prove a stumbling block to artistic progress is to be noted. On the other hand the effort to keep work up to a certain standard, which was to mean so much for artistic {381} accomplishment in the next few generations must be noted as a compensatory feature of the Guild regulations. {opp381} [Illustration] DOORWAY (LINCOLN) [Illustration] NAVE (DURHAM CATHEDRAL) [Illustration] BROKEN ARCH (ST. MARY'S, YORK, CLIMAX OF GOTHIC) Rule 12 directs that "when it shall happen any brother or sister of the said fraternity to depart and decease from the world, at his first Mass the gracemen and wardens (skyvens) for the time being shall offer of the goods and chattels of the said fraternity, two pence; and at his eighth day, or thirtieth day, every brother and sister shall give to a poor creature a token made by the dean, for which tokens every brother and sister shall pay the dean a fixed sum of money, and with the money thus raised he shall buy white bread to give to the poor creatures" holding the tokens, the bread to be distributed at the church of the parish in which the deceased lived. This twelfth rule with regard to the manner of giving charity is particularly striking, because it shows a deliberate effort to avoid certain dangers, the evil possibilities of which our modern organized charity has emphasized. According to this rule of the Guild of St. Luke's at Lincoln, all the members were bound to give a certain amount in charity, for the benefit of a deceased member. This was not, however, by direct alms, but by means of tokens for which they paid a fixed price to the Dean, who redeemed the tokens when they were presented by the deserving poor. This guaranteed that each member would give the fixed sum in charity and at the same time safeguarded the almsgiving from any abuses, since the member of the guild himself would be likely to know something of the poor person and his deservingness, and if not there was always the question of the Dean being informed with regard to the needs of the case. All of this was accomplished, however, without hurting the feelings of the recipients of the charity, since they felt that it was done not for them but for the benefit of a deceased member. How much the guilds came to influence the life of the people during the next two centuries may be best appreciated from their great increase in number and wealth. In England, it is computed that at the beginning of the Sixteenth Century there were thirty thousand of these institutions spread over the country. The county of Norfolk alone had nine hundred, of which number the small town of {382} Wymondham had at least eleven still known by names, one--the Guild of Holy Trinity, Wymondham--being possessed of a guild-hall of its own, whilst it and the other guilds of the town are said to have been "well endowed with lands and tenements." In Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk, there were twenty-three guilds; Boston, Lincolnshire, had fourteen, of which the titles and other particulars are known, whilst in London their number must have been very great. Of the London trade guilds, Stow, the Elizabethan antiquary, records the names of sixty of sufficient importance to entitle their representatives to places at the civic banquets in the reign of Henry VIII. Many of them are still in existence, having been spared at the time of the Reformation on the plea that they were trading or secular associations. Fifteen of the largest of them--including the merchant tailors, the goldsmiths and the stationers--have at the present time an annual income of over $50,000 each. The reasons for their popularity can be readily found in the many social needs which they cared for. Socialistic cooperation has, perhaps, never been carried so far as in these medieval institutions which were literally "of the people, by the people, and for the people." Often their regulation made provisions for insurance against poverty, fire, and sometimes against burglary. Frequently they provided schoolmasters for the schools. Their funds they loaned out to needy brethren in small sums on easy terms, whilst trade and other disputes likely to give rise to ill-feeling and contention were constantly referred to the guilds for arbitration. One of the rules of the Guild of our Lady at Wymondham thus ordains, that for no manner of cause should any of the brothers or sisters of the fraternity go to law till the officers of the guild had been informed of the circumstances and had done their best to settle the dispute and restore "unity and love betwixt the parties." To assist at the burial of deceased brethren, and to aid in providing for the celebration of obits for the repose of their souls, were duties incumbent on all, defaulters without good excuse being subject to fines and censure. It must not be thought that these tendencies to true democracy were confined to the trades guilds, however. The historian of the merchant guilds has demonstrated that they had the {383} same spirit and this was especially true for the great guild merchant. He says: "To this category of powerful affinities must be added the Gild Merchant. The latter was from the outset a compact body emphatically characterized by fraternal solidarity of interests, a protective union that naturally engendered a consciousness of strength and a spirit of independence. As the same men generally directed the counsels of both the town and the Gild, there would be a gradual, unconscious extension of the unity of the one to the other, the cohesive force of the Gild making itself felt throughout the whole municipal organism. But the influence of the fraternity was material as well as moral. It constituted a bond of union between the heterogeneous sokes (classes of tenants) of a borough; the townsmen might be exclusively amenable to the courts of different lords, but, if engaged in trade within the town, they were all members of one and the same Gild Merchant. The independent regulation of trade also accustomed the burgesses to self-government, and constituted an important step toward autonomy; the town judiciary was always more dependent upon the crown or mesne lord than was the Gild Merchant." Because of the supreme interest in everything connected with Shakespeare, the existence of one of the most important guilds in Stratford, has led to the illustration of guilds' works there better than for any English town during this period. The Guild of the Holy Cross was the most important institution of Stratford and enthusiastic Shakespeare scholars have applied themselves to find out every detail of its history as far as it is now available, in order to make clear the conditions--social and religious--that existed in the great dramatist's birthplace. Halliwell, in his Descriptive Calendar of the Records of Stratford on Avon, and Sidney Lee, in his Stratford on Avon in the Time of the Shakespeares, have gathered together much of this information:--"The Guild has lasted, wrote its chief officer in 1309, for many, many years and its beginning was from time whereunto the memory of man reaches not." Bowden, in his volume on the Religion of Shakespeare, has a number of the most important details with regard to Stratford's Guild. The earliest extant documents with regard to it are from the {384} Reign of Henry III., 1216-1272, and include a deed of gift by one William Sede, of a tenement to the Guild, and an indulgence granted October 7th, 1270, by Giffard, Bishop of Wooster, of forty days to all sincere penitents who after having duly confessed had conferred benefits on the Guild. By the close of the reign of Edward I., at the beginning of the Fourteenth Century, the Guild was wealthy in houses and lands, and the foundation was laid of its chapel and almshouses which, with the hall of meeting--the "Rode or Reed Hall"--stood where the Guild Hall is at the present day. Edward III. and Richard II., during the Fourteenth Century, confirmed the rights of the Guild and even added to its privileges. Though it was a purely local institution, the fame of its good works had spread so wide during these next centuries that affiliation with it became a distinction, and the nobility were attracted to its ranks. George, Duke of Clarence, brother of Edward, with his wife and children, and the Earl of Warwick, and the Lady Margaret were counted among its members, and merchants of distant towns counted it an honor to belong to it. Later, also, Judge Littleton, one of the famous founders of English law, was on its roll of membership. The objects of the Guild were many and varied and touched the social life of Stratford at every point. The first object was mutual prayer. The Guild maintained five priests or chaplains who were to say masses daily, hour by hour, from six to ten o'clock for its members, it being expected that some of them would be present at each of the masses. Out of the fees of the Guild one wax candle was to be kept alight every day throughout the year at every mass in the church before the rood, or cross, "so that God and our Blessed Virgin and the Venerated Cross may keep and guard all the brethren and sisters of the Guilds from every ill." The second object was charity, under which was included all the various Works of Mercy. The needs of any brother or sister who had fallen into poverty or been robbed were to be provided for "as long as he bears himself rightly towards the brethren." When a brother died all the brethren were bound to follow the body to the church and to pray for his soul at its burial. The Guild candle and eight smaller ones were to be kept burning by the body from the {385} time of death till the funeral. When a poor man died in the town the brethren and sisters were, for their soul's health, to find four wax candles, a sheet, and a hearse cloth for the corpse. This rule also applied in the event of a stranger's death, if the stranger had not the necessary means for burial. Nor were the efforts of the Guild at Stratford devoted solely to the alleviation of the ills of mankind and the more serious purposes of life. Once a year, in Easter Week, a feast of the members was held in order to foster peace and true brotherly love among them. At this time offerings were made for the poor in order that they too might share in the happiness of the festival time. There was attendance at church before the feasting and a prayer was offered by all the "brethren and sisters that God and our Blessed Virgin and the Venerated Cross in whose honor we have come together will keep us from all ills and sins." This frequent reference to the Cross will be better understood if it is recalled that the Guild at Stratford bore the name of the Guild of the Holy Cross, and the figure of the crucified One was one of its most respected symbols and was always looked upon as a special object of veneration on the part of the members. The thoroughly progressive spirit of the Guild at Stratford will perhaps be best appreciated by the modern mind from the fact, that to it the town owed the foundation of its famous free school. During the Thirteenth and Fourteenth centuries the study of grammar, and of the various theoretical branches, was not considered the essential part of an education. Gradually, however, there had arisen the feeling that all the children should be taught the ground-work of the vulgar tongue, and that those whose parents wished it should receive education in Latin also; hence the establishment of grammar schools, that at Stratford being founded for the children of the members of the Guild about the middle of the Fifteenth Century. This was only the normal development of the earlier spirit of the Guild which enabled it to meet the growing social needs of the time. It was at this school, as reconstituted under Edward VI., that Shakespeare was educated, and the reestablishment by Edward was only in response to the many complaints which arose because of the absence of the school after its suppression by {386} Henry VIII. The fact that Shakespeare was educated at an Edward VI. grammar school, has often given occasion for commentators to point out that it was practically the Reformation in England which led to the establishment of free schools. Any such suggestion, however, can be made only in complete ignorance of the preexisting state of affairs in which the people, by organization, succeeded in accomplishing so much for themselves. As a matter of fact the Guild at Stratford, as in most of the towns in England--for we have taken this as an example only because it is easier to get at the details of its history--was the most important factor in the preservation of social order, in the distribution of charity, in the providing of education, and even the maintenance of the security of the life and property of its inhabitants. When it was dissolved, in 1547, Stratford found itself in a chaotic state and had to petition Edward VI. to reconstitute the Guild as a civil corporation, which he did by charter in 1553. After this consideration of the guilds and their purpose and success, it is no wonder that we should declare that the wind of the spirit of democracy was blowing in England and carrying away the old landmarks of absolute government. It is to the spirit thus fostered that must be attributed the marvelous progress in representative government, the steps of which we recall. In 1215, all England united against the odious John Lackland and obliged him to grant the Magna Charta--a declaration of national liberty. In 1257, the Provisions of Oxford, under Henry III., established, for the moment, the stated recurrence of the great national council of Parliament. In 1265, under the same Prince, the earl of Leicester admitted to Parliament the knights of the shire and the representatives of the townspeople, who formed later the lower house, or House of Commons, while those personally summoned to attend by the king from the great nobles formed the upper house, or House of Lords. Beginning with the year 1295, in the reign of Edward I., the attendance of the county and town members became {387} regular, making Parliament really representative of the country. In 1309, in the reign of Edward II., Parliament revealed its possible strength by putting conditions on its vote for taxes. There were other factors at work, however, and one of them at least, because of its importance, deserves to be recalled here. In the chapter on Great Beginnings of Modern Commerce we call attention to the fact, that the Crusades were responsible to a great degree for the spirit of enterprise which led to the formation of the Lombard league of cities, and later to the great Hanseatic League, which seems to have taken at least its incentive from the Southern Confederation. In the chapter on Louis IX. we point out that the Crusades, and his connection with them, far from being blots on Louis's career must rather be considered as manifestations of the great heart of the time which was awakening to all needs, and had its religious aspirations stirred so deeply that men were ready to give up everything in order to follow an idea. One thing is certain, the Crusades did more to set ferments at work in the social organization of Europe than would have been possible by any other movement. These ferments brought about two results, one the uplift of the common people, the other the centralization of power in the hands of the kings with the gradual diminution of the influence of the nobility. While fostering the spirit of democracy on the one hand, they gave birth to the spirit of nationality and to all that this has accomplished in modern history. Storrs, in his life of St. Bernard, recently issued, has given expression to this thought in a very striking fashion. He says: "It used to be the fashion to regard the Crusades as mere fantastic exhibitions of a temporary turbulent religious fanaticism, aiming at ends wholly visionary, and missing them, wasting the best life of Europe in colossal and bloody undertakings, and leaving effects only of evil for the time which came after. More reasonable views now prevail; and while the impulse in which the vast movement took its rise is recognized as passionate and semi-barbaric, it is seen that many effects followed which were beneficial rather than harmful, which could not perhaps have been at the time in other ways realized. As I have already suggested, properties were to an important {388} extent redistributed in Europe, and the constitutions of states were favorably affected. Lands were sold at low prices by those who were going on the distant expeditions, very probably, as they knew, never to return; and horses and armor, with all martial equipments, were bought at high prices by the Jews, who could not hold land, and the history of whom throughout the Middle Ages is commonly traced in fearful lines of blood and fire, but who increased immeasurably their movable wealth through these transfers of property. Communes bought liberties by large contributions to the needs of their lord; and their liberties, once secured, were naturally confirmed and augmented, as the years went on. The smaller tended to be absorbed in the larger; the larger often to come more strictly under royal control, thus increasing the power of the sovereign--which meant at the time, general laws, instead of local, a less minutely oppressive administration, the furtherance of the movement toward national unity. It is a noticeable fact that Italy took but a comparatively small part in the Crusades; and the long postponement of organic union between different parts of the magnificent peninsula is not without relation to this. The influence which operated elsewhere in Europe to efface distinction of custom and language in separate communities, to override and extinguish local animosities, to make scattered peoples conscious of kinship, did not operate there; and the persistent severance of sections from each other, favored, of course, by the run of the rivers and the vast separating walls of the Apenines, was the natural consequence of the want of this powerful unifying force." [Footnote 32] [Footnote 32: Storrs, "Bernard of Chairvaux," New York (Scribners), 1897, pp. 544-45. ] As a matter of fact very few people realize how much was accomplished for the spirit of democracy, for liberty, for true progress, as regards the rights of men of all classes, and for the feeling of the brotherhood of man itself, by the Crusades. A practical money-making age may consider them examples of foolish religious fanaticism, but those who have studied them most profoundly and with most sympathy, who are deeply interested in the social amelioration which they brought about, and, above all, those who look at them in the higher poetic {389} spirit of what they did to lift man above the sordid cares of everyday life, see them in a far different way. Charles Kingsley sang in the poem of The Saints Tragedy: "Tell us how our stout crusading fathers Fought and bled for God and not for gold." But quite apart from the poetry of them, from the practical side much can be said which even the most matter of fact of men will appreciate. Here, for instance, are a series of paragraphs from the history of the Middle Ages by George Washington Greene, which he confesses to have taken chiefly from the French, [Footnote 33] which will make clear something of the place these great expeditions should be considered as holding in the history of democracy and of liberty: [Footnote 33: New York, Appleton, 1867.] "Christendom had not spent in vain its treasures and its blood in the holy wars. Its immense sacrifices were repaid by immense results, and the evils which these great expeditions necessarily brought with them were more than compensated for by the advantages which they procured for the whole of Europe. "The Crusades saved Europe from the Mussulman invasion and this was their immediate good. Their influence was felt, too, in a manner less direct, but not less useful. The Crusades had been preached by a religion of equality in a society divided by odious distinctions. All had taken part in them, the weak as well as the strong, the serf and the baron, man and woman, and it was by them that the equality of man and woman, which Christianity taught, was made a social fact. St. Louis declared that he could do nothing without the consent of his queen, his wife. It was from this period that we must date that influence of woman which gave rise to chivalric courtesy, the first step towards refinement of manners and civilization. The poor, too, were the adopted children of the Christian chivalry of the Crusades. The celebrated orders of Palestine were instituted for the protection of poor pilgrims. The Knights of the hospitals called the poor their masters. Surely no lesson was more needed by these proud barons of the Middle Ages than that of charity and humility. {390} "These ideas were the first to shake the stern despotism of feudality, by opposing to it the generous principles of chivalry which sprang all armed from the Crusades. Bound to the military orders by a solemn vow--and in the interests of all Christendom--the knight felt himself free from feudal dependence, and raised above national limits, as the immediate warrior and servant of the united Christendom and of God. Chivalry founded not upon territorial influence, but upon personal distinction, necessarily weakened nobility by rendering it accessible to all, and diminishing the interval which separated the different classes of society. Every warrior who had distinguished himself by his valor could kneel before the king to be dubbed a knight, and rise up the equal, the superior even, of powerful vassals. The poorest knight could sit at the king's table while the noble son of a duke or prince was excluded, unless he had won the golden spurs of knighthood. Another way by which the Crusades contributed to the decay of feudalism was by favoring the enfranchisement of serfs, even without the consent of their masters. Whoever took the cross became free, just as every slave becomes free on touching the soil of England or France. "The communities whose development is to be referred to the period of the Crusades, multiplied rapidly; the nobility gladly granting charters and privileges in exchange for men and money. With the communities the royal power grew, and that of the aristocracy decreased. The royal domain was enlarged, by the escheating of a great number of fiefs which had been left vacant by the death of their lords. The kings protected the communities, favored their enfranchisement, and employed them usefully against insubordinate vassals. The extension of the royal power favored the organization of the nation, by establishing a principle of unity, for till then, and with that multitude of masters, the nation had been little else than an agglomeration of provinces, strangers to one another, and destitute of any common bond or common interest. The great vassals, themselves, often united under the royal banner, became accustomed during these distant expeditions to submission and discipline, and learned to recognize a legitimate authority; and if they lost by this submission a part of their {391} personal power, they gained in compensation the honorable distinctions of chivalry. "But it was not the national feeling alone which was fostered by the Crusades. Relations of fraternity, till then wholly unknown, grew up between different nations, and softened the deep-rooted antipathy of races. The knights, whom a common object united in common dangers, became brothers in arms and formally formed permanent ties of friendship. That barbarous law which gave the feudal lord a right to call every man his serf who settled in his domains was softened. Stranger and enemy seemed to be synonymous, and 'the Crusaders,' say the chroniclers of the times, 'although divided by language, seemed to form only one people, by their love for God and their neighbor.' And without coloring the picture too warmly, and making all due allowance for the exaggerations which were so natural to the first recorders of such a movement, we may say that human society was founded and united and Europe began to pass from the painful period of organization, to one of fuller and more rapid development." Here in reality modern democracy had its rise, striking its roots deep into the disintegrating soil of the old feudalism whence it was never to be plucked, and though at times it languished it was to remain ever alive until its luxuriant growth in recent times. [Illustration] ANIMALS FROM BESTIARIUM, THIRTEENTH CENTURY MS. {392} XXV GREAT EXPLORERS AND THE FOUNDATION OF GEOGRAPHY. Geography is usually considered to be quite a modern subject. The idea that great contributions were made to it in the Thirteenth Century would ordinarily not be entertained. America was discovered at the end of the Fifteenth Century. Knowledge of the East was obtained during the Sixteenth Century. Africa was explored in the Nineteenth and a detailed knowledge of Asia came to us in such recent years that the books are still among the novelties of publication. Our knowledge of Persia, of Northern India, of Thibet, and of the interior of China are all triumphs of Nineteenth Century enterprise and exploration. As a matter of fact, however, all portions of the East were explored, the Capital and the dominions of Jenghis Khan described, Lhasa was entered and the greater part of China thoroughly explored by travelers of the Thirteenth Century, whose books still remain as convincing evidence of the great work that they accomplished. This chapter of Thirteenth Century accomplishment is, indeed, one of the most interesting and surprising in the whole story of the time. It is usually considered that the teaching, supposed to have been more or less generally accepted, that the Antipodes did not exist, prevented any significant development of geography until comparatively modern times. While the question of the existence of antipodes was discussed in the schools of the Middle Ages, and especially of the Thirteenth Century when men's minds were occupied with practically all of the important problems even of physical science, and while many intelligent men accepted the idea that there could not be inhabitants on the other side of the world because of physical difficulties which supposedly made it impossible, it would be a mistake to think that this idea was universally accepted. We have already called attention to the fact in the chapter on "What was Taught at the {393} Universities," that Albertus Magnus, for instance, ridiculed the notion that men could not live with their heads down, as was urged against the doctrine of the existence of antipodes, by suggesting very simply that for those on the other side of the earth what we call down was really not down but up. This expresses, of course, the very heart of the solution of the supposed difficulty. As a matter of fact it seems clear that many of the great travelers and explorers of the later Middle Ages harbored the notion that the earth was round. As we shall note a little later in mentioning Sir John Mandeville's work, the writer, whomever he was who took that pseudonym, believed thoroughly in the rotundity of the earth and did not hesitate to use some striking expressions--which have been often quoted--that he had heard of travelers who by traveling continually to the eastward had come back eventually to the point from which they started. While in the schools, then, the existence of antipodes may have been under discussion, there was a practical acceptance of their existence among those who were better informed with regard to countries and peoples and all the other topics which form the proper subject matter of geography. It must be realized, moreover, that though the existence of the Antipodes is an important matter in geography, at this early period it was a mere theory, not a condition antecedent to progress. It was really a side issue as compared with many other questions relating to the earth's surface and its inhabitants with which the medieval mind was occupied. To consider that no knowledge of geography could be obtained until there was a definite acceptance of the right view of the earth's surface, would be to obliterate much precious knowledge. The argument as to the existence of antipodes, as it was carried on, was entirely outside of geography properly so-called. It never influenced in the slightest degree the men who were consciously and unconsciously laying deep and broad the foundations of modern geography. To consider such a matter as vital to the development of as many sided a subject as geography, illustrates very typically the narrowness of view of so many modern scholars, who apparently can see the value of nothing which does not entirely accord with modern knowledge. The really {394} interesting historian of knowledge, however, is he who can point out the beginnings of what we now know, in unexpected quarters in the medieval mind. As the story of these travels and explorations is really a glorious chapter in the history of the encouragement of things intellectual, as well as an interesting phase of an important origin whose foundations were laid broad and deep in the Thirteenth Century, it must be told here in some detail. Our century was the great leader in exploration and geography as in so many other matters in which its true place is often unrecognized. The people of the time are usually considered to have had such few facilities for travel that they did not often go far from home, and that what was known about distant countries, therefore, was very little and mainly legendary. Nothing could be more false than any such impression as this. The Crusades during the previous century had given the people not only a deep interest in distant lands, but the curiosity to go and see for themselves. Pilgrimages to the Holy Land were frequent, ecclesiastics often traveled at least as far as Italy, and in general the tide of travel in proportion to the number of population must have been not very much less in amount than in our own day. After the establishment of the religious orders, missionary expeditions to the East became very common and during the Thirteenth Century, as we shall see, the Franciscans particularly, established themselves in many parts of the Near East, but also of the Far East, especially in China. Many of those wrote accounts of their travels, and so the literature of travel and exploration during the Thirteenth Century is one of the most interesting chapters of the literature of these times, while the wonderfully deep foundations that were laid for the science of geography, are worthy to be set beside the great origins in other sciences and in the arts, for which the century is so noteworthy. To most people it will come as a distinct surprise to learn that the travelers and explorers of the Thirteenth Century--merchants, ambassadors, and missionaries--succeeded in solving many of the geographical problems that have been of deepest interest to the generations of the last half of last century. {395} The eastern part of Asia particularly was traveled over and very thoroughly described by them. Even the northern part of India, however, was not neglected in spite of the difficulties that were encountered, and Thibet was explored and Lhasa entered by travelers of the Thirteenth Century. Of China as much was written as had been learned by succeeding generations down practically to our own time. This may sound like a series of fairy-tales instead of serious science, but it is the travelers and explorers of the modern time who have thought it worth while to comment on the writings of these old-time wanderers of the Thirteenth Century, and who have pointed out the significance of their work. These men described not only the countries through which they passed, but also the characters of the people, their habits and customs, their forms of speech, with many marvelous hints as regards the relationship of the different languages, and even something about the religious practises of these countries and their attitude toward the great truths of Christianity when they were presented to them. Undoubtedly one of the greatest travelers and explorers of all times was Marco Polo, whose book was for so long considered to be mainly made up of imaginary descriptions of things and places never seen, but which the development of modern geographical science by travels and expeditions has proved to be one of the most valuable contributions to this department of knowledge that has ever been made. It took many centuries for Marco Polo to come to his own in this respect but the Nineteenth and Twentieth centuries have almost more than made up for the neglect of their predecessors. Marco Polo suffered the same fate as did Herodotus of whom Voltaire sneered "father of history, say, rather, father of lies." So long as succeeding generations had no knowledge themselves of the things of which both these great writers had written, they were distrusted and even treated contemptuously. Just as soon, however, as definite knowledge began to come it was seen how wonderfully accurate both of them were in their descriptions of things they had actually seen, though they admitted certain over-wonderful stories on the authority of others. Herodotus has now come to be acknowledged as {396} one of the greatest of historians. In his lives of celebrated travelers, James Augustus St. John states the change of mind with regard to Marco Polo rather forcibly: "When the travels of Marco Polo first appeared, they were generally regarded as fiction; and as this absurd belief had so far gained ground, that when he lay upon his death bed, his friends and nearest relatives, coming to take their eternal adieu, conjured him as he valued the salvation of his soul, to retract whatever he had advanced in his book, or at least many such passages as every person looked upon as untrue; but the traveler whose conscience was untouched upon that score, declared solemnly, in that awful moment, that far from being guilty of exaggeration, he had not described one-half of the wonderful things which he had beheld. Such was the reception which the discoveries of this extraordinary man experienced when first promulgated. By degrees, however, as enterprise lifted more and more the veil from Central and Eastern Asia the relations of our traveler rose in the estimation of geographers; and now that the world--though containing many unknown tracts--has been more successfully explored, we begin to perceive that Marco Polo, like Herodotus, was a man of the most rigid veracity, whose testimony presumptuous ignorance alone can call in question." There is many a fable that clings around the name of Marco Polo, but this distinguished traveler needs no fictitious adornments of his tale to make him one of the greatest explorers of all time. It is sometimes said that he helped to introduce many important inventions into Europe and one even finds his name connected with the mariner's compass and with gunpowder. There are probably no good grounds for thinking that Europe owes any knowledge of either of these great inventions to the Venetian traveler. With regard to printing there is more doubt and Polo's passage with regard to movable blocks for printing paper money as used in China may have proved suggestive. There is no need, however, of surmises in order to increase his fame for the simple story of his travels is quite sufficient for his reputation for all time. As has been well said most of the modern travelers and explorers have only been developing what Polo indicated at least in outline, and they have been {397} scarcely more than describing with more precision of detail what he first touched upon and brought to general notice. When it is remembered that he visited such cities in Eastern Turkestan as Kashgar, Yarkand, and Khotan, which have been the subject of much curiosity only satisfied in quite recent years, that he had visited Thibet, or at least had traveled along its frontier, that to him the medieval world owed some definite knowledge of the Christian kingdom of Abyssinia and all that it was to know of China for centuries almost, his merits will be readily appreciated. As a matter of fact there was scarcely an interesting country of the East of which Marco Polo did not have something to relate from his personal experiences. He told of Burmah, of Siam, of Cochin China, of Japan, of Java, of Sumatra, and of other islands of the great Archipelago, of Ceylon, and of India, and all of these not in the fabulous dreamland spirit of one who has not been in contact with the East but in very definite and precise fashion. Nor was this all. He had heard and could tell much, though his geographical lore was legendary and rather dim, of the Coast of Zanzibar, of the vast and distant Madagascar, and in the remotely opposite direction of Siberia, of the shores of the Arctic Ocean, and of the curious customs of the inhabitants of these distant countries. How wonderfully acute and yet how thoroughly practical some of Polo's observations were can be best appreciated by some quotations from his description of products and industries as he saw them on his travels. We are apt to think of the use of petroleum as dating from much later than the Thirteenth Century, but Marco Polo had not only seen it in the Near East on his travels, but evidently had learned much of the great rock-oil deposits at Baku which constitute the basis for the important Russian petroleum industry in modern times. He says: "On the north (of Armenia) is found a fountain from which a liquor like oil flows, which, though unprofitable for the seasoning of meat, is good for burning and for anointing camels afflicted with the mange. This oil flows constantly and copiously, so that camels are laden with it." He is quite as definite in the information acquired with regard, to the use of coal. He knew and states very confidently that {398} there were immense deposits of coal in China, deposits which are so extensive that distinguished geologists and mineralogists who have learned of them in modern times have predicted that eventually the world's great manufacturing industries would be transferred to China. We are apt to think that this mineral wealth is not exploited by the Chinese, yet even in Marco Polo's time, as one commentator has remarked, the rich and poor of that land had learned the value of the black stone. "Through the whole Province of Cathay," says Polo, "certain black stones are dug from the mountains, which, put into the fire, burn like wood, and being kindled, preserve fire a long time, and if they be kindled in the evening they keep fire all the night." Another important mineral product which even more than petroleum or coal is supposed to be essentially modern in its employment is asbestos. Polo had not only seen this but had realized exactly what it was, had found out its origin and had recognized its value. Curiously enough he attempts to explain the origin of a peculiar usage of the word salamander (the salamander having been supposed to be an animal which was not injured by fire) by reference to the incombustibility of asbestos. The whole passage as it appears in The Romance of Travel and Exploration deserves to be quoted. While discoursing about Dsungaria, Polo says: "And you must know that in the mountain there is a substance from which Salamander is made. The real truth is that the Salamander is no beast as they allege in our part of the world, but is a substance found in the earth. Everybody can be aware that it can be no animal's nature to live in fire seeing that every animal is composed of all the four elements. Now I, Marco Polo, had a Turkish acquaintance who related that he had lived three years in that region on behalf of the Great Khan, in order to procure these salamanders for him. He said that the way they got them was by digging in that mountain till they found a certain vein. The substance of this vein was taken and crushed, and when so treated it divides, as it were, into fibres of wool, which they set forth to dry. When dry these fibres were pounded in a copper mortar and then washed so as to remove all the earth and to leave only the fibres, like {399} fibres of wool. These were then spun and made into napkins." Needless to say this is an excellent description of asbestos. It is not surprising, then, that the Twentieth Century so interested in travel and exploration should be ready to lay its tributes at the feet of Marco Polo, and that one of the important book announcements of recent years should be that of the publication of an annotated edition of Marco Polo from the hands of a modern explorer, who considered that there was no better way of putting definitely before the public in its true historical aspect the evolution of modern geographical knowledge with regard to Eastern countries. It can scarcely fail to be surprising to the modern mind that Polo should practically have been forced into print. He had none of the itch of the modern traveler for publicity. The story of his travels he had often told and because of the wondrous tales he could unfold and the large numbers he found it frequently so necessary to use in order to give proper ideas of some of his wanderings, had acquired the nickname of Marco Millioni. He had never thought, however, of committing his story to writing or perhaps he feared the drudgery of such literary labor. After his return from his travels, however, he bravely accepted a patriot's duty of fighting for his native country on board one of her galleys and was captured by the Genoese in a famous sea-fight in the Adriatic in 1298. He was taken prisoner and remained in captivity in Genoa for nearly a year. It was during this time that one Rusticiano, a writer by profession, was attracted to him and tempted him to tell him the complete story of his travels in order that they might be put into connected form. Rusticiano was a Pisan who had been a compiler of French romances and accordingly Polo's story was first told in French prose. It is not surprising that Rusticiano should have chosen French since he naturally wished his story of Polo's travels to be read by as many people as possible and realized that it would be of quite as much interest to ordinary folk as to the literary circles of Europe. How interesting the story is only those who have read it even with the knowledge acquired by all the other explorers since his time, can properly appreciate. It lacks entirely the egotistic quality that usually characterizes an explorer's account of his travels, and, indeed, {400} there can scarcely fail to be something of disappointment because of this fact. No doubt a touch more of personal adventure would have added to the interest of the book. It was not a characteristic of the Thirteenth Century, however, to insist on the merely personal and consequently the world has lost a treat it might otherwise have had. There is no question, however, or the greatness of Polo's work as a traveler, nor of the glory that was shed by it on the Thirteenth Century. Like nearly everything else that was done in this marvelous century he represents the acme of successful endeavor in his special line down even to our own time. It has sometimes been said that Marco Polo's work greatly influenced Columbus and encouraged him in his attempt to seek India by sailing around the globe. Of this, however, there is considerable doubt. We have learned in recent times, that a very definite tradition with regard to the possibility of finding land by sailing straight westward over the Atlantic existed long before Columbus' time. [Footnote 34] Polo's indirect influence on Columbus by his creation of an interest in geographical matters generally is much clearer. There can be no doubt of how much his work succeeded in drawing men's minds to geographical questions during the Fourteenth and Fifteenth centuries. [Footnote 34: My learned friend, Father DeRoo, of Portland, Ore., who has written two very interesting volumes on the History of America before Columbus, does not hesitate to say that Columbus may even have met in his travels and spoken with sailors who had touched on some portions of the American Continent, and that, of course, the traditions with regard to Greenland were very clear.] After Marco Polo, undoubtedly, the most enterprising explorer and interesting writer on Travel in the Thirteenth Century was John of Carpini, the author of a wonderful series of descriptions of things seen in Northern Asia. Like so many other travelers and explorers at this time John was a Franciscan Friar, and seems to have been one of the early companions and disciples of St. Francis of Assisi, whom he joined when he was only a young man himself. Before going on his missionary and ambassadorial expedition he had been one of the most prominent men in the order. He had much to do with its {401} propagation among the Northern nations of Europe, and occupied successively the offices of custos or prior in Saxony and of Provincial in Germany. He seems afterwards to have been sent as an organizer into Spain and to have gone even as far as the Barbary coast. It is not surprising, then, that when, in 1245, Pope Innocent IV. (sometime after the Mongol invasion of Eastern Europe and the disastrous battle of Legamites which threatened to place European civilization and Christianity in the power of the Tartars) resolved to send a mission to the Tartar monarch, John of Carpini was selected for the dangerous and important mission. At this time Friar John was more than sixty years of age, but such was the confidence in his ability and in his executive power that everything on the embassy was committed to his discretion. He started from Lyons on Easter Day, 1245. He sought the counsel first of his old friend Wenceslaus, King of Bohemia, and from that country took with him another friar, a Pole, to act as his interpreter. The first stage in his journey was to Kiev, and from here, having crossed the Dnieper and the Don to the Volga, he traveled to the camp of Batu, at this time the senior living member of Jenghis Khan's family. Batu after exchanging presents allowed them to proceed to the court of the supreme Khan in Mongolia. As Col. Yule says, the stout-hearted old man rode on horseback something like three thousand miles in the next hundred days. The bodies of himself and companion had to be tightly bandaged to enable them to stand the excessive fatigue of this enormous ride, which led them across the Ural Mountains and River past the northern part of the Caspian, across the Jaxartes, whose name they could not find out, along the Dzungarian Lakes till they reached the Imperial Camp, called the Yellow Pavilion, near the Orkhon River. There had been an interregnum in the empire which was terminated by a formal election while the Friars were at the Yellow Pavilion, where they had the opportunity to see between three and four thousand envoys and deputies from all parts of Asia and Eastern Europe, who brought with them tributes and presents for the ruler to be elected. {402} It was not for three months after this, in November, that the Emperor dismissed them with a letter to the Pope written in Latin, Arabic, and Mongolian, but containing only a brief imperious assertion that the Khan of the Tartars was the scourge of God for Christianity, and that he must fulfill his mission. Then sad at heart, the ambassadors began their homeward journey in the midst of the winter. Their sufferings can be better imagined than described, but Friar John who does not dwell on them much tells enough of them to make their realization comparatively easy. They reached Kiev seven months later, in June, and were welcomed there by the Slavonic Christians as though arisen from the dead. From thence they continued their journey to Lyons where they delivered the Khan's letter to the Pope. Friar John embodied the information that he had obtained in this journey in a book that has been called Liber Tartarorum (the Book of the Tartars or according to another manuscript, History of the Mongols whom we call Tartars). Col. Yule notes that like most of the other medieval monks' itineraries, it shows an entire absence of that characteristic traveler's egotism with which we have become abundantly familiar in more recent years, and contains very little personal narrative. We know that John was a stout man and this in addition to his age when he went on the mission, cannot but make us realize the thoroughly unselfish spirit with which he followed the call of Holy Obedience, to undertake a work that seemed sure to prove fatal and that would inevitably bring in its train suffering of the severest kind. Of the critical historical value of his work a good idea can be obtained from the fact, that half a century ago an educated Mongol, Galsang Gombeyev, in the Historical and Philological Bulletin of the Imperial Academy of St. Petersburg, reviewed the book and bore testimony to the great accuracy of its statements, to the care with which its details had been verified, and the evident personal character of all its observations. Friar John's book attracted the attention of compilers of information with regard to distant countries very soon after it was issued, and an abridgment of it is to be found in the Encyclopedia of Vincent of Beauvais, which was written shortly {403} after the middle of the Thirteenth Century. At the end of the Sixteenth Century Hakluyt published portions of the original work, as did Borgeron at the beginning of the Seventeenth Century. The Geographical Society of Paris published a fine edition of the work about the middle of the Nineteenth Century, and at the same time a brief narrative taken down from the lips of John's companion. Friar Benedict the Pole, which is somewhat more personal in its character and fully substantiates all that Friar John had written. As can readily be understood the curiosity of his contemporaries was deeply aroused and Friar John had to tell his story many times after his return. Hence the necessity he found himself under of committing it to paper, so as to save himself from the bother of telling it all over again, and in order that his brother Franciscans throughout the world might have the opportunity to read it. Col. Yule says "The book must have been prepared immediately after the return of the traveler, for the Friar Salimbene, who met him in France in the very year of his return (1247) gives us these interesting particulars: 'He was a clever and conversable man, well lettered, a great discourser, and full of diversity of experience. He wrote a big book about the Tartars (sic), and about other marvels that he had seen and whenever he felt weary of telling about the Tartars, he would cause this book of his to be read, as I have often heard and seen. (Chron. Fr. Salembene Parmensis in Monum. Histor. ad Provinceam Placent: Pertinentia, Parma 1857).'" Another important traveler of the Thirteenth Century whose work has been the theme of praise and extensive annotation in modern times was William of Rubruk, usually known under the name of Rubruquis, a Franciscan friar, thought, as the result of recent investigations, probably to owe his cognomen to his birth in the little town of Rubruk in Brabant, who was the author of a remarkable narrative of Asiatic travel during the Thirteenth Century, and whose death seems to have taken place about 1298. The name Rubruquis has been commonly used to designate him because it is found in the Latin original of his work, which was printed by Hayluyt in his collection of Voyages at the end of the {404} Sixteenth Century. Friar William was sent partly as an ambassador and partly as an explorer by Louis IX. of France into Tartary. At that time the descendants of Jenghis Khan ruled over an immense Empire in the Orient and King Louis was deeply interested in introducing Christianity into the East and if possible making their rulers Christians. About the middle of the Thirteenth Century a rumor spread throughout Europe that one of the nephews of the great Khan had embraced Christianity. St. Louis thought this a favorable opportunity for getting in touch with the Eastern Potentate and so he dispatched at least two missions into Tartary at the head of the second of which was William of Rubruk. His accounts of his travels proved most interesting reading to his own and to many subsequent generations, perhaps to none more than our own. The Encyclopedia Britannica (ninth edition) says that the narrative of his journey is everywhere full of life and interest, and some details of his travels will show the reasons for this. Rubruk and his party landed on the Crimean Coast at Sudak or Soldaia, a port which formed the chief seat of communication between the Mediterranean countries and what is now Southern Russia. The Friar succeeded in making his way from here to the Great Khan's Court which was then held not far from Karakorum. This journey was one of several thousand miles. The route taken has been worked out by laborious study and the key to it is the description given of the country intervening between the basin of the Talas and Lake Ala-Kul. This enables the whole geography of the region, including the passage of the River Ili, the plain south of the Bal Cash, and the Ala-Kul itself, to be identified beyond all reasonable doubt. The return journey was made during the summertime, and the route lay much farther to the north. The travelers traversed the Jabkan Valley and passed north of the River Bal Cash, following a rather direct course which led them to the mouth of the Volga. From here they traveled south past Derbend and Shamakii to the Uraxes, and on through Iconium to the coast of Cilicia, and finally to the port of Ayas, where they embarked for Cyprus. All during his travels Friar William made observations on men and cities, and rivers and mountains, and {405} languages and customs, implements and utensils, and most of these modern criticism has accepted as representing the actual state of things as they would appear to a medieval sightseer. Occasionally during the period intervening between his time and our own, scholars who thought that they knew better, have been conceited enough to believe themselves in a position to point out glaring errors in Rubruquis' accounts of what he saw. Subsequent investigation and discovery have, as a rule, proved the accuracy of the earlier observations rather than the modern scholar's corrections. An excellent example of this is quoted in the Encyclopedia Britannica article on Rubruquis already referred to. {opp405} [Illustration] DOORWAY OF GIOTTO'S TOWER (FLORENCE) [Illustration] PRINCIPAL DOOR OF BAPTISTERY (PISA, DIOTISALVI) The writer says: "This sagacious and honest observer is denounced as an ignorant and untruthful blunderer by Isaac Jacob Schmidt (a man no doubt of useful learning, of a kind rare in his day but narrow and long-headed and in natural acumen and candour far inferior to the Thirteenth Century friar whom he maligns), simply because the evidence of the latter as to the Turkish dialect of the Uigurs traversed a pet heresy long since exploded which Schmidt entertained, namely, that the Uigurs were by race and language Tibetan." Some of the descriptions of the towns through which the travelers passed are interesting because of comparisons with towns of corresponding size in Europe. Karakorum, for instance, was described as a small city about the same size as the town of St. Denis near Paris. In Karakorum the ambassador missionary maintained a public disputation with certain pagan priests in the presence of three of the secretaries of the Khan. The religion of these umpires is rather interesting from its diversity: the first was a Christian, the second a Mohammedan, and the third a Buddhist. A very interesting feature of the disputation was the fact that the Khan ordered under pain of death that none of the disputants should slander, traduce, or abuse his adversaries, or endeavor by rumor or insinuations to excite popular indignation against them. This would seem to indicate that the great Tartar Khan who is usually considered to have been a cruel, ignorant despot, whose one quality that gave him supremacy was military valor, was really a large, liberal-minded man. His idea seems to have been to discover {406} the truth of these different religions and adopt that one which was adjudged to have the best groundwork of reason for it. It is easy to understand, however, that such a disputation argued through interpreters wholly ignorant of the subject and without any proper understanding of the nice distinctions of words or any practise in conveying their proper significance, could come to no serious conclusion. The arguments, therefore, fell flat and a decision was not rendered. Friar William's work was not unappreciated by his contemporaries and even its scientific value was thoroughly realized. It is not surprising, of course, that his great contemporary in the Franciscan order, Roger Bacon, should have come to the knowledge of his Brother Minorite's book and should have made frequent and copious quotations from it in the geographical section of his Opus Majus, which was written some time during the seventh decade of the Thirteenth Century. Bacon says that Brother William traversed the Oriental and Northern regions and the places adjacent to them, and wrote accounts of them for the illustrious King of France who sent him on the expedition to Tartary. He adds: "I have read his book diligently and have compared it with similar accounts." Roger Bacon recognized by a sort of scientific intuition of his own, certain passages which have proved to be the best in recent times. The description, for instance, of the Caspian was the best down to this time, and Friar William corrects the error made by Isidore, and which had generally been accepted before this, that the Caspian Sea was a gulf. Rubruk, as quoted by Roger Bacon, states very explicitly that it nowhere touches the ocean but is surrounded on all sides by land. For those who do not think that the foundations of scientific geography were laid until recent times, a little consultation of Roger Bacon's Opus Majus would undoubtedly be a revelation. It is probably with regard to language that one might reasonably expect to find least that would be of interest to modern scholars in Friar William's book. As might easily have been gathered from previous references, however, it is here that the most frequent surprises as to the acuity of this medieval traveler await the modern reader. Scientific philology is so much a product of the last century, that it is difficult to {407} understand how this old-time missionary was able to reach so many almost intuitive recognitions of the origin and relationships of the languages of the people among whom he traveled. He came in contact with the group of nations occupying what is now known as the Near East, whose languages, as is well known, have constituted a series of the most difficult problems with which philology had to deal until its thorough establishment on scientific lines enabled it to separate them properly. It is all the more surprising then, to find that Friar William should have so much in his book that even the modern philologist will read with attention and unstinted admiration. With regard to this Colonel Yule, whose personal experience makes him a valuable guide in such matters, has written a paragraph which contains so much compressed information that we venture to quote it entire. It furnishes the grounds for the claim (which might seem overstrained if it were not that its author was himself one of the greatest of modern explorers) that William was an acute and most intelligent observer, keen in the acquisition of knowledge; and the author in fact of one of the best narratives of travel in existence. Col. Yule says: "Of his interest and acumen in matters of language we may cite examples. The language of the Pascatir (or Bashkirds) and of the Hungarians is the same, as, he had learned from Dominicans who had been among them. The language of the Ruthenians, Poles, Bohemians, and Slavonians is one, and is the same with that of the Wandals or Wends. In the town of Equinus (immediately beyond the Ili, perhaps Aspara) the people were Mohammedans speaking Persian, though so far remote from Persia. The Yugurs (or Uigurs) of the country about the Cailac had formed a language and character of their own, and in that language and character the Nestorians of that tract used to perform their office and write their books. The Yugurs are those among whom are found the fountain and root of the Turkish and Comanian tongue. Their character has been adopted by the Moghals. In using it they begin writing from the top and write downwards, whilst line follows line from left to right. The Nestorians say their service, and have their holy book in Syriac, but know nothing of the {408} language, just as some of our Monks sing the mass without knowing Latin. The Tibet people write as we do, and their letters have a strong resemblance to ours. The Tangut people write from right to left like the Arabs, and their lines advance upwards." There were other matters besides language and religion on which Friar William made observations, and though his book is eminently human giving us a very interesting view of his own personality and of his difficulties with his dragoman, which many a modern Eastern traveler will sympathize with, and a picture that includes the detail that he was a very heavy man, _valde ponderosus_, which makes his travel on horseback for some 10,000 miles all the more wonderful; it also contains a mass of particulars, marvelously true--or so near the truth as to be almost more interesting--as to Asiatic nature, ethnography, manners, morals, commercial customs, and nearly everything else relating to the life of the peoples among whom he traveled. A typical example of this is to be found in the following suggestive paragraph: "The current money of Cathay is of cotton paper, a palm in length and breath, and on this they print lines like those of Mangu Khan's seal: 'imprimunt lineas sicut est sigillum Mangu'"--a remarkable expression. "They write with a painter's pencil and combine in one character several letters, forming one expression: 'faciunt in una figura plures literas comprehendentes unam dictionem'"--a still more remarkable utterance, showing an approximate apprehension of the nature of Chinese writing. There are other distinguished travelers whose inspiration came to them during the Thirteenth Century though their works were published in the early part of the next century. Some of these we know mainly through their adaptation and incorporation into his work without due recognition, by that first great writer of spurious travels Sir John Mandeville. Mandeville's work was probably written some time during the early part of the second half of the Fourteenth Century, but he used materials gathered from travelers of the end of the Thirteenth and the beginning of the next (his own) century. Sir Henry Yule has pointed out, that by far the greater part of the supposed {409} more distant travels of Sir John Mandeville were appropriated from the narrative of Friar Odoric, a monk, who became a member of the Franciscan order about the end of the Thirteenth Century, and whose travels as a missionary in the East gave him the opportunities to collect a precious fund of information which is contained in Odoric's famous story of his voyages. Of Odoric himself we shall have something to say presently. In the meantime it seems well worth while calling to attention, that the accepted narrative of Sir John Mandeville as it is called, and which may have been written by a physician of the name of John of Burgoigne under an assumed name, contains a number of interesting anticipations of facts that were supposed to enter into the domain of human knowledge much later in the intellectual development of the race. In certain passages, and especially in one which is familiar from its being cited by Dr. Johnson in the preface to his dictionary, Mandeville, to use the name under which the story is best known, shows that he had a correct idea of the form of the earth and of position in latitude as it could be ascertained by observation of the Pole Star. He knew also, as we noted at the beginning of this article, that there are antipodes, and if ships were sent on voyages of discovery they might sail around the world. As Col. Yule has pointed out, Mandeville tells a curious story which he had heard in his youth of how "a worthy man did travel ever eastward until he came to his own country again." Odoric of whom we have already spoken must be considered as the next great missionary traveler of this age. He took Franciscan vows when scarcely a boy and was encouraged to travel in the East by the example of his Holy Father St. Francis, and also by the interest and missionary zeal to convert the East which had been aroused by Marco Polo's travels. His long journeys will be more readily understood, however, if we realize, as is stated in the article on him in the Encyclopedia Britannica, an authority that will surely be unsuspected of too great partiality for the work of Catholic missionaries, that "There had risen also during the latter half of the Thirteenth Century an energetic missionary action, extending all over the East on the part of both the new orders of Preaching and Minorite (or Dominican and Franciscan) Friars which had caused {410} members of these orders, of the last especially, to become established in Persia and what is now Southern Russia, in Tartary and in China." In the course of his travels in the East Odoric visited Malabar touching at Pandarini (twenty miles north of Calicut), at Craganore and at Quilon, preceding thence, apparently, to Ceylon and to the Shrine of St. Thomas at Mailapur near Madras. Even more interesting than his travels in India, however, are those in China. He sailed from the Hindustan Peninsula in a Chinese junk to Sumatra, visiting various ports on the northern coast of that island and telling something about the inhabitants and the customs of the country. According to Sir Henry Yule he then visited Java and it would seem also the coast of Borneo, finally reaching Kanton, at that time known to Western Asiatics as Chin Kalan or Great China. From there he went to the great ports of Fuhkeen and Schwan Chow, where he found two houses of his order, thence he proceeded to Fuchau from which place he struck across the mountains into Chekaeng and then visited Hang Chow at that time renowned under the name of Cansay. Modern authorities in exploration have suggested that this might be King Sae, the Chinese name for Royal Residence, which was then one of the greatest cities of the world. Thence Odoric passed northward by Nanking, and, crossing the great Kiang, embarked on the Grand Canal and traveled to Cambaluc or Pekin, where he remained for three years and where it is thought that he was attached to one of the churches founded by Archbishop John of Monte Corvino, who was at this time in extreme old age. The most surprising part of Odoric's travels were still to come. When the fever for traveling came upon him again he turned almost directly westward to the Great Wall and through Shenshua. From here the adventurous traveler (we are still practically quoting Sir Henry Yule) entered Thibet and appears to have visited Lhasa. Considering how much of interest has been aroused by recent attempts to enter Lhasa and the surprising adventures that men have gone through in the effort, the success of this medieval monk in such an expedition would seem incredible, if it were not substantiated by documents that {411} place the matter beyond all doubt even in the minds of the most distinguished modern authorities in geography and exploration. How Odoric returned home is not definitely known, though certain fragmentary notices seem to indicate that he passed through Khorasan and probably Tabriz to Europe. It only remains to complete the interest of Odoric's wondrous tale to add that during a large portion of these years' long journeys his companion was Friar James, an Irishman who had been attracted to Italy in order to become a Franciscan. As appears from a record in the public books of the town of Udine in Italy, where the monastery of which both he and Odoric were members was situated, a present of two marks was made by the municipal authorities to the Irish friar shortly after Odoric's death. The reason for the gift was stated to be, that Friar James had been for the love of God and of Odoric (a typical Celtic expression and characteristic) a companion of the blessed Odoric in his wanderings. Unfortunately Odoric died within two years after his return though not until the story of his travels had been taken down in homely Latin by Friar William of Bologna. Shortly after his death Odoric became an object of reverence on the part of his brother friars and of devotion on the part of the people, who recognized the wonderful apostolic spirit that he had displayed in his long wanderings, and the patience and good-will with which he had borne sufferings and hardships for the sake of winning the souls of those outside the Church. Sir Henry Yule summed up his opinion of Odoric in the following striking passage which bears forcible testimony also to the healthy curiosity of the times with regard to all these original sources of information which were recognized as valuable because first hand: "The numerous MSS. of Odoric's narrative that have come down to our time (upwards of forty are known), and chiefly from the Fourteenth Century, show how speedily and widely it acquired popularity. It does not deserve the charge of general mendacity brought up against it by some, though the language of other writers who have spoken of the traveler as a man of learning is still more injudicious. Like most of the medieval travelers, he is indiscriminating in accepting strange tales; but while some of these are the habitual stories of the {412} age, many particulars which he recited attest the genuine character of the narrative, and some of those which Tiraboschi and others have condemned as mendacious interpolations are the very seals of truth." Besides Odoric there is another monkish traveler from whom Mandeville has borrowed much, though without giving him any credit. This is the well-known Praemonstratensian Monk Hayton, who is said to have been a member of a princely Armenian family and who just at the beginning of the Fourteenth Century dictated a work on the affairs of the Orient and especially the history of the nearer East in his own time, of which, from the place of his nativity and bringing up, he had abundant information, while he found all round him in France, where he was living at the time, the greatest thirst for knowledge with regard to this part of the world. His book seems to have been dictated originally in French at Poictiers, and to have attracted great attention because of its subject, many copies of it being made as well as translations into other languages within a few years after its original appearance. The story of Odoric is a forcible reminder of how much the missionaries accomplished for geography, ethnology, and ethnography in the Thirteenth Century, as they did in succeeding centuries. If what the missionaries have added to these sciences were to have been lost, there would have been enormous gaps in the knowledge with which modern scholars began their scientific labors in philology. It may be a surprise to most people, moreover, to be thus forcibly reminded of the wonderful evangelizing spirit which characterized the later middle age. Needless to say these graduates of the Thirteenth Century universities who wandered in distant eastern lands, brought with them their European culture for the uplifting of the Orientals, and brought back to Europe many ideas that were to be fruitful sources of suggestions not only for geographical, ethnological, philological, and other departments of learning, but also in manufactures and in arts. We mentioned the fact that Odoric in his travels eventually reached Cambaluc, or Pekin, where he found Archbishop John of Monte Corvino still alive though at an advanced age, and was probably attached for the three years of his stay to one of {413} the churches that had been founded by this marvelous old Friar, who had been made Archbishop because of the wonderful power of organization and administration displayed during his earlier career as a missionary. The story of this grand old man of the early Franciscan missions is another one of the romances of Thirteenth Century travels and exploration which well deserves to be studied in detail. Unfortunately the old Archbishop was too much occupied with his work as a missionary and an ecclesiastic to return to Europe in order to tell of it, or to write any lengthy account of his experiences. Like many another great man of the Thirteenth Century he was a doer and not a writer, and, but for the casual mention of him by others, the records of his deeds would only be found in certain ecclesiastical records, and his work would now be known to the Master alone, for whom it was so unselfishly done. It will be noted that most of these traveling missionaries were Franciscans but it must not be thought that it was only the Franciscans who sent out such missionaries. The Dominicans (established at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century) also did wonderful missionary work and quite as faithfully as even their Franciscan brothers. Undoubtedly the Franciscans surpassed them in the extent of their labors, but then the Dominicans were founded with the idea of preaching and uplifting the people of Europe rather than of spreading the good news of the Gospel outside the bounds of Christianity as it then existed. From the very earliest traditions of their order the Franciscans had their eyes attracted towards the East. The story that St. Francis himself went to the Holy Land at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century in order to convert Saladin, the Eastern monarch whose name has been made famous by the stories of the Crusade in which Richard Coeur de Lion took part, has been doubted, but it seems to be founded on too good contemporary authority to be considered as entirely apocryphal. St. Francis' heart went out to those in darkness who knew nothing of the Christ whom he had learned to love so ardently, and it was a supreme desire of his life that the good tidings of Christianity should be spread by his followers all over the world. While they did this great work they accomplished unwittingly great things in all the series of sciences {414} now included under the term geography, and gathered precious information as to the races of men, their relations to one another and to the part of the earth in which they live. The scientific progress thus made will always redound largely to their credit in the story of the intellectual development of modern Europe. Most of their work was far ahead of the times and was not to be properly appreciated until quite recent generations, but this must only emphasize our sympathy for those obscure, patient but fruitful workers in a great field of human knowledge. As to what should be thought of those who ignorant of their work proclaim that the Church did not tolerate geography it is hard to say. Our geographical knowledge comes mainly from travelers whose wish it is to gain commercial opportunities for themselves or their compatriots; that of the Middle Ages was gained by men who wished anxiously to spread the light of Christianity throughout the world. The geographical societies of these earlier days were the religious orders who sent but the explorers and travelers, furnished them on their return with an enthusiastic audience to hear their stories, and then helped to disseminate their books all over the then civilized world. There is probably no better refutation of the expression so often heard from those who know nothing about it, with regard to the supposed laziness of the Monks of the Middle Ages, than this chapter of the story of their exploration and missionary labors during the Thirteenth Century. It is usually supposed that if a Monk was fat he could not possibly have accomplished any serious work in life. Some of these men were _valde ponderosi_, very weighty, yet they did not hesitate to take on themselves these long journeys to the East. Their lives are the best illustration of the expression of Montalembert: "Let us then banish into the world of fiction that affirmation so long repeated by foolish credulity which made monasteries an asylum for indolence and incapacity, for misanthropy and pusillanimity, for feeble and melancholic temperaments, and for men who were no longer fit to serve society in the world. It was not the sick souls, but on the contrary the most vigorous and healthful the human race has ever produced who presented themselves in crowds to fill them." {415} XXVI GREAT BEGINNINGS OF MODERN COMMERCE. For our present eminently commercial age nothing of all the accomplishment of the Thirteenth Century will probably possess livelier interest than the fact that, in spite of what must have seemed insuperable difficulties to a less enterprising generation, the men of that time succeeded in making such business combinations and municipal affiliations, besides arranging various trade facilities among distant, different peoples, that not only was commerce rendered possible and even easy, but some of the most modern developments of the facilitation of international intercourse were anticipated. The story of the rise of this combination of many men of different nations, of many cities whose inhabitants were of different races and of different languages, of commercial enterprise that carried men comparatively much farther than they now go on trade expeditions, though we have thought that our age had exhausted the possibilities of progress in this matter, cannot fail to have an interest for everyone whose attention has been attracted to the people of this time and must be taken as a symbol of the all-pervading initiative of the generations, which allowed no obstacle to hinder their progress and thought no difficulty too great to be surmounted. In beginning the history of the great commercial league which in the Thirteenth Century first opened men's minds to the possibilities of peace and commerce among the nations and alas! that it should be said, did more perhaps than any other agent except Christianity to awaken in different races the sense of the brotherhood of man, the English historian of the Hanseatic League, Miss Zimmern in the Stories of the Nations, said: "There is scarcely a more remarkable chapter in history than that which deals with the trading alliance or association known as the Hanseatic League. The league has long since {416} passed away having served its time and fulfilled its purpose. The needs and circumstances of mankind have changed, and new methods and new instruments have been devised for carrying on the commerce of the world. Yet, if the league has disappeared, the beneficial results of its action survive to Europe though they have become so completely a part of our daily life that we accept them as matters of course, and do not stop to inquire into their origin." This last declaration may seem surprising for comparatively few know anything about this medieval commercial league, yet the effects claimed for it are only what we have seen to be true with regard to most of the important institutions of the period--they were the origins of what is best in our modern life. Like many of the great movements of the Thirteenth Century the origin of the Hanseatic League is clouded somewhat by the obscurity of the times and the lack of definite historical documents. [Footnote 35] There is no doubt, however, that just before the middle of the century it was in flourishing existence, and that by the end of the century it had reached that acme of its power and influence which it was to maintain for several centuries in spite of the jealousy of the nobility, of certain towns that did not have the same privileges, and even of the authorities of the various countries who resented more and more as time went on the growing freedom and independence of these wealthy cities. The impetus for the formation of the League seems to have been given during the Crusades. Like so many other of the important movements of the time commerce was greatly influenced by these expeditions, and the commercial spirit not only aroused but shown the possibility of {417} accomplishing hitherto impossible results in the matter of transportation and exchange. The returning crusaders brought back with them many precious Eastern objects whose possession was a source of envy to others and whose value was rated so high as to make even distant travel for them well worth while. The returning crusaders also knew how cheaply objects considered very precious in the West might be purchased in the East, and they told the stories of their own acquisition of them to willing listeners, who were stimulated to try their fortunes in expeditions that promised such rich rewards. [Footnote 35: Perhaps no better idea of the obscurity of the origin of the Hansa confederation can be given, than is to be derived from the fact that even the derivation of the word Hansa is not very clear. Bishop Ulfilas in his old Gothic translation of the Scriptures used the word "hansa" to designate the mob of soldiers and servants of the High Priest who came to take Christ prisoner in the Garden. Later on the word Hansa was used to mean a tax or a contribution. This term was originally employed to designate the sum of money which each of the cities was compelled to pay on becoming a member of the league, and it is thought to be from this that the terms Hansa and Hanseatic League were eventually derived.] {opp417} [Illustration] PALAZZO DEI CONSOLI (GUBBIO) [Illustration] PALAZZO ZABARELLA (PADUA) Besides the crusaders on their return through Italy had observed what was accomplished by the League of the Lombard cities which had been in existence in a more or less imperfect way for more than a century, and at the end of the Twelfth and the beginning of the Thirteenth Century had begun to provide an example of the strength there is in union, and of the power for good there is in properly regulated combinations of commercial interests with due regard for civic rights and privileges. This League of the Lombard cities was encouraged by the popes especially by Innocent III. and his successors who are usually said to have given it their approbation for their own purposes, though this is to look at but one side of the case. The German Emperors endeavored to assert their rights over Italian territory and in so doing came into collision with the popes not only in temporal matters but also in spiritual things. As we have noted in the short sketch of the popes of the century, Innocent III. was the first great Italian patriot and original advocate of Italy for the Italians. He constantly opposed the influence of the German Emperor in Italian politics, mainly, of course, because this interfered with the power of the Church, but to a very great degree also because it proved a source of manifold political evil for the Italian cities. The Germans then, who in the train of the Emperor went down into Italy saw the working of this League of Lombard cities, talked about it on their return, and were naturally tempted to essay what might be accomplished by the same means on German territory. These two elements, the incentive of the crusades and the stimulus of the example of the {418} Italians, must be considered as at the basis of Hansa, though these were only seeds, and it was the nurture and fostering care of the German mind which ever since the days of Tacitus had been noted as the freest in Europe, that gave the League its wonderful development. It is difficult to tell how many towns belonged to the Hanseatic League during the Thirteenth Century but at the end of this period, Hansa, as it came to be called, was, as we have said, in its most flourishing condition and we know something definite of its numbers a little more than half a century later. In 1367 deputies from all the towns met in the large council chamber of the famous town hall at Cologne to discuss certain injustices that had been committed against the members of the League, or as the document set forth "against the free German merchants," in order to determine some way of preventing further injuries and inflict due punishment. Altogether the deputies of 77 towns were present and declared most solemnly "that because of the wrongs and the injuries done by the King of Denmark to the common German merchant the cities would be his enemies and help one another faithfully." The distant and smaller cities were not expected to send troops or even naval forces but promised to give contributions in money. Such cities as did not take part in this movement were to be considered as having forfeited their membership and would no longer be permitted to trade with the members of Hansa. Lest it should be thought that the cities were incapable of enforcing any such boycott with effect, the story of the town of Lübeck must be recalled. Lübeck on one occasion refused to join with the other Hansa towns in a boycott of certain places in Flanders which had refused to observe the regulations as to trading. One of these was to the effect that such vessels as were lost on a coast did not become the property of the people of the neighborhood, though they had a right to a due share for salvage, but a fair proportion must be returned to the citizens of the town that suffered the loss. Lübeck was at the moment one of the most powerful commercial cities in Germany, and her citizens seemed to think that they could violate the Hansa regulation with impunity. For 30 years. {419} however, the Hansa boycott was maintained and so little trading was done in the city that according to one old writer "the people starved, the markets were deserted, grass grew in the street and the inhabitants left in large numbers." Such a lesson as this was enough to make the Hanseatic decrees be observed with scrupulous care and shows the perfection of the organization. The outcome of the war with Denmark demonstrates the power of the league. The King of Denmark is said to have scorned their declaration of war, and making an untranslatable pun on the word "Hansa" called the members of the League "geese who cackled much but need not be feared." The fleet of the League, however, succeeded in shutting off all the commerce of the coast of Denmark and though there was a truce each winter the war was renewed vigorously, and with summer many of the Danish cities were ransacked and plundered. At the end of the second year Denmark was exhausted and the people so weary of war that they pleaded for peace, and Valdemar had to accept the terms which the "geese" were willing to offer him. This triumph of the common people over a reigning monarch is one of the most striking passages in medieval history. It comes about a half century after the close of the Thirteenth, and is evidently the direct result of the great practical forces that were set in movement during that wonderful period, when the mighty heart of humanity was everywhere bestirring men to deeds of high purpose and far-reaching significance. As a matter of fact, Hansa became, very early in its career, one of the firmest authorities in the midst of these troubled times and meted out unfailingly the sternest justice against those who infringed its rights if they were outsiders, or broke the rules of the League if they were its members. It was ever ready to send its ships against offenders and while it soon came to be feared, this fear was mingled with respect, and its regulations were seldom infringed. It is a most interesting reflection, that as its English Historian says, "never once in the whole course of its history did it draw the sword aggressively or against its own members." While it was ever on the look-out to increase its power by adding new cities to the League, cities were not forced to join and when it meted {420} out punishments to its members this was not by the levying of war but by fines, the refusal to pay these being followed by the "declaration of boycott," which soon brought the offender to terms. War was only declared in all cases as a last resort, and the ships of the League were constantly spoken of and designated in all documents as "peace ships," and even the forts which the League built for the protection of its towns, or as places where its members might be sure of protection, were described as "Peace Burgs." Unfortunately, the lessons of peace that were thus taught by commerce were not to bear fruit abundantly for many centuries after the Thirteenth. It is practically only in our own time that they have been renewed, and the last generation or two, has rather plumed itself over the fact that trade was doing so much to prevent war. Evidently this is no guarantee of the perpetuation of such an improvement in national or international morals, for the influence of Hansa for peace came to be lost entirely, after a few centuries. The cities themselves, however, that belonged to the League gradually became more and more free, and more independent of their rulers. It was thus, in fact, that the free cities of Germany had their origin, and in them much more of modern liberty was born than has ever been appreciated, except by those whose studies have brought them close to these marvelous medieval manifestations of the old spirit of Teutonic freedom. The names of most of the cities that were members of the Hansa League are well known, though it is not easy to understand in the decrepitude that has come over many of them, how they could have been of so much importance as has been claimed for them in the Middle Ages. All the cities of the North Sea and the Baltic Sea were united together, and while we think of these as German, many of them really belonged to Slav people at this time, so that the membership of a number of Russian cities is not surprising. While the Rhenish cities were important factors in the League, Cologne indeed being one of the most important, Bremen and Hamburg and both the Frankforts, and Rostock, and Lübeck and Stralsund, and Tangermünde and Warnemunde, were important members. Novgorod was founded by Hansa for the purpose of trading {421} with the Orientals, and the Volga, the Dnieper, the Dwina, and the Oder were extensively used for the purpose of transporting goods here and there in central Europe. One of their most famous towns, Winetha in German, Julin in Danish, disappeared beneath the waters of the Baltic Sea and gave rise to many legends of its reappearance. It is hard to realize that it was so important that it was called the Venice of the North, and was seriously compared with its great southern rival. A good idea of the intimate relations of the Hansa towns to England and the English people can be obtained from the article on the subject written by Richard Lodge for the Ninth Edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica. A single paragraph of this compresses much of the external and internal history of the "Rise and Development of Hansa." It was rather to be expected that the commercial relations between England and the various cities situated along the North Sea, as well as the Baltic and up the Rhine, would be active and would have to be submitted to careful regulation. Unless the modern mind is actually brought directly in touch, however, with the complex yet very practical state of affairs, which actually existed, it will utterly fail to appreciate how thoroughly progressive and enterprising were these medieval peoples. Enterprise and practicalness we are apt to think of as the exclusive possession of much more modern generations. Least of all would we be apt to consider them as likely to be found in the Thirteenth Century, yet here they are, and the commercial arrangements which were made are as absolute premonitions of our modern thought as were the literature and architecture, the painting, even the teachings of science at the same period. "The members of this League (Hanseatic) came to England mostly from Cologne, the first German town which obtained great importance both at home and abroad. Its citizens possessed at an early date a guild-hall of their own (in London), and all Germans who wished to trade with England had to join their guild. This soon included merchants from Dortmund, Soest and Munster, in Westphalia; from Utrecht, Stavern and Groningen, in the Netherlands, and from Bremen and Hamburg on the North Sea. But, when at the beginning of the Thirteenth Century, the rapidly rising town of Lübeck {422} wished to be admitted into the guild, every effort was made to keep her out. The intervention of Frederick II. was powerless to overcome the dread felt by Cologne towards a possible rival to its supremacy. But this obstacle to the extension of the League was soon overcome. In 1260 a charter of Henry III. assured protection to all German merchants. A few years later Hamburg and Lübeck also were allowed to form their own guilds. The Hansa of Cologne, which had long been the only guild, now sinks to the position of a branch Hansa, and has to endure others with equal privileges. Over all the branch Hansas rises the "Hansa Alamanniae," first mentioned in 1282. This article gives additional information with regard to the many and varied influences at work at the end of the Thirteenth Century. It furnishes in brief, moreover, an excellent picture of the activity of mind and power of organization so frequently displayed during this period in every branch of life. This is after all the highest quality of man. The development of associations of various kinds, especially such as are helpfully purposive, are the outcome of that social quality in man's mind which is the surest index of his rational quality. Succeeding centuries lost for some almost unaccountable reason much of this faculty of organization and the result was a lamentable retrogression from the advances made by older generations, so that it was only in quite recent years that anything like this old international comity was reestablished. {opp422} [Illustration] RATHHAUS (L�BECK) The extent and very natural development of this community of interests must ever attract attention. It is the first time in our modern history that it occurs and men of some seven different races and tongues were at last drawn into it. In this it represents the greatest advance of history, for it led to assimilation of laws and of liberties, with some of the best features of each nation's old-time customs preserved in the new codes. Its extension even to Novgorod, in what is now the heart of Russia is a surprising demonstration of successful enterprise and spread of influence almost incredible. The settling of the trade disputes of this distant Russian City in the courts of a North Sea town, is an evidence of advance in commercial relations emphasized by the writer in the Britannica, that deserves to be well weighed as a manifestation of what is often thought {423} to be the exclusively modern recognition of the rights of commerce and the claims of justice over even national feelings. "The league between Lübeck and Hamburg was not the only, and possibly not the first, league among the German towns. But it gradually absorbed all others. Besides the influence of foreign commercial interests there were other motives which compelled the towns to union. The chief of these were the protection of commercial routes both by sea and land, and the vindication of town independence as opposed to claims of the landed aristocracy. The first to join the League were the Wendish towns to the East, Wismar, Rostock, Stralsund, etc., which had always been intimately connected with Lübeck, and were united by a common system of laws known as the 'Lübisches Recht' (Lübeck Laws). The Saxon and Westphalian towns had long possessed a league among themselves; they also joined themselves to Lübeck. Lübeck now became the most important town in Germany. It had already surpassed Cologne both in London and Bruges. It soon gained a similar victory over Wisby. At a great convention in which twenty-four towns from Cologne to Revel took part, it was decided that appeals from Novgorod which had hitherto been decided at Wisby should henceforth be brought to Lübeck." After much travail and vexation of spirit, after much diplomacy and political and parliamentary discussion, after much striving on the part of the men in all nations, who have the great cause of universal peace for mankind at heart, we have reached a position where at least commercial difficulties can be referred to a sort of international court for adjudication. The standing of this court is not very clear as yet. Special arrangements at least are required, if not special treaties in many cases, even for the reference of such merely commercial difficulties as debt-collecting to it. In the last quarter of the Nineteenth Century special tribunals had to be erected for the settlement of such difficulties between nations. In the Twentieth Century the outlook is more hopeful and the actual accomplishment is indeed encouraging. In the Thirteenth Century with the absence of the telegraph and the cable, with the slowness of sailing vessels and the distance of towns {424} emphasizing all the difficulties of the situation, the Hanseatic League succeeded in obtaining an international tribunal, whose judgments with regard to commercial difficulties were final and were accepted by men of many different races and habits and customs, and to which causes were referred without any of the immense machinery apparently required at the present time. This is the real triumph of the commercial development of the Thirteenth Century. While it may be astonishing to many modern people to learn how much was accomplished in this utterly unexpected quarter, it will not be a surprise to those who realize the thoroughly practical character of the century and the perfectly matter of fact way in which it went about settling all the difficulties that presented themselves; and how often they succeeded in reaching a very practical if not always ideal solution. The sad feature of the case is to think that most of this coming together of nations was lost by the gradual development of national feeling, much of benefit as there may have been in that for the human race, and by the drawing of the language lines between nations more closely than they had been before, for the next three centuries saw the development of modern tongues into the form which they have held ever since. Hansa did more than almost any other institution in northern Europe to establish the reign of Law. If it had accomplished no other purpose, this would make it eminently worthy of the study of those who are interested in sociology and social evolution. Before the time of Hansa the merchant by sea or land was liable to all sorts of impositions, arbitrary taxes, injustices, and even the loss of life as well of his goods. As Hansa gained in power however, these abuses disappeared. Perhaps the most noteworthy improvement came with regard to navigation. There is a story told of a famous rock in Brittany on which many ships were wrecked during the Middle Ages. Even as late as the Thirteenth Century sometimes false lights were displayed on this rock with the idea of tempting vessels to their destruction on it. Everything that was thrown ashore in the neighborhood was considered to be the property of the people who gathered it, except that a certain portion of its value had to be paid to the Lord of the Manor. {425} This worthy representative of the upper classes is said to have pointed out the rock to some visiting nobleman friends one day, and declared that it was more precious to him than the most precious stone in the diadem of any ruling monarch in Europe. This represents the state of feeling with regard to such subjects when Hansa started in to correct the abuses. It may be looked upon as a serious disgrace to the Thirteenth Century that such a low state of ethical feeling should have existed, but it is the amelioration of conditions which obliterated such false sentiments that constitutes the triumph of the period. On the other hand we must not with smug self-complacency think that our generation is so much better than those of the past. It is easy to be pharisaical while we forget that many a fortune in modern times suffers shipwreck on the coasts of business and investment, because the false lights of advertising intended to deceive, are displayed very prominently, for those who are only anxious as were the mariners of the olden times to make their fortunes. Doubtless too the proprietors of many of the papers which display such advertisements, and it is nonsense to say that they are unconscious of the harm they do, are quite as proud of the magnificent revenue that their advertising columns bring to them as was the Breton noble of the Thirteenth Century. Man has not changed much in the interval. Lest it should be thought that even the present-day initiation into secret societies of various kinds is the invention of modern times, it seems well to give some of the details of the tests through which those seeking to be members of the Hanseatic League were subjected, by those who were already initiated. It may possibly seem that some of these customs were too barbarous to mention in the same breath with the present-day initiations, but if it is recalled that at least once a year some serious accident is reported as the result of the thoughtless fooling of "frat" students at our universities, this opinion may be withdrawn. Miss Helen Zimmern in her story of the Hansa Towns already quoted several times, has a paragraph or two of descriptions of these that we shall quote. It may be well to remember that these tests were not entirely without a serious significance for the members of the Hansa. Much {426} was expected of those who belonged to the Hansa Guild. A number of precious trade secrets were entrusted them, and they alone knew the methods and mysteries of Hansa. In order that these might not by any possibility be betrayed, the members of Hansa who lived in foreign countries were forbidden to marry while abroad and were bound under the severest penalties to live a life of celibacy. They were not supposed to be absent from the houses assigned to them during the night, and their factories so called, or common-places of residence, were guarded by night watchman and fierce dogs in order to secure the keeping of these rules. Besides torture was a very common thing in those times and a man who belonged to a country that happened to be at war for the moment, might very easily be subjected to torture for some reason or another with the idea of securing important information from him. If the members of Hansa wanted to be reasonably assured that new members would not give up their secrets without a brave struggle, they had no better way than by these tests, for which there was therefore some excuse. As to the brutality of the tests perhaps Miss Zimmern in maidenly way has said too much. We commend her paragraphs to the modern committees of reception of college secret societies, because here as elsewhere this generation may get points from the Thirteenth Century. {opp426} [Illustration] MINSTER (CHORIN, GERMANY) [Illustration] CITY GATE (NEUBRANDENBURG) "We cannot sully our pages by detailing the thirteen different games or modes of martyrdom that were in use at Bergen. Our more civilized age could not tolerate the recital. In those days they attracted a crowd of eager spectators who applauded the more vociferously the more cruel and barbarous the tortures. The most popular were those practices known as the smoke, water and flogging games; mad, cruel pranks calculated to cause a freshman to lose health and reason. Truly Dantesque hell tortures were these initiations into Hansa mysteries. Merely to indicate their nature we will mention that for the smoke game the victim was pulled up the big chimney of the Schutting while there burned beneath him the most filthy materials, sending up a most nauseous stench and choking wreaths of smoke. While in this position he was asked a number of questions, to which he was forced, under yet more terrible penalties, to reply. If {427} he survived his torture he was taken out into the yard and plied under the pump with six tons of water." (Even the "Water Cure" is not new). There was a variety about the tests at different times and places that show no lack of invention on the part of the members of Hansa. With regard to other water tests Miss Zimmern has furnished some interesting details: "The 'water' game that took place at Whitsuntide consisted in first treating the probationer to food, and then taking him out to sea in a boat. Here he was stripped thrown into the ocean, ducked three times, made to swallow much sea-water, and thereafter mercilessly flogged by all the inmates of the boats. The third chief game was no less dangerous to life and limb. It took place a few days after, and was a rude perversion of the May games. The victims had first to go out into the woods to gather the branches with which later they were to be birched. Returned to the factory, rough horse play pranks were practised upon them. Then followed an ample dinner, which was succeeded by mock combats, and ended in the victims being led into the so-called Paradise, where twenty-four disguised men whipped them till they drew blood, while outside this black hole another party made hellish music with pipes, drums and triangles to deafen the screams of the tortured. The 'game' as considered ended when the shrieks of the victims were sufficiently loud to overcome the pandemonic music." Some of the extreme physical cruelties of the initiations our modern fraternities have eliminated, but the whole story has a much more familiar air than we might have expected. Probably the most interesting feature of the history of the Hanseatic League is the fact that this great combination for purposes of trade and commerce proved a source of liberty for the citizens of the various towns, and enabled them to improve their political status better than any other single means at this precious time of development of legal and social rights. This is all the more interesting because great commercial combinations with similar purposes in modern times have usually proved fruitful rather of opposite results. A few persons have been very much benefited by them, or at least have made much money by them, which is quite another thing, though money is {428} supposed to represent power and influence, but the great mass of the people have been deprived of opportunities to rise and have had taken from them many chances for the exercise of initiative that existed before. There is a curious effect of Hansa upon the political fortunes of the people of the cities that were members of the League which deserves to be carefully studied. As with regard to so many other improvements that have come in the history of the race, it was not a question so much of the recognition of great principles as of money and revenues that proved the origin of amelioration of civic conditions. These commercial cities accumulated wealth. Money was necessary for their rulers for the maintenance of their power and above all for the waging of war. In return for moneys given for such purposes the cities claimed for the inhabitants and were granted many privileges. These became perpetuated and as time went on were added to as new opportunities for the collection of additional revenues occurred, until finally an important set of fundamental rights with documentary confirmation were in the hands of the city authorities. One would like to think that this state of affairs developed as the result of the recognition on the part of the ruling sovereign, of the benefits that were conferred on his realm by having in it, or associated with it, an important trading city whose enterprising citizens gave occupation to many hands. This was very rarely the case, however, but as was true of the legal rights obtained by England's citizens during the Thirteenth Century, it was largely a question of the coordination of taxation and legislative representation and the consequent attainment of privileges. The most important effect on the life of Europe and the growth of civilization that the Hanseatic League exerted, was its success in showing that people of many different nations and races, living under very different circumstances, might still be united under similar laws that would enable them to accomplish certain objects which they had in view. Germans, Slavs and English learned to live in one another's towns and while observing the customs of these various places maintained the privileges of their homes. The mutual influence of these people on one another, many of them being the most practical and {429} enterprising individuals of the time, could scarcely fail to produce noteworthy effects in broadening the minds of those with whom they came in contact. It is to this period that we must trace the beginnings of international law. Hansa showed the world how much commercial relations were facilitated by uniform laws and by just treatment of even the citizens of foreign countries. It is to commerce that we owe the first recognition of the rights of the people of other countries even in time of war. If the Hanseatic League had done nothing else but this, it must be considered as an important factor in the development of our modern civilization and an element of influence great as any other in this wonderful century. [Illustration] HINGE FROM CATHEDRAL, SCHLESTADT {430} APPENDIX I SO-CALLED HISTORY. RULERS. EMPERORS OF GERMANY. Otho IV 1198-1218 Frederick II 1212-1250 Conrad IV 1250-1254 William of Holland 1254-1256 Richard Earl of Cornwall 1257-1273 Rudolph of Hapsburg 1273-1291 Adolph of Nassau 1292-1298 Albert of Austria 1298-1308 KINGS OF SCOTLAND.. William 1175-1214 Alexander II 1214-1249 Alexander III 1249-1286 Margaret 1286-1292 John Balliol 1292-1296 Interregnum 1296-1306 KINGS OF CASTILE AND LEON. Alfonso IX 1188-1214 Henry I 1214-1217 St. Ferdinand III 1217-1252 Alfonso X 1252-1284 Sancho IV 1284-1295 Ferdinand IV 1295-1312 KINGS OF ENGLAND. John Lackland 1199-1216 Henry III 1216-1272 Edward I 1272-1307 KINGS OF FRANCE. Philip II 1180-1223 Louis VIII 1223-1226 Louis IX 1226-1270 Philip III 1270-1285 Louis [Philip] IV 1314-1316 KINGS OF ARAGON. Pedro II 1196-1213 James I., the Conqueror 1215-1276 Pedro III 1276-1285 Alfonso III 1285-1291 James II 1291-1327 KINGS OF NAPLES. Conrad 1250-1254 Conradin 1254-1258 Manfred 1258-1266 Charles of Anjou 1266-1285 Charles 1285-1309 EVENTS. 1202.--Fourth great crusade under Boniface, marquis of Montferrat. 1204.--The English stripped of Normandy, etc., by Philip Augustus of France. 1206.--Jenghis-Khan: foundation of the great empire of the Moguls. 1212.--Battle of Ubeda: defeat and fall of Almohads of Africa. 1213.--John Lackland acknowledges himself vassal of the pope. 1213.--Battle of Bouvines won by Philip Augustus. 1215.--Magna Charta. The palatinate of the Rhine goes to the house of Wittelsbach. 1217.--Crusade of Andrew II., King of Hungary. 1218.--Extinction of the dukes of Zarringuia: Switzerland becomes an immediate province of the empire. {431} 1222.--Charter or decree of Andrew II., basis of the Hungarian constitution. 1226.--Renewal of the League of Lombardy to oppose the Emperor Frederick II. 1227.--Battle of Bornhoeved in Holstein: Waldemar II., King of Denmark, loses his conquests on the southern coast of the Baltic. 1228.--Crusade of the Emperor Frederick II. 1230.--The Teutonic order establishes itself in Prussia. Conquest of the Balearic islands by the King of Aragon. 1235.--Formation of the Duchy of Brunswick in favor of the house of the Guelphs. 1236.--Conquest of the Kingdoms of Cordova, Murcia and Seville by the Castilians. 1237.--Conquest of Russia by Baton-Khan: origin of the Mogul or Tartar horde of Kaptschak. 1241.--Invasion of Poland, Silesia, and Hungary by the Moguls. 1248.--Crusade of St. Louis, King of France. 1250.--Beginning of the great interregnum in Germany. 1254.--Accessions of the emperors of different houses in Germany. End of the dominion of the Agubites in Egypt and Syria; beginning of the empire of the Mamelukes. 1256.--Enfranchisement of the serfs at Bologna in Italy. 1261.--Michel Paleologus, emperor of Nice, takes Constantinople; end of the empire of the Latins. 1265.--Accession of the house of Anjou to the throne of the Two Sicilies. 1266.--Admission of the Commons to the Parliament of England. 1268.--Corradino decapitated at Naples; extinction of the house of Hohenstaufen. Suabia and Franconia become immediate provinces of the empire. 1271.--The county of Toulouse passes to the King of France, and the Venaissin to the Pope. 1273.--Accession of the Emperor Rudolph of Hapsburg to the throne of the empire: first election by the seven electors. 1282.--Conquest of Wales by the King of England. 1282.--The Sicilian Vespers, the kingdom of Sicily passes to the King of Aragon. The Emperor Rudolph gives to his sons the duchies of Austria; foundation of the house of Hapsburg. 1283.--The Teutonic order completes the conquest of Prussia. 1289.--Extinction of the male line of the old race of Scotch kings. Contest of Baliol and Bruce. 1290.--Decline of the republic of Piza. Aggrandizement of that of Genoa. 1291.--Taking of Ptolemais and Tyre by the Mamelukes. End of the crusades. 1294.--Decline of the Mogul empire at the death of Kublai-Khan. 1298.--Introduction of an hereditary aristocracy at Venice. 1300.--Foundation of the modern Turkish empire by Ottoman I. First Jubilee proclaimed by Pope Boniface VIII. {432} APPENDIX II. TWENTY-SIX CHAPTERS THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. I. AMERICA IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY. To most people it would seem quite out of the question that a chapter on America in the Thirteenth Century might have been written. One of the most surprising chapters for most readers in the previous edition was that on Great Explorers and the Foundation of Geography, for it was a revelation to learn that Thirteenth Century travelers had anticipated all of our discoveries in the Far and in the Near East seven centuries ago. Certain documents have turned up, however, which make it very clear that with the same motives as those which urged Eastern travelers, Europeans went just as far towards the West at this time. Documents found in the Vatican Archives in 1903 and exhibited at St. Louis in 1904, have set at rest finally and absolutely the long disputed question of the discovery of America by the Norsemen, and in connection with these the story of America in the Thirteenth Century might well have been told. There is a letter from Pope Innocent III., dated February 13, 1206, addressed to the Archbishop of Norway, who held jurisdiction over Greenland, which shows not only the presence of the Norsemen on the American Continent at this time, but also that they had been here for a considerable period, and that there were a number of churches and pastors and large flocks in whom the Roman See had a lively interest. There are Americana from three other Popes of the Thirteenth Century. John XXI. wrote, in 1276, Nicholas III. two letters, one dated January 31, 1279, and another June 9, 1279, and Martin III. wrote 1282. We have inserted on the opposite page a reproduction of a portion of the first Papal document extant relating to America, the letter of Pope Innocent III., taken from "The Norse Discovery of America" (The Norraena Society, N. Y., 1908). The word _Grenelandie_, underscored, indicates the subject. The writing as an example of the chirography of the century is of interest. II. A REPRESENTATIVE UPPER HOUSE. In most historical attempts at government by the people it has been recognized that legislation is better balanced if there are two chambers in the law-making body, one directly elected by the people, the other indirectly chosen and representing important vested interests that are likely to make its members conservative. The initiative for legislation comes, as a rule, from the direct representatives of the people, while the upper chamber represses radical law-making or sudden changes in legislative policy, yet does not hamper too much the progress of democracy. {433} [Illustration] PART OF LETTER OF POPE INNOCENT III. MENTIONING GREENLAND. {434} During the last few years a crisis in English politics has led to a very general demand for a modification of the status of the House of Lords, while almost similar conditions have led to the beginning at least of a similar demand for the modification of our Senate in this country. Both these upper chambers have come to represent vested interests to too great a degree. The House of Lords has been the subject of special deprecation. The remark is sometimes made that it is unfortunate that England is weighted down by this political incubus, the House of Lords, which is spoken of as a heritage from the Middle Ages. The general impression, of course, is that the English House of Lords, as at present constituted, comes down from the oldest times of constitutional government in England. Nothing could well be more untrue than any such idea. The old upper chamber of England, the medieval House of Lords, was an eminently representative body. Out of the 625 or more of members of the English House of Lords at the present time about five hundred and fifty hold their seats by heredity. Only about seventy-five are in some sense elective. At least one-half of these elected peers, however, must be chosen from the hereditary nobility of Ireland and Scotland. Nearly nineteen-twentieths of the membership of the House of Lords, as at present constituted, owe their place in national legislation entirely to heredity. Until the reformation so-called this was not so. More than one-half of the English House of Lords, a good working majority, consisted of the Lords spiritual. Besides the Bishops and Archbishops there were the Abbots and Priors of monasteries, and the masters of religious orders. These men as a rule had come up from the people. They had risen to their positions by intellectual abilities and by administrative capacity. The abbots and other superiors of religious orders had been chosen by their monks as a rule because, having shown that they knew how to rule themselves, they were deemed most fitting to rule over others. Even in our day, when the Church occupies nothing like the position in the hearts of the masses that she held in the ages of faith, our Catholic Cardinals, Archbishops and Bishops, both here and in England, are chosen as members of arbitration boards to settle strikes and other social difficulties, because it is felt that the working class has full confidence in them, and that they are thoroughly representative of the spirit of democracy. In England Cardinal Manning served more than once in critical social conditions. In this country we have had a series of such examples. From these we can better understand what the Lords spiritual represented in the English House of Lords. There were abuses, though they were not nearly so frequent as were thought, by which unworthy men sometimes reached such positions, for men abuse even the best things, but in general these clerical members of the House of Lords were the chosen intellectual and moral products of the kingdom. Since they were without families they had {435} less temptation to serve personal interests and, besides, they had received a life-long training in unselfishness, and the best might be expected of them. For an ideal second chamber I know none that can compare with this old English House of Lords of the Middle Ages. How much it was responsible for the foundation of the liberties of which the English-speaking people are deservedly so proud, and which have been treated in some detail in the chapter on Origins in Law, would be interesting to trace. III. THE PARISH, AND TRAINING IN CITIZENSHIP. Mr. Toulmin Smith, in his book on "The Parish," and Dom Gasquet, in his volume on "The Parish Before the Reformation," have shown what a magnificent institution for popular self-government was the English medieval parish, and how much this contributed to the solution of important social problems and to the creation of a true democratic spirit. Mr. Toulmin Smith calls particular attention to the fact that when local self-government gets out of the hands of the people of a neighborhood personal civic energy goes to sleep. The feeling of mutual responsibility of the men of the place is lost, to the great detriment of their larger citizenship in municipality and nation. In the parish, however, forming a separate community, of which the members had rights and duties, the primal solid basis for government, the parish authorities took charge of the highways, the roads, the paths, the health, the police, the constabulary, and the fires of their neighborhood. They kept, besides, a registry of births and deaths and marriages. When these essentially local concerns are controlled in large bodies the liability to abuse at once becomes easy and political corruption sets in. He mentions, besides many parochial institutions, a parochial friendly society for loans on security, parish gilds for insurance, and many other phases of that thoroughly organized mutual aid so characteristic of the Middle Ages. These parishes became completely organized, so as to be thoroughly democratic and representative of all the possibilities of local self-government under King Edward at the end of the Thirteenth and the beginning of the Fourteenth Century. Rev. Augustus Jessopp, in "After the Great Pillage," tells the story of how the parishes were broken up as a consequence of the confiscation of their endowment during the so-called reformation. The quotation from him may be found in Appendix III. in the section on "How it all stopped." Toulmin Smith is not so emphatic, but he is scarcely less explicit than Jessopp. "The attempts of ecclesiastical authority to encroach on the civil authorities of the parish have been more successful since the reformation." As a matter of fact, at that time all government became centralized, and complete contradiction though it may seem to be of what is sometimes declared the place of the reformation in the history {436} of human liberty, the genuine democratic institutions of England were to a great extent impaired by the reform, and an autocracy, which later developed into an autocratic aristocracy, largely took its place. Out of that England has gradually lifted itself during the Nineteenth Century. Even now, however, as pointed out in the preceding chapter that might have been, the House of Lords is not at all what it was in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries when the majority of its members were Lords spiritual, men who had come up from the masses as a rule. IV. THE CHANCE TO RISE. We are very prone to think that even though there may have been excellent opportunities for the higher education in the Thirteenth Century and, in many ways, an ideal education of the masses, still there was one great social drawback in those times, the lack of opportunity for men of humble birth to rise to higher stations. Nothing, however, is less true. There probably never was a time when even members of the poorest families might rise more readily or rapidly to the highest positions in the land. The sons of village merchants and village artisans, nay, the sons and grandsons of farmers bound to the soil, could by educational success become clergymen in various ranks, and by attaining a bishopric or the position of abbot or prior of a monastery, reach a seat in the House of Lords. Most of the Lord High Chancellors of England during the Middle Ages--and some of them are famous for their genius as canon and civil lawyers, for their diplomatic abilities and their breadth of view and capacity as administrators--were the sons of humble parents. Take the single example of Stratford, the details of whose inhabitants' lives, because of the greatness of one of them, have attracted more attention than those of any other town of corresponding size in England. At the beginning of the Fourteenth Century it is only what we would call a village, and it probably did not have 3,000 inhabitants, if, indeed, the number was not less than 2,000. In his book, "Shakespeare the Boy," Mr. Rolfe calls attention to certain conditions that interest us in the old village. He tells us of what happened as a result of the development of liberty in the Thirteenth Century: "Villeinage gradually disappeared in the reign of Edward VII. (1327-1337), and those who had been subject to it became free tenants, paying definite rents for house and land. Three natives of the town, who, after the fashion of the time, took their surnames from the place of their birth, rose to high positions in the Church, one becoming Archbishop of Canterbury, and the others respectively Bishops of London and Chichester. John of Stratford and Robert of Stratford were brothers, and Ralph of Stratford was their nephew. John and Robert were both for a time Chancellors of England, and there is no other instance of two brothers attaining that high office in succession." {437} To many people the fact that the avenue to rise was through the Clergy more than in any other way will be disappointing. One advantage, however, that the old people would insist that they had from their system was that these men, having no direct descendants, were less likely to pursue selfish aims and more likely to try to secure the benefit of the Community than are those who, in our time, rise through the legal profession. The Lord High Chancellors of recent time have all been lawyers. Would not most of the world confess that the advantage was with the medieval peoples? President Woodrow Wilson of Princeton realized sympathetically this great element of saving democracy in the Middle Ages, and has paid worthy tribute to it. He said: "The only reason why government did not suffer dry rot in the Middle Ages under the aristocratic systems which then prevailed was that the men who were efficient instruments of government were drawn from the church--from that great church, that body which we now distinguish from other church bodies as the Roman Catholic Church. The Roman Catholic Church then, as now, was a great democracy. There was no peasant so humble that he might not become a priest, and no priest so obscure that he might not become Pope of Christendom, and every chancellery in Europe was ruled by those learned, trained and accomplished men--the priesthood of that great and then dominant church; and so, what kept government alive in the Middle Ages was this constant rise of the sap from the bottom, from the rank and file of the great body of the people through the open channels of the Roman Catholic priesthood." V. INSURANCE. Insurance is usually supposed to be a modern idea representing one of those developments of the capitalization of mutual risks of life, property, and the like that have come as a consequence of modern progress. The insurance system of the Middle Ages, the organization of which came in the Thirteenth Century, is therefore extremely interesting. It was accomplished, as was every form of co-operation and co-ordination of effort, through special gilds or through the trade or merchant gilds. Among the objects of the gilds enumerated by Toulmin Smith is insurance against loss by fire. This was paid through the particular gild to which the merchant belonged, or in the case of the artisan through a special gild which he joined for the purpose. Provision was made, however, for much more than insurance by fire. Our fire insurance companies are probably several centuries old, so also are our insurance arrangements against shipwreck. Other features of insurance, however, are much more recent. Practically all of these were in active existence during the Middle Ages, though they disappeared with the so-called reformation, and then {438} did not come into existence again for several centuries and, indeed, not until our own time. The old gilds, for instance, provided insurance against loss from flood, a feature of insurance that has not, so far as I know, developed in our time, against loss by robbery (our burglary insurance is quite recent), against loss by the fall of a house, by imprisonment, and then also insurance against the loss of cattle and farm products. All the features of life insurance also were in existence. The partial disability clauses of life or accident insurance policies are recent developments. In the old days there is insurance against the loss of sight, against the loss of a limb, or any other form of crippling. The deaf and dumb might be insured so as to secure an income for them, and corresponding relief for leprosy might be obtained; so that, if one were set apart from the community by the law requiring segregation of lepers, there might be provision for food and lodging, even though productive work had become impossible. In a word, the insurance system of the Middle Ages was thoroughly developed. It was not capitalistic. The charges were only enough to maintain the system, and not such as to provide large percentage returns on invested stock and on bonds, and the accumulation of huge surpluses that almost inevitably lead to gross abuses. What is best in our modern system of insurance is an imitation of the older methods. Certain of the trade insurance companies which assume a portion of the risk on mills, factories and the like, are typical examples. They know the conditions, enforce proper precautions, keep an absolute check on suspicious losses, accumulate only a moderate surplus and present very few opportunities for insurance abuses. The same thing is true for the fraternal societies that conduct life insurance. When properly managed they represent the lowest possible cost and the best efficiency with least opportunities for fraud and without any temptations to interfere with legislation and any allurements for legislators to spend their time making strike and graft bills instead of doing legislative work. VI. OLD AGE PENSIONS. This generation has occupied itself much with the question of old age pensions. Probably most people feel that this is the first time in the world's history that such arrangements have been made. The movement is supposed to represent a recent development of humanitarian purpose, and to be a feature of recent philanthropic evolution. It is rather interesting, in the light of that idea, to see how well they accomplish this same purpose in the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries. In our time it has been a government affair, with all the possibilities of abuse that there are in a huge pension system, and surely no country knows it better than we do here in America. The old countries, Germany and France, have established a contributing {439} system of pension. This was the model of their system of caring for the old and the disabled in the Middle Ages. Toulmin Smith cites a rule of one of the gilds which gives us exactly the status of the old age disability pension question. After a workman had been seven years a member, the gild assured him a livelihood in case of disability from any cause. When we recall that employer as well as employee as a rule belonged to the gild and this was a real mutual organization in which there was a sharing of the various risks of life, we see how eminently well adapted to avoid abuses this old system was. Where the pensioners appeal to a government pension system, abuses are almost inevitable. There is the constant temptation to exploit the system on the part of the pensioners, because they have the feeling that if they do not, others will. Then the investigation of each particular case is difficult, and favoritism and graft of various kinds inevitably finds its way in. Where the pension is paid by a small body of fellow workmen, the investigation is easy, the temptation to exploit does not readily find place, and while abuses are to some extent inevitable, these are small in amount, and not likely to be frequent. Friends and neighbors know conditions, and men are not pauperized by the system, and if, after an injury that seemed at first so disabling as to be permanent, the pensioner should improve enough to be able to get back to work, or, at least, to do something to support himself, the system is elastic enough so that he is not likely to be tempted to continue to live on others rather than on his own efforts. VII. THE WAYS AND MEANS OF CHARITY--ORGANIZED CHARITY. Most of us would be apt to think that our modern methods of obtaining funds for charitable purposes represented definite developments, and that at least special features of our collections for charity were our own invention. In recent years the value of being able to reach a great many people even for small amounts has been particularly recognized. "Tag day" is one manifestation of that. Everyone in a neighborhood is asked to contribute a small amount for a particular charitable purpose, and the whole collection usually runs up to a snug sum. Practices very similar to this were quite common in the Thirteenth Century. As in our time, it was the women who collected the money. A rope, for instance, was stretched across a marketplace, where traffic was busy, and everyone who passed was required to pay a toll for charity. Occasionally the rope was stretched across a bridge and the tolls were collected on a particular day each year. Other forms of charitable accumulation resembled ours in many respects. Entertainments of various kinds were given for charity, and special collections were made during the exhibition of mystery plays {440} partly to pay the expenses of the representation, and the surplus to go to the charities of the particular gild. Most of the charity, however, was organized. Indeed it is the organization of charity during the Thirteenth Century that represents the best feature of its fraternalism. The needy were cared for by the gilds themselves. There were practically no poorhouses, and if a man was willing to work and had already shown this willingness, there were definite bureaus that would help him at least to feed his family while he was out of work. This system, however, was flexible enough to provide also for the ne'er-do-wells, the tramps, the beggars, but they were given not money, but tokens which enabled them to obtain the necessaries of life without being able to abuse charity. The committees of the gilds consulted in various ways among themselves and with the church wardens so as to be sure that, while all the needy were receiving help, no one was abusing charity by drawing help from a number of different quarters. Of course, they did not have the problem of large city life that we have, and so their comparatively simple organization of charity sufficed for all the needs of the time, and at the same time anticipated our methods. VIII. SCIENTIFIC UNIVERSITIES. In the first edition of this book I called attention to the fact, that science, even in our sense of physical science, was, in spite of impressions to the contrary, a favorite subject for students and teachers in the early universities. What might have been insisted on, however, is that these old universities were scientific universities resembling our own so closely in their devotion to science as to differ from them only in certain unimportant aspects. Because the universities for three centuries before the Nineteenth had been occupied mainly with classical studies, we are prone to think that these were the main subjects of university teaching for all the centuries before. Nothing could well be less true. The undergraduate studies consisted of the seven liberal arts so-called, though these were largely studied from the scientific standpoint. The quotation from Prof. Huxley (Appendix III., Education) makes this very clear. What we would now call the graduate studies consisted of metaphysics, in which considerable physics were studied, astronomy, medicine, above all, mathematics, and then the ethical sciences, under which were studied what we now call ethics, politics and economics. The picture of these medieval universities as I have given them in my lecture on Medieval Scientific Universities, in "Education, How Old the New," makes this very clear. The interests and studies were very like those of our own time, only the names for them being different. Nature-study was a favorite subject, and, as I have pointed out in "The Popes and Science," Dante must be considered as a great nature student, for he was able to draw the most exquisite figures from details of knowledge of living things with which few {441} poets are familiar. The books of the professors of the Thirteenth Century which have been preserved, those of Albertus Magnus, Roger Bacon, Aquinas, Duns Scotus and others, make it very clear that scientific teaching was the main occupation of the university faculties, while the preservation of these huge tomes by the diligent copying of disciples shows how deeply interested were their pupils in the science of the time. IX. MEDICAL TEACHING AND PROFESSIONAL STANDARDS. At all times in the history of education, the standards of scientific education, and the institutions of learning, can be best judged from the condition of the medical schools. When the medical sciences are taken seriously, when thorough preparation is demanded before their study may be taken up, when four or five years of attention to theoretic and practical medicine are required for graduation, and when the professors are writing textbooks that are to attract attention for generations afterwards, then, there is always a thoroughly scientific temper m the university itself. Medicine is likely to suffer, first, whenever there is neglect of science. The studies of the German historians, Puschmann, Pagel, Neuberger, and Sudhoff in recent years, have made it very clear that the medical schools of the universities of the Thirteenth Century were maintaining high standards. The republication of old texts, especially in France, has called attention to the magnificent publications of their professors, while a review of their laws and regulations confirms the idea of the good work that was being done. Gurlt, in his history of surgery, "Geschichte der Chirurgie" (Berlin, 1898), has reviewed the textbooks of Roger and Roland and the Four Masters, of William of Salicet and Lanfranc and of many others, in a way to make it very clear that these men were excellent teachers. When we discover that three years of preparatory university work was required before the study of medicine could be begun, and four years of medical studies were required, with a subsequent year of practice under a physician's direction, before a license for independent practice could be issued, then the scientific character of the medical schools and therefore of the universities to which they were attached is placed beyond all doubt. These are the terms of the law issued by the Emperor Frederick II. for the Two Sicilies. That, in substance, it applied to other countries we learn from the fact that the charters of medical schools granted by the Popes at this time require proper university preliminary studies, and four or five years at medicine before the degree of Doctor could be given. We know besides that in the cities only those who were graduates of properly recognized medical schools were allowed to practice medicine, so that there was every encouragement for the maintenance of professional standards. Indeed, {442} strange as it may seem to our generation, the standards of the Thirteenth Century in medical education were much higher than our own, and their medical schools were doing fine work. X. MAGNETISM. For proper understanding of the Thirteenth Century scholars, it is especially important to appreciate their thoroughly scientific temper of mind, their powers of observation, and their successful attainments in science. I know no more compendious way of reaching the knowledge of these qualities in the medieval mind, than a study of the letter of Peregrinus, which we would in our time call a monograph on magnetism. Brother Potamian, in his chapter in "Makers of Electricity" (Fordham University Press, N. Y., 1909) on Peregrinus and Columbus, sums up the very interesting contributions of this medieval student of magnetism to the subject. The list of chapters alone in Peregrinus' monograph (Epistola) makes it very clear how deep were his interests and how thoroughly practical his investigations. [Illustration] THE DOUBLE PIVOTED NEEDLE OF PEREGRINUS. They are:--"Part I., Chapter i, purpose of this work; 2, qualifications of the experimenter; 3, characteristics of a good lodestone; 4, how to distinguish the poles of a lodestone; 5, how to tell which pole is north and which is south; 6, how one lodestone attracts another; 7, how iron touched by a lodestone turns toward the poles of the world; 8, how a lodestone attracts iron; 9, why the north pole of one lodestone attracts the south pole of another, and vice versa; 10, an inquiry into the natural virtue of the lodestone. "Part II., Chapter 1, construction of an instrument for measuring the azimuth of the sun, the moon or any star then in the horizon; 2, construction of a better instrument for the same purpose; 3, the art of making a wheel of perpetual motion." In order to illustrate what Peregrinus accomplished it has seemed worth while to reproduce here the sketches which illustrate his epistle. We have the double pivoted needle and the first pivoted compass. In the light of certain recent events a passage from the "New Naval History or Complete Review of the British Marine" (London, 1757) is of special interest. It illustrates perhaps the new confidence that came to men in sailing to long distances as the result of the {443} realization of the practical value of the magnetic needle during the Thirteenth Century. [Illustration] FIRST PIVOTED COMPASS (PEREGRINUS, 1269). "In the year 1360 it is recorded that a friar of Oxford called Nicholas de Linna (of Lynn), being a good astronomer, went in company with others to the most northern island, and thence traveled alone, and that he went to the North Pole, by means of his skill in magic, or the black art; but this magic or black art may probably have been nothing more than a knowledge of the magnetic needle or compass, found out about sixty years before, though not in common use until many years after." XI. BIOLOGICAL THEORIES, EVOLUTION, RECAPITULATION. Of course only those who are quite unfamiliar with the history of philosophic thought are apt to think that the theory of evolution is modern. Serious students of biology are familiar with the long history of the theory, and especially its anticipations by the Greeks. Very few know, however, that certain phases of evolutionary theory attracted not a little attention from the scholastic philosophers. It would not be difficult to find expressions in Roger Bacon and Albertus Magnus, that would serve to show that they thought not only of the possibility of some very intimate relation of species but of developmental connections. The great teacher of the time, St. Thomas Aquinas, has some striking expressions in the matter, which deserve to be quoted, because he is the most important representative of the philosophy and science of the century and the one whose works most influenced succeeding generations. In the lecture on Medieval Scientific Universities, published in "Education, How Old the New" (Fordham University Press, N. Y., 1910), I called particular attention to this phase of St. Thomas' teaching. Two quotations will serve to make it clear here. Prof. Osborne, in "From the Greeks to Darwin," quotes Aquinas' commentary on St. Augustine's opinion with regard to the origin of things as they are. Augustine declared that the Creator had simply {444} brought into life the seeds of things, and given these the power to develop. Aquinas, expounding Augustine, says: "As to production of plants, Augustine holds a different view, . . . for some say that on the third day plants were actually produced, each in his kind--a view favored by the superficial reading of Scripture. But Augustine says that the earth is then said to have brought forth grass and trees _causaliter_; that is, it then received power to produce them." (Quoting Genesis ii:4): "For in those first days, . . . God made creation primarily or _causaliter_, and then rested from His work." Like expressions might be quoted from him, and other writers of the Thirteenth Century might well be cited in confirmation of the fact that while these great teachers of the Middle Ages thoroughly recognize the necessity for creation to begin with and the placing by the Creator of some power in living things that enables them to develop, they were by no means bound to the thought that all living species were due to special creations. They even did not hesitate to teach the possibility of the lower order of living beings at least coming into existence by spontaneous generation, and would probably have found no difficulty in accepting a theory of descent with the limitations that most scientific men of our generation are prone to demand for it. Lest it should be thought that this is a mere accidental agreement with modern thought, due much more to a certain looseness of terms than to actual similarity of view, it seems well to point out how close St. Thomas came to that thought in modern biology, which is probably considered to be one of our distinct modern contributions to the theory of evolution, though, in recent years, serious doubts have been thrown on it. It is expressed by the formula of Herbert Spencer, "Ontogeny recapitulates phylogeny." According to this, the completed being repeats in the course of its development the history of the race, that is to say, the varying phases of foetal development from the single cell in which it originates up to the perfect being of the special type as it is born into the world, retrace the history by which from the single cell being the creature in question has gradually developed. It is very curious to find that St. Thomas Aquinas, in his teaching with regard to the origin and development of the human being, says, almost exactly, what the most ardent supporters of this so-called fundamental biogenetic law proclaimed during the latter half of the Nineteenth Century, thinking they were expressing an absolutely new thought. He says that "the higher a form is in the scale of being and the farther it is removed from mere material form, the more intermediate forms must be passed through before the finally perfect form is reached. Therefore, in the generation of animal and man-- these having the most perfect forms--there occur many intermediate forms in generations, and consequently destruction, because the {445} generation of one being is the destruction of another." St. Thomas draws the ultimate conclusions from this doctrine without hesitation. He proclaims that the human material is first animated by a vegetative soul or principle of life, and then by an animal soul, and only ultimately when the matter has been properly prepared for it by a rational soul. He said: "The vegetative soul, therefore, which is first in embryo, while it lives the life of a plant, is destroyed, and there succeeds a more perfect soul, which is at once nutrient and sentient, and for that time the embryo lives the life of an animal: upon the destruction of this there succeeds the rational soul, infused from without." XII. THE POPE OF THE CENTURY. The absence of a chapter on the Pope of the Century has always seemed a lacuna in the previous editions of this book. Pope Innocent III., whose pontificate began just before the century opened, and occupied the first fifteen years of it, well deserves a place beside Francis the Saint, Thomas the Scholar, Dante the Poet, and Louis the Monarch of this great century. More than any other single individual he was responsible for the great development of the intellectual life that took place, but at the same time his wonderfully broad influence enabled him to initiate many of the movements that meant most for human uplift and for the alleviation of suffering in this period. It was in Councils of the Church summoned by him that the important legislation was passed requiring the development of schools, the foundation of colleges in every diocese and of universities in important metropolitan sees. What he accomplished for hospitals has been well told by Virchow, from whom I quote a magnanimous tribute in the chapter on the Foundation of City Hospitals. The legislation of Innocent III. did much to encourage, and yet to regulate properly the religious orders of this time engaged in charitable work. Besides doing so much for charity, he was a stern upholder of morals. As more than one king of the time realized while Innocent was Pope, there could be no trifling with marriage vows. On the other hand, while Innocent was so stern as to the enforcement of marriage laws, his wonderfully judicious character and his care for the weak and the innocent can be particularly noted in his treatment of the children in these cases. While he compelled recalcitrant kings to take back the wives they would repudiate, and put away other women who had won their affections, he did not hesitate to make due provision as far as possible for the illegitimate children. Pirie Gordon, in his recent life of Pope Innocent III., notes that he invariably legitimated the offspring of these illegal unions of kings, and even declared them capable of succession. He would not visit the guilt of the parent on the innocent offspring. {446} Innocent did more to encourage the idea of international arbitration than anyone up to his time. During his period more than once he was the arbitrator to whom rival national claims that might have led to war were referred. Probably his greatest claim on our admiration in the modern time is his attitude toward the Jews. In this he is centuries ahead of his time and, indeed, the policy that he laid down is far ahead of what is accorded to them by many of the nations even at the present time, and it must not be forgotten that it is only during the past hundred years that the Jew has come to have any real privileges comparable to those accorded to other men. At a time when the Jew had no real rights in law, Innocent insisted on according them all the rights of men. His famous edict in this regard is well known. "Let no Christian by violence compel them to come dissenting or unwilling to Baptism. Further let no Christian venture maliciously to harm their persons without a judgment of the civil power, to carry off their property or change their good customs which they have had hitherto in that district which they inhabit." When, in addition to all this, it is recalled that he was a distinguished scholar and graduate of the University of Paris, looked up to as one of the intellectual geniuses of the time, the author of a treatise "On the Contempt of the World" at a time when the kings of the earth were obeying him, known for his personal piety and for his thorough regulation of his own household, something of the greatness of the man will be appreciated. No wonder that historians who have taken up the special study of his career have always been won over to deep personal admiration of him, and though many of them began prejudiced in his regard, practically all of them were converted to be his sincere admirers. XIII. INTERNATIONAL ARBITRATION. During the Peace Conference in New York in 1908 I was on the programme with Mr. William T. Stead of London, the editor of the English _Review of Reviews_, who was very much interested in the volume on the Thirteenth Century, and who suggested that one chapter in the book should have been devoted to the consideration of what was accomplished for peace and for International Arbitration during this century. There is no doubt that there developed, as the result of many Papal decrees, a greater tendency than has existed ever before or since, to refer quarrels between nations that would ordinarily end in war to decision by some selected umpire. Usually the Pope, as the head of the Christian Church, to which all the nations of the civilized world belonged, was selected as the arbitrator. This international arbitration, strengthened by the decrees of Pope Innocent III., Pope Honorius III. and Pope Alexander III., developed in a way that is well worth while studying, and that has deservedly been the subject of careful investigation since the present {447} peace movement began. Certainly the outlook for the securing of peace by international arbitration was better at this time than it has been at any time since. What a striking example, for instance, is the choice of King Louis of France as the umpire in the dispute between the Barons and the King of England, which might have led to war. Louis' position with regard to the Empire and the Papacy was to a great extent that of a pacificator, and his influence for peace was felt everywhere throughout Europe. The spirit of the century was all for arbitration and the adjudication of intranational as well as international difficulties by peaceful means. XIV. BIBLE REVISION. Most people will be quite sure that at least the question of Bible revision with critical study of text and comparative investigation of sources was reserved for our time. The two orders of friars founded in the early part of the Thirteenth Century, however, devoted themselves to the task of supplying to the people a thoroughly reliable edition of the Scriptures. The first systematic revision was made by the Dominicans about 1236. After twenty years this revision was set aside as containing too many errors, and another Dominican correction replaced it. Then came that great scholar, Hugh of St. Cher, known later as the Cardinal of Santa Sabina, the author of the first great Biblical Concordance. His Bible studies did much to clarify obscurities in the text. Sometime about 1240 he organized a commission of friars for the revision of what was known as the Paris Exemplar, the Bible text that was most in favor at that time. The aim of Hugh of St. Cher was to establish the old Vulgate of St. Jerome, the text which received this name during this century, but with such revision as would make this version correspond as nearly as possible to the Hebrew and the Greek. This activity on the part of the Dominicans was rivaled by the Franciscans. We might not expect to find the great scientist, Roger Bacon, as a Biblical scholar and reviser, but such he was, working with Willermus de Mara, to whom, according to Father Denifle, late the Librarian of the Vatican Library, must be attributed the title given him by Roger Bacon of Sapientissimus Vir. The Dominicans under the leadership of Hugh of St. Cher with high ideals had hoped to achieve a perfect primitive text. The version made by de Mara, however, with the approval and advice of Bacon, was only meant to bring out St. Jerome's text as perfectly as possible. These two revisions made in the Thirteenth Century are typical of all the efforts that men have made since in that same direction. Contrary to usual present day impressions, they are characterized by critical scholarship, and probably represent as great a contribution to Biblical lore as was made by any other century. {448} XV. FICTION OF THE CENTURY. Ordinarily it would be presumed that life was taken entirely too seriously during the Thirteenth Century for the generation to pay much attention to fiction. In a certain sense this is true. In the sense, however, that they had no stories worthy of the great literature in other departments it would be quite untrue. There is a naiveté about their story telling that rather amuses our sophisticated age, yet all the elements of our modern fiction are to be found in the stories that were popular during the century, and arranged with a dramatic effect that must have given them a wide appeal. The most important contribution to the fiction of the century is to be found in the collection known as the _Cento Novelle Antiche_ or "Hundred Ancient Tales," which contains the earliest prose fiction extant in Italian. Many of these come from a period anterior to Dante, and it is probable from what Manni, the learned editor of the _Novelliero_, says, that they were written out in the Thirteenth Century and collected in the early part of the Fourteenth Century. They did not all originate in Italy, and, indeed, Manni considers that most of them derived their origin from Provence. They represent the interest of the century in fiction and in anecdotal literature. As for the longer fiction, the pure love story of the modern time, we have one typical example of it in that curious relic of the Middle Ages, "Aucassin and Nicolette." The manuscript which preserved this for us comes from the Thirteenth Century. Perhaps, as M. Paris suggests, the tale itself is from the preceding century. At least it was the interest of the Thirteenth Century in it that saved it for us. For those who think that the love romance in any of its features is novel, though we call it by that name, or that there has been any development of human nature which enables the writer of love stories to appeal to other and deeper, or purer and loftier feelings in his loved ones now than in the past, all that is needed, as it seems to me, is a casual reading of this pretty old song-story. Perhaps the most interesting feature of this oldest specimen of modern fiction is the number of precious bits of psychologic analysis or, at least, what is called that in the recent time, which occur in the course of it. For instance, when Aucassin is grieving because he cannot find Nicolette he wanders through the forest on horseback, and is torn by trees and brambles, but "he feels it not at all." On the other hand, when he finds Nicolette, though he is suffering from a dislocated shoulder, he no longer feels any pain in it, because of his joy at the meeting, and Nicolette (first aid to the injured) is able to replace the dislocated part without difficulty (the trained nurse in fiction) because he is so happy as not to notice the pain (psychotherapy). The herdsman whom he meets wonders that Aucassin, with plenty of money and victuals, should grieve so much over the loss of Nicolette, {449} while he has so much more cause to grieve over the loss of an ox, which means starvation to him. Toward the end of the story we have the scene in which Nicolette, stolen from home when very young, and utterly unable to remember anything about her childhood, has brought back to her memory by the view of the city of Carthage forgotten events of her childhood (subconscious memory). These represent naively enough, it is true, the study of the mind under varying conditions that has in recent years been given the rather ambitious name of psychology in fiction. XVI. GREAT ORATORS. Without a chapter on the great orators of the period an account of the Thirteenth Century is quite incomplete. Great as were the other forms of literature, epic, lyric and religious poetry and the prose writing, it is probable that the oratory of the time surpassed them all. When we recall that the Cid, the Arthur Legends, the Nibelungen, the Meistersingers, and the Minnesingers, Reynard the Fox, the Romance of the Rose, the Troubadours, and even Dante are included in the other term of the comparison thus made, it may seem extravagant, but what we know of the effect of the orators of the time fully justifies it. Just before the Thirteenth Century, great religious orators swayed the hearts and minds of people, to the organization of the Crusades. At the beginning of the Thirteenth Century the mendicant orders were organized, and their important duties were preaching and teaching. The Dominicans were of course the Order of Preachers, and we have traditions of their sway over the minds of the people of the time which make it very clear that their power was equal to that exerted in any other department of human expression. There are traditions particularly of the oratory of the Dominicans among the German races, which serve to show how even a phlegmatic people can be stirred to the very depths of their being by the eloquent spoken word. In France the traditions are almost as explicit in this matter, and there are remains of religious orations that fully confirm the reputation of the orators of the time. Rhetoric and oratory was studied very assiduously. Cicero was the favorite reading of the great preachers of the time, and we find the court preachers of St. Louis, �tienne de Bourbon, Elinand, Guillaume de Perrault and others appealing to his precepts as the infallible guide to oratory. Quintilian was not neglected, however, and Symmachus and Sidonius Apollinaris were also faithfully studied. If we turn to the speeches that are incorporated in the epics, as, for instance, the Cid, or in some of the historians, as Villehardouin, we have definite evidence of the thorough command of the writers of the time over the forms of oratory. M. Paullin Paris, the authority in our time on the literature of the Thirteenth Century, quotes a passage from Villehardouin in which Canon de Bethune speaks in the {450} name of the French chiefs of the Fourth Crusade to the Emperors Isaac and Alexis Comnenus. M. Paris does not hesitate to declare that the passage is equal to many of the same kind that have been much admired in the classic authors. It has the force, the finish and the compression of Thucydides. XVII. GREAT BEGINNINGS IN ENGLISH LITERATURE. Only the fact that this work was getting beyond the number of printed pages determined for it in the first edition prevented the insertion of a chapter especially devoted to the great beginnings of English literature in the Thirteenth Century. The most important contributions to Early English were made at this period. The Ormulum and Layamon's Brut, both written probably during the first decade of the Thirteenth Century, have become familiar to all students of Old English. Mr. Gollancz goes so far as to say that "The Ormulum is perhaps the most valuable document we possess for the history of English sound. Orm was a purist in orthography as well as in vocabulary, and may fittingly be described as the first of English phoneticians." [Illustration] MANUSCRIPT OF ORMULUM (THIRTEENTH CENTURY) Of Layamon, Garnett said in his "English Literature" (Garnett and Gosse): "It would have sufficed for the fame of Layamon had he been no more than the first minstrel to celebrate Arthur in English song, but his own pretensions as a poet are by no means inconsiderate. He is everywhere vigorous and graphic, and improved upon his predecessor, Wace, alike by his additions and expansions, and by his more spiritual handling of the subjects common to both." Even more important in the history of language than these is _The Ancren Riwle_ (The Anchorites' Rule). This was probably written by Richard Poore, Bishop of Salisbury, for three Cistercian nuns. Its place in English literature may be judged from a quotation or two with regard to it. Mr. Kington-Oliphant says: "_The Ancren Riwle_ is the forerunner of a wondrous change in our speech. More than anything else written outside the Danelagh, that piece has influenced our standard {451} English." Garnett says: "_The Ancren Riwle_ is a work of great literary merit and, in spite of its linguistic innovations, most of which have established themselves, well deserves to be described as 'one of the most perfect models of simple eloquent prose in our language.'" The religious poetry of the time is not behind the great prose of _The Ancren Riwle_, and one of them, the _Luve Ron_ (Love Song) of Thomas de Hales, is very akin to the spirit of that work, and has been well described as "a contemplative lyric of the simplest, noblest mold." Garnett says: "The reflections are such as are common to all who have in all ages pleaded for the higher life under whatsoever form, and deplored the frailty and transitoriness of man's earthly estate. Two stanzas on the latter theme as expressed in a modernized version might almost pass for Villon's:-- "Paris and Helen, where are they, Fairest in beauty, bright to view? Amadas, Tristrem, Ideine, yea Isold, that lived with love so true? And Caesar, rich in power and sway, Hector the strong, with might to do? All glided from earth's realm away, Like shaft that from the bow-string flew. "It is as if they ne'er were here. Their wondrous woes have been a' told, That it is sorrow but to hear; How anguish killed them sevenfold, And how with dole their lives were drear; Now is their heat all turned to cold. Thus this world gives false hope, false fear; A fool, who in her strength is bold." XVIII. GREAT ORIGINS IN MUSIC. In the chapter on the Great Latin Hymns a few words were said about one phase of the important musical development in the Thirteenth Century, that of plain chant. In that simple mode the musicians of the Thirteenth Century succeeded in reaching a climax of expression of human feeling in such chants as the _Exultet_ and the _Lamentation_ that has never been surpassed. Something was also said about the origin of part music, but so little that it might easily be thought that in this the century lagged far behind its achievements in other departments. M, Pierre Aubry has recently published (1909) _Cent Motets du XIIIe Siècle_ in three volumes. His first volume contains a photographic reproduction of the manuscript of Bamberg from which the hundred musical modes are secured, the second a transcription in modern musical notation of the old music, and the third volume studies and commentaries on the music and the times. If anything were needed to show how utterly ignorant we have been of the interests and artistic achievements of the Middle Ages, it is this book of M. Aubry. Victor Hugo said that music dates from the Sixteenth Century, and it has been quite the custom, even for people who thought they {452} knew something about music, to declare that we had no remains of any music before the Sixteenth Century worth while talking about. Ancient music is probably lost to us forever, but M. Aubry has shown conclusively that we have abundant remains to show us that the musicians of the Thirteenth Century devoted themselves to their art with as great success as their rivals in the other Gothic arts and, indeed, they thought that they had nearly exhausted its possibilities and tried to make a science of it. By their supposedly scientific rules they succeeded in binding music so firmly as to bring about its obscuration in succeeding centuries. This is, however, the old story of what has happened in every art whenever genius succeeds in finding a great mode of expression. A formula is evolved which often binds expression so rigorously as to prevent natural development. XIX. A CHAPTER ON MANNERS. Whatever the people of the Middle Ages may have been in morals, their manners are supposed to have been about as lacking in refinement as possible. As for nearly everything else, however, this impression is utterly false, and is due to the assumption that because we are better-mannered than the generations of a century or two ago, therefore we must be almost infinitely in advance, in the same respect, of the people of seven centuries ago. There are ups and downs in manners, however, as there are in education, and the beginnings of the formal setting forth of modern manners are, like everything else modern, to be found in the Thirteenth Century. About the year 1215 Thomasin Zerklaere wrote in German a rather lengthy treatise, _Der Wälsche Gast_, on manners. It contains most of the details of polite conduct that have been accepted in later times. Not long afterwards, John Garland, an Oxford man who had lived in France for many years, wrote a book on manners for English young men. He meant this to be a supplement to Dionysius Cato's treatise, written probably in the Fourth Century in Latin, which was concerned more with morals than manners and had been very popular during the Middle Ages. Garland's book was the first of a series of such treatises on manners which appeared in England at the close of the Middle Ages. Many of them have been recently republished, and are a revelation of the development of manners among our English forefathers. The book is usually alluded to in literature as Liber Faceti, or as Facet; the full title was, "The Book of the Polite Man, Teaching Manners for Men, Especially for Boys, as a Supplement to those which were Omitted by the Most Moral Cato." The "Romance of the Rose" has, of course, many references to manners which show us how courtesy was cultivated in France. In Italy, Dante's teacher, Bruneto Latini, published his "Tesoretto," which treats of manners, and which was soon followed by a number of similar treatises in {453} Italian. In a word, we must look to the Thirteenth Century for the origin, or at least the definite acceptance, of most of those conventions which make for kindly courtesy among men, and have made possible human society and friendly intercourse in our modern sense of those words. We are prone to think that refinement in table manners is a matter of distinctly modern times. In "The Babees' Book," which is one of the oldest books of English manners, the date of which in its present form is about the middle of the Fourteenth Century, many of our rules of politeness at table are anticipated. This book is usually looked upon as a compilation from preceding times, and the original of it is supposed to be from the preceding century. A few quotations from it will show how closely it resembles our own instructions to children: "Thou shalt not laugh nor speak nothing While thy mouth be full of meat or drink; Nor sup thou not with great sounding Neither pottage nor other thing. At meat cleanse not thy teeth, nor pick With knife or straw or wand or stick. While thou holdest meat in mouth, beware To drink; that is an unhonest chare; And also physic forbids it quite. Also eschew, without strife. To foul the board cloth with thy knife. Nor blow not on thy drink or meat, Neither for cold, neither for heat. Nor bear with meat thy knife to mouth. Whether thou be set by strong or couth. Lean not on elbow at thy meat, Neither for cold nor for heat. Dip not thy thumb thy drink into; Thou art uncourteous if thou it do. In salt-cellar if thou put Or fish or flesh that men see it, That is a vice, as men me tells; And great wonder it would be else." The directions, "how to behave thyself in talking with any man," in one of these old books, are very minute and specific:-- "If a man demand a question of thee. In thine answer making be not too hasty; Weigh well his words, the case understand Ere an answer to make thou take in hand; Else may he judge in thee little wit, To answer to a thing and not hear it. Suffer his tale whole out to be told. Then speak thou mayst, and not be controlled; In audible voice thy words do thou utter, Not high nor low, but using a measure. Thy words see that thou pronounce plaine. And that they spoken be not in vain; In uttering whereon keep thou an order, Thy matter thereby thou shalt much forder Which order if thou do not observe. From the purpose needs must thou swerve." {454} XX. TEXTILE WORK OF THE CENTURY. A special chapter might easily have been written on the making of fine cloths of various kinds, most of which reached their highest perfection in the Thirteenth Century. Velvet, for instance, is mentioned for the first time in England in 1295, but existed earlier on the continent, and cut velvets with elaborate patterns were made in Genoa exactly as we know finished velvet now. Baudekin or Baldichin, a very costly textile of gold and silk largely used in altar coverings and hangings, came to very high perfection in this century also. The canopy for the Blessed Sacrament is, because of its manufacture from this cloth, still called in Italy a _baldichino_. Chaucer in the next century tells how the streets in royal processions were "hanged with cloth of gold and not with serge." Satin also was first manufactured very probably in the Thirteenth Century. It is first mentioned in England about the middle of the Fourteenth Century, when Bishop Grandison made a gift of choice satins to Exeter Cathedral. The word satin, however, is derived from the silks of the Mediterranean, called by the Italians _seta_ and by the Spanish _seda_, and the art of making it was brought to perfection during the preceding century. The art of making textiles ornamented with elaborate designs of animal forms and of floral ornaments reached its highest perfection in the Thirteenth Century. In one of the Chronicles we learn that in 1295 St. Paul's in London owned a hanging "patterned with wheels and two-headed birds." We have accounts of such elaborate textile ornamentation as peacocks, lions, griffins and the like. Almeria in Andalusia was a rich city in the Thirteenth Century, noted for its manufactures of textiles. A historian of the period writes: "Christians of all nations came to its port to buy and sell. Then they traveled to other parts of the interior of the country, where they loaded their vessels with such goods as they wanted. Costly silken robes of the brightest colors are manufactured in Almeria." Marco-Polo says of the Persians that, when he passed through that country (end of the Thirteenth Century), "there are excellent artificers in the city who make wonderful things in gold, silk and embroidery. The women make excellent needlework in silk with all sorts of creatures very admirably wrought therein." He also reports the King of Tartary as wearing on his birthday a most precious garment of gold, and tells of the girdles of gold and silver, with pearls and ornaments of great price on them. Unfortunately English embroidery fell off very greatly at the time of the Wars of the Roses. These wars constitute the main reason why nearly every form of intellectual accomplishment and artistic achievement went into decadence during the Fourteenth Century, from which they were only just emerging when the so-called {455} reformation, with its confiscation of monastic property, and its destruction of monastic life, came to ruin schools of all kinds, and, above all, those in which the arts and crafts had been taught so successfully. France at the end of the Thirteenth Century saw a similar rise to excellence of textile and embroidery work. In 1299 there is an allusion to one Clément le Brodeur who furnished a magnificent cope for the Count of Artois. In 1316 a beautifully decorated set of hangings was made for the Queen by Gautier de Poulleigny. There are other references to work done in the early part of the Fourteenth Century, which serve to show the height which art had reached in this mode during the Thirteenth Century. In Ireland, while the finer work had its due place, the making of woolens was the specialty, and the dyeing of woolen cloth made the Irish famous and brought many travelers from the continent to learn the secret. The work done in England in embroidery attracted the attention of the world. English needlework became a proverb. In the body of the book I mentioned the cope of Ascoli, but there were many such beautiful garments. The Syon cope is, in the opinion of Miss Addison, author of "Arts and Crafts in the Middle Ages," the most conspicuous example of the medieval embroiderers' art. It was made by nuns about the middle of the Thirteenth Century, that is, just about the same time as the cope of Ascoli, but in a convent near Coventry. According to Miss Addison "it is solid stitchery on a canvas ground, wrought about with divers colors' on green. The design is laid out in a series of interlacing square forms, with rounded and barbed sides and corners. In each of these is a figure or a Scriptural scene. The orphreys, or straight borders, which go down on both fronts of the cope, are decorated with heraldic charges. Much of the embroidery is raised, and wrought in the stitch known as Opus Anglicanum. The effect was produced by pressing a heated metal knob into the work at such points as were to be raised. The real embroidery was executed on a flat surface, and then bossed up by this means until it looked like bas-relief. The stitches in every part run in zig-zags, the vestments, and even the nimbi about the heads, are all executed with the stitches slanting in one direction, from the center of the cope outward, without consideration of the positions of the figures. Each face is worked in circular progression outward from the center, as well. The interlaces are of crimson, and look well on the green ground. The wheeled cherubim is well developed in the design of this famous cope, and is a pleasing decorative bit of archaic ecclesiasticism. In the central design of the Crucifixion, the figure of the Lord is rendered in silver on a gold ground." XXI. GLASS-MAKING. A chapter might well have been devoted to Thirteenth Century glass-making quite apart from the stained glass of the cathedral {456} windows. All over Europe some of the most wonderful specimens of colored glass we possess were made in the Thirteenth Century. Recently Mr. Frederick Rolfe has looked up for me Venetian glass, of the three centuries, the Twelfth, the Thirteenth and the Fourteenth. He says Twelfth Century glass is small in form, simple and ignorant in model, excessively rich and brilliant in colors; the artist evidently had no ideal, but the Byzantine of jewels and emeralds. "Thirteenth Century glass is absolutely different. The specimens are pretty. The work of the Beroviero family is large and splendid in form, exquisite and sometimes elaborate in model, mostly crystal glass reticently studded with tiny colored gem-like knobs. There are also fragments of two windows pieced together, and missing parts filled with the best which modern Murano can do. These show the celebrated Beroviero Ruby glass (secret lost) of marvelous depth and brilliancy in comparison with which the modern work is merely watery. The ancient is just like a decanter of port-wine. "Fourteenth Century returns to the wriggling ideal and exiguous form of the Twelfth Century, and fails woefully in brilliance of color. It is small and dull and undistinguished. One may find out what war or pest afflicted Murano at this epoch to explain the singular degradation." This same curious degradation took place in the manufacture of most art objects during the Fourteenth Century. One would feel in Mr. Rolfe's words like looking for some physical cause for it. The decadence is so universal, however, that it seems not unlikely that it follows some little known human law, according to which, after man has reached a certain perfection of expression in an art or craft, there comes, in the striving after originality yet variety, an overbalancing of the judgment, a vitiation of the taste in the very luxuriance of beauty discovered that leads to decay. It is the very contradiction of the supposed progress of mankind through evolution, but it is illustrated in many phases of human history and, above all, the history of art, letters, education and the arts and crafts. XXII. INVENTIONS. Most people are sure to think that, at least in the matter of inventions, ours is the only time worth considering. The people of the Thirteenth Century, however, made many wonderful inventions and adaptations of mechanical principles, as well as many ingenious appliances. Their faculty of invention was mainly devoted to work in other departments besides that of mechanics. They were inventors of designs in architecture, in decoration, in furnishings, in textiles, and in the beautiful things of life generally. Their inventiveness in the arts and crafts was especially admirable and, indeed, has been fruitful in our time, since, with the reawakening in this matter, we have gone back to imitate their designs. Good authorities declare these to be endless in number and variety. Such mechanical inventions as were {457} needed for the building of their great cathedrals, their municipal buildings, abbeys, castles, piers, bridges and the like were admirably worked out. Necessity is the mother of invention, and whenever needs asserted themselves, these old generations responded to them, very successfully. There are, however, a number of inventions that would attract attention even, in the modern time for their practical usefulness and ingenuity. With the growth of the universities writing became much more common, textbooks were needed, and so paper was invented. With the increase of reading, to replace teaching by hearing, spectacles were invented. Time became more precious, clocks were greatly improved, and we hear of the invention of something like an alarm clock, an apparatus which, after a fixed number of hours, woke the monk of the abbey whose duty it was to arouse the others. Organs for churches were greatly improved, bells were perfected, and everything else in connection with the churches so well fashioned that we still use them in their Thirteenth Century forms. Gunpowder was not invented, but a great many new uses were found for it, and Roger Bacon even suggested, as I have said, that sometime explosives would enable boats to move by sea without sails or oars, or carriages to move on land without horses or men. Roger Bacon even suggested the possibility of airships, described how one might be made, the wings of which would be worked by a windlass, and thought that he could make it. His friend and pupil, Peregrinus, invented the double pivoted compass, and, as the first perpetual-motion faddist, described how he would set about making a magnetic engine that he thought would run forever. When we recall how much they accomplished mechanically in the construction of buildings, it becomes evident that any mechanical problem that these generations wanted solved they succeeded in solving very well. What they have left us as inventions are among the most useful appliances that we have. Without paper and without spectacles, the intellectual world would be in a sad case, indeed. Many of the secrets of their inventions in the arts and crafts have been lost, and, in spite of all our study, we have not succeeded in rediscovering them. XXIII. INDUSTRY AND TRADE. We are rather inclined to think that large organizations of industry and trade were reserved for comparatively modern times. To think so, however, is to forget the place occupied by the monasteries and convents in the olden time. We have heard much of the lazy monks, but only from those who know nothing at all about them. Idleness in the monasteries was one of the accusations made by the commission set to furnish evidence to Henry VIII. on which he might suppress the monasteries, but every modern historian has rejected the findings of that commission as false. Many forms of manufacture were carried on in the monasteries and convents. They were {458} the principal bookmakers and bookbinders. To a great extent they were the manufacturers of art fabrics and arts-and-crafts work intended for church use, but also for the decoration of luxurious private apartments. Most of us have known something of all this finer work, but not that they had much to do with cruder industries also. They were millers, cloth-makers, brush- and broom-makers, shoemakers for themselves and their tenantry; knitting was done in the convents, and all the finer fancy work. A recent meeting of the Institute of Mining Engineers in England brought out some discussion of coal mining in connection with the early history of the coal mines in England. The records of many of the English monasteries show that in early times the monks knew the value of coal, and used it rather freely. They also mined it for others. The monks at Tynemouth are known to have been mining coal on the Manor of Tynemouth in 1269, and shipping it to a distance. At Durham and at Finchale Abbey they were doing this also about the same time. It would require special study to bring out the interesting details, but there is abundant material not alone for a chapter, but for a volume on the industries of the Thirteenth Century, which, like the education and the literature and the culture of the time, we have thought undeveloped, because we knew nothing of them. The relation of the monasteries to trade, domestic and foreign, is very well brought out in a paragraph of Mr. Ralph Adams Cram's book on "The Ruined Abbeys of Great Britain" (New York, The Churchman Co., 1905), in which he describes the remains at Beaulieu, which show the place of that monastery, not by any means one of the most important in England, in trade. For the benefit of their tenantry others had done even more. "Some idea of the power of one of these great monasteries may be gained from traces still existing of the center of trade built up by the monks outside their gates. Here, at the head of tide water, in a most out-of-the-way spot, a great stone quay was constructed, to which came ships from foreign lands. Near by was a great marketplace, now, as then, called Cheapside, though commerce exists there no longer. At the height of monastic glory the religious houses were actually the chief centers of industry and civilization, and around them grew up the eager villages, many of which now exist, even though their impulse and original inspiration have long since departed. Of course, the possessions of the abbey reached far away from the walls in every direction, including many farms even at a great distance, for the abbeys were then the great landowners, and beneficent landlords they were as well, even in their last days, for we have many records of the cruelty and hardships that came to the tenants the moment the stolen lands came into the hands of laymen." XXIV. FAIRS AND MARKETS. A chapter might well have been devoted to showing the significance of those curious old institutions, the fairs and market days of the {459} Middle Ages. The country folk flocked into town, bringing with them their produce, and found there gathered from many parts merchants come to exchange and barter. The expense of maintaining a store all the year around was done away with, and profits did not have to be large. Exchanges were direct, and the profits of the middlemen were to a great extent eliminated. It was distinctly to the advantage of the poor, for the expenses of commerce were limited to the greatest possible extent, and every advantage accrued to the customer. Besides, these market days became days of innocent merriment, amusement and diversion. Wandering purveyors of amusement followed the fairs, and obtained their living from the generosity of the people who were amused. These amusements were conducted out of doors, and with very few of the objectionable features as regards hygiene and morality that are likely to attach themselves to the same things in our day. The amusement was what we would call now vaudeville, singing, dancing, the exhibition of trained animals, acrobatic feats of various kinds, so that we cannot very well say that our people are in advance of their medieval forbears in such matters, since their taste is about the same. Fairs and market days made country life less monotonous by their regular recurrence, and so prevented that emptying of the country into the city which we deprecate in our time. They had economic, social, even moral advantages, that are worth while studying. XXV. INTENSIVE FARMING. We hear much of intensive farming in the modern time, and it is supposed to be a distinctly modern invention mothered by the necessity due to great increase of population. One of the most striking features of the story of monasticism in the countries of Europe, however, during the Middle Ages, and especially during the Thirteenth Century, when so many of the greatest abbeys reached a climax of power and influence and beauty of construction, is their successful devotion paid to agriculture. In the modern time we are gradually learning the lesson of growing larger and larger crops on the same area of ground by proper selection of seed, and of developing cattle in such a way as to make them most valuable as a by-product of farming. This is exactly what the old monastic establishments did. At the beginning of the Thirteenth Century many of them were situated in rather barren regions, sometimes, indeed, surrounded by thick forests, but at the end of the century all the great monastic establishments had succeeded in making beautiful luxuriant gardens for themselves, and had taught their numerous tenantry the great lessons of agricultural improvement which made for plenty and happiness. Many monasteries belonged to the same religious order, and the traditions of these were carried from one to the other by visiting {460} monks or sometimes by the transfer of members of one community to another. The monastic establishments were the great farmers of Europe, and it was their proud boast that their farming lands, instead of being exhausted from year to year, were rather increasing in value. They doubtless had many secrets of farming that were lost and had to be rediscovered in the modern time, just as in the arts and crafts, for their success in farming was as noteworthy. Their knowledge of trees must have been excellent, since they surrounded themselves with fine forests, at times arranged so as to provide shady walks and charming avenues. Their knowledge of simple farming must have been thorough, for the farms of the monasteries were always the most prosperous, and the tenantry were always the happiest. With the traditions that we have especially in English history, this seems almost impossible to credit, but these traditions, manufactured for a purpose, have now been entirely discredited. We have learned in recent years what wonderful scholars, architects, painters, teachers, engineers these monks were, and so it is not surprising to find that they had magnificently developed agricultural knowledge as well as that of every other department in which they were particularly interested. XXVI. CARTOGRAPHY AND THE TEACHING OF GEOGRAPHY. In the chapter on Great Explorers and The Foundation of Geography, in the body of the book, much might have been said about maps and map-making, for the Thirteenth Century was a great period in this matter. Lecoy de la Marche among his studies of the Thirteenth Century has included a volume of a collection of the maps of the Thirteenth Century. If the purpose had been to make this a work of erudition rather than of popular information, much might have been said of the cartography of the time even from this work alone (_Receuil de Charles du XIII e Siècle_, Paris, 1878). One of the great maps of the Thirteenth Century, that on the Cathedral wall of Hereford, deserves a place here. It was made just at the end of the Thirteenth Century. The idea of its maker was to convey as much information as possible about the earth, and not merely indicate its political divisions and the relative size and position of the different parts. It is to a certain extent at least a resume of history, of physical geography, and even of geographical biology and anthropology, for it has indications as to the dwelling-place of animals and curious types of men. It contains, besides, references to interesting objects of other kinds. Because of its interest I have reproduced the map itself, and the key to it with explanations published at Hereford. {461} [Illustration] _Key to the Photograph of the Ancient Map of the World_. PRESERVED IN HEREFORD CATHEDRAL. [Illustration] MAP OF THE WORLD (HEREFORD CATHEDRAL) The Map is executed on a single sheet of vellum, 54 in. in breadth, by 63 in. in extreme height, it is fixed on a strong framework of oak. At the top (Fig. 1) is a representation of the Last Judgment. Our Saviour is represented in glory, and below is the Virgin Mary interceding for mankind. For convenience of reference the Key Map is divided into squares marked by Roman capitals, with the more prominent objects in figures. I.--Commencing with sq. 1. the circle marked by Fig. 2 represents the Garden of Eden, with the four rivers, and Adam and Eve eating the forbidden fruit. The remainder of the square, as also in II. and III., is occupied by India. At Fig. 3 is shown the expulsion of Adam and Eve, to the right of which is shown a race of Giants, and to the left the City of Enoch, and still further the Golden Mountains guarded by Dragons. Below these mountains are shown a race of pigmies. In a space bounded by two rivers is placed a crocodile, and immediately below a female warrior. To the left of the latter are a pair of birds called in the Map Alerions. The large {462} river to the left is the Ganges. II.--Shows one of the inhabitants of this part of India, who are said to have but one foot, which is sufficiently large to serve as an umbrella to shelter themselves from the sun. The city in the center is Samarcand. III.--In which is seen an Elephant, to the left a Parrot. A part of the Red Sea is also shown with the Island of Taprobana (Ceylon), on which are shown two Dragons. It also bears an inscription denoting that dragons and elephants are found there. The small Islands shown are Crise, Argire, Ophir, and Frondisia (Aphrodisia). IV.--Contains the Caspian Sea, below which is a figure holding its tail in his hand, and which the author calls the Minotaur. To the left is shown one of the Albani, who are said to see better at night than in the daytime. Below are two warriors in combat with a Griffin (Fig. 27). V.--In the upper part are Bokhara and Thrace, in the latter of which (Fig. 29) is shown the Pelican feeding its young, to the left a singular figure representing the Cicones, and to the right the Camel, in Bactria. Below to the left is the Tiger, and on the right an animal with a human head and the body of a lion, called the Mantichora. Still lower is seen Noah's ark (Fig. 28), in which are shown three human figures, with beasts, birds and serpents. In the lower corner, at Fig. 26, is the Golden Fleece. VI.--The upper parts contain Babylonia, with the City of Babylon (Fig. 4) on the river Euphrates, below which is the city of Damascus, which has on its right an unknown animal called the Marsok. To the right is Lot's wife turned into a pillar of salt (Fig. 8). Decapolis and the River Jordan are near the bottom of the square. Above the River Euphrates is a figure in a frame representing the Patriarch Abraham's residence at Ur of the Chaldees. VII.--The Red Sea (Figs. 5, 5) is the most conspicuous object here. In the fork formed by it is shown the giving of the Tables of The Law on Mount Sinai. Below, and touching the line (Fig. 6) showing the wanderings of the Israelites, is seen the worship of the Golden Calf. The Dead Sea and submerged Cities are shown lower down to the left, and between this and the Red Sea is the Phoenix. At the bottom is a mythical animal with long horns, called the Eale. VIII.--In the upper part is the Monastery of St. Anthony in Ethiopia. The river to the left is the Nile, between this and a great interior lake (Figs. 7, 7) is a figure of Satyr. Beyond the lake, and extending a distance down the Map (Figs. 12, 12, 12), are various singular figures, supposed to represent the races dwelling there. In a circular island to the left (Meroe) is a man riding a crocodile, and at the bottom left-hand corner is a centaur. IX.--The upper part is Scythia, and shows some cannibals, below which (Fig. 25) are two Scythians in combat. Under this again is a man leading a horse with a human skin thrown over it, and to the right of the latter is placed the ostrich. X.--Asia Minor with the Black Sea (Fig. 24). Many cities are shown prominent, among which is Troy (Fig. 21), described as "_Troja civitas bellicosissima_." Near the bottom to the left is Constantinople. The lynx is shown near the center. XI.--Is nearly filled by the Holy Land. In the center is Jerusalem (Fig. 23), the supposed center of the world, surrounded by a high wall, and above is the Crucifixion. Below Jerusalem to the right is Bethlehem with the manger. Near a circular place to the right, called _"Puteus Juramenti"_ (well of the oath), is an unknown bird, called on the Map Avis Cirenus. XII.--Egypt with the Nile. At the upper part (Fig. 9) are Joseph's granaries, i.e., the Pyramids, immediately below which is the Salamander, and to the right of that the Mandrake. Fig. 10 denotes the Delta with its cities. {463} On the other side of the Nile, and partly in sq. XIII., is the Rhinoceros, and below it the Unicorn. XIII.--Ethiopia. In the upper left-hand corner is the Sphinx, and near the bottom the Temple of Jupiter Ammon, represented by a singular horse-shoe shaped figure. The camp of Alexander the Great is in the bottom left-hand corner, immediately above which is the boundary line between Asia and Africa, XIV.--At the top of the left is Norway, in which the author has placed the Monkey. The middle is filled by Russia. The small circular islands on the left are the Orkneys, immediately below which is an inscription relating to the Seven Sleepers, Scotland and part of England are shown in the lower part, but the British Isles will be described in sq. XIX. The singular triangular figure in the center of this square cannot be identified. XV.--Germany, with part of Greece, in the upper part to the right. The Danube and its tributaries are seen in the upper part, in the lower is the Rhine. On the bank of the latter the scorpion is placed; Venice is shown on the right, XVI.--Contains Italy and a great part of the Mediterranean Sea (Fig. 14). About the center (Fig. 17) is Rome, which bears the inscription, "Roma caput mundi tenet orbis frena rotundi." In the upper part of the Mediterranean Sea is seen a Mermaid, below (Fig. 11) is the Island of Crete, with its famous labyrinth, to the left of which is the rock Scylla. Below Crete is Sicily (Fig. 15), on which Mount Etna is shown; close to Sicily is the whirlpool Charybdis, XVII.--Part of Africa; in the lower part to the left, on a promontory, is seen Carthage; on the right the Leopard is shown. XVIII.--Also part of Africa. The upper part is Fezzan, below is shown the basilisk, and still lower some Troglodytes or dwellers in caves. XIX.--On the left hand are the British Isles (Figs. 19, 20, 22), on the right France. Great Britain (Figs. 19, 22) is very fully laid down, but of Ireland the author seemed to know but little. In England twenty-six cities and towns are delineated, among which Hereford (H'ford) is conspicuous. Twenty rivers are also seen, but the only mountains shown are the Clee Hills. In Wales, Snowdon is seen, and the towns of Carnarvon, Conway and St. David's. In Ireland four towns, Armagh, Bangor, Dublin and Kildare, with two rivers, the Banne, which, as shown, divides the island in two, and the Shannon. In Scotland there are six towns. In France the City of Paris (Fig. 18) is conspicuous. XX.--The upper part is Provence, the lower Spain. In the Mediterranean Sea are laid down, among others, the Islands of Corsica, Sardinia, Majorca, and Minorca. At the bottom are (Fig. 16) the pillars of Hercules (Gibraltar), which were considered the extreme western limits of the world. XXI.--At the top to the left (Fig. 13) is St. Augustine of Hippo, in his pontifical habit. And at the opposite corner the Lion, below which are the Agriophagi, a one-eyed people who live on the flesh of lions and other beasts. The kingdoms on the shore of the Mediterranean are Algiers, Setif, and Tangier. {464} APPENDIX III. CRITICISMS, COMMENTS, DOCUMENTS. HUMAN PROGRESS. For most people the impossible would apparently be accomplished if a century so far back as the Thirteenth were to be even seriously thought of as the greatest of centuries. Evolution has come to be accepted so unquestioningly, that of course "we are the heirs of all the ages of the foremost files of time," and must be far ahead of our forbears, especially of the distant past, in everything. When a man talks glibly about great progress in recent times, he usually knows only the history of his own time and not very much about that. Men who have studied other periods seriously hesitate about the claim of progress, and the more anyone knows about any other period, the less does he think of his own as surpassing. There are many exemplifications of this in recent literature. Because this was a cardinal point in many criticisms of the book, it has seemed well to illustrate the position here taken as to the absence of progress in humanity by quotations from recognized authorities. Just as the first edition of this book came from the press, Ambassador Bryce delivered his address at Harvard on "What is Progress?" It appeared in the _Atlantic Monthly_ for August, 1907. Mr. Bryce is evidently not at all persuaded that there is human progress in any real sense of the word. Some striking quotations may be made from the address, but to get the full impression of Mr. Bryce's reasons for hesitation about accepting any progress, the whole article needs to be read. For instance, he said: "It does not seem possible, if we go back to the earliest literature which survives to us from Western Asia and Southeastern Europe, to say that the creative powers of the human mind in such subjects as poetry, philosophy, and historical narrative or portraiture, have either improved or deteriorated. The poetry of the early Hebrews and of the early Greeks has never been surpassed and hardly ever equaled. Neither has the philosophy of Plato and Aristotle, nor the speeches of Demosthenes and Cicero. Geniuses like Dante, Chaucer, and Shakespeare appear without our being able to account for them, and for aught we know another may appear at any moment. It is just as difficult, if we look back five centuries, to assert either progress or decline in painting. Sculpture has never again risen to so high a level as it touched in the fifth century, B. C, nor within the last three centuries, to so high a level as it reached at the end of the fifteenth. But we can found no generalizations upon that fact. Music is the most inscrutable of the arts, and whether there is any progress to be expected other {465} than that which may come from a further improvement in instruments constituting an orchestra, I will not attempt to conjecture, any more than I should dare to raise controversy by inquiring whether Beethoven represents progress from Mozart, Wagner progress from Beethoven." Perhaps the most startling evidence on this subject of the absence of evolution in humanity is the opinion of Prof. Flinders Petrie, the distinguished English authority on Egyptology, who has added nearly a millennium to the history of Egypt. His studies have brought him in intimate contact with Egypt from 2,000 to 5,000 B. C. He has found no reason at all for thinking that our generation is farther advanced in any important qualities than men were during this period. In an article on "The Romance of Early Civilization" (_The Independent_, Jan. 7, 1909), he said: "We have now before us a view of the powers of man at the earliest point to which we can trace written history, and what strikes us most is how very little his nature or abilities have changed in seven thousand years; _what he admired we admire; what were his limits in fine handiwork also are ours_. We may have a wider outlook, a greater understanding of things; our interests may have extended in this interval; but so far as human nature and tastes go, man is essentially unchanged in this interval." . . . "This is the practical outcome of extending our view of man three times as far back as we used to look, and it must teach us how little material civilization is likely in the future to change the nature, the weaknesses, or the abilities of our ancestors in ages yet to come." Those who think that man has advanced in practical wisdom during the 6,000 years of history, forget entirely the lessons of literature. Whenever a great genius has written, he has displayed a knowledge of human nature as great as any to be found at any other time in the world's history. The wisdom of Homer and of Solomon are typical examples. Probably the most striking evidence in this matter is to be found in what is considered to be the oldest book ever written. This is the Instructions of Ptah Hotep to his son. Ptah Hotep was the vizier of King Itosi, of the Fifth Dynasty of Egypt (about 3650 B.C.). There is nothing that a father of the modern time would wish to tell his boy as the result of his own experience that is not to be found in this wise advice of a father, nearly 6,000 years ago. This was written longer before Solomon than Solomon is before us, yet no practical knowledge to be gained from intercourse with men has been added to what this careful father of the long ago has written out for his son. THE CENTURY OF ORIGINS. To many readers apparently, it has seemed that the main reason for writing of The Thirteenth as the Greatest of Centuries was the fact that the Church occupied so large a place in the life of that time, and that, therefore, most of what was accomplished must naturally revert {466} to her account. It is not only those who are interested in the old Church, however, who have written enthusiastically about the Thirteenth Century. Since writing this volume, I have found that Mr. Frederick Harrison is almost, if not quite, as ardent in his praise of it as I have been. There are many others, especially among the historians of art and of architecture, who apparently have not been able to say all that they would wish in admiration of this supreme century. Most of these have not been Catholics; and if we place beside Mr. Frederick Harrison, the great Positivist of our generation, Mr. John Morley, the great Rationalist, the chorus of agreement on the subject of the greatness of the Thirteenth Century ought to be considered about complete. Mr. Morley, in his address on Popular Culture, delivered as President of the Midland Institute, England, October, 1876 (Great Essays. Putnam, New York), said: "It is the present that really interests us; it is the present that we seek to understand and to explain. I do not in the least want to know what happened in the past, except as it enables me to see my way more clearly through what is happening to-day. I want to know what men thought and did in the Thirteenth Century, not out of any dilettante or idle antiquarian's curiosity, but because the Thirteenth Century is at the root of what men think and do in the nineteenth." EDUCATION. Many even of the most benevolent readers of the book have been quite sure that it exaggerated the significance of medieval education and, above all, claimed too much for the breadth of culture given by the early universities. Prof. Huxley is perhaps the last man of recent times who would be suspected for a moment of exaggerating the import of medieval education. In his Inaugural Address on Universities Actual and Ideal, delivered as Rector of Aberdeen University, after discussing the subject very thoroughly, he said: "The scholars of the Medieval Universities seem to have studied grammar, logic and rhetoric; arithmetic and geometry; astronomy, theology and music. Thus their work, however imperfect and faulty, judged by modern lights, it may have been, brought them face to face with all the leading aspects of the many-sided mind of man. For these studies did really contain, at any rate in embryo, sometimes it may be in caricature, what we now call philosophy, mathematical and physical science, and art. _And I doubt if the curriculum of any modern university shows so clear and generous a comprehension of what is meant by culture, as this old Trivium and Quadrivium does_." (Italics ours.) The results of this system of education may be judged best perhaps from Dante as an example. In The Popes and Science (Fordham University Press, N. Y., 1908) a chapter is devoted to Dante as the typical university man of the time, above all in his knowledge of science as displayed in his great poem. No poet of the modern time has {467} turned with so much confidence to every phase of science for his figures as this product of medieval universities. Anyone who thinks that the study of science is recent, or that nature study was delayed till our day, need only read Dante to be completely undeceived. The fact that the scholars and the professors at the universities were almost without exception believers in the possibility of the transmutation of metals in the old days, used to be considered by many educated people as quite sufficient to stamp them as lacking in judgment and as prone to believe all sorts of incredible and even impossible things without justification. Such supercilious condemnation of the point of view of the medieval scholars in this matter, however, has recently received a very serious jolt. Sometime ago, Sir William Ramsey, the greatest of living English chemists, announced at the meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science, that he had succeeded in changing copper into lithium. This created a sensation at the time, but represented, after all, a culmination of effort in this direction that had long been expected. More recently, Sir William has reported to the British Chemical Society that he has succeeded in obtaining carbon from four substances not containing this element--bismuth, hydro-fluo-silicic acid, thorium and zirconium. An American professor of chemistry has declared that he would like to remove all traces of silver from a quantity of lead ore, and then, after allowing it to stand for some years, have the opportunity to re-examine it, since he is confident that he would find further traces of silver in it that had developed in the meantime. He is sure that the reason why these two metals always occur together, as do copper and, gold, is that they are products of a developmental process, the precious metals being a step farther on in that process than the so-called base metals. It would seem, then, that the medieval scholars were not so silly as they used to appear before we knew enough about the subject to judge them properly. Only their supercilious critics were silly. It is probably with regard to the exact sciences that most even educated people are quite sure that the Thirteenth Century does not deserve to be thought of as representing great human advance. For them the Middle Ages were drowsily speculative, but never exact in thinking. Of course, such people know nothing of the intense exactness of thought of St. Thomas or Albertus Magnus or Duns Scotus. It would be impossible, moreover, to make them realize, from the writings of these men, how exact human thought actually was in the Thirteenth Century, though the more that modern students devote themselves to scholastic philosophy, the more surely do they appreciate and admire this very quality in the medieval philosophy. For such people, very probably, the only evidence that would have made quite an adequate answer to their objection, would be a chapter on the mathematics of the Thirteenth Century. {468} That might very easily have been made, for Cantor, in his History of Mathematics (Vorlesungen �ber Geschichte der Mathematik, Leipzig, 1892), devotes nearly 100 pages of his second volume to the mathematicians of the Thirteenth Century, two of whom, Leonardo of Pisa and Jordanus Nemorarius, did so much in Arithmetic, the Theory of Numbers, Algebra and Geometry, as to make a revolution in mathematics. Cantor says that they accomplished so much, that their contemporaries and successors could scarcely follow them, much less go beyond them. They had great disciples, like John of Sacrobusco (probably John of Holywood, near Dublin), Joannes Campanus and others. Cantor calls attention particularly to the spread of arithmetical knowledge among the masses, which is a well-deserved tribute to the century, for it was a characteristic of the time that the new thoughts and discoveries of scholars were soon made practical and penetrated very widely among the people. Brewer, in the Preface to Roger Bacon's works, quotes some of Bacon's expressions with regard to the value of mathematics. The English Franciscan said: "For without mathematics, nothing worth knowing in philosophy can be attained." And again: "For he who knows not mathematics cannot know any other science; what is more, he cannot discover his own ignorance or find its proper remedy." The term mathematics, as used by Bacon, had a much wider application then than now, and Brewer notes that the Thirteenth Century scientist included therein Geometry, Arithmetic, Astronomy, and Music. With regard to post-graduate education; the best evidence that, far from any exaggeration of what was accomplished in the Thirteenth Century, there has been a very conservative estimate of it made in the book, may be gathered from the legally erected standards of the medical schools and the legal status of the medical profession. In the Appendix of The Popes and Science, two Bulls are published, issued by Pope John XXII. (_Circa_, 1320), establishing medical schools in Perugia, at that time in the Papal States, and in Cahors, the birthplace of this pope. These bulls were really the formal charters of the medical schools. They require three years of preliminary study at the university and four or five years at medicine before the degree of doctor may be granted, and in addition emphasized that the curricula of the new medical schools must be equal to those of Paris and Bologna. These bulls were issued in the early part of the fourteenth century, and show the height to which the standards of medical education had been raised. There will be found also a law of Frederick II., issued 1241, requiring for all physicians who wished to practice in the Two Sicilies three years of preliminary study--four years at the medical school and a year of practice with a physician before the diploma which constituted a license to practice would be issued. This law is also a pure drug law forbidding the sale of impure drugs under penalty of confiscation of goods, and the preparation of them under penalty of death. Our pure drug law was passed about the time of the issue of the first edition of this book. {469} Those who ask for the results of this post-graduate training may find them in the story of Guy de Chauliac, the Father of Modern Surgery. His life formed the basis of a lecture before the Johns Hopkins Medical Club that is to be published in the Bulletin of John Hopkins Hospital. It is incorporated in Catholic Churchmen in Science, Second Series (The Dolphin Press, Phila., 1909). We know Chauliac's work not by tradition, but from his great text-book on surgery. This great Papal physician of the fourteenth century operated within the skull, did not hesitate to open the thorax, sewed up wounds of the intestines, and discussed such subjects as hernia, catheterization, the treatment of fractures, and manipulative surgery generally with wonderful technical ability. His book was the most used text-book for the next two centuries, and has won the admiration of everyone who has ever read it. TECHNICAL EDUCATION OF THE MASSES. Some of my friends courteously but firmly have insisted with me that I have greatly exaggerated the technical abilities of the village workmen of the Middle Ages. That every town of less than ten thousand inhabitants in England was able to supply such workmen as we can scarcely obtain in our cities of a million inhabitants, and in that scanty population supply them in greater numbers than we can now secure them from our teeming populations, seems to many simply impossible. What I have been trying to say, however, in the chapters on the Arts and Crafts and on Popular Education, has been much better said by an authority that will scarcely be questioned by my critics. The Rev. Augustus Jessopp, D. D., who has been for twenty years the Rector of Searning in England, who is an Honorary Fellow of St. John's College and of Worcester College, Oxford, besides being an Honorary Canon in the Cathedral of Norwich, has devoted much time and study to this question of how the cathedrals were built and finished. Twenty years of his life have been spent in the study of the old English parish and of parish life. He has studied the old parish registers, and talks, therefore, not from distant impressions, but from the actual facts as they are recorded. If to his position as an antiquarian authority I add the fact that he is not a member of the Roman Catholic Church, to the credit of which so much of this popular education and accomplishment in the arts and crafts of the century accrues, the value of his evidence is placed entirely above suspicion of partisan partiality. In his chapter on Parish Life in England, in his book "Before the Great Pillage" (Before the Great Pillage with other Miscellanies, by Augustus Jessopp, D. D., London. T. Fisher Unwin, Paternoster Square, 1901), he says: "The evidence is abundant and positive, and is increasing upon us year by year, that the work done upon the fabrics of our churches, and the other work done in the beautifying of the interior of our churches, such as the woodcarving of our screens, the painting of the lovely {470} figures in the panels of those screens, the embroidery of the banners and vestments, the frescoes on the walls, the engraving of the monumental brasses, the stained glass in the windows, and all that vast aggregate of artistic achievements which existed in immense profusion in our village churches till the sixteenth century stripped them bare--all this was executed by local craftsmen. The evidence for this is accumulating upon us every year, as one antiquary after another succeeds in unearthing fragments of pre-Reformation church-wardens' accounts. "We have actual contracts for church building and church repairing undertaken by village contractors. We have the cost of a rood screen paid to a village carpenter, of painting executed by local artists. We find the name of an artificer, described as aurifaber, or worker in gold and silver, living in a parish which could never have had five hundred inhabitants; we find the people in another place casting a new bell and making the mould for it themselves; we find the blacksmith of another place forging the iron work for the church door, or we get a payment entered for the carving of the bench ends in a little church five hundred years ago, which bench ends are to be seen in that church at the present moment. And we get fairly bewildered by the astonishing wealth of skill and artistic taste and aesthetic feeling which there must have been in this England of ours, in times which till lately we had assumed to be barbaric times. Bewildered, I say, because we cannot understand how it all came to a dead-stop in a single generation, not knowing that the frightful spoliation of our churches and other parish buildings, and the outrageous plunder of the parish gilds in the reign of Edward the Sixth by the horrible band of robbers that carried on their detestable work, effected such a hideous obliteration, such a clean sweep of the precious treasures that were dispersed in rich profusion over the whole land, that a dull despair of ever replacing what had been ruthlessly pillaged crushed the spirit of the whole nation, and art died out in rural England, and King Whitewash and Queen Ugliness ruled supreme for centuries." My argument is that a century which produced such artist-artisans everywhere, had technical schools in great profusion, though they may not have been called by any such ambitious name. HOW IT ALL STOPPED. To most people it seems impossible to understand how it is that, if artistic evolution proceeded to the perfection which it now seems clear that it actually attained in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, we are only just getting back to a proper state of public taste and a right degree of artistic skill in many of these same accomplishments at the present time. That thought has come to many others who, knowing and appreciating medieval progress in art and literature, have tried to work out the reasons for the gap that exists between medieval art and modern artistic endeavor. Some of these explanations, because they serve to make clear why art evolution stopped so abruptly and we are retracing our steps and taking models from the past rather than doing original work that is an advance, must be quoted here. Many people will find in them, I think, the reasons for their misunderstanding of the old times. {471} Gerhardt Hauptmann, who is very well known, even among English-speaking people, as one of the great living German dramatists, and whose "Sunken Bell" attracted considerable attention in both its German and English versions here in New York, in a recent criticism of a new German book, declared that the reason for the gap between modern and medieval art was the movement now coming to be known as the religious revolt in Germany in the sixteenth century. He said: "I, as a Protestant, have often had to regret that we purchased our freedom of conscience, our individual liberty, at entirely too high a price. In order to make room for a small, mean little plant of personal life, we destroyed a whole garden of fancy and hewed down a virgin forest of aesthetic ideas. We went even so far in the insanity of our weakness as to throw out of the garden of our souls the fruitful soil that had been accumulating for thousands of years, or else we plowed it under sterile clay. "We have to-day, then, an intellectual culture that is well protected by a hedge of our personality, but within this hedge we have only delicate dwarf trees and unworthy plants, the poorer progeny of great predecessors. We have telegraph lines, bridges and railroads, but there grow no churches and cathedrals, only sentry boxes and barracks. We need gardeners who will cause the present sterilizing process of the soil to stop, and will enrich the surface by working up into it the rich layers beneath. In my work-room there is ever before me the photograph of Sebaldus' Tomb (model Metropolitan Museum, New York). This rich German symbol rose from the invisible in the most luxuriant developmental period of German art. As a formal product of that art, it is very difficult to appreciate it as it deserves. It seems to me as one of the most wonderful bits of work in the whole field of artistic accomplishment. The soul of all the great medieval period encircles this silver coffin, wrapping it up into a noble unity, and enthrones on the very summit of death. Life as a growing child. Such a work could only have come to its perfection in the protected spaces of the old Mother Church." Rev. Dr. Jessopp, in his book, already cited, "The Great Pillage," does not hesitate to state in unmistakable terms the reason why all the beauty and happiness went out of English country life some two centuries after the Thirteenth Century, and how it came about that the modern generations have had to begin over again from the beginning, and not where our Catholic forefathers of the medieval period left us, in what used to be the despised Middle Ages. He says: "When I talk of the great pillage, I mean that horrible and outrageous looting of our churches other than conventual, and the robbing of the people of this country of property in land and movables, which property had actually been inherited by them as members of those organized religious communities known as parishes. It is necessary to emphasize the fact that in the general scramble of the Terror under Henry the Eighth, and of the Anarchy in the days of Edward the Sixth, there was only one class that was permitted to retain any large portion of its endowments. The monasteries were plundered even to their very pots and pans. Almshouses in which old men and women were fed and clothed were robbed to the last pound, the poor alms-folk being turned out into the cold at an hour's warning to beg their bread. {472} Hospitals for the sick and needy, sometimes magnificently provided with nurses and chaplains, whose very raison d'etre was that they were to look after and care for those who were past caring for themselves--these were stripped of all their belongings, the inmates sent out to hobble into some convenient dry ditch to lie down and die in, or to crawl into some barn or hovel, there to be tended, not without fear of consequences, by some kindly man or woman who could not bear to see a suffering fellow creature drop down and die at their own doorposts. "We talk with a great deal of indignation of the Tweed ring. The day will come when someone will write the story of two other rings--the ring of the miscreants who robbed the monasteries in the reign of Henry the Eighth was the first; but the ring of the robbers who robbed the poor and helpless in the reign of Edward the Sixth was ten times worse than the first. "The Universities only just escaped the general confiscation; the friendly societies and benefit clubs and the gilds did not escape. The accumulated wealth of centuries, their houses and lands, their money, their vessels of silver and their vessels of gold, their ancient cups and goblets and salvers, even to their very chairs and tables, were all set down in inventories and catalogues, and all swept into the great robbers' hoard. Last, but not least, the immense treasures in the churches, the joy and boast of every man and woman and child in England, who day by day and week by week assembled to worship in the old houses of God which they and their fathers had built, and whose every vestment and chalice and candlestick and banner, organs and bells, and picture and image and altar and shrine they looked upon as their own and part of their birthright--all these were torn away by the rudest spoilers, carted off, they knew not whither, with jeers and scoffs and ribald shoutings, while none dared raise a hand or let his voice be heard above the whisper of a prayer of bitter grief and agony. "One class was spared. The clergy of this Church of England of ours managed to retain some of their endowments; but if the boy king had lived another three years, there is good reason for believing that these too would have gone." Graft prevailed, and the old order disappeared in a slough of selfishness. COMFORT AND POVERTY. A number of friendly critics have insisted that _of course_ the Thirteenth Century was far behind later times in the comfort of the people. Poverty is supposed to have been almost universal. Doubtless many of the people were then very poor. Personally, I doubt if there was as much poverty, that is, misery due to actual want of necessaries of life, as there is at the present time. Certainly it was not emphasized by having close to it, constantly rendering the pains of poverty poignant by contrast, the luxury of the modern time. They had not the large city, and people in the country do not suffer as much as people in the city. In recent years, investigations of poverty in England have been appalling in the statistics that they have presented. Mr. Robert Hunter, in his book Poverty, has furnished us with some details that make one feel that our generation should be the last to say {473} that the Thirteenth Century was behind in progress, because so many of the people were so poor. Ruskin once said that the ideal of the great nation is one wherein there must be "as many as possible full-breathed, bright-eyed and happy-hearted human creatures." I am sure that, tried by this standard, the Thirteenth Century in Merrie England is ahead of any other generation and, above all, far in advance of our recent generations. By contrast to what we know of the merrie English men and women of the Thirteenth Century, I would quote Mr. Hunter's paragraphs on the Poverty of the Modern English People. He says: "A few years ago, England did not know the extent of her own poverty. Economists and writers gave opinions of all kinds. Some said conditions were 'bad,' others said such statements were misleading; and here they were, tilting at each other, backward and forward, in the most ponderous and serious way, until Mr. Booth, a business man, undertook to get at the facts. _No one, even the most radical economist, would have dared to have estimated the poverty of London as extending to 30 per cent of the people_ (as it proved). The extent of poverty--the number of underfed, underclothed in insanitary houses--was greater than could reasonably have been estimated." Some of the details of this investigation by Mr. Booth were so startling that some explanation had to be found. They could not deny, in the face of Mr. Booth's facts, but they set up the claim that the conditions in London were exceptional. Then Mr. Rountree made an investigation in York with precisely the same results. More than one in four of the population was in poverty. To quote Mr. Hunter once more: "As has been said, it was not until Mr. Charles Booth published, in 1891, the results of his exhaustive inquiries that the actual conditions of poverty in London became known. About 1,000,000 people, or about thirty per cent of the entire population of London, were found to be unable to obtain the necessaries for a sound livelihood. They were in a state of poverty, living in conditions, if not of actual misery, at any rate bordering upon it. In many districts, considerably more than half of the population were either in distress or on the verge of distress. When these results were made public, the more conservative economists gave it as their opinion that the conditions in London were, of course, exceptional, and that it would be unsafe to make any generalizations for the whole of England on the basis of Mr. Booth's figures for London. About ten years later, Mr. B. S. Rountree, incited by the work of Mr. Booth, undertook a similar inquiry in his native town, York, a small provincial city, in most ways typical of the smaller towns of England. In a large volume in which the results are published, it is shown that the poverty in York was only slightly less extensive than that of London. In the summary, Mr. Rountree compares the conditions of London with those of York. His comments are as follows: 'The proportions arrived at for the total populations living in poverty in London and York respectively were as under: London--30.7 per cent York--27.84 per cent {474} The proportion of the population living in poverty in York may be regarded as practically the same as in London, especially when we remember that Mr. Booth's information was gathered in 1887-1892, a period of only average trade prosperity, whilst the York figures were collected in 1899, when trade was unusually prosperous.'" He continues: "We have been accustomed to look upon the poverty in London as exceptional, but when the result of careful investigation shows that the proportion of poverty in London is practically equalled in what may be regarded as a typical provincial town, we are faced by the startling probability that from 25 to 30 per cent of the town populations of the United Kingdom are living in poverty." Most of us will be inclined to think that Mr. Rountree must exaggerate, and what he calls poverty most of us would doubtless be inclined to think a modest competency a little below respectability. He fixed the standard of twenty-one shillings eight pence ($5.25) a week as a necessary one for a family of ordinary size. He says: "A family living upon the scale allowed for in this estimate, must never spend a penny on railway fare or omnibus. They must never go into the country unless they walk. They must never purchase a half-penny newspaper or spend a penny to buy a ticket for a popular concert. They must write no letters to absent children, for they cannot afford to pay the postage. They must never contribute anything to their church or chapel, nor give any help to a neighbor which costs them money. They cannot save, nor can they join sick club or trade union, because they cannot pay the necessary subscription. The children must have no pocket money for dolls, marbles or sweets. The father must smoke no tobacco nor drink no beer. The mother must never buy any pretty clothes for herself or for her children, the character for the family wardrobe, as for the family diet, being governed by the regulation, 'Nothing must be bought but that which is absolutely necessary for the maintenance of physical health, and that which is bought must be of the plainest and most economical description.' Should a child fall ill, it must be attended by the family parish doctor; should it die, it must be buried by the parish. Finally, the wage-earner must never be absent from his work for a single day." _More than one in four of the population living below this scale!_ Conditions are, if anything, worse on the Continent. In Germany, industry is at the best. Conditions in Berlin have been recently reported in the Daily Consular Reports by a U. S. Government official. Of the somewhat more than two millions of people who live in Berlin, 1,125,000 have an income. Nearly one-half of the incomes, however, are exempt from taxation because they do not amount to the minimum taxable income, though that is only $214--$4 per week. Of the 600,000 who have taxable incomes, nearly 550,000 have less than $700 a year; that is, get about $2 a day or less. Less than sixty thousand out of the total population get more than $2 a day. It is easy to say, but hard to understand, that this is a living wage, because things are cheaper in Germany. Meat is, however, nearly twice as dear; sugar is twice as dear; bread is dearer than it is in this country; coffee is dearer; and only rent is somewhat cheaper. {475} It is easy to talk about the spread of comfort among the people of our generation and the raising of the standard of living, but if one compares these wages with the price of things as they are now, it is hard to understand on just what basis of fact the claim for betterment in our time, meaning more general comfort and happiness, is made. People always refuse to believe that conditions are as bad as they really are in these matters. Americans will at once have the feeling, on reading Mr. Hunter and Mr. Rountree's words and the account of the American Consul at Berlin, that this may be true for England and Germany, but that of course it is very different here in America. It is extremely doubtful whether it is very different here in America. In this matter, Mr. Hunter's opinion deserves weight. He has for years devoted himself to gathering information with regard to this subject. He seems to be sure that one in seven of our population is in poverty. Probably the number is higher than this. Here is his opinion: "How many people in the country are in poverty? Is the number yearly growing larger? Are there each year more and more of the unskilled classes pursuing hopelessly the elusive phantom of self-support and independence? Are they, as in a dream, working faster, only the more swiftly to move backward? Are there each year more and more hungry children and more and more fathers whose utmost effort may not bring into the home as much energy in food as it takes out in industry? These are not fanciful questions, nor are they sentimental ones. I have not the slightest doubt that there are in the United States ten million persons in precisely these conditions of poverty, but I am largely guessing, and there may be as many as fifteen or twenty millions!" Perhaps Mr. Hunter exaggerates. As a physician, I should be inclined to think not; but certainly his words and, above all, the English statistics will give any one pause who is sure, on general principles, that the great mass of the people are happier now or more comfortable, above all, in mind--the only real happiness--than they were in the Thirteenth Century. After due consideration of this kind, no one will insist on the comparative misery and suffering of the poor in old times. England had less than 3,000,000 in the Thirteenth Century, and probably there was never a time in her history when a greater majority of her people fulfilled Ruskin's and Morris' ideals of happy-hearted human beings. The two-handed worker got at least what the four-footed worker, in Carlyle's words, has always obtained, due food and lodging. England was not "a nation with sleek, well-fed English horses, and hungry, dissatisfied Englishmen." COMFORT AND HAPPINESS. There is another side to the question of comparative happiness that may be stated in the words of William Morris, when he says, in "Hopes and Fears for Art," that a Greek or a Roman of the luxurious time (and of course _a fortiori_ a medieval of the Thirteenth Century) would {476} stare astonished could he be brought back again and shown the comforts of a well-to-do middle-class house. This expression is often re-echoed, and one is prone to wonder how many of those who use it realize that it is a quotation, and, above all, appreciate the fact that Morris made the statement in order to rebut it. His answer is in certain ways so complete that it deserves to be quoted. "When you hear of the luxuries of the Ancients, you must remember that they were not like our luxuries, they were rather indulgence in pieces of extravagant folly than what we to-day call luxury--which, perhaps, you would rather call comfort; well, I accept the word, and say that a Greek or a Roman of the luxurious time would stare astonished could he be brought back again and shown the comforts of a well-to-do middle-class house. "But some, I know, think that the attainment of these very comforts is what makes the difference between civilization and uncivilization--that they are the essence of civilization. Is it so indeed? Farewell my hope then! I had thought that civilization meant the attainment of peace and order and freedom, of good-will between man and man, of the love of truth and the hatred of injustice, and by consequence the attainment of the good life which these things breed, a life free from craven fear, but full of incident; that was what I thought it meant, not more stuffed chairs and more cushions, and more carpets and gas, and more dainty meat and drink--and therewithal more and sharper differences between class and class. "If that be what it is, I for my part wish I were well out of it and living in a tent in the Persian desert, or a turf hut on the Iceland hillside. But, however it be, and I think my view is the true view, I tell you that art abhors that side of civilization; she cannot breath in the houses that lie under its stuffy slavery. "Believe me, if we want art to begin at home, as it must, we must clear our houses of troublesome superfluities that are forever in our way, conventional comforts that are no real comforts, and do but make work for servants and doctors. If you want a golden rule that will fit everybody, this is it: 'Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.'" COMFORT AND HEALTH. A comment on William Morris's significant paragraphs may be summed up in some reflections on the scornful expression of a friend who asked, how is it possible to talk of happiness at a time when there were no glass in windows and no heating apparatus except the open fireplace in the great hall of the larger houses, or in the kitchen of the dwelling houses. To this there is the ready answer that, in the modern time, we have gone so far to the opposite extreme as to work serious harm to health. When a city dweller develops tuberculosis, his physician now sends him out to the mountains, asks him to sleep with his window wide open, and requires him to spend just as much of his time as possible in the open air, even with the temperature below zero. In our hospitals, the fad for making patients comfortable by artificial heat is passing, and that of stimulating them by cold, fresh air is gaining ground. We know that, for all the fevers and all the respiratory {477} diseases this brings about a notable reduction in the mortality. Surely, what is good for the ailing must be even better to keep them well from disease. Many a physician now arranges to sleep out of doors all winter. Certainly all the respiratory diseases are rendered much more fatal and modern liability to them greatly increased by our shut-up houses. The medieval people were less comfortable, from a sensual standpoint, but the healthy glow and reaction after cold probably made them enjoy life better than we do in our steam-heated houses. They secured bodily warmth by an active circulation of their blood. We secure it by the circulation of hot water or steam in our houses. Ours may be the better way, but the question is not yet absolutely decided. A physician friend points to the great reduction in the death-rate in modern times, and insists that this, of course, means definite progress. Even this is not quite so sure as is often thought. We are saving a great many lives that heretofore, in the course of nature, under conditions requiring a more vigorous life, passed out of existence early. It is doubtful, however, whether this is an advantage for the race, since our insane asylums, our hospitals for incurables and our homes of various kinds now have inmates in much greater proportion to the population than ever before in history. These are mainly individuals of lower resistive vitality, who would have been allowed to get out of existence early, save themselves and their friends from useless suffering, and whose presence in life does not add greatly if at all to the possibilities of human accomplishment. Our reduced death-rate is, because of comfort seeking, more than counterbalanced by a reduced birth-rate, so that no advantage is reaped for the race in the end. These reflections, of course, are only meant to suggest how important it is to view such questions from all sides before being sure that they represent definite progress for humanity. Progress is much more elusive than is ordinarily thought, and is never the simple, unmistakable movement of advance it is often thought. HYGIENE. The objection that medical friends have had to the claims of The Thirteenth as the Greatest of Centuries is that it failed to pay any attention to hygiene. Here, once more, we have a presumption that is not founded on real knowledge of the time. It is rather easy to show that these generations were anticipating many of our solutions of hygienic problems quite as well as our solutions of other social and intellectual difficulties. In the sketch of Pope John XXI., the physician who became Pope during the second half of the Thirteenth Century, which was published in Ophthalmology, a quarterly review of eye diseases (Jan., 1909), because Pope John wrote a little book on this subject which has many valuable anticipations of modern knowledge, I called attention to the fact that, while a physician and professor of {478} medicine at the medical school of the University of Sienna, this Pope, then known as Peter of Spain, had made some contributions to sanitary science. Later he was appointed Archiater, that is, Physician in charge of the City of Rome. As pointed out in the sketch of him as enlarged for the volume containing a second series of Catholic Churchmen in Science (The Dolphin Press, Phila., 1909), he seems to have been particularly interested in popular health, for we have a little book, Thesaurus Pauperum--The Treasure of the Poor--which contains many directions for the maintenance of health and the treatment of disease by those who are too poor to secure physicians' advice. The fact that the head of the Bureau of Health in Rome should have been made Pope in the Thirteenth Century, itself speaks volumes for the awakening of the educated classes at least to the value of hygiene and sanitation. Their attention to hygiene can be best shown by a consideration of the hospitals. Ordinarily it is assumed that the hospitals provided a roof for the sick and the injured, but scarcely more. Most physicians will probably be quite sure that they were rather hot-beds of disease than real blessings to the ailing. That is not what we find when we study them carefully. These generations gave us a precious lesson by eradicating leprosy, which was quite as general as tuberculosis is now, and they made special hospitals for erysipelas, which materially lessened the diffusion of that disease. In rewriting the chapter on The Foundation of City Hospitals for my book, The Popes and Science (Fordham University Press, N. Y., 1908), I incorporated into it a description of the hospital erected at Tanierre, in France, in 1293, by Marguerite of Bourgogne, the sister of St. Louis. Of this hospital Mr. Arthur Dillon, from the standpoint of the modern architect, says: "It was an admirable hospital in every way, and it is doubtful if we to-day surpass it. It was isolated, the ward was separated from the other buildings; it had the advantage we often lose, of being but one story high, and more space was given to each patient than we now afford. "The ventilation by the great windows and ventilators in the ceiling was excellent; it was cheerfully lighted, and the arrangement of the gallery shielded the patients from dazzling light and from draughts from the windows, and afforded an easy means of supervision, while the division by the roofless, low partitions isolated the sick and obviated the depression that comes from the sight of others in pain. "It was, moreover, in great contrast to the cheerless white wards of to-day. The vaulted ceiling was very beautiful; the woodwork was richly carved, and the great windows over the altars were filled with colored glass. Altogether, it was one of the best examples of the best period of Gothic architecture." In their individual Hygiene there was, of course, much to be desired among the people of the Thirteenth Century, and it has been declared that the history of Europe from the fifth to the fifteenth century might, from the hygienic standpoint, he summed up as a thousand years without a bath. The more we know about this period, however, the less of {479} point do we find in the epigram. Mr. Cram, in the Ruined Abbeys of Great Britain (Pott & Co., N. Y., 1907), has described wonderful arrangements within the monasteries (!) for the conduction of water from long distances for all toilet purposes. There was much more attention to sanitary details than we have been prone to think. Mr. Cram, in describing what was by no means one of the greatest of the English abbeys of the Thirteenth Century, says: "Here at Beaulieu the water was brought by an underground conduit from an unfailing spring a mile away, and this served for drinking, washing and bathing, the supply of the fish ponds, and for a constant flushing of the elaborate system of drainage. In sanitary matters, the monks were as far in advance of the rest of society as they were in learning and agriculture." WAGES AND THE CONDITION OP WORKING PEOPLE. What every reader of the Thirteenth Century seems to be perfectly sure of is that, whatever else there may have been in this precious time, at least the workmen were not well paid and men worked practically for nothing. It is confessed that, of course, working as they did on their cathedrals, they had a right to work for very little if they wished, but at least there has been a decided step upward in evolution in the gradual raising of wages, until at last the workman is beginning to be paid some adequate compensation. There is probably no phase of the life of the Middle Ages with regard to which people are more mistaken than this supposition that the workmen of this early time were paid inadequately. I have already called attention to the fact that the workmen of this period claimed and obtained "the three eights"--eight hours of work, eight hours of sleep and eight hours for recreation and bodily necessities. They obtained the Saturday half-holiday, and also release from work on the vigils of all feast days, and there were nearly forty of these in the year. After the vesper hour, that is, three in Summer and two in Winter, there was no work on the Eves of Holy-days of Obligation. With regard to wages, there is just one way to get at the subject, and that is, to present the legal table of wages enacted by Parliament, placing beside it the legal maximum price of necessities of life, as also determined by Parliamentary enactment. An Act of Edward III. fixes the wages, without food, as follows. There are many other things mentioned, but the following will be enough for our purpose: [Price in Shillings and Pence; s. d.] s. d. A woman hay-making, or weeding corn for the day--0 1 A man filling dung-cart--0 3-1/2 A reaper--0 4 Mowing an acre of grass--0 4 Threshing a quarter of wheat--0 4 {480} The price of shoes, cloth and provisions, throughout the time that this law continued in force, was as follows: [Price in Pounds, Shillings and Pence; s. d.] £. s. d. A pair of shoes--0 0 4 Russet broadcloth, the yard--0 1 1 A stall fed ox--1 4 0 A grass fed ox--0 16 0 A fat sheep unshorn--0 1 8 A fat sheep shorn--0 1 2 A fat hog two years old--0 3 4 A fat goose--0 0 2-1/2. Ale, the gallon, by proclamation--0 0 1 Wheat, the quarter--0 3 4 White wine, the gallon--0 0 6 Red wine--0 0 4 An Act of Parliament of the fourteenth century, in fixing the price of meat, names the four sorts of meat--beef, pork, mutton and veal, and sets forth in its preamble the words, "these being the food of the poorer sort." The poor in England do not eat these kinds of meat now, and the investigators of the poverty of the country declare that most of the poor live almost exclusively on bread. The fact of the matter is, that large city populations are likely to harbor many very miserable people, while the rural population of England in the Middle Ages, containing the bulk of the people, were happy-hearted and merry. When we recall this in connection with what I have given in the text with regard to the trades-unions and their care for the people, the foolish notion, founded on a mere assumption and due to that Aristophanic joke, our complacent self-sufficiency, which makes us so ready to believe that our generation _must_ be better off than others were, vanishes completely. It is easy to understand that beef, pork, mutton, veal and even poultry were the food of the poor, when a workman could earn the price of a sheep in less than four days or buy nearly two fat geese for his day's wages. A day laborer will work from forty to fifty days now to earn the price of an ox on the hoof, and it was about the same at the close of the Thirteenth Century. When a fat hog costs less than a dollar, a man's wages, at eight cents a day, are not too low. When a gallon of good ale can be obtained for two cents, no workman is likely to go dry. When a gallon of red wine can be obtained for a day's wages, it is hard to see any difference between a workman of the olden time and the present in this regard. Two yards of cloth made a coat for a gentleman and cost only a little over two shillings. The making of it brought the price of it up to two shilling and six pence. These prices are taken from the Preciosum of Bishop Fleetwood, who took them from the accounts kept by the bursars of convents. Fleetwood's book is accepted very generally as an excellent authority in the history of economics. {481} Cobbett, in his History of the Protestant Reformation, has made an exhaustive study of just this question of the material and economic condition of the people of England before and since the reformation. He says: "These things prove, beyond all dispute, that England was, in Catholic times, a real wealthy country; that wealth was generally diffused; that every part of the country abounded in men of solid property; and that, of course, there were always great resources at hand in cases of emergency." ... "In short, everything shows that England was then a country abounding in men of real wealth." Fortesque, the Lord High Chancellor of England under Henry VI., king a century after the Thirteenth, has this to say with regard to the legal and economic conditions in England in his time. Some people may think the picture he gives an exaggeration, but it was written by a great lawyer with the definite idea of giving a picture of the times, and, under ordinary circumstances, we would say that there could be no better authority. "The King of England cannot alter the laws, or make new ones, without the express consent of the whole kingdom in Parliament assembled. Every inhabitant is at his liberty fully to use and enjoy whatever his farm produceth, the fruits of the earth, the increase of his flock and the like--all the improvements he makes, whether by his own proper industry or of those he retains in his service, are his own, to use and enjoy, without the let, interruption or denial of any. If he be in any wise injured or oppressed, he shall have his amends and satisfactions against the party offending. Hence it is that the inhabitants are rich in gold, silver, and in all the necessaries and conveniences of life. They drink no water unless at certain times, upon a religious score, and by way of doing penance. They are fed in great abundance, with all sorts of flesh and fish, of which they have plenty everywhere; they are clothed throughout in good woollens, their bedding and other furniture in the house are of wool, and that in great store. They are also well provided with all sorts of household goods and necessary implements for husbandry. Every one, according to his rank, hath all things which conduce to make mind and life easy and happy." INTEREST AND LOANS. A number of commercial friends have been interested in the wonderful story of business organizations traced in the chapter on Great Beginnings of Modern Commerce. They have all been sure, however, that it is quite idle to talk of great commercial possibilities at a time when ecclesiastical regulations forbade the taking of interest. This would seem to make it quite impossible that great commercial transactions could be carried on, yet somehow these people succeeded in accomplishing them. A number of writers on economics in recent years have suggested that possibly one solution of the danger to government and popular rights from the accumulation of large fortunes might be avoided by a return to the system of prohibition of interest taking. There is {482} much more in that proposition than might possibly be thought by those who are unfamiliar with it from serious consideration. They did succeed in getting on without it in the Thirteenth Century, and at the same time they solved the other problem of providing loans, not alone for business people, but for all those who might need them. We are solving the "loan shark" evil at the present time in nearly the same way that they solved it seven centuries ago. Abbot Gasquet, in his "Parish Life in England Before the Reformation," describes the methods of the early days as follows: "The parish wardens had their duties towards the poorer members of the district. In more than one instance they were guardians of the common chest, out of which temporary loans could be obtained by needy parishioners, to tide over persons in difficulties. These loans were secured by pledges and the additional security of other parishioners. No interest was charged for the use of the money, and in case the pledge had to be sold, everything over and above the sum lent was returned to the borrower." THE EIGHTEENTH LOWEST OF CENTURIES. There is no doubt that the nineteenth century, and especially the latter half of it, saw some very satisfactory progress over immediately preceding times. With the recognition of this fact, that the last century so far surpassed its predecessor there has been a tendency to assume, because evolution occupies men's minds, that the eighteenth must have quite as far surpassed the seventeenth, and the seventeenth the sixteenth, and so on, so that of course we are far ahead in everything of the despised Middle Ages. In recent years, indeed, we have dropped the attitude of blaming the earlier ages, for one of complacent pity that they were not born soon enough, and, therefore, could not enjoy our advantages. Unfortunately for any such conclusion as this, the term of comparison nearest to us, the eighteenth century is without doubt the lowest hundred years in human accomplishment, at least during the past seven centuries. This is true for every form of human endeavor and every phase of human existence. Prof. Goodyear, of the Brooklyn Institute of Arts and Science, the well-known author of a series of books on art and history, in one of the chapters of his Handbook on Renaissance and Modern Art (New York, The McMillan Co.), in describing the Greek revival of the latter part of the eighteenth century says: "According to our accounts so far throughout this whole book, either of architecture, painting, or sculpture, it will appear that the earlier nineteenth century represents the foot of a hill, whose gradual descent began about 1530." As a matter of fact, in every department of artistic expression the taste of the eighteenth century was almost the worst possible. The monuments that we have from that time, in the shape of churches and municipal buildings, are few, but such as they are, they are the least {483} worthy of imitation, and the art ideas they represent are most to be deprecated of any in the whole history of modern art. Perhaps the most awful arraignment of the eighteenth and early nineteenth century that was ever made is that of Mr. Cram, in the Ruined Abbeys of Great Britain, from which I have already quoted. He calls attention to the fact that, during this century, some of the most beautiful sculptured work that ever came from the hand of man was torn out of the ruins of St. Mary's Abbey, York, to serve no better purpose than to make lime. His description of the sculpture of the Abbey will give some idea of its beauty and render all the more poignant the loss that was thus inflicted on art. He says: "Most wonderful of all amongst a horde of smaller statues, a mutilated fragment of a statue of Our Lady and the Holy Child, so consummate in its faultless art that it deserves a place with the masterpieces of sculpture of every age and race. Here in this dim and scanty undercraft is an epitome of the English art of four centuries, precious and beautiful beyond the power of words to describe. "York Abbey was a national monument, the aesthetic and historic value of which was beyond computation. It is with feelings of horror and unutterable dismay that, as we stand beside the few existing fragments, realizing the irreparable loss they make so clear, we call into mind Henry's sacrilege in the sixteenth century, and his silly palace doomed to instant destruction, and the crass ignorance and stolidity of the eighteenth century with its grants of building material, and the mercenary savagery of the nineteenth century when, from smoking lime kilns rose into the air the vanishing ghosts of the noblest creations that owed their existence to man. "Nothing is sadder to realize than the failure of appreciation for art of the early nineteenth and the eighteenth century. Men had lost, apparently, all proper realization of the value of artistic effort and achievement. It was an era of travel and commerce and, unfortunately, of industrial development. As a consequence, in many parts of Europe, and especially of England, art remains of inestimable value suffered at the hands of utilitarians who found them of use in their enterprises. We are accustomed to rail against the barbarians and the Turks for their failure to appreciate the remains of Latin and Greek art and for their wanton destruction of them, but what shall we say of modern Englishmen, who quite as ruthlessly destroyed objects of art of equal value at least with Roman and Greek, while the great body of the nation made no complaint, and no protest was heard anywhere in the kingdom." What is so true of the arts is, as might be reasonably expected, quite as true of other phases of intellectual development. Education, for instance, is at the lowest ebb that it has reached since the foundation of the Universities at the end of the twelfth century. In Germany, there was only one university, that of Göttingen, in which there was a professorship of Greek. When Winckelmann introduced the study of Greek into his school at Seehausen, no school-books for this language were available, and he was obliged to write out texts for his students. What was the case in Germany was also true, to a great {484} degree, of the rest of Europe. Leading French critics ridiculed the Greek authors. Homer was considered a ballad singer and compared to the street singers of Paris. Voltaire thought that the AEneid of Virgil was superior to all that the Greek writers had ever done. No edition of Plato had been published in Europe since the end of the sixteenth century. Other Greek authors were almost as much neglected, and of true scholarship there was very little. When Cardinal Newman, in his Idea of a University, wants to find the lowest possible term of comparison for the intellectual life of the university, he takes the English universities of the middle of the eighteenth century. With this neglect of education, and above all of the influence that Greek has always had in chastening and perfecting taste, it is not surprising that literature was in every country of Europe at a very low ebb. It was not so feeble as art, but the two are interdependent, much more than is usually thought. Only France has anything to show in literature that has had an enduring influence in the subsequent centuries. When we compare the French literature of the eighteenth with that of the seventeenth century, however, it is easy to see how much of a descent there has been from Corneille, Racine, Moliêre, Boileau, La Fontaine, Bossuet, Bourdaloue, and Fénelon to Voltaire, Marivaux, Lesage, Diderot, and Bernardin de St. Pierre. This same decadence of literature can be noted even more strikingly in England, in Spain, and in Italy. The seventeenth, especially the first half of it, saw the origin of some of the greatest works of modern literature. The eighteenth century produced practically nothing that was to live and be a vital force in aftertimes. What is true in art, letters and education is, above all, true in what men did for liberty and for their fellow-men. Hospital organization and the care of the ailing was at its lowest ebb during the eighteenth century. Jacobson, the German historian of the hospitals, says: [Footnote 36] [Footnote 36: Beiträge zur Geschichte des Krankencomforts. Deutsche Krankenpflege Zeitung, 1898, in 4 parts.] "It is a remarkable fact that attention to the well-being of the sick, improvements in hospitals and institutions generally and to details of nursing care, had a period of complete and lasting stagnation after the middle of the seventeenth century, or from the close of the Thirty Years' War. Neither officials nor physicians took any interest in the elevation of nursing or improving the conditions of hospitals. During the first two-thirds of the eighteenth century, nothing was done to bring either construction or nursing to a better state. Solely among the religious orders did nursing remain an interest, and some remnants of technique survive. The result was that, in this period, the general level of nursing fell far below that of earlier periods. The hospitals of cities were like prisons, with bare, undecorated walls and little dark rooms, small windows where no sun could enter, and dismal wards where fifty or one hundred patients were crowded together, deprived of all comforts and even of necessaries. In the municipal and state institutions of this period, the beautiful gardens, roomy halls, and {485} springs of water of the old cloister hospital of the Middle Ages were not heard of, still less the comforts of their friendly interiors." As might be expected, with the hospitals so badly organized, the art of nursing was in a decay that is almost unutterable. Miss Nutting, of Johns Hopkins Hospital, the Superintendent of Nurses, and Miss Dock, the Secretary of the International Council of Nurses, have in their History of Nursing a chapter on the Dark Period of Nursing, in which the decadence of the eighteenth century, in what regards the training of nurses for the intelligent care of the sick, is brought out very clearly. They say: [Footnote 37] [Footnote 37: A History of Nursing, by M. Adelaide Nutting and Lavinia L. Dock, in two volumes, illustrated. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York, 1907.] "It is commonly agreed that the darkest known period in the history of nursing was that from the latter part of the seventeenth up to the middle of the nineteenth century. During the time, the condition of the nursing art, the well-being of the patient, and the status of the nurse, all sank to an indescribable level of degradation." Taine, in his History of the Old Regimé of France, has told the awful story of the attitude of the so-called better classes toward the poor. While conditions were at their worst in France, every country in Europe saw something of the same thing. In certain parts of Germany conditions were, if possible, worse. It is no wonder that the French Revolution came at the end of the eighteenth century, and that a series of further revolutions during the nineteenth century were required to win back some of the rights which men had gained for themselves in earlier centuries and then lost, sinking into a state of decadence out of which we are only emerging, though in most countries we have not reached quite the level of human liberty and, above all, of Christian democracy that our forefathers had secured seven centuries ago. With these considerations in mind, it is easier to understand how men in the later nineteenth century and beginning twentieth century are prone to think of their periods as representing an acme in the course of progress. There is no doubt that we are far above the eighteenth century. That, however, was a deep valley in human accomplishment, indeed, a veritable slough of despond, out of which we climbed; and, looking back, are prone to think how fortunate we are in having ascended so high, though beyond our vision on the other side of the valley the hills rise much higher into the clouds of human aspiration and artistic excellence than anything that we have attained as yet. Indeed, whenever we try to do serious work at the present time, we confessedly go back from four to seven centuries for the models that we must follow. With Renaissance art and Gothic architecture and the literature before the end of the sixteenth century cut out of our purview, we would have nothing to look to for models. This phase of history needs to be recalled by all those who would approach with equanimity the consideration of The Thirteenth as the Greatest of Centuries. {486} INDEX. A. Abbey schools, 26; of St. Victor, 150 Aberration of light, 44 Abingdon, Edmund of, 327 Adam of St. Victor, 204 Age of Students, 25-63 Albertus Magnus, 46 Alchemies, 93 Alfonso the Wise, 2 Aliens' rights, 358 Allbutt, Prof., 83 Amiens, 105 Andrew II, Golden Bull, 369 Angel Choir, 13, 108 Angelo on Dante, 305 Anselm, 80 Antipodes, 50, 392 Ants in Dante, 314 Appreciation of art, 146 Aquinas, 38; and Albertus, 271; appreciation of, 283; capacity for work, 286; education, 270; on Existence of God, 276; on liberty and society, 279; at Paris, 272; as a poet, 287; and Pope Leo XIII, 374; on Resurrection, 278; tributes to, 281 Arbitration, 382 Arena Padua, 144 Arezzo, 23 Arnaud, Daniel, 189 Arnaud de Marveil, 189 Arnold, Matthew, and Francis, 256 Art and the Friars, 139 Artemus Ward, 52 Arts and Crafts, 124 Arthur Legends, 10, 173 Arundel, Countess of, 320 Asbestos, 398 Ascoli, Cope, 14, 134 Assisi, 144 Assizes of Clarendon, 351; of Jerusalem, 365 Avignon, 24 B. Bacon, 41 Barbarossa, 1 Barbizon School, 145 Basil Valentine, 94 Bateson, Miss, 328 Beau Dieu, 13 Beautiful God, 105 Beauty and usefulness, 113 Beauvoisis, Statutes of, 365 Bell-making, 133 Beowulf, 180 Berrengaria, Queen, 320 Bernardo del Carpio, 170 Bernart de Ventadorn, 183 Bernard of Cluny, or Morlaix, 205 Bertrand de Born, 191 Bestiarium, 164 Bible study, 234, 252 Blanche of Castile, 289, 320; as a mother, 326; as a ruler, 326 Blessed work, 125 Boileau, Stephen, 365 Boniface VII and American Revolution, 374 Books, beautiful, 150; bequests, 155; collecting, 154, 157; great stone, 115 Booklovers, 155 Book-learning, 129 Book of Arts, Deeds, Words, 5 Borgo Allegri, 141 Botany, 149 Bracton, 361 Bracton's digest, 15, 82 Bremen, 420 Brook farm, 264 C. Cahors, 34 Calendar, 43 Calvi, College of, 26 Capital, English, created, 357 Canon law, codified, 370 Canticle of Sun, 258 Carlyle, Minnesong, 183; Nibelungen, 178 Case histories, 84 Casimir the Great, 369 Caspian not a gulf, 406 Castles and armories, 120 Catalogues of libraries, 151 Cathedral Symbolism, 118 Cavalcanti, 10 Celano, 197 Chalices, 113 Charity organizations, 27, 345 Chartres, glass, 14; windows, 111 Chauliac, 92 Chemistry, 46; not forbidden, 93 Chester cycle, 240, 242 Chrestien de Troyes, 175 Chronicles, 224 Cid, El, 9 Cimabue, 2, 12, 140 Cino da Pistoia, 10 Circulating libraries, 149 Clare, St., and St. Francis, 322 Clare, St., 320; character, 321; happiness, 322; life, 320 Clarendon assizes, 351; constitutions, 351 Clerics at the universities, 71 Cloisters, Lateran, 121; St. Paul's, Rome, 121 Coal, 397 Code of Hammurabi, 3 Coeducation, 330 Colleges, Origin of, 29 Cologne, 420 Common Law, 361 Commentaries on Law, 371 Common pleas, 35 Comparative university attendance, 61 Compayré, 67 Complaints of books, 158 Composition of matter, 38 Condorcet, 34 Conrad of Kirchberg, 188 Conservation of energy, 39 Cope of Ascoli, 115 Corrections, Optical, 131 {487} Cost of books, 156 Crusades and democracy, 389; Greene, on, 389; Storrs on, 388; Stubbs on, 298 Curtain lectures, 331 D. Dante da Maiano, 10 Dante and children, 313; and Milton, 315; and Virgil, 316; education, 300; in America, 311; in England, 305; in Germany, 309; in Italy, 304; not alone, 300; power of observation, 313; present estimation, 317; sonnets, 302; troubadour, 303; universality, 301 Dante-Gesellschaft, 310 Dean Church's Dante, 306 Decay of Philosophy, 282 Declaration of Independence, Swiss, 377 Degrees, 36 De Maistre, 66 Democracy and the Crusades, 388; guilds, 378 Denifle, 35 De Roo on pre-Columbian America, 400 Dialectics, 33 Dies Irae, Admirers of, 199; supreme, 197 Dietmar von Eist, 186 Digest of common law, 361 Discipline at universities, 73; and democracy, 76 Disease segregation, 343 Dissection not forbidden, 91 Dominicans and art, 139; and books, 156 St. Dominic, 266; and St. Francis, 267 Donatus, Deposition for ignorance of, 30 Drama and St. Francis, 238 Durandus, 117, 234 E. Education, classes, 7; masses, 8; popular, 129; of women, four periods, 331 Edward I, 2, 361 Edward VI and charity, 340; education, 386 El Cid, 169; battle scene, 170; daughters' innocence, 172; marriage, 171; single author, 169 Emulation of workers, 125 Encyclopedia, 231 Enforcement of law, 366 English democracy, 378 Enterprise, commercial, 421 Epic poetry, 167 Equality of women, 324, 389 Erysipelas segregated, 344 Evelyn's diary, 131 Evolution and man, 3 Experiment, 44 Explosives, 42 Exultet, 207 F. Fehmic Courts, 368 Felix of Valois, 347 Feminine education, 330; four periods, 331 reasons for decline, 333 Ferguson, 97 Francis, St., great disciples, 263; in drama, 239; influence still, 266; life, 259; literary man, 255; modern interest in, 261; Ruskin on, 260; second order, 265; third order, 265; troubadour, 255 Franciscans and Art, 139; explorers, 394 Fraternal insurance, 382 Fraternity, initiations, 425 Frederick II, 2 Freedom, development of, 375 Free cities, 377; schools, 385 Freemen's rights, 358 Friars, 267; Green's tribute to, 268; explorers, 409 Froude, 97; on Reynard, 211 Furniture, 122 Finsen anticipated, 89 Five Sisters, York, 14, 110 Founder of Hospitals, 337 G. Gaddi, 2, 142 Galsang Gombeyev, 402 Geography, 50 German Guild-hall, London, 421 Gerontius' dream, 308 Gild merchant, 383 Giotto, 2, 12, 142; appreciation of, 145; immense work, 146 Giotto's tower, 122 Gladstone and Richard de Bury, 160 Glosses, Law, 371 Goethe's Reynard, 213 Goerres, 255 Gohier, Urbain, 379 Golden Bull, 369 Golden Legend, 213 Goodyear, 131 Gothic, development, 102; English, 100; French, North German, 167; Sculpture, 105-107; Spanish, 100; varieties, 12, 100, 167 Grail Legends, 174 Gratian, 81 Gray, 32 Green on Matthew Paris, 229 Greatness of an epoch, 6 Gregorian chant, 207 Grotesque in Dante, 309 Grounds of ignorance, 41 Guido de Montpelier, 338 Guido, 142 Guilds, 132; and the drama, 136; and democracy, 378; Boston, 382; London, 382; number, 381; rules, 38; list of, 245 H. Hamburg, 420 Hamilton, 34 Hammurabi, 4 Hansa Alamanniae, 422; and Denmark, 419; geese cackle, 419; obscurity of origin, 416 Harper, 52 Hartman von Aue, 186 Hayton, 412 Healing by first intention, 85 Herodotus and Marco Polo, 396 History, so-called, 127, appendix Hollandus, 94 {488} Homer, 3 Hospitals, earliest, 337; England, 339 Hotel Dieu, 339; endowment, 339 Human life, value, 367 Human rights, 366 Humboldt on Dante, 311-315 Humboldt, 47 Humor in mystery plays, 241 Humphreys, 162 Huysmans, 120 Hymns often heard, 195; and languages, 203; seven greatest, 199 I. Ignorance and servitude, 127 Illuminated books, 162 Indestructibility of matter, 39 International court, 424; comity, 428; fraternity, 391 Irnerius, 18, 81 Iron work, 114 J. Jenghis Khan, 2 Jerusalem the Golden, 205 Jessopp, Rev. Augustus, 133 Job, 3 Jocelyn of Brakelond, 226; and Boswell, 227; selection, 227 John of Carpini, 400 John of Matha, 347 John of Monte Corvino, 410-412 Joinville and the poor, 297; selection, 228 Journeymen, 135 Justinian, English, 363 K. Kenilworth, 121 Kidney disease, 84 L. Lafenestre, 138-144 Lamentations, 207 Lanfranc, 37, 83 Lancelot, 175 Lateran, Council of, 28 Laurie, 59, 63, 65, 76 Law, Canon, 370; French, 364; German, 368; Glosses, 371; Hungarian, 369; Polish, 369; Spanish, 15 Lea, Henry C, 60 League, Lombard, 417 Legenda Aurea, 213 Lending of books, 152 Lending of professors, 56 Leo XIII, 81 Lepers, Louis IX and, 297 Leprosy eradicated, 343 Lerida, 24 Lhasa entered, 410 Liberties and customs, 360; English, 358; Hungary and Poland, 369 Library of La Ste. Chapelle, 152; circulating, 152, 165; of Hotel Dieu, 153; of the Sorbonne, 153 Lincoln, 96 Lingard, 61 Literature for women, 334 Lodge, Sir Oliver, 40 Longfellow, 209; Dante, 311 Louis IX, 289; books, 164; charity, 296; crusades, 298; education, 291; father, 290-294; husband, 289; justice, 293, 294; law, 365; monks, 295; son, 289 Lowell on Dante, 311 Lübeck punished, 418; laws, 422 Lully, 57 Lunar rainbows, 48 M. Mabel Rich, 327 MacCarthy, 201 Magna Charta, 1, 350; development of, 353; excerpts, 352, et seq. Malory, 175 Mandeville, 408 Manning on Dante, 308 Map or Mapes, Walter, 174-176 March on Latin Hymns, 195 Marco Millioni, 396 Maria di Novella, 331 Masterpieces, 135 Matter and form, 40; constitution of, 40 Matthew Paris, 229; Green's tribute, 229 Meaning of Cathedral, 118 Meistersingers, 10 Merchants' privileges, 359 Merrie England, 126 Metaphysical speculations, 33-37 Method of study, 53 Meyer, 49 Middle Ages, place of, 5 Middle class students, 72 Mill, 34 Millet, 145 Minnesingers, 10 Modern war correspondents anticipated, 225, 228 Mondino, 93 Money and privileges, 426 Money grabbers, 217 Monks, Idle, 414; explorers, 413 Monroe, 55 Montalembert, monks, 414; laws, 364 Montpelier, 23 Morley, Henry, 42, 157, 173, 244 Most read books. Ten, 209 Motor cars, 43 Music, Church, 206; part, 207 Mutual Aid, 379 Mystery plays, players, 247, 250; bible study, 251; influence, 252 N. Names, Medieval, 331 Nations, 76 Neale, 206 Needlework, 14 Nerve suture, 86 Newman's tribute to Dante, 306 New York Times Building, 123 Nibelungen, 177 Noah and wife, 242 Nolasco, Peter, 348 Notebook, The elegant, 54 Novgorod founded, 421 Numbers of students, 63, et seq Nurses' habits, 345 O. Odoric, 409 One thing a day, 54 Optics, 44 {489} Optical corrections, 131 Opus Majus, 45 Organized charity, 381 Osler, 108, 323 Oxford, 22 P. Padua, 23 Pagel, 90; on Vincent of Beauvais, 233 Palencia, 24 Pange Lingua, 199 Papal Court and academy, 31 Parliament, First English, 14 Parzifal, 188 Peace Burgs, 420 Pennell, Elizabeth Robbins, 98 Peregrinus, 37-44 Perugia, 23 Petroleum, 397 Peyrols, 192 Philobiblon, 157 Philosophic writers, 222 Phosphorescence in Dante, 315 Physical geography, 47 Place of women, 319 Plain Chant, 207 Plumptre's Dante, 310 Polo, Marco, 396 Poor students, 72 Poor, Washing feet of, 297 Popes and Laws, 370 Pope Alexander IV, 31; Boniface VIII, 2; Gregory IX, 2, 30; Honorius IV, 2, 30; Innocent III, 2, 30, 337 Population of England, 61 Potamian, Brother, 37 Piacenza, 23 Practical knowledge, 41 Preparatory schools, 26 Pre-renaissance, 5, 254 Professors' publications, 79 Progress of liberty, 386 Q. Queen Berengaria, 320 Queen Blanche of Castile, 320 R. Ransom of prisoners, 347 Raymond of Pennafort, 348 Real Estate Law, 362 Redemption of captives, 348 Red-light therapy, 89 Religious order for erysipelas, 345; for slaves, 347 Reinach, 103, 116, 128 Representative government, 372, 386 Renaissance, 5 Reynard the Fox, 210; original, 212 Rheims, 105, 107 Rhenish cities, 420 Rhymed Latin, 104 Rhyme, origin, 199 Richard Coeur de Lion, 1 Richard de Bury, 157; as a churchman, 161; chaplains, 160; charity, 161; place in history, 159 Rich, Mabel, 327; and her sons, 327 Robinson, Fr. Paschal, 257, 261 Rod in school, 185 Roland, 181 Romance of Rose, 215; charge of dullness, 216; poor happy, 219; misers miserable, 218; satire on money grabbers, 217 Rossetti on Dante, 317 Rubruquis, 403; on customs, 408; on languages, 405, 407 Rucellai Madonna, 141 Rudolph of Hapsburg, 2, appendix Ruskin, 6, 123, 260, 309 Rusticiano, 399 S. Sadness absent in Gothic art, 147 Saintsbury, 34, 36, 175, 180, 197, 223, 226 Saladin, 1 Salamanca, 24 Salamander, asbestos, 398 Salicet, 83 Salimbene, Friar, 403 Salisbury, 129 Saturday, half-holiday, 379 Schaff, 198, 205 Scholasticism and style, 223 Sculpture, Amiens, 13, 105; Rheims, 105 St. Denis, 13 Settlement work, 325; Seneca, 53 Siena, 23 Sigbart, 47 Simon de Montfort, 361 Social unrest, 124 Sorbonne, Robert, 53 Sordello, 10 St. Bonaventure, 2, 203; Clare, 2, 320; Dominic, 267; Edmund, 72, 327; Elizabeth, 320, 325; Ferdinand, 15; Hugh, 2, 96; Thomas, 203 St. Gall, 69 St. John, Lateran, 121 St. Mary's Abbey, 121 St. Paul's, Rome, 121 St. Victor, Adam and Hugh of, 204 Stabat Mater, 200; translations, 201 Stained Glass, 14; Lincoln, 109; York, 110 Stevenson, R. M., 99 Storrs on Crusades, 388 Stubbs on Crusades, 298 Students, Support of, 65 Studies, 33 Studium generale, 21 Symbolism, 117 Systematizing thought, 80 T. Tarragona, 101 Tartars, Book of, 402 Tasso and Nibelungen, 179 Taste, Popular, 112 Tate, 52 Taxation and representation, 336; no, without representation, 374 "The Three Eights," 379 Thibet, 410 Thomas, St., See Aquinas Thule, 51 Toledo, 101 Toulouse, 24 Towns and cathedrals, 9 Trade facilities, 415 Travel, medieval, 394 Troubadours, 190 Trouvères, 10 Turner, 35, 145 Training intellect {490} U. Ungreek, only thing, 99 Universitas, 21 University, Bologna, 19, 58; foundation, 18; Orleans, 19; Oxford, 58; Paris, 18, 58; Salernum, 20; roughness, 73 V. Vehmgerichte, 368 Vercelli, 23 Vicenza, 23 Vienna Cathedral, 168 Vigilance committees, 368 Vigils, holidays, 379 Villehardouin, 224; and Xenophon, 225 Vincent of Beauvais, 231; and historical writers, 231; methods, 232; style, 233 Virchow and evolution, 3; on hospitals, 338; on Pope Innocent, 342 Vocation for women, 322 Vogelweide, 185 Voragine, Jacobus de, 213 W. Wandering students, 57 Wanderjahre, 135 Water cure, 427 Wernher, 187 Whewell, 45 Widows, Magna Charta, 354 William of Rubruk, 403 William of Salicet, 83 William of St. Gregory, 192 Wolfram von Eschenbach, 187 Women, in hospitals, 328; in literature, 335; occupations, 329; position, 334 Working students, 60 Wounds of neck, 86 X. Xenophon, and Villehardouin, 225 Y. Yeats, 113 Yule, Colonel, 401; on Odoric, 411; on Rubruquis, 407 Z. Zimmern, Miss, on Hansa, 415; on medieval initiations, 425 [End text; advertisements] Books by Dr. Walsh --------------------------- Dear Dr. Walsh: I beg to thank you for your interesting letter enclosing syllabus of Advent Lectures and circular of your latest work. The highest value attaches to historical research on the lines you so ably indicate, especially at the present time, when the enemies of Holy Church are making renewed efforts to show her antagonism to science and human progress generally. I shall have much pleasure in perusing your work entitled "The Thirteenth Greatest of Centuries." Wishing you every blessing, I am, Yours sincerely in Xt., Rome, January 18th, 1908. R. Card. MERRY DEL VAL. ---------------------- _Fordham University Press Series_ MAKERS OF MODERN MEDICINE A series of Biographies of the men to whom we owe the important advances in the development of modern medicine. By James J. Walsh, M. D., Ph. D., LL.D., Dean and Professor of the History of Medicine at Fordham University School of Medicine, N. Y. Third Edition, 1914, 442 pp. Price, $3.00 net. _The London Lancet_ said: "The list is well chosen, and we have to express gratitude for so convenient and agreeable a collection of biographies, for which we might otherwise have to search through many scattered books. The sketches are pleasantly written, interesting, and well adapted to convey the thoughtful members of our profession just the amount of historical knowledge that they would wish to obtain. We hope that the book will find many readers." _The New York Times_: "The book is intended primarily for students of medicine, but laymen will find it not a little interesting." _Il Morgagni_ (Italy): "Professor Walsh narrates important lives in modern medicine with an easy style that makes his book delightful reading. It certainly will give the young physician an excellent idea of who made our modern medicine." _The Church Standard_ (Protestant Episcopal): "There is perhaps no profession in which the lives of its leaders would make more fascinating reading than that of medicine, and Dr. Walsh by his clever style and sympathetic treatment by no means mars the interest which we might thus expect." _The New York Medical Journal_: "We welcome works of this kind; they are evidence of the growth of culture within the medical profession, which betokens that the time has come when our teachers have the leisure to look backward to what has been accomplished." _Science_: "The sketches are extremely entertaining and useful. Perhaps the most striking thing is that everyone of the men described was of the Catholic faith, and the dominant idea is that great scientific work is not incompatible with devout adherence to the tenets of the Catholic religion." MAKERS OF ELECTRICITY By Brother Potamian, F. S. C, Sc. D. (London), Professor of Physics in Manhattan College, and James J. Walsh, M. D., Ph. D., Litt. D., Dean and Professor of the History of Medicine and of Nervous Diseases at Fordham University School of Medicine, New York. Fordham University Press, 110 West 74th Street. Illustrated Price, $2.50 net. Postage, 15 Cents Extra. _The Scientific American_: "One will find in this book very good sketches of the lives of the great pioneers in Electricity, with a clear presentation of how it was that these men came to make their fundamental experiments, and how we now reach conclusions in Science that would have been impossible until their work of revealing was done. The biographies are those of Peregrinus, Columbus, Norman and Gilbert, Franklin and some contemporaries, Galvini, Volta, Coulomb, Oersted, Ampere, Ohm, Faraday, Clerk Maxwell, and Kelvin." _The Boston Globe_: "The book is of surpassing interest." _The New York Sun_: "The researches of Brother Potamian among the pioneers in antiquity and the Middle Ages are perhaps more interesting than Dr. Walsh's admirable summaries of the accomplishment of the heroes of modern science. The book testifies to the excellence of Catholic scholarship." _The Evening Post_: "It is a matter of importance that the work and lives of men like Gilbert, Franklin, Galvini, Volta, Ampere and others should be made known to the students of Electricity, and this office has been well fulfilled by the present authors. The book is no mere compilation, but brings out many interesting and obscure facts, especially about the earlier men." _The Philadelphia Record_: "It is a glance at the whole field of Electricity by men who are noted for the thoroughness of their research, and it should be made accessible to every reader capable of taking a serious interest in the wonderful phenomena of nature." _Electrical World_: "Aside from the intrinsic interest of its matter, the book is delightful to read owing to the graceful literary style common to both authors. One not having the slightest acquaintance with electrical science will find the book of absorbing interest as treating in a human way and with literary art the life work of some of the greatest men of modern times; and, moreover, in the course of his reading he will incidentally obtain a sound knowledge of the main principles upon which almost all present-day electrical development is based. It is a shining example of how science can be popularized without the slightest twisting of facts or distortion of perspective. Electrical readers will find the book also a scholarly treatise on the evolution of electrical science, and a most refreshing change from the "Engineering English" of the typical technical writer." EDUCATION, HOW OLD THE NEW A Series of Lectures and Addresses on Phases of Education in the Past Which Anticipate Most of Our Modern Advances, by James J. Walsh, M. D., Ph. D., Litt. D., K. C. St. G. Dean and Professor of the History of Medicine and of Nervous Diseases at Fordham University School of Medicine. Fordham University Press, 1910. 470 pp. Price, $2.50 net. Postage, 15 Cents Extra. Cardinal Moran (Sydney, Australia): "I have to thank you for the excellent volume Education How Old the New. The lectures are admirable, just the sort of reading we want for English readers of the present day." _New York Sun_: "It is all bright and witty and based on deep erudition." _The North American_ (Phila.): "Wide historical research, clear graphic statement are salient elements of this interesting and suggestive addition to the modern welter of educational literature." _Detroit Free Press_: "Full of interesting facts and parallels drawn from them that afford much material for reflection." _Chicago Inter-Ocean_: "Incidentally it does away with a number of popular misconceptions as to education in the Middle Ages and as to education in the Latin-American countries at a somewhat later time. The book is written in a straight unpretentious and interesting style." _Wilkes-Barre Record_: "The volume is most interesting and shows deep research bearing the marks of the indefatigable student." _Pittsburg Post_: "There is no bitterness of controversy and one of the first things to strike the reader is that the dean of Fordham quotes from nearly everybody worth while, Protestant or Catholic, poetry, biography, history, science or what not." _The Wall Street News_ (N. Y.): "The book is calculated to cause a healthy reduction in the conceit which each generation enjoys at the expense of that which preceded it." _Rochester Post Express_: "The book is well worth reading." _The New Orleans Democrat_: "The book makes very interesting reading, but there is a succession of shocks in store in it for the complacent New Englander or Bostonian and for the orthodox or perfunctory reader of American literature." OLD TIME MAKERS OF MEDICINE The Story of the Medical Sciences during the Middle Ages. By James J. Walsh, K. C. St, G., M. D., Ph. D. Dean and Professor of the History of Medicine and of Nervous Diseases at Fordham University School of Medicine. Fordham University Press, 1911. Price, $2.50 net. Postage, 15 cents. What we now know of art, architecture, literature, the arts and crafts in the Middle Ages has almost won for them the name of the Bright Ages instead of the Dark Ages. There seems just one dark spot--the neglect of science. This book removes that. It tells the story of medieval medical education with higher standards than ours, of medieval surgery with anaesthesia and antisepsis, with beautiful hospitals and fine nursing, and of medieval dentistry with gold fillings and bridgework. _The Lancet_ (London): "We have said enough to whet the appetite of all interested in the history of the early makers of medicine. We cordially commend the perusal of this fascinating volume, which shows how much was accomplished in every department of intellectual effort in what is usually regarded as the unprogressive, stagnant, dark period of the Middle Ages." _The New York World_ said: "As in Dr. Walsh's 'Thirteenth The Greatest of Centuries' he carries amazement with his revelations of how old are many things we call new." MODERN PROGRESS AND HISTORY: Lectures on various academic occasions by James J. Walsh, M. D., Ph. D., K. C. St. G., Litt, D., Sc. D. Dean and Professor of The History of Medicine and of Functional Nervous Diseases at Fordham University School of Medicine, Fordham University Press, 1912. Pp. 450 Twelve illustrations. Price, $2.50 net. Postage, 15 cents. Though delivered on various occasions, these lectures are all on the theme that our modern progress is but a repetition of previous phases of human accomplishment and that whenever men faced certain problems they solved them as well at any time in history as they do now. Educational problems are shown to have been the same in Greece and Rome as in our own time. Old time prescriptions in medicine are strangely like many that we have now. Old time dentists filled teeth with gold and tin, did fine bridgework, invented movable dentures, transplanted teeth successfully and anticipated our dental progress. Pronunciation, Old and New, shows that the Irish brogue is Shakespeare's pronunciation while The Women of Two Republics demonstrates how old are our political problems, even suffragettism. "The book is disillusioning, but marvelously illuminating." 
44494	----	HISTORY OF CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND. BY HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II. _NEW EDITION._ TORONTO: ROSE-BELFORD PUBLISHING COMPANY, 60 YORK STREET. 1878. ANALYTICAL TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. OUTLINE OF THE HISTORY OF THE FRENCH INTELLECT FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY TO THE ACCESSION TO POWER OF LOUIS XIV. PAGE Importance of the question, as to whether the historian should begin with studying the normal or the abnormal condition of society 1-3 Greater power of the church in France than in England 4 Hence in France during the sixteenth century everything was more theological than in England 6-8 Hence, too, toleration was impossible in France 9-11 But at the end of the sixteenth century scepticism appeared in France, and with it toleration began, as was seen in the Edict of Nantes 11-15 The first sceptic was not Rabelais, but Montaigne 15-18 Continuation of the movement by Charron 18-21 Henry IV. encouraged the Protestants 23-24 And they were tolerated even by the queen-regent during the minority of Louis XIII. 24-26 The most remarkable steps in favour of toleration were, however, taken by Richelieu, who effectually humbled the church 27-34 He supported the new secular scheme of government against the old ecclesiastical scheme 34-42 His liberal treatment of the Protestants 42-46 They are deserted by their temporal leaders, and the management of the party falls into the hands of the clergy 46-51 Hence the French Protestants, being headed by the clergy, become more intolerant than the French Catholics, who are headed by statesmen 51-55 Evidence of the illiberality of the French Protestants 55-72 They raise a civil war, which was a struggle of classes rather than of creeds 73 Richelieu put down the rebellion, but still abstained from persecuting the Protestants 73-76 This liberal policy on the part of the government was only part of a much larger movement 76-77 Illustration of this from the philosophy of Descartes 77-92 Analogy between Descartes and Richelieu 92-93 The same anti-ecclesiastical spirit was exhibited by their contemporaries 93-95 And by Mazarin 96-98 It was also seen in the wars of the Fronde 99-102 But notwithstanding all this, there was a great difference between France and England; and the prevalence of the protective spirit prevented the French from becoming free 102-107 CHAPTER II. HISTORY OF THE PROTECTIVE SPIRIT, AND COMPARISON OF IT IN FRANCE AND ENGLAND. About the eleventh century the spirit of inquiry began to weaken the church 108-110 Coinciding with this, the feudal system and an hereditary aristocracy appeared 110-112 The nobles displace the clergy, and celibacy is opposed by the principle of hereditary rank 112 In England the nobles were less powerful than in France 113-116 And were glad to ally themselves with the people against the crown 116-118 Hence a spirit of popular independence unknown in France, where the nobles were too powerful to need the help of the people 118-119 Effects of this difference between the two countries in the fourteenth century 119-122 Centralization was in France the natural successor of feudality 122-126 This state contrasted with that of England 126-127 Power of the French nobles 128-131 Illustration from the history of chivalry 131-135 Another illustration from the vanity of the French and pride of the English 135-137 Also from the practice of duelling 137 The pride of Englishmen encouraged the Reformation 138 Analogy between the Reformation and the revolutions of the seventeenth century 138-139 Both were opposed by the clergy and nobles. Natural alliance between these two classes 139-142 In the reign of Elizabeth both classes were weakened 143-146 James I. and Charles I. vainly attempted to restore their power 147 Chapter III. THE ENERGY OF THE PROTECTIVE SPIRIT IN FRANCE EXPLAINS THE FAILURE OF THE FRONDE. COMPARISON BETWEEN THE FRONDE AND THE CONTEMPORARY ENGLISH REBELLION. Difference between the Fronde and the great English rebellion 148-150 The English rebellion was a war of classes 150-159 But in France the energy of the protective spirit and the power of the nobles made a war of classes impossible 160-162 Vanity and imbecility of the French nobles 162-170 As such men were the leaders of the Fronde, the rebellion naturally failed 167-173 But the English rebellion succeeded because it was a democratic movement headed by popular leaders 174-175 CHAPTER IV. THE PROTECTIVE SPIRIT CARRIED BY LOUIS XIV. INTO LITERATURE. EXAMINATION OF THE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS ALLIANCE BETWEEN THE INTELLECTUAL CLASSES AND THE GOVERNING CLASSES. The protective spirit in France, having produced these political evils, was carried into literature under Louis XIV., and caused an alliance between literature and government 176-177 Servility in the reign of Louis XIV. 177-181 Men of letters grateful to Louis XIV. 182 But his system of protecting literature is injurious 183-188 Its first effect was to stop the progress of science 188-192 Even in mechanical arts nothing was effected 192-194 Decline in physiology, in surgery, and in medicine 194-197 Also in zoology and in chemistry 197 Nor was anything done in botany 198-202 Intellectual decay under Louis XIV. was seen in every department of thought, and was the natural consequence of patronage 202-205 Illustrations from the history of French art 205-208 And from every branch of literature 208-210 Universal decline of France during the latter part of the reign of Louis XIV. 210-212 CHAPTER V. DEATH OF LOUIS XIV. REACTION AGAINST THE PROTECTIVE SPIRIT, AND PREPARATIONS FOR THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. English literature unknown in France in the reign of Louis XIV. 213-214 But began to be studied after his death, when the most eminent Frenchmen visited England. This caused a junction of French and English intellects 215-227 Admiration of England expressed by Frenchmen 228-229 Hence liberal opinions in France, which the government attempted to stifle 229 Consequent persecution of literary men by the French government 230-242 Violence of the government 242-246 In France literature was the last resource of liberty 246-247 Reasons why literary men at first attacked the church and not the government 247-253 Hence they were led to assail Christianity 254-258 But until the middle of the reign of Louis XV. the political institutions of France might have been saved; after that period all was over 258-259 CHAPTER VI. STATE OF HISTORICAL LITERATURE IN FRANCE FROM THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH TO THE END OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. Historical literature in France before the end of the sixteenth century 261-265 Improvement in the method of writing history late in the sixteenth century 266-267 Still further progress early in the seventeenth century 268-270 Which became more marked in Mezeray's history in 1643 271-272 Retrograde movement under Louis XIV. 273-279 Illustration of this from the work of Audigier 279-282 And from that of Bossuet 282-291 Immense improvements introduced by Voltaire 292-313 His History of Charles XII. 292-295 His Age of Louis XIV. 296-297 His Morals, Manners, and Character of Nations 297-298 His views adopted by Mallet, Mably, Velly, Villaret, Duclos, and Hénault 299-300 His habit of looking at epochs 301 A remark of his adopted by Constant 302 He advocated free trade 304 His anticipation of Malthus 304-305 His attack on the Middle Ages 305-306 And on the pedantic admirers of antiquity 306-308 He weakened the authority of mere scholars and theologians 308-309 Who had repeated the most childish absurdities respecting the early history of Rome 309-310 In attacking which Voltaire anticipated Niebuhr 310-313 Ignorant prejudice against him in England 313 His vast labours were aided by Montesquieu 314 The works of Montesquieu, and value of his method 314-319 The discourses of Turgot, and their influence 320-321 All this hastened the advance of the French Revolution 321-322 CHAPTER VII. PROXIMATE CAUSES OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AFTER THE MIDDLE OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. Recapitulation of preceding views 323 Difference between certainty and precision 324-326 The intellect of France began to attack the state about 1750 326-327 Rise of the political economists 327-330 Influence of Rousseau 330-331 Just at the same time the government began to attack the church 332-334 And to favour religious toleration 334-336 Abolition of the Jesuits 336-346 Calvinism is democratic; Arminianism is aristocratic 339-342 Jansenism being allied to Calvinism, its revival in France aided the democratic movement, and secured the overthrow of the Jesuits, whose doctrines are Arminian 343-345 After the fall of the Jesuits the ruin of the French clergy was inevitable 347-348 But was averted for a time by the most eminent Frenchmen directing their hostility against the state rather than against the church 349-351 Connexion between this movement and the rise of atheism 351-353 Same tendency exhibited in Helvétius 353-357 And in Condillac 357-360 The ablest Frenchmen concentrate their attention on the external world 360-361 Effects of this on the sciences of heat, light, and electricit 361-363 Also on chemistry and geology 364-373 In England during the same period there was a dearth of great thinkers 374-375 But in France immense impetus was given to zoology by Cuvier and Bichat 375-376 Bichat's views respecting the tissues 377-421 Connexion between these views and subsequent discoveries 383-386 Relation between inventions, discoveries, and method; and immense importance of Bichat's method 386-389 Bichat's work on life 390-395 Great and successful efforts made by the French in Botany 395-399 And in mineralogy by De Lisle and Haüy 399-403 Analogy between this and Pinel's work on insanity 403-404 All these vast results were part of the causes of the French Revolution 405 Physical science is essentially democratic 406-410 The same democratic tendency was observable in changes of dress 410-412 And in the establishment of clubs 412-415 Influence of the American Rebellion 415-418 Summary of the causes of the French Revolution 418-420 General reflections 420-424 CHAPTER VIII. OUTLINES OF THE HISTORY OF THE SPANISH INTELLECT FROM THE FIFTH TO THE MIDDLE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. In the preceding Chapters four propositions have been established 425-426 The truth of which may be further verified by studying the history of Spain 426 In Spain, superstition is encouraged by physical phenomena 426-434 It was also encouraged by the great Arian war with France 434-439 And, subsequently, by the war with the Mohammedans 439-444 These three causes influenced the policy of Ferdinand and Isabella 444-446 Continuation of the same policy by Charles V. and by Philip II. 446-453 Philip II., notwithstanding his repulsive qualities, was loved by the nation 453-455 Their affection for him was the result of general causes, which, during several centuries, have made the Spaniards the most loyal people in Europe 455 Origin of Spanish loyalty, and evidence of it 455-461 Loyalty became united with superstition, and each strengthened the other 461-462 In consequence of this union, great foreign conquests were made, and a great military spirit was developed 461-465 But this sort of progress, depending too much upon individuals, is necessarily unstable 465-466 The progress of England, on the other hand, depends upon the ability of the nation, and therefore, continues, whether individual rulers are skilful, or whether they are unskilful 466-467 In Spain, the ruling classes were supreme; the people counted for nothing; and hence the grandeur of the country, which was raised up by the able princes of the sixteenth century, was as quickly pulled down by the weak princes of the seventeenth 467-472 The decay of Spain, in the seventeenth century, was connected with the increasing influence of the clergy 472-483 The first use which the clergy made of their power was to expel all the Moors 483-496 Effect of this expulsion in impoverishing Spain 497-499 Decline of manufactures, and of population, and increase of poverty 499-511 In 1700, when affairs were at their worst, the Austrian dynasty was succeeded by the Bourbon 513-514 Spain was now ruled by foreigners 514-520 Who endeavoured to improve the country by weakening the church 521-525 But the authority of the church had so enfeebled the national intellect, that the people, immersed in ignorance, remained inert 525-543 Government attempted to remedy this ignorance by calling in foreign aid 534-545 The influence of foreigners in Spain was displayed in the expulsion of the Jesuits, in 1767 545-546 And in the attacks made on the Inquisition 547-548 It was also displayed in the foreign policy of Spain 548-550 All this was promoted by the authority and high character of Charles III. 552-554 But it was of no avail; because politicians can do nothing, when the spirit of the country is against them 534-555 Still, Charles III. effected great improvements, from which, on a superficial view, permanent benefit might have been expected 555-568 Summary of what was accomplished for Spain, by the government, between the years 1700 and 1788 568-570 Inasmuch, however, as these ameliorations were opposed to the habits of the national character, a reaction was inevitable 570-571 In 1788, Charles III. was succeeded by Charles IV., and the new king, being a true Spaniard, the reaction began 571-573 In the nineteenth century, political reformers again endeavoured to improve Spain 574 For the reasons already stated, their efforts were fruitless, notwithstanding the early establishment in that country of municipal privileges, and of popular representation 575-576 In this way, general causes always triumph over particular actions 577-578 Those general causes predetermined the country to superstition, and it was impossible for individuals to make head against them 578-583 Nothing can weaken superstition but knowledge 583 Such failures are the more observable, because Spain enjoys immense natural advantages 583-585 And has possessed great patriots and great legislators 585 The Spaniards have, moreover, long been celebrated for honour, courage, temperance, humanity, and religious sincerity 585-588 So far, however, as national progress is concerned, these noble qualities are useless, while ignorance is so gross and so general 588-592 This it is, which, isolating Spain from the rest of the civilized world, keeps alive that spirit of superstition, that reverence for antiquity, and that blind and servile loyalty, which, as long as they last, will render improvement impossible; and which must last until ignorance is removed 592-597 HISTORY OF CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND. CHAPTER I. OUTLINE OF THE HISTORY OF THE FRENCH INTELLECT FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY TO THE ACCESSION TO POWER OF LOUIS XIV. The consideration of these great changes in the English mind, has led me into a digression, which, so far from being foreign to the design of this Introduction, is absolutely necessary for a right understanding of it. In this, as in many other respects, there is a marked analogy between investigations concerning the structure of society and investigations concerning the human body. Thus, it has been found, that the best way of arriving at a theory of disease is by beginning with the theory of health; and that the foundation of all sound pathology must be first sought in an observation, not of the abnormal, but of the normal functions of life. Just in the same way, it will, I believe, be found, that the best method of arriving at great social truths, is by first investigating those cases in which society has developed itself according to its own laws, and in which the governing powers have least opposed themselves to the spirit of their times.[1] It is on this account that, in order to understand the position of France, I have begun by examining the position of England. In order to understand the way in which the diseases of the first country were aggravated by the quackery of ignorant rulers, it was necessary to understand the way in which the health of the second country was preserved by being subjected to smaller interference, and allowed with greater liberty to continue its natural march. With the light, therefore, which we have acquired by a study of the normal condition of the English mind, we can, with the greater ease, now apply our principles to that abnormal condition of French society, by the operations of which, at the close of the eighteenth century, some of the dearest interests of civilization were imperilled. [1] The question as to whether the study of normal phenomena should or should not precede the study of abnormal ones, is of the greatest importance; and a neglect of it has introduced confusion into every work I have seen on general or comparative history. For this preliminary being unsettled, there has been no recognized principle of arrangement; and historians, instead of following a scientific method suited to the actual exigencies of our knowledge, have adopted an empirical method suited to their own exigencies; and have given priority to different countries, sometimes according to their size, sometimes according to their antiquity, sometimes according to their geographical position, sometimes according to their wealth, sometimes according to their religion, sometimes according to the brilliancy of their literature, and sometimes according to the facilities which the historian himself possessed for collecting materials. All these are factitious considerations; and, in a philosophic view, it is evident that precedence should be given to countries by the historian solely in reference to the ease with which their history can be generalized; following in this respect the scientific plan of proceeding from the simple to the complex. This leads us to the conclusion that, in the study of Man, as in the study of Nature, the question of priority resolves itself into a question of aberration; and that the more aberrant any people have been, that is to say, the more they have been interfered with, the lower they must be placed in an arrangement of the history of various countries. Coleridge (_Lit. Remains_, vol. i. p. 326, and elsewhere in his works) seems to suppose that the order should be the reverse of what I have stated, and that the laws both of mind and body can be generalized from pathological data. Without wishing to express myself too positively in opposition to so profound a thinker as Coleridge, I cannot help saying that this is contradicted by an immense amount of evidence, and, so far as I am aware, is supported by none. It is contradicted by the fact, that those branches of inquiry which deal with phenomena little affected by foreign causes, have been raised to sciences sooner than those which deal with phenomena greatly affected by foreign causes. The organic world, for example, is more perturbed by the inorganic world, than the inorganic world is perturbed by it. Hence we find that the inorganic sciences have always been cultivated before the organic ones, and at the present moment are far more advanced than they. In the same way, human physiology is older than human pathology; and while the physiology of the vegetable kingdom has been successfully prosecuted since the latter half of the seventeenth century, the pathology of the vegetable kingdom can scarcely be said to exist, since none of its laws have been generalized, and no systematic researches, on a large scale, have yet been made into the morbid anatomy of plants. It appears, therefore, that different ages and different sciences bear unconscious testimony to the uselessness of paying much attention to the abnormal, until considerable progress has been made in the study of the normal; and this conclusion might be confirmed by innumerable authorities, who, differing from Coleridge, hold that physiology is the basis of pathology, and that the laws of disease are to be raised, not from the phenomena presented in disease, but from those presented in health; in other words, that pathology should be investigated deductively rather than inductively, and that morbid anatomy and clinical observations may verify the conclusions of science, but can never supply the means of creating the science itself. On this extremely interesting question, compare _Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire_, _Hist. des Anomalies de l'Organisation_, vol. ii. pp. 9, 10, 127; _Bowman's Surgery_, in _Encyclop. of the Medical Sciences_, p. 824; _Bichat_, _Anatomie Générale_, vol. i. p. 20; _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 424; _Comte_, _Philos. Positive_, vol. iii. pp. 334, 335; _Robin et Verdeil_, _Chimie Anatomique_, vol. i. p. 68; _Esquirol_, _Maladies Mentales_, vol. i. p. 111; _Georget_, _de la Folie_, pp. 2, 391, 392; _Brodie's Pathology and Surgery_, p. 3; _Blainville_, _Physiologie comparée_, vol. i. p. 20; _Feuchtersleben's Medical Psychology_, p. 200; _Lawrence's Lectures on Man_, 1844, p. 45; _Simon's Pathology_, p. 5. Another confirmation of the accuracy of this view is, that pathological investigations of the nervous system, numerous as they have been, have effected scarcely anything; the reason evidently being, that the preliminary knowledge of the normal state is not sufficiently advanced. See _Noble on the Brain_, pp. 76-92, 337, 338; _Henry on the Nervous System_, in _Third Report of Brit. Assoc._ p. 78; _Holland's Medical Notes_, p. 608; _Jones and Sieveking's Patholog. Anat._ p. 211. In France, a long train of events, which I shall hereafter relate, had, from an early period, given to the clergy a share of power larger than that which they possessed in England. The results of this were for a time decidedly beneficial, inasmuch as the church restrained the lawlessness of a barbarous age, and secured a refuge for the weak and oppressed. But as the French advanced in knowledge, the spiritual authority, which had done so much to curb their passions, began to press heavily upon their genius, and impede its movements. That same ecclesiastical power, which to an ignorant age is an unmixed benefit, is to a more enlightened age a serious evil. The proof of this was soon apparent. For when the Reformation broke out, the church had in England been so weakened, that it fell almost at the first assault; its revenues were seized by the crown,[2] and its offices, after being greatly diminished both in authority and in wealth, were bestowed upon new men, who, from the uncertainty of their tenure, and the novelty of their doctrines, lacked that long-established prescription by which the claims of the profession are mainly supported. This, as we have already seen, was the beginning of an uninterrupted progress, in which, at every successive step, the ecclesiastical spirit lost some of its influence. In France, on the other hand, the clergy were so powerful, that they were able to withstand the Reformation, and thus preserve for themselves those exclusive privileges which their English brethren vainly attempted to retain. [2] A circumstance which Harris relates with evident delight, and goes out of his way to mention it. _Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. iii. p. 300. On the amount of loss the church thus sustained, see _Sinclair's Hist. of the Revenue_, vol. i. pp. 181-184, and _Eccleston's English Antiquities_, p. 228. This was the beginning of that second marked divergence between French and English civilization,[3] which had its origin, indeed, at a much earlier period, but which now first produced conspicuous results. Both countries had, in their infancy, been greatly benefited by the church, which always showed itself ready to protect the people against the oppressions of the crown and the nobles.[4] But in both countries, as society advanced, there arose a capacity for self-protection; and early in the sixteenth, or probably even in the fifteenth century, it became urgently necessary to diminish that spiritual authority, which, by prejudging the opinions of men, has impeded the march of their knowledge.[5] It is on this account that Protestantism, so far from being, as its enemies have called it, an aberration arising from accidental causes, was essentially a normal movement, and was the legitimate expression of the wants of the European intellect. Indeed, the Reformation owed its success, not to a desire of purifying the church, but to a desire of lightening its pressure; and it may be broadly stated, that it was adopted in every civilized country, except in those where preceding events had increased the influence of the ecclesiastical order, either among the people or among their rulers. This was, unhappily, the case with France, where the clergy not only triumphed over the Protestants, but appeared, for a time, to have gained fresh authority by the defeat of such dangerous enemies.[6] [3] The first divergence arose from the influence of the protective spirit, as I shall endeavour to explain in the next chapter. [4] On the obligations Europe is under to the Catholic clergy, see some liberal and very just remarks in _Kemble's Saxons in England_, vol. ii. pp. 374, 375; and in _Guizot's Civilisation en France_. See also _Neander's Hist. of the Church_, vol. iii. pp. 199-206, 255-257, vol. v. p. 138, vol. vi. pp. 406, 407; _Palgrave's Anglo-Saxon Commonwealth_, vol. i. p. 655; _Lingard's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 44; _Klimrath_, _Travaux sur l'Hist. du droit_, vol. i. p. 394; _Carwithen's Hist. of the Church of England_, vol. i. p. 157. [5] The way in which this acted is concisely stated by Tennemann: 'Wenn sich nun auch ein freierer Geist der Forschung regte, so fand er sich gleich durch zwei Grundsätze, welche aus jenem Supremat der Theologie flossen, beengt und gehemmt. Der erste war: die menschliche Vernunft kann nicht über die Offenbarung hinausgehen.... Der zweite: die Vernunft kann nichts als wahr erkennen, was dem Inhalte der Offenbarung widerspricht, und nichts für falsch erkennen, was derselben angemessen ist,--folgte aus dem ersten.' _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. viii. part i. p. 8. [6] As to the influence of the Reformation generally, in increasing the power of the Catholic clergy, see M. Ranke's important work on the _History of the Popes_; and as to the result in France, see _Monteil_, _Hist. des divers Etats_, vol. v. pp. 233-235. Corero, who was ambassador in France in 1569, writes, 'Il papa può dire a mio giudizio, d'aver in questi romori piuttosto guadagnato che perduto, perciochè tanta era la licenza del vivere, secondo che ho inteso, prima che quel regno si dividesse in due parti, era tanta poca la devozione che avevano in Roma e in quei che vi abitavano, che il papa era più considerato come principe grande in Italia, che come capo della chiesa e pastore universale. Ma scoperti che si furono gli ugonotti, cominciarono i cattolici a riverire il suo nome, e riconoscerlo per vero vicario di Cristo, confirmandosi tanto più in opinione di doverlo tener per tale, quanto più lo sentivano sprezzare e negare da essi ugonotti.' _Relations des Ambassadeurs Vénitiens_, vol. ii. p. 162. This interesting passage is one of many proofs that the immediate advantages derived from the Reformation have been overrated; though the remote advantages were undoubtedly immense. The consequence of all this was, that in France, every thing assumed a more theological aspect than in England. In our country, the ecclesiastical spirit had, by the middle of the sixteenth century, become so feeble, that even intelligent foreigners were struck by the peculiarity.[7] The same nation, which, during the Crusades, had sacrificed innumerable lives in the hope of planting the Christian standard in the heart of Asia,[8] was now almost indifferent to the religion even of its own sovereign. Henry VIII., by his sole will, regulated the national creed, and fixed the formularies of the church, which, if the people had been in earnest, he could not possibly have done; for he had no means of compelling submission; he had no standing army; and even his personal guards were so scanty, that at any moment they could have been destroyed by a rising of the warlike apprentices of London.[9] After his death, there came Edward, who, as a Protestant king, undid the work of his father; and, a few years later, there came Mary, who, as a Popish queen, undid the work of her brother; while she, in her turn, was succeeded by Elizabeth, under whom another great alteration was effected in the established faith.[10] Such was the indifference of the people, that these vast changes were accompanied without any serious risk.[11] In France, on the other hand, at the mere name of religion, thousands of men were ready for the field. In England, our civil wars have all been secular; they have been waged, either for a change of dynasty, or for an increase of liberty. But those far more horrible wars, by which, in the sixteenth century, France was desolated, were conducted in the name of Christianity, and even the political struggles of the great families were merged in a deadly contest between Catholics and Protestants.[12] [7] The indifference of the English to theological disputes, and the facility with which they changed their religion, caused many foreigners to censure their fickleness. See, for instance, _Essais de Montaigne_, livre ii. chap. xii. p. 365. Perlin, who travelled in England in the middle of the sixteenth century, says, 'The people are reprobates, and thorough enemies to good manners and letters; for they don't know whether they belong to God or the devil, which St. Paul has reprehended in many people, saying, Be not transported with divers sorts of winds, but be constant and steady to your belief.' _Antiquarian Repertory_, vol. iv. p. 511, 4to, 1809. See also the remarks of Michele in 1557, and of Crespet in 1590; _Ellis's Original Letters_, 2nd series, vol. ii. p. 239; _Hallam's Constitutional History_, vol. i. p. 102; _Southey's Commonplace Book_, 3rd series, p. 408. [8] An historian of the thirteenth century strikingly expresses the theological feelings of the English crusaders, and the complete subordination of the political ones: 'Indignum quippe judicabant animarum suarum salutem omittere, et obsequium c[oe]lestis Regis, clientelæ regis alicujus terreni postponere; constituerunt igitur terminum, videlicet festum nativitatis beati Johannis Baptistæ.' _Matthæi Paris Historia Major_, p. 671. It is said, that the first tax ever imposed in England on personal property was in 1166, and was for the purpose of crusading. _Sinclair's Hist. of the Revenue_, vol. i. p. 88: 'It would not probably have been easily submitted to, had it not been appropriated for so popular a purpose.' [9] Henry VIII. had, at one time, fifty horse-guards, but they being expensive, were soon given up; and his only protection consisted of 'the yeomen of the guard, fifty in number, and the common servants of the king's household.' _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 46. These 'yeomen of the guard were raised by Henry VII. in 1485.' _Grose's Military Antiquities_, vol. i. p. 167. Compare _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. vii. p. 54; and _Lingard's Hist. of England_, vol. iii. p. 298. [10] Locke, in his first Letter on Toleration, has made some pungent, and, I should suppose, very offensive, observations on these rapid changes. _Locke's Works_, vol. v. p. 27. [11] But, although Mary easily effected a change of religion, the anti-ecclesiastical spirit was far too strong to allow her to restore to the church its property. 'In Mary's reign, accordingly, her parliament, so obsequious in all matters of religion, adhered with a firm grasp to the possession of church-lands.' _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 77. See also _Short's Hist. of the Church of England_, p. 213; _Lingard's Hist. of England_, vol. iv. pp. 339, 340; _Butler's Mem. of the Catholics_, vol. i. p. 253; and _Carwithen's Hist. of the Church of England_, vol. i. p. 346. [12] 'Quand éclata la guerre des opinions religieuses, les antiques rivalités des barons se transformèrent en haîne du prêche ou de la messe.' _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme et de la Ligue_, vol. iv. p. 32. Compare _Duplessis Mornay_, _Mém. et Correspond._, vol. ii. pp. 422, 563; and _Boullier_, _Maison Militaire des Rois de France_, p. 25, 'des querelles d'autant plus vives, qu'elles avoient la religion pour base.' The effect this difference produced on the intellect of the two countries is very obvious. The English, concentrating their abilities upon great secular matters, had, by the close of the sixteenth century, produced a literature which never can perish. But the French, down to that period, had not put forth a single work, the destruction of which would now be a loss to Europe. What makes this contrast the more remarkable is, that in France the civilization, such as it was, had a longer standing; the material resources of the country had been earlier developed; its geographical position made it the centre of European thought;[13] and it had possessed a literature at a time when our ancestors were a mere tribe of wild and ignorant barbarians. [13] The intellectual advantages of France, arising from its position between Italy, Germany, and England, are very fairly stated by M. Lerminier (_Philosophie du Droit_, vol. i. p. 9). The simple fact is, that this is one of those innumerable instances which teach us that no country can rise to eminence so long as the ecclesiastical power possesses much authority. For, the predominance of the spiritual classes is necessarily accompanied by a corresponding predominance of the topics in which those classes delight. Whenever the ecclesiastical profession is very influential, ecclesiastical literature will be very abundant, and what is called profane literature will be very scanty. Hence it occurred, that the minds of the French, being almost entirely occupied with religious disputes, had no leisure for those great inquiries into which we in England were beginning to enter;[14] and there was, as we shall presently see, an interval of a whole generation between the progress of the French and English intellects, simply because there was about the same interval between the progress of their scepticism. The theological literature, indeed, rapidly increased;[15] but it was not until the seventeenth century that France produced that great secular literature, the counterpart of which was to be found in England before the sixteenth century had come to a close. [14] Just in the same way, the religious disputes in Alexandria injured the interests of knowledge. See the instructive remarks of M. Matter (_Hist. de l'Ecole d'Alexandrie_, vol. ii. p. 131). [15] _Monteil_, _Hist. des divers Etats_, vol. vi. p. 136. Indeed, the theological spirit seized the theatre, and the different sectarians ridiculed each other's principles on the stage. See a curious passage at p. 182 of the same learned work. Such was, in France, the natural consequence of the power of the church being prolonged beyond the period which the exigencies of society required. But while this was the intellectual result, the moral and physical results were still more serious. While the minds of men were thus heated by religious strife, it would have been idle to expect any of those maxims of charity to which theological faction is always a stranger. While the Protestants were murdering the Catholics,[16] and the Catholics murdering the Protestants, it was hardly likely that either sect should feel tolerance for the opinions of its enemy.[17] During the sixteenth century, treaties were occasionally made between the two parties; but they were only made to be immediately broken;[18] and, with the single exception of l'Hôpital, the bare idea of toleration does not seem to have entered the head of any statesman of the age. It was recommended by him;[19] but neither his splendid abilities, nor his unblemished integrity, could make head against the prevailing prejudices, and he eventually retired into private life without effecting any of his noble schemes.[20] [16] The crimes of the French Protestants, though hardly noticed in _Felice's History of the Protestants of France_, pp. 138-143, were as revolting as those of the Catholics, and quite as numerous relatively to the numbers and power of the two parties. Compare _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xviii. pp. 516, 517, with _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. ii. p. 173, vol. vi. p. 54; and _Smedley_, _Hist. of the Reformed Religion in France_, vol. i. pp. 199, 200, 237. [17] In 1569 Corero writes: 'Ritrovai quel regno, certo, posto in grandissima confusione; perchè, stante quella divisione di religione (convertita quasi in due fazioni e inimicizie particolari), era causa ch' ognuno, senza che amicizia o parentela potesse aver luoco, stava con l'orecchie attente; e pieno disospetto ascoltava da che parte nasceva qualche romore,' _Relat. des Ambassad. Vénitiens_, vol. ii. p. 106. He emphatically adds, 'Temevano gl' ugonotti, temevano li cattolici, tenieva il prencipe, temevano li sudditi.' See also, on this horrible state of opinions, _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xviii. pp. 21, 22, 118-120, 296, 430. On both sides, the grossest calumnies were propagated and believed; and one of the charges brought against Catherine de Medici was, that she caused the Cesarean operation to be performed on the wives of Protestants, in order that no new heretics might be born. _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. vii. p. 294. [18] _Mably_, _Observations sur l'Hist. de France_, vol. iii. p. 149. In the reign of Charles IX. alone, there were no less than five of these religious wars, each of which was concluded by a treaty. See _Flassan_, _Hist. de la Diplomatie Française_, vol. ii. p. 69. [19] For which l'Hôpital was accused of atheism: 'Homo doctus, sed verus atheus.' _Dict. Philos._ article _Athéisme_, in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxxvii. pp. 181, 182. [20] I have not been able to meet with any good life of this great man: that by Charles Butler is very superficial, and so is that by Bernardi, in _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxiv. pp. 412-424. My own information respecting l'Hôpital is from _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xviii. pp. 431-436; _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. ii. pp. 135-137, 168-170; _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. iii. pp. 519-523, vol. iv. pp. 2-8, 152-159, vol. v. pp. 180-182, 520, 521, 535, vol. vi. pp. 703, 704; _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. i. p. 234. Duvernet (_Hist. de la Sorbonne_, vol. i. pp. 215-218) is unsatisfactory, though fully recognizing his merit. Indeed, in the leading events of this period of French history, the predominance of the theological spirit was painfully shown. It was shown in the universal determination to subordinate political acts to religious opinions.[21] It was shown in the conspiracy of Amboise, and in the conference of Poissy; and still more was it shown in those revolting crimes so natural to superstition, the massacres of Vassy and of St. Bartholomew, the murder of Guise by Poltrot, and of Henry III. by Clement. These were the legitimate results of the spirit of religious bigotry. They were the results of that accursed spirit, which, whenever it has had the power, has punished even to the death those who dared to differ from it; and which, now that the power has passed away, still continues to dogmatize on the most mysterious subjects, tamper with the most sacred principles of the human heart, and darken with its miserable superstitions those sublime questions that no one should rudely touch, because they are for each according to the measure of his own soul, because they lie in that unknown tract which separates the Finite from the Infinite, and because they are as a secret and individual covenant between Man and his God. [21] 'Ce fut alors que la nation ne prit conseil que de son fanatisme. Les esprits, de jour en jour plus échauffés, ne virent plus d'autre objet que celui de la religion, et par piété se firent les injures les plus atroces.' _Mably_, _Observations sur l'Hist. de France_, vol. iii. p. 145. How long these sad days[22] would, in the ordinary course of affairs, have been prolonged in France, is a question which we now perhaps have no means of answering; though there is no doubt that the progress even of empirical knowledge must, according to the process already pointed out, have eventually sufficed to rescue so great a country from her degraded position. Fortunately, however, there now took place what we must be content to call an accident, but which was the beginning of a most important change. In the year 1589, Henry IV. ascended the throne of France. This great prince, who was far superior to any of the French sovereigns of the sixteenth century,[23] made small account of those theological disputes which his predecessors had thought to be of paramount importance. Before him, the kings of France, animated by the piety natural to the guardians of the church, had exerted all their authority to uphold the interests of the sacred profession. Francis I. said, that if his right hand were a heretic, he would cut it off.[24] Henry II., whose zeal was still greater,[25] ordered the judges to proceed against the Protestants, and publicly declared that he would 'make the extirpation of the heretics his principal business.'[26] Charles IX., on the celebrated day of St. Bartholomew, attempted to relieve the church by destroying them at a single blow. Henry III. promised to 'oppose heresy even at the risk of his life;' for he said, 'he could not find a prouder grave than amidst the ruins of heresy.'[27] [22] The 19th and 20th volumes of _Sismondi's Histoire des Français_ contain painful evidence of the internal condition of France before the accession of Henry IV. Indeed, as Sismondi says (vol. xx. pp. 11-16), it seemed at one time as if the only prospect was a relapse into feudalism. See also _Monteil_, _Hist. des divers Etats_, vol. v. pp. 242-249: 'plus de trois cent mille maisons détruites.' De Thou, in the memoirs of his own life, says, 'Les loix furent méprisées, et l'honneur de la France fut presque anéanti ... et sous le voile de la religion, on ne respiroit que la haîne, la vengeance, le massacre et l'incendie,' _Mém. de la Vie_, in _Histoire Univ._ vol. i. p. 120; and the same writer, in his great history, gives almost innumerable instances of the crimes and persecutions constantly occurring. See, for some of the most striking cases, vol. ii. p. 383, vol. iv. pp. 378, 380, 387, 495, 496, 539, vol. v. pp. 189, 518, 561, 647, vol. vi. pp. 421, 422, 424, 426, 427, 430, 469. Compare _Duplessis_, _Mém. et Correspond._ vol. ii. pp. 41, 42, 322, 335, 611, 612, vol. iii. pp. 344, 445, vol. iv. pp. 112-114; _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. i. pp. 307, 308; _Duvernet_, _Hist. de la Sorbonne_, vol. i. p. 217. [23] This, indeed, is not saying much; and far higher praise might be justly bestowed. As to his domestic policy, there can be only one opinion; and M. Flassan speaks in the most favourable terms of his management of foreign affairs. _Flassan_, _Hist. de la Diplomatie Franç._ vol. ii. pp. 191, 192, 294-297, vol. iii. p. 243. And see, to the same effect, the testimony of M. Capefigue, an unfriendly judge. _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. vii. p. xiv. vol. viii. p. 156. Fontenay Mareuil, who was a contemporary of Henry IV., though he wrote many years after the king was murdered, says, 'Ce grand roy, qui estoit en plus de considération dans le monde que pas un de ses prédécesseurs n'avoit esté depuis Charlesmagne.' _Mém. de Fontenay_, vol. i. p. 46. Duplessis Mornay calls him 'le plus grand roy que la chrestienté ait porté depuis cinq cens ans;' and Sully pronounces him to be 'le plus grand de nos rois.' _Duplessis Mornay_, _Mém. et Correspond._ vol. xi. pp. 30, 77, 131; _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. vii. p. 15. Compare vol. vi. pp. 397, 398, vol. ix. pp. 35, 242, with some sensible remarks in _Mém. de Genlis_, Paris, 1825, vol. ix. p. 299. [24] So it is generally related: but there is a slightly different version of this orthodox declaration in _Smedley's Hist. of the Reformation in France_, vol. i. p. 30. Compare _Maclaine's note_ in _Mosheim's Eccles. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 24, with _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xvi. pp. 453, 454, and _Relat. des Ambassad. Vénitiens_, vol. i. p. 50, vol. ii. p. 48. It was also Francis I. who advised Charles V. to expel all the Mohammedans from Spain, _Llorente_, _Hist. de l'Inquisition_, vol. i. p. 429. [25] The historian of the French Protestants says, in 1548, 'le nouveau roi Henry II. fut encore plus rigoureux que son père.' _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. i. p. 12. [26] M. Ranke (_Civil Wars in France_, vol. i. pp. 240, 241) says, that he issued a circular 'addressed to the parliaments and to the judicial tribunals, in which they were urged to proceed against the Lutherans with the greatest severity, and the judges informed that they would be held responsible, should they neglect these orders; and in which he declared plainly, that as soon as the peace with Spain was concluded, he was determined to make the extirpation of the heretics his principal business.' See also, on Henry II., in connexion with the Protestants, _Mably_, _Observ. sur l'Hist. de France_, vol. iii. pp. 133, 134; _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. i. pp. 334, 335, 387, vol. ii. p. 640, vol. iii. pp. 365, 366; _Felice's Hist. of the French Protestants_, p. 58. [27] He said this to the Estates of Blois in 1588. _Ranke's Civil Wars in France_, vol. ii. p. 202. Compare his edict, in 1585, in _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. iv. pp. 244, 245, and his speech in vol. v. p. 122; and see _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. i. p. 328; _Duplessis Mornay_, _Mém. et Corresp._ vol. i. p. 110; _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. i. p. 250, vol. viii. p. 651, vol. x, pp. 294, 589, 674, 675. These were the opinions expressed, in the sixteenth century, by the heads of the oldest monarchy in Europe.[28] But with such feelings, the powerful intellect of Henry IV. had not the slightest sympathy. To suit the shifting politics of his age, he had already changed his religion twice; and he did not hesitate to change it a third time,[29] when he found that by doing so he could ensure tranquillity to his country. As he had displayed such indifference about his own creed, he could not with decency show much bigotry about the creed of his subjects.[30] We find, accordingly, that he was the author of the first public act of toleration which any government promulgated in France since Christianity had been the religion of the country. Only five years after he had solemnly abjured Protestantism, he published the celebrated Edict of Nantes,[31] by which, for the first time, a Catholic government granted to heretics a fair share of civil and religious rights. This was, unquestionably, the most important event that had yet occurred in the history of French civilization.[32] If it is considered by itself, it is merely an evidence of the enlightened principles of the king; but when we look at its general success, and at the cessation of religious war which followed it, we cannot fail to perceive that it was part of a vast movement, in which the people themselves participated. Those who recognize the truth of the principles I have laboured to establish, will expect that this great step towards religious liberty was accompanied by that spirit of scepticism, in the absence of which toleration has always been unknown. And that this was actually the case, may be easily proved by an examination of the transitionary state which France began to enter towards the end of the sixteenth century. [28] With what zeal these opinions were enforced, appears, besides many other authorities, from Marino Cavalli, who writes in 1546, 'Li maestri di Sorbona hanno autorità estrema di castigare li eretici, il che fanno con il fuoco, brustolandoli vivi a poco a poco.' _Relat. des Ambassad. Vénitiens_, vol. i. 262; and see vol. ii. p. 24. [29] Indeed, Clement VIII. was afterwards apprehensive of a fourth apostasy: 'Er meinte noch immer, Heinrich IV. werde zuletzt vielleicht wieder zum Protestantismus zurückkehren, wie er es schon einmal gethan.' _Ranke_, _die Päpste_, vol. ii. p. 246. M. Ranke, from his great knowledge of Italian manuscripts, has thrown more light on these transactions than the French historians have been able to do. [30] On his conversion, the character of which was as obvious then as it is now, compare _Duplessis Mornay_, _Mém. et Correspond._ vol. i. p. 257, with _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. ii. p. 126. See also _Howell's Letters_, book i. p. 42; and a letter from Sir H. Wotton in 1593, printed in _Reliquiæ Wottonianæ_, p. 711. See also _Ranke_, _Civil Wars in France_, vol. ii. pp. 257, 355; _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. vi. pp. 305, 358. [31] The edict of Nantes was in 1598; the abjuration in 1593. _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxi. pp. 202, 486. But in 1590 it was intimated to the pope as probable, if not certain, that Henry would 'in den Schooss der katholischen Kirche zurückkehren.' _Ranke_, _die Päpste_, vol. ii. p. 210. [32] Of this edict, Sismondi says, 'Aucune époque dans l'histoire de France ne marque mieux peut-être la fin d'un monde ancien, le commencement d'un monde nouveau.' _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxi. p. 489. The writings of Rabelais are often considered to afford the first instance of religious scepticism in the French language.[33] But, after a tolerably intimate acquaintance with the works of this remarkable man, I have found nothing to justify such an opinion. He certainly treats the clergy with great disrespect, and takes every opportunity of covering them with ridicule.[34] His attacks, however, are always made upon their personal vices, and not upon that narrow and intolerant spirit to which those vices were chiefly to be ascribed. In not a single instance does he show any thing like consistent scepticism;[35] nor does he appear to be aware that the disgraceful lives of the French clergy were but the inevitable consequence of a system, which, corrupt as it was, still possessed every appearance of strength and vitality. Indeed, the immense popularity which he enjoyed is, almost of itself, a decisive consideration; since no one, who is well informed as to the condition of the French early in the sixteenth century, will believe it possible that a people, so sunk in superstition, should delight in a writer by whom superstition is constantly attacked. But the extension of experience, and the consequent increase of knowledge, were preparing the way for a great change in the French intellect. The process, which had just taken place in England, was now beginning to take place in France; and in both countries the order of events was precisely the same. The spirit of doubt, hitherto confined to an occasional solitary thinker, gradually assumed a bolder form: first it found a vent in the national literature, and then it influenced the conduct of practical statesmen. That there was, in France, an intimate connexion between scepticism and toleration, is proved, not only by those general arguments which make us infer that such connexion must always exist, but also by the circumstance, that only a few years before the promulgation of the Edict of Nantes, there appeared the first systematic sceptic who wrote in the French language. The Essays of Montaigne were published in 1588,[36] and form an epoch, not only in the literature, but also in the civilization, of France. Putting aside personal peculiarities, which have less weight than is commonly supposed, it will be found that the difference between Rabelais and Montaigne is a measure of the difference between 1545[37] and 1588, and that it, in some degree, corresponds with the relation I have indicated between Jewel and Hooker, and between Hooker and Chillingworth. For, the law which governs all these relations is the law of a progressive scepticism. What Rabelais was to the supporters of theology, that was Montaigne to the theology itself. The writings of Rabelais were only directed against the clergy; but the writings of Montaigne were directed against the system of which the clergy were the offspring.[38] Under the guise of a mere man of the world, expressing natural thoughts in common language, Montaigne concealed a spirit of lofty and audacious inquiry.[39] Although he lacked that comprehensiveness which is the highest form of genius, he possessed other qualities essential to a great mind. He was very cautious, and yet he was very bold. He was cautious, since he would not believe strange things because they had been handed down by his forefathers; and he was bold, since he was undaunted by the reproaches with which the ignorant, who love to dogmatize, always cover those whose knowledge makes them ready to doubt.[40] These peculiarities would, in any age, have made Montaigne a useful man: in the sixteenth century they made him an important one. At the same time, his easy and amusing style[41] increased the circulation of his works, and thus contributed to popularize those opinions which he ventured to recommend for general adoption. [33] On Rabelais, as the supposed founder of French scepticism, compare _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. ii. p. 306; _Stephen's Lectures on the History of France_, vol. ii. p. 242; _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xvi. p. 376. [34] Particularly the monks. See, among numerous other instances, vol. i. pp. 278, 282, vol. ii. pp. 284, 285, of _[OE]uvres de Rabelais_, edit. Amsterdam, 1725. However, the high dignitaries of the church are not spared; for he says that Gargantua 'se morvoit en archidiacre,' vol. i. p. 132; and on two occasions (vol. iii. p. 65, vol. iv. pp. 199, 200) he makes a very indecent allusion to the pope. In vol. i. pp. 260, 261, he satirically notices the way in which the services of the church were performed: 'Dont luy dist le moyne: Je ne dors jamais à mon aise, sinon quand je suis au sermon, ou quand je prie Dieu.' [35] His joke on the strength of Samson (_[OE]uvres de Rabelais_, vol. ii. pp. 29, 30), and his ridicule of one of the Mosaic laws (vol. iii. p. 34), are so unconnected with other parts of his work, as to have no appearance of belonging to a general scheme. The commentators, who find a hidden meaning in every author they annotate, have represented Rabelais as aiming at the highest objects, and seeking to effect the most extensive social and religious reforms. This I greatly doubt, at all events I have seen no proof of it; and I cannot help thinking that Rabelais owes a large share of his reputation to the obscurity of his language. On the other side of the question, and in favour of his comprehensiveness, see a bold passage in _Coleridge's Lit. Remains_, vol. i. pp. 138, 139. [36] The two first books in 1580; the third in 1588, with additions to the first two. See _Niceron_, _Mém. pour servir à l'Hist. des Hommes illustres_, vol. xvi. p. 210, Paris, 1731. [37] The first impression of the Pantagruel of Rabelais has no date on the title-page; but it is known that the third book was printed in 1545, and the fourth book in 1546. See _Brunet_, _Manuel du Libraire_, vol. iv. pp. 4-6, Paris, 1843. The statement in _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxvi. pp. 482, 483, is rather confused. [38] Mr. Hallam (_Lit. of Europe_, vol. ii. p. 29) says, that his scepticism 'is not displayed in religion.' But if we use the word 'religion' in its ordinary sense, as connected with dogma, it is evident, from Montaigne's language, that he was a sceptic, and an unflinching one too. Indeed, he goes so far as to say that all religious opinions are the result of custom: 'Comme de vray nous n'avons aultre mire de la vérité et de la raison, que l'exemple et idée des opinions et usances du païs où nous sommes: _là est tousiours la parfaicte religion_, la parfaicte police, parfaict et accomply usage de toutes choses.' _Essais de Montaigne_, p. 121, livre i. chap. xxx. As a natural consequence, he lays down that religious error is not criminal, p. 53; compare p. 28. See also how he notices the usurpations of the theological spirit, pp. 116, 508, 528. The fact seems to be, that Montaigne, while recognizing abstractedly the existence of religious truths, doubted our capacity for knowing them; that is to say, he doubted if, out of the immense number of religious opinions, there were any means of ascertaining which were accurate. His observations on miracles (pp. 541, 653, 654, 675) illustrate the character of his mind; and what he says on prophetic visions is quoted and confirmed by Pinel, in his profound work _Aliénation Mentale_, p. 256. Compare _Maury_, _Légendes Pieuses_, p. 268 note. [39] His friend, the celebrated De Thou, calls him 'homme franc, ennemi de toute contrainte.' _Mémoires_, in _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. i. p. 59: see also vol. xi. p. 590. And M. Lamartine classes him with Montesquieu, as 'ces deux grands républicains de la pensée française.' _Hist. des Girondins_, vol. i. p. 174. [40] He says (_Essais_, p. 97), 'Ce n'est pas à l'adventure sans raison que nous attribuons à simplesse et ignorance la facilité de croire et de se laisser persuader.' Compare two striking passages, pp. 199 and 685. Nothing of this sort had ever appeared before in the French language. [41] Dugald Stewart, whose turn of mind was very different from that of Montaigne, calls him 'this most amusing author.' _Stewart's Philos. of the Mind_, vol. i. p. 468. But Rousseau, in every respect a more competent judge, enthusiastically praises 'la naïveté, la grâce et l'énergie de son style inimitable.' _Musset Pathay_, _Vie de Rousseau_, vol. i. p. 185. Compare _Lettres de Sévigné_, vol. iii. p. 491, edit. Paris, 1843, and _Lettres de Dudeffand à Walpole_, vol. i. p. 94. This, then, is the first open declaration of that scepticism, which, towards the end of the sixteenth century, publicly appeared in France.[42] During nearly three generations, it continued its course with a constantly increasing activity, and developed itself in a manner similar to that which took place in England. It will not be necessary to follow all the steps of this great process; but I will endeavour to trace those which, by their prominence, seem to be the most important. [42] 'Mais celui qui a répandu et popularisé en France le scepticisme, c'est Montaigne.' _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philos._, II. série, vol. ii. pp. 288, 289. 'Die erste Regung des skeptischen Geistes finden wir in den Versuchen des Michael von Montaigne.' _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. ix. p. 443. On the immense influence of Montaigne, compare _Tennemann_, vol. ix. p. 458; _Monteil_, _Divers Etats_, vol. v. pp. 263-265; _Sorel_, _Bibliothèque Françoise_, pp. 80-91; _Le Long_, _Bibliothèque Historique_, vol. iv. p. 527. A few years after the appearance of the Essays of Montaigne, there was published in France a work, which though now little read, possessed in the seventeenth century a reputation of the highest order. This was the celebrated _Treatise on Wisdom_, by Charron, in which we find, for the first time, an attempt made in a modern language to construct a system of morals without the aid of theology.[43] What rendered this book, in some respects, even more formidable than Montaigne's, was the air of gravity with which it was written. Charron was evidently deeply impressed with the importance of the task he had undertaken, and he is honourably distinguished from his contemporaries, by a remarkable purity both of language and of sentiment. His work is almost the only one of that age in which nothing can be found to offend the chastest ears. Although he borrowed from Montaigne innumerable illustrations,[44] he has carefully omitted those indecencies into which that otherwise charming writer was often betrayed. Besides this, there is about the work of Charron a systematic completeness which never fails to attract attention. In originality, he was, in some respects, inferior to Montaigne; but he had the advantage of coming after him, and there can be no doubt that he rose to an elevation which, to Montaigne, would have been inaccessible. Taking his stand, as it were, on the summit of knowledge, he boldly attempts to enumerate the elements of wisdom, and the conditions under which those elements will work. In the scheme which he thus constructs, he entirely omits theological dogmas;[45] and he treats with undissembled scorn many of those conclusions which the people had hitherto universally received. He reminds his countrymen that their religion is the accidental result of their birth and education, and that if they had been born in a Mohammedan country, they would have been as firm believers in Mohammedanism as they then were in Christianity.[46] From this consideration, he insists on the absurdity of their troubling themselves about the variety of creeds, seeing that such variety is the result of circumstances over which they have no control. Also it is to be observed, that each of these different religions declares itself to be the true one;[47] and all of them are equally based upon supernatural pretensions, such as mysteries, miracles, prophets, and the like.[48] It is because men forget these things, that they are the slaves of that confidence which is the great obstacle to all real knowledge, and which can only be removed by taking such a large and comprehensive view, as will show us how all nations cling with equal zeal to the tenets in which they have been educated.[49] And, says Charron, if we look a little deeper, we shall see that each of the great religions is built upon that which preceded it. Thus, the religion of the Jews is founded upon that of the Egyptians; Christianity is the result of Judaism; and, from these two last, there has naturally sprung Mohammedanism.[50] We, therefore, adds this great writer, should rise above the pretensions of hostile sects, and, without being terrified by the fear of future punishment, or allured by the hope of future happiness, we should be content with such practical religion as consists in performing the duties of life; and, uncontrolled by the dogmas of any particular creed, we should strive to make the soul retire inward upon itself, and by the efforts of its own contemplation, admire the ineffable grandeur of the Being of beings, the supreme cause of all created things.[51] [43] Compare the remarks on Charron in _Tennemann_, _Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. ix. p. 527, with two insidious passages in _Charron_, _De la Sagesse_, vol. i. pp. 4, 366. [44] The obligations of Charron to Montaigne were very considerable, but are stated too strongly by many writers. _Sorel_, _Bibliothèque Françoise_, p. 93; and _Hallam's Literature of Europe_, vol. ii. pp. 362, 509. On the most important subjects, Charron was a bolder and deeper thinker than Montaigne; though he is now so little read, that the only tolerably complete account I have seen of his system is in _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philosophie_, vol. ix. pp. 458-487. Buhle (_Geschichte der neuern Philosophie_, vol. ii. pp. 918-925) and Cousin (_Hist. de la Philos._ II. série, vol. ii. p. 289) are short and unsatisfactory. Even Dr. Parr, who was extensively read in this sort of literature, appears only to have known Charron through Bayle (see notes on the Spital Sermon, in _Parr's Works_, vol. ii. pp. 520, 521); while Dugald Stewart, with suspicious tautology, quotes, in three different places, the same passage from Charron. _Stewart's Philosophy of the Mind_, vol. ii. p. 233, vol. iii. pp. 365, 393. Singularly enough, Talleyrand was a great admirer of _De la Sagesse_, and presented his favourite copy of it to Madame de Genlis! See her own account, in _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. iv. pp. 352, 353. [45] See his definition, or rather description, of wisdom, in Charron, _De la Sagesse_, vol. i. p. 295, vol. ii. pp. 113, 115. [46] _De la Sagesse_, vol. i. pp. 63, 351. [47] 'Chacune se préfère aux autres, et se confie d'être la meilleure et plus vraie que les autres, et s'entre-reprochent aussi les unes aux autres quelque chose, et par-là s'entre-condamnent et rejettent.' _De la Sagesse_, vol. i. p. 348; see also vol. i. pp. 144, 304, 305, 306, vol. ii. p. 116. Expressions almost identical are used by M. Charles Compte, _Traité de Législation_, vol. i. p. 233. [48] 'Toutes trouvent et fournissent miracles, prodiges, oracles, mystères sacrés, saints prophètes, fêtes, certains articles de foy et créance nécessaires au salut.' _De la Sagesse_, vol. i. p. 346. [49] Hence he opposes proselytism, and takes up the philosophic ground, that religious opinions, being governed by undeviating laws, owe their variations to variations in their antecedents, and are always, if left to themselves, suited to the existing state of things: 'Et de ces conclusions, nous apprendrons à n'épouser rien, ne jurer à rien, n'admirer rien, ne se troubler de rien, mais quoi qu'il advienne, que l'on crie, tempête, se resoudre à ce point, que c'est le cours du monde, _c'est nature qui fait des siennes_.' _Dela Sagesse_, vol. i. p. 311. [50] 'Mais comme elles naissent l'une après l'autre, la plus jeune bâtit toujours sur son aînée et prochaine précédente, laquelle elle n'improuve, ni ne condamne de fond en comble, autrement elle ne seroit pas ouïe, et ne pourroit prendre pied; mais seulement l'accuse ou d'imperfection, ou de son terme fini, et qu'à cette occasion elle vient pour lui succéder et la parfaire, et ainsi la ruine peu-à-peu, et s'enrichit de ses dépouilles, comme la Judaïque a fait à la Gentille et Egyptienne, la Chrétienne à la Judaïque, la Mahometane à la Judaïque et Chrétienne ensemble: mais les vieilles condamnent bien tout-à-fait et entièrement les jeunes, et les tiennent pour ennemies capables.' _De la Sagesse_, vol. i. p. 349. This, I believe, is the first instance in any modern language of the doctrine of religious development; a doctrine which, since Charron, has been steadily advancing, particularly among men whose knowledge is extensive enough to enable them to compare the different religions which have prevailed at different times. In this, as in other subjects, they who are unable to compare, suppose that everything is isolated, simply because to them the continuity is invisible. As to the Alexandrian doctrine of development, found particularly in Clement and Origen, see _Neander's Hist. of the Church_, vol. ii. pp. 234-257; and in particular pp. 241, 246. [51] _De la Sagesse_, vol. i. pp. 356, 365; two magnificent passages. But the whole chapter ought to be read, livre ii. chap. v. In it there is an occasional ambiguity. Tennemann, however, in the most important point, understands Charron as I do in regard to the doctrine of future punishments. _Geschichte der Philosophie_, vol. ix. p. 473. Such were the sentiments which, in the year 1601, were for the first time laid before the French people in their own mother-tongue.[52] The sceptical and secular spirit, of which they were the representatives, continued to increase; and, as the seventeenth century advanced, the decline of fanaticism, so far from being confined to a few isolated thinkers, gradually became common, even among ordinary politicians.[53] The clergy, sensible of the danger, wished the government to check the progress of inquiry;[54] and the pope himself, in a formal remonstrance with Henry, urged him to remedy the evil, by prosecuting the heretics, from whom he thought all the mischief had originally proceeded.[55] But this the king steadily refused. He saw the immense advantages that would arise, if he could weaken the ecclesiastical power by balancing the two sects against each other;[56] and therefore, though he was a Catholic, his policy rather leaned in favour of the Protestants, as being the weaker party.[57] He granted sums of money towards the support of their ministers and the repair of their churches;[58] he banished the Jesuits, who were their most dangerous enemies;[59] and he always had with him two representatives of the reformed church, whose business it was to inform him of any infraction of those edicts which he had issued in favour of their religion.[60] [52] The first edition of _La Sagesse_ was published at Bourdeaux in 1601. _Niceron_, _Hommes illustres_, vol. xvi. p. 224; _Hallam's Lit. of Europe_, vol. ii. p. 509; _Biog. Univ._ vol. viii. p. 250. Two editions were susequently published in Paris, in 1604 and 1607. _Brunet_, _Manuel du Libraire_, vol. i. p. 639. [53] Sismondi (_Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 86) and Lavallée (_Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. p. 84) have noticed the diminution of religious zeal early in the seventeenth century; and some curious evidence will also be found in the correspondence of Duplessis Mornay. See, for instance, a letter he wrote to Diodati, in 1609: 'A beaucoup aujourd'hui il fault commencer par là, qu'il y a une religion, premier que de leur dire quelle.' _Duplessis_, _Mém. et Corresp._ vol. x. p. 415. This middle, or secular party, received the name of 'Politiques,' and began to be powerful in 1592 or 1593. Benoist (_Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. i. p. 113), under the year 1593, contemptuously says: 'Il s'éleva une foule de conciliateurs de religion;' see also pp. 201, 273. In 1590, and in 1594, the 'Politiques' are noticed by De Thou (_Hist. Univ._ vol. xi. p. 171, vol. xii. p. 134); and on the increase, in 1593, of 'le tiers parti politique et négociateur,' see _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. vi. p. 235. See also, respecting 'les politiques,' a letter from the Spanish ambassador to his own court, in 1615, in _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 93; and for the rise in Paris, in 1592, of a 'politisch und kirchlich gemässigte Gesinnung,' see _Ranke_, _die Päpste_, vol. ii. p. 243. [54] The Sorbonne went so far as to condemn Charron's great work, but could not succeed in having it prohibited. Compare _Duvernet_, _Hist. de la Sorbonne_, vol. ii. p. 139, with _Bayle_, article Charron, note F. [55] In the appendix to Ranke (_Die Römischen Päpste_, vol. iii. pp. 141, 142), there will be found the instructions which were given to the nuncio, in 1603, when he was sent to the French court; and which should be compared with a letter, written in 1604, in _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. v. p. 122, edit. 1820. [56] 'Sein Sinn war im Allgemeinen, ohne Zweifel, das Gleichgewicht zwischen ihnen zu erhalten.' _Ranke_, _die Päpste_, vol. ii. pp. 430, 431. 'Henri IV, l'expression de l'indifférentisme religieux, se posa comme une transaction entre ces deux systèmes.' _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. vi. p. 358. 'Henry IV. endeavoured to adjust the balance evenly,' _Smedley's Hist. of the Reformed Religion in France_, vol. iii. p. 19. See also _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. i. p. 136. Hence, of course, neither party was quite satisfied. _Mably's Observations_, vol. iii. p. 220; _Mezeray_, _Histoire de France_, vol. iii. p. 959. [57] Compare _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. viii. p. 61, with _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. pp. 32, 33. See also, on his inclination towards the Protestants, _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. i. p. 91. Fontenay, p. 94, mentions, as a singular instance, that 'il se vist de son temps des huguenots avoir des abbayes.' [58] _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. iv. p. 134, vol. vi. p. 233; _Duplessis Mornay_, _Mém. et Corresp._ vol. xi. p. 242; _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. pp. 68, 205. These grants were annual, and were apportioned by the Protestants themselves. See their own account, in _Quick's Synodicon in Gallia_, vol. i. pp. 198, 222, 246, 247, 249, 275-277. [59] Henry IV. banished the Jesuits in 1594; but they were allowed, later in his reign, to make fresh settlements in France. _Flassan_, _Hist. de la Diplomatie_, vol. vi. p. 485; _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. p. 106; _Monteil_, _Divers Etats_, vol. v. p. 192 note; _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. xiv. p. 298. Compare the notices of them in _Sully_, _[OE]conomies_, vol. ii. p. 234, vol. iv. pp. 200, 235, 245. But there can be little doubt that they owed their recall to the dread entertained of their intrigues (_Grégoire_, _Hist. des Confesseurs_, p. 316); and Henry evidently disliked as well as feared them. See two letters from him in _Duplessis_, _Mém. et Corresp._ vol. vi. pp. 129, 151. It would appear, from the _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. v. p. 350, Paris, 1823, that the king never restored to them their former authority in regard to education. [60] _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. pp. 142, 143; _Le Vassor_, vol. i. p. 156; _Sismondi_, vol. xxii. p. 116; _Duplessis Mornay_, vol. i. p. 389; _Sully_, _[OE]conomies_, vol. vii. pp. 105, 432, 442. Thus it was, that in France, as well as in England, toleration was preceded by scepticism; and thus it was, that out of this scepticism there arose the humane and enlightened measures of Henry IV. The great prince, by whom these things were effected, unhappily fell a victim to that fanatical spirit which he had done much to curb;[61] but the circumstances which occurred after his death, showed how great an impetus had been given to the age. [61] When Ravaillac was examined, he said, 'qu'il y avait été excité par l'intérêt de la religion, et par une impulsion irrésistible.' _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. p. 38. This work contains the fullest account I have met with of Ravaillac; of whom there is, moreover, a description in _Les Historiettes de Tallemant des Réaux_, vol. i. p. 85, Paris, 1840, a very curious book. On the murder of Henry IV., in 1610, the government fell into the hands of the queen, who administered it during the minority of her son, Louis XIII. And it is a remarkable evidence of the direction which the mind was now taking, that she, though a weak and bigoted woman,[62] refrained from those persecutions which, only one generation before, had been considered a necessary proof of religious sincerity. That, indeed, must have been a movement of no common energy, which could force toleration, early in the seventeenth century, upon a princess of the house of Medici, an ignorant and superstitious Catholic, who had been educated in the midst of her priests, and had been accustomed to look for their applause as the highest object of earthly ambition. [62] Le Vassor (_Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. p. 279) calls her 'superstitieuse au dernier point;' and, in vol. v. p. 481, 'femme crédule et superstitieuse.' See also vol. iii. p. 250, vol. vi. p. 628; and _Grégoire_, _Hist. des Confesseurs_, p. 65. Yet this was what actually occurred. The queen continued the ministers of Henry IV., and announced, that in every thing she would follow his example.[63] Her first public act was, a declaration, that the Edict of Nantes should be inviolably preserved; for, she says, 'experience has taught our predecessors, that violence, so far from inducing men to return to the Catholic church, prevents them from doing so.'[64] Indeed, so anxious was she upon this point, that when Louis, in 1614, attained his nominal majority, the first act of his government was another confirmation of the Edict of Nantes.[65] And, in 1615, she caused the king, who still remained under her tutelage,[66] to issue a declaration, by which all preceding measures in favour of the Protestants were publicly confirmed.[67] In the same spirit, she, in 1611, wished to raise to the presidency of parliament the celebrated De Thou; and it was only by making a formal announcement of his heresy, that the pope succeeded in frustrating what he considered an impious design.[68] [63] 'Elle annonça qu'elle vouloit suivre en tout l'exemple du feu roi.... Le ministère de Henri IV, que la reine continuoit.' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. pp. 206, 210; and see two letters from her, in _Duplessis Mornay_, _Mém. et Corresp._ vol. xi. p. 282, vol. xii. p. 428. Sully had feared that the death of Henry IV. would cause a change of policy: 'que l'on s'alloit jeter dans des desseins tous contraires aux règles, ordres et maximes du feu roy.' _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. viii. p. 401. [64] See the declaration in Bazin, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. pp. 74, 75; and notices of it in _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 58; _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 27; _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 7; _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. p. 58. But none of these writers, nor Sismondi (vol. xxii. p. 221), appear to be aware that the issuing of this declaration was determined on, in council, as early as the 17th of May; that is, only three days after the death of Henry IV. This is mentioned by Pontchartrain, who was then one of the ministers. See _Mém. de Pontchartrain_, edit. Petitot, 1822, vol. i. p. 409; a book little known, but well worthy of being read. [65] _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. p. 262; _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 140; _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. i. p. 257; _Le Vassor_, vol. i. p. 604. [66] 'Laissant néanmoins l'administration du royaume à la reine sa mère.' _Mém. de Bassompierre_, vol. ii. p. 52. Compare _Sully_, _[OE]conomies_, vol. ix. p. 177. She possessed complete authority over the king till 1617. See _Mémoires de Montglat_, vol. i. p. 24: 'avoit été tenu fort bas par la reine sa mère.' See also _Le Vassor, Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. pp. 640, 677, 716, 764. [67] _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. pp. 381, 382. [68] In 1611, 'le pape le rejeta formellement comme hérétique.' _Bazin_, vol. i. p. 174. This is glossed over by Pontchartrain (_Mémoires_, vol. i. p. 450); but the statement of M. Bazin is confirmed in the preface to _De Thou_, _Histoire Universelle_, vol. i. p. xvi. The turn which things were now taking, caused no little alarm to the friends of the hierarchy. The most zealous churchmen loudly censured the policy of the queen; and a great historian has observed that when, during the reign of Louis XIII., such alarm was caused in Europe by the active encroachments of the ecclesiastical power, France was the first country that ventured to oppose them.[69] The nuncio openly complained to the queen of her conduct in favouring heretics; and he anxiously desired that those Protestant works should be suppressed, by which the consciences of true believers were greatly scandalized.[70] But these, and similar representations, were no longer listened to with the respect they would formerly have received; and the affairs of the country continued to be administered with those purely temporal views, on which the measures of Henry IV. had been avowedly based.[71] [69] 'Der erste Einhalt den die kirchliche Restauration erfuhr, geschah in Frankreich,' _Ranke_, _die Römischen Päpste_, vol. iii. p. 160. [70] This desire was expressed several times, but in vain: 'Gern hätten die Nuntien Werke wie von Thou und Richer verboten, aber es war ihnen nicht möglich,' _Ranke_, _die Päpste_, vol. iii. p. 181, Anhang. Compare _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. ii. p. 68; _Mém. de Pontchartrain_, vol. i. p. 428. [71] This decline of the ecclesiastical power is noticed by many writers of the time; but it is sufficient to refer to the very curious remonstrance of the French clergy, in 1605, in _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. xiv. pp. 446, 447. Such was now the policy of the government of France; a government which, not many years before, had considered it the great duty of a sovereign to punish heretics and extirpate heresy. That this continued improvement was merely the result of the general intellectual development, is evident, not only from its success, but also from the character of the queen-regent and the king. No one who has read the contemporary memoirs, can deny that Mary de Medici and Louis XIII. were as superstitious as any of their predecessors; and it is, therefore, evident, that this disregard of theological prejudices was due, not to their own personal merits, but to the advancing knowledge of the country, and to the pressure of an age which, in the rapidity of its progress, hurried along those who believed themselves to be its rulers. But these considerations, weighty as they are, will only slightly diminish the merit of that remarkable man, who now appeared on the stage of public affairs. During the last eighteen years of the reign of Louis XIII., France was entirely governed by Richelieu,[72] one of that extremely small class of statesmen to whom it is given to impress their own character on the destiny of their country. This great ruler has, in his knowledge of the political art, probably never been surpassed, except by that prodigy of genius who, in our time, troubled the fortunes of Europe. But, in one important view, Richelieu was superior to Napoleon. The life of Napoleon was a constant effort to oppress the liberties of mankind; and his unrivalled capacity exhausted its resources in struggling against the tendencies of a great age. Richelieu, too, was a despot; but his despotism took a nobler turn. He displayed, what Napoleon never possessed, a just appreciation of the spirit of his own time. In one great point, indeed, he failed. His attempts to destroy the power of the French nobility were altogether futile;[73] for, owing to a long course of events, the authority of that insolent class was so deeply rooted in the popular mind, that the labours of another century were required to efface its ancient influence. But, though Richelieu could not diminish the social and moral weight of the French nobles, he curtailed their political privileges; and he chastised their crimes with a severity which, for a time at least, repressed their former license.[74] So little, however, can even the ablest statesman effect, unless he is seconded by the general temper of the age in which he lives, that these checks, rude as they were, produced no permanent result. After his death, the French nobles, as we shall presently see, quickly rallied; and, in the wars of the Fronde, debased that great struggle into a mere contest of rival families. Nor was it until the close of the eighteenth century, that France was finally relieved from the overweening influence of that powerful class, whose selfishness had long retarded the progress of civilization, by retaining the people in a thraldom, from the remote effects of which they have not yet fully recovered. [72] As M. Monteil says (_Hist. des Français des divers Etats_, vol. vii. p. 114), 'Richelieu tint le sceptre; Louis XIII. porta la couronne.' And Campion (_Mémoires_, p. 37) calls him 'plutôt le maître que le ministre;' and adds, pp. 218, 219, that he 'avoit gouverné dix-huit ans la France avec un pouvoir absolu et une gloire sans pareille.' Compare _Mém. du Cardinal de Retz_, vol. i p. 63. [73] The common opinion, put forth in _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. i. pp. 101-104, and in many other books, is that Richelieu did destroy their influence; but this error arises from confusing political influence with social influence. What is termed the political power of a class, is merely the symptom and manifestation of its real power; and it is no use to attack the first, unless you can also weaken the second. The real power of the nobles was social, and that neither Richelieu nor Louis XIV. could impair; and it remained intact until the middle of the eighteenth century, when the intellect of France rebelled against it, overthrew it, and finally effected the French Revolution. [74] Richelieu appears to have formed the design of humbling the nobles, at least as early as 1624. See a characteristic passage in his _Mémoires_, vol. ii. p. 340. In _Swinburne's Courts of Europe_, vol. ii. pp. 63-65, there is a curious traditional anecdote, which, though probably false, shows, at all events, the fear and hatred with which the French nobles regarded the memory of Richelieu more than a century after his death. Although in this respect Richelieu failed in achieving his designs, he in other matters met with signal success. This was owing to the fact, that his large and comprehensive views harmonized with that sceptical tendency, of which I have just given some account. For this remarkable man, though he was a bishop and a cardinal, never for a moment allowed the claims of his profession to make him forego the superior claims of his country. He knew, what is too often forgotten, that the governor of a people should measure affairs solely by a political standard, and should pay no regard to the pretensions of any sect, or the propagation of any opinions, except in reference to the present and practical welfare of men. The consequence was, that, during his administration, there was seen the marvellous spectacle of supreme authority wielded by a priest, who took no pains to increase the power of the spiritual classes. Indeed, so far from this, he often treated them with what was then considered unexampled rigour. The royal confessors, on account of the importance of their functions, had always been regarded with a certain veneration; they were supposed to be men of unspotted piety; they had hitherto possessed immense influence, and even the most powerful statesmen had thought it advisable to show them the deference due to their exalted position.[75] Richelieu, however, was too familiar with the arts of his profession, to feel much respect for these keepers of the consciences of kings. Caussin, the confessor of Louis XIII., had, it seems, followed the example of his predecessors, and endeavoured to instill his own views of policy into the mind of the royal penitent.[76] But Richelieu, so soon as he heard of this, dismissed him from office, and sent him into exile; for, he contemptuously says, 'the little father Caussin' should not interfere in matters of government, since he is one of those 'who have always been brought up in the innocence of a religious life.'[77] Caussin was succeeded by the celebrated Sirmond; but Richelieu would not allow the new confessor to begin his duties, until he had solemnly promised never to interfere in state affairs.[78] [75] On their influence, see _Grégoire_, _Histoire des Confesseurs_; and compare the remarks of Mr. Grote, a great writer, whose mind is always ready with historical analogies. _Grote's Hist. of Greece_, vol. vi. p. 393, 2nd edit. 1851. Many of the French kings had a strong natural affection for monks; but the most singular instance I have found of this sort of love is mentioned by no less a man than De Thou, respecting Henry III. De Thou (_Hist. Univ._ vol. x. pp. 666, 667) says of that prince: 'Soit tempérament, soit éducation, la présence d'un moine faisait toujours plaisir à Henri; et je lui ai moi-même souvent entendu dire, que leur vue produisoit le même effet sur son âme, que le chatouillement le plus délicat sur le corps.' [76] One of his suggestions was, 'sur les dangers que couroit le catholicisme en Allemagne, par ses liaisons avec les puissances protestantes.' _Grégoire_, _Histoire des Confesseurs_, p. 342. The fullest account of Caussin is in _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ix. pp. 287-299; to which, however, Grégoire never refers. As I shall have frequent occasion to quote Le Vassor, I may observe, that he is far more accurate than is generally supposed, and that he has been very unfairly treated by the majority of French writers, among whom he is unpopular, on account of his constant attacks on Louis XIV. Sismondi (_Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. pp. 188, 189) speaks highly of his _Hist. of Louis XIII_; and so far as my own reading extends, I can confirm his favourable opinion. [77] 'Le petit père Caussin.' _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. x. p. 206; and at p. 217, he is classed among the 'personnes qui avoient toujours été nourries dans l'innocence d'une vie religieuse;' see also p. 215, on his 'simplicité et ignorance.' Respecting Richelieu's treatment of Caussin, see _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. i. pp. 173-175; _Lettres de Patin_, vol. i. p. 49; _Des Réaux, Historiettes_, vol. ii. p. 182. [78] _Sismondi, Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiii. p. 332; _Tallemant des Réaux, Historiettes_, vol. iii. p. 78 note. Le Vassor (_Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. x. part ii. p. 761) says, that Sirmond 'se soutint à la cour sous le ministère de Richelieu, parce qu'il ne se mêloit point des affaires d'état.' According to the same writer (vol. viii. p. 156), Richelieu thought at one time of depriving the Jesuits of their post of confessor to the king. On another occasion of much more importance, Richelieu displayed a similar spirit. The French clergy were then possessed of enormous wealth; and, as they enjoyed the privilege of taxing themselves, they were careful not to make what they considered unnecessary contributions towards defraying the expenses of the state. They had cheerfully advanced money to carry on war against the Protestants, because they believed it to be their duty to assist in the extirpation of heresy.[79] But they saw no reason why their revenues should be wasted in effecting mere temporal benefits; they considered themselves as the guardians of funds set apart for spiritual purposes, and they thought it impious that wealth consecrated by the piety of their ancestors should fall into the profane hands of secular statesmen. Richelieu, who looked on these scruples as the artifices of interested men, had taken a very different view of the relation which the clergy bore to the country.[80] So far from thinking that the interests of the church were superior to those of the state, he laid it down as a maxim of policy, that 'the reputation of the state was the first consideration.'[81] With such fearlessness did he carry out this principle, that having convoked at Nantes a great assembly of the clergy, he compelled them to aid the government by an extraordinary supply of 6,000,000 francs; and finding that some of the highest dignitaries had expressed their discontent at so unusual a step, he laid hands on them also, and to the amazement of the church, sent into exile not only four of the bishops, but likewise the two archbishops of Toulouse and of Sens.[82] [79] _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. p. 87; _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. iv. p. 208; _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. p. 144; _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. pp. 337, 338. Benoist says: 'Le clergé de France, ignorant et corrompu, croyoit tout son devoir compris dans l'extirpation des hérétiques; et même il offroit de grandes sommes, à condition qu'on les employât à cette guerre.' [80] In which he is fully borne out by the high authority of Vattel, whose words I shall quote, for the sake of those politicians who still cleave to the superannuated theory of the sacredness of church-property: 'Loin que l'exemption appartienne aux biens d'église parce qu'ils sont consacrés à Dieu, c'est au contraire par cette raison même, qu'ils doivent être pris les premiers pour le salut de l'état; car il n'y a rien de plus agréable au Père commun des hommes, que de garantir une nation de sa ruine. Dieu n'ayant besoin de rien, lui consacrer des biens, c'est les destiner à des usages qui lui soient agréables. De plus, les biens de l'église, de l'aveu du clergé lui-même, sont en grande partie destinés aux pauvres. Quand l'état est dans le besoin, il est sans doute le premier pauvre, et le plus digne de secours.' _Vattel_, _le Droit des Gens_, vol. i. pp. 176, 177. [81] 'Que la réputation de l'état est préférable à toutes choses.' _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. ii. p. 482. This was in 1625, and by way of refuting the legate. [82] _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiii. pp. 477, 478; _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. iv. pp. 325, 326. The Cardinal de Retz, who knew Richelieu personally, says: 'M. le cardinal de Richelieu avoit donné une atteinte cruelle à la dignité et à la liberté du clergé dans l'assemblée de Mante, et il avoit exilé, avec des circonstances atroces, six de ses prélats les plus considérables.' _Mém. de Retz_, vol. i. p. 50. If these things had been done fifty years earlier, they would most assuredly have proved fatal to the minister who dared to attempt them. But Richelieu, in these and similar measures, was aided by the spirit of an age which was beginning to despise its ancient masters. For this general tendency was now becoming apparent, not only in literature and in politics, but even in the proceedings of the ordinary tribunals. The nuncio indignantly complained of the hostility displayed against ecclesiastics by the French judges; and he said that, among other shameful things, some clergymen had been hung, without being first deprived of their spiritual character.[83] On other occasions, the increasing contempt showed itself in a way well suited to the coarseness of the prevailing manners. Sourdis, the archbishop of Bourdeaux, was twice ignominiously beaten; once by the Duke d'Epernon, and afterwards by the Maréchal de Vitry.[84] Nor did Richelieu, who usually treated the nobles with such severity, seem anxious to punish this gross outrage. Indeed, the archbishop not only received no sympathy, but, a few years later, was peremptorily ordered by Richelieu to retire to his own diocese; such, however, was his alarm at the state of affairs, that he fled to Carpentras, and put himself under the protection of the pope.[85] This happened in 1641 and nine years earlier, the church had incurred a still greater scandal. For in 1632, serious disturbances having arisen in Languedoc, Richelieu did not fear to meet the difficulty by depriving some of the bishops, and seizing the temporalities of the others.[86] [83] 'Die Nuntien finden kein Ende der Beschwerden die sie machen zu müssen glauben, vorzüglich über die Beschränkungen welche die geistliche Jurisdiction erfahre.... Zuweilen werde ein Geistlicher hingerichtet ohne erst degradirt zu seyn.' _Ranke_, _die Päpste_, vol. iii. p. 157: a summary, in 1641, of the complaints of the then nuncio, and of those of his predecessors. Le Vassor (_Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. v. pp. 51 seq.) has given some curious details respecting the animosity between the clergy and the secular tribunals of France in 1624. [84] _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiii. p. 301; _Mém. de Bassompierre_, vol. iii. pp. 302, 353. Bazin, who notices this disgraceful affair, simply says (_Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. iii. p. 453): 'Le maréchal de Vitry, suivant l'exemple qui lui en avoit donné le duc d'Epernon, s'emporta jusqu'à le frapper de son bâton.' In regard to Epernon, the best account is in _Mém. de Richelieu_, where it is stated (vol. viii. p. 194) that the duke, just before flogging the archbishop, 'disoit au peuple, "Rangez-vous, vous verrez comme j'étrillerai votre archevêque."' This was stated by a witness, who heard the duke utter the words. Compare, for further information, _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. x. part ii. p. 97, with _Tallemant des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. iii. p. 116. Des Réaux, who, in his own way, was somewhat of a philosopher, contentedly says: 'Cet archevêque se pouvoit vanter d'être le prélat du monde qui avoit été le plus battu.' His brother was Cardinal Sourdis; a man of some little reputation in his own time, and concerning whom a curious anecdote is related in _Mém. de Conrart_, pp. 231-234. [85] _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiii. p. 470. Le Vassor (_Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. x. part ii. p. 149) says: 'Il s'enfuit donc honteusement à Carpentras sous la protection du pape.' [86] 'Les évêques furent punis par la saisie de leur temporel; Alby, Nimes, Uzés, furent privées de leurs prélats.' _Capefigue's Richelieu_, Paris, 1844, vol. ii. p. 24. The Protestants were greatly delighted at the punishment of the bishops of Alby and Nimes, which 'les ministres regardoient comme une vengeance divine.' _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. pp. 528, 529. The indignation of the clergy may be easily imagined. Such repeated injuries, even if they had proceeded from a layman, would have been hard to endure; but they were rendered doubly bitter by being the work of one of themselves--one who had been nurtured in the profession against which he turned. This it was which aggravated the offence, because it seemed to be adding treachery to insult. It was not a war from without, but it was a treason from within. It was a bishop who humbled the episcopacy, and a cardinal who affronted the church.[87] Such, however, was the general temper of men, that the clergy did not venture to strike an open blow; but, by means of their partisans, they scattered the most odious libels against the great minister. They said that he was unchaste, that he was guilty of open debauchery, and that he held incestuous commerce with his own niece.[88] They declared that he had no religion; that he was only a Catholic in name; that he was the pontiff of the Huguenots; that he was the patriarch of atheists;[89] and what was worse than all, they even accused him of wishing to establish a schism in the French church.[90] Happily the time was now passing away in which the national mind could be moved by such artifices as these. Still the charges are worth recording, because they illustrate the tendency of public affairs, and the bitterness with which the spiritual classes saw the reins of power falling from their hands. Indeed, all this was so manifest, that in the last civil war raised against Richelieu, only two years before his death, the insurgents stated in their proclamation, that one of their objects was to revive the respect with which the clergy and nobles had formerly been treated.[91] [87] In a short account of Richelieu, which was published immediately after his death, the writer indignantly says, that 'being a cardinal, he afflicted the church.' _Somers Tracts_. vol. v. p. 540. Compare _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. iv. p. 322. [88] This scandalous charge in regard to his niece was a favourite one with the clergy; and among many other instances, the accusation was brought by the Cardinal de Valençay in the grossest manner. See _Tallemant des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. iii. p. 201. [89] 'De là ces petits écrits qui le dénonçaient comme le "pontife des huguenots" ou "le patriarche des athées."' _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 312. [90] Compare _Des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. ii. p. 233, with _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. viii. part ii. pp. 177, 178, vol. ix. p. 277. [91] See the manifesto in _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiii. pp. 452, 453. The more we study the career of Richelieu, the more prominent does this antagonism become. Every thing proves that he was conscious of a great struggle going on between the old ecclesiastical scheme of government and the new secular scheme; and that he was determined to put down the old plan, and uphold the new one. For, not only in his domestic administration, but also in his foreign policy, do we find the same unprecedented disregard of theological interests. The House of Austria, particularly its Spanish branch, had long been respected by all pious men as the faithful ally of the church; it was looked upon as the scourge of heresy; and its proceedings against the heretics had won for it a great name in ecclesiastical history.[92] When, therefore, the French government, in the reign of Charles IX., made a deliberate attempt to destroy the Protestants, France naturally established an intimate connexion with Spain as well as with Rome;[93] and these three great powers were firmly united, not by a community of temporal interests, but by the force of a religious compact. This theological confederacy was afterwards broken up by the personal character of Henry IV.,[94] and by the growing indifference of the age; but during the minority of Louis XIII., the queen-regent had in some degree renewed it, and had attempted to revive the superstitious prejudices upon which it was based.[95] In all her feelings, she was a zealous Catholic; she was warmly attached to Spain; and she succeeded in marrying her son, the young king, to a Spanish princess, and her daughter to a Spanish prince.[96] [92] Late in the sixteenth century, 'fils aîné de l'Eglise' was the recognized and well-merited title of the kings of Spain. _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. xi. p. 280. Compare _Duplessis Mornay_, _Mém. et Correspond._ vol. xi. p. 21. And on the opinions which the Catholics, early in the seventeenth century, generally held respecting Spain, see _Mém. de Fontenay_, _Mareuil_, vol. i. p. 189; _Mém. de Bassompierre_, vol. i. p. 424. [93] As to the connexion between this foreign policy and the massacre of Saint Bartholomew, see _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. iii. pp. 253, 268, 269. [94] On the policy, and still more on the feelings, of Henry IV. towards the House of Austria, see _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. ii. p. 291, vol. iii. pp. 162, 166, vol. iv. pp. 289, 290, 321, 343, 344, 364, vol. v. p. 123, vol. vi. p. 293, vol. vii. p. 303, vol. viii. pp. 195, 202, 348. [95] _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. pp. 26, 369; _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. i. pp. 16, 17; _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol i. p. 268, vol. vi. p. 349; _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 227. Her husband, Henry IV., said that she had 'the soul of a Spaniard.' _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. viii. p. 150. [96] This was, in her opinion, a master-stroke of policy: 'Entêtée du double mariage avec l'Espagne qu'elle avoit ménagé avec tant d'application, et qu'elle regardoit comme le plus ferme appui de son autorité.' _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. pp. 453, 454. It might have been expected that when Richelieu, a great dignitary of the Romish church, was placed at the head of affairs, he would have reëstablished a connexion so eagerly desired by the profession to which he belonged.[97] But his conduct was not regulated by such views as these. His object was, not to favour the opinions of a sect, but to promote the interests of a nation. His treaties, his diplomacy, and the schemes of his foreign alliances, were all directed, not against the enemies of the church, but against the enemies of France. By erecting this new standard of action, Richelieu took a great step towards secularizing the whole system of European politics. For he thus made the theoretical interests of men subordinate to their practical interests. Before his time, the rulers of France, in order to punish their Protestant subjects, had not hesitated to demand the aid of the Catholic troops of Spain; and in so doing, they merely acted upon the old opinion, that it was the chief duty of a government to suppress heresy. This pernicious doctrine was first openly repudiated by Richelieu. As early as 1617, and before he had established his power, he, in an instruction to one of the foreign ministers which is still extant, laid it down as a principle, that, in matters of state, no Catholic ought to prefer a Spaniard to a French Protestant.[98] To us, indeed, in the progress of society, such preference of the claims of our country to those of our creed, has become a matter of course; but in those days it was a startling novelty.[99] Richelieu, however, did not fear to push the paradox even to its remotest consequences. The Catholic church justly considered that its interests were bound up with those of the House of Austria;[100] but Richelieu, directly he was called to the council, determined to humble that house in both its branches.[101] To effect this, he openly supported the bitterest enemies of his own religion. He aided the Lutherans against the Emperor of Germany; he aided the Calvinists against the king of Spain. During the eighteen years he was supreme, he steadily pursued the same undeviating policy.[102] When Philip attempted to repress the Dutch Protestants, Richelieu made common cause with them; at first, advancing them large sums of money, and afterwards inducing the French king to sign a treaty of intimate alliance with those who, in the opinion of the church, he ought rather to have chastized as rebellious heretics.[103] In the same way, when that great war broke out, in which the emperor attempted to subjugate to the true faith the consciences of German Protestants, Richelieu stood forward as their protector; he endeavoured from the beginning to save their leader the Palatine;[104] and, failing in that, he concluded in their favour an alliance with Gustavus Adolphus,[105] the ablest military commander the Reformers had then produced. Nor did he stop there. After the death of Gustavus, he, seeing that the Protestants were thus deprived of their great leader, made still more vigorous efforts in their favour.[106] He intrigued for them in foreign courts; he opened negotiations in their behalf; and eventually he organized for their protection a public confederacy, in which all ecclesiastical considerations were set at defiance. This league, which formed an important precedent in the international polity of Europe, was not only contracted by Richelieu with the two most powerful enemies of his own church, but it was, from its tenor, what Sismondi emphatically calls a 'Protestant confederation'--a Protestant confederation, he says, between France, England, and Holland.[107] [97] So late as 1656, the French clergy wished 'to hasten a peace with Spain, and to curb the heretics in France,' _Letter from Pell to Thurloe_, written in 1656, and printed in _Vaughan's Protectorate of Cromwell_, vol. i. p. 436, 8vo, 1839. During the minority of Louis XIII. we hear of 'les zéléz catholiques, et ceux qui désiroient, à quelque prix que ce fut, l'union des deux roys, et des deux couronnes de France et d'Espagne, comme le seul moyen propre, selon leur advis, pour l'extirpation des hérésies dans la chrestienté.' _Sully_, _[OE]con. Royales_, vol. ix. p. 181: compare vol. vii. p. 248, on 'les zéléz catholiques espagnolisez de France.' [98] See _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. pp. 387-389, where the importance of this document is noticed, and it is said that Richelieu had drawn it up 'avec beaucoup de soin.' The language of it is very peremptory: 'Que nul catholique n'est si aveugle d'estimer en matière d'état un Espagnol meilleur qu'un Français huguenot.' [99] Even in the reign of Henry IV. the French Protestants were not considered to be Frenchmen: 'The intolerant dogmas of Roman Catholicism did not recognize them as Frenchmen. They were looked upon as foreigners, or rather as enemies; and were treated as such.' _Felice's Hist. of the Protestants of France_, p. 216. [100] Sismondi says, under the year 1610, 'Toute l'église catholique croyoit son sort lié à celui de la maison d'Autriche,' _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 180. [101] 'Sa vue dominante fut l'abaissement de la maison d'Autriche.' _Flassan_, _Hist. de la Diplomatie Française_, vol. iii. p. 81. And, on the early formation of this scheme, see _Mém. de la Rochefoucauld_, vol. i. p. 350. De Retz says, that before Richelieu, no one had even thought of such a step: 'Celui d'attaquer la formidable maison d'Autriche n'avoit été imaginé de personne.' _Mém. de Retz_, vol. i. p. 45. This is rather too strongly expressed; but the whole paragraph is curious, as written by a man who possessed great ability, which De Retz undoubtedly did, and who, though hating Richelieu, could not refrain from bearing testimony to his immense services. [102] 'Obwohl Cardinal der römischen Kirche, trug Richelieu kein Bedenken, mit den Protestanten selbst unverhohlen in Bund zu treten,' _Ranke_, _die Päpste_, vol. ii. p. 510. Compare, in _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. ii. pp. 28, 29, the reproach which the nuncio Spada addressed to Richelieu for treating with the Protestants, 'de la paix qui se traitoit avec les huguenots.' See also _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. v. pp. 236, 354-356, 567; and a good passage in _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. p. 90,--an able little work, and perhaps the best small history ever published of a great country. [103] De Retz mentions a curious illustration of the feelings of the ecclesiastical party respecting this treaty. He says, that the Bishop of Beauvais, who, the year after the death of Richelieu, was for a moment at the head of affairs, began his administration by giving to the Dutch their choice, either to abandon their religion, or else forfeit their alliance with France: 'Et il demanda dès le premier jour aux Hollandois qu'ils se convertissent à la religion catholique, s'ils vouloient demeurer dans l'alliance de France.' _Mém. du Cardinal de Retz_, vol. i. p. 39. This, I suppose, is the original authority for the statement in the _Biog. Univ._ vol. xiv. p. 440; though, as is too often the case in that otherwise valuable work, the writer has omitted to indicate the source of his information. [104] In 1626, he attempted to form a league 'en faveur du Palatin,' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 576. Sismondi seems not quite certain as to the sincerity of his proposal; but as to this there can, I think, be little doubt; for it appears from his own memoirs, that even in 1624 he had in view the recovery of the Palatinate. _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. ii. p. 405; and again in 1625, p. 468. [105] _Sismondi_, vol. xxiii. p. 173; _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 415; _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. vi. pp. 12, 600; and at p. 489: 'Le roi de Suède qui comptoit uniquement sur le cardinal.' [106] Compare _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. i. pp. 74, 75, vol. ii. pp. 92, 93, with _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. ii. p. 198; and _Howell's Letters_, p. 247. The different views which occurred to his fertile mind in consequence of the death of Gustavus, are strikingly summed up in _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. vii. pp. 272-277. On his subsequent pecuniary advances, see vol. ix. p. 395. [107] In 1633, 'les ambassadeurs de France, d'Angleterre et de Hollande mirent à profit le repos de l'hiver pour resserrer la confédération protestante,' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiii. p. 221. Compare, in _Whitelocke's Swedish Embassy_, vol. i. p. 275, the remark made twenty years later by Christina, daughter of Gustavus, on the union with 'papists.' These things alone would have made the administration of Richelieu a great epoch in the history of European civilization. For his government affords the first example of an eminent Catholic statesman systematically disregarding ecclesiastical interests, and showing that disregard in the whole scheme of his foreign, as well as of his domestic, policy. Some instances, indeed, approaching to this, may be found, at an earlier period, among the petty rulers of Italian states; but, even there, such attempts have never been successful; they had never been continued for any length of time, nor had they been carried out on a scale large enough to raise them to the dignity of international precedents. The peculiar glory of Richelieu is, that his foreign policy was, not occasionally, but invariably, governed by temporal considerations; nor do I believe that, during the long tenure of his power, there is to be found the least proof of his regard for those theological interests, the promotion of which had long been looked upon as a matter of paramount importance. By thus steadily subordinating the church to the state; by enforcing the principle of this subordination, on a large scale, with great ability, and with unvarying success, he laid the foundation of that purely secular polity, the consolidation of which has, since his death, been the aim of all the best European diplomatists. The result was a most salutary change, which had been for some time preparing, but which, under him, was first completed. For, by the introduction of this system, an end was put to religious wars; and the chances of peace were increased, by thus removing one of the causes to which the interruption of peace had often been owing.[108] At the same time, there was prepared the way for that final separation of theology from politics, which it will be the business of future generations fully to achieve. How great a step had been taken in this direction, appears from the facility with which the operations of Richelieu were continued by men every way his inferiors. Less than two years after his death, there was assembled the Congress of Westphalia;[109] the members of which concluded that celebrated peace, which is remarkable, as being the first comprehensive attempt to adjust the conflicting interests of the leading European countries.[110] In this important treaty, ecclesiastical interests were altogether disregarded;[111] and the contracting parties, instead of, as heretofore, depriving each other of their possessions, took the bolder course of indemnifying themselves at the expense of the church, and did not hesitate to seize her revenues, and secularize several of her bishoprics.[112] From this grievous insult, which became a precedent in the public law of Europe, the spiritual power has never recovered; and it is remarked by a very competent authority that, since that period, diplomatists have, in their official acts, neglected religious interests, and have preferred the advocacy of matters relating to the commerce and colonies of their respective countries.[113] The truth of this observation is confirmed by the interesting fact, that the Thirty Years' War, to which this same treaty put an end, is the last great religious war which has ever been waged;[114] no civilized people, during two centuries, having thought it worth while to peril their own safety in order to disturb the belief of their neighbours. This, indeed, is but a part of that vast secular movement, by which superstition has been weakened, and the civilization of Europe secured. Without, however, discussing that subject, I will now endeavour to show how the policy of Richelieu, in regard to the French Protestant church, corresponded with his policy in regard to the French Catholic church; so, that, in both departments, this great statesman, aided by that progress of knowledge for which his age was remarkable, was able to struggle with prejudices from which men, slowly and with infinite difficulty, were attempting to emerge. [108] This change may be illustrated by comparing the work of Grotius with that of Vattel. These two eminent men are still respected as the most authoritative expounders of international law; but there is this important difference between them, that Vattel wrote more than a century after Grotius, and when the secular principles enforced by Richelieu had penetrated the minds even of common politicians. Therefore, Vattel says (_Le Droit des Gens_, vol. i. pp. 379, 380): 'On demande s'il est permis de faire alliance avec une nation qui ne professe pas la même religion? Si les traités faits avec les ennemis de la foi sont valides? Grotius a traité la question assez au long. Cette discussion pouvait être nécessaire dans un temps où la fureur des partis obscurcissait encore des principes qu'elle avait long-temps fait oublier, osons croire qu'elle serait superflue dans notre siècle. La loi naturelle seule régit les traités des nations; la différence de religion y est absolument étrangère.' See also p. 318, and vol. ii. p. 151. On the other hand, Grotius opposes alliances between nations of different religion, and says, that nothing can justify them except 'une extrême nécessité.... Car il faut chercher premièrement le règne céleste, c'est à dire penser avant toutes choses à la propagation de l'évangile.' And he further recommends that princes should follow the advice given on this subject by Foulques, Archbishop of Rheims! _Grotius_, _le Droit de la Guerre et de la Paix_, livre ii. chap. xv. sec. xi. vol. i. pp. 485, 486, edit. Barbeyrac, Amsterdam, 1724, 4to; a passage the more instructive, because Grotius was a man of great genius and great humanity. On religious wars, as naturally recognized in barbarous times, see the curious and important work, _Institutes of Timour_, pp. 141, 333, 335. [109] 'Le Congrès de Westphalie s'ouvrit le 10 avril 1643.' _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. p. 156. Its two great divisions at Munster and Osnabruck were formed in March 1644. _Flassan_, _Hist. de la Diplomatie_, vol. iii. p. 110. Richelieu died in December, 1642. _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxviii. p. 28. [110] 'Les règnes de Charles-Quint et de Henri IV font époque pour certaines parties du droit international; mais le point de départ le plus saillant, c'est la paix de Westphalie.' _Eschbach_, _Introduc. à l'Etude du Droit_, Paris, 1846, p. 92. Compare the remarks on Mably, in _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxvi. p. 7, and _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiv. p. 179: 'base au droit public de l'Europe.' [111] Compare the indignation of the pope at this treaty (_Vattel_, _le Droit des Gens_, vol. ii. p. 28), with _Ranke's Päpste_, vol. ii. p. 576: 'Das religiöse Element ist zurückgetreten; die politischen Rücksichten beherrschen die Welt:' a summary of the general state of affairs. [112] 'La France obtint par ce traité, en indemnité, la souveraineté des trois évêchés, Metz, Toul et Verdun, ainsi que celle d'Alsace. La satisfaction ou indemnité des autres parties intéressées fut convenue, en grande partie, aux dépens de l'église, et moyennant la sécularisation de plusieurs évêchés et bénéfices ecclésiastiques.' _Koch_, _Tableau des Révolutions_, vol. i. p. 328. [113] Dr. Vaughan (_Protectorate of Cromwell_, vol. i. p. civ.) says: 'It is a leading fact, also, in the history of modern Europe, that, from the peace of Westphalia, in 1648, religion, as the great object of negotiation, began everywhere to give place to questions relating to colonies and commerce.' Charles Butler observed, that this treaty 'considerably lessened the influence of religion on politics.' _Butler's Reminiscences_, vol. i. p. 181. [114] The fact of the Thirty Years' War being a religious contest, formed the basis of one of the charges which the church party brought against Richelieu: and an author, who wrote in 1634, 'montroit bien au long que l'alliance du roy de France avec les protestantes étoit contraire aux intérêts de la religion catholique; parce que la guerre des Provinces Unies, et celle d'Allemagne étoient des guerres de religion.' _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 536. The treatment of the French Protestants by Richelieu is, undoubtedly, one of the most honourable parts of his system; and in it, as in other liberal measures, he was assisted by the course of preceding events. His administration, taken in connexion with that of Henry IV. and the queen-regent, presents the noble spectacle of a toleration far more complete than any which had then been seen in Catholic Europe. While in other Christian countries, men were being incessantly persecuted, simply because they held opinions different from those professed by the established clergy, France refused to follow the general example, and protected those heretics whom the church was eager to punish. Indeed, not only were they protected, but, when they possessed abilities, they were openly rewarded. In addition to their appointments to civil offices, many of them were advanced to high military posts; and Europe beheld, with astonishment, the armies of the king of France led by heretical generals. Rohan, Lesdiguières, Chatillon, La Force, Bernard de Weimar, were among the most celebrated of the military leaders employed by Louis XIII.; and all of them were Protestants, as also were some younger, but distinguished officers, such as Gassion, Rantzau, Schomberg, and Turenne. For now, nothing was beyond the reach of men who, half a century earlier, would, on account of their heresies, have been persecuted to the death. Shortly before the accession of Louis XIII., Lesdiguières, the ablest general among the French Protestants, was made marshal of France.[115] Fourteen years later, the same high dignity was conferred upon two other Protestants, Chatillon and La Force; the former of whom is said to have been the most influential of the schismatics.[116] Both these appointments were in 1622;[117] and, in 1634, still greater scandal was caused by the elevation of Sully, who, notwithstanding his notorious heresy, also received the staff of marshal of France.[118] This was the work of Richelieu, and it gave serious offence to the friends of the church; but the great statesman paid so little attention to their clamour, that, after the civil war was concluded, he took another step equally obnoxious. The Duke de Rohan was the most active of all the enemies of the established church, and was looked up to by the Protestants as the main support of their party. He had taken up arms in their favour, and, declining to abandon his religion, had, by the fate of war, been driven from France. But Richelieu, who was acquainted with his ability, cared little about his opinions. He, therefore, recalled him from exile, employed him in a negotiation with Switzerland, and sent him on foreign service, as commander of one of the armies of the king of France.[119] [115] According to a contemporary, he received this appointment without having asked for it: 'sans être à la cour ni l'avoir demandé.' _Mém. de Fontenay_, _Mareuil_, vol. i. p. 70. In 1622, even the lieutenants of Lesdiguières were Protestants: 'ses lieutenants, qui estant tous huguenots.' _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 538. These memoirs are very valuable in regard to political and military matters; their author having played a conspicuous part in the transactions which he describes. [116] 'Il n'y avoit personne dans le parti huguenot si considérable que lui.' _Tallemant des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. v. p. 204. [117] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xv. p. 247; _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 400. [118] Additions to _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. viii. p. 496; _Smedley's Hist. of the Reformed Religion in France_, vol. iii. p. 204. [119] _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. ii. p. 57; _Mém. de Rohan_, vol. i. pp. 66, 69; _Mém. de Bassompierre_, vol. iii. pp. 324, 348; _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. i. p. 86; _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. vii. p. 157, vol. viii. p. 284. This great rise in the fortunes of Rohan took place at different times between 1632 and 1635. Such were the tendencies which characterized this new state of things. It is hardly necessary to observe how beneficial this great change must have been; since by it men were encouraged to look to their country as the first consideration, and, discarding their old disputes, Catholic soldiers were taught to obey heretical generals, and follow their standards to victory. In addition to this, the mere social amalgamation, arising from the professors of different creeds mixing in the same camp, and fighting under the same banner, must have still further aided to disarm the mind, partly by merging theological feuds in a common, and yet a temporal, object, and partly by showing to each sect, that their religious opponents were not entirely bereft of human virtue; that they still retained some of the qualities of men; and that it was even possible to combine the errors of heresy with all the capabilities of a good and competent citizen.[120] [120] Late in the sixteenth century, Duplessis Mornay had to state what was then considered by the majority of men an incredible paradox, 'que ce n'estoit pas chose incompatible d'estre bon huguenot et bon Françoys tout ensemble.' _Duplessis_, _Mém. et Correspond._ vol. i. p. 146. Compare p. 213, vol. ii. pp. 45, 46, 77, 677, vol. vii. p. 294, vol. xi. pp. 31, 68; interesting passages for the history of opinions in France. But, while the hateful animosities by which France had long been distracted, were, under the policy of Richelieu, gradually subsiding, it is singular to observe that, though the prejudices of the Catholics obviously diminished, those of the Protestants seemed, for a time, to retain all their activity. It is, indeed, a striking proof of the perversity and pertinacity of such feelings, that it was precisely in the country, and at the period, when the Protestants were best treated, that they displayed most turbulence. And in this, as in all such cases, the cause principally at work was the influence of that class to which circumstances, I will now explain, had secured a temporary ascendency. For, the diminution of the theological spirit had effected in the Protestants a remarkable but a very natural result. The increasing toleration of the French government had laid open to their leaders prizes which before they could never have obtained. As long as all offices were refused to the Protestant nobles, it was natural that they should cling with the greater zeal to their own party, by whom alone their virtues were acknowledged. But, when the principle was once recognised, that the state would reward men for their abilities, without regard to their religion, there was introduced into every sect a new element of discord. The leaders of the Reformers could not fail to feel some gratitude, or, at all events, some interest for the government which employed them; and the influence of temporal considerations being thus strengthened, the influence of religious ties must have been weakened. It is impossible that opposite feelings should be paramount, at the same moment, in the same mind. The further men extend their view, the less they care for each of the details of which the view is composed. Patriotism is a corrective of superstition; and the more we feel for our country, the less we feel for our sect. Thus it is, that in the progress of civilization, the scope of the intellect is widened; its horizon is enlarged; its sympathies are multiplied; and, as the range of its excursions is increased, the tenacity of its grasp is slackened, until, at length, it begins to perceive that the infinite variety of circumstances necessarily causes an infinite variety of opinions; that a creed, which is good and natural for one man, may be bad and unnatural for another; and that, so far from interfering with the march of religious convictions, we should be content to look into ourselves, search our own hearts, purge our own souls, soften the evil of our own passions, and extirpate that insolent and intolerant spirit, which is at once the cause and the effect of all theological controversy. It was in this direction, that a prodigious step was taken by the French in the first half of the seventeenth century. Unfortunately, however, the advantages which arose were accompanied by serious drawbacks. From the introduction of temporal considerations among the Protestant leaders, there occurred two results of considerable importance. The first result was, that many of the Protestants changed their religion. Before the Edict of Nantes, they had been constantly persecuted, and had, as constantly, increased.[121] But, under the tolerant policy of Henry IV. and Louis XIII., they continued to diminish.[122] Indeed, this was the natural consequence of the growth of that secular spirit which, in every country, has assuaged religious animosities. For, by the action of that spirit, the influence of social and political views began to outweigh those theological views to which the minds of men had long been confined. As these temporal ties increased in strength, there was, of course, generated among the rival factions an increased tendency to assimilate; while, as the Catholics were not only much more numerous, but in every respect, more influential, than their opponents, they reaped the benefit of this movement, and gradually drew over to their side many of their former enemies. That this absorption of the smaller sect into the larger, is due to the cause I have mentioned, is rendered still more evident by the interesting fact, that the change began among the heads of the party; and that it was not the inferior Protestants who first abandoned their leaders, but it was rather the leaders who deserted their followers. This was because the leaders, being more educated than the great body of the people, were more susceptible to the sceptical movement, and therefore set the example of an indifference to disputes which still engrossed the popular mind. As soon as this indifference had reached a certain point, the attractions offered by the conciliating policy of Louis XIII. became irresistible; and the Protestant nobles, in particular, being most exposed to political temptations, began to alienate themselves from their own party, in order to form an alliance with a court which showed itself ready to reward their merits. [121] See _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. i. pp. 10, 14, 18; _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. iii. pp. 181, 242, 357, 358, 543, 558, vol. iv. p. 155; _Relat. des Ambassadeurs Vénitiens_, vol. i. pp. 412, 536, vol. ii. pp. 66, 74; _Ranke's Civil Wars in France_, vol. i. pp. 279, 280, vol. ii. p. 94. [122] Compare _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 173, with _Ranke_, _die Römischen Päpste_, vol. ii. pp. 477-479. In spite of the increase of population, the Protestants diminished absolutely, as well as relatively, to the Catholics. In 1598 they had 760 churches; in 1619 only 700. _Smedley's Hist. of the Reformed Religion in France_, vol. iii. pp. 46, 145. De Thou, in the preface to his History (vol. i. p. 320), observes, that the Protestants had increased during the wars carried on against them, but 'diminuoient en nombre et en crédit pendant la paix.' It is, of course, impossible to fix the exact period at which this important change took place.[123] But we may say with certainty, that very early in the reign of Louis XIII. many of the Protestant nobles cared nothing for their religion, while the remainder of them ceased to feel that interest in it which they had formerly expressed. Indeed, some of the most eminent of them openly abandoned their creed, and joined that very church which they had been taught to abhor as the man of sin, and the whore of Babylon. The Duke de Lesdiguières, the greatest of all the Protestant generals,[124] became a Catholic, and, as a reward for his conversion, was made constable of France.[125] The Duke de la Tremouille adopted the same course;[126] as also did the Duke de la Meilleraye,[127] the Duke de Bouillon,[128] and a few years later the Marquis de Montausier.[129] These illustrious nobles were among the most powerful of the members of the Reformed communion; but they quitted it without compunction, sacrificing their old associations in favour of the opinions professed by the state. Among the other men of high rank, who still remained nominally connected with the French Protestants, we find a similar spirit. We find them lukewarm respecting matters, for which, if they had been born fifty years earlier, they would have laid down their lives. The Maréchal de Bouillon, who professed himself to be a Protestant, was unwilling to change his religion; but he so comported himself as to show that he considered its interests as subordinate to political considerations.[130] A similar remark has been made by the French historians concerning the Duke de Sully and the Marquis de Chatillon, both of whom, though they were members of the Reformed church, displayed a marked indifference to those theological interests which had formerly been objects of supreme importance.[131] The result was, that when, in 1621, the Protestants began their civil war against the government, it was found that of all their great leaders, two only, Rohan and his brother Soubise, were prepared to risk their lives in support of their religion.[132] [123] M. Ranke has noticed how the French Protestant nobles fell off from their party; but he does not seem aware of the remote causes of what he deems a sudden apostasy: 'In dem nämlichen Momente trat nun auch die grosse Wendung der Dinge in Frankreich ein. Fragen wir, woher im Jahr 1621 die Verluste des Protestantismus hauptsächlich kamen, so war es die Entzweiung derselben, der Abfall des Adels.' _Ranke_, _die Päpste_, vol. ii. p. 476. Compare a curious passage in _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 33, from which it appears that in 1611 the French Protestants were breaking into three parties, one of which consisted of 'les seigneurs d'éminente qualité.' [124] 'Le plus illustre guerrier du parti protestant.' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 505. In the contemporary despatches of the Spanish ambassador, he is called 'l'un des huguenots les plus marquans, homme d'un grand poids, et d'un grand crédit.' _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 60. His principal influence was in Dauphiné. _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. i. p. 236. [125] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxiv. p. 293; and a dry remark on his 'conversion' in _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. ii. p. 215, which may be compared with _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xviii. p. 132, and _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. pp. 195-197. Rohan (_Mém._ vol. i. p. 228) plainly says, 'le duc de Lesdiguières, ayant hardé sa religion pour la charge de connétable de France.' See also p. 91, and _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. i. p. 37. [126] _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiii. p. 67; _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. v. pp. 809, 810, 865. [127] _Tallemant des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. iii. p. 43. La Meilleraye was also a duke; and what is far more in his favour, he was a friend of Descartes. _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxviii. pp. 152, 153. [128] Sismondi (_Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiii. p. 27) says, 'il abjura en 1637;' but according to Benoist (_Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 550) it was in 1635. [129] _Tallemant des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. iii. p. 245. Des Réaux, who saw these changes constantly happening, simply observes, 'notre marquis, voyant que sa religion étoit un obstacle à son dessein, en change.' [130] 'Mettoit la politique avant la religion.' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 264. This was Henry Bouillon, whom some writers have confused with Frederick Bouillon. Both of them were dukes; but Henry, who was the father, and who did not actually change his religion, was the marshal. The following notices of him will more than confirm the remark made by Sismondi; _Mém. de Bassompierre_, vol. i. p. 455; _Smedley's Reformed Religion in France_, vol. iii. p. 99; _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 107; _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. pp. 420, 467, 664, vol. iv. p. 519; _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 104, vol. ii. p. 259; _Mém. de Duplessis Mornay_, vol. xi. p. 450, vol. xii. pp. 79, 182, 263, 287, 345, 361, 412, 505. [131] _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. i. pp. 121, 298, vol. ii. pp. 5, 180, 267, 341; _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 267; _Felice's Hist. of the Protestants of France_, p. 206. Sully advised Henry IV., on mere political considerations, to become a Catholic; and there were strong, but I believe unfounded rumours, that he himself intended taking the same course. See _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. ii. p. 81, vol. vii. pp. 362, 363. [132] 'There were, among all the leaders, but the Duke de Rohan and his brother the Duke de Soubise, who showed themselves disposed to throw their whole fortunes into the new wars of religion.' _Felice's Hist. of the Protestants of France_, p. 241. For this, M. Felice, as usual, quotes no authority; but Rohan himself says: 'C'est ce qui s'est passé en cette seconde guerre (1626), où Rohan et Soubise ont eu pour contraires tous les grands de la religion de France.' _Mém. de Rohan_, vol. i. p. 278. Rohan claims great merit for his religious sincerity; though, from a passage in _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. i. p. 418, and another in _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 173, one may be allowed to doubt if he were so single-minded as is commonly supposed. Thus it was, that the first great consequence of the tolerating policy of the French government was to deprive the Protestants of the support of their former leaders, and, in several instances, even to turn their sympathies on the side of the Catholic church. But the other consequence, to which I have alluded, was one of far greater moment. The growing indifference of the higher classes of Protestants threw the management of their party into the hands of the clergy. The post, which was deserted by the secular leaders, was naturally seized by the spiritual leaders. And as, in every sect, the clergy, as a body, have always been remarkable for their intolerance of opinions different to their own, it followed, that this change infused into the now mutilated ranks of the Protestants an acrimony not inferior to that of the worst times of the sixteenth century.[133] Hence it was, that by a singular, but perfectly natural combination, the Protestants, who professed to take their stand on the right of private judgment, became, early in the seventeenth century, more intolerant than the Catholics, who based their religion on the dictates of an infallible church. [133] Sismondi notices this remarkable change; though he places it a few years earlier than the contemporary writers do: 'Depuis que les grands seigneurs s'étoient éloignés deg églises, c'étoient les ministres qui étoient devenus les chefs, les représentans et les démagogues des huguenots; et ils apportoient dans leurs délibérations cette âpreté et cette inflexibilité théologiques qui semblent caractériser les prêtres de toutes les religions, et qui donnent à leurs haines une amertume plus offensante.' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 87. Compare p. 478. In 1621, 'Rohan lui-même voyait continuellement ses opérations contrariées par le conseil-général des églises.' _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. p. 88. In the same year, M. Capefigue (_Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 271) says, 'Le parti modéré cessa d'avoir action sur le prêche; la direction des forces huguenotes, était passée dans les mains des ardents, conduits par les ministres.' This is one of the many instances which show how superficial is the opinion of those speculative writers, who believe that the Protestant religion is necessarily more liberal than the Catholic. If those who adopt this view had taken the pains to study the history of Europe in its original sources, they would have learned, that the liberality of every sect depends, not at all on its avowed tenets, but on the circumstances in which it is placed, and on the amount of authority possessed by its priesthood. The Protestant religion is, for the most part, more tolerant than the Catholic, simply because the events which have given rise to Protestantism have at the same time increased the play of the intellect, and therefore lessened the power of the clergy. But whoever has read the works of the great Calvinist divines, and above all, whoever has studied their history, must know, that in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the desire of persecuting their opponents burnt as hotly among them, as it did among any of the Catholics even in the worst days of the papal dominion. This is a mere matter of fact, of which any one may satisfy himself, by consulting the original documents of those times. And even now, there is more superstition, more bigotry, and less of the charity of real religion, among the lower order of Scotch Protestants, than there is among the lower order of French Catholics. Yet for one intolerant passage in Protestant theology, it would be easy to point out twenty in Catholic theology. The truth, however, is, that the actions of men are governed, not by dogmas, and text-books, and rubrics, but by the opinions and habits of their contemporaries, by the general spirit of their age, and by the character of those classes who are in the ascendant. This seems to be the origin of that difference between religious theory and religious practice, of which theologians greatly complain as a stumbling-block and an evil. For, religious theories being preserved in books, in a doctrinal and dogmatic form, remain a perpetual witness, and, therefore cannot be changed without incurring the obvious charge of inconsistency, or of heresy. But the practical part of every religion, its moral, political, and social workings, embrace such an immense variety of interests, and have to do with such complicated and shifting agencies, that it is hopeless to fix them by formularies: they, even in the most rigid systems, are left, in a great measure, to private discretion; and, being almost entirely unwritten, they lack those precautions by which the permanence of dogmas is effectually secured.[134] Hence it is, that while the religious doctrines professed by a people in their national creed are no criterion of their civilization, their religious practice is, on the other hand, so pliant and so capable of adaptation to social wants, that it forms one of the best standards by which the spirit of any age can be measured. [134] The church of Rome has always seen this, and on that account has been, and still is, very pliant in regard to morals, and very inflexible in regard to dogmas; a striking proof of the great sagacity with which her affairs are administered. In _Blanco White's Evidence against Catholicism_, p. 48, and in _Parr's Works_, vol. vii. pp. 454, 455, there is an unfavourable and, indeed, an unjust notice of this peculiarity, which, though strongly marked in the Romish church, is by no means confined to it, but is found in every religious sect which is regularly organized. Locke, in his _Letters on Toleration_, observes, that the clergy are naturally more eager against error than against vice (_Works_, vol. v. pp. 6, 7, 241); and their preference of dogmas to moral truths is also mentioned by M. C. Comte, _Traité de Législat._ vol. i. p. 245; and is alluded to by Kant in his comparison of 'ein moralischer Katechismus' with a 'Religionskatechismus.' _Die Metaphysik der Sitten_ (_Ethische Methodenlehre_), in _Kant's Werke_, vol. v. p. 321. Compare _Temple's Observations upon the United Provinces_, in _Works of Sir W. Temple_, vol. i. p. 154, with the strict adhesion to formularies noticed in _Ward's Ideal Church_, p. 358; and analogous cases in _Mill's Hist. of India_, vol. i. pp. 399, 400, and in _Wilkinson's Ancient Egyptians_, vol. iii. p. 87; also _Combe's Notes on the United States_, vol. iii. pp. 256, 257. It is on account of these things, that we ought not to be surprised that, during many years, the French Protestants, who affected to appeal to the right of private judgment, were more intolerant of the exercise of that judgment by their adversaries than were the Catholics; although the Catholics, by recognising an infallible church, ought, in consistency, to be superstitious, and may be said to inherit intolerance as their natural birthright.[135] Thus, while the Catholics were theoretically more bigoted than the Protestants, the Protestants became practically more bigoted than the Catholics. The Protestants continued to insist upon that right of private judgment in religion, which the Catholics continued to deny. Yet, such was the force of circumstances, that each sect, in its practice, contradicted its own dogma, and acted as if it had embraced the dogma of its opponents. The cause of this change was very simple. Among the French, the theological spirit, as we have already seen, was decaying; and the decline of the influence of the clergy was, as invariably happens, accompanied by an increase of toleration. But, among the French Protestants, this partial diminution of the theological spirit had produced different consequences; because it had brought about a change of leaders, which threw the command into the hands of the clergy, and, by increasing their power, provoked a reaction, and revived those very feelings to the decay of which the reaction owed its origin. This seems to explain how it is, that a religion, which is not protected by the government, usually displays greater energy and greater vitality than one which is so protected. In the progress of society, the theological spirit first declines among the most educated classes; and then it is that the government can step in, as it does in England, and, controlling the clergy, make the church a creature of the state; thus weakening the ecclesiastical element by tempering it with secular considerations. But, when the state refuses to do this, the reins of power, as they fall from the hands of the upper classes, are seized by the clergy, and there arises a state of things of which the French Protestants in the seventeenth century, and the Irish Catholics in our own time, form the best illustration. In such cases, it will always happen, that the religion which is tolerated by the government, though not fully recognised by it, will the longest retain its vitality; because its priesthood, neglected by the state, must cling closer to the people, in whom alone is the source of their power.[136] On the other hand, in a religion which is favoured and richly endowed by the state, the union between the priesthood and inferior laity will be less intimate; the clergy will look to the government as well as to the people; and the interference of political views, of considerations of temporal expediency, and, if it may be added without irreverence, the hopes of promotion will secularize the ecclesiastical spirit,[137] and, according to the process I have already traced, will thus hasten the march of toleration. [135] Blanco White (_Evidence against Catholicism_, p. vi.) harshly says, '_sincere_ Roman Catholics cannot conscientiously be tolerant.' But he is certainly mistaken; for the question is one, not of sincerity, but of consistency. A sincere Roman Catholic may be, and often is, conscientiously tolerant; a consistent Roman Catholic, never. [136] We also see this very clearly in England, where the dissenting clergy have much more influence among their hearers than the clergy of the Establishment have among theirs. This has often been noticed by impartial observers, and we are now possessed of statistical proof that 'the great body of Protestant dissenters are more assiduous' in attending religious worship than churchmen are. See a valuable essay by Mr. Mann _On the Statistical Position of Religious Bodies in England and Wales_, in _Journal of Statist. Soc._ vol. xviii. p. 152. [137] Respecting the working of this in England, there are some shrewd remarks made by Le Blanc in his _Lettres d'un François_, vol. i. pp. 267, 268; which may be compared with _Lord Holland's Mem. of the Whig Party_, vol. ii. p. 253, where it is suggested, that in the case of complete emancipation of the Catholics, 'eligibility to worldly honours and profits would somewhat abate the fever of religious zeal.' On this, there are observations worth attending to in _Lord Cloncurry's Recollections_, Dublin, 1849, pp. 342, 343. These generalizations, which account for a great part of the present superstition of the Irish Catholics, will also account for the former superstition of the French Protestants. In both cases, the government disdaining the supervision of an heretical religion, allowed supreme authority to fall into the hands of the priesthood, who stimulated the bigotry of men, and encouraged them in a hatred of their opponents. What the results of this are in Ireland, is best known to those of our statesmen, who, with unusual candour, have declared Ireland to be their greatest difficulty. What the results were in France, we will now endeavour to ascertain. The conciliating spirit of the French government having drawn over to its side some of the most eminent of the French Protestants, and having disarmed the hostility of others, the leadership of the party fell, as we have already seen, into the hands of those inferior men, who displayed in their new position the intolerance characteristic of their order. Without pretending to write a history of the odious feuds that now arose, I will lay before the reader some evidence of their increasing bitterness; and I will point out a few of the steps by which the angry feelings of religious controversy became so inflamed, that at length they kindled a civil war, which nothing but the improved temper of the Catholics prevented from being as sanguinary as were the horrible struggles of the sixteenth century. For, when the French Protestants became governed by men whose professional habits made them consider heresy to be the greatest of crimes, there naturally sprung up a missionary and proselytizing spirit, which induced them to interfere with the religion of the Catholics, and, under the old pretence of turning them from the error of their ways, revived those animosities which the progress of knowledge tended to appease. And as, under such guidance, these feelings quickly increased, the Protestants soon learned to despise that great Edict of Nantes, by which their liberties were secured; and they embarked in a dangerous contest, in which their object was, not to protect their own religion, but to weaken the religion of that very party to whom they owed a toleration, which had been reluctantly conceded by the prejudices of the age. It was stipulated, in the Edict of Nantes, that the Protestants should enjoy the full exercise of their religion; and this right they continued to possess until the reign of Louis XIV. To this there were added several other privileges, such as no Catholic Government, except that of France, would then have granted to its heretical subjects. But these things did not satisfy the desires of the Protestant clergy. They were not content to exercise their own religion, unless they could also trouble the religion of others. Their first step was, to call upon the government to limit the performance of those rites which the French Catholics had long revered as emblems of the national faith. For this purpose, directly after the death of Henry IV. they held a great assembly at Saumur, in which they formally demanded that no Catholic processions should be allowed in any town, place, or castle occupied by the Protestants.[138] As the government did not seem inclined to countenance this monstrous pretension, these intolerant sectaries took the law into their own hands. They not only attacked the Catholic processions wherever they met them, but they subjected the priests to personal insults, and even endeavoured to prevent them from administering the sacrament to the sick. If a Catholic clergyman was engaged in burying the dead, the Protestants were sure to be present, interrupting the funeral, turning the ceremonies into ridicule, and attempting, by their clamour, to deaden the voice of the minister, so that the service performed in the church should not be heard.[139] Nor did they always confine themselves even to such demonstrations as these. For, certain towns having been, perhaps imprudently, placed under their control, they exercised their authority in them with the most wanton insolence. At La Rochelle, which for importance was the second city in the kingdom, they would not permit the Catholics to have even a single church in which to celebrate what for centuries had been the sole religion of France, and was still the religion of an enormous majority of Frenchmen.[140] This, however, only formed part of a system, by which the Protestant clergy hoped to trample on the rights of their fellow-subjects. In 1619, they ordered in their general assembly at Loudun, that in none of the Protestant towns should there be a sermon preached by a Jesuit, or indeed by any ecclesiastical person commissioned by a bishop.[141] In another assembly, they forbade any Protestant even to be present at a baptism, or at a marriage, or at a funeral, if the ceremony was performed by a Catholic priest.[142] And, as if to cut off all hope of reconciliation, they not only vehemently opposed those intermarriages between the two parties, by which, in every Christian country, religious animosities have been softened, but they publicly declared, that they would withhold the sacrament from any parents whose children were married into a Catholic family.[143] Not, however, to accumulate unnecessary evidence, there is one other circumstance worth relating, as a proof of the spirit with which these and similar regulations were enforced. When Louis XIII., in 1620, visited Pau, he was not only treated with indignity, as being an heretical prince, but he found that the Protestants had not left him a single church, not one place, in which the king of France, in his own territory, could perform those devotions which he believed necessary for his future salvation.[144] [138] 'Les processions catholiques seraient interdites dans toutes les places, villes et châteaux occupés par ceux de la religion.' _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 39. [139] Of these facts we have the most unequivocal proof; for they were not only stated by the Catholics in 1623, but they are recorded, without being denied, by the Protestant historian Benoist: 'On y accusoit les Réformez d'injurier les prêtres, quand ils les voyoient passer; d'empêcher les processions des Catholiques; l'administration des sacremens aux malades; l'enterrement des morts avec les cérémonies accoutumées; ... que les Réformez s'étoient emparez des cloches en quelques lieux, et en d'autres se serroient de celles des Catholiques pour avertir de l'heure du prêche; qu'ils affectoient de faire du bruit autour des églises pendant le service; qu'ils tournoient en dérision les cérémonies de l'église romaine.' _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. pp. 433, 434; see also pp. 149, 150. [140] 'On pouvait dire que La Rochelle était la capitale, le saint temple du calvinisme; car on ne voyait là aucune église, aucune cérémonie papiste.' _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 342. [141] _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. ii. p. 100. For other and similar evidence, see _Duplessis Mornay_, _Mémoires_, vol. xi. p. 244; _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. vii. p. 164; _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. pp. 70, 233, 279. [142] _Quick's Synodicon in Gallia_, vol. ii. p. 196. [143] For a striking instance of the actual enforcement of this intolerant regulation, see _Quick's Synodicon in Gallia_, vol. ii. p. 344. [144] _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. p. 124; _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. ii. pp. 109, 110; _Felice's Hist. of the Protestants of France_, p. 238. This was the way in which the French Protestants, influenced by their new leaders, treated the first Catholic government which abstained from persecuting them; the first which not only allowed them the free exercise of their religion, but even advanced many of them to offices of trust and of honour.[145] All this, however, was only of a piece with the rest of their conduct. They, who in numbers and in intellect formed a miserable minority of the French nation, claimed a power which the majority had abandoned, and refused to concede to others the toleration they themselves enjoyed. Several persons, who had joined their party, now quitted it, and returned to the Catholic church; but for exercising this undoubted right, they were insulted by the Protestant clergy in the grossest manner, with every term of opprobrium and abuse.[146] For those who resisted their authority, no treatment was considered too severe. In 1612, Ferrier, a man of some reputation in his own day, having disobeyed their injunctions, was ordered to appear before one of their synods. The gist of his offence was, that he had spoken contemptuously of ecclesiastical assemblies; and to this there were, of course, added those accusations against his moral conduct, with which theologians often attempt to blacken the character of their opponents.[147] Readers of ecclesiastical history are too familiar with such charges to attach any importance to them; but as, in this case, the accused was tried by men who were at once his prosecutors, his enemies, and his judges, the result was easy to anticipate. In 1613 Ferrier was excommunicated, and the excommunication was publicly proclaimed in the church of Nîmes. In this sentence, which is still extant, he is declared by the clergy to be 'a scandalous man, a person incorrigible, impenitent and ungovernable.' We, therefore, they add, 'in the name and power of our Lord Jesus Christ, by the conduct of the Holy Ghost, and with authority from the church, have cast, and do now cast and throw him out of the society of the faithful, that he may be delivered up unto Satan.'[148] [145] In 1625, Howell writes that the Protestants had put up an inscription on the gates of Montauban, 'Roy sans foy, ville sans peur.' _Howell's Letters_, p. 178. [146] Sometimes they were called dogs returning to the vomit of popery; sometimes they were swine wallowing in the mire of idolatry. _Quick's Synodicon in Gallia_, vol. i. pp. 385, 398. [147] It is observable, that on the first occasion (_Quick's Synodicon_, vol. i. p. 362) nothing is said of Ferrier's immorality; and on the next occasion (p. 449) the synod complains, among other things, that 'he hath most licentiously inveighed against, and satirically lampooned, the ecclesiastical assemblies.' [148] See this frightful and impious document, in _Quick's Synodicon_, vol. i. pp. 448, 450. That he may be delivered up unto Satan! This was the penalty which a handful of clergymen, in a corner of France, thought they could inflict on a man who dared to despise their authority. In our time such an anathema would only excite derision;[149] but, early in the seventeenth century, the open promulgation of it was enough to ruin any private person against whom it might be directed. And they whose studies have enabled them to take the measure of the ecclesiastical spirit will easily believe that, in that age, the threat did not remain a dead letter. The people, inflamed by their clergy, rose against Ferrier, attacked his family, destroyed his property, sacked and gutted his houses, and demanded with loud cries, that the 'traitor Judas' should be given up to them. The unhappy man, with the greatest difficulty, effected his escape; but though he saved his life by flying in the dead of the night, he was obliged to abandon for ever his native town, as he dared not return to a place where he had provoked so active and so implacable a party.[150] [149] The notion of theologians respecting excommunication may be seen in Mr. Palmer's entertaining book, _Treatise on the Church_, vol. i. pp. 64, 67, vol. ii. pp. 299, 300; but the opinions of this engaging writer should be contrasted with the indignant language of Vattel, _Le Droit des Gens_, vol. i. pp. 177, 178. In England, the terrors of excommunication fell into contempt towards the end of the seventeenth century. See _Life of Archbishop Sharpe_, edited by Newcome, vol. i. p. 216: compare p. 363; and see the mournful remarks of Dr. Mosheim, in his _Eccles. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 79; and _Sir Philip Warwick's Memoirs_, pp. 175, 176. [150] On the treatment of Ferrier, which excited great attention as indicating the extreme lengths to which the Protestants were prepared to go, see _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 177; _Mém. de Pontchartrain_, vol. ii. pp. 5, 6, 12, 29, 32; _Mém. de Duplessis Mornay_, vol. xii. pp. 317, 333, 341, 350, 389, 399, 430; _Felice's Hist. of the Protestants of France_, p. 235; _Biog. Univ._ vol. xiv. p. 440; _Tallemant des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. v. pp. 48-54. Mr. Smedley, who refers to none of these authorities, except two passages in Duplessis, has given a garbled account of this riot. See his _History of the Reformed Religion in France_, vol. iii. pp. 119, 120. Into other matters, and even into those connected with the ordinary functions of government, the Protestants carried the same spirit. Although they formed so small a section of the people, they attempted to control the administration of the crown, and, by the use of threats, turn all its acts to their own favour. They would not allow the state to determine what ecclesiastical councils it should recognize; they would not even permit the king to choose his own wife. In 1615, without the least pretence of complaint, they assembled in large numbers at Grenoble and at Nîmes.[151] The deputies of Grenoble insisted that government should refuse to acknowledge the Council of Trent;[152] and both assemblies ordered that the Protestants should prevent the marriage of Louis XIII. with a Spanish princess.[153] They laid similar claims to interfere with the disposal of civil and military offices. Shortly after the death of Henry IV., they, in an assembly at Saumur, insisted that Sully should be restored to some posts from which, in their opinion, he had been unjustly removed.[154] In 1619, another of their assemblies at London declared, that as one of the Protestant councillors of the Parliament of Paris had become a Catholic, he must be dismissed; and they demanded that, for the same reason, the government of Lectoure should be taken from Fontrailles, he also having adopted the not infrequent example of abandoning his sect in order to adopt a creed sanctioned by the state.[155] [151] _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 123. [152] _Capefigue_, vol. i. p. 123; _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. p. 364; _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 183; _Mém. de Rohan_, vol. i. p. 130. [153] _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 124; _Mém. de Pontchartrain_, vol. ii. p. 100; _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. pp. 333, 334. The consequence was, that the king was obliged to send a powerful escort to protect his bride against his Protestant subjects. _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 274. [154] _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 38; _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. pp. 28, 29, 63. [155] _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. i. p. 450; _Mém. de Bassompierre_, vol. ii. p. 161. See a similar instance, in the case of Berger, in _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 136, whom the Protestants sought to deprive because 'il avoit quitté leur religion.' By way of aiding all this, and with the view of exasperating still further religious animosities, the principal Protestant clergy put forth a series of works, which, for bitterness of feeling, have hardly ever been equalled, and which it would certainly be impossible to surpass. The intense hatred with which they regarded their Catholic countrymen can only be fully estimated by those who have looked into the pamphlets written by the French Protestants during the first half of the seventeenth century, or who have read the laboured and formal treatises of such men as Chamier, Drelincourt, Moulin, Thomson, and Vignier. Without, however, pausing on these, it will perhaps be thought sufficient if, for the sake of brevity, I follow the mere outline of political events. Great numbers of the Protestants had joined in the rebellion which, in 1615, was raised by Condé;[156] and, although they were then easily defeated, they seemed bent on trying the issue of a fresh struggle. In Béarn, where they were unusually numerous,[157] they, even during the reign of Henry IV., had refused to tolerate the Catholic religion; 'their fanatical clergy,' says the historian of France, 'declaring that it would be a crime to permit the idolatry of the mass.'[158] This charitable maxim they for many years actively enforced, seizing the property of the Catholic clergy, and employing it in support of their own churches;[159] so that, while in one part of the dominions of the king of France the Protestants were allowed to exercise their religion, they, in another part of his dominions, prevented the Catholics from exercising theirs. It was hardly to be expected that any government would suffer such an anomaly as this; and, in 1618, it was ordered that the Protestants should restore the plunder, and reinstate the Catholics in their former possessions. But the reformed clergy, alarmed at so sacrilegious a proposal, appointed a public fast, and inspiriting the people to resistance, forced the royal commissioner to fly from Pau, where he had arrived in the hope of effecting a peaceful adjustment of the claims of the rival parties.[160] [156] _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. i. p. 381. Sismondi (_Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 349) says that they had no good reason for this; and it is certain that their privileges, so far from being diminished since the Edict of Nantes, had been confirmed and extended. [157] M. Felice (_Hist. of the Protestants of France_, p. 237) says of Lower Navarre and Béarn, in 1617: 'Three-fourths of the population, some say nine-tenths, belonged to the reformed communion.' This is perhaps overestimated; but we know, from De Thou, that they formed a majority in Béarn in 1566: 'Les Protestans y fussent en plus grand nombre que les Catholiques.' _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. v. p. 187. [158] 'Les ministres fanatiques déclaroient qu'ils ne pouvaient sans crime souffrir dans ce pays régénéré l'idolâtrie de la messe.' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 415. [159] _Notice sur les Mémoires de Rohan_, vol. i. p. 26. Compare the account given by Pontchartrain, who was one of the ministers of Louis XIII. _Mém. de Pontchartrain_, vol. ii. pp. 248, 264; and see _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 443. [160] _Bazin_, _Hist. de France sous Louis XIII_, vol. ii. pp. 62-64. The pith of the question was, that 'l'édit de Nantes ayant donné pouvoir, tant aux catholiques qu'aux huguenots, de rentrer partout dans leurs biens, les ecclésiastiques de Béarn démanderent aussytôt les leurs.' _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. i. p. 392. The rebellion thus raised by the zeal of the Protestants, was soon put down; but, according to the confession of Rohan, one of the ablest of their leaders, it was the beginning of all their misfortunes.[161] The sword had now been drawn; and the only question to be decided was, whether France should be governed according to the principles of toleration recently established, or according to the maxims of a despotic sect, which, while professing to advocate the right of private judgment, was acting in a way that rendered all private judgment impossible. [161] 'L'affaire de Béarn, source de tous nos maux.' _Mém. de Rohan_, vol. i. p. 156; see also p. 183. And the Protestant Le Vassor says (_Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. iii. p. 634): 'L'affaire du Béarn et l'assemblée qui se convoqua ensuite à la Rochelle, sont la source véritable des malheurs des églises réformées de France sous le règne dont j'écris l'histoire.' Scarcely was the war in Béarn brought to an end, when the Protestants determined on making a great effort in the west of France.[162] The seat of this new struggle was Rochelle, which was one of the strongest fortresses in Europe, and was entirely in the hands of the Protestants,[163] who had grown wealthy, partly by their own industry and partly by following the occupation of public pirates.[164] In this city, which they believed to be impregnable,[165] they, in December, 1620, held a Great Assembly, to which their spiritual chiefs flocked from all parts of France. It was soon evident that their party was now governed by men who were bent on the most violent measures. Their great secular leaders were, as we have already seen, gradually falling off; and, by this time, there only remained two of much ability, Rohan and Mornay, both of whom saw the inexpediency of their proceedings, and desired that the assembly should peaceably separate.[166] But the authority of the clergy was irresistible; and, by their prayers and exhortations, they easily gained over the ordinary citizens, who were then a gross and uneducated body.[167] Under their influence, the Assembly adopted a course which rendered civil war inevitable. Their first act was an edict, by which they at once confiscated all the property belonging to Catholic churches.[168] They then caused a great seal to be struck; under the authority of which they ordered that the people should be armed, and taxes collected from them for the purpose of defending their religion.[169] Finally, they drew up the regulations, and organized the establishment of what they called the Reformed Churches of France and of Béarn; and, with a view to facilitate the exercise of their spiritual jurisdiction, they parcelled out France into eight circles, to each of which there was allotted a separate general, who, however, was to be accompanied by a clergyman, since the administration, in all its parts, was held responsible to that ecclesiastical assembly which called it into existence.[170] [162] On the connexion between the proceedings of Béarn and those of Rochelle, compare _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. i. p. 33, with _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. ii. p. 113, and _Mém. de Rohan_, vol. i. p. 446. [163] Their first church was established in 1556 (_Ranke's Civil Wars in France_, vol. i. p. 360); but, by the reign of Charles IX. the majority of the inhabitants were Protestants. See _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. iv. p. 263, vol. v. p. 379, ad. ann. 1562 and 1567. [164] Or, as M. Capefigue courteously puts it, 'les Rochelois ne respectaient pas toujours les pavillons amis.' _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 332. A delicate circumlocution, unknown to Mezeray who says (_Hist. de France_, vol. iii. p. 426) in 1587: 'et les Rochelois, qui par le moyen du commerce et de la _piraterie_,' &c. [165] 'Ceste place, que les huguenots tenoient quasy pour imprenable.' _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. i. p. 512. 'Cette orgueilleuse cité, qui se croyoit imprenable.' _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. i. p. 45. Howell, who visited Rochelle in 1620 and 1622, was greatly struck by its strength. _Howell's Letters_, pp. 46, 47, 108. At p. 204, he calls it, in his barbarous style, 'the chiefest propugnacle of the Protestants there.' For a description of the defences of Rochelle, see _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. vi. pp. 615-617; and some details worth consulting in _Mezeray_, _Hist. de France_, vol. ii. pp. 977-980. [166] _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. p. 139; _Sismondi, Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. pp. 480, 481. Rohan himself says (_Mém._ vol. i. p. 446): 'je m'efforçai de la séparer.' In a remarkable letter, which Mornay wrote ten years before this, he shows his apprehensions of the evil that would result from the increasing violence of his party; and he advises, 'que nostre zèle soit tempéré de prudence.' _Mém. et Correspond._ vol. xi. p. 122; and as to the divisions this caused among the Protestants, see pp. 154, 510, vol. xii. pp. 82, 255; and _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. ix. pp. 350, 435. [167] 'Les seigneurs du parti, et surtout le sage Duplessis Mornay, firent ce qu'ils purent pour engager les réformés à ne pas provoquer l'autorité royale pour des causes qui ne pouvoient justifier une guerre civile; mais le pouvoir dans le parti avoit passé presque absolument aux bourgeois des villes et aux ministres qui se livroient aveuglement à leur fanatisme, et à leur orgueil, et qui étoient d'autant plus applaudis qu'ils montroient plus de violence.' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 478. [168] 'On confisqua les biens des églises catholiques.' _Lavallée des Français_, vol. iii. p. 85: and see _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 258. [169] 'Ils donnent des commissions d'armer et de faire des impositions sur le peuple, et ce sous leur grand sceau, qui étoit une Religion appuyée sur une croix, ayant en la main un livre de l'évangile, foulant aux pieds un vieux squelette, qu'ils disoient être l'église romaine.' _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. ii. p. 120. M. Capefigue (_Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 259) says that this seal still exists; but it is not even alluded to by a late writer (_Felice_, _Hist. of the Protestants of France_, p. 240), who systematically suppresses every fact unfavourable to his own party. [170] _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. iv. p. 157; _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. p. 145; _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. pp. 353-355; _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 258. Such were the forms and pomp of authority assumed by the spiritual leaders of the French Protestants; men by nature destined to obscurity, and whose abilities were so despicable, that, notwithstanding their temporary importance, they have left no name in history. These insignificant priests, who, at the best, were only fit to mount the pulpit of a country village, now arrogated to themselves the right of ordering the affairs of France, imposing taxes upon Frenchmen, confiscating property, raising troops, levying war; and all this for the sake of propagating a creed, which was scouted by the country at large as a foul and mischievous heresy. In the face of these inordinate pretensions, it was evident that the French government had no choice, except to abdicate its functions, or else take arms in its own defence.[171] Whatever may be the popular notion respecting the necessary intolerance of the Catholics, it is an indisputable fact, that, early in the seventeenth century, they displayed in France a spirit of forbearance, and a Christian charity, to which the Protestants could make no pretence. During the twenty-two years which elapsed between the Edict of Nantes and the Assembly of Rochelle, the government, notwithstanding repeated provocations, never attacked the Protestants;[172] nor did they make any attempt to destroy the privileges of a sect, which they were bound to consider heretical, and the extirpation of which had been deemed by their fathers to be one of the first duties of a Christian statesman. [171] Even Mosheim, who, as a Protestant, was naturally prejudiced in favour of the Huguenots, says, that they had established 'imperium in imperio;' and he ascribes to the violence of their rulers the war of 1621. _Mosheim's Eccles. Hist._ vol. ii. pp. 237, 238. [172] Compare _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. ii. p. 88, with _Flassan_, _Hist. de la Diplomatie Française_, vol. ii. p. 351. The war that now broke out lasted seven years, and was uninterrupted, except by the short peace, first of Montpelier, and afterwards of Rochelle; neither of which, however, was very strictly preserved. But the difference in the views and intentions of the two parties corresponded to the difference between the classes which governed them. The Protestants, being influenced mainly by the clergy, made their object religious domination. The Catholics being led by statesmen, aimed at temporal advantages. Thus it was, that circumstances had in France so completely obliterated the original tendency of these two great sects, that, by a singular metamorphosis, the secular principle was now represented by the Catholics, and the theological principle by the Protestants. The authority of the clergy, and therefore the interests of superstition, were upheld by that very party which owed its origin to the diminution of both; they were, on the other hand, attacked by a party whose success had hitherto depended on the increase of both. If the Catholics triumphed, the ecclesiastical power would be weakened; if the Protestants triumphed, it would be strengthened. Of this fact, so far as the Protestants are concerned, I have just given ample proof, collected from their proceedings, and from the language of their own synods. And that the opposite, or secular principle, predominated among the Catholics, is evident, not only from their undeviating policy in the reigns of Henry IV. and Louis XIII., but also from another circumstance worthy of note. For, their motives were so obvious, and gave such scandal to the church, that the pope, as the great protector of religion, thought himself bound to reprehend that disregard of theological interests which they displayed, and which he considered to be a crying and unpardonable offence. In 1622, only one year after the struggle between the Protestants and Catholics had begun, he strongly remonstrated with the French government upon the notorious indecency of which they were guilty, in carrying on war against heretics, not for the purpose of suppressing the heresy, but merely with a view of procuring for the state those temporal advantages which, in the opinion of all pious men, ought to be regarded as of subordinate importance.[173] [173] See the paper of instructions from Pope Gregory XV. in the appendix to _Ranke_, _die Röm. Päpste_, vol. iii. pp. 173, 174: 'Die Hauptsache aber ist was er dem Könige von Frankreich vorstellen soll: 1, dass er ja nicht den Verdacht auf sich laden werde als verfolge er die Protestanten bloss aus Staatsinteresse.' Bazin (_Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. p. 320) says, that Richelieu attacked the Huguenots 'sans aucune idée de persécution religieuse.' See, to the same effect, _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 274; and the candid admissions of the Protestant Le Vassor, in his _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. v. p. 11. If, at this juncture, the Protestants had carried the day, the loss to France would have been immense, perhaps irreparable. For no one, who is acquainted with the temper and character of the French Calvinists, can doubt, that if they had obtained possession of the government, they would have revived those religious persecutions which, so far as their power extended, they had already attempted to enforce. Not only in their writings, but even in the edicts of their assemblies, we find ample proof of that meddling and intolerant spirit which, in every age, has characterized ecclesiastical legislation. Indeed, such a spirit is the legitimate consequence of the fundamental assumption from which theological lawgivers usually start. The clergy are taught to consider that their paramount duty is to preserve the purity of the faith, and guard it against the invasions of heresy. Whenever, therefore, they rise to power, it almost invariably happens, that they carry into politics the habits they have contracted in their profession; and having long been accustomed to consider religious error as criminal, they now naturally attempt to make it penal. And as all the European countries have, in the period of their ignorance, been once ruled by the clergy, just so do we find in the law-books of every land those traces of their power which the progress of knowledge is gradually effacing. We find the professors of the dominant creed enacting laws against the professors of other creeds: laws sometimes to burn them, sometimes to exile them, sometimes to take away their civil rights, sometimes only to take away their political rights. These are the different gradations through which persecution passes; and by observing which, we may measure, in any country, the energy of the ecclesiastical spirit. At the same time, the theory by which such measures are supported generally gives rise to other measures of a somewhat different, though of an analogous character. For, by extending the authority of law to opinions as well as to acts, the basis of legislation becomes dangerously enlarged; the individuality and independence of each man are invaded; and encouragement is given to the enactment of intrusive and vexatious regulations, which are supposed to perform for morals the service that the other class of laws performs for religion. Under pretence of favouring the practice of virtue, and maintaining the purity of society, men are troubled in their most ordinary pursuits, in the commonest occurrences of life, in their amusements, nay, even in the very dress they may be inclined to wear. That this is what has actually been done, must be known to whoever has looked into the writings of the fathers, into the canons of Christian councils, into the different systems of ecclesiastical law, or into the sermons of the earlier clergy. Indeed, all this is so natural, that regulations, conceived in the same spirit, were drawn up for the government of Geneva by the Calvinist clergy, and for the government of England by Archbishop Cranmer and his coadjutors; while a tendency, precisely identical, may be observed in the legislation of the Puritans, and to give a still later instance, in that of the Methodists. It is, therefore, not surprising that, in France, the Protestant clergy, having great power among their own party, should enforce a similar discipline. Thus, to mention only a few examples, they forbade any one to go to a theatre, or even to witness the performance of private theatricals.[174] They looked upon dancing as an ungodly amusement, and, therefore, they not only strictly prohibited it, but they ordered that all dancing-masters should be admonished by the spiritual power, and desired to abandon so unchristian a profession. If, however, the admonition failed in effecting its purpose, the dancing-masters, thus remaining obdurate, were to be excommunicated.[175] With the same pious care did the clergy superintend other matters equally important. In one of their synods, they ordered that all persons should abstain from wearing gay apparel, and should arrange their hair with becoming modesty.[176] In another synod, they forbade women to paint; and they declared that if, after this injunction, any woman persisted in painting, she should not be allowed to receive the sacrament.[177] To their own clergy, as the instructors and shepherds of the flock, there was paid an attention still more scrupulous. The ministers of the Word were permitted to teach Hebrew, because Hebrew is a sacred dialect, uncontaminated by profane writers. But the Greek language, which contains all the philosophy and nearly all the wisdom of antiquity, was to be discouraged, its study laid aside, its professorship suppressed.[178] And, in order that the mind might not be distracted from spiritual things, the study of chemistry was likewise forbidden; such a mere earthly pursuit being incompatible with the habits of the sacred profession.[179] Lest, however, in spite of these precautions, knowledge should still creep in among the Protestants, other measures were taken to prevent even its earliest approach. The clergy, entirely forgetting that right of private judgment upon which their sect was founded, became so anxious to protect the unwary from error, that they forbade any person to print or publish a work without the sanction of the church; in other words, without the sanction of the clergy themselves.[180] When, by these means, they had destroyed the possibility of free inquiry, and, so far as they were able, had put a stop to the acquisition of all real knowledge, they proceeded to guard against another circumstance to which their measures had given rise. For, several of the Protestants, seeing that under such a system, it was impossible to educate their families with advantage, sent their children to some of those celebrated Catholic colleges, where alone a sound education could then be obtained. But the clergy, so soon as they heard of this practice, put an end to it, by excommunicating the offending parents;[181] and to this there was added an order forbidding them to admit into their own private houses any tutor who professed the Catholic religion.[182] Such was the way in which the French Protestants were watched over and protected by their spiritual masters. Even the minutest matters were not beneath the notice of these great legislators. They ordered that no person should go to a ball or masquerade;[183] nor ought any Christian to look at the tricks of conjurors, or at the famous game of goblets, or at the puppet-show; neither was he to be present at morris-dances; for all such amusements should be suppressed by the magistrates, because they excite curiosity, cause expense, waste time.[184] Another thing to be attended to, is the names that are bestowed in baptism. A child may have two christian names, though one is preferable.[185] Great care, however, is to be observed in their selection. They ought to be taken from the Bible, but they ought not to be Baptist or Angel; neither should any infant receive a name which has been formerly used by the Pagans.[186] When the children are grown up, there are other regulations to which they must be subject. The clergy declared that the faithful must by no means let their hair grow long, lest by so doing they indulge in the luxury of 'lascivious curls.'[187] They are to make their garments in such a manner as to avoid 'the new-fangled fashions of the world:' they are to have no tassels to their dress: their gloves must be without silk and ribbons: they are to abstain from fardingales: they are to beware of wide sleeves.[188] [174] _Quick's Synodicon in Gallia_, vol. i. p. 62. [175] _Ibid._ vol. i. pp. lvii. 17, 131, vol. ii. p. 174. [176] 'And both sexes are required to keep modesty in their hair,' &c. _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 119. [177] _Quick's Synodicon_, vol. i. p. 165. [178] The synod of Alez, in 1620, says, 'A minister may at the same time be professor in divinity and of the Hebrew tongue. But it is not seemly for him to profess the Greek also, because the most of his employment will be taken up in the exposition of Pagan and profane authors, unless he be discharged from the ministry.' _Quick's Synodicon_, vol. ii. p. 57. Three years later, the synod of Charenton suppressed altogether the Greek professorships, 'as being superfluous and of small profit.' _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 115. [179] The synod of St. Maixant, in 1609, orders that 'colloquies and synods shall have a watchful eye over those ministers who study chemistry, and grievously reprove and censure them.' _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 314. [180] _Ibid._ vol. i. pp. 140, 194, vol. ii. p. 110. [181] _Quick's Synodicon_, vol. i. pp. lv. 235, 419, vol. ii. pp. 201, 509, 515. Compare _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 473. [182] _Quick's Synodicon_, vol. ii. p. 81. [183] _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 174. [184] 'All Christian magistrates are advised not in the least to suffer them, because it feeds foolish curiosity, puts upon unnecessary expenses, and wastes time,' _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 194. [185] This was a very knotty question for the theologians; but it was at length decided in the affirmative by the synod of Saumur: 'On the 13th article of the same chapter, the deputies of Poicton demanded, whether two names might be given a child at baptism? To which it was replied: The thing was indifferent; however, parents were advised to observe herein Christian simplicity.' _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 178. [186] _Ibid._ vol. i. pp. xlvi. 25. [187] I quote the language of the synod of Castres, in 1626. _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 174. [188] _Quick's Synodicon_, vol. i. p. 165, vol. ii. pp. 7, 174, 574, 583. In the same way, the Spanish clergy, early in the present century, attempted to regulate the dress of women. See _Doblado's Letters from Spain_, pp. 202-205: a good illustration of the identity of the ecclesiastical spirit, whether it be Catholic or Protestant. Those readers who have not studied the history of ecclesiastical legislation, will perhaps be surprised to find, that men of gravity, men who had reached the years of discretion, and were assembled together in solemn council, should evince such a prying and puerile spirit; that they should display such miserable and childish imbecility. But, whoever will take a wider survey of human affairs, will be inclined to blame, not so much the legislators, as the system of which the legislators formed a part. For as to the men themselves, they merely acted after their kind. They only followed the traditions in which they were bred. By virtue of their profession, they had been accustomed to hold certain views, and, when they rose to power, it was natural that they should carry those views into effect; thus transplanting into the law-book the maxims they had already preached in the pulpit. Whenever, therefore, we read of meddling, inquisitive, and vexatious regulations imposed by ecclesiastical authority, we should remember, that they are but the legitimate result of the ecclesiastical spirit; and that the way to remedy such grievances, or to prevent their occurrence, is not by vainly labouring to change the tendencies of that class from whence they proceed, but rather by confining the class within its proper limits, by jealously guarding against its earliest encroachments, by taking every opportunity of lessening its influence, and finally, when the progress of society will justify so great a step, by depriving it of that political and legislative power which, though gradually falling from its hands, it is, even in the most civilized countries, still allowed in some degree to retain. But, setting aside these general considerations, it will, at all events, be admitted, that I have collected sufficient evidence to indicate what would have happened to France, if the Protestants had obtained the upper hand. After the facts which I have brought forward, no one can possibly doubt, that if such a misfortune had occurred, the liberal, and, considering the age, the enlightened policy of Henry IV. and Louis XIII. would have been destroyed, in order to make way for that gloomy and austere system, which, in every age and in every country, has been found to be the natural fruit of ecclesiastical power. To put, therefore, the question in its proper form, instead of saying that there was a war between hostile creeds, we should rather say that there was a war between rival classes. It was a contest, not so much between the Catholic religion and the Protestant religion, as between Catholic laymen and Protestant clergy. It was a struggle between temporal interests and theological interests,--between the spirit of the present and the spirit of the past. And the point now at issue was, whether France should be governed by the civil power or by the spiritual power,--whether she should be ruled according to the large views of secular statesmen, or according to the narrow notions of a factious and intolerant priesthood. The Protestants having the great advantage of being the aggressive party, and being, moreover, inflamed by a religious zeal unknown to their opponents, might, under ordinary circumstances, have succeeded in their hazardous attempt; or, at all events, they might have protracted the struggle for an indefinite period. But, fortunately for France, in 1624, only three years after the war began, Richelieu assumed the direction of the government. He had for some years been the secret adviser of the queen-mother, into whose mind he had always inculcated the necessity of complete toleration.[189] When placed at the head of affairs, he pursued the same policy, and attempted in every way to conciliate the Protestants. The clergy of his own party were constantly urging him to exterminate the heretics, whose presence they thought polluted France.[190] But Richelieu, having only secular objects, refused to embitter the contest by turning it into a religious war. He was determined to chastise the rebellion, but he would not punish the heresy. Even while the war was raging, he would not revoke those edicts of toleration by which the full liberty of religious worship was granted to the Protestants. And when they, in 1626, showed signs of compunction, or at all events of fear, he publicly confirmed the Edict of Nantes,[191] and he granted them peace; although, as he says, he knew that by doing so he should fall under the suspicion of those 'who so greatly affected the name of zealous Catholics.'[192] A few months afterwards, war again broke out; and then it was that Richelieu determined on that celebrated siege of Rochelle, which, if brought to a successful issue, was sure to be a decisive blow against the French Protestants. That he was moved to this hazardous undertaking solely by secular considerations is evident, not only from the general spirit of his preceding policy, but also from his subsequent conduct. With the details of this famous siege history is not concerned, as such matters have no value except to military readers. It is enough to say that, in 1628, Rochelle was taken; and the Protestants, who had been induced by their clergy[193] to continue to resist long after relief was hopeless, and who, in consequence, had suffered the most dreadful hardships, were obliged to surrender at discretion.[194] The privileges of the town were revoked, and its magistrates removed; but the great minister by whom these things were effected, still abstained from that religious persecution to which he was urged.[195] He granted to the Protestants the toleration which he had offered at an earlier period, and he formally conceded the free exercise of their public worship.[196] But, such was their infatuation, that because he likewise restored the exercise of the Catholic religion, and thus gave to the conquerors the same liberty that he had granted to the conquered, the Protestants murmured at the indulgence; they could not bear the idea that their eyes should be offended by the performance of Popish rites.[197] And their indignation waxed so high, that in the next year they, in another part of France, again rose in arms. As, however, they were now stripped of their principal resources, they were easily defeated; and, their existence as a political faction being destroyed, they were, in reference to their religion, treated by Richelieu in the same manner as before.[198] To the Protestants generally, he confirmed the privilege of preaching and of performing the other ceremonies of their creed.[199] To their leader, Rohan, he granted an amnesty, and, a few years afterwards, employed him in important public services. After this, the hopes of the party were destroyed; they never again rose in arms, nor do we find any mention of them until a much later period, when they were barbarously persecuted by Louis XIV.[200] But from all such intolerance Richelieu sedulously abstained; and having now cleared the land from rebellion, he embarked in that vast scheme of foreign policy, of which I have already given some account, and in which he clearly showed that his proceedings against the Protestants had not been caused by hatred of their religious tenets. For, the same party which he attacked at home, he supported abroad. He put down the French Protestants, because they were a turbulent faction that troubled the state, and wished to suppress the exercise of all opinions unfavourable to themselves. But so far from carrying on a crusade against their religion, he, as I have already observed, encouraged it in other countries; and, though a bishop of the Catholic church, he did not hesitate, by treaties, by money, and by force of arms, to support the Protestants against the House of Austria, maintain the Lutherans against the Emperor of Germany, and uphold the Calvinists against the King of Spain. [189] On his influence over her in and after 1616, see _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. p. 508; _Mém. de Pontchartrain_, vol. ii. p. 240; _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. i. p. 23; and compare, in _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. ii. pp. 198-200, the curious arguments which he put in her mouth respecting the impolicy of making war on the Protestants. [190] In 1625, the Archbishop of Lyons wrote to Richelieu, urging him 'assiéger la Rochelle, et châtier ou, pour mieux dire, exterminer les huguenots, toute autre affaire cessante.' _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. p. 276. See also, on the anxiety of the clergy in the reign of Louis XIII. to destroy the Protestants, _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. pp. 155, 166, 232, 245, 338, 378, 379, 427; _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 485. [191] He confirmed it in March 1626; _Flassan_, _Hist. de la Diplomatie Française_, vol. ii. p. 399; and also in the preceding January. See _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. appendix, pp. 77, 81. [192] 'Ceux qui affectent autant le nom de zélés catholiques.' _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. iii. p. 16; and at p. 2, he, in the same year (1626), says, that he was opposed by those who had 'un trop ardent et précipité désir de ruiner les huguenots.' [193] _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiii. p. 66. [194] On the sufferings of the inhabitants, see extract from the Dupuis Mss., in _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 351. Fontenay Mareuil, who was an eye-witness, says, that the besieged, in some instances, ate their own children; and that the burial-grounds were guarded, to prevent the corpses from being dug up and turned into food. _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. ii. p. 119. [195] And in which he would most assuredly have been supported by Louis XIII.; of whom an intelligent writer says 'Il étoit plein de piété et de zèle pour le service de Dieu et pour la grandeur de l'église; et sa plus sensible joie, en prenant La Rochelle et les autres places qu'il prit, fut de penser qu'il chasseroit de son royaume les hérétiques, et qu'il le purgeroit par cette voie des différentes religions qui gâtent et infectent l'église de Dieu.' _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. i. p. 425, edit. Petitot, 1824. [196] _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. p. 423; _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiii. p. 77; _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 357; _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. ii. p. 122. [197] 'Les huguenots murmuraient de voir le rétablissement de l'église romaine au sein de leur ville.' _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 359. [198] 'Dès qu'il ne s'agit plus d'un parti politique, il concéda, comme à la Rochelle, la liberté de conscience et la faculté de prêche.' _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 381. Compare _Smedley's Hist. of the Reformed Religion in France_, vol. iii. p. 201, with _Mémoires de Richelieu_, vol. iv. p. 484. [199] The Edict of Nismes, in 1629, an important document, will be found in _Quick's Synodicon_, vol. i. pp. xcvi.-ciii., and in _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. appendix, pp. 92-98; and a commentary on it in _Bazin_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. iii. pp. 36-38. M. Bazin, unfortunately for the reputation of this otherwise valuable work, never quotes his authorities. [200] In 1633, their own historian says: 'les Réformez ne faisoient plus de party.' _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 532. Compare Sir Thomas Hanmer's account of France in 1648, in _Bunbury's Correspond. of Hanmer_, p. 309, Lond. 1838. I have thus endeavoured to draw a slight, though, I trust, a clear outline, of the events which took place in France during the reign of Louis XIII., and particularly during that part of it which included the administration of Richelieu. But such occurrences, important as they are, only formed a single phase of that larger development which was now displaying itself in nearly every branch of the national intellect. They were the mere political expression of that bold and sceptical spirit which cried havoc to the prejudices and superstitions of men. For, the government of Richelieu was successful, as well as progressive; and no government can unite these two qualities, unless its measures harmonize with the feelings and temper of the age. Such an administration, though it facilitates progress, is not the cause of it, but is rather its measure and symptom. The cause of the progress lies far deeper, and is governed by the general tendency of the time. And as the different tendencies observable in successive generations depend on the difference in their knowledge, it is evident, that we can only understand the working of the tendencies, by taking a wide view of the amount and character of the knowledge. To comprehend, therefore, the real nature of the great advance made during the reign of Louis XIII., it becomes necessary that I should lay before the reader some evidence respecting those higher and more important facts, which historians are apt to neglect, but without which the study of the past is an idle and trivial pursuit, and history itself a barren field, which, bearing no fruit, is unworthy of the labour that is wasted on the cultivation of so ungrateful a soil. It is, indeed, a very observable fact, that while Richelieu, with such extraordinary boldness, was secularizing the whole system of French politics, and by his disregard of ancient interests, was setting at naught the most ancient traditions, a course precisely similar was being pursued, in a still higher department, by a man greater than he; by one, who, if I may express my own opinion, is the most profound among the many eminent thinkers France has produced. I speak of Réné Descartes, of whom the least that can be said is, that he effected a revolution more decisive than has ever been brought about by any other single mind. With his mere physical discoveries we are not now concerned, because in this Introduction I do not pretend to trace the progress of science, except in those epochs which indicate a new turn in the habits of national thought. But I may remind the reader, that he was the first who successfully applied algebra to geometry;[201] that he pointed out the important law of the sines;[202] that in an age in which optical instruments were extremely imperfect, he discovered the changes to which light is subjected in the eye by the crystalline lens;[203] that he directed attention to the consequences resulting from the weight of the atmosphere;[204] and that he, moreover, detected the causes of the rainbow,[205] that singular phenomenon, with which, in the eyes of the vulgar, some theological superstitions are still connected.[206] At the same time, and as if to combine the most varied forms of excellence, he is not only allowed to be the first geometrician of the age,[207] but by the clearness and admirable precision of his style, he became one of the founders of French prose.[208] And although he was constantly engaged in those lofty inquiries into the nature of the human mind, which can never be studied without wonder, I had almost said can never be read without awe, he combined with them a long course of laborious experiment upon the animal frame, which raised him to the highest rank among the anatomists of his time.[209] The great discovery made by Harvey of the circulation of the blood, was neglected by most of his contemporaries;[210] but it was at once recognized by Descartes, who made it the basis of the physiological part of his work on Man.[211] He likewise adopted the discovery of the lacteals by Aselli,[212] which, like every great truth yet laid before the world, was, at its first appearance, not only disbelieved, but covered with ridicule.[213] [201] Thomas (_Eloge_, in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. p. 32) says, 'cet instrument, c'est Descartes qui l'a créé; c'est l'application de l'algèbre à la géométrie.' And this, in the highest sense, is strictly true; for although Vieta and two or three others in the sixteenth century had anticipated this step, we owe entirely to Descartes the magnificent discovery of the possibility of applying algebra to the geometry of curves, he being undoubtedly the first who expressed them by algebraic equations. See _Montucla_, _Hist. des Mathémat._ vol. i. pp. 704, 705, vol. ii. p. 120, vol. iii. p. 64. [202] The statements of Huygens and of Isaac Vossius to the effect that Descartes had seen the papers of Snell before publishing his discovery, are unsupported by any direct evidence; at least none of the historians of science, so far as I am aware, have brought forward any. So strong, however, is the disposition of mankind at large to depreciate great men, and so general is the desire to convict them of plagiarism, that this charge, improbable in itself, and only resting on the testimony of two envious rivals, has been not only revived by modern writers, but has been, even in our own time, spoken of as a well-established and notorious fact! The flimsy basis of this accusation is clearly exposed by M. Bordas Demoulin, in his valuable work _Le Cartesianisme_, Paris, 1843, vol. ii. pp. 9-12; while, on the other side of the question, I refer with regret to _Sir D. Brewster on the Progress of Optics, Second Report of British Association_, pp. 309, 310; and to _Whewell's Hist. of the Inductive Sciences_, vol. ii. pp. 379, 502, 503. [203] See the interesting remarks of Sprengel (_Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. iv. pp. 271, 272), and _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. iv. pp. 371 seq. What makes this the more observable is this: that the study of the crystalline lens was neglected long after the death of Descartes, and no attempt made for more than a hundred years to complete his views by ascertaining its intimate structure. Indeed, it is said (_Thomson's Animal Chemistry_, p. 512) that the crystalline lens and the two humours were first analyzed in 1802. Compare _Simon's Animal Chemistry_, vol. ii. pp. 419-421; _Henle_, _Traité d'Anatomie_, vol. i. p. 357; _Lepelletier_, _Physiologie Médicale_, vol. iii. p. 160; _Mayo's Human Physiol._, p. 279; _Blainville_, _Physiol. comparée_, vol. iii. pp. 325-328; none of whom refer to any analysis earlier than the nineteenth century. I notice this partly as a contribution to the history of our knowledge, and partly as proving how slow men have been in following Descartes, and in completing his views; for, as M. Blanville justly observes, the chemical laws of the lens must be understood, before we can exhaustively generalize the optical laws of its refraction; so that, in fact, the researches of Berzelius on the eye are complemental to those of Descartes. The theory of the limitation of the crystalline lens according to the descending scale of the animal kingdom, and the connexion between its development and a general increase of sensuous perception, seem to have been little studied; but Dr. Grant (_Comparative Anatomy_, p. 252) thinks that the lens exists in some of the rotifera; while in regard to its origin, I find a curious statement in _Müller's Physiology_, vol. i. p. 450, that after its removal in mammals, it has been reproduced by its matrix, the capsule. (If this can be relied on, it will tell against the suggestion of Schwann, who supposes, in his _Microscopical Researches_, 1847, pp. 87, 88, that its mode of life is vegetable, and that it is not 'a secretion of its capsule'). As to its probable existence in the hydrozoa, see _Rymer Jones's Animal Kingdom_, 1855, p. 96, 'regarded either as a crystalline lens, or an otolithe;' and as to its embryonic development, see _Burdach_, _Traité de Physiologie_, vol. iii. pp. 435-438. [204] Torricelli first weighed the air in 1643. _Brande's Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 360; _Leslie's Natural Philosophy_, p. 419: but there is a letter from Descartes, written as early as 1631, 'où il explique le phénomène de la suspension du mercure dans un tuyau fermé par en haut, en l'attribuant au poids de la colonne d'air élevée jusqu'au delà des nues.' _Bordas Demoulin_, _le Cartésianisme_, vol. i. p. 311. And Montucla (_Hist. des Mathémat._ vol. ii. p. 205) says of Descartes, 'nous avons des preuves que ce philosophe reconnut avant Torricelli la pesanteur de l'air.' Descartes himself says, that he suggested the subsequent experiment of Pascal. _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. x. pp. 344, 351. [205] Dr. Whewell, who has treated Descartes with marked injustice, does nevertheless allow that he is 'the genuine author of the explanation of the rainbow.' _Hist. of the Induc. Sciences_, vol. ii. pp. 380, 384. See also _Boyle's Works_, vol. iii. p. 189; _Thomson's Hist. of the Royal Society_, p. 364; _Hallam's Lit. of Europe_, vol. iii. p. 205; _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. pp. 47, 48, vol. v. pp. 265-284. On the theory of the rainbow as known in the present century, see _Kaemtz_, _Course of Meteorology_, pp. 440-445; and _Forbes on Meteorology_, pp. 125-130, in _Report of British Association_ for 1840. Compare _Leslie's Natural Philosophy_, p. 531; _Pouillet_, _Elémens de Physique_, vol. ii. p. 788. [206] The Hebrew notion of the rainbow is well known; and for the ideas of other nations on this subject, see _Prichard's Physical History of Mankind_, vol. v. pp. 154, 176; _Kame's Sketches of the History of Man_, vol. iv. p. 252, Edinb. 1788; and _Burdache's Physiologie_, vol. v. pp. 546, 547, Paris, 1839. [207] Thomas calls him 'le plus grand géomètre de son siècle.' _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. p. 89. Sir W. Hamilton (_Discussions on Philosophy_, p. 271) says, 'the greatest mathematician of the age;' and Montucla can find no one but Plato to compare with him: 'On ne sauroit donner une idée plus juste de ce qu'a été l'époque de Descartes dans la géométrie ancienne.... De même enfin que Platon prépara par sa découverte celles des Archimède, des Apollonius, &c., on peut dire que Descartes a jetté les fondemens de celles qui illustrent aujourd'hui les Newton, les Leibnitz, &c.' _Montucla_, _Hist. des Mathémat._ vol. ii. p. 112. [208] 'Descartes joint encore à ses autres titres, celui d'avoir été un des créateurs de notre langue.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xi. p. 154. Sir James Mackintosh (_Dissert. on Ethical Philos._ p. 186) has also noticed the influence of Descartes in forming the style of French writers; and I think that M. Cousin has somewhere made a similar remark. [209] Thomas says, 'Descartes eut aussi la gloire d'être un des premiers anatomistes de son siècle.' _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. p. 55; see also p. 101. In 1639, Descartes writes to Mersenne (_[OE]uvres_, vol. viii. p. 100) that he had been engaged 'depuis onze ans' in studying comparative anatomy by dissection. Compare p. 174, and vol. i. pp. 175-184. [210] Dr. Whewell (_Hist. of the Inductive Sciences_, vol. iii. p. 440) says: 'It was for the most part readily accepted by his countrymen; but that abroad it had to encounter considerable opposition.' For this no authority is quoted; and yet one would be glad to know who told Dr. Whewell that the discovery was readily accepted. So far from meeting in England with ready acceptance, it was during many years most universally denied. Aubrey was assured by Harvey that, in consequence of his book on the Circulation of the Blood, he lost much of his practice, was believed to be crackbrained, and was opposed by 'all the physicians.' _Aubrey's Letters and Lives_, vol. ii. p. 383. Dr. Willis (_Life of Harvey_, p. xli., in _Harvey's Works_, edit. Sydenham Society, 1847) says 'Harvey's views were at first rejected almost universally.' Dr. Elliotson (_Human Physiology_, p. 194) says, 'His immediate reward was general ridicule and abuse, and a great diminution of his practice.' Broussais (_Examen des Doctrines Médicales_, vol. i. p. vii.) says, 'Harvey passa pour fou quand il annonça la découverte de la circulation.' Finally, Sir William Temple, who belongs to the generation subsequent to Harvey, and who, indeed, was not born until some years after the discovery was made, mentions it in his works in such a manner as to show that even then it was not universally received by educated men. See two curious passages, which have escaped the notice of the historians of physiology, in _Works of Sir W. Temple_, vol. iii. pp. 293, 469, 8vo., 1814. [211] 'Taken by Descartes as the basis of his physiology, in his work on Man.' _Whewell's Hist. of the Induc. Sciences_, vol. iii. p. 441. 'Réné Descartes se déclara un des premiers en faveur de la doctrine de la circulation.' _Renourd_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. ii. p. 163. See also _Bordas Demoulin_, _le Cartésianisme_, vol. ii. p. 324; and _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. pp. 68, 179, vol. iv. pp. 42, 449, vol. ix. pp. 159, 332. Compare _Willis's Life of Harvey_, p. xlv., in _Harvey's Works_. [212] 'Les veines blanches, dites lactées, qu'Asellius a découvertes depuis peu dans le mésentère.' _De la Formation du F[oe]tus_, sec. 49, in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. iv. p. 483. [213] Even Harvey denied it to the last. _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Méd._ vol. iv. pp. 203, 204. Compare _Harvey's Works_, edit. Sydenham Soc. pp. 605, 614. These things might have been sufficient to rescue even the physical labours of Descartes from the attacks constantly made on them by men who either have not studied his works, or else, having studied them, are unable to understand their merit. But the glory of Descartes, and the influence he exercised over his age, do not depend even on such claims as these. Putting them aside, he is the author of what is emphatically called Modern Philosophy.[214] He is the originator of that great system and method of metaphysics, which, notwithstanding its errors, has the undoubted merit of having given a wonderful impulse to the European mind, and communicated to it an activity which has been made available for other purposes of a different character. Besides this, and superior to it, there is another obligation which we are under to the memory of Descartes. He deserves the gratitude of posterity, not so much on account of what he built up, as on account of what he pulled down. His life was one great and successful warfare against the prejudices and traditions of men. He was great as a creator, but he was far greater as a destroyer. In this respect he was the true successor of Luther, to whose labours his own were the fitting supplement. He completed what the great German reformer had left undone.[215] He bore to the old systems of philosophy precisely the same relation that Luther bore to the old systems of religion. He was the great reformer and liberator of the European intellect. To prefer, therefore, even the most successful discoverers of physical laws to this great innovator and disturber of tradition, is just as if we should prefer knowledge to freedom, and believe that science is better than liberty. We must, indeed, always be grateful to those eminent thinkers, to whose labours we are indebted for that vast body of physical truths which we now possess. But, let us reserve the full measure of our homage for those far greater men, who have not hesitated to attack and destroy the most inveterate prejudices: men who, by removing the pressure of tradition, have purified the very source and fountain of our knowledge, and secured its future progress, by casting off obstacles in the presence of which progress was impossible.[216] [214] M. Cousin (_Hist. de la Philos._ II. série, vol. i. p. 39) says of Descartes, 'Son premier ouvrage écrit en français est de 1637. C'est donc de 1637 que date la philosophie moderne.' See the same work, I. série, vol. iii. p. 77; and compare _Stewart's Philos. of the Mind_, vol. i. pp. 14, 529, with _Eloge de Parent_, in _[OE]uvres de Fontenelle_, Paris, 1766, vol. v. p. 444, and vol. vi. p. 318: 'Cartésien, ou, si l'on veut, philosophe moderne.' [215] 'Descartes avait établi dans le domaine de la pensée l'indépendance absolue de la raison; il avait déclaré à la scholastique et à la théologie que l'esprit de l'homme ne pouvait plus relever que de l'évidence qu'il aurait obtenue par lui-même. Ce que Luther avait commencé dans la religion, le génie français si actif et si prompt l'importait dans la philosophie, et l'on peut dire à la double gloire de l'Allemagne et de la France que Descartes est le fils aîné de Luther.' _Lerminier_, _Philos. du Droit_, vol. ii. p. 141. See also, on the philosophy of Descartes as a product of the Reformation. _Ward's Ideal of a Christian Church_, p. 498. [216] For, as Turgot finely says, 'ce n'est pas l'erreur qui s'oppose aux progrès de la vérité. Ce sont la mollesse, l'entêtement, l'esprit de routine, tout ce qui porte à l'inaction,' _Pensées_ in _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. ii. p. 343. It will not be expected, perhaps it will hardly be desired, that I should enter into a complete detail of the philosophy of Descartes: a philosophy which, in England at least, is rarely studied, and therefore, is often attacked. But it will be necessary to give such an account of it as will show its analogy with the anti-theological policy of Richelieu, and will thus enable us to see the full extent of that vast movement which took place in France before the accession of Louis XIV. By this means, we shall be able to understand how the daring innovations of the great minister were so successful, since they were accompanied and reinforced by corresponding innovations in the national intellect; thus affording an additional instance of the way in which the political history of every country is to be explained by the history of its intellectual progress. In 1637, when Richelieu was at the height of his power, Descartes published that great work which he had long been meditating, and which was the first open announcement of the new tendencies of the French mind. To this work he gave the name of a 'Method;' and, assuredly, the method is the most alien to what is commonly called theology that can possibly be conceived. Indeed, so far from being theological, it is essentially and exclusively psychological. The theological method rests on ancient records, on tradition, on the voice of antiquity. The method of Descartes rests solely on the consciousness each man has of the operations of his own mind, and lest anyone should mistake the meaning of this, he, in subsequent works, developed it at great length, and with unrivalled clearness. For his main object was to popularize the views which he put forward. Therefore, says Descartes, 'I write in French rather than in Latin, because I trust that they who only employ their simple and native reason will estimate my opinions more fairly than they who only believe in ancient books.'[217] So strongly does he insist upon this, that, almost at the beginning of his first work, he cautions his readers against the common error of looking to antiquity for knowledge; and he reminds them that 'when men are too curious to know the practices of past ages, they generally remain very ignorant of their own.'[218] [217] 'Et si j'écris en français, qui est la langue de mon pays, plutôt qu'en latin, qui est celle de mes précepteurs, c'est à cause que j'espère que ceux qui ne se servent que de leur raison naturelle toute pure, jugeront mieux de mes opinions que ceux qui ne croient qu'aux livres anciens.' _Discours de la Méthode_, in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. pp. 210, 211. [218] _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 127. Indeed, so far from following the old plan of searching for truths in the records of the past, the great essential of this new philosophy is to wean ourselves from all such associations, and, beginning the acquisition of knowledge by the work of destruction, first pull down, in order that afterwards we may build up.[219] When I, says Descartes, set forth in the pursuit of truth, I found that the best way was to reject every thing I had hitherto received, and pluck out all my old opinions, in order that I might lay the foundation of them afresh: believing that, by this means, I should more easily accomplish the great scheme of life, than by building on an old basis, and supporting myself by principles which I had learned in my youth, without examining if they were really true.[220] 'I, therefore, will occupy myself freely and earnestly in effecting a general destruction of all my old opinions.'[221] For, if we would know all the truths that can be known, we must, in the first place, free ourselves from our prejudices, and make a point of rejecting those things which we have received, until we have subjected them to a new examination.[222] We, therefore, must derive our opinions, not from tradition, but from ourselves. We must not pass judgment upon any subject which we do not clearly and distinctly understand; for, even if such a judgment is correct, it can only be so by accident, not having solid ground on which to support itself.[223] But, so far are we from this state of indifference, that our memory is full of prejudices:[224] we pay attention to words rather than to things;[225] and being thus slaves to form, there are too many of us 'who believe themselves religious, when, in fact, they are bigoted and superstitious; who think themselves perfect because they go much to church, because they often repeat prayers, because they wear short hair, because they fast, because they give alms. These are the men who imagine themselves such friends of God, that nothing they do displeases Him; men who, under pretence of zeal, gratify their passions by committing the greatest crimes, such as betraying towns, killing princes, exterminating nations: and all this they do to those who will not change their opinions.'[226] [219] 'Er fing also vom Zweifel an, und ging durch denselben zur Gewissheit über.' _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. x. p. 218. Compare _Second Discours en Sorbonne_, in _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. ii. p. 89. [220] _Disc. de la Méthode_, in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. p. 136. [221] 'Je m'appliquerai sérieusement et avec liberté à détruire généralement toutes mes anciennes opinions.' _Méditations_ in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. p. 236. [222] _Principes de la Philosophie_, part i. sec. 75, in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. iii. pp. 117, 118; and compare vol. ii. p. 417, where he gives a striking illustration of this view. [223] _Méditations_, in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. pp. 303, 304. [224] 'Nous avons rempli notre mémoire de beaucoup de préjugés.' _Principes de la Philos._ part i. sec. 47, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. iii. p. 91. [225] _[OE]uvres_, vol. iii. p. 117. [226] 'Ce qu'on peut particulièrement remarquer en ceux qui, croyant être dévots, sont seulement bigots et superstitieux, c'est à dire qui, sous ombre qu'ils vont souvent à l'église, qu'ils récitent force prières, qu'ils portent les cheveux courts, qu'ils jeûnent, qu'ils donnent l'aumône, pensent être entièrement parfaits, et s'imaginent qu'ils sont si grands amis de Dieu, qu'ils ne sauroient rien faire qui lui déplaise, et que tout ce que leur dicte leur passion est un bon zèle, bien qu'elle leur dicte quelquefois les plus grands crimes qui puissent être commis par des hommes, comme de trahir des villes, de tuer des princes, d'exterminer des peuples entiers, pour cela seul qu'ils ne suivent pas leurs opinions.' _Les Passions de l'Ame_, in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. iv. pp. 194, 195. These were the words of wisdom which this great teacher addressed to his countrymen only a few years after they had brought to a close the last religious war that has ever been waged in France. The similarity of those views to those which, about the same time, were put forth by Chillingworth, must strike every reader, but ought not to excite surprise; for they were but the natural products of a state of society in which the right of private judgment, and the independence of the human reason, were first solidly established. If we examine this matter a little closer, we shall find still further proof of the analogy between France and England. So identical are the steps of the progress, that the relation which Montaigne bears to Descartes is just the same as that which Hooker bears to Chillingworth; the same in reference to the difference of time, and also in reference to the difference of opinions. The mind of Hooker was essentially sceptical; but his genius was so restrained by the prejudices of his age, that, unable to discern the supreme authority of private judgment, he hampered it by appeals to councils and to the general voice of ecclesiastical antiquity: impediments which Chillingworth, thirty years later, effectually removed. In precisely the same way, Montaigne, like Hooker, was sceptical; but, like him, he lived at a period when the spirit of doubt was yet young, and when the mind still trembled before the authority of the Church. It is, therefore, no wonder that even Montaigne, who did so much for his age, should have hesitated respecting the capacity of men to work out for themselves great truths; and that, pausing in the course that lay before him, his scepticism should often have assumed the form of a distrust of the human faculties.[227] Such shortcomings, and such imperfections, are merely an evidence of the slow growth of society, and of the impossibility for even the greatest thinkers to outstrip their contemporaries beyond a certain point. But, with the advance of knowledge, this deficiency was at length supplied; and, as the generation after Hooker brought forth Chillingworth, just so did the generation after Montaigne bring forth Descartes. Both Chillingworth and Descartes were eminently sceptical; but their scepticism was directed, not against the human intellect, but against those appeals to authority and tradition without which it had hitherto been supposed that the intellect could not safely proceed. That this was the case with Chillingworth, we have already seen. That it was likewise the case with Descartes, is, if possible, still more apparent; for that profound thinker believed, not only that the mind, by its own efforts, could root out its most ancient opinions, but that it could, without fresh aid, build up a new and solid system in place of the one which it had thrown down.[228] [227] As is particularly evident in his long chapter, headed 'Apologie de Raimond Sebond.' _Essais de Montaigne_, livre ii. chap. xii. Paris, 1843, pp. 270-382, and see _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. ix. p. 455. [228] He very clearly separates himself from men like Montaigne: 'Non que j'imitasse pour cela les sceptiques, qui ne doutent que pour douter, et affectent d'être toujours irrésolus; car, au contraire, tout mon dessein ne tendoit qu'à m'assurer, et à rejeter la terre mouvante et le sable pour trouver le roc ou l'argile.' _Discours de la Méthode_, in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. pp. 153, 154. It is this extraordinary confidence in the power of the human intellect, which eminently characterizes Descartes, and has given to his philosophy that peculiar sublimity which distinguishes it from all other systems. So far from thinking that a knowledge of the external world is essential to the discovery of truth, he laid it down as a fundamental principle, that we must begin by ignoring such knowledge;[229] that the first step is to separate ourselves from the delusions of nature, and reject the evidence presented to our senses.[230] For, says Descartes, nothing is certain but thought; nor are there any truths except those which necessarily follow from the operation of our own consciousness. We have no knowledge of our soul except as a thinking substance:[231] and it were easier for us to believe that the soul should cease to exist, than that it should cease to think.[232] And, as to man himself, what is he but the incarnation of thought? For that which constitutes the man, is not his bones, nor his flesh, nor his blood. These are the accidents, the incumbrances, the impediments of his nature. But the man himself is the thought. The invisible me, the ultimate fact of existence, the mystery of life, is this: 'I am a thing that thinks.' This, therefore, is the beginning and the basis of our knowledge. The thought of each man is the last element to which analysis can carry us; it is the supreme judge of every doubt; it is the starting-point for all wisdom.[233] [229] According to the view of Descartes, it was to be ignored, not denied. There is no instance to be found in his works of a denial of the existence of the external world; nor does the passage quoted from him by Mr. Jobert (_New System of Philos._ vol. ii. pp. 161, 162, Lond. 1849) at all justify the interpretation of that ingenious writer, who confuses certainty in the ordinary sense of the word with certainty in the Cartesian sense. A similar error is made by those who suppose that his 'Je pense, donc je suis,' is an enthymeme; and having taken this for granted, they turn on the great philosopher, and accuse him of begging the question! Such critics overlook the difference between a logical process and a psychological one; and therefore they do not see that this famous sentence was the description of a mental fact, and not the statement of a mutilated syllogism. The student of the philosophy of Descartes must always distinguish between these two processes, and remember that each process has an order of proof peculiar to itself; or at all events he must remember that such was the opinion of Descartes. Compare, on the Cartesian enthymeme, _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philos._ I. série, vol. iv. pp. 512, 513, with a note in _Kritik der reinen Vernunft, Kant's Werke_, vol. ii. pp. 323, 324. [230] _Méditations_, in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. pp. 220, 226; and again in the _Objections et Réponses_, _[OE]uvres_, vol. ii. pp. 245, 246. [231] 'Au lieu que, lorsque nous tâchons à connoître plus distinctement notre nature, nous pouvons voir que notre âme, en tant qu'elle est une substance distincte du corps, ne nous est connue que par cela seul qu'elle pense.' _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. iv. p. 432. Compare vol. iii. p. 96, _Principes de la Philosophie_, part i. sec. 53. [232] 'En sorte qu'il me seroit bien plus aisé de croire que l'âme cesseroit d'être quand on dit qu'elle cesse de penser, que non pas de concevoir qu'elle soit sans pensée.' _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. viii. p. 574. That 'the soul always thinks,' is a conclusion also arrived at by Berkeley by a different process. See his subtle argument, _Principles of Human Knowledge_, part i. sec. 98, in _Berkeley's Works_, vol. i. p. 123; and for a curious application of this to the theory of dreaming, see _Burdach_, _Physiologie comme Science d'Observation_, vol. v. pp. 205, 230. [233] _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. pp. 251, 252, 279, 293, vol. ii. pp. 252, 283. Taking our stand on this ground, we rise, says Descartes, to the perception of the existence of the Deity. For, our belief in His existence is an irrefragable proof that He exists. Otherwise, whence does the belief arise? Since nothing can come out of nothing, and since no effect can be without a cause, it follows that the idea we have of God must have an origin; and this origin, whatever name we give it, is no other than God.[234] Thus, the ultimate proof of His existence is our idea of it. Instead, therefore, of saying that we know ourselves because we believe in God, we should rather say that we believe in God because we know ourselves.[235] This is the order and precedence of things. The thought of each man is sufficient to prove His existence, and it is the only proof we can ever possess. Such, therefore, is the dignity and supremacy of the human intellect, that even this, the highest of all matters, flows from it, as from its sole source.[236] Hence, our religion should not be acquired by the teaching of others, but should be worked out by ourselves: it is not to be borrowed from antiquity, but it is to be discovered by each man's mind; it is not traditional, but personal. It is because this great truth has been neglected, that impiety has arisen. If each man were to content himself with that idea of God which is suggested by his own mind, he would attain to a true knowledge of the Divine Nature. But when, instead of confining himself to this, he mixes up with it the notions of others, his ideas become perplexed; they contradict themselves; and the composition being thus confused, he often ends by denying the existence, not, indeed, of God, but of such a God as that in whom he has been taught to believe.[237] [234] _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 419; and at p. 420: 'Or de tout cela on conclut très-manifestement que Dieu existe.' See also pp. 159-162, 280, 290, 291. But the simplest statement is in a letter to Mersenne (vol. viii. p. 529): 'J'ai tiré la preuve de l'existence de Dieu de l'idée que je trouve en moi d'un être souverainement parfait.' [235] 'Ainsi, quoique, de ce que je suis, je conclue avec certitude que Dieu est, je ne puis réciproquement affirmer, de ce que Dieu est, que j'existe.' _Règles pour la Direction de l'Esprit_, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xi. p. 274. See also _Principes de la Philosophie_, part i. sec. 7, vol. iii. p. 66. [236] On this famous argument, which it is said was also broached by Anselm, see _King's Life of Locke_, vol. ii. p. 133; the Benedictine _Hist. Lit. de la France_, vol. ix. pp. 417, 418; _Mosheim's Eccles. Hist._ vol. i. p. 239; and _Cudworth's Intellect. Syst._ vol. iii. p. 383. [237] 'Et certes jamais les hommes ne pourroient s'éloigner de la vraie connoissance de cette nature divine, s'ils vouloient seulement porter leur attention sur l'idée qu'ils ont de l'être souverainement parfait. Mais ceux qui mêlent quelques autres idées avec celle-là composent par ce moyen un dieu chimérique, en la nature duquel il y a des choses qui se contrarient; et, après l'avoir ainsi composé, ce n'est pas merveille s'ils nient qu'un tel dieu, qui leur est représenté par une fausse idée, existe.' _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. pp. 423, 424. The mischief which these principles must have done to the old theology is very obvious.[238] Not only were they fatal, in the minds of those who received them, to many of the common dogmas--such, for instance, as that of transubstantiation,[239]--but they were likewise directly opposed to other opinions, equally indefensible, and far more dangerous. For Descartes, by founding a philosophy which rejected all authority except that of the human reason,[240] was, of course, led to abandon the study of final causes,[241]--an old and natural superstition, by which, as we shall hereafter see, the German philosophers were long impeded, and which still hangs, though somewhat loosely, about the minds of men.[242] At the same time, by superseding the geometry of the ancients, he aided in weakening that inordinate respect with which antiquity was then regarded. In another matter, still more important, he displayed the same spirit, and met with the same success. With such energy did he attack the influence, or rather the tyranny of Aristotle, that although the opinions of that philosopher were intimately interwoven with the Christian theology,[243] his authority was entirely overthrown by Descartes; and with it there perished those scholastic prejudices, for which Aristotle, indeed, was not responsible, but which, under the shelter of his mighty name, had, during several centuries, perplexed the understandings of men, and retarded the progress of their knowledge.[244] [238] This is delicately but clearly indicated in an able letter from Arnaud, printed in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. ii. pp. 1-36: see in particular pp. 31, 34. And Duclos bluntly says: 'Si, depuis la révolution que Descartes a commencée, les théologiens se sont éloignés des philosophes, c'est que ceux-ci ont paru ne pas respecter infiniment les théologiens. Une philosophie qui prenoit pour base le doute et l'examen devoit les effaroucher.' _Duclos_, _Mémoires_, vol. i. p. 109. [239] On the relation of the Cartesian philosophy to the doctrine of transubstantiation, compare _Palmer's Treatise on the Church_, vol. ii. pp. 169, 170, with _Hallam's Lit. of Europe_, vol. ii. p. 453; and the remark ascribed to Hobbes, in _Aubrey's Letters and Lives_, vol. ii. p. 626. But Hobbes, if he really made this observation, had no right to expect Descartes to become a martyr. [240] 'Le caractère de la philosophie du moyen âge est la soumission à une autorité autre que la raison. La philosophie moderne ne reconnaît que l'autorité de la raison. C'est le cartésianisme qui a opéré cette révolution décisive.' _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philos._ II. série, vol. i. pp. 258, 259. [241] 'Nous rejetterons entièrement de notre philosophie la recherche des causes finales.' _Principes de la Philos._, part i. sec. 28, in _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. iii. p. 81. See also part iii. sec. 3, p. 182; and his reply to Gassendi, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. ii. pp. 280, 281. Compare _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philosophie_, II. série, vol. ii. p. 71, with _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. v. p. 203. [242] Dr. Whewell, for instance, says, that we must reject final causes in the inorganic sciences, but must recognize them in the organic ones; which, in other words, simply means, that we know less of the organic world than of the inorganic, and that because we know less, we are to believe more; for here, as everywhere else, the smaller the science the greater the superstition. _Whewell's Philos. of the Inductive Sciences_, 8vo., 1847, vol. i. pp. 620, 627, 628; and his _Hist. of the Induc. Sciences_, vol. iii. pp. 430, 431. If the question were to be decided by authority, it would be enough to appeal to Bacon and Descartes, the two greatest writers on the philosophy of method in the seventeenth century; and to Auguste Comte, who is admitted by the few persons who have mastered his _Philosophie Positive_, to be the greatest in our own time. These profound and comprehensive thinkers have all rejected the study of final causes, which, as they have clearly seen, is a theological invasion of scientific rights. On the injury which this study has wrought, and on the check it has given to the advance of our knowledge, see _Robin et Verdeil_, _Chimie Anat._ Paris, 1853, vol. i. pp. 489, 493, 494, vol. ii. p. 555; _Renouard_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. i. pp. 232, 237; _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. ii. p. 220; _Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire_, _Hist. des Anomalies de l'Organisation_, vol. iii. pp. 435, 436; _Herder_, _Ideen zur Gesch. der Menschheit_, vol. iii. p. 270; _Lawrence's Lectures on Man_, p. 36; and _Burdach_, _Traité de Physiologie_, vol. i. p. 190. [243] 'Auf das innigste verbunden mit der Theologie, nicht allein in den katholischen, sondern selbst auch in den protestantischen Ländern.' _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. ix. p. 516. Descartes, in a letter to Mersenne (_[OE]uvres_, vol. vi. p. 73), writes, in 1629, 'La théologie, laquelle on a tellement assujettie à Aristote, qu'il est impossible d'expliquer une autre philosophie qu'il ne semble d'abord qu'elle soit contre la foi.' Compare vol. vii. p. 344, vol. viii. pp. 281, 497. [244] Dr. Brown (_Philosophy of the Mind_, Edinburgh, 1838, p. 172) calls Descartes 'that illustrious rebel, who, in overthrowing the authority of Aristotle,' &c. See also _Duvernet_, _Hist. de la Sorbonne_, vol. ii. p. 192; _Cuvier_, _Hist. des Sciences_, part ii. p. 532; and _Locke's Works_, vol. iii. p. 48. This, I need hardly say, refers to the habit of appealing to Aristotle, as if he were infallible, and is very different from that respect which is naturally felt for a man who was probably the greatest of all the ancient thinkers. The difference between the Aristotelian and Cartesian systems is touched on rather hastily in _Cudworth's Intellect. Syst._ vol. i. pp. 170, 171. These were the principal services rendered to civilization by one of the greatest men Europe has ever produced. The analogy between him and Richelieu is very striking, and is as complete as their relative positions would allow. The same disregard of ancient notions, the same contempt for theological interests, the same indifference to tradition, the same determination to prefer the present to the past: in a word, the same essentially modern spirit, is seen alike in the writings of Descartes, and in the actions of Richelieu. What the first was to philosophy, that was the other to politics. But, while acknowledging the merits of these eminent men, it behoves us to remember that their success was the result, not only of their own abilities, but likewise of the general temper of their time. The nature of their labours depended on themselves; the way in which their labours were received, depended on their contemporaries. Had they lived in a more superstitious age, their views would have been disregarded, or, if noticed, would have been execrated as impious novelties. In the fifteenth, or early in the sixteenth century, the genius of Descartes and of Richelieu would have lacked the materials necessary to their work; their comprehensive minds would, in that state of society, have found no play; they would have awakened no sympathies; their bread would have been cast upon those waters which return it not again. And it would have been well for them if, in such a case, indifference were the only penalty with which they would be visited. It would have been well if they had not paid the forfeit incurred by many of those illustrious thinkers who have vainly attempted to stem the torrent of human credulity. It would have been well if the church had not risen in her wrath--if Richelieu had not been executed as a traitor, and Descartes burned as a heretic. Indeed, the mere fact that two such men, occupying so conspicuous a place before the public eye, and enforcing views so obnoxious to the interests of superstition, should have lived without serious danger, and then have died peaceably in their beds--the mere fact that this should have happened, is a decisive proof of the progress which, during fifty years, had been made by the French nation. With such rapidity were the prejudices of that great people dying away, that opinions utterly subversive of theological traditions, and fatal to the whole scheme of ecclesiastical power, were with impunity advocated by Descartes, and put in practice by Richelieu. It was now clearly seen, that the two foremost men of their time could, with little or no risk, openly propagate ideas which, half a century before, it would have been accounted dangerous even for the most obscure man to whisper in the privacy of his own chamber. Nor are the causes of this impunity difficult to understand. They are to be found in the diffusion of that sceptical spirit, by which, in France as well as in England, toleration was preceded. For, without entering into details which would be too long for the limits of this Introduction, it is enough to say, that French literature generally was, at this period, distinguished by a freedom and a boldness of inquiry, of which, England alone excepted, no example had then been seen in Europe. The generation which had listened to the teachings of Montaigne and of Charron, was now succeeded by another generation, the disciples, indeed, of those eminent men, but disciples who far outstripped their masters. The result was, that, during the thirty or forty years which preceded the power of Louis XIV.,[245] there was not to be found a single Frenchman of note who did not share in the general feeling--not one who did not attack some ancient dogma, or sap the foundation of some old opinion. This fearless temper was the characteristic of the ablest writers of that time;[246] but what is still more observable is, that the movement spread with such rapidity as to include in its action even those parts of society which are invariably the last to be affected by it. That spirit of doubt, which is the necessary precursor of all inquiry, and therefore of all solid improvement, owes its origin to the most thinking and intellectual parts of society, and is naturally opposed by the other parts: opposed by the nobles, because it is dangerous to their interests; opposed by the uneducated, because it attacks their prejudices. This is one of the reasons why neither the highest nor the lowest ranks are fit to conduct the government of a civilized country; since both of them, notwithstanding individual exceptions, are, in the aggregate, averse to those reforms which the exigencies of an advancing nation constantly require. But, in France, before the middle of the seventeenth century, even these classes began to participate in the great progress; so that, not only among thoughtful men, but likewise among the ignorant and the frivolous, there was seen that inquisitive and incredulous disposition, which, whatever may be said against it, has at least this peculiarity, that, in its absence, there is no instance to be found of the establishment of those principles of toleration and of liberty, which have only been recognized with infinite difficulty, and after many a hard-fought battle against prejudices whose inveterate tenacity might almost cause them to be deemed a part of the original constitution of the human mind.[247] [245] That is in 1661, when Louis XIV. first assumed the government. [246] M. Barante (_Tableau de la Littérature Française_, pp. 26, 27) notices 'cette indépendance dans les idées, ce jugement audacieux de toutes choses, qu'on remarque dans Corneille, dans Mézéray, dans Balzac, dans Saint-Réal, dans Lamothe-Levayer.' To these may be added Naudé, Patin, and probably Gassendi. Compare _Hallam's Literat. of Europe_, vol. ii. pp. 364, 365, with _Mackintosh's Ethical Philos._ p. 116, and _Lettres de Patin_, vol. i. p. 297, vol. ii. pp. 33, 186, 191, 242, 342, 498, 508, vol. iii. p. 87. [247] The increase of incredulity was so remarkable, as to give rise to a ridiculous assertion, 'qu'il y avoit plus de 50,000 athées dans Paris vers l'an 1623.' _Baillet_, _Jugemens des Savans_, Paris, 1722, 4to. vol. i. p. 185. Baillet has no difficulty in rejecting this preposterous statement (which is also noticed in _Coleridge's Literary Remains_, vol. i. p. 305; where, however, there is apparently a confusion between two different periods); but the spread of scepticism among the upper ranks and courtiers, during the reign of Louis XIII. and the minority of Louis XIV., is attested by a great variety of evidence. See _Mém. de Madame de Motteville_, vol. iii. p. 52; _Mém. de Retz_, vol. i. p. 266; _Conrart_, _Mém._ p. 235 note; _Des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. vii. p. 143; _Mém. de Brienne_, vol. ii. p. 107 note. It is no wonder if, under these circumstances, the speculations of Descartes and the actions of Richelieu should have met with great success. The system of Descartes exercised immense influence, and soon pervaded nearly every branch of knowledge.[248] The policy of Richelieu was so firmly established, that it was continued without the slightest difficulty by his immediate successor: nor was any attempt made to reverse it until that forcible and artificial reaction which, under Louis XIV., was fatal, for a time, to every sort of civil and religious liberty. The history of that reaction, and the way in which, by a counter-reaction, the French Revolution was prepared, will be related in the subsequent chapters of this volume; at present we will resume the thread of those events which took place in France before Louis XIV. assumed the government. [248] Volumes might be written on the influence of Descartes, which was seen, not only in subjects immediately connected with his philosophy, but even in those apparently remote from it. Compare _Broussais_, _Examen des Doctrines Médicales_, vol. ii. pp. 55 seq.; _Lettres de Patin_, vol. iii. p. 153; _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. iv. p. 238; _Cuvier_, _Hist. des Sciences_, part ii. pp. 327, 332, 352, 363; _Stäudlin_, _Geschichte der theologischen Wissenschaften_, vol. i. p. 263; _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. x. pp. 285 seq.; _Huetius de Rebus ad eum pertinentibus_, pp. 35, 295, 296, 385-389; _Mosheim's Eccles. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 258; _Dacier_, _Rapport Historique_, p. 334; _Leslie's Nat. Philos._ p. 121; _Eloges_, in _[OE]uvres de Fontenelle_, Paris, 1766, vol. v. pp. 94, 106, 137, 197, 234, 392, vol. vi. pp. 157, 318, 449; _Thomson's Hist. of Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 195; _Quérard_, _France Lit._ vol. iii. p. 273. A few months after the death of Richelieu, Louis XIII. also died, and the crown was inherited by Louis XIV., who was then a child, and who for many years had no influence in public affairs. During his minority, the government was administered, avowedly by his mother, but in reality by Mazarin: a man who, though in every point inferior to Richelieu, had imbibed something of his spirit, and who, so far as he was able, adopted the policy of that great statesman, to whom he owed his promotion.[249] He, influenced partly by the example of his predecessor, partly by his own character, and partly by the spirit of his age, showed no desire to persecute the Protestants, or to disturb them in any of the rights they then exercised.[250] His first act was to confirm the Edict of Nantes;[251] and, towards the close of his life, he even allowed the Protestants again to hold those synods which their own violence had been the means of interrupting.[252] Between the death of Richelieu and the accession to power of Louis XIV., there elapsed a period of nearly twenty years, during which Mazarin, with the exception of a few intervals, was at the head of the state; and in the whole of that time, I have found no instance of any Frenchman being punished for his religion. Indeed, the new government, so far from protecting the church by repressing heresy, displayed that indifference to ecclesiastical interests which was now becoming a settled maxim of French policy. Richelieu, as we have already seen, had taken the bold step of placing Protestants at the head of the royal armies; and this he had done upon the simple principle, that one of the first duties of a statesman is to employ for the benefit of the country the ablest men he can find, without regard to their theological opinions, with which, as he well knew, no government has any concern. But Louis XIII., whose personal feelings were always opposed to the enlightened measures of his great minister, was offended by this magnanimous disregard of ancient prejudices; his piety was shocked at the idea of Catholic soldiers being commanded by heretics; and, as we are assured by a well-informed contemporary, he determined to put an end to this scandal to the church, and, for the future, allow no Protestant to receive the staff of marshal of France.[253] Whether the king, if he had lived, would have carried his point, is doubtful;[254] but what is certain is, that, only four months after his death, this appointment of marshal was bestowed upon Turenne, the most able of all the Protestant generals.[255] And in the very next year, Gassion, another Protestant, was raised to the same dignity; thus affording the strange spectacle of the highest military power in a great Catholic country wielded by two men against whose religion the church was never weary of directing her anathemas.[256] In a similar spirit, Mazarin, on mere grounds of political expediency, concluded an intimate alliance with Cromwell; an usurper who, in the opinion of the theologians, was doomed to perdition, since he was soiled by the triple crime of rebellion, of heresy, and of regicide.[257] Finally, one of the last acts of this pupil of Richelieu's[258] was to sign the celebrated treaty of the Pyrenees, by which ecclesiastical interests were seriously weakened, and great injury inflicted on him who was still considered to be the head of the church.[259] [249] On the connexion between Richelieu and Mazarin, see _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiii. pp. 400, 530; and a curious, though perhaps apocryphal anecdote in _Tallemant des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. ii. pp. 231, 232. In 1636 there was noticed 'l'étroite union' between Richelieu and Mazarin. _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. viii. part ii. p. 187. [250] 'Mazarin n'avoit ni fanatisme ni esprit persécuteur,' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiv. p. 531. That he did not persecute the Protestants is grudgingly confessed in _Felice's Hist. of the Protestants of France_, p. 292. See also _Smedley's Reformed Religion in France_, vol. iii. p. 222. [251] He confirmed it in July, 1643. See _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. iii. appendix, p. 3; and _Quick's Synodicon in Gallia_, vol. i. p. ciii. [252] In 1659, there was assembled the Synod of Loudon, the moderator of which said, 'It is now fifteen years since we had a national synod.' _Quick's Synodicon in Gallia_, vol. ii. p. 517. [253] Brienne records the determination of the king, 'que cette dignité ne seroit plus accordée à des Protestans.' _Sismondi_, _Histoire des Français_, vol. xxiv. p. 65. [254] He was so uneasy about the sin he had committed, that before his death he intreated the Protestant marshals to change their creed: 'Il ne voulut pas mourir sans avoir exhorté de sa propre bouche les maréchaux de la Force et de Chatillon à se faire Catholiques.' _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. ii. p. 612. The same circumstance is mentioned by Le Vassor, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. x. part ii. p. 785. [255] Louis XIII. died in May 1643; and Turenne was made marshal in the September following. _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. pp. 148, 151. [256] Sismondi (_Hist. des Français_, vol. xxiv. p. 65) makes the appointment of Gassion in 1644; according to Montglat (_Mémoires_, vol. i. p. 437) it was at the end of 1643. There are some singular anecdotes of Gassion in _Les Historiettes de Tallemant des Réaux_, vol. v. pp. 167-180; and an account of his death in _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. ii. p. 290, from which it appears that he remained a Protestant to the last. [257] The Pope especially was offended by this alliance (_Ranke_, _die Päpste_, vol. iii. p. 158, compared with _Vaughan's Cromwell_, vol. i. p. 343, vol. ii. p. 124); and, judging from the language of Clarendon, the orthodox party in England was irritated by it. _Clarendon's Hist. of the Rebellion_, pp. 699, 700. Contemporary notices of this union between the cardinal and the regicide, will be found in _Mém. de Retz_, vol. i. p. 349; _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. ii. p. 478, vol. iii. p. 23; _Lettres de Patin_, vol. ii. pp. 183, 302, 426; _Marchand_, _Dict. Historique_, vol. ii. p. 56; _Mem. of Sir Philip Warwick_, p. 377; _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. iii. p. 393. [258] De Retz (_Mémoires_, vol. i. p. 59), who knew Richelieu, calls Mazarin 'son disciple.' And at p. 65 he adds, 'comme il marchoit sur les pas du cardinal de Richelieu, qui avoit achevé de détruire toutes les anciennes maximes de l'état.' Compare _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. ii. p. 18; and _Mém. de la Rochefoucauld_, vol. i. p. 444. [259] On the open affront to the Pope by this treaty, see _Ranke_, _die Päpste_, vol. iii. p. 159: 'An dem pyrenäischen Frieden nahm er auch nicht einmal mehr einen scheinbaren Antheil: man vermied es seine Abgeordneten zuzulassen: kaum wurde seiner noch darin gedacht.' The consequences and the meaning of all this are well noticed by M. Ranke. But, the circumstance for which the administration of Mazarin is most remarkable, is the breaking out of that great civil war called the Fronde, in which the people attempted to carry into politics the insubordinate spirit which had already displayed itself in literature and in religion. Here we cannot fail to note the similarity between this struggle and that which, at the same time, was taking place in England. It would, indeed, be far from accurate to say that the two events were the counterpart of each other; but there can be no doubt that the analogy between them is very striking. In both countries, the civil war was the first popular expression of what had hitherto been rather a speculative, and, so to say, a literary scepticism. In both countries, incredulity was followed by rebellion, and the abasement of the clergy preceded the humiliation of the crown; for Richelieu was to the French church what Elizabeth had been to the English church. In both countries there now first arose that great product of civilization, a free press, which showed its liberty by pouring forth those fearless and innumerable works which mark the activity of the age.[260] In both countries, the struggle was between retrogression and progress; between those who clung to tradition, and those who longed for innovation; while, in both, the contest assumed the external form of a war between king and parliament, the king being the organ of the past, the parliament the representative of the present. And, not to mention inferior similarities, there was one other point of vast importance in which these two great events coincide. This is, that both of them were eminently secular, and arose from the desire, not of propagating religious opinions, but of securing civil liberty. The temporal character of the English rebellion I have already noticed, and, indeed, it must be obvious to whoever has studied the evidence in its original sources. In France, not only do we find the same result, but we can even mark the stages of the progress. In the middle of the sixteenth century, and immediately after the death of Henry III., the French civil wars were caused by religious disputes, and were carried on with the fervour of a crusade. Early in the seventeenth century, hostilities again broke out; but though the efforts of the government were directed against the Protestants, this was not because they were heretics, but because they were rebels: the object being, not to punish an opinion, but to control a faction. This was the first great stage in the history of toleration; and it was accomplished, as we have already seen, during the reign of Louis XIII. That generation passing away, there arose, in the next age, the wars of the Fronde; and in this, which may be called the second stage of the French intellect, the alteration was still more remarkable. For, in the mean time, the principles of the great sceptical thinkers, from Montaigne to Descartes, had produced their natural fruit, and, becoming diffused among the educated classes, had influenced, as they always will do, not only those by whom they were received, but also those by whom they were rejected. Indeed, a mere knowledge of the fact, that the most eminent men have thrown doubt on the popular opinions of an age, can never fail, in some degree, to disturb the convictions even of those by whom the doubts are ridiculed.[261] In such cases, none are entirely safe: the firmest belief is apt to become slightly unsettled; those who outwardly preserve the appearance of orthodoxy, often unconsciously waver; they cannot entirely resist the influence of superior minds, nor can they always avoid an unwelcome suspicion, that when ability is on one side, and ignorance on the other, it is barely possible that the ability may be right, and the ignorance may be wrong. [260] 'La presse jouissait d'une entière liberté pendant les troubles de la Fronde, et le public prenait un tel intérêt aux débats politiques, que les pamphlets se débitaient quelquefois au nombre de huit et dix mille exemplaires.' _Sainte-Aulaire_, _Hist. de la Fronde_, vol. i. p. 299. Tallemant des Réaux, who wrote immediately after the Fronde, says (_Historiettes_, vol. iv. p. 74), 'Durant la Fronde, qu'on imprimoit tout.' And Omer Talon, with the indignation natural to a magistrate, mentions, that in 1649, 'toutes sortes de libelles et de diffamations se publioient hautement par la ville sans permission du magistrat.' _Mém. d'Omer Talon_, vol. ii. p. 466. For further evidence of the great importance of the press in France in the middle of the seventeenth century, see _Mém. de Lenet_, vol. i. p. 162; _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. iii. pp. 288, 289; _Lettres de Patin_, vol. i. p. 432, vol. ii. p. 517; _Monteil_, _Hist. des divers Etats_, vol. vii. p. 175. In England, the Long Parliament succeeded to the licensing authority of the Star-chamber (_Blackstone's Commentaries_, vol. iv. p. 152); but it is evident from the literature of that time, that for a considerable period the power was in reality in abeyance. Both parties attacked each other freely through the press; and it is said that between the breaking out of the civil war and the restoration, there were published from 30,000 to 50,000 pamphlets. _Morgan's Ph[oe]nix Britannicus_, 1731, 4to. pp. iii. 557; _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. i. p. 4; _Southey's Commonplace Book_, third series, p. 449. See also on this great movement of the press, _Bates's Account of the Late Troubles_, part i. p. 78; _Bulstrode's Memoirs_, p. 4; _Howell's Letters_, p. 354; _Hunt's Hist. of Newspapers_, vol. i. p. 45; _Clarendon's Hist. of the Rebellion_, p. 81; _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. iv. pp. 86, 102. [261] Dugald Stewart (_Philos. of the Mind_, vol. i. p. 357) says, 'Nothing can be more just than the observation of Fontenelle, that "the number of those who believe in a system already established in the world, does not, in the least, add to its credibility; but that the number of those who doubt of it, has a tendency to diminish it."' Compare with this _Newman on Development_, Lond. 1845, p. 31; and the remark of Hylas in _Berkeley's Works_, edit. 1843, vol. i. pp. 151, 152, first dialogue. Thus it fell out in France. In that country, as in every other, when theological convictions diminished, theological animosities subsided. Formerly religion had been the cause of war, and had also been the pretext under which it was conducted. Then there came a time when it ceased to be the cause: but so slow is the progress of society, that it was still found necessary to set it up as the pretext.[262] Finally, there came the great days of the Fronde, in which it was neither cause nor pretext,[263] and in which there was seen, for the first time in France, an arduous struggle by human beings avowedly for human purposes: a war waged by men who sought, not to enforce their opinions, but to increase their liberty. And, as if to make this change still more striking, the most eminent leader of the insurgents was the Cardinal de Retz; a man of vast ability, but whose contempt for his profession was notorious,[264] and of whom a great historian has said, 'he is the first bishop in France who carried on a civil war without making religion the pretence.'[265] [262] Compare _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 293, with a remarkable passage in _Mém. de Rohan_, vol. i. p. 317; where Rohan contrasts the religious wars he was engaged in during the administration of Richelieu, with those very different wars which had been waged in France a little earlier. [263] 'L'esprit religieux ne s'était mêlé en aucune manière aux querelles de la Fronde.' _Capefigue_, vol. ii. p. 434. Lenet, who had great influence with what was called the party of the princes, says that he always avoided any attempt 'à faire aboutir notre parti à une guerre de religion.' _Mém. de Lenet_, vol. i. p. 619. Even the people said that it was unimportant whether or not a man died a Protestant; but that if he were a partizan of Mazarin he was sure to be damned: 'Ils disoient qu'étant mazarin, il falloit qu'il fût damné.' _Lenet_, vol. i. p. 434. [264] Indeed he does not conceal this even in his memoirs. He says (_Mém._ vol. i. p. 3), he had 'l'âme peut-être la moins ecclésiastique qui fût dans l'univers.' At p. 13, 'le chagrin que ma profession ne laissoit pas de nourrir toujours dans le fonds de mon âme.' At p. 21, 'je haïssois ma profession plus que jamais.' At p. 48, 'le clergé, qui donne toujours l'exemple de la servitude, la prêchoit aux autres sous le titre d'obéissance.' See also the remark of his great friend Joly (_Mém. de Joly_, p. 209, edit. Petitot, 1825); and the account given by Tallemant des Réaux, who knew De Retz well, and had travelled with him, _Historiettes_, vol. vii. pp. 18-30. The same tendency is illustrated, though in a much smaller degree, by a conversation which Charles II., when in exile, held with De Retz, and which is preserved in _Clarendon's Hist. of the Rebellion_, p. 806, and is worth consulting merely as an instance of the purely secular view that De Retz always took of political affairs. [265] 'Cet homme singulier est le premier évêque en France qui ait fait une guerre civile sans avoir la religion pour prétexte.' _Siècle de Louis XIV_, in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xix. p. 261. We have thus seen that, during the seventy years which succeeded the accession of Henry IV., the French intellect developed itself in a manner remarkably similar to that which took place in England. We have seen that, in both countries, the mind, according to the natural conditions of its growth, first doubted what it had long believed, and then tolerated what it had long hated. That this was by no means an accidental or capricious combination, is evident, not only from general arguments, and from the analogy of the two countries, but also from another circumstance of great interest. This is, that the order of events, and as it were their relative proportions, were the same, not only in reference to the increase of toleration, but also in reference to the increase of literature and science. In both countries, the progress of knowledge bore the same ratio to the decline of ecclesiastical influence, although they manifested that ratio at different periods. We had begun to throw off our superstitions somewhat earlier than the French were able to do; and thus, being the first in the field, we anticipated that great people in producing a secular literature. Whoever will take the pains to compare the growth of the French and English minds, will see that, in all the most important departments, we were the first, I do not say in merit, but in the order of time. In prose, in poetry, and in every branch of intellectual excellence, it will be found, on comparison, that we were before the French nearly a whole generation; and that, chronologically, the same proportion was preserved as that between Bacon and Descartes, Hooker and Pascal,[266] Shakespeare and Corneille, Massinger and Racine, Ben Jonson and Molière, Harvey and Pecquet. These eminent men were all justly celebrated in their respective countries; and it would perhaps be invidious to institute a comparison between them. But what we have here to observe is, that among those who cultivated the same department, the greatest Englishman, in every instance, preceded the greatest Frenchman by many years. The difference, running as it does, through all the leading topics, is far too regular to be considered accidental. And as few Englishmen of the present day will be so presumptuous as to suppose that we possess any native and inherent superiority over the French, it is evident that there must be some marked peculiarity in which the two countries differed, and which has produced this difference, not in their knowledge, but in the time at which their knowledge appeared. Nor does the discovery of this peculiarity require much penetration. For, notwithstanding that the French were more tardy than the English, still, when the development had fairly begun, the antecedents of its success were among both people precisely the same. It is, therefore, clear, according to the commonest principles of inductive reasoning, that the lateness of the development must be owing to the lateness of the antecedent. It is clear that the French knew less because they believed more.[267] It is clear that their progress was checked by the prevalence of those feelings which are fatal to all knowledge, because, looking on antiquity as the sole receptacle of wisdom, they degrade the present in order that they may exaggerate the past: feelings which destroy the prospects of man, stifle his hopes, damp his curiosity, chill his energies, impair his judgment, and, under pretence of humbling the pride of his reason, seek to throw him back into that more than midnight darkness from which his reason alone has enabled him to emerge. [266] Hooker and Pascal may properly be classed together, as the two most sublime theological writers either country has produced; for Bossuet is as inferior to Pascal as Jeremy Taylor is inferior to Hooker. [267] One of the most remarkable men they have ever possessed notices this connexion, which he expresses conversely, but with equal truth: 'moins on sait, moins on doute; moins on a découvert, moins on voit ce qui reste à découvrir.... Quand les hommes sont ignorans, il est aisé de tout savoir.' _Discours en Sorbonne_, in _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. ii. pp. 65, 70. The analogy thus existing between France and England, is, indeed, very striking, and, so far as we have yet considered it, seems complete in all its parts. To sum up the similarities in a few words, it may be said, that both countries followed the same order of development in their scepticism, in their knowledge, in their literature, and in their toleration. In both countries, there broke out a civil war at the same time, for the same object, and, in many respects, under the same circumstances. In both, the insurgents, at first triumphant, were afterwards defeated; and the rebellion being put down, the governments of the two nations were fully restored almost at the same moment: in 1660 by Charles II.; in 1661, by Louis XIV.[268] But there the similarity stopped. At this point there began a marked divergence between the two countries;[269] which continued to increase for more than a century, until it ended in England by the consolidation of the national prosperity, in France by a revolution more sanguinary, more complete, and more destructive, than any the world has ever seen. This difference between the fortunes of such great and civilized nations is so remarkable, that a knowledge of its causes becomes essential to a right understanding of European history, and will be found to throw considerable light on other events not immediately connected with it. Besides this, such an inquiry, independently of its scientific interest, will have a high practical value. It will show, what men seem only recently to have begun to understand, that, in politics, no certain principles having yet been discovered, the first conditions of success are compromise, barter, expediency, and concession. It will show the utter helplessness even of the ablest rulers, when they try to meet new emergencies by old maxims. It will show the intimate connexion between knowledge and liberty; between an increasing civilization and an advancing democracy. It will show that, for a progressive nation, there is required a progressive polity; that within certain limits, innovation is the sole ground of security; that no institution can withstand the flux and movements of society, unless it not only repairs its structure, but also widens its entrance; and that, even in a material point of view, no country can long remain either prosperous or safe, in which the people are not gradually extending their power, enlarging their privileges, and, so to say, incorporating themselves with the functions of the state. [268] Mazarin, until his death in 1661, exercised complete authority over Louis. See _Siècle de Louis XIV_, in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xix. pp. 318, 319; and _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. p. 195; so that, as Montglat says (_Mém._ vol. iii. p. 111), 'On doit appeler ce temps-là le commencement du règne de Louis XIV.' The pompous manner in which, directly after the death of Mazarin, the king assumed the government, is related by Brienne, who was present. _Mém. de Brienne_, vol. ii. pp. 154-158. [269] By this I mean, that the divergence now first became clear to every observer; but the origin of the divergence dates from a much earlier period, as we shall see in the next chapter. The tranquillity of England, and her freedom from civil war, are to be ascribed to the recognition of these great truths;[270] while the neglect of them has entailed upon other countries the most woful calamities. On this account, therefore, if on no other, it becomes interesting to ascertain how it was that the two nations we have been comparing should, in regard to these truths, have adopted views diametrically opposite, although, in other matters, their opinions, as we have already seen, were very similar. Or, to state the question in other words, we have to inquire how it was that the French, after pursuing precisely the same course as the English, in their knowledge, in their scepticism, and in their toleration, should have stopped short in their politics; how it was that their minds, which had effected such great things, should, nevertheless, have been so unprepared for liberty, that, in spite of the heroic efforts of the Fronde, they not only fell under the despotism of Louis XIV., but never cared to resist it; and, at length, becoming slaves in their souls as well as in their bodies, they grew proud of a condition which the meanest Englishman would have spurned as an intolerable bondage. [270] That is to say, their practical recognition; theoretically, they are still denied by innumerable politicians, who, nevertheless, assist in carrying them into effect, fondly hoping that each innovation will be the last, and enticing men into reform under the pretext that by each change they are returning to the spirit of the ancient British constitution. The cause of this difference is to be sought in the existence of that spirit of protection which is so dangerous and yet so plausible, that it forms the most serious obstacle with which advancing civilization has to contend. This, which may truly be called an evil spirit, has always been far stronger in France than in England. Indeed, among the French, it continues, even to the present day, to produce the most mischievous results. It is, as I shall hereafter point out, intimately connected with that love of centralization which appears in the machinery of their government, and in the spirit of their literature. It is this which induces them to retain restrictions by which their trade has long been troubled, and to preserve monopolies which, in our country, a freer system has effectually destroyed. It is this which causes them to interfere with the natural relation between producers and consumers; to force into existence manufactures which otherwise would never arise, and which, for that very reason, are not required; to disturb the ordinary march of industry, and, under pretence of protecting their native labourers, diminish the produce of labour by diverting it from those profitable channels into which its own instincts always compel it to flow. When the protective principle is carried into trade, these are its inevitable results. When it is carried into politics, there is formed what is called a paternal government, in which supreme power is vested in the sovereign, or in a few privileged classes. When it is carried into theology, it produces a powerful church, and a numerous clergy, who are supposed to be the necessary guardians of religion, and every opposition to whom is resented as an insult to the public morals. These are the marks by which protection may be recognized; and from a very early period they have displayed themselves in France much more clearly than in England. Without pretending to discover their precise origin, I will, in the next chapter, endeavour to trace them back to a time sufficiently remote to explain some of the discrepancies which, in this respect existed between the two countries. * * * * * _Note to p. 93._ Descartes died in Sweden on a visit to Christina; so that, strictly speaking, there is an error in the text. But this does not affect the argument; because the works of Descartes, being eagerly read in France, and not being prohibited, we must suppose that his person would have been safe, had he remained in his own country. To burn a heretic is a more decisive step than to suppress a book; and as the French clergy were not strong enough to effect the latter, it is hardly likely that they could have accomplished the former. CHAPTER II. HISTORY OF THE PROTECTIVE SPIRIT, AND COMPARISON OF IT IN FRANCE AND ENGLAND. When, towards the end of the fifth century, the Roman empire was broken up, there followed, as is well known, a long period of ignorance and of crime, in which even the ablest minds were immersed in the grossest superstitions. During these, which are rightly called the Dark Ages, the clergy were supreme: they ruled the consciences of the most despotic sovereigns, and they were respected as men of vast learning, because they alone were able to read and write; because they were the sole depositaries of those idle conceits of which European science then consisted; and because they preserved the legends of the saints and the lives of the fathers, from which, as it was believed, the teachings of divine wisdom might easily be gathered. Such was the degradation of the European intellect for about five hundred years, during which the credulity of men reached a height unparalleled in the annals of ignorance. But at length the human reason, that divine spark which even the most corrupt society is unable to extinguish, began to display its power, and disperse the mists by which it was surrounded. Various circumstances, which it would be tedious here to discuss, caused this dispersion to take place at different times in different countries. However, speaking generally, we may say that it occurred in the tenth and eleventh centuries, and that by the twelfth century there was no nation now called civilized, upon whom the light had not begun to dawn. It is from this point that the first great divergence between the European nations took its rise. Before this time their superstition was so great and universal, that it would avail little to measure the degree of their relative darkness. Indeed, so low had they fallen, that, during the earlier period, the authority of the clergy was in many respects an advantage, as forming a barrier between the people and their rulers, and as supplying the sole instance of a class that even made an approach to intellectual pursuits. But when the great movement took place, when the human reason began to rebel, the position of the clergy was suddenly changed. They had been friendly to reasoning as long as the reasoning was on their side.[271] While they were the only guardians of knowledge, they were eager to promote its interests. Now, however, it was falling from their hands: it was becoming possessed by laymen: it was growing dangerous: it must be reduced to its proper dimensions. Then it was that there first became general the inquisitions, the imprisonments, the torturings, the burnings, and all the other contrivances by which the church vainly endeavoured to stem the tide that had turned against her.[272] From that moment there has been an unceasing struggle between these two great parties,--the advocates of inquiry, and the advocates of belief: a struggle which, however it may be disguised, and under whatever forms it may appear, is at bottom always the same, and represents the opposite interests of reason and faith, of scepticism and credulity, of progress and reaction, of those who hope for the future, and of those who cling to the past. [271] 'Toute influence qu'on accordait à la science ne pouvait, dans les premiers temps, qu'être favorable au clergé.' _Meyer_, _Institut. Judic._ vol. i. p. 498. [272] Early in the eleventh century the clergy first began systematically to repress independent inquiries by punishing men who attempted to think for themselves. Compare _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iv. pp. 145, 146; _Neander's Hist. of the Church_, vol. vi. pp. 365, 366; _Prescott's Hist. of Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. i. p. 261 note. Before this, such a policy, as Sismondi justly observes, was not required: 'Pendant plusieurs siècles, l'église n'avoit été troublée par aucune hérésie; l'ignorance étoit trop complète la soumission trop servile, la foi trop aveugle, pour que les questions qui avoient si long-temps exercé la subtilité des Grecs fussent seulement comprises par les Latins.' As knowledge advanced, the opposition between inquiry and belief became more marked: the church redoubled her efforts, and at the end of the twelfth century the popes first formally called on the secular power to punish heretics; and the earliest constitution addressed 'inquisitoribus hæreticæ pravitatis' is one by Alexander IV. _Meyer_, _Inst. Jud._ vol. ii. pp. 554, 556. See also on this movement, _Llorente_, _Hist. de l'Inquisition_, vol. i. p. 125, vol. iv. p. 284. In 1222 a synod assembled at Oxford caused an apostate to be burned; and this, says Lingard (_Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 148), 'is, I believe, the first instance of capital punishment in England on the ground of religion.' Compare _Wright's Biog. Brit. Lit._ vol. ii. p. 444. This, then, is the great starting point of modern civilization. From the moment that reason began, however faintly, to assert its supremacy, the improvement of every people has depended upon their obedience to its dictates, and upon the success with which they have reduced to its standard the whole of their actions. To understand, therefore, the original divergence of France and England, we must seek it in the circumstances that took place when this, which may be called the great rebellion of the intellect, was first clearly seen. If now, with a view to such inquiry, we examine the history of Europe, we shall find that just at this period there sprung up the feudal system: a vast scheme of polity, which, clumsy and imperfect as it was, supplied many of the wants of the rude people among whom it arose.[273] The connexion between it and the decline of the ecclesiastical spirit is very obvious. For the feudal system was the first great secular plan that had been seen in Europe since the formation of the civil law: it was the first comprehensive attempt which had been made, during more than four hundred years, to organize society according to temporal, not according to spiritual circumstances, the basis of the whole arrangement being merely the possession of land, and the performance of certain military and pecuniary services.[274] [273] Sir F. Palgrave (_English Commonwealth_, vol. ii. p. ccvi.) says, 'it is generally admitted, by the best authorities, that from about the eleventh century benefices acquired the name of fiefs or feuds;' and Robertson (_State of Europe_, note viii. in _Works_, p. 393) supposes that the word _feudum_ does not occur before 1008. But according to M. Guizot (_Civilisation en France_, vol. iii. p. 238), 'il apparaît, pour la première fois, dans une charte de Charles le Gros en 884.' This is a question more curious than important; since whatever the origin of the word may be, it is certain that the thing did not, and could not, exist before the tenth century at the earliest: inasmuch as the extreme disorganisation of society rendered so coercive an institution impossible. M. Guizot, in another work (_Essais sur l'Hist. de France_, p. 239), rightly says, 'Au X^e siècle seulement, les rapports et les pouvoirs sociaux acquirent quelque fixité.' See also his _Civilisation en Europe_, p. 90. [274] 'La terre est tout dans ce système.... Le système féodal est comme une religion de la terre.' _Origines du Droit_, in _[OE]uvres de Michelet_, vol. ii. p. 302. 'Le caractère de la féodalité, c'était la prédominance de la _réalité_ sur la _personnalité_, de la terre sur l'homme.' _Eschbach_, _Etude du Droit_, p. 256. This was, no doubt, a great step in European civilization, because it set the first example of a large public polity in which the spiritual classes as such had no recognized place;[275] and hence there followed that struggle between feudality and the church, which has been observed by several writers, but the origin of which has been strangely overlooked. What, however, we have now to notice is, that by the establishment of the feudal system, the spirit of protection, far from being destroyed, was probably not even weakened, but only assumed a new form. Instead of being spiritual, it became temporal. Instead of men looking up to the church, they looked up to the nobles. For, as a necessary consequence of this vast movement, or rather as a part of it, the great possessors of land were now being organized into an hereditary aristocracy.[276] In the tenth century, we find the first surnames:[277] by the eleventh century most of the great offices had become hereditary in the leading families:[278] and in the twelfth century armorial bearings were invented, as well as other heraldic devices, which long nourished the conceit of the nobles, and were valued by their descendants as marks of that superiority of birth to which, during many ages, all other superiority was considered subordinate.[279] [275] According to the social and political arrangements from the fourth to the tenth century, the clergy were so eminently a class apart, that they were freed from 'burdens of the state,' and were not obliged to engage in military services unless they thought proper to do so. See _Neander's Hist. of the Church_, vol. iii. p. 195, vol. v. pp. 133, 140; and _Petrie's Ecclesiast. Archit._ p. 382. But under the feudal system this immunity was lost; and in regard to performing services no separation of classes was admitted. 'After the feudal polity became established, we do not find that there was any dispensation for ecclesiastical fiefs.' _Hallam's Supplemental Notes_, p. 120; and for further proof of the loss of the old privileges, compare _Grose's Military Antiquities_, vol. i. pp. 5, 64; _Meyer_, _Instit. Judic._ vol. i. p. 257; _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. iv. p. 462; and _Mably's Observations_, vol. i. pp. 434, 435: so that, as this writer says, p. 215, 'Chaque seigneur laïc avait gagné personnellement à la révolution qui forma le gouvernement féodal; mais les évêques et les abbés, en devenant souverains dans leurs terres, perdirent au contraire beaucoup de leur pouvoir et de leur dignité.' [276] The great change of turning life-possessions of land into hereditary possessions, began late in the ninth century, being initiated in France by a capitulary of Charles the Bald, in 877. See _Allen on the Prerogative_, p. 210; _Spence's Origin of the Laws of Europe_, pp. 282, 301; _Meyer_, _Instit. Judiciaires_, vol. i. p. 206. [277] That surnames first arose in the tenth century is stated by the most competent authorities. See _Sismondi_, _Hist. de Français_, vol. iii. pp. 452-455; _Hallam's Middle Ages_, vol. i. p. 138; _Monteil_, _Hist. des divers Etats_, vol. iii. p. 268; _Petrie's Ecclesiast. Archit._ pp. 277, 342. Koch (_Tableau des Révolutions_, vol. i. p. 138) erroneously says, 'c'est pareillement aux croisades que l'Europe doit l'usage des surnoms de famille;' a double mistake, both as to the date and the cause, since the introduction of surnames being part of a large social movement, can under no circumstances be ascribed to a single event. [278] On this process from the end of the ninth to the twelfth century, compare _Hallam's Supplemental Notes_, pp. 97, 98; _Dalrymple's Hist. of Feudal Property_, p. 21; _Klimrath_, _Hist. du Droit_, vol. i. p. 74. [279] As to the origin of armorial bearings, which cannot be traced higher than the twelfth century, see _Hallam's Middle Ages_, vol. i. pp. 138, 139; _Ledwich_, _Antiquities of Ireland_, pp. 231, 232; _Origines du Droit_, in _[OE]uvres de Michelet_, vol. ii. p. 382. Such was the beginning of the European aristocracy, in the sense in which that word is commonly used. With the consolidation of its power, feudality was made, in reference to the organization of society, the successor of the church;[280] and the nobles, becoming hereditary, gradually displaced in government, and in the general functions of authority, the clergy, among whom the opposite principle of celibacy was now firmly established.[281] It is, therefore, evident, that an inquiry into the origin of the modern protective spirit does, in a great measure, resolve itself into an inquiry into the origin of the aristocratic power; since that power was the exponent, and, as it were, the cover under which the spirit displayed itself. This, as we shall hereafter see, is likewise connected with the great religious rebellion of the sixteenth century; the success of which mainly depended on the weakness of the protective principle that opposed it. But, reserving this for future consideration, I will now endeavour to trace a few of the circumstances which gave the aristocracy more power in France than in England, and thus accustomed the French to a closer and more constant obedience, and infused into them a more reverential spirit than that which was usual in our country. [280] For, as Lerminia says (_Philos. du Droit_, vol. i. p. 17), 'la loi féodale n'est autre chose que la terre élevée à la souveraineté.' On the decline of the church in consequence of the increased feudal and secular spirit, see _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. p. 440, vol. iv. p. 88. In our own country, one fact may be mentioned illustrative of the earliest encroachments of laymen: namely, that, before the twelfth century, we find no instance in England of the great seal being entrusted 'to the keeping of a layman.' _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. i. p. 61. [281] Celibacy, on account of its supposed ascetic tendency, was advocated and in some countries was enforced, at an early period; but the first general and decisive movement in its favour was in the middle of the eleventh century, before which time it was a speculative doctrine, constantly disobeyed. See _Neander's Hist. of the Church_, vol. vi. pp. 52, 61, 62, 72, 93, 94 note, vol. vii. pp. 127-131; _Mosheim's Eccles. Hist._ vol. i. pp. 248, 249; _Eccleston's English Antiq._ p. 95. Soon after the middle of the eleventh century, and therefore while the aristocracy was in the process of formation, England was conquered by the Duke of Normandy, who naturally introduced the polity existing in his own country.[282] But, in his hands, it underwent a modification suitable to the new circumstances in which he was placed. He, being in a foreign country, the general of a successful army composed partly of mercenaries,[283] was able to dispense with some of those feudal usages which were customary in France. The great Norman lords, thrown as strangers into the midst of a hostile population, were glad to accept estates from the crown on almost any terms that would guarantee their own security. Of this, William naturally availed himself. For, by granting baronies on conditions favourable to the crown, he prevented the barons[284] from possessing that power which they exercised in France, and which, but for this, they would have exercised in England. The result was, that the most powerful of our nobles became amenable to the law, or, at all events, to the authority of the king.[285] Indeed, to such an extent was this carried, that William, shortly before his death, obliged all the landowners to render their fealty to him; thus entirely neglecting that peculiarity of feudalism, according to which each vassal was separately dependent on his own lord.[286] [282] Where it was particularly flourishing: 'la féodalité fut organisée en Normandie plus fortement et plus systématiquement que partout ailleurs en France.' _Klimrath_, _Travaux sur l'Hist. du Droit_, vol. i. p. 130. The 'coutume de Normandie' was, at a much later period, only to be found in the old 'grand coutumier.' _Klimrath_, vol. ii. p. 160. On the peculiar tenacity with which the Normans clung to it, see _Lettres d'Aguesseau_, vol. ii. pp. 225, 226: 'accoutumés à respecter leur coutume comme l'évangile.' [283] _Mills' Hist. of Chivalry_, vol. i. p. 387; _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. ii. p. 390, vol. iv. p. 76. Mercenary troops were also employed by his immediate successors. _Grose's Military Antiq._ vol. i. p. 55. [284] On the different meanings attached to the word 'baron,' compare _Klimrath_, _Hist. du Droit_, vol. ii. p. 40, with _Meyer_, _Instit. Judiciaires_, vol. i. p. 105. But M. Guizot says, what seems most likely, 'il est probable que ce nom fut commun originairement à tous les vassaux immédiats de la couronne, liés au roi _per servitium militare_, par le service de chevalier.' _Essais_, p. 265. [285] _Meyer_, _Instit. Judic._ vol. i. p. 242; _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. iii. p. 220. The same policy of reducing the nobles was followed up by Henry II., who destroyed the baronial castles. _Turner_, vol. iv. p. 223. Compare _Lingard_, vol. i. pp. 315, 371. [286] 'Deinde c[oe]pit homagia hominum totius Angliæ, et juramentum fidelitatis cujuscumque essent feodi vel tenementi.' _Matthæi Westmonast. Flores Historiarum_, vol. ii. p. 9. But in France, the course of affairs was very different. In that country the great nobles held their lands, not so much by grant, as by prescription.[287] A character of antiquity was thus thrown over their rights; which, when added to the weakness of the crown, enabled them to exercise on their own estates, all the functions of independent sovereigns.[288] Even when they received their first great check, under Philip Augustus,[289] they, in his reign, and indeed long after, wielded a power quite unknown in England. Thus, to give only two instances: the right of coining money, which has always been regarded as an attribute of sovereignty, was never allowed in England, even to the greatest nobles.[290] But in France it was exercised by many persons independently of the crown, and was not abrogated until the sixteenth century.[291] A similar remark holds good of what was called the right of private war; by virtue of which the nobles were allowed to attack each other, and disturb the peace of the country with the prosecution of their private feuds. In England the aristocracy were never strong enough to have this admitted as a right,[292] though they too often exercised it as a practice. But in France it became a part of the established law; it was incorporated into the text-books of feudalism, and it is distinctly recognized by Louis IX. and Philip the Fair,--two kings of considerable energy, who did every thing in their power to curtail the enormous authority of the nobles.[293] [287] See some good remarks on this difference between the French and English nobles, in _Hallam's Middle Ages_, vol. ii. pp. 99, 100. Mably (_Observations_, vol. i. p. 60) says: 'en effet, on négligea, sur la fin de la première race, de conserver les titres primordiaux de ses possessions.' As to the old customary French law of prescription, see _Giraud_, _Précis de l'Ancien Droit_, pp. 79, 80. [288] _Mably_, _Observations sur l'Hist. de France_, vol. i. pp. 70, 162, 178. [289] On the policy of Philip Augustus in regard to the nobles, see _Mably_, _Observations_, vol. i. p. 246; _Lerminier_, _Philos. du Droit_, vol. i. p. 265; _Boulainvilliers_, _Hist. de l'Ancien Gouvernement_, vol. iii. pp. 147-150; _Guizot_, _Civilisation en France_, vol. iv. pp. 134, 135; _Courson_, _Hist. des Peuples Brétons_, Paris, 1846, vol. ii. p. 350. [290] 'No subjects ever enjoyed the right of coining silver in England without the royal stamp and superintendence; a remarkable proof of the restraint in which the feudal aristocracy was always held in this country.' _Hallam's Middle Ages_, vol. i. p. 154. [291] _Brougham's Polit. Philos._ 1849, vol. i. p. 446. In addition to the evidence there given on the right of coinage, see _Mably's Observations_, vol. i. p. 424, vol. ii. pp. 296, 297; and _Turner's Normandy_, vol. ii. p. 261. [292] _Hallam's Supplemental Notes_, pp. 304, 305. [293] 'Saint-Louis consacra le droit de guerre.... Philippe le Bel, qui voulut l'abolir, finit par le rétablir.' _Montlosier_, _Monarchie Française_, vol. i. pp. 127, 202: see also pp. 434, 435, and vol. ii. pp. 435, 436. Mably (_Observations_, vol. ii. p. 338) mentions 'lettres-patentes de Philippe-de-Valois du 8 février 1330, pour permettre dans le duché d'Aquitaine les guerres privées,' &c.; and he adds, 'le 9 avril 1353 le roi Jean renouvelle l'ordonnance de S. Louis, nommée la quarantaine du roi, touchant les guerres privées.' Out of this difference between the aristocratic power of France and England, there followed many consequences of great importance. In our country the nobles, being too feeble to contend with the crown, were compelled, in self-defence, to ally themselves with the people.[294] About a hundred years after the Conquest, the Normans and Saxons amalgamated; and both parties united against the king in order to uphold their common rights.[295] The Magna Charta, which John was forced to yield contained concessions to the aristocracy; but its most important stipulations were those in favour of 'all classes of freemen.'[296] Within half a century, fresh contests broke out; the barons were again associated with the people, and again there followed the same results,--the extension of popular privileges being each time the condition and the consequence of this singular alliance. In the same way, when the Earl of Leicester raised a rebellion against Henry III., he found his own party too weak to make head against the crown. He, therefore, applied to the people:[297] and it is to him that our House of Commons owes its origin; since he, in 1264, set the first example of issuing writs to cities and boroughs; thus calling upon citizens and burgesses to take their place in what had hitherto been a parliament composed entirely of priests and nobles.[298] [294] Sir Francis Palgrave (in his _Rise and Progress of the English Commonwealth_, vol. i. pp. 51-55) has attempted to estimate the results produced by the Norman Conquest; but he omits to notice this, which was the most important consequence of all. [295] On this political union between Norman barons and Saxon citizens, of which the first clear indication is at the end of the twelfth century, compare _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. i. p. 113, with _Brougham's Polit. Philos._ vol. i. p. 339, vol. iii. p. 222. In regard to the general question of the amalgamation of races, we have three distinct kinds of evidence: 1st. Towards the end of the twelfth century, a new language began to be formed by blending Norman with Saxon; and English literature, properly so called, dates from the commencement of the thirteenth century. Compare _Madden's Preface to Layamon_, 1847, vol. i. pp. xx. xxi., with _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. viii. pp. 214, 217, 436, 437. 2nd. We have the specific statement of a writer in the reign of Henry II., that 'sic permixtæ sunt nationes ut vix discerni possit hodie, de liberis loquor, quis Anglicus, quis Normannus sit genere.' _Note in Hallam's Middle Ages_, vol. ii. p. 106. 3rd. Before the thirteenth century had passed away, the difference of dress, which in that state of society would survive many other differences, was no longer observed, and the distinctive peculiarities of Norman and Saxon attire had disappeared. See _Strutt's View of the Dress and Habits of the People of England_, vol. ii. p. 67, edit. Planché, 1842, 4to. [296] 'An equal distribution of civil rights to all classes of freemen forms the peculiar beauty of the charter.' _Hallam's Middle Ages_, vol. ii. p. 108. This is very finely noticed in one of Lord Chatham's great speeches. _Parl. Hist._ vol. xvi. p. 662. [297] Compare _Meyer_, _Instit. Judic._ vol. ii. p. 39, with _Lingard's England_, vol. ii. p. 127, and _Somers Tracts_, vol. vi. p. 92. [298] 'He is to be honoured as the founder of a representative system of government in this country.' _Campbell's Chief-Justices_, vol. i. p. 61. Some writers (see, for instance, _Dalrymple's Hist. of Feudal Property_, p. 332) suppose that burgesses were summoned before the reign of Henry III.: but this assertion is not only unsupported by evidence, but is in itself improbable; because at an early period the citizens, though rapidly increasing in power, were hardly important enough to warrant such a step being taken. The best authorities are now agreed to refer the origin of the House of Commons to the period mentioned in the text. See _Hallam's Supplement_, _Notes_, pp. 335-339; _Spence's Origin of the Laws of Europe_, p. 512; _Campbell's Chancellors_, vol. i. p. 155; _Lingard's England_, vol. ii. p. 138; _Guizot's Essais_, p. 319. The notion of tracing this to the wittenagemot is as absurd as finding the origin of juries in the system of compurgators; both of which were favourite errors in the seventeenth, and even in the eighteenth century. In regard to the wittenagemot, this idea still lingers among antiquaries: but, in regard to compurgators, even they have abandoned their old ground, and it is now well understood that trial by jury did not exist till long after the Conquest. Compare _Palgrave's English Commonwealth_, part i. pp. 243 seq., with _Meyer_, _Instit. Judic._ vol. ii. pp. 152-173. There are few things in our history so irrational as the admiration expressed by a certain class of writers for the institutions of our barbarous Anglo-Saxon ancestors. The English aristocracy being thus forced, by their own weakness, to rely on the people,[299] it naturally followed, that the people imbibed that tone of independence, and that lofty bearing, of which our civil and political institutions are the consequence, rather than the cause. It is to this, and not to any fanciful peculiarity of race, that we owe the sturdy and enterprising spirit for which the inhabitants of this island have long been remarkable. It is this which has enabled us to baffle all the arts of oppression, and to maintain for centuries liberties which no other nation has ever possessed. And it is this which has fostered and upheld those great municipal privileges, which, whatever be their faults, have, at least, the invaluable merit of accustoming free men to the exercise of power, giving to citizens the management of their own city, and perpetuating the idea of independence, by preserving it in a living type, and by enlisting in its support the interests and affections of individual men. [299] Montlosier, with the fine spirit of a French noble, taunts the English aristocracy with this: 'En France la noblesse, attaquée sans cesse, s'est défendue sans cesse. Elle a subi l'oppression; elle ne l'a point acceptée. En Angleterre, elle a couru dès la première commotion, se réfugier dans les rangs des bourgeois, et sous leur protection. Elle a abdiqué ainsi son existence.' _Montlosier_, _Monarchie Française_, vol. iii. p. 162. Compare an instructive passage in _De Staël_, _Consid. sur la Révolution_, vol. i. p. 421. But the habits of self-government which, under these circumstances, were cultivated in England, were, under opposite circumstances, neglected in France. The great French lords being too powerful to need the people, were unwilling to seek their alliance.[300] The result was, that, amid a great variety of forms and names, society was, in reality, only divided into two classes--the upper and the lower, the protectors and the protected. And, looking at the ferocity of the prevailing manners, it is not too much to say, that in France, under the feudal system, every man was either a tyrant or a slave. Indeed, in most instances, the two characters were combined in the same person. For, the practice of subinfeudation, which in our country was actively checked, became in France almost universal.[301] By this, the great lords having granted lands on condition of fealty and other services to certain persons, these last subgranted them; that is, made them over on similar conditions to other persons, who had likewise the power of bestowing them on a fourth party, and so on in an endless series;[302] thus forming a long chain of dependence, and, as it were, organizing submission into a system.[303] In England, on the other hand, such arrangements were so unsuited to the general state of affairs, that it is doubtful if they were ever carried on to any extent; and, at all events, it is certain that, in the reign of Edward I., they were finally stopped by the statute known to lawyers as _Quia emptores_.[304] [300] See some good remarks in _Mably_, _Observations sur l'Hist. de France_, vol. iii. pp. 114, 115. [301] _Hallam's Middle Ages_, vol. i. p. 111. [302] 'Originally there was no limit to subinfeudation.' _Brougham's Polit. Philos._ vol. i. p. 279. [303] A living French historian boasts that, in his own country, 'toute la société féodale formait ainsi une échelle de clientelle et de patronage.' _Cassagnac_, _Révolution Française_, vol. i. p. 459. [304] This is 18 Edw. I. c. 1; respecting which, see _Blackstone's Comment._ vol. ii. p. 91, vol. iv. p. 425; _Reeve's Hist. of English Law_, vol. ii. p. 223; _Dalrymple's Hist. of Feudal Property_, pp. 102, 243, 340. Thus early was there a great social divergence between France and England. The consequences of this were still more obvious when, in the fourteenth century, the feudal system rapidly decayed in both countries. For in England, the principle of protection being feeble, men were in some degree accustomed to self-government; and they were able to hold fast by those great institutions which would have been ill adapted to the more obedient habits of the French people. Our municipal privileges, the rights of our yeomanry, and the security of our copyholders, were, from the fourteenth to the seventeenth centuries, the three most important guarantees for the liberties of England.[305] In France such guarantees were impossible. The real division being between those who were noble, and those who were not noble, no room was left for the establishment of intervening classes; but all were compelled to fall into one of these two great ranks.[306] The French have never had any thing answering to our yeomanry; nor were copyholders recognized by their laws. And, although they attempted to introduce into their country municipal institutions, all such efforts were futile; for, while they copied the forms of liberty, they lacked that bold and sturdy spirit by which alone liberty can be secured. They had, indeed, its image and superscription; but they wanted the sacred fire that warms the image into life. Every thing else they possessed. The show and appliances of freedom were there. Charters were granted to their towns, and privileges conceded to their magistrates. All, however, was useless. For it is not by the wax and parchment of lawyers that the independence of men can be preserved. Such things are the mere externals; they set off liberty to advantage; they are as its dress and paraphernalia, its holiday-suit in times of peace and quiet. But, when the evil days set in, when the invasions of despotism have begun, liberty will be retained, not by those who can show the oldest deeds and the largest charters, but by those who have been most inured to habits of independence, most accustomed to think and act for themselves, and most regardless of that insidious protection which the upper classes have always been so ready to bestow, that, in many countries, they have now left nothing worth the trouble to protect. [305] The history of the decay of that once most important class, the English yeomanry, is an interesting subject, and one for which I have collected considerable materials; at present, I will only say, that its decline was first distinctly perceptible in the latter half of the seventeenth century, and was consummated by the rapidly-increasing power of the commercial and manufacturing classes early in the eighteenth century. After losing their influence, their numbers naturally diminished, and they made way for other bodies of men, whose habits of mind were less prejudiced, and therefore better suited to that new state which society assumed in the last age. I mention this, because some writers regret the almost total destruction of the yeoman freeholders; overlooking the fact, that they are disappearing, not in consequence of any violent revolution or stretch of arbitrary power, but simply by the general march of affairs; society doing away with what it no longer requires. Compare _Kay's Social Condition of the People_, vol. i. pp. 43, 602, with a letter from Wordsworth in _Bunbury's Correspond. of Hanmer_, p. 440; a note in _Mill's Polit. Econ._ vol. i. pp. 311, 312; another in _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. v. p. 323; and _Sinclair's Correspond._ vol. i. p. 229. [306] This is stated as an admitted fact by French writers living in different periods and holding different opinions; but all agreed as to there being only two divisions: 'comme en France on est toujours ou noble, ou roturier, et qu'il n'y a pas de milieu.' _Mém. de Rivarol_, p. 7. 'La grande distinction des nobles et des roturiers.' _Giraud_, _Précis de l'Ancien Droit_, p. 10. Indeed, according to the Coutumes, the nobles and roturiers attained their majority at different ages. _Klimrath_, _Hist. du Droit_, vol. ii. p. 249 (erroneously stated in _Story's Conflict of Laws_, pp. 56, 79, 114). See further respecting this capital distinction, _Mém. de Duplessis Mornay_, vol. ii. p. 230 ('agréable à la noblesse et au peuple'); _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. viii. pp. 222, 232, 237; _Bunbury's Correspond. of Hanmer_, p. 256; _Mably_, _Observations_, vol. iii. p. 263; and _Mercier sur Rousseau_, vol. i. p. 38: 'On étoit roturier, vilain, homme de néant, canaille, dès qu'on ne s'appelloit plus marquis, baron, comte, chevalier, etc.' And so it was in France. The towns, with few exceptions, fell at the first shock; and the citizens lost those municipal privileges which, not being grafted on the national character, it was found impossible to preserve. In the same way, in our country, power naturally, and by the mere force of the democratic movement, fell into the hands of the House of Commons; whose authority has ever since, notwithstanding occasional checks, continued to increase at the expense of the more aristocratic parts of the legislature. The only institution answering to this in France was the States-General; which, however, had so little influence, that, in the opinion of native historians, it was hardly to be called an institution at all.[307] Indeed, the French were, by this time, so accustomed to the idea of protection, and to the subordination which that idea involves, that they were little inclined to uphold an establishment which, in their constitution, was the sole representative of the popular element. The result was, that, by the fourteenth century, the liberties of Englishmen were secured;[308] and, since then, their only concern has been to increase what they have already obtained. But in that same century, in France, the protective spirit assumed a new form; the power of the aristocracy was, in a great measure, succeeded by the power of the crown; and there began that tendency to centralization which, having been pushed still further, first under Louis XIV., and afterwards under Napoleon, has become the bane of the French people.[309] For by it the feudal ideas of superiority and submission have long survived that barbarous age to which alone they were suited. Indeed, by their transmigration, they seemed to have gained fresh strength. In France, every thing is referred to one common centre, in which all civil functions are absorbed. All improvements of any importance, all schemes for bettering even the material condition of the people must receive the sanction of government; the local authorities not being considered equal to such arduous tasks. In order that inferior magistrates may not abuse their power, no power is conferred upon them. The exercise of independent jurisdiction is almost unknown. Every thing that is done must be done at head quarters.[310] The government is believed to see every thing, know every thing, and provide for every thing. To enforce this monstrous monopoly there has been contrived a machinery well worthy of the design. The entire country is covered by an immense array of officials;[311] who, in the regularity of their hierarchy, and in the order of their descending series, form an admirable emblem of that feudal principle, which ceasing to be territorial, has now become personal. In fact, the whole business of the state is conducted on the supposition that no man either knows his own interest, or is fit to take care of himself. So paternal are the feelings of government, so eager for the welfare of its subjects, that it has drawn within its jurisdiction the most rare, as well as the most ordinary, actions of life. In order that the French may not make imprudent wills, it has limited the right of bequest; and, for fear that they should bequeath their property wrongly, it prevents them from bequeathing the greater part of it at all. In order that society may be protected by its police, it has directed that no one shall travel without a passport. And when men are actually travelling, they are met at every turn by the same interfering spirit, which, under pretence of protecting their persons, shackles their liberty. Into another matter, far more serious, the French have carried the same principle. Such is their anxiety to protect society against criminals, that, when an offender is placed at the bar of one of their courts, there is exhibited a spectacle which is no idle boast to say we, in England, could not tolerate for a single hour. There is seen a great public magistrate, by whom the prisoner is about to be tried, examining him in order to ascertain his supposed guilt, re-examining him, cross-examining him, performing the duties, not of a judge, but of a prosecutor, and bringing to bear against the unhappy man all the authority of his judicial position, all his professional subtlety, all his experience, all the dexterity of his practised understanding. This is, perhaps, the most alarming of the many instances in which the tendencies of the French intellect are shown; because it supplies a machinery ready for the purposes of absolute power; because it brings the administration of justice into disrepute, by associating with it an idea of unfairness; and because it injures that calm and equable temper, which it is impossible fully to maintain under a system that makes a magistrate an advocate, and turns the judge into a partizan. But this, mischievous as it is, only forms part of a far larger scheme. For, to the method by which criminals are discovered, there is added an analogous method, by which crime is prevented. With this view, the people, even in their ordinary amusements, are watched and carefully superintended. Lest they should harm each other by some sudden indiscretion, precautions are taken similar to those with which a father might surround his children. In their fairs, at their theatres, their concerts, and their other places of public resort, there are always present soldiers, who are sent to see that no mischief is done, that there is no unnecessary crowding, that no one uses harsh language, that no one quarrels with his neighbour. Nor does the vigilance of the government stop there. Even the education of children is brought under the control of the state, instead of being regulated by the judgment of masters or parents.[312] And the whole plan is executed with such energy, that, as the French while men are never let alone, just so while children they are never left alone.[313] At the same time, it being reasonably supposed that the adults thus kept in pupilage cannot be proper judges of their own food, the government has provided for this also. Its prying eye follows the butcher to the shambles, and the baker to the oven. By its paternal hand, meat is examined lest it should be bad, and bread is weighed lest it should be light. In short, without multiplying instances, with which most readers must be familiar, it is enough to say that in France, as in every country where the protective principle is active, the government has established a monopoly of the worst kind; a monopoly which comes home to the business and bosoms of men, follows them in their daily avocations, troubles them with its petty, meddling spirit, and, what is worse than all, diminishes their responsibility to themselves; thus depriving them of what is the only real education that most minds receive,--the constant necessity of providing for future contingencies, and the habit of grappling with the difficulties of life. [307] 'Les états-généraux sont portés dans la liste de nos institutions. Je ne sais cependant s'il est permis de donner ce nom à des rassemblemens aussi irréguliers.' _Montlosier_, _Monarchie Française_, vol. i. p. 266. 'En France, les états-généraux, au moment même de leur plus grand éclat, c'est à dire dans le cours du xiv^e siècle, n'ont guère été que des accidents, un pouvoir national et souvent invoqué, mais non un établissement constitutionnel.' _Guizot_, _Essais_, p. 253. See also _Mably_, _Observations_, vol. iii. p. 147; and _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xiv. p. 642. [308] This is frankly admitted by one of the most candid and enlightened of all the foreign writers on our history, _Guizot_, _Essais_, p. 297: 'En 1307, les droits qui devaient enfanter en Angleterre un gouvernement libre étaient définitivement reconnus.' [309] See an account of the policy of Philip the Fair, in _Mably_, _Observations_, vol. ii. pp. 25-44; in _Boulainvilliers_, _Ancien Gouvernement_, vol. i. pp. 292, 314, vol. ii. pp. 37, 38; and in _Guizot_, _Civilisation en France_, vol. iv. pp. 170-192. M. Guizot says, perhaps too strongly, that his reign was 'la métamorphose de la royauté en despotisme,' On the connexion of this with the centralizing movement, see _Tocqueville's Démocratie_, vol. i. p. 307: 'Le goût de la centralisation et la manie réglementaire remontent, en France, à l'époque où les légistes sont entrés dans le gouvernement; ce qui nous reporte au temps de Philippe le Bel.' Tennemann also notices, that in his reign the 'Rechtstheorie' began to exercise influence; but this learned writer takes a purely metaphysical view, and has therefore misunderstood the more general social tendency. _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. viii. p. 823. [310] As several writers on law notice this system with a lenient eye _Origines du Droit Français_, in _[OE]uvres de Michelet_, vol. ii. p. 321; and _Eschbach_, _Etude du Droit_, p. 129: 'le système énergique de la centralisation', it may be well to state how it actually works. Mr. Bulwer, writing twenty years ago, says: 'Not only cannot a commune determine its own expenses without the consent of the minister or one of his deputed functionaries, it cannot even erect a building, the cost of which shall have been sanctioned, without the plan being adopted by a board of public works attached to the central authority, and having the supervision and direction of every public building throughout the Kingdom.' _Bulwer's Monarchy of the Middle Classes_, 1836, vol. ii. p. 262. M. Tocqueville, writing in the present year (1856), says, 'Sous l'ancien régime, _comme de nos jours_, il n'y avait ville, bourg, village, ni si petit hameau en France, hôpital, fabrique, couvent ni collège, qui pût avoir une volonté indépendante dans ses affaires particulières, ni administrer à sa volonté ses propres biens. Alors, _comme aujourd'hui_, l'administration tenait donc tous les Français en tutelle, et si l'insolence du mot ne s'était pas encore produite, on avait du moins déjà la chose.' _Tocqueville_, _l'Ancien Régime_, 1856, pp. 79, 80. [311] The number of civil functionaries in France, who are paid by the government to trouble the people, passes all belief, being estimated, at different periods during the present century, at from 138,000 to upwards of 800,000. _Tocqueville_, _de la Démocratie_, vol. i. p. 220; _Alison's Europe_, vol. xiv. pp. 127, 140; _Kay's Condition of the People_, vol. i. p. 272; _Laing's Notes_, 2d series, p. 185. Mr. Laing, writing in 1850, says: 'In France, at the expulsion of Louis Philippe, the civil functionaries were stated to amount to 807,030 individuals.' [312] 'The government in France possesses control over all the education of the country, with the exception of the colleges for the education of the clergy, which are termed seminaries, and their subordinate institutions.' _Report on the State of Superior Education in France in_ 1843, in _Journal of Statist. Soc._ vol. vi. p. 304. On the steps taken during the power of Napoleon, see _Alison's Europe_, vol. viii. p. 203: 'Nearly the whole education of the empire was brought effectually under the direction and appointment of government.' [313] Much attention is paid to the _surveillance_ of pupils; it being a fundamental principle of French education, that children should never be left alone. _Report on General Education in France in_ 1842, in _Journal of Statist. Soc._ vol. v. p. 20. The consequence of all this has been, that the French, though a great and splendid people,--a people full of mettle, high-spirited, abounding in knowledge, and perhaps less oppressed by superstition than any other in Europe,--have always been found unfit to exercise political power. Even when they have possessed it, they have never been able to combine permanence with liberty. One of these two elements has always been wanting. They have had free governments, which have not been stable. They have had stable governments, which have not been free. Owing to their fearless temper, they have rebelled, and no doubt will continue to rebel, against so evil a condition.[314] But it does not need the tongue of a prophet to tell that, for at least some generations, all such efforts must be unsuccessful. For men can never be free, unless they are educated to freedom. And this is not the education which is to be found in schools, or gained from books; but it is that which consists in self-discipline, in self-reliance, and in self-government. These, in England, are matters of hereditary descent--traditional habits, which we imbibe in our youth, and which regulate us in the conduct of life. The old associations of the French all point in another direction. At the slightest difficulty, they call on the government for support. What with us is competition, with them is monopoly. That which we effect by private companies, they effect by public boards. They cannot cut a canal, or lay down a railroad, without appealing to the government for aid. With them, the people look to the rulers; with us, the rulers look to the people. With them, the executive is the centre from which society radiates;[315] with us, society is the instigator, and the executive the organ. The difference in the result has corresponded with the difference in the process. We have been made fit for political power, by the long exercise of civil rights; they, neglecting the exercise, think they can at once begin with the power. We have always shown a determination to uphold our liberties, and, when the times are fitting, to increase them; and this we have done with a decency and a gravity natural to men to whom such subjects have long been familiar. But the French, always treated as children, are, in political matters, children still. And as they have handled the most weighty concerns in that gay and volatile spirit which adorns their lighter literature, it is no wonder that they have failed in matters where the first condition of success is, that men should have been long accustomed to rely upon their own energies, and that before they try their skill in a political struggle, their resources should have been sharpened by that preliminary discipline, which a contest with the difficulties of civil life can never fail to impart. [314] A distinguished French author says: 'La France souffre du mal du siècle; elle en est plus malade qu'aucun autre pays; ce mal c'est la haine de l'autorité.' _Custine_, _Russie_, vol. ii. p. 136. Compare, _Rey_, _Science Sociale_, vol. ii. p. 86 note. [315] It is to the activity of this protective and centralizing spirit that we must ascribe, what a very great authority noticed thirty years ago, as 'le défaut de spontanéité, qui caractérise les institutions de la France moderne.' _Meyer_, _Instit. Judic._ vol. iv. p. 536. It is also this which, in literature and in science, makes them favour the establishment of academies; and it is probably to the same principle that their jurists owe their love of codification. All these are manifestations of an unwillingness to rely on the general march of affairs, and show an undue contempt for the unaided conclusions of private men. These are among the considerations by which we must be guided, in estimating the probable destinies of the great countries of Europe. But what we are now rather concerned with is, to notice how the opposite tendencies of France and England long continued to be displayed in the condition and treatment of their aristocracy; and how from this there naturally followed some striking differences between the war conducted by the Fronde, and that waged by the Long Parliament. When, in the fourteenth century, the authority of the French kings began rapidly to increase, the political influence of the nobility was, of course, correspondingly diminished. What, however, proves the extent to which their power had taken root, is the undoubted fact, that, notwithstanding this to them unfavourable circumstance, the people were never able to emancipate themselves from their control.[316] The relation the nobles bore to the throne became entirely changed; that which they bore to the people remained almost the same. In England, slavery, or villenage, as it is mildly termed, quickly diminished, and was extinct by the end of the sixteenth century.[317] In France, it lingered on two hundred years later, and was only destroyed in that great Revolution by which the possessors of ill-gotten power were called to so sharp an account.[318] Thus, too, until the last seventy years, the nobles were in France exempt from those onerous taxes which oppressed the people. The taille and corvée were heavy and grievous exactions, but they fell solely on men of ignoble birth;[319] for the French aristocracy, being a high and chivalrous race, would have deemed it an insult to their illustrious descent, if they had been taxed to the same amount as those whom they despised as their inferiors.[320] Indeed, every thing tended to nurture this general contempt. Every thing was contrived to humble one class, and exalt the other. For the nobles there were reserved the best appointments in the church, and also the most important military posts.[321] The privilege of entering the army as officers was confined to them;[322] and they alone possessed a prescriptive right to belong to the cavalry.[323] At the same time, and to avoid the least chance of confusion, an equal vigilance was displayed in the most trifling matters, and care was taken to prevent any similarity, even in the amusements of the two classes. To such a pitch was this brought, that, in many parts of France, the right of having an aviary or a dovecote depended entirely on a man's rank; and no Frenchman, whatever his wealth might be, could keep pigeons, unless he were a noble; it being considered that these recreations were too elevated for persons of plebeian origin.[324] [316] Mably (_Observations_, vol. iii. pp. 154, 155, 352-362) has collected some striking evidence of the tyranny of the French nobles in the sixteenth century; and as to the wanton cruelty with which they exercised their power in the seventeenth century, see _Des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. vii. p. 155, vol. viii. p. 79, vol. ix. pp. 40, 61, 62, vol. x. pp. 255-257. In the eighteenth century, matters were somewhat better; but still the subordination was excessive, and the people were poor, ill-treated, and miserable. Compare _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. iv. p. 139; _Letter from the Earl of Cork_, dated Lyons, 1754, in _Burton's Diary_, vol. iv. p. 80; the statement of Fox, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxxi. p. 406; _Jefferson's Correspond._ vol. ii. p. 45; and _Smith's Tour on the Continent_, edit. 1793, vol. iii. pp. 201, 202. [317] Mr. Eccleston (_English Antiq._ p. 138) says, that in 1450 'villenage had almost passed away;' and according to Mr. Thornton (_Over-Population_, p. 182), 'Sir Thomas Smith, who wrote about the year 1550, declares that he had never met with any personal or domestic slaves; and that the villains, or predial slaves, still to be found, were so few, as to be scarcely worth mentioning.' Mr. Hallam can find no 'unequivocal testimony to the existence of villenage' later than 1574. _Middle Ages_, vol. ii. p. 312; see, to the same effect, _Barrington on the Statutes_, pp. 308, 309. If, however, my memory does not deceive me, I have met with evidence of it in the reign of James I., but I cannot recall the passage. [318] M. Cassagnac (_Causes de la Révolution_, vol. iii. p. 11) says: 'Chose surprenante, il y avait encore, au 4 août 1789, _un million cinq cent mille serfs de corps_;' and M. Giraud (_Précis de l'Ancien Droit_, Paris, 1852, p. 3), 'jusqu'à la révolution une division fondamentale partageait les personnes en personnes libres et personnes sujettes à condition servile.' A few years before the Revolution, this shameful distinction was abolished by Louis XVI. in his own domains. Compare _Eschbach_, _Etude du Droit_, pp. 271, 272, with _Du Mesnil_, _Mém. sur le Prince le Brun_, p. 94. I notice this particularly, because M. Monteil, a learned and generally accurate writer, supposes that the abolition took place earlier than it really did. _Hist. des divers Etats_, vol. vi. p. 101. [319] _Cassagnac_, _de la Révolution_, vol. i. pp. 122, 173; _Giraud_, _Ancien Droit_, p. 11; _Soulavie_, _Mém. de Louis XVI_, vol. vi. p. 156; _Mém. au Roi sur les Municipalités_, in _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. vii. p. 423; _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. i. p. 200. Further information respecting the amount and nature of these vexatious impositions will be found in _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. xiii. p. 24, vol. xiv. p. 118; _Sainte-Aulaire_, _Hist. de la Fronde_, vol. i. p. 125; _Tocqueville_, _Ancien Régime_, pp. 135, 191, 420, 440; _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. ii. p. 412, vol. iii. p. 226, vol. iv. p. 199, vol. v. pp. 339, 410, vol. vi. p. 94; _Relat. des Ambassad. Vénit._ vol. i. p. 96; _Mably_, _Observations_, vol. iii. pp. 355, 356; _Boulainvilliers_, _Ancien Gouvernement_, vol. iii. p. 109; _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. ii. p. 29; _Mém. d'Omer Talon_, vol. ii. pp. 103, 369; _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. i. p. 82; _Tocqueville_, _Règne de Louis XV_, vol. i. pp. 87, 332; _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. i. p. 372, vol. iv. pp. 58, 59, 74, 75, 242, 278, vol. v. pp. 226, 242, vol. vi. p. 144, vol. viii. pp. 152, 280. [320] So deeply rooted were these feelings, that, even in 1789, the very year the Revolution broke out, it was deemed a great concession that the nobles 'will consent, indeed, to equal taxation.' See a letter from Jefferson to Jay, dated Paris, May 9th, 1789, in _Jefferson's Corresp._ vol. ii. pp. 462, 463. Compare _Mercier sur Rousseau_, vol. i. p. 136. [321] 'Les nobles, qui avaient le privilége exclusif des grandes dignités et des gros bénéfices.' _Mém. de Rivarol_, p. 97: see also _Mém. de Bouillé_, vol. i. p. 56; _Lemontey_, _Etablissement Monarchique_, p. 337; _Daniel_, _Hist. de la Milice Françoise_, vol. ii. p. 556; _Campan_, _Mém. sur Marie-Antoinette_, vol. i. pp. 238, 239. [322] 'L'ancien régime n'avait admis que des nobles pour officiers.' _Mém. de Roland_, vol. i. p. 398. Ségur mentions that, early in the reign of Louis XVI., 'les nobles seuls avaient le droit d'entrer au service comme sous-lieutenans.' _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. i. p. 65. Compare pp. 117, 265-271, with _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. iii. p. 74, and _De Staël_, _Consid. sur la Rév._ vol. i. p. 123. [323] Thus, De Thou says of Henry III., 'il remet sous l'ancien pied la cavalerie ordinaire, qui n'étoit composée que de la noblesse.' _Hist. Univ._ vol. ix. pp. 202, 203; and see vol. x. pp. 504, 505, vol. xiii. p. 22; and an imperfect statement of the same fact in _Boullier_, _Hist. des divers Corps de la Maison Militaire des Rois de France_, Paris, 1818, p. 58, a superficial work on an uninteresting subject. [324] M. Tocqueville (_L'Ancien Régime_, p. 448) mentions, among other regulations still in force late in the eighteenth century, that 'en Dauphiné, en Bretagne, en Normandie, il est prohibé à tout roturier d'avoir des colombiers, fuies et volière; il n'y a que les nobles qui puissent avoir des pigeons.' Circumstances like these are valuable, as evidence of the state of society to which they belong; and their importance will become peculiarly obvious, when we compare them with the opposite condition of England. For in England, neither these nor any similar distinctions have ever been known. The spirit of which our yeomanry, copyholders, and free burgesses were the representatives, proved far too strong for those protective and monopolizing principles of which the aristocracy are the guardians in politics, and the clergy in religion. And it is to the successful opposition made by these feelings of individual independence that we owe our two greatest national acts--our Reformation in the sixteenth, and our Rebellion in the seventeenth century. Before, however, tracing the steps taken in these matters, there is one other point of view to which I wish to call attention, as a further illustration of the early and radical difference between France and England. In the eleventh century there arose the celebrated institution of chivalry,[325] which was to manners what feudalism was to politics. This connexion is clear, not only from the testimony of contemporaries, but also from two general considerations. In the first place, chivalry was so highly aristocratic, that no one could even receive knighthood unless he were of noble birth;[326] and the preliminary education which was held to be necessary was carried on either in schools appointed by the nobles, or else in their own baronial castles.[327] In the second place, it was essentially a protective, and not at all a reforming institution. It was contrived with a view to remedy certain oppressions as they successively arose; opposed in this respect to the reforming spirit, which, being remedial rather than palliative, strikes at the root of an evil by humbling the class from which the evil proceeds, passing over individual cases in order to direct its attention to general causes. But chivalry, so far from doing this, was in fact a fusion of the aristocratic and the ecclesiastical forms of the protective spirit.[328] For, by introducing among the nobles the principle of knighthood, which, being personal, could never be bequeathed, it presented a point at which the ecclesiastical doctrine of celibacy could coalesce with the aristocratic doctrine of hereditary descent.[329] Out of this coalition sprung results of great moment. It is to this that Europe owes those orders, half aristocratic half religious,[330] the Knights Templars, the Knights of St. James, the Knights of St. John, the Knights of St. Michael: establishments which inflicted the greatest evils on society; and whose members, combining analogous vices, enlivened the superstition of monks with the debauchery of soldiers. As a natural consequence, an immense number of noble knights were solemnly pledged to 'defend the church;' an ominous expression, the meaning of which is too well known to the readers of ecclesiastical history.[331] Thus it was that chivalry, uniting the hostile principles of celibacy and noble birth, became the incarnation of the spirit of the two classes to which those principles belonged. Whatever benefit, therefore, this institution may have conferred upon manners,[332] there can be no doubt that it actively contributed to keep men in a state of pupilage, and stopped the march of society by prolonging the term of its infancy.[333] [325] 'Dès la fin du onzième siècle, à l'époque même où commencèrent les croisades, on trouve la chevalerie établie.' _Koch_, _Tab. des Révolutions_, vol. i. p. 143; see also _Sainte-Palaye_, _Mém. sur la Chevalerie_, vol. i. pp. 42, 68. M. Guizot (_Civilis. en France_, vol. iii. pp. 349-354) has attempted to trace it back to an earlier period; but he appears to have failed, though of course its germs may be easily found. According to some writers it originated in northern Europe; according to others in Arabia! _Mallet's Northern Antiquities_, p. 202; _Journal of Asiat. Soc._ vol. ii. p. 11. [326] 'L'ordre de chevalerie n'étoit accordé qu'aux hommes d'un sang noble.' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iv. p. 204. Compare _Daniel_, _Hist. de la Milice_, vol. i. p. 97, and _Mills' Hist. of Chivalry_, vol. i. p. 20. [327] 'In some places there were schools appointed by the nobles of the country, but most frequently their own castles served.' _Mills' Hist. of Chivalry_, vol. i. p. 31; and see _Sainte-Palaye_, _Mém. sur l'Anc. Chevalerie_, vol. i. pp. 30, 56, 57, on this education. [328] This combination of knighthood and religious rites is often ascribed to the crusades; but there is good evidence that it took place a little earlier, and must be referred to the latter half of the eleventh century. Compare _Mills' Hist. of Chivalry_, vol. i. pp. 10, 11; _Daniel_, _Hist. de la Milice_, vol. i. pp. 101, 102, 108; _Boulainvilliers_, _Ancien Gouv._ vol. i. p. 326. Sainte-Palaye (_Mém. sur la Chevalerie_, vol. i. pp. 119-123), who has collected some illustrations of the relation between chivalry and the church, says, p. 119, 'enfin la chevalerie étoit regardée comme une ordination, un sacerdoce.' The superior clergy possessed the right of conferring knighthood, and William Rufus was actually knighted by Archbishop Lanfranc: 'Archiepiscopus Lanfrancus, eo quòd eum nutrierat, et militem fecerat.' _Will. Malmes._ lib. iv., in _Scriptores post Bedam_, p. 67. Compare _Fosbroke's British Monachism_, 1843, p. 101, on knighting by abbots. [329] The influence of this on the nobles is rather exaggerated by Mr. Mills; who, on the other hand, has not noticed how the unhereditary element was favourable to the ecclesiastical spirit. _Mills' Hist. of Chivalry_, vol. i. pp. 15, 389, vol. ii. p. 169; a work interesting as an assemblage of facts, but almost useless as a philosophic estimate. [330] 'In their origin all the military orders, and most of the religious ones, were entirely aristocratic.' _Mills' Hist. of Chivalry_, vol. i. p. 336. [331] _Mills' Hist. of Chivalry_, vol. i. pp. 148, 338. About the year 1127, St. Bernard wrote a discourse in favour of the Knights Templars, in which 'he extols this order as a combination of monasticism and knighthood.... He describes the design of it as being to give the military order and knighthood a serious Christian direction, and to convert war into something that God might approve.' _Neander's Hist. of the Church_, vol. vii. p. 358. To this may be added, that, early in the thirteenth century, a chivalric association was formed, and afterwards merged in the Dominican order, called the Militia of Christ: 'un nouvel ordre de chevalerie destiné à poursuivre les hérétiques, sur le modèle de celui des Templiers, et sous le nom de Milice de Christ.' _Llorente_, _Hist. de l'Inquisition_, vol. i. pp. 52, 133, 203. [332] Several writers ascribe to chivalry the merit of softening manners, and of increasing the influence of women. _Sainte-Palaye_, _Mém. sur la Chevalerie_, vol. i. pp. 220-223, 282, 284, vol. iii. pp. vi. vii. 159-161; _Helvétius de l'Esprit_, vol. ii. pp. 50, 51; _Schlegel's Lectures_, vol. i. p. 209. That there was such a tendency is, I think, indisputable; but it has been greatly exaggerated; and an author of considerable reading on these subjects says, 'The rigid treatment shown to prisoners of war in ancient times strongly marks the ferocity and uncultivated manners of our ancestors, and that even to ladies of high rank; notwithstanding the homage said to have been paid to the fair sex in those days of chivalry.' _Grose's Military Antiquities_, vol. ii. p. 114. Compare _Manning on the Law of Nations_, 1839, pp. 145, 146. [333] Mr. Hallam (_Middle Ages_, vol. ii. p. 464) says, 'A third reproach may be made to the character of knighthood, that it widened the separation between the different classes of society, and confirmed that aristocratical spirit of high birth, by which the large mass of mankind were kept in unjust degradation.' On this account, it is evident that, whether we look at the immediate or at the remote tendency of chivalry, its strength and duration become a measure of the predominance of the protective spirit. If, with this view, we compare France and England, we shall find fresh proof of the early divergence of those countries. Tournaments, the first open expression of chivalry, are of French origin.[334] The greatest and, indeed, the only two great describers of chivalry are Joinville and Froissart, both of whom were Frenchmen. Bayard, that famous chevalier, who is always considered as the last representative of chivalry, was a Frenchman, and was killed when fighting for Francis I. Nor was it until nearly forty years after his death that tournaments were finally abolished in France, the last one having been held in 1560.[335] [334] _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iv. pp. 370, 371, 377; _Turner's Hist. of England_, vol. iv. p. 478; _Foncemagne_, _De l'Origine des Armoiries_, in _Mém. de l'Académie des Inscriptions_, vol. xx. p. 580. Koch also says (_Tableau des Révolutions_, vol. i. p. 139), 'c'est de la France que l'usage des tournois se répandit chez les autres nations de l'Europe.' They were first introduced into England in the reign of Stephen. _Lingard's England_, vol. ii. p. 27. [335] Mr. Hallam (_Middle Ages_, vol. ii. p. 470) says they were 'entirely discontinued in France' in consequence of the death of Henry II.; but according to _Mills' Hist. of Chivalry_, vol. ii. p. 226, they lasted the next year; when another fatal accident occurred, and 'tournaments ceased for ever.' Compare _Sainte-Palaye sur la Chevalerie_, vol. ii. pp. 39, 40. But in England, the protective spirit being much less active than in France, we should expect to find that chivalry, as its offspring, had less influence. And such was really the case. The honours that were paid to knights, and the social distinctions by which they were separated from the other classes, were never so great in our country as in France.[336] As men became more free, the little respect they had for such matters still further diminished. In the thirteenth century, and indeed in the very reign in which burgesses were first returned to parliament, the leading symbol of chivalry fell into such disrepute, that a law was passed obliging certain persons to accept that rank of knighthood which in other nations was one of the highest objects of ambition.[337] In the fourteenth century, this was followed by another blow, which deprived knighthood of its exclusively military character; the custom having grown up in the reign of Edward III. of conferring it on the judges in the courts of law, thus turning a warlike title into a civil honour.[338] Finally, before the end of the fifteenth century, the spirit of chivalry, in France still at its height, was in our country extinct, and this mischievous institution had become a subject for ridicule even among the people themselves.[339] To these circumstances we may add two others, which seem worthy of observation. The first is, that the French, notwithstanding their many admirable qualities, have always been more remarkable for personal vanity than the English;[340] a peculiarity partly referable to those chivalric traditions which even their occasional republics have been unable to destroy, and which makes them attach undue importance to external distinctions, by which I mean, not only dress and manners, but also medals, ribbons, stars, crosses, and the like, which we, a prouder people, have never held in such high estimation. The other circumstance is, that duelling has from the beginning been more popular in France than in England; and as this is a custom which we owe to chivalry, the difference in this respect between the two countries supplies another link in that long chain of evidence by which we must estimate their national tendencies.[341] [336] Mr. Hallam (_Middle Ages_, vol. ii. p. 467) observes, that the knight, as compared with other classes, 'was addressed by titles of more respect. _There was not, however, so much distinction in England as in France._' The great honour paid to knights in France is noticed by Daniel (_Milice Française_, vol. i. pp. 128, 129) and Herder (Ideen zur Geschichte, vol. iv. pp. 226, 267) says, that in France chivalry flourished more than in any other country. The same remark is made by Sismondi (_Hist. des Français_, vol. iv. p. 198). [337] The _Statutum de Militibus_, in 1307, was perhaps the first recognition of this. Compare _Blackstone's Comment._ vol. ii. p. 69; _Barrington on the Statutes_, pp. 192, 193. But we have positive evidence that compulsory knighthood existed in the reign of Henry III.; or at least that those who refused it were obliged to pay a fine. See _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 421, and _Lyttleton's Hist. of Henry II._ vol. ii. pp. 238, 239, 2nd edit. 4to. 1767. Lord Lyttleton, evidently puzzled, says, 'Indeed it seems a deviation from the original principle of this institution. For one cannot but think it a very great inconsistency, that a dignity, which was deemed an accession of honour to kings themselves, should be forced upon any.' [338] In _Mills' Hist. of Chivalry_, vol. ii. p. 154, it is said, that 'the judges of the courts of law' were first knighted in the reign of Edward III. [339] Mr. Mills (_Hist. of Chivalry_, vol. ii. pp. 99, 100) has printed a curious extract from a lamentation over the destruction of chivalry, written in the reign of Edward IV.; but he has overlooked a still more singular instance. This is a popular ballad, written in the middle of the fifteenth century, and called the Turnament of Tottenham, in which the follies of chivalry are admirably ridiculed. See _Warton's Hist. of English Poetry_, edit. 1840, vol. iii. pp. 98-101; and _Percy's Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, edit. 1845, pp. 92-95. According to Turner (_Hist. of England_, vol. vi. p. 363), 'the ancient books of chivalry were laid aside' about the reign of Henry VI. [340] This is not a mere popular opinion, but rests upon a large amount of evidence, supplied by competent and impartial observers. Addison, who was a lenient as well as an able judge, and who had lived much among the French, calls them 'the vainest nation in the world.' _Letter to Bishop Hough_, in _Aikin's Life of Addison_, vol. i. p. 90. Napoleon says, 'vanity is the ruling principle of the French.' _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. vi. p. 25. Dumont (_Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_, p. 111) declares, that 'le trait le plus dominant dans le caractère français, c'est l'amour propre;' and Ségur (_Souvenirs_, vol. i. pp. 73, 74), 'car en France l'amour propre, ou, si on le veut, la vanité, est de toutes les passions la plus irritable.' It is moreover stated, that phrenological observations prove that the French are vainer than the English. _Combe's Elements of Phrenology_, 6th edit. Edinb. 1845, p. 90; and a partial recognition of the same fact in _Broussais_, _Cours de Phrénologie_, p. 297. For other instances of writers who have noticed the vanity of the French, see _Tocqueville_, _l'Ancien Régime_, p. 148; _Barante_, _Lit. Franç. au XVIII^e. Siècle_, p. 80; _Mém. de Brissot_, vol. i. p. 272; _Mézéray_, _Hist. de France_, vol. ii. p. 933; _Lemontey_, _Etablissement Monarchique_, p. 418; _Voltaire_, _Lettres inédites_, vol. ii. p. 282; _Tocqueville_, _Règne de Louis XV_, vol. ii. p. 358; _De Staël sur la Révolution_, vol. i. p. 260, vol. ii. p. 258. [341] The relation between chivalry and duelling has been noticed by several writers; and in France, where the chivalric spirit was not completely destroyed until the Revolution, we find occasional traces of this connexion even in the reign of Louis XVI. See, for instance, in _Mém. de Lafayette_, vol. i. p. 86, a curious letter in regard to chivalry and duelling in 1778. In England there is, I believe, no evidence of even a single private duel being fought earlier than the sixteenth century, and there were not many till the latter half of Elizabeth's reign; but in France the custom arose early in the fifteenth century, and in the sixteenth it became usual for the seconds to fight as well as the principals. Compare _Montlosier_, _Monarc. Franç._ vol. ii. p. 436, with _Monteil_, _Hist. des divers Etats_, vol. vi. p. 48. From that time the love of the French for duelling became quite a passion until the end of the eighteenth century, when the Revolution, or rather the circumstances which led to the Revolution, caused its comparative cessation. Some idea may be formed of the enormous extent of this practice formerly in France, by comparing the following passages, which I have the more pleasure in bringing together, as no one has written even a tolerable history of duelling, notwithstanding the great part it once played in European society. _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. ix. pp. 592, 593, vol. xv. p. 57; _Daniel_, _Milice Française_, vol. ii. p. 582; _Sully_, _[OE]conomies_, vol. i. p. 301, vol. iii. p. 406, vol. vi. p. 122, vol. viii. p. 41, vol. ix. p. 408; _Carew's State of France under Henry IV._, in _Birch's Historical Negotiations_, p. 467; _Ben Jonson's Works_, edit. Gifford, vol. vi. p. 69; _Dulaure_, _Hist. de Paris_ (1825 3rd edit.), vol. iv. p. 567, vol. v. pp. 300, 301; _Le Clerc_, _Bibliothèque Univ._ vol. xx. p. 242; _Lettres de Patin_, vol. iii. p. 536; _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. viii. p. 98; _Capefigue's Richelieu_, vol. i. p. 63; _Des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. x. p. 13; _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. ii. p. 191, vol. vii. p. 215, vol. ix. p. 351; _Mem. of the Baroness d'Oberkirch_, vol. i. p. 71, edit. Lond. 1852; _Lettres inédites d'Aguesseau_, vol. i. p. 211; _Lettres de Dudeffand à Walpole_, vol. iii. p. 249, vol. iv. pp. 27, 28, 152; _Boullier_, _Maison Militaire des Rois de France_, pp. 87, 88; _Biog. Univ._ vol. v. pp. 402, 403, vol. xxiii. p. 411, vol. xliv. pp. 127, 401, vol. xlviii. p. 522, vol. xlix. p. 130. The old associations, of which these facts are but the external expression, now continued to act with increasing vigour. In France, the protective spirit, carried into religion, was strong enough to resist the Reformation, and preserve to the clergy the forms, at least, of their ancient supremacy. In England, the pride of men, and their habits of self-reliance, enabled them to mature into a system what is called the right of private judgment, by which some of the most cherished traditions were eradicated; and this, as we have already seen, being quickly succeeded, first by scepticism, and then by toleration, prepared the way for that subordination of the church to the state, for which we are pre-eminent, and without a rival, among the nations of Europe. The very same tendency, acting in politics, displayed analogous results. Our ancestors found no difficulty in humbling the nobles, and reducing them to comparative insignificance. The wars of the Roses, by breaking up the leading families into two hostile factions, aided this movement;[342] and, after the reign of Edward IV., there is no instance of any Englishman, even of the highest rank, venturing to carry on those private wars, by which, in other countries, the great lords still disturbed the peace of society.[343] When the civil contests subsided, the same spirit displayed itself in the policy of Henry VII. and Henry VIII. For, those princes, despots as they were, mainly oppressed the highest classes; and even Henry VIII., notwithstanding his barbarous cruelties, was loved by the people, to whom his reign was, on the whole, decidedly beneficial. Then there came the Reformation; which, being an uprising of the human mind, was essentially a rebellious movement, and thus increasing the insubordination of men, sowed, in the sixteenth century, the seeds of those great political revolutions which, in the seventeenth century, broke out in nearly every part of Europe. The connexion between these two revolutionary epochs is a subject full of interest; but, for the purpose of the present chapter, it will be sufficient to notice such events, during the latter half of the sixteenth century, as explain the sympathy between the ecclesiastical and aristocratic classes, and prove how the same circumstances that were fatal to the one, also prepared the way for the downfall of the other. [342] On the effect of the wars of the Roses upon the nobles, compare _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 10; _Lingard's Hist. of England_, vol. iii. p. 340; _Eccleston's English Antiq._ pp. 224, 320: and on their immense pecuniary, or rather territorial, losses, _Sinclair's Hist. of the Revenue_, vol. i. p. 155. [343] 'The last instance of a pitched battle between two powerful noblemen in England occurs in the reign of Edward IV.' _Allen on the Prerogative_, p. 123. When Elizabeth ascended the throne of England, a large majority of the nobility were opposed to the Protestant religion. This we know from the most decisive evidence; and, even if we had no such evidence, a general acquaintance with human nature would induce us to suspect that such was the case. For, the aristocracy, by the very conditions of their existence, must, as a body, always be averse to innovation. And this, not only because by a change they have much to lose and little to gain, but because some of their most pleasurable emotions are connected with the past rather than with the present. In the collision of actual life, their vanity is sometimes offended by the assumptions of inferior men; it is frequently wounded by the successful competition of able men. These are mortifications to which, in the progress of society, their liability is constantly increasing. But the moment they turn to the past, they see in those good old times which are now gone by, many sources of consolation. There they find a period in which their glory is without a rival. When they look at their pedigrees, their quarterings, their escutcheons; when they think of the purity of their blood, and the antiquity of their ancestors--they experience a comfort which ought amply to atone for any present inconvenience. The tendency of this is very obvious, and has shown itself in the history of every aristocracy the world has yet seen. Men who have worked themselves to so extravagant a pitch as to believe that it is an honour to have had one ancestor who came over with the Normans, and another ancestor who was present at the first invasion of Ireland--men who have reached this ecstacy of the fancy are not disposed to stop there, but, by a process with which most minds are familiar, they generalize their view; and, even on matters not immediately connected with their fame, they acquire a habit of associating grandeur with antiquity, and of measuring value by age; thus transferring to the past an admiration which otherwise they might reserve for the present. The connexion between these feelings and those which animate the clergy is very evident. What the nobles are to politics, that are the priests to religion. Both classes, constantly appealing to the voice of antiquity, rely much on tradition, and make great account of upholding established customs. Both take for granted that what is old is better than what is new; and that in former times there were means of discovering truths respecting government and theology which we, in these degenerate ages, no longer possess. And it may be added, that the similarity of their functions follows from the similarity of their principles. Both are eminently protective, stationary, or, as they are sometimes called, conservative. It is believed that the aristocracy guard the state against revolution, and that the clergy keep the church from error. The first are the enemies of reformers; the others are the scourge of heretics. It does not enter into the province of this Introduction to examine how far these principles are reasonable, or to inquire into the propriety of notions which suppose that, on certain subjects of immense importance, men are to remain stationary, while on all other subjects they are constantly advancing. But what I now rather wish to point out, is the manner in which, in the reign of Elizabeth, the two great conservative and protective classes were weakened by that vast movement, the Reformation, which, though completed in the sixteenth century, had been prepared by a long chain of intellectual antecedents. Whatever the prejudices of some may suggest, it will be admitted, by all unbiassed judges, that the Protestant Reformation was neither more nor less than an open rebellion. Indeed, the mere mention of private judgment, on which it was avowedly based, is enough to substantiate this fact. To establish the right of private judgment, was to appeal from the church to individuals; it was to increase the play of each man's intellect; it was to test the opinions of the priesthood by the opinions of laymen; it was, in fact, a rising of the scholars against their teachers, of the ruled against their rulers. And although the reformed clergy, as soon as they had organised themselves into a hierarchy, did undoubtedly abandon the great principle with which they started, and attempt to impose articles and canons of their own contrivance, still, this ought not to blind us to the merits of the Reformation itself. The tyranny of the Church of England, during the reign of Elizabeth, and still more during the reigns of her two successors, was but the natural consequence of that corruption which power always begets in those who wield it, and does not lessen the importance of the movement by which the power was originally obtained. For men could not forget that, tried by the old theological theory, the church of England was a schismatic establishment, and could only defend itself from the charge of heresy by appealing to that private judgment, to the exercise of which it owed its existence, but of the rights of which its own proceedings were a constant infraction. It was evident that if, in religious matters, private judgment were supreme, it became a high spiritual crime to issue any articles, or to take any measure, by which that judgment could be tied up; while, on the other hand, if the right of private judgment were not supreme, the church of England was guilty of apostacy, inasmuch as its founders did, by virtue of the interpretation which their own private judgment made of the Bible, abandon tenets which they had hitherto held, stigmatize those tenets as idolatrous, and openly renounce their allegiance to what had for centuries been venerated as the catholic and apostolic church. This was a simple alternative; which might, indeed, be kept out of sight, but could not be refined away, and most assuredly has never been forgotten. The memory of the great truth it conveys was preserved by the writings and teachings of the Puritans, and by those habits of thought natural to an inquisitive age. And when the fulness of time had come, it did not fail to bear its fruit. It continued slowly to fructify; and before the middle of the seventeenth century, its seed had quickened into a life, the energy of which nothing could withstand. That same right of private judgment which the early Reformers had loudly proclaimed, was now pushed to an extent fatal to those who opposed it. This it was which, carried into politics, overturned the government, and, carried into religion, upset the church.[344] For, rebellion and heresy are but different forms of the same disregard of tradition, the same bold and independent spirit. Both are of the nature of a protest made by modern ideas against old associations. They are as a struggle between the feelings of the present and the memory of the past. Without the exercise of private judgment, such a contest could never take place; the mere conception of it could not enter the minds of men, nor would they even dream of controlling, by their individual energy, those abuses to which all great societies are liable. It is, therefore, in the highest degree natural that the exercise of this judgment should be opposed by those two powerful classes who, from their position, their interests, and the habits of their mind, are more prone than any other to cherish antiquity, cleave to superannuated customs, and uphold institutions which, to use their favourite language, have been consecrated by the wisdom of their fathers. [344] Clarendon (_Hist. of the Rebellion_, p. 80), in a very angry spirit, but with perfect truth, notices (under the year 1640) the connexion between 'a proud and venomous dislike against the discipline of the church of England, and so by degrees (as the progress is very natural) an equal irreverence to the government of the state too.' The Spanish government, perhaps more than any other in Europe, has understood this relation; and even so late as 1789, an edict of Charles IV. declared, 'qu'il y a crime d'hérésie dans tout ce qui tend, ou contribue, à propager les idées révolutionnaires.' _Llorente_, _Hist. de l'Inquisition_, vol. ii. p. 130. From this point of view we are able to see with great clearness the intimate connexion which, at the accession of Elizabeth, existed between the English nobles and the Catholic clergy. Notwithstanding many exceptions, an immense majority of both classes opposed the Reformation, because it was based on that right of private judgment of which they, as the protectors of old opinions, were the natural antagonists. All this can excite no surprise; it was in the order of things, and strictly accordant with the spirit of those two great sections of society. Fortunately, however, for our country, the throne was now occupied by a sovereign who was equal to the emergency, and who, instead of yielding to the two classes, availed herself of the temper of the age to humble them. The manner in which this was effected by Elizabeth, in respect, first to the Catholic clergy, and afterwards to the Protestant clergy,[345] forms one of the most interesting parts of our history; and in an account of the reign of the great queen, I hope to examine it at considerable length. At present, it will be sufficient to glance at her policy towards the nobles--that other class with which the priesthood, by their interests, opinions, and associations, have always much in common. [345] The general character of her policy towards the Protestant English bishops is summed up very fairly by Collier; though he, as a professional writer, is naturally displeased with her disregard for the heads of the church. _Collier's Eccles. Hist. of Great Britain_, vol. vii. pp. 257, 258, edit. Barham, 1840. Elizabeth, at her accession to the throne, finding that the ancient families adhered to the ancient religion, naturally called to her councils advisers who were more likely to uphold the novelties on which the age was bent. She selected men who, being little burdened by past associations, were more inclined to favour present interests. The two Bacons, the two Cecils, Knollys, Sadler, Smith, Throgmorton, Walsingham, were the most eminent statesmen and diplomatists in her reign; but all of them were commoners; only one did she raise to the peerage; and they were certainly nowise remarkable, either for the rank of their immediate connexions, or for the celebrity of their remote ancestors. They, however, were recommended to Elizabeth by their great abilities, and by their determination to uphold a religion which the ancient aristocracy naturally opposed. And it is observable that, among the accusations which the Catholics brought against the queen, they taunted her, not only with forsaking the old religion, but also with neglecting the old nobility.[346] [346] One of the charges which, in 1588, Sixtus V. publicly brought against Elizabeth, was, that 'she hath rejected and excluded the ancient nobility, and promoted to honour obscure people.' _Butler's Mem. of the Catholics_, vol. ii. p. 4. Persons also reproaches her with her low-born ministers, and says that she was influenced 'by five persons in particular--all of them sprung from the earth--Bacon, Cecil, Dudley, Hatton, and Walsingham.' _Butler_, vol. ii. p. 31. Cardinal Allen taunted her with 'disgracing the ancient nobility, erecting base and unworthy persons to all the civil and ecclesiastical dignities.' _Dodd's Church History_, edit. Tierney, 1840, vol. iii. appendix no. xii. p. xlvi. The same influential writer, in his _Admonition_, said that she had injured England, 'by great contempt and abasing of the ancient nobility, repelling them from due government, offices, and places of honour.' _Allen's Admonition to the Nobility and People of England and Ireland_, 1588 (reprinted London, 1842), p. xv. Compare the account of the Bull of 1588, in _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. x. p. 175: 'On accusoit Elisabeth d'avoir au préjudice de la noblesse angloise élevé aux dignités, tant civiles qu'ecclésiastiques, des hommes nouveaux, sans naissance, et indignes de les posséder.' Nor does it require much acquaintance with the history of the time to see the justice of this charge. Whatever explanation we may choose to give of the fact, it cannot be denied that, during the reign of Elizabeth, there was an open and constant opposition between the nobles and the executive government. The rebellion of 1569 was essentially an aristocratic movement; it was a rising of the great families of the north against what they considered the upstart and plebeian administration of the queen.[347] The bitterest enemy of Elizabeth was certainly Mary of Scotland; and the interests of Mary were publicly defended by the Duke of Norfolk, the Earl of Northumberland, the Earl of Westmoreland, and the Earl of Arundel; while there is reason to believe that her cause was secretly favoured by the Marquis of Northampton, the Earl of Pembroke, the Earl of Derby, the Earl of Cumberland, the Earl of Shrewsbury, and the Earl of Sussex.[348] [347] To the philosophic historian this rebellion, though not sufficiently appreciated by ordinary writers, is a very important study, because it is the last attempt ever made by the great English families to establish their authority by force of arms. Mr. Wright says, that probably all those who took a leading part in it 'were allied by blood or intermarriage with the two families of the Percies and Neviles.' _Wright's Elizabeth_, 1838, vol. i. p. xxxiv.; a valuable work. See also, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. i. p. 730, a list of some of those who, in 1571, were attainted on account of this rebellion, and who are said to be 'all of the best families in the north of England.' But the most complete evidence we have respecting this struggle, consists of the collection of original documents published in 1840 by Sir C. Sharpe, under the title of _Memorials of the Rebellion of 1569_. They show very clearly the real nature of the outbreak. On 17th November 1569, Sir George Bowes writes, that the complaint of the insurgents was that 'there was certaine counsellors cropen' (_i.e._ crept) 'in aboute the prince, which had excluded the nobility from the prince,' &c., _Memorials_, p. 42; and the editor's note says that this is one of the charges made in all the proclamations by the earls. Perhaps the most curious proof of how notorious the policy of Elizabeth had become, is contained in a friendly letter from Sussex to Cecil, dated 5th January 1569 (_Memorials_, p. 137), one paragraph of which begins, 'Of late years few young noblemen have been employed in service.' [348] _Hallam_, i. p. 130; _Lingard_, v. pp. 97, 102; _Turner_, xii. pp. 245, 247. The existence of this antagonism of interests could not escape the sagacity of the English government. Cecil, who was the most powerful of the ministers of Elizabeth, and who was at the head of affairs for forty years, made it part of his business to study the genealogies and material resources of the great families; and this he did, not out of idle curiosity, but in order to increase his control over them, or, as a great historian says, to let them know 'that his eye was upon them.'[349] The queen herself, though too fond of power, was by no means of a cruel disposition; but she seemed to delight in humbling the nobles. On them her hand fell heavily; and there is hardly to be found a single instance of her pardoning their offences, while she punished several of them for acts which would now be considered no offences at all. She was always unwilling to admit them to authority; and it is unquestionably true that, taking them as a class, they were, during her long and prosperous reign, treated with unusual disrespect. Indeed, so clearly marked was her policy, that when the ducal order became extinct, she refused to renew it; and a whole generation passed away to whom the name of duke was a mere matter of history, a point to be mooted by antiquaries, but with which the business of practical life had no concern.[350] Whatever may be her other faults, she was on this subject always consistent. Although she evinced the greatest anxiety to surround the throne with men of ability, she cared little for those conventional distinctions by which the minds of ordinary sovereigns are greatly moved. She made no account of dignity of rank; she did not even care for purity of blood. She valued men neither for the splendour of their ancestry, nor for the length of their pedigrees, nor for the grandeur of their titles. Such questions she left for her degenerate successors, to the size of whose understandings they were admirably fitted. Our great queen regulated her conduct by another standard. Her large and powerful intellect, cultivated to its highest point by reflection and study, taught her the true measure of affairs, and enabled her to see, that to make a government flourish, its councillors must be men of ability and of virtue; but that if these two conditions are fulfilled, the nobles may be left to repose in the enjoyment of their leisure, unoppressed by those cares of the state for which, with a few brilliant exceptions, they are naturally disqualified by the number of their prejudices and by the frivolity of their pursuits. [349] _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 241; an interesting passage. Turner (_Hist. of England_, vol. xii. p. 237) says, that Cecil 'knew the tendency of the great lords to combine against the crown, that they might reinstate the peerage in the power from which the house of Tudor had depressed it.' [350] In 1572 the order of dukes became extinct; and was not revived till fifty years afterwards, when James I. made the miserable Villiers, duke of Buckingham. _Blackstone's Commentaries_, vol. i. p. 397. This evidently attracted attention; for Ben Jonson, in one of his comedies in 1616, mentions 'the received heresy that England bears no dukes.' _Jonson's Works_, edit. Gifford, 1816, vol. v. p. 47, where Gifford, not being aware of the extinction in 1572, has made an unsatisfactory note. After the death of Elizabeth, an attempt was made, first by James, and then by Charles, to revive the power of the two great protective classes, the nobles and the clergy. But so admirably had the policy of Elizabeth been supported by the general temper of the age, that it was found impossible for the Stuarts to execute their mischievous plans. The exercise of private judgment, both in religion and in politics, had become so habitual, that these princes were unable to subjugate it to their will. And as Charles I., with inconceivable blindness, and with an obstinacy even greater than that of his father, persisted in adopting in their worst forms the superannuated theories of protection, and attempted to enforce a scheme of government which men from their increasing independence were determined to reject, there inevitably arose that memorable collision which is well termed The Great Rebellion of England.[351] The analogy between this and the Protestant Reformation, I have already noticed; but what we have now to consider, and what, in the next chapter, I will endeavour to trace, is the nature of the difference between our Rebellion, and those contemporary wars of the Fronde, to which it was in some respects very similar. [351] Clarendon (_Hist. of the Rebellion_, p. 216) truly calls it 'the most prodigious and the boldest rebellion, that any age or country ever brought forth.' See also some striking remarks in _Warwick's Memoirs_, p. 207. CHAPTER III. THE ENERGY OF THE PROTECTIVE SPIRIT IN FRANCE EXPLAINS THE FAILURE OF THE FRONDE. COMPARISON BETWEEN THE FRONDE AND THE CONTEMPORARY ENGLISH REBELLION. The object of the last chapter was to enquire into the origin of the protective spirit. From the evidence there collected, it appears that this spirit was first organized into a distinct secular form at the close of the dark ages; but that, owing to circumstances which then arose, it was, from the beginning, much less powerful in England than in France. It has likewise appeared that, in our country, it continued to lose ground; while in France, it early in the fourteenth century assumed a new shape, and gave rise to a centralizing movement, manifested not only in the civil and political institutions, but also in the social and literary habits of the French nation. Thus far we seem to have cleared the way for a proper understanding of the history of the two countries; and I now purpose to follow this up a little further, and point out how this difference explains the discrepancy between the civil wars of England, and those which at the same time broke out in France. Among the obvious circumstances connected with the Great English Rebellion, the most remarkable is, that it was a war of classes as well as of factions. From the beginning of the contest, the yeomanry and traders adhered to the parliament;[352] the nobles and the clergy rallied round the throne.[353] And the name given to the two parties, of Roundheads[354] and Cavaliers,[355] proves that the true nature of this opposition was generally known. It proves that men were aware that a question was at issue, upon which England was divided, not so much by the particular interests of individuals, as by the general interests of the classes to which those individuals belonged. [352] 'From the beginning it may be said that the yeomanry and trading classes of towns were generally hostile to the king's side, even in those counties which were in his military occupation; except in a few, such as Cornwall, Worcester, Salop, and most of Wales, where the prevailing sentiment was chiefly royalist.' _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 578. See also _Lingard's Hist. of England_, vol. vi. p. 304; and _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. i. p. 49. [353] On this division of classes, which, notwithstanding a few exceptions, is undoubtedly true as a general fact, compare _Memoirs of Sir P. Warwick_, p. 217; _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. iii. p. 347; _Clarendon's Hist. of the Rebellion_, pp. 294, 297, 345, 346, 401, 476; _May's Hist. of the Long Parliament_, book i. pp. 22, 64, book ii. p. 63, book iii. p. 78; _Hutchinson's Memoirs_, p. 100; _Ludlow's Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 104, vol. iii. p. 258; _Bulstrode's Memoirs_, p. 86. [354] Lord Clarendon says, in his grand style, 'the rabble contemned and despised under the name of roundheads.' _Hist. of the Rebellion_, p. 136. This was in 1641, when the title appears to have been first bestowed. See _Fairfax Corresp._ vol. ii. pp. 185, 320. [355] Just before the battle of Edgehill, in 1642, Charles said to his troops, 'You are called cavaliers in a reproachful signification.' See the king's speech, in _Somers Tracts_, vol. iv. p. 478. Directly after the battle, he accused his opponents of 'rendering all persons of honour odious to the common people, under the style of cavaliers.' _May's Hist. of the Long Parliament_, book iii. p. 25. But in the history of the French rebellion, there is no trace of so large a division. The objects of the war were in both countries precisely the same: the machinery by which those objects were attained was very different. The Fronde was like our Rebellion, insomuch that it was a struggle of the parliament against the crown; an attempt to secure liberty, and raise up a barrier against the despotism of government.[356] So far, and so long, as we merely take a view of political objects, the parallel is complete. But the social and intellectual antecedents of the French being very different from those of the English, it necessarily followed that the shape which the rebellion took should likewise be different, even though the motives were the same. If we examine this divergence a little nearer, we shall find that it is connected with the circumstance I have already noticed--namely, that in England a war for liberty was accompanied by a war of classes, while in France there was no war of classes at all. From this it resulted, that in France the rebellion, being merely political, and not, as with us, also social, took less hold of the public mind: it was unaccompanied by those feelings of insubordination, in the absence of which freedom has always been impossible; and, striking no root into the national character, it could not save the country from that servile state into which, a few years later, it, under the government of Louis XIV. rapidly fell. [356] M. Saint-Aulaire (_Hist. de la Fronde_, vol. i. p. v.) says, that the object of the Frondeurs was, 'limiter l'autorité royale, consacrer les principes de la liberté civile et en confier la garde aux compagnies souveraines;' and at p. vi. he calls the declaration of 1648, 'une véritable charte constitutionnelle.' See also, at vol. i. p. 128, the concluding paragraph of the speech of Omer Talon. Joly, who was much displeased at this tendency, complains that in 1648, 'le peuple tomboit imperceptiblement dans le sentiment dangereux, qu'il est naturel et permis de se défendre et de s'armer contre la violence des supérieurs.' _Mém. de Joly_, p. 15. Of the immediate objects proposed by the Fronde, one was to diminish the taille, and another was to obtain a law that no one should be kept in prison more than twenty-four hours, 'sans être remis entre les mains du parlement pour lui faire son procès s'il se trouvoit criminel ou l'élargir s'il étoit innocent.' _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. ii. p. 135; _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. ii. p. 398; _Mém. de Retz_, vol. i. p. 265; _Mém. d'Omer Talon_, vol. ii. pp. 224, 225, 240, 328. That our Great Rebellion was, in its external form, a war of classes, is one of those palpable facts which lie on the surface of history. At first, the parliament[357] did indeed attempt to draw over to their side some of the nobles; and in this they for a time succeeded. But as the struggle advanced, the futility of this policy became evident. In the natural order of the great movement, the nobles grew more loyal;[358] the parliament grew more democratic.[359] And when it was clearly seen that both parties were determined either to conquer or to die, this antagonism of classes was too clearly marked to be misunderstood; the perception which each had of its own interests being sharpened by the magnitude of the stake for which they contended. [357] I use the word 'parliament' in the sense given to it by writers of that time, and not in the legal sense. [358] In May 1642, there remained at Westminster forty-two peers, _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 559; but they gradually abandoned the popular cause; and, according to _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. p. 1282, so dwindled, that eventually 'seldom more than five or six' were present. [359] These increasing democratic tendencies are most clearly indicated in Walker's curious work, _The History of Independency_. See among other passages, book i. p. 59. And Clarendon, under the year 1644, says (_Hist. of the Rebellion_, p. 514): 'That violent party, which had at first cozened the rest into the war, and afterwards obstructed all the approaches towards peace, found now that they had finished as much of their work as the tools which they had wrought with could be applied to, and what remained to be done must be despatched by new workmen.' What these new workmen were, he afterwards explains, p. 641, to be 'the most inferior people preferred to all places of trust and profit.' Book xi. under the year 1648. Compare some good remarks by Mr. Bell, in _Fairfax Correspond._ vol. iii. pp. 115, 116. For, without burdening this Introduction with what may be read in our common histories, it will be sufficient to remind the reader of a few of the conspicuous events of that time. Just before the war began, the Earl of Essex was appointed general of the parliamentary forces, with the Earl of Bedford as his lieutenant. A commission to raise troops was likewise given to the Earl of Manchester,[360] the only man of high rank against whom Charles had displayed open enmity.[361] Notwithstanding these marks of confidence, the nobles, in whom parliament was at first disposed to trust, could not avoid showing the old leaven of their order.[362] The Earl of Essex so conducted himself, as to inspire the popular party with the greatest apprehensions of his treachery;[363] and when the defence of London was intrusted to Waller, he so obstinately refused to enter the name of that able officer in the commission, that the Commons were obliged to insert it by virtue of their own authority, and in spite of their own general.[364] The Earl of Bedford, though he had received a military command, did not hesitate to abandon those who conferred it. This apostate noble fled from Westminster to Oxford: but finding that the king, who never forgave his enemies, did not receive him with the favour he expected, he returned to London; where, though he was allowed to remain in safety, it could not be supposed that he should again experience the confidence of parliament.[365] [360] This was after the appointments of Essex and Bedford, and was in 1643. _Ludlow's Mem._ vol. i. p. 58; _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. i. p. 189. [361] 'When the king attempted to arrest the five members, Manchester, at that time Lord Kymbolton, was the only peer whom he impeached. This circumstance endeared Kymbolton to the party; his own safety bound him more closely to its interests.' _Lingard's England_, vol. vi. p. 337. Compare _Clarendon_, p. 375; _Ludlow_, vol. i. p. 20. It is also said that Lord Essex joined the popular party from personal pique against the king. _Fairfax Corresp._ vol. iii. p. 37. [362] Mr. Carlyle has made some very characteristic, but very just, observations on the 'high Essexes and Manchesters of limited notions and large estates.' _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. i. p. 215. [363] _Ludlow's Memoirs_, vol. iii. p. 110; _Hutchinson's Memoirs_, pp. 230, 231; _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. iii. p. 106; _Bulstrode's Memoirs_, pp. 112, 113, 119; _Clarendon's Rebellion_, pp. 486, 514; or, as Lord North puts it, 'for General Essex began now to appear to the private cabalists somewhat wresty.' _North's Narrative of Passages relating to the Long Parliament_, published in 1670, in _Somers Tracts_, vol. vi. p. 578. At p. 584, the same elegant writer says of Essex, 'being the first person and last of the nobility employed by the parliament in military affairs, which soon brought him to the period of his life. And may he be an example to all future ages, to deter all persons of like dignity from being instrumental in setting up a democratical power, whose interest it is to keep down all persons of his condition.' The 'Letter of Admonition' addressed to him by parliament in 1644, is printed in _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. p. 274. [364] _Lingard's Hist. of England_, vol. vi. p. 318. See also, on the hostility between Essex and Waller, _Walker's Hist. of Independency_, part i. pp. 28, 29; and _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. p. 177. Sir Philip Warwick (_Memoirs_, p. 254) contemptuously calls Waller 'favourite-general of the city of London.' [365] Compare _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. pp. 569, 570, with _Bulstrode's Memoirs_, p. 96, and Lord Bedford's letter, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. pp. 189, 190. This shuffling letter confirms the unfavourable account of the writer, which is given in _Clarendon's Rebellion_, p. 422. Such examples as these were not likely to lessen the distrust which both parties felt for each other. It soon became evident that a war of classes was unavoidable, and that the rebellion of the parliament against the king must be reinforced by a rebellion of the people against the nobles.[366] To this the popular party, whatever may have been their first intention, now willingly agreed. In 1645 they enacted a law, by which not only the Earl of Essex and the Earl of Manchester lost their command, but all members of either house were made incapable of military service.[367] And, only a week after the execution of the king, they formally took away the legislative power of the peers; putting at the same time on record their memorable opinion, that the House of Lords is 'useless, dangerous, and ought to be abolished.'[368] [366] Dr. Bates, who had been physician to Cromwell, intimates that this was foreseen from the beginning. He says, that the popular party offered command to some of the nobles, 'not that they had any respect for the lords, whom shortly they intended to turn out and to level with the commoners, but that they might poison them with their own venom, and rise to greater authority by drawing more over to their side.' _Bates's Account of the late Troubles in England_, part i. p. 76. Lord North too supposes, that almost immediately after the war began, it was determined to dissolve the House of Lords. See _Somers Tracts_, vol. vi. p. 582. Beyond this, I am not aware of any direct early evidence; except that, in 1644, Cromwell is alleged to have stated that 'there would never be a good time in England till we had done with lords.' _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. i. p. 217; and, what is evidently the same circumstance, in _Holles's Memoirs_, p. 18. [367] This was the 'Self-denying Ordinance,' which was introduced in December, 1644; but, owing to the resistance of the peers, was not carried until the subsequent April. _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. pp. 326-337, 340-343, 354, 355. See also _Mem. of Lord Holles_, p. 30; _Mem. of Sir P. Warwick_, p. 283. [368] On this great Epoch in the history of England, see _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. p. 1284; _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 643; _Campbell's Chief-Justices_, vol. i. p. 424; _Ludlow's Mem._ vol. i. p. 246; _Warwick's Mem._ pp. 182, 336, 352. But we may find proofs still more convincing of the true character of the English rebellion, if we consider who those were by whom it was accomplished. This will show us the democratic nature of a movement which lawyers and antiquaries have vainly attempted to shelter under the form of constitutional precedent. Our great rebellion was the work, not of men who looked behind, but of men who looked before. To attempt to trace it to personal and temporary causes; to ascribe this unparalleled outbreak to a dispute respecting ship-money, or to a quarrel about the privileges of parliament, can only suit the habits of those historians who see no further than the preamble of a statute, or the decision of a judge. Such writers forget that the trial of Hampden, and the impeachment of the five members, could have produced no effect on the country, unless the people had already been prepared, and unless the spirit of inquiry and insubordination had so increased the discontents of men, as to put them in a state, where, the train being laid, the slightest spark sufficed to kindle a conflagration. The truth is, that the rebellion was an outbreak of the democratic spirit. It was the political form of a movement, of which the Reformation was the religious form. As the Reformation was aided, not by men in high ecclesiastical offices, not by great cardinals or wealthy bishops, but by men filling the lowest and most subordinate posts, just so was the English rebellion a movement from below, an uprising from the foundations, or as some will have it, the dregs of society. The few persons of high rank who adhered to the popular cause were quickly discarded, and the ease and rapidity with which they fell off was a clear indication of the turn that things were taking. Directly the army was freed from its noble leaders, and supplied with officers drawn from the lower classes, the fortune of war changed, the royalists were every where defeated, and the king made prisoner by his own subjects. Between his capture and execution, the two most important political events were his abduction by Joyce, and the forcible expulsion from the House of Commons of those members who were thought likely to interfere in his favour. Both these decisive steps were taken, and indeed only could have been taken, by men of great personal influence, and of a bold and resolute spirit. Joyce, who carried off the king, and who was highly respected in the army, had, however, been recently a common working tailor;[369] while Colonel Pride, whose name is preserved in history as having purged the House of Commons of the malignants, was about on a level with Joyce, since his original occupation was that of a drayman.[370] The tailor and the drayman were, in that age, strong enough to direct the course of public affairs, and to win for themselves a conspicuous position in the state. After the execution of Charles, the same tendency was displayed, the old monarchy being destroyed, that small but active party known as the fifth-monarchy men increased in importance, and for a time exercised considerable influence. Their three principal and most distinguished members were Venner, Tuffnel, and Okey. Venner, who was the leader, was a wine-cooper;[371] Tuffnel, who was second in command, was a carpenter;[372] and Okey, though he became a colonel, had filled the menial office of stoker in an Islington brewery.[373] [369] 'Cornet Joyce, who was one of the agitators in the army, a tailor, a fellow who had two or three years before served in a very inferior employment in Mr. Hollis's house.' _Clarendon's Rebellion_, p. 612. 'A shrewd tailor-man.' _D'Israeli's Commentaries on the Reign of Charles I._, 1851, vol. ii. p. 466. [370] Ludlow (_Memoirs_, vol. ii. p. 139); Noble (_Memoirs of the House of Cromwell_, vol. ii. p. 470); and Winstanley (_Loyal Martyrology_, edit. 1665, p. 108), mention that Pride had been a drayman. It is said that Cromwell, in ridicule of the old distinctions, conferred knighthood on him 'with a faggot.' _Orme's Life of Owen_, p. 164; _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. iii. p. 478. [371] 'The fifth-monarchy, headed mainly by one Venner, a wine-cooper.' _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. iii. p. 282. 'Venner, a wine-cooper.' _Lister's Life and Corresp. of Clarendon_, vol. ii. p. 62. [372] 'The second to Venner was one Tuffnel a carpenter living in Gray's Inn Lane.' _Winstanley's Martyrology_, p. 163. [373] 'He was stoaker in a brewhouse at Islington, and next a most poor chandler near Lion-Key, in Thames Street.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. p. 1605. See also _Winstanley's Martyrology_, p. 122. Nor are these to be regarded as exceptional cases. In that period, promotion depended solely on merit; and if a man had ability he was sure to rise, no matter what his birth or former avocations might have been. Cromwell himself was a brewer;[374] and Colonel Jones, his brother-in-law, had been servant to a private gentleman.[375] Deane was the servant of a tradesman; but he became an admiral, and was made one of the commissioners of the navy.[376] Colonel Goffe had been apprentice to a drysalter;[377] Major-general Whalley had been apprentice to a draper.[378] Skippon, a common soldier who had received no education,[379] was appointed commander of the London militia; he was raised to the office of sergeant-major-general of the army; he was declared commander-in-chief in Ireland; and he became one of the fourteen members of Cromwell's council.[380] Two of the lieutenants of the Tower were Berkstead and Tichborne. Berkstead was a pedlar, or at all events a hawker of small wares;[381] and Tichborne, who was a linendraper, not only received the lieutenancy of the Tower, but became a colonel, and a member of the committee of state in 1655, and of the council of state in 1659.[382] Other trades were equally successful; the highest prizes being open to all men, provided they displayed the requisite capacity. Colonel Harvey was a silk-mercer;[383] so was Colonel Rowe;[384] so also was Colonel Venn.[385] Salway had been apprentice to a grocer, but, being an able man, he rose to the rank of major in the army; he received the king's remembrancer's office; and in 1659 he was appointed by parliament a member of the council of state.[386] Around that council-board were also gathered Bond the draper,[387] and Cawley the brewer;[388] while by their side we find John Berners, who is said to have been a private servant,[389] and Cornelius Holland, who is known to have been a servant, and who was, indeed, formerly a link-boy.[390] Among others who were now favoured and promoted to offices of trust, were Packe the woollen-draper,[391] Pury the weaver,[392] and Pemble the tailor.[393] The parliament which was summoned in 1653 is still remembered as Barebone's parliament, being so called after one of its most active members, whose name was Barebone, and who was a leather-seller in Fleet Street.[394] Thus too, Downing, though a poor charity-boy,[395] became teller of the exchequer, and representative of England at the Hague.[396] To these we may add, that Colonel Horton had been a gentleman's servant;[397] Colonel Berry had been a woodmonger;[398] Colonel Cooper a haberdasher;[399] Major Rolfe a shoemaker;[400] Colonel Fox a tinker;[401] and Colonel Hewson a cobbler.[402] [374] Some of the clumsy eulogists of Cromwell wish to suppress the fact of his being a brewer; but that he really practised that useful trade is attested by a variety of evidence, and is distinctly stated by his own physician, Dr. Bates. _Bates's Troubles in England_, vol. ii. p. 238. See also _Walker's History of Independency_, part i. p. 32, part ii. p. 25, part iii. p. 37; _Noble's House of Cromwell_, vol. i. pp. 328-331. Other passages, which I cannot now call to mind, will occur to those who have studied the literature of the time. [375] 'John Jones, at first a serving-man, then a colonel of the Long Parliament, ... married the Protector's sister.' _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. p. 1600. 'A serving-man; ... in process of time married one of Cromwell's sisters.' _Winstanley's Martyrology_, p. 125. [376] 'Richard Deane, Esq., is said to have been a servant to one Button, a toyman in Ipswich, and to have himself been the son of a person in the same employment; ... was appointed one of the commissioners of the navy with Popham and Blake, and in April (1649) he became an admiral and general at sea.' _Noble's Lives of the Regicides_, vol. i. pp. 172, 173. Winstanley (_Martyrol._ p. 121) also says that Deane was 'servant in Ipswich.' [377] 'Apprentice to one Vaughan a dry-salter.' _Noble's House of Cromwell_, vol. ii. p. 507: and see his _Regicides_, vol. i. p. 255. [378] 'Bound apprentice to a woollen-draper.' _Winstanley's Martyr._ p. 108. He afterwards set up in the same trade for himself; but with little success, for Dr. Bates (_Troubles in England_, vol. ii. p. 222) calls him 'a broken clothier.' [379] 'Altogether illiterate.' _Clarendon's Rebellion_, p. 152. Two extraordinary speeches by him are preserved in _Burton's Diary_, vol. i. pp. 24, 25, 48-50. [380] _Holles's Mem._ p. 82; _Ludlow's Mem._ vol. ii. p. 39; and a letter from Fairfax in _Cary's Memorials of the Civil War_, 1842, vol. i. p. 413. [381] 'Berkstead, who heretofore sold needles, bodkins, and thimbles, and would have run on an errand any where for a little money; but who now by Cromwell was preferred to the honourable charge of lieutenant of the Tower of London.' _Bates's Account of the Troubles_, part ii. p. 222. [382] _Noble's Regicides_, vol. ii. pp. 272, 273. Lord Holles (_Memoirs_, p. 174) also mentions that he was 'a linen-draper.' [383] 'Edward Harvy, late a poor silk-man, now colonel, and hath got the Bishop of London's house and manor of Fulham.' _Walker's Independency_, part i. p. 170. 'One Harvey, a decayed silk-man,' _Clarendon's Rebellion_, p. 418. [384] Owen Rowe, 'put to the trade of a silk-mercer, ... went into the parliament army, and became a colonel.' _Noble's Regicides_, vol. ii. p. 150. [385] 'A silkman in London; ... went into the army, and rose to the rank of colonel.' _Noble's Regicides_, vol. ii. p. 283. 'A broken silk-man in Cheapside.' _Winstanley's Martyrol._ p. 130. [386] _Walker's Independency_, part i. p. 143; _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. p. 1608; _Ludlow's Mem._ vol. ii. pp. 241, 259; _Noble's Regicides_, vol. ii. pp. 158, 162. [387] He was 'a woollen-draper at Dorchester,' and was 'one of the council of state in 1649 and 1651.' _Noble's Regicides_, vol. i. p. 99: see also _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. p. 1594. [388] 'A brewer in Chichester; ... in 1650-1 he was appointed one of the council of state.' _Noble's Regicides_, vol. i. p. 136. 'William Cawley, a brewer of Chichester.' _Winstanley's Martyrol._ p. 138. [389] John Berners, 'supposed to have been originally a serving-man,' was 'one of the council of state in 1659,' _Noble's Regicides_, vol. i. p. 90. [390] 'Holland the link-boy,' _Walker's Independency_, part iii. p. 37. 'He was originally nothing more than a servant to Sir Henry Vane; ... upon the establishment of the Commonwealth, he was made one of the council of state in 1649, and again in 1650.' _Noble's Regicides_, vol. i. pp. 357, 358. [391] _Noble's Mem. of Cromwell_, vol. ii. p. 502. [392] _Walker's Hist. of Independency_, part i. p. 167. [393] _Ellis's Original Letters illustrative of English History_, third series, vol. iv. p. 219, Lond. 1846. [394] _Parl. Hist._ vol. iii. p. 1407; _Rose's Biog. Dict._ vol. iii. p. 172; _Clarendon's Rebellion_, p. 794. [395] 'A poor child bred upon charity.' _Harris's Stuarts_, vol. v. p. 281. 'A man of an obscure birth, and more obscure education.' _Clarendon's Life of Himself_, p. 1116. [396] See _Vaughan's Cromwell_, vol. i. pp. 227, 228, vol. ii. pp. 299, 302, 433; _Lister's Life and Corresp. of Clarendon_, vol. ii. p. 231, vol. iii. p. 134. The common opinion is, that he was the son of a clergyman at Hackney; but if so, he was probably illegitimate, considering the way he was brought up. However, his Hackney origin is very doubtful, and no one appears to know who his father was. See _Notes and Queries_, vol. iii. pp. 69, 213. [397] _Noble's Regicides_, vol. i. p. 362. Cromwell had a great regard for this remarkable man, who not only distinguished himself as a soldier, but, judging from a letter of his recently published, appears to have repaired the deficiencies of his early education. See _Fairfax Correspond._ vol. iv. pp. 22-25, 108. There never has been a period in the history of England in which so many men of natural ability were employed in the public service as during the Commonwealth. [398] _Noble's House of Cromwell_, vol. ii. p. 507. [399] _Noble's Cromwell_, vol. ii. p. 518; _Bates's Troubles_, vol. ii. p. 222. [400] _Bates's Late Troubles_, vol. i. p. 87; _Ludlow's Mem._ vol. i. p. 220. [401] _Walker's Hist. of Independency_, part ii. p. 87. [402] Ludlow who was well acquainted with Colonel Hewson, says that he 'had been a shoemaker.' _Ludlow's Memoirs_, vol. ii. p. 139. But this is the amiable partiality of a friend; and there is no doubt that the gallant colonel was neither more nor less than a cobbler. See _Walker's Independency_, part ii. p. 39; _Winstanley's Martyrol._ p. 123; _Bates's Late Troubles_, vol. ii. p. 222; _Noble's Cromwell_, vol. ii. pp. 251, 345, 470. Such were the leaders of the English rebellion, or to speak more properly, such were the instruments by which the rebellion was consummated.[403] If we now turn to France, we shall clearly see the difference between the feelings and temper of the two nations. In that country, the old protective spirit still retained its activity; and the people, being kept in a state of pupilage, had not acquired those habits of self-command and self-reliance, by which alone great things can be effected. They had been so long accustomed to look with timid reverence to the upper classes, that, even when they rose in arms, they could not throw off the ideas of submission which were quickly discarded by our ancestors. The influence of the higher ranks was, in England, constantly diminishing; in France, it was scarcely impaired. Hence it happened that, although the English and French rebellions were contemporary, and, in their origin, aimed at precisely the same objects, they were distinguished by one most important difference. This was, that the English rebels were headed by popular leaders; the French rebels by noble leaders. The bold and sturdy habits which had long been cultivated in England, enabled the middle and lower classes to supply their own chiefs out of their own ranks. In France such chiefs were not to be found; simply because, owing to the protective spirit, such habits had not been cultivated. While, therefore, in our island, the functions of civil government, and of war, were conducted with conspicuous ability, and complete success, by butchers, by bakers, by brewers, by cobblers, and by tinkers, the struggle which, at the same moment, was going on in France, presented an appearance totally different. In that country, the rebellion was headed by men of a far higher standing; men, indeed, of the longest and most illustrious lineage. There, to be sure, was a display of unexampled splendour; a galaxy of rank, a noble assemblage of aristocratic insurgents and titled demagogues. There was the Prince de Condé, the Prince de Conti, the Prince de Marsillac, the Duke de Bouillon, the Duke de Beaufort, the Duke de Longueville, the Duke de Chevreuse, the Duke de Nemours, the Duke de Luynes, the Duke de Brissac, the Duke d'Elb[oe]uf, the Duke de Candale, the Duke de la Tremouille, the Marquis de la Boulaye, the Marquis de Laigues, the Marquis de Noirmoutier, the Marquis de Vitry, the Marquis de Fosseuse, the Marquis de Sillery, the Marquis d'Estissac, the Marquis d'Hocquincourt, the Count de Rantzau, the Count de Montresor. [403] Walker, who relates what he himself witnessed, says, that, about 1649, the army was commanded by 'colonels and superior officers, who lord it in their gilt coaches, rich apparel, costly feastings; though some of them led dray-horses, wore leather-pelts, and were never able to name their own fathers or mothers.' _Hist. of Independ._ part ii. p. 244. The _Mercurius Rusticus_, 1647, says, 'Chelmsford was governed by a tinker, two cobblers, two tailors, two pedlars.' _Southey's Commonplace Book_, third series, 1850, p. 430. And, at p. 434, another work, in 1647, makes a similar statement in regard to Cambridge; while Lord Holles assures us, that 'most of the colonels and officers (were) mean tradesmen, brewers, taylors, goldsmiths, shoe-makers, and the like.' _Holles's Memoirs_, p. 149. When Whitelocke was in Sweden in 1653, the prætor of one of the towns abused the parliament, saying, 'that they killed their king, and were a company of taylors and cobblers.' _Whitelocke's Swedish Embassy_, vol. i. p. 205. See also note in _Carwithen's Hist. of the Church of England_, vol. ii. p. 156. These were the leaders of the Fronde;[404] and the mere announcement of their names indicate the difference between the French and English rebellions. And, in consequence of this difference, there followed some results, which are well worth the attention of those writers who, in their ignorance of the progress of human affairs, seek to uphold that aristocratic power, which, fortunately for the interests of mankind, has long been waning; and which, during the last seventy years has, in the most civilized countries, received such severe and repeated shocks, that its ultimate fate is hardly a matter respecting which much doubt can now be entertained. [404] Even De Retz, who vainly attempted to organise a popular party, found that it was impossible to take any step without the nobles; and, notwithstanding his democratic tendencies, he, in 1648, thought it advisable 'tâcher d'engager dans les intérêts publics les personnes de qualité.' _Mém. de Joly_, p. 31. The English rebellion was headed by men, whose tastes, habits, and associations, being altogether popular, formed a bond of sympathy between them and the people, and preserved the union of the whole party. In France the sympathy was very weak, and therefore, the union was very precarious. What sort of sympathy could there be between the mechanic and the peasant, toiling for their daily bread, and the rich and dissolute noble, whose life was passed in those idle and frivolous pursuits which debased his mind, and made his order a byword and a reproach among the nations? To talk of sympathy existing between the two classes is a manifest absurdity, and most assuredly would have been deemed an insult by those high-born men, who treated their inferiors with habitual and insolent contempt. It is true, that, from causes which have been already stated, the people did, unhappily for themselves, look up to those above them with the greatest veneration;[405] but every page of French history proves how unworthily this feeling was reciprocated, and in how complete a thraldom the lower classes were kept. While, therefore, the French, from their long-established habits of dependence, were become incapable of conducting their own rebellion, and, on that account, were obliged to place themselves under the command of their nobles, this very necessity confirmed the servility which caused it; and thus stunting the growth of freedom, prevented the nation from effecting, by their civil wars, those great things which we, in England, were able to bring about by ours. [405] Mably (_Observations sur l'Hist. de France_, vol. i. p. 357) frankly says, 'L'exemple d'un grand a toujours été plus contagieux chez les Français que partout ailleurs.' See also vol. ii. p. 267: 'Jamais l'exemple des grands n'a été aussi contagieux ailleurs qu'en France; on dirait qu'ils ont le malheureux privilège de tout justifier.' Rivarol, though his opinions on other points were entirely opposed to those of Mably, says, that, in France, 'la noblesse est aux yeux du peuple une espèce de religion, dont les gentilshommes sont les prêtres.' _Mém. de Rivarol_, p. 94. Happily, the French Revolution, or rather the circumstances which caused the French Revolution, have utterly destroyed this ignominious homage. Indeed, it is only necessary to read the French literature of the seventeenth century, to see the incompatibility of the two classes, and the utter hopelessness of fusing into one party the popular and aristocratic spirit. While the object of the people was to free themselves from the yoke, the object of the nobles was merely to find new sources of excitement,[406] and minister to that personal vanity for which, as a body, they have always been notorious. As this is a department of history that has been little studied, it will be interesting to collect a few instances, which will illustrate the temper of the French aristocracy, and will show what sort of honours, and what manner of distinctions, those were which this powerful class was most anxious to obtain. [406] The Duke de la Rochefoucauld candidly admits that, in 1649, the nobles raised a civil war, 'avec d'autant plus de haleur que c'était une nouveauté.' _Mém. de Rochefoucauld_, vol. i. p. 406. Thus too Lemontey (_Etablissement de Louis XIV_, p. 368): 'La vieille noblesse, qui ne savait que combattre, faisait la guerre par goût, par besoin, par vanité, par ennui.' Compare, in _Mém. d'Omer Talon_, vol. ii. pp. 467, 468, a summary of the reasons which, in 1649, induced the nobles to go to war; and on the way in which their frivolity debased the Fronde, see _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. pp. 169, 170. That the objects chiefly coveted were of a very trifling description, will be anticipated by whoever has studied the effect which, in an immense majority of minds, hereditary distinctions produce upon personal character. How pernicious such distinctions are, may be clearly seen in the history of all the European aristocracies; and in the notorious fact, that none of them have preserved even a mediocrity of talent, except in countries where they are frequently invigorated by the infusion of plebeian blood, and their order strengthened by the accession of those masculine energies which are natural to men who make their own position, but cannot be looked for in men whose position is made for them. For, when the notion is once firmly implanted in the mind, that the source of honour is from without, rather than from within, it must invariably happen that the possession of external distinction will be preferred to the sense of internal power. In such cases, the majesty of the human intellect, and the dignity of human knowledge, are considered subordinate to those mock and spurious gradations by which weak men measure the degrees of their own littleness. Hence it is, that the real precedence of things becomes altogether reversed; that which is trifling is valued more than that which is great; and the mind is enervated by conforming to a false standard of merit, which its own prejudices have raised. On this account, they are evidently in the wrong who reproach the nobles with their pride, as if it were a characteristic of their order. The truth is, that if pride were once established among them, their extinction would rapidly follow. To talk of the pride of hereditary rank, is a contradiction in terms. Pride depends on the consciousness of self-applause; vanity is fed by the applause of others. Pride is a reserved and lofty passion, which disdains those external distinctions that vanity eagerly grasps. The proud man sees in his own mind, the source of his own dignity; which, as he well knows, can be neither increased or diminished by any acts except those which proceed solely from himself. The vain man, restless, insatiable, and always craving after the admiration of his contemporaries, must naturally make great account of those external marks, those visible tokens, which, whether they be decorations or titles, strike directly on the senses, and thus captivate the vulgar, to whose understandings they are immediately obvious. This, therefore, being the great distinction, that pride looks within, while vanity looks without, it is clear that when a man values himself for a rank which he inherited by chance, without exertion, and without merit, it is a proof, not of pride, but of vanity, and of vanity of the most despicable kind. It is a proof that such a man has no sense of real dignity, no idea of what that is in which alone all greatness consists. What marvel if, to minds of this sort, the most insignificant trifles should swell into matters of the highest importance? What marvel if such empty understandings should be busied with ribbons, and stars, and crosses; if this noble should yearn after the Garter, and that noble pine for the Golden Fleece; if one man should long to carry a wand in the precincts of the court, and another man to fill an office in the royal household; while the ambition of a third is to make his daughter a maid-of-honour, or to raise his wife to be mistress of the robes? We, seeing these things, ought not to be surprised that the French nobles, in the seventeenth century, displayed, in their intrigues and disputes, a frivolity, which, though redeemed by occasional exceptions, is the natural characteristic of every hereditary aristocracy. A few examples of this will suffice to give the reader some idea of the tastes and temper of that powerful class which, during several centuries, retarded the progress of French civilization. Of all the questions on which the French nobles were divided, the most important was that touching the right of sitting in the royal presence. This was considered to be a matter of such gravity, that, in comparison with it, a mere struggle for liberty faded into insignificance. And what made it still more exciting to the minds of the nobles was, the extreme difficulty with which this great social problem was beset. According to the ancient etiquette of the French court, if a man were a duke, his wife might sit in the presence of the queen; but if his rank were inferior, even if he were a marquis, no such liberty could be allowed.[407] So far, the rule was very simple, and, to the duchesses themselves, highly agreeable. But the marquises, the counts, and the other illustrious nobles, were uneasy at this invidious distinction, and exerted all their energies to procure for their own wives the same honour. This the dukes strenuously resisted; but, owing to circumstances which unfortunately are not fully understood, an innovation was made in the reign of Louis XIII., and the privilege of sitting in the same room with the queen was conceded to the female members of the Bouillon family.[408] In consequence of this evil precedent, the question became seriously complicated, since other members of the aristocracy considered that the purity of their descent gave them claims nowise inferior to those of the house of Bouillon, whose antiquity, they said, had been grossly exaggerated. The contest which ensued, had the effect of breaking up the nobles into two hostile parties, one of which sought to preserve that exclusive privilege in which the other wished to participate. To reconcile these rival pretensions, various expedients were suggested; but all were in vain, and the court, during the administration of Mazarin, being pressed by the fear of a rebellion, showed symptoms of giving way, and of yielding to the inferior nobles the point they so ardently desired. In 1648 and 1649, the queen-regent, acting under the advice of her council, formally conceded the right of sitting in the royal presence to the three most distinguished members of the lower aristocracy, namely, the Countess de Fleix, Madame de Pons, and the Princess de Marsillac.[409] Scarcely had this decision been promulgated, when the princes of the blood and the peers of the realm were thrown into the greatest agitation.[410] They immediately summoned to the capital those members of their own order who were interested in repelling this daring aggression, and, forming themselves into an assembly, they at once adopted measures to vindicate their ancient rights.[411] On the other hand, the inferior nobles, flushed by their recent success, insisted that the concession just made should be raised into a precedent; and that, as the honour of being seated in the presence of majesty had been conceded to the house of Foix, in the person of the Countess de Fleix, it should likewise be granted to all those who could prove that their ancestry was equally illustrious.[412] The greatest confusion now arose; and both sides urgently insisting on their own claims, there was, for many months, imminent danger lest the question should be decided by an appeal to the sword.[413] But as the higher nobles, though less numerous than their opponents, were more powerful, the dispute was finally settled in their favour. The queen sent to their assembly a formal message, which was conveyed by four of the marshals of France, and in which she promised to revoke those privileges, the concession of which had given such offence to the most illustrious members of the French aristocracy. At the same time, the marshals not only pledged themselves as responsible for the promise of the queen, but undertook to sign an agreement that they would personally superintend its execution.[414] The nobles, however, who felt that they had been aggrieved in their most tender point, were not yet satisfied, and, to appease them, it was necessary that the atonement should be as public as the injury. It was found necessary, before they would peaceably disperse, that government should issue a document, signed by the queen-regent, and by the four secretaries of state,[415] in which the favours granted to the unprivileged nobility were withdrawn, and the much-cherished honour of sitting in the royal presence was taken away from the Princess de Marsillac, from Madame de Pons, and from the Countess de Fleix.[416] [407] Hence the duchesses were called 'femmes assises;' those of lower rank 'non assises.' _Mém. de Fontenay Mareuil_, vol. i. p. 111. The Count de Ségur tells us that 'les duchesses jouissaient de la prérogative d'être assises sur un tabouret chez la reine.' _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. i. p. 79. The importance attached to this is amusingly illustrated in _Mém. de Saint-Simon_, vol. iii. pp. 215-218, Paris, 1842; which should be compared with _De Tocqueville_, _Règne de Louis XV_, vol. ii. p. 116, and _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. x. p. 383. [408] 'Survint incontinent une autre difficulté à la cour sur le sujet des tabourets, que doivent avoir les dames dans la chambre de la reine; car encore que cela ne s'accorde régulièrement qu'aux duchesses, néanmoins le feu roi Louis XIII l'avoit accordé aux filles de la maison de Bouillon,' &c. _Mém. d'Omer Talon_, vol. iii. p. 5. See also, on this encroachment on the rights of the duchesses under Louis XIII., the case of Séguier, in _Duclos_, _Mémoires Secrets_, vol. i. pp. 360, 361. The consequences of the innovation were very serious; and Tallemant des Réaux (_Historiettes_, vol. iii. pp. 223, 224) mentions a distinguished lady, of whom he says, 'Pour satisfaire son ambition, il lui falloit un tabouret: elle cabale pour épouser le vieux Bouillon La Marck veuf pour la seconde fois.' In this she failed; but, determined not to be baffled, 'elle ne se rebute point, et voulant à toute force avoir un tabouret, elle épouse le fils aîné du duc de Villars: c'est un ridicule de corps et d'esprit, car il est bossu et quasi imbécile, et gueux par-dessus cela.' This melancholy event happened in 1649. [409] As to the Countess de Fleix and Madame de Pons, see _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. iii. pp. 116, 369. According to the same high authority (vol. iii. p. 367), the inferiority of the Princess de Marsillac consisted in the painful fact, that her husband was merely the son of a duke, and the duke himself was still alive 'il n'étoit que gentilhomme, et son père le duc de la Rochefoucauld n'étoit pas mort.' [410] The long account of these proceedings in _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. iii. pp. 367-393, shows the importance attached to them by contemporary opinion. [411] In October 1649, 'la noblesse s'assembla à Paris sur le fait des tabourets,' _Mém. de Lenet_, vol. i. p. 184. [412] 'Tous ceux donc qui par leurs aïeux avoient dans leurs maisons de la grandeur, par des alliances des femmes descendues de ceux qui étoient autrefois maîtres et souverains des provinces de France, demandèrent la même prérogative que celle qui venoit d'être accordée au sang de Foix.' _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. iii. p. 117. Another contemporary says: 'Cette prétention émut toutes les maisons de la cour sur cette différence et inégalité.' _Mém. d'Omer Talon_, vol. iii. p. 6; and vol. ii. p. 437: 'le marquis de Noirmoutier et celui de Vitry demandoient le tabouret pour leurs femmes.' [413] Indeed, at one moment, it was determined that a counter-demonstration should be made on the part of the inferior nobles; a proceeding which, if adopted, must have caused civil war: 'Nous résolûmes une contre-assemblée de noblesse pour soutenir le tabouret de la maison de Rohan.' _De Retz_, _Mémoires_, vol. i. p. 284. [414] _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. iii. p. 389. [415] 'Signé d'elle et des quatre secrétaires d'état.' _Ibid._ vol. iii. p. 391. [416] The best accounts of this great struggle will be found in the _Memoirs of Madame de Motteville_, and in those of Omer Talon; two writers of very different minds, but both of them deeply impressed with the magnitude of the contest. These were the subjects which occupied the minds and wasted the energies, of the French nobles, while their country was distracted by civil war, and while questions were at issue of the greatest importance--questions concerning the liberty of the nation, and the reconstruction of the government.[417] It is hardly necessary to point out how unfit such men must have been to head the people in their arduous struggle, and how immense was the difference between them and the leaders of the great English Rebellion. The causes of the failure of the Fronde are, indeed, obvious, when we consider that its chiefs were drawn from that very class respecting whose tastes and feelings some evidence has just been given.[418] How that evidence might be almost indefinitely extended, is well known to readers of the French memoirs of the seventeenth century--a class of works which, being mostly written either by the nobles or their adherents, supplies the best materials from which an opinion may be formed. In looking into these authorities, where such matters are related with a becoming sense of their importance, we find the greatest difficulties and disputes arising as to who was to have an arm-chair at court;[419] who was to be invited to the royal dinners, and who was to be excluded from them;[420] who was to be kissed by the queen, and who was not to be kissed by her;[421] who should have the first seat in church;[422] what the proper proportion was between the rank of different persons, and the length of the cloth on which they were allowed to stand;[423] what was the dignity a noble must have attained, in order to justify his entering the Louvre in a coach;[424] who was to have precedence at coronations;[425] whether all dukes were equal, or whether, as some thought, the Duke de Bouillon, having once possessed the sovereignty of Sedan, was superior to the Duke de la Rochefoucauld, who had never possessed any sovereignty at all;[426] whether the Duke de Beaufort ought or ought not to enter the council-chamber before the Duke de Nemours, and whether, being there, he ought to sit above him.[427] These were the great questions of the day: while, as if to exhaust every form of absurdity, the most serious misunderstandings arose as to who should have the honour of giving the king his napkin as he ate his meals[428] and who was to enjoy the inestimable privilege of helping on the queen with her shift.[429] [417] Saint-Aulaire (_Hist. de la Fronde_, vol. i. p. 317) says, that in this same year (1649), 'l'esprit de discussion fermentait dans toutes les têtes, et chacun à cette époque soumettait les actes de l'autorité à un examen raisonné.' Thus, too, in _Mém. de Montglat_, under 1649, 'on ne parlait publiquement dans Paris que de république et de liberté,' vol. ii. p. 186. In 1648, 'effusa est contemptio super principes.' _Mém. d'Omer Talon_, vol. ii. p. 271. [418] That the failure of the Fronde is not to be ascribed to the inconstancy of the people, is admitted by De Retz, by far the ablest observer of his time: 'Vous vous étonnerez peut-être de ce que je dis plus sûr, à cause de l'instabilité du peuple: mais il faut avouer que celui de Paris se fixe plus aisément qu'aucun autre; et M. de Villeroi, qui a été le plus habile homme de son siècle, et qui en a parfaitement connu le naturel dans tout le cours de la ligue, où il le gouverna sous M. du Maine, a été de ce sentiment. Ce que j'en éprouvois moi-même me le persuadoit.' _Mém. de Retz_, vol. i. p. 348; a remarkable passage, and forming a striking contrast to the declamation of those ignorant writers who are always reproaching the people with their fickleness. [419] This knotty point was decided in favour of the Duke of York, to whom, in 1649, 'la reine fit de grands honneurs, et lui donna une chaise à bras.' _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. iii. p. 275. In the chamber of the king, the matter seems to have been differently arranged; for Omer Talon (_Mém._ vol. ii. p. 332) tells us that 'le duc d'Orléans n'avoit point de fauteuil, mais un simple siège pliant, à cause que nous étions dans la chambre du roi.' In the subsequent year, the scene not being in the king's room, the same writer describes 'M. le duc d'Orléans assis dans un fauteuil.' _Ibid._ vol. iii. p. 95. Compare _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. viii. p. 310. Voltaire (_Dict. Philos._ art. _Cérémonies_) says: 'Le fauteuil à bras, la chaise à dos, le tabouret, la main droite et la main gauche, ont été pendant plusieurs siècles d'importants objets de politique, et d'illustres sujets de querelles.' _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxxvii. p. 486. The etiquette of the 'fauteuil' and 'chaise' is explained in _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. x. p. 287. [420] See _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. iii. pp. 309, 310. [421] See a list of those it was proper for the queen to kiss, in _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. iii. p. 318. [422] _Mém. de Omer Talon_, vol. i. pp. 217-219. The Prince de Condé hotly asserted, that at a _Te Deum_ 'il ne pouvait être assis en autre place que dans la première chaire.' This was in 1642. [423] For a quarrel respecting the 'drap de pied,' see _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. ii. p. 249. [424] A very serious dispute was caused by the claim of the Prince de Marsillac, for 'permission d'entrer dans le Louvre en carrosse.' _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. iii. pp. 367-389. [425] _Mém. de Pontchartrain_, vol. i. pp. 422, 423, at the coronation of Louis XIII. Other instances of difficulties caused by questions of precedence, will be found in _Mém. d'Omer Talon_, vol. iii. pp. 23, 24, 437; and even in the grave work of Sully, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. vii. p. 126, vol. viii. p. 395; which should be compared with _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. ix. pp. 86, 87. [426] _Mém. de Lenet_, vol. i. pp. 378, 379. Lenet, who was a great admirer of the nobles, relates all this without the faintest perception of its absurdity. I ought not to omit a terrible dispute, in 1652, respecting the recognition of the claims of the Duke de Rohan (_Mém. de Conrart_, pp. 151, 152); nor another dispute, in the reign of Henry IV., as to whether a duke ought to sign his name before a marshal, or whether a marshal should sign first. _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. xi. p. 11. [427] This difficulty, in 1652, caused a violent quarrel between the two dukes, and ended in a duel in which the Duke de Nemours was killed, as is mentioned by most of the contemporary writers. See _Mém. de Montglat_, vol. ii. p. 357; _Mém. de la Rochefoucauld_, vol. ii. p. 172; _Mém. de Conrart_, pp. 172-175; _Mém. de Retz_, vol. ii. p. 203; _Mém. d'Omer Talon_, vol. iii. p. 437. [428] Pontchartrain, one of the ministers of state, writes, under the year 1620: 'En ce même temps s'étoit mû un très-grand différend entre M. le prince de Condé et M. le comte de Soissons, sur le sujet de la serviette que chacun d'eux prétendoit devoir présenter au roi quand ils se rencontreroient tous deux près sa majesté.' _Mém. de Pontchartrain_, vol. ii. p. 295. Le Vassor, who gives a fuller account (_Règne de Louis XIII_, vol. iii. pp. 536, 537), says, 'Chacun des deux princes du sang, fort échauffez à qui feroit une fonction de maître d'hôtel, tiroit la serviette de son côté, et la contestation augmentoit d'une manière dont les suites pouvoient devenir fâcheuses.' But the king interposing, 'ils furent donc obligez de céder: mais ce ne fut pas sans se dire l'un à l'autre des paroles hautes et menaçantes.' [429] According to some authorities, a man ought to be a duke before his wife could be allowed to meddle with the queen's shift; according to other authorities, the lady-in-waiting, whoever she might be, had the right, unless a princess happened to be present. On these alternatives, and on the difficulties caused by them, compare _Mém. de Saint-Simon_, 1842, vol. vii. p. 125, with _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. ii. pp. 28, 276, 277. It may, perhaps, be thought that I owe some apology to the reader for obtruding upon his notice these miserable disputes respecting matters which, however despicable they now appear, were once valued by men not wholly devoid of understanding. But, it should be remembered that their occurrence, and above all, the importance formerly attached to them, is part of the history of the French mind; and they are therefore to be estimated, not according to their intrinsic dignity, but according to the information they supply respecting a state of things which has now passed away. Events of this sort, though neglected by ordinary historians, are among the staff and staple of history. Not only do they assist in bringing before our minds the age to which they refer, but in a philosophic point of view they are highly important. They are part of the materials from which we may generalize the laws of that great protective spirit, which in different periods assumes different shapes; but which, whatever its form may be, always owes its power to the feeling of veneration as opposed to the feeling of independence. How natural this power is, in certain stages of society, becomes evident if we examine the basis on which veneration is itself supported. The origin of veneration is wonder and fear. These two passions, either alone or combined, are the ordinary source of veneration; and the way in which they arise is obvious. We wonder because we are ignorant, and we fear because we are weak. It is therefore natural, that in former times, when men were more ignorant and more weak than they now are, they should likewise have been more given to veneration, more inclined to those habits of reverence, which if carried into religion, cause superstition, and if carried into politics, cause despotism. In the ordinary march of society, those evils are remedied by that progress of knowledge, which at once lessens our ignorance and increases our resources: in other words, which diminishes our proneness to wonder and to fear, and thus weakening our feelings of veneration, strengthens, in the same proportion, our feelings of independence. But in France, this natural tendency was, as we have already seen, counteracted by an opposite tendency; so that while, on the one hand, the protective spirit was enfeebled by the advance of knowledge, it was, on the other hand, invigorated by those social and political circumstances which I have attempted to trace; and by virtue of which, each class exercising great power over the one below it, the subordination and subserviency of the whole were completely maintained. Hence the mind became accustomed to look upwards, and to rely, not on its own resources, but on the resources of others. Hence that pliant and submissive disposition, for which the French, until the eighteenth century, were always remarkable. Hence, too, that inordinate respect for the opinions of others, on which vanity, as one of their national characteristics, is founded.[430] For, the feelings of vanity and of veneration have evidently this in common, that they induce each man to measure his actions by a standard external to himself; while the opposite feelings of pride and of independence would make him prefer that internal standard which his own mind alone can supply. The result of all this was, that when, in the middle of the seventeenth century, the intellectual movement stimulated the French to rebellion, its effect was neutralized by that social tendency which, even in the midst of the struggle, kept alive the habits of their old subservience. Thus it was that, while the war went on, there still remained a constant inclination on the part of the people to look up to the nobles, on the part of the nobles to look up to the crown. Both classes relied upon what they saw immediately above them. The people believed that without the nobles there was no safety; the nobles believed that without the crown there was no honour. In the case of the nobles, this opinion can hardly be blamed; for as their distinctions proceed from the crown, they have a direct interest in upholding the ancient notion that the sovereign is the fountain of honour. They have a direct interest in that preposterous doctrine, according to which, the true source of honour being overlooked, our attention is directed to an imaginary source, by whose operation it is believed, that in a moment, and at the mere will of a prince, the highest honours may be conferred upon the meanest men. This, indeed, is but part of the old scheme to create distinctions for which nature has given no warrant; to substitute a superiority which is conventional for that which is real; and thus try to raise little minds above the level of great ones. The utter failure, and, as society advances, the eventual cessation of all such attempts, is certain; but it is evident, that as long as the attempts are made, they who profit by them must be inclined to value those from whom they proceed. Unless counteracting circumstances interpose, there must be between the two parties that sympathy which is caused by the memory of past favours, and the hope of future ones. In France, this natural feeling being strengthened by that protective spirit which induced men to cling to those above them, it is not strange that the nobles, even in the midst of their turbulence, should seek the slightest favours of the crown with an eagerness of which some examples have just been given. They had been so long accustomed to look up to the sovereign as the source of their own dignity, that they believed there was some hidden dignity even in his commonest actions; so that, to their minds, it was a matter of the greatest importance which of them should hand him his napkin, which of them should hold his basin, and which of them should put on his shirt.[431] It is not, however, for the sake of casting ridicule upon these idle and frivolous men, that I have collected evidence respecting the disputes with which they were engrossed. So far from this, they are rather to be pitied than blamed: they acted according to their instincts; they even exerted such slender abilities as nature had given to them. But we may well feel for that great country whose interests depended on their care. And it is solely in reference to the fate of the French people that the historian need trouble himself with the history of the French nobles. At the same time, evidence of this sort, by disclosing the tendencies of the old nobility, displays in one of its most active forms that protective and aristocratic spirit, of which they know little who only know it in its present reduced and waning condition. Such facts are to be regarded as the symptoms of a cruel disease, by which Europe is indeed still afflicted, but which we now see only in a very mitigated form, and of whose native virulence no one can have an idea, unless he has studied it in those early stages, when, raging uncontrolled, it obtained such a mastery as to check the growth of liberty, stop the progress of nations, and dwarf the energies of the human mind. [430] Also connected with the institution of chivalry, both being cognate symptoms of the same spirit. [431] Even just before the French Revolution, these feelings still existed. See, for instance the extraordinary details in _Campan_, _Mém. sur Marie-Antoinette_, vol. i. pp. 98, 99; which should be compared with an extract from _Prudhomme's Mirror de Paris_, in _Southey's Commonplace Book_, third series, 1850, p. 251, no. 165. It is hardly necessary to trace at greater length the way in which France and England diverged from each other, or to point out what I hope will henceforth be considered the obvious difference between the civil wars in the two countries. It is evident that the low-born and plebeian leaders of our rebellion could have no sympathy with those matters which perplexed the understanding of the great French nobles. Men like Cromwell and his co-adjutors were not much versed in the mysteries of genealogy, or in the subtleties of heraldic lore. They had paid small attention to the etiquette of courts; they had not even studied the rules of precedence. All this was foreign to their design. On the other hand, what they did was done thoroughly. They knew that they had a great work to perform; and they performed it well.[432] They had risen in arms against a corrupt and despotic government, and they would not stay their hands until they had pulled down those who were in high places; until they had not only removed the evil, but had likewise chastised those bad men by whom the evil was committed. And although in this, their glorious undertaking, they did undoubtedly display some of the infirmities to which even the highest minds are subject; we, at least, ought never to speak of them but with that unfeigned respect which is due to those who taught the first great lesson to the kings of Europe, and who, in language not to be mistaken, proclaimed to them that the impunity which they had long enjoyed was now come to an end, and that against their transgressions the people possessed a remedy, sharper, and more decisive, than any they had hitherto ventured to use. [432] Ludlow thus expresses the sentiments which induced him to make war upon the crown: 'The question in dispute between the king's party and us being, as I apprehend, whether the king should govern as a god by his will, and the nation be governed by force like beasts? or whether the people should be governed by laws made by themselves, and live under a government derived from their own consent? being fully persuaded, that an accommodation with the king was unsafe to the people of England, and unjust and wicked in the nature of it.' _Ludlow's Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 230. Compare Whitelocke's spirited speech to Christina, in _Journal of the Swedish Embassy_, vol. i. p. 238; and see pp. 390, 391. CHAPTER IV. THE PROTECTIVE SPIRIT CARRIED BY LOUIS XIV. INTO LITERATURE. EXAMINATION OF THE CONSEQUENCES OF THIS ALLIANCE BETWEEN THE INTELLECTUAL CLASSES AND THE GOVERNING CLASSES. The reader will now be able to understand how it was that the protective system, and the notions of subordination connected with it, gained in France a strength unknown in England, and caused an essential divergence between the two countries. To complete the comparison, it seems necessary to examine how this same spirit influenced the purely intellectual history of France as well as its social and political history. For the ideas of dependence upon which the protective scheme is based, encouraged a belief that the subordination which existed in politics and in society ought also to exist in literature; and that the paternal, inquisitive, and centralizing system which regulated the material interests of the country, should likewise regulate the interests of its knowledge. When, therefore, the Fronde was finally overthrown, everything was prepared for that singular intellectual polity which, during fifty years characterised the reign of Louis XIV., and which was to French literature what feudalism was to French politics. In both cases, homage was paid by one party, and protection and favour accorded by the other. Every man of letters became a vassal of the French crown. Every book was written with a view to the royal favour; and to obtain the patronage of the king was considered the most decisive proof of intellectual eminence. The effects produced by this system will be examined in the present chapter. The apparent cause of the system was the personal character of Louis XIV.; but the real and overruling causes were those circumstances which I have already pointed out, and which established in the French mind associations that remained undisturbed until the eighteenth century. To invigorate those associations, and to carry them into every department of life, was the great aim of Louis XIV.; and in that he was completely successful. It is on this account that the history of his reign becomes highly instructive, because we see in it the most remarkable instance of despotism which has ever occurred; a despotism of the largest and most comprehensive kind; a despotism of fifty years over one of the most civilized people in Europe, who not only bore the yoke without repining, but submitted with cheerfulness, and even with gratitude, to him by whom it was imposed.[433] [433] On the disgraceful subserviency of the most eminent men of letters, see _Capefigue's Louis XIV._, vol. i. pp. 41, 42, 116; and on the feeling of the people, Le Vassor, who wrote late in the reign of Louis XIV., bitterly says, 'mais les Français, accoutumés à l'esclavage, ne sentent plus la pesanteur de leurs chaînes.' _Le Vassor_, _Hist. de Louis XIII_, vol. vi. p. 670. Foreigners were equally amazed at the general, and still more, at the willing servility. Lord Shaftesbury, in a letter dated February 1704-5, passes a glowing eulogy upon liberty; but he adds, that in France 'you will hardly find this argument understood; for whatever flashes may now and then appear, I never yet knew one single Frenchman a free man.' _Forster's Original Letters of Locke, Sidney, and Shaftesbury_, 1830, p. 205. In the same year, De Foe makes a similar remark in regard to the French nobles, _Wilson's Life of De Foe_, vol. ii. p. 209; and, in 1699, Addison writes from Blois a letter which strikingly illustrates the degradation of the French. _Aikin's Life of Addison_, vol. i. p. 80. Compare _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. iv. p. 365, on 'the gross excess of flattery to which the French have run, beyond the examples of former ages, in honour of their king.' What makes this the more strange is, that the reign of Louis XIV. must be utterly condemned if it is tried even by the lowest standard of morals, of honour, or of interest. A coarse and unbridled profligacy, followed by the meanest and most grovelling superstition, characterized his private life, while in his public career he displayed an arrogance and a systematic perfidy which eventually roused the anger of all Europe, and brought upon France sharp and signal retribution. As to his domestic policy, he formed a strict alliance with the church; and although he resisted the authority of the Pope, he willingly left his subjects to be oppressed by the tyranny of the clergy.[434] To them he abandoned everything except the exercise of his own prerogative.[435] Led on by them, he, from the moment he assumed the Government, began to encroach upon those religious liberties of which Henry IV. had laid the foundation, and which down to this period had been preserved intact.[436] It was at the instigation of the clergy that he revoked the Edict of Nantes, by which the principle of toleration had for nearly a century been incorporated with the law of the land.[437] It was at their instigation that, just before this outrage upon the most sacred rights of his subjects, he, in order to terrify the Protestants into conversion, suddenly let loose upon them whole troops of dissolute soldiers, who were allowed to practise the most revolting cruelties. The frightful barbarities which followed are related by authentic writers;[438] and of the effect produced on the material interests of the nation, some idea may be formed from the fact, that these religious persecutions cost France half a million of her most industrious inhabitants, who fled to different parts, taking with them those habits of labour, and that knowledge and experience in their respective trades, which had hitherto been employed in enriching their own country.[439] These things are notorious, they are incontestable, and they lie on the surface of history. Yet, in the face of them there are still found men who hold up for admiration the age of Louis XIV. Although it is well known that in his reign every vestige of liberty was destroyed; that the people were weighed down by an insufferable taxation; that their children were torn from them by tens of thousands to swell the royal armies; that the resources of the country were squandered to an unprecedented extent; that a despotism of the worst kind was firmly established;--although all this is universally admitted, yet there are writers, even in our own day, who are so infatuated with the glories of literature, as to balance them against the most enormous crimes, and who will forgive every injury inflicted by a prince during whose life there were produced the Letters of Pascal, the orations of Bossuet, the Comedies of Molière, and the Tragedies of Racine. [434] The terms of this compact between the crown and the church are fairly stated by M. Ranke: 'Wir sehen, die beiden Gewalten unterstützten einander. Der König ward von den Einwirkungen der weltlichen, der Clerus von der unbedingten Autorität der geistlichen Gewalt des Papstthums freigesprochen.' _Die Päpste_, vol. iii. p. 168. [435] This part of his character is skilfully drawn by Sismondi, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxv. p. 43. [436] Flasson supposes that the first persecuting laws were in 1679: 'Des l'année 1679 les concessions faites aux protestans avaient été graduellement restreintes.' _Diplomatie Française_, vol. iv. p. 92. But the fact is, that these laws began in 1662, the year after the death of Mazarin. See _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxv. p. 167; _Benoist_, _Edit. de Nantes_, vol. iii. pp. 460-462, 481. In 1667, a letter from Thynne to Lord Clarendon (_Lister's Life of Clarendon_, vol. iii. p. 446) mentions 'the horrid persecutions the reformed religion undergoes in France;' and Locke, who travelled in France in 1675 and 1676, states in his Journal (_King's Life of Locke_, vol. i. p. 110) that the Protestants were losing 'every day some privilege or other.' [437] An account of the revocation will be found in all the French historians; but I do not remember that any of them have noticed that there was a rumour of it in Paris twenty years before it occurred. In March 1665 Patin writes, 'On dit que, pour miner les huguenots, le roi veut supprimer les chambres de l'édit, et abolir l'édit de Nantes.' _Lettres de Patin_, vol. iii. p. 516. [438] Compare _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. iii. pp. 73-76, with _Siècle de Louis XIV_, in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xx. pp. 377, 378. Voltaire says that the Protestants who persisted in their religion 'étaient livrés aux soldats, qui eurent toute licence, excepté celle de tuer. Il y eut pourtant plusieurs personnes si cruellement maltraitées qu'elles en moururent.' And Burnet, who was in France in 1685, says, 'all men set their thoughts on work to invent new methods of cruelty.' What some of those methods were, I shall now relate; because the evidence, however painful it may be, is necessary to enable us to understand the reign of Louis XIV. It is necessary that the veil should be rent; and that the squeamish delicacy which would hide such facts, should give way before the obligation which the historian is under of holding up to public opprobrium, and branding with public infamy, the church by which the measures were instigated, the sovereign by whom they were enforced, and the age in which they were permitted. The two original sources for our knowledge of these events are, _Quick's Synodicon in Gallia_, 1692, folio; and _Benoist_, _Histoire de l'Edit de Nantes_, 1695, 4to. From these works I extract the following accounts of what happened in France in 1685. 'Afterwards they fall upon the persons of the Protestants; and there was no wickedness, though never so horrid, which they did not put in practice, that they might enforce them to change their religion.... They bound them as criminals are when they be put to the rack; and in that posture, putting a funnel into their mouths, they poured wine down their throats till its fumes had deprived them of their reason, and they had in that condition made them consent to become Catholics. Some they stripped stark naked, and after they had offered them a thousand indignities, they stuck them with pins from head to foot; they cut them with pen-knives, tear them by the noses with red-hot pincers, and dragged them about the rooms till they promised to become Roman Catholics, or that the doleful outcries of these poor tormented creatures, calling upon God for mercy, constrained them to let them go.... In some places they tied fathers and husbands to the bed-posts, and ravished their wives and daughters before their eyes.... From others they pluck off the nails of their hands and toes, which must needs cause an intolerable pain. They burnt the feet of others. They blew up men and women with bellows, till they were ready to burst in pieces. If these horrid usages could not prevail upon them to violate their consciences, and abandon their religion, they did then imprison them in close and noisome dungeons, in which they exercised all kinds of inhumanities upon them.' _Quick's Synodicon_, vol. i. pp. cxxx. cxxxi. 'Cependant les troupes exerçoient partout de cruautez inouies. Tout leur étoit permis, pourveu qu'ils ne fissent pas mourir. Ils faisoient danser quelquefois leurs hôtes, jusqu'à ce qu'ils tombassent en défaillance. Ils bernoient les autres jusqu'à ce qu'ils n'en pouvoient plus.... Il y en eut quelques-uns à qui on versa de l'eau bouillante dans la bouche.... Il y en eut plusieurs à qui on donna des coups de bâton sous les pieds, pour éprouver si ce supplice est aussi cruel que les relations le publient. On arrachoit à d'autres le poil de la barbe.... D'autres brûloient à la chandelle le poil des bras et des jambes de leurs hôtes. D'autres faisoient brûler de la poudre, si près du visage de ceux qui leur resistoient, qu'elle leur grilloit toute la peau. Ils mettoient à d'autres des charbons allumez dans les mains, et les contraignoient de les tenir fermées, jusqu'à ce que les charbons fussent éteints.... On brûla les pieds à plusieurs, tenant les uns long-tems devant un grand feu; appliquant aux autres une pelle ardente sous les pieds; liant les pieds des autres dans des bottines pleines de graisse, qu'on faisoit fondre et chauffer peu à peu devant un brasier ardent.' _Benoist_, _Hist. de l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. v. pp. 887-889. One of the Protestants, named Ryau, they 'lièrent fort étroitement; lui sevrèrent les doigts des mains; lui fichèrent des épingles sous les ongles; lui firent brûler de la poudre dans les oreilles; lui percèrent les cuisses en plusieurs lieux, et versèrent du vinaigre et du sel dans ses blessures. _Par ce tourment ils épuisèrent sa patience en deux jours; et le forcèrent à changer de religion_,' p. 890. 'Ses dragons étoient les mêmes en tous lieux. Ils battoient, ils étourdissoient, ils brûloient en Bourgogne comme en Poitou, en Champagne comme en Guyenne, en Normandie comme en Languedoc. Mais ils n'avoient pour les femmes ni plus de respect, ni plus de pitié que pour les hommes. Au contraire, ils abusoient de la tendre pudeur qui est une des propriétez de leur sexe; et ils s'en prevaloient pour leur faire de plus sensibles outrages. On leur levoit quelquefois leurs juppes par dessus la tête, et on leur jetoit des seaux d'eau sur le corps. Il y en eut plusieurs que les soldats mirent en chemise, et qu'ils forcèrent de danser avec eux dans cet état.... Deux filles de Calais, nommées le Noble, furent mises toutes nuës sur le pavé, et furent ainsi exposées à la mocquerie et aux outrages des passans.... Des dragons ayant lié la dame de Vezençai à la quenouille de son lit, lui crachoient dans la bouche quand elle l'ouvroit pour parler ou pour soupirer.' pp. 891, 892. At p. 917 are other details, far more horrible, respecting the treatment of women, and which indignation rather than shame prevents me from transcribing. Indeed, the shame can only light on the church and the government under whose united authority such scandalous outrages could be openly perpetrated, merely for the sake of compelling men to change their religious opinions. [439] M. Blanqui (_Hist. de l'Economie Politique_, vol. ii. p. 10) says, that the revocation of the Edict of Nantes cost France 'cinq cent mille de ses enfants les plus industrieux,' who carried into other countries 'les habitudes d'ordre et de travail dont ils étaient imbus.' See also _Siècle de Louis XIV_, chap. xxxvi., in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xx. pp. 380, 381. Several of them emigrated to North America. Compare _Godwin on Population_, pp. 388, 389, with _Benoist_, _l'Edit de Nantes_, vol. v. pp. 973, 974, and _Lyell's Second Visit to the United States_, edit. 1849, vol. ii. p. 159. See also, on the effects of the Revocation, _Lettres inédites de Voltaire_, vol. ii. p. 473. This method of estimating the merits of a sovereign is, indeed, so rapidly dying away, that I shall not spend any words in refuting it. But it is connected with a more widely diffused error respecting the influence of royal patronage upon national literature. This is a delusion which men of letters have themselves been the first to propagate. From the language too many of them are in the habit of employing, we might be led to believe that there is some magical power in the smiles of a king which stimulates the intellect of the fortunate individual whose heart they are permitted to gladden. Nor must this be despised as one of those harmless prejudices that still linger round the person of the sovereign. It is not only founded on a misconception of the nature of things, but it is in its practical consequences very injurious. It is injurious to the independent spirit which literature should always possess; and it is injurious to princes themselves, because it strengthens that vanity of which they generally have too large a share. Indeed, if we consider the position they now occupy in the most civilized countries, we shall at once see the absurdity of an opinion which, in the present state of knowledge, is unfit to be held by educated men. From the moment that there was finally abandoned the theological fiction of the divine right of kings, it necessarily followed that the respect felt for them should suffer a corresponding diminution.[440] The superstitious reverence with which they were formerly regarded is extinct, and at the present day we are no longer awed by that divinity with which their persons were once supposed to be hedged.[441] The standard, therefore, by which we should measure them is obvious. We should applaud their conduct in proportion as they contribute towards the happiness of the nation over which they are intrusted with power; but we ought to remember that, from the manner in which they are educated, and from the childish homage always paid to them, their information must be very inaccurate, and their prejudices very numerous.[442] On this account, so far from expecting that they should be judicious patrons of literature, or should in any way head their age, we ought to be satisfied if they do not obstinately oppose the spirit of their time, and if they do not attempt to stop the march of society. For, unless the sovereign, in spite of the intellectual disadvantages of his position, is a man of very enlarged mind, it must usually happen that he will reward, not those who are most able, but those who are most compliant; and that while he refuses his patronage to a profound and independent thinker, he will grant it to an author who cherishes ancient prejudices and defends ancient abuses. In this way, the practice of conferring on men of letters either honorary or pecuniary rewards, is agreeable, no doubt, to those who receive them; but has a manifest tendency to weaken the boldness and energy of their sentiments, and therefore to impair the value of their works. This might be made evident by publishing a list of those literary pensions which have been granted by European princes. If this were done, the mischief produced by these and similar rewards would be clearly seen. After a careful study of the history of literature, I think myself authorised to say, that for one instance in which a sovereign has recompensed a man who is before his age, there are at least twenty instances of his recompensing one who is behind his age. The result is, that in every country where royal patronage has been long and generally bestowed, the spirit of literature, instead of being progressive, has become reactionary. An alliance has been struck up between those who give and those who receive. By a system of bounties, there has been artificially engendered a greedy and necessitous class; who, eager for pensions, and offices, and titles, have made the pursuit of truth subordinate to the desire of gain, and have infused into their writings the prejudices of the court to which they cling. Hence it is, that the marks of favour have become the badge of servitude. Hence it is, that the acquisition of knowledge, by far the noblest of all occupations, an occupation which of all others raises the dignity of man, has been debased to the level of a common profession, where the chances of success are measured by the number of rewards, and where the highest honours are in the gift of whoever happens to be the minister or sovereign of the day. [440] On the diminished respect for kings, caused by the abandonment of divine right, see _Spencer's Social Statics_, pp. 423, 424; and on the influence of the clergy in propagating the old doctrine, see Allen's learned work on the _Royal Prerogative_, edit. 1849, p. 156. See also some striking remarks by Locke, in _King's Life of Locke_, vol ii. p. 90. [441] 'Qu'est devenu, en effet, le droit divin, cette pensée, autrefois acceptée par les masses, que les rois étaient les représentants de Dieu sur la terre, que la racine de leur pouvoir était dans le ciel? Elle s'est évanouie devant cette autre pensée, qu'aucun nuage, aucun mysticisme n'obscurcit; devant cette pensée si naturelle et brillant d'une clarté si nette et si vive, que la souveraine puissance, sur la terre, appartient au peuple entier, et non à une fraction, et moins encore à un seul homme.' _Rey_, _Science Sociale_, vol. iii. p. 308. Compare _Manning on the Law of Nations_, p. 101; _Laing's Sweden_, p. 408; _Laing's Denmark_, p. 196; _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 391. [442] In this, as in all instances, the language of respect long survives the feeling to which the language owed its origin. Lord Brougham (_Political Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 42, Lond. 1849) observes, that 'all their titles are derived from a divine original--all refer to them as representing the Deity on earth. They are called "_Grace_," "_Majesty_." They are termed "_The Lord's anointed_," "_The Vicegerent of God upon earth_;" with many other names which are either nonsensical or blasphemous, but which are outdone in absurdity by the kings of the East.' True enough: but if Lord Brougham had written thus three centuries ago, he would have had his ears cut off for his pains. This tendency forms of itself a decisive objection to the views of those who wish to entrust the executive government with the means of rewarding literary men. But there is also another objection, in some respects still more serious. Every nation which is allowed to pursue its course uncontrolled, will easily satisfy the wants of its own intellect, and will produce such a literature as is best suited to its actual condition. And it is evidently for the interest of all classes that the production shall not be greater than the want; that the supply shall not exceed the demand. It is, moreover, necessary to the well-being of society that a healthy proportion should be kept up between the intellectual classes and the practical classes. It is necessary that there should be a certain ratio between those who are most inclined to think, and those who are most inclined to act. If we were all authors, our material interests would suffer; if we were all men of business, our mental pleasures would be abridged. In the first case, we should be famished philosophers; in the other case, we should be wealthy fools. Now, it is obvious that, according to the commonest principles of human action the relative numbers of these two classes will be adjusted, without effort, by the natural, or, as we call it, the spontaneous movement of society. But if a government takes upon itself to pension literary men, it disturbs this movement; it troubles the harmony of things. This is the unavoidable result of that spirit of interference, or, as it is termed, protection, by which every country has been greatly injured. If, for instance, a fund were set apart by the state for rewarding butchers and tailors, it is certain that the number of those useful men would be needlessly augmented. If another fund is appropriated for the literary classes, it is as certain that men of letters will increase more rapidly than the exigencies of the country require. In both cases, an artificial stimulus will produce an unhealthy action. Surely, food and clothes are as necessary for the body as literature is for the mind. Why, then, should we call upon government to encourage those who write our books, any more than to encourage those who kill our mutton and mend our garments? The truth is, that the intellectual march of society is, in this respect, exactly analogous to its physical march. In some instances a forced supply may, indeed, create an unnatural want. But this is an artificial state of things, which indicates a diseased action. In a healthy condition, it is not the supply which causes the want, but it is the want which gives rise to the supply. To suppose, therefore, that an increase of authors would necessarily be followed by a diffusion of knowledge, is as if we were to suppose that an increase of butchers must be followed by a diffusion of food. This is not the way in which things are ordered. Men must have appetite before they will eat; they must have money before they can buy; they must be inquisitive before they will read. The two great principles which move the world are, the love of wealth and the love of knowledge. These two principles respectively represent and govern the two most important classes into which every civilized country is divided. What a government gives to one of these classes, it must take from the other. What it gives to literature, it must take from wealth. This can never be done to any great extent, without entailing the most ruinous consequences. For, the natural proportions of society being destroyed, society itself will be thrown into confusion. While men of letters are protected, men of industry will be depressed. The lower classes can count for little in the eyes of those to whom literature is the first consideration. The idea of the liberty of the people will be discouraged; their persons will be oppressed; their labour will be taxed. The arts necessary to life will be despised, in order that those which embellish life may be favoured. The many will be ruined, that the few may be pleased. While every thing is splendid above, all will be rotten below. Fine pictures, noble palaces, touching dramas--these may for a time be produced in profusion, but it will be at the cost of the heart and strength of the nation. Even the class for whom the sacrifice has been made, will soon decay. Poets may continue to sing the praises of the prince who has bought them with his gold. It is, however, certain that men who begin by losing their independence, will end by losing their energy. Their intellect must be robust indeed, if it does not wither in the sickly atmosphere of a court. Their attention being concentrated on their master, they insensibly contract those habits of servility which are suited to their position; and, as the range of their sympathies is diminished, the use and action of their genius become impaired. To them submission is a custom, and servitude a pleasure. In their hands, literature soon loses its boldness, tradition is appealed to as the ground of truth, and the spirit of inquiry is extinguished. Then it is, that there comes one of those sad moments in which, no outlet being left for public opinion, the minds of men are unable to find a vent; their discontents, having no voice, slowly rankle into a deadly hatred; their passions accumulate in silence, until at length, losing all patience, they are goaded into one of those terrible revolutions, by which they humble the pride of their rulers, and carry retribution even into the heart of the palace. The truth of this picture is well known to those who have studied the history of Louis XIV., and the connection between it and the French Revolution. That prince adopted, during his long reign, the mischievous practice of rewarding literary men with large sums of money, and of conferring on them numerous marks of personal favour. As this was done for more than half a century; and as the wealth which he thus unscrupulously employed was of course taken from his other subjects, we can find no better illustration of the results which such patronage is likely to produce. He, indeed, has the merit of organizing into a system that protection of literature which some are so anxious to restore. What the effect of this was upon the general interests of knowledge, we shall presently see. But its effect upon authors themselves should be particularly attended to by those men of letters who, with little regard to their own dignity, are constantly reproaching the English government for neglecting the profession of which they themselves are members. In no age have literary men been awarded with such profuseness as in the reign of Louis XIV.; and in no age have they been so mean-spirited, so servile, so utterly unfit to fulfil their great vocation as the apostles of knowledge and the missionaries of truth. The history of the most celebrated authors of that time proves that, notwithstanding their acquirements, and the power of their minds, they were unable to resist the surrounding corruption. To gain the favour of the king, they sacrificed that independent spirit which should have been dearer to them than life. They gave away the inheritance of genius; they sold their birthright for a mess of pottage. What happened then, would under the same circumstances happen now. A few eminent thinkers may be able for a certain time to resist the pressure of their age. But, looking at mankind generally, society can have no hold on any class except through the medium of their interests. It behoves, therefore, every people to take heed, that the interests of literary men are on their side rather than on the side of their rulers. For, literature is the representative of intellect, which is progressive; government is the representative of order, which is stationary. As long as these two great powers are separate, they will correct and react upon each other, and the people may hold the balance. If, however, these powers coalesce, if the government can corrupt the intellect, and if the intellect will yield to the government, the inevitable result must be, despotism in politics, and servility in literature. This was the history of France under Louis XIV.: and this, we may rest assured, will be the history of every country that shall be tempted to follow so attractive but so fatal an example. The reputation of Louis XIV. originated in the gratitude of men of letters; but it is now supported by a popular notion that the celebrated literature of his age is mainly to be ascribed to his fostering care. If, however, we examine this opinion, we shall find that, like many of the traditions of which history is full, it is entirely devoid of truth. We shall find two leading circumstances, which will prove that the literary splendour of his reign was not the result of his efforts, but was the work of that great generation which preceded him; and that the intellect of France, so far from being benefited by his munificence, was hampered by his protection. I. The first circumstance is, that the immense impulse which, during the administrations of Richelieu and of Mazarin, had been given to the highest branches of knowledge, was suddenly stopped. In 1661 Louis XIV. assumed the government;[443] and from that moment until his death, in 1715, the history of France, so far as great discoveries are concerned, is a blank in the annals of Europe. If, putting aside all preconceived notions respecting the supposed glory of that age, we examine the matter fairly, it will be seen that in every department there was a manifest dearth of original thinkers. There was much that was elegant, much that was attractive. The senses of men were soothed and flattered by the creations of art, by paintings, by palaces, by poems; but scarcely any thing of moment was added to the sum of human knowledge. If we take the mathematics, and those mixed sciences to which they are applicable, it will be universally admitted that their most successful cultivators in France during the seventeenth century were Descartes, Pascal, Fermat, Gassendi, and Mersenne. But, so far from Louis XIV. having any share in the honour due to them, these eminent men were engaged in their investigations while the king was still in his cradle, and completed them before he assumed the government, and therefore before his system of protection came into play. Descartes died in 1650,[444] when the king was twelve years old. Pascal, whose name, like that of Descartes, is commonly associated with the age of Louis XIV., had gained an European reputation while Louis, occupied in the nursery with his toys, was not aware that any such man existed. His treatise on conic sections was written in 1639;[445] his decisive experiments on the weight of air were made in 1648;[446] and his researches on the cycloid, the last great inquiry he ever undertook, were in 1658,[447] when Louis, still under the tutelage of Mazarin, had no sort of authority. Fermat was one of the most profound thinkers of the seventeenth century, particularly as a geometrician, in which respect he was second only to Descartes.[448] The most important steps he took are those concerning the geometry of infinites, applied to the ordinates and tangents of curves; which, however, he completed in or before 1636.[449] As to Gassendi and Mersenne, it is enough to say that Gassendi died in 1655,[450] six years before Louis was at the head of affairs; while Mersenne died in 1648,[451] when the great king was ten years old. [443] 'La première période du gouvernement de Louis XIV commence donc en 1661.' _Capefigue's Louis XIV._, vol. i. p. 4. [444] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xi. p. 157. [445] In _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxiii. p. 50, he is said to have composed it 'à l'âge de seize ans;' and at p. 46, to have been born in 1623. [446] _Leslie's Natural Philosophy_, p. 201; _Bordas Demoulin_, _Le Cartésianisme_, vol. i. p. 310. Sir John Herschel (_Disc. on Nat. Philos._ pp. 229, 230) calls this 'one of the first, if not the very first,' crucial instance recorded in physics; and he thinks that it 'tended, more powerfully than any thing which had previously been done in science, to confirm in the minds of men that disposition to experimental verification which had scarcely yet taken full and secure root.' In this point of view, the addition it actually made to knowledge is the smallest part of its merit. [447] Montucla (_Hist. des Mathématiques_, vol. ii. p. 61) says, 'vers 1658;' and at p. 65, 'il se mit, vers le commencement de 1658, à considérer plus profondément les propriétés de cette courbe.' [448] Montucla (_Hist. des Mathémat._ vol. ii. p. 136) enthusiastically declares that 'si Descartes eût manqué à l'esprit humain, Fermat l'eût remplacé en géométrie.' Simson, the celebrated restorer of Greek geometry, said that Fermat was the only modern who understood porisms. See _Trail's Account of Simson_, 1812, 4to. pp. 18, 41. On the connexion between his views and the subsequent discovery of the differential calculus, see _Brewster's Life of Newton_, vol. ii. pp. 7, 8; and compare _Comte_, _Philosophie Positive_, vol. i. pp. 228, 229, 726, 727. [449] See extracts from two letters written by Fermat to Roberval, in 1636, in _Montucla_, _Hist. des Mathématiques_, vol. ii. pp. 136, 137; respecting which there is no notice in the meagre article on Fermat, in _Hutton's Mathematical Dictionary_, vol. i. p. 510, 4to. 1815. It is a disgrace to English mathematicians that this unsatisfactory work of Hutton's should still remain the best they have produced on the history of their own science. The same disregard of dates is shown in the hasty remarks on Fermat by Playfair. See _Playfair's Dissertation on the Progress of Mathematical Science_, _Encyclop. Brit._ vol. i. p. 440, 7th edition. [450] _Hutton's Mathemat. Dict._ vol. i. p. 572. [451] _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 46. These were the men who flourished in France just before the system of Louis XIV. came into operation. Shortly after their death the patronage of the king began to tell upon the national intellect; and during the next fifty years no addition of importance was made to either branch of the mathematics, or, with the single exception of acoustics,[452] to any of the sciences to which the mathematics are applied.[453] The further the seventeenth century advanced, the more evident did the decline become, and the more clearly can we trace the connexion between the waning powers of the French, and that protective spirit which enfeebled the energies it wished to strengthen. Louis had heard that astronomy is a noble study; he was therefore anxious, by encouraging its cultivation in France, to add to the glories of his own name.[454] With this view, he rewarded its professors with unexampled profusion; he built the splendid Observatory of Paris; he invited to his court the most eminent foreign astronomers, Cassini from Italy, Römer from Denmark, Huygens from Holland. But, as to native ability, France did not produce a single man who made even one of those various discoveries which mark the epochs of astronomical science. In other countries vast progress was made; and Newton in particular, by his immense generalizations, reformed nearly every branch of physics, and remodelled astronomy by carrying the laws of gravitation to the extremity of the solar system. On the other hand, France had fallen into such a torpor, that these wonderful discoveries, which changed the face of knowledge, were entirely neglected, there being no instance of any French astronomer adopting them until 1732, that is, forty-five years after they had been published by their immortal author.[455] Even in matters of detail, the most valuable improvement made by French astronomers during the power of Louis XIV. was not original. They laid claim to the invention of the micrometer; an admirable resource, which, as they supposed, was first contrived by Picard and Auzout.[456] The truth, however, is, that here again they were anticipated by the activity of a freer and less protected people; since the micrometer was invented by Gascoigne in or just before 1639, when the English monarch, so far from having leisure to patronize science, was about to embark in that struggle which, ten years later, cost him his crown and his life.[457] [452] Of which Sauveur may be considered the creator. Compare _Eloge de Sauveur_, in _[OE]uvres de Fontenelle_, Paris, 1766, vol. v. p. 435, with _Whewell's Hist. of the Induc. Sciences_, vol. ii. p. 334; _Comte_, _Philos. Pos._ vol. ii. pp. 627, 628. [453] In the report presented to Napoleon by the French Institute, it is said of the reign of Louis XIV., 'les sciences exactes et les sciences physiques peu cultivées en France dans un siècle qui paroissoit ne trouver de charmes que dans la littérature.' _Dacier_, _Rapport Historique_, p. 24. Or, as Lacretelle expresses it (_Dix-huitième Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 10), 'La France, après avoir fourni Descartes et Pascal, eut pendant quelque temps à envier aux nations étrangères la gloire de produire des génies créateurs dans les sciences.' [454] A writer late in the seventeenth century says, with some simplicity, 'the present king of France is reputed an encourager of choice and able men, in all faculties, who can attribute to his greatness.' _Aubrey's Letters_, vol. ii. p. 624. [455] The _Principia_ of Newton appeared in 1687; and Maupertuis, in 1732, 'was the first astronomer of France who undertook a critical defence of the theory of gravitation.' _Grant's Hist. of Physical Astronomy_, pp. 31, 43. In 1738, Voltaire writes, 'La France est jusqu'à présent le seul pays où les théories de Newton en physique, et de Boerhaave en médecine, soient combattues. Nous n'avons pas encore de bons éléments de physique; nous avons pour toute astronomie le livre de Bion, qui n'est qu'un ramas informe de quelques mémoires de l'académie.' _Correspond._ in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xlvii. p. 340. On the tardy reception of Newton's discoveries in France, compare _Eloge de Lacaille_, in _[OE]uvres de Bailly_, Paris, 1790, vol. i. pp. 175, 176. All this is the more remarkable, because several of the conclusions at which Newton had arrived were divulged before they were embodied in the _Principia_; and it appears from _Brewster's Life of Newton_ (vol. i. pp. 25, 26, 290), that his speculations concerning gravity began in 1666, or perhaps in the autumn of 1665. [456] 'L'abbé Picard fut en société avec Auzout, l'inventeur du micromètre.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxiv. p. 253. See also _Préface de l'Hist. de l'Acad. des Sciences_, in _[OE]uvres de Fontenelle_, Paris, 1766, vol. x. p. 20. [457] The best account I have seen of the invention of the micrometer, is in Mr. Grant's recent work, _History of Physical Astronomy_, pp. 428, 450-453, where it is proved that Gascoigne invented it in 1639, or possibly a year or two earlier. Compare _Humboldt's Cosmos_, vol. iii. p. 52; who also ascribes it to Gascoigne, but erroneously dates it in 1640. Montucla (_Hist. des Mathémat._ vol. ii. pp. 570, 571) admits the priority of Gascoigne; but underrates his merit, being apparently unacquainted with the evidence which Mr. Grant subsequently adduced. The absence in France, during this period, not only of great discoveries, but also of mere practical ingenuity, is certainly very striking. In investigations requiring minute accuracy, the necessary tools, if at all complicated, were made by foreigners, the native workmen being too unskilled to construct them; and Dr. Lister, who was a very competent judge,[458] and who was in Paris at the end of the seventeenth century, supplies evidence that the best mathematical instruments sold in that city were made, not by a Frenchman, but by Butterfield, an Englishman residing there.[459] Nor did they succeed better in matters of immediate and obvious utility. The improvements effected in manufactures were few and insignificant, and were calculated, not for the comfort of the people, but for the luxury of the idle classes.[460] What was really valuable was neglected; no great invention was made; and by the end of the reign of Louis XIV. scarcely anything had been done in machinery, or in those other contrivances which, by economising national labour, increase national wealth.[461] [458] For a short account of this able man, see _Lankester's Mem. of Ray_, p. 17. [459] Notwithstanding the strong prejudice then existing against Englishmen, Butterfield was employed by 'the king and all the princes.' _Lister's Account of Paris at the close of the Seventeenth Century, edited by Dr. Henning_, p. 85. Fontenelle mentions 'M. Hubin,' as one of the most celebrated makers in Paris in 1687 (_Eloge d'Amoltons_, in _[OE]uvres de Fontenelle_, Paris, 1766, vol. v. p. 113); but has forgotten to state that he too was an Englishman. 'Lutetiæ sedem posuerat ante aliquod tempus _Anglus quidam nomine Hubinus_, vir ingeniosus, atque hujusmodi machinationum peritus opifex et industrius. Hominem adii,' &c. _Huetii Commentarius de Rebus ad eum pertinentibus_, p. 346. Thus, again, in regard to time-keepers, the vast superiority of the English makers, late in the reign of Louis XIV., was equally incontestable. Compare _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxiv. pp. 242, 243, with _Brewster's Life of Newton_, vol. ii. p. 262; and as to the middle of the reign of Louis XIV., see _Eloge de Sebastien_, in _[OE]uvres de Fontenelle_, vol. vi. pp. 332, 333. [460] 'Les manufactures étaient plutôt dirigées vers le brillant que vers l'utile. On s'efforça, par un arrêt du mois de mars 1700, d'extirper, ou du moins de réduire beaucoup les fabriques de bas au métier. Malgré cette fausse direction, les objets d'un luxe très-recherché faisaient des progrès bien lents. En 1687, après la mort de Colbert, la cour soldait encore l'industrie des barbares, et faisait fabriquer et broder ses plus beaux habits à Constantinople.' _Lemontey_, _Etablissement de Louis XIV_, p. 364. Lacretelle (_Dix-huitième Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 5) says, that during the last thirty years of the reign of Louis XIV. 'les manufactures tombaient.' [461] Cuvier (_Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxvii. p. 199) thus describes the condition of France only seven years after the death of Louis XIV.: 'Nos forges étaient alors presque dans l'enfance; et nous ne faisions point d'acier: tout celui qu'exigeaient les différents métiers nous venait de l'étranger.... Nous ne faisions point non plus alors de fer-blanc, et il ne nous venait que de l'Allemagne.' While such was the state, not only of mathematical and astronomical science, but also of mechanical and inventive arts, corresponding symptoms of declining power were seen in other departments. In physiology, in anatomy and in medicine, we look in vain for any men equal to those by whom France had once been honoured. The greatest discovery of this kind ever made by a Frenchman, was that of the receptacle of the chyle; a discovery which, in the opinion of a high authority, is not inferior to that of the circulation of the blood by Harvey.[462] This important step in our knowledge is constantly assigned to the age of Louis XIV., as if it were one of the results of his gracious bounty; but it would be difficult to tell what Louis had to do with it, since the discovery was made by Pecquet in 1647,[463] when the great king was nine years old. After Pecquet, the most eminent of the French anatomists in the seventeenth century was Riolan; and his name we also find among the illustrious men who adorned the reign of Louis XIV. But the principal works of Riolan were written before Louis XIV. was born; his last work was published in 1652; and he himself died in 1657.[464] Then there came a pause, and, during three generations, the French did nothing for these great subjects: they wrote no work upon them which is now read, they made no discoveries, and they seemed to have lost all heart, until that revival of knowledge, which, as we shall presently see, took place in France about the middle of the eighteenth century. In the practical parts of medicine, in its speculative parts, and in the arts connected with surgery, the same law prevails. The French, in these, as in other matters, had formerly produced men of great eminence, who had won for themselves an European reputation, and whose works are still remembered. Thus, only to mention two or three instances, they had a long line of illustrious physicians, among whom Fernel and Joubert were the earliest;[465] they had, in surgery, Ambroise Paré, who not only introduced important practical improvements,[466] but who has the still rarer merit of being one of the founders of comparative osteology;[467] and they had Baillou, who late in the sixteenth and early in the seventeenth century, advanced pathology, by connecting it with the study of morbid anatomy.[468] Under Louis XIV. all this was changed. Under him, surgery was neglected, though in other countries its progress was rapid.[469] The English, by the middle of the seventeenth century, had taken considerable steps in medicine: its therapeutical branch being reformed chiefly by Sydenham, its physiological branch by Glisson.[470] But the age of Louis XIV. cannot boast of a single medical writer who can be compared to these; not even one whose name is now known as having made any specific addition to our knowledge. In Paris, the practice of medicine was notoriously inferior to that in the capitals of Germany, Italy, and England; while in the French provinces, the ignorance, even of the best physicians, was scandalous.[471] Indeed, it is no exaggeration to say that, during the whole of this long period, the French in these matters effected comparatively nothing; they made no contributions to clinical literature,[472] and scarcely any to therapeutics, to pathology, to physiology, or to anatomy.[473] [462] 'Certainement la découverte de Pecquet ne brille pas moins dans l'histoire de notre art que la vérité démontrée pour la première fois par Harvey.' _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. iv. p. 208. [463] Henle (_Anatomie Générale_, vol. ii. p. 106) says, that the discovery was made in 1649; but the historians of medicine assign it to 1647. _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. iv. pp. 207, 405; _Renouard_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. ii. p. 173. [464] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxviii. pp. 123, 124. [465] Some of the great steps taken by Joubert are concisely stated in _Broussais_, _Examen des Doctrines Médicales_, vol. i. pp. 293, 294, vol. iii. p. 361. Compare _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. iii. p. 210. Fernel, though enthusiastically praised by Patin, was probably hardly equal to Joubert. _Lettres de Patin_, vol. iii. pp. 59, 199, 648. At p. 106, Patin calls Fernel 'le premier médecin de son temps, et peut-être le plus grand qui sera jamais.' [466] See a summary of them in _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. iii. pp. 405, 406, vol. vii. pp. 14, 15. Sir Benjamin Brodie (_Lectures on Surgery_, p. 21) says, 'Few greater benefits have been conferred on mankind than that for which we are indebted to Ambrose Parey--the application of a ligature to a bleeding artery.' [467] 'C'était là une vue très-ingénieuse et très-juste qu'Ambroise Paré donnait pour la première fois. C'était un commencement d'ostéologie comparée.' _Cuvier_, _Hist. des Sciences_, part. ii. p. 42. To this I may add, that he is the first French writer on medical jurisprudence. See _Paris and Fonblanque's Medical Jurisprudence_, 1823, vol. i. p. xviii. [468] 'L'un des premiers auteurs à qui l'on doit des observations cadavériques sur les maladies, est le fameux Baillou.' _Broussais_, _Examen des Doctrines Médicales_, vol. ii. p. 218. See also vol. iii. p. 362; and _Renouard_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. ii. p. 89. The value of his services is recognized in a recent able work, _Phillips on Scrofula_, 1846, p. 16. [469] 'The most celebrated surgeon of the sixteenth century was Ambroise Paré.... From the time of Paré until the commencement of the eighteenth century, surgery was but little cultivated in France. Mauriceau, Saviard, and Belloste, were the only French surgeons of note who could be contrasted with so many eminent men of other nations. During the eighteenth century, France produced two surgeons of extraordinary genius; these are Petit and Desault.' _Bowman's Surgery_, in _Encyclop. of Medical Sciences_, 1847, 4to. pp. 829, 830. [470] It is unnecessary to adduce evidence respecting the services rendered by Sydenham, as they are universally admitted; but what, perhaps, is less generally known, is, that Glisson anticipated those important views concerning irritability, which were afterwards developed by Haller and Gorter. Compare _Renouard_, _Hist. de le Médecine_, vol. ii. p. 192; _Elliotson's Human Physiol_. p. 471; _Bordas Demoulin_, _Cartésianisme_, vol. i. p. 170; In _Wagner's Physiol._ 1841, p. 655, the theory is too exclusively ascribed to Haller. [471] Of this we have numerous complaints from foreigners who visited France. I will quote the testimony of one celebrated man. In 1699, Addison writes from Blois: 'I made use of one of the physicians of this place, who are as cheap as our English farriers, and generally as ignorant.' _Aikin's Life of Addison_, vol. i. p. 74. [472] Indeed, France was the last great country in Europe in which a chair of clinical medicine was established. See _Renouard_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. ii. p. 312; and _Bouillaud_, _Philos. Médicale_, p. 114. [473] M. Bouillaud, in his account of the state of medicine in the seventeenth century, does not mention a single Frenchman during this period. See _Bouillaud_, _Philosophie Médicale_, pp. 13 seq. During many years of the power of Louis XIV., the French Academy only possessed one anatomist; and of him, few students of physiology have ever heard: 'M. du Verney fut assez long-temps le seul anatomiste de l'académie, et ce ne fut qu'en 1684 qu'on lui joignit M. Mery.' _Eloge de Du Verney_, in _[OE]uvres de Fontenelle_, vol. vi. p. 392. In what are called the natural sciences, we also find the French now brought to a stand. In zoology, they had formerly possessed remarkable men, among whom Belon and Rondelet were the most conspicuous:[474] but, under Louis XIV., they did not produce one original observer in this great field of inquiry.[475] In chemistry, again, Rey had, in the reign of Louis XIII., struck out views of such vast importance, that he anticipated some of those generalizations which formed the glory of the French intellect in the eighteenth century.[476] During the corrupt and frivolous age of Louis XIV., all this was forgotten; the labours of Rey were neglected; and so complete was the indifference, that even the celebrated experiments of Boyle remained unknown in France for more than forty years after they were published.[477] [474] _Cuvier_, _Hist. des Sciences_, part ii. pp. 64-73, 76-80. [475] After Belon, nothing was done in France for the natural history of animals until 1734, when there appeared the first volume of Reaumur's great work. See _Swainson on the Study of Nat. Hist._ pp. 24, 43. [476] On this remarkable man, who was the first philosophic chemist Europe produced, and who, so early as 1630, anticipated some of the generalizations made a hundred and fifty years later by Lavoisier, see _Liebig's Letters on Chemistry_, pp. 46, 47; _Thomson's Hist. of Chemistry_, vol. ii. pp. 95, 96; _Humboldt's Cosmos_, vol. ii. p. 729; _Cuvier_, _Progrès des Sciences_, vol. i. p. 30. [477] Cuvier (_Progrès des Sciences_, vol. i. p. 30) says of Rey, 'son écrit était tombé dans l'oubli le plus profond;' and, in another work, the same great authority writes (_Hist. des Sciences_, part ii. p. 333): 'Il y avait plus de quarante ans que Becker avait présenté sa nouvelle théorie, développée par Stahl; il y avait encore plus long-temps que les expériences de Boyle sur la chimie pneumatique avaient été publiées, et cependant, rien de tout cela n'entrait encore dans l'enseignement général de la chimie, du moins en France.' Connected with zoology, and, to a philosophic mind, inseparable from it, is botany: which, occupying a middle place between the animal and mineral world, indicates their relation to each other, and at different points touches the confines of both. It also throws great light on the functions of nutrition,[478] and on the laws of development; while, from the marked analogy between animals and vegetables, we have every reason to hope that its further progress, assisted by that of electricity, will prepare the way for a comprehensive theory of life, to which the resources of our knowledge are still unequal, but towards which the movements of modern science are manifestly tending. On these grounds, far more than for the sake of practical advantages, botany will always attract the attention of thinking men; who, neglecting views of immediate utility, look to large and ultimate results, and only value particular facts in so far as they facilitate the discovery of general truths. The first step in this noble study was taken towards the middle of the sixteenth century, when authors, instead of copying what previous writers had said, began to observe nature for themselves.[479] The next step was, to add experiment to observation: but it required another hundred years before this could be done with accuracy; because the microscope, which is essential to such inquiries, was only invented about 1620, and the labour of a whole generation was needed to make it available for minute investigations.[480] So soon, however, as this resource was sufficiently matured to be applied to plants, the march of botany became rapid, at least as far as details are concerned; for it was not until the eighteenth century that the facts were actually generalized. But, in the preliminary work of accumulating the facts, great energy was shown; and, for reasons stated in an earlier part of the Introduction, this, like other studies relating to the external world, advanced with peculiar speed during the reign of Charles II. The tracheæ of plants were discovered by Henshaw in 1661;[481] and their cellular tissue by Hooke in 1667.[482] These were considerable approaches towards establishing the analogy between plants and animals; and, within a few years, Grew effected still more of the same kind. He made such minute and extensive dissections, as to raise the anatomy of vegetables to a separate study, and prove that their organization is scarcely less complicated than that possessed by animals.[483] His first work was written in 1670;[484] and, in 1676, another Englishman, Millington, ascertained the existence of a distinction of sexes;[485] thus supplying further evidence of the harmony between the animal and vegetable kingdoms, and of the unity of idea which regulates their composition. [478] The highest present generalizations of the laws of nutrition are those by M. Chevreul; which are thus summed up by MM. Robin et Verdeil, in their admirable work, _Chimie Anatomique_, vol. i. p. 203, Paris, 1853: 'En passant des plantes aux animaux, nous voyons que plus l'organisation de ces derniers est compliquée, plus les aliments dont ils se nourrissent sont complexes et analogues par leurs principes immédiats aux principes des organes qu'ils doivent entretenir. 'En définitive, on voit que les végétaux se nourrissent d'eau, d'acide carbonique, d'autres gaz et de matières organiques à l'état d'engrais, ou en d'autres termes altérées, c'est-à-dire ramenées à l'état de principes plus simples, plus solubles. Au contraire, les animaux plus élevés dans l'échelle organique ont besoin de matières bien plus complexes quant aux principes immédiats qui les composent, et plus variées dans leurs propriétés.' [479] Brunfels in 1530, and Fuchs in 1542, were the two first writers who observed the vegetable kingdom for themselves, instead of copying what the ancients had said. Compare _Whewell's Hist. of the Sciences_, vol. iii. pp. 305, 306, with _Pulteney's Hist. of Botany_, vol. i. p. 38. [480] The microscope was exhibited in London, by Drebbel, about 1620; and this appears to be the earliest unquestionable notice of its use, though some writers assert that it was invented at the beginning of the seventeenth century, or even in 1590. Compare the different statements, in _Pouillet_, _Elémens de Physique_, vol. ii. p. 357; _Humboldt's Cosmos_, vol. ii. pp. 699, 700; _Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. iv. p. 337; _Winckler_, _Gesch. der Botanik_, p. 136; _Quekett's Treatise on the Microscope_, 1848, p. 2; _Cuvier_, _Hist. des Sciences_, part ii. p. 470; _Hallam's Lit. of Europe_, vol. iii. p. 202; _Leslie's Nat. Philos._ p. 52. On the subsequent improvement of the microscope during the seventeenth century, see _Brewster's Life of Newton_, vol. i. pp. 29, 242, 243. [481] See _Balfour's Botany_, p. 15. In Pulteney's _Progress of Botany in England_, this beautiful discovery is, if I rightly remember, not even alluded to; but it appears, from a letter written in 1672, that it was then becoming generally known, and had been confirmed by Grew and Malpighi. _Ray's Correspond._ edit. 1848, p. 98. Compare _Richard_, _Eléments de Botanique_, p. 46; where, however, M. Richard erroneously supposes that Grew did not know of the tracheæ till 1682. [482] Compare _Cuvier_, _Hist. des Sciences_, part ii. p. 471, with _Thomson's Vegetable Chemistry_, p. 950. [483] Dr. Thomson (_Vegetable Chemistry_, p. 950) says: 'But the person to whom we are indebted for the first attempt to ascertain the structure of plants by dissection and microscopical observations, was Dr. Nathaniel Grew.' The character of Grew's inquiries, as 'viewing the internal, as well as external parts of plants,' is also noticed in _Ray's Correspond._ p. 188; and M. Winckler (_Gesch. der Botanik_, p. 382) ascribes to him and Malpighi the 'neuen Aufschwung' taken by vegetable physiology late in the seventeenth century. See also, on Grew, _Lindley's Botany_, vol. i. p. 93; and _Third Report of Brit. Assoc._ p. 27. [484] The first book of his Anatomy of Plants was laid before the Royal Society in 1670, and printed in 1671. _Hallam's Lit. of Europe_, vol. iii. p. 580; and _Thomson's Hist. of the Royal Society_, p. 44. [485] 'The presence of sexual organs in plants was first shown in 1676, by Sir Thomas Millington; and it was afterwards confirmed by Grew, Malpighi, and Ray.' _Balfour's Botany_, p. 236. See also _Pulteney's Progress of Botany_, vol. i. pp. 336, 337; and _Lindley's Botany_, vol. ii. p. 217: and, as to Ray, who was rather slow in admitting the discovery, see _Lankester's Mem. of Ray_, p. 100. Before this, the sexual system of vegetables had been empirically known to several of the ancients, but never raised to a scientific truth. Compare _Richard_, _Eléments de Botanique_, pp. 353, 427, 428, with _Matter_, _Hist. de l'Ecole d'Alexandrie_, vol. ii. p. 9. This is what was effected in England during the reign of Charles II.; and we now ask what was done in France, during the same period, under the munificent patronage of Louis XIV. The answer is, nothing; no discovery, no idea, which forms an epoch in this important department of natural science. The son of the celebrated Sir Thomas Brown visited Paris in the hope of making some additions to his knowledge of botany, which he thought he could not fail to do in a country where science was held in such honour, its professors so caressed by the court, and its researches so bountifully encouraged. To his surprise, he, in 1665, found in that great city no one capable of teaching his favourite pursuit, and even the public lectures on it miserably meagre and unsatisfactory.[486] Neither then, nor at a much later period, did the French possess a good popular treatise on botany: still less did they make any improvement in it. Indeed, so completely was the philosophy of the subject misunderstood, that Tournefort, the only French botanist of repute in the reign of Louis, actually rejected that discovery of the sexes of plants, which had been made before he began to write, and which afterwards became the corner-stone of the Linnæan system.[487] This showed his incapacity for those large views respecting the unity of the organic world, which alone give to botany a scientific value; and we find, accordingly, that he did nothing for the physiology of plants, and that his only merit was as a collector and classifier of them.[488] And even in his classification he was guided, not by a comprehensive comparison of their various parts, but by considerations drawn from the mere appearance of the flower:[489] thus depriving botany of its real grandeur, degrading it into an arrangement of beautiful objects, and supplying another instance of the way in which the Frenchmen of that generation impoverished what they sought to enrich, and dwarfed every topic, until they suited the intellect and pleased the eye of that ignorant and luxurious court, to whose favour they looked for reward, and whose applause it was the business of their life to gain. [486] In July 1665 he writes from Paris to his father, 'The lecture of plants here is only the naming of them, their degrees in heat and cold, and sometimes their use in physick; scarce a word more than may be seen in every herball.' _Browne's Works_, vol. i. p. 108. [487] Cuvier mentioning the inferiority of Tournefort's views to those of his predecessors, gives as an instance, 'puisqu'il a rejeté les sexes des plantes.' _Hist. des Sciences_, part ii. p. 496. Hence he held that the farina was ex-crementitious. _Pulteney's Progress of Botany_, vol. i. p. 340. [488] This is admitted even by his eulogist Duvau. _Biog. Univ._ vol. xlvi. p. 363. [489] On the method of Tournefort, which was that of a corrollist, compare _Richard_, _Eléments de Botanique_, p. 547; _Jussieu's Botany_, edit. Wilson, 1849, p. 516; _Ray's Correspond._ pp. 381, 382; _Lankester's Mem. of Ray_, p. 49; _Winckler_, _Gesch. der Botanik_, p. 142. Cuvier (_Hist. des Sciences_, part ii. p. 496), with quiet irony, says of it, 'vous voyez, messieurs, que cette méthode a le mérite d'une grande clarté; qu'elle est fondée sur la forme de la fleur, et par conséquent sur des considérations agréables à saisir.... Ce qui en fit le succès, c'est que Tournefort joignit à son ouvrage une figure de fleur et de fruit appartenant à chacun de ses genres.' Even in this, he appears to have been careless, and is said to have described 'a great many plants he never examined nor saw.' _Letter from Dr. Sherard_, in _Nichols's Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. i. p. 356. The truth is, that in these, as in all matters of real importance, in questions requiring independent thought, and in questions of practical utility, the age of Louis XIV. was an age of decay: it was an age of misery, of intolerance, and oppression; it was an age of bondage, of ignominy, of incompetence. This would long since have been universally admitted, if those who have written the history of that period had taken the trouble to study subjects without which no history can be understood; or, I should rather say, without which no history can exist. If this had been done, the reputation of Louis XIV. would at once have shrunk to its natural size. Even at the risk of exposing myself to the charge of unduly estimating my own labours, I cannot avoid saying, that the facts which I have just pointed out have never before been collected, but have remained isolated in the text-books and repertories of the sciences to which they belong. Yet without them it is impossible to study the age of Louis XIV. It is impossible to estimate the character of any period except by tracing its development; in other words, by measuring the extent of its knowledge. Therefore it is, that to write the history of a country without regard to its intellectual progress, is as if an astronomer should compose a planetary system without regard to the sun, by whose light alone the planets can be seen, and by whose attraction they are held in their course, and compelled to run in the path of their appointed orbits. For the great luminary, even as it shines in the heaven, is not a more noble or a more powerful object than is the intellect of man in this nether world. It is to the human intellect, and to that alone, that every country owes its knowledge. And what is it but the progress and diffusion of knowledge which has given us our arts, our sciences, our manufactures, our laws, our opinions, our manners, our comforts, our luxuries, our civilization; in short, everything that raises us above the savages, who by their ignorance are degraded to the level of the brutes with which they herd? Surely, then, the time has now arrived when they who undertake to write the history of a great nation should occupy themselves with those matters by which alone the destiny of men is regulated, and should abandon the petty and insignificant details by which we have too long been wearied; details respecting the lives of kings, the intrigues of ministers, the vices and the gossip of courts. It is precisely these higher considerations which furnish the key to the history of the reign of Louis XIV. In that time, as in all others, the misery of the people and the degradation of the country followed the decline of the national intellect; while this last was, in its turn, the result of the protective spirit--that mischievous spirit which weakens whatever it touches. If in the long course and compass of history there is one thing more clear than another, it is, that whenever a government undertakes to protect intellectual pursuits, it will almost always protect them in the wrong place, and reward the wrong men. Nor is it surprising that this should be the case. What can kings and ministers know about those immense branches of knowledge, to cultivate which with success is often the business of an entire life? How can they, constantly occupied with their lofty pursuits, have leisure for such inferior matters? Is it to be supposed that such acquirements will be found among statesmen, who are always engaged in the most weighty concerns; sometimes writing despatches, sometimes making speeches, sometimes organising a party in the parliament, sometimes baffling an intrigue in the privy-chamber? Or if the sovereign should graciously bestow his patronage according to his own judgment, are we to expect that mere philosophy and science should be familiar to high and mighty princes, who have their own peculiar and arduous studies, and who have to learn the mysteries of heraldry, the nature and dignities of rank, the comparative value of the different orders, decorations, and titles, the laws of precedence, the prerogatives of noble birth, the names and powers of ribbons, stars, and garters, the various modes of conferring an honour or installing into an office, the adjustment of ceremonies, the subtleties of etiquette, and all those other courtly accomplishments necessary to the exalted functions which they perform? The mere statement of such questions proves the absurdity of the principle which they involve. For, unless we believe that kings are omniscient as well as immaculate, it is evident that in the bestowal of rewards they must be guided either by personal caprice or by the testimony of competent judges. And since no one is a competent judge of scientific excellence unless he is himself scientific, we are driven to this monstrous alternative, that the rewards of intellectual labour must be conferred injudiciously, or else that they must be given according to the verdict of that very class by whom they are received. In the first case, the reward will be ridiculous; in the latter case, it will be disgraceful. In the former case, weak men will be benefited by wealth which is taken from industry to be lavished on idleness. But in the latter case, those men of real genius, those great and illustrious thinkers, who are the masters and teachers of the human race, are to be tricked out with trumpery titles; and after scrambling in miserable rivalry for the sordid favours of a court, they are then to be turned into beggars of the state, who not only clamour for their share of the spoil, but even regulate the proportions into which the shares are to be divided. Under such a system, the natural results are, first, the impoverishment and servility of genius: then the decay of knowledge; then the decline of the country. Three times in the history of the world has this experiment been tried. In the ages of Augustus, of Leo X., and of Louis XIV., the same method was adopted, and the same result ensued. In each of these ages, there was much apparent splendour, immediately succeeded by sudden ruin. In each instance, the brilliancy survived the independence; and in each instance, the national spirit sank under that pernicious alliance between government and literature, by virtue of which the political classes become very powerful, and the intellectual classes very weak, simply because they who dispense the patronage will, of course, receive the homage; and if, on the one hand, government is always ready to reward literature, so on the other hand, will literature be always ready to succumb to government. Of these three ages, that of Louis XIV. was incomparably the worst; and nothing but the amazing energy of the French people could have enabled them to rally, as they afterwards did, from the effects of so enfeebling a system. But though they rallied, the effort cost them dear. The struggle, as we shall presently see, lasted two generations, and was only ended by that frightful Revolution which formed its natural climax. What the real history of that struggle was, I shall endeavour to ascertain towards the conclusion of this volume. Without, however, anticipating the course of affairs, we will now proceed to what I have already mentioned as the second great characteristic of the reign of Louis XIV. II. The second intellectual characteristic of the reign of Louis XIV. is, in importance, hardly inferior to the first. We have already seen that the national intellect, stunted by the protection of the court, was so diverted from the noblest branches of knowledge, that in none of them did it produce anything worthy of being recorded. As a natural consequence, the minds of men, driven from the higher departments, took refuge in the lower, and concentrated themselves upon those inferior subjects, where the discovery of truth is not the main object, but where beauty of form and expression are the things chiefly pursued. Thus, the first consequence of the patronage of Louis XIV. was, to diminish the field for genius, and to sacrifice science to art. The second consequence was, that, even in art itself, there was soon seen a marked decay. For a short time, the stimulus produced its effect; but was followed by that collapse which is its natural result. So essentially vicious is the whole system of patronage and reward, that after the death of those writers and artists, whose works form the only redeeming point in the reign of Louis, there was found no one capable of even imitating their excellences. The poets, dramatists, painters, musicians, sculptors, architects, were, with hardly an exception, not only born, but educated under that freer policy, which existed before his time. When they began their labours, they benefited by a munificence which encouraged the activity of their genius. But in a few years, that generation having died off, the hollowness of the whole system was clearly exposed. More than a quarter of a century before the death of Louis XIV., most of these eminent men had ceased to live; and then it was seen to how miserable a plight the country was reduced under the boasted patronage of the great king. At the moment when Louis XIV. died, there was scarcely a writer or an artist in France who enjoyed an European reputation. This is a circumstance well worth our notice. If we compare the different classes of literature, we shall find that sacred oratory, being the least influenced by the king, was able the longest to bear up against his system. Massillon belongs partly to the subsequent reign; but even of the other great divines, Bossuet and Bourdaloue both lived to 1704,[490] Mascaron to 1703,[491] and Flechier to 1710.[492] As, however, the king, particularly in his latter years, was very fearful of meddling with the church, it is in profane matters that we can best trace the workings of his policy, because it is there that his interference was most active. With a view to this, the simplest plan will be, to look, in the first place, into the history of the fine arts; and after ascertaining who the greatest artists were, observe the year in which they died, remembering that the government of Louis XIV. began in 1661, and ended in 1715. [490] _Biog. Univ._ vol. v. pp. 236, 358. [491] _Ibid._ xxvii. p. 351. [492] _Ibid._ xv. p. 35. If, now, we examine this period of fifty-four years, we shall be struck by the remarkable fact, that everything which is celebrated was effected in the first half of it; while more than twenty years before its close, the most eminent masters all died without leaving any successors. The six greatest painters in the reign of Louis XIV. were Poussin, Lesueur, Claude Lorraine, Le Brun, and the two Mignards. Of these, Le Brun died in 1690;[493] the elder Mignard in 1668;[494] the younger in 1695;[495] Claude Lorraine in 1682;[496] Lesueur in 1655;[497] and Poussin, perhaps the most distinguished of all the French school, died in 1665.[498] The two greatest architects were, Claude Perrault and Francis Mansart; but Perrault died in 1688;[499] Mansart in 1666;[500] and Blondel, the next in fame, died in 1686.[501] The greatest of all the sculptors was Puget, who died in 1694.[502] Lulli, the founder of French music, died in 1687.[503] Quinault, the greatest poet of French music, died in 1688.[504] Under these eminent men, the fine arts, in the reign of Louis XIV., reached their zenith; and during the last thirty years of his life, their decline was portentously rapid. This was the case, not only in architecture and music, but even in painting, which, being more subservient than they are to personal vanity, is more likely to flourish under a rich and despotic government. The genius, however, of painters fell so low, that long before the death of Louis XIV., France ceased to possess one of any merit; and when his successor came to the throne, this beautiful art was, in that great country, almost extinct.[505] [493] _Ibid._ xxiii. p. 496. [494] _Ibid._ xxix. p. 17. [495] _Ibid._ xxix. p. 19. [496] 'His best pictures were painted from about 1640 to 1660; he died in 1682.' _Wornum's Epochs of Painting_, Lond. 1847. p. 399. Voltaire (_Siècle de Louis XIV_, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xix. p. 205) says that he died in 1678. [497] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxiv. p. 327; _Works of Sir Joshua Reynolds_, vol. ii. pp. 454, 455. [498] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxv. p. 579. Poussin was Barry's 'favourite' painter. _Letter from Barry_, in _Burke's Correspond._ vol. i. p. 88. Compare _Otter's Life of Clarke_, vol. ii. p. 55. Sir Joshua Reynolds (_Works_, vol. i. pp. 97, 351, 376) appears to have preferred him to any of the French school; and in the report presented to Napoleon by the Institute, he is the only French painter mentioned by the side of the Greek and Italian artists. _Dacier_, _Rapport Historique_, p. 23. [499] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxiii. p. 411; _Siècle de Louis XIV_, in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xix. p. 158. [500] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxvi. p. 503. [501] _Ibid._ vol. iv. p. 593. [502] _Ibid._ vol. xxxvi. p. 300. Respecting him, see _Lady Morgan's France_, vol. ii. pp. 30, 31. [503] M. Capefigue (_Louis XIV_, vol. ii. p. 79) says, 'Lulli mourut en 1689;' but 1687 is the date assigned in _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxv. p. 425; in _Chalmer's Biog. Dict._ vol. xx. p. 483; in _Rose's Biog. Dict._ vol. ix. p. 350; and in _Monteil_, _Divers Etats_, vol. vii p. 63. In _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xix. p. 200, he is called 'le père de la vraie musique en France.' He was admired by Louis XIV. _Lettres de Sévigné_, vol. ii. pp. 162, 163. [504] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxvi. p. 42. Voltaire (_[OE]uvres_, vol. xix. p. 162) says, 'personne n'a jamais égalé Quinault;' and Mr. Hallam (_Lit. of Europe_, vol. iii. p. 507), 'the unrivalled poet of French music.' See also _Lettres de Dudeffand à Walpole_, vol. ii. p. 432. [505] When Louis XV. ascended the throne, painting in France was in the lowest state of degradation. _Lady Morgan's France_, vol. ii. p. 31. Lacretelle (_Dix-huitième Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 11) says 'Les beaux arts dégénérèrent plus sensiblement que les lettres pendant la seconde partie du siècle de Louis XIV.... Il est certain que les vingt-cinq dernières années du règne de Louis XIV n'offrirent que des productions très-inférieures,' &c. Thus too Barrington (_Observations on the Statutes_, p. 377), 'It is very remarkable that the French school hath not produced any very capital painters since the expensive establishment by Louis XIV. of the academies at Rome and Paris.' These are startling facts; not matters of opinion, which may be disputed, but stubborn dates, supported by irrefragable testimony. And if we examine in the same manner the literature of the age of Louis XIV., we shall arrive at similar conclusions. If we ascertain the dates of those masterpieces which adorn his reign, we shall find that during the last five-and-twenty years of his life, when his patronage had been the longest in operation, it was entirely barren of results; in other words, that when the French had been most habituated to his protection, they were least able to effect great things. Louis XIV. died in 1715. Racine produced _Phedre_ in 1677; _Andromaque_ in 1667; _Athelie_ in 1691.[506] Molière published the _Misanthrope_ in 1666; _Tartuffe_ in 1667; the _Avare_ in 1668.[507] The _Lutrin_ of Boileau was written in 1674; his best Satires in 1666.[508] The last Fables of La Fontaine appeared in 1678, and his last Tales in 1671.[509] The _Inquiry respecting Truth_, by Malebranche, was published in 1674;[510] the _Caractères_ of La Bruyère in 1687;[511] the Maximes of Rochefoucauld in 1665.[512] The _Provincial Letters_ of Pascal were written 1656, and he himself died in 1662.[513] As to Corneille, his great Tragedies were composed, some while Louis was still a boy, and the others before the king was born.[514] Such were the dates of the masterpieces of the age of Louis XIV. The authors of these immortal works all ceased to write, and nearly all ceased to live, before the close of the seventeenth century; and we may fairly ask the admirers of Louis XIV. who those men were that succeeded them. Where have their names been registered? Where are their works to be found? Who is there that now reads the books of those obscure hirelings, who for so many years thronged the court of the great king? Who has heard anything of Campistron, La Chapelle, Genest, Ducerceau, Dancourt, Danchet, Vergier, Catrou, Chaulieu, Legendre, Valincour, Lamotte, and the other ignoble compilers, who long remained the brightest ornaments of France? Was this, then, the consequence of the royal bounty? Was this the fruit of the royal patronage? If the system of reward and protection is really advantageous to literature and to art, how is it that it should have produced the meanest results when it had been the longest in operation? If the favour of kings is, as their flatterers tell us, of such importance, how comes it that the more the favour was displayed, the more the effects were contemptible? [506] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxvi. pp. 499, 502; _Hallam's Lit._ vol. iii. p. 493. [507] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxix. pp. 306, 308. [508] _Rose's Biog. Dict._ vol. iv. p. 376; and _Biog. Univ._ vol. v. pp. 7, 8, where it is said that 'ses meilleures satires' were those published in 1666. [509] _Ibid._ vol. xxiii. p. 127. [510] _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. x. p. 322. [511] _Biog. Univ._ vol. vi. p. 175. [512] _Brunet_, _Manuel du Libraire_, vol. iv. p. 105, Paris 1843; and note in _Lettres de Patin_, vol. i. p. 421. [513] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxiii. pp. 64, 71; _Palissot_, _Mém. pour l'Hist. de Lit._ vol. ii. pp. 239, 241. [514] _Polyeucte_, which is probably his greatest work, appeared in 1640; _Médée_ in 1635; _The Cid_ in 1636; _Horace and Cinna_ both in 1639. _Biog. Univ._ vol. ix. pp. 609-613. Nor was this almost inconceivable penury compensated by superiority in any other department. The simple fact is that Louis XIV. survived the entire intellect of the French nation, except that small part of it which grew up in opposition to his principles, and afterwards shook the throne of his successor.[515] Several years before his death, and when his protective system had been in full force for nearly half a century, there was not to be found in the whole of France a statesman who could develop the resources of the country, or a general who could defend it against its enemies. Both in the civil service and in the military service, every thing had fallen into disorder. At home there was nothing but confusion; abroad there was nothing but disaster. The spirit of France succumbed, and was laid prostrate. The men of letters, pensioned and decorated by the court, had degenerated into a fawning and hypocritical race, who, to meet the wishes of their masters, opposed all improvement, and exerted themselves in support of every old abuse. The end of all this was, a corruption, a servility, and a loss of power more complete than has ever been witnessed in any of the great countries of Europe. There was no popular liberty; there were no great men; there was no science; there was no literature; there were no arts. Within, there was a discontented people, a rapacious government, and a beggared exchequer. Without, there were foreign armies, which pressed upon all the frontiers, and which nothing but their mutual jealousies, and a change in the English cabinet, prevented from dismembering the monarchy of France.[516] [515] Voltaire (_Siècle de Louis XIV_, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xx. pp. 319-322) reluctantly confesses the decline of the French intellect in the latter part of the reign of Louis; and Flassan (_Diplomat. Franç._ vol. iv. p. 400) calls it 'remarquable.' See also _Barante_, _Littérature Française_, p. 28; _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxvi. p. 217. [516] Oppressed by defeats abroad, and by famine and misery at home, Louis was laid at the mercy of his enemies; and 'was only saved by a party revolution in the English ministry.' _Arnold's Lectures on Modern History_, p. 137. Compare _Fragments sur l'Histoire_, article xxiii. in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxvii. p. 345, with _De Tocqueville_, _Règne de Louis XV_, vol. i. p. 86. Such was the forlorn position of that noble country towards the close of the reign of Louis XIV.[517] The misfortunes which embittered the declining years of the king were, indeed, so serious, that they could not fail to excite our sympathy, if we did not know that they were the result of his own turbulent ambition, of his insufferable arrogance, but, above all, of a grasping and restless vanity, which, making him eager to concentrate on his single person all the glory of France, gave rise to that insidious policy, which, with gifts, with honours, and with honied words, began by gaining the admiration of the intellectual classes, then made them courtly and time-serving, and ended by destroying all their boldness, stifling every effort of original thought, and thus postponing for an indefinite period the progress of national civilization. [517] For evidence of the depression and, indeed, utter exhaustion of France during the latter years of Louis XIV., compare _Duclos_, _Mémoires_, vol. i. pp. 11-18, with _Marmontel_, _Hist. de la Régence_, Paris, 1826, pp. 79-97. The _Lettres inédites de Madame de Maintenon_ (vol. i. pp. 263, 284, 358, 389, 393, 408, 414, 422, 426, 447, 457, 463, vol. ii. pp. 19, 23, 33, 46, 56, and numerous other passages) fully confirm this, and, moreover, prove that in Paris, early in the eighteenth century, the resources, even of the wealthy classes, were beginning to fail; while both public and private credit were so shaken, that it was hardly possible to obtain money on any terms. In 1710, she, the wife of Louis XIV., complains of her inability to borrow 500 livres: 'Tout mon crédit échoue souvent auprès de M. Desmaretz pour une somme de cinq cents livres.' _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 33. In 1709, she writes (vol. i. p. 447): 'Le jeu devient insipide, parce qu'il n'y a presque plus d'argent.' See also vol. ii. p. 112; and in February 1711 (p. 151): 'Ce n'est pas l'abondance mais l'avarice qui fait jouer nos courtisans; on met le tout pour le tout pour avoir quelque argent, et les tables de lansquenet ont plus l'air d'un triste commerce que d'un divertissement.' In regard to the people generally, the French writers supply us with little information, because in that age they were too much occupied with their great king and their showy literature, to pay attention to mere popular interests. But I have collected from other sources some information which I will now put together, and which I recommend to the notice of the next French author who undertakes to compose a history of Louis XIV. Locke, who was travelling in France in 1676 and 1677, writes in his journal, 'The rent of land in France fallen one-half in these few years, by reason of the poverty of the people.' _King's Life of Locke_, vol. i. p. 139. About the same time, Sir William Temple says (_Works_, vol. ii. p. 268), 'The French peasantry are wholly dispirited by labour and want.' In 1691, another observer, proceeding from Calais, writes, 'From hence, travelling to Paris, there was opportunity enough to observe what a prodigious state of poverty the ambition and absoluteness of a tyrant can reduce an opulent and fertile country to. There were visible all the marks and signs of a growing misfortune; all the dismal indications of an overwhelming calamity. The fields were uncultivated, the villages unpeopled, the houses dropping to decay.' _Burton's Diary_, note by Rutt, vol. iv. p. 79. In a tract published in 1689, the author says (_Somers Tracts_, vol. x. p. 264), 'I have known in France poor people sell their beds, and lie upon straw; sell their pots, kettles, and all their necessary household goods, to content the unmerciful collectors of the king's taxes.' Dr. Lister, who visited Paris in 1698, says, 'Such is the vast multitude of poor wretches in all parts of this city, that whether a person is in a carriage or on foot, in the street, or even in a shop, he is alike unable to transact business, on account of the importunities of mendicants.' _Lister's Account of Paris_, p. 46. Compare a _Letter from Prior_, in _Ellis's Letters of Literary Men_, p. 213. In 1708, Addison, who, from personal observation, was well acquainted with France, writes: 'We think here as you do in the country, that France is on her last legs.' _Aikin's Life of Addison_, vol. i. p. 233. Finally, in 1718--that is, three years after the death of Louis--Lady Mary Montagu gives the following account of the result of his reign, in a letter to Lady Rich, dated Paris, 10th October, 1718: 'I think nothing so terrible as objects of misery, except one had the god-like attribute of being able to redress them; and all the country villages of France show nothing else. While the post-horses are changed, the whole town comes out to beg, with such miserable starved faces, and thin, tattered clothes, they need no other eloquence to persuade one of the wretchedness of their condition.' _Works of Lady Mary Wortley Montague_, vol. iii. p. 74, edit. 1803. CHAPTER V. DEATH OF LOUIS XIV. REACTION AGAINST THE PROTECTIVE SPIRIT, AND PREPARATIONS FOR THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. At length Louis XIV. died. When it was positively known that the old king had ceased to breathe, the people went almost mad with joy.[518] The tyranny which had weighed them down was removed; and there at once followed a reaction which, for sudden violence, has no parallel in modern history.[519] The great majority indemnified themselves for their forced hypocrisy by indulging in the grossest licentiousness. But among the generation then forming, there were some high-spirited youths, who had far higher views, and whose notions of liberty were not confined to the license of the gaming-house and the brothel. Devoted to the great idea of restoring to France that freedom of utterance which it had lost, they naturally turned their eyes towards the only country where the freedom was practised. Their determination to search for liberty in the place where alone it could be found, gave rise to that junction of the French and English intellects, which, looking at the immense chain of its effects, is by far the most important fact in the history of the eighteenth century. [518] 'L'annonce de la mort du grand roi ne produisit chez le peuple français qu'une explosion de joie.' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxvii. p. 220. 'Le jour des obsèques de Louis XIV, on établit des guinguettes sur le chemin de Saint-Denis. Voltaire, que la curiosité avoit mené aux funérailles du souverain, vit dans ces guinguettes le peuple ivre de vin et de joie de la mort de Louis XIV.' _Duvernet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, p. 29: see also _Condorcet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, p. 118; _De Tocqueville_, _Règne de Louis XV_, vol. i. p. 18; _Duclos_, _Mémoires_, vol. i. p. 221; _Lemontey_, _Etablissement de Louis XIV_, pp. 311, 388. [519] 'Kaum hatte er aber die Augen geschlossen, als alles umschlug. Der reprimirte Geist warf sich in eine zügellose Bewegung.' _Ranke_, _die Päpste_, vol. iii. p. 192. During the reign of Louis XIV., the French, puffed up by national vanity, despised the barbarism of a people who were so uncivilized as to be always turning on their rulers, and who, within the space of forty years, had executed one king, and deposed another.[520] They could not believe that such a restless horde possessed anything worthy the attention of enlightened men. Our laws, our literature, and our manners, were perfectly unknown to them; and I doubt if at the end of the seventeenth century there were, either in literature or in science, five persons in France acquainted with the English language.[521] But a long experience of the reign of Louis XIV. induced the French to reconsider many of their opinions. It induced them to suspect that despotism may have its disadvantages, and that a government composed of princes and bishops is not necessarily the best for a civilized country. They began to look, first with complacency, and then with respect, upon that strange and outlandish people, who, though only separated from themselves by a narrow sea, appeared to be of an altogether different kind; and who, having punished their oppressors, had carried their liberties and their prosperity to a height of which the world had seen no example. These feelings, which before the Revolution broke out, were entertained by the whole of the educated classes in France, were in the beginning, confined to those men whose intellects placed them at the head of their age. During the two generations which elapsed between the death of Louis XIV. and the outbreak of the Revolution, there was hardly a Frenchman of eminence who did not either visit England or learn English; while many of them did both. Buffon, Brissot, Broussonnet, Condamine, Delisle, Elie de Beaumont, Gournay, Helvétius, Jussieu, Lalande, Lafayette, Larcher, L'Héritier, Montesquieu, Maupertuis, Morellet, Mirabeau, Nollet, Raynal, the celebrated Roland, and his still more celebrated wife, Rousseau, Ségur, Suard, Voltaire--all these remarkable persons flocked to London, as also did others of inferior ability, but of considerable influence, such as Brequiny, Bordes, Calonne, Coyer, Cormatin, Dufay, Dumarest, Dezallier, Favier, Girod, Grosley, Godin, D'Hancarville, Hunauld, Jars, Le Blanc, Ledru, Lescallier, Linguet, Lesuire, Lemonnier, Levesque de Pouilly, Montgolfier, Morand, Patu, Poissonier, Reveillon, Septchènes, Silhouette, Siret, Soulavie, Soulès, and Valmont de Brienne. [520] The shock which these events gave to the delicacy of the French mind was very serious. The learned Saumaise declared that the English are 'more savage than their own mastiffs.' _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. i. p. 444. Another writer said that we were 'barbares révoltés;' and 'les barbares sujets du roi.' _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. ii. pp. 105, 362. Patin likened us to the Turks; and said, that having executed one king, we should probably hang the next. _Lettres de Patin_, vol. i. p. 261, vol. ii. p. 518, vol. iii. p. 148. Compare _Mém. de Campion_, p. 213. After we had sent away James II., the indignation of the French rose still higher, and even the amiable Madame Sévigné, having occasion to mention Mary the wife of William III., could find no better name for her than Tullia: 'la joie est universelle de la déroute de ce prince, dont la femme est une Tullie.' _Lettres de Sévigné_, vol. v. p. 179. Another influential French lady mentions 'la férocité des anglais.' _Lettres inédites de Maintenon_, vol. i. p. 303; and elsewhere (p. 109), 'je hais les anglais comme le peuple.... Véritablement je ne les puis souffrir.' I will only give two more illustrations of the wide diffusion of such feelings. In 1679, an attempt was made to bring bark into discredit as a 'remède anglais' (_Sprengel_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. v. p. 430): and at the end of the seventeenth century, one of the arguments in Paris against coffee was that the English liked it. _Monteil_, _Divers Etats_, vol. vii. p. 216. [521] 'Au temps de Boileau, personne en France n'apprenait l'anglais.' _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxxviii. p. 337, and see vol. xix. p. 159. 'Parmi nos grands écrivains du xvii^e siècle, il n'en est aucun, je crois, ou l'on puisse reconnaître un souvenir, une impression de l'esprit anglais.' _Villemain_, _Lit. au XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. iii. p. 324. Compare _Barante_, _XVIII^e Siècle_, p. 47, _Grimm_, and _Correspond._ vol. v. p. 135, vol. xvii. p. 2. The French, during the reign of Louis XIV., principally knew us from the accounts given by two of their countrymen, Monconys and Sorbière; both of whom published their travels in England, but neither of whom were acquainted with the English language. For proof of this, see _Monconys_, _Voyages_, vol. iii. pp. 34, 69, 70, 96; and _Sorbière_, _Voyage_, pp. 45, 70. When Prior arrived at the court of Louis XIV. as plenipotentiary, no one in Paris was aware that he had written poetry (_Lettres sur les Anglais_, in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxvi. p. 130); and when Addison, being in Paris, presented Boileau with a copy of the _Musæ Anglicanæ_, the Frenchman learnt for the first time that we had any good poets: 'first conceived an opinion of the English genius for poetry.' Tickell's statement, in _Aikin's Life of Addison_, vol. i. p. 65. Finally, it is said that Milton's _Paradise Lost_ was not even by report in France until after the death of Louis XIV., though the poem was published in 1667, and the king died in 1715; 'Nous n'avions jamais entendu parler de ce poëme en France, avant que l'auteur de la Henriade nous en eût donné une idée dans le neuvième chapitre de son Essai sur la poésie épique. _Dict. Philos._ article _Epopée_, in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxxix. p. 175; see also vol. lxvi. p. 249. Nearly all of these carefully studied our language, and most of them seized the spirit of our literature. Voltaire, in particular, devoted himself with his usual ardour to the new pursuit, and acquired in England a knowledge of those doctrines, the promulgation of which, afterwards won for him so great a reputation.[522] He was the first who popularized in France the philosophy of Newton, where it rapidly superseded that of Descartes.[523] He recommended to his countrymen the writings of Locke;[524] which soon gained immense popularity, and which supplied materials to Condillac for his system of metaphysics,[525] and to Rousseau for his theory of education.[526] Besides this, Voltaire was the first Frenchman who studied Shakespeare; to whose works he was greatly indebted, though he afterwards wished to lessen what he considered the exorbitant respect paid to them in France.[527] Indeed, so intimate was his knowledge of the English language,[528] that we can trace his obligations to Butler,[529] one of the most difficult of our poets, and to Tillotson,[530] one of the dullest of our theologians. He was acquainted with the speculations of Berkeley,[531] the most subtle metaphysician who has ever written in English; and he had read the works, not only of Shaftesbury,[532] but even of Chubb,[533] Garth,[534] Mandeville,[535] and Woolston.[536] Montesquieu imbibed in our country many of his principles; he studied our language; and he always expressed admiration for England, not only in his writings, but also in his private conversation.[537] Buffon learnt English, and his first appearance as an author was as the translator of Newton and of Hales.[538] Diderot, following in the same course, was an enthusiastic admirer of the novels of Richardson;[539] he took the idea of several of his plays from the English dramatists, particularly from Lillo; he borrowed many of his arguments from Shaftesbury and Collins, and his earliest publication was a translation of Stanyan's _History of Greece_.[540] Helvétius, who visited London, was never weary of praising the people; many of the views in his great work on the Mind are drawn from Mandeville; and he constantly refers to the authority of Locke, whose principles hardly any Frenchman would at an earlier period have dared to recommend.[541] The works of Bacon, previously little known, were now translated into French; and his classification of the human faculties was made the basis of that celebrated Encyclopædia, which is justly regarded as one of the greatest productions of the eighteenth century.[542] The _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, by Adam Smith, was during thirty-four years translated three different times, by three different French authors.[543] And such was the general eagerness, that directly the _Wealth of Nations_, by the same great writer, appeared, Morellet, who was then high in reputation, began to turn it into French; and was only prevented from printing his translation by the circumstance, that before it could be completed, another version of it was published in a French periodical.[544] Coyer, who is still remembered for his _Life of Sobieski_, visited England; and after returning to his own country, showed the direction of his studies by rendering into French the Commentaries of Blackstone.[545] Le Blanc travelled in England, wrote a work expressly upon the English, and translated into French the Political Discourses of Hume.[546] Holbach was certainly one of the most active leaders of the liberal party in Paris; but a large part of his very numerous writings consists solely in translations of English authors.[547] Indeed, it may be broadly stated, that while, at the end of the seventeenth century, it would have been difficult to find, even among the most educated Frenchmen, a single person acquainted with English, it would, in the eighteenth century, have been nearly as difficult to find in the same class one who was ignorant of it. Men of all tastes, and of the most opposite pursuits, were on this point united as by a common bond. Poets, geometricians, historians, naturalists, all seemed to agree as to the necessity of studying a literature on which no one before had wasted a thought. In the course of general reading, I have met with proofs that the English language was known, not only to those eminent Frenchmen whom I have already mentioned, but also to mathematicians, as D'Alembert,[548] Darquier,[549] Du Val le Roy,[550] Jurain,[551] Lachapelle,[552] Lalande,[553] Le Cozic,[554] Montucla,[555] Pezenas,[556] Prony,[557] Romme,[558] and Roger Martin;[559] to anatomists, physiologists, and writers on medicine, as Barthèz,[560] Bichat,[561] Bordeu,[562] Barbeu Dubourg,[563] Bosquillon,[564] Bourru,[565] Begue de Presle,[566] Cabanis,[567] Demours,[568] Duplanil,[569] Fouquet,[570] Goulin,[571] Lavirotte,[572] Lassus,[573] Petit Radel,[574] Pinel,[575] Roux,[576] Sauvages,[577] and Sue;[578] to naturalists, as Alyon,[579] Brémond,[580] Brisson,[581] Broussonnet,[582] Dalibard,[583] Haüy,[584] Latapie,[585] Richard,[586] Rigaud,[587] and Romé de Lisle;[588] to historians, philologists, and antiquaries, as Barthélemy,[589] Butel Dumont,[590] De Brosses,[591] Foucher,[592] Freret,[593] Larcher,[594] Le Coc de Villeray,[595] Millot,[596] Targe,[597] Velly,[598] Volney,[599] and Wailly;[600] to poets and dramatists, as Chéron,[601] Colardeau,[602] Delille,[603] Desforges,[604] Ducis,[605] Florian,[606] Laborde,[607] Lefèvre de Beauvray,[608] Mercier,[609] Patu,[610] Pompignan,[611] Quétant,[612] Roucher,[613] and Saint Ange;[614] to miscellaneous writers, as Bassinet,[615] Baudeau,[616] Beaulaton,[617] Benoist,[618] Bergier,[619] Blavet,[620] Bouchaud,[621] Bougainville,[622] Bruté,[623] Castera,[624] Chantreau,[625] Charpentier,[626] Chastellux,[627] Contant d'Orville,[628] De Bissy,[629] Demeunier,[630] Desfontaines,[631] Devienne,[632] Dubocage,[633] Dupré,[634] Duresnel,[635] Eidous,[636] Estienne,[637] Favier,[638] Flavigny,[639] Fontanelle,[640] Fontenay,[641] Framery,[642] Fresnais,[643] Fréville,[644] Frossard,[645] Galtier,[646] Garsault,[647] Goddard,[648] Goudar,[649] Guénée,[650] Guillemard,[651] Guyard,[652] Jault,[653] Imbert,[654] Joncourt,[655] Kéralio,[656] Laboreau,[657] Lacombe,[658] Lafargue,[659] La Montagne,[660] Lanjuinais,[661] Lasalle,[662] Lasteyrie,[663] Le Breton,[664] Lécuy,[665] Léonard des Malpeines,[666] Letourneur,[667] Linguet,[668] Lottin,[669] Luneau,[670] Maillet Duclairon,[671] Mandrillon,[672] Marsy,[673] Moet,[674] Monod,[675] Mosneron,[676] Nagot,[677] Peyron,[678] Prévost,[679] Puisieux,[680] Rivoire,[681] Robinet,[682] Roger,[683] Roubaud,[684] Salaville,[685] Sauseuil,[686] Secondat,[687] Septchènes,[688] Simon,[689] Soulès,[690] Suard,[691] Tannevot,[692] Thurot,[693] Toussaint,[694] Tressan,[695] Trochereau,[696] Turpin,[697] Ussieux,[698] Vaugeois,[699] Verlac,[700] and Virloys.[701] Indeed, Le Blanc, who wrote shortly before the middle of the eighteenth century, says: 'We have placed English in the rank of the learned languages; our women study it, and have abandoned Italian in order to study the language of this philosophic people; nor is there to be found among us any one who does not desire to learn it.'[702] [522] 'Le vrai roi du xviii^e siècle, c'est Voltaire; mais Voltaire à son tour est un écolier de l'Angleterre. Avant que Voltaire eût connu l'Angleterre, soit par ses voyages, soit part ses amitiés, il n'était pas Voltaire, et le xviii^e siècle se cherchait encore.' _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philos._ I^{re} série, vol. iii. pp. 38, 39. Compare _Damiron_, _Hist. de la Philos. en France_, Paris, 1828, vol. i. p. 34. [523] 'J'avais été le premier qui eût osé développer à ma nation les découvertes de Newton, en langage intelligible.' _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. i. p. 315; see also vol. xix. p. 87, vol. xxvi. p. 71; _Whewell's Hist. of Induc. Sciences_, vol. ii. p. 206; _Weld's Hist. of the Royal Society_, vol. i. p. 441. After this, the Cartesian physics lost ground every day; and in _Grimm's Correspondence_, vol. ii. p. 148, there is a letter, dated Paris, 1757, which says, 'Il n'y a guère plus ici de partisans de Descartes que M. de Mairan.' Compare _Observations et Pensées_, in _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. iii. p. 298. [524] Which he was never weary of praising; so that, as M. Cousin says (_Hist. de la Philos._ II. série, vol. ii. pp. 311, 312), 'Locke est le vrai maître de Voltaire.' Locke was one of the authors he put into the hands of Madame du Châtelet. _Condorcet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, p. 296. [525] _Morell's Hist. of Philos._ 1846, vol. i. p. 134; _Hamilton's Discuss._ p. 3. [526] 'Rousseau tira des ouvrages de Locke une grande partie de ses idées sur la politique et l'éducation; Condillac toute sa philosophie.' _Villemain_, _Lit. au XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. i. p. 83. See also, on the obligations of Rousseau to Locke, _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. v. p. 97; _Musset Pathay_, _Vie de Rousseau_, vol. i. p. 38, vol. ii. p. 394; _Mém. de Morellet_, vol. i. p. 113; _Romilly's Memoirs_, vol. i. pp. 211, 212. [527] In 1768, Voltaire (_[OE]uvres_, vol. lxvi. p. 249) writes to Horace Walpole, 'Je suie le premier qui ait fait connaître Shakespeare aux français.' See also his _Lettres inédites_, vol. ii. p. 500; _Villemain_, _Lit. au XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. iii. p. 325; and _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. xii. pp. 124, 125, 133. [528] There are extant many English letters written by Voltaire, which, though of course containing several errors, also contain abundant evidence of the spirit with which he seized our idiomatic expressions. In addition to his _Lettres inédites_, published at Paris in the present year (1856), see _Chatham Correspond._ vol. ii. pp. 131-133; and _Phillimore's Mém. of Lyttelton_, vol. i. pp. 323-325, vol. ii. pp. 555, 556, 558. [529] _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. i. p. 332; _Voltaire_, _Lettres inédites_, vol. ii. p. 258; and the account of Hudibras, with translations from it, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xxvi. pp. 132-137; also a conversation between Voltaire and Townley, in _Nichols's Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. iii. p. 722. [530] Compare _Mackintosh's Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 341, with _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxxix. p. 259, vol. xlvii. p. 85. [531] _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxxviii. pp. 216-218, vol. xlvi. p. 282, vol. xlvii. p. 439, vol. lvii. p. 178. [532] _Ibid._ vol. xxxvii. p. 353, vol. lvii. p. 66; _Correspond. inédite de Dudeffand_, vol. ii. p. 230. [533] _[OE]uvres_, vol. xxxiv. p. 294, vol. lvii. p. 121. [534] _Ibid._ vol. xxxvii. pp. 407, 441. [535] _Ibid._ vol. xxxvi. p. 46. [536] _Ibid._ vol. xxxiv. p. 288, vol. xli. pp. 212-217; _Biog. Univ._ vol. li. pp. 199, 200. [537] _Lerminier_, _Philos. du Droit_, vol. i. p. 221; _Klimrath_, _Hist. du Droit_, vol. ii. p. 502; _Harris's Life of Hardwicke_, vol. ii. p. 398, vol. iii. pp. 432-434; _Mém. de Diderot_, vol. ii. pp. 193, 194; _Lacretelle_, _XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 24. [538] _Villemain_, _Lit. au XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 182; _Biog. Univ._ vol. vi. p. 235; _Le Blanc_, _Lettres_, vol. i. p. 93, vol. ii. pp. 159, 160. [539] 'Admirateur passionné du romancier anglais.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxvii. p. 581. Compare _Diderot_, _Corresp._ vol. i. p. 352, vol. ii. pp. 44, 52, 53; _Mercier sur Rousseau_, vol. i. p. 44. [540] _Villemain_, _Lit._ vol. ii. p. 115; _Schlosser's Eighteenth Century_, vol. i. pp. 34, 42; _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. xi. p. 314; _Biog. Univ._ vol. xi. p. 314; _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. xv. p. 81. Stanyan's _History of Greece_ was once famous, and even so late as 1804, I find Dr. Parr recommending it. Parr's _Works_, vol. viii. p. 422. Diderot told Sir Samuel Romilly that he had collected materials for a history of the trial of Charles I. _Life of Romilly_, vol. i. p. 46. [541] _Diderot_, _Mém._ vol. ii. p. 286; _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philos._ II^e série, vol. ii. p. 331; _Helvétius de l'Esprit_, vol. i. pp. 31, 38, 46, 65, 114, 169, 193, 266, 268, vol. ii. pp. 144, 163, 165, 195, 212; _Letters addressed to Hume_, Edinb. 1849, pp. 9, 10. [542] This is the arrangement of our knowledge under the heads of Memory, Reason, and Imagination, which D'Alembert took from Bacon. Compare _Whewell's Philos. of the Sciences_, vol. ii. p. 306; _Cuvier_, _Hist. des Sciences_, part ii. p. 276; _Georgel_, _Mém._ vol. ii. p. 241; _Bordas Demoulin_, _Cartésianisme_, vol. i. p. 18. [543] _Quérard_, _France Lit._ ix. 193. [544] _Mém de. Morellet_, i. 236, 237. [545] _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, lxv. 161, 190, 212; _Biog. Univ._ x. 158, 159. [546] _Burton's Life of Hume_, vol. i. pp. 365, 366, 406. [547] See the list, in _Biog. Univ._ vol. xx. pp. 463-466; and compare _Mém. de Diderot_, vol. iii. p. 49, from which it seems that Holbach was indebted to Toland, though Diderot speaks rather doubtingly. In _Almon's Mem. of Wilkes_ 1805, vol. iv. pp. 176, 177, there is an English letter, tolerably well written, from Holbach to Wilkes. [548] _Musset Pathay_, _Vie de Rousseau_, ii. 10, 175; _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, liv. 207. [549] _Biog. Univ._ x. 556. [550] _Ibid._ xii. 418. [551] _Quérard_, _France Lit._ iv. 34, 272. [552] _Ibid._ iv. 361. [553] _Biog. Univ._ xxiii. 226. [554] _Montucla_, _Hist. des Mathém._ ii. 170. [555] _Montucla_, ii. 120, iv. 662, 665, 670. [556] _Biog. Univ._ iii. 253, xxxiii. 564. [557] _Quérard_, _France Lit._ vii. 353. [558] _Biog. Univ._ xxxviii. 530. [559] _Ibid._ xxxviii. 411. [560] _Ibid._ iii. 450. [561] _Bichat sur la Vie_, 244. [562] _Quérard_, i. 416. [563] _Biog. Univ._ iii. 345. [564] _Quérard_, i. 260, 425, ii. 354. [565] _Ibid._ i. 476. [566] _Biog. Univ._ iv. 55, 56. [567] _Notice sur Cabanis_, p. viii. in his _Physique et Moral._ [568] _Biog. Univ._ xi. 65, 66. [569] _Ibid._ xii. 276. [570] _Ibid._ xv. 359. [571] _Ibid._ xviii. 187. [572] _Quérard_, iv. 641, vi. 9, 398. [573] _Cuvier_, _Eloges_, i. 354. [574] _Quérard_, vii. 95. [575] _Cuvier_, _Eloges_, iii. 382. [576] _Biog. Univ._ xxxix. 174. [577] _Le Blanc_, _Lettres_, i. 93. [578] _Quérard_, ix. 286. [579] _Robin et Verdeil_, _Chim. Anat._ ii. 416. [580] _Biog. Univ._ v. 530, 531. [581] _Cuvier_, _Eloges_, i. 196. [582] _Biog. Univ._ vi. 47. [583] _Quérard_, ii. 372. [584] _Haüy_, _Minéralogie_, ii. 247, 267, 295, 327, 529, 609, iii. 75, 293, 307, 447, 575, iv. 45, 280, 292, 362. [585] _Quérard_, iv. 598. [586] _Ibid._ viii. 22. [587] _Swainson_, _Disc. on Nat. Hist._ 52; _Cuvier_, _Règne Animal_, iii. 415. [588] _De Lisle_, _Cristallographie_, 1772, xviii. xx. xxiii. xxv. xxvii. 78, 206, 254. [589] _Albemarle's Rockingham_, ii. 156; _Campbell's Chancellors_, v. 365. [590] _Biog. Univ._ vi. 386. [591] _Letters to Hume_, Edin. 1849, 276, 278. [592] _Biog. Univ._ xv. 332. [593] _Brewster's Life of Newton_, ii. 302. [594] _Palissot_, _Mém._ ii. 56. [595] _Biog. Univ._ ix. 549. [596] _Ibid._ xxix. 51, 53. [597] _Ibid._ xliv. 534. [598] _Ibid._ xlviii. 93. [599] _Volney_, _Syrie et Egypte_, ii. 100, 157; _Quérard_, x. 271, 273. [600] _Biog. Univ._ i. 42. [601] _Ibid._ viii. 340, 341. [602] _Mém. de Genlis_, i. 276. [603] _Palissot_, _Mém._ i. 243. [604] _Biog. Univ._ xi. 281, xi. 172, 173. [605] _Quérard_, ii. 626, 627. [606] _Ibid._ iii. 141. [607] _Quérard_, iv. 342. [608] _Ibid._ v. 83. [609] _Ibid._ vi. 62. [610] _Garrick Correspond._ 4to, 1832, ii. 385, 395, 416. [611] _Biog. Univ._ xxxv. 314. [612] _Quérard_, vii. 399. [613] _Biog. Univ._ xxxix. 93. [614] _Ibid._ xxxix. 530. [615] _Quérard_, i. 209. [616] _Biog. Univ._ iii. 533. [617] _Ibid._ iii. 631. [618] _Cuvier_, _Règne Animal_, iii. 334. [619] _Quérard_, i. 284, vii. 287. [620] _Mém. de Morellet_, i. 237. [621] _Biog. Univ._ v. 264. [622] _Dutens_, _Mém._ iii. 32. [623] _Biog. Univ._ vi. 165. [624] _Murray's Life of Bruce_, 121; _Biog. Univ._ vi. 79. [625] _Ibid._ viii. 46. [626] _Ibid._ viii. 246. [627] _Ibid._ viii. 266. [628] _Ibid._ ix. 497. [629] _Ibid._ xlv. 394. [630] _Lettres de Dudeffand à Walpole_, iii. 184. [631] _[OE]uvres de Voltaire._ lvi. 527. [632] _Biog. Univ._ xi. 264. [633] _Quérard_, ii. 598. [634] _Biog. Univ._ xii. 313, 314. [635] _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ ii. 154; _Palissot_, _Mém._ ii. 311. [636] _Biog. Univ._ iv. 547, xii. 595. [637] _Ibid._ xiii. 399. [638] _Quérard_, iii. 79. [639] _Biog. Univ._ xv. 29. [640] _Ibid._ xv. 203. [641] _Ibid._ 218. [642] _Quérard_, i. 525. [643] _Biog. Univ._ xvi. 48. [644] _Ibid._ li. 508. [645] _Smith's Tour on the Continent in 1786_, i. 143. [646] _Biog. Univ._ xvi. 388. [647] _Ibid._ xvi. 502. [648] _Sinclair's Correspond._ i. 157. [649] _Quérard_, iii. 418. [650] _Biog. Univ._ xix. 13. [651] _Quérard_, i. 10, iii. 536. [652] _Ibid._ iii. 469. [653] _Biog. Univ._ xxi. 419. [654] _Ibid._ xxi. 200. [655] _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, xxxviii. 244. [656] _Palissot_, _Mém._ i. 425. [657] _Biog. Univ._ xxiii. 34. [658] _Ibid._ xxiii. 56. [659] _Ibid._ xxiii. 111. [660] _Quérard_, iv. 503. [661] _Biog. Univ._ xxiii. 373. [662] _Quérard_, iv. 579. [663] _Sinclair's Correspond._ ii. 139. [664] _Mem. and Correspond. of Sir. J. E. Smith_, i. 163. [665] _Biog. des Hommes Vivants_, iv. 164. [666] _Quérard_, v. 177. [667] _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ iv. 583; _Longchamp et Wagnière_, _Mém._ i. 395. [668] _Quérard_, v. 316. [669] _Biog. Univ._ xxv. 87. [670] _Ibid._ xxv. 432. [671] _Ibid._ xxvi. 244. [672] _Ibid._ xxvi. 468. [673] _Ibid._ xxvii. 269. [674] _Ibid._ xxix. 208. [675] _Lettres de Dudeffand à Walpole_, i. 222. [676] _Quérard_, vi. 330. [677] _Biog. Univ._ xxx. 539. [678] _Ibid._ xxxiii. 553. [679] _Lettres de Dudeffand à Walpole_, i. 22, iii. 307, iv. 207. [680] _Biog. Univ._ xxxvi. 305, 306. [681] _Ibid._ xxxviii. 174. [682] _Peignot_, _Dict. des Livres_, ii. 233. [683] _Quérard_, viii. 111. [684] _Biog. Univ._ xxxix. 84. [685] _Biog. des Hommes Vivants_, v. 294. [686] _Quérard_, viii. 474. [687] _Biog. Univ._ xli. 426. [688] _Ibid._ xlii. 45, 46. [689] _Ibid._ xlii. 389. [690] _Ibid._ xliii. 181. [691] _Garrick Correspond._ ii. 604; _Mém. de Genlis_, vi. 205. [692] _Biog. Univ._ xliv. 512. [693] _Life of Roscoe_, _by his Son_, i. 200. [694] _Biog. Univ._ xlvi. 398, 399. [695] _Ibid._ xlvi. 497. [696] _Quérard_, iv. 45, ix. 558. [697] _Biog. Univ._ xlvii. 98. [698] _Ibid._ xlvii. 232. [699] _Mém. de Brissot_, i. 78. [700] _Biog. Univ._ xlviii. 217, 218. [701] _Ibid._ xlix. 223. [702] 'Nous avons mis depuis peu leur langue au rang des langues savantes; les femmes même l'apprennent, et ont renoncé à l'italien pour étudier celle de ce peuple philosophe. Il n'est point dans la province d'Armande et de Belise qui ne veuille savoir l'anglois.' _Le Blanc_, _Lettres_, vol. ii. p. 465. Compare _Grimm_, _Corresp._ vol. xiv. p. 484; and _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. iii. pp. 460, 461. Such was the eagerness with which the French imbibed the literature of a people whom but a few years before they had heartily despised. The truth is, that in this new state of things they had no alternative. For where but in England was a literature to be found that could satisfy those bold and inquisitive thinkers who arose in France after the death of Louis XIV.? In their own country there had no doubt been great displays of eloquence, of fine dramas, and of poetry, which, though never reaching the highest point of excellence, is of finished and admirable beauty. But it is an unquestionable fact, and one melancholy to contemplate, that during the sixty years which succeeded the death of Descartes, France had not possessed a single man who dared to think for himself. Metaphysicians, moralists, historians, all had become tainted by the servility of that bad age. During two generations, no Frenchman had been allowed to discuss with freedom any question, either of politics or of religion. The consequence was, that the largest intellects, excluded from their legitimate field, lost their energy; the national spirit died away; the very materials and nutriment of thought seemed to be wanting. No wonder then, if the great Frenchmen of the eighteenth century sought that aliment abroad which they were unable to find at home. No wonder if they turned from their own land, and gazed with admiration at the only people who, pushing their inquiries into the highest departments, had shown the same fearlessness in politics as in religion; a people who, having punished their kings and controlled their clergy, were storing the treasures of their experience in that noble literature which never can perish, and of which it may be said in sober truth, that it has stimulated the intellect of the most distant races, and that, planted in America and in India, it has already fertilized the two extremities of the world. There are, in fact, few things in history so instructive as the extent to which France was influenced by this new pursuit. Even those who took part in actually consummating the Revolution, were moved by the prevailing spirit. The English language was familiar to Carra,[703] Dumouriez,[704] Lafayette,[705] and Lanthénas.[706] Camille Desmoulins had cultivated his mind from the same source.[707] Marat travelled in Scotland as well as in England, and was so profoundly versed in our language that he wrote two works in it; one of which, called _The Chains of Slavery_, was afterwards translated into French.[708] Mirabeau is declared by a high authority to have owed part of his power to a careful study of the English constitution;[709] he translated not only Watson's _History of Philip II._, but also some parts of Milton;[710] and it is said that when he was in the National Assembly, he delivered, as his own, passages from the speeches of Burke.[711] Mounier was well acquainted with our language, and with our political institutions both in theory and in practice;[712] and in a work, which exercised considerable influence, he proposed for his own country the establishment of two chambers, to form that balance of power of which England supplied the example.[713] The same idea, derived from the same source, was advocated by Le Brun, who was a friend of Mounier's, and who, like him, had paid attention to the literature and government of the English people.[714] Brissot knew English; he had studied in London the working of the English institutions, and he himself mentions that, in his treatise on criminal law, he was mainly guided by the course of English legislation.[715] Condorcet also proposed as a model our system of criminal jurisprudence,[716] which, bad as it was, certainly surpassed that possessed by France. Madame Roland, whose position, as well as ability, made her one of the leaders of the democratic party, was an ardent student of the language and literature of the English people.[717] She too, moved by the universal curiosity, came to our country; and, as if to show that persons of every shade and of every rank were actuated by the same spirit, the Duke of Orleans likewise visited England; nor did his visit fail to produce its natural results. 'It was,' says a celebrated writer, 'in the society of London that he acquired a taste for liberty; and it was on his return from there that he brought into France a love of popular agitation, a contempt for his own rank, and a familiarity with those beneath him.'[718] [703] _Williams's Letters from France_, vol. iii. p. 68, 2nd edit. 1796; _Biog. Univ._ vol. vii. p. 192. [704] _Adolphus's Biog. Mem._ 1799, vol. i. p. 352. [705] _Lady Morgan's France_, vol. ii. p. 304; _Mém. de Lafayette_, vol. i. pp. 41, 49, 70, vol. ii. pp. 26, 74, 83, 89. [706] _Quérard_, _France Littéraire_, vol. iv. p. 540. [707] The last authors he read, shortly before his execution, were Young and Hervey. _Lamartine_, _Hist. des Girondins_, vol. viii. p. 45. In 1769 Madame Riccoboni writes from Paris, that Young's _Night Thoughts_ had become very popular there; and she justly adds, 'c'est une preuve sans réplique du changement de l'esprit français.' _Garrick Correspondence_, vol. ii. p. 566, 4to. 1832. [708] _Lamartine_, _Hist. des Girondins_, vol. iv. p. 119; _Mém. de Brissot_, vol. i. pp. 336, 337, vol. ii. p. 3. [709] 'Une des supériorités secondaires, une des supériorités d'étude qui appartenaient à Mirabeau, c'était la profonde connaissance, la vive intelligence de la constitution anglaise, de ses ressorts publics et de ses ressorts cachés.' _Villemain_, _Lit. au XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. iv. p. 153. [710] Particularly the democratic passages, 'un corps de doctrine de tous ses écrits républicains.' _Dumont_, _Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_, p. 119. As to his translation of Watson, see _Alison's Europe_, vol. i. p. 452. He also intended to translate Sinclair's History of the Revenue. _Correspond. of Sir J. Sinclair_, vol. ii. p. 119. [711] _Prior's Life of Burke_, p. 546, 3rd edit. 1839. [712] 'Il étudiait leur langue, la théorie et plus encore la pratique de leurs institutions.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxx. p. 310. [713] _Continuation de Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxx. p. 434. Montlosier (_Monarchie Française_, vol. ii. p. 340) says that this idea was borrowed from England; but he does not mention who suggested it. [714] _Du Mesnil_, _Mém. sur Le Brun_, pp. 10, 14, 29, 82, 180, 182. [715] _Mém. de Brissot_, vol. i. pp. 63, 64, vol. ii. pp. 25, 40, 188, 206, 260, 313. [716] Dupont de Nemours (_Mém. sur Turgot_, p. 117) says of criminal jurisprudence, 'M. de Condorcet proposait en modèle celle des Anglais.' [717] _Mém. de Roland_, vol. i. pp. 27, 55, 89, 136, vol. ii. pp. 99, 135, 253. [718] 'Le duc d'Orléans puisa ainsi le goût de la liberté dans la vie de Londres. Il en rapporta en France les habitudes d'insolence contre la cour, l'appétit des agitations populaires, le mépris pour son propre rang, la familiarité avec la foule,' &c. _Lamartine_, _Hist. des Girondins_, vol. ii. p. 102. This language, strong as it is, will not appear exaggerated to any one who has carefully studied the history of the eighteenth century. It is no doubt certain, that the French Revolution was essentially a reaction against that protective and interfering spirit which reached its zenith under Louis XIV., but which, centuries before his reign, had exercised a most injurious influence over the national prosperity. While, however, this must be fully conceded, it is equally certain that the impetus to which the reaction owed its strength, proceeded from England; and that it was English literature which taught the lessons of political liberty, first to France, and through France to the rest of Europe.[719] On this account, and not at all from mere literary curiosity, I have traced with some minuteness that union between the French and English minds, which, though often noticed, has never been examined with the care its importance deserves. The circumstances which reinforced this vast movement will be related towards the end of the volume; at present I will confine myself to its first great consequence, namely, the establishment of a complete schism between the literary men of France, and the classes who exclusively governed the country. [719] M. Lerminier (_Philos. du Droit_, vol. i. p. 19) says of England, 'cette île célèbre donne à l'Europe l'enseignement de la liberté politique; elle en fut l'école au dix-huitième siècle pour tout ce que l'Europe eut de penseurs.' See also _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. iii. p. 161; _Mém. de Marmontel_, vol. iv. pp. 38, 39; _Stäudlin_, _Gesch. der theolog. Wissenschaften_, vol. ii. p. 291. Those eminent Frenchmen who now turned their attention to England, found in its literature, in the structure of its society, and in its government, many peculiarities of which their own country furnished no example. They heard political and religious questions of the greatest moment debated with a boldness unknown in any other part of Europe. They heard dissenters and churchmen, whigs and tories, handling the most dangerous topics, and treating them with unlimited freedom. They heard public disputes respecting matters which no one in France dared to discuss; mysteries of state and mysteries of creed unfolded and rudely exposed to the popular gaze. And, what to Frenchmen of that age must have been equally amazing, they not only found a public press possessing some degree of freedom, but they found that within the very walls of parliament the administration of the crown was assailed with complete impunity, the character of its chosen servants constantly aspersed, and, strange to say, even the management of its revenues effectually controlled.[720] [720] Hume, who was acquainted with several eminent Frenchmen who visited England, says (_Philosophical Works_, vol. iii. p. 8), 'nothing is more apt to surprise a foreigner than the extreme liberty which we enjoy in this country, of communicating whatever we please to the public, and of openly censuring every measure entered into by the king or his ministers.' The successors of the age of Louis XIV., seeing these things, and seeing, moreover, that the civilization of the country increased as the authority of the upper classes and of the crown diminished, were unable to restrain their wonder at so novel and exciting a spectacle. 'The English nation,' says Voltaire, 'is the only one on the earth, which, by resisting its kings, has succeeded in lessening their power.[721] How I love the boldness of the English! how I love men who say what they think!'[722] The English, says Le Blanc, are willing to have a king, provided they are not obliged to obey him.[723] The immediate object of their government, says Montesquieu, is political liberty;[724] they possess more freedom than any republic;[725] and their system is in fact a republic disguised as a monarchy.[726] Grosley, struck with amazement, exclaims, 'Property is in England a thing sacred, which the laws protect from all encroachment, not only from engineers, inspectors, and other people of that stamp, but even from the king himself.'[727] Mably, in the most celebrated of all his works, says, 'The Hanoverians are only able to reign in England because the people are free, and believe they have a right to dispose of the crown. But if the kings were to claim the same powers as the Stuarts, if they were to believe that the crown belonged to them by divine right, they would be condemning themselves and confessing that they were occupying a place which is not their own.'[728] In England, says Helvétius, the people are respected; every citizen can take some part in the management of affairs; and authors are allowed to enlighten the public respecting its own interests.[729] And Brissot, who had made these matters his especial study, cries out, 'Admirable constitution! which can only be disparaged either by men who know it not, or else by those whose tongues are bridled by slavery.'[730] [721] 'La nation anglaise est la seule de la terre qui soit parvenue à régler le pouvoir des rois en leur résistant.' _Lettre VIII sur les Anglais_, in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxvi. p. 37. [722] 'Que j'aime la hardiesse anglaise! que j'aime les gens qui disent ce qu'ils pensent!' _Letter from Voltaire_, in _Correspond. de Dudeffand_, vol. ii. p. 263. For other instances of his admiration of England, see _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xl. pp. 105-109; vol. li. pp. 137, 390; vol. liv. pp. 298, 392; vol. lvi. pp. 162, 163, 195, 196, 270; vol. lvii. p. 500; vol. lviii. pp. 128, 267; vol. lix. pp. 265, 361; vol. lx. p. 501; vol. lxi. pp. 43, 73, 129, 140, 474, 475; vol. lxii. pp. 343, 379, 392; vol. lxiii. pp. 128, 146, 190, 196, 226, 237, 415; vol. lxiv. pp. 36, 96, 269; vol. lxvi. pp. 93, 159; vol. lxvii. pp. 353, 484. [723] 'Ils veulent un roi, aux conditions, pour ainsi dire, de ne lui point obéir.' _Le Blanc_, _Lettres d'un François_, vol. i. p. 210. [724] 'Il y a aussi une nation dans le monde qui a pour objet direct de sa constitution la liberté politique.' _Esprit des Lois_, livre xi. chap. v. in _[OE]uvres de Montesquieu_, p. 264. Conversely De Staël (_Consid. sur la Rév._ vol. iii. p. 261), 'la liberté politique est le moyen suprême.' [725] 'L'Angleterre est à présent le plus libre pays qui soit au monde, je n'en excepte aucune république.' _Notes sur l'Angleterre_, in _[OE]uvres de Montesquieu_, p. 632. [726] 'Une nation où la république se cache sous la forme de la monarchie.' _Esprit des Lois_, livre v. chap. xix. in _[OE]uvres de Montesquieu_, page 225; also quoted in _Bancroft's American Revolution_, vol. ii. p. 36. [727] _Grosley's Tour to London_, vol. i. pp. 16, 17. [728] _Mably_, _Observ. sur l'Hist. de France_, vol. ii. p. 185. [729] _Helvétius de l'Esprit._ vol. i. pp. 102, 199: 'un pays où le peuple est respecté comme en Angleterre; ... un pays où chaque citoyen a part au maniement des affaires générales, où tout homme d'esprit peut éclairer le public sur ses véritables intérêts.' [730] _Mém. de Brissot_, vol. ii. p. 25. Such were the opinions of some of the most celebrated Frenchmen of that time; and it would be easy to fill a volume with similar extracts. But, what I now rather wish to do, is, to point out the first great consequence of this new and sudden admiration for a country which, in the preceding age, had been held in profound contempt. The events which followed are, indeed, of an importance impossible to exaggerate; since they brought about that rupture between the intellectual and governing classes, of which the revolution itself was but a temporary episode. The great Frenchmen of the eighteenth century being stimulated by the example of England into a love of progress, naturally came into collision with the governing classes, among whom the old stationary spirit still prevailed. This opposition was a wholesome reaction against that disgraceful servility for which, in the reign of Louis XIV., literary men had been remarkable; and if the contest which ensued had been conducted with anything approaching to moderation, the ultimate result would have been highly beneficial; since it would have secured that divergence between the speculative and practical classes which, as we have already seen, is essential to maintain the balance of civilization, and to prevent either side from acquiring a dangerous predominance. But, unfortunately, the nobles and clergy had been so long accustomed to power, that they could not brook the slightest contradiction from those great writers, whom they ignorantly despised as their inferiors. Hence it was, that when the most illustrious Frenchmen of the eighteenth century attempted to infuse into the literature of their country a spirit of inquiry similar to that which existed in England, the ruling classes became roused into a hatred and jealousy which broke all bounds, and gave rise to that crusade against knowledge which forms the second principal precursor of the French Revolution. The extent of that cruel persecution to which literature was now exposed, can only be fully appreciated by those who have minutely studied the history of France in the eighteenth century. For it was not a stray case of oppression, which occurred here and there; but it was a prolonged and systematic attempt to stifle all inquiry, and punish all inquirers. If a list were drawn up of all the literary men who wrote during the seventy years succeeding the death of Louis XIV., it would be found, that at least nine out of every ten had suffered from the government some grievous injury; and that a majority of them had been actually thrown into prison. Indeed, in saying thus much, I am understating the real facts of the case; for I question if one literary man out of fifty escaped with entire impunity. Certainly, my own knowledge of those times, though carefully collected, is not so complete as I could have wished; but, among those authors who were punished, I find the name of nearly every Frenchman whose writings have survived the age in which they were produced. Among those who suffered either confiscation, or imprisonment, or exile, or fines, or the suppression of their works, or the ignominy of being forced to recant what they had written, I find, besides a host of inferior writers, the names of Beaumarchais, Berruyer, Bougeant, Buffon, D'Alembert, Diderot, Duclos, Freret, Helvétius, La Harpe, Linguet, Mably, Marmontel, Montesquieu, Mercier, Morellet, Raynal, Rousseau, Suard, Thomas, and Voltaire. The mere recital of this list is pregnant with instruction. To suppose that all these eminent men deserved the treatment they received, would, even in the absence of direct evidence, be a manifest absurdity; since it would involve the supposition, that a schism having taken place between two classes, the weaker class was altogether wrong, and the stronger altogether right. Fortunately, however, there is no necessity for resorting to any merely speculative argument respecting the probable merits of the two parties. The accusations brought against these great men are before the world; the penalties inflicted are equally well known; and, by putting these together, we may form some idea of the state of society, in which such things could be openly practised. Voltaire, almost immediately after the death of Louis XIV., was falsely charged with having composed a libel on that prince; and, for this imaginary offence, he, without the pretence of a trial, and without even the shadow of a proof, was thrown into the Bastille, where he was confined more than twelve months.[731] Shortly after he was released, there was put upon him a still more grievous insult; the occurrence, and, above all, the impunity of which, supply striking evidence as to the state of society in which such things were permitted. Voltaire, at the table of the Duke de Sully, was deliberately insulted by the Chevalier de Rohan Chabot, one of those impudent and dissolute nobles who then abounded in Paris. The duke, though the outrage was committed in his own house, in his own presence, and upon his own guest, would not interfere; but seemed to consider that a poor poet was honoured by being in any way noticed by a man of rank. But, as Voltaire, in the heat of the moment, let fall one of those stinging retorts which were the terror of his enemies, the chevalier determined to visit him with further punishment. The course he adopted was characteristic of the man, and of the class to which he belonged. He caused Voltaire to be seized in the streets of Paris, and in his presence ignominiously beaten, he himself regulating the number of blows of which the chastisement was to consist. Voltaire, smarting under the insult, demanded that satisfaction which it was customary to give. This, however, did not enter into the plan of his noble assailer, who not only refused to meet him in the field, but actually obtained an order, by which he was confined in the Bastille for six months, and at the end of that time was directed to quit the country.[732] [731] _Condorcet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, pp. 118, 119; _Duvernet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, pp. 30, 32; _Longchamp et Wagnière_, _Mém. sur Voltaire_, vol. i. p. 22. [732] _Duvernet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, pp. 46-48; _Condorcet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, pp. 125, 126. Compare vol. lvi. p. 162; _Lepan_, _Vie de Voltaire_, 1837, pp. 70, 71; and _Biog. Univ._ vol. xlix. p. 468. Duvernet, who, writing from materials supplied by Voltaire, had the best means of information, gives a specimen of the fine feeling of a French duke in the eighteenth century. He says, that, directly after Rohan had inflicted this public chastisement, 'Voltaire rentre dans l'hôtel, demande au duc de Sully de regarder cet outrage fait à l'un de ses convives, comme fait à lui-même: il le sollicite de se joindre à lui pour en poursuivre la vengeance, et de venir chez un commissaire en certifier la déposition. _Le duc de Sully se refuse à tout._' Thus it was that Voltaire, having first been imprisoned for a libel which he never wrote, and having then been publicly beaten because he retorted an insult wantonly put upon him, was now sentenced to another imprisonment, through the influence of the very man by whom he had been attacked. The exile which followed the imprisonment seems to have been soon remitted; as, shortly after these events, we find Voltaire again in France, preparing for publication his first historical work, a life of Charles XII. In this, there are none of those attacks on Christianity which gave offence in his subsequent writings; nor does it contain the least reflection upon the arbitrary government under which he had suffered. The French authorities at first granted that permission, without which no book could then be published; but as soon as it was actually printed, the license was withdrawn, and the history forbidden to be circulated.[733] The next attempt of Voltaire was one of much greater value: it was therefore repulsed still more sharply. During his residence in England, his inquisitive mind had been deeply interested by a state of things so different from any he had hitherto seen; and he now published an account of that remarkable people, from whose literature he had learned many important truths. His work, which he called _Philosophic Letters_, was received with general applause; but, unfortunately for himself, he adopted in it the arguments of Locke against innate ideas. The rulers of France, though not likely to know much about innate ideas, had a suspicion that the doctrine of Locke was in some way dangerous; and, as they were told that it was a novelty, they felt themselves bound to prevent its promulgation. Their remedy was very simple. They ordered that Voltaire should be again arrested and that his work should be burned by the common hangman.[734] [733] 'L'Histoire de Charles XII, dont on avait arrêté une première édition après l'avoir autorisée.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xlix. p. 470. Comp. _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. i. p. 388. [734] _Duvernet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, pp. 63-65; _Condorcet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, pp. 138-140; _Lepan_,_ Vie de Voltaire_, pp. 93, 381. These repeated injuries might well have moved a more patient spirit than that of Voltaire.[735] Certainly, those who reproach this illustrious man, as if he were the instigator of unprovoked attacks upon the existing state of things, must know very little of the age in which it was his misfortune to live. Even on what has been always considered the neutral ground of physical science, there was displayed the same despotic and persecuting spirit. Voltaire, among other schemes for benefiting France, wished to make known to his countrymen the wonderful discoveries of Newton, of which they were completely ignorant. With this view, he drew up an account of the labours of that extraordinary thinker; but here again the authorities interposed, and forbade the work to be printed.[736] Indeed, the rulers of France, as if sensible that their only security was the ignorance of the people, obstinately set their face against every description of knowledge. Several eminent authors had undertaken to execute, on a magnificent scale, an Encyclopædia, which should contain a summary of all the branches of science and of art. This, undoubtedly the most splendid enterprise ever started by a body of literary men, was at first discouraged by the government, and afterwards entirely prohibited.[737] On other occasions, the same tendency was shown in matters so trifling that nothing but the gravity of their ultimate results prevents them from being ridiculous. In 1770, Imbert translated Clarke's _Letters on Spain_: one of the best works then existing on that country. This book, however, was suppressed as soon as it appeared; and the only reason assigned for such a stretch of power is, that it contained some remarks respecting the passion of Charles III. for hunting, which were considered disrespectful to the French crown, because Louis XV. was himself a great hunter.[738] Several years before this, La Bletterie, who was favourably known in France by his works, was elected a member of the French Academy. But he, it seems, was a Jansenist, and had, moreover, ventured to assert that the Emperor Julian, notwithstanding his apostacy, was not entirely devoid of good qualities. Such offences could not be overlooked in so pure an age; and the king obliged the Academy to exclude La Bletterie from their society.[739] That the punishment extended no further, was an instance of remarkable leniency; for Fréret, an eminent critic and scholar,[740] was confined in the Bastille, because he stated in one of his memoirs, that the earliest Frankish chiefs had received their titles from the Romans.[741] The same penalty was inflicted four different times upon Lenglet du Fresnoy.[742] In the case of this amiable and accomplished man, there seems to have been hardly the shadow of a pretext for the cruelty with which he was treated; though, on one occasion, the alleged offence was, that he had published a supplement to the History of De Thou.[743] [735] The indignation of Voltaire appears in many of his letters; and he often announced to his friends his intention of quitting for ever a country where he was liable to such treatment. See _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. liv. pp. 58, 335, 336, vol. lv. p. 229, vol. lvi. pp. 162, 163, 358, 447, 464, 465, vol. lvii. pp. 144, 145, 155, 156, vol. lviii. pp. 36, 222, 223, 516, 517, 519, 520, 525, 526, 563, vol. lix. pp. 107, 116, 188, 208. [736] _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. i. pp. 147, 315, vol. lvii. pp. 211, 215, 219, 247, 295; _Villemain_, _Lit. au XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. i. p. 14; _Brougham's Men of Letters_, vol. i. pp. 53, 60. [737] _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. i. pp. 90-95, vol. ii. p. 399; _Biog. Univ._ vol. xi. p. 316; _Brougham's Men of Letters_, vol. ii. p. 439. [738] _Boucher de la Richarderie_, _Bibliothèque des Voyages_, vol. iii. pp. 390-393, Paris, 1808: 'La distribution en France de la traduction de ce voyage fut arrêtée pendant quelque temps par des ordres supérieurs du gouvernement.... Il y a tout lieu de croire que les ministres de France crurent, ou feignirent de croire, que le passage en question pouvoit donner lieu à des applications sur le goût effréné de Louis XV pour la chasse, et inspirèrent aisément cette prévention à un prince très-sensible, comme on sait, aux censures les plus indirectes de sa passion pour ce genre d'amusement.' See also the account of Imbert, the translator, in _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxi. p. 200. [739] _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. vi. pp. 161, 162; the crime being, 'qu'un janséniste avait osé imprimer que Julien, apostat exécrable aux yeux d'un bon chrétien, n'était pourtant pas un homme sans quelques bonnes qualités à en juger mondainement.' [740] M. Bunsen (_Egypt_, vol. i. p. 14) refers to Fréret's 'acute treatise on the Babylonian year;' and Turgot, in his _Etymologie_, says (_[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. iii. p. 83), 'l'illustre Fréret, un des savans qui ont su le mieux appliquer la philosophie à l'érudition.' [741] This was at the very outset of his career: 'En 1715, l'homme qui devait illustrer l'érudition française au xviii^e siècle, Fréret, était mis à la Bastille pour avoir avancé, dans un mémoire sur l'origine des Français, que les Francs ne formaient pas une nation à part, et que leurs premiers chefs avaient reçu de l'empire romain le titre de _patrices_.' _Villemain_, _Lit. au XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 30: see also _Nichols's Lit. Anec._ vol. ii. p. 510. [742] He was imprisoned in the Bastille, for the first time, in 1725; then in 1743, in 1750, and finally in 1751. _Biographie Universelle_, vol. xxiv. p. 85. [743] In 1743, Voltaire writes: 'On vient de mettre à la Bastille l'abbé Lenglet, pour avoir publié des mémoires déjà très-connus, qui servent de supplément à l'histoire de notre célèbre De Thou. L'infatigable et malheureux Lenglet rendait un signalé service aux bons citoyens, et aux amateurs des recherches historiques. Il méritait des récompenses; on l'emprisonne cruellement à l'âge de soixante-huit ans.' _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. i. pp. 400, 401, vol. lviii. pp. 207, 208. Indeed, we have only to open the biographies and correspondence of that time, to find instances crowding upon us from all quarters. Rousseau was threatened with imprisonment, was driven from France, and his works were publicly burned.[744] The celebrated treatise of Helvétius on the mind was suppressed by an order from the royal council: it was burned by the common hangman, and the author was compelled to write two letters, retracting his opinions.[745] Some of the geological views of Buffon having offended the clergy, that illustrious naturalist was obliged to publish a formal recantation of doctrines which are now known to be perfectly accurate.[746] The learned Observations on the History of France, by Mably, were suppressed as soon as they appeared;[747] for what reason it would be hard to say, since M. Guizot, certainly no friend either to anarchy or to irreligion, has thought it worth while to republish them, and thus stamp them with the authority of his own great name. The History of the Indies, by Raynal, was condemned to the flames, and the author ordered to be arrested.[748] Lanjuinais, in his well-known work on Joseph II., advocated not only religious toleration, but even the abolition of slavery; his book, therefore, was declared to be 'seditious;' it was pronounced 'destructive of all subordination,' and was sentenced to be burned.[749] The Analysis of Bayle, by Marsy, was suppressed, and the author was imprisoned.[750] The History of the Jesuits, by Linguet, was delivered to the flames; eight years later his _Journal_ was suppressed; and, three years after that, as he still persisted in writing, his Political Annals were suppressed, and he himself was thrown into the Bastille.[751] Delisle de Sales was sentenced to perpetual exile, and confiscation of all his property, on account of his work on the Philosophy of Nature.[752] The treatise by Mey, on French Law, was suppressed;[753] that by Boncerf, on Feudal Law, was burned.[754] The Memoirs of Beaumarchais were likewise burned;[755] the Eloge on Fénelon by La Harpe was merely suppressed.[756] Duvernet having written a History of the Sorbonne, which was still unpublished, was seized and thrown into the Bastille, while the manuscript was yet in his own possession.[757] The celebrated work of De Lolme on the English constitution was suppressed by edict directly it appeared.[758] The fate of being suppressed, or prohibited, also awaited the Letters of Gervaise, in 1724;[759] the Dissertations of Courayer, in 1727;[760] the Letters of Montgon, in 1732;[761] the History of Tamerlane, by Margat, also in 1732;[762] the Essay on Taste, by Cartaud, in 1736;[763] the Life of Domat, by Prévost de la Jannès, in 1742;[764] the History of Louis XI., by Duclos, in 1745;[765] the Letters of Bargeton, in 1750;[766] the Memoirs on Troyes, by Grosley, in the same year;[767] the History of Clement XI., by Reboulet, in 1752;[768] the School of Man, by Génard, also in 1752;[769] the Therapeutics of Garlon, in 1756;[770] the celebrated thesis of Louis, on Generation, in 1754;[771] the Treatise on Presidial Jurisdiction, by Jousse, in 1755;[772] the Ericie of Fontanelle, in 1768;[773] the Thoughts of Jamin, in 1769;[774] the History of Siam, by Turpin, and the Eloge of Marcus Aurelius, by Thomas, both in 1770;[775] the works on Finance by Darigrand in 1764; and by Le Trosne, in 1779;[776] the Essay on Military Tactics, by Guibert, in 1772; the Letters of Boucquet, in the same year;[777] and the Memoirs of Terrai, by Coquereau, in 1776.[778] Such wanton destruction of property was, however, mercy itself, compared to the treatment experienced by other literary men in France. Desforges, for example, having written against the arrest of the Pretender to the English throne, was, solely on that account, buried in a dungeon eight feet square, and confined there for three years.[779] This happened in 1749; and in 1770, Audra, professor at the college of Toulouse, and a man of some reputation, published the first volume of his Abridgment of General History. Beyond this, the work never proceeded; it was at once condemned by the archbishop of the diocese, and the author was deprived of his office. Audra, held up to public opprobrium, the whole of his labours rendered useless, and the prospects of his life suddenly blighted, was unable to survive the shock. He was struck with apoplexy, and within twenty-four hours was lying a corpse in his own house.[780] [744] _Musset Pathay_, _Vie de Rousseau_, vol. i. pp. 68, 99, 296, 377, vol. ii. pp. 111, 385, 390; _Mercier sur Rousseau_, vol. i. p. 14, vol. ii. pp. 179, 314. [745] _Grimm_, _Corresp._ vol. ii. p. 349; _Walpole's Letters_, 1840, vol. iii. p. 418. [746] _Lyell's Principles of Geology_, pp. 39, 40; _Mém. of Mallet du Pan_, vol. i. p. 125. [747] _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. ii. p. 214; _Williams's Letters from France_, vol. ii. p. 86, 3rd edit. 1796. [748] _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. i. p. 253; _Mém. de Lafayette_, vol. ii. p. 34 note; _Lettres de Dudeffand à Walpole_, vol. ii. p. 365. On Raynal's flight, compare a letter from Marseilles, written in 1786, and printed in _Mem. and Correspond. of Sir J. E. Smith_, vol. i. p. 194. [749] See the proceedings of the avocat-général, in _Peignot_, _Livres condamnés_, vol. i. pp. 230, 231; and in _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. iii. pp. 93-97. [750] _Quérard_, _France Lit._ vol. v. p. 565. [751] _Peignot_, _Livres condamnés_, vol. i. pp. 241, 242. [752] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxiv. p. 561; _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. lxix. pp. 374, 375; _Lettres inédites de Voltaire_, vol. ii. p. 528; _Duvernet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, pp. 202, 203. According to some of these authorities, parliament afterwards revoked this sentence; but there is no doubt that the sentence was passed, and De Sales imprisoned, if not banished. [753] _Peignot_, _Livres condamnés_, vol. i. pp. 314, 316. [754] _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. lxix. p. 204;_ Lettres de Dudeffand à Walpole_, vol. iii. p. 260. [755] 'Quatre mémoires ... condamnés à être lacérés et brûlés par la main du bourreau.' _Peignot_, vol. i. p. 24. [756] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxiii. p. 187. [757] _Duvernet_, _Hist. de la Sorbonne_, vol. i. p. vi. [758] 'Supprimée par arrêt du conseil' in 1771, which was the year of its publication. Compare _Cassagnac's Révolution_, vol. i. p. 33; _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxiv. p. 634. [759] _Quérard_, _France Lit._ vol. iii. p. 337. [760] _Biog. Univ._ vol. x. p. 97. [761] _Peignot_, vol. i. p. 328. [762] _ibid._ vol. i. p. 289. [763] _Biog. Univ._ vol. vii. p. 227. [764] _Lettres d'Aguesseau_, vol. ii. pp. 320, 321. [765] _Cassagnac_, _Causes de la Rév._ vol. i. p. 32. [766] _Biog. Univ._ vol. iii. p. 375. [767] _Quérard_, vol. iii. p. 489. [768] _Ibid._ vol. vii. pp. 483, 484. [769] _Ibid._ vol. iii. p. 302. [770] _Ibid._ vol. iii. p. 261. [771] On the importance of this remarkable thesis, and on its prohibition, see _Saint-Hilaire_, _Anomalies de l'Organisation_, vol. i. p. 355. [772] _Quérard_, vol. iv. p. 255. [773] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xv. p. 203. [774] _Ibid._ vol. xxi. p. 391. [775] _Ibid._ vol. xlv. p. 462, vol. xlvii. p. 98. [776] _Peignot_, vol. i. pp. 90, 91, vol. ii. p. 164. [777] _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 170, vol. ii. p. 57. [778] _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 214. [779] 'Il resta trois ans dans la cage; c'est un caveau creusé dans le roc, de huit pieds en carré, où le prisonnier ne reçoit le jour que par les crevasses des marches de l'église.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xi. p. 171. [780] _Peignot_, _Livres condamnés_, vol. i. pp. 14, 15. It will probably be allowed that I have collected sufficient evidence to substantiate my assertion respecting the persecutions directed against every description of literature; but the carelessness with which the antecedents of the French Revolution have been studied, has given rise to such erroneous opinions on this subject, that I am anxious to add a few more instances, so as to put beyond the possibility of doubt the nature of the provocations habitually received by the most eminent Frenchmen of the eighteenth century. Among the many celebrated authors who, though, inferior to Voltaire, Montesquieu, Buffon, and Rousseau, were second only to them, three of the most remarkable were Diderot, Marmontel, and Morellet. The first two are known to every reader; while Morellet, though comparatively forgotten, had in his own time considerable influence, and had, moreover, the distinguished merit of being the first who popularized in France those great truths which had been recently discovered in political economy by Adam Smith, and in jurisprudence by Beccaria. A certain M. Cury wrote a satire upon the Duke d'Aumont, which he showed to his friend Marmontel, who, struck by its power, repeated it to a small circle of his acquaintance. The duke, hearing of this, was full of indignation, and insisted upon the name of the author being given up. This, of course, was impossible without a gross breach of confidence; but Marmontel, to do everything in his power, wrote to the duke, stating, what was really the fact, that the lines in question had not been printed, that there was no intention of making them public, and that they had only been communicated to a few of his own particular friends. It might have been supposed that this would have satisfied even a French noble; but Marmontel, still doubting the result, sought an audience of the minister, in the hope of procuring the protection of the crown. All, however, was in vain. It will hardly be believed, that Marmontel, who was then at the height of his reputation, was seized in the middle of Paris, and because he refused to betray his friend, was thrown into the Bastille. Nay, so implacable were his persecutors, that after his liberation from prison they, in the hope of reducing him to beggary, deprived him of the right of publishing the _Mercure_, upon which nearly the whole of his income depended.[781] [781] _Mémoires de Marmontel_, vol. ii. pp. 143-176; and see vol. iii. pp. 30-46, 95, for the treatment he afterwards received from the Sorbonne, because he advocated religious toleration. See also _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. liv. p. 258; and _Letters of Eminent Persons addressed to Hume_, pp. 207, 212, 213. To the Abbé Morellet a somewhat similar circumstance occurred. A miserable scribbler, named Palissot, had written a comedy ridiculing some of the ablest Frenchmen then living. To this Morellet replied by a pleasant little satire, in which he made a very harmless allusion to the Princess de Robeck, one of Palissot's patrons. She, amazed at such presumption, complained to the minister, who immediately ordered the abbé to be confined in the Bastille, where he remained for some months, although he had not only been guilty of no scandal, but had not even mentioned the name of the princess.[782] [782] _Mém. de Morellet_, vol. i. pp. 86-89; _Mélanges par Morellet_, vol. ii. pp. 3-12; _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. liv. pp. 106, 111, 114, 122, 183. The treatment of Diderot was still more severe. This remarkable man owed his influence chiefly to his immense correspondence, and to the brilliancy of a conversation for which, even in Paris, he was unrivalled, and which he used to display with considerable effect at those celebrated dinners where, during a quarter of a century, Holbach assembled the most illustrious thinkers in France.[783] Besides this, he is the author of several works of interest, most of which are well known to the students of French literature.[784] His independent spirit, and the reputation he obtained, earned for him a share in the general persecution. The first work he wrote was ordered to be publicly burned by the common hangman.[785] This, indeed, was the fate of nearly all the best literary productions of that time; and Diderot might esteem himself fortunate in merely losing his property, provided he saved himself from imprisonment. But, a few years later, he wrote another work, in which he said that people who are born blind have some ideas different from those who are possessed of their eyesight. This assertion is by no means improbable,[786] and it contains nothing by which any one need be startled. The men, however, who then governed France discovered in it some hidden danger. Whether they suspected that the mention of blindness was an allusion to themselves, or whether they were merely instigated by the perversity of their temper, is uncertain; at all events, the unfortunate Diderot, for having hazarded this opinion, was arrested, and without even the form of a trial, was confined in the dungeon of Vincennes.[787] The natural results followed. The works of Diderot rose in popularity;[788] and he, burning with hatred against his persecutors, redoubled his efforts to overthrow those institutions, under shelter of which such monstrous tyranny could be safely practised. [783] Marmontel (_Mém._ vol. ii. p. 313) says, 'qui n'a connu Diderot que dans ses écrits ne l'a point connu:' meaning that his works were inferior to his talk. His conversational powers are noticed by Ségur, who disliked him, and by Georgel, who hated him. _Ségur_, _Souvenirs_, vol. iii. p. 34; _Georgel_, _Mém._ vol. ii. p. 246. Compare _Forster's Life of Goldsmith_, vol. i. p. 69; _Musset Pathay_, _Vie de Rousseau_, vol. i. p. 95, vol. ii. p. 227; _Mémoires d'Epinay_, vol. ii. pp. 73, 74, 88; _Grimm_, _Corresp._ vol. xv. pp. 79-90; _Morellet_, _Mém._ vol. i. p. 28; _Villemain_, _Lit. au XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. i. p. 82. As to Holbach's dinners, on which Madame de Genlis wrote a well-known libel, see _Schlosser's Eighteenth Century_, vol. i. p. 166; _Biog. Univ._ vol. xx. p. 462; _Jesse's Selwyn_, vol. ii. p. 9; _Walpole's Letters to Mann_, vol. iv. p. 283; _Gibbon's Miscellaneous Works_, p. 73. [784] It is also stated by the editor of his correspondence, that he wrote a great deal for authors, which they published under their name. _Mém. et Corresp. de Diderot_, vol. iii. p. 102. [785] This was the _Pensées Philosophiques_, in 1746, his first original work; the previous ones being translations from English. _Biog. Univ._ xi. p. 314. Duvernet (_Vie de Voltaire_, p. 240) says, that he was imprisoned for writing it, but this I believe is a mistake; at least I do not remember to have met with the statement elsewhere, and Duvernet is frequently careless. [786] Dugald Stewart, who has collected some important evidence on this subject, has confirmed several of the views put forward by Diderot. _Philos. of the Mind_, vol. iii. pp. 401 seq.; comp. pp. 57, 407, 435. Since then still greater attention has been paid to the education of the blind, and it has been remarked that 'it is an exceedingly difficult task to teach them to think accurately.' _M. Alister's Essay on the Blind_, in _Jour. of Stat. Soc._ vol. i. p. 378: see also Dr. Fowler, in _Report of Brit. Assoc._ for 1847; _Transac. of Sec._ pp. 92, 93, and for 1848, p. 88. These passages unconsciously testify to the sagacity of Diderot; and they also testify to the stupid ignorance of a government, which sought to put an end to such inquiries by punishing their author. [787] _Mém. et Corresp. de Diderot_, vol. i. pp. 26-29; _Musset Pathay_, _Vie de Rousseu_, vol. i. p. 47, vol. ii. p. 276; _Letter to d'Argental_ in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. lviii. p. 454; _Lacretelle_, _Dix-huitième Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 54. [788] A happy arrangement, by which curiosity baffles despotism. In 1767, an acute observer wrote, 'Il n'y a plus de livres qu'on imprime plusieurs fois, que les livres condamnés. Il faut aujourd'hui qu'un libraire prie les magistrate de brûler son livre pour le faire vendre.' _Grimm_, _Corresp._ vol. v. p. 498. To the same effect, _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. i. pp. 15, 16; _Mém. de Georgel_, vol. ii. p. 256. It seems hardly necessary to say more respecting the incredible folly with which the rulers of France, by turning every able man into a personal enemy,[789] at length arrayed against the government all the intellect of the country, and made the Revolution a matter not of choice but of necessity. I will, however, as a fitting sequel to the preceding facts, give one instance of the way in which, to gratify the caprice of the higher classes, even the most private affections of domestic life, could be publicly outraged. In the middle of the eighteenth century, there was an actress on the French stage of the name of Chantilly. She, though beloved by Maurice de Saxe, preferred a more honourable attachment, and married Favart, the well-known writer of songs and of comic operas. Maurice, amazed at her boldness, applied for aid to the French crown. That he should have made such an application is sufficiently strange; but the result of it is hardly to be paralleled except in some Eastern despotism. The government of France, on hearing the circumstance, had the inconceivable baseness to issue an order directing Favart to abandon his wife, and intrust her to the charge of Maurice, to whose embraces she was compelled to submit.[790] [789] 'Quel est aujourd'hui parmi nous l'homme de lettres de quelque mérite qui n'ait éprouvé plus ou moins les fureurs de la calomnie et de la persécution?' etc. _Grimm_, _Corresp._ vol. v. p. 451. This was written in 1767, and during more than forty years previously we find similar expressions; the earliest I have met with being in a letter to Thiriot, in 1723, in which Voltaire says _([OE]uvres_, vol. lvi. p. 94), 'la sévérité devient plus grande de jour en jour dans l'inquisition de la librairie.' For other instances, see his letter to De Formont, pp. 423-425, also vol. lvii. pp. 144, 351, vol. lviii. p. 222; his _Lettres inédites_, vol. i. p. 547; _Mém. de Diderot_, vol. ii. p. 215; _Letters of Eminent Persons to Hume_, pp. 14, 15. [790] Part of this is related, rather inaccurately, in _Schlosser's Eighteenth Century_, vol. iii. p. 483. The fullest account is in _Grimm_, _Corresp. Lit._ vol. viii. pp. 231-233: 'Le grand Maurice, irrité d'une résistance qu'il n'avait jamais éprouvée nulle part, eut la faiblesse de demander une lettre de cachet pour enlever à un mari sa femme, et pour la contraindre d'être sa concubine; et, chose remarquable, cette lettre de cachet fut accordée et exécutée. Les deux époux plièrent sous le joug de la nécessité, et la petite Chantilly fut à la fois femme de Favart et maîtresse de Maurice de Saxe.' These are among the insufferable provocations, by which the blood of men is made to boil in their veins. Who can wonder that the greatest and noblest minds in France were filled with loathing at the government by whom such things were done? If we, notwithstanding the distance of time and country, are moved to indignation by the mere mention of them, what must have been felt by those before whose eyes they actually occurred? And when, to the horror they naturally inspired, there was added that apprehension of being the next victim which every one might personally feel; when, moreover, we remember that the authors of these persecutions had none of the abilities by which even vice itself is sometimes ennobled;--when we thus contrast the poverty of their understandings with the greatness of their crimes, we, instead of being astonished that there was a revolution, by which all the machinery of the state was swept away, should rather be amazed at that unexampled patience by which alone the revolution was so long deferred. To me, indeed, it has always appeared, that the delay of the Revolution is one of the most striking proofs history affords of the force of established habits, and of the tenacity with which the human mind clings to old associations. For, if ever there existed a government inherently and radically bad, it was the government of France in the eighteenth century. If ever there existed a state of society likely, by its crying and accumulated evils, to madden men to desperation, France was in that state. The people, despised and enslaved, were sunk in abject poverty, and were curbed by laws of stringent cruelty, enforced with merciless barbarism. A supreme and irresponsible control was exercised over the whole country by the clergy, the nobles, and the crown. The intellect of France was placed under the ban of a ruthless proscription, its literature prohibited and burned, its authors plundered and imprisoned. Nor was there the least symptom that these evils were likely to be remedied. The upper classes, whose arrogance was increased by the long tenure of their power, only thought of present enjoyment: they took no heed of the future: they saw not that day of reckoning, the bitterness of which they were soon to experience. The people remained in slavery until the Revolution actually occurred; while as to the literature, nearly every year witnessed some new effort to deprive it of that share of liberty which it still retained. Having, in 1764, issued a decree forbidding any work to be published in which questions of government were discussed;[791] having, in 1767, made it a capital offence to write a book likely to excite the public mind;[792] and having, moreover, denounced the same penalty of death against any one who attacked religion,[793] as also against any one who spoke of matters of finance;[794]--having taken these steps, the rulers of France, very shortly before their final fall, contemplated another measure still more comprehensive. It is, indeed, a singular fact, that only nine years before the Revolution, and when no power on earth could have saved the institutions of the country, the government was so ignorant of the real state of affairs, and so confident that it could quell the spirit which its own despotism had raised, that a proposal was made by an officer of the crown to do away with all the publishers, and not allow any books to be printed except those which were issued from a press paid, appointed, and controlled by the executive magistrate.[795] This monstrous proposition, if carried into effect, would of course have invested the king with all the influence which literature can command; it would have been as fatal to the national intellect as the other measures were to national liberty; and it would have consummated the ruin of France, either by reducing its greatest men to complete silence, or else by degrading them into mere advocates of those opinions which the government might wish to propagate. [791] 'L'Averdy was no sooner named controller of finance than he published a decree, in 1764 (_arrêt du conseil_),--which, according to the state of the then existing constitution, had the force of a law,--by which every man was forbidden to print, or cause to be printed, anything whatever upon administrative affairs, or government regulations in general, under the penalty of a breach of the police laws; by which the man was liable to be punished without defence, and not as was the case before the law courts, where he might defend himself, and could only be judged according to law.' _Schlosser's Eighteenth Century_, vol. ii. p. 166: see also _Mém. de Morellet_, vol. i. p. 141, vol. ii. p. 75, 'un arrêt du conseil, qui défendait d'imprimer sur les matières d'administration.' [792] 'L'ordonnance de 1767, rendue sous le ministère du chancelier Maupeou, portait la peine de mort contre tout auteur d'écrits tendant à émouvoir les esprits.' _Cassagnac_, _Causes de la Révolution_, vol. i. p. 313. [793] In April 1757, D'Alembert writes from Paris, 'on vient de publier une déclaration qui inflige la peine de mort à tous ceux qui auront publié des écrits tendants à attaquer la religion.' _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. liv. p. 34. This, I suppose, is the same edict as that mentioned by M. Amédée Renée, in his continuation of _Sismondi_, _Histoire des Français_, vol. xxx. p. 247. [794] 'Il avait été défendu, sous peine de mort, aux écrivains de parler de finances.' _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. p. 490. [795] This was the suggestion of the avocat-général in 1780. See the proposal, in his own words, in _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. xi. pp. 143, 144. On the important functions of the avocats-généraux in the eighteenth century, see a note in _Lettres d'Aguesseau_, vol. i. p. 264. For these are by no means to be considered as trifling matters, merely interesting to men of letters. In France, in the eighteenth century, literature was the last resource of liberty. In England, if our great authors should prostitute their abilities by inculcating servile opinions, the danger would no doubt be considerable, because other parts of society might find it difficult to escape the contagion. Still, before the corruption had spread, there would be time to stop its course, so long as we possessed those free political institutions, by the mere mention of which the generous imagination of a bold people is easily fired. And although such institutions are the consequence, not the cause, of liberty, they do unquestionably react upon it, and from the force of habit they could for a while survive that from which they originally sprung. So long as a country retains its political freedom, there will always remain associations by which, even in the midst of mental degradation, and out of the depths of the lowest superstition, the minds of men may be recalled to better things. But in France such associations had no existence. In France everything was for the governors and nothing for the governed. There was neither free press, nor free parliament, nor free debates. There were no public meetings; there was no popular suffrage; there was no discussion on the hustings; there was no habeas-corpus act; there was no trial by jury. The voice of liberty, thus silenced in every department of the state, could only be heard in the appeals of those great men, who, by their writings, inspirited the people to resistance. This is the point of view from which we ought to estimate the character of those who are often accused of having wantonly disturbed the ancient fabric.[796] They, as well as the people at large, were cruelly oppressed by the crown, the nobles, and the church; and they used their abilities to retaliate the injury. There can be no doubt that this was the best course open to them. There can be no doubt that rebellion is the last remedy against tyranny, and that a despotic system should be encountered by a revolutionary literature. The upper classes were to blame, because they struck the first blow; but we must by no means censure those great men, who, having defended themselves from aggression, eventually succeeded in smiting the government by whom the aggression was originally made. [796] And we should also remember what the circumstances were under which the accusation was first heard in France. 'Les reproches d'avoir tout détruit, adressés aux philosophes du dix-huitième siècle, ont commencé le jour où il s'est trouvé en France un gouvernement qui a voulu rétablir les abus dont les écrivains de cette époque avaient accéléré la destruction.' _Comte_, _Traité de Législation_, vol. i. p. 72. Without, however, stopping to vindicate their conduct, we have now to consider what is much more important, namely, the origin of that crusade against Christianity, in which, unhappily for France, they were compelled to embark, and the occurrence of which forms the third great antecedent of the French Revolution. A knowledge of the causes of this hostility against Christianity is essential to a right understanding of the philosophy of the eighteenth century, and it will throw some light on the general theory of ecclesiastical power. It is a circumstance well worthy of remark, that the revolutionary literature which eventually overturned all the institutions of France, was at first directed against those which were religious, rather than against those which were political. The great writers who rose into notice soon after the death of Louis XIV., exerted themselves against spiritual despotism; while the overthrow of secular despotism was left to their immediate successors.[797] This is not the course which would be pursued in a healthy state of society; and there is no doubt, that to this peculiarity the crimes and the lawless violence of the French Revolution are in no small degree to be ascribed. It is evident, that in the legitimate progress of a nation, political innovations should keep pace with religious innovations, so that the people may increase their liberty while they diminish their superstition. In France, on the contrary, during nearly forty years, the church was attacked, and the government was spared. The consequence was, that the order and balance of the country were destroyed; the minds of men became habituated to the most daring speculations, while their acts were controlled by the most oppressive despotism; and they felt themselves possessed of capacities which their rulers would not allow them to employ. When, therefore, the French Revolution broke out, it was not a mere rising of ignorant slaves against educated masters, but it was a rising of men in whom the despair caused by slavery was quickened by the resources of advancing knowledge; men who were in that frightful condition when the progress of intellect outstrips the progress of liberty, and when a desire is felt, not only to remove a tyranny, but also to avenge an insult. [797] The nature of this change, and the circumstances under which it happened, will be examined in the last chapter of the present volume; but that the revolutionary movement, while headed by Voltaire and his coadjutors, was directed against the church, and not against the state, is noticed by many writers; some of whom have also observed, that soon after the middle of the reign of Louis XV. the ground began to be shifted, and a disposition was first shown to attack political abuses. On this remarkable fact, indicated by several authors, but explained by none, compare _Lacretelle_, _XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 305; _Barruel_, _Mém. pour l'Hist. du Jacobinisme_, vol. i. p. xviii., vol. ii. p. 113; _Tocqueville_, _L'Ancien Régime_, p. 241; _Alison's Europe_, vol. i. p. 165, vol. xiv. p. 286; _Mém. de Rivarol_, p. 35; _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. iv. p. 397; _Lamartine_, _Hist. des Girondins_, vol. i. p. 183; _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. lx. p. 307, vol. lxvi. p. 34. There can be no doubt that to this we must ascribe some of the most hideous peculiarities of the French Revolution. It, therefore, becomes a matter of great interest to inquire how it was, that while in England political freedom and religious sceptism have accompanied and aided each other, there should, on the other hand, have taken place in France a vast movement, in which, during nearly forty years, the ablest men neglected the freedom, while they encouraged the scepticism, and diminished the power of the church, without increasing the liberties of the people. The first reason of this appears to be, the nature of those ideas out of which the French had long constructed the traditions of their glory. A train of circumstances which, when treating of the protective spirit, I attempted to indicate, had secured to the French kings an authority which, by making all classes subordinate to the crown, flattered the popular vanity.[798] Hence it was, that in France the feelings of loyalty worked into the national mind deeper than in any other country of Europe, Spain alone excepted.[799] The difference between this spirit and that observable in England has been already noticed, and may be still further illustrated by the different ways in which the two nations have dealt with the posthumous reputation of their sovereigns. With the exception of Alfred, who is sometimes called the Great,[800] we in England have not sufficiently loved any of our princes to bestow upon them titles expressive of personal admiration. But the French have decorated their kings with every variety of panegyric. Thus, to take only a single name, one king is Louis the Mild, another is Louis the Saint, another is Louis the Just, another is Louis the Great, and the most hopelessly vicious of all was called Louis the Beloved. [798] See some striking remarks in M. Tocqueville's great work, _De la Démocratie_, vol. i. p. 5; which should be compared with the observation of Horace Walpole, who was well acquainted with French society, and who says, happily enough, that the French 'love themselves in their kings.' _Walpole's Mem. of George III_, vol. ii. p. 240. [799] Not only the political history of Spain, but also its literature, contains melancholy evidence of the extraordinary loyalty of the Spaniards, and of the injurious results produced by it. See, on this, some useful reflections in _Ticknor's Hist. of Spanish Literature_, vol. i. pp. 95, 96, 133, vol. iii. pp. 191-193. [800] Our admiration of Alfred is greatly increased by the fact, that we know very little about him. The principal authority referred to for his reign is Asser, whose work, there is reason to believe, is not genuine. See the arguments in _Wright's Biog. Brit. Lit._ vol. i. pp. 408-412. It moreover appears, that some of the institutions popularly ascribed to him, existed before his time. _Kemble's Saxons in England_, vol. i. pp. 247, 248. These are facts which, insignificant as they seem, form most important materials for real history, since they are unequivocal symptoms of the state of the country in which they exist.[801] Their relation to the subject before us is obvious. For, by them, and by the circumstances from which they sprung, an intimate and hereditary association was engendered in the minds of Frenchmen, between the glory of their nation and the personal reputation of their sovereign. The consequence was, that the political conduct of the rulers of France was protected against censure by a fence far more impassable than any that could be erected by the most stringent laws. It was protected by those prejudices which each generation bequeathed to its successor. It was protected by that halo which time had thrown round the oldest monarchy in Europe.[802] And above all, it was protected by that miserable national vanity, which made men submit to taxation and to slavery, in order that foreign princes might be dazzled by the splendour of their sovereign, and foreign countries intimidated by the greatness of his victories. [801] The French writers, under the old régime, constantly boast that loyalty was the characteristic of their nation, and taunt the English with their opposite and insubordinate spirit. 'Il n'est pas ici question des François, qui se sont toujours distingués des autres nations par leur amour pour leurs rois.' _Le Blanc_, _Lettres d'un François_, vol. iii. p. 523. 'The English do not love their sovereigns as much as could be desired.' _Sorbière's Voyage to England_, p. 58. 'Le respect de la majesté royale, caractère distinctif des Français.' _Mém. de Montbarey_, vol. ii. p. 54. 'L'amour et la fidélité que les Français ont naturellement pour leurs princes.' _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. ii. p. 3. 'Les Français, qui aiment leurs princes.' _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. iii. p. 381; and see vol. xi. p. 729. For further evidence, see _Sully_, _[OE]conomies_, vol. iv. p. 346; _Monteil_, _Divers Etats_, vol. vii. p. 105; _Ségur_, _Mémoires_, vol. i. p. 32; _Lamartine_, _Hist. des Girondins_, vol. iv. p. 58. Now, contrast with all this the sentiments contained in one of the most celebrated histories in the English language: 'There is not any one thing more certain and more evident, than that princes are made for the people, and not the people for them; and perhaps there is no nation under heaven that is more entirely possessed with this notion of princes than the English nation is in this age; so that they will soon be uneasy to a prince who does not govern himself by this maxim, and in time grow very unkind to him.' _Burnet's History of his Own Time_, vol. vi. p. 223. This manly and wholesome passage was written while the French were licking the dust from the feet of Louis XIV. [802] 'La race des rois la plus ancienne.' _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. ix. p. 281. 'Nos rois, issus de la plus grande race du monde, et devant qui les Césars, et la plus grande partie des princes qui jadis ont commandé tant de nations, ne sont que des roturiers.' _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. ii. p. 417. And a Venetian ambassador, in the sixteenth century, says, that France is 'il regno più antico d'ogn' altro che sia in essere al presente.' _Relat. des Ambassad._ vol. i. p. 470. Compare _Boullier_, _Maison Militaire des Rois de France_, p. 360. The upshot of all this was, that when, early in the eighteenth century, the intellect of France began to be roused into action, the idea of attacking the abuses of the monarchy never occurred even to the boldest thinker. But, under the protection of the crown, there had grown up another institution, about which less delicacy was felt. The clergy, who for so long a period had been allowed to oppress the consciences of men, were not sheltered by those national associations which surrounded the person of the sovereign; nor had any of them, with the single exception of Bossuet, done much to increase the general reputation of France. Indeed, the French church, though during the reign of Louis XIV. it possessed immense authority, had always exercised it in subordination to the crown, at whose bidding it had not feared to oppose even the pope himself.[803] It was, therefore, natural, that in France the ecclesiastical power should be attacked before the temporal power; because, while it was as despotic, it was less influential, and because it was unprotected by those popular traditions which form the principal support of every ancient institution. [803] _Capefigue's Louis XIV_, vol. i. pp. 204, 301; _Koch_, _Tableau des Révolutions_, vol. ii. p. 16. M. Ranke (_Die Päpste_, vol. ii. p. 257) ascribes this to the circumstances attending the apostasy of Henry IV.; but the cause lies much deeper, being connected with that triumph of the secular interests over the spiritual, of which the policy of Henry IV. was itself a consequence. These considerations are sufficient to explain why it was that, in this respect, the French and English intellects adopted courses so entirely different. In England, the minds of men, being less hampered with the prejudices of an indiscriminate loyalty, have been able at each successive step in the great progress to direct their doubts and inquiries on politics as well as on religion; and thus establishing their freedom as they diminished their superstition, they have maintained the balance of the national intellect, without allowing to either of its divisions an excessive preponderance. But in France the admiration for royalty had become so great, that this balance was disturbed; the inquiries of men not daring to settle on politics, were fixed on religion, and gave rise to the singular phenomenon of a rich and powerful literature, in which unanimous hostility to the church was unaccompanied by a single voice against the enormous abuses of the state. There was likewise another circumstance which increased this peculiar tendency. During the reign of Louis XIV. the personal character of the hierarchy had done much to secure their dominion. All the leaders of the church were men of virtue, and many were men of ability. Their conduct, tyrannical as it was, seems to have been conscientious; and the evils which it produced are merely to be ascribed to the gross impolicy of entrusting ecclesiastics with power. But after the death of Louis XIV. a great change took place. The Clergy, from causes which it would be tedious to investigate, became extremely dissolute, and often very ignorant. This made their tyranny more oppressive, because to submit to it was more disgraceful. The great abilities and unblemished morals of men like Bossuet, Fénélon, Bourdaloue, Fléchier, and Mascaron, diminished in some degree the ignominy which is always connected with blind obedience. But when they were succeeded by such bishops and cardinals as Dubois, Lafiteau, Tencin, and others who flourished under the regency, it became difficult to respect the heads of the church, tainted as they were with open and notorious depravity.[804] At the same time that there occurred this unfavourable change among the ecclesiastical rulers, there also occurred that immense reaction of which I have endeavoured to trace the early workings. It was therefore, at the very moment when the spirit of inquiry became stronger that the character of the Clergy became more contemptible.[805] The great writers who were now rising in France, were moved to indignation when they saw that those who usurped unlimited power over consciences had themselves no consciences at all. It is evident, that every argument which they borrowed from England against ecclesiastical power, would gain additional force when directed against men whose personal unfitness was universally acknowledged.[806] [804] _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. p. 408; _Flassan_, _Hist. de la Diplomatie_, vol. v. p. 3; _Tocqueville_, _Règne de Louis XV_, vol. i. pp. 35, 347; _Duclos_, _Mémoires_, vol. ii. pp. 42, 43, 154, 155, 223, 224. What was, if possible, still more scandalous, was, that in 1723 the assembly of the clergy elected as their president, unanimously ('d'une voix unanime'), the infamous Dubois, the most notoriously immoral man of his time. _Duclos_, _Mém._ vol. ii. p. 262. [805] On this decline of the French clergy, see _Villemain_, _XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. iii. pp. 178, 179; _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philos._ II^e série, vol. i. p. 301. _Tocqueville_ (_Règne de Louis XV_, vol. i. pp. 35-38, 365) says, 'le clergé prêchait une morale qu'il compromettait par sa conduite;' a noticeable remark, when made by an opponent of the sceptical philosophy, like the elder M. Tocqueville. Among this profligate crew, Massillon stood alone; he being the last French bishop who was remarkable for virtue as well as for ability. [806] Voltaire says of the English, 'quand ils apprennent qu'en France de jeunes gens connus par leurs débauches, et élevés à la prélature par des intrigues de femmes, font publiquement l'amour, s'égaient à composer des chansons tendres, donnent tous les jours des soupers délicats et longs, et de là vont implorer les lumières du Saint-Esprit, et se nomment hardiment les successeures des apôtres ils remercient Dieu d'être protestants.' _Lettres sur les Anglais_, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xxvi. p. 29. Such was the position of the rival parties, when, almost immediately after the death of Louis XIV., there began that great struggle between authority and reason, which is still unfinished, although in the present state of knowledge its result is no longer doubtful. On the one side there was a compact and numerous priesthood, supported by the prescription of centuries and by the authority of the crown. On the other side there was a small body of men, without rank, without wealth, and as yet without reputation, but animated by a love of liberty, and by a just confidence in their own abilities. Unfortunately, they at the very outset committed a serious error. In attacking the clergy, they lost their respect for religion. In their determination to weaken ecclesiastical power, they attempted to undermine the foundations of Christianity. This is deeply to be regretted for their own sake, as well as for its ultimate effects in France; but it must not be imputed to them as a crime, since it was forced on them by the exigencies of their position. They saw the frightful evils which their country was suffering from the institution of priesthood as it then existed; and yet they were told that the preservation of that institution in its actual form was essential to the very being of Christianity. They had always been taught that the interests of the clergy were identical with the interests of religion; how then could they avoid including both clergy and religion in the same hostility? The alternative was cruel; but it was one from which, in common honesty, they had no escape. We, judging these things by another standard, possess a measure which they could not possibly have. We should not now commit such an error, because we know that there is no connexion between any one particular form of priesthood and the interests of Christianity. We know that the clergy are made for the people, and not the people for the clergy. We know that all questions of church government are matters, not of religion, but of policy, and should be settled, not according to traditional dogmas, but according to large views of general expediency. It is because these propositions are now admitted by all enlightened men, that in our country the truths of religion are rarely attacked except by superficial thinkers. If, for instance, we were to find that the existence of our bishops, with their privileges and their wealth, is unfavourable to the progress of society, we should not on that account feel enmity against Christianity; because we should remember that episcopacy is its accident, and not its essential, and that we could do away with the institution and yet retain the religion. In the same way, if we should ever find, what was formerly found in France, that the clergy were tyrannical, this would excite in us an opposition, not to Christianity, but merely to the external form which Christianity assumed. So long as our clergy confine themselves to the beneficent duties of their calling, to the alleviation of pain and distress, either bodily or mental, so long will we respect them as the ministers of peace and of charity. But if they should ever again entrench on the rights of the laity,--if they should ever again interfere with an authoritative voice in the government of the state,--it will then be for the people to inquire, whether the time has not come to effect a revision of the ecclesiastical constitution of the country. This, therefore, is the manner in which we now view these things. What we think of the clergy will depend upon themselves; but will have no connection with what we think of Christianity. We look on the clergy as a body of men who, notwithstanding their disposition to intolerance, and notwithstanding a certain narrowness incidental to their profession, do undoubtedly form part of a vast and noble institution, by which the manners of men have been softened, their sufferings assuaged, their distresses relieved. As long as this institution performs its functions, we are well content to let it stand. If, however, it should be out of repair, or if it should be found inadequate to the shifting circumstances of an advancing society, we retain both the power and the right of remedying its faults; we may, if need be, remove some of its parts; but we would not, we dare not, tamper with those great religious truths which are altogether independent of it; truths which comfort the mind of man, raise him above the instincts of the hour, and infuse into him those lofty aspirations which, revealing to him his own immortality, are the measure and the symptom of a future life. Unfortunately, this was not the way in which these matters were considered in France. The government of that country, by investing the clergy with great immunities, by treating them as if there were something sacred about their persons, and by punishing as heresy the attacks which were made on them, had established in the national mind an indissoluble connexion between their interests and the interests of Christianity. The consequence was, that when the struggle began, the ministers of religion, and religion itself, were both assailed with equal zeal. The ridicule, and even the abuse, heaped on the clergy, will surprise no one who is acquainted with the provocation that had been received. And although, in the indiscriminate onslaught which soon followed, Christianity was, for a time, subjected to a fate which ought to have been reserved for those who called themselves her ministers; this, while it moves us to regret, ought by no means to excite our astonishment. The destruction of Christianity in France was the necessary result of those opinions which bound up the destiny of the national priesthood with the destiny of the national religion. If both were connected by the same origin, both should fall in the same ruin. If that which is the tree of life, were, in reality, so corrupt that it could only bear poisonous fruits, then it availed little to lop off the boughs and cut down the branches; but it were better, by one mighty effort, to root it up from the ground, and secure the health of society by stopping the very source of the contagion. These are reflections which must make us pause before we censure the deistical writers of the eighteenth century. So perverted, however, are the reasonings to which some minds are accustomed, that those who judge them most uncharitably are precisely those whose conduct forms their best excuse. Such are the men who, by putting forth the most extravagant claims in favour of the clergy, are seeking to establish the principle, by the operation of which the clergy were destroyed. Their scheme for restoring the old system of ecclesiastical authority depends on the supposition of its divine origin: a supposition which, if inseparable from Christianity, will at once justify the infidelity which they hotly attack. The increase of the power of the clergy is incompatible with the interests of civilization. If, therefore, any religion adopts as its creed the necessity of such an increase, it becomes the bounden duty of every friend to humanity to do his utmost, either to destroy the creed, or failing in that, to overturn the religion. If pretensions of this sort are an essential part of Christianity, it behoves us at once to make our choice; since the only option can be, between abjuring our faith or sacrificing our liberty. Fortunately, we are not driven to so hard a strait; and we know that these claims are as false in theory, as they would be pernicious in practice. It is, indeed, certain, that if they were put into execution, the clergy, though they might enjoy a momentary triumph, would have consummated their own ruin, by preparing the way among us for scenes as disastrous as those which occurred in France. The truth is, that what is most blamed in the great French writers, was the natural consequence of the development of their age. Never was there a more striking illustration of the social law already noticed, that, if government will allow religious scepticism to run its course, it will issue in great things, and will hasten the march of civilization; but that, if an attempt is made to put it down with a strong hand, it may, no doubt, be repressed for a time, but eventually will rise with such force as to endanger the foundation of society. In England, we adopted the first of these courses; in France, they adopted the second. In England, men were allowed to exercise their own judgment on the most sacred subjects; and, as soon as the diminution of their credulity had made them set bounds to the power of the clergy, toleration immediately followed, and the national prosperity has never been disturbed. In France, the authority of the clergy was increased by a superstitious king; faith usurped the place of reason, not a whisper of doubt was allowed to be heard, and the spirit of inquiry was stifled, until the country fell to the brink of ruin. If Louis XIV. had not interfered with the natural progress, France, like England, would have continued to advance. After his death, it was, indeed, too late to save the clergy, against whom all the intellect of the nation was soon arrayed. But the force of the storm might still have been broken, if the government of Louis XV. had conciliated what it was impossible to resist; and, instead of madly attempting to restrain opinions by laws, had altered the laws to suit the opinions. If the rulers of France, instead of exerting themselves to silence the national literature, had yielded to its suggestions, and had receded before the pressure of advancing knowledge, the fatal collision would have been avoided; because the passions which caused the collision would have been appeased. In such case, the church would have fallen somewhat earlier; but the state itself would have been saved. In such case, France would, in all probability, have secured her liberties, without increasing her crimes; and that great country, which, from her position and resources, ought to be the pattern of European civilization, might have escaped the ordeal of those terrible atrocities, through which she was compelled to pass, and from the effects of which she has not yet recovered. It must, I think, be admitted that, during, at all events, the first half of the reign of Louis XV., it was possible, by timely concessions, still to preserve the political institutions of France. Reforms there must have been; and reforms too of a large and uncompromising character. So far, however, as I am able to understand the real history of that period, I make no doubt that, if these had been granted in a frank and ungrudging spirit, everything could have been retained necessary for the only two objects at which government ought to aim, namely, the preservation of order, and the prevention of crime. But, by the middle of the reign of Louis XV., or, at all events, immediately afterwards, the state of affairs began to alter; and, in the course of a few years, the spirit of France became so democratic, that it was impossible even to delay a revolution, which, in the preceding generation, might have been altogether averted. This remarkable change is connected with that other change already noticed, by virtue of which, the French intellect began, about the same period, to direct its hostility against the state, rather than, as heretofore, against the church. As soon as this, which may be called the second epoch of the eighteenth century, had been fairly entered, the movement became irresistible. Event after event followed each other in rapid succession; each one linked to its antecedent, and the whole forming a tendency impossible to withstand. It was in vain that the government, yielding some points of real importance, adopted measures by which the church was controlled, the power of the clergy diminished, and even the order of the jesuits suppressed. It was in vain that the crown now called to its councils, for the first time, men imbued with the spirit of reform; men, like Turgot and Necker, whose wise and liberal proposals would, in calmer days, have stilled the agitation of the popular mind. It was in vain that promises were made to equalize the taxes, to redress some of the most crying grievances, to repeal some of the most obnoxious laws. It was even in vain that the states-general were summoned; and that thus, after the lapse of a hundred and seventy years, the people were again admitted to take part in the management of their own affairs. All these things were in vain; because the time for treaty had gone by, and the time for battle had come. The most liberal concessions that could possibly have been devised would have failed to avert that deadly struggle, which the course of preceding events made inevitable. For the measure of that age was now full. The upper classes, intoxicated by the long possession of power, had provoked the crisis; and it was needful that they should abide the issue. There was no time for mercy; there was no pause, no compassion, no sympathy. The only question that remained was, to see whether they who had raised the storm could ride the whirlwind; or, whether it was not rather likely that they should be the first victims of that frightful hurricane, in which, for a moment, laws, religion, morals, all perished, the lowest vestiges of humanity were effaced, and the civilization of France not only submerged, but, as it then appeared, irretrievably ruined. To ascertain the successive changes of this, the second epoch of the eighteenth century, is an undertaking full of difficulty; not only on account of the rapidity with which the events occurred, but also on account of their extreme complication, and of the way in which they acted and reacted upon each other. The materials, however, for such an inquiry are very numerous; and, as they consist of evidence supplied by all classes and all interests, it has appeared to me possible to reconstruct the history of that time, according to the only manner in which history deserves to be studied; that is to say, according to the order of its social and intellectual development. In the seventh chapter of the present volume, I shall, therefore, attempt to trace the antecedents of the French Revolution during that remarkable period, in which the hostility of men, slackening in regard to the abuses of the church, was, for the first time, turned against the abuses of the state. But, before entering into this, which may be distinguished as the political epoch of the eighteenth century, it will be necessary, according to the plan which I have sketched, to examine the changes that occurred in the method of writing history, and to indicate the way in which those changes were affected by the tendencies of the earlier, or, as it may be termed, the ecclesiastical epoch. In this manner, we shall the more easily understand the activity of that prodigious movement which led to the French Revolution; because we shall see that it not only affected the opinions of men in regard to what was passing under their eyes, but that it also biased their speculative views in regard to the events of preceding ages; and thus gave rise to that new school of historical literature, the formation of which is by no means the least of the many benefits which we owe to the great thinkers of the eighteenth century. CHAPTER VI. STATE OF HISTORICAL LITERATURE IN FRANCE FROM THE END OF THE SIXTEENTH TO THE END OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. It may be easily supposed, that those vast movements in the intellect of France, which I have just traced, could not fail to produce a great change in the method of writing history. That bold spirit with which men were beginning to estimate the transactions of their own time, was sure to influence their opinions respecting those of a former age. In this, as in every branch of knowledge, the first innovation consisted in recognizing the necessity of doubting what had hitherto been believed; and this feeling, when once established, went on increasing, destroying at each step some of those monstrous absurdities by which, as we have seen, even the best histories were disfigured. The germs of the reform may be discerned in the fourteenth century, though the reform itself did not begin until late in the sixteenth century. During the seventeenth century, it advanced somewhat slowly; but in the eighteenth century it received a sudden accession of strength, and, in France in particular, it was hastened by that fearless and inquisitive spirit which characterized the age, and which, purging history of innumerable follies, raised its standard, and conferred on it a dignity hitherto unknown. The rise of historical scepticism, and the extent to which it spread, do indeed form such curious features in the annals of the European intellect, as to make it surprising that no one should have attempted to examine a movement to which a great department of modern literature owes its most valuable peculiarities. In the present chapter, I hope to supply this deficiency so far as France is concerned; and I shall endeavour to mark the different steps by which the progress was effected, in order that, by knowing the circumstances most favourable to the study of history, we may with the greater ease inquire into the probability of its future improvement. There is, in reference to this subject, a preliminary consideration well worthy of notice. This is, that men seem always to have begun to doubt in matters of religion, before they ventured to do so in matters of history. It might have been expected that the reproaches, and, in a superstitious age, the dangers, to which heresy is exposed, would have intimidated inquirers, and would have induced them to prefer the safer path of directing their scepticism upon questions of literary speculation. Such, however, is by no means the course which the human mind has adopted. In an early stage of society, when the clergy had universal influence, a belief in the unpardonable criminality of religious error is so deeply rooted, that it engrosses the attention of all; it forces every one who thinks, to concentrate upon theology his reflections and his doubts, and it leaves no leisure for topics which are conceived to be of inferior importance.[807] Hence, during many centuries, the subtlest intellects of Europe exhausted their strength on the rights and dogmas of Christianity; and while upon these matters they often showed the greatest ability, they, upon other subjects, and especially upon history, displayed that infantine credulity, of which I have already given several examples. [807] See some very just remarks in _Whewell's Philos. of the Induc. Sciences_, vol. ii. p. 143. In _Neander's Hist. of the Church_, vol. iv. pp. 41, 128, there are two curious illustrations of the universal interest which theological discussions once inspired in Europe; and on the former subservience of philosophy to theology, compare _Hamilton's Discussions on Philosophy_, p. 197. But no one has treated this subject so ably as M. Auguste Comte, in his great work, _Philosophie Positive_. The service which the metaphysicians rendered to the church by their development of the doctrine of transubstantiation (_Blánco White's Evidence against Catholicism_, pp. 256-258) is a striking instance of this subordination of the intellect to ecclesiastical dogmas. But when, in the progress of society, its theological element begins to decay, the ardour with which religious disputes were once conducted becomes sensibly weakened. The most advanced intellects are the first to feel the growing indifference, and, therefore, they are also the first to scrutinize real events with that inquisitive eye which their predecessors had reserved for religious speculations. This is a great turning-point in the history of every civilized nation. From this moment theological heresies become less frequent,[808] and literary heresies become more common. From this moment the spirit of inquiry and of doubt fastens itself upon every department of knowledge, and begins that great career of conquest, in which by every succeeding discovery the power and dignity of man are increased, while at the same time most of his opinions are disturbed, and many of them are destroyed: until, in the march of this vast but noiseless revolution, the stream of tradition is, as it were, interrupted, the influence of ancient authority is subverted, and the human mind, waxing in strength, learns to rely upon its own resources, and to throw off incumbrances by which the freedom of its movements had long been impaired. [808] M. Tocqueville says, what I am inclined to think is true, that an increasing spirit of equality lessens the disposition to form new religious creeds. _Démocratie en Amérique_, vol. iv. pp. 16, 17. At all events, it is certain that increasing knowledge has this effect; for those great men whose turn of mind would formerly have made them heretics, are now content to confine their innovations to other fields of thought. If St. Augustin had lived in the seventeenth century, he would have reformed or created the physical sciences. If Sir Isaac Newton had lived in the fourth century, he would have organized a new sect, and have troubled the church with his originality. The application of these remarks to the history of France, will enable us to explain some interesting phenomena in the literature of that country. During the whole of the Middle Ages, and I may say till the end of the sixteenth century, France, though fertile in annalists and chroniclers, had not produced a single historian, because she had not produced a single man who presumed to doubt what was generally believed. Indeed, until the publication of Du Haillan's history of the kings of France, no one had even attempted a critical digest of the materials which were known to be extant. This work appeared in 1576;[809] and the author, at the conclusion of his labours, could not disguise the pride which he felt at having accomplished so great an undertaking. In his dedication to the king he says, 'I am, sire, the first of all the French who have written the history of France, and, in a polite language, shown the grandeur and dignity of our kings; for before there was nothing but the old rubbish of chronicles which spoke of them.' He adds in the preface: 'Only I will say, without presumption and boasting, that I have done a thing which had not been done before, or seen by any of our nation, and have given to the history of France a dress it never appeared in before.'[810] Nor were these the idle boasts of an obscure man. His work went through numerous editions; was translated into Latin, and was reprinted in foreign countries. He himself was looked upon as one of the glories of the French nation, and was rewarded by the favour of the king, who conferred on him the office of secretary of finance.[811] From his work, we may, therefore, gain some notion of what was then the received standard of historical literature; and with this view, it is natural to inquire what the materials were which he chiefly employed. About sixty years earlier, an Italian named Paulus Emilius had published a gossiping compilation on the 'Actions of the French.'[812] This book, which is full of extravagant fables, was taken by Du Haillan as the basis of his famous history of the kings of France; and from it he unhesitatingly copies those idle stories which Emilius loved to relate. This will give us some idea of the credulity of a writer, who was reckoned by his contemporaries to be, beyond all comparison, the greatest historian France had produced. But this is not all. Du Haillan, not content with borrowing from his predecessor everything that was most incredible, gratifies his passion for the marvellous by some circumstances of his own invention. He begins his history with a long account of a council which, he says, was held by the celebrated Pharamond, in order to determine whether the French should be governed by a monarchy or by an aristocracy. It is, indeed, doubtful if any such person as Pharamond ever existed; and it is certain that, if he did exist, all the materials had long perished from which an opinion could be formed respecting him.[813] But Du Haillan, regardless of these little difficulties, gives us the fullest information touching the great chieftain; and, as if determined to tax to the utmost the credulity of his readers, mentions, as members of the council of Pharamond, two persons, Charamond and Quadrek, whose very names are invented by the historian.[814] [809] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xix. pp. 315, 316; where it is said, 'l'ouvrage de Du Haillan est remarquable en ce que c'est le premier corps d'histoire de France qui ait paru dans notre langue.' See also _Dacier_, _Rapport sur les Progrès de l'Histoire_, p. 170; and _Des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. x. p. 185. [810] _Bayle_, article _Haillan_, note L. [811] _Mercure François_, in _Bayle_, article _Haillan_, note D. [812] _De Rebus gestis Francorum_, which appeared about 1516. _Biog. Univ._ vol. xiii. p. 119. Compare, respecting the author, _Mézéray_, _Hist. de France_, vol. ii. p. 363, with _Audigier_, _l'Origine des François_, vol. ii. p. 118, who complains of his opinion about Clovis, 'quoy qu'il fasse profession de relever la gloire des François.' Even the superficial Boulainvilliers (_Hist. de l'Ancien Gouvernement_, vol. ii. p. 166) contemptuously notices 'les rétoriciens postérieurs, tels que Paul Emile.' [813] Compare _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. i. pp. 176, 177, with _Montlosier_, _Monarchie Française_, vol. i. pp. 43, 44. Philippe de Comines, though superior to Sismondi and Montlosier in point of ability, lived in the middle ages, and therefore had no idea of doubting, but simply says, 'Pharamond fut esleu roy, l'an 420, et régna dix ans,' _Mém. de Comines_, livre viii. chap. xxvii. vol. iii. p. 232. But De Thou, coming a hundred years after Comines, evidently suspected that it was not all quite right, and therefore puts it on the authority of others. 'Pharamond, qui _selon nos historiens_ a porté le premier la couronne des François.' _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. x. p. 530. See a singular passage on Pharamond in _Mém. de Duplessis Mornay_, vol. ii. p. 405. [814] Sorel (_La Bibliothèque Françoise_, Paris, 1667, p. 373) says of Du Haillan, 'On lui peut reprocher d'avoir donné un commencement fabuleux à son histoire, qui est entièrement de son invention, ayant fait tenir un conseil entre Pharamond et ses plus fidelles conseillers, pour sçavoir si ayant la puissance en main il deuoit réduire les François au gouvernement aristocratique ou monarchique, et faisant faire une harangue à chacun d'eux pour soustenir son opinion. On y voit les noms de Charamond et de Quadrek, personnages imaginaires.' Sorel, who had a glimmering notion that this was not exactly the way to write history, adds, 'C'est une chose fort surprenante. On est fort peu asseuré si Pharamond fut jamais au monde, et quoy qu'on sçache qu'il y ait esté, c'est une terrible hardiesse d'en raconter des choses qui n'ont aucun appuy.' Such was the state of historical literature in France early in the reign of Henry III. A great change was, however, at hand. The remarkable intellectual progress made by the French towards the close of the sixteenth century was, as I have shown, preceded by that scepticism which appears to be its necessary precursor. The spirit of doubt, which had begun with religion, was communicated to literature. The impulse was immediately felt in every department of knowledge, and now it was that history first emerged from a debasement in which it had for centuries been sunk. On this subject a mere statement of dates may be of service to those persons who, from a dislike to general reasoning, would otherwise deny the connexion which I wish to establish. In 1588 was published the first sceptical book ever written in the French language.[815] In 1598, the French government, for the first time, ventured upon a great public act of religious toleration. In 1604, De Thou published that celebrated work, which is allowed by all critics to be the first great history composed by a Frenchman.[816] And at the very moment when these things were passing, another eminent Frenchman, the illustrious Sully,[817] was collecting the materials for his historical work, which, though hardly equal to that of De Thou, comes immediately after it in ability, in importance, and in reputation. Nor can we fail to remark, that both these great historians, who left all their predecessors immeasurably behind them, were the confidential ministers and intimate friends of Henry IV., the first king of France whose memory is stained by the imputation of heresy, and the first who dared to change his religion, not in consequence of any theological arguments, but on the broad and notorious ground of political expediency.[818] [815] 'Die erste Regung des skeptischen Geistes finden wir in den Versuchen des Michael von Montaigne.' _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. ix. p. 443. [816] The first volume appeared in 1604. See _Le Long_, _Bibliothèque Historique de la France_, vol. ii. p. 375; and preface to _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. i. p. iv. [817] Sismondi has scarcely done justice to Sully; but the reader will find a fuller account of him in _Capefigue_, _Hist. de la Réforme_, vol. viii. pp. 101-117; and a still better one in _Blanqui_, _Histoire de l'Economie Politique_, vol. i. pp. 347-361. [818] According to D'Aubigné, the king, on his conversion, said, 'Je ferai voir à tout le monde que je n'ai esté persuadé par autre théologie que la nécessité de l'estat.' _Smedley's Reformed Religion in France_, vol. ii. p. 362. That Henry felt this is certain; and that he expressed it to his friends is probable; but he had a difficult game to play with the Catholic church; and in one of his edicts we find 'une grande joye de son retour à l'église, dont il attribuoit la cause à la grâce du Tout-Puissant, et aux prières de ses fidèles sujets.' _De Thou_, _Hist. Univ._ vol. xii. pp. 105, 106. Compare, at pp. 468, 469, the message he sent to the pope. But it was not merely over such eminent historians as these that the sceptical spirit displayed its influence. The movement was now becoming sufficiently active to leave its marks in the writings of far inferior men. There were two particulars in which the credulity of the earlier historians was very striking. These consisted in the uncritical manner in which, by blindly copying their predecessors, they confused the dates of different events; and in the readiness with which they believed the most improbable statements, upon imperfect evidence, and often upon no evidence at all. It is surely a singular proof of that intellectual progress which I am endeavouring to trace, that, within a very few years, both these sources of error were removed. In 1597, Serres was appointed historiographer of France; and, in the same year, he published his history of that country.[819] In this work, he insists upon the necessity of carefully recording the date of each event; and the example, which he first set, has, since his time, been generally followed.[820] The importance of this change will be willingly acknowledged by those who are aware of the confusion into which history has been thrown by the earlier writers having neglected, what now seems, so obvious a precaution. Scarcely had this innovation been established, when it was followed, in the same country, by another of still greater moment. This was the appearance, in 1621, of a history of France, by Scipio Dupleix; in which, for the first time, the evidence for historical facts was published with the facts themselves.[821] It is needless to insist upon the utility of a step which, more than any other, has taught historians to be industrious in collecting their authorities, and careful in scrutinizing them.[822] To this may be added, that Dupleix was also the first Frenchman who ventured to publish a system of philosophy in his own language.[823] It is true, that the system itself is intrinsically of little value;[824] but, at the time it appeared, it was an unprecedented, and, on that account, a profane attempt, to unfold the mysteries of philosophy in the vulgar speech; and, in this point of view, supplies evidence of the increasing diffusion of a spirit bolder and more inquisitive than any formerly known. It is not, therefore, surprising, that, almost at the same moment, there should be made, in the same country, the first systematic attempt at historical scepticism. The system of philosophy by Dupleix appeared in 1602; and in 1599, La Popelinière published at Paris what he calls the _History of Histories_, in which he criticizes historians themselves, and examines their works with that sceptical spirit, to which his own age was deeply indebted.[825] This able man was also the author of a _Sketch of the New History of the French_; containing a formal refutation of that fable, so dear to the early historians, according to which the monarchy of France was founded by Francus, who arrived in Gaul after the conclusion of the siege of Troy.[826] [819] _Marchand_, _Dictionnaire Historique_, vol. ii. pp. 205, 209, La Haye, 1758, folio. This curious and learned work, which is much less read than it deserves, contains the only good account of Serres I have been able to meet with; vol. ii. pp. 197-213. [820] 'On ne prenoit presque aucun soin de marquer les dates des événemens dans les ouvrages historiques.... De Serres reconnut ce défaut; et pour y remédier, il rechercha avec beaucoup de soin les dates des événemens qu'il avoit à employer, et les marqua dans son histoire le plus exactement qu'il lui fut possible. Cet exemple a été imité depuis par la plupart de ceux qui l'ont suivi; et c'est à lui qu'on est redevable de l'avantage qu'on tire d'une pratique si nécessaire et si utile.' _Marchand_, _Dict. Historique_, vol. ii. p. 206. [821] 'Il est le premier historien qui ait cité en marge ses autorités; précaution absolument nécessaire quand on n'écrit pas l'histoire de son temps, à moins qu'on ne s'en tienne aux faits connus.' _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xix. p. 95. And the _Biog. Univ._ vol. xii. p. 277, says, 'On doit lui faire honneur d'avoir cité en marge les auteurs dont il s'est servi; précaution indispensable, que l'on connaissait peu avant lui, et que les historiens modernes négligent trop aujourd'hui.' Bassompierre, who had a quarrel with Dupleix, has given some curious details respecting him and his History; but they are, of course, not to be relied on. _Mém. de Bassompierre_, vol. iii. pp. 356, 357. Patin speaks favourably of his history of Henry IV. _Lettres de Patin_, vol. i. p. 17: but compare _Sully_, _[OE]conomies Royales_, vol. ix. pp. 121, 249. [822] The ancients, as is well known, rarely took this trouble. _Mure's Hist. of Greek Literature_, vol. iv. pp. 197, 306, 307. But what is much more curious is, that, even in scientific works, there was an equal looseness; and Cuvier says, that, in the sixteenth century, 'on se bornait à dire, d'une manière générale, Aristote a dit telle chose, sans indiquer ni le passage ni le livre dans lequel la citation se trouvait.' _Cuvier_, _Hist. des Sciences_, part ii. p. 63; and at p. 88, 'suivant l'usage de son temps, Gessner n'indique pas avec précision les endroits d'où il a tiré ses citations:' see also p. 214. [823] 'Le premier ouvrage de philosophie publié dans cette langue.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xii. p. 277. [824] So it seemed to me, when I turned over its leaves a few years ago. However, Patin says, 'sa philosophie françoise n'est pas mauvaise.' _Lettres de Patin_, vol. iii. p. 357. On the dialectic powers of Dupleix, see a favourable judgment in _Hamilton's Discuss. on Philos._ p. 119. [825] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxv. p. 402. Sorel (_Bibliothèque Françoise_, p. 165), who is evidently displeased at the unprecedented boldness of La Popelinière, says, 'il dit ses sentimens en bref des historiens de toutes les nations, et de plusieurs langues, et particulièrement des historiens françois, dont il parle avec beaucoup d'asseurance.' [826] 'Il réfute l'opinion, alors fort accréditée, de l'arrivée dans les Gaules de Francus et des Troyens.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxv. p. 402. Compare _Le Long_, _Bibliothèque Historique de la France_, vol. ii. p. 39. Patin says that De Thou was much indebted to him: 'M. de Thou a pris hardiment de la Popelinière.' _Lettres de Patin_, vol. i. p. 222. There is a notice of Popelinière, in connexion with Richer, in _Mém. de Richelieu_, vol. v. p. 349. It would be useless to collect all the instances in which this advancing spirit of scepticism now began to purge history of its falsehoods. I will only mention two or three more of those which have occurred in my reading. In 1614, De Rubis published at Lyons a work on the European monarchies; in which he not only attacks the long-established belief respecting the descent from Francus, but boldly asserts, that the Franks owe their name to their ancient liberties.[827] In 1620, Gomberville, in a dissertation on history, refutes many of those idle stories respecting the antiquity of the French, which had been universally received until his time.[828] And, in 1630, Berthault published at Paris the 'French Floras,' in which he completely upsets the old method; since he lays it down as a fundamental principle, that the origin of the French must only be sought for in those countries where they were found by the Romans.[829] [827] 'Il réfute les fables qu'on avançoit sur l'origine des François, appuyées sur le témoignage au faux Bérose. Il dit que leur nom vient de leur ancienne franchise.' _Le Long_, _Bibliothèque Historique_, vol. ii. p. 750. [828] Compare _Sorel_, _Bibliothèque Françoise_, p. 298, with _Du Fresnoy_, _Méthode pour étudier l'Histoire_, vol. x. p. 4, Parie, 1772. There is an account of Gomberville in _Les Historiettes de Tallemant des Réaux_, vol. viii. pp. 15-19; a singularly curious book, which is, for the seventeenth century, what Brantome is for the sixteenth. I ought to have mentioned earlier the inimitable ridicule with which Rabelais treats the habit historians had of tracing the genealogies of their heroes back to Noah. _[OE]uvres de Rabelais_, vol. i. pp. 1-3, and vol. ii. pp. 10-17: see also, at vol. v. pp. 171, 172, his defence of the antiquity of Chinon. [829] 'L'auteur croit qu'il ne faut pas la chercher ailleurs que dans le pays où ils out été connus des Romains, c'est-à-dire entre l'Elbe et le Rhin,' _Le Long_, _Bibliothèque Historique_, vol. ii. p. 56. This work of Berthault's was, for many years, a text-book in the French colleges. _Biog. Univ._ vol. iv. p. 347. All these, and similar productions, were, however, entirely eclipsed by Mezeray's History of France; the first volume of which was published in 1643, and the last in 1651.[830] It is, perhaps, hardly fair to his predecessors, to call him the first general historian of France;[831] but there can be no doubt that his work is greatly superior to any that had yet been seen. The style of Mezeray is admirably clear and vigorous, rising, at times, to considerable eloquence. Besides this, he has two other merits much more important. These are, an indisposition to believe strange things, merely because they have hitherto been believed; and an inclination to take the side of the people, rather than that of their rulers.[832] Of these principles, the first was too common among the ablest Frenchmen of that time to excite much attention.[833] But the other principle enabled Mezeray to advance an important step before all his contemporaries. He was the first Frenchman who, in a great historical work, threw off that superstitious reverence for royalty which had long troubled the minds of his countrymen, and which, indeed, continued to haunt them for another century. As a necessary consequence, he was also the first who saw that a history, to be of real value, must be a history, not only of kings, but of nations. A steady perception of this principle led him to incorporate into his book matters which, before his time, no one cared to study. He communicates all the information he could collect respecting the taxes which the people had paid; the sufferings they had undergone from the gripping hands of their governors; their manners, their comforts, even the state of the towns which they inhabited; in a word, what affected the interests of the French people, as well as what affected the interests of the French monarchy.[834] These were the subjects which Mezeray preferred to insignificant details respecting the pomp of courts and the lives of kings. These were the large and comprehensive matters on which he loved to dwell, and on which he expatiated; not, indeed, with so much fulness as we could desire, but still with a spirit and an accuracy which entitles him to the honour of being the greatest historian France produced before the eighteenth century. [830] The first volume in 1643; the second in 1646; and the last in 1651. _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxviii. p. 510. [831] 'The French have now their first general historian, Mezeray.' _Hallam's Literature of Europe_, vol. iii. p. 228; and see _Stephen's Lectures on the History of France_, 1851, vol. i. p. 10. [832] Bayle says, that Mezeray is, 'de tous les historiens celui qui favorise le plus les peuples contre la cour.' _Le Long_, _Bibliothèque Historique_, vol. iii. p. lxxxvi. [833] Though it did not prevent him from believing that sudden tempests, and unusual appearances in the heavens, were aberrations, due to supernatural interference, and, as such, were the prognosticators of political change. _Mézéray_, _Hist. de France_, vol. i. pp. 202, 228, 238, 241, 317, 792, vol. ii. pp. 485, 573, 1120, vol. iii. pp. 31, 167, 894; instructive passages, as proving that, even in powerful minds, the scientific and secular method was still feeble. [834] What he did on these subjects is most remarkable, considering that some of the best materials were unknown, and in manuscript, and that even De Thou gives scarcely any information respecting them; so that Mezeray had no model. See, among other passages which have struck me in the first volume, pp. 145-147, 204, 353, 356, 362-365, 530, 531, 581, 812, 946, 1039. Compare his indignant expressions at vol. ii. p. 721. This was, in many respects, the most important change which had yet been effected in the manner of writing history. If the plan begun by Mezeray had been completed by his successors, we should possess materials, the absence of which no modern researches can possibly compensate. Some things, indeed, we should, in that case, have lost. We should know less than we now know of courts and of camps. We should have heard less of the peerless beauty of French queens, and of the dignified presence of French kings. We might even have missed some of the links of that evidence by which the genealogies of princes and nobles are ascertained, and the study of which delights the curiosity of antiquaries and heralds. But, on the other hand, we should have been able to examine the state of the French people during the latter half of the seventeenth century; while, as things now stand, our knowledge of them, in that most important period, is inferior in accuracy and in extent to the knowledge we possess of some of the most barbarous tribes of the earth.[835] If the example of Mezeray had been followed, with such additional resources as the progress of affairs would have supplied, we should not only have the means of minutely tracing the growth of a great and civilised nation, but we should have materials that would suggest or verify those original principles, the discovery of which constitutes the real use of history. [835] Those who have studied the French memoirs of the seventeenth century, know how little can be found in them respecting the condition of the people; while the fullest private correspondence, such as the letters of Sévigné and De Maintenon, are equally unsatisfactory. The greater part of the evidence now extant has been collected by M. Monteil, in his valuable work, _Histoire des divers Etats_: but whoever will put all this together must admit, that we are better informed as to the condition of many savage tribes than we are concerning the lower classes of France during the reign of Louis XIV. But this was not to be. Unhappily for the interests of knowledge, the march of French civilization was, at this period, suddenly checked. Soon after the middle of the seventeenth century, that lamentable change took place in France, which gave a new turn to the destinies of the nation. The reaction which the spirit of inquiry underwent, and the social and intellectual circumstances which, by bringing the Fronde to a premature close, prepared the way for Louis XIV., have been described in a former part of this volume, where I have attempted to indicate the general effects of the disastrous movement. It now remains for me to point out how this retrogressive tendency opposed obstacles to the improvement of historical literature, and prevented authors, not only from relating with honesty what was passing around them, but also from understanding events which had occurred before their time. The most superficial students of French literature must be struck by the dearth of historians during that long period in which Louis XIV. held the reins of government.[836] To this, the personal peculiarities of the king greatly contributed. His education had been shamefully neglected; and as he never had the energy to repair its deficiencies, he all his life remained ignorant of many things with which even princes are usually familiar.[837] Of the course of past events he knew literally nothing, and he took no interest in any history except the history of his own exploits. Among a free people, this indifference on the part of the sovereign could never have produced injurious results; indeed, as we have already seen, the absence of royal patronage is, in a highly civilized country, the most favourable condition of literature. But at the accession of Louis XIV. the liberties of the French were still too young, and the habits of independent thought too recent, to enable them to bear up against that combination of the crown and the church, which was directed against them. The French, becoming every day more servile, at length sunk so low, that, by the end of the seventeenth century, they seemed to have lost even the wish of resistance. The king, meeting no opposition, endeavoured to exercise over the intellect of the country an authority equal to that with which he conducted its government.[838] In all the great questions of religion and of politics, the spirit of inquiry was stifled, and no man was allowed to express an opinion unfavourable to the existing state of things. As the king was willing to endow literature, he naturally thought that he had a right to its services. Authors, who were fed by his hand, were not to raise their voices against his policy. They received his wages, and they were bound to do the bidding of him who paid them. When Louis assumed the government, Mezeray was still living; though I need hardly say that his great work was published before this system of protection and patronage came into play. The treatment to which he, the great historian of France, was now subjected, was a specimen of the new arrangement. He received from the crown a pension of four thousand francs; but when he, in 1668, published an abridgment of his History,[839] it was intimated to him that some remarks upon the tendency of taxation were likely to cause offence in high quarters. As, however, it was soon found that Mezeray was too honest and too fearless to retract what he had written, it was determined to have recourse to intimidation, and half of his pension was taken from him.[840] But as this did not produce a proper effect, another order was issued, which deprived him of the remaining half; and thus early, in this bad reign, there was set an example of punishing a man for writing with honesty upon a subject in which, of all others, honesty is the first essential.[841] [836] This is noticed in _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxvii. pp. 181, 182; also in _Villemain_, _Littérature Française_, vol. ii. pp. 29, 30. Compare _D'Argenson_, _Réflexions sur les Historiens François_, in _Mémoires de l'Académie des Inscriptions_, vol. xxviii. p. 627, with _Boulainvilliers_, _Ancien Gouvernement de la France_, vol. i. p. 174. [837] 'Le jeune Louis XIV n'avait reçu aucune éducation intellectuelle.' _Capefigue's Richelieu, Mazarin et la Fronde_, vol. ii. p. 245. On the education of Louis XIV., which was as shamefully neglected as that of our George III., see _Lettres inédites de Maintenon_, vol. ii. p. 369; _Duclos_, _Mém. Secrets_, vol. i. pp. 167, 168; _Mém. de Brienne_, vol. i. pp. 391-393. [838] On his political maxims, see _Lemontey_, _Etablissement de Louis XIV_, pp. 325-327, 407, 408. The eloquent remarks made by M. Ranke upon an Italian despotism, are admirably applicable to his whole system: 'Sonderbare Gestalt menschlichen Dinge! Die Kräfte des Landes bringen den Hof hervor, der Mittelpunkt des Hofes ist der Fürst, das letzte Product des gesammten Lebens ist zuletzt das Selbstgefühl des Fürsten.' _Die Päpste_, vol. ii. p. 266. [839] His _Abrégé Chronologique_ was published in 1668, in three volumes quarto. _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxviii. p. 510. Le Long (_Bibliothèque Historique_, vol. iii. p. lxxxv.) says, that it was only allowed to be published in consequence of a 'privilège' which Mezeray had formerly obtained. But there seems to have been some difficulty, of which these writers are not aware: for Patin, in a letter dated Paris, 23 December 1664, speaks of it as being then in the press: 'on imprime ici en _grand-in-quarto_ un Abrégé de l'Histoire de France, par M. Mezeray.' _Lettres de Patin_, vol. iii. p. 503: compare p. 665. It long remained an established school-book: see D'Argenson's Essay, in _Mém. de l'Académie_, vol. xxviii. p. 635; and _Works of Sir William Temple_, vol. iii. p. 70. [840] _Barrière_, _Essai sur les M[oe]urs du Dix-septième Siècle_, prefixed to _Mém. de Brienne_, vol. i. pp. 129, 130, where reference is made to his original correspondence with Colbert. This treatment of Mezeray is noticed, but imperfectly, in _Boulainvilliers_, _Hist. de l'Ancien Gouvernement_, vol. i. p. 196; in _Lemontey_, _Etablissement de Louis XIV_, p. 331; and in _Palissot_, _Mém. pour l'Hist. de Lit._ vol. ii. p. 161. [841] In 1685 was published at Paris what was called an improved edition of Mezeray's History; that is, an edition from which the honest remarks were expunged. See _Le Long_, _Bibliothèque Historique_, vol. ii. p. 53, vol. iv. p. 381; and _Brunet_, _Manuel du Libraire_, vol. iii. p. 383, Paris, 1843. Hampden, who knew Mezeray, has recorded an interesting interview he had with him in Paris, when the great historian lamented the loss of the liberties of France. See _Calamy's Life of Himself_, vol. i. pp. 392, 393. Such conduct as this showed what historians were to expect from the government of Louis XIV. Several years later, the king took another opportunity of displaying the same spirit. Fénelon had been appointed preceptor to the grandson of Louis, whose early vices his firmness and judgment did much to repress.[842] But a single circumstance was thought sufficient to outweigh the immense service which Fénelon thus rendered to the royal family, and, if his pupil had come to the throne, would have rendered prospectively to the whole of France. His celebrated romance, _Telemachus_, was published in 1699, as it appears, without his consent.[843] The king suspected that, under the guise of a fiction, Fénelon intended to reflect on the conduct of government. It was in vain that the author denied so dangerous an imputation. The indignation of the king was not to be appeased. He banished Fénelon from the court; and would never again admit to his presence a man whom he suspected of even insinuating a criticism upon the measures adopted by the administration of the country.[844] [842] _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxvi. pp. 240, 241. [843] 'Par l'infidélité d'un domestique chargé de transcrire le manuscrit.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xiv. p. 289; and see _Peignot_, _Dict. des Livres condamnés_, vol. i. pp. 134, 135. It was suppressed in France, and appeared in Holland in the same year, 1699. _Lettres de Sévigné_, vol. vi. pp. 434, 435 note. [844] 'Louis XIV prit le Télémaque pour une personnalité.... Comme il (Fénelon) avait déplu au roi, il mourut dans l'exil.' _Lerminier_, _Philos. du Droit_, vol. ii. pp. 219, 220; and see _Siècle de Louis XIV_, chap. xxxii., in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xx. p. 307. If the king could, on mere suspicion, thus treat a great writer, who had the rank of an archbishop and the reputation of a saint, it was not likely that he would deal more tenderly with inferior men. In 1681, the Abbé Primi, an Italian, then residing at Paris, was induced to write a history of Louis XIV. The king, delighted with the idea of perpetuating his own fame, conferred several rewards upon the author: and arrangements were made that the work should be composed in Italian, and immediately translated into French. But when the history appeared, there were found in it some circumstances which it was thought ought not to have been disclosed. On this account, Louis caused the book to be suppressed, the papers of the author to be seized, and the author himself to be thrown into the Bastille.[845] [845] These circumstances are related in a letter from Lord Preston, dated Paris, 22 July 1682, and printed in _Dalrymple's Memoirs_, pp. 141, 142, appendix to vol. i. The account given by M. Peignot (_Livres condamnés_, vol. ii. pp. 52, 53) is incomplete, he being evidently ignorant of the existence of Lord Preston's letter. Those, indeed, were dangerous times for independent men; times when no writer on politics or religion was safe, unless he followed the fashion of the day, and defended the opinions of the court and the church. The king, who had an insatiable thirst for what he called glory,[846] laboured to degrade contemporary historians into mere chroniclers of his own achievements. He ordered Racine and Boileau to write an account of his reign; he settled a pension upon them, and he promised to supply them with the necessary materials.[847] But even Racine and Boileau, poets though they were, knew that they would fail in satisfying his morbid vanity; they, therefore, received the pension, but omitted to compose the work for which the pension was conferred. So notorious was the unwillingness of able men to meddle with history, that it was thought advisable to beat up literary recruits from foreign countries. The case of the Abbé Primi has just been mentioned; he was an Italian, and only one year later a similar offer was made to an Englishman. In 1683, Burnet visited France, and was given to understand that he might receive a pension, and that he might even enjoy the honour of conversing with Louis himself, provided he would write a history of the royal affairs; such history, it was carefully added, being on the 'side' of the French king.[848] [846] An able writer has well called him 'glorieux plutôt qu'appréciateur de la vraie gloire.' _Flassan_, _Histoire de la Diplomatie Française_, vol. iv. p. 399. [847] In 1677, Madame de Sévigné writes from Paris respecting the king: 'Vous savez bien qu'il a donné deux mille écus de pension à Racine et à Despréaux, en leur commandant de travailler à son histoire, dont il aura soin de donner des Mémoires.' _Lettres de Sévigné_, vol. iii. p. 362. Compare _Eloge de Valincourt_, in _[OE]uvres de Fontenelle_, vol. vi. p. 383; and _Hughes's Letters_, edit. 1773, vol. ii. pp. 74, 75. [848] Burnet relates this with delightful simplicity: 'Others more probably thought that the king, hearing I was a writer of history, had a mind to engage me to write on his side. I was told a pension would be offered me. But I made no steps towards it; for though I was offered an audience of the king, I excused it, since I could not have the honour to be presented to that king by the minister of England.' _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. ii. p. 385. Under such circumstances as these, it is no wonder that history, so far as its great essentials are concerned, should have rapidly declined during the power of Louis XIV. It became, as some think, more elegant; but it certainly became more feeble. The language in which it was composed was worked with great care, the periods neatly arranged, the epithets soft and harmonious. For that was a polite and obsequious age, full of reverence, of duty, and of admiration. In history, as it was then written, every king was a hero, and every bishop was a saint. All unpleasant truths were suppressed; nothing harsh or unkind was to be told. These docile and submissive sentiments being expressed in an easy and flowing style, gave to history that air of refinement, that gentle, unobtrusive gait, which made it popular with the classes that it flattered. But even so, while its form was polished, its life was extinct. All its independence was gone, all its honesty, all its boldness. The noblest and the most difficult department of knowledge, the study of the movements of the human race, was abandoned to every timid and creeping intellect that cared to cultivate it. There was Boulainvilliers, and Daniel, and Maimburg, and Varillas, and Vertot, and numerous others, who in the reign of Louis XIV. were believed to be historians; but whose histories have scarcely any merit, except that of enabling us to appreciate the period in which such productions were admired, and the system of which they were the representatives. To give a complete view of the decline of historical literature in France, from the time of Mezeray until early in the eighteenth century, would require a summary of every history which was written; for all of them were pervaded by the same spirit. But, as this would occupy much too large a space, it will probably be thought sufficient if I confine myself to such illustrations as will bring the tendency of the age most clearly before the reader; and for this purpose, I will notice the works of two historians I have not yet mentioned; one of whom was celebrated as an antiquary, the other as a theologian. Both possessed considerable learning, and one was a man of undoubted genius; their works are, therefore, worth attention, as symptoms of the state of the French intellect late in the seventeenth century. The name of the antiquary was Audigier; the name of the theologian was Bossuet: and from them we may learn something respecting the way in which, during the reign of Louis XIV., it was usual to contemplate the transactions of past ages. The celebrated work of Audigier, on the Origin of the French, was published at Paris in 1676.[849] It would be unjust to deny that the author was a man of great and careful reading. But his credulity, his prejudices, his reverence for antiquity, and his dutiful admiration for everything established by the church and the court, warped his judgment to an extent which, in our time, seems incredible; and, as there are probably few persons in England who have read his once famous book, I will give an outline of its leading views. [849] During many years it enjoyed great reputation; and there is no history written in that period respecting which Le Long gives so many details. See his _Bibliothèque Historique de la France_, vol. ii. pp. 13, 14. Compare _La Bibliothèque de Leber_, vol. ii. p. 110, Paris, 1839. In this great history we are told, that 3464 years after the creation of the world, and 590 years before the birth of Christ, was the exact period at which Sigovese, nephew to the king of the Celts, was first sent into Germany.[850] Those who accompanied him were necessarily travellers; and as, in the German language, _wandeln_ means _to go_, we have here the origin of the Vandals.[851] But the antiquity of the Vandals is far surpassed by that of the French. Jupiter, Pluto, and Neptune, who are sometimes supposed to be gods, were in reality kings of Gaul.[852] And, if we look back a little further, it becomes certain that Gallus, the founder of Gaul, was no other than Noah himself; for in those days the same man frequently had two names.[853] As to the subsequent history of the French, it was fully equal to the dignity of their origin. Alexander the Great, even in all the pride of his victories, never dared to attack the Scythians, who were a colony sent from France.[854] It is from these great occupiers of France that there have proceeded all the gods of Europe, all the fine arts, and all the sciences.[855] The English themselves are merely a colony of the French, as must be evident to whoever considers the similarity of the words Angles and Anjou;[856] and to this fortunate descent the natives of the British islands are indebted for such bravery and politeness as they still possess.[857] Several other points are cleared up by this great critic with equal faculty. The Salian Franks were so called from the rapidity of their flight;[858] the Bretons were evidently Saxons;[859] and even the Scotch, about whose independence so much has been said, were vassals to the kings of France.[860] Indeed, it is impossible to exaggerate the dignity of the crown of France; it is difficult even to conceive its splendour. Some have supposed that the emperors are superior to the kings of France, but this is the mistake of ignorant men; for an emperor means a mere military ruler, while the title of king includes all the functions of supreme power.[861] To put the question, therefore, on its real footing, the great king Louis XIV. is an emperor, as have been all his predecessors, the illustrious rulers of France, for fifteen centuries.[862] And it is an undoubted fact, that Antichrist, about whom so much anxiety is felt, will never be allowed to appear in the world until the French empire has been destroyed. This, says Audigier, it would be idle to deny; for it is asserted by many of the saints, and it is distinctly foreshadowed by St. Paul, in his second epistle to the Thessalonians.[863] [850] _Audigier_, _L'Origine des François_, Paris, 1676, vol. i. p. 5. See also p. 45, where he congratulates himself on being the first to clear up the history of Sigovese. [851] _Audigier_, vol. i. p. 7. Other antiquaries have adopted the same preposterous etymology. See a note in _Kemble's Saxons in England_, vol. i. p. 41. [852] 'Or le plus ancien Jupiter, le plus ancien Neptune, et le plus ancien Pluton, sont ceux de Gaule; ils la divisèrent les premiers en Celtique, Aquitaine et Belgique, et obtinrent chacun une de ces parties en partage. Jupiter, qu'on fait régner au ciel, eut la Celtique.... Neptune, qu'on fait régner sur les eaux, et sur les mers, eut l'Aquitaine, qui n'est appelée de la sorte qu'à cause de l'abondance de ses eaux, et de la situation sur l'océan.' _Audigier_, _L'Origine des François_, vol. i. pp. 223, 224. [853] See his argument, vol. i. pp. 216, 217, beginning, 'le nom de Noé, que portèrent les Galates, est Gallus;' and compare vol. ii. p. 109, where he expresses surprise that so little should have been done by previous writers towards establishing this obvious origin of the French. [854] _Audigier_, vol. i. pp. 196, 197, 255, 256. [855] 'Voilà donc les anciennes divinitez d'Europe, originaires de Gaule, aussi bien que les beaux arts et les hautes sciences.' _Audigier_, vol. i. p. 234. [856] _Ibid._ vol. i. pp. 73, 74. He sums up, 'c'en est assez pour relever l'Anjou, à qui cette gloire appartient légitimement.' [857] Vol. i. pp. 265, 266. [858] Vol. i. p. 149. [859] Vol. ii. pp. 179, 180. [860] Vol. ii. p. 269. [861] Vol. ii. p. 124. [862] Vol. ii. pp. 451-454. [863] 'A quoy nous pourrions joindre un autre monument fort authentique, c'est le résultat de certains pères, et de certains docteurs de l'église, qui tiennent que l'Ante-christ ne viendra point au monde qu'après la dissection, c'est-à-dire après la dissipation de nostre empire. Leur fondement est dans la seconde épistre de saint Paul aux Thessaloniciens.' _Audigier_, vol. ii. p. 462. Strange as all this appears, there was nothing in it to revolt the enlightened age of Louis XIV. Indeed, the French, dazzled by the brilliancy of their prince, must have felt great interest in learning how superior he was to all other potentates, and how he had not only been preceded by a long line of emperors, but was in fact an emperor himself. They must have been struck with awe at the information communicated by Audigier respecting the arrival of Antichrist, and the connexion between that important event and the fate of the French monarchy. They must have listened with pious wonder to the illustration of these matters from the writings of the fathers, and from the epistle to the Thessalonians. All this they would easily receive; because to worship the king, and venerate the church, were the two cardinal maxims of that age. To obey, and to believe, were the fundamental ideas of a period, in which the fine arts did for a time flourish,--in which the perception of beauty, though too fastidious, was undoubtedly keen,--in which taste and the imagination, in its lower departments, were zealously cultivated,--but in which, on the other hand, originality and independence of thought were extinguished, the greatest and the largest topics were forbidden to be discussed, the sciences were almost deserted, reforms and innovations were hated, new opinions were despised, and their authors punished, until at length, the exuberance of genius being tamed into sterility, the national intellect was reduced to that dull and monotonous level which characterizes the last twenty years of the reign of Louis XIV. In no instance can we find a better example of this reactionary movement, than in the case of Bossuet, bishop of Meaux. The success, and indeed the mere existence, of his work on Universal History, becomes, from this point of view, highly instructive. Considered by itself, the book is a painful exhibition of a great genius cramped by a superstitious age. But considered in reference to the time in which it appeared, it is invaluable as a symptom of the French intellect; since it proves, that towards the end of the seventeenth century, one of the most eminent men, in one of the first countries of Europe, could willingly submit to a prostration of judgment, and could display a blind credulity, of which, in our day, even the feeblest minds would be ashamed; and that this, so far from causing scandal, or bringing a rebuke on the head of the author, was received with universal and unqualified applause. Bossuet was a great orator, a consummate dialectician, and an accomplished master of those vague sublimities by which most men are easily affected. All these qualities he, a few years later, employed in the production of what is probably the most formidable work ever directed against Protestantism.[864] But when he, leaving these matters, entered the vast field of history, he could think of no better way of treating his new subject, than by following the arbitrary rules peculiar to his own profession.[865] His work is an audacious attempt to degrade history to a mere handmaid of theology.[866] As if, on such matters, doubt were synonymous with crime, he, without the slightest hesitation, takes everything for granted which the church had been accustomed to believe. This enables him to speak with perfect confidence respecting events which are lost in the remotest antiquity. He knows the exact number of years which have elapsed since the moment when Cain murdered his brother; when the deluge overwhelmed the world; and when Abraham was summoned to his mission.[867] The dates of these, and similar occurrences, he fixes with a precision, which might almost make us believe that they had taken place in his own time, if not under his own eyes.[868] It is true, that the Hebrew books on which he willingly relied, supply no evidence of the slightest value concerning the chronology even of their own people; while the information they contain respecting other countries is notoriously meagre and unsatisfactory.[869] But so narrow were the views of Bossuet upon history, that with all this he, in his own opinion, had no concern. The text of the Vulgate declared, that these things had happened at a particular time; and a number of holy men, calling themselves the council of the church, had, in the middle of the sixteenth century, pronounced the Vulgate to be authentic, and had taken upon themselves to place it above all other versions.[870] This theological opinion was accepted by Bossuet as an historical law; and thus the decision of a handful of cardinals and bishops, in a superstitious and uncritical age, is the sole authority for that early chronology, the precision of which is, to an uninformed reader, a matter of great admiration.[871] [864] This is the opinion of Mr. Hallam respecting Bossuet's History of the Variations of Protestant Churches. _Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 486: compare _Lerminier_, _Philos. du Droit_, vol. ii. p. 86. Attempts have been made by Protestant theologians to retort against the Catholics the arguments of Bossuet, on the ground that religious variations are a necessary consequence of the honest pursuit of religious truth. See _Blanco White's Evidence against Catholicism_, pp. 109-112; and his _Letters from Spain_, _by Doblado_, p. 127. With this I fully agree; but it would be easy to show that the argument is fatal to all ecclesiastical systems with strictly defined creeds, and, therefore, strikes as heavily against the Protestant churches as against the Catholic. Beausobre, in his acute and learned work on Manichæism, seems to have felt this; and he makes the dangerous admission, 'que si l'argument de M. de Meaux vaut quelque chose contre la Réformation, il a la même force contre le Christianisme.' _Hist. de Manichée_, vol. i. p. 526. On Bossuet as a controversialist, see _Stäudlin_, _Geschichte der theologischen Wissenschaften_, vol. ii. pp. 43-45; and for a contemporary opinion of his great work, see a characteristic passage in _Lettres de Sévigné_, vol. v. p. 409. [865] His method is fairly stated by _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxv. p. 427. [866] See, on this attempt of Bossuet's, some good remarks in _Stäudlin_, _Geschichte der theologischen Wissenschaften_, vol. ii. p. 198: 'Kirche und Christenthum sind für diesen Bischoff der Mittelpunct der ganzen Geschichte. Aus diesem Gesichtspuncte betrachtet er nicht nur die Patriarchen und Propheten, das Judenthum und die alten Weissagungen, sondern auch die Reiche der Welt.' [867] _Bossuet_, _Discours sur l'Histoire Universelle_, pp. 10, 11, 16, 17; see also, at p. 90, a curious specimen of his chronological calculations. [868] He says, that if the ordinarily received dates of the Pentateuch and the Prophets are not true, then the miracles must fall, and the writings themselves are not inspired. _Hist. Univ._ p. 360. It would be hard to find, even in the works of Bossuet a more rash assertion than this. [869] Indeed the Jews have no consecutive chronology before Solomon. See _Bunsen's Egypt_, vol. i. pp. viii. xxv. 170, 178, 185, vol. ii. p. 399. [870] Doing this, as they did everything else, on account, not of reason, but of dogma; for, as a learned writer says, 'l'Église a bien distingué certains livres en apocryphes et en orthodoxes; elle s'est prononcée d'une manière formelle sur le choix des ouvrages canoniques; néanmoins sa critique n'a jamais été fondée sur un examen raisonné, mais seulement sur la question de savoir si tel ou tel écrit était d'accord avec les dogmes qu'elle enseignait.' _Maury_, _Légendes Pieuses_, p. 224. [871] Theologians have always been remarkable for the exactness of their knowledge on subjects respecting which nothing is known; but none of them have surpassed the learned Dr. Stukeley. In 1730, this eminent divine writes: 'But according to the calculations I have made of this matter, I find God Almighty ordered Noah to get the creatures into the ark on Sunday the 12th of October, the very day of the autumnal equinox that year; and on this present day, on the Sunday se'nnight following (the 19th of October), that terrible catastrophe began, the moon being past her third quarter.' _Nichols's Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. ii. p. 792. In the same way, because Bossuet had been taught that the Jews are the chosen people of God, he, under the title of Universal History, almost confines his attention to them, and treats this obstinate and ignorant race as if they formed the pivot upon which the affairs of the universe had been made to turn.[872] His idea of an universal history excludes those nations who were the first to reach civilization, and to some of whom the Hebrews owed the scanty knowledge which they subsequently acquired.[873] He says little of the Persians, and less of the Egyptians; nor does he even mention that far greater people between the Indus and the Ganges, whose philosophy formed one of the elements of the school of Alexandria, whose subtle speculations anticipated all the efforts of European metaphysics, and whose sublime inquiries, conducted in their own exquisite language, date from a period when the Jews, stained with every variety of crime, were a plundering and vagabond tribe, wandering on the face of the earth, raising their hand against every man and every man raising his hand against them. [872] 'Premièrement, ces empires ont pour la plupart une liaison nécessaire avec l'histoire du peuple de Dieu. Dieu s'est servi des Assyriens et des Babyloniens pour châtier ce peuple; des Perses pour le rétablir; d'Alexandre et de ses premiers successeurs pour le protéger; d'Antiochus l'Illustre et de ses successeurs pour l'exercer; des Romains pour soutenir sa liberté contre les rois de Syrie, que ne songeaient qu'à le détruire.' _Bossuet_, _Hist. Univ._ p. 382. Well may M. Lerminier say (_Philos. du Droit_, vol. ii. p. 87), that Bossuet 'a sacrifié toutes les nations au peuple juif.' [873] On the extraordinary and prolonged ignorance of the Jews, even to the time of the Apostles, see _Mackay's Progress of the Intellect_, vol. i. pp. 13 seq.; a work of profound learning. When he enters the more modern period, he allows himself to be governed by the same theological prejudices. So contracted is his view, that he considers the whole history of the church as the history of providential interference; and he takes no notice of the manner in which, contrary to the original scheme, it has been affected by foreign events.[874] Thus, for example, the most important fact relating to the early changes in Christianity, is the extent to which its doctrines have been influenced by the African form of the Platonic philosophy.[875] But this, Bossuet never mentions; nor does he even hint that any such thing had occurred. It suited his views to look upon the church as a perpetual miracle, and he therefore omits the most important event in its early history.[876] To descend a little later: every one acquainted with the progress of civilization will allow, that no small share of it is due to those gleams of light, which, in the midst of surrounding darkness, shot from the great centres of Cordova and Bagdad. These, however, were the work of Mohammedanism; and as Bossuet had been taught that Mohammedanism is a pestilential heresy, he could not bring himself to believe that Christian nations had derived anything from so corrupt a source. The consequence is, that he says nothing of that great religion, the noise of which has filled the world;[877] and having occasion to mention its founder, he treats him with scorn, as an impudent impostor, whose pretensions it is hardly fitting to notice.[878] The great apostle, who diffused among millions of idolaters the sublime verity of one God, is spoken of by Bossuet with supreme contempt; because Bossuet, with the true spirit of his profession, could see nothing to admire in those whose opinions differed from his own.[879] But when he has occasion to mention some obscure member of that class to which he himself belonged, then it is that he scatters his praises with boundless profusion. In his scheme of universal history, Mohammed is not worthy to play a part. He is passed by; but the truly great man, the man to whom the human race is really indebted, is--Martin, bishop of Tours. He it is, says Bossuet, whose unrivalled actions filled the universe with his fame, both during his lifetime and after his death.[880] It is true, that not one educated man in fifty has ever heard the name of Martin, bishop of Tours. But Martin performed miracles, and the church had made him a saint; his claims, therefore, to the attention of historians must be far superior to the claims of one who, like Mohammed, was without these advantages. Thus it is that, in the opinion of the only eminent writer on history during the power of Louis XIV., the greatest man Asia has ever produced, and one of the greatest the world has ever seen, is considered in every way inferior to a mean and ignorant monk, whose most important achievement was the erection of a monastery, and who spent the best part of his life in useless solitude, trembling before the superstitious fancies of his weak and ignoble nature.[881] [874] The original scheme of Christianity, as stated by its Great Author (_Matthew_ x. 6, and xv. 24), was merely to convert the Jews; and if the doctrines of Christ had never extended beyond that ignorant people, they could not have received those modifications which philosophy imposed upon them. The whole of this subject is admirably discussed in _Mackay's Progress of the Intellect in Religious Development_, vol. ii. pp. 382 seq.; and on the 'universalism,' first clearly announced 'by the Hellenist Stephen,' see p. 484. Neander makes a noticeable attempt to evade the difficulty caused by the changes in Christianity from 'various outward causes:' see his _History of the Church_, vol. iii. p. 125. [875] Neander (_Hist. of the Church_, vol. ii. p. 42) even thinks that Cerinthus whose views are remarkable as being the point where Gnosticism and Judaism touch each other, borrowed his system from Alexandria. But this, though not unlikely, seems only to rest on the authority of Theodoret. On the influence of the Platonism of Alexandria in developing the idea of the Logos, see _Neander_, vol. ii. pp. 304, 306-314. Compare _Sharpe's Hist. of Egypt_, vol. ii. pp. 152 seq. [876] And having to mention Clemens Alexandrinus, who was more deeply versed in the philosophy of Alexandria than were any of the other fathers, Bossuet merely says, p. 98, 'à peu près dans le même temps, le saint prêtre Clément Alexandrin déterra les antiquités du paganisme pour le confondre.' [877] About the time that Bossuet wrote, a very learned writer calculated that the area of the countries which professed Mohammedanism, exceeded, by one fifth, those where Christianity was believed. See _Brerewood's Inquiries touching the Diversity of Languages and Religions_, Lond. 1674, pp. 144, 145. The estimate of Southey (_Vindiciæ Ecclesiæ Anglicanæ_, London, 1826, p. 48), is very vague; but it is much easier to judge of the extent of Mohammedan countries than of the extent of their population. On this latter point we have the most conflicting statements. In the nineteenth century, there are, according to Sharon Turner (_Hist. of England_, vol. iii. p. 485, edit. 1839), eighty million Mohammedans; according to Dr. Elliotson (_Human Physiology_, p. 1055, edit. 1840), more than a hundred and twenty-two million; while, according to Mr. Wilkin (note in _Sir Thomas Browne's Works_, vol. ii. p. 37, edit. 1835), there are a hundred and eighty-eight million. [878] 'Le faux prophète donna ses victoires pour toute marque de sa mission.' _Bossuet_, p. 125. [879] The greatest Mohammedan writers have always expressed ideas regarding the Deity more lofty than those possessed by the majority of Christians. The Koran contains noble passages on the oneness of God; and for the views of their ordinary theologians, I may refer to an interesting Mohammedan sermon, in _Transactions of the Bombay Society_, vol. i. pp. 146-158. See also, in vol. iii. pp. 398-448, an Essay by Vans Kennedy; and compare a remarkable passage, considering the quarter from which it comes, in _Autobiography of the Emperor Jehangueir_, p. 44. Those who are so thoughtless as to believe that Mohammed was a hypocrite, had better study the admirable remarks of M. Comte (_Philos. Pos._ vol. v. pp. 76, 77), who truly says, 'qu'un homme vraiment supérieur n'a jamais pu exercer aucune grande action sur ses semblables sans être d'abord lui-même intimement convaincu.' [880] 'Saint Martin fut fait évêque de Tours, et remplit tout l'univers du bruit de sa sainteté et de ses miracles, durant sa vie, et après sa mort.' _Bossuet_, _Hist. Univ._ p. 111. [881] The Benedictines have written the life of Martin in their _Hist. Lit. de la France_, vol. i. part ii. pp. 413-417, Paris, 1733, 4to. They say that he erected the first monastery in Gaul: 'Martin, toujours passionné pour la solitude, érigea un monastère qui fut le premier que l'on eût encore vû dans les Gaules,' p. 414. At p. 415, they make the unnecessary admission, that the saint 'n'avoit point étudié les sciences profanes.' I may add, that the miracles of Martin are related by Fleury, who evidently believes that they were really performed. _Fleury_, _Hist. Ecclésiastique_, livre xvi. no. 31, vol. iv. pp. 215-217, Paris, 1758, 12mo. Neander, having the advantage of living a hundred years later than Fleury, is content to say, 'the veneration of his period denominated him a worker of miracles.' _Hist. of the Church_, vol. iv. p. 494. There is a characteristic anecdote of him, from Sulpitius Severus, in _Mosheim's Eccles. Hist._ vol. i. p. 123. Such was the narrow spirit with which the great facts of history were contemplated by a writer, who, when he was confined to his own department, displayed the most towering genius. This contracted view was the inevitable consequence of his attempt to explain the complicated movements of the human race by principles which he had generalized from his own inferior studies.[882] Nor need any one be offended, that, from a scientific point of view, I assign to the pursuits of Bossuet a rank lower than that in which they are sometimes placed. It is certain that religious dogmas do, in many cases, influence the affairs of men. But it is equally certain, that as civilization advances, such influence decreases, and that even when the power of those dogmas was at its height, there were many other motives by which the actions of mankind were also governed. And since the study of history is the study of the aggregate of these motives, it is evident that history must be superior to theology; just as the whole is superior to a part. A neglect of this simple consideration has, with a few eminent exceptions, led all ecclesiastical authors into serious errors. It has induced in them a disposition to disregard the immense variety of external events, and to suppose that the course of affairs is regulated by some principles which theology alone can detect. This, indeed, is only the result of a general law of the mind, by which those who have any favourite profession, are apt to exaggerate its capacity; to explain events by its maxims, and as it were, to refract through its medium the occurrences of life.[883] Among theologians, however, such prejudices are more dangerous than in any other profession, because among them alone are they fortified by that bold assumption of supernatural authority on which many of the clergy willingly rely. [882] At pp. 479, 480, Bossuet gives a sort of summary of his historical principles; and if they are true, history is evidently impossible to be written. On this account, though fully recognizing the genius of Bossuet, I cannot agree with the remarks made upon him by M. Comte, _Philos. Pos._ vol. iv. p. 280, vol. vi. pp. 316, 317. [883] And then, as M. Charles Comte well says, they call this prejudice their moral sense, or their moral instinct. _Comte_, _Traité de Législation_, vol. i. p. 116. These professional prejudices, when supported by theological dogmas, in a reign like that of Louis XIV.,[884] are sufficient to account for the peculiarities which mark the historical work of Bossuet. Besides this, in his case, the general tendency was aggravated by personal characteristics. His mind was remarkable for a haughtiness, which we find constantly breaking out into a general contempt for mankind.[885] At the same time his amazing eloquence, and the effects which it never failed to produce, seemed to justify the overweening confidence that he felt in his own powers. There is, indeed, in some of his greatest efforts, so much of the fire and majesty of genius, that we are reminded of those lofty and burning words with which the prophets of antiquity thrilled their hearers. Bossuet, thus standing, as he supposed, on an eminence which raised him above the ordinary weaknesses of men, loved to taunt them with their follies, and to deride every aspiration of their genius. Every thing like intellectual boldness seemed to gall his own superiority.[886] It was this boundless arrogance with which he was filled, which gives to his works some of their most marked peculiarities. It was this, that made him strain every nerve to abase and vilify those prodigious resources of the human understanding, which are often despised by men who are ignorant of them; but which in reality are so great, that no one has yet arisen able to scan them in the whole of their gigantic dimensions. It was this same contempt for the human intellect, that made him deny its capacity to work out for itself the epochs through which it has passed; and, consequently, made him recur to the dogma of supernatural interference. It was this, again, that, in those magnificent orations which are among the greatest wonders of modern art, caused him to exhaust the language of eulogy, not upon intellectual eminence, but upon mere military achievements, upon great conquerors, those pests and destroyers of men, who pass their lives in discovering new ways of slaying their enemies, and in devising new means of aggravating the miseries of the world. And, to descend still lower, it was this same contempt for the dearest interests of mankind, which made him look with reverence upon a king, who considered all those interests as nothing; but who had the merit of enslaving the mind of France, and of increasing the power of that body of men, among whom Bossuet himself was the most distinguished. [884] The connection between the opinions of Bossuet and the despotism of Louis XIV. is touched on by Montlosier, who, however, has probably laid too much stress on the influence which the civil law exercised over both. _Montlosier_, _Monarchie Française_, vol. ii. p. 90. [885] He belonged to a class of historians, described by a celebrated writer in a single sentence: 'dans leurs écrits l'auteur paraît souvent grand, mais l'humanité est toujours petite.' _Tocqueville_, _Démocratie_, vol. iv. p. 139. [886] Hardly any one acquainted with the writings and the history of Bossuet will require evidence of his singular arrogance. But the reader may consult _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Franç._ vol. xxvi. p. 247; and on his treatment of Fénelon, which was the most shameful transaction of his life, compare _Burnet's Own Time_, vol. iv. p. 384, with _Capefigue's Louis XIV_, vol. ii. p. 58; where there is printed one of the many epigrams to which the conduct of Bossuet gave rise. In the absence of sufficient evidence respecting the general state of the French at the end of the seventeenth century, it is impossible to ascertain to what extent such notions as these had penetrated the popular mind. But, looking at the manner in which government had broken the spirit of the country, I should be inclined to suppose that the opinions of Bossuet were very acceptable to his own generation. This, however, is a question rather of curiosity than of importance; for only a few years later there appeared the first symptoms of that unprecedented movement, which not merely destroyed the political institutions of France, but effected a greater and more permanent revolution in every department of the national intellect. At the death of Louis XIV., in literature, as well as in politics, in religion, and in morals, everything was ripe for reaction. The materials still existing are so ample, that it would be possible to trace with considerable minuteness the steps of this great process; but it will, I think, be more agreeable to the general scheme of this Introduction, if I pass over some of the intermediate links, and confine myself to those salient instances in which the spirit of the age is most strikingly portrayed. There is, indeed, something extraordinary in the change which, in France, one generation was able to effect in the method of writing history. The best way, perhaps, to form an idea of this, will be to compare the works of Voltaire with those of Bossuet; because these great authors were probably the most able, and were certainly the most influential, Frenchmen during the period they respectively represented. The first great improvement which we find in Voltaire, as compared with Bossuet, is an increased perception of the dignity of the human intellect. In addition to the circumstances already noticed, we must remember that the reading of Bossuet lay in a direction which prevented him from feeling this. He had not studied those branches of knowledge where great things have been achieved; but he was very conversant with the writings of the saints and fathers, whose speculations are by no means calculated to give us a high opinion of the resources of their own understanding. Thus accustomed to contemplate the workings of the mind in what is, on the whole, the most puerile literature Europe has ever produced, the contempt which Bossuet felt for mankind went on increasing; until it reached that inordinate degree which, in his later works, is painfully conspicuous. But Voltaire, who paid no attention to such things as these, passed his long life in the constant accumulation of real and available knowledge. His mind was essentially modern. Despising unsupported authority, and heedless of tradition, he devoted himself to subjects in which the triumph of the human reason is too apparent to be mistaken. The more his knowledge advanced, the more he admired those vast powers by which the knowledge had been created. Hence his admiration for the intellect of man, so far from diminishing, grew with his growth; and, just in the same proportion, there was strengthened his love of humanity, and his dislike to the prejudices which had long obscured its history. That this, in the march of his mind, was the course it actually followed, will be evident to any one who considers the different spirit of his works, in reference to the different periods of life in which they were produced. The first historical work of Voltaire was a life of Charles XII., in 1728.[887] At this time his knowledge was still scanty, and he was still influenced by the servile traditions of the preceding generation. It is not, therefore, wonderful, that he should express the greatest respect for Charles, who, among the admirers of military fame, will always preserve a certain reputation; though his only merits are, that he ravaged many countries and killed many men. But we find little sympathy with his unfortunate subjects, the accumulations of whose industry supported the royal armies;[888] nor is there much pity for those nations who were oppressed by this great robber in the immense line of his conquests from Sweden to Turkey. Indeed, the admiration of Voltaire for Charles is unbounded. He calls him the most extraordinary man the world had ever seen;[889] he declares him to be a prince full of honour;[890] and while he scarcely blames his infamous murder of Patkul,[891] he relates with evident emotion how the royal lunatic, at the head of forty servants, resisted an entire army.[892] In the same way, he says, that after the battle of Narva, all the attempts of Charles were unable to prevent medals from being struck at Stockholm in celebration of that event;[893] although Voltaire well knew that a man of such extravagant vanity must have been pleased by so durable a homage, and although it is quite certain that if he had not been pleased, the medals would never have been struck: for who would venture, without an object, to offend, in his own capital, one of the most arbitrary and revengeful of princes? [887] He says that he wrote it in 1728. _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxii. p. 5, but, according to M. Lepan (_Vie de Voltaire_, p. 382), 'il parut en 1731.' Both statements may be accurate, as Voltaire frequently kept his works for some time in manuscript. [888] Sir A. Alison, who certainly cannot be accused of want of respect for military conquerors, says of Sweden, 'the attempt which Charles XII. made to engage her in long and arduous wars, so completely drained the resources of the country, that they did not recover the loss for half a century.' _Hist. of Europe_, vol. x. p. 504. See also, on the effects produced by the conscriptions of Charles XII., _Laing's Sweden_, p. 59; _Koch_, _Tableau des Révolutions_, vol. ii. p. 63; and above all, a curious passage in _Duclos_, _Mém. Secrets_, vol. i. p. 448. Several of the soldiers of Charles XII. who were taken prisoners, were sent into Siberia, where Bell fell in with them early in the eighteenth century. _Bell's Travels in Asia_, edit. Edinb. 1788, vol. i. pp. 223-224. [889] 'Charles XII, l'homme le plus extraordinaire peut-être qui ait jamais été sur la terre, qui a réuni en lui toutes les grandes qualités de ses aïeux, et qui n'a eu d'autre défaut ni d'autre malheur que de les avoir toutes outrées.' _Hist. de Charles XII_, livre i., in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxii. p. 30. [890] 'Plein d'honneur.' _Ibid._ in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xxii. p. 63. [891] Which Burke, not without justice, compares to the murder of Monaldeschi by Christina. _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 412. See some remarks on the murder of Patkul, in _Vattel_, _Droit des Gens_, vol. i. p. 230; and an account of it, from Swedish authorities, in _Somers Tracts_, vol. xiii. pp. 879-881. For Voltaire's version see his _[OE]uvres_, vol. xxii. pp. 136, 137; which may be contrasted with _Crichton and Wheaton's History of Scandinavia_, Edinb. 1838, vol. ii. p. 127. [892] _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxii. pp. 250-260. It may interest some persons to hear, that the litter in which this madman 'was borne from the battle of Pultava' is still preserved at Moscow. _Kohl's Russia_, p. 220. It was also seen by M. Custine. _Custine's Russia_, vol. iii. p. 263. [893] 'Sa modestie ne put empêcher qu'on ne frappât à Stockholm plusieurs médailles pour perpétuer la mémoire de ces événements.' _Charles XII_, livre ii., in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xxii. p. 70. So far, it might appear that little had been gained in the method of writing history.[894] But, even thus early, we find one vast improvement. In Voltaire's Life of Charles XII., faulty as it is, there are none of those assumptions of supernatural interference in which Bossuet delighted, and which were natural to the reign of Louis XIV. The absence of this marks the first great stage in the French school of history in the eighteenth century; and we find the same peculiarity in all the subsequent historians, none of whom recurred to a method, which, though suitable for the purposes of theologians, is fatal to all independent inquiries, since it not only prescribes the course the inquirer is bound to take, but actually sets up a limit beyond which he is forbidden to proceed. [894] Even some of its geographical details are said to be inaccurate. Compare _Villemain_, _Littérature au XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 33, with _Kohl's Russia_, p. 505. However, as M. Villemain says, this must always be the case, when writers, who only know a country from maps, attempt to enter into details respecting military geography. In regard to style, it cannot be too highly praised; and a well-known critic, Lacratelle, calls it 'le modèle le plus accompli de narration qui existe dans notre langue.' _Lacretelle_, _Dix-huitième Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 42. In 1843 it was still used as a text book in the French royal colleges. See _Report on Education in France_, in _Journal of Stat. Soc._ vol. vi. p. 308. Further information respecting this work may be found in _Longchamp et Wagnière_, _Mém. sur Voltaire_, vol. ii. p. 494; and in _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. viii. p. 224, vol. x. p. 304. That Voltaire should have infringed upon this ancient method only thirteen years after the death of Louis XIV., and that he should have done this in a popular work, abounding with such dangerous adventures as are always found to tempt the mind to an opposite course, is a step of no common merit, and becomes still more worthy of remark, if taken in connexion with another fact of considerable interest. This is, that the life of Charles XII. represents the first epoch, not only in the eighteenth century, but also in the intellect of Voltaire himself.[895] After it was published, this great man turned awhile from history, and directed his attention to some of the noblest subjects: to mathematics, to physics, to jurisprudence, to the discoveries of Newton, and to the speculations of Locke. In these things he perceived those capabilities of the human mind, which his own country had formerly witnessed, but of which during the authority of Louis XIV. the memory had been almost lost. Then it was that, with extended knowledge and sharpened intellect, he returned to the great field of history.[896] The manner in which he now treated his old subject, showed the change that had come over him. In 1752, appeared his celebrated work on Louis XIV.,[897] the very title of which is suggestive of the process through which his mind had passed. His former history was an account of a king; this is an account of an age. To the production of his youth he gave the title of a _History of Charles XII._; this he called the _Age of Louis XIV._ Before, he had detailed the peculiarities of a prince; now, he considered the movements of a people. Indeed, in the introduction to the work, he announces his intention to describe, 'not the actions of a single man, but the character of men.'[898] Nor, in this point of view, is the execution inferior to the design. While he is contented with giving a summary of military achievements, on which Bossuet hung with delight, he enters at great length into those really important matters which, before his time, found no place in the history of France. He has one chapter on commerce and internal government;[899] another chapter on finances;[900] another on the history of science;[901] and three chapters on the progress of the fine arts.[902] And though Voltaire did not attach much value to theological disputes, still he knew that they have often played a great part in the affairs of men; he therefore gives several distinct chapters to a relation of ecclesiastical matters during the reign of Louis.[903] It is hardly necessary to observe the immense superiority which a scheme like this possessed, not only over the narrow views of Bossuet, but even over his own earlier history. Still it cannot be denied, that we find in it prejudices from which it was difficult for a Frenchman, educated in the reign of Louis XIV., to be entirely free. Not only does Voltaire dwell at needless length upon those amusements and debaucheries of Louis, with which history can have little concern, but he displays an evident disposition to favour the king himself, and to protect his name from the infamy with which it ought to be covered.[904] [895] It is evident, from Voltaire's correspondence, that he afterwards became somewhat ashamed of the praises he had bestowed on Charles XII. In 1735, he writes to De Formont, 'si Charles XII n'avait pas été excessivement grand, malheureux, et fou, je me serais bien donné de garde de parler de lui.' _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. lvi. p. 462. In 1758, advancing still further, he says of Charles, 'voilà, monsieur, ce que les hommes de tous les temps et de tous les pays appellent un héros; mais c'est le vulgaire de tous les temps et de tous les pays qui donne ce nom à la soif du carnage.' _Ibid._ vol. lx. p. 411. In 1759, he writes, that he was then engaged on the history of Peter the Great: 'mais je doute que cela soit aussi amusant que la vie de Charles XII; car ce Pierre n'était qu'un sage extraordinaire, et Charles un fou extraordinaire, qui se battait, comme Don Quichotte, contre des moulins à vent.' Vol. lxi. p. 23: see also p. 350. These passages prove the constant progress Voltaire was making in his conception of what history ought to be, and what its uses were. [896] In 1741, he mentions his increasing love of history. _Corresp._ in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. li. p. 96. [897] Lord Brougham, in his life of Voltaire, says that it appeared in 1751. _Lives of Men of Letters_, vol. i p. 106. But 1752 is the date given in _Biog. Univ._ xlix. 478; in _Quérard_, _France Lit._ vol. x. p. 355; and in _Lepan_, _Vie de Voltaire_, p. 382. [898] 'On veut essayer de peindre à la postérité, non les actions d'un seul homme, mais l'esprit des hommes dans le siècle le plus éclairé qui fut jamais.' _Siècle de Louis XIV_, in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xix. p. 213. And in his correspondence respecting his work on Louis XIV., he carefully makes the same distinction. See vol. lvi. pp. 453, 488, 489, 500, vol. lvii. pp. 337, 342-344, vol. lix. p. 103. [899] Chap. xxix., in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xx. pp. 234-267. [900] Chap. xxx., in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xx. pp. 267-291. This chapter is praised in _Sinclair's History of the Public Revenue_, vol. iii. appendix, p. 77; an indifferent work, but the best we have on the important subject to which it refers. [901] Chap. xxxi., in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xx. pp. 291-299; necessarily a very short chapter, because of the paucity of materials. [902] Chapters xxxii. to xxxiv., in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xx. pp. 299-338. [903] _[OE]uvres_, vol. xx. pp. 338-464. [904] This disposition to favour Louis XIV. is noticed by Condorcet, who says it was the only early prejudice which Voltaire was unable to shake off: 'c'est le seul préjugé de sa jeunesse qu'il ait conservé.' _Condorcet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. i. p. 286. See also, on this defect, _Grimm et Diderot_, _Corresp. Lit._ vol. ii. p. 182; _Lemontey_, _Etablissement Monarchique_, pp. 451, 452; _Mém. de Brissot_, vol. ii. pp. 88, 89. It is interesting to observe, that Voltaire's earlier opinions were still more favourable to Louis XIV. than those which he afterwards expressed in his history. See a letter which he wrote in 1740 to Lord Harvey, printed in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. lviii. pp. 57-63. But the next work of Voltaire showed that this was a mere personal feeling, and did not affect his general views as to the part which the acts of princes ought to occupy in history. Four years after the appearance of the _Age of Louis XIV._, he published his important treatise on the _Morals, Manners, and Character of Nations_.[905] This is not only one of the greatest books which appeared during the eighteenth century, but it still remains the best on the subject to which it refers. The mere reading it displays is immense;[906] what, however, is far more admirable, is the skill with which the author connects the various facts, and makes them illustrate each other, sometimes by a single remark, sometimes only by the order and position in which they are placed. Indeed, considered solely as a work of art, it would be difficult to praise it too highly; while, as a symptom of the times, it is important to observe, that it contains no traces of that adulation of royalty which characterized Voltaire in the period of his youth, and which is found in all the best writers during the power of Louis XIV. In the whole of this long and important work, the great historian takes little notice of the intrigues of courts, or of the changes of ministers, or of the fate of kings; but he endeavours to discover and develop the different epochs through which Man has successively passed. 'I wish,' he says, 'to write a history, not of wars, but of society; and to ascertain how men lived in the interior of their families, and what were the arts which they commonly cultivated.'[907] For, he adds, 'my object is the history of the human mind, and not a mere detail of petty facts; nor am I concerned with the history of great lords, who made war upon French kings; but I want to know what were the steps by which men passed from barbarism to civilization.'[908] [905] Mr. Burton, in his interesting work, _Life and Correspondence of Hume_, vol. ii. p. 129, says it was 'first published in 1756;' and the same date is given by Quérard (_France Littéraire_, vol. x. p. 359), who is a very accurate bibliographer; so that Condorcet (_Vie de Voltaire_, p. 199) and Lord Brougham (_Men of Letters_, vol. i. p. 98) are probably in error in assigning it to 1757. In regard to its title, I translate 'M[oe]urs' as 'morals and manners;' for M. Tocqueville uses 'm[oe]urs' as equivalent to the Latin word 'mores.' _Tocqueville_, _Démocratie en Amérique_, vol. iii. pp. 50, 84. [906] Superficial writers are so much in the habit of calling Voltaire superficial, that it may be well to observe, that his accuracy has been praised, not only by his own countrymen, but by several English authors of admitted learning. For three remarkable instances of this, from men whom no one will accuse of leaning towards his other opinions, see _notes to Charles V._, in _Robertson's Works_, pp. 431, 432; _Barrington's Observations on the Statutes_, p. 293; and _Warton's History of English Poetry_, vol. i. p. xvi. Even Sir W. Jones, in his preface to the _Life of Nader Shah_, says, that Voltaire is 'the best historian' the French have produced. _Works of Sir William Jones_, vol. v. p. 542; and compare the preface to his _Persian Grammar_, in _Works_, vol. ii. p. 123. [907] 'Je voudrais découvrir quelle était alors la société des hommes, comment on vivait dans l'intérieur des familles, quels arts étaient cultivés, plutôt que de répéter tant de malheurs et tant de combats, funestes objets de l'histoire, et lieux communs de la méchanceté humaine.' _Essai sur les M[oe]urs_, chap. lxxxi., in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xvi. p. 381. [908] 'L'objet était l'histoire de l'esprit humain, et non pas le détail des faits presque toujours défigurés; il ne s'agissait pas de rechercher, par exemple, de quelle famille était le seigneur de Puiset, ou le seigneur de Montlheri, qui firent la guerre à des rois de France; mais de voir par quels degrés on est parvenu de la rusticité barbare de ces temps à la politesse du nôtre.' Supplement to _Essai sur les M[oe]urs_, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xviii. p. 435. Compare _Fragments sur l'Histoire_, vol. xxvii. p. 214, with two letters in vol. lx. pp. 153, 154, vol. lxv. p. 370. It was in this way that Voltaire taught historians to concentrate their attention on matters of real importance, and to neglect those idle details with which history had formerly been filled. But what proves this to be a movement arising as much from the spirit of the age as from the individual author, is, that we find precisely the same tendency in the works of Montesquieu and Turgot, who were certainly the two most eminent of the contemporaries of Voltaire; and both of whom followed a method similar to his, in so far as, omitting descriptions of kings, courts, and battles, they confined themselves to points which illustrate the character of mankind, and the general march of civilization. And such was the popularity of this change in the old routine, that its influence was felt by other historians of inferior, but still of considerable, ability. In 1755, Mallet[909] published his interesting, and, at the time it was written, most valuable work, on the history of Denmark;[910] in which he professes himself a pupil of the new school. 'For why,' he says, 'should history be only a recital of battles, sieges, intrigues, and negotiations? And why should it contain merely a heap of petty facts and dates, rather than a great picture of the opinions, customs, and even inclinations of a people?'[911] Thus too, in 1765, Mably published the first part of his celebrated work on the history of France;[912] in the preface to which, he complains that historians 'have neglected the origin of laws and customs, in favour of sieges and battles.'[913] In the same spirit, Velly and Villaret, in their voluminous history of France, express regret that historians should usually relate what happens to the sovereign, in preference to what happens to the people, and should omit the manners and characteristics of a nation, in order to study the acts of a single man.[914] Duclos, again, announces that his history is not of war, nor of politics, but of men and manners:[915] while, strange to say, even the courtly Hénault declares that his object was to describe laws and manners, which he calls the soul of history, or rather history itself.[916] [909] Mallet, though born in Geneva, was a Frenchman in the habits of his mind: he wrote in French, and is classed among French historians, in the report presented to Napoleon by the Institut. _Dacier_, _Rapport sur les Progrès de l'Histoire_, p. 173. [910] Göthe, in his Autobiography, mentions his obligations to this work, which, I suspect, exercised considerable influence over the early associations of his mind: 'Ich hatte die Fabeln der Edda schon längst aus der Vorrede zu Mallet's Dänischer Geschichte kennen gelernt, und mich derselben sogleich bemächtigt; sie gehörten unter diejenigen Mährchen, die ich, von einer Gesellschaft aufgefordert, am liebsten erzählte.' _Wahrheit u. Dichtung_, in _Goethe's Werke_, vol. ii. part ii. p. 169. Percy, a very fair judge, thought highly of Mallet's history, part of which, indeed, he translated. See a letter from him, in _Nichols's Illustrations of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. vii. p. 719. [911] _Mallet's Northern Antiquities_, edit. Blackell, 1847, p. 78. [912] The first two volumes were published in 1765; the other two in 1790. _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxvi. pp. 9, 12. [913] _Mably_, _Observ. sur l'Hist. de France_, vol. i. p. ii.; and compare vol. iii. p. 289: but this latter passage was written several years later. [914] 'Bornés à nous apprendre les victoires ou les défaites du souverain, ils ne nous disent rien ou presque rien des peuples qu'il a rendus heureux ou malheureux. On ne trouve dans leurs écrits que longues descriptions de sièges et de batailles; nulle mention des m[oe]urs et de l'esprit de la nation. Elle y est presque toujours sacrifiée à un seul homme.' _Histoire de France par Velly_, Paris, 1770, 4to, vol. i. p. 6; and see, to the same effect, the _Continuation by Villaret_, vol. v. p. vi. [915] 'Si l'histoire que j'écris n'est ni militaire, ni politique, ni économique, du moins dans le sens que je conçois pour ces différentes parties, on me demandera quelle est donc celle que je me propose d'écrire. C'est l'histoire des hommes et des m[oe]urs.' _Duclos_, _Louis XIV et Louis XV_, vol. i. p. xxv. [916] 'Je voulois connoître nos loix, nos m[oe]urs, et tout ce qui est l'âme de l'histoire, ou plutôt l'histoire même.' _Hénault_, _Nouvel Abrégé chronologique de l'Histoire de France_, edit. Paris, 1775, vol. i. p. i. Thus it was, that historians began to shift, as it were, the scene of their labours, and to study subjects connected with those popular interests, on which the great writers under Louis XIV. disdained to waste a thought. I need hardly observe, how agreeable such views were to the general spirit of the eighteenth century, and how well they harmonized with the temper of men who were striving to lay aside their former prejudices, and despise what had once been universally admired. All this was but part of that vast movement, which prepared the way for the Revolution, by unsettling ancient opinions, by encouraging a certain mobility and restlessness of mind, and, above all, by the disrespect it showed for those powerful individuals, hitherto regarded as gods rather than as men, but who now, for the first time, were neglected by the greatest and most popular historians, who passed over even their prominent actions, in order to dwell upon the welfare of nations, and the interests of the people at large. To return, however, to what was actually effected by Voltaire, there is no doubt that, in his case, this tendency of the time was strengthened by a natural comprehensiveness of mind, which predisposed him to large views, and made him dissatisfied with that narrow range to which history had been hitherto confined.[917] Whatever may be thought of the other qualities of Voltaire, it must be allowed that, in his intellect, everything was on a great scale.[918] Always prepared for thought, and always ready to generalize, he was averse to the study of individual actions, unless they could be made available for the establishment of some broad and permanent principle. Hence his habit of looking at history with a view to the stages through which the country had passed, rather than with a view to the character of the men by whom the country had been governed. The same tendency appears in his lighter works; and it has been well observed,[919] that, even in his dramas, he endeavours to portray, not so much the passions of individuals, as the spirit of epochs. In _Mahomet_, his subject is a great religion; in _Alzire_, the conquest of America; in _Brutus_, the formation of the Roman power; in the _Death of Cæsar_, the rise of the empire upon the ruins of that power.[920] [917] In 1763, he writes to D'Argental: 'il y a environ douze batailles dont je n'ai point parlé, Dieu merci, parceque j'écris l'histoire de l'esprit humain, et non une gazette.' _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. lxiii. p. 51. See also his letter to Tabareau (_Lettres inédites de Voltaire_, vol. ii. p. 585): 'Personne ne lit les détails des combats et des sièges; rien n'est plus ennuyeux que la droite et la gauche, les bastions et la contrescarpe.' [918] M. Lamartine characterizes him as 'ce génie non pas le plus haut, mais le plus vaste de la France.' _Hist. des Girondins_, vol. i. p. 180. [919] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xlix. p. 493. His _Orphelin de la Chine_ is taken from Chinese sources: see _Davis's China_, vol. ii. p. 258. [920] The surprising versatility of Voltaire's mind is shown by the fact, unparalleled in literature, that he was equally great as a dramatic writer and as an historian. Mr. Forster, in his admirable _Life of Goldsmith_, 1854, says (vol. i. p. 119), 'Gray's high opinion of Voltaire's tragedies is shared by one of our greatest authorities on such a matter now living, Sir Edward Bulwer Lytton, whom I have often heard maintain the marked superiority of Voltaire over all his countrymen in the knowledge of dramatic art, and the power of producing theatrical effects.' Compare _Correspondence of Gray and Mason_, edit. Mitford, 1855, p. 44. By this determination to look upon the course of events as a great and connected whole, Voltaire was led to several results, which have been complacently adopted by many authors, who, even while using them, revile him from whom they were taken. He was the first historian who, rejecting the ordinary method of investigation, endeavoured, by large general views, to explain the origin of feudality; and, by indicating some of the causes of its decline in the fourteenth century,[921] he laid the foundation for a philosophic estimate of that important institution.[922] He was the author of a profound remark, afterwards adopted by Constant, to the effect, that licentious religious ceremonies have no connexion with licentious national morals.[923] Another observation of his, which has been only partly used by writers on ecclesiastical history, is pregnant with instruction. He says, that one of the reasons why the bishops of Rome acquired an authority so superior to that of the eastern patriarchs, was the greater subtlety of the Greek mind. Nearly all the heresies proceeded from the east; and, with the exception of Honorius I., not a single pope adopted a system condemned by the church. This gave to the papal power an unity and consolidation, which the patriarchal power was unable to reach; and thus the Holy See owes part of its authority to the early dulness of the European fancy.[924] [921] _Essai sur les M[oe]urs_, chap. lxxxv., in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xvi. p. 412, and elsewhere. [922] During the eighteenth century, and, I may say, until the publication in 1818 of Hallam's Middle Ages, there was in the English language no comprehensive account of the feudal system; unless, perhaps, we except that given by Robertson, who in this, as in many other matters of history, was a pupil of Voltaire. Not only Dalrymple, and writers of his kind, but even Blackstone, took so narrow a view of this great institution, that they were unable to connect it with the general state of society to which it belonged. Some of our historians gravely traced it back to Moses, in whose laws they found the origin of allodial lands. See a charming passage in _Barry's History of the Orkney Islands_, p. 219. On the spirit of feudality, there are some remarks well worth reading in _Comtés Philos. Posit._ vol. v. pp. 393-413. [923] Constant, in his work on Roman polytheism, says, 'des rites indécens peuvent être pratiqués par un peuple religieux avec une grande pureté de c[oe]ur. Mais quand l'incrédulité atteint ces peuples, ces rites sont pour lui la cause et le prétexte de la plus révoltante corruption.' This passage is quoted by Mr. Milman, who calls it 'extremely profound and just.' _Milman's History of Christianity_, 1840, vol. i. p. 28. And so it is--extremely profound and just. But it happens that precisely the same remark was made by Voltaire, just about the time that Constant was born. Speaking of the worship of Priapus, he says (_Essai sur les M[oe]urs_, chap. cxliii. in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xvii. p. 341), 'nos idées de bienséance nous portent à croire qu'un cérémonie qui nous paraît si infâme n'a été inventée que par la débauche; mais il n'est guère croyable que la dépravation des m[oe]urs ait jamais chez aucun peuple établi des cérémonies religieuses. Il est probable, au contraire, que cette coutume fut d'abord introduite dans les temps de simplicité, et qu'on ne pensa d'abord qu'à honorer la Divinité dans le symbole de la vie qu'elle nous a donnée. Une telle cérémonie a dû inspirer la licence à la jeunesse, et paraître ridicule aux esprits sages, dans les temps plus raffinés, plus corrompus, et plus éclairés.' Compare the remarks on the indecency of the Spartan customs, in _Thirlwall's Hist. of Greece_, vol. i. pp. 326, 327. [924] _Essai sur les M[oe]urs_, chaps. xiv. and xxxi., in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xv. pp. 391, 514. Neander observes, that in the Greek church there were more heresies than in the Latin church, because the Greeks thought more; but he has failed to perceive how this favoured the authority of the popes. _Neander's History of the Church_, vol. ii. pp. 198, 199, vol. iii. pp. 191, 492, vol. iv. p. 90, vol. vi. p. 293, vol. viii. p. 257. It would be impossible to relate all the original remarks of Voltaire, which, when he made them, were attacked as dangerous paradoxes, and are now valued as sober truths. He was the first historian who recommended universal freedom of trade; and, although he expresses himself with great caution,[925] still the mere announcement of the idea in a popular history forms an epoch in the progress of the French mind. He is the originator of that important distinction between the increase of population and the increase of food, to which political economy has been greatly indebted;[926] a principle adopted several years later by Townsend, and then used by Malthus as the basis of his celebrated work.[927] He has, moreover, the merit of being the first who dispelled the childish admiration with which the Middle Ages had been hitherto regarded, and which they owed to those dull and learned writers, who, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, were the principal investigators of the early history of Europe. These industrious compilers had collected extensive materials, which Voltaire turned to good account, and by their aid overthrew the conclusions at which the authors had themselves arrived. In his works, the Middle Ages are, for the first time, represented as what they really were,--a period of ignorance, ferocity, and licentiousness; a period when injuries were unredressed, crime unpunished, and superstition unrebuked. It may be said, with some show of justice, that Voltaire, in the picture he drew, fell into the opposite extreme, and did not sufficiently recognize the merit of those truly great men, who, at long intervals, stood here and there, like solitary beacons, whose light only made the surrounding darkness more visible. Still, after every allowance for that exaggeration which a reaction of opinions always causes, it is certain that his view of the Middle Ages is not only far more accurate than that of any preceding writer, but conveys a much juster idea of the time than can be found in those subsequent compilations which we owe to the industry of modern antiquaries; a simple and plodding race, who admire the past because they are ignorant of the present, and who, spending their lives amid the dust of forgotten manuscripts, think themselves able, with the resources of their little learning, to speculate on the affairs of men, to trace the history of different periods, and even to assign to each the praise it ought to receive. [925] In his account of the trade of Archangel, he says, 'les Anglais obtinrent le privilége d'y commercer sans payer aucun droit; et c'est ainsi que toutes les nations devraient peut-être négocier ensemble.' _Hist. de Russie_, part i. chap. i., in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xxiii. p. 35. Remarkable words to have been written by a Frenchman, born at the end of the seventeenth century; and yet they have, so far as I am aware, escaped the attention of all the historians of political economy. Indeed, on this, as on most matters, sufficient justice has not been done to Voltaire, whose opinions were more accurate than those of Quesnay and his followers. However, Mr. M'Culloch, in noticing one of the economical errors of Voltaire, honestly admits that his 'opinions on such subjects are, for the most part, very correct.' _M'Culloch's Principles of Political Economy_, p. 530. For proof of his sympathy with Turgot's efforts to establish free trade, compare _Lettres inédites de Voltaire_, vol. ii. pp. 367, 403, 423, with _Longchamp_, _Mém. sur Voltaire_, vol. i. pp. 376, 378. [926] 'The idea of the different ratios by which population and food increase, was originally thrown out by Voltaire; and was picked up and expanded into many a goodly volume by our English political economists in the present century.' _Laing's Notes_, second series, p. 42. [927] It is often said that Malthus was indebted to Townsend's writings for his views on population; but this obligation has been too strongly stated, as, indeed, is always the case when charges of plagiarism are brought against great works. Still, Townsend is to be considered as the precursor of Malthus; and if the reader is interested in tracing the paternity of ideas, he will find some interesting economical remarks in _Townsend's Journey through Spain_, vol. i. pp. 379, 383, vol. ii. pp. 85, 337, 387-393; which must be compared with _M'Culloch's Literature of Political Economy_, pp. 259, 281-3. Voltaire having preceded these authors, has, of course, fallen into errors which they avoided; but nothing can be better than the way in which he opposes the ignorant belief of his own time, that every thing should be done to increase population. 'Le point principal n'est pas d'avoir du superflu en hommes, mais de rendre ce que nous en avons le moins malheureux qu'il est possible,' is the summing-up of his able remarks, in _Dict. Philos._, article _Population_, sect. 2, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xli. p. 466. Godwin, in his notice of the history of these opinions, is evidently ignorant of what was done by Voltaire. _Sinclair's Corresp._ vol. i. p. 396. With such writers as these, Voltaire was always at war; and no one has done so much to lessen the influence they once exercised over even the highest branches of knowledge. There was also another class of dictators, whose authority this great man was equally successful in reducing, namely, the old class of classical scholars and commentators, who, from the middle of the fourteenth till early in the eighteenth century, were the chief dispensers of fame, and were respected as being by far the most distinguished men Europe had ever produced. The first great assaults made upon them were late in the seventeenth century, when two controversies sprung up, of which I shall hereafter give an account,--one in France, and one in England,--by both of which their power was considerably damaged. But their two most formidable opponents were, undoubtedly, Locke and Voltaire. The immense services rendered by Locke in lessening the reputation of the old classical school, will be examined in another part of this work; at present we are only concerned with the steps taken by Voltaire. The authority wielded by the great classical scholars rested not only on their abilities, which are undeniable, but also on the supposed dignity of their pursuits. It was generally believed that ancient history possessed some inherent superiority over modern history; and this being taken for granted, the inference naturally followed, that the cultivators of the one were more praiseworthy than the cultivators of the other; and that a Frenchman, for instance, who should write the history of some Greek republic, displayed a nobler turn of mind than if he had written the history of his own country. This singular prejudice had for centuries been a traditional notion; which men accepted, because they had received it from their fathers, and which it would have been almost an impiety to dispute. The result was, that the few really able writers on history devoted themselves chiefly to that of the ancients; or, if they published an account of modern times, they handled their theme, not according to modern ideas, but according to ideas gathered from their more favourite pursuit. This confusion of the standard of one age with the standard of another, caused a double evil. Historians, by adopting this plan, injured the originality of their own minds; and, what was far worse, they set a bad example to the literature of their country. For every great nation has a mode of expression, and of thought, peculiar to itself, and with which its sympathies are intimately connected. To introduce any foreign model, however admirable it may be, is to violate this connexion, and to impair the value of literature by limiting the scope of its action. By such a course, the taste may possibly be refined, but the vigour will certainly be weakened. Indeed, the refinement of the taste may well be doubted, when we see what has taken place in our country, where our great scholars have corrupted the English language by a jargon so uncouth, that a plain man can hardly discern the real lack of ideas which their barbarous and mottled dialect strives to hide.[928] At all events, it is certain, that every people worthy of being called a nation, possess in their own language ample resources for expressing the highest ideas they are able to form; and although, in matters of science, it may be convenient to coin such words as are more easily understood in foreign countries, it is a grave offence to depart on other subjects from the vernacular speech; and it is a still graver one, to introduce notions and standards for action, suited perhaps to former times, but which the march of society has left far behind, and with which we have no real sympathy, though they may excite that sickly and artificial interest which the classical prejudices of early education still contrive to create. [928] With the single exception of Porson, not one of the great English scholars has shown an appreciation of the beauties of his native language; and many of them, such as Parr (in all his works) and Bentley (in his mad edition of Milton), have done every thing in their power to corrupt it. And there can be little doubt, that the principal reason why well-educated women write and converse in a purer style than well-educated men, is because they have not formed their taste according to those ancient classical standards, which, admirable as they are in themselves, should never be introduced into a state of society unfitted for them. To this may be added, that Cobbett, the most racy and idiomatic of all our writers, and Erskine, by far the greatest of our forensic orators, knew little or nothing of any ancient language; and the same observation applies to Shakespeare. On the supposed connexion between the improvement of taste and the study of classical models, there are some remarks worth attending to in _Rey's Théorie et Pratique de la Science Sociale_, vol. i. pp. 98-101. It was against these evils that Voltaire entered the field. The wit and the ridicule with which he attacked the dreaming scholars of his own time, can only be appreciated by those who have studied his works. Not, as some have supposed, that he used these weapons as a substitute for argument, still less that he fell into the error of making ridicule a test for truth. No one could reason more closely than Voltaire, when reasoning suited his purpose. But he had to deal with men impervious to argument; men whose inordinate reverence for antiquity had only left them two ideas, namely, that every thing old is right, and that every thing new is wrong. To argue against these opinions would be idle indeed; the only other resource was, to make them ridiculous, and weaken their influence, by holding up their authors to contempt. This was one of the tasks Voltaire set himself to perform; and he did it well.[929] He, therefore, used ridicule, not as the test of truth, but as the scourge of folly. And with such effect was the punishment administered, that not only did the pedants and theologians of his own time wince under the lash, but even their successors feel their ears tingle when they read his biting words; and they revenge themselves by reviling the memory of that great writer, whose works are as a thorn in their side, and whose very name they hold in undisguised abhorrence. [929] 'We can best judge, from the Jesuitical rage with which he was persecuted, how admirably he had delineated the weaknesses and presumption of the interpreters of the ancients, who shone in the schools and academies, and had acquired great reputation by their various and copiously exhibited learning.' _Schlosser's Eighteenth Century_, vol. i. p. 120. At p. 270, M. Schlosser says, 'And it was only a man of Voltaire's wit and talents, who could throw the light of an entirely new criticism upon the darkness of those grabbing and collecting pedants.' These two classes have, indeed, reasons enough for the hatred with which they still regard the greatest Frenchman of the eighteenth century. For, Voltaire did more than any other man to sap the foundation of ecclesiastical power, and to destroy the supremacy of classical studies. This is not the place for discussing the theological opinions which he attacked; but of the state of classical opinions an idea may be formed, by considering some of those circumstances which were recorded by the ancients respecting their history, and which, until the appearance of Voltaire, were implicitly believed by modern scholars, and through them by the people at large. It was believed that, in ancient times, Mars ravished a virgin, and that the offspring of the intrigue were no other than Romulus and Remus, both of whom it was intended to put to death; but they were fortunately saved by the attentions of a she-wolf and a woodpecker; the wolf giving them suck, and the woodpecker protecting them from insects. It was, moreover, believed that Romulus and Remus, when grown up to man's estate, determined to build a city, and that, being joined by the descendants of the Trojan warriors, they succeeded in erecting Rome. It was believed that both brothers came to an untimely end; Remus being murdered, and Romulus being taken up to heaven by his father, who descended for that purpose in the midst of a tempest. The great scholars then proceeded to relate the succession of several other kings; the most remarkable of whom was Numa, whose only communications with his wife were carried on in a sacred grove. Another of the sovereigns of Rome was Tullus Hostilius, who, having offended the clergy, perished from the effects of their anger; his death being caused by lightning, and preceded by pestilence. Then again, there was one Servius Tullius, who was also a king, and whose greatness was prognosticated by the appearance of flames round his head as he was sleeping in his cradle. After this, it was but a slight matter that the ordinary laws of mortality should be suspended; we were, therefore, assured that those ignorant barbarians, the early Romans, passed two hundred and forty-five years under the government of only seven kings, all of whom were elected in the prime of life, one of whom was expelled the city, and three of whom were put to death. These are a few of the idle stories in which the great scholars took intense delight, and which, during many centuries, were supposed to form a necessary part of the annals of the Latin empire. Indeed, so universal was the credulity, that, until they were destroyed by Voltaire, there were only four writers who had ventured openly to attack them. Cluverius, Perizonius, Pouilly, and Beaufort were the names of these bold innovators; but by none of them was any impression made on the public mind. The works of Cluverius and Perizonius, being composed in Latin, were addressed entirely to a class of readers who, infatuated with a love of antiquity, would listen to nothing that diminished the reputation of its history. Pouilly and Beaufort wrote in French; both of them, and especially Beaufort, were men of considerable ability; but their powers were not versatile enough to enable them to extirpate prejudices which were so strongly protected, and which had been fostered by the education of many successive generations. The service, therefore, rendered by Voltaire in purging history of these foolish conceits, is, not that he was the first by whom they were attacked, but that he was the first to attack them with success; and this because he was also the first who mingled ridicule with argument, thus not only assailing the system, but also weakening the authority of those by whom the system was supported. His irony, his wit, his pungent and telling sarcasms, produced more effect than the gravest arguments could have done; and there can be no doubt that he was fully justified in using those great resources with which nature had endowed him, since by their aid he advanced the interests of truth, and relieved men from some of their most inveterate prejudices. It is not, however, to be supposed that ridicule was the only means employed by Voltaire in effecting this important object. So far from that, I can say with confidence, after a careful comparison of both writers, that the most decisive arguments advanced by Niebuhr against the early history of Rome, had all been anticipated by Voltaire; in whose works they may be found, by whoever will take the trouble of reading what this great man has written, instead of ignorantly railing against him. Without entering into needless detail, it is enough to mention that, amidst a great variety of very ingenious and very learned discussion, Niebuhr has put forward several views with which later critics have been dissatisfied; but that there are three, and only three, principles which are fundamental to his history, and which it is impossible to refute. These are:--I. That, on account of the inevitable intermixture of fable essential to a rude people, no nation can possess trustworthy details respecting its own origin. II. That even such early documents as the Romans might have possessed, had been destroyed before they were incorporated into a regular history. III. That ceremonies established in honour of certain events alleged to have taken place in former times, were a proof, not that the events had happened, but that they were believed to have happened. The whole fabric of the early history of Rome at once fell to pieces, as soon as these three principles were applied to it. What, however, is most remarkable, is, that not only are all three laid down by Voltaire, but their bearing upon Roman history is distinctly shown. He says that no nation is acquainted with its own origin; so that all primitive history is necessarily an invention.[930] He remarks, that since even such historical works as the Romans once possessed, were all destroyed when their city was burned, no confidence can be placed in the accounts which, at a much later period, are given by Livy and other compilers.[931] And, as innumerable scholars busied themselves in collecting evidence respecting ceremonies instituted in celebration of certain events, and then appealed to the evidence in order to prove the events, Voltaire makes a reflection which now seems very obvious, but which these learned men had entirely overlooked. He notices, that their labour is bootless, because the date of the evidence is, with extremely few exceptions, much later than the date of the event to which it refers. In such cases, the existence of a festival, or of a monument, proves, indeed, the belief which men entertain, but by no means proves the reality of the occurrence concerning which the belief is held.[932] This simple, but important maxim, is, even in our own days, constantly lost sight of, while before the eighteenth century it was universally neglected. Hence it was that historians were able to accumulate fables which were believed without examination;[933] it being altogether forgotten, that fables, as Voltaire says, begin to be current in one generation, are established in the second, become respectable in the third, while in the fourth generation temples are raised in honour of them.[934] [930] 'C'est l'imagination seule qui a écrit les premières histoires. Non seulement chaque peuple inventa son origine, mais il inventa aussi l'origine du monde entier.' _Dict. Philos._ article _Histoire_, sec. 2, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xl. p. 195. See also his article on Chronology, vol. xxxviii. p. 77, for the application of this to the history of Rome, where he says, 'Tite Live n'a garde de dire en quelle année Romulus commença son prétendu règne.' And at vol. xxxvi. p. 86, 'tous les peuples se sont attribués des origines imaginaires; et aucun n'a touché à la véritable.' [931] 'Qu'on fasse attention que la république romaine a été cinq cents ans sans historiens; que Tite Live lui-même déplore la perte des autres monuments qui périrent presque tous dans l'incendie de Rome,' &c. _Dict. Philos._ in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xl. p. 202. At p. 188, 'ce peuple, si récent en comparaison des nations asiatiques, a été cinq cents années sans historiens. Ainsi, il n'est pas surprenant que Romulus ait été le fils de Mars, qu'une louve ait été sa nourrice, qu'il ait marché avec mille hommes de son village de Rome contre vingt-cinq mille combattants du village des Sabins.' [932] 'Par quel excès de démence, par quel opiniâtreté absurde, tant de compilateurs ont-ils voulu prouver dans tant de volumes énormes, qu'une fête publique établie en mémoire d'un événement était une démonstration de la vérité de cet événement?' _Essai sur les M[oe]urs_, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xv. p. 109. See also the same remark applied to monuments, in chap. cxcvii., _[OE]uvres_, vol. xviii. pp. 412-414; and again, in vol. xl. pp. 203, 204. [933] 'La plupart des histoires out été crues sans examen, et cette créance est un préjugé. Fabius Pictor raconte que, plusieurs siècles avant lui, une vestale de la ville d'Albe, allant puiser de l'eau dans sa cruche, fut violée, qu'elle accoucha de Romulus et de Rémus, qu'ils furent nourris par une louve, etc. Le peuple romain crut cette fable; il n'examina point si dans ce temps-là il y avait des vestales dans le Latium, s'il était vraisemblable que la fille d'un roi sortît de son couvent avec sa cruche, s'il était probable qu'une louve allaitât deux enfants au lieu de les manger; le préjugé s'établit.' _Dict. Philos._ article _Préjugés_, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xli. pp. 488, 489. [934] 'Les amateurs du merveilleux disaient: Il faut bien que ces faits soient vrais, puisque tant de monuments en sont la preuve. Et nous disions: Il faut bien qu'ils soient faux, puisque le vulgaire les a crus. Une fable a quelque cours dans une génération; elle s'établit dans la seconde; elle devient respectable dans la troisième; la quatrième lui élève des temples.' _Fragments sur l'Histoire_, article i. in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xxvii. pp. 158, 159. I have been the more particular in stating the immense obligations history is under to Voltaire, because in England there exists against him a prejudice, which nothing but ignorance, or something worse than ignorance, can excuse;[935] and because, taking him on the whole, he is probably the greatest historian Europe has yet produced. In reference, however, to the mental habits of the eighteenth century, it is important to show, that in the same period similar comprehensiveness was being displayed by other French historians; so that in this case, as in all others, we shall find that a large share of what is effected, even by the most eminent men, is due to the character of the age in which they live. [935] In this case, as in many others, ignorance has been fortified by bigotry; for, as Lord Campbell truly says of Voltaire, 'since the French Revolution, an indiscriminate abuse of this author has been in England the test of orthodoxy and loyalty.' _Campbell's Chief Justices_, vol. ii. p. 335. Indeed, so extensively has the public mind been prejudiced against this great man, that, until a very few years ago, when Lord Brougham published a life of him, there was no book in the English language containing even a tolerable account of one of the most influential writers France has produced. This work of Lord Brougham's, though a middling performance, is at least an honest one, and, as it harmonizes with the general spirit of our time, it has probably had considerable weight. In it he says of Voltaire, 'nor can any one since the days of Luther be named, to whom the spirit of free inquiry, nay, the emancipation of the human mind from spiritual tyranny, owes a more lasting debt of gratitude.' _Brougham's Life of Voltaire_, p. 132. It is certain, that the better the history of the eighteenth century is understood, the more the reputation of Voltaire will increase; as was clearly foreseen by a celebrated writer nearly a generation ago. In 1831, Lerminier wrote these remarkable, and, as the result has proved, prophetic words: 'Il est temps de revenir à des sentimens plus respectueux pour la mémoire de Voltaire.... Voltaire a fait pour la France ce que Leibnitz a fait pour l'Allemagne; pendant trois-quarts de siècle il a représenté son pays, puissant à la manière de Luther et de Napoléon; il est destiné à survivre à bien des gloires, et je plains ceux qui se sont oubliés jusqu'à laisser tomber des paroles dédaigneuses sur le génie de cet homme.' _Lerminier_, _Philosophie du Droit_, vol. i. p. 199. Compare the glowing eulogy in _Longchamp et Wagnière_, _Mémoires sur Voltaire_, vol. ii. pp. 388, 389, with the remarks of Saint-Lambert, in _Mém. d'Epinay_, vol. i. p. 263. The vast labours of Voltaire towards reforming the old method of writing history, were greatly aided by those important works which Montesquieu put forward during the same period. In 1734,[936] this remarkable man published what may be truly called the first book in which there can be found any information concerning the real history of Rome; because it is also the first in which the affairs of the ancient world are treated in a large and comprehensive spirit.[937] Fourteen years later, there appeared, by the same author, the _Spirit of Laws_; a more famous production, but, as it seems to me, not a greater one. The immense merit of the _Spirit of Laws_ is, indeed, incontestable, and cannot be affected by the captious attempts made to diminish it by those minute critics, who seem to think that when they detect the occasional errors of a great man, they in some degree reduce him to their own level. It is not such petty cavilling which can destroy an European reputation; and the noble work of Montesquieu will long survive all attacks of this kind, because its large and suggestive generalizations would retain their value even if the particular facts of which the illustrations consist were all unfounded.[938] Still, I am inclined to believe, that in point of original thought it is barely equal to his earlier work, though it is unquestionably the fruit of much greater reading. Without, however, instituting a comparison between them, our present object is merely to consider the contributions they jointly contain towards a right understanding of history, and the way in which those contributions are connected with the general spirit of the eighteenth century. [936] _Vie de Montesquieu_, p. xiv., prefixed to his works. [937] Before Montesquieu, the only two great thinkers who had really studied Roman history were Macchiavelli and Vico: but Macchiavelli did not attempt any thing approaching the generalizations of Montesquieu, and he suffered, moreover, from the serious deficiency of being too much occupied with the practical utility of his subject. Vico, whose genius was perhaps even more vast than that of Montesquieu, can hardly be considered his rival; for, though his _Scienza Nova_ contains the most profound views on ancient history, they are rather glimpses of truth, than a systematic investigation of any one period. [938] Which M. Guizot (_Civilisation en France_, vol. iv. p. 36), in his remarks on the _Esprit des Lois_, does not take sufficiently into consideration. A juster appreciation of Montesquieu will be found in _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philosophie_, part ii. vol. i. p. 182; and in _Comte_, _Philosophie Positive_, vol. iv. pp. 243-252, 261. Compare _Charles Comte_, _Traité de Législation_, vol. i. p. 125, with _Meyer_, _Esprit des Institutions Judiciaires_, vol. i. p. lxi., respecting the vast innovations he introduced. In this point of view, there are, in the works of Montesquieu, two leading peculiarities. The first is, the complete rejection of those personal anecdotes, and those trivial details respecting individuals, which belong to biography, but with which, as Montesquieu clearly saw, history has no concern. The other peculiarity is, the very remarkable attempt which he first made to effect an union between the history of man and those sciences which deal with the external world. As these are the two great characteristics of the method adopted by Montesquieu, it will be necessary to give some account of them, before we can understand the place he really occupies, as one of the founders of the philosophy of history. We have already seen that Voltaire had strongly insisted on the necessity of reforming history, by paying more attention to the history of the people, and less attention to that of their political and military rulers. We have also seen, that this great improvement was so agreeable to the spirit of the time, that it was generally and quickly adopted, and thus became an indication of those democratic tendencies, of which it was in reality a result. It is not, therefore, surprising that Montesquieu should have taken the same course, even before the movement had been clearly declared; since he, like most great thinkers, was a representative of the intellectual condition, and a satisfier of the intellectual wants, of the age in which he lived. But, what constitutes the peculiarity of Montesquieu in this matter, is, that with him a contempt for those details respecting courts, ministers, and princes, in which ordinary compilers take great delight, was accompanied by an equal contempt for other details which are really interesting, because they concern the mental habits of the few truly eminent men who, from time to time, have appeared on the stage of public life. This was because Montesquieu perceived that, though these things are very interesting, they are also very unimportant. He knew, what no historian before him had even suspected, that in the great march of human affairs, individual peculiarities count for nothing; and that, therefore, the historian has no business with them, but should leave them to the biographer, to whose province they properly belong. The consequence is, that not only does he treat the most powerful princes with such disregard as to relate the reigns of six emperors in two lines,[939] but he constantly enforces the necessity, even in the case of eminent men, of subordinating their special influence to the more general influence of the surrounding society. Thus, many writers had ascribed the ruin of the Roman Republic to the ambition of Cæsar and Pompey, and particularly to the deep schemes of Cæsar. This, Montesquieu totally denies. According to his view of history, no great alteration can be effected, except by virtue of a long train of antecedents, where alone we are to seek the cause of what to a superficial eye is the work of individuals. The republic, therefore, was overthrown, not by Cæsar and Pompey, but by that state of things which made the success of Cæsar and Pompey possible.[940] It is thus that the events which ordinary historians relate are utterly valueless. Such events, instead of being causes, are merely the occasions on which the real causes act.[941] They may be called the accidents of history; and they must be treated as subservient to those vast and comprehensive conditions, by which alone the rise and fall of nations are ultimately governed.[942] [939] He says of the emperor Maximin, 'il fut tué avec son fils par ses soldats. Les deux premiers Gordiens périrent en Afrique. Maxime, Balbin, et le troisième Gordien furent massacrés.' _Grandeur et Décadence des Romains_, chap. xvi., in _[OE]uvres de Montesquieu_, p. 167. [940] _Ibid._ chap. xi., in _[OE]uvres de Montesquieu_, pp. 149-153. Compare a similar remark, respecting Charles XII., in _Esprit des Lois_, livre x. chap. xiii. _[OE]uvres_, p. 260. [941] On the difference between cause and occasion, see _Grandeur et Décad._ chap. i. p. 126. [942] 'Il y a des causes générales, soit morales, soit physiques, qui agissent dans chaque monarchie, l'élèvent, la maintiennent, ou la précipitent; tous les accidents sont soumis à ces causes; et si le hasard d'une bataille, c'est-à-dire une cause particulière, a ruiné un état, il y avoit une cause générale qui faisoit que cet état devoit périr par une seule bataille. En un mot, l'allure principale entraîne avec elle tous les accidente particuliers.' _Grand. et Décad. des Romains_, chap. xviii. p. 172. This, then, was the first great merit of Montesquieu, that he effected a complete separation between biography and history, and taught historians to study, not the pecularities of individual character, but the general aspect of the society in which the peculiarities appeared. If this remarkable man had accomplished nothing further, he would have rendered an incalculable service to history, by pointing out how one of its most fertile sources of error might be safely removed. And although, unhappily, we have not yet reaped the full benefit of his example, this is because his successors have really had the capacity of rising to so high a generalization: it is, however, certain, that since his time, an approximation towards such elevated views may be noticed, even among those inferior writers who, for want of sufficient grasp, are unable to adopt them to their full extent. In addition to this, Montesquieu made another great advance in the method of treating history. He was the first who, in an inquiry into the relations between the social conditions of a country and its jurisprudence, called in the aid of physical knowledge, in order to ascertain how the character of any given civilization is modified by the action of the external world. In his work on the _Spirit of Laws_, he studies the way in which both the civil and political legislation of a people are naturally connected with their climate, soil, and food.[943] It is true, that in this vast enterprise he almost entirely failed; but this was because meteorology, chemistry, and physiology, were still too backward to admit of such an undertaking. This, however, affects the value only of his conclusions, not of his method; and here, as elsewhere, we see the great thinker tracing the outline of a plan, which, in the then state of knowledge, it was impossible to fill up, and the completion of which he was obliged to leave to the riper experience and more powerful resources of a later age. Thus to anticipate the march of the human intellect, and, as it were, forestal its subsequent acquisitions, is the peculiar prerogative of minds of the highest order; and it is this which gives to the writings of Montesquieu a certain fragmentary and provisional appearance, which was the necessary consequence of a profoundly speculative genius dealing with materials that were intractable, simply because science had not yet reduced them to order by generalizing the laws of their phenomena. Hence it is, that many of the inferences drawn by Montesquieu are untenable; such, for instance, as those regarding the effect of diet in stimulating population by increasing the fecundity of women,[944] and the effect of climate in altering the proportion between the births of the sexes.[945] In other cases, an increased acquaintance with barbarous nations has sufficed to correct his conclusions, particularly those concerning the effect which he supposed climate to produce on individual character; for we have now the most decisive evidence, that he was wrong in asserting[946] that hot climates make people unchaste and cowardly, while cold climates make them virtuous and brave. [943] _De l'Esprit des Lois_, books xiv. to xviii. inclusive; in _[OE]uvres_, pp. 300-336. [944] _Ibid._ livre xxiii. chap. xiii. p. 395. Compare _Burdach_, _Traité de Physiologie_, vol. ii. p. 116. [945] _Ibid._ livre xvi. chap. iv., and livre xxiii. chap. xii. pp. 317, 395. [946] _Ibid._ livre xiv. chap. ii., livre xvii. chap. ii., and elsewhere. These, indeed, are comparatively trifling objections, because, in all the highest branches of knowledge, the main difficulty is, not to discover facts, but to discover the true method according to which the laws of the facts may be ascertained.[947] In this, Montesquieu performed a double service, since he not only enriched history, but also strengthened its foundation. He enriched history by incorporating with it physical inquiries; and he strengthened history by separating it from biography, and thus freeing it from details which are always unimportant, and often unauthentic. And although he committed the error of studying the influence of nature over men considered as individuals,[948] rather than over men considered as an aggregate society, this arose principally from the fact that, in his time, the resources necessary for the more complicated study had not yet been created. Those resources, as I have shown, are political economy and statistics; political economy supplying the means of connecting the laws of physical agents with the laws of the inequality of wealth, and, therefore, with a great variety of social disturbances; while statistics enable us to verify those laws in their widest extent, and to prove how completely the volition of individual men is controlled by their antecedents, and by the circumstances in which they are placed. It was, therefore, not only natural, but inevitable, that Montesquieu should fail in his magnificent attempt to unite the laws of the human mind with the laws of external nature. He failed, partly because the sciences of external nature were too backward, and partly because those other branches of knowledge which connect nature with men were still unformed. For, as to political economy, it had no existence as a science until the publication of the _Wealth of Nations_ in 1776, twenty-one years after the death of Montesquieu. As to statistics, their philosophy is a still more recent creation, since it is only during the last thirty years that they have been systematically applied to social phenomena; the earlier statisticians being merely a body of industrious collectors, groping in the dark, bringing together facts of every kind without selection or method, and whose labours were consequently unavailable for those important purposes to which they have been successfully applied during the present generation. [947] On the supreme importance of method, see my defence of Bichat in the next chapter. [948] How completely futile this was, as regards results, is evident from the fact, that a hundred years after he wrote, we, with all our increased knowledge, can affirm nothing positively respecting the direct action of climate, food, and soil, in modifying individual character; though it has, I trust, appeared in the second chapter of this Introduction, that something can be ascertained respecting their indirect action, that is, their action on individual minds through the medium of social and economical organisation. Only two years after the publication of the _Spirit of Laws_, Turgot delivered those celebrated lectures, of which it has been said, that in them he created the philosophy of history.[949] This praise is somewhat exaggerated; for in the most important matters relating to the philosophy of his subject, he takes the same view as Montesquieu; and Montesquieu, besides preceding him in point of time, was his superior certainly in learning, perhaps in genius. Still, the merit of Turgot is immense; and he belongs to that extremely small class of men who have looked at history comprehensively, and have recognized the almost boundless knowledge needed for its investigation. In this respect, his method is identical with that of Montesquieu, since both of these great men excluded from their scheme the personal details which ordinary historians accumulate, and concentrated their attention upon those large general causes, by the operation of which the destinies of nations are permanently affected. Turgot clearly perceived, that, notwithstanding the variety of events produced by the play of human passions, there is amid this apparent confusion a principle of order, and a regularity of march, not to be mistaken by those whose grasp is firm enough to seize the history of man as a complete and single whole.[950] It is true that Turgot, subsequently engaged in political life, never possessed sufficient leisure to fill up the splendid outline of what he so successfully sketched: but though in the execution of his plan he fell short of Montesquieu, still the analogy between the two men is obvious, as also is their relation to the age in which they lived. They, as well as Voltaire, were the unconscious advocates of the democratic movement, inasmuch as they discountenanced the homage which historians had formerly paid to individuals, and rescued history from being a mere recital of the deeds of political and ecclesiastical rulers. At the same time, Turgot, by the captivating prospects which he held out of future progress,[951] and by the picture which he drew of the capacity of society to improve itself, increased the impatience which his countrymen were beginning to feel against that despotic government, in whose presence amelioration seemed to be hopeless. These, and similar speculations, which now for the first time appeared in French literature, stimulated the activity of the intellectual classes, cheered them under the persecutions to which they were exposed, and emboldened them to the arduous enterprise of leading on the people to attack the institutions of their native land. Thus it was, that in France every thing tended to the same result. Every thing indicated the approach of some sharp and terrible struggle, in which the spirit of the present should war with the spirit of the past; and in which it should be finally settled, whether the people of France could free themselves from the chains in which they had long been held, or whether, missing their aim, they were doomed to sink still lower in that ignominious vassalage, which makes even the most splendid periods of their political history a warning and a lesson to the civilized world. [949] 'Il a créé en 1750 la philosophie de l'histoire dans ses deux discours prononcés en Sorbonne.' _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philosophie_, I. série, vol. i. p. 147. There is a short notice of these striking productions in _Condorcet_, _Vie de Turgot_, pp. 11-16. [950] Nothing can be better than his summary of this vast conception: 'Tous les ages sont enchaînés par une suite de causes et d'effets qui lient l'état du monde à tous ceux qui l'ont précédé.' _Second Discours en Sorbonne_, in _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. ii. p. 52. Every thing Turgot wrote on history is a development of this pregnant sentence. That he understood the necessity of an historian being acquainted with physical science, and with the laws of the configuration of the earth, climate, soil, and the like, is evident in his fragment, _La Géographie Politique_, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. ii. pp. 166-208. It is no slight proof of his political sagacity, that in 1750 he distinctly foretold the freedom of the American colonies. Compare _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. ii. p. 66, with _Mém. sur Turgot_, vol. i. p. 139. [951] A confidence which is apparent in his economical as well as in his historical works. In 1811, Sir James Mackintosh writes, that Turgot 'had more comprehensive views of the progress of society than any man since Bacon:' _Mem. of Mackintosh_, vol. ii. p. 133; and see a similar remark by Dugald Stewart, in his _Philos. of the Mind_, vol. i. p. 246. CHAPTER VII. PROXIMATE CAUSES OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION AFTER THE MIDDLE OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. In the last chapter but one, I have attempted to ascertain what those circumstances were which, almost immediately after the death of Louis XIV., prepared the way for the French Revolution. The result of the inquiry has been, that the French intellect was stimulated into activity by the examples and teachings of England; and that this stimulus caused, or at all events encouraged, a great breach between the government of France and its literature;--a breach the more remarkable, because during the reign of Louis XIV. the literature, notwithstanding its temporary brilliancy, had been invariably submissive, and had intimately allied itself with the government, which was always ready to reward its services. We have also seen that, this rupture having arisen between the governing classes and the intellectual classes, it followed, that the former, true to their ancient instincts, began to chastise that spirit of inquiry to which they were unaccustomed: hence those persecutions which, with hardly a single exception, were directed against every man of letters, and hence too those systematic attempts to reduce literature to a subserviency similar to that in which it had been held under Louis XIV. It has, moreover, appeared, that the great Frenchmen of the eighteenth century, though smarting from the injuries constantly inflicted on them by the government and the church, abstained from attacking the government, but directed all their hostility against the church. This apparent anomaly, of the religious institutions being assailed, and the political institutions being spared, has been shown to be a perfectly natural circumstance, arising out of the antecedents of the French nation; and an attempt has been made to explain what those antecedents were, and how they acted. In the present chapter, I purpose to complete this inquiry by examining the next great stage in the history of the French mind. It was needful that, before both church and state could fall, men should change the ground of their hostility, and should attack political abuses with the zeal they had hitherto reserved for religious ones. The question, therefore, now arises, as to the circumstances under which this change took place, and the period when it actually occurred. The circumstances which accompanied this great change are, as we shall presently see, very complicated; and, as they have never yet been studied in connexion with each other, I shall, in the remaining part of this volume, examine them at considerable length. On this point it will, I think, be practicable to arrive at some precise and well-defined results respecting the history of the French Revolution. But the other point, namely, the time at which the change took place, is not only much more obscure, but by its nature will never admit of complete precision. This, however, is a deficiency it possesses in common with every other change in the history of man. The circumstances of each change may always be known, provided the evidence is ample and authentic. But no amount of evidence can enable us to fix the date of the change itself. That to which attention is usually drawn by the compilers of history is, not the change, but is merely the external result which follows the change. The real history of the human race is the history of tendencies which are perceived by the mind, and not of events which are discerned by the senses. It is on this account that no historical epoch will ever admit of that chronological precision familiar to antiquaries and genealogists. The death of a prince, the loss of a battle, and the change of a dynasty, are matters which fall entirely within the province of the senses; and the moment in which they happen can be recorded by the most ordinary observers. But those great intellectual revolutions upon which all other revolutions are based, cannot be measured by so simple a standard. To trace the movements of the human mind, it is necessary to contemplate it under several aspects, and then coördinate the results of what we have separately studied. By this means we arrive at certain general conclusions, which, like the ordinary estimate of averages, increase in value in proportion as we increase the number of instances from which they are collected. That this is a safe and available method, appears not only from the history of physical knowledge,[952] but also from the fact, that it is the basis of the empirical maxims by which all men of sound understanding are guided in those ordinary transactions of life to which the generalizations of science have not yet been applied. Indeed such maxims, which are highly valuable, and which in their aggregate form what is called common sense, are never collected with any thing like the precautions that the philosophic historian ought to feel himself bound to employ. [952] For a popular but able view of the value of averages in scientific inquiries, see _Herschel's Disc. on Nat. Philos._ pp. 215-219. The real objection, therefore, to generalizations respecting the development of the intellect of a nation is, not that they want certainty, but that they lack precision. This is just the point at which the historian diverges from the annalist. That the English intellect, for example, is gradually becoming more democratic, or, as it is termed, more liberal, is as certain as that the crown of this country is worn by Queen Victoria. But though both these statements are equally certain, the latter statement is more precise. We can tell the very day on which the Queen ascended the throne; the moment of her death will be known with equal precision; and there can be no doubt that many other particulars respecting her will be minutely and accurately preserved. In tracing, however, the growth of English liberalism, all such exactness deserts us. We can point out the year in which the Reform Bill was passed; but who can point out the year in which the Reform Bill first became necessary? In the same way, that the Jews will be admitted into parliament, is as certain as that the Catholics have been admitted. Both these measures are the inevitable result of that increasing indifference to theological disputes, which must now be obvious to every man who does not wilfully shut his eyes. But while we know the hour in which the bill for Catholic emancipation received the assent of the crown, there is no one now living who can tell even the year in which similar justice will be granted to the Jews. Both events are equally certain, but both events are not equally precise. This distinction between certainty and precision I have stated at some length, because it seems to be little understood,[953] and because it is intimately connected with the subject now before us. The fact of the French intellect having, during the eighteenth century, passed through two totally distinct epochs, can be proved by every description of evidence; but it is impossible to ascertain the precise time when one epoch succeeded the other. All that we can do is, to compare the different indications which the history of that age presents, and arrive at an approximation which may guide future inquirers. It would perhaps be more prudent to avoid making any particular statement; but as the employment of dates seems necessary to bring such matters clearly before the mind, I will, by way of provisional hypothesis, fix on the year 1750, as the period when those agitations of society which caused the French Revolution entered into their second and political stage. [953] As we see in the pretensions set forth by mathematicians, who often suppose that an amount of certainty can be attained in their own pursuits not to be found in any other. This error has probably arisen, as Locke suggests, from confusing clearness with certainty. _Essay on Human Understanding_, book iv. chap. ii. secs. 9 and 10, in _Works_, vol. ii. pp. 73, 74. See also _Comte_, _Philos. Pos._ vol. i. p. 103, where it is justly observed, that all branches of knowledge capable of being generalized into sciences admit of equal certainty, but not of equal precision: 'si d'après l'explication précédente, les diverses sciences doivent nécessairement présenter une précision très-inégale, il n'en est nullement ainsi de leur certitude.' This is handled unsatisfactorily by Montucla (_Hist. des Mathémat._ vol. i. p. 33), who says, that the principal cause of the peculiar certainty reached by the mathematician is, that 'd'une idée claire il ne déduit que des conséquences claires et incontestables.' Similarly, Cudworth (_Intellect. System_, vol. iii. p. 377): 'nay the very essence of truth here is this clear perceptibility, or intelligibility.' On the other hand, Kant, a far deeper thinker, avoided this confusion, by making mathematical clearness the mark of a _kind_ of certainty rather than of a _degree_ of it: 'Die mathematische Gewissheit heisst auch Evidenz, weil ein intuitives Erkenntniss klarer ist, als ein discursives. Obgleich also beides, das mathematische und das philosophische Vernunfterkenntniss an sich gleich gewiss ist, so ist doch die Art der Gewissheit in beiden verschieden.' _Logik_, _Einleitung_, sec. 9, in _Kant's Werke_, vol. i. p. 399. On the opinions of the ancients respecting certainty, compare _Matter_, _Hist. de l'Ecole d'Alexandrie_, vol. i. p. 195, with _Ritter's Hist. of Ancient Philos._ vol. ii. p. 46, vol. iii. pp. 74, 426, 427, 484, 614. That this was about the period when the great movement, hitherto directed against the church, began to be turned against the state, is an inference which many circumstances seem to warrant. We know on the best authority, that towards the year 1750, the French began their celebrated inquiries respecting political economy,[954] and that, in their attempt to raise it to a science, they were led to perceive the immense injury which the interference of government had produced on the material interests of the country.[955] Hence a conviction arose that, even in regard to the accumulation of wealth, the authority possessed by the rulers of France was mischievous, since it enabled them, under the notion of protecting commerce, to trouble the freedom of individual action, and to prevent trade from running into those profitable channels which traders are best able to select for themselves. Scarcely had a knowledge of this important truth been diffused, when its consequences were quickly seen in the national literature, and in the habits of national thought. The sudden increase in France of works relating to finance and to other questions of government, is, indeed, one of the most remarkable features of that age. With such rapidity did the movement spread, that we are told that, soon after 1755, the economists effected a schism between the nation and the government;[956] and Voltaire, writing in 1759, complains that the charms of lighter literature were entirely neglected amidst the general zeal for these new studies.[957] It is not necessary to follow the subsequent history of this great change; nor need I trace the influence exercised shortly before the Revolution by the later economists, and particularly by Turgot, the most eminent of their leaders.[958] It is enough to say, that within about twenty years after the movement was first clearly seen, the taste for economical and financial inquiries became so common, that it penetrated those parts of society where habits of thought are not very frequent; since we find that, even in fashionable life, the conversation no longer turned upon new poems and new plays, but upon political questions, and subjects immediately connected with them.[959] Indeed, when Necker, in 1781, published his celebrated Report on the Finances of France, the eagerness to obtain it was beyond all bounds; six thousand copies were sold the first day; and the demand still increasing, two presses were kept constantly at work in order to satisfy the universal curiosity.[960] And what makes the democratic tendency of all this the more obvious is, that Necker was at that time one of the servants of the crown; so that his work, looking at its general spirit, has been truly called an appeal to the people against the king by one of the ministers of the king himself.[961] [954] 'Vers 1750, deux hommes de génie, observateurs judicieux et profonds, conduits par une force d'attention très-soutenue à une logique rigoureuse, animés d'un noble amour pour la patrie et pour l'humanité, M. Quesnay et M. de Gournay, s'occupèrent avec suite de savoir si la nature des choses n'indiquerait pas une science de l'économie politique, et quels seraient les principes de cette science.' _Additions aux [OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. iii. p. 310. M. Blanqui (_Hist. de l'Economie Politique_, vol. ii. p. 78) also says, 'vers l'année 1750;' and Voltaire (_Dict. Philos._ article _Blé_, in _[OE]uvres_, vol. xxxvii. p. 384) says, 'vers l'an 1750, la nation, rassasiée de vers, de tragédies, de comédies, d'opéra, de romans, d'histoires romanesques, de réflexions morales plus romanesques encore, et de disputes théologiques sur la grâce et sur les convulsions, se mit enfin a raisonner sur les blés.' [955] The revolutionary tendency of this economical movement is noticed in _Alison's Europe_, vol. i. pp. 184, 185; where, however, its commencement is erroneously assigned to 'about the year 1761.' See also, on the hostility this caused against government, _Mém. de Campan_, vol. i. pp. 7, 8; _Mem. of Mallet du Pan_, vol. i. p. 32; and _Barruel_, _Hist. du Jacobinisme_, vol. i. p. 193, vol. ii. p. 152. [956] 'D'ailleurs la nation s'étoit accoutumée à se séparer toujours de plus en plus de son gouvernement, en raison même de ce que ses écrivains avoient commencé à aborder les études politiques. C'étoit l'époque où la secte des économistes se donnoit le plus de mouvement, depuis que le marquis de Mirabeau avoit publié, en 1755, son _Ami des Hommes_.' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Franç._ vol. xxix. p. 269. Compare _Tocqueville_, _Règne de Louis XV_, vol. ii. p. 58. In this same year, 1755, Goldsmith was in Paris, and was so struck by the progress of insubordination, that he foretold the freedom of the people; though I need hardly say that he was not a man to understand the movement of the economists. _Prior's Life of Goldsmith_, vol. i. pp. 198, 199; _Forster's Life of Goldsmith_, vol. i. p. 66. [957] In February 1759, he writes to Madame du Boccage: 'Il me paraît que les grâces et le bon goût sont bannis de France, et ont cédé la place à la métaphysique embrouillée, à la politique des cerveaux creux, à des discussions énormes sur les finances, sur le commerce, sur la population, qui ne mettront jamais dans l'état ni un écu, ni un homme de plus.' _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. lx. p. 485. In 1763 (vol. lxiii. p. 204): 'Adieu, nos beaux arts, si les choses continuent comme elles sont. La rage des remontrances et des projets sur les finances a saisi la nation.' Many of the ablest men being thus drawn off from mere literary pursuits, there began, about twenty years before the Revolution, a marked deterioration in style, particularly among prose writers. Compare _Lettres de Dudeffand à Walpole_, vol. ii. p. 358, vol. iii. pp. 163, 299; _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. ii. p. 374, vol. v. p. 123, vol. viii. pp. 180, 275; _Mercier sur Rousseau_, vol. ii. p. 151. [958] Georgel, who hated Turgot, says of him: 'son cabinet et ses bureaux se transformèrent en ateliers où les économistes forgeoient leur système et leurs spéculations.' _Mém. de Georgel_, vol. i. p. 406: see also _Blanqui_, _Hist. de l'Écon. Politique_, vol. ii. pp. 96-112; _Condorcet_, _Vie de Turgot_, pp. 32-35; _Twiss_, _Progress of Political Econ._ pp. 142 seq. [959] Sismondi, under the year 1774, notices 'les écrits innombrables que chaque jour voyoit éclore sur la politique, et qui avoient désormais remplacé dans l'intérêt des salons ces nouveautés littéraires, ces vers, ces anecdotes galantes, dont peu d'années auparavant le public étoit uniquement occupé.' _Hist. des Français_, vol. xxix. p. 495; and a similar remark in _Schlosser's Eighteenth Century_, vol. ii. p. 126. [960] See the account, written in Feb. 1781, in _Grimm_, _Corr. Lit._ vol. xi. 260, where it is said of Necker's _Compte Rendu_, 'La sensation qu'a faite cet ouvrage est, je crois, sans exemple; il s'en est débité plus de six mille exemplaires le jour même qu'il a paru, et depuis, le travail continuel de deux imprimeries n'a pu suffire encore aux demandes multipliées de la capitale, des provinces, et des pays étrangers.' Ségur (_Souvenirs_, vol. i. p. 138) mentions, that Necker's work was 'dans la poche de tous les abbés, et sur la toilette de toutes les dames.' The daughter of Necker, Madame de Staël, says of her father's work, _Administration des Finances_, 'on en vendit quatre-vingt mille exemplaires.' _De Staël sur la Révolution_, vol. i. p. 111. [961] The expression of the Baron de Montyon: see _Adolphus's History of George III._ vol. iv. p. 290; and on the revolutionary tendency of Necker's financial works, _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. ii. pp. xxxvii. xxxviii., vol. iv. pp. 18, 143. Necker published a justification of his book, 'malgré la défense du roi.' _Du Mesnil_, _Mém. sur Le Brun_, p. 108. This evidence of the remarkable change which, in or about 1750, the French mind underwent, and which formed what I term the second epoch of the eighteenth century, might be easily strengthened by a wider survey of the literature of that time. Immediately after the middle of the century, Rousseau published those eloquent works, which exercised immense influence, and in which the rise of the new epoch is very observable; for this most powerful writer abstained from those attacks on Christianity,[962] which unhappily had been too frequent, and exerted himself almost exclusively against the civil and political abuses of the existing society.[963] To trace the effects which this wonderful, but in some instances misguided, man produced on the mind of his own and of the succeeding generation, would occupy too large a share of this Introduction; though the inquiry is full of interest, and is one which it were to be wished some competent historian would undertake.[964] Inasmuch, however, as the philosophy of Rousseau was itself only a single phase of a far larger movement, I shall at present pass over the individual, in order to consider the general spirit of an age in which he played a vast, but still a subsidiary part. [962] So far as I remember, there is not a single instance in any of his works; and those who assail him on this ground should adduce the passages on which they rely, instead of bringing vague general charges. Compare _Life of Rousseau_, in _Brougham's Men of Letters_, vol. i. p. 189; _Stäudlin_, _Gesch. der theolog. Wissenschaften_, vol. ii. p. 442; _Mercier sur Rousseau_, 1791, vol. i. pp. 27-32, vol. ii. pp. 279, 280. [963] 'Rousseau, qui déjà en 1753 avoit touché aux bases mêmes de la société humaine, dans son _Discours sur l'origine de l'inégalité parmi les hommes_.' _Sismondi_, vol. xxix. p. 270. Schlosser (_Hist. of the Eighteenth Century_, vol. i. p. 138) notices 'the entirely new system of absolute democracy which was brought forward by J. J. Rousseau;' see also p. 289, and _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. v. p. 208. [964] Napoleon said to Stanislas Girardin respecting Rousseau, 'sans lui la France n'auroit pas eu de révolution.' _Holland's Foreign Reminiscences_, Lond. 1850, p. 261. This is certainly an exaggeration; but the influence of Rousseau was, during the latter half of the eighteenth century, most extraordinary. In 1765, Hume writes from Paris: 'It is impossible to express or imagine the enthusiasm of this nation in his favour; ... no person ever so much engaged their attention as Rousseau. Voltaire and every body else are quite eclipsed by him.' _Burton's Life of Hume_, vol. ii. p. 299. A letter written in 1754 (in _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. i. p. 122) says that his Dijon Discourse 'fit une espèce de révolution à Paris.' The circulation of his works was unprecedented; and when _La Nouvelle Héloïse_ appeared, 'les libraires ne pouvaient suffire aux demandes de toutes les classes. On louait l'ouvrage à tant par jour, ou par heure. Quand il parut, on exigeait douze sous par volume, en n'accordant que soixante minutes pour le lire.' _Musset Pathay_, _Vie de Rousseau_, vol. ii. p. 361. For further evidence of the effect produced by his works, see _Lerminier_, _Philos. du Droit_, vol. ii. p. 251; _Mém. de Roland_, vol. i. p. 196, vol. ii. pp. 337, 359; _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. v. p. 193, vol. vi. p. 14; _Alison's Europe_, vol. i. p. 170, vol. iii. p. 369, vol. iv. p. 376; _Mém. de Morellet_, vol. i. p. 116; _Longchamp_, _Mém. sur Voltaire_, vol. ii. p. 50; _Life of Romilly_, vol. i. p. 267; _Mem. of Mallet du Pan_, vol. i. p. 127; _Burke's Works_, vol. i. p. 482; _Cassagnac_, _Causes de la Rév._ vol. iii. p. 549; _Lamartine_, _Hist. des Girondins_, vol. ii. p. 38, vol. iv. p. 93, vol. viii. p. 125; _Wahrheit und Dichtung_, in _Göthe's Werke_, Stuttgart, 1837, vol. ii. part ii. pp. 83, 104; _Grimm_, _Correspond. Lit._ vol. xii. p. 222; _De Staël_, _Consid. sur la Rév._ vol. ii. p. 371. The formation of a new epoch in France, about the year 1750, may be further illustrated by three circumstances of considerable interest, all pointing in the same direction. The first circumstance is, that not a single great French writer attacked the political institutions of the country before the middle of the century; while, after that period, the attacks of the ablest men were incessant. The second circumstance is, that the only eminent Frenchmen who continued to assail the clergy, and yet refused to interfere in politics, were those who, like Voltaire, had already reached an advanced age, and had, therefore, drawn their ideas from the preceding generation, in which the church had been the sole object of hostility. The third circumstance, which is even more striking than the other two, is, that almost at the same moment there was seen a change in the policy of the government; since, singularly enough, the ministers of the crown displayed for the first time an open enmity against the church, just as the intellect of the country was preparing for its decisive onslaught on the government itself. Of these three propositions, the first two will probably be admitted by every student of French literature: at all events, if they are false, they are so exact and peremptory, that it will be easy to refute them by giving examples to the contrary. But the third proposition, being more general, is less susceptible of a negative, and will therefore require the support of that special evidence which I will now adduce. The great French writers having by the middle of the eighteenth century succeeded in sapping the foundations of the church, it was natural that the government should step in and plunder an establishment which the course of events had weakened. This, which took place in France under Louis XV., was similar to what occurred in England under Henry VIII.; for in both cases a remarkable intellectual movement, directed against the clergy, preceded and facilitated the attacks made on them by the crown. It was in 1749 that the French government took the first decisive step against the church. And what proves the hitherto backward state of the country in such matters is, that this consisted of an edict against mortmain, a simple contrivance for weakening the ecclesiastical power, which we in England had adopted long before. Machault, who had recently been raised to the office of controller-general, has the glory of being the originator of this new policy. In August 1749,[965] he issued that celebrated edict which forbade the formation of any religious establishment without the consent of the crown, duly expressed in letters-patent, and registered in parliament; effective precautions, which, says the great historian of France, show that Machault 'considered not only the increase, but even the existence of these ecclesiastical properties, as a mischief to the kingdom.'[966] [965] Sismondi (xxix. p. 20), Lacretelle (_XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 110), and Tocqueville (_Règne de Louis XV_, vol. ii. p. 103), give the date 1749; so that 1747, in _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxvi. p. 46, is apparently a misprint. [966] 'Laissant voir dans toute cette loi, qui est assez longue, qu'il regardoit non-seulement l'accroissement, mais l'existence de ces propriétés ecclésiastiques, comme un mal pour le royaume.' _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Franç._ vol. xxix. p. 21. This, I suppose, is the edict mentioned by Turgot, who wished to push the principle still further. _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. iii. pp. 254, 255; a bold and striking passage. This was an extraordinary step on the part of the French government; but what followed showed that it was only the beginning of a much larger design.[967] Machault, so far from being discountenanced, was, the year after he had issued this edict, intrusted with the seals in addition to the controllership;[968] for, as Lacretelle observes, the court 'thought the time had now come to tax the property of the clergy.'[969] During the forty years which elapsed between this period and the beginning of the Revolution, the same anti-ecclesiastical policy prevailed. Among the successors of Machault, the only three of much ability were Choiseul, Necker, and Turgot, all of whom were strenuous opponents of that spiritual body, which no minister would have assailed in the preceding generation. Not only these eminent statesmen, but even such inferior men as Calonne, Malesherbes, and Terray, looked on it as a stroke of policy to attack privileges which superstition had consecrated, and which the clergy had hitherto reserved, partly to extend their own influence, and partly to minister to those luxurious and profligate habits, which in the eighteenth century were a scandal to the ecclesiastical order. [967] Mably mentions the excitement caused by this proceeding of Machault, _Observations sur l'Histoire de France_, vol. ii. p. 415: 'On attaqua alors, dans plusieurs écrits, les immunités du clergé.' On the dislike felt by the clergy against the minister, see _Ségur_, _Souvenirs_, vol. i. p. 35; _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. i. pp. 283, 310, vol. ii. p. 146. [968] In 1750, 'Machault obtint les sceaux en conservant le contrôle-général.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxvi. p. 46. [969] 'Croyait surtout que le temps était venu d'imposer les biens du clergé.' _Lacretelle_, _XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 107. Nearly the same words are used in _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxvi. p. 46. While these measures were being adopted against the clergy, another important step was taken in precisely the same direction. Now it was that the government began to favour that great doctrine of religious liberty, the mere defence of which it had hitherto punished as a dangerous speculation. The connexion between the attacks on the clergy and the subsequent progress of toleration, may be illustrated, not only by the rapidity with which one event succeeded the other, but also by the fact, that both of them emanated from the same quarter. Machault, who was the author of the edict of mortmain, was also the first minister who showed a wish to protect the Protestants against the persecutions of the Catholic priesthood.[970] In this he only partly succeeded; but the impetus thus given soon became irresistible. In 1760, that is only nine years later, there was seen a marked change in the administration of the laws; and the edicts against heresy, though not yet repealed, were enforced with unprecedented mildness.[971] The movement quickly spread from the capital to the remoter parts of the kingdom; and we are assured that, after the year 1762, the reaction was felt even in those provinces, which, from their backward condition, had always been most remarkable for religious bigotry.[972] At the same time, as we shall presently see, a great schism arose in the church itself, which lessened the power of the clergy, by dividing them into two hostile parties. Of these factions, one made common cause with the state, still further aiding the overthrow of the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Indeed, the dissensions became so violent, that the last great blow dealt to spiritual ascendency by the government of Louis XVI. proceeded not from the hands of a layman, but from one of the leaders of the church; a man who, from his standing, would, under ordinary circumstances, have protected the interests which he now eagerly attacked. In 1787, only two years before the Revolution, Brienne, archbishop of Toulouse,[973] who was then minister, laid before the parliament of Paris a royal edict, by which the discouragement hitherto thrown upon heresy was suddenly removed. By this law, the Protestants were invested with all those civil rights which the Catholic clergy had long held out as the reward of adherence to their own opinions.[974] It was, therefore, natural that the more orthodox party should condemn, as an impious innovation,[975] a measure which, by placing the two sects, in some degree, on the same footing, seemed to sanction the progress of error; and which certainly deprived the French church of one of the chief attractions by which men had hitherto been induced to join her communion. Now, however, all these considerations were set at nought. Such was the prevailing temper, that the parliament, though then in a mood very refractory to the royal authority, did not hesitate to register the edict of the king; and this great measure became law; the dominant party being astonished, we are told, how any doubt could be entertained as to the wisdom of the principles on which it was based.[976] [970] On which account, he still further provoked the indignation of the Catholic clergy. See _Felice_, _Hist. of the Protest. of France_, pp. 401, 402; a letter written in 1751. [971] 'The approach of the year 1760 witnessed a sensible relaxation of persecution.... The clergy perceived this with dismay; and, in their general assembly of 1760, they addressed urgent remonstrances to the king against this remission of the laws.' _Felice_, _Protest. of France_, p. 422. Comp. an interesting letter from Nismes in 1776, in _Thicknesse's Journey through France_, London, 1777, vol. i. p. 66. [972] Sismondi says of 1762, 'Dès lors, la réaction de l'opinion publique contre l'intolérance pénétra jusque dans les provinces les plus fanatiques.' _Hist. des Franç._ vol. xxix. p. 296. See also a letter to Damilaville, dated 6th of May, 1765, in _Lettres inédites de Voltaire_, vol. i. p. 412; and two other letters in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. lxiv. p. 225, vol. lxvi. p. 417. [973] Of whom Hume, several years before, had formed a very high opinion. See _Burton's Life of Hume_, vol. ii. p. 497; a too favourable judgment, which should be contrasted with the opposite exaggerations, in _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. ix. pp. 360-363, and _Barruel_, _Hist. du Jacobinisme_, vol. i. pp. 87, 199. [974] _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Franç._ iii. 516; _Biog. Univ._ xxiv. p. 656. [975] _Georgel_, _Mémoires_, vol. ii. pp. 293, 294; a violent outbreak against 'l'irréligieux édit ... qui autorise tous les cultes.' [976] 'Le parlement de Paris discutait l'édit sur les protestans. Vingt ans plus tôt, combien une telle résolution n'eût-elle pas agité et divisé les esprits? En 1787, on ne s'étonnait que d'une chose: c'était qu'il pût y avoir une discussion sur des principes évidens.' _Lacretelle_, _XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. iii. pp. 342, 343. In 1776, Malesherbes, who was then minister, wished to secure nearly the same privileges for the Protestants, but was prevented from doing so. _Dutens_, _Mémoires_, vol. ii. pp. 56-58. Dutens was himself concerned in the negotiation. These were omens of the coming storm; signs of the time, which those who run may read. Nor are there wanting other marks, by which the true complexion of that age may be clearly seen. In addition to what has been just related, the government, soon after the middle of the eighteenth century, inflicted a direct and fatal injury upon the spiritual authority. This consisted in the expulsion of the Jesuits; which is an event, important not only for its ultimate effects, but also as an evidence of the feelings of men, and of what could be peaceably accomplished by the government of him who was called 'the most Christian king.'[977] [977] Henry II. used to refer to this title, by way of justifying his persecution of the Protestants (_Ranke's Civil Wars in France_, vol. i. p. 241); and great account was made of it by that exemplary prince, Louis XV. _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. i. p. 155. The French antiquaries trace it back to Pepin, the father of Charlemagne. _Barrington's Observations on the Statutes_, p. 168. The Jesuits, for at least fifty years after their institution, rendered immense services to civilization, partly by tempering with a secular element the more superstitious views of their great predecessors, the Dominicans and Franciscans, and partly by organizing a system of education far superior to any yet seen in Europe. In no university could there be found a scheme of instruction so comprehensive as theirs; and certainly no where was displayed such skill in the management of youth, or such insight into the general operations of the human mind. It must, in justice, be added, that this illustrious society, notwithstanding its eager, and often unprincipled, ambition, was, during a considerable period, the steady friend of science, as well as of literature; and that it allowed to its members a freedom and a boldness of speculation which had never been permitted by any other monastic order. As, however, civilization advanced, the Jesuits, like every spiritual hierarchy the world has yet seen, began to lose ground; and this not so much from their own decay, as from a change in the spirit of those who surrounded them. An institution admirably adapted to an early form of society, was ill suited to the same society in its maturer state. In the sixteenth century, the Jesuits were before their age; in the eighteenth century, they were behind it. In the sixteenth century, they were the great missionaries of knowledge; because they believed that, by its aid, they could subjugate the consciences of men. But, in the eighteenth century, their materials were more refractory; they had to deal with a perverse and stiff-necked generation; they saw in every country the ecclesiastical authority rapidly declining; and they clearly perceived that their only chance of retaining their old dominion was, by checking that knowledge, the progress of which they had formerly done much to accelerate.[978] [978] The Prince de Montbarey, who was educated by the Jesuits about 1740, says, that, in their schools, the greatest attention was paid to pupils intended for the church; while the abilities of those destined for secular professions were neglected. See this statement, which, coming from such a quarter, is very remarkable, in _Mémoires de Montbarey_, vol. i. pp. 12, 13. Montbarey, so far from being prejudiced against the Jesuits, ascribes the Revolution to their overthrow. _Ibid._ vol. iii. p. 94. For other evidence of the exclusive and unsecular character of their education in the eighteenth century, see _Schlosser's Eighteenth Century_, vol. iv. pp. 29, 30, 245. Under these circumstances, the statesmen of France, almost immediately after the middle of the eighteenth century, determined to ruin an order which had long ruled the world, and which was still the greatest bulwark of the church. In this design they were aided by a curious movement which had taken place in the church itself, and which, being connected with views of much wider import, deserves the attention even of those for whom theological controversies have no interest. Among the many points on which metaphysicians have wasted their strength, that of free-will has provoked the hottest disputes. And what has increased the acerbity of their language, is, that this, which is eminently a metaphysical question, has been taken up by theologians, who have treated it with that warmth for which they are remarkable.[979] From the time of Pelagius, if not earlier,[980] Christianity has been divided into two great sects, which, though in some respects uniting by insensible shades, have always preserved the broad features of their original difference. By one sect, the freedom of the will is virtually, and often expressly, denied; for it is asserted, not only that we cannot of our own will effect anything meritorious, but that whatever good we may do will be useless, since the Deity has predestined some men to perdition, others to salvation. By the other sect, the freedom of the will is as strongly upheld; good works are declared essential to salvation; and the opposite party is accused of exaggerating that state of grace of which faith is a necessary accompaniment.[981] [979] See some singular observations in Parr's first sermon on faith and morals (_Parr's Works_, vol. vi. p. 598), where we are told that, in the management of the feud between Calvinists and Arminians, 'the steadiness of defence should be proportionate to the impetuosity of assault;' unnecessary advice, so far as his own profession is concerned. However, the Mohammedan theologians are said to have been even keener than the Christians on the subject. See _Troyer's Discourse on the Dabistan_, vol. i. p. cxxxv.; an important work on the Asiatic religions. [980] Neander (_Hist. of the Church_, vol. iv. p. 105) finds the germ of the Pelagian controversy in the dispute between Athanasius and Apollinaris. Compare, respecting its origin, a note in _Milman's Hist. of Christianity_, 1840, vol. iii. pp. 270, 271. [981] No writer I have met with, has stated so fairly and clearly the theological boundaries of these doctrines, as Göthe. _Wahrheit und Dichtung_, in _Werke_, vol. ii. part ii. p. 200, Stuttgart, 1837. These opposite principles, when pushed to their logical consequences, must lead the first sect into antinomianism,[982] and the second sect into the doctrine of supererogatory works.[983] But since on such subjects, men feel far more than they reason, it usually happens that they prefer following some common and accredited standard, or appealing to some ancient name:[984] and they, therefore, generally class themselves on the one side under Augustin, Calvin, and Jansenius; on the other side under Pelagius, Arminius, and Molina. [982] Compare _Butler's Mem. of the Catholics_, vol. iii. p. 224; _Copleston on Necessity and Predestination_, pp. 25, 26; _Mosheim's Eccles. History_, vol. ii. p. 254. [983] Hence the theory of indulgences, constructed by the Church of Rome with perfect consistency, and against which most of the Protestant arguments are illogical. [984] This seems to be the natural tendency, and has been observed by Neander in his instructive account of the Gnostics, _History of the Church_, vol. ii. p. 121: 'The custom with such sects to attach themselves to some celebrated name or other of antiquity.' Now, it is an interesting fact, that the doctrines which in England are called Calvinistic, have been always connected with a democratic spirit; while those of Arminianism have found most favour among the aristocratic or protective party. In the republics of Switzerland, of North America, and of Holland, Calvinism was always the popular creed.[985] On the other hand, in those evil days, immediately after the death of Elizabeth, when our liberties were in imminent peril; when the Church of England, aided by the crown, attempted to subjugate the consciences of men; and when the monstrous claim of the divine right of episcopacy was first put forward;[986]--then it was that Arminianism became the cherished doctrine of the ablest and most ambitious of the ecclesiastical party.[987] And in that sharp retribution which followed, the Puritans and Independents, by whom the punishment was inflicted, were, with scarcely an exception, Calvinists:[988] nor should we forget, that the first open movement against Charles proceeded from Scotland, where the principles of Calvin had long been in the ascendant. [985] The Dutch church was the first which adopted, as an article of faith, the doctrine of election held at Geneva. _Mosheim's Eccles. History_, vol. ii. p. 112. See also, on this doctrine in the Netherlands, _Sinclair's Corresp._ vol. ii. p. 199; _Coventry's Speech in_ 1672, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. iv. p. 537; and _Stäudlin_, _Gesch. der theolog. Wissenschaften_, vol. i. p. 262: 'In den Niederlanden wurde der Calvinische Lehrbegriff zuerst in eine scholastische Form gebracht.' As to the Calvinism of North America, compare _Bancroft's American Revolution_, vol. i. pp. 165, 173, 174, vol. ii. pp. 329, 363, vol. iii. p. 213; _Lyell's Second Visit to the United States_, 1849, vol. i. p. 51; and _Combe's Notes on the United States_, vol. i. pp. 35, 99, 223, vol. iii. pp. 88, 118, 210, 226. [986] It is sometimes said that this was advocated by Bancroft as early as 1588; but this assertion appears to be erroneous, and Mr. Hallam can find no instance before the reign of James I. _Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 390. The dogma, though new in the Church of England, was of great antiquity. See, on its origin among the early Christians, _Klimrath_, _Hist. du Droit_, vol. i. p. 253. [987] The spread of Arminianism was frequently noticed in Parliament during the reign of Charles I. _Parl. Hist._ vol. ii. pp. 444, 452, 455, 470, 484, 487, 491, 660, 947, 1368. On the decline of Calvinism at the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge early in the seventeenth century, see a curious letter from Beale, in _Boyle's Works_, vol. v. p. 483; and on this movement in the church after Elizabeth, compare _Yonge's Diary_, p. 93, edit. Camden Soc. 1848; _Orme's Life of Owen_, p. 32; _Harris's Lives of the Stuarts_, vol. i. pp. 154-156, vol. ii. pp. 208, 213, 214; _Hutchinson's Mem._ pp. 66, 77; _Hallam's Const. Hist._ vol. i. p. 466; _Des Maizeaux's Life of Chillingworth_, p. 112. [988] Respecting the Calvinism of the opponents of the king, see _Clarendon's Rebellion_, pp. 36, 37; _Bulstrode's Memoirs_, pp. 8, 9; _Burton's Diary_, vol. iii. p. 206; _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. i. p. 68; and on its influence in the House of Commons in 1628, _Carwithen's Hist. of the Church of England_, vol. ii. p. 64. This different tendency of these two creeds is so clearly marked, that an inquiry into its causes becomes a necessary part of general history, and as we shall presently see, is intimately connected with the history of the French Revolution. The first circumstance by which we must be struck is, that Calvinism is a doctrine for the poor, and Arminianism for the rich. A creed which insists upon the necessity of faith, must be less costly than one which insists upon the necessity of works. In the former case, the sinner seeks salvation by the strength of his belief; in the latter case, he seeks it by the fullness of his contributions. And as those contributions, wherever the clergy have much power, always flow in the same direction, we find that in countries which favour the Arminian doctrine of works, the priests are better paid, and the churches more richly ornamented, than they are where Calvinism has the upper hand. Indeed it is evident to the most vulgar calculation, that a religion which concentrates our charity upon ourselves, is less expensive than one which directs our charity to others. This is the first great practical divergence of the two creeds: a divergence which may be verified by any one who is acquainted with the histories of different Christian nations, or who has even travelled in countries where the different tenets are professed. It is also observable, that the Church of Rome, whose worship is addressed mainly to the senses, and who delights in splendid cathedrals and pompous ceremonies, has always displayed against the Calvinists an animosity far greater than she has done against any other Protestant sect.[989] [989] M Heber (_Life of Jeremy Taylor_, p. cxx.) says, that Calvinism is 'a system of all others the least attractive to the feelings of a Roman Catholic.' Philip II., the great Catholic champion, especially hated the Calvinists, and in one of his edicts called their sect 'détestable,' _De Thou_, _Hist._ vol. x. p. 705: compare vol. xi. p. 458. To give an earlier instance; when the Roman inquisition was revived in 1542, it was ordered that heretics, and in particular Calvinists, should not be tolerated: 'besonders Calvinisten.' _Ranke_, _Die Päpste_, vol. i. p. 211. Out of these circumstances, inevitably arose the aristocratic tendency of Arminianism, and the democratic tendency of Calvinism. The people love pomp and pageantry as much as the nobles do, but they do not love to pay for them. Their untutored minds are easily captivated by the array of a numerous priesthood, and by the gorgeousness of a well-appointed temple. Still, they know full well that these things absorb a large part of that wealth which would otherwise flow into their own cottages. On the other hand, the aristocracy, by their standing, their habits, and the traditions of their education, naturally contract a taste for expense, which makes them unite splendour with religion, and connect pomp with piety. Besides this, they have an intuitive and well-founded belief that their own interests are associated with the interests of the priesthood, and that whatever weakens the one will hasten the downfall of the other. Hence it is, that every Christian democracy has simplified its external worship; every Christian aristocracy has embellished it. By a parity of reasoning, the more any society tends to equality, the more likely it is that its theological opinions will be Calvinistic; while the more a society tends towards inequality, the greater the probability of those opinions being Arminian. It would be easy to push this contrast still further, and to show that Calvinism is more favourable to the sciences, Arminianism to the arts;[990] and that, on the same principle, the first is better suited to thinkers, the other to scholars.[991] But without pretending to trace the whole of this divergence, it is very important to observe, that the professors of the former religion are more likely to acquire habits of independent thinking than those of the latter. And this on two distinct grounds. In the first place, even the most ordinary of the Calvinistic party are, by the very terms of their creed, led, in religious matters, to fix their attention on their own minds rather than on the minds of others. They, therefore, as a body, are intellectually more narrow than their opponents, but less servile; their views, though generalized from a smaller field, are more independent; they are less attached to antiquity, and more heedless of those traditions to which the Arminian scholars attach great importance. In the second place, those who associate metaphysics with their religion are led by Calvinism into the doctrine of necessity;[992] a theory which, though often misunderstood, is pregnant with great truths, and is better calculated than any other system to develop the intellect, because it involves that clear conception of law, the attainment of which is the highest point the human understanding can reach. [990] By way of illustrating this, I may mention, that an intelligent observer, who travelled all through Germany, remarked, in 1780, that the Calvinists, though richer than their opponents, had less taste for the arts. _Riesbeck's Travels through Germany_, London, 1787, vol. ii. p. 240. An interesting passage; in which, however, the author has shown himself unable to generalize the facts which he indicates. [991] The Arminians have had among them many men of great learning, particularly of patristic learning; but the most profound thinkers have been on the other side, as in the instances of Augustin, Pascal, and Jonathan Edwards. To these Calvinistic metaphysicians the Arminian party can oppose no one of equal ability; and it is remarkable, that the Jesuits, by far the most zealous Arminians in the Romish Church, have always been celebrated for their erudition, but have paid so little attention to the study of the mind, that, as Sir James Mackintosh says (_Dissert. on Ethical Philos._ p. 185), Buffier is 'the only Jesuit whose name has a place in the history of abstract philosophy.' And it is interesting to observe, that this superiority of thought on the part of the Calvinists, accompanied by an inferiority of learning, existed from the beginning; for Neander (_History of the Church_, vol. iv. p. 299) remarks, that Pelagius 'was not possessed of the profound speculative spirit which we find in Augustin,' but that 'in learning he was Augustin's superior.' [992] 'A philosophical necessity, grounded on the idea of God's foreknowledge, has been supported by theologians of the Calvinistic school, more or less rigidly, throughout the whole of the present century.' _Morell's Speculative Philosophy of Europe_, 1846, vol. i. p. 366. Indeed, this tendency is so natural, that we find the doctrine of necessity, or something extremely like it, laid down by Augustin. See the interesting extracts in _Neander's History of the Church_, vol. vi. pp. 424, 425; where, however, a loophole is left to let in the idea of interference, or at all events of superintendence. These considerations will enable the reader to see the immense importance of that revival of Jansenism, which took place in the French church during the eighteenth century. For, Jansenism being essentially Calvinistic,[993] those tendencies appeared in France by which Calvinism is marked. There appeared the inquisitive, democratic, and insubordinate spirit, which has always accompanied that creed. A further confirmation of the truth of the principles just laid down is, that Jansenism originated with a native of the Dutch Republic;[994] that it was introduced into France during the glimpse of freedom which preceded the power of Louis XIV.;[995] that it was forcibly repressed in his arbitrary reign;[996] and that before the middle of the eighteenth century, it again arose, as the natural product of a state of society by which the French Revolution was brought about. [993] 'The five principal tenets of Jansenism, which amount in fact to the doctrine of Calvin.' _Palmer on the Church_, vol. i. p. 320; and see the remarks of Mackintosh in his _Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 411. According to the Jesuits, 'Paulus genuit Augustinum, Augustinus Calvinum, Calvinus Jansenium, Jansenius Sancryanum, Sancryanus Arnaldum et fratres ejus.' _Des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. iv. pp. 71, 72. Compare _Huetius de Rebus ad eum pertinentibus_, p. 64: 'Jansenium dogmata sua ex Calvinianis fontibus derivasse.' [994] Jansenius was born in a village near Leerdam, and was educated, if I mistake not, in Utrecht. [995] The introduction of Jansenism into France is superficially related by Duvernet (_Hist. de la Sorbonne_, vol. ii. pp. 170-175); but the reader will find a contemporary and highly characteristic account in _Mém. de Motteville_, vol. ii. pp. 224-227. The connexion between it and the spirit of insubordination was remarked at the time; and Des Réaux, who wrote in the middle of the seventeenth century, mentions an opinion that the Fronde 'étoit venue du Jansénisme.' _Historiettes_, vol. iv. p. 72. Omer Talon too says that, in 1648, 'il se trouvoit que tous ceux qui étoient de cette opinion n'aimoient pas le gouvernement présent de l'état,' _Mém. d'Omer Talon_, vol. ii. pp. 280, 281. [996] Brienne, who knew Louis XIV. personally, says, 'Jansénisme, l'horreur du roi.' _Mém. de Brienne_, vol. ii. p. 240. Compare _Duclos_, _Mém. Secrets_, vol. i. p. 112. At the end of his reign he promoted a bishop on the avowed ground of his opposition to the Jansenists; this was in 1713. _Lettres inédites de Maintenon_, vol. ii. pp. 396, 406; and see further vol. i. pp. 220, 222. The connexion between the revival of Jansenism and the destruction of the Jesuits, is obvious. After the death of Louis XIV., the Jansenists rapidly gained ground, even in the Sorbonne;[997] and by the middle of the eighteenth century, they had organized a powerful party in the French parliament.[998] About the same period, their influence began to show itself in the executive government, and among the officers of the crown. Machault, who held the important post of controller-general, was known to favour their opinions;[999] and a few years after his retirement, Choiseul was called to the head of affairs; a man of considerable ability, by whom they were openly protected.[1000] Their views were likewise supported by Laverdy, controller-general in 1764, and by Terray, controller of finances in 1769.[1001] The procureur-general, Gilbert des Voisins, was a Jansenist;[1002] so also was one of his successors, Chauvelin;[1003] and so was the advocate-general Pelletier de Saint-Fargeau;[1004] and so too was Camus, the well-known advocate of the clergy.[1005] Turgot, the greatest statesman of the age, is said to have embraced the same opinions;[1006] while Necker, who on two different occasions possessed almost supreme power, was notoriously a rigid Calvinist. To this may be added, that not only Necker, but also Rousseau, to whom a large share in causing the Revolution is justly ascribed, were born in Geneva, and drew their earliest ideas from that great nursery of the Calvinistic theology. [997] 'La Sorbonne, moliniste sous Louis XIV, fut janséniste sous le régent, et toujours divisée.' _Duvernet_, _Hist. de la Sorbonne_, vol. ii. p. 225. [998] On the strength of the Jansenists in the parliament of Paris, see _Tocqueville_, _Règne de Louis XV_, vol. i. p. 352, vol. ii. p. 176; _Flassan_, _Diplomatie_, vol. vi. p. 486; _Mém. de Georgel_, vol. ii. p. 262; _Mém. de Bouillé_, vol. i. p. 67; _Palmer's Treatise on the Church_, vol. i. pp. 327, 328. [999] _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. p. 439. [1000] _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. i. pp. 31, 145. [1001] _Tocqueville_, _Règne de Louis XV_, vol. ii. p. 385; _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. liv. p. 275; _Mém. de Georgel_, vol. i. pp. 49-51. [1002] _Duvernet_, _Vie de Voltaire_, p. 90. [1003] _Lacretelle_, _XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 119; _Lavallée_, vol. iii. p. 477. [1004] _Mém. de Georgel_, vol. i. p. 57. [1005] _La Fayette_, _Mém._ vol. ii. p. 53; _Dumont_, _Souvenirs_, p. 154; _Georgel_, vol. ii. p. 353, vol. iii. p. 10. [1006] _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. iii. p. 137. In such a state of things as this, it was impossible that a body like the Jesuits should hold their ground. They were the last defenders of authority and tradition, and it was natural that they should fall in an age when statesmen were sceptics, and theologians were Calvinists. Even the people had already marked them for destruction; and when Damiens, in 1757, attempted to assassinate the king, it was generally believed that they were the instigators of the act.[1007] This we now know to be false; but the existence of such a rumour is evidence of the state of the popular mind. At all events, the doom of the Jesuits was fixed. In April 1761, parliament ordered their constitutions to be laid before them.[1008] In August, they were forbidden to receive novices, their colleges were closed, and a number of their most celebrated works were publicly burned by the common hangman.[1009] Finally, in 1762, another edict appeared, by which the Jesuits were condemned without even being heard in their own defence;[1010] their property was directed to be sold, and their order secularized; they were declared 'unfit to be admitted into a well-governed country,' and their institute and society were formally abolished.[1011] [1007] 'The Jesuits are charged by the vulgar as promoters of that attempt.' Letter from Stanley, written in 1761, in _Chatham Correspond._ vol. ii. p. 127. Compare _Campan_, _Mém. de Marie Antoinette_, vol. iii. pp. 19, 21; _Sismondi_, _Hist. des Franç._ vol. xxix. pp. 111, 227. [1008] _Lavallée_, _Hist. des Français_, vol. iii. p. 476. [1009] _Flassan_, _Diplomatie Franç._ vol. vi. p. 491. [1010] 'Sans que les accusés eussent été entendus.' _Lavallée_, vol. iii. p. 477. 'Pas un seul n'a été entendu dans leur cause.' _Barruel sur l'Hist. du Jacobinisme_, vol. ii. p. 264. [1011] _Lavallée_, iii. p. 477; _Flassan_, vi. pp. 504, 505; _Sismondi_, xxix. p. 234; and the letters written by Diderot, who, though he was in Paris at the time, gives rather an incomplete account, _Mém. de Diderot_, vol. ii. pp. 127, 130-132. Such was the way in which this great society, long the terror of the world, fell before the pressure of public opinion. What makes its fall the more remarkable, is, that the pretext which was alleged to justify the examination of its constitutions, was one so slight, that no former government would have listened to it for a single moment. This immense spiritual corporation was actually tried by a temporal court for ill faith in a mercantile transaction, and for refusing to pay a sum of money said to be due![1012] The most important body in the Catholic church, the spiritual leaders of France, the educators of her youth, and the confessors of her kings, were brought to the bar, and sued in their collective capacity, for the fraudulent repudiation of a common debt![1013] So marked was the predisposition of affairs, that it was not found necessary to employ for the destruction of the Jesuits any of those arts by which the popular mind is commonly inflamed. The charge upon which they were sentenced, was not that they had plotted against the state; nor that they had corrupted the public morals; nor that they wished to subvert religion. These were the accusations which were brought in the seventeenth century, and which suited the genius of that age. But in the eighteenth century, all that was required was some trifling accident, that might serve as a pretence to justify what the nation had already determined. To ascribe, therefore, this great event to the bankruptcy of a trader, or the intrigues of a mistress,[1014] is to confuse the cause of an act with the pretext under which the act is committed. In the eyes of the men of the eighteenth century, the real crime of the Jesuits was, that they belonged to the past rather than to the present, and that by defending the abuses of ancient establishments, they obstructed the progress of mankind. They stood in the way of the age, and the age swept them from its path. This was the real cause of their abolition: a cause not likely to be perceived by those writers, who, under the guise of historians, are only collectors of the prattle and gossip of courts; and who believe that the destinies of great nations can be settled in the ante-chambers of ministers, and in the councils of kings. [1012] _Flassan_, _Hist. de la Diplomatie_, vol. vi. pp. 486-488. [1013] 'Enfin ils furent mis en cause, et le parlement de Paris eut l'étonnement et la joie de voir les jésuites amenés devant lui comme de vils banqueroutiers.' _Lacretelle_, _XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 252. 'Condemned in France as fraudulent traders.' _Schlosser's Eighteenth Century_, vol. iv. p. 451. [1014] Several writers attribute the destruction of the Jesuits to the exertions of Madame de Pompadour! After the fall of the Jesuits, there seemed to be nothing remaining which could save the French church from immediate destruction.[1015] The old theological spirit had been for some time declining, and the clergy were suffering from their own decay even more than from the attacks made upon them. The advance of knowledge was producing in France the same results as those which I have pointed out in England; and the increasing attractions of science drew off many illustrious men, who in a preceding age would have been active members of the spiritual profession. That splendid eloquence, for which the French clergy had been remarkable, was now dying away, and there were no longer heard the voices of those great orators, at whose bidding the temples had formerly been filled.[1016] Massillon was the last of that celebrated race who had so enthralled the mind, and the magic of whose fascination it is even now hard to withstand. He died in 1742; and after him the French clergy possessed no eminent men of any kind, neither thinkers, nor orators, nor writers.[1017] Nor did there seem the least possibility of their recovering their lost position. While society was advancing they were receding. All the sources of their power were dried up. They had no active leaders; they had lost the confidence of government; they had forfeited the respect of the people; they had become a mark for the gibes of the age.[1018] [1015] Choiseul is reported to have said of the Jesuits: 'leur éducation détruite, tous les autres corps religieux tomberont d'eux-mêmes.' _Barruel_, _Hist. du Jacobinisme_, vol. i. p. 63. [1016] In 1771, Horace Walpole writes from Paris that the churches and convents were become so empty, as to 'appear like abandoned theatres destined to destruction;' and this he contrasts with his former experience of a different state of things. _Walpole's Letters_, vol. v. p. 310, edit. 1840. [1017] 'So low had the talents of the once illustrious church of France fallen, that in the latter part of the eighteenth century, when Christianity itself was assailed, not one champion of note appeared in its ranks; and when the convocation of the clergy, in 1770, published their famous anathema against the dangers of unbelief, and offered rewards for the best essays in defence of the Christian faith, the productions called forth were so despicable that they sensibly injured the cause of religion.' _Alison's Hist. of Europe_, vol. i. pp. 180, 181. [1018] In 1766, the Rev. William Cole writes to Alban Butler: 'I travelled to Paris through Lille and Cambray in their public voitures, and was greatly scandalized and amazed at the open and unreserved disrespect, both of the trading and military people, for their clergy and religious establishment. When I got to Paris, it was much worse.' _Ellis's Original Letters_, second series, vol. iv. p. 485. See also _Walpole's Letters to Lady Ossory_, vol. ii. p. 513, edit. 1848; and the complaint made at Besançon in 1761, in _Lepan_, _Vie de Voltaire_, p. 113. It does, at first sight, seem strange that, under these circumstances, the French clergy should have been able, for nearly thirty years after the abolition of the Jesuits, to maintain their standing, so as to interfere with impunity in public affairs.[1019] The truth, however, is, that this temporary reprieve of the ecclesiastical order was owing to that movement which I have already noticed, and by virtue of which the French intellect, during the latter half of the eighteenth century, changed the ground of its attack, and, directing its energies against political abuses, neglected in some degree those spiritual abuses to which its attention had been hitherto confined. The result was, that in France the government enforced a policy which the great thinkers had indeed originated, but respecting which they were becoming less eager. The most eminent Frenchmen were beginning their attacks upon the state, and in the heat of their new warfare they slackened their opposition to the church. But in the mean time, the seeds they had sown germinated in the state itself. So rapid was the march of affairs, that those anti-ecclesiastical opinions which, a few years earlier, were punished as the paradoxes of designing men, were now taken up and put into execution by senators and ministers. The rulers of France carried into effect principles which had hitherto been simply a matter of theory; and thus it happened, as is always the case, that practical statesmen only apply and work out ideas which have long before been suggested by more advanced thinkers. [1019] And also to retain their immense property, which, when the Revolution occurred, was estimated at 80,000,000_l._ English money, bringing in a yearly revenue of 'somewhat under 75,000,000 francs.' _Alison's Europe_, vol. i. p. 183, vol. ii. p. 20, vol. xiv. pp. 122, 123. Hence it followed, that at no period during the eighteenth century did the speculative classes and practical classes thoroughly combine against the church: since, in the first half of the century, the clergy were principally assailed by the literature, and not by the government; in the latter half of the century, by the government, and not by the literature. Some of the circumstances of this singular transition have been already stated, and I hope clearly brought before the mind of the reader. I now purpose to complete the generalization, by proving that a corresponding change was taking place in all other branches of inquiry; and that, while in the first period attention was chiefly directed towards mental phenomena, it was in the second period more directed towards physical phenomena. From this, the political movement received a vast accession of strength. For the French intellect, shifting the scene of its labours, diverted the thoughts of men from the internal to the external, and concentrating attention upon their material rather than upon their spiritual wants, turned against the encroachments of the state an hostility formerly reserved for the encroachments of the church. Whenever a tendency arises to prefer what comes from without to what comes from within, and thus to aggrandize matter at the expense of mind, there will also be a tendency to believe that an institution which hampers our opinions is less hurtful than one which controls our acts. Precisely in the same way, men who reject the fundamental truths of religion, will care little for the extent to which those truths are perverted. Men who deny the existence of the Deity and the immortality of the soul, will take no heed of the way in which a gross and formal worship obscures those sublime doctrines. All the idolatry, all the ceremonials, all the pomp, all the dogmas, and all the traditions by which religion is retarded, will give them no disquietude, because they consider the opinions that are checked to be equally false with those that are favoured. Why should they, to whom transcendental truths are unknown, labour to remove the superstitions which darken the truths? Such a generation, so far from attacking ecclesiastical usurpations, would rather look on the clergy as convenient tools to ensnare the ignorant and control the vulgar. Therefore it is that we rarely hear of a sincere atheist being a zealous polemic. But if that should occur, which a century ago occurred in France; if it should happen that men of great energy, and actuated by the feelings I have described, were to find themselves in the presence of a political despotism,--they would direct against it the whole of their powers; and they would act with the more determined vigour, because, believing that their all was at stake, temporal happiness would be to them not only the first, but also the sole consideration. It is from this point of view that the progress of those atheistical opinions, which now rose in France, becomes a matter of great though painful interest. And the date at which they appeared, fully corroborates what I have just said respecting the change that took place in the middle of the eighteenth century. The first great work in which they were openly promulgated, was the celebrated Encyclopædia, published in 1751.[1020] Before that time such degrading opinions, though occasionally broached, were not held by any men of ability; nor could they in the preceding state of society have made much impression upon the age. But during the latter half of the eighteenth century, they affected every department of French literature. Between 1758 and 1770, atheistical tenets rapidly gained ground;[1021] and in 1770 was published the famous work, called the _System of Nature_; the success, and, unhappily, the ability of which, makes its appearance an important epoch in the history of France. Its popularity was immense;[1022] and the views it contains are so clearly and methodically arranged, as to have earned for it the name of the code of atheism.[1023] Five years later, the Archbishop of Toulouse, in a formal address to the king on behalf of the clergy, declared that atheism had now become the prevailing opinion.[1024] This, like all similar assertions, must have been an exaggeration; but that there was a large amount of truth in it, is known to whoever has studied the mental habits of the generation immediately preceding the Revolution. Among the inferior class of writers, Damilaville, Deleyre, Maréchal, Naigeon, Toussaint, were active supporters of that cold and gloomy dogma, which, in order to extinguish the hope of a future life, blots out from the mind of man the glorious instincts of his own immortality.[1025] And, strange to say, several even of the higher intellects were unable to escape the contagion. Atheism was openly advocated by Condorcet, by D'Alembert, by Diderot, by Helvétius, by Lalande, by Laplace, by Mirabeau, and by Saint Lambert.[1026] Indeed, so thoroughly did all this harmonize with the general temper, that in society men boasted of what, in other countries, and in other days, has been a rare and singular error, an eccentric taint, which those affected by it were willing to conceal. In 1764 Hume met, at the house of Baron d'Holbach, a party of the most celebrated Frenchmen then residing in Paris. The great Scotchman, who was no doubt aware of the prevailing opinion, took occasion to raise an argument as to the existence of an atheist, properly so called; for his own part, he said, he had never chanced to meet with one. 'You have been somewhat unfortunate,' replied Holbach; 'but at the present moment you are sitting at table with seventeen of them.'[1027] [1020] M. Barante (_Littérature Française au XVIII^e Siècle_, p. 94) says, 'On arriva bientôt à tout nier; déjà l'incrédulité avait rejeté les preuves divines de la révélation, et avait abjuré les devoirs et les souvenirs chrétiens; on vit alors l'athéisme lever un front plus hardi, et proclamer que tout sentiment religieux était une rêverie et un désordre de l'esprit humain. C'est de l'époque de l'Encyclopédie que datent les écrits où cette opinion est le plus expressément professée. Ils furent peu imités.' This last sentence is erroneous, I am sorry to say. [1021] 'Dans un intervalle de douze années, de 1758 à 1770, la littérature française fut souillée par un grand nombre d'ouvrages où l'athéisme étoit ouvertement professé.' _Lacretelle_, _XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. ii. p. 310. [1022] Voltaire, who wrote against it, mentions its diffusion among all classes, and says it was read by 'des savants, des ignorants, des femmes.' _Dict. Philos._ article _Dieu_, section iv., in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_, vol. xxxviii. p. 366: see also vol. lxvii. p. 260; _Longchamp et Wagnière_, _Mém. sur Voltaire_, vol. i. pp. 13, 334; _Lettres inédites de Voltaire_, vol. ii. pp. 210, 216; and a letter from him in _Correspond. de Dudeffand_, vol. ii. p. 329. Compare _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. xi. p. 320: 'mit ungetheiltem Beifalle aufgenommen worden und grossen Einfluss gehabt hat.' [1023] 'Le code monstrueux d'athéisme.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxix. p. 88. Morellet, who in such matters was by no means a harsh judge, says, '_Le Système de la Nature_, surtout, est un catéchisme d'athéisme complet.' _Mém. de Morellet_, vol. i. p. 133. Stäudlin (_Gesch. der theolog. Wissenschaften_, vol. ii. p. 440) calls it 'ein System des entschiedenen Atheismus:' while Tennemann, who has given by far the best account of it I have met with, says, 'Es machte bei seinem Erscheinen gewaltiges Aufsehen, und ist fast immer als das Handbuch des Atheismus betrachtet worden.' _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. xi. p. 349. [1024] 'Le monstrueux athéisme est devenu l'opinion dominante.' _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. iii. p. 16: the address of the archbishop with a deputation, 'muni des pouvoirs de l'assemblée générale du clergé,' in September 1775. [1025] _Biog. Univ._ vol. x. pp. 471, 669, vol. xxvii. p. 8, vol. xxx. p. 542; _Mém. de Brissot_, vol. i. p. 305; _Tocqueville_, _Règne de Louis XV_, vol. ii. p. 77. [1026] _Mem. of Mallet du Pan_, vol. i. p. 50; _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. v. p. 127; _Barruel_, _Hist. du Jacobin._, vol. i. pp. 104, 135, 225, vol. ii. p. 23, vol. iii. p. 200; _Life of Romilly_, vol. i. pp. 46, 145; _Stäudlin_, _Theolog. Wissenschaften_, vol. ii. p. 440; _Georgel_, _Mém._ vol. ii. pp. 250, 350; _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. xv. p. 87; _Mém. de Morellet_, vol. i. p. 130; _Lepan_, _Vie de Voltaire_, p. 369; _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. xi. p. 350; _Musset Pathay_, _Vie de Rousseau_, vol. ii. pp. 177, 297; _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. v. p. 180; _Hitchcock's Geol._ p. 263; _Mém. d'Epinay_, vol. ii. pp. 63, 66, 76. [1027] This was related to Romilly by Diderot. _Life of Romilly_, vol. i. pp. 131, 132: see also _Burton's Life of Hume_, vol. ii. pp. 220. Priestley, who visited France in 1774, says, that 'all the philosophical persons to whom I was introduced at Paris (were) unbelievers in Christianity, and even professed atheists.' _Priestley's Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 74. See also a letter by Horace Walpole, written from Paris in 1765 (_Walpole's Letters_, edit. 1840, vol. v. p. 96): 'their avowed doctrine is atheism.' This, sad as it is, only forms a single aspect of that immense movement, by which, during the latter half of the eighteenth century, the French intellect was withdrawn from the study of the internal, and concentrated upon that of the external world. Of this tendency, we find an interesting instance in the celebrated work of Helvétius, unquestionably the ablest and most influential treatise on morals which France produced at this period. It was published in 1758;[1028] and, although it bears the title of an essay on 'the Mind,' it does not contain a single passage from which we could infer that the mind, in the sense in which the word is commonly used, has any existence. In this work, which, during fifty years, was the code of French morals, principles are laid down which bear exactly the same relation to ethics that atheism bears to theology. Helvétius, at the beginning of his inquiry, assumes, as an incontestable fact, that the difference between man and other animals is the result of a difference in their external form; and that if, for example, our wrists, instead of ending with hands and flexible fingers, had merely ended like a horse's foot, we should have always remained wanderers on the face of the earth, ignorant of every art, entirely defenceless, and having no other concern but to avoid the attacks of wild beasts, and find the needful supply of our daily food.[1029] That the structure of our bodies is the sole cause of our boasted superiority, becomes evident, when we consider that our thoughts are simply the product of two faculties, which we have in common with all other animals; namely, the faculty of receiving impressions from external objects, and the faculty of remembering those impressions after they are received.[1030] From this, says Helvétius, it follows, that the internal powers of man being the same as those of all other animals, our sensibility and our memory would be useless, if it were not for those external peculiarities by which we are eminently distinguished, and to which we owe every thing that is most valuable.[1031] These positions being laid down, it is easy to deduce all the essential principles of moral actions. For, memory being merely one of the organs of physical sensibility,[1032] and judgment being only a sensation,[1033] all notions of duty and of virtue must be tested by their relation to the senses; in other words, by the gross amount of physical enjoyment to which they give rise. This is the true basis of moral philosophy. To take any other view, is to allow ourselves to be deceived by conventional expressions, which have no foundation except in the prejudices of ignorant men. Our vices and our virtues are solely the result of our passions; and our passions are caused by our physical sensibility to pain and to pleasure.[1034] It was in this way that the sense of justice first arose. To physical sensibility men owe pleasure and pain; hence the feeling of their own interests, and hence the desire of living together in societies. Being assembled in society, there grew up the notion of a general interest, since, without it, society could not hold together; and, as actions are only just or unjust in proportion as they minister to this general interest, a measure was established, by which justice is discriminated from injustice.[1035] With the same inflexible spirit, and with great fullness of illustration, Helvétius examines the origin of those other feelings which regulate human actions. Thus, he says that both ambition and friendship are entirely the work of physical sensibility. Men yearn after fame, on account either of the pleasure which they expect the mere possession of it will give, or else as the means of subsequently procuring other pleasures.[1036] As to friendship, the only use of it is to increase our pleasures or mitigate our pains; and it is with this object that a man longs to hold communion with his friend.[1037] Beyond this, life has nothing to offer. To love what is good for the sake of the goodness, is as impossible as to love what is bad for the sake of the evil.[1038] The mother who weeps for the loss of her child, is solely actuated by selfishness; she mourns because a pleasure is taken from her, and because she sees a void difficult to fill up.[1039] So it is, that the loftiest virtues, as well as the meanest vices, are equally caused by the pleasure we find in the exercise of them.[1040] This is the great mover and originator of all. Every thing that we have, and every thing that we are, we owe to the external world; nor is Man himself aught else except what he is made by the objects which surround him.[1041] [1028] _Biog. Univ._ vol. xx. p. 29. [1029] 'Si la nature, au lieu de mains et de doigts flexibles, eût terminé nos poignets par un pied de cheval; qui doute que les hommes, sans art, sans habitations, sans défense contre les animaux, tout occupés du soin de pourvoir à leur nourriture et d'éviter les bêtes féroces, ne fussent encore errants dans les forêts comme des troupeaux fugitifs?' _Helvétius_, _De l'Esprit_, vol. i. p. 2. Had Helvétius ever read the attack of Aristotle against Anaxagoras for asserting that [Greek: dia to cheiroas echein, phronimôtaton einai tôn zôôn ton anthrôpon]? _Cudworth_, _Intellect. Syst._ vol. iii. p. 311. [1030] _De l'Esprit_, vol. i. p. 2. [1031] _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 4. [1032] 'En effet la mémoire ne peut être qu'un des organes de la sensibilité physique.' vol. i. p. 6. Compare what M. Lepelletier says on this, in his _Physiologie Médicale_, vol. iii. p. 272. [1033] 'D'où je conclus que tout jugement n'est qu'une sensation.' _De l'Esprit_, vol. i. p. 10; '_juger_, comme je l'ai déjà prouvé, n'est proprement que _sentir_.' p. 41. [1034] 'Né sensible à la douleur et au plaisir, c'est à la sensibilité physique que l'homme doit ses passions; et à ses passions, qu'il doit tous ses vices et toutes ses vertus.' _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 53; and see vol. i. p. 239. [1035] 'Une fois parvenu à cette vérité, je découvre facilement la source des vertus humaines; je voie que sans la sensibilité à la douleur et au plaisir physique, les hommes, sans désirs, sans passions, également indifférents à tout, n'eussent point connu d'intérêt personnel; que sans intérêt personnel ils ne se fussent point rassemblés en société, n'eussent point fait entr'eux de conventions, qu'il n'y eût point eu d'intérêt général, par conséquent point d'actions justes ou injustes; et qu'ainsi la sensibilité physique et l'intérêt personnel ont été les auteurs de toute justice.' _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 278. [1036] _De l'Esprit_, vol. ii. pp. 19, 20, 30, 34, 293, 294, 318. Compare Epicurus, in _Diog. Laert. de Vit. Philos._ lib. x. seg. 120, vol. i. p. 654. [1037] _De l'Esprit_, vol. ii. p. 45. He sums up: 'il s'ensuit que l'amitié, ainsi que l'avarice, l'orgueil, l'ambition et les autres passions, est l'effet immédiat de la sensibilité physique.' [1038] 'Il lui est aussi impossible d'aimer le bien pour le bien, que d'aimer le mal pour le mal.' _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 73. [1039] _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 249. [1040] _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 58. [1041] 'Nous sommes uniquement ce que nous font les objets qui nous environnent.' _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 306. The views put forward in this celebrated work I have stated at some length; not so much on account of the ability with which they are advocated, as on account of the clue they furnish to the movements of a most remarkable age. Indeed, so completely did they harmonize with the prevailing tendencies, that they not only quickly obtained for their author a vast European reputation,[1042] but, during many years, they continued to increase in influence, and, in France in particular, they exercised great sway.[1043] As that was the country in which they arose, so also was it the country to which they were best adapted. Madame Dudeffand, who passed her long life in the midst of French society, and was one of the keenest observers of her time, has expressed this with great happiness. The work of Helvétius, she says, is popular, since he is the man who has told to all their own secret.[1044] [1042] Saint Surin, a zealous opponent of Helvétius, admits that 'les étrangers les plus éminents par leurs dignités ou par leurs lumières, désiraient d'être introduits chez un philosophe dont le nom retentissait dans toute l'Europe.' _Biog. Univ._ vol. xx. p. 33. [1043] Brissot (_Mémoires_, vol. i. p. 339) says, that in 1775, 'le système d'Helvétius avait alors la plus grande vogue.' Turgot, who wrote against it, complains that it was praised 'avec une sorte de fureur' (_[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol. ix. p. 297); and Georgel (_Mémoires_, vol. ii. p. 256) says, 'ce livre, écrit avec un style plein de chaleur et d'images, se trouvoit sur toutes les toilettes.' [1044] 'D'ailleurs le siècle de Louis XV se reconnut dans l'ouvrage d'Helvétius, et on prête à Mme. Dudeffand ce mot fin et profond: "C'est un homme qui a dit le secret de tout le monde."' _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philos._ I. série, vol. iii. p. 201. Compare _Corresp. de Dudeffand_, vol. i. p. xxii.; and a similar sentiment in _Mém. de Roland_, vol. i. p. 104. The relation of Helvétius's work to the prevailing philosophy is noticed in _Comte's Philos. Pos._ vol. iii. pp. 791, 792. vol. v. pp. 744, 745. True it was, that, to the contemporaries of Helvétius, his views, notwithstanding their immense popularity, bore the appearance of a secret; because the connexion between them and the general march of events was, as yet, but dimly perceived. To us, however, who, after this interval of time, can examine the question with the resources of a larger experience, it is obvious how such a system met the wants of an age of which it was the exponent and the mouthpiece. That Helvétius must have carried with him the sympathies of his countrymen, is clear, not only from the evidence we have of his success, but also from a more comprehensive view of the general complexion of those times. Even while he was still pursuing his labours, and only four years before he published them, a work appeared in France, which, though displaying greater ability, and possessing a higher influence than that of Helvétius, did, nevertheless, point in exactly the same direction. I allude to the great metaphysical treatise by Condillac, in many respects one of the most remarkable productions of the eighteenth century; and the authority of which, during two generations, was so irresistible, that, without some acquaintance with it, we cannot possibly understand the nature of those complicated movements by which the French Revolution was brought about. In 1754,[1045] Condillac put forth his celebrated work on the mind; the very title of which was a proof of the bias with which it was written. Although this profound thinker aimed at nothing less than an exhaustive analysis of the human faculties, and although he is pronounced by a very able, but hostile critic, to be the only metaphysician France produced during the eighteenth century,[1046] still he found it utterly impossible to escape from those tendencies towards the external which governed his own age. The consequence was, that he called his work a 'Treatise on Sensations;'[1047] and in it he peremptorily asserts, that every thing we know is the result of sensation; by which he means the effect produced on us by the action of the external world. Whatever may be thought of the accuracy of this opinion, there can be no doubt that it is enforced with a closeness and severity of reasoning which deserves the highest praise. To examine, however, the arguments by which his view is supported, would lead to a discussion foreign to my present object, which is, merely to point out the relation between his philosophy and the general temper of his contemporaries. Without, therefore, pretending to anything like a critical examination of this celebrated book, I will simply bring together the essential positions on which it is based, in order to illustrate the harmony between it and the intellectual habits of the age in which it appeared.[1048] [1045] _Biog. Univ._ vol. ix. p. 399. [1046] 'Condillac est le métaphysicien français du XVIII^e siècle.' _Cousin_, _Hist. de la Philos._ I. série, vol. iii. p. 83. [1047] 'Traité des Sensations,' which, as M. Cousin says, is, 'sans comparaison, le chef-d'[oe]uvre de Condillac.' _Hist. de la Philos._ II. série, vol. ii. p. 77. [1048] On the immense influence of Condillac, compare _Renouard_, _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. ii. p. 355; _Cuvier_, _Eloges_, vol. iii. p. 387; _Broussais_, _Cours de Phrénologie_, pp. 45, 68-71, 829; _Pinel_, _Alién. Mentale_, p. 94; _Brown's Philos. of the Mind_, p. 212. The materials from which the philosophy of Condillac was originally drawn, were contained in the great work published by Locke about sixty years before this time. But though much of what was most essential was borrowed from the English philosopher, there was one very important point in which the disciple differed from his master. And this difference is strikingly characteristic of the direction which the French intellect was now taking. Locke, with some looseness of expression, and possibly with some looseness of thought, had asserted the separate existence of a power of reflection, and had maintained that by means of that power the products of sensation became available.[1049] Condillac, moved by the prevailing temper of his own time, would not hear of such a distinction. He, like most of his contemporaries, was jealous of any claim which increased the authority of the internal, and weakened that of the external. He, therefore, altogether rejects the faculty of reflection as a source of our ideas; and this partly because it is but the channel through which ideas run from the senses, and partly because in its origin it is itself a sensation.[1050] Therefore, according to him, the only question is as to the way in which our contact with nature supplies us with ideas. For in this scheme, the faculties of man are solely caused by the operation of his senses. The judgments which we form are, says Condillac, often ascribed to the hand of the Deity; a convenient mode of reasoning, which has only arisen from the difficulty of analyzing them.[1051] By considering how our judgments actually arise, we can alone remove these obscurities. The fact is, that the attention we give to an object is nothing but the sensation which that object excites;[1052] and what we call abstract ideas are merely different ways of being attentive.[1053] Ideas being thus generated, the subsequent process is very simple. To attend to two ideas at the same time, is to compare them; so that comparison is not a result of attention, but is rather the attention itself.[1054] This at once gives us the faculty of judging, because directly we institute a comparison, we do of necessity form a judgment.[1055] Thus, too, memory is a transformed sensation;[1056] while the imagination is nothing but memory, which, being carried to its highest possible vivacity, makes what is absent appear to be present.[1057] The impressions we receive from the external world being, therefore, not the cause of our faculties, but being the faculties themselves, the conclusion to which we are driven is inevitable. It follows, says Condillac, that in man nature is the beginning of all; that to nature we owe the whole of our knowledge; that we only instruct ourselves according to her lessons; and that the entire art of reasoning consists in continuing the work which she has appointed us to perform.[1058] [1049] Whether or not Locke held that reflection is an independent as well as a separate faculty, is uncertain; because passages could be quoted from his writings to prove either the affirmative or the negative. Dr. Whewell justly remarks, that Locke uses the word so vaguely as to 'allow his disciples to make of his doctrines what they please.' _History of Moral Philosophy_, 1852, p. 71. [1050] 'Locke distingue deux sources de nos idées, les sens et la réflexion. Il seroit plus exact de n'en reconnoître qu'une, soit parceque la réflexion n'est dans son principe que la sensation même, soit parce qu'elle est moins la source des idées que le canal par lequel elles découlent des sens.' _Condillac_, _Traité des Sensations_, p. 13: see also, at pp. 19, 216, the way in which sensation becomes reflection; and the summing up, at p. 416, 'que toutes nos connoissances viennent des sens, et particulièrement du toucher.' [1051] He says of Mallebranche (_Traité des Sensations_, p. 312), 'ne pouvant comprendre comment nous formerions nous-mêmes ces jugemens, il les attribue à Dieu; manière de raisonner fort commode, et presque toujours la ressource des philosophes.' [1052] 'Mais à peine j'arrête la vue sur un objet, que les sensations particulières que j'en reçois sont l'attention même que je lui donne.' _Traité des Sensations_, p. 16. [1053] 'Ne sont que différentes manières d'être attentif.' p. 122. [1054] 'Dès qu'il y a double attention, il y a comparaison; car être attentif à deux idées ou les comparer, c'est la même chose.' p. 17. [1055] 'Dès qu'il y a comparaison, il y a jugement.' p. 65. [1056] 'La mémoire n'est donc que la sensation transformée.' p. 17. Compare p. 61. [1057] 'L'imagination est la mémoire même, parvenue à toute la vivacité dont elle est susceptible.' p. 78. 'Or j'ai appelé imagination cette mémoire vive qui fait paroître présent ce qui est absent.' p. 245. [1058] 'Il résulte de cette vérité, que la nature commence tout en nous: aussi ai-je démontré que, dans le principe ou dans le commencement, nos connoissances sont uniquement son ouvrage, que nous ne nous instruisons que d'après ses leçons, et que tout l'art de raisonner consisté à continuer comme elle nous a fait commencer.' p. 178. It is so impossible to mistake the tendency of these views, that I need not attempt to estimate their result otherwise than by measuring the extent to which they were adopted. Indeed, the zeal with which they were now carried into every department of knowledge, can only surprise those who, being led by their habits of mind to study history in its separate fragments, have not accustomed themselves to consider it as an united whole, and who, therefore, do not perceive that in every great epoch there is some one idea at work, which is more powerful than any other, and which shapes the events of the time and determines their ultimate issue. In France, during the latter half of the eighteenth century, this idea was, the inferiority of the internal to the external. It was this dangerous but plausible principle which drew the attention of men from the church to the state; which was seen in Helvétius the most celebrated of the French moralists, and in Condillac the most celebrated of the French metaphysicians. It was this same principle which, by increasing, if I may so say, the reputation of Nature, induced the ablest thinkers to devote themselves to a study of her laws, and to abandon those other pursuits which had been popular in the preceding age. In consequence of this movement, such wonderful additions were made to every branch of physical science, that more new truths concerning the external world were discovered in France during the latter half of the eighteenth century than during all the previous periods put together. The details of these discoveries, so far as they have been subservient to the general purposes of civilization, will be related in another place; at present I will indicate only the most prominent, in order that the reader may understand the course of the subsequent argument, and may see the connexion between them and the French Revolution. Taking a general view of the external world, we may say, that the three most important forces by which the operations of nature are effected, are heat, light, and electricity; including under this last magnetic and galvanic phenomena. On all these subjects, the French, for the first time, now exerted themselves with signal success. In regard to heat, not only were the materials for subsequent induction collected with indefatigable industry, but before that generation passed away, the induction was actually made; for while the laws of its radiation were worked out by Prevost,[1059] those of its conduction were established by Fourier, who, just before the Revolution, employed himself in raising thermotics to a science by the deductive application of that celebrated mathematical theory which he contrived, and which still bears his name.[1060] In regard to electricity, it is enough to notice, during the same period, the important experiments of D'Alibard, followed by those vast labours of Coulomb, which brought electrical phenomena under the jurisdiction of the mathematics, and thus completed what [OE]pinus had already prepared.[1061] As to the laws of light, those ideas were now accumulating which rendered possible the great steps that, at the close of the century, were taken by Malus, and still later by Fresnel.[1062] Both of these eminent Frenchmen not only made important additions to our knowledge of double refraction, but Malus discovered the polarization of light, undoubtedly the most splendid contribution received by optical science since the analysis of the solar rays.[1063] It was also in consequence of this, that Fresnel began those profound researches which placed on a solid basis that great undulatory theory of which Hooke, Huygens, and above all Young, are to be deemed the founders, and by which the corpuscular theory of Newton was finally overthrown.[1064] [1059] Compare _Powell on Radiant Heat_, p. 261, in _Second Rep. of Brit. Assoc._; _Whewell's History of Sciences_, vol. ii. p. 526; and his _Philosophy_, vol. i. pp. 339, 340. Prevost was professor at Geneva; but his great views were followed up in France by Dulong and Petit; and the celebrated theory of dew by Dr. Wells is merely an application of them. _Herschel's Nat. Philosophy_, pp. 163, 315, 316. Respecting the further prosecution of these inquiries, and our present knowledge of radiant heat, see _Liebig and Kopp's Reports_, vol. i. p. 79, vol. iii. p. 30, vol. iv. p. 45. [1060] On Fourier's mathematical theory of conduction, see _Comte_, _Philos. Positive_, vol. i. pp. 142, 175, 345, 346, 351, vol. ii. pp. 453, 551; _Prout's Bridgewater Treatise_, pp. 203, 204; _Kelland on Heat_, p. 6, in _Brit. Assoc. for_ 1841; _Erman's Siberia_, vol. i. p. 243; _Humboldt's Cosmos_, vol. i. p. 169; _Hitchcock's Geology_, p. 198; _Pouillet_, _Elémens de Physique_, ii. 696, 697. [1061] Coulomb's memoirs on electricity and magnetism were published from 1782 to 1789. _Fifth Report of Brit. Assoc._ p. 4. Compare _Liebig and Kopp's Reports_, vol. iii. p. 128; and on his relation to [OE]pinus, who wrote in 1759, see _Whewell's Induc. Sciences_, vol. iii. pp. 24-26, 35, 36, and _Haüy_, _Traité de Minéralogie_, vol. iii. p. 44, vol. iv. p. 14. There is a still fuller account of what was effected by Coulomb in M. Pouillet's able work, _Elémens de Physique_, vol. i. part ii. pp. 63-79, 130-135. [1062] Fresnel belongs to the present century; but M. Biot says that the researches of Malus began before the passage of the Rhine in 1797. _Biot's Life of Malus_, in _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxvi. p. 412. [1063] _Pouillet_, _Elémens de Physique_, vol. ii. part ii. pp. 484, 514; _Report of Brit. Assoc. for 1832_, p. 314; _Leslie's Nat. Philos._ p. 83; _Whewell's Hist. of Sciences_, vol. ii. pp. 408-410; _Philos. of Sciences_, vol. i. p. 350, vol. ii. p. 25; _Herschel's Nat. Philos._ p. 258. [1064] The struggle between these rival theories, and the ease with which a man of such immense powers as Young was put down, and, as it were, suppressed, by those ignorant pretenders who presumed to criticize him, will be related in another part of this work, as a valuable illustration of the history and habits of the English mind. At present the controversy is finished, so far as the advocates of emission are concerned; but there are still difficulties on the other side, which should have prevented Dr. Whewell from expressing himself with such extreme positiveness on an unexhausted subject. This able writer says: 'The undulatory theory of light; the only discovery which can stand by the side of the theory of universal gravitation, as a doctrine belonging to the same order, for its generality, its fertility, and its certainty.' _Whewell's Hist. of the Induc. Sciences_, vol. ii. p. 425; see also p. 508. Thus much as to the progress of French knowledge respecting those parts of nature which are in themselves invisible, and of which we cannot tell whether they have a material existence, or whether they are mere conditions and properties of other bodies.[1065] The immense value of these discoveries, as increasing the number of known truths, is incontestable: but, at the same time, another class of discoveries was made, which, dealing more palpably with the visible world, and being also more easily understood, produced more immediate results, and, as I shall presently show, exercised a remarkable influence in strengthening that democratic tendency which accompanied the French Revolution. It is impossible, within the limits I have assigned to myself, to give anything like an adequate notion of the marvellous activity with which the French now pushed their researches into every department of the organic and inorganic world; still it is, I think, practicable to compress into a few pages such a summary of the more salient points as will afford the reader some idea of what was done by that generation of great thinkers which flourished in France during the latter half of the eighteenth century. [1065] As to the supposed impossibility of conceiving the existence of matter without properties which give rise to forces (note in _Paget's Lectures on Pathology_, 1853, vol. i. p. 61), there are two reasons which prevent me from attaching much weight to it. First, a conception which, in one stage of knowledge, is called impossible, becomes, in a later stage, perfectly easy, and so natural as to be often termed necessary. Secondly, however indissoluble the connexion may appear between force and matter, it was not found fatal to the dynamical theory of Leibnitz; it has not prevented other eminent thinkers from holding similar views; and the arguments of Berkeley, though constantly attacked, have never been refuted. If we confine our view to the globe we inhabit, it must be allowed that chemistry and geology are the two sciences which not only offer the fairest promise, but already contain the largest generalizations. The reason of this will become clear, if we attend to the ideas on which these two great subjects are based. The idea of chemistry, is the study of composition;[1066] the idea of geology, is the study of position. The object of the first is, to learn the laws which govern the properties of matter; the object of the second is, to learn the laws which govern its locality. In chemistry, we experiment; in geology, we observe. In chemistry, we deal with the molecular arrangement of the smallest atoms;[1067] in geology, with the cosmological arrangement of the largest masses. Hence it is that the chemist by his minuteness, and the geologist by his grandeur, touch the two extremes of the material universe; and, starting from these opposite points, have, as I could easily prove, a constantly increasing tendency to bring under their own authority sciences which have at present an independent existence, and which, for the sake of a division of labour, it is still convenient to study separately; though it must be the business of philosophy, properly so called, to integrate them into a complete and effective whole. Indeed it is obvious, that if we knew all the laws of the composition of matter, and likewise all the laws of its position, we should likewise know all the changes of which matter is capable spontaneously, that is, when uninterrupted by the mind of man. Every phenomenon which any given substance presents must be caused either by something taking place in the substance, or else by something taking place out of it, but acting upon it; while what occurs within must be explicable by its own composition, and what occurs without must be due to its position in relation to the objects by which it is affected. This is an exhaustive statement of every possible contingency, and to one of these two classes of laws every thing must be referrible; even those mysterious forces which, whether they be emanations from matter, or whether they be merely properties of matter, must in an ultimate analysis depend either on the internal arrangement, or else on the external locality of their physical antecedents. However convenient, therefore, it may be, in the present state of our knowledge, to speak of vital principles, imponderable fluids, and elastic æthers, such terms can only be provisional, and are to be considered as mere names for that residue of unexplained facts, which it will be the business of future ages to bring under generalizations wide enough to cover and include the whole. [1066] Every chemical decomposition being only a new form of composition. _Robin et Verdeil_, _Chimie Anatomique_, vol. i. pp. 455, 456, 498: 'de tout cela il résulte, que la dissolution est un cas particulier des combinaisons.' [1067] What is erroneously called the atomic theory, is, properly speaking, an hypothesis, and not a theory: but hypothesis though it be, it is by its aid that we wield the doctrine of definite proportions, the corner stone of chemistry. These ideas of composition and of position being thus the basis of all natural science, it is not surprising that chemistry and geology, which are their best, but still their insufficient representatives, should in modern times have made more progress than any other of the great branches of human knowledge. Although the chemists and geologists have not yet risen to the full height of their respective subjects,[1068] there are few things more curious than to note the way in which, during the last two generations, they have been rapidly expanding their views--encroaching on topics with which, at first sight, they appeared to have no concern--making other branches of inquiry tributary to their own--and collecting from every quarter that intellectual wealth which, long hidden in obscure corners, had been wasted in the cultivation of special and inferior pursuits. This, as being one of the great intellectual characteristics of the present age, I shall hereafter examine at considerable length; but what I have now to show is, that in these two vast sciences, which, though still very imperfect, must eventually be superior to all others, the first important steps were made by Frenchmen during the latter half of the eighteenth century. [1068] Many of them being still fettered, in geology, by the hypothesis of catastrophes; in chemistry, by the hypothesis of vital forces. That we owe to France the existence of chemistry as a science, will be admitted by everyone who uses the word science in the sense in which alone it ought to be understood, namely, as a body of generalizations so irrefragably true, that, though they may be subsequently covered by higher generalizations, they cannot be overthrown by them; in other words, generalizations which may be absorbed, but not refuted. In this point of view, there are in the history of chemistry only three great stages. The first stage was the destruction of the phlogistic theory, and the establishment, upon its ruins, of the doctrines of oxidation, combustion, and respiration. The second stage was the establishment of the principle of definite proportions, and the application to it of the atomic hypothesis. The third stage, above which we have not yet risen, consists in the union of chemical and electrical laws, and in the progress we are making towards fusing into one generalization their separate phenomena. Which of these three stages was in its own age the most valuable, is not now the question; but it is certain that the first of them was the work of Lavoisier, by far the greatest of the French chemists. Before him several important points had been cleared up by the English chemists, whose experiments ascertained the existence of bodies formerly unknown. The links, however, to connect the facts, were still wanting; and until Lavoisier entered the field, there were no generalizations wide enough to entitle chemistry to be called a science; or, to speak more properly, the only large generalization commonly received was that by Stahl, which the great Frenchman proved to be not only imperfect, but altogether inaccurate. A notice of the vast discoveries of Lavoisier will be found in many well-known books:[1069] it is enough to say, that he not only worked out the laws of the oxidation of bodies and of their combustion, but that he is the author of the true theory of respiration, the purely chemical character of which he first demonstrated; thus laying the foundation of those views respecting the functions of food, which the German chemists subsequently developed, and which, as I have proved in the second chapter of this Introduction, may be applied to solve some great problems in the history of Man. The merit of this was so obviously due to France, that though the system now established was quickly adopted in other countries,[1070] it received the name of the French chemistry.[1071] At the same time, the old nomenclature being full of old errors, a new one was required, and here again France took the initiative; since this great reformation was begun by four of her most eminent chemists, who flourished only a few years before the Revolution.[1072] [1069] See, for instance, _Cuvier_, _Progrès des Sciences_, vol. i. pp. 32-34, 40; _Liebig's Letters on Chemistry_, p. 282; _Turner's Chemistry_, vol. i. pp. 184, 185; _Brande's Chemistry_, vol. i. pp. lxxxv.-lxxxix. 302; _Thomson's Animal Chemistry_, pp. 520, 634, and a great part of the second volume of his _History of Chemistry_; also _Müller's Physiol._ vol. i. pp. 90, 323. [1070] According to Mr. Harcourt (_Brit. Assoc. Report for 1839_, p. 10), Cavendish has this merit, so far as England is concerned: 'He, first of all his contemporaries, did justice to the rival theory recently proposed by Lavoisier.' [1071] La chimie française. _Thomson's Hist. of Chemistry_, vol. ii. pp. 101, 130. On the excitement caused by Lavoisier's views, see a letter which Jefferson wrote in Paris, in 1789, printed partly in _Tucker's Life of Jefferson_, vol. i. pp. 314, 315; and at length in _Jefferson's Correspond._ vol. ii. pp. 453-455. [1072] 'The first attempt to form a systematic chemical nomenclature was made by Lavoisier, Berthollet, G. de Morveau, and Fourcroy, soon after the discovery of oxygen gas.' _Turner's Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 127. Cuvier (_Progrès des Sciences_, vol. i. p. 39) and Robin et Verdeil (_Chimie Anatomique_, vol. i. pp. 602, 603) ascribe the chief merit to De Morveau. Thomson says (_Hist. of Chemistry_, vol. ii. p. 133): 'This new nomenclature very soon made its way into every part of Europe, and became the common language of chemists, in spite of the prejudices entertained against it, and the opposition which it every where met with.' While one division of the French thinkers was reducing to order the apparent irregularities of chemical phenomena, another division of them was performing precisely the same service for geology. The first step towards popularizing this noble study was taken by Buffon, who, in the middle of the eighteenth century, broached a geological theory, which, though not quite original, excited attention by its eloquence, and by the lofty speculations with which he connected it.[1073] This was followed by the more special but still important labours of Rouelle, Desmarest, Dolomieu, and Montlosier, who, in less than forty years, effected a complete revolution in the ideas of Frenchmen, by familiarizing them with the strange conception, that the surface of our planet, even where it appears perfectly stable, is constantly undergoing most extensive changes. It began to be understood, that this perpetual flux takes place not only in those parts of nature which are obviously feeble and evanescent, but also in those which seem to possess every element of strength and permanence, such as the mountains of granite which wall the globe, and are the shell and encasement in which it is held. As soon as the mind became habituated to this notion of universal change, the time was ripe for the appearance of some great thinker, who should generalize the scattered observations, and form them into a science, by connecting them with some other department of knowledge, of which the laws, or, at all events, the empirical uniformities, had been already ascertained. [1073] The famous central heat of Buffon is often supposed to have been taken from Leibnitz; but, though vaguely taught by the ancients, the real founder of the doctrine appears to have been Descartes. See _Bordas Demoulin_, _Cartésianisme_, Paris, 1843, vol. i. p. 312. There is an unsatisfactory note on this in _Prichard's Physical Hist._ vol. i. p. 100. Compare _Experimental Hist. of Cold_, tit. 17, in _Boyle's Works_, vol. ii. p. 308; _Brewster's Life of Newton_, vol. ii. p. 100. On the central heat of the Pythagoreans, see _Tennemann_, _Gesch. der Philos._ vol. i. p. 149; and as to the central fire mentioned in the so-called Oracles of Zoroaster, see _Beausobre_, _Hist. de Manichée_, vol. ii. p. 152. But the complete ignorance of the ancients respecting geology made these views nothing but guesses. Compare some sensible remarks in _Matter's Hist. de l'Ecole d'Alexandrie_, vol. ii. p. 282. It was at this point, and while the inquiries of geologists, notwithstanding their value, were still crude and unsettled, that the subject was taken up by Cuvier, one of the greatest naturalists Europe has ever produced. A few others there are who have surpassed him in depth; but in comprehensiveness it would be hard to find his superior; and the immense range of his studies gave him a peculiar advantage in surveying the operations and dependencies of the external world.[1074] This remarkable man is unquestionably the founder of geology as a science, since he is not only the first who saw the necessity of bringing to bear upon it the generalizations of comparative anatomy, but he is also the first who actually, executing this great idea, succeeded in coördinating the study of the strata of the earth with the study of the fossil animals found in them.[1075] Shortly before his researches were published, many valuable facts had indeed been collected respecting the separate strata; the primary formations being investigated by the Germans, the secondary ones by the English.[1076] But these observations, notwithstanding their merit, were isolated; and they lacked that vast conception which gave unity and grandeur to the whole, by connecting inquiries concerning the inorganic changes of the surface of the globe with other inquiries concerning the organic changes of the animals the surface contained. [1074] This comprehensiveness of Cuvier is justly remarked by M. Flourens as the leading characteristic of his mind. _Flourens_, _Hist. des Travaux de Cuvier_, pp. 76, 142, 306: 'ce qui caractérise partout M. Cuvier, c'est l'esprit vaste.' [1075] Hence he is called by Mr. Owen, 'the founder of palæontological science.' _Owen on Fossil Mammalia_, in _Report of Brit. Assoc. for 1843_, p. 208. It was in 1796 that there were thus 'opened to him entirely new views of the theory of the earth.' p. 209. See also _Bakewell's Geology_, p. 368; and _Milne Edwards_, _Zoologie_, part ii. p. 279. The importance of this step is becoming more evident every year; and it has been justly remarked, that without palæontology there would be, properly speaking, no geology. _Balfour's Botany_, 1849, p. 591. Sir R. Murchison (_Siluria_, 1854, p. 366) says, 'it is essentially the study of organic remains which has led to the clear subdivision of the vast mass of older rocks, which were there formerly merged under the unmeaning term "Grauwacke."' In the same able work, p. 465, we are told that, 'in surveying the whole series of formations, the practical geologist is fully impressed with the conviction that there has, at all periods, subsisted a very intimate connexion between the existence, or, at all events, the preservation of animals, and the media in which they have been fossilized.' For an instance of this in the old red sandstone, see p. 329. [1076] _Whewell's Hist. of Sciences_, vol. iii. p. 679; _Lyell's Geol._ p. 59. Indeed gneiss received its name from the Germans. _Bakewell's Geol._ p. 108. How completely this immense step is due to France, is evident not only from the part played by Cuvier, but also from the admitted fact, that to the French we owe our knowledge respecting tertiary strata,[1077] in which the organic remains are most numerous, and the general analogy to our present state is most intimate.[1078] Another circumstance may likewise be added, as pointing to the same conclusion. This is, that the first application of the principles of comparative anatomy to the study of fossil bones was also the work of a Frenchman, the celebrated Daubenton. Hitherto these bones had been the object of stupid wonder; some saying that they were rained from heaven, others saying that they were the gigantic limbs of the ancient patriarchs, men who were believed to be tall because they were known to be old.[1079] Such idle conceits were for ever destroyed by Daubenton, in a Memoir he published in 1762;[1080] with which, however, we are not now concerned, except that it is evidence of the state of the French mind, and is worth noting as a precursor of the discoveries of Cuvier. [1077] Compare _Conybeare's Report on Geology_, p. 371 (_Brit. Assoc. for_ 1832), with _Bakewell's Geol._ pp. 367, 368, 419, and _Lyell's Geol._ p. 59. [1078] In the older half of the secondary rocks, mammals are hardly to be found, and they do not become common until the tertiary. _Murchison's Siluria_, pp. 466, 467; and _Strickland on Ornithology_, p. 210 (_Brit. Assoc. for_ 1844). So, too, in the vegetable kingdom, many of the plants in the tertiary strata belong to genera still existing; but this is rarely the case with the secondary strata; while in the primary strata, even the families are different to those now found on the earth. _Balfour's Botany_, pp. 592, 593. Compare Wilson's additions to _Jussieu's Botany_, 1849, p. 746; and for further illustration of this remarkable law of the relation between advancing time and diminished similarity, a law suggesting the most curious speculations, see _Hitchcock's Geology_, p. 21; _Lyell's Geology_, p. 183; and _Owen's Lectures on the Invertebrata_, 1855, pp. 38, 576. [1079] Mr. Geoffroy Saint Hilaire (_Anomalies de l'Organisation_, vol. i. pp. 121-127) has collected some evidence respecting the opinions formerly held on these subjects. Among other instances, he mentions a learned man named Henrion, an academician, and, I suppose, a theologian, who in 1718 published a work, in which 'il assignait à Adam cent vingt-trois pieds neuf pouces;' Noah being twenty feet shorter, and so on. The bones of elephants were sometimes taken for giants: see a pleasant circumstance in _Cuvier_, _Hist. des Sciences_, part ii. p. 43. [1080] 'Daubenton a le premier détruit toutes ces idées; il a le premier appliqué l'anatomie comparée à la détermination de ces os.... Le mémoire où Daubenton a tenté, pour la première fois, la solution de ce problème important est de 1762.' _Flourens_, _Travaux de Cuvier_, pp. 36, 37. Agassiz (_Report on Fossil Fishes_, p. 82, _Brit. Assoc. for_ 1842) claims this merit too exclusively for Cuvier, overlooking the earlier researches of Daubenton; and the same mistake is made in _Hitchcock's Geol._ p. 249, and in _Bakewell's Geol._ p. 384. By this union of geology and anatomy, there was first introduced into the study of nature a clear conception of the magnificent doctrine of universal change; while at the same time there grew up by its side a conception equally steady of the regularity with which the changes are accomplished, and of the undeviating laws by which they are governed. Similar ideas had no doubt been occasionally held in preceding ages; but the great Frenchmen of the eighteenth century were the first who applied them to the entire structure of the globe, and who thus prepared the way for that still higher view for which their minds were not yet ripe,[1081] but to which in our own time the most advanced thinkers are rapidly rising. For it is now beginning to be understood, that since every addition to knowledge affords fresh proof of the regularity with which all the changes of nature are conducted, we are bound to believe that the same regularity existed long before our little planet assumed its present form, and long before man trod the surface of the earth. We have the most abundant evidence that the movements incessantly occurring in the material world have a character of uniformity; and this uniformity is so clearly marked, that in astronomy, the most perfect of all the sciences, we are able to predict events many years before they actually happen; nor can any one doubt, that if on other subjects our science were equally advanced, our predictions would be equally accurate. It is, therefore, clear, that the burden of proof lies not on those who assert the eternal regularity of nature, but rather on those who deny it; and who set up an imaginary period, to which they assign an imaginary catastrophe, during which they say new laws were introduced and a new order established. Such gratuitous assumptions, even if they eventually turn out to be true, are in the present state of knowledge unwarrantable, and ought to be rejected, as the last remains of those theological prejudices by which the march of every science has in its turn been hindered. These and all analagous notions work a double mischief. They are mischievous, because they cripple the human mind by imposing limits to its inquiries; and above all they are mischievous, because they weaken that vast conception of continuous and uninterrupted law, which few indeed are able firmly to seize, but on which the highest generalizations of future science must ultimately depend. [1081] Even Cuvier held the doctrine of catastrophes; but, as Sir Charles Lyell says (_Principles of Geology_, p. 60), his own discoveries supplied the means of overthrowing it, and of familiarizing us with the idea of continuity. Indeed it was one of the fossil observations of Cuvier which first supplied the link between reptiles, fishes, and cetaceous mammals. See _Owen on Fossil Reptiles_, pp. 60, 198, _Brit. Assoc. for_ 1841; and compare _Carus's Comparative Anatomy_, vol. i. p. 155. To this I may add, that Cuvier unconsciously prepared the way for disturbing the old dogma of fixity of species, though he himself clung to it to the last. See some observations, which are very remarkable, considering the period when they were written, in _Cabanis_, _Rapports du Physique et du Moral_, pp. 427, 428: conclusions drawn from Cuvier, which Cuvier would have himself rejected. It is this deep conviction, that changing phenomena have unchanging laws, and that there are principles of order to which all apparent disorder may be referred,--it is this, which, in the seventeenth century, guided in a limited field Bacon, Descartes, and Newton; which in the eighteenth century was applied to every part of the material universe; and which it is the business of the nineteenth century to extend to the history of the human intellect. This last department of inquiry we owe chiefly to Germany; for, with the single exception of Vico, no one even suspected the possibility of arriving at complete generalizations respecting the progress of man, until shortly before the French Revolution, when the great German thinkers began to cultivate this, the highest and most difficult of all studies. But the French themselves were too much occupied with physical science to pay attention to such matters;[1082] and speaking generally, we may say that, in the eighteenth century, each of the three leading nations of Europe had a separate part to play. England diffused a love of freedom; France, a knowledge of physical science; while Germany, aided in some degree by Scotland, revived the study of metaphysics, and created the study of philosophic history. To this classification some exceptions may of course be made; but that these were the marked characteristics of the three countries, is certain. After the death of Locke in 1704, and that of Newton in 1727, there was in England a singular dearth of great speculative thinkers; and this not because the ability was wanting, but because it was turned partly into practical pursuits, partly into political contests. I shall hereafter examine the causes of this peculiarity, and endeavour to ascertain the extent to which it has influenced the fortunes of the country. That the results were, on the whole, beneficial, I entertain no doubt; but they were unquestionably injurious to the progress of science, because they tended to divert it from all new truths, except those likely to produce obvious and practical benefit. The consequence was, that though the English made several great discoveries, they did not possess, during seventy years, a single man who took a really comprehensive view of the phenomena of nature; not one who could be compared with those illustrious thinkers who in France reformed every branch of physical knowledge. Nor was it until more than two generations after the death of Newton, that the first symptoms appeared of a remarkable reaction, which quickly displayed itself in nearly every department of the national intellect. In physics, it is enough to mention Dalton, Davy, and Young, each of whom was in his own field the founder of a new epoch; while on other subjects I can only just refer, first, to the influence of the Scotch school; and, secondly, to that sudden and well-deserved admiration for the German literature of which Coleridge was the principal exponent, and which infused into the English mind a taste for generalizations higher and more fearless than any hitherto known. The history of this vast movement, which began early in the nineteenth century, will be traced in the future volumes of this work: at present I merely notice it, as illustrating the fact, that until the movement began, the English, though superior to the French in several matters of extreme importance, were for many years inferior to them in those large and philosophic views, without which not only is the most patient industry of no avail, but even real discoveries lose their proper value, for want of such habits of generalization as would trace their connexion with each other, and consolidate their severed fragments into one vast system of complete and harmonious truth. [1082] Neither Montesquieu nor Turgot appear to have believed in the possibility of generalizing the past, so as to predict the future; while as to Voltaire, the weakest point in his otherwise profound view of history was his love of the old saying, that great events spring from little causes; a singular error for so comprehensive a mind, because it depended on confusing causes with conditions. That a man like Voltaire should have committed what now seems so gross a blunder, is a mortifying reflection for those who are able to appreciate his vast and penetrating genius, and it may teach the best of us a wholesome lesson. This fallacy was avoided by Montesquieu and Turgot; and the former writer, in particular, displayed such extraordinary ability, that there can be little doubt, that had he lived at a later period, and thus had the means of employing in their full extent the resources of political economy and physical science, he would have had the honour not only of laying the basis, but also of rearing the structure of the philosophy of the history of Man. As it was, he failed in conceiving what is the final object of every scientific inquiry, namely, the power of foretelling the future: and after his death, in 1755, all the finest intellects in France, Voltaire alone excepted, concentrated their attention upon the study of natural phenomena. The interest attached to these inquiries has induced me to treat them at greater length than I had intended; perhaps at greater length than is suitable to the suggestive and preparatory character of this Introduction. But the extraordinary success with which the French now cultivated physical knowledge is so curious, on account of its connexion with the Revolution, that I must mention a few more of its most prominent instances: though, for the sake of brevity, I will confine myself to those three great divisions which, when put together, form what is called Natural History, and in all of which we shall see that the most important steps were taken in France during the latter half of the eighteenth century. In the first of these divisions, namely, the department of zoology, we owe to the Frenchmen of the eighteenth century those generalizations which are still the highest this branch of knowledge has reached. Taking zoology in the proper sense of the term, it consists only of two parts, the anatomical part, which is its statics, and the physiological part, which is its dynamics: the first referring to the structure of animals; the other, to their functions.[1083] Both of these were worked out, nearly at the same time, by Cuvier and Bichat; and the leading conclusions at which they arrived, remain, after the lapse of sixty years, undisturbed in their essential points. In 1795, Cuvier laid down the great principle, that the study and classification of animals was to be, not as heretofore, with a view to external peculiarities, but with a view to internal organization; and that, therefore, no real advance could be made in our knowledge except by extending the boundaries of comparative anatomy.[1084] This step, simple as it now appears, was of immense importance, since by it zoology was at once rescued from the hands of the observer, and thrown into those of the experimenter: the consequence of which has been the attainment of that precision and accuracy of detail, which experiment alone can give, and which is every way superior to such popular facts as observation supplies. By thus indicating to naturalists the true path of inquiry, by accustoming them to a close and severe method, and by teaching them to despise those vague descriptions in which they had formerly delighted, Cuvier laid the foundation of a progress which, during the last sixty years, has surpassed the most sanguine expectations. This, then, is the real service rendered by Cuvier, that he overthrew the artificial system which the genius of Linnæus had raised up,[1085] and substituted in its place that far superior scheme which gave the freest scope to future inquiry; since, according to it, all systems are to be deemed imperfect and provisional so long as any thing remains to be learned respecting the comparative anatomy of the animal kingdom. The influence exercised by this great view was increased by the extraordinary skill and industry with which its proposer followed it out, and proved the practicability of his own precepts. His additions to our knowledge of comparative anatomy are probably more numerous than those made by any other man; but what has gained him most celebrity is, the comprehensive spirit with which he used what he acquired. Independently of other generalizations, he is the author of that vast classification of the whole animal kingdom into vertebrata, mollusca, articulata, and radiata;[1086] a classification which keeps its ground, and is one of the most remarkable instances of that large and philosophic spirit which France brought to bear upon the phenomena of the material world.[1087] [1083] The line of demarcation between anatomy as statical, and physiology as dynamical, is clearly drawn by M. Comte (_Philos. Positive_, vol. iii. p. 303) and by MM. Robin et Verdeil (_Chimie Anatomique_, vol. i. pp. 11, 12, 40, 102, 188, 434). What is said by Carus (_Comparative Anatomy_, vol. ii. p. 356) and by Sir Benjamin Brodie (_Lectures on Pathology and Surgery_, p. 6) comes nearly to the same thing, though expressed with less precision. On the other hand, M. Milne Edwards (_Zoologie_, part i. p. 9) calls physiology 'la science de la vie;' which, if true, would simply prove that there is no physiology at all, for there certainly is at present no science of life. [1084] In his _Règne Animal_, vol. i. pp. vi. vii., he says that preceding naturalists 'n'avaient guère considéré que les rapports extérieurs de ces espèces, et personne ne s'était occupé de coördonner les classes et les ordres d'après l'ensemble de la structure.... Je dus donc, et cette obligation me prit un temps considérable, je dus faire marcher de front l'anatomie et la zoologie, les dissections et le classement.... Les premiers résultats de ce double travail parurent en 1795, dans un mémoire spécial sur une nouvelle division des animaux à sang blanc.' [1085] On the opposition between the methods of Linnæus and of Cuvier, see _Jenyns' Report on Zoology_, pp. 144, 145, in _Brit. Assoc. for_ 1834. [1086] The foundations of this celebrated arrangement was laid by Cuvier, in a paper read in 1795. _Whewell's History of the Induc. Sciences_, vol. iii. p. 494. It appears, however (_Flourens_, _Travaux de Cuvier_, pp. 69, 70), that it was in, or just after, 1791, that the dissection of some mollusca suggested to him the idea of reforming the classification of the whole animal kingdom. Compare _Cuvier_, _Règne Animal_, vol. i. pp. 51, 52 note. [1087] The only formidable opposition made to Cuvier's arrangement has proceeded from the advocates of the doctrine of circular progression: a remarkable theory, of which Lamarck and Macleay are the real originators, and which is certainly supported by a considerable amount of evidence. Still, among the great majority of competent zoologists, the fourfold division holds its ground, although the constantly-increasing accuracy of microscopical observations has detected a nervous system much lower in the scale than was formerly suspected, and has thereby induced some anatomists to divide the radiata into acrita and nematoneura. _Owen's Invertebrata_, 1855, pp. 14, 15; and _Rymer Jones's Animal Kingdom_, 1855, p. 4. As, however, it seems probable that all animals have a distinct nervous system, this subdivision is only provisional; and it is very likely that when our microscopes are more improved, we shall have to return to Cuvier's arrangement. Some of Cuvier's successors have removed the apodous echinoderms from the radiata; but in this Mr. Rymer Jones (_Animal Kingdom_, p. 211) vindicates the Cuverian classification. Great, however, as is the name of Cuvier, a greater still remains behind. I allude, of course, to Bichat, whose reputation is steadily increasing as our knowledge advances, and who, if we compare the shortness of his life with the reach and depth of his views, must be pronounced the most profound thinker and the most consummate observer by whom the organization of the animal frame has yet been studied.[1088] He wanted, indeed, that comprehensive knowledge for which Cuvier was remarkable; but though, on this account, his generalizations were drawn from a smaller surface, they were, on the other hand, less provisional: they were, I think, more complete, and certainly they dealt with more momentous topics. For the attention of Bichat was preëminently directed to the human frame[1089] in the largest sense of the word; his object being so to investigate the organization of man, as to rise, if possible, to some knowledge concerning the causes and nature of life. In this magnificent enterprise, considered as a whole, he failed; but what he effected in certain parts of it is so extraordinary, and has given such an impetus to some of the highest branches of inquiry, that I will briefly indicate his method, in order to compare it with that other method which, at the same moment, Cuvier adopted with immense success. [1088] We may except Aristotle; but between Aristotle and Bichat I can find no middle man. [1089] But not exclusively. Mr. Blainville (_Physiol. comparée_, vol. ii. p. 304) says, 'celui qui, comme Bichat, bornait ses études à l'anatomie humaine;' and at p. 350, 'quand on ne considère que ce qui se passe chez l'homme, ainsi que l'a fait Bichat.' This, however, is much too positively stated. Bichat mentions 'les expériences nombreuses que j'ai faites sur les animaux vivans.' _Bichat_, _Anatomie Générale_, vol. i. p. 332; and for other instances of his experiments on animals below man, see the same work, vol. i. pp. 164, 284, 311, 312, 326, vol. ii. pp. 13, 25, 69, 73, 107, 133, 135, 225, 264, 423, vol. iii. pp. 151, 218, 242, 262, 363, 364, 400, 478, 501, vol. iv. pp. 27, 28, 34, 46, 229, 247, 471: see also _Bichat_, _Recherches sur la Vie_, pp. 262, 265, 277, 312, 336, 356, 358, 360, 368, 384, 400, 411, 439, 455, 476, 482, 494, 512: and his _Traité des Membranes_, pp. 48, 64, 67, 130, 158, 196, 201, 224. These are all experiments on inferior animals, which aided this great physiologist in establishing those vast generalizations, which, though applied to man, were by no means collected merely from human anatomy. The impossibility of understanding physiology without studying comparative anatomy, is well pointed out in Mr. Rymer Jones's work, _Organization of the Animal Kingdom_, 1855, pp. 601, 791. The important step taken by Cuvier was, that he insisted on the necessity of a comprehensive study of the organs of animals, instead of following the old plan of merely describing their habits and external peculiarities. This was a vast improvement, since, in the place of loose and popular observations, he substituted direct experiment, and hence introduced into zoology a precision formerly unknown.[1090] But Bichat, with a still keener insight, saw that even this was not enough. He saw that, each organ being composed of different tissues, it was requisite to study the tissues themselves, before we could learn the way in which, by their combinations, the organs are produced. This, like all really great ideas, was not entirely struck out by a single man; for the physiological value of the tissues had been recognized by three or four of the immediate predecessors of Bichat, such as Carmichael, Smyth, Bonn, Bordeu, and Fallopius. These inquirers, however, notwithstanding their industry, had effected nothing of much moment, since, though they collected several special facts, there was in their observations that want of harmony and that general incompleteness always characteristic of the labours of men who do not rise to a commanding view of the subject with which they deal.[1091] [1090] Mr. Swainson (_Geography and Classification of Animals_, p. 170) complains, strangely enough, that Cuvier 'rejects the more plain and obvious characters which every one can see, and which had been so happily employed by Linnæus, and makes the differences between these groups to depend upon circumstances which no one but an anatomist can understand.' See also p. 173: 'characters which, however good, are not always comprehensible, except to the anatomist.' (Compare _Hodgson on the Ornithology of Nepal_, in _Asiatic Researches_, vol. xix. p. 179, Calcutta, 1836.) In other words, this is a complaint that Cuvier attempted to raise zoology to a science, and, therefore, of course, deprived it of some of its popular attractions, in order to invest it with other attractions of a far higher character. The errors introduced into the natural sciences by relying upon observation instead of experiment, have been noticed by many writers; and by none more judiciously than M. Saint Hilaire in his _Anomalies de l'Organisation_, vol. i. p. 98. [1091] It is very doubtful if Bichat was acquainted with the works of Smyth, Bonn, or Fallopius, and I do not remember that he any where even mentions their names. He had, however, certainly studied Bordeu; but I suspect that the author by whom he was most influenced was Pinel, whose pathological generalizations were put forward just about the time when Bichat began to write. Compare _Bichat_, _Traité des Membranes_, pp. 3, 4, 107, 191; _Béclard_, _Anat. Gén._ pp. 65, 66; _Bouillaud_, _Philos. Médicale_, p. 26; _Blainville_, _Physiol. comparée_, vol. i. p. 284, vol. ii. pp. 19, 252; _Henle_, _Anat. Gén._ vol. i. pp. 119, 120. It was under these circumstances that Bichat began those researches, which, looking at their actual and still more at their prospective results, are probably the most valuable contribution ever made to physiology by a single mind. In 1801, only a year before his death,[1092] he published his great work on anatomy, in which the study of the organs is made altogether subservient to the study of the tissues composing them. He lays it down, that the body of man consists of twenty-one distinct tissues, all of which, though essentially different, have in common the two great properties of extensibility and contractility.[1093] These tissues he, with indefatigable industry,[1094] subjected to every sort of examination; he examined them in different ages and diseases, with a view to ascertain the laws of their normal and pathological development.[1095] He studied the way each tissue is affected by moisture, air, and temperature; also the way in which their properties are altered by various chemical substances,[1096] and even their effect on the taste.[1097] By these means, and by many other experiments tending in the same direction, he took so great and sudden a step, that he is to be regarded not merely as an innovator on an old science, but rather as the creator of a new one.[1098] And although subsequent observers have corrected some of his conclusions, this has only been done by following his method; the value of which is now so generally recognized, that it is adopted by nearly all the best anatomists, who, differing in other points, are agreed as to the necessity of basing the future progress of anatomy on a knowledge of the tissues, the supreme importance of which Bichat was the first to perceive.[1099] [1092] _Biog. Univ._ vol. iv. pp. 468, 469. [1093] For a list of the tissues, see _Bichat_, _Anat. Gén._ vol. i. p. 49. At p. 50 he says, 'en effet, quel que soit le point de vue sous lequel on considère ces tissus, ils ne se ressemblent nullement: c'est la nature, et non la science, qui a tiré une ligne de démarcation entre eux.' There is, however, now reason to think, that both animal and vegetable tissues are, in all their varieties, referrible to a cellular origin. This great view, which M. Schwann principally worked out, will, if fully established, be the largest generalization we possess respecting the organic world, and it would be difficult to overrate its value. Still there is danger lest, in prematurely reaching at so vast a law, we should neglect the subordinate, but strongly-marked differences between the tissues as they actually exist. Burdach (_Traité de Physiologie_, vol. vi. pp. 195, 196) has made some good remarks on the confusion introduced into the study of tissues, by neglecting those salient characteristics which were indicated by Bichat. [1094] Pinel says, 'dans on seul hiver il ouvrit plus de six cents cadavres.' _Notice sur Bichat_, p. xiii., in vol. i of _Anat. Gén._ By such enormous labour, and by working day and night in a necessarily polluted atmosphere, he laid the foundation for that diseased habit which caused a slight accident to prove fatal, and carried him off at the age of thirty-one. 'L'esprit a peine à concevoir que la vie d'un seul homme puisse suffire à tant de travaux, à tant de découvertes, faites ou indiquées: Bichat est mort avant d'avoir accompli sa trente-deuxième année!' _Pinel_, p. xvi. [1095] To this sort of comparative anatomy (if it may be so called), which before his time scarcely existed, Bichat attached great importance, and clearly saw that it would eventually become of the utmost value for pathology. _Anat. Gén._ vol. i. pp. 331, 332, vol. ii. pp. 234-241, vol. iv. p. 417, &c. Unfortunately these investigations were not properly followed up by his immediate successors; and Müller, writing long after his death, was obliged to refer chiefly to Bichat for 'the true principles of general pathology.' _Müller's Physiology_, 1840, vol. i. p. 808. M. Vogel too, in his _Pathological Anatomy_, 1847, pp. 398, 413, notices the error committed by the earlier pathologists, in looking at changes in the organs, and neglecting those in the tissues; and the same remark is made in _Robin et Verdeil_, _Chimie Anatomique_, 1853, vol. i. p. 45; and in _Henle_, _Traité d'Anatomie_, vol. i. p. vii., Paris, 1843. That 'structural anatomy,' and 'structural development,' are to be made the foundations of pathology, is, moreover, observed in _Simon's Pathology_, 1850, p. 115 (compare _Williams's Principles of Medicine_, 1848, p. 67), who ascribes the chief merit of this 'rational pathology' to Henle and Schwann: omitting to mention that they only executed Bichat's scheme and (be it said with every respect for these eminent men) executed it with a comprehensiveness much inferior to that displayed by their great predecessor. In _Broussais_, _Examen des Doctrines Médicales_, vol. iv. pp. 106, 107, there are some just and liberal observations on the immense service which Bichat rendered to pathology. See also _Béclard_, _Anatomie_, Paris, 1852, p. 184. [1096] _Bichat_, _Anat. Gén._ vol. i. pp. 51, 160, 161, 259, 372, vol. ii. pp. 47, 448, 449, vol. iii. pp. 33, 168, 208, 309, 406, 435, vol. iv. pp. 21, 52, 455-461, 517. [1097] According to M. Comte (_Philos. Pos._ vol. iii. p. 319), no one had thought of this before Bichat. MM. Robin et Verdeil, in their recent great work, fully admit the necessity of employing this singular resource. _Chimie Anatomique_, 1853, vol. i. pp. 18, 125, 182, 357, 531. [1098] 'Dès-lors il créa une science nouvelle, l'anatomie générale.' _Pinel sur Bichat_, p. xii. 'A Bichat appartient véritablement la gloire d'avoir conçu et surtout exécuté, le premier, le plan d'une anatomie nouvelle.' _Bouillaud_, _Philos. Médicale_, p. 27. 'Bichat fut le créateur de l'histologie en assignant des caractères précis à chaque classe de tissus.' _Burdach_, _Physiologie_, vol. vii. p. 111. 'Le créateur de l'anatomie générale fut Bichat.' _Henle_, _Anatomie_, vol. i. p. 120. Similar remarks will be found in _Saint-Hilaire_, _Anomalies de l'Organisation_, vol. i. p. 10; and in _Robin et Verdeil_, _Chimie Anat._ vol. i. p. xviii., vol. iii. p. 405. [1099] In _Béclard_, _Anat. Gén. 1852_, p. 61, it is said that 'la recherche de ces tissus élémentaires, ou éléments organiques, est devenue la préoccupation presque exclusive des anatomistes de nos jours.' Compare _Blainville_, _Physiol. Gén. et Comp._ vol. i. p. 93: 'Aujourd'hui nous allons plus avant, nous pénétrons dans la structure intime, non seulement de ces organes, mais encore des tissus qui concourent à leur composition; nous faisons en un mot de la véritable anatomie, de l'anatomie proprement dite.' And at p. 105: 'c'est un genre de recherches qui a été cultivé avec beaucoup d'activité, et qui a reçu une grande extension depuis la publication du bel ouvrage de Bichat.' See also vol. ii. p. 303. In consequence of this movement, there has sprung up, under the name of _Degenerations of Tissues_, an entirely new branch of morbid anatomy, of which, I believe, no instance will be found before the time of Bichat, but the value of which is now recognized by most pathologists. Compare _Paget's Surgical Pathology_, vol. i. pp. 98-112; _Williams's Principles of Medicine_, pp. 369-376; _Burdach's Physiologie_, vol. viii. p. 367; _Reports of Brit. Assoc._ vol. vi. p. 147; _Jones's and Sieveking's Pathological Anatomy_, 1854, pp. 154-156, 302-304, 555-558. 'They are,' say these last writers, 'of extremely frequent occurrence; but their nature has scarcely been recognized until of late.' The methods of Bichat and of Cuvier, when put together, exhaust the actual resources of zoological science; so that all subsequent naturalists have been compelled to follow one of these two schemes; that is, either to follow Cuvier in comparing the organs of animals, or else to follow Bichat in comparing the tissues which compose the organs.[1100] And inasmuch as one comparison is chiefly suggestive of function, and the other comparison of structure, it is evident, that to raise the study of the animal world to the highest point of which it is capable, both these great plans are necessary; but if we ask which of the two plans, unaided by the other, is more likely to produce important results, the palm must, I think, be yielded to that proposed by Bichat. Certainly, if we look at the question as one to be decided by authority, a majority of the most eminent anatomists and physiologists now incline to the side of Bichat, rather than to that of Cuvier; while, as a matter of history, it may be proved that the reputation of Bichat has, with the advance of knowledge, increased more rapidly than that of his great rival. What, however, appears to me still more decisive, is, that the two most important discoveries made in our time respecting the classification of animals, are entirely the result of the method which Bichat suggested. The first discovery is that made by Agassiz, who, in the course of his ichthyological researches, was led to perceive that the arrangement by Cuvier according to organs, did not fulfil its purpose in regard to fossil fishes, because in the lapse of ages the characteristics of their structure were destroyed.[1101] He, therefore, adopted the only other remaining plan, and studied the tissues, which, being less complex than the organs, are oftener found intact. The result was the very remarkable discovery, that the tegumentary membrane of fishes is so intimately connected with their organization, that if the whole of a fish has perished except this membrane, it is practicable, by noting its characteristics, to reconstruct the animal in its most essential parts. Of the value of this principle of harmony, some idea may be formed from the circumstance, that on it Agassiz has based the whole of that celebrated classification, of which he is the sole author, and by which fossil ichthyology has for the first time assumed a precise and definite shape.[1102] [1100] Cuvier completely neglected the study of tissues; and in the very few instances in which he mentions them, his language is extremely vague. Thus, in his _Règne Animal_, vol. i. p. 12, he says of living bodies, 'leur tissu est donc composé de réseaux et de mailles, ou de fibres et de lames solides, qui renferment des liquides dans leurs intervalles.' [1101] A well-known ornithologist makes the same complaint respecting the classification of birds. _Strickland on Ornithology_, _Brit. Assoc. for_ 1844, pp. 209, 210. Even in regard to living species, Cuvier (_Règne Animal_, vol. ii. p. 126) says: 'La classe des poissons est de toutes celle qui offre le plus de difficultés quand on veut la subdiviser en ordres d'après des caractères fixes et sensibles.' [1102] The discoveries of M. Agassiz are embodied in his great work, _Recherches sur les Poissons fossiles_: but the reader who may not have an opportunity of consulting that costly publication, will find two essays by this eminent naturalist, which will give an idea of his treatment of the subject, in _Reports of Brit. Assoc. for 1842_, pp. 80-88, and for 1844, pp. 279-310. How essential this study is to the geologist, appears from the remark of Sir R. Murchison (_Siluria_, 1854, p. 417), that 'fossil fishes have everywhere proved the most exact chronometers of the age of rocks.' The other discovery, of which the application is much more extensive, was made in exactly the same way. It consists of the striking fact, that the teeth of each animal have a necessary connexion with the entire organization of its frame; so that, within certain limits, we can predict the organization by examining the tooth. This beautiful instance of the regularity of the operations of nature was not known until more than thirty years after the death of Bichat, and it is evidently due to the prosecution of that method which he sedulously inculcated. For the teeth never having been properly examined in regard to their separate tissues, it was believed that they were essentially devoid of structure, or, as some thought, were simply a fibrous texture.[1103] But by minute microscopic investigations, it has been recently ascertained that the tissues of the teeth are strictly analogous to those of other parts of the body;[1104] and that the ivory, or dentine, as it is now called,[1105] is highly organized; that it, as well as the enamel, is cellular, and is, in fact, a development of the living pulp. This discovery, which, to the philosophic anatomist, is pregnant with meaning, was made about 1838; and though the preliminary steps were taken by Purkinjé, Retzius, and Schwann, the principal merit is due to Nasmyth and Owen,[1106] between whom it is disputed, but whose rival claims we are not here called upon to adjust.[1107] What I wish to observe is, that the discovery is similar to that which we owe to Agassiz; similar in the method by which it was worked out, and also in the results which have followed from it. Both are due to a recognition of the fundamental maxim of Bichat, that the study of organs must be subordinate to the study of tissues, and both have supplied the most valuable aid to zoological classification. On this point, the service rendered by Owen is incontestable, whatever may be thought of his original claims. This eminent naturalist has, with immense industry, applied the discovery to all vertebrate animals; and in an elaborate work, specially devoted to the subject, he has placed beyond dispute the astonishing fact, that the structure of a single tooth is a criterion of the nature and organization of the species to which it belongs.[1108] [1103] That they were composed of fibres, was the prevailing doctrine, until the discovery of their tubes, in 1835, by Purkinjé. Before Purkinjé, only one observer, Leeuwenh[oe]k, had announced their tubular structure; but no one believed what he said, and Purkinjé was unacquainted with his researches. Compare _Nasmyth's Researches on the Teeth_, 1839, p. 159; _Owen's Odontography_, 1840-1845, vol. i. pp. ix. x.; _Henle_, _Anat. Gén._ vol. ii. p. 457; _Reports of Brit. Assoc._ vol. vii. pp. 135, 136 (_Transac. of Sections_). [1104] Mr. Nasmyth, in his valuable, but, I regret to add, posthumous work, notices, as the result of these discoveries, 'the close affinity subsisting between the dental and other organized tissues of the animal frame.' _Researches on the Development, &c. of the Teeth_, 1849, p. 198. This is, properly speaking, a continuation of Mr. Nasmyth's former book, which bore the same title, and was published in 1839. [1105] This name, which Mr. Owen appears to have first suggested, has been objected to, though, as it seems to me, on insufficient grounds. Compare _Owen's Odontography_, vol. i. p. iii., with _Nasmyth's Researches_, 1849, pp. 3, 4. It is adopted in _Carpenter's Human Physiol._ 1846, p. 154; and in _Jones and Sieveking's Patholog. Anat._ 1854, pp. 483, 486. [1106] See the correspondence in _Brit. Assoc. for_ 1841, Sec., pp. 2-23. [1107] In the notice of it in _Whewell's Hist. of Sciences_, vol. iii. p. 678, nothing is said about Mr. Nasmyth; while in that in _Wilson's Human Anatomy_, p. 65, edit. 1851, nothing is said about Mr. Owen. A specimen of the justice with which men treat their contemporaries. Dr. Grant (_Supplement to Hooper's Medical Dict._ 1848, p. 1390) says, 'the researches of Mr. Owen tend to confirm those of Mr. Nasmyth.' Nasmyth, in his last work (_Researches on the Teeth_, 1849, p. 81), only refers to Owen to point out an error; while Owen (_Odontography_, vol. i. pp. xlvi.-lvi.) treats Nasmyth as an impudent plagiarist. [1108] Dr. Whewell (_Hist. of Induc. Sciences_, vol. iii. p. 678) says, that 'he has carried into every part of the animal kingdom an examination, founded upon this discovery, and has published the results of this in his _Odontography_.' If this able, but rather hasty writer, had read the _Odontography_, he would have found that Mr. Owen, so far from carrying the examination 'into every part of the animal kingdom,' distinctly confines himself to 'one of the primary divisions of the animal kingdom' (I quote his own words from _Odontography_, vol. i. p. lxvii.), and appears to think, that below the vertebrata, the inquiry would furnish little or no aid for the purposes of classification. Whoever has reflected much on the different stages through which our knowledge has successively passed, must, I think, be led to the conclusion, that while fully recognizing the great merit of these investigators of the animal frame, our highest admiration ought to be reserved not for those who make the discoveries, but rather for those who point out how the discoveries are to be made.[1109] When the true path of inquiry has once been indicated, the rest is comparatively easy. The beaten highway is always open; and the difficulty is, not to find those who will travel the old road, but those who will make a fresh one. Every age produces in abundance men of sagacity and of considerable industry, who, while perfectly competent to increase the details of a science, are unable to extend its distant boundaries. This is because such extension must be accompanied by a new method,[1110] which, to be valuable as well as new, supposes on the part of its suggester, not only a complete mastery over the resources of his subject, but also the possession of originality and comprehensiveness,--the two rarest forms of human genius. In this consists the real difficulty of every great pursuit. As soon as any department of knowledge has been generalized into laws, it contains, either in itself or in its applications, three distinct branches; namely, inventions, discoveries, and method. Of these, the first corresponds to art; the second to science; and the third to philosophy. In this scale, inventions have by far the lowest place, and minds of the highest order are rarely occupied by them. Next in the series come discoveries; and here the province of intellect really begins, since here the first attempt is made to search after truth on its own account, and to discard those practical considerations to which inventions are of necessity referred. This is science properly so called; and how difficult it is to reach this stage, is evident from the fact, that all half-civilized nations have made many great inventions, but no great discoveries. The highest, however, of all the three stages, is the philosophy of method, which bears the same relation to science that science bears to art. Of its immense, and indeed supreme importance, the annals of knowledge supply abundant evidence; and for want of it, some very great men have effected absolutely nothing, consuming their lives in fruitless industry, not because their labour was slack, but because their method was sterile. The progress of every science is affected more by the scheme according to which it is cultivated, than by the actual ability of the cultivators themselves. If they who travel in an unknown country, spend their force in running on the wrong road, they will miss the point at which they aim, and perchance may faint and fall by the way. In that long and difficult journey after truth, which the human mind has yet to perform, and of which we in our generation can only see the distant prospect, it is certain that success will depend not on the speed with which men hasten in the path of inquiry, but rather on the skill with which that path is selected for them by those great and comprehensive thinkers, who are as the lawgivers and founders of knowledge; because they supply its deficiencies, not by investigating particular difficulties, but by establishing some large and sweeping innovation, which opens up a new vein of thought, and creates fresh resources, which it is left for their posterity to work out and apply. [1109] But in comparing the merits of discoverers themselves, we must praise him who proves rather than him who suggests. See some sensible remarks in _Owen's Odontography_, vol. i. p. xlix.; which, however, do not affect my observations on the superiority of method. [1110] By a new method of inquiring into a subject, I mean an application to it of generalizations from some other subject, so as to widen the field of thought. To call this a new method, is rather vague; but there is no other word to express the process. Properly speaking, there are only two methods, the inductive and the deductive; which, though essentially different, are so mixed together, as to make it impossible wholly to separate them. The discussion of the real nature of this difference I reserve for my comparison, in the next volume, of the German and American civilizations. It is from this point of view that we are to rate the value of Bichat, whose works, like those of all men of the highest eminence,--like those of Aristotle, Bacon, and Descartes,--mark an epoch in the history of the human mind; and as such, can only be fairly estimated by connecting them with the social and intellectual condition of the age in which they appeared. This gives an importance and a meaning to the writings of Bichat, of which few indeed are fully aware. The two greatest recent discoveries respecting the classification of animals are, as we have just seen, the result of his teaching; but his influence has produced other effects still more momentous. He, aided by Cabanis, rendered to physiology the incalculable service, of preventing it from participating in that melancholy reaction to which France was exposed early in the nineteenth century. This is too large a subject to discuss at present; but I may mention, that when Napoleon, not from feelings of conviction, but for selfish purposes of his own, attempted to restore the power of ecclesiastical principles, the men of letters, with disgraceful subserviency, fell into his view; and there began a marked decline in that independent and innovating spirit, with which during fifty years the French had cultivated the highest departments of knowledge. Hence that metaphysical school arose, which, though professing to hold aloof from theology, was intimately allied with it; and whose showy conceits form, in their ephemeral splendour, a striking contrast to the severer methods followed in the preceding generation.[1111] Against this movement, the French physiologists have, as a body, always protested; and it may be clearly proved that their opposition, which even the great abilities of Cuvier were unable to win over, is partly due to the impetus given by Bichat, in enforcing in his own pursuit the necessity of rejecting those assumptions by which metaphysicians and theologians seek to control every science. As an illustration of this I may mention two facts worthy of note. The first is, that in England, where during a considerable period the influence of Bichat was scarcely felt, many, even of our eminent physiologists, have shown a marked disposition to ally themselves with the reactionary party; and have not only opposed such novelties as they could not immediately explain, but have degraded their own noble science by making it a handmaid to serve the purposes of natural theology. The other fact is, that in France the disciples of Bichat have, with scarcely an exception, rejected the study of final causes, to which the school of Cuvier still adheres: while as a natural consequence, the followers of Bichat are associated in geology with the doctrine of uniformity; in zoology, with that of the transmutation of species; and in astronomy, with the nebular hypothesis: vast and magnificent schemes, under whose shelter the human mind seeks an escape from that dogma of interference, which the march of knowledge every where reduces, and the existence of which is incompatible with those conceptions of eternal order, towards which, during the last two centuries, we have been constantly tending. [1111] In literature and in theology, Chateaubriand and De Maistre were certainly the most eloquent, and were probably the most influential leaders of this reaction. Neither of them liked induction, but preferred reasoning deductively from premises which they assumed, and which they called first principles. De Maistre, however, was a powerful dialectician, and on that account his works are read by many who care nothing for the gorgeous declamation of Chateaubriand. In metaphysics, a precisely similar movement occurred; and Laromiguière, Royer Collard, and Maine de Biran, founded that celebrated school which culminated in M. Cousin, and which is equally characterized by an ignorance of the philosophy of induction, and by a want of sympathy with physical science. These great phenomena, which the French intellect presents, and of which I have only sketched a rapid outline, will be related with suitable detail in the latter part of this work, when I shall examine the present condition of the European mind, and endeavour to estimate its future prospects. To complete, however, our appreciation of Bichat, it will be necessary to take notice of what some consider the most valuable of all his productions, in which he aimed at nothing less than an exhaustive generalization of the functions of life. It appears, indeed, to me, that in many important points Bichat here fell short; but the work itself still stands alone, and is so striking an instance of the genius of the author, that I will give a short account of its fundamental views. Life considered as a whole has two distinct branches;[1112] one branch being characteristic of animals, the other of vegetables. That which is confined to animals is called animal life; that which is common both to animals and vegetables is called organic life. While, therefore, plants have only one life, man has two distinct lives, which are governed by entirely different laws, and which, though intimately connected, constantly oppose each other. In the organic life, man exists solely for himself; in the animal life he comes in contact with others. The functions of the first are purely internal, those of the second are external. His organic life is limited to the double process of creation and destruction: the creative process being that of assimilation, as digestion, circulation, and nutrition; the destructive process being that of excretion, such as exhalation and the like. This is what man has in common with plants; and of this life he, when in a natural state, is unconscious. But the characteristic of his animal life is consciousness, since by it he is made capable of moving, of feeling, of judging. By virtue of the first life he is merely a vegetable; by the addition of the second he becomes an animal. [1112] _Bichat_, _Recherches sur la Vie et la Mort_, pp. 5-9, 226; and his _Anat. Gén._ vol. i. p. 72. If now we look at the organs by which in man the functions of these two lives are carried on, we shall be struck by the remarkable fact, that the organs of his vegetable life are very irregular, those of his animal life very symmetrical. His vegetative, or organic, life is conducted by the stomach, the intestines, and the glandular system in general, such as the liver and the pancreas; all of which are irregular, and admit of the greatest variety of form and development, without their functions being seriously disturbed. But in his animal life the organs are so essentially symmetrical, that a very slight departure from the ordinary type impairs their action.[1113] Not only the brain, but also the organs of sense, as the eyes, the nose, the ears, are perfectly symmetrical; and they as well as the other organs of animal life, as the feet and hands, are double, presenting on each side of the body two separate parts which correspond with each other, and produce a symmetry unknown to our vegetative life, the organs of which are, for the most part, merely single, as in the stomach, liver, pancreas, and spleen.[1114] [1113] 'C'est de là, sans doute, que naît cette autre différence entre les organes des deux vies, savoir, que la nature se livre bien plus rarement à des écarts de conformation dans la vie animale que dans la vie organique.... C'est une remarque qui n'a pu échapper à celui dont les dissections ont été un peu multipliées, que les fréquentes variations de formes, de grandeur, de position, de direction des organes internes, comme la rate, le foie, l'estomac, les reins, les organes salivaires, etc.... Jetons maintenant les yeux sur les organes de la vie animale, sur les sens, les nerfs, le cerveau, les muscles volontaires, le larynx; tout y est exact, précis, rigoureusement déterminé dans la forme, la grandeur et la position. On n'y voit presque jamais de variétés, de conformation; s'il en existe, les fonctions sont troublées, anéanties; tandis qu'elles restent les mêmes dans la vie organique, au milieu des altérations diverses des parties.' _Bichat sur la Vie_, pp. 23-25. Part of this view is corroborated by the evidence collected by Saint Hilaire (_Anomalies de l'Organisation_, vol. i. pp. 248 seq.) of the extraordinary aberrations to which the vegetative organs are liable; and he mentions (vol. ii. p. 8) the case of a man, in whose body, on dissection, 'on reconnut que tous les viscères étaient transposés.' Comparative anatomy supplies another illustration. The bodies of mollusca are less symmetrical than those of articulata; and in the former, the 'vegetal series of organs,' says Mr. Owen, are more developed than the animal series; while in the articulata, 'the advance is most conspicuous in the organs peculiar to animal life.' _Owen's Invertebrata_, p. 470. Compare _Burdach's Physiologie_, vol. i. pp. 153, 189; and a confirmation of the 'unsymmetrical' organs of the gasterpoda, in _Grant's Comparative Anatomy_, p. 461. This curious antagonism is still further seen in the circumstance, that idiots, whose functions of nutrition and of excretion are often very active, are at the same time remarkable for a want of symmetry in the organs of sensation. _Esquirol_, _Maladies Mentales_, vol. ii. pp. 331, 332. A result, though perhaps an unconscious one, of the application and extension of these ideas, is, that within the last few years there has arisen a pathological theory of what are called 'symmetrical diseases,' the leading facts of which have been long known, but are now only beginning to be generalized. See _Paget's Pathology_, vol. i. pp. 18-22, vol. ii. pp. 244, 245; _Simon's Pathology_, pp. 210, 211; _Carpenter's Human Physiol._ pp. 607, 608. [1114] _Bichat sur la Vie_, pp. 15-21. From this fundamental difference between the organs of the two lives, there have arisen several other differences of great interest. Our animal life being double, while our organic life is single, it becomes possible for the former life to take rest, that is, stop part of its functions for a time, and afterwards renew them. But in organic life, to stop is to die. The life, which we have in common with vegetables, never sleeps; and if its movements entirely cease only for a single instant, they cease for ever. That process by which our bodies receive some substances and give out others, admits of no interruption; it is, by its nature, incessant, because, being single, it can never receive supplementary aid. The other life we may refresh, not only in sleep, but even when we are awake. Thus we can exercise the organs of movement while we rest the organs of thought; and it is even possible to relieve a function while we continue to employ it, because, our animal life being double, we are able for a short time, in case of one of its parts being fatigued, to avail ourselves of the corresponding part; using, for instance, a single eye or a single arm, in order to rest the one which circumstances may have exhausted; an expedient which the single nature of organic life entirely prevents.[1115] [1115] _Ibid._ pp. 21-50. Our animal life being thus essentially intermittent, and our organic life being essentially continuous,[1116] it has necessarily followed that the first is capable of an improvement of which the second is incapable. There can be no improvement without comparison, since it is only by comparing one state with another that we can rectify previous errors, and avoid future ones. Now, our organic life does not admit of such comparison, because, being uninterrupted, it is not broken into stages, but when unchequered by disease, runs on in dull monotony. On the other hand, the functions of our animal life, such as thought, speech, sight, and motion, cannot be long exercised without rest; and as they are constantly suspended, it becomes practicable to compare them, and, therefore, to improve them. It is by possessing this resource that the first cry of the infant gradually rises into the perfect speech of the man, and the unformed habits of early thought are ripened into that maturity which nothing can give but a long series of successive efforts.[1117] But our organic life, which we have in common with vegetables, admits of no interruption, and consequently of no improvement. It obeys its own laws; but it derives no benefit from that repetition to which animal life is exclusively indebted. Its functions, such as nutrition and the like, exist in man several months before he is born, and while, his animal life not having yet begun, the faculty of comparison, which is the basis of improvement, is impossible.[1118] And although, as the human frame increases in size, its vegetative organs become larger, it cannot be supposed that their functions really improve, since, in ordinary cases, their duties are performed as regularly and as completely in childhood as in middle age.[1119] [1116] On intermittence as a quality of animal life, see _Holland's Medical Notes_, pp. 313, 314, where Bichat is mentioned as its great expounder. As to the essential continuity of organic life, see _Burdach's Physiologie_, vol. vii. p. 420. M. Comte has made some interesting remarks on Bichat's law of intermittence. _Philos. Positive_, vol. iii. pp. 300, 395, 744, 745, 750, 751. [1117] On the development arising from practice, see _Bichat sur la Vie_, pp. 207-225. [1118] _Ibid._ pp. 189-203, 225-230. M. Broussais also (in his able work, _Cours de Phrénologie_, p. 487) says, that comparison only begins after birth; but surely this must be very doubtful. Few physiologists will deny that embryological phenomena, though neglected by metaphysicians, play a great part in shaping the future character; and I do not see how any system of psychology can be complete which ignores considerations, probable in themselves, and not refuted by special evidence. So carelessly, however, has this subject been investigated, that we have the most conflicting statements respecting even the _vagitus uterinus_, which, if it exists to the extent alleged by some physiologists, would be a decisive proof that animal life (in the sense of Bichat) does begin during the f[oe]tal period. Compare _Burdach_, _Physiol._ vol. iv. pp. 113, 114, with _Wagner's Physiol._ p. 182. [1119] 'Les organes internes qui entrent alors en exercice, ou qui accroissent beaucoup leur action, n'ont besoin d'aucune éducation; ils atteignent tout à coup une perfection à laquelle ceux de la vie animale ne parviennent que par habitude d'agir souvent.' _Bichat sur la Vie_, p. 231. Thus it is, that although other causes conspire, it may be said that the progressiveness of animal life is due to its intermittence; the unprogressiveness of organic life to its continuity. It may, moreover, be said, that the intermittence of the first life results from the symmetry of its organs, while the continuity of the second life results from their irregularity. To this wide and striking generalization, many objections may be made, some of them apparently insuperable; but that it contains the germs of great truths I entertain little doubt, and, at all events, it is certain that the method cannot be too highly praised, for it unites the study of function and structure with that of embryology, of vegetable physiology, of the theory of comparison, and of the influence of habit; a vast and magnificent field, which the genius of Bichat was able to cover, but of which, since him, neither physiologists nor metaphysicians have even attempted a general survey. This stationary condition, during the present century, of a subject of such intense interest, is a decisive proof of the extraordinary genius of Bichat; since, notwithstanding the additions made to physiology, and to every branch of physics connected with it, nothing has been done at all comparable to that theory of life which he, with far inferior resources, was able to construct. This stupendous work he left, indeed, very imperfect; but even in its deficiencies we see the hand of the great master, whom, on his own subject, no one has yet approached. His essay on life may well be likened to those broken fragments of ancient art, which, imperfect as they are, still bear the impress of the inspiration which gave them birth, and present in each separate part that unity of conception which to us makes them a complete and living whole. From the preceding summary of the progress of physical knowledge, the reader may form some idea of the ability of those eminent men who arose in France during the latter half of the eighteenth century. To complete the picture, it is only necessary to examine what was done in the two remaining branches of natural history, namely, botany and mineralogy, in both of which the first great steps towards raising each study to a science were taken by Frenchmen a few years before the Revolution. In botany, although our knowledge of particular facts has, during the last hundred years, rapidly increased,[1120] we are only possessed of two generalizations wide enough to be called laws of nature. The first generalization concerns the structure of plants; the other concerns their physiology. That concerning their physiology is the beautiful morphological law, according to which the different appearance of the various organs arises from arrested development: the stamens, pistils, corolla, calyx, and bracts being simple modifications or successive stages of the leaf. This is one of many valuable discoveries we owe to Germany; it being made by Göthe late in the eighteenth century.[1121] With its importance every botanist is familiar; while to the historian of the human mind it is peculiarly interesting, as strengthening that great doctrine of development, towards which the highest branches of knowledge are now hastening, and which, in the present century, has been also carried into one of the most difficult departments of animal physiology.[1122] [1120] Dioscorides and Galen knew from 450 to 600 plants (_Winckler_, _Geschichte der Botanik_, 1854, pp. 34, 40); but, according to Cuvier (_Eloges_, vol. iii. p. 468), Linnæus, in 1778, 'en indiquait environ huit mille espèces;' and Meyen (_Geog. of Plants_, p. 4) says, at the time of Linnæus's death, 'about 8,000 species were known.' (Dr. Whewell, in his _Bridgewater Treatise_, p. 247, says, 'about 10,000.') Since then the progress has been uninterrupted; and in _Henslow's Botany_, 1837, p. 136, we are told that 'the number of species already known and classified in works of botany amounts to about 60,000.' Ten years later, Dr. Lindley (_Vegetable Kingdom_, 1847, p. 800) states them at 92,930; and two years afterwards, Mr. Balfour says 'about 100,000.' _Balfour's Botany_, 1849, p. 560. Such is the rate at which our knowledge of nature is advancing. To complete this historical note, I ought to have mentioned, that in 1812, Dr. Thomson says 'nearly 30,000 species of plants have been examined and described.' _Thomson's Hist. of the Royal Society_, p. 21. [1121] It was published in 1790. _Winckler_, _Gesch. der Botanik_, p. 389. But the historians of botany have overlooked a short passage in Göthe's works, which proves that he had glimpses of the discovery in or before 1786. See _Italiänische Reise_, in _Göthe's Werke_, vol. ii. part ii. p. 286, Stuttgart, 1837, where he writes from Padua, in September 1786, 'Hier in dieser neu mir entgegen tretenden Mannigfaltigkeit wird jener Gedanke immer lebendiger: dass man sich alle Pflanzengestalten vielleicht aus Einer entwickeln könne.' There are some interesting remarks on this brilliant generalization in _Owen's Parthenogenesis_, 1849, pp. 53 seq. [1122] That is, into the study of animal monstrosities, which, however capricious they may appear, are now understood to be the necessary result of preceding events. Within the last thirty years several of the laws of these unnatural births, as they used to be called, have been discovered; and it has been proved that, so far from being unnatural, they are strictly natural. A fresh science has thus been created, under the name of Teratology, which is destroying the old _lusus naturæ_ in one of its last and favourite strongholds. But the most comprehensive truth with which we are acquainted respecting plants, is that which includes the whole of their general structure; and this we learnt from those great Frenchmen who, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, began to study the external world. The first steps were taken directly after the middle of the century, by Adanson, Duhamel de Monceau, and, above all, Desfontaines; three eminent thinkers, who proved the practicability of a natural method hitherto unknown, and of which even Ray himself had only a faint perception.[1123] This, by weakening the influence of the artificial system of Linnæus,[1124] prepared the way for an innovation more complete than has been effected in any other branch of knowledge. In the very year in which the Revolution occurred, Jussieu put forward a series of botanical generalizations, of which the most important are all intimately connected, and still remain the highest this department of inquiry has reached.[1125] Among these, I need only mention the three vast propositions which are now admitted to form the basis of vegetable anatomy. The first is, that the vegetable kingdom, in its whole extent, is composed of plants either with one cotyledon, or with two cotyledons, or else with no cotyledon at all. The second proposition is, that this classification, so far from being artificial, is strictly natural; since it is a law of nature, that plants having one cotyledon are endogenous, and grow by additions made to the centre of their stems, while, on the other hand, plants having two cotyledons are exogenous, and are compelled to grow by additions made, not to the centre of their stems, but to the circumference.[1126] The third proposition is, that when plants grow at their centre, the arrangement of the fruit and leaves is threefold; when, however, they grow at the circumference, it is nearly always fivefold.[1127] [1123] Dr. Lindley (_Third Report of Brit. Assoc._ p. 33) says, that Desfontaines was the first who demonstrated the opposite modes of increase in dicotyledonous and monocotyledonous stems. See also _Richard_, _Eléments de Botanique_, p. 131; and _Cuvier_, _Eloges_, vol. i. p. 64. In regard to the steps taken by Adanson and De Monceau, see _Winckler_, _Gesch. der Botanik_, pp. 204, 205; _Thomson's Chemistry of Vegetables_, p. 951; _Lindley's Introduc. to Botany_, vol. ii. p. 132. [1124] It is curious to observe how even good botanists clung to the Linnæan system long after the superiority of a natural system was proved. This is the more noticeable, because Linnæus, who was a man of undoubted genius, and who possessed extraordinary powers of combination, always allowed that his own system was merely provisional, and that the great object to be attained was a classification according to natural families. See _Winckler_, _Geschichte der Botanik_, p. 202; and _Richard_, _Eléments de Botanique_, p. 570. Indeed, what could be thought of the permanent value of a scheme which put together the reed and the barberry, because they were both hexandria; and forced sorrel to associate with saffron, because both were trigynia? _Jussieu's Botany_, 1849, p. 524. [1125] _The Genera Plantarum_ of Antoine Jussieu was printed at Paris in 1789; and, though it is known to have been the result of many years of continued labour, some writers have asserted that the ideas in it were borrowed from his uncle, Bernard Jussieu. But assertions of this kind rarely deserve attention; and as Bernard did not choose to publish anything of his own, his reputation ought to suffer for his uncommunicativeness. Compare _Winckler_, _Gesch. der Botanik_, pp. 261-272, with _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxii. pp. 162-166. I will only add the following remarks from a work of authority, _Richard_, _Eléments de Botanique_, Paris, 1846, p. 572: 'Mais ce ne fut qu'en 1789 que l'on eut véritablement un ouvrage complet sur la méthode des familles naturelles. Le _Genera Plantarum_ d'A. L. de Jussieu présenta la science des végétaux sous un point de vue si nouveau, par la précision et l'élégance qui y règnent, par la profondeur et la justesse des principes généraux qui y sont exposés pour la première fois, que c'est depuis cette époque seulement que la méthode des familles naturelles a été véritablement créée, et que date la nouvelle ère de la science des végétaux.... L'auteur du _Genera Plantarum_ posa le premier les bases de la science, en faisant voir quelle était l'importance relative des différents organes entre eux, et par conséquent leur valeur dans la classification.... Il a fait, selon la remarque de Cuvier, la même révolution dans les sciences d'observation que la chimie de Lavoisier dans les sciences d'expérience. En effet, il a non seulement changé la face de la botanique; mais son influence s'est également exercée sur les autres branches de l'histoire naturelle, et y a introduit cet esprit de recherches, de comparaison, et cette méthode philosophique et naturelle, vers le perfectionnement de laquelle tendent désormais les efforts de tous les naturalistes.' [1126] Hence the removal of a great source of error; since it is now understood that in dicotyledons alone can age be known with certainty. _Henslow's Botany_, p. 243: compare _Richard_, _Eléments de Botanique_, p. 159, aphorisme xxiv. On the stems of endogenous plants, which, being mostly tropical, have been less studied than the exogenous, see _Lindley's Botany_, vol. i. pp. 221-236; where there is also an account, pp. 229 seq., of the views which Schleiden advanced on this subject in 1839. [1127] On the arrangement of the leaves, now called phyllotaxis, see _Balfour's Botany_, p. 92; _Burdach's Physiologie_, vol. v. p. 518. This is what was effected by the Frenchmen of the eighteenth century for the vegetable kingdom:[1128] and if we now turn to the mineral kingdom, we shall find that our obligations to them are equally great. The study of minerals is the most imperfect of the three branches of natural history, because, notwithstanding its apparent simplicity, and the immense number of experiments which have been made, the true method of investigation has not yet been ascertained; it being doubtful whether mineralogy ought to be subordinated to the laws of chemistry, or to those of crystallography, or whether both sets of laws will have to be considered.[1129] At all events it is certain that, down to the present time, chemistry has shown itself unable to reduce mineralogical phenomena; nor has any chemist, possessing sufficient powers of generalization, attempted the task except Berzelius; and most of his conclusions were overthrown by the splendid discovery of isomorphism, for which, as is well known, we are indebted to Mitscherlich, one of the many great thinkers Germany has produced.[1130] [1128] The classification by cotyledons has been so successful, that, 'with very few exceptions, however, nearly all plants may be referred by any botanist, at a single glance, and with unerring certainty, to their proper class; and a mere fragment even of the stem, leaf, or some other part, is often quite sufficient to enable him to decide this question.' _Henslow's Botany_, p. 30. In regard to some difficulties still remaining in the way of the threefold cotyledonous division of the whole vegetable world, see _Lindley's Botany_, vol. ii. pp. 61 seq. [1129] Mr. Swainson (_Study of Natural History_, p. 356) says 'mineralogy, indeed, which forms but a part of chemistry.' This is deciding the question very rapidly; but in the meantime, what becomes of the geometrical laws of minerals? and what are we to do with that relation between their structure and optical phenomena, which Sir David Brewster has worked out with signal ability? [1130] The difficulties introduced into the study of minerals by the discovery of isomorphism and polymorphism, are no doubt considerable; but M. Beudant (_Minéralogie_, Paris, 1841, p. 37) seems to me to exaggerate their effect upon 'l'importance des formes crystallines.' They are much more damaging to the purely chemical arrangement, because our implements for measuring the minute angles of crystals are still very imperfect, and the goniometer may fail in detecting differences which really exist; and, therefore, many alleged cases of isomorphism are probably not so in reality. Wollaston's reflecting goniometer has been long considered the best instrument possessed by crystallographers; but I learn from _Liebig and Kopp's Reports_, vol. i. pp. 19, 20, that Frankenheim has recently invented one for measuring the angles of 'microscopic crystals.' On the amount of error in the measurement of angles, see _Phillips's Mineralogy_, 1837, p. viii. Although the chemical department of mineralogy is in an unformed and indeed anarchical condition, its other department, namely, crystallography, has made great progress; and here again the earliest steps were taken by two Frenchmen, who lived in the latter half of the eighteenth century. About 1760, Romé De Lisle[1131] set the first example of studying crystals, according to a scheme so large as to include all the varieties of their primary forms, and to account for their irregularities, and the apparent caprice with which they were arranged. In this investigation he was guided by the fundamental assumption, that what is called an irregularity, is in truth perfectly regular, and that the operations of nature are invariable.[1132] Scarcely had this great idea been applied to the almost innumerable forms into which minerals crystallize, when it was followed up with still larger resources by Haüy, another eminent Frenchman.[1133] This remarkable man achieved a complete union between mineralogy and geometry; and, bringing the laws of space to bear on the molecular arrangements of matter, he was able to penetrate into the intimate structure of crystals.[1134] By this means, he succeeded in proving that the secondary forms of all crystals are derived from their primary forms by a regular process of decrement;[1135] and that, when a substance is passing from a liquid to a solid state, its particles are compelled to cohere, according to a scheme which provides for every possible change, since it includes even those subsequent layers which alter the ordinary type of the crystal, by disturbing its natural symmetry.[1136] To ascertain that such violations of symmetry are susceptible of mathematical calculation, was to make a vast addition to our knowledge; but what seems to me still more important is, that it indicates an approach to the magnificent idea, that every thing which occurs is regulated by law, and that confusion and disorder are impossible.[1137] For, by proving that even the most uncouth and singular forms of minerals are the natural results of their antecedents, Haüy laid the foundation of what may be called the pathology of the inorganic world. However paradoxical such a notion may seem, it is certain that symmetry is to crystals what health is to animals; so that an irregularity of shape in the first, corresponds with an appearance of disease in the second.[1138] When, therefore, the minds of men became familiarized with the great truth, that in the mineral kingdom there is, properly speaking, no irregularity, it became more easy for them to grasp the still higher truth, that the same principle holds good of the animal kingdom, although, from the superior complexity of the phenomena, it will be long before we can arrive at an equal demonstration. But, that such a demonstration is possible, is the principle upon which the future progress of all organic, and indeed of all mental science, depends. And it is very observable, that the same generation which established the fact, that the apparent aberrations presented by minerals are strictly regular, also took the first steps towards establishing the far higher fact, that the aberrations of the human mind are governed by laws as unfailing as those which determine the condition of inert matter. The examination of this would lead to a digression foreign to my present design; but I may mention that, at the end of the century, there was written in France the celebrated treatise on insanity, by Pinel; a work remarkable in many respects, but chiefly in this, that in it the old notions respecting the mysterious and inscrutable character of mental disease are altogether discarded:[1139] the disease itself is considered as a phenomenon inevitably occurring under certain given conditions, and the foundation laid for supplying another link in that vast chain of evidence which connects the material with the immaterial, and thus uniting mind and matter into a single study, is now preparing the way for some generalization, which, being common to both, shall serve as a centre round which the disjointed fragments of our knowledge may safely rally. [1131] He says, 'depuis plus de vingt ans que je m'occupe de cet objet.' _Romé de Lisle_, _Cristallographie, ou Description des Formes propres à tous les Corps du Règne Minéral_, Paris, 1783, vol. i. p. 91. [1132] See his _Essai de Cristallographie_, Paris, 1772, p. x.: 'un de ceux qui m'a le plus frappé ce sont les formes régulières et constantes que prennent naturellement certains corps que nous désignons par le nom de cristaux.' In the same work, p. 13: 'il faut nécessairement supposer que les molécules intégrantes des corps ont chacune, suivant qui lui est propre, une figure constante et déterminée.' In his later treatise (_Cristallographie_, 1783, vol. i. p. 70), after giving some instances of the extraordinary complications presented by minerals, he adds: 'Il n'est donc pas étonnant que d'habiles chimistes n'aient rien vu de constant ni de déterminé dans les formes cristallines, tandis qu'il n'en est aucune qu'on ne puisse, avec un peu d'attention rapporter à la figure élémentaire et primordiale dont elle dérive.' Even Buffon, notwithstanding his fine perception of law, had just declared, 'qu'en général la forme de cristallisation n'est pas un caractère constant, mais plus équivoque et plus variable qu'aucun autre des caractères par lesquels on doit distinguer les minéraux.' _De Lisle_, vol. i. p. xviii. Compare, on this great achievement of De Lisle's, _Herschel's Nat. Philos._ p. 239: 'he first ascertained the important fact of the constancy of the angles at which their faces meet.' [1133] The first work of Haüy appeared in 1784 (_Quérard_, _France Littéraire_, vol. iv. p. 41); but he had read two special memoirs in 1781. _Cuvier_, _Eloges_, vol. iii. p. 138. The intellectual relation between his views and those of his predecessor must be obvious to every mineralogist; but Dr. Whewell, who has noticed this judiciously enough, adds (_Hist. of the Induc. Sciences_, vol. iii. pp. 229, 230): 'Unfortunately Romé de Lisle and Haüy were not only rivals, but in some measure enemies.... Haüy revenged himself by rarely mentioning Romé in his works, though it was manifest that his obligations to him were immense; and by recording his errors while he corrected them.' The truth, however, is, that so far from rarely mentioning De Lisle, he mentions him incessantly; and I have counted upwards of three hundred instances in Haüy's great work, in which he is named, and his writings are referred to. On one occasion he says of De Lisle, 'En un mot, sa cristallographie est le fruit d'un travail immense par son étendue, presque entièrement neuf par son objet, et très-précieux par son utilité.' _Haüy_, _Traité de Minéralogie_, Paris, 1801, vol. i. p. 17. Elsewhere he calls him, 'cet habile naturaliste; ce savant célèbre,' vol. ii. p. 323; 'ce célèbre naturaliste,' vol. iii. p. 442; see also vol. iv. pp. 51, &c. In a work of so much merit as Dr. Whewell's, it is important that these errors should be indicated, because we have no other book of value on the general history of the sciences; and many authors have deceived themselves and their readers, by implicitly adopting the statements of this able and industrious writer. I would particularly caution the student in regard to the physiological part of Dr. Whewell's History, where, for instance, the antagonism between the methods of Cuvier and Bichat is entirely lost sight of, and while whole pages are devoted to Cuvier, Bichat is disposed of in four lines. [1134] 'Haüy est donc le seul véritable auteur de la science mathématique des cristaux.' _Cuvier_, _Progrès des Sciences_, vol. i. p. 8; see also p. 317. Dr. Clarke, whose celebrated lectures on mineralogy excited much attention among his hearers, was indebted for some of his principal views to his conversations with Haüy: see _Otter's Life of Clarke_, vol. ii. p. 192. [1135] See an admirable statement of the three forms of decrement, in _Haüy_, _Traité de Minéralogie_, vol. i. pp. 285, 286. Compare _Whewell's Hist. of the Induc. Sciences_, vol. iii. pp. 224, 225; who, however, does not mention Haüy's classification of 'décroissemens sur les bords,' 'décroissemens sur les angles,' and 'décroissemens intermédiaires.' [1136] And, as he clearly saw, the proper method was to study the laws of symmetry, and then apply them deductively to minerals, instead of rising inductively from the aberrations actually presented by minerals. This is interesting to observe, because it is analogous to the method of the best pathologists, who seek the philosophy of their subject in physiological phenomena, rather than in pathological ones; striking downwards from the normal to the abnormal. '_La symétrie des formes_ sous lesquelles se présentent les solides que nous avons considérés jusqu'ici, _nous a fourni des données_ pour exprimer les lois de décroissemens dont ces solides sont susceptibles.' _Haüy_, _Traité de Minéralogie_, vol. i. p. 442; compare vol. ii. p. 192. [1137] 'Un coup d'[oe]il peu attentif, jeté sur les cristaux, les fit appeler d'abord de _purs jeux de la nature_, ce qui n'étoit qu'une manière plus élégante de faire l'aveu de son ignorance. Un examen réfléchi nous y découvre des lois d'arrangement, à l'aide desquelles le calcul représente et enchaîne l'un à l'autre les résultats observés; lois si variables et en même temps si précises et si régulières; ordinairement très-simples, sans rien perdre de leur fécondité.' _Haüy_, _Minéralogie_, vol. i. pp. xiii. xiv. Again, vol. ii. p. 57, 'notre but, qui est de prouver que les lois d'où dépend la structure du cristal sont les plus simples possibles dans leur ensemble.' [1138] On the remarkable power possessed by crystals, in common with animals, of repairing their own injuries, see _Paget's Pathology_, 1853, vol. i. pp. 152, 153, confirming the experiments of Jordan on this curious subject: 'The ability to repair the damages sustained by injury ... is not an exclusive property of living beings; for even crystals will repair themselves when, after pieces have been broken from them, they are placed in the same conditions in which they were first formed.' [1139] 'M. Pinel a imprimé une marche nouvelle à l'étude de la folie.... En la rangeant simplement, et sans différences aucunes, au nombre des autres dérangemens de nos organes, en lui assignant une place dans le cadre nosographique, il fit faire un pas immense à son histoire.' _Georget_, _de la Folie_, Paris, 1820, p. 69. In the same work, p. 295, 'M. Pinel, le premier en France, on pourrait dire en Europe, jeta les fondemens d'un traitement vraiment rationnel en rangeant la folie au nombre des autres affections organiques.' M. Esquirol, who expresses the modern and purely scientific view, says in his great work (_Des Maladies Mentaes_, Paris, 1838, vol. i. p. 336), 'L'aliénation mentale, que les anciens peuples regardaient comme une inspiration ou une punition des dieux, qui dans la suite fut prise pour la possession des démons, qui dans d'autres temps passa pour une [oe]uvre de la magie; l'aliénation mentale, dis-je, avec toutes ses espèces et ses variétés innombrables, ne diffère en rien des autres maladies.' The recognition of this he expressly ascribes to his predecessor: 'grâce aux principes exposés par Pinel.' p. 340. Pinel himself clearly saw the connexion between his own opinions and the spirit of the age: see _Pinel_, _Traité Médico-Philosophique sur l'Aliénation Mentale_, p. xxxii.: 'Un ouvrage de médecine, publié en France à la fin du dix-huitième siècle, doit avoir un autre caractère que s'il avoit été écrit à une époque antérieure.' These were the views which, during the latter half of the eighteenth century, began to dawn upon French thinkers. The extraordinary ability and success with which these eminent men cultivated their respective sciences, I have traced at a length greater that I had intended, but still very inadequate to the importance of the subject. Enough, however, has been brought forward, to convince the reader of the truth of the proposition I wished to prove; namely, that the intellect of France was, during the latter half of the eighteenth century, concentrated upon the external world with unprecedented zeal, and thus aided that vast movement, of which the Revolution itself was merely a single consequence. The intimate connexion between scientific progress and social rebellion, is evident from the fact, that both are suggested by the same yearning after improvement, the same dissatisfaction with what has been previously done, the same restless, prying, insubordinate, and audacious spirit. But in France this general analogy was strengthened by the curious circumstances I have already noticed, by virtue of which, the activity of the country was, during the first half of the century, directed against the church rather than against the state; so that in order to complete the antecedents of the Revolution, it was necessary that, in the latter half of the century, the ground of attack should be shifted. This is precisely what was done by the wonderful impetus given to every branch of natural science. For, the attention of men being thus steadily fixed upon the external world, the internal fell into neglect; while, as the external corresponds to the state, and the internal to the church, it was part of the same intellectual development, that the assailers of the existing fabric should turn against political abuses the energy which the preceding generation had reserved for religious ones. Thus it was that the French Revolution, like every great revolution the world has yet seen, was preceded by a complete change in the habits and associations of the national intellect. But besides this, there was also taking place, precisely at the same time, a vast social movement, which was intimately connected with the intellectual movement, and indeed formed part of it, in so far as it was followed by similar results and produced by similar causes. The nature of this social revolution I shall examine only very briefly, because in a future volume it will be necessary to trace its history minutely, in order to illustrate the slighter but still remarkable changes which in the same period were going on in English society. In France, before the Revolution, the people, though always very social, were also very exclusive. The upper classes, protected by an imaginary superiority, looked with scorn upon those whose birth or titles were unequal to their own. The class immediately below them copied and communicated their example, and every order in society endeavoured to find some fanciful distinction which should guard them from the contamination of their inferiors. The only three real sources of superiority,--the superiority of morals, of intellect, and of knowledge,--were entirely overlooked in this absurd scheme; and men became accustomed to pride themselves not on any essential difference, but on those inferior matters, which, with extremely few exceptions, are the result of accident, and therefore no test of merit.[1140] [1140] Comp. _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. i. p. 23, with the Introduction to _Des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. i. p. 34. A good illustration of this is, that the Prince de Montbarey, in his Memoirs, gently censures Louis XV., not for his scandalous profligacy, but because he selected for his mistresses some women who were not of high birth. _Mém. de Montbarey_, vol. i. p. 341, and see vol. iii. p. 117. The first great blow to this state of things, was the unprecedented impulse given to the cultivation of physical science. Those vast discoveries which were being made, not only stimulated the intellect of thinking men, but even roused the curiosity of the more thoughtless parts of society. The lectures of chemists, of geologists, of mineralogists, and of physiologists, were attended by those who came to wonder, as well as by those who came to learn. In Paris, the scientific assemblages were crowded to overflowing.[1141] The halls and amphitheatres in which the great truths of nature were expounded, were no longer able to hold their audience, and in several instances it was found necessary to enlarge them.[1142] The sittings of the Academy, instead of being confined to a few solitary scholars, were frequented by every one whose rank or influence enabled them to secure a place.[1143] Even women of fashion, forgetting their usual frivolity, hastened to hear discussions on the composition of a mineral, on the discovery of a new salt, on the structure of plants, on the organization of animals, on the properties of the electric fluid.[1144] A sudden craving after knowledge seemed to have smitten every rank. The largest and the most difficult inquiries found favour in the eyes of those whose fathers had hardly heard the names of the sciences to which they belonged. The brilliant imagination of Buffon made geology suddenly popular; the same thing was effected for chemistry by the eloquence of Fourcroy, and for electricity by Nollet; while the admirable expositions of Lalande caused astronomy itself to be generally cultivated. In a word, it is enough to say, that during the thirty years preceding the Revolution, the spread of physical science was so rapid, that in its favour the old classical studies were despised;[1145] it was considered the essential basis of a good education, and some slight acquaintance with it was deemed necessary for every class, except those who were obliged to support themselves by their daily labour.[1146] [1141] And that too even on such a subject as anatomy. In 1768, Antoine Petit began his anatomical lectures in the great amphitheatre of the Jardin du Roi; and the press to hear him was so great, that not only all the seats were occupied, but the very window-ledges were crowded. See the animated description in _Biog. Univ._ vol. xxxiii. p. 494. [1142] Dr. Thomson (_History of Chemistry_, vol. ii. p. 169) says of Fourcroy's lectures on chemistry, which began in 1784: 'Such were the crowds, both of men and women, who flocked to hear him, that it was twice necessary to enlarge the size of the lecture-room.' This circumstance is also mentioned in _Cuvier_, _Eloges_, vol. ii. p. 19. [1143] In 1779, it was remarked that 'les séances publiques de l'Académie Française sont devenues une espèce de spectacle fort à la mode:' and as this continued to increase, the throng became at length so great, that in 1785 it was found necessary to diminish the number of tickets of admission, and it was even proposed that ladies should be excluded, in consequence of some uproarious scenes which had happened. _Grimm et Diderot_, _Correspond. Lit._ vol. x. p. 341, vol. xiv. pp. 148, 149, 185, 251. [1144] Goldsmith, who was in Paris in 1755, says with surprise, 'I have seen as bright a circle of beauty at the chemical lectures of Rouelle, as gracing the court of Versailles.' _Prior's Life of Goldsmith_, vol. i. p. 180; _Forster's Life of Goldsmith_, vol. i. p. 65. In the middle of the century, electricity was very popular among the Parisian ladies; and the interest felt in it was revived several years later by Franklin. Compare _Grimm_, _Correspondance_, vol. vii. p. 122, with _Tucker's Life of Jefferson_, vol. i. pp. 190, 191. Cuvier (_Eloges_, vol. i. p. 56) tells us that even the anatomical descriptions which Daubenton wrote for Buffon were to be found 'sur la toilette des femmes.' This change of taste is also noticed, though in a jeering spirit, in _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. vi. p. 32. Compare the account given by Townsend, who visited France in 1786, on his way to Spain: 'A numerous society of gentlemen and ladies of the first fashion meet to hear lectures on the sciences, delivered by men of the highest rank in their profession.... I was much struck with the fluency and elegance of language with which the anatomical professor spoke, and not a little so with the deep attention of his auditors.' _Townsend's Journey through Spain_, vol. i. p. 41: see also _Smith's Tour on the Continent in 1786_, vol. i. p. 117. [1145] In a letter written in 1756, it is said, 'Mais c'est peine perdue aujourd'hui que de plaisanter les érudits; il n'y en a plus en France.' _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. ii. p. 15. In 1764, 'Il est honteux et incroyable à quel point l'étude des anciens est négligée.' vol. iv. p. 97. In 1768, 'Une autre raison qui rendra les traductions des auteurs anciens de plus en plus rares en France, c'est que depuis long temps on n'y sait plus le Grec, et qu'on néglige l'étude du Latin tous les jours davantage.' vol. vi. p. 140. Sherlock (_New Letters from an English Traveller_, London, 1781, p. 86) says, 'It is very rare to meet a man in France that understands Greek.' In 1785, Jefferson writes from Paris to Madison, 'Greek and Roman authors are dearer here than, I believe, any where in the world; nobody here reads them, wherefore they are not reprinted.' _Jefferson's Correspond._ vol. i. p. 301. See further, on this neglect of the ancients, a significant precursor of the Revolution, _Mém. de Montbarey_, vol. iii. p. 181; _Villemain_, _Littérature au XVIII^e Siècle_, vol. iii. pp. 243-248; _Schlosser's Eighteenth Century_, vol. i. p. 344. [1146] For further evidence of the popularity of physical knowledge, and of its study, even by those who might have been expected to neglect it, see _Mém. de Roland_, vol. i. pp. 115, 268, 324, 343; _Mém. de Morellet_, vol. i. p. 16; _Dupont de Nemours_, _Mém. sur Turgot_, pp. 45, 52, 53, 411; _Mém. de Brissot_, vol. i. pp. 62, 151, 319, 336, 338, 357; _Cuvier_, _Progrès des Sciences_, vol. i. p. 89. The results produced by this remarkable change are very curious, and from their energy and rapidity were very decisive. As long as the different classes confined themselves to pursuits peculiar to their own sphere, they were encouraged to preserve their separate habits; and the subordination, or, as it were, the hierarchy, of society was easily maintained. But when the members of the various orders met in the same place with the same object, they became knit together by a new sympathy. The highest and most durable of all pleasures, the pleasure caused by the perception of fresh truths, was now a great link, which banded together those social elements that were formerly wrapped up in the pride of their own isolation. Besides this, there was also given to them not only a new pursuit, but also a new standard of merit. In the amphitheatre and the lecture-room, the first object of attention is the professor and the lecturer. The division is between those who teach and those who learn. The subordination of ranks makes way for the subordination of knowledge.[1147] The petty and conventional distinctions of fashionable life are succeeded by those large and genuine distinctions, by which alone man is really separated from man. The progress of the intellect supplies a new object of veneration; the old worship of rank is rudely disturbed, and its superstitious devotees are taught to bow the knee before what to them is the shrine of a strange god. The hall of science is the temple of democracy. Those who come to learn, confess their own ignorance, abrogate in some degree their own superiority, and begin to perceive that the greatness of men has no connexion with the splendour of their titles, or the dignity of their birth; that it is not concerned with their quarterings, their escutcheons, their descents, their dexter-chiefs, their sinister-chiefs, their chevrons, their bends, their azures, their gules, and the other trumperies of their heraldry; but that it depends upon the largeness of their minds, the powers of their intellect, and the fullness of their knowledge. [1147] A celebrated writer has well said, though in a somewhat different point of view, 'Il ne peut y avoir dans les sciences morales, pas plus que dans les sciences physiques, ni maîtres, ni esclaves, ni rois, ni sujets, ni citoyens, ni étrangers.' _Comte_, _Traité de Législation_, vol. i. p. 43. These were the views which, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, began to influence those classes which had long been the undisputed masters of society.[1148] And what shows the strength of this great movement is, that it was accompanied by other social changes, which, though in themselves apparently trifling, become full of meaning when taken in connexion with the general history of the time. [1148] The remarks which Thomas made upon Descartes in 1765, in an _éloge_ crowned by the Academy, illustrate the opinions which, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, were becoming rapidly diffused in France. See the passage beginning 'O préjugés! ô ridicule fierté des places et du rang!' &c. _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. i. p. 74. Certainly no one would have used such language, on such an occasion, thirty years earlier. So, too, the Count de Ségur says of the younger nobles before the Revolution, 'nous préférions un mot d'éloges de D'Alembert, de Diderot, à la faveur la plus signalée d'un prince.' _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. i. p. 142: see also vol. ii. p. 46. While the immense progress of physical knowledge was revolutionizing society, by inspiring the different classes with an object common to all, and thus raising a new standard of merit, a more trivial, but equally democratic tendency was observable even in the conventional forms of social life. To describe the whole of these changes would occupy a space disproportioned to the other parts of this Introduction; but it is certain that, until the changes have been carefully examined, it will be impossible for any one to write a history of the French Revolution. As a specimen of what I mean, I will notice two of these innovations which are very conspicuous, and are also interesting on account of their analogy with what has happened in English society. The first of these changes was an alteration in dress, and a marked contempt for those external appearances hitherto valued as one of the most important of all matters. During the reign of Louis XIV., and indeed during the first half of the reign of Louis XV., not only men of frivolous tastes, but even those distinguished for their knowledge, displayed in their attire a dainty precision, a nice and studied adjustment, a pomp of gold, of silver, and of ruffles, such as in our days can nowhere be seen, except in the courts of European princes, where a certain barbarian splendour is still retained. So far was this carried, that in the seventeenth century the rank of a person might be immediately known by his appearance; no one presuming to usurp a garb worn by the class immediately above his own.[1149] But in that democratic movement which preceded the French Revolution, the minds of men became too earnest, too intent upon higher matters, to busy themselves with those idle devices which engrossed the attention of their fathers. A contemptuous disregard of such distinctions became general. In Paris the innovation was seen even in those gay assemblies, where a certain amount of personal decoration is still considered natural. At dinners, suppers, and balls, it is noticed by contemporary observers, that the dress usually worn was becoming so simple as to cause a confusion of ranks, until at length every distinction was abandoned by both sexes; the men, on such occasions, coming in a common frock-coat, the women in their ordinary morning gowns.[1150] Nay, to such a pitch was this carried, that we are assured by the Prince de Montbarey, who was in Paris at the time, that shortly before the Revolution, even those who had stars and orders were careful to hide them by buttoning their coats, so that these marks of superiority might no longer be seen.[1151] [1149] Among many other illustrations which might be given of this distinction of classes by dress, see _Monteil_, _Hist. des divers Etats_, vol. vii. pp. 7-10; and _Tallemant des Réaux_, _Historiettes_, vol. i. p. 36 note. [1150] In August 1787, Jefferson writes from Paris (_Correspondence_, vol. ii. p. 224): 'In society, the _habit habillé_ is almost banished, and they begin to go even to great suppers in frock: the court and diplomatic corps, however, must always be excepted. They are too high to be reached by any improvement. They are the last refuge from which etiquette, formality, and folly will be driven. Take away these, and they would be on a level with other people.' Jefferson was a statesman and a diplomatist, and was well acquainted with his profession. The change, however, which he noticed, had been coming on some years earlier. In a letter written in May 1786, it is said: 'Il est rare aujourd'hui de rencontrer dans le monde des personnes qui soient ce qu'on appelle habillées. Lee femmes sont en chemise et en chapeau, les hommes en froc et en gilet.' _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. xiv. p. 485; and on the increased simplicity of attire in 1780, see vol. xi. pp. 141, 142. Ségur, who witnessed these changes, and was much displeased by them, says of their advocates, 'ils ne voyaient pas que les frocs, remplaçant les amples et imposans vêtemens de l'ancienne cour, présagaient un penchant général pour l'égalité.' _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. i. p. 131. Soulavie (_Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. vi. p. 38) observes, that 'les grands, vers les approches de la révolution, n'avoient plus que des habits simples et peu coûteux;' and that 'on ne distingua plus une duchesse d'une actrice,' p. 43: see also an extract from Montjoye, in _Alison's History_, vol. i. pp. 352, 353. Compare _Mém. sur Marie-Antoinette_, vol. i. pp. 226, 372, vol. ii. p. 174, and _Mém. de Madame au Hausset_, introduc. p. 17. [1151] 'Les personnes du premier rang et même d'un âge mûr, qui avaient travaillé toute leur vie pour obtenir les ordres du roi, preuve de la plus haute faveur, s'habituèrent à en cacher les marques distinctives sous le froc le plus simple, qui leur permettait de courir à pied dans les rues et de se confondre dans la foule.' _Mém. de Montbarey_, vol. iii. pp. 161, 162. Another alteration of the same tendency is worth recording. The Baroness d'Oberkirch, who revisited Paris in 1784, remarked, on her arrival, that 'gentlemen began about this time to go about unarmed, and wore swords only in full dress.... And thus the French nobility laid aside a usage which the example of their fathers had consecrated through centuries.' _D'Oberkirch's Memoirs_, Lond. 1852, vol. ii. p. 211. The other innovation to which I have referred is equally interesting as characteristic of the spirit of the time. This is, that the tendency to amalgamate the different orders of society[1152] was shown in the institution of clubs; a remarkable contrivance, which to us seems perfectly natural because we are accustomed to it, but of which it may be truly said, that until the eighteenth century its existence was impossible. Before the eighteenth century, each class was so jealous of its superiority over the one below it, that to meet together on equal terms was impracticable; and although a certain patronizing familiarity towards one's inferiors might be safely indulged in, this only marked the immense interval of separation, since the great man had no fear of his condescension being abused. In those good old times a proper respect was paid to rank and birth; and he who could count his twenty ancestors was venerated to an extent of which we, in these degenerate days, can hardly form an idea. As to any thing like social equality, that was a notion too preposterous to be conceived; nor was it possible that any institution should exist which placed mere ordinary men on a level with those illustrious characters, whose veins were filled with the purest blood, and the quarterings of whose arms none could hope to rival. [1152] A striking instance of which was, moreover, seen in the number of _mésalliances_, which first became frequent about the middle of the reign of Louis XV. Compare _Mém. de Montbarey_, vol. iii. pp. 116, 156, 157; _Lacretelle_, _Dix-huitième Siècle_, vol. iii. p. 220. But in the eighteenth century the progress of knowledge became so remarkable, that the new principle of intellectual superiority made rapid encroachments on the old principle of aristocratic superiority. As soon as these encroachments had reached a certain point, they gave rise to an institution suited to them; and thus it was that there were first established clubs, in which all the educated classes could assemble, without regard to those other differences which, in the preceding period, kept them separate. The peculiarity of this was, that, for mere purposes of social enjoyment, men were brought into contact, who, according to the aristocratic scheme, had nothing in common, but who were now placed on the same footing in so far as they belonged to the same establishment, conformed to the same rules, and reaped the same advantages. It was, however, expected that the members, though varying in many other respects, were to be all, in some degree, educated; and in this way society first distinctly recognized a classification previously unknown; the division between noble and ignoble being succeeded by another division between educated and uneducated. The rise and growth of clubs is, therefore, to the philosophic observer, a question of immense importance; and it is one which, as I shall hereafter prove, played a great part in the history of England during the latter half of the eighteenth century. In reference to our present subject, it is interesting to observe, that the first clubs, in the modern sense of the word, which ever existed in Paris, were formed about 1782, only seven years before the French Revolution. At the beginning they were merely intended to be social assemblages; but they quickly assumed a democratic character, conformable to the spirit of the age. Their first result, as was noticed by a keen observer of what was then passing, was to make the manners of the upper classes more simple than they had hitherto been, and to weaken that love of form and ceremony suitable to their earlier habits. These clubs likewise effected a remarkable separation between the sexes; and it is recorded, that after their establishment, women associated more with each other, and were oftener seen in public unaccompanied by men.[1153] This had the effect of encouraging among men a republican roughness, which the influence of the other sex would have tended to keep down. All these things effaced the old lines of demarcation between the different ranks, and by merging the various classes into one, made the force of their united opposition irresistible, and speedily overthrew both the church and the state. The exact period at which the clubs became political cannot, of course, be ascertained, but the change seems to have taken place about 1784.[1154] From this moment all was over; and although the government, in 1787, issued orders to close the leading club, in which all classes discussed political questions, it was found impossible to stem the current. The order, therefore, was rescinded; the club re-assembled, and no further attempt was made to interrupt that course of affairs which a long train of preceding events had rendered inevitable.[1155] [1153] 'Nous commençâmes aussi à avoir des clubs: les hommes s'y réunissaient, non encore pour discuter, mais pour dîner, jouer au wisk, et lire tous les ouvrages nouveaux. Ce premier pas, alors presque inaperçu, eut dans la suite de grandes, et momentanément de funestes conséquences. Dans le commencement, son premier résultat fut de séparer les hommes des femmes, et d'apporter ainsi un notable changement dans nos m[oe]urs: elles devinrent moins frivoles, mais moins polies; plus fortes, mais moins aimables: la politique y gagna, la société y perdit.' _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. ii. p. 28. By the spring of 1786, this separation of the sexes had become still more marked; and it was a common complaint, that ladies were obliged to go to the theatre alone, men being at their clubs. See the very curious observations in _Grimm_, _Correspond._ vol. xiv. pp. 486-489, where there is also a notice of 'le prodigieux succès qu'a eu l'établissement des clubs à l'anglaise.' See also, on the diminished attention paid to women, _Williams's Letters from France_, vol. ii. p. 80; 3rd edit. 1796. [1154] The remarks of Georgel appear to apply to the political clubs only: 'A Paris les assemblées de nouvellistes, les clubs qui s'étoient formés à l'instar de ceux des Anglais, s'expliquaient hautement et sans retenue sur les droits de l'homme, sur les avantages de la liberté, sur les grands abus de l'inégalité des conditions. Ces clubs, trop accrédités, avoient commencé à se former en 1784.' _Mém. de Georgel_, vol. ii. p. 310. [1155] 'Le lieutenant de police fit fermer le club nommé _Club du Salon_; ordre arbitraire et inutile: ce club alors était composé de personnes distinguées de la noblesse ou de la haute bourgeoisie, ainsi que des artistes et des hommes de lettres les plus considérés. Cette réunion offrait, pour la première fois, l'image d'une égalité qui devient bientôt, plus que la liberté même, le v[oe]u le plus ardent de la plus grande partie de la nation. Aussi le mécontentement produit par la clôture de ce club fut si vif, que l'autorité se crut obligée de la rouvrir.' _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. iii. pp. 258, 259. On the increase of these clubs from 1787 to 1789, compare _Du Mesnil_, _Mém. sur Le Brun_, p. 148; _Mém. de Lafayette_, vol. i. pp. 312, 322, 391, 434, vol. ii. p. 9; _Barruel_, _Hist. du Jacob._ vol. i. p. 40, vol. ii. p. 310, vol. v. pp. 101, 168; _Thiers_, _Hist. de la Révolution_, vol. i. p. 36, Paris, 1834. While all these things were conspiring to overthrow the old institutions, an event suddenly occurred which produced the most remarkable effects in France, and is itself strikingly characteristic of the spirit of the eighteenth century. On the other side of the Atlantic, a great people, provoked by the intolerable injustice of the English government, rose in arms, turned on their oppressors, and, after a desperate struggle, gloriously obtained their independence. In 1776, the Americans laid before Europe that noble Declaration, which ought to be hung up in the nursery of every king, and blazoned on the porch of every royal palace. In words, the memory of which can never die, they declared, that the object of the institution of government is to secure the rights of the people; that from the people alone it derives its powers; and 'that whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundations on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness.'[1156] [1156] _Mem. of Franklin_, vol. ii. pp. 14 seq.; and _Mem. of Jefferson_, vol. i. pp. 17-22, where the passages are given which Congress altered. If this declaration had been made only one generation earlier, the whole of France, with the exception of a few advanced thinkers, would have rejected it with horror and with scorn. Such, however, was now the temper of the public mind, that the doctrines it contained were not merely welcomed by a majority of the French nation, but even the government itself was unable to withstand the general feeling.[1157] In 1776, Franklin arrived in France, as envoy from the American people. He met with the warmest reception from all classes,[1158] and succeeded in inducing the government to sign a treaty, engaging to defend the young republic in the rights it had gloriously won.[1159] In Paris, the enthusiasm was irresistible.[1160] From every quarter large bodies of men came forward, volunteering to cross the Atlantic and to fight for the liberties of America. The heroism with which these auxiliaries aided the noble struggle, forms a cheering passage in the history of that time; but is foreign to my present purpose, which is merely to notice its effect in hastening the approach of the French Revolution. And this effect was indeed most remarkable. Besides the indirect result produced by the example of a successful rebellion, the French were still further stimulated by actual contact with their new allies. The French officers and soldiers who served in America, introduced into their own country, on their return, those democratic opinions which they had imbibed in the infant republic.[1161] By this means, fresh strength was given to the revolutionary tendencies already prevalent; and it is worthy of remark, that Lafayette borrowed from the same source one of his most celebrated acts. He drew his sword on behalf of the Americans; and they, in their turn, communicated to him that famous doctrine respecting the rights of man, which, at his instigation, was formally adopted by the National Assembly.[1162] Indeed, there is reason to believe, that the final blow the French government received was actually dealt by the hand of an American; for it is said that it was in consequence of the advice of Jefferson, that the popular part of the legislative body proclaimed itself the National Assembly, and thus set the crown at open defiance.[1163] [1157] Ségur (_Mém._ vol. i. p. 111) says that his father had been frequently told by Maurepas that public opinion forced the government, against its own wishes, to side with America. Compare _Mém. de Georgel_, vol. iv. p. 370; and _Flassan_, _Diplomatie Française_, vol. vii. p. 166. [1158] The news of which soon reached England. In January 1777, Burke writes (_Works_, vol. ii. p. 394), 'I hear that Dr. Franklin has had a most extraordinary reception at Paris from all ranks of people.' Soulavie (_Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. ii. p. 50) says, 'J'ai vu Francklin devenir un objet de culte.' See also, on his popularity, _Mém. d'Epinay_, vol. iii. p. 419. [1159] _Flassan_, _Diplomatie Française_, vol. vii. p. 159; _Life of Franklin_, _by Himself_, vol. ii. pp. 60, 61; _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol. vii. pp. 197, 198. [1160] The sneering letter written from Paris by Lord Stormont, as early as December 1774 (_Adolphus's George III._ vol. ii. p. 316), should be compared with _Lafayette_, _Mémoires_, vol. i. pp. 24, 169, 229; _Dutens_, _Mém. d'un Voyageur_, vol. ii. p. 317; _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. i. p. 149; and _Schlosser's Eighteenth Century_, vol. v. p. 175. [1161] _De Staël sur la Révolution_, vol. i. p. 88; _Mém. de Montbarey_, vol. iii. pp. 134, 186; _Mém. de Ségur_, vol. i. p. 277; _Campan_, _Mém. de Marie Antoinette_, vol. i. p. 233, vol. iii. pp. 96, 116; _Soulavie_, _Règne de Louis XVI_, vol. ii. pp. xxiv. li. iii.; _Dumont_, _Souvenirs sur Mirabeau_, p. 176; _Mém. de Du Hausset_, introduc. p. 40; _Mém. de Genlis_, vol. vi. p. 57; _Jefferson's Mem. and Correspond._ vol. i. p. 59; and Maitland's speech, in _Parl. Hist._ vol. xxx. pp. 198, 199; also the remarks of the Duke of Bedford, vol. xxxi. p. 663. [1162] _Lamartine_, _Hist. des Girondins_, vol. i. p. 46. Dumont (_Souvenirs_, p. 97) calls this 'une idée américaine;' and see to the same effect, _Mém. de Lafayette_, vol. i. pp. 193, 268, 269, 416, vol. ii. pp. 139, 140; _Jefferson's Correspond._ vol. i. p. 90; _Barruel_, _Hist. du Jacobinisme_, vol. v. p. 311. The influence which the American Revolution exercised over the mind of Lafayette is noticed by Bouillé, his cousin and his enemy. _Mém. de Bouillé_, vol. i. p. 102, vol. ii. pp. 131, 183. [1163] 'The Duke of Dorset, the English ambassador, writing to Mr. Pitt from Paris, July 9th, 1789, said, "Mr. Jefferson, the American minister at this court, has been a great deal consulted by the principal leaders of the _tiers état_; and I have great reason to think that it was owing to his advice that order called itself _L'Assemblée Nationale_."' _Tomline's Life of Pitt_, vol. ii. p. 266. I have now brought to a close my examination of the causes of the French Revolution; but before concluding the present chapter, it appears to me that the variety of topics which have been discussed, makes it advisable that I should sum up their leading points; and should state, as briefly as possible, the steps of that long and complicated argument, by which I have attempted to prove, that the Revolution was an event inevitably arising out of preceding circumstances. Such a summary, by recalling the entire subject before the reader, will remedy any confusion which the fullness of detail may have produced, and will simplify an investigation which many will consider to have been needlessly protracted; but which could not have been abridged without weakening, in some essential part, the support of those general principles that I seek to establish. Looking at the state of France immediately after the death of Louis XIV., we have seen that, his policy having reduced the country to the brink of ruin, and having destroyed every vestige of free inquiry, a reaction became necessary; but that the materials for the reaction could not be found among a nation, which for fifty years had been exposed to so debilitating a system. This deficiency at home, caused the most eminent Frenchmen to turn their attention abroad, and gave rise to a sudden admiration for the English literature, and for those habits of thought which were then peculiar to the English people. New life being thus breathed into the wasted frame of French society, an eager and inquisitive spirit was generated, such as had not been seen since the time of Descartes. The upper classes, taking offence at this unexpected movement, attempted to stifle it, and made strenuous efforts to destroy that love of inquiry which was daily gaining ground. To effect their object, they persecuted literary men with such bitterness, as to make it evident that the intellect of France must either relapse into its former servility, or else boldly assume the offensive. Happily for the interests of civilization, the latter alternative was adopted; and, in or about 1750, a deadly struggle began, in which those principles of liberty which France borrowed from England, and which had hitherto been supposed only applicable to the church, were for the first time applied to the state. Coinciding with this movement, and indeed forming part of it, other circumstances occurred of the same character. Now it was that the political economists succeeded in proving that the interference of the governing classes had inflicted great mischief even upon the material interests of the country; and had, by their protective measures, injured what they were believed to have benefited. This remarkable discovery in favour of general freedom, put a fresh weapon into the hands of the democratic party; whose strength was still further increased by the unrivalled eloquence with which Rousseau assailed the existing fabric. Precisely the same tendency was exhibited in the extraordinary impulse given to every branch of physical science, which familiarized men with ideas of progress, and brought them into collision with the stationary and conservative ideas natural to government. The discoveries made respecting the external world, encouraged a restlessness and excitement of mind hostile to the spirit of routine, and therefore full of danger for institutions only recommended by their antiquity. This eagerness for physical knowledge also effected a change in education; and the ancient languages being neglected, another link was severed which connected the present with the past. The church, the legitimate protector of old opinions, was unable to resist the passion for novelty, because she was weakened by treason in her own camp. For by this time, Calvinism had spread so much among the French clergy, as to break them into two hostile parties, and render it impossible to rally them against their common foe. The growth of this heresy was also important, because Calvinism being essentially democratic, a revolutionary spirit appeared even in the ecclesiastical profession, so that the feud in the church was accompanied by another feud between the government and the church. These were the leading symptoms of that vast movement which culminated in the French Revolution; and all of them indicated a state of society so anarchical and so thoroughly disorganized, as to make it certain that some great catastrophe was impending. At length, and when everything was ready for explosion, the news of the American Rebellion fell like a spark on the inflammatory mass, and ignited a flame which never ceased its ravages until it had destroyed all that Frenchmen once held dear, and had left for the instruction of mankind an awful lesson of the crimes into which continued oppression may hurry a generous and long-suffering people. Such is a rapid outline of the view which my studies have led me to take of the causes of the French Revolution. That I have ascertained all the causes, I do not for a moment suppose; but it will, I believe, be found that none of importance have been omitted. It is, indeed, true, that among the materials of which the evidence consists, many deficiencies will be seen; and a more protracted labour would have been rewarded by a greater success. Of these shortcomings I am deeply sensible; and I can only regret that the necessity of passing on to a still larger field has compelled me to leave so much for future inquirers to gather in. At the same time, it ought to be remembered, that this is the first attempt which has ever been made to study the antecedents of the French Revolution according to a scheme wide enough to include the whole of their intellectual bearings. In defiance of sound philosophy, and, I may say, in defiance of common understanding, historians obstinately persist in neglecting those great branches of physical knowledge, in which in every civilized country the operations of the human mind may be most clearly seen, and therefore the mental habits most easily ascertained. The result is, that the French Revolution, unquestionably the most important, the most complicated, and the most glorious event in history, has been given over to authors, many of whom have displayed considerable ability, but all of whom have shown themselves destitute of that preliminary scientific education, in the absence of which it is impossible to seize the spirit of any period, or to take a comprehensive survey of its various parts. Thus, to mention only a single instance: we have seen that the extraordinary impulse given to the study of the external world was intimately connected with that democratic movement which overthrew the institutions of France. But this connexion historians have been unable to trace; because they were unacquainted with the progress of the various branches of natural philosophy and of natural history. Hence it is that they have exhibited their great subject maimed and mutilated, shorn of those fair proportions which it ought to possess. According to this scheme, the historian sinks into the annalist; so that, instead of solving a problem, he merely paints a picture. Without, therefore, disparaging the labours of those industrious men who have collected materials for a history of the French Revolution, we may assuredly say, that the history itself has never been written; since they who have attempted the task have not possessed such resources as would enable them to consider it as merely a single part of that far larger movement which was seen in every department of science, of philosophy, of religion, and of politics. Whether or not I have effected anything of real value towards remedying this deficiency, is a question for competent judges to decide. Of this, at least, I feel certain, that whatever imperfections may be observed, the fault consists, not in the method proposed, but in the extreme difficulty of any single man putting into full operation all the parts of so vast a scheme. It is on this point, and on this alone, that I feel the need of great indulgence. But, as to the plan itself, I have no misgivings; because I am deeply convinced that the time is fast approaching when the history of Man will be placed on its proper footing; when its study will be recognized as the noblest and most arduous of all pursuits; and when it will be clearly seen, that, to cultivate it with success, there is wanted a wide and comprehensive mind, richly furnished with the highest branches of human knowledge. When this is fully admitted, history will be written only by those whose habits fit them for the task; and it will be rescued from the hands of biographers, genealogists, collectors of anecdotes, chroniclers of courts, of princes, and of nobles,--those babblers of vain things, who lie in wait at every corner, and infest this the public highway of our national literature. That such compilers should trespass on a province so far above their own, and should think that by these means they can throw light on the affairs of men, is one of many proofs of the still backward condition of our knowledge, and of the indistinctness with which its boundaries have been mapped out. If I have done anything towards bringing these intrusions into discredit, and inspiring historians themselves with a sense of the dignity of their own calling, I shall have rendered in my time some little service, and I shall be well content to have it said, that in many cases I have failed in executing what I originally proposed. Indeed, that there are in this volume several instances of such failure, I willingly allow; and I can only plead the immensity of the subject, the shortness of a single life, and the imperfection of every single enterprise. I, therefore, wish this work to be estimated, not according to the finish of its separate parts, but according to the way in which those parts have been fused into a complete and symmetrical whole. This, in an undertaking of such novelty and magnitude, I have a right to expect. And I would, moreover, add, that if the reader has met with opinions adverse to his own, he should remember that his views are, perchance, the same as those which I too once held, and which I have abandoned, because, after a wider range of study, I found them unsupported by solid proof, subversive of the interests of Man, and fatal to the progress of his knowledge. To examine the notions in which we have been educated, and to turn aside from those which will not bear the test, is a task so painful, that they who shrink from the suffering should pause before they reproach those by whom the suffering is undergone. What I have put forward may, no doubt, be erroneous; but it is, at all events, the result of an honest searching after truth, of unsparing labour, of patient and anxious reflection. Conclusions arrived at in this way, are not to be overturned by stating that they endanger some other conclusions; nor can they be even affected by allegations against their supposed tendency. The principles which I advocate, are based upon distinct arguments, supported by well-ascertained facts. The only points, therefore, to be ascertained, are, whether the arguments are fair, and whether the facts are certain. If these two conditions have been obeyed, the principles follow by an inevitable inference. Their demonstration is, in the present volume, necessarily incomplete; and the reader must suspend his final judgment until the close of this Introduction, when the subject in all its bearings will be laid before him. The remaining part of the Introduction will be occupied, as I have already intimated, with an investigation of the civilizations of Germany, America, Scotland, and Spain; each of which presents a different type of intellectual development, and has, therefore, followed a different direction in its religious, scientific, social, and political history. The causes of these differences I shall attempt to ascertain. The next step will be to generalize the causes themselves; and having thus referred them to certain principles common to all, we shall be possessed of what may be called the fundamental laws of European thought; the divergence of the different countries being regulated either by the direction those laws take, or else by their comparative energy. To discover these fundamental laws will be the business of the Introduction; while, in the body of the work, I shall apply them to the history of England, and endeavour by their aid to work out the epochs through which we have successively passed, fix the basis of our present civilization, and indicate the path of our future progress. CHAPTER VIII. OUTLINE OF THE HISTORY OF THE SPANISH INTELLECT FROM THE FIFTH TO THE MIDDLE OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY. In the preceding chapters, I have endeavoured to establish four leading propositions, which, according to my view, are to be deemed the basis of the history of civilization. They are: 1st, That the progress of mankind depends on the success with which the laws of phenomena are investigated, and on the extent to which a knowledge of those laws is diffused. 2nd, That before such investigation can begin, a spirit of scepticism must arise, which, at first aiding the investigation, is afterwards aided by it. 3rd, That the discoveries thus made, increase the influence of intellectual truths, and diminish, relatively not absolutely, the influence of moral truths; moral truths being more stationary than intellectual truths, and receiving fewer additions. 4th, That the great enemy of this movement, and therefore the great enemy of civilization, is the protective spirit; by which I mean the notion that society cannot prosper, unless the affairs of life are watched over and protected at nearly every turn by the state and the church; the state teaching men what they are to do, and the church teaching them what they are to believe. Such are the propositions which I hold to be the most essential for a right understanding of history, and which I have defended in the only two ways any proposition can be defended; namely, inductively and deductively. The inductive defence comprises a collection of historical and scientific facts, which suggest and authorize the conclusions drawn from them; while the deductive defence consists of a verification of those conclusions, by showing how they explain the history of different countries and their various fortunes. To the former, or inductive method of defence, I am at present unable to add anything new; but the deductive defence I hope to strengthen considerably, and by the aid of the following chapters, confirm not only the four cardinal propositions just stated, but also several minor propositions, which, though strictly speaking flowing from them, will require separate verification. According to the plan already sketched, the remaining part of the introduction will contain an examination of the history of Spain, of Scotland, of Germany, and of the United States of America, with the object of elucidating principles on which the history of England supplies inadequate information. And as Spain is the country where what I conceive to be the fundamental conditions of national improvement have been most flagrantly violated, so also shall we find that it is the country where the penalty paid for the violation has been most heavy, and where, therefore, it is most instructive to ascertain how the prevalence of certain opinions causes the decay of the people among whom they predominate. We have seen that the old tropical civilizations were accompanied by remarkable features which I have termed Aspects of Nature, and which, by inflaming the imagination, encouraged superstition, and prevented men from daring to analyze such threatening physical phenomena; in other words, prevented the creation of the physical sciences. Now, it is an interesting fact that, in these respects, no European country is so analogous to the tropics as Spain. No other part of Europe is so clearly designated by nature as the seat and refuge of superstition. Recurring to what has been already proved,[1164] it will be remembered that among the most important physical causes of superstition are famines, epidemics, earthquakes, and that general unhealthiness of climate, which, by shortening the average duration of life, increases the frequency and earnestness with which supernatural aid is invoked. These peculiarities, taken together, are more prominent in Spain than anywhere else in Europe; it will therefore be useful to give such a summary of them as will exhibit the mischievous effects they have produced in shaping the national character. [1164] In the second chapter of the first volume of _Buckle's History of Civilization_. If we except the northern extremity of Spain, we may say that the two principal characteristics of the climate are heat and dryness, both of which are favoured by the extreme difficulty which nature has interposed in regard to irrigation. For, the rivers which intersect the land, run mostly in beds too deep to be made available for watering the soil, which consequently is, and always has been, remarkably arid.[1165] Owing to this, and to the infrequency of rain, there is no European country as richly endowed in other respects, where droughts and therefore famines have been so frequent and serious.[1166] At the same time the vicissitudes of climate, particularly in the central parts, make Spain habitually unhealthy; and this general tendency being strengthened in the middle ages by the constant occurrence of famine, caused the ravages of pestilence to be unusually fatal.[1167] When we moreover add that in the Peninsula, including Portugal, earthquakes have been extremely disastrous,[1168] and have excited all those superstitious feelings which they naturally provoke, we may form some idea of the insecurity of life, and of the ease with which an artful and ambitious priesthood could turn such insecurity into an engine for the advancement of their own power.[1169] [1165] 'The low state of agriculture in Spain may be ascribed partly to physical and partly to moral causes. At the head of the former must be placed the heat of the climate and the aridity of the soil. Most part of the rivers with which the country is intersected run in deep beds, and are but little available except in a few favoured localities, for purposes of irrigation.' _M'Culloch's Geographical and Statistical Dictionary_, London, 1849, vol. ii. p. 708. See also _Laborde's Spain_, London, 1809, vol. iv. p. 284, vol. v. p. 261. The relative aridity of the different parts is stated in _Cook's Spain_, London, 1834, vol. ii. pp. 216-219. [1166] On these droughts and famines, see _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, Madrid, 1794, vol. ii. p. 270, vol. iii. p. 225, vol. iv. p. 32. _Conde_, _Historia de la Dominacion de los Arabes en España_, Paris, 1840, pp. 142, 149, 154, 170. _Davila_, _Historia de la Vida de Felipe Tercero_, Madrid, 1771, folio, lib. ii. p. 114. _Clarke's Letters concerning the Spanish Nation_, London, 1763, 4to. p. 282. _Udal ap Rhys' Tour through Spain_, London, 1760, pp. 292, 293. _Spain by an American_, London, 1831, vol. ii. p. 282. _Hoskins' Spain_, London, 1851, vol. i. pp. 127, 132, 152. 'España es castigada frecuentemente con las sequedades y faltas de lluvias.' _Muriel_, _Gobierno de Carlos III._, Madrid, 1839, p. 193. [1167] 'Añádase á todo esto las repetidas pestes, y mortales epidemias que han afligido á las provincias de España, mayormente á las meridionales que han sido las mas sujetas á estas plagas. De estas se hace mencion en los anales é historias muy freqüentemente; y en su confirmacion se puede leer el tratado histórico, ó _epidemiológia_ que sobre ellas ha publicado Don Joachîn de Villalba, donde se verá con dolor y espanto con quanta freqüencia se repetian estos azotes desde mediados del siglo décimoquarto.' ... 'Dos exemplos bien recientes y dolorosos hemos visto, y conservaremos en la memoria, en los formidables estragos que acaban de padecer gran parte del reyno de Sevilla, Cádiz, y sus contornos, Málaga, Cartagena, y Alicante; sin contar la mortandad con que han afligido á la mayor parte de los pueblos de ámbas Castillas las epidemias de calenturas pútridas en el año pasado de 1805.' ... 'Por otra parte la fundacion de tantas capillas y procesiones á San Roque, y á San Sebastian, como abogados contre la peste, que todavía se conservan en la mayor parte de nuestras ciudades de España, son otro testimonio de los grandes y repetidos estragos que habian padecido sus pueblos de este azote. Y el gran número de médicos españoles que publicáron tratados preservativos y curativos de la peste en los reynados de Cárlos V., Felipe II., Felipe III., y Felipe IV., confirman mas la verdad de los hechos.' _Capmany_, _Qüestiones Criticas_, Madrid, 1807, pp. 51, 52; see also pp. 66, 67; and _Janer_, _Condicion Social de los Moriscos de España_, Madrid, 1857, pp. 106, 107; and the notice of Malaga in _Bourgoing_, _Tableau de l'Espagne_, Paris, 1808, vol. iii. p. 242. [1168] 'Earthquakes are still often felt at Granada and along the coast of the province of Alicante, where their effects have been very disastrous. Much further in the interior, in the small Sierra del Tremédal, or district of Albarracia, in the province of Terruel, eruptions and shocks have been very frequent since the most remote periods; the black porphyry is there seen traversing the altered strata of the oolitic formation. The old inhabitants of the country speak of sinking of the ground and of the escape of sulphureous gases when they were young; these same phenomena have occurred during four consecutive months of the preceding winter, accompanied by earthquakes, which have caused considerable mischief to the buildings of seven villages situated within a radius of two leagues. They have not, however, been attended with any loss of life, on account of the inhabitants hastening to abandon their dwellings at the first indications of danger.' _Ezquerra on the Geology of Spain_, in the _Quarterly Journal of the Geological Society of London_, vol. vi. pp. 412, 413, London, 1850. 'The provinces of Malaga, Murcia, and Granada, and, in Portugal, the country round Lisbon, are recorded at several periods to have been devastated, by great earthquakes.' _Lyell's Principles of Geology_, London, 1853, p. 358. 'Los terremotos son tan sensibles y freqüentes en lo alto de las montañas, como en lo llano, pues Sevilla está sujeta á ellos hallándose situada sobre una llanura tan igual y baxa como Holanda.' _Bowles_, _Introduccion à la Historia Natural de España_, Madrid, 1789, 4to, pp. 90, 91. 'The littoral plains, especially about Cartagena and Alicante, are much subject to earthquakes.' _Ford's Spain_, 1847, p. 168. 'This corner of Spain is the chief volcanic district of the Peninsula, which stretches from Cabo de Gata to near Cartagena; the earthquakes are very frequent.' _Ford_, p. 174. 'Spain, including Portugal, in its external configuration, with its vast tableland of the two Castiles, rising nearly 2,000 feet above the sea, is perhaps the most interesting portion of Europe, not only in this respect, but as a region of earthquake disturbance, where the energy and destroying power of this agency have been more than once displayed upon the most tremendous scale.' _Mallet's Earthquake Catalogue of the British Association_, Report for 1858, p. 9, London, 1858. I quote these passages at length, partly on account of their interest as physical truths, and partly because the facts stated in them are essential for a right understanding of the history of Spain. Their influence on the Spanish character was pointed out, for I believe the first time, in my _History of Civilization_, vol. i. pp. 123, 124. On that occasion, I adduced no evidence to prove the frequency of earthquakes in the Peninsula, because I supposed that all persons moderately acquainted with the physical history of the earth were aware of the circumstance. But, in April 1858, a criticism of my book appeared in the _Edinburgh Review_, in which the serious blunders which I am said to have committed are unsparingly exposed. In p. 468 of that Review, the critic, after warning his readers against my 'inaccuracies,' observes, 'But Mr. Buckle goes on to state that "earthquakes and volcanic eruptions are more frequent and more destructive in Italy, and in the Spanish and Portuguese peninsula, than in any other of the great countries." Whence he infers, by a singular process of reasoning, that superstition is more rife, and the clergy more powerful; but that the fine arts flourish, poetry is cultivated, and the sciences neglected. Every link in this chain is more or less faulty. There is no volcano in the Spanish peninsula, and the only earthquake known to have occurred there was that of Lisbon.' Now, I have certainly no right to expect that a reviewer, composing a popular article for an immediate purpose, and knowing that when his article is read, it will be thrown aside and forgotten, should, under such unfavourable circumstances, be at the pains of mastering all the details of his subject. To look for this would be the height of injustice. He has no interest in being accurate; his name being concealed, his reputation, if he have any, is not at stake; and the errors into which he falls ought to be regarded with leniency, inasmuch as their vehicle being an ephemeral publication, they are not likely to be remembered, and they are therefore not likely to work much mischief. These considerations have always prevented me from offering any reply to anonymous criticisms. But the passage in the _Edinburgh Review_, to which I have called attention, displays such marvellous ignorance, that I wish to rescue it from oblivion, and to put it on record as a literary curiosity. The other charges brought against me could, I need hardly say, be refuted with equal ease. Indeed, no reasonable person can possibly suppose that, after years of arduous and uninterrupted study, I should have committed those childish blunders with which my opponents unscrupulously taunt me. Once for all, I may say that I have made no assertion for the truth of which I do not possess ample and irrefragable evidence. But it is impossible for me to arrange and adduce all the proofs at the same time; and, in so vast an enterprise, I must in some degree rely, not on the generosity of the reader, but on his candour. I do not think that I am asking too much in requesting him, if on any future occasion his judgment should be in suspense between me and my critics, to give me the benefit of the doubt, and to bear in mind that statements embodied in a deliberate and slowly-concocted work, authenticated by the author's name, are, as a mere matter of antecedent probability, more likely to be accurate than statements made in reviews and newspapers, which, besides being written hastily, and often at very short notice, are unsigned, and by which, consequently, their promulgators evade all responsibility, avoid all risk, and can, in their own persons, neither gain fame nor incur obloquy. The simple fact is, that in Spain there have been more earthquakes than in all other parts of Europe put together, Italy excepted. If the destruction of property and of life produced by this one cause were summed up, the results would be appalling. When we moreover add those alarming shocks, which, though less destructive, are far more frequent, and of which not scores, nor hundreds, but thousands have occurred, and which by increasing the total amount of fear, have to an incalculable extent promoted the growth of superstition, it is evident that such phenomena must have played an important part in forming the national character of the Spaniards. Whoever will take the trouble of consulting the following passages will find decisive proofs of the frightful ravages committed by earthquakes in Spain alone; Portugal being excluded. They all refer to a period of less than two hundred years; the first being in 1639, and the last in 1829. _Lettres de Madame de Villars, Ambassadrice en Espagne_, Amsterdam, 1759, p. 205. _Laborde's Spain_, London, 1809, vol. i. p. 169. _Dunlop's Memoirs of Spain_, Edinburgh, 1834, vol. ii. pp. 226, 227. _Boisel_, _Journal du Voyage d'Espagne_, Paris, 1669, 4to, p. 243. _Mallet's Earthquake Catalogue of the British Association_, London, 1858; Report for 1853, p. 146; for 1854, pp. 26, 27, 54, 55, 57, 58, 65, 110, 140, 173, 196, 202. _Swinburne's Travels through Spain_, London, 1787, vol. i. p. 166. _Ford's Spain_, London, 1847, p. 178. _Bacon's Six Years in Biscay_, London, 1838, p. 32, compared with _Inglis' Spain_, London, 1831, vol. i. p. 393, vol. ii. p. 289-291. These authorities narrate the ravages committed during a hundred and ninety years. From their account it is manifest, that in Spain hardly a generation passed by without castles, villages, and towns being destroyed, and men, women, or children killed by earthquakes. But according to our anonymous instructor, it is doubtful if there ever was an earthquake in Spain; for he says of the whole Peninsula, including Portugal, 'the only earthquake known to have occurred there was that of Lisbon.' [1169] On the superstitious fears caused by earthquakes in Spain, see a good passage in _Conde_, _Historia de la Dominacion de los Arabes_, p. 155. 'En el año 267, dia jeuves, 22 de la luna de Xawâl, tembló la tierra con tan espantoso ruido y estremecimiento, que cayeron muchos alcazares y magnificos edificios, y otros quedaron muy quebrantados, se hundieron montes, se abrieron peñascos, y la tierra se hundió y tragó pueblos y alturas, el mar se retrajo y apartó de las costas, y desaparecieron islas y escollos en el mar. Las gentes abandonaban los pueblos y huian á los campos, las aves salian de sus nidos, y las fieras espantadas dejaban sus grutas y madrigueras con general turbacion y trastorno; nunca los hombres vieron ni oyeron cosa semejante; se arruinaron muchos pueblos de la costa meridional y occidental de España. Todas estas cosas influyeron tanto en los animos de los hombres, y en especial en la ignorante multitud, que no pudo Almondhir persuadirles que eran cosas naturales, aunque poco frecüentes, que no tenían influjo ni relacion con las obras de los hombres, ni con sus empresas, sino por su ignorancia y vanos temores, que lo mismo temblaba la tierra para los muslimes que para los cristianos, para las fieras que para las inocentes criaturas.' Compare _Geddes' Tracts concerning Spain_, London, 1730, vol. i. p. 89; and Mariana, who, under the year 1395, says (_Historia de España_, vol. v. p. 27): 'Tembló la tierra en Valencia mediado el mes de Diciembre, con que muchos edificios cayéron por tierra, otros quedaron desplomados; que era maravilla y lástima. El pueblo, _como agorero que es, pensaba eran señales del cielo_ y pronosticos de los daños que temian .' The history of Spain abounds with similar instances far too numerous to quote or even to refer to. But the subject is so important and has been so misrepresented, that, even at the risk of wearying the reader, I will give one more illustration of the use of earthquakes in fostering Spanish superstition. In 1504 'an earthquake, accompanied by a tremendous hurricane, such as the oldest men did not remember, had visited Andalusia, and especially Carmona, a place belonging to the Queen, and occasioned frightful desolation there.' The superstitious Spaniards now read in these portents _the prophetic signs by which Heaven announces some great calamity. Prayers were put up in every temple,_ &c. &c. _Prescott's History of Ferdinand and Isabella_, Paris, 1842, vol. iii. p. 174. Another feature of this singular country is the prevalence of a pastoral life, mainly caused by the difficulty of establishing regular habits of agricultural industry. In most parts of Spain, the climate renders it impossible for the labourer to work the whole of the day;[1170] and this forced interruption encourages among the people an irregularity and instability of purpose, which makes them choose the wandering avocations of a shepherd, rather than the more fixed pursuits of agriculture.[1171] And during the long and arduous war which they waged against their Mohammedan invaders, they were subject to such incessant surprises and forays on the part of the enemy, as to make it advisable that their means of subsistence should be easily removed; hence they preferred the produce of their flocks to that of their lands, and were shepherds instead of agriculturists, simply because by that means they would suffer less in case of an unfavourable issue. Even after the capture of Toledo, late in the eleventh century, the inhabitants of the frontier in Estramadura, La Mancha, and New Castile, were almost entirely herdsmen, and their cattle were pastured not in private meadows but in the open fields.[1172] All this increased the uncertainty of life, and strengthened that love of adventure, and that spirit of romance, which, at a later period, gave a tone to the popular literature. Under such circumstances, everything grew precarious, restless, and unsettled; thought and inquiry were impossible; doubt was unknown; and the way was prepared for those superstitious habits, and for that deep-rooted and tenacious belief, which have always formed a principal feature in the history of the Spanish nation. [1170] _Buckle's History of Civilization_, vol. i. p. 43. See also _Laborde's Spain_, vol. iv. p. 42. [1171] A writer early in the eighteenth century notices 'el gran numero de pastores que hay.' _Uztariz_, _Theorica y Practica de Comercio_, 3rd ed. Madrid, 1757, folio p. 20. As to the Arabic period, see _Conde_, _Historia de la Dominacion_, p. 244: 'Muchos pueblos, siguiendo su natural inclinacion, se entregaron á la ganaderia .' Hence 'the wandering life so congenial to the habits of the Spanish peasantry,' noticed in _Cook's Spain_, vol. i. p. 85, where, however, the connexion between this and the physical constitution of the country is not indicated. The solution is given by Mr. Ticknor with his usual accuracy and penetration: 'The climate and condition of the Peninsula, which from a very remote period had favoured the shepherd's life and his pursuits, facilitated, no doubt, if they did not occasion, the first introduction into Spanish poetry of a pastoral tone, whose echoes are heard far back among the old ballads.' ... 'From the Middle Ages the occupations of a shepherd's life had prevailed in Spain and Portugal to a greater extent than elsewhere in Europe; and, probably, in consequence of this circumstance, eclogues and bucolics were early known in the poetry of both countries, and became connected in both with the origin of the popular drama.' _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, London, 1849, vol. iii. pp. 9, 36. On the pastoral literature of Spain, see _Bouterwek's History of Spanish Literature_, London, 1823, vol. i. pp. 123-129; and on the great number of pastoral romances, _Southey's Letters from Spain_, Bristol, 1799, p. 336. But these writers, not seizing the whole question, have failed to observe the relation between the literary, physical, and social phenomena. [1172] See the memoir by Jovellanos, in _Laborde's Spain_, vol. iv. p. 127. This was the necessary consequence of those vindictive attacks by which, for several centuries, both Mohammedans and Christians seemed resolved to turn Spain into a desert; ravaging each other's fields, and destroying every crop they could meet with. _Conde_, _Dominacion de los Arabes_, pp. 75, 188, 278, 346, 396, 417, 418, 471, 499, 500, 505, 523, 539, 544, 551, 578, 645, 651, 658. To quote one of these instances, late in the eleventh century: 'La constancia de Alfonso ben Ferdeland en hacer entradas y talas en tierra de Toledo dos veces cada año, fué tanta que empobreció y apuró los pueblos;' ... 'el tirano Alfonso taló y quemó los campos y los pueblos.' _Conde_, p. 346. As such havoc, which was continued with few interruptions for about seven hundred years, has done much towards forming the national character of the Spaniards, it may be worth while to refer to _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, vol. iii. p. 438, vol. iv. pp. 193, 314, vol. v. pp. 92, 317, 337; and to _Circourt_, _Histoire des Arabes d'Espagne_, Paris, 1846, vol. i. p. 99. To what extent these circumstances would, if they stood by themselves, have affected the ultimate destiny of Spain, is a question hardly possible to answer; but there can be no doubt that their effects must always have been important, though, from the paucity of evidence, we are unable to measure them with precision. In regard, however, to the actual result, this point is of little moment, because a long chain of other and still more influential events became interwoven with those just mentioned, and, tending in precisely the same direction, produced a combination which nothing could resist, and from which we may trace with unerring certainty the steps by which the nation subsequently declined. The history of the causes of the degradation of Spain will indeed become too clear to be mistaken, if studied in reference to those general principles which I have enunciated, and which will themselves be confirmed by the light they throw on this instructive though melancholy subject. After the subversion of the Roman Empire, the first leading fact in the history of Spain is the settlement of the Visigoths, and the establishment of their opinions in the Peninsula. They, as well as the Suevi, who immediately preceded them, were Arians, and Spain during a hundred and fifty years became the rallying point of that famous heresy,[1173] to which indeed most of the Gothic tribes then adhered. But, at the end of the fifth century, the Franks, on their conversion from Paganism, adopted the opposite and orthodox creed, and were encouraged by their clergy to make war upon their heretical neighbours. Clovis, who was then king of the Franks, was regarded by the church as the champion of the faith, in whose behalf he attacked the unbelieving Visigoths.[1174] His successors, moved by the same motives, pursued the same policy;[1175] and, during nearly a century, there was a war of opinions between France and Spain, by which the Visigothic Empire was seriously endangered, and was more than once on the verge of dissolution. Hence, in Spain, a war for national independence became also a war for national religion,[1176] and an intimate alliance was formed between the Arian kings and the Arian clergy. The latter class were, in those ages of ignorance, sure to gain by such a compact,[1177] and they received considerable temporal advantages in return for the prayers which they offered up against the enemy, as also for the miracles which they occasionally performed. Thus early a foundation was laid for the immense influence which the Spanish priesthood have possessed ever since, and which was strengthened by subsequent events. For, late in the sixth century, the Latin clergy converted their Visigothic masters, and the Spanish government, becoming orthodox, naturally conferred upon its teachers an authority equal to that wielded by the Arian hierarchy.[1178] Indeed, the rulers of Spain, grateful to those who had shown them the error of their ways, were willing rather to increase the power of the church than to diminish it. The clergy took advantage of this disposition; and the result was, that before the middle of the seventh century the spiritual classes possessed more influence in Spain than in any other part of Europe.[1179] The ecclesiastical synods became not only councils of the church, but also parliaments of the realm.[1180] At Toledo, which was then the capital of Spain, the power of the clergy was immense, and was so ostentatiously displayed, that in a council they held there in the year 633, we find the king literally prostrating himself on the ground before the bishops;[1181] and half a century later, the ecclesiastical historian mentions that this humiliating practice was repeated by another king, having become, he says, an established custom.[1182] That this was not a mere meaningless ceremony, is moreover evident from other and analogous facts. Exactly the same tendency is seen in their jurisprudence; since, by the Visigothic code, any layman, whether plaintiff or defendant, might insist on his cause being tried not by the temporal magistrate, but by the bishop of the diocese. Nay, even if both parties to the suit were agreed in preferring the civil tribunal, the bishop still retained the power of revoking the decision, if in his opinion it was incorrect; and it was his especial business to watch over the administration of justice, and to instruct the magistrates how to perform their duty.[1183] Another, and more painful proof of the ascendency of the clergy, is that the laws against heretics were harsher in Spain than in any other country; the Jews in particular being persecuted with unrelenting rigour.[1184] Indeed, the desire of upholding the faith was strong enough to produce a formal declaration that no sovereign should be acknowledged, unless he promised to preserve its purity; the judges of the purity being of course the bishops themselves, to whose suffrage the king owed his throne.[1185] [1173] The unsettled chronology of the early history of Spain appears from the different statements of various writers respecting the duration of Arianism, a point of much more importance than the death and accession of kings. Antequera (_Historia de la Legislacion Española_, Madrid, 1849, p. 37) says, 'La secta Arriana, pues, segun las epocas fijadas, permaneció en España 125 años;' Fleury (_Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. vii. p. 586, Paris, 1758) says 'environ 180 ans;' and M'Crie, generally well informed, says in his _History of the Reformation in Spain_, Edinburgh, 1829, p. 7, 'Arianism was the prevailing and established creed of the country for nearly two centuries:' for this, he refers to Gregory of Tours. With good reason, therefore, does M. Fauriel term it 'une question qui souffre des difficultés.' See his able work, _Histoire de la Gaule Méridionale_, Paris, 1836, vol. i. p. 10. [1174] In 496, the orthodox clergy looked on Clovis as 'un champion qu'il peut opposer aux hérétiques visigoths et burgondes.' _Fauriel_, _Histoire de la Gaule Méridionale_, vol. ii. p. 41. They also likened him to Gideon, p. 66. Compare _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. vii. pp. 89, 90. Ortiz is so enthusiastic that he forgets his patriotism, and warmly praises the ferocious barbarian who made war, indeed, on his country, but still whose speculative opinions were supposed to be sound. 'Mientras Alarico desfogaba su encono contra los Católicos, tuvo la Iglesia Galicana el consuelo de ver Católico á su gran Rey Clodoveo. Era el único Monarca del mundo que á la sazón profesaba la Religion verdadera.' _Ortiz_, _Compendio de la Historia de España_, vol. ii. p. 96, Madrid, 1796. [1175] Thus, in 531, Childebert marched against the Visigoths, because they were Arians. _Fauriel_, _Histoire de la Gaule Méridionale_, vol. ii. p. 131; and in 542, Childebert and Clotaire made another attack, and laid siege to Saragossa, p. 142. 'No advertian los Godos lo que su falsa creencia les perjudicaba, y si lo advertian, su obcecacion les hacia no poner remedio. Los reyes francos, que eran católicos, les movian guerras en las Galias por arrianos, y los obispos católicos de la misma Galia gótica deseaban la dominacion de los francos.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. ii. p. 380, Madrid, 1850. [1176] 'Los Francos por el amor que tenian á la Religion Cathólica, que poco antes abrazaran, aborrecian á los Visigodos como gente inficionada de la secta Arriana.' _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, vol. ii. p. 43. And of one of their great battles he says, p. 46, 'vulgarmente se llamó el campo Arriano por causa de la religion que los Godos seguian.' [1177] 'En religion et en croyance, comme en toute chose, les Visigoths se montrèrent plus sérieux, plus profonds, plus tenaces que les Burgondes. J'ai dit ailleurs comment ils étaient devenus presque en même temps chrétiens et ariens. Transplantés en Gaule et en Espagne, non-seulement ils avaient persévéré dans leur hérésie; ils s'y étaient affermis, affectionnés, et dans le peu que l'histoire laisse apercevoir de leur clergé, on s'assure qu'il était austère, zélé, et qu'il exerçait un grand empire sur les chefs comme sur la masse de la nation visigothe.' ... 'Les rois visigoths se croyaient obligés à de grandes démonstrations de respect pour leur clergé arien.' _Fauriel_, _Histoire de la Gaule Méridionale_, vol. i. pp. 577, 578. [1178] The abjuration of Recared took place between the years 586 and 589. _Dunham's History of Spain and Portugal_, London, 1832, vol. i. pp. 126-128. _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, vol. ii. pp. 99-101. _Ortiz_, _Compendio de la Historia de España_, vol. ii. p. 120. _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. ii. pp. 360-363; and says Lafuente, p. 384, 'Recaredo fué el primero que con todo el ardor de un neófito, comenzó en el tercer concilio toledano à dar a estas asambleas conocimiento y decision en negocios pertenecientes al gobierno temporal de los pueblos.' Similarly, Antequera (_Historia de la Legislación_, p. 31) is happy to observe that 'Recaredo abjuró la heregia arriana, abrazó decididamente la religion de Jesu-Cristo, _y concedió à los ministros de la Iglesia una influencia en el gobierno del Estado, que vino à ser en adelante, ilimitada y absoluta_.' [1179] 'As for the councils held under the Visigoth kings of Spain during the seventh century, it is not easy to determine whether they are to be considered as ecclesiastical or temporal assemblies. No kingdom was so thoroughly under the bondage of the hierarchy as Spain.' _Hallam's Middle Ages_, edit. 1846, vol. i. p. 511. 'Les prêtres étaient les seuls qui avaient conservé et même augmenté leur influence dans la monarchie goth-espagnole.' _Sempere_, _Histoire des Cortès d'Espagne_, Bordeaux, 1815, p. 19. Compare _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. ii. p. 368, on 'la influencia y preponderancia del clero, no ya solo en los negocios eclesiásticos, sino tambien en los políticos y de estado.' [1180] 'But it is in Spain, after the Visigoths had cast off their Arianism, that the bishops more manifestly influence the whole character of the legislation. The synods of Toledo were not merely national councils, but parliaments of the realm.' _Milman's History of Latin Christianity_, London, 1854, vol. i. p. 380. See also _Antequera_, _Historia de la Legislación Española_, pp. 41, 42. [1181] In 633, at a council of Toledo, the king 's'étant prosterné á terre devant les évêques.' _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. viii. p. 308, Paris, 1758. [1182] In 688, at a council of Toledo, 'le roi Egica y étoit en personne; et après s'être prosterné devant les évêques, _suivant la coutume_, il fit lire un mémoire où il leur demandoit conseil,' &c. _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. ix. p. 89, Paris, 1758. [1183] See a short but admirable summary of this part of the Visigothic code in _Dunham's History of Spain_, vol. iv. pp. 77, 78; perhaps the best history in the English language of a foreign modern country. 'In Spain, the bishops had a special charge to keep continual watch over the administration of justice, and were summoned on all great occasions to instruct the judges to act with piety and justice.' _Milman's History of Latin Christianity_, 1854, vol. i. p. 386. The council of Toledo, in 633, directs bishops to admonish judges. _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. viii. p. 313; and a learned Spanish lawyer, Sempere, says of the bishops, 'Le code du _Fuero Juzgo_ fut leur ouvrage; les juges étaient sujets à leur juridiction; les plaideurs, grevés par la sentence des juges, pouvaient se plaindre aux évêques, et ceux-ci évoquer ainsi leurs arrêts, les réformer, et châtier les magistrats. Les procureurs du roi, comme les juges, étaient obligés de se présenter aux synodes diocésains annuels, pour apprendre des ecclésiastiques l'administration de la justice; enfin le gouvernement des Goths n'était qu'une monarchie théocratique.' _Sempere_, _Monarchie Espagnole_, Paris, 1826, vol. i. p. 6, vol. ii. pp. 212-214. [1184] 'The terrible laws against heresy, and the atrocious juridical persecutions of the Jews, already designate Spain as the throne and centre of merciless bigotry.' _Milman's History of Latin Christianity_, vol. i. p. 381. 'Tan luego como la religion católica se halló dominando en el trono y en el pueblo, comenzaron los concilianos toledanos á dictar disposiciones canónicas y á prescribir castigos contra los idolatras, contra los judios, y contra los hereges.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. ix. pp. 199-200. See also p. 214, and vol. ii. pp. 406, 407, 451. _Prescott's History of Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. i. pp. 235, 236. _Johnston's Institutes of the Civil Law of Spain_, p. 262. _Circourt_, _Histoire des Arabes d'Espagne_, vol. i. pp. 260, 261; and _Southey's Chronicle of the Cid_, p. 18. I particularly indicate these passages, on account of the extraordinary assertion of Dr. M'Crie, that 'on a review of criminal proceedings in Spain anterior to the establishment of the court of Inquisition, it appears in general that heretics were more mildly treated there than in other countries.' _M'Crie's_ _History of the Reformation in Spain_, p. 83, the best book on the Spanish Protestants. [1185] A council of Toledo in 638 orders, 'qu'à l'avenir aucun roi ne montera sur le trône qu'il ne promette de conserver la foi catholique;' and at another council in 681, 'le roi y présenta un écrit par lequel il prioit les évêques de lui assurer le royaume, qu'il tenoit de leurs suffrages.' _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. viii. p. 339, vol. ix. p. 70. Such were the circumstances which, in and before the seventh century, secured to the Spanish Church an influence unequalled in any other part of Europe.[1186] Early in the eighth century, an event occurred which apparently broke up and dispersed the hierarchy, but which in reality was extremely favourable to them. In 711 the Mohammedans sailed from Africa, landed in the south of Spain, and in the space of three years conquered the whole country, except the almost inaccessible regions of the north-west. The Spaniards, secure in their native mountains,[1187] soon recovered heart, rallied their forces, and began in their turn to assail the invaders. A desperate struggle ensued, which lasted nearly eight centuries, and in which, a second time in the history of Spain, a war for independence was also a war for religion; the contest between Arabian Infidels and Spanish Christians, succeeding that formerly carried on between the Trinitarians of France and the Arians of Spain. Slowly, and with infinite difficulty, the Christians fought their way. By the middle of the ninth century, they reached the line of the Douro.[1188] Before the close of the eleventh century, they conquered as far as the Tagus, and Toledo, their ancient capital, fell into their hands in 1085.[1189] Even then much remained to be done. In the south, the struggle assumed its deadliest form, and there it was prolonged with such obstinacy, that it was not until the capture of Malaga in 1487, and of Granada in 1492, that the Christian empire was re-established, and the old Spanish monarchy finally restored.[1190] [1186] Those happy times have received the warm applause of a modern theologian, because in them the church, 'ha opuesto un muro de bronce al error;' and because there existed 'la mas estrecha concordia entre el imperio y el sacerdocio, por cuyo inestimable beneficio debemos hacer incesantes votos.' _Observaciones sobre El Presente y El Porvenir de la Iglesia en España_, _por Domingo Costa y Borras_, _Obispo de Barcelona_, Barcelona, 1857, pp. 73, 75. [1187] To which they fled with a speed which caused their great enemy, Muza, to pass upon them a somewhat ambiguous eulogy. 'Dijo, son leones en sus castillos, aguilas en sus caballos, y mugeres en sus escuadrones de á pié; pero si ven la ocasion la saben aprovechar, y cuando quedan vencidos son cabras en escapar á los montes, que no ven la tierra que pisan.' _Conde_, _Historia de la Dominacion de los Arabes_, p. 30. [1188] _Prescott's History of Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. i. pp. xxxviii. 287. Lafuente (_Historia de España_, vol. iii. p. 363) marks the epoch rather indistinctly, 'basta ya el Duero.' Compare _Florez_, _Memorias de las Reynas Catholicas_, Madrid, 4to, 1761, vol. i. p. 68. [1189] There is a spirited account of its capture in _Mariana's Historia de España_, vol. ii. pp. 506-513; after which Ortiz (_Compendio de la Historia_, vol. iii. p. 156) and Lafuente (_Historia General_, vol. iv. pp. 236-242) are rather tame. The Mohammedan view of this, the first decisive blow to their cause, will be found in _Conde_, _Historia de la Dominacion de los Arabes_, p. 347. 'Asi se perdió aquella ínclita ciudad, y acabó el reino de Toledo con grave pérdida del Islam.' The Christian view is that 'concedió Dios al Rey la conquista de aquella capital.' _Florez_, _Reynas Catholicas_, vol. i. p. 165. [1190] _Circourt_, _Histoire des Arabes_, vol. i. pp. 313, 349. _Conde_, _Dominacion de los Arabes_, pp. 656, 664. _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. v. pp. 509, 561. _Lafuente_, _Historia_, vol. ix. pp. 341, 399. The effect of all this on the Spanish character was most remarkable. During eight successive centuries, the whole country was engaged in a religious crusade; and those holy wars which other nations occasionally waged, were, in Spain, prolonged and continued for more than twenty generations.[1191] The object being not only to regain a territory, but also to re-establish a creed, it naturally happened that the expounders of that creed assumed a prominent and important position. In the camp, and in the council-chamber, the voice of ecclesiastics was heard and obeyed; for as the war aimed at the propagation of Christianity, it seemed right that her ministers should play a conspicuous part in a matter which particularly concerned them.[1192] The danger to which the country was exposed being moreover very imminent, those superstitious feelings were excited which danger is apt to provoke, and to which, as I have elsewhere shown,[1193] the tropical civilizations owed some of their leading peculiarities. Scarcely were the Spanish Christians driven from their homes and forced to take refuge in the north, when this great principle began to operate. In their mountainous retreat, they preserved a chest filled with relics of the saints, the possession of which they valued as their greatest security.[1194] This was to them a national standard, round which they rallied, and by the aid of which they gained miraculous victories over their infidel opponents. Looking upon themselves as soldiers of the cross, their minds became habituated to supernatural considerations to an extent which we can now hardly believe, and which distinguished them in this respect from every other European nation.[1195] Their young men saw visions, and their old men dreamed dreams.[1196] Strange sights were vouchsafed to them from heaven; on the eve of a battle mysterious portents appeared; and it was observed that whenever the Mohammedans violated the tomb of a Christian saint, thunder and lightning were sent to rebuke the misbelievers, and, if need be, to punish their audacious invasion.[1197] [1191] 'According to the magnificent style of the Spanish historians, eight centuries of almost uninterrupted warfare elapsed, and three thousand seven hundred battles were fought, before the last of the Moorish kingdoms in Spain submitted to the Christian arms.' _Robertson's Charles V._ by Prescott, London, 1857, p. 65. 'En nuestra misma España, en Leon y Castilla, en esta nueva Tierra Santa, donde se sostenia una cruzada perpétua y constante contra los infieles, donde se mantenía en todo su fervor el espiritu á la vez religioso y guerrero.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. v. p. 293. 'Era España theatro de una continua guerra contra los enemigos de la Fe.' _Florez_, _Reynas Catholicas_, vol. i. p. 226. 'El glorioso empeño de exterminar á los enemigos de la Fe.' p. 453. 'Esta guerra sagrada.' Vol. ii. p. 800. 'Se armaron nuestros Reyes Cathólicos, con zelo y animo alentado del cielo; y como la causa era de Religion para ensanchar los Dominios de la Fe, sacrificaron todas las fuerzas del Reyno, y sus mismas personas.' p. 801. What was called the Indulgence of the Crusade was granted by the Popes 'aux Espagnols qui combattoient contre les Mores.' _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. xviii. p. xxi., vol. xix. pp. 158, 458, vol. xxi. p. 171. [1192] 'En aquellos tiempos [y duró hasta todo el siglo xv. y toma de Granada] eran los obispos los primeros capitanes de los exércitos.' _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. iii. p. 189. 'Los prelados habían sido siempre los primeros no solo en promover la guerra contra Moros, sino á presentarse en campaña con todo su poder y esfuerzo, animando á los demas con las palabras y el exemplo.' Vol. v. pp. 507, 508. [1193] _History of Civilization_, vol. i. pp. 121-130. [1194] 'Les chrétiens avoient apporté dans les Asturies une arche ou coffre plein de reliques, qu'ils regardèrent depuis comme la sauve-garde de leur état.' ... 'Elle fut emportée et mise enfin à Oviedo, comme le lieu le plus sûr entre ces montagnes, Père 773, l'an 775.' _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. ix. p. 190. This 'arca llena de reliquias' was taken to the Asturias in 714. _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, vol. ii. p. 227; and, according to Ortiz (_Compendio_, vol. ii. p. 182), it was 'un tesoro inestimable de sagradas reliquias.' See also _Geddes' Tracts concerning Spain_, vol. ii. p. 237, London, 1730; and _Ford's Spain_, 1847, p. 388. [1195] 'But no people ever felt themselves to be so absolutely soldiers of the cross as the Spaniards did, from the time of their Moorish wars; no people ever trusted so constantly to the recurrence of miracles in the affairs of their daily life; and therefore no people ever talked of Divine things as of matters in their nature so familiar and common-place. Traces of this state of feeling and character are to be found in Spanish literature on all sides.' _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. ii. p. 333. Compare _Bouterwek's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. i. pp. 105, 106; and the account of the battle of las Navas in _Circourt_, _Histoire des Arabes d'Espagne_, vol. i. p. 153: 'On voulait trouver partout des miracles.' Some of the most startling of these miracles may be found in _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. v. p. 227; in _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, vol. ii. pp. 378, 395, vol. iii. p. 338; and in _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. iii. p. 248, vol. iv. p. 22. [1196] One of the most curious of these prophetic dreams is preserved in _Conde_, _Dominación de los Arabes_, pp. 378, 379, with its interpretation by the theologians. They were for the most part fulfilled. In 844 'El Apóstol Santiago, según que lo prometiera al Rey, fué visto en un caballo blanco, y con una bandera blanca y en medio della una cruz roxa, que capitaneaba nuestra gente.' _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, vol. ii. pp. 310, 311. In 957 'El Apóstol Santiago fué visto entre las hacas dar la victoria à los fieles,' p. 382. In 1236 'Publicóse por cierto que San Jorge ayudó á los Christianos, y que se halló en la pelea.' Vol. iii. p. 323. On the dreams which foreshadowed these appearances, see _Mariana_, vol. ii. pp. 309, 446, vol. iii. pp. 15, 108. [1197] 'Priests mingle in the council and the camp, and, arrayed in their sacerdotal robes, not unfrequently led the armies to battle. They interpreted the will of Heaven as mysteriously revealed in dreams and visions. Miracles were a familiar occurrence. The violated tombs of the saints sent forth thunders and lightnings to consume the invaders.' _Prescott's History of Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. i. p. 39. In the middle of the ninth century, there happened the following event: 'En lo mas cruel de los tormentos' [to which the Christians were exposed] 'subió Abderramen un dia á las azuteas ó galerias de su Palacio. Descubrió desde alli los cuerpos de los Santos martirizados en los patíbulos y atravesados con los palos, mandó los quemasen todos para que no quedase reliquia. Cumplióse luego la órden: pero aquel impio probó bien presto los rigores de la venganza divina que volvía por la sangre derramada de sus Santos. Improvisamente se le pegó la lengua al paladar y fauces; cerrósele la boca, y no pudo pronunciar una palabra, ni dar un gemido. Conduxeronle, sus criados á la cama, murió aquella misma noche, y antes de apagarse las hoguerasen que ardian los santos cuerpos, entró la infeliz alma de Abderramen en los eternos fuegos del infierno.' _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. iii. p. 52. Under circumstances like these, the clergy could not fail to extend their influence; or, we may rather say, the course of events extended it for them. The Spanish Christians, pent up for a considerable time in the mountains of Asturias, and deprived of their former resources, quickly degenerated, and soon lost the scanty civilization to which they had attained. Stripped of all their wealth, and confined to what was comparatively a barren region, they relapsed into barbarism, and remained, for at least a century, without arts, or commerce, or literature.[1198] As their ignorance increased, so also did their superstition; while this last, in its turn, strengthened the authority of their priests. The order of affairs, therefore, was very natural. The Mohammedan invasion made the Christians poor; poverty caused ignorance; ignorance caused credulity; and credulity, depriving men both of the power and of the desire to investigate for themselves, encouraged a reverential spirit, and confirmed those submissive habits, and that blind obedience to the Church, which form the leading and most unfortunate peculiarity of Spanish history. [1198] Circourt (_Histoire des Arabes_, vol. i. p. 5) says, 'Les chrétiens qui ne voulurent pas se soumettre furent rejetés dans les incultes ravins des Pyrénées, où ils purent se maintenir comme les bêtes fauves se maintiennent dans les forêts.' But the most curious account of the state of the Spanish Christians in the last half of the eighth century, and in the first half of the ninth, will be found in _Conde_, _Historia de la Dominacion_, pp. 95, 125. 'Referian de estos pueblos de Galicia que son cristianos, y de los mas bravos de Afranc; pero que viven como fieras, que nunca lavan sus cuerpos ni vestidos, que no se los mudan, y los llevan puestos hasta que se los caen despedazados en andrajos, que entran unos en las casas de otros sin pedir licencia.' ... In A.D. 815, 'no habia guerra sino contra cristianos por mantener frontera, y no con deseo de ampliar y extender los limites del reino, ni por esperanza de sacar grandes riquezas, por ser los cristianos gente pobre de montaña, sin saber nada de comercio ni de buenas artes.' From this it appears, that there were three ways in which the Mohammedan invasion strengthened the devotional feelings of the Spanish people. The first way was by promoting a long and obstinate religious war; the second was by the presence of constant and imminent dangers; and the third way was by the poverty, and therefore the ignorance, which it produced among the Christians. These events being preceded by the great Arian war, and being accompanied and perpetually reinforced by those physical phenomena which I have indicated as tending in the same direction, worked with such combined and accumulative energy, that in Spain the theological element became not so much a component of the national character, but rather the character itself. The ablest and most ambitious of the Spanish kings were compelled to follow in the general wake; and, despots though they were, they succumbed to that pressure of opinions which they believed they were controlling. The war with Granada, late in the fifteenth century, was theological far more than temporal; and Isabella, who made the greatest sacrifices in order to conduct it, and who in capacity as well as in honesty was superior to Ferdinand, had for her object not so much the acquisition of territory as the propagation of the Christian faith.[1199] Indeed, any doubts which could be entertained respecting the purpose of the contest must have been dissipated by subsequent events. For, scarcely was the war brought to a close, when Ferdinand and Isabella issued a decree expelling from the country every Jew who refused to deny his faith; so that the soil of Spain might be no longer polluted by the presence of unbelievers.[1200] To make them Christians, or, failing in that, to exterminate them, was the business of the Inquisition, which was established in the same reign, and which before the end of the fifteenth century was in full operation.[1201] During the sixteenth century, the throne was occupied by two princes of eminent ability, who pursued a similar course. Charles V., who succeeded Ferdinand in 1516, governed Spain for forty years, and the general character of his administration was the same as that of his predecessors. In regard to his foreign policy, his three principal wars were against France, against the German princes, and against Turkey. Of these, the first was secular; but the two last were essentially religious. In the German war, he defended the church against innovation; and at the battle of Muhlberg, he so completely humbled the Protestant princes, as to retard for some time the progress of the Reformation.[1202] In his other great war, he, as the champion of Christianity against Mohammedanism, consummated what his grandfather Ferdinand had begun. Charles defeated and dislodged the Mohammedans in the east, just as Ferdinand had done in the west; the repulse of the Turks before Vienna being to the sixteenth century what the conquest of the Arabs of Granada was to the fifteenth.[1203] It was, therefore, with reason that Charles, at the close of his career, could boast that he had always preferred his creed to his country, and that the first object of his ambition had been to maintain the interests of Christianity.[1204] The zeal with which he struggled for the faith, also appears in his exertions against heresy in the Low Countries. According to contemporary and competent authorities, from fifty thousand to a hundred thousand persons were put to death in the Netherlands during his reign on account of their religious opinions.[1205] Later inquirers have doubted the accuracy of this statement,[1206] which is probably exaggerated; but we know that, between 1520 and 1550, he published a series of laws, to the effect that those who were convicted of heresy should be beheaded, or burned alive, or buried alive. The penalties were thus various, to meet the circumstances of each case. Capital punishment, however, was always to be inflicted on whoever bought an heretical book, or sold it, or even copied it for his own use.[1207] His last advice to his son, well accorded with these measures. Only a few days before his death, he signed a codicil to his will, recommending that no favour should ever be shown to heretics; that they should all be put to death; and that care should be taken to uphold the Inquisition, as the best means of accomplishing so desirable an end.[1208] [1199] 'Isabella may be regarded as the soul of this war. She engaged in it with the most exalted views, less to acquire territory than to reëstablish the empire of the Cross over the ancient domain of Christendom.' _Prescott's History of Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. i. p. 392. Compare _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. xxiii. p. 583, 'bannir de toute l'Espagne la secte de Mahomet;' and _Circourt_, _Histoire des Arabes d'Espagne_, vol. ii. pp. 99, 109, 'pour elle une seule chose avait de l'importance; extirper de ses royaumes le nom et la secte de Mahomet.' ... 'Sa vie fut presque exclusivement consacrée à faire triompher la croix sur le croissant.' Mariana (_Historia de España_, vol. v. p. 344, and vol. vii. pp. 51, 52) has warmly eulogized her character, which indeed, from the Spanish point of view, was perfect. See also _Florez_, _Reynas Catholicas_, vol. ii. pp. 774, 788, 829. [1200] 'En España los Reyes Don Fernando y Doña Isabel luego que se viéron desembarazados de la guerra de los Moros, acordáron de echar de todo su reyno á los Judíos.' _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, vol. vi. p. 303. A Spanish historian, writing less than seventy years ago, expresses his approbation in the following terms: 'Arrancado de nuestra peninsula el imperio Mahometano, quedaba todavía la secta Judayca, peste acaso mas perniciosa, y sin duda mas peligrosa y extendida, por estar los Judíos establecidos en todos los pueblos de ella. Pero los Catolicos Monarcas, cuyo mayor afan era desarraigar de sus reynos toda planta y raiz infecta y contraria á la fé de Jesu-Cristo, dieron decreto en Granada dia 30 de Marzo del año mismo de 1492, mandando saliesen de sus dominios los Judíos que no se bautizasen dentro de 4 meses.' _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, Madrid, 1798, vol. v. p. 564. The importance of knowing how these and similar events are judged by Spaniards, induces me to give their own words at a length which otherwise would be needlessly prolix. Historians, generally, are too apt to pay more attention to public transactions than to the opinions which those transactions evoke; though, in point of fact, the opinions form the most valuable part of history, since they are the result of more general causes, while political actions are often due to the peculiarities of powerful individuals. Of the number of Jews actually expelled, I can find no trustworthy account. They are differently estimated at from 160,000 to 800,000. _Prescott's History of Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. ii. p. 148. _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, vol. vi. p. 304. _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. v. p. 564. _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. ix. pp. 412, 413. _Llorente_, _Histoire de l'Inquisition_, Paris, 1817, vol. i. p. 261. _Mata_, _Dos Discursos_, Madrid, 1794, pp. 64, 65. _Castro_, _Decadencia de España_, Cadiz, 1852, p. 19. [1201] It had been introduced into Aragon in 1242; but, according to M. Tapia, 'sin embargo la persecucion se limitó entónces á la secta de los albigenses; y como de ellos hubo tan pocos en Castilla, no se consideró sin duda necesario en ella el establecimiento de aquel tribunal.' _Tapia_, _Historia de la Civilizacion Española_, Madrid, 1840, vol. ii. p. 302. Indeed, Llorente says (_Histoire de l'Inquisition d'Espagne_, Paris, 1817, vol. i. p. 88), 'Il est incertain si au commencement du 15^e siècle l'Inquisition existait en Castille.' In the recent work by M. Lafuente, 1232 is given as its earliest date; but, 'á fines del siglos xiv. y principios del xv. apenas puede saberse si existia tribunal de Inquisicion en Castilla.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. ix. pp. 204-206, Madrid, 1852. It seems therefore with good reason that Mariana (_Historia_, vol. vi. p. 171) terms the Inquisition of Ferdinand and Isabella 'un _nuevo_ y santo tribunal.' See also _Florez_, _Memorias de las Reynas Catholicas_, vol. ii. p. 799. [1202] _Prescott's History of Philip II._, vol. i. p. 23, London, 1857. _Davies' History of Holland_, vol. i. p. 447, London, 1841. On the religious character of his German policy, compare _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, vol. vii. p. 330; _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. vi. pp. 195, 196. [1203] _Prescott's Philip II._, vol. i. p. 3; and the continuation of _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. xxvii. p. 280. Robertson, though praising Charles V. for this achievement, seems rather inclined to underrate its magnitude; _History of Charles V._, p. 246. [1204] In the speech he made at his abdication, he said that 'he had been ever mindful of the interests of the dear land of his birth, but above all of the great interests of Christianity. His first object had been to maintain these inviolate against the infidel.' _Prescott's Philip II._, vol. i. p. 8. Miñana boasts that 'el César con piadoso y noble ánimo exponia su vida á los peligros para extender los limites del Imperio Christiano.' _Continuación de Mariana_, vol. viii. p. 352. Compare the continuation of _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. xxxi. p. 19. [1205] Grotius says, 100,000; Bor, Meteren, and Paul say 50,000. _Watson's History of Philip II._, London, 1839, pp. 45, 51. _Davies' History of Holland_, London, 1841, vol. i. pp. 498, 499. _Motley's Dutch Republic_, London, 1858, vol. i. pp. 103, 104. [1206] It is doubted, if I rightly remember, by Mr. Prescott. But the opinion of that able historian is entitled to less weight from his want of acquaintance with Dutch literature, where the principal evidence must be sought for. On this, as on many other matters, the valuable work of Mr. Motley leaves little to desire. [1207] _Prescott's Philip II._, vol. i. pp. 196, 197. In 1523, the first persons were burned. _Motley's Dutch Republic_, vol. i. p. 69. The mode of burying alive is described in _Davies' History of Holland_, vol. i. p. 383, vol. ii. pp. 311, 312. [1208] He died on the 21st September; and on the 9th he signed a codicil, in which he 'enjoined upon his son to follow up and bring to justice every heretic in his dominions, and this without exception, and without favour or mercy to any one. He conjured Philip to cherish the holy inquisition as the best means of accomplishing this good work.' _Prescott's Additions to Robertson's Charles V._, p. 576. See also his instructions to Philip in _Raumer's History of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries_, vol. i. p. 91; and on his opinion of the Inquisition, see his conversation with Sir Thomas Wyatt, printed from the State Papers in _Froude's History of England_, vol. iii. p. 456, London, 1858. This may have been mere declamation; but in _Tapia's Civilizacion Española_, Madrid, 1840, vol. iii. pp. 76, 77, will be found a deliberate and official letter, in which Charles does not hesitate to say, 'La santa inquisicion como oficio santo y puesto por los reyes católicos, nuestros señores y abuelos á honra de Dios nuestro señor y de nuestra santa fé católica, tengo firme é entrañablemente asentado y fijado en mi corazon, para la mandar favorecer y honrar, como principe justo y temeroso de Dios es obligado y debe hacer.' The codicil to the will of Charles still exists, or did very recently, among the archives at Simancas. _Ford's Spain_, 1847, p. 334. In M. Lafuente's great work, _Historia de España_, vol. xii. pp. 494, 495, Madrid, 1853, it is referred to in language which, in more senses than one, is perfectly Spanish: 'Su testamento y codicilo respiran las ideas cristianas y religiosas en que habia vivido y la piedad que señaló su muerte.' ... 'Es muy de notar en primera cláusula [i.e.] of the codicil por la cual deja muy encarecidamente recomendado al rey Don Felipe que use de todo rigor en el castigo de los hereges luteranos que habian sido presos y se hubieren de prender en España.' ... '"Sin escepcion de persona alguna, ni admitir ruegos, ni tener respeto á persona alguna; porque para el efecto de ello favorezca y mande favorecer al Santo Oficio de la Inquisición,"' &c. This barbarous policy is to be ascribed, not to the vices, nor to the temperament of the individual ruler, but to the operation of large general causes, which acted upon the individual, and impelled him to the course he pursued. Charles was by no means a vindictive man; his natural disposition was to mercy rather than to rigour; his sincerity is unquestionable; he performed what he believed to be his duty; and he was so kind a friend, that those who knew him best were precisely those who loved him most.[1209] Little, however, could all that avail in shaping his public conduct. He was obliged to obey the tendencies of the age and country in which he lived. And what those tendencies were, appeared still more clearly after his death, when the throne of Spain was occupied upwards of forty years by a prince who inherited it in the prime of life, and whose reign is particularly interesting as a symptom and a consequence of the disposition of the people over whom he ruled. [1209] Native testimony may perhaps be accused of being partial; but, on the other hand, Raumer, in his valuable _History of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries_, vol. i. p. 22, justly observes, that his character has been misrepresented 'by reason that historians have availed themselves by preference of the inimical narratives of French and Protestant writers.' To steer between these extremes, I will transcribe the summing up of Charles's reign as it is given by a learned and singularly unprejudiced writer. 'Tortuous as was sometimes the policy of the emperor, he never, like Francis, acted with treachery; his mind had too much of native grandeur for such baseness. Sincere in religion and friendship, faithful to his word, clement beyond example, liberal towards his servants, indefatigable in his regal duties, anxious for the welfare of his subjects, and generally blameless in private life, his character will not suffer by a comparison with that of any monarch of his times.' _Dunham's History of Spain_, vol. v. p. 41. 'Clemency was the basis of his character.' p. 30. Philip II., who succeeded Charles V. in 1555, was indeed eminently a creature of the time, and the ablest of his biographers aptly terms him the most perfect type of the national character.[1210] His favourite maxim, which forms the key to his policy, was, 'That it is better not to reign at all than to reign over heretics.'[1211] Armed with supreme power, he bent all his energies towards carrying this principle into effect. Directly that he heard that the Protestants were making converts in Spain, he strained every nerve to stifle the heresy;[1212] and so admirably was he seconded by the general temper of the people, that he was able without risk to suppress opinions which convulsed every other part of Europe. In Spain, the Reformation, after a short struggle, died completely away, and in about ten years the last vestige of it disappeared.[1213] The Dutch wished to adopt, and in many instances did adopt, the reformed doctrine; therefore Philip waged against them a cruel war, which lasted thirty years, and which he continued till his death, because he was resolved to extirpate the new creed.[1214] He ordered that every heretic who refused to recant should be burned. If the heretic did recant, some indulgence was granted; but having once been tainted, he must die. Instead of being burned, he was therefore to be executed.[1215] Of the number of those who actually suffered in the Low Countries, we have no precise information;[1216] but Alva triumphantly boasted that, in the five or six years of his administration, he had put to death in cold blood more than eighteen thousand, besides a still greater number whom he had slain on the field of battle.[1217] This, even during his short tenure of power, would make about forty thousand victims; an estimate probably not far from the truth, since we know, from other sources, that in one year more than eight thousand were either executed or burned.[1218] Such measures were the result of instructions issued by Philip, and formed a necessary part of his general scheme.[1219] The desire paramount in his mind, and to which he sacrificed all other considerations, was to put down the new creed, and to reinstate the old one. To this, even his immense ambition and his inordinate love of power were subordinate. He aimed at the empire of Europe, because he longed to restore the authority of the Church.[1220] All his policy, all his negotiations, all his wars, pointed to this one end. Soon after his accession, he concluded an ignominious treaty with the Pope, that it might not be said that he bore arms against the head of the Christian world.[1221] And his last great enterprise, in some respects the most important of all, was to fit out, at an incredible cost, that famous Armada with which he hoped to humble England, and to nip the heresy of Europe in its bud, by depriving the Protestants of their principal support, and of the only asylum where they were sure to find safe and honourable refuge.[1222] [1210] 'The Spaniards, as he grew in years, beheld, with pride and satisfaction, in their future sovereign, the most perfect type of the national character.' _Prescott's History of Philip II._ vol. i. p. 39. So, too, in _Motley's Dutch Republic_, vol. i. p. 128, 'he was entirely a Spaniard;' and in _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. i. p. 155, 'pero el reinado de Felipe fué todo Español.' [1211] _Prescott's Philip II._ vol. i. pp. 68, 210, vol. ii. p. 26. _Watson's Philip II._ p. 55. Compare _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. xxxiv. p. 273. [1212] 'Como era tan zeloso en la extirpación de la heregía, uno de sus primeros cuidados fué el castigo de los Luteranos; y á presencia suya, se executó en Valladolid el dia ocho de Octubre el suplicio de muchos reos de este delito.' _Miñana_, _Continuacion de Mariana_, vol. ix. p. 212. [1213] 'The contest with Protestantism in Spain, under such auspices, was short. It began in earnest and in blood about 1559, and was substantially ended in 1570.' _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. i. p. 425. See also _M'Crie's History of the Reformation in Spain_, pp. 336, 346. Thus it was that 'España se preservó del contagio. Hizolo con las armas Carlos V., y con las hogueras los inquisidores. España se aisló del movimiento europeo.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. i. p. 144, Madrid, 1850. M. Lafuente adds, that, in his opinion, all Christendom is about to follow the good example set by Spain of rejecting Protestantism. 'Si no nos equivocamos, en nuestra misma edad se notan sintomas de ir marchando este problema hácia su resolucion. El catolicismo gana prosélitos; los protestantes de hoy no son lo que antes fueron, y creemos que la unidad católica se realizará.' [1214] Before the arrival of Alva, 'Philip's commands to Margaret were imperative, to use her utmost efforts to extirpate the heretics.' _Davies' History of Holland_, vol. i. p. 551; and in 1563 he wrote, 'The example and calamities of France prove how wholesome it is to punish heretics with rigour.' _Raumer's History of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries_, vol. i. p. 171. The Spaniards deemed the Dutch guilty of a double crime; being rebels against God and the king: 'Rebeldes á Dios por la heregía, y á su Principe á quien debian obedecer.' _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, vol. vii. p. 410. 'Tratauan de secreto de quitar la obediencia á Dios y á su Principe.' _Vanderhammen's Don Filipe el Prudente Segundo deste Nombre_, Madrid, 1632, p. 44 rev. Or, as Miñana phrases it, Philip 'tenia los mismos enemigos que Dios.' _Continuacion de Mariana_, vol. x. p. 139. [1215] _Motley's Dutch Republic_, vol. i. p. 229. _Watson's Philip II._ pp. 51, 52, 177. [1216] Mr. Motley, under the year 1566, says, 'The Prince of Orange estimated that up to this period fifty thousand persons in the provinces had been put to death in obedience to the edicts. He was a moderate man, and accustomed to weigh his words.' _Motley's Dutch Republic_, vol. i. pp. 424, 425. [1217] _Watson's Philip II._ pp. 248, 249. Tapia (_Civilizacion Española_, vol. iii. p. 95) says, 'quitó la vida á mas de diez y ocho mil protestantes con diversos géneros de suplicios.' Compare _Motley's Dutch Republic_, vol. ii. p. 423, and _Davies' History of Holland_, vol. i. p. 608. [1218] _Davies' History of Holland_, vol. i. p. 567. Vanderhammen (_Don Filipe el Prudente_, Madrid, 1632, p. 52 rev.), with tranquil pleasure, assures us that 'muriessen mil y setecientas personas en pocos dias con fuego, cordel y cuchillo en diuersos lugares.' [1219] 'El duque de Alba, obrando en conformidad á las instrucciones de su soberano, y apoyado en la aprobacion que merecian al rey todas sus medidas.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xiii. p. 221. [1220] 'It was to restore the Catholic Church that he desired to obtain the empire of Europe.' _Davies' History of Holland_, vol. ii. p. 329. 'El protestó siempre "que sus desinios en la guerra, y sus exercitos no se encaminauan á otra cosa, que el ensalçamiento de la Religion Christiana."' _Vanderhammen's Don Filipe el Prudente_, p. 125. 'El que aspiraba á someter todas las naciones de la tierra á su credo religioso.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xv. p. 203. The bishop of Salamanca in 1563 openly boasted 'que son roi ne s'étoit marié avec la reine d'Angleterre que pour ramener cette isle à l'obéissance de l'église.' _Continuation de Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. xxxiii. p. 331. Compare _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. vi. p. 204. 'Este casamiento no debió de tener otras miras que el de la religion.' [1221] On this treaty, the only humiliating one which he ever concluded, see _Prescott's Philip II._ vol. i. p. 104. His dying advice to his son was, 'Siempre estareis en la obediencia de la Santa Iglesia Romana, y del Sumo Pontifice, teniendole por vuestro Padre espiritual.' _Davila_, _Historia de la Vida de Felipe Tercero_, Madrid, 1771, folio, lib. i. p. 29. According to another writer, 'La ultima palabra que le salió con el espiritu, fue: "Yo muero como Catolico Christiano en la Fe y obediencia de la Iglesia Romana, y respeto al Papa, como á quien trae en sus manos las llaues del Cielo, como á Principe de la Iglesia, y Teniente de Dios sobre el imperio de las almas."' _Vanderhammen_, _Don Filipe el Prudente_, p. 124. [1222] Elizabeth, uniting the three terrible qualities of heresy, power, and ability, was obnoxious to the Spaniards to an almost incredible degree, and there never was a more thoroughly national enterprise than the fitting out of the Armada against her. One or two passages from a grave historian, will illustrate the feelings with which she was regarded even after her death, and will assist the reader in forming an opinion respecting the state of the Spanish mind. 'Isabel, ó Jezabel, Reyna de Inglaterra, heretica Calvinista, y la mayor perseguidora que ha tenido la sangre de Jesu-Christo y los hijos de la Iglesia.' _Davila_, _Historia de Felipe Tercero_, p. 74. 'Los sucesos de fuera causaron admiracion; y el mayor y muy esperado de toda la Christiandad fue la muerte de Isabela, Reyna de Inglaterra, heretica Calvinista, que hizo su nombre famoso con la infamia de su vida, y perseguir á la Iglesia, derramando la sangre de los Santos, que defendian la verdadera Religion Catolica, dexando registradas sus maldades en las historias públicas del mundo, pasando su alma á coger el desdichado fruto de su obstinada soberbia en las penas del Infierno, donde conoce con el castigo perpetuo el engaño de su vida.' pp. 83, 84. While Philip, following the course of his predecessors, was wasting the blood and treasure of Spain in order to propagate religious opinions,[1223] the people, instead of rebelling against so monstrous a system, acquiesced in it, and cordially sanctioned it. Indeed, they not only sanctioned it, but they almost worshipped the man by whom it was enforced. There probably never lived a prince who, during so long a period, and amid so many vicissitudes of fortune, was adored by his subjects as Philip II. was. In evil report, and in good report, the Spaniards clung to him with unshaken loyalty. Their affection was not lessened, either by his reverses, or by his forbidding deportment, or by his cruelty, or by his grievous exactions. In spite of all, they loved him to the last. Such was his absurd arrogance, that he allowed none, not even the most powerful nobles, to address him, except on their knees, and, in return, he only spoke in half sentences, leaving them to guess the rest, and to fulfil his commands as best they might.[1224] And ready enough they were to obey his slightest wishes. A contemporary of Philip, struck by the universal homage which he received, says that the Spanish did 'not merely love, not merely reverence, but absolutely adore him, and deem his commands so sacred, that they could not be violated without offence to God.'[1225] [1223] One of the most eminent of living historians well says, 'It was Philip's enthusiasm to embody the wrath of God against heretics.' _Motley's Dutch Republic_, vol. ii. p. 155. 'Philip lived but to enforce what he chose to consider the will of God.' p. 285. [1224] 'Personne vivante ne parloit à lui qu'à genoux, et disoit pour son excuse à cela qu'estant petit de corps, chacun eust paru plus eslevé que lui, outre qu'il sçavoit que les Espagnols estoient d'humeur si altiere et hautaine, qu'il estoit besoin qu'il les traittast de cette façon; et pour ce mesme ne se laissoit voir que peu souvent du peuple, n'y mesme des grands, sinon aux jours solemnels, et action necessaire, en cette façon? il faisoit ses commandemens à demy mot, et falloit que l'on devinast le reste, et que l'on ne manquast à bien accomplir toutes ses intentions; mesmes les gentilshommes de sa chambre, et autres qui approchoient plus près de sa personne, n'eussent osé parler devant luy s'il ne leur eust commandé, se tenant un tout seul à la fois près de la porte du lieu où il estoit, et demeurant nud teste incessamment, et appuyé contra une tapisserie, pour attendre et recevoir ses commandemens.' _Mémoires de Cheverny_, pp. 352, 353, in _Petitot's Collection des Mémoires_, vol. xxxvi. Paris, 1823. [1225] These are the words of Contarini, as given in _Ranke's Ottoman and Spanish Empires_, London, 1843, p. 33. Sismondi, though unacquainted with this passage, observes in his _Literature of the South of Europe_, vol. ii. p. 273, London, 1846, that Philip, though 'little entitled to praise, has yet been always regarded with enthusiasm by the Spaniards.' About half a century after his death, Sommerdyck visited Spain, and in his curious account of that country he tells us that Philip was called 'le Salomon de son siècle.' _Aarsens de Sommerdyck_, _Voyage d'Espagne_, Paris, 1665, 4to, pp. 63, 95. See also _Yañez_, _Memorias para la Historia de Felipe III._, Madrid, 1723, p. 294. 'El gran Felipe, aquel Sabio Salomon.' Another writer likens him to Numa. 'Hacia grandes progresos la piedad, á la qual se dedicaba tanto el Rey Don Felipe, que parecia su reynado en España lo que en Roma el de Numa, despues de Rómulo.' _Miñana Continuacion de Mariana_, vol. ix. p. 241. When he died, 'celebradas sus exêquias entre lágrimas y gemidos.' vol. x. pp. 259, 260. We further learn from _Vanderhammen's Filipe Segundo_, Madrid, 1632, p. 120 rev., that the people ascribed to him 'una grandeza adorable, y alguna cosa mas que las ordinarias á los demas hombres.' That a man like Philip II., who never possessed a friend, and whose usual demeanour was of the most repulsive kind, a harsh master, a brutal parent, a bloody and remorseless ruler,--that he should be thus reverenced by a nation among whom he lived, and who had their eyes constantly on his actions; that this should have happened, is surely one of the most surprising, and, at first sight, one of the most inexplicable facts in modern history. Here we have a king who, though afflicted by every quality most calculated to excite terror and disgust, is loved far more than he is feared, and is the idol of a very great people during a very long reign. This is so remarkable as to deserve our serious attention; and in order to clear up the difficulty, it will be necessary to inquire into the causes of that spirit of loyalty which, during several centuries, has distinguished the Spaniards above every other European people. One of the leading causes was undoubtedly the immense influence possessed by the clergy. For the maxims inculcated by that powerful body have a natural tendency to make the people reverence their princes more than they would otherwise do. And that there is a real and practical connexion between loyalty and superstition, appears from the historical fact that the two feelings have nearly always flourished together and decayed together. Indeed, this is what we should expect on mere speculative grounds, seeing that both feelings are the product of those habits of veneration which make men submissive in their conduct and credulous in their belief.[1226] Experience, therefore, as well as reason, points to this as a general law of the mind, which, in its operation, may be occasionally disturbed, but which holds good in a large majority of cases. Probably the only instance in which the principle fails is, when a despotic government so misunderstands its own interests as to offend the clergy, and separate itself from them. Whenever this is done, a struggle will arise between loyalty and superstition; the first being upheld by the political classes, the other by the spiritual classes. Such a warfare was exhibited in Scotland; but history does not afford many examples of it, and certainly it never took place in Spain, where, on the contrary, several circumstances occurred to cement the union between the Crown and the Church, and to accustom the people to look up to both with almost equal reverence. [1226] 'Habits of reverence, which, if carried into religion, cause superstition, and if carried into politics, cause despotism.' _Buckle's Hist. of Civilization_, vol. ii. p. 117. By far the most important of these circumstances was the great Arab invasion, which drove the Christians into a corner of Spain, and reduced them to such extremities, that nothing but the strictest discipline, and the most unhesitating obedience to their leaders, could have enabled them to make head against their enemies. Loyalty to their princes became not merely expedient, but necessary; for if the Spaniards had been disunited, they would, in the face of the fearful odds against which they fought, have had no chance of preserving their national existence. The long war which ensued, being both political and religious, caused an intimate alliance between the political and religious classes, since the kings and the clergy had an equal interest in driving the Mohammedans from Spain. During nearly eight centuries, this compact between Church and State was a necessity forced upon the Spaniards by the peculiarities of their position; and, after the necessity had subsided, it naturally happened that the association of ideas survived the original danger, and that an impression had been made upon the popular mind which it was hardly possible to efface. Evidence of this impression, and of the unrivalled loyalty it produced, crowds upon us at every turn. In no other country are the old ballads so numerous and so intimately connected with the national history. It has, however, been observed, that their leading characteristic is the zeal with which they inculcate obedience and devotion to princes, and that from this source, even more than from military achievements, they draw their most favourite examples of virtue.[1227] In literature the first great manifestation of the Spanish mind was the poem of _The Cid_, written at the end of the twelfth century, in which we find fresh proof of that extraordinary loyalty which circumstances had forced upon the people.[1228] The ecclesiastical councils display a similar tendency; for, notwithstanding a few exceptions, no other church has been equally eager in upholding the rights of kings.[1229] In civil legislation, we see the same principle at work; it being asserted, on high authority, that in no system of laws is loyalty carried to such extreme height as in the Spanish codes.[1230] Even their dramatic writers were unwilling to represent an act of rebellion on the stage, lest they should appear to countenance what, in the eyes of every good Spaniard, was one of the most heinous of all offences.[1231] Whatever the king came in contact with, was in some degree hallowed by his touch. No one might mount a horse which he had ridden;[1232] no one might marry a mistress whom he had deserted.[1233] Horse and mistress alike were sacred, and it would have been impious for any subject to meddle with what had been honoured by the Lord's anointed. Nor were such rules confined to the prince actually reigning. On the contrary, they survived him, and, working with a sort of posthumous force, forbade any woman whom he had taken as a wife, to marry, even after he was dead. She had been chosen by the king; such choice had already raised her above the rest of mortals; and the least she could do was to retire to a convent, and spend her life mourning over her irreparable loss. These regulations were enforced by custom rather than by law.[1234] They were upheld by the popular will, and were the result of the excessive loyalty of the Spanish nation. Of that loyalty their writers often boast, and with good reason, since it was certainly matchless, and nothing seemed able to shake it. To bad kings and to good kings it equally applied. It was in full strength amid the glory of Spain in the sixteenth century; it was conspicuous when the nation was decaying in the seventeenth century; and it survived the shock of civil wars early in the eighteenth.[1235] Indeed, the feeling had so worked itself into the traditions of the country, as to become not only a national passion, but almost an article of national faith. Clarendon, in his History of that great English Rebellion, the like of which, as he well knew, could never have happened in Spain, makes on this subject a just and pertinent remark. He says that a want of respect for kings is regarded by the Spaniards as a 'monstrous crime;' 'submissive reverence to their princes being a vital part of their religion.'[1236] [1227] 'More ballads are connected with Spanish history than with any other, and, in general, they are better. The most striking peculiarity of the whole mass is, perhaps, to be found in the degree in which it expresses the national character. Loyalty is constantly prominent. The Lord of Butrago sacrifices his own life to save that of his sovereign,' &c. _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. i. p. 133. 'In the implicit obedience of the old Spanish knight, the order of the king was paramount to every consideration, even in the case of friendship and love. This code of obedience has passed into a proverb--"mas pesa el Rey que la sangre,"' _Ford's Spain_, p. 183. Compare the admirable little work of Mr. Lewes, _The Spanish Drama_, London, 1846, p. 120, 'ballads full of war, loyalty, and love.' [1228] See some interesting remarks in M. Tapia's _Civilizacion Española_, vol. i. He observes that, though cruelly persecuted by Alfonso, the first thing done by the Cid, after gaining a great victory, was to order one of his captains 'para que lleve al rey Alfonso treinta caballos árabes bien ensillados, con sendas espadas pendientes de los arzones en señal de homenage, á _pesar del agravio que habia recibido_.' p. 274. And at p. 280, 'comedido y obediente súbdito á un rey que tan mal le habia tratado.' Southey (_Chronicle of the Cid_, p. 268) notices with surprise that the Cid is represented in the old chronicles as 'offering to kiss the feet of the king.' [1229] 'Le xvi^e Concile de Tolède appelait les rois "vicaires de Dieu et du Christ;" et rien n'est plus fréquent dans les conciles de cette époque que leurs exhortations aux peuples pour l'observation du serment de fidélité á leur roi, et leurs anathêmes contre les séditieux.' _Sempere_, _Monarchie Espagnole_, vol. i. p. 41. 'Aparte de los asuntos de derecho civil y canonico y de otros varios que dicen relacion al gobierno de la iglesia, sobre los cuales se contienen en todos ellos disposiciones muy útiles y acertadas, la mayor parte de las leyes dictadas en estas asambleas tuvieron por objeto dar fuerza y estabilidad al poder real, proclamando su inviolabilidad y estableciendo graves penas contra los infractores; condenar las heregías,' &c. _Antequera_, _Historia de la Legislacion Española_, p. 47. [1230] 'Loyalty to a superior is carried to a more atrocious length by the Spanish law than I have seen it elsewhere.' ... 'The _Partidas_ (P. 2, T. 13, L. 1) speaks of an old law whereby any man who openly wished to see the King dead, was condemned to death, and the loss of all that he had. The utmost mercy to be shown him was to spare his life and pluck out his eyes, that he might never see with them what he had desired. To defame the King is declared as great a crime as to kill him, and in like manner to be punished. The utmost mercy that could be allowed was to cut out the offender's tongue. P. 2, T. 13, L. 4.' _Southey's Chronicle of the Cid_, p. 442. Compare _Johnston's Civil Law of Spain_, London, 1825, p. 269, on 'Blasphemers of the King.' [1231] Thus, Montalvan, the eminent poet and dramatist, who was born in 1602, 'avoided, we are told, representing rebellion on the stage, lest he should seem to encourage it.' _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. ii. p. 283. A similar spirit is exhibited in the plays of Calderon and of Lope de Vega. On the 'Castilian loyalty' evinced in one of Calderon's comedies, see _Hallam's Literature of Europe_, 2d edit. London, 1843, vol. iii. p. 63; and as to Lope, see _Lewes on the Spanish Drama_, p. 78. [1232] 'His Majesty's horses could never be used by any other person. One day, while Philip IV. was going in procession to the church of Our Lady of Atocha, the Duke of Medina-de-las-Torres offered to present him with a beautiful steed which belonged to him, and which was accounted the finest in Madrid; but the King declined the gift, because he should regret to render so noble an animal ever after useless.' _Dunlop's Memoirs_, vol. ii. p. 372. Madame d'Aulnoy, who travelled in Spain in 1679, and who, from her position, had access to the best sources of information, was told of this piece of etiquette. 'L'on m'a dit que lors que le Roy s'est servy d'un cheval, personne par respect ne le monte jamais.' _D'Aulnoy_, _Relation du Voyage d'Espagne_, Lyon, 1693, vol. ii. p. 40. In the middle of the eighteenth century, I find another notice of this loyal custom, which, likely enough, is still a tradition in the Spanish stables. 'If the king has once honoured a Pad so much as to cross his back, it is never to be used again by anybody else.' _A Tour through Spain_, _by Udal ap Rhys_, 2d edit. London, 1760, p. 15. [1233] Madame d'Aulnoy, who was very inquisitive respecting these matters, says (_Relation du Voyage d'Espagne_, vol. ii. p. 411), 'Il y a une autre étiquette, c'est qu'après que le Roi a eu une Maitresse, s'il vient à la quitter, il faut qu'elle se fasse Religieuse, comme je vous l'ai déjà écrit; et l'on m'a conté que le feu Roi s'estant amoureux d'une Dame du Palais, il fut un soir fraper doucement à la porte de sa chambre. Comme elle comprit que c'estoit lui, elle ne voulut pas lui ouvrir, et elle se contenta de lui dire au travers de la porte, _Baya, baya, con Dios, no quiero ser monja_; c'est à dire, "Allez allez, Dieu vous conduise, je n'ai pas envie d'estre Religieuse."' So too Henry IV. of Castile, who came to the throne in the year 1454, made one of his mistresses 'abbess of a convent in Toledo;' in this case to the general scandal, because, says Mr. Prescott, he first expelled 'her predecessor, a lady of noble rank and irreproachable character.' _Prescott's Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. i. p. 68. [1234] There is, however, one very remarkable old law, in the form of a canon enacted by the third Council of Saragossa, which orders that the royal widows 'seront obligées à prendre l'habit de religieuses, et à s'enfermer dans un monastère pour le reste de leur vie.' _Fleury_, _Histoire Ecclésiastique_, vol. ix. p. 104. In 1065 Ferdinand I. died; and, says the biographer of the Spanish Queens, 'La Reyna sobrevivió: y parece, que muerto su marido, entró en algun Monasterio; lo que expressamos no tanto por _la costumbre antigua_, quanto por constar en la Memoria referida de la Iglesia de Leon, el dictado de 'Consagrada á Dios,' frasse que denota estado Religioso.' _Florez_, _Memorias de las Reynas Catholicas_, Madrid, 1761, 4to, vol. i. p. 148. In 1667 it was a settled principle that 'les reines d'Espagne n'en sortent point. Le couvent de _las Señoras descalças reales_ est fondé afin que les reines veuves s'y enferment.' _Discours du Comte de Castrillo à la Reine d'Espagne_, in _Mignet's Négociations relatives à la Succession d'Espagne_, vol. ii. p. 604, Paris, 1835, 4to. This valuable work consists for the most part of documents previously unpublished, many of which are taken from the archives at Simancas. To the critical historian, it would have been more useful if the original Spanish had been given. [1235] See some good remarks on San Phelipe, in _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. iii. pp. 213, 214, which might easily be corroborated by other testimony; as, for instance, Lafuente under the year 1710: 'Ni el abandono de la Francia, ni la prolongacion y los azares de la guerra, ni los sacrificios pecuniarios y personales de tantos años, nada bastaba á entibiar el amor de los castellanos á su rey Felipe V.' (_Historia de España_, vol. xviii. p. 258); and Berwick (_Mémoires_, vol. ii. p. 114, edit. Paris, 1778): 'La fidélité inouie des Espagnols;' and, nine years earlier, a letter from Louville to Torcy: 'Le mot révolte, pris dans une acception rigoureuse, n'a pas de sens en Espagne.' _Louville_, _Mémoires sur l'établissement de la Maison de Bourbon en Espagne_, edit. Paris, 1818, vol. i. p. 128. See also _Memoirs of Ripperda_, London, 1740, p. 58; and _Mémoires de Gramont_, vol. ii. p. 77, edit. Petitot, Paris, 1827. All these passages illustrate Spanish loyalty in the eighteenth century, except the reference to Gramont, which concerns the seventeenth, and which should be compared with the following observations of Madame D'Aulnoy, who writes from Madrid in 1679: 'Quelques richesses qu'ayent les grands Seigneurs, quelque grande que soit leur fierté ou leur présomption, ils obéïssent aux moindres ordres du Roy, avec une exactitude et un respect que l'on ne peut assez loüer. Sur le premier ordre ils partent, ils reviennent, ils vont en prison, ou en exil, sans se plaindre. Il ne se peut trouver une soûmission, et une obéïssance plus parfaite, ni un amour plus sincère, que celui des Espagnols pour leur Roi. Ce nom leur est sacré, et pour réduire le peuple à tout ce que l'on souhaite, il suffit de dire, "Le Roi le veut."' _D'Aulnoy_, _Voyage_, vol. ii. pp. 256, 257. [1236] 'And Olivarez had been heard to censure very severely the duke's (Buckingham's) familiarity and want of respect towards the prince, a crime monstrous to the Spaniard.' ... 'Their submissive reverence to their princes being a vital part of their religion.' _Clarendon's History of the Rebellion_, ed. Oxford, 1843, p. 15. For the religion of loyalty, in an earlier period, see _Florez_, _Reynas Catholicas_, vol. i. p. 421: 'La persona del Rey fue mirada de sus fieles vassallos con respeto tan sagrado,' that resistance was 'una especie de sacrilegio.' These, then, were the two great elements of which the Spanish character was compounded. Loyalty and superstition; reverence for their kings and reverence for their clergy were the leading principles which influenced the Spanish mind, and governed the march of Spanish history. The peculiar and unexampled circumstances under which they arose, have been just indicated; and having seen their origin, we will now endeavour to trace their consequences. Such an examination of results will be the more important, not only because nowhere else in Europe have these feelings been so strong, so permanent, and so unmixed, but also because Spain, being seated at the further extremity of the Continent, from which it is cut off by the Pyrenees, has, from physical causes, as well as from moral ones, come little into contact with other nations.[1237] The course of affairs being, therefore, undisturbed by foreign habits, it becomes easier to discover the pure and natural consequences of superstition and loyalty, two of the most powerful and disinterested feelings which have ever occupied the human heart, and to whose united action we may clearly trace the leading events in the history of Spain. [1237] These impediments to intercourse were once deemed almost invincible. Fontenay-Mareuil, who visited Spain in 1612, and was not a little proud of the achievement, says, 'Au reste, parcequ'on ne va pas aussy ordinairement en Espagne qu'en France, en Italie et ailleurs; et qu'estant comme en un coin, et séparée du reste du monde par la mer ou par les Pyrénées, on n'en a, ce me semble, guere de connoissance, j'ay pense que je devois faire icy une petite digression pour dire ce que j'en ay appris dans ce voyage et despuis.' _Mémoires de Fontenay-Mareuil_, in _Collection des Mémoires par Petitot_, vol. i. p. 169, 1^e Série, Paris, 1826. Seventy years later, another writer on Spain says of the Pyrenees, 'Ces montagnes sont à nos voyageurs modernes, ce qu'étoit aux anciens mariniers le _Non plus ultra_ et les colomnes du grand Hercule.' _L'Estat de l'Espagne_, Geneve, 1681 Epistre, p. ii. This work, little known and not much worth knowing, forms the third volume of _Le Prudent Voyageur_. The results of this combination were, during a considerable period, apparently beneficial, and certainly magnificent. For, the church and the crown making common cause with each other, and being inspirited by the cordial support of the people, threw their whole soul into their enterprises, and displayed an ardour which could hardly fail to insure success. Gradually advancing from the north of Spain, the Christians, fighting their way inch by inch, pressed on till they reached the southern extremity, completely subdued the Mohammedans, and brought the whole country under one rule and one creed. This great result was achieved late in the fifteenth century, and it cast an extraordinary lustre on the Spanish name.[1238] Spain, long occupied by her own religious wars, had hitherto been little noticed by foreign powers, and had possessed little leisure to notice them. Now, however, she formed a compact and undivided monarchy, and at once assumed an important position in European affairs.[1239] During the next hundred years, her power advanced with a speed of which the world had seen no example since the days of the Roman Empire. So late as 1478 Spain was still broken up into independent and often hostile states; Granada was possessed by the Mohammedans; the throne of Castile was occupied by one prince, the throne of Aragon by another. Before the year 1590, not only were these fragments firmly consolidated into one kingdom, but acquisitions were made abroad so rapidly as to endanger the independence of Europe. The history of Spain, during this period, is the history of one long and uninterrupted success. That country, recently torn by civil wars, and distracted by hostile creeds, was able in three generations to annex to her territory the whole of Portugal, Navarre, and Roussillon. By diplomacy, or by force of arms, she acquired Artois and Franche Comté, and the Netherlands; also the Milanese, Naples, Sicily, Sardinia, the Balearic Islands, and the Canaries. One of her kings was emperor of Germany; while his son influenced the councils of England, whose queen he married. The Turkish power, then one of the most formidable in the world, was broken and beaten back on every side. The French monarchy was humbled. French armies were constantly worsted; Paris was once in imminent jeopardy; and a king of France, after being defeated on the field, was taken captive, and led prisoner to Madrid. Out of Europe, the deeds of Spain were equally wonderful. In America, the Spaniards became possessed of territories which covered sixty degrees of latitude, and included both the tropics. Besides Mexico, Central America, Venezuela, New Granada, Peru, and Chili, they conquered Cuba, San Domingo, Jamaica, and other islands. In Africa, they obtained Ceuta, Melilla, Oran, Bougiah, and Tunis, and overawed the whole coast of Barbary. In Asia, they had settlements on each side of the Deccan; they held part of Malacca; and they established themselves in the Spice Islands. Finally, by the conquest of the noble archipelago of the Philippines, they connected their most distant acquisitions, and secured a communication between every part of that enormous empire which girdled the world. [1238] 'Con razon se miró la conquista de Granada, no como un acontecimiento puramente español, sino como un suceso que interesaba al mundo. Con razon tambien se regocijó toda la cristiandad. Hacia medio siglo que otros mahometanos se habian apoderado de Constantinopla; la caida de la capital y del imperio bizantino en poder de los turcos habia llenado de terror á la Europa; pero la Europa se consoló al saber que en España habia concluido la dominacion de los musulmanes.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xi. p. 15. [1239] 'L'Espagne, long-temps partagée en plusieurs états, et comme étrangère au reste de l'Europe, devint tout-à-coup une puissance redoutable, faisant pencher pour elle la balance de la politique.' _Koch_, _Tableau des Révolutions de l'Europe_, Paris, 1823, vol. i. p. 362. On the relation between this and some changes in literature which corresponded to it, see _Bouterwek's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. i. pp. 148-152, where there are some ingenious, though perhaps scarcely tenable, speculations. In connexion with this, a great military spirit arose, such as no other modern nation has ever exhibited. All the intellect of the country which was not employed in the service of the Church was devoted to the profession of arms. Indeed, the two pursuits were often united; and it is said that the custom of ecclesiastics going to war was practised in Spain long after it was abandoned in other parts of Europe.[1240] At all events, the general tendency is obvious. A mere list of successful battles and sieges in the sixteenth and part of the fifteenth century, would prove the vast superiority of the Spaniards, in this respect, over their contemporaries, and would show how much genius they had expended in maturing the arts of destruction. Another illustration, if another were required, might be drawn from the singular fact that since the time of ancient Greece, no country has produced so many eminent literary men who were also soldiers. Calderon, Cervantes, and Lope de Vega risked their lives in fighting for their country. The military profession was also adopted by many other celebrated authors, among whom may be mentioned, Argote de Molina, Acuña, Bernal Diaz del Castillo, Boscan, Carrillo, Cetina, Ercilla, Espinel, Francisco de Figueroa, Garcilasso de la Vega, Guillen de Castro, Hita, Hurtado de Mendoza, Marmol Carvajal, Perez de Guzman, Pulgar, Rebolledo, Roxas, and Virues; all of whom bore, in this manner, unconscious testimony to the spirit by which Spain was universally pervaded. [1240] 'The holy war with the infidels' (Mohammedans) 'perpetuated the unbecoming spectacle of militant ecclesiastics among the Spaniards, to a still later period, and long after it had disappeared from the rest of civilized Europe.' _Prescott's History of Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. i. p. 162. Here, then, we have a combination which many readers will still consider with favour, and which, at the time it occurred, excited the admiration, albeit the terror, of Europe. We have a great people glowing with military, patriotic, and religious ardour, whose fiery zeal was heightened, rather than softened, by a respectful obedience to their clergy, and by a chivalrous devotion to their kings. The energy of Spain, being thus both animated and controlled, became wary as well as eager; and to this rare union of conflicting qualities we must ascribe the great deeds which have just been related. But the unsound part of a progress of this sort is, that it depends too much upon individuals, and therefore cannot be permanent. Such a movement can only last as long as it is headed by able men. When, however, competent leaders are succeeded by incompetent ones, the system immediately falls to the ground, simply because the people have been accustomed to supply to every undertaking the necessary zeal, but have not been accustomed to supply the skill by which the zeal is guided. A country in this state, if governed by hereditary princes, is sure to decay; inasmuch as, in the ordinary course of affairs, incapable rulers must sometimes arise. Directly this happens, the deterioration begins; for the people, habituated to indiscriminate loyalty, will follow wherever they are led, and will yield to foolish counsels the same obedience that they had before paid to wise ones. This leads us to perceive the essential difference between the civilization of Spain and the civilization of England. We, in England, are a critical, dissatisfied, and captious people, constantly complaining of our rulers, suspecting their schemes, discussing their measures in a hostile spirit, allowing very little power either to the Church or to the Crown, managing our own affairs in our own way, and ready, on the slightest provocation, to renounce that conventional, lip-deep loyalty, which, having never really touched our hearts, is a habit lying on the surface, but not a passion rooted in the mind. The loyalty of Englishmen is not of that sort which would induce them to sacrifice their liberties to please their prince, nor does it ever, for a moment, blind them to a keen sense of their own interests. The consequence is, that our progress is uninterrupted, whether our kings are good or whether they are bad. Under either condition, the great movement goes on. Our sovereigns have had their full share of imbecility and of crime. Still, even men like Henry III. and Charles II. were unable to do us harm. In the same way, during the eighteenth and many years of the nineteenth century, when our improvement was very conspicuous, our rulers were very incompetent. Anne and the first two Georges were grossly ignorant; they were wretchedly educated, and nature had made them at once weak and obstinate. Their united reigns lasted nearly sixty years; and after they had passed away, we, for another period of sixty years, were governed by a prince who was long incapacitated by disease, but of whom we must honestly say that, looking at his general policy, he was least mischievous when he was most incapable. This is not the place to expose the monstrous principles advocated by George III., and to which posterity will do that justice from which contemporary writers are apt to shrink; but it is certain that neither his contracted understanding, nor his despotic temper, nor his miserable superstition, nor the incredible baseness of that ignoble voluptuary who succeeded him on the throne, could do aught to stop the march of English civilization, or to stem the tide of English prosperity. We went on our way rejoicing, caring for none of these things. We were not to be turned aside from our path by the folly of our rulers, because we know full well that we hold our own fate in our own hands, and that the English people possess within themselves those resources and that fertility of contrivance by which alone men can be made great, and happy, and wise. In Spain, however, directly the government slackened its hold, the nation fell to pieces.[1241] During that prosperous career which has just been noticed, the Spanish throne was invariably filled by very able and intelligent princes. Ferdinand and Isabella, Charles V. and Philip II., formed a line of sovereigns not to be matched in any other country for a period of equal length. By them, the great things were effected, and by their care, Spain apparently flourished. But, what followed when they were withdrawn from the scene, showed how artificial all this was, and how rotten, even to the core, is that system of government which must be fostered before it can thrive, and which, being based on the loyalty and reverence of the people, depends for success not on the ability of the nation, but on the skill of those to whom the interests of the nation are entrusted. [1241] A learned Spanish lawyer has made some remarks which are worth quoting, and which contain a curious mixture of truth and error: 'Comment la monarchie espagnole fut-elle déchue de tant de grandeur et de gloire? Comment perdit-elle les Pays-Bas et le Portugal dans le dix-septième siècle, et s'y trouva-t-elle réduite à n'être qu'un squelette de ce qu'elle avait été auparavant? Comment vit-elle disparaître plus d'une moitié de sa population? Comment, possédant les mines inépuisables du Nouveau Monde, les revenus de l'état n'étaient à peine que de six millions de ducats sous le règne de Philippe III? Comment son agriculture et son industrie furent-elles ruinées? et comment presque tout son commerce passa-t-il dans les mains de ses plus grands ennemis? Ce n'est point ici le lieu d'examiner les véritables causes d'une métamorphose si triste; il suffira d'indiquer _que tous les grands empires contiennent en euxmêmes le germe de leur dissolution_,' &c. 'D'ailleurs les successeurs de ces deux monarques' (Charles V. and Philip II.) 'n'eurent point les mêmes talens, ni les ducs de Lerme et d'Olivarès, leurs ministres, ceux du cardinal Cisneros; et il est difficile de calculer l'influence de la bonne ou de la mauvaise direction des affaires sur la prospérité ou les malheurs des nations. Sous une même forme de gouvernement, quel qu'il puisse être, _elles tombent ou se relèvent suivant la capacité des hommes qui les dirigent_, et d'après les circonstances où ils agissent.' _Sempère_, _Histoire des Cortès_, Bordeaux, 1815, pp. 265-267. Of the two passages which I have marked with italics, the first is a clumsy, though common, attempt to explain complicated phenomena by a metaphor which saves the trouble of generalizing their laws. The other passage, though perfectly true as regards Spain, does not admit of that universal application which M. Sempere supposes; inasmuch as in England, and in the United States of America, national prosperity has steadily advanced, even when the rulers have been very incapable men. Philip II., the last of the great kings of Spain, died in 1598, and after his death the decline was portentously rapid.[1242] From 1598 to 1700, the throne was occupied by Philip III., Philip IV., and Charles II. The contrast between them and their predecessors was most striking.[1243] Philip III. and Philip IV. were idle, ignorant, infirm of purpose, and passed their lives in the lowest and most sordid pleasures. Charles II., the last of that Austrian dynasty which had formerly been so distinguished, possessed nearly every defect which can make a man ridiculous and contemptible. His mind and his person were such as, in any nation less loyal than Spain, would have exposed him to universal derision. Although his death took place while he was still in the prime of life, he looked like an old and worn-out debauchee. At the age of thirty-five, he was completely bald; he had lost his eyebrows; he was paralyzed; he was epileptic; and he was notoriously impotent.[1244] His general appearance was absolutely revolting, and was that of a drivelling idiot. To an enormous mouth, he added a nether jaw protruding so hideously that his teeth could never meet, and he was unable to masticate his food.[1245] His ignorance would be incredible, if it were not substantiated by unimpeachable evidence. He did not know the names of the large towns, or even of the provinces, in his dominions; and during the war with France he was heard to pity England for losing cities which in fact formed part of his own territory.[1246] Finally, he was immersed in the most grovelling superstition; he believed himself to be constantly tempted by the devil; he allowed himself to be exorcised as one possessed by evil spirits; and he would not retire to rest, except with his confessor and two friars, who had to lie by his side during the night.[1247] [1242] 'With Philip II. ends the greatness of the kingdom, which from that period declined with fearful rapidity.' _Dunham's History of Spain_, vol. v. p. 87. And Ortiz (_Compendio_, vol. vii., Prologo, p. 6) classes together 'la muerte de Felipe II. y principios de nuestra decadencia.' The same judicious historian elsewhere observes (vol. vi. p. 211), that if Philip III. had been equal to his father, Spain would have continued to flourish. Several of the more recent Spanish writers, looking at the heavy expenses caused by the policy of Philip II., and at the debts which he incurred, have supposed that the decline of the country began in the latter years of his reign. But the truth is, that no great nation ever was, or ever will be, ruined by the prodigality of its government. Such extravagance causes general discomfort, and therefore ought not to be tolerated; but if this were the place for so long an argument, I could easily show that its other and more permanent inconveniences are nothing like what they are commonly supposed to be. [1243] 'Abstraido Felipe III. en devociones, amante Felipe IV. de regocijos, mortificado Carlos II. por padecimientos, cuidáronse poco ó nada de la gobernacion del Estado, y confiaronla á validos altaneros, codiciosos, incapaces, y de muy funesta memoria.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, Madrid, 1856, vol. i. p. 33. [1244] 'Sans espérance de postérité.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. i. p. 419. 'Incapaz de tener hijos.' _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. vi. p. 560. See also _Mémoires de Louville_, vol. i. p. 82; and the allusions in _Lettres de Madame de Villars_, edit. Amsterdam, 1759, pp. 53, 120, 164. She was ambassadress in Spain in the reign of Charles II. M. Lafuente, who, if I rightly remember, never quotes these interesting letters, and who indeed, with very few exceptions, has used none but Spanish authorities, ventures nevertheless to observe that 'La circunstancia de no haber tenido sucesion, falta que en general se achabaca mas al rey que á la reina,' &c. _Historia de España_, vol. xvii. pp. 198, 199, Madrid, 1856. According to the biographer of the Spanish Queens, some persons imputed this to sorcery, 'y aun se dijo si intervenia maleficio.' _Florez_, _Memorias de las Reynas Catholicas_, vol. ii. p. 973, Madrid, 1761, 4to. [1245] In 1696, Stanhope, the English minister at Madrid, writes: 'He has a ravenous stomach, and swallows all he eats whole, for his nether jaw stands so much out that his two rows of teeth cannot meet; to compensate which, he has a prodigious wide throat, so that a gizzard or liver of a hen passes down whole, and his weak stomach not being able to digest it, he voids it in the same manner.' _Mahon's Spain under Charles II._, London, 1840, p. 79; a very valuable collection of original documents, utterly unknown to any Spanish historian I have met with. Some curious notices of the appearance of Charles II. in his childhood may be seen published for the first time in _Mignet's Négociations relatives à la Succession d'Espagne_, Paris, 1835-1842, 4to. vol. i. pp. 294, 295, 310, 396, 404, 410, vol. ii. p. 130, vol. iii. pp. 418, 419, 423. See also vol. iv. p. 636, for an instance of his taciturnity, which was almost the only mark of sense he ever gave, 'Le roi l'écouta, et ne lui répondit rien.' [1246] 'Le Roy demeuroit dans une profonde ignorance et de ses affaires et même des Etats de sa couronne; à peine connoissoit-il quelles étoient les places qui lui appartenoient hors du continent d'Espagne.' ... 'La perte de Barcelone lui fut plus sensible qu'aucune autre, parce que cette ville, capitale de la Catalogne, et située dans le continent de l'Espagne, lui étoit plus connue que les villes de Flandre, dont il ignoroit l'importance au point de croire que Mons appartenoit au roi d'Angleterre, et de le plaindre lorsque le Roi fit la conquête de cette province.' _Mémoires du Marquis de Torcy_, vol. i. pp. 19, 23, edit. Petitot, Paris, 1828. [1247] 'Fancying everything that is said or done to be a temptation of the devil, and never thinking himself safe but with his confessor, and two friars by his side, whom he makes lie in his chamber every night.' _Mahon's Spain under Charles II._, p. 102. On account, no doubt, of this affection for monks, he is declared by a Spanish historian to have possessed a 'corazon pio y religioso.' _Bacallar_, _Comentarios de la Guerra de España_, vol. i. p. 20. The best notice of the exorcism will be found in _Lafuente's Historia de España_, vol. xvii. pp. 294-309, where there is an entire chapter, headed 'Los Hechizos del Rey.' Now it was that men might clearly see on how sandy a foundation the grandeur of Spain was built. When there were able sovereigns, the country prospered; when there were weak ones, it declined. Nearly everything that had been done by the great princes of the sixteenth century, was undone by the little princes of the seventeenth. So rapid was the fall of Spain, that in only three reigns after the death of Philip II., the most powerful monarchy existing in the world was depressed to the lowest point of debasement, was insulted with impunity by foreign nations, was reduced more than once to bankruptcy, was stripped of her fairest possessions, was held up to public opprobrium, was made a theme on which school-boys and moralists loved to declaim respecting the uncertainty of human affairs, and, at length, was exposed to the bitter humiliation of seeing her territories mapped out and divided by a treaty in which she took no share, but the provisions of which she was unable to resent.[1248] Then, truly, did she drink to the dregs the cup of her own shame. Her glory had departed from her, she was smitten down and humbled. Well might a Spaniard of that time who compared the present with the past, mourn over his country, the chosen abode of chivalry and romance, of valour and of loyalty. The mistress of the world, the queen of the ocean, the terror of nations, was gone; her power was gone, no more to return. To her might be applied that bitter lamentation, which, on a much slighter occasion, the greatest of the sons of men has put into the mouth of a dying statesman. Good reason, indeed, had the sorrowing patriot to weep, as one who refused to be comforted, for the fate of his earth, his realm, his land of dear souls, his dear, dear land, long dear for her reputation through the world, but now leased out like to a tenement or pelting farm.[1249] [1248] 'La foiblesse de l'Espagne ne permettoit pas à son roi de se ressentir du traitement dont il croyoit à propos de se plaindre.' _Mémoires de Torcy_, vol. i. p. 81. Or, as an eminent native writer bitterly says, 'Las naciones estrangeras disponiendo de la monarquia española como de bienes sin dueño.' _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iii. p. 187. [1249] 'This royal throne of kings, this scepter'd isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise; This fortress, built by nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war; This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall, Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands; This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Fear'd by their breed and famous by their birth, Renowned for their deeds as far from home, For Christian service and true chivalry, As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son: This land of such dear souls, this dear, dear land, Dear for her reputation through the world, Is now leas'd out, I die pronouncing it, Like to a tenement or pelting farm.' It would be a weary and unprofitable task to relate the losses and disasters of Spain during the seventeenth century. The immediate cause of them was undoubtedly bad government and unskilful rulers; but the real and overriding cause, which determined the whole march and tone of affairs, was the existence of that loyal and reverential spirit which made the people submit to what any other country would have spurned, and, by accustoming them to place extreme confidence in individual men reduced the nation to that precarious position in which a succession of incompetent princes was sure to overthrow the edifice which competent ones had built up.[1250] [1250] The Spanish theory of government is well stated in the following passage in Davila's Life of Philip III. The remarks apply to Philip II. 'Que solo havia gobernado sin Validos ni Privados, tomando para sí solo, como primera causa de su gobierno, el mandar, prohibir, premiar, castigar, hacer mercedes, conocer sugetos, elegir Ministros, dar oficios, y tener como espiritu que andaba sobre las aguas, ciencia y providencia de todo, para que nada se hiciese sin su saber y querer: no serviendo los Ministros mas que de poner por obra (obedeciendo) lo que su Señor mandaba, velando sobre cada uno, como pastor de sus ovejas, para ver la verdad con que executan sus mandamientos y acuerdos.' _Davila_, _Historia de Felipe Tercero_, lib. i. pp. 22, 23. The increasing influence of the Spanish Church was the first and most conspicuous consequence of the declining energy of the Spanish government. For, loyalty and superstition being the main ingredients of the national character, and both of them being the result of habits of reverence, it was to be expected that, unless the reverence could be weakened, what was taken from one ingredient would be given to the other. As, therefore, the Spanish government, during the seventeenth century, did, owing to its extreme imbecility, undoubtedly lose some part of the hold it possessed over the affections of the people, it naturally happened that the Church stepped in, and occupying the vacant place, received what the crown had forfeited. Besides this, the weakness of the executive government encouraged the pretensions of the priesthood, and emboldened the clergy to acts of usurpation, which the Spanish sovereigns of the sixteenth century, superstitious though they were, would not have allowed for a single moment.[1251] Hence the very striking fact, that, while in every other great country, Scotland alone excepted, the power of the Church diminished during the seventeenth century, it, in Spain, actually increased. The results of this are well worth the attention, not only of philosophic students of history, but also of every one who cares for the welfare of his own country, or feels an interest in the practical management of public affairs. [1251] Even Philip II. always retained a certain ascendency over the ecclesiastical hierarchy, though he was completely subjugated by ecclesiastical prejudices. 'While Philip was thus willing to exalt the religious order, already far too powerful, he was careful that it should never gain such a height as would enable it to overtop the royal authority.' _Prescott's History of Philip II._, vol. iii. p. 235. 'Pero este monarca tan afecto á la Inquisicion mientras le servia para sus fines, sabia bien tener á raya al Santo Oficio cuando intentaba invadir ó usurpar las preeminencias de la autoridad real, ó arrogarse un poder desmedido.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xv. p. 114. For twenty-three years after the death of Philip II., the throne was occupied by Philip III., a prince as distinguished by his weakness as his predecessors had been by their ability. During more than a century the Spaniards had been accustomed to be entirely ruled by their kings, who, with indefatigable industry, personally superintended the most important transactions, and in other matters exercised the strictest supervision over their ministers. But Philip III., whose listlessness almost amounted to fatuity, was unequal to such labour, and delegated the powers of government to Lerma, who wielded supreme authority for twenty years.[1252] Among a people so loyal as the Spaniards, this unusual proceeding could not fail to weaken the executive; since, in their eyes, the immediate and irresistible interference of the sovereign was essential to the management of affairs, and to the well-being of the nation. Lerma, well aware of this feeling, and conscious that his own position was very precarious, naturally desired to strengthen himself by additional support, so that he might not entirely depend on the favour of the king. He therefore formed a strict alliance with the clergy, and, from the beginning to the end of his long administration did everything in his power to increase their authority.[1253] Thus the influence lost by the crown was gained by the Church, to whose advice a deference was paid even greater than had been accorded by the superstitious princes of the sixteenth century. In this arrangement, the interests of the people were of course unheeded. Their welfare formed no part of the general scheme. On the contrary, the clergy, grateful to a government so sensible of their merits, and so religiously disposed, used all their influence in its favour; and the yoke of a double despotism was riveted more firmly than ever upon the neck of that miserable nation, which was now about to reap the bitter fruit of a long and ignominious submission.[1254] [1252] 'Por cuyo absoluto poderío se executaba todo.' _Yañez_, _Memorias para la Historia de Felipe III._, Prologo, p. 150. 'An absoluteness in power over king and kingdom.' Letter from Sir Charles Cornwallis to the Lords of the Council in England, dated Valladolid, May 31, 1605, in _Winwood's Memorials_, vol. ii. p. 73, London, 1725, folio. 'Porque no era fácil imaginar entónces, ni por fortuna se ha repetido el ejemplo después, que hubiera un monarca tan pródigo de autoridad, y al propio tiempo tan indolente, que por no tomarse siquiera el trabajo de firmar los documentos de Estado, quisiera dar á la firma de un vasalla suyo la misma autoridad que á la suya propia, y que advirtiera y ordenára, como ordenó Felipe III. á todos sus consejos, tribunales, y súbditos, que dieran á los despachos firmados por el duque de Lerma el mismo cumplimiento y obediencia, y los ejecutáran y guardáran con el mismo respeto que si fueran firmados por él.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xv. pp. 449, 450. 'El duque de Lerma, su valído, era el que gobernaba el reino solo.' vol. xvii. p. 332. His power lasted from 1598 to 1618. _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. vi. pp. 290, 325. [1253] Davila (_Historia de Felipe Tercero_, lib. ii. p. 41), after eulogizing the personal qualities of Lerma, adds, 'Y sin estas grandes partes tuvo demostraciones christianas, manifestandolo en los conventos, iglesias, colegiatas, hospitales, ermitas y catedras, que dejó fundadas, en que gastó, como me consta de los libros de su Contaduría, un millon ciento cincuenta y dos mil doscientos ochenta y tres ducados.' After such monstrous prodigality, Watson might well say, in his rather superficial, but, on the whole, well-executed History, that Lerma showed 'the most devoted attachment to the church,' and 'conciliated the favour of ecclesiastics.' _Watson's History of Philip III._, London, 1839, pp. 4, 8, 46, 224. [1254] The only energy Philip III. ever displayed, was in seconding the efforts of his minister to extend the influence of the Church; and hence, according to a Spanish historian, he was 'monarque le plus pieux parmi tous ceux qui out occupé le trône d'Espagne depuis saint Ferdinand.' _Sempère_, _Monarchie Espagnole_, vol. i. p. 245. 'El principal cuidado de nuestro Rey era tener á Dios por amigo, grangear y beneficiar su gracia, para que le asistiese propicio en quanto obrase y dixese. De aqui tuvieron principio tantos dones ofrecidos á Dios, tanta fundacion de Conventos, y favores hechos á Iglesias y Religiones.' _Davila_, _Historia de Felipe Tercero_, lib. ii. p. 170. His wife, Margaret, was equally active. See _Florez_, _Reynas Catholicas_, vol. ii. pp. 915, 916. 'Demas de los frutos que dió para el Cielo y para la tierra nuestra Reyna, tuvo otros de ambas lineas en fundaciones de Templos y obras de piedad para bien del Reyno y de la Iglesia. En Valladolid fundó el Convento de las Franciscas Descalzas. En Madrid trasladó á las Agustinas Recoletas de Santa Isabel desde la calle del Principe al sitio en que hoy estan. Protegió con sus limosnas la fundacion de la Iglesia de Carmelitas Descalzas de Santa Ana; y empezó á fundar el Real Convento de las Agustinas Recoletas con titulo de la Encarnacion en este misma Corte, cuya primera piedra se puso á 10 de Junio del 1611. En la parroquia de S. Gil junto al Palacio introdujo los Religiosos Franciscos, cuyo Convento persevera hoy con la misma advocacion.' How the country fared, while all this was going on, we shall presently see. The increasing power of the Spanish Church during the seventeenth century, may be proved by nearly every description of evidence. The convents and churches multiplied with such alarming speed, and their wealth became so prodigious, that even the Cortes, broken and humbled though they were, ventured on a public remonstrance. In 1626, only five years after the death of Philip III., they requested that some means might be taken to prevent what they described as a constant invasion on the part of the Church. In this remarkable document, the Cortes, assembled at Madrid, declared that never a day passed in which laymen were not deprived of their property to enrich ecclesiastics; and the evil, they said, had grown to such a height, that there were then in Spain upwards of nine thousand monasteries, besides nunneries.[1255] This extraordinary statement has, I believe, never been contradicted, and its probability is enhanced by several other circumstances. Davila, who lived in the reign of Philip III., affirms that in 1623, the two orders of Dominicans and Franciscans alone amounted to thirty-two thousand.[1256] The other clergy increased in proportion. Before the death of Philip III., the number of ministers performing in the Cathedral of Seville had swelled to one hundred; and in the diocese of Seville, there were fourteen thousand chaplains; in the diocese of Calahorra, eighteen thousand.[1257] Nor did there seem any prospect of remedying this frightful condition. The richer the Church became, the greater was the inducement for laymen to enter it; so that there appeared to be no limit to the extent to which the sacrifice of temporal interests might be carried.[1258] Indeed, the movement, notwithstanding its suddenness, was perfectly regular, and was facilitated by a long train of preceding circumstances. Since the fifth century, the course of events, as we have already seen, invariably tended in this direction, and insured to the clergy a dominion which no other nation would have tolerated. The minds of the people being thus prepared, the people themselves looked on in silence at what it would have been impious to oppose; for, as a Spanish historian observes, every proposition was deemed heretical which tended to lessen the amount, or even to check the growth of that enormous wealth which was now possessed by the Spanish Church.[1259] [1255] The burden of the petition was, 'Que se tratasse con mas veras de poner limite á los bienes, que se sacauan cada dia del braço Seglar al Eclesiastico, enflaqueciendo no tan solo el patrimonio Real, mas el comun, pues siendo aquel libre de pechos, contribuciones, y gauelas, alojamientos, huespedes, y otros grauamenes mayores, presidios, guerras, y soldados.' ... 'Que las Religiones eran muchas, las Mendicantes en excesso, y el Clero en grande multitud. Que auia en España 9088 monasterios, aun no cõtando los de Monjas. Que yuan meti[~e]do poco á poco, con dotaciones, cofradias, capellanias, o con cõpras, á todo el Reyno en su poder. Que se atajasse tanto mal. Que huuiesse numero en los frayles, moderacion en los Cõuentos, y aun en los Clerigos seglares.' _Cespedes_, _Historia de Don Felipe IV._, Barcelona, 1634, fol. lib. vii. cap. 9, p. 272 rev. This is the only noticeable passage in an unusually dull chronicle, which, though professing to be a history of Philip IV., is confined to the first few years of his reign. [1256] 'En este año, que iba escribiendo esta Historia, tenian las Ordenes de Santo Domingo, y S. Francisco en España, treinta y dos mil Religiosos, y los Obispados de Calahorra y Pamplona veinte y quatro mil clerigos; pues qué tendran las demas Religiones, y los demas Obispados?' _Davila_, _Historia de Felipe Tercere_, lib. ii. p. 215. See also cap. xcvii. pp. 248, 249; and, on the increase of convents, see _Yañez_, _Memorias para la Historia de Felipe III._, pp. 240, 268, 304, 305. [1257] 'The reign of Philip III., surnamed from his piety the Good, was the golden age of Churchmen. Though religious foundations were already too numerous, great additions were made to them; and in those which already existed, new altars or chancels were erected. Thus, the duke of Lerma founded seven monasteries and two collegiate churches; thus, also, the diocese of Calahorra numbered 18,000 chaplains, Seville 14,000. How uselessly the ministers of religion were multiplied, will appear still more clearly from the fact that the cathedral of Seville alone had a hundred, when half-a-dozen would assuredly have been sufficient for the public offices of devotion.' _Dunham's History of Spain_, vol. v. p. 274. According to the passage quoted in note 93, from Davila, there were twenty-four thousand 'clerigos' in the two dioceses of Calahorra and Pamplona. [1258] 'Entre tanto crecia por instantes y se aumentaba prodigiosamente el poder y la autoridad de la Iglesia. Sus pingües riquezas desmembraban de una manera considerable las rentas de la corona; y el estado eclesiástico, que muchos abrazaron en un principio á consecuencia de las desgracias y calamidades de la época, fué despues el mas solicitado por las inmensas ventajas que ofrecia su condicion comparada con la de las clases restantes.' _Antequera_, _Historia de la Legislacion_, pp. 223, 224. See also in _Campomanes_, _Apendice á la Educacion_, Madrid, 1775-1777, vol. i. p. 465, and vol. iv. p. 219, a statement made by the University of Toledo in 1619, or 1620, that 'hay doblados religiosos, clerigos y estudiantes; porque ya _no hallan otro modo de vivir_, _ni de poder sustentarse_.' If the eye of M. Lafuente had lighted upon this and other passages, which I shall shortly quote from contemporary observers, he would, I think, have expressed himself much more strongly than he has done respecting this period, in his recent brilliant, but unsatisfactory, History of Spain. On the great wealth of the convents in 1679, when the rest of the country was steeped in poverty, see a letter dated Madrid, July 25, 1679, in _D'Aulnoy_, _Relation du Voyage d'Espagne_, Lyon, 1693, vol. ii. p. 251. But the earliest evidence I have met with is in a letter, written in 1609, to Prince Henry of England, by Sir Charles Cornwallis, the English ambassador at Madrid. 'The furniture of their churches here, and the riches and lustre of their sepulchres made in every monasterie (the general povertye of this kingdome considered), are almost incredible. The laity of this nation may say with Davyde (though in another sense), "Zelus domus tuæ comedit me:" for, assuredly, the riches of the Temporall hath in a manner all fallen into the mouthes and devouring throates of the Spiritual.' _Winwood's Memorials of Affairs of State_, vol. iii. p. 10, London, 1725, folio. [1259] 'Deux millions de ducats, que le clergé possédait sous le règne de Charles V, étaient réputés comme un revenu exorbitant; et, un demi-siècle plus tard, lorsque ces revenus s'élevaient à huit millions, on qualifiat d'hérétique, toute proposition tendant à opérer quelque modification dans leur accroissement.' _Sempère_, _Monarchie Espagnole_, vol. ii. p. 16. How natural all this was, appears also from another fact of considerable interest. In Europe generally, the seventeenth century was distinguished by the rise of a secular literature in which ecclesiastical theories were disregarded; the most influential writers, such as Bacon and Descartes, being laymen, rather hostile to the Church than friendly to it, and composing their works with views purely temporal. But in Spain, no change of this sort occurred.[1260] In that country, the Church retained her hold over the highest as well as over the lowest intellects. Such was the pressure of public opinion, that authors of every grade were proud to count themselves members of the ecclesiastical profession, the interests of which they advocated with a zeal worthy of the Dark Ages. Cervantes, three years before his death, became a Franciscan monk.[1261] Lope de Vega was a priest; he was an officer of the Inquisition; and in 1623 he assisted at an auto da fé, in which, amid an immense concourse of people, a heretic was burned outside the gate of Alcalá at Madrid.[1262] Moreto, one of the three greatest dramatists Spain has produced, assumed the monastic habit during the last twelve years of his life.[1263] Montalvan, whose plays are still remembered, was a priest, and held office in the Inquisition.[1264] Tarrega, Mira de Mescua, and Tirso de Molina, were all successful writers for the stage, and were all clergymen.[1265] Solis, the celebrated historian of Mexico, was also a clergyman.[1266] Sandoval, whom Philip III. appointed historiographer, and who is the principal authority for the reign of Charles V., was at first a Benedictine monk, afterwards became bishop of Tuy, and later still, was raised to the see of Pampeluna.[1267] Davila, the biographer of Philip III., was a priest.[1268] Mariana was a Jesuit;[1269] and Miñana, who continued his History, was superior of a convent in Valencia.[1270] Martin Carrillo was a jurisconsult as well as an historian, but, not satisfied with his double employment, he too entered the Church, and became canon of Saragossa.[1271] Antonio, the most learned bibliographer Spain ever possessed, was a canon of Seville.[1272] Gracian, whose prose works have been much read, and who was formerly deemed a great writer, was a Jesuit.[1273] Among the poets, the same tendency was exhibited. Paravicino was for sixteen years a popular preacher at the courts of Philip III. and Philip IV.[1274] Zamora was a monk.[1275] Argensola was a canon of Saragossa.[1276] Gongora was a priest;[1277] and Rioja received a high post[1278] in the Inquisition. Calderon was chaplain to Philip IV.;[1279] and so fanatical are the sentiments which tarnish his brilliant genius, that he has been termed the poet of the Inquisition.[1280] His love for the Church was a passion, and he scrupled at nothing which could advance its interests. In Spain, such feelings were natural; though to other nations they seem so strange, that an eminent critic has declared that it is hardly possible to read his works without indignation.[1281] If this be so, the indignation should be extended to nearly all his contemporary countrymen, great or small. There was hardly a Spaniard of that period who did not entertain similar sentiments. Even Villaviciosa, author of one of the very best mock-heroic poems Spain has produced, was not only an officer in the Inquisition, but, in his last will, he strongly urged upon his family and all his descendants, that they too should, if possible, enter the service of that noble institution, taking whatever place in it they could obtain, since all its offices were, he said, worthy of veneration.[1282] In such a state of society, anything approaching to a secular or scientific spirit was, of course, impossible. Every one believed; no one inquired. Among the better classes, all were engaged in war or theology, and most were occupied with both. Those who made literature a profession, ministered, as professional men too often do, to the prevailing prejudice. Whatever concerned the Church was treated not only with respect, but with timid veneration. Skill and industry worthy of a far better cause, were expended in eulogizing every folly which superstition had invented. The more cruel and preposterous a custom was, the greater the number of persons who wrote in its favour, albeit no one had ventured to assail it. The quantity of Spanish works to prove the necessity of religious persecution is incalculable; and this took place in a country where not one man in a thousand doubted the propriety of burning heretics. As to miracles, which form the other capital resource of theologians, they, in the seventeenth century, were constantly happening, and as constantly being recorded. All literary men were anxious to say something on that important subject. Saints, too, being in great repute, their biographies were written in profusion, and with an indifference to truth which usually characterizes that species of composition. With these and kindred topics, the mind of Spain was chiefly busied. Monasteries, nunneries, religious orders, and cathedrals received equal attention, and huge books were written about them, in order that every particular might be preserved. Indeed, it often happened that a single convent, or a single cathedral, would have more than one historian; each seeking to distance his immediate competitor, and all striving which could do most to honour the Church and to uphold the interests of which the Church was the guardian.[1283] [1260] In a work on Spanish literature which was published about seventy years ago, and which, at the time of its appearance, made considerable noise, this peculiarity is frankly admitted, but is deemed rather an honour to Spain than otherwise, inasmuch as that country, we are told, has produced philosophers who have gone much deeper into things than Bacon, Descartes, and Newton, who, no doubt, were clever men, but were nowise comparable to the great thinkers of the Peninsula. Such assertions, proceeding, not from some ignorant despiser of physical science, who contemns what he has never been at the pains to study, but from a really able and, in some respects, competent judge, are important for the history of opinion; and as the book is not very common, I will give two or three extracts. 'Confiesan los Franceses con ingenuidad que Descartes fué un novelista: y con todo eso quieren hacerle pasar por el promotor de la filosofía en Europa, como si su filosofía se desemejase mucho de la que dominaba en las sectas de la antigüedad. Su tratádo "Del Metodo" es nada en comparacion de los libros "De la Corrupcion de las Artes" de Juan Luis Vives, que le antecedió buen número de años.' _Oracion Apologética por la España y su Mérito Literario por D. J. P. Forner_, Madrid, 1786, p. xi. 'No hemos tenido en los efectos un Cartesio, no un Neuton: démoslo de barato: pero hemos tenido justísimos legisladores y excelentes filósofos prácticos, que han preferido el inefable gusto de trabajar en beneficio de la humanidad á la ociosa ocupacion de edificar mundos imaginarios en la soledad y silencio de un gabinete.' p. 12. 'Nada se disputaba en España.' p. 61. At p. 143 a comparison between Bacon and Vives; and the final decision, p. 146, that Vives enjoys 'una gloriosa superioridad sobre todos los sabios de todos los siglos.' [1261] The final profession was not made till 1616; but he began to wear the clothes in 1613. 'Tal era su situacion el sábado santo 2 de abril' [1616] 'que por no poder salir de su casa hubieron de darle en ella la profesion de la venerable órden tercera de San Francisco, cuyo hábito habia tomado en Alcalá, el dia 2 de julio de 1613.' _Navarrete_, _Vida de Cervantes_, p. cii. prefixed to _Don Quijote_, Barcelona, 1839. Even in 1609, says Navarrete, (p. lxii.), 'Se ha creido que entónces se incorporó tambien Cervantes, como lo hizo Lope de Vega, en la congregacion del oratorio del Caballero de Gracia, mientras que su muger y su hermana doña Andrea se dedicaban á semejantes ejercicios de piedad en la venerable órden tercera de San Francisco, cuyo hábito recibieron en 8 de junio del mismo año.' [1262] _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. ii. pp. 125, 126, 137, 147, 148. [1263] _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 374. _Biographie Universelle_, vol. xxx. pp. 149, 150. [1264] _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. ii. pp. 276, 327. [1265] _Ticknor_, vol. ii. p. 327. [1266] _Bouterwek's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. i. p. 525. But the best account is that given by his biographer, who assures us of two facts; that he received 'todas las órdenes sagradas,' and that he was 'devotísimo de María santísima.' _Vida de Solis_, p. 15, prefixed to _Solis_, _Historia de la Conquista de Mejico_, edit. Paris, 1844. [1267] _Biographie Universelle_, vol. xl. p. 319. [1268] 'Sacerdote soy.' _Davila_, _Historia de la Vida de Felipe Tercero_, lib. ii. p. 215. [1269] _Biographie Universelle_, vol. xxvii. p. 42. [1270] _Ibid._ vol. xxix. p. 80. [1271] _Ibid._ vol. vii. p. 219. [1272] _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 293. [1273] _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. iii. p. 177. [1274] _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 491, vol. iii. pp. 117, 118. [1275] _Sismondi's Literature of the South of Europe_, vol. ii. p. 348, London, 1846. [1276] 'Pero en fin murio Don Andres Martinez, y sucediole en la Canongia nuestro Bartholome.' _Pellicer_, _Ensayo de una Bibliotheca_, Madrid, 1778, 4to. p. 94. This was the younger Argensola. [1277] _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. ii. p. 486. [1278] 'Occupied a high place in the Inquisition.' _Ticknor_, vol. ii. p. 507. 'Prit les ordres, et obtint un canonicat.' _Biographie Univ._ vol. xxxviii. p. 120. [1279] In 1663 Philip IV. 'le honró con otra Capellanía de honor en su real Capilla.' _Vida de Calderon_, p. iv., prefixed to _Las Comedias de Calderon_, edit. Keil, Leipsique, 1827. [1280] 'Calderon is, in fact, the true poet of the Inquisition. Animated by a religious feeling, which is too visible in all his pieces, he inspires me only with horror for the faith which he professes.' _Sismondi's Literature of the South of Europe_, vol. ii. p. 379. Compare _Lewes on the Spanish Drama_, pp. 176-179. [1281] Salfi says, 'Calderon de la Barca excite encore plus une sorte d'indignation, malgré son génie dramatique, qui le mit audessus de Vega, son prédécesseur. En lisant ses drames sans prévention, vous diriez qu'il a voulu faire servir son talent uniquement à confirmer les préjugés et les superstitions les plus ridicules de sa nation.' _Ginguenè_, _Histoire Littéraire d'Italie_, vol. xii. p. 499, Paris, 1834. [1282] 'Entró en el año de 1622 á ser _Relator del Consejo de la General Inquisicion_, cuyo empleo servió y desempeñó con todo honor muchos años.' And he declared, 'en esta clausula de su Testamento: "Y por quanto yo y mis hermanos y toda nuestra familia nos hemos sustentado, autorizado y puesto en estado con las honras y mercedes, que nos ha hecho el santo Oficio de la Inquisicion, á quien hemos servido como nuestros antepassados; encargo afectuosissimamente á todos mis successores le sean para siempre los mas respetuosos servidores y criados, viviendo en ocupacion de su santo servido, procurando adelantarse y señalarse en él, quanto les fuere possible, en qualquiera de sus ministerios; pues todos son tan dignos de estimacion y veneracion."' _La Mosquea, por Villaviciosa_, Prologo, pp. x.-xii., edit. Madrid, 1777. [1283] 'Hardly a convent or a saint of any note in Spain, during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, failed of especial commemoration; and each of the religious orders and great cathedrals had at least one historian, and most of them several. The number of books on Spanish ecclesiastical history, is, therefore, one that may well be called enormous.' _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. iii. p. 132. Forner assures us, somewhat needlessly, of what no one ever doubted, that 'los estudios sagrados jamas decayéron en España.' _Forner_, _Oracion Apologética_, Madrid, 1786, p. 141. Such, was the preponderance of the ecclesiastical profession, and such was the homage paid to ecclesiastical interests by the Spaniards during the seventeenth century.[1284] They did everything to strengthen the Church in that very age when other nations first set themselves in earnest to weaken it. This unhappy peculiarity was undoubtedly the effect of preceding events; but it was the immediate cause of the decline of Spain, since, whatever may have been the case in former periods, it is certain that, in modern times, the prosperity of nations depends on principles to which the clergy, as a body, are invariably opposed. Under Philip III. they gained an immense accession of strength; and in that very reign they signalized this new epoch of their power by obtaining, with circumstances of horrible barbarity, the expulsion of the whole Moorish nation. This was an act so atrocious in itself,[1285] and so terrible in its consequences, that some writers have ascribed to it alone, the subsequent ruin of Spain; forgetting that other causes, far more potent, were also at work, and that this stupendous crime could never have been perpetrated, except in a country which, being long accustomed to regard heresy as the most heinous of all offences, was ready, at any cost, to purge the land and to free itself from men whose mere presence was regarded as an insult to the Christian faith. [1284] In 1623, Howell writes from Madrid: 'Such is the reverence they bear to the church here, and so holy a conceit they have of all ecclesiastics, that the greatest Don in Spain will tremble to offer the meanest of them any outrage or affront.' _Howell's Letters_, edit. London, 1754, p. 138. 'The reverence they show to the holy function of the church is wonderful; Princes and Queens will not disdain to kiss a Capuchin's sleeve, or the surplice of a priest.' ... 'There are no such sceptics and cavillers there, as in other places.' p. 496. In 1669, another observer writes: 'En Espagne les Religieux sont les maîtres, et l'emportent partout où ils se trouvent.' _Voyages faits en divers Temps en Espagne_, Amsterdam, 1700, p. 35. And, to quote one more authority, the following picture is given of Spanish society in the reign of Philip IV.: 'No habia familia con quien no estuvieran entroncados los frailes por amistad ó parentesco; ni casa que les cerrara sus puertas; ni conversacion en que no se les cediera la palabra; ni mesa en que no se les obligara á ocupar la primera silla; ni resolucion grave entre ricos ó pobres que se adoptara sin su consejo; y si no tomaban parte en ellas, las satisfacciones domésticas no eran cabales.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. i. p. 94. [1285] 'Le cardinal de Richelieu, qui n'étoit pas très-susceptible de pitié, l'appelle "le plus hardi et le plus barbare conseil dont l'histoire de tous les siècles précédens fasse mention."' _Sismondi_, _Histoire des Français_, vol. xxii. p. 163, Paris, 1839. After the reduction, late in the fifteenth century, of the last Mohammedan kingdom in Spain, the great object of the Spaniards became to convert those whom they had conquered.[1286] They believed that the future welfare of a whole people was at stake; and finding that the exhortations of their clergy had no effect, they had recourse to other means, and persecuted the men they were unable to persuade. By torturing some, by burning others, and by threatening all, they at length succeeded; and we are assured that, after the year 1526, there was no Mohammedan in Spain, who had not been converted to Christianity.[1287] Immense numbers of them were baptized by force; but being baptized, it was held that they belonged to the Church, and were amenable to her discipline.[1288] That discipline was administered by the Inquisition, which, during the rest of the sixteenth century, subjected these new Christians, or Moriscoes, as they were now called,[1289] to the most barbarous treatment. The genuineness of their forced conversion was doubted; it therefore became the business of the Church to inquire into their sincerity.[1290] The civil government lent its aid; and among other enactments, an edict was issued by Philip II. in 1566, ordering the Moriscoes to abandon everything which by the slightest possibility could remind them of their former religion. They were commanded, under severe penalties, to learn Spanish, and to give up all their Arabic books. They were forbidden to read their native language, or to write it, or even to speak it in their own houses. Their ceremonies and their very games were strictly prohibited. They were to indulge in no amusements which had been practised by their fathers; neither were they to wear such clothes as they had been accustomed to. Their women were to go unveiled; and as bathing was a heathenish custom, all public baths were to be destroyed, and even all baths in private houses.[1291] [1286] 'Porque los Reyes queriendo, que en todo el Reino fuesen Christianos, embiaron á Frai Francisco Ximenez, que fue Arzobispo de Toledo i Cardenal, para que los persuadiese. Mas ellos, gente dura, pertinaz, nuevamente conquistada, estuvieron recios,' _Mendoza_, _Guerra de Granada que hizo Felipe II. contra los Moriscos_, Valencia, 1776, 4to. p. 10. The author of this book was born early in the sixteenth century, at Granada, where he lived for a considerable period. [1287] 'L'année 1526 vit donc disparaître dans toutes les parties de l'Espagne les signes extérieurs de l'islamisme.' _Circourt_, _Hist. des Arabes d'Espagne_, Paris, 1846, vol. ii. p. 220. M. Lafuente (_Historia de España_, vol. x. p. 132) says of 1502, that 'desde entónces, por primera vez al cabo de ocho siglos, no quedo un solo habitante en España que esteriormente diera culto á Mahoma:' but in vol. xi. p. 447, he says that, in 1524, 'volvieron inmediatamente á sus ritos y ceremonias muslímicas.' As M. de Circourt was well acquainted with all the materials used by M. Lafuente, and is, moreover, a much more critical writer, it seems likely that his statement is the correct one. [1288] 'Ces malheureux auraient tous été exterminés, s'ils n'avaient consenti à recevoir le baptême. Au milieu des décombres de leurs maisons, sur les cadavres fumans de leurs femmes, ils s'agenouillèrent. Les germanos, ivres de sang, firent l'office de prêtres; l'un d'eux prit un balai, aspergea la foule des musulmans, en prononçant les paroles sacramentelles, et crut avoir fait des chrétiens. L'armée des germanos se répandit ensuite dans le pays environnant, saccageant d'abord, baptisant après.' _Circourt_, _Histoire des Arabes d'Espagne_, vol. ii. p. 175. See also p. 202. [1289] That was their general name; but, in Aragon, they were termed '"tornadizos," en lenguage insultante.' _Janer_, _Condición de los Moriscos de España_, Madrid, 1857, p. 26. [1290] 'Recibieron el Sacramento por comodidad, no de voluntad, y asi encubrian todo lo possible el viuir y morir en la secta de Mahoma, siendo infieles apostatas.' _Vanderhammen's Filipe Segundo_, p. 12. 'Porque la Inquisicion los comenzó á apretar mas de lo ordinario.' _Mendoza_, _Guerra de Granada_, p. 20. 'Poner nuevo cuidado i diligencia en descubrir los motivos destos hombres,' p. 26. And yet this very writer has the impudence to declaim against Mohammedanism as a cruel religion. 'Cruel i abominable religion aplacar á Dios con vida i sangre innocente!' pp. 107, 108. [1291] Vanderhammen (_Filipe Segundo_, p. 12, Madrid, 1632) merely tells us that 'Por cedula el año sesenta y seis les mandó dexassen el habito, lengua y costumbres de Moros, y fuessen Christianos y lo pareciessen.' But the exact provisions were, 'Que dentro de tres años aprendiesen los moriscos á hablar la lengua castellana, y de allí adelante ninguno pudiese hablar, leer ni escriber arábigo en publico ni en secreto: que todos los contratos que se hiciesen en arábigo fuesen nulos: que todos los libros así escritos los llevasen en término de treinta dias al presidente de la audiencia de Granada para que los mandase examinar, devolviendoseles aquellos que no ofrecieran inconveniente para que los pudiesen guardar solo durante los tres años: que no se hicieran de nuevo marlotas, almalafas, calzas ni otra suerte de vestidos de los que se usaban en tiempos de moros; que durante este tiempo, las mujeres vestidas á la morisca llevarian la cara descubierta; que no usasen de las ceremonias ni de los regocijos moros en las bodas, sino conforme al uso de la Santa Madre Iglesia, abriendo las puertas de sus casas en tales dias, y tambien en los de fiesta, no haciendo zambras ni leylas con instrumentos ni cantares moriscos, aunque no dijesen en ellos cosas contraria á la religion cristiana,' &c. _Janer_, _Condicion de los Moriscos_, pp. 31, 32, where other particulars will be found, which should be compared with _Circourt_, _Histoire des Arabes d'Espagne_, vol. ii. pp. 278, 283, 459-463. By these and similar measures,[1292] these unhappy people were at length goaded into rebellion; and in 1568 they took the desperate step of measuring their force against that of the whole Spanish monarchy. The result could hardly be doubted; but the Moriscoes maddened by their sufferings, and fighting for their all, protracted the contest till 1571, when the insurrection was finally put down.[1293] By this unsuccessful effort, they were greatly reduced in numbers and in strength; and, during the remaining twenty-seven years of the reign of Philip II. we hear comparatively little of them. Notwithstanding an occasional outbreak, the old animosities were subsiding, and in the course of time would probably have disappeared. At all events, there was no pretence for violence on the part of the Spaniards, since it was absurd to suppose that the Moriscoes, weakened in every way, humbled, broken, and scattered through the kingdom, could, even if they desired it, effect any thing against the resources of the executive government. [1292] Some of the other steps which were taken, before 1566, to affront the Moriscoes are enumerated in _Prescott's History of Philip II._, vol. iii. p. 10, and elsewhere. In the reign of Charles V., there were many acts of local tyranny which escape the general historian. One of them, on the part of the Bishop of Guadix, is worth quoting. 'On le vit pousser l'intolérance jusqu'à faire raser les femmes et les obliger à racler leurs ongles pour en faire disparaître les traces du henné, cosmétique inoffensif dont il abhorrait l'usage, en raison de ce que les Arabes l'avaient introduit.' _Circourt_, _Histoire des Arabes d'Espagne_, vol. ii. p. 226. [1293] Its concluding scene, in March, 1571, is skilfully depicted in _Prescott's History of Philip III._, vol. iii. pp. 148-151. The splendid courage of the Moriscoes is attested by Mendoza in his contemporary history of the war; but, in narrating the horrible outrages which they undoubtedly committed, he makes no allowance for the long-continued and insufferable provocations which they had received from the Spanish Christians. What he mentions of one of the battles is curious, and I do not remember to have seen it elsewhere recorded. 'Fue porfiado por ambas partes el combate hasta venir á las espadas, de que los Moros se aprovechan menos que nosotros, por tener las suyas un filo i no herir ellos de punta.' _Mendoza_, _Guerra de Granada_, edit. 4to. Valencia, 1776, p. 168. But, after the death of Philip II., that movement began which I have just described, and which, contrary to the course of affairs in other nations, secured to the Spanish clergy in the seventeenth century, more power than they had possessed in the sixteenth. The consequences of this were immediately apparent. The clergy did not think that the steps taken by Philip II. against the Moriscoes were sufficiently decisive; and even during his lifetime they looked forward to a new reign, in which these Christians of doubtful sincerity should be either destroyed or driven from Spain.[1294] While he was on the throne, the prudence of the government restrained in some degree the eagerness of the Church; and the king, following the advice of his ablest ministers, refused to adopt the measures to which he was urged, and to which his own disposition prompted him.[1295] But, under his successor, the clergy, as we have already seen, gained fresh strength, and they soon felt themselves sufficiently powerful to begin another and final crusade against the miserable remains of the Moorish nation.[1296] [1294] An instance of this was exhibited in 1578, on the very day in which Philip III. was born. 'Predicando en un lugar de Aragon, todo de Moriscos, llamado Ricla, ó Torrellas, un religioso, llamado Vargas, el mismo dia que nació su Magestad, viendo el poco fruto que hacia con sus sermones, dixo, como en Profecia, á aquella gente rebelde: Pues no quereis despedir de vuestros pechos esta infernal secta, sabed, que ha nacido en Castilla vn Principe que os ha de echar de España.' _Porreño_, _Dichos y Hechos de Phelipe III._, in _Yañez_, _Memorias_, Madrid, 1723, p. 224; and nearly the same words in _Janer_, _Condicion de los Moriscos_, p. 60. Mr. Prescott, in his _History of Philip II._, vol. iii. p. 139, quotes a Ms. letter from Don John of Austria to Philip II., written in 1570, and stating that the Spanish monks were openly preaching against the leniency with which the king treated the Moriscoes. 'Predicando en los púlpitos publicamente contra la benignidad y clemencia que V. M. ha mandado usar con esta gente.' [1295] In a recent work of considerable authority, it is denied that Philip II. entertained the desire of expelling the Moriscoes. 'El carácter austero y la severidad de Felipe II. redundaban en favor de los moriscos, porque no daba oidos á las instigaciones de algunos personajes que señalaban la expulsion general como unico remedio eficaz para los males que ofrecia al pais aquella desventurada raza. Acababa el monarca de tocar los tristes resultados de una emigracion por las funestas consecuencias de la despoblacion del reino granadino, y preferia continuar en la _senda de la conciliacion_, procurando de nuevo la enseñanza de los conversos.' _Janer_, _Condicion de los Moriscos_, Madrid, 1857, p. 59. But to say nothing of the fact that this is contrary to all we know of the character of Philip, we have, on the other side of the question, the testimony of Archbishop Ribera, who had often communicated with the King on the subject, and who distinctly states that Philip desired the expulsion of the Moors from Spain, 'El hechar los Moros deste Reyno, ha sido cosa muy desseada, y procurada por los Reyes Predecessores del Rey nuestro Señor, aunque no executada.' ... 'El Rey Don Felipe Segundo, nuestro Señor, despues de suceder en estos Reynos, _tuvo el mismo desseo_; y assi mandó, que se juntassen los Prelados deste Reyno para buscar remedio el año de 1568; siendo Arçobispo desta Metropoli el Reverendissimo Don Hernando de Lloazes. Hizieronse en aquella Junta algunas Constituciones de consideracion. Visto que no aprovechaban, mandó el año 1587 que se hiziesse otra Junta, _en la qual me hallé yo_: añadimos tambien algunas nuevas Constituciones. Y constando á su Magestad que no eran bastantes las diligencias passadas, y que siempre perseveraban en su heregia, se resolvio de mandarlos hechar del Reyno, ó por lo menos meterlos dentro de la tierra.' _Ximenez_, _Vida de Ribera_, Roma, 1734, 4to. pp. 419, 420. This important passage is decisive as to the real feelings of Philip, unless we assume that Ribera has stated a deliberate falsehood. But, strange to say, even the book in which so remarkable a passage is contained, appears to be unknown either to M. Janer or to M. Lafuente. [1296] 'El rey Felipe III., hombre de rudo ingenio, se dejaba gobernar con facilidad por aquellos que sabiendo los temores de su conciencia, se aprovechaban de su imbecilidad para conseguir cuanto querian. Muchos eclesiásticos, recordando las espulsiones de judios y moros ejecutadas de órden de Fernando é Isabel, y conociendo que á Felipe III. seria agradable imitar á estos monarcas, le aconsejaron que condenase al destierro á todos los moriscos que vivian en sus reynos; pues no solo se obstinaban en seguir la ley mahometana, sino que tenían tratos con los turcos y entre sí para buscar sus libertades por medio del rigor de las armas.' _Castro_, _Decadencia de España_, Cadiz, 1852, pp. 101, 102. The Archbishop of Valencia was the first to take the field. In 1602, this eminent prelate presented a memorial to Philip III. against the Moriscoes; and finding that his views were cordially supported by the clergy, and not discouraged by the crown, he followed up the blow by another memorial having the same object.[1297] The Archbishop, who spoke as one having authority, and who from his rank and position was a natural representative of the Spanish Church, assured the king that all the disasters which had befallen the monarchy, had been caused by the presence of these unbelievers, whom it was now necessary to root out, even as David had done to the Philistines, and Saul to the Amalekites.[1298] He declared that the Armada, which Philip II. sent against England in 1588, had been destroyed, because God would not allow even that pious enterprise to succeed, while those who undertook it, left heretics undisturbed at home. For the same reason, the late expedition to Algiers had failed; it being evidently the will of Heaven that nothing should prosper while Spain was inhabited by apostates.[1299] He, therefore, exhorted the king to exile all the Moriscoes, except some whom he might condemn to work in the galleys, and others who could become slaves, and labour in the mines of America.[1300] This, he added, would make the reign of Philip glorious to all posterity, and would raise his fame far above that of his predecessors, who in this matter had neglected their obvious duty.[1301] [1297] These memorials are printed in the Appendix to his Life by Ximenez. See the very curious book, entitled _Vida y Virtudes del Venerable Siervo de Dios D. Juan de Ribera_, _por el R. P. Fr. Juan Ximenez_, Roma, 1734, 4to. pp. 367-374, 376-393. This work is, I believe, extremely rare; at all events, I endeavoured in vain to obtain a copy from Spain or Italy, and, after some years' unsuccessful search, I met with the one I now have, on a London book-stall. M. de Circourt, in his learned History of the Spanish Arabs, does not appear to have been aware of its existence, and he complains that he could not procure the works of Ribera, whose Memorials he consequently quotes second-hand. _Circourt_, _Histoire des Arabes d'Espagne_, Paris, 1846, vol. iii. pp. 168, 351. Nor does Watson seem to have known it; though both he and M. de Circourt refer to Escriva's Life of Ribera. _Watson's Philip III._, London, 1839, pp. 214-221. An abstract of these Memorials is given by Geddes, who, though a learned and accurate writer, had the mischievous habit of not indicating the sources of his information. _Geddes' Tracts_, London, 1730, vol. i. pp. 60-71. [1298] 'Por lo qual se puede creer, que nuestro Señor ha querido reservar esta obra tan digna de pecho Real para Vuestra Magestad, como reservó la libertad e su pueblo para Moyses, la entrada de la Tierra de Promission para Josue, la vengança de la injuria antigua de los Amalequitas para Saul, y la victoria de los Filisteos para David.' _Ximenez_, _Vida de Ribera_, p. 370. Again, p. 377: 'Y al primer Rey que tuvo el Mundo, en siendo elegido por Dios, y confirmado en su Reyno, le embia á mandar por un Propheta que destruya á los Amalequitas, sin dexar hombres, ni mugeres, ni niños, aunque sean de leche, en fin que no quede rastro de ellos, ni des sus haziendas. Y porque no cumplió exactamente su mandamiento, cayó en indignacion de Dios, y fue privado del Reyno. Al segundo Rey, que fue David, le mandó Dios en siendo jurado, que destruyesse los Philisteos, como lo hizo.' [1299] 'El año quando se perdio la poderosa Armada, que iba á Inglaterra, confiado de la benignidad del Rey nuestro Señor, que está en el Cielo, me atreví con el zelo de fiel vassallo y Capellán, á dezir á Su Magestad; que aviendo gastado mucho tiempo en discurrir, que causa podia aver para que Dios, nuestro Señor, permitiesse aquel mal sucesso se me havia ofrecido una cosa de mucha consideracion, y era, querer dezir la Magestad Divina á Su Magestad Catolica; que mientras no ponia remedio en estas Heregias de España, cuyos Reynos le avia encomendado, no se debía ocupar en remediar las de los Beynos agenos. Y ahora confiando en la misma benignidad, y clemencia de Vuestra Magestad, me atrevo tambien á dezir, que aviendo considerado la causa, porque Dios nos ha quitado de las manos la toma de Argel, aviendose dispuesto todas las prevenciones para ella con la mayor prudencia, y sagacidad, que hemos visto en nuestros tiempos, y sirviendonos el mar, y los ayres, y las ocasiones, de la manera, que podiamos dessear, tengo por sin duda, que ha sido, querer nuestro Señor dar á Vuestra Magestad el ultimo recuerdo de la obligacion, que tiene, de resolver esta platica.' _Ximenez_, _Vida de Ribera_, p. 373. It would be a pity if such admirable specimens of theological reasoning were to remain buried in an old Roman quarto. I congratulate myself and the reader on my acquisition of this volume, which is a vast repertory of powerful, though obsolete, weapons. [1300] 'Todas estas cosas, y otras muchas, que dexo de dezir, por no ser prolixo, me hazen evidencia, de que conviene para el servicio de Dios nuestro Señor, y que Vuestra Magestad está obligado en conciencia, como Rey, y Supremo Señor, á quien toca de justicia defender, y conservar sus Reynos, mandar desterrar de España todos estos Moriscos, sin que quede hombre, ni muger grande, ni pequeño; reservando tan solamente los niños, y niñas, que no llegaren á siete años, para que se guarden entre nosotros, repartien dolos por las casas particulares de Christianos viejos. Y aun hay opinion de personas doctas, que estos tales niños y niñas, los puede Vuestra Magestad dar por esclavos, y lo fundan con razones probables.' _Ximenez_, _Vida de Ribera_, pp. 379, 380. 'Destos que se han de desterrar, podra Vuestra Magestad tomarlos que fuere servido por esclavos, para proveer sus Galeras, ó para embiar á las minas de las Indias, sin escrupulo alguno de conciencia, lo que tambien será de no poca utilidad.' p. 384. To do this, was to be merciful; for they all deserved capital punishment, 'merecian pena capital.' p. 381. [1301] 'Aora, Catolica Magestad, vemos que Dios nuestro Señor ha reservado para Vuestra Magestad, y para su Real Corona, el nombre, y hechos de Rey Catholico: permitiendo por sus secretos juizios, que los que han sido siempre enemigos de su Iglesia se conserven, y que los que antes eran Catholicos, ayan degenerado, y apostatado de su santa ley y assi va la honra de Dios nuestro Señor, y el exemplo, y confusion de los otros Reyes, en que Vuestra Magestad tenga sus Reynos limpios de Hereges, y principalmente á España. Y quando esto huviesse de costar grandes trabajos, y todo el oro, y plata, que hay en las Indias, estaria muy bien empleado: pues se atraviessa la honra de Dios, la de su Santa Iglesia, el antiguo renombre desta Corona,' &c. _Ximenez_, _Vida de Ribera_, p. 382. And on the neglect of duty by Charles V. and Philip II., see p. 370. These remonstrances, besides being in accordance with the known views of the Spanish Church, were warmly supported by the personal influence of the Archbishop of Toledo, the primate of Spain. In only one respect did he differ from the views advocated by the Archbishop of Valencia. The Archbishop of Valencia thought that children under seven years of age need not share in the general banishment, but might, without danger to the faith, be separated from their parents, and kept in Spain. To this, the Archbishop of Toledo strongly objected. He was unwilling, he said, to run the risk of pure Christian blood being polluted by infidels; and he declared that sooner than leave one of these unbelievers to corrupt the land, he would have the whole of them, men, women, and children, at once put to the sword.[1302] [1302] 'The most powerful promoter of their expulsion was Don Bernardo de Roias y Sandoval, Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, and Inquisitor-General and Chancellor of Spain. This great prelate, who was brother to the Duke of Lerma, by whom the king for some years before, and for some years after the expulsion was absolutely governed, was so zealous to have the whole race of the Moriscoes extinguished, that he opposed the detaining of their children who were under seven years of age, affirming that of the two he judged it more advisable to cut the throats of all the Moriscoes, men, women, and children, than to have any of their children left in Spain, to defile the true Spanish blood with a mixture of the Moorish.' _Geddes' Tracts_, vol. i. pp. 85, 86. Navarrete has pronounced a glowing eulogy upon the piety and other noble qualities of this prelate; and says that 'llenando de esplendor con su virtud tres sillas episcopales, mereció que Clemente VIII. le honrase con el capelo, y fué elevado á la primada de Toledo y al empleo de inquisidor general.' _Vida de Cervantes_, pp. xcvii., xcviii., Barcelona, 1839. That they should all be slain, instead of being banished, was the desire of a powerful party in the Church, who thought that such signal punishment would work good by striking terror into the heretics of every nation. Bleda, the celebrated Dominican, one of the most influential men of his time, wished this to be done, and to be done thoroughly. He said, that, for the sake of example, every Morisco in Spain should have his throat cut, because it was impossible to tell which of them were Christians at heart, and it was enough to leave the matter to God, who knew his own, and who would reward in the next world those who were really Catholics.[1303] [1303] 'He did assure all the old Christian laity, that whenever the king should give the word, they might, without any scruple of conscience, cut the throats of all the Moriscoes, and not spare any of them upon their professing themselves Christians; but to follow the holy and laudable example of the Croisado that was raised against the Albigenses, who, upon their having made themselves masters of the city of Bezeir; wherein were two hundred thousand Catholics and hereticks, did ask Father Arnold, a Cistercian monk, who was their chief preacher, "Whether they should put any to the sword that pretended to be Catholics;" and were answered by the holy Abbot, "That they should kill all without distinction, and leave it to God, who knew his own, to reward them for being true Catholics in the next world;" which was accordingly executed.' _Geddes_, vol. i. p. 84. It was evident that the fate of the wretched remnant of a once splendid nation was now sealed. The religious scruples of Philip III. forbade him to struggle with the Church; and his minister Lerma would not risk his own authority by even the show of opposition. In 1609, he announced to the king, that the expulsion of the Moriscoes had become necessary. 'The resolution,' replied Philip, 'is a great one; let it be executed.'[1304] And executed it was, with unflinching barbarity. About one million of the most industrious inhabitants of Spain were hunted out like wild beasts, because the sincerity of their religious opinions was doubtful.[1305] Many were slain, as they approached the coast; others were beaten and plundered; and the majority, in the most wretched plight, sailed for Africa. During the passage, the crew, in many of the ships, rose upon them, butchered the men, ravished the women, and threw the children into the sea. Those who escaped this fate, landed on the coast of Barbary, where they were attacked by the Bedouins, and many of them put to the sword. Others made their way into the desert, and perished from famine. Of the number of lives actually sacrificed, we have no authentic account; but it is said, on very good authority, that in one expedition, in which 140,000 were carried to Africa, upwards of 100,000 suffered death in its most frightful forms within a few months after their expulsion from Spain.[1306] [1304] '"Grande resolucion!" contestó el débil monarca al ministro favorito: "hacedlo vos, duque."' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xv. p. 375. But this reply, so far from being a mark of weakness on the part of Philip, was a strictly logical application of the principles which he entertained, and which, indeed, were almost universal in Spain. We know from his contemporary biographer, that 'Determinó el Rey en los principios de su Reynado, como Rey tan poderoso y Catolico, de consagrar y dedicar à Dios la potencia de sus Consejos y Armas para extinguir y acabar los enemigos de la Iglesia Santa.' _Davila_, _Historia de la Vida de Felipe Tercero_, lib. i. p. 44. [1305] This is the average estimate. Some authors make it less, and some more; while one writer says, 'The numbers expelled have been estimated at four hundred thousand families, or two millions of souls.' _Clarke's Internal State of Spain_, London, 1818, p. 33. But this is incredible. M. Castro (_Decadencia de España_, Cadiz, 1852, p. 105) says, 'España perdió en los moriscos un millon de habitantes;' and M. Janer (_Condicion de los Moriscos_, Madrid, 1857, p. 93), 'Sin entrar en cálculos sobre los que habia cuando se expidio el edicto de Valencia en 1609, ni sobre los que fenecieron en las rebeliones, de mano armada, de sed, de hambre ó ahogados, creemos poder fijar, aproximadamente, en novecientos mil los que llegaron á poner el pie fuera de la península, despidiéndose para siempre de las costas y fronteras de España, cuya cifra deducimos del exámen y contexto de unos y otros escritores, de las listas que nos han quedado de los expulsos, de los datos de diversas relaciones, estados y documentos examinados con este solo intento;' and further on, p. 105, 'la expulsion de un millon, ó novecientos mil de sus habitantes.' Llorente (_Histoire de l'Inquisition_, vol. iii. p. 430, Paris, 1818) says, 'un million d'habitans utiles et laborieux;' Ximenez (_Vida de Ribera_, Roma, 1734, 4to. p. 70), 'novecientos mil;' and Boisel, who was in Spain, fifty years after the expulsion, and collected the traditionary evidence, says, 'Il sortit neuf cens tant de mille hommes de compte fait, de Valence, d'Andalousie, et de Castille.' _Boisel_, _Journal du Voyage d'Espagne_, Paris, 1669, 4to. p. 275. [1306] _Watson's Philip III._, pp. 234-235. _Davila_, _Vida de Felipe III._, p. 146. _Yañez_, _Memorias para la Historia de Felipe III._, pp. 281, 290. _Janer_, _Condicion de los Moriscos_, pp. 83, 84, 90. Some particulars respecting their expulsion may also be seen in Cottington's Letters from Madrid, which were written in 1609, but are of very little value. _Winwood's Memorials of Affairs of State_, vol. iii. pp. 73, 91, 103, 118, London, folio, 1725. Now, for the first time, the Church was really triumphant.[1307] For the first time, there was not a heretic to be seen between the Pyrenees and the Straits of Gibraltar. All were orthodox, and all were loyal. Every inhabitant of that great country obeyed the Church, and feared the king. And from this happy combination, it was believed that the prosperity and grandeur of Spain were sure to follow. The name of Philip III. was to be immortal, and posterity would never weary of admiring that heroic act by which the last remains of an infidel race were cast out from the land. Those who had even remotely participated in the glorious consummation, were to be rewarded by the choicest blessings. Themselves, and their families, were under the immediate protection of Heaven. The earth should bear more fruit, and the trees should clap their hands. Instead of the thorn should come up the fir-tree, and instead of the brier, the myrtle. A new era was now inaugurated, in which Spain, purged of her heresy, was to be at ease, and men, living in safety, were to sleep under the shade of their own vineyards, sow their gardens in peace, and eat of the fruit of the trees they had planted.[1308] [1307] In a contemporary sermon in commemoration of their expulsion, the preacher joyfully exclaims, 'Pues, que mayor honra podemos tener en este Reyno, que ser todos los que vivimos en el, fieles á Dios, y al Rey, sin compañia de estos Hereges y traydores?' _Ximenez_, _Vida de Ribera_, p. 423. Another clergyman cries out, 'Al fin salieron estos, y quedó la tierra libre de la infamia de este gente.' _Davila_, _Vida de Felipe Tercero_, p. 149. See also p. 151. 'Y es digno de poner en consideracion el zelo que los Reyes de España tuvieron en todo tiempo de sustentar la Fé Catolica; pues en diferentes expulsiones que han hecho, han sacado de sus Reynos tres millones de Moros, y dos millones de Judios, enemigos de nuestra Iglesia.' [1308] See the sermon by the Archbishop of Valencia, printed at length in the Appendix to _Ximenez_, _Vida de Ribera_, pp. 411-428. I would fain quote it all, but the reader must be content with part of the peroration, pp. 426, 427. 'Entre las felizidades, que cuenta el Espiritu Santo que tuvieron los hijos de Israel en el govierno del Rey Salomon, es una; que vivian los hombres seguros, durmiendo á la sombra de su parra, y de su higuera, sin tener de quien temer. _Assi estaremos en este Reyno de aqui adelante_, por la misericordia de nuestro Señor, y paternal providencia de Su Magestad, todo nos sobrará, y la misma tierra se fertilizará y dará fruto de bendicion. Brocardico es, de que todos usabades, diziendo que despues, que estos se bautizaron, no se avia visto un año fertil; _aora todos lo seran_, porque las heregias y blasfemias de estos tenian esterilizada, abrasada, y inficionada la tierra, como dixo el Real Propheta David, con tantos pecados y abominaciones.' ... 'Y edificarán en las tierras, que antes eran desiertas, plantando viñas, y bebiendo el vino de ellas, y sembrarán huertas, y comeran del fruto de los arboles, que han plantado, y nunca seran hechados de sus casas, dize Dios. Todo esto promete nuestro Señor por dos Prophetas suyos. _Todo (digo otra vez) nos sobrará._' All this was to happen to the people; while, as to the king, he, in the same sermon, p. 416, is likened to David; and it was declared by another high authority, that his expulsion of the Moriscoes was so great an exploit ('hazaña'), that 'durára su memoria por los venideros siglos.' _Porreño_, in _Yañez_, _Memorias para Felipe III._, p. 281. These were the promises held out by the Church, and believed by the people. It is our business to inquire how far the expectations were fulfilled, and what the consequences were of an act which was instigated by the clergy, welcomed by the nation, and eagerly applauded by some of the greatest men of genius Spain has produced.[1309] [1309] 'Amidst the devout exultation of the whole kingdom,--Cervantes, Lope de Vega, and others of the principal men of genius then alive, joining in the general jubilee.' _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. i. pp. 428, 429. Compare _Dunlop's Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 16. Porreño says that it may be placed among the seven wonders of the world; 'la podemos poner entre las siete maravillas del mundo.' _Yañez_, _Memorias_, p. 297: and Davila (_Vida de Felipe Tercero_, lib. ii. cap. 41, p. 139) pronounces it to be the most glorious achievement which had been seen since the days of Pelayo. All this is natural enough; but what is really curious is, to trace the modern remains of this feeling. Campomanes (_Apendice á la Educacion Popular_, vol. iv. p. 130, Madrid, 1777), a very able man, and far more liberal than most of his countrymen, is not ashamed to speak of 'la justa expulsion de los moriscos desde 1610 á 1613.' Ortiz, in 1801, expresses himself with more hesitation, but is evidently in favour of a measure which liberated Spain from 'la perniciosa semilla de Mahoma que restaba en ella.' _Compendio de la Historia de España_, vol. vi. pp. 304, 305. Nay, even in 1856, the great modern historian of Spain, while admitting the serious material injury which this horrible crime inflicted on the country, assures us that it had the 'immense advantage' of producing religious unity; unable to perceive that the very unity of which he boasts, generates an acquiescence and stagnation of mind fatal to all real improvement, because it prevents that play and collision of opinions by which the wits of men are sharpened and made ready for use, 'Con la expulsion se completó el principio de la unidad religiosa en España, que fué un bien inmenso, pero se consumó la ruina de la agricultura, que fué un inmenso mal.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xvii. p. 340, Madrid, 1856. And, the year after this sagacious sentiment had been given to the world, another eminent Spaniard, in a work crowned by the Royal Academy of History, went still further, and declared, that not only did the expulsion of the Moriscoes cause great benefit by securing unity of creed, but that such unity was 'necessary on the Spanish soil.' 'Y si bajo el aspecto económico reprobamos semejante medida por la influencia perniciosa que tuvo desde el momento de dictarse, la imparcialidad de historiadores nos obliga á respetarla por los inmensos bienes que produjo en el órden religioso y en el órden político.' ... 'La unidad religiosa era necesaria en el suelo español.' _Janer_, _Condicion Social de los Moriscos de España_, Madrid, 1857, pp. 110, 114. What are we to think of a country in which these opinions are expressed, not by some obscure fanatic, from the platform or the pulpit, but by able and learned men, who promulgate them with all the authority of their position, being themselves deemed, if anything, rather too bold and too liberal for the people to whom they address their works? The effects upon the material prosperity of Spain may be stated in a few words. From nearly every part of the country, large bodies of industrious agriculturists and expert artificers were suddenly withdrawn. The best systems of husbandry then known, were practised by the Moriscoes, who tilled and irrigated with indefatigable labour.[1310] The cultivation of rice, cotton, and sugar, and the manufacture of silk and paper, were almost confined to them.[1311] By their expulsion, all this was destroyed at a blow, and most of it was destroyed for ever. For, the Spanish Christians considered such pursuits beneath their dignity. In their judgment, war and religion were the only two avocations worthy of being followed. To fight for the king, or to enter the Church was honourable; but everything else was mean and sordid.[1312] When, therefore, the Moriscoes were thrust out of Spain, there was no one to fill their place; arts and manufactures either degenerated, or were entirely lost, and immense regions of arable land were left uncultivated. Some of the richest parts of Valencia and Granada were so neglected, that means were wanting to feed even the scanty population which remained there.[1313] Whole districts were suddenly deserted, and down to the present day have never been repeopled. These solitudes gave refuge to smugglers and brigands, who succeeded the industrious inhabitants formerly occupying them; and it is said, that from the expulsion of the Moriscoes is to be dated the existence of those organized bands of robbers, which, after this period, became the scourge of Spain, and which no subsequent government has been able entirely to extirpate.[1314] [1310] 'Los moros eran muy diestros en todo lo que mira á obras de agua.' _Campomanes_, _Apendice á la Educacion Popular_, vol. iii. p. cvii. 'The Moors were the most intelligent agriculturists Spain ever had.' _Laborde's Spain_, vol. ii. p. 216. Even Jovellanos admits that 'except in the parts occupied by the Moors, the Spaniards were almost totally unacquainted with the art of irrigation.' _Clarke's Internal State of Spain_, p. 116. See also _Circourt_, _Arabes d'Espagne_, vol. i. p. 255, vol. ii. p. 12, vol. iii. pp. 162, 222; _Bourgoing_, _Tableau de l'Espagne_, vol. ii. pp. 170, 171; and _Townsend's Spain_, vol. iii. p. 74. Remains of their splendid aqueducts still exist. _Hoskins' Spain_, vol. i. pp. 120, 125, 291, 292. Compare _Spain by an American_, vol. ii. p. 112 with _L'Estat de l'Espagne_, Genève, 1681, p. 399. [1311] Compare _Janer_, _Condicion de los Moriscos_, pp. 47, 48, with _Campomanes_, _Apendice á la Educacion Popular_, vol. iii. p. xxii., and _Dunlop's Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 13. [1312] The more sensible among the Spaniards notice, with regret, this national contempt for every form of useful industry. See _Campomanes_, _Educacion Popular_, p. 128, and _Sempere_, _Monarchie Espagnole_, vol. ii. pp. 277, 278. A traveller in Spain in 1669, says of the people, 'ils méprisent tellement le travail, que la plûpart des artisans sont étrangers.' _Voyages faits en divers Temps par M. M****_, Amsterdam, 1700, p. 80. Another traveller, between 1693 and 1695, says, they 'think it below the dignity of a Spaniard to labour and provide for the future.' _Travels by a Gentleman_ (by Bromley?), London, 1702, p. 35. A third observer, in 1679, assures us that 'ils souffrent plus aisément la faim et les autres nécessitez de la vie, que de travailler, disent-ils, comme des mercenaires, ce qui n'appartient qu'à des esclaves.' _D'Aulnoy_, _Relation du Voyage d'Espagne_, Lyon, 1693, vol. ii. pp. 369, 370. For further illustrations of this, see _Labat_, _Voyages en Espagne_, Paris, 1730, vol. i. pp. 285, 286. _Capmany_, _Qüestiones Criticas_, pp. 43, 49, 50. _Laborde's Spain_, vol. i. p. i. _Ranke's Spanish Empire_, p. 103. _Townsend's Journey through Spain_, vol. ii. pp. 240, 241. [1313] 'Pudo, pues, decirse con razon de nuestra patria, que de Arabia Feliz se habia convertido en Arabia Desierta, y de Valencia en particular, que el bello jardin de España se habia convertido en páramo seco y deslucido. Dejóse en breve sentir en todas partes el azote del hambre; y al alegre bullicio de las poblaciones sucedió el melancólico silencio de los despoblados, y al frecuente cruzar de los labradores y trajineros por los caminos siguió el peligroso encuentro de los salteadores que los infestaban, abrigándose en las ruinas de los pueblos desiertos.' _Janer_, _Condicion de los Moriscos_, p. 100. See also _Dunlop's Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 16. Campomanes says, 'El gran número de artesanos, que salieron con la expulsion de los moriscos, causó un golpe mortal á las manufacturas, y á la labranza.' _Apendice á la Educacion Popular_, vol. i. p. 13. And p. 268, 'El punto de decadencia de nuestras manufacturas, puede fixarse desde el año de 1609, en que tubo principio la expulsion de los Moriscos.' [1314] 'Sur la carte d'Espagne, en mille endroits est inscrit ce funeste mot, _despoblado_; en mille endroits la nature sauvage a repris la place des cultures. Étudiez la direction des despoblados, et consultez les registres des commissaires de l'expulsion, vous verrez presque toujours que les familles morisques couvraient ces solitudes. Leur patrimoine abandonné forma le domaine des voleurs, qui établirent avec une sorte de sécurité leurs correspondances effrontées à travers toute l'Espagne. Le brigandage s'organisa comme une profession ordinaire; et la contrebande, sa compagne, leva le front avec autant d'audace, autant de succès.' _Circourt_, _Histoire des Arabes d'Espagne_, vol. iii. pp. 227, 228. To these disastrous consequences, others were added, of a different, and, if possible, of a still more serious kind. The victory gained by the Church increased both her power and her reputation. During the rest of the seventeenth century, not only were the interests of the clergy deemed superior to the interests of laymen, but the interests of laymen were scarcely thought of. The greatest men, with hardly an exception, became ecclesiastics, and all temporal considerations, all views of earthly policy, were despised and set at nought. No one inquired; no one doubted; no one presumed to ask if all this was right. The minds of men succumbed and were prostrate. While every other country was advancing, Spain alone was receding. Every other country was making some addition to knowledge, creating some art, or enlarging some science. Spain, numbed into a death-like torpor, spellbound and entranced by the accursed superstition which preyed on her strength, presented to Europe a solitary instance of constant decay. For her, no hope remained; and, before the close of the seventeenth century, the only question was, by whose hands the blow should be struck, which would dismember that once mighty empire, whose shadow had covered the world, and whose vast remains were imposing even in their ruin. To indicate the different steps which mark the decline of Spain would be hardly possible, since even the Spaniards, who, when it was too late, were stung with shame, have abstained from writing what would only be the history of their own humiliation; so that there is no detailed account of the wretched reigns of Philip IV. and Charles II., which together comprise a period of nearly eighty years.[1315] Some facts, however, I have been able to collect, and they are very significant. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, the population of Madrid was estimated to be 400,000; at the beginning of the eighteenth century, less than 200,000.[1316] Seville, one of the richest cities in Spain, possessed in the sixteenth century upwards of sixteen thousand looms, which gave employment to a hundred and thirty thousand persons.[1317] By the reign of Philip V., these sixteen thousand looms had dwindled away to less than three hundred;[1318] and, in a report which the Cortes made to Philip IV., in 1662, it is stated that the city contained only a quarter of its former number of inhabitants, and that even the vines and olives cultivated in its neighbourhood, and which comprised a considerable part of its wealth, were almost entirely neglected.[1319] Toledo, in the middle of the sixteenth century, had upwards of fifty woollen manufactories; in 1665, it had only thirteen, almost the whole of the trade having been carried away by the Moriscoes, and established at Tunis.[1320] Owing to the same cause, the art of manufacturing silk, for which Toledo was celebrated, was entirely lost, and nearly forty thousand persons, who depended on it, were deprived of their means of support.[1321] Other branches of industry shared the same fate. In the sixteenth century, and early in the seventeenth, Spain enjoyed great repute for the manufacture of gloves, which were made in enormous quantities, and shipped to many parts, being particularly valued in England and France, and being also exported to the Indies. But Martinez de Mata, who wrote in the year 1655, assures us that at that time this source of wealth had disappeared; the manufacture of gloves having quite ceased, though formerly, he says, it had existed in every city in Spain.[1322] In the once-flourishing province of Castile, every thing was going to ruin. Even Segovia lost its manufactures, and retained nothing but the memory of its former wealth.[1323] The decay of Burgos was equally rapid; the trade of that famous city perished; and the deserted streets and empty houses formed such a picture of desolation, that a contemporary, struck by the havoc, emphatically declared that Burgos had lost every thing except its name.[1324] In other districts, the results were equally fatal. The beautiful provinces of the south, richly endowed by nature, had formerly been so wealthy, that their contributions alone sufficed, in time of need, to replenish the imperial treasury; but they now deteriorated with such rapidity, that, by the year 1640, it was found hardly possible to impose a tax on them which would be productive.[1325] During the latter half of the seventeenth century, matters became still worse, and the poverty and wretchedness of the people surpass all description. In the villages near Madrid, the inhabitants were literally famishing; and those farmers who had a stock of food refused to sell it, because, much as they needed money, they were apprehensive of seeing their families perish around them. The consequence was, that the capital was in danger of being starved; and ordinary threats producing no effect, it was found necessary, in 1664, that the President of Castile, with an armed force, and accompanied by the public executioner, should visit the adjacent villages, and compel the inhabitants to bring their supplies to the markets of Madrid.[1326] All over Spain, the same destitution prevailed. That once rich and prosperous country was covered with a rabble of monks and clergy, whose insatiate rapacity absorbed the little wealth yet to be found. Hence it happened, that the government, though almost penniless, could obtain no supplies. The tax-gatherers, urged to make up the deficiency, adopted the most desperate expedients. They not only seized the beds and all the furniture, but they unroofed the houses, and sold the materials of the roof, for whatever they would fetch. The inhabitants were forced to fly; the fields were left uncultivated; vast multitudes died from want and exposure; entire villages were deserted; and in many of the towns, upwards of two-thirds of the houses were, by the end of the seventeenth century, utterly destroyed.[1327] [1315] 'Declinó pues muy sensiblemente la vasta monarquía, y callaron atonitos los historiadores, como huyendo la necesidad de traer á la memoria lo que veian y apenas creian. Enmudeció pues la historia de España en los dos reynados de Felipe IV. y Carlos II. viendo continuaba nuestra decadencia, hasta quedar España al nivel de los menos poderosos Estados de Europa. Este silencio nos ha privado de saber no solo las causas de nuestra decadencia, sino tambien de los acontecimientos civiles y militares del siglo xvii.' _Ortiz_, _Compendio de la Historia de España_, vol. vi., Prologo, p. i. No attempt was made to supply the deficiency complained of by Ortiz, until 1856, when M. Lafuente published, in Madrid, the sixteenth and seventeenth volumes of his History of Spain, which contain the reigns of Philip IV. and Charles II. Of this work, I have no desire to speak disrespectfully; on the contrary, it is impossible to read it without interest, on account of the admirable clearness with which the different topics are arranged, and also on account of its beautiful style, which reminds us of the best days of Castilian prose. But I feel constrained to say, that, as a history, and especially as a history which undertakes to investigate the causes of the decline of Spain, it is a complete failure. In the first place, M. Lafuente has not emancipated himself from those very prejudices to which the decline of his country is owing. And, in the second place, he has, particularly in the reigns of Philip IV. and Charles II., not used sufficient diligence in searching for materials for studying the economical changes through which Spain has passed. Looking too intently at the surface, he mistakes symptoms for causes; so that the real history of the Spanish people every where escapes his grasp. As the object to which my studies are directed, compels me to contemplate affairs from a larger and more general point of view than he has done, it naturally happens that the conclusions at which we arrive are very different; but I wish to bear my testimony, whatever it may be worth, to the great merit of his book as a work of art, though, as a work of science, it appears to me that he has effected nothing, and has thrown no new light on the real history of that unfortunate, albeit once splendid, nation, of which his eloquence, his learning, and his taste, make him one of the chiefest ornaments. [1316] See _Dunlop's Memoirs_, vol. ii. p. 320; and the interesting calculations in _Uztariz_, _Theorica y Practica de Comercio_, Madrid, 1757, folio, pp. 35, 36. Owing to the ignorance which formerly prevailed respecting statistics, such estimates are necessarily imperfect; but, after the desolation of Spain in the seventeenth century, an extraordinary diminution in the population of the capital was inevitable. Indeed, a contemporary of Charles II. states that in 1699, Madrid had only 150,000 inhabitants. _Mémoires de Louville_, Paris, 1818, vol. i. p. 72. This account is taken from 'un mémoire manuscrit, en langue espagnole, trouvé dans les papiers du marquis de Louville.' p. 67. [1317] Capmany (_Qüestiones Criticas_, p. 30), who seems to have written his able, but not very accurate, work for the express purpose of concealing the decline of his country, has given these figures erroneously. My information is derived from an official report made in 1701, by the trade-corporations ('gremios') of Seville. 'Fijan la época de la ruina de nuestras fábricas desde el reynado de Felipe II. y añaden "haber llegado á tener solo en esta ciudad al arte mayor, y menor de la sede, el número de mas de diez y seis mil telares, y se ocupaban en los exercicios adherentes á él, mas de ciento treinta mil personas de ambos sexos."' _Campomanes_, _Apendice á la Educacion Popular_, vol. i. p. 473, Madrid, 1775. See also _Uztariz_, _Theorica y Practica de Comercio_, p. 14, 'diez y seis mil telares;' where, however, no authority is quoted. [1318] 'El principal origen y causa de que los 16,000 telares de seda, lana, oro y plata, que se contaban en Sevilla, se hallen oy reducidos á menos de 300.' _Uztariz_, _Theorica de Comercio_, p. 243. [1319] _Sempere_, _Monarchie Espagnole_, vol. ii. p. 52, who refers to the report of the Cortes published by Alonso Nuñez de Castro. [1320] _Laborde's Spain_, vol. iv. p. 338, where it is also said, that Tunis became, in consequence of the expulsion of the Moriscoes, famous for the manufacture of caps, which 'were subsequently imitated at Orleans.' Compare, on the cap-manufactories of Tunis, a note in _Campomanes_, _Apendice, á la Educacion Popular_, vol. iv. p. 249. [1321] 'Tolède, où se mettaient en [oe]uvre 435,000 livres de soie, avait déjà perdu ce travail, qui suffisait autrefois à l'existence de 38,484 personnes. La population de cette ville avait éprouvé un tiers de diminution, et vingt-cinq maisons de ses familles les plus illustres étaient passées dans le domaine de divers couvens.' _Sempere_, _Monarchie Espagnole_, vol. ii. p. 50. [1322] See his interesting essay, reprinted in the appendix to _Campomanes_, vol. iv. p. 251. He says, 'La fábrica de los guantes, que tenian pocos años ha todas las ciudades de estos reynos para el consumo de España y las Indias, era muy considerable; y se ha destruido, despues que se dió entrada al consumo de guantes estrangeros.' Such a statement, made by a contemporary, is unimpeachable; but the reason he assigns is inadequate. [1323] Segovia, as it appeared in 1659, is thus described in _Boisel_, _Journal du Voyage d'Espagne_, Paris, 1669, 4to. p. 186: 'Autresfois, cette ville qui paroist assez grande, estoit fort riche, tant à cause que les rois de Castille y demeuroient, qu'à cause du grand commerce des laines et des beaux draps qui s'y faisoient; mais à présent le trafic n'y est plus, et on n'y fait plus que fort peu de draps, de sorte que la ville est presque désert et fort pauvre. Une marque de sa pauvreté, du mauvais ordre d'Espagne, et du peu de prévoyance des Espagnols (quoy qu'on dise de leur flegme), c'est que le jour que j'y arrivay jusques à deux heures après midy il n'y avoit point eu de pain en toute la ville, et ils ne s'en étonnoient point.' The decline of the silk and wool manufactures of Segovia is also noticed by Martinez de la Mata, who wrote in 1650. See his _Dos Discursos_, edited by Canga, Madrid, 1794, p. 8. Saint Simon, who was there in 1722, says, 'A l'égard de leurs laines, j'en vis les manufactures à Ségovie qui me parurent peu de chose et fort tombées de leur ancienne réputation.' _Mémoires du Duc de Saint Simon_, vol. xxxvii. p. 230, Paris, 1841. Segovia used to be famous for the beautiful colour of its cloth, the dye of which was taken from a shell-fish found in the West Indies, and is supposed to be the same as the purpura of the ancients. See a note in _Dillon's Spain_, Dublin, 1781, pp. 19, 20. [1324] Such is the language of a Spaniard in the middle of the seventeenth century. 'Porque á la ciudad de Burgos, cabeza de Castilla, no le ha quedado sino el nombre, ni aun vestigios de sus ruinas; reducida la grandeza de sus tratos, Prior, y Cónsules, y ordenanzas para la conservacion de ellos, á 600 vecinos, que conservanel nombre y lustre de aquella antigua y noble cuidad, que encerró en si mas de seis mil, sin la gente suelta, natural, y forastera.' _Campomanes_, _Apendice á la Educacion_, vol. i. p. 453, Madrid, 1765. An intelligent Dutchman, who visited Spain in 1665, says of Burgos, 'elle a esté autrefois fort marchande, mais depuis peu, elle a presque perdu tout son commerce.' _Aarsens de Sommerdyck_, _Voyage d'Espagne_, Paris, 1665, 4to. p. 16. To me, it certainly appears that facts of this sort have more to do with the real history of Spain than the details of kings, and treaties, and battles, which the Spanish historians love to accumulate. [1325] 'Could contribute little to the exigencies of the state.' _Dunlop's Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 285. Compare _Lamentos Apologéticos_, in _Dos Discursos_, edit. Canga, Madrid, 1794, p. 82, on the state of things in 'lo mas fértil de Andalucia.' The government first became alive to all this when it found that no more money could be wrung from the people. In May 1667, a council of state, convoked by the queen, reported that 'quant aux ressources qu'on voudrait tirer de l'Espagne, sous forme de dons volontaires ou autrement, le conseil estime qu'il est bien difficile d'imposer aux peuples des charges nouvelles;' and in November of that same year, at another meeting of the council, a memoir was drawn up, stating that 'depuis le règne de Don Ferdinand le Catholique jusqu'à ce jour, la monarchie d'Espagne ne s'est pas encore vue si près de sa ruine, si épuisée, si dénuée des ressources nécessaires pour faire face à un grand péril.' See extracts from the proceedings of the Councils, published, for, I believe, the first time, by M. Mignet, in his _Négociations relatives à la Succession d'Espagne_, vol. ii. pp. 124, 601, Paris, 1835, 4to. See also, in the same valuable work, vol. ii. p. 127, a letter to Louis XIV., from his ambassador at Madrid, dated 2nd June, 1667, and stating that 'l'extrémité est ici si grande qu'il se fait une contribution volontaire de tous les particuliers que l'on appelle _donativo_, pour fournir quelque argent présent pour les nécessitée publiques.' [1326] In 1664, Sir Richard Fanshawe writes from Madrid to Secretary Bennet, 'Since my last to you, of yesterday, the President of Castile, having, by the king's special and angry command, gone forth to the neighbouring villages, attended with the hangman, and whatsoever else of terror incident to his place and derogatory to his person, the markets in this town begin to be furnished again plentifully enough.' _Memoirs of Lady Fanshawe_, _written by herself_, edit. London, 1830, p. 291. [1327] Nothing but the precise and uncontradicted evidence of a contemporary witness could make such things credible. In 1686, Alvarez Osorio y Redin wrote his _Discursos_. They were published in 1687 and 1688; they were reprinted at Madrid in 1775; and from the reprint, pp. 345-348, I extract the following particulars: 'Es preciso decir con la mayor brevedad, que pide el asunto, en la forma que los comisionantes continuamente están saqueando todos los lugares, con capa de servir á V.M. Entran en ellos, intíman sus comisiones á las justicias, y ellas les suplican, tengan misericordia de los moradores, que estan con mucha necesidad. Y luego que toman el uso, dicen: que á ellos no les toca dispensar en hacer gracias: que traen orden de cobrar con todo rigor las cantidades, que deben los lugares; y tambien dicen han de cobrar sus salarios. Y se van entrando por las casas de los pobres labradores, y demás vecinos; y con mucha cuenta y razon, les quitan el poco dinero, que tienen: y á los que no tienen, les sacan prendas: y donde no las hallan, les quitan las pobres camas, en que duermen: y se detienen en vender las prendas, todo el tiempo que pueden.' ... 'Los saquéos referidos van continuando, obligando á los mas vecinos de los lugares, á que se vayan huyendo de sus casas, dexando baldías sus haciendas de campo; y los cobradores no tienen lástima de todas estas miserias, y asolaciones, como si entráran en lugares de enemigos. Las casas, que hallan vacías, si hay quien se las compre, las venden: y quando no pueden venderlas, las quitan los texados; y venden la texa, y madera por qualquier dinero. Con esta destruicion general, no han quedado en pie en los lugares la tercera parte de casas, y han muerto de necesidad gran multitud de personas. Con lo qual los lugares no tienen la mitad de familias, que antiguamente habia en España. Y si no se pone remedio á todo referido, será preciso, que la vengan á poblar de otros Reynos.' In the midst of these calamities, the spirit and energy of Spain were extinguished. In every department, all power and life disappeared. The Spanish troops were defeated at Rocroy in 1643; and several writers ascribe to that battle the destruction of the military reputation of Spain.[1328] This, however, was only one of many symptoms.[1329] In 1656, it was proposed to fit out a small fleet; but the fisheries on the coast had so declined, that it was found impossible to procure sailors enough to man even the few ships which were required.[1330] The charts which had been made, were either lost or neglected; and the ignorance of the Spanish pilots became so notorious, that no one was willing to trust them.[1331] As to the military service, it is stated, in an account of Spain, late in the seventeenth century, that most of the troops had deserted their colours, and that the few who were faithful were clothed in rags, received no pay, and were dying of hunger.[1332] Another account describes this once mighty kingdom as utterly unprotected; the frontier towns ungarrisoned; the fortifications dilapidated and crumbling away; the magazines without ammunition; the arsenals empty; the workshops unemployed; and even the art of building ships entirely lost.[1333] [1328] 'Allí acabó aquella antigua milicia española que desde el tiempo de los reyes católicos habia ganado tan gloriosos triunfos, siendo el terror de sus enemigos.' _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iii. p. 150, Madrid, 1840. 'La batalla de Rocroy, en que el jóven Condé recogió los laureles con que engalanó la dorado cuna del niño Luis XIV., acabó con la reputacion que aun habian podido ir conservando los viejos tercios españoles de Flandres.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xvii. p. 368, Madrid, 1856. [1329] In the _Clarendon State Papers_, vol. i. p. 275, Oxford, 1767, folio, I find a letter written by Hopton to Secretary Windebank, dated Madrid, 31st May, 1635. The author of this official communication gives an account of the Spanish troops just raised, and says, 'I have observed these levies, and I find the horses are so weak, as the most of them will never be able to go to the rendezvous, and those very hardly gotten, the infantry so unwilling to serve, as they are carried like galley-slaves, in chains, which serves not the turn, and so far short of the number that was proposed, as they come not to one of three.' This was eight years before the battle of Rocroy; after it, matters became rapidly worse. A letter from Sir Edward Hyde to Secretary Nicholas, dated Madrid, 18th March, 1649-50, states, that Spanish 'affairs are really in huge disorder, and capable of being rendered almost desperate;' and another letter, on 14th April, 1650, 'if some miracle do not preserve them, this crown must be speedily destroyed,' _Clarendon State Papers_, vol. iii. pp. 13, 17, Oxford, 1786. An official Report on the Netherlands, presented to Louis XIV. in 1665, declares that the Dutch 'considered Spain so weakened, as to be out of condition to renew the war within the next one hundred years.' _Raumer's History of the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries_, _illustrated by Original Documents_, London, 1835, vol. i. p. 237. See also _Mignet_, _Négociations relatives à la Succession d'Espagne_, Paris, 1835-1842, 4to. vol. i. pp. 37, 38, 314, 315, vol. iii. p. 684, vol. iv. p. 218; and _L'Estat de l'Espagne_, Genève, 1681, pp. 83, 271. 'L'Espagne faisant en nos jours plus de pitié que de peur à ceux qu'elle a tenus long-tems dans une crainte perpétuelle, et dans une respectueuse vénération.' ... 'Aussi peut-on dire que les Espagnols qui étoient autrefois des lions, ou des véritables hommes et incomparables en valeur, sont maintenant des cerfs, ou des femmes, et enfin des personnes peu propres à la guerre.' And finally, the Spanish explanation of all this in _Yañez_, _Memorias_, Prologo, pp. 148, 149, Madrid, 1723. 'La Monarquia de España, cuya decadencia la avia yá Dios decretado desde el año de 1621,' &c.; blasphemously ascribing to the Almighty, what was the result of their own folly, and obstinately shutting their eyes to the real cause of their ruin. [1330] 'A century ago, Spain had been as supreme at sea as on land; her ordinary naval force was 140 galleys, which were the terror both of the Mediterranean and Atlantic. But now' (1656), 'in consequence of the decline of commerce and fisheries on the coast, instead of the numerous squadrons of the Dorias and Mendozas, which were wont to attend the movements of the first great John of Austria and the Emperor Charles, the present High-Admiral of Spain, and favourite son of its monarch, put to sea with three wretched gallies, which, with difficulty, escaped from some Algerine corsairs, and were afterwards nearly shipwrecked on the coast of Africa.' _Dunlop's Memoirs_, vol. i. p. 549. In 1663, 'Il n'y avait à Cadix ni vaisseaux ni galères en état d'aller en mer. Les Maures insultaient audacieusement les côtes de l'Andalousie, et prenaient impunément les barques qui se hasardaient à une lieue de la rade. Le duc d'Albuquerque, qui commandait les forces navales, se plaignait hautement de la position humiliante dans laquelle on le laissait. Il avait demandé avec instance qu'on lui donnât des matelots et des soldats pour mettre sur les vaisseaux; mais le Comte de Castrillo, président du Conseil de Finances (de la _hacienda_) avait déclaré qu'il n'avait ni argent, ni la possibilité d'en trouver, et conseillait de renoncer à l'armée navale.' _Mignet_, _Négociations relatives à la Succession d'Espagne_, vol. i. pp. 315, 316, Paris, 1835, 4to. from contemporary manuscripts. Even in 1648, Spain had 'become so feeble in point of naval affairs as to be obliged to hire Dutch vessels for carrying on her American commerce.' _Macpherson's Annals of Commerce_, vol. ii. p. 435, London, 1805, 4to. And, to complete the chain of evidence, there is a letter in the _Clarendon State Papers_, vol. ii. p. 86, Oxford, 1773, folio, written from Madrid in June 1640, stating that, 'For ships they have few, mariners fewer, landsmen not so many as they need, and, by all signs, money not at all that can be spared.' The history of Spain during this period never having been written, I am compelled, in my own justification, to give these and similar passages with a fulness which I fear will weary some readers. [1331] And when they did, it was to their own cost, as Stanhope found, at the beginning of his career as British minister to the court of Madrid, in 1690. See his letter to Lord Shrewsbury, in _Mahon's Spain under Charles II._, London, 1840, p. 3. 'We were forced into a small port, called Ferrol, three leagues short of the Groyne, and, by the ignorance of a Spanish pilot, our ships fell foul one with another, and the admiral's ship was on ground for some hours, but got off clear without any damage.' Indeed, the Spanish seamen, once the boldest and most skilful navigators in the world, so degenerated, that, early in the eighteenth century, we find it stated as a matter of course, that 'to form the Spaniard to marine affairs, is transporting them into unknown countries.' _The History of Cardinal Alberoni_, London, 1719, p. 257. [1332] 'Le peu de soldats qui résistaient à la désertion, étaient vêtus de haillons, sans solde, sans pain,' _Mémoires de Louville_, edit. Paris, 1818, vol. i. p. 72. 'Dans l'état le plus misérable.' p. 43. Compare Lefuente, in the reign of Philip IV. (_Historia_, vol. xvi. p. 519), 'los soldados peleaban andrajosos y medio desnudos;' and D'Aulnoy, in 1679 (_Relation du Voyage d'Espagne_, vol. i. p. 168), 'Il est rare que dans tout un régiment, il se trouve deux soldats qui ayent plus d'une chemise.' [1333] 'Ruinosos los muros de sus fortalezas, aun tenía Barcelona abiertas las brechas, que hizo el duque de Vendoma; y desde Rosas hasta Cadiz, no habia Alcazar, ni Castillo, no solo presidiado, pero ni montada su artillería. La misma negligencia se admiraba en los puertos de Vizcaya, y Galicia; no tenian los almazenes sus provisiones, faltaban fundidores de armas, y las que habia, eran de ningun uso. Vacios los arsenales y artilleros, se habia olvidado el arte de construir naves, y no tenia el Rey mas que las destinadas al comercio de Indias, y algunos galeones; seis galeras, consumidas del tiempo, y del ocio, se ancoraban en Cartagena.' _Bacallar_, _Comentarios de la Guerra de España_, vol. i. p. 43. Another eye-witness describes 'the best fortresses consisting of ruined walls, mounted with here and there a rusty cannon, and the man thought an able engineer who knew how to fire them.' _Ripperda's Memoirs_, second edition, London, 1740, p. 227. While the country at large was thus languishing, as if it had been stricken by some mortal distemper, the most horrible scenes were occurring in the capital, under the eyes of the sovereign. The inhabitants of Madrid were starving; and the arbitrary measures which had been adopted to supply them with food, could only produce temporary relief. Many persons fell down in the streets exhausted, and died where they fell; others were seen in the public highway evidently dying, but no one had wherewithal to feed them. At length the people became desperate, and threw off all control. In 1680, not only the workmen of Madrid, but large numbers of the tradesmen, organized themselves into bands, broke open private houses, and robbed and murdered the inhabitants in the face of day.[1334] During the remaining twenty years of the seventeenth century, the capital was in a state, not of insurrection, but of anarchy. Society was loosened, and seemed to be resolving itself into its elements. To use the emphatic language of a contemporary, liberty and restraint were equally unknown.[1335] The ordinary functions of the executive government were suspended. The police of Madrid, unable to obtain the arrears of their pay, disbanded, and gave themselves up to rapine. Nor did there seem any means of remedying these evils. The exchequer was empty, and it was impossible to replenish it. Such was the poverty of the court, that money was wanting to pay the wages of the king's private servants, and to meet the daily expenses of his household.[1336] In 1693, payment was suspended of every life-pension; and all officers and ministers of the crown were mulcted of one-third of their salaries.[1337] Nothing, however, could arrest the mischief. Famine and poverty continued to increase;[1338] and, in 1699, Stanhope, the British minister then residing in Madrid, writes, that never a day passed in which people were not killed in the streets scuffling for bread; that his own secretary had seen five women stifled to death by the crowd before a bakehouse; and that, to swell the catalogue of misery, upwards of twenty thousand additional beggars from the country had recently flocked into the capital.[1339] [1334] _Dunlop's Memoirs_, vol. ii. pp. 224, 225. In 1680, Madame de Villars, the wife of the French Ambassador, writes from Madrid, that such was the state of affairs there, that her husband thought it advisable that she should return home. _Lettres de Madame de Villars_, Amsterdam, 1769, p. 169. A letter written by the Danish ambassador in 1677, describes every house in Madrid as regularly armed from top to bottom; 'de haut en bas.' _Mignet_, _Négociations relatives à la Succession_, vol. iv. p. 638, Paris, 1842, 4to. The deaths from starvation are said to have been particularly numerous in Andalusia. See _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iii. p. 167. 'En Andalucia especialmente moria mucha gente de hambre, y el consulado de Sevilla envió una diputacion para representar que aquella ciudad habia quedado reducida á la cuarta parte de la poblacion que habia tenido cincuenta años antes.' On the state of the people generally, in 1680, compare _Lettres de Villars_, pp. 145, 152, 161. [1335] 'Point de libertés et point de frein.' _Mém. de Louville_, vol. i. p. 68. [1336] In 1681, the French ambassadress writes from Madrid, 'Je ne vous parle point de la misère de ce royaume. La faim est jusques dans le palais. J'étois hier avec huit ou dix camaristes, et La Moline, qui disoient qu'il y avoit fort long-tems qu'on ne leur donnoit plus ni pain ni viande. Aux écuries du roi et de la reine, de même.' _Lettres de Madame la Marquise de Villars_, Amsterdam, 1759, pp. 216, 217. The year after Charles II. died: 'II n'y avoit pas de fonds pour les choses les plus nécessaires, pour la cuisine, l'écurie, les valets de pied,' &c. _Millot_, _Mémoires du Duc de Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 26, ed. Petitot, Paris, 1828. Among other reckless expedients, the currency was so depreciated, that, in a letter from Martin to Dr. Frazer, dated Madrid, March 6th, 1680, we hear of 'the fall of money to one fourth part of its former value.' _Miscellany of the Spalding Club_, vol. v. p. 187, Aberdeen, 4to. 1852. [1337] 'The king has taken away, by a late decree, a third part of all wages and salaries of all officers and ministers without exception, and suspended for the ensuing year, 1694, all pensions for life granted either by himself or his father.' Letter from the English Ambassador, dated Madrid, November 18th, 1693, in _Mahon's Spain under Charles II._, London, 1840, p. 40. This is also stated in _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. i. p. 359, Paris, 1828; 'retranchant le tiers des dépenses de sa maison, et des appointemens de ses officiers tant militaires que civils.' In the preceding reign, the pension had been stopped, at all events for a time. In 1650, Sir Edward Hyde, writes from Madrid, 'there is an universal stop of all pensions which have been granted formerly.' _Clarendon State Papers_, vol. ii. p. 538, Oxford, 1773. The next step which was taken was a proposal, in 1667, to tax the salaries of the members of the Council of Castile, Arragon, &c.; but this idea was abandoned, until at length, they, like all other public servants, came under the comprehensive edict of 1693. See the letter from the French Ambassador to Louis XIV., dated Madrid, June 2nd, 1667, in _Mignet_, _Négociations_, vol. ii. p. 128, Paris, 1835, 4to. The only chance of recovering the history of Spain in the seventeenth century, is by collating these and similar documents with the meagre notices to be found in Spanish writers. [1338] In 1695, 'the miserable poverty in this country.' _Travels through Spain_, _performed by a Gentleman_, London, 1702, p. 62. And, in the same year, 'L'Espagne, manquant de tout d'hommes, et d'argent.' _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. i. p. 402. 'L'Espagne, presque anéantie.' p. 424. [1339] See the letters in _Mahon's Spain under Charles II._, pp. 138-140. On the 21st of May, 'We have an addition of above 20,000 beggars, flocked from the country round, to share in that little here is, who were starving at home, and look like ghosts.' On the 27th of May, 'The scarcity of bread is growing on apace towards a famine, which increases, by vast multitudes of poor that swarm in upon us from the countries round about. I shifted the best I could till this day, but the difficulty of getting any without authority, has made me recur to the Corregidor, as most of the foreign Ministers had done before; he, very courteously, after inquiring what my family was, gave me an order for twenty loaves every day: but I must send two leagues, to Vallejas, to fetch it, as I have done this night, and my servants with long guns to secure it when they have it, otherwise it would be taken from them, for several people are killed every day in the streets, in scuffles for bread, all being lawful prize that any body can catch.' ... 'My secretary, Don Francisco, saw yesterday five poor women stifled to death by the crowd before a bakehouse.' If this state of things had continued for another generation, the wildest anarchy must have ensued, and the whole frame of society been broken up.[1340] The only chance of saving Spain from a relapse into barbarism, was that it should fall, and fall quickly, under foreign dominion. Such a change was indispensable; and there was reason to fear that it might come in a form which would have been inexpressibly odious to the nation. For, late in the seventeenth century, Ceuta was besieged by the Mohammedans; and as the Spanish Government had neither troops nor ships, the greatest apprehensions were entertained respecting the fate of this important fortress; there being little doubt, that if it fell, Spain would be again overrun by the infidels, who, this time, at least, would have found little difficulty in dealing with a people weakened by suffering, half famished, and almost worn out.[1341] [1340] Even M. Lafuente, who having used scarcely any of the authorities which I have quoted in the last few pages, can have no adequate idea of the utter wretchedness of Spain, confesses that 'Jamás monarca ni pueblo alguno se vieron en tan lastimosa situacion y en tan mísero trance como se hallaron en este tiempo' (1699). 'Carlos II. y la España.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xvii. p. 426, Madrid, 1856. [1341] 'Les Maures d'Afrique assiégeoient Ceuta. Le roi d'Espagne manquait non seulement de troupes, mais de vaisseaux pour transporter le peu de secours qu'il pouvoit y envoyer: Louis XIV lui fit offrir les troupes et les vaisseaux dont il auroit besoin. Il s'agissoit non seulement de conserver Ceuta, mais de plus Oran; par conséquent d'empêcher la prise de deux places dont la conquête facilitoit aux Maures un retour en Espagne.' _Mémoires du Marquis de Torcy_, vol. i. p. 46, ed. Paris, 1828. Respecting the attacks made on Ceuta, from 1696 to 1698, see _Ortiz_, _Compendio de la Historia de España_, vol. vi. pp. 556, 567, 561. Fortunately, in the year 1700, when affairs were at their worst, Charles II., the idiot king, died; and Spain fell into the hands of Philip V., the grandson of Louis XIV. This change from the Austrian dynasty to the Bourbon,[1342] brought with it many other changes. Philip, who reigned from 1700 to 1746,[1343] was a Frenchman, not only by birth and education, but also in feelings and habits.[1344] Just before he entered Spain, Louis charged him never to forget that he was a native of France, the throne of which he might some day ascend.[1345] After he became king, he neglected the Spaniards, despised their advice, and threw all the power he could command into the hands of his own countrymen.[1346] The affairs of Spain were now administered by subjects of Louis XIV., whose ambassador at Madrid frequently performed the functions of prime minister.[1347] What had once been the most powerful monarchy in the world, became little else than a province of France; all important matters being decided in Paris, from whence Philip himself received his instructions.[1348] [1342] A celebrated modern writer has made some remarks upon this, which are too apposite to be omitted. 'Con el siglo xvii. acabó tambien la dinastía austriaca en España, dejando á esta nacion pobre, despoblada, sin fuerzas marítimas ni terrestres, y por consiguiente á merced de las demas potencias que intentaron repartir entre sí sus colonias y provincias. Así habia desparecido en poco mas de un siglo aquella grandeza y poderío, aquella fuerza y heroismo, aquella cultura é ilustracion con que habia descollado entre todas las naciones.' _Biografia de Ensenada_, in _Navarrete_, _Opúsculos_, vol. ii. p. 5, Madrid, 1848. [1343] Except during the short interregnum of Louis, in 1724, which only lasted a few months, and during which, the boy, though called king, exercised no real power, and Philip remained the actual ruler. 'Aun el nuevo rey no resolvia negocio de consideracion sin asenso de su padre.' _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. vii. p. 374. [1344] Saint Simon, who knew Philip well, and who was in Spain in 1721 and 1722, says of him, 'L'amour de la France lui sortait de partout.' _Mémoires du Duc de Saint Simon_, vol. xxxvii. p. 3, Paris, 1841. And, in 1746, shortly before his death, Noailles writes from Aranjuez, 'Ce prince a le c[oe]ur tout français.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. iv. p. 191, Paris, 1829. [1345] 'N'oubliez jamais que vous êtes Français, et ce qui peut vous arriver.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 6. Compare _Coxe's Memoirs of the Bourbon Kings of Spain_, London, 1815, vol. i. p. 103. [1346] In 1702, Philip 'parlait moins que jamais, et seulement aux Français, comme s'ils eussent été les seuls êtres de son espèce.' _Mémoires de Louville_, vol. i. p. 276. 'Le dégoût que Philippe laissait voir pour sa cour espagnole.' p. 333. A Spanish statesman, celebrated, or, I would rather say, notorious, at the close of the century, indignantly exclaims, 'It was on the accession of the Bourbon dynasty, that foreigners came to govern us on our native soil.' _Godoy's Memoirs_, ed. London, 1836, vol. ii. p. 271. [1347] In 1701, it was the duty of the French ambassador, 'qu'il pût au besoin être premier ministre d'Espagne.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 31; 'que l'ambassadeur de sa Majesté soit ministre du roi Catholique; que, sans en avoir le titre, il en exerce les fonctions; qu'il aide au roi d'Espagne à connoître l'état de ses affaires, et à gouverner par lui-même.' p. 55. In 1702, Marsin writes to Louis XIV., 'Comme il est absolument nécessaire que l'ambassadeur de Votre Majesté en Espagne ait un crédit sans bornes auprès du Roy son petit-fils.' p. 183. In 1705, Amelot, the French ambassador, 'décidoit de tout en Espagne.' _Mémoires de Louville_, vol. ii. p. 165; and in 1706, 'étant à la tête des affaires, et joignant presque les fonctions de premier ministre à celles d'ambassadeur.' _Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 398. [1348] In 1703, 'Il est clair que l'embarras de Philippe venoit surtout de la crainte que ses décisions ne fussent point approuvées en France, où toutes les affaires importantes se décidoient.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 244. 'The King of France had always certain persons at Madrid, which compos'd a Council, of which that of Versailles was the soul; and whose members were all creatures of the French Court, and sent to Madrid from time to time to direct all affairs there, according to the views of the Most Christian King, and to give him an account of every thing that pass'd in the Councils of the Escurial. Alberoni got to be initiated in the mysteries of this cabal.' _History of Cardinal Alberoni_, London, 1719, p. 70. The Spanish historians are not very fond of admitting this unquestionable fact; but Bacallar, after mentioning the influence of the French Ambassador, frankly adds: 'Desde entonces tomaron tanta mano sobre los de España los ministros franceses, que dieron mas zelos á los Principes, viendo estrechar la union á un grado, que todo se ponía al arbitrio de Luis XIV.' _Bacallar_, _Comentarios de la Guerra de España_, vol. i. p. 33. The truth is, that Spain, broken and prostrate, was unable to supply ability of any kind; and if the government of the country was to be carried on, it was absolutely necessary that foreigners should be called in.[1349] Even in 1682, that is, eighteen years before the accession of Philip V., there was not to be found a single native well acquainted with the art of war; so that Charles II. was obliged to intrust the military defence of the Spanish Netherlands to De Grana, the Austrian ambassador at Madrid.[1350] When, therefore, the War of the Succession broke out, in 1702, even the Spaniards themselves desired that their troops should be commanded by a foreigner.[1351] In 1704, the extraordinary spectacle was exhibited of the Duke of Berwick, an Englishman, leading Spanish soldiers against the enemy, and being in fact generalissimo of the Spanish army.[1352] The King of Spain, dissatisfied with his proceedings, determined to remove him; but, instead of filling his place with a native, he applied to Louis XIV. for another general; and this important post was confided to Marshal Tessé, a Frenchman.[1353] A little later, Berwick was again summoned to Madrid, and ordered to put himself at the head of the Spanish troops, and defend Estremadura and Castile.[1354] This he effected with complete success; and, in the battle of Almansa, which he fought in 1707, he overthrew the invaders, ruined the party of the pretender Charles,[1355] and secured the seat of Philip on the throne.[1356] As the war, however, still continued, Philip, in 1710, wrote to Paris for another general, and requested that the Duke de Vendôme might be sent to him.[1357] This able commander, on his arrival, infused new vigour into the Spanish counsels, and utterly defeated the allies;[1358] so that the war by which the independence of Spain was established, owed its success to the ability of foreigners, and to the fact that the campaigns were planned and conducted, not by natives, but by French and English generals. [1349] Even the veteran diplomatist was so struck by the escape of Spain from complete ruin, that he ascribes its change of masters to the direct interference of the Deity. 'Sa seule puissance avait placé Philippe V sur le trône d'Espagne; elle seule pouvait l'y maintenir; les hommes n'avaient pas conduit ce grand événement.' _Mémoires de Torcy_, vol. i. p. 333. 'Le trône où Dieu l'avait placé.' p. 401. See also vol. ii. pp. 3, 227. 'The Spanish people received him with unhesitating obedience to the deceased king's will, and rejoiced at the prospect of a rule that would at least have the merit of being different from that under which they had so long withered.' _Memoirs of Peterborough_, London, 1853, vol. i. p. 102. 'Muchos españoles recibieron por su soberano á Felipe V., cansados de la dominacion de la casa de Austria. Esperaban de la mudanza de la dinastia la felicidad y el buen gobierno.' _Castro_, _Decadencia de España_, Cadiz, 1852, p. 131. To the same effect, _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. i. pp. 420, 426, vol. ii. p. 9. [1350] He 'committed the military defence of these provinces to the Marquis of Grana, the Austrian ambassador at Madrid, from the want of any Spanish commander whose courage or military endowments qualified him to repel such an enemy as the king of France.' _Dunlop's Memoirs_, vol. ii. p. 232. Compare, on the want of Spanish generals, _Mémoires du Maréchal de Gramont_, vol. ii. p. 82, edit. Paris, 1827. The opinion which Grana himself formed of the Spanish government, may be learned from a conversation which he held at Madrid, in 1680, with the French ambassadress, and which is preserved in her correspondence. _Lettres de Madame la Marquise de Villars_, Amsterdam, 1759, pp. 118, 119. [1351] See the letter of Philip V. to Louis XIV., dated June 22, 1702, in _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. ii. pp. 256, 257, Paris, 1828, edit. Petitot. [1352] See _Bacallar_, _Comentarios de la Guerra de España_, vol. i. pp. 137, 166, where he is called 'el Duque de Bervich.' His own account is, 'J'arrivai à Madrid le 15 février' (1704), 'où d'abord S. M. Catholique me fit Capitaine-Général de ses armées.' _Mémoires de Berwick_, Paris, 1778, vol. i. p. 227; and see p. xxv. No one would suppose this, from the observations of M. Lafuente, in his _Historia de España_, vol. xviii. p. 80, Madrid, 1857. [1353] 'Philippe n'étoit pas content de Berwick, ou plutôt il témoigna ne le pas être, et il demanda un autre général à Louis XIV. On lui envoya le maréchal de Tessé, pour qui il avoit montré du penchant.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 331. Berwick himself ascribes his dismissal to the influence of Gramont and of the Queen of Spain. _Mémoires de Berwick_, vol. i. pp. 269-273. At all events, the new general became supreme. In December 1705, the Princess des Ursins writes from Madrid to Madame de Maintenon, 'M. le maréchal de Tessé, quand il est à Madrid, est consulté, et décide sur toutes les affaires, _autant, pour le moins, que M. l'ambassadeur_; et lorsqu'il est à l'armée, il est le maître absolu non seulement des troupes de France, mais encore de celles d'Espagne, commandant aux capitaines-généraux, ses anciens, contre l'usage du pays.' _Lettres inédites de Madame de Maintenon et de Madame la Princesse des Ursins_, vol. iii. p. 259, Paris, 1826. [1354] In 1706, 'Le duc de Berwick, redemandé par Philippe V., arrivé à Madrid le 11 mars, avec le titre de maréchal de France, pour défendre l'Estramadure et la Castille, ayant rassemblé ce qu'il peut de troupes espagnoles, empêcha les ennemis d'entreprendre le siège de Badajoz.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 387. Philip 'pria le Roi, son grand-père, d'envoyer un général pour commander sur les frontières de Portugal. Ce fut donc sur moi que le choix tomba.' _Mémoires de Berwick_, vol. i. p. 305. [1355] In a recently published work (_Memoirs of Peterborough_, London, 1853, vol. i. pp. 148, 155, 161, 206, 210, vol. ii. pp. 34, 93), Charles is not only called King of Spain, which he never was, as Spain always refused to accept him, but, in the teeth of all history, he is actually termed Charles III.; while Philip V. is merely 'Philip of Anjou.' If this were allowed, the consequence would be, that the king whom the Spaniards now call Charles III., would have to change his appellation, and become Charles IV.; and Charles IV. would be changed into Charles V. It is really too much when mere biographers obtrude, in this way, their own little prepossessions into the vast field of history, and seek to efface its established nomenclature, because they are enamoured of the hero whose life they write. [1356] 'This victory established the throne of Philip.' _Dunham's History of Spain_, vol. v. p. 136. 'A victory which may be justly said to have saved Spain.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. i. p. 408. Even Ortiz allows that if Berwick had failed, Philip would have been ruined. 'Esta batalla de Almansa, que las circunstancias hicieron ruidosa, comenzó á poner mejor la corona de España en la cabeza de Felipe V.; y se tuvo por indubitable que si la hubiera perdido, tambien hubiera perdido la corona.' _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. vii. p. 116. See also _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xviii. p. 185. 'Berwick, á quien, sin duda, debió su salvación la España.' [1357] 'Sa réputation étoit grande et bien établie; le roi d'Espagne avoit été témoin de sa conduite en Lombardie; il demanda au Roi un général si capable de commander ses armées.' _Mémoires de Torcy_, vol. i. p. 386. See also _History of Alberoni_, London, 1719, p. 45. 'Le duc de Vendôme alloit enfin commander les troupes d'Espagne.' _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. iii. p. 12. According to Berwick, the offer was first made to himself. _Mémoires de Berwick_, vol. ii. pp. 106, 109. M. Lafuente, without quoting any authority, says (_Historia de España_, vol. xviii. p. 279), 'Luego que se perdió la batalla de Zaragoza escribió Felipe al rey Cristianísimo, su abuelo, rogándole que, ya que no pudiera socorrerle con tropas, le enviára al menos _al duque de Berwick ó al de Vendome_.' But, as Berwick must have had the means of knowing the real state of the case, he is probably correct in saying that the first application was in his own favour. [1358] 'Vendôme arrived at this moment to call into action the spirit of the monarch and the zeal of his subjects.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. ii. p. 41. 'The arrival of the Duke de Vendôme again changed the fate of Spain.' _Memoirs of Peterborough_, vol. ii. p. 130. In the same way, the finances were, by the end of the seventeenth century, in such deplorable confusion, that Portocarrero, who at the accession of Philip V. was the nominal minister of Spain, expressed a desire that they should be administered by some one sent from Paris, who could restore them.[1359] He felt that no one in Spain was equal to the task, and he was by no means singular in this opinion. In 1701, Louville wrote to Torcy, that if a financier did not soon arrive from France, there would shortly be no finances to administer.[1360] The choice fell upon Orry, who reached Madrid in the summer of 1701.[1361] He found everything in the most miserable condition; and the incompetence of the Spaniards was so obvious, that he was soon forced to undertake the management, not only of the finances, but also of the war-department. To save appearances, Canalez became the ostensible minister at war; but he, being completely ignorant of affairs, merely performed the drudgery of that office, the real duties of which were fulfilled by Orry himself.[1362] [1359] 'Portocarrero, abrumado con las dificultades de la gobernacion, que excedian en mucho á sus escasas luces, no contento con haber inducido al rey á que aumentára su consejo de gabinete con dos ministros más, que fueron el marqués de Mancera, presidente del de Aragon, y el duque de Montalto, del de Italia, pidió á Luis XIV. le enviára una persona que pudiera establecer un plan de hacienda en España, y corregir y reformar los abusos de la administracion.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xviii. p. 15. On 22nd June 1701, Louis XIV. writes to the Duc d'Harcourt, 'Qu'enfin le cardinal Porto-Carrero m'a fait demander quelqu'un intelligent en matière de finances pour voir et connoître l'état de celles du roi d'Espagne, pour examiner les moyens les plus propres de soulager ses sujets, et de pourvoir aux plus pressans besoins du public; qu'il m'assure que _toute l'Espagne le désire en général_: toutes ces raisons m'ont déterminé à choisir le sieur Orry, pour l'envoyer à Madrid.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 44. [1360] 'Il faudra que l'homme que vous enverrez pour les finances (car vous aurez la bonté d'en envoyer un, ou bien nous n'aurons plus de finances).' _Mémoires de Louville_, vol. i. p. 149. [1361] _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 181. [1362] 'Canalez, qu'on a substitué à Rivas pour le département de la guerre, n'a aucun talent pour cet emploi, selon l'instruction; et toute l'Espagne voit clairement qu'Orry ne le lui a procuré qu'afin d'en exercer les fonctions sous le nom d'un Espagnol.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 305; under the year 1704. See also, on the power of Orry in the war-department, _Mémoires de Berwick_, vol. i. pp. 226, 227, 306, 316, vol. ii. p. 166. Berwick, who hated Orry, says of him (vol. i. p. 232), 'il se mêloit de tout et faisoit tout,' But there can be no doubt of his being a man of very considerable ability; and M. Lafuente (_Historia de España_, vol. xix. p. 253, Madrid, 1857) candidly says, 'Es lo cierto que hizo abrir mucho los ojos de los españoles en materia de administracion,' Compare vol. xviii. p. 369; _Mémoires du Duc de Saint Simon_, vol. vii. pp. 102, 195, Paris, 1842; and _Bacallar_, _Comentarios de la Guerra de España_, vol. i. pp. 82, 83, 99, 168, vol. ii. pp. 95, 107. Bacallar treats him harshly. This dominion of the French continued, without interruption, until the second marriage of Philip V., in 1714, and the death of Louis XIV., in 1715, both of which events weakened their influence, and for a time almost destroyed it. The authority, however, which they lost, was transferred, not to Spaniards, but to other foreigners. Between 1714 and 1726, the two most powerful and conspicuous men in Spain were Alberoni, an Italian, and Ripperda, a Dutchman. Ripperda was dismissed in 1726;[1363] and after his fall, the affairs of Spain were controlled by Konigseg, who was a German, and who, indeed, was the Austrian ambassador residing at Madrid.[1364] Even Grimaldo, who held office before and after the dismissal of Ripperda, was a disciple of the French school, and had been brought up under Orry.[1365] All this was not the result of accident, nor is it to be ascribed to the caprice of the court. In Spain, the national spirit had so died away, that none but foreigners, or men imbued with foreign ideas, were equal to the duties of government. To the evidence already quoted on this point, I will add two other testimonies. Noailles, a very fair judge, and by no means prejudiced against the Spaniards, emphatically stated, in 1710, that, notwithstanding their loyalty, they were incapable of ruling, inasmuch as they were ignorant both of war and of politics.[1366] In 1711, Bonnac mentions that a resolution had been formed to place no Spaniard at the head of affairs, because those hitherto employed had proved to be either unfortunate or unfaithful.[1367] [1363] _Ripperda's Memoirs_, London, 1740, second edition, pp. 117, 118. Saint Simon (_Mémoires_, vol. xxxvi. p. 246) says, that Ripperda was 'premier ministre aussi absolu que le fut jamais son prédécesseur, Alberoni.' The English pamphleteers and politicians of the last century were very unjust to Alberoni, who, notwithstanding the dangerous boldness of his nature, was one of the best ministers who ever governed Spain. M. Lafuente, while admitting his faults, says (_Historia de España_, vol. xix. pp. 437, 438), 'Negarle gran capacidad seria una gran injusticia. Tampoco puede desconocerse que reanimó y regeneró la España, levantándola á un grado de esplendor y de grandeza en que nunca se habia vuelto á ver desde los mejores tiempos de Felipe II.' See also a good summary of what he did for Spain, in _Tapia_, _Historia de la Civilizacion Española_, Madrid, 1840, vol. iv. pp. 50, 51. [1364] 'The all-powerful Konigseg.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. iii. p. 154; 'the prime mover of the Spanish counsels,' p. 159; in 1727-8, 'Konigseg usurped the control over every operation of government,' p. 190; and see p. 235. His great power is likewise noticed in _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xix. p. 71: 'el hombre de mas influjo y valimiento en la córte.' [1365] 'Originally a clerk under Orry, he gained the favour of his employer,' &c. _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. iii. p. 39. Coxe had access to a large mass of letters, which were written in the eighteenth century, by persons connected with Spain, and many of which are still unpublished. This makes his book very valuable; and, as a recital of political events, it is superior to anything the Spaniards have produced, though the author is, I need hardly say, far inferior to M. Lafuente as a writer, and also as an artistic arranger of facts. [1366] 'Que les Espagnols depuis longtemps ignoroient la guerre et la politique; qu'on devoit être sensible à leurs démonstrations d'attachement et de zèle, sans les croire, suffisantes pour soutenir un État' ... 'l'incapacité des sujets pour le gouvernement.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. iii. pp. 24, 25. [1367] 'C'étoit un parti pris, comme l'observe Bonnac, de ne plus mettre le gouvernement entre leurs mains. On avoit trouvé parmi eux peu d'hommes capables des grands emplois: ceux à qui on les avoit confiés, malheureux ou infidèles, avoient inspiré de l'éloignement pour les autres.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. iii. p. 81. The government of Spain being taken from the Spaniards, now began to show some signs of vigour. The change was slight, but it was in the right direction, though, as we shall presently see, it could not regenerate Spain, owing to the unfavourable operation of general causes. Still, the intention was good. For the first time, attempts were made to vindicate the rights of laymen, and to diminish the authority of ecclesiastics. Scarcely had the French established their dominion, when they suggested that it might be advisable to relieve the necessities of the state, by compelling the clergy to give up some of the wealth which they had accumulated in their churches.[1368] Even Louis XIV. insisted that the important office of President of Castile should not be conferred on an ecclesiastic, because, he said, in Spain the priests and monks had already too much power.[1369] Orry, who for several years possessed immense influence, exerted it in the same direction. He endeavoured to lessen the immunities possessed by the clergy, in regard to taxation, and also in regard to their exemption from lay jurisdiction. He opposed the privilege of sanctuary; he sought to deprive churches of their right of asylum. He even attacked the Inquisition, and worked so powerfully on the mind of the king, that Philip, at one time, determined to suspend that dreadful tribunal, and abolish the office of grand inquisitor.[1370] This intention was very properly abandoned; for there can be no doubt that if it had been enforced, it would have caused a revolution, in which Philip would probably have lost his crown.[1371] In such case, a reaction would have set in, which would have left the Church stronger than ever. Many things, however, were done for Spain in spite of the Spaniards.[1372] In 1707, the clergy were forced to contribute to the state a small part of their enormous wealth; the tax being disguised under the name of a loan.[1373] Ten years later, during the administration of Alberoni, this disguise was thrown off; and not only did government exact what was now called 'the ecclesiastical tax,' but it imprisoned or exiled those priests who, refusing to pay, stood up for the privileges of their order.[1374] This was a bold step to be taken in Spain, and it was one on which, at that time, no Spaniard would have ventured. Alberoni, however, as a foreigner, was unversed in the traditions of the country, which, indeed, on another memorable occasion, he set at defiance. The government of Madrid, acting in complete unison with public opinion, had always been unwilling to negotiate with infidels; meaning by infidels every people whose religious notions differed from their own. Sometimes, such negotiations were unavoidable, but they were entered into with fear and trembling, lest the pure Spanish faith should be tainted by too close a contact with unbelievers. Even in 1698, when it was evident that the monarchy was at its last gasp, and that nothing could save it from the hands of the spoiler, the prejudice was so strong, that the Spaniards refused to receive aid from the Dutch, because the Dutch were heretics. At that time, Holland was in the most intimate relation with England, whose interest it was to secure the independence of Spain against the machinations of France. Obvious, however, as this was, the Spanish theologians, being consulted respecting the proposal, declared that it was inadmissible, since it would enable the Dutch to propagate their religious opinions; so that, according to this view, it was better to be subjugated by a Catholic enemy, than to be assisted by a Protestant friend.[1375] [1368] In 1701, 'Les églises d'Espagne ont des richesses immenses en or et en argenterie, qui augmentent tous les jours par le crédit des religieux; et cela rend l'espèce très-rare dans le commerce. On propose d'obliger le clergé à vendre une partie de cette argenterie. Avant que de prendre ce parti, il en faudroit bien examiner non seulement l'utilité, que l'on connoît, mais aussi les inconvéniens qu'un pareil ordre pourroit produire.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 60. [1369] 'Il insistoit sur la nécessité de ne pas donner à un ecclésiastique, ni à une créature du cardinal, la présidence de Castille, quand on rempliroit cette importante place; les prêtres et les moines n'avoient déjà que trop de pouvoir.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 77. Compare pp. 71, 72; a letter from Louville to Torcy, dated August 5th, 1701. [1370] _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. ii. pp. 163-165. _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. iii. p. 143. [1371] In 1714, it was thought necessary, that Philip V., not having had the benefit of a Spanish education, should be enlightened on the subject of the Inquisition. He was, therefore, informed, 'que la pureza de la religion Catolica en estos reynos se debia á la vigilancia de la Inquisicion y sus ministros, todos justos, clementes y circunspectos, no rigidos, violentos ni crueles, como por error ó malicia los pintan comunmente los Franceses. Y que _la conservacion de la Monarquia dependia en gran parte de mantener ilibata la religion Catolica_.' _Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. vii. p. 286. Bacallar (_Comentarios_, vol. ii. pp. 122-125) gives an interesting account of the attacks made on the rights of the Church, and which, he says, p. 122, were 'poco ajustados á la doctrina de los Santos Padres, á la Inmunidad de la Iglesia, y que sonaban á heregía.' He significantly adds, p. 125, 'Los pueblos de España, que son tan religiosos, y professan la mayor veneracion á la Iglesia, creían que esta se atropellaba, _y huvo alguna interna inquietud, no sin fomento de los adversos al Rey, cuyo puro, y sincero corazon podia ser engañado_; pero no inducido á un evidente error contra los Sagrados Canones,' &c. Such passages, proceeding, in the eighteenth century, from a man like the Marquis de San Phelipe, are of no slight importance in the history of the Spanish mind. [1372] So early as May 1702, Philip V., in a letter to Louis XIV., complained that the Spaniards opposed him in every thing. 'Je crois être obligé de vous dire que je m'aperçois de plus en plus du peu de zèle que les Espagnols out pour mon service, dans les petites choses comme dans les grandes, et qu'ils s'opposent à tout ce que je désire.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. ii. p. 136. The dislike which the Spaniards felt for the liberal reforms advocated by the French, went on increasing, until, in 1709, 'se renovaron los antiguos odios entre las dos naciones, con tanto ardor, que deseaban las tropas españolas el haber de combatir con los Franceses.' _Bacallar_, _Comentarios_, vol. i. p. 360. [1373] 'L'opulence de l'Église devoit évidemment fournir des secours à la patrie. Un emprunt de quatre millions, fait sur le clergé l'année précédente, 1707, avoit cependant fort déplu au Pape ou à ses ministres.' _Millot_, _Mémoires de Noaulès_, vol. ii. p. 412. [1374] 'He' (Alberoni) 'continued also the exaction of the ecclesiastical tax, in spite of the papal prohibitions, imprisoning or banishing the refractory priests who defended the privileges of their order.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. ii. p. 288. [1375] On January 2nd, 1698, Stanhope, the British Minister at Madrid, writes from that capital: 'This Court is not at all inclined to admit the offer of the Dutch troops to garrison their places in Flanders. They have consulted their theologians, who declare against it as a matter of conscience, since it would give great opportunities to the spreading of heresy. They have not yet sent their answer but it is believed it will be in the negative, and that they will rather choose to lie at the mercy of the French, as being Catholics.' _Mahon's Spain under Charles II._, pp. 98, 99. Still, much as the Spaniards hated Protestants, they hated Mohammedans yet more.[1376] They could never forget how the followers of that creed had once conquered nearly the whole of Spain, and had, during several centuries, possessed the fairest portion of it. The remembrance of this strengthened their religious animosity, and caused them to be the chief supporters of nearly every war which was waged against the Mohammedans, both of Turkey and of Africa.[1377] But Alberoni, being a foreigner, was unmoved by these considerations, and, to the astonishment of all Spain, he, on the mere ground of political expediency, set at naught the principles of the Church, and not only concluded an alliance with the Mohammedans, but supplied them with arms and with money.[1378] It is, indeed, true, that, in these and similar measures, Alberoni opposed himself to the national will, and that he lived to repent of his boldness. It is, however, also true, that his policy was part of a great secular and anti-theological movement, which, during the eighteenth century, was felt all over Europe. The effects of that movement were seen in the government of Spain, but not in the people. This was because the government for many years was wielded by foreigners, or by natives imbued with a foreign spirit. Hence we find that, during the greater part of the eighteenth century, the politicians of Spain formed a class more isolated, and, if I may so say, more living on their own intellectual resources, than the politicians of any other country during the same period. That this indicated a state of disease, and that no political improvement can produce real good, unless it is desired by the people before being conferred on them, will be admitted by whoever has mastered the lessons which history contains. The results actually produced in Spain, we shall presently see. But it will first be advisable that I should give some further evidence of the extent to which the influence of the Church had prostrated the national intellect, and by discouraging all inquiry, and fettering all freedom of thought, had at length reduced the country to such a plight, that the faculties of men, rusted by disuse, were no longer equal to fulfil the functions required from them; so that in every department, whether of political life, or of speculative philosophy, or even of mechanical industry, it was necessary that foreigners should be called in, to do that work, which the natives had become unable to perform. [1376] 'Entre el catolicismo y las diferentes sectas que brotaron en las imaginaciones de Calvino y de Lutero podia mediar tolerancia, y aun transaccion, si bien, como dice un escritor político, cuando se comienza á transigir sobre un principio, ese principio comienza á perder su imperio sobre las sociedades humanas. Pero entre el cristianismo de los españoles y el mahometismo de los moriscos era imposible todo avenimiento.' _Janer_, _Condicion Social de los Moriscos_, Madrid, 1857, p. 112. [1377] The Marquis of San Phelipe, who wrote in 1725, says, 'Es ley fundamental de los Reyes Catholicos, nunca hacer la paz con los Mahometanos; y esta guerra permanece desde el Rey Don Pelayo, por mas de siete siglos, sin hacer jamás paces, ni treguas con ellos, como cada dia las hacen el Emperador, y otros Principes Catholicos.' _Bacallar_, _Comentarios de la Guerra de España_, vol. ii. p. 169. And, in the most influential work on commerce which the reign of Philip V. produced, I find the following instructive passage: 'Aunque en los Puertos de las dilatadas Costas, que de Europa, Asia y Africa baña el Mediterraneo, se hace comercio muy considerable, y util por diversas naciones, no podrá España tener gran parte en él, mientras se observare la maxima de hacer continua guerra á todos los Moros y Turcos, en cuyo dominio se hallan la mayor parte de aquellas Provincias; sin embargo de ser constante, que _en esta guerra, aunque procedida de zelo Christiano, es mayor el daño que recibimos, que el que ocasionamos á los Infieles_' (the way the mercantile spirit peeps out here, is extremely curious) 'á lo menos de muchos años á esta parte, como lo he explicado en diversos capitulos.' _Uztariz_, _Theorica y Practica de Comercio_, Madrid, 1757, p. 399. This is the third edition of a book, which, considering the circumstances under which it was written, is a very remarkable production. [1378] Compare _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, London, 1815, vol. ii. p. 314, with _The History of Alberoni_, London, 1719, pp. 119, 253; and _Bacallar_, _Comentarios de la Guerra de España_, vol. ii. pp. 168, 169. The outcry which this caused, may be easily imagined; and Alberoni, finding himself in great peril, took advantage of the secrecy of the negotiations, to deny part, at least, of the charges made against him. See his indignant, but yet cautious, letter to the Pope, in _History of Alberoni_, 1719, p. 124. Ortiz, who had evidently not looked into the evidence, is so ill-informed as to suppose that this was a calumnious accusation brought against Alberoni after his fall. 'Caido ya por entonces Alberoni de su grandeza, expelido ignominiosamente de España, y aun perseguido por el Rey en Italia, preso en Roma por orden del Papa, etc., no era dificil atribuirle culpas agenas ó no cometidas.' _Note in Ortiz_, _Compendio_, vol. vii. p. 321. The ignorance in which the force of adverse circumstances had sunk the Spaniards, and their inactivity, both bodily and mental, would be utterly incredible, if it were not attested by every variety of evidence. Gramont, writing from personal knowledge of the state of Spain, during the latter half of the seventeenth century, describes the upper classes as not only unacquainted with science or literature, but as knowing scarcely any thing even of the commonest events which occurred out of their own country. The lower ranks, he adds, are equally idle, and rely upon foreigners to reap their wheat, to cut their hay, and to build their houses.[1379] Another observer of society, as it existed in Madrid in 1679, assures us that men, even of the highest position, never thought it necessary that their sons should study; and that those who were destined for the army could not learn mathematics, if they desired to do so, inasmuch as there were neither schools nor masters to teach them.[1380] Books, unless they were books of devotion, were deemed utterly useless; no one consulted them; no one collected them; and, until the eighteenth century, Madrid did not possess a single public library.[1381] In other cities professedly devoted to purposes of education, similar ignorance prevailed. Salamanca was the seat of the most ancient and most famous university in Spain, and there, if anywhere, we might look for the encouragement of science.[1382] But De Torres, who was himself a Spaniard, and was educated at Salamanca, early in the eighteenth century, declares that he had studied at that university for five years before he had heard that such things as the mathematical sciences existed.[1383] So late as the year 1771, the same university publicly refused to allow the discoveries of Newton to be taught; and assigned as a reason, that the system of Newton was not so consonant with revealed religion as the system of Aristotle.[1384] All over Spain, a similar plan was adopted. Everywhere, knowledge was spurned, and inquiry discouraged. Feijoo, who, notwithstanding his superstition, and a certain slavishness of mind, from which no Spaniard of that age could escape, did, on matters of science, seek to enlighten his countrymen, has left upon record his deliberate opinion, that whoever had acquired all that was taught in his time under the name of philosophy, would, as the reward of his labour, be more ignorant than he was before he began.[1385] And there can be no doubt that he was right. There can be no doubt that, in Spain, the more a man was taught, the less he would know. For, he was taught that inquiry was sinful, that intellect must be repressed, and that credulity and submission were the first of human attributes. The Duke de Saint Simon, who, in 1721 and 1722, was the French ambassador at Madrid, sums up his observations by the remark, that, in Spain, science is a crime, and ignorance a virtue.[1386] Fifty years later, another shrewd observer, struck with amazement at the condition of the national mind, expresses his opinion in a sentence equally pithy and almost equally severe. Searching for an illustration to convey his sense of the general darkness, he emphatically says, that the common education of an English gentleman would, in Spain, constitute a man of learning.[1387] [1379] 'Leur paresse, et l'ignorance non seulement des sciences et des arts, mais quasi généralement de tout ce qui se passe hors de l'Espagne, et on peut dire même hors du lieu où ils habitent, vont presque de pair, et sont inconcevables. La pauvreté est grande parmi eux, ce qui provient de leur extrême paresse; car si nombre de nos Français n'alloient faucher leurs foins, couper leurs blés et faire leurs briques, je crois qu'ils courroient fortune de se laisser mourir de faim, et de se tenir sous des tentes pour ne se pas donner la peine de bâtir des maisons.' ... 'L'éducation de leurs enfans est semblable à celle qu'ils ont eu de leurs pères, c'est-à-dire sans qu'ils apprennent ni sciences ni exercices; et je ne crois par que parmi tous les grands que j'ay pratiqués, il s'en trouvât un seul qui sût décliner son nom.' ... 'Ils n'ont nulle curiosité de voir les pays étrangers, et encore moins de s'enquérir de ce qui s'y passe.' _Mémoires du Maréchal de Gramont_, vol. ii. pp. 77, 78, 82, 83, in _Collection des Mémoires par Petitot et Monmerqué_, vol. lvii. See also _Aarsens de Sommerdyck_, _Voyage d'Espagne_, Paris, 1665, 4to. p. 124. 'La terré mesme n'y est pas toute cultiuée par des gens du pays: au tempe du labourage, des semailles et de la recolte, il leur vient quantité de paysans du Bearn et d'autres endroits de France, qui gagnent beaucoup d'argent, pour leur mettre leurs bleds en terre et pour les recueillir. Les architectes et charpentiers y sont aussi pour la plûpart estrangers, qui se font payer au triple de ce qu'ils gagneroient en leur pays. Dans Madrid on ne voit pas un porteur d'eau qui ne soit estranger, et la plûpart des cordonniers et tailleurs le sont aussi.' [1380] 'Mais aussi de quelle manière les élève-t-on? Ils n'étudient point; on néglige de leur donner d'habiles précepteurs; dès qu'on les destine à l'épée, on ne se soucie plus qu'ils apprennent le latin ni l'histoire. On devroit au moins leur enseigner ce qui est de leur mestier, les mathématiques, à faire des armes et à monter à cheval. Ils n'y pensent seulement pas. Il n'y a point ici d'Académie ni de maîtres qui montrent ces sortes de choses. Les jeunes hommes passent le tems qu'ils devroient emploïer à s'instruire dans un oisiveté pitoïable.' Letter from Madrid, dated 27th June 1679, in _D'Aulnoy_, _Relation du Voyage d'Espagne_, Lyon, 1693, vol. ii. pp. 232, 233. [1381] 'Madrid étant la capitale d'une monarchie aussi vaste, il n'y eut dans cette ville jusqu'à l'époque du règne de Philippe V aucune bibliothèque publique.' _Sempere_, _De la Monarchie Espagnole_, Paris, 1826, vol. ii. p. 79. [1382] The university was transferred from Palencia to Salamanca, early in the thirteenth century. _Forner_, _Oracion Apologética por la España_, Madrid, 1786, p. 170. By the beginning of the fifteenth century, it had become very prosperous (_Sempere_, _De la Monarchie Espagnole_, vol. i. p. 65); and in 1535, it is described as 'a great Universitie, conteyning seven or eight thowsand students.' See a letter from John Mason, dated Valladolid, 3rd July, 1635, in _Ellis's Original Letters_, second series, vol. ii. p. 56, London, 1827. But, like every thing else which was valuable in Spain, it declined in the seventeenth century; and Monconys, who carefully examined it in 1628, and praises some of its arrangements which were still in force, adds, 'Mais je suis aussi contraint de dire après tant de loüanges, que les écoliers qui étudient dans cette université sont des vrais ignorans.' _Les Voyages de Monsieur de Monconys_, Quatrième Partie, vol. v. p. 22, Paris, 1695. However, their ignorance, of which Monconys gives some curious instances, did not prevent Spanish writers, then, and long afterwards, from deeming the University of Salamanca to be the greatest institution of its kind in the world. 'La mayor del orbe, madre gloriosísima de todas las ciencias y de los mas vehementes ingenios, que han ilustrado las edades.' _Vida de Calderon de la Barca_, pp. iii. iv., reprinted in Keil's edition of _Calderon_, Leipsique, 1827. Compare Davila (_Felipe Tercero_, p. 81), 'Salamanca, madre de ciencias y letras;' Yañez (_Memorias_, p. 228), 'Universidad insigne, y Oficina de las buenas Letras de España;' Bacallar (_Comentarios_, vol. i. p. 238), 'El emporio de las ciencias;' and Ximenez (_Vida de Ribera_, p. 6), 'Salamanca, cathedra universal de las artes, y emporio de todas ciencias.' [1383] 'Says, that, after he had been five years in one of the schools of the university there, it was by accident he learned the existence of the mathematical sciences.' _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. iii. p. 223. A celebrated Spanish writer of the eighteenth century, actually boasts of the ignorance of his countrymen concerning mathematics, and discerns, in their neglect of that foolish pursuit, a decisive proof of their superiority over other nations. 'No se dexe deslumbrar con los ásperos calculos é intrincadas demostraciones geométricas, con que, astuto el entendimiento, disimula el engaño con los disfraces de la verdad. El uso de las matemáticas es la alquimia en la fisica, que da apariencias de oro á lo que no lo es.' _Forner_, _Oracion Apologética por la España y su Mérito Literario_, Madrid, 1786, p. 38. Compare his contemptuous notice (p. 66) of those insignificant persons, who 'con título de filósofos han dado algun aumento á las matemáticas;' and his comparison (p. 222) of Mercado with Newton. [1384] 'L'université de Salamanque, excitée par le Conseil, à réformer ses études, en l'année 1771, lui répondit "qu'elle ne pouvait se séparer du péripatétisme, parce que les systèmes de Newton, Gassendi et Descartes, ne concordent pas autant avec les vérités révélées que ceux d'Aristote."' _Sempere_, _Monarchie Espagnole_, vol. ii. p. 152. This reply, says M. Sempere, p. 153, may be found 'dans la collection des ordonnances royales.' In _Letters from Spain by an English Officer_, London, 1788, vol. ii. p. 256, it is stated, that, in all the Spanish universities, 'Newton, and modern philosophy, is still prohibited. Nothing can supplant Aristotle, and the superstitious fathers and doctors of the Church.' [1385] Or, as he, in one place, expresses himself, would know 'very little more than nothing.' 'El que estudió Logica, y Metaphysica, con lo demás que, debaxo del nombre de Philosofia, se enseña en las Escuelas, por bien que sepa todo, sabe muy poco mas que nada; pero suena mucho. Dicese, que es un gran Philosofo; y no es Philosofo grande, ni chico,' _Feijoo_, _Theatro Critico Universal_, vol. ii. p. 187, quinta impression, Madrid, 1741. [1386] 'La science est un crime, l'ignorance et la stupidité la première vertu.' _Mémoires du Duc de Saint Simon_, vol. xxxv. p. 209, Paris, 1840. Elsewhere (vol. xxxvi. p. 252) he says, 'Les jésuites savants partout et en tout genre de science, ce qu ne leur est pas même disputé par leurs ennemis, les jésuites, dis-je, sont ignorants en Espagne, mais d'une ignorance à surprendre.' [1387] 'The common education of an English gentleman would constitute a man of learning here; and, should he understand Greek, he would be quite a phenomenon.' _Swinburne's Travels through Spain in 1775 and 1776_, vol. ii. pp. 212, 213, 2d edit., London, 1787. Those who know what the common education of an English gentleman was eighty years ago, will appreciate the force of this comparison, and will understand how benighted a country must have been, to which such a taunt was applicable. To expect that, under such a state of things, the Spaniards should make any of the discoveries which accelerate the march of nations, would be idle indeed; for they would not even receive the discoveries, which other nations had made for them, and had cast into the common lap. So loyal and orthodox a people had nothing to do with novelties, which, being innovations on ancient opinions, were fraught with danger. The Spaniards desired to walk in the ways of their ancestors, and not have their faith in the past rudely disturbed. In the inorganic world, the magnificent discoveries of Newton were contumeliously rejected; and, in the organic world, the circulation of the blood was denied, more than a hundred and fifty years after Harvey had proved it.[1388] These things were new, and it was better to pause a little, and not receive them too hastily. On the same principle, when, in the year 1760, some bold men in the government proposed that the streets of Madrid should be cleansed, so daring a suggestion excited general anger. Not only the vulgar, but even those who were called educated, were loud in their censure. The medical profession, as the guardians of the public health, were desired, by the government, to give their opinion. This, they had no difficulty in doing. They had no doubt that the dirt ought to remain. To remove it, was a new experiment; and of new experiments, it was impossible to foresee the issue. Their fathers having lived in the midst of it, why should not they do the same? Their fathers were wise men, and must have had good reasons for their conduct. Even the smell, of which some persons complained, was most likely wholesome. For, the air being sharp and piercing, it was extremely probable that bad smells made the atmosphere heavy, and in that way deprived it of some of its injurious properties. The physicians of Madrid were, therefore, of opinion that matters had better remain as their ancestors had left them, and that no attempts should be made to purify the capital by removing the filth which lay scattered on every side.[1389] [1388] So late as 1787, Townsend, a very accomplished man, who travelled through Spain with the express object of noting the state of knowledge, as well as the economical condition of the country, and who, by previous study, had well qualified himself for such an undertaking, says, 'I have observed in general, that the physicians with whom I have had occasion to converse, are disciples of their favourite doctor Piquer, who denied, or at least doubted of, the circulation of the blood.' _Townsend's Journey through Spain_, 2d ed., London, 1792, vol. iii. p. 281. At that time, the Spanish physicians were, however, beginning to read Hoffmann, Cullen, and other heretical speculators, in whose works they would find, to their astonishment, that the circulation of the blood was assumed, and was not even treated as a debatable question. But the students were obliged to take such matters on trust; for, adds Townsend, p. 282, 'In their medical classes, they had no dissections.' Compare _Laborde's Spain_, vol. i. p. 76, vol. iii. p. 315, London, 1809, and _Godoy's Memoirs_, London, 1836, vol. ii. p. 157. Godoy, speaking of the three colleges of surgery at Madrid, Barcelona, and Cadiz, says that until his administration in 1793, 'In the capital, even that of San Carlos had not a lecture-room for practical instruction.' [1389] This little episode is noticed by Cabarrus, in his _Elogio de Carlos III._, Madrid, 1789, 4to. p. xiv. 'La salubridad del ayre, la limpieza y seguridad de las calles,' ... 'Pero ¿quién creerá que este noble empeño produxo las mas vivas quejas: que se conmovió el vulgo de todas clases; y que tuvo varias autoridades á su favor la extraña doctrina de que los vapores mefiticos eran un correctivo saludable de la rigidez del clima?' But the fullest detail will be found in the recently published and very elaborate History of Charles III. by M. Rio, from which I will give one or two extracts. 'Para la limpieza de las calles poseia mayores ó menores fondos el ayuntamiento, y cuando el Rey quiso poner la mano en este ramo de policía, le presentaron dictámenes de médicos en que se defendia el absurdo de ser elemento de salubridad la basura.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, Madrid, 1856, vol. iv. p. 54. See also vol. i. pp. 267, 268, where it is mentioned, that when the minister, Esquilache, persevered in his attempts to have the streets of Madrid cleaned, the opponents of the scheme made inquiries into the opinions of their fathers on that subject; and the result was, 'que le presentaron cierta originalísima consulta hecha por los médicos bajo el reinado de uno de los Felipes de Austria, y reducida á demostrar que, siendo sumamente sutil el aire de la poblacion á causa de estar próxima la sierra de Guadarrama, ocasionaria los mayores estragos si no se impregnara en los vapores de las inmundicias desparramadas por las calles.' That this idea had long been entertained by the physicians of Madrid, we also know from another testimony, with which none of the Spanish historians are acquainted. Sir Richard Wynne, who visited that capital in 1623, describes a disgusting practice of the inhabitants, and adds, 'Being desirous to know why so beastly a custom is suffered, they say it's a thing prescribed by their physicians; for they hold the air to be so piercing and subtle, that this kind of corrupting it with these ill vapours keeps it in good temper.' _The Autobiography and Correspondence of Sir Simonds D'Ewes_, edited by J. O. Halliwell, London, 1845, vol. ii. p. 446. While such notions prevailed respecting the preservation of health,[1390] it is hardly to be supposed that the treatment of disease should be very successful. To bleed and to purge, were the only remedies prescribed by the Spanish physicians.[1391] Their ignorance of the commonest functions of the human body was altogether surprising, and can only be explained on the supposition, that in medicine, as in other departments, the Spaniards of the eighteenth century knew no more than their progenitors of the sixteenth. Indeed, in some respects, they appeared to know less. For, their treatment was so violent, that it was almost certain death to submit to it for any length of time.[1392] Their own king, Philip V., did not dare to trust himself in their hands, but preferred having an Irishman for his physician.[1393] Though the Irish had no great medical reputation, anything was better than a Spanish doctor.[1394] The arts incidental to medicine and surgery, were equally backward. The instruments were rudely made, and the drugs badly prepared. Pharmacy being unknown, the apothecaries' shops, in the largest towns, were entirely supplied from abroad; while, in the smaller towns, and in districts remote from the capital, the medicines were of such a quality, that the best which could be hoped of them was, that they might be innocuous. For, in the middle of the eighteenth century, Spain did not possess one practical chemist. Indeed, we are assured by Campomanes himself, that, so late as the year 1776, there was not to be found in the whole country a single man who knew how to make the commonest drugs, such as magnesia, Glauber's salts, and the ordinary preparations of mercury and antimony. This eminent statesman adds, however, that a chemical laboratory was about to be established in Madrid; and although the enterprise, being without a precedent, would surely be regarded as a portentous novelty, he expresses a confident expectation, that, by its aid, the universal ignorance of his countrymen would in time be remedied.[1395] [1390] Even thirty years later, it was said, with good reason, that 'es menester _deshacer todo lo que se ha hecho_,' and 'confiar exclusivamente el precioso depósito de la sanidad pública á las manos capaces de conservarlo y mejorarlo.' _Cartas por el Conde de Cabarrus_, Madrid, 1813, p. 280. These letters, which, though little known, contain some interesting statements, were written in 1792 and 1793. See p. 34, and Prologo, p. i. [1391] Bleeding, however, had the preference. See the curious evidence in _Townsend's Journey through Spain in 1786 and 1787_, vol. ii. pp. 37-39. Townsend, who had some knowledge of medicine, was amazed at the ignorance and recklessness of the Spanish physicians. He says, 'The science and practice of medicine are at the lowest ebb in Spain, but more especially in the Asturias.' Compare _Sprengel_, _Histoire de la Médecine_, vol. iii. p. 217, Paris, 1815, with _Winwood's Memorials_, London, 1725, folio, vol. ii. p. 219. The last reference shows the terrible 'purging and letting blood,' to which the unfortunate Spaniards were exposed in the reign of Philip III. Another observer, much later, states that 'La saignée leur est assez familière. Ils se la font faire hors du lit tant que leurs forces le permettent, et _lorsqu'ils en usent par précaution, ils se font tirer du sang deux jours de suite du bras droit et du gauche, disant qu'il faut égaliser le sang_. On peut juger de là, si la circulation leur est connue.' _Voyages faits en Espagne, par Monsieur M****_, Amsterdam, 1700, p. 112. See further _Clarke's Letters concerning the Spanish Nation_, London, 4to. 1763, p. 55, and _Spain by an American_, London, 1831, vol. ii. p. 321. [1392] In 1790, poor Cumberland, when in Madrid, was as nearly as possible murdered by three of their surgeons in a very few days; the most dangerous of his assailants being no less a man than the 'chief surgeon of the Gardes de Corps,' who, says the unfortunate sufferer, was 'sent to me by authority.' See _Memoirs of Richard Cumberland, written by himself_, London, 1807, vol. ii. pp. 67, 68. [1393] Duclos says of Philip V., 'Il étoit fort attentif sur sa santé; son médecin, s'il eût été intriguant, auroit pu jouer un grand rôle. Hyghens, Irlandois, qui occupoit cette première place, fort éloigné de l'intrigue et de la cupidité, instruit dans son art, s'en occupoit uniquement. Après sa mort, la reine fit donner la place à Servi, son médecin particulier.' _Mémoires par Duclos_, 2^e édit. Paris, 1791, vol. ii. pp. 200, 201. 'Hyghens, premier médecin, était Irlandais.' _Mémoires du Duc de Saint Simon_, vol. xxxvi. p. 215, ed. Paris, 1841. [1394] In the eighteenth century, the Spaniards, generally, began to admit this; since they could not shut their eyes to the fact that their friends and relations succumbed so rapidly under professional treatment, that sickness and death were almost synonymous. Hence, notwithstanding their hatred of the French nation, they availed themselves of the services of French physicians and French surgeons, whenever they had an opportunity of doing so. In 1707, the Princess des Ursins writes from Madrid to Madame de Maintenon, 'Les chirurgiens espagnols sont mésestimés même de ceux de leur nation;' and, in another letter, 'Les Espagnols conviennent que les médecins français sont beaucoup plus savants que les leurs; ils s'en servent même très-volontiers, mais ils sont persuadés que ceux de la faculté de Montpellier l'emportent sur les autres.' _Lettres inédites de Madame de Maintenon et de la Princesse des Ursins_, vol. iii. p. 412, vol. iv. p. 90. [1395] Campomanes (_Apendice á la Educacion Popular_, Madrid, 1776, vol. iii. pp. 74, 75), speaking of a work on distillation, says, 'La tercera (parte) describe la preparacion de los productos químicos sólidos: esto es la preparacion de varias sustancias terreas, como argamasa, magnesia blanca, ojos de cangrejo, etc., la de varios sales, como sal de glaubero, amoniaco, cristal mineral, borax refinado, etc., y la del antimonio, mercurio, plomo, litargirio, etc., comunicando sobre todo lo expresado varias noticias, que demuestran lo mucho que conducen á los progresos del arte, las observaciones del fisico reflexivo: unidas á la práctica de un profesor experimentado. _Este arte en toda su extension falta en España._ Solo le tenemos para aguardientes, rosolis, y mistelas. _La salud pública es demasiado importante, para depender de los estraños en cosas esenciales_; quando no estimulase nuestra industria la manutencion de muchas familias.' ... 'Gran parte de estas cosas se introducen de fuera, por no conocerse bien las operaciones químicas. No son dificultosas en la execucion; pero _es necesario enseñarlas, y conocer los instrumentos que son aproposito_. Un laboratorio químico, que _se va á establecer en Madrid_, producirá maestros para las capitales del reyno.' Whatever was useful in practice, or whatever subserved the purposes of knowledge, had to come from abroad. Ensenada, the well-known minister of Ferdinand VI., was appalled by the darkness and apathy of the nation, which he tried, but tried in vain, to remove. When he was at the head of affairs, in the middle of the eighteenth century, he publicly declared that in Spain there was no professorship of public law, or of physics, or of anatomy, or of botany. He further added, that there were no good maps of Spain, and that there was no person who knew how to construct them. All the maps which they had, came from France and Holland. They were, he said, very inaccurate; but the Spaniards, being unable to make any, had nothing else to rely on. Such a state of things he pronounced to be shameful. For, as he bitterly complained, if it were not for the exertions of Frenchmen and Dutchmen, it would be impossible for any Spaniard to know either the position of his own town, or the distance from one place to another.[1396] [1396] 'Su ministro el célebre Ensenada, que tenia grandes miras en todos los ramos de la administracion pública, deseaba ardientemente mejorar la enseñanza, lamentándose del atraso en que esta se hallaba. "Es menester, decia hablando de las universidades, reglar sus cátedras, reformar las superfluas y establecer las que faltan con nuevas ordenanzas para asegurar el mejor método de estudios. No sé que haya cátedra alguna de derecho público, de física esperimental, de anatomía y botánica. No hay puntuales cartas geográficas del reino y de sus provincias, _ni quien las sepa grabar, ni tenemos otras que las imperfectas que vienen de Francia y Holanda_. De esto proviene que ignoramos la verdadera situacion de los pueblos y sus distancias, que es una vergüenza."' _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, Madrid, 1840, vol. iv. pp. 268, 269. See also _Biografia de Ensenada_, in _Navarrete_, _Coleccion de Opúsculos_, Madrid, 1848, vol. ii. pp. 21, 22. 'Le parecia vergonzoso que para conocer la situacion y distancias respectivas de nuestros mismos pueblos y lugares, dependiésemos de los franceses y holandeses, quienes por sus mapas imperfectas de la península extraían de ella sumas considerables.' Eighty years after this complaint was made by Ensenada, we find a traveller in Spain stating that 'a decent map of any part, even of the country round the gates of the capital, cannot be found.' _Cook's Spain from 1829 to 1832_, London, 1834, vol. i. p. 322. Compare _Notices of Geological Memoirs_, p. 1, at the end of the _Quarterly Journal of the Geological Society_, vol. vi., London, 1850; 'even a good geographical map of the Peninsula does not exist.' The only remedy for all this, seemed to be foreign aid; and Spain being now ruled by a foreign dynasty, that aid was called in. Cervi established the Medical Societies of Madrid and of Seville; Virgili founded the College of Surgery at Cadiz; and Bowles endeavoured to promote among the Spaniards the study of mineralogy.[1397] Professors were sought for, far and wide; and application was made to Linnæus to send a person from Sweden who could impart some idea of botany to physiological students.[1398] Many other and similar steps were taken by the government, whose indefatigable exertions would deserve our warmest praise, if we did not know how impossible it is for any government to enlighten a nation, and how absolutely essential it is that the desire for improvement should, in the first place, proceed from the people themselves. No progress is real, unless it is spontaneous. The movement, to be effective, must emanate from within, and not from without; it must be due to general causes acting on the whole country, and not to the mere will of a few powerful individuals. During the eighteenth century, all the means of improvement were lavishly supplied to the Spaniards; but the Spaniards did not want to improve. They were satisfied with themselves; they were sure of the accuracy of their own opinions; they were proud of the notions which they inherited, and which they did not wish either to increase or to diminish. Being unable to doubt, they were, therefore, unwilling to inquire. New and beautiful truths, conveyed in the clearest and most attractive language, could produce no effect upon men whose minds were thus hardened and enslaved.[1399] An unhappy combination of events, working without interruption since the fifth century, had predetermined the national character in a particular direction, and neither statesmen, nor kings, nor legislators, could effect aught against it. The seventeenth century was, however, the climax of all. In that age, the Spanish nation fell into a sleep, from which, as a nation, it has never since awakened. It was a sleep, not of repose, but of death. It was a sleep, in which the faculties, instead of being rested, were paralyzed, and in which a cold and universal torpor succeeded that glorious, though partial, activity, which, while it made the name of Spain terrible in the world, had insured the respect even of her bitterest enemies. [1397] M. Rio (_Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. i. p. 185) mentions this in a very characteristic manner. 'Varios extranjeros distinguidos _hallaron fraternidad entre los españoles, y correspondieron hidalgamente al hospedaje_: Cervi dió vida á las sociedades médicas de Madrid y Sevilla; Virgili al colegio de Cirugía de Cádiz; Quer trabajó sin descanso para que el Jardin Botánico no fuera un simple lugar de recreo, sino principalmente de estudio; Bowles comunicó grande impulso á la mineralogía,' &c. [1398] I have mislaid the evidence of this fact; but the reader may rely on its accuracy. [1399] Townsend (_Journey through Spain in 1786 and 1787_, vol. ii. p. 275) says, 'Don Antonio Solano, professor of experimental philosophy, merits attention for the clearness and precision of his demonstrations: but, unfortunately, although his lectures are delivered gratis, such is the want of taste for science in Madrid, that nobody attends them.' Even the fine arts, in which the Spaniards had formerly excelled, partook of the general degeneracy, and, according to the confession of their own writers, had, by the beginning of the eighteenth century, fallen into complete decay.[1400] The arts which secure national safety, were in the same predicament as those which minister to national pleasure. There was no one in Spain who could build a ship; there was no one who knew how to rig it, after it was built. The consequence was, that, by the close of the seventeenth century, the few ships which Spain possessed, were so rotten, that, says an historian, they could hardly support the fire of their own guns.[1401] In 1752, the government, being determined to restore the navy, found it necessary to send to England for shipwrights; and they were also obliged to apply to the same quarter for persons who could make ropes and canvass; the skill of the natives being unequal to such arduous achievements.[1402] In this way, the ministers of the Crown, whose ability and vigour, considering the difficult circumstances in which the incapacity of the people placed them, were extremely remarkable, contrived to raise a fleet superior to any which had been seen in Spain for more than a century.[1403] They also took many other steps towards putting the national defences into a satisfactory condition; though in every instance, they were forced to rely on the aid of foreigners. Both the military and the naval service were in utter confusion, and had to be organized afresh. The discipline of the infantry was remodelled by O'Reilly, an Irishman, to whose superintendence the military schools of Spain were intrusted.[1404] At Cadiz, a great naval academy was formed, but the head of it was Colonel Godin, a French officer.[1405] The artillery, which like everything else, had become almost useless, was improved by Maritz, the Frenchman; while the same service was rendered to the arsenals by Gazola, the Italian.[1406] [1400] 'La ignorancia reinante en los últimos años del siglo xvii. depravó en tal manera el buen gusto, que á principios del xviii. las artes se hallaban en la mas lastimosa decadencia.' _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, Madrid, 1840, vol. iv. p. 346. See also, on this decline, or rather destruction, of taste, _Valasquez_, _Origines de la Poesia Castellana_, Malaga, 1754, 4to. 'Un siglo, corrompido, en que las letras estaban abandonadas, y el buen gusto casi desterrado de toda la nacion.' p. 70. 'Al passo que la nacion perdia el buen gusto, y las letras iban caminando á su total decadencia.' p. 107. 'Los caminos por donde nuestros poetas en el siglo pasado se apartaron del buen gusto en esta parte.' p. 170. [1401] 'Solo cuatro navíos de línea y seis de poco porte dejaron los reyes de orígen austriaco, y todos tan podridos que apenas podian aguantar el fuego de sus propias baterias.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, Madrid, 1856, vol. i. p. 184. [1402] 'Se mandaron construir 12 navíos á la vez, y se contrataron otros. Por medio de D. Jorge Juan se trajeron de Inglaterra los mas hábiles constructores y maestros para las fábricas de jarcia, lona y otras.' _Biografía de Ensenada_, in _Navarrete_, _Coleccion de Opúsculos_, Madrid, 1848, vol. ii. p. 18. M. Rio, taking all this as a matter of course, quietly says, 'D. Jorge Juan fue á Lóndres para estudiar la construccion de navíos.' _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, Madrid, 1856, vol. iv. p. 485. [1403] M. Lafuente says that Ensenada was the restorer, and almost the creator, of the Spanish navy; 'de la cual fué el restaurador, y casi pudiera decirse el creador.' _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xix. p. 344, Madrid, 1857. [1404] 'C'est par un Irlandais aussi, Oreilly, que la discipline de l'infanterie est réformée.' _Bourgoing_, _Tableau de l'Espagne Moderne_, Paris, 1808, vol. ii. p. 142. 'Las escuelas militares del puerto de Sta. Maria para la infanteria, que dirigió con tanto acierto el general Ofarril bajo las ordenes del conde de O'Reilly.' _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iv. p. 128. [1405] 'Vino á dirigir la academia de guardias marinas de Cadiz.' _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iv. p. 79. 'Godin figuró como director del colegio de Guardias marinas.' _Rio_, _Historia de Carlos III._, vol. i. p. 186. Compare _Biographie Universelle_, vol. xvii. p. 564, Paris, 1816. [1406] See the interesting remarks in _Bourgoing_, _Tableau de l'Espagne Moderne_, Paris, 1808, vol. ii. pp. 96, 142. With good reason, therefore, was it stated, some years afterwards, that 'c'est à des étrangers que l'Espagne doit presque tous les plans, les réformes utiles, et les connoissances dont elle a eu besoin.' _Voyage en Espagne par le Marquis de Langle_, 1785, vol. ii. p. 159. The mines, which form one of the greatest natural sources of the wealth of Spain, had likewise suffered from that ignorance and apathy into which the force of circumstances had plunged the country. They were either completely neglected, or if worked, they were worked by other nations. The celebrated cobalt-mine, situated in the valley of Gistan, in Aragon, was entirely in the hands of the Germans, who, during the first half of the eighteenth century, derived immense profit from it.[1407] In the same way, the silver-mines of Guadalcanal, the richest in Spain, were undertaken, not by natives, but by foreigners. Though they had been discovered in the sixteenth century, they, as well as other matters of importance, had been forgotten in the seventeenth, and were reopened, in 1728, by English adventurers; the enterprise, the tools, the capital, and even the miners, all coming from England.[1408] Another, and still more famous, mine is that of Almaden in La Mancha, which produces mercury of the finest quality, and in great profusion. This metal, besides being indispensable for many of the commonest arts, was of peculiar value to Spain, because without it the gold and silver of the New World could not be extracted from their ores. From Almaden, where every natural facility exists for collecting it, and where the cinnibar in which it is found is unusually rich, vast supplies had formerly been drawn; but they had for some time been diminishing, although the demand, especially from foreign countries, was on the increase. Under these circumstances, the Spanish government, fearing that so important a source of wealth might altogether perish, determined to institute an inquiry into the manner in which the mine was worked. As, however, no Spaniard possessed the knowledge requisite for such an investigation, the advisers of the Crown were obliged to call on foreigners to help them. In 1752, an Irish naturalist, named Bowles, was commissioned to visit Almaden, and ascertain the cause of the failure. He found that the miners had acquired a habit of sinking their shafts perpendicularly, instead of following the direction of the vein.[1409] So absurd a process was quite sufficient to account for their want of success; and Bowles reported to the government, that if a shaft were to be sunk obliquely, the mine would, no doubt, again be productive. The government approved of the suggestion, and ordered it to be carried into effect. But the Spanish miners were too tenacious of their old customs to give way. They sank their shafts in the same manner as their fathers had done; and what their fathers had done must be right. The result was, that the mine had to be taken out of their hands; but as Spain could supply no other labourers, it was necessary to send to Germany for fresh ones.[1410] After their arrival, matters rapidly improved. The mine, being superintended by an Irishman, and worked by Germans, assumed quite a different appearance; and, notwithstanding the disadvantages with which new comers always have to contend, the immediate consequence of the change was, that the yield of mercury was doubled, and its cost to the consumer correspondingly lowered.[1411] [1407] 'Como los del pais entendian poco de trabajar minas, vinieron de Alemania algunos prácticos para enseñarlos.' ... 'Los Alemanes sacaron de dicha mina por largo tiempo cosa de 500 á 600 quintales de cobalto al año.' _Bowles_, _Historia Natural de España_, Madrid, 1789, 4to. pp. 418, 419. See also _Dillon's Spain_, Dublin, 1781, pp. 227-229. [1408] 'In 1728, a new adventurer undertook the work of opening the mines of Guadalcanal. This was Lady Mary Herbert, daughter of the Marquis of Powis.' ... 'Lady Mary departed from Madrid for Guadalcanal, to which miners and engines had been sent from England at her expense, and at that of her relation, Mr. Gage, who accompanied her, and of her father, the marquis.' _Jacob's Historical Inquiry into the Production and Consumption of the Precious Metals_, London, 1831, vol. i. pp. 278, 279. [1409] 'Los mineros de Almaden nunca hicieron los socavones siguiendo la inclinacion de las betas, sino perpendiculares, y baxaban á ellos puestos en una especie de cubos atados desde arriba con cuerdas. De este mal método se originó todo al desórden de la mina, porque al paso que los operarios penetraban dentro de tierra, era forzoso que se apartasen de las betas y las perdiesen.' _Bowles_, _Historía Natural de España_, Madrid, 1789, 4to. p. 14. [1410] 'Fué mi proyecto bien recibido del Ministerio, y _habiendo hecho venir mineros Alemanes_, le han executado en gran parte con mucha habilidad. Los mineros Españoles de Almaden son atrevidos y tienen robustez, maña y penetracion quanta es menester, de suerte que _con el tiempo serán excelentes mineros, pues no les falta otra cosa que la verdadera ciencia de las minas_.' _Historia Natural de España_, p. 16. The latter part of this sentence is an evident struggle between the interests of truth, and the exigencies of a book printed at the Royal Press of Madrid, and licensed by the Spanish authorities. [1411] 'Encargado por el gobierno el laborioso extrangero Bowles de proponer los medios convenientes para beneficiar con mas acierto las famosas minas de azogue del Almaden, descubrió algunos nuevos procedimientos por medio de los cuales casi se duplicaron los productos de aquellas, y bajó una mitad el precio de los azogues.' _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iv. p. 117. Such ignorance, pervading the whole nation, and extending to every department of life, is hardly conceivable, considering the immense advantages which the Spaniards had formerly enjoyed. It is particularly striking, when contrasted with the ability of the government, which, for more than eighty years, constantly laboured to improve the condition of the country. Early in the eighteenth century, Ripperda, in the hopes of stimulating Spanish industry, established a large woollen manufactory at Segovia, which had once been a busy and prosperous city. But the commonest processes had now been forgotten; and he was obliged to import manufacturers from Holland, to teach the Spaniards how to make up the wool, though that was an art for which in better days they had been especially famous.[1412] In 1757, Wall, who was then minister, constructed, upon a still larger scale, a similar manufactory at Guadalajara in New Castile. Soon, however, something went wrong with the machinery; and as the Spaniards neither knew nor cared anything about these matters, it was necessary to send to England for a workman to put it right.[1413] At length the advisers of Charles III., despairing of rousing the people by ordinary means, devised a more comprehensive scheme, and invited thousands of foreign artisans to settle in Spain; trusting that their example, and the suddenness of their influx might invigorate this jaded nation.[1414] All was in vain. The spirit of the country was broken, and nothing could retrieve it. Among other attempts which were made, the formation of a National Bank was a favourite idea of politicians, who expected great things from an institution which was to extend credit, and make advances to persons engaged in business. But, though the design was executed, it entirely failed in effecting its purpose. When the people are not enterprising, no effort of government can make them so. In a country like Spain, a great bank was an exotic, which might live with art, but could never thrive by nature. Indeed, both in its origin and in its completion, it was altogether foreign, having been first proposed by the Dutchman Ripperda,[1415] and owing its final organization to the Frenchman Cabarrus.[1416] [1412] _Memoirs of Ripperda_, 2d ed., London, 1740, pp. 23, 62, 91, 104. 'A ship arrived at Cadiz with fifty manufacturers on board, whom the Baron de Ripperda had drawn together in Holland.' ... 'The new manufactures at Segovia, which, though at this time wholly managed by foreigners, he wished, in the next age, might be carried on by the Spaniards themselves, and by them only.' [1413] 'The minister, Wall, an Irishman, contrived to decoy over one Thomas Bevan, from Melksham, in Wiltshire, to set the machinery and matters to rights.' _Ford's Spain_, London, 1847, p. 525. [1414] 'Ademas de la invitacion que se hizo á millares de operarios extrangeros para venir á establecerse en España,' &c. _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iv. pp. 112, 113. In 1768, Harris, who travelled from Pampeluna to Madrid, writes, 'I did not observe a dozen men either at plough or any other kind of labour, on the road.' _Diaries and Correspondence of James Harris, Earl of Malmesbury_, London, 1844, vol. i. p. 38. [1415] 'A national bank, a design originally suggested by Ripperda.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. v. p. 202. [1416] Bourgoing, not aware of Ripperda's priority, says (_Tableau de l'Espagne Moderne_, vol. ii. p. 49), 'L'idée de la banque nationale fut donnée au gouvernement par un banquier français, M. Cabarrus.' Compare _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iv. pp. 122, 123: 'Banco nacional de San Cárlos; propúsolo Cabarrús, apoyólo Floridablanca, y sancionólo el Soberano por Real cedula de 2 de junio de 1782.' This sounds well; but the inevitable catastrophe soon came. 'Charles IV.,' says the Prince of the Peace, 'had just ascended the throne; the bank of St. Carlos was rapidly falling, and on the verge of bankruptcy.' _Godoy's Memoirs_, London, 1836, vol. i. p. 124. In everything, the same law prevailed. In diplomacy, the ablest men were not Spaniards, but foreigners; and during the eighteenth century the strange spectacle was frequently exhibited, of Spain being represented by French, Italian, and even Irish ambassadors.[1417] Nothing was indigenous; nothing was done by Spain herself. Philip V., who reigned from 1700 to 1746, and possessed immense power, always clung to the ideas of his own country, and was a Frenchman to the last. For thirty years after his death, the three most prominent names in Spanish politics were, Wall, who was born in France, of Irish parents;[1418] Grimaldi, who was a native of Genoa; [1419] and Esquilache, who was a native of Sicily.[1420] Esquilache administered the finances for several years; and, after enjoying the confidence of Charles III. to an extent rarely possessed by any minister, was only dismissed, in 1766, in consequence of the discontents of the people at the innovations introduced by this bold foreigner.[1421] Wall, a much more remarkable man, was, in the absence of any good Spanish diplomatist, sent envoy to London in 1747; and after exercising great influence in matters of state, he was placed at the head of affairs in 1754, and remained supreme till 1763.[1422] When this eminent Irishman relinquished office, he was succeeded by the Genoese, Grimaldi, who ruled Spain from 1763 to 1777, and was entirely devoted to the French views of policy.[1423] His principal patron was Choiseul, who had imbued him with his own notions, and by whose advice he was chiefly guided.[1424] Indeed, Choiseul, who was then the first minister in France, used to boast, with exaggeration, but not without a considerable amount of truth, that his influence in Madrid was even greater than it was in Versailles.[1425] [1417] 'A Londres, à Stockholm, à Paris, à Vienne et à Venise, le souverain est réprésenté par des étrangers. Le prince de Masserano, Italien, ambassadeur en Angleterre; le comte de Lacy Irlandais, ministre à Stockholm; le marquis de Grimaldi, ambassadeur en France, avant de parvenir au ministère; le comte de Mahoni, Irlandais, ambassadeur à Vienne; le marquis de Squilaci, ambassadeur à Venise, après sa retraite du ministère.' _Bourgoing_, _Tableau de l'Espagne_, vol. ii. pp. 142, 143. To this, I may add that, in the reign of Philip V., an Italian, the Marquis de Beretti Landi, was the representative of Spain in Switzerland, and afterwards at the Hague (_Ripperda's Memoirs_, 1740, pp. 37, 38); and that in, or just before, 1779, Lacy filled the same post at St. Petersburg. _Malmesbury's Diaries and Correspondence_, 1844, vol. i. p. 261. So, too, M. Rio (_Historia de Carlos III._, vol. i. pp. 288, 289) says of the important negotiations which took place in 1761, between Spain, England, and France, 'Y así de las negociaciones en que Luis XV. trataba de enredar á Carlos III. quedaron absolutamente excluidos los españoles, como que por una parte las iban á seguir el duque de Choiseul y el marques de Ossun, franceses, y por otra el irlandés D. Ricardo Wall, y el genovés marques de Grimaldi.' About the same time, Clarke writes (in his _Letters concerning the Spanish Nation_, London, 1763, 4to. p. 331), 'Spain has, for many years past, been under the direction of foreign ministers. Whether this hath been owing to want of capacity in the natives, or disinclination in the sovereign, I will not take upon me to say; such as it is, the native nobility lament it as a great calamity.' [1418] Lord Stanhope, generally well informed on Spanish affairs, says that Wall was 'a native of Ireland.' _Mahon's History of England_, vol. iv. p. 182, 3d edit., London, 1853; but in _Mémoires de Noailles_, vol. iv. p. 47, edit. Paris, 1829, he is called 'irlandais d'origine, né en France.' See also _Biografía de Ensenada_, in _Navarrete_, _Opúsculos_, Madrid, 1848, vol. ii. p. 26, 'D. Ricardo Wall, irlandés de orígen, nacido en Francia.' Swinburne, who knew him personally, and has given some account of him, does not mention where he was born. _Swinburne's Travels through Spain_, second edition, London, 1787, vol. i. pp. 314-318. [1419] 'A Genoese, and a creature of France.' _Dunham's History of Spain_, vol. v. p. 170. [1420] 'Era siciliano.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. i. p. 244. [1421] The fullest account of his dismissal is given by M. Rio, in the first chapter of the second volume of his _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, which should, however, be compared with _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. iv. pp. 340-346. Coxe terms him Squilaci; but I follow the orthography of the Spanish writers, who always call him Esquilache. Such was his influence over the King, that, according to Coxe (vol. iv. p. 347), Charles III. 'publicly said that, "if he was reduced to a morsel of bread, he would divide it with Squilaci."' [1422] _Coxe's Kings of Spain_, vol. iv. pp. 15, 135. _Rio_, _Historia de Carlos III._, vol. i. pp. 246, 247, 400, 401. _Navarrete_, _Biografía de Ensenada_, pp. 26-28. [1423] He resigned in 1776, but held office till the arrival of his successor, Florida Blanca, in 1777. _Rio_, _Historia de Carlos III._, vol. iii. pp. 171, 174. In reference to his appointment, in 1763, M. Rio observes (vol. i. p. 402), 'De que Grimaldi creciera en fortuna se pudo congratular no Roma, sino Francia.' In 1770, Harris, the diplomatist, who was then in Spain, writes, 'His doctrine is absolutely French; guided in everything by the French closet,' &c. _Malmesbury's Diaries and Correspondence_, vol. i. p. 56, London, 1844. [1424] 'Guided in his operations by the counsels of Choiseul.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. iv. p. 339. 'The prosecution of the schemes which he had concerted with Choiseul.' p. 373. 'His friend and patron.' p. 391, and vol. v. p. 6. [1425] 'Personne n'ignoroit le crédit prodigieux que M. de Choiseul avoit sur le roi d'Espagne, dont il se vantoit lui-même, au point que je lui ai ouï dire, qu'il étoit plus sûr de sa prépondérance dans le cabinet de Madrid, que dans celui de Versailles.' _Mémoires du Baron de Besenval_, _écrits par lui-même_, vol. ii. pp. 14, 15, Paris, 1805. However this may be, it is certain that four years after Grimaldi took office, the ascendency of France was exhibited in a remarkable way. Choiseul, who hated the Jesuits, and had just expelled them from France, endeavoured also to expel them from Spain.[1426] The execution of the plan was confided to Aranda, who, though a Spaniard by birth, derived his intellectual culture from France, and had contracted, in the society of Paris, an intense hatred of every form of ecclesiastical power.[1427] The scheme, secretly prepared, was skilfully accomplished.[1428] In 1767, the Spanish government, without hearing what the Jesuits had to say in their defence, and indeed, without giving them the least notice, suddenly ordered their expulsion; and with such animosity were they driven from the country, in which they sprung up, and had long been cherished, that not only was their wealth confiscated, and they themselves reduced to a wretched pittance, but even that was directed to be taken from them, if they published anything in their own vindication; while it was also declared that whoever ventured to write respecting them, should, if we were a subject of Spain, be put to death, as one guilty of high treason.[1429] [1426] M. Muriel (_Gobierno del Rey Don Carlos III._, Madrid, 1839, pp. 44, 45) terms their expulsion from Spain 'este acto de violencia hecho meramente por complacer al duque de Choiseul, ministro de Francia y protector del partido filosófico.' See also _Crétineau-Joly_, _Histoire de la Compagnie de Jésus_, vol. v. p. 291, Paris, 1845; and _Georgel_, _Mémoires pour servir à l'Histoire des Évènemens depuis 1760_, vol. ii. p. 95, Paris, 1817. [1427] Archdeacon Coxe, in a somewhat professional tone, says of Aranda, 'In France he had acquired the graces of polished society, and _imbibed that freedom of sentiment_ which then began to be fashionable, _and has since been carried to such a dangerous excess_.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. iv. p. 402. His great enemy, the Prince of the Peace, wishing to be severe, unintentionally praises him; and observes, that he was 'connected with the most distinguished literary Frenchmen of the middle of the last century,' and that he was 'divested of religious prejudices, though swayed by philosophical enthusiasm.' _Godoy's Memoirs_, London, 1836, vol. i. p. 319. The hostility of some men is extremely valuable. The Prince further adds, that Aranda 'could only lay claim to the inferior merit of a sectarian attachment,' forgetting that, in a country like Spain, every enlightened person must belong to a miserably small sect. [1428] Cabarrus (_Elogio de Carlos III._, Madrid, 1789, 4to. p. xxiv.) says, rather magniloquently, 'El acierto de la execucion que correspondió al pulso y prudencia con que se habia deliberado esta providencia importante, pasará á la ultima posteridad.' [1429] _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. iv. p. 362. M. Rio, in the second volume of his _History of Charles III._, Madrid, 1856, has given a long, but not very philosophical, nor very accurate, account of the expulsion of the Jesuits, which he considers solely from the Spanish point of view; overlooking the fact, that it was part of an European movement headed by France. He denies the influence of Choiseul, p. 125; censures the perfectly correct statement of Coxe, p. 123; and finally ascribes this great event to the operation of causes confined to the Peninsula. 'De ser los jesuitas adversarios del regalismo emanó su ruina en España, cuando triunfaban las opiniones sostenidas con heróico teson desde mucho ántes por doctísimos jurisconsultos.' p. 519. Such boldness on the part of the government[1430] caused even the Inquisition to tremble. That once omnipotent tribunal, threatened and suspected by the civil authorities, became more wary in its proceedings, and more tender in its treatment of heretics. Instead of extirpating unbelievers by hundreds or by thousands, it was reduced to such pitiful straits, that between 1746 and 1759, it was only able to burn ten persons; and between 1759 and 1788, only four persons.[1431] The extraordinary diminution during the latter period, was partly owing to the great authority wielded by Aranda, the friend of the encyclopædists and of other French sceptics. This remarkable man was President of Castile till 1773,[1432] and he issued an order forbidding the Inquisition to interfere with the civil courts.[1433] He also formed a scheme for entirely abolishing it; but his plan was frustrated, owing to its premature announcement by his friends in Paris, to whom it had been confided.[1434] His views, however, were so far successful, that after 1781, there is no instance in Spain of a heretic being burned; the Inquisition being too terrified by the proceedings of government to do anything which might compromise the safety of the Holy Institution.[1435] [1430] One of the most recent historians of the Jesuits indignantly observes, 'Depuis deux cent vingt ans les Jésuites vivent et prêchent en Espagne. Ils sont comblés de bienfaits par des monarques dont ils étendent la souveraineté. Le clergé et les masses acceptent avec bonheur leur intervention. Tout à coup l'Ordre se voit déclaré coupable d'un crime de lèse-majesté, d'un attentat public que personne ne peut spécifier. La sentence prononce la peine sans énoncer le délit.' _Crétineau-Joly_, _Histoire de la Compagnie de Jésus_, vol. v. p. 295, Paris, 1845. [1431] _Dunham's History of Spain_, vol. v. p. 285, where the facts are well brought together. The valuable _History of the Inquisition_, by Llorente, is not quite precise enough in these matters; though it is a very accurate, and, what is still more surprising, a very honest book. [1432] _Rio_, _Historia de Carlos III._, vol. iii. pp. 103-107, which must be compared with the account of Coxe, who derived some of his information from a friend of Aranda's. _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. iv. pp. 401-415. A good life of Aranda would be very interesting. That contained in the _Biographie Universelle_ is extremely meagre, and carelessly written. [1433] _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. iv. p. 407. [1434] 'When at Paris, in 1786, I received the following anecdote from a person connected with the encyclopædists. During his residence in that capital, D'Aranda had frequently testified to the literati with whom he associated, his resolution to obtain the abolition of the Inquisition, should he ever be called to power. His appointment was, therefore, exultingly hailed by the party, particularly by D'Alembert; and he had scarcely begun his reforms before an article was inserted in the Encyclopædia, then printing, in which this event was confidently anticipated, from the liberal principles of the minister. D'Aranda was struck on reading this article, and said, "This imprudent disclosure will raise such a ferment against me, that my plans will be foiled." He was not mistaken in his conjecture.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. iv. p. 408. [1435] Even the case in 1781 appears to have been for witchcraft rather than for heresy. 'La dernière victime qui périt dans les flammes fut une _béate_: on la brûla à Séville, le 7 novembre 1781, comme ayant fait un pacte, et entretenu un commerce charnel avec le Démon, et pour avoir été impénitente négative. Elle eût pu éviter la mort en s'avouant coupable du crime dont on l'accusait.' _Llorente_, _Histoire de l'Inquisition d'Espagne_, Paris, 1818, vol. iv. p. 270. About this time, torture began to be disused in Spain. See an interesting note in _Johnston's Institutes of the Civil Law of Spain_, London, 1825, p. 263. In 1777, Grimaldi, one of the chief supporters of that anti-theological policy which France introduced into Spain, ceased to be Minister; but he was succeeded by Florida Blanca, who was his creature, and to whom he transmitted his policy as well as his power.[1436] The progress, therefore, of political affairs continued in the same direction. Under the new minister, as under his immediate predecessors, a determination was shown to abridge the authority of the Church, and to vindicate the rights of laymen. In everything, the ecclesiastical interests were treated as subordinate to the secular. Of this, many instances might be given; but one is too important to be omitted. We have seen, that early in the eighteenth century, Alberoni, when at the head of affairs, was guilty of what in Spain was deemed the enormous offence of contracting an alliance with Mohammedans; and there can be no doubt that this was one of the chief causes of his fall, since it was held, that no prospect of mere temporal advantages could justify an union, or even a peace, between a Christian nation and a nation of unbelievers.[1437] But the Spanish government, which, owing to the causes I have related, was far in advance of Spain itself, was gradually becoming bolder, and growing more and more disposed to force upon the country, views, which, abstractedly considered, where extremely enlightened, but which the popular mind was unable to receive. The result was, that, in 1782, Florida Blanca concluded a treaty with Turkey, which put an end to the war of religious opinions; to the astonishment, as we are told, of the other European powers, who could hardly believe that the Spaniards would thus abandon their long-continued efforts to destroy the infidels.[1438] Before, however, Europe had time to recover from its amazement, other and similar events occurred equally startling. In 1784, Spain signed a peace with Tripoli; and in 1785, one with Algiers.[1439] And scarcely had these been ratified, when, in 1786, a treaty was also concluded with Tunis.[1440] So that the Spanish people to their no small surprise, found themselves on terms of amity with nations, whom for more than ten centuries they had been taught to abhor, and whom, in the opinion of the Spanish Church, it was the first duty of a Christian government to make war upon, and, if possible, to extirpate. [1436] 'Menesteres decir que el marqués de Grimaldi cayó venciendo á sus enemigos, pues, léjos de legarles el poder, á que aspiraban con anhelo, trasmitiólo á una de sus más legítimas hechuras; que tal era y por tal se reconocia el conde de Floridablanca.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iii. pp. 151, 152. [1437] In 1690, it was stated that 'since the expulsion of the Moors,' there was no precedent for the King of Spain ever sending an envoy to a Mohammedan prince. See _Mahon's Spain under Charles II._, p. 5. In that year an envoy was sent to Morocco; but this was merely concerning the redemption of prisoners, and certainly without the remotest intention of concluding a peace. [1438] 'The other European courts, with surprise and regret, witnessed the conclusion of a treaty which terminated the political and religious rivalry so long subsisting between Spain and the Porte.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. v. pp. 152, 153. 'Une des maximes de la politique espagnole avait été celle de maintenir une guerre perpétuelle contre les mahométans, même après la conquête de Grenade. Ni les pertes incalculables éprouvées par suite de ce système, ni l'exemple de la France et d'autres puissances catholiques qui ne se faisaient point scrupule d'être en paix avec les Turcs, n'avaient suffi pour détromper l'Espagne sur l'inconvenance d'une telle politique. Le génie éclairé de Charles III corrigea un préjugé aussi dangereux; dicta la paix avec les empereurs de Turquie et d'autres potentats mahométans; délivra ses sujets de la terrible piraterie des corsaires, et ouvrit à leur commerce de nouvelles voies pour spéculer avec de plus grands avantages.' _Sempere_, _La Monarchie Espagnole_, vol. ii. p. 160. [1439] _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iv. pp. 11-13. [1440] _Ibid._ vol. iv. pp. 16, 17. Putting aside, for a moment, the remote and intellectual consequences of these transactions, there can be no doubt that the immediate and material consequences were very salutary; though, as we shall presently see, they produced no lasting benefit, because they were opposed by the unfavourable operation of more powerful and more general causes. Still, it must be confessed that the direct results were extremely advantageous; and to those who take only a short view of human affairs, it might well appear that the advantages would be permanent. The immense line of coast from the kingdoms of Fez and Morocco to the furthest extremity of the Turkish empire was no longer allowed to pour forth those innumerable pirates who, heretofore, swept the seas, captured Spanish ships, and made slaves of Spanish subjects. Formerly, vast sums of money were annually consumed in ransoming these unhappy prisoners;[1441] but now all such evils were ended. At the same time, great impetus was given to the commerce of Spain; a new trade was thrown open, and her ships could safely appear in the rich countries of the Levant. This increased her wealth; which was moreover aided by another circumstance growing out of these events. For, the most fertile parts of Spain are those which are washed by the Mediterranean, and which had for centuries been the prey of Mohammedan corsairs, who frequently landing by surprise, had at length caused such constant fear, that the inhabitants gradually retired towards the interior, and abstained from cultivating the richest soil in their country. But, by the treaties just concluded, such dangers were at once removed; the people returned to their former abodes; the earth again gave forth its fruits; regular industry reappeared; villages sprung up; even manufactures were established; and the foundation seemed to be laid for a prosperity, the like of which had not been known since the Mohammedans were driven out of Granada.[1442] [1441] 'Ha sido notable el número de cautivos, que los piratas de Berbería han hecho sobre nuestras costas por tres centurias. En el siglo pasado se solian calcular exístentes á la vez en Argel, treinta mil personas españolas. Su rescate á razon de mil pesos por cada persona á lo menos, ascendia á 30 millones de pesos.' _Campomanes_, _Apendice á la Educacion Popular_, vol. i. p. 373, Madrid, 1775. On the precautions which had to be used to guard the coasts of Spain against the Mohammedan corsairs, see _Uztariz_, _Theorica y Practica de Comercio_, Madrid, 1757, folio, pp. 172, 173, 222-226; and _Lafuente_, _Historia de España_, vol. xv. p. 476, Madrid, 1855. In the middle of the eighteenth century, a regular watch had to be kept along the Mediterranean coast of Spain, 'in order to give the alarm upon the appearance of the enemy.' See _A Tour through Spain by Udal ap Rhys_, 2d edit., London, 1760, p. 170. As to the state of things in the seventeenth century, see _Janer_, _Condicion de los Moriscos_, Madrid, 1857, p. 63. [1442] 'De esta suerte quedaron los mares limpios de piratas desde los reinos de Fez y Marruecos hasta los últimos dominios del emperador Turco, por el Mediterráneo todo; vióse á menudo la bandera española en Levante, y las mismas naciones mercantiles que la persiguieron indirectamente, preferíanla ahora, resultando el aumento del comercio y de la Real marina, y la pericia de sus tripulaciones, y el mayor brillo de España y de su augusto Soberano: termino hubo la esclavitud de tantos millares de infelices con abandono de sus familias é indelebles perjuicios de la religion y el Estado, cesando tambien la continua extraccion de enormes sumas para los rescates que, al paso que nos empobrecian, pasaban á enriquecer á nuestros contrarios, y á facilitar sus armamentos para ofendernos; y se empezaban á cultivar rápidamente en las costas del Mediterráneo leguas de terrenos los más fertiles del mundo, desamparados y eriales hasta entónces por miedo á los piratas, y donde se formaban ya pueblos enteros para dar salida á los frutos y las manufacturas.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iv. pp. 17, 18. I have now laid before the reader a view of the most important steps which were taken by those able and vigorous politicians, who ruled Spain during the greater part of the eighteenth century. In considering how these reforms were effected, we must not forget the personal character of Charles III., who occupied the throne from 1759 to 1788.[1443] He was a man of great energy, and though born in Spain, had little in common with it. When he became king, he had been long absent from his native country, and had contracted a taste for customs, and, above all, for opinions, totally dissimilar to those natural to the Spaniards.[1444] Comparing him with his subjects, he was enlightened indeed. They cherished in their hearts, the most complete, and therefore the worst, form of spiritual power which has ever been exhibited in Europe. That very power, he made it his business to restrain. In this, as in other respects, he far surpassed Ferdinand VI. and Philip V., though they, under the influence of French ideas, had proceeded to what was deemed a dangerous length.[1445] The clergy, indignant at such proceedings, murmured, and even threatened.[1446] They declared that Charles was despoiling the Church, taking away her rights, insulting her ministers, and thus ruining Spain beyond human remedy.[1447] The king, however, whose disposition was firm, and somewhat obstinate, persevered in his policy; and as he and his ministers were men of undoubted ability, they, notwithstanding the opposition they encountered, succeeded in accomplishing most of their plans. Mistaken and short-sighted though they were, it is impossible to refrain from admiring the honesty, the courage, and the disinterestedness, which they displayed in endeavouring to alter the destiny of that superstitions and half barbarous country over which they ruled. We must not, however, conceal from ourselves, that in this, as in all similar cases, they, by attacking evils which the people were resolved to love, increased the affection which the evils inspired. To seek to change opinions by laws is worse than futile. It not only fails, but it causes a reaction, which leaves the opinions stronger than ever. First alter the opinion, and then you may alter the law. As soon as you have convinced men that superstition is mischievous, you may with advantage take active steps against those classes who promote superstition and live by it. But, however pernicious any interest or any great body may be, beware of using force against it, unless the progress of knowledge has previously sapped it at its base, and loosened its hold over the national mind. This has always been the error of the most ardent reformers, who, in their eagerness to effect their purpose, let the political movement outstrip the intellectual one, and, thus inverting the natural order, secure misery either to themselves or to their descendants. They touch the altar, and fire springs forth to consume them. Then comes another period of superstition and of despotism; another dark epoch in the annals of the human race. And this happens merely because men will not bide their time, but will insist on precipitating the march of affairs. Thus, for instance, in France and Germany, it is the friends of freedom who have strengthened tyranny; it is the enemies of superstition who have made superstition more permanent. In those countries, it is still believed that government can regenerate society; and therefore, directly they who hold liberal opinions get possession of the government, they use their power too lavishly, thinking that by doing so, they will best secure the end at which they aim. In England, the same delusion, though less general, is far too prevalent; but as, with us, public opinion controls politicians, we escape from evils which have happened abroad, because we will not allow any government to enact laws which the nation disapproves. In Spain, however, the habits of the people were so slavish, and their necks had so long been bowed under the yoke, that though the government, in the eighteenth century, opposed their dearest prejudices, they rarely ventured to resist, and they had no legal means of making their voice heard. But not the less did they feel. The materials for reaction were silently accumulating; and before that century had passed away the reaction itself was manifest. As long as Charles III. lived, it was kept under; and this was owing partly to the fear which his active and vigorous government inspired, and partly to the fact that many of the reforms which he introduced were so obviously beneficial as to shed a lustre on his reign, which all classes could perceive. Besides the exemption which his policy insured from the incessant ravages of pirates, he also succeeded in obtaining for Spain the most honourable peace which any Spanish government had signed for two centuries; thus recalling to the popular mind the brightest and most glorious days of Philip II.[1448] When Charles came to the throne, Spain was hardly a third-rate power; when he died, she might fairly claim to be a first-rate one, since she had for some years negotiated on equal terms with France, England, and Austria, and had taken a leading part in the councils of Europe. To this, the personal character of Charles greatly contributed; he being respected for his honesty, as well as feared for his vigour.[1449] Merely as a man, he bore high repute; while, as a sovereign, none of his contemporaries were in any way equal to him, except Frederick of Prussia, whose vast abilities, were, however, tarnished by a base rapacity, and by an incessant desire to overreach his neighbours. Charles III. had nothing of this; but he carefully increased the defences of Spain, and, raising her establishments to a war-footing, he made her more formidable than she had been since the sixteenth century. Instead of being liable to insult from every petty potentate who chose to triumph over her weakness, the country had now the means of resisting, and if need be, of attacking. While the army was greatly improved in the quality of the troops, in their discipline, and in the attention paid to their comforts, the navy was nearly doubled in number, and more than doubled in efficiency.[1450] And this was done without imposing fresh burdens on the people. Indeed, the national resources were becoming so developed, that, in the reign of Charles III., a large amount of taxation could have been easier paid than a small one under his predecessors. A regularity, hitherto unknown, was introduced into the method both of assessing imposts, and of collecting them.[1451] The laws of mortmain were relaxed, and steps were taken towards diminishing the rigidity of entails.[1452] The industry of the country was liberated from many of the trammels which had long been imposed upon it, and the principles of free trade were so far recognized, that, in 1765, the old laws respecting corn were repealed; its exportation was allowed, and also its transit from one part of Spain to another, uninterrupted by those absurd precautions, which preceding governments had thought it advisable to invent.[1453] [1443] M. Rio, whose voluminous History of the reign of Charles III. is, notwithstanding its numerous omissions, a work of considerable value, has appreciated the personal influence of the king more justly than any previous writer; he having had access to unpublished papers, which show the great energy and activity of Charles. 'Entre sus mas notables figuras ninguna aventaja á la de Cárlos III.; y no por el lugar jerárquico que ocupa, sino por el brillante papel que representa, ora tome la iniciativa, ora el consejo, para efectuar las innumerables reformas que le valieron inextinguible fama. Ya sé que algunos tachan á este Monarca de cortedad de luces y de estrechez de miras; y que algunos otros suponen que sus ministros le engañaron ó sorprendieron para dictar ciertas providencias. Cuarenta y ocho tomos de cartas semanales y escritas de su puno desde octubre de 1759 hasta marzo de 1783 al marqués de Tanucci, existentes en el archivo de Simancas, por mí leidas hoja tras hoja, sacando de ellas largos apuntes, sirven á maravilla para pintarle tal como era, y penetrar hasta sus más recónditos pensamientos, y contradecir á los que le juzgan á bulto.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, Madrid, 1856, vol. i. pp. xxii. xxiii. [1444] 'Although born and educated in Spain, Charles had quitted the country at too early an age to retain a partiality to its customs, laws, manners, and language; while, from his residence abroad, and his intercourse with France, he had formed a natural predilection for the French character and institutions.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. iv. p. 337. [1445] He 'far surpassed his two predecessors in his exertions to reform the morals, and restrain the power of the clergy.' _Ibid._ vol. v. p. 215. [1446] His measures 'alarmaron al clero en general, que empezó á murmurar con impaciencia, y aun algunos de sus individuos se propasaron á violentos actos.' _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iv. p. 98. [1447] A popular charge against the government was, 'que se despojara á la Iglesia de sus inmunidades.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. ii. p. 54. See also at pp. 201, 202, a letter, in 1766, from the Bishop of Cuenca to the King's confessor, in which that prelate stated, 'que España corria á su ruina que ya no corria, sino que volaba, y que ya estaba perdida sin remedio humano;' and that the cause of this was the persecution of the poor Church, which was 'saqueada en sus bienes, ultrajada en sus ministros, y atropellada en su inmunidad.' [1448] Coxe (_Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. v. p. 144) calls the peace of 1783 'the most honourable and advantageous ever concluded by the crown of Spain since the peace of St. Quintin.' Similarly, M. Rio (_Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iii. p. 397), 'Siglos habian pasado para España de continuas y porfiadas contiendas, sin llegar nunca, desde la famosa jornada de San Quintin y al alborear el reinado de Felipe II., tan gloriosamente al reposo.' [1449] Towards the close of his reign, we find a contemporary observer, who was anything but prejudiced in his favour, bearing testimony to 'the honest and obstinate adherence of his present Catholic Majesty to all his treaties, principles, and engagements,' _Letter by an English Officer_, London, 1788, vol. ii. p. 329. Compare Muriel (_Gobierno del Rey Don Carlos III._, Madrid, 1839, p. 34), 'Tan conocido llegó á ser Cárlos III. en los reinos estraños por la rectitud de su carácter, que en las desavenencias que ocurrian entre los gobiernos, todos consentian en tomarle por árbitro, y se sometian á sus decisiones;' and Cabarrus (_Elogio de Carlos III._, Madrid, 1789, 4to. p. xl.), 'Esta probidad llega á ser el resorte político de la Europa; todas las cortes penetradas de respeto á sus virtudes le buscan por árbitro y mediador.' Evidence of the great respect paid to Charles III. by foreign powers, will also be found in _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iv. pp. 41-43, 253. [1450] On the increase of the navy, compare _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iv. p. 127, with _Muriel_, _Gobierno del Rey Carlos III._, pp. 73, 82. [1451] These financial improvements were due, in a great measure, to the Frenchman, Cabarrus. See _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iv. pp. 122, 123. [1452] Rio, _ibid._ vol. iv. pp. 164-166, and _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iv. pp. 96, 97. [1453] 'La providencia mas acertada para el fomento de nuestra agricultura fué sin duda la real pragmática de 11 de julio de 1765, por la cual se abolió la tasa de los granos, y se permitió el libre comercio de ellos.' _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iv. p. 105. See also _Dillon's Spain_, p. 69, and _Townsend's Spain_, vol. ii. p. 230. The first step towards this great reform was taken in 1752. See the edict issued in that year, 'Libertase de Derechos el trigo, cebada, centeno y maiz que por mar se transportáre de unas provincias á otras de estos dominios.' This document, which is important for the history of political economy, is printed in the Appendix to _Campomanes_, _Educacion Popular_, vol. ii. pp. 16, 17, Madrid, 1775. It was also in the reign of Charles III. that the American Colonies were, for the first time, treated according to the maxims of a wise and liberal policy. The behaviour of the Spanish government in this respect, contrasts most favourably with the conduct pursued at the same time towards our great Colonies by that narrow and incompetent man who then filled the English throne. While the violence of George III. was fomenting rebellion in the British Colonies, Charles III. was busily engaged in conciliating the Spanish ones. Towards this end, and with the object of giving fair play to the growth of their wealth, he did everything which the knowledge and resources of that age allowed him to do. In 1764, he accomplished, what was then considered the great feat of establishing every month a regular communication with America, in order that the reforms which he projected might be more easily introduced, and the grievances of the Colonies attended to.[1454] In the very next year, free trade was conceded to the West Indian Islands, whose abundant commodities were now, for the first time, allowed to circulate, to their own benefit, as well as to the benefit of their neighbours.[1455] Into the Colonies generally, vast improvements were introduced, many oppressions were removed, the tyranny of officials was checked, and the burdens of the people were lightened.[1456] Finally, in 1778, the principles of free trade having been successfully tried in the American Islands, were now extended to the American Continent; the ports of Peru and of New Spain were thrown open; and by this means an immense impetus was given to the prosperity of those magnificent colonies, which nature intended to be rich, but which the meddling folly of man had forced to be poor.[1457] [1454] 'Pronto se establecieron los correos marítimos y se comunicaron con regularidad y frecuencia no vistas hasta entónces la metrópoli y las colonias. Por efecto del importante decreto de 24 de agosto de 1764, salía el primero de cada mes un paquebot de la Coruña con toda la correspondencia de las Indias; desembarcábala en la Habana, y desde allí se distribuia en balandras y otros bajeles á propósito para puntear los vientos escasos, á Veracruz, Portobelo, Cartagena, islas de Barlovento y provincias de la Plata; y aquellos ligeros buques volvian á la Habana, de donde zarpaba mensualmente y en dia fijo otro paquebot para la Coruña.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. i. p. 452. That part of the plan, however, which aimed at making Coruña a rival of Cadiz, appears to have been unsuccessful. See a letter from Coruña, written in 1774, in _Dalrymple's Travels through Spain_, London, 1777, 4to. p. 99. [1455] See the edicts in _Campomanes_, _Apendice_, vol. ii. pp. 37-47, Madrid, 1775. They are both dated October 16th, 1765. [1456] It was said, with reason, by Alaman, 'que el gobierno de América llego al colmo de su perfeccion en tiempo de Carlos III.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iv. p. 151. And Humboldt observes (_Essai Politique sur le Royaume de la Nouvelle-Espagne_, Paris, 1811, 4to. vol. i. p. 102), 'C'est le roi Charles III surtout qui, par des mesures aussi sages qu'énergiques, est devenu le bienfaiteur des indigènes; il a annulé les _Encomiendas_; il a défendu les _Repartimientos_, par lesquels les corregidors se constituoient arbitrairement les créanciers, et par conséquent les maîtres du travail des natifs, en les pourvoyant, à des prix exagérés, de chevaux, de mulets et de vêtemens (_ropa_).' [1457] _Cabarrus_, _Elogio de Carlos III._, Madrid, 1789, p. xlii., and Canga's note in _Martinez de la Mata_, _Dos Discursos_, Madrid, 1794, p. 31. But these writers were not sufficiently familiar with political economy, really to appreciate this measure. All this reacted upon the mother country with such rapidity, that scarcely was the old system of monopoly broken up, when the trade of Spain began to advance, and continued to improve, until the exports and imports had reached a height that even the authors of the reform could hardly have expected; it being said that the export of foreign commodities was tripled, that the export of home-produce was multiplied fivefold, and the returns from America ninefold.[1458] [1458] 'Early in the reign of Charles, steps had been taken towards the adoption of more liberal principles in the commerce with America; but, in the year 1778, a complete and radical change was introduced. The establishment of a free trade rapidly produced the most beneficial consequences. The export of foreign goods was tripled, of home-produce quintupled; and the returns from America augmented in the astonishing proportion of nine to one. The produce of the customs increased with equal rapidity.' _Clarke's Examination of the Internal State of Spain_, London, 1818, p. 72. Many of the taxes, which bore heavily on the lower ranks, were repealed, and the industrious classes, being relieved of their principal burdens, it was hoped that their condition would speedily improve.[1459] And to benefit them still more, such alterations were effected in the administration of the law, as might enable them to receive justice from the public tribunals, when they had occasion to complain of their superiors. Hitherto, a poor man had not the least chance of succeeding against a rich one; but in the reign of Charles III., government introduced various regulations, by which labourers and mechanics could obtain redress, if their masters defrauded them of their wages, or broke the contracts made with them.[1460] [1459] _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. v. pp. 197, 317, 318. [1460] See Florida Blanca's statement in _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. v. p. 331; 'to facilitate to artisans and journeymen the scanty payment of their labours, in spite of the privileges and interest of the powerful.' Not only the labouring classes, but also the literary and scientific classes, were encouraged and protected. One source of danger, to which they had long been exposed, was considerably lessened by the steps which Charles took to curtail the power of the Inquisition. The king, was, moreover, always ready to reward them; he was a man of cultivated tastes, and he delighted in being thought the patron of learning.[1461] Soon after his accession, he issued an order, exempting from military service all printers, and all persons immediately connected with printing, such as casters of type, and the like.[1462] He, also, as far as he was able, infused new life into the old universities, and did all that was possible towards restoring their discipline and reputation.[1463] He founded schools, endowed colleges, rewarded professors, and granted pensions. In these matters his munificence seemed inexhaustible, and is of itself sufficient to account for the veneration with which literary Spaniards regard his memory. They have reason to regret that, instead of living now, they had not lived when he was king. In his reign, it was supposed that their interests must be identical with the interests of knowledge; and these last were rated so highly, that, in 1771, it was laid down as a settled principle of government, that of all the branches of public policy, the care of education is the most important.[1464] [1461] _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iv. pp. 317, 318, and elsewhere. [1462] '"Desde mi feliz advenimiento al trono" (dijo el Rey en la ordenanza de reemplazos) "ha merecido mi Real proteccion el arte de la imprenta, y, para que pueda arraigarse sólidamente en estos reinos, vengo en declarar la exencion del sorteo y servicio militar, no solo á los impresores, sino tambien á los fundidores que se empleen de continuo en este ejercicio, y á los abridores de punzones y matrices."' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iii. p. 213. [1463] On the steps taken to reform the universities between 1768 and 1774, see _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iii. pp. 185-210. Compare vol. iv. pp. 296-299. [1464] 'La educacion de la juventud por los maestros de primeras letras es uno y aun el más principal ramo de la policía y buen gobierno del Estado.' _Real Provision de 11 de julio de 1771_, printed in Rio, vol. iii. p. 182. But this is not all. It is no exaggeration to say, that in the reign of Charles III., the face of Spain underwent greater changes than it had done during the hundred and fifty years which had elapsed since the final expulsion of the Mohammedans. At his accession, in 1759, the wise and pacific policy of his predecessor, Ferdinand VI., had enabled that prince not only to pay many of the debts owed by the crown, but also to accumulate and leave behind him a considerable treasure.[1465] Of this Charles availed himself, to begin those works of public splendour, which, more than any other part of his administration, was sure to strike the senses, and to give popularity to his reign. And when, by the increase of wealth, rather than by the imposition of fresh burdens, still larger resources were placed at his command, he devoted a considerable part of them to completing his designs. He so beautified Madrid, that forty years after his death, it was stated, that, as it then stood, all its magnificence was owing to him. The public buildings and the public gardens, the beautiful walks round the capital, its noble gates, its institutions, and the very roads leading from it to the adjacent country, are all the work of Charles III., and are among the most conspicuous trophies which attest his genius and the sumptuousness of his taste.[1466] [1465] M. Lafuente, who has justly praised the love of peace displayed by Ferdinand VI. (_Historia de España_, vol. i. p. 202, vol. xix. pp. 286, 378), adds (vol. xix. p. 384), 'De modo que con razon se admira, y es el testimonio más honroso de la buena administracion económica de este reinado, que al morir este buen monarca dejára, no diremos nosotros repletas y apuntaladas las arcas públicas, como hiperbólicamente suele decirse, pero sí con el considerable sobrante de trescientos millones de reales, despues de cubiertas todas las atenciones del Estado: fenómeno que puede decirse se veia por primera vez en España, y resultado satisfactorio, que aun supuesta una buena administracion, solo pudo obtenerse á favor de su prudente política de neutralidad y de paz.' [1466] 'But it is to Charles III. that Madrid owes all its present magnificence. Under his care, the royal palace was finished, the noble gates of Alcalá and San Vincente were raised; the custom-house, the post-office, the museum, and royal printing-office, were constructed; the academy of the three noble arts improved; the cabinet of natural history, the botanic garden, the national bank of San Carlos, and many gratuitous schools established; while convenient roads leading from the city, and delightful walks planted within and without it, and adorned by statues and fountains, combine to announce the solicitude of this paternal king.' _Spain by an American_, London, 1831, vol. i. p. 206; see also p. 297. In other parts of the country, roads were laid down, and canals were dug, with the view of increasing trade by opening up communications through tracts previously impassable. At the accession of Charles III., the whole of the Sierra Morena was unoccupied, except by wild beasts and banditti, who took refuge there.[1467] No peaceful traveller would venture into such a place; and commerce was thus excluded from what nature had marked as one of the greatest highways in Spain, standing as it does between the basins of the Guadiana and Guadalquivir, and in the direct course between the ports on the Mediterranean and those on the Atlantic. The active government of Charles III. determined to remedy this evil; but the Spanish people not having the energy to do what was required, six thousand Dutch and Flemish were, in 1767, invited to settle in the Sierra Morena. On their arrival, lands were allotted to them, roads were cut through the whole of the district, villages were built; and that which had just been an impervious desert, was suddenly turned into a smiling and fruitful territory.[1468] [1467] The following passage describes its state so late as the year 1766: 'Por temor ó por connivencia de los venteros, dentro de sus casas concertaban frecuentemente los ladrones sus robos, y los ejecutaban á mansalva, ocultándose en guaridas de que ahuyentaban á las fieras. Acaso á muy largas distancias se descubrian entre contados caseríos algunos pastores como los que allí hizo encontrar el ilustre manco de Lepanto al ingenioso hidalgo de la Mancha. Parte de la Sierra estuvo poblada en tiempo de moros; actualmente ya no habia más que espesos matorrales hasta en torno de la ermita de Santa Elena, donde resonaron cánticos de gracias al Cielo por el magnífico triunfo de las Navas.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iii. p. 9. On the condition of the Sierra Morena a hundred years before this, see _Boisel_, _Journal du Voyage d'Espagne_, Paris, 1669, 4to. pp. 62, 296; where it is termed 'le lieu le plus désert, et où il n'y a que quelques _ventas_ sans villages.' [1468] _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iii. pp. 9-11, 35. By 1771, 'sin auxilio de la Real hacienda pudieron mantenerse al fin los colonos.' p. 42. See also vol. iv. pp. 114, 115. On the subsequent history of this settlement, see _Inglis' Spain_, vol. ii. pp. 29-31, London, 1831. Nearly all over Spain, the roads were repaired; a fund having been, so early as 1760, specially set apart for that purpose.[1469] Many new works were begun; and such improvements were introduced, while at the same time, such vigilance was employed to prevent peculation on the part of officials, that in a very few years the cost of making public highways was reduced to less than half of what it used to be.[1470] Of the undertakings which were brought to a successful issue, the most important were, a road now first constructed from Malaga to Antequera,[1471] and another from Aquilas to Lorca.[1472] In this way, means of intercourse were supplied between the Mediterranean and the interior of Andalusia and of Mercia. While these communications were established in the south and south-east of Spain, others were opened up in the north and north-west. In 1769, a road was begun between Bilbao and Osma;[1473] and soon after, one was completed between Galicia and Astorga.[1474] These and similar works were so skilfully executed, that the Spanish highways, formerly among the worst in Europe, were now classed among the best. Indeed, a competent, and by no means over-friendly, judge gives it as his opinion, that at the death of Charles III. better roads were to be found in Spain than in any other country.[1475] [1469] 'En 1760 se destinó por primera vez un fondo especial para la construccion de caminos.' _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iv. p. 123. [1470] Indeed, M. Rio says, that the expense was reduced by two-thirds, and, in some parts, by three-fourths. 'Antes se regulaba en un millon de reales la construccion de cada legua; ahora solo ascendia á la tercera ó cuarta parte de esta suma.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iv. p. 117. [1471] A note in _Bowles_, _Historia Natural de España_, Madrid, 1789, 4to. p. 158, terms this 'un camino alineado y sólido.' In _Cook's Spain_, London, 1834, vol. i. p. 209, it is called 'a magnificent road.' [1472] 'Para dar salida á los frutos, que regaban los pantanos de Lorca, ejecutóse una bien trazada via al puerto de las Aguilas.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iv. pp. 115, 116. [1473] In 1769, Baretti writes, in great surprise, 'the Biscayans are actually making a noble road, which is to go from Bilbao to Osma.' _Baretti's Journey through England, Portugal, Spain, and France_, London, 1770, vol. iv. p. 311. [1474] 'Otras diferentes carreteras, construidas de nuevo ó rehabilitadas, multiplicaron las comunicaciones durante los nueve primeros años de estar á cargo de Floridablanca la superintendencia general de caminos, haciéndose de fácil y cómodo tránsito puntos escabrosos como el del Puerto de la Cadena y los que médian entre Astorga y Galicia, y Málaga y Antequera.' _Rio_, _Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, vol. iv. p. 115. [1475] 'The reigns of Ferdinand the Sixth and Charles the Third produced the most beneficial changes in this important branch of political economy. New roads were opened, which were carefully levelled, and constructed with solidity. There are at the present time in Spain several superb roads, such as may vie with the finest in Europe; indeed, they have been made with superior judgment, and upon a grander scale.' _Laborde's Spain_, edit. London, 1809, vol. iv. p. 427. In the interior, rivers were made navigable, and canals were formed to connect them with each other. The Ebro runs through the heart of Aragon and part of Old Castile, and is available for purposes of traffic as high up as Logroño, and from thence down to Tudela. But between Tudela and Saragossa, the navigation is interrupted by its great speed, and by the rocks in its bed. Consequently, Navarre is deprived of its natural communication with the Mediterranean. In the enterprising reign of Charles V., an attempt was made to remedy this evil; but the plan failed, was laid aside, and was forgotten, until it was revived, more than two hundred years later, by Charles III. Under his auspices, the great canal of Aragon was projected, with the magnificent idea of uniting the Mediterranean and the Atlantic. This, however, was one of many instances in which the government of Spain was too far in advance of Spain itself; and it was necessary to abandon a scheme, to which the resources of the country were unequal. But what was really effected, was of immense value. A canal was actually carried to Saragossa, and the waters of the Ebro were made available not only for transport, but also for irrigating the soil. The means of a safe and profitable trade were now supplied even to the western extremity of Aragon. The old land, becoming more productive, rose in value, and new land was brought under the plough. From this, other parts of Spain also benefited. Castile, for example, had in seasons of scarcity always depended for supplies on Aragon, though that province could, under the former system, only produce enough for its own consumption. But by this great canal, to which, about the same time, that of Tauste was also added,[1476] the soil of Aragon became far more productive than it had ever yet been; and the rich plains of the Ebro yielded so abundantly, that they were able to supply wheat and other food to the Castilians, as well as to the Aragonese.[1477] [1476] _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. v. p. 287. [1477] _Ibid._ vol. v. pp. 198, 199, 286, 287. _Townsend's Spain_, vol. i. pp. 212-215. _Laborde's Spain_, vol. ii. p. 271. This canal, which was intended to establish a free communication between the Bay of Biscay and the Mediterranean, is slightly noticed in _Macpherson's Annals of Commerce_, vol. iv. pp. 95, 96: a learned and valuable work, but very imperfect as regards Spain. The economical value of this great enterprise, and the extent to which it succeeded, are seriously under-estimated in _Ford's Spain_, p. 587; a book which, notwithstanding the praise that has been conferred upon it, is carelessly composed, and is sure to mislead readers who have not the means of comparing it with other authorities. M. Rio's History of Charles III. contains some interesting information on the subject; but, unfortunately, I omitted to mark the passages. The government of Charles III., moreover, constructed a canal between Amposta and Alfaques,[1478] which irrigated the southern extremity of Catalonia, and brought into cultivation a large district, which, from the constant lack of rain, had hitherto been untilled. Another and still greater enterprise belonging to the same reign, was an attempt, only partly successful, to establish a water-communication between the capital and the Atlantic, by running a canal from Madrid to Toledo, whence the Tagus would have conveyed goods to Lisbon, and all the trade of the west would have been opened up.[1479] But this and many other noble projects were nipped in the bud by the death of Charles III., with whom every thing vanished. When he passed away, the country relapsed into its former inactivity, and it was clearly seen that these great works were not national, but political; in other words that they were due merely to individuals, whose most strenuous exertions always come to naught, if they are opposed by the operation of those general causes, which are often undiscerned, but to which even the strongest of us, do, in our own despite, pay implicit obedience. [1478] _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. v. pp. 288, 289, on the authority or Florida Blanca himself. [1479] _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. v. p. 199. _Townsend's Spain_, vol. i. p. 304. Still for a time much was done; and Charles, reasoning according to the ordinary maxims of politicians, might well indulge the hope, that what he had effected would permanently change the destiny of Spain. For these and other works which he not only planned but executed,[1480] were not paid for, as is too often the case, by taxes which oppressed the people, and trammelled their industry. At his side, and constantly advising him, there were men who really aimed at the public good, and who never would have committed so fatal an error. Under his rule the wealth of the country greatly increased, and the comforts of the lower classes, instead of being abridged, were multiplied. The imposts were more fairly assessed than they had ever been before. Taxes, which, in the seventeenth century, all the power of the executive could not wring from the people, were now regularly paid, and, owing to the development of the national resources, they became at once more productive and less onerous. In the management of the public finances, an economy was practised, the first example of which had been set in the preceding reign, when the cautious and pacific policy of Ferdinand VI. laid a foundation for many of the improvements just narrated. Ferdinand bequeathed to Charles III. a treasure which he had not extorted, but saved. Among the reforms which he introduced, and which an unwillingness to accumulate details has compelled me to omit, there is one very important, and also very characteristic of his policy. Before his reign, Spain had annually been drained of an immense amount of money, on account of the right which the Pope claimed of presenting to certain rich benefices, and of receiving part of their produce; probably as a recompense for the trouble he had taken. Of this duty the Pope was relieved by Ferdinand VI., who secured to the Spanish crown the right of conferring such preferment, and thus saved to the country those enormous sums on which the Roman Court had been wont to revel.[1481] This was just the sort of measure which would be hailed with delight by Charles III., as harmonizing with his own views; and we accordingly find, that, in his reign, it was not only acted upon, but extended still further. For, perceiving that, in spite of his efforts, the feeling of the Spaniards on these matters was so strong as to impel them to make offerings to him whom they venerated as the Head of the Church, the king determined to exercise control over even these voluntary gifts. To accomplish this end, various devices were suggested; and at length one was hit upon, which was thought sure to be effectual. A royal order was issued, directing that no person should send money to Rome, but that if he had occasion to make remittances there, they should pass not through the ordinary channels, but through the ambassadors, ministers, or other agents of the Spanish crown.[1482] [1480] See Florida Blanca's statement in _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. v. p. 289. 'In many other parts similar works have been promoted, for canals of irrigation, and for encouraging agriculture and traffic. The canals of Manzanares and Guadarrama are continued by means of the national bank, which has appropriated one-half of the profits derived from the export of silver to this end.' ... 'The town of Almuradiel, formed in the middle of the _campo nuevo_ of Andalusia, for the rugged pass of Despeña Perros, is another example of agriculture for the neighbouring places; since, instead of woods and frightful deserts, we have seen in a few years public buildings, houses, plantations, and cultivated lands, producing every species of grain and fruits, which border the road, and banish the danger of robbers and banditti.' See also _Muriel_, _Gobierno del Rey Don Carlos III._, p. 5. 'Habiendo sido el reinado de Carlos III. una serie continua de mejoras en todos ramos;' and the striking picture (p. 15), 'Agricultura, artes mecánicas, comercio, enseñanza, milicia, navegacion, ciencias, letras, legislacion, en una palabra, todo cuanto puede influir en la prosperidad del Estado, todo llamó la atencion de los ministros, y en todo hicieron las mejoras que permitian las circunstancias.' On the improvements in internal communications, see the same valuable work, pp. 187-192. [1481] Respecting this step, which as effected in 1754, see _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, Madrid, 1840, vol. iv. pp. 81, 82. 'Fué este tratado utilísimo para la España, pues por él se libertó del pago de enormes sumas que hasta entonces habian pasado á los estados pontificos. En el informe canónico-legal escrito á virtud de real órden en 1746 por el fiscal de la cámara de Castilla Don Blas de Jover, se decia; que según el testimonio del historiador Cabrera, en el espacio de 30 años el solo renglon de las coadjutorías y dispensas habia hecho pasar á Roma de la corona de Castilla millon y medio de ducados romanos. Y añade el mismo Jover que á principios del siglo xviii. subia aun esta contribucion cada año en todos los estados de la monarquia española á 500,000 escudos romanos, que era _un tercio poco mas ó menos de lo que Roma percibia de toda la cristiandad_.' [1482] See Appendix I. to _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. v. p. 334. If we now review the transactions which I have narrated, and consider them as a whole, extending from the accession of Philip V. to the death of Charles III., over a period of nearly ninety years, we shall be struck with wonder at their unity, at the regularity of their march, and at their apparent success. Looking at them merely in a political point of view, it may be doubted if such vast and uninterrupted progress has ever been seen in any country either before or since. For three generations, there was no pause on the part of the government; not one reaction, not one sign of halting. Improvement upon improvement, and reform upon reform, followed each other in swift succession. The power of the Church, which has always been the crying evil of Spain, and which hitherto none of the boldest politicians had dared to touch, was restricted in every possible way, by a series of statesmen, from Orry to Florida Blanca, whose efforts were latterly, and for nearly thirty years, zealously aided by Charles III., the ablest monarch who has sat on the throne since the death of Philip II. Even the Inquisition was taught to tremble, and made to loosen its hold over its victims. The burning of heretics was stopped. Torture was disused. Prosecutions for heresy were discouraged. Instead of punishing men for imaginary offences, a disposition was shown to attend to their real interests, to alleviate their burdens, to increase their comforts, and to check the tyranny of those who were set over them. Attempts were made to restrain the cupidity of the clergy, and prevent them from preying at will upon the national wealth. With this view, the laws of mortmain were revised, and various measures taken to interpose obstacles in the way of persons who desired to waste their property by bequeathing it for ecclesiastical purposes. In this, as in other matters, the true interests of society were preferred to the fictitious ones. To raise the secular classes above the spiritual; to discountenance the exclusive attention hitherto paid to questions respecting which nothing is known, and which it is impossible to solve; to do this, and, in the place of such barren speculations, to substitute a taste for science, or for literature, became the object of the Spanish government for the first time since Spain had possessed a government at all. As part of the same scheme, the Jesuits were expelled, the right of sanctuary was infringed, and the whole hierarchy, from the highest bishop down to the lowest monk, were taught to fear the law, to curb their passions, and to restrain the insolence with which they had formerly treated every rank except their own. These would have been great deeds in any country; in such a country as Spain, they were marvellous. Of them I have given an abridged, and therefore an imperfect, account, but still sufficient to show how the government laboured to diminish superstition, to check bigotry, to stimulate intellect, to promote industry, and to rouse the people from their death-like slumber. I have omitted many measures of considerable interest, and which tended in the same direction; because, here, as elsewhere, I seek to confine myself to those salient points which most distinctly mark the general movement. Whoever will minutely study the history of Spain during this period, will find additional proof of the skill and vigour of those who were at the head of affairs, and who devoted their best energies to regenerating the country which they ruled. But, for these special studies, special men are required; and I shall be satisfied, if I have firmly grasped the great march and outline of the whole. It is enough for my purpose, if I have substantiated the general proposition, and have convinced the reader of the clearness with which the statesmen of Spain discerned the evils under which their country was groaning, and of the zeal with which they set themselves to remedy the mischief, and to resuscitate the fortunes of what had once not only been the chief of European monarchies, but had borne sway over the most splendid and extensive territory that had been united under a single rule since the fall of the Roman Empire. They who believe that a government can civilize a nation, and that legislators are the cause of social progress, will naturally expect that Spain reaped permanent benefit from those liberal maxims, which now, for the first time, were put into execution. The fact, however, is, that such a policy, wise as it appeared, was of no avail, simply because it ran counter to the whole train of preceding circumstances. It was opposed to the habits of the national mind, and was introduced into a state of society not yet ripe for it. No reform can produce real good, unless it is the work of public opinion, and unless the people themselves take the initiative. In Spain, during the eighteenth century, foreign influence, and the complications of foreign politics, bestowed enlightened rulers upon an unenlightened country.[1483] The consequence was, that, for a time, great things were done. Evils were removed, grievances were redressed, many important improvements were introduced; and a spirit of toleration was exhibited, such as had never before been seen in that priest-ridden and superstitious land. But the mind of Spain was untouched. While the surface, and as it were the symptoms, of affairs were ameliorated, affairs themselves remained unchanged. Below that surface, and far out of reach of any political remedy, large general causes were at work, which had been operating for many centuries, and which were sure, sooner or later, to force politicians to retrace their steps, and compel them to inaugurate a policy which would suit the traditions of the country, and harmonize with the circumstances under which those traditions had been formed. [1483] It is important to observe, that the Cortes, where alone the voice of the people had a chance of being heard, was assembled but three times during the whole of the eighteenth century, and then merely for the sake of form. 'Les Cortès ne se réunirent que trois fois pendant le dix-huitième siècle, et plutôt encore comme des solennités formulaires pour la prestation du serment aux princes héritiers de la couronne, que comme étant nécessaires pour de nouvelles lois et des contributions.' _Sempere_, _Histoire des Cortès d'Espagne_, Bordeaux, 1815, p. 270. At length the reaction came. In 1788, Charles III. died; and was succeeded by Charles IV., a king of the true Spanish breed, devout, orthodox, and ignorant.[1484] It was now seen how insecure everything was, and how little reliance can be placed on reforms, which, instead of being suggested by the people, are bestowed on them by the political classes. Charles IV., though a weak and contemptible prince,[1485] was so supported in his general views by the feelings of the Spanish nation, that, in less than five years, he was able completely to reverse that liberal policy which it had taken three generations of statesmen to build up. In less than five years everything was changed. The power of the Church was restored; the slightest approach towards free discussion was forbidden; old and arbitrary principles, which had not been heard of since the seventeenth century, were revived; the priests re-assumed their former importance; literary men were intimidated, and literature was discouraged; while the Inquisition, suddenly starting up afresh, displayed an energy, which caused its enemies to tremble, and proved that all the attempts which had been made to weaken it, had been unable to impair its vigour, or to daunt its ancient spirit. [1484] By combining these three qualities, he has deserved and received the cordial approbation of the present Bishop of Barcelona, who, in his recent work on the Spanish Church, styles him 'un monarca tan piadoso.' _Observaciones sobre El Presente y El Porvenir de la Iglesia en España_, _por Domingo Costa y Borras_, Barcelona, 1857, p. 80. [1485] Even in _Alison's History of Europe_, where men of his character are usually made much of, he is treated with moderate disdain. 'Charles IV. was not destitute of good qualities, but he was a weak, incapable prince.' Vol. viii. p. 382, Edinburgh, 1849. The ministers of Charles III., and the authors of those great reforms which signalized his reign, were dismissed, to make way for other advisers, better suited to this new state of things. Charles IV. loved the Church too well to tolerate the presence of enlightened statesmen. Aranda and Florida Blanca were both removed from office, and both were placed in confinement.[1486] Jovellanos was banished from court, and Cabarrus was thrown into prison.[1487] For, now, work had to be done, to which these eminent men would not put their hands. A policy which had been followed with undeviating consistency for nearly ninety years, was about to be rescinded, in order that the old empire of the seventeenth century, which was the empire of ignorance, of tyranny, and of superstition, might be resuscitated, and, if possible, restored to its pristine vigour. [1486] _Sempere_, _Monarchie Espagnole_, vol. ii. p. 167. I need hardly say, that not the slightest credit is to be attached to the account given in Godoy's Memoirs. Every one tolerably acquainted with Spanish history, will see that his book is an attempt to raise his own reputation, by defaming the character of some of the ablest and most high-minded of his contemporaries. [1487] _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. iii. pp. 277, 278. Once more was Spain covered with darkness; once more did the shadows of night overtake that wretched land. The worst forms of oppression, says a distinguished writer, seemed to be settling on the country with a new and portentous weight.[1488] At the same time, and indeed as a natural part of the scheme, every investigation likely to stimulate the mind, was prohibited, and an order was actually sent to all the universities, forbidding the study of moral philosophy; the minister, who issued the order, justly observing, that the king did not want to have philosophers.[1489] There was, however, little fear of Spain producing anything so dangerous. The nation not daring, and, what was still worse, not wishing, to resist, gave way, and let the king do as he liked. Within a very few years, he neutralized the most valuable reforms which his predecessors had introduced. Having discarded the able advisers of his father, he conferred the highest posts upon men as narrow and incompetent as himself; he reduced the country to the verge of bankruptcy; and, according to the remark of a Spanish historian, he exhausted all the resources of the state.[1490] [1488] 'In all its worst forms, therefore, oppression, civil, political, and religious, appeared to be settling down, with a new and portentous weight, on the whole country.' _Ticknor's History of Spanish Literature_, vol. iii. p. 318. [1489] 'Caballero, fearing the progress of all learning, which might disturb the peace of the Court, sent, not long since, a circular order to the universities, forbidding the study of moral philosophy. "His Majesty," it was said in the order, "was not in want of philosophers, but of good and obedient subjects."' _Doblado's Letters from Spain_, p. 358. [1490] 'Le gouvernement de Charles IV avait épuisé toutes les ressources de l'État.' _Sempere_, _Histoire des Cortès d'Espagne_, p. 323. Such was the condition of Spain, late in the eighteenth century. The French invasion quickly followed; and that unhappy country underwent every form of calamity and of degradation. Herein, however, lies a difference. Calamities may be inflicted by others; but no people can be degraded except by their own acts. The foreign spoiler works mischief; he cannot cause shame. With nations, as with individuals, none are dishonoured if they are true to themselves. Spain, during the present century, has been plundered and oppressed, and the opprobrium lights on the robbers, not on the robbed. She has been overrun by a brutal and licentious soldiery; her fields laid waste, her towns sacked, her villages burned. It is to the criminal, rather than to the victim, that the ignominy of these acts must belong. And, even in a material point of view, such losses are sure to be retrieved, if the people who incur them are inured to those habits of self-government, and to that feeling of self-reliance, which are the spring and the source of all real greatness. With the aid of these, every damage may be repaired, and every evil remedied. Without them, the slightest blow may be fatal. In Spain, they are unknown; and it seems impossible to establish them. In that country, men have so long been accustomed to pay implicit deference to the Crown and the Church, that loyalty and superstition have usurped the place of those nobler emotions, to which all freedom is owing, and in the absence of which, the true idea of independence can never be attained. More than once, indeed, during the nineteenth century, a spirit has appeared, from which better things might have been augured. In 1812, in 1820, and in 1836, a few ardent and enthusiastic reformers attempted to secure liberty to the Spanish people, by endowing Spain with a free constitution. They succeeded for a moment, and that was all. The forms of constitutional government they could bestow; but they could not find the traditions and the habits, by which the forms are worked. They mimicked the voice of liberty; they copied her institutions; they aped her very gestures. And what then? At the first stroke of adverse fortune, their idol fell to pieces. Their constitutions were broken up, their assemblies dissolved, their enactments rescinded. The inevitable reaction quickly followed. After each disturbance, the hands of the government were strengthened, the principles of despotism were confirmed, and the Spanish liberals were taught to rue the day, in which they vainly endeavoured to impart freedom to their unhappy and ill-starred country.[1491] [1491] In Spain, the voice of the people has always been opposed to the liberal party, as many writers have observed, without being aware of the reason. Mr. Walton (_Revolutions of Spain_, London, 1837, vol. i. pp. 322, 323) says of the Cortes, 'Public indignation hurled them from their seats in 1814; and in 1823 they were overpowered, not by the arms of France, but by the displeasure of their own countrymen,' &c. See also p. 290; and _Quin's Memoirs of Ferdinand the Seventh_, London, 1824, p. 121, where it is mentioned, that 'in all the towns through which the King passed, the multitude, excited by the friars and clergy, overturned the constitutional stone, and uttered the most atrocious insults against the Constitution, the Cortes, and the Liberals.' Compare _Sempere_, _Histoire des Cortès_, p. 335, and _Bacon's Six Years in Biscay_, p. 40. Indeed, a very intelligent writer on Spanish affairs in 1855, asserts, with, I believe, perfect truth, that Spain is 'un pays où les populations sont toujours, à coup sûr moins libérales que les gouvernemens.' _Annuaire des Deux Mondes_, 1854, 1855, Paris, 1855, p. 266. What makes these failures the more worthy of observation is, that the Spaniards did possess, at a very early period, municipal privileges and franchises, similar to those which we had in England, and to which our greatness is often ascribed. But such institutions, though they preserve freedom, can never create it. Spain had the form of liberty without its spirit; hence the form, promising as it was, soon died away. In England, the spirit preceded the form, and therefore the form was durable. Thus it is, that though the Spaniards could boast of free institutions a century before ourselves, they were unable to retain them, simply because they had the institutions and nothing more. We had no popular representation till 1264;[1492] but in Castile they had it in 1169,[1493] and in Aragon in 1133.[1494] So, too, while the earliest charter was granted to an English town in the twelfth century,[1495] we find, in Spain, a charter conferred on Leon as early as 1020; and in the course of the eleventh century the enfranchisement of towns was as secure as laws could make it.[1496] [1492] _Buckle's History of Civilization_, vol. ii. p. 117. [1493] _Prescott's History of Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. i. p. xlviii. [1494] _Ibid._ vol. i. p. xcvi. [1495] _Hallam's Middle Ages_, ninth edition, London, 1846, vol. ii. pp. 153-157, which must be compared with _Hallam's Supplemental Notes_, London, 1848, pp. 323-327. [1496] _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 373. _Prescott's Ferdinand and Isabella_, vol. i. pp. xlv. xlvi. The fact, however, is, that in Spain these institutions, instead of growing out of the wants of the people originated in a stroke of policy on the part of their rulers. They were conceded to the citizens, rather than desired by them. For, during the war with the Mohammedans, the Christian kings of Spain, as they advanced southwards, were naturally anxious to induce their subjects to settle in the frontier towns, where they might face and repel the enemy. With this object they granted charters to the towns, and privileges to the inhabitants.[1497] And as the Mohammedans were gradually beaten back from the Asturias to Granada, the frontiers changed, and the franchises were extended to the new conquests, in order that what was the post of danger, might also be the place of reward. But, meanwhile, those general causes, which I have indicated, were predetermining the nation to habits of loyalty and of superstition, which grew to a height fatal to the spirit of liberty. That being the case the institutions were of no avail. They took no root; and as they were originated by one political combination, they were destroyed by another. Before the close of the fourteenth century, the Spaniards were so firmly seated in the territories they had lately acquired that there was little danger of their being again expelled[1498] while, on the other hand, there was no immediate prospect of their being able to push their conquests further, and drive the Mohammedans from the strongholds of Granada. The circumstances, therefore, which gave rise to the municipal privileges had changed; and as soon as this was apparent, the privileges began to perish. Being unsuited to the habits of the people, they were sure to fall, on the first opportunity.[1499] Late in the fourteenth century, their decline was perceptible; by the close of the fifteenth century, they were almost extinct; and, early in the sixteenth century, they were finally overthrown.[1500] [1497] 'Ce fut alors que les successeurs de Pélage descendirent de leurs montagnes dans les plaines, de leurs forteresses perchées sur des rocs inaccessibles dans les villes populeuses, le long des fleuves, dans de fertiles vallées et sur les côtes de la mer; ce fut alors que la ville d'Astorgue revint du pouvoir des Arabes à celui des Asturiens et chassa toute la partie musulmane de ces habitants; ce fut alors, enfin, que commencèrent en Espagne ces concessions de franchises municipales par lesquelles les rois et les seigneurs chrétiens cherchèrent à attirer des populations chrétiennes dans les lieux d'où ils avaient chassé les Musulmans.' _Fauriel_, _Histoire de la Gaule Méridionale_, Paris, 1836, vol. iii. p. 215. See also _Sempere_, _Monarchie Espagnole_, vol. ii. pp. 256, 257. [1498] On the increasing confidence of the Spaniards in the middle of the fourteenth century, see an interesting passage in _Mariana_, _Historia de España_, vol. iv. pp. 172, 173. [1499] The deputies of the towns did, in fact, eventually overthrow their own liberties, as a Spanish historian truly remarks. 'Il n'est pas étonnant que les monarques espagnols tâchassent d'affermir leur autorité autant que possible, et encore moins que leurs conseillers et leurs, ministres coopérassent à leurs desseins. L'histoire de toutes les nations nous offre de nombreux exemples de cette politique; mais _ce qu'il y a de plus remarquable dans celle d'Espagne, c'est que les députés des villes qui auraient dû être les plus zélés défenseurs de leurs droits, conspirèrent ouvertement contre le tiers-état_, et tentèrent d'anéantir les restes de l'ancienne représentation nationale.' _Sempere_, _Histoire des Cortès d'Espagne_, p. 213. It strikes one as singular, that M. Sempere should never have inquired, why this happened in Spain, and not elsewhere. A later writer, reflecting on the destruction of the municipal element by the royal authority, gives a solution, which, like many other so-called solutions, is merely a statement of the same fact in different words. 'Al fin la autoridad real logró alcanzar un gran predominio en el gobierno municipal de los pueblos, _porque_ los corregidores y alcaldes mayores llegaron á eclipsar la influencia de los adelantados y alcaldes elegidos por los pueblos.' _Antequera_, _Historia de la Legislacion Española_, Madrid, 1849, p. 287. This, instead of explaining the event, is simply narrating it afresh. [1500] The final destruction of popular liberty is ascribed by many writers to the battle of Villalar, in 1521; though it is quite certain that, if the royalists had lost that battle, instead of gaining it, the ultimate result would have been the same. At one time, I had purposed tracing the history of the municipal and representative elements during the fifteenth century; and the materials which I then collected, convinced me that the spirit of freedom never really existed in Spain, and that therefore the marks and forms of freedom were sure, sooner or later, to be effaced. It is thus that general causes eventually triumph over every obstacle. In the average of affairs, and on a comparison of long periods, they are irresistible. Their operation is often attacked, and occasionally, for a little time, stopped by politicians, who are always ready with their empirical and short-sighted remedies. But when the spirit of the age is against those remedies, they can at best only succeed for a moment; and after that moment has passed, a reaction sets in, and the penalty for violence has to be paid. Evidence of this will be found in the annals of every civilized country, by whoever will confront the history of legislation with the history of opinion. The fate of the Spanish towns has afforded us one good proof; the fate of the Spanish Church will supply us with another. For more than eighty years after the death of Charles II. the rulers of Spain attempted to weaken the ecclesiastical power; and the end of all their efforts was, that even such an insignificant and incompetent king as Charles IV. was able, with the greatest ease, rapidly to undo what they had done. This is because, during the eighteenth century, while the clergy were assailed by law, they were favoured by opinion. The opinions of a people invariably depend on large general causes, which influence the whole country; but their laws are too often the work of a few powerful individuals, in opposition to the national will. When the legislators die, or lose office, there is always a chance of their successors holding opposite views, and subverting their plans. In the midst, however, of this play and fluctuation of political life, the general causes remain steady, though they are often kept out of sight, and do not become visible, until politicians, inclining to their side, bring them to the surface, and invest them with open and public authority. This is what Charles IV. did in Spain; and when he took measures to favour the Church, and to discourage free inquiry, he merely sanctioned those national habits which his predecessors had disregarded. The hold which the hierarchy of that country possess over public opinion has always been proverbial; but it is even greater than is commonly supposed. What it was in the seventeenth century, we have already seen; and in the eighteenth century, there were no signs of its diminution, except among a few bold men, who could effect nothing, while the popular voice was so strong against them. Early in the reign of Philip V., Labat, who travelled in Spain, informs us, that when a priest performed mass, nobles of the highest rank deemed it an honour to help him to dress, and that they would go down on their knees to him, and kiss his hands.[1501] When this was done by the proudest aristocracy in Europe, we may suppose what the general feeling must have been. Indeed, Labat assures us, that a Spaniard would hardly be considered of sound faith, if he did not leave some portion of his property to the Church; so completely had respect for the hierarchy become an essential part of the national character.[1502] [1501] 'Ceux qui servent la Messe en Espagne, soit Religieux, ou Séculiers, ne manquent jamais d'aider le Prêtre à s'habiller, et le font avec beaucoup de respect. Les plus grande Seigneurs s'en font honneur, et à mesure qu'ils présentent au Prêtre quelque partie des ornemens, ils lui baisent la main. On se met à genoux pour donner à laver au Prêtre pendant la Messe, et après qu'il a essuyé ses doigts, celui qui lui a donné l'eau demeurant à genoux lui présente le bassin retourné, sur lequel le Prêtre met sa main pour la lui laisser baiser. Au retour à la Sacristie, il ne manque pas d'aider le Prêtre à se déshabiller, après quoi il se met à genoux pour recevoir sa bénédiction et baiser sa main.' _Labat_, _Voyages en Espagne et en Italie_, Paris, 1730, vol. i. p. 36. [1502] 'Telle est la coûtume du Païs, on s'exposeroit à laisser douter de sa foi, et passer au moins pour Maran, ou Chrétien nouveau, si on ne laissoit pas le tiers de ses biens mobiliers à l'Eglise.' _Labat_, _Voyages en Espagne_, vol. i. p. 268. A still more curious instance was exhibited on the occasion of the expulsion of the Jesuits. That once useful, but now troublesome, body was, during the eighteenth century, what it is in the nineteenth--the obstinate enemy of progress and of toleration. The rulers of Spain, observing that it opposed all their schemes of reform, resolved to get rid of an obstacle, which met them at every turn. In France, the Jesuits had just been treated as a public nuisance, and suppressed at a blow, and without difficulty. The advisers of Charles III. saw no reason why so salutary a measure should not be imitated in their country; and, in 1767, they, following the example which had been set by the French in 1764, abolished this great mainstay of the Church.[1503] Having done this, the government supposed that it had taken a decisive step towards weakening ecclesiastical power, particularly as the sovereign cordially approved of the proceeding. The year after this occurred, Charles III., according to his custom, appeared in the balcony of the palace, on the festival of St. Charles, ready to grant any request which the people might make to him, and which usually consisted of a prayer for the dismissal of a minister, or for the repeal of a tax. On this occasion, however, the citizens of Madrid, instead of occupying themselves with such worldly matters, felt that still dearer interests were in peril; and, to the surprise and terror of the court, they demanded, with one voice, that the Jesuits should be allowed to return, and wear their usual dress, in order that Spain might be gladdened by the sight of these holy men.[1504] [1503] It was the opinion of the Pope, that Charles, by this act, had endangered his own soul. 'Dans un bref adressé à Charles III; il déclara: "Que les actes du Roi contre les Jésuites mettaient évidemment son salut en danger."' _Crétineau-Joly_, _Histoire de la Compagnie de Jésus_, Paris, 1845, vol. v. p. 302. [1504] As this circumstance, which is noticed by Crétineau-Joly (_Histoire de la Compagnie de Jésus_, vol. v. p. 311) and other writers (_Dunham's History of Spain_, vol. v. p. 180), has been much misrepresented, and has even been doubted by one author, I will transcribe the statement of Coxe, whose information respecting the reign of Charles III. was derived from eye-witnesses. 'A remarkable and alarming proof of their influence was given at Madrid, the year after their expulsion. At the festival of St. Charles, when the monarch showed himself to the people from the balcony of the palace, and was accustomed to grant their general request; to the surprise and confusion of the whole court, the voice of the immense multitude, with one accord, demanded the return of the Jesuits, and the permission for them to wear the habit of the secular clergy. This unexpected incident alarmed and mortified the King; and, after a vigilant inquiry, he thought proper to banish the Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo, and his Grand Vicar, as the secret instigators of this tumultuary petition.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, 2nd edit., London, 1815, vol. iv. pp. 368, 369. The remarks made on this event by M. Rio (_Historia del Reinado de Carlos III._, Madrid, 1856, vol. ii. pp. 197-199) are not very creditable, either to his criticism or to his candour. It is uncritical to doubt the statement of a contemporary, when that statement relates what is probable in itself, and what those who lived nearest to the period never denied. Indeed, so far from denying it, M. Muriel, the learned translator of Coxe's work into Spanish, gave it the sanction of his name. And, it is surely, to say the least, very uncandid on the part of M. Rio to impute to Coxe the error of placing this occurrence in 1767, and then proving that, owing to circumstances connected with the Archbishop of Toledo, it could not have happened in that year. For, Coxe distinctly asserts, that it was in 1768; 'the year _after_ their expulsion.' What can you do with a nation like this? What is the use of laws when the current of public opinion thus sets in against them? In the face of such obstacles, the government of Charles III., notwithstanding its good intentions, was powerless. Indeed, it was worse than powerless: it did harm; for, by rousing popular sympathy in favour of the Church, it strengthened what it sought to weaken. On that cruel and persecuting Church, stained as it was with every sort of crime, the Spanish nation continued to bestow marks of affection, which, instead of being diminished, were increased. Gifts and legacies flowed in freely and from every side; men being willing to beggar themselves and their families, in order to swell the general contribution. And to such a height was this carried, that, in 1788, Florida Blanca, minister of the crown, stated that, within the last fifty years, the ecclesiastical revenues had increased so rapidly, that many of them had doubled in value.[1505] [1505] See the statement of Florida Blanca, in Appendix I. to _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. v. p. 282. Another Spaniard, the Prince of the Peace, says, that at the accession of Charles IV., in 1788, 'the cloisters were encumbered with an ever-increasing number of monks of all orders and of all ages.' _Godoy's Memoirs_, edit. London, 1836, vol. i. p. 126. See also, on the state of ecclesiastical establishments in the same year, some interesting remarks in the Letters of Cabarrus; 'con qué horrible desproporcion superabundan los individuos estériles á los operarios útiles y preciosos.' _Cartas escritas por el Conde de Cabarrus_, Madrid, 1813, p. 133. Even the Inquisition, the most barbarous institution which the wit of man has ever devised, was upheld by public opinion against the attacks of the crown. The Spanish government wished to overthrow it, and did everything to weaken it; but the Spanish people loved it as of old, and cherished it as their best protection against the inroads of heresy.[1506] An illustration of this was exhibited in 1778, when, on occasion of a heretic being sentenced by the Inquisition, several of the leading nobles attended as servants, being glad to have an opportunity of publicly displaying their obedience and docility to the Church.[1507] [1506] Of it, a celebrated writer in the reign of Philip V. boastfully says, 'Su exacta vigilancia comprehende igualmente á Naturales y Estrangeros.' _Uztariz_, _Theorica y Practica de Comercio_, tercera impression, Madrid, 1757, folio, p. 27. When such a man as Uztariz could pen a sentence like this, we may imagine what was felt by the people, who were far more ignorant than he, and far more orthodox. M. Tapia, in a remarkable and unusually bold passage, frankly admits that it was the pressure of public opinion which prevented Charles III. from abolishing the Inquisition. 'Estraño pareceria que habiéndose hecho tanto en aquel reinado para limitar el poder escesivo del clero, y acabar con absurdas preocupaciones, no se suprimiese el monstruoso tribunal de la inquisicion; pero es necesario tener presente que el rey despues del motin de Madrid procedia con timidez en toda providencia que pudiese contrariar la opinion pública; y él creia que los españoles querian la inquisicion, como se lo manifestó al ministro Roda y al conde de Aranda, añadiendo que en nada coartaba su autoridad.' _Tapia_, _Civilizacion Española_, vol. iv. p. 98, Madrid, 1840. To us, the Inquisition seems rather a singular object for men to set their affections on; but of the existence of the passion there can be no doubt. 'L'Inquisition si révérée en Espagne.' _Mémoires de Louville_, vol. i. p. 36. And Geddes (_Tracts_, London, 1730, vol. i. p. 400) tells us that 'the Inquisition is not only established by law, but by a wonderful fascination is so fixed in the hearts and affections of the people, that one that should offer the least affront to another, for having been an informer or witness in the Inquisition, would be torn in a thousand pieces.' [1507] 'The familiars of the Inquisition, Abrantes, Mora, and others, grandees of Spain, attended as servants, without hats or swords.' _Coxe's Bourbon Kings of Spain_, vol. iv. pp. 418, 419. This was in the great case of Olavide. All these things were natural, and in order. They were the result of a long train of causes, the operation of which I have endeavoured to trace, during thirteen centuries, since the outbreak of the Arian war. Those causes forced the Spaniards to be superstitious, and it was idle mockery to seek to change their nature by legislation. The only remedy for superstition is knowledge. Nothing else can wipe out that plague-spot of the human mind. Without it, the leper remains unwashed, and the slave unfreed. It is to a knowledge of the laws and relations of things, that European civilization is owing; but it is precisely this in which Spain has always been deficient. And until that deficiency is remedied, until science, with her bold and inquisitive spirit, has established her right to investigate all subjects, after her own fashion, and according to her own method, we may be assured that, in Spain, neither literature, nor universities, nor legislators, nor reformers of any kind, will ever be able to rescue the people from that helpless and benighted condition into which the course of affairs has plunged them. That no great political improvement, however plausible or attractive it may appear, can be productive of lasting benefit, unless it is preceded by a change in public opinion, and that every change of public opinion is preceded by changes in knowledge, are propositions which all history verifies, but which are particularly obvious in the history of Spain. The Spaniards have had everything except knowledge. They have had immense wealth, and fertile and well-peopled territories, in all parts of the globe. Their own country, washed by the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, and possessed of excellent harbours, is admirably situated for the purposes of trade between Europe and America, being so placed as to command the commerce of both hemispheres.[1508] They had, at a very early period, ample municipal privileges; they had independent parliaments; they had the right of choosing their own magistrates, and managing their own cities. They have had rich and flourishing towns, abundant manufactures, and skilful artizans, whose choice productions could secure a ready sale in every market in the world. They have cultivated the fine arts with eminent success; their noble and exquisite paintings, and their magnificent churches, being justly ranked among the most wonderful efforts of the human hand. They speak a beautiful, sonorous, and flexible language, and their literature is not unworthy of their language. Their soil yields treasures of every kind. It overflows with wine and oil, and produces the choicest fruits in an almost tropical exuberance.[1509] It contains the most valuable minerals, in a profuse variety unexampled in any other part of Europe. No where else do we find such rare and costly marbles, so easily accessible, and in such close communication with the sea, where they might safely be shipped, and sent to countries which require them.[1510] As to the metals, there is hardly one which Spain does not possess in large quantities. Her mines of silver and of quicksilver are well known. She abounds in copper,[1511] and her supply of lead is enormous.[1512] Iron and coal, the two most useful of all the productions of the inorganic world,[1513] are also abundant in that highly favoured country. Iron is said to exist in every part of Spain, and to be of the best quality;[1514] while the coal-mines of Asturias are described as inexhaustible.[1515] In short, nature has been so prodigal of her bounty, that it has been observed, with hardly an hyperbole, that the Spanish nation possesses within itself nearly every natural production which can satisfy either the necessity or the curiosity of mankind.[1516] [1508] An accomplished modern geographer says: 'From the extent of its coast-line, its numerous ports, its geographical position, and natural products, Spain possesses greater commercial advantages than any other country of Europe.' _Johnston's Dictionary of Physical, Statistical, and Historical Geography_, London, 1850, p. 1213. [1509] 'No quiero hablar de los frutos de España, no obstante que los produzca tan exquisitos de todas especies. Solo diré que sus naranjas dulces las traxeron de la China los Portugueses, y que de Portugal se ha difundido su planta por lo restante de Europa. En fin, España es celebrada entre otras cosas por sus limones, por la fragrancia de sus cidras, por sus limas dulces, por sus granadas, por sus azeytunas, que merecieron ser alabadas hasta del gran Ciceron, y sus almendras, sus higos, sus uvas, etc.' _Bowles_, _Historia Natural de España_, Madrid, 1789, 4to. p. 236. [1510] 'The marbles of Spain are in greater variety and beauty than those of any country in Europe, and most valuable kinds of them are in situations of easy access and communication with the sea; but they have long been entirely neglected, the greater part being unknown, even to the more intelligent of the natives.' _Cook's Spain_, London, 1834, vol. ii. p. 51. In the Cabinet of Natural History at Madrid, 'the specimens of marbles are splendid, and show what treasures yet remain buried in the Peninsula.' _Ford's Spain_, London, 1847, p. 413. [1511] 'Hay infinitas minas de cobre en España las quales nunca se han tocado.' _Bowles_, _Historia Natural de España_, Discurso Preliminar, p. 34. [1512] In 1832, Cook writes, 'The lead-mines of the Sierra de Gador are in a state of repletion at present from the enormous quantity of the mineral, and the facility of raising it.' ... 'Lead abounds in other parts of the same chain, nearer to Almeria.' _Cook's Spain_, vol. ii. p. 75. 'The most valuable of the existing Spanish mines are those of lead in Granada; and the supplies obtained from them during the last twenty years have been so large, that they have occasioned the abandonment of several less productive mines in other countries, and a considerable fall in the price of lead.' _M'Culloch's Geographical and Statistical Dictionary_, London, 1849, vol. ii. p. 705. [1513] I use the popular language in referring coal to the inorganic world, despite its cellular tissue and vegetable origin. [1514] 'The most valuable of the whole mineral riches of Spain will be, in all probability, in a few years, the iron, which is found every where, and of the best qualities.' _Cook's Spain_, vol. ii. p. 78. See also _Bowles_, _Historia Natural de España_, pp. 56, 67, 106, 273, 346, 415, and _Ford's Spain_, pp. 565, 618. [1515] 'The quantity is inexhaustible, the quality excellent, the working of extraordinary facility, and they possess an easy communication with the sea; yet they are practically useless, and afford only a miserable existence to a few labourers and mules used in conveying the mineral to Gijon.' _Cook's Spain_, vol. ii. pp. 79, 80. 'In the immediate neighbourhood of Oviedo are some of the largest coal-fields in Europe.' _Ford's Spain_, p. 381; compare pp. 392, 606. [1516] 'La nacion española posee casi quantas producciones naturales puede apetecer la necesidad, ó curiosidad de los hombres.' _Campomanes_, _Apendice á la Educacion Popular_, vol. iv. p. vi. Madrid, 1777. These are splendid gifts; it is for the historian to tell how they have been used. Certainly, the people who possess them have never been deficient in natural endowments. They have had their full share of great statesmen, great kings, great magistrates, and great legislators. They have had many able and vigorous rulers; and their history is ennobled by the frequent appearance of courageous and disinterested patriots, who have sacrificed their all, that they might help their country. The bravery of the people has never been disputed; while, as to the upper classes, the punctilious honour of a Spanish gentleman has passed into a bye-word, and circulated through the world. Of the nation generally, the best observers pronounce them to be high-minded, generous, truthful, full of integrity, warm and zealous friends, affectionate in all the private relations of life, frank, charitable, and humane.[1517] Their sincerity in religious matters is unquestionable;[1518] they are, moreover, eminently temperate and frugal.[1519] Yet, all these great qualities have availed them nothing, and will avail them nothing, so long as they remain ignorant. What the end of all this will be, and whether in their unhappy country the right path will ever be taken, is impossible for any one to say.[1520] But if it is not taken, no amelioration which can possibly be effected will penetrate below the surface. The sole course is, to weaken the superstition of the people; and this can only be done by that march of physical science, which, familiarizing men with conceptions of order and of regularity, gradually encroaches on the old notions of perturbation, of prodigy, and of miracle, and by this means accustoms the mind to explain the vicissitudes of affairs by natural considerations, instead of, as heretofore, by those which are purely supernatural. [1517] 'Ils sont fort charitables, tant à cause du mérite que l'on s'acquiert par les aumônes, que par l'inclination naturelle qu'ils ont à donner, et la peine effective qu'ils souffrent lorsqu'ils sont obligés, soit par leur pauvreté, soit par quelqu'autre raison, de refuser ce qu'on leur demande. Ils ont encore la bonne qualité de ne point abandonner leurs amis pendant qu'ils sont malades.' ... 'De manière que des personnes qui ne se voyent point quatre fois en un an, se voyent tous les jours deux ou trois fois, dès qu'ils souffrent.' _D'Aulnoy_, _Relation du Voyage d'Espagne_, Lyon, 1693, vol. ii. p. 374. 'They are grave, temperate, and sober; firm and warm in their friendships, though cautious and slow in contracting them.' _A Tour through Spain by Udal ap Rhys_, second edition, London, 1760, p. 3. 'When they have once professed it, none are more faithful friends.' ... 'They have great probity and integrity of principle.' _Clarke's Letters concerning the Spanish Nation_, London, 1763, 4to. p. 334. 'To express all that I feel, on the recollection of their goodness, would appear like adulation; but I may venture at least to say, that simplicity, sincerity, generosity, a high sense of dignity, and strong principles of honour, are the most prominent and striking features of the Spanish character.' _Townsend's Journey through Spain_, second edition, London, 1792, vol. iii. p. 353. 'The Spaniards, though naturally deep and artful politicians, have still something so nobly frank and honest in their disposition.' _Letters from Spain by an English Officer_, London, 1788, vol. ii. p. 171. 'The Spaniards have fewer bad qualities than any other people that I have had the opportunity to know.' _Croker's Travels through Spain_, London, 1799, pp. 237, 238. 'Spanish probity is proverbial, and it conspicuously shines in commercial relations.' _Laborde's Spain_, London, 1809, vol. iv. p. 423. 'Certainly, if it be taken in the mass, no people are more humane than the Spaniards, or more compassionate and kind in their feelings to others. They probably excel other nations, rather than fall below them, in this respect.' _Cook's Spain_, London, 1834, vol. i. p. 189. 'The Spaniards are kind-hearted in all the relations of life.' _Hoskins' Spain_, London, 1851, vol. ii. p. 58. Finally, I will adduce the testimony of two professional politicians, both of whom were well acquainted with the Spaniards. In 1770 Mr. Harris, afterwards Lord Malmesbury, writes, 'They are brave, honest, and generous.' _Diaries and Correspondence of the Earl of Malmesbury_, London, 1844, vol. i. p. 48. And Lord Holland, according to Moore, deemed 'that the Spaniards altogether are amongst the best people of Europe.' _Moore's Memoirs_, _edited by Lord John Russell_, vol. iii. p. 253, London, 1853. [1518] This their whole history decisively proves; and as to their more recent state, the author of _Revelations of Spain in 1845_, vol. i. p. 340, says: 'But religion is so deeply rooted in the national character, that the most furious political storms, which prostrate everything else, blow over this and leave it unscathed. It is only amongst the educated male population that any lack of fervour is witnessed.' [1519] 'The habitual temperance of these people is really astonishing: I never saw a Spaniard drink a second glass of wine. With the lower order of people, a piece of bread with an apple, an onion, or pomegranate, is their usual repast.' _Croker's Travels in Spain_, London, 1799, p. 116. 'They are temperate, or rather abstemious, in their living to a great degree: _borracho_ is the highest term of reproach; and it is rare to see a drunken man, except it be among the carriers or muleteers.' _Dalrymple's Travels through Spain_, London, 1777, 4to. p. 174. 'Drunkenness is a vice almost unknown in Spain among people of a respectable class, and very uncommon even among the lower orders.' Esménard's note in _Godoy's Memoirs_, London, 1836, vol. ii. p. 321. [1520] 'This is the most wonderful country under the sun; for here, intellect wields no power.' _Inglis' Spain_, London, 1831, vol. i. p. 101. 'Tandis que l'activité publique, en Espagne, se porte depuis quelques années dans la sphère des intérêts pratiques et matériels, il semble, au contraire, qu'il y ait une sorte de ralentissement dans la vie intellectuelle.' _Annuaire des Deux Mondes_ for 1850, p. 410. 'La vie intellectuelle n'est point, malheureusement, la sphère où se manifeste le plus d'activité en Espagne.' _Ibid._ for 1856-1857, p. 356. Now, listen to the practical consequences of not giving free and fearless scope to the intellect. 'It is singular, upon landing in the Peninsula, and making a short excursion for a few miles in any direction, to see reproduced the manners of England _five centuries back_,--to find yourself thrown into the midst of a society which is a close counterpart of that _extinct semi-civilization_ of which no trace is to be found in our history later than the close of the fourteenth century and the reign of Richard the Second.' _Revelations of Spain in_ 1845 _by an English Resident_, vol. ii. p. 1. To this, in the most advanced countries of Europe, every thing has been tending for nearly three centuries. But in Spain, unfortunately, education has always remained, and still remains, in the hands of the clergy, who steadily oppose that progress of knowledge, which they are well aware would be fatal to their own power.[1521] The people, therefore, resting ignorant, and the causes which kept them in ignorance continuing, it avails the country nothing, that, from time to time, enlightened rulers have come forward, and liberal measures been adopted. The Spanish reformers have, with rare exceptions, eagerly attacked the Church, whose authority they clearly saw ought to be diminished. But what they did not see is, that such diminution can be of no real use unless it is the result of public opinion urging on politicians to the work. In Spain, politicians took the initiative, and the people lagged behind. Hence, in Spain, what was done at one time was sure to be undone at another. When the liberals were in power, they suppressed the Inquisition; but Ferdinand VII. easily restored it, because, though it had been destroyed by Spanish legislators, its existence was suited to the habits and traditions of the Spanish nation.[1522] Fresh changes occurring, this odious tribunal was, in 1820, again abolished. Still, though its form is gone, its spirit lives.[1523] The name, the body, and the visible appearance of the Inquisition, are no more; but the spirit which generated the Inquisition is enshrined in the hearts of the people, and, on slight provocation, would burst forth, and reinstate an institution which is the effect, far more than the cause, of the intolerant bigotry of the Spanish nation. [1521] 'That the Spaniards, as a people, are ignorant, supremely ignorant, it is impossible to dissemble; but this comes from the control of education being altogether in the hands of the clergy, who exert themselves to maintain that ignorance to which they are indebted for their power.' _Spain by an American_, vol. ii. p. 360. 'The schools in Madrid are all conducted by Jesuits; and the education received in them, is such as might be expected from their heads.' _Inglis' Spain_, vol. i. p. 156. 'Private education here, is almost entirely in the hands of the clergy.' _Revelations of Spain in 1845_, vol. ii. p. 27. In Spain, as in all countries, Catholic or Protestant, the clergy, considered as a body, inculcate belief instead of inquiry, and, by a sort of conservative instinct, discourage that boldness of investigation without which there can be no real knowledge, although there may be much erudition and mere book-learning. In Spain, the clergy are stronger than in any other country; therefore in Spain they display this tendency more fearlessly. A good instance of this may be seen in a work lately published by the Bishop of Barcelona, in which a violent attack upon all physical and philosophical knowledge is concluded in the following terms: 'No intento recriminar á ningun católico de los que se asocian al nuevo sistema de filosofar y de extender indefinidamente el imperio de esta ciencia, pero deseo que fijen toda su atencion en los puntos que no haré sino indicar. Primero, que las escuelas de Holanda, Alemania, Inglaterra y Francia desafectas al Catolicismo, han iniciado y promovido con el mayor empeño ciertas discusiones filosóficas, presentándolas como un triunfo de la razon sobre la Religion, de la filosofía sobre la teología, del materialismo sobre el espiritualismo. Segundo, que sus máximas no son, en gran parte, mas que reproducciones ó nuevas evoluciones de errores mil veces refutados y condenados por la sana filosofía y por la Iglesia; bajo cuyo concepto no tienen por qué felicitarse en razon de su progreso, sino mas bien avergonzarse por su retroceso.' _Costa y Borras_, _Iglesia en España_, Barcelona, 1857, p. 150. [1522] 'Immediately after his arrival in Madrid, Ferdinand re-established the Inquisition; and his decree for that purpose was hailed throughout all Spain with illuminations, thanksgivings, and other rejoicings. '_Quin's Memoirs of Ferdinand VII._, London, 1824, pp. 189, 190. This and similar acts gave such delight to the Church as well as to the people, that, according to a great divine, the return of Ferdinand to Spain is to be deemed the immediate act of Divine Providence, watching over the interests of Spain. 'La divina Providencia abrevió los dias de prueba, y la católica España respiró ceñida con los laureles del triunfo, recobrando luego á su tan deseado monarca, el señor rey don Fernando VII.' _Costa y Borras_, _Observaciones sobre la Iglesia en España_, Barcelona, 1857, p. 91. [1523] 'The spirit of the Inquisition is still alive; for no king, cortes, or constitution, ever permits in Spain any approach to any religious toleration.' _Ford's Spain_, London, 1847, p. 60. 'Les cortès auraient beau permettre l'exercice du culte protestant ou juif, il n'est point certain que cela ne suscitât de périlleux conflits.' _Annuaire des Deux Mondes_, _ou Histoire Générale des Divers Etats_, 1854-1855, vol. v. p. 272, Paris, 1855; a work of considerable ability, planned on the same scheme as the _Annual Register_, but far superior to it. Respecting the chance of the Inquisition being again restored, compare two interesting passages in _Spain by an American_, 1831, vol. ii. p. 330, and _Inglis' Spain_, 1831, vol. i. p. 85. Since then, the balance of affairs has, on the whole, been in favour of the Church, which received a further accession of strength by the success of the essentially religious war recently waged against the Moors. Hence, if any fresh political catastrophe were to occur in Spain, I should not be at all surprised to hear that the Inquisition was re-established. In the same way, other and more systematic attacks which were made on the Church, during the present century, succeeded at first, but were sure to be eventually baffled.[1524] Under Joseph, in 1809, the monastic orders were suppressed, and their property was confiscated.[1525] Little, however, did Spain gain by this. The nation was on their side;[1526] and as soon as the storm passed away, they were restored. In 1836, there was another political movement, and the liberals being at the head of affairs, Mendizabal secularized all the Church property, and deprived the clergy of nearly the whole of their enormous and ill-gotten wealth.[1527] He did not know how foolish it is to attack an institution, unless you can first lessen its influence. Overrating the power of legislation, he underrated the power of opinion. This, the result clearly showed. Within a very few years, the reaction began. In 1845, was enacted what was called the law of devolution, by which the first step was taken towards the re-endowment of the clergy.[1528] In 1851, their position was still further improved by the celebrated Concordat, in which the right of acquiring, as well as of possessing, was solemnly confirmed to them.[1529] With all this, the nation heartily concurred.[1530] Such, however, was the madness of the liberal party, that, only four years afterwards, when they for a moment obtained power, they forcibly annulled these arrangements, and revoked concessions which had been made to the Church, and which, unhappily for Spain, public opinion had ratified.[1531] The results might have been easily foreseen. In Aragon and in other parts of Spain, the people flew to arms; a Carlist insurrection broke out, and a cry ran through the country, that religion was in danger.[1532] It is impossible to benefit such a nation as this. The reformers were, of course, overthrown, and by the autumn of 1856 their party was broken up. The political reaction now began, and advanced so rapidly, that, by the spring of 1857, the policy of the two preceding years was completely reversed. Those who idly thought that they could regenerate their country by laws, saw all their hopes confounded. A ministry was formed, whose measures were more in accordance with the national mind. In May 1857, Cortes assembled. The representatives of the people sanctioned the proceedings of the executive government, and, by their united authority, the worst provisions of the Concordat of 1851 were amply confirmed, the sale of Church property was forbidden, and all the limitations which had been set to the power of the bishops were at once removed.[1533] [1524] Compare some very sensible remarks in _Bacon's Six Years in Biscay_, London, 1838, pp. 40, 41, 50, with _Quin's Memoirs of Ferdinand the Seventh_, pp. 192, 193. [1525] _Walton's Revolutions of Spain_, London, 1837, vol. ii. p. 343. [1526] Very shortly before the suppression of the monastic orders, 'Le respect pour le froc en général est poussé si loin, qu'on lui attribue une vertu préservative, même au-delà de la vie, quelque peu régulière qu'elle ait été. Aussi n'y a-t-il rien de si commun que de voir les morts ensevelis en robe de moines, et conduits ainsi à leur dernière demeure à visage découvert.' ... 'De même que le froc accompagne les Espagnols au tombeau, de même il en saisit quelques-uns au sortir du berceau. Il n'est pas rare de rencontrer de petits moines de quatre à cinq ans polissonnant dans la rue.' _Bourgoing_, _Tableau de l'Espagne_, Paris, 1808, vol. ii. pp. 330, 331. [1527] The confiscation took place at different periods between 1835 and 1841. Compare _Ford's Spain_, p. 48. _Revelations of Spain by an English Resident_, vol. i. p. 366. _Costa y Borras_, _Iglesia en España_, p. 95. _Annuaire des Deux Mondes for 1850_, Paris, 1851, p. 369. I have sought in vain for any detailed history of these transactions. [1528] 'Dès 1845, une loi dite de _dévolution_, en attendant un règlement définitif, applique à la dotation du clergé une portion des biens ecclésiastiques non vendus.' _Annuaire des Deux Mondes_, 1851-2, Paris, 1852, p. 318. [1529] 'Il y a ici un règlement solennel, sous la forme d'un traité, de toutes les affaires relatives à l'église; c'est le concordat de 1851. Le concordat reconnaît à l'église le droit d'acquérir et de posséder.' _Ibid._ 1854, 1855, p. 273, Paris, 1855. [1530] The very year in which the Concordat became law, Mr. Hoskins, the well-known traveller in Africa, a gentleman evidently of considerable intelligence, published, on his return from Spain, an account of that country. His work is valuable, as showing the state of public feeling just before the Concordat, and while the Spanish clergy were still suffering from the well-intentioned, but grossly injudicious acts of the liberal party. 'We visited these churches on a Sunday, and were surprised to find them all crowded to excess. The incomes of the clergy are greatly reduced, but their fortunes are gradually reviving.' _Hoskins' Spain_, London, 1851, vol. i. p. 25. 'The priests are slowly re-establishing their power in Spain,' vol. ii. p. 201. 'The crowded churches, and, notwithstanding the appropriation of their revenues, the absence of all appearance of anything like poverty in the chapels and services, prove that the Spaniards are now as devout worshippers, and as zealous friends of the Church, as they were in her palmy days,' vol. ii. p. 281. [1531] 'La loi de désamortissement promulguée le 1^{er} mai, 1855, ordonne, comme on sait, la mise en vente de tous les biens de main-morte, et en particulier des biens qui restent encore à l'église.' _Annuaire des Deux Mondes_, 1855, 1856, p. 310. See also _Annuaire_, 1854, 1855, p. 274. For an account of other steps taken against the Church in the spring and summer of 1855, see _Costa y Borras_, _Observaciones sobre la Iglesia en España_, Barcelona, 1857, pp. 119, 286, 292; and respecting the law of the 1st of May, see p. 247. [1532] 'Aussi le premier mot d'ordre de l'insurrection a été la défense de la religion.' _Annuaire des Deux Mondes_, 1854, 1855, p. 275. [1533] _Annuaire des Deux Mondes_, 1856, 1857, pp. 315-317, 324-331, 336. The reader will now be able to understand the real nature of Spanish civilization. He will see how, under the high-sounding names of loyalty and religion, lurk the deadly evils which those names have always concealed, but which it is the business of the historian to drag to light and expose. A blind spirit of reverence, taking the form of an unworthy and ignominious submission to the Crown and the Church, is the capital and essential vice of the Spanish people. It is their sole national vice, and it has sufficed to ruin them. From it all nations have grievously suffered, and many still suffer. But nowhere in Europe, has this principle been so long supreme as in Spain. Therefore, nowhere else in Europe are the consequences so manifest and so fatal. The idea of liberty is extinct, if, indeed, in the true sense of the word, it ever can be said to have existed. Outbreaks, no doubt, there have been, and will be; but they are bursts of lawlessness, rather than of liberty. In the most civilized countries, the tendency always is, to obey even unjust laws, but while obeying them, to insist on their repeal. This is because we perceive that it is better to remove grievances than to resist them. While we submit to the particular hardship, we assail the system from which the hardship flows. For a nation to take this view, requires a certain reach of mind, which, in the darker periods of European history, was unattainable. Hence we find, that, in the middle ages, though tumults were incessant, rebellions were rare. But, since the sixteenth century, local insurrections, provoked by immediate injustice, are diminishing, and are being superseded by revolutions, which strike at once at the source from whence the injustice proceeds. There can be no doubt that this change is beneficial; partly because it is always good to rise from effects to causes, and partly because revolutions being less frequent than insurrections, the peace of society would be more rarely disturbed, if men confined themselves entirely to the larger remedy. At the same time, insurrections are generally wrong; revolutions are always right. An insurrection is too often the mad and passionate effort of ignorant persons, who are impatient under some immediate injury, and never stop to investigate its remote and general causes. But a revolution, when it is the work of the nation itself, is a splendid and imposing spectacle, because to the moral quality of indignation produced by the presence of evil, it adds the intellectual qualities of foresight and combination; and, uniting in the same act some of the highest properties of our nature, it achieves a double purpose, not only punishing the oppressor, but also relieving the oppressed. In Spain, however, there never has been a revolution, properly so called; there never has even been one grand national rebellion. The people, though often lawless, are never free. Among them, we find still preserved that peculiar taint of barbarism, which makes men prefer occasional disobedience to systematic liberty. Certain feelings there are of our common nature, which even their slavish loyalty cannot eradicate, and which, from time to time, urge them to resist injustice. Such instincts are happily the inalienable lot of humanity, which we cannot forfeit, if we would, and which are too often the last resource against the extravagances of tyranny. And this is all that Spain now possesses. The Spaniards, therefore, resist, not because they are Spaniards, but because they are men. Still, even while they resist, they revere. While they will rise up against a vexatious impost, they crouch before a system, of which the impost is the smallest evil. They smite the tax-gatherer, but fall prostrate at the feet of the contemptible prince for whom the tax-gatherer plies his craft. They will even revile the troublesome and importunate monk, or sometimes they will scoff at the sleek and arrogant priest; while such is their infatuation, that they would risk their lives in defence of that cruel Church, which has inflicted on them hideous calamities, but to which they still cling, as if it were the dearest object of their affections. Connected with these habits of mind, and in sooth forming part of them, we find a reverence for antiquity, and an inordinate tenacity of old opinions, old beliefs, and old habits, which remind us of those tropical civilizations which formerly flourished. Such prejudices were once universal even in Europe; but they began to die out in the sixteenth century, and are now, comparatively speaking, extinct, except in Spain, where they have always been welcomed. In that country, they retain their original force, and produce their natural results. By encouraging the notion, that all the truths most important to know are already known, they repress those aspirations, and dull that generous confidence in the future, without which nothing really great can be achieved. A people who regard the past with too wistful an eye, will never bestir themselves to help the onward progress; they will hardly believe that progress is possible. To them, antiquity is synonymous with wisdom, and every improvement is a dangerous innovation. In this state, Europe lingered for many centuries; in this state, Spain still lingers. Hence the Spaniards are remarkable for an inertness, a want of buoyancy, and an absence of hope, which, in our busy and enterprizing age, isolate them from the rest of the civilized world. Believing that little can be done, they are in no hurry to do it. Believing that the knowledge they have inherited, is far greater than any they can obtain, they wish to preserve their intellectual possessions whole and unimpaired; inasmuch as the least alteration in them might lessen their value. Content with what has been already bequeathed, they are excluded from that great European movement, which, first clearly perceptible in the sixteenth century, has ever since been steadily advancing, unsettling old opinions, destroying old follies, reforming and improving on every side, influencing even such barbarous countries as Russia and Turkey; but leaving Spain unscathed. While the human intellect has been making the most prodigious and unheard-of strides, while discoveries in every quarter are simultaneously pressing upon us, and coming in such rapid and bewildering succession, that the strongest sight, dazzled by the glare of their splendour, is unable to contemplate them as a whole; while other discoveries still more important, and still more remote from ordinary experience, are manifestly approaching, and may be seen looming in the distance, whence they are now obscurely working on the advanced thinkers who are nearest to them, filling their minds with those ill-defined, restless, and almost uneasy, feelings, which are the invariable harbingers of future triumph; while the veil is being rudely torn, and nature, violated at all points, is forced to disclose her secrets, and reveal her structure, her economy, and her laws, to the indomitable energy of man; while Europe is ringing with the noise of intellectual achievements, with which even despotic governments affect to sympathize, in order that they may divert them from their natural course, and use them as new instruments whereby to oppress yet more the liberties of the people; while, amidst this general din and excitement, the public mind, swayed to and fro, is tossed and agitated,--Spain sleeps on, untroubled, unheeding, impassive, receiving no impressions from the rest of the world, and making no impressions upon it. There she lies, at the further extremity of the Continent, a huge and torpid mass, the sole representative now remaining of the feelings and knowledge of the Middle Ages. And, what is the worst symptom of all, she is satisfied with her own condition. Though she is the most backward country in Europe, she believes herself to be the foremost. She is proud of every thing of which she should be ashamed. She is proud of the antiquity of her opinions; proud of her orthodoxy; proud of the strength of her faith; proud of her immeasurable and childish credulity; proud of her unwillingness to amend either her creed or her customs; proud of her hatred of heretics, and proud of the undying vigilance with which she has baffled their efforts to obtain a full and legal establishment on her soil. All these things conspiring together, produce, in their aggregate, that melancholy exhibition to which we give the collective name of Spain. The history of that single word is the history of nearly every vicissitude of which the human species is capable. It comprises the extremes of strength and of weakness, of unbounded wealth and of abject poverty. It is the history of the mixture of different races, languages, and bloods. It includes almost every political combination which the wit of man can devise; laws infinite in variety, as well as in number; constitutions of all kinds, from the most stringent to the most liberal. Democracy, monarchy, government by priests, government by municipalities, government by nobles, government by representative bodies, government by natives, government by foreigners, have been tried, and tried in vain. Material appliances have been lavishly used; arts, inventions, and machines introduced from abroad, manufactures set up, communications opened, roads made, canals dug, mines worked, harbours formed. In a word, there has been every sort of alteration, except alterations of opinion; there has been every possible change, except changes in knowledge. And the result is, that in spite of the efforts of successive governments, in spite of the influence of foreign customs, and in spite of those physical ameliorations, which just touch the surface of society, but are unable to penetrate beneath, there are no signs of national progress; the priests are rather gaining ground than losing it; the slightest attack on the Church rouses the people; while, even the dissoluteness of the clergy, and the odious vices which, in the present century, have stained the throne, can do naught to lessen either the superstition or the loyalty which the accumulated force of many centuries has graven on the minds, and eaten into the hearts of the Spanish nation. * * * * * END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET Transcriber's Notes: The original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. Inconsistent hyphenation and accents are as in the original if not marked as a misprint. Text in italics has been marked with underscores (_text_). The ligature oe has been marked as [oe] and the tilde above e as [~e] The sign ^ has been used as a superscript. The table below lists all corrections applied to the original text. p. v: minority of Louis XIII -> XIII. p. 3: _Geoffroy Saint Hilaire_ -> _Geoffroy Saint-Hilaire_ p. 6: vol. iv. p. 511, 4to. -> 4to, p. 10: vol. xviii. pp. 431-436: -> 431-436; p. 10: _Hist. de la Sorbonne_ -> _Hist. de la Sorbonne_, p. 11: _Benoist_ -> _Benoist_, p. 12: vol. xi. pp. 30, 77, 131. -> 131; p. 23: _Mably's Observations_, vol. iii. p. 220: -> 220; p. 24: humane and enlightend -> enlightened p. 24: Historiettes de Tallement -> Tallemant p. 25: prevents them from doing so. - > so.' p. 27: read the contemporay -> contemporary p. 29: endeavoured to instil -> instill p. 30: innocence of a religious life. -> life.' p. 30: Hist. of Louis XIII. -> XIII p. 31: convoked at Mantes -> Nantes p. 32: _Mém. de Retz_, vol -> vol. p. 32: vol. v. pp. 51, seq. -> 51 seq. p. 34: Tallemant des Reaux -> Réaux p. 35: fils aîné de l'Eglise -> l'Eglise' p. 35: _[OE]conomies Royales_ -> _[OE]conomies Royales_, p. 36: prix que ce fust -> fut p. 37: 'Sismondi says, under -> Sismondi p. 37: Felice Hist. -> Felice's Hist. p. 40: livre ii. chap -> chap. p. 41: interests were alogether -> altogether p. 41: Element ist zurückge reten -> zurückgetreten p. 42: with infinte -> infinite p. 49: vol. xi. p. 450, vol. xii. p. -> pp. p. 53: conscientiously be tolerant. -> tolerant.' p. 54: Lettres d'un Français -> François p. 56: processions whorever -> wherever p. 60: Tallement des Réaux -> Tallemant des Réaux p. 62: Béarn démanderent aussytost -> aussytôt p. 63: Mem. de Montglat -> Mém. de Montglat p. 63: Mém de Montglat -> Mém. de Montglat p. 75: 'The Edict of Nismes -> The p. 78: Hist. des Mathemat. -> Mathémat. p. 78: vol. ii. pp. 419-421 -> pp. 419-421; p. 79: _Thomson's Hist. of the Royal Society_, p. 364: -> p. 364; p. 80: greatest mathemetician -> mathematician p. 83: tout ce qu -> qui p. 88: p. 432. Compare vol -> vol. p. 88: _Berkeley's Works_, vol -> vol. p. 90: _[OE]uvres de Descartes_, vol. ii -> vol. ii. p. 91: _[OE]uvres_, vol -> vol. p. 91: 8vo. 1847 -> 8vo., 1847 p. 91: _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol. ii, pp. 220 -> vol. ii. p. 220 p. 91: Auf das innigste verbunden -> 'Auf p. 94: 242, 342, 498 -> 242, 342, 498, p. 95: _Lettres de Patin_, vol. iii. p. 153: -> p. 153; p. 95: _Mosheim's Eccles. Hist._ vol. ii. p. 258: -> p. 258; p. 95: _Leslie's Nat. Philos._ p. 121: -> p. 121; p. 97: Hist de l'Edit de Nantes -> Hist. p. 100: _Hunt's Hist. of Newspapers_, vol. 1. -> vol. i. p. 110: faith, of sceptism -> scepticism p. 111: vol. i. pp. 5, 64: -> 64; p. 114: Mills's Hist. of Chivalry -> Mills' Hist. of Chivalry p. 115: Brougham's Polit. Philos -> Philos. p. 117: Compare, _Meyer_ -> Compare _Meyer_ p. 120: canaille, dès qu on -> qu'on p. 121: Les états-généraux -> 'Les états-généraux p. 122: began to excercise -> exercise p. 123: énergique de la centralisation') -> centralisation' p. 123: couvent ni collége -> collège p. 125: 1843, _in_ -> in p. 125: _Journal of Statist. Soc._ vol, -> vol. p. 129: p. 118: _Saint Aulaire_ -> p. 118; _Sainte-Aulaire_ p. 135: which deprived knightnood -> knighthood p. 136: _Hist. de France_ -> _Hist. de France_, p. 137: _Milice Françoise_ -> _Milice Française_ p. 137: vol. ii. p. 582; _Sully_ -> _Sully_, p. 137: vol. iv. pp. 27, 28, 152, -> 152; p. 143: Collier's Eccles. Hist -> Hist. p. 144: (reprinted London, 1842), p -> p. p. 149: 401, 476: -> 476; p. 149: p. 78; Hutchison's -> Hutchinson's p. 150: Mem. de Retz -> Mém. de Retz p. 152: part. i. pp. 28, 29 -> part i. pp. 28, 29 p. 153: _Carlyle's Cromwell_, vol. 1. -> vol. i. p. 154: laid, the slighest -> slightest p. 158: Holland the linke-boy -> link-boy p. 158: part. i. p. 167. -> part i. p. 167. p. 166: _Mém. d'Omer Talon_, vol. iii. p. 6.; -> p. 6; p. 168: Saint Aulaire -> Saint-Aulaire p. 168: _Mém. de Retz_ vol. 1. -> vol. i. p. 169: _Mém. de Motteville_ -> _Mém. de Motteville_, p. 170: vol ii. p. 357 -> vol. ii. p. 357 p. 178: Capefigue's Louis XIV -> XIV. p. 178: tyranny of the clergy -> clergy. p. 179: the feet of others -> others. p. 180: vol. v. pp 887-889 -> vol. v. pp. 887-889 p. 181: _Hist. de l'Economie Politique_, vol. ii, -> vol. p. 181: les plus industrieux," -> industrieux,' p. 182: brillant d'une clarte -> clarté p. 187: apostles of knowlege -> knowledge p. 190: _Philos Pos._ -> _Philos. Pos._ p. 190: vol. ii. pp. 627, 628 -> vol. ii. pp. 627, 628. p. 191: _Aubrey's Letters_. -> _Aubrey's Letters_, p. 191: vol ii. p. 624. -> vol. ii. p. 624. p. 192: et de Boörhaave -> Boerhaave p. 195: part. ii. p 42 -> part. ii. p. 42 p. 199: _Hist. de la Médecine_, vol -> vol. p. 200: _Royal Society_. -> _Royal Society_, p. 201: corner-stone of the Linnean -> Linnæan p. 201: Gesch der Botanik -> Gesch. der Botanik p. 207: _Ibid._ xxiii. p, 496. -> p. 496. p. 207: vol. xxxvi p. 42 -> vol. xxxvi p. 42. p. 208: state of degradation.' -> degradation. p. 209: both in 1639. _Biog. Univ_ -> _Biog. Univ._ p. 211: was only saved by -> 'was only saved by p. 211: Lock, who was -> Locke, who was p. 212: Lady Mary Wortley Montague -> Montagu p. 213: Hist. des Francais -> Français p. 213: _Duclos_, _Mémoires_, vol -> vol. p. 214: Lettres de Sevigné -> Sévigné p. 215: sur la poésie épique. -> épique.' p. 216: ses amitiés, il n'etait -> n'était p. 217: vol. i. 341 -> vol. i. p. 341 p. 218: _Le Blanc_, _Lettres_, vol. 1. -> vol. i. p. 218: _Corresp._ vol. 1. p. 352; -> vol. i. p. 352, p. 219: Mém de Morellet -> Mém. de Morellet p. 220: _Biog Univ._ iii. 253 -> _Biog. Univ._ iii. 253 p. 221: _Biog. Univ._ l. 42. -> _Biog. Univ._ i. 42. p. 221: _Murray's Life of Bruce_, 121, -> 121; p. 223: _Biog. Univ._ xlviii. 217. 218. -> 217, 218. p. 227: vol. ii. p. 291.' -> 291. p. 228: even from the king himself. -> himself.' p. 234: croire que les ministrès -> ministres p. 238: by Reboulet, in 1752: -> in 1752; p. 238: Anomalies, de l'Organisation -> Anomalies de l'Organisation p. 241: _Biog. Univ._ xi. 314 -> xi. p. 314 p. 242: Vie de Rosseau -> Rousseu p. 242: Quel est aujourd'hui -> 'Quel est aujourd'hui p. 242: _Grimm_. _Corresp._ -> _Grimm_, _Corresp._ p. 243: de cachet pour enleve -> enlever p. 245: vol. i. p. 141, vol -> vol. p. 246: Les reproches d'avoir -> 'Les p. 248: first heard in France -> France. p. 253: vol. iii. pp. 178, 179: -> 179; p. 253: Dieu d'être protestants. -> protestants.' p. 259: the most obnoxious laws -> laws. p. 262: to ecclesiastical dogmas, -> dogmas. p. 265: et regna dix ans -> et régna dix ans,' p. 265: conseillers, pour sçauoir -> sçavoir p. 266: vol. viii. p. 101-117 -> vol. viii. pp. 101-117 p. 270: _Méthode pour étudier l'Histoire_ -> _l'Histoire_, p. 271: undergone from the griping -> gripping p. 271: la cour.' _Le Long_ -> _Le Long_, p. 273: _François, in Mémoires_ -> _François_, in _Mémoires_ p. 275: _Etablissement de Louis_ -> _Etablissement de Louis XIV_ p. 276: Lettres de Sevigné -> Sévigné p. 277: Madame de Sevigné -> Sévigné p. 277: Lettres de Sevigné -> Sévigné p. 283: Lettres de Sevigné -> Sévigné p. 283: _Lettres de Sévigné_, vol -> vol. p. 283: stated by Sismondi -> _Sismondi_ p. 293: Charles XII, l'homme -> 'Charles p. 300: descriptions de siéges -> sièges p. 301: combats et des siéges -> sièges p. 303: _Milman's History of Christianity_, 1840, vol -> vol. p. 303: _in [OE]uvres de Voltaire_ -> in _[OE]uvres de Voltaire_ p. 303: History of the Church. -> Church p. 311: article on Chronology, vol -> vol. p. 318: livre xiv. chap. ii, -> chap. ii., p. 320: _[OE]uvres de Turgot_, vol -> vol. p. 326: intuitives Erkenntniss klärer -> klarer p. 326: an sichgleich -> an sich gleich p. 330: Mém. sur Lebrun -> Le Brun p. 330: _Brougham's Men of Letters_, vol, -> vol. p. 334: letter written in 1751 -> 1751. p. 335: Lavallé -> Lavallée p. 339: Staüdlin -> Stäudlin p. 352: Hist. du Jacobin -> Jacobin. p. 352: vol. ii. pp. 250 350 -> 250, 350 p. 353: their awowed -> avowed p. 360: L'imagination est la -> 'L'imagination p. 391: _Bichat sur la Vie_, pp. 23-25 -> 23-25. p. 391: (vol. ii p. 8) -> (vol. ii. p. 8) p. 395: environ huit mille espèces; -> espèces;' p. 398: Hence the remóval -> removal p. 404: à son histoire.' _Georget_ -> _Georget_, p. 407: vol. x. p. 341, vol -> vol. p. 412: Mém. sur Marie Antoinette -> Mém. sur Marie-Antoinette p. 416: _Mahon's Hist. of England_, vol -> vol. p. 432: frightful desolation there. -> there.' p. 440: 509, 561. _Lafuente_ -> _Lafuente_, p. 445: Isabella may be -> 'Isabella may be p. 446: vol. i. p. 23, London, 1857 -> 1857. p. 450: vol. xxxiv, p. 273. -> vol. xxxiv. p. 273. p. 453: One of the most -> [60] One of the most p. 454: et action necessaire. -> necessaire, p. 454: devinast le reste. -> reste, p. 459: je vous l'ai déja -> déjà p. 459: vous conduise, je na'i -> n'ai? p. 471: tenement or pelting farm. -> farm.' p. 472: _Historia de Felipe Tercero_ -> _Historia de Felipe Tercero_, p. 473: desmedido.' _Lafuente_ -> _Lafuente_, p. 480: _Ibid._ vol. ii, -> vol. ii. p. 481: de su santo servido. -> servido, p. 483: decayéron en España. -> España.' p. 489: M. Janer or to M. Lafuente.' -> Lafuente. p. 494: evidence, says, "Il -> says, 'Il p. 496: people. It is ou -> our p. 496: expectations were ulfilled -> fulfilled p. 502: _Theorica de Comercio_. -> _Theorica de Comercio_, p. 510: et point de frein. -> frein.' p. 510: 'In 1681, the French -> In p. 510: de la reine, de même. -> même.' p. 512: _Historia de España_ -> _Historia de España_, p. 520: a clerk under Orri -> Orry p. 520: l'incapacité des sujets -> 'l'incapacité p. 527: Ellis' Original Letters -> Ellis's Original Letters p. 529: parce que les systémes -> systèmes p. 533: London, 1831, vol -> vol. p. 533: son médecin particulier, -> particulier.' p. 539: Dublin, 1781, pp. 227-229 -> 227-229. p. 546: ecclesiastical power[26] -> power[264] p. 547: vol. v. p. 295. Paris -> 295, Paris p. 553: Civilizacion, Española -> Civilizacion Española p. 553: atropellada en su inmunidad. -> inmunidad.' p. 556: Historia de -> del p. 560: Reinado de Carlos III -> III. p. 568: the regularity of them -> their p. 568: Looking at their -> them p. 574: que les gouvernemens. -> gouvernemens.' p. 575: Prescott's History of Ferdidinand -> Ferdinand p. 587: order of people, a peace -> piece p. 590: De même que le froc -> 'De même que le froc p. 591: vol. ii. p. 281 -> 281. p. 595: but leaving Spain unscathed -> unscathed. 
44495	----	HISTORY OF CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND. BY HENRY THOMAS BUCKLE. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. _NEW EDITION._ TORONTO: ROSE-BELFORD PUBLISHING COMPANY, 60 YORK STREET. 1878. ANALYTICAL TABLE OF CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. CONDITION OF SCOTLAND TO THE END OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. PAGE Scotland and Spain are very dissimilar in regard to loyalty 1 But are very similar in regard to superstition 4 The Scotch unite liberality in politics with illiberality in religion. This is the largest and most important fact in their history; and the rest of the Volume will be occupied in investigating its causes 5 Influence of physical geography 5-7 Roman invasion of Scotland 7-9 Irish invasion of Scotland 9 Norwegian invasion of Scotland 11-12 English invasion of Scotland 12-17 The injury which these invasions inflicted upon Scotland stopped the growth of towns, and thereby favoured the power of the nobles 18 The power of the nobles was still further favoured by the physical structure of the country 19-20 And by the weakness of the Crown 20-21 Hence their authority had, before the close of the fourteenth century, become enormous. The Crown, completely overshadowed by them, could derive no aid from the citizens, because, owing to the circumstances just mentioned, there were no cities 21-23 For, industry was impossible, and the commonest arts were unknown 23-26 Evidence of the scanty population of the Scotch towns 26-30 They were too feeble and insignificant to elect their own magistrates 32-33 The municipal element being thus imperfect, the only ally, which the Crown could possibly find, was the Church 34-35 Hence, a coalition between the kings and the clergy against the nobles 34 The clergy were the only body who could withstand the nobles. Causes of the great influence of the clergy 35-44 CHAPTER II. CONDITION OF SCOTLAND IN THE FIFTEENTH AND SIXTEENTH CENTURIES. Early in the fifteenth century, the alliance between the Crown and the Church against the nobles, became obvious 45 James I. attacked the nobles, and favoured the Church; hoping thereby to establish the supremacy of the throne 46-47 But his policy failed, because it was opposed by the operation of general causes 47-48 Besides failing, it produced his own destruction 49 Power of the Douglases, who were at the head of the southern nobility 49-50 James II. murdered the chiefs of that family 51-52 The Crown, in its efforts against the nobles, was encouraged by the clergy; and before the middle of the fifteenth century, the Church and the aristocracy were completely estranged from each other 52-54 James III., like James II. and James I., allied himself with the clergy against the nobles 55-56 Their power, however, was too deeply rooted to be shaken; and in 1488, they put the king to death 55 Still, and notwithstanding these successive failures, James IV. followed the same policy as his predecessors 56 So did James V. Consequently the nobles imprisoned him, and ejected the clergy from all offices in the state 57 In 1528, James V. escaped; the Crown and the Church regained the ascendant, and the principal nobles were banished 58 From this moment, the nobles hated the Church more than ever. Their hatred brought about the Reformation 58-59 Active measures of the government against the nobles 60-61 The nobles revenged themselves by becoming Reformers 62 James V., on the other hand, threw himself entirely into the arms of the Church 62-63 As the nobles took the opposite side, and as the people had no influence, the success or failure of the Reformation in Scotland was simply a question of the success or failure of the aristocratic power 65-68 In 1542, the nobles openly refused obedience to James V.; and their treatment of him at this critical period of his life, broke his heart 68-69 Directly he died, they regained authority. The clergy were displaced, and measures favourable to Protestantism were adopted 69-72 In 1546, Cardinal Beaton was assassinated, and Knox began his career 74-75 Subsequent proceedings of Knox 76-77 While Knox was abroad, the nobles established the Reformation 78 He returned to Scotland in 1559, by which time the struggle was nearly over 79 In 1559, the queen regent was deposed; the nobles became supreme; and, in 1560, the Church was destroyed 80-84 Immediately this revolution was completed, the nobles and the preachers began to quarrel about the wealth of the Church 84 The nobles, thinking that they ought to have it, took it into their own hands 85-88 Thereupon, the Protestant preachers said that the nobles were instigated by the devil 88-90 Morton, who was at the head of the nobility, became enraged at the proceedings of the new clergy, and persecuted them 91-92 A complete rupture between the two classes 93 The clergy, finding themselves despised by the governing class, united themselves heartily with the people, and advocated democratic principles 93 In 1574, Melville became their leader. Under his auspices, that great struggle began, which never stopped until, sixty years later, it produced the rebellion against Charles I. 94 The first manifestations of this rebellious spirit was the attack on the bishops 94 In 1575, the attack began. In 1580, episcopacy was abolished 96-97 But the nobles upheld that institution, because they loved inequality for the same reasons which made the clergy love equality 97-100 Struggle between the upper classes and the clergy respecting episcopacy 100-103 In 1582, James VI. was imprisoned; and his captivity was justified by the clergy, whose democratic principles were now openly proclaimed 103-104 Violent language used by the clergy against the king and against the nobles 104-109 Their leader, Melville, personally insulted the king, and they were probably privy to the Gowrie conspiracy in 1600 110 Still, the clergy, notwithstanding the indecency of their conduct, conferred the greatest of all boons upon Scotland, by keeping alive and nurturing the spirit of liberty 111-114 CHAPTER III. CONDITION OF SCOTLAND DURING THE SEVENTEENTH AND EIGHTEENTH CENTURIES. In 1603, the King of Scotland became also King of England, and determined to use his new resources in curbing and chastising the Scotch clergy 115-122 His cruel treatment of them 122-124 In 1610, James, backed by the power of England, forced episcopacy upon Scotland. Courts of High Commission were also set up 125-127 Tyrannical conduct of the bishops 127-129 Meanwhile, a reaction was preparing 129-132 In 1637, the reaction declared itself, and, in 1638, the bishops were overthrown 132-133 The movement being essentially democratic, could not stop there, but quickly spread from the Church to the State. In 1639, war was made upon Charles I. by the Scotch, who, having defeated the king, sold him to the English, who executed him 134-136 The Scotch, before they would crown Charles II., compelled him to humble himself, and to confess his own errors and the errors of his family 136-137 But, after Charles II. mounted the throne of England, he became powerful enough to triumph over the Scotch. He availed himself of that power to oppress Scotland even more grievously than his two predecessors had done 137-140 Happily, however, the spirit of liberty was strong enough to baffle his attempts to establish a permanent despotism 140 Still, the crisis was terrible, and the people and their clergy were exposed to every sort of outrage 141-146 Now, as before, the bishops aided the government in its efforts to enslave Scotland. Being hated by the people, they allied themselves with the Crown, and displayed the warmest affection towards James II., during whose reign cruelties were perpetrated worse than any previously known 147-150 In 1688, another reaction, in which the Scotch again freed themselves from their oppressors 151 The only powerful friends of this bad government were the Highlanders 151 Reasons which induced the Highlanders to rebel in favour of the Stuarts 151-153 The Highland rebellions of 1715 and 1745 were not the result of loyalty 153-159 After 1745, the Highlanders sank into complete insignificance, and the progress of Scotland was uninterrupted 159 Beginning of the trading spirit 160-161 Connexion between the rising of the trading spirit and the abolition, in 1748, of hereditary jurisdictions 161-162 The abolition of these jurisdictions was a symptom of the declining power of the Scotch nobles, but not a cause of it 161 One cause of the decline of their power was the union with England, in 1707 162-167 Another cause was the failure of the Rebellion of 1745 167 The nobles being thus weakened, were, in 1748, easily deprived of their right of jurisdiction. In this way, they lost the last emblem of their old authority 169-170 This great democratic and liberating movement was aided by the growth of the mercantile and manufacturing classes 171-172 And their growth was itself assisted by the Union with England 172 Evidence of the rapid progress of the industrious classes in the first half of the eighteenth century 173-183 During the same period, a new and splendid literature arose in Scotland 183-184 But, unfortunately, this literature, notwithstanding its bold and inquisitive spirit, was unable to diminish national superstition 184-186 It is the business of the historian to ascertain the causes of its failure. If he cannot do this, he cannot understand the history of Scotland 186 The first and most essential quality of an historian, is a clear perception of the great scientific doctrine of Law. But whoever seeks to apply this doctrine to the whole course of history, and to elucidate, by its aid, the march and theory of affairs, is met by obstacles which no single mind can remove 186-190 CHAPTER IV. AN EXAMINATION OF THE SCOTCH INTELLECT DURING THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. The rest of the Volume will be occupied with a still closer investigation of the double paradox presented by the history of Scotland; namely, 1st, that the same people should be liberal in politics, and illiberal in religion; and, 2nd, that the free and sceptical literature which they produced in the eighteenth century, should have been unable to lessen their religious illiberality 191 Their religious illiberality was the result of the immense power possessed by their clergy in the seventeenth century. The causes of that power will be examined in the present chapter 192 The failure of their literature in diminishing this illiberality during the eighteenth century, was the result of the peculiar method of the inquiry adopted by the Scotch philosophers. The causes of the universal diffusion of that method, the nature of the method, and the consequences of it, will be examined in the next chapter, which will conclude the Volume 192-193 Circumstances in the seventeenth century favourable to the influence of the Scotch clergy 193-197 While the English war against Charles I. was essentially political, the Scotch war against him was essentially religious 197-200 Though this was the effect of Scotch superstition, it was also a cause of its further progress 201-202 Hence, in the seventeenth century, secular interests were neglected, and theological ones became supreme. Illustration of this, from the zeal of the people to hear sermons of inordinate frequency and of terrible length; so that they passed the greater part of their lives in what were erroneously termed religious exercises 203-206 The clergy availed themselves of these habits to extend and consolidate their own authority 205-206 Their great engine of power was the Kirk-Session. Tyranny of the Kirk-Sessions 206-210 Monstrous pretensions of the clergy 210-212 Cases in which it was believed that these pretensions were upheld and vindicated by miracles 212-220 The clergy, becoming elated, indulge in language of extraordinary arrogance 221-227 They asserted that miracles were wrought in their behalf, and often on their persons 228-229 Effect of these proceedings upon the Scotch mind 230-232 The clergy, to intimidate the people, and bring them completely under control, advocated horrible notions concerning evil spirits and future punishments 232-243 With the same object they propounded notions more horrible still, respecting the Deity, whom they represented as a cruel, passionate, and sanguinary Being 245-252 They moreover declared that harmless and even praiseworthy actions were sinful, and would provoke the Divine wrath 251-262 To prevent such imaginary sins, the clergy made arbitrary regulations, and punished those who disobeyed them, sometimes by flogging, and sometimes by branding with hot irons, and sometimes in other ways 262-263 Specimens of the sins which the clergy invented 264-268 The result was, that all mirth, all innocent gaiety, all demonstrations of happiness, and nearly all physical enjoyments, were destroyed in Scotland 268-269 Hence, the national character was mutilated. For, the pleasures of the body are, in our actual condition, as essential a part of the great scheme of life, and are as necessary to human affairs, as are the pleasures of the mind 269-271 But the clergy, by denouncing these pleasures of the senses, do what they can, in every country, to diminish the total amount of happiness of which humanity is susceptible, and which it has a right to enjoy 271-275 In no Protestant country have the clergy pushed these narrow and unsocial tenets so far as in Scotland 275-276 Indeed, in some respects, the Scotch clergy were more ascetic than those of any branch of the Catholic Church, except the Spanish; since they attempted to destroy the affections, and to sever the holiest ties of domestic love 276-279 CHAPTER V. AN EXAMINATION OF THE SCOTCH INTELLECT DURING THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. The Scotch philosophical literature of the eighteenth century, was a reaction against the theological spirit of the seventeenth 281 But the peculiarity of the philosophy which now arose, is that, instead of being an inductive philosophy, it was a deductive one 281-282 This is well worthy of notice; because the inductive method being essentially anti-theological, it might have been expected that the opponents of the theological spirit would have followed that method 282-284 The truth, however, was, that the theological spirit had taken such hold of the Scotch mind, that it was impossible for the inductive method to gain a hearing 284-289 Hence, the secular philosophy of the eighteenth century, though new in its results, was not new in the method by which those results were obtained 289 In this respect, Scotland is similar to Germany, but dissimilar to England 289-290 Summary of the most important distinctions between induction and deduction 291 The whole of the Scotch philosophy, physical as well as metaphysical, is deductive 291 Hutcheson's philosophy 292-304 Its results and tendency 292-299 Its method 299-304 Adam Smith's philosophy 304-330 His _Theory of Moral Sentiments_ and his _Wealth of Nations_ are different parts of one subject. To understand either, we must study both 304-305 His deductive method depended upon a suppression of premisses 304-309 Account of his _Theory of Moral Sentiments_ 309-314 Account of his _Wealth of Nations_ 314-330 Hume's philosophy 331-349 His want of imagination 331-332 Importance and novelty of his doctrines 333-337 His method was eminently deductive; and he, like Adam Smith, cared little for experience 337-341 Hence, his injustice to Bacon, whose method was diametrically opposed to his own 338-339 His _Natural History of Religion_ 342-348 Comparison between the method of this work, and the method employed by Cudworth 348 Reid's philosophy 349-361 His timidity made him look at the practical tendency of speculative doctrines, instead of confining himself to the question of their truth or falsehood 349-354 But a philosopher should deem it his business to ascertain new truths, without regard to their consequences 349-350 Reid attacked Hume's method, because he disliked the results to which that method had led 354-355 And yet, in raising his own philosophy, he followed the very same method himself 355-359 Estimate of the value of what Reid effected 359-360 Opposition between the method of Reid and that of Bacon 360-361 In physical philosophy, the deductive method was equally prevalent in Scotland 361-seq. The laws of heat 362 Indestructibility of force. Interchange of forces 362-365 Black's philosophy 367-377 His theory of latent heat prepared the way for subsequent discoveries 367-371 His method was deductive, and does not come under any of the rules of the Baconian philosophy 371-372 He reasoned from his principles speculatively, instead of occupying himself with a long course of experiments 372-377 To do this was to indulge the imagination, which is deemed dangerous by the inductive school of English physicists. But, in the pursuit of truth, we need all our powers; and the advance of physical science is retarded by our neglect of the imaginative and emotional faculties 377-382 Black, therefore, did immense service by giving free scope, to the imagination. The same plan was pursued by his successor, Leslie 383 Leslie's philosophy of heat 383-388 He derived great aid from poetry 385 And was unjust to Bacon, whose inductive views he disliked 388 Hutton's geological philosophy 388-402 Fire and water are the two causes which have altered, and are still altering, the crust of the earth. The supposition that volcanic action was formerly more powerful than at present, is quite consistent with the doctrines of an unbroken sequence of events, and of the uniformity of natural laws 388-390 The action of fire and water on the crust of the earth, may be studied deductively, by computing separately the probable operation of each. Or they maybe studied inductively, by observing their united effects, and rising from the effects to the causes; while the deductive plan is to descend from the causes to the effects 390-391 Of these two methods, the English followed the inductive; the Scotch and Germans followed the deductive 391 English geology founded by William Smith 391-393 German geology founded by Werner 393-395 Scotch geology founded by Hutton 396 The English observed effects in order to ascertain causes. The Germans, assuming water to be the cause, reasoned from it to the effects. The Scotch, assuming heat to be the cause, made its principles the first step in their argument 391-396 Reasons which made the Scotch geologists argue from the principles of heat, instead of, like the German geologists, arguing from the principles of water 396 Though Hutton founded the theory of metamorphic rocks, and ascribed such immense importance to heat, he would not take the trouble of examining a single region of active volcanos, where he might have seen those very operations of nature, respecting which he speculated 398 But, by a deductive application of the principles unfolded by Black, he arrived at a conclusion concerning the consolidation of strata by heat 399-400 That conclusion was entirely speculative, and unsupported by experience 399 Though experiment might perhaps verify it, no one had yet made the trial; and Hutton was too averse to the inductive method to undertake the investigation himself 400-401 Sir James Hall afterwards took the matter up, and empirically verified the great idea which Hutton had propounded 401-402 Watt's invention of the steam-engine, and discovery of the composition of water 402-406 Contrast between the method by which he, as a Scotchman, discovered the composition of water, and the opposite method by which the Englishman, Cavendish, made the same discovery at the same time 404-406 Nature of the evidence of the supposed difference between the organic and inorganic world. Life is probably a property of all matter 406-410 Assuming, however, for the purposes of classification, that the organic world is fundamentally different from the inorganic, we may divide organic science into physiology and pathology 410-412 The two great Scotch pathologists are Cullen and John Hunter. Hunter, having a larger mind than Cullen, was also a physiologist 412 Account of Cullen's philosophy 413-427 His love of theory 413 Theory, though necessary in science, is dangerous in practice 414-416 Difference between the science of pathology and the art of therapeutics 417-418 Comparison between the method of Cullen's pathology and the method employed by Adam Smith 417-419 Cullen's theory of the solids 420-seq. He refused to inquire into the truth of the principles from which he argued 421-422 His conclusions, like his premisses, represent only a part of the truth, and were extremely one-sided. Still, their value is unquestionable, forming, as they did, a necessary part of the general progress 423-424 His theory of fever 424-426 His nosology 426-427 The philosophy of John Hunter 428-458 His grandeur, and, unfortunately, his obscurity of language 428-430 In his mind, the inductive and deductive methods struggled for mastery. Their conflict oppressed him. This is one of the causes of the darkness of his thoughts and consequently of his style 429-432 His natural disposition was towards deduction 432 But circumstances made him inductive, and he collected facts with untiring industry 432-434 By this means he made a large number of curious physiological discoveries 434-436 He traced the history of the red globules of the blood, and arrived at the conclusion that their function is to strengthen the system rather than to repair it 436-437 Long after his death, this inference was corroborated by the progress of miscroscopical and chemical researches. It was especially corroborated by Lecanu's comparison of the blood in different sexes, and in different temperaments. 439 Hunter's inquiries concerning the movements of animals and vegetables 439-441 He recognized the great truth that the sciences of the inorganic world must be the foundation of those of the organic 443 His object was, to unite all the physical sciences, in order to show that, the operations of nature being always uniform, regularity prevails even amidst the greatest apparent irregularity 443-444 Hence, aiming chiefly at a generalization of irregularities, his favourite study was pathology 444 In his pathological inquiries, he took into account the malformations of crystals 445 As a physiologist, he was equalled or excelled by Aristotle; but as a pathologist, he is unrivalled for the grandeur of his views 446-447 In pathology, his love of deduction was more obvious than in physiology 447 His pathological speculations respecting the principles of action and the principles of sympathy 448-452 But his English contemporaries, being eminently inductive, so disliked his method, that he exercised scarcely any influence over them 453 This is the more observable, because his discoveries respecting disease have caused him to be recognized as the founder of modern surgery, and the principal author of the doctrines now taught in the medical profession 454-457 Such were the great results achieved by Scotchmen in the eighteenth century. Difference between this splendid literature and the wretched productions of the Scotch mind in the seventeenth century. 458-460 Notwithstanding this difference, the deductive method was supreme in both centuries 461 The deductive method strikes the senses less than the inductive. Hence, induction being more accessible to average understandings, is more popular than deduction. Hence, too, the teachings of an inductive philosophy are more likely to affect national character than the teaching of a deductive philosophy 461-464 Theology forms the only exception to this rule 464-465 The Scotch literature of the eighteenth century, being essentially deductive, was, on that account, unable to affect the nation. It was, therefore, unable to weaken national superstition 465-469 Superstition and religious illiberality still existing in Scotland 469-471 The notions countenanced there respecting the origin of epidemics. Correspondence which, in consequence of those notions, took place, in 1853, between the Scotch Church and the English Government 471-476 These superstitions are eminently irreligious, and are everywhere becoming effaced, as physical science advances. Nothing else can touch them. Hence the gradual liberation of the human mind from the slavish and unmanly fears by which it has long been oppressed 476-482 HISTORY OF CIVILIZATION IN ENGLAND. CHAPTER I. CONDITION OF SCOTLAND TO THE END OF THE FOURTEENTH CENTURY. In the preceding view of the rise and decay of Spain, I have sought to exhibit the successive steps by which what was formerly one of the greatest nations of the earth, was broken, and cast down from its high estate. As we look back on that scene, the picture is, indeed, striking. A country rich in all natural productions, inhabited by a brave, a loyal, and a religious people, removed, too, by its geographical position from the hazards of European revolutions, did, by the operation of those general causes which I have indicated, suddenly rise to unparalleled grandeur; and then, without the occurrence of any new combination, but by a mere continuance of the same causes, fall with an equal velocity. Yet, these vicissitudes, strange and startling as they appear, were perfectly regular. They were the legitimate consequence of a state of society, in which the spirit of protection had reached its highest point, and in which, every thing being done for the people, nothing was done by the people. Whenever this happens, there may be great political progress, but there can be no really national progress. There may be accessions of territory, and vast increase of fame and of power. There may be improvements in the practice of administration, in the management of finances, in the organization of armies, in the art and theory of war, in the tricks of diplomacy, and in those various contrivances by which one nation is able to outwit and insult another. So far, however, from this benefiting the people, it will injure them in two different ways. In the first place, by increasing the reputation of the ruling classes, it encourages that blind and servile respect which men are too apt to feel for those who are above them, and which, wherever it has been generally practised, has been found fatal to the highest qualities of the citizen, and therefore to the permanent grandeur of the nation. And, in the second place, it multiplies the resources of the executive government, and thus renders the country unable, as well as unwilling, to correct the errors of those who are at the head of affairs. Hence, in Spain, as in all countries similarly circumstanced, it was at the very moment when things were most prosperous at the surface, that they were most rotten at the foundation. In presence of the most splendid political success, the nation hastened to its downfall, and the crisis was fast approaching, in which, the whole edifice being overturned, nothing would be left, except a memorable warning of the consequences which must ensue, when the people, giving themselves up to the passions of superstition and loyalty, abdicate their own proper functions, forego their own responsibility, renounce their highest duties, and degrade themselves into passive instruments to serve the will of the Church and the throne. Such is the great lesson taught by the history of Spain. From the history of Scotland, we may gather another lesson, of a different, and yet of a similar, kind. In Scotland, the progress of the nation has been very slow, but, on the whole, very sure. The country is extremely barren; the executive government has, with rare exceptions, been always weak; and the people have never been burdened with those feelings of loyalty which circumstances had forced upon the Spaniards. Certainly, the last charge that will be brought against the Scotch, is that of superstitious attachment to their princes.[1] We, in England, have not always been very tender of the persons of our sovereigns, and we have occasionally punished them with what some consider excessive severity. With this, we have been frequently taunted by the more loyal nations of the Continent; and, in Spain in particular, our conduct has excited the greatest abhorrence. But, if we compare our history with that of our northern neighbours, we must pronounce ourselves a meek and submissive people.[2] There have been more rebellions in Scotland than in any other country; and the rebellions have been very sanguinary, as well as very numerous. The Scotch have made war upon most of their kings, and put to death many. To mention their treatment of a single dynasty, they murdered James I. and James III. They rebelled against James II. and James VII. They laid hold of James V., and placed him in confinement. Mary, they immured in a castle, and afterwards deposed. Her successor, James VI., they imprisoned; they led him captive about the country, and on one occasion attempted his life. Towards Charles I., they showed the greatest animosity, and they were the first to restrain his mad career. Three years before the English ventured to rise against that despotic prince, the Scotch boldly took up arms, and made war on him. The service which they then rendered to the cause of liberty it would be hard to overrate; but the singular part of the transaction was, that having afterwards got possession of the person of Charles, they sold him to the English for a large sum of money, of which they, being very poor, had pressing need. Such a sale is unparalleled in history; and although the Scotch might have plausibly alleged that this was the only gain they had derived, or ever could derive, from the existence of their hereditary prince, still the event is one which stands alone; it was unprecedented; it has never been imitated; and its occurrence is a striking symptom of the state of public opinion, and of the feelings of the country in which it was permitted. [1] One of their own historians complacently says, 'but the Scots were seldom distinguished for loyalty.' _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 199, edit. 1819. See also p. 366. To the same effect, Brodie (_History of the British Empire_, Edinburgh, 1822, vol. i. p. 388): 'The little respect paid to royalty is conspicuous in every page of Scottish history.' Or, as Wilkes expressed himself in the House of Commons, 'Scotland seems, indeed, the natural _foyer_ of rebellion, as Egypt is of the plague.' _Parliamentary History_, vol. xix. p. 810, London, 1814; and Nimmo (_History of Stirlingshire_, Edinburgh, 1777, p. 219): 'Never was any race of monarchs more unfortunate than the Scottish. Their reigns were generally turbulent and disastrous, and their own end often tragical.' [2] Indeed, a well-known Scotchman of the seventeenth century, scornfully says of the English, 'such is the obsequiousness, and almost superstitious devotion of that nation towards their prince.' _Baillie's Letters_, vol. i. p. 204, edit. Laing, Edinburgh, 1841. This, however, was written in 1639, since which we have effectually wiped off that reproach. On the other hand, an English writer of the seventeenth century, indignantly, though with evident exaggeration, imputes to the Scotch that 'forty of their kings have been barbarously murdered by them; and half as many more have either made away with themselves, for fear of their torturing of them, or have died miserably in strait imprisonment.' _Account of Scotland in_ 1670, in _Harleian Miscellany_, vol. vi. p. 140, edit. Park, 4to, 1810. Compare two curious passages in _Shields' Hind let loose_, 1687, pp. 8, 9, 15. While, however, in regard to loyalty, the opposition between Scotland and Spain is complete, there is, strange to say, the most striking similarity between those countries in regard to superstition. Both nations have allowed their clergy to exercise immense sway, and both have submitted their actions, as well as their consciences, to the authority of the Church. As a natural consequence, in both countries, intolerance has been, and still is, a crying evil; and in matters of religion, a bigotry is habitually displayed, discreditable indeed to Spain, but far more discreditable to Scotland, which has produced many philosophers of the highest eminence, who would willingly have taught the people better things, but who have vainly attempted to remove from the national mind that serious blemish which mars its beauty, and tends to neutralize its many other admirable qualities. Herein lies the apparent paradox, and the real difficulty, of Scotch history. That knowledge should not have produced the effects which have elsewhere followed it; that a bold and inquisitive literature should be found in a grossly superstitious country, without diminishing its superstition; that the people should constantly withstand their kings, and as constantly succumb to their clergy; that while they are liberal in politics, they should be illiberal in religion; and that, as a natural consequence of all this, men who, in the visible and external department of facts and of practical life, display a shrewdness and a boldness rarely equalled, should nevertheless, in speculative life, and in matters of theory, tremble like sheep before their pastors, and yield assent to every absurdity they hear, provided their Church has sanctioned it; that these discrepancies should coexist, seems at first sight a strange contradiction, and is surely a phenomenon worthy of our careful study. To indicate the causes of this anomaly, and to trace the results to which the anomaly has led, will be the business of the remaining part of this volume; and although the investigation will be somewhat lengthy, it will not, I hope, be considered prolix, by those who recognise the importance of the inquiry, and are aware how completely it has been neglected, even by those who have written most fully on the history of the Scottish nation. In Scotland, as elsewhere, the course of events has been influenced by its physical geography; and by this I mean, not only its own immediate peculiarities, but also its relation to adjoining countries. It is close to Ireland; it touches England; and by the contiguity of the Orkney and Shetland Isles, it was eminently exposed to the attacks of that great nation of pirates, which for centuries inhabited the Scandinavian peninsula. Considered merely by itself, it is mountainous and sterile; nature has interposed such obstacles, that it was long impossible to open regular communications between its different parts, which, indeed, in regard to the Highlands, was not effected till after the middle of the eighteenth century.[3] Finally, and this, as we shall presently see, was a matter of great importance, the most fertile land in Scotland is in the south, and was, therefore, constantly ravaged by the English borderers. Hence, the accumulation of wealth was hindered; the growth of towns was discouraged, by the serious hazards to which they were liable; and it was impossible to develop that municipal spirit, which might have existed, if the districts most favoured by nature had been situated in the north of Scotland, instead of in the south. If the actual state of things had been reversed, so that the Highlands were in the south,[4] and the Lowlands in the north, it can hardly be doubted, that, after the cessation in the thirteenth century of the great Scandinavian invasions, the most fertile parts of Scotland, being comparatively secure, would have been the seat of towns, which the active spirit of the people would have caused to prosper, and the prosperity of which would have introduced a new element into Scotch affairs, and changed the course of Scotch history. This, however, was not to be; and, as we have to deal with events as they actually are, I will now endeavour to trace the consequences of the physical peculiarities which have just been noticed; and by coördinating their results, I will, so far as I am able, show their general meaning, and the way in which they have shaped the national character. [3] In England, the travelling was bad enough; in Scotland, it was far worse. Morer, stating what he saw in 1689, says 'Stage-coaches they have none; yet there are a few Hackney's at Edinburgh, which they may hire into the country upon urgent occasions. The truth is, the roads will hardly allow 'em those conveniences, which is the reason that their gentry, men and women, chuse rather to use their horses.' _Morer's Account of Scotland_, London, 1702, p. 24. As to the northern parts, we have the following account, written in Inverness, between 1726 and 1730. 'The Highlands are but little known even to the inhabitants of the low country of Scotland, for they have ever dreaded the difficulties and dangers of travelling among the mountains; and, when some extraordinary occasion has obliged any one of them to such a progress, he has, generally speaking, made his testament before he set out, as though he were entering upon a long and dangerous sea-voyage, wherein it was very doubtful if he should ever return.' _Letters from a Gentleman in the North of Scotland_, edit. London, 1815, vol. i. p. 4. Between 1720 and 1730, military roads were cut through parts of the Highlands, but they were 'laid down by a practical soldier, and destined for warlike purposes, with scarcely any view towards the ends for which free and peaceful citizens open up a system of internal transit,' _Burton's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 255. See also _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. ii. p. 36. This is confirmed by the fact, that even between Inverness and Edinburgh, 'until 1755, the mail was conveyed by men on foot.' Account of Inverness-shire, in _M^cCulloch's British Empire_, London, 1847, vol. i. p. 299; to which I may add, that in _Anderson's Essay on the Highlands_, Edinburgh, 1827, pp. 119, 120, it is stated, that 'A postchaise was first seen in Inverness itself in 1760, and was, for a considerable time, the only four-wheeled carriage in the district.' As to the communications in the country about Perth, see _Penny's Traditions of Perth_, pp. 131, 132, Perth, 1836; and as to those from Aberdeen to Inverness, and from Aberdeen to Edinburgh, see _Kennedy's Annals of Aberdeen_, vol. ii. pp. 269, 270, London, 4to, 1818. The history of the improvement of the roads during the latter half of the eighteenth century, has never been written; but it is of the greatest importance for its intellectual results, in causing national fusion, as well as for its economical results, in helping trade. Some idea may be formed of the extraordinary energy displayed by Scotland in this matter, by comparing the following passages: _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. ii. pp. 494, 865, 939, vol. iii. pp. 599, 799; _Crawfurd's History of the Shire of Renfrew_, part ii. pp. 128, 160; _Irving's History of Dumbartonshire_, pp. 245, 246; _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 109, 210, 367, 430, 496; vol. ii. p. 498; vol. iii. pp. 331, 352, 353; vol. iv. p. 313; vol. v. pp. 128, 234, 235, 315, 364, 365; vol. vi. pp. 107, 154, 180, 458; vol. vii. pp. 135, 251, 275, 299, 417; vol. viii. pp. 81, 243, 344, 345, 541; vol. ix. pp. 414, 530; vol. x. pp. 221, 237, 238, 466, 618; vol. xi. pp. 127, 380, 418, 432, 522, 541; vol. xii. p. 59; vol. xiii. pp. 42, 141, 488, 542, 663; vol. xiv. pp. 217, 227, 413, 443, 466, 506; vol. xv. pp. 54, 88, 276; vol. xvi. p. 120; vol. xvii. pp. 5, 267, 297, 377, 533; vol. xviii. p. 309; vol. xx. p. 156. [4] I use the word Highlands, in the common, though improper, sense of including all Scotland from the Pentland Firth to the beginning of the mountains, a few miles north of Glasgow, Stirling, Perth, and Dundee. All such distinctions are necessarily somewhat vague, because the boundaries of nature are never clearly marked. Compare _Macky's Scotland_, p. 124, London, 1732, with _Anderson's Guide to the Highlands_, Edinburgh, 1847, pp. 17, 18. The earliest fact with which we are acquainted respecting the history of Scotland, is the Roman invasion under Agricola, late in the first century. But neither his conquests, nor those of his successors, made any permanent impression. The country was never really subjugated, and nothing was effected except a military occupation, which, in spite of the erection of numerous forts, walls, and ramparts, left the spirit of the inhabitants unbroken. Even Severus, who, in the year 209, undertook the last and most important expedition against Scotland, does not appear to have penetrated beyond the Firth of Moray;[5] and directly he retired, the natives were again in arms, and again independent. After this, nothing was attempted upon a scale large enough to give a chance of success. Indeed, the Romans, far from being equal to such an effort, were themselves deteriorating. In their best days, their virtues were the virtues of barbarians, and even those they were now about to lose. From the beginning, their scheme of life was so one-sided and imperfect, that the increase of wealth, which improves the civilization of really civilized countries, was to the Romans an irreparable mischief; and they were corrupted by luxury, instead of being refined by it. In our time, if we compare the different nations of Europe, we find that the richest are also the most powerful, the most humane, and the most happy. We live in that advanced state of society, in which wealth is both the cause and the effect of progress, while poverty is the fruitful parent of weakness, of misery, and of crime. But the Romans, when they ceased to be poor, began to be vicious. So unstable was the foundation of their greatness, that the very results which their power produced, were fatal to the power itself. Their empire gave them wealth, and their wealth overthrew their empire. Their national character, notwithstanding its apparent strength, was in truth of so frail a texture, that it was ruined by its own development. As it grew, it dwarfed. Hence it was, that, in the third and fourth centuries, their hold on mankind visibly slackened. Their authority being undermined, other nations, of course, stepped in; so that the inroads of those strange tribes which came pouring from the north, and to whose appearance the final catastrophe is often ascribed, were at best the occasion, but by no means the cause, of the fall of the Roman Empire. Towards that great and salutary event, every thing had long been pointing. The scourgers and oppressors of the world, whom a false and ignorant sympathy has invested with noble qualities which they never possessed, had now to look to themselves; and when, after receding on all sides, they, in the middle of the fifth century, withdrew their forces from the whole of Britain, they merely executed a movement, which a train of circumstances, continued through several generations, had made inevitable. [5] Browne (_History of the Highlands_, vol. i. p. 33) says that 'he traversed the whole of North Britain, from the wall of Antoninus to the very extremity of the island.' The same thing is stated in _Pennant's Scotland_, vol. i. p. 90. Neither of these writers quote their authority for this; but they probably relied on a passage in _Buchanan's Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. iv. p. 94. 'Neque tamen desideratis quinquaginta millibus (ut scribit Dion) prius ab inc[oe]pto destiterunt, quam ad finem insulæ penetrassent.' I believe, however, that Scotch antiquaries are now agreed that this is wrong, as Chalmers was one of the first to perceive. See his _Caledonia_, vol. i. p. 187; a very valuable and learned, but unhappily ill-arranged, book, and written in a style which is absolutely afflicting. See also _Irving's History of Dumbartonshire_, 4to, 1860, p. 14. It is at this point that we begin to discern the operation of those physical and geographical peculiarities which I have mentioned as influencing the fortunes of Scotland. The Romans, gradually losing ground, the proximity of Ireland caused repeated attacks from that fertile island, whose rich soil and great natural advantages gave rise to an exuberant, and therefore a restless, population. An overflow, which, in civilized times, is an emigration, is, in barbarous times, an invasion. Hence the Irish, or Scotti as they were termed, established themselves by force of arms in the west of Scotland, and came into collision with the Picts, who occupied the eastern part. A deadly struggle ensued, which lasted four centuries after the withdrawal of the Romans, and plunged the country into the greatest confusion. At length, in the middle of the ninth century, Kenneth M'Alpine, king of the Scotti, gained the upper hand, and reduced the Picts to complete submission.[6] The country was now united under one rule; and the conquerors, slowly absorbing the conquered, gave their name to the whole, which, in the tenth century, received the appellation of Scotland.[7] [6] The history of Scotland, in this period, is in great confusion, and perhaps will never be recovered. For the statements made in the text, I have chiefly used the following authorities: _Fordun's Scotichronicon_, vol. i.; _Buchanan's Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. v. pp. 121-132, and the beginning of the sixth book. Also various parts of _Bede_; _Pinkerton's Enquiry into the Early History of Scotland_; _Chalmers' Caledonia_; the first volume of _Browne's History of the Highlands_; and, above all, Mr. Skene's acute and learned work on the Highlanders. In the last-named book, the western boundary of the Picts is traced with great ingenuity, though perhaps with some uncertainty. _Skene's Highlanders of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 26-33, London, 1837. [7] Here, again, we are involved in doubt; it being uncertain when the name Scotia was first applied to Scotland. The date, therefore, which I have given, is only intended as an approximative truth. In arriving at it, I have compared the following different, and often conflicting, passages: _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. i. p. 339. _Browne's History of the Highlands_, vol. i. p. 34. _Pinkerton's Enquiry into the Early History of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 253, 254, vol. ii. pp. 151, 228, 237, 240. _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, edit. Russell, 1851, vol. i. p. 16, note, where, however, Pinkerton's authority is appealed to for an assertion which he did not make. _Skene's Highlanders_, vol. i. pp. 45, 61, 244. _Anderson's Prize Essay on the Highlands_, p. 34. But the kingdom was to have no rest. For, in the mean time, circumstances, which it would be tedious to relate, had raised the inhabitants of Norway to be the greatest maritime power in Europe. The use which that nation of pirates made of their strength, forms another and a very important link in the history of Scotland, and moreover illustrates the immense weight, which, in an early period of society, should be assigned to mere geographical considerations. The nearest land to the centre of the long coast of Norway is the Shetland Isles, whence it is an easy sail to the Orkneys. The northern pirates naturally seized these small, but, to them, most useful islands, and, as naturally, made them intermediate stations, from which they could conveniently pillage the coasts of Scotland. Being constantly reinforced from Norway, they, in the ninth and tenth centuries, advanced from the Orkneys, made permanent settlements in Scotland itself, and occupied not only Caithness, but also great part of Sutherland. Another body of them got possession of the Western Islands; and as Skye is only separated from the mainland by a very narrow channel, these pirates easily crossed over, and fixed themselves in Western Ross.[8] From their new abodes, they waged incessant and destructive war against every district within their reach; and, keeping a large part of Scotland in constant alarm, they, for about three centuries, prevented the possibility of its social improvement. Indeed, that unhappy country was never free from the dangers of Norwegian invasion, until the failure of the last great attack, in 1263, when Haco left Norway with a prodigious armament, which he further strengthened by reinforcements from the Orkneys and Hebrides. Scotland could offer but little resistance. Haco, with his allies, sailed along the western coast to the Mull of Kentire, wasted the country with fire and sword, took Arran and Bute, entered the Firth of Clyde, suddenly fell upon Loch Lomond, destroyed all the property on its shores and on its islands, ravaged the whole county of Stirling, and threatened to descend with all his force upon Ayrshire. Fortunately, the inclemency of the weather broke up this great expedition, and scattered or destroyed the entire fleet.[9] After its dispersal, the course of affairs in Norway prevented the attempt from being renewed; and danger from that quarter being over, it might have been hoped that Scotland would now enjoy peace, and would have leisure to develop the natural resources which she possessed, particularly those in the southern and more favoured districts. [8] _Pinkerton's Enquiry into the Early History of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 136, 317, vol. ii. pp. 179, 298. _Skene's Highlanders_, vol. i. pp. 90, 91, 94, 106, 114, 258, 259. _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. i. pp. 340-347. [9] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 38-54. The account in _Hollinshead's Scottish Chronicle_, vol. i. pp. 399-403, ascribes too much to the prowess of the Scotch, and too little to the elements which dispersed the fleet. Compare _Irving's History of Dumbartonshire_, second edition, 4to, 1860, pp. 48, 49. This, however, was not to be. For, scarcely were the attacks from Norway at an end, when those from England began. Early in the thirteenth century, the lines of demarcation which separated Normans from Saxons, were, in our country, becoming so obliterated, that in many cases it was impossible to distinguish them.[10] By the middle of the same century, the two races were fused into one powerful nation; and, as that nation had a comparatively feeble neighbour, it was certain that the stronger people would try to oppress the weaker.[11] In an ignorant and barbarous age, military success is preferred to all other kinds of fame; and the English, greedy for conquest, set their eyes upon Scotland, which they were sure to invade at the first opportunity. That Scotland was near, made it tempting; that it was believed to be defenceless, made the temptation irresistible. In 1290, Edward I. determined to avail himself of the confusion into which Scotland was thrown by disputes respecting the succession of the crown. The intrigues which followed, need not be related; it is enough to say, that, in 1296, the sword was drawn, and Edward invaded a country which he had long desired to conquer. But he little recked of the millions of treasure, and the hundreds of thousands of lives, which were to be squandered, before that war was over.[12] The contest that ensued was of unexampled length and severity; and in its sad course, the Scotch, notwithstanding their heroic resistance, and the victories they occasionally gained, had to endure every evil which could be inflicted by their proud and insolent neighbour. The darling object of the English, was to subjugate the Scotch; and if anything could increase the disgrace of so base an enterprise, it would be that, having undertaken it, they ignominiously failed.[13] The suffering, however, was incalculable, and was aggravated by the important fact, that it was precisely the most fertile part of Scotland which was most exposed to the English ravages. This, as we shall presently see, produced some very curious results on the national character; and for that reason, I will, without entering into many details, give a slight summary of the more immediate consequences of this long and sanguinary struggle. [10] _Buckle's History of Civilization_, vol. ii. pp. 116, 117. [11] In _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 18, 'the early part of the reign' of Alexander III. is indicated as the period in which 'the first approaches were made towards the great plan for the reduction of Scotland, by the English.' Alexander III. came to the throne in 1249. Earlier, the feeling was very different. Thus, late in the twelfth century, 'the two nations, according to Fordun, seemed one people; Englishmen travelling at pleasure through all the corners of Scotland (?); and Scotchmen in like manner through England.' _Ridpath's Border History_, p. 76. Compare _Dalrymple's Annals of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 158. At that time, England, being weak, was peaceably disposed. [12] An old Scotch writer says, with some exaggeration, 'The year 1296, at which tyme, the bloodyest and longest warr that ever was betwixt two nationes fell out, and continued two hundreth and sextie years, to the undoeing and ruineing of many noble families, with the slaughter of a million of men.' _Somerville's Memorie of the Somervilles_, vol. i. p. 61. [13] See some just and biting remarks in _Hume's History of the House of Douglas_, vol. i. p. 85. In 1296, the English entered Berwick, the richest town Scotland possessed, and not only destroyed all the property, but slew nearly all the inhabitants.[14] They then marched on to Aberdeen and Elgin; and so completely desolated the country, that the Scotch, flying to the mountains, and stripped of their all, had no resource left but to wage from their native fastnesses a war similar to that which their savage ancestors, twelve centuries earlier, had conducted against the Romans.[15] In 1298, the English again broke in, burnt Perth and St. Andrews, and ravaged the whole territory south and west.[16] In 1310, they invaded Scotland by the eastern march, and carrying off such provisions as were left, caused so terrible a dearth, that the people were forced to feed on horses and other carrion.[17] All over southern Scotland, both east and west, the inhabitants were now reduced to a horrible condition, being for the most part houseless and starved. In 1314, made desperate by their state, they rallied for a moment, and, in the battle of Bannockburn, gloriously defeated their oppressors. But their unrelenting enemy was at hand, and pressed them so hard, that, in 1322, Bruce, in order to baffle an English invasion, was obliged to lay waste all the districts south of the Firth of Forth; the people taking refuge, as before, in the mountains.[18] This time, therefore, when Edward II. reached Edinburgh, he plundered nothing, because, the country being a desert, there was nothing to plunder; but, on his return, he did what he could, and meeting with some convents, which were the only signs of life that he encountered, he fell upon them, robbed the monasteries of Melrose and Holyrood, burnt the abbey of Dryburgh, and slew those monks who, from age or disease, were unable to escape.[19] In 1336, the next king, Edward III., equipped a numerous army, devastated the Lowlands, and great part of the Highlands, and destroyed every thing he could find, as far as Inverness.[20] In 1346, the English overran the districts of Tweeddale, the Merse, Ettrick, Annandale, and Galloway;[21] and in 1355, Edward, in a still more barbarous inroad, burnt every church, every village, and every town he approached.[22] And scarcely were these frightful losses somewhat repaired, when another storm burst upon the devoted land. In 1385, Richard II. traversed the southern counties to Aberdeen, scattering destruction on every side, and reducing to ashes the cities of Edinburgh, Dunfermline, Perth, and Dundee.[23] [14] 'Anno gratiæ MCCXCVI. tertio kalendas Aprilis, villa et castro de Berevvico, per magnificum regem Angliæ Eadvvardum captis, omnes ibidem inuentos Angli gladio occiderunt, paucis exceptis, qui ipsam villam postmodum abiurar[=u]t.' _Flores Historiarum per Matthæum Westmonasteriensem collecti_, Lond. 1570, folio, lib. ii. p. 403. 'Atque modo prædicto villâ captâ, civibus prostratis, rex Angliæ prædictus nulli ætati parcens aut sexui, duobus diebus rivulis de cruore occisorum fluentibus, septem millia et quingentas animas promiscui sexûs jusserat, in sua tyrannide desæviens, trucidari.' _Fordun's Scotichronicon, curâ Goodall_, Edinb. 1775, folio, vol. ii. pp. 159, 160. 'Secutus Rex cum peditum copiis miserabilem omnis generis cædem edit.' _Buchanan's Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, Abredoniæ, 1762, lib. viii. p. 200. 'They left not one creature alive of the Scotish blood within all that toune.' _Hollinshead's Scottish Chronicle_, Arbroath, 1805, 4to, vol. i. p. 418. In 1286, that is, only ten years earlier, 'No other part of Scotland, in point of commercial importance, came near to a comparison with Berwick.' _Macpherson's Annals of Commerce_, London, 4to, 1805, vol. i. p. 446. Such were the brutal crimes of our wretched and ignorant ancestors. [15] 'The Scots assembled in troops and companies, and betaking themselves to the woods, mountains, and morasses, in which their fathers had defended themselves against the Romans, prepared for a general insurrection against the English power.' _Scott's History of Scotland_, London, 1830, vol. i. p. 70. Elgin appears to have been the most northern point of this expedition. See _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 119, and _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. i. p. 657. The general results are summed up by Buchanan: 'Hanc stragem ex agrorum incultu consecuta est fames, et famem pestis, unde major quàm è bello clades timebatur.' _Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. viii. p. 203. [16] 'The army then advanced into Scotland by moderate marches, wasting and destroying every thing on their way.' ... 'A party of Edward's army, sent northwards, wasted the country, and burnt Perth and Saint Andrews.' _Ridpath's Border History_, pp. 146, 147. [17] 'The king entered Scotland by the eastern march with a great army.' ... 'There was this year so terrible a dearth and scarcity of provisions in Scotland, arising from the havoc of war, that many were obliged to feed on the flesh of horses and other carrion.' _Ibid._ pp. 164, 165. See also _Fordun's Scotichronicon_, vol. ii. pp. 242, 243. 'Quo anno, propter guerrarum discrimina, tanta erat panis inopia et victualium caristia in Scotia, quòd in plerisque locis, compellente famis necessitate, multi carnibus equorum et aliorum pecorum immundorum vescebantur.' [18] Bruce 'carefully laid the whole borders waste as far as the Firth of Forth, removing the inhabitants to the mountains, with all their effects of any value. When the English army entered, they found a land of desolation, which famine seemed to guard.' _Scott's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 145. See also _Buchanan's Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. viii. p. 218. [19] 'Eadwardus, rex Angliæ, intravit Scotiam cum magno exercitu equitum et peditum, ac navium multitudine copiosa, duodecimo die mensis Augusti, et usque villam de Edinburgh pervenit.' ... 'Spoliatis tamen tunc in reditu Anglorum et prædatis monasteriis Sanctæ Crucis de Edinburgh et de Melros, atque ad magnam desolationem perductis. In ipso namque monasterio de Melros dominus Willelmus de Peblis, ejusdem monasterii Prior, unus etiam monachus tunc infirmus, et duo conversi cæci effecti, in dormitorio eorundem ab eisdem Anglis sunt interfecti, et plures monachi lethaliter vulnerati. Corpus Dominicum super magnum altare fuit projectum, ablatâ pixide argenteâ in quâ erat repositum. Monasterium de Driburgh igne penitùs consumptum est et in pulverem redactum. Ac _alia pia loca quamplurima_ per prædicti regis violentiam ignis flamma consumpsit: quod, Deo retribuente, eisdem in prosperum non cessit.' _Fordun's Scotichronicon_, vol. ii. p. 278. 'In redeundo sacra juxta ac prophana spoliata. Monasteria Driburgum et Mulrossia etiam cæsis monachis infirmioribus, qui vel defectu virium, vel senectutis fiducia soli remanserant, incensa,' _Buchanan's Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. viii. p. 219. [20] _Fordun's Scotichronicon_, vol. ii. pp. 322, 323. _Dalrymple's Annals_, vol. ii. pp. 232, 447. _Scott's History of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 187, 188. [21] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 451. [22] _Dalrymple's Annals_, vol. ii. p. 288. _Fordun's Scotichronicon_, vol. ii. pp. 352-354. [23] 'Rex Angliæ, Richardus secundus ægrè ferens Scotos et Francos tam atrociter terram suam deprædare, et municipia sua assilire et ad terram prosternere, exercitum collegit grandem, et intravit Scotiam, ætate tunc novemdecim annorum, in multitudine superba progrediens, omnia circumquaque perdens, et nihil salvans; templa Dei et sanctuaria religiosorum monasteria viz. Driburgh, Melros et Newbottel, ac nobilem villam de Edinburgh, cum ecclesia Sancti �gidii ejusdem, voraci flammâ incineravit; et, destructione permaximâ factâ per eum in Laudonia, ad propria sine damno repatriavit' _Fordun's Scotichronicon_, vol. ii. p. 401. 'En ce séjour que le roi Richard fit en Haindebourch les Anglois coururent tout le pays d'environ et y firent moult de desrois; mais nullui n'y trouvèrent; car tout avoient retrait ens ès forts, et ens ès grands bois, et là chassé tout leur bétail.' ... 'Et ardirent les Anglois la ville de Saint-Jean-Ston en Ecosse, où la rivière du Tay cuert, et y a un bon port pour aller partout le monde; et puis la ville de Dondie; et n'épargnoient abbayes ni moûtiers; tout mettoient les Anglois en feu et en flambe; et coururent jusques à Abredane les coureurs et l'avant-garde.' _Les Chroniques de Froissart_, edit. Buchon, vol. ii. pp. 334, 335, Paris, 1835. See also, on this ruffianly expedition, _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. ii. pp. 592, 593, and _Buchanan's Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. ix. p. 253: 'Nulli loco, neque sacro, neque profano, nulli homini, qui modò militari esset ætate, parcebat.' By these disasters, the practice of agriculture was every where interrupted, and in many places ceased for several generations.[24] The labourers either fled, or were murdered; and there being no one to till the ground, some of the fairest parts of Scotland were turned into a wilderness, overgrown with briers and thickets. Between the invasions, a few of the inhabitants, taking courage, issued from the mountains, and raised wretched huts in the place of their former abodes. But, even then, they were pursued to their very doors by wolves, searching for food, and maddened with hunger. If they escaped from these famished and ferocious animals, they and their families were exposed to a danger still more horrible. For, in those terrible days, when famine stalked abroad, despair perverted the souls of men, and drove them to new crime. There were cannibals in the land; and we have it on contemporary authority, that a man and his wife, who were at length brought to justice, subsisted during a considerable period on the bodies of children, whom they caught alive in traps, devouring their flesh, and drinking their blood.[25] [24] 'Agriculture was ruined; and the very necessaries of life were lost, when the principal lords had scarcely a bed to lye on.' _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. ii. p. 142. See also, in p. 867 of the same volume of this learned work, some curious extracts from Scotch charters and other sources, illustrating the horrible condition of the country. And on the difficulty of obtaining food, compare _Fordun's Scotichronicon_, vol. ii. pp. 242, 324; _Dalrymple's Annals_, vol. i. p. 307, vol. ii. pp. 238, 330; and _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 94. [25] Notices of Scotch cannibals will be found in _Lindsay of Pitscottie's Chronicles of Scotland_, edit. 1814, vol. i. p. 163; and in _Hollinshead's Scottish Chronicle_, 4to, 1805, vol. ii. pp. 16, 99. In _Fordun's Scotichronicon_, vol. ii. p. 331, the following horrible account is given: it refers to the neighbourhood of Perth in the year 1339: 'Tota illa patria circumvicina eo tempore in tantum fuit vastata, quòd non remansit quasi domus inhabitata, sed feræ et cervi de montanis descendentes circa villam sæpiùs venabantur. Tanta tunc temporis facta est caristia, et victualium inopia, ut passim plebicula deficeret, et tanquam oves herbas depascentes, in foveis mortua reperirentur. Prope illinc in abditis latitabat quidam robustus rusticus, Crysticleik nomine, cum viragine sua, qui mulierculis et pueris ac juvenibus insidiabantur, et, tanquam lupi eos strangulantes, de ipsorum carnibus victitabant.' Thus the fourteenth century passed away. In the fifteenth century, the devastations of the English became comparatively rare; and although the borders were the scene of constant hostilities,[26] there is no instance, since the year 1400, of any of our kings invading Scotland.[27] An end being put to those murderous expeditions, which reduced the country to a desert, Scotland drew breath, and began to recover her strength.[28] But, though the material losses were gradually repaired; though the fields were again cultivated, and the towns rebuilt, there were other consequences, which were less easy to remedy, and from whose effects the people long smarted. These were inordinate power of the nobles, and the absence of the municipal spirit. The strength of the nobles, and the weakness of the citizens, are the most important peculiarities of Scotland during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries; and they, as I am about to show, were directly encouraged by the ravages committed by the English troops. We shall, moreover, see that this combination of events increased the authority of the clergy, weakened the influence of the intellectual classes, and made superstition more prevalent than it would otherwise have been. It is in this way, that in Scotland, as in all other countries, every thing is linked together; nothing is casual or accidental; and the whole march of affairs is governed by general causes, which, owing to their largeness and remoteness, often escape attention, but which, when once recognized, are found to be marked by a simplicity and uniformity, which are the invariable characteristics of the highest truths that the mind of man has reached. [26] Even when the two nations were at peace, the borderers were at war. See _Ridpath's Border History_, pp. 240, 308, 394; and for other evidence of this chronic anarchy, compare _Hollinshead's Scottish Chronicle_, vol. ii. p. 30. _Lesley's History of Scotland_, pp. 40, 52, 67. _Sadler's State Papers_, vol. i. pp. 300, 301, 444, 449. _State Papers of the Reign of Henry VIII._, 4to, 1836, vol. iv. pp. 366, 370, 569, 570, vol. v. pp. 17, 18, 161. _Historie of James the Sext_, pp. 21, 91, 146. [27] In 1400, Henry IV. made 'the last invasion which an English monarch ever conducted into Scotland.' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 406. It is said, however, that it was not till the reign of Elizabeth than an English sovereign 'had the policy to disavow any claim of sovereignty over Scotland.' _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. i. p. 650. [28] But very slowly. Pinkerton (_History of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 166, 167) says: 'The frequent wars between Scotland and England, since the death of Alexander III., had occasioned to the former country the loss of more than a century in the progress of civilization. While in England, only the northern provinces were exposed to the Scotish incursions, Scotland suffered in its most civilized departments. It is apparent that in the reign of Alexander III., the kingdom was more abundant in the useful arts and manufactures, than it was in the time of Robert III.' The first circumstance favourable to the authority of the nobles, was the structure of the country. Mountains, fens, lakes, and morasses, which even the resources of modern art have only recently made accessible supplied the great Scottish chieftains with retreats, in which they could with impunity defy the power of the crown.[29] The poverty of the soil also, made it difficult for armies to find means of subsistence; and from this cause alone, the royal troops were often unable to pursue the lawless and refractory barons.[30] During the fourteenth century, Scotland was constantly ravaged by the English; and in the intervals of their absence, it would have been a hopeless undertaking for any king to try to repress such powerful subjects, since he would have had to march through districts so devastated by the enemy, that they no longer yielded the common necessaries of life. Besides this, the war with the English lessened the authority of the crown, absolutely as well as relatively. Its patrimony, lying in the south, was incessantly wasted by the borderers, and before the middle of the fourteenth century, greatly deteriorated in value.[31] In 1346, David II. fell into the hands of the English, and during his captivity of eleven years, the nobles carried all before them, and affected, says an historian, the style and title of princes.[32] The longer the war with England continued, the more these consequences were felt; so that before the close of the fourteenth century, a few of the leading Scotch families had raised themselves to such preëminence, that it was evident, either that a deadly struggle must ensue between them and the crown, or else that the executive government would have to abdicate its most essential functions, and leave the country a prey to these headstrong and ferocious chiefs.[33] [29] Owing to this, their castles were, by position, the strongest in Europe; Germany alone excepted. Respecting their sites, which were such as to make them in many instances almost unassailable, see _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. ii. pp. 122, 406, 407, 918, 919, vol. iii. pp. 268, 269, 356-359, 864; _Pennant's Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 175, 177; _Sinclair's Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 169, vol. vii. p. 510, vol. xi. pp. 102, 212, 407, 408, vol. xii. pp. 25, 58, vol. xiii. p. 598, vol. xv. p. 187, vol. xvi. p. 554, vol. xviii. p. 579, vol. xix. p. 474, vol. xx. pp. 56, 312; _Macky's Scotland_, pp. 183, 297; and some good remarks in _Nimmo's History of Stirlingshire_, p. 56. Neither England, nor France, nor Italy, nor Spain, afforded such immense natural advantages to their aristocracy. [30] 'By retiring to his own castle, a mutinous baron could defy the power of his sovereign, it being almost impracticable to lead an army through a barren country, to places of difficult access to a single man.' _History of Scotland_, book i. p. 59, in _Robertson's Works_, edit. London, 1831. Notwithstanding the immense materials which have been brought to light since the time of Robertson, his _History of Scotland_ is still valuable; because he possessed a grasp of mind which enabled him to embrace general views, that escape ordinary compilers, however industrious they may be. [31] 'The patrimony of the Crown had been seriously dilapidated during the period of confusion which succeeded the battle of Durham,' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 86. [32] 'During the long captivity of David,' the nobles had been completely insubordinate, and 'affected the style and title of princes,' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 85. See also, on the state of the barons under David II., _Skene's Highlanders_, vol. ii. pp. 63-67. [33] In 1299, 'a superior baron was in every respect a king in miniature.' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 150. In 1377, 'the power of the barons had been decidedly increasing since the days of Robert the First,' p. 332. And, by 1398, it had risen still higher, p. 392. At this crisis, the natural allies of the throne would have been the citizens and free burgesses, who in most European countries were the eager and resolute opponents of the nobles, whose licentious habits interfered not only with their trade and manufactures, but also with their personal liberty. Here again, however, the long war with England was favourable to the aristocracy of Scotland. For, as the invaders ravaged the southern parts of Scotland, which were also the only tolerably fertile parts, it was impossible that towns should flourish in the places which nature had appointed for them. There being no large cities, there was no asylum for the citizens, and there could be no municipal spirit. There being no municipal spirit, the crown was deprived of that great resource, which enabled the English kings to curtail the power of the nobles, and to punish a lawlessness which long impeded the progress of society. During the middle ages, the Scotch towns were so utterly insignificant, that but few notices have been preserved of them; contemporary writers concentrating their attention upon the proceedings of the nobles and clergy. Respecting the people, who found shelter in such miserable cities as then existed, our best accounts are very imperfect; it is, however, certain that, during the long English wars, the inhabitants usually fled at the approach of the invaders, and the wretched hovels in which they lived were burned to the ground.[34] Hence the population acquired a fluctuating and vagabond character, which prevented the formation of settled habits of industry, and thus took away one reason which men have for congregating together. This applied more especially to the southern Lowlands; for the north, there were other evils equally threatening. The ferocious Highlanders, who lived entirely by plunder, were constantly at hand; and to them were not unfrequently added the freebooters of the Western Isles. Any thing which bore even the semblance of wealth, was an irresistible excitement to their cupidity. They could not know that a man had property, without longing to steal it; and, next to stealing, their greatest pleasure was to destroy.[35] Aberdeen and Inverness were particularly exposed to their assaults; and twice during the fifteenth century, Inverness was totally consumed by fire, besides having to pay at other times a heavy ransom, to save itself from a similar fate.[36] [34] On this burning of Scotch towns, which appears to have been the invariable practice of our humane forefathers, see _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. ii. pp. 592, 593; _Kennedy's Annals of Aberdeen_, vol. i. pp. 18, 27, 375, vol. ii. p. 304; _Mercer's History of Dunfermline_, pp. 55, 66; _Sinclair's Scotland_, vol. v. p. 485, vol. x. p. 584, vol. xix. p. 161; _Ridpath's Border History_, pp. 147, 221, 265. [35] A curious description of them is given in a Scotch statute, of the year 1597. 'They hawe lykwayis throche thair barbarus inhumunitie maid and presentlie makis the saidis hielandis and Iles qlk are maist c[=o]modious in thame selwes alsueill be the ferteillitie of the ground as be riche fischeingis altogidder vnproffitabill baithe to thame selffis and to all vthuris his hienes liegis within this realme; Thay nathair intertening onie ciuill or honest societie amangis thame selffis neyther, zit admittit vtheris his hienesse lieges to trafficque within thair boundis vithe saiftie of thair liues and gudes; for remeid quhairof and that the saidis inhabitantis of the saidis hilandeis and Iles may the better be reduced to ane godlie, honest, and ciuill maner of living, it is statute and ordanit,' &c. _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 138, edit. folio, 1816. These little peculiarities of the Highlanders remained in full force until about the middle of the eighteenth century, as will appear in the course of this history. But without anticipating what will be narrated in a subsequent chapter, I will merely refer the reader to two interesting passages in _Pennant's Scotland_, vol. i. p. 154, and in _Heron's Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 218, 219; both of which illustrate the state of things a little before 1745. [36] Inverness was burned in 1429. _Gregory's History of the Western Highlands_, p. 36; and again in 1455, _Buchanan's Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. xi. p. 322. 'The greatest part' of it was also burned in 1411. See _Anderson on the Highlands_, Edinb. 1827, p. 82. Aberdeen, being richer, was more tempting, but was likewise more able to defend itself. Still, its burgh records supply curious evidence of the constant fear in which the citizens lived, and of the precautions which they took to ward off the attacks, sometimes of the English, and sometimes of the clans. See the _Council Register of Aberdeen_ (published by the Spalding Club, Aberdeen, 1844-1848, 4to), vol. i. pp. 8, 19, 60, 83, 197, 219, 232, 268, vol. ii. p. 82. The last entry, which is dated July 31, 1593, mentions 'the disordourit and lawles helandmen in Birss, Glentanner, and their about, nocht onlie in the onmerciful murthering of men and bairnis, bot in the maisterfull and violent robbing and spulzeing of all the bestiall, guidis, and geir of a gryt pairt of the inhabitantis of theas boundis, rasing of gryt hairschip furth of the samen, being committit to ewous and nar this burgh, within xx mylis theirunto, deuysit and ordanit for preservation of this burgh and inhabitantis theirof, fra the tyrannous invasion of the saidis hieland men, quha has na respect to God nor man; that the haill inhabitantis of this burgh, fensiball persones als weill onfrie as frie, salbe in reddiness weill armit for the defence of this burgh, thair awin lyvis, gudis, and geir, and resisting and repressing of the said heland men, as occasioun salbe offered, at all tymes and houris as thay salbe requirt and chargit.' Even in 1668 we find complaints that Highlanders had forcibly carried off women from Aberdeen or from its neighbourhood. _Records of the Synod of Aberdeen_, p. 290. Other evidence of their attacks in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, may be seen in _Kennedy's Annals of Aberdeen_, vol. i. p. 133; _Spalding's History of the Troubles_, vol. i. pp. 25, 217; _Extracts from the Presbytery Book of Strathbogie_, pp. 62, 73. Such insecurity[37] both on the north and on the south, made peaceful industry impossible in any part of Scotland. No where could a town be built, without being in danger of immediate destruction. The consequence was, that, during many centuries, there were no manufactures; there was hardly any trade; and nearly all business was conducted by barter.[38] Some of the commonest arts were unknown. The Scotch were unable to make even the arms with which they fought. This, among such a warlike people, would have been a very profitable labour; but they were so ignorant of it, that, early in the fifteenth century, most of the armour which they wore was manufactured abroad, as also were their spears, and even their bows and arrows; and the heads of these weapons were entirely imported from Flanders.[39] Indeed, the Flemish artizans supplied the Scotch with ordinary farming implements, such as cart-wheels and wheel-barrows, which, about the year 1475, used to be regularly shipped from the Low Countries.[40] As to the arts which indicate a certain degree of refinement, they were then, and long afterwards, quite out of the question.[41] Until the seventeenth century, no glass was manufactured in Scotland,[42] neither was any soap made there.[43] Even the higher class of citizens would have deemed windows absurd in their wretched abodes;[44] and as they were alike filthy in their persons as in their houses, the demand for soap was too small to induce any one to attempt its manufacture.[45] Other branches of industry were equally backward. In 1620, the art of tanning leather was for the first time introduced into Scotland;[46] and it is stated, on apparently good authority, that no paper was made there until about the middle of the eighteenth century.[47] [37] Even Perth ceased to be the capital of Scotland, because 'its vicinity to the Highlands' made it dangerous for the sovereign to reside there. _Lawson's Book of Perth_, p. xxxi. [38] On the prevalence of barter and lack of specie, in Scotland, see the _Spalding Club Miscellany_, vol. iv. pp. lvii.-lx., Aberdeen, 1849, 4to. In 1492, the treasury of Aberdeen was obliged to borrow 4_l._ 16_s._ Scots. _Kennedy's Annals of Aberdeen_, vol. i. p. 61. Compare _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. x. p. 542. Fynes Moryson, who was in Scotland late in the sixteenth century, says, 'the gentlemen reckon their revenues not by rents of money, but by chauldrons of victuals.' _Moryson's Itinerary_, part iii. p. 155, London, folio, 1617; a rare and extremely curious book, which ought to be reprinted. A hundred years after Moryson wrote, it was observed that, 'in England, the rents are paid in money; in Scotland, they are, generally speaking, paid in kind, or victual, as they call it.' _De Foe's History of the Union_, p. 130. [39] In the reign of James I. (1424-1436), 'It appears that armour, nay spears, and bows and arrows, were chiefly imported.' ... 'In particular, the heads of arrows and of spears seem to have been entirely imported from Flanders,' _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 163. We learn from Rymer's _F[oe]dera_, that, in 1368, two Scotchmen having occasion to fight a duel, got their armour from London. _Macpherson's Annals of Commerce_, vol. i. p. 575. [40] From the _Bibel of English Policy_, supposed to have been written in the reign of Edward IV., we learn that 'the Scotish imports from Flanders were mercery, but more haberdashery, cart-wheels, and wheel-barrows,' _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 408. In _Mercer's History of Dunfermline_, p. 61, we are told that, in the fifteenth century, 'Even in the best parts of Scotland, the inhabitants could not manufacture the most necessary articles. Flanders was the great mart in those times, and from Bruges chiefly, the Scots imported even horse-shoes, harness, saddles, bridles, cart-wheels, and wheel-barrows, besides all their mercery and haberdashery.' [41] Aberdeen was, for a long period, one of the most wealthy, and, in some respects, the most advanced, of all the Scotch cities. But it appears, from the council-registers of Aberdeen, that, 'in the beginning of the sixteenth century, there was not a mechanic in the town capable to execute the ordinary repairs of a clock,' _Kennedy's Annals of Aberdeen_, vol. i. p. 99. On the Scotch clocks in the middle of the sixteenth century, compare Mr. Morley's interesting _Life of Cardan_, London, 1854, vol. ii. p. 128. Cardan was in Scotland in 1552. [42] About 1619, Sir George Hay 'set up at the village of Wemyss, in Fife, a small glass-work, being the first known to have existed amongst us.' _Chambers' Annals_, vol. i. p. 506. See also p. 428. [43] 'Before this time, soap was imported into Scotland from foreign countries, chiefly from Flanders.' _Ibid._, vol. i. p. 507, under the year 1619, where mention is made of the manufactory set up at Leith. 'The sope-workes of Leith' are noticed in 1650, in _Balfour's Annales_, vol. iv. p. 68. [44] Ray, who visited Scotland in 1661, says, 'In the best Scottish houses, even the king's palaces, the windows are not glazed throughout, but the upper part only; the lower have two wooden shuts or folds to open at pleasure and admit the fresh air.' ... 'The ordinary country-houses are pitiful cots, built of stone, and covered with turves, having in them but one room, many of them no chimneys, the windows very small holes and not glazed.' _Ray's Itineraries_, p. 153, edited by Dr. Lankester, London, 1846. 'About 1752, the glass window was beginning to make its appearance in the small farm-houses.' _Brown's History of Glasgow_, vol. ii. p. 265, Edinburgh, 1797. [45] In 1650, it was stated of the Scotch, that 'many of their women are so sluttish, that they do not wash their linen above once a month, nor their hands and faces above once a year.' _Whitelock's Memorials_, p. 468, London, 1732, folio. Six or seven years after this, a traveller in Scotland says, 'the linen they supplied us with, were it not to boast of, was little or nothing different from those female complexions that never washed their faces to retain their christendom.' _Franck's Northern Memoirs_, edit. Edinburgh, 1821, p. 94. A celebrated Scotchman notices, in 1698, the uncleanly habits of his countrymen, but gives a comical reason for them; since, according to him, they were in a great measure caused by the position of the capital. 'As the happy situation of London has been the principal cause of the glory and riches of England, so the bad situation of Edinburgh has been one great occasion of the poverty and uncleanliness in which the greater part of the people of Scotland live.' _Second Discourse on the Affairs of Scotland_, in _Fletcher of Saltoun's Political Works_, p. 119, Glasgow, 1749. Another Scotchman, among his reminiscences of the early part of the eighteenth century, says, that 'table and body linen [were] seldom shifted.' _Memoires by Sir Archibald Grant of Monymusk_, in _Spalding Club Miscellany_, vol. ii. p. 100, Aberdeen, 1842, 4to. Finally, we have positive proof that in some parts of Scotland, even at the end of the eighteenth century, the people used, instead of soap, a substitute too disgusting to mention. See the account communicated by the Rev. William Leslie to Sir John Sinclair, in _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. ix. p. 177, Edinburgh, 1793. [46] _Chambers' Annals_, vol. i. p. 512. [47] A paper-mill was established near Edinburgh in 1675; but 'there is reason to conclude this paper-mill was not continued, and that paper-making was not successfully introduced into Scotland till the middle of the succeeding century.' _Chambers' Annals_, vol. ii. p. 399. I have met with so many proofs of the great accuracy of this valuable work, that I should be loath to question any statement made by Mr. Chambers, when, as in this case, I have only my memory to trust to. But I think that I have seen evidence of paper being successfully manufactured in Scotland late in the seventeenth century, though I cannot recall the passages. However, Arnot, in his _History of Edinburgh_, p. 599, edit. 4to, says, 'About forty years ago, printing or writing paper began to be manufactured in Scotland. Before that, papers were imported from Holland, or brought from England,' As Arnot's work was printed in 1788, this coincides with Mr. Chambers' statement. I may add, that, at the end of the eighteenth century, there were 'two paper-mills near Perth.' _Heron's Journey through Scotland_, vol. i. p. 117, Perth, 1799; and that, in 1751 and 1763, the two first paper-mills were erected north of the Forth. _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. ix. p. 593, vol. xvi. p. 373. Compare _Lettice's Letters from Scotland in 1792_, p. 420. In the midst of such general stagnation, the most flourishing towns were, as may be easily supposed, very thinly peopled. Indeed, men had so little to do, that if they had collected in large numbers, they must have starved. Glasgow is one of the oldest cities in Scotland, and is said to have been founded about the sixth century.[48] At all events, in the twelfth century, it was, according to the measure of that age, a rich and prosperous place, enjoying the privilege of holding both a market and a fair.[49] It had also a municipal organization, and was governed by its own provosts and baillies.[50] Yet, even this famous town had no kind of trade before the fifteenth century, when the inhabitants began to cure salmon, and export it.[51] That was the only branch of industry with which Glasgow was acquainted. We need not, therefore, be surprised at hearing, that so late as the middle of the fifteenth century, the entire population did not exceed fifteen hundred persons, whose wealth consisted of some small cattle, and a few acres of ill-cultivated land.[52] [48] 'This city was founded about the sixth century.' _M'Ure's History of Glasgow_, edit. 1830, p. 120. Compare _Denholm's History of Glasgow_, p. 2, Glasgow, 1804. [49] In 1172, a market was granted to Glasgow; and in 1190, a fair. See the charters in the Appendix to _Gibson's History of Glasgow_, pp. 299, 302, Glasgow, 1777. [50] 'By the sale of land made by Robert de Mythyngby to Mr. Reginald de Irewyne, A.D. 1268, it is evident that the town was then governed by provosts, aldermen, or wardens, and baillies, who seem to have been independent of the bishop, and were possessed of a common seal, distinct from the one made use of by the bishop and chapter.' _Gibson's History of Glasgow_, p. 72. [51] 'A Mr. William Elphinston is made mention of as the first promoter of trade in Glasgow, so early as the year 1420; the trade which he promoted was, in all probability, the curing and exporting of salmon.' _Gibson's History of Glasgow_, p. 203. See also _M'Ure's History of Glasgow_, p. 93. [52] Gibson (_History of Glasgow_, p. 74), with every desire to take a sanguine view of the early state of his own city, says, that, in 1450, the inhabitants 'might perhaps amount to fifteen hundred;' and that 'their wealth consisted in a few burrow-roods very ill-cultivated, and in some small cattle, which fed on their commons.' Other cities, though bearing a celebrated name, were equally backward at a still more recent period. Dunfermline is associated with many historic reminiscences; it was a favourite residence of Scotch kings, and many Scotch parliaments have been held there.[53] Such events are supposed to confer distinction; but the illusion vanishes, when we inquire more minutely into the condition of the place where they happened. In spite of the pomp of princes and legislators, Dunfermline, which at the end of the fourteenth century was still a poor village, composed of wooden huts,[54] had, by the beginning of the seventeenth century, advanced so slowly that its whole population, including that of its wretched suburbs, did not exceed one thousand persons.[55] For a Scotch town, that was a considerable number. About the same time, Greenock, we are assured, was a village consisting of a single row of cottages, tenanted by poor fishermen.[56] Kilmarnock, which is now a great emporium of industry and of wealth, contained, in 1668, between five and six hundred inhabitants.[57] And, to come down still lower, even Paisley itself, in the year 1700, possessed a population which, according to the highest estimate, did not amount to three thousand.[58] [53] 'Dunfermline continued to be a favourite royal residence as long as the Scottish dynasty existed. Charles I. was born here; as also his sister Elizabeth, afterwards Queen of Bohemia, from whom her present Majesty is descended; and Charles II. paid a visit to this ancient seat of royalty in 1650. The Scottish parliament was often held in it.' _M'Culloch's Geographical Dictionary_, London, 1849, vol. i. p. 723. Compare _Mercer's History of Dunfermline_, 1828, pp. 56, 58, and _Chalmers' History of Dunfermline_, 1844, p. 264. [54] In 1385, it was 'only a sorry wooden village, belonging to the monastery.' _Mercer's History of Dunfermline_, p. 62. [55] See 'Ms. Annals,' in _Chalmers' History of Dunfermline_, p. 327. In 1624, we learn from _Balfour's Annales_, edit. 1825, vol. ii. p. 99, that 'the quholl bodey of the towne, which did consist of 120 tenements, and 287 families was brunt and consumed.' [56] 'Greenock, which is now one of the largest shipping towns in Scotland, was, in the end of the sixteenth century, a mean fishing village, consisting of a single row of thatched cottages, which was inhabited by poor fishermen.' _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. iii. p. 806, 4to, 1824. [57] In May 1668, Kilmarnock was burnt; and 'the event is chiefly worthy of notice as marking the smallness of Kilmarnock in those days, when as yet, there was no such thing as manufacturing industry in the country. A hundred and twenty families speaks to a population of between five and six hundred.' _Chambers' Annals_, Edinburgh, 1858, vol. ii. p. 320. In 1658, their houses are described by an eye-witness as 'little better than huts.' _Franck's Northern Memoirs_, reprinted Edinburgh, 1821, p. 101. [58] 'Betwixt two and three thousand souls,' _Denholm's History of Glasgow_, p. 542, edit. Glasgow, 1804. Aberdeen, the metropolis of the north, was looked up to as one of the most influential of the Scotch towns, and was not a little envied during the Middle Ages, for its power and importance. These, however, like all other words, are relative, and mean different things at different periods. Certainly, we shall not be much struck by the magnitude of that city, when we learn, from calculations made from its tables of mortality, that so late as 1572, it could only boast of about two thousand nine hundred inhabitants.[59] Such a fact will dispel many a dream respecting the old Scotch towns, particularly if we call to mind that it refers to a date, when the anarchy of the Middle Ages was passing away, and Aberdeen had for some time been improving. That city--if so miserable a collection of persons deserves to be termed a city--was, nevertheless, one of the most densely peopled places in Scotland. From the thirteenth century to the close of the sixteenth, no where else were so many Scotchmen assembled together, except in Perth, Edinburgh, and possibly in Saint Andrews.[60] Respecting Saint Andrews, I have been unable to meet with any precise information;[61] but of Perth and Edinburgh, some particulars are preserved. Perth was long the capital of Scotland, and after losing that preëminence, it was still reputed to be the second city in the kingdom.[62] Its wealth was supposed to be astonishing; and every good Scotchman was proud of it, as one of the chief ornaments of his country.[63] But, according to an estimate recently made by a considerable authority in these matters, its entire population, in the year 1585, was under nine thousand.[64] This will surprise many readers; though, considering the state of society at that time, the real wonder is, not that there were so few, but that there were so many. For, Edinburgh itself, notwithstanding the officials and numerous hangers-on, which the presence of a court always brings, did not contain, late in the fourteenth century, more than sixteen thousand persons.[65] Of their general condition, a contemporary observer has left us some account. Froissart, who visited Scotland, and records what he saw, as well as what he heard, gives a lamentable picture of the state of affairs. The houses in Edinburgh were mere huts, thatched with boughs; and were so slightly put together, that when one of them was destroyed, it only took three days to rebuild it. As to the people who inhabited these wretched hovels, Froissart, who was by no means given to exaggeration, assures us, that the French, unless they had seen them, could not have believed that such destitution existed, and that now, for the first time, they understood what poverty really was.[66] [59] In 1572, the registers of Aberdeen show that seventy-two deaths occurred in the year. An annual mortality of 1 in 40 would be a very favourable estimate; indeed, rather too favourable, considering the habits of the people at that time. However, supposing it to be 1 in 40, the population would be 2880; and if, as I make no doubt, the mortality was more than 1 in 40, the population must of course have been less. Kennedy, in his valuable, but very uncritical, work, conjectures that 'one fiftieth part of the inhabitants had died annually;' though it is certain that there was no town in Europe any thing like so healthy as that. On this hypothesis, which is contradicted by every sort of statistical evidence that has come down to us, the number would be 72 � 50 = 3600. See _Kennedy's Annals of Aberdeen_, vol. i. p. 103, London, 1818, 4to. [60] 'St. Andrews, Perth, and Aberdeen, appear to have been the three most populous cities before the Reformation.' _Lawson's Roman Catholic Church in Scotland_, 1836, p. 26. The same assertion is made in _Lyon's History of St. Andrews_, 1843, vol. i. p. 2. But neither of these writers appear to have made many researches on the subject, or else they would not have supposed that Aberdeen was larger than Edinburgh. [61] I have carefully read the two histories of St. Andrews, by Dr. Grierson and by Mr. Lyon, but have found nothing in them of any value concerning the early history of that city. Mr. Lyon's work, which is in two thick volumes, is unusually superficial, even for a local history; and that is saying much. [62] 'Of the thirteen parliaments held in the reign of King James I., eleven were held at Perth, one at Stirling, and one at Edinburgh. The National Councils of the Scottish clergy were held there uniformly till 1459. Though losing its pre-eminence by the selection of Edinburgh as a capital, Perth has uniformly and constantly maintained the second place in the order of burghs, and its right to do so has been repeatedly and solemnly acknowledged.' _Penny's Traditions of Perth_, Perth, 1836, p. 231. See also p. 305. It appears, however, from Froissart, that Edinburgh was deemed the capital in the latter half of the fourteenth century. [63] I find one instance of its being praised by a man who was not a Scotchman. Alexander Necham 'takes notice of Perth in the following distich, quoted in Camden's Britannia: Transis ample Tai, per rura, per oppida, per Perth: Regnum sustentant illius urbis opes. Thus Englished in Bishop Gibson's Translations of Camden's Book: 'Great Tay, through Perth, through towns, through country flies: Perth the whole kingdom with her wealth supplies.' _Sinclair's Scotland_, vol. xviii. p. 511. [64] 1427 � 6 = 8562, the computed population in 1584 and 1585, exclusive of the extraordinary mortality caused by the plague. _Chambers' Annals of Scotland_, 1858, vol. i. p. 158. [65] 'The inhabitants of the capital, in the reign of Robert II., hardly exceeded sixteen thousand.' _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 152. [66] When the French arrived in Edinburgh, the Scotch said, '"Quel diable les a mandés? Ne savons-nous pas bien faire notre guerre sans eux aux Anglois? Nous ne ferons jà bonne besogne tant comme ils soient avec nous. On leur dise que ils s'en revoisent, et que nous sommes gens assez en Escosse pour parmaintenir notre guerre, et que point nous ne voulons leur compagnie. Ils ne nous entendent point, ni nous eux; nous ne savons parler ensemble; ils auront tantôt riflé et mangé tout ce qui est en ce pays: ils nous feront plus de contraires, de dépits, et de dommages, si nous les laissons convenir, que les Anglois ne feroient si ils s'étoient embattus entre nous sans ardoir. Et si les Anglois ardent nos maisons, que peut il chaloir? Nous les aurons tantôt refaites à bon marché, nous n'y mettons au refaire que trois jours, mais que nous ayons quatre ou six estaches et de la ramée pour lier par dessus."' 'Ainsi disoient les Escots en Escosse à la venue des seigneurs de France,' ... 'Et quand les Anglois y chevauchent ou que ils y vont, ainsi que ils y ont été plusieurs fois, il convient que leurs pourvéances, si ils veulent vivre, les suivent toujours au dos; car on ne trouve rien sur le pays: à grand'peine y recuevre-l'en du fer pour serrer les chevaux, ni du cuir pour faire harnois, selles ni brides. Les choses toutes faites leur viennent par mer de Flandre, et quand cela leur défaut, ils n'ont nulle chose. Quand ces barons et ces chevaliers de France qui avoient appris ces beaux hôtels à trouver, ces salles parées, ces chasteaux et ces bons mols lits pour reposer, se virent et trouvèrent en celle povreté, si commencèrent à rire et à dire: "En quel pays nous a ci amenés l'amiral? Nous ne sçumes oncques que ce fût de povreté ni de dureté fors maintenant."' _Les Chroniques de Froissart_, edit. Buchon, Paris, 1835, vol. ii. pp. 314, 315. 'The hovels of the common people were slight erections of turf, or twigs, which, as they were often laid waste by war, were built merely for temporary accommodation. Their towns consisted chiefly of wooden cottages,' ... 'Even as late as 1600, the houses of Edinburgh were chiefly built of wood.' _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. i. p. 802. Another account, written in 1670, says, 'The houses of the commonalty are very mean, mudwall and thatch, the best; but the poorer sort live in such miserable huts as never eye beheld.' ... 'In some parts, where turf is plentiful, they build up little cabbins thereof, with arched roofs of turf, without a stick of timber in it; when the house is dry enough to burn, it serves them for fuel, and they remove to another.' _Harleian Miscellany_, vol. vi. p. 139, 4to, 1810. After this period, there was, no doubt, considerable improvement; but it was very slow, and even late in the sixteenth century, skilled labour was hardly known, and honest industry was universally despised.[67] It is not, therefore, surprising, that the citizens, poor, miserable, and ignorant, should frequently purchase the protection of some powerful noble by yielding to him the little independence that they might have retained.[68] Few of the Scotch towns ventured to elect their chief magistrate from among their own people; but the usual course was, to choose a neighbouring peer as provost or baillie.[69] Indeed, it often happened that his office became hereditary, and was looked upon as the vested right of some aristocratic family.[70] To the head of that family, every thing gave way. His authority was so incontestable, that an injury done even to one of his retainers was resented, as if it had been done to himself.[71] The burgesses who were sent to parliament, were completely dependent on the noble who ruled the town. Down to quite modern times, there was in Scotland no real popular representation. The so-called representatives were obliged to vote as they were ordered; they were, in fact, delegates of the aristocracy; and as they possessed no chamber of their own, they sat and deliberated in the midst of their powerful masters, by whom they were openly intimidated.[72] [67] 'Our manufactures were carried on by the meanest of the people, who had small stocks, and were of no reputation. These were, for the most part, workmen for home-consumpt, such as masons, house-carpenters, armourers, blacksmiths, taylors, shoemakers, and the like. Our weavers were few in number, and in the greatest contempt, as their employments were more sedentary, and themselves reckoned less fit for war, in which all were obliged to serve, when the exigencies of the country demanded their attendance.' _The Interest of Scotland Considered_, Edinburgh, 1733, p. 82. Pinkerton (_History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 392), referring to the Sloane manuscripts, says, 'The author of an interesting memoir concerning the state of Scotland about 1590, observes, that the husbandmen were a kind of slaves, only holding their lands from year to year; that the nobility being too numerous for the extent of the country, there arose too great an inequality of rank and revenue; and there was no middle station between a proud landholder and those who, having no property to lose, were ready for any tumult. A rich yeomanry, numerous merchants and tradesmen of property, and all the denominations of the middle class, so important in a flourishing society, were long to be confined to England.' Thirteen years later, we are told that the manufactures of Scotland 'were confined to a few of the coarsest nature, without which the poorest nations are unable to subsist.' _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 7, under the year 1603. [68] Thus, for instance, 'the town of Dunbar naturally grew up under the shelter of the castle of the same name.' ... 'Dunbar became the town, in demesn, of the successive Earls of Dunbar and March, partaking of their influences, whether unfortunate or happy.' _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. ii. p. 416. 'But when the regal government became at any time feeble, these towns, unequal to their own protection, placed themselves under the shelter of the most powerful lord in their neighbourhood. Thus, the town of Elgyn found it necessary, at various periods between the years 1389 and 1452, to accept of many charters of protection, and discharges of taxes, from the Earls of Moray, who held it in some species of vassalage.' _Sinclair's Scotland_, vol. v. p. 3. Compare _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 396; and two letters, written in 1543 and 1544, by the magistrates of Aberdeen, to the Earl of Huntly, and printed in the _Council Register of Aberdeen_, vol. i. pp. 190, 201, Aberdeen, 1844, 4to. They say to him, 'Ye haf our band as protectour to wss.' [69] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 225. See also p. 131; and _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 179. Sometimes the nobles did not leave to the citizens even the appearance of a free election, but fought it out among themselves. An instance of this happened at Perth, in 1544, 'where a claim for the office of provost was decided by arms, between Lord Ruthven on the one side, supported by a numerous train of his vassals, and Lord Gray, with Norman Leslie, master of Rothes, and Charteris of Kinfauns, on the other.' _Tytler_, vol. iv. p. 323. [70] For illustrations of this custom, see _Hollinshead's Scottish Chronicle_, vol. ii. p. 230. _Brown's History of Glasgow_, vol. ii. p. 154. _Denholm's History of Glasgow_, p. 249. _Mercer's History of Dunfermline_, p. 83. [71] 'An injury inflicted on the "man" of a nobleman was resented as much as if he himself had been the injured party.' _Preface to the Council Register of Aberdeen_, vol. i. p. xii. [72] See, in _Macaulay's History of England_, vol. i. p. 93, 1st edit., a spirited description of Scotland in 1639. 'The parliament of the northern kingdom was a very different body from that which bore the same name in England.' ... 'The three estates sat in one house. The commissioners of the burghs were considered merely as retainers of the great nobles,' &c. To come down much later, Lord Cockburn gives a terrible account of the state of things in Scotland in 1794, the year in which Jeffrey was called to the bar. 'There was then, in this country, no popular representation, no emancipated burghs, no effective rival of the established church, no independent press, no free public meetings, and no better trial by jury, even in political cases (except high treason), than what was consistent with the circumstances, that the jurors were not sent into court under any impartial rule, and that, when in court, those who were to try the case were named by the presiding judge. The Scotch representatives were only forty-five, of whom thirty were elected for counties, and fifteen for towns. Both from its price and its nature (being enveloped in feudal and technical absurdities), the elective franchise in counties, where alone it existed, was far above the reach of the whole lower, and of a great majority of the middle, and of many even of the higher, ranks. There were probably not above 1500 or 2000 county electors in all Scotland; a body not too large to be held, hope included, in government's hands. The return, therefore, of a single opposition member was never to be expected.' ... 'Of the fifteen town members, Edinburgh returned one. The other fourteen were produced by clusters of four or five unconnected burghs electing each one delegate, and these four or five delegates electing the representative. Whatever this system may have been originally, it had grown, in reference to the people, into as complete a mockery as if it had been invented for their degradation. The people had nothing to do with it. It was all managed by town-councils, of never more than thirty-three members; and every town-council was self-elected, and consequently perpetuated its own interests. The election of either the town or the county member was a matter of such utter indifference to the people, that they often only knew of it by the ringing of a bell, or by seeing it mentioned next day in a newspaper; for the farce was generally performed in an apartment from which, if convenient, the public could be excluded, and never in the open air.' _Cockburn's Life of Jeffrey_, Edinburgh, 1852, vol. i. pp. 74-76. On the state of Scotch representation between this and the Reform Bill, compare _Irving's History of Dumbartonshire_, 4to, 1860, pp. 275, 276, with _Moore's Memoirs_, edited by Lord John Russell, vol. iv. p. 268, vol. vi. p. 163, London, 1853-4. Under these circumstances, it would have been idle for the crown to have expected aid from a body of men who themselves had no influence, and whose scanty privileges existed only on sufferance. But there was another class, which was extremely powerful, and to which the Scotch kings naturally turned. That class was the clergy; and the interest which both parties had in weakening the nobles, caused a coalition between the church and the throne, against the aristocracy. During a long period, and indeed until the latter half of the sixteenth century, the kings almost invariably favoured the clergy, and increased their privileges in every way they could. The Reformation dissolved this alliance, and gave rise to new combinations, which I shall presently indicate. But while the alliance lasted, it was of great use to the clergy, by imparting to their claims a legitimate sanction, and making them appear the supporters of order and of regular government. The result, however, clearly proved that the nobles were more than equal to the confederacy which opposed them. Indeed, looking at their enormous power, the only wonder is, that the clergy could have prolonged the contest as they did; since they were not actually overthrown until the year 1560. That the struggle should have been so arduous, and should have extended over so considerable a period, is what, on a superficial view, no one could have expected. The reason of this, I shall now endeavour to explain; and I shall, I trust, succeed in proving, that in Scotland there was a long train of general causes, which secured to the spiritual classes immense influence, and which enabled them, not only to do battle with the most powerful aristocracy in Europe, but to rise up, after what seemed their final defeat, fresh and vigorous as ever, and eventually to exercise, as Protestant preachers, an authority nowise inferior to that which they had wielded as Catholic priests. Of all Protestant countries, Scotland is certainly the one where the course of affairs has for the longest period been most favourable to the interests of superstition. How these interests were encouraged during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, I shall hereafter relate. At present, I purpose to examine the causes of their early growth, and to show the way in which they were not only connected with the Reformation, but gave to that great event some peculiarities which are extremely remarkable, and are diametrically opposed to what happened in England. If the reader will bear in mind what I have elsewhere stated,[73] he will remember that the two principal sources of superstition are ignorance and danger; ignorance keeping men unacquainted with natural causes, and danger making them recur to supernatural ones. Or, to express the same proposition in other words, the feeling of veneration, which, under one of its aspects, takes the form of superstition, is a product of wonder and of fear;[74] and it is obvious that wonder is connected with ignorance, and that fear is connected with danger.[75] Hence it is, that whatever in any country increases the total amount of amazement, or whatever in any country increases the total amount of peril, has a direct tendency to increase the total amount of superstition, and therefore to strengthen the hands of the priesthood. [73] _History of Civilization_, vol. i. pp. 125-129, 373-380. [74] _History of Civilization_, vol. ii. p. 171. [75] We must discriminate between wonder and admiration. Wonder is the product of ignorance; admiration is the product of knowledge. Ignorance wonders at the supposed irregularities of nature; science admires its uniformities. The earlier writers rarely attended to this distinction, because they were misled by the etymology of the word 'admiration.' The Romans were very superficial thinkers upon all matters except jurisprudence; and their blundering use of 'admirari' gave rise to the error, so common among our old writers, of 'I admire,' instead of 'I wonder.' By applying these principles to Scotland, we shall be able to explain several facts in the history of that country. In the first place the features of its scenery offer a mark contrast to those of England, and are much more likely, among an ignorant people, to suggest effective and permanent superstitions. The storms and the mists, the darkened sky flashed by frequent lightning, the peals of thunder reverberating from mountain to mountain, and echoing on every side, the dangerous hurricanes, the gusts sweeping the innumerable lakes with which the country is studded, the rolling and impetuous torrent flooding the path of the traveller and stopping his progress, are strangely different to those safer and milder phenomena, among which the English people have developed their prosperity, and built up their mighty cities. Even the belief in witchcraft, one of the blackest superstitions which has ever defaced the human mind, has been affected by these peculiarities; and it has been well observed, that while, according to the old English creed, the witch was a miserable and decrepit hag, the slave rather than the mistress of the demons which haunted her, she, in Scotland, rose to the dignity of a potent sorcerer, who mastered the evil spirit, and, forcing it to do her will, spread among the people a far deeper and more lasting terror.[76] [76] 'Our Scottish witch is a far more frightful being than her supernatural coadjutor on the south side of the Tweed. She sometimes seems to rise from the proper sphere of the witch, who is only the slave, into that of the sorcerer, who is master of the demon.' ... 'In a people so far behind their neighbours in domestic organization, poor and hardy, inhabiting a country of mountains, torrents, and rocks, where cultivation was scanty, accustomed to gloomy mists and wild storms, every impression must necessarily assume a corresponding character. Superstitions, like funguses and vermin, are existences peculiar to the spot where they appear, and are governed by its physical accidents.' ... 'And thus it is that the indications of witchcraft in Scotland are as different from those of the superstition which in England receives the same name, as the Grampian Mountains from Shooter's Hill or Kennington Common.' _Burton's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 240-243. This is admirably expressed, and exhausts the general view of the subject. The relation between the superstition of the Scotch and the physical aspects of their country is also touched upon, though with much inferior ability, in _Brown's History of the Highlands_, vol. i. p. 106, and in _Sinclair's Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 560. Hume, in his _Commentaries on the Laws of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 556, has an interesting passage on the high pretensions of Scotch witchcraft, which never degenerated, as in other countries, into a mere attempt at deception, but always remained a sturdy and deep-rooted belief. He says, 'For among the many trials for witchcraft which fill the record, I have not observed that there is even one which proceeds upon the notion of a vain or cheating art, falsely used by an impostor to deceive the weak and credulous.' Further information respecting Scotch witchcraft will be found in _Mackenzie's Criminal Laws of Scotland_, Edinburgh, folio, 1699, pp. 42-56; _Correspondence of Mrs. Grant of Laggan_, London, 1844, vol. iii. pp. 186, 187; _Southey's Life of Bell_, London, 1844, vol. i. p. 52; _Vernon Correspondence_, edited by James, London, 1841, vol. ii. p. 301; _Weld's History of the Royal Society_, London, 1848, vol. i. p. 89; _Letters from a Gentleman in the North of Scotland_, edit. 1815, vol. i. pp. 220, 221; _The Spottiswoode Miscellany_, vol. ii. p. 41, Edinburgh, 1845; _Lyon's History of St. Andrews_, Edinburgh, 1843, vol. ii. pp. 56, 57. The work of James I., and that of Sir Walter Scott, need hardly be referred to, as they are well known to every one who is interested in the history of witchcraft; but Pitcairn's _Criminal Trials_, though less read, are, in every respect, more valuable, on account of the materials they contain for a study of this department of Scotch superstition. Similar results were produced by the incessant and sanguinary wars to which Scotland was exposed, and especially by the cruel ravages of the English in the fourteenth century. Whatever religion may be in the ascendant, the influence of its ministers is invariably strengthened by a long and dangerous war, the uncertainties of which perplex the minds of men, and induce them, when natural resources are failing, to call on the supernatural for help. On such occasions, the clergy rise in importance; the churches are more than usually filled; and the priest, putting himself forward as the exponent of the wishes of God, assumes the language of authority, and either comforts the people under their losses in a righteous cause, or else explains to them that those losses are sent as a visitation for their sins, and as a warning that they have not been sufficiently attentive to their religious duties; in other words, that they have neglected rites and ceremonies, in the performance of which the priest himself has a personal interest. No wonder, therefore, that in the fourteenth century, when the sufferings of Scotland were at their height, the clergy flourished more than ever; so that as the country became poorer, the spiritual classes became richer in proportion to the rest of the nation. Even in the fifteenth, and first half of the sixteenth century, when industry began somewhat to advance, we are assured that notwithstanding the improvement in the position of laymen, the whole of their wealth put together, and including the possessions of all ranks, was barely equal to the wealth of the Church.[77] If the hierarchy were so rapacious and so successful during a period of comparative security, it would be difficult to overrate the enormous harvest they must have reaped in those earlier days, when danger being much more imminent, hardly any one died without leaving something to them; all being anxious to testify their respect towards those who knew more than their fellows, and whose prayers could either avert present evil, or secure future happiness.[78] [77] Pinkerton (_History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 414) says that, in the reigns of James II. and James III., 'the wealth of the Church was at least equivalent to that of all the lay interest.' See also _Life of Spottiswoode_, p. liii., in vol. i. of his _History of the Church of Scotland_. 'The numerous devices employed by ecclesiastics, both secular and regular, for enriching the several Foundations to which they were attached, had transferred into their hands more than half of the territorial property of Scotland, or of its annual produce.' In regard to the first half of the sixteenth century, it is stated by a high authority, that, just before the Reformation, 'the full half of the wealth of the nation belonged to the clergy.' _M'Crie's Life of Knox_, p. 10. And another writer says, 'If we take into account the annual value of all these abbeys and monasteries, in conjunction with the bishoprics, it will appear at once that the Scottish Catholic hierarchy was more munificently endowed, considering the extent and resources of the kingdom, than it was in any other country in Europe.' _Lawson's Roman Catholic Church in Scotland_, p. 22. See also, respecting the incomes of the Scotch bishops, which, considering the poverty of the country, were truly enormous, _Lyon's History of St. Andrews_, Edinburgh, 1843, vol. i. pp. 97, 125. [78] 'They could employ all the motives of fear and of hope, of terror and of consolation, which operate most powerfully on the human mind. They haunted the weak and the credulous; they besieged the beds of the sick and of the dying; they suffered few to go out of the world without leaving marks of their liberality to the Church, and taught them to compound with the Almighty for their sins, by bestowing riches upon those who called themselves his servants.' _History of Scotland_, book ii. p. 89, in _Robertson's Works_, London, 1831. It is interesting to observe the eagerness with which the clergy of one persuasion expose the artifices of those of another. By comparing their different statements, laymen gain an insight into the entire scheme. Another consequence of these protracted wars was, that a more than ordinary proportion of the population embraced the ecclesiastical profession, because in it alone there was some chance of safety: and the monasteries in particular were crowded with persons who hoped, though frequently in vain, to escape from the burnings and slaughterings to which Scotland was exposed. When the country, in the fifteenth century, began to recover from the effects of these ravages, the absence of manufactures and of commerce, made the Church the best avenue to wealth;[79] so that it was entered by peaceful men for the purpose of security, and by ambitious men as the surest means of achieving distinction. [79] Pinkerton observes, under the year 1514, that 'ecclesiastical dignities presented almost the only path to opulence.' _History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 123. Thus it was, that the want of great cities, and of that form of industry which belongs to them, made the spiritual classes more numerous than they would otherwise have been; and what is very observable is, that it not only increased their number, but also increased the disposition of the people to obey them. Agriculturists are naturally, and by the very circumstances of their daily life, more superstitious than manufacturers, because the events with which they deal are more mysterious, that is to say, more difficult to generalize and predict.[80] Hence it is, that, as a body, the inhabitants of agricultural districts pay greater respect to the teachings of their clergy than the inhabitants of manufacturing districts. The growth of cities has, therefore, been a main cause of the decline of ecclesiastical power; and the fact that, until the eighteenth century, Scotland had nothing worthy of being called a city, is one of many circumstances which explain the prevalence of Scotch superstition, and the inordinate influence of the Scotch clergy. [80] _Buckle's History of Civilization_, vol. i. pp. 376-380. To this, we must add another consideration of great moment. Partly from the structure of the country, partly from the weakness of the Crown, and partly from the necessity of being constantly in arms to repel foreign invaders, the predatory habits incidental to an early state of society were encouraged, and consequently the reign of ignorance was prolonged. Little was studied, and nothing was known. Until the fifteenth century, there was not even an university in Scotland, the first having been founded at St. Andrews in 1412.[81] The nobles, when they were not making war upon the enemy, occupied themselves in cutting each other's throats, and stealing each other's cattle.[82] Such was their ignorance, that, even late in the fourteenth century, there is said to be no instance of a Scotch baron being able to sign his own name.[83] And as nothing approaching to a middle class had been yet formed, we may from this gain some idea of the amount of knowledge possessed by the people at large.[84] Their minds must have been immersed in a darkness which we can now barely conceive. No trades, or arts, being practised which required skill, or dexterity, there was nothing to exercise their intellects. They consequently remained so stupid and brutal, that an intelligent observer, who visited Scotland in the year 1360, likens them to savages, so much was he struck by their barbarism and their unsocial manners.[85] Another writer, early in the fifteenth century, uses the same expression; and classing them with the animals which they tended, he declares that Scotland is fuller of savages than of cattle.[86] [81] Arnot (_History of Edinburgh_, p. 386) says, that the University of St. Andrews was founded in 1412; and the same thing is stated in _Kennedy's Annals of Aberdeen_, vol. ii. p. 83. Grierson, in his _History of St. Andrews_, Cupar, 1838, p. 14, says, 'In 1410, the city of St. Andrews first saw the establishment of its famous university, the most ancient institution of the kind that exists in Scotland;' but, at p. 144 of the same work, we are told, that the charter, 'constituting and declaring it to be a university,' is 'dated at St. Andrews, the 27th of February, 1411.' See also _Lyon's History of St. Andrews_, vol. i. pp. 203-206, vol. ii. p. 223. At all events, 'at the commencement of the fifteenth century, no university existed in Scotland; and the youth who were desirous of a liberal education were under the necessity of seeking it abroad.' _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. i. p. 211. The charter granted by the Pope, confirming the university, reached Scotland in 1413. _Lawson's Roman Catholic Church in Scotland_, Edinburgh, 1836, p. 12. [82] Those were times, when, as a Scotch lawyer delicately expresses himself, 'thieving was not the peculiar habit of the low and indigent, but often common to them with persons of rank and landed estate.' _Hume's Commentaries on the Law of Scotland_, 4to, 1797, vol. i. p. 126. The usual form of robbery being cattle-stealing, a particular name was invented for it; see p. 148, where we learn that it 'was distinguished by the name of Hership or Herdship, being the driving away of numbers of cattle, or other bestial, by the masterful force of armed people.' [83] Tytler, who was a great patriot, and disposed to exaggerate the merit of everything which was Scotch, does nevertheless allow that, "from the accession of Alexander III. to the death of David II. (_i.e._ in 1370), it would be impossible, I believe, to produce a single instance of a Scottish baron who could sign his own name." _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. pp. 239, 240. Early in the sixteenth century, I find it casually mentioned, that 'David Straiton, a cadet of the house of Laureston,' ... 'could not read.' _Wodrow's Collections_, vol. i. pp. 5, 6. The famous chief, Walter Scott of Harden, was married in 1567; and 'his marriage contract is signed by a notary, because none of the parties could write their names.' _Chambers' Annals_, vol. i. p. 46. Crawfurd (_History of Renfrew_, part iii. p. 313) says: 'The modern practice of subscribing names to writes of moment was not used in Scotland till about the year 1540;' but he forgets to tell us why it was not used. In 1564, Robert Scot of Thirlstane, 'ancestor of Lord Napier,' could not sign his name. See _Pitcairn's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 394. [84] A Scotchman, of considerable learning, says: 'Scotland was no less ignorant and superstitious at the beginning of the fifteenth century, than it was towards the close of the twelfth.' _Dalrymple's Annals of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 428. [85] 'Et sont ainsi comme gens sauvages qui ne se savent avoir ni de nulli accointer.' _Les Chroniques de Froissart_, edit. Buchon, Paris, 1835, vol. ii. p. 315. [86] 'Plus pleine de sauvagine que de bestail.' _Hist. de Charles VI, par Le Laboureur_, quoted in _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 149. By this combination of events, and by this union of ignorance with danger, the clergy had, in the fifteenth century, obtained more influence in Scotland than in any other European country, Spain alone excepted. And as the power of the nobles had increased quite as rapidly, it was natural that the Crown, completely overshadowed by the great barons, should turn for aid to the Church. During the fifteenth century, and part of the sixteenth, this alliance was strictly preserved;[87] and the political history of Scotland is the history of a struggle by the kings and the clergy against the enormous authority of the nobles. The contest, after lasting about a hundred and sixty years, was brought to a close in 1560, by the triumph of the aristocracy, and the overthrow of the Church. With such force, however, had the circumstance just narrated, engrained superstition into the Scotch character, that the spiritual classes quickly rallied, and, under their new name of Protestants, they became as formidable as under their old name of Catholics. Forty-three years after the establishment of the Reformation in Scotland, James VI. ascended the throne of England, and was able to array the force of the southern country against the refractory barons of the northern. From that moment the Scotch aristocracy began to decline; and the equipoise to the clergy being removed, the Church became so powerful, that, during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, it was the most effectual obstacle to the progress of Scotland; and even now it exercises a sway which is incomprehensible to those who have not carefully studied the whole chain of its antecedents. To trace with minuteness the long course of affairs which has led to this unfortunate result, would be incompatible with the object of an Introduction, whose only aim it is to establish broad and general principles. But, to bring the question clearly before the mind of the reader, it will be necessary that I should give a slight sketch of the relation which the nobles bore to the clergy in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and of the way in which their relative positions, and their implacable hatred of each other, brought about the Reformation. By this means, we shall perceive, that the great Protestant movement, which, in other countries, was democratic, was in Scotland aristocratic. We shall also see, that, in Scotland, the Reformation, not being the work of the people, has never produced the effects which might have been expected from it, and which it did produce in England. It is, indeed, but too evident, that, while in England Protestantism has diminished superstition, has weakened the clergy, has increased toleration, and, in a word, has secured the triumph of secular interests over ecclesiastical ones, its result in Scotland has been entirely different; and that, in that country, the Church, changing its form, without altering its spirit, not only cherished its ancient pretensions, but unhappily retained its ancient power; and that, although that power is now dwindling away, the Scotch preachers still exhibit, whenever they dare, an insolent and domineering spirit, which shows how much real weakness there yet lurks in the nation, where such extravagant claims are not immediately silenced by the voice of loud and general ridicule. [87] Occasionally, we find evidence of it earlier, but it was hardly systematic. Compare _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 66, with _Dalrymple's Annals_, vol. i. pp. 72, 110, 111, 194, vol. iii. p. 296; _Nimmo's History of Stirlingshire_, p. 88; _Chalmers' History of Dunfermline_, pp. 133, 134. CHAPTER II. CONDITION OF SCOTLAND IN THE FIFTEENTH AND SIXTEENTH CENTURIES. Early in the fifteenth century, the alliance between the Crown and the Church, and the determination of that alliance to overthrow the nobles, became manifest. Indications of this may be traced in the policy of Albany, who was Regent from 1406 to 1419, and who made it his principal object to encourage and strengthen the clergy.[88] He also dealt the first great blow upon which any government had ventured against the aristocracy. Donald, who was one of the most powerful of the Scottish chieftains, and who, indeed, by the possession of the Western Isles, was almost an independent prince, had seized the earldom of Ross, which, if he could have retained, would have enabled him to set the Crown at defiance. Albany, backed by the Church, marched into his territories, in 1411, forced him to renounce the earldom, to make personal submission, and to give hostages for his future conduct.[89] So vigorous a proceeding on the part of the executive, was extremely unusual in Scotland;[90] and it was the first of a series of aggressions, which ended in the Crown obtaining for itself, not only Ross, but also the Western Isles.[91] The policy inaugurated by Albany, was followed up with still greater energy by James I. In 1424, this bold and active prince procured an enactment, obliging many of the nobles to show their charters, in order that it might be ascertained what lands they held, which had formerly belonged to the Crown.[92] And, to conciliate the affections of the clergy, he, in 1425, issued a commission, authorizing the Bishop of Saint Andrews to restore to the Church whatever had been alienated from it; while he at the same time directed that the justiciaries should assist in enforcing execution of the decree.[93] This occurred in June; and what shows that it was part of a general scheme is, that in the preceding spring, the king suddenly arrested, in the parliament assembled at Perth, upwards of twenty of the principal nobles, put four of them to death, and confiscated several of their estates.[94] Two years afterwards, he, with equal perfidy, summoned the Highland chiefs to meet him at Inverness, laid hands on them also, executed three, and imprisoned more than forty, in different parts of the kingdom.[95] [88] 'The Church was eminently favoured by Albany.' _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 86. But Pinkerton misunderstands his policy in regard to the nobles. [89] _Skene's Highlanders_, vol. ii. pp. 72-74; _Browne's History of the Highlands_, vol. i. p. 162, vol. iv. pp. 435, 436. [90] Chalmers (_Caledonia_, vol. i. pp. 826, 827), referring to the state of things before Albany, says, 'There is not a trace of any attempt by Robert II. to limit the power of the nobles, whatever he may have added, by his improvident grants, to their independence. He appears not to have attempted to raise the royal prerogative from the debasement in which the imprudence and misfortunes of David II. had left it.' And, of his successor, Robert III., 'So mild a prince, and so weak a man, was not very likely to make any attempt upon the power of others, when he could scarcely support his own.' [91] In 1476, 'the Earldom of Ross was inalienably annexed to the Crown; and a great blow was thus struck at the power and grandeur of a family which had so repeatedly disturbed the tranquillity of Scotland.' _Gregory's History of the Western Highlands_, Edinburgh, 1836, p. 50. In 1493, 'John, fourth and last Lord of the Isles, was forfeited, and deprived of his title and estates.' _Ibid._ p. 58. [92] As those who held crown lands were legally, though not in reality, the king's tenants, the act declared, that 'gif it like the king, he may ger s[=u]monde all and sindry his tenand at lauchfull day and place to schawe thar chartis.' _The Acts of the Parliament of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 4, § 9, edit. folio, 1814. [93] 'On the 8th June, 1425, James issued a commission to Henry, bishop of St. Andrews, authorising him to resume all alienations from the Church, with power of anathema, and orders to all justiciaries to assist.' This curious paper is preserved in Harl. Ms. 4637, vol. iii. f. 189. _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 116. Archbishop Spottiswoode, delighted with his policy, calls him a 'good king,' and says that he built for the Carthusians 'a beautiful monastery at Perth, bestowing large revenues upon the same.' _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 113. And Keith assures us that, on one occasion, James I. went so far as to give to one of the bishops 'a silver cross, in which was contained a bit of the wooden cross on which the apostle St. Andrew had been crucified.' _Keith's Catalogue of Scotch Bishops_, Edinburgh, 1755, 4to, p. 67. [94] Compare _Balfour's Annales_, vol. i. pp. 153-156, with _Pinkerton's History_, vol. i. pp. 113-115. Between these two authorities there is a slight, but unimportant, discrepancy. [95] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. pp. 95-98; _Skene's Highlanders_, vol. ii. p. 75; and an imperfect narrative in _Gregory's History of the Western Highlands_, p. 35. By these measures, and by supporting the Church with the same zeal that he attacked the nobles, the king thought to reverse the order of affairs hitherto established, and to secure the supremacy of the throne over the aristocracy.[96] But herein, he overrated his own power. Like nearly all politicians, he exaggerated the value of political remedies. The legislator and the magistrate may, for a moment, palliate an evil; they can never work a cure. General mischiefs depend upon general causes, and these are beyond their art. The symptoms of the disease they can touch, while the disease itself baffles their efforts, and is too often exasperated by their treatment. In Scotland, the power of the nobles was a cruel malady, which preyed on the vitals of the nation; but it had long been preparing; it was a chronic disorder; and, having worked into the general habit, it might be removed by time, it could never be diminished by violence. On the contrary, in this, as in all matters, whenever politicians attempt great good, they invariably inflict great harm. Over-action on one side produces reaction on the other, and the balance of the fabric is disturbed. By the shock of conflicting interests, the scheme of life is made insecure. New animosities are kindled, old ones are embittered, and the natural jar and discordance are aggravated, simply because the rulers of mankind cannot be brought to understand, that, in dealing with a great country, they have to do with an organization so subtle, so extremely complex, and withal so obscure, as to make it highly probable, that whatever they alter in it, they will alter wrongly, and that while their efforts to protect or to strengthen its particular parts are extremely hazardous, it does undoubtedly possess within itself a capacity of repairing its injuries, and that to bring such capacity into play, there is merely required that time and freedom which the interference of powerful men too often prevents it from enjoying. [96] Tytler (_History of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 126), under the year 1433, says: 'In the midst of his labours for the pacification of his northern dominions, and his anxiety for the suppression of heresy, the king never forgot his great plan for the diminution of the exorbitant power of the nobles.' See also p. 84. 'It was a principle of this enterprising monarch, in his schemes for the recovery and consolidation of his own power, to cultivate the friendship of the clergy, whom he regarded as a counterpoise to the nobles.' Lord Somerville (_Memorie of the Somervilles_, vol. i. p. 173) says, that the superior nobility were 'never or seldome called to counsell dureing this king's reign.' Thus it was in Scotland, in the fifteenth century. The attempts of James I. failed, because they were particular measures directed against general evils. Ideas and associations, generated by a long course of events, and deeply seated in the public mind, had given to the aristocracy immense power; and if every noble in Scotland had been put to death, if all their castles had been razed to the ground, and all their estates confiscated, the time would unquestionably have come, when their successors would have been more influential than ever, because the affection of their retainers and dependents would be increased by the injustice that had been perpetrated. For, every passion excites its opposite. Cruelty to-day, produces sympathy to-morrow. A hatred of injustice contributes more than any other principle to correct the inequalities of life, and to maintain the balance of affairs. It is this loathing at tyranny, which, by stirring to their inmost depth the warmest feelings of the heart, makes it impossible that tyranny should ever finally succeed. This, in sooth, is the noble side of our nature. This is that part of us, which, stamped with a godlike beauty, reveals its divine origin, and, providing for the most distant contingencies, is our surest guarantee that violence shall never ultimately triumph; that, sooner or later, despotism shall always be overthrown; and that the great and permanent interests of the human race shall never be injured by the wicked counsels of unjust men. In the case of James I., the reaction came sooner than might have been expected; and, as it happened in his lifetime, it was a retribution, as well as a reaction. For some years, he continued to oppress the nobles with impunity;[97] but, in 1436, they turned upon him, and put him to death, in revenge for the treatment to which he had subjected many of them.[98] Their power now rose as suddenly as it had fallen. In the south of Scotland, the Douglases were supreme,[99] and the earl of that family possessed revenues about equal to those of the Crown.[100] And, to show that his authority was equal to his wealth, he, on the marriage of James II., in 1449, appeared at the nuptials with a train composed of five thousand followers.[101] These were his own retainers, armed and resolute men, bound to obey any command he might issue to them. Not, indeed, that compulsion was needed on the part of a Scotch noble to secure the obedience of his own people. The servitude was a willing one, and was essential to the national manners. Then, and long afterwards, it was discreditable, as well as unsafe, not to belong to a great clan; and those who were so unfortunate as to be unconnected with any leading family, were accustomed to take the name of some chief, and to secure his protection by devoting themselves to his service.[102] [97] Compare _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. ii. p. 263, with _Buchanan's Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. x. p. 286. [98] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. pp. 157, 158. [99] Lindsay of Pitscottie (_Chronicles_, vol. i. p. 2) says, that directly after the death of James I., 'Alexander, Earle of Douglas, being uerie potent in kine and friendis, contemned all the kingis officeris, in respect of his great puissance.' The best account I have seen of the rise of the Douglases is in Chalmers' learned, but ill-digested, work, _Caledonia_, vol. i. pp. 579-583. [100] In 1440, 'the chief of that family had revenues perhaps equivalent to those of the Scottish monarch.' _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 192. [101] 'It may give us some idea of the immense power possessed at this period by the Earl of Douglas, when we mention, that on this chivalrous occasion, the military suite by which he was surrounded, and at the head of which he conducted the Scottish champions to the lists, consisted of a force amounting to five thousand men.' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 215. The old historian of his family says: 'He is not easy to be dealt with; they must have mufles that would catch such a cat. Indeed, he behaved himself as one that thought he would not be in danger of them; he entertained a great family; he rode ever well accompanied when he came in publick; 1000 or 2000 horse were his ordinary train.' _Hume's History of the House of Douglas_, vol. i. pp. 273, 274, reprinted Edinburgh, 1743. [102] In the seventeenth century, 'To be without a chief, involved a kind of disrepute; and those who had no distinct personal position of their own, would find it necessary to become a Gordon or a Crichton, as prudence or inclination might point out.' _Burton's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. i. p. 207. Compare _Pitcairn's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 250, on 'the protective surname of Douglas;' and _Skene's Highlanders_, vol. ii. p. 252, on the extreme importance attached to the name of Macgregor. What the Earl of Douglas was in the south of Scotland, that were the Earls of Crawford and of Ross in the north.[103] Singly they were formidable; united they seemed irresistible. When, therefore, in the middle of the fifteenth century, they actually leagued together, and formed a strict compact against all their common enemies, it was hard to say what limit could be set to their power, or what resource remained to the government, except that of sowing disunion among them.[104] [103] 'Men of the greatest puissance and force next the Douglases that were in Scotland in their times.' _Hume's History of the House of Douglas_, vol. i. p. 344. The great power of the Earls of Ross in the north, dates from the thirteenth century. See _Skene's Highlanders_, vol. i. pp. 133, 134, vol. ii. p. 52. [104] In 1445, the Earl of Douglas concluded 'ane offensiue and defensiue league and combinatione aganist all, none excepted, (not the king himselue), with the Earle of Crawfurd, and Donald, Lord of the Isles; wich was mutually sealled and subscriued by them three, the 7 day of Marche.' _Balfour's Annales_, vol. i. p. 173. This comprised the alliance of other noble families. 'He maid bandis with the Erle of Craufurd, and with Donald lorde of the Ylis, and Erle of Ross, to take part every ane with other, and with dyvers uther noble men also.' _Lesley's History of Scotland_, from 1436 to 1561, p. 18. But, in the mean time, the disposition of the nobles to use force against the Crown, had been increased by fresh violence. Government, instead of being warned by the fate of James I., imitated his unscrupulous acts, and pursued the very policy which had caused his destruction. Because the Douglases were the most powerful of all the great families, it was determined that their chiefs should be put to death; and because they could not be slain by force, they were to be murdered by treachery. In 1440, the Earl of Douglas, a boy of fifteen, and his brother, who was still younger than he, were invited to Edinburgh on a friendly visit to the king. Scarcely had they arrived, when they were seized by order of the chancellor, subjected to a mock trial, declared guilty, dragged to the castle-yard, and the heads of the poor children cut off.[105] [105] An interesting account of this dastardly crime is given in _Hume's History of the House of Douglas_, vol. i. pp. 274-288, where great, but natural, indignation is expressed. On the other hand, Lesley, bishop of Ross, narrates it with a cold-blooded indifference, characteristic of the ill-will which existed between the nobles and the clergy, and which prevented him from regarding the murder of two children as an offence. 'And eftir he was set doun to the burd with the governour, chancellour, and otheris noble men present, the meit was sudantlie removed, and ane bullis heid presented, quhilk in thay daies was ane signe of executione; and incontinent the said erle, David his broder, and Malcolme Fleming of Cummernald, wer heidit before the castell yett of Edenburgh.' _Lesley's History_, p. 16. Considering the warm feelings of attachment which the Scotch entertained for their chiefs, it is difficult to overrate the consequences of this barbarous murder, in strengthening a class it was hoped to intimidate. But this horrible crime was committed by the government only, and it occurred during the king's minority: the next assassination was the work of the king himself. In 1452, the Earl of Douglas[106] was, with great show of civility, requested by James II. to repair to the court then assembled at Stirling. The Earl hesitated, but James overcame his reluctance by sending to him a safeconduct with the royal signature, and issued under the great seal.[107] The honour of the king being pledged, the fears of Douglas were removed. He hastened to Stirling, where he was received with every distinction. The evening of his arrival, the king, after supper was over, broke out into reproaches against him, and, suddenly drawing his dagger, stabbed him. Gray then struck him with a battle-axe, and he fell dead on the floor, in presence of his sovereign, who had lured him to court, that he might murder him with impunity.[108] [106] The cousin of the boys who were murdered in 1440. See _Hume's History of the House of Douglas_, vol. i. pp. 297, 816. [107] 'With assurance under the broad seal.' _Hume's House of Douglas_, vol. i. p. 351. See also _Nimmo's History of Stirlingshire_, Edinb. 1777, pp. 246, 322, 323. [108] _Hume's House of Douglas_, vol. i. pp. 351-353. The king 'stabbed him in the breast with a dagger. At the same instant Patrick Gray struck him on the head with a pole-ax. The rest that were attending at the door, hearing the noise, entred, and fell also upon him; and, to show their affection to the king, gave him every man his blow after he was dead.' _Compare Lindsay of Pitscottie's Chronicles of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 103. 'He strak him throw the bodie thairwith; and thairefter the guard, hearing the tumult within the chamber, rusched in and slew the earle out of hand.' The ferocity of the Scotch character, which was the natural result of the ignorance and poverty of the nation, was, no doubt, one cause, and a very important one, of the commission of such crimes as these, not secretly, but in the open light of day, and by the highest men in the State. It cannot, however, be denied, that another cause was, the influence of the clergy, whose interest it was to humble the nobles, and who were by no means scrupulous as to the means that they employed.[109] As the Crown became more alienated from the aristocracy, it united itself still closer with the Church. In 1443, a statute was enacted, the object of which was, to secure ecclesiastical property from the attacks made upon it by the nobles.[110] And although, in that state of society, it was easier to pass laws than to execute them, such a measure indicated the general policy of the government, and the union between it and the Church. Indeed, as to this, no one could be mistaken.[111] For nearly twenty years, the avowed and confidential adviser of the Crown was Kennedy, bishop of Saint Andrews, who retained power until his death, in 1466, during the minority of James III.[112] He was the bitter enemy of the nobles, against whom he displayed an unrelenting spirit, which was sharpened by personal injuries; for the Earl of Crawford had plundered his lands, and the Earl of Douglas had attempted to seize him, and had threatened to put him into irons.[113] The mildest spirit might well have been roused by this; and as James II., when he assassinated Douglas, was more influenced by Kennedy than by any one else, it is probable that the bishop was privy to that foul transaction. At all events, he expressed no disapprobation of it; and when, in consequence of the murder, the Douglases and their friends rose in open rebellion, Kennedy gave to the king a crafty and insidious counsel, highly characteristic of the cunning of his profession. Taking up a bundle of arrows, he showed James, that when they were together, they were not to be broken; but that, if separated, they were easily destroyed. Hence he inferred, that the aristocracy should be overthrown by disuniting the nobles, and ruining them one by one.[114] [109] In _Nimmo's History of Stirlingshire_, pp. 99, 100, the alienation of the nobles from the Church is dated 'from the middle of the fifteenth century;' and this is perhaps correct in regard to general dislike, though the movement may be clearly traced fifty years earlier. [110] See _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 33, edit. folio, 1814; respecting the 'statute of haly kirk quhilk is oppressit and hurt.' [111] In 1449, James II., 'with that affectionate respect for the clergy, which could not fail to be experienced by a prince who had successfully employed their support and advice to escape from the tyranny of his nobles, granted to them some important privileges.' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 226. See also p. 309. Among many similar measures, he conceded to the monks of Paisley some important powers of jurisdiction that belonged to the Crown. Charter, 13th January, 1451-2, in _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. iii. p. 823. [112] _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 188, 209, 247, 254. _Keith's Catalogue of Scotch Bishops_, p. 19. _Ridpath's Border History_, p. 298. _Hollinshead's Scottish Chronicle_, vol. ii. p. 101. In _Somerville's Memorie of the Somervilles_, vol. i. p. 213, it is stated, under the year 1452, that fear of the great nobles 'had once possest his majestie with some thoughts of going out of the countrey; but that he was perswaded to the contrary by Bishop Kennedie, then Archbishop of Saint Andrewes, whose counsell at that tyme and eftirward, in most things he followed, which at length proved to his majesties great advantage.' See also _Lesley's History_, p. 23. 'The king wes put to sic a sharp point, that he wes determinit to haif left the realme, and to haif passit in Fraunce by sey, were not that bischop James Kennedy of St. Androis causit him to tarrye.' [113] 'His lands were plundered by the Earl of Crawford and Alexander Ogilvie of Inveraritie, at the instigation of the Earl of Douglas, who had farther instructed them to seize, if possible, the person of the bishop, and to put him in irons.' Memoir of Kennedy, in _Chambers' Lives of Scotchmen_, vol. iii. p. 307, Glasgow, 1834. 'Sed Kennedus et ætate, et consilio, ac proinde auctoritate cæteros anteibat. In eum potissimum ira est versa. Crafordiæ comes et Alexander Ogilvius conflato satis magno exercitu, agros ejus in Fifa latè populati, dum prædam magis, quam causam sequuntur, omni genere cladis in vicina etiam prædia grassati, nemine congredi auso pleni prædarum in Angusiam revertuntar. Kennedus ad sua arma conversus comitem Crafordiæ disceptationem juris fugientem diris ecclesiasticis est prosecutus.' _Buchanan_, _Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. xi. p. 306. [114] 'This holie bischop schew ane similitud to the king, quhilk might bring him to experience how he might invaid againes the Douglass, and the rest of the conspiratouris. This bischop tuik furth ane great scheife of arrowes knitt togidder werrie fast, and desired him to put thame to his knie, and break thame. The king said it was not possible, becaus they war so many, and so weill fastened togidder. The bischop answeired, it was werrie true, bot yitt he wold latt the king sea how to break thame: and pulled out on be on, and tua be tua, quhill he had brokin thame all; then said to the king, "Yea most doe with the conspiratouris in this manner, and thair complices that are risen againes yow, quho are so many in number, and so hard knit togidder in conspiracie againes yow, that yea cannot gett thame brokin togidder. Butt be sick pratick as I have schowin yow be the similitud of thir arrowes, that is to say, yea must conqueis and break lord by lord be thamselffis, for yea may not deall with thame all at once."' _Lindsay of Pitscottie's Chronicles of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 172, 173. In this he was right, so far as the interests of his own order were concerned; but, looking at the interest of the nation, it is evident that the power of the nobles, notwithstanding their gross abuse of it, was, on the whole, beneficial, since it was the only barrier against despotism. The evil they actually engendered, was indeed immense. But they kept off other evils, which would have been worse. By causing present anarchy, they secured future liberty. For, as there was no middle class, there were only three orders in the commonwealth; namely, government, clergy, and nobles. The two first being united against the last, it is certain that if they had won the day, Scotland would have been oppressed by the worst of all yokes, to which a country can be subjected. It would have been ruled by an absolute king and an absolute Church, who, playing into each other's hands, would have tyrannized over a people, who, though coarse and ignorant, still loved a certain rude and barbarous liberty, which it was good for them to possess, but which, in the face of such a combination, they would most assuredly have forfeited. Happily, however, the power of the nobles was too deeply rooted in the popular mind to allow of this catastrophe. In vain did James III. exert himself to discourage them,[115] and to elevate their rivals, the clergy.[116] Nothing could shake their authority; and, in 1482, they, seeing the determination of the king, assembled together, and such was their influence over their followers, that they had no difficulty in seizing his person, and imprisoning him in the Castle of Edinburgh.[117] After his liberation, fresh quarrels arose;[118] and in 1488, the principal nobles collected troops, met him in the field, defeated him, and put him to death.[119] He was succeeded by James IV., under whom the course of affairs was exactly the same; that is to say, on one side the nobles, and on the other side the Crown and the Church. Every thing that the king could do to uphold the clergy, he did cheerfully. In 1493, he obtained an act to secure the immunities of the sees of Saint Andrews and of Glasgow, the two most important in Scotland.[120] In 1503, he procured a general revocation of all grants and gifts prejudicial to the Church, whether they had been made by the Parliament or by the Council.[121] And, in 1508, he, by the advice of Elphinston, bishop of Aberdeen, ventured on a measure of still greater boldness. That able and ambitious prelate induced James to revive against the nobility several obsolete claims, by virtue of which the king could, under certain circumstances, take possession of their estates, and could, in every instance in which the owner held of the Crown, receive nearly the whole of the proceeds during the minority of the proprietor.[122] [115] 'He wald nocht suffer the noblemen to come to his presence, and to governe the realme be thair counsell.' _Lesley's History of Scotland_, p. 48. 'Wald nocht use the counsall of his nobilis.' p. 55. 'Excluding the nobility.' _Hume's History of the House of Douglas_, vol. ii. p. 33. 'The nobility seeing his resolution to ruin them.' p. 46. 'Hes conteming his nobility.' _Balfour's Annales_, vol. i. p. 206. [116] Also to aggrandize them. See, for instance, what 'has obtained the name of the golden charter, from the ample privileges it contains, confirmed to Archbishop Shevez by James III. on 9th July 1480.' _Grierson's History of Saint Andrews_, p. 58, Cupar, 1838. [117] 'Such was the influence of the aristocracy over their warlike followers, that the king was conveyed to the castle of Edinburgh, without commotion or murmur.' _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 308. [118] 'The king and his ministers multiplied the insults which they offered to the nobility.' ... 'A proclamation was issued, forbidding any person to appear in arms within the precincts of the court; which, at a time when no man of rank left his own house without a numerous retinue of armed followers, was, in effect, debarring the nobles from all access to the king.' ... 'His neglect of the nobles irritated, but did not weaken them.' _History of Scotland_, book i. p. 68, in _Robertson's Works_, edit. London, 1831. [119] _Balfour's Annales_, vol. i. pp. 213, 214; Buchanan, _Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. xii. p. 358. Lindsay of Pitscottie (_Chronicles_, vol. i. p. 222) says: 'This may be ane example to all kingis that cumes heirefter, not to fall from God.' ... 'For, if he had vsed the counsall of his wyse lordis and barrones, he had not cum to sick disparatioun.' [120] _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, folio, 1814, vol. ii. p. 232. 'That the said abbaceis confirmit be thame sall neid na prouisioun of the court of Rome.' [121] _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 240; and the summary of the statute (p. 21), 'Revocation of donations, statutis, and all uthir thingis hurtand the croune or hali kirk.' In the next year (1504), the king 'greatly augmented' the revenues of the bishoprick of Galloway. _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. iii. p. 417. [122] _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 63; _Calderwood's History of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. viii. p. 135, edit. Wodrow Society, Edinburgh, 1849. The latter authority states, that 'The bishop devysed wayes to King James the Fourth, how he might attaine to great gaine and profit. He advised him to call his barons and all those that held any lands within the realme, to show their evidents by way of recognition; and, if they had not sufficient writings for their warrant, to dispone upon their lands at his pleasure; for the which advice he was greatlie hated. But the king, perceaving the countrie to grudge, agreed easilie with the possessors.' To make such claims was easy; to enforce them was impossible. Indeed, the nobles were at this time rather gaining ground than losing it; and, after the death of James IV., in 1513, they, during the minority of James V., became so powerful, that the regent, Albany, twice threw up the government in despair, and at length abandoned it altogether.[123] He finally quitted Scotland in 1524, and with him the authority of the executive seemed to have vanished. The Douglases soon obtained possession of the person of the king, and compelled Beaton, archbishop of Saint Andrews, the most influential man in the Church, to resign the office of chancellor.[124] The whole command now fell into their hands; they or their adherents filled every office; secular interests predominated, and the clergy were thrown completely into the shade.[125] In 1528, however, an event occurred by which the spiritual classes not only recovered their former position, but gained a preëminence, which, as it turned out, was eventually fatal to themselves. Archbishop Beaton, impatient at proceedings so unfavourable to the Church, organized a conspiracy, by means of which James effected his escape from the Douglases, and took refuge in the castle of Stirling.[126] This sudden reaction was not the real and controlling cause, but it was undoubtedly the proximate cause, of the establishment of Protestantism in Scotland. For, the reins of government now passed into the hands of the Church; and the most influential of the nobles were consequently persecuted, and some of them driven from the country. But, though their political power was gone, their social power remained. They were stripped of their honours and their wealth. They became outcasts, traitors, and beggars. Still, the real foundation of their authority was unshaken, because that authority was the result of a long train of circumstances, and was based on the affections of the people. Therefore it was, that the nobles, even those who were exiled and attainted, were able to conduct an arduous, but eventually a successful, struggle against their enemies. The desire of revenge whetted their exertions, and gave rise to a deadly contest between the Scotch aristocracy and the Scotch Church. This most remarkable conflict was, in some degree, a continuation of that which began early in the fifteenth century. But it was far more bitter; it lasted, without interruption, for thirty-two years; and it was only concluded by the triumph of the nobles, who, in 1560, completely overthrew the Church, and destroyed, almost at a blow, the whole of the Scotch hierarchy. [123] The Regency of Albany, little understood by the earlier historians, has been carefully examined by Mr. Tytler, in whose valuable, though too prolix, work, the best account of it will be found. _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 98-160, Edinburgh, 1845. On the hostility between Albany and the nobles, see _Irving's History of Dumbartonshire_, p. 99; and, on the revival of their power in the north, after the death of James IV., see _Gregory's History of the Western Highlands_, pp. 114, 115. [124] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 180-182: 'Within a few months, there was not an office of trust or emolument in the kingdom, which was not filled by a Douglas, or by a creature of that house.' See also pp. 187, 194; and _Keith's Catalogue of Scotch Bishops_, pp. 22, 23. Beaton, who was so rudely dispossessed of the chancellorship, that, according to Keith, he was, in 1525, obliged 'to lurk among his friends for fear of his life,' is mentioned, in the preceding year, as having been the main supporter of Albany's government; 'that most hath favoured the Duke of Albany.' _State Papers of the Reign of Henry VIII._, vol. iv. p. 97, 4to, 1836. [125] The complete power of the Douglases lasted from the cessation of Albany's regency to the escape of the king, in 1528. _Keith's History of the Affairs of Church and State in Scotland_, edit. Edinburgh, 1835, vol. i. pp. 33-35. Compare _Balfour's Annales_, vol. i. p. 257. 'The Earle of Angus violentley takes one him the gouerniment, and retanes the king in effecte a prisoner with him; during wich tyme he, the Earle of Lennox, and George Douglas, his auen brother, frely disposses vpone all affaires both of churche and staite.' [126] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 195, 196. The curious work, entitled _A Diurnal of Occurrents_, p. 10, says, 'In the zeir of God 1500, tuantie aucht zeiris, the kingis grace by slicht wan away fra the Douglassis.' From Stirling, he repaired to Edinburgh, on 6th July 1528, and went to 'the busshop of Sainct Andros loegeing.' See a letter written on the 18th of July 1528, by Lord Dacre to Wolsey, in _State Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. iv. p. 501, 4to, 1836. Compare a proclamation on 10th September 1528, in _Pitcairn's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. i. part i. pp. 138*, 139*, Edinburgh, 4to, 1833. I particularly indicate these documents, because Lindsay of Pitscottie (in his _Chronicles of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 335) erroneously places the flight of James in 1527; and he is generally one of the most accurate of the old writers, if indeed he be the author of the work which bears his name. The events of this struggle, and the vicissitudes to which, during its continuance, both parties were exposed, are related, though somewhat confusedly, in our common histories: it will be sufficient if I indicate the salient points, and, avoiding needless detail, endeavour to throw light on the general movement. The unity of the entire scheme will thus be brought before our minds, and we shall see, that the destruction of the Catholic Church was its natural consummation, and that the last act of that gorgeous drama, so far from being a strained and irregular sequence, was in fit keeping with the whole train of the preceding plot. When James effected his escape in 1528, he was a boy of sixteen, and his policy, so far as he can be said to have had any mind of his own, was of course determined by the clergy, to whom he owed his liberty, and who were his natural protectors. His principal adviser was the Archbishop of Saint Andrews; and the important post of chancellor, which, under the Douglases, had been held by a layman, was now conferred on the Archbishop of Glasgow.[127] These two prelates were supreme; while, at the same time, the Abbot of Holyrood was made treasurer, and the Bishop of Dunkeld was made privy seal.[128] All nobles, and even all followers, of the house of Douglas, were forbidden to approach within twelve miles of the court, under pain of treason.[129] An expedition was fitted out, and sent against the Earl of Caithness, who was defeated and slain.[130] Just before this occurred, the Earl of Angus was driven out of Scotland, and his estates confiscated.[131] An act of attainder was passed against the Douglases.[132] The government, moreover, seized, and threw into prison, the Earl of Bothwell, Home, Maxwell, and two Kerrs, and the barons of Buccleuch, Johnston, and Polwarth.[133] [127] _State Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. iv. p. 501. [128] 'Archibald was depryvit of the thesaurarie, and placit thairin Robert Cairncorse, abbot of Halyrudhous. And als was tane fra the said Archibald the privie seill, and was givin to the bischope of Dunkell.' _A Diurnal of Occurrents_, p. 11. [129] Tytler (_History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 196) says: 'His first act was to summon a council, and issue a proclamation, that no lord or follower of the house of Douglas should dare to approach within _six_ miles of the court, under pain of treason.' For this, no authority is cited; and the historian of the Douglas family distinctly states, 'within _twelve_ miles of the king, under pain of death.' _Hume's House of Douglas_, vol. ii. p. 99. See also _Diurnal of Occurrents_, p. 10: 'that nane of thame nor thair familiaris cum neir the king be tuelf myllis.' The reason was, that 'the said kingis grace haid greit suspicioun of the temporall lordis, becaus thaj favourit sum pairt the Douglassis.' _Diurnal_, p. 12. [130] 'The Erle of Caithnes and fyve hundreth of his men wes slayne and drownit in the see.' _Lesley's History of Scotland_, p. 141. [131] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 203, 204. [132] _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 324, edit. folio, 1814. [133] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 207. All this was vigorous enough, and was the consequence of the Church recovering her power. Other measures, equally decisive, were preparing. In 1531, the king deprived the Earl of Crawford of most of his estates, and threw the Earl of Argyle into prison.[134] Even those nobles who had been inclined to follow him, he now discouraged. He took every opportunity of treating them with coldness, while he filled the highest offices with their rivals, the clergy.[135] Finally, he, in 1532, aimed a deadly blow at their order, by depriving them of a large part of the jurisdiction which they were wont to exercise in their own country, and to the possession of which they owed much of their power. At the instigation of the Archbishop of Glasgow, he established what was called the College of Justice, in which suits were to be decided, instead of being tried, as heretofore, by the barons, at home, in their castles. It was ordered that this new tribunal should consist of fifteen judges, eight of whom must be ecclesiastics; and to make the intention still more clear, it was provided that the president should invariably be a clergyman.[136] [134] _Tytler_, vol. iv. p. 212. [135] 'His preference of the clergy to the temporal lords disgusted these proud chiefs.' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 230. See also p. 236. His reasons are stated by himself, in a curious letter, which he wrote so late as 1541, to Henry VIII. 'We persaif,' writes James, 'be zoure saidis writingis yat Ze ar informyt yat yair suld be sum thingis laitlie attemptat be oure kirkmen to oure hurte and skaith, and contrar oure mynde and plesure. We can nocht understand, quhat suld move Zou to beleif the samyn, assuring Zou _We have nevir fund bot faithfull and trew obedience of yame at all tymes_, nor yai seik nor attemptis nouthir jurisdictioun nor previlegijs, forthir nor yai have usit sen the first institutioun of the Kirk of Scotland, quhilk We may nocht apoun oure conscience alter nor change in the respect We have to the honour and faith of God and Halikirk, and douttis na inconvenient be yame to come to Ws and oure realme yerthrou; for sen the Kirk wes first institute in our realme, the stait yairof hes nevir failzeit, bot _hes remanyt evir obedient to oure progenitouris, and in our tyme mair thankefull to Ws, nor evir yai wer of before_.' This letter, which, in several points of view, is worth reading, will be found in _State Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. v. pp. 188-190, 4to, 1836. [136] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 212, 213, and _Arnot's History of Edinburgh_, 4to, 1788, p. 468: 'fifteen ordinary judges, seven churchmen, seven laymen, and a president, whom it behoved to be a churchman.' The statute, as printed in the folio edition of 1814 (_Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 335) says 'xiiij psouñs half sp[=u]ale half temporall wt ane president.' Mr. Lawson (_Roman Catholic Church in Scotland_, Edinburgh, 1836, p. 81) supposes that it was the Archbishop of St. Andrews who advised the erection of this tribunal. This gave the finishing touch to the whole, and it, taken in connexion with previous measures, exasperated the nobles almost to madness. Their hatred of the clergy became uncontrollable; and, in their eagerness for revenge, they not only threw themselves into the arms of England, and maintained a secret understanding with Henry VIII., but many of them went even further, and showed a decided leaning towards the principles of the Reformation. As the enmity between the aristocracy and the Church grew more bitter, just in the same proportion did the desire to reform the Church become more marked. The love of innovation was encouraged by interested motives, until, in the course of a few years, an immense majority of the nobles adopted extreme Protestant opinions; hardly caring what heresy they embraced, so long as they were able, by its aid, to damage a Church from which they had recently received the greatest injuries, and with which they and their progenitors had been engaged in a contest of nearly a hundred and fifty years.[137] [137] Keith, who evidently does not admire this part of the history of his country, says, under the year 1546, 'Several of our nobility found it their temporal interest, as much as their spiritual, to sway with the new opinions as to religious matters.' _Keith's Affairs of Church and State_, vol. i. pp. 112, 113. Later, and with still more bluntness: 'The noblemen wanted to finger the patrimony of the kirkmen.' vol. iii. p. 11. In the mean time, James V. united himself closer than ever with the hierarchy. In 1534, he gratified the Church, by personally assisting at the trial of some heretics, who were brought before the bishops and burned.[138] The next year, he was offered, and he willingly accepted, the title of Defender of the Faith, which was transferred to him from Henry VIII.; that king being supposed to have forfeited it by his impiety.[139] At all events, James well deserved it. He was a stanch supporter of the Church, and his privy-council was chiefly composed of ecclesiastics, as he deemed it dangerous to admit laymen to too large a share in the government.[140] And, in 1538, he still further signalized his policy, by taking for his second wife Mary of Guise; thus establishing an intimate relation with the most powerful Catholic family in Europe, whose ambition, too, was equal to their power, and who made it their avowed object to uphold the Catholic faith, and to protect it from those rude and unmannerly invasions which were now directed against it in most parts of Europe.[141] [138] 'In the month of August (1534), the bishops having gotten fitt opportunitie, renewed their battell aganest Jesus Christ. David Stratilon, a gentelman of the House of Lawrestoune, and Mr. Norman Gowrlay, was brought to judgement in the Abby of Halyrudhouse. The king himself, all cloathed with reid, being present, grait pains war taken upon David Stratoun to move him to recant and burn his bill; bot he, ever standing to his defence, was in end adjudged to the fire. He asked grace at the king. The bishops answred proudlie, that "the king's hands war bound, and that he had no grace to give to such as were by law condemned." So was he, with Mr. Norman, after dinner, upon the 27th day of Agust, led to a place beside the Rude of Greenside, between Leth and Edinbrug, to the intent that the inhabitants of Fife, seeing the fire, might be striken with terrour and feare.' _Pitcairn's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. i. part i. p. 210*. Also _Calderwood's History of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 106, 107. [139] 'It appears, by a letter in the State-paper Office, that Henry remonstrated against this title being given to James.' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 223. See also p. 258. [140] In 1535, 'his privy council were mostly ecclesiastics.' _Ibid._ vol. iv. p. 222. And Sir Ralph Sadler, during his embassy to Scotland in 1539-40, writes: 'So that the king, as far as I can perceive, is of force driven to use the bishops and his clergy as his only ministers for the direction of his realm. They be the men of wit and policy that I see here; they be never out of the king's ear. And if they smell any thing that in the least point may touch them, or that the king seem to be content with any such thing, straight they inculk to him, how catholic a prince his father was, and feed him both with fair words and many, in such wise as by those policies they lead him (having also the whole governance of his affairs) as they will.' _State Papers and Letters of Sir Ralph Sadler_, Edinb., 1809, 4to, vol. i. p. 47. [141] _State Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. v. p. 128. _A Diurnal of Occurrents_, p. 22. The Reverend Mr. Kirkton pronounces that the new queen was 'ane egge of the bloody nest of Guise.' _Kirkton's History of the Church of Scotland_, edited by Sharpe, Edinburgh, 1817, 4to, p. 7. This was hailed by the Church as a guarantee for the intentions of the king. And so indeed it proved to be. David Beaton, who negotiated the marriage, became the chief adviser of James during the rest of his reign. He was made Archbishop of Saint Andrews in 1539,[142] and, by his influence, a persecution hotter than any yet known, was directed against the Protestants. Many of them escaped into England,[143] where they swelled the number of the exiles, who were waiting till the time was ripe to take a deadly revenge. They, and their adherents at home, coalesced with the disaffected nobles, particularly with the Douglases,[144] who were by far the most powerful of the Scotch aristocracy, and who were connected with most of the great families, either by old associations, or by the still closer bond of the interest which they all had in reducing the power of the Church.[145] [142] 'At his return home, he was made coadjutor, and declared future successor to his uncle in the primacy of St. Andrews, in which see he came to be fully invested upon the death of his uncle the next year, 1539.' _Keith's Catalogue of Scotch Bishops_, pp. 23, 24. [143] _M'Crie's Life of Knox_, p. 20. _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 139. _Lawson's Roman Catholic Church in Scotland_, p. 178. _Wodrow's Collections upon the Lives of the Reformers_, vol. i. p. 100. [144] Tytler (_History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 241) says, that the cruelties of 1539 forced 'many of the persecuted families to embrace the interests of the Douglases.' [145] It is asserted of the Douglases, that, early in the sixteenth century, their 'alliances and power were equal to one-half of the nobility of Scotland.' _Brown's History of Glasgow_, vol. i. p. 8. See also, on their connexions, _Hume's House of Douglas_, vol. i. pp. xix. 252, 298, vol. ii. p. 293. At this juncture, the eyes of men were turned towards the Douglases, whom Henry VIII. harboured at his court, and who were now maturing their plans.[146] Though they did not yet dare to return to Scotland, their spies and agents reported to them all that was done, and preserved their connexions at home. Feudal covenants, bonds of manrent, and other arrangements, which, even if illegal, it would have been held disgraceful to renounce, were in full force; and enabled the Douglases to rely with confidence on many of the most powerful nobles, who were, moreover, disgusted at the predominance of the clergy, and who welcomed the prospect of any change which was likely to lessen the authority of the Church.[147] [146] Henry VIII., 'in the year 1532, sought it directly, among the conditions of peace, that the Douglas, according to his promise, should be restored. For King Henry's own part, he entertained them with all kind of beneficence and honour, and made both the Earl and Sir George of his Privy Council.' _Hume's History of the House of Douglas_, vol. ii. pp. 105, 106. James was very jealous of any communication taking place between the Douglases and his other subjects; but it was impossible for him to prevent it. See a letter which he wrote to Sir Thomas Erskine (in _Miscellany of the Spalding Club_, vol. ii. p. 193, Aberdeen, 1842, 4to), beginning, 'I commend me rycht hartly to yow, and weit ye that it is murmuryt hyr that ye sould a spolkyn with Gorge and Archebald Dougles in Ingland, quhylk wase again my command and your promys quhan we departyt.' See also the cases of Lady Trakware, John Mathesone, John Hume, and others, in _Pitcairn's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. i. part i. pp. 161*, 177*, 202*, 243*, 247*. [147] 'The Douglases were still maintained with high favour and generous allowances in England; their power, although nominally extinct, was still far from being destroyed; their spies penetrated into every quarter, followed the king to France, and gave information of his most private motions; their feudal covenants and bands of manrent still existed, and bound many of the most potent nobility to their interest; whilst the vigour of the king's government, and his preference of the clergy to the temporal lords, disgusted these proud chiefs, and disposed them to hope for a recovery of their influence from any change which might take place.' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 229, 230. These bonds of manrent, noticed by Tytler, were among the most effective means by which the Scotch nobles secured their power. Without them, it would have been difficult for the aristocracy to have resisted the united force of the Crown and the Church. On this account, they deserve special attention. Chalmers (_Caledonia_, vol. i. p. 824) could find no bond of manrent earlier than 1354; but in Lord Somerville's _Memorie of the Somervilles_, edit. Edinburgh, 1815, vol. i. p. 74, one is mentioned in 1281. This is the earliest instance I have met with; and they did not become very common till the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Compare _Hume's History of the House of Douglas_, vol. ii. p. 19. _Somerville's Memorie of the Somervilles_, vol. i. p. 234. _Pitcairn's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 83. _Irving's History of Dumbartonshire_, pp. 142, 143. _Skene's Highlanders_, vol. ii. p. 186. _Gregory's History of the Western Highlands_, p. 126. _Kennedy's Annals of Aberdeen_, vol. i. p. 55. _Miscellany of the Spalding Club_, vol. ii. pp. cvi. 93, 251, vol. iv. pp. xlviii. 179. As these covenants were extremely useful in maintaining the balance of power, and preventing the Scotch monarchy from becoming despotic, acts of parliament were of course passed against them. See one in 1457, and another in 1555, respecting 'lige' and 'bandis of manrent and mantenance,' in _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, folio, 1814, vol. ii. pp. 50, 495. Such enactments being opposed to the spirit of the age, and adverse to the exigencies of society, produced no effect upon the general practice, though they caused the punishment of several individuals. Manrent was still frequent until about 1620 or 1630, when the great social revolution was completed, by which the power of the aristocracy was subordinated to that of the Church. Then, the change of affairs effected, without difficulty, and indeed spontaneously, what the legislature had vainly attempted to achieve. The nobles, gradually sinking into insignificance, lost their spirit, and ceased to resort to those contrivances by which they had long upheld their order. Bonds of manrent became every year less common, and it is doubtful if there is any instance of them after 1661. See _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. iii. pp. 32, 33. It is, however, so dangerous to assert a negative, that I do not wish to rely on this date, and some few cases may exist later; but if so, they are very few, and it is certain that, speaking generally, the middle of the seventeenth century is the epoch of their extinction. With such a combination of parties, in a country where, there being no middle class, the people counted for nothing, but followed wherever they were led, it is evident that the success or failure of the Reformation in Scotland was simply a question of the success or failure of the nobles. They were bent on revenge. The only doubt was, as to their being strong enough to gratify it. Against them, they had the Crown and the Church. On their side they had the feudal traditions, the spirit of clanship, the devoted obedience of their innumerable retainers, and, what was equally important, that love of names, and of family associations, for which Scotland is still remarkable, but which, in the sixteenth century, possessed an influence difficult to exaggerate. The moment for action was now at hand. In 1540, the government, completely under the control of the clergy, caused fresh laws to be enacted against the Protestants, whose interests were by this time identical with those of the nobles. By these statutes, no one, even suspected of heresy, could for the future hold any office; and all Catholics were forbidden to harbour, or to show favour to, persons who professed the new opinions.[148] The clergy, now flushed with conquest, and greedy for the destruction of their ancient rivals, proceeded to still farther extremities. So unrelenting was their malice, that, in that same year, they presented to James a list containing the names of upwards of three hundred members of the Scotch aristocracy, whom they formally accused as heretics, who ought to be put to death, and whose estates they recommended the king to confiscate.[149] [148] _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. ii. pp. 370, 371. 'That na mañ quhats[=u]euir stait or conditiouñ he be luge ressauve cherish nor favor ony heretike.' ... 'And alswa that na persouñ that hes bene suspectit of heresie howbeit thai be ressauit to p[=e]nance and grace sall in this realme exers haif nor brouk ony honest estait degre office nor judicato^r sp[=u]all nor t[=e]porale in burgh nor w^tout nor na salbe admittit to be of ou[/r] counsale.' [149] Lindsay of Pitscottie (_Chronicles_, vol. ii. p. 383) says, that they 'devysed to put ane discord and variance betwixt the lordis and gentlmen with thair prince; for they delaited, and gave vp to the king in writt, to the number of thrittie scoir of earles, lordis, and barrones, gentlmen and craftismen, that is, as thei alledgit, wer all heretickis, and leived not after the Pope's lawis, and ordinance of the hollie kirk; quhilk his grace sould esteme as ane capitall cryme, to ony man that did the same' ... 'all thair landis, rentes, guidis, and geir apperteanis propperlie to your grace, for thair contempt of our hollie father the Pope, and his lawis, and high contempt of your grace's authoritie.' This document was found among the king's papers after his death, when it appeared that, of the six hundred names on the list, more than three hundred belonged to the principal nobility: 'Eum timorem auxerunt codicilli post regis interitum reperti, e quibus supra trecentorum è prima nobilitate nomina continebantur.' _Buchanan_, _Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. xv. p. 424. Compare _Sadler's State Papers_, 1809, vol. i. p. 94; and _Watson's Historicall Collections of Ecclesiastick Affairs in Scotland_, 1657, p. 22. According to Watson, it 'was called the bloudy scroll.' These hot and vindictive men little knew of the storm which they were evoking, and which was about to burst on their heads, and cover them and their Church with confusion. Not that we have reason to believe that a wiser conduct would have ultimately saved the Scotch hierarchy. On the contrary, the probability is, that their fate was sealed; for the general causes which governed the entire movement had been so long at work, that, at this period, it would have been hardly possible to have baffled them. But, even if we admit as certain, that the Scotch clergy were doomed, it is also certain that their violence made their fall more grievous, by exasperating the passions of their adversaries. The train, indeed, was laid; their enemies had supplied the materials, and all was ready to explode; but it was themselves who at last applied the match, and sprung the mine to their own destruction. In 1542, the nobles, seeing that the Church and the Crown were bent on their ruin, took the most decisive step on which they had yet ventured, and peremptorily refused to obey James in making war upon the English. They knew that the war in which they were desired to participate had been fomented by the clergy, with the twofold object of stopping all communication with the exiles, and of checking the introduction of heretical opinions.[150] Both these intentions they resolved to frustrate, and, being assembled on the field, they declared with one voice that they would not invade England. Threats and persuasions were equally useless. James, stung with vexation, returned home, and ordered the army to be disbanded. Scarcely had he retired, when the clergy attempted to rally the troops, and to induce them to act against the enemy. A few of the peers, ashamed at what seemed a cowardly desertion of the king, appeared willing to march. The rest, however, refused; and, while they were in this state of doubt and confusion, the English, taking them unawares, suddenly fell upon their disorderly ranks, utterly routed them, and made a large number prisoners. In this disgraceful action, ten thousand Scotch troops fled before three hundred English cavalry.[151] The news being brought to James, while he was still smarting from the disobedience of the nobles, was too much for his proud and sensitive mind. He reeled under the double shock; a slow fever wasted his strength; he sunk into a long stupor; and, refusing all comfort, he died in December 1542, leaving the Crown to his infant daughter, Mary, during whose reign the great contest between the aristocracy and the Church was to be finally decided.[152] [150] In the autumn of 1542, James 'was encouraged by the clergy to engage in a war against King Henry, who both assured him of victory, since he fought against an heretical prince, and advanced an annuity of 50,000 crowns for prosecuting the war.' _Crawfurd's History of the Shire of Renfrew_, 1782, 4to, part i. p. 48. Compare, in _State Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. v. p. 154, a letter written, in 1539, by Norfolk to Cromwell: 'By diverse other waies I am advertised that the clergie of Scotlande be in such feare that their king shold do theire, as the kinges highnes hath done in this realme, that they do their best to bring their master to the warr; and by many waies I am advertised that a great parte of the temporaltie there wold their king shold followe our insample, wich I pray God yeve hym grace to come unto.' Even after the battle of Solway, the policy of the clergy was notoriously the same. 'And undoubtedlie, the kyrkemen labor, by all the meanes they can, to empeche the unitie and establishment of thiese two realmes; uppon what groundes ye can easelie conjecture.' Letter from Sadler to Parr, dated Edinburgh, 27th March 1543, in _State Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. v. p. 271, 4to, 1836. [151] 'Ten thousand Scottish troops fled at the sight of three hundred English cavalry, with scarce a momentary resistance.' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 264. [152] The best account of these events will be found in _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 260-267. I have also consulted _Ridpath's Border History_, pp. 372, 373. _Hollinshead's Scottish Chronicle_, vol. ii. pp. 207-209. _Lesley's History_, pp. 163-166. _Lindsay of Pitscottie's Chronicles_, vol. ii. pp. 399-406. _Calderwood's History of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 145-152. _Buchanan_, _Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. xiv. pp. 420, 421. The influence of the nobles was increased by the death of James V., and yet more by the bad repute into which the clergy fell for having instigated a war, of which the result was so disgraceful.[153] Their party was still further strengthened by the exiles, who, as soon as they heard the glad tidings, prepared to leave England.[154] Early in 1543, Angus and Douglas returned to Scotland,[155] and were soon followed by other nobles, most of whom professed to be Protestants, though, as the result clearly proved, their Protestantism was inspired by a love of plunder and of revenge. The late king had, in his will, appointed Cardinal Beaton to be guardian of the queen, and governor of the realm.[156] Beaton, though an unprincipled man, was very able, and was respected as the head of the national church; he being Archbishop of St. Andrews, and primate of Scotland. The nobles, however, at once arrested him,[157] deprived him of his regency, and put in his place the Earl of Arran, who, at this time, affected to be a zealous Protestant, though, on a fitting occasion, he afterwards changed his opinions.[158] Among the supporters of the new creed, the most powerful were the Earl of Angus and the Douglases. They were now freed from a prescription of fifteen years; their attainder was reversed, and their estates and honours were restored to them.[159] It was evident that not only the executive authority, but also the legislative, had passed from the Church to the aristocracy. And they, who had the power, were not sparing in the use of it. Lord Maxwell, one of the most active of their party, had, like most of them, in their zeal against the hierarchy, embraced the principles of the Reformation.[160] In the spring of 1543, he obtained the sanction of the Earl of Arran, the governor of Scotland, for a proposal which he made to the Lords of the Articles, whose business it was to digest the measures to be brought before Parliament. The proposal was, that the people should be allowed to read the Bible in a Scotch or English translation. The clergy arrayed all their force against what they rightly deemed a step full of danger to themselves, as conceding a fundamental principle of Protestantism. But all was in vain. The tide had set in, and was not to be turned. The proposition was adopted by the Lords of the Articles. On their authority, it was introduced into Parliament. It was passed. It received the assent of the government; and, amid the lamentations of the Church, it was proclaimed, with every formality, at the market-cross of Edinburgh.[161] [153] 'This defeat being so very dishonourable, especially to the clergy, who stirred up the king to that attempt, and promised him great success from it; and there being such a visible evidence of the anger of God, fighting by his providence against them, all men were struck with fear and astonishment; the bishops were ashamed to show their faces for a time.' _Stevenson's History of the Church of Scotland_, reprinted, Edinburgh, 1840, p. 30. [154] We may readily believe the assertion of an old chronicler, that 'the nobilitie did not greatlie take his death grievouslie, because he had fined manie, imprisoned more, and caused no small few (for avoiding his displeasure) to flie into England, and rather to commit themselves to the enemie than to his anger.' _Hollinshead's Scottish Chronicle_, vol. ii. p. 210. [155] _Hume's History of the House of Douglas_, vol. ii. p. 111. [156] It has been often said, that this will was forged; but for such an assertion I cannot find the slightest evidence, except the declaration of Arran (_Sadler's State Papers_, Edinburgh, 1809, vol. i. p. 138), and the testimony, if testimony it can be called, of Scotch historians, who do not profess to have examined the handwriting, and who, being themselves Protestants, seem to suppose that the fact of a man being a cardinal, qualifies him for every crime. There is no doubt that Beaton was thoroughly unprincipled, and therefore was capable of the forgery. Still, we have no proof; and the will is such as we might have expected from the king. In regard to Arran, his affirmation is not worth the paper it is written on: for he hated Beaton; he was himself very unscrupulous; and he succeeded to the post which Beaton had to vacate on the ground that the will was forged. If such circumstances do not disqualify a witness, some of the best-established principles of evidence are false. The reader who cares to look further into this subject, may compare, in favour of the will being forged, _Buchanan_, _Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. xv. p. 422, Abredoniæ, 1762; _Knox's History of the Reformation_, edit. Laing, Edinburgh, 1846, vol. i. pp. 91, 92; _Irving's History of Dumbartonshire_, second edition, 4to, 1860, p. 102; and, in favour of its being genuine, _Lyon's History of St. Andrews_, Edinburgh, 1843, vol. i. pp. 304, 305. Some other writers on the subject leave it doubtful: _Tytler's History of Scotland_, 1845, vol. iv. p. 274; _Lawson's Roman Church in Scotland_, 1836, p. 99; and a note in _Keith's Church and State in Scotland_, 1844, vol. i. p. 63. [157] On the 26th of January 1542-3, 'the said cardinall was put in pressoune in Dalkeith.' _A Diurnal of Occurrents_, p. 26. See also, respecting his imprisonment, a letter written, on the 16th of March, by Angus and Douglas, in _State Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. v. p. 263. He was then in 'firmance.' [158] His appointment was confirmed by Parliament on the 12th of March. _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 411: 'tuto^r lau^tfull to the quenis grace and gounour of this realme.' He excluded the clergy from power. On 20th March, in the same year, Sir Ralph Sadler writes to Henry VIII., that Sir George Douglas 'brought me into the council-chamber, where I found a great number of noblemen and others at a long board, and divers standing, but _not one bishop nor priest among them_. At the upper end of the board sat the governour.' _Sadler's State Papers_, vol. i. p. 78. [159] _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. ii. pp. 415, 419, 424, 423*; and _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 285. [160] 'Had become a convert to its doctrines.' _Tytler's Hist. of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 286. But he, as well as the other nobles, neither knew nor cared much about doctrines; and he was, moreover, very venal. In April 1543, Sir Ralph Sadler writes to Henry VIII.: 'And the lord Maxwell told me apart, "That, indeed, he lacked silver, and had no way of relief but to your majesty;" which he prayed me to signify unto the same. I asked him what would relieve him? and he said, 300_l._; "for the which," he said, "as your majesty seemed, when he was with your grace, to have him in more trust and credit than the rest of your majesty's prisoners, so he trusted to do you as good service as any of them; and amongst them they will do you such service, as, if the war succeed, ye shall make an easy conquest of this realm; as _for his part he shall deliver into your hands, at the entry of your army, the keys of the same on the west marches, being all the strongholds there in his custody_." I offered him presently to write to my lord of Suffolk for 100_l._ for him if he would; but he said, "he would stay till he heard again from your majesty in that behalf."' _Sadler's State Papers_, vol. i. p. 165. [161] _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. ii. pp. 415, 425. _Sadler's State Papers_, vol. i. p. 83. Knox, in his _History of the Reformation_ (edit. Laing, vol. i p. 100), archly says, 'The cleargy hearto long repugned; butt in the end, convicted by reassonis, _and by multitud of votes in thare contrare_, thei also condiscended; and so, by Act of Parliament, it was maid free to all man and woman to reid the Scriptures in thair awin toung, or in the Engliss toung; and so war all Actes maid in the contrair abolished.' Scarcely had the nobles thus attained the upper hand, when they began to quarrel among themselves. They were resolved to plunder the Church; but they could not agree as to how the spoil should be shared. Neither could they determine as to the best mode of proceeding; some being in favour of an open and immediate schism, while others wished to advance cautiously, and to temporize with their opponents, that they might weaken the hierarchy by degrees. The more active and zealous section of the nobles were known as the English party,[162] owing to their intimate connexion with Henry VIII., from whom many of them received supplies of money. But, in 1544, war broke out between the two countries, and the clergy, headed by Archbishop Beaton, roused, with such success, the old feelings of national hatred against the English, that the nobles were compelled for a moment to bend before the storm, and to advocate an alliance with France. Indeed, it seemed for a few months as if the Church and aristocracy had forgotten their old and inveterate hostility, and were about to unite their strength in one common cause.[163] [162] Or, as Keith calls them, 'English Lords.' _History of the Affairs of Church and State in Scotland_, vol. i. p. 80. [163] In May 1544 the English attacked Scotland, _Tytler's History_, vol. iv. p. 316; and in that same month, the 'Anglo-Scottish party' consisted only of the Earls of Lennox and of Glencairn, since even 'Angus, George Douglas, and their numerous and powerful adherents, joined the cardinal.' p. 319. As to the part taken by the Scotch clergy, see, in _Sadler's State Papers_, vol. i. p. 173, a letter to Henry VIII., written on the 1st of May 1543: 'And as to the kirk-men, I assure your majesty they seek the war by all the means they can, and do daily entertain the noblemen with money and rewards to sustain the wars, rather than there should be any agreement with your majesty; thinking, verily, that if peace and unity succeed, that they shall be reformed, and lose their glory, which they had rather die, and put all this realm in hazard, than they would forego.' See also p. 184, note. This, however, was but a passing delusion. The antagonism between the two classes was irreconcilable.[164] In the spring of 1545, the leading Protestant nobles formed a conspiracy to assassinate Archbishop Beaton,[165] whom they hated more than any one else, partly because he was the head of the Church, and partly because he was the ablest and most unscrupulous of their opponents. A year, however, elapsed before their purpose could be effected; and it was not till May 1546, that Lesley, a young baron, accompanied by the Laird of Grange, and a few others, burst into Saint Andrews, and murdered the primate in his own castle.[166] [164] Buchanan records a very curious conversation between the regent and Douglas, which, as I do not remember to have met with elsewhere, I shall transcribe. The exact date of it is not mentioned, but, from the context, it evidently took place in 1544 or 1545. 'Ibi cum Prorex suam deploraret solitudinem, et se a nobilitate derelictum quereretur, Duglassius ostendit "id ipsius culpa fieri, non nobilium, qui et fortunas omnes et vitam ad publicam salutem tuendam conferrent, quorum consilio contempto ad sacrificulorum nutum circumageretur, qui foris imbelles, domi seditiosi, omniumque periculorum expertes alieni laboris fructu ad suas voluptates abuterentur. Ex hoc fonte inter te et proceres facta est suspitio, quæ (quòd neutri alteris fidatis) rebus gerendis maxime est impedimento."' _Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. xv. p. 435. Buchanan was, at this time, about thirty-eight years old; and that some such conversation as that which he narrates actually took place, is, I think, highly probable, though the historian may have thrown in some touches of his own. At all events, he was too great a rhetorician to invent what his contemporaries would deem unlikely to happen; so that, from either point of view, the passage is valuable as an evidence of the deep-rooted hostility which the nobles bore towards the Church. [165] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 337. 'The plot is entirely unknown either to our Scottish or English historians; and now, after the lapse of nearly three centuries, has been discovered in the secret correspondence of the State-paper Office.' The first suggestion of the murder was in April 1544. See _State Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. v. p. 377, and the end of the Preface to vol. iv. But Mr. Tytler and the editor of the _State Papers_ appear to have overlooked a still earlier indication of the coming crime, in _Sadler's Papers_. See, in that collection, vol. i. p. 77, a conversation, held in March 1543, between Sir Ralph Sadler and the Earl of Arran; Sadler being conducted by the Earl of Glencairn. On that occasion, the Earl of Arran used an expression concerning Beaton, the meaning of which Sir Ralph evidently understood. '"By God," quoth he, "he shall never come out of prison whilst I may have mine own will, _except it be to his farther mischief_." I allowed the same well' (replied Sadler), 'and said, "It were pity, but he should receive such reward as his merits did require."' [166] _State Papers of Henry VIII._, vol. v. p. 560. _A Diurnal of Occurrents_, p. 42. _Calderwood's History of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 221-223. Lindsay of Pitscottie (_Chronicles_, vol. ii. p. 484) relates a circumstance respecting the murder, which is too horrible to mention, and of which it is enough to say, that it consisted of an obscene outrage committed on the corpse of the victim. Though such facts cannot now be published, they are so characteristic of the age, that they ought not to be passed over in complete silence. The horror with which the Church heard of this foul and barbarous deed,[167] maybe easily imagined. But the conspirators, nothing daunted, and relying on the support of a powerful party, justified their act, seized the castle of Saint Andrews, and prepared to defend it to the last. And in this resolution they were upheld by a most remarkable man, who now first appeared to public view, and who, being admirably suited to the age in which he lived, was destined to become the most conspicuous character of those troublous times. [167] Respecting which, two Scotch Protestant historians have expressed themselves in the following terms: 'God admonished men, by this judgement, that he will in end be avenged upon tyranns for their crueltie, howsoever they strenthen themselves.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 224. And, whoever considers all the circumstances, 'must acknowledge it was a stupendous act of the judgment of the Lord, and that the whole was overruled and guided by Divine Providence.' _Stevenson's History of the Church and State of Scotland_, p. 38. That man was John Knox. To say that he was fearless and incorruptible, that he advocated with unflinching zeal what he believed to be the truth, and that he devoted himself with untiring energy to what he deemed the highest of all objects, is only to render common justice to the many noble attributes which he undoubtedly possessed. But, on the other hand, he was stern, unrelenting, and frequently brutal; he was not only callous to human suffering, but he could turn it into a jest, and employ on it the resources of his coarse, though exuberant, humour;[168] and he loved power so inordinately, that, unable to brook the slightest opposition, he trampled on all who crossed his path, or stood even for a moment in the way of his ulterior designs. [168] Even the editor of _M'Crie's Life of Knox_, Edinburgh, 1841, p. xxxv., notices 'the ill-timed merriment he displays in relating the foul deed' of Beaton's murder. The influence of Knox in promoting the Reformation, has indeed been grossly exaggerated by historians, who are too apt to ascribe vast results to individual exertions; overlooking those large and general causes, in the absence of which the individual exertion would be fruitless. Still, he effected more than any single man;[169] although the really important period of his life, in regard to Scotland, was in and after 1559, when the triumph of Protestantism was already secure, and when he reaped the benefit of what had been effected during his long absence from his own country. His first effort was a complete failure, and, more than any one of his actions, has injured his reputation. This was the sanction which he gave to the cruel murder of Archbishop Beaton, in 1546. He repaired to the Castle of Saint Andrews; he shut himself up with the assassins; he prepared to share their fate; and, in a work which he afterwards wrote, openly justified what they had done.[170] For this, nothing can excuse him; and it is with a certain sense of satisfied justice that we learn, that, in 1547, the castle being taken by the French, Knox was treated with great severity, and was made to work at the galleys, from which he was not liberated till 1549.[171] [169] Shortly before his death, he said, with honest and justifiable pride, 'What I have bene to my countrie, albeit, this vnthankfull aige will not knowe, yet the aiges to come wilbe compelled to bear witnes to the treuth.' _Bannatyne's Journal_, Edinburgh, 1806. p. 119. Bannatyne was Knox's secretary. It is to be regretted that no good life of Knox should have yet been published. That by M'Crie is an undistinguishing and injudicious panegyric, which, by provoking a reaction of opinion, has damaged the reputation of the great reformer. On the other hand, the sect of Episcopalians in Scotland are utterly blind to the real grandeur of the man, and unable to discern his intense love of truth, and the noble fearlessness of his nature. [170] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 374, 375. _M'Crie's Life of Knox_, pp. 27, 28. _Lawson's Roman Catholic Church in Scotland_, p. 154. _Presbytery Displayed_, 1663, 4to, p. 28. _Shields' Hind let loose_, 1687, pp. 14, 39, 638. In his _History of the Reformation_, edit. Laing, vol. i. pp. 177, 180, he calls it a 'godly fact,' and says, 'These ar the workis of our God;' which, in plain language, is terming the Deity an assassin. But, bad as this is, I agree with M'Crie, that there is no trustworthy evidence for deeming him privy to the murder. Compare, however, _A Diurnal of Occurrents_ p. 42, with _Lyon's History of St. Andrews_, vol. ii. p. 364. [171] _M'Crie's Life of Knox_, pp. 38, 43, 350. _Argyll's Presbytery Examined_, 1848, p. 19. During the next five years, Knox remained in England, which he quitted in 1554, and arrived at Dieppe.[172] He then travelled abroad; and did not revisit Scotland till the autumn of 1555, when he was eagerly welcomed by the principal nobles and their adherents.[173] From some cause, however, which has not been sufficiently explained, but probably from an unwillingness to play a subordinate part among those proud chiefs, he, in July 1556, again left Scotland, and repaired to Geneva, where he had been invited to take charge of a congregation.[174] He stayed abroad till 1559, by which time the real struggle was almost over; so completely had the nobles succeeded in sapping the foundations of the Church. [172] _M'Crie's Life of Knox_, pp. 44, 71. [173] _Ibid._ p. 99. As to the nobles, who received him, and heard him preach, see p. 102. [174] 'Influenced by motives which have never been fully comprehended, he departed to Geneva, where, for a time, he became pastor of a Protestant congregation.' _Russell's History of the Church in Scotland_, 1834, vol. i. p. 193. M'Crie, who sees no difficulty, simply says, 'In the month of July 1556, he left Scotland, and, having arrived at Dieppe, he proceeded with his family to Geneva.' _Life of Knox_, p. 107. For, the course of events having been long prepared, was now rapid indeed. In 1554, the queen dowager had succeeded Arran as regent.[175] She was that Mary of Guise whose marriage with James V. we have noticed as one of the indications of the policy then prevailing. If left alone, she would probably have done little harm;[176] but her powerful and intolerant family exhorted her to suppress the heretics, and, as a natural part of the same scheme, to put down the nobles. By the advice of her brothers, the Duke of Guise and the Cardinal of Lorraine, she, in 1555, proposed to establish a standing army, to supply the place of the troops, which consisted of the feudal barons and their retainers. Such a force, being paid by the Crown, would have been entirely under its control; but the nobles saw the ulterior design, and compelled Mary to abandon it, on the ground that they and their vassals were able to defend Scotland, without further aid.[177] Her next attempt was to consolidate the interests of the Catholic party, which she effected, in 1558, by marrying her daughter to the dauphin. This increased the influence of the Guises,[178] whose niece, already queen of Scotland, would now, in the ordinary course of affairs, become queen of France. They urged their sister to extreme measures, and promised to assist her with French troops. On the other hand, the nobles remained firm, and prepared for the struggle. In December 1557, several of them had drawn up a covenant, agreeing to stand by each other, and to resist the tyranny with which they were threatened.[179] They now took the name of Lords of the Congregation, and sent forth their agents to secure the subscriptions of those who wished for a reformation of the Church.[180] They, moreover, wrote to Knox, whose style of preaching, being very popular, would, they thought, be useful in stirring up the people to rebellion.[181] He was then in Geneva, and did not arrive in Scotland till May 1559,[182] by which time the result of the impending contest was hardly doubtful, so successful had the nobles been in strengthening their party, and so much reason had they to expect the support of Elizabeth. [175] Knox, in his savoury diction, likens her appointment to putting a saddle on the back of a cow. 'She maid Regent in the year of God 1554; and a croune putt upone hir head, als seimlye a sight (yf men had eis), as to putt a sadill upone the back of ane unrewly kow.' I copy this passage from Mr. Laing's excellent edition of _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. i. p. 242; but in _Watson's Historicall Collections of Ecclesiastick Affairs in Scotland_, 1657, p. 73, there is a slightly different version. '"As seemly a sight," saith John Knox, in the new gospel language, "as to put the saddle upon the back of an unruly _sow_."' [176] The Duke of Argyll, in his _Presbytery Examined_, p. 9, calls her 'ambitious and intriguing.' Not only, however, is she praised by Lesley (_History_, pp. 289, 290), which might have been expected, but even Buchanan does justice to her, in a passage unusually gracious for so Protestant and democratic a writer. 'Mors ejus varie mentes hominum affecit. Nam et apud quosdam eorum, quibuscum armis contendit, non mediocre sui desiderium reliquit. Erat enim singulari ingenio prædita, et animo ad æquitatem admodum propenso.' _Buchanan_, _Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. xvi. p. 487. [177] _History of Scotland_, book ii. p. 91, in Robertson's Works, 1831. _Tytler's History_, vol. v. pp. 22, 23. It appears, from Lesley (_History_, pp. 254, 255), that some of the nobles were in favour of this scheme, hoping thereby to gain favour. 'Albeit sum of the lordis of the nobilitie for pleasour of the quene seamed to aggre thairto for the tyme, yit the barronis and gentill men was nathing content thairwith' ... 'affirming that thair foirfatheris and predicessouris had defendit the samyn' (_i.e._ the realm) 'mony hundreth yeris, vailyeantlie with thair awin handis.' [178] 'It completed the almost despotic power of the house of Guise.' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. v. p. 27. [179] This covenant, which marks an important epoch in the history of Scotland, is dated 3rd of December 1557. It is printed in _Stevenson's History of the Church of Scotland_, p. 47; in _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. i. pp. 326, 327; and in _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. i. pp. 273, 274. [180] In 1558, 'the lords of the congregation had sent agents through the kingdom to solicit the subscriptions of those who were friendly to a reformation.' _Stephen's History of the Church of Scotland_, London, 1848, vol. i. p. 58. [181] Keith (_Affairs of Church and State in Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 82) calls him 'a trumpeter of rebellion,' which he undoubtedly was, and very much to his credit too, though the courtly bishop imputes it to him as a fault. The Scotch, if it had not been for their rebellious spirit, would long since have lost their liberties. [182] 'He sailed from Dieppe on the 22nd of April 1559, and landed safely at Leith in the beginning of May.' _M'Crie's Life of Knox_, p. 139. Knox himself says, 'the secound of Maij.' _History of the Reformation_, edit. Laing, vol. i. p. 318. 'He was called home by the noblemen that enterprised the Reformation.' _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, edit. Russell, vol. ii. p. 180. Nine days after Knox entered Scotland, the first blow was struck. On the 11th of May 1559, he preached in Perth. After the sermon, a tumult arose, and the people plundered the churches and pulled down the monasteries.[183] The queen-regent, hastily assembling troops, marched towards the town. But the nobles were on the alert. The Earl of Glencairn joined the congregation with two thousand five hundred men; and a treaty was concluded, by which both sides agreed to disarm, on condition that no one should be punished for what had already happened.[184] Such, however, was the state of the public mind, that peace was impossible. In a few days, war again broke out; and this time the result was more decisive. The Lords of the Congregation mustered in great force. Perth, Stirling, and Linlithgow, fell into their hands. The queen-regent retreated before them. She evacuated Edinburgh; and, on the 29th of June, the Protestants entered the capital in triumph.[185] [183] _Penny's Traditions of Perth_, p. 310. _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. i. pp. 321-323. _Lyon's History of St. Andrews_, vol. i. p. 329; and a spirited narrative in _Buchanan's Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. xvi. pp. 471, 472. Some interesting circumstances are also preserved in _Lesley's History_, pp. 271, 272; but, though Lesley was a contemporary, he erroneously places the riot in 1558. He, moreover, ascribes to Knox language more inflammatory than that which he really used. [184] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. v. pp. 59, 62, 63. Of the Earl of Glencairn, Chalmers (_Caledonia_, vol. iii. p. 485) says, that he was a 'religious ruffian, who enjoyed pensions from Henry VIII., for injuring the country of his birth, and benefits.' This, besides being ungrammatical, is foolish. Glencairn, like the other aristocratic leaders of the Reformation, was, no doubt, influenced by sordid motives; but, so far from injuring his country, he rendered it great service. [185] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. v. pp. 64-73. All this was done in seven weeks from the breaking out of the first riot. Both parties were now willing to negotiate, with the view of gaining time; the queen-regent expecting aid from France, the Lords expecting it from England.[186] But the proceedings of Elizabeth being tardy, the Protestants, after waiting for some months, determined to strike a decisive blow before the reinforcements arrived. In October, the principal peers, headed by the Duke of Chastelherault, the Earl of Arran, the Earl of Argyle, and the Earl of Glencairn, assembled at Edinburgh. A great meeting was held, of which Lord Ruthven was appointed president, and in which the queen-regent was solemnly suspended from the government, on the ground that she was opposed to 'the glory of God, to the liberty of the realm, and to the welfare of the nobles.'[187] [186] It is stated of the queen-regent, that, in July 1559, 'shee had sent alreadie to France for more men of warr.' See the curious pamphlet entitled 'A Historie of the Estate of Scotland, from July 1558 to April 1560,' in _Miscellany of the Wodrow Society_, p. 63, Edinburgh, 1844. All sorts of rumours were circulated; and a letter, dated 12th October 1559, says, 'Summe thinke the regent will departe secretlie. Summe that she will to Ynchkeith, for that three shippes are a preparing. Summe saye that she is verie sicke. Summe saye the devill cannot kill her.' _Sadler's State Papers_, vol. i. p. 499. [187] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. v. p. 104. This was on the 22nd of October 1559. Compare _Sadler's State Papers_, vol. i. p. 512. 'This Mondaye, the 22 of October, was the douagier deprived from her authoritie by commen consent of all lords and barons here present.' On this occasion, 'Johne Willocke,' the preacher, delivered himself of a discourse in favour of her deposition. Among other arguments, he said, 'that in deposing of princes, and these that have beene in authoritie, God did not alwayes use his immediat power, but sometimes he used other meanes, which his wisdome thought good, and justice approved. As by Asa, He removed Maacha, his owne mother, from honour and authoritie, which before she had used; by Jehu He destroyed Joram, and the whole posteritie of Achab.' _Therefore_ 'he (the orator) could see no reasoun why they, the borne counsellers, the nobilitie and barons of the realme, might not justlie deprive her from all regiment.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. i. pp. 540, 541; and _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. i. pp. 442, 443. In the winter, an English fleet sailed into the Frith, and anchored near Edinburgh.[188] In January 1560, the Duke of Norfolk arrived at Berwick, and concluded, on the part of Elizabeth, a treaty with the Lords of the Congregation, by virtue of which the English army entered Scotland on the 2nd of April.[189] Against this combination, the government could effect nothing, and in July, was glad to sign a peace, by which the French troops were to evacuate Scotland, and the whole power of administration was virtually consigned to the Protestant Lords.[190] [188] The _Diurnal of Occurrents_, pp. 55, 272, says, that the fleet arrived on 24th of January, 1559-60; 'aucht greit schippis of Ingland in the raid of Leith.' And a letter (in _Sadler's State Papers_, vol. i. p. 697) dated the 23rd of January, says, 'the shippes arrived yesterdaye in the Frythe to the nomber of ix. or x., as yet, and the remanent followith.' The date, therefore, of the 10th of January, given in a note to _Keith's Church and State in Scotland_, vol. i. p. 255, is evidently erroneous. Important as the event was, its exact date is not mentioned either by Tytler (_History of Scotland_, vol. v. pp. 114, 115), or by Chalmers (_Caledonia_, vol. ii. p. 631). [189] _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. ii. p. 632. _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. ii. p. 57. The Berwick treaty, in February, is printed in _Keith's Church and State in Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 258-262. So great was the influence of the nobles, that the English troops were well received by the people, in spite of the old and bitter animosity between the two nations. 'Especially in Fyfe they were thankfully receaved, and well entreated, with such quietnes and gentle entertainement betwixt our nation and them, as no man would have thought that ever there had beine any variance.' _A Historie of the Estate of Scotland_, from 1558 to 1560, in _Miscellany of the Wodrow Society_, p. 78. [190] 'Vpoun the vi. day of Julij, it wes concludit and finallie endit betuix the saids ambassatouris, tuitching all debaittis, contraversies and materis concernyng the asseiging of Leith, depairting of the Frenchemen thairfra, and randering of the same; and the said peax daitit this said day.' _A Diurnal of Occurrents_, pp. 277, 278. See also p. 60; and _Keith's Affairs of Church and State in Scotland_, vol. i. p. 295. The complete success of this great revolution, and the speed with which it was effected, are of themselves a decisive proof of the energy of those general causes by which the whole movement was controlled. For more than a hundred and fifty years, there had been a deadly struggle between the nobles and the Church: and the issue of that struggle, was the establishment of the Reformation, and the triumph of the aristocracy. They had, at last, carried their point. The hierarchy was overthrown, and replaced by new and untried men. All the old notions of apostolic succession, of the imposition of hands, and of the divine right of ordination, were suddenly discarded. The offices of the Church were performed by heretics, the majority of whom had not even been ordained.[191] Finally, and to crown the whole, in the summer of the same year, 1560, the Scotch parliament passed two laws, which utterly subverted the ancient scheme. By one of these laws, every statute which had ever been enacted in favour of the Church, was at once repealed.[192] By the other law, it was declared that whoever either said mass, or was present while it was said, should, for the first offence, lose his goods; for the second offence be exiled; and, for the third offence, be put to death.[193] [191] 'That Knox himself was in priest's orders, is a fact which his biographer, the late Dr. M'Crie, has placed beyond dispute; and some of the other leaders were also priests; but the greater number of the preachers, and all those who subsequently became ministers, were totally without any orders whatever, not even such as the superintendents could have given them; for their own supposed call, the election of the people, and the _civil_ ceremony of induction to the living, was all that was then "judged necessary."' _Stephen's History of the Church of Scotland_, 1848, vol. i. pp. 145, 146. 'A new-fashioned sort of ministry, unknown in the Christian Church for all preceding generations.' _Keith's Church and State in Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 204. Compare _Argyll's Presbytery Examined_, pp. 34-36. [192] 'The thre estaitis of parliament hes [=a]nullit and declarit all sik actes maid in tymes bipast not aggreing w^t goddis word and now contrair to the confessiouñ of oure fay^t according to the said word publist in this parliament. Tobe of nane avale force nor effect. And decornis the said actis and every ane of thame tu haue na effect nor strenth in tyme to cum.' _Acts of the Parliament of Scotland_, 1814, folio, vol. ii. p. 535. This was on 24th August 1560. [193] 'That na maner of person nor personis say mess nor zit heir mess nor be pñt thairat vnder the pane of confiscatiouñ of all thair gud movable and vnmovable and pvneissing of thair bodeis at the discretiouñ of the magistrat within quhais jurisdictiouñ sik personis happ[=y]nis to be apprehendit ffor the first falt: Banissing of the Realme for the secund falt, and justifying to the deid for the thrid falt.' _Ibid._, 24th August 1560, vol. ii. p. 525. Thus it was, that an institution, which had borne the brunt of more than a thousand years, was shivered, and fell to pieces. And, from its fall, great things were augured. It was believed, that the people would be enlightened, that their eyes were opening to their former follies, and that the reign of superstition was about to end. But what was forgotten then, and what is too often forgotten now, is, that in these affairs there is an order and a natural sequence, which can never be reversed. This is, that every institution, as it actually exists, no matter what its name or pretences may be, is the effect of public opinion far more than the cause; and that it will avail nothing to attack the institution, unless you can first change the opinion. In Scotland, the Church was grossly superstitious; but it did not, therefore, follow, that to overthrow the establishment, would lessen the evil. They who think that superstition can be weakened in this way, do not know the vitality of that dark and ill-omened principle. Against it, there is only one weapon, and that weapon is knowledge. When men are ignorant, they must be superstitious; and wherever superstition exists, it is sure to organize itself into some kind of system, which it makes its home. If you drive it from that home, it will find another. The spirit transmigrates; it assumes a new form; but still it lives. How idle, then, is that warfare which reformers are too apt to wage, in which they slay the carcass, and spare the life! The husk, forsooth, they seek out and destroy; but within that husk is a seed of deadly poison, whose vitality they are unable to impair, and which, shifted from its place, bears fruit in another direction, and shoots up with a fresh, and often a more fatal, exuberance. The truth is, that every institution, whether political or religious, represents, in its actual working, the form and pressure of the age. It may be very old; it may bear a venerated name; it may aim at the highest objects: but whoever carefully studies its history, will find that, in practice, it is successively modified by successive generations, and that, instead of controlling society, it is controlled by it. When the Protestant Reformation was effected, the Scotch were excessively ignorant, and, therefore, in spite of the Reformation, they remained excessively superstitious. How long that ignorance continued, and what its results were, we shall presently see; but before entering into that inquiry, it will be advisable to trace the immediate consequences of the Reformation itself, in connexion with the powerful class by whose authority it was established. The nobles, having overthrown the Church, and stripped it of a large part of its wealth, thought that they were to reap the benefit of their own labour. They had slain the enemy, and they wished to divide the spoil.[194] But this did not suit the views of the Protestant preachers. In their opinion, it was impious to secularize ecclesiastical property, and turn it aside to profane purposes. They held, that it was right, indeed, for the lords to plunder the Church; but they took for granted that the proceeds of the robbery were to enrich themselves. They were the godly men; and it was the business of the ruling classes to endow them with benefices, from which the old and idolatrous clergy were to be expelled.[195] [194] As Robertson says, in his measured, and somewhat feeble, style, 'Among the Scottish nobility, some hated the persons, and others coveted the wealth, of the dignified clergy; and by abolishing that order of men, the former indulged their resentment, and the latter hoped to gratify their avarice.' _History of Scotland_, book iii. p. 116, in _Robertson's Works_, edit. 1831. The contemporary narrative, in _A Diurnal of Occurrents_, p. 269, sounds much more vigorous to my ear. 'In all this tyme' (1559), 'all kirkmennis goodis and geir wer spoulzeit and reft fra thame, in euerie place quhair the samyne culd be apprehendit; for euerie man for the maist pairt that culd get any thing pertenyng to any kirkmen, thocht the same as wele won geir.' [195] 'Knox never dreamed that the revenues of the Church were to be secularized; but that he and his colleagues were simply to remove the old incumbents, and then take possession of their benefices.' _Stephen's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 106. 'The ecclesiastical revenues, which they never contemplated for a moment were to be seized by the Protestant nobility.' _Lawson's Roman Catholic Church in Scotland_, p. 233. In accordance with these opinions, Knox and his colleagues, in August 1560, presented a petition to Parliament, calling on the nobles to restore the Church property which they had seized, and to have it properly applied to the support of the new ministers.[196] To this request, those powerful chiefs did not even vouchsafe a reply.[197] They were content with matters as they actually stood, and were, therefore, unwilling to disturb the existing arrangement. They had fought the fight; they had gained the victory, and shared the spoil. It was not to be supposed that they would peaceably relinquish what they had won with infinite difficulty. Nor was it likely that, after being engaged in an arduous struggle with the Church for a hundred and fifty years, and having at length conquered their inveterate enemy, they should forego the fruits of their triumph for the sake of a few preachers, whom they had but recently called to their aid; low-born and obscure men, who should rather deem it an honour that they were permitted to associate with their superiors in a common enterprise, but were not to presume on that circumstance, nor to suppose that they, who only entered the field at the eleventh hour, were to share the booty on anything approaching to terms of equality.[198] [196] Compare _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. ii. pp. 89-92, with _M'Crie's Life of Knox_, p. 179. Of this document, M'Crie says, 'There can be no doubt that it received the sanction, if it was not the composition, of the Reformer.' ... 'It called upon them' (the nobles) 'to restore the patrimony of the Church, of which they had unjustly possessed themselves.' [197] 'Making no answer to the last point.' _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 327. 'Without taking any notice.' _Keith's Affairs of Church and State_, vol. i. p. 321. [198] 'They viewed the Protestant preachers as low-born individuals, not far raised above the condition of mechanics or tradesmen, without influence, authority, or importance.' _Lawson's Roman Catholic Church in Scotland_, p. 251. 'None were more unmercifull to the poore ministers than they that had the greatest share of the kirk rents.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 42. But the aristocracy of Scotland little knew the men with whom they had to deal. Still less, did they understand the character of their own age. They did not see that, in the state of society in which they lived, superstition was inevitable, and that, therefore, the spiritual classes, though depressed for a moment, were sure speedily to rise again. The nobles had overturned the Church; but the principles on which Church authority is based, remained intact. All that was done, was to change the name and the form. A new hierarchy was quickly organized, which succeeded the old one in the affections of the people. Indeed, it did more. For, the Protestant clergy, neglected by the nobles, and unendowed by the state, had only a miserable pittance whereupon to live, and they necessarily threw themselves into the arms of the people, where alone they could find support and sympathy.[199] Hence, a closer and more intimate union than would otherwise have been possible. Hence, too, as we shall presently see, the Presbyterian clergy, smarting under the injustice with which they were treated, displayed that hatred of the upper classes, and that peculiar detestation of monarchical government, which they showed whenever they dared. In their pulpits, in their presbyteries, and in their General Assemblies, they encouraged a democratic and insubordinate tone, which eventually produced the happiest results, by keeping alive, at a critical moment, the spirit of liberty; but which, for that very reason, made the higher ranks rue the day, when, by their ill-timed and selfish parsimony, they roused the wrath of so powerful and implacable a class. [199] In 1561, 'Notwithstanding the full establishment of the Reformation, the Protestant ministers were in a state of extreme poverty, and dependent upon the precarious assistance of their flocks.' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. v. p. 207. Compare a letter, written by Knox, in 1566, 'on the extreame povertie wherein our ministers are brought.' _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. ii. p. 542. The withdrawal of the French troops, in 1560, had left the nobles in possession of the government;[200] and it was for them to decide to what extent the Reformed clergy should be endowed. The first petition, presented by Knox and his brethren, was passed over in contemptuous silence. But the ministers were not so easily put aside. Their next step was, to present to the Privy Council what is known as the First Book of Discipline, in which they again urged their request.[201] To the tenets contained in this book, the council had no objection; but they refused to ratify it, because, by doing so, they would have sanctioned the principle that the new church had a right to the revenues of the old one.[202] A certain share, indeed, they were willing to concede. What the share should be, was a matter of serious dispute, and caused the greatest ill-will between the two parties. At length, the nobles broke silence, and, in December 1561, they declared that the Reformed clergy should only receive one-sixth of the property of the Church; the remaining five-sixths being divided between the government and the Catholic priesthood.[203] The meaning of this was easily understood, since the Catholics were now entirely dependent on the government, and the government was, in fact, the nobles themselves, who were, at that period, the monopolizers of political power. [200] 'The limited authority which the Crown had hitherto possessed, was almost entirely annihilated, and the aristocratical power, which always predominated in the Scottish Government (?), became supreme and incontrollable.' _Russell's History of the Church in Scotland_, 1834, vol. i. p. 223. [201] See the _First Book of Discipline_, reprinted in _A Compendium of the Laws of the Church of Scotland_, part i., second edition, Edinburgh, 1837. They summed up their requests in one comprehensive passage (p. 119), that 'the haill rentis of the Kirk abusit in Papistrie sal be referrit againe to the Kirk.' In another part (p. 106), they frankly admit that, 'we doubt not but some of our petitions shall appeare strange unto you at the first sight.' [202] 'The form of polity recommended in the First Book of Discipline never obtained the proper sanction of the State, chiefly in consequence of the avarice of the nobility and gentry, who were desirous of securing to themselves the revenues of the Church.' _Miscellany of the Wodrow Society_, p. 324. See also _Argyll's Presbytery Examined_, p. 26. Many of the nobles, however, did sign it (_Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. ii. p. 129); but, says Spottiswoode (_History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 373), 'Most of those that subscribed, getting into their hands the possessions of the Church, could never be induced to part therewith, and turned greater enemies in that point of church patrimony than were the papists, or any other whatsoever.' [203] _M'Crie's Life of Knox_, p. 204. _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. ii. pp. 298-301, 307-309. _Buchanan's Rerum Scoticarum Historia_, lib. xvii. p. 500. The nominal arrangement, which was contrived with considerable art, was, that one-third of the church revenues should be divided into two parts; one part for the government, and another part for the preachers. The remaining two-thirds were gravely assigned to the Catholic priesthood, who, at that very moment, were liable, by Act of Parliament, to the penalty of death, if they performed the rites of their religion. Men, whose lives were in the hands of the government, were not likely to quarrel with the government about money matters; and the result was, that nearly every thing fell into the possession of the nobles. Such being the case, it naturally happened, that, when the arrangement was made known, the preachers were greatly moved. They saw how unfavourable it was to their own interests, and, therefore, they held that it was unfavourable to the interests of religion. Hence, in their opinion, it was contrived by the devil, whose purposes it was calculated to serve.[204] For, now, they who travailed in the vineyard of the Lord, were to be discouraged, and were to suffer, in order that what rightly belonged to them might be devoured by idle bellies.[205] The nobles might benefit for a time, but the vengeance of God was swift, and would most assuredly overtake them.[206] From the beginning to the end, it was nothing but spoliation. In a really Christian land, the patrimony of the Church would be left untouched.[207] But, in Scotland, alas! Satan had prevailed,[208] and Christian charity had waxen cold.[209] In Scotland, property, which should be regarded as sacred, had been broken up and divided; and the division was of the worst kind, since, by it, said Knox, two-thirds are given to the devil, and the other third is shared between God and the devil. It was as if Joseph, when governor of Egypt, had refused food to his brethren, and sent them back to their families with empty sacks.[210] Or, as another preacher suggested, the Church was now, like the Maccabees of old, being oppressed, sometimes by the Assyrians, and sometimes by the Egyptians.[211] [204] 'The Ministeris, evin in the begynnyng, in publict Sermonis opponed thame selves to suche corruptioun, for thei foir saw the purpose of the Devill.' _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. ii. p. 310. [205] 'For it seemeth altogether unreasonable that idle belleis sail devoure and consume the patrimonie of the Kirk, whill the faithfull travellers in the Lord's vineyarde suffer extreme povertie, and the needie members of Christ's bodie are altogether neglected.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. ii. pp. 484, 485. This was in 1569; and, in 1571, the celebrated Ferguson, in one of his sermons, declared that the holders of church property, most of whom were the nobility, were 'ruffians.' See an extract from his sermon, in _Chalmers' History of Dunfermline_, p. 309, Edinburgh, 1844. 'For this day Christ is spuilzeit amang us, quhil y^t quhilk aucht to mantene the Ministerie of the Kirk and the pure, is geuin to prophane men, flattereris in court, ruffianes, and hyrelingis.' [206] In September 1571, John Row 'preiched, wha in plane pulpet pronounced to the lordis, for thair covetusnes, and becaus they wold not grant the just petitiones of the Kirk, Godis heastie vengeance to fall upon them; and said, moreover, "I cair not, my lordis, your displeasour; for I speik my conscience befoir God, wha will not suffer sic wickitnes and contempt vnpunished."' _Bannatyne's Journal_, edit. Edinburgh, 1806, p. 257. [207] In 1576, the General Assembly declared, that their right to 'the patrimonie of the Kirk' was 'ex jure divino.' _Acts of the General Assemblies of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 360, Edinburgh, 1839, 4to. More than a hundred years later, a Scotch divine evinces how deeply the members of his profession felt this spoliation of the Church, by going out of his way to mention it. See _Jacob's Vow, by Dr. John Cockburn_, Edinburgh, 1696, pp. 422, 423, 425. But this is nothing in comparison to a recent writer, the Reverend Mr. Lyon, who deliberately asserts that, because these and similar acts occurred in the reign of Mary, therefore the queen came to a violent end; such being the just punishment of sacrilege. 'The practice' (of saying masses for the dead) 'ceased, of course, at the Reformation; and the money was transferred by Queen Mary to the civil authorities of the town. This was, undoubtedly, an act of sacrilege; for, though sacrificial masses for the dead was an error, yet the guardians of the money so bequeathed, were under an obligation to apply it to a sacred purpose. This, and other sacrilegious acts on the part of Mary, of a still more decided and extensive character, have been justly considered as the cause of all the calamities which subsequently befell her.' _History of St. Andrews, by the Rev. C. J. Lyon, M.A., Presbyter of the Episcopal Church, St. Andrews_, Edinburgh, 1843, vol. i. p. 54. Elsewhere (vol. ii. p. 400) the same divine mentions, that the usual punishment for sacrilege is a failure of male issue. 'The following examples, selected from the diocese of St. Andrews, according to its boundaries before the Reformation, will corroborate the general doctrine contended for throughout this work, that sacrilege has ever been punished in the present life, and _chiefly_ by the failure of male issue.' The italics are in the text. See also vol. i. p. 118. For the sake of the future historian of public opinion, it may be well to observe, that the work containing these sentiments is not a reprint of an older book, but was published for the first time in 1843, having apparently been just written. [208] 'The General Assemblie of the Kirk of Scotland, convenit at Edinburgh the 25 of December 1566, to the Nobilitie of this Realme that professes the Lord Jesus with them, and hes renouncit that Roman Antichryst, desyre constancie in faith, and the spirit of righteous judgement. Seeing that Sathan, be all our negligence, Right Honourable, hes so farre prevailit within this Realme within these late dayes, that we doe stand in extream danger, not only _to lose our temporall possessions_, but also to be depryvit of the glorious Evangell,' &c. _Keith's Church and State_, vol. iii. pp. 154, 155. [209] In 1566, in their piteous communication to the English bishops and clergy, they said 'The days are ill; iniquitie abounds; Christian charity, alas, is waxen cold.' _Acts and Proceedings of the General Assemblies of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 87, Edinburgh, 1839, 4to. [210] 'I see twa partis freely gevin to the Devill, and the thrid maun be devided betwix God and the Devill: Weill, bear witnes to me, that this day I say it, or it be long the Devill shall have three partis of the thrid; and judge you then what Goddis portioun shallbe.' ... 'Who wold have thought, that when Joseph reulled Egypt, that his brethren should have travailled for vittallis, and have returned with empty seckis unto thair families? Men wold rather have thought that Pharao's pose, treasure, and garnallis should have bene diminished, or that the houshold of Jacob should stand in danger to sterve for hungar.' _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. ii. pp. 310, 311. [211] In May 1571, 'This Sonday, Mr. Craig teiched the 130 Psalme; and, in his sermond, he compared the steat of the Kirk of God in this tovne vnto the steat of the Maccabeis; wha were oppressed sumtymes by the Assyrianis and sumtymes by the Egiptianis.' _Bannatyne's Journal_, p. 150. But neither persuasions nor threats[212] produced any effect on the obdurate minds of the Scotch nobles. Indeed, their hearts, instead of being softened, became harder. Even the small stipends, which were allotted to the Protestant clergy, were not regularly paid, but were mostly employed for other purposes.[213] When the ministers complained, they were laughed at, and insulted, by the nobles, who, having gained their own ends, thought that they could dispense with their former allies.[214] The Earl of Morton, whose ability, as well as connexions, made him the most powerful man in Scotland, was especially virulent against them; and two of the preachers, who offended him, he put to death, under circumstances of great cruelty.[215] The nobles, regarding him as their chief, elected him Regent in 1572;[216] and, being now possessed of supreme power, he employed it against the Church. He seized upon all the benefices which became vacant, and retained their profits in his own hands.[217] His hatred of the preachers passed all bounds. He publicly declared, that there would be neither peace nor order in the country, until some of them were hung.[218] He refused to sanction the General Assemblies by his presence; he wished to do away with their privileges, and even with their name; and with such determination did he pursue his measures, that, in the opinion of the historian of the Scotch Kirk, nothing but the special interference of the Deity could have maintained its existing polity.[219] [212] The first instance I have observed of any thing like menace, is in 1567, when 'the Assembly of the Church being convened at Edinburgh,' admonished all persons 'as well noblemen as barons, and those of the other Estates, to meet and give their personal appearance at Edinburgh on the 20th of July, for giving their advice, counsel, and concurrence in matters then to be proponed; especially for purging the realm of popery, the establishing of the policy of the Church, and _restoring the patrimony thereof to the just possessors_. Assuring those that should happen to absent themselves at the time, due and lawful advertisement being made, that they should be reputed hinderers of the good work intended, and as _dissimulate professors be esteemed unworthy of the fellowship of Christ's flock.' Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 64. This evidently alludes to the possibility of excommunicating those who would not surrender to the Protestant preachers, the property stolen from the Catholic Church; and, in 1570, we find another step taken in the same direction. Under that year, the following passage occurs in _Acts and Proceedings of the General Assemblies of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 181. 'Q. If those that withold the duty of the Kirk, _wherethrough Ministers want their stipends_, may be excommunicate? A. All things beand done that the civill ordour requyres of them that withhaldis the duetie of the Kirk, quherby Ministers wants their stipends; _the Kirk may proceed to excommunication, for their contempt_.' [213] In 1526, 'the poore ministers, exhorters, and readers, compleaned at church assembleis, that neither were they able to live upon the stipends allowed, nor gett payment of that small portioun which was allowed.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. ii. p. 172. Compare _Acts of the General Assemblies_, 1839, 4to, vol. i. p. 53; 'To requyre payment to ministers of there stipends for the tyme by past, according to the promise made.' This was in December 1564. In December 1565, the General Assembly said (p. 71), 'that wher oft and divers tymes promise hes bein made to us, that our saids brethren, travelers and preachers in the Kirk of God, sould not be defraudit of their appointit stipends, neither zet in any wayes sould be molestit in their functioun; zet nottheless universallie they want ther stipends appointit for diverse tymes by past.' On the state of things in 1566, see 'The Supplication of the Ministers to the Queen,' in _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. ii. p. 529. See also, in the _Miscellany of the Spalding Club_, vol. iv. pp. 92-101, Aberdeen, 1849, 4to, a letter written by John Erskine in December 1571, especially p. 97; 'the gretest of the nobilitie haifing gretest rentis in possessione, and plaicet of God in maist hie honouris, ceasis nocht, maist wiolentlie blindit with awarice, to spoilye and draw to thame selfis the possessiones of the Kirk.' [214] 'The ministers were called proud knaves, and receaved manie injurious words from the lords, speciallie from Morton, who ruled all. He said, he sould lay their pride, and putt order to them.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. iii. pp. 137, 138. This was in 1571. [215] _Chambers' Annals of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 79, 80. [216] 'The nobilitie wnderwrittin convenit in Edinburgh, and chesit and electit James erle of Mortoun regent.' _A Diurnal of Occurrents_, p. 320. [217] In 1573, 'when any benefeces of Kirk vaikit, he keapit the proffet of thair rents sa lang in his awin hand, till he was urgit be the Kirk to mak donatioun tharof, and that was not gevin but proffeit for all that.' _The Historie and Life of King James the Sext_, edit. Edinburgh, 1825, 4to, p. 147. Even in 1570, when Lennox was regent, 'the Earle of Mortoun was the chiefe manager of every thing under him;' and was 'master of the church rents,' and made 'gifts of them to the nobility.' _Wodrow's Collections upon the Lives of the Reformers of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. part i. pp. 27, 126, Glasgow, 1834, 4to. [218] 'During all these Assembleis and earnest endeavoures of the brethrein, the regent was often required to give his presence to the Assemblie, and further the caus of God. He not onlie refused, but threatned some of the most zealous with hanging, alledging, that otherwise there could be no peace nor order in the countrie.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. iii. pp. 393, 394. 'Uses grait thretning against the maist zelus breithring, schoring to hang of thame, utherwayes ther could be na peace nor ordour in the countrey.' _The Autobiography and Diary of James Melvill_, edited by R. Pitcairn, Edinburgh, 1842, pp. 59, 60. [219] 'He mislyked the Generall Assembleis, and would have had the name changed, that he might take away the force and priviledge thereof; and no questioun he had stayed the work of policie that was presentlie in hands, if God had not stirred up a factioun against him.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 396. See also _The Autobiography of James Melvill_, p. 61. The rupture between Church and State was now complete. It remained to be seen, which was the stronger side. Every year, the clergy became more democratic; and, after the death of Knox, in 1572, they ventured upon a course which even he would hardly have recommended, and which, during the earlier period of the Reformation, would have been impracticable.[220] But, by this time, they had secured the support of the people; and the treatment they were receiving from the government, and from the nobles, embittered their minds, and drove them into desperate counsels. While their plans were yet immature, and while the future was looming darkly before them, a new man arose, who was well qualified to be their chief, and who at once stepped into the place which the death of Knox left vacant. This was Andrew Melville, who, by his great ability, his boldness of character, and his fertility of resource, was admirably suited to be the leader of the Scottish Church in that arduous struggle in which it was about to embark.[221] [220] 'During the two years following the death of Knox, each day was ripening the more determined opposition of the Church. The breach between the clergy with the great body of the people, and the government or higher nobility, was widening rapidly.' _Argyll's Presbytery Examined_, p. 70. [221] 'Next to her Reformer, who, under God, emancipated her from the degrading shackles of papal superstition and tyranny, I know no individual from whom Scotland has received such important services, or to whom she continues to owe so deep a debt of national respect and gratitude, as Andrew Melville.' _M'Crie's Life of Andrew Melville_, vol. ii. p. 473, Edinburgh, 1819. His nephew, himself a considerable person, says, 'Scotland receavit never a graitter benefit at the hands of God nor this man.' _The Autobiography of James Melvill_, p. 38. In 1574, Melville, having completed his education abroad, arrived in Scotland.[222] He quickly rallied round him the choicest spirits in the Church; and, under his auspices, a struggle began with the civil power, which continued, with many fluctuations, until it culminated, sixty years later, in open rebellion against Charles I. To narrate all the details of the contest, would be inconsistent with the plan of this Introduction; and, notwithstanding the extreme interest of the events which now ensued, the greater part of them must be omitted; but I will endeavour to indicate the general march, and to put the reader in possession of such facts as are most characteristic of the age in which they occurred. [222] He left Scotland in 1564, at the age of nineteen, and returned 'in the beginning of July 1574, after an absence of ten years from his native country.' _M'Crie's Life of Andrew Melville_, vol. i. pp. 17, 57. See also _Scot's Apologetical Narration of the State of the Kirk of Scotland_, edit. Wodrow Society, p. 34; and _Howie's Biographia Scoticana_, p. 111, Glasgow, 1781. Melville had not been in Scotland many months, before he began his opposition, at first by secret intrigues, afterwards with open and avowed hostility.[223] In the time of Knox, episcopacy had been recognized as part of the Protestant Church, and had received the sanction of the leading Reformers.[224] But that institution did not harmonize with the democratic spirit which was now growing up. The difference of ranks between the bishops and the inferior clergy was unpleasant, and the ministers determined to put an end to it.[225] In 1575, one of them, named John Dury, was instigated, by Melville, to bring the subject before the General Assembly at Edinburgh.[226] After he had spoken, Melville also expressed himself against episcopacy; but, not being yet sure of the temper of the audience, his first proceedings were somewhat cautious. Such hesitation was, however, hardly necessary; for, owing to the schism between the Church and the upper classes, the ministers were becoming the eager enemies of those maxims of obedience, and of subordination, which they would have upheld, had the higher ranks been on their side. As it was, the clergy were only favoured by the people; they, therefore, sought to organize a system of equality, and were ripe for the bold measures proposed by Melville and his followers. This was clearly shown, by the rapidity of the subsequent movement. In 1575, the first attack was made in the General Assembly at Edinburgh. In April 1578, another General Assembly resolved, that, for the future, bishops should be called by their own names, and not by their titles.[227] The same body also declared, that no see should be filled up, until the next Assembly.[228] Two months afterwards, it was announced that this arrangement was to be perpetual, and that no new bishop should ever be made.[229] And, in 1580, the Assembly of the Church at Dundee, pulling the whole fabric to the ground, unanimously resolved that the office of bishop was a mere human invention; that it was unlawful; that it must be immediately done away with; and that every bishop should at once resign his office, or be excommunicated if he refuse to do so.[230] [223] He appears to have first set to work in November 1574. See _Stephen's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 261, London, 1848. [224] 'The compilers of the Book of Discipline' (_i.e._ the First Book, in 1560) 'were distinguished by prelatical principles to the end of their days.' ... 'That Knox himself was no enemy to prelacy, considered as an ancient and apostolical institution, is rendered clear by his "Exhortation to England for the speedy embracing of Christ's Gospel."' _Russell's History of the Church in Scotland_, 1834, vol. i. p. 240. 'The associates of Knox, it is obvious, were not Presbyterians, and had no intention of setting up a system of parity among the ministers of their new establishment.' p. 243. See also p. 332. Even in 1572, the year of Knox's death, I find it stated that 'the whole Diocie of Sanct Andrews is decerned be the Assembly to pertain to the Bishop of the same.' _Acts and Proceedings of the General Assemblies of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 264, 4to. 1839. The Scotch Presbyterians have dealt very unfairly with this part of the history of their Church. [225] Some little time after this, David Fergusson, who died in 1598, and was minister at Dunfermline, said very frankly to James VI., 'Yes, Sir, ye may have Bishops here, but _ye must remember to make us all equall_; make us all Bishops, els will ye never content us.' _Row's History of the Kirk of Scotland from 1558 to 1637_, edit. Wodrow Society, p. 418. Compare _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. iv. p. 214: in 1584 'these monstruous titles of superioritie.' In 1586, 'that tyrannicall supremacie of bishops and archbishops over ministers.' p. 604. [226] 'He stirred up John Dury, one of the ministers of Edinburgh, in an Assembly which was then convened, to propound a question touching the lawfulness of the episcopal function, and the authority of chapters in their election. He himself, as though he had not been acquainted with the motion, after he had commended the speaker's zeal, and seconded the purpose with a long discourse of the flourishing estate of the church of Geneva, and the opinions of Calvin and Theodore Beza concerning church government, came to affirm, "That none ought to be esteemed office-bearers in the Church whose titles were not found in the book of God. And, for the title of bishops, albeit the same was found in Scripture, yet was it not to be taken in the sense that the common sort did conceive, there being no superiority allowed by Christ amongst ministers,"' &c. _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 200. See also _Acts of the General Assemblies_, vol. i. p. 331, where it appears that six bishops were present on this memorable occasion. The question raised was, 'Whither if the Bischops, as they are now in the Kirk of Scotland, hes thair function of the word of God or not, or if the Chapiter appointit for creating of them aucht to be tollerated in this reformed Kirk.' p. 340. [227] 'It was ordained, That Bischops and all vthers bearand Ecclesiasticall functioun, be callit bethair awin names, or Brethren, in tyme comeing.' _Acts of the General Assemblies of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 404. [228] 'Therfor the Kirk hes concludit, That no Bischops salbe electit or made heirafter, befor the nixt Generall Assemblie.' _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 408. [229] 'Anent the Act made in the last Assemblie, the 28 of Aprile 1578, concerning the electioun of Bischops, suspendit quhill this present Assemblie, and the farther ordour reservit thereto: The General Assemblie, all in ane voyce, hes concludit, That the said act salbe extendit for all tymes to come, ay and quhill the corruptioun of the Estate of Bischops be alluterlie tane away.' _Ibid._ vol. ii. p. 413. [230] 'Forsameikle as the office of a Bischop, as it is now vsit, and commounly takin within this realme, hes no sure warrand, auctoritie, nor good ground out of the (Book and) Scriptures of God; but is brocht in by the folie and corruptions of (men's) invention, to the great overthrow of the Kirk of God: The haill Assemblie of the Kirk, in ane voyce, after libertie givin to all men to reason in the matter, _none opponing themselves in defending the said pretendit office_, Finds and declares the samein pretendit office, vseit and termeit, as is above said, vnlaufull in the selfe, as haveand neither fundament, ground nor warrant within the word of God: and ordaines, that all sick persons as bruiks, or sall bruik heirafter the said office, salbe chargeit simpliciter to demitt, quyt and leave of the samein, as ane office quhervnto they are not callit be God; and siclyke to desist and cease from all preaching, ministration of the sacraments, or vsing any way the office of pastors, quhill they receive _de novo_ admission from the Generall Assemblie, vnder the paine of excommunicatioun to be denuncit agains them; quherin if they be found dissobedient, or contraveine this act in any point, the sentence of excommunicatioun, after dew admonitions, to be execute agains them.' _Acts of the General Assemblies_, vol. ii. p. 453. The minister and the people had now done their work, and, so far as they were concerned, had done it well.[231] But the same circumstances which made them desire equality, made the upper classes desire inequality.[232] A collision, therefore, was inevitable, and was hastened by this bold proceeding of the Church. Indeed, the preachers, supported by the people, rather courted a contest, than avoided it. They used the most inflammatory language against episcopacy; and, shortly before abolishing it, they completed, and presented to Parliament, the Second Book of Discipline, in which they flatly contradicted what they had asserted in their First Book of Discipline.[233] For this, they are often taunted with inconsistency.[234] But the charge is unjust. They were perfectly consistent; and they merely changed their maxims, that they might preserve their principles. Like every corporation, which has ever existed, whether spiritual or temporal, their supreme and paramount principle was to maintain their own power. Whether or not this is a good principle, is another matter; but all history proves that it is an universal one. And when the leaders of the Scotch Church found that it was at stake, and that the question at issue was, who should possess authority, they, with perfect consistency, abandoned opinions that they had formerly held, because they now perceived that those opinions were unfavourable to their existence as an independent body. [231] As Calderwood triumphantly says, 'the office of bishops was damned.' _History of the Kirk_, vol. iii. p. 469. 'Their whole estat, both the spirituall and civill part, was damned.' p. 526. James Melville (_Autobiography_, p. 52) says that, in consequence of this achievement, his uncle Andrew 'gatt the nam of [Greek: episkopomastix], _Episcoporum exactor_, the flinger out of Bischopes.' [232] Tytler (_History of Scotland_, vol. vi. p. 302) observes that, while 'the great body of the burghers, and middle and lower classes of the people,' were Presbyterians, 'a large proportion of the nobility supported episcopacy.' Instead of 'a large proportion,' he would not have been far wrong, if he had said 'all.' Indeed, 'Melville himself says the whole peerage was against him.' _Stephen's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 269. Forbes ascribes the aristocratic movement against presbytery to 'godles atheists,' who insisted 'that there could be nothing so contrair to the nature of a monarchie,' &c., 'than that paritie of authoritie in pastours.' _Forbes_, _Certaine Records touching the Estate of the Kirk_, p. 349, edit. Wodrow Society. See also p. 355. 'That Democratie (as they called it) whilk allwayes behoved to be full of sedition and troubble to ane Aristocratie, and so in end to a Monarchie.' The reader will observe this important change in the attitude of classes in Scotland. Formerly, the clergy had been the allies of the crown against the nobles. Now, the nobles allied themselves with the crown against the clergy. The clergy, in self-defence, had to ally themselves with the people. [233] On the difference between the two productions, there are some remarks worth looking at, in _Argyll's Presbytery Examined_, 1848, pp. 38-43. But this writer, though much freer from prejudice than most Presbyterian authors, is unwilling to admit how completely the Second Book of Discipline contradicts the First. [234] By the Scotch episcopalians. When the First Book of Discipline appeared, in 1560, the government was in the hands of the nobles, who had just fought on the side of the Protestant preachers, and were ready to fight again on their side. When the Second Book of Discipline appeared, in 1578, the government was still held by the nobles; but those ambitious men had now thrown off the mask, and, having effected their purpose in destroying the old hierarchy, had actually turned round, and attacked the new one. The circumstances having changed, the Church changed with them; but in the change there was nothing inconsistent. On the contrary, it would have been the height of inconsistency for the ministers to have retained their former notions of obedience and of subordination; and it was perfectly natural that, at this crisis, they should advocate the democratic idea of equality, just as before they had advanced the aristocratic idea of inequality. Hence it was, that, in their First Book of Discipline, they established a regularly ascending hierarchy, according to which the general clergy owed obedience to their ecclesiastical superiors, to whom the name of superintendents was given.[235] But, in the Second Book of Discipline, every vestige of this was swept away; and it was laid down in the broadest terms, that all the preachers being fellow-labourers, all were equal in power; that none had authority over others; and that, to claim such authority, or to assert preëminence, was a contrivance of man, not to be permitted in a divinely constituted Church.[236] [235] See the _First Book of Discipline_, reprinted in the first volume of _A Compendium of the Laws of the Church of Scotland_, 2d edit., Edinburgh, 1837. The superintendents were 'to set, order, and appoint ministers,' p. 61; and it would seem (p. 88) that no minister could be deposed without the consent of his superintendent; but this could hardly be intended to interfere with the supreme authority of the General Assembly. See also the summary, p. 114, where it is said of the superintendents, that 'in thair visitatioun thei sal not onlie preiche, but als examine the doctrine, life, diligence, and behavior of the ministeris, reideris, elderis, and deaconis.' According to Spottiswoode (_History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 167), 'the superintendents held their office during life, and their power was episcopal; for they did elect and ordain ministers, they presided in synods, and directed all church censures, neither was any excommunication pronounced without their warrant.' See further, on their authority, _Knox's History of the Reformation_, vol. ii. p. 161. 'That punyschment suld be appointed for suche as dissobeyid or contemned the superintendentes in thair functioun.' This was in 1561; and, in 1562, 'It was ordained, that if ministers be disobedient to superintendents in anything belonging to edification, they must be subject to correction.' _Acts of the General Assemblies of the Kirk_, vol. i. p. 14. Compare p. 131: 'sick things as superintendents may and aught decyde in their synodall conventiouns.' [236] 'For albeit the Kirk of God be rewlit and governit be Jesus Christ, who is the onlie King, hie Priest, and Heid thereof, yit he useis the ministry of men, as the most necessar middis for this purpose.' ... 'And to take away all occasion of tyrannie, he willis that they sould rewl with mutuall consent of brether and _equality of power_, every one according to thair functiones.' _Second Book of Discipline_, in _A Compendium of the Laws of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 126, 127. 'As to Bischops, if the name [Greek: episkopos] be properly taken, _they ar all ane with the ministers_, as befoir was declairit. For it is _not a name of superioritie and lordschip_, bot of office and watching.' p. 142. To understand the full meaning of this, it should be mentioned, that the superintendents, established by the Kirk in 1560, not unfrequently assumed the title of 'Lordship,' as an ornament to the extensive powers conferred upon them. See, for instance, the notes to _Wodrow's Collections upon the Lives of the Reformers of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. part ii. p. 461. But, in the Second Book of Discipline, in 1578, the superintendents are, if I rightly remember, not even once named. The government, as may be supposed, took a very different view. Such doctrines were deemed, by the upper classes, to be anti-social, and to be subversive of all order.[237] So far from sanctioning them, they resolved, if possible, to overthrow them; and, the year after the General Assembly had abolished episcopacy, it was determined that, upon that very point, a trial of strength should be made between the two parties. [237] Just as in England, we find that the upper classes are mostly Episcopalians; their minds being influenced, often unconsciously, by the, to them, pleasing spectacle of an inequality of rank, which is conventional, and does not depend upon ability. On the other hand, the strength of the Dissenters lies among the middle and lower classes, where energy and intellect are held in higher respect, and where a contempt naturally arises for a system, which, at the mere will of the sovereign or minister of the day, concedes titles and wealth to persons whom nature did not intend for greatness, but who, to the surprise of their contemporaries, have greatness thrust upon them. On this difference of opinion in Scotland, corresponding to the difference of social position, see the remarks on the seventeenth century, in _Hume's Commentaries on the Law of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 544, Edinburgh, 1797, 4to. In 1581, Robert Montgomery was appointed archbishop of Glasgow. The ministers who composed the chapter of Glasgow refused to elect him; whereupon the Privy Council declared that the King, by virtue of his prerogative, had the right of nomination.[238] All was now confusion and uproar. The General Assembly forbad the archbishop to enter Glasgow.[239] He refused to obey their order, and threw himself upon the support of the Duke of Lennox, who had obtained the appointment for him, and to whom he, in return, had surrendered nearly all the revenues of the see, reserving for himself only a small stipend.[240] This was a custom which had grown up within the last few years, and was one of many contrivances by which the nobles plundered the Church of her property.[241] [238] Record of Privy Council, in _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. i. p. 267. 'The brethrein of Glasgow were charged, under paine of horning, to admitt Mr. Robert Montgomrie.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. iii. p. 596. [239] 'Charges the said Mr. Robert to continue in the ministrie of the Kirk of Striveling,' &c. _Acts of the General Assemblies_, vol. ii. p. 547. This was in October 1581; the Record of the Privy Council was in April 1582. Moysie, who was a contemporary, says that, in March 1581, 2, not only the dean and chapter, but all the clergy (the 'haill ministrie') declared from the pulpit that Montgomery's appointment 'had the warrand of the deuill and not of the word of God, bot wes damnit thairby.' _Moysie's Memoirs_, Edinburgh, 1830, 4to, p. 36. [240] 'The title whereof the said duke had procured to him, that he, having the name of bishop, and eight hundred merks money for his living and sustentatioun, the whole rents, and other duteis of the said benefice, might come to the duke's utilitie and behove.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. iv. p. 111. See also p. 401. [241] _Scot's Apologetical Narration of the State of the Kirk_, pp. 24, 25. _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. iii. p. 302. _Wodrow's Collections upon the Lives of the Reformers_, vol. i. part i. p. 206. _Lyon's History of St. Andrews_, vol. i. p. 379. _Gibson's History of Glasgow_, p. 59. _Hume's History of the House of Douglas_, vol. ii. pp. 216, 217. _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. iii. p. 624. This, however, was not the question now at issue.[242] The point to be decided was one, not of revenue, but of power. For the clergy knew full well, that if they established their power, the revenue would quickly follow. They, therefore, adopted the most energetic proceedings. In April 1582, the General Assembly met at St. Andrews, and appointed Melville as Moderator.[243] The government, fearing the worst, ordered the members, on pain of rebellion, to take no steps respecting the archbishopric.[244] But the representatives of the Church were undaunted. They summoned Montgomery before them; they ratified the sentence by which he had been suspended from the ministry; and they declared that he had incurred the penalties of despotism and of excommunication.[245] [242] 'But the Church passing this point' (_i.e._ the simony) 'made quarrel to him for accepting the bishopric.' _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 282. [243] _Acts of the General Assemblies of the Kirk_, vol. ii. p. 548. [244] 'A messenger-at-arms entered the house, and charged the moderator and members of the assembly, on the pain of rebellion, to desist from the process.' _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. i. p. 268. [245] 'The Assemblie and brether present, after voteing in the said matter, depryvit the said Mr. Robert from all functioun of the Ministrie in the Kirk of God, dureing the will of the Kirk of God; and farther, descernit the fearefull sentence of excommunicatioun to be pronuncit against him in the face of the haill Assemblie, be the voyce and mouth of the Moderatour present; to the effect, that, _his proud flesh being cast into the hands of Satan_, he may be win againe, if it be possible, to God; and the said sentence (to) be intimat be every particular minister, at his awin particular kirk, solemnelie in the first sermoun to be made be them, after thair returning.' _Acts of the General Assemblies of the Kirk_, vol. ii. p. 562. A sentence of excommunication was, in those days, so ruinous, that Montgomery was struck with terror at the prospect before him. To avoid the consequences, he appeared before the Assembly, and solemnly promised that he would make no further attempt to possess himself of the archbishopric.[246] By doing this, he probably saved his life; for the people, siding with their clergy, were ripe for mischief, and were determined, at all hazards, to maintain what they considered to be the rights of the Church, in opposition to the encroachments of the State. [246] _Ibid._, vol. ii. p. 565. Calderwood (_History of the Kirk_, vol. iii. p. 604) says, 'After long reluctatioun, at lenth he condescended.' The government, on the other hand, was equally resolute.[247] The Privy Council called several of the ministers before them; and Dury, one of the most active, they banished from Edinburgh.[248] Measures still more violent were about to be taken, when they were interrupted by one of those singular events which not unfrequently occurred in Scotland, and which strikingly evince the inherent weakness of the Crown, notwithstanding the inordinate pretensions it commonly assumed. [247] M'Crie (_Life of Melville_, vol. i. p. 274) says, 'In all these contendings, the ministers had no countenance or support from any of the nobility.' It would have been strange if they had, seeing that the whole movement was essentially democratic. [248] Melville's _Autobiography_, p. 129. _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. iii. p. 620. _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. i. p. 270. This was the Raid of Ruthven, which happened in 1582, and in consequence of which the person of James VI. was held in durance for ten months.[249] The clergy, true to the policy which now governed them, loudly approved of the captivity of the king, and pronounced it to be a godly act.[250] Dury, who had been driven from his pulpit, was brought back to the capital in triumph;[251] and the General Assembly, meeting at Edinburgh, ordered that the imprisonment of James should be justified by every minister to his own congregation.[252] [249] He was seized in August 1582, and was let loose again in June 1583. _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. vi. pp. 321, 360. It is a pity that this valuable, and really able, work should be so superficial in regard to the ecclesiastical affairs of Scotland. Mr. Tytler appears not to have studied at all the proceedings of the presbyteries, or even of the General Assemblies; neither does he display any acquaintance with the theological literature of his country. And yet, from the year 1560 to about 1700, these sources disclose more of the genuine history of the Scotch people than all other sources put together. [250] 'The pulpit resounded with applauses of the godly deed.' _Arnot's History of Edinburgh_, p. 37. [251] 'As he is comming from Leith to Edinburgh, upon Tuisday the 4th of September, there mett him at the Gallow Greene two hundreth men of the inhabitants of Edinburgh. Their number still increased, till he came within the Neather Bow. There they beganne to sing the 124 Psalme, "Now may Israel say," &c, and sang in foure parts, knowne to the most part of the people. They came up the street till they came to the Great Kirk, singing thus all the way, to the number of two thowsand. They were muche moved themselves, and so were all the beholders. The duke was astonished, and more affrayed at that sight than at anie thing that ever he had seene before in Scotland, and rave his beard for anger.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. iii. pp. 646, 647. [252] _Acts of the General Assemblies_, vol. ii. pp. 595, 596. This was ordered by the General Assembly which met at Edinburgh on the 9th of October 1582, p. 585. See also _Watson's Historicall Collections of Ecclesiastick Affairs in Scotland_, p. 192, 'requiring the ministers in all their churches to commend it unto the people.' In 1583, the king recovered his liberty, and the struggle became more deadly than ever; the passions of both parties being exasperated by the injuries each had inflicted on the other. The Ruthven conspiracy, having been declared treason, as it undoubtedly was, Dury preached in its favour, and openly defended it; and although, under the influence of momentary fear, he afterwards withdrew what he had said,[253] it was evident, from other circumstances, that his feelings were shared by his brethren.[254] A number of them being summoned before the king for their seditious language, bad him take heed what he was about, and reminded him that no occupant of the throne had ever prospered after the ministers had begun to threaten him.[255] Melville, who exercised immense influence over both clergy and people, bearded the king to his face, refused to account for what he had delivered in the pulpit, and told James that he perverted the laws both of God and of man.[256] Simpson likened him to Cain, and warned him to beware of the wrath of God.[257] Indeed, the spirit now displayed by the Church was so implacable, that it seemed to delight in venting itself in the most repulsive manner. In 1585, a clergyman, named Gibson, in a sermon which he preached in Edinburgh, denounced against the king the curse of Jeroboam, that he should die childless, and that his race should end with him.[258] The year after this happened, James, finding that Elizabeth was evidently determined to take his mother's life, bethought him of what was valued in that age as an unfailing resource, and desired the clergy to offer up prayers on behalf of Mary. This, they almost unanimously refused.[259] And not only did they abstain from supplication themselves, but they resolved that no one else should do what they had declined. The archbishop of Saint Andrews being about to officiate before the king, they induced a certain John Cowper to station himself in the pulpit beforehand, so as to exclude the prelate. Nor was it until the captain of the guard threatened to pull Cowper from the place he had usurped, that the service could go on, and the king be allowed to hear his own mother prayed for, in this sad crisis of her fate, when it was still uncertain whether she would be publicly executed, or whether, as was more generally believed, she would be secretly poisoned.[260] [253] _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 308. [254] James, after his escape, 'convocat all his peaceabill Prelatis and Nobles, and thair he notefeit unto thayme the greif that he consavit of his unlaughfull detentioun the yeir bygayne, and tharefore desyrit thame to acknawlege the same; and thay be thair generall voittis decernit the rayd of Ruthven to be manifest treasoun. The Ministers on the uther part, perswadit the people that it was a godly fact, and that whasoever wald not allow thareof in his hart, was not worthie to be estemit a Christien.' _The Historie of King James the Sext_, p. 202, published by the Bannatyne Club, Edinburgh, 1825, 4to. [255] 'Disregard not our threatening; for there was never one yet in this realm, in the place where your grace is, who prospered after the ministers began to threaten him.' _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. vi. p. 364. See also, in _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. v. pp. 540, 541, a letter from one of the clergy in Fife, addressed to the king, in 1597. 'And now, Sir, lett me be free with you in writting other men's reports, and that of the wisest politicians. They say, our bygane historeis report, and experience teacheth, that _raro et fere nunquam_ has a king and a prince continued long together in this realme; for _Filius ante diem patrios inquirit in annos_. And they say, Sir, farther, that whatsoever they were of your Majestie's predecessors in governement that oppouned themselves directlie or indirectlie to God's ordinance in his Kirk, it has beene their wracke and subversioun in the end. I might herein be more particular; but I leave it to your Majestie's owne grave and modest consideratioun, for it concerneth you most neere.' [256] 'Saying, "He perverted the laws both of God and man."' _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 309. Also _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. vi. p. 371. [257] 'Mr. Patrick Simson, preaching before the king upon Gen. iv. 9, "The Lord said to Cain, Where is Abel, thy brother?" said to the king, before the congregation, "Sir, I assure you, in God's name, the Lord will ask at you where is the Earl of Moray, your brother?" The king replyed, before all the congregation, "Mr. Patrik, my chalmer doore wes never steeked upon you: ye might have told me anything ye thought in secret." He replyed, "Sir, the scandall is publict."' _Row's History of the Kirk_, p. 144. 'Having occasion, _anno_ 1593, to preach before the king, he publicly exhorted him to beware that he drew not the wrath of God upon himself in patronizing a manifest breach of divine laws.' _Howie's Biographia Scoticana_, p. 120. [258] 'Saying, "That Captain James, with his lady Jesabel, and William Stewart (meaning the colonel), were taken to be the persecutors of the Church; but that now it was seen to be the king himself, against whom he denounced the curse that fell on Jeroboam--that he would die childless, and be the last of his race."' _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 335. [259] 'The king, perceiving by all these letters, that the death of his mother was determined, called back his ambassadors, and at home gave order to the ministers to remember her in their public prayers, which they denied to do.' ... 'Upon their denial, charges were directed to command all bishops, ministers, and other office-bearers in the Church to make mention of her distress in their public prayers, and commend her to God in the form appointed. But of all the number only Mr. David Lindsay at Leith and the king's own ministers gave obedience.' _Spottiswoode's History of the Church_, vol. ii. pp. 355, 356. 'They, with only one exception, refused to comply.' _Russell's History of the Church in Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 23. Compare _Watson's Historicall Collections of Ecclesiastick Affairs in Scotland_, p. 208; and _Historie of James the Sext_, p. 225. [260] 'They stirred up Mr. John Cowper, a young man not entered as yet in the function, to take the pulpit before the time, and exclude the bishop. The king coming at the hour appointed, and seeing him in the place, called to him from his seat, and said, "Mr. John, that place is destined for another; yet since you are there, if you will obey the charge that is given, and remember my mother in your prayers, you shall go on." He replying, "that he would do as the Spirit of God should direct him," was commanded to leave the place: and making as though he would stay, the captain of the guard went to pull him out; whereupon he burst forth in these speeches: "This day shall be a witness against the king in the great day of the Lord:" and then denouncing a wo to the inhabitants of Edinburgh, he went down, and the bishop of St. Andrews entering the pulpit did perform the duty required.' _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 356. 'The Kingis Majestie, to testifie his earnest and naturall affection to his mother, causit pray for hir oppinly efter him selff; quhairvpone arrose a great dissensioun betuix sum of the ministrie and his Majestie, namely the ministrie of Edinburgh. Quhairvpone the king appoynted Patrik, archbischop of St. Androis to teache, bot he wes preuented be Mr. John Covpar minister, quho come befoir and filled the pulpit. And as the said Mr. John wes beginnand the prayer, the Kingis Majestie commandit him to stay: so as Mr. John raschit michtely vpone the pulpit, saying, "This day sail bear witnes aganis yow in the day of the lord: woe be to ye Edinburgh, for the last of xi plaiges salbe the worst."' _Moysie's Memoirs_, p. 59. In 1594, John Ross stated in the pulpit, that the advisers of the king were all traitors, and that the king himself was likewise a traitor. He was also a rebel and a reprobate. That such should be the case, was not surprising, considering the parentage of James. For, his mother was a Guise, and a persecutor of the saints. He avoided open persecution, and spoke them fair; but his deeds did not correspond to his words; and, so great was his dissimulation, that he was the most arrant hypocrite then living in Scotland.[261] [261] See _The Historie of King James the Sext_, pp. 316-318, from 'a just copie of his sermon' supplied by Ross himself. 'His text was upon the 6 chapter of the Prophet Jeremias, verse 28. "Brethren, we have manie, and almaist innumerable enormiteis in this cuntrie to be lamentit, as the misgovernement of our king be sinistrous counsall of sum particular men. They ar all rebellious traitors, evin the king the maist singular person, and particularlie everie estait of the land." ... "Our king in sindrie poyntis hes bene rebellious aganis the Majestie of God." ... "To this howre, we gat never gude of the Guysien blude, for Queyne Marie his mother was an oppin persecutor of the sanctis of God, and althoght the king be not an oppin persecutor, we have had many of his fayre wordis, wharein he is myghtie aneugh, bot for his gude deiddis, I commend me to thayme." ... "Admit, that our king be a Christien king, yit but amen dement, he is a reprobat king. Of all the men in this nation, the king himself is the maist fynest, and maist dissembling hypocreit."' A very short notice of this sermon is given by Calderwood (_History of the Kirk_, vol. v. p. 299), who probably had not seen the original notes. In 1596, David Black, one of the most influential of the Protestant ministers, delivered a sermon, which made much noise. He said, in his discourse, that all kings were children of the devil; but that in Scotland the head of the court was Satan himself. The members of the council, he added, were cormorants, and the lords of the session miscreants. The nobility had degenerated: they were godless; they were dissemblers; they were the enemies of the Church. As to the queen of England, she was nothing but an atheist. And as to the queen of Scotland, all he would say was, that they might pray for her if they list, and because it was the fashion to do so; but that there was no reason for it, inasmuch as no good would ever come from her to them.[262] [262] The accusation, which was fully proved, was, that 'he had publictlie sayd in pulpit, that the papist erles wes come home be the kingis knavledge and consent, quhairin his Hienes treacherie wes detectit; that all kingis war deuilis and come of deuilis; that the deuill wes the head of the court and in the court; that he pray it for the Queine of Scotland for the faschione, because he saw na appearance of guid in hir tyme,' _Moysie's Memoirs_, p. 128. 'Having been heard to affirm, that the popish lords had returned into the country by the king's permission, and that thereby the king had discovered the "treacherous hypocrisy of his heart" that "all kings were the devil's bairns, and that the devil was in the court, and the guiders of it." He was proved to have used in his prayer these indecent words, when speaking of the queen, "We must pray for her for fashion's sake; but we might as well not, for she will never do us any good," He called the queen of England an atheist, and the Lords of Session _bribers_; and said that the nobility at large "were degenerate, godless, dissemblers, and enemies to the church."' _Grierson's History of Saint Andrews_, p. 30, Cupar, 1838. Among the charges against him were, 'Fourthly, that he had called the queen of England an atheist. Fifthly, that he had discussed a suspension granted by the lords of session in pulpit, and called them miscreants and bribers. Sixthly, that, speaking of the nobility, he said they were "degenerated, godless, dissemblers, and enemies to the church." Likewise, speaking of the council, that he had called them "holiglasses, cormorants, and men of no religion."' _Spottiswoode's History of the Church_, vol. iii. p. 21. For preaching this sermon, Black was summoned by the privy-council. He refused to attend, because it was for a spiritual tribunal, and not for a temporal one, to take notice of what was uttered in the pulpit. The Church, to be sure, he would obey; but, having received his message from God, he was bound to deliver it, and it would be a dereliction of duty, if he were to allow the civil power to judge such matters.[263] The king, greatly enraged, ordered Black to be cast into prison; and it is difficult to see what other course was open to him; though it was certain that neither this, nor any measure he could adopt, would tame the indomitable spirit of the Scotch Church.[264] [263] See the original papers on 'The Declinatour of the King and Counsel's Judicatour in Maters Spirituall, namelie in Preaching of the Word,' in _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. v. pp. 457-459, 475-480. Tytler (_History of Scotland_, vol. vii. pp. 326-332) has given extracts from them, and made some remarks on their obvious tendency. See also on the Declinature of Jurisdiction claimed by the Scotch Church, _Hallam's Constitutional History_, 4th edit. 1842, vol. ii. p. 461; and _Mackenzie's Laws and Customs of Scotland in Matters Criminal_, Edinburgh, 1699, folio, pp. 181, 182. [264] M'Crie, in his _Life of Melville_, vol. ii. pp. 70 seq., has given an account of the punishment of Black, but, as usual, conceals the provocation; or, at least, softens it down until it hardly becomes a provocation. According to him, 'David Black had been served with a summons to answer before the privy council for certain expressions used by him in his sermons.' Certain expressions, indeed! But why name the penalty, and suppress the offence? This learned writer knew perfectly well what Black had done, and yet all the information bestowed on the reader is a note at p. 72, containing a mutilated extract from Spottiswoode. In December the same year, the Church proclaimed a fast; and Welsh preached in Edinburgh a sermon, with the view of rousing the people against their rulers. The king, he told his audience, had formerly been possessed by a devil, and that devil being put out, seven worse ones had come in its place. It was, therefore, evident that James was demented, and it became lawful to take the sword of justice from his hands; just as it would be lawful for servants or children to seize the head of their family, if it had pleased heaven to afflict him with madness. In such case, the preacher observed, it would be right to lay hold of the madman, and to tie him hand and foot, that he might do no further harm.[265] [265] 'Saying, "He was possessed with a devil; that one devil being put out, seven worse were entered in place; and that the subjects might lawfully rise, and take the sword out of his hand:" which he confirmed by the example of a father that falling into a frenzy, might be taken by the children and servants of the family, and tied hand and foot from doing violence.' _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 34. See also _Arnot's History of Edinburgh_, pp. 46, 47. The hatred felt by the clergy was at this period so bitter, and the democratic spirit in them so strong,[266] that they seemed unable to restrain themselves; and Andrew Melville, in an audience with the king, in 1596, proceeded to personal insults, and, seizing him by the sleeve, called him God's silly vassal.[267] The large amount of truth contained in this bitter taunt, increased its pungency. But the ministers did not always confine themselves to words.[268] Their participation in the Ruthven conspiracy is unquestionable; and it is probable that they were privy to the last great peril to which James was exposed, before he escaped from that turbulent land, which he was believed to govern. Certain it is, that the Earl of Gowrie, who, in 1600, entrapped the king into his castle in order to murder him, was the hope and the mainstay of the Presbyterian clergy, and was intimately associated with their ambitious schemes.[269] Such, indeed, was their infatuation on behalf of the assassin, that, when his conspiracy was defeated, and he himself slain, several of the ministers propagated a report that Gowrie had fallen a victim to the royal perfidy, and that, in point of fact, the only plot which ever existed was one concocted by the king, with fatal art, against his mild and innocent host.[270] [266] This did not escape the attention of the English government; and Elizabeth, who was remarkably well informed respecting Scotch affairs, wrote to James, in 1590, a warning, which was hardly necessary, but which must have added to his fears. 'And lest fayre semblance, that easely may begile, do not brede your ignorance of suche persons as ether pretend religion or dissemble deuotion, let me warne you that ther is risen, bothe in your realme and myne, a secte of perilous consequence, suche as wold have no kings but a presbitrye, and take our place while the inioy our privilege, with a shade of Godes word, wiche none is juged to folow right without by ther censure the be so demed. Yea, looke we wel unto them.' _Letters of Elizabeth and James VI._, edited by John Bruce, Camden Society, 1849, 4to, p. 63. [267] The Reverend James Melville, who was present at the scene, describes it with exuberant delight. 'To the quhilk, I beginning to reply, in my maner, Mr. Andro doucht nocht abyd it, bot brak af upon the king in sa zealus, powerfull, and unresistable a maner, that whowbeit the king used his authoritie in maist crabbit and colerik maner, yit Mr. Andro bure him down, and outtered the Commission as from the mightie God, calling the king bot "God's sillie vassall:" and taking him be the sleive,' &c. _Autobiography and Diary of James Melvill_, p. 370. See also _Shields' Hind let loose_, 1687, p. 52; and _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. ii. p. 66. [268] In 1593, 4, some of them formed a plot to seize him. See the evidence from the State-paper Office, in _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. vii. p. 249, edit. Edinburgh, 1845. [269] 'He was the darling hope of the Presbyterian party.' _Ibid._, vol. vii. p. 410. [270] 'Gowry's conspiracy was by them charged on the king, as a contrivance of his to get rid of that earl.' _Burnet's History of his own Time_, edit. Oxford, 1823, vol. i. p. 31. See also _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. vii. pp. 439, 440; and on the diffusion of 'this absurd hallucination,' see The _Spottiswoode Miscellany_, vol. ii. p. 320, Edinburgh, 1845. An absurdity of this sort[271] was easily believed in an ignorant, and, therefore, a credulous, age. That the clergy should have propagated it, and that in this, as in many other cases, they should have laboured with malignant industry to defame the character of their prince,[272] will astonish no one who knows how quickly the wrath of the Church can be roused, and how ready the spiritual classes always are to cover, even with the foulest calumny, those who stand in their way. The evidence which has been collected, proves that the Presbyterian ministers carried their violence against the constituted authorities of the state, to an indecent, if not to a criminal, length; and we cannot absolve them from the charge of being a restless and unscrupulous body, greedy after power, and grossly intolerant of whatever opposed their own views. Still, the real cause of their conduct was, the spirit of their age, and the peculiarities of their position. None of us can be sure that, if we were placed exactly as they were placed, we should have acted differently. Now, indeed, we cannot read of their proceedings, as they are recorded in their own Assemblies, and by the historians of their own Church, without an uneasy feeling of dislike, I had almost said of disgust, at finding ourselves in presence of so much of superstition, of chicanery, of low, sordid arts, and yet, withal, of arrogant and unbridled insolence. The truth, however, is, that in Scotland, the age was evil, and the evil rose to the surface. The times were out of joint, and it was hard to set them right. The long prevalence of anarchy, of ignorance, of poverty, of force, of fraud, of domestic tumult, and of foreign invasion, had reduced Scotland to a state which is scarcely possible for us to realize. Hereafter, I shall give some evidence of the effect which this produced on the national character, and of the serious mischief which it wrought. In the mean time, we should, in fairness to the Scotch clergy, admit that the condition of their country affords the best explanation of their conduct. Everything around them was low and coarse; the habits of men, in their daily life, were violent, brutal, and utterly regardless of common decency; and, as a natural consequence, the standard of human actions was so depressed, that upright and well-meaning persons did not shrink from doing what to us, in our advanced state of society, seems incredible. Let us, then, not be too rash in this matter. Let us not be too forward in censuring the leading actors in that great crisis through which Scotland passed, during the latter half of the sixteenth century. Much they did, which excites our strongest aversion. But one thing they achieved, which should make us honour their memory, and repute them benefactors of their species. At a most hazardous moment, they kept alive the spirit of national liberty.[273] What the nobles and the crown had put in peril, that did the clergy save. By their care, the dying spark was kindled into a blaze. When the light grew dim, and flickered on the altar, their hands trimmed the lamp, and fed the sacred flame. This is their real glory, and on this they may well repose. They were the guardians of Scotch freedom, and they stood to their post. Where danger was, they were foremost. By their sermons, by their conduct, both public and private, by the proceedings of their Assemblies, by their bold and frequent attacks upon persons, without regard to their rank, nay, even by the very insolence with which they treated their superiors, they stirred up the minds of men, woke them from their lethargy, formed them to habits of discussion, and excited that inquisitive and democratic spirit, which is the only effectual guarantee the people can ever possess against the tyranny of those who are set over them. This was the work of the Scotch clergy; and all hail to them who did it. It was they who taught their countrymen to scrutinize, with a fearless eye, the policy of their rulers. It was they who pointed the finger of scorn at kings and nobles, and laid bare the hollowness of their pretensions. They ridiculed their claims, and jeered at their mysteries. They tore the veil, and exposed the tricks of the scene which lay behind. The great ones of the earth, they covered with contempt; and those who were above them, they cast down. Herein, they did a deed which should compensate for all their offences, even were their offences ten times as great. By discountenancing that pernicious and degrading respect which men are too apt to pay to those whom accident, and not merit, has raised above them, they facilitated the growth of a proud and sturdy independence, which was sure to do good service at a time of need. And that time came quicker than any one had expected. Within a very few years, James became master of the resources of England, and attempted, by their aid, to subvert the liberties of Scotland. The shameful enterprise, which he began, was continued by his cruel and superstitious son. How their attempts failed; how Charles I., in the effort, shipwrecked his fortune, and provoked a rebellion, which brought to the scaffold that great criminal, who dared to conspire against the people, and who, as the common enemy and oppressor of all, was at length visited with the just punishment of his sins, is known to every reader of our history. It is also well known, that, in conducting the struggle, the English were greatly indebted to the Scotch, who had, moreover, the merit of being the first to lift their hand against the tyrant. What, however, is less known, but is undoubtedly true, is, that both nations owe a debt they can never repay to those bold men who, during the latter part of the sixteenth century, disseminated, from their pulpits and Assemblies, sentiments which the people cherished in their hearts, and which, at a fitting moment, they reproduced, to the dismay, and eventually to the destruction, of those who threatened their liberties. [271] See a good note in _Pitcairn's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 179, Edinburgh, 1833, 4to. Compare _Lawson's Book of Perth_, Edinburgh, 1847, p. xxxix. [272] Their language, and their general bearing, so enraged James, as to extort from him a passionate declaration, in 1592, that 'it would not be weill till noblemen and gentlemen gott licence to breake ministers' heads.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. v. p. 148. [273] 'At the period of which we speak' (about the year 1584) 'the pulpit was, in fact, the only organ by which public opinion was, or could be, expressed; and the ecclesiastical courts were the only assemblies in the nation which possessed anything that was entitled to the name of liberty or independence. Parliament had its business prepared to its hand, and laid before it in the shape of acts which required only its assent. Discussion and freedom of speech were unknown in its meetings. The courts of justice were dependent on the will of the sovereign, and frequently had their proceedings regulated, and their decisions dictated, by letters or messages from the throne. It was the preachers who first taught the people to express an opinion on the conduct of their rulers; and the assemblies of the Church set the earliest example of a regular and firm opposition to the arbitrary and unconstitutional measures of the court.' _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. i. p. 302. CHAPTER III. CONDITION OF SCOTLAND DURING THE SEVENTEENTH AND EIGHTEENTH CENTURIES. Scarcely had James mounted the throne of England, when he began seriously, and on a large scale, to attempt to subjugate the Scotch Church, which, as he clearly saw, was the principal obstacle that stood between him and despotic power. While he was merely King of Scotland, he made several efforts, which were constantly baffled; but now that he wielded the vast resources of England, the victory seemed easy.[274] As early as 1584, he had gained a temporary triumph, by forcing many of the clergy to recognize episcopacy.[275] But that institution was so repugnant to their levelling and democratic principles, that nothing could overcome their abhorrence of it;[276] and, completely overawing the king, they compelled him to give way, and to retrace his steps. The result was, that, in 1592, an Act of Parliament was passed, which subverted the authority of the bishops, and established Presbyterianism; a scheme based on the idea of equality, and, therefore, suited to the wants of the Scotch Church.[277] [274] Lord Dartmouth says (Note in _Burnet's History of his own Time_, vol. i. p. 15): 'The Earl of Seafield told me that King James frequently declared that he never looked upon himself to be more than King of Scotland in name, till he came to be King of England; but now, he said, one kingdom would help him to govern the other, or he had studied kingcraft to very little purpose from his cradle to that time.' Compare _Burnet's Memoirs of the Dukes of Hamilton_, Oxford, 1852, p. 36. 'No sooner was he happily settled on the throne of England, but he went more roundly to work.' [275] Compare _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. vi. p. 430, with _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 303, § 20; also the Act (p. 293, § 4), likewise in 1584, limiting the power of the General Assemblies. James, who flattered himself that he had now settled everything, signalized his triumph by personally abusing the clergy; 'calling them lownes, smaicks, seditious knaves, and so furth.' See a letter, dated 2nd of January 1585-6, in _Miscellany of the Wodrow Society_, p. 438, Edinburgh, 1844. [276] 'Bishops were alwayes looked at with a frown.' _Kirkton's History of the Church of Scotland_, p. 129. [277] See this remarkable statute, in _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. iii. pp. 541, 2. As some of the historians of the Scotch Church have greatly misrepresented it, I will quote that part which expressly repeals the Act of 1584, in favour of the bishops. 'Item oure said souerane lord and estaittis of Parliament foirsaid, abrogatis cass and anullis the xx act of the same pliam[=e]t haldin at Edinburgh the said zeir 1584 zeiris granting c[=o]missioun to bishoppis and vtheris iuges constitute in ecclesiastical causs To ressaue his hienes presentatioun to benefices, To gif collatioun thairvpoun and to put ordo^r in all causs ecclesiasticall qlk his Maiestie and estaittis foirsaid declairis to be expyrit in the self and to be null in tyme cuming and of nane availl force nor effect.' To this statute, James had assented with the greatest reluctance.[278] Indeed, his feeling respecting it was so strong, that he determined, on the first opportunity, to procure its repeal, even if he used force to effect his purpose. The course he adopted, was characteristic both of the man and of the age. In December 1596, one of those popular tumults arose in Edinburgh, which are natural in barbarous times, and which, under ordinary circumstances, would have been quelled, and nothing more thought of it.[279] But James availed himself of this, to strike what he deemed a decisive blow. His plan was nothing less than to turn into the capital of his own monarchy, large bodies of armed and licensed banditti, who, by threatening to plunder the city, should oblige the clergy and their flocks to agree to whatever terms he chose to dictate. This magnanimous scheme was well worthy of the mind of James, and it was strictly executed. From the north, he summoned the Highland nobles, and from the south, the border barons, who were to be accompanied by their fierce retainers,--men who lived by pillage, and whose delight it was to imbrue their hands in blood. At the express command of James, these ferocious brigands, on the 1st of January 1597, appeared in the streets of Edinburgh, gloating over the prospect before them, and ready, when their sovereign gave the word, to sack the capital, and raze it to the ground.[280] Resistance was hopeless. Whatever the king demanded, was conceded; and James supposed that the time was now come, in which he could firmly establish the authority of the bishops, and, by their aid, control the clergy, and break their refractory spirit.[281] [278] 'The King repented after that he had agreed unto it.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. v. p. 162. But this gives a faint idea of his real feelings. It is perhaps hardly necessary to adduce evidence of the opinions entertained on this point, by a prince, one of whose favourite sayings was, 'No Bishop, no King.' The reader will, however, find, in the _Clarendon State Papers_ (vol. ii. p. 260 Oxford, 1773, folio), a letter from Charles I., which is worth looking at, because it frankly avows that James, in loving episcopacy and hating presbyterianism, was actuated rather by political motives than by religious ones. Charles writes: 'The prudentiall part of any consideration will never be found opposit to the conscientious, nay heere, they go hand in hand; for (according to lawyers lodgique) show me any president where ever Presbiteriall government and Regall was together, without perpetuall rebellions. _Which was the cause that necessitated the King, my Father, to change that governement in Scotland._' Compare what is said by a Scotch Presbyterian of the seventeenth century, in _Biographies edited for the Wodrow Society_ by the Rev. W. K. Tweedie, Edinburgh, 1845, vol. i. p. 13. 'The reason why King James was so violent for bishops was neither their divine institution (which he denied they had), nor yet the profit the Church should reap by them (for he knew well both the men and their communications), but merely because he believed they were useful instruments to turn a limited monarchy into absolute dominion, and subjects into slaves, the design in the world he minded most.' [279] 'Had it not been laid hold of by designing politicians as a handle for accomplishing their measures, it would not now have been known that such an event had ever occurred.' _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. ii. p. 85. 'Harmless as this uproar was, it afforded the court a pretext for carrying into execution its designs against the liberties and government of the Church.' p. 89. [280] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. vii. pp. 342-345. _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. v. pp. 514, 515, 530, 531. [281] 'Intimidated by these menaces, and distressed at the loss of the courts of justice, they came to the resolution of making surrender of their political and religious liberties to the king.' _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. ii. p. 92. This is said of the magistrates of Edinburgh. Among other threats, one was, the 'razing and ploughing of Edinburgh, and sowing it with salt.' _Wodrow's Life of Bruce_, p. 48, prefixed to _Bruce's Sermons_, edited by the Rev. William Cunningham, Edinburgh, 1843. On this occasion, Elizabeth wrote a letter to James, which is printed in _Letters of Queen Elizabeth and James VI._, 1849, 4to, pp. 120, 121. In this undertaking, three years were consumed. To insure its success, the king, supported by the nobles, relied, not only on force, but also on an artifice, which now seems to have been employed for the first time. This was, to pack the General Assemblies, by inundating them with clergymen drawn from the north of Scotland, where, the old clannish and aristocratic spirit being supreme, the democratic spirit, found in the south, was unknown. Hitherto, these northern ministers had rarely attended at the great meetings of the Church; but James, in 1597, sent Sir Patrick Murray on a special mission to them, urging them to be present, in order that they might vote on his side.[282] They, being a very ignorant body, knowing little or nothing of the questions really at issue, and being, moreover, accustomed to a state of society in which men, notwithstanding their lawlessness, paid the most servile obedience to their immediate superiors, were easily worked upon, and induced to do what they were bid. By their help, the crown and the nobles so strengthened their party in the General Assembly, as to obtain in many instances a majority; and innovations were gradually introduced, calculated to destroy the democratic character of the Scotch Church.[283] [282] _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. ii. p. 100. Scot (_Apologetical Narration of the State of the Kirk_, p. 88) says, 'Sir Patrick Murray, the diligent apostle of the North, made their acquaintance with the King.' Also, _The Autobiography and Diary of James Melville_, p. 403. [283] _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. vii. pp. 350, 359. But by far the best account of the influence of these northern clergy will be found in _M'Crie's Life of Melville_ (vol. ii. pp. 100-105, 109, 131, 152), drawn, in several instances, from manuscript authorities. Compare _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. v. p. 625. In 1597, the movement began. From then, until 1600, successive Assemblies sanctioned different changes, all of which were marked by that aristocratic tendency which seemed about to carry everything before it. In 1600, the General Assembly met at Montrose; and government determined on making a final effort to compel the Church to establish an episcopal polity. Andrew Melville, by far the most influential man in the Church, and the leader of the democratic party, had been elected, as usual, a member of the Assembly; but the king, arbitrarily interposing, refused to allow him to take his seat.[284] Still, neither by threats, nor by force, nor by promises, could the court carry their point. All that they obtained was, that certain ecclesiastics should be allowed to sit in parliament; but it was ordered that such persons should every year lay their commissions at the feet of the General Assembly, and render an account of their conduct. The Assembly was to have the power of deposing them; and, to keep them in greater subjection, they were forbidden to call themselves bishops, but were to be content with the inferior title of Commissioners of the Church.[285] [284] This is related by his nephew, James Melville. 'Mr. Andro Melvill come to the Assembly, by Commissoune of his Presbytrie, but wes commandit to keip his ludgeing; quho, being callit to the King in private, and demandit, Quhy he wes so trublesume as to come to the Assembly being dischairgit? He answerit, He had a calling in the Kirk of God, and of Jesus Chryst, the King of kings, quhilk he behovit to dischairge at all occasiounes, being orderlie callit thairto, as he wes at this tyme; and that for feir of a grytter punischment then could any earthly King inflict.' _The Autobiography and Diary of James Melvill_, p. 542. [285] As, owing to the passions of the rival classes, every step of this part of Scotch history is the subject of angry controversy, and as even Mr. Tytler (_History of Scotland_, vol. vii. p. 360) asserts that 'the final establishment of Episcopacy' took place at the Assembly of Montrose, in 1600. I subjoin a few extracts from the enactments of that Assembly, in order that the reader may judge for himself, and may test the accuracy of what I have stated in the text. 'Concerning the maner of choosing of him that sall have vote in Parliament in name of the Kirk: It is condiscendit vpon, that _he sall first be recommendit be the Kirk to his Majestie_; and that the Kirk sall nominat sixe for every place that sall have neid to be filled, of quhom his Majestie sall choose ane, of quhom he best lykes; and his Majestie promises, obleises, and binds himselfe to choose no vther but ane of that number: And in cace his Majestie refuses the haill vpon ane just reason of ane insufficiency, and of greater sufficiencie of vthers that are not recommendit, the Kirk sall make ane new recommendatioun of men according to the first number, of the quhilk, ane salbe chosin be his Majestie without any farther refuisall or new nominatioun; and he that salbe chosin be his Majestie, salbe admittit be the Synods.' _Acts of the General Assemblies of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 954. 'As to the cautions to keip him, that sall have vote in Parliament, from corruptiouns: They be these following: 1. _That he presume not, at any tyme, to propone at Parliament, Counsell or Conventioun, in name of the Kirk, any thing without expresse warrand and directioun from the Kirk_, and sick things as he sall answer (for) to be for the weill of the Kirk, vnder the paine of depositioun from his office.' ... 2. 'He sall be bound at every Generall Assemblie, to give ane accompt anent the discharge of his commissioun sen the Assemblie gangand befor; _and sall submitt himselfe to thair censure, and stand at thair determinatioun quhatsumever, without appellatioun; and sall seik and obtain ratificatioun of his doings at the said Assemblie, vnder the paine of infamie and excommunicatioun_.' ... 6. 'In the administration of discipline, collatioun of benefices, visitatioun, and all vther points of ecclesiasticall government, he sall neither vsurpe nor acclaime to himselfe _any power or jurisdictioun farther than any vther of the rest of his breither_, unlesse he be imployit be his breither, vnder the paine of deprivatioun.' p. 955. 'Anent his name that for the Kirk sall (have) vote in Parliament: It is advyseit, be vniforme consent of the haill brether, that he salbe callit Commissioner of such a place.' p. 956. 'Therfor the Generall Assemblie having reasonit at length the said questioun, tuiching the continuance of him that sall have vote in Parliament, after votting of the same, finds and decernes, that _he sall annuatim give count of his commission obtainit from the Assemblie, and lay downe the samein at thair feitt_, to be continuit or alterit therfra be his Maiestie and the Assemblie, as the Assemblie, with consent of his Maiestie, sall think most expedient for the weill of the Kirk.' p. 959. After sustaining this repulse, James seems to have been disheartened; as he made no further effort, though he still laboured underhand at the restoration of episcopacy.[286] If he had persevered, it might have cost him his crown. For, his resources were few; he was extremely poor;[287] and recent events had shown that the clergy were stronger than he had supposed. When he thought himself most sure of success, they had subjected him to a mortifying defeat; and this was the more remarkable, as it was entirely their own work; they being by this time so completely separated from the nobles, that they could not rely upon even a single member of that powerful body. [286] 'While James remained in Scotland, the scheme of introducing episcopacy, though never lost sight of, was cautiously prosecuted.' _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. ii. p. 178. [287] James, during the whole of his reign, was chiefly dependent on the money which Elizabeth gave him, and which she dealt out rather niggardly. Such were his necessities, that he was forced to pawn his plate, and, even then, he was often unable to defray his ordinary household expenses. See _Tytler's History of Scotland_, vol. vi. pp. 265, 266, 272, vol. vii. pp. 158, 378-380. _Miscellany of the Spalding Club_, vol. ii. pp. xlv. 114. _Gregory's History of the Western Highlands_, pp. 241, 277. See also a clamorous begging-letter from James to Elizabeth, written in 1591, in _Letters of Queen Elizabeth and James VI._, 1849, 4to, pp. 68, 69. In 1593, she apologizes for sending him only a small sum: 'The small token you shall receave from me I desire yt may serve to make you remember the tyme and my many weighty affaires, wich makes it les than else I would, and I dowt nothing but when you heare all, yow will beare with this.' p. 84. A letter from James Hudson, written about the year 1591, states that 'both the king's table and queen's had like to have been unserved by want; and that the king had nothing he accounted certain to come into his purse, but what he had from the Queen of England.' _Ridpath's Border History_, p. 465, Berwick, 1848, 4to. While affairs were in this state, and while the liberties of Scotland, of which the Church was the guardian, were trembling in the balance, Elizabeth died, and the King of Scotland became also King of England. James at once determined to employ the resources of his new kingdom to curb his old one. In 1604, that is, only the year after his accession to the English throne, he aimed a deadly blow at the Scotch Church, by attacking the independence of their Assemblies; and, by his own authority, he prorogued the General Assembly of Aberdeen.[288] In 1605, he again prorogued it; and, to make his intentions clear, he, this time, refused to fix a day for its future meeting.[289] Hereupon, some of the ministers, deputed by presbyteries, took upon themselves to convene it, which they had an undoubted right to do, as the act of the king was manifestly illegal. On the day appointed, they met in the session-house of Aberdeen. They were ordered to disperse. Having, as they conceived, by the mere fact of assembling, sufficiently asserted their privileges, they obeyed. But James, now backed by the power of England, resolved that they should feel the change of his position, and, therefore, of theirs. In consequence of orders which he sent from London, fourteen of the clergy were committed to prison.[290] Six of them, who denied the authority of the privy-council, were indicted for high treason. They were at once put upon their trial. They were convicted. And sentence of death was only deferred, that the pleasure of the king might first be taken, as to whether he would not be satisfied with some punishment that fell short of sacrificing the lives of these unhappy men.[291] [288] _Laing's History of Scotland_, edit. 1819, vol. iii. p. 28. _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. vi. pp. 264, 323. _Bower's History of the University of Edinburgh_, vol. i. p. 175, Edinburgh, 1817. _Stevenson's History of the Church of Scotland_, p. 88. [289] 'Adde thereunto, that the letter of the commissioner and last moderator, conteaned no certane tyme nor day whereto the said Assemblie sould be prorogued; so that it imported a casting loose and deserting, yea, and tyning of the possessioun of our Assemblie; than the which what could be more dangerous to the libertie and freedom of the Kirk of Jesus Christ, at suche a tyme, namelie of the treatie of the Unioun, when all the estates of the realme, and everie particular are zealous and carefull of their rights and possessiouns?' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. vi. pp. 309, 310. [290] See a list of them in _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. vi. p. 347, where the fourteen names are preserved with pious care. [291] _Pitcairn's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. ii. pp. 494-502. _Forbes' Certaine Records touching the Estate of the Kirk_, edit. Wodrow Society, Edinburgh, 1846, pp. 463-496. 'Delayed the giving forth of the sentence of condemnation till the King's mind were further knowne.' See also _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. vi. pp. 434, 449. When they were found guilty, 'the peiple said, "Certainely this wes a worke of darknes, to mak Chrystis faithfull Ministeres tratouris to the King! God grant he be niver in greater dangeris nor off sic traitouris."' _Melvill's Autobiography and Diary_, p. 626. Their lives, indeed, were spared; but they were subjected to a close imprisonment, and then condemned to perpetual exile.[292] In other parts of the country, similar measures were adopted. Nearly all over Scotland, numbers of the clergy were either imprisoned or forced to fly.[293] Terror and proscription were universal. Such was the panic, that it was generally believed that nothing could prevent the permanent establishment of despotism, unless there were some immediate and providential interference on behalf of the Church and the people.[294] [292] _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. ii. pp. 207, 208. _Pitcairn's Criminal Trials_, vol. ii. p. 504. In connexion with these transactions, a letter is preserved in the Winwood Papers, which is much too curious to be passed over in silence. It is addressed by the Earl of Salisbury to Sir Charles Cornwallis, and is dated 12th September 1605. Salisbury, who was then at the head of affairs, writes, 'True it is that his Majestie seeking to _adorne that kingdome of Scotland with Prelates as they are in England_, some of the Ministers have spurned against it; and althouge his Majestie had ever warranted their calling of General Assemblies upon no other condition, then that they should make him acquainted, receive his warrant, and a commissioner for his Majestie resident in their councells, yet have they (followed with some poor plebecall numbers) presumed to hold their General Assemblies in some parte of the Realme contrarie to his commandement. Whereupon his Majestie hath shewed himself displeased, and cyted divers of them before his councell,' &c. _Memorials of Affairs of State, from the Papers of Sir Ralph Winwood_, London, 1725, folio, vol. ii. p. 132. And yet the man who could write such nonsense as this, and who could only see, in the great democratic movement of the Scotch mind, a disinclination to the _adornment_ of episcopacy, was deemed one of the most eminent statesmen of his time, and his reputation has survived him. If great statesmen discern so little of what is before them and around them, we are tempted to inquire, how much confidence ought to be placed in the opinions of those average statesmen by whom countries are ruled. For my own part, I can only say, that I have had occasion to read many thousand letters written by diplomatists and politicians, and I have hardly ever found an instance of one of them who understood the spirit and tendency of the age in which he lived. [293] 'Ministers in all parts of the country were thrown into prison, or declared rebels, and forced to abscond.' _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. ii. p. 250. Liberty of speech was so completely suppressed, that, in 1605, when the most zealous and intelligent clergy were banished, 'a strait command' (was) 'gevin to magistrats, and uther officiers of burrowis, that in cace any preacher sould speik opinlie aganis that baneisment, or for defence or mentenence of that assemblie, or pray publiklie for ther saiftie, that they sould be noted and manifested to the secret counsell, and corrected for their fault.' _The Historie of King James the Sext_, p. 380. [294] See an eloquent and touching passage, in _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. vi. pp. 696, 697. Nor can it be denied that there were plausible grounds for these apprehensions. The people had no friends except among the clergy, and the ablest of the clergy were either in prison or in exile.[295] To deprive the Church entirely of her leaders, James, in 1606, summoned to London, Melville and seven of his colleagues, under pretence of needing their advice.[296] Having got possession of their persons, he detained them in England.[297] They were forbidden to return to Scotland; and Melville, who was most feared, was committed to custody. He was then imprisoned in the Tower, where he remained four years, and from which he was only liberated on condition of living abroad, and abandoning altogether his native country.[298] The seven ministers who had accompanied him to London were also imprisoned; but, being considered less dangerous than their leader, they, after a time, were allowed to return home. The nephew of Melville was, however, ordered not to travel more than two miles from Newcastle; and his six companions were confined in different parts of Scotland.[299] [295] 'The godliest, wisest, learnedest, and most zealous men of the ministrie in Scotland, were either banished, warded, or detained in Ingland, of purpose that they might not be a lett to the grand designe in hand.' _Row's History of the Kirk_, p. 238. [296] _Scot's Apologetical Narration of the State of the Kirk_, pp. 164, 165. Compare _The Autobiography and Diary of James Melvill_, pp. 642-645. [297] 'Quhen we wer gone out of the Palice a lytle way towards Kingstoune, Mr. Alexander Hay sendis back for us, and withall, in the Uttir Court, reidis to us a chairge from the King not to returne to Scotland, nor to com neire the King, Quein, nor Prince their Courtis, without a speciall calling for and licence.' _Melvill's Autobiography_, p. 661. [298] _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. ii. pp. 246, 252, 260, 337-339, 403, 407-411, 414. This truly great and fearless man died in exile, in 1622. p. 458. [299] _Melvill's Autobiography and Diary_, p. 709. _Scot's Apologetical Narration_, p. 194. _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. ii. pp. 252, 253, 267, 268. Everything now seemed ripe for the destruction of those ideas of equality of which, in Scotland, the Church was the sole representative. In 1610, a General Assembly was held at Glasgow; and, as the members of it were nominated by the crown,[300] whatever the government wished was conceded. By their vote, episcopacy was established, and the authority of the bishops over the ministers was fully recognized.[301] A little earlier, but in the same year, two courts of High Commission were erected, one at Saint Andrews, and one at Glasgow. To them, all ecclesiastical courts were subordinate. They were armed with such immense power, that they could cite any one they pleased before them, could examine him respecting his religious opinions, could have him excommunicated, and could fine or imprison him, just as they thought proper.[302] Finally, and to complete the humiliation of Scotland, the establishment of episcopacy was not considered complete, until an act was performed, which nothing but its being very ignominious, could have saved from being ridiculed as an idle and childish farce. The archbishop of Glasgow, the bishop of Brechin, and the bishop of Galloway, had to travel all the way to London, in order that they might be touched by some English bishops. Incredible as it may appear, it was actually supposed that there was no power in Scotland sufficiently spiritual to turn a Scotchman into a prelate. Therefore it was, that the archbishop of Glasgow and his companions performed what was then an arduous journey to a strange and distant capital, for the sake of receiving some hidden virtue, which, on their return home, they might communicate to their brethren. To the grief and astonishment of their country, these unworthy priests, abandoning the traditions of their native land, and forgetting the proud spirit which animated their fathers, consented to abjure their own independence, to humble themselves before the English Church, and to submit to mummeries, which, in their hearts, they must have despised, but which were now inflicted upon them by their ancient and inveterate foes.[303] [300] 'Royal missives were sent to the presbyteries, nominating the individuals whom they should chuse as their representatives to it.' _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. ii. pp. 387, 388. On the character of its members, compare _Wodrow's History of the Sufferings of the Church of Scotland_, edit. Glasgow, 1838, vol. i. p. 256. _Stevenson's History of the Church of Scotland_, pp. 320, 321. _Crookshank's Church of Scotland_, Edinburgh, 1812, vol. i. p. 28; and _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. vii. pp. 97, 98. [301] _Acts of the General Assemblies of the Kirk_, vol. iii. pp. 1096, 1097. The Assembly even forbad the democratic notion of equality to be advocated. See p. 1101. 'Because it is vncivill that laws and constitutiouns, either Civill or Ecclesiasticall, being anes establischit and in force, by publick and opin consent, sould be controllit and callit in questioun by any person: therfor, it is statute by vniforme consent of this haill Assemblie, that none of the Ministrie either in pulpitt in his preaching, or in the publick exercise, speake and reason against the acts of this present Assemblie, nor dissobey the same, vnder the paine of deprivatioun, being tryit and convict thereof; and _speciallie, that the questioun of equalitie and inequalitie in the Kirk, be not treattit in pulpitt vnder the said paine_.' [302] Mr. Russell (_History of the Church in Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 88), misled, probably, by a passage in _Spottiswoode's History of the Church_, vol. iii. p. 210, says, 'A Court of High Commission was instituted.' But it is certain that there were two such courts; one for the diocese of Saint Andrews, and one for that of Glasgow. See the 'commissioun givin under the great seale to the two archbishops,' dated 15th of February 1610, in _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. vii. pp. 57-62. See also p. 210. They were not united till December 1615. See _Scot's Apologetical Narration of the State of the Kirk_, pp. 218, 239; and _Crookshank's History of the Sufferings of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 28. By the royal commission, these despotic tribunals were authorized (_Calderwood_, vol. vii. p. 59) 'to call before them at suche tymes and places as they salle thinke meete, anie person or persons dwelling and remaining within their provinces respective above writtin of St. Andrews or Glasgow, or within anie dioceis of the same, being offenders ather in life or religioun, whom they hold anie way to be scandalous, and that they take tryell of the same; and if they find them guiltie and impenitent, refusing to acknowledge their offence, they sall give command to the preacher of that parish where they dwell, to proceed with sentence of excommunication against them; which, if it be protracted, and their command by that minister be not presentlie obeyed, they sall conveene anie suche minister before them, and proceed in censuring of him for his disobedience, ather by suspensioun, deprivatioun, or wairding, according as in their discretioun they sall hold his obstinacie and refuse of their directioun to have deserved. And further, to fyne at their discretiouns, imprisoun, or warde anie suche persoun, who being convicted before them, they sall find upon tryell to have deserved anie suche punishment.' Hereupon, Calderwood justly remarks, p. 62: 'This commissioun and executioun thereof, as it exalted the aspyring bishops farre above any prelat that ever was in Scotland, so it putt the king in possessioun of that which he had long tyme hunted for; to witt, of the royall prerogative, and absolute power to use the bodeis and goods of the subjects at pleasure, without forme or processe of the commoun law, even then when the Lower Hous in England was compleaning in their parliament upon the injurie therof. So our bishops were fitt instruments to overthrow the liberteis both of the Kirk and countrie.' [303] See _Stevenson's History of the Church of Scotland_, p. 93, and _Kirkton's History_, p. 15. Kirkton indignantly says, that James 'perswaded a few unworthy men to perjure themselves, and after their episcopall consecration by the English bishops in England, to exercise that odious office in Scotland against their own oath and the consciences of their brethren.' Compare the contemptuous notice, in _Row's History of the Kirk_, p. 283, on the 'anoynting of oyle and other ceremonies,' and on 'the foolish guyses in it.' Indeed, on this subject, every Scotch writer who cared for the liberty of his country, expressed himself either with contempt or indignation. We may easily imagine what would be the future conduct of men, who, merely for their own aggrandizement, and to please their prince, could thus renounce the cherished independence of the Scotch Church. They who crouch to those who are above them always trample on those who are below them. Directly they returned to Scotland, they communicated the consecration they had received in England to their fellow-bishops,[304] who were of the like mould to themselves, in so far as all of them aided James in his attempt to subjugate the liberties of their native country. Being now properly ordained, their spiritual life was complete; it remained for them to secure the happiness of their temporal life. This they did, by gradually monopolizing all authority, and treating with unsparing severity those who opposed them. The fall triumph of the bishops was reserved for the reign of Charles I., when a number of them obtained seats in the privy-council, where they behaved with such overbearing insolence, that even Clarendon, notwithstanding his notorious partiality for their order, censures their conduct.[305] In the time, however, of James I., they carried nearly everything before them.[306] They deprived the towns of their privileges, and forced them to receive magistrates of their own choosing.[307] They accumulated wealth, and made an ostentatious display of it; which was the more disgraceful, as the country was miserably poor, and their fellow-subjects were starving around them.[308] The Lords of the Articles, without whose sanction no measure could be presented to parliament, had been hitherto elected by laymen; but the bishops now effected a change, by virtue of which the right of nomination devolved on themselves.[309] Having thus gained possession of the legislature, they obtained the enactment of fresh penalties against their countrymen. Great numbers of the clergy they suspended; others they deprived of their benefices; others they imprisoned. The city of Edinburgh, being opposed to the rites and ceremonies lately introduced, and being, like the rest of the country, hostile to episcopacy, the bishops fell on it also, displaced several of its magistrates, seized some of the principal citizens, and threatened to deprive it of the courts of justice, and of the honour of being the seat of government.[310] [304] Calderwood, with ill-suppressed bitterness, says, 'efter the same maner that they were consecrated themselfs, _als neere as they could imitate_.' _History of the Kirk_, vol. vii. p. 152. Compare _Wodrow's Collections_, vol. i. part i. p. 293. 'The Bishops ordeaned in England keeped as near the manner taken with themselves there as they could.' [305] 'Some of them, by want of temper, or want of breeding, did not behave themselves with that decency in their debates, towards the greatest men of the kingdom, as in discretion they ought to have done, and as the others reasonably expected from them.' _Clarendon's History of the Rebellion_, edit. Oxford, 1843, p. 35. In 1633, 'nine of them were privy councillors;' and 'their pride was cried out upon as unsupportable.' _Burnet's Memoirs of the Dukes of Hamilton_, p. 38. Sir John Scot imputes to them 'insolence, pride, and avarice.' _Scot's Staggering State of the Scots Statesmen_, Edinburgh, 1754, p. 41. See also _Spalding's History of the Troubles_, vol. i. pp. 46, 47, Edinburgh, 1828, 4to. [306] So early as 1613, a letter from James Inglish (preserved in _Wodrow's Collections_, vol. ii. part i. p. 110, Glasgow, 1845, 4to) complains that 'the libertys of the Lord's Kirk are greatly abridged by the pride of Bishops, and their power daily increases over her.' Civil rights were equally set at nought by the bishops; and, among other enactments which they obtained, one was, 'that no man should be permitted to practise or profess any physic, unless he had first satisfied the bishop of the diocese touching his religion.' _Spottiswoode's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 236. This at once gave them the control of the whole medical profession. [307] 'Not satisfied with ruling the church-courts, they claimed an extensive civil authority within their dioceses. The burghs were deprived of their privileges, and forced to receive such magistrates as their episcopal superiors, in concert with the court, were pleased to nominate.' ... 'Archbishop Gladstanes, in a letter to the King, June the 9th 1611, says: "It was your pleasure and direction, that I sould be possessed with the like privileges in the electione of the magistrats there (in St. Andrews), as my lord of Glasgow is endued with in that his city. Sir, whereas they are troublesome, I will be answerable to your Majesty and Counsell for them, after that I be possessed of my right." Ms. in Bibl. Jurid. Edin. M. 6, 9. n^o. 72.' _M'Crie's Life of Melville_, vol. ii. p. 422. [308] And their prodigality was equal to their rapacity. When Archbishop Gladstanes died, in 1615, it was ascertained that, 'notwithstanding of the great rent of his bishoprick, he died in the debt of twentie thowsand pounds.' _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. vii. p. 197. See also p. 303. Also the case of the Bishop of Galloway, who died in 1619, and of whom Calderwood says (_History of the Kirk_, vol. vii. p. 350), 'It is thought, that if just calculation were made of the commoditie extorted by him through his diocie, by advice of his two covetous counsellours, Andro Couper, his brother, and Johne Grilmour, wrytter in Edinburgh, for his use and theirs, by racting of rents, getting of grassoumes, setting of tacks, of teithes, and other like meanes, wold surmount the soume of an hundreth thousand merks, or, in the opinion of others, almost the double; so that manie within that diocie, and the annexed prelacies, sall hardlie recover their estates in their time.' Compare _Stevenson's History of the Church_, pp. 212, 392. [309] On this change, which was completed in 1621, see _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 88; _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. vii. p. 490; and _Baillie's Letters and Journals_, vol. i. p. 486, edit. Laing, Edinburgh, 1841. [310] _Calderwood's History of the Kirk_, vol. vii. pp. 472-474, 507, 509, 511, 517-520, 530-543, 549-553, 566, 567, 614, 621. _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. pp. 90, 91. Laing, very unjustly, accuses the bishops of being so merciful as to disapprove of some of these transactions. But whoever has read much of the Scotch literature of the seventeenth century, will cheerfully exonerate the bishops from a charge, which they would themselves have repelled, and to which they are nowise amenable. In the midst of all this, and while things seemed to be at their worst, a great reaction was preparing. And the explanation of the reaction is to be found in that vast and pregnant principle, on which I have often insisted, but which our common historians are unable to understand; namely, that a bad government, bad laws, or laws badly administered, are, indeed, extremely injurious at the time, but can produce no permanent mischief; in other words, they may harm a country, but can never ruin it. As long as the people are sound, there is life, and while there is life, there will be reaction. In such case, tyranny provokes rebellion, and despotism causes freedom. But if the people are unsound, all hope is gone, and the nation perishes. In both instances, government is, in the long run, inoperative, and is nowise responsible for the ultimate result. The ruling classes have, for the moment, immense power, which they invariably abuse, except when they are restrained, either by fear, or by shame. The people may inspire them with fear; public opinion may inspire them with shame. But whether or not that shall happen, depends on the spirit of the people, and on the state of opinion. These two circumstances are themselves governed by a long chain of antecedents, stretching back to a period, always very distant, and sometimes so remote as to baffle observation. When the evidence is sufficiently abundant, those antecedents may be generalized; and their generalization conducts us to certain large and powerful causes, on which the whole movement depends. In short periods, the operation of these causes is imperceptible, but in long periods, it is conspicuous and supreme; it colours the national character; it controls the great sweep and average of affairs. In Scotland, as I have already shown, general causes made the people love their clergy, and made the clergy love liberty. As long as these two facts coëxisted, the destiny of the nation was safe. It might be injured, insulted, and trampled upon. It might be harmed in various ways; but the greater the harm, the surer the remedy, because the higher the spirit of the country would be roused. All that was needed was, a little more time, and a little more provocation. We, who, standing at a distance, can contemplate these matters from an elevation, and see how events pressed on and thickened, cannot mistake the regularity of their sequence. Notwithstanding the apparent confusion, all was orderly and methodical. To us, the scheme is revealed. There is the fabric, and it is of one hue, and one make. The pattern is plainly marked, and fortunately it was worked into a texture, whose mighty web was not to be broken, either by the arts, or the violence, of designing men. It was, therefore, of no avail that tyranny did her utmost. It was of no avail that the throne was occupied by a despotic and unscrupulous king, who was succeeded by another, more despotic and more unscrupulous than himself. It was of no avail that a handful of meddling and intrusive bishops, deriving their consecration from London, and supported by the authority of the English church, took counsel together, and conspired against the liberties of their native land. They played the part of spies and of traitors, but they played it in vain. Yet, everything that government could give them, it gave. They had the law on their side, and they had the right of administering the law. They were legislators, councillors, and judges. They had wealth; they had high-sounding titles; they had all the pomp and attributes for which they bartered their independence, and with which they hoped to dazzle the eyes of the vulgar. Still, they could not turn back the stream; they could not even stop it; they could not prevent it from coming on, and swallowing them up in its course. Before that generation passed away, these little men, big though they were in their own conceit, succumbed, and fell. The hand of the age was upon them, and they were unable to resist. They were struck down, and humbled; they were stripped of their offices, their honours, and their splendour: they lost all which minds like theirs hold most dear. Their fate is an instructive lesson. It is a lesson, both to the rulers of nations, and to those who write the history of nations. To rulers, in so far as it is one of many proofs how little they can do, and how insignificant is the part which they play in the great drama of the world. To historians, the result should be especially instructive, as convincing them that the events on which they concentrate their attention, and which they believe to be of supreme importance, are in reality of trifling value, and, so far from holding the first rank, ought to be made subservient to those large and comprehensive studies, by whose aid alone, we can ascertain the conditions which determine the tread and destiny of nations. The events that now happened in Scotland, may be quickly told. The patience of the country was well-nigh exhausted, and the day of reckoning was at hand.[311] In 1637, the people began to rise. In the summer of that year, the first great riot broke out in Edinburgh.[312] The flame quickly spread, and nothing could stop it. By October, the whole nation was up, and an accusation was preferred against the bishops, which was signed by nearly every corporation, and by men of all ranks.[313] In November, the Scotch, in defiance of the Crown, organized a system of representation of their own, in which every class had a share.[314] Early in 1638, the National Covenant was framed; and the eagerness with which it was sworn to, showed that the people were determined, at all hazards, to vindicate their rights.[315] It was now evident that all was over. During the summer of 1638, preparations were made, and, in the autumn, the storm broke. In November, the first General Assembly seen in Scotland for twenty years, met at Glasgow.[316] The Marquis of Hamilton, the king's commissioner, ordered the members to separate.[317] They refused.[318] Nor would they disband, until they had done the work expected from them.[319] By their vote, the democratic institution of presbyteries was restored to its old power; the forms of consecration were done away with; the bishops were degraded from their functions, and episcopacy was abolished.[320] [311] In October 1637, Baillie, who was carefully watching the course of affairs, writes, 'No man may speak any thing in publick for the king's part, except he would have himself marked for a sacrifice to be killed one day. I think our people possessed with a bloody devill, farr above any thing that ever I could have imagined, though the masse in Latine had been presented.' And, in a postscript, dated 3rd October, he adds: 'My fears in my former went no farther then to ane ecclesiastik separation, but now I am more affrayit for a bloudie civill warr.' _Baillie's Letters and Journals_, edit. Laing, Edinburgh, 1841, vol. i. pp. 23, 25. [312] _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 131. _Chambers' Annals_, vol. ii. pp. 101-104. _Spalding's History of the Troubles in Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 47, 48. [313] 'The accusation, among themselves a bond of union, and to their enemies a signal of hostility, was subscribed by the nobility, the gentry, the clergy, and afterwards by all ranks, and almost by every corporation in the kingdom.' _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 137. [314] _Ibid._, vol. iii. p. 138. [315] 'It was signed by a large majority of the people, in a paroxysm of enthusiasm beyond all example in our history.' _Chambers' Annals_, vol. ii. p. 105. Kirkton, who was a contemporary, says, 'And though only eleven private men (and some of them very inconsiderable) had the boldness first to begin this work, without ever asking leave of king or council, yet was it very quickly taken by all the people of Scotland, with hands lifted up in most solemn manner.' _Kirkton's History of the Church of Scotland_, p. 33. Lord Somerville, taking a somewhat different view of affairs, remarks, that 'the generalitie of the natione entered into a hellish covenant, wherein they mutually obleidged themselves to extirpate episcopacy, and to defend each other against all persones whatsoever, noe not excepting the persone of his sacred majestie; but upon conditiones of ther oune frameing.' _Somerville's Memorie of the Somervilles_, vol. ii. p. 187. [316] There had been no General Assembly since 1618. _Argyll's Presbytery Examined_, p. 102; and the _Spottiswoode Miscellany_, vol. i. p. 88. But 'the provincial synods, presbyteries, and sessions still remained, and in these, good men mutually comforted one another.' _Stevenson's History of the Church of Scotland_, p. 162. [317] 'The assembly went on at such a rate, that the marquis judged it no longer fit to bear with their courses.' _Burnet's Memoirs of the Dukes of Hamilton_, p. 128. 'In end, seeing nothing said in reason did prevail, he, in his majesty's name, dissolved the assembly, and discharged their further proceeding under pain of treason.' p. 135. [318] _Stevenson's History of the Church of Scotland_, p. 310. [319] 'Notwithstanding the Proclamation, the Assembly presently thereafter met, and sat daily for divers weeks, until they had done their affairs, and were themselves pleas'd to dissolve.' _Guthry's Memoirs_, p. 41, edit. London, 1702. [320] _Acts of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland_, from 1638 to 1842, Edinburgh, 1843, pp. 9-18. _Stevenson's History of the Church of Scotland_, pp. 332, 338. Thus, the bishops fell, even more rapidly than they had risen.[321] As, however, their fall was merely a part of the democratic movement, matters could not stop there.[322] Scarcely had the Scotch expelled their bishops, when they made war upon their king. In 1639, they took up arms against Charles. In 1640, they invaded England. In 1641, the king, with the hope of appeasing them, visited Scotland, and agreed to most of their demands. It was too late. The people were hot, and a cry for blood had gone forth. War again broke out. The Scotch united with the English, and Charles was every where defeated. As a last chance, he threw himself upon the mercy of his northern subjects,[323] But his offences were of that rank and luxuriant growth, that it was impossible to forgive them. Indeed, the Scotch, instead of pardoning him, turned him to profit. He had not only trampled on their liberties, he had also put them to an enormous expense. For the injury, he could offer no adequate atonement; but the expense they had incurred, might be defrayed. And as it is an old and recognized maxim, that he who cannot pay with his purse, shall pay with his body, the Scotch saw no reason why they should not derive some advantage from the person of their sovereign, particularly as, hitherto, he had caused them nothing but loss and annoyance. They, therefore, gave him up to the English, and, in return, received a large sum of money, which they claimed as arrears due to them for the cost of making war on him.[324] By this arrangement, both of the contracting parties benefited. The Scotch, being very poor, obtained what they most lacked. The English, a wealthy people, had indeed to pay the money, but they were recompensed by getting hold of their oppressor, against whom they thirsted for revenge; and they took good care never to let him loose, until they had exacted the last penalty of his great and manifold crimes.[325] [321] See, on their fall, some highly characteristic remarks in _Baillie's Letters and Journals_, vol. i. p. 168. In 1639, Howell writes from Edinburgh, 'The Bishops are all gone to wrack, and they have had but a sorry funeral; the very name is grown so contemptible, that a black dog, if he hath any white marks about him, is called _Bishop_. Our Lord of Canterbury is grown here so odious, that they call him commonly in the pulpit, the Priest of Baal, and the Son of Belial.' _Howell's Letters_, edit. London, 1754, p. 276. [322] 'That people, after they had once begun, pursued the business vigorously, and with all imaginable contempt of the government.' _Clarendon's History of the Rebellion_, p. 45. Now, for the first time, the English government began to tremble. On 13th December 1639, Secretary Windebank writes, 'His Majesty near these six weeks last past hath been in continual consultations with a select Committee of some of his Council (of which I have had the honour to be one), how to redress his affairs in Scotland, the fire continuing there, and growing to that danger, that _it threatens not only the Monarchical Government there, but even that of this kingdom_.' _Clarendon State Papers_, vol. ii. p. 81, Oxford, 1773, folio. This is the earliest intimation I have met with of Charles and his advisers being aware of their real peril. But though the king was capable of fear, he was incapable of compunction. There is no evidence on record, to show that he even felt remorse for having planned and executed those arbitrary and unprincipled measures, by which he inflicted immense misery upon Scotland and England, but more especially upon Scotland. [323] 'The kinge was now so waik, haueing nether toune, fort, nor armie, and Oxford being a waik and onfortified toune, from whence he looked daylie to be taken perforce, he therefor resolues to cast himself into the arms of the Scots; who, being his natine people, and of late so ongratfullie dealt with by the Inglish, he hoped their particular credit, and the credit of the wholl natione depending thereupon, they would not baslie rander him to the Inglish.' _Gordon's Britane's Distemper_, p. 193, published by the Spalding Club, Aberdeen, 1844, 4to. [324] That it may not be supposed, that, as an Englishman, I misrepresent this transaction by looking at it from an English point of view, I will merely quote what Scotch writers have said respecting it. 'Giveing up the king to the will and pleasure of the English parliament, that soe they might come by ther money.' _Somerville's Memorie of the Somervilles_, vol. ii. p. 366. 'The Scots sold their unfortunate king, who had fled to them for protection, to the commissioners of the English Parliament, for 200,000_l._ sterling.' _Lyon's History of St. Andrews_, vol. ii. p. 38. 'The incident itself was evidence of a bargain with a _quid pro quo_.' _Burton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 493. 'The sale of the king to the parliament.' _Napier's Life of Montrose_, Edinburgh, 1840, p. 448. 'The king was delivered up, or rather sold, to the parliament's commissioners.' _Brown's History of Glasgow_, vol. i. p. 91. 'Their arrears were undoubtedly due; the amount was ascertained before the dispute concerning the disposal of his person, and the payment was undertaken by the English parliament, five months previous to the delivery, or surrender of the king. But the coincidence, however unavoidable, between that event and the actual discharge and departure of their army, still affords a presumptive proof of the disgraceful imputation of having sold their king; "as the English, unless previously assured of receiving his person, would never have relinquished a sum so considerable as to weaken themselves, while it strengthened a people with whom such a material question remained to be discussed."' _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. pp. 369, 370. [325] A letter from Sir Edw. Hyde to Lord Hatton, dated April 12, 1649 (in the _Clarendon State Papers_, vol. ii. p. 479, Oxf. 1773, fol.), says of Charles II., that the Scotch 'sold his father to those who murdered him.' But this is not true. Charles I., though certainly bought by the English, was not murdered by them. He was tried in the face of day; he was found guilty; he was executed. And most assuredly never did a year pass, without men far less criminal than he, suffering the same fate. Possibly, they are right who deem all capital punishment needless. That, however, has never been proved; and if this last and most terrible penalty is ever to be exacted, I cannot tell where we should find a more fitting subject to undergo it, than a despot who seeks to subjugate the liberties of the people over whom he is called to rule, inflicts cruel and illegal punishment on those who oppose him, and, sooner than renounce his designs, engages in a civil war, setting fathers against their children, disorganizing society, and causing the land to run with blood. Such men are outlaws; they are the enemies of the human race; who shall wonder if they fall, or, having fallen, who shall pity them? After the execution of Charles I., the Scotch recognized his son as his successor. But before they would crown the new king, they subjected him to a treatment which hereditary sovereigns are not much accustomed to receive. They made him sign a public declaration, expressing his regret for what had happened, and acknowledging that his father, moved by evil counsels, had unjustly shed the blood of his subjects. He was also obliged to declare, that by these things he felt humbled in spirit. He had, moreover, to apologize for his own errors, which he ascribed partly to his inexperience, and partly to the badness of his education.[326] To evince the sincerity of this confession, and in order that the confession might be generally known, he was commanded to keep a day of fasting and humiliation, in which the whole nation would weep and pray for him, in the hope that he might escape the consequences of the sins committed by his family.[327] [326] The declaration was signed by Charles on the 16th August 1650. An abridgment of it is given in _Balfour's Annales of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 92-94; but the entire document is preserved by Sir Edward Walker. See _Journal of Affairs in Scotland_, in _Walker's Historical Discourses_, London, folio, 1705, pp. 170-176. In it Charles is made to state that, 'though his Majesty as a dutiful son be obliged to honour the memory of his Royal Father, and have in estimation the person of his Mother; yet doth he desire to be deeply humbled and afflicted in spirit before God, because of his Father's hearkening unto and following evil councils, and his opposition to the work of reformation, and to the solemn league and covenant by which so much of the blood of the Lord's people hath been shed in these kingdoms.' He went on to say, that though he might palliate his own misconduct by pleading 'his education and age,' he thinks it better to 'ingeniously acknowledge all his own sins and the sins of his father's house.' Burnet (_History of his own Time_, vol. i. p. 97) says of this declaration: 'In it there were many hard things. The king owned the sin of his father in marrying into an idolatrous family: he acknowledged the bloodshed in the late wars lay at his father's door: he expressed a deep sense of his own ill education,' &c. [327] In reference to this event the following entry occurs in Lamont's Journal: '1650, Dec. 22.--The fast appointed by the commission of the kirke to be keiped througe the kingdome before the coronatione, was keiped att Largo the forsaide day by Mr. Ja. Magill; his lecture, Reu. 3. from v. 14 to the end of the chapt.; his text Reu. 2. 4, 5. Vpon the Thursday following, the 26 of this instant, the fast was keiped in likemaner; his lecture 2. Chro. 29 to v. 12; his text 2. Chron. 12, 12. The causes of the first day (not read) was, the great contempt of the gospell, holden forth in its branches; of the second day (which were read), the sinns of the king, and of his father's house, where sundry offences of K. James the 6 were aknowledged, and of K. Charles the 1, and of K. Ch. the 2, nowe king.' _The Diary of Mr. John Lamont of Newton_, p. 25, Edinburgh, 1830, 4to. See also _Baillie's Letters and Journals_, vol. iii. p. 107; _Nicoll's Diary_, Edinburgh, 4to, 1836, p. 38; _Row's Continuation of Blair's Autobiography_, edit. Wodrow Society, p. 255; _Bower's History of the University of Edinburgh_, vol. i. p. 253; _Presbytery Book of Strathbogie_, edit. Spalding Club, p. 169; and, above all, the _Registers of the Presbytery of Lanark_, published by the Abbotsford Club, Edinburgh, 1839, 4to, pp. 88, 89. The spirit, of which acts like these are but symptoms, continued to animate the Scotch during the rest of the seventeenth century. And fortunately for them it did so. For, the reigns of Charles II. and James II. were but repetitions of the reigns of James I. and Charles I. From 1660 to 1688, Scotland was again subjected to a tyranny, so cruel, and so exhausting, that it would have broken the energy of almost any other nation.[328] The nobles, whose power had been slowly but constantly declining,[329] were unable to resist the English, with whom, indeed, they rather seemed willing to combine, in order that they might have a share in plundering and oppressing their own country.[330] In this, the most unhappy period through which Scotland had passed since the fourteenth century, the government was extremely powerful; the upper classes, crouching before it, thought only of securing their own safety; the judges were so corrupt, that justice, instead of being badly administered, was not administered at all;[331] and the parliament, completely overawed, consented to what was termed the recissory act, by which, at a single stroke, all laws were repealed which had been enacted since 1633; it being considered that those twenty-eight years formed an epoch of which the memory should, if possible, be effaced.[332] [328] Wodrow, who had before him the records of the Privy Council, besides other evidence now lost, says, that the period from 1660 to 1688 was 'a very horrid scene of oppression, hardships, and cruelty, which, were it not incontestably true, and well vouched and supported, could not be credited in after ages.' _Wodrow's History of the Church of Scotland from the Restoration to the Revolution_, vol. i. p. 57. And the Reverend Alexander Shields, quaintly, but truly, observes, 'that the said Government was the most untender, unpeaceable, tyrannical, arbitrary and wicked, that ever was in Scotland in any age or period.' _Shields' Scots Inquisition_, Edinburgh, 1745, p. 24. [329] When James I. ascended the throne of England, 'the principal native nobility' accompanied him; and 'the very peace which ensued upon the union of the crowns, may be considered as the commencement of an era in which many of our national strongholds were either transformed into simple residences or utterly deserted.' _Irving's History of Dumbartonshire_, 4to, 1860, pp. 137, 166. The nobles 'had no further occasion to make a figure in war, their power in vassalage was of little use, and their influence of course decayed. They knew little of the arts of peace, and had no disposition to cultivate them.' _The Interest of Scotland Considered_, Edinburgh, 1733, p. 85. Under Charles I., the movement continued; 'which fell out, partly through the giddiness of the times, but more by the way his Majesty had taken at the beginning of his reign; at which time he did recover from divers of them their hereditary offices, and also pressed them to quit their tithes (which formerly had kept the gentry in a dependance upon them), whereby they were so weaken'd that now when he stood most in need of them (except the chief of the clans) they could command none but their vassals.' _Guthry's Memoirs_, edit. 1702, pp. 127, 128. Then came the civil wars, and the rule of Cromwell, during which they suffered both in person and in property. Compare _Chambers' Annals_, vol. ii. p. 225, with _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. pp. 515, 516. In 1654, Baillie writes (_Letters and Journals_, vol. iii. p. 249): 'Our nobilitie, weell near all, are wracked.' In 1656, 'Our nobles lying up in prisons, and under forfaultries, or debts, private or publict, are for the most part either broken or breaking.' _Ibid._, p. 317. And, in 1658, the same observer writes (vol. iii. p. 387): 'Our noble families are almost gone: Lennox hes little in Scotland unsold; Hamilton's estate, except Arran and the Baronrie of Hamilton, is sold; Argyle can pay little annuelrent for seven or eight hundred thousand merks; and he is no more drowned in debt than publict hatred, almost of all, both Scottish and English; the Gordons are gone; the Douglasses little better; Eglintoun and Glencairn on the brink of breaking; many of our chief families estates are cracking; nor is there any appearance of any human relief for the tyme.' The result of all this is thus described by Wodrow, under the year 1661: 'Our nobility and gentry were remarkably changed to the worst: it was but few of such, who had been active in the former years, were now alive, and those few were marked out for ruin. A young generation had sprung up under the English government, educated under penury and oppression; their estates were under burden, and many of them had little other prospect of mending their fortunes, but by the king's favour, and so were ready to act that part he was best pleased with.' _Wodrow's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 89. [330] 'At the Restoration, Charles II. regained full possession of the royal prerogative in Scotland; and the nobles, whose estates were wasted, or their spirit broken, by the calamities to which they have been exposed, were less able and less willing than ever to resist the power of the crown. During his reign, and that of James VII., the dictates of the monarch were received in Scotland with most abject submission. The poverty to which many of the nobles were reduced, rendered them meaner slaves and more intolerable tyrants than ever. The people, always neglected, were now odious, and loaded with every injury, on account of their attachment to religious and political principles, extremely repugnant to those adopted by their princes.' _Robertson's History of Scotland_, book viii. pp. 257, 258. [331] A writer of great authority, speaking of the time of William III., says: 'It is scarcely possible to conceive how utterly polluted the fountain of justice had become during the two preceding reigns. The Scottish bench had been profligate and subservient to the utmost conceivable extent of profligacy and subserviency.' _Burton's History of Scotland_, from 1689 to 1748, London, 1853, vol. i p. 72. See also vol. ii. p. 37; and _Brown's History of Glasgow_, vol. i. p. 194, Glasgow, 1795. [332] _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 10. _Baillie's Letters and Journals_, vol. iii. p. 458. As few persons take the trouble to read Scotch Acts of Parliament, I will extract from this one, its most argumentative passage. 'And forasmuch as now it hath pleased Almighty God, by the power of his oune right hand, so miracoulously to restore the Kings Maiestie to the Government of his Kingdomes, and to the exercise of his Royall power and Soveranity over the same: The estates of Parlia^t doe conceave themselffs obleidged in dischairge of ther duetie and conscience to God and the Kings Maiestie, to imploy all their power and interest for vindicateing his Maiesties Authority from all these violent invasions that have been made upon it; And so far as is possible to _remove out of the way every thing that may retaine any remembrance of these things_ which have been so enjurious to his Màtie and his Authority, so prejudiciall and dishonourable to the kingdome, and distructive to all just and true interests within the same.' ... 'Not to retaine any remembrance thairof, but that the same shall be held in _everlasting oblivion_.' _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. vii. p. 87, edit. folio, 1820. The date of this Act is 28th March 1661. But, though the higher ranks ignominiously deserted their post, and destroyed the laws which upheld the liberties of Scotland, the result proved that the liberties themselves were indestructible. This was because the spirit remained, by which the liberties had been won. The nation was sound at the core; and while that was the case, legislators could, indeed, abolish the external manifestations of freedom, but could by no means touch the causes on which the freedom depended. Liberty was prostrate, but yet it lived. And the time would surely come, when a people, who loved it so dearly, would vindicate their rights. The time would come, when, in the words of the great poet of English liberty, the nation would rouse herself like a strong man after sleep, and, shaking her invincible locks, would be as an eagle muing her mighty youth, kindling her undazzled eyes at the midday beam, and purging and unscaling her sight at the heavenly fountain; while the timorous birds of her evil destiny, loving the twilight, should flutter about, amazed at what she meant. Still, the crisis was sad and dangerous. The people, deserted by every one except their clergy, were ruthlessly plundered, murdered, and hunted, like wild-beasts, from place to place. From the tyranny of the bishops, they had so recently smarted, that they abhorred episcopacy more than ever; and yet that institution was not only forced upon them, but government put at its head Sharp, a cruel and rapacious man, who, in 1661, was raised to the archbishopric of St. Andrews.[333] He set up a court of ecclesiastical commission, which filled the prisons to overflowing; and when they would hold no more, the victims were transported to Barbadoes, and other unhealthy settlements.[334] The people, being determined not to submit to the dictation of government respecting their religious worship, met together in private houses; and, when that was declared illegal, they fled from their houses to the fields. But there, too, the bishops were upon them.[335] Lauderdale, who, for many years, was at the head of affairs, was greatly influenced by the new prelates, and aided them with the authority of the executive.[336] Under their united auspices, a new contrivance was hit upon; and a body of soldiers, commanded by Turner, a drunken and ferocious soldier, was let loose upon the people.[337] The sufferers, galled to madness, rose in arms. This was made the pretence, in 1667, for fresh military executions, by which some of the fairest parts of western Scotland were devastated, houses burned, men tortured, women ravished.[338] In 1670, an act of parliament was passed, declaring that whoever preached in the fields without permission should be put to death.[339] Some lawyers were found bold enough to defend innocent men, when they were tried for their lives; it was therefore determined to silence them also, and, in 1674, a great part of the Faculty of Advocates was expelled from Edinburgh.[340] In 1678, by the express command of government, the Highlanders were brought down from their mountains, and, during three months, were encouraged to slay, plunder, and burn at their pleasure, the inhabitants of the most populous and industrious parts of Scotland. For centuries, the bitterest animosity had existed between the Highlanders and Lowlanders; and now these savage mountaineers were called from their homes, that they might take full revenge. And well they glutted their ire. During three months, they enjoyed every license. Eight thousand[341] armed Highlanders, invited by the English government, and receiving beforehand an indemnity for every excess,[342] were left to work their will upon the towns and villages of Western Scotland. They spared neither age nor sex. They deprived the people of their property; they even stripped them of their clothes, and sent them out naked to die in the fields. Upon many, they inflicted the most horrible tortures. Children, torn from their mothers, were foully abused; while both mothers and daughters were subjected to a fate, compared to which death would have been a joyful alternative.[343] [333] He was made 'primate' in 1661, but did not arrive in Scotland till April 1662. _Wodrow's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 236, 247; and _Nicoll's Diary_, pp. 363, 364. 'That he was decent, if not regular, in his deportment, endued with the most industrious diligence, and not illiterate, was never disputed; that he was vain, vindictive, perfidious, at once haughty and servile, rapacious and cruel, his friends have never attempted to disown.' _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 98, 99. The formal establishment of episcopacy was in the autumn of 1661, as we learn from an entry in Lamont's Diary. '1661. Sept. 5 being Thursday, (the chancelour, Glencairne, and the E. of Rothes, haueing come downe from court some dayes before,) the cownsell of state satt att Edb., and the nixt day, being Fryday, they caused emitte and be proclaimed ouer the Crosse, a proclamation in his Maj. name, for establishing Episcopacie againe in the church of Scotlande; which was done with great solemnitie, and was afterwarde printed. _All persons, wither men or weomen, were discharged to speake against that office, under the paine of treason._' _The Diary of Mr. John Lamont_, p. 140. This, as we learn from another contemporary, was on account of 'the Kinges Majestie having stedfastlie resolvit to promove the estait, power, and dignitie of Bischops, and to _remove all impedimentes contrary thairto_.' _Nicoll's Diary_, 4to, p. 353; on 21st November 1661. This curious diary, written by John Nicoll, and extending from 1650 to 1667, was printed at Edinburgh, in 1836, by the Bannatyne Club, and is now not often met with. [334] _Wodrow's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 383, 390-395. _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 38: 'A court of ecclesiastical commission was procured by Sharp.' See also p. 41: 'Under the influence of Sharp and the prelates, which Lauderdale's friends were unable to resist, the government seemed to be actuated by a blind resentment against its own subjects.' Compare _Burnet's History of his own Time_, vol. i. p. 365. 'The truth is, the whole face of the government looked liker the proceedings of an inquisition than of legal courts; and yet Sharp was never satisfied.' Another contemporary, Kirkton, says of these Commissioners: 'For ought I could hear, never one appeared before them that escapt without punishment. Their custom was without premonition or lybell, to ask a man a question, and judge him presently, either upon his silence or his answer.' ... 'They many times doubled the legal punishment; and not being satisfied with the fyne appointed by law, they used to add religation to some remote places, or deportation to Barbadoes, or selling into slavery.' _Kirkton's History of the Church of Scotland_, p. 206. See also _Naphtali, or the Wrestlings of the Church of Scotland_, 1667, pp. 126-130. But as particular cases bring such matters more clearly before the mind, I will transcribe, from _Crookshank's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 154, the sentences pronounced on a single occasion by this episcopal court. 'The treatment of some of the parishioners of Ancrum is not to be omitted. When their excellent minister, Mr. Livingstone, was taken from them, one Mr. James Scot, who was under the sentence of excommunication, was presented to that charge. On the day fixed for his settlement, several people did meet together to oppose it; and particularly a country woman, desiring to speak with him in order to dissuade him from intruding himself upon a reclaiming people, pulled him by the cloak, intreating him to hear her a little; whereupon he turned and beat her with his staff. This provoked two or three boys to throw a few stones, which neither touched him nor any of his company. However, it was presently looked upon as a treasonable tumult, and therefore the sheriff and justices of the peace in that bounds fined and imprisoned some of these people, which, one would think, might atone for a crime of this nature. But the high-commission, not thinking that sufficient, ordered those criminals to be brought before them. Accordingly, the four boys and this woman, with two brothers of hers of the name of Turnbull, were brought prisoners to Edinburgh. The four boys confessed, that, upon Scot's beating the woman, they had thrown each his stone. The commissioner told them that hanging was too good for them. However, the sentence of this merciless court only was, that they should be scourged through the city of Edinburgh, burnt in the face with a hot iron, and then sold as slaves to Barbadoes. The boys endured their punishment like men and Christians, to the admiration of multitudes. The two brothers were banished to Virginia; and the woman was ordered to be whipped through the town of Jedburgh. Burnet, bishop of Glasgow, when applied to that she might be spared lest she should be with child, mildly answered, That he would make them claw the itch out of her shoulders.' [335] They were invested with such immense power, that 'the old set of bishops made by the parliament, 1612, were but pigmies to the present high and mighty lords.' _Wodrow's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 262. See also, at p. 286, the remarks of Douglas: 'It is no wonder then the complaint against their bishops be, that their little finger is thicker than the loins of the former.' [336] In 1663, Middleton was dismissed; and was succeeded by Lauderdale, who 'was dependent upon the prelates, and was compelled to yield to their most furious demands.' _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 33. 'The influence, or rather the tyranny, which was thus at the discretion of the prelates, was unlimited; and they exercised it with an unsparing hand.' _Bower's History of the University of Edinburgh_, vol. i. p. 284. [337] 'Sir James Turner, that commanded them, was naturally fierce, but was mad when he was drunk; and that was very often.' _Burnet's History of his own Time_, vol. i. p. 364. Kirkton (_History of the Church_, p. 221) says: 'Sir James Turner hade made ane expedition to the west countrey _to subdue it to the bishops_, in the year 1664; another in the year 1665; and a third in the year 1666; and this was the worst.' Full particulars will be found in _Wodrow's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 373-375, 411, vol. ii. pp. 8, 17, vol. iii. pp. 264, 265. 'This method of dragooning people to the church, as it is contrary to the spirit of Christianity, so it was a stranger in Scotland, till Bishop Sharpe and the prelates brought it in.' vol. i. p. 401. Sir James Turner, whose Memoirs, written by himself, were not published till thirty years ago, relates an anecdote of his own drunkenness in a strain of maudlin piety well worthy of his career. _Turner's Memoirs of his own Life_, Edinburgh, 1829, 4to, pp. 42, 43. At p. 206, this impudent man writes: 'And yet I confesse, my humour never was, nor is not yet, one of the calmest; when it will be, God onlie knoues; yet by many sad passages of my life, I know that _it hath beene good for me to be afflicted_.' Perhaps, however, he may take the benefit of his assertion (p. 144), 'that I was so farre from exceeding or transgressing my commission and instructions, that I never came the full length of them.' Considering the cruelties he committed, what sort of instructions could his superiors have given to him? [338] 'Sir James Turner lately had forced Galloway to rise in arms, by his cruelty the last and former years; but he was an easy master, compared with General Dalziel, his ruffians, and Sir William Bannatyne, this year.' _Wodrow's Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 62. Dalziel 'cruelly tortured whom he would.' p. 63. One woman 'is brought prisoner to Kilmarnock, where she was sentenced to be let down to a deep pit, under the house of the dean, full of toads and other vile creatures. Her shrieks thence were heard at a great distance.' p. 64. Two countrymen were 'bound together with cords, and hanged up by their thumbs to a tree, there to hang all night.' _Ibid._ Sir William Bannatyne's soldiers seized a woman, 'and bound her, and put lighted matches betwixt her fingers for several hours; the torture and pain made her almost distracted; she lost one of her hands, and in a few days she died.' _Ibid._ 'Oppressions, murders, robberies, rapes.' p. 65. 'He made great fires, and laid down men to roast before them, when they would not, or could not, give him the money he required, or the information he was seeking.' p. 104. See also _Crookshank's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 204-207. The History is based upon Wodrow's great work, but contains many facts with which Wodrow was unacquainted. See _Crookshank_, vol. i. p. 11. Respecting the outrages in 1667, there are some horrible details in a book published in that very year, under the title of _Naphtali, or the Wrestlings of the Church of Scotland_. See, especially, the summary at p. 174: 'wounding, beating, stripping and imprisoning mens persons, violent breaking of their houses both by day and night, and beating and wounding of wives and children, ravishing and deflowring of women, forcing wives and other persons by fired matches and other tortures to discover their husbands and nearest relations, although it be not within the compass of their knowledge, and driving and spoiling all their goods that can be carried away, without respect to guilt or innocency.' [339] 'That whosoever without licence or authoritie forsaid shall preach, expound Scripture, or pray at any of these meetings in the ffeild, or in any house wher ther be moe persons nor the house contains, so as some of them be without doors (which is hereby declared to be a feild conventicle), or who shall convocat any number of people to these meetings, shall be punished with death and confiscation of ther goods.' _Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland_, vol. viii. p. 9, edit. 1820, folio. This was on the 13th August 1670. [340] The immediate pretence being, to do away with appeals. See _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 72-74. [341] 'Savage hosts of Highlanders were sent down to depopulate the western shires, to the number of ten or eleven thousand, who acted most outrageous barbarities, even almost to the laying some counties desolate.' _A Cloud of Witnesses for the Royal Prerogatives of Jesus Christ_, edit. Glasgow, 1779, p. 18. But most authorities state the number to have been eight thousand. See _Kirkton's History_, p. 386; _Arnot's History of Edinburgh_, p. 154; _Burnet's History of his own Time_, vol. ii. p. 134; _Denholm's History of Glasgow_, p. 67; and _Life and Sufferings of John Nisbet_, in _Select Biographies_, published by the Wodrow Society, vol. ii. p. 381. Chalmers, however, in his _Caledonia_, vol. iii. p. 592, says 10,000. [342] 'They were indemnified against all pursuits, civil and criminal, on account of killing, wounding, apprehending, or imprisoning, such as should oppose them.' _Crookshank's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 337, 338. [343] Short and imperfect notices of this 'Highland Host,' as it was called at the time, may be found in _Kirkton's History_, pp. 385-390, and in _Crookshank's History_, vol. i. pp. 354, 355. But the fullest account of the enormities committed by these barbarians, is in Wodrow's great work, collected from authentic and official documents. See his _History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. pp. 375-413, 421-432, vol. iii. pp. 76, 79, 486. They were provided beforehand with implements of torture. 'They had good store of iron shackles, as if they were to lead back vast numbers of slaves, and thumb-locks, as they call them' (_i.e._ thumb-screws), 'to make their examinations and trials with.' vol. ii. p. 389. 'In some places they tortured people, by scorching their bodies at vast fires, and other wise,' vol. ii. p. 422. Compare _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 88. 'Neither age nor sex was exempt from outrage, and torture was freely employed to extort a confession of hidden wealth.' And, at p. 91, 'The Highlanders, after exacting free quarters, and wasting the country for three months, were dismissed to their hills with impunity and wealth.' It was in this way, that the English government sought to break the spirit, and to change the opinions, of the Scotch people. The nobles looked on in silence, and, so far from resisting, had not even the courage to remonstrate. The parliament was equally servile, and sanctioned whatever the government demanded. Still, the people were firm. Their clergy, drawn from the middle classes, clung to them; they clung to their clergy, and both were unchanged. The bishops were hated as allies of the government, and were with reason regarded as public enemies. They were known to have favoured, and often to have suggested, the atrocities which had been committed;[344] and they were so pleased with the punishment inflicted upon their opponents, that no one was surprised, when, a few years later, they, in an address to James II., the most cruel of all the Stuarts, declared that he was the darling of heaven, and hoped that God might give him the hearts of his subjects, and the necks of his enemies.[345] [344] 'Indeed, the whole of the severity, hardships, and bloodshed from this year' (1661), 'until the revolution, was either actually brought on by the bishops, procured by them, or done for their support.' _Wodrow's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 223. 'It was our prelates who pushed the council to most of their severities.' p. 247. 'The bishops, indeed, violently pushed prosecutions.' _Crookshank's History of the Church_, vol. i. p. 298. In 1666, 'As to the prelates, they resolved to use all severities, and to take all imaginable cruel and rigorous ways and courses, first against the rest of the prisoners, and then against the whole west of Scotland.' _Row's Continuation of Blair's Autobiography_, pp. 505, 506, edit. Edinburgh, 1848. This interesting work is edited by Dr. M'Crie, and published by the Wodrow Society. [345] In 1688, 'the bishops concurred in a pious and convivial address to James, as the darling of heaven, that God might give him the hearts of his subjects and the necks of his enemies.' _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 193. The character of the prince, whom the bishops thus delighted to honour, is now well understood. Horrible as were the crimes which had been perpetrated, they were surpassed by what occurred, when he, in 1680, assumed the direction of affairs.[346] He had worked himself to that pitch of iniquity, as to derive actual enjoyment from witnessing the agonies of his fellow-creatures. This is an abyss of wickedness, into which even the most corrupt natures rarely fall. There have been, and always will be, many men who care nothing for human suffering, and who will inflict any amount of pain, in order to gain certain ends. But to take delight in the spectacle, is a peculiar and hideous abomination. James, however, was so dead to shame, that he did not care even to conceal his horrible tastes. Whenever torture was inflicted, he was sure to be present, feasting his eyes, and revelling with a fiendish joy.[347] It makes our flesh creep to think that such a man should have been the ruler of millions. But what shall we say to the Scotch bishops, who applauded him, of whose conduct they were daily witnesses? Where can we find language strong enough to stigmatize those recreant priests, who, having passed years in attempting to subjugate the liberties of their country, did, towards the close of their career, and just before their final fall, band together, and employ their united authority, as ministers of a holy and peaceful religion, to stamp with public approval, a prince, whose malignant cruelty made him loathed by his contemporaries, and whose revolting predilections, unless we ascribe them to a diseased brain, are not only a slur upon the age which tolerated them, but a disgrace to the higher instincts of our common nature? [346] 'After the Duke of York came down in October'(1680), 'the persecution turned yet more severe.' _Wodrow's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 225. 'Persecution and tyranny, mainly promoted by the Duke of York's instigation.' _Shields' Hind let loose_, p. 147. 'Immediately upon his mounting the throne, the executions and acts prosecuting the persecution of the poor wanderers, were more cruel than ever.' p. 200. [347] This was well known in Scotland; and is evidently alluded to by a writer of that time, the Rev. Alexander Shields, who calls James, not a man, but a monster. See _Shields' Hind let loose_, 1687, p. 365. 'This man, or monster rather, that is now mounted the throne.' And a monster surely he was. Compare _Crookshank's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 66, where it is mentioned that, when Spreul was tortured, 'the Duke of York was pleased to gratify his eyes with this delightful scene.' Also, _Wodrow's History_, vol. iii. p. 253, and _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 116. According to Burnet, 'the duke's pleasure at witnessing human agony was a cold, and, as it were, a speculative pleasure, as if he were present for the purpose of contemplating some curious experiment. But James was so excitable a man, that this is hardly likely. At all events, the remarks of Burnet have a painful interest for those who study these dark, and, as we may rejoice to think, these very rare, forms of human malignity.' 'When any are to be struck in the boots, it is done in the presence of the council; and upon that occasion, almost all offer to run away. The sight is so dreadful, that without an order restraining such a number to stay, the board would be forsaken. But the duke, while he had been in Scotland, was so far from withdrawing, that he looked on all the while with an unmoved indifference, and _with an attention, as if he had been to look on some curious experiment_. This gave a terrible idea of him to all that observed it, as of a man that had no bowels nor humanity in him.' _Burnet's History of his own Time_, vol. ii. pp. 416, 417. So utterly corrupt, however, were the ruling classes in Scotland, that such crimes seem hardly to have excited indignation. The sufferers were refractory subjects, and against them every thing was lawful. The usual torture, which was called the torture of the boots, was to place the leg in a frame, into which wedges were driven, until the bones were broken.[348] But when James visited Scotland, an opinion began to grow up, that this was too lenient, and that other means must be devised. The spirit which he communicated to his subordinates, animated his immediate successors, and, in 1684, during his absence, a new instrument was introduced, termed the thumbikins. This was composed of small steel screws, arranged with such diabolical art, that not only the thumb, but also the whole hand, could be compressed by them, producing pain more exquisite than any hitherto known, and having, moreover, the advantage of not endangering life; so that the torture could be frequently repeated on the same person.[349] [348] Shields (_A Hind let loose_, p. 186) describes the boots, as 'a cruel engine of iron, whereby, with wedges, the leg is tortured, until the marrow come out of the bone.' Compare _Naphtali, or the Wrestlings of the Church of Scotland_, 1667, p. 268: 'the extraordinary compression both of flesh, sinews, and bones, by the force of timber wedges and hammer.' [349] In 1684, Carstairs was subjected to this torture. See his own account, in a letter printed in _Wodrow's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 96-100. He writes (p. 99): 'After this communing, the king's smith was called in, to bring in a new instrument to torture by the thumbkins, that had never been used before. For whereas the former was only to screw on two pieces of iron above and below with finger and thumb, these were made to turn about the screw with the whole hand. And under this torture, I continued near an hour and a half.' See also the case of Spence, in the same year, in _Burnet's History of his own Time_, vol. ii. p. 418. 'Little screws of steel were made use of, that screwed the thumbs with so exquisite a torment, that he sunk under this; for Lord Perth told him, they would screw every joint of his whole body, one after another, till he took the oath.' Laing (_History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 143) says, 'the thumbikins; small screws of steel that compressed the thumb and the whole hand with an exquisite torture;' an invention brought by Drummond and Dalziel from Russia. For other notices, see _Fountainhall's Notes of Scottish Affairs_ from 1680 till 1701, Edinburgh, 4to, 1822, pp. 41, 97, 101; _Bower's History of the University of Edinburgh_, vol. ii. p. 30; _Crookshank's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 192; _A Cloud of Witnesses for the Royal Prerogatives of Jesus Christ_, edit. Glasgow, 1779, p. 371; and _Life of Walter Smith_, p. 85, in the second volume of _Walker's Biographia Presbyteriana_, Edinburgh, 1827. After this, little more need be said.[350] From the mere mention of such things, the mind recoils with disgust. The reader of the history of that time sickens and faints at the contrivances by which these abject creatures sought to stifle public opinion, and to ruin, for ever, a gallant and high-spirited people. But now, as before, they laboured in vain. More yet was, however, to be borne. The short reign of James II. was ushered in by an act of singular barbarity. A few weeks after this bad man came to the throne, all the children in Annandale and Nithsdale, between the ages of six and ten, were seized by the soldiers, separated from their parents, and threatened with immediate death.[351] The next step was, to banish, by wholesale, large numbers of adults, who were shipped off to unhealthy settlements; many of the men first losing their ears, and the women being branded, some on the hand, some on the cheek.[352] Those, however, who remained behind, were equal to the emergency, and were ready to do what remained to be done. In 1688, as in 1642, the Scotch people and the English people united against their common oppressor, who saved himself by sudden and ignominious flight. He was a coward as well as a despot, and from him there was no further danger. The bishops, indeed, loved him; but they were an insignificant body, and had enough to do to look to themselves. His only powerful friends were the Highlanders. That barbarous race thought, with regret, of those bygone days when the government had not only allowed them, but had ordered them, to plunder and oppress their southern neighbours. For this purpose, Charles II. had availed himself of their services; and it could hardly be doubted, that if the Stuart dynasty were restored, they would be again employed, and would again enrich themselves by pillaging the Lowlanders.[353] War was their chief amusement; it was also their livelihood; and it was the only thing that they understood.[354] Besides this, the mere fact that James no longer possessed authority, wonderfully increased their loyalty towards him. The Highlanders flourished by rapine, and traded in anarchy.[355] They, therefore, hated any government which was strong enough to punish crime; and the Stuarts being now far away, this nation of thieves loved them with an ardour which nothing but their absence could have caused. From William III., they feared restraint; but the exiled prince could do them no hurt, and would look on their excesses as the natural result of their zeal. Not that they cared about the principle of monarchical succession, or speculated on the doctrine of divine right.[356] The only succession that interested them, was that of their chiefs. Their only notion of right, was to do what those chiefs commanded. Being miserably poor,[357] they, in raising a rebellion, risked nothing except their lives, of which, in that state of society, men are always reckless. If they failed, they encountered a speedy, and, as they deemed it, an honourable death. If they succeeded, they gained fame and wealth. In either case, they were sure of many enjoyments. They were sure of being able, for a time at least, to indulge in pillage and murder, and to practise, without restraint, those excesses which they regarded as the choicest guerdon of a soldier's career. [350] 'In 1684, the Scottish nation was in the most distressing and pitiable situation that can be imagined.' ... 'The state of society had now become such, that, in Edinburgh, attention to ordinary business was neglected, and every one was jealous of his neighbour.' _Bower's History of the University of Edinburgh_, vol. i. p. 307. [351] 'Upon the 10th of March, all freeholders, heritors, and gentlemen in Nithsdale and Annandale, and, I suppose, in most other shires of the kingdom, but I name those as being the scene of the severities now used, were summoned to attend the king's standard; and the militia in the several shires were raised. Wherever Claverhouse came, he resolved upon narrow and universal work. He used to set his horse upon the hills and eminences, and that in different parties, that none might escape; and there his foot went through the lower, marshy, and mossy places, where the horse could not do so well. The shire he parcelled out in so many divisions, and six or eight miles square would be taken in at once. In every division, the whole inhabitants, men and women, young and old, without distinction, were all driven into one convenient place.' ... 'All the children in the division were gathered together by themselves, under ten years, and above six years of age, and a party of soldiers were drawn out before them. Then they were bid pray, for they were going to be shot. Some of them would answer, Sir, we cannot pray.' ... 'At other times, they treated them most inhumanly, threatening them with death, and at some little distance would fire pistols without ball in their face. Some of the poor children were frighted almost out of their wits, and others of them stood all out with a courage perfectly above their age. These accounts are so far out of the ordinary way of mankind, that I would not have insert them, had I not before me several informations agreeing in all these circumstances, written at this time by people who knew the truth of them.' _Wodrow's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. iv. pp. 255, 256. [352] 'Numbers were transported to Jamaica, Barbadoes, and the North American settlements; but the women were not unfrequently burnt in the cheek, and the ears of the men were lopt off, to prevent, or to detect, their return,' _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 162. 'Great multitudes banished,' _Wodrow's History of the Church_, vol. iv. p. 211. In July 1685, 'the men are ordered to have their ears cropt, and the women to be marked in their hand.' p. 217. 'To have the following stigma and mark, that they may be known as banished persons if they shall return to this kingdom, _viz._ that the men have one of their ears cut off by the hand of the hangman, and that the women be burnt by the same hand on the cheek with a burned iron.' p. 218. These are extracts from the proceedings of the privy-council. [353] 'James II. favoured the Highland clans,' Note in _Fountainhall's Scottish Affairs_ from 1680 till 1701, p. 100. He could hardly do otherwise. The alliance was natural, and ready-made for him. [354] Except robbing, which, however, in one form or other, is always a part of war. In this, they were very apt. Burnet (_History of his own Time_, vol. i. p. 67) pithily describes them as 'good at robbing;' and Burton (_Lives of Lovat and Forbes_, p. 47) says, 'To steal even vestments was considerably more creditable than to make them.' Otherwise, they were completely absorbed by their passion for war. See _Thomson's Memoirs of the Jacobites_, vol. ii. pp. 175, 176, London, 1845. [355] 'Revenge was accounted a duty, the destruction of a neighbour a meritorious exploit, and rapine an honourable employment.' _Browne's History of the Highlands_, vol. iv. p. 395. 'The spirit of rivalry between the clans kept up a taste for hostility, and converted rapine into a service of honour.' _Thomson's Memoirs of the Jacobites_, vol. ii. p. 229. [356] Hence, looking, as they did, merely at the physical qualities of individuals, the appearance of the Pretender in 1715 disgusted them, notwithstanding his splendid lineage. See some excellent remarks in _Burton's History of Scotland_, from 1689 to 1748, London, 1853, vol. ii. pp. 198, 199. At p. 383, Mr. Burton justly observes, that 'those who really knew the Highlanders were aware that the followers were no more innate supporters of King James's claim to the throne of Britain, than of Maria Theresa's to the throne of Hungary. They went with the policy of the head of the clan, whatever that might be; and though upwards of half a century's advocacy of the exiled house' (this refers to the last rebellion in 1745) 'had made Jacobitism appear a political creed in some clans, it was among the followers, high and low, little better than a nomenclature, which might be changed with circumstances.' Since Robertson, Mr. Burton and Mr. Chambers are, I will venture to say, the two writers who have taken the most accurate and comprehensive views of the history of Scotland. Robertson's History stops short where the most important period begins; and his materials were scanty. But what he effected with those materials was wonderful. To my mind, his History of Scotland is much the greatest of his works. [357] A curious description of their appearance, given by the _Derby Mercury_ in 1746 (in _Thomson's Memoirs of the Jacobites_, vol. iii. p. 115), may be compared with the more general statement in _Anderson's Prize Essay on the Highlands_, Edinburgh, 1827, p. 128. 'Cattle were the main resources of the tribe--the acquisition of these the great object of their hostile forrays. The precarious crops gave them wherewithal to bake their oaten cakes, or distil their ale or whisky. When these failed, the crowded population suffered every extreme of misery and want. At one time in particular, in Sutherland, they were compelled to subsist on broth made of nettles, thickened with a little oatmeal. At another, those who had cattle, to have recourse to the expedient of bleeding them, and mixing the blood with oatmeal, which they afterwards cut into slices and fried.' So far, therefore, from wondering at the rebellions of 1715 and 1745,[358] the only wonder is, that they did not break out sooner, and that they were not better supported. In 1745, when the sudden appearance of the rebels struck England with terror, and when they penetrated even to the heart of the kingdom, their numbers, even at their height, including Lowland and English recruits, never reached six thousand men. The ordinary amount was five thousand;[359] and they cared so little about the cause for which they professed to fight, that, in 1715, when they numbered much stronger than in 1745, they refused to enter England, and make head against the government, until they were bribed by the promise of additional pay.[360] So, too, in 1745, after they had won the battle of Preston-pans, the only result of that great victory was, that the Highlanders, instead of striking a fresh blow, deserted in large bodies, that they might secure the booty they had obtained, and which alone they valued. They heeded not whether Stuart or Hanoverian gained the day; and at this critical moment, they were unable, says the historian, to resist their desire to return to their glens, and decorate their huts with the spoil.[361] [358] Several writers erroneously term them 'unnatural.' See, for instance, _Rae's History of the Rebellion_, London, 1746, pp. 158, 169: and _Home's History of the Rebellion_, London, 1802, 4to, p. 347. [359] 'When the rebels began their march to the southward, they were not 6000 men complete,' _Home's History of the Rebellion in the Year 1745_, 4to, p. 137. At Stirling, the army, 'after the junction was made, amounted to somewhat more than 9000 men, the greatest number that Charles ever had under his command,' p. 164. But the actual invaders of England were much fewer. 'The number of the rebels when they began their march into England was a few above 5000 foot, with about 500 on horseback.' _Home_, p. 331. Browne (_History of the Highlands_, vol. iii. p. 140) says: 'When mustered at Carlisle, the prince's army amounted only to about 4500 men;' and Lord George Murray states that, at Derby, 'we were not above five thousand fighting men, if so many.' _Jacobite Memoirs of the Rebellion of 1745_, edited by Robert Chambers, Edinburgh, 1834, p. 54. Another writer, relying mainly on traditional evidence, says, 'Charles, at the head of 4000 Highlanders, marched as far as Derby.' _Brown's History of Glasgow_, vol. ii. p. 41, Edinburgh, 1797. Compare _Johnstone's Memoirs of the Rebellion_, 3rd edit., London, 1822, pp. xxxvii. xxxviii. 30-32, 52. Johnstone says, p. 60, 'M. Patullo, our muster-master, reviewed our army at Carlisle, when it did not exceed four thousand five hundred men.' Afterwards, returning to Scotland, 'our army was suddenly increased to eight thousand men, the double of what it was when we were in England.' p. 111. [360] 'Orders were given to proceed in the direction of Carlisle, and recall the detachment sent forward to Dumfries. The Highlanders, still true to their stagnant principles, refused obedience.' ... 'Pecuniary negotiations were now commenced, and they were offered sixpence a day of regular pay--reasonable remuneration at that period to ordinary troops, but to the wild children of the mountain a glittering bribe, which the most steady obstinacy would alone resist. It was partly effective.' _Burton's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 168. 'And from this day, the Highlanders had sixpence a head per day payed them to keep them in good order and under command.' _Patten's History of the late Rebellion_, London, 1717, p. 73. See also, on the unwillingness of the Highlanders to enter England, _Rae's History of the Rebellion_, London, 1746, 2d edit. pp. 270, 271. Browne says (_History of the Highlands_, vol. ii. pp. 300, 304): 'The aversion of the Highlanders, from different considerations, to a campaign in England, was almost insuperable;' but 'by the aid of great promises and money, the greater part of the Highlanders were prevailed upon to follow the fortunes of their commander.' [361] 'Few victories have been more entire. It is said that scarcely two hundred of the infantry escaped.' ... 'The Highlanders obtained a glorious booty in arms and clothes, besides self-moving watches, and other products of civilisation, which surprised and puzzled them. Excited by such acquisitions, a considerable number could not resist the old practice of their people to return to their glens, and decorate their huts with their spoil.' _Burton's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 465. Compare _Home's History of the Rebellion_, p. 123. This was an old practice of theirs, as Montrose found out, a century earlier, 'when many of the Highlanders, being loaded with spoil, deserted privately, and soon after returned to their own country.' _Wishart's Memoirs of the Marquis of Montrose_, Edinburgh, 1819, p. 189. So, too, Burnet (_Memoirs of the Dukes of Hamilton_, p. 272): 'Besides, any companies could be brought down from the Highlands might do well enough for a while, but no order could be expected from them, for as soon as they were loaded with plunder and spoil, they would run away home to their lurking holes, and desert those who had trusted them.' See also p. 354. A more recent writer, drawing a veil over this little infirmity, remarks, with much delicacy, that 'the Highlanders, brave as they were, had a custom of returning home after a battle.' _Thomson's Memoirs of the Jacobites_, London, 1845, vol. i. p. 122. Not unfrequently they first robbed their fellow-soldiers. In 1746, Bisset writes: 'The Highlanders, who went off after the battel, carried off horses and baggage from their own men, the Lowlanders.' _Diary of the Reverend John Bisset_, in _Miscellany of the Spalding Club_, vol. i. p. 377, Aberdeen, 1841, 4to. There are, indeed, few things more absurd than that lying spirit of romance, which represents the rising of the Highlanders as the outburst of a devoted loyalty. Nothing was further from their minds than this. The Highlanders have crimes enough to account for, without being burdened by needless reproach. They were thieves and murderers; but that was in their way of life, and they felt not the stigma. Though they were ignorant and ferocious, they were not so foolish as to be personally attached to that degraded family, which, before the accession of William III., occupied the throne of Scotland. To love such men as Charles II. and James II., may, perhaps, be excused as one of those peculiarities of taste of which one sometimes hears. But to love all their descendants; to feel an affection so comprehensive as to take in the whole dynasty, and, for the sake of gratifying that eccentric passion, not only to undergo great hardships, but to inflict enormous evil upon two kingdoms, would have been a folly as well as a wickedness, and would convict the Highlanders of a species of insanity alien to their nature. They burst into insurrection, because insurrection suited their habits, and because they hated all government and all order.[362] But, so far from caring for a monarch, the very institution of monarchy was repulsive to them. It was contrary to that spirit of clanship to which they were devoted; and, from their earliest childhood, they were accustomed to respect none but their chiefs, to whom they paid a willing obedience, and whom they considered far superior to all the potentates of the earth.[363] No one, indeed, who is really acquainted with their history, will think them capable of having spilt their blood on behalf of any sovereign, be he whom he might; still less can we believe that they would quit their native land, and undertake long and hazardous marches, with the object of restoring that corrupt and tyrannical dynasty, whose offences smelt to heaven, and whose cruelties had, at length, kindled the anger even of humble and meek-minded men. [362] 'Whoever desired, with the sword, to disturb or overturn a fixed government, was sure of the aid of the chiefs, because a settled government was ruinous to their power, and almost inimical to their existence. The more it cultivated the arts of peace, and throve on industrially created well-being, the more did it drive into an antagonist position a people who did not change their nature, who made no industrial progress, and who lived by the swords which acquired for them the fruits of other men's industry. With their interests, a peaceful, strong government was as inconsistent as a well-guarded sheepfold with the interest of wolves.' _Burton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. pp. 105, 106. 'The Highlanders, in all reigns, have been remarkable for disturbing the established government of Scotland by taking up arms on every invasion for the invaders.' _Marchant's History of the present Rebellion_, London, 1746, p. 18. See also _Macky's Journey through Scotland_, London, 1732, p. 129; and a short, but very curious, account of the Highlanders, in 1744, in _The Miscellany of the Spalding Club_, vol. ii. pp. 87-89. [363] An observer, who had excellent opportunities of studying their character between the rebellion of 1715 and that of 1745, writes, 'The ordinary Highlanders esteem it the most sublime degree of virtue to love their chief, and pay him a blind obedience, although it be in opposition to the government, the laws of the kingdom, or even to the law of God. He is their idol; and as _they profess to know no king but him_ (I was going farther), so will they say, they ought to do whatever he commands, without inquiry.' _Letters from a Gentleman in the North of Scotland_, edit. London, 1815, vol. ii. pp. 83, 84. 'The Highlanders in Scotland are, of all men in the world, the soonest wrought upon to follow their leaders or chiefs into the field, having a wonderful veneration for their Lords and Chieftains, as they are called there: _Nor do these people ever consider the validity of the engaging cause_, but blindly follow their chiefs into what mischief they please, and that with the greatest precipitation imaginable.' _Patten's History of the Rebellion_, London, 1717, p. 151. 'The power of the chiefs over their clans was the true source of the two rebellions. The clansmen cared no more about the legitimate race of the Stuarts, than they did about the war of the Spanish succession.' ... 'The Jacobite Highland chiefs ranged their followers on the Jacobite side--the Hanoverians ranged theirs on the side of government. Lovat's conduct was a sort of _experimentum crucis_; he made his clan Hanoverian in one rebellion, and Jacobite in another.' _Burton's Lives of Lovat and Forbes_, p. 150. Compare the change of side of the Mackintoshes, in _Browne's History of the Highlands_, vol. ii. p. 285. Even so late as the American war, the sovereign was deemed subordinate to the chief. 'One Captain Frazer from the northern district, brought down a hundred of his clan, all of the name of Frazer. Few of them could understand a word of English; and the only distinct idea they had of all the mustering of forces which they saw around them, was that they were going to fight for King Frazer and George ta Three.' _Penny's Traditions of Perth_, pp. 49, 50, Perth, 1836. The simple fact is, that the outbreaks of 1715 and 1745 were, in our country, the last struggle of barbarism against civilization. On the one side, war and confusion. On the other side, peace and prosperity. These were the interests for which men really fought; and neither party cared for Stuarts or for Hanoverians. The result of such a contest in the eighteenth century, could hardly be doubtful. At the time, the rebellions caused great alarm, both from their suddenness, and from the strange and ferocious appearance of the Highland invaders.[364] But the knowledge we now possess, enables us to see, that, from the beginning, success was impossible. Though the government was extremely remiss, and, notwithstanding the information it received, allowed itself on both occasions to be taken by surprise, there was no real danger.[365] The English, not being particularly enamoured either with the Highlanders or with the Stuarts, refused to rise;[366] and it cannot be seriously supposed, that a few thousand half-naked banditti had it in their power to prescribe to the people of England what sovereign they should obey, and under what sort of government they should live. [364] Which gave rise to a report that they were cannibals. 'The late Mr. Halkston of Rathillet, who had been in this expedition' (the Rebellion of 1745), 'told Mr. Young that the belief was general among the people of England, that the Highlanders ate children.' _Johnstone's Memoirs of the Rebellion_, 3rd edit. London, 1822, p. 101. Such a rumour, notwithstanding its absurdity, was made somewhat plausible by the revolting conduct of the Highlanders in the first rebellion of 1715, when they committed, in the Lowlands, horrible outrages on corpses which they dug up. See the contemporary evidence, in _Correspondence of the Rev. Robert Wodrow_, published by the Wodrow Society, vol. ii. pp. 86, 87, 93. 'They have even raised up some of my Lord Rothes's children and mangled their dead bodies' ... 'till the stench put them away.' In 1745, they signalized their entrance into England in the following manner. 'The rebels, during their stay in Carlisle, committed the most shocking detestable villanies; for, not contented with robbing families of their most valuable effects, they scrupled not to act their brutal insolence on the persons of some young ladies, even in the presence of their parents. A gentleman, in a letter to his friend in London, writes thus: "That, after being in a manner stripped of every thing, he had the misery to see three of his daughters treated in such a manner that he could not relate it."' _Marchant's History of the present Rebellion_, London, 1746, pp. 181, 182. [365] Even when they had penetrated to Derby, the best informed of their own party despaired of success. See the Jacobitical account in _The Lockhart Papers_, London, 4to, 1817, vol. ii. p. 458: 'The next thing to be considered of, was what was now to be done; they were now at Derby, with an army not half the number of what they were reported to be, surrounded in a manner with regular troops on all sides, and more than double their number. To go forward, there was no encouragement, for their friends (if they had any) had kept little or no correspondence with them from the time they entered England.' The Chevalier de Johnstone, who took an active part in the Rebellion, frankly says, 'If we had continued to advance to London, and had encountered all the troops of England, with the Hessians and Swiss in its pay, there was every appearance of our being immediately exterminated, without the chance of a single man escaping.' _Johnstone's Memoirs of the Rebellion in 1745 and 1746_, p. 79. [366] Lord George Murray, the commander-in-chief in 1745, was unwilling to advance far south of Carlisle, 'without more encouragement from the country than we had hitherto got.' See his own account, in _The Jacobite Memoirs of the Rebellion of 1745_, edited by R. Chambers, Edinburgh, 1834, p. 48. But his prudent advice was overruled. The Highlanders pressed on; and that happened, which any one, tolerably acquainted with England, might have foreseen. Johnstone (_Memoirs of the Rebellion_, p. 70) says, 'In case of a defeat in England, no one in our army could by any possibility escape destruction, as the _English peasants were hostile towards us in the highest degree_; and, besides, the army of Marshal Wade was in our rear, to cut us off from all communication with Scotland.' And at p. 81, 'In every place we passed through, we found the English very ill disposed towards us, except at Manchester, where there appeared some remains of attachment to the house of Stuart.' The champion of arbitrary power would find a different reception now, in that magnificent specimen of English prosperity, and of true, open-mouthed, English fearlessness. But a century ago, the men of Manchester were poor and ignorant; and the statement of Johnstone respecting them is confirmed by Home, who says, 'At Manchester, several gentlemen, and about 200 or 300 of the common people, joined the rebel army; _these were the only Englishmen (a few individuals excepted) who joined Charles in his march through the country of England_.' _Home's History of the Rebellion in 1745_, London, 1802, 4to, p. 145. In 1715, the English equally held back, except at Manchester. See _Patten's History of the late Rebellion_, London, 1717, pp. 89, 108. After 1745, there was no further interruption. The interests of civilization, that is, the interests of knowledge, of liberty, and of wealth, gradually assumed the upper hand, and reduced men like the Highlanders to utter insignificance. Roads were cut through their country; and, for the first time, travellers from the south began to mingle with them in their hitherto inaccessible wilds.[367] In those parts, the movement was, indeed, very slow; but, in the Lowlands, it was much more rapid. For, the traders and inhabitants of towns were now becoming prominent, and their authority helped to neutralize the old warlike and anarchical habits. Towards the end of the seventeenth century, a taste for commercial speculation sprung up, and a large amount of the energy of Scotland was turned into this new channel.[368] Early in the eighteenth century, the same tendency was displayed in literature; and works on mercantile and economical subjects became common.[369] A change in manners was also perceptible. About this period, the Scotch began to lose something of that rugged ferocity which had distinguished them of old. This improvement was evinced in several ways; one of the most remarkable being an alteration, which was first observed in 1710, when it was noticed that men were leaving off armour, which had hitherto been worn by every one who could afford it, as a useful precaution in a barbarous, and therefore a warlike society.[370] [367] The establishment of roads caused great displeasure. Pennant, who visited Scotland in 1769, says, 'These publick works were at first very disagreeable to the old chieftains, and lessened their influence greatly: for by admitting strangers among them, their clans were taught that the Lairds were not the first of men.' _Pennant's Tour in Scotland_, 4th edit. Dublin, 1775, vol. i. p. 204. Towards the end of the eighteenth century, this feeling began to die away. 'Till of late, the people of Kintail, as well as other Highlands, had a strong aversion to roads. The more inaccessible, the more secure, was their maxim.' _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. vi. p. 244, Edinburgh, 1793. [368] 'Soon after the establishment of the revolution settlement, the ardent feelings of the Scottish people were turned out of their old channels of religious controversy and war in the direction of commercial enterprise.' _Burton's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. i. p. 104. Compare _Burnet's History of his own Time_, vol. iv. pp. 286, 287, 418; and the note (at p. 419): 'The lords and commons of Scotland were then desirous of getting into trade.' This is under the year 1699. In 1698, Fletcher of Saltoun writes: 'by no contrivance of any man, but by an unforeseen and unexpected change of the genius of this nation, all their thoughts and inclinations, as if united and directed by a higher power, seemed to be turned upon trade, and to conspire together for its advancement.' _First Discourse on the Affairs of Scotland_, in _Fletcher of Saltoun's Political Works_, Glasgow, 1749, p. 57. At this, the clergy were uneasy. In 1709, the Reverend Robert Wodrow expresses an opinion, in one of his letters, that 'the sin of our too great fondness for trade, to the neglecting of our more valuable interests, I humbly think will be written upon our judgment.' _Wodrow's Correspondence_, Edinburgh, 1842, 8vo, vol. i. p. 67. In the same year, some ships being taken by the French, part of the loss fell upon Glasgow. Thereupon, Wodrow writes: 'It's said that in all there is about eighty thousand pound sterling lost there, whereof Glasgow has lost ten thousand pound. I wish trading persons may see the language of such a Providence. I am sure the Lord is remarkably frouning upon our trade, in more respects than one, since it was put in the room of religion, in the late alteration of our constitution.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. i. p. 218, 4to, published by the Maitland Club. [369] Laing (_History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 296), under the year 1703, says: 'Ever since the projected settlement at Darien, the genius of the nation had acquired a new direction; and as the press is the true criterion of the spirit of the times, the numerous productions on political and commercial subjects, with which it daily teemed, had supplanted the religious disputes of the former age.' Unfortunately for Scotland, they were by no means supplanted. Still, the movement was great, and not to be mistaken. [370] 'It was only in 1710, that they began to throw off their armour, and allow the soldier to merge into the quiet and industrious craftsman.' _Penny's Traditions of Perth_, p. 335, Perth, 1836. This particularly applies to the citizens of Perth. To trace the general progress in its various parts, or even to indicate the immediate consequences, would require a separate volume. One of the results is, however, too conspicuous to be passed over in silence, though it does not deserve all the importance that has been attached to it. This is, the abolition of hereditary jurisdictions, which, after all, was but a symptom of the great movement, and not a cause of it; being itself due, partly to the growth of the industrial spirit, and partly to that diminution of the power of the aristocracy, which had been visible as early as the beginning of the seventeenth century. During many ages, certain persons of noble birth had enjoyed the privilege of trying offences, and even of inflicting capital punishment, simply because their ancestors had done so before them; the judicial power being, in fact, part of their patrimony, and descending to them like the rest of their property.[371] An institution of this sort, which made a man a judge, not because he was apt for the office, but because he was born under particular circumstances, was a folly which the revolutionary temper of the eighteenth century was not likely to spare. The innovating spirit for which that age was remarkable, could hardly fail to attack so preposterous a custom; and its extinction was facilitated, both by the decline of the nobles who possessed the privilege, and by the rise of their natural opponents, the trading and commercial classes. The decay of the Scotch nobility, in the eighteenth century, may be traced to two special causes, in addition to those general causes, which were weakening the aristocracy nearly all over Europe. With the general causes, which were common to England and to most parts of the Continent, we are not now concerned. It is enough to say, that they were entirely dependent on that advance of knowledge, which, by increasing the authority of the intellectual class, undermines, and must eventually overthrow, mere hereditary and accidental distinctions. But those causes which were confined to Scotland, had a more political character, and though they were purely local, they harmonized with the whole train of events, and ought to be noticed, as links of a vast chain, which connects the present state of that singular country with its past history. [371] On these 'hereditary or proprietary jurisdictions,' which conferred the right, or, I would rather say, the power, of putting people to death, see _Burton's History of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 425, vol. ii. p. 402. The technical term for so monstrous a privilege, was the right 'of pit and gallows.' _Pitcairn's Criminal Trials in Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 94; and _Mackenzie's Laws and Customs of Scotland in Matters Criminal_, pp. 70, 100, 187, 210. This meant, that men were to be hung, and women to be drowned. See also _Arnot's History of Edinburgh_, p. 224; _Fountainhall's Notes of Scottish Affairs_, p. 139; _Hume's History of the House of Douglas_, vol. i. p. 346; _Lettice's Scotland_, p. 271; _Sinclair's Scotland_, vol. i. p. 417, vol. iv. p. 478, vol. vi. pp. 195, 258, vol. viii. pp. 129, 348, vol. xiii. p. 563, vol. xiv. p. 34, vol. xvii. pp. 442, 600, vol. xviii. p. 473. The first cause was the union of Scotland with England, in 1707, which struck a heavy blow at the Scotch aristocracy. By it, the legislature of the smaller country was absorbed in that of the larger, and the hereditary legislators suddenly sunk into insignificance. In the Scotch parliament, there were a hundred and forty-five peers, all of whom, except sixteen, were, by the Act of Union, deprived of the power of making laws.[372] These sixteen were sent off to London, and took their seats in the House of Lords, of which they formed a small and miserable fraction. On every subject, however important to their own country, they were easily outvoted; their manners, their gesticulations, and particularly their comical mode of pronouncing English, were openly ridiculed;[373] and the chiefs of this old and powerful aristocracy found themselves, to their utter amazement, looked on as men of no account, and they were often obliged to fawn and cringe at the levee of the minister, in order to procure a place for some needy dependent. Their friends and relations applied to them for offices, and generally applied in vain. Indeed, the Scotch nobles, being very poor, wanted for themselves more than the English government was inclined to give, and, in the eagerness of their clamour, they lost both dignity and reputation.[374] They were exposed to mortifying rebuffs, and their true position being soon known, weakened their influence at home, among a people already prepared to throw off their authority. To this, however, they were comparatively indifferent, as they looked for future fortune, not to Scotland, but to England. London became the centre of their intrigues and their hopes.[375] Those who had no seat in the House of Lords, longed to have one, and it was notorious, that the darling object of nearly every Scotch noble was to be made an English peer.[376] The scene of their ambition being shifted, they were gradually weaned from their old associations. Directly this was apparent, the foundation of their power was gone. From that moment, their real nationality vanished. It became evident that their patriotism was but a selfish passion. They ceased to love a country which could give them nothing, and, as a natural consequence, their country ceased to love them. [372] Laing (_History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 345) says, that in 1706, 'the commons in the Scottish parliament were 160; the peers 145.' Of these peers, the Treaty of Union declared that 'sixteen shall be the number to sit and vote in the House of Lords.' _De Foe's History of the Union between England and Scotland_, London, 1786, 4to, pp. 205, 538. The English House of Lords consisted of 179 members. See _The Lockhart Papers_, London, 1817, 4to, vol. i. pp. 343, 547. It was impossible to mistake the result of this sweeping measure, by which, as was said at the time, 'Scotland was to retrench her nobility.' _De Foe's History of the Union_, p. 495. Compare p. 471: 'The nobility being thereby, as it were, degraded of their characters.' In 1710, a Scotchman writes in his journal: 'It was one of the melancholyest sights to any that have any sense of our antient Nobility, to see them going throu for votes, and making partys, and giving their votes to others who once had their oun vote; and I suspect many of them reu the bargain they made, in giving their oun pouer away.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. i. p. 308. [373] The Scotch, consequently, became so eager to do away with this source of mirth, that even as late as the year 1761, when the notorious lecturer, Sheridan, visited Edinburgh, 'such was the rage for speaking with an English accent, that more than three hundred gentlemen, among whom were the most eminent in the country for rank and learning, attended him.' _Ritchie's Life of Hume_, London, 1807, p. 94. It was, however, during about twenty years immediately after the Union, that the Scotch members of Parliament, both Lords and Commons, were most jeered at in London, and were treated with marked disrespect, socially and politically. Not only were they mocked and lampooned, but they were also made tools of. In September 1711, Wodrow writes (_Analecta_, vol. i. p. 348, 4to, 1842): 'In the beginning of this (month), I hear a generall dissatisfaction our Nobility, that wer at last Parliament, have at their treatment at London. They complean they are only made use of as tools among the English, and cast by when their party designes are over.' The next year (1712), the Scotch members of the House of Commons met together, and expressed their 'high resentment of the uncivil, haughty treatment they mett with from the English.' _The Lockhart Papers_, London, 1817, 4to, vol. i. p. 417. See, further, _Burton's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 27. 'Without descending to rudeness, the polished contemporaries of Wharton and St. John could madden the sensitive and haughty Scots by light shafts of raillery, about their pronunciation or knowledge of parliamentary etiquette.' Some curious observations upon the way in which the Scotch pronounced English, late in the seventeenth century, will be found in _Morer's Short Account of Scotland_, London, 1702, pp. 13, 14. The author of this book was chaplain to a Scotch regiment. [374] Among many illustrations with which contemporary memoirs abound, the following is by no means the worst. Burnet, as a Scotchman, thinks proper to say that those of his countrymen who were sent to parliament, 'were persons of such distinction, that they very well deserved' the respect and esteem with which they were treated. To which, Lord Dartmouth adds: 'and were very importunate to have their deserts rewarded. A Scotch earl pressed Lord Godolphin extremely for a place. He said there was none vacant. The other said, his lordship could soon make one so, if he pleased. Lord Godolphin asked him, if he expected to have any body killed to make room? He said, No; but Lord Dartmouth commonly voted against the court, and every body wondered that he had not been turned out before now. Lord Godolphin told him, he hoped his lordship did not expect that he should be the person to propose it; and advised him never to mention it any more, for fear the queen should come to hear of it; for if she did, his lordship would run great risk never to have a place as long as she lived. But he could not forbear telling every where, how ill the lord treasurer had used him.' _Burnet's History of his own Time_, vol. v. p. 349, Oxford, 1823. Compare the account, in 1710, in _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. i. p. 293. 'Argyle is both picked (_i.e._ piqued) at Marlburrou, and his brother Yla, for refusing him a regiment; and Godolphin should have said to the queen that my Lord Yla was not to be trusted with a regiment! The Earl of Marr was one of the greatest cronnies Godolphine had, till the matter of his pension, after the Secretary office was taken from him, came about. Godolphine caused draw it during pleasure; Marr expected it during life, which the Treasurer would not yield to, and therefore they brake.' The history of the time is full of these wretched squabbles, which show what the Scotch nobles were made of. Indeed, their rapacity was so shameless, that, in 1711, several of them refused to perform their legislative duties in London, unless they received some offices which they expected. 'About the midle of this moneth, I hear ther was a meeting of severall of our Scots Peers, at the Viscount of Kilsyth's, where they concerted not to goe up to this parliament till peremptorly writ for; and (also) some assurance be given of the places they were made to hope for last session and have missed.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. i. p. 365. In 1712, the same Scotchman writes (_Analecta_, vol. ii. p. 8): 'Our Scots Peers' secession from the House of Peers makes much noise; but they doe not hold by it. They sometimes come and sometimes goe, and _they render themselves base in the eyes of the English_.' See also a letter 'concerning the Scots Peerage,' in _Somers' Tracts_, vol. xii. p. 607, edit. Scott, London, 1814, 4to. [375] A Scotch writer, twenty years after the Union, says: 'Most of our gentlemen and people of quality, who have the best estates in our country, live for the most part at London.' _Reasons for improving the Fisheries and Linen Manufacture of Scotland_, London, 1727, p. 22. I do not know who wrote this curious little treatise; but the author was evidently a native of Scotland. See p. 25. I have, however, still earlier evidence to adduce. A letter from Wodrow, dated 9th of August 1725, complains of 'the general sending our youth of quality to England:' and a letter to him, in 1716, describes the Anglicizing process going on among the Scotch aristocracy, only nine years after the Union. 'Most of our Lords and others here do so much depend on the English for their posts, and _seeking somewhat or other_, that their mouths are almost quite stopped; and really _most of them go into the English way in all things_.' _Wodrow's Correspondence_, vol. ii. p. 196, vol. iii. p. 224. The Earl of Mar lost popularity in Scotland, on account of the court he paid to Lord Godolphin; for, he 'appears to have passed much more time in intrigues in London than among the gardens of Alloa.' _Thomson's Memoirs of the Jacobites_, vol. i. p. 36. Even Earl Ilay, in his anxiety to advance himself at the English court, 'used to regret his being a Scots peer, and to wish earnestly he was a commoner.' _Letters of Lord Grange_, in _The Miscellany of the Spalding Club_, vol. iii. p. 39, Aberdeen, 4to, 1846. [376] Indeed, their expectation ran so high, as to induce a hope, not only that those Commissioners of the Union who were Scotch peers should be made English ones, but that 'the whole nobility of Scotland might in time be admitted.' _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 346. Compare _The Lockhart Papers_, vol. i. pp. 298, 343: 'the Scots Peerage, many of whom had been bubled with the hopes of being themselves created British Peers.' Also _The Gordon Letters_, in _The Miscellany of the Spalding Club_, vol. iii. pp. 227, 228. Thus it was that this great tie was severed. In this, as in all similar movements, there were, of course, exceptions. Some of the nobles were disinterested, and some of their dependents were faithful. But, looking at the Lowlands as a whole, there can be no doubt that, before the middle of the eighteenth century, that bond of affection was gone, which, in former times, made tens of thousands of Scotchmen ready to follow their superiors in any cause, and to sacrifice their lives at a nod. That spirit, which was once deemed ardent and generous, but which a deeper analysis shows to be mean and servile, was now almost extinct, except among the barbarous Highlanders, whose ignorance of affairs long prevented them from being influenced by the stream of events. That the proximate cause of this change was the Union, will probably be denied by no one who has minutely studied the history of the period. And that the change was beneficial, can only be questioned by those sentimental dreamers, with whom life is a matter rather of feeling than of judgment, and who, despising real and tangible interests, reproach their own age with its material prosperity, and with its love of luxury, as if they were the result of low and sordid desires unknown to the loftier temper of bygone days. To visionaries of this sort, it may well appear that the barbarous and ignorant noble, surrounded by a host of devoted retainers, and living with rude simplicity in his own dull and wretched castle, forms a beautiful picture of those unmercenary and uncalculating times, when men, instead of seeking for knowledge, or for wealth, or for comfort, were content with the frugal innocence of their fathers, and when, protection being accorded by one class, and gratitude felt by the other, the subordination of society was maintained, and its different parts were knit together by sympathy, and by the force of common emotions, instead of, as now, by the coarse maxims of a vulgar and selfish utility. Those, however, whose knowledge gives them some acquaintance with the real course of human affairs, will see that in Scotland, as in all civilized countries, the decline of aristocratic power forms an essential part of the general progress. It must, therefore, be esteemed a fortunate circumstance, that, among the Scotch, where that power had long been enormous, it was weakened in the eighteenth century, not only by general causes, which were operating elsewhere, but also by two smaller and more special causes. The first of these minor causes was, as we have just seen, the Union with England. The other cause was, comparatively speaking, insignificant, but still it produced decided effect, particularly in the northern districts. It consisted in the fact, that some of the oldest Highland nobles were concerned in the rebellion of 1745, and that, when that rebellion was put down, those who escaped from the sword were glad to save their lives by flying abroad, leaving their dependents to shift for themselves.[377] They became attached to the court of the Pretender, or, at all events, intrigued for him. That, indeed, was their only chance, their estates at home being forfeited. For nearly forty years, several great families were in exile, and although, about 1784, they began to return,[378] other associations had been formed during their absence, and new ideas had arisen, both in their own minds, and in the minds of their retainers. A fresh generation had grown up, and fresh influences had been brought to bear. Strangers, with whom the people had no sympathy, had intruded upon the estates of the nobles, and though they might receive obedience, it was an obedience unaccompanied by deference. The real reverence was gone; the homage of the heart was no more. And as this state of things lasted for about forty years, it interrupted the whole train of thought; and the former habits were so completely broken, that, even when the chiefs were restored to their forfeited honours, they found that there was another part of their inheritance which they were unable to recover, and that they had lost for ever that unreserved submission, which, in times of yore, had been willingly paid to their fathers.[379] [377] The Chevalier de Johnstone, in his plaintive remarks on the battle of Culloden, says: 'The ruin of many of the most illustrious families in Scotland immediately followed our defeat.' _Johnstone's Memoirs of the Rebellion in 1745_, p. 211. He, of course, could not perceive that, sad as such ruin was to the individual sufferers, it was an immense benefit to the nation. Mr. Skene, referring to the year 1748, says of the Highlanders: 'their long-cherished ideas of clanship gradually gave way under the absence and ruin of so many of their chiefs.' _Skene's Highlanders_, vol. i. p. 147. [378] 'About 1784, the exiled families began to return.' _Penny's Traditions of Perth_, p. 41. See also _Macpherson's Annals of Commerce_, vol. iv. p. 53. In 1784, 'a bill passed the Commons without opposition,' to restore the 'Forfeited Estates' in the north of Scotland. See _Parliamentary History_, vol. xxiv. pp. 1316-1322. On that occasion, Fox said (p. 1321) the proprietors 'had been sufficiently punished by forty years' deprivation of their fortunes for the faults of their ancestors.' [379] Dean Ramsay, in his _Reminiscences_ (5th edit. Edinburgh, 1859, p. 57), notices that, owing to 'transfers of property and extinction of old families in the Highlands, as well as from more general causes,' the old clannish affection 'is passing away.' But this intelligent observer has not indicated the connexion between so important a fact and the Rebellion of 1745. In 1792, Heron writes: 'The prejudices of clanship have almost died away.' ... 'The dependents of the family of Kenmure are still attached to its representative with much of that affection and respect with which the tribes of the Highlands have _till lately_ been accustomed to adhere to their lord.' _Heron's Journey through the Western Counties of Scotland_, 2nd edit. Perth, 1799, vol. i. p. 248, vol. ii. p. 154. See also the remarks made, in the same year, in _Lettice's Letters on a Tour through various parts of Scotland_, London, 1794, p. 340. To trace the movement back still further, Pennant writes, in 1769: 'But in many parts of the Highlands, their character begins to be more faintly marked; they mix more with the world; and _become daily less attached to their chiefs_.' ... 'During the feudal reign, their love for their chieftain induced them to bear many things, at _present intolerable_.' These two important passages are in the 4th edition of _Pennant's Tour in Scotland_, vol. i. p. 194, vol. ii. p. 307, Dublin, 1775. They prove that, twenty-four years after the Rebellion of 1745, the decay of affection was so manifest, as to strike a candid and careful, but by no means philosophic, observer. For Pennant to have discerned these changes, they must already have risen to the surface. Other and corroborative evidence will be found in _Sinclair's Account of Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 545, Edinburgh, 1792; and vol. iii. pp. 377, 437, vol. xiii. p. 310, vol. xv. p. 592, vol. xx. p. 33. Owing to these circumstances, the course of affairs in Scotland, during the eighteenth century, and especially during the first half of it, was marked by a more rapid decline of the influence of the higher ranks than was seen in any other country. It was, therefore, an easy task for the English government to procure a law, which, by abolishing hereditary jurisdictions, deprived the Scotch aristocracy, in 1748, of the last great ensign of their power.[380] The law, being suited to the spirit of the times, worked well; and in the Highlands, in particular, it was one immediate cause of the establishment of something like the order of a settled state.[381] But in this instance, as in every other, the real and overruling cause is to be found in the condition of the surrounding society. A few generations earlier, hardly any one would have thought of abolishing these mischievous jurisdictions, which were then deemed beneficial, and were respected, as belonging to the great families by natural and inalienable right. Such an opinion was the inevitable result of the state of things then existing. This being the case, it is certain that, if the legislature had, at that time, been so rash as to lay its hand on what the nation respected, popular sympathy would have been aroused, and the nobles would have been strengthened by what was intended to weaken them.[382] In 1748, however, matters were very different. Public opinion had changed; and this change of opinion was not only the cause of the new law, but was the reason of the new law being effective. And so it always is. They, indeed, whose knowledge is almost confined to what they see passing around them, and who, on account of their ignorance, are termed practical men, may talk as they will about the reforms which government has introduced, and the improvement to be expected from legislation. But whoever will take a wider and more commanding view of affairs, will soon discover that such hopes are chimerical. They will learn that lawgivers are nearly always the obstructors of society, instead of its helpers; and that, in the extremely few cases in which their measures have turned out well, their success has been owing to the fact, that, contrary to their usual custom, they have implicitly obeyed the spirit of their time, and have been, as they always should be, the mere servants of the people, to whose wishes they are bound to give a public and legal sanction. [380] _Burton's History of Scotland_, vol. ii. pp. 535-537. _Struthers' History of Scotland_, Glasgow, 1828, vol. ii. pp. 519-525. [381] Macpherson (_Annals of Commerce_, vol. iii. p. 259) says, 'This excellent statute may not unfitly be termed a new magna charta to the free people of Scotland.' [382] I cannot, therefore, agree with Macpherson, who asserts, in his valuable work, that the abolition of these jurisdictions 'should undoubtedly have been made an essential preliminary of the consolidating union of the two kingdoms of England and Scotland, concluded forty years before.' _Macpherson's Annals of Commerce_, vol. iii. p. 257. Compare _De Foe's History of the Union between England and Scotland_, pp. 458, 459, London, 1786, 4to. Another striking peculiarity of Scotland, during the remarkable period we are now considering, was the sudden rise of trading and manufacturing interests. This preceded, by a whole generation, the celebrated statute of 1748, and was one of the causes of it, in so far as it weakened the great families, against whom that statute was directed. The movement may be traced back, as I have already noticed, to the end of the seventeenth century, and it was in active operation before the first twenty years of the eighteenth century had passed away. A mercantile and money-making spirit was diffused to an extent formerly unknown, and men becoming valued for their wealth as well as for their birth, a new standard of excellence was introduced, and new actors appeared on the scene. Heretofore, persons were respected solely for their parentage; now they were also respected for their riches. The old aristocracy, made uneasy by the change, did every thing they could to thwart and discourage these young and dangerous rivals.[383] Nor can we wonder at their feeling somewhat sore. The tendency which was exhibited, was, indeed, fatal to their pretensions. Instead of asking who was a man's father, the question became, how much he had got. And certainly, if either question is to be put, the latter is the more rational. Wealth is a real and substantial thing, which ministers to our pleasures, increases our comfort, multiplies our resources, and not unfrequently alleviates our pains. But birth is a dream and a shadow, which, so far from benefiting either body or mind, only puffs up its possessor with an imaginary excellence, and teaches him to despise those whom nature has made his superiors, and who, whether engaged in adding to our knowledge or to our wealth, are, in either case, ameliorating the condition of society, and rendering to it true and valuable service. [383] In 1740, 'the rising manufacturing and trading interests of the country' were 'looked down upon and discouraged by the feudal aristocracy.' _Burton's Lives of Lovat and Forbes_, p. 361. This antagonism between the aristocratic and trading spirit, lies in the nature of things, and is essential, however it may be disguised at particular periods. Therefore it is, that the history of trade has a philosophic importance in reference to the progress of society, quite independent of practical considerations. On this account I have called the attention of the reader to what otherwise would be foreign to the objects of the present Introduction; and I will now trace, as briefly as possible, the beginning of that great industrial movement, to the extension of which the overthrow of the Scotch aristocracy is to be partly ascribed. The Union with England, which was completed in 1707, produced immediate and striking effects on trade. Its first effect was, to throw open to the Scotch a new and extensive commerce with the English colonies in America. Before the Union, no goods of any kind could be landed in Scotland from the American plantations, unless they had first been landed in England, and paid duty there; nor even, in that case, might they be conveyed by any Scotch vessel.[384] This was one of many foolish regulations by which our legislators interfered with the natural course of affairs, and injured the interests of their own country, as well as those of their neighbours. Formerly, however, such laws were considered to be extremely sagacious, and politicians were constantly contriving protective schemes of this sort, which, with the best intentions, inflicted incalculable harm. But if, as seems probable, one of their objects, in this instance, was to retard the improvement of Scotland, they were more than usually successful in effecting the purpose at which they aimed. For, the whole of the western coast, being cut off from direct intercourse with the American colonies, was debarred from the only foreign trade it could advantageously follow; since the European ports lay to the east, and could not be reached by the inhabitants of Western Scotland without a long circumnavigation, which prevented them from competing, on equal terms, with their countrymen, who, sailing from the other side, were already near the chief seats of commerce. The consequence was, that Glasgow and the other western ports remained almost stationary; having comparatively few means of gratifying that enterprising spirit, which rose among them late in the seventeenth century, and not daring to trade with those prosperous colonies which were just before them across the Atlantic, but from which they were entirely excluded by the jealous precautions of the English parliament.[385] [384] 'Whereas Scotland had, before this, prohibited all the English woollen manufactures, under severe penalties, and England, on the other hand, had excluded the Scots from trading with Scots ships to their colonies in America, directly from Scotland, and had confiscated even their own English ships trading to the said colonies from England, if navigated or manned with above one-third Scots seamen,' &c. _De Foe's History of the Union_, p. 603. In 1696, the wise men in our English Parliament passed a law, 'that on no pretence whatever any kind of goods from the English American plantations should hereafter be put on shore, either in the kingdoms of Ireland or Scotland, without being first landed in England, and having also paid the duties there, under forfeiture of ship and cargo.' _Macpherson's Annals of Commerce_, vol. ii. p. 684. Certainly, the more a man knows of the history of legislation, the more he will wonder that nations should have been able to advance in the face of the formidable impediments which legislators have thrown in their way. [385] 'A spirit for commerce appears to have been raised among the inhabitants of Glasgow between the periods of 1660 and 1707, when the union with England took place.' ... But, 'whatever their trade was, at this time, it could not be considerable; the ports to which they were obliged to trade, lay all to the eastward; the circumnavigation of the island would, therefore, prove an almost insurmountable bar to the commerce of Glasgow; the people upon the east coast, from their situation, would be in possession of almost the whole commerce of Scotland.' _Gibson's History of Glasgow_, p. 205, Glasgow, 1777. When, however, by the Act of Union, the two countries became one, these precautions were discontinued, and Scotland was allowed to hold direct intercourse with America and the West India Islands. The result which this produced on the national industry, was almost instantaneous, because it gave vent to a spirit which had begun to appear among the people late in the seventeenth century, and because it was aided by those still more general causes, which, in most parts of Europe, predisposed that age to increased industry. The west of Scotland, being nearest to America, was the first to feel the movement. In 1707, the inhabitants of Greenock, without the interference of government, imposed on themselves a voluntary assessment, with the object of constructing a harbour. In this undertaking, they displayed so much zeal, that, by the year 1710, the whole of the works were completed; a pier and capacious harbour were erected, and Greenock was suddenly raised from insignificance to take an important part in the trade of the Atlantic.[386] For a while, the merchants were content to carry on their traffic with ships hired from the English. Soon, however, they became bolder; they began to build on their own account; and, in 1719, the first vessel belonging to Greenock sailed for America.[387] From that moment, their commerce increased so rapidly, that, by the year 1740, the tax which the citizens had laid on themselves sufficed, not only to wipe off the debt which had been incurred, but also to leave a considerable surplus available for municipal purposes.[388] At the same time, and by the action of the same causes, Glasgow emerged from obscurity. In 1718, its enterprising inhabitants launched in the Clyde the first Scotch vessel which ever crossed the Atlantic; thus anticipating the people of Greenock by one year.[389] Glasgow and Greenock became the two great commercial outlets of Scotland, and the chief centres of activity.[390] Comforts, and, indeed, luxuries, hitherto only attainable at enormous cost, began to be diffused through the country. The productions of the tropics could now be procured direct from the New World, which, in return, offered a rich and abundant market for manufactured goods. This was a further stimulus to Scotch industry, and its effects were immediately apparent. The inhabitants of Glasgow, finding a great demand among the Americans for linen, introduced its manufacture into their city in 1725, whence it extended to other places, and, in a short time, gave employment to thousands of workmen.[391] It is also from the year 1725, that Paisley dates its rise. So late as the beginning of the eighteenth century, this rich and prosperous city was still a straggling village, containing only a single street.[392] But, after the Union, its poor, and hitherto idle, inhabitants began to be moved by the activity which they saw on every side. Gradually, their views expanded; and the introduction among them, in 1725, of the manufacture of thread, was the first step in that great career in which they never stopped, until they had raised Paisley to be a vast emporium of industry, and a successful promoter of every art by which industry is nurtured.[393] [386] 'The importance of the measure induced the inhabitants of Greenock to make a contract with the superior, by which they agreed to an assessment of 1_s._ 4_d._ sterling on every sack of malt, brewed into ale, within the limits of the town; the money so levied to be applied in liquidating the expence of forming a proper harbour at Greenock. The work was begun at the epoch of the Union, in 1707; and a capacious harbour, containing upwards of ten Scottish acres, was formed by building an extensive circular pier, with a straight pier, or tongue, in the middle, by which the harbour was divided into two parts. This formidable work, the greatest of the kind, at that time, in Scotland, incurred an expence of more than 100,000 marks Scots.' _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. iii. p. 807, London, 1824, 4to. _In M'Culloch's Geographical and Statistical Dictionary_, London, 1849, vol. i. p. 930, it is stated, that 'the inhabitants took the matter (1707) into their own hands, and agreed with their superior to assess themselves at a certain rate, to build a proper pier and harbour. The work was finished in 1710, at an expence of 5,555_l._' [387] 'The trade of Greenock has kept pace with the improvements made on its harbour. The union of the kingdoms (1707) opened the colonies to the enterprising inhabitants of this town, and generally of the west of Scotland; but it was not till 1719 that the first vessel belonging to Greenock crossed the Atlantic.' _M'Culloch's Geographical and Statistical Dictionary_, vol. i. p. 930. [388] 'Such was the effect of the new harbour in increasing the trade, and the population, of the town, that the assessment, and port dues, cleared off the whole debt before 1740, and left, in that year, a clear surplus of 27,000 marks Scots, or 1,500_l._ sterling.' _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. iii. p. 807. 'After the Union, however, the trade of the port increased so rapidly, that, in the year 1740, the whole debt was extinguished, and there remained a surplus, the foundation of the present town's funds, of 27,000 marks.' _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. v. p. 576, Edinburgh, 1793. [389] 'By the Union, however, new views were opened up to the merchants of the city; they thereby obtained the liberty of a free commerce to America and the West Indies, from which they had been before shut out; they chartered English vessels for these voyages, having none at first fit for the purpose; sent out cargoes of goods for the use of the colonies, and returned home laden with tobacco. The business doing well, vessels were built belonging to the city, and in the year 1718, the first ship, the property of Glasgow, crossed the Atlantic.' _Denholm's History of Glasgow_, p. 405, 3rd edit. Glasgow, 1804. Brown (_History of Glasgow_, vol. ii. p. 330, Edinburgh, 1797) says, that the Glasgow merchants 'chartered Whitehaven ships for many years:' but that, 'in 1716, a vessel of sixty tons burden was launched at Crawford's dike, being the first Clyde ship that went to the British Settlements in America with goods and a supercargo.' But this date is probably two years too early. Mr. M'Culloch, in his excellent _Geographical and Statistical Dictionary_, London, 1849, vol. ii. p. 659, says: 'But for a while, the merchants of Glasgow, who first embarked in the trade to America, carried it on by means of vessels belonging to English ports; and it was not till 1718 that a ship built in Scotland (in the Clyde), the property of Scotch owners, sailed for the American colonies.' Gibson, also (_History of Glasgow_, 1777, p. 206), says: 'In 1718, the first vessel of the property of Glasgow crossed the Atlantic.' And, to the same effect, _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. v. p. 498, Edinburgh, 1793. [390] The progress was so rapid, that, in a work printed in 1732, it is stated, that 'this city of Glasgow is a place of the greatest trade in the kingdom, especially to the Plantations; from whence they have twenty or thirty sail of ships every year, laden with tobacco and sugar; an advantage this kingdom never enjoyed till the Union. They are purchasing a harbour on the Frith, near Alloway, to which they have but twelve miles by land; and then they can re-ship their sugars and tobacco, for Holland, Germany, and the Baltick Sea, without being at the trouble of sailing round England or Scotland.' _Macky's Journey through Scotland_, pp. 294, 295, 2nd edit. London, 1732. The first edition of this book was also printed in 1732. See _Watt's Bibliotheca Britannica_, vol. i. p. 631 m., Edinburgh, 1824, 4to. [391] Gibson, who was a Glasgow merchant, says, in his _History of Glasgow_, p. 236, 'that the commerce to America first suggested the idea of introducing manufactures into Glasgow, is to me very evident; and that they were only attempted to be introduced about the year 1725 is apparent.' Denholm (_History of Glasgow_, p. 412) says: 'The linen manufacture, which began here in the year 1725, was, for a long time, the staple, not only of this city, but of the west of Scotland.' Compare _Heron's Journey through the Western Counties of Scotland_, Perth, 1799, vol. ii. p. 412. [392] 'Consisting only of one principal street about half a mile in length.' _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. vii. p. 62. But the local historian mentions, with evident pride, that this one street contained 'handsome houses.' _Crawfurd's History of the Shire of Renfrew_, part iii. p. 305, edit. Paisley, 1782, 4to. [393] _Denholm's History of Glasgow_, pp. 546, 547; and _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. vii. pp. 62-64. See also, on the rise of Paisley, _Heron's Journey through the Western Counties of Scotland_, vol. ii. pp. 399, 400; _Pennant's Tour in Scotland_, vol. ii. p. 144; and _Crawfurd's History of the Shire of Renfrew_, part iii. p. 321. At an earlier period, Paisley was famous in a different way. In the middle ages it swarmed with monks. Keith (_Catalogue of Scotch Bishops_, p. 252, Edinburgh, 1755, 4to) tells us that, 'it formerly was a Priory, and afterwards changed into an Abbey of Black Monks.' Nor was it merely in the west, that this movement was displayed. In Scotland generally, the spirit of trade became so rife, that it began to encroach on the old theological spirit, which had long been supreme. Hitherto, the Scotch had cared for little except religious polemics. In every society, these had been the chief subjects of conversation; and on them, men had wasted their energies, without the least benefit either to themselves or to others. But, about this time it was observed, that the improvement of manufactures became a common topic of discourse.[394] Such a statement, made by a well-informed writer, who witnessed what he relates, is a curious proof of the change which was beginning, though very faintly, to steal over the Scotch mind. It shows that there was, at all events, a tendency to turn aside from subjects which are inaccessible to our understanding, and the discussion of which has no effect except to exasperate those who dispute, and to make them more intolerant than ever of theological opinions different from their own. Unhappily, there were, as I shall presently point out, other causes at work, which prevented this tendency from producing all the good that might have been expected. Still, so far as it went, it was a clear gain. It was a blow to superstition, inasmuch as it was an attempt to occupy the human mind with mere secular considerations. In a country like Scotland, this alone was extremely important. We must also add, that, though it was the effect of increased industry, it, as often happens, reacted upon, and strengthened, its cause. For, by diminishing, however little, the inordinate respect formerly paid to theological pursuits, it was, in the same proportion, an inducement to ambitious and enterprising men to abstain from those pursuits, and to engage in temporal matters, where ability, being less fettered by prejudice, has more scope, and enjoys more freedom of action. Of those men, some rose to the first rank in literature; while others, taking a different but equally useful turn, became as eminent in trade. Hence, Scotland, during the eighteenth century, possessed, for the first time, two powerful and active classes, whose aim was essentially secular--the intellectual class, and the industrial class. Before the eighteenth century, neither of these classes exercised an independent sway, or could, indeed, be said to have a separate existence. The intellect of the country was absorbed by the church; the industry of the country was controlled by the nobles. The effect which this change produced on the literature of Scotland will be traced in the last chapter of the present volume. Its effect on industry was equally remarkable, and, for the well-being of the nation, was equally valuable. But it does not possess that general scientific interest which belongs to the intellectual movement; and I shall, therefore, in addition to the evidence already given, confine myself to a few more facts illustrative of the history of Scotch industry down to the middle of the eighteenth century, by which time there was no longer any doubt that the flood of material prosperity had fairly set in. [394] The author of _The Interest of Scotland Considered_, Edinburgh, 1733, says (p. xvi.) that since 1727, 'we have happily turned our eyes upon the improvement of our manufactures, which is now a common subject in discourse, and this contributes not a little to its success.' During the seventeenth century, the only Scotch manufacture of any importance was that of linen, which, however, like every other branch of industry, was very backward, and was exposed to all sorts of discouragement.[395] But, after the Union, it received a sudden impetus, from two causes. One of these causes, as I have already noticed, was the demand from America, consequent upon the trade of the Atlantic being thrown open. The other cause was, the removal of the duty which England had imposed upon the importation of Scotch linen. These two circumstances, occurring nearly at the same time, produced such effect on the national industry, that De Foe, who had a wider knowledge of the details of trade than any man of that age, said that it seemed as if, for the future, the Scotch poor could never lack employment.[396] Unfortunately, this was not the case, and never will be, until society is radically changed. But the movement which provoked so bold a remark from so cautious an observer as De Foe, must have been very striking; and we know, from other sources, that, between 1728 and 1738, the manufacture of linen for exportation alone was more than doubled.[397] After that period, this and other departments of Scotch industry advanced with a constantly accelerating speed. It is mentioned, by a contemporary who was likely to be well informed, that, between 1715 and 1745, the trade and manufactures of Scotland increased more than they had done for ages before.[398] Such a statement, though valuable as corroborating other evidence, is too vague to be entirely relied on; and historians, who usually occupy themselves with insignificant details about courts and princes and statesmen, desert us in matters which are really important, so that it is now hardly possible to reconstruct the history of the Scotch people during this, the first epoch of their material prosperity. I have, however, gathered a few facts, which appear to rest on good authority, and which supply us with something like precise information as to dates. In 1739, the manufacture of linen was introduced into Kilbarchan,[399] and, in 1740, into Arbroath.[400] From the year 1742, the manufactures of Kilmarnock date their rise.[401] In 1748, the first linen was manufactured in Cullen;[402] and in the same year in Inverary.[403] In 1749, this great branch of industry and source of wealth was established, on a large scale, in Aberdeen;[404] while, about 1750, it began to diffuse itself in Wemyss, in the county of Fife.[405] These things happening, within eleven years, in parts of the country so distant from each other, and so totally unconnected, indicate the existence of general causes, which governed the whole movement; though in this, as in all instances, every thing is popularly ascribed to the influence of a few powerful individuals. We have, however, other proofs that the progress was essentially national. Even in Edinburgh, where hitherto no claims had been respected except those of the nobles or clergy, the voice of this new trading interest began to be heard. In that poor and warlike capital, a society was now first established for the encouragement of manufactures; and we are assured that this was but a single manifestation of the enthusiasm which was generally felt on the subject.[406] Coinciding with this movement, and indeed forming part of it, we can discern the earliest symptoms of a monied class, properly so called. In 1749, there was established, at Aberdeen, the first county bank ever seen in Scotland; and, in the very same year, a similar establishment was formed at Glasgow.[407] These represented the east and the west, and, by the advances which they were able to make, each assisted the trade of its own district. Between eastern and western Scotland, the intercourse, as yet, was difficult and costly. But this likewise was about to be remedied by an enterprise, the mere conception of which would formerly have excited ridicule. After the Union, the idea arose of uniting the east with the west by a canal, which should join the Forth to the Clyde. The plan was deemed chimerical, and was abandoned. As soon, however, as the manufacturing and commercial classes had gained sufficient influence they adopted it, with that energy which is characteristic of their order, and which is more common among them than among any other rank of society. The result was, that, in 1768, the great work was fairly begun;[408] and the first step was taken towards what, in a material point of view, was an enterprise of vast importance, but, in a social and intellectual point of view, was of still superior value, inasmuch as, by supplying a cheap and easy transit through the heart of the most populous part of Scotland, it had a direct tendency to make different districts and different places feel that each had need of others, and thus encouraging the notion that all belonged to one common scheme, it assisted in diminishing local prejudice and assuaging local jealousy; while, in the same proportion, by enticing men to move out of the narrow circle in which they had habitually lived, it prepared them for a certain enlargement of mind, which is the natural consequence of seeing affairs under various aspects, and which is never found in any country in which the means of travelling are either very hazardous or very expensive. [395] Morer, who was in Scotland in 1688 and 1689, says: 'But that which employs great part of their land is hemp, of which they have mighty burdens, and on which they bestow much care and pains to dress and prepare it for making their linen, the most noted and beneficial manufacture of the kingdom.' _Morer's Short Account of Scotland_, London, 1702, pp. 3, 4. [396] 'The duties upon linen from Scotland being taken off in England, made so great a demand for Scots linen more than usual, that it seemed the poor could want no employment.' _De Foe's History of the Union between England and Scotland_, p. 604. Compare _Macpherson's Annals of Commerce_, vol. ii. p. 736: 'a prodigious vent, not only in England, but for the American plantations.' This concerns a later period. [397] 'The surplus of linen made above the consumption, was, in 1728, 2,183,978 yards; in 1738, 4,666,011.' _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. i. p. 873. On the increase between 1728 and 1732, see the Table in _The Interest of Scotland Considered_, Edinburgh, 1733, p. 97. In a work published in 1732, it is stated that 'they make a great deal of linnen all over the kingdom, not only for their own use, but export it to England, and to the Plantations. In short, the women are all kept employ'd, from the highest to the lowest of them.' _Macky's Journey through Scotland_, London, 1732, p. 271. This refers merely to the women of Scotland, whom Macky represents as much more industrious than the men. [398] In 1745, Craik writes to Lord Nithisdale, 'The present family have now reigned over us these thirty years, and though during so long a time they may have fallen into errors, or may have committed faults, (as what Government is without?) yett I will defy the most sanguine zealot to find in history a period equal to this in which Scotland possessed so uninterrupted a felicity, in which liberty, civil and religious, was so universally enjoyed by all people of whatever denomination--nay, by the open and avowed ennemys of the family and constitution, or a period in which all ranks of men have been so effectually secured in their property. Have not trade, manufactures, agriculture, and the spirit of industry in our country extended themselves further during this period and under this family than for ages before?' _Thomson's Memoirs of the Jacobites_, London, 1845, vol. ii. pp. 60, 61. [399] _Crawfurd's History of the Shire of Renfrew_, part ii. p. 114. [400] _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. vii. p. 341, compared with vol. xii. pp. 176, 177. [401] _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. iii. p. 483. [402] _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. xii. p. 145. [403] _Ibid._ vol. v. p. 297. [404] _Kennedy's Annals of Aberdeen_, vol. ii. pp. 199, 200. [405] _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. xvi. p. 520: 'About the year 1750.' I need hardly say, that some of these dates, depending upon tradition, are given by the authors approximatively. [406] 'Betwixt the year 1750 and 1760, a great degree of patriotic enthusiasm arose in Scotland to encourage arts and manufactures; and the _Edinburgh Society_ was established in 1755 for the express purpose of improving these.' _Bower's History of the University of Edinburgh_, vol. iii. pp. 126, 7. [407] 'The first county-bank that anywhere appeared, was the Aberdeen Bank, which was settled in 1749: it was immediately followed by a similar establishment in Glasgow during the same year.' _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol. iii. p. 9, 4to, 1824. Kennedy (_Annals of Aberdeen_, 4to, 1818, vol. ii. p. 195) says: 'Banking was originally projected in Aberdeen about the year 1752, by a few of the principal citizens who were engaged in commerce and manufactures. They commenced business, upon a limited scale, in an office on the north side of the Castle Street, issued notes of hand, of five pounds and of twenty shillings sterling, and discounted bills and promissory notes, for the accommodation of the public.' It is uncertain if Chalmers knew of this passage; but he was a more accurate writer than Kennedy, and I, therefore, prefer his authority. Besides, Kennedy vaguely says, 'about the year 1752.' [408] 'After having been frequently proposed, since the Union, this canal was at length begun in 1768, and finished in 1790. The trade upon it is already great, and is rapidly increasing.' _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. ii. pp. 279, 280, Edinburgh, 1792. See also vol. xii. p. 125; _Irving's History of Dumbartonshire_, 1860, 4to, p. 247; and an interesting contemporary notice in _Nimmo's History of Stirlingshire_, Edinburgh, 1777, pp. 468-481. In 1767, Watt was employed as a surveyor. See _Muirhead's Life of Watt_, 2nd edit. London, 1859, p. 167. Such was the state of Scotland towards the middle of the eighteenth century; and surely a fairer prospect was never opened to any country. The land was at peace. It had nothing to fear, either from foreign invasion, or from domestic tyranny. The arts, which increase the comfort of man, and minister to his happiness, were sedulously cultivated; wealth was being created with unexampled speed, and the blessings which follow in the train of wealth were being widely diffused; while the insolence of the nobility was so effectually curbed, that industrious citizens could, for the first time, feel their own independence, could know that what they earned, that likewise they should enjoy, and could hold themselves erect, and with a manly brow, in the presence of a class before whom they had long crouched in abject submission. Besides this, a great literature now arose, a literature of rare and surpassing beauty. To narrate the intellectual achievements of the Scotch during the eighteenth century, in a manner at all commensurate with their importance, would require a separate treatise, and I cannot now stop even to mention what all educated persons are at least partly acquainted with; each student recognizing the value of what was done in his own pursuit. In the last chapter of this volume, I shall, however, attempt to give some idea of the general results considered as a whole; at present, it is enough to say, that in every branch of knowledge this once poor and ignorant people produced original and successful thinkers. What makes this the more remarkable, is its complete contrast to their former state. Down even to the beginning of the eighteenth century, Scotland could only boast of two authors whose works have benefited mankind. They were Buchanan and Napier. Buchanan was the first political writer who held accurate views respecting government, and who clearly defined the true relation between the people and their rulers. He placed popular rights on a solid basis, and vindicated, by anticipation, all subsequent revolutions. Napier, equally bold in another department, succeeded, by a mighty effort of genius, in detecting, and pushing to its extreme consequence, a law of the progression of numbers, which is so simple and yet so potent, that it unravels the most tedious and intricate calculations, and, thus economizing the labours of the brain, has saved an enormous and incalculable waste. These two men were, indeed, great benefactors of their species; but they stand alone, and if all the other authors Scotland produced down to the close of the seventeenth century had never been born, or if, being born, they had never written, society would have lost nothing, but would be in exactly the same position as it now is. Early, however, in the eighteenth century, a movement was felt all over Europe, and in that movement Scotland participated. A spirit of inquiry was abroad, so general and so searching, that no country could entirely escape from its action. Sanguine men were excited, and even grave men were stirred. It seemed as if a long night were about to close. Light broke forth where before there was nothing but darkness. Opinions which had stood the test of ages were suddenly questioned; and in every direction doubts sprung up, and proofs were demanded. The human mind, waxing bold, would not be satisfied with the old evidence. Things were examined at their foundation, and the basis of every belief was jealously scrutinized. For a time, this was confined to the higher intellects; but soon the movement spread, and, in the most advanced countries, worked upon nearly all classes. In England and in France, the result was extremely beneficial. It might have been hoped, that in Scotland likewise, the popular mind would gradually have become enlightened. But not so. Time rolled on; one generation succeeded another; the eighteenth century passed away; the nineteenth century came; and still the people made no sign. The gloom of the middle ages was yet upon them. While all around was light, the Scotch, enveloped in mist, crept on, groping their way, dismally and with fear. While other nations were shaking off their old superstitions, this singular people clung to theirs with undiminished tenacity. Now, indeed, their grasp is gradually slackening, but with extreme slowness, and threatening reactions frequently appear. This, as it always has been, and still is, the curse of Scotland, so also is it the chief difficulty with which the historian of Scotland has to contend. Everywhere else, when the rise of the intellectual classes, and that of the trading and manufacturing classes, have accompanied each other, the invariable result has been, a diminution of the power of the clergy, and, consequently, a diminution of the influence of superstition. The peculiarity of Scotland is, that, during the eighteenth century, and even down to the middle of the nineteenth century, the industrial and intellectual progress has continued without materially shaking the authority of the priesthood.[409] Strange and unequal combination! The country of bold and enterprising merchants, of shrewd manufacturers, of far-seeing men of business, and of cunning artificers; the country, too, of such fearless thinkers as George Buchanan, David Hume, and Adam Smith, is awed by a few noisy and ignorant preachers, to whom it allows a license, and yields a submission, disgraceful to the age, and incompatible with the commonest notions of liberty. A people, in many respects very advanced, and holding upon political subjects enlightened views, do, upon all religious subjects, display a littleness of mind, an illiberality of sentiment, a heat of temper, and a love of persecuting others, which shows that the Protestantism of which they boast has done them no good; that, in the most important matters, it has left them as narrow as it found them; and that it has been unable to free them from prejudices which make them the laughing-stock of Europe, and which have turned the very name of the Scotch Kirk into a by-word and a reproach among educated men. [409] I will quote, in a single passage, the opinions of an eminent German and of an eminent Scotchman. 'Dr. Spurzheim, when he last visited Scotland, remarked that the Scotch appeared to him to be the most priest-ridden nation in Europe; Spain and Portugal not excepted. _After having seen other countries, I can understand the force of this observation._' _Notes on the United States of North America by George Combe_, vol. iii. p. 32, Edinburgh, 1841. I shall now endeavour to explain how all this arose, and how such apparent inconsistencies are to be reconciled. That they may be reconciled, and that the inconsistencies are merely apparent and not real, will be at once admitted by whoever is capable of a scientific conception of history. For, in the moral world, as in the physical world, nothing is anomalous; nothing is unnatural; nothing is strange. All is order, symmetry, and law. There are opposites, but there are no contradictions. In the character of a nation, inconsistency is impossible. Such, however, is still the backward condition of the human mind, and with so evil and jaundiced an eye do we approach the greatest problems, that not only common writers, but even men from whom better things might be hoped, are on this point involved in constant confusion, perplexing themselves and their readers by speaking of inconsistency, as if it were a quality belonging to the subject which they investigate, instead of being, as it really is, a measure of their own ignorance. It is the business of the historian to remove this ignorance, by showing that the movements of nations are perfectly regular, and that, like all other movements, they are solely determined by their antecedents. If he cannot do this, he is no historian. He may be an annalist, or a biographer, or a chronicler, but higher than that he cannot rise, unless he is imbued with that spirit of science which teaches, as an article of faith, the doctrine of uniform sequence; in other words, the doctrine that certain events having already happened, certain other events corresponding to them will also happen. To seize this idea with firmness, and to apply it on all occasions, without listening to any exceptions, is extremely difficult, but it must be done by whoever wishes to elevate the study of history from its present crude and informal state, and do what he may towards placing it in its proper rank, as the head and chief of all the sciences. Even then, he cannot perform his task unless his materials are ample, and derived from sources of unquestioned credibility. But if his facts are sufficiently numerous; if they are very diversified; if they have been collected from such various quarters that they can check and confront each other, so as to do away with all suspicion of their testimony being garbled; and if he who uses them possesses that faculty of generalization, without which nothing great can be achieved, he will hardly fail in bringing some part of his labours to a prosperous issue, provided he devotes all his strength to that one enterprise, postponing to it every other object of ambition, and sacrificing to it many interests which men hold dear. Some of the most pleasurable incentives to action, he must disregard. Not for him, are those rewards which, in other pursuits, the same energy would have earned; not for him, the sweets of popular applause; not for him, the luxury of power; not for him, a share in the councils of his country; not for him, a conspicuous and honoured place before the public eye. Albeit conscious of what he could do, he may not compete in the great contest; he cannot hope to win the prize; he cannot even enjoy the excitement of the struggle. To him, the arena is closed. His recompense lies within himself, and he must learn to care little for the sympathy of his fellow-creatures, or for such honours as they are able to bestow. So far from looking for these things, he should rather be prepared for that obloquy which always awaits those, who, by opening up new veins of thought, disturb the prejudices of their contemporaries. While ignorance, and worse than ignorance, is imputed to him, while his motives are misrepresented, and his integrity impeached, while he is accused of denying the value of moral principles, and of attacking the foundation of all religion, as if he were some public enemy, who made it his business to corrupt society, and whose delight it was to see what evil he could do; while these charges are brought forward, and repeated from mouth to mouth, he must be capable of pursuing in silence the even tenor of his way, without swerving, without pausing, and without stepping from his path to notice the angry outcries which he cannot but hear, and which he is more than human if he does not long to rebuke. These are the qualities, and these the high resolves, indispensable to him, who, on the most important of all subjects, believing that the old road is worn out and useless, seeks to strike out a new one for himself, and, in the effort, not only perhaps exhausts his strength, but is sure to incur the enmity of those who are bent on maintaining the ancient scheme unimpaired. To solve the great problem of affairs; to detect those hidden circumstances which determine the march and destiny of nations; and to find, in the events of the past, a key to the proceedings of the future, is nothing less than to unite into a single science all the laws of the moral and physical world. Whoever does this, will build up afresh the fabric of our knowledge, re-arrange its various parts, and harmonize its apparent discrepancies. Perchance, the human mind is hardly ready for so vast an enterprise. At all events, he who undertakes it will meet with little sympathy, and will find few to help him. And let him toil as he may, the sun and noontide of his life shall pass by, the evening of his days shall overtake him, and he himself have to quit the scene, leaving that unfinished which he had vainly hoped to complete. He may lay the foundation; it will be for his successors to raise the edifice. Their hands will give the last touch; they will reap the glory; their names will be remembered when he is forgotten. It is, indeed, too true, that such a work requires, not only several minds, but also the successive experience of several generations. Once, I own, I thought otherwise. Once, when I first caught sight of the whole field of knowledge, and seemed, however dimly, to discern its various parts and the relation they bore to each other, I was so entranced with its surpassing beauty, that the judgment was beguiled, and I deemed myself able, not only to cover the surface, but also to master the details. Little did I know how the horizon enlarges as well as recedes, and how vainly we grasp at the fleeting forms, which melt away and elude us in the distance. Of all that I had hoped to do, I now find but too surely how small a part I shall accomplish. In those early aspirations, there was much that was fanciful; perhaps there was much that was foolish. Perhaps, too, they contained a moral defect, and savoured of an arrogance which belongs to a strength that refuses to recognize its own weakness. Still, even now that they are defeated and brought to nought, I cannot repent having indulged in them, but, on the contrary, I would willingly recall them, if I could. For, such hopes belong to that joyous and sanguine period of life, when alone we are really happy; when the emotions are more active than the judgment; when experience has not yet hardened our nature; when the affections are not yet blighted and nipped to the core; and when the bitterness of disappointment not having yet been felt, difficulties are unheeded, obstacles are unseen, ambition is a pleasure instead of a pang, and the blood coursing swiftly through the veins, the pulse beats high, while the heart throbs at the prospect of the future. Those are glorious days; but they go from us, and nothing can compensate their absence. To me, they now seem more like the visions of a disordered fancy, than the sober realities of things that were, and are not. It is painful to make this confession; but I owe it to the reader, because I would not have him to suppose that either in this, or in the future volumes of my History, I shall be able to redeem my pledge, and to perform all that I promised. Something, I hope to achieve, which will interest the thinkers of this age; and something, perhaps, on which posterity may build. It will, however, only be a fragment of my original design. In the two last chapters I have attempted, and in the two next chapters I shall still further attempt, to solve a curious problem in the history of Scotland, which is intimately connected with other problems of a yet graver import: but though the solution will, I believe, be complete, the evidence of the solution will, most assuredly, be imperfect. I regret to add, that such imperfection is henceforth an essential part of my plan. It is essential, because I despair of supplying those deficiencies in my knowledge, of which I grow more sensible in proportion as my views become more extensive. It is also essential, because, after a fair estimate of my own strength, of the probable duration of my life, and of the limits to which industry can safely be pushed, I have been driven to the conclusion, that this Introduction, which I had projected as a solid foundation on which the history of England might subsequently be raised, must either be greatly curtailed, and consequently shorn of its force, or that, if not curtailed, there will hardly be a chance of my being able to narrate, with the amplitude and fulness of detail which they richly deserve, the deeds of that great and splendid nation with which I am best acquainted, and of which it is my pride to count myself a member. It is with the free, the noble, and the high-minded English people, that my sympathies are most closely connected; on them my affections naturally centre; from their literature, and from their example, my best lessons have been learnt; and it is now the most cherished and the most sacred desire of my heart, that I may succeed in writing their history, and in unfolding the successive phases of their mighty career, while I am yet somewhat equal to the task, and before my faculties have begun to dwindle, or the power of continuous attention has begun to decay. CHAPTER IV. AN EXAMINATION OF THE SCOTCH INTELLECT DURING THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. The remaining part of this volume, I purpose to devote to an attempt to unravel still further that two-fold paradox, which forms the prominent peculiarity of the history of Scotland. The paradox consists, as we have seen, in the fact, first, that the same people have long been liberal in politics, and illiberal in religion; and, secondly, that the brilliant, inquisitive, and sceptical literature which they produced in the eighteenth century, was unable to weaken their superstition, or to instil into them wiser and larger maxims on religious matters. From an early period, there were, as I have endeavoured to show, many circumstances which predisposed the Scotch to superstition, and, so far, had a general connexion with the subject before us. But the remarkable phenomenon with which we are immediately concerned, may, I think, be traced to two distinct causes. The first cause was, that, for a hundred and twenty years after the establishment of Protestantism, the rulers of Scotland either neglected the Church or persecuted it, thereby driving the clergy into the arms of the people, from whom alone they could obtain sympathy and support. Hence an alliance between the two parties, more intimate than would otherwise have been possible; and hence, too, the rise of that democratic spirit which was the necessary consequence of such an union, and which the clergy encouraged, because they were opposed and thwarted by the upper classes. So far, the result was extremely beneficial, as it produced a love of independence and a hatred of tyranny, which, twice during the seventeenth century, saved the country from the yoke of a cruel despotism. But these very circumstances, which guarded the people against political despotism, exposed them all the more to ecclesiastical despotism. For, having no one to trust except their preachers, they trusted them entirely and upon all subjects. The clergy gradually became supreme, not only in spiritual matters, but also in temporal ones. Late in the sixteenth century, they had been glad to take refuge among the people; before the middle of the seventeenth century, they ruled the people. How shamefully they abused their power, and how, by encouraging the worst kind of superstition, they prolonged the reign of ignorance, and stopped the march of society, will be related in the course of this chapter; but, in fairness to them, we ought to acknowledge, that the religious servitude into which the Scotch fell during the seventeenth century, was, on the whole, a willing one, and that, mischievous as it was, it had at least a noble origin, inasmuch as the influence of the Protestant clergy is mainly to be ascribed to the fearlessness with which they came forward as leaders of the people, at a period when that post was full of danger, and when the upper classes were ready to unite with the crown in destroying the last vestiges of national liberty. To trace the operation of this cause of Scotch superstition, will be the business of the present chapter; while, in the next and concluding chapter, I shall examine the other cause, which I have as yet hardly mentioned. This latter inquiry will involve some considerations respecting the philosophy of method, still imperfectly appreciated among us, and on which the history of the Scotch mind will throw considerable light. For, it will appear, that, during the eighteenth century, the ablest Scotchmen, with hardly an exception, adopted a method of investigating truth, which cut them off from the sympathies of their countrymen, and prevented their works from producing the effect which they might otherwise have done. The result was, that though a very sceptical literature was produced, scepticism made no progress, and therefore superstition was undiminished. The highly-educated minds, indeed, were affected; but they formed a class apart, and there were no means of communication between them and the people. That this was owing to the method which literary men employed, I hope to prove in the next chapter; and if I succeed in doing so, it will be evident, that I have been guilty of no exaggeration in terming this the second great cause of the prolongation of Scotch superstition, since it was sufficiently powerful to prevent the intellectual classes from exercising their natural functions as the disturbers of old opinions. We have already seen, that almost immediately after the Reformation, ill-feeling arose between the upper classes and the spiritual leaders of the Protestant church, and that this ill-feeling increased until, in 1580, it vented itself by the abolition of episcopacy. This bold and decisive measure made the breach irreparable. The preachers had now committed themselves too far to recede, even if they had desired to do so; and from that moment, uniting themselves heartily with the people, they took up a position which they have never since abandoned. During the remaining twenty-three years that James was in Scotland, they were occupied in exciting the people against their rulers; and as they became more democratic, so did the crown and nobles grow more hostile, and display, for the first time, a disposition to combine together in defence of their common interests. In 1603, James ascended the throne of England, and the struggle began in earnest. It lasted, with few interruptions, eighty-five years, and, during its continuance, the Presbyterian clergy never wavered; they were always steady to the good cause; always on the side of the people. This greatly increased their influence; and what favoured it still more was, that, besides being the champions of popular liberty, they were also the champions of national independence. When James I. and the two Charles's attempted to force episcopacy upon Scotland, the Scotch rejected it, not only because they hated the institution, but also because they looked on it as the mark of a foreign domination, which they were determined to resist. Their nearest and most dangerous enemy was England; and they spurned the idea of receiving bishops who must, in the first instance, be consecrated in London, and who, it was certain, would never have been admitted into Scotland unless England had been the stronger country. It was, therefore, on patriotic, as well as religious, grounds, that the Scotch clergy, during the seventeenth century, struggled against episcopacy;[410] and when they overthrew it, in 1638, their bold and determined conduct associated, in the popular mind, the love of country with the love of the church. Subsequent events strengthened this association.[411] In 1650, Cromwell invaded Scotland, overthrew the Scotch in the battle of Dunbar, and intrusted to Monk the task of curbing their spirit, by building fortresses, and establishing a long chain of military posts.[412] The nation, cowed and broken, gave way, and, for the first time for three centuries, felt the pressure of a foreign yoke. The clergy alone remained firm.[413] Cromwell, who knew that they were the chief obstacle to completing his conquest, hated them, and did every thing he could to ruin them.[414] But their power was too deeply seated to be shaken. From their pulpits, they continued to influence and animate the people. In face of the invaders, and in spite of them, the Scotch church continued to hold its General Assemblies, until the summer of 1653. Then, indeed, they had to yield to brute force; and the people, to their unutterable grief, beheld the venerated representatives of the Scotch kirk driven from their place of meeting by English soldiers, and led like criminals through the streets of Edinburgh.[415] [410] In 1638, one of the most eminent of the Scotch clergy writes: 'Our maine feare' is 'to have our religion lost, our throats cutted, our poore countrey made ane English province, to be disposed upon for ever hereafter at the will of a Bishope of Canterburie.' _Baillie's Letters and Journals_, vol. i. p. 66. Compare p. 450. 'This kirk is a free and independant kirk, no less then the kingdom is a free and independant kingdom; and as our own Patriots can best judge what is for the good of the kingdom, so our own Pastors should be most able to judge what form of worship beseemeth our Reformation, and what serveth most for the good of the People.' Two generations later, one of the most popular arguments against the Union was, that it might enable the English to force episcopacy upon Scotland. See _De Foe's History of the Union between England and Scotland_, pp. 222, 284, 359. 'The danger of the Church of Scotland, from the suffrages of English bishops,' &c. [411] The hatred which the Scotch naturally felt against the English for having inflicted so much suffering upon them, was intense about the middle of the seventeenth century, notwithstanding the temporary union of the two nations against Charles. In 1652, 'the criminal record is full of cases of murder of English soldiers. They were cut off by the people whenever a fitting opportunity occurred, and were as much detested in Scotland as the French soldiers were in Spain during the Peninsular war.' _The Spottiswoode Miscellany_, vol. ii. p. 98, Edinburgh, 1845. See also p. 167: 'a nationall quarrell, and not for the Stuarts.' [412] _Browne's History of the Highlands_, vol. ii. pp. 75-77: 'the English army was augmented to twenty thousand men, and citadels erected in several towns, and a long train of military stations drawn across the country to curb the inhabitants.' [413] Clarendon, under the year 1655, says, 'Though Scotland was vanquished, and subdued, to that degree, that there was no place nor person who made the least show of opposing Cromwell; who, by the administration of Monk, made the yoke very grievous to the whole nation; yet the preachers kept their pulpit license; and, more for the affront that was offered to presbytery, than the conscience of what was due to majesty, many of them presumed to pray for the king; and generally, though secretly, exasperated the minds of the people against the present government.' _Clarendon's History of the Rebellion_, p. 803. [414] And, what they must have felt very acutely, he would not go to hear them preach. A writer of that time informs us that, even in 1648, when Cromwell was in Edinburgh, 'he went not to their churches; but it is constantle reported that ewerie day he had sermons in his oune ludginge, himself being the preacher, whensoewer the spirit came upon him; which took him lyk the fitts of an ague, somtyms twise, sometyms thryse in a day.' _Gordon's Britane's Distemper_, p. 212. In 1650, according to another contemporary, 'he made stables of all the churches for hes horsses quhersoeuer he came, and burned all the seatts and pewes in them; riffled the ministers housses, and distrayed ther cornes.' _Balfour's Annales of Scotland_, vol. iv. p. 88. The clergy, on the other hand, employing a resource with which their profession has always been familiar, represented Cromwell as opposing Providence, because he was opposing them. Rutherford (_Religious Letters_, reprinted Glasgow, 1824, p. 346) says, that he fought 'against the Lord's secret ones;' and Row (_Continuation of Blair's Autobiography_, p. 335), under the year 1658, triumphantly observes: 'In the beginning of September this year, the Protector, that old fox, died. It was observed, as a remarkable cast of divine providence, that he died upon the 3d of September, which he, glorying of routing of our armies at Dunbar and Worcester on that day, used to call _his day_. On that same very day the Just Judge called him to an account,' &c. [415] See contemporary notices of this, in _Nicoll's Diary_, p. 110; and in _The Diary of Mr. John Lamont of Newton_, pp. 56, 57. But the best account is that given by Baillie, in a letter to Calamy, dated Glasgow, 27th July 1653. He writes: 'That on the 20th of July last, when our Generall Assemblie was sett in the ordinarie tyme and place, Lieutenant-Colonell Cotterall besett the church with some rattes of musqueteirs and a troup of horse; himself (after our fast, wherein Mr. Dickson and Mr. Dowglas had two gracious sermons) entered the Assemblie-house, and immediately after Mr. Dickson the Moderator his prayer, required audience; wherein he inquired, If we did sitt there by the authority of the Parliament of the Commonwealth of England? or of the Commanders-in-chiefe of the English forces? or of the English Judges in Scotland? The Moderator replyed, That we were ane Ecclesiasticall synod, ane Spirituall court of Jesus Christ, which medled not with anything Civile; that our authoritie wes from God, and established by the lawes of the land yet standing unrepealed; that, by the Solemn League and Covenant, the most of the English army stood obliedged to defend our Generall Assemblie. When some speeches of this kind had passed, the Lieutenant-Colonell told us, his order was to dissolve us; whereupon he commanded all of us to follow him, else he would drag us out of the rowme. When we had entered a Protestation of this unheard-of and unexampled violence, we did ryse and follow him; he ledd us all through the whole streets a myle out of the towne, encompassing us with foot-companies of musqueteirs, and horsemen without; all the people gazing and mourning as at the saddest spectacle they had ever seen. When he had ledd us a myle without the towne, he then declared what further he had in commission, That we should not dare to meet any more above three in number; and that against eight o'clock to-morrow, we should depart the towne, under paine of being guiltie of breaking the publick peace: And the day following, by sound of trumpet, we were commanded off towne under the paine of present imprisonment. Thus our Generall Assemblie, the glory and strength of our Church upon earth, is, by your souldiarie, crushed and trod under foot, without the least provocatione from us, at this time, either in word or deed.' _Baillie's Letters and Journals_, vol. iii. pp. 225, 226. Thus it was that in Scotland, after the latter part of the sixteenth century, every thing tended to increase the reputation of the clergy, by raising them to the foremost rank among the defenders of their country. And it was but natural that the spiritual classes, finding themselves in the ascendant, should conduct the contest according to views habitual to their profession, and should be anxious for religious advantages, rather than for temporal benefits. The war which the Scotch waged against Charles I. partook more of the character of a crusade than any war ever carried on by a Protestant nation.[416] The main object was, to raise up presbyters, and to destroy bishops. Prelacy was the accursed thing, and that must be rooted out at every hazard. To this, all other considerations were subordinate.[417] The Scotch loved liberty, and hated England. Yet, even these two passions, notwithstanding their strength, were as nothing, in comparison with their intense desire to extend and to propagate, if need be at the point of the sword, their own Presbyterian polity. This was their first and paramount duty. They fought, indeed, for freedom, but, above all, they fought for religion. In their eyes, Charles was the idolatrous head of an idolatrous church, and that church they were resolved to destroy. They felt that their cause was holy, and they went forth full of confidence, convinced that the sword of Gideon was drawn on their side, and that their enemies would be delivered up to them. [416] In August 1640, the army marched into England; and 'it was very refreshfull to remark, that after we came to ane quarter at night, there was nothing almost to be heard throughout the whole army but singing of Psalms, prayer, and reading of Scripture by the souldiers in their severall hutts.' _Select Biographies_, edited by Mr. Tweedie for the Wodrow Society, vol. i. p. 163. 'The most zealous among them boasted, they should carry the triumphant banners of the covenant to Rome itself.' _Arnot's History of Edinburgh_, p. 124. In 1644, the celebrated divine, Andrew Cant, was appointed by the Commissioners of the General Assembly, 'to preach at the opening of the Parliament, wherein he satisfied their expectation fully. For, the main point he drove at in his sermon, was to state an opposition betwixt King Charles and King Jesus (as he was pleased to speak) and upon that account to press resistance to King Charles for the interest of King Jesus. It may be wondered that such doctrine should have relish'd with men brought up in the knowledge of the Scriptures; and yet, such was the madness of the times, that none who preach'd in public since the beginning of the Troubles, had been so cried up as he was for that sermon.' _Guthry's Memoirs_, pp. 136, 137. [417] 'The rooting out of prelacy and the wicked hierarchy therein so obviously described, is the main duty.' _Naphtali, or the Wrestlings of the Church of Scotland_, pp. 53, 54. This refers to the Covenant of 1643. So, too, the continuator of _Row's History of the Kirk_, p. 521, says, under the year 1639, that the object of the war was, 'to withstand the prelaticall faction and malignant, countenanced by the kinge in his owne persone.' Compare the outbreak of the Reverend Samuel Rutherford, against 'the accursed and wretched prelates, the Antichrist's first-born, and the first fruit of his foul womb.' _Rutherford's Religious Letters_, p. 179. The rebellion, therefore, against Charles, which, on the part of the English, was essentially secular,[418] was, on the part of the Scotch, essentially religious. This was because with us, the laymen were stronger than the clergy; while with them, the clergy were stronger than the laymen. In 1643, both nations having united against the king, it was thought advisable that an intimate alliance should be concluded; but, in the negotiations which followed, it is noticed, by a contemporary observer, that though the English merely wished for a civil league, the Scotch demanded a religious covenant.[419] And as they would only continue the war on condition that this was granted, the English were obliged to give way. The result was the Solemn League and Covenant, by which what seemed a cordial union was effected between the two countries.[420] Such a compact was, however, sure to be short-lived, as each party had different objects; the aim of the English being political, while that of the Scotch was religious. The consequences of this difference were soon apparent. In January 1645, negotiations having been opened with the king, commissioners met at Uxbridge, with the view of concluding a peace. The attempt failed, as might have been expected, seeing that, not only were the pretensions of the king irreconcilable with those of his opponents, but that the pretensions of his opponents were irreconcilable with each other. At Uxbridge, during the conferences, the Scotch expressed their readiness to concede to him what he required, if he would gratify them in regard to the Church; while the English, occupying themselves with civil and political questions, cared less, says Clarendon, for what concerned the Church than for anything else.[421] A better illustration could hardly be found of the secular character of the English rebellion, as compared with the spiritual character of the Scotch rebellion. Indeed, the Scotch, so far from concealing this, boasted of it, and evidently thought that it proved how superior they were to their worldly-minded neighbours. In February 1645, the General Assembly issued an address to the nation, including not only those who were at home, but also those who served in armies out of Scotland. In this document, which, proceeding from such a quarter, necessarily exercised great influence, political considerations, as having to do merely with the temporal happiness of men, are treated as insignificant, and almost despicable. That Rupert was defeated, and that York and Newcastle were taken, were but trifling matters. They were only the means of accomplishing an end, and that end was the reformation of religion in England, and the establishment there of the pure Presbyterian polity.[422] [418] Our civil war was not religious; but was a struggle between the Crown and the Parliament. See a note in _Buckle's History of Civilization_, vol. i. p. 359. [419] In September 1643, Baillie, writing an account of the proceedings of the Westminster Assembly in the preceding month, says, 'In our committees also we had hard enough debates. The English were for a civill League, we for a religious Covenant.' Letter to Mr. William Spang, dated 22nd September 1643, in _Baillie's Letters and Journals_, vol. ii. p. 90. [420] 'The Solemn League and Covenant,' which 'is memorable as the first approach towards an intimate union between the kingdoms, but, according to the intolerant principles of the age, a federal alliance was constructed on the frail and narrow basis of religious communion.' _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. pp. 258, 259. The passage, however, which I have quoted, in the last note, from Baillie, shows that England was not responsible for the intolerant principles, or, consequently, for the narrow basis. [421] The Chancellor of Scotland 'did as good as conclude "that if the king would satisfy them in the business of the Church, they would not concern themselves in any of the other demands."' ... 'And it was manifest enough, by the private conferences with other of the commissioners, that the parliament took none of the points in controversy less to heart, or were less united in, than in what concerned the Church.' _Clarendon's History of the Rebellion_, edit. Oxford, 1843, p. 522. See also p. 527: 'that the Scots would insist upon the whole government of the Church, and in all other matters would defer to the king.' [422] See this extraordinary document in _Acts of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland from 1638 to 1842_, pp. 122-128, Edinburgh, 1843. It is entitled 'A solemne and seasonable warning to the noblemen, barons, gentlemen, burrows, ministers, and commons of Scotland; as also to armies without and within this kingdom.' In it (p. 123) occurs the following passage: 'And for our part, our forces sent into that kingdom, in pursuance of that Covenant, have been so mercifully and manifestly assisted and blessed from heaven (though in the mids of many dangers and distresses, and much want and hardship), and have been so farre instrumentall to the foyling and scattering of two principall armies; first, the Marquesse of Newcastle his army; and afterwards Prince Rupert's and his together; and to the reducing of two strong cities, York and Newcastle, that we have what to answer the enemy that reproacheth us concerning that businesse, and that which may make iniquitie it self to stop her mouth. But which _is more unto us than all victories or whatsomever temporall blessing_, the reformation of religion in England, and uniformity therein between both kingdoms (a principal end of that Covenant), is so far advanced, that the English Service-Book with the Holy-Dayes and many other ceremonies contained in it, together with the Prelacy, the fountain of all these, are abolished and taken away by ordinance of parliament, and a directory for the worship of God in all the three kingdoms agreed upon in the Assemblies, and in the Parliaments of both kingdoms, without a contrary voice in either; the government of the kirk by congregational elderships, classical presbyteries, provincial and national assemblies, is agreed upon by the Assembly of Divines at Westminster, which is also voted and concluded in both Houses of the Parliament of England.' A war, undertaken with such holy objects, and conceived in so elevated a spirit, was supposed to be placed under the immediate protection of the Deity, on whose behalf it was carried on. In the language of the time, it was a war for God, and for God's church. Every victory that was obtained, was the result, not of the skill of the general, nor of the valour of the troops, but was an answer to prayer.[423] When a battle was lost, it was either because God was vexed at the sins of the people,[424] or else to show them that they must not trust to the arms of the flesh.[425] Nothing was natural; all was supernatural. The entire course of affairs was governed, not by their own antecedents, but by a series of miracles. To assist the Scotch, winds were changed, and storms were lulled. Such intelligence as was important for them to receive, was often brought by sea; and, on those occasions, it was expected that, if the wind were unfavourable, Providence would interfere, would shift it from one quarter to another, and, when the news had safely arrived, would allow it to return to its former direction.[426] [423] In 1644, 'God ansuered our Wednesday's prayers: Balfour and Waller had gotten a glorious victorie over Forth and Hopton, and routed them totallie, horse and foot.' _Baillie's Letters and Journals_, vol. ii. p. 155. In the same year, thanksgivings being offered at Aberdeen for the victory of Leslie over Rupert, 'oure minister Mr. William Strathauchin declairit out of pulpit that this victory wes miraculous, wrocht by the fynger of God.' _Spalding's History of the Troubles_, vol. ii. p. 254. In 1648, the Commissioners of the General Assembly, in an address to the Prince of Wales, stated that the Deity had been 'fighting for his people;' meaning by his people, the Scotch people. They added, that the fact of their enemies having been repulsed, was a proof of 'how sore the Lord hath been displeased with their way.' _Clarendon State Papers_, vol. ii. p. 424, Oxford, 1773, folio. [424] Two Scotch notices are now before me of the fatal battle of Dunbar. According to one, the defeat was intended to testify against 'the great sin and wickedness' of the people. _Naphtali, or the Wrestlings of the Church of Scotland_, p. 75. According to the other, it was owing to the anger of the Deity at the Scotch showing any favour to the partizans of Charles. For, says the Reverend Alexander Shields, 'both at that time, and since that time, the Lord never countenanced an expedition where that malignant interest was taken in unto the state of the quarrel. Upon this, our land was invaded by Oliver Cromwell, who defeat our army at Dunbar, where the anger of the Lord was evidently seen to smoke against us, for espousing that interest.' _Shields' Hind let loose_, p. 75. These opinions were formed after the battle. Before the battle, a different hypothesis was broached. Sir Edward Walker, who was in Scotland at the time, tells us, that the clergy assured the people that 'they had an army of saints, and that they could not be beaten.' _Journal of Affairs in Scotland in 1650_, in _Walker's Historical Discourses_, London, 1705, folio, p. 165. [425] 'Each new victory of Montrose was expressly attributed to the admonitory "indignation of the Lord" against his chosen people for their sin, in "trusting too much to the arm of flesh."' _Napier's Life of Montrose_, Edinburgh, 1840, p. 283. Compare _Guthrie's Considerations contributing unto the Discovery of the Dangers that threaten Religion_, pp. 274, 275, reprinted Edinburgh, 1846. Guthrie was at the height of his reputation in the middle of the seventeenth century. Lord Somerville says of the Scotch, when they were making war against Charles I., that it was 'ordinary for them, dureing the wholl tyme of this warre, to attribute ther great successe to the goodnesse and justice of their cause, untill Divyne Justice trysted them with some crosse dispensatione, and then you might have heard this language from them, that it pleased the Lord to give his oune the heavyest end of the tree to bear, that the saints and people of God must still be sufferers while they are here away; that that malignant party was God's rod to punish them for their unthankfullnesse,' &c. _Somerville's Memorie of the Somervilles_, vol. ii. pp. 351, 352. [426] Baillie mentions, in 1644, an instance of these expectations being fulfilled. He says (_Letters and Journals_, vol. ii. p. 138), 'These things were brought in at a very important nick of time, by God's gracious providence: Never a more quick passage from Holy Island to Yarmouth in thirtie houres; they had not cast anchor halfe an houre till the wind turned contrare.' Compare p. 142: 'If this were past, we look for a new lyfe and vigoure in all affaires, especiallie if it please God to send a sweet northwind, carrying the certain news of the taking of Newcastle, which we dailie expect.' It was in this way that, in Scotland, every thing conspired to strengthen that religious element which the force of circumstances had, at an early period, made prominent, and which now threatened to absorb all the other elements of the national character. The clergy were supreme; and habits of mind natural and becoming to themselves, were diffused among all classes. The theories of a single profession outweighed those of all other professions; and not only war, but also trade, literature, science, and art, were held of no account unless they ministered to the general feeling. A state of society so narrow and so one-sided, has never been seen in any other country equally civilized. Nor did there appear much chance of abating this strange monopoly. As the seventeenth century advanced, the same train of events was continued; the clergy and the people always making common cause against the crown, and being, by the necessity of self-preservation, forced into the most intimate union with each other. Of this, the preachers availed themselves to strengthen their own influence; and for upwards of a century their exertions stopped all intellectual culture, discouraged all independent inquiry, made men in religious matters fearful and austere, and coloured the whole national character with that dark hue, which, though now gradually softening, it still retains. The Scotch, during the seventeenth century, instead of cultivating the arts of life, improving their minds, or adding to their wealth, passed the greater part of their time in what were called religious exercises. The sermons were so long and so frequent, that they absorbed all leisure, and yet the people were never weary of hearing them. When a preacher was once in the pulpit, the only limit to his loquacity was his strength. Being sure of a patient and reverential audience, he went on as long as he could. If he discoursed for two hours without intermission, he was valued as a zealous pastor, who had the good of his flock at heart; and this was about as much as an ordinary clergyman could perform, because, in uttering his sentiments, he was expected to display great vehemence, and to evince his earnestness by toiling and sweating abundantly.[427] This boundary was, however, often passed by those who were equal to the labour; and Forbes, who was vigorous as well as voluble, thought nothing of preaching for five or six hours.[428] But, in the ordinary course of nature, such feats were rare; and, as the people were in these matters extremely eager, an ingenious contrivance was hit upon whereby their desires might be satisfied. On great occasions, several clergymen were present in the same church, in order that, when one was fatigued, he might leave the pulpit, and be succeeded by another, who, in his turn, was followed by a third; the patience of the hearers being apparently inexhaustible.[429] Indeed, the Scotch, by the middle of the seventeenth century, had grown accustomed to look up to their minister as if he were a god, and to dwell with rapture upon every word that dropt from his lips. To hear a favourite preacher, they would incur any fatigue, and would undertake long journeys without sleep or food.[430] Their power of attention was marvellous. The same congregation would sometimes remain together for ten hours, listening to sermons and prayers, interspersed with singings and readings.[431] In an account of Scotland in 1670, it is stated that, in a single church in Edinburgh, thirty sermons were delivered every week.[432] Nor is this at all unlikely, considering the religious enthusiasm of the age. For, in those times, the people delighted in the most harassing and ascetic devotions. Thus, for instance, in 1653, when the sacrament was administered, they pursued the following course. On Wednesday, they fasted, and listened to prayers and sermons for more than eight hours. On Saturday they heard two or three sermons; and on Sunday, the number of sermons was so great that they stayed in church more than twelve hours; while, to conclude the whole, three or four additional ones were preached on Monday by way of thanksgiving.[433] [427] No one, perhaps, carried this further than John Menzies, the celebrated professor of divinity at Aberdeen. 'Such was his uncommon fervour in the pulpit, that, we are informed, he "used to change his shirt always after preaching, and to wet two or three napkins with tears every sermon."' Note in _Wodrow's Correspondence_, vol. ii. p. 222. James Forbes, also, was 'an able and zealous preacher, who after every sermon behooved to change his shirt, he spoke with such vehemency and sweating.' _Select Biographies_, published by the Wodrow Society, vol. i. p. 333. Lord Somerville, who wrote in 1679, mentions 'their thundering preachings.' _Memorie of the Somervilles_, vol. ii. p. 388. A traditionary anecdote, related by the Dean of Edinburgh, refers to a later period, but is characteristic of the class. 'Another description I have heard of an energetic preacher more forcible than delicate--"Eh, our minister had a great power o' watter, for he grat, and spat, and swat like mischeef."' _Reminiscences of Scottish Life and Character_, by E. B. Ramsay, Dean of Edinburgh, p. 201. [428] He 'was a very learned and pious man; he had a strange faculty of preaching five or six hours at a time.' _Burnet's History of his own Time_, vol. i. p. 38. Even early in the eighteenth century, when theological fervour was beginning to decline, and sermons were consequently shorter, Hugh Thomson came near to Forbes. 'He was the longest preacher ever I heard, and would have preached four (or) five hours, and was not generally under two hours; that almost every body expected.' ... 'He was a piouse good man, and a fervent affectionat preacher, and, when I heard him, he had a vast deal of heads, and a great deal of matter, and generally very good and practicall, but very long.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. iv. p. 203. [429] In 1653, Lamont casually mentions, in his journal, that 'the one came doune from the pulpit and the other went vp, in the tyme that the psalme after the first sermon was singing, so that ther was no intermission of the exercise, nether were the peopell dismissed till both sermons were ended.' _The Diary of Mr. John Lamont of Newton_, p. 58. Burnet (_History of his own Time_, vol. i. p. 92) says, 'I remember in one fast day there were six sermons preached without intermission. I was there myself, and not a little weary of so tedious a service.' [430] When Guthrie preached at Fenwick, 'his church, although a large country one, was overlaid and crowded every Sabbath-day, and very many, without doors, from distant parishes, such as Glasgow, Paisley, Hamilton, Lanerk, Kilbryde, Glasford, Strathaven, Newmills, Egelsham and many other places, who hungered for the pure gospel preached, and got a meal by the word of his ministry. It was their usual practice to come to Fenwick on Saturday, and to spend the greatest part of the night in prayer to God, and conversation about the great concerns of their souls, to attend the public worship on the Sabbath, to dedicate the remainder of that holy day in religious exercises, and then to go home on Monday the length of ten, twelve or twenty miles without grudging in the least at the long way, want of sleep or other refreshments; neither did they find themselves the less prepared for any other business through the week.' _Howie's Biographia Scoticana_, 2nd edit., Glasgow, 1781, p. 311. One woman went forty miles to hear Livingstone preach. See her own statement, in _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. ii. p. 249. [431] Spalding gives the following account of what happened at Aberdeen in 1644. 'So heir in Old Abirdene, upone the sevint of July, we had ane fast, entering the churche be nyne houris, and continewit praying and preiching whill tua houris. Efter sermon, the people sat still heiring reiding whill efternone's sermon began and endit, whiche continewit till half hour to sex. Then the prayer bell rang to the evening prayeris, and continewit whill seven.' _Spalding's History of the Troubles_, vol. ii. p. 244, edit. Edinburgh, 1829, 4to. See also p. 42: 'the people keipit churche all day.' This was also at Aberdeen, in 1642. [432] 'Out of one pulpit now they have thirty sermons per week, all under one roof.' _A Modern Account of Scotland_, in _The Harleian Miscellany_, vol. vi. p. 138, edit. Park, London, 1810, 4to. [433] 'But where the greatest part was more sound, they gave the sacrament with a new and unusual solemnity. On the Wednesday before, they held a fast day, with prayers and sermons for about eight or ten hours together: on the Saturday they had two or three preparation sermons: and on the Lord's day they had so very many, that the action continued above twelve hours in some places: and all ended with three or four sermons on Monday for thanksgiving.' _Burnet's History of his own Time_, vol. i. p. 108. Such eagerness, and yet such patience, indicate a state of society altogether peculiar, and for which we find no parallel in the history of any civilized country. This intense desire to hear whatever the preachers had to say, was, in itself, a homage of the most flattering kind, and was naturally accompanied by a belief that they were endowed with a light which was withheld from their less gifted countrymen. It is not surprising that the clergy, who, at no period, and in no nation, have been remarkable for their meekness, or for a want of confidence in themselves, should, under circumstances so eminently favourable to their pretensions, have been somewhat elated, and should have claimed an authority even greater than that which was conceded to them. And as this is intimately connected with the subsequent history of Scotland, it will be necessary to collect some evidence respecting their conduct, which will have the further advantage of exhibiting the true character of spiritual domination, and of showing how it works, not only on the intellectual, but also on the practical, life of a people. According to the Presbyterian polity, which reached its height in the seventeenth century, the clergyman of the parish selected a certain number of laymen on whom he could depend, and who, under the name of elders, were his councillors, or rather the ministers of his authority. They, when assembled together, formed what was called the Kirk-Session, and this little court, which enforced the decisions uttered in the pulpit, was so supported by the superstitious reverence of the people, that it was far more powerful than any civil tribunal. By its aid, the minister became supreme. For, whoever presumed to disobey him was excommunicated, was deprived of his property, and was believed to have incurred the penalty of eternal perdition.[434] Against such weapons, in such a state of society, resistance was impossible. The clergy interfered with every man's private concerns, ordered how he should govern his family, and often took upon themselves the personal control of his household.[435] Their minions, the elders, were everywhere; for each parish was divided into several quarters, and to each quarter one of these officials was allotted, in order that he might take special notice of what was done in his own district.[436] Besides this, spies were appointed, so that nothing could escape their supervision.[437] Not only the streets, but even private houses, were searched, and ransacked, to see if any one was absent from church while the minister was preaching.[438] To him, all must listen, and him all must obey. Without the consent of his tribunal, no person might engage himself, either as a domestic servant, or as a field labourer.[439] If any one incurred the displeasure of the clergy, they did not scruple to summon his servants and force them to state whatever they knew respecting him, and whatever they had seen done in his house.[440] To speak disrespectfully of a preacher was a grievous offence;[441] to differ from him was a heresy;[442] even to pass him in the streets without saluting him, was punished as a crime.[443] His very name was regarded as sacred, and not to be taken in vain. And that it might be properly protected, and held in due honour, an Assembly of the Church, in 1642, forbad it to be used in any public paper unless the consent of the holy man had been previously obtained.[444] [434] 'The power of those kirk-sessions, which are now private assemblages, in whose meetings and proceedings the public take no interest whatever, is defined to be the cognizance of parochial matters and cases of scandal; but in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, especially during the Covenanting reign of terror after the outbreak of the Civil War against Charles I., the kirk-sessions of Scotland were the sources of excessive tyranny and oppression--were arbitrary, inquisitorial, and revengeful, to an extent which exceeds all belief. It is truly stated by the author of the "Memoirs of Locheill"--"Every parish had a tyrant, who made the greatest Lord in his district stoop to his authority. The kirk was the place where he kept his court; the pulpit his throne or tribunal from whence he issued out his terrible decrees; and twelve or fourteen sour ignorant enthusiasts, under the title of Elders, composed his council. If any, of what quality soever, had the assurance to disobey his orders, the dreadful sentence of excommunication was immediately thundered out against him, his goods and chattels confiscated and seized, and he himself being looked upon as actually in the possession of the devil, and irretrievably doomed to eternal perdition."' Introduction to _The Kirk-Session Register of Perth_, in _The Spottiswoode Miscellany_, vol. ii. pp. 229-230, Edinburgh, 1845. In regard to the perdition which the sentence of excommunication was supposed to involve, one of the most influential Scotch divines of that time merely expresses the prevailing notion, when he asserts, that whoever was excommunicated was thereby given up to Satan. 'That he who is excommunicated may be truly said to be delivered to Sathan is undeniable.' _Gillespie's Aaron's Rod Blossoming, or the Divine Ordinance of Church Government Vindicated_, 1646, 4to, p. 239. 'Excommunication, which is a shutting out of a Church-member from the Church, whereby Sathan commeth to get dominion and power over him.' _Ibid._ p. 297. 'Sure I am an excommunicate person may truly be said to be delivered to Sathan.' p. 424. [435] Clarendon, under the year 1640, emphatically says (_History of the Rebellion_, p. 67), 'The preacher reprehended the husband, governed the wife, chastised the children, and insulted over the servants, in the houses of the greatest men.' The theory was, that 'ministers and elders must be submitted unto us as fathers.' _Shields' Enquiry into Church Communion_, 2nd edit., Edinburgh, 1747, p. 66. In the middle of the seventeenth century, one of the most famous of the Scotch preachers openly asserted the right of his profession to interfere in family matters, on the ground that such was the custom in the time of Joshua. 'The Ministers of God's house have not only the ministry of holy things, as Word and Sacraments, committed to their charge, but also the power of ecclesiastical government to take order with scandalous offences within the familie; both these are here promised to Joshua and the Priests.' _Hutchison's Exposition of the Minor Prophets_, vol. iii. p. 72, London, 1654. In 1603, the Presbytery of Aberdeen took upon themselves to order that every master of a house should keep a rod, that his family, including his servants, might be beaten if they used improper language. 'It is concludit that thair salbe in ewerie houss a palmar.' _Selections from the Records of the Kirk Session, Presbytery, and Synod of Aberdeen_, printed for the Spalding Club, 4to, Aberdeen, 1846, p. 194. It also appears (p. 303) that, in 1674, the clergyman was expected to exercise supervision over all visitors to private houses; since he ought to be informed, 'iff ther be anie persone receaved in the familie without testimoniall presented to the minister.' [436] In 1650, it was ordered, 'That everie paroche be divydit in severall quarteris, and each elder his owne quarter, over which he is to have speciall inspectioun, and that everie elder visit his quarter once everie month at least, according to the act of the Generall Assemblie, 1649, and in thair visitatioun tak notice of all disorderlie walkeris, especiallie neglectouris of God's worship in thair families, sueareris, haunteris of aill houses, especiallie at vnseasonable tymes, and long sitteris thair, and drinkeris of healthis; and that he dilate these to the Sessioun.' _Selections from the Minutes of the Synod of Fife_, printed for the Abbotsford Club, Edinburgh, 1837, 4to, p. 168. 'The elders each one in his own quarter, for trying the manners of the people.' _The Government and Order of the Church of Scotland_, Edinburgh, 1690, p. 14. This scarce little volume is reprinted from the edition of 1641. See the advertisement at the beginning. [437] In 1652, the Kirk-Session of Glasgow 'brot boyes and servants before them, for breaking the Sabbath, and other faults. They had clandestine censors, and gave money to some for this end.' _Wodrow's Collections_, vol. ii. part ii. p. 74, Glasgow, 1848, 4to. [438] 'It is thocht expedient that ane baillie with tua of the sessioun pas throw the towne everie Sabboth day, and nott sic as thay find absent fra the sermones ather afoir or efter none; and for that effect that thay pas and _sersche sic houss as they think maist meit_, and pas athort the streittis.' _Selections from the Records of the Kirk Session, Presbytery, and Synod of Aberdeen_, p. 26. 'To pas throw the towne to caus the people resort to the hering of the sermones.' p. 59. 'Ganging throw the towne on the ordinar preiching dayes in the weik, als weill as on the Saboth day, to caus the people resort to the sermones.' p. 77. See also p. 94; and _Wodrow's Collections_, vol. ii. part ii. p. 37: 'the Session allous the searchers to go into houses and apprehend absents from the kirk.' [439] 'Another peculiarity was the supervision wielded over the movements of people to such a degree that they could neither _obtain lodging nor employment_ except by a licence from the Kirk-Session, or, by defying this police court, expose themselves to fine and imprisonment.' _Lawson's Book of Perth_, p. xxxvii. Edinburgh, 1847. [440] In 1652, Sir Alexander Irvine indignantly writes, that the presbytery of Aberdeen, 'when they had tried many wayes, bot in vaine, to mak probable this their vaine imaginatione, they, at lenthe, when all other meanes failed thame, by ane unparalelled barbaritie, enforced my serwandis to reweall upon oathe what they sawe, herd, or knewe done within my house, beyond which no Turkische inquisitione could pase.' _The Miscellany of the Spalding Club_, vol. iii. p. 206, Aberdeen, 1846, 4to. [441] In 1656, a servant was ordered to be brought before the Kirk-Session of Aberdeen 'for her rayleing againest Mr. Andrew Cant, minister, in saying that becaus the said Mr. Andrew spak againest Yuill, he spak lyke ane old fool.' _Selections from the Records of the Kirk Session, Presbytery, and Synod of Aberdeen_, p. 138. In 1642, the Presbytery of Lanark had up a certain James Baillie, because he stated the extremely probable circumstance, 'that two fooles mett togither, when the Minister and his sone mett togither.' _Selections from the Registers of the Presbytery of Lanark_, printed for the Abbotsford Club, Edinburgh, 1839, 4to, p. 30. [442] In 1644, 'If you dissent from them in a theological tenet, it is heresy.' _Presbytery Displayed_, 1644, p. 39, reprinted London, 1663, 4to. In 1637, 'If ye depart from _what I taught you in a hair-breadth_ for fear or favour of men, or desire of ease in this world, I take heaven and earth to witness, that ill shall come upon you in end.' _Rutherford's Religious Letters_, p. 116. In 1607, 'Mr. William Cowper, Minister, complained upon Robert Keir that he had disdainfully spoken of his doctrine. The (Kirk) Session ordained him to be warned to the morrow.' _Lawson's Book of Perth_, p. 247. [443] In 1619, a man was summoned before the Kirk-Session of Perth, because, among other things, he would not perform 'that civil duty of salutation, as becomes him to his pastor;' but 'passed by him without using any kind of reverence.' _The Chronicle of Perth_, Edinburgh, 1831, 4to, p. 80. The complaint was preferred by the minister himself. Indeed, the Scotch clergy took these things so much to heart, that they set up a theory to the effect that whoever showed them any disrespect, was prompted thereto by Satan. 'It is Satan's great engine to draw men to contemne God and his word, under pretext of disrespect and prejudice against the Messengers only.' ... 'It may let us see their guilt who despise most eminent ordinary Messengers.' _Hutcheson's Exposition of the Minor Prophets_, vol. i. pp. 205, 233. [444] The General Assembly of Saint Andrews, in 1642, passed 'an act against using ministers' names in any of the public papers, without their own consent.' _Stevenson's History of the Church of Scotland_, p. 503. These and similar proceedings, being upheld by public opinion, were completely successful. Indeed, they could hardly have been otherwise, seeing that it was generally believed that whoever gainsaid the clergy, would be visited, not only with temporal penalties, but also with spiritual ones. For such a crime, there was punishment here, and there was punishment hereafter. The preachers willingly fostered a delusion by which they benefited. They told their hearers, that what was spoken in the pulpit was binding upon all believers, and was to be regarded as immediately proceeding from the Deity.[445] This proposition being established, other propositions naturally followed. The clergy believed that they alone were privy to the counsels of the Almighty, and that, by virtue of this knowledge, they could determine what any man's future state would be.[446] Going still further, they claimed the power, not only of foretelling his future state, but also of controlling it; and they did not scruple to affirm that, by their censures, they could open and shut the kingdom of heaven.[447] As if this were not enough, they also gave out that a word of theirs could hasten the moment of death, and by cutting off the sinner in his prime, could bring him at once before the judgment-seat of God.[448] [445] 'Directions for a believer's walk, given by Christ's ministers from his word, are his own, and are accounted by him as if he did immediately speak them himself.' _Durham's Exposition of the Song of Solomon_, p. 102. I quote from the Glasgow reprint of 1788. That my references may be easily verified, and any error, if error there be, detected, I mention that the exact edition used will, in every case, be found specified in the List of Authors at the beginning of this work. But, if it will give the reader any additional confidence, I will venture to observe, that I am always scrupulously careful in reference to quotations, having looked out each passage afresh, as the sheets came from the printers hands. Some of the circumstances narrated in this chapter are so monstrous, that I hope to be excused in saying that I have taken all possible pains to secure their literal accuracy. [446] 'Yea, such was their arrogance, that, as if they had been privy to the councils of God, or the dispensers of his vengeance to the world, they presumed to pronounce upon their future state, and doomed them, both body and soul, to eternal torments.' _Wishart's Memoirs of the Marquis of Montrose_, p. 237. 'Ye heard of me the whole counsel of God. _Rutherford's Religious Letters_, p. 16. 'I am free from the blood of all men; for I have communicated to you the whole counsel of God.' _Ibid._ p. 191. 'This is the great business of Gospel Ministers, to declare the whole counsel of God.' _Halyburton's Great Concern of Salvation_, p. 4. 'Asserting that he had declared the whole counsel of God, and had keeped nothing back.' _Life of the Rev. A. Peden_, p. 41, in vol. i. of _Walker's Biographia Presbyteriana_. [447] 'The power of the keys is given to the Ministers of the church, wherewith not only by the preaching of the word, but also to church censures (sic) they open and shut the kingdom of heaven.' _Dickson's Truth's Victory over Error_, p. 282. 'To preach the Word, impugne, rebuik, admonishe, exhort and correct, and that under no less paine then casting both bodie and soull into eternall hell's fire.' _Forbes' Certaine Records touching the Estate of the Kirk_, p. 519. 'The next words, "Whatsoever ye shall bind on Earth shall be bound in Heaven," being spoken to the Apostles, and in them to other Ministers of Jesus Christ.' _Gillespie's Aaron's Rod Blossoming_, p. 366. 'The keys of the kingdom of Heaven' ... 'are committed and intrusted to the pastors and other ruling officers of the Church.' _Ibid._ p. 260. [448] 'Gird up the loins of your mind, and make you ready for meeting the Lord; I have often summoned you, and now I summon you again, to compear before your Judge, to make a reckoning of your life.' _Rutherford's Religious Letters_, p. 235. 'Mr. Cameron, musing a little, said, "You, and all who do not know my God in mercy, shall know him in his judgments, which shall be sudden and surprising in a few days upon you; and I, as a sent servant of Jesus Christ, whose commission I bear, and whose badge I wear upon my breast, give you warning, and leave you to the justice of God." Accordingly, in a few days after, the said Andrew, being in perfect health, took his breakfast plentifully, and before he rose fell a-vomiting, and vomited his heart's blood in the very vessel out of which he had taken his breakfast; and died in a most frightful manner.' _Howie's Biographia Scoticana_, p. 406. Utterly horrible as such a pretension now appears, it was made, not only with impunity, but with advantage; and numerous instances are recorded, in which the people believed that it was strictly enforced. The celebrated John Welsh, sitting one night at table, round which a party were assembled at supper, began to discourse to the company respecting the state of their souls. Those who were present listened with humility; but to this general feeling there was one exception. For, it so happened that a Roman Catholic was in the room, and he, of course, disagreed with the opinions expressed by the Presbyterian divine. If he had been a cautious man, he would have kept his disagreement to himself; but being a hot-headed youth, and being impatient at seeing a single person engross the conversation, he lost his temper, and not only ridiculed Welsh, but actually made faces at him. Thereupon, Welsh charged the company to take heed, and see what the Lord was about to do to him who mocked. Scarcely had this threat been uttered, when it was carried into execution. He who had dared to jest at the minister, suddenly fell, sank under the table, and died there in presence of the whole party.[449] [449] 'Sitting at supper with the Lord Ochiltree (who was uncle to Mr. Welsh's wife), as his manner was, he entertained the company with godly and edifying discourse, which was well received by all the company save only one debauched Popish young gentleman, who sometimes laughed, and sometimes mocked and made faces; whereupon Mr. Welsh brake out into a sad abrupt charge upon all the company to be silent, and observe the work of the Lord upon that profane mocker, which they should presently behold; upon which immediately the profane wretch sunk down and died beneath the table, but never returned to life again, to the great astonishment of all the company.' _History of Mr. John Welsh, Minister of the Gospel at Ayr_, in _Select Biographies_, vol. i. p. 29. 'Mr. Welsh being by the Captaine, set at the upper end, intertained the company with grave and edifying discourse which all delighted to hear, save this young Papist, who, with laughter and derision, laboured to silence him, which was little regarded by Mr. Welsh. But after supper, while the guests sate a little, this youth stood up at the lower end of the table, and while Mr. Welsh proceeded from grave to gracious entertainment of his company, the youth came to that height of insolence as with the finger to point at him and with the face to make flouting grimaces, whereby he grieved the holy man, so as on a suddain he was forced to a silence. The whole company, who had heard him with delight, were silent with him. Within a little, Mr. Welsh, as moved by the spirit of God, broke forth into these words: "Gentlemen, the spirit of God is provoked against us, and I shall intreat you not to be afraid to see what God shall do among you before you rise from the table, for he will smite some of you with death before you go hence." All were silently astonished, waiting to see the issue with fear. And while every man feared himselfe, except the insolent youth, he fel down dead suddenly at the foot of the table to shew the power of God's jealousie against the mockers of his Spirit and the offers of his grace.' _Fleming's Fulfilling of the Scripture_, pp. 374, 375. This happened early in the seventeenth century, and being bruited abroad, it became a great terror to all evil-doers. But, after a time, its effect appears to have been weakened; since another man was equally rash some forty or fifty years afterwards. It seems that a Scotch clergyman of considerable repute, Mr. Thomas Hog, was, like Welsh, sitting at supper, when it so chanced that the servants forgot to lay the knives. Mr. Hog, thinking the opportunity a favourable one, observed that such forgetfulness was of little moment, and that, while we thought so much of our comforts here, it was far more necessary to consider our condition hereafter. A gentleman present, amused, either by the manner of Mr. Hog, or by the skill with which he introduced the topics of his own profession, was unable to restrain himself, and burst out into a violent fit of laughter. The minister, however, was not to be checked, and he continued after such a fashion, that the laughter was repeated louder than ever. At length Mr. Hog turned round, and told his merry comrade that very shortly he should seek for mercy, but find it not. That same night, the scoffer was taken ill, and in great alarm sent for Mr. Hog. It was, however, useless. Before the clergyman could reach his room, the sinner was lying dead, a lost and ruined man.[450] [450] 'When they sat doun to supper, it seems, knives were forgote; and when the servant was rebuked, Mr. Hogg said, there was noe matter, for he had one in his pocket, and it was a necessary companion for a travailer; and, as his use was upon evry thing, he took occasion to raise a spirituall discourse from it: "If we wer soe carefull about accommodations in our way here, what care should we take in our spirituall journey!" and the like; at which the factour takes a kink of laughing. Mr. Hogg looked at him with a frown, and went on in his discourse. Within a little, at somewhat or other, he laughed out yet louder, and Mr. Hogg stoped a litle, and looked him very stern in the face, and went on in his discourse, upon the free grace of God; and, at some expression or other, the man fell a laughing and flouting very loud: Upon which Mr. Hogg stoped, and directed his discourse to him, to this purpose: "Alace!" sayes he, "my soul is afflicted to say what I must say to you, sir, and I am constrained and pressed in spirit to say it, and cannot help it. Sir, you nou dispise the grace of God, and mock at it; but I tell you, in the name of the Lord, that the time is coming, and that very shortly, when you (will) seek ane offer of grace, but shall not find it!" Upon which the man arose, laughing and flouting, and went to his room. After he was away, the lady asked Mr. Hogg, What he thought would come upon him? He answered, he kneu noe more then he had said, and that he was constrained and oblidged to say it against his inclination; and he could not accompt for some of these impressions he sometimes felt, and after Providences would clear, and that shortly; but what it was, when, or where, he kneu not. The man told some of the servants that a phanatick Minister had been pronouncing a curse on him, but he did not value him nor it either. After Mr. Hogg had been somtime with the lady, he went to his room; and after he had, as he used to doe, spent some time in prayer, he putt off his cloaths, and just as he was stepping into his bedd, a servant comes and knocks at the dore and cryes, "For the Lord's sake, Mr. Hogg, come doun staires, presently, to the factour's room!" He put on his cloaths, as quickly as possible, and came doun, but the wretch was dead before he reached him!' _Analecta, or Materials for a History of Remarkable Providences, mostly relating to Scotch Ministers and Christians_, by the Rev. Robert Wodrow, vol. i. pp. 265, 266. Compare _The Life of Mr. Thomas Hog_, in _Howie's Biographia_, p. 543, where a version is given, slightly different, but essentially the same. Nor was it merely in private houses that such examples were made. Sometimes the clergyman denounced the offender from the pulpit, and the punishment was as public as the offence. It is said that Gabriel Semple, when preaching, had a strange habit of putting out his tongue, and that this excited the mirth of a drunken man, who went into the church, and, by way of derision, put out his tongue also. But, to his horror, he found that, though he could put it out, he could not draw it in again. The result was, that the tongue stiffened; it lost all sensibility; and, paralysis coming on, the man died a few days after his transgression.[451] [451] 'He tells me, that when in the South country, he heard this story, which was not doubted about Geddart' (i.e. Jedburgh): 'Mr. Gabriel Semple had gote a habite, when speaking and preaching, of putting out his tongue, and licking his lipps very frequently. Ther was a fellou that used to ape him, in a way of mock; and one day, in a druken caball, he was aping him and putting out his tongue; and it turned stiffe and sensless, and he could not drau it in again, but in a feu dayes dyed. This accompt is soe odd, that I wish I may have it confirmed from other hands.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. ii. p. 187. Occasionally, the penalty was less severe, though the miracle was equally conspicuous. In 1682, a certain woman took upon herself to scold the famous divine, Peden, who was justly regarded as one of the great lights of the Scotch Church. 'I wonder,' said that eminent man, 'I wonder your tongue is not sore with so much idle clatter.' She indignantly replied, that she had never suffered, either from a sore tongue, or from a sore mouth. He told her that she soon would. And the consequence of his saying so was, that her tongue and gums swelled to that degree, that for some days she was unable to take her usual food.[452] [452] 'About the same time, wading Douglas-water very deep,' (he) 'came to a house there; the good wife of the house insisted (as most part of women do not keep a bridle-hand) in chiding of him; which made him to fret, and said, I wonder that your tongue is not sore with so much idle clatter. She said, I never had a sore tongue nor mouth all my days. He said, It will not be long so. Accordingly, her tongue and gooms swelled so, that she could get no meat taken for some days.' _Account of the Life and Death of Mr. Walter Smith_, p. 93, in vol. ii. of _Walker's Biographia Presbyteriana_. She escaped with her life; others were more sharply handled. A clergyman was interrupted in the midst of his sermon by three gentlemen leaving the church. It is not stated that there was any thing offensive in their manner; but their object in going was to amuse themselves at some fair or race, and the minister, no doubt, thought that they should have been content with the gratification of hearing him. At all events, he was dissatisfied, and, after the sermon was over, he censured their conduct, and threatened them with the divine displeasure. His words were remembered, and, to the awe of his parishioners, every tittle was fulfilled. Of the three gentlemen, all died violent deaths; one of them broke his neck by falling from his horse, and another was found in his room with his throat cut.[453] [453] 'I hear from Lady Henriett Campbell, who was present at a Communion at Jeddart (Jedburgh), some years before Mr. Gabriel Semple's death, that, either on the fast day, or Saturnday, ther wer three gentlmen either in the parish or noturely knouen thereabout, who rose in the time of the last sermon, and with their servants went out of (the church), either to some fair or some race, not farr off. After sermon, when Mr. Semple rose to give the ordinary advertisments, he began with taking nottice of this, and said, he had remarked three gentlmen rise in time of sermon, and contemptuously and boldly leave God's service to goe to a fair, or race, as he supposed; but sayes, "It's born in upon me, and I am perswaded of it, the Lord will not suffer them to goe off time, without some remarkable judgment, and I am much mistaken if the most part that have seen them committ the sin, will not hear of the punishment of such open despite to the ordinances of Christ." This peremptoryness did very much surprize Lady H(enriett), and coming home from sermon with my Lord Lothian and his Lady, in coach, she expressed her surprize at it. My Lord Lothian said, "The Minister is a man of God, and I am perswaded not one word of his will fall to the ground!" Within some feu moneths, my Lord or my Lady, writing to Lady H(enriett), signifyed to her, that one of these gentlmen was found in his room, (if I forgett not), with his throat cutt; and a second, being drunk, fell off his horse, and broke his neck; and some while after, shee heard the third had dyed some violent death.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. i. pp. 344, 345. Cases of this sort were frequent during the seventeenth century; and as in that credulous age they were firmly believed and widely circulated, the power of the clergy was consolidated by them. The Laird of Hilton once ventured to pull a minister out of a pulpit which was not his own, and into which he had unlawfully intruded. 'For the injury you have done to the servant of God,' cried the enraged preacher, 'you shall be brought into this church like a sticked sow.' And so indeed he was. Yet a little while, and Hilton became entangled in a quarrel, was run through the body, and his corpse, still bleeding, was carried into the very church where the outrage had been committed.[454] [454] 'In the time of sermon, the Laird of Hiltoun comes in, and charges him in the midst of his work, to come out of (the) pulpite, in the king's name. Mr. Douglasse refused; whereupon the Laird comes to the pulpit, and pulls him out by force! When he sau he behoved to yeild, he said, "Hiltoun, for this injury you have done to the servant of God, knou what you are to meet with! In a litle time you shall be brought into this very church, like a sticked sou!" And in some litle time after, Hilton was run throu the body, and dyed by, if I mistake not, Annandale's brother, either in a douell or a drunken toilzie, and his corpes wer brought in, all bleeding, into that church. "Touch not mine annoynted, and doe my prophets noe harm!"' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. ii. p. 154. In the same work (vol. iv. p. 268) the Reverend Mr. Wodrow writes, that he had been subsequently informed, 'that the story is very true about the denuntiation upon the Laird of Hiltoun, as I have (I think) published it; and ther is a man yet alive who was witness to it, and in the church at the time.' Even when a clergyman was in prison, he retained the same power. His authority was delegated to him from on high, and no temporal misfortune could curtail it. In 1673, the Reverend Alexander Peden, when in confinement, heard a young girl laughing at him outside the door of his room, while he was engaged in those vociferous devotions for which he was celebrated. The mirth of the poor child cost her dear. Peden denounced against her the judgment of God. In consequence of that denunciation, the wind blew her from a rock on which she was walking, and swept her into the sea, where she was quickly drowned.[455] [455] 'While prisoner in the Bass, one Sabbath morning, being about the publick worship of God, a young lass, about the age of thirteen or fourteen years, came to the chamber-door, mocking with loud laughter: He said, Poor thing, thou mocks and laughs at the worship of God; but ere long, God shall write such a sudden, surprising judgment on thee, that shall stay thy laughing, and thou shalt not escape it. Very shortly thereafter, she was walking upon the rock, and there came a blast of wind, and sweeped her off the rock into the sea, where she was lost.' _Life and Death of Mr. Alexander Peden_, p. 43, in vol. i. of _Walker's Biographia Presbyteriana_. See also _Howie's Biographia Presbyteriana_, p. 487. Sometimes the vengeance of the clergy extended to the innocent offspring of the man who had offended them. A certain minister, whose name has not been preserved, met with opposition in his parish, and fell into pecuniary and other difficulties. He applied for aid to a trader, who, being wealthy, ought, he thought, to afford him assistance. The trader, however, thought otherwise, and refused. Upon this, the clergyman declared that God would visit him. The result was, that his business not only declined, but his mind became impaired, and he died an idiot. He had two sons and two daughters. Both his sons went mad. One of his daughters, likewise, lost her reason. The other daughter being married, even her husband became destitute, and the children of that marriage became beggars, that the heinous crime might be visited to the third generation.[456] [456] 'He (Mr. Fordyce, in Aberdeen) tells me this following accompt, which he had from personall observation: When he lived near Frazerburge, in the North, there was a minister settled there, _jure devoluto_, the toun being biggotted against Presbytery to a pitch, and only two or three that had any seeming liking that way. After the Minister is setled, he expected much encouragement from one Ougstoun, I think his name was, who had professed much respect for him in that way. A while after, in some difficulty, the Minister came to him, and desired his countenance and assistance in the difficulty. He at first put the Minister off with delay: and within a litle plainly mocked him, and would doe nothing. The Minister came from him to my informer, who lived a litle from the place, and gave him ane account (of) what had befallen him, and said, "I expected much from that man, and reaconed upon his help and assistance, in soe comfortless a setlement as I have ventured on; and he has not only disappointed me, but mocked me!" And the Minister was like to sink under the thoughts of this carriage; and after some silence, he said, very peremptorly, "I am much mistaken, yea, I'le say it, God hath sent me, and spoken by me. God will visite that man, and something more than ordinary will befall him and his!" My informer was very much stunned and greived at such a peremptory declaration. However, it was accomplished, to my informer's personall knowledge. The man was a trader, who was very rich, worth near four or five thousand pounds sterling in stock. He had two sons and two daughters. Within some litle time, one of his sons turned distracted, and I think continues soe still. The other son, in some distemper, turned silly, and litle better, and dyed. His daughters, one was maryed, and her husband lost all his stock at sea, twice or thrice; his goodfather stocked him once or twice, and all was still lost, and they and their children are miserable. The other daughter fell into a distemper, wherein she lost her reason. The man himself, after that time, never throve; his means wasted away insensibly; and throu all things, he fell under melancholy, and turned silly, and dyed stupide. All this fell out in some feu years after what passed above; and my relator kneu all this particularly, and had occasion to be upon the man's bussiness and affairs.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. ii. pp. 175, 176. See also, in another work by this eminent Scotch divine, an account of what happened, when 'a rash young man' having destroyed the property of a clergyman, named Boyd, 'it was observed that that family did never thrive afterwards, but were in a decaying condition till they are reduced almost to nothing.' _Wodrow's Collections upon the Lives of Ministers of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. part. i. p. 215. To prosecute a minister, or even to assert one's rights against him before a civil tribunal, was not only a hazard, but a certain ruin. About the year 1665, James Fraser was sued in a court of law for a large sum of money, said to be due from his father's estate. As usually happens in these cases, the party sued, considered that he was unjustly treated, and that his opponent had no right to make the claim. So far, all was natural. But the peculiarity was, that Fraser, against whom the action was brought, was a young man preparing for the ministry, and, therefore, under the immediate protection of Providence. Such an one was not to be vexed with impunity; and we are assured by Fraser himself that God specially interposed to prevent his ruin; that one of his opponents was made unable to appear in court, and that the Lord, laying his hand upon the others, put them to death, in order that every obstacle might be at once removed.[457] [457] See Fraser's Life of Himself, in vol. ii. of _Select Biographies_, edited by the Rev. W. K. Tweedie. 'Nothing now remained of all my father's great fortune but a small wadset of sixteen chalders, liferented likewise by my mother. And about the same time a new (though an unjust) adversary charges both her and me for 36,000 merks, and a reduction of our rights; so that our whole livelihood was either gone or at the stake. For four years did this adversary vex us, and was like to have undone us as to our temporal condition, had not the Lord prevented.' p. 196. 'I, ignorant what defences to make, had in my company a registrate horning, which I accidentally and without premeditation (God putting it in my mind at the same time) did cast in, by which he, being the king's rebel, was incapacitate from pursuing me. And the Lord so ordered it that he never after compeared to trouble me, by which means I was delivered from a loss and a fashery, and had but one court to wait upon.' p. 202. 'My condition during this time was a wrestling condition with the sons of Zeruiah that were too strong for me; little or no overcoming, yet violent wrestling.' ... 'For I humbled myself under the sense of the calamities of our family, and my own particular wants; I besought him to keep us from utter destruction. And the Lord was pleased to hear; _he destroyed by death my chief adversaries_, I found shifts to pay my many petty debts, gained our law-action, and was restored to some of my ancient possessions again.' pp. 227, 228. While stories of this sort were generally believed, it was but natural that an opinion should grow up that it was dangerous to meddle with a minister, or in any way to interfere with his conduct.[458] The clergy, intoxicated by the possession of power, reached to such a pitch of arrogance, that they did not scruple to declare, that whoever respected Christ, was bound, on that very account, to respect them.[459] They denounced the judgments of God upon all who refused to hear the opinions they propounded in their pulpits.[460] Nor did this apply merely to persons who usually formed their audience. Such was their conceit, and so greedy were they after applause, that they would not allow even a stranger to remain in their parish, unless he, too, came to listen to what they chose to say.[461] Because they had adopted the Presbyterian polity, they asserted that the Almighty had never failed to punish every one who tried to supersede it;[462] and as this was the perfection of the church, those who were blind to its merits, were given over to wrath, and were, indeed, the slaves of Satan.[463] The clergy, who held this language respecting their opponents, exhausted the choicest epithets of praise on themselves, and on their own pursuits. When one of them got into the pulpit, or took a pen in his hand, he seemed as if he could not find words strong enough to express his sense of the surpassing importance of that class of which he was himself a member.[464] They alone knew the truth; they alone were able to inform and enlighten mankind. They had their instruction direct from heaven; they were, in fact, the ambassadors of Christ; from him they received their appointment; and since no one else could reward them, so no one else had a right to rule them.[465] As they were messengers sent by the Almighty, they were rightly termed angels, and it was the duty of the people to listen to their minister, as if he really were an angel who had descended upon earth.[466] His parishioners, therefore, were bound, not only to acknowledge him and provide for him, but also to submit to him.[467] Indeed, no one could refuse obedience, who considered who the clergy were, and what functions they performed. Besides being ambassadors and angels, they were watchmen, who spied out every danger, and whose sleepless vigilance protected the faithful.[468] They were the joy and delight of the earth. They were musicians, singing the songs of sweetness; nay, they were sirens, who sought to allure men from the evil path, and save them from perishing.[469] They were chosen arrows, stored up in the quiver of God.[470] They were burning lights and shining torches. Without them, darkness would prevail; but their presence illumined the world, and made things clear.[471] Hence they were called stars, which title also expressed the eminence of their office, and its superiority over all others.[472] To make this still more apparent, prodigies were vouchsafed, and strange lights might occasionally be seen, which, hovering round the form of the minister, confirmed his supernatural mission.[473] The profane wished to jest at these things, but they were too notorious to be denied; and there was a well-known case, in which, at the death of a clergyman, a star was miraculously exhibited in the firmament, and was seen by many persons, although it was then midday.[474] [458] 'So hazardous a thing it is to meddle with Christ's sent servants.' _Life of Mr. William Guthrie, Minister at Fenwick_, by the Rev. William Dunlop, reprinted in _Select Biographies_, vol. ii. p. 62. To arrest a clergyman on a civil or criminal process, was an act full of danger, inasmuch as the Deity would hardly fail to avenge it. This applied even to the officers who executed the arrest, as well as to him by whom it was ordered. See, for instance, _Some Remarkable Passages of the Life and Death of Mr. John Semple, Minister of the Gospel_, p. 171 (in _Walker's Biographia Presbyteriana_, vol. i.). 'Some time thereafter, he gat orders to apprehend Mr. Semple; he intreated to excuse him, for Mr. Semple was the minister and man he would not meddle with; for he was sure, if he did that, some terrible mischief would suddenly befal him. Mr. Arthur Coupar, who was Mr. Semple's precentor, told these passages to a Reverend Minister in the church, yet alive, worthy of all credit, who told me.' Durham boasts that, 'when Ministers have most to do, and _meet with most opposition_, God often furnisheth them accordingly with more boldnesse, gifts, and assistance than ordinary. Christ's witnesses are a terrible party; for as few as these witnesses are, none of their opposits do gain at their hand; _whoever hurteth them shall in this manner be killed_. Though they be despicable in sackcloth, yet _better oppose a king in his strength, and giving orders from his throne covered in cloath of state, than them_: though they may burn some and imprison others, yet their opposers will pay sickerly for it. This is not because of any worth that is in them, or for their own sake; But 1. for His sake and for His authority that sendeth them. 2. for the event of their word, which will certainly come to passe, and that more terribly, and as certainly, as ever any temporall judgement was brought on by Moses or Elias.' _Durham's Commentarie upon the Book of the Revelation_, p. 416. [459] 'These who are trusted by Christ to be keepers of the vineyard, and his ministers, ought also to be respected by the people over whom they are set; and Christ allows this on them. Where Christ is respected and gets his due, there the keepers will be respected and get their due.' _Durham's Exposition of the Song of Solomon_, pp. 450, 451. Fergusson complacently says, that to affront a clergyman by not believing his statement, or 'message,' as he terms it, is a 'dishonour done to God.' _Fergusson's Exposition of the Epistles of Paul_, p. 422. [460] 'As it is true concerning vs, that necessitie lyeth vpon vs to preach, and woe will bee to vs if wee preach not; so it is true concerning you, that a necessitie lyeth vpon you to heare, and _woe will be to you if you heare not_.' _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 156. [461] The following order was promulgated by the Kirk-Session of Aberdeen on the 12th July 1607. 'The said day, in respect it wes delatit to the sessioun that thair is sindrie landvart gentillmen and vtheris cum to this towne, quha mackis thair residence thairin, and resortis not to the preching nather on Saboth nor vlk dayes; thairfor, it is ordanit that thrie elderis of everie quarter convene with the ministrie in the sessioun hous, immediatlie efter the ending of the sermone on Tuysday nixt, and thair tak vp the names of the gentillmen and vtheris skipperis duelling in this burgh, quha kepis nocht the Kirk, nor resortis not to the hering of Godis word; and thair names being taken vp, ordains ane off the ministeris, with a baillie, to pas vnto thame and admoneis thame to cum to the preichingis, and keip the Kirk, vthervayes to remowe thame aff the towne.' _Selections from the Records of the Kirk Session, Presbytery, and Synod of Aberdeen_, p. 58. It was not enough to go occasionally to church; the attendance must be regular; otherwise the clergy were dissatisfied, and punished the delinquents. In the Presbytery Book of Strathbogie it is recorded that, on the 29th September 1649, 'Mr. Johne Reidfurd being posed quhat diligence he had vsed to the Lady Frendraught, reported, shoe had hard three sermons, and so, as he thought, shoe intended to continow ane hearer. The bretheren, considering her long continowed contumacie and delay of her process, by _heiring a sermon now and then_, thought not _that kind of heiring satufactorie_, quherfor Mr. Robert Watson, and Mr. Robert Irving, ver ordained to goe with Mr. Johne Reidfurd, and requyre the said Lady to subscryv the Covenant, quherby shoe might testifie her conformitie vith the Kirk of Scotland, quhilk, if shoe refused, the said Mr. Johne vas ordained to pronounce the sentence of excommunicatioun against hir before the Provinciall Assemblie, as he vold be answerable therto.' _Extracts from the Presbytery Book of Strathbogie_, p. 115. Neither distance, nor illness, might be pleaded as a valid excuse. Under no circumstances, would the preachers tolerate the affront of any one displaying an unwillingness to hear their sermons. In 1650, 'compeired the Lord Oliphant, being summondit for not keeping his parish kirk of Abercherdour, vho declared his inabilitie of bodie many tymes, and the want of houses for accommodating him and his familie so farr distant from the same, vas the onlie caus, quhilk he promised to amend in tym comming. Mr. John Reidfurd ordained to report the same to the presbytrie, and vpon his continowed absence, to processe him.' _Presbytery Book of Strathbogie_, p. 149. See more on this subject in _Registers of the Presbytery of Lanark_, pp. 5, 33, 67; _Minutes of the Presbyteries of St. Andrews and Cupar_, pp. 67, 68, 90, 153; _Minutes of the Synod of Fife_, pp. 18, 55, 132; and _Spalding's History of the Troubles_, vol. ii. p. 57. Spalding also mentions (p. 114) that at Aberdeen, in 1643, the clergy discoursed every Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday, in the afternoon; on which occasions, 'the people is compellit to attend their Lectureis, or ther cryit out against.' [462] 'And it may be truly said, as the Church of Scotland hath had no detractors, but such as were ignorant of her, or misinformed about her, or whom faction, partiality, prejudice, wickedness, or love of unlawful liberty did inspire; so no person or party hath endeavoured hithertil to root out Presbytery, but the Lord hath made it a burdensome stone unto them.' _Naphtali_, sig. B 2 rev. 'The Lord's wrath shall so meet his enemies in the teeth, wheresoever they turn, that they shall be forced to forsake their pursuing of the Church.' _Dickson's Explication of the First Fifty Psalms_, p. 115. [463] 'The true children of the Kirk are indeed the excellent ones of the earth, and princes indeed, wherever they live, in comparison of all other men who are but the beastly slaves of Satan.' _Dickson's Explication of the First Fifty Psalms_, p. 312. Another high authority carefully identifies 'the true religion' with 'the true presbyterial profession.' See _An Enquiry into Church Communion by Mr. Alexander Shields, Minister of the Gospel at Saint Andrews_, p. 126. His remark applies to the 'Burgess-oaths.' [464] Fergusson gives an ingenious turn to this, and says that it was their duty to praise their own profession, not for their own sake, but for the sake of others. 'It is the duty of Christ's ministers to commend and magnify their office, not for gaining praise and esteem to themselves, 2 Cor. iii. 1, but that the malice of Satan and his instruments may be hereby frustrated, 2 Cor. xi. 12, who labours to bring that sacred calling into contempt; that so it may have the less of success upon people's hearts.' _Fergusson's Exposition of the Epistles of Paul_, p. 180. [465] 'Neither is there any mediate authoritie betweene the Lord and his ambassadours, in the affaires of their message; he only sendeth them; he alone gives them to be pastors and doctors, etc.; he alone shall judge them; he alone shall reward them; to him alone they must give an accompt of their dispensation; and he himselfe alone doth immediatlie rule them by his spirit and word.' _Forbes' Certaine Records touching the Estate of the Kirk_, p. 435. In reference to these amazing pretensions, the Scotch clergy were constantly terming themselves the ambassadors of the Deity; thereby placing themselves infinitely above all other men. See, for instance, _Durham's Commentarie upon the Book of the Revelation_, pp. 86, 100, 160. _Durham's Law Unsealed_, pp. 85, 96. _Halyburton's Great Concern of Salvation_, p. 402. _Fergusson's Exposition of the Epistles of Paul_, pp. 17, 273. _Shields' Enquiry into Church Communion_, p. 72. _Binning's Sermons_, vol. ii. p. 118, vol. iii. p. 178. _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 122. _Monro's Sermons_, p. 207. _Gillespie's Aaron's Rod Blossoming_, pp. 240, 413. _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 166. _Rutherford's Free Disputation against Pretended Liberty of Conscience_, p. 41. _Dickson's Truth's Victory over Error_, p. 274. _Gray's Great and Precious Promises_, pp. 50, 74. _Fleming's Fulfilling of the Scripture_, p. 429. _Cockburn's Jacob's Vow, or Man's Felicity and Duty_, p. 401. _Hutcheson's Exposition of the Book of Job_, pp. 461, 479. [466] 'Ministers are called Angels, because they are God's Messengers, intrusted by Him with a high and heavenly imployment; and it is a title that should put Ministers in mind of their duty, to do God's will on earth as the Angels do it in heaven, in a spiritual and heavenly way, cheerfully, willingly and readily: and it _should put people in mind of their duty, to take this word off Ministers hands, as from Angels_.' _Durham's Commentarie upon the Book of the Revelation_, p. 496. 'Therefore are Ministers called Angels, and Angels, Ministers,' p. 596. Cockburn says that this is the reason why 'we should behave ourselves decently and reverently' in church; 'for if the presence of Kings overawe us, how much more should the presence of God and Angels.' _Cockburn's Jacob's Vow, or Man's Felicity and Duty_, p. 356. Another Scotch divine asserts that he and his brethren are able to instruct the angels, and free them from their ignorance. See the audacious passage in _Fergusson's Exposition of the Epistles of Paul_, p. 180: '_This may commend the ministers of the gospel not a little unto men_, and beget reverence in them towards the same, that even the blessed angels are in some sort bettered by it, and that it is therefore respected by them: for Paul commendeth his office from this, that by occasion thereof "unto the principalities and powers, was made known the manifold wisdom of God." Though angels be most knowing creatures, as enjoying the immediate sight and presence of God, Matt. xviii. 10, yet _they are ignorant of some things, which, by God's way of dispensing the Gospel to his church, they come to a more full knowledge off_.' After this, it is a slight matter to find Monro insisting that 'the people should consider our character as the most difficult and most sacred.' _Monro's Sermons_, p. 202. [467] 'He is obliged to minister unto them in the gospel; and they are obliged to submit to him, strengthen him, acknowledge him, communicate to him in all good things, and to provide for him,' &c. _Durham's Commentarie upon the Book of the Revelation_, p. 90. That the clergy are 'rulers and governors,' and that their business is 'ruling and watching over the flock,' is likewise affirmed in _Gillespie's Aaron's Rod Blossoming_, pp. 172, 313. Compare _The Correspondence of the Rev. Robert Wodrow_, vol. i. p. 181: 'rule over the people and speak the word;' and _Rutherford's Free Disputation against Pretended Liberty of Conscience_, p. 41: 'the commanding power in the Ambassadour of Christ.' See also the 'reverential estimation' inculcated in _Boston's Sermons_, p. 186. [468] 'Called watchmen by a name borrowed from the practice of centinels in armies or cities.' They are 'Satan's greatest eyesores.' _Hutcheson's Exposition of the Minor Prophets_, vol. ii. p. 158, vol. iii. p. 208. 'They being made watchmen, do thereby become the butt of Satan's malice.' ... 'The Enemy's principal design is sure to be against the watchman, because he prevents the surprising of his people by Satan,' at least 'tis his business to do so.' _Halyburton's Great Concern of Salvation_, p. 24. Compare _Guthrie's Considerations contributing unto the Discovery of the Dangers that threaten Religion_, p. 259; _Fergusson's Exposition of the Epistles of Paul_, pp. 97, 106; _Durham's Exposition of the Song of Solomon_, pp. 278, 443, and _Wodrow's Correspondence_, vol. i. pp. 84, 244. [469] One of the most popular of the Scotch preachers in the seventeenth century, actually ranks himself, in this respect, as doing the same work as the Son of God. 'Christ and his ministers are the musicians that do apply their songs to catch men's ears and hearts, if so be they may stop their course and not perish. These are blessed syrens that do so.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. iii. p. 265. [470] Rutherford terms himself, 'a chosen arrow hid in his quiver.' _Howie's Biographia Scoticana_, p. 230. To read the coarse materialism contained in this and other extracts, will, I know, shock, and so far offend, many pure and refined minds, whose feelings I would not needlessly wound. But no one can understand the history of the Scotch intellect, who refuses to enter into these matters; and it is for the reader to choose whether or not he will remain ignorant of what I, as an historian, am bound to disclose. His remedy is easy. He has only either to shut the book, or else to pass on at once to the next chapter. [471] 'The Lord calleth men to be preachers, and hath them in his hand as starres, holding them out sometime to one part of the world, and sometime to another, that we may communicate light to them that are sitting in darkness.' _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 360. [472] 'Ministers are called Stars, for these reasons: I. To signifie and point out the eminence and dignity of the office, that it is a glorious and shineing office. II. To point out what is the especiall end of this office; It is to give light: as the use of Stars is to give light to the world; so it's Ministers main imployment to shine and give light to others; to make the world, which is a dark night, to be lightsome.' _Durham's Commentarie upon the Book of the Revelation_, p. 43. See also pp. 151, 368; and _Dickson's Truth's Victory over Error_, p. 176. [473] The Rev. James Kirton says of the Rev. John Welsh, that some one who observed him walking, 'saw clearly a strange light surround him, and heard him speak strange words about his spiritual joy.' _Select Biographies_, edited by the Rev. W. K. Tweedie, vol. i. p. 12. But more than this remains to be told. The hearts of the Scotch clergy were so lifted up with pride, that they believed--horrible to relate--that they had audible and verbal communications from the Almighty God, which bystanders could hear. One of these stories, relating also to Welsh, will be found, as tradition handed it down, in _Howie's Biographia Scoticana_, p. 148. I cannot quote such blasphemy; and those who doubt my statement had better refer to the second edition of Howie's work, published at Glasgow in 1781. It may probably be met with in the British Museum. [474] 'Mr. Johne M'Birnie at Aberdeen, (but first at the South Ferrie, over aganis the Castell of Broughtie,) a most zealous and painfull pastor, a great opposer of hierarchie. He was a shyning torch and a burning starre; wherefore the Lord miraculouslie made, at his death, a starre to appeare in heaven at the noonetyde of the day; whilk many yit alive testifies that they did evidentlie see it (at Whitsunday 1609).' _Row's History of the Kirk of Scotland_, p. 421. Nor was this to be regarded as a solitary occurrence. On the contrary, it usually happened, that when a Scotch minister departed from this life, the event was accompanied by portents, in order that the people might understand that something terrible was going on, and that they were incurring a serious, perhaps an irretrievable, loss. Sometimes the candles would be mysteriously extinguished, without any wind, and without any one touching them.[475] Sometimes, even when the clergyman was preaching, the supernatural appearance of an animal would announce his approaching end in face of the congregation, who might vainly mourn what they were unable to avert.[476] Sometimes the body of the holy man would remain for years unchanged and undecayed; death not having the power over it which it would have had over the corpse of a common person.[477] On other occasions, notice was given to him of his death, years before it occurred;[478] and, to strike greater awe into the public mind, it was remarked, that when one minister died, others were taken away at the same time, so that, the bereavement being more widely felt, men might, by the magnitude of the shock, be rendered sensible of the inestimable value of those preachers whose lives were happily spared.[479] [475] Mr. James Stirling, minister of Barony, Glasgow, writes respecting his father, Mr. John Stirling, minister at Kilbarchan, that the 'day he was burryed ther wer two great candles burning in the chamber, and they did go out most surprisingly without any wind causing them to go out.' _Analecta, or Materials for a History of Remarkable Providences_, by the Rev. Robert Wodrow, vol. iii. p. 37. [476] 'This night, Glanderston told me, that it was reported for a truth at Burroustoness, that about six weeks since Mr. David Williamson was preaching in his own church in Edinburgh, and in the midle of the sermon, a ratton came and sat doun on his Bible. This made him stope; and after a little pause, he told the congregation that this was a message of God to him, and broke off his sermon, and took a formall fareweel of his people, and went home, and continoues sick.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. i. p. 12. [477] 'The same person' (_i.e._ the Rev. Mr. White) 'adds, that some years ago, when Mr. Bruce's grave was opened, to lay in his grandchild, his body was almost fresh and uncorrupted, to the great wonder of many; and if I right remember, the grave was again filled up, and another made. The fresh body had no noisome smell. It was then nearly eighty years after he was buried. My informer was minister of Larbert when this happened.' _Wodrow's Life of Bruce_, p. 150, prefixed to _Bruce's Sermons_. [478] 'He' (John Lockhart) 'tells me Mr. Robert Paton, minister at Barnweel, his father-in-lau, had a particular for-notice, seven or eight years before, of his death: That he signifyed so much to my informer.' ... 'When my informer came, he did not apprehend any hazard, and signifyed so much to his father-in-lau, Mr. Paton. He answered, 'John, John, I am to dye at this time; and this is the time God warned me of, as I told you.' In eight or ten dayes he dyed. Mr. Paton was a man very much (beloved) and mighty in prayer.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. iii. p. 451. Compare the case of Henderson (in _Wodrow's Correspondence_, vol. iii. p. 33), where the notice was much shorter, but 'all fell out as he had foretold.' [479] 'Generally, I observe that Ministers' deaths are not single, but severall of them together.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. iii. p. 275. It was, moreover, generally understood, that a minister, during his abode in this world, was miraculously watched over and protected. He was peculiarly favoured by angels, who, though they did good offices to all members of the true church, were especially kind to the clergy;[480] and it was well known, that the celebrated Rutherford, when only four years old, having fallen into a well, was pulled out by an angel, who came there for the purpose of saving his life.[481] Another clergyman, who was in the habit of oversleeping himself, used to be roused to his duty in the morning, by three mysterious knocks at his door, which, if they did not produce a proper effect, were repeated close to his bed. These knocks never failed on Sunday, and on days when he had to administer the communion; and they lasted during the whole of his ministry, until he became old and infirm, when they entirely ceased.[482] [480] The Rev. William Row (in his _Continuation of Blair's Autobiography_, p. 153) says, 'Without all doubt, though it cannot be proven from Scripture, that every one has a tutelar angel, yet it is certain that the good angels do many good offices to the people of God, _especially to his ministers and ambassadors_, which we do not see, and do not remark or know.' [481] 'Mr. James Stirling, and Mr. Robert Muir, and severall others in the company, agreed on this accompt of Mr. Rutherford. When about four years old, he was playing about his father's house, and a sister of his, somewhat older than he, with him. Mr. Rutherford fell into a well severall fathoms deep, and not full, but faced about with heuen stone, soe that it was not possible for any body to get up almost, far less a child. When he fell in, his sister ran into the house near by, and told that Samuell was fallen into the well; upon which his father and mother ran out, and found him sitting on the grasse beside the well; and when they asked him, Hou he gote out? he said, after he was once at the bottome, he came up to the tope, and ther was a bonny young man pulled him out by the hand. Ther was noe body near by at the time; and soe they concluded it was noe doubt ane angell. The Lord had much to doe with him.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. i. p. 57. See also vol. iii. pp. 88, 89, where this circumstance is again mentioned as 'a tradition anent him' in the place of his birth. [482] 'Mr. William Trail, minister at ****, tells me that his father, Mr. William Trail, minister at Borthwick, used every morning, when he had publick work on his hand, to hear three knocks at his chamber dore; and if, throu wearynes, or heaviness, he did sitt these, ther wer ordinarily three knocks at his bed-head, which he never durst sitt, but gott up to his work. This was ordinarily about three in the morning. This, at first, in his youth, frighted him; but at lenth it turned easy to him, and he believed these knocks and awaknings proceed from a good art. That these never failed him on Sabbaths and at Communions, when he was obliged to rise early: That when he turned old and infirm, towards the close of his dayes, they intirely ceased and left him.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. ii. p. 307. This work, in four quarto volumes, is invaluable for the history of the Scotch mind; being a vast repertory of the opinions and traditions of the clergy, during the seventeenth, and early part of the eighteenth, century. Wodrow was a man of ability, certainly above the average; his honesty is unimpeachable, as the jealous scrutiny which the episcopalians have made of his great work on the History of the Church of Scotland, decisively proves; and he was in the constant habit of personal and epistolary communication with the leading characters of his age. I have, therefore, freely used his _Analecta_; also his _Collections upon the Lives of Ministers_, which is likewise in four quarto volumes; and his _Correspondence_, in three thick octavo volumes. It would be difficult to find a more competent witness respecting the sentiments of his ecclesiastical brethren. It would be impossible to find a more candid one. By the propagation of these and similar stories, in a country already prepared for their reception, the Scotch mind became imbued with a belief in miraculous interposition, to an extent which would be utterly incredible if it were not attested by a host of contemporary and unimpeachable witnesses. The clergy, partly because they shared in the general delusion, and partly because they derived benefit from it, did every thing they could to increase the superstition of their countrymen, and to familiarize them with notions of the supernatural world, such as can only be paralleled in the monastic legends of the middle ages.[483] How they laboured to corrupt the national intellect, and how successful they were in that base vocation, has been hitherto known to no modern reader; because no one has had the patience to peruse their interminable discourses, commentaries, and the other religious literature in which their sentiments are preserved. As, however, the preachers were, in Scotland, more influential than all other classes put together, it is only by comparing their statements with what is to be found in the general memoirs and correspondence of the time, that we can at all succeed in reconstructing the history of a period, which, to the philosophic student of the human mind, is full of great, though melancholy, interest. I shall, therefore, make no apology for entering into still further details respecting these matters; and I hope to put the reader in possession of such facts as will connect the past history of Scotland with its present state, and will enable him to understand why it is, that so great a people are, in many respects, still struggling in darkness, simply because they still live under the shadow of that long and terrible night, which for more than a century, covered the land. It will also appear, that their hardness and moroseness of character, their want of gaiety, and their indifference to many of the enjoyments of life, are traceable to the same cause, and are the natural product of the gloomy and ascetic opinions inculcated by their religious teachers. For, in that age, as in every other, the clergy, once possessed of power, showed themselves harsh and unfeeling masters. They kept the people in a worse than Egyptian bondage, inasmuch as they enslaved mind as well as body, and not only deprived men of innocent amusements, but taught them that those amusements were sinful. And so thoroughly did they do their work, that, though a hundred and fifty years have elapsed since their supremacy began to wane, the imprint of their hands is everywhere discernible. The people still bear the marks of the lash; the memory of their former servitude lives among them; and they crouch before their clergy as they did of old, abandoning their rights, sacrificing their independence, and yielding up their consciences, to the dictates of an intolerant and ambitious priesthood. [483] In illustration of this, a volume might be filled with extracts from the writings of the Scotch divines of the seventeenth century. The following passage is, perhaps, as good as any. 'Yea, it can hardly be instanced any great change, or revolution in the earth, which hath not had some such extraordinary herald going before. Can the world deny how sometimes these prodigious signes have been shaped out to point at the very nature of the stroke then imminent, by a strange resemblance to the same, such as a flaming sword in the air, the appearance of armies fighting even sometimes upon the earth, to the view of many most sober and judicious onlookers, also showers of blood, the noise of drummes, and such like, which are known usually to go before warr and commotions.' _Fleming's Fulfilling of the Scripture_, 1681, p. 216. Of all the means of intimidation employed by the Scotch clergy, none was more efficacious than the doctrines they propounded respecting evil spirits and future punishment. On these subjects they constantly uttered the most appalling threats. The language, which they used, was calculated to madden men with fear, and to drive them to the depths of despair. That it often had this consequence, and produced most fatal results, we shall presently see. And, what made it more effectual was, that it completely harmonized with those other gloomy and ascetic notions which the clergy inculcated, and according to which, pleasures being regarded as sinful, sufferings were regarded as religious. Hence that love of inflicting pain, and that delight in horrible and revolting ideas, which characterized the Scotch mind during the seventeenth century. A few specimens of the prevailing opinions will enable the reader to understand the temper of the time, and to appreciate the resources which the Scotch clergy could wield, and the materials with which they built up the fabric of their power. It was generally believed, that the world was overrun by evil spirits, who not only went up and down the earth, but also lived in the air, and whose business it was to tempt and hurt mankind.[484] Their number was infinite, and they were to be found at all places and in all seasons. At their head was Satan himself, whose delight it was to appear in person, ensnaring or terrifying every one he met.[485] With this object, he assumed various forms. One day, he would visit the earth as a black dog;[486] on another day, as a raven;[487] on another, he would be heard in the distance, roaring like a bull.[488] He appeared sometimes as a white man in black clothes;[489] and sometimes he came as a black man in black clothes, when it was remarked that his voice was ghastly, that he wore no shoes, and that one of his feet was cloven.[490] His stratagems were endless. For, in the opinion of divines, his cunning increased with his age; and having been studying for more than five thousand years, he had now attained to unexampled dexterity.[491] He could, and he did, seize both men and women, and carry them away through the air.[492] Usually, he wore the garb of laymen, but it was said, that, on more than one occasion, he had impudently attired himself as a minister of the gospel.[493] At all events, in one dress or other, he frequently appeared to the clergy, and tried to coax them over to his side.[494] In that, of course, he failed; but, out of the ministry, few, indeed, could withstand him. He could raise storms and tempests; he could work, not only on the mind, but also on the organs of the body, making men hear and see whatever he chose.[495] Of his victims, some he prompted to commit suicide,[496] others to commit murder.[497] Still, formidable as he was, no Christian was considered to have attained to a full religious experience, unless he had literally seen him, talked to him, and fought with him.[498] The clergy were constantly preaching about him, and preparing their audience for an interview with their great enemy. The consequence was, that the people became almost crazed with fear. Whenever the preacher mentioned Satan, the consternation was so great, that the church resounded with sighs and groans.[499] The aspect of a Scotch congregation in those days, is, indeed, hard for us to conceive. Not unfrequently the people, benumbed and stupefied with awe, were rooted to their seats by the horrible fascination exercised over them, which compelled them to listen, though they are described as gasping for breath, and with their hair standing on end.[500] Such impressions were not easily effaced. Images of terror were left on the mind, and followed the people to their homes, and in their daily pursuits. They believed that the devil was always, and literally, at hand; that he was haunting them, speaking to them, and tempting them. There was no escape. Go where they would, he was there. A sudden noise, nay, even the sight of an inanimate object, such as a stone, was capable of reviving the association of ideas, and of bringing back to the memory the language uttered from the pulpit.[501] [484] Durham, after mentioning 'old abbacies or monasteries, or castles when walls stand and none dwelleth in them,' adds, 'If it be asked, If there be such a thing, as the haunting of evill spirits in these desolate places? We answer 1. That there are evill spirits rangeing up and down through the earth is certain, even though hell be their prison properly, yet have they a sort of dominion and abode both in the earth and air; partly, as a piece of their curse, this is laid on them to wander; partly as their exercise to tempt men, or bring spirituall or temporall hurt to them,' &c. _Durham's Commentarie upon the Book of the Revelation_, p. 582. So, too, Hutcheson (_Exposition of the Book of Job_, p. 9): 'We should remember that we sojourn in a world where Devils are, and do haunt among us;' and Fleming (_Fulfilling of the Scripture_, p. 217): 'But the truth itself is sure, that such a party is at this day, encompassing the earth, and trafficking up and down there, to prove which by arguments were to light a candle to let men see that it is day, while it is known what _ordinary familiar converse many have therewith_.' One of their favourite abodes was the Shetland Islands, where, in the middle of the seventeenth century, 'almost every family had a Brouny or evil spirit so called.' See the account given by the Rev. John Brand, in his work entitled _A Brief Description of Orkney, Zetland, Pightland-Firth, and Caithness_, pp. 111, 112, Edinburgh, 1701. [485] 'There is not one whom he assaulteth not.' _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 101. 'On the right hand and on the left.' _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 273. Even early in the eighteenth century, the 'most popular divines' in Scotland, affirmed that Satan 'frequently appears clothed in a corporeal substance.' _Memoirs of Charles Lee Lewes, written by Himself_, vol. iii. pp. 29, 30, London, 1805. [486] 'This night James Lochheid told me, that last year, if I mistake not, at the Communion of Bafrou, he was much helped all day. At night, when dark somewhat, he went out to the feilds to pray; and a terrible slavish fear came on him, that he almost lost his senses. Houever, he resolved to goe on to his duty. By (the time) he was at the place, his fear was off him; and lying on a knou-side, a black dogg came to his head and stood. He said he kneu it to be Satan, and shooke his hand, but found nothing, it evanishing.' ... 'Lord help against his devices, and strenthen against them!' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. i. p. 24. The _Registers of the Presbytery of Lanark_, p. 77, contain a declaration, in 1650, that 'the devill appeared like a little whelpe,' and afterwards, 'like a brown whelpe.' [487] The celebrated Peden was present when 'there came down the appearance of a raven, and sat upon one man's head.' ... Thereupon, 'going home, Mr. Peden said to his land-lord, I always thought there was Devilry among you, but I never thought that he did appear visibly among you, till now I have seen it. O, for the Lord's sake quit this way,' _The Life and Death of Mr. Alexander Peden, late Minister of the Gospel at New Glenluce in Galloway_, pp. 111, 112, in vol. i. of _Walker's Biographia Presbyteriana_. [488] 'I heard a voice just before me on the other side of the hedge, and it seemed to be like the groaning of an aged man. It continued so some time. I knew no man could be there; for, on the other side of the hedge, where I heard the groaning, there was a great stank or pool. I nothing doubted but it was Satan, and I guessed his design; but still I went on to beg the child's life. At length he roared and made a noise like a bull, and that very loud. From all this I concluded, that I had been provoking God some way or other in the duty, and that he was angry with me, and had let the enemy loose on me, and might give him leave to tear me in pieces. This made me intreat of God, to shew me wherefore he contended, and begged he would rebuke Satan. The enemy continued to make a noise like a bull, and seemed to be coming about the hedge towards the door of the summer-seat, bellowing as he came along.' _Stevenson's Rare, Soul-Strengthening, and Comforting Cordial for Old and Young Christians_, p. 29. This book was published, and prepared for the press, by the Rev. William Cupples. See Mr. Cupples' letter at the beginning. [489] In 1684, with 'black cloaths, and a blue band, and white handcuffs.' _Sinclair's Satan's Invisible World Discovered_, p. 8. [490] 'He observed one of the black man's feet to be cloven, and that the black man's apparel was black, and that he had a blue band about his neck, and white hand-cuffs, and that he had hoggers upon his legs without shoes; and that the black man's voice was hollow and ghastly.' _Satan's Invisible World Discovered_, p. 9. 'The devil appeared in the shape of a black man,' p. 31. See also _Brand's Description of Orkney_, p. 126: 'all in black.' [491] 'The acquired knowledge of the Devill is great, hee being an advancing student, and still learning now above five thousand yeares.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying and Drawing Sinners to Himselfe_, p. 204. 'He knowes very well, partly by the quicknesse of his nature, and partly by long experience, being now very neere six thousand yeeres old.' _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 219. 'Hee, being compared with vs, hath many vantages; as that he is more subtill in nature, being of greater experience, and more ancient, being now almost sixe thousand yeeres old.' _Ibid._ p. 403. 'The diuell here is both diligent and cunning, and (now almost of sixe thousand yeeres) of great experience.' _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 142. 'Satan, such an ingenious and experimented spirit.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. i. p. 67. 'His great sleight and cunning.' _Ibid._ p. 110. Other eulogies of his skill may be seen in _Fergusson's Exposition of the Epistles of Paul_, p. 475; and in _Fleming's Fulfilling of the Scripture_, p. 45. A 'minister,' whose name is not mentioned, states that he is 'of an excellent substance, of great natural parts, long experience, and deep understanding.' _Sinclair's Satan's Invisible World Discovered_, p. 78. [492] In Professor Sinclair's work (_Satan's Invisible World Discovered_, p. 141), we find, in 1684, 'an evident instance, that the devil can transport the bodies of men and women through the air. It is true, he did not carry her far off, but not for want of skill and power.' Late in the seventeenth century, it was generally believed that one of Satan's accomplices was literally 'strangled in his chair by the devil, least he should make a confession to the detriment of the service.' _Crawfurd's History of the Shire of Renfrew_, part iii. p. 319. [493] See the account of a young preacher being deceived in this way, in _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. i. pp. 103, 104. The Rev. Robert Blair detected the cheat, and 'with ane awful seriousness appearing in his countenance, began to tell the youth his hazard, and that the man whom he took for a Minister was the Divel, who had trepanned him, and brought him into his net; advised him to be earnest with God in prayer, and likewise not to give way to dispair, for ther was yet hope.' The preacher had, on this occasion, been so far duped as to give the devil 'a written promise' to do whatever he was requested. As soon as the Rev. Mr. Blair ascertained this fact, he took the young man before the Presbytery, and narrated the circumstance to the members. 'They were all strangely affected with it, and resolved unanimously to dispatch the Presbitry business presently, and to stay all night in town, and on the morrow to meet for prayer in one of the most retired churches of the Presbitry, acquainting none with their business, (but) taking the youth alongst with them, whom they keeped alwise close by them. Which was done, and after the Ministers had prayed all of them round, except Mr. Blair, who prayed last, in time of his prayer there came a violent rushing of wind upon the church, so great that they thought the church should have fallen down about their ears, and with that the youth's paper and covenant' (_i.e._ the covenant which he had signed at the request of Satan) 'droops down from the roof of the church among the Ministers.' [494] 'The devil strikes at them, that in them he may strike at the whole congregation.' _Boston's Sermons_, p. 186. Fleming (_Fulfilling of the Scripture_, p. 379) gives an account of his appearing to one of the Scotch clergy. Compare _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. iv. p. 110. In 1624, Bruce writes, 'I heard his voice as vively as ever I heard any thing, not being sleeping, but waking.' _Life of Bruce_, p. 8, prefixed to _Bruce's Sermons_. The only remedy was immediate resistance. 'It is the duty of called ministers to go on with courage in the work of the Lord, notwithstanding of any discouragement of that kind, receiving manfully the first onset chiefly of Satan's fury, as knowing their ceding to him will make him more cruel.' _Fergusson's Exposition of the Epistles of Paul_, p. 74. In the seventeenth century, the Scotch clergy often complimented each other on having baffled him, and thereby put him in a passion. Thus, in 1626, Dickson writes to Boyd: 'The devil is mad against you, he fears his kingdom.' _Life of Robert Boyd, in Wodrow's Collections upon the Lives of Ministers_, vol. ii. part i. p. 238. See also pp. 165, 236. [495] 'He can delude ears, eyes, &c., either by misrepresenting external objects, or by inward disturbing of the faculties and organes, whereby men and women may, and do often, apprehend that they hear, see, &c. such and such things, which, indeed, they do not.' _Durham's Commentarie upon the Book of the Revelation_, p. 128. 'Raise tempests.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. i. p. 122. 'His power and might, whereby through God's permission, he doth raise up storms, commove the elements, destroy cattle,' &c. _Fergusson's Exposition of the Epistles of Paul_, p. 264. 'Hee can work curiously and strongly on the walls of bodily organs, on the shop that the understanding soule lodgeth in, and on the necessary tooles, organs, and powers of fancie, imagination, memory, humours, senses, spirits, bloud,' &c. _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, p. 212. Semple, giving notice of his intention to administer the sacrament, told the congregation 'that the Devil would be so envious about the good work they were to go about, that he was afraid he would be permitted to raise a storm in the air with a speat of rain, to raise the waters, designing to drown some of them; but it will not be within the compass of his power to drown any of you, no not so much as a dog.' _Remarkable Passages of the Life and Death of Mr. John Semple_, _Minister of the Gospel_, pp. 168, 169, in vol. i. of _Walker's Biographia Presbyteriana_. [496] _Sinclair's Satan's Invisible World Discovered_, p. 137. _Memoirs of the Life and Experiences of Marion Laird of Greenock, with a Preface by the Rev. Mr. Cock_, pp. 43, 44, 45, 84, 85, 172, 222, 223. [497] 'I shall next show how the murderer Satan visibly appeared to a wicked man, stirred him up to stab me, and how mercifully I was delivered therefrom.' _The Autobiography of Mr. Robert Blair, Minister of St. Andrews_, p. 65. See also _Fleming's Fulfilling of the Scripture_, pp. 379, 380. [498] 'One Mr. Thomas Hogg, a very popular presbyterian preacher in the North, asked a person of great learning, in a religious conference, whether or not he had seen the Devil? It was answered him, "That he had never seen him in any visible appearance." "Then, I assure you," saith Mr. Hogg, "that you can never be happy till you see him in that manner; that is, until you have both a personal converse and combat with him."' _Scotch Presbyterian Eloquence_, pp. 28, 29. [499] 'Ye go to the kirk, and when ye hear the devil or hell named in the preaching, ye sigh and make a noise.' _The Last and Heavenly Speeches of John, Viscount Kenmure_, in _Select Biographies_, vol. i. p. 405. [500] Andrew Gray, who died in 1656, used such language, 'that his contemporary, the foresaid Mr. Durham, observed, That many times he caused the very hairs of their head to stand up.' _Howie's Biographia Scoticana_, p. 217. James Hutcheson boasted of this sort of success. 'As he expressed it, "I was not a quarter of ane hour in upon it, till I sau a dozen of them all gasping before me." He preached with great freedome _all day_, and fourteen or twenty dated their conversion from that sermon.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. i. p. 131. When Dickson preached, 'many were so choaked and taken by the heart, that through terrour, the spirit in such a measure convincing them of sin, in hearing of the word they have been made to fall over, and thus carried out of the church.' _Fleming's Fulfilling of the Scripture_, p. 347. There was hardly any kind of resource which these men disdained. Alexander Dunlop 'entered into the ministry at Paislay, about the year 1643 or 1644.' ... 'He used in the pulpit, to have a kind of a groan at the end of some sentences. Mr. Peebles called it a holy groan.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. iii. pp. 16, 21. [501] A schoolmaster, recording his religious experiences (_Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. i. p. 246), says: 'If any thing had given a knock, I would start and shiver, the seeing of a dogg made me affrayed, the seeing of a stone in the feild made me affrayed, and as I thought a voice in my head saying, "It's Satan."' Nor is it strange that this should be the case. All over Scotland, the sermons were, with hardly an exception, formed after the same plan, and directed to the same end. To excite fear, was the paramount object.[502] The clergy boasted, that it was their special mission to thunder out the wrath and curses of the Lord.[503] In their eyes, the Deity was not a beneficent being, but a cruel and remorseless tyrant. They declared that all mankind, a very small portion only excepted, were doomed to eternal misery. And when they came to describe what that misery was, their dark imaginations revelled and gloated at the prospect. In the pictures which they drew, they reproduced and heightened the barbarous imagery of a barbarous age. They delighted in telling their hearers, that they would be roasted in great fires, and hung up by their tongues.[504] They were to be lashed with scorpions, and see their companions writhing and howling around them.[505] They were to be thrown into boiling oil and scalding lead.[506] A river of fire and brimstone, broader than the earth, was prepared for them;[507] in that, they were to be immersed; their bones, their lungs, and their liver, were to boil, but never be consumed.[508] At the same time, worms were to prey upon them; and while these were gnawing at their bodies, they were to be surrounded by devils, mocking and making pastime of their pains.[509] Such were the first stages of suffering, and they were only the first. For the torture, besides being unceasing, was to become gradually worse. So refined was the cruelty, that one hell was succeeded by another; and, lest the sufferer should grow callous, he was, after a time, moved on, that he might undergo fresh agonies in fresh places, provision being made that the torment should not pall on the sense, but should be varied in its character, as well as eternal in its duration.[510] [502] Only those who are extensively read in the theological literature of that time, can form an idea of this, its almost universal tendency. During about a hundred and twenty years, the Scotch pulpits resounded with the most frightful denunciations. The sins of the people, the vengeance of God, the activity of Satan, and the pains of hell, were the leading topics. In this world, calamities of every kind were announced as inevitable; they were immediately at hand; that generation, perhaps that year, should not pass away without the worst evils which could be conceived, falling on the whole country. I will merely quote the opening of a sermon which is now lying before me, and which was preached, in 1682, by no less a man than Alexander Peden. 'There is three or four things that I have to tell you this day; and the first is this, A bloody sword, a bloody sword, a bloody sword, for thee, O Scotland, that shall reach the most part of you to the very heart. And the second is this, Many a mile shall ye travel in thee, O Scotland! and shall see nothing but waste places. The third is this, The most fertile places in thee, O Scotland! shall be waste as the mountain tops. And fourthly, The women with child in thee, O Scotland! shall be dashed in pieces. And fifthly, There hath been many conventicles in thee, O Scotland! but ere it be long, God shall have a conventicle in thee, that shall make thee Scotland tremble. Many a preaching hath God wared on thee, O Scotland! but ere it be long God's judgments shall be as frequent in Scotland as these precious meetings, wherein he sent forth his faithful servants to give faithful warning in his name of their hazard in apostatizing from God, and in breaking all his noble vows. God sent out a Welsh, a Cameron, a Cargill, and a Semple to preach to thee; but ere long God shall preach to thee by a bloody sword.' _Sermons by Eminent Divines_, pp. 47, 48. [503] To 'thunder out the Lord's wrath and curse.' _Durham's Commentarie upon the Book of the Revelation_, p. 191. 'It is the duty of Ministers to preach judgments.' _Hutcheson's Exposition on the Minor Prophets_, vol. i. p. 93. 'If ministers when they threaten be not the more serious and fervent, the most terrible threatening will but little affect the most part of hearers.' _Fergusson's Exposition of the Epistles of Paul_, p. 421. [504] The clergy were not ashamed to propagate a story of a boy who, in a trance, had been mysteriously conveyed to hell, and thence permitted to revisit the earth. His account, which is carefully preserved by the Rev. Robert Wodrow (_Analecta_, vol. i. p. 51) was, that 'ther wer great fires and men roasted in them, and then cast into rivers of cold water, and then into boyling water; others hung up by the tongue.' [505] 'Scortched in hell-fire and hear the howling of their fellow-prisoners, and see the ugly devils, the bloody scorpions with which Satan lasheth miserable soules.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, pp. 491, 492. [506] 'Boiling oil, burning brimstone, scalding lead.' _Sermons by Eminent Divines_, p. 362. [507] 'A river of fire and brimstone broader than the earth.' _Rutherford's Religious Letters_, p. 35. 'See the poor wretches lying in bundles, boiling eternally in that stream of brimstone.' _Halyburton's Great Concern of Salvation_, p. 53. [508] 'Tongue, lungs, and liver, bones and all, shall boil and fry in a torturing fire.' _Rutherford's Religious Letters_, p. 17. 'They will be universal torments, every part of the creature being tormented in that flame. When one is cast into a fiery furnace, the fire makes its way into the very bowels, and leaves no member untouched: what part then can have ease, when the damned swim in a lake of fire burning with brimstone?' _Boston's Human Nature in its Four-fold State_, p. 458. [509] 'While wormes are sporting with thy bones, the devils shall make pastime of thy paines.' _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 97. 'They will have the society of devils in their torments, being shut up with them in hell.' _Boston's Human Nature in its Four-fold State_, p. 442. 'Their ears filled with frightful yellings of the infernal crew.' _Ibid._ p. 460. [510] This fundamental doctrine of the Scotch divines is tersely summed up in _Binning's Sermons_, vol. iii. p. 130: 'You shall go out of one hell into a worse; eternity is the measure of its continuance, and the degrees of itself are answerable to its duration.' The author of these sermons died in 1653. All this was the work of the God of the Scotch clergy.[511] It was not only his work, it was his joy and his pride. For, according to them, hell was created before man came into the world; the Almighty, they did not scruple to say, having spent his previous leisure in preparing and completing this place of torture, so that, when the human race appeared, it might be ready for their reception.[512] Ample, however, as the arrangements were, they were insufficient; and hell, not being big enough to contain the countless victims incessantly poured into it, had, in these latter days, been enlarged.[513] There was now sufficient room. But in that vast expanse there was no void, for the whole of it reverberated with the shrieks and yells of undying agony.[514] They rent the air with horrid sound, and, amid their pauses, other scenes occurred, if possible, still more excruciating. Loud reproaches filled the ear: children reproaching their parents, and servants reproaching their masters. Then, indeed, terror was rife, and abounded on every side. For, while the child cursed his father, the father, consumed by remorse, felt his own guilt; and both children and fathers made hell echo with their piercing screams, writhing in convulsive agony at the torments which they suffered, and knowing that other torments more grievous still were reserved for them.[515] [511] And, according to them, the barbarous cruelty was the natural result of His Omniscience. It is with pain, that I transcribe the following impious passage. 'Consider, Who is the contriver of these torments. There have been some very exquisite torments contrived by the wit of men, the naming of which, if ye understood their nature, were enough to fill your hearts with horror; but _all these fall as far short of the torments ye are to endure, as the wisdom of man falls short of that of God_.' ... '_Infinite wisdom has contrived that evil_.' _The Great Concern of Salvation, by the late Reverend Mr. Thomas Halyburton_, edit. Edinburgh, 1722, p. 154. [512] 'Men wonder what he could be doing all that time, if we may call it time which hath no beginning, and how he was employed.' ... 'Remember that which a godly man answered some wanton curious wit, who, in scorn, demanded the same of him--"He was preparing hell for curious and proud fools," said he.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. i. p. 194. [513] 'Hell hath inlarged itselfe.' _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 146. [514] 'Eternal shriekings.' _Sermons by Eminent Divines_, p. 394. 'Screakings and howlings.' _Gray's Great and Precious Promises_, p. 20. 'O! the screechs and yels that will be in hell.' _Durham's Commentarie upon the Book of the Revelation_, p. 654. 'The horrible scrieches of them who are burnt in it.' _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 175. [515] 'When children and servants shall go, as it were, in sholes to the Pit, cursing their parents and their masters who brought them there. And parents and masters of families shall be in multitudes plunged headlong in endless destruction, because they have not only murdered their own souls, but also imbrued their hands in the blood of their children and servants. O how doleful will the reckoning be amongst them at that day! When the children and servants shall upbraid their parents and masters. "Now, now, we must to the Pit, and we have you to blame for it; your cursed example and lamentable negligence has brought us to the Pit."' ... 'And on the other hand, how will the shrieks of parents fill every ear? "I have damn'd myself, I have damn'd my children, I have damn'd my servants. While I fed their bodies, and clothed their backs, I have ruined their souls, and brought double damnation on myself."' _Halyburton's Great Concern of Salvation_, pp. 527, 528. See this further worked out in _Boston's Human Nature in its Four-fold State_, pp. 378, 379: 'curses instead of salutations, and tearing of themselves, and raging against one another, instead of the wonted embraces.' Even now such language freezes the blood, when we consider what must have passed through the minds of those who could bring themselves to utter it. The enunciation of such ideas unfolds the character of the men, and lays bare their inmost spirit. We shudder, when we think of the dark and corrupted fancy, the vindictive musings, the wild, lawless, and uncertain thoughts which must have been harboured by those who could combine and arrange the different parts of this hideous scheme. No hesitation, no compunction, no feelings of mercy, ever seem to have entered their breasts. It is evident, that their notions were well matured; it is equally evident, that they delighted in them. They were marked by a unity of conception, and were enforced with a freshness and vigour of language, which shows that their heart was in their work. But before this could have happened, they must have been dead to every emotion of pity and tenderness. Yet, they were the teachers of a great nation, and were, in every respect, the most influential persons in that nation. The people, credulous and grossly ignorant, listened and believed. We, at this distance of time, and living in another realm of thought, can form but a faint conception of the effect which these horrible conceits produced upon them. They were convinced that, in this world, they were incessantly pursued by the devil, and that he, and other evil spirits, were constantly hovering around them, in bodily and visible shape, tempting them, and luring them on to destruction. In the next world, the most frightful and unheard-of punishments awaited them; while both this world and the next were governed by an avenging Deity, whose wrath it was impossible to propitiate. No wonder that, with these ideas before them, their reason should often give way, and that a religious mania should set in, under whose influence they, in black despair, put an end to their lives.[516] [516] William Vetch, 'preaching in the town of Jedburg to a great congregation, said, "There are two thousand of you here to day, but I am sure fourscore of you will not be saved;" upon which, three of his ignorant hearers being in despair, despatch'd themselves soon after.' _Scotch Presbyterian Eloquence_, p. 23. See also the life, or rather panegyric, of Vetch in _Howie's Biographia Scoticana_, where this circumstance is not denied, but, on the contrary, stated to be no 'disparagement to him,' p. 606. The frame of mind which the teachings of the clergy encouraged, and which provoked self-murder, is vividly depicted by Samuel Rutherford, the most popular of all the Scotch divines of the seventeenth century. 'Oh! hee lieth down, and hell beddeth with him; hee sleepeth, and hell and hee dreame together; hee riseth, and hell goeth to the fields with him; hee goes to his garden, there is hell.' ... 'The man goes to his table, O! hee dare not eat, hee hath no right to the creature; to eat is sin and hell; so hell is in every dish. To live is sinne, _hee would faine chuse strangling_; every act of breathing is sin and hell. Hee goes to church, there is a dog as great as a mountaine before his eye: Here be terrors.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, 1647, 4to, pp. 41, 42. Now, listen to the confessions of two of the tortured victims of the doctrines enunciated by the clergy; victims who, after undergoing ineffable agony, were more than once, according to their own account, tempted to put an end to their lives. 'The cloud lasted for two years and some months.' ... 'The arrows of the Almighty did drink up my spirits; night and day his hand lay heavy upon me, so that even my bodily moisture was turned into the drought of summer. When I said sometimes that my couch would ease my complaint, I was filled with tossings to the dawning of the day.' ... 'Amidst all my downcastings, I had the roaring lion to grapple with, who likes well to fish in muddy waters. He strongly suggested to me that I should not eat, because I had no right to food; or if I ventured to do it, the enemy assured me, that the wrath of God would go down with my morsel; and that I had forfeited a right to the divine favour, and, therefore, had nothing to do with any of God's creatures.' ... 'However, so violent were the temptations of the strong enemy, that I frequently forgot to eat my bread, and durst not attempt it; and when, through the persuasion of my wife, I at any time did it, the enemy through the day did buffet me in a violent way, assuring me that the wrath of God had gone over with what I had taken.' ... 'The enemy after all did so pursue me, that he violently suggested to my soul, that, some time or other, God would suddenly destroy me as with a thunderclap: which so filled my soul with fear and pain, that, every now and then, I looked about me, to receive the divine blow, still expecting it was a coming; yea, many a night I durst not sleep, lest I had awakened in everlasting flames.' _Stevenson's Rare Cordial_, pp. 11-13. Another poor creature, after hearing one of Smiton's sermons, in 1740, says, 'Now, I saw myself to be a condemned criminal; but I knew not the day of my execution. I thought that there was nothing between me and hell, but the brittle thread of natural life.' ... 'And in this dreadful confusion, I durst not sleep, lest I had awakened in everlasting flames.' ... 'And Satan violently assaulted me to take away my own life, seeing there was no mercy for me.' ... 'Soon after this, I was again violently assaulted by the tempter to take away my own life; he presented to me a knife therewith to do it; no person being in the house but myself. The enemy pursued me so close, that I could not endure so much as to see the knife in my sight, but laid it away.' ... 'One evening, as I was upon the street, Satan violently assaulted me to go into the sea and drown myself; it would be the easiest death. Such a fear of Satan then fell upon me, as made my joints to shake, so that it was much for me to walk home; and when I came to the door, I found nobody within; I was afraid to go into the house, lest Satan should get power over me.' _Memoirs of the Life and Experiences of Marion Laird of Greenock_, pp. 13, 14, 19, 45, 223, 224. Little comfort, indeed, could men then gain from their religion. Not only the devil, as the author of all evil, but even He whom we recognise as the author of all good, was, in the eyes of the Scotch clergy, a cruel and vindictive being, moved with anger like themselves. They looked into their own hearts, and there they found the picture of their God. According to them, He was a God of terror, instead of a God of love.[517] To Him they imputed the worst passions of their own peevish and irritable nature. They ascribed to Him, revenge, cunning, and a constant disposition to inflict pain. While they declared that nearly all mankind were sinners beyond the chance of redemption, and were, indeed, predestined to eternal ruin, they did not scruple to accuse the Deity of resorting to artifice against these unhappy victims; lying in wait for them, that He might catch them unawares.[518] The Scotch clergy taught their hearers, that the Almighty was so sanguinary, and so prone to anger, that He raged even against walls and houses and senseless creatures, wreaking His fury more than ever, and scattering desolation on every side.[519] Sooner than miss His fell and malignant purpose, He would, they said, let loose avenging angels, to fall upon men and upon their families.[520] Independently of this resource, He had various ways whereby He could at once content Himself and plague His creatures, as was particularly shown in the devices which He employed to bring famine on a people.[521] When a country was starving, it was because God, in His anger, had smitten the soil, had stopped the clouds from yielding their moisture, and thus made the fruits of the earth to wither.[522] All the intolerable sufferings caused by a want of food, the slow deaths, the agony, the general misery, the crimes which that misery produced, the anguish of the mother as she saw her children wasting away and could give them no bread, all this was His act, and the work of His hands.[523] In His anger, He would sometimes injure the crops by making the spring so backward, and the weather so cold and rainy, as to insure a deficiency in the coming harvest.[524] Or else, he would deceive men, by sending them a favourable season, and, after letting them toil and sweat in the hope of an abundant supply, He would, at the last moment, suddenly step in, and destroy the corn just as it was fit to be reaped.[525] For, the God of the Scotch Kirk was a God who tantalized His creatures as well as punished them; and when He was provoked, He would first allure men by encouraging their expectations, in order that their subsequent misery might be more poignant.[526] [517] Binning says, that 'since the first rebellion' (that is, the fall of Adam), 'there is nothing to be seen but the terrible countenance of an angry God.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. iii. p. 254. [518] 'He will, as it were, lie in wait to take all advantages of sinners to undo them.' _Hutcheson's Exposition on the Minor Prophets_, vol. i. p. 247. [519] 'His wrath rages against walls, and houses, and senselesse creatures more now then at that time' (_i.e._ at the time when the Old Testament was written). 'See what desolation he hath wrought in Ireland, what eating of horses, of infants, and of killed souldiers, hath beene in that land, and in Germany.' _Rutherford's Free Disputation against Pretended Liberty of Conscience_, pp. 244, 245. [520] 'Albeit there were no earthly man to pursue Christ's enemies; yet avenging angels, or evil spirits shall be let forth upon them and their families to trouble them.' _Dickson's Explication of the First Fifty Psalms_, p. 229. [521] 'God hath many wayes and meanes whereby to plague man, and _reach his contentments_.' _Hutcheson's Exposition on the Minor Prophets_, vol. i. p. 286. 'God hath variety of means whereby to plague men, and to bring upon them any affliction he intendeth against them; and particularly he hath several wayes whereby to bring on famine. He can arme all his creatures to cut off men's provision, one of them after another; he can make the change of aire, and small insects do that worke when he pleaseth.' _Ibid._, vol. i. p. 422. The same divine, in another elaborate treatise, distinctly imputes to the Deity a sensation of pleasure in injuring even the innocent. 'When God sends out a scourge, of sword, famine, or pestilence, suddenly to overthrow and cut people off, not only are the wicked reached thereby (which is here supposed), but even the innocent, that is such as are righteous and free of gross provocations; for, in any other sense, none are innocent, or free of sin, in this life. Yea, further, in trying of the innocent by these scourges, _the Lord seems to act as one delighted with it_, and little resenting the great extremities wherewith they are pressed.' _Hutcheson's Exposition of the Book of Job_, 1669, folio, p. 123. Compare p. 359. 'It pleaseth the Lord to exercise great variety in afflicting the children of men,' &c. But, after all, mere extracts can give but a faint idea of the dark and malignant spirit which pervades these writings. [522] 'The present dearth and famine quhilk seases vpon many, quhairby God his heavie wrath is evidentlie perceaved to be kindlit against vs.' _Selections from the Minutes of the Synod of Fife_, p. 98. 'Smiting of the fruits of the ground.' _Hutcheson's Exposition on the Minor Prophets_, vol. i. p. 277. 'Makes fruits to wither.' _Ibid._, vol. ii. p. 183. 'Hee restraines the clouds, and bindeth up the wombe of heaven, in extreme drought.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, p. 52. 'Sometime hee maketh tho heauen aboue as brasse, and the earth beneath as iron; so that albeit men labour and sow, yet they receiue no increase: sometime againe hee giues in due season the first and latter raine, so that the earth renders abundance, but the Lord by blasting windes, or by the caterpillar, canker-worme and grasse-hopper doth consume them, who come out as exacters and officers sent from God to poind men in their goods.' _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 433. [523] 'Under the late dearth this people suffered greatly, the poor were numerous, and many, especially about the town of Kilsyth, were at the point of starving; yet, as I frequently observed to them, I could not see any one turning to _the Lord who smote them_, or crying to him because of their sins, while _they howled upon their beds for bread_.' _Robe's Narratives of the Extraordinary Work of the Spirit of God_, p. 68. [524] _Nicoll's Diary_, pp. 152, 153. Much rain in the autumn, was 'the Lord's displeasure upon the land.' _Minutes of the Presbyteries of Saint Andrews and Cupar_, p. 179. [525] 'Men sweat, till, sow much, and the sun and summer, and clouds, warme dewes and raines smile upon cornes and meddowes, yet God steppeth in betweene the mouth of the husbandman and the sickle, and blasteth all.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, p. 87. Compare _Baillie's Letters_, vol. iii. p. 52, on the 'continuance of very intemperate rain upon the corns,' as one of the 'great signs of the wrath of God.' [526] 'When the Lord is provoked, he can not only send an affliction, but so order it, by faire appearances of a better lot, and heightening of the sinners expectation and desire, as may make it most sad.' _Hutcheson's Exposition on the Minor Prophets_, vol. iii. pp. 9, 10. Under the influence of this horrible creed, and from the unbounded sway exercised by the clergy who advocated it, the Scotch mind was thrown into such a state, that, during the seventeenth, and part of the eighteenth, century, some of the noblest feelings of which our nature is capable, the feelings of hope, of love, and of gratitude, were set aside, and were replaced by the dictates of a servile and ignominous fear. The physical sufferings to which the human frame is liable, nay, even the very accidents to which we are casually exposed, were believed to proceed, not from our ignorance, nor from our carelessness, but from the rage of the Deity. If a fire chanced to break out in Edinburgh, the greatest alarm was excited, because it was the voice of God crying out against a luxurious and dissolute city.[527] If a boil or a sore appeared on your body, that, too, was a divine punishment, and it was more than doubtful whether it might lawfully be cured.[528] The small-pox, being one of the most fatal as well as one of the most loathsome of all diseases, was especially sent by God; and, on that account, the remedy of inoculation was scouted as a profane attempt to frustrate His intentions.[529] Other disorders, which, though less terrible, were very painful, proceeded from the same source, and all owed their origin to the anger of the Almighty.[530] In every thing, His power was displayed, not by increasing the happiness of men, nor by adding to their comforts, but by hurting and vexing them in all possible ways. His hand, always raised against the people, would sometimes deprive them of wine by causing the vintage to fail;[531] sometimes, would destroy their cattle in a storm;[532] and sometimes, would even make dogs bite their legs when they least expected it.[533] Sometimes, He would display His wrath by making the weather excessively dry;[534] sometimes, by making it equally wet.[535] He was always punishing; always busy in increasing the general suffering, or, to use the language of the time, making the creature smart under the rod.[536] Every fresh war was the result of His special interference; it was not caused by the meddling folly or insensate ambition of statesmen, but it was the immediate work of the Deity, who was thus made responsible for all the devastations, the murders, and other crimes more horrible still, which war produces.[537] In the intervals of peace, which, at that period, were very rare, He had other means of vexing mankind. The shock of an earthquake was a mark of His displeasure;[538] a comet was a sign of coming tribulation;[539] and when an eclipse appeared, the panic was so universal, that persons of all ranks hastened to church to deprecate His wrath.[540] What they heard there, would increase their fear, instead of allaying it. For the clergy taught their hearers, that even so ordinary an event as thunder, was meant to excite awe, and was sent for the purpose of showing to men with how terrible a master they had to deal.[541] Not to tremble at thunder, was, therefore, a mark of impiety; and, in this respect, man was unfavourably contrasted with the lower animals, since they were invariably moved by this symptom of divine power.[542] [527] In 1696, there was a fire in Edinburgh; whereupon Moncrief, in his sermon next day, 'told us, "That God's voice was crying to this city, and that he was come to the very ports, and was crying over the walls to us; that we should amend our ways, lest he should come to our city, and consume us in a terrible manner." I cannot tell what this Dispensation of Providence wrought on me,' &c. _Memoirs or Spiritual Exercises of Elizabeth West, written by her own Hand_, pp. 41, 42. See also, at pp. 122, 123, the account of another conflagration, where it is said, 'there was much of God to be seen in this fire.' Compare a curious passage in _Calderwood's History of the Kirk of Scotland_, vol. vii. pp. 455, 456. [528] The Rev. James Fraser had a boil, and afterwards a fever. 'During this sickness he miraculously allayed the pain of my boil, and speedily, and that without means, cured it; for however I bought some things to prevent it, yet, looking on it as a punishment from God, I knew not if I could be free to take the rod out of his hand, and to counterwork him.' _Memoirs of the Rev. James Fraser of Brea, Minister of the Gospel at Culross, written by Himself_, in _Select Biographies_, vol. ii. p. 223. Durham declaims against 'Sinful shunning and shifting off suffering;' and Rutherford says, 'No man should rejoice at weakness and diseases; but I think we may have a sort of gladness at boils and sores, because, without them, Christ's fingers, as a slain Lord, should never have touched our skin.' _Durham's Law Unsealed_, p. 160; _Rutherford's Religious Letters_, p. 265. I do not know what effect these passages may produce upon the reader; but it makes my flesh creep to quote them. Compare _Stevenson's Rare, Soul-strengthening, and Comforting Cordial_, p. 35. [529] It was not until late in the eighteenth century, that the Scotch clergy gave up this notion. At last, even they became influenced by the ridicule to which their superstition exposed them, and which produced more effect than any argument could have done. The doctrines, however, which they and their predecessors had long inculcated, had so corrupted the popular mind, that instances will, I believe, be found even in the nineteenth century, of the Scotch deeming precautions against small-pox to be criminal, or, as they called it, flying in the face of Providence. The latest evidence I can at this moment put my hand on, is in a volume published in 1797. It is stated by the Rev. John Paterson, that, in the parish of Auldearn, in the county of Nairn, 'Very few have fallen a sacrifice to the small-pox, though the people are in general averse to inoculation, from the general gloominess of their faith, which teaches them, that all diseases which afflict the human frame are instances of the Divine interposition, for the punishment of sin; any interference, therefore, on their part, they deem an usurpation of the prerogative of the Almighty.' _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. xix. p. 618, Edinburgh, 1797. See also vol. xiv. p. 52, Edinburgh, 1795. This is well said. No doubt, so abject, and so pernicious, a superstition among the people, was the result of 'the general gloominess of their faith.' But the Rev. John Paterson has forgotten to add, that the gloominess of which he complains, was in strict conformity with the teachings of the most able, the most energetic, and the most venerated of the Scotch clergy. Mr. Paterson renders scant justice to his countrymen, and should rather have praised the tenacity with which they adhered to the instructions they had long been accustomed to receive. [530] The Rev. John Welsh, when suffering from a painful disorder, and also from other troubles, writes: 'My douleurs ar impossible to expresse.' ... 'It is the Lord's indignation.' See his letter, in _Miscellany of the Wodrow Society_, vol. i. p. 558. See also _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 128. A pain in one's side was the work of 'the Lord' (_Memoirs of Marion Laird_, p. 95); so was a sore throat (_Wast's Memoirs_, p. 203); and so was the fever in pleurisy. _Robe's Narratives of the Extraordinary Work of the Spirit of God_, p. 66. [531] In January 1653, 'This tyme, and mony monethis befoir, thair wes great skairshtie of wynes. In this also appered Godis justice toward this natioun for abusing of that blissing many yeiris befoir.' _Nicoll's Diary_, p. 105. [532] This idea was so deeply rooted, that we actually find a public fast and humiliation ordered, on account of 'this present uncouth storme of frost and snaw, quhilk hes continewit sa lang that the bestiall ar dieing thik fauld.' _Records of the Kirk Session, Presbytery, and Synod of Aberdeen_, p. 82. [533] 'There was a dog bit my leg most desperately. I no sooner received this, but I saw the hand of God in it.' _Wast's Memoirs_, p. 114. [534] 'The evident documentis of Goddis wrath aganes the land, be the extraordinarie drouth.' _Records of the Kirk Session, Presbytery, and Synod of Aberdeen_, p. 78. [535] 'The hynous synnes of the land produced much takines of Godis wraith; namelie, in this spring tyme, for all Februar and a great pairt of Marche wer full of havie weittis.' _Nicoll's Diary_, p. 152. [536] _Halyburton's Great Concern of Salvation_, p. 85. _Fleming's Fulfilling of the Scripture_, pp. 101, 149, 176. _Balfour's _, vol. i. p. 169. _Boston's Sermons_, p. 52. _Boston's Human Nature in its Four-fold State_, pp. 67, 136. _Memoirs of Marion Laird_, pp. 63, 90, 113, 163. _Hutcheson's Exposition of the Book of Job_, pp. 62, 91, 140, 187, 242, 310, 449, 471, 476, 527, 528. [537] 'War is one of the sharp scourges whereby God punisheth wicked nations; and it cometh upon a people, not accidentally, but _by the especial providence of God_, who hath peace and war in his own hand.' _Hutcheson's Exposition on the Minor Prophets_, vol. ii. p. 3. In 1644, 'Civill war wracks Spaine, and lately wracked Italie: it is coming by appearance shortlie upon France. The just Lord, who beholds with patience the wickednesse of nations, at last _arises in furie_.' ... 'The Swedish and Danish fleets, after a hott fight, are making for a new onsett: great blood is feared shall be shortly shed there, both by sea and land. The _anger of the Lord_ against all christendome is great.' _Baillie's Letters and Journals_, vol. ii. pp. 190, 223. [538] 'Earthquakes, whereby God, when he is angry, overthrows and overturns very mountains.' _Hutcheson's Exposition of the Book of Job_, p. 114. 'The ministris and sessioun convening in the sessioun hous, considdering the fearfull erthquak that wes yisternicht, the aucht of this instant, throughout this haill citie about nine houris at evin, to be a document that God is angrie aganes the land and aganes this citie in particular, for the manifauld sinnis of the people,' &c. _Records of the Kirk Session, Presbytery, and Synod of Aberdeen_, p. 64. [539] 'Whatever natural causes may be adduced for those alarming appearances, the system of comets is yet so uncertain, and they have so frequently preceded desolating strokes and turns in public affairs, that they seem designed in providence to stir up sinners to seriousness. Those preachers from heaven, when God's messengers were silenced, neither prince nor prelate could stop.' _Wodrow's History of the Church of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 421. [540] 'People of all sortes rane to the churches to deprecat God's wrath.' _Balfour's Annales_, vol. i. p. 403. This was in 1598. [541] 'By it, he manifests his power and shows himself terrible.' _Durham's Commentarie upon the Book of the Revelation_, p. 33. Compare _Row's History of the Kirk_, p. 333; and a passage in _Laird's Memoirs_, p. 69, which shows how greedily their credulous hearers imbibed such notions: 'There were several signal evidences that the Lord's righteous judgments were abroad in the earth; great claps of thunder,' &c. [542] 'The stupidity and senselessnesse of man is greater than that of the brute creatures, which are all more moved with the thunder, then the hearts of men for the most part.' _Dickson's Explication of the First Fifty Psalms_, p. 193. Hutcheson makes a similar remark concerning earthquakes. 'The shaking and trembling of insensible creatures, when God is angry, serves to condemn men, who are not sensible of it, nor will stoop under his hand.' _Hutcheson's Exposition of the Book of Job_, p. 115. These visitations, eclipses, comets, earthquakes, thunder, famine, pestilence, war, disease, blights in the air, failures in the crops, cold winters, dry summers, these, and the like, were, in the opinion of the Scotch divines, outbreaks of the anger of the Almighty against the sins of men; and that such outbreaks were incessant is not surprising, when we consider that, in the same age, and according to the same creed, the most innocent, and even praiseworthy, actions were deemed sinful, and worthy of chastisement. The opinions held on this subject are not only curious, but extremely instructive. Besides forming an important part of the history of the human mind, they supply decisive proof of the danger of allowing a single profession to exalt itself above all other professions. For, in Scotland, as elsewhere, directly the clergy succeeded in occupying a more than ordinary amount of public attention, they availed themselves of that circumstance to propagate those ascetic doctrines, which, while they strike at the root of human happiness, benefit no one except the class which advocates them. That class, indeed, can hardly fail to reap advantage from a policy, which, by increasing the apprehensions to which the ignorance and timidity of men make them too liable, does also increase their eagerness to fly for support to their spiritual advisers. And the greater the apprehension, the greater the eagerness. Of this, the Scotch clergy, who were perfect masters of their own art, were well aware. Under their influence, a system of morals was established, which, representing nearly every act as sinful, kept the people in perpetual dread, lest unwittingly they were committing some enormous offence, which would bring upon their heads a signal and overwhelming punishment. According to this code, all the natural affections, all social pleasures, all amusements, and all the joyous instincts of the human heart were sinful, and were to be rooted out. It was sinful for a mother to wish to have sons;[543] and, if she had any, it was sinful to be anxious about their welfare.[544] It was a sin to please yourself, or to please others; for, by adopting either course, you were sure to displease God.[545] All pleasures, therefore, however slight in themselves, or however lawful they might appear, must be carefully avoided.[546] When mixing in society, we should edify the company, if the gift of edification had been bestowed upon us; but we should by no means attempt to amuse them.[547] Cheerfulness, especially when it rose to laughter, was to be guarded against; and we should choose for our associates grave and sorrowful men, who were not likely to indulge in so foolish a practice.[548] Smiling, provided it stopped short of laughter, might occasionally be allowed; still, being a carnal pastime, it was a sin to smile on Sunday.[549] Even on week-days, those who were most imbued with religious principles hardly ever smiled, but sighed, groaned, and wept.[550] A true Christian would be careful, in his movements, to preserve invariable gravity, never running, but walking soberly, and not treading out in a brisk and lively manner, as unbelievers are wont to do.[551] So, too, if he wrote to a friend, he must beware lest his letter should contain any thing like jocoseness; since jesting is incompatible with a holy and serious life.[552] [543] Lady Colsfeild 'had born two or three daughters, and was sinfully anxious after a son, to heir the estate of Colsfeild.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. iii. p. 293. [544] Under the influence of this terrible creed, the amiable mother of Duncan Forbes, writing to him respecting his own health and that of his brother, speaks 'of my sinful God-provoking anxiety, both for your souls and bodies.' _Burton's Lives of Lovat and Forbes_, p. 724. The theological theory, underlying and suggesting this, was, that 'grace bridles these affections.' _Boston's Human Nature in its Four-fold State_, p. 184. Hence its rigid application on days set apart for religious purposes. The Rev. Mr. Lyon (_History of Saint Andrews_, vol. i. p. 458) mentions that some of the Scotch clergy, in drawing up regulations for the government of a colony, inserted the following clause: 'No husband shall kiss his wife, and no mother shall kiss her child on the Sabbath day.' [545] 'The more you please yourselves and the world, the further you are from pleasing God.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. ii. p. 55. Elsewhere (vol. ii. p. 45): 'Amity to ourselves is enmity to God.' [546] 'Pleasures are most carefully to be auoided: because they both harme and deceiue.' _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 251. At p. 268, the same authority says, 'Beate downe thy body, and bring it to subiection by abstaining, not only from vnlawfull pleasures, but also from lawfull and indifferent delights.' [547] According to _Hutcheson's Exposition of Job_, p. 6, 'there is no time wherein men are more ready to miscarry, and discover any bitter root in them, then when they are about the liberal use of the creatures, and amidst occasions of mirth and cheerfulness.' How this doctrine ripened, cannot be better illustrated than from the sentiments entertained, so late as the early part of the eighteenth century, by Colonel Blackader, a Scotch officer, who was also an educated man, who had seen much of the world, and might, to some degree, be called a man of the world. In December 1714, he went to a wedding, and, on his return home, he writes: 'I was cheerful, and perhaps gave too great a swing to raillery, but I hope not light or vain in conversation. I desire always to have my speech seasoned with salt, and ministering profit to the hearers. Sitting up late, and merry enough, though I hope innocent; but I will not justify myself.' _The Life and Diary of Lieut.-Col. J. Blackader, by Andrew Crichton_, p. 453. On another occasion (p. 511), in 1720, he was at an evening party. 'The young people were merry. I laid a restraint upon myself for fear of going too far, and joined but little, only so as not to show moroseness or ill-breeding. We sat late, but the conversation was innocent, and no drinking but as we pleased. However, much time is spent; which I dare not justify. _In all things we offend._' At p. 159, he writes, 'I should always be mixing something that may edify in my discourse;' and, says his biographer (p. 437), 'Conversation, when it ceased to accomplish this object, he regarded as _degenerating into idle entertainment_, which ought to be checked rather than encouraged.' [548] 'Frequent the gravest company, and the fellowship of those that are sorrowfull.' _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 416. Compare the attacks on 'too much carnal mirth and laughter,' in _Durham's Law Unsealed_, p. 323; in _Fleming's Fulfilling of the Scripture_, p. 226; and in _Fergusson's Exposition of the Epistles of Paul_, p. 227. See also _Gray's Spiritual Warfare_, p. 42. Cowper says, 'Woe be unto them that now laugh, for assuredly they shall weepe, the end of their joy shall be endleese mourning and gnashing of teeth, they shall shed tears abundantly with Esau, but shall find no place for mercy.' _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 271. Hutcheson, in a train of unusual liberality, permits occasional laughter. He says, 'There is a faculty of laughing given to men, which certainly is given for use, at least at sometimes; and diversions are sometime needfull for men who are serious and employed in weighty affairs.' ... 'And particularly, laughter is sometimes lawful for magistrates and others in publick charge, not only that they may recreate themselves, but that, thereby, and by the like insinuating carriage, they may gain the affection of the people.' _Hutcheson's Exposition of the Book of Job_, edit. folio, 1669, pp. 389, 390. [549] In 1650, when Charles II. was in Scotland, 'the clergy reprehended him very sharply, if he smiled on those days' (Sundays). _Clarendon's History of the Rebellion_, book xiii. p. 747, edit. Oxford, 1843. [550] It is said of Donald Cargill, that, 'his very countenance was edifying to beholders; often sighing with deep groans.' _A Cloud of Witnesses for the Royal Prerogatives of Jesus Christ_, p. 423. The celebrated James Durham was 'a person of the utmost gravity, and scarce smiled at anything.' _Howie's Biographia Scoticana_, p. 226. Of Livingston, we are told 'that he was a very affectionate person, and weeped much; that it was his ordinary way, and might be observed almost every Sabbath, that when he came into the pulpite he sate doun a litle, and looked first to the one end of the kirk, and then to the other; and then, ordinarly, the tear shott in his eye, and he weeped, and oftimes he began his preface and his work weeping.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. ii. p. 249. James Alexander 'used to weep much in prayer and preaching; he was every way most savoury.' _Ibid._, vol. iii. p. 39. As to the Rev. John Carstairs, 'his band in the Sabbath would have been all wett, as if it had been douked, with tears, before he was done with his first prayer.' p. 48. Aird, minister of Dalserf, 'weeping much' (_Ibid._, vol. iii. p. 56), 'Mr. James Stirling tells me he was a most fervent, affectionat, weeping preacher.' p. 172; and the Rev. Alexander Dunlop was noted for what was termed 'a holy groan,' vol. iii. p. 21. See also, on weeping as a mark of religion, _Wast's Memoirs_, pp. 83, 84; and _Robe's Narrative of the Extraordinary Work of the Spirit of God_, pp. 21, 31, 75, 150. One passage from the most popular of the Scotch preachers, I hesitate as to the propriety of quoting; but it is essential that their ideas should be known, if the history of Scotland is to be understood. Rutherford, after stating whom it is that we should seek to imitate, adds: 'Christ did never laugh on earth that we read of, but he wept.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, 1647, 4to, p. 525. I publish this with no irreverent spirit; God forbid that I should. But I will not be deterred from letting this age see the real character of a system which aimed at destroying all human happiness, exciting slavish and abject fear, and turning this glorious world into one vast theatre of woe. [551] 'Walk with a sober pace, not "tinkling with your feet."' _Memoirs of the Rev. James Fraser, written by Himself_, in _Select Biographies_, vol. ii. p. 280. 'It is somewhat like this, or less than this, which the Lord condemneth, _Isa._ iii. 16, 'Walking and mincing, or tripping and making a tinkling with their feet.' What is that but disdaining the grave way of walking, to affect an art in it? as many do now in our days; and shall this be displeasing to the Lord, and not the other? seeing he loveth, and is best pleased with, the native way of carrying the body.' _Durham's Law Unsealed_, p. 324. 'The believer hath, or at least ought to have, and, if he be like himself, will have, a well ordered walk, and will be in his carriage stately and princely.' _Durham's Exposition of the Song of Solomon_, p. 365. [552] 'At home, writing letters to a friend. My vein is inclined to jest and humour. The letter was too comical and jocose; and after I had sent it away, I had a check that it was too light, and jesting foolishly. I sent and got it back, and destroyed it. My temper goes too far that way, and I ought to check it, and be more on my guard, and study edification in every thing.' _Crichton's Life and Diary of Blackader_, pp. 536, 537. Even amongst young children, from eight years old and upwards, toys and games were bad; and it was a good sign when they were discarded. 'Some very young, of eight and nine years of age, some twelve and thirteen. They still inclined more and more to their duty, so that they meet three times a day, in the morning, at night, and at noon. Also they have forsaken all their childish fancies and plays; so these that have been awakened are known by their countenance and conversation, their walk and behaviour.' _Robe's Narratives of the Extraordinary Work of the Spirit of God_, pp. 79, 80. It was, moreover, wrong to take pleasure in beautiful scenery; for a pious man had no concern with such matters, which were beneath him, and the admiration of which should be left to the unconverted.[553] The unregenerate might delight in these vanities, but they who were properly instructed, saw Nature as she really was, and knew that as she, for about five thousand years, had been constantly on the move, her vigour was well-nigh spent, and her pristine energy had departed.[554] To the eye of ignorance, she still seemed fair and fresh; the fact, however, was, that she was worn out and decrepit; she was suffering from extreme old age; her frame, no longer elastic, was leaning on one side, and she soon would perish.[555] Owing to the sin of man, all things were getting worse, and nature was degenerating so fast, that already the lilies were losing their whiteness, and the roses their smell.[556] The heavens were waxing old;[557] the very sun, which lighted the earth, was becoming feeble.[558] This universal degeneracy was sad to think of; but the profane knew it not. Their ungodly eyes were still pleased by what they saw. Such was the result of their obstinate determination to indulge the senses, all of which were evil; the eye being, beyond comparison, the most wicked. Hence, it was especially marked out for divine punishment; and, being constantly sinning, it was afflicted with fifty-two different diseases, that is, one disease for each week in the year.[559] [553] 'To the unmortified man, the world smelleth like the garden of God' ... 'the world is not to him an ill-smelled stinking corps.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, p. 498. But those who were properly mortified, knew that 'the earth is but a potter's house' (_Ibid._, p. 286); 'an old thred-bare-worn case' (_Ibid._, p. 530); a 'smoky house' (_Rutherford's Religious Letters_, p. 100); a 'plaistered, rotten world' (_Ibid._, p. 132); and 'an ashy and dirty earth' (_Ibid._, p. 169). 'The earth also is spotted (like the face of a woman once beautifull, but now deformed with scabs of leprosie) with thistles, thornes, and much barren wilderness.' _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 255. [554] 'Wearinesse and motion is laid on Moon and Sunne, and all creatures on this side of the Moon. Seas ebbe and flow, and that's trouble; winds blow, rivers move, heavens and stars these five thousand yeares, except one time, have not had sixe minutes rest.' ... 'The Sunne that never rests, but moves as swiftly in the night as in the day.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, pp. 12, 157. 'This is the world's old age; it is declining; albeit it seem a fair and beautiful thing in the eyes of them who know no better, and unto them who are of yesterday and know nothing, it looks as if it had been created yesterday; yet the truth is, and a believer knows, it is near the grave.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. iii. p. 372. [555] 'This, then, I say, is the state all things ye see are in,--it is their old age. The creation now is an old rotten house that is all dropping through and leaning to the one side.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. iii. p. 398. [556] 'The lilies and roses, which, no doubt, had more sweetnesse of beauty and smell, before the sin of man made them vanity-sick.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, p. 185. [557] 'The heavens that are supposed to be incorruptible, yet they wax old as doth a garment.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. i. p. 95. [558] 'The neerer the sun drawes to the end of his daily course, the lesse is his strength, for we see the Sunne in the evening decayes in heat; so it is, the longer by reuolution he turnes about in his sphere, he waxes alway the weaker; and, to vse the similitude of the holy spirit, as a garment the older it groweth becomes the lesse beautifull.' _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 255. [559] 'It is so delicate by nature, that since it was the first sense that offended, it is, aboue all the rest, made subject (as a condigne punishment) to as many maladies, as there are weekes in a yeere.' _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 501. The Scotch divines were extremely displeased with our eyes. Rutherford contemptuously calls them 'two clay windows.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, p. 570. Gray, going still further, says, 'these cursed eyes of ours.' _Gray's Great and Precious Promises_, p. 53. On this account, it was improper to care for beauty of any kind; or, to speak more accurately, there was no real beauty. The world afforded nothing worth looking at, save and except the Scotch Kirk, which was incomparably the most beautiful thing under heaven.[560] To look at that was a lawful enjoyment, but every other pleasure was sinful. To write poetry, for instance, was a grievous offence, and worthy of especial condemnation.[561] To listen to music was equally wrong; for men had no right to disport themselves in such idle recreation. Hence the clergy forbade music to be introduced even during the festivities of a marriage;[562] neither would they permit, on any occasion, the national entertainment of pipers.[563] Indeed, it was sinful to look at any exhibition in the streets, even though you only looked at it from your own window.[564] Dancing was so extremely sinful, that an edict, expressly prohibiting it, was enacted by the General Assembly, and read in every church in Edinburgh.[565] New Year's Eve had long been a period of rejoicing in Scotland, as in other parts of Europe. The Church laid her hands on this also, and ordered that no one should sing the songs usual on that day, or should admit such singers into his own private house.[566] [560] 'The true visible Kirk where God's ordinances are set up, as he hath appointed, where his word is purely preached, is the most beautifull thing under heaven.' _Dickson's Explication of the First Fifty Psalms_, p. 341. [561] I have one very late, and, on that account, very curious, instance of the diffusion of this feeling in Scotland. In 1767, a vacancy occurred in the mastership of the grammar-school of Greenock. It was offered to John Wilson, the author of 'Clyde.' But, says his biographer, 'the magistrates and minister of Greenock thought fit, before they would admit Mr. Wilson to the superintendance of the grammar school, to stipulate that he should abandon "the profane and unprofitable art of poem-making."' _Lives of Eminent Scotsmen by the Society of Ancient Scots_, 1821, vol. v. p. 169. [562] 'Sept. 22. 1649.--The quhilk day the Sessioune caused mak this act, that ther sould be no pypers at brydels, and who ever sould have a pyper playing at their brydell on their mariage day, sall loose their consigned money, and be farder punisched as the Sessioune thinks fitt.' _Extracts from the Registers of the Presbytery of Glasgow, and of the Kirk Sessions of the Parishes of Cambusnethan Humbie and Stirling_, p. 34. This curious volume is a quarto, and without date; unless, indeed, one of the title-pages is wanting in my copy. [563] See the Minutes of the Kirk Session of Glasgow, in _Wodrow's Collections upon the Lives of Ministers_, vol. ii. part ii. p. 76; also the case of 'Mure, pyper,' in _Selections from the Minutes of the Presbyteries of Saint Andrews and Cupar_, p. 72. [564] This notion lingered on, probably to the beginning of this century; certainly to late in the last. In a work published in Scotland in 1836, it is stated, that a clergyman was still alive, who was 'severely censured,' merely because, when Punch was performing, 'the servant was sent out to the showman to request him to come below the windows of her master's house, that the clergyman and his wife might enjoy the sight.' _Traditions of Perth by George Penny_, Perth, 1836, p. 124. [565] '17 Feb. 1650. Ane act of the commissioun of the Generall Assemblie wes red in all the churches of Edinburgh dischargeing promiscuous dansing.' _Nicoll's Diary_, p. 3. See also _Acts of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland_, 1638-1842, p. 201; _Register of the Kirk Session of Cambusnethan_, p. 35; _Minutes of the Presbyteries of St. Andrews and Cupar_, pp. 55, 181; _Minutes of the Synod of Fife_, pp. 150, 169, 175; and a choice passage in _A Collection of Sermons by Eminent Divines_, p. 51. [566] See _Selections from the Records of the Kirk Session, Presbytery, and Synod of Aberdeen_, pp. 77, 78, forbidding any one to 'giwe ony meatt or drink to these sangsteris or lat thame within thair houss.' The singers were to be 'put in prisoun.' At the christening of a child, the Scotch were accustomed to assemble their relations, including their distant cousins, in whom, then as now, they much abounded. But this caused pleasure, and pleasure was sinful. It was, therefore, forbidden; the number of guests was limited; and the strictest supervision was exercised by the clergy, to prevent the possibility of any one being improperly happy on such occasions.[567] [567] In 1643 the Presbytery of St. Andrews ordered that 'because of the great abuse that is likewayes among them by conveening multitudes at baptismes and contracts, the ministers and sessions are appointed to take strict order for restraineing these abuses, that in number they exceid not sixe or seven. As also ordaines that the hostlers quho mak such feists salbe censured by the sessions.' _Minutes of the Presbyteries of St. Andrews and Cupar_, p. 11. See also _Records of the Kirk Session, Presbytery, and Synod of Aberdeen_, pp. 109, 110, complaining of the custom 'that everie base servile man in the towne, when he has a barne to be baptesed, invitis tuelff or sextene persones to be his gossopes and godfatheris to his barne,' &c.; and enacting 'that it shall not be lesume to any inhabitant within this burt quhasoever, to invite any ma persones to be godfatheris to thair barne in ony tyme cumming bot tua or four at the most, lyk as the Kirk officier is expresslie commandit and prohibitt that from hence furth he tak vp no ma names to be godfatheris, nor giwe any ma vp to the redar bot four at the most, vnder all hiest censure he may incur be the contrairie, and this ordinance to be intimat out of pulpitt, that the people pretend no ignorance thairof.' Not only at baptisms, but also at marriages, the same spirit was displayed. In every country, it has been usual to make merry at marriages; partly from a natural feeling, and partly, perhaps, from a notion that a contract so often productive of misery, might, at all events, begin with mirth. The Scotch clergy, however, thought otherwise. At the weddings of the poor, they would allow no rejoicing;[568] and at the weddings of the rich, it was the custom for one of them to go for the express purpose of preventing an excess of gaiety. A better precaution could hardly be devised; but they did not trust exclusively to it. To check the lusts of the flesh, they, furthermore, took into account the cookery, the choice of the meats, and the number of the dishes. They were, in fact, so solicitous on these points, and so anxious that the nuptial feast should not be too attractive that they fixed its cost, and would not allow any person to exceed the sum which they thought proper to name.[569] [568] They forbade music and dancing; and they ordered that not more than twenty-four persons should be present. See the enactment, in 1647, respecting 'Pennie bryddells,' in _Minutes of the Presbyteries of St. Andrews and Cupar_, p. 117. In 1650, 'The Presbyterie being sadly weghted with the report of the continwance, and exhorbitant and unnecessarly numerous confluences of people at pennie brydles, and of inexpedient and wnlawfull pypeing and dancing at the same, so scandalous and sinfull in this tyme of our Churches lamentable conditioun; and being apprehensive that ministers and Kirk Sessiouns have not bein so vigilant and active (as neid werre), for repressing of these disorders, doe therfor most seriously recommend to ministers and Kirk Sessiouns to represse the same.' _Ibid._ pp. 169, 170. See, further, _Registers of the Presbytery of Lanark_, p. 29; and _Extracts from the Presbytery Book of Strathbogie_, pp. 4, 144. [569] See two curious instances of limitation of price, in _Irving's History of Dumbartonshire_, p. 567; and in _Wodrow's Collections upon the Lives of Ministers_, vol. ii. part ii. p. 34. Nothing escaped their vigilance. For, in their opinion, even the best man was, at his best time, so full of turpitude, that his actions could not fail to be wicked.[570] He never passed a day without sinning, and the smallest sin deserved eternal wrath.[571] Indeed, every thing he did was sinful, no matter how pure his motives.[572] Man had been gradually falling lower and lower, and had now sunk to a point of debasement, which made him inferior to the beasts that perish.[573] Even before he was born, and while he was yet in his mother's womb, his guilt began.[574] And when he grew up, his crimes multiplied thick and fast; one of the most heinous of them being the practice of teaching children new words,--a horrible custom, justly visited by divine wrath.[575] This, however, was but one of a series of innumerable and incessant offences; so that the only wonder was, that the earth could restrain herself at the hideous spectacle which man presented, and that she did not open her mouth, as of old, and swallow him even in the midst of his wickedness.[576] For, it was certain, that in the whole creation, there was nothing so deformed and monstrous as he.[577] [570] 'What a vile, haughty, and base creature he is--how defiled and desperately wicked his nature--how abominable his actions; in a word, what a compound of darkness and wickedness he is--a heap of defiled dust, and a mass of confusion--a sink of impiety and iniquity, _even the best of mankind_, those of the rarest and most refined extraction, _take them at their best estate_.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. ii. p. 302. Compare _Boston's Human Nature in its Four-fold State_, pp. 26, 27. [571] 'The least sin cannot but deserve God's wrath and curse eternally.' _Dickson's Truth's Victory over Error_, p. 71. 'All men, even the regenerate, sin daily.' _Ibid._ p. 153. [572] 'Our best works have such a mixture of corruption and sin in them, that they deserve his curse and wrath.' _Ibid._ p. 130. [573] 'But now, falling away from God, hee hath also so farre degenerated from his owne kind, that he is become inferiour to the beasts.' _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 251. 'O! is not man become so brutish and ignorant, that he may be sent unto the beasts of the field to be instructed of that which is his duty?' _Gray's Spiritual Warfare_, p. 28. 'Men are naturally more bruitish than beasts themselves.' _Boston's Human Nature in its Four-fold State_, p. 58. 'Worse than the beast of the field.' _Halyburton's Great Concern of Salvation_, p. 71. [574] 'Infants, even in their mother's belly, have in themselves sufficient guilt to deserve such judgments;' _i.e._ when women with child are 'ript up.' _Hutcheson's Exposition on the Minor Prophets_, vol. i. p. 255. [575] 'And in our speech, our Scripture and old Scots names are gone out of request; instead of _Father_ and _Mother_, _Mamma_ and _Papa_, training children to speak nonsense, and what they do not understand. These few instances, amongst many that might be given, are additional causes of God's wrath.' _The Life and Death of Mr. Alexander Peden, late Minister of the Gospel at New Glenluce, in Galloway_, in _Walker's Biographia Presbyteriana_, vol. i. p. 140. [576] 'Yea, if the Lord did not restraine her, shee would open her mouth and swallow the wicked, as she did Corah, Dathan, and Abiram.' _Cowper's Heaven Opened_, p. 257. Compare _Hutcheson's Exposition on the Minor Prophets_, vol. i. p. 507. [577] 'There is nothing so monstrous, so deformed in the world, as man.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. i. p. 234. 'There is not in all the creation such a miserable creature as man.' _Ibid._ vol. iii. p. 321. 'Nothing so miserable.' _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 37. Such being the case, it behoved the clergy to come forward, and to guard men against their own vices, by controlling their daily actions, and forcing them to a right conduct. This they did vigorously. Aided by the elders, who were their tools and the creatures of their power, they, all over Scotland, organized themselves into legislative bodies, and, in the midst of their little senate, they enacted laws which the people were bound to obey. If they refused, woe be to them. They became unruly sons of the Church, and were liable to be imprisoned, to be fined, or to be whipped,[578] or to be branded with a hot iron,[579] or to do penance before the whole congregation, humbling themselves, bare-footed, and with their hair cut on one side,[580] while the minister, under pretence of rebuking them, enjoyed his triumph.[581] All this was natural enough. For the clergy were the delegates of heaven, and the interpreters of its will. They, therefore, were the best judges of what men ought to do; and any one whom they censured was bound to submit with humility and repentance.[582] [578] 'December 17th, 1635. Mention made of a correction house, which the Session ordeans persons to be taken to, both men and women, and appoints them to be whipt every day during the Session's will.' _Wodrow's Collections upon the Lives of Ministers_, vol. ii. part ii. p. 67. [579] On the 22nd October 1648, the Kirk Session of Dunfermline ordered that a certain Janet Robertson 'shall be cartit and scourged through the town, and markit with an hot iron.' _Chalmers' History of Dunfermline_, p. 437. [580] 'As they punish by pecuniary fines, so corporally too, by imprisoning the persons of the delinquents, using them disgracefully, carting them through cities, making them stand in logges, as they call them, pillaries (which in the country churches are fixed to the two sides of the main door of the Parish Church), cutting the halfe of their hair, shaving their beards, &c., and it is more than ordinary, by their "original" and "proper power," to banish them out of the bounds and limits of the parish, or presbytery, as they list to order it.' _Presbytery Displayd_, p. 4. [581] The Scotch clergy of the seventeenth century were not much given to joking; but on one of these occasions a preacher is said to have hazarded a pun. A woman, named Ann Cantly, being made to do penance, 'Here' (said the minister), 'Here is one upon the stool of repentance, they call her _Cantly_; she saith herself, she is an honest woman, but I trow _scantly_.' _Scotch Presbyterian Eloquence_, p. 125. From what I have read of Scotch theology, I can bear testimony to the accuracy of this book, so far as its general character is concerned. Indeed, the author, through fear of being entirely discredited, has often rather understated his case. [582] As Durham says, in his _Exposition of the Song of Solomon_, p. 451, 'It is no burden to an honest believer to acknowledge Christ's ministers, to obey their doctrine, and submit to their censures.' The arbitrary and irresponsible tribunals, which now sprung up all over Scotland, united the executive authority with the legislative, and exercised both functions at the same time. Declaring that certain acts ought not to be committed, they took the law into their own hands, and punished those who had committed them. According to the principles of this new jurisprudence, of which the clergy were the authors, it became a sin for any Scotchman to travel in a Catholic country.[583] It was a sin for any Scotch innkeeper to admit a Catholic into his inn.[584] It was a sin for any Scotch town to hold a market either on Saturday or on Monday, because both days were near Sunday.[585] It was a sin for a Scotch woman to wait at a tavern;[586] it was a sin for her to live alone;[587] it was also a sin for her to live with unmarried sisters.[588] It was a sin to go from one town to another on Sunday, however pressing the business might be.[589] It was a sin to visit your friend on Sunday;[590] it was likewise sinful either to have your garden watered,[591] or your beard shaved.[592] Such things were not to be tolerated in a Christian land. No one, on Sunday, should pay attention to his health, or think of his body at all. On that day, horse-exercise was sinful;[593] so was walking in the fields, or in the meadows, or in the streets, or enjoying the fine weather by sitting at the door of your house.[594] To go to sleep on Sunday, before the duties of the day were over, was also sinful, and deserved church censure.[595] Bathing, being pleasant as well as wholesome, was a particularly grievous offence; and no man could be allowed to swim on Sunday.[596] It was, in fact, doubtful whether swimming was lawful for a Christian at any time, even on week-days, and it was certain that God had, on one occasion, shown His disapproval, by taking away the life of a boy while he was indulging in that carnal practice.[597] [583] A man, named Alexander Laurie, was brought before the Kirk Session of Perth, 'and being inquired by the minister if, in his last being out of this country, he had been in Spain, answered that he was in Portugal, but was never present at mass, neither gave reverence to any procession, and that he was never demanded by any concerning his religion. The said Alexander being removed and censured, it was thought good by the (Kirk) Session that he should be admonished not to travel in these parts again, except that they were otherwise reformed in religion.' _Extracts from the Kirk-Session Register of Perth_, in _The Spottiswoode Miscellany_, vol. ii. p. 274. Still earlier, that is, in 1592, the clergy attempted to interfere even with commerce, 'allegeing that the marchands could not mak vayage in Spayne without danger of their sawlis, and tharefore willit thayme in the nayme of God to absteyne.' _The Historie of King James the Sext_, p. 254. [584] See the case of Patrick Stewart, and Mr. Lawson's note upon it, in _Lawson's Book of Perth_, p. 238. In this instance, the 'Roman Catholic gentleman' had been excommunicated, which made matters still worse. [585] The Presbytery of Edinburgh, 'by their transcendent sole authority, discharged any market to be kept on Monday; the reason was, because it occasioned the travelling of men and horse the Lord's-day before, which prophaned the Sabbath.' _Presbytery Displayd_, p. 10. In 1650, Saturday was also taken in by another ecclesiastical senate. 'The Presbyterie doe appoint the severall brethren in burghes, to deale with such as have not changed ther Mondayes and Satterdayes mercats to other dayes of the weeke, that they may doe the same _primo quoque tempore_.' _Minutes of the Presbyteries of St. Andrews and Cupar_, p. 53. [586] In 1650, 'For "the down-bearing of sin," women were not allowed to act as waiters in taverns, but "allenarly men-servands and boys."' _Chambers' Annals_, vol. ii. p. 196. This order 'wes red and publictlie intimat in all the kirkis of Edinburgh.' _Nicoll's Diary_, p. 5. [587] 'Forsameikle as dilatation being made, that Janet Watson holds an house by herself where _she may give occasion of slander_, therefore Patrick Pitcairn, elder, is ordained to admonish her in the session's name, either to marry, or then pass to service, otherwise that she will not be suffered to dwell by herself.' _Kirk-Session Records of Perth_, in _The Chronicle of Perth_, p. 86. [588] 'Ordains the two sisters, Elspith and Janet Stewart, that they be not found in the house again with their sister, but every one of them shall go to service, or where they may be best entertained without slander, under the penalty of warding their persons and banishment of the town.' _Kirk-Session Register_, in _Lawson's Book of Perth_, p. 169. [589] 'Compeirit William Kinneir, and confest his travelling on the Sabbath day, which he declairit was out of meer necessitie, haveing two watters to croce, and ane tempestuos day, quhilk moowit him to fear that he wold not get the watters crost, and so his credit might faill. He was sharpelie admonished, and promist newer to doe the lyke again.' _Selections from the Records of the Kirk-Session of Aberdeen_, p. 136. [590] 'Compearit Thomas Gray, and confest that one Sunday in the morning, he went to Culter to visit a friend, and stayed thair all night. The sessioune warnit him, _apud acta_, to the next day, and appointed Patrick Gray, his master, to be cited to the next day, to give furder informatioune in the matter. (Sharply rebuked before the pulpit.)' _Selections from the Records of the Kirk-Session of Aberdeen_, p. 146. [591] 'It was reported that Margaret Brotherstone did water her kaill wpon the Sabbath day, and thairwpon was ordained to be cited.' ... 'Compeired Margaret Brotherstone, and confessed her breach of Sabbath in watering of her kaill, and thairwpon ordained to give evidence in publick of her repentance the next Lord's day.' _Extracts from the Register of the Kirk-Session of Humbie_, p. 42. [592] Even so late as the middle of the eighteenth century, 'clergymen were sometimes libelled' ... 'for shaving' on Sunday. _Sinclair's Statistical Account of Scotland_, vol. xvi. p. 34, Edinburgh, 1795. At an earlier period, no one might be shaved on that day. See _The Spottiswoode Miscellany_, vol. ii. p. 276; and _Lawson's Book of Perth_, pp. 224, 225. [593] 'Compeired John Gordon of Avachie, and confessed that he had transgressed in travailing on the Sabbath day with horse, going for a milston. Referred to the session of Kinor for censure.' _Extracts from the Presbytery Book of Strathbogie_, p. 236. See also the case mentioned in _Letters from a Gentleman in the North of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 172; 'This riding on horseback of a Sunday was deemed a great scandal.' [594] In 1647, the punishment was ordered of whoever was guilty of 'sitting or walking idle upon the streetes and feildes' on Sunday. _Selections from the Minutes of the Synod of Fife_, p. 152. In 1742, 'sitting idle at their doors' and 'sitting about doors' was profane. _Robe's Naratives of the Extraordinary Work of the Spirit of God_, pp. 109, 110. In 1756, at Perth, 'to stroll about the fields, or even to walk upon the inches, was looked upon as extremely sinful, and an intolerable violation of the fourth commandment.' _Penny's Traditions of Perth_, p. 36. [595] In 1656, 'Cite Issobell Balfort, servand to William Gordone, tailyeor, beeing found sleeping at the Loche side on the Lord's day in tyme of Sermon.' _Selections from the Records of the Kirk-Session of Aberdeen_. p. 137. It was a sin even for children to feel tired of the interminable sermons which they were forced to hear. Halyburton, addressing the young people of his congregation, says, 'Have not you been glad when the Lord's day was over; or, at least, _when the preaching was done_, that ye might get your liberty. Has it not been a burden to you, to sit so long in the church? Well, _this is a great sin_.' See this noticeable passage, in _Halyburton's Great Concern of Salvation_, p. 100. [596] In 1719, the Presbytery of Edinburgh indignantly declares, 'Yea, some have arrived at that height of impiety, as not to be ashamed of washing in waters, and swimming in rivers upon the holy Sabbath.' _Register of Presbytery of Edinburgh, 29th April 1719_, in _Arnot's History of Edinburgh_, p. 204. [597] So late as 1691, the Kirk-Session of Glasgow attempted to prevent all boys from swimming, whatever the day might be. But as the Church was then on the decline, it was necessary to appeal to the civil authority for help. What the result was, I have not been able to ascertain. There is, however, a curious notice, in _Wodrow's Collections upon the Lives of Ministers_, vol. ii. part ii. p. 77, stating that, on 'August 6th, 1691, the Session recommends it to the magistrates to think on some overtures for discharging boyes from swimming, in regard one was lately lost.' I have met with other evidence respecting this; but I cannot remember the passages. That it was a sin to cleanse one's body, might, indeed, have been taken for granted; seeing that the Scotch clergy looked on all comforts as sinful in themselves, merely because they were comforts.[598] The great object of life was, to be in a state of constant affliction.[599] Whatever pleased the senses, was to be suspected.[600] A Christian must beware of enjoying his dinner; for none but the ungodly relished their food.[601] By a parity of reasoning, it was wrong for a man to wish to advance himself in life, or in any way to better his condition.[602] Either to make money, or to save it, was unsuited to Christians; and even to possess much of it was objectionable, because it not only ministered to human pleasures, but encouraged those habits of foresight and of provision for the future, which are incompatible with complete resignation to the Divine will. To wish for more than was necessary to keep oneself alive, was a sin as well as a folly, and was a violation of the subjection we owe to God.[603] That it was contrary to His desire, was, moreover, evident, from the fact that He bestowed wealth liberally upon misers and covetous men; a remarkable circumstance, which, in the opinion of Scotch divines, proved that He was no lover of riches, otherwise He would not give them to such base and sordid persons.[604] [598] The Rev. James Fraser says, 'The world is a dangerous thing and a great evil, and the comforts of it a hell.' _Select Biographies_, vol. ii. p. 220. Compare _Gray's Spiritual Warfare_, p. 22. [599] 'It is good to be continually afflicted here.' _Select Biographies_, vol. ii. p. 220. Gray, advocating the same doctrine, sums up his remarks by a suggestion, that, 'I think David had never so sweet a time as then, when he was pursued as a partridge by his son Absalom.' _Gray's Great and Precious Promises_, p. 14. [600] 'Suspect that which pleaseth the senses.' _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 63. [601] Durham, in his long catalogue of sins, mentions as one, 'the preparing of meat studiously, that is, when it is too riotously dressed, for pleasing men's carnal appetite and taste, or palate, by the fineness of it, and other curiosities of that kind.' _Durham's Law Unsealed_, p. 333. See also p. 48, on 'palate-pleasers;' and Dickson's opinion of the 'rarest dishes and best meats.' _Dickson's Explication of the Psalms_, p. 84. According to another of the Scotch divines, whoever makes one good meal and has enough left for a second, is in imminent peril. 'He that is full, and hath enough to make him fuller, will easily deny God, and be exalted against him: his table shall be a snare to his body, and a snare to his soule.' _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 421. [602] For, says Abernethy (_Physicke for the Soule_, p. 488), 'men are loth to lend their eare to the Word, when they abound in prosperity.' So, too, Hutcheson, in his _Exposition of the Book of Job_, p. 387: 'Such is the weakness even of godly men, that they can hardly live in a prosperous condition, and not be overtaken with some security, carnal confidence, or other miscarriage.' [603] See this theory worked out in _Cockburn's Jacob's Vow, or Man's Felicity and Duty_, pp. 71-75. He says, 'And certainly to crave and be desirous of more than what is competent for the maintenance and support of our lives, is both inconsistent with that dependence and subjection we owe to God, and doth also bespeak a great deal of vanity, folly, and inconsiderateness.' Boston, striking at the very foundation of that practice of providing for the future, which is the first and most important maxim in all civil wisdom, and which peculiarly distinguishes civilized nations from barbarians, asks his hearers, 'Why should men rack their heads with cares how to provide for to-morrow, while they know not if they shall then need anything?' _Boston's Human Nature in its Four-fold State_, p. 300. Hutcheson thinks that those who are guilty of such impious prudence, deserve to be starved. 'When men are not content with food and rayment, but would still heap up more, it is just with God to leave them not so much as bread; and to suffer men to have an evil eye upon them, and to pluck at them, even so long as they have meat.' _Hutcheson's Exposition of the Book of Job_, p. 296. Binning, going still further, threatens eternal ruin. 'Ye may have things necessary here,--food and raiment; and if ye seek more, if ye will be rich, and will have superfluities, then ye shall fall into many temptations, snares, and hurtful lusts which shall drown you in perdition.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. iii. p. 355. [604] 'If God loved riches well, do ye think he would give them so liberally, and heap them up upon some base covetous wretches? Surely no.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. iii. p. 366. Gray, in his zeal against wealth, propounds another doctrine, which I do not remember to have seen elsewhere. He says, 'All that the owner of riches hath, is, the seeing of them; which a man, who is a passer by, may likeways have, though he be not possessor of them.' _Gray's Spiritual Warfare_, p. 128. I hope that the reader will not suspect me of having maliciously invented any of these passages. The books from which they are quoted, are, with only two or three exceptions, all in my library, and may be examined by persons who are curious in such matters. To be poor, dirty, and hungry, to pass through life in misery, and to leave it with fear, to be plagued with boils, and sores, and diseases of every kind, to be always sighing and groaning, to have the face streaming with tears, and the chest heaving with sobs, in a word, to suffer constant affliction, and to be tormented in all possible ways; to undergo these things was deemed a proof of goodness, just as the contrary was a proof of evil. It mattered not what a man liked; the mere fact of his liking it, made it sinful. Whatever was natural, was wrong. The clergy deprived the people of their holidays, their amusements, their shows, their games, and their sports; they repressed every appearance of joy, they forbade all merriment, they stopped all festivities, they choked up every avenue by which pleasure could enter, and they spread over the country an universal gloom.[605] Then, truly, did darkness sit on the land. Men, in their daily actions and in their very looks, became troubled, melancholy, and ascetic. Their countenance soured, and was downcast. Not only their opinions, but their gait, their demeanour, their voice, their general aspect, were influenced by that deadly blight which nipped all that was genial and warm. The way of life fell into the sear and yellow leaf; its tints gradually deepened; its bloom faded, and passed off; its spring, its freshness, and its beauty, were gone; joy and love either disappeared or were forced to hide themselves in obscure corners, until at length the fairest and most endearing parts of our nature, being constantly repressed, ceased to bear fruit, and seemed to be withered into perpetual sterility. [605] 'The absence of external appearances of joy in Scotland, in contrast with the frequent holidayings and merry-makings of the continent, has been much remarked upon. We find in the records of ecclesiastical discipline clear traces of the process by which this distinction was brought about. To the puritan kirk of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, every outward demonstration of natural good spirits was a sort of sin, to be as far as possible repressed.' ... 'The whole sunshine of life was, as it were, squeezed out of the community.' _Chambers' Annals of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 336, vol. ii. p. 156. Thus it was, that the national character of the Scotch was, in the seventeenth century, dwarfed and mutilated. With nations, as with individuals, the harmony and free development of life can only be attained by exercising its principal functions boldly and without fear. Those functions are of two kinds; one set of them increasing the happiness of the mind, another set increasing the happiness of the body. If we could suppose a man completely perfect, we should take for granted that he would unite these two forms of pleasure in the highest degree, and would extract, both from body and mind, every enjoyment consistent with his own happiness, and with the happiness of others. But, as no such character is to be found, it invariably occurs, that even the wisest of us are unable to hold the balance; we, therefore, err, some in over-indulging the body, some in over-indulging the mind. Comparing one set of indulgences with the other, there can be no doubt that the intellectual pleasures are, in many respects, superior to the physical; they are more numerous, more varied, more permanent, and more ennobling; they are less liable to cause satiety in the individual, and they produce more good to the species. But for one person who can enjoy intellectual pleasures, there are at least a hundred who can enjoy physical pleasures. The happiness derived from gratifying the senses, being thus diffused over a wider area, and satisfying, at any given moment, a greater number of persons than the other form of happiness is capable of, does, on that account, possess an importance which many who call themselves philosophers are unwilling to recognize. Too often have philosophic and speculative thinkers, by a foolish denunciation of such pleasures, done all in their power to curtail the quantity of happiness of which humanity is susceptible. Forgetting that we have bodies as well as minds, and forgetting, too, that in an immense majority of instances the body is more active than the mind, that it is more powerful, that it plays a more conspicuous part, and is fitted for greater achievements, such writers commit the enormous error of despising that class of actions to which ninety-nine men out of every hundred are most prone, and for which they are best fitted. And for committing this error they pay the penalty of finding their books unread, their systems disregarded, and their scheme of life adopted, perhaps, by a small class of solitary students, but shut out from that great world of reality for which it is unsuited, and in which it would produce the most serious mischief. If, then, we review the history of opinion in connexion with the history of action, we may probably say, that the ascetic notions of philosophers, such, for instance, as the doctrines of the Stoics, and similar theories of mortification, have not worked the harm which might have been expected, and have not succeeded in abridging, to any perceptible extent, the substantial happiness of mankind. There are, I apprehend, two reasons why they have failed. In the first place, these philosophers have, with hardly an exception, had little real acquaintance with human nature, and have, therefore, been unable to touch those chords, and appeal to those hidden motives, by influencing which one man gains over another to his side. And, in the second place, they, fortunately for us, have never possessed authority, and have, therefore, been unable either to enforce their doctrine by penalties, or to recommend it by rewards. But, though philosophers have failed in their effort to lessen the pleasures of mankind, there is another body of men, who, in making the same attempt, have met with far greater success. I mean, of course, the theologians, who, considered as a class, have, in every country and in every age, deliberately opposed themselves to gratifications which are essential to the happiness of an overwhelming majority of the human race. Raising up a God of their own creation, whom they hold out as a lover of penance, of sacrifice, and of mortification, they, under this pretence, forbid enjoyments which are not only innocent, but praiseworthy. For, every enjoyment by which no one is injured, is innocent; and every innocent enjoyment is praiseworthy, because it assists in diffusing that spirit of content and of satisfaction which is favourable to the practice of benevolence towards others. The theologians, however, for reasons which I have already stated, cultivate an opposite spirit, and, whenever they have possessed power, they have always prohibited a large number of pleasurable actions, on the ground that such actions are offensive to the Deity. That they have no warrant for this, and that they are simply indulging in peremptory assertions on subjects respecting which we have no trustworthy information, is well known to those who, impartially, and without preconceived bias, have studied their arguments, and the evidence which they adduce. On this, however, I need not dilate; for, inasmuch as men are, almost every year, and certainly every generation, becoming more accustomed to close and accurate reasoning, just in the same proportion is the conviction spreading, that theologians proceed from arbitrary assumptions, for which they have no proof, except by appealing to other assumptions, equally arbitrary and equally unproven. Their whole system reposes upon fear, and upon fear of the worst kind; since, according to them, the Great Author of our being has used His omnipotence in so cruel a manner as to endow his creatures with tastes, instincts, and desires, which He not only forbids them to gratify, but which, if they do gratify, shall bring on themselves eternal punishment. What the theologians are to the closet, that are the priests to the pulpit. The theologians work upon the studious, who read; the clergy act upon the idle, who listen. Seeing, however, that the same man often performs both offices, and seeing, too, that the spirit and tendency of each office are the same, we may, for practical purposes, consider the two classes as identical; and, putting them together, and treating them as a whole, it must be admitted by whoever will take a comprehensive view of what they have actually done, that they have been, not only the most bitter foes of human happiness, but also the most successful ones. In their high and palmy days, when they reigned supreme, when credulity was universal and doubt unknown, they afflicted mankind in every possible way; enjoining fasts, and penances, and pilgrimages, teaching their simple and ignorant victims every kind of austerity, teaching them to flog their own bodies, to tear their own flesh, and to mortify the most natural of their appetites. This was the state of Europe in the middle ages. It is still the state of every part of the world where the priesthood are uncontrolled. Such ascetic and self-tormenting observances are the inevitable issue of the theological spirit, if that spirit is unchecked. Now, and owing to the rapid march of our knowledge, it is constantly losing ground, because the scientific and secular spirit is encroaching on its domain. Therefore, in our time, and especially in our country, its most repulsive features are disguised, and it is forced to mask its native ugliness. Among our clergy, a habit of grave and decent compromise has taken the place of that bold and fiery war which their predecessors waged against a sensual and benighted world. Their threats have perceptibly diminished. They now allow us a little pleasure, a little luxury, a little happiness. They no longer tell us to mortify every appetite, and to forego every comfort. The language of power has departed from them. Here and there, we find vestiges of the ancient spirit; but this is only among uneducated men, addressing an ignorant audience. The superior clergy, who have a character to lose, are grown cautious; and, whatever their private opinion may be, they rarely venture on those terrific denunciations with which their pulpits once resounded, and which, in times of yore, made the people shrink with fear, and humbled every one except him by whom the denunciation was uttered. Still, though much of this has vanished, enough remains to show what the theological spirit is, and to justify a belief, that nothing but the pressure of public opinion prevents it from breaking out into its former extravagance. Many of the clergy persist in attacking the pleasures of the world, forgetting that, not only the world, but all which the world contains, is the work of the Almighty, and that the instincts and desires, which they stigmatise as unholy, are part of his gifts to man. They have yet to learn, that our appetites, being as much a portion of ourselves as any other quality we possess, ought to be indulged, otherwise the whole individual is not developed. If a man suppresses part of himself, he becomes maimed and shorn. The proper limit to self-indulgence is, that he shall neither hurt himself nor hurt others. Short of this, everything is lawful. It is more than lawful; it is necessary. He who abstains from safe and moderate gratification of the senses, lets some of his essential faculties fall into abeyance, and must, on that account, be deemed imperfect and unfinished. Such an one is incomplete; he is crippled; he has never reached his full stature. He may be a monk; he may be a saint; but a man he is not. And now, more than ever, do we want true and genuine men. No previous age has had so much work to do, and, to accomplish that work, we need robust and vigorous natures, whose every function has been freely exercised without let or hindrance. Never before, was the practice of life so arduous; never were the problems presented to the human mind so numerous, or so complicated. Every addition to our knowledge, every fresh idea, opens up new difficulties, and gives birth to new combinations. Under this accumulated pressure, we shall assuredly sink, if we imitate the credulity of our forefathers, who allowed their energies to be cramped and weakened by those pernicious notions, which the clergy, partly from ignorance, and partly from interest, have, in every age, palmed on the people, and have, thereby, diminished the national happiness, and retarded the march of national prosperity. In the same way, we constantly hear of the evils of wealth, and of the sinfulness of loving money; although it is certain that, after the love of knowledge, there is no one passion which has done so much good to mankind as the love of money. It is to the love of money that we owe all trade and commerce; in other words, the possession of every comfort and luxury which our own country is unable to supply. Trade and commerce have made us familiar with the productions of many lands, have awakened curiosity, have widened our ideas by bringing us in contact with nations of various manners, speech, and thought, have supplied an outlet for energies which would otherwise have been pent up and wasted, have accustomed men to habits of enterprise, forethought, and calculation, have, moreover, communicated to us many arts of great utility, and have put us in possession of some of the most valuable remedies with which we are acquainted, either to save life or to lessen pain. These things we owe to the love of money. If theologians could succeed in their desire to destroy that love, all these things would cease, and we should relapse into comparative barbarism. The love of money, like all our appetites, is liable to abuse; but to declaim against it as evil in itself, and, above all, to represent it as a feeling, the indulgence of which provokes the wrath of God, is to betray an ignorance, natural, perhaps, in former ages, but shameful in our time, particularly when it proceeds from men who give themselves out as public teachers, and profess that it is their mission to enlighten the world. Injurious, however, as all this is to the best interests of society, it is nothing in comparison with the doctrines formerly advocated by the Scotch divines. What their ideas were, I have shown from their own sermons, the reading of which has been the most painful literary task I ever undertook, since, in addition to the narrowness and the dogmatism which even the best of such compositions contain, there is, in these productions, a hardness of heart, an austerity of temper, a want of sympathy with human happiness, and a hatred of human nature, such as have rarely been exhibited in any age, and, I rejoice to think, have never been exhibited in any other Protestant country. These things, I have resuscitated from the oblivion in which they had long been buried, partly because it was necessary to do so in order to understand the history of the Scotch mind, and partly because I desired to show what the tendency of theologians is, when that tendency is uncontrolled. Protestants, generally, are too apt to suppose that there is something in their creed which protects them against those hurtful extravagances which have been, and, to a certain extent, still are, practised in the Catholic Church. Never was a greater mistake. There is but one protection against the tyranny of any class; and that is, to give that class very little power. Whatever the pretensions of any body of men may be, however smooth their language, and however plausible their claims, they are sure to abuse power, if much of it is conferred on them. The entire history of the world affords no instance to the contrary. In Catholic countries, France alone excepted, the clergy have more authority than in Protestant countries. Therefore, in Catholic countries, they do more harm than in Protestant countries, and their peculiar views are developed with greater freedom. The difference depends, not on the nature of the creed, but on the power of the class. This is very apparent in Scotland, where the clergy, being supreme, did, Protestants though they were, imitate the ascetic, the unsocial, and the cruel doctrines, which, in the Catholic Church, gave rise to convents, fastings, scourgings, and all the other appliances of an uncouth and ungenial superstition. Indeed, the Scotch divines, in some of their theories, went beyond any section of the Catholic Church, except the Spanish. They sought to destroy, not only human pleasures, but also human affections. They held that our affections are necessarily connected with our lusts, and that we must, therefore, wean ourselves from them as earthly vanities.[606] A Christian had no business with love or sympathy. He had his own soul to attend to, and that was enough for him. Let him look to himself. On Sunday, in particular, he must never think of benefiting others; and the Scotch clergy did not hesitate to teach the people, that on that day it was sinful to save a vessel in distress, and that it was a proof of religion to leave ship and crew to perish.[607] They might go; none but their wives and children would suffer, and that was nothing in comparison with breaking the Sabbath. So, too, did the clergy teach, that on no occasion must food or shelter be given to a starving man, unless his opinions were orthodox.[608] What need for him to live? Indeed, they taught that it was a sin to tolerate his notions at all, and that the proper course was, to visit him with sharp and immediate punishment.[609] Going yet further, they broke the domestic ties, and set parents against their offspring. They taught the father to smite the unbelieving child, and to slay his own boy sooner than allow him to propagate error.[610] As if this were not enough, they tried to extirpate another affection, even more sacred and more devoted still. They laid their rude and merciless hands on the holiest passion of which our nature is capable, the love of a mother for her son. Into that sanctuary, they dared to intrude; into that, they thrust their gaunt and ungentle forms. If a mother held opinions of which they disapproved, they did not scruple to invade her household, take away her children, and forbid her to hold communication with them.[611] Or if, perchance, her son had incurred their displeasure, they were not satisfied with forcible separation, but they laboured to corrupt her heart, and harden it against her child, so that she might be privy to the act. In one of these cases, mentioned in the records of the church of Glasgow, the Kirk-Session of that town summoned before them a woman, merely because she had received into her house her own son, after the clergy had excommunicated him. So effectually did they work upon her mind, that they induced her to promise, not only that she would shut her door against her child, but that she would aid in bringing him to punishment. She had sinned in loving him; she had sinned, even, in giving him shelter; but, says the record, 'she promised not to do it again, and to tell the magistrates when he comes next to her.'[612] [606] 'A Christian should mortifie his affections, which are his predominant lusts, to which our affections are so much joined, and our soul doth so much go out after.' _Gray's Spiritual Warfare_, p. 29. 'That blessed work of weaning of affections from all things that are here.' _Gray's Great and Precious Promises_, p. 86. [607] 'One of our more northern ministers, whose parish lies along the coast between Spey and Findorn, made some fishermen do penance for sabbath-breaking, in going out to sea, though purely with endeavour to save a vessel in distress by a storm.' _Letters from a Gentleman in the North of Scotland_, vol. i. p. 173. [608] 'The master of a family may, and ought to, deny an act of humanity or hospitality to strangers that are false teachers.' _Rutherford's Free Disputation against Pretended Liberty of Conscience_, p. 176. 'The Holy Ghost forbiddeth the master of every Christian family to owne a hereticke as a guest.' _Ibid._, p. 219. See also p. 235. [609] 'We hold that tolleration of all religions is not farre from blasphemy.' _Rutherford's Free Disputation against Pretended Liberty of Conscience_, p. 20. 'If wolves be permitted to teach what is right in their own erroneous conscience, and there be no "Magistrate to put them to shame," _Judg._ xviii. 7, and no King to punish them, then godlinesse and all that concernes the first Table of the Law must be marred.' _Ibid._, p. 230. 'Wilde and atheisticall liberty of conscience,' p. 337. 'Cursed toleration,' p. 400. See also, in the same work (pp. 110, 244), Rutherford's remarks on the murder of Servetus. In 1645, Baillie, who was then in London, writes, 'The Independents here plead for a tolleration both for themselfes and other sects. My Dissuasive is come in time to doe service here. We hope God will assist us to remonstrate the wickedness of such an tolleration.' And on account of the Independents wishing to show common charity towards persons who differed in opinions from themselves, Baillie writes next year (1646), 'The Independents has the least zeale to the truth of God of any men we know.' _Baillie's Letters and Journals_, vol. ii. pp. 328, 361. Blair, who was in London in 1649, was sorely vexed with 'the most illegal, irreligious, and wicked proceedings and actings of the sectarian army;' one of their crimes being the attempt 'to ruin religion by their toleration.' _Continuation of the Autobiography of Mr. Robert Blair, Minister of St. Andrews_, p. 213. For other evidence of this persecuting spirit, see _Dickson's Truth's Victory over Error_, pp. 159, 163, 199-202; _Abernethy's Physicke for the Soule_, p. 215; _Durham's Exposition of the Song of Solomon_, p. 147; _Durham's Commentarie upon the Book of the Revelation_, pp. 141, 143, 330; and _Shields' Hind let loose_, p. 168. [610] 'A third benefit (which is a branch of the former), is zeal in the godly against false teachers, who shall be so tender of the truth and glory of God, and the safety of the Church (all which are endangered by error), that it shall overcome natural affection in them; so that parents shall not _spare their own children_, being seducers, but shall either by an heroick act (such as was in Phinehas, _Numb._ XXV. 8), _themselves judge him worthy to die, and give sentence and execute it_, or cause him to be punished, by bringing him to the Magistrate,' &c.... 'The toleration of a false religion in doctrine or worship, and the exemption of the erroneous from civil punishment, is no more lawful under the New Testament than it was under the Old.' _An Exposition of the Prophecie of Zechariah_, in _Hutcheson's Exposition on the Minor Prophets_, vol. iii. p. 203, 8vo. 1654. [611] _Selections from the Registers of the Presbytery of Lanark_, pp. x. 33, 56, 63, 65, 73. [612] I copy the exact words from _Wodrow's Collections upon the Lives of Ministers of the Church of Scotland_, vol. ii. part ii. p. 71. An order had been previously obtained from the government, 'requiring the magistrates to expell furth of the Toun all excomunicated persons.' She promised not to do it again. She promised to forget him, whom she had born of her womb and suckled at her breast. She promised to forget her boy, who had ofttimes crept to her knees, who had slept in her bosom, and whose tender frame she had watched over and nursed. All the dearest associations of the past, all that the most exquisite form of human affection can give or receive, all that delights the memory, all that brightens the prospect of life, all vanished, all passed away from the mind of this poor woman, at the bidding of her spiritual masters. At one fell swoop, all were gone. So potent were the arts of these men, that they persuaded the mother to conspire against her son, that she might deliver him up to them. They defiled her nature, by purging it of its love. From that day her soul was polluted. She was lost to herself, as well as lost to her son. To hear of such things is enough to make one's blood surge again, and raise a tempest in our inmost nature. But to have seen them, to have lived in the midst of them, and yet not to have rebelled against them, is to us utterly inconceivable, and proves in how complete a thraldom the Scotch were held, and how thoroughly their minds, as well as their bodies, were enslaved. What more need I say? What further evidence need I bring to elucidate the real character of one of the most detestable tyrannies ever seen on the earth? When the Scotch Kirk was at the height of its power, we may search history in vain for any institution which can compete with it, except the Spanish Inquisition. Between these two, there is a close and intimate analogy. Both were intolerant, both were cruel, both made war upon the finest parts of human nature, and both destroyed every vestige of religions freedom. One difference, however, there was, of vast importance. In political matters, the Church, which was servile in Spain, was rebellious in Scotland. Hence the Scotch always had one direction in which they could speak and act with unrestrained liberty. In politics, they found their vent. There, the mind was free. And this was their salvation. This saved them from the fate of Spain, by securing to them the exercise of those faculties which otherwise would have lain dormant, if, indeed, they had not been entirely destroyed by that long and enfeebling servitude in which their clergy retained them, and from which, but for this favourable circumstance, no escape would have been open. CHAPTER V. AN EXAMINATION OF THE SCOTCH INTELLECT DURING THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY. To complete the history and analysis of the Scotch mind, I have now to examine the peculiar intellectual movement which appeared in the eighteenth century, and which, for several reasons, deserves careful attention. It was essentially a reaction against that theological spirit which predominated during the seventeenth century. Such a reaction would hardly have been possible, except for the fact which I have already noticed, namely, that the political activity which produced the rebellion against the Stuarts, saved the Scotch mind from stagnating, and prevented that deep slumber into which the progress of superstition would naturally have thrown it. The long and stubborn conflict with a despotic government, kept alive a certain alertness and vigour of understanding, which survived the struggle that gave it birth. When the contest was ended, and peace was restored, the faculties which, for three generations, had been exercised in resisting the executive authority, sought other employment, and found another field in which they could disport themselves. Hence it was, that the boldness which, in the seventeenth century, was practical, became, in the eighteenth century, speculative, and produced a literature, which attempted to unsettle former opinions, and to disturb the ancient landmarks of the human mind. The movement was revolutionary, and bore the same relation to ecclesiastical tyranny, which the previous movement had borne to political tyranny. But this new rebellion had one striking characteristic. In nearly every other country, when the intellect has fairly arrayed itself against the exclusive pretensions of the Church, it has happened that the secular philosophy, which has been engendered, has been an inductive philosophy, taking for its basis individual and specific experience, and seeking, by that means, to overthrow the general and traditional notions, on which all church power is founded. The plan has been, to refuse to accept principles which could not be substantiated by facts; while the opposite and theological plan is, to force the facts to yield to the principles. In the former case, experience precedes theory; in the latter case, theory precedes experience, and controls it. In theology, certain principles are taken for granted; and, it being deemed impious to question them, all that remains for us is to reason from them downwards. This is the deductive method. On the other hand, the inductive method will concede nothing, but insists upon reasoning upwards, and demands that we shall have the liberty of ascertaining the principles for ourselves. In a complete scheme of our knowledge, and when all our resources are fully developed and marshalled into order, as they must eventually be, the two methods will be, not hostile, but supplementary, and will be combined into a single system. At present, however, we are very far from such a result; and not only is every mind more prone to one method than to another, but we find, historically, that different ages and different countries have been characterised by the extent to which one of these two schemes has predominated; and we also find, that a study of this antagonism is the surest way of understanding the intellectual condition of any period. That the inductive philosophy is even more marked by its secular tendencies than by its scientific ones, will be evident to whoever observes the epochs in which it has been most active, and has possessed most adherents. Of this, the history of the French mind, in the eighteenth century, affords a good instance, where, after the death of Louis XIV., we may clearly trace the connexion between the growth of the inductive method, and the subsequent overthrow of the Gallican Church. In England, too, the rise of the Baconian philosophy, with its determination to subordinate ancient principles to modern experience, was the heaviest blow which has ever been inflicted on the theologians, whose method is to begin, not with experience, but with principles, which are said to be inscrutable, and which we are bound to believe without further difficulty. And I need hardly remind the reader, that scarcely was that philosophy established among us, when it produced those bold inquiries which quickly ended in the downfall of the English Church under Charles I. From that terrible defeat, our clergy did, for a time, partly rally; but as their apparent success, in the reign of Charles II., was owing to political changes, and not to social ones, they were unable to recover their hold over society, and, unless the nation should retrograde, there is no possibility that they ever should recover it. Over the inferior order of minds, they still wield great influence; but the Baconian philosophy, by bringing their favourite method into disrepute, has sapped the very base of their system. From the moment that their mode of investigation was discredited, the secret of their power was gone. From the moment that men began to insist on inquiring into the validity of first principles, instead of accepting them without inquiry, and humbly submitting to them as matters of faith and of necessary belief; from that moment, the theologians, driven from one post to another, and constantly receding before the pressure of advancing knowledge, have been forced to abandon entrenchment after entrenchment, until what they have retained of their former territory is hardly worth the struggle. As a last resource, they, at the close of the eighteenth century, determined to use the weapons of their opponents; and Paley and his successors, enlarging the scheme which Ray and Derham had feebly sketched, endeavoured, by a skilful employment of the inductive method, to compensate their party for the failure of the deductive one. But their project, though ably conceived, has come to naught. It is now generally admitted, that nothing can be made of it, and that it is impossible to establish the old theological premises by a chain of inductive reasoning. Respecting this, the most eminent philosophers agree with the most eminent theologians; and, since the time of Kant in Germany, and of Coleridge in England, none of our ablest men, even among divines themselves, have recurred to a plan which Paley, indeed, pursued with vigour, but of which our Bridgewater Treatises, our Prize-Essays, and such schoolboy productions, are poor and barren imitations.[613] No great thinkers now follow this course in matters of religion. On the contrary, they prefer the safer, as well as the more philosophic, method, of dealing with these subjects on transcendental grounds, frankly confessing that they elude the grasp of that inductive philosophy which, in the department of science, has achieved such signal triumphs. [613] Of course, I say this merely in reference to their theological bearings. Some of the Bridgewater Treatises, such as Bell's, Buckland's, and Prout's, had great scientific merit at the time of their appearance, and may even now be studied with advantage; but the religious portion of them is pitiable, and shows either that their heart was not in their work, or else that the subject was too wide for them. At all events, it is to be hoped that we shall never again see men of equal eminence hiring themselves out as paid advocates, and receiving fees to support particular opinions. It is truly disgraceful that such great speculative questions, instead of being subjected to fair and disinterested argument, with a view of eliciting the truth, should be turned into a pecuniary transaction, in which any one of much money and little wit, can bribe as many persons as he likes, to prejudice the public ear in favour of his own theories. The opposition of these two methods, and the inapplicability of the inductive method to theological pursuits being thus apparent, it is not strange that the Scotch should have adopted one of the methods with great zeal, and to the almost complete exclusion of the other. Scotland, being essentially theological, followed the theological plan. The intellectual history of that country, in the seventeenth century, is almost entirely the history of theology. With the single exception of Napier, who was born in the middle of the sixteenth century, all the most vigorous thinkers were divines. In physical science, scarcely anything was done.[614] There was no poetry, no drama, no original philosophy, no fine compositions, no secular literature, now worth reading.[615] The only men of real influence were the clergy. They governed the nation and the pulpit was the chief engine of their power. From the pulpit, they moved all classes and all sorts intellects; the highest as well as the lowest. There, they instructed them, and threatened them; saying whatever they liked, and knowing that what they said would be believed.[616] But all their sermons, and all their controversial writings, are eminently deductive; not of them attempts an inductive argument. The idea of such a thing never entered their heads. They assumed the truth of their own religion and moral notions, most of which they had borrowed from antiquity; they made those notions the major premises of their syllogisms, and from them they reasoned downwards till they obtained their conclusions. They never suspected that premises, taken from ancient times might be the result of the inductions of those times and that, as knowledge advanced, the inductions might need revising. They assumed, that God has given us first principles, and that He, having revealed them it would ill become us to scrutinize them. That He had revealed them, they took for granted, and deemed it unnecessary to prove.[617] Their method being entirely deductive, all they were concerned with was to beware that no error crept in between the premises and the conclusions. And this part of their task they accomplished with great ability. They were acute dialecticians, and rarely blundered in what is termed the formal part of logic. In dealing with their premises after they obtained them, they were extremely skilful; how they obtained them, they were very heedless. That was a point they never examined with anything approaching to impartiality. According to their method, all that was requisite was, to draw inferences from what had been supernaturally communicated. On the other hand, the inductive method would have taught them that the first question was, whether or not they had been supernaturally communicated? They, as deductive reasoners, assumed the very preliminaries which inductive reasoners would have disputed. They proceeded from generals to particulars, instead of from particulars to generals. And they would not allow either themselves or others to sift the general propositions, which were to cover and control the particular facts. It was enough for them that the wider propositions were already established, and were to be treated according to the rules of the old and syllogistic logic. Indeed, they were so convinced of the impropriety of the inductive method, that they did not hesitate to assert, that it was by means of the syllogism that the Deity communicated His wishes to man.[618] [614] 'It is humiliating to have to remark, that the notices of comets which we derive from Scotch writers down to this time (1682) contain nothing but accounts of the popular fancies regarding them. Practical astronomy seems to have then been unknown in our country; and hence, while in other lands, men were carefully observing, computing, and approaching to just conclusions regarding these illustrious strangers of the sky, our diarists could only tell us how many _yards_ long they seemed to be, what _effects_ were apprehended from them in the way of war and pestilence, and how certain pious divines "improved" them for spiritual edification. Early in this century Scotland had produced one great philosopher, who had supplied his craft with the mathematical instruments by which complex problems, such as the movement of comets, were alone to be solved. It might have been expected that the country of Napier, seventy years after his time, would have had many sons capable of applying his key to such mysteries of nature. But no one had arisen--nor did any rise for fifty years onward, when at length Colin Maclaurin unfolded in the Edinburgh University the sublime philosophy of Newton. There could not be a more expressive signification of the character of the seventeenth century in Scotland. Our unhappy contentions about external religious matters had absorbed the whole genius of the people, rendering to us the age of Cowley, of Waller, and of Milton, as barren of elegant literature, as that of Horrocks, of Halley, and of Newton, was of science.' _Chambers' Domestic Annals of Scotland_, vol. ii. pp. 444, 445. [615] 'Thus, during the whole seventeenth century, the English were gradually refining their language and their taste; in Scotland, the former was much debased, and the latter almost entirely lost.' _History of Scotland_, book viii., in _Robertson's Works_, p. 260. 'But the taste and science, the genius and the learning of the age, were absorbed in the gulph of religious controversy. At a time when the learning of Selden, and the genius of Milton, conspired to adorn England, the Scots were reduced to such writers as Baillie, Rutherford, Guthrie, and the two Gillespies.' _Laing's History of Scotland_, vol. iii. p. 510. 'From the Restoration down to the Union, the only author of eminence whom Scotland produced was Burnet.' _Ibid._, vol. iv. p. 406. 'The seventeenth century, fatal to the good taste of Italy, threw a total night over Scotland.' ... 'Not one writer who does the least credit to the nation flourished during the century from 1615 to 1715, excepting Burnet, whose name would, indeed, honour the brightest period. In particular, no poet whose works merit preservation arose. By a singular fatality, the century which stands highest in English history and genius, is one of the darkest in those of Scotland.' _Ancient Scotish Poems, edited by John Pinkerton_, vol. i. pp. iii. iv., London, 1786. [616] Ray, who visited Scotland in 1661, could not suppress a little professional envy, when he saw how much higher ecclesiastics were rated there than in England. He says, 'the people here frequent their churches much better than in England, and have their ministers in more esteem and veneration.' _Ray's Memorials, edited by Dr. Lankester for the Ray Society_, p. 161. [617] 'Believing ignorance is much better than rash and presumptuous knowledge. Ask not a reason of these things, but rather adore and tremble at the mystery and majesty of them.' _Binning's Sermons_, vol. i. p. 143. Even Biblical criticism was prohibited; and Dickson says of the different books of the Bible, 'We are not to trouble ourselves about the name of the writer, or time of writing of any part thereof, especially because God of set purpose concealeth the name sundry times of the writer, and the time when it was written.' _Dickson's Explication of the Psalms_, p. 291. [618] 'Christ from heaven proposeth a syllogism to Saul's fury.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, p. 180. 'The conclusion of a practical syllogism, whereby the believer concluded from the Gospel that he shall be saved.' _Durham's Law Unsealed_, p. 97. 'All assurance is by practical syllogism, the first whereof must needs be a Scripture truth.' _Gray's Precious Promises_, p. 139. It was naturally to be expected, that the clergy, holding these views respecting the best means of arriving at truth, should do all in their power to bring over the nation to their side, and should labour to make their own method of investigation entirely supersede the opposite method. Nor was this a very difficult task. The prevailing credulity was one great point in their favour, inasmuch as it made men more willing to accept propositions than to scrutinise them. When the propositions were accepted, nothing was left but to reason from them; and the most active intellects in Scotland, being constantly engaged in this process, acquired complete mastery over it, and the dexterity they displayed increased its repute. Besides this, the clergy, who were its zealous champions, had monopolized all the sources of education, both public and private. In no other Protestant country, have they exercised such control over the universities; not only the doctrines taught, but also the mode of teaching them, being, in Scotland, placed under the supervision of the Church.[619] This power they, of course, used to propagate their own plan of obtaining truth; and, as long as their power remained undiminished, it was hardly possible that the opposite, or inductive, plan should gain a hearing. Over grammar-schools, the clergy possessed an authority fully equal to that which they had in the universities.[620] They also appointed and removed, at their own pleasure, teachers of every grade, from village schoolmasters to tutors in private families.[621] In this way, each generation, as it arose, was brought under their influence, and made subject to their notions. Taking the mind of Scotland while it was young and flexible, they bent it to their own method. Hence, that method became supreme; it reigned every where; not a voice was lifted up against it; and no one had an idea that there was more than one path by which truth could be reached, or that the human understanding was of any use, except to deal deductively with premisses, which were not to be inductively examined. [619] Bower (_History of the University of Edinburgh_, vol. i. p. 217) says, 'The history of the universities and of the church is, in modern Europe, and perhaps in every other civilized portion of the globe, very nearly connected. They are more nearly connected in Scotland than in any other civilized country called Protestant; because the General Assembly have the legal power of inquiring into the economy of the institutions, both as it respects the mode of teaching, and the doctrines, whether religious, moral, or physical, which are taught.' Spalding, under the year 1639, gives an instance of the power of the General Assembly in 'the College of Old Aberdeen.' _Spalding's History of the Troubles_, vol. i. p. 178. See also, on the authority exercised by the General Assembly over the universities, a curious little book, called _The Government and Order of the Church of Scotland_, Edinburgh, 1690, p. 25. [620] In 1632, the 'ministers' of Perth were greatly displeased because John Row was made master of the grammar-school without their consent. _The Chronicle of Perth_, p. 33, where it is stated that, consequently, 'thair wes much outcrying in the pulpett.' [621] See, for instance, _Minutes of the Presbyteries of St. Andrews and Cupar_, pp. 66, 83, 84, 118. One of the entries is, that in January 1648, 'The Presbyterie ordained that all young students, who waittes on noblemen or gentlemen within thir bounds, aither to teach ther children, or catechise and pray in ther families, to frequent the Presbyterie, that the brether may cognosce what they ar reading, and what proficiencie they make in ther studies, and to know also ther behaviour in the said families, and of their affectione to the Covenant and present religione.' p. 118. Compare _Selections from the Registers of the Presbytery of Lanark_, pp. 56, 65. The inductive or analytic spirit being thus unknown, and the deductive or synthetic spirit being alone favoured, it happened that, when, early in the eighteenth century, the circumstances already mentioned gave rise to a great intellectual movement, that movement, though new in its results, was not new in the method by which the results were obtained. A secular philosophy was, indeed, established, and the ablest men, instead of being theological, became scientific. But so completely had the theological plan occupied Scotland, that even philosophers were unable to escape from its method, and, as I am about to show, the inductive method exercised no influence over them. This most curious fact is the key to the history of Scotland in the eighteenth century, and explains many events which would otherwise appear incompatible with each other. It also suggests an analogy with Germany, where the deductive method has, for a long period, been equally prevalent, owing to precisely the same causes. In both countries, the secular movement of the eighteenth century was unable to become inductive; and this intellectual affinity between two such otherwise different nations, is, I have no doubt, the principal reason why the Scotch and German philosophies have so remarkably acted and reacted upon each other; Kant and Hamilton being the most finished specimens of their intercourse. To this, England forms a complete contrast. For more than a hundred and fifty years after the death of Bacon, the greatest English thinkers, Newton and Harvey excepted, were eminently inductive; nor was it until the nineteenth century that signs were clearly exhibited of a counter-movement, and an attempt was made to return in some degree to the deductive method.[622] This we are, in many respects, justified in doing, because, in the progress of our knowledge, we have, by a long course of induction, arrived at several conclusions which we may safely treat deductively; that is to say, we may make them the major premisses of new arguments. The same process has been seen in France, where the exclusively inductive philosophy of the eighteenth century preceded a partial resuscitation of deductive philosophy in the nineteenth century. In Scotland, however, there have been no such vicissitudes. In that country, men have always been deductive; even the most original thinkers being unable to liberate themselves from the universal tendency, and being forced to accept a method which time had consecrated, and which was interwoven with all the associations of the national mind. [622] This I have already touched upon in the first volume, pp. 808, 809. Hereafter, and in my special history of the English mind, I shall examine it carefully and in detail. The revival of the old logic is a great symptom of it. Works like those of Whately, De Morgan, and Mansel, could not have been produced in tho eighteenth century, or, at all events, if by some extraordinary combination of events they had been produced, they would have found no readers. As it is, they have exercised a very extensive and very salutary influence; and, although Archbishop Whately was not well acquainted with the history of formal logic, his exposition of its ordinary processes is so admirably clear, that he has probably contributed more than any other man towards impressing his contemporaries with a sense of the value of deductive reasoning. He has, however, not done sufficient justice to the opposite school, and has, indeed, fallen into the old academical error of supposing that all reasoning is by syllogism. We might just as well say that all movement is by descent. To understand the investigation into which we are about to enter, the reader must firmly seize, and keep before his eyes, the essential difference between deduction, which reasons from principles, and induction, which reasons to principles. He must remember, that induction proceeds from the smaller to the greater; deduction, from the greater to the smaller. Induction is from particulars to generals, and from the senses to the ideas; deduction is from generals to particulars, and from the ideas to the senses. By induction, we rise from the concrete to the abstract; by deduction, we descend from the abstract to the concrete. Accompanying this distinction, there are certain qualities of mind, which, with extremely few exceptions, characterize the age, nation, or individual, in which one of these methods is predominant. The inductive philosopher is naturally cautious, patient, and somewhat creeping; while the deductive philosopher is more remarkable for boldness, dexterity, and often rashness. The deductive thinker invariably assumes certain premisses, which are quite different from the hypotheses essential to the best induction. These premisses are sometimes borrowed from antiquity; sometimes they are taken from the notions which happen to prevail in the surrounding society; sometimes they are the result of a man's own peculiar organization; and sometimes, as we shall presently see, they are deliberately invented, with the object of arriving, not at truth, but at an approximation to truth. Finally, and to sum up the whole, we may say that a deductive habit, being essentially synthetic, always tends to multiply original principles or laws; while the tendency of an inductive habit is to diminish those laws by gradual and successive analysis. These being the two fundamental divisions of human inquiry, it is surely a most remarkable fact in the history of Scotland, that, during the eighteenth century, all the great thinkers belonged to the former division, and that, in the very few instances of induction which their works contain, it is evident, from the steps they subsequently took, that they regarded such inductions as unimportant in themselves, and as only valuable in so far as they supplied the premisses for another and deductive investigation. As the various departments of our knowledge have never yet been co-ordinated and treated as a whole, probably no one is aware of the universality of this movement in Scotland, and of the extent to which it pervaded every science, and governed every phase of thought. To prove, therefore, the force with which it acted, I now purpose to examine its working in all the principal forms of speculation, whether physical or moral, and to show that in each the same method was adopted. In doing this, I must, for the sake of clearness, proceed according to a natural arrangement of the different topics; but I will, whenever it is possible, also follow the chronological order in which the Scotch mind unfolded itself; so that we may understand, not only the character of that remarkable literature, but likewise the steps of its growth, and the astonishing vigour with which it emancipated itself from the shackles which superstition had imposed. The beginning of the great secular philosophy of Scotland is undoubtedly due to Francis Hutcheson.[623] This eminent man, though born in Ireland, was of Scotch family, and was educated in the University of Glasgow, where he received the appointment of Professor of Philosophy in the year 1729.[624] By his lectures, and by his works, he diffused a taste for bold inquiries into subjects of the deepest importance, but concerning which it had previously been supposed nothing fresh was to be learned; the Scotch having hitherto been taught, that all truths respecting our own nature, which were essential to be known, had been already revealed. Hutcheson, however, did not fear to construct a system of morals according to a plan entirely secular, and no example of which had been exhibited in Scotland before his time. The principles from which he started, were not theological, but metaphysical. They were collected from what he deemed the natural constitution of the mind, instead of being collected, as heretofore, from what had been supernaturally communicated. He, therefore, shifted the field of study. Though he was a firm believer in revelation, he held that the best rules of conduct could be ascertained without its assistance, and could be arrived at by the unaided wit of man; and that, when arrived at, they were, in their aggregate, to be respected as the Law of Nature.[625] This confidence in the power of the human understanding was altogether new in Scotland, and its appearance forms an epoch in the national literature. Previously, men had been taught that the understanding was a rash and foolish thing, which ought to be repressed, and which was unfit to cope with the problems presented to it.[626] Hutcheson, however, held that it was quite able to deal with them, but that, to do so, it must be free and unfettered. Hence, he strenuously advocated that right of private judgment which the Scotch Kirk had not only assailed, but had almost destroyed. He insisted that each person had a right to form his opinion according to the evidence he possessed, and that, this right being inalienable, none but weak minds would abstain from exercising it.[627] Every one was to judge according to his own light, and nothing could be gained by inducing men to profess sentiments contrary to their convictions.[628] So far, however, was this from being understood, that we found all the little sects quarrelling among themselves, and abusing each other, merely because their views were different. It was strange to hear how the professors of one creed would stigmatize the professors of other creeds as idolatrous, and would demand that penalties should be inflicted on them. In point of fact, all had much that was good; and their only real evil was, this love of persecution.[629] But the vulgar deemed every one a heretic who did not believe what they believed; and this way of thinking had been too much countenanced by the clergy, many of whom felt their vanity offended at the idea of laymen pretending to be wiser than their spiritual teachers, and venturing to disagree with what they said.[630] [623] See a letter from Sir James Mackintosh to Parr, in _Mackintosh's Memoirs_, London, 1835, vol. i. p. 334. 'To Hutcheson the taste for speculation in Scotland, and all the philosophical opinions (except the Berkleian Humism) may be traced.' M. Cousin (_Histoire de la Philosophie_, première série, vol. iv. p. 35, Paris, 1846) observes, that before Hutcheson 'il n'avait paru en Ecosse ni un écrivain ni un professeur de philosophie un peu remarquable.' [624] _Tytler's Memoirs of Kames_, Edinburgh, 1814, vol. i. p. 223. _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. iii. London, 1755, 4to. [625] 'The intention of Moral Philosophy is to direct men to that course of action which tends most effectually to promote their greatest happiness and perfection; as far as it can be done by observations and conclusions discoverable from the constitution of nature, without any aids of supernatural revelation: these maxims or rules of conduct are therefore reputed as laws of nature, and the system or collection of them is called the LAW OF NATURE.' _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 1. [626] 'The natural understanding is the most whorish thing in the world.' ... 'The understanding, even in the search of truth amongst the creatures, is a rash, precipitate, and unquiet thing.' _Rutherford's Christ Dying_, p. 181. 'Innocent Adam,' indeed, says Boston, 'Innocent Adam had a stock of gracious abilities, whereby he might have, by the force of moral considerations, brought himself to perform duty aright. But where is that with us?' _Boston's Sermons_, p. 65. [627] 'A like natural right every intelligent being has about his own opinions, speculative or practical, to judge according to the evidence that appears to him. This right appears from the very constitution of the rational mind, which can assent or dissent solely according to the evidence presented, and naturally desires knowledge. The same considerations show this right to be unalienable: it cannot be subjected to the will of another: though where there is a previous judgment formed concerning the superior wisdom of another, or his infallibility, the opinion of this other, to a weak mind, may become sufficient evidence. As to opinions about the Deity, religion, and virtue, this right is further confirmed by all the noblest desires of the soul; as there can be no virtue, but rather impiety in not adhering to the opinions we think just, and in professing the contrary.' _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. pp. 295, 296. See also vol. ii. p. 311. 'Every rational creature has a right to judge for itself in these matters: and as men must assent according to the evidence that appears to them, and cannot command their own assent in opposition to it, this right is plainly unalienable.' [628] 'Thus no man can really change his sentiments, judgments, and inward affections, at the pleasure of another, nor can it tend to any good to make him profess what is contrary to his heart.' _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. pp. 261, 262. [629] 'Arians and Socinians are idolaters and denyers of God, say the orthodox. They retort upon the orthodox, that they are Tritheists; and so do other sects; and thus they spirit up magistrates to persecute. While yet it is plain that in all these sects there are all the same motives to all social virtues from a belief of a moral providence, the same acknowledgments that the goodness of God is the source of all the good we enjoy or hope for, and the same gratitude and resignation to him recommended. Nor do any of their schemes excite men to vices, except that horrid tenet, too common to most of them, the right of persecuting.' _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. ii. p. 316. See also vol. i. p. 160; and _Hutcheson's Inquiry into our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue_, London, 1738, p. 283. [630] 'We all know the notions entertained by the vulgar concerning all hereticks; we know the pride of schoolmen and many ecclesiasticks; how it galls their insolent vanity that any man should assume to himself to be wiser than they in tenets of religion by differing from them.' _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 167. Such large views of liberty were far in advance of the country in which they were propounded, and could exercise no influence, except over a few thinking men. These, and similar doctrines, were, however, repeated by Hutcheson, in his lectures, every year.[631] And strange, indeed, they must have seemed. To those who received them, they were utterly subversive of the prevailing theological spirit, which regarded toleration as impious, and which, seeking to confine the human mind within the limits of foregone conclusions, deemed it a duty to chastise those who overstepped them. In opposition to this, Hutcheson let in the elements of inquiry, of discussion, and of doubt. There is also another point in which his philosophy is memorable, as the beginning of the great rebellion of the Scotch intellect. We saw, in the last chapter, how successfully the teachers of the people had inculcated doctrines of the darkest asceticism, and how naturally those doctrines had arisen out of the enormous authority possessed by the Church. Against such notions, Hutcheson set his face strenuously. He rightly supposed, that an admiration of every kind of beauty, so far from being sinful, is essential to a complete and well-balanced mind; and the most original part of his philosophy consists of the inquiries which he made into the working and origin of our ideas on that subject. Hitherto, the Scotch had been taught that the emotions which beauty excites, were owing to the corruption of our nature, and ought to be repressed. Hutcheson, on the other hand, insisted that they were good in themselves; that they were part of the general scheme of human affairs, and that they deserved a special and scientific study.[632] And with such skill did he investigate them, that, in the opinion of one of the highest living authorities, he is the originator of all subsequent inquiries into these matters; his being the first attempt to deal with the subject of beauty in a broad and comprehensive spirit.[633] [631] 'As he had occasion every year in the course of his lectures to explain the origin of government, and compare the different forms of it, he took peculiar care, while on that subject, to inculcate the importance of civil and religious liberty to the happiness of mankind.' _Leechman's Life of Hutcheson_, p. xxxv., prefixed to Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy. [632] 'The ideas of beauty and harmony, like other sensible ideas, are necessarily pleasant to us, as well as immediately so.' _Hutcheson's Inquiry into our Ideas of Beauty and Virtue_, p. 11. 'Our sense of beauty seems designed to give us positive pleasure.' p. 71. 'Beauty gives a favourable presumption of good moral dispositions.' p. 257. 'But it is plain we have not in our power the modelling of our senses or desires, to form them for a private interest; they are fixed for us by the Author of our nature, subservient to the interest of the system; so that each individual is made, previously to his own choice, a member of a great body, and affected with the fortunes of the whole; or at least of many parts of it; nor can he break himself off at pleasure.' _Hutcheson's Essay on the Passions_, pp. 105, 106. [633] 'Fille de la scholastique, la philosophie moderne est demeurée longtemps étrangère aux grâces, et les _Recherches_ d'Hutcheson présentent, je crois, le premier traité spécial sur le beau, écrit par un moderne. Elles ont paru en 1725. Cette date est presque celle de l'avénement de l'esthétique dans la philosophie européenne. L'ouvrage du père André, en France, est de 1741, celui de Baumgarten, en Allemagne, est de 1750. Ce n'est pas un petit honneur à Hutcheson d'avoir le premier soumis l'idée du beau à une analyse méthodique et régulière.' _Cousin, Histoire de la Philosophie_, première série, vol. iv. p. 84. Not only in speculative views, but also in practical recommendations, Hutcheson displayed the same tendency; every where endeavouring to break down that gloomy fabric which superstition had built up.[634] His predecessors, and, indeed, nearly all his contemporaries who exercised much influence, represented pleasure as immoral, and opposed themselves to the fine arts, which they considered dangerous, as ministering to our pleasures, and thereby distracting our minds from serious concerns. Hutcheson, however, declared that the fine arts were to be cherished; for, he said, they are not only agreeable, but also reputable, and to employ our time with them is honourable.[635] That such is the case is obvious enough to us, but it was long, indeed, since similar language had been heard in Scotland from a great public teacher, and it was completely opposed to the prevailing notions. But Hutcheson went even further. Not content with raising his voice in favour of wealth,[636] which the Scotch clergy stigmatized as one of the most pernicious and carnal of all things, he fearlessly asserted that all our natural appetites are lawful, and that the gratification of them is consistent with the highest virtue.[637] In his eyes, they were lawful, because they were natural; while, according to the theological theory, their being natural made them unlawful. And here lies the fundamental difference between the practical views of Hutcheson and those previously received. He, like every great thinker since the seventeenth century, loved human nature, and respected it; but he neither loved nor respected those who unduly trammelled it, and thereby weakened its vigour, as well as impaired its beauty. He placed more confidence in mankind, than in the rulers of mankind. The Scotch divines, who preceded him, were the libellers of their species; they calumniated the whole human race. According to them, there was nothing in us but sin and corruption; and, therefore, all our desires were to be checked. It is the peculiar glory of Hutcheson, that he was the first man in Scotland who publicly combated these degrading notions. With a noble and lofty aim did he undertake his task. Venerating the human mind, he was bent on vindicating its dignity against those who disputed its titles. Unhappily, he could not succeed; the prejudices of his time were too strong. Still, he did all that was in his power. He opposed the tide which he was unable to stem; he attacked what it was impossible to destroy; and he cast from his philosophy, with vehement scorn, those base prejudices, which, by aspersing all that is great and magnanimous, had long blinded the eyes of their contemporaries, and, by bringing into fresh prominence the old and mischievous dogma of moral degeneracy, had represented our nature as a compound of vices, and had been unable to see how many virtues we really possess, how much of the spirit of self-sacrifice, and of free disinterested benevolence has always existed; how much of good even the worst of us retain; and how, among the ordinary and average characters of whom the world is composed, the desire of benefiting others is more frequent than the desire of hurting them, kindness is more common than cruelty, and the number of good deeds does, on the whole, far outweigh the number of bad ones.[638] [634] In his _Inquiry into Beauty and Virtue_, p. 107, he so completely opposed the prevailing notions, as to assert that 'our perception of pleasure is necessary, and nothing is advantageous or naturally good to us, but what is apt to raise pleasure, mediately, or immediately.' Compare what he says at p. 91 respecting 'superstitious prejudices against actions apprehended as offensive to the Deity.' [635] 'Hence a taste for the ingenious arts of musick, sculpture, painting, and even for the manly diversions, is reputable.' _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 83. At p. 129 he says, that in them 'our time is agreeably and honourably employed.' See also vol. ii. p. 115. [636] 'Wealth and power are truly useful, not only for the natural conveniences or pleasures of life, but as a fund for good offices.' _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 104. Compare _Hutcheson on Beauty and Virtue_, pp. 93-95; and his _Essay on the Passions and Affections_, pp. 8, 9, 99. 'How weak also are the reasonings of some recluse moralists, who condemn in general all pursuits of wealth or power, as below a perfectly virtuous character; since wealth and power are the most effectual means, and the most powerful instruments, even of the greatest virtues, and most generous actions.' [637] 'The chief happiness of any being must consist in the full enjoyment of all the gratifications its nature desires and is capable of.' _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 100. 'The highest sensual enjoyments may be experienced by those who employ both mind and body vigorously in social virtuous offices, and allow all the natural appetites to recur in their due seasons.' p. 121. 'Nay, as in fact it is for the good of the system that every desire and sense natural to us, even those of the lowest kinds, should be gratified as far as their gratification is consistent with the nobler enjoyments, and in a just subordination to them; there seems a natural notion of _right_ to attend them all.' pp. 254, 255. [638] ''Tis pleasant to observe how those authors who paint out our nature as a compound of sensuality, selfishness, and cunning, forget themselves on this subject in their descriptions of youth, when the natural temper is less disguised than in the subsequent parts of life. 'Tis made up of many keen, inconstant passions, many of them generous; 'tis fond of present pleasure, but 'tis also profusely kind and liberal to favourites; careless about distant interests of its own; full of confidence in others; studious of praise for kindness and generosity; prone to friendships, and void of suspicion.' _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. ii. p. 11. 'Men are often subject to anger, and upon sudden provocations do injuries to each other, and that only from self love without malice; but the greatest part of their lives is employed in offices of natural affection, friendship, innocent self love, or love of a country.' _Hutcheson's Essay on the Passions_, pp. 97, 98. And at p. 165: 'There are no doubt many furious starts of passion, in which malice may seem to have place in our constitution; but how seldom and how short, in comparison of years spent in fixed kind pursuits of the good of a family, a party, a country?' ... 'Here men are apt to let their imaginations run out upon all the robberies, piracies, murders, perjuries, frauds, massacres, assassinations, they have ever either heard of, or read in history; thence concluding all mankind to be very wicked; as if a court of justice were the proper place for making an estimate of the morals of mankind, or an hospital of the healthfulness of a climate. Ought they not to consider that the number of honest citizens and farmers far surpasses that of all sorts of criminals in any state; and that the innocent or kind actions of even criminals themselves, surpass their crimes in numbers? That it is the rarity of crimes, in comparison of innocent or good actions, which engages our attention to them, and makes them be recorded in history; while incomparably more honest, generous, domestic actions are overlooked, only because they are so common; as one great danger, or one month's sickness, shall become a frequently repeated story, during a long life of health and safety.' Thus much as to the tendency of Hutcheson's philosophy.[639] We have now to ascertain his method, that is to say, the plan which he adopted in order to obtain his results. This is a very important part of our present inquiry; and we shall find that, in the study of moral philosophy, as in the study of all subjects not yet raised to sciences, there are not only two methods, but that each method leads to different consequences. If we proceed by induction, we arrive at one conclusion; if we proceed by deduction, we arrive at another. This difference in the results, is always a proof that the subject, in which the difference exists, is not yet capable of scientific treatment, and that some preliminary difficulties have to be removed, before it can pass from the empirical stage into the scientific one. As soon as those difficulties are got rid of, the results obtained by induction, will correspond with those obtained by deduction; supposing, of course, that both lines of argument are fairly managed. In such case, it will be of no importance whether we reason from particulars to generals, or from generals to particulars. Either plan will yield the same consequences, and this agreement between the consequences, proves that our investigation is, properly speaking, scientific. Thus, for instance, in chemistry, if, by reasoning deductively from general principles, we could always predict what would happen when we united two or more elements, even supposing those elements were new to us; and if, by reasoning inductively from each element, we could arrive at the same conclusion, one process would corroborate the other, and, by their mutual verification, the science would be complete. In chemistry, we cannot do this; therefore, chemistry is not yet a science, although, since the introduction into it, by Dalton, of the ideas of weight and number, there is every prospect of its becoming one. On the other hand, astronomy is a science, because, by employing the deductive weapon of mathematics, we can compute the motions and perturbations of bodies; and, by employing the inductive weapon of observation, the telescope reveals to us the accuracy of our previous, and, as it were, foregone, inferences. The fact agrees with the idea; the particular event confirms the general principle; the principle explains the event; and their unanimity authorizes us to believe that we must be right, since, proceed as we may, the conclusion is the same; and the inductive plan, of striking averages, harmonizes with the deductive plan, of reasoning from ideas. [639] In 1731, Wodrow, who was the last really great specimen of the old Presbyterian divines, and who was not a little shocked at the changes he saw going on around him, writes: 'When Dr. Calamy heard of Mr. Hutcheson's being called to Glasgow, he smiled, and said, I think to Thomas Randy, that he was not for Scotland, as he thought from his book; and that he would be reckoned there as unorthodox as Mr. Simson. The Doctor has a strange way of fishing out privat storyes and things that pass in Scotland.' _Wodrow's Analecta_, vol. iv. p. 227. It is interesting to compare with this, the remarks which that worldly-minded clergyman, the Rev. Alexander Carlyle, has made upon Hutcheson. See _Carlyle's Autobiography_, Edinburgh, 1860, 2d edit. pp. 82-85. But, in the study of morals there is no such harmony. Partly from the force of prejudice, and partly from the complexity of the subject, all attempts at a scientific investigation of morals have failed. It is not, therefore, surprising that, in this field, the inductive inquirer arrives at one conclusion, and the deductive inquirer at another. The inductive inquirer endeavours to attain his object by observing the actions of men, and subjecting them to analysis, in order to learn the principles which regulate them. The deductive inquirer, beginning at the other end, assumes certain principles as original, and reasons from them to the facts which actually appear in the world. The former proceeds from the concrete to the abstract; the latter, from the abstract to the concrete. The inductive moralist looks at the history of past society, or at the condition of the present, and takes for granted that the first step is, to assemble the facts, and then to generalize them. The deductive inquirer, using the facts rather to illustrate his principles, than to suggest them, appeals, in the first place, not to external facts, but to internal ideas, and he makes those ideas the major premiss of a syllogistic argument. Both parties agree, that we have the power of judging some actions to be right, and others to be wrong. But as to how we get that power, and as to what that power is, they are at utter variance. The inductive philosopher says, that its object is happiness, that we get it by association, and that it is due to the action and reaction of social causes, which are susceptible of analysis. The deductive philosopher says, that this power of distinguishing between right and wrong, aims, not at happiness, but at truth; that it is inherent, that it cannot be analyzed, that it is a primary conviction, and that we may assume it and reason from it, but can never hope to explain it by reasoning to it. It requires but a slight acquaintance with the works of Hutcheson to see that he belongs to the latter of these two schools. He assumes, that all men have what he terms a moral faculty, which, being an original principle, does not admit of analysis.[640] He further assumes, that the business of this faculty is to regulate all our powers.[641] From these two assumptions, he reasons downwards to the visible facts of our conduct, and deductively constructs the general scheme of life. His plan being entirely synthetic, he depreciates the analytic method, and complains of it as an artful attempt to diminish the number of our perceptive powers.[642] The truth is, that every such diminution would have taken away some of his original principles, and would thereby have prevented him from using them as the major premisses of separate arguments. And if you deprive a deductive reasoner of his major premisses, you leave him nothing on which to stand. Hutcheson, therefore, like all the philosophers of his school, was extremely jealous of the invasions of the inductive spirit, with its constant tendency to attack convictions supposed to be primary, and seek to resolve them into their elements. He repulsed such encroachments upon his major premisses, because the power and beauty of his method were displayed in reasoning from the premisses, and not in reasoning to them. According to him, the moral faculty, and the authority which it exercised, were impervious to analysis; it was impossible to track them higher, or to resolve them into simpler constituents; and it was in vain that many attempted to refer them to circumstances external to themselves, such as education, custom, or the association of ideas.[643] [640] In his _Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 52, he calls it 'an original determination or sense in our nature, not capable of being referred to other powers of perception.' [641] 'This moral sense from its very nature appears to be designed for regulating and controlling all our powers.' _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 61. [642] See, in his _Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 79, his complaint against those who 'would reduce all our perceptive powers to a very small number, by one artful reference or another.' [643] ''Tis in vain here to alledge instruction, education, custom, or association of ideas, as the original of moral approbation.' _Hutcheson's Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 57. Compare his work on _Beauty and Virtue_, p. 84. Hence, the judgments which men pass upon the conduct of others, or of themselves, are, in their origin, altogether inexplicable; each judgment being merely a different form of one great moral faculty. Inasmuch, however, as that faculty escapes observation, and is only known by its results, it is evident that, for all purposes of reasoning, the judgments must be deemed primary, and arguments are to be constructed from them, as if they were the ultimate and highest conditions of our nature. In this way, Hutcheson was led to that love of multiplying original principles, which Sir James Mackintosh has justly noticed as a characteristic of his philosophy, and, after him, of the Scotch philosophy in general;[644] though the distinguished author of this remark has failed to perceive that such characteristic was but a single part of a far larger scheme, and was intimately connected with those habits of deductive thought which a long train of preceding circumstances had indelibly imprinted on the Scotch mind. [644] 'To him may also be ascribed that proneness to multiply ultimate and original principles in human nature, which characterised the Scottish School till the second extinction of a passion for metaphysical speculation in Scotland.' _Mackintosh's Dissertation on Ethical Philosophy_, edit. Whewell, Edinburgh, 1837, p. 208. In Hutcheson, the tendency was so strong, as to make him believe, that, by arguing from a certain number of original principles, he could construct the theory and explain the march of human affairs, with little or no aid from the experience of the past, or, indeed, of the present. His views, for instance, respecting the nature and objects of legislation, criminal, as well as civil, might have been written by a recluse who had never quitted his hermitage, and whose purity was still unsoiled by the realities of the world. Starting from the so-called nature of things, his first steps were ideal, and from them he sought to advance to the actual. In his account of the duties of life, as they existed before the power of government was consolidated, he quotes no evidence to show what really happened among barbarous tribes who were in that state; but he contents himself with deductive inferences from the principles he had previously laid down.[645] Difficult questions relating to the laws of property, are treated in the same manner; that is to say, the conclusions respecting them are arrived at on speculative grounds, and not by comparing how the different enactments have worked in different countries.[646] Experience is either shut out, or made subordinate to theory; and facts are adduced to illustrate the inference, but not to suggest it. So, too, the proper relation between the people and their rulers, and the amount of liberty which the people should possess, instead of being inductively generalized from an historical inquiry into the circumstances which had produced most happiness, might, in the opinion of Hutcheson, be ascertained by reasoning from the nature of government, and from the ends for which it was instituted.[647] [645] See his ingenious chapter, entitled 'A deduction of the more special laws of nature and duties of life, previous to civil government, and other adventitious states.' _Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 227; and compare vol. ii. pp. 294-309, 'How civil power is acquired.' [646] See, for example, his remarks on 'the right of possession.' _Moral Philosophy_, vol. i. p. 344; on 'rights by mortgage,' p. 350; and on inheritance, p. 356. [647] In his _Moral Philosophy_, vol. ii. pp. 346, 347, he sums up a long argument on 'the nature of civil laws,' by saying: 'Thus the general duties of magistrates and subjects are discoverable from the nature of the trust committed to them, and the end of all civil power.' The next great attempt to study the actions of men scientifically, and to generalize the principles of their conduct without the intervention of supernatural ideas, was made by Adam Smith, who, in 1759, published his _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, and, in 1776, his _Wealth of Nations_. To understand the philosophy of this, by far the greatest of all the Scotch thinkers, both works must be taken together, and considered as one; since they are, in reality, the two divisions of a single subject. In the _Moral Sentiments_, he investigates the sympathetic part of human nature; in the _Wealth of Nations_, he investigates its selfish part. And as all of us are sympathetic as well as selfish; in other words, as all of us look without as well as within, and as this classification is a primary and exhaustive division of our motives to action, it is evident, that if Adam Smith had completely accomplished his vast design, he would at once have raised the study of human nature to a science, leaving nothing for subsequent inquirers except to ascertain the minor springs of affairs, all of which would find their place in this general scheme, and be deemed subordinate to it. In his attempt to perform this prodigious task, and to traverse the enormous field which he saw lying before him, he soon perceived that an inductive investigation was impossible, because it would require the labour of many lives even to assemble the materials from which the generalization was to be made. Moved by this reflection, and, probably, moved still more by the intellectual habits which prevailed around him, he resolved on adopting the deductive method instead of the inductive; but, in seeking for the premisses from which he was to reason, and on which his structure was to be built, he resorted to a peculiar artifice, which is perfectly valid, and which he had an undoubted right to employ, though, to make it available, requires such delicate tact, and involves so many refinements, that extremely few writers have used it with effect on social questions either before or since. The plan to which I allude is, that when any subject becomes unmanageable by the inductive method, whether from the impossibility of experimenting upon it, or from its extreme natural complexity, or from the presence of immense and bewildering details collected around it, we may, in all such cases, make an imaginary separation of inseparable facts; and reason upon trains of events which have no real and independent existence, and which are nowhere to be found except in the mind of the inquirer. A result obtained in this way, cannot be strictly true; but, if we have reasoned accurately, it will be as near truth as were the premisses from which we started. To make it perfectly true, we must confront it with other results, which we have arrived at in a similar way, and from the same subject. These separate inferences may eventually be coördinated into a single system; so that, while each inference contains only an imperfect truth, the whole of the inferences, when put together, will contain perfect truth. Such hypothetical arguments are evidently based upon an intentional suppression of facts; and the artifice is necessary, because, without the suppression, the facts would be unmanageable. Each argument leads to a conclusion which approximates to truth; hence, whenever the premisses are so comprehensive as almost to exhaust the facts to which they refer, the conclusion will be so near to complete truth as to be of the greatest value, even before it is coördinated with other conclusions drawn from the same department of inquiry. Geometry exhibits the most perfect example of this logical stratagem. The object of the geometrician is, to generalize the laws of space; in other words, to ascertain the necessary and universal relations of its various parts. Inasmuch, however, as space would have no parts unless it were divided, the geometrician is forced to assume such a division; and he takes the simplest possible form of it, a division by lines. Now, a line considered as a fact, that is, as it is found in the actual world, must always have two qualities, length and breadth. However slight these qualities may be, every line has them both. But if the geometrician took both into consideration, he would find himself in the presence of a problem too complicated for the resources of the human understanding to deal with; or, at all events, too complicated for the present resources of our knowledge. He, therefore, by a scientific artifice, deliberately strikes off one of these qualities, and asserts that a line is length without breadth. He knows that the assertion is false, but he also knows that it is necessary. For, if you deny it, he can prove nothing. If you insist upon his letting into his premisses the idea of breadth, he is unable to proceed, and the whole fabric of geometry falls to the ground. Since, however, the breadth of the faintest line is so slight as to be incapable of measurement, except by an instrument used under the microscope, it follows that the assumption, that there can be lines without breadth, is so nearly true, that our senses, when unassisted by art, cannot detect the error. Formerly, and until the invention of the micrometer, in the seventeenth century, it was impossible to detect it at all. Hence, the conclusions of the geometrician approximate so close to truth, that we are justified in accepting them as true. The flaw is too minute to be perceived. But that there is a flaw, appears to me certain. It appears certain, that whenever something is kept back in the premisses, something must be wanting in the conclusion. In all such cases, the field of inquiry has not been entirely covered; and part of the preliminary facts being suppressed, it must, I think, be admitted, that complete truth is unattainable, and that no problem in geometry has yet been exhaustively solved.[648] [648] That is, so far as the facts are concerned. Geometry, considered in the most elevated manner, rests on ideas, and from that point of view is impregnable, unless the axioms can be overthrown. But if geometricians will insist on having definitions as well as axioms, they gain, no doubt, increased clearness, but they lose something in accuracy. I apprehend that, without definitions, geometry could not be a science of space, but would be a science of magnitudes, ideally conceived and consequently as pure as ratiocination could make it. This does not touch the question as to the empirical origin of the axioms. Still, the amazing triumphs effected in this branch of mathematics, show how powerful a weapon that form of deduction is, which proceeds by an artificial separation of facts, in themselves inseparable. So little, however, is the philosophy of the method understood, that when, late in the eighteenth century, political economy assumed a scientific form, many persons, who were otherwise well instructed, reproached its cultivators with their hard-heartedness; such objectors being unable to see, that the science could not be constructed if it were necessary to take in the whole range of generous and benevolent affections. The political economist aims at discovering the laws of wealth, which are far too complicated to be studied under every aspect. He, therefore, selects one of those aspects, and generalizes the laws as they are exhibited in the selfish parts of human nature. And he is right in doing so, simply because men, in the pursuit of wealth, consider their own gratification oftener than the gratification of others. Hence, he, like the geometrician, blots out one part of his premisses, in order that he may manipulate the remaining part with greater ease. But we must always remember, that political economy, though a profound and beautiful science, is only a science of one department of life, and is founded upon a suppression of some of the facts in which all large societies abound. It suppresses, or, what comes to the same thing, it ignores, many high and magnanimous feelings which we could ill afford to lose. We are not, therefore, to allow its conclusions to override all other conclusions. We may accept them in science, and yet reject them in practice. Thus, the political economist, when confining himself to his own department, says, with good reason, that it is both absurd and mischievous for government to undertake to supply the working-classes with employment. This assertion, he, as a political economist, can prove; and yet, notwithstanding its scientific truth, it may be practically right for a government to do the exact opposite. It may be right for a government to supply the employment, when the people are so ignorant as to demand it, and when, at the same time, they are so powerful as to plunge the country into anarchy if the demand is refused. Here, the view of the politician takes in all the premisses of which the political economist had only taken in a portion. In the same way, as a matter of economic science, it is wrong for any one to relieve the poor; since nothing is better established, than that to relieve poverty increases it, by encouraging improvidence. But, in spite of this, the antagonistic principle of sympathy will come into play, and will, in some minds, operate with such force, as to make it advisable, that he who feels it should give alms, because, if he abstains from giving them, the violence which he does to his own nature may inflict more mischief on himself, than his bestowal of charity would inflict on the general interests of society. It will not, I hope, be considered that, in these remarks, I have digressed from the main argument of the present chapter, since, although, in making them, I have aimed at clearing up a general question respecting the nature of scientific proof, I have only done so with the more particular object of illustrating the philosophy of Adam Smith, and of explaining the method which that most profound and original thinker pursued. We shall now be able to see how entirely his plan was deductive, and what a peculiar form of deduction it was. In his two great works, he first lays down certain ideas, and from them he marches on to the facts of the external world. And, in each work, he reasons from only part of his premisses; supplying the other part in the other work. None of us are exclusively selfish, and none of us are exclusively sympathetic. But Adam Smith separates in speculation qualities which are inseparable in reality. In his _Moral Sentiments_, he ascribes our actions to sympathy; in his _Wealth of Nations_, he ascribes them to selfishness. A short view of these two works will prove the existence of this fundamental difference, and will enable us to perceive that each is supplementary to the other; so that, in order to understand either, it is necessary to study both. In the _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, Adam Smith lays down one great principle from which he reasons, and to which all the others are subordinate. This principle is, that the rules which we prescribe to ourselves, and which govern our conduct, are solely arrived at by observing the conduct of others.[649] We judge ourselves, because we had previously judged them. Our notions are obtained from without, and not from within. If, therefore, we lived entirely alone, we could have no idea of merit or demerit, and it would be impossible for us to form an opinion as to whether our sentiments were right or wrong.[650] To acquire this knowledge, we must look abroad. Inasmuch, however, as we have no direct experience of what other persons actually feel, we can only gain the information by conceiving what we should feel if we were in their place.[651] Hence, all men are, in imagination, constantly changing situations with others; and though the change is ideal, and lasts but for a moment, it is the foundation of that great and universal impulse which is called Sympathy.[652] [649] 'Our continual observations upon the conduct of others, insensibly lead us to form to ourselves certain general rules concerning what is fit and proper either to be done or to be avoided.' ... 'It is thus that the general rules of morality are formed. They are ultimately founded upon experience of what, in particular instances, our moral faculties, our natural sense of merit and propriety, approve or disapprove of. We do not originally approve or condemn particular actions; because, upon examination, they appear to be agreeable or inconsistent with a certain general rule. The general rule, on the contrary, is formed by finding from experience that all actions of a certain kind, or circumstanced in a certain manner, are approved of or disapproved of.' _Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. pp. 219, 220. At p. 153: 'We either approve or disapprove of our own conduct according as we feel that, when we place ourselves in the situation of another man, and view it, as it were, with his eyes and from his station, we either can or cannot entirely enter into and sympathize with the sentiments and motives which influenced it.' [650] 'Were it possible that a human creature could grow up to manhood in some solitary place, without any communication with his own species, he could no more think of his own character, of the propriety or demerit of his own sentiments and conduct, of the beauty or deformity of his own mind, than of the beauty and deformity of his own face.' _Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. p. 154. 'Our first moral criticisms are exercised upon the characters and conduct of other people.' p. 156. [651] 'As we have no immediate experience of what other men feel, we can form no idea of the manner in which they are affected, but by conceiving what we ourselves should feel in the like situation.' _Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. p. 2. [652] 'That imaginary change of situation, upon which their sympathy is founded, is but momentary.' _Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. p. 21. Compare vol. ii. p. 206. By proceeding from these premisses, a vast number of social phenomena may be explained. We naturally sympathize with joy more than with sorrow.[653] Hence, that admiration for prosperous and successful persons, which is quite independent of any benefit we expect from them; and hence, too, the existence of different ranks and of social distinctions, all of which emanate from the same source.[654] Hence, also, the feeling of loyalty, which is a product, not of reason, nor of fear, nor of a sense of public convenience, but rather of sympathy with those above us, begetting an extraordinary compassion for even their ordinary sufferings.[655] Custom and fashion play a great part in the world, but they owe their origin entirely to sympathy;[656] and so do the various systems of philosophy which have flourished at different times, the disagreement between which depends on the fact, that each philosopher has sympathized with different ideas, some sympathizing with the notion of fitness or congruity, some with that of prudence, some with that of benevolence, and every one developing the conception paramount in his own mind.[657] To sympathy, again, we must ascribe the establishment of rewards and punishments, and the whole of our criminal laws, none of which would have existed but for our disposition to sympathize with those who either do good or suffer harm; for the circumstance of society being protected by penal laws, is a subsequent and subordinate discovery, which confirms our sense of their propriety, but did not suggest it.[658] The same principle causes the difference of character exhibited by different classes, such as the irritability of poets, compared with the coolness of mathematicians;[659] it likewise causes that social difference between the sexes, which makes men more remarkable for generosity, and women for humanity.[660] All these results illustrate the workings of sympathy, and are the remote, but still the direct, operations of that principle. Indeed, we can trace to it some of the minutest divisions of character; pride and vanity, for instance, being dependent on it, although those two passions are often confused together, and are sometimes strangely blended in the same mind.[661] [653] 'I will venture to affirm that, when there is no envy in the case, our propensity to sympathize with joy is much stronger than our propensity to sympathize with sorrow.' _Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. p. 58. 'It is because mankind are disposed to sympathize more entirely with our joy than with our sorrow, that we make parade of our riches, and conceal our poverty.' p. 65. [654] 'Upon this disposition of mankind to go along with all the passions of the rich and the powerful, is founded the distinction of ranks, and the order of society. Our obsequiousness to our superiors more frequently arises from our admiration for the advantages of their situation, than from any private expectations of benefit from their good will.' _Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. p. 69. See also vol. ii. p. 72. [655] See the striking remarks in _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. p. 70-72. [656] _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. ii. pp. 23 seq. [657] _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. ii. pp. 131-244. This sketch of the different systems of philosophy is perhaps the ablest part of the book, notwithstanding two or three errors which it contains. [658] _Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. pp. 89, 92, 115, 116. The utmost which he will concede to the notion of social convenience, is that 'we frequently have occasion to confirm our natural sense of the propriety and fitness of punishment, by reflecting how necessary it is for preserving the order of society.' p. 122. [659] _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. pp. 172-174. [660] 'Humanity is the virtue of a woman, generosity of a man. The fair sex, who have commonly much more tenderness than ours, have seldom so much generosity.' _Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. ii. p. 19. Sufficient facts have not yet been collected to enable us to test the truth of this remark, and the loose experience of individual observers is worth very little on so wide a subject. Still, I venture to doubt the truth of Adam Smith's distinction. I suspect that women are, on the whole, more generous than men, as well as more tender. But to establish a proposition of this sort, would require the most extensive research, made by a careful and analytic mind; and, at present, there is not even any tolerably good work on the mental characteristics which distinguish the sexes, and there never will be one until physiology is united with biography. [661] _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. ii. pp. 115-122. Sympathy, then, is the main-spring of human conduct. It arises, not so much from witnessing the passions of other persons, as from witnessing the situation which excites those passions.[662] To this single process we are indebted, not only for the highest principles, but also for the deepest emotions. For, the greatest affection of which we are capable, is merely sympathy fixed into habit; and the love which exists between the nearest relations, is not inherent, but is derived from this mighty and controlling principle, which governs the whole course of affairs.[663] [662] 'Sympathy, therefore, does not arise so much from the view of the passion, as from that of the situation which excites it.' _Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. p. 6. [663] 'What is called affection, is, in reality, nothing but habitual sympathy.' _Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. ii. p. 63. 'In some tragedies and romances, we meet with many beautiful and interesting scenes, founded upon what is called the force of blood, or upon the wonderful affection which near relations are supposed to conceive for one another, even before they know that they have any such connection. This force of blood, however, I am afraid, exists nowhere but in tragedies and romances.' p. 66. By this bold hypothesis, Adam Smith, at one stroke, so narrowed the field of inquiry, as to exclude from it all considerations of selfishness as a primary principle, and only to admit its great antagonist, sympathy. The existence of the antagonism, he distinctly recognizes. For, he will not allow that sympathy is in any way to be deemed a selfish principle.[664] Although he knew that it is pleasurable, and that all pleasure contains an element of selfishness, it did not suit the method of his philosophy to subject the principle of sympathy to such an inductive analysis as would reveal its elements. His business was, to reason from it, and not to it. Concentrating his energy upon the deductive process, and displaying that dialectic skill which is natural to his countrymen, and of which he himself was one of the most consummate masters the world has ever seen, he constructed a system of philosophy, imperfect indeed, because the premisses were imperfect, but approaching truth as closely as it was possible for any one to do who abstained from giving due consideration to the selfish part of human nature. Into the workings of its sympathetic part, he looked with a minuteness, and he reasoned from it with a subtlety, which make his work the most important that has ever been written on this interesting subject. But, inasmuch as his plan involved a deliberate suppression of preliminary and essential facts, the results which he obtained do not strictly correspond to those which are actually observed in the world.[665] This, however, as I have shown, is not a valid objection; since such discrepancy between the ideal and the actual, or between the abstract and the concrete, is the necessary consequence of that still early condition of our knowledge, which forces us to study complicated questions piecemeal, and to raise them to sciences by separate and fragmentary investigations. [664] 'Sympathy, however, cannot, in any sense, be regarded as a selfish principle.' _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. ii. p. 206. In vol. i. p. 9, he complains of 'those who are fond of deducing all our sentiments from certain refinements of self-love.' [665] This is noticed by Sir James Mackintosh, whose sketch of Adam Smith is hasty, and somewhat superficial, but who, nevertheless, truly observes, that Smith 'has exposed himself to objections founded on experience, to which it is impossible to attempt any answer.' _Mackintosh's Dissertation on Ethical Philosophy_, pp. 239, 240. See also a letter from Hume to Adam Smith, in _Burton's Life and Correspondence of Hume_, vol. ii. p. 60. That Adam Smith saw this necessity, and that his seeing it was the cause of the method he pursued, is evident from the fact, that in his next great work he followed the same plan, and, though he argued from new premisses, he carefully avoided arguing from any of the old ones. Convinced that, in his theory of morals, he had reasoned as accurately as possible from the principles supplied by sympathy, his capacious and insatiable mind, deeming that nothing had been done while aught remained to do, urged him to pass on to the opposite passion of selfishness, and treat it in the same manner, so that the whole domain of thought might be covered. This he did in his _Wealth of Nations_, which, though even a greater work than his _Moral Sentiments_, is equally one-sided, in reference to the principles which it assumes. It assumes that selfishness is the main regulator of human affairs, just as his previous work had assumed sympathy to be so. Between the two works there elapsed an interval of seventeen years; the _Wealth of Nations_ not being published till 1776. But what shows that to their author both were part of a single scheme, is the notable circumstance, that, so early as 1753, he had laid down the principles which his later work contains.[666] This was while his former work was still in meditation, and before it had seen the light. It is, therefore, clear, that the study which he made, first of one passion, and then of its opposite, was not a capricious or accidental arrangement, but was the consequence of that vast idea which presided over all his labours, and which, when they are rightly understood, gives to them a magnificent unity. And a glorious object of ambition it was. His aspiring and comprehensive genius, sweeping the distant horizon, and taking in the intermediate space at a glance, sought to traverse the whole ground in two separate and independent directions, indulging the hope, that, by supplying in one line of argument the premisses which were wanting in the other, their opposite conclusions would be compensatory rather than hostile, and would serve as a broad and permanent basis on which one great science of human nature might be safely built. [666] 'Mr. Smith's political lectures, comprehending the fundamental principles of his "Inquiry," were delivered at Glasgow as early as the year 1752 or 1753.' _Dugald Stewart's Life of Adam Smith_, p. lxxviii., prefixed to _Smith's Posthumous Essays_, London, 4to, 1795. The _Wealth of Nations_ is, as I have elsewhere observed,[667] probably the most important book which has ever been written, whether we consider the amount of original thought which it contains, or its practical influence. Its practical recommendations were extremely favourable to those doctrines of freedom which the eighteenth century ushered in; and this secured to them an attention which otherwise they would not have received. While, therefore, the _Wealth of Nations_ was the proximate cause of a great change in legislation,[668] a deeper analysis will show, that the success of the book, and, consequently, the alteration of the laws, depended upon the operation of more remote and general causes. It must also be confessed, that those same causes predisposed the mind of Adam Smith to the doctrines of liberty, and gave him a sort of prejudice in favour of conclusions which limited the interference of the legislator. Thus much he borrowed from his age; but one thing he did not borrow. His wide and organizing mind was all his own. This would have made him great under any circumstances; to make him powerful, required a peculiar conjunction of events. That conjunction he enjoyed, and he turned it to good account. The influence of his contemporaries was enough to make him liberal; his own capacity was enough to make him comprehensive. He had, in a most remarkable degree, that exuberance of thought, which is one of the highest forms of genius, but which leads those who possess it into distant excursions, which, though they have one common aim, are often stigmatized as digressions, simply because they who criticize are unable to discern the great principle which pervades the whole, and unites the various parts into a single scheme. This has been especially the case with Adam Smith, whose immortal work has often been exposed to such shallow objections. And certainly, the _Wealth of Nations_ displays a breadth of treatment which those who cannot sympathize with, are very likely to ridicule. The phenomena, not only of wealth, but also of society in general, classified and arranged under their various forms; the origin of the division of labour, and the consequences which that division has produced; the circumstances which gave rise to the invention of money, and to the subsequent changes in its value; the history of those changes traced in different ages, and the history of the relations which the precious metals bear to each other; an examination of the connection between wages and profits, and of the laws which govern the rise and fall of both; another examination of the way in which these are concerned, on the one hand, with the rent of land, and, on the other hand, with the price of commodities; an inquiry into the reason why profits vary in different trades, and at different times; a succinct, but comprehensive, view of the progress of towns in Europe since the fall of the Roman Empire; the fluctuations, during several centuries, in the prices of the food of the people, and a statement of how it is, that, in different stages of society, the relative cost of land and of meat varies; the history of corporation laws and of municipal enactments, and their bearing on the four great classes of apprentices, manufacturers, merchants, and landlords; an account of the immense power and riches formerly enjoyed by the clergy, and of the manner in which, as society advances, they gradually lose their exclusive privileges; the nature of religious dissent, and the reason why the clergy of the established Church can never contend with it on terms of equality, and, therefore, call on the State to help them, and wish to persecute when they cannot persuade; why some sects profess more ascetic principles, and others more luxurious ones; how it was, that, during the feudal times, the nobles acquired their power, and how that power has, ever since, been gradually diminishing; how the rights of territorial jurisdiction originated, and how they died away; how the sovereigns of Europe obtained their revenue, what the sources of it are, and what classes are most heavily taxed in order to supply it; the cause of certain virtues, such as hospitality, flourishing in barbarous ages, and decaying in civilized ones; the influence of inventions and discoveries in altering the distribution of power among the various classes of society; a bold and masterly sketch of the peculiar sort of advantages which Europe derived from the discovery of America and of the passage round the Cape; the origin of universities, their degeneracy from their original plan, the corruption which has gradually crept over them, and the reason why they are so unwilling to adopt improvements, and to keep pace with the wants of the age; a comparison between public and private education, and an estimate of their relative advantages;--these, and a vast number of other subjects, respecting the structure and development of society, such as the feudal system, slavery, emancipation of serfs, origin of standing armies, and of mercenary troops, effects produced by tithes, laws of primogeniture, sumptuary laws, international treaties concerning trade, rise of European banks, national debts, influence of dramatic representations over opinions, influence of foreign travels over opinions, colonies, poor-laws,--all topics of a miscellaneous character, and many of them diverging from each other,--all are fused into one great system, and irradiated by the splendour of one great genius. Into that dense and disorderly mass, did Adam Smith introduce symmetry, method, and law. At his touch, anarchy disappeared, and darkness was succeeded by light. Much, of course, he took from his predecessors, though nothing like so much as is commonly supposed. On this sort of borrowing, the best and strongest of us are dependent. But, after making every possible allowance for what he gathered from others, we must honestly say, that no single man ever took so great a step upon so important a subject, and that no single work which is now preserved, contains so many views, which were novel at the time, but which subsequent experience has ratified. What, however, for our present purpose, is most important to observe, is, that he obtained these results by arguing from principles which the selfish part of human nature exclusively supplied, and that he omitted those sympathetic feelings of which every human being possesses at least some share, but which he could not take into consideration, without producing a problem, the number of whose complications it would have been hopeless to unravel. [667] _History of Civilization_, vol. i. p. 214. [668] 'Perhaps the only book which produced an immediate, general, and irrevocable change in some of the most important parts of the legislation of all civilized states.' _Mackintosh's Ethical Philosophy_, p. 232. But this is too strongly expressed, as the economical history of France and Germany decisively proves. To avoid, therefore, being baffled, he simplified the problem, by erasing from his view of human nature those premisses which he had already handled in his _Theory of Moral Sentiments_. At the beginning of the _Wealth of Nations_, he lays down two propositions: 1st, that all wealth is derived, not from land, but from labour; and 2d, that the amount of the wealth depends, partly on the skill with which the labour is conducted, and partly on the proportion between the number of those who labour and the number of those who do not labour. The rest of the work, is an application of these principles, to explain the growth and mechanism of society. In applying them, he everywhere assumes, that the great moving power of all men, all interests, and all classes, in all ages, and in all countries, is selfishness. The opposite power of sympathy he entirely shuts out; and I hardly remember an instance in which even the word occurs in the whole course of his work. Its fundamental assumption is, that each man exclusively follows his own interest, or what he deems to be his own interest. And one of the peculiar features of his book is, to show that, considering society as a whole, it nearly always happens that men, in promoting their own interest, will unintentionally promote the interest of others. Hence, the great practical lesson is, not to restrain selfishness, but to enlighten it; because there is a provision in the nature of things, by which the selfishness of the individual accelerates the progress of the community. According to this view, the prosperity of a country depends on the amount of its capital; the amount of its capital depends on the habit of saving, that is, on parsimony, as opposed to generosity; while the habit of saving is, in its turn, governed by the desire we all feel of bettering our condition,--a desire so inherent in our nature, that it comes with us from the womb, and only leaves us in the grave.[669] [669] 'Parsimony, and not industry, is the immediate cause of the increase of capital. Industry, indeed, provides the subject which parsimony accumulates; but whatever industry might acquire, if parsimony did not save and store up, the capital would never be the greater.' ... 'But the principle which prompts to save, is the desire of bettering our condition; a desire which, though generally calm and dispassionate, comes with us from the womb, and never leaves us till we go into the grave.' _Smith's Wealth of Nations_, book ii. chap. iii. pp. 138, 140, edit. Edinb. 1839. This constant effort of every man, to better his own condition, is so salutary, as well as so powerful, that it is often capable of securing the progress of society, in spite of the folly and extravagance of the rulers of mankind.[670] If it were not for this propensity, improvement would be impossible. For human institutions are constantly stopping our advance, by thwarting our natural inclinations.[671] And no wonder that this should be the case, seeing that the men who are at the head of affairs, and by whom the institutions are contrived, have, perhaps, a certain rough and practical sagacity; but being, from the narrowness of their understandings, incapable of large views, their councils are determined by those mere casual fluctuations which alone they are able to perceive.[672] They do not see that we have prospered, not on account of their enactments, but in the teeth of them; and that the real cause of our prosperity is the fact that we enjoy undisturbed the fruit of our own labour.[673] Whenever this right is tolerably secure, every man will be bent on procuring for himself either present enjoyment or future profit; and if he does not aim at one of these objects, he is void of common understanding.[674] If he possess capital, he will probably aim at both, but, in doing so, he will never consider the interest of others; his sole motive will be his own private profit.[675] And it is well that such should be the case. For, by thus pursuing his personal interest, he aids society more than if his views were generous and exalted. Some people affect to carry on trade for the good of others; but this is mere affectation, though, to say the truth, it is an affectation not very common among merchants, and many words are not needed to dissuade them from so foolish a practice.[676] [670] 'The uniform, constant, and uninterrupted effort of every man to better his condition, the principle from which public and national, as well as private, opulence is originally derived, is frequently powerful enough to maintain the natural progress of things towards improvement, in spite both of the extravagance of government and of the greatest errors of administration. Like the unknown principle of animal life, it frequently restores health and vigour to the constitution, in spite not only of the disease, but of the absurd prescriptions of the doctor.' _Wealth of Nations_, book ii. chap. iii. p. 141. 'The natural effort of every individual to better his own condition, when suffered to exert itself with freedom and security, is so powerful a principle, that it is alone, and without any assistance, not only capable of carrying on the society to wealth and prosperity, but of surmounting a hundred impertinent obstructions with which the folly of human laws too often encumbers its operations.' Book iv. chap. v. p. 221. [671] See an admirable passage, p. 156, too long to quote, beginning, 'If human institutions had never thwarted those natural inclinations,' &c. [672] 'That insidious and crafty animal, vulgarly called a statesman or politician, whose councils are directed by the momentary fluctuations of affairs.' _Wealth of Nations_, book iv. chap. ii. p. 190. [673] 'That security which the laws in Great Britain give to every man, that he shall enjoy the fruits of his own labour, is alone sufficient to make any country flourish, notwithstanding these and twenty other absurd regulations of commerce.' _Wealth of Nations_, book iv. chap. v. p. 221. [674] 'In all countries where there is a tolerable security, every man of common understanding will endeavour to employ whatever stock he can command, in procuring either present enjoyment or future profit.' _Wealth of Nations_, book ii. chap. i. p. 115. [675] 'The consideration of his own private profit is the sole motive which determines the owner of any capital to employ it either in agriculture, in manufactures, or in some particular branch of the wholesale or retail trade.' _Wealth of Nations_, book ii. chap. v. p. 154. [676] 'By pursuing his own interest, he frequently promotes that of the society more effectually than when he really intends to promote it. I have never known much good done by those who affected to trade for the public good. It is an affectation, indeed, not very common among merchants, and very few words need be employed in dissuading them from it.' _Wealth of Nations_, book iv. chap. ii. p. 184. In this way, Adam Smith completely changes the premisses which he had assumed in his earlier work. Here, he makes men naturally selfish; formerly, he had made them naturally sympathetic.[677] Here, he represents them as pursuing wealth for sordid objects, and for the narrowest personal pleasures; formerly he represented them as pursuing it out of regard to the sentiments of others, and for the sake of obtaining their sympathy.[678] In the _Wealth of Nations_, we hear no more of this conciliatory and sympathetic spirit; such amiable maxims are altogether forgotten, and the affairs of the world are regulated by different principles. It now appears that benevolence and affection have no influence over our actions. Indeed, Adam Smith will hardly admit common humanity into his theory of motives. If a people emancipate their slaves, it is a proof, not that the people are acted on by high moral considerations, nor that their sympathy is excited by the cruelty inflicted on these unhappy creatures. Nothing of the sort. Such inducements to conduct are imaginary, and exercise no real sway. All that the emancipation proves, is, that the slaves were few in number, and, therefore, small in value. Otherwise, they would not have been emancipated.[679] [677] In his _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. p. 21, he says that mankind are 'naturally sympathetic.' [678] 'Nay, it is chiefly for this regard to the sentiments of mankind, that we pursue riches and avoid poverty.' _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, vol. i. p. 66. 'To become the natural object of the joyous congratulations and sympathetic attentions of mankind, is, in this manner, the circumstance which gives to prosperity all its dazzling splendour.' p. 78. [679] 'The late resolution of the Quakers in Pennsylvania, to set at liberty all their negro slaves, may satisfy us that their number cannot be very great. Had they made any considerable part of their property, such a resolution could never have been agreed to.' _Wealth of Nations_, book iii. chap. ii. p. 159. So, too, while in his former work, he had ascribed the different systems of morals to the power of sympathy, he, in this work, ascribes them entirely to the power of selfishness. He observes, that, among the lower ranks of society, dissipation is more fatal to individuals, than it is among the higher ranks. The extravagance which dissipation produces, may injure the fortune of a wealthy man, but the injury is usually capable of being repaired, or, at all events, he can indulge his vices for years without completely destroying his fortune, and without bringing himself to utter ruin. To the labourer, a similar indulgence would be fatal in a single week; it would not merely reduce him to beggary, and perhaps send him to jail, but it would destroy his future prospects, by taking away that character for sobriety and regularity on which his employment depends. Hence, the better class of common people, guided by their interest, look with aversion on excesses which they know to be fatal; while the upper ranks finding that a moderate amount of vice hurts neither their purse nor their reputation consider such license to be one of the advantages which their fortune confers, and they value, as one of the privileges belonging to their station, the liberty of indulging themselves without being censured. Therefore it is, that they who dissent from the established Church have a purer system of morals, or, at all events, an austerer one, than they who agree with it. For, new religious sects usually begin among the common people, the thinking part of whom are, by their interest, driven to strict views of the duties of life. Consequently, the advocates of the new opinion profess a similar strictness, seeing that it is the surest means of increasing their proselytes. Thus it is that sectaries and heretics, governed by interest rather than by principle, adopt a code of morals which is suited to their own purpose, and the rigidity of which is strongly contrasted with the laxer code of more orthodox believers.[680] Owing to the operation of the same principle, we also find, that, among the orthodox themselves, the clergy embrace a stricter system of morals in countries where church benefices are nearly equal than they do in countries where the benefices are very unequal. This is because, when all the benefices are nearly equal, none can be very rich, and, consequently, even the most conspicuous among the clergy will have but small incomes. But a man who has little to spend can have no influence, unless his morals are exemplary. Having no wealth to give him weight the vices of levity would make him ridiculous. To avoid contempt, and also to avoid the expense which a looseness of conduct occasions, and which his narrow circumstances cannot afford, he has but one remedy, and that remedy he adopts. He retains his influence, and saves his pocket, by protesting against pleasures which he cannot conveniently enjoy; in this, as in all other cases, pursuing that plan of life which his own interest urges him to follow.[681] [680] 'In every civilized society, in every society where the distinction of ranks has once been completely established, there have been always two different schemes or systems of morality current at the same time; of which the one may be called the strict or austere; the other the liberal, or, if you will, the loose system. The former is generally revered and admired by the common people; the latter is commonly more esteemed and adopted by what are called the people of fashion. The degree of disapprobation with which we ought to mark the vices of levity, the vices which are apt to arise from great prosperity, and from the excess of gaiety and good humour, seems to constitute the principal distinction between those two opposite schemes or systems. In the liberal, or loose system, luxury, wanton, and even disorderly mirth, the pursuit of pleasure to some degree of intemperance, the breach of chastity, at least in one of the two sexes, provided they are not accompanied with gross indecency, and do not lead to falsehood and injustice, are generally treated with a good deal of indulgence, and are easily either excused or pardoned altogether. In the austere system, on the contrary, these excesses are regarded with the utmost abhorrence and detestation. The vices of levity are always ruinous to the common people, and a single week's thoughtlessness and dissipation is often sufficient to undo a poor workman for ever, and to drive him, through despair, upon committing the most enormous crimes. The wiser and better sort of the common people, therefore, have always the utmost abhorrence and detestation of such excesses, which their experience tells them are so immediately fatal to people of their condition. The disorder and extravagance of several years, on the contrary, will not always ruin a man of fashion; and people of that rank are very apt to consider the power of indulging in some degree of excess, as one of the advantages of their fortune; and the liberty of doing so without censure or reproach, as one of the privileges which belong to their station. In people of their own station, therefore, they regard such excesses with but a small degree of disapprobation, and censure them either very slightly or not at all. 'Almost all religious sects have begun among the common people, from whom they have generally drawn their earliest as well as their most numerous proselytes. The austere system of morality has, accordingly, been adopted by those sects almost constantly, or with very few exceptions; for there have been some. It was the system by which they could best recommend themselves to that order of people, to whom they first proposed their plan of reformation upon what had been before established. Many of them, perhaps the greater part of them, have even endeavoured to gain credit by refining upon this austere system, and by carrying it to some degree of folly and extravagance; and this excessive rigour has frequently recommended them, more than any thing else, to the respect and veneration of the common people.' ... 'In little religious sects, accordingly, the morals of the common people have been almost always remarkably regular and orderly; generally much more so than in the established church. The morals of those little sects, indeed, have frequently been rather disagreeably rigorous and unsocial.' _Wealth of Nations_, book v. chap. i. pp. 332, 333. [681] 'Where the church benefices are all nearly equal, none of them can be very great; and this mediocrity of benefice, though it may, no doubt, be carried too far, has, however, some very agreeable effects. Nothing but exemplary morals can give dignity to a man of small fortune. The vices of levity and vanity necessarily render him ridiculous, and are, besides, almost as ruinous to him as they are to the common people. In his own conduct, therefore, he is obliged to follow that system of morals which the common people respect the most. He gains their esteem and affection, by that plan of life which his own interest and situation would lead him to follow.' _Wealth of Nations_, book v. chap. i. p. 340. In these striking generalizations, which, though they contain a large amount of truth, are far from containing the whole truth, no room is left for the magnanimous parts of our nature to act; but the system of morals, prevailing at any one time or in any one class, is solely ascribed to the dictates of unalloyed selfishness. Adam Smith, by reasoning from this principle, with that exquisite subtlety which characterized his mind, explains many other circumstances which society presents, and which at first sight appear incongruous. According to the old notions, which, indeed, are not yet quite extinct, those who received wages were under a personal obligation to those who paid them; that is to say, they were under a moral obligation, over and above the obligation of performing certain services. It was believed that a master could not only select what servants he chose, but could pay them what he chose; or, at all events, that it was the will of the masters, considered as a body, which fixed the usual and average rate of wages.[682] The lower classes were, therefore, much indebted to the higher ones for giving them so much as they did; and it was incumbent upon all persons, who received wages, to take them with humble thankfulness, and with a feeling of gratitude, on account of the favour bestowed upon them by the generosity of their superiors. [682] Besides the evidence supplied by economical treatises, the laws in our statute-book, respecting wages, show the general conviction, that their rate could be fixed by the upper classes. This doctrine, so convenient to the upper classes of society, and so natural to the universal ignorance which formerly prevailed on these matters, began to be shaken by the speculative thinkers of the seventeenth century; but it was reserved for the eighteenth century to overthrow it, by letting in the great idea of necessity, and proving, that the rate of wages established in a country, was the inevitable consequence of the circumstances in which that country was placed, and had no connexion with the wishes of any individual, or, indeed, with the wishes of any class. To all instructed persons, this is now a familiar truth. Its discovery has excluded the notion of gratitude from the pecuniary relation between employers and employed, and has made known that servants or workmen who receive wages, have no more reason to be grateful than those who pay them. For, no choice having been exercised in fixing the wages, no favour can be conferred in their payment. The whole process is compulsory, and is the result of what had previously happened. Scarcely had the eighteenth century passed away, when this most important discovery was completed. It was decisively proved, that the reward of labour depends solely on two things; namely, the magnitude of that national fund out of which all labour is paid, and the number of the labourers among whom the fund is to be divided. This vast step in our knowledge is due, mainly, though not entirely, to Malthus, whose work on Population, besides marking an epoch in the history of speculative thought, has already produced considerable practical results, and will probably give rise to others more considerable still. It was published in 1798; so that Adam Smith, who died in 1790, missed what to him would have been the intense pleasure of seeing how, in it, his own views were expanded rather than corrected. Indeed, it is certain, that without Smith there would have been no Malthus; that is, unless Smith had laid the foundation, Malthus could not have raised the superstructure. It was Adam Smith, who, far more than any other man, introduced the conception of uniform and necessary sequence into the apparently capricious phenomena of wealth, and who studied those phenomena by the aid of principles, of which selfishness alone supplied the data. According to his view, the employers of labour have, as employers, no benevolence, no sympathy, no virtue of any kind. Their sole aim is, their own selfish interest. They are constantly engaged in a tacit, if not in an open, combination, to prevent the lower ranks from being benefited by a rise of wages; and they sometimes combine for the purpose even of depressing those wages below their actual rate.[683] Having no bowels, they think only of themselves. The idea of their wishing to mitigate the inequalities of fortune, is to be exploded as one of the chimeras of that protective spirit, which imagined that society could not go on, unless the richer classes relieved the poorer ones, and sympathized with their troubles. This antiquated notion is further rebutted by the fact, that wages are always higher in summer than in winter, although the expenses which a labourer incurs in winter, being heavier than in summer, he ought, on principles of common humanity, to receive more money during the more expensive season.[684] In the same way, in years of scarcity, the dearness of food causes many persons to go to service, in order to support their families. The masters, instead of charitably paying such servants more on account of the unfortunate position in which they are placed, avail themselves of that position to pay them less. They make better terms for themselves; they lower wages just at the moment when sympathy for misfortune would have raised them; and, as they find that their servants, besides being worse remunerated, are, by poverty, made more submissive, they consider that scarcity is a blessing, and that dear years are to be commended as more favourable to industry than cheap ones.[685] [683] 'We rarely hear, it has been said, of the combinations of masters, though frequently of those of workmen. But whoever imagines, upon this account, that masters rarely combine, is as ignorant of the world as of the subject. Masters are always and every where in a sort of tacit, but constant and uniform, combination, not to raise the wages of labour above their actual rate. To violate this combination is every where a most unpopular action, and a sort of reproach to a master among his neighbours and equals. We seldom, indeed, hear of this combination, because it is the usual, and, one may say, the natural state of things which nobody ever hears of. Masters, too, sometimes enter into particular combinations to sink the wages of labour even below this rate.' _Wealth of Nations_, book i. chap. viii. p. 28. [684] 'First, in almost every part of Great Britain, there is a distinction, even in the lowest species of labour, between summer and winter wages. Summer wages are always highest. But, on account of the extraordinary expense of fuel, the maintenance of a family is most expensive in winter. Wages, therefore, being highest when this expense is lowest, it seems evident that they are not regulated by what is necessary for this expense, but by the quantity and supposed value of the work.' _Wealth of Nations_, book i. chap. viii. p. 31. [685] 'In years of scarcity, the difficulty and uncertainty of subsistence make all such people eager to return to service. But the high price of provisions, by diminishing the funds destined for the maintenance of servants, disposes masters rather to diminish than to increase the number of those they have.' ... 'Masters of all sorts, therefore, frequently make better bargains with their servants in dear than in cheap years, and find them more humble and dependent in the former than in the latter. They naturally, therefore, commend the former as more favourable to industry.' _Wealth of Nations_, book i. chap. viii. p. 35. Adam Smith, therefore, though he failed in grasping the remote cause of the rate of wages, clearly saw that the approximate cause was, not the generosity of human nature, but its selfishness, and that the question was one of supply and demand; each side striving to extract as much as possible from the other.[686] By the aid of the same principle, he explained another curious fact, namely, the extravagant rewards bestowed on some of the most despicable classes of society, such, for instance, as opera-dancers, who always receive enormous pay for insignificant services. He observes, that one of the reasons why we pay them so highly, is, because we despise them. If to be a public dancer were a creditable occupation, more persons would be brought up to it, and the supply of public dancers becoming greater, competition would lower their wages. As it is, we look on them disdainfully. By way of compensating the disdain, we have to bribe them largely to induce them to follow their pursuit.[687] Here we see, that the reward which one class bestows on another, instead of being increased by sympathy, is increased by scorn; so that the more we contemn the tastes and the way of life of our fellow-creatures, the more liberal we are in recompensing them. [686] 'The workmen desire to get as much, the masters to give as little, as possible. The former are disposed to combine in order to raise, the latter in order to lower, the wages of labour.' _Wealth of Nations_, b. i. c. viii. p. 27. [687] 'It seems absurd at first sight, that we should despise their persons, and yet reward their talents with the most profuse liberality. While we do the one, however, we must of necessity do the other. Should the public opinion, or prejudice, ever alter with regard to such occupation, their pecuniary recompense would quickly diminish. More people would apply to them, and the competition would quickly reduce the price of their labour. Such talents, though far from being common, are by no means so rare as imagined. Many people possess them in great perfection, who disdain to make this use of them; and many more are capable of acquiring them, if any thing could be made honourably by them.' _Wealth of Nations_, book i. ch. x. p. 44. Passing to another, and somewhat different, class, Adam Smith threw new light on the cause of that hospitality for which the clergy were famous during the Middle Ages, and for the magnificence of which they have received great praise. He shows that, although they undoubtedly relieved a large amount of distress, this is not to be ascribed to them as a merit, since it resulted from the peculiarity of their position, and since, moreover, they did it for their own advantage. In the Middle Ages, the clergy possessed enormous wealth, and their revenues were mostly paid, not in money, but in kind, such as corn, wine, and cattle. Trade and manufactures being hardly known, the clergy could find no use for these commodities except to feed other people. By employing them in that way, they benefited themselves in the most effectual manner. They gained a reputation for extensive charity; they increased their influence; they multiplied the number of their adherents; and they not only advanced themselves to temporal power, but they secured to their spiritual threats a respect, which, without this contrivance, it would have been impossible for them to obtain.[688] [688] 'Over and above the rents of those estates, the clergy possessed in the tithes a very large portion of the rents of all the other estates in every kingdom of Europe. The revenues arising from both those species of rents were, the greater part of them, paid in kind, in corn, wine, cattle, poultry, &c. The quantity exceeded greatly what the clergy could themselves consume; and there were neither arts nor manufactures, for the produce of which they could exchange the surplus. The clergy could derive advantage from this immense surplus in no other way than by employing it, as the great barons employed the like surplus of their revenues, in the most profuse hospitality, and in the most extensive charity. Both the hospitality and the charity of the ancient clergy, accordingly, are said to have been very great.' ... 'The hospitality and charity of the clergy, too, not only gave them the command of a great temporal force, but increased very much the weight of their spiritual weapons. Those virtues procured them the highest respect and veneration among all the inferior ranks of people, of whom many were constantly, and almost all occasionally, fed by them.' _Wealth of Nations_, book v. chap. i. p. 336. The reader will now be able to understand the nature of that method of investigation which is adopted in the _Wealth of Nations_, and of which I have given more instances than I should otherwise have done, partly because the question of philosophic method lies at the very root of our knowledge, and partly because no attempt has hitherto been made to analyze the intellect of Adam Smith, by considering his two great works as the opposite, but yet the compensatory, parts of a single scheme. And, as he is by far the greatest thinker Scotland has produced, I need hardly apologize, in a history of the Scotch mind, for devoting so much attention to his system, and endeavouring to examine it at its base. But, having done so, it would be a needless prolixity to treat with equal fulness the productions of those other eminent Scotchmen who lived at the same time, and nearly all of whom pursued a method essentially, though not entirely, the same; that is to say, they preferred the deductive process of reasoning from principles, to the inductive process of reasoning to them. In that peculiar form of deduction which consists in a deliberate suppression of part of the principles, Adam Smith stands alone. For, though others attempted to follow that plan, they did so irregularly, and at intervals, and did not, like him, see the importance of keeping close to their method, and of invariably abstaining from letting into the premisses of their arguments, considerations which would complicate the problem that they wished to solve. Among the contemporaries of Adam Smith, one of the first, in eminence, as well as in reputation, is David Hume. His views respecting political economy were published in 1752,[689] that is, the very year in which Adam Smith taught the principles subsequently unfolded in the _Wealth of Nations_. But Hume, though a most accomplished reasoner, as well as a profound and fearless thinker, had not the comprehensiveness of Adam Smith, nor had he that invaluable quality of imagination without which no one can so transport himself into past ages as to realize the long and progressive movements of society, always fluctuating, yet, on the whole, steadily advancing. How unimaginative he was, appears, not only from the sentiments he expressed, but likewise from many traits in his private life.[690] It appears, also, in the very colour and mechanism of his language; that beautiful and chiselled style in which he habitually wrote, polished as marble, but cold as marble too, and wanting that fiery enthusiasm and those bursts of tempestuous eloquence, which, ever and anon, great objects naturally inspire, and which rouse men to their inmost depths. This it was, which, in his _History of England_,--that exquisite production of art, which, in spite of its errors, will be admired as long as taste remains among us,--prevented him from sympathizing with those bold and generous natures, who, in the seventeenth century, risked their all to preserve the liberty of their country. His imagination was not strong enough to picture the whole of that great century, with its vast discoveries, its longings after the unknown, its splendid literature, and what was better than all these, its stern determination to vindicate freedom, and to put down tyranny. His clear and powerful understanding saw these things separately, and in their various parts, but could not fuse them into a single form, because he lacked that peculiar faculty which assimilates the past to the present, and enables the mind to discern both with almost equal ease. That Great Rebellion, which he ascribed to the spirit of faction, and the leaders of which he turned into ridicule, was but the continuation of a movement which can be clearly traced to the twelfth century, and of which such events as the invention of printing, and the establishment of the Reformation, were merely successive symptoms. For all this, Hume cared nothing. In regard to philosophy, and in regard to the purely speculative parts of religious doctrines, his penetrating genius enabled him to perceive that nothing could be done, except by a spirit of fearless and unrestrained liberty. But this was the liberty of his own class; the liberty of thinkers, and not of actors. His absence of imagination prevented him from extending the range of his sympathy beyond the intellectual classes, that is, beyond the classes of whose feelings he was directly cognizant. It would, therefore, appear, that his political errors were due, not, as is commonly said, to his want of research, but rather to the coldness of his temperament.[691] It was this which made him stop where he did, and which gave to his works the singular appearance of a profound and original thinker, in the middle of the eighteenth century, advocating practical doctrines, so illiberal, that, if enforced, they would lead to despotism, and yet, at the same time, advocating speculative doctrines, so fearless and enlightened, that they were not only far in advance of his own age, but have, in some degree, outstripped even the age in which we live. [689] _Burton's Life of Hume_, vol. i. p. 354. [690] See Mr. Burton's valuable _Life of Hume_, Edinburgh, 1846, vol. i. pp. 58, 267, vol. ii. pp. 14, 134. [691] What confirms me in this view, is the fact, that the older Hume grew, and the more he read on history, the more he became imbued with these errors; which would not have been the case if the errors had, as many of his critics say, been the result of an insufficient acquaintance with the evidence. Mr. Burton, by comparing the different editions of his _History of England_, has shown that he gradually became less favourable to popular liberty; softening, or erasing, in later editions, those expressions which seemed favourable to freedom. _Burton's Life of Hume_, vol. ii. pp. 74-77. See also pp. 144, 434. In his _Own Life_, p. xi (in vol. i. of _Hume's Works_ Edinb. 1826), he says: 'In a hundred alterations, which farther study, reading, or reflection engaged me to make in the reigns of the two first Stuarts, I have made all of them invariably the Tory side.' In one of his essays, he observes (_Philosophical Works_, vol. iv. p. 172) that 'there is no enthusiasm among philosophers;' a remark perfectly true, so far as he was concerned, but very unjust towards the class of men to whom it refers. Among his speculative views, the most important are his theory of causation as discarding the idea of power, and his theory of the laws of association. Neither of these theories are, in their primary conception, quite original, but his treatment made them as valuable as if they had been entirely his own. His theory of miracles, in connexion, on the one hand, with the principles of evidence, and, on the other hand, with the laws of causation, is worked out with consummate skill, and, after having received the modifications subsequently imposed by Brown, has now become the foundation on which the best inquirers into these matters take their stand.[692] His work on the principles of morals, by generalizing the laws of expediency, prepared the way for Bentham, who afterwards incorporated with them an estimate of the more remote consequences of human actions; Hume, having chiefly confined himself to their more immediate consequences. The doctrine of utility was common to each; but while Hume applied it mainly to the individual, Bentham applied it to the surrounding society. Though Bentham was more comprehensive, yet Hume, having come first, was more original. The praise of originality must also be accorded to his economical theories, in which he advocated those principles of free trade, which politicians began to adopt many years after his death.[693] In opposition to the notions then prevailing, he distinctly asserted, that all commodities, though apparently bought by money, are in reality bought by labour.[694] Money, therefore, is not the subject of commerce, and is of no use except to facilitate it.[695] Hence, it is absurd for a nation to trouble itself about the balance of trade, or to make regulations to discourage the exportation of the precious metals.[696] Neither does the average rate of interest depend on their scarcity or abundance, but upon the operation of more general causes.[697] As a necessary consequence of these positions, Hume inferred that the established policy was wrong, which made trading states look upon each other as rivals, while, in point of fact, the question, if considered from a certain height, was one, not of rivalry, but of coöperation; every country being benefited by the increasing wealth of its neighbours.[698] Those who know the character of commercial legislation, and the opinions of even the most enlightened statesmen a century ago, will consider these views as extremely remarkable to have been propounded in the year 1752. But what is more remarkable still, is, that their author subsequently detected the fundamental error which Adam Smith committed, and which vitiates many of his conclusions. The error consists in his having resolved price into three components, namely, wages, profit, and rent; whereas it is now known that price is a compound of wages and profit, and that rent is not an element of it, but a result of it. This discovery is the corner-stone of political economy; but it is established by an argument so long and so refined, that most minds are unable to pursue it without stumbling, and the majority of those who acquiesce in it are influenced by the great writers to whom they pay deference, and whose judgment they follow. It is, therefore, a striking proof of the sagacity of Hume, that in an age when the science was but dawning, and when he could receive little help from his predecessors, he should have discovered a mistake of this sort, which lies so far beneath the surface. Directly the _Wealth of Nations_ appeared, he wrote to Adam Smith, disputing his position that rent is a part of price;[699] and this letter, written in the year 1776, is the first indication of that celebrated theory of rent, which, a little later, Anderson, Malthus, and West, saw, and imperfectly developed, but which it was reserved for the genius of Ricardo to build up on a broad and solid foundation. [692] Brown, in his great work,--one of the greatest which this century has produced,--candidly confesses that his own book is 'chiefly reflective of the lights, which he' (Hume) 'has given.' _Brown's Inquiry into the Relation of Cause and Effect_, London, 1835, p. 253. See also p. vii. [693] While the politicians of his own time despised his views, the politicians of our time seem inclined to overrate them. Lord Brougham, for instance, in his Life of Hume, says, of his political economy, 'Mr. Hume is, beyond all doubt, the author of the modern doctrines which now rule the world of science.' _Brougham's Works_, Glasgow, 1856, vol. ii. p. 176. But so far from this being the case, the science of political economy has, since the time of Hume, received such additions, that if that illustrious philosopher were to rise from the dead, he would hardly be able to recognize it. To him, many of its largest and most fundamental principles were entirely unknown. Hume knew nothing of the causes which govern the accumulation of wealth, and compel that accumulation to proceed with different speed in different states of society; a fruitful and important study almost entirely neglected until entered upon by Rae. Neither did Hume know anything of the law of the ratio between population and wages; nor of the ratio between wages and profits. He even supposes (_Philosophical Works_, vol. iii. p. 299, Edinburgh, 1826) that it is possible for the labouring classes by combination 'to heighten their wages;' and again (p. 319) that the richer a nation is, and the more trade it has, the easier it will be for a poor country to undersell its manufactures, because the poor nation enjoys the advantage of a 'low price of labour.' Elsewhere, he asserts that coin can be depreciated without raising prices, and that a country, by taxing a foreign commodity, could increase its own population. 'Were all our money, for instance, recoined, and a penny's worth of silver taken from every shilling, the new shilling would probably purchase every thing that could have been bought by the old; the prices of every thing would thereby be insensibly diminished; foreign trade enlivened; and domestic industry, by the circulation of a great number of pounds and shillings, would receive some increase and encouragement.' _Philosophical Works_, vol. iii. p. 324. 'A tax on German linen encourages home manufactures, and thereby multiplies our people and industry.' p. 365. These are cardinal errors, which go to the very root of political economy; and when we fairly estimate what has been done by Malthus and Ricardo, it will be evident that Hume's doctrines do not 'rule the world of science.' This is no disparagement of Hume, who, on the contrary, effected wonderful things, considering the then state of knowledge. The mistake is, in imagining that such a rapidly advancing science as political economy can be governed by doctrines propounded more than a century ago. [694] 'Every thing in the world is purchased by labour, and our passions are the only causes of labour.' _Essay I. on Commerce, in Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. iii. p. 294. Hence, he saw the fallacy of the assertion of the French economists, 'that all taxes fall ultimately upon land.' p. 388. [695] 'Money is not, properly speaking, one of the subjects of commerce, but only the instrument which men have agreed upon to facilitate the exchange of one commodity for another.' _Essay on Money in Philosophical Works_, vol. iii. p. 317. 'It is, indeed, evident that money is nothing but the representation of labour and commodities, and serves only as a method of rating or estimating them.' p. 321. [696] See _Essay V. on the Balance of Trade_, in _Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. iii. pp. 348-367. [697] _Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. iii. pp. 333-335. Even now, a knowledge of this truth is so little diffused, that, lately, when Australia and California began to yield immense quantities of gold, a notion was widely circulated that the interest of money would consequently fall; although nothing can be more certain than that if gold were to become as plentiful as iron, the interest of money would be unaffected. The whole effect would fall upon price. The remarks on this subject in _Ritchie's Life of Hume_, London, 1807, pp. 332, 333, are interesting, as illustrating the slow progress of opinion, and the difficulty which minds, not specially trained, experience when they attempt to investigate these subjects. [698] 'Nothing is more usual, among states which have made some advance in commerce, than to look on the progress of their neighbours with a suspicious eye, to consider all trading states as their rivals, and to suppose that it is impossible for any of them to flourish, but at their expense. In opposition to this narrow and malignant opinion, I will venture to assert, that the increase of riches and commerce in any one nation, instead of hurting, commonly promotes the riches and commerce of all its neighbours.' ... 'I go farther, and observe, that where an open communication is preserved among nations, it is impossible but the domestic industry of every one must receive an increase from the improvements of the others.' _Essay on the Jealousy of Trade_, in _Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. iii. pp. 368, 369. [699] This letter, which I have referred to in my first volume, p. 229, was published, for, I believe, the first time, in 1846, in _Burton's Life and Correspondence of Hume_, vol. ii. p. 486. It is, however, very difficult to determine what Adam Smith's opinion really was upon this subject, and how far he was aware that rent did not enter into price. In one passage in the _Wealth of Nations_ (book i. chap. vi. p. 21) he says of wages, profit, and rent, 'in every society, the price of every commodity finally resolves itself into some one or other, or all of those three parts; and _in every improved society, all the three enter, more or less, as component parts, into the price of the far greater part of commodities_.' But in book i. chap. xi. p. 61, he says, 'High or low wages and profit are the causes of high or low price; high or low rent is the effect of it.' This latter opinion we now know to be the true one; it is, however, incompatible with that expressed in the first passage. For, if rent is the effect of price, it cannot be a component of it. It is very observable, that Hume and Adam Smith, who made such immense additions to our knowledge of the principles of trade, had no practical acquaintance with it.[700] Hume had, at an early period of his life, been in a mercantile house; but he threw up that employment in disgust, and buried himself in a provincial town, to think, rather than to observe.[701] Indeed, one of the capital defects of his mind, was a disregard of facts. This did not proceed, as is too often the case, from that worst form of moral obliquity, an indifference to truth; since he, on the contrary, was an ardent lover of it, and was, moreover, a man of the purest and most exemplary character, utterly incapable of falsehood, or of prevarication of any kind.[702] In him, a contempt for facts was merely the exaggerated result of a devotion to ideas. He not only believed, with perfect justice, that ideas are more important than facts, but he supposed that they should hold the first place in the order of study, and that they should be developed before the facts are investigated. The Baconian philosophy, which, though it allows a preliminary and tentative hypothesis, strongly insists upon the necessity of first collecting the facts, and then proceeding to the ideas, excited his aversion; and this, I have no doubt, is the reason why he, who was usually so lenient in his judgments, and was so keen an admirer of intellectual greatness is, nevertheless, grossly unfair towards Bacon, with whose method it was impossible for him to sympathize, though he could not deny its utility, in physical science.[703] If Hume had followed the Baconian scheme, of always rising from particulars to generals, and from each generalization to that immediately above it, he would hardly have written one of his works. Certainly, his economical views would never have appeared, since political economy is as essentially a deductive science as geometry itself.[704] Reversing the inductive process, he was in favour of beginning with what he termed general arguments, by which he hoped to demonstrate the inaccuracy of opinions which facts were supposed to have proved.[705] He did not stop to investigate the facts from which the inference had been drawn, but he inverted the order by which the inference was to be obtained. The same dislike to make the facts of trade the basis of the science of trade, was displayed by Adam Smith, who expresses his want of confidence in statistics, or, as it was then termed, political arithmetic.[706] It is, however, evident, that statistical facts are as good as any other facts, and, owing to their mathematical form, are very precise.[707] But when they concern human actions, they are the result of all the motives which govern those actions; in other words, they are the result, not merely of selfishness, but also of sympathy. And as Adam Smith, in the _Wealth of Nations_, dealt with only one of these passions, namely, selfishness, he would have found it impossible to conduct his generalization from statistics, which are necessarily collected from the products of both passions. Such statistical facts were, in their origin, too complex to be generalized; especially as they could not be experimented upon, but could only be observed and arranged. Adam Smith, perceiving them to be unmanageable, very properly rejected them as the basis of his science, and merely used them by way of illustration, when he could select what he liked. The same remark applies to other facts which he drew from the history of trade, and, indeed, from the general history of society. All of these are essentially subsequent to the argument. They make the argument more clear, but not more certain. For, it is no exaggeration to say, that, if all the commercial and historical facts in the _Wealth of Nations_ were false, the book would still remain, and its conclusions would hold equally good, though they would be less attractive. In it, every thing depends upon general principles, and they, as we have seen, were arrived at in 1752, that is, twenty-four years before the work was published in which those principles were applied. They must, therefore, have been acquired independently of the facts which Adam Smith, subsequently incorporated with them, and which he learnt during that long period of twenty-four years. And the ten years which he employed in composing his great work, were not spent in one of those busy haunts of men, where he might have observed all the phenomena of industry, and studied the way in which the operations of trade affect human character, and are affected by it. He did not resort to one of those vast marts and emporiums of commerce, where the events were happening which he was seeking to explain. That was not his method. On the contrary, the ten years, during which he was occupied in raising to a science the most active department of life, were passed in complete seclusion in Kirkaldy, his quiet little birthplace.[708] He had always been remarkable for absence of mind, and was so little given to observation, as to be frequently oblivious of what was passing around him.[709] In that obliviousness, he, amid the tranquil scenes of his childhood, could now indulge without danger. There, cheered, indeed, by the society of his mother, but with no opportunity of observing human nature upon a large scale, and far removed from the hum of great cities, did this mighty thinker, by the force of his own mind, unravel the numerous and complicated phenomena of wealth, detect the motives which regulate the conduct of the most energetic and industrious portion of mankind, and lay bare the schemes and the secrets of that active life from which he was shut out, while he, immured in comparative solitude, was unable to witness the very facts which he succeeded in explaining. [700] Hence, when the _Wealth of Nations_ appeared, one of our wise men gravely said that 'Dr. Smith, who had never been in trade, could not be expected to write well on that subject, any more than a lawyer upon physic.' See _Boswell's Life of Johnson_, edit. Croker, 1848, p. 478, where this remark is ascribed to Sir John Pringle. [701] 'He was sent to a mercantile house at Bristol in 1734; but he found the drudgery of this employment intolerable, and he retired to Rheims.' _Brougham's Life of Hume_, Glasgow, 1856, p. 169. See also _Ritchie's Life of Hume_, p. 6. In _Roberts' Memoirs of Hannah More_, 2d ed. 1834, vol. i. p. 16, it is said that 'two years of his life were spent in a merchant's counting-house in Bristol, whence he was dismissed on account of the promptitude of his pen in the correction of the letters intrusted to him to copy.' The latter part of this story is improbable; the former part is certainly incorrect; since Hume himself says, 'In 1734, I went to Bristol, with some recommendations to eminent merchants, but _in a few months_ found that scene totally unsuitable to me. I went over to France, with a view of prosecuting my studies in a country retreat.' _Own Life_, p. v. [702] What Sir James Mackintosh says of him is only a faint echo of the general voice of his contemporaries. 'His temper was calm, not to say cold; but though none of his feelings were ardent, all were engaged on the side of virtue. He was free from the slightest tincture of malignity or meanness; his conduct was uniformly excellent.' _Mackintosh's Memoirs_, vol. ii. p. 162. A greater than Mackintosh, and a man who knew Hume intimately, expresses himself in much warmer terms. 'Upon the whole,' writes Adam Smith,--'Upon the whole, I have always considered him, both in his lifetime and since his death, as approaching as nearly to the idea of a perfectly wise and virtuous man as perhaps the nature of human frailty will permit.' _Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. i. p. xxv. Some notices of Hume will be found in an interesting work just published. _Autobiography of Alexander Carlyle_, Edinburgh, 1860, pp. 272-278. But Carlyle, though a man of considerable practical skill, was incapable of large views, and was, therefore, unable, I will not say to measure, but even to conceive, the size of such an understanding as that possessed by David Hume. Of his want of speculative power, a decisive instance appears in his remarks on Adam Smith. He gravely says (_Autobiography_, p. 281), 'Smith's fine writing is chiefly displayed in his book on _Moral Sentiments_, which is the pleasantest and most eloquent book on the subject. His _Wealth of Nations_, from which he was judged to be an inventive genius of the first order, is tedious and full of repetition. His separate essays in the second volume have the air of being occasional pamphlets, without much force or determination. On political subjects, his opinions were not very sound.' It is rather too much when a village-preacher writes in this strain of the greatest man his country has ever produced. [703] He speaks of him in the following extraordinary terms. 'If we consider the variety of talents displayed by this man; as a public speaker, a man of business, a wit, a courtier, a companion, an author, a philosopher; he is justly the object of great admiration. If we consider him merely as an author and philosopher, the light in which we view him at present, though very estimable, _he was yet inferior to his contemporary Galileo, perhaps even to Kepler_.' ... 'The national spirit which prevails among the English, and which forms their great happiness, is the cause why they bestow on all their eminent writers, and on Bacon among the rest, such praises and acclamations as may often appear partial and excessive.' _Hume's History of England_, vol. vi. pp. 194, 195, London, 1789. [704] See the note in vol. i. p. 250, of _Buckle's History of Civilization_. [705] Thus, for instance, in his remarkable _Essay on the Balance of Trade_, he says (_Philosophical Works_, vol. iii. p. 349), 'Every man who has ever reasoned on this subject, has always _proved his theory, whatever it was, by facts and calculations_, and by an enumeration of all the commodities sent to all foreign kingdoms;' therefore (p. 350), 'It may here be proper to form a general argument to prove the impossibility of this event, so long as we preserve our people and our industry.' [706] 'I have no great faith in political arithmetic.' _Wealth of Nations_, book iv. chap. v. p. 218. [707] Indeed, the only possible objection to them is that the language of their collectors is sometimes ambiguous; so that, by the same return, one statistician may mean one thing, and another statistician may mean something quite different. This is well exemplified in medical statistics; whence several writers, unacquainted with the philosophy of scientific proof, have supposed that medicine is incapable of mathematical treatment. In point of fact, however, the only real impediment is the shameful state of clinical and pathological terminology, which is in such confusion as to throw doubt upon all extensive numerical statements respecting disease. [708] 'Upon his return to England in the autumn of 1766, he went to reside with his mother at his native town of Kirkaldy, and remained there for ten years. All the attempts of his friends in Edinburgh to draw him thither were vain; and from a kind and lively letter of Mr. Hume upon the subject, complaining that, though within sight of him on the opposite side of the Frith of Forth, he could not have speech of him, it appears that no one was aware of the occupations in which those years were passed.' _Brougham's Life of Adam Smith_, p. 189. Occasionally, however, he saw his literary friends. See _Dugald Stewart's Biographical Memoirs_, p. 73, Edinb. 1811, 4to. [709] 'He was certainly not fitted for the general commerce of the world, or for the business of active life. The comprehensive speculations with which he had been occupied from his youth, and the variety of materials which his own invention constantly supplied to his thoughts, rendered him habitually inattentive to familiar objects and to common occurrences; and he frequently exhibited instances of absence, which have scarcely been surpassed by the fancy of La Bruyère.' _Stewart's Biographical Memoirs_, p. 113. See also _Ramsay's Reminiscences_, 5th edit. Edinb. 1859, p. 236. Carlyle, who knew him well, says, 'he was the most absent man in company that I ever saw, moving his lips, and talking to himself, and smiling, in the midst of large companies.' _Autobiography of the Rev. Alexander Carlyle_, 2nd edit. Edinb. 1860, p. 279. The same determination to make the study of principles precede that of facts, is exhibited by Hume in one of his most original works, the _Natural History of Religion_. In reference to the title of this treatise, we must observe that, according to the Scotch philosophers, the natural course of any movement is by no means the same as its actual course. This discrepancy between the ideal and the real, was the unavoidable result of their method.[710] For, as they argued deductively from fixed premisses, they could not take into account the perturbations to which their conclusions were liable, from the play and friction of the surrounding society. To do that, required a separate inquiry. It would have been needful to investigate the circumstances which caused the friction, and thus prevented the conclusions from being, in the world of fact, the same as they were in the world of speculation. What we call accidents, are constantly happening, and they prevent the real march of affairs from being identical with the natural march. And, as long as we are unable to predict those accidents, there will always be a want of complete harmony between the inferences of a deductive science and the realities of life; in other words, our inferences will tend towards truth, but never completely attain it.[711] [710] A Scotch philosopher of great repute, but, as it appears to me, of ability not quite equal to his repute, has stated very clearly and accurately this favourite method of his countrymen. 'In examining the history of mankind, as well as in examining the phenomena of the material world, when we cannot trace the process by which an event _has been_ produced, it is often of importance to be able to show how it _may have been_ produced by natural causes.' ... 'To this species of philosophical investigation, which has no appropriated name in our language, I shall take the liberty of giving the title of _Theoretical_ or _Conjectural History_; an expression which coincides pretty nearly in its meaning with that of _Natural History_ as employed by Mr. Hume, and with what some French writers have called Histoire Raisonnée.' _Dugald Stewart's Biographical Memoirs_, pp. 48, 49. Hence (p. 53), 'in most cases, it is of more importance to ascertain the progress that is most simple, than the progress that is most agreeable to fact; for, paradoxical as the proposition may appear, it is certainly true, that _the real progress is not always the most natural_. It may have been determined by particular accidents, which are not likely again to occur, and which cannot be considered as forming any part of that general provision which nature has made for the improvement of the race.' [711] Part of this view is well expressed in _Hume's Treatise of Human Nature_, book iii. part ii. 'This, however, hinders not but that philosophers may, if they please, extend their reasoning to the supposed _state of nature_; provided they allow it to be a mere philosophical fiction, which never had, and never could have, any reality.' ... 'The same liberty may be permitted to moral, which is allowed to natural philosophers; and 'tis very usual with the latter to consider any motion as compounded and consisting of two parts separate from each other, though, at the same time, they acknowledge it to be in itself uncompounded and inseparable.' _Philosophical Works_, vol. ii. p. 263. With peculiar propriety, therefore, did Hume term his work a _Natural History of Religion_. It is an admirable specimen of the deductive method. Its only fault is that he speaks too confidently of the accuracy of the results to which, on such a subject, that method could attain. He believed, that, by observing the principles of human nature, as he found them in his own mind, it was possible to explain the whole course of affairs, both moral and physical.[712] These principles were to be arrived at by experiments made on himself; and having thus arrived at them, he was to reason from them deductively, and so construct the entire scheme. This he contrasts with the inductive plan, which he calls a tedious and lingering process; and while others might follow that slow and patient method of gradually working their way towards first principles, his project was, to seize them at once, or, as he expresses himself, not to stop at the frontier, but to march directly on the capital, being possessed of which, he could gain an easy victory over other difficulties, and could extend his conquests over the sciences.[713] According to Hume, we are to reason, not in order to obtain ideas, but we are to have clear ideas before we reason.[714] By this means, we arrive at philosophy; and her conclusions are not to be impugned, even if they do happen to clash with science. On the contrary, her authority is supreme, and her decisions, being essentially true, must always be preferred to any generalization of the facts which the external world presents.[715] [712] And, conversely, that whatever was 'demonstratively false,' could 'never be distinctly conceived by the mind.' _Philosophical Works_, vol. iv. p. 33. Here, and sometimes in other passages, Hume, though by no means a Cartesian, reminds us of Descartes. [713] 'Here, then, is the only expedient from which we can hope for success in our philosophical researches, _to leave the tedious, lingering method_, which we have hitherto followed, and instead of taking now and then a castle or a village on the frontier, to march up directly to the capital, or centre of these sciences, to human nature itself; which, being once masters of, we may every where else hope for an easy victory. From this station we may extend our conquests over all those sciences which more immediately concern human life, and may afterwards proceed, at leisure, to discover more fully those which are the objects of pure curiosity.' _Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. i. p. 8. See also, in vol. ii. pp. 73, 74, his remarks on the way 'to consider the matter _à priori_.' [714] 'No kind of reasoning can give rise to a new idea, such as this of power is; but wherever we reason, we must antecedently be possessed of clear ideas, which may be the objects of our reasoning.' _Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. i. p. 217. Compare vol. ii. p. 276, on our arriving at a knowledge of causes 'by a kind of taste or fancy.' Hence, the larger view preceding the smaller, and being essentially independent of it, will constantly contradict it; and he complains, for instance, that 'difficulties, which seem unsurmountable in theory, are easily got over in practice.' vol. ii. p. 357; and again, in vol. iii. p. 326, on the effort needed to 'reconcile reason to experience.' But, after all, it is rather by a careful study of his works, than by quoting particular passages, that his method can be understood. In the two sentences, however, just cited, the reader will see that theory and reason represent the larger view; while practice and experience represent the smaller. [715] ''Tis certainly a kind of indignity to philosophy, whose sovereign authority ought every where to be acknowledged, to oblige her on every occasion to make apologies for her conclusions, and justify herself to every particular art and science, which may be offended at her. This puts one in mind of a king arraigned for high treason against his subjects.' _Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. i. pp. 318, 319. Hume, therefore, believed that all the secrets of the external world are wrapped up in the human mind. The mind was not only the key by which the treasure could be unlocked; it was also the treasure itself. Learning and science might illustrate and beautify our mental acquisitions, but they could not communicate real knowledge; they could neither give the prime original materials, nor could they teach the design according to which those materials must be worked. In conformity with these views, the _Natural History of Religion_ was composed. The object of Hume in writing it, was, to ascertain the origin and progress of religious ideas; and he arrives at the conclusion, that the worship of many Gods must, every where, have preceded the worship of one God. This, he regards as a law of the human mind, a thing not only that always has happened, but that always must happen. His proof is entirely speculative. He argues that the earliest state of man is necessarily a savage state; that savages can feel no interest in the ordinary operations of nature, and no desire to study the principles which govern those operations; that such men must be devoid of curiosity on all subjects which do not personally trouble them; and that, therefore, while they neglect the usual events of nature, they will turn their minds to the unusual ones.[716] A violent tempest, a monstrous birth, excessive cold, excessive rain, sudden and fatal diseases, are the sort of things to which the attention of the savage is confined, and of which alone he desires to know the causes. Directly he finds that such causes are beyond his control, he reckons them superior to himself, and, being incapable of abstracting them, he personifies them; he turns them into deities; polytheism is established; and the earliest creed of mankind assumes a form which can never be altered, as long as men remain in this condition of pristine ignorance.[717] [716] 'A barbarous, necessitous animal (such as a man is on the first origin of society), pressed by such numerous wants and passions, has no leisure to admire the regular face of nature, or make inquiries concerning the cause of those objects to which, from his infancy, he has been gradually accustomed. On the contrary, the more regular and uniform, that is the more perfect, nature appears, the more is he familiarized to it, and the less inclined to scrutinize and examine it. A monstrous birth excites his curiosity, and is deemed a prodigy. It alarms him from its novelty, and immediately sets him a trembling, and sacrificing, and praying. But an animal complete in all its limbs and organs is to him an ordinary spectacle, and produces no religious opinion or affection. Ask him whence that animal arose? He will tell you, from the copulation of its parents. And these, whence? From the copulation of theirs. A few removes satisfy his curiosity, and set the objects at such a distance that he entirely loses sight of them. Imagine not that he will so much as start the question, whence the first animal, much less whence the whole system, or united fabric of the universe arose. Or, if you start such a question to him, expect not that he will employ his mind with any anxiety about a subject so remote, so uninteresting, and which so much exceeds the bounds of his capacity.' _Natural History of Religion_, in _Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. iv. p. 439. See also pp. 463-465. [717] 'By degrees, the active imagination of men, uneasy in this abstract conception of objects, about which it is incessantly employed, begins to render them more particular, and to clothe them in shapes more suitable to its natural comprehension. It represents them to be sensible, intelligent beings like mankind; actuated by love and hatred, and flexible by gifts and entreaties, by prayers and sacrifices. Hence the origin of religion. And hence the origin of idolatry, or polytheism.' _Hume's Philosophical Works_, vol. iv. p. 472. 'The primary religion of mankind arises chiefly from an anxious fear of future events,' p. 498. These propositions, which are not only plausible, but which are probably true, ought, according to the inductive philosophy, to have been generalized from a survey of facts; that is, from a collection of evidence respecting the state of religion and of the speculative faculties among savage tribes. But this, Hume abstains from doing. He refers to none of the numerous travellers who have visited such people; he does not, in the whole course of his work, mention even a single book where facts respecting savage life are preserved. It was enough for him, that the progress from a belief in many Gods to a belief in one God, was the natural progress; which is saying, in other words, that it appeared to his mind to be the natural progress.[718] With that, he was satisfied. In other parts of his essay, where he treats of the religious opinions of the ancient Greeks and Romans, he displays a tolerable, though by no means remarkable, learning; but the passages which he cites, do not refer to that entirely barbarous society in which, as he supposes, polytheism first arose. The premisses, therefore, of the argument are evolved out of his own mind. He reasons deductively from the ideas which his powerful intellect supplied, instead of reasoning inductively from the facts which were peculiar to the subject he was investigating. [718] '_It seems certain, that, according to the natural progress of human thought_, the ignorant multitude must first entertain some grovelling and familiar notion of superior powers, before they stretch their conception to that perfect Being who bestowed order on the whole frame of nature. _We may as reasonably imagine, that men inhabited palaces before huts and cottages_, or studied geometry before agriculture, as assert that the Deity appeared to them a pure spirit, omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent, before he was apprehended to be a powerful though limited being, with human passions and appetites, limbs and organs. The mind rises gradually from inferior to superior. By abstracting from what is imperfect, it forms an idea of perfection; and slowly distinguishing the nobler parts of its own frame from the grosser, it learns to transform only the former, much elevated and refined, to its divinity. Nothing could disturb this _natural progress of thought_, but some obvious and invincible argument, which might immediately lead the mind into the pure principles of theism, and make it overleap, at one bound, the vast interval which is interposed between the human and the Divine nature. But though I allow, that the order and frame of the universe, when accurately examined, affords such an argument, yet _I can never think_ that this consideration could have an influence on mankind, when they formed their first rude notions of religion.' _Natural History of Religion_, in _Philosophical Works_, vol. iv. p. 438. Even in the rest of his work, which is full of refined and curious speculation, he uses facts, not to demonstrate his conclusions, but to illustrate them. He, therefore, selected those facts which suited his purpose, leaving the others untouched. And this, which many critics would call unfair, was not unfair in him; because he believed, that he had already established his principles without the aid of those facts. The facts might benefit the reader, by making the argument clearer, but they could not strengthen the argument. They were more intended to persuade than to prove; they were rather rhetorical than logical. Hence, a critic would waste his time if he were to sift them with a minuteness which would be necessary, supposing that Hume had built an inductive argument upon them. Otherwise, without going far, it might be curious to contrast them with the entirely different facts which Cudworth, eighty years before, had collected from the same source, and on the same subject. Cudworth, who was much superior to Hume in learning, and much inferior to him in genius,[719] displayed, in his great work on the _Intellectual System of the Universe_, a prodigious erudition, to prove that, in the ancient world, the belief in one God was a prevailing doctrine. Hume, who never refers to Cudworth, arrives at a precisely opposite conclusion. Both quoted ancient writers; but while Cudworth drew his inferences from what he found in those writers, Hume drew his from what he found in his own mind. Cudworth, being more learned, relied on his reading; Hume, having more genius, relied on his intellect. Cudworth, trained in the school of Bacon, first collected the evidence, and then passed the judgment. Hume, formed in a school entirely different, believed that the acuteness of the judge was more important than the quantity of the evidence; that witnesses were likely to prevaricate; and that he possessed, in his own mind, the surest materials for arriving at an accurate conclusion. It is not, therefore, strange, that Cudworth and Hume, pursuing opposite methods, should have obtained opposite results, since such a discrepancy is, as I have already pointed out, unavoidable, when men investigate, according to different plans, a subject which, in the existing state of knowledge, is not amenable to scientific treatment. [719] Not that he was by any means devoid of genius, though he holds a rank far below so great and original a thinker as Hume. He had, however, collected more materials than he was able to wield; and his work on the _Intellectual System of the Universe_, which is a treasure of ancient philosophy, is badly arranged, and, in many parts, feebly argued. There is more real power in his posthumous treatise on _Eternal and Immutable Morality_. The length to which this chapter has already extended, and the number of topics which I have still to handle, will prevent me from examining, in detail, the philosophy of Reid, who was the most eminent among the purely speculative thinkers of Scotland, after Hume and Adam Smith, though, in point of merit, he must be placed far below them. For, he had neither the comprehensiveness of Smith, nor the fearlessness of Hume. The range of his knowledge was not wide enough to allow him to be comprehensive; while a timidity, almost amounting to moral cowardice, made him recoil from the views advocated by Hume, not so much on account of their being false, as on account of their being dangerous. It is, however, certain, that no man can take high rank as a philosopher, who allows himself to be trammelled by considerations of that kind. A philosopher should aim solely at truth, and should refuse to estimate the practical tendency of his speculations. If they are true, let them stand; if they are false, let them fall. But, whether they are agreeable or disagreeable, whether they are consolatory or disheartening, whether they are safe or mischievous, is a question, not for philosophers, but for practical men. Every new truth which has ever been propounded, has, for a time, caused mischief; it has produced discomfort, and often unhappiness, sometimes by disturbing social or religious arrangements, and sometimes merely by the disruption of old and cherished associations of thought. It is only after a certain interval, and when the framework of affairs has adjusted itself to the new truth, that its good effects preponderate; and the preponderance continues to increase, until, at length, the truth causes nothing but good. But, at the outset, there is always harm. And, if the truth is very great, as well as very new, the harm is serious. Men are made uneasy; they flinch; they cannot bear the sudden light; a general restlessness supervenes; the face of society is disturbed, or perhaps convulsed; old interests, and old beliefs, are destroyed, before new ones have been created. These symptoms are the precursors of revolution; they have preceded all the great changes through which the world has passed; and while, if they are not excessive, they forebode progress, so if they are excessive, they threaten anarchy. It is the business of practical men to moderate such symptoms, and to take care that the truths which philosophers discover, are not applied so rashly as to dislocate the fabric, instead of strengthening it. But the philosopher has only to discover the truth, and promulgate it; and that is hard work enough for any man, let his ability be as great as it may. This division of labour, between thinkers and actors, secures an economy of force, and prevents either class from wasting its power. It establishes a difference between science, which ascertains principles, and art, which applies them. It also recognizes, that the philosopher and the practical man, having each a separate part to play, each is, in his own field, supreme. But it is a sad confusion for either to interfere with the other. In their different spheres, both are independent, and both are worthy of admiration. Inasmuch, however, as practical men should never allow the speculative conclusions of philosophers, whatever be their truth, to be put in actual operation, unless society is, in some degree, ripe for their reception; so, on the other hand, philosophers are not to hesitate, and tremble, and stop short in their career, because their intellect is leading them to conclusions subversive of existing interests. The duty of a philosopher is clear. His path lies straight before him. He must take every pains to ascertain the truth; and, having arrived at a conclusion, he, instead of shrinking from it because it is unpalatable, or because it seems dangerous, should on that very account, cling the closer to it, should uphold it in bad repute, more zealously than he would have done in good repute; should noise it abroad far and wide, utterly regardless what opinions he shocks, or what interests he imperils; should, on its behalf, court hostility and despise contempt, being well assured, that, if it is not true, it will die, but that, if it is true, it must produce ultimate benefit, albeit unsuited for practical adoption by the age or country in which it is first propounded. But Reid, notwithstanding the clearness of his mind and his great powers of argument, had so little of the real philosophic spirit, that he loved truth, not for its own sake, but for the sake of its immediate and practical results. He himself tells us, that he began to study philosophy, merely because he was shocked at the consequences at which philosophers had arrived. As long as the speculations of Locke and of Berkeley were not pushed to their logical conclusions, Reid acquiesced in them, and they were good in his eyes.[720] While they were safe and tolerably orthodox, he was not over-nice in inquiring into their validity. In the hands of Hume, however, philosophy became bolder and more inquisitive; she disturbed opinions which were ancient, and which it was pleasant to hold; she searched into the foundation of things, and by forcing men to doubt and to inquire, she rendered inestimable service to the cause of truth. But this was precisely the tendency at which Reid was displeased. He saw that such disturbance was uncomfortable; he saw that it was hazardous; therefore, he endeavoured to prove that it was groundless. Confusing the question of practical consequences with the totally different question of scientific truth, he took for granted that, because to his age the adoption of those consequences would be mischievous, they must be false. To the profound views of Hume respecting causation, he gravely objects, that if they were carried into effect, the operation of criminal law would be imperilled.[721] To the speculations of the same philosopher concerning the metaphysical basis of the theory of contracts, he replies, that such speculations perplex men, and weaken their sense of duty; they are, therefore, to be disapproved of, on account of their tendency.[722] With Reid, the main question always is, not whether an inference is true, but what will happen if it is true. He says, that a doctrine is to be judged by its fruits;[723] forgetting that the same doctrine will bear different fruits in different ages, and that the consequences which a theory produces in one state of society, are often diametrically opposed to those which it produces in another. He thus made his own age the standard of all future ones. He also trammelled philosophy with practical considerations; diverting thinkers from the pursuit of truth, which is their proper department, into the pursuit of expediency, which is not their department at all. Reid was constantly stopping to inquire, not whether theories were accurate, but whether it was advisable to adopt them; whether they were favourable to patriotism, or to generosity, or to friendship;[724] in a word, whether they were comfortable, and such as we should at present like to believe.[725] Or else, he would take other ground, still lower, and still more unworthy of a philosopher. In opposing, for instance, the doctrine, that our faculties sometimes deceive us,--a doctrine which, as he well knew, had been held by men whose honesty was equal to his own, and whose ability was superior to his own,--he does not scruple to enlist on his side the prejudices of a vulgar superstition; seeking to blacken the tenet which he was unable to refute. He actually asserts, that they who advocate it, insult the Deity, by imputing to the Almighty that He has lied. Such being the consequence of the opinion, it of course follows that the opinion must be rejected without further scrutiny, since, to accept it, would produce fatal results on our conduct, and would, indeed, be subversive of all religion, of all morals, and of all knowledge.[726] [720] 'I once believed this doctrine of ideas so firmly, as to embrace the whole of Berkeley's system in consequence of it; till, finding other consequences to follow from it, which gave me more uneasiness than the want of a material world, it came into my mind more than 40 years ago, to put the question, What evidence have I for this doctrine that all the objects of my knowledge are ideas in my own mind? From that time to the present, I have been candidly and impartially, as I think, seeking for the evidence of this principle but can find none, excepting the authority of philosophers.' _Reid's Essays on the Powers of the Human Mind_, edit. Edinburgh, 1808, vol. i. p. 172. And, in a letter which he wrote to Hume in 1763, he, with a simple candour which must have highly amused that eminent philosopher, confesses that 'your system appears to me not only coherent in all its parts, but likewise justly deduced from principles commonly received among philosophers; principles which I never thought of calling in question, until the conclusions you draw from them in the "Treatise on Human Nature" made me suspect them.' _Burton's Life and Correspondence of Hume_, vol. ii. p. 155. [721] 'Suppose a man to be found dead on the high-way, his skull fractured, his body pierced with deadly wounds, his watch and money carried off. The coroner's jury sits upon the body, and the question is put, What was the cause of this man's death, was it accident, or _felo de se_, or murder by persons unknown? Let us suppose an adept in Mr. Hume's philosophy to make one of the jury, and that he insists upon the previous question, whether there was any cause of the event, or whether it happened without a cause.' _Reid's Essays on the Powers of the Mind_, vol. ii. p. 286. Compare vol. iii. p. 33: 'This would put an end to all speculation, as well as to all the business of life.' [722] 'The obligation of contracts and promises is a matter so sacred, and of such consequence to human society, that speculations which have a _tendency to weaken that obligation_, and to perplex men's notions on a subject so plain and so important, ought to _meet with the disapprobation of all honest men_. Some such speculations, I think, we have in the third volume of Mr. Hume's "Treatise of Human Nature," and in his "Enquiry into the Principles of Morals;" and my design in this chapter is, to offer some observations on the nature of a contract or promise, and on two passages of that author on this subject. I am far from saying or thinking, that Mr. Hume meant to weaken men's obligations to honesty and fair dealing, or that he had not a sense of these obligations himself. It is not the man I impeach, but his writings. Let us think of the first as charitably as we can, while we freely examine the import and _tendency_ of the last.' _Reid's Essays on the Powers of the Mind_, vol. iii. p. 444. In this, as in most passages, the italics are my own. [723] 'Without repeating what I have before said of causes in the first of these Essays, and in the second and third chapters of this, I shall here mention some of the consequences that may be justly deduced from this definition of a cause, that we may judge of it by its fruits.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. iii. p. 339. [724] 'Bishop Berkeley surely did not duly consider that it is by means of the material world that we have any correspondence with thinking beings, or any knowledge of their existence, and that by depriving us of the material world, he deprived us at the same time of family, friends, country, and every human creature; of every object of affection, esteem or concern, except ourselves. The good bishop surely never intended this. He was too warm a friend, too zealous a patriot, and too good a Christian to be capable of such a thought. _He was not aware of the consequences of his system_' (poor, ignorant Berkeley), 'and therefore they ought not to be imputed to him; but we must impute them to the system itself. It stifles every generous and social principle.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. ii. pp. 251, 252. [725] In his _Essays_, vol. i. p. 179, he says of Berkeley, one of the deepest and most unanswerable of all speculators, 'But there is one _uncomfortable consequence_ of his system which he seems not to have attended to, and from which it will be found difficult, if at all possible, to guard it.' [726] 'This doctrine is dishonourable to our Maker, and lays a foundation for universal scepticism. It supposes the Author of our being to have given us one faculty on purpose to deceive us, and another by which we may detect the fallacy, and find that he imposed upon us.' ... 'The genuine dictate of our natural faculties is the voice of God, no less than what he reveals from heaven; and to say that it is fallacious, is to impute a lie to the God of truth.' ... 'Shall we impute to the Almighty what we cannot impute to a man without a heinous affront? Passing this opinion, therefore, as shocking to an ingenuous mind, and, in its consequences, subversive of all religion, all morals, and all knowledge,' &c. _Reid's Essays_, vol. iii. p. 310. See also vol. i. p. 313. In 1764, Reid published his _Inquiry into the Human Mind_; and in that, and in his subsequent work, entitled _Essays on the Powers of the Mind_, he sought to destroy the philosophy of Locke, Berkeley, and Hume. And as Hume was the boldest of the three, it was chiefly his philosophy which Reid attacked. Of the character of this attack, some specimens have just been given; but they rather concern his object and motives, while what we have now to ascertain is, his method, that is, the tactics of his warfare. He clearly saw, that Hume had assumed certain principles, and had reasoned deductively from them to the facts, instead of reasoning inductively from the facts to them. To this method, he strongly, and perhaps fairly, objects. He admits that Hume had reasoned so accurately, that if his principles were conceded, his conclusions must likewise be conceded.[727] But, he says, Hume had no right to proceed in such a manner. He had no right to assume principles, and then to argue from them. The laws of nature were to be arrived at, not by conjecturing in this way, but by a patient induction of facts.[728] Discoveries depended solely on observation and experiment; and any other plan could only produce theories, ingenious, perhaps, and plausible, but quite worthless.[729] For, theory should yield to fact, and not fact to theory.[730] Speculators, indeed, might talk about first principles, and raise a system by reasoning from them. But, the fact was, that there was no agreement as to how a first principle was to be recognized; since a principle which one man would deem self-evident, another would think it necessary to prove, and a third would altogether deny.[731] [727] 'His reasoning appeared to me to be just; there was, therefore, a necessity to call in question the principles upon which it was founded, or to admit the conclusion.' _Reid's Inquiry into the Human Mind_, p. v. 'The received doctrine of ideas is the principle from which it is deduced, and of which, indeed, it seems to be a just and natural consequence.' p. 53. See also _Reid's Essays_, vol. i. pp. 199, 200, vol. ii. p. 211. [728] 'The laws of nature are the most general facts we can discover in the operations of nature. Like other facts, they are not to be hit upon by a happy conjecture, but justly deduced from observation. Like other general facts, they are not to be drawn from a few particulars, but from a copious, patient, and cautious induction.' _Reid's Inquiry into the Human Mind_, pp. 262, 263. [729] 'Such discoveries have always been made by patient observation, by accurate experiments, or by conclusions drawn by strict reasoning from observations and experiments; and such discoveries have always tended to refute, but not to confirm, the theories and hypotheses which ingenious men had invented.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. i. p. 46. [730] 'This is Mr. Hume's notion of a cause.' ... 'But theory ought to stoop to fact, and not fact to theory.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. iii. p. 276. [731] 'But yet there seems to be great difference of opinions among philosophers about first principles. What one takes to be self-evident, another labours to prove by arguments, and a third denies altogether.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. ii. p. 218. 'Mr. Locke seems to think first principles of very small use.' p. 219. The difficulties of deductive reasoning are here admirably portrayed. It might have been expected, that Reid would have built up his own philosophy according to the inductive plan, and would have despised that assumption of first principles, with which he taunts his opponents. But it is one of the most curious things in the history of metaphysics, that Reid after impeaching the method of Hume, follows the very same method himself. When he is attacking the philosophy of Hume, he holds deduction to be wrong. When he is raising his own philosophy, he holds it to be right. He deemed certain conclusions dangerous, and he objects to their advocates, that they argued from principles, instead of from facts: and that they assumed themselves to be in possession of the first principles of truth, although people were not agreed as to what constituted a first principle. This is well put, and hard to answer. Strange, however, to say, Reid arrives at his own conclusions, by assuming first principles to an extent far greater than had been done by any writer on the opposite side. From them, he argues; his whole scheme is deductive; and his works scarcely contain a single instance of that inductive logic, which, when attacking his opponents, he found it convenient to recommend. It is difficult to conceive a better illustration of the peculiar character of the Scotch intellect in the eighteenth century, and of the firm hold, which, what may be called, the anti-Baconian method, had upon that intellect. Reid was a man of considerable ability, of immaculate honesty, and was deeply convinced that it was for the good of society that the prevailing philosophy should be overthrown. To the performance of that task, he dedicated his long and laborious life; he saw that the vulnerable point of the adverse system was its method; he indicated the deficiencies of that method, and declared, perhaps wrongly, but at all events sincerely, that it could never lead to truth. Yet, and notwithstanding all this, such was the pressure of the age in which he lived, and so completely did the force of circumstances shape his understanding, that, in his own works, he was unable to avoid that very method of investigation which he rebuked in others. Indeed, so far from avoiding it, he was a slave to it. The evidence of this I will now give, because, besides its importance for the history of the Scotch mind, it is valuable as one of many lessons, which teach us how we are moulded by the society which surrounds us; how even our most vigorous actions are influenced by general causes of which we are often ignorant, and which few of us care to study; and, finally, how lame and impotent we are, when, as individuals, we try to stem the onward current, resisting the great progress instead of aiding it, and vainly opposing our little wishes to that majestic course of events, which admits of no interruption, but sweeps on, grand and terrible, while generation after generation passes away, successively absorbed in one mighty vortex. Directly Reid, ceasing to refute the philosophy of Hume, began to construct his own philosophy, he succumbed to the prevailing method. He now assures us, that all reasoning must be from first principles, and that, so far from reasoning to those principles, we must at once admit them, and make them the basis of all subsequent arguments.[732] Having admitted them, they become a thread to guide the inquirer through the labyrinth of thought.[733] His opponents had no right to assume them, but he might do so, because to him they were intuitive.[734] Whoever denied them, was not fit to be reasoned with.[735] Indeed, to investigate them, or to seek to analyze them, was wrong as well as foolish, because they were part of the constitution of things; and of the constitution of things no account could be given, except that such was the will of God.[736] [732] 'All reasoning must be from first principles; and for first principles no other reason can be given but this, that, by the constitution of our nature, we are under a necessity of assenting to them.' _Reid's Inquiry_, p. 140. 'All reasoning is from principles.' ... 'Most justly, therefore, do such principles disdain to be tried by reason, and laugh at all the artillery of the logician when it is directed against them.' p. 372. 'All knowledge got by reasoning must be built upon first principles.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. ii. p. 220. 'In every branch of real knowledge there must be first principles, whose truth is known intuitively, without reasoning, either probable or demonstrative. They are not grounded on reasoning, but all reasoning is grounded on them.' p. 360. [733] 'For, when any system is grounded upon first principles, and deduced regularly from them, we have a thread to lead us through the labyrinth.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. ii. p. 225. [734] 'I call these "first principles," because they _appear to me_ to have in themselves an intuitive evidence which _I cannot resist_.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. iii. p. 375. [735] 'If any man should think fit to deny that these things are qualities, or that they require any subject, _I leave him to enjoy his opinion, as a man who denies first principles, and is not fit to be reasoned with_.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. i. p. 38. [736] 'No other account can be given of the constitution of things, but the will of Him that made them.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. i. p. 115. As Reid obtained his first principles with such ease, and as he carefully protected them by forbidding any attempt to resolve them into simpler elements, he was under a strong temptation to multiply them almost indefinitely, in order that, by reasoning from them, he might raise a complete and harmonious system of the human mind. To that temptation he yielded with a readiness, which is truly surprising, when we remember how he reproached his opponents with doing the same thing. Among the numerous first principles which he assumes, not only as unexplained, but as inexplicable, are the belief in Personal Identity;[737] the belief in the External World;[738] the belief in the Uniformity of Nature;[739] the belief in the Existence of Life in Others;[740] the belief in Testimony;[741] also in the power of distinguishing truth from error,[742] and even in the correspondence of the face and voice to the thoughts.[743] Of belief generally, he asserts that there are many principles,[744] and he regrets that any one should have rashly attempted to explain them.[745] Such things are mysterious, and not to be pried into. We have also other faculties, which being original and indecomposable, resist all inductive treatment, and can neither be resolved into simpler elements, nor referred to more general laws. To this class, Reid assigns Memory,[746] Perception,[747] Desire of Self-Approbation,[748] and not only Instinct, but even Habit.[749] Many of our ideas, such as those concerning Space and Time, are equally original;[750] and other first principles there are, which have not been enunciated, but from which we may reason.[751] They, therefore, are the major premisses of the argument; no reason having yet been given for them, they must be simple; and not having yet been explained, they are, of course, inexplicable.[752] [737] _Reid's Essays_, vol. i. pp. 36, 37, 340, 343, vol. ii. p. 245. [738] _Reid's Essays_, vol. i. pp. 115, 116, 288-299, vol. ii. p. 251. [739] Or, as he expresses it, 'our belief of the continuance of the laws of nature.' _Reid's Inquiry_, pp. 426-435; also his _Essays_, vol. i. p. 305, vol. ii. p. 268. [740] _Reid's Essays_, vol. ii. p. 259. [741] _Reid's Inquiry_, p. 422; and his _Essays_, vol. ii. p. 266. [742] 'Another first principle is, "That the natural faculties by which we distinguish truth from error are not fallacious."' _Reid's Essays_, vol. ii. p. 256. [743] 'Another first principle I take to be, "That certain features of the countenance, sounds of the voice, and gestures of the body, indicate certain thoughts and dispositions of mind."' _Reid's Essays_, vol. ii. p. 261. Compare his _Inquiry_, p. 416. [744] 'We have taken notice of several original principles of belief in the course of this inquiry; and when other faculties of the mind are examined, we shall find more, which have not occurred in the examination of the five senses.' _Reid's Inquiry_, p. 471. [745] 'And if no philosopher had attempted to define and explain belief, some paradoxes in philosophy, more incredible than ever were brought forth by the most abject superstition, or the most frantic enthusiasm, had never seen the light.' _Reid's Inquiry_, p. 45. [746] _Reid's Essays_, vol. i. p. 329, 334, vol. ii. p. 247. [747] _Reid's Essays_, vol. i. pp. 9, 71, 303, 304. [748] _Reid's Essays_, vol. ii. p. 60. [749] 'I see no reason to think, that we shall ever be able to assign the physical cause, either of instinct, or of the power of habit. Both seem to be parts of our original constitution. Their end and use is evident; but we can assign no cause of them, but the will of Him who made us.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. iii. p. 119. [750] 'I know of no ideas or notions that have a better claim to be accounted simple and original, than those of space and time.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. i. p. 354. [751] 'I do not at all affirm that those I have mentioned are all the first principles from which we may reason concerning contingent truths. Such enumerations, even when made after much reflection, are seldom perfect.' _Reid's Essays_, vol. ii. p. 270. [752] 'Why sensation should compel our belief of the present existence of the thing, memory a belief of its past existence, and imagination no belief at all, _I believe no philosopher can give a shadow of reason_, but that such is the nature of these operations. They are all simple and original, and _therefore inexplicable_ acts of the mind.' _Reid's Inquiry_, p. 40. 'We can _give no reason_ why the retina is, of all parts of the body, the only one on which pictures made by the rays of light cause vision; and _therefore we must resolve this solely into a law of our constitution_' p. 258. All this is arbitrary enough. Still, in justice to Reid, it must be said, that, having made these assumptions, he displayed remarkable ability in arguing from them, and that, in attacking the philosophy of his time, he subjected it to a criticism, which has been extremely serviceable. His lucidity, his dialectic skill, and the racy and masculine style in which he wrote, made him a formidable opponent, and secured to his objections a respectful hearing. To me, however, it appears, that notwithstanding the attempts, first of M. Cousin, and afterwards of Sir William Hamilton, to prop up his declining reputation, his philosophy, as an independent system, is untenable, and will not live. In this I may be mistaken; but what is quite certain is, that nothing can be more absurd than to suppose, as some have done, that he adopted the inductive, or, as it is popularly called, Baconian method. Bacon, indeed, would have smiled at such a disciple, assuming all sorts of major premisses, taking general principles for granted with the greatest recklessness, and reserving his skill for the task of reasoning from propositions for which he had no evidence, except that on a cursory, or, as he termed it, a common-sense, inspection, they appeared to be true.[753] This refusal to analyze preconceived notions, comes under the head of what Bacon stigmatized as the _anticipatio naturæ_, and which he deemed the great enemy of knowledge, on account of the dangerous confidence it places in the spontaneous and uncorrected conclusions of the human mind. When, therefore, we find Reid holding up the Baconian philosophy, as a pattern which it behoves all inquirers to follow;[754] and when we, moreover, find Dugald Stewart, who, though a somewhat superficial thinker, was, at all events, a careful writer, supposing that Reid had followed it,[755] we meet with fresh proof of how difficult it was for Scotchmen of the last age to imbibe the true spirit of inductive logic, since they believed, that a system which flagrantly violated its rules, had been framed in strict accordance with them. [753] In a recent work of distinguished merit, an instance is given of the loose manner in which he took for granted that certain phenomena were ultimate, in order that, instead of analyzing them, he might reason from them. 'Dr. Reid has no hesitation in classing the voluntary command of our organs, that is, the sequence of feeling and action implied in all acts of will, among instincts. The power of lifting a morsel of food to the mouth, is, according to him, an instinctive or pre-established conjunction of the wish and the deed; that is to say, the emotional state of hunger, coupled with the sight of a piece of bread, is associated, through a primitive link of the mental constitution, with the several movements of the hand, arm, and mouth, concerned in the act of eating. _This assertion of Dr. Reid's may be simply met by appealing to the facts._ It is not true that human beings possess, at birth, any voluntary command of their limbs whatsoever. A babe of two months old cannot use its hands in obedience to its desires. The infant can grasp nothing, hold nothing, can scarcely fix its eyes on anything.' ... 'If the more perfect command of our voluntary movements implied in every art be an acquisition, so is the less perfect command of these movements that grows upon a child during the first year of life.' _Bain on the Senses and the Intellect_, London, 1855, pp. 292, 293. [754] See _Reid's Inquiry_, pp. 436, 446, as well as other parts of his works: see also an extract from one of his letters to Dr. Gregory, in _Stewart's Biographical Memoirs_, p. 432. [755] 'The idea of prosecuting the study of the human mind on a plan analogous to that which had been so successfully adopted in physics by the followers of Lord Bacon, if not first conceived by Dr. Reid, was, at least, first carried successfully into execution in his writings.' _Stewart's Biographical Memoirs_, p. 419. 'The influence of the general views opened in the _Novum Organon_, may be traced in almost every page of his writings; and, indeed, the circumstance by which they are so strongly and characteristically distinguished, is that they exhibit the first systematical attempt to exemplify, in the study of human nature, the same plan of investigation which conducted Newton to the properties of light, and to the law of gravitation.' p. 421. From this passage one might hazard a supposition that Dugald Stewart did not understand Bacon much better than he did Aristotle or Kant. Of the two last most profound thinkers, he certainly knew little or nothing, except what he gathered secondhand. Consequently, he underrates them. Leaving mental philosophy, I now come to physical science, in which, if anywhere, we might expect that the inductive plan would predominate, and would triumph over the opposite, or deductive, one. How far this was the case, I will endeavour to ascertain, by an examination of the most important discoveries which have been made by Scotchmen concerning the organic and inorganic world. And, as my object is merely to indicate the turn and character of the Scotch mind, I shall avoid all details respecting the practical effects of those discoveries, and shall confine myself to such a narration as will exhibit their purely scientific aspect, so as to enable the reader to understand what additions were made to our knowledge of the laws of nature, and in what way the additions were made. The character of each discovery, and its process, will be stated, but nothing more. Neither here, nor in any part of this Introduction, do I pretend to investigate questions of practical utility, or to trace the connexion between the discoveries of science and the arts of life. That I shall do in the body of the work itself, where I hope to explain a number of minute social events, many of which are regarded as isolated, if not incongruous. For the present, I solely aim at those broad principles, which, by marking out the epochs of thought, underlie the whole fabric of society, and which must be clearly apprehended before history can cease to be a mere empirical assemblage of facts, of which the scientific basis being unsettled, the true order and coherence must be unknown. Among the sciences which concern the inorganic world, the laws of heat occupy a conspicuous place. On the one hand, they are connected with geology, being intimately allied, and, indeed, necessarily bound up, with every speculation respecting the changes and present condition of the crust of the earth. On the other hand, they touch the great questions of life, both animal and vegetable; they have to do with the theory of species, and of race; they modify soil, food, and organization; and to them we must look for valuable help towards solving those great problems in biology, which, of late years, have occupied the attention of the boldest and most advanced philosophers. Our present knowledge of the laws of heat, may be briefly stated as branching into five fundamental divisions. These are: latent heat; specific heat; the conduction of heat; the radiation of heat; and, finally, the undulatory theory of heat; by which last, we are gradually discarding our old material views, and are accustoming ourselves to look upon heat as simply one of the forms of force, all of which, such as light, electricity, magnetism, motion, gravitation, and chemical affinity, are constantly assuming each other's shape, but, in their total amount, are incapable either of increase or of diminution.[756] This grand conception, which is now placing the indestructibility of force on the same ground as the indestructibility of matter, has an importance far above its scientific value, considerable as that undoubtedly is. For, by teaching us, that nothing perishes, but that, on the contrary, the slightest movement of the smallest body, in the remotest region, produces results which are perpetual, which diffuse themselves through all space, and which, though they may be metamorphosed, cannot be destroyed, it impresses us with such an exalted idea of the regular and compulsory march of physical affairs, as must eventually influence other and higher departments of inquiry. Our habits of thought are so connected and interwoven, that notions of law and of the necessary concatenation of things, can never be introduced into one field of speculation, without affecting other fields which lie contiguous to it. When, therefore, the modern doctrine of conservation of force,[757] becomes firmly coupled with the older doctrine of conservation of matter, we may rest assured that the human mind will not stop there, but will extend to the study of Man, inferences analogous to those already admitted in the study of Nature. Having once recognized that the condition of the material universe, at any one moment, is simply the result of every thing which has happened at all preceding moments, and that the most trivial disturbance would so violate the general scheme, as to render anarchy inevitable, and that, to sever from the total mass even the minutest fragment, would, by dislocating the structure, bury the whole in one common ruin, we, thus admitting the exquisite adjustment of the different parts, and discerning, too, in the very beauty and completeness of the design, the best proof that it has never been tampered with by the Divine Architect, who called it into being, in whose Omniscience both the plan, and the issue of the plan, resided with such clearness and unerring certainty, that not a stone in that superb and symmetrical edifice has been touched since the foundation of the edifice was laid, are, by ascending to this pitch and elevation of thought, most assuredly advancing towards that far higher step, which it will remain for our posterity to take, and which will raise their view to so commanding a height, as to insure the utter rejection of those old and eminently irreligious dogmas of supernatural interference with the affairs of life, which superstition has invented, and ignorance has bequeathed, and the present acceptance of which betokens the yet early condition of our knowledge, the penury of our intellectual resources, and the inveteracy of the prejudices in which we are still immersed. [756] The theory of the indestructibility of force has been applied to the law of gravitation by Professor Faraday, in his _Discourse on the Conservation of Force_, 1857; an essay full of thought and power, and which should be carefully studied by every one who wishes to understand the direction which the highest speculations of physical science are now taking. I will quote only one passage from the opening, to give the reader an idea of its general scope, irrespective of the more special question of gravitation. 'The progress of the strict science of modern times has tended more and more to produce the conviction that force can neither be created nor destroyed; and to render daily more manifest the value of the knowledge of that truth in experimental research.' ... 'Agreeing with those who admit the conservation of force to be a principle in physics, as large and sure as that of the indestructibility of matter, or the invariability of gravity, I think that no particular idea of force has a right to unlimited or unqualified acceptance, that does not include assent to it.' [757] As an illustration of this doctrine, I cannot do better than quote the following passage from one of the most suggestive and clearly reasoned books which has been written in this century by an English physicist: 'Wave your hand; the motion which has apparently ceased, is taken up by the air, from the air by the walls of the room, &c., and so by direct and reacting waves, continually comminuted, but never destroyed. It is true that, at a certain point, we lose all means of detecting the motion, from its minute subdivision, which defies our most delicate means of appreciation, but we can indefinitely extend our power of detecting it accordingly as we confine its direction, or increase the delicacy of our examination. Thus, if the hand be moved in unconfined air, the motion of the air would not be sensible to a person at a few feet distant; but if a piston of the same extent of surface as the hand be moved with the same rapidity in a tube, the blast of air may be distinctly felt at several yards' distance. There is no greater absolute amount of motion in the air in the second than in the first case, but its direction is restrained, so as to make its means of detection more facile. By carrying on this restraint, as in the air-gun, we get a power of detecting the motion, and of moving other bodies at far greater distances. The puff of air which would in the air-gun project a bullet a quarter of a mile, if allowed to escape without its direction being restrained, as by the bursting of a bladder, would not be perceptible at a yard's distance, though the same absolute amount of motion be impressed on the surrounding air.' _Grove's Correlation of Physical Forces_, London, 1855, pp. 24, 25. In a work now issuing from the press, and still unfinished, it is suggested, with considerable plausibility, that Persistence of Force would be a more accurate expression than Conservation of Force. See Mr. Herbert Spencer's _First Principles_, London, 1861, p. 251. The title of this book gives an inadequate notion of the importance of the subjects with which it deals, and of the reach and subtlety of thought which characterize it. Though some of the generalizations appear to me rather premature, no well-instructed and disciplined intellect can consider them without admiration of the remarkable powers displayed by their author. It is, therefore, natural, that the physical doctrine of indestructibility applied to force as well as to matter, should be essentially a creation of the present century, notwithstanding a few allusions made to it by some earlier thinkers, all of whom, however, groped vaguely, and without general purpose. No preceding age was bold enough to embrace so magnificent a view as a whole, nor had any preceding philosophers sufficient acquaintance with nature to enable them to defend such a conception, even had they desired to entertain it. Thus, in the case now before us, it is evident, that while heat was believed to be material, it could not be conceived as a force, and therefore no one could grasp the theory of its metamorphosis into other forces; though there are passages in Bacon which prove that he wished to identify it with motion. It was first necessary to abstract heat into a mere property or affection of matter, and there was no chance of doing this until heat was better understood in its immediate antecedents, that is, until, by the aid of mathematics, its proximate laws had been generalized. But, with the single exception of Newton, whose efforts, notwithstanding his gigantic powers, were, on this subject, very unsatisfactory, and who, moreover, had a decided leaning towards the material theory, no one attempted to unravel the mathematical laws of heat till the latter half of the eighteenth century, when Lambert and Black began the career which Prevost and Fourier followed up. The mind, having been so slow in mastering the preliminaries and outworks of the inquiry, was not ripe for the far more difficult enterprise of idealizing heat itself, and so abstracting it, as to strip it of its material attributes, and leave it to nothing but the speculative notion of an immaterial force. From these considerations, which were necessary to enable the reader to appreciate the value of what was done in Scotland, it will be seen how essential it was that the laws of the movement of heat should be studied before its nature was investigated, and before the emission theory could be so seriously attacked as to allow of the possibility of that great doctrine of the indestructibility of force, which, I make no doubt, is destined to revolutionize our habits of thought, and to give to future speculations a basis infinitely wider than any previously known. In regard to the movements of heat, we owe the laws of conduction and of radiation chiefly to France and Geneva, while the laws of specific heat, and those of latent heat, were discovered in Scotland. The doctrine of specific heat, though interesting, has not the scientific importance which belongs to the other departments of this great subject; but the doctrine of latent heat is extremely curious, not only in itself, but also on account of the analogies it suggests with various branches of physical inquiry. What is termed latent heat, is exhibited in the following manner. If, in consequence of the application of heat, a solid passes into a liquid, as ice, for instance, into water, the conversion occupies a longer time than could be explained by any theory which had been propounded down to the middle of the eighteenth century. Neither was it possible to explain how it is, that ice never rises above the temperature of 32° until it is actually melted, no matter what the heat of the adjacent bodies may be. There were no means of accounting for these circumstances. And though practical men, being familiar with them, did not wonder at them, they caused great astonishment among thinkers, who were accustomed to analyze events, and to seek a reason for common and every-day occurrences. Soon after the middle of the eighteenth century, Black, who was then one of the professors in the University of Glasgow, turned his attention to this subject.[758] He struck out a theory which, being eminently original, was violently attacked, but is now generally admitted. With a boldness and reach of thought not often equalled, he arrived at the conclusion, that whenever a body loses some of its consistence, as in the case of ice becoming water, or water becoming steam, such body receives an amount of heat which our senses, though aided by the most delicate thermometer, can never detect. For, this heat is absorbed; we lose all sight of it, and it produces no palpable effect on the material world, but becomes, as it were, a hidden property. Black, therefore, called it latent heat, because, though we conceive it as an idea, we cannot trace it as a fact. The body is, properly speaking, hotter; and yet its temperature does not rise. Directly, however, the foregoing process is inverted, that is to say, directly the steam is condensed into water, or the water hardened into ice, the heat returns into the world of sense; it ceases to be latent, and communicates itself to the surrounding objects. No new heat has been created; it has, indeed, appeared and disappeared, so far as our senses are concerned; but our senses were deceived, since there has, in truth, been neither addition nor diminution.[759] That this remarkable theory paved the way for the doctrine of the indestructibility of force, will be obvious to whoever has examined the manner in which, in the history of the human mind, scientific conceptions are generated. The process is always so slow, that no single discovery has ever been made, except by the united labours of several successive generations. In estimating, therefore, what each man has done, we must judge him, not by the errors he commits, but by the truths he propounds. Most of his errors are not really his own. He inherits them from his predecessors; and if he throws some of them off, we should be grateful, instead of being dissatisfied that he has not rejected all. Black, no doubt, fell into the error of regarding heat as a material substance, which obeys the laws of chemical composition.[760] But this was merely an hypothesis, which was bequeathed to him, and with which the existing state of thought forced him to encumber his theory. He inherited the hypothesis, and could not get rid of his troublesome possession. The real service which he rendered is, that, in spite of that hypothesis, which clung to him to the last, he, far more than any of his contemporaries, contributed towards the great conception of idealizing heat, and thus enabled his successors to admit it into the class of immaterial and supersensual forces. Once admitted into that class, the list of forces became complete; and it was comparatively easy to apply to the whole body of force, the same notion of indestructibility, which had previously been applied to the whole body of matter. But it was hardly possible to effect this object, while heat stood, as it were, midway between force and matter, yielding opposite results to different senses; amenable to the touch, but invisible to the eye. What was wanting, was to remove it altogether out of the jurisdiction of the senses, and to admit that, though we experience its effects, we can only conceive its existence. Towards accomplishing this, Black took a prodigious stride. Unconscious, perhaps, of the remote tendency of his own labours, he undermined that doctrine of material heat, which he seemed to support. For, by his advocacy of latent heat, he taught that its movements constantly baffle, not only some of our senses, but all of them; and that, while our feelings make us believe that heat is lost, our intellect makes us believe that it is not lost. Here, we have apparent destructibility, and real indestructibility. To assert that a body received heat without its temperature rising, was to make the understanding correct the touch, and defy its dictates. It was a bold and beautiful paradox, which required courage as well as insight to broach, and the reception of which marks an epoch in the human mind, because it was an immense step towards idealizing matter into force. Some, indeed, have spoken of invisible matter; but that is a contradiction in terms, which will never be admitted, as long as the forms of speech remain unchanged. Nothing can be invisible, except force, mind, and the Supreme Cause of all. We must, therefore, ascribe to Black the signal merit that he first, in the study of heat, impeached the authority of the senses, and thereby laid the foundation of every thing which was afterwards done. Besides the relation which his discovery bears to the indestructibility of force, it is also connected with one of the most splendid achievements effected by this generation in inorganic physics; namely, the establishment of the identity of light and heat. To the senses, light and heat, though in some respects similar, are in most respects dissimilar. Light, for instance, affects the eye, and not the touch. Heat affects the touch, but, under ordinary circumstances, does not affect the eye. The capital difference, however, between them is, that heat, unlike light, possesses the property of temperature; and this property is so characteristic, that until our understandings are invigorated by science, we cannot conceive heat separated from temperature, but are compelled to confuse one with the other. Directly, however, men began to adopt the method followed by Black, and were resolved to consider heat as supersensual, they entered the road which led to the discovery of light and heat being merely different developments of the same force. Ignoring the effects of heat on themselves, or on any part of the creation, which was capable of feeling its temperature, and would therefore be deceived by it, nothing was left for them to do, but to study its effects on the inanimate world. Then, all was revealed. The career of discovery was fairly opened; and analogies between light and heat, which even the boldest imagination had hardly suspected, were placed beyond a doubt. To the reflection of heat, which had been formerly known, were now added the refraction of heat, its double refraction, its polarization, its depolarization, its circular polarization, the interference of its rays, and their retardation; while, what is more remarkable than all, the march of our knowledge on these points was so swift, that before the year 1836 had come to a close, the chain of evidence was completed by the empirical investigations of Forbes and Melloni, they themselves little witting that every thing which they accomplished was prepared before they were born, that they were but the servants and followers of him who indicated the path in which they trod, and that their experiments, ingenious as they were, and full of resource, were simply the direct practical consequence of one of those magnificent ideas which Scotland has thrown upon the world, and the memory of which is almost enough so to bribe the judgment, as to tempt us to forget, that, while the leading intellects of the nation were engaged in such lofty pursuits, the nation itself, untouched by them, passed them over with cold and contemptuous indifference, being steeped in that deadening superstition, which turns a deaf ear to every sort of reason, and will not hearken to the voice of the charmer, charm he never so wisely. [758] He was appointed professor in 1756; and 'it was during his residence in Glasgow, between the years 1759 and 1763, that he brought to maturity those speculations concerning the combination of heat with matter, which had frequently occupied a portion of his thoughts.' _Thomson's History of Chemistry_, vol. i. pp. 319, 320. [759] _Black's Lectures on Chemistry_, vol. i. pp. 116, 117; and in various places. Dr. Robison, the editor of these Lectures, says, p. 513, 'Nothing could be more simple than his doctrines of latent heat. The experience of more than a century had made us consider the thermometer as a sure and accurate indicator of heat, and of all its variations. We had learned to distrust all others. Yet, in the liquefaction and vaporization of bodies, we had proofs uncontrovertible of the entrance of heat into the bodies. And we could, by suitable processes, get it out of them again. Dr. Black said that it was concealed in them,--_latent_,--it was as much concealed as carbonic acid is in marble, or water in zeolite,--it was concealed till Dr. Black detected it. He called it Latent Heat. He did not mean by this term that it was a different kind of heat from the heat which expanded bodies, but merely that it was concealed from our sense of heat, and from the thermometer.' See also p. xxxvii.: 'Philosophers had long been accustomed to consider the thermometer as the surest means for detecting the presence of heat or fire in bodies, and they distrusted all others.' [760] 'Fluidity is the consequence of a certain combination of calorific matter with the substance of solid bodies,' &c. _Black's Lectures_, vol. i. p. 133. Compare p. 192, and the remarks in _Turner's Chemistry_, 1847, vol. i. p. 31, on Black's views of the 'chemical combination' of heat. Among the backward chemists, we still find traces of the idea of heat obeying chemical laws. By thus considering the descent and relationship of scientific conceptions, we can alone understand what we really owe to Black's discovery of latent heat. In regard to the method of the discovery, little need be said, since every student of the Baconian philosophy must see, that the discovery was of a kind for which none of the maxims of that system had provided. As latent heat escapes the senses, it could not obey the rules of a philosophy, which grounds all truth on observation and experiment. The subject of the inquiry being supersensual, there was no scope for what Bacon called crucial experiments and separations of nature. The truth was in the idea; experiments, therefore, might illustrate it, might bring it up to the surface, and so enable men to grasp it, but could not prove it. And this, which appears on the very face of the discovery, is confirmed by the express testimony of Dr. Thomson, who knew Black, and was, indeed, one of the most eminent of his pupils. We are assured by this unimpeachable witness, that Black, about the year 1759 began to speculate concerning heat; that the result of those speculations was the theory of latent heat; that he publicly taught that theory in the year 1761; but that the experiments which were necessary to convince the world of it were not made till 1764,[761] though, as I need hardly add, according to the inductive method, it was a breach of all the rules of philosophy to be satisfied with the theory three years before the experiments were made, and it was a still greater breach, not only to be satisfied with it, but to have openly promulgated it as an original and unquestionable truth, which explained, in a new manner, the economy of the material world. [761] 'So much was he convinced of this, that he taught the doctrine in his lectures in 1761, before he had made a single experiment on the subject.' ... 'The requisite experiments were first attempted by Dr. Black in 1764.' _Thomson's History of Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 324. See also pp. 319, 320; and on the history of the idea in Black's mind as early as the year 1754, see the interesting extracts from his note-books in Robison's appendix to _Black's Lectures_, vol. i pp. 525, 526. The statement of Dr. Thomson refers to the completion, or last stage, of the discovery, namely the vaporific combination of heat. But from a letter which Black wrote to Watt in 1780 (_Muirhead's Life of Watt_, London, 1859, p. 303), it appears that Thomson has even understated the question, and that Black, instead of first teaching his theory in 1761, taught it three years earlier, that is, _six_ years before the decisive experiments were made. 'I began,' writes Black, 'to give the doctrine of latent heat in my lectures at Glasgow in the winter 1757-58, which, I believe, was the first winter of my lecturing there; or if I did not give it that winter, I certainly gave it in the 1758-59; and I have delivered it every year since that time in my winter lectures, which I continued to give at Glasgow until winter 1766-67, when I began to lecture in Edinburgh.' The intellect of Black belonged to a class, which, in the eighteenth century, was almost universal in Scotland, but was hardly to be found in England, and which, for want of a better word, we are compelled to call deductive, though fully admitting that even the most deductive minds have in them a large amount of induction, since, indeed, without induction, the common business of life could not be carried on. But for the purposes of scientific classification, we may say, that a man or an age is deductive, when the favourite process is reasoning from principles instead of reasoning to them, and when there is a tendency to underrate the value of specific experience. That this was the case with the illustrious discoverer of latent heat, we have seen, both from the nature of the discovery, and from the decisive testimony of his friend and pupil. And a further confirmation may be found in the circumstance, that, having once propounded his great idea, he, instead of instituting a long series of laborious experiments, by which it might be verified in its different branches, preferred reasoning from it according to the general maxims of dialectic; pushing it to its logical consequences, rather than tracking it into regions where the senses might either confirm or refute it.[762] By following this process of thought, he was led to some beautiful speculations, which are so remote from experience, that even now, with all the additional resources of our knowledge, we cannot tell whether they are true or false. Of this kind were his views respecting the causes of the preservation of man, whose existence would, he thought, be endangered, except for the power which heat possesses of lying latent and unobserved. Thus, for example, when a long and severe winter was followed by sudden warmth, it appeared natural that the ice and snow should melt with corresponding suddenness; and if this were to happen, the result would be such terrible inundations, that it would be hardly possible for man to escape from their ravages. Even if he escaped, his works, that is, the material products of his civilization, would perish. From this catastrophe, nothing saves him but the latent power of heat. Owing to this power, directly the ice and snow begin to melt at their surface, the heat enters their structure, where a large part of it remains in abeyance, and thus losing much of its power, the process of liquefaction is arrested. This dreadful agent is lulled, and becomes dormant. It is weakened at the outset of its career, and is laid up, as in a storehouse, from which it can afterwards emerge, gradually, and with safety to the human species.[763] [762] And he distinctly states that, even in other matters, when he did make experiments, their object was to confirm theory, and not to suggest it. Thus, to give one of many instances, in his _Lectures_, vol. i. p. 354, he says, respecting salts, 'When we examine the solidity of this reasoning by an experiment, _we have the pleasure to find facts agree exactly with the theory_.' [763] See a good summary of this idea in _Black's Lectures on Chemistry_, vol. i. p. 118. Contrasting his theory of heat with that previously received, he says, 'But, were the ice and snow to melt as suddenly as they must necessarily do, were the former opinion of the action of heat in melting them well founded, the torrents and inundations would be incomparably more irresistible and dreadful. They would tear up and sweep away every thing, and that so suddenly, that mankind should have great difficulty to escape from their ravages.' In this way, as summer advances, a vast magazine of heat is accumulated, and is preserved in the midst of water, where it can do man no injury, since, indeed, his senses are unable to feel it. There the heat remains buried, until, in the rotation of the seasons, winter returns, and the waters are congealed into ice. In the process of congelation, that treasury of heat, which had been hidden all the summer, reappears; it ceases to be latent; and now, for the first time, striking the senses of man, it tempers, on his behalf, the severity of winter. The faster the water freezes, the faster the heat is disengaged; so that, by virtue of this great law of nature, cold actually generates warmth, and the inclemency of every season, though it cannot be hindered, is softened in proportion as the inclemency is more threatening.[764] [764] 'Dr. Black quickly perceived the vast importance of this discovery; and took a pleasure in laying before his students a view of the extensive and beneficial effects of this habitude of heat in the economy of nature. He made them remark how, by this means, there was accumulated, during the summer season, a vast magazine of heat, which, by gradually emerging, during congelation, from the water which covers the face of the earth, serves to temper the deadly cold of winter. Were it not for this quantity of heat, amounting to 145 degrees, which emerges from every particle of water as it freezes, and which diffuses itself through the atmosphere, the sun would no sooner go a few degrees to the south of the equator, than we should feel all the horrors of winter.' _Robison's Preface to Black's Lectures_, vol. i. p. xxxviii. Thus, again, inasmuch as heat becomes latent, and flies from the senses, not only when ice is passing into water, but also when water is passing into steam, we find in this latter circumstance, one of the reasons why man and other animals can live in the tropics, which, but for this, would be deserted. They are constantly suffering from the heat which is collected in their bodies, and which, considered by itself, is enough to destroy them. But this heat causes thirst, and they consequently swallow great quantities of fluid, much of which exudes through the pores of the skin in the form of vapour. And as, according to the theory of latent heat, vapour cannot be produced without a vast amount of heat being buried within it, such vapour absorbs and carries off from the body, that which, if left in the system, would prove fatal. To this we must add, that, in the tropics, the evaporation of water is necessarily rapid, and the vapour which is thus produced, becomes another storehouse of heat, and a vehicle by which it is removed from the earth, and prevented from unduly interfering with the economy of life.[765] [765] As I am writing an account of Black's views, and not a criticism of them, I shall give them, without comment, in his own words, and in the words of one of his pupils. 'Here we can also trace another magnificent train of changes, which are nicely accommodated to the wants of the inhabitants of this globe. In the equatorial regions, the oppressive heat of the sun is prevented from a destructive accumulation by copious evaporation. The waters, stored with their vaporific heat, are thus carried aloft into the atmosphere, till the rarest of the vapour reaches the very cold regions of the air, which immediately forms a small portion of it into a fleecy cloud. This also further tempers the scorching heat by its opacity, performing the acceptable office of a screen. From thence the clouds are carried to the inland countries, to form the sources in the mountains, which are to supply the numberless streams that water the fields. And, by the steady operation of causes, which are tolerably uniform, the greater part of the vapours pass on to the circumpolar regions, there to descend in rains and dews; and in this beneficent conversion into rain, by the cold of those regions, each particle of steam gives up the 700 or 800 degrees of heat which were latent in it. These are immediately diffused, and soften the rigour of those less comfortable climates.' ... 'I am persuaded that the heat absorbed in spontaneous evaporation greatly contributes to enable animals to bear the heat of the tropical climates, where the thermometer frequently continues to show the temperature of the human body. Such heats, indeed, are barely supportable, and enervate the animal, making it lazy and indolent, indulging in the most relaxed postures, and avoiding every exertion of body or mind. The inhabitants are induced to drink large draughts of diluting liquors, which transude through their pores most copiously, carrying off with them a vast deal of this troublesome and exhausting heat. There is in the body itself a continual laboratory, or manufacture of heat, and, were the surrounding air of such a temperature as not to carry it off, it would soon accumulate so as to destroy life. The excessive perspiration, supplied by diluting draughts, performs the same office as the cold air without the tropics, in guarding us from this fatal accumulation.' _Black's Lectures_, vol. i. pp. xlvi. 214. From these and many other arguments, all of which were so essentially speculative, and dealt with such hidden processes of nature, that even now we are not justified either in confidently admitting them or in positively denying them, Black was led to that great doctrine of the indestructibility of heat,[766] which, as I have pointed out, has, in its connexion with the indestructibility of force, a moral and social importance even superior to its scientific value. Though the evidence of which he was possessed was far more scanty than what we now have, he, by the reach of his commanding intellect, rather than by the number and accuracy of his facts, became so penetrated with a conviction of the stability of physical affairs, that he not only applied that idea to the subtle phenomena of heat, but, what was much harder to do, he applied it to cases in which heat so entirely escapes the senses, that man has no cognizance of it, except through the medium of the imagination. According to his view, heat passes through an immense variety of changes, during which it appears to be lost; changes which no eye can ever see, which no touch can ever experience, and which no instrument can ever measure. Still, and in the midst of all these changes, it remains intact. From it nothing can be taken, and to it nothing can be added. In one of those fine passages of his Lectures, which, badly reported as they are,[767] bear the impress of his elevated genius, Black, after stating what would probably happen, if the total amount of heat existing in the world were to be diminished, proceeds to speculate on the consequences of its being increased. Were it possible for any power to add to it ever so little, it would at once overstep its bounds; the equilibrium would be disturbed; the framework of affairs would be disjointed. The evil rapidly increasing, and acting with accumulated force, nothing would be able to stop its ravages. It must continue to gain ground, till all other principles are absorbed and conquered. Sweeping on, unhindered, and irresistible, before it, every animal must perish, the whole vegetable world must disappear, the waters must pass into vapour, and the solid parts of the globe be merged and melted, until, at length, the glorious fabric, loosened and dissolved, would fall away, and return to that original chaos out of which it had been evolved.[768] [766] See his strong protest against the notion that heat is ever destroyed, in his _Lectures_, vol. i. pp. 125, 126, 164, 165. [767] They were published after his death from such scanty materials, that their editor, Dr. Robison, says (_Preface to Black's Lectures_, vol. i. p. x.): 'When I then entered seriously on the task, I found that the notes were (with the exception of perhaps a score of lectures) in the same imperfect condition that they had been in from the beginning, consisting entirely of single leaves of paper, in octavo, full of erasions, interlinings, and alterations of every kind; so that, in many places, it was not very certain which of several notes was to be chosen.' [768] 'On the other hand, were the heat which at present cherishes and enlivens this globe, allowed to increase beyond the bounds at present prescribed to it; beside the destruction of all animal and vegetable life, which would be the immediate and inevitable consequence, the water would lose its present form, and assume that of an elastic vapour like air; the solid parts of the globe would be melted and confounded together, or mixed with the air and water in smoke and vapour; and nature would return to the original chaos.' _Black's Lectures_, vol. i. pp. 246, 247. These, like many other of the speculations of this great thinker, will find small favour with those purely inductive philosophers, who not only suppose, perhaps rightly, that all our knowledge is in its beginning built upon facts, but who countenance, what seems to me, the very dangerous opinion, that every increase of knowledge must be preceded by an increase of facts. To such men it will appear, that Black had far better have occupied himself in making new observations, or devising new experiments, than in thus indulging his imagination in wild and unprofitable dreams. They will think, that these flights of fancy are suitable, indeed, to the poet, but unworthy of that severe accuracy, and of that close attention to facts, which ought to characterize a philosopher. In England, especially, there is, among physical inquirers, an avowed determination to separate philosophy from poetry, and to look upon them, not only as different, but as hostile. Among that class of thinkers, whose zeal and ability are beyond all praise, and to whom we owe almost unbounded obligations, there does undoubtedly exist a very strong opinion, that, in their own pursuit, the imagination is extremely dangerous, as leading to speculations, of which the basis is not yet assured, and generating a desire to catch too eagerly at distant glimpses before the intermediate ground has been traversed. That the imagination has this tendency is undeniable. But they who object to it on this account, and who would, therefore, divorce poetry from philosophy, have, I apprehend, taken a too limited view of the functions of the human mind, and of the manner in which truth is obtained. There is, in poetry, a divine and prophetic power, and an insight into the turn and aspect of things, which, if properly used, would make it the ally of science instead of the enemy. By the poet, nature is contemplated on the side of the emotions; by the man of science, on the side of the understanding. But the emotions are as much a part of us as the understanding: they are as truthful; they are as likely to be right. Though their view is different, it is not capricious. They obey fixed laws; they follow an orderly and uniform course; they run in sequences; they have their logic and method of inference. Poetry, therefore, is a part of philosophy, simply because the emotions are a part of the mind. If the man of science despises their teaching, so much the worse for him. He has only half his weapons; his arsenal is unfilled. Conquests, indeed, he may make, because his native strength may compensate the defects of his equipment. But his success would be more complete and more rapid, if he were properly furnished and made ready for the battle. And I cannot but regard as the worst intellectual symptom of this great country, what I must venture to call the imperfect education of physical philosophers, as exhibited both in their writings and in their trains of thought. This is the more serious, because they, as a body, form the most important class in England, whether we look at their ability, or at the benefits we have received from them, or at the influence they are exercising, and are likely to exercise, over the progress of society. It cannot, however, be concealed, that they display an inordinate respect for experiments, an undue love of minute detail, and a disposition to overrate the inventors of new instruments, and the discoverers of new, but often insignificant, facts. Their predecessors of the seventeenth century, by using hypotheses more boldly, and by indulging their imagination more frequently, did certainly effect greater things, in comparison with the then state of knowledge, than our contemporaries, with much superior resources, have been able to achieve. The magnificent generalizations of Newton and Harvey could never have been completed in an age absorbed in one unvarying round of experiments and observations. We are in that predicament, that our facts have outstripped our knowledge, and are now encumbering its march. The publications of our scientific institutions, and of our scientific authors, overflow with minute and countless details, which perplex the judgment, and which no memory can retain. In vain do we demand that they should be generalized, and reduced into order. Instead of that, the heap continues to swell. We want ideas, and we get more facts. We hear constantly of what nature is doing, but we rarely hear of what man is thinking. Owing to the indefatigable industry of this and the preceding century, we are in possession of a huge and incoherent mass of observations, which have been stored up with great care, but which, until they are connected by some presiding idea, will be utterly useless. The most effective way of turning them to account, would be to give more scope to the imagination, and incorporate the spirit of poetry with the spirit of science. By this means, our philosophers would double their resources, instead of working, as now, maimed, and with only half their nature. They fear the imagination, on account of its tendency to form hasty theories. But, surely, all our faculties are needed in the pursuit of truth, and we cannot be justified in discrediting any part of the human mind. And I can hardly doubt, that one of the reasons why we, in England, made such wonderful discoveries during the seventeenth century, was because that century was also the great age of English poetry. The two mightiest intellects our country has produced are Shakspeare and Newton; and that Shakspeare should have preceded Newton, was, I believe, no casual or unmeaning event. Shakspeare and the poets sowed the seed, which Newton and the philosophers reaped. Discarding the old scholastic and theological pursuits, they drew attention to nature, and thus became the real founders of all natural science. They did even more than this. They first impregnated the mind of England with bold and lofty conceptions. They taught the men of their generation to crave after the unseen. They taught them to pine for the ideal, and to rise above the visible world of sense. In this way, by cultivating the emotions, they opened one of the paths which lead to truth. The impetus which they communicated, survived their own day, and, like all great movements, was felt in every department of thought. But now it is gone; and, unless I am greatly mistaken, physical science is at present suffering from its absence. Since the seventeenth century, we have had no poet of the highest order, though Shelley, had he lived, would perhaps have become one. He had something of that burning passion, that sacred fire, which kindles the soul, as though it came fresh from the altar of the gods. But he was cut off in his early prime, when his splendid genius was still in its dawn. If we except his immature, though marvellous, efforts, we may assuredly say, that, for nearly two hundred years, England has produced no poetry which bears those unmistakable marks of inspiration which we find in Spenser, in Shakspeare, and in Milton. The result is, that we, separated by so long an interval from those great feeders of the imagination, who nurtured our ancestors, and being unable to enter fully into the feelings of poets, who wrote when nearly all opinions, and, therefore, nearly all forms of emotion, were very different to what they now are, cannot possibly sympathize with those immortal productions so closely as their contemporaries did. The noble English poetry of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries is read more than ever, but it does not colour our thoughts; it does not shape our understandings, as it shaped the understandings of our forefathers. Between us and them is a chasm, which we cannot entirely bridge. We are so far removed from the associations amid which those poems were composed, that they do not flash upon us with that reality and distinctness of aim, which they would have done, had we lived when they were written. Their garb is strange, and belongs to another time. Not merely their dialect and their dress, but their very complexion and their inmost sentiments, tell of bygone days, of which we have no firm hold. There is, no doubt, a certain ornamental culture, which the most highly educated persons receive from the literature of the past, and by which they sometimes refine their taste, and sometimes enlarge their ideas. But the real culture of a great people, that which supplies each generation with its principal strength, consists of what is learnt from the generation immediately preceding. Though we are often unconscious of the process, we build nearly all our conceptions on the basis recognized by those who went just before us. Our closest contact is, not with our forefathers, but with our fathers. To them we are linked by a genuine affinity, which, being spontaneous, costs us no effort, and from which, indeed, we cannot escape. We inherit their notions, and modify them, just as they modified the notions of their predecessors. At each successive modification, something is lost and something is gained, until, at length, the original type almost disappears. Therefore it is, that ideas entertained several generations ago, bear about the same relation to us, as ideas preserved in a foreign literature. In both cases, the ideas may adorn our knowledge, but they are never so thoroughly incorporated with our minds, as to be the knowledge itself. The assimilation is incomplete, because the sympathy is incomplete. We have now no great poets; and our poverty in this respect is not compensated by the fact, that we once had them, and that we may, and do, read their works. The movement has gone by; the charm is broken; the bond of union, though not cancelled, is seriously weakened. Hence, our age, great as it is, and, in nearly all respects, greater than any the world has yet seen, has, notwithstanding its large and generous sentiments, its unexampled toleration, its love of liberty, and its profuse, and almost reckless, charity, a certain material, unimaginative, and unheroic character, which has made several observers tremble for the future. So far as I can understand our present condition, I do not participate in these fears, because I believe that the good we have already gained, is beyond all comparison greater than what we have lost. But that something has been lost, is unquestionable. We have lost much of that imagination, which, though, in practical life, it often misleads, is, in speculative life, one of the highest of all qualities, being suggestive as well as creative. Even practically, we should cherish it, because the commerce of the affections mainly depends on it. It is, however, declining; while, at the same time, the increasing refinement of society accustoms us more and more to suppress our emotions, lest they should be disagreeable to others. And as the play of the emotions is the chief study of the poet, we see, in this circumstance, another reason which makes it difficult to rival that great body of poetry which our ancestors possessed. Therefore, it is doubly incumbent on physical philosophers to cultivate the imagination. It is a duty they owe to their own pursuits, which would be enriched and invigorated by such an enlargement of their resources. It is also a duty which they owe to society in general; since they, whose intellectual influence is already greater than that of any other class, and whose authority is perceptibly on the increase, might have power enough to correct the most serious deficiency of the present age, and to make us some amends for our inability to produce such a splendid imaginative literature as that which our forefathers created, and in which the choicest spirits of the seventeenth century did, if I may so say, dwell and have their being. If, therefore, Black had done nothing more than set the example of a great physical philosopher giving free scope to the imagination, he would have conferred upon us a boon, the magnitude of which it is not easy to overrate. And it is very remarkable, that, before he died, that department of inorganic physics, which he cultivated with such success, was taken up by another eminent Scotchman, who pursued exactly the same plan, though with somewhat inferior genius. I allude, of course, to Leslie, whose researches on heat are well known to those who are occupied with this subject; while, for our present purpose, they are chiefly interesting as illustrating that peculiar method which, in the eighteenth century, seemed essential to the Scotch mind. About thirty years after Black propounded his famous theory of heat, Leslie began to investigate the same topic, and, in 1804, published a special dissertation upon it.[769] In that work, and in some papers in his _Treatises on Philosophy_, are contained his views, several of which are now known to be inaccurate,[770] though some are of sufficient value to mark an epoch in the history of science. Such was his generalization respecting the connexion between the radiation of heat, and its reflection; bodies which reflect it most, radiating it least, and those which radiate it most, reflecting it least. Such, too, was another wide conclusion, which the best inquirers have since confirmed, namely, that, while heat is radiating from a body, the intensity of each ray is as the sine of the angle which it makes with the surface of that body. [769] Mr. Napier, in his _Memoirs of Leslie_, pp. 16, 17 (prefixed to _Leslie's Treatises on Philosophy_, Edinb. 1838), says, that he 'composed the bulk of his celebrated work on Heat in the years 1801 and 1802;' but that, in 1793, he propounded 'some of its theoretical opinions, as well as the germs of its discoveries.' It appears, however, from his own statement, that he was making experiments on heat, at all events, as early as 1791. See _Leslie's Experimental Inquiry into the Nature and Propagation of Heat_, London, 1804, p. 409. [770] For specimens of some of his most indefensible speculations, see _Leslie's Treatises on Philosophy_, pp. 38, 43. These were important steps, and they were the result of experiments, preceded by large and judicious hypotheses. In relation, however, to the economy of nature, considered as a whole, they are of small account in comparison with what Leslie effected towards consolidating the great idea of light and heat being identical, and thus preparing his contemporaries for that theory of the interchange of forces, which is the capital intellectual achievement of the nineteenth century. But it is interesting to observe, that, with all his ardour, he could not go beyond a certain length. He was so hampered by the material tendencies of his time, that he could not bring himself to conceive heat as a purely supersensual force, of which temperature was the external manifestation.[771] For this, the age was barely ripe. We accordingly find him asserting, that heat is an elastic fluid, extremely subtle, but still a fluid.[772] His real merit was, that, notwithstanding the difficulties which beset his path, he firmly seized the great truth, that there is no fundamental difference between light and heat. As he puts it, each is merely a metamorphosis of the other. Heat is light in complete repose. Light is heat in rapid motion. Directly light is combined with a body, it becomes heat; but when it is thrown off from that body, it again becomes light.[773] [771] Though he clearly distinguishes between the two. 'It is almost superfluous to remark, that the term heat is of ambiguous import, denoting either a certain sensation, or the external cause which excites it.' _Leslie on Heat_, p. 137. [772] 'Heat is an elastic fluid extremely subtle and active.' _Leslie on Heat_, p. 150. At p. 31, 'calorific and frigorific fluid.' See also pp. 143, 144; and the attempt to measure its elasticity, in pp. 177, 178. [773] 'Heat is only light in the state of combination.' _Leslie on Heat_, p. 162. 'Heat in the state of emission constitutes light.' p. 174. 'It is, therefore, the same subtle matter, that, according to its different modes of existence, constitutes either heat or light. Projected with rapid celerity, it forms light; in the state of combination with bodies it acts as heat.' p. 188. See also p. 403, 'different states of the same identical substance.' Whether this is true or false, we cannot tell; and many years, perhaps many generations, will have to elapse before we shall be able to tell. But the service rendered by Leslie is quite independent of the accuracy of his opinion, as to the manner in which light and heat are interchanged. That they are interchanged, is the essential and paramount idea. And we must remember, that he made this idea the basis of his researches, at a period when some very important facts, or, I should rather say, some very conspicuous facts, were opposed to it; while the main facts which favoured it were still unknown. When he composed his work, the analogies between light and heat, with which we are now acquainted, had not been discovered; no one being aware, that double refraction, polarization, and other curious properties, are common to both. To grasp so wide a truth in the face of such obstacles, was a rare stroke of sagacity. But, on account of the obstacles, the inductive mind of England refused to receive the truth, as it was not generalized from a survey of all the facts. And Leslie, unfortunately for himself, died too soon to enjoy the exquisite pleasure of witnessing the empirical corroboration of his doctrine by direct experiment, although he clearly perceived that the march of discovery, in reference to polarization, was leading the scientific world to a point, of which his keen eye had discerned the nature, when, to others, it was an almost invisible speck, dim in the distant offing.[774] [774] In 1814, that is ten years after his great work was published, and about twenty years after it was begun, he writes from Paris: 'My book on heat is better known' here 'than in England. I was even reminded of some passages in it which in England were considered as fanciful, but which the recent discoveries on the polarity of light have confirmed.' _Napier's Memoirs of Leslie_, p. 28, prefixed to _Leslie's Philosophical Treatises_, edit. Edinb. 1838. Leslie died in 1832 (p. 40); and the decisive experiments of Forbes and Melloni were made between 1834 and 1836. In regard to the method adopted by Leslie, he assures us, that, in assuming the principles from which he reasoned, he derived great aid from poetry; for he knew that the poets are, after their own manner, consummate observers, and that their united observations form a treasury of truths, which are nowise inferior to the truths of science, and of which science must either avail herself, or else suffer from neglecting them.[775] To apply these truths rightly, and to fit them to the exigencies of physical inquiry, is, no doubt, a most difficult task, since it involves nothing less than holding the balance between the conflicting claims of the emotions and the understanding. Like all great enterprises, it is full of danger, and, if undertaken by an ordinary mind, would certainly fail. But there are two circumstances which make it less dangerous in our time, than in any earlier period. The first circumstance is, that the supremacy of the human understanding, and its right to judge all theories for itself, is now more generally admitted than ever; so that there can be little fear of our leaning to the opposite side, and allowing poetry to encroach on science. The other circumstance is, that our knowledge of the laws of nature is much greater than that possessed by any previous age; and there is, consequently, less risk of the imagination leading us into error, inasmuch as we have a large number of well-ascertained truths, which we can confront with every speculation, no matter how plausible or ingenious it may appear. [775] 'The easiest mode of conceiving the subject, is to consider the heat that permeates all bodies, and unites with them in various proportions, as merely the subtle fluid of light in a state of combination. When forcibly discharged, or suddenly elicited from any substance, it again resumes its radiant splendour.' ... 'The same notion was embraced by the poets, and gives sublimity to their finest odes.' ... 'Those poetical images which have descended to our own times, were hence founded on a close observation of nature. Modern philosophy need not disdain to adopt them, and has only to expand and reduce to precision the original conceptions.' _Leslie's Treatises on Philosophy_, pp. 308, 309. Again, at p. 416: 'This is not the first occasion in which we have to admire, through the veil of poetical imagery, the sagacity and penetration of those early sages. It would be weakness to expect nice conclusions in the infancy of science; but it is arrogant presumption to regard all the efforts of unaided genius with disdain.' On both these grounds, Leslie was, I apprehend, justified in taking the course which he did. At all events, it is certain, that, by following it, he came nearer than would otherwise have been possible, to the conceptions of the most advanced scientific thinkers of our day. He distinctly recognized that, in the material world, there is neither break nor pause; so that what we call the divisions of nature have no existence, except in our minds.[776] He was even almost prepared to do away with that imaginary difference between the organic and inorganic world, which still troubles many of our physicists, and prevents them from comprehending the unity and uninterrupted march of affairs. They, with their old notions of inanimate matter, are unable to see that all matter is living, and that what we term death is a mere expression by which we signify a fresh form of life. Towards this conclusion, all our knowledge is now converging; and it is certainly no small merit in Leslie, that he, sixty years ago, when really comprehensive views, embracing the whole creation, were scarcely known among scientific men, should have strongly insisted that all forces are of the same kind, and that we have no right to distinguish between them, as if some were living, and others were dead.[777] [776] 'We should recollect that, in all her productions, Nature exhibits a chain of perpetual gradation, and that the systematic divisions and limitations are entirely artificial, and designed merely to assist the memory and facilitate our conceptions.' _Leslie on Heat_, p. 506. [777] 'All forces are radically of the same kind, and the distinction of them into _living_ and _dead_ is not grounded on just principles.' _Leslie on Heat_, p. 133. Compare p. 299: 'We shall perhaps find, that this prejudice, like many others, has some semblance of truth; and that even dead or inorganic substances must, in their recondite arrangements, exert such varying energies, and _so like sensation itself_, as if fully unveiled to our eyes, could not fail to strike us with wonder and surprise.' We owe much to him, by whom such views were advocated. But they were then, and in a certain, though far smaller degree, they are now, so out of the domain of physical experience, that Leslie never could have obtained them by generalizing in the way which the inductive philosophy enjoins. His great work on heat was executed, as well as conceived, on the opposite plan;[778] and his prejudices on this point were so strong, that we are assured by his biographer, that he would allow no merit to Bacon, who organized the inductive method into a system, and to whose authority we in England pay a willing, and I had almost said a servile, homage.[779] [778] Mr. Napier, in his _Life of Leslie_, p. 17, says of it, very gravely, 'Its hypotheses are not warranted by the sober maxims of inductive logic.' [779] 'Notwithstanding the contrary testimony, explicitly recorded by the founders of the English experimental school, he denied all merit and influence to the immortal delineator of the inductive logic.' _Napier's Life of Leslie_, p. 42. Another curious illustration of the skill with which the Scotch mind, when once possessed of a principle, worked from it deductively, appears in the geological speculations of Hutton, late in the eighteenth century. It is well known, that the two great powers which have altered the condition of our planet, and made it what it is, are fire and water. Each has played so considerable a part, that we can hardly measure their relative importance. Judging, however, from the present appearance of the crust of the earth, there is reason to believe, that the older rocks are chiefly the result of fusion, and that the younger are aqueous deposits. It is, therefore, not unlikely, that, in the order in which the energies of nature have unfolded themselves, fire preceded water, and was its necessary precursor.[780] But, all that we are as yet justified in asserting is, that these two causes, the igneous and the aqueous, were in full operation long before man existed, and are still busily working. Perhaps they are preparing another change in our habitation, suitable to new forms of life, as superior to man, as man is superior to the beings who occupied the earth before his time. Be this as it may, fire and water are the two most important and most general principles with which geologists are concerned; and though, on a superficial view, each is extremely destructive, it is certain that they can really destroy nothing, but can only decompose and recompose; shifting the arrangements of nature, but leaving nature herself intact. Whether one of these elements will ever again get the upper hand of its opponent, is a speculation of extreme interest. For, there is reason to suspect, that, at one period, fire was more active than water, and that, at another period, water was more active than fire. That they are engaged in incessant warfare, is a fact with which geologists are perfectly familiar, though, in this, as in many other cases, the poets were the first to discern the truth. To the eye of the geologist, water is constantly labouring to reduce all the inequalities of the earth to a single level; while fire, with its volcanic action, is equally busy in restoring those inequalities, by throwing up matter to the surface, and in various ways disturbing the crust of the globe.[781] And as the beauty of the material world mainly depends on that irregularity of aspect, without which scenery would have presented no variety of form, and but little variety of colour, we shall, I think, not be guilty of too refined a subtlety, if we say that fire, by saving us from the monotony to which water would have condemned us, has been the remote cause of that development of the imagination which has given us our poetry, our painting, and our sculpture, and has thereby not only wonderfully increased the pleasures of life, but has imparted to the human mind a completeness of function, to which, in the absence of such a stimulus, it could not have attained. [780] The supposition, that volcanic agencies were formerly more potent than they are now, is by no means inconsistent with the scientific doctrine of uniformity, though it is generally considered to be so. It is one thing to assert the uniformity of natural laws; it is quite another thing to assert the uniformity of natural causes. Heat may once have produced far greater effects than it can do at present, and yet the laws of nature be unchanged, and the order and sequence of events unbroken. What I would venture to suggest to geologists is, that they have not taken sufficiently into account the theory of the interchange of forces, which seems to offer a solution of at least part of the problem. For, by that theory, a large portion of the heat which formerly existed may have been metamorphosed into other forces, such as light, chemical affinity, and gravitation. The increase of these forces consequent on the diminution of heat, would have facilitated the consolidation of matter; and until such forces possessed a certain energy, water, which afterwards became so prominent, could not have been formed. If the power of chemical affinity, for instance, were much weaker than it is, water would assuredly resolve itself into its component gases. Without wishing to lay too much stress on this speculation, I submit it to the consideration of competent judges, because I am convinced that any hypothesis, not absolutely inconsistent with the known laws of nature, is preferable to that dogma of interference, which what may be called the miraculous school of geologists wish to foist upon us, in utter ignorance of its incompatibility with the conclusions of the most advanced minds in other departments of thought. The remarks in Sir Roderick Murchison's great work (_Siluria_, London, 1854, pp. 475, 476) on the 'grander intensity of former causation,' and on the difficulty this opposes to the 'uniformitarians,' apply merely to those who take for granted that _each_ force has always been equally powerful: they do not affect those who suppose that it is only the _aggregate_ of force which remains unimpaired. Though the distribution of forces may be altered, their gross amount is not susceptible of change, so far as the highest conceptions of our actual science extend. Consequently, there is no need for us to believe that, in different periods, the intensity of causation varies; though we may believe that some one agent, such as heat, had at one time more energy than it has ever had since. [781] 'The great agents of change in the inorganic world may be divided into two principal classes, the aqueous and the igneous. To the aqueous belong rain, rivers, torrents, springs, currents, and tides; to the igneous, volcanos and earthquakes. Both these classes are instruments of decay as well as of reproduction; but they may also be regarded as antagonist forces. For the aqueous agents are incessantly labouring to reduce the inequalities of the earth's surface to a level; while the igneous are equally active in restoring the unevenness of the external crust, partly by heaping up new matter in certain localities, and partly by depressing one portion, and forcing out another, of the earth's envelope.' _Lyell's Principles of Geology_, 9th edit., London, 1853, p. 198. When geologists began to study the laws according to which fire and water had altered the structure of the earth, two different courses were open to them, namely, the inductive and the deductive. The deductive plan was to compute the probable consequences of fire and water, by reasoning from the sciences of thermotics and hydrodynamics; tracking each element by an independent line of argument, and afterwards coördinating into a single scheme the results which had been separately obtained. It would then only remain to inquire, how far this imaginary scheme harmonized with the actual state of things; and if the discrepancy between the ideal and the actual were not greater than might fairly be expected from the perturbations produced by other causes, the ratiocination would be complete, and geology would, in its inorganic department, become a deductive science. That our knowledge is ripe for such a process, I am far, indeed, from supposing; but this is the path which a deductive mind would take, so far as it was able. On the other hand, an inductive mind, instead of beginning with fire and water, would begin with the effects which fire and water had produced, and would first study these two agents, not in their own separate sciences, but in their united action as exhibited on the crust of the earth. An inquirer of this sort would assume, that the best way of arriving at truth would be to proceed from effects to causes, observing what had actually happened, and rising from the complex results up to a knowledge of the simple agents, by whose power the results have been brought about. If the reader has followed the train of thought which I have endeavoured to establish in this chapter, and in the first volume, he will be prepared to expect that when, in the latter half of the eighteenth century, geology was first seriously studied, the inductive plan of proceeding from effects to causes became the favourite one in England; while the deductive plan of proceeding from causes to effects, was adopted in Scotland and in Germany. And such was really the case. It is generally admitted, that, in England, scientific geology owes its origin to William Smith, whose mind was singularly averse to system, and who, believing that the best way of understanding former causes was to study present effects, occupied himself, between the years 1790 and 1815, in a laborious examination of different strata.[782] In 1815, he, after traversing the whole of England on foot, published the first complete geological map which ever appeared, and thus took the first great step towards accumulating the materials for an inductive generalization.[783] In 1807, and, therefore, before he had brought his arduous task to an end, there was formed in London the Geological Society, the express object of which, we are assured, was, to observe the condition of the earth, but by no means to generalize the causes which had produced that condition.[784] The resolution was, perhaps, a wise one. At all events, it was highly characteristic of the sober and patient spirit of the English intellect. With what energy and unsparing toil it has been executed, and how the most eminent members of the Geological Society have, in the pursuit of truth, not only explored every part of Europe, but examined the shell of the earth in America and in Northern Asia, is well known to all who are interested in these matters; nor can it be denied, that the great works of Lyell and Murchison prove that the men who are capable of such laborious enterprises, are also capable of the still more difficult achievement of generalizing their facts and refining them into ideas. They did not go as mere observers, but they went with the noble object of making their observations subservient to a discovery of the laws of nature. That was their aim; and all honour be to them for it. Still, it is evident, that their process is essentially inductive; it is a procedure from the observation of complex phenomena, up to the elements to which those phenomena are owing; it is, in other words, a study of natural effects, in order to learn the operation of natural causes. [782] Dr. Whewell, comparing him with his great German contemporary, Werner, says, 'In the German, considering him as a geologist, the ideal element predominated.' ... 'Of a very different temper and character was William Smith. No literary cultivation of his youth awoke in him the _speculative love of symmetry and system_; but a singular clearness and precision of the classifying power, which he possessed as a native talent, was exercised and developed by exactly those geological facts among which his philosophical task lay.' ... 'We see great vividness of thought and activity of mind, _unfolding itself exactly in proportion to the facts with which it had to deal_.' ... 'He dates his attempts to discriminate and connect strata from the year 1790.' _Whewell's History of the Inductive Sciences_, London, 1847, vol. iii. pp. 562-564. [783] 'The execution of his map was completed in 1815, and remains a lasting monument of original talent and extraordinary perseverance; for he had explored the whole country on foot without the guidance of previous observers, or the aid of fellow-labourers, and had succeeded in throwing into natural divisions the whole complicated series of British rocks.' _Lyell's Principles of Geology_, p. 58. Geological maps of parts of England had, however, been published before 1815. See _Conybeare on Geology_, in _Second Report of the British Association_, p. 373. [784] 'A great body of new data were required; and the Geological Society of London, founded in 1807, conduced greatly to the attainment of this desirable end. To multiply and record observations, and patiently to await the result at some future period, was the object proposed by them; and it was their favourite maxim, that the time was not yet come for a general system of geology, but that all must be content for many years to be exclusively engaged in furnishing materials for future generalizations.' _Lyell's Principles of Geology_, p. 59. Compare _Richardson's Geology_, 1851, p. 40. Very different was the process in Germany and Scotland. In 1787, that is, only three years before William Smith began his labours, Werner, by his work on the classification of mountains, laid the foundation of the German school of geology.[785] His influence was immense; and among his pupils we find the names of Mohs, Raumer, and Von Buch, and even that of Alexander Humboldt.[786] But the geological theory which he propounded, depended entirely on a chain of argument from cause to effect. He assumed, that all the great changes through which the earth had passed, were due to the action of water. Taking this for granted, he reasoned deductively from premisses with which his knowledge of water supplied him. Without entering into details respecting his system, it is enough to say, that, according to it, there was originally one vast and primeval sea, which, in the course of time, deposited the primitive rocks. The base of all was granite; then gneiss; and others followed in their order. In the bosom of the water, which at first was tranquil, agitations gradually arose, which, destroying part of the earliest deposits, gave birth to new rocks, formed out of their ruins. The stratified thus succeeded to the unstratified, and something like variety was established. Then came another period, in which the face of the waters, instead of being merely agitated, was convulsed by tempests, and, amid their play and collision, life was generated, and plants and animals sprung into existence. The vast solitude was slowly peopled, the sea gradually retired; and a foundation was laid for that epoch, during which man entered the scene, bringing with him the rudiments of order and of social improvement.[787] [785] Cuvier, in his Life of Werner, says (_Biographie Universelle_, vol. i. pp. 376, 377), 'La connaissance des positions respectives des minéraux dans la croûte du globe, et ce que l'on peut en conclure relativement aux époques de leur origine, forment une autre branche de la science qu'il appelle Géognosie. Il en présenta les premières bases en 1787, dans un petit écrit intitulé "Classification et description des Montagnes."' [786] _Whewell's History of the Inductive Sciences_, vol. iii. p. 567. [787] 'Une mer universelle et tranquille dépose en grandes masses les roches primitives, roches nettement cristallisées, où domine d'abord la silice. Le granit fait la base de tout; au granit succède le gneiss, qui n'est qu'un granit commençant à se feuilleter.' ... 'Des agitations intestines du liquide détruisent une partie de ces premiers dépôts; de nouvelles roches se forment de leurs débris réunis par des cimens. C'est parmi ces tempêtes que naît la vie.' ... 'Les eaux, de nouveau tranquillisées, mais dont le contenu a changé, déposent des couches moins épaisses et plus variées, où les débris des corps vivans s'accumulent successivement dans un ordre non moins fixe que celui des roches qui les contiennent. Enfin, la dernière retraite des eaux répand sur le continent d'immenses alluvions de matières meubles, premiers sièges de la végétation, de la culture et de la sociabilité.' _Eloge de Werner_, in _Cuvier_, _Recueil des Elogés Historiques_, vol. ii. pp. 321-323. These were the leading views of a system which, we must remember, exercised great sway in the scientific world, and won over to its side minds of considerable power. Erroneous and far-fetched though it was, it had the merit of calling attention to one of the two chief principles which have determined the present condition of our planet. It had the further merit of provoking a controversy, which was eminently serviceable to the interests of truth. For, the great enemy of knowledge is not error, but inertness. All that we want is discussion, and then we are sure to do well, no matter what our blunders may be. One error conflicts with another; each destroys its opponent, and truth is evolved. This is the course of the human mind, and it is from this point of view that the authors of new ideas, the proposers of new contrivances, and the originators of new heresies, are benefactors of their species. Whether they are right or wrong, is the least part of the question. They tend to excite the mind; they open up the faculties; they stimulate us to fresh inquiry; they place old subjects under new aspects; they disturb the public sloth; and they interrupt, rudely, but with most salutary effect, that love of routine, which, by inducing men to go grovelling on in the ways of their ancestors, stands in the path of every improvement, as a constant, an outlying, and, too often, a fatal obstacle. The method adopted by Werner was evidently deductive, since he argued from a supposed cause, and reasoned from it to the effects. In that cause, he found his major premiss, and thence he worked downwards to his conclusion, until he reached the world of sense and of reality. He trusted in his one great idea, and he handled that idea with consummate skill. On that very account, did he pay less attention to existing facts. Had he chosen, he, like other men, could have collected them, and subjected them to an inductive generalization. But he preferred the opposite path. To reproach him with this is irrational; for, in his journey after truth, he chose one of the only two roads which are open to the human mind. In England, indeed, we are apt to take for granted that one road is infinitely preferable to the other. It may be so; but on this, as on many other subjects, assertions are current which have never been proved. At all events, Werner was so satisfied with his method, that he would not be at the pains of examining the position of rocks and their strata, as they are variously exhibited in different countries; he did not even explore his own country, but, confining himself to a corner of Germany, he began and completed his celebrated system, without investigating the facts on which, according to the inductive method, that system should have been built.[788] [788] 'If it be true that delivery be the first, second, and third requisite in a popular orator, it is no less certain that to travel is of first, second, and third importance to those who desire to originate just and comprehensive views concerning the structure of our globe. Now, Werner had not travelled to distant countries: he had merely explored a small portion of Germany, and conceived, and persuaded others to believe, that the whole surface of our planet, and all the mountain chains in the world, were made after the model of his own province.' ... 'It now appears that he had misinterpreted many of the most important appearances even in the immediate neighbourhood of Freyberg. Thus, for example, within a day's journey of his school, the porphyry, called by him primitive, has been found not only to send forth veins, or dykes, through strata of the coal formation, but to overlie them in mass.' _Lyell's Principles of Geology_, p. 47. Exactly the same process, on the same subject, and at the same time, was going on in Scotland. Hutton, who was the founder of Scotch geology, and who, in 1788, published his _Theory of the Earth_, conducted the inquiry just as Werner did; though, when he began his speculations, he had no knowledge of what Werner was doing.[789] The only difference between them was, that while Werner reasoned from the agency of water, Hutton reasoned from the agency of fire. The cause of this may, I think, be explained. Hutton lived in a country where some of the most important laws of heat had, for the first time, been generalized, and where consequently, that department of inorganic physics had acquired great reputation. It was natural for a Scotchman to take more than ordinary interest in a subject in which Scotland had been so successful, and had obtained so much fame. We need not, therefore, wonder that Hutton, who, like all men, felt the intellectual bent of the time in which he lived, should have yielded to an influence of which he was, perhaps, unconscious. In obedience to the general mental habits of his country he adopted the deductive method. In further obedience to the more special circumstances connected with his own immediate pursuits, he gathered the principles from which he reasoned from a study of fire, instead of gathering them, as Werner did, from a study of water. [789] Though Hutton's _Theory of the Earth_ was first published in 1788, the edition of 1795, which is the one I have used, contains a great number of additional illustrations of his views, and was evidently re-written. But the main features are the same; and we learn from his friend, Playfair, that 'the great outline of his system' was completed 'several years' before 1788. _Life of Hutton_, in _Playfair's Works_, vol. iv. p. 50, Edinburgh, 1822. Hence it is, that, in the history of geology, the followers of Werner are known as Neptunists, and those of Hutton as Plutonists.[790] And these terms represent the only difference between the two great masters. In the most important points, namely their method, they were entirely agreed. Both were essentially one-sided; both paid a too exclusive attention to one of the two principal agents which have altered, and are still altering, the crust of the earth; both reasoned from those agents, instead of reasoning to them; and both constructed their system without sufficiently studying the actual and existing facts; committing, in this respect, an error which the English geologists were the first to rectify. [790] Kirwan appears to have been the first who called Hutton's theory 'the Plutonic System.' See _Illustrations of the Huttonian Theory_, in _Playfair's Works_, vol. i. p. 145. On the distinction between Neptunists and Plutonists, see the same work, pp. 504, 505. As I am writing a history, not of science, but of scientific method, I can only briefly glance at the nature of those services which Hutton rendered to geology, and which are so considerable, that his system has been called its present basis.[791] This, however, is too strongly expressed; for, though Hutton was far from denying the influence of water,[792] he did not concede enough to it, and there is a tendency among several geologists to admit that the system of Werner considered as an aqueous theory, contains a larger amount of truth than the advocates of the igneous theory are willing to allow. Still, what Hutton did was most remarkable, especially in reference to what are now termed metamorphic rocks, the theory of whose formation he was the first to conceive.[793] Into this, and into their connexion, on the one hand, with the sedimentary rocks, and, on the other hand, with those rocks whose origin is perhaps purely igneous, I could not enter without treading on debatable ground. But, putting aside what is yet uncertain, I will mention two circumstances respecting Hutton which are undisputed, and which will give some idea of his method, and of the turn of his mind. The first circumstance is, that, although he ascribed to subterranean heat, as exhibited in volcanic action, a greater and more constant energy than any previous inquirers had ventured to do,[794] he preferred speculating on the probable consequences of that action, rather than drawing inferences from the facts which the action presented; he being on this point so indifferent, that he arrived at his conclusions without inspecting even a single region of active volcanoes, where he might have watched the workings of nature, and seen what she was really about.[795] The other circumstance is equally characteristic. Hutton, in his speculations concerning the geological effects of heat, naturally availed himself of the laws which Black had unfolded. One of those laws was, that certain earths owe their fusibility to the presence of fixed air in them before heat has expelled it; so that if it were possible to force them to retain their fixed air, or carbonic acid gas, as we now call it, no amount of heat could deprive them of the capability of being fused. The fertile mind of Hutton saw, in this discovery, a principle from which he could construct a geological argument. It occurred to him, that great pressure would prevent the escape of fixed air from heated rocks, and would thus enable them to be fused, notwithstanding their elevated temperature. He then supposed that, at a period anterior to the existence of man, such a process had taken place under the surface of the sea, and that the weight of so great a column of water had prevented the rocks from being decomposed while they were subjected to the action of fire. In this way, their volatile parts were held together, and they themselves might be melted, which could not have happened except for this enormous pressure. By following this line of argument, he accounted for the consolidation of strata by heat; since, according to the premisses from which he started, the oily, or bituminous parts, would remain, in spite of the efforts of heat to disperse them.[796] This striking speculation led to the inference, that the volatile components of a substance, and its fixed components, may be made to cohere, in the very teeth of that apparently irresistible agent whose business it is to effect their separation. Such an inference was contrary to all experience; or, to say the least, no man had ever seen an instance of it.[797] Indeed, the event was only supposed to happen in consequence of circumstances which were never met with on the surface of the globe, and which, therefore, were out of the range of all human observation.[798] The utmost that could be expected was, that, by means of our instruments, we might, perhaps, on a small scale, imitate the process which Hutton had imagined. It was possible, that a direct experiment might artificially combine great pressure with great heat, and that the result might be, that the senses would realize what the intellect had conceived.[799] But the experiment had never been tried, and Hutton, who delighted in reasoning from ideas rather than from facts, was not likely to undertake it.[800] He cast his speculation on the world, and left it to its fate.[801] Fortunately, however, for the reception of his system, a very ingenious and skilful experimenter of that day, Sir James Hall, determined to test the speculation by an appeal to facts; and as nature did not supply the facts which he wanted, he created them for himself. He applied heat to powdered chalk, while, at the same time, with great delicacy of manipulation, he subjected the chalk to a pressure about equal to the weight of a column of water half a mile high. The result was, that, under that pressure, the volatile parts of the chalk were held together; the carbonic acid gas was unable to escape; the generation of quicklime was stopped; the ordinary operations of nature were baffled, and the whole composition, being preserved in its integrity, was fused, and, on subsequently cooling, actually crystallized into solid marble.[802] Never was triumph more complete. Never did a fact more fully confirm an idea.[803] But, in the mind of Hutton, the idea preceded the fact by a long interval; since, before the fact was known, the theory had been raised, and the system which was built upon it had, indeed, been published several years. It, therefore, appears that one of the chief parts of the Huttonian Theory, and certainly its most successful part, was conceived in opposition to all preceding experience; that it pre-supposed a combination of events which no one had ever observed, and the mere possibility of which nothing but artificial experiment could prove; and, finally, that Hutton was so confident of the validity of his own method of inquiry, that he disdained to make the experiment himself, but left to another mind that empirical branch of the investigation which he deemed of little moment, but which we, in England, are taught to believe is the only safe foundation of physical research.[804] [791] 'Has not only supplanted that of Werner, but has formed the foundation of the researches and writings of our most enlightened observers, and is justly regarded as the basis of all sound geology at the present day.' _Richardson's Geology_, London, 1851, p. 38. [792] _Hutton's Theory of the Earth_, Edinb. 1795, vol. i. pp. 34, 41, 192, 290, 291, 593, vol. ii. pp. 236, 369, 378, 555. [793] 'In his writings, and in those of his illustrator, Playfair, we find the germ of the metamorphic theory.' _Lyell's Manual of Geology_, London, 1851, p. 92. [794] The shortest summary of this view is in his _Theory of the Earth_, Edin. 1795, vol. ii. pp. 556. 'The doctrine, therefore, of our Theory is briefly this; that whatever may have been the operation of dissolving water, and the chemical action of it upon the materials accumulated at the bottom of the sea, the general solidity of that mass of earth, and the placing of it in the atmosphere above the surface of the sea, has been the immediate operation of fire or heat melting and expanding bodies.' [795] 'Although Hutton had never explored any region of active volcanos, he had convinced himself that basalt and many other trap rocks were of igneous origin.' _Lyell's Principles of Geology_, London, 1853, p. 51. To this I may add, that he wrote his work without having examined granite. He says (_Theory of the Earth_, vol. i. p. 214), 'It is true, I met with it on my return by the east coast, when I just saw it, and no more, at Peterhead and Aberdeen; but that was all the granite I had ever seen when I wrote my _Theory of the Earth_. I have, since that time, seen it in different places; because I went on purpose to examine it, as I shall have occasion to describe in the course of this work.' Hutton's theory of granite is noticed in _Bakewell's Geology_, London, 1838, p. 101: but Mr. Bakewell does not seem to be aware that the theory was formed before the observations were made. [796] _Huttonian Theory_, in _Playfair_, vol. i. pp. 38-40, 509, 510. Compare _Playfair's Life of Hutton_, p. 61. [797] Hence, the objections of Kirwan were invalid; because his argument against Hutton was 'grounded on experiments, where that very separation of the volatile and fixed parts takes place, which it excluded in that hypothesis of subterraneous heat.' HUTTONIAN THEORY, in _Playfair_, vol. i. p. 193, Edinb. 1822. [798] Hutton says (_Theory of the Earth_, Edinb. 1795, vol. i. p. 94), 'The place of mineral operations is not on the surface of the earth; and we are not to limit nature with our imbecility, or estimate the powers of nature by the measure of our own.' See also p. 159, 'mineral operations proper to the lower regions of the earth.' And p. 527, 'The mineral operations of nature lie in a part of the globe which is necessarily inaccessible to man, and where the powers of nature act under very different conditions from those which we find take place in the only situation where we can live.' Again, in vol. ii. p. 97, 'The present Theory of the Earth holds for principle that the strata are consolidated in the mineral regions far beyond the reach of human observation.' Similarly, vol. ii. p. 484, 'we judge not of the progress of things from the actual operations of the surface.' [799] Hutton, however, did not believe that this could be done. 'In the Theory of the Earth which was published, I was anxious to warn the reader against the notion that subterraneous heat and fusion could be compared with that which we induce by our chemical operations on mineral substances here upon the surface of the earth.' _Hutton's Theory of the Earth_, vol. i. p. 251. [800] See, in the _Life of Hutton_, in _Playfair's Works_, vol. iv. p. 62 note, a curious remark on his indifference to experimental verification. Innumerable passages in his work indicate this tendency, and show his desire to reason immediately from general principles. Thus, in vol. i. p. 17, 'Let us strictly examine our principles in order to avoid fallacy in our reasoning.' ... 'We are now, in reasoning from principles, come to a point decisive of the question.' vol. i. p. 177. 'Let us now reason from our principles.' vol. ii. p. 308. Hence, his constantly expressed contempt for experience; as in vol. ii. p. 367, where he says that we must 'overcome those prejudices which contracted views of nature and _magnified opinions of the experience of man_ may have begotten.' [801] Playfair (_Life of Hutton_, p. 64) says that it drew 'their attention' (_i.e._ the attention of 'men of science'), 'very slowly, so that several years elapsed before any one showed himself publicly concerned about it, either as an enemy or a friend.' He adds, as one of the reasons of this, that it contained 'too little detail of facts for a system which involved so much that was new, and opposite to the opinions generally received.' [802] The account of these experiments was read before the Royal Society of Edinburgh in 1805, and is printed in their _Transactions_, vol. vi. pp. 71-185, Edinb. 1812, 4to. The general result was (pp. 148, 149), 'That a pressure of 52 atmospheres, or 1700 feet of sea, is capable of forming a limestone in a proper heat; That under 86 atmospheres, answering nearly to 3000 feet, or about half a mile, a complete marble may be formed; and lastly, That, with a pressure of 173 atmospheres, or 5700 feet, that is little more than one mile of sea, the carbonate of lime is made to undergo complete fusion, and to act powerfully on other earths.' See also p. 160: 'The carbonic acid of limestone cannot be constrained in heat by a pressure less than that of 1708 feet of sea.' There is a short, and not very accurate, notice of these instructive experiments in _Bakewell's Geology_, London, 1838, pp. 249, 250. [803] As Sir James Hall says, 'The truth of the most doubtful principle which Dr. Hutton has assumed, has thus been established by direct experiment.' _Transactions of the Royal Society of Edinburgh_, vol. vi. p. 175. [804] See the remarks of Sir James Hall, in _Transactions_, vol. vi. pp. 74, 75. He observes that Hutton's 'system, however, involves so many suppositions, apparently in contradiction to common experience, which meet us on the very threshold, that most men have hitherto been deterred from an investigation of its principles, and only a few individuals have justly appreciated its merits.' ... 'I conceived that the chemical effects ascribed by him to compression, ought, in the first place, to be investigated.' ... 'It occurred to me that this principle was susceptible of being established in a direct manner by experiment, and _I urged him to make the attempt; but he always rejected this proposal_, on account of the immensity of the natural agents, whose operation he supposed to lie far beyond the reach of our imitation; and he seemed to imagine that any such attempt must undoubtedly fail, and thus _throw discredit on opinions, already sufficiently established, as he conceived, on other principles_.' I have now given an account of all the most important discoveries made by Scotland, in the eighteenth century, respecting the laws of the inorganic world. I have said nothing of Watt, because, although the steam-engine, which we owe to him, is of incalculable importance, it is not a discovery, but an invention. An invention it may justly be termed, rather than an improvement.[805] Notwithstanding what had been effected in the seventeenth century, by De Caus, Worcester, Papin, and Savery, and notwithstanding the later additions of Newcomen and others, the real originality of Watt is unimpeachable. His engine was, essentially, a new invention; but, under its scientific aspect, it was merely a skilful adaptation of laws previously known; and one of its most important points, namely, the economy of heat, was a practical application of ideas promulgated by Black.[806] The only discovery made by Watt, was that of the composition of water. Though his claims are disputed by the friends of Cavendish, it would appear that he was the first who ascertained that water, instead of being an element, is a compound of two gases.[807] This discovery was a considerable step in the history of chemical analysis, but it neither involved nor suggested any new law of nature, and has, therefore, no claim to mark an epoch in the history of the human mind.[808] There is, however, one circumstance connected with it which is too characteristic to be passed over in silence. The discovery was made in 1783, by Watt, the Scotchman, and by Cavendish, the Englishman, neither of whom seems to have been aware of what the other was doing.[809] But between the two there was this difference. Watt, for several years previously, had been speculating on the subject of water in connexion with air, and having, by Black's law of latent heat, associated them together, he was prepared to believe that one is convertible into the other.[810] The idea of an intimate analogy between the two bodies having once entered his mind, gradually ripened; and when he, at last, completed the discovery, it was merely by reasoning from data which others possessed besides himself. Instead of bringing to light new facts, he drew new conclusions from former ideas.[811] Cavendish, on the other hand, obtained his result by the method natural to an Englishman. He did not venture to draw a fresh inference, until he had first ascertained some fresh facts. Indeed, his discovery was so completely an induction from his own experiments, that he omitted to take into consideration the theory of latent heat, from which Watt had reasoned, and where that eminent Scotchman had found the premisses of his argument.[812] Both of these great inquirers arrived at truth, but each accomplished his journey by a different path. And this antithesis is accurately expressed by one of the most celebrated of living chemists, who, in his remarks on the composition of water, truly says, that while Cavendish established the facts, Watt established the idea.[813] [805] It may be traced back, certainly to the beginning of the seventeenth century, and probably still higher. Yet the popular opinion seems to be correct, that Watt was its real inventor; though, of course, he could not have done what he did, without his predecessors. This, however, may be said of all the most eminent and successful men, as well as of the most ordinary men. [806] On the obligations of Watt to Black, compare _Brougham's Life of Watt_ (_Brougham's Works_, vol. i. pp. 25, 36-38, edit. Glasgow, 1855), with _Muirhead's Life of Watt_, second edit. London, 1859, pp. 66, 83. At p. 301, Mr. Muirhead says of Watt, that 'his principal inventions connected with the steam-engine, with all their prodigious results, were founded, as we have seen, on the attentive observation of great philosophical truths; and the economy of fuel, increase of productive power, and saving of animal labour, which gradually ensued, all originated in the sagacious and careful thought with which he investigated the nature and properties of heat.' But whatever investigations Watt made into heat, he discovered no new law respecting it, or, at all events, no new law which is large enough to be noted in the history of thermotics, considered purely as a science, and apart from practical application. Mr. Muirhead, in his interesting work which I have just quoted, has published (pp. 484-486) some remarks made on the subject by Watt, several years after the death of Black, which, though perfectly fair and candid, show that Watt had a rather confused notion of the real difference between an invention and a discovery. [807] Mr. Muirhead, in his _Life of Watt_, pp. 301-370, seems to have put the priority of Watt beyond further doubt; though he is somewhat hard upon Cavendish, who, there can be little question, made the discovery for himself. [808] I would not wish to diminish one jot of the veneration in which the great name of Watt is justly held. But when I find the opinion of Dr. Withering, the botanist, quoted, to the effect that his 'abilities and acquirements placed him next, if not superior, to Newton.' (_Muirhead's Life of Watt_, p. 302), I cannot but protest against such indiscriminate eulogy, which would rank Watt in the same class as one of those godlike intellects of which the whole world has not produced a score, and which are entitled to be termed inspired, if ever human being was so. Another instance of this injudicious panegyric will be found in the same otherwise excellent work (_Muirhead_, pp. 324, 325), where we read that Watt's discovery that water consists of oxygen and hydrogen, was 'the commencement of a new era, the dawn of a new day in physical inquiry, the real foundation of the new system of chemistry; nay, even a discovery "perhaps of greater importance than any single fact which human ingenuity has ascertained either before or since."' [809] That there was no plagiarism on the part of Watt, we know from positive evidence; that there was none on the part of Cavendish, may be fairly presumed, both from the character of the man, and also from the fact that in the then state of chemical knowledge the discovery was imminent, and could not have been long delayed. It was antecedently probable that the composition of water would be ascertained by different persons at the same time, as we have seen in many other discoveries which have been simultaneously made, when the human mind, in that particular department of inquiry, had reached a certain point. We are too apt to suspect philosophers of stealing from each other, what their own abilities are sufficient to work out for themselves. It is, however, certain that Watt thought himself ill-treated by Cavendish. See _Watt's Correspondence on the Composition of Water_, London, 1846, pp. 48, 61. [810] On 26th November 1783, he writes: 'For many years I have entertained an opinion that air was a modification of water; which was originally founded on the facts, that in most cases where air was actually made, which should be distinguished from those wherein it is only extricated from substances containing it in their pores, or otherwise united to them in the state of air, the substances were such as were known to contain water as one of their constituent parts, yet no water was obtained in the processes, except what was known to be only loosely connected with them, such as the water of the crystallization of salts. _This opinion arose from a discovery that the latent heat contained in steam diminished, in proportion as the sensible heat of the water from which it was produced, increased_; or, in other words, that the latent heat of steam was less when it was produced under a greater pressure, or in a more dense state, and greater when it was produced under a less pressure, or in a less dense state; which led me to conclude, that when a very great degree of heat was necessary for the production of the steam, the latent heat would be wholly changed into sensible heat; and that, in such cases, the steam itself might suffer some remarkable change. I now abandon this opinion, in so far as relates to the change of water into air, as I think that may be accounted for on better principles.' See this remarkable passage, which is quite decisive as to the real history of Watt's discovery, in _Correspondence of James Watt on the Composition of Water_, London, 1846, pp. 84, 85. Compare p. cxxiv. and p. 248 note. [811] In the paper which he communicated to the Royal Society, announcing his discovery, he, well knowing the empirical character of the English mind, apologizes for this; and says, 'I feel much reluctance to lay my thoughts on these subjects before the public in their present indigested state, and _without having been able to bring them to the test of such experiments as would confirm or refute them_.' _Watt's Correspondence on the Discovery of the Composition of Water_, pp. 77, 78. Eleven months earlier, that is in December 1782, he writes (_Ibid._ p. 4): 'Dr. Priestley has made a most surprising discovery, which _seems to confirm my theory_ of water's undergoing some very remarkable change at the point where all its latent heat would be changed into sensible heat.' [812] 'He' (_i.e._ Cavendish) 'here omits entirely the consideration of latent heat; an omission which he even attempts to justify, in one of the passages interpolated by Blagden. But it is well known to every one acquainted with the first principles of chemical science, even as it was taught in the days of Black, and it was indisputably familiar to Mr. Watt, that no aëriform fluid can be converted into a liquid, nor any liquid into a solid, without tho evolution of heat, previously latent. This essential part of the process, Mr. Cavendish's theory does not embrace; but without it, no theory on the subject can be complete; and it will presently be seen, that Mr. Watt took it fully into account.' _Muirhead's Life of Watt_, p. 315. [813] 'Cavendish and Watt both discovered the composition of water. Cavendish established the facts; Watt the idea.' ... '_The attaching too high a value to the mere facts, is often a sign of a want of ideas._' _Liebig's Letters on Chemistry_, London, 1851, p. 48. The last sentence of this illustrious philosopher, which I have put in italics, should be well pondered in England. If I had my way, it should be engraved in letters of gold over the portals of the Royal Society and of the Royal Institution. Thus much, as to what was effected by the Scotch in the department of inorganic science. If we now turn to organic science, we shall find that, there also, their labours were very remarkable. To those who are capable of a certain elevation and compass of thought, it will appear, in the highest degree, probable, that, between the organic and inorganic world, there is no real difference. That they are separated, as is commonly asserted, by a sharp line of demarcation, which indicates where one abruptly ends, and the other abruptly begins, seems to be a supposition altogether untenable. Nature does not pause, and break off in this fitful and irregular manner. In her works there is neither gap nor chasm. To a really scientific mind, the material world presents one vast and uninterrupted series, gradually rising from the lowest to the highest forms, but never stopping. In one part of that series, we find a particular structure, which, so far as our observations have yet extended, we, in another part, cannot find. We also observe particular functions, which correspond to the structure, and, as we believe, result from it. This is all we know. Yet, from these scanty facts, we, who, at present, are still in the infancy of knowledge, and have but skimmed the surface of things, are expected to infer, that there must be a point, in the chain of existence, where both structure and function suddenly cease, and, after which, we may vainly search for signs of life. It would be difficult to conceive a conclusion more repugnant to the whole march and analogy of modern thought. In every department, the speculations of the greatest thinkers are constantly tending to coördinate all phenomena, and to regard them as different, indeed, in degree, but by no means as different in kind. Formerly, men were content to ground their conviction of this difference in kind, on the evidence of the eye, which, on a cursory inspection, saw an organization in some bodies, and not in others. From the organization, they inferred the life, and supposed that plants, for instance, had life, but that minerals had none. This sort of argument was long deemed satisfactory; but, in the course of time, it broke down; more evidence was required, and, since the middle of the seventeenth century, it has been universally admitted, that the eye, by itself, is an untrustworthy witness, and that we must employ the microscope, instead of relying on the unaided testimony of our own puny and precarious senses. But the microscope is steadily improving, and we cannot tell what limits there are to its capacity for improvement. Consequently, we cannot tell what fresh secrets it may disclose. Neither can we say, that it may not be altogether superseded by some new artificial resource, which shall furnish us with evidence, as superior to any yet supplied, as our present evidence is superior to that of the naked eye. Even already, and notwithstanding the shortness of time during which the microscope has been a really effective instrument, it has revealed to us organizations, the existence of which no one had previously suspected. It has proved, that what, for thousands of years, had been deemed mere specks of inert matter, are, in truth, animals possessing most of the functions which we possess, reproducing their species in regular and orderly succession, and endowed with a nervous system, which shows that they must be susceptible of pain and enjoyment. It has detected life hidden in the glaciers of Switzerland; it has found it embedded in the polar ice, and, if it can flourish there, it is hard to say from what quarter it can be shut out. So unwilling, however, are most men to relinquish old notions, that the resources of chemistry have been called in, to ascertain the supposed difference between organic and inorganic matter: it being asserted, that, in the organic world, there is a greater complexity of molecular combination, than in the inorganic.[814] Chemists further assert, that, in organic nature, there is a predominance of carbon, and, in inorganic, a predominance of silicon.[815] But chemical analysis, like microscopic observation, is making such rapid strides, that each generation, I had almost said each year, is unsettling some of the conclusions previously established; so that, now, and for a long time hence, we must regard those conclusions as empirical, and, indeed, as merely tentative. Surely a permanent and universal inference cannot be drawn from shifting and precarious facts, which are admitted to-day, and may be overthrown to-morrow. It would, therefore, appear that, in favour of the opinion, that some bodies are living, and that others are dead, we have nothing, except the circumstance, that our researches, so far as they have yet gone, have shown that cellular structure, growth, and reproduction, are not the invariable properties of matter, but are excluded from a large part of the visible world, which, on that account, we call inanimate. This is the whole of the argument on that side of the question. On the other side, we have the fact, that our sight, and the artificial instruments, by whose aid we have arrived at this conclusion, are confessedly imperfect; and we have the further fact, that, imperfect as they are, they have proved, that the organic kingdom is infinitely more extensive than the boldest dreamer had ever imagined, while they have not been able to enlarge the boundaries of the inorganic kingdom to any thing like the same amount. This shows, that, so far as our opinions are concerned, the balance is steadily inclining in one given direction; in other words, as our knowledge advances, a belief in the organic is encroaching upon a belief in the inorganic.[816] When we, moreover, add, that all science is manifestly converging towards one simple and general theory, which shall cover the whole range of material phenomena, and that, at each successive step, some irregularities are explained away, and some inequalities are reduced, it can hardly be doubted, that such a movement tends to weaken those old distinctions, the reality of which has been too hastily assumed; and that, in their place, we must, sooner or later, substitute the more comprehensive view, that life is a property of all matter, and that the classification of bodies into animate and inanimate, or into organic and inorganic, is merely a provisional arrangement, convenient, perhaps, for our present purposes, but which, like all similar divisions, will eventually be merged in a higher and wider scheme. [814] 'Organic substances, whether directly derived from the vegetable or animal kingdom, or produced by the subsequent modification of bodies which thus originate, are remarkable as a class for a degree of complexity of constitution far exceeding that observed in any of the compounds yet described.' _Fownes' Chemistry_, 3rd edit., London, 1850, p. 353. I quote this, as the first authority at hand, for a doctrine which is universally admitted by chemists, and which is indubitably true, _so far as our experiments have at present extended_. [815] 'As the organic world is characterized by the predominance, in quantity, of carbon, so the mineral or inorganic world is marked by a similar predominance of silicon.' _Turner's Chemistry_, edited by Liebig and Gregory, vol. ii. p. 678, London, 1847. [816] I mean, of course, to apply this remark only to the globe we inhabit, and not to extra-terrestrial phenomena. Respecting the organization or non-organization of what exists out of this earth, we have no evidence, and can hardly expect to have any for centuries. Inferences have, indeed, been drawn from telescopic observations; and attempts are now being made, abroad, to determine, by a still more refined process, the physical composition of some of the heavenly bodies. But without venturing, in this note, to enter into such discussions, or even to state their purport, I may say, that the difficulty of _verification_ will long prove an insuperable barrier to our knowledge of the truth or falsehood of any results which may be obtained. Until, however, that step is taken, we must be content to reason according to the evidence supplied by our imperfect instruments, or by our still more imperfect senses. We, therefore, recognize the difference between organic and inorganic nature, not as a scientific truth, but as a scientific artifice, by which we separate in idea, what is inseparable in fact; hoping, in this way, to pursue our course with the greater ease, and ultimately to obtain results, which will make the artifice needless. Assuming, then, this division, we may refer all investigations of organic bodies to one of two objects. The first object is, to ascertain the law of those bodies, in their usual, healthy, or, as we somewhat erroneously phrase it, normal course. The other object is, to ascertain their law, in their unusual, unhealthy, or abnormal course. When we attempt to do the first of these things, we are physiologists. When we attempt to do the second, we are pathologists.[817] [817] Mr. Simon, in his thoughtful and suggestive Lectures, says, 'We may describe Pathology to consist in the Science of Life under other conditions than those of ideal perfection.' _Simon's Lectures on Pathology_, London, 1850, p. 14. This is by far the best description I have met with; though, as it involves a negative, it cannot be accepted as a definition. Indeed, the context shows that Mr. Simon does not suppose it to be one. Physiology and pathology are thus the two fundamental divisions of all organic science.[818] Each is intimately connected with the other; and eventually, no doubt, both will be fused into a single study, by discovering laws which will prove that here, as elsewhere, nothing is really abnormal, or irregular. Hitherto, however, the physiologists have immeasurably outstripped the pathologists in the comprehensiveness of their views, and, therefore, in the value of their results. For, the best physiologists distinctly recognize that the basis of their science must include, not only the animals below man, but also the entire vegetable kingdom, and that, without this commanding survey of the whole realm of organic nature, we cannot possibly understand even human physiology, still less general physiology. The pathologists, on the other hand, are so much in arrear, that the diseases of the lower animals rarely form part of their plan; while the diseases of plants are almost entirely neglected, although it is certain that, until all these have been studied, and some steps taken to generalize them, every pathological conclusion will be eminently empirical, on account of the narrowness of the field from which it is collected. [818] I formerly adopted the commonly received division of organic statics, and organic dynamics; the statics being anatomy, and the dynamics being physiology. But, I now think that our knowledge is not sufficiently advanced to make this so convenient as the division into physiological and pathological, or into normal and abnormal, provided we remember that in reality nothing is abnormal. The practically useful, but eminently unscientific, doctrine, that there can be alteration of function without alteration of structure, has effaced some of the most essential distinctions between anatomy and physiology, and especially between morbid anatomy and morbid physiology. Until those distinctions are recognized, the scientific conceptions of professional writers must be confused, however valuable their practical suggestions may be. While men are capable of believing that it is _possible_ for variations of function to proceed from any cause except variations of structure, the philosophic importance of anatomy will be imperfectly appreciated, and its true relation to physiology will remain undefined. Inasmuch, however, as, with our actual resources, the most careful dissection is often unable to detect (in insanity, for instance) those changes of structure which produce changes of function, superficial thinkers are placed under a strong temptation to deny their invariable connexion; and while the microscope is so imperfect, and chemistry so backward, it is impossible that experiments should always convince them of their mistake. Hence, I believe that until our means of empirical research are greatly improved, all such investigations, notwithstanding their immense value in other respects, will tend to lead mere inductive minds into error, by making them rely too much on what they call the facts of the case, to the prejudice of the reason. This is what I mean by saying, that our knowledge is not sufficiently advanced to make it advisable to divide the sciences of organic bodies into physiological and anatomical. At present, and probably for some time yet, the humbler division into physiological and pathological, may be deemed safer, and more likely to produce solid results. The science of pathology being still so backward in the conception as well as in the execution, that even men of real ability believe that it can be raised from a mere study of the human frame, it will hardly be expected that the Scotch, notwithstanding the marvellous boldness of their speculations, should have been able, in the eighteenth century, to anticipate a method which the nineteenth century has yet to employ. But they produced two pathologists of great ability, and to whom we owe considerable obligations. These were, Cullen and John Hunter.[819] Cullen was eminent only as a pathologist; but Hunter, whose fine and discursive genius took a much wider range, was great both in physiology and in pathology. A short account of their generalizations respecting organic science, will be a fitting sequel to the notices I have already given of what was done by their countrymen for inorganic science, during the same period. It will complete our survey of the Scotch intellect, and will enable the reader to form some idea of the brilliant achievements of that most remarkable people, who, contrary to the course of affairs in all other modern nations, have shown that scientific discoveries do not necessarily weaken superstition, and that it is possible for two hostile principles to flourish side by side, without ever coming into actual collision, or without sensibly impairing each other's vigour. [819] Hunter, as we shall presently see, did take an extraordinarily comprehensive view of pathology, including the whole of the organic world and even the aberrations of form in the inorganic. In 1751, Cullen was appointed professor of medicine in the University of Glasgow;[820] from which, however, in 1756, he was removed to the University of Edinburgh,[821] where he delivered those celebrated lectures, on which his fame now depends. During the early part of his career, he paid great attention to inorganic physics, and propounded some remarkable speculations, which are supposed to have suggested the theory of latent heat to Black, who was his pupil.[822] But, to follow out those views, would have required a number of minute experiments, which it did not suit the habit of his mind to make. Having, therefore, put forth his ideas, he left them to germinate, and passed on to his arduous attempt to generalize the laws of disease as they are exhibited in the human frame. In the study of disease, the phenomena being more obscure and less amenable to experiment, there was greater latitude for speculation; hence, he could more easily indulge in that love of theory, which was his ruling passion, and with an extreme devotion to which he has been reproached.[823] That the reproach is not altogether unjust, must, I think, be admitted, since we find him laying down the doctrine, that, inasmuch as, in the treatment of disease, theory could not be separated from practice, it was unimportant which came first.[824] This was tantamount to saying, that a medical practitioner might allow his theories to control his observations; for it is certain that, in an immense majority of cases, men are so tenacious of the opinions they imbibe, that whatever, in any pursuit, first occupies their understanding, is likely to mould all that comes afterwards. In ordinary minds, associations of ideas, if firmly established, become indissoluble; and the power of separating them, and of arranging them in new combinations, is one of the rarest of our endowments. An average intellect, when once possessed by a theory, can hardly ever escape from it. Hence, in practical matters, theory should be feared, just as, in scientific matters, it should be cherished; because practical pursuits are chiefly engrossed by the lower class of minds, where associations and the force of prejudice are extremely strong, while scientific pursuits concern the higher class, where such prepossessions are comparatively weak, and where close associations are more easily severed. The most powerful intellects are most accustomed to new arrangements of thought, and are, therefore, most able to break up old ones. On them, belief sits lightly, because they well know how little evidence we have for many of even our oldest beliefs. But the average, or, as we must say, without meaning offence, the inferior, minds, are not disturbed by these refinements. Theories, which they have once heartily embraced, they can hardly ever get rid of, and they often dignify them with the name of essential truths, and resent every attack upon them as a personal injury. Having inherited such theories from their fathers, they regard them with a sort of filial piety, and cling to them as if they were some rich acquisition, which no one has a right to touch. [820] _Thomson's Life of Cullen_, vol. i. p. 70, Edinburgh, 1832. [821] _Thomson's Life of Cullen_, vol. i. p. 96. Bower states that Cullen 'was appointed to the chair in 1755.' _Bower's History of the University of Edinburgh_, vol. ii. p. 216, Edinburgh, 1817. [822] 'It seems impossible to peruse the passages I have quoted from Dr. Cullen's manuscript lectures and papers, and from his Essay on Evaporation, without perceiving that his investigations with regard to the heat and cold occasioned by the combination, liquefaction, and evaporation of bodies, must not only have assisted to direct the attention of his pupil Dr. Black to similar inquiries, but must also have furnished him with several of the data from which his simple and comprehensive theory of Latent Heat was afterwards so philosophically deduced.' _Thomson's Life of Cullen_, vol. i. p. 56. [823] 'It is allowed by the admirers of this great man, that he was perhaps too fond of theory.' _Bower's History of the University of Edinburgh_, vol. iii. p. 273 [824] In 1759, he wrote to Dr. Balfour Russell, one of his favourite pupils: 'You will not find it possible to separate practice from theory altogether; and therefore, if you have a mind to begin with the theory, I have no objection.' _Thomson's Life of Cullen_, vol. i. p. 130. Compare his _Introductory Lectures to the Practice of Physic_, where, asserting truly, 'that reasoning in physic is unavoidable' (_Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 417), he boldly infers, 'that to render it safe, it is _necessary to cultivate theory in its full extent_.' To this latter class, nearly all men belong, who are more engaged in practical pursuits than in speculative ones. Among them, are the ordinary practitioners, whether in medicine or in any other department, extremely few of whom are willing to break up trains of thought to which they are inured.[825] Though they profess to despise theory, they are, in reality, enslaved by it. All that they can do, is to conceal their subjection, by terming their theory a necessary belief. It must, therefore, be deemed a remarkable proof of Cullen's love of deductive reasoning, that he, sagacious and clear-sighted as he was, should have supposed that, in so practical an art as medicine, theory could, with impunity, precede practice. For, it is most assuredly true, that, taking men in the average, their minds are so constructed, that it cannot precede it without controlling it. It is equally true, that such control must be hurtful. Even now, and notwithstanding the great steps which have been taken in morbid anatomy, in animal chemistry, and in the microscopic investigation both of the fluids and solids of the human frame, the treatment of disease is a question of art, far more than a question of science. What chiefly characterizes the most eminent physicians, and gives them their real superiority, is not so much the extent of their theoretical knowledge,--though that, too, is often considerable,--but it is that fine and delicate perception which they owe, partly to experience, and partly to a natural quickness in detecting analogies and differences which escape ordinary observers. The process which they follow, is one of rapid, and, in some degree, unconscious, induction. And this is the reason why the greatest physiologists and chemists, which the medical profession possesses, are not, as a matter of course, the best curers of disease. If medicine were a science, they would always be the best. But medicine, being still essentially an art, depends mainly upon qualities which each practitioner has to acquire for himself, and which no scientific theory can teach. The time for a general theory has not yet come, and probably many generations will have to elapse before it does come. To suppose, therefore, that a theory of disease should, as a matter of education, precede the treatment of disease, is not only practically dangerous, but logically false. With its practical danger I am not now concerned; but its logical aspect is a curious illustration of that passion for systematic and dialectic reasoning which characterized Scotland. It shows that Cullen, in his eagerness to argue from principles to facts, instead of from facts to principles, could, in the most important of all arts, recommend a method of procedure, for which even our knowledge is not ripe, but which, in his time, was so singularly rash and immature, that nothing can explain its adoption by a man of such vigorous understanding, except the circumstance of his living in a country in which that peculiar method reigned supreme. [825] Even Cullen himself says, rather roughly, 'The great horde of physicians are always servile imitators, who can neither perceive nor correct the faults of their system, and are always ready to growl at, and even to worry, the ingenious person that could attempt it. Thus was the system of Galen secured in the possession of the schools of physic, till soon after the irruption of the Goths and Vandals destroyed every vestige of literature in the western parts of Europe, and drove all that remained of it to seek a feeble protection at Constantinople.' _Lectures Introductory to the Practice of Physic_, in _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 386, Edinburgh, 1827. It must, however, be admitted that Cullen wielded the method with great ability, especially in his application of it to the science of pathology, to which it was far better suited than to the art of therapeutics. For, we must always remember, that the science which investigates the laws of disease, is quite a different thing from the art which cures it. The science has a speculative interest, which is irrespective of all practical considerations, and which depends simply on the fact, that, when it is completed, it will explain the aberrations of the whole organic world. Pathology aims at ascertaining the causes which determine every departure from the natural type, whether of form or of function. Hence it is, that no one can take a comprehensive view of the actual state of knowledge, without studying the theoretic relations between pathology and other departments of inquiry. To do this, is the business, not of practical men, but of philosophers, properly so called. The philosophic pathologist is as different from the physician, as a jurist is different from an advocate, or as an agricultural chemist is different from a farmer, or as a political economist is different from a statesman, or as an astronomer, who generalizes the laws of the heavenly bodies, is different from a captain, who navigates his ship by a practical application of those laws. The two sets of functions may be united, and occasionally, though very rarely, they are, but there is no necessity for their being so. While, therefore, it would be absurdly presumptuous for an unprofessional person to pass judgment on the therapeutical system of Cullen, it is perfectly legitimate for any one, who has studied the theory of these matters, to examine his pathological system; because that, like all scientific systems, must be amenable to general considerations, which are to be taken, partly from the adjoining sciences, and partly from the universal logic of philosophic method. It is from this latter, or logical, point of view, that Cullen's pathology is interesting for the purposes of the present chapter. The character of his investigations may be illustrated by saying, that his method in pathology is analogous to that which Adam Smith adopted at the same time, though in a very different field. Both were deductive; and both, before arguing deductively, suppressed some of the premisses from which they reasoned. That this suppression is the key to Adam Smith's method, and was an intentional part of his plan, I have already shown; as also that, in each of his two works, he supplied the premisses in which the other work was deficient. In this respect, he was far superior to Cullen. For, though Cullen, like Smith, began by mutilating his problem in order to solve it more readily, he, unlike Smith, did not see the necessity of instituting another and parallel inquiry, which should complete the scheme, by starting from the premisses that had been previously omitted. What I have termed the mutilation of the problem, was effected by Cullen in the following manner. His object was, to generalize the phenomena of disease, as they are exhibited in the human frame; and it was obvious to him, as to every one else, that the human frame consists partly of solids and partly of fluids. The peculiarity of his pathology is, that he reasons almost entirely from the laws of the solids, and makes so little account of the fluids, that he will only allow them to be the indirect causes of disease, which, in a scientific view, are to be deemed strictly subordinate to the direct causes, as represented by the solid constituents of our body.[826] This assumption, though false, was perfectly justifiable, since, by curtailing the problem, he simplified its study; just as Adam Smith, in his _Wealth of Nations_, simplified the study of human nature, by curtailing it of all its sympathy. But this most comprehensive thinker was careful, in his _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, to restore to human nature the quality of which the _Wealth of Nations_ had deprived it; and, by thus establishing two different lines of argument, he embraced the whole subject. In the same way, it was incumbent on Cullen, after having constructed a theory of disease by reasoning from the solids, to have constructed another theory by reasoning from the fluids; so that a coördination of the two theories might have raised a science of pathology, as complete as the then state of knowledge allowed.[827] But to this, his mind was unequal. Able though he was, he lacked the grasp of intellect which characterized Adam Smith, and which made that great man perceive, that every deductive argument which is founded on a suppression of premisses, must be compensated by a parallel argument, which takes those premisses into account.[828] So little was Cullen aware of this, that, having built up that system of pathology which is known to medical writers as Solidism, he never took the pains to accompany it by another system, which gave the first rank to the fluids. On the contrary, he believed that his plan was complete and exhaustive, and that what is termed Humoral Pathology was a fiction, which had too long usurped the place of truth.[829] [826] This idea runs through the whole of his writings. In the following passage, it is more succinctly stated than in any other: 'In pathology, and in the prognosis of particular diseases, it is absolutely necessary to enter into the distinction of these causes. I call the one _direct_ causes, those which act upon the nervous system directly; and the other _indirect_ causes, those which produce the same effect, but by destroying those organs which are necessary to the support of the excitement, viz. the whole system of circulation.' _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 135. Even this passage, clear as it seems, can only be rightly interpreted by taking the context into consideration. [827] For, as is truly observed by probably the greatest pathologist of our time, 'Humoral pathology is simply a requirement of common practical sense; and it has always held a place in medical science, although the limits of its domain have, no doubt, been variously circumscribed or interpreted at different times. Of late years, it has met with a new basis and support in morbid anatomy, which, in the inadequacy of its discoveries in the solids to account for disease and death, has been compelled to seek for an extension of its boundary through a direct examination of the blood itself.' _Rokitansky's Pathological Anatomy_, vol. i. p. 362, London, 1854. [828] Unless, as is the case in geometry, the premisses, which are suppressed, are so slight as to be scarcely perceptible. [829] He was so indignant at the bare idea of a humoral pathology, that even Hoffmann, who before himself was the most eminent advocate of solidism, fell under his displeasure for allowing some little weight to the humoral doctrines. He says that Hoffmann 'has not applied his fundamental doctrine so extensively as he might have done; and he has everywhere intermixed an humoral pathology, as incorrect and hypothetical as any other.' _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 410. At p. 470, 'I have, therefore, assumed the general principles of Hoffmann. And, if I have rendered them more correct, and more extensive in their application, and, _more particularly, if I have avoided introducing the many hypothetical doctrines of the Humoral Pathology which disfigured both his and all the other systems that have hitherto prevailed_, I hope I shall be excused for attempting a system, which, upon the whole, may appear new.' Several of the views advocated by Cullen were taken from Hoffmann, and several of the facts from Gaubius; but that his pathology, considered as a whole, is essentially original, is evident from a certain unity of design which is inconsistent with extensive plagiarism, and which proves that he had thoroughly thought out his subject for himself. Without, however, stopping to inquire how much he borrowed from others, I will briefly indicate a few of the salient points of his system, in order to enable the reader to understand its general character. According to Cullen, all the solids in the human body are either simple or vital. The simple solids retain, after death, the properties which they possessed during life. But the vital solids, which form the fundamental part of the nervous system, are marked by properties, which disappear directly death occurs.[830] Hence, the simple solids, having fewer functions than the vital, have also fewer diseases; and the maladies to which they are liable admit of easy classification.[831] The real difficulty lies in the vital solids, because on their peculiarities the whole nervous system depends, and nearly all disorders are immediately due to changes in them. Cullen, therefore, made the nervous system the basis of his pathology; and, in speculating on its functions, he assigned the chief place to an occult principle, which he termed the Animal Power, or Energy, of the brain.[832] This principle acted on the vital solids. When the principle worked well, the body was healthy; when it worked ill, the body was unhealthy. Since, then, the state of the vital solids was the main cause of disorder, and since the Energy of the brain was the main cause of the state of the vital solids, it became important to know what the influences were which acted on the Energy, because in them we should find the beginning of the series. Those influences were divided by Cullen into physical and mental. The physical were, heat, cold, and effluvia, the three most potent of the material disturbers of the human frame.[833] The mental influences, which excited the brain to act on the solids, were comprised under six different heads, namely, the will, the emotions, the appetites, the propensities, and, finally, the two great principles of habit and of imitation, on which he, with good reason, laid considerable stress.[834] In arguing from these mental causes, and in generalizing the relations between them and the sensations of the body, he, faithful to his favourite method, proceeded deductively from the metaphysical principles then in vogue, without inquiring inductively into their validity, such an induction being, he thought, no part of his duty.[835] He was too anxious to get on with his dialectic, to be interrupted by so trifling a matter as the truth or falsehood of the premisses on which the reason rested. What he did in the metaphysical part of his pathology, he also did in its physical part. Although the blood and the nerves are the two leading features of the human economy, he did not search into them by a separate induction; he subjected them neither to chemical experiments in order to learn their composition, nor to microscopic observations in order to learn their structure.[836] This is the more observable, because though we must admit that animal chemistry was then generally neglected, and that its real meaning was scarcely understood until the wonderful labours of Berzelius revealed its importance, still the microscope was ready to Cullen's hands; it having been invented a hundred and fifty years before he completed his pathology, and having been in common scientific use for about a hundred years. But his love of synthesis overcame him. His system is constructed by reasoning from general principles; and of that process, he certainly was a consummate master. Between the premisses and the conclusion, he hardly ever lets error creep in. And, in reference to the results of his speculations, he had one immense merit, which will always secure to him a conspicuous place in the history of pathology. By insisting on the importance of the solids, he, one-sided though he was, corrected the equal one-sidedness of his predecessors; for, with extremely few exceptions, all the best pathologists, from Galen downwards, had erred in ascribing too much to the fluids, and had upheld a purely humoral pathology. Cullen turned the minds of men in the other direction; and though, in teaching them that the nervous system is the sole primary seat of disease, he committed a great mistake, it was a mistake of the most salutary kind. By leaning on that side, he restored the balance. Hence, I have no doubt, he indirectly encouraged those minute researches into the nerves, which he would not himself stop to make, but which, in the next generation, gave rise to the capital discoveries of Bell, Shaw, Mayo, and Marshall Hall. At the same time, the old humoral pathology, which had prevailed for many centuries, was practically pernicious, because, assuming that all diseases are in the blood, it produced that constant and indiscriminate venesection, which destroyed innumerable lives, besides the irreparable injury it often inflicted both on body and mind; weakening those whom it was unable to slay. Against this merciless onslaught, which made medicine the curse of mankind, the Solid Pathology was the first effective barrier.[837] Practically, therefore, as well as speculatively, we must hail Cullen as a great benefactor of his species; and we must regard his appearance as an epoch in the history of human comfort, as well as in the history of human thought. [830] 'The solid parts of the body seem to be of two kinds: one whose properties are the same in the dead as in the living, and the same in the animate as in many inanimate bodies; the other, whose properties appear only in living bodies. In the last, a peculiar organization, or addition, is supposed to take place; in opposition to which the first are called the simple solids. Of these only, we shall treat here; and of the others, which may be called vital solids, being the fundamental part of the nervous system, we shall treat under that title in the following section.' _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 10. [831] These diseases are laxity, flaccidity, &c. See the enumeration of 'the diseases of the simple solids,' in _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 14. [832] _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. pp. 65, 600, vol. ii. p. 364. Dr. Thomson, who had access to papers and lectures of Cullen's, which have never been published, says (_Life of Cullen_, vol. i. p. 265), 'His speculations with regard to the different functions of the nervous system, but more particularly with regard to that of the Animal Power or Energy of the brain, were incorporated with every opinion which he taught concerning the phenomena of the animal economy, the causes of diseases, and the operation of medicines; and they may be said to constitute a most important part, if not the sole basis, of that system of the Practice of Physic, which he made the subject of prelection, as well as of study, for a period of nearly forty years, before he ventured to give it to the public.' I should mention, that Cullen, under the term 'brain,' included the contents of the vertebral column as well as of the cranium. [833] _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. pp. 40, 546, 558, 648, vol. ii. p. 321. [834] _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. pp. 86, 91, 100, 101, 108, 115, 116, 553, 592, vol. ii. pp. 35, 366. Compare the summary of causes in _Thomson's Life of Cullen_, vol. i. p. 289. [835] He says (_Works_, vol. i. pp. 31, 32), 'Whoever has the smallest tincture of metaphysics will know the distinction pointed at here between the qualities of bodies as primary and secondary.' ... '_Whether these distinctions be well or ill founded, it is not my business to inquire._' But though he did not deem it his business to inquire into the accuracy of these and similar distinctions, he thought himself justified in assuming them, and reasoning from them as if they could explain the working of those sensations, whose perversion formed the point of contact between metaphysics and pathology. See, for instance, in his _Works_, vol. i. p. 46, the long series of unproved and improvable assertions respecting the combination and comparison of sensations giving rise to memory, imagination, and the like. [836] Cullen, with that admirable candour which was one of the most attractive peculiarities of his fine intellect, confesses his want of acquaintance with the microscope: 'It leaves me, who am not conversant in such observations, altogether uncertain with respect to the precise nature of this part of the blood.' _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 195. A pathologist without a microscope is an unarmed man, indeed. In regard to his animal chemistry, one passage may be quoted as a specimen of the manner in which he arrived at conclusions speculatively, instead of subjecting the phenomena to experimental investigation. 'We may remark it to be highly probable, that all animal matter is originally formed of vegetable; because all animals either feed directly and entirely on vegetables, or upon other animals that do so. From hence it is probable, that all animal substances may be traced to a vegetable origin; and _therefore_, if we would inquire into the production of animal matter, we _must first inquire_ in what manner vegetable matter may be converted into animal?' _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. pp. 177, 178. The _therefore_ and the _must_, resulting merely from an antecedent probability, are characteristic of that over-boldness, into which deduction is apt to degenerate, and which is strongly contrasted with the opposite vice of over-timidity, by which inductive reasoners are tainted. [837] Dr. Watson (_Principles and Practice of Physic_, 4th edit. London, 1857, vol. i. p. 41) says of the humoral pathology, that, 'the absurdity of the hypothesis, and _still more the dangerous practice which this doctrine generated_, began to be manifest, and led to its total abandonment.' But, with every respect for this eminent authority, I venture to observe, that this supposition of Dr. Watson's is contradicted by the whole history of the human mind. There is no well-attested case on record of any theory having been abandoned, because it produced dangerous results. As long as a theory is believed, men will ascribe its evil consequences to any cause except the right one. And a theory which is once established, will always be believed, until there is some change in knowledge which shakes its foundation. Every practical change may, by careful analysis, be shown to depend, in the first instance, on some change of speculative opinions. Even at the present day, many doctrines are generally held in the most civilized countries, which are producing dangerous practical consequences, and have produced those consequences for centuries. But the mischief which the doctrine engenders does not weaken the doctrine itself. Nothing can do that, but the general progress of knowledge, which, by altering former opinions, modifies future conduct. It may, perhaps, facilitate the conceptions of unprofessional readers, if I give, in as few words as possible, a specimen of the way in which Cullen employed his method, in investigating the theory of some one class of diseases. For this purpose, I will select his doctrine of fever, which, though now generally abandoned, once exercised more influence than any other part of his pathology. Here, as elsewhere, he reasons from the solids.[838] Disregarding the state of the blood, he says, that the cause of all fever is a diminished energy of the brain.[839] Such diminution may be produced by various sedatives, the most common of which are effluvia, whether marsh or human, intemperance, fear, and cold.[840] Directly the energy of the brain is impaired, the disease begins. Rapidly passing through the nervous system, its first palpable effect is a chill, or cold fit, which is accompanied by a spasm on the extremities of the arteries, particularly where they touch the surface of the body.[841] This spasm on the extreme vessels, irritates the heart and arteries, and the irritation continues till the spasm is relaxed.[842] At the same time, the increased action of the heart restores the energy of the brain; the system rallies; the extreme vessels are relieved; while, as a consequence of the whole movement, sweat is excreted, and the fever abates.[843] Shutting out, therefore, all consideration of the fluids of the body, the successive stages of languor, cold fit, and hot fit, might, in Cullen's opinion, be generalized by reasoning merely from the solids, which, furthermore, produced his well-known distinction between fevers, the continuance of which is owing to an excess of spasm, and those, the continuance of which is owing to an excess of debility.[844] [838] Some writers, who have taken notice of Cullen, have been deceived in this respect by his occasional use of the expression 'nervous fluid,' as if he were willing to let in the idea of humorism. But, in one place, he distinctly guards himself against such misconstruction. 'Now, to avoid determining any thing with regard to these opinions, I have used the term of _nervous power_; but as this is a little ambiguous, I choose to express it by _nervous fluid_; not that I suppose, with Dr. Boerhaave, that the brain is an excretory, and that a fluid is secreted from it: _I mean nothing more than that there is a condition of the nerves which fits them for the communication of motion_. But I defer the consideration of these opinions for the present, and perhaps _ad Græcas calendas_; but nothing shall be rested upon the nervous fluid, it shall be considered merely as _a power_ fitted for communicating motions.' _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 17. Without this passage, his remarks on 'the nervous fluid in the brain' (_Works_, vol. i. p. 129), might easily be misunderstood. [839] 'Together with this, the languor, inactivity, and debility of the animal motions, the imperfect sensations, the feeling of cold, while the body is truly warm, and some other symptoms, all show that the energy of the brain is, on this occasion, greatly weakened; and I presume that, as the weakness of the action of the heart can hardly be imputed to any other cause, this weakness also is a proof of the diminished energy of the brain. So I conclude, that a debility of the nervous power forms the beginning of the cold fit, and lays the foundation of all the other phenomena.' _Practice of Physic_, in _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 492. [840] 'To render our doctrine of fever consistent and complete, it is necessary to add here, that these remote causes of fever, human and marsh effluvia, seem to be of a debilitating or sedative quality.' ... 'Though we have endeavoured to show that fevers generally arise from marsh or human effluvia, we cannot, with any certainty, exclude some other remote causes, which are commonly supposed to have at least a share in producing those diseases. And I proceed, therefore, to inquire concerning these causes; the first of which that merits attention, is the power of cold applied to the human body.' ... 'Besides cold, there are other powers that seem to be remote causes of fever; such as fear, intemperance in drinking, excess in venery, and other circumstances, which evidently weaken the system. But whether any of these sedative powers be alone the remote cause of fever, or if they only operate either as concurring with the operation of marsh or human effluvia, or as giving an opportunity to the operation of cold, are questions not to be positively answered.' _Practice of Physic_, in _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. pp. 546, 552. One part of this view has been corroborated, since the time of Cullen. 'The experiments of Chossat and others clearly prove cold to be a direct sedative.' _Williams' Principles of Medicine_, 2nd edit. London, 1848, p. 11. Compare _Watson's Principles and Practice of Physic_, 4th edit. London, 1857, vol. i. pp. 87-92, 249. Hence, perhaps, the 'irresistible tendency to sleep caused by exposure to severe or long-continued cold.' _Erichsen's Surgery_, 2nd edit. London, 1857, p. 336; but as to this, Dr. Watson (_Principles of Physic_, vol. i. p. 89) is sceptical, and thinks that, in those cases which are recorded, the drowsiness ascribed to cold, is, in a great measure, the result of fatigue. [841] _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 493. Compare, respecting his general theory of spasm, p. 84, and vol. ii. p. 400. [842] 'The idea of fever, then, may be, that a spasm of the extreme vessels, however induced, proves an irritation to the heart and arteries; and that this continues till the spasm is relaxed or overcome.' _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 494. [843] 'Such, however, is, at the same time, the nature of the animal economy, that this debility proves an indirect stimulus to the sanguiferous system; whence, by the intervention of the cold stage and spasm connected with it, the action of the heart and larger arteries is increased, and continues so till it has had the effect of restoring the energy of the brain, of extending this energy to the extreme vessels, of restoring, therefore, their action, and thereby especially overcoming the spasm affecting them; upon the removing of which, the excretion of sweat, and other marks of the relaxation of excretories, take place.' _Practice of Physic_, in _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. pp. 501, 502. See also p. 636, § cciii. Or, as he elsewhere expresses himself (vol. i. p. 561): 'With regard to the event of fevers, this is the fundamental principle: _in fevers, nature cures the disease_; that is, certain motions tending to death continue the disease, but, in consequence of the laws of the animal economy, other motions are excited by these which have a tendency to remove it.' [844] 'If we may trust to our conclusions with respect to the proximate cause, it follows, most naturally, from the view there given, that the continued fever is always owing to an excess of spasm, or to an excess of debility: as the one or other of these prevails, it will give one or other of the two forms, either the Synocha or inflammatory fever, or the Typhus or nervous fever.' _Cullen's Works_, vol. i. p. 518. A similar process of thought gave birth to his _Nosology_, or general classification of diseases, which some have regarded as the most valuable part of his labours;[845] though, for reasons already mentioned, we must, I think, reject all such attempts as premature, and as likely to work more harm than good, unless they are simply used as a contrivance to aid the memory. At all events, the _Nosology_ of Cullen, though it exhibits clear traces of his powerful and organizing mind, is fast falling into disrepute, and we may be sure, that, for a long time yet, a similar fate will await its successors. Our pathological knowledge is still too young for so great an enterprise.[846] We have every reason to expect, that, with the aid of chemistry, and of the microscope, it will continue to grow more rapidly than it has hitherto done. Without venturing to predict the rate of its increase, we may form some idea of it, by considering what has been effected with resources very inferior to those we now possess. In a work of great authority, published in the year 1848, it is stated, that since the appearance of Cullen's _Nosology_, our mere enumeration of diseases has almost doubled, while our knowledge of the facts relating to disease has more than doubled.[847] [845] 'Cullen's most esteemed work is his _Nosology_.' _Hamilton's History of Medicine_, London, 1831, vol. ii. p. 279. 'His _Nosology_ will probably survive all his other works; it is indisputably the best system which has yet appeared.' _Lives of British Physicians_, London, 1830, p. 213. 'Celle de Cullen, qui parut en 1772, et qui constitue un véritable progrès.' _Renouard_, _Histoire de la Médecine_, Paris, 1846, vol. ii. p. 231. See also _Hooper's Medical Dictionary_, edited by Dr. Grant, London, 1848, p. 937. But, in the most celebrated medical works which have appeared in England during the last twelve or fifteen years, I doubt if there is any instance of the adoption of Cullen's nosological arrangement. Abroad, and particularly in Italy, it is more valued. [846] 'I had rather not be cramped and hampered by attempting what abler heads than mine have failed to achieve, and what, in truth, I believe, in the present state of our science, to be impossible, a complete methodical system of nosology.' _Watson's Principles and Practice of Physic_, London, 1857, vol. i. p. 9. This is the wisdom of a powerful understanding. [847] 'Now, when the diseases of Cullen's nosology have been almost doubled, and the facts relating to them have been more than doubled.' _Williams' Principles of Medicine_, London, 1848, p. 522. I have now only one more name to add to this splendid catalogue of the great Scotchmen of the eighteenth century.[848] But it is the name of a man, who, for comprehensive and original genius, comes immediately after Adam Smith, and must be placed far above any other philosopher whom Scotland has produced. I mean, of course, John Hunter, whose only fault was, an occasional obscurity, not merely of language, but also of thought. In this respect, and, perhaps, in this alone, Adam Smith had the advantage; for his mind was so flexible, and moved so freely, that even the vastest designs were unable to oppress it. With Hunter, on the contrary, it sometimes seemed as if the understanding was troubled by the grandeur of his own conceptions, and doubted what path it ought to take. He hesitated; the utterance of his intellect was indistinct.[849] Still, his powers were so extraordinary, that, among the great masters of organic science, he belongs, I apprehend, to the same rank as Aristotle, Harvey, and Bichat, and is somewhat superior either to Haller or Cuvier. As to this classification, men will differ, according to their different ideas of the nature of science, and, above all, according to the extent to which they appreciate the importance of philosophic method. It is from this latter point of view that I have, at present, to consider the character of John Hunter; and, in tracing the movements of his most remarkable mind, we shall find, that, in it, deduction and induction were more intimately united than in any other Scotch intellect, either of the seventeenth or eighteenth century. The causes of this unusual combination, I will now endeavour to ascertain. When they are understood, they will not only explain many peculiarities in his works, but will afford materials for speculation, to those who love to examine the development of ideas, and who are able to discern the way in which different schemes of national thought have given different shapes to national character, and have thereby modified the whole course of human affairs, to an extent of which the ordinary compilers of history have not the slightest suspicion. [848] I had intended giving some account of the once celebrated Brunonian system, which was founded by Dr. John Brown, who was first the pupil of Cullen, and afterwards his rival. But a careful perusal of his works has convinced me that the real basis of his doctrine, or the point from which he started, was not pathology, but therapeutics. His hasty division of all diseases into sthenic and asthenic, has no claim to be deemed a scientific generalization, but was a mere artificial arrangement, resulting from a desire to substitute a stimulating treatment in the place of the old lowering one. He, no doubt, went to the opposite extreme; but that being a purely practical subject, this Introduction has no concern with it. For the same reason, I omit all mention of Currie, who, though an eminent therapeutician, was a commonplace pathologist. That so poor and thinly-peopled a country as Scotland, should, in so short a period, have produced so many remarkable men, is extremely curious. [849] Mr. Ottley (_Life of Hunter_, p. 186) says, 'In his writings we occasionally find an obscurity in the expression of his thoughts, a want of logical accuracy in his reasonings, and an incorrectness in his language, resulting from a deficient education.' But, a deficient education will never make a man obscure. Neither will a good education make him lucid. The only cause of clearness of expression is clearness of thought; and clearness of thought is a natural gift, which the most finished and systematic culture can but slightly improve. Uneducated men, without a thousandth part of John Hunter's intellect, are often clear enough. On the other hand, it as frequently happens that men, who have received an excellent education, cannot speak or write ten consecutive sentences which do not contain some troublesome ambiguity. In Hunter's works such ambiguities are abundant; and this is probably one of the reasons why no one has yet given a connected view of his philosophy. On his obscurity, compare _Cooper's Life of Sir Astley Cooper_, London, 1843, vol. i. pp. 151, 152; _Paget's Lectures on Surgical Pathology_, London, 1853, vol. i. p. 419; and the remarks of his enemy, Foot, in _Foot's Life of Hunter_, London, 1794, p. 59. Hunter remained in Scotland till the age of twenty, when he settled in London; and, though he was abroad for about three years, he abandoned his own country, and became, socially and intellectually, a native of England.[850] Hence, the early associations of his mind were formed in the midst of a deductive nation; the later associations, in the midst of an inductive one. For twenty years he lived among a people, who are, perhaps, the acutest reasoners in Europe, if you concede to them the principles from which they reason; but who, on the other hand, owing to their proneness to this method, are so greedy after general principles, that they will accept them on almost any evidence, and are, therefore, at once very credulous and very logical. In that school, and surrounded by those habits, the intellect of John Hunter was nurtured during the most impressible period of his life. Then the scene suddenly shifted. Coming to England, he passed forty years in the heart of the most empirical nation in Europe; a nation utterly abhorring all general principles, priding itself on its common sense, boasting, and with good reason too, of its practical sagacity, proclaiming aloud the superiority of facts over ideas, and despising every theory, unless some direct and immediate benefit could be expected to accrue from it. The young and ardent Scotchman found himself transplanted into a country totally different from that which he had just quitted; and such a difference could not fail to influence his mind. He saw, on every side, marks of prosperity, and of long and uninterrupted success, not only in practical, but also in speculative, life; and he was told that these things were effected by a system which made facts the first consideration. He was ambitious of fame, but he perceived that the road to fame was not the same in England as in Scotland. In Scotland, a great logician would be deemed a great man; in England, little account would be made of the beauty of his logic, unless he was careful that the premisses from which he argued, were trustworthy, and verified by experience. A new machine, a new experiment, the discovery of a salt, or of a bone, would, in England, receive a wider homage, than the most profound speculation from which no obvious results were apprehended. That this way of contemplating affairs has produced great good, is certain. But it is also certain, that it is a one-sided way, and satisfies only part of the human mind. Many of the noblest intellects crave for something which it cannot supply. In England, however, during the greater part of the eighteenth century, it was even more supreme than it is now, and was, indeed, so universal, that, from the year 1727 until nearly the close of the century, our country did not possess, in any branch of science, a speculator who had sufficient force to raise himself above those narrow views which were then deemed the perfection of wisdom.[851] Much was added to our knowledge, but its distant boundaries were not enlarged. Though there was an increase of curious and valuable details, and though several of the small and proximate laws of nature were generalized, it must be admitted, that those lofty generalizations, which we owe to the seventeenth century, remained stationary, and that no attempt was made to push beyond them. When John Hunter arrived in London, in 1748, Newton had been dead more than twenty years, and the English people, absorbed in practical pursuits, and now beginning, for the first time, to enter into political life, had become more averse than ever to inquiries which aimed at truth without regard to utility, and had accustomed themselves to value science chiefly for the sake of the direct and tangible benefit which they might hope to derive from it. [850] He was born in 1728, and came to London in 1748. _Adams' Life of John Hunter_, 2nd edit. London, 1818, pp. 20, 203. According to Adams (pp. 30-35), he was abroad as surgeon in the English army from 1761 to 1763; though, in _Foot's Life of Hunter_, London, 1794, p. 78, he is said to have returned to England in 1762. Mr. Ottley says that he returned in 1763. _Ottley's Life of Hunter_, p. 22, in vol. i. of _Hunter's Works_, edited by Palmer, London, 1835. [851] See _Buckle's History of Civilization_, vol. ii. pp. 374, 375. That Hunter must have been influenced by these circumstances, will be obvious to whoever considers how impossible it is for any single mind to escape from the pressure of contemporary opinion. But, inasmuch as all his early associations had inclined him in another direction, we perceive that, during his long residence in England, he was acted on by two conflicting forces. The country of his birth made him deductive; the country of his adoption made him inductive. As a Scotchman, he preferred reasoning from general principles to particular facts; as an inhabitant of England, he became inured to the opposite plan of reasoning from particular facts to general principles. In every country, men naturally give the first place to what is most valued. The English respect facts more than principles, and therefore begin with the facts. The Scotch consider principles as most important, and therefore begin with the principles. And, I make no doubt that one of the reasons why Hunter, in investigating a subject, is often obscure, is that, on such occasions, his mind was divided between these two hostile methods, and that, leaning sometimes to one and sometimes to the other, he was unable to determine which he should choose. The conflict darkened his understanding. Adam Smith, on the other hand, in common with all the great Scotchmen who remained in Scotland, was remarkably clear. He, like Hume, Black, and Cullen, never wavered in his method. These eminent men were not acted on by English influence. Of all the most illustrious Scotchmen of the eighteenth century, Hunter alone underwent that influence, and he alone displayed a certain hesitation and perplexity of thought, which seems unnatural to so great a mind, and which, as it appears to me, is best explained by the peculiar circumstances in which he was placed. One of the ablest of his commentators has justly observed, that his natural inclination was, to conjecture what the laws of nature were, and then reason from them, instead of reasoning to them by slow and gradual induction.[852] This process of deduction was, as I have shown, the favourite method of all Scotchmen, and, therefore, was precisely the course which we should have expected him to adopt. But, inasmuch as he was surrounded by the followers of Bacon,[853] this natural bias was warped, and a large part of his marvellous activity was employed in observations and experiments, such as no Scotch thinker, living in Scotland, would ever have engaged in. He himself declared, that thinking was his delight;[854] and there can be no doubt that, had he been differently situated, thinking would have been his principal pursuit. As it was, the industry with which he collected facts, is one of the most conspicuous features in his career. His researches covered the whole range of the animal kingdom, and were conducted with such untiring zeal, that he dissected upwards of five hundred different species, exclusive of dissections of different individuals, and exclusive, too, of dissections of a large number of plants.[855] The results were carefully arranged and stored up in that noble collection which he formed, and of the magnitude of which we may gain some idea from the statement, that, at his death, it contained upwards of ten thousand preparations illustrative of the phenomena of nature.[856] By this means, he became so intimately acquainted with the animal kingdom, that he made a vast number of discoveries, which, considered singly, are curious, but which, when put together, constitute an invaluable body of new truths. Of these, the most important are, the true nature of the circulation in crustacea and insects;[857] the organ of hearing in cephalopods;[858] the power possessed by mollusks of absorbing their shells;[859] the fact that bees do not collect wax, but secrete it;[860] the semicircular canals of the cetacea;[861] the lymphatics of birds;[862] and the air-cells in the bones of birds.[863] We are also assured, that he anticipated the recent discoveries respecting the embryo of the kangaroo;[864] and his published works prove, that, in the human subject, he discovered the muscularity of the arteries,[865] the muscularity of the iris,[866] and the digestion of the stomach after death by its own juice.[867] Although, in his time, animal chemistry was not yet raised to a system, and was consequently little heeded by physiologists, Hunter endeavoured, by its aid, to search out the qualities of the blood, so as to ascertain the properties of its constituents.[868] He also examined it in different stages of embryonic life, and by minutely tracking it through its periods of development, he made the capital discovery, that the red globules of the blood are formed later than its other components. His contemporaries, however, were so little alive to the importance of this great physiological truth, that it fell dead upon them, and, being forgotten, it was, about fifty years afterwards, rediscovered, and was announced, in 1832, as a law of nature which had just been brought to light.[869] This is one of many instances in the history of our knowledge, which proves how useless it is for a man to advance too far beyond the age in which he lives.[870] But Hunter, besides making the discovery, also saw its meaning. From it, he inferred that the function of the red globules is to minister to the strength of the system, rather than to its repair.[871] This is now universally admitted; but it was not admitted till long after his death. Its recognition is chiefly owing to the rapid advance of animal chemistry, and to improvements in the microscope. For, by the employment of these resources, it has become manifest, that the red globules, the respiratory process, the production of animal heat, and the energy of the locomotive organs, are but different parts of a single scheme.[872] Their connexion with each other is established, not only by a comparison of different species, but also by a comparison of different members of the same species. In human beings, for example, the locomotive and other animal functions are more active in persons of a sanguine temperament than in those of a lymphatic temperament; while, in sanguine temperaments, the globules are more numerous than in lymphatic ones. The knowledge of this fact we owe to Lecanu;[873] and to him we are also indebted for an analogous fact, corroborating the same view. He has shown, that the blood of women contains more water and fewer red globules than the blood of men;[874] so that here again we discern the relation between these globules and the energy of animal life. Inasmuch, however, as these researches were not made until many years after the death of Hunter, the coincidence between them and his speculative conclusions is a striking instance of his power of generalization, and of that unrivalled knowledge of comparative anatomy, which supplied him with materials from which, in spite of the backwardness of animal chemistry, he was able to draw an inference, which later and minuter researches have decisively verified.[875] [852] 'He followed his natural inclination. He preferred the more delusive, apparently the more direct, road, which has seduced so many philosophers. He sought to arrive at the general laws of nature at once by conjecture: rather than, by a close and detailed study of her inferior operations, to ascend, step by step, through a slow and gradual induction to those laws which govern her general procedure.' Babington's Preface to Hunter's _Treatise on the Venereal Disease_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. ii. p. 129. Compare the narrow and carping criticism in _Foot's Life of Hunter_, p. 163. [853] That I may not be suspected of exaggeration, I will quote what by far the greatest of all the historians of medicine has said upon this subject. 'La majorité des médecins qui prétendaient s'être formés d'après Bâcon, n'avaient hérité de lui qu'une répugnance invincible pour les hypothèses et les systèmes, une grande vénération pour l'expérience, et un désir extrême de multiplier le nombre des observations. Ce fut chez les Anglais que la méthode empirique en médecine trouva le plus de partisans, et c'est principalement aussi chez eux qu'elle s'est répandue jusqu'aux temps les plus rapprochés de nous. Sa propagation y fut favorisée, non-seulement par le profond respect que les Anglais continuent toujours de porter à l'immortel chancelier, mais encore par la haute importance que la nation entière attache au sens commun, _common sense_, et elle y demeura l'ennemie irréconciliable de tous les systèmes que ne reposent pas sur l'observation.' _Sprengel, Histoire de la Médecine_, vol. v. p. 411, Paris, 1815. [854] Clive says, 'Much as Mr. Hunter did, he thought still more. He has often told me, his delight was, to think.' _Abernethy's Hunterian Oration_, London, 1819, p. 26. [855] Mr. Owen, in his interesting Preface to the fourth volume of _Hunter's Works_, says (p. vii.), 'There is proof that Hunter anatomized at least five hundred different species of animals, exclusive of repeated dissections of different individuals of the same species, besides the dissections of plants to a considerable amount.' [856] 'Some idea may be formed of Hunter's extraordinary diligence, by the fact, that his museum contained, at the time of his death, upwards of 10,000 preparations, illustrative of human and comparative anatomy, physiology, and pathology, and natural history.' _Weld's History of the Royal Society_, London, 1848, vol. ii. p. 92. [857] 'I have tested the conflicting evidence of these observers by dissection of the heart in the lobster; and you will perceive by this preparation that it is more complicated than even the Danish naturalist supposed, and fully bears out the opinion of Hunter in regard to the mixed nature of the circulation in the crustacea.' _Owen's Lectures on the Comparative Anatomy and Physiology of the Invertebrate Animals_, 2nd edit. London, 1855, p. 318. 'Cuvier, misled by the anomalous diffused condition of the venous system, supposed that there was no circulation of the blood in insects; yet the dorsal vessel was too conspicuous a structure to be overlooked. Such, however, was the authority of the great anatomist, that the nature of the heart began to be doubted, and the strangest functions to be attributed to it. Hunter, however, who was prepared to appreciate the true state of the circulating system in insects, by his discovery of the approximately diffused and irregular structure of the veins in the crustacea, has described, in his work on the blood, all the leading characters of the circulation in insects as it is recognized by comparative physiologists of the present day.' _Ibid._ p. 383. Compare _Hunter's Essays and Observations on Natural History_, London, 1861, vol. i. p. 108. [858] 'The class called Sepia has the organ of hearing, though somewhat differently constructed from what it is in fishes.' _An Account of the Organ of Hearing in Fishes_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 294. At the bottom of the page Mr. Owen observes, in a note, 'This is the first announcement of the existence of an organ of hearing in the Cephalopoda.' [859] 'Hunter discovered that the molluscous inhabitant of a shell had the power of absorbing part of its dwelling.' _Owen's Lectures on the Comparative Anatomy and Physiology of the Invertebrate Animals_, London, 1855, p. 544. 'Every shell-fish has the power of removing a part of its shell, so as to adapt the new and the old together, which is not done by any mechanical power, but by absorption.' _Anatomical Remarks on a New Marine Animal_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 469, edit. Palmer. In a note to this passage, it is said, that 'the doctrine of the absorption of shell has been lately' (_i.e._ in 1833) 'adduced as a new discovery.' [860] 'His keen observation did not fail to detect several errors which preceding naturalists had fallen into, especially with regard to the formation of the wax, which he proved to be secreted, not collected, by the animal.' _Ottley's Life of Hunter_, p. 122. 'The wax is formed by the bees themselves; it may be called an external secretion of oil, and I have found that it is formed between each scale of the under side of the belly.' _Observations on Bees_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 433. [861] 'In the terminating part there are a number of perforations into the cochlea, and one into the semicircular canals, which afford a passage to the different divisions of the auditory nerve.' _Observations on the Structure and [OE]conomy of Whales_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. pp. 383, 384. 'The semicircular canals of the cetacea, described by Hunter in the paper on Whales, a structure which Cuvier rightly states that Camper overlooked, but incorrectly claims the discovery as his own.' Preface to vol. iv. of _Hunter's Works_, p. xxi. [862] Dr. Adams, in his somewhat hasty _Life of Hunter_, says (pp. 27, 28), 'Mr. Hewson always claimed the discovery of lymphatics in birds.' But the truth is, that Hewson never claimed it. He says, 'It may be necessary to mention here, that the dispute between Dr. Monro and me is, who first discovered the lacteals of birds? for as to the lymphatics in their necks (mentioned in this gentleman's note), these we both allow were discovered by Mr. John Hunter, about ten years ago.' And, again, 'These lymphatics in the necks of fowls were first discovered by Mr. John Hunter.' _Hewson's Works_, edit. Gulliver (Sydenham Soc.), pp. 102, 145. [863] _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. pp. xxi. 176. [864] 'See Nos. 3731, 3734, 3735, in the Physiological series of the Hunterian Museum, in which there are evidences that Mr. Hunter had anticipated most of the anatomical discoveries which have subsequently been made upon the embryo of the Kangaroo.' _Rymer Jones' Organization of the Animal Kingdom_, London, 1855, pp. 829, 830. [865] 'The muscularity of arteries, of which John Hunter made physiological proof, is now a matter of eyesight.' _Simon's Pathology_, London, 1850, p. 69. 'To prove the muscularity of an artery, it is only necessary to compare its action with that of elastic substances.' ... 'When the various uses of arteries are considered, such as their forming different parts of the body out of the blood, their performing the different secretions, their allowing at one time the blood to pass readily into the smaller branches, as in blushing, and at another, preventing it altogether, as in paleness from fear: and if to these we add the power of producing a diseased increase of any or every part of the body, we cannot but conclude that they are possessed of muscular powers.' _Hunter's Works_, vol. iii. p. 157. See also vol. iv. p. 254. Mr. Gulliver, in his edition of _Hewson's Works_, London, 1846, says (p. 125), that Hunter's 'experiments on the functions of the arteries are supported by the latest and best observations on their structure.' [866] 'The fact of the muscularity of the iris, which is here presumed from analogy by Mr. Hunter, has been since directly proved by the observations of Bauer and Jacob (_Phil. Trans._ 1822), and indirectly by Berzelius, who found that the iris possesses all the chemical properties of muscle.' Palmer's note in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iii. p. 146, London, 1837. [867] _Adams' Life of Hunter_, pp. 59, 60, 245. _Hunter's Works_, vol. i. p. 43, vol. iv. pp. 116-121. _Watson's Principles of Physic_, vol. ii. p. 440. [868] 'Hunter subjects the blood to both mechanical and chemical analysis, and endeavours to determine the characteristic properties of its different constituents.' Owen's Preface to vol. iv. of _Hunter's Works_, p. xii. But this gives, perhaps, rather too high an idea of his animal chemistry; for such was then the miserable state of this extremely important branch of knowledge, that he arrived at the conclusion that 'blood gives no analysis excepting that of common animal matter.' _Principles of Surgery_, chap. iii. in _Hunter's Works_, vol. i. p. 229. [869] 'In seeking to determine the respective importance of the different constituents of the blood, by the philosophical and most difficult inquiry into their respective periods of formation in the development of the embryo, Hunter made the interesting discovery that the vessels of the embryo of a red-blooded animal circulated in the first instance colourless blood, as in the invertebrate animals. 'The red globules,' he observes, 'seemed to be formed later in life than the other two constituents, for we see while the chick is in the egg the heart beating, and it then contains a transparent fluid before any red globules are formed, which fluid we may suppose to be the serum and the lymph.' I well remember the feelings of surprise with which I listened, while at Paris in 1832, to a memoir read before the Academy of Science, by MM. Delpech and Coste, the object of which was the announcement of the same fact as a novel and important discovery. The statement of the French observers was received with all the consideration which its importance justly merited, without its being suspected that our great physiologist had, half a century before, embraced it, with all its legitimate deductions, in the extended circle of his investigations.' Owen's Preface to vol. iv. of _Hunter's Works_, p. xiii. [870] Indeed, if we may rely on the references recently given by Mr. Gulliver, which, from his great general accuracy, there seems no reason to question, the fact that the pale blood precedes the red, was known even in the time of Glisson. See Gulliver's learned edition of _Hewson's Works_, London, 1846, p. 222. But, to the contemporaries of Glisson, such a fact was isolated, and consequently useless. Nothing is valuable while it appears to stand alone. [871] 'From the above account, it appears that whatever may be their utility in the machine, the red globules certainly are not of such universal use as the coagulating lymph, since they are not to be found in all animals, _nor so early in those that have them_; nor are they pushed into the extreme arteries, where we must suppose the coagulating lymph reaches; neither do they appear to be so readily formed. This being the case, _we must conclude them not to be the important part of the blood in contributing to growth, repair, &c. Their use would seem to be connected with strength._' _A Treatise on the Blood, Inflammation, and Gunshot Wounds_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iii. p. 68. In another remarkable passage, he touches on the possibility of an increase in the amount of red globules being connected with an increase in the amount of heat. 'I will not pretend to determine how far this may assist in keeping up the animal heat.' _Observations on the Structure and [OE]conomy of Whales_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 364. [872] The evidence of this is collected in the notes to _Buckle's History of Civilization_, vol. i. pp. 58-61. [873] 'According to Lecanu, temperament has an influence upon the composition of the blood. He infers from his analyses that the blood of lymphatic persons is poorer in solid constituents, and especially in blood corpuscules, than that of persons of sanguineous temperament, while the quantity of albumen is much the same in both.' _Simon's Animal Chemistry with reference to the Physiology and Pathology of Man_, London, 1845, vol. i. p. 236. Compare _Thomson's Chemistry of Animal Bodies_, Edinburgh, 1843, p. 370. [874] _Simon's Animal Chemistry_, vol. i. pp. 234, 235. Subsequent experiments have confirmed this. 'The proportion of red globules _dried_ to 1000 parts of blood, is in healthy males estimated at 127 parts by Andral and Gavarret; lower and higher figures have been given by other analysts, but this probably is the result of somewhat different modes of proceeding. _In females the proportion of globules is lower._ Becquerel and Rodier make the difference to be about 15 parts per 1000.' _Jones and Sieveking's Pathological Anatomy_, London, 1854, p. 23. Hence, the greater specific gravity of male blood. See the interesting results of Dr. Davy's experiments in _Davy's Physiological and Anatomical Researches_, London, 1839, vol. ii. p. 32. [875] Hunter died in 1793. The researches of Lecanu were published in 1831. Another, and still more remarkable proof of the extent to which Hunter outstripped his own age, appears in the following passage, which has just been published in his posthumous works, and in which he anticipates the grandest and most suggestive of all the ideas belonging to the physiology of the nineteenth century. 'If we were capable of following the progress of increase of the number of the parts of the most perfect animal, as they first formed in succession, from the very first to its state of full perfection, we should probably be able to compare it with some one of the incomplete animals themselves, of every order of animals in the Creation, being at no stage different from some of the inferior orders. Or, in other words, if we were to take a series of animals, from the more imperfect to the perfect, we should probably find an imperfect animal, corresponding with some stage of the most perfect.' _Essays and Observations by John Hunter, being his Posthumous Papers_, London, 1861, vol. i. p. 203. Having thus, by a comprehensive survey of the animal world, associated its remarkable faculty of movement with the state of its blood, Hunter turned his attention to another aspect of the question, and took into consideration the movements of the vegetable world, in the hope that, by comparing these two divisions of nature, he might detect some law, which, being common to both, should unite into one study all the principles of organic motion. Though he failed in this great undertaking, some of his generalizations are very suggestive, and well illustrate the power and grasp of his mind. Looking at the organic kingdom as a whole, he supposed that its capacity of action, both in animals and in vegetables, was of three kinds. The first kind, was the action of the individual upon the materials it already possessed; and this gave rise to growth, secretion, and other functions, in which the juice of the plant was equivalent to the blood of the animal.[876] The second kind of action had for its object to increase these materials; it was always excited by want, and its result was, to nourish and preserve the individual.[877] The third kind was entirely due to external causes, including the whole material world, all the phenomena of which were a stimulus to some kind of action.[878] By combining, in different ways, these different sources of motion, and by studying every incitement to action, first, in reference to one of the three great divisions just indicated, and, secondly, in reference to the _power_ of action, as distinguished from the _quantity_ of action,[879] Hunter believed that some fundamental truths might be obtained, if not by himself, at all events by his successors. For, he thought that, though animals can do many things which plants cannot, still, the immediate cause of action is in both cases the same.[880] In animals, there is more variety of motion, but in plants there is more real power. A horse is certainly far stronger than a man. Yet a small vine cannot only support, but can raise, a column of fluid five times higher than a horse can. Indeed, the power which a plant exercises of holding a leaf erect during an entire day, without pause and without fatigue, is an effort of astonishing vigour, and is one of many proofs, that a principle of compensation is at work, so that the same energy which, in the animal world, is weakened by being directed to many objects, is, in the vegetable world, strengthened by being concentrated on a few.[881] [876] 'The natural salutary actions, arising from stimuli, take place both in animals and vegetables, and may be divided into three kinds. The first kind of action, or self-motion, is employed simply in the economical operations, by which means the immediate functions are carried on, and the necessary operations performed, with the materials the animal or vegetable is in possession of, such as growth, support, secretion, &c. The blood is disposed of by the actions of the vessels, according to their specific stimulus, producing all the above effects. The juices of a plant are disposed of according to the different actions of the sap-vessels, arising also from their specific stimulus, which is different from that of blood-vessels, but equally produces growth; but a vine will grow twenty feet in one summer, while a whale, probably, does not grow so much in as many years.' _Croonian Lectures on Muscular Motion_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 199. [877] 'The second kind of action is in pursuit of external influence, and arises from a compound of internal and external stimulus; it is excited by the state of the animal or vegetable, which gives the stimulus of want, and being completed by external stimulus, produces the proper supplies of nourishment. It produces motions of whole parts: thus we see the _Hedysarum gyrans_ moving its lesser foliola. This is an action apparently similar to breathing in animals, though, perhaps, it does not answer the same purpose; yet there is an alternate motion in both.' _Croonian Lectures_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 200. [878] 'The third kind of motion is from external stimulus, and consists principally of the motion of whole parts, which is not inconsiderable in vegetables, as in the _Dionæa muscipula_ and _Mimosa pudica_ is very evident.' ... 'These actions are similar to what arise in many animals from external stimulus.' _Ibid._ vol. iv. p. 201. [879] 'I make a material difference between the power and the quantity of action. Some motions may be very small, yet act with great force; while others are of considerable extent, although very weak.' _Ibid._ vol. iv. p. 204. [880] 'The immediate cause of motion in all vegetables is most probably the same, and it is probably the same in all animals; but how far they are the same in both classes, has not yet been determined. But I think it will appear, in the investigation of this subject, that vegetables and animals have actions evidently common to both, and that the causes of these actions are apparently the same in both; and most probably there is not an action in the vegetable, which does not correspond or belong to the animal, although the mode of action in the parts may not be the same, or muscular, in both.' _Croonian Lectures_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 196. Compare the section 'Of Motion in Vegetables,' in _Hunter's Essays_, London, 1861, vol. i. p. 24. [881] 'The variety of motions is greater in animals, and more purposes are answered by them.' ... 'The first kind of action appears to be stronger in its power, although less in quantity, in vegetables than in animals; for a small vine was capable of sustaining, and even of raising, a column of sap 43 feet high, while a horse's heart was only capable of supporting a column of blood 8 feet 9 inches high; both of which columns must have been supported by the action of the internal parts, for we must suppose the heart equal, or nearly so, to the strength or action of the other parts of the vascular system; and when we consider that the sap of the tallest tree must be supported, and even raised from the root to the most distant branches, it must appear that the power of such vegetables far exceeds the power of any animal, and, indeed, it is such as the texture of a vegetable only can support. The power of supporting a leaf erect for a whole day is as great an effort of action as that of the elevator palpebrarum muscle of the eye of an animal.' _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. pp. 203, 204. See also _Hunter's Essays_, vol. i. p. 342: 'It is probable that the vegetable which can the least bear a suspension of its actions, can do so more than the animal which can bear it longest.' In pursuing these speculations, which, amid much that is uncertain, contain, I firmly believe, a large amount of important, though neglected, truth, Hunter was led to consider how motion is produced by various forces, such as magnetism, electricity, gravitation, and chemical attraction.[882] This carried him into inorganic science, where, as he clearly saw, the foundation of all organic science must be laid. Just as, on the one hand, the human frame could never be successfully studied, except by the aid of principles which had been collected from an investigation of animals below man,[883] so, on the other hand, the laws of those very animals must, he said, be approached through the laws of common or inorganic matter.[884] He, therefore, aimed at nothing less than to unite all the branches of physical science, taking them in the order of their relative complexity, and proceeding from the simplest to the most intricate. With this view, he examined the structure of the mineral kingdom, and, by an extensive comparison of crystals, he sought to generalize the principles of form, in the same way as, by a comparison of animals, he sought to generalize the principles of function. And, in doing this, he took into account, not only regular crystals, but also irregular ones.[885] For, he knew that, in nature, nothing is really irregular or disorderly; though our imperfect apprehension, or rather the backwardness of our knowledge, prevents us from discerning the symmetry of the universal scheme. The beauty of the plan, and the necessity of the sequence, are not always perceptible. Hence, we are too apt to fancy that the chain is broken, because we cannot see every link in it. From this serious error, Hunter was saved by his genius, even more than by his knowledge. Being satisfied that every thing which happens in the material world, is so connected and bound up with its antecedents, as to be the inevitable result of what had previously occurred, he looked with a true philosophical eye at the strangest and most capricious shapes, because to him they had a meaning and a necessary purpose. To him, they were neither strange nor capricious. They were deviations from the natural course; but it was a fundamental tenet of his philosophy, that nature, even in the midst of her deviations, still retains her regularity.[886] Or, as he elsewhere expresses it, deviation is, under certain circumstances, part of the law of nature.[887] [882] _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 255. [883] In his _Principles of Surgery_, he says (_Hunter's Works_, vol. i. p. 220), 'The human body is what I mean chiefly to treat of; but I shall often find it necessary to illustrate some of the propositions which I shall lay down from animals of an inferior order, in whom the principles may be more distinct and less blended with others, or where the parts are differently constructed, in order to show, from many varieties of structure, and from many different considerations, what are the uses of the same parts in man; or, at least, to show that they are not for the uses which have been commonly assigned to them; and, as man is the most complicated part of the whole animal creation, it will be proper, in the first place, to point out general principles, common to all this species of matter, that I may be better understood when I come to the more complicated machine, namely, the human.' [884] 'Before we endeavour to give an idea of an animal, it is necessary to understand the properties of that matter of which an animal is composed; but the better to understand animal matter, it is necessary to understand the properties of common matter; else we shall be often applying our ideas of common matter, which are familiar to us, to animal matter, an error hitherto too common, but which we should carefully avoid.' _Principles of Surgery_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. i. p. 211. 'In the natural history of vegetables and animals, therefore, it will be necessary to go back to the first or common matter of this globe, and give its general properties; then see how far these properties are introduced into the vegetable and animal operations; or rather, perhaps, how far they are of use or subservient to their actions.' _Hunter's Essays_, vol. i. p. 4. 'Every property in man is similar to some property, either in another animal, or probably in a vegetable, or even in inanimate matter. Thereby (man) becomes classible with those in some of his parts.' _Ibid._ p. 10. [885] He made 'a valuable collection of crystallizations, both of regular and irregular forms, which he was accustomed to use in his lectures to exemplify the difference between the laws which regulate the growth of organic and the increase of inorganic bodies.' _Ottley's Life of Hunter_, p. 138. [886] 'Nature is always uniform in her operations, and when she deviates is still regular in her deviations.' _Principles of Surgery_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. i. p. 485; see also vol. iv. pp. 44, 45. [887] 'It certainly may be laid down, as one of the principles or laws of nature, to deviate under certain circumstances.' _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 278. To generalize such irregularities, or, in other words, to show that they are not irregularities at all, was the main object of Hunter's life, and was the noblest part of his mission. Hence, notwithstanding his vast achievements in physiology, his favourite pursuit was pathology,[888] where, the phenomena being more complex, the intellect has more play. In this great field, he studied the aberrations of structure and of function, in the vegetable, as well as in the animal, world;[889] while, for the aberrations of form, which are the external manifestations of disturbed structure, he took into consideration the appearances presented by the mineral kingdom. There, the power of crystallization is the leading feature, and there, violations of symmetry constitute the essential disorder, whether the deformity of the crystal is subsequent to its production, or whether, being the result of what happened before its production, it is an original, and, if we may so say, congenital, defect. In either case, it is a deviation from the normal type, and, as such, is analogous to the monstrosities, both of animals and of vegetables.[890] The mind of Hunter, by sweeping through this immense range of thought, attained to such commanding views of the philosophy of disease, that, in that department, he is certainly without a rival. As a physiologist, he was equalled, or perhaps excelled, by Aristotle; but as a pathologist, he stands alone, if we consider what pathology was when he found it, and what it was when he left it.[891] Since his death, the rapid advance of morbid anatomy and of chemistry has caused some of his doctrines to be modified, and some of them to be overturned. This has been the work of inferior men, wielding superior chemical and microscopical resources. To say that the successors of John Hunter are inferior to him, is no disparagement to their abilities, since he was one of those extremely rare characters who only appear at very long intervals, and who, when they do appear, remodel the fabric of knowledge. They revolutionize our modes of thought; they stir up the intellect to insurrection; they are the rebels and demagogues of science. And though the pathologists of the nineteenth century have chosen a humbler path, this must not blind us to their merits, or prevent us from being grateful for what they have done. We cannot, however, be too often reminded, that the really great men, and those who are the sole permanent benefactors of their species, are not the great experimenters, nor the great observers, nor the great readers, nor the great scholars, but the great thinkers. Thought is the creator and vivifier of all human affairs. Actions, facts, and external manifestations of every kind, often triumph for a while; but it is the progress of ideas which ultimately determines the progress of the world. Unless these are changed, every other change is superficial, and every improvement is precarious. It is, however, evident that, in the present state of our knowledge, all ideas respecting nature must refer either to the normal or to the abnormal; that is to say, they must be concerned either with what is regular, uniform, and obedient to recognized principles, or else with what is irregular, perturbed, and disobedient. Of these two divisions, the first belongs to science; the second, to superstition. John Hunter formed the superb conception of merging both classes of ideas into one, by showing that nothing is irregular, that nothing is perturbed, that nothing is disobedient. Centuries, perhaps, may elapse before that conception will be consummated. But what Hunter effected towards it, places him at the head of all pathologists, ancient or modern. For, with him, the science of pathology did not mean the laws of disease in man alone, or even in all animals, or even in the whole organic kingdom; but it meant the laws of disease and of malformation in the entire material world, organic and inorganic. His great object was, to raise a science of the abnormal. He determined to contemplate nature as a vast and united whole, exhibiting, indeed, at different times different appearances, but preserving, amidst every change, a principle of uniform and uninterrupted order, admitting of no deviation, undergoing no disturbance, and presenting no real irregularity, albeit to the common eye, irregularities abound on every side. [888] Dr. Adams, who knew him personally, says that he studied 'physiology, more particularly as connected with pathology.' _Adams' Life of Hunter_, p. 77. [889] His _Principles of Surgery_ contain some curious evidence of his desire to establish a connexion between animal and vegetable pathology. See, for instance, his remarks on 'local diseases' (_Works_, vol. i. p. 341); on the influence of the seasons in producing diseases (vol. i. pp. 345, 346); and on the theory of inflammation exhibited in an oak-leaf (vol. i. p. 391). But even now, too little is known of the diseases of the vegetable world to enable their study to be incorporated with the science of the diseases of the animal world; and, in the time of Hunter, the attempt was still less promising. Still, the effort shows the grandeur and range of the man's mind; and though little was effected, the method was right. So, too, in one of his essays on the _Power of Producing Heat_, he says, 'In the course of a variety of experiments on animals and vegetables, I have frequently observed that the result of experiments in the one has explained the economy of the other, and pointed out some principle common to both.' _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 136. [890] 'Nature being pretty constant in the kind and number of the different parts peculiar to each species of animal, as also in the situation, formation, and construction of such parts, we call every thing that deviates from that uniformity a "monster," whether (it occur in) crystallization, vegetation, or animalization. There must be some principle for those deviations from the regular course of nature, in the economy of such species as they occur in. In the present inquiry it is the animal creation I mean to consider. Yet, as there may be in some degree an analogy between all the three (kingdoms of nature), I shall consider the other two, so far as this analogy seems to take place.' ... 'Monsters are not peculiar to animals: they are less so in them, perhaps, than in any species of matter. The vegetable (kingdom) abounds with monsters; and perhaps the uncommon formation of many crystals may be brought within the same species of production, and accounted for upon the same principle, viz. some influence interfering with the established law of regular formation. Monsters in crystals may arise from the same cause, as mentioned in the "Introduction;" viz. either a wrong arrangement of the parts of which the crystal is to be composed, or a defect in the formation, from the first setting out being wrong, and (the formation) going on in the same (wrong) line. The principle of crystallization is in the solution; yet it requires more to set it agoing, or into action, such, _e.g._, as a solid surface. The deficiency in the production of a true crystal may be in the solution itself; or, I can conceive, that a very slight circumstance might alter the form of a crystal, and even give the disposition for one (crystal) to form upon another. Quickness in the progress of crystallization produces irregularity and diminution in size.' _Hunter's Essays_, London, 1861, vol. i. pp. 239-241. The reader must remember, that, when these remarks were written, the phenomena of crystallization had not been subjected to that exact mathematical treatment which subsequently revealed so many of their laws. Indeed, the goniometer was then so coarse an instrument, that it was impossible to measure the angles of crystals with accuracy. [891] Abernethy says, 'He appears to me as a new character in our profession; and, briefly to express his peculiar merit, I may call him the first and great physionosologist, or expositor of the nature of disease.' _Abernethy's Hunterian Oration_, p. 29, London, 1819. 'He may be regarded as the first who applied the great truths of anatomical and physiological science to these most important subjects, by tracing the processes which nature employs in the construction of organic changes, in building up new formations, and in repairing the effects of injury or disease.' _Hodgson's Hunterian Oration_, 1855, p. 32. As pathology was the science to which Hunter was most devoted, so also was it that in which his natural love of deduction was most apparent. Here, far more than in his physiological inquiries, do we find a desire to multiply original principles from which he could reason; in opposition to the inductive method, which always aims at diminishing these principles by gradual and successive analysis. Thus, for instance, in his animal pathology, he attempted to introduce, as an ultimate principle from which he could argue, the idea that all diseases move more rapidly towards the skin than towards internal parts, by virtue of some hidden force, which also obliges vegetables to approach the surface of the earth.[892] Another favourite proposition, which he often used as a major premiss, and by its aid constructed deductively a pathological argument, was, that in no substance, be it what it may, can two processes go on in the same part at the same time.[893] By applying this universal proposition to the more limited phenomena of animal life, he inferred that two general diseases cannot co-exist in the same individual; and he relied so much on this ratiocination, that he refused to credit any testimony by which it was impugned.[894] There is reason to believe that his conclusion is erroneous, and that different diseases can so accompany each other, as to be united in the same individual, at the same time, and in the same part.[895] Whether or not this be the case, it is equally interesting to notice the process of thought which led Hunter to bestow infinitely more pains in arguing from the general theory, than in arguing to it. Indeed, he can hardly be said to have argued to it at all, since he obtained it by a rough and hasty generalization from what seemed to be the obvious properties of inorganic matter. Having thus obtained it, he applied it to the pathological phenomena of the organic world, and especially of the animal world. That he should have adopted this course, is a curious proof of the energy of his deductive habits, and of the force of mind which enabled him so to set at naught the traditions of his English contemporaries, as to follow a method which, in the opinion of every one who surrounded him, was not only full of danger, but could never lead to truth. [892] 'The specific qualities in diseases also tend more rapidly to the skin than to the deeper-seated parts, except the cancer; although, even in this disease, the progress towards the superficies is more quick than its progress towards the centre.' ... 'In short, this is a law of nature, and it probably is upon the same principle by which vegetables always approach the surface of the earth.' _A Treatise on the Blood, Inflammation, and Gunshot Wounds_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iii. p. 285. 'Granulations always tend to the skin, which is exactly similar to vegetation, for plants always grow from the centre of the earth towards the surface; and this principle was taken notice of when we were treating of abscesses coming towards the skin.' _Ibid._ pp. 489, 490. [893] 'It may be admitted as an axiom, that two processes cannot go on at the same time in the same part of any substance.' _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 96. Compare _Hunter's Essays_, vol. ii. p. 333: 'As it appears, in general, that Nature can hardly make one part perform two actions with advantage.' [894] 'Thus, we hear of pocky itch and of scurvy and the venereal disease combined; but this supposition appears to me to be founded in error. I have never seen any such cases, _nor do they seem to be consistent with the principles of morbid action_ in the animal economy. It appears to me beyond a doubt that no two actions can take place in the same constitution, or in the same part, at one and the same time.' _Hunter's Works_, vol. ii. p. 132. 'As I reckon every operation in the body an action, whether universal or partial, _it appears to me beyond a doubt_ that no two actions can take place in the same constitution, nor in the same part, at one and the same time; the operations of the body are similar in this respect to actions or motions in common matter. _It naturally results from this principle_, that no two different fevers can exist in the same constitution, nor two local diseases in the same part, at the same time. There are many local diseases which have dispositions totally different, but having very similar appearances, have been supposed by some to be one sort of disease, by others to be a different kind, and by others again a compound of two diseases.' ... 'These, therefore, are often supposed to be mixed, and to exist in the same part. Thus we hear of a pocky-scurvy, a pocky-itch, rheumatic-gout, &c. &c., which names, _according to my principle_, imply a union that cannot possibly exist.' _Ibid._ vol. iii. pp. 3, 4. [895] Dr. Robert Williams (_Encyclopædia of the Medical Sciences_, London, 1847, 4to, p. 688) says, 'The diagnosis between gout and rheumatism is often exceedingly difficult, so much so that nosologists have given a mixed class, or rheumatic gout. Mr. Hunter warmly opposed this compound appellation, for, in his opinion, no two distinct diseases, or even distinct diatheses, can co-exist in the same constitution; a law, it must be admitted, to have many exceptions.' Compare _Watson's Principles and Practice of Physic_, London, 1857, vol. i. p. 312; 'acting upon the aphorism of John Hunter (an aphorism, however, which requires some qualification), that two diseases or actions cannot go on in a part at the same time.' According to another authority, 'There can be little doubt that two or more zymotic processes do often go on simultaneously in the blood and body; a fact of profound interest to the pathologist, and worthy of attentive investigation.' _Report on the Public Health for 1847_, in _Journal of the Statistical Society_, vol. xi. p. 168, London, 1848. See also, on the co-existence of specific poisons, _Erichsen's Surgery_, 2nd edit., London, 1857, p. 430. Mr. Paget, in his striking and eminently suggestive _Lectures on Pathology_, London, 1853, vol. ii. pp. 537, 538, has made some interesting remarks on one part of the theory of co-existence; and his observations, so far as they go, tend to corroborate Hunter's view. He has put very forcibly the antagonism between cancer and other specific diseases; and especially between the cancerous diathesis and the tuberculous. Other parts of his pathology abound with similar instances, which show how anxious he was to assume principles on which he could build arguments. Of this kind were his ideas respecting sympathy, as connected with action. He suggested, that the simplest forms of sympathy would probably be found in the vegetable world, because there, the general arrangements are less intricate than in the animal world.[896] On this supposition, he constructed a series of curious and refined speculations, of which, however, I must confine myself to giving a very short summary. As animals sympathize more than vegetables, this helps us to understand why it is that their movements are more numerous. For, sympathy, being a susceptibility to impression, is also a principle of action.[897] Like other principles of action, it may be either natural or diseased.[898] But, whichever it be, it can, in plants, have only one mode of development, because, in them, it can only be influenced by stimulus; while in animals, which have sensation, it has necessarily three modes, one from stimulus, one from sensation, and a third compounded of the other two.[899] These are the largest divisions of sympathy, if we consider the organic world as a whole. In single cases, however, sympathy admits of still further subdivision. We may reason from it, in reference to the age of the individual;[900] we may also reason from it in reference to temperament, since, in point of fact, temperament is nothing but susceptibility to action.[901] And when sympathy is in action, we may, by analyzing our idea of it, reduce it to five different heads, and may classify it as continued, or contiguous, or remote, or similar, or dissimilar.[902] All these supplied Hunter with principles from which, by reasoning deductively, he attempted to explain the facts of disease; for, according to him, disease merely consists in a want of combination of actions.[903] By this process of thought, he was induced to neglect those predisposing causes, to which inductive pathologists pay great attention, and with which the works of his English contemporaries were much occupied. Such causes could only be generalized from observation, and Hunter made no account of them. Indeed, he even denies their real existence, and asserts that a predisposing cause is simply an increased susceptibility to form disposition to action.[904] [896] 'The most simple sympathy is perhaps to be found in vegetables, these being much more simple than the most simple animal.' _Principles of Surgery_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. i. p. 327. [897] 'This principle of action, called sympathy,' &c. _Ibid._ vol. i. p. 318. [898] 'Sympathy may be divided into two kinds, the natural and the diseased.' _Principles of Surgery_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. i. p. 320; see also _A Treatise on the Blood, Inflammation, &c._, in _Works_, vol. iii. p. 6. [899] _Croonian Lectures on Muscular Motion_, in _Hunter's Works_, vol. iv. p. 207; and exactly the same words in his _Phytology_, in _Hunter's Essays_, London, 1861, vol. i. p. 361. [900] 'Local or partial sympathy is found more in old than in young; whereas universal sympathy is more in young than in old. Sympathy is less determined in young persons, every part being then ready to sympathize with other parts under disease.' ... 'As the child advances, the power of sympathy becomes partial, there not being now, in the constitution, that universal consent of parts, but some part, which has greater sympathy than the rest, falls into the whole irritation; therefore the whole disposition to sympathy is directed to some particular part. The different organs acquire more and more of their own independent actions as the child grows older.' _Hunter's Works_, vol. i. pp. 322, 323. [901] 'Susceptibilities for dispositions and actions appear to me to be the same with what are usually understood by temperament. Temperament is the state of the body fitting it for the disposition or action it is then in.' _Hunter's Works_, vol. i. p. 307. [902] _Hunter's Works_, vol. iii. p. 393. [903] 'As every natural action of the body depends, for its perfection, on a number of circumstances, we are led to conclude, that all the various combining actions are established while the body is in health, and well disposed; but this does not take place in diseased actions, for disease, on the contrary, consists in the want of this very combination.' _Hunter's Works_, vol. iii. p. 10. Compare vol. i. p. 310: 'I have explained that a disease is a disposition for a wrong action, and that the action is the immediate effect of the disposition, and that either the actions or the effects of those actions, _produce the symptoms which are generally called the disease_; such as sensations, which are commonly pain of all kinds, sickness, alteration visible or invisible in the structure of the part or parts that act, and sympathy.' [904] 'There is no such thing, strictly speaking, as a predisposing cause. What is commonly understood by a predisposing cause is an increased susceptibility to form disposition to action. When I say I am predisposed for such and such actions, it is only that I am very susceptible of such and such impressions.' _Hunter's Works_, vol. i. p. 303. See also p. 301: 'The most simple idea I can form of an animal being capable of disease is, that every animal is endued with a power of action, and a susceptibility of impression, which impression forms a disposition, which disposition may produce action, which action becomes the immediate sign of the disease; all of which will be according to the nature of the impression and of the part impressed.' By reasoning from the twofold ideas of action and of sympathy, Hunter constructed the deductive or synthetic part of his pathology. This he did as a Scotchman, and to this, had he always lived in Scotland, he would probably have confined himself. But being for forty years surrounded by Englishmen, and having his mind impregnated by English habits, he contracted something of their mode of thought. We, accordingly, find that a considerable portion of his pathology is as inductive as the most eager disciple of Bacon could desire; forming, in this respect, a striking contrast to the purely synthetic method of Cullen, the other great pathologist of Scotland. In the attempt, however, which Hunter made to mix these two methods, he perplexed both himself and his readers. Hence that obscurity, which even his warmest admirers have noticed, though they have not perceived its cause. Vast as his powers were, he was unable to effect a complete union between induction and deduction. That this should have happened, will not surprise any one, who considers how some of the greatest thinkers have failed in this, the most difficult of all enterprises. Among the ancients, Plato failed in induction, and all his followers failed with him; since none of them have placed sufficient confidence in facts, and in the process of reasoning from particulars to generals. Among the moderns, Bacon was deficient in deduction, and every Baconian has been similarly deficient; it being the essential vice of that school to despise reasoning from general propositions, and to underrate the value of the syllogism. It may, indeed, be doubted if the history of the world supplies more than two instances of physical philosophers being as great in one form of investigation as in the other. They are Aristotle and Newton, who wielded each method with equal ease, combining the skill and boldness of deduction with the caution and perseverance of induction, masters alike of synthesis and of analysis, as capable of proceeding from generals to particulars, as from particulars to generals, sometimes making ideas precede facts, and sometimes making facts precede ideas, but never faltering, never doubting which course to take, and never allowing either scheme unduly to encroach on its opposite. That Hunter should be unable to perform this, merely proves that he was inferior to these two men, whose almost incredible achievements entitle them to be termed the prodigies of the human race. But what he did was wonderful, and, in his own department, has never been rivalled. Of the character and extent of his inquiries, I have given a sketch, which, notwithstanding its imperfections, may serve to illustrate the antagonism of the Scotch and English intellects, by showing how the methods peculiar to each nation struggled for mastery in that great mind, which was exposed to the action of both. Which method predominated in Hunter, it would be hard to say. But it is certain, that his understanding was troubled by their conflict. It is also certain, that, owing to his love of deduction, or of reasoning from general ideas, he exercised much less sway over his English contemporaries, than he would have done if he had exclusively followed their favourite method of reasoning from particular facts. Hence, the disproportion between his influence and his merits. As to his merits, it is now admitted that, in addition to his physiological discoveries, and the great pathological views which he propounded, we may trace to him nearly all the surgical improvements which were introduced within about forty years after his death.[905] He was the first who explained, and, indeed, the first who recognized, the disease of inflammation of the veins, which is of frequent occurrence, and, under the name of phlebitis, has latterly been much studied, but which, before his time, had been ascribed to the most erroneous causes.[906] On general inflammation, he threw so much light, that the doctrines which he advocated, and which were then ridiculed as whimsical novelties, are now taught in the schools, and have become part of the common traditions of the medical profession.[907] He, moreover, introduced what is probably the most capital improvement in surgery ever effected by a single man; namely, the practice in aneurism of tying the artery at a distance from the seat of disease. This one suggestion has saved thousands of lives; and both the suggestion, and the first successful execution of it, are entirely owing to John Hunter, who, if he had done nothing else, would, on this account alone, have a right to be classed among the principal benefactors of mankind.[908] [905] Hunter died in 1793. In 1835, Mr. Palmer writes: 'Those who have traced the progress of modern surgery to its true source, will not fail to have discerned, in the principles which Hunter established, the germs of almost all the improvements which have been since introduced.' _Hunter's Works_, vol. i. p. vii. Eighteen years later, Mr. Paget says of Hunter's views respecting the healing of injuries: 'In these sentences, Mr. Hunter has embodied the principle on which is founded the whole practice of subcutaneous surgery; a principle of which, indeed, it seems hardly possible to exaggerate the importance.' _Paget's Lectures on Surgical Pathology_, London, 1853, vol. i. p. 170. At pp. 197, 198: 'After what I have said respecting the process of immediate union, it may appear that Mr. Hunter was more nearly right than his successors.' [906] 'Inflammation of the veins, originally studied by Hunter, has of late years attracted the attention of many distinguished Continental and British pathologists.' _Erichsen's Surgery_, London, 1857, p. 475. 'No subject more amply illustrates the essential services which the science and art of medicine have derived from pathological anatomy than that of phlebitis. By this study many a dark point in the phenomena of disease has been either thoroughly elucidated, or, at all events, rendered more comprehensible. We need only refer to the so-termed malignant intermittents, consequent upon wounds and surgical operations,--to certain typhoid conditions, puerperal diseases, and the like, John Hunter, the elder Meckel, and Peter Frank, were the first to commence the investigation.' _Hasse's Anatomical Description of the Diseases of the Organs of Circulation and Respiration_, London, 1846, p. 10. 'Hunter was the first to open the way, and since that period the scalpel has shown that many previously unintelligible malignant conditions are attributable to phlebitis.' _Jones and Sieveking's Pathological Anatomy_, London, 1854, p. 362. On the application of this discovery to the theory of inflammation of the spleen, see _Rokitansky's Pathological Anatomy_, vol. ii. p. 173, London, 1849; compare vol. iv. p. 335. [907] Sir Benjamin Brodie says: 'It is true that the essential parts of John Hunter's doctrines as to inflammation and its consequences are now so incorporated with what is taught in the schools, that to be acquainted with them you need not seek them in his works; but I recommend you, nevertheless, to make these your especial study, for the sake of the other valuable information which they contain, and the important views in physiology and pathology which, in almost every page, are offered to your contemplation.' _Brodie's Lectures on Pathology and Surgery_, London, 1846, p. 25. 'John Hunter, whose treatise on Inflammation is a mine in which all succeeding writers have dug.' _Watson's Principles and Practice of Physic_, London, 1857, vol. i. p. 146. 'The appeal to philosophical principles in Hunter's works was, indeed, the cause of their being a closed volume to his less enlightened contemporaries; but, though the principles implied or expressed, subjected them to the scorn and neglect of those less imbued with the spirit of philosophy, the results of those principles, verified as they were by facts, have gradually and insensibly forced themselves on the conviction of the profession; and though adopted silently, and without acknowledgment, as if the authors themselves had forgotten or were ignorant from whence they were derived, they now form the very groundwork of all books, treatises, and lectures on professional subjects.' _Green's Vital Dynamics_, London, 1840, p. 81. Finally, I will quote the very recent testimony of Mr. Simon, who, in his masterly, and singularly beautiful, essay on Inflammation, has not only brought together nearly every thing which is known on that interesting subject, but has shown himself to be possessed of powers of generalization rare in the medical profession, or, indeed, in any other profession. 'Without undue partiality, an Englishman may be glad to say that the special study of Inflammation dates from the labours of John Hunter. An indefatigable observer of nature, untrammelled by educational forms, and thoroughly a sceptic in his method of study, this large-minded surgeon of ours went to work at inflammation with a full estimate of the physiological vastness of his subject. He saw that, in order to understand inflammation, he must regard it, not as one solitary fact of disease, but in connexion with kindred phenomena--some of them truly morbid in their nature, but many of them within the limits of health. He saw that, for any one who would explain inflammation, all inequalities of blood supply, all periodicities of growth, all actions of sympathy, were part of the problem to be solved.' ... 'He cannot be understood without more reflection than average readers will give; and only they who are content to struggle through a veil of obscure language, up to the very reality of his intent, can learn with how great a master they are communing.' ... 'Doubtless, he was a great discoverer. But it is for the spirit of his labours, even more than for the establishment of new doctrine, that English surgery is for ever indebted to him. Of facts in pathology, he may, perhaps, be no permanent teacher; but to the student of medicine he must always be a noble pattern. Emphatically, it may be said of him, that he was the physiological surgeon. Others, before him (Galen, for instance, eminently), had been at once physiologists and practitioners; but science, in their case, had come little into contact with practice. Never had physiology been so incorporated with surgery, never been so applied to the investigation of disease and the suggestion of treatment, as it was by this master-workman of ours. And to him, so far as such obligations can be personal, we assuredly owe it that, for the last half-century, the foundations of English surgery have, at least professedly, been changing from a basis of empiricism to a basis of science.' _Simon on Inflammation_, in _A System of Surgery_, edited by T. Holmes, London, 1860, vol. i. pp. 134-136. [908] Mr. Bowman, in his _Principles of Surgery_ (_Encyclopædia of the Medical Sciences_, London, 4to, 1847) says (p. 831): 'Before the time of Hunter, the operation was performed by cutting into the sac of the aneurism, and tying the vessel above and below. So formidable was this proceeding in its consequences, that amputation of the limb was frequently preferred, as a less dangerous and fatal measure. The genius of Hunter led him to tie the femoral artery, in a case of popliteal aneurism, leaving the tumour untouched. The safety and efficacy of this mode of operating have now been fully established, and the principle has been extended to all operations for the cure of this formidable disease.' See also p. 873; _Paget's Surgical Pathology_, vol. i. pp. 36, 37; and _Erichsen's Surgery_, pp. 141, 142, 508, 509. But, so far as his own immediate reputation was concerned, all was in vain. He was in the midst of a people who had no sympathy with that mode of thought which was most natural to him. They cared nothing for ideas, except with a few to direct and tangible results; he valued ideas for themselves, and for the sake of their truth, independently of all other considerations. His English contemporaries, prudent, sagacious, but short-sighted, seeing few things at a time, but seeing those things with admirable clearness, were unable to appreciate his comprehensive speculations. Hence, in their opinion, he was little else than an innovator and an enthusiast.[909] Hence, too, even the practical improvements which he introduced were coldly received, because they proceeded from so suspicious a source. The great Scotchman, thrown among a nation whose habits of mind were uncongenial to his own, stood, says one of the most celebrated of his disciples, in a position of solitary and comfortless superiority.[910] Indeed, so little was he regarded by that very profession of which he was the chiefest ornament, that, during the many years in which he delivered lectures in London on anatomy and on surgery, his audience never amounted to twenty persons.[911] [909] 'The majority of Hunter's contemporaries considered his pursuits to have little connexion with practice, charged him with attending to physiology more than surgery, and looked on him as little better than an innovator and an enthusiast.' _Ottley's Life of Hunter_, p. 126. In a work, which was written by a surgeon only the year after Hunter died, the reader is told, in regard to his remarkable inquiries respecting animal heat, that 'his experiments, if they be true, carry with them no manner of information:--if they be true, no effect for the benefit of man can possibly be derived from them.' _Foot's Life of Hunter_, London, 1794, p. 116. At p. 225, the same practitioner reproaches the great philosopher with propounding 'purely a piece of theory, without any practical purpose whatever.' Foot, indeed, wrote under the influence of personal feelings, but he rightly judged that these were the sort of charges which would be most likely to prejudice the English public against Hunter. It never occurred to Foot, any more than it would occur to his readers, that the quest of truth, as truth, is a magnificent object, even if its practical benefit is imperceptible. One other testimony is worth quoting. Sir Astley Cooper writes of Cline: 'His high opinion of Mr. Hunter shows his judgment; for almost all others of Mr. Hunter's contemporaries, although they praise him now, abused him while he lived.' _The Life of Sir Astley Cooper, by Bransby Blake Cooper_, London, 1843, vol. ii. p. 337. [910] 'Those who far precede others, must necessarily remain alone; and their actions often appear unaccountable, nay, even extravagant, to their distant followers, who know not the causes that give rise to them, nor the effects which they are designed to produce. In such a situation stood Mr. Hunter, with relation to his contemporaries. It was a comfortless precedence, for it deprived him of sympathy and social co-operation.' _Abernathy's Hunterian Oration_, p. 49. [911] 'These he continued for several years; but so far were his talents, and his enlightened views, from exciting the attention they merited, that his hearers never amounted to twenty,' _Ottley's Life of Hunter_, p. 28. * * * * * I have now completed my examination of the Scotch intellect as it unfolded itself in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The difference between those two periods must strike every reader. In the seventeenth century, the ablest Scotchmen wasted their energies on theological subjects, respecting which we have no trustworthy information, and no means of obtaining any. On these topics, different persons and different nations, equally honest, equally enlightened, and equally competent, have entertained, and still entertain, the most different opinions, which they advocate with the greatest confidence, and support by arguments, perfectly satisfactory to themselves, but contemptuously rejected by their opponents. Each side deeming itself in possession of the truth, the impartial inquirer, that is, he who really loves truth, and knows how difficult it is to obtain it, seeks for some means by which he may fairly adjudicate between these conflicting pretensions, and determine which is right and which is wrong. The further he searches, the more he becomes convinced that no such means are to be found, and that these questions, if they do not transcend the limits of the human understanding, do, certainly, transcend its present resources, and have no chance of being answered, while other and much simpler problems are still unsolved. It would be strange, indeed, if we, ignorant of so many lower and subordinate matters, should be able to reach and penetrate these remote and complicated mysteries. It would be strange if we, who, notwithstanding the advances we have made, are still in the infancy of our career, and who, like infants, can only walk with unsteady gait, and are scarce able to move without stumbling, even on plain and level ground, should, nathless, succeed in scaling those dizzy heights, which, overhanging our path, lure us on where we are sure to fall. Unfortunately, however, men are, in every age, so little conscious of their deficiencies, that they not only attempt this impossible task, but believe they have achieved it. Of those who are a prey to this delusion, there are always a certain number, who, seated on their imaginary eminence, are so inflated by the fancied superiority, as to undertake to instruct, to warn, and to rebuke the rest of mankind. Giving themselves out as spiritual advisers, and professing to teach what they have not yet learned, they exhibit in their own persons that most consistent of all combinations, a combination of great ignorance with great arrogance. From this, other evils inevitably follow. The ignorance produces superstition; the arrogance produces tyranny. Hence it is, that, in a country like Scotland, where the pressure of long-continued and adverse circumstances has consolidated the power of these pretenders to wisdom, such sad results become conspicuous in every direction. Not only the national character, but also the national literature, feel their influence, and are coloured by them. It was, therefore, natural that, in Scotland, in the seventeenth century, when the authority of the clergy was most uncontrolled, the consequences of that authority should be most apparent. It was natural that a literature should be created such as that of which I have given some account; a literature which encouraged superstition, intolerance, and bigotry; a literature full of dark misgivings, and of still darker threats; a literature which taught men that it was wrong to enjoy the present, and that it was right to tremble at the future; a literature, in a word, which, spreading gloom on every side, soured the temper, corrupted the affections, numbed the intellect, and brought into complete discredit those bold and original inquiries, without which there can be no advance in human knowledge, and consequently no increase of human happiness. To this, the literature of the eighteenth century offered a striking and most exhilarating contrast. It seemed as if, in a moment, all was changed. The Baillies, the Binnings, the Dicksons, the Durhams, the Flemings, the Frasers, the Gillespies, the Guthries, the Halyburtons, the Hendersons, the Rutherfords, and the rest of that monkish rabble, were succeeded by eminent and enterprising thinkers, whose genius lighted up every department of knowledge, and whose minds, fresh and vigorous as the morning, opened for themselves a new career, and secured for their country a high place in the annals of European intellect. Something of what they effected, I have endeavoured to narrate; much, however, has been left untold. But I have brought forward sufficient evidence to convince even the most sceptical reader of the splendour of their achievements, and of the difference between the noble literature which they produced, and those wretched compositions which disfigured the preceding century. Still, great as the difference was, the two literatures had, as I have shown, one important point in common. Both were essentially deductive; and the proof of this I have given at considerable length, because, though it has, so far as I am aware, escaped the attention of all previous inquirers, its consequences were of the utmost moment to the fortunes of Scotland, and are, moreover, full of interest to those who, in their investigations of human affairs, desire to penetrate below the mere surface and symptoms of things. If we take a general view of those countries where science has been cultivated, we shall find that, wherever the deductive method of inquiry has predominated, knowledge, though often increased and accumulated, has never been widely diffused. On the other hand, we shall find that, when the inductive method has predominated, the diffusion of knowledge has always been considerable, or, at all events, has been beyond comparison greater than when deduction was prevalent. This holds good, not only of different countries, but also of different periods in the same country. It even holds good of different individuals in the same period, and in the same country. If, in any civilized nation, two men, equally gifted, were to propound some new and startling conclusion, and one of these men were to defend his conclusion by reasoning from ideas or general principles, while the other man were to defend his by reasoning from particular and visible facts, there can be no doubt that, supposing all other things the same, the latter man would gain most adherents. His conclusion would be more easily diffused, simply because a direct appeal, in the first instance, to palpable facts, strikes the vulgar with immediate effect; while an appeal to principles is beyond their ken, and as they do not sympathize with it, they are apt to ridicule it. Facts seem to come home to every one, and are undeniable. Principles are not so obvious, and, being often disputed, they have, to those who do not grasp them, an unreal and illusory appearance, which weakens their influence. Hence it is that inductive science, which always gives the first place to facts, is essentially popular, and has on its side those innumerable persons, who will not listen to the more refined and subtle teachings of deductive science. Hence, too, we find historically that the establishment of the modern inductive philosophy, with its varied and attractive experiments, its material appliances, and its constant appeal to the senses, has been intimately connected with the awakening of the public mind, and coincides with that spirit of inquiry, and with that love of liberty, which have been constantly advancing since the sixteenth century. We may assuredly say, that scepticism and democracy are the two leading features of this great scientific movement. The seventeenth century, which ushered in the Baconian philosophy, was remarkable for its insubordinate spirit, especially in the country where that philosophy originated, and where it most flourished. In the next age, it was transplanted into France, and there, too, it worked upon the popular mind, and, was, as I have already pointed out, one of the principal causes of the French Revolution. If we look still closer into this interesting question, we shall find further corroboration of the view, that the inferences of an inductive philosophy are more likely to be diffused than those of a deductive one. Inductive science rests immediately upon experience, or, at all events, upon experiment, which is merely experience artificially modified. Now, an immense majority of mankind, even in the most advanced countries, are, by the constitution of their minds, incapable of seizing general principles and applying them to daily affairs, without doing serious mischief, either to themselves, or to others. Such an application requires not only great dexterity, but also a knowledge of those disturbing causes which affect the operation of all general theorems. The task, being so difficult to perform, is rarely attempted; and average men, possessed of a tolerably sound judgment, do, with good reason, rely mainly on experience, which is to them a safer and more useful guide than any principle, however accurate and scientific it might be. This begets in their minds a prejudice on behalf of experimental inquiries, and a corresponding dislike of the opposite and more speculative method. And it can, I think, hardly be doubted, that one of the causes of the triumph of the Baconian philosophy, is the growth of the industrious classes, whose business-like and methodical habits are eminently favourable to empirical observations of the uniformities of sequence, since, indeed, on the accuracy of such observations the success of all practical affairs depends. Certainly, we find that the overthrow of the purely deductive scholasticism of the Middle Ages has been everywhere accompanied by the spread of trade; and whoever will carefully study the history of Europe, will discern many traces of a connexion between the two movements, both of which are marked by an increasing respect for material and empirical interests, and a disregard of ideal and speculative pursuits. The relation between all this and the popular tendency of induction is obvious. For one person who can think, there are at least a hundred persons who can observe. An accurate observer is, no doubt, rare; but an accurate thinker is far rarer. Of this the proofs are too abundant to be disputed. Indeed, no one can mix with his fellow-creatures, without seeing how much more natural it is for them to notice than to reflect; and how extremely unusual it is to meet with any one whose conversation, or whose writings, bear marks of patient and original thought. And, inasmuch as thinkers are more prone to accumulate ideas, while observers are more prone to accumulate facts, the overwhelming predominance of the observing class is a decisive reason why induction, which begins with facts, is always more popular than deduction, which begins with ideas. It is often said, and probably with truth, that all deduction is preceded by induction; so that, in every syllogism, the major premiss, however obvious and necessary it may appear, is merely a generalization of facts, or record of what the senses had already observed. But this opinion, whether true or false, does not affect what I have just stated, because it concerns the origin of our knowledge, and not its subsequent treatment; that is to say, it is a metaphysical opinion, rather than a logical one. For, even supposing that all deduction rests ultimately on induction, it is, nevertheless, certain that there are innumerable cases in which the induction takes place at so early a period of life that we are unconscious of it, and can by no effort recall the process. The axioms of geometry afford a good specimen of this. No one can tell when or how he first believed that the whole is greater than its part, or that things which are equal to the same thing are equal to one another. All these preliminary steps are concealed from us, and the strength and dexterity of deduction are displayed in the subsequent steps by which the major premiss is adjusted, and, as it were, fitted to the minor. This often requires great subtlety of thought, and, in every instance, the external world is put aside, and lost sight of. The process, being ideal, has no concern, either with observations or experiments. The suggestions of the senses are shut out, while the mind passes through a long train of successive syllogisms, in which each conclusion is turned into the premiss of a new argument, until, at length, an inference is deductively obtained, which, to those who merely hear it enunciated, seems to have no connexion with the first premisses, though, in reality, it is the necessary consequence of them. A method, so recondite, and so hidden from the public gaze, can never command the public sympathy. Unless, therefore, the human mind should undergo some remarkable change in its nature as well as in its resources, the sensuous process of working upwards from particular facts to general principles, will always be more attractive than the ideal process of working downwards from principles to facts. In both cases, there is, no doubt, a line of argument essentially ideal; just as, in both cases, there is an assemblage of facts essentially sensuous. No method is pure, or stands entirely by itself. But, inasmuch as, in induction, the facts are more prominent than the ideas, while, in deduction, the ideas are more prominent than the facts, it is evident that conclusions arrived at by the former plan will, as a general rule, obtain a wider assent than conclusions arrived at by the latter plan. Obtaining a wider assent, they will produce more decisive results, and will be more likely to shape the national character and influence the course of national affairs. The only exception to this, is theology. There, the inductive method, as I have already observed, is inapplicable, and nothing remains but deduction, which is quite sufficient for the purposes of the theologian. For, he has a peculiar resource which supplies him with general principles, from which he can argue; and the possession of this resource forms the fundamental difference between him and the man of science. Science is the result of inquiry; theology is the result of faith. In the one, the spirit of doubt; in the other, the spirit of belief. In science, originality is the parent of discovery, and is, therefore, a merit; in theology, it is the parent of heresy, and is, therefore, a crime. Every system of religion the world has yet seen, recognizes faith as an indispensable duty; but to every system of science it is a hindrance, instead of a duty, inasmuch as it discourages those inquisitive and innovating habits on which all intellectual progress depends. The theologian, thus turning credulity into an honour, and valuing men in proportion as they are simple-minded and easy of belief, has little need to trouble himself with facts, which, indeed, he sets at open defiance, in his eagerness to narrate portentous, and often miraculous, events. To the inductive philosopher such a license is forbidden. He is obliged to ground his inferences on facts which no one disputes, or which, at all events, any one can either verify for himself, or see verified by others. And if he does not adopt this course, his inferences, be they ever so true, will have the greatest difficulty in working themselves into the popular mind, because they will savour of a subtlety and refinement of thought, which, more than any thing else, predisposes common understandings to reject the conclusions at which philosophers arrive. From the facts and arguments contained in this and the preceding chapter, the reader will, I trust, be able to see why it was that the Scotch intellect, during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, was preëminently deductive; and also why it was that, in the eighteenth century, the Scotch literature, notwithstanding its brilliancy, its power, and the splendid discoveries of which it was the vehicle, produced little or no effect on the nation at large. That literature, by its bold and innovating character, seemed peculiarly fitted to disturb ancient prejudices, and to rouse up a spirit of inquiry. But its method, both of investigation and of proof, was too refined to suit ordinary understandings. Therefore, upon ordinary understandings it was inoperative. In Scotland, as in ancient Greece, and in modern Germany, the intellectual classes, being essentially deductive, have been unable to influence the main body of the people. They have considered things at too great an altitude, and at too great a remove. In Greece, Aristotle alone had a true idea of what induction really was. But even he knew nothing of crucial instances and the theory of averages, the two capital resources of that inductive philosophy which we now possess. Neither did he, nor any of the great German philosophers, nor any of the great Scotch philosophers, attach sufficient importance to the slow and cautious method of gradually rising from each generalization to the one immediately above it, without omitting any intermediate generalizations. On this method, Bacon, indeed, insists too strongly, since many most important discoveries have been made independently of it, or, I should rather say, in contradiction to it. But it is a wonderful weapon, and none except men of real genius can dispense with its use. And when they do dispense with it, they cut themselves off from the general sympathies of their age and country. For, these small and proximate generalizations, which they neglect, are precisely those parts of philosophy which, being least removed from the region of visible facts, are best understood by the people, and, therefore, form the only common ground between thinkers and practitioners. They are a sort of middle term, which, being comprehended by both classes, is accessible to either. In all deductive reasoning, this intermediate, and, if I may so say, neutral, territory disappears, and the two classes have no meeting-place. Hence it is, that the Scotch philosophy, like the German philosophy, and like the Greek philosophy, has had no national influence. But in England, since the seventeenth century, and in France, since the eighteenth century, the prevailing philosophy has been inductive, and has, therefore, not only affected the intellectual classes, but also moved the public mind. The German philosophers are far superior, both in depth and in comprehensiveness, to the philosophers either of France or of England. Their profound researches have, however, done so little for their country, that the German people are every way inferior to the French and English people. So, too, in the philosophy of ancient Greece, we find a vast body of massive and original thought, and, what is infinitely better, we find a boldness of inquiry and a passionate love of truth, such as no modern nation has surpassed, and few modern nations have equalled. But the method of that philosophy was an insuperable barrier to its propagation. The people were untouched, and went grovelling on in their old folly, a prey to superstitions, most of which the great thinkers despised, and often attacked, but could by no means root out. Bad, however, as those superstitions were, we may confidently say that they were less noxious, that is, less detrimental to the happiness of man, than the repulsive and horrible notions advocated by the Scotch clergy, and sanctioned by the Scotch people. And on those notions the Scotch philosophy could make no impression. In Scotland, during the eighteenth century, superstition and science, the most irreconcilable of all enemies, flourished side by side, unable to weaken each other, and unable, indeed, to come into collision with each other. There was co-existence without contact. The two forces kept apart, and the result was, that, while the Scotch thinkers were creating a noble and most enlightened literature, the Scotch people, refusing to listen to those great masters of wisdom which their country possessed, remained in darkness, leaving the blind to follow the blind, and no one there to help them. It is, indeed, curious to observe how little effect was produced by the many great works written by Scotchmen in the eighteenth century. If we except the _Wealth of Nations_, I can hardly call to mind one which has perceptibly influenced public opinion. The reason of this exception may be easily explained. The _Wealth of Nations_ restricted the action of government within narrower limits than had ever been assigned to it by any other book of great merit. No previous political writer of admitted genius, had left so much to the people, and had demanded for them so much liberty in managing their own affairs, as Adam Smith did. The _Wealth of Nations_, being thus eminently a democratic book, was sure to find favour in Scotland, which was eminently a democratic country. Directly men heard its conclusions, they were prejudiced in favour of its arguments. So, too, in England, that love of liberty, which for many centuries has been our leading characteristic, and which does us more real honour than all our conquests, all our literature, and all our philosophy put together, invariably causes a popular bias on behalf of any claim to freedom. We, therefore, notwithstanding the activity of interested parties, were predisposed to the side of free trade, as one of the means of letting each man do what he liked with his own. But to imagine that ordinary minds are capable of mastering such a work as the _Wealth of Nations_, and of following without confusion its long and intricate arguments, is simply absurd. It has been read by tens of thousands of persons, who accept its conclusions because they like them; which is merely saying, because the movement of the age tends that way. The other great work of Adam Smith, namely, the _Theory of Moral Sentiments_, has had no influence except on a very small class of metaphysicians, although its style is, as some think, superior to the _Wealth of Nations_, and it is certainly easier to understand. It is, moreover, much shorter, which, to most readers, is no small recommendation; and it deals with subjects of great interest, which come home to the feelings of all. But the age, not caring for its conclusions, neglected its arguments. On the other hand, the _Wealth of Nations_ harmonized with the general tendency, and its success was supreme. It quickly moved, not only philosophers, but even statesmen and politicians, who eventually put into force its leading recommendations, though, as their laws and their speeches abundantly prove, they have never succeeded in mastering those great principles which underlie it, and of which the freedom of trade is but a minor accessory. Putting aside the _Wealth of Nations_, we shall find that the Scotch literature of the eighteenth century did scarcely any thing for Scotland, considered as a whole. How it has failed in its great aim of weakening superstition, is but too apparent to whoever has travelled in that country, and observed the habits and turn of mind still predominant. Many able and enlightened men who lived there, are so cowed by the general spirit, that, for their own comfort, and for the peace of their families, they make no resistance, but tacitly comply with what they heartily despise. That they err in doing so, I, at least, firmly believe; though I know that many honest, and in every respect competent, judges are of opinion, that no man is bound to be a martyr, or to jeopardize his personal interests, unless he clearly sees his way to some immediate public good. To me, however, it appears that this is a narrow view, and that the first duty of every one is to set his face in direct opposition to what he believes to be false, and, having done that, leave the results of his conduct to take care of themselves. Still, the temptation to a contrary course is always very strong, and, in a country like Scotland, is by many deemed irresistible. In no other Protestant nation, and, indeed, in no Catholic nation except Spain, will a man who is known to hold unorthodox opinions, find his life equally uncomfortable. In a few of the large towns, he may possibly escape animadversion, if his sentiments are not too bold, and are not too openly expressed. If he is timid and taciturn, his heresy may, perchance, be overlooked. But even in large towns, impunity is the exception, and not the rule. Even in the capital of Scotland, in that centre of intelligence which once boasted of being the Modern Athens, a whisper will quickly circulate that such an one is to be avoided, for that he is a free-thinker; as if free-thinking were a crime, or as if it were not better to be a free-thinker than a slavish thinker. In other parts, that is, in Scotland generally, the state of things is far worse. I speak, not on vague rumour, but from what I know as existing at the present time, and for the accuracy of which I vouch and hold myself responsible. I challenge any one to contradict my assertion, when I say that, at this moment, nearly all over Scotland, the finger of scorn is pointed at every man, who, in the exercise of his sacred and inalienable right of free judgment, refuses to acquiesce in those religious notions, and to practise those religious customs, which time, indeed, has consecrated, but many of which are repulsive to the eye of reason, though to all of them, however irrational they maybe, the people adhere with sullen and inflexible obstinacy. Knowing that these words will be widely read and circulated in Scotland, and averse as I naturally am to bring on myself the hostility of a nation, for whose many sterling and valuable qualities I entertain sincere respect, I do, nevertheless, deliberately affirm, that in no civilized country is toleration so little understood, and that in none is the spirit of bigotry and of persecution so extensively diffused. Nor can any one wonder that such should be the case, who observes what is going on there. The churches are as crowded as they were in the Middle Ages, and are filled with devout and ignorant worshippers, who flock together to listen to opinions of which the Middle Ages alone were worthy. Those opinions they treasure up, and, when they return to their homes, or enter into the daily business of life, they put them in force. And the result is, that there runs through the entire country a sour and fanatical spirit, an aversion to innocent gaiety, a disposition to limit the enjoyments of others, and a love of inquiring into the opinions of others, and of interfering with them, such as is hardly anywhere else to be found; while, in the midst of all this, there flourishes a national creed, gloomy and austere to the last degree, a creed which is full of forebodings and threats and horrors of every sort, and which rejoices in proclaiming to mankind how wretched and miserable they are, how small a portion of them can be saved, and what an overwhelming majority is necessarily reserved for excruciating, unspeakable, and eternal agony. Before bringing this volume to a close, it may be fitting that I should narrate an event, which, notwithstanding its recent occurrence, and the great attention it excited at the time, has, amid the pressure of weightier matters, fallen into comparative oblivion, although it is full of interest to those who study the various forms of national character, while it, moreover, supplies an admirable illustration of the essential antagonism which still exists between the Scotch and English minds; an antagonism extremely remarkable, when found among nations, both of whom, besides being contiguous, and constantly mixing together, speak the same language, read the same books, belong to the same empire, and possess the same interests, and yet are, in many important respects, as different as if there had never been any means of their influencing each other, and as if they had never had any thing in common. In the year 1853, the cholera, after having committed serious ravages in many parts of Europe, visited Scotland. There, it was sure to find numerous victims among a badly fed, badly housed, and not over-cleanly people. For, if there is one thing better established than another respecting this disease, it is that it invariably attacks, with the greatest effect, those classes who, from poverty or from sloth, are imperfectly nourished, neglect their persons, and live in dirty, ill-drained, or ill-ventilated dwellings. In Scotland, such classes are very numerous. In Scotland, therefore, the cholera must needs be very fatal. In this, there was nothing mysterious. On the contrary, the mystery would have been if an epidemic, like the Asiatic cholera, had spared a country like Scotland, where all the materials were collected on which pestilence feeds, and where filth, penury, and disorder, abound on every side. Under these circumstances, it must have been evident, not merely to men of science, but to all men of plain, sound understanding, who would apply their minds to the matter without prejudice, that the Scotch had only one way of successfully grappling with their terrible enemy. It behoved them to feed their poor, to cleanse their cesspools, and to ventilate their houses. If they had done this, and done it quickly, thousands of lives would have been spared. But they neglected it, and the country was thrown into mourning. Nay, they not only neglected it, but, moved by the dire superstition which sits like an incubus upon them, they adopted a course which, if it had been carried into full operation, would have aggravated the calamity to a frightful extent. It is well known that, whenever an epidemic is raging, physical exhaustion and mental depression make the human frame more liable to it, and are, therefore, especially to be guarded against. But, though this is a matter of common notoriety, the Scotch clergy, backed, sad to say, by the general voice of the Scotch people, wished the public authorities to take a step which was certain to cause physical exhaustion, and to encourage mental depression. In the name of religion, whose offices they thus abused and perverted to the detriment of man, instead of employing them for his benefit, they insisted on the propriety of ordering a national fast, which, in so superstitious a country, was sure to be rigidly kept, and, being rigidly kept, was equally sure to enfeeble thousands of delicate persons, and, before twenty-four hours were passed, prepare them to receive that deadly poison which was already lurking around them, and which, hitherto, they had just strength enough to resist. The public fast was also to be accompanied by a public humiliation, in order that nothing might be wanting to appal the mind and fill it with terror. On the same occasion, the preachers were to thunder from their pulpits and proclaim aloud the sins of the land; while the poor benighted people, panic-struck, were to sit in awe, were to remain the whole day without proper nourishment, and retire to their beds, weeping and starved. Then it was hoped that the Deity would be propitiated, and the plague be stayed. As soon as the entire nation had taken the course, which, of all others, was most certain to increase the mortality, it was believed that man having done his worst, the Almighty would interpose, would violate the laws of nature, and, by working a miracle, would preserve his creatures from what, without a miracle, would be the inevitable consequence of their own deliberate act. This was the scheme projected by the Scotch clergy, and they were determined to put it into execution. To give greater effect to it, they called upon England to help them, and, in the autumn of 1853, the Presbytery of Edinburgh, thinking that from their position they were bound to take the lead, caused their Moderator to address a letter, ostensibly to the English Minister, but in reality to the English nation. In this choice production, a copy of which is now lying before me, the Home Secretary is assured that the members of the Presbytery had delayed appointing a day for fasting and humiliation on their own ecclesiastical authority, because they thought it likely that one would be appointed by the royal authority. But as this had not been done, the Presbytery respectfully requested to be informed if it was intended to be done. They apologized for the liberty they were taking; they had no desire unduly to intrude themselves; neither did they wish the Home Secretary to answer their question unless he felt himself justified in doing so. Still, if he were able to answer it, they would be glad. For, there was no doubt that Asiatic cholera was in the country; and such being the case, the Presbytery of Edinburgh were interested in knowing if the appointment by the Queen of a national fast was in contemplation.[912] [912] 'The members were of opinion,' writes the Moderator, 'that it was likely, in the circumstances, that a national fast would be appointed on royal authority. For this reason, they delayed making an appointment for this locality, and directed me, in the meantime, respectfully to request that you would be pleased to say--if you feel yourself at liberty to do so--whether the appointment of a national fast by the Queen is in contemplation. The Presbytery hope to be excused for the liberty they use in preferring this request.' This letter, which, through the medium of the press, was sure to become well known and to be widely read, was evidently intended to act on public opinion in England. It was, in fact, a covert reproach on the English Government for having neglected its spiritual duties, and for not having perceived that fasting was the most effectual way of stopping an epidemic. In Scotland, generally, it received great praise, and was regarded as a dignified rebuke addressed to the irreligious habits of the English people, who, seeing the cholera at their doors, merely occupied themselves with sanatory measures, and carnal devices to improve the public health, showing thereby that they trusted too much to the arms of the flesh. In England, on the other hand, this manifesto of the Scotch Church was met with almost universal ridicule, and, indeed, found no favourers except among the most ignorant and credulous part of the nation. The minister to whom it was addressed, was Lord Palmerston, a man of vast experience, and perhaps better acquainted with public opinion than any politician of his time. He, being well aware of the difference between Scotland and England, knew that what was suitable for one country was not suitable for the other, and that notions which the Scotch deemed religious, the English deemed fanatical. On a former occasion, the imperial government, yielding to the clamour which a few active and interested men succeeded in raising, had been foolish enough to set themselves in this matter in opposition to the temper of the age, and to enjoin public observances which, happily, were not strictly obeyed, but which, in so far as they were obeyed, heightened the general terror by reinforcing natural fears with supernatural ones, and thus, depressing the nervous system, increased the chance of mortality from the pestilence. To have the plague in our country is bad enough, since, do what we may, many victims will be struck down by it. But a fearful responsibility is entailed upon those who, at such a period, instead of exerting themselves to check its ravages, either by precautionary measures, or by soothing and re-assuring the people, do every thing in their power to aggravate the calamity, by encouraging that superstitious dread which weakens the popular energy at the very moment when energy is most requisite, and troubles the coolness, the self-reliance, and self-possession, without which no crisis of national danger can ever be averted. This time, however, there was no risk of the government committing so serious a blunder. Lord Palmerston, who knew that the sound sense of the English people would support him in what he was doing, directed a letter to be sent to the Presbytery of Edinburgh, which, unless I am greatly mistaken, will, in future ages, be quoted as an interesting document for illustrating the history of the progress of public opinion. A century ago, any statesman who had written such a letter, would have been driven from office by a storm of general indignation. Two centuries ago, the consequences to him would have been still more disastrous, and would, indeed, have ruined him socially, as well as politically. For, in it, he sets at defiance those superstitious fancies respecting the origin of disease, which were once universally cherished as an essential part of every religious creed. Traditions, the memory of which is preserved in the theological literature of all Pagan countries, of all Catholic countries, and of all Protestant countries, are quietly put aside, as if they were matters of no moment, and as if it were not worth while to discuss them. The Scotch clergy, occupying the old ground on which the members of their profession had always been accustomed to stand, took for granted that the cholera was the result of the divine anger, and was intended to chastise our sins. In the reply which they now received from the English Government, a doctrine was enunciated, which to Englishmen seems right enough, but which to Scotchmen sounded very profane. The Presbytery were informed, that the affairs of this world are regulated by natural laws, on the observance or neglect of which the weal or woe of mankind depends.[913] One of those laws connects disease with the exhalations of bodies; and it is by virtue of this law that contagion spreads, either in crowded cities, or in places where vegetable decomposition is going on. Man, by exerting himself, can disperse or neutralize these noxious influences. The appearance of the cholera proves that he has not exerted himself. The towns have not been purified; hence the root of the evil. The Home Secretary, therefore, advised the Presbytery of Edinburgh, that it was better to cleanse than to fast. He thought that the plague being upon them, activity was preferable to humiliation. It was now autumn, and before the hot weather would return, a considerable period must elapse. That period should be employed in destroying the causes of disease, by improving the abodes of the poor. If this were done, all would go well. Otherwise, pestilence would be sure to revisit them, 'in spite'--I quote the words of the English minister--'in spite of all the prayers and fastings of a united, but inactive nation.'[914] [913] 'The weal or woe of mankind depends upon the observance or neglect of those laws.' [914] 'Lord Palmerston would, therefore, suggest that the best course which the people of this country can pursue to deserve that the further progress of the cholera should be stayed, will be to employ the interval that will elapse between the present time and the beginning of next spring in planning and executing measures by which those portions of their towns and cities which are inhabited by the poorest classes, and which, from the nature of things, must most need purification and improvement, may be freed from those causes and sources of contagion which, if allowed to remain, will infallibly breed pestilence, and be fruitful in death, in spite of all the prayers and fastings of a united, but inactive nation.' This correspondence between the Scotch clergy and the English statesman, is not to be regarded as a mere passing episode of light or temporary interest. On the contrary, it represents that terrible struggle between theology and science, which, having begun in the persecution of science, and in the martyrdom of scientific men, has, in these later days, taken a happier turn, and is now manifestly destroying that old theological spirit, which has brought so much misery and ruin upon the world. The ancient superstition, which was once universal, but is now slowly though surely dying away, represented the Deity as being constantly moved to anger, delighting in seeing His creatures abase and mortify themselves, taking pleasure in their sacrifices and their austerities, and, notwithstanding all they could do, constantly inflicting on them the most grievous punishments, among which the different forms of pestilence were conspicuous. It is by science, and by science alone, that these horrible delusions are being dissipated. Events, which formerly were deemed supernatural visitations, are now shown to depend upon natural causes, and to be amenable to natural remedies. Man can predict them, and man can deal with them. Being the inevitable result of their own antecedents, no room is left for the notion of their being special inflictions. This great change in our opinions is fatal to theology, but is serviceable to religion. For, by it, science, instead of being the enemy of religion, becomes its ally. Religion is to each individual according to the inward light with which he is endowed. In different characters, therefore, it assumes different forms, and can never be reduced to one common and arbitrary rule. Theology, on the other hand, claiming authority over all minds, and refusing to recognize their essential divergence, seeks to compel them to a single creed, and sets up one standard of absolute truth, by which it tests every one's opinions; presumptuously condemning those who disagree with that standard. Such arrogant pretensions need means of support. Those means are threats, which, in ignorant times, are universally believed, and which, by causing fear, produce submission. Hence it is, that the books of every theological system narrate acts of the grossest cruelty, which, without the least hesitation, are ascribed to the direct interposition of God. Humane and gentle natures revolt at such cruelties, even while they try to believe them. It is the business of science to purify theology, by showing that there has been no cruelty, because there has been no interposition. Science ascribes to natural causes, what theology ascribes to supernatural ones. According to this view the calamities with which the world is afflicted, are the result of the ignorance of man, and not of the interference of God. We must not, therefore, ascribe to Him what is due to our own folly, or to our own vice. We must not calumniate an all-wise and all-merciful Being, by imputing to Him those little passions which move ourselves, as if He were capable of rage, of jealousy, and of revenge, and as if He, with outstretched arm, were constantly employed in aggravating the sufferings of mankind, and making the miseries of the human race more poignant than they would otherwise be. That this remarkable improvement in religious ideas is due to the progress of physical science, is apparent, not only from general arguments which would lead us to anticipate that such must be the case, but also from the historical fact, that the gradual destruction of the old theology is everywhere preceded by the growth and diffusion of physical truths. The more we know of the laws of nature, the more clearly do we understand that every thing which happens in the material world, pestilence, earthquake, famine, or whatever it may be, is the necessary result of something which had previously happened. Cause produces effect, and the effect becomes, in its turn, a cause of other effects. In that operation, we see no gap, and we admit of no pause. To us, the chain is unbroken; the constancy of nature is unviolated. Our minds become habituated to contemplate all physical phenomena as presenting an orderly, uniform, and spontaneous march, and running on in one regular and uninterrupted sequence. This is the scientific view. It is also the religious view. Against it, we have the theological view; but that which has already lost its hold over the intellect of men is now losing its hold over their affections, and is so manifestly perishing, that at present no educated person ventures to defend it, without so limiting and guarding his meaning, as to concede to its opponents nearly every point which is really at issue. While, however, in regard to the material world, the narrow notions formerly entertained, are, in the most enlightened countries, almost extinct, it must be confessed that, in regard to the moral world, the progress of opinion is less rapid. The same men who believe that Nature is undisturbed by miraculous interposition, refuse to believe that man is equally undisturbed. In the one case, they assert the scientific doctrine of regularity; in the other, they assert the theological doctrine of irregularity. The reason of this difference of opinion is, that the movements of nature are less complex than the movements of man. Being less complex, they are more easily studied, and more quickly understood. Hence we find, that while natural science has long been cultivated, historical science hardly yet exists. Our knowledge of the circumstances which determine the course of mankind, is still so imperfect, and has been so badly digested, that it has produced scarcely any effect on popular ideas. Philosophers, indeed, are aware, that here, as elsewhere, there must be a necessary connexion between even the most remote and dissimilar events. They know that every discrepancy is capable of being reconciled, though we, in the present state of knowledge, may be unequal to the task. This is their faith, and nothing can wean them from it. But the great majority of people have a different faith. They believe that what is unexplained is inexplicable, and that what is inexplicable is supernatural. Science has explained an immense number of physical phenomena, and therefore, even to the vulgar, those phenomena no longer seem supernatural, but are ascribed to natural causes. On the other hand, science has not yet explained the phenomena of history; consequently, the theological spirit lays hold of them, and presses them into its own service. In this way there has arisen that famous and ancient theory, which has received the name of the moral government of the world. It is a high-sounding title, and imposes on many, who, if they examined its pretensions, would never be duped by them. For, like that other notion which we have just considered, it is not only unscientific, but it is eminently irreligious. It is, in fact, an impeachment of one of the noblest attributes of the Deity. It is a slur on the Omniscience of God. It assumes that the fate of nations, instead of being the result of preceding and surrounding events, is specially subject to the control and interference of Providence. It assumes that there are great public emergencies, in which such interference is needed. It assumes, that, without the interference, the course of affairs could not run smoothly; that they would be jangled and out of tune; that the play and harmony of the whole would be incomplete. And thus it is, that the very men who, at one moment, proclaim the Divine Omniscience, do, at the next moment, advocate a theory which reduces that Omniscience to nothing, since it imputes to an All-wise Being, that the scheme of human affairs, of which He must, from the beginning, have foreseen every issue and every consequence, is so weakly contrived as to be liable to be frustrated; that it has not turned out as He could have wished; that it has been baffled by His own creatures, and that, to preserve its integrity, its operations must be tampered with, and its disorders redressed. The great Architect of the universe, the Creator and Designer of all existing things, is likened to some clumsy mechanic, who knows his trade so ill, that he has to be called in to alter the working of his own machine, to supply its deficiencies, to fill up its flaws, and to rectify its errors. It is time that such unworthy notions should come to an end. It is time that what has long been known to philosophers, should also be known to historians, and that the history of mankind should cease to be troubled by what, to those who are imbued with the scientific spirit, must seem little better than arrant trifling. Of two things, choose one. Either deny the Omniscience of the Creator, or else admit it. If you deny it, you deny what, to my mind at least, is a fundamental truth, and, on these matters, there can be no sympathy between us. But if you admit the Omniscience of God, beware of libelling what you profess to defend. For when you assert what is termed the moral government of the world, you slander Omniscience, inasmuch as you declare that the mechanism of the entire universe, including the actions both of Nature and of Man, planned as it is by Infinite Wisdom, is unequal to its duties, unless that same Wisdom does from time to time interfere with it. You assert, in fact, either that Omniscience has been deceived, or that Omnipotence has been defeated. Surely, they who believe, and whose pride and happiness it is to believe, that there is a Power above all and before all, knowing all and creating all, ought not to fall into such a snare as this. They who, dissatisfied with this little world of sense, seek to raise their minds to something which the senses are unable to grasp, can hardly fail, on deeper reflection, to perceive how coarse and material is that theological prejudice, which ascribes to such a Power the vulgar functions of a temporal ruler, arrays him in the garb of an earthly potentate, and represents him as meddling here and meddling there, uttering threats, inflicting punishments, bestowing rewards. These are base and grovelling conceptions, the offspring of ignorance and of darkness. Such gross and sordid notions are but one remove from actual idolatry. They are the draff and offal of a bygone age, and we will not have them obtruded here. Well suited they were to those old and barbarous times, when men, being unable to refine their ideas, were, therefore, unable to purify their creed. Now, however, they jar upon us; they do not assimilate with other parts of our knowledge; they are incongruous; their concord is gone. Every thing is against them. They stand alone; there is nothing left with which they harmonize. The whole scope and tendency of modern thought force upon our minds conceptions of regularity and of law, to which they are diametrically opposed. Even those who cling to them, do so from the influence of tradition, rather than from complete and unswerving belief. That child-like and unhesitating faith, with which the doctrine of interposition was once received, is succeeded by a cold and lifeless assent, very different from the enthusiasm of former times. Soon, too, this will vanish, and men will cease to be terrified by phantoms which their own ignorance has reared. This age, haply, may not witness the emancipation; but, so surely as the human mind advances, so surely will that emancipation come. It may come quicker than any one expects. For, we are stepping on far and fast. The signs of the time are all around, and they who list may read. The handwriting is on the wall; the fiat has gone forth; the ancient empire shall be subverted; the dominion of superstition, already decaying, shall break away, and crumble into dust; and new life being breathed into the confused and chaotic mass, it shall be clearly seen, that, from the beginning, there has been no discrepancy, no incongruity, no disorder, no interruption, no interference; but that all the events which surround us, even to the furthest limits of the material creation, are but different parts of a single scheme, which is permeated by one glorious principle of universal and undeviating regularity. INDEX. Aberdeen, burnt by the Highlanders, iii. 22. Population of, in the sixteenth century, 28. Linen manufacturers of, 180. The first county bank in Scotland established in, 181. Tyranny of the Kirk session of, 222 Abyssinians, their superstition as to the hyæna, i. 126 _note_. Causes of the corruptions of the Christianity of the, i. 265 _note_ Academies, why favoured in France, ii. 127 _note_ Achenwall, considered to be the first writer on systematic statistics, i. 33 _note_ Acoustics, creation of the science of, ii. 190 Adam of Bremen, cause of his error as to Turks in Finland, i. 299. His authority in Northern geography, 299 _note_ Adanson, his botanical discoveries, ii. 397 Addison, Joseph, his establishment of the easy and democratic style of writing, i. 437 _note_ Advocates, Faculty of, great part of the, expelled from Edinburgh, iii. 145 Africa, condition of, in the desert of Sahara, i. 47, 48. Causes of its stationary condition, 49 Agassiz, his classification of fossil ichthyology, ii. 383, 384 Ages, the Dark, ii. 108. Supremacy of the clergy at this period, 108 Agricola, Roman invasion of Scotland under, iii. 7 Agriculture, system of, of the Arabs of Spain, ii. 497 Agriculturists, causes of the superstitions of, i. 376, 379 Air, Boyle's discovery of the law of the elasticity of the, i. 368. Marriott's confirmation of this law, 368 _note_ Albany, Regent of Scotland, his vigorous measures against the nobles, iii. 45. Leaves Scotland, 57 Alberoni, his services to Spain, ii. 519, 522, 523 Alexander IV., Pope, his the first formal call to the secular power to punish heretics, ii. 109 _note_ Alexandrian doctrine of development in religion, ii. 21 _note_ Alfred of Beverley, his abridgment of the history of Geoffrey of Monmouth, i. 324 Alfred, King, causes of our admiration of, ii. 249 _note_. The institutions popularly ascribed to him, 249 _note_ Alison, Sir A., his eulogy of William III., i. 403 _note_ Almansa, battle of, ii. 516 Alva, number of persons put to death by, in the Netherlands, ii. 451 Amazon river, extent of the, i. 97 _note_. Area drained by the, 97 _note_. Origin of the name, i. 299 _note_ Amazons, origin in the North of Europe of the fable of the nation of, i. 298, 299 Amboise, conspiracy of, predominance of the theological spirit shown in the, ii. 10 Ambrose, St., his statement of the doctrine of predestination, i. 13 _note_ America, policy of the Spaniards in, in the eighteenth century, ii. 557 America, Central, ancient civilization of, i. 93. Ruins and statues extant in, 93 _note_. Evidences of the unequal distribution of wealth in, 94. Question as to the races which formerly inhabited it, 94. Character of the national religion of, 147 America, North, rivers of importance to be found almost wholly on the eastern side of, i. 97. Causes of this, 97 _note_. Extent of the Amazon alone, 97 _note_. Area drained by the Mississippi, 97. The Oregon the boundary of the Californian flora, 97 _note_. One of the main causes of the fertility of America, heat, 98. Difference between the heat of the eastern and western coasts, 98. Early state of the North American tribes, 99 _note_. Intercourse between the north-east of Asia and the north-west of America, 99 _note_. Another main cause of fertility of, irrigation, 97. Calvinism the popular creed of the republics of, ii. 339 America, South, no great river on the western side of, i. 97, 98. Difference between the heat and moisture of the eastern and western coasts of, 100. Way in which the trade-wind is connected with the civilization of, 103. Physical condition of Brazil, 103-107. And of Peru, 107 _et seq._ Exuberance of the maize plant in Mexico and Peru, 109. And of the banana, 111. The Mexican and Peruvian kingdoms, and the effect of the physical laws under which they existed, 113-117 America, United States of. See United States Anabaptists, number of, put to death in Holland, i. 189 _note_ Anatomy, experiments of Descartes in, ii. 80. State of the study of, in the reign of Louis XIV., 197 _note_. Daubenton's union of comparative anatomy with geology, 371. Cuvier's system, 376, 377. Bichat's labours, 378. Results of the study of the tissues, 383. Value of the examination of the teeth of animals, 384 Andrews, St., burnt by the English, iii. 14. The University of, founded, 40 _note_ Aneurism, Hunter's improvement in the practice of, iii. 456 Anglo-Saxons, free men of the, all trained to the use of arms, i. 203 _note_. War and religion the absorbing subjects among the, 204 _note_ Animal life, examination of Bichat's work on, ii. 390 Anne, Queen, effects of her love for the clergy, i. 419. Her want of abilities, as shown in her letters, 419 _note_ Antichrist, Audigier's statement respecting, ii. 281 Antinomianism, principles of Calvin leading to, ii. 338 Antiquities, study of, i. 2 Antiquity, harm worked by veneration of, i. 134. Marvellous feats of the ancients as recorded in Sanscrit works, 135. The Hindu poets' statements as to the duration of life in the early age of the world, 135. Undue reverence for antiquity, ii. 139. Voltaire's attack on the admiration entertained for old writers, 306 Antonio, Spanish bibliographer, ii. 480 Apostates, number of, produced by religious persecution, i. 189 Aquinas, Thomas, on the doctrine of providential interference, i. 19 Arabs, causes of their permanent barbarism in Arabia, i. 45. Their foundation of empires in Europe and Asia, 46. Their cultivation of astronomy, 47 _note_. Their conquests in Spain, ii. 439. The struggles which ensued between the Spaniards and Arabians, 439. Re-establishment of the Spanish Christian monarchy, and extinction of the Arab power, 440. Their expulsion from Spain, 485 _et seq._ Number expelled, 494. Their manufactures and system of husbandry, 497 Aranda, his attacks on the Inquisition, ii. 547 Archery, attempts to revive, in the reign of Elizabeth, i. 205 _note_ Architecture, condition of, in the reign of Louis XIV., ii. 209 Argensola, Spanish poet, ii. 480 Arian controversy, the, at the beginning of the last century, i. 427 Arianism established in Spain by the Visigoths, ii. 434 Aristocracy, commencement of hereditary, in Europe, ii. 112. Reason why the aristocracy possessed more power in France than in England, 113. Policy of William the Conqueror and of Henry II. in reducing the power of the nobles, 114 and _note_. Right of the nobles in France to wage private war, 115. But in England they were glad to ally themselves with the people against the Crown, 116. Instances of the power of the French nobles, 128. Effect of the Wars of the Roses upon the English nobles, 138. Aversion of the aristocracy to innovation, and reverence for antiquity, 139. Causes of the alliance between the nobles and clergy, 140. The noble class weakened in the reign of Elizabeth, 143, 145. Aristocratic characters of the rebellion of 1569, 144. Abeyance of the ducal order, 146. Attempts made by James I. and Charles I. to revive the power of the nobles, 147. Conduct of the nobles in the Great English Rebellion, 152. Determination of the rebels as to the nobles, 153. The House of Peers abolished, 153. Vanity and imbecility of the French nobles, 162. Instances of this, 164 _et seq._ Arminianism always connected with aristocracy, 339. Reasons for this, 341. Causes of the power of the nobles of Scotland, iii. 19. Coalition of the Crown and clergy in Scotland against the nobles, 34. Ignorance of the Scotch nobles, 40, 41. Causes of the decline of the power of the Scotch nobles, 162, 167 Aristotle, authority of, overthrown by Descartes, ii. 91, 92 Ark, the, of Auriol, i. 331 Armada, the Spanish, ii. 453 Armies, origin of standing, i. 206, 207, 397. And of the custom of employing mercenaries, 207. Computation of the proportion of soldiers to civilians which a country can bear, 208 _note_ Arminianism, connexion of free will with, i. 14. Its feud with Calvinism, ii. 338. Arminianism always aristocratic, 339. Arminianism the popular creed in England at the beginning of the seventeenth century, 339, 340. This doctrine one for the rich, 340. Causes of this, 341, 342. Arminianism more favourable to the arts than to the sciences, 342 Armorial bearings, origin of, in Europe, ii. 112 Arran, Earl of, regent of Scotland, iii. 70 Art, condition of, in the reign of Louis XIV., ii. 206-208 Arthur, King, history of, according to Geoffrey of Monmouth, i. 321 Aselli, his discovery of the lacteals, ii. 81 Asia, region of, in which wealth and progress can alone exist, i. 44, 45. The birthplace of almost all the cruel diseases now prevalent in Europe, 130 Asser, question of the genuineness of his Life of Alfred, ii. 249 Astronomy, the only branch of knowledge raised to a science by the Arabs, i. 47 _note_. Success with which it was cultivated by the ancient Mexicans, 112. Encouraged by Louis XIV., ii. 191. His eminent astronomers not French but foreigners, 191. Newton's discoveries, 191. Practical astronomy unknown in Scotland in the seventeenth century, iii. 285 _note_ Atomic theory, importance of the, ii. 364 _note_ Atheism, rise and progress of, in France, ii. 351. Publication of the 'Encyclopædia,' 351. The 'System of Nature,' 351. French atheists in 1623, 95 _note_ Atmosphere, consequences resulting from the weight of the, pointed out by Descartes, ii. 78 Atomic doctrine, the natural precursor of Platonism, i. 10. The doctrine of Chance of the atomists, 10 Atterbury, Bishop, his remarks on the condition of the Church in the time of Anne and George I., i. 442 _note_ Audigier, examination of his 'Origin of the French,' ii. 279 Audra, his 'Abridgment of General History,' suppressed, ii. 238. His death, 239 Augustin, St., the doctrine of predestination first systematically methodized by, i. 13 Aurelius, Marcus, the Emperor, causes of his violent persecution of the Christians, i. 186 Averages, doctrine of, its importance, i. 23 _note_ Avocats-généraux, of the eighteenth century, their functions, ii. 245 _note_ Bacon, Lord, effect of his secular philosophy, i. 329. Translation of his works into French, ii. 218 Baikal, dangers of the Lake of, and their effect on the Baikal sailors, i. 376 _note_ Baillou, his advancement of pathology, ii. 195 Bali, Javanese traditions preserved in the island of, i. 306 Ballads the form and groundwork of early history, i. 291. National bards, 292. Antiquity of rhyme, 293 _note_. General accuracy of the early ballads, 295 _note_ Balls forbidden by the French Protestants, ii. 70 Banana, extraordinary reproductive powers of the, i. 111. Its nutritive powers as compared with those of potatoes and wheat, 111 Bangorian controversy, effect of the, i. 427 Bank, the first County, in Scotland, iii. 181 Bannockburn, battle of, iii. 15 Bards known in almost all nations, i. 292, 293. Those of Gaul, Scotland, and Ireland, 292 _note_. Cause of the extinction of the class of bards, 296 Bargeton, suppression of the 'Letters' of, ii. 238 Bark, its discredit in France as a 'remède anglais,' ii. 214 _note_ Baron, different meanings attached to the word, ii. 114 Barrow, Isaac, his virtues and abilities, i. 393. Neglect with which he was treated by Charles II., 393 Barter, misconception of the true nature of barter in early times, i. 210-212 Bartholomew, St., massacre of, predominance of the theological spirit shown in the, ii. 11 Basilides, his views of predestination, i. 13 _note_ Baxter, Richard, persecution of, i. 398 Beaton, Archbishop of St. Andrew's, compelled to resign his office of Chancellor, iii. 57. His conspiracy, 58 Beaton, Cardinal, his persecution of the Protestants, iii. 63. Arrested, 70. Conspiracy to assassinate him, 73, 74 Beaumarchais, his 'Memoirs' burned, ii. 237 Beauvais, Bishop of, his proposal to the Dutch, ii. 38 _note_ Bedford, Earl of, joins the Parliamentary forces, but deserts them, ii. 151, 152 Being, obscurities of our, solved by the doctrines of free will and predestination, i. 12 Benares, cases of suicide by drowning at, i. 26 _note_ Bentham, Jeremy, his demolition of the usury laws, i. 214 _note_. His method of investigating speculative jurisprudence, i. 426 Bentley, Richard, his corrupt English style, ii. 307 Berkeley, Bishop, his erroneous notions of trade, i. 212 _note_ Berthault, his method of writing history, ii. 270 Berwick, Duke of, appointed Generalissimo of the Spanish army, ii. 515. Gains the battle of Almansa, 516 Berwick destroyed by the English, iii. 13 Berwick, treaty of, iii. 81 Berzelius, his attempts to reduce mineralogical phenomena, ii. 399 Bichat, impetus given to the study of zoology by, ii. 376. Sketch of his method of investigation of the human frame, 379. His views respecting the tissues, 379. Publication of his great work, 380. Connexion between his views and subsequent discoveries, 380-388. Immense importance of his method of investigation, 388. Examination of his work on life, 390 Birmingham, establishment of the first circulating library in, i. 431 _note_. Not a bookseller in the town in the reign of Anne, 422 _note_. First printing office in, 432 _note_ Bishops, precarious tenure with which they hold their seats in the House of Lords, i. 418 Black, David, his violent sermon against James VI., iii. 107. Thrown into prison, 108, 109 Black, Joseph, examination of his theory of latent heat, iii. 367. And of his method of physical philosophy, 368 Blackburne on 'The Confessional' ferment caused by, i. 428 Blackstone, Sir W., his 'Commentaries' translated into French, ii. 219 Blanca, Florida, prime minister of Spain, his reforms, ii. 548. Concludes a treaty with Turkey, 549 Blood, discovery of the circulation of the, by Harvey, neglected by his contemporaries, ii. 80. But recognized by Descartes, 81. Hunter's discovery as to the red globules of the, iii. 436. Corroboration of his views after his death, 438 Bodin, John, his character as a historian, i. 326 Boileau, pensioned to write a History of France for Louis XIV., ii. 277 Bombs, invention of, i. 206 _note_ Boncerf, his treatise on 'Feudal Law' burned, ii. 237 Book Clubs and Book Societies, establishment of, i. 433 Books, only use of, i. 267 Boots, the torture of the, iii. 148 Bossuet, Bishop of Meaux, character of his 'Universal History,' ii. 282. Connexion between his opinions and the despotism of Louis XIV., 289. Character of his writings, 290. His singular arrogance, 290. His works compared with those of Voltaire, 291 Botany, importance of the study of, ii. 197, 198. First steps in the study of, 198. Discoveries of the seventeenth century, 199. Nothing done in France in botanical discovery during the reign of Louis XIV., 200. Labours of the French in, 395. Göthe's discoveries, 396. Number of known species, 396 _note_ Botany. The natural method superseding the artificial one of Linnæus, ii. 397. Jussieu's generalizations, 397, 398. Phyllotaxis, 399 _note_ Boucquet, suppression of the 'Letters' of, ii. 208 Boyle, Robert, his doubts as to the theological and scientific theories of diseases, i. 128 _note_. Influence of the spirit of opposition to unsupported authority on, 367. His great discoveries, 368. His view of the importance of individual experiments, and disregard of ancient authority, 369. His doubts and caution as shown in his works, 370 Brahmanism, remote period of its establishment in India, i. 301. Introduction of a form of, into China, 302 Brain, amount of phosphorus in the, i. 57 _note_. Excretion of the phosphorus under certain circumstances, 57 _note_. Doctrines of the improvement of the human brain by transmission, 176 _note_ Brazil, causes of the gorgeousness of the fauna and flora of, i. 103, 104. Description of the rainy season of, 103 _note_. Inveterate barbarism of the natives of, 105 _note_. Smallness of the population of, 107 Brissot, his knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 225. His admiration for the English Constitution, 229 Bristol, Earl of, his notions of political economy, i. 212 _note_ Brougham, Lord, his life of Robert Simson, i. 248 _note_ Browne, Sir Thomas, influence of the spirit of opposition to unsupported authority on, i. 365. His 'Vulgar and Common Errors' and 'Religio Medici,' 365. His love of botany, 200 Brunfels, his investigations in the vegetable kingdom, ii. 198 _note_ Buchanan, George, character of his works, iii. 183 Buffier, the only Jesuit whose name has a place in abstract philosophy, ii. 342 Buffon, his knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 218. His translations of Newton and Hales, 218. Compelled to publish a recantation of some of his views on geology, 236. His geological theory, 368 Burgos, decay of, in the seventeenth century, ii. 503 Burke's, Edmund, his remarks on the decline of the abilities of official men under George III., i. 449. His great ability and accomplishments, 455, 456. His practical political principles, 458. His view of the true end of legislation, 459 _note_. Effect which his profound views produced in the House of Commons, 460 _note_. His attack on the delusions of his time, 461. His opposition to the views of George III., and consequent neglect, 461. His anticipation and defence of most of the great measures of the present generation, 462, 463. His subsequent hallucinations and violence, 467. His rupture with Fox, 469. His hostility to Condorcet and La Fayette, 470, 471. Favoured in his degeneracy by George III., 476, 477 Burnet, Bishop, offer to him of a pension for a history of France, ii. 277, 278 Caithness seized by the Norwegians, iii. 11 Calderon, his fanaticism for the Inquisition, ii. 481 Californian flora, the Oregon or Columbia river the boundary of the, i. 97 _note_ Calonne, M., his attack on the church property, ii. 333 Calvin, John, his doctrine of predestination, i. 13 Calvinism, its feud with Arminianism, ii. 338. Calvinism always democratic, 339. This doctrine one for the poor, 340. Animosity of the Church of Rome against it, 341. Reasons why it is the doctrine of the poor, 341, 342. More favourable to the sciences than to the arts, 342. Reasons why the professors of this religion are likely to acquire habits of independent thinking, 342, 343. The doctrine of necessity, 343. Alliance of Jansenism with Calvinism, 343 Campbell, Lord, character of his 'Lives of the Chancellors,' i. 441 _note_ Camus, his Jansenism, ii. 345 Cannibalism in Scotland, iii. 17 Canons, invention of, i. 206 _note_ Capital, Adam Smith's views as to, iii. 327 Carbon, in food, i. 55 _et seq._ Carolan, the last Irish bard, i. 292 _note_ Carra, his familiarity with the English language and literature, ii. 224 Carrillo, Martin, Spanish jurisconsult and historian, ii. 480 Cartaud, suppression of his 'Essay on Taste,' ii. 237 Cartwright, Dr., the nonjuring bishop, i. 412 _note_ Cashmere, rent paid by the cultivator to the sovereign in, i. 76 _note_ Casualties, diminution of, one cause of the increased duration of life, i. 153 Catholics, Roman, their doctrines compared with those of Protestants, i. 261. Importance of the Toleration Act to them, 402 _note_. Causes which led to the feeling in favour of Catholic Emancipation, 426. Burke's advocacy of Roman Catholic claims, 462. Importance of the Emancipation Bill, 502. Obligations Europe is under to the Catholic clergy, ii. 5 _note_. Intolerance of Roman Catholics compared with that of Protestants, 51. Pliancy of the Roman Church against morals, and its inflexibility in regard to dogmas, 52 _note_. Theory of indulgences, 339. Animosity of the Church of Rome against Calvinism, ii. 341 Causes, final, the study of, abandoned by Descartes, ii. 91. And by Bacon and Auguste Comte, 91 _note_. Authorities for the injury it has wrought, 91 _note_ Caussin, 'le petit père,' exiled by Richelieu, ii. 29, 30 Cavaliers, the name and the English civil war, ii. 149 Cavendish, Henry, method employed by him in the discovery of the composition of water, iii. 403 Celibacy of the clergy, opposed by the principle of hereditary rank, ii. 113. Period of the first general and decisive movement in its favour, 113 _note_ Centralization, in France, the natural successor of feudality, ii. 122. Its baneful effects, 123. How the system actually works, 123 _note_. Its results in France compared with the freedom of England, 126, 127 Certainty contrasted with precision in writing history, ii. 325 Cervantes, becomes a monk, ii. 479. His joy at the expulsion of the Moors from Spain, 496 _note_ Chance, doctrine of, i. 8. Causes of its displacement by the doctrine of Necessary Connection, 9. The doctrine of Chance of the atomists, 10 Chancery, Court of, early exertion of its powers against persecution, i. 345 _note_ Chantilly, the actress, story of, ii. 243 Character, knowledge of, a key to results and action, i. 18, 19 Charlemagne. His droves of pigs, i. 314 _note_. His history as related by Archbishop Turpin, 318 Charles I., character of the opposition to ecclesiastical authority in the reign of, i. 359. This king's attempts to revive the power of the aristocracy, and adopt the superannuated theories of protection, ii. 147. How treated by his Scottish subjects, iii. 4, 134. Sold by the Scotch to the English, 135. His execution, 136. Character of the war against him in England compared with that of the Scotch, 197 Charles II., frivolous form of the opposition to ecclesiastical authority in the reign of, i. 362. His deism, 362 _note_. His last refuge in superstition, 362 _note_. Antagonism in his reign between the physical sciences and the theological spirit, 372. Legislative improvements of this reign in spite of political degradation, 381. Character of Charles II., and condition of the kingdom in his reign, 381, 382. Aid given by his vices to the comprehensive reforms of his reign, 388. And by his dislike of the clergy, 389. Character of this king's ecclesiastical appointments, 391. His inability to do permanent harm to English institutions, ii. 466. Compelled by the Scotch to sign a public declaration, iii. 136. His oppressions of the Scotch, 137-139. His attempted despotism baffled by the Scotch, 140 Charles II. of Spain, his character, ii. 468-470. Misery of Spain during his reign, 501-510. His death, 513 Charles III. of Spain, vigour and success of his rule, ii. 552 _et seq._ His death, 571 Charles IV. of Spain, his accession, ii. 571. Reaction begun by him, 571 Charles V. the Emperor, his domestic and foreign policy, ii. 446. His humiliation of the Protestant princes in Germany, 446. His repulse of the Turks before Vienna, 446. Number of heretics put to death in the Netherlands during his reign, 447. His codicil to his will as to dealing with heretics, 448. Causes of his barbarous policy, 449 Charles IX., his massacre of St. Bartholomew, ii. 13 'Charles XII., History of,' Voltaire's, ii. 292. Charles's only merits, 293. Voltaire's admiration of him, 293. His murder of Patkul, 293 Charles the Bald, initiates a hereditary aristocracy in Europe, ii. 112 Charron, Pierre, reputation of his 'De la Sagesse,' ii. 19. Its purity and systematic completeness, 19. Analysis of the work, 20, 21 Charta, Magna, peculiar beauty of, ii. 117 Chateaubriand, his method, ii. 389 _note_ Chatillon, Marshal, ii. 43 Chauvelin, his Jansenism, ii. 345 Chemistry, the law of definite proportions in as laid down by Turner, i. 59 _note_. Boyle's discoveries in, 369. His 'Sceptical Chemist,' 370. Study of, forbidden by the French Protestants, ii. 69. State of the science of, in the reign of Louis XIV., 197. Causes of its great progress in modern times, 365. The existence of chemistry as a science due to France, 366. Discoveries of Lavoisier, 367. Formation of a chemical nomenclature, 368. Inability of chemistry to reduce mineralogical phenomena, 399. Popularity of Fourcroy's lectures, 407 _note_ Childebert, King of the Franks, attacks the Arian Visigoths, ii. 435 _note_ Chillingworth, William, his 'Religion of Protestants,' i. 347. His connexion and correspondence with Laud, 347. His work compared with those of Hooker and Jewel, 348. The right of private judgment held sacred by him, 349, 352. Popularity of his work, 352 _note_. His scepticism compared with that of Hooker, ii. 86 China, gunpowder said to have been used at an early period in, i. 203 _note_. Causes of the trustworthiness of the early annals of, 302. Antiquity of the history of, 302 _note_. Early knowledge of printing in, 302 _note_ Chivalry, origin of, ii. 131. Influence of, on the nobles, 132. Results of the institution of, 132. Origin of the orders of chivalry, 133. Merits ascribed to chivalry, 133 _note_. Small influence of chivalry in England, 134. The ballad of the 'Turnament of Tottenham,' 136 _note_. Extinct in England in the fifteenth century, 135. Relation between chivalry and duelling, 136 Choiseul, De, his anti-ecclesiastical policy, ii. 333. Openly protects the Jansenists, 345 Cholera, attempts made to revive the theological theory of disease on the first outbreak of the, i. 128 _note_. And again in Scotland, iii. 473 Christianity, influence of religion on the progress of society illustrated by the early history of, i. 258. And by the history of Catholicism and Protestantism, 261. Baneful effects of the interference of governments with the opinions of the people, 261, 262. Causes of the corruptions of the Christianity of the Abyssinians and of the Oguiché Indians, 265 _note_. The crusade against Christianity one of the antecedents of the French Revolution, ii. 247-257. Causes of the Roman persecutions, i. 185 Church property, Vattel's opinions respecting, quoted, ii. 31 _note_ Church, the revenues of the, seized and appropriated by the contracting parties to the peace of Westphalia, ii. 41 Church of England. See Clergy, English Chyle, discovery of the, ii. 194 Circular progression, doctrine of, ii. 377 Clanship, in Scotland, causes of the abolition of, iii. 167, 168 Clarke, Adam, the last scholar of European repute amongst the Dissenters, i. 422 Classes, the two, in France, before the Revolution, ii. 128 _et seq._ The Great Rebellion of England a war of, 150. Opposite character of the Fronde in France, 150 Classical scholars and commentators, Locke and Voltaire's attacks on, ii. 306-308 Clergy, the influence of the, the cause of the corruption of early history, i. 307. Their meddling, inquisitive, and vexatious spirit, ii. 72. Supremacy of the clergy in the Dark Ages, 108. Period when the spirit of inquiry began to weaken the church, 108, 109. And when the clergy began to punish men for thinking for themselves, 109. The first constitution addressed 'inquisitoribus hæreticæ pravitatis,' 109 _note_. Connection between the feudal system and the ecclesiastical spirit, 110, 111. Causes of the alliance between the clergy and the nobles, 140. The clergy weakened in the reign of Elizabeth, 143 Clergy, English, attempts of the, in the reign of Charles II. to oppose the spread of physical science, i. 372. Reasons for their hostility, 373. Destruction of the privileges of the clergy to burn heretics and tax themselves, 383. The tender of the ex-officio oath prevented by law, 384. Dislike of Charles II. of the clergy, 389. Causes of this dislike, 389. Character of his ecclesiastical appointments, 391. Efforts of the clergy in this reign to revive the doctrines of passive obedience and divine right, 394. Good churchmen always bad citizens, 395 _note_. Alliance between the Protestant clergy and the Roman Catholic king James II., 395. Dissolution of this compact, 397. And union of the clergy with the Dissenters, 399. Which union produces the Revolution of 1688, 400. Sudden repentance of the clergy of their own act, 403. Hostility between them and William III., 405. Their growing unpopularity, 409. King William's deprivation of six of the prelates, 410. The consequent schism in the church, 411. Origin of the term 'high church' and 'low church' parties, 412 _note_. Adoption of the theory of the sovereign _de facto_ and _de jure_, 413. Encouragement which the clergy thus give to scepticism, 414. The church avoided by the ablest men, who prefer secular professions, 415, 416. The most honourable and lucrative posts formerly occupied by ecclesiastics, 416. Loss of the clergy of all offices out of the church, and diminution of their number in both Houses of Parliament, 416, 417. The last ecclesiastic who held any of the high offices of state, 417 _note_. Final expulsion of the clergy from the House of Commons, 418. Temporary rally of the church in the reign of Anne, 419. The clergy weakened by the Dissenters, headed by Wesley and Whitefield, 419-424. Effects of the separation of theology from morals and from politics, 424-427. Rapid succession of sceptical controversies, 427. Diffusion of knowledge, and the popular form taken by it, 430. Opposition of the clergy to the establishment of Sunday schools, 431. Their factious and disloyal conduct during the reign of the first two Georges, 442. Joy of the clergy at the attachment of George III. to the church, 445. Their support of the policy of George III. against, and bitterness towards, the Americans, 479 _note_ Clergy, the French, greater power possessed by them than by the English clergy, ii. 3, 4. Their endeavours to suppress the progress of secular enquiry, 22. Their alarm at the protection given to the Protestants by Henry IV., Catherine de Medici, and Louis XIII., 26. Richelieu's treatment of the Clergy, and of the Protestants, 28-31. Animosity between the clergy and the secular tribunals, 32. Archbishop Sourdis ignominiously beaten, 32. Reasons why French literary men attacked the Church and not the Government, 247. And therefore to assail Christianity, 247. Personal character of the hierarchy during the reign of Louis XIV., 252. And during the reign of his successor, 252. Attack of the Government on the clergy, 332. Machault's edict against mortmain, 332. Anti-ecclesiastical policy of Machault's successors, 333. Machault hated by the clergy, 333 _note_. The power of the clergy weakened by the two hostile parties among themselves, 335. Decline of the respect entertained for the clergy, 348. Reasons why their fall was averted for a time, 349, 350 Clergy, Scottish, causes of the union of the Crown and the, iii. 34. Causes of the flourishing state of the clergy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, 38. And of their great influence, 43. The Church favoured by James I., 46. Struggle between the Crown and clergy on one side and the nobles on the other, 55 _et seq._ Destruction of the Church, and supremacy of the nobles, 81. Abolition of episcopacy, 94. Struggle between the upper classes and the clergy as to episcopacy, 100. Violence of the clergy, 105 _et seq._ Boons conferred by them upon their country, 112. Attempts of the King to subjugate the clergy, 115. His cruel treatment of them, 117-123. Tyrannical conduct of the bishops, 128. The bishops overthrown, 133. But again forced upon the people, 141. Alliance between the Crown and the clergy, and its consequences, 147. The struggle of the clergy with Cromwell, 194. And with Charles I., 197. Causes which produced the Solemn League and Covenant, 198. Character of the sermons and zeal of the people in hearing them in the seventeenth century, 203 _et seq._ The consequent extension and consolidation of the authority of the clergy, 206. Their great engine of power, the Kirk-session, and its tyranny, 206-210. Cases in which it was believed that their pretensions were upheld and vindicated by miracles, 212, 229. Their consequent arrogance, 220. Effect of their advocacy of horrible notions concerning evil spirits and future punishments, 232. And concerning the Deity, 239. Harmless and praiseworthy actions declared to be sinful, 252. Specimens of the sins invented by them, 261, 263. Their arbitrary regulations for punishing disobedience, 262. Their deductive method in philosophy, 286 Clergy, Spanish, rise of the influence of the, ii. 436-444. Proofs of their power, 437, 438. Consequences of the reverence for them, 461 _et seq._ Causes of their increasing influence, 472. Hold of the Church over all, high or low, 478-481. Use made by the clergy of their power in obtaining the expulsion of the whole of the Spanish Moors, 483. Forced to contribute to the support of the state, 522, 523. Deprived of their wealth by Mendizabal, 590. But re-endowed soon after, 591. The Concordat of 1851, 591, 592 Climate, its influence on the condition of the human race, i. 40. Its effect on the regularity and energy with which labour is conducted, 42, 43. Tartary, 45. Arabia, 45. The civilization of Europe governed by climate, 50. Influence of climate on the kind of food necessary for man, 56. And on his ease or difficulty in procuring it, 58. Modes in which the average temperature of a country affects its civilization, 95. Difference between the eastern and western coasts of North America, 97. Character of the climate of Spain, ii. 427 Clotaire, his attacks of the Visigoth Arians, ii. 435 _note_ Clovis, King of the Franks, his attack of the Visigoths, ii. 435 Clubs, establishment of, in France, at the end of the last century, ii. 412, 414 Cobbett, William, his racy and idiomatic English, ii. 307 _note_ Codification, causes of the French love of, ii. 127 _note_ Coffee, its discredit in France as an English drink, ii. 214 _note_ Colours, Boyle's experiments in, i. 368 _note_ Comedies of Racine, character of the period in which they appeared, ii. 208 Comets, feelings of terror inspired by the presence of, i. 376, 377 _note_ Comines, Philip de, credulity shown in his history, i. 327; ii. 265 _note_ Commerce. See Trade Commerce; Rise of trading interests in Scotland in the eighteenth century, iii. 171. See Trade; Trade, Free Commission, High Court of, established in Scotland, iii. 125. Cruelty of the, 142 _note_ Commons, House of, origin of the, ii. 117. Causes of the increase of the authority of the, 121 Comte, M., remarks on his 'Philosophie Positive,' i. 5 _note_ Condillac, his metaphysical work, the 'Traité des Sensations,' ii. 357. Essential positions upon which the work is based, 358 Condorcet, his character and abilities, i. 470. Burke's remarks on, 471. His proposal of English criminal jurisprudence as a model for France, ii. 226. His professed atheism, 352 Conjurors, tricks of, forbidden to be seen by the French Protestants, ii. 70 Conquest, Norman, Sir F. Palgrave on the results produced by the, ii. 116 _note_ Consciousness, faculty or state of the mind so called, i. 14. Different opinions respecting, 14 _note_. Its fallibility, 15. Authorities as to the preservation of consciousness in dreams and in insanity, 17 _note_ Constant, M., his adoption of a remark of Voltaire, ii. 303 Converts, fickleness of, i. 255, 256 Convocation, falls into general contempt, i. 414. Final prorogation of, by an act of the Crown, 415. Permitted recently to re-assemble, 415 Copyhold rights in England, ii. 119. Not recognised by the French laws, 120 Coquereau, suppression of his 'Memoirs of Terrai,' ii. 238 Corn, free trade in, proposed by Stafford in 1581, i. 213 _note_. The real cause of the abolition of the, 273. Merits of the Anti-Corn-Law League, 274. Importance of the repeal of the Corn-laws, 502 Corneille, period in which his tragedies appeared, ii. 209 Cornwall, hardly a bookseller in, in 1780, i. 432 _note_ Corporation Act, i. 396. Suspended by James II., i. 397 Corvée, the, in France, ii. 129. Authorities respecting the, 129 _note_ Coulumb, his experiments on electrical phenomena, ii. 362 Councils, authority of, despised by Chillingworth, i. 349 Courrayeur, suppression of the 'Dissertations' of, ii. 237 Cousin, M., on free will, quoted, i. 14 _note_ Covenant, Solemn League and, framed, iii. 132. Causes which produced the, 198 Coyer, his knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 219 Credulity of Asiatics as compared with that of Europeans, i. 134. Instances of the credulity of the sixteenth century, 330. This credulity the natural result of the state of the age, 333 Crime, uniform reproduction of, i. 24, 25, 31 _notes_. Crime the result of the state of society into which the criminal is thrown, 29. Rawson on the possibility of arriving at certain constants with regard to crime, quoted, 31 _note_. Mode of preventing crime in France, ii. 125 Criminals, mode of examining, in France, ii. 124 Cromwell, Oliver, his alliance with Cardinal Mazarin, ii. 98. Irritation of the orthodox with their union, 98. His hostility to the Church not theological, but political, 361 _note_. His plebeian origin, ii. 156. Capacity of his lieutenants, 156, 157. His chain of fortresses in Scotland, iii. 194. His treatment of the Scotch people, 195 _note_ Crusades, theological feeling of the English as to the, ii. 6 _note_ Crystallography, discoveries of De Lisle and Haüy in, ii. 400, 401. Power of crystals, in common with animals, of repairing their own injuries, 403 _note_. Hunter's inquiries into the malformation of crystals, iii. 443 Cudworth, comparison of the method employed by Hume in his 'Natural History of Religion' compared with that of Cudworth's 'Intellectual System,' iii. 348 Cullen, William, account of his generalizations respecting pathology, iii. 413. His love of theory, 414. His method of studying pathology compared with that of Adam Smith, 417. His theory of the solids, 418. Character of his premisses and conclusions, 418-421. His theory of fever, 424. His nosology, 426 Culloden, results of the battle of, to the Highland Chieftains, iii. 168 _note_ Cumberland, Dr., Bishop of Peterborough, his system of morals without the aid of theology, i. 425. Relation between Hume and Cumberland, 426 _note_ Cuvier, Baron, his labours in geology, ii. 369. Impetus given by him to the study of zoology, 376. His overthrow of the Linnæan system, 376, 377 D'Alembert, his professed atheism, ii. 352 D'Alibard, his experiments on electricity, ii. 362 Damiens, his attempted assassination of Louis XV., ii. 345 Dancing forbidden by the French Protestants, ii. 69, 70. And by the Scotch clergy, iii. 258 Darigrand, suppression of his work on 'Finance,' ii. 238 Dates, effect of the cheapness and abundance of, in Egypt, i. 83 David IV. of Scotland, his imprisonment by the English, iii. 20 Daubenton, his application of the principles of comparative anatomy to the study of fossil bones, ii. 371 Dead, adoration of the, i. 145 _note_ Death, influence of the fear of, on the imagination, i. 127 Debating clubs, establishment of, i. 433. Authorities as to, 433 _note_ Deccan, bards of the, i. 292 _note_ Dedications, servility of the, in books of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, i. 438. Abolition of mean and crouching, 438 Defender of the Faith, title of the, conferred on James V. of Scotland, iii. 6 De Grana, entrusted by the King of Spain with the defence of the Netherlands, ii. 515 De Lisles, Romé, his studies in crystallography, ii. 400 Deluge, the predicted, of St[oe]ffler, i. 330 De Maistre, his method, ii. 389 _note_ Democracy, Calvinism always connected with, ii. 339. Physical science essentially democratic, 409. Democratic tendency, observable in France in the change of dress just before the Revolution, 410. And in the establishment of clubs, 412 Denmark, Mallet's 'History' of, ii. 299 Desaguliers, Dr., his success in popularizing physical truths, i. 432 _note_ Descartes, Réné, his military genius and learning, i. 200. Effect of his secular philosophy, 329. His profundity, ii. 77. His physical discoveries and speculations, 78, 79. Recognizes Harvey's discovery of the circulation of the blood and Aselli's discovery of the lacteals, 81. His origination of the modern method of philosophy, 81, 82. Reasons why he deserves the gratitude of posterity, 82. Account of his philosophy as showing its analogy with the anti-theological policy of Richelieu, 83, 92. His words of wisdom addressed to his countrymen, 85. Compared with Montaigne, 86. Eminent characteristic of his philosophy, 87. Analysis of his principles, 88, 89. Mischief done by his principles to the old theology, 90. And to the inordinate respect with which antiquity was regarded, 91. Period in which he flourished, 189 Desfontaines, his botanical discoveries, ii. 397 Desforges, imprisoned for his work respecting the Pretender, ii. 238 Desmarest, his geological labours, ii. 368 Desmoulins, Camille, his knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 224 De Thou, raised to the presidency of parliament in France, ii. 26. His great French historical work, 266 Devil, horrible notions of the Scotch clergy concerning, iii. 232 Dhourra of Upper Egypt, its cheapness and abundance, i. 86 Diderot, his knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 218. His talents, 240. His imprisonment in Vincennes, 242. His professed atheism, 352 Diogenes Laertius, on the physical which preceded metaphysical inquiries, i. 10 _note_. On the preservation of consciousness in dreams and in insanity, 17 _note_ Diplomacy, commencement of a purely secular era in the history of, ii. 41 Disease, theological theory of, in the middle ages and in our own times, i. 127, 128 _note_. Authorities as to the nature and treatment of a disease and the belief that such disease is caused by supernatural power, and is to be cured by it, 129 _note_. The origin of almost all the cruel diseases of Europe to be found in Asia, 130. Hunter's theories of diseases, iii. 448 Dissenters, persecution of the, in England, in the reign of James II., i. 397. Union of the clergy and dissenters and its result, 399, 400. Authorities for the cruelties inflicted upon them in the reign of Charles II. and James II., 419. Principles avowed by the clergy in justification of the persecution, 419 _note_. Persecutions in the reign of Anne, 419, 420. Repeal of the laws against them, 420. The Toleration Act regarded by the Dissenters as their Magna Charta, 402 _note_. Favour shown to them by William III., 405, 406. Their struggle with the clergy, 420. Wesley and Whitefield, 421. Loss of their intellectual vigour, 422. Causes of their recent mental penury, 422. Nonconformist statistics, from the reign of William III. to the present time, 423 _note_. Treatment which the Wesleyans received from the clergy, 423 _note_, 424 _note_. Combination of the Dissenters with the Government against the clergy and the Pretender, 443 _note_. Passing of the Schism Bill, 452. Burke's support of measures for the relief of the, 463 Divine right of Kings, results of the abandonment of the theological fiction of, ii. 182 Dolben, John, his character as Archbishop of York, i. 392 Dolomieu, his geological labours, ii. 368 'Domat, Life of,' by Prévost de la Jannes, suppressed, ii. 237 Douglas, Earls of, treacherously murdered by James II., iii. 49-52. Subsequent power of the family, 57. Driven into exile, 60. Harboured by Henry VIII. in England, 64. Return home, 69 Dramas, French, of the seventeenth century, ii. 208 Dreams, Plato's conclusion as to the truth or falsehood of, i. 16 _note_ Dress, interference of the French Protestants with, ii. 60, 71. Dress of the French during the reign of Louis XIV., Louis XV., and just before the Revolution, 411 Droughts, frequency of, in Spain, ii. 427 Dryburgh Abbey, burnt by the English, iii. 15 Dryden, John, little effect of the intellect of France on his works, i. 235. His satires, 235 _note_ Duclos, his 'History of Louis XI.' suppressed, ii. 238. His method of writing history, 300 Duellings, causes of the greater popularity of, in France than in England, ii. 136. Relation between chivalry and duelling, 137 _note_ Duhamel de Monceau, his botanical discoveries, ii. 397 Dukes, the order of, in abeyance in England for fifty years, ii. 146 Dumouriez, his familiarity with the English language and literature, ii. 224 Dunbar, town of, iii. 32 _note_. Scotch presbyterian view of the battle of, 201 _note_ Dundee burnt by the English, iii. 16 Dunfermline burnt by the English, iii. 16. Scanty population of the town up to the seventeenth century, 27 Dupleix, Scipio, his new method of writing history, ii. 268. His system of philosophy, 269 Dury, John, opposes episcopacy in Scotland, iii. 95. Banished from Edinburgh, 102. Brought back in triumph, 103. Preaches in favour of the Ruthven conspiracy, 104 Duvernet, his punishment for having written a history of the Sorbonnes, ii. 237 Earthquakes, tendency of the fear of, to inflame the imagination, i. 122. Effect of the atmospherical changes preceding earthquakes upon the nervous system of man, 122. Physiological effects of the fear of earthquakes, 122, 123. Effect of earthquakes in encouraging superstition, 123. The great earthquake at Sumbawa in 1815, 126 _note_. Frequency of earthquakes in Spain, ii. 428 Eclipses, feelings with which our fathers regarded, i. 376. Authorities as to the superstition excited by, 377 Edda, compilation of the elder and younger, i. 301 Edinburgh burnt by Richard II., iii. 16. Population of, in the sixteenth century, 30. Houses of the poorer classes at this time, 31 _note_. Riot of 1637, 132. Foundation of the 'Edinburgh Society' for the improvement of manufactures, 181 _note_ Edward I. of England, his invasion of Scotland, iii. 12 Edward III. of England, his attacks on Scotland, iii. 16. His cruelty there, 16 Egypt, causes of its wealth and civilization, i. 48, 49. Area of the cultivable land of, 49 _note_. Science unknown to the Egyptians, 49. Causes of their civilization as compared with the condition of the other races in Africa, 82. Fertility of the soil, and abundance of the national food, dates, 83-86. Cheapness of the dhourra of Upper Egypt, 86. Lotos bread, 87. The [Greek: kyamos] of Herodotus, 87 _note_. Encouragement given to the increase of Egyptian population by the fertility of the Nile, 87 _note_. Evidence of Diodorus Siculus and Herodotus, 88, 89. Testimony of the condition of the people afforded by the existing costly and stupendous ruins, 90, 92. The two ranks of society in Egypt, 91. Tenacity with which old manners and customs were adhered to by them, 116. Forms of the incarnation of the Deity presented by their artists, 143 _note_. Fifty-three cities of Egypt bearing the same name, 298 _note_ Election, doctrine of. See Predestination Electricity, experiments of [OE]pinus, D'Alibard, and Coulumb, ii. 362. Popularity of electricity in France at the latter part of the last century, 407 _note_ Elizabeth, Queen, feelings of the nobility in the reign of, ii. 139. Her conduct towards the nobility and clergy, 143. Character of her government, 146 Emilius, Paulus, his 'Actions of the French,' ii. 264 'Encylopædia,' publication of the, in France, ii. 351 Encylopædias, invention of, i. 433. Harris's 'Dictionary' the first, 433 _note_ England, rent paid by the cultivator in proportion to the gross produce in, i. 75. Causes of the extinction of the love of war in, 198. The military classes in the twelfth century, 205 _note_. And in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, 205 _note_. Reasons why the present history is confined to that of England, 231. Characteristics of the history of England compared with those of France, 232-236. With those of Germany, 237. And with those of America, 240. Reasons why the history of England is more valuable than any other to the philosopher, 242, 252. England less interfered with by Government, and therefore more prosperous than other nations, 286. Popular belief in the Trojan descent of the English Kings, 309 _note_. Secular philosophy of the seventeenth century, 329. Legislative improvements in the reign of Charles II. in spite of the political degradation of the age, 381-386. These improvements due to the sceptical and inquiring spirit, 388. And to the vices and prejudices of Charles II., 388, 389. Proximate causes of the Revolution of 1688, 399, 400. Importance of this Revolution, 402. War between England and the American Colonies, 477-481. Importance of the success of the Americans to the preservation of the liberties of England, 482, 483. The unjust war against France in 1793, 486. And its effect in England in producing arbitrary laws, 487. Obligations England is under to the Roman Catholic clergy, ii. 5 _note_. Feeling of the English people as to theological disputes in the twelfth as compared with the sixteenth centuries 6, 7. Secular character of the civil wars in England, 7. Indifference of the people to the rapid changes in the national faith under Henry VIII., Edward VI., Mary, and Elizabeth, 7. Contempt into which excommunication fell in England, 59 _note_. Importance of the press in England in the middle of the seventeenth century, 99. Analogy between the great Civil war and the war of the Fronde, 99, 100. Summary of the progress of toleration in England, 102. Point at which a marked divergence between England and France begins, 105. Causes of this difference, 106. Comparison of the protective spirit in France and England, 108 _et seq._ The first instance in England of the execution of an apostate, 109, 110 _note_. Reasons why the aristocracy in France were more powerful than in England, 113. Period of the union of Normans and Saxons, 116. Union of the nobles and people in forcing the Crown to concede popular privileges, 116, 117. Origin of the House of Commons, 117. Sources whence the people imbibed their tone of independence, 118. Consequences of the social divergence between France and England in the fourteenth century, 119. The three most important guarantees for the liberties of England, 119, 120. The state of France under centralization contrasted with that of England under municipal government, 126, 127. Extinction of villenage in England, 128. Illustration of the early and radical difference between France and England, 131. Feeble influence of chivalry in England, 134. The Reformation encouraged by the pride of Englishmen, 137. Effect of the Wars of the Roses upon the nobles, 138. The clergy and nobles both weakened by Elizabeth, 143. Aristocratic character of the rebellion of 1569, 144. Character of the reign of Elizabeth, 146. Attempts of James I. and Charles I. to revive the power of the nobles and the old protective spirit, 147. Difference between the great English Rebellion and the Fronde, 140, 150. Abolition of the house of Peers, 153. The self-denying ordinance, 153. The leaders of the Rebellion, 155, 159. Barbarism and ferocity of the English people of the seventeenth century, according to the French writers, 214, 215. The results of the suppression of religious scepticism in England and France compared, 257. Prejudice existing in England against Voltaire, 313. Arminianism the popular creed at the beginning of the seventeenth century, 340. But it gives way to Calvinism at the death of Charles I., 340. Singular dearth of great thinkers in England during the eighteenth century, 374. Progress of England, notwithstanding the unskilfulness of her rulers, 466. Amazement of Frenchmen at the liberty enjoyed by Englishmen at the beginning of the eighteenth century, 237 Enlistment for life, Burke's opposition to, i. 463. Enlistment for a term of years first authorized, 463 _note_ Ensenada, his endeavours to improve the state of Spain, ii. 535 Episcopacy, abolition of, in Scotland, iii. 94 _et seq._ Andrew Melville called [Greek: hepiskopomastix], 97 _note_. Struggle between the upper classes and clergy as to episcopacy, 100, 191 Erskine, Lord, his idiomatic English, ii. 307 _note_ Essex, Earl of, joins the parliamentary forces, but suspected by the democrats, ii. 151, 152 Europe, the civilization of, governed by climates, i. 50. Social and political consequences of the high rate of wages in Europe, 65. Influence of physical causes in accelerating the progress of man in Europe, 82. Differences between the civilizations in and out of, 152. The energies of nature tamed by man in, 154. The country outstripped by the populations of the towns in, 156. Mental laws more important than physical for the history of, 156. Contrast between ancient and modern military genius in, 199-202 Europe, remarks on the origin of the ecclesiastical establishments of, i. 259-263. Benefits conferred by literature on, 267. Condition of the mind of, from the sixth to the tenth centuries, 269 Excommunication, a French Protestant, ii. 59. Notions of theologians respecting, 59 _note_. Contempt into which excommunication fell in England, 59 _note_ Expediency, doctrine of, i. 425, 426. Its gradual diffusion amongst us, 426 _note_ Eye, discoveries of Descartes respecting the, ii. 78 Fables, Voltaire's demolition of the belief in national, ii. 312 Falkirk, first printing office in, i. 432 _note_ Famines, impossibility of the return of, in Europe, i. 155. List of, 155 _note_. Frequency of, in Spain, ii. 427 Fathers, authority of the, according to Jewel and Hooker, i. 340. Chillingworth's contempt for their authority, 349. Exposure of the gross absurdities of the, 428 Favart, Madame, story of, ii. 243 Fear, special tendency of, to inflame the imagination, i. 120 Fenacute, story of the giant, i. 320 Fénelon, treatment of, by Louis XIV., ii. 276. His 'Telemachus,' 276 Ferdousi, his 'Shah Nameh,' and its authority in Persian history, i. 303 Fermat, his services to geometry, ii. 190 Fernel, his eminence in medicine, ii. 195 Ferrier, excommunicated by the French Protestants, ii. 58. Result of this measure, 59, 60 Fetichism, the predecessor of monotheism, according to Comte, i. 251 _note_ Feud, feudum, first use of the words, ii. 110 _note_ Feudal incidents, destruction of, in England, i. 386 Feudal system, origin of the, in Europe, ii. 110. Connexion between it and the ecclesiastical spirit, 110, 111. Does not destroy the spirit of protection, but only compels it to assume a new form, 111. Commencement of the European hereditary aristocracy, 112. The power of the English and French aristocracy compared, 113 _et seq._ Sub-infeudation in France and in England, 119. Boncerf's treatise on feudal law, 237. Voltaire's, the first historical endeavour to explain the origin of feudality, 302 Fever, Cullen's theory of, iii. 424 Finance, suppression of the works of Darigrand and Le Trosne on, ii. 238. Sudden eagerness in France in the eighteenth century for inquiries relating to, 328, 329. Necker's celebrated Report, 329. Burke's the first financial reforms, 464 Fire-arms, invention of, i. 206 Flanders, exports from, into Scotland, iii. 24 Food, effect of the supply of, among wandering and agricultural tribes, i. 8. Moral consequences of diminishing the precariousness of food, 9. Influence of food on the human race, 40. The two effects of food necessary to existence, 55. Influence of climate on the necessary kind of food, 56, 60. Connexion between food and the laws of population, 57, 66, 88. Carbon and oxygen in food, 60-62. Amount of carbon required in food in summer and in winter, 63. The potato, the principal food of the labouring class in Ireland, 65. Countries asserted to be more populous when the ordinary food is vegetable than when it is animal, 68 _note_. Character of the general food of the people of India, rice, 70. And of that of Egypt, dates, 83. Extraordinary fecundity of the maize and banana plants in America, 109-111. Instances from the animal kingdom, proving the connexion between carbonized food and the respiratory functions, 148. French and German discoveries as to the functions of food, 367 Forbes, James, the Presbyterian preacher, iii. 203 _note_ Force, indestructibility of, iii. 363 Forces, theory of the parallelogram of, i. 30 Forestalling and regrating, Burke's attack of the laws against, i. 462 Forgetfulness, laws regulating, i. 32 Fornication made a felony by the English Commonwealth, i. 361 _note_. Repeal of the law by Charles II., 362 _note_ Fossils, Daubenton's labours respecting fossil bones, ii. 371. Previous opinions as to, 371 _note_. Researches of Agassiz in fossil ichthyology, 383 Fourcroy, popularity of his lectures on chemistry, ii. 407 _note_ Fourier, his views as to the laws of the conduction of heat, ii. 362. His mathematical theory, 362 Fox, Charles James, his remark on good churchmen, i. 395 _note_. His declaration in the House of Commons against the arbitrary laws proposed for extinguishing the liberties of the country, 493 Fox, Henry his eminent statesmanship, i. 450. Causes of George III.'s dislike of him, 450. Burke's character of Fox, 450 _note_. Burke's rupture with him, 469 France, rent paid by the cultivator, in proportion to the gross produce of the land, i. 75. French notions of the English people previous to the application of steam to purposes of travelling, 219. The history of England compared with that of France, 234. Debt which French owes to English civilization, 236. Effects of the interference of the government with the people, 236. The results of the suppression of scepticism in France compared with the exercise of individual judgment in England, 257. How and when the political institutions of France might have been saved, 258. Condition of historical literature in France in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, 261-273. Proximate causes of the French Revolution after the middle of the eighteenth century, 325 _et seq._ The social changes of the French people immediately preceding the Revolution, 405. Instances of this, 406-412. Tolerance and freedom from superstition of the French, 263. Great numbers of smugglers in France in the last century, 279. The bards of ancient Gaul, 292 _note_. Corruption of Druidical traditions in Gaul by Christian priests, 306. Popular belief in the middle ages of the Trojan descent of the French kings, 309. Pork a common food in France in the time of Charlemagne, 314 _note_. Effects of the writings of Descartes, 329. Detestation of George III. of the French people, 448. Burke's epithets applied to France and the French at the time of the Revolution, 472. Effects produced by the French Revolution upon the policy of the English government, 484. First step towards an open rupture between England and France, 485. Effects of the execution of Louis XVI., 485 France, Causes which gave rise to the civil wars of the seventeenth century, ii. 56 _et seq._ Condé's rebellion in 1615, 61. Rebellion of the Protestants in Béarn, 61, 62. And at La Rochelle, 63-66. Results which would have happened if the Protestants had gained the upper hand, 67-72. Breaking out of the war of the Fronde, 99. Importance of the press in the middle of the seventeenth century, 95. Analogy between the great civil war of England and the war of the Fronde, 99, 100. Summary of the progress of toleration in France, 102. Point at which a marked divergence between England and France begins, 105. Causes of this difference, 106. Comparison of the protective spirit in France and England, 108 _et seq._ Reasons why the feudal aristocracy were more powerful in France than in England, 113-118. In France every man either a tyrant or a slave, 119. System of subinfeudation, 119. Consequences of the early social divergence between England and France in the fourteenth century, 119-121. Futility of French municipal institutions, 121. Feebleness of the States-General, 121. Beginning of the tendency to centralization in France, 122. Its baneful effects, 122, 123. Machinery by which it is worked, 123. Number of civil functionaries in the country, 123 _note_. Mode of examining criminals in France, 124. And of preventing crime, 125. The education of the people controlled by the government, 125. The worst kind of monopoly established by the government, and its effects on the people, 126. The great power and tyranny of the nobles, 128. Slavery in France, 129. The inequality of taxation, 129. Privileges reserved to themselves by the nobles, 130. Illustration of the early and radical difference between France and England, from the history of chivalry, 131-134. From the vanity of the French, 136. And from the practice of duelling, 136. Difference between the Fronde and the great English rebellion, 149. Objects of the Fronde, 149, 150. Causes why a war of classes was impossible, 150. Results of the energy of the protective spirit and power of the nobles on the issue of the Fronde, 160. Vanity and imbecility of the French nobles, 162, 163. Examination of the consequences of the protective spirit being carried into literature by Louis XIV., 176. Servility of the people at this period, 177. Revocation of the Edict of Nantes by Louis XIV., 178. The subsequent dragonnades, 179. And their disastrous effects on the prosperity of France, 181. Universal decline of France during the latter part of the reign of Louis XIV., 210. Joy of the people at his death, 213. Indignities to which French literary men were subject in the eighteenth century, one of the precursors of the revolution, 230-242. Outrages committed by the upper classes in the same period, 243. Stringent cruelty of the French laws, 244. Proposal of the French avocat-general in 1780 respecting new books, 245. The crusade against Christianity in the last century, 247. Causes of the excessive loyalty of the French people, 249. War of opinion between France and Spain in the fifth and sixth centuries, 435 Francis I. of France, his zeal against heresy, ii. 12 Franks, their conversion to Christianity and attack of their Visigoth neighbours, ii. 435 Frauds and Perjuries, security to private property effected by the Statute of, i. 385 Frederick the Great, contrast between his warlike and domestic policy, i. 201 Free Trade. See Trade. Free will, probable origin of the dogma of, i. 9. Foundation of the theory of, 13. Connexion of free will with Arminianism, 14 Féret, causes of his imprisonment in the Bastille, ii. 235 Fresnel, his researches into the laws of light, ii. 362 Frewen, Dr., Archbishop of York, his character, i. 392 Froissart, his the earliest instance in the Middle Ages of an improvement in writing history, i. 325 Fronde, war of the, analogy between it and the civil war in England, ii. 99. Difference between the Fronde and the great English Rebellion, 149. Character and position of the leaders of the Fronde, 160. And consequent failure of the rebellion, 168-173 Fruit, amount of carbon in, i. 61 Fuch's, his investigations in the vegetable kingdom, ii. 198 _note_ Gaimar, his translation into Anglo-Norman of Geoffrey Monmouth's history, i. 325 Garlon, suppression of the 'Therapeutics' of, ii. 238 Garrows, cause of their superstitions respecting the tiger, i. 125 _note_ Gascoigne, his invention of the micrometer, ii. 192 Gassion, raised to the dignity of French marshal, ii. 98. Authorities respecting him, 98 _note_ Gaul, origin of the name of, according to the historians of the Middle Ages, i. 311 Génard, suppression of his 'School of Man,' ii. 238 Geoffrey, Archdeacon of Monmouth, his history of King Arthur, i. 321. Translations of the work, 324, 325 Geography, physical, study of, i. 2 Geology, first exhibition of the sceptical character of, i. 429 _note_. Views of Dr. Arnold and Mr. Baden Powell, 430 _note_. Buffon's recantation of some of his views on, ii. 236. Causes of its great progress in modern times, 365. Labours of French geologists at the latter part of the last century, 368. Cuvier's foundation of palæontological science, 369 _note_. Remains of organic and inorganic life in the secondary and tertiary strata, 370. The doctrine of universal changes, 369, 371. Daubenton's union of comparative anatomy with geology, 371. Character of Hutton's geological speculations, iii. 388, 396. Causes which have altered and are still altering the crust of the earth, 388. The deductive and inductive methods of studying geology, 390. William Smith's foundation of English geology, 391. Werner's foundation of the German school, 393. Hall's verification of Hutton's views, 401 Geometry, algebra first successfully applied to, by Descartes, ii. 77. Who is regarded as the first geometrician of the age, 80. Ages of Descartes and Fermat, 189, 190. Hypothetical arguments as exhibited by, iii. 306 George I., his utter ignorance of the English language, i. 441 George II., his indifferent knowledge of the English language, i. 441. His ignorance of English politics, 442. His highest ambition, 442 _note_ George III., fortunate circumstances which surrounded his accession, i. 444. Revival of the doctrine of divine right, 445. The king's respect for church ceremonies, 445 _note_. Alliance between the Crown and the clergy, 445. The king's ignorance, 446. And hatred of great statesmen, 446, 447. Favour with which he regarded slavery, 447. His hatred of the French, 448. The 'King's Friends,' 448, 449. Notorious incapacity of his ministers, 449. His hatred of the elder Pitt and of Fox, 449, 450. Mode in which he brought the House of Lords into disrepute, 453. His hatred of the Americans, 466. Favours Burke in his violent old age, 476, 477. His policy respecting the American colonies, 477, 479. Reaction of this policy upon England, 481, 482. His policy towards the French republic, 484 _et seq._ His monstrous principles, 466. His inability however, to do harm to English institutions, 466 George IV., his character, ii. 466 Germany, Comparison of the history of England and, i. 237. Interference of the German governments with the people, 237. Origin of German literature, 237. Character of German intellect among the highest and lowest minds, 238, 239. Process through which the esoteric literature of Germany is passing at the present time, 267. Cultivation of metaphysics in Germany in the latter part of the last century, ii. 373 Gervaise, suppression of the 'Letters' of, ii. 237 Gibbon, Edward, fame of his 'Decline and Fall,' i. 429 _note_. His fifteenth and sixteenth chapters, 429 Gipsies, origin of the, according to the writers of the middle ages, i. 312 Glasgow in the fifteenth century, iii. 26, 27. Rise and progress of, 175. The first bank at, 181 Gloves, Spanish manufacture of, in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, ii. 502 Goblets, game of, forbidden to be seen by French Protestants, ii. 70 God, Cartesian method of the ultimate proof of the existence of, ii. 89. Horrible notions of the Scotch clergy respecting, iii. 239 Gomberville, his refutation of the idle stories as to the extreme antiquity of the French, ii. 270 Gongora, the Spanish poet, ii. 480 Göthe, his obligations to Mallet's 'History of Denmark,' ii. 299 Gordon, Dr., the nonjuring bishop, i. 412 _note_ Government, inquiry into the influence of, on the progress of society, i. 272. Illustrated by the abolition of the corn laws, 273. The most important measures of modern British legislation the result of pressure from without, 275. The best legislation the result of the abrogation of former legislation, 275. Injuries caused to trade by the interference of politicians, 276. Smuggling, with all its attendant crimes, caused by legislation, 277. Baneful effects of legislative attempts to encourage religious truth, and discourage religious error, 281. Consequent increase of hypocrisy and perjury, 281, 282. And of usury by the laws against usury, 283. Effects of legislation in hindering the advance of knowledge, 284. England less interfered with by government than other nations, 286. True duties of legislators, 287. Attempts to make politics a mere branch of theology, 326-328. Legislative improvements in the reign of Charles II. in spite of political degradation, 381 Gowrie conspiracy, the, iii. 110 Gracian, the Spanish Jesuit and prose writer, ii. 480 Granada, capture of, from the Arabs, ii. 440 Gravitation, Newton's discovery of the law of, ii. 191. Tardy reception of the law in France, 191, 192 Greece, condition of, contrasted with that of India, i. 138. Its area, 138. Its material phenomena, 139. Comparison of the Greek and Hindu divinities, 140. The hero-worship of the Greeks, 144. Statesmen, orators, and authors of ancient, 199. Reason of the evanescence of the civilization of ancient Greece, 267 Greek language forbidden by the French Protestants to be taught, ii. 69 Greek Church, cause of the small amount of authority possessed by the head of the, compared with that of the Latin Church, ii. 303 Greenock, state of, in the seventeenth century, iii. 28. Rise and progress of, 174 Grenobles, insolence of the Protestant assembly of, ii. 60 Grew, Dr. Nathaniel, his botanical discoveries, ii. 199, 200 Grey, Mr. (afterwards Earl), his remarks in the House on the subservient conduct of Pitt, i. 447 _note_ Grimaldi, prime minister of Spain, ii. 545 Grosley, his admiration for England, ii. 228. Suppression of his 'Memoirs on Troyes,' 238 Grotius, his principles of foreign policy compared with those of Vattel, ii. 40 _note_ Guibert, suppression of his work on 'Military Tactics,' ii. 238 Guise, the murder of, predominance of the theological spirit shown in the, ii. 11 Guises, their influence in Scotland, iii. 77, 78 Guizot, his republication of Mably's 'Observations,' ii. 236 Gunpowder, invention of, i. 203. And of fire-arms, 204. Gunpowder first used in mining towns, 206 _note_. Influence of the invention of, in lessening the warlike spirit, 206-209 Gustavus Adolphus, King of Sweden, his domestic and warlike policy contrasted, i. 200 Guthrie, the Scotch preacher, iii. 202 _note_, 204 _note_ Habeas Corpus Act, passing of the, i. 385. Effect of the suspension of the, in 1794, 496 Haco, his invasion of Scotland, iii. 11 Haillan, Du, his the first history of France, ii. 264. Character of his work, 264, 265 Hajin tribe, cause of their worship of the tiger, i. 125 _note_ Hall, Chief Baron, his charge to the jury in a case of witchcraft in 1665, i. 363 _note_ Hall, Sir James, his verification of the geological speculations of Hutton, iii. 401 Hardwicke, Lord, his notions of political economy, i. 211 _note_ Harris, his account of the extinction of feudalism, i. 386 Harriss's 'Dictionary of Arts and Sciences,' the origin of Encyclopædias, i. 433 _note_ Harvey, his discovery of the circulation of the blood, ii. 80. Denies the existence of the lacteals, 81 _note_ Haüy, his studies in crystallography, ii. 401 Heat, together with moisture, the causes which regulate the fertility of every country, i. 96. Difference between the heat of the eastern and western coasts of North America, 98; and of South America, 100. French researches on the phenomena of heat in the last century, ii. 361. The laws of heat, iii. 362. The indestructibility of force and interchange of forces, 363. Black's theory of latent heat, 367. Leslie's philosophy, 383 Heat, animal food necessary for keeping up the, i. 55, 58. The blood-corpuscles and animal heat, 58 _note_. Heat disengaged by the union of carbon and oxygen, 58, 59 _note_ Heavenly witnesses, controversy on the text of the, i. 429 Helvétius, his knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 218. His admiration for England, 229. Persecuted by the government, 236. His professed atheism, 352. Analysis of his essay 'On the Mind,' 353 Hénault, his method of writing history, ii. 300 Henrion, his views as to fossil bones, ii. 371 _note_ Henry II. of England, his destruction of the baronial castles, ii. 114 _note_ Henry II. of France, his zeal against heresy, ii. 12 Henry III. of England, his inability to do permanent harm to English institutions, ii. 466 Henry III. of France, murder of, predominance of the theological spirit shown in the, ii. 11. His zeal against heresy, 13. His affection for monks, 29 _note_ Henry IV. of France, his accession, ii. 12. His character as a ruler, 12. His apostasies, 13, 14. Publishes the Edict of Nantes, 14. Refuses to accede to the pope's request to punish the Protestants, 22, 23. His measures for their protection, 23, 24. His death, 24. Henry the first French sovereign stained with the imputation of heresy, 267 Henry IV. of England, his invasion of Scotland, iii. 18 _note_ Henry VII. of England, his establishment of the Yeomen of the Guard, ii. 7 _note_ Henry VIII. of England, indifference of the people to his arrangement of the formularies of the Church, ii. 7. His bodyguard, 7 _note_. Character of his reign, 138 Henshaw, his discoveries in the vegetable world, ii. 199 Herculaes, origin of the story of the exploits of, i. 297 Hereditary descent connected with the formation of character, question of, i. 176 _note_. Hereditary talents, vices, and virtues, 177 _note_ Heresies, the great religious, founded on previous philosophies, i. 11 _note_. Destruction by the legislature of the writ 'De Hæretico Comburendo,' 383. The first papal call on the secular power to punish, ii. 109 _note_. Harshness of the early Spanish laws for the punishment of heresy, 438 Hero-worship, ancient Greek, causes of the, i. 144 'High-church' and 'low-church,' origin of the terms, i. 412 _note_ Highlanders, their ferocity, iii. 21, 22. Let loose upon the Lowlanders in 1678, 145. The only powerful friends of James II., 151. Their love of war and rapine, 151, 152. Reasons which induced them to rebel in favour of the exiled Stuarts, 152. Their rebellions of 1715 and 1745 not the result of loyalty, 153. Their veneration for their chieftains, 156 _note_. Their insignificance after 1745, 157, 168 Hill, Sir John, his the first publication of popular scientific works in numbers, i. 432 _note_. His great success, 432 _note_ Hilton, Laird of, story of the, and the minister, iii. 217 Hindostan, Persian origin of the word, i. 69 _note_ History, statement of the resources for investigating, i. 1. Confidence in the value of, 1. Use made of the materials for investigating, 3. Instances of endeavours to remedy the backwardness of history, 4. Present prospects of historical literature, 5. Inferiority of the most celebrated historians to the most successful cultivators of physical science, 7. Materials from which a philosophic history can alone be composed, 20, 33. Reasons why historians have not yet collected materials for writing history, 229. Reasons why the present history is restricted to that of England, 231, 242. Hume's method of treating history, 251 _note_. Why the history of England is eminently valuable, 252. Origin of history, and state of historical literature during the Middle Ages, 288. Value of historical inquiries in throwing light on the changes in society, 290, 291. The ballad form of the earliest histories, 291. Error in history caused by the invention of writing, 296. Corruptions in early history caused by changes in religion, 300. Illustration of this from Scandinavian history, 301. Trustworthiness of histories where there has been no change in religion, 301-304. The influence of the clergy the most active cause of the corruption of early history, 307. Absurdities believed in consequence, 309-325. Beginning of the first improvement in writing modern history, 325. Prevalence of credulity in the time of Comines, 326, 327. Character of Bodin's historical work, 326. Intellectual regeneration of the seventeenth century, 329. Instances of the credulity of the sixteenth century, 330. This absurd way of writing history the natural result of the spirit of the age, 333. The history of every civilized country the history of its intellectual development, 387. Importance to history of the question whether normal phenomena should or should not precede the study of abnormal ones, ii. 1, 2 _note_. Condition of historical literature in France before the end of the sixteenth century, 261. The Middle Age historians of France merely annalists, 263. Du Haillan's the first French history, 264. De Thou's work, 266. Sully's history, 266. Serres' view of the importance of correct dates in history, 267. Dupleix's 'History of France,' 268. La Popelinière's 'History of Histories,' 269. Improvement in the method of writing history in the seventeenth century, 270. De Rubis's work, 270. Gomberville's, 270. Berthault's, 270. Mezeray's great work, 271. The retrograde movement under Louis XIV., 273. As illustrated in the works of Audigier and Bossuet, 279. Reasons why history is superior to theology, 289. Bossuet's method of writing history compared with that of Voltaire, 291. Other historians by whom Voltaire's views were adopted, 299 _et seq._ His opinions as to feudality, 302. As to free trade, 304. As to political economy, 304. His demolition of the admiration entertained for classical works, and for the fables of early history, 306-312. Value of Montesquieu's method, 315. History separated from biography by him, 316, 317. Turgot's views of the duties of a historian, 321. Difference between certainty and precision in writing history, 325. The first and most essential quality of an historian, iii. 186 Hobbes, Thomas, his works, i. 390. Animosity of the clergy against him, 390. Encouraged by Charles II., 391. Popularity of his works at this time, 391 _note_ Hogg, Thomas, story of, and the 'factour,' iii. 214 Holbach, his knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 219 Holcus arundinaceus, use of, as food by the Egyptians, i. 87 Holland, rescued by man from the grasp of the sea, i. 154. Number of Anabaptists put to death in, 186 _note_. The Dutch fleet in the Thames and Medway, 382. Proposal of the Bishop of Beauvais, ii. 38 _note_. Calvinism the popular creed of, 339. The war carried on by Philip II. against the Dutch Protestants, 451. Number of heretics put to death by Alva, 451 Holyrood robbed by the English, iii. 15 Homer, his investigations of the human mind, i. 23 _note_ Hooke, his discoveries in the vegetable world, ii. 199 Hooker, Richard, his 'Ecclesiastical Polity' compared with Jewel's 'Apology for the Church of England,' i. 339, 340. And with Chillingworth's 'Religion of Protestants,' 348. Connexion between the Reformation and the views advocated by Hooker, 351. Locke's opinion of his philosophy, 351. Compared with Chillingworth, ii. 86. His scepticism, 86 Horst, Dr., his work on the Golden tooth, i. 332 Howe, John, his exile, i. 398 Huguenots. See Protestants, French Humber, origin of the name of the, according to the historians of the Middle Ages, i. 311 Hume, David, his method of metaphysical investigation, i. 250, 426 _note_. His 'Natural History of Religion' and 'History of England,' 251. His views as to monotheism, 251 _note_. His 'Political Discourses' translated into French by Le Blanc, ii. 219. Examination of his philosophy, iii. 331. His want of imagination, 331. Importance and novelty of his doctrines, 333. His disregard of facts, 337. His method, 338. His injustice to Bacon, 338. His 'Natural History of Religion,' 343. Comparison between his method and that employed by Cudworth, 348 Humidity, together with heat, the causes which regulate fertility, i. 96. Difference between the humidity of the eastern and western coasts of North America, 98. And of South America, 100. Relation between the amount of rain and the extent of coast, 99. The heavy rains of Brazil, 103 Hungary, disease in, from eating pork, i. 314 _note_ Hunter, John, account of his generalizations, iii. 428. His grandeur and obscurity of language, 428. Conflict of the methods employed by him, and the consequent result, 429-432. His industry in collecting facts, 433. His discovery as to the red globules of the blood, 436. His inquiries as to the movements of animals and vegetables, 439. His idea of uniting all the physical sciences, 443. His inquiry into the malformation of crystals, 443. His physiological and pathological inquiries, 447. His pathological speculations respecting the principles of action and the principles of sympathy, 450 _et seq._ Causes of the little influence which he exercised over his English contemporaries, 457 Hutcheson, Francis, his method of metaphysical investigation, i. 248. Remarks of Sir J. Mackintosh and M. Cousin, 248 _note_. Notice of him, iii. 292. Examination of his philosophy, 292. Its results, tendency, and method, 295-300 Hutton, James, his attempts to explain the former changes of the earth's crust by reference solely to natural causes, i. 429 _note_. Establishes the first library in Birmingham, 431 _note_. Character of his geological speculations, iii. 388, 396. Verification of his views, 401 Hyænas regarded by the Abyssinians as enchanters, i. 126 _note_ Hydrostatics, Boyle's discoveries in, i. 368 _note_ Hypocrisy, cause of the increase of, due to evil legislation, i. 281 Idolatry, the natural fruit of ignorance, i. 258 Ichthyology, fossil, researches of Agassiz in, ii. 383 Ignorance and idolatry, i. 258. The 'learned ignorance' for which many men are remarkable, 269 Imagination, special tendency of fear to inflame the, i. 120. Triumph of the imagination in the tropics, from this cause, 121. Instances in the case of earthquakes, 122. And in disease, 127. Imaginative character of the literature of ancient India, 132. The imagination controlled by the understanding in Greece 138-146 Imbert, his French translation of Clarke's 'Letters on Spain' suppressed, ii. 234 Impeachments, general effect of the abolition of, i. 386 Independence, personal, idea of, takes root, i. 436. First occurrence of the word 'independence,' in the modern acceptation of the word, 436 _note_ India, fertility and civilization of, i. 69. Character of the food of the people of, 70, 71. Causes of the unequal distribution of wealth in India in all ages, 72. Amount of rent paid by the cultivator in India in proportion to the gross produce of the land, 76. Testimony of Bishop Heber to the poverty of the labouring classes, 77 _note_. Provisions of the native laws respecting the caste of the Sudras, 78. And of the Brahmins, 79, 80. Character of the ancient Indian literature, 132. And of the religion and art of, 137. Contrasted with Greece in these conditions, 137. Absence of harbours in India, 138. Antiquity of the worship of Siva in, 141. The bards of, 292 _note_. Causes of trustworthiness in the early history of, 301 _note_. Antiquity of the history of, 302 _note_. Cause of the existence of this history, 303 _note_ 'Individualisme,' De Tocqueville on the word, i. 436 _note_ Indulgence, Declaration of, of James II., i. 397. Refusal of the clergy to read it in their churches, 399 Indulgences, theory of, of the Church of Rome, ii. 339 Innovation, aversion of the aristocracy for, ii. 139 Inquisition in Spain, character of the founders of the, i. 187. Establishment of the, in Spain, ii. 446. The different punishments for heresy, 448. Attacked by Aranda, 547. The last heretic burned by the Inquisition, 548 'Inquisitoribus hæreticæ pravitatis,' the first constitution addressed, ii. 109 Insanity, former notions respecting, ii. 404. Pinel's views of the aberrations of the human mind, 404 Insects, incredible number of, in Brazil, i. 106 Insolvents, Burke's opposition to the cruel laws against, i. 463 Intellect, English; English literature unknown in France in the reign of Louis XIV., ii. 213. Causes of the junction of English and French intellects after this king's death, 214. Essential difference between the civilization of England and Spain, 465. Outline of the history of the English intellect from the middle of the sixteenth to the end of the eighteenth century, 333. Origin of religious toleration in England, 337. Hooker contrasted with Jewel, 339, 340. Theology and persecution, 344. Scepticism and the spirit of inquiry on other subjects, 340. Chillingworth's 'Religion of Protestants,' 347. The rapid increase of heresy in the middle of the seventeenth century, 347 _note_. Increasing indifference to theological matters, 350. The work of Chillingworth a vindication of religious dissent, 352. Political character of the opposition to ecclesiastical authority in the reigns of James I. and Charles I., 359. Its frivolous form in the reign of Charles II., 362. Progress of the English intellect in the seventeenth century towards shaking off ancient superstitions, 363. Destruction of the old notions as to witchcraft, 363 _note_. Sir Thomas Browne's works, 365. Boyle's discoveries, 368. Foundation of the Royal Society, 371. Ecclesiastical opposition to physical science in the reign of Charles II., 372. Popular belief in supernatural causation, 373. Improvements in legislation in the reign of Charles II., and the causes which produced them, 388, 389. Hobbists, 390. Effects of the alliance of the clergy with James II., 395. Dissolution of this alliance, 396. Union of the clergy and dissenters, 399. Causes which produced the revolution of 1688, 400. Effects of the expulsion of the Stuarts on English civilization, 402. Struggle between William III. and the clergy, 405. Loss of the clergy of all power out of the Church, 416-418. The clergy weakened by the founders of Wesleyanism, 419-424. Loss of the intellectual vigour of the dissenters, 422. But increase in their numbers, 423 _note_. Final separation of theology from morals and politics, 424-427. Discoveries of geologists, 429. Diffusion of knowledge among the people, 430. Sunday schools, 430. Sunday newspapers, 431. Country printing offices, 431. Popular works on physical truth first published, 432. Invention of encyclopædias, 433. Literary periodical reviews, 433. Reading clubs, 433. Debating societies, 433. Right of public meeting, and publication of parliamentary debates, 434, 435. Doctrine of personal representation and of personal independence, 436. Change in the style of authors, 436. Review of the reactionary and retrogressive period of English history, 441. Political degeneracy of England during the reign of George III., 446-455. Sketch of the career of Edmund Burke, 455 _et seq._ Arbitrary laws of George III. against the liberties of his country, 487, 488. Gloomy prospects of the people late in the eighteenth century, 494. Secret imprisonment of opponents of the government, 494. Effect of the suspension of the habeas corpus act in 1794, 496. Preparation for a counter reaction, owing to the progress of knowledge, 498. To which, and to the power of public opinion, England owes her reforms of the present century, 498. The Scotch and English methods of philosophy contrasted, iii. 290. Intellect, French, outline of the history of the, from the middle of the sixteenth century to the accession to power of Louis XIV., ii. 1. Greater power of the Church in France than in England, 4. As shown by the successful efforts of the clergy to withstand the Reformation, 4. This influence greater in France than in England during the sixteenth century, 6. Hence the impossibility of toleration in France, 7, 8. The civil wars in France conducted in the name of Christianity, 8. Internal condition of the country before the accession of Henry IV., 11. Beginning of toleration by the publication of the Edict of Nantes, 14. Appearance of scepticism, 14, 15. Rabelais and Montaigne, 15. Charron, 19. The party of the 'Politiques', 22 _note_. Decline of the ecclesiastical power in France, 26. Richelieu's endeavours to humble the French nobles, 28. Fails, but effectually humbles the clergy, 29. Favour shown by Richelieu to the Protestants, 37-39. Causes of the religious feuds of the seventeenth century, 55. Character of the civil war raised by the Protestants, 63-66. Efforts of the Protestants to suppress the thirst for knowledge, 69, 70. And to hamper and vex the people, 71, 72. The liberal policy of Richelieu only part of a much larger movement, 76. Illustration of this from the philosophy of Descartes, 77. Who is regarded as one of the founders of French prose, 80. His origination of the modern method of philosophy, 81, 82. Progress of the French mind as shown in the very existence of the ideas of Descartes and Richelieu, 93. Spread of scepticism in France in the reign of Louis XIII. and during the minority of Louis XIV., 95. The anti-ecclesiastical spirit exhibited by Mazarin, 96. Injurious effects of the protective spirit carried by Louis XIV. into literature, 176-188. Proof that the literary splendour of his reign was not his work, 188. Effect of his protection in stopping the progress of science, 190. In mathematics, 191. And in astronomy, 191. Newton's discoveries neglected for forty-five years, 191. Absence of mere practical ingenuity in the reign of Louis XIV., 192. Few and insignificant improvements effected during this period in manufactures, 193. Decline at the same time in physiology, surgery, and medicine, 194-196. In zoology and chemistry, 197. And in botany, 197. Results which followed the decline of the national intellect in the reign of Louis XIV., 203 _et seq._ Reaction against the protective spirit on the death of Louis XIV., and preparations for the French Revolution, 213. Ignorance of the English language and literature at the end of the seventeenth century, 214. Causes of the junction of the French and English intellect after the death of Louis XIV., 215. Voltaire and his works, 216. Other authors, 216 _et seq._ Admiration for England expressed by Frenchmen, 222. Who disseminate liberal opinions which the government attempts to stifle, 228, 229. Persecution of literary men, 230-242. The avocat-general's proposition as to the publication of new works, 245. Reasons why French literary men at first attacked the Church and not the government, 247-251. Effects of the hostility of the French intellect against the state, 258. Rise and extent of scepticism in France, 261 _et seq._ The two epochs through which the French intellect passed during the eighteenth century, 327. Inquiries respecting political economy, 327-329. Eagerness of the French for economical and financial inquiries, 329. Influence of Rousseau, 330-332. Anti-ecclesiastical policy of Machault and his successors, 332-334. Concession of civil rights to Protestants, 335. Revival of Jansenism, and consequent overthrow of the Jesuits, 344, 345. Destruction of the French Church, 347. Rise and progress of atheistical opinions, 351. Tendency of the French intellect during the latter half of the eighteenth century to withdraw from the internal, and concentrate attention upon the external world, 351-353. Works of Helvetius and Condillac, 353-360. Researches as to the laws of heat, light, and electricity, 361-363. And in chemistry and geology, 364. The study of physical phenomena in connexion with the French Revolution, 375. Impetus given to zoology by Cuvier, 375. And by Bichat, 376. Reaction in France at the commencement of the present century, 388, 389. Researches in botany and mineralogy at the end of the last century, 395. And in the aberrations of the human mind, 404 Intellect, German. The Scotch method of philosophy compared with that of Germany, iii. 289 Intellect, human, sole source of the, ii. 89 Intellect, Scotch, examination of the, during the seventeenth century, iii. 191-280. And during the eighteenth century, 281-482. Barrenness of the Scotch mind in science in the seventeenth century, 284. Causes of this, 287. Results of the ignorance of the inductive or analytical method, 289. Scotland in this respect compared and contrasted with Germany and England, 288. Hutcheson, Adam Smith, Hume, and Reid, 292-360. Examination of Scotch physical philosophy, 361 _et seq._ Difference between the results achieved by Scotchmen in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, 458. The deductive method supreme in both centuries, 462. Reasons why the Scotch literature of the eighteenth century affected the nation so little, 465. Superstition and illiberality still existing in Scotland, 471 _et seq._ Intellect, Spanish, outline of the history of the, from the fifth to the middle of the nineteenth century, ii. 425 _et seq._ Influence of the clergy over the Spanish intellect, high and low, 479 Intellectual progress of man, i. 174. Progressive aspect of intellectual truths, 181. Mischievousness of ignorant men in proportion to their sincerity, 183 Interest, in what it consists, i. 52. Rate of interest in India in 900 B.C., 74. And in 1810 A.D., 75 Inverness burnt by the Highlanders, iii. 22 Ireland, the potato the principal food of the people of, for above two hundred years, i. 65. Period of its introduction into that country, 65 _note_. Potato crops as compared with those of wheat, 65. Daily average consumption of potatoes in Ireland, 66 _note_. Evil consequences of the cheapness and abundance of food, 67. Idleness of the Irish at home compared with their industry abroad, 68 _note_. The bards of Ireland, 292 _note_. Their contributions to the early history of their country, 292 _note_. Injuries done to the traditions of the bards of, by clerical historians, 306. Pork the chief food of the Irish in the twelfth century, 314 _note_. Causes which have produced the present superstition of the Irish Catholics, ii. 53, 54. The Irish invasion of Scotland, iii. 9 Irritability, Glisson's anticipation of the truth respecting, ii. 196 _note_ Isomorphism, Mitscherlich's discovery of, in minerals, ii. 400 Italy, physical causes of the superstition existing in, i. 123. Triumph of the imaginative and small proportion of scientific men in, 124 Jacobites, extinction of the hopes of the, i. 444 James I., political character of the opposition to ecclesiastical authority in the reign of, i. 359. His attempts to revive the power of the nobles, ii. 147. His imprisonment in Scotland, iii. 103. Recovers his liberty, 104. Bearded by the ministers, 104. The Gowrie Conspiracy, 110. Ascends the throne of England, 115. Attempts to subjugate the Scotch Church, 115. His cruelties, 117. Forces episcopacy upon Scotland, 117. And sets up High Courts of Commission, 125 James I. of Scotland, attacks the nobles, and favours the Church, iii. 46, 47. Causes of his failure, 47, 48. Put to death by his aristocracy, 49 James II. of England, his accession, i. 395. Attempts of Archbishop Sancroft to convert him to Protestantism, 395 _note_. Services rendered to him by the Protestant clergy, 396. Alliance between the Roman Catholic King and the Protestant clergy, 396. Causes of the dissolution of this alliance, 397. His declaration of indulgence, 397. Establishes the first standing army in England, 397 _note_. Persecutions in his reign, 397, 398. Union of the Churchmen and Dissenters, and production of the revolution, 400. His character, iii. 147. His fiendish cruelty, 147-149. His ignominious flight, 151 James II. of Scotland, his treachery, iii. 49-52 James IV. of Scotland, his policy, iii. 56 James V. of Scotland, seized by the Douglases, iii. 57. His escape, 58, 59. Favours the Church, and punishes the nobles, 59, 60. Who bring about the Reformation, 62. Accepts the title of 'Defender of the Faith,' 62. His marriage with Mary of Guise, 63. Cause of his death, 69 Jamin's 'Thoughts,' suppression of, ii. 238 Jansenism, tenets of, ii. 343. Its introduction into France, previous to the time of Louis XIV., but suppression by him, 344. Its revival in the eighteenth century, and its effect on the democratic movement, 344. Its overthrow of the Jesuits, 344, 345 Java, early civilization of, i. 305. Causes of the loss of the historical traditions of, 305. Establishment of Mohammedanism in, 305 _note_. Period of the Indian colonization of, 305 _note_. Traditions of Java preserved in the island of Bali, 306 Jefferson, Thomas, his part in the French Revolution, ii. 418 Jeffreys, Lord, his cruelty, i. 397 Jehangueir, the emperor, his extraordinary wealth, i. 77 _note_ Jerusalem, origin of the name of, according to the historians of the Middle Ages, i. 311 Jesuits, the, banished from France by Henry IV., ii. 23. Recalled, 23, 24 _note_. Services of the early Jesuits to civilization, 336. Their system of education, 336. Their incompatibility with the opinions of the eighteenth century, 337. Buffier the only Jesuit name in the history of abstract philosophy, 342 _note_. The order overthrown in France in the last century, 345, 346. Regarded as the instigators of Damiens' attempted assassination of Louis XV., 345. Expelled from Spain, 546 Jewel, Bishop, his 'Apology for the Church of England' compared with Hooker's 'Ecclesiastical Polity,' i. 340. And with Chillingworth's 'Religion of Protestants,' 348 Jews, influence of religion on the progress of society illustrated by the history of the, i. 257, 258. Importance of the history of the, according to Bossuet, ii. 285. Harshness of the early Spanish laws against them, 438. Decree of expulsion of Ferdinand and Isabella, 445. Number of Jews expelled from Spain, 446 _note_ Johnson, Dr., on free will, i. 14 _note_ Joubert, his eminence in medicine, ii. 195 Jousse, suppression of his 'Treatise on Presidial jurisdiction,' ii. 238 Joyce, Cornet, his origin, ii. 155 Judas, history of, according to Matthew of Westminster, i. 316 Judges in France, ii. 124. Period when judges were first knighted in England, 135 _note_ Julian, the emperor, causes of his persecution of the Christians, i. 186 Jurisdictions, hereditary, abolition of, in Scotland, iii. 161, 169 Jury, origin of trial by, ii. 117 _note_ Jussieu, his botanical generalizations, ii. 397 Justice, permanent improvement in the administration of, in England, i. 402 Juxon, William, his character as archbishop of Canterbury, i. 391 Kamtschatkans, religious regard they pay to some animals, i. 126 _note_ Kant, his views as to the scientific conception of the understanding, i. 18 _note_; quoted, 35-38 Ken, Bishop, deprived, i. 408, 410. Refuses to admit in the secular power the right of deprivation, 410 Kennedy, Bishop of St. Andrew's, his power in Scotland, iii. 53. His counsel to the king, 53, 54 Kilmarnock, state of, in the seventeenth century, iii. 28. Rise of the manufactures of, 180 'King's Friends,' the party so called, i. 448 Kings, causes of the diminution of the respect formerly felt for, ii. 182. Reasons why their information is inaccurate, and their prejudices numerous, 183. Their nonsensical or blasphemous titles, 183 _note_ Kirke, Colonel, his cruelty, i. 397 Kirk-sessions in Scotland, in the seventeenth century, iii. 206, 207. Their tyranny, 209, 210 Knights Templars, discourse of St. Bernard on the, quoted, ii. 133 _note_ Knighthood, bane of the order of, in France, ii. 133, 134. Little respect paid to it in England, 135. Compulsory knighthood in that country, 135 Knowledge, influence of the progress of, in diminishing religious persecution, i. 189. And in diminishing war, 190. The three ways in which the progress of knowledge has lessened the warlike spirit, 203-223. The totality of human actions governed by the totality of human knowledge, 229. Remarkable diffusion of knowledge in the United States, 243. Books the storehouse of knowledge, 267. In what the knowledge in which all civilization consists is based, 268. The 'learned ignorance' for which many men are remarkable, 269. Condition and results of the literature of Europe from the sixth to the tenth centuries, 269. Endeavours of governments to hinder the advance of knowledge, 284. Craving of the people after knowledge, 430. Popular form taken by the diffusion of knowledge, 430, 431. Simplicity of the style of the authors of the last century, 437. The increase and diffusion of knowledge in England at the latter part of the eighteenth century antagonistic to the political events of the same period, 498. Efforts of the French Protestant clergy to suppress the pursuit of knowledge, ii. 70. Sudden craving after knowledge in France at the latter part of the last century, 407 Knox, John, commencement of his career, iii. 74, 75. His influence in promoting the Reformation, 75. His part in the murder of Beaton, 76. Goes to Geneva, 76. Returns, 79. His petition to Parliament as to the Church revenues, 84, 85. His death, 93 Konigseg, his services to Spain, ii. 519 La Bletterie, cause of his expulsion from the French Academy, ii. 235 Labour, effect of climate on the energy and regularity with which it is conducted, i. 42, 43. See Wages Labourers and employers, their wages and profits, i. 52. Effect of the supply of food on the labouring classes, 54. Native laws respecting the Sudras or labourers of India, 79, 80 La Bruyère, his 'Charactères,' ii. 209 Lacteals, Aselli's discovery of the, ii. 81. Recognized by Descartes, but denied by Harvey, 81 and _note_ La Fayette, character and abilities of, i. 470. Burke's hostility to, 471. His familiarity with English language and literature, ii. 224. His introduction of democratic opinions into France, 417 La Fontaine, 'Fables' of, ii. 209 La Force, Marshal, ii. 43 La Harpe, his '�loge sur Fénelon' suppressed, ii. 237 Laing, Mr., his remarks on the German literary class, quoted, i. 239 _note_ Laland, his advocacy of atheism, ii. 352 Lamplugh, translated from Exeter to the see of York, i. 404 Lanjuinais, his work on Joseph II. ordered to be burned, ii. 236 Lanthenás, his familiarity with the English language and literature, ii. 224 Laplace, his professed atheism, ii. 352 La Popelinière, his French historical works, ii. 269 Lateran, Matthew of Westminster's etymology of the name, i. 317 Latin, a vernacular dialect in the Middle Ages, i. 271. Results of Latin being colloquially employed by the monks, 271 _note_ Laverdy, openly protects the Jansenists, ii. 345 Lavoisier, his discoveries in chemistry, ii. 367 Law courts, first publication of the proceedings in the, i. 434 Layamon, his translation into English of the history of Geoffrey of Monmouth, i. 324 Le Blanc, his knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 219. His admiration for England, 228 Le Brun, his knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 225 Legat, one of the last English martyrs to religious opinions, i. 345 _note_ Legislation, main object of, i. 23. Burke's views as to the true end of, 459. The safest course for a legislator to pursue, 504. See Government Leicester, Earl of, the founder of the House of Commons, ii. 117 Lenglet du Fresnoy, his imprisonment in the Bastille, ii. 235 Lens, the crystalline, discoveries of Descartes respecting the, ii. 78 Leprosy, superstitions respecting, i. 127. The leprosy of the Middle Ages extirpated from modern Europe, 155 Lerma, Duque de, prime minister of Spain, ii. 473, 474. His alliance with the clergy, 474. And its consequences, 475-477. His part in the expulsion of the Moriscoes, 493 Lesdiguières, Marshal, ii. 43. His apostacy, 48 Leslie, his philosophy of heat, iii. 383. Aid which he derived from poetry, 385. His injustice to Bacon, 388 Le Trosne, suppression of his work on 'Finance,' ii. 238 Lettes, their fondness for pork, i. 314 _note_ Le Vassor, his 'Histoire de Louis XIII.,' ii. 30 _note_ L'Hopital, his recommendation of religious toleration, ii. 10. His failure to effect any of his noble schemes, 10 Libel, Burke's attack of the power exercised by judges in trials for, i. 464 Libraries, circulating, first establishment of, i. 431. Licences required by Act of Parliament for keeping reading-rooms or circulating libraries, i. 490 Lichfield, first printing office in, i. 432 _note_ Life, statements of Hindu poets as to the ancient duration of, i. 135. Active causes of the increased duration of, 153. Examination of Bichat's work on Life, ii. 390 Light, French researches as to the phenomena of, in the eighteenth century, ii. 362 Lindsey, Mr. his establishment of Sunday schools, i. 430 _note_ Linen, manufacture, rise of in Glasgow, iii. 176, 179. And in other parts of Scotland, 180 Linguet, his works suppressed and their author imprisoned, ii. 236, 237 Linnæus, his artificial botanical system superseded by the French natural method, ii. 376, 397 Literature, American, characteristics of, i. 241 Literature, influence of on the progress of society, i. 266. Result which is sure to happen to a literature above the level of its age, 266, 267. Illustrations from Greece, Rome, and Germany, 267. In what real knowledge consists, 268. Men and countries where erudition merely ministers to ignorance, 269. Condition and effects of the literature of Europe from the sixth to the tenth centuries, 269, 270. Effect of the monopoly of literature by the clergy, 307. Character of the literature of India, 132. And of ancient Greece, 137 Literature, English--characteristics of, in the reign of Charles II., i. 234. Influence of the intellect of France on Dryden's plays, 235 _note_. Causes which have maintained the independence, and increased the value of English literature, 235 _note_. Change in the form and make of English literature in the last century, 436. Coleridge's lamentations of this change, 437 _note_. Addison's establishment of the easy and democratic style, 437. Failure of an attempt to revive the pedantic style, 437 _note_. Abolition of servile dedications, 438. Introduction of the plan of publishing books by subscription, 439. First instance of a popular writer attacking public men by name, 439. English literature unknown to the French at the end of the seventeenth century, ii. 214 _note_. But begun to be studied after the death of Louis XIV., 215. Its services to French, and thence to European liberty, 227 Literature, French, effect of, on English writings, i. 235. Characteristics of French literature at the time of Descartes and Richelieu, ii. 93, 94. The protective spirit carried by Louis XIV. into literature, 176. Result in an alliance between literature and government, 176, 177. Servility of men of letters at this time, 177. Injurious effects of the protective system of Louis XIV. upon literature, 182. And of pensions to literary men, 183, 187. The literary splendour of the reign of Louis XIV. not of his creation, 188, 189. Causes of its decay in his reign, 208. Causes of the junction of English and French intellects after the death of Louis XIV. Systematic and prolonged persecution to which literature was exposed in the eighteenth century, 230-242. Proposal of the avocat-general as to the publication of new works, 245. Why the Church, and not the government, was first attacked by literary men, 247. State of French historical literature from the end of the sixteenth to the end of the eighteenth century, 261 _et seq._ Literature, German, since the middle of the eighteenth century, i. 237. Origin of, 237. Remarks on Mr. Kay's picture of German education, 238 _note_. Mr. Laing's observations on the German literary class, 239 _note_ Literature, Scotch, poverty of, down to the commencement of the eighteenth century, iii. 183. Buchanan and Napier, 183. Character of the Scotch philosophical literature of the eighteenth century, 281. Reasons why the Scotch literature of the eighteenth century was unable to affect the nation, iii. 465 Literature, Spanish, causes which gave it its adventurous and romantic tone, ii. 433, 434. Hold retained by the Spanish Church over the highest and lowest intellects, 479 Liver, business of the, i. 148. The liver and lungs always compensatory, 148. Size of the f[oe]tal liver, 149 _note_ Locke, John, his views as to the use of money in trade, i. 212 _note_. Causes of his Socinian views, 363. His death, ii. 374 Locomotion, effect of improved means of, in weakening the love of war, i. 221-223 Logarithms, discovery of, iii. 183 Logos, influence of the Platonism of Alexandria in developing the idea of the, ii. 286 London, the Great Plague and Fire of, i. 387 Lords, House of, abandons its pretensions to an original jurisdiction in civil suits, i. 384. Origin of the disrepute into which the, fell in the reign of George III., 451-453. Abolished, ii. 153 Lotos bread of Egypt, i. 87. Herodotus on the lotos, quoted, 87 _note_ Loudun, insolence of the Protestant assembly of, ii. 61 Louis, Saint, of France, his etymology of the word Tartar, i. 313 _note_ Louis, suppression of his thesis on 'Generation,' ii. 238 Louis IX. of France, recognizes the right of the nobles to wage private war, ii. 116 Louis XIII., his protection of the French protestants, ii. 25. Le Vassor's 'Histoire de Louis XIII.,' 30 _note_. Heretics not only protected during his reign, but openly rewarded, 43. Illtreated by the Protestants whom he had protected, 57, 58, 60 Louis XIV., his accession, ii. 96. The protective spirit carried into literature during his reign, 176. Character of the King's private life and public career, 178. His revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and the results, 178-181. His reign notwithstanding held up by some to admiration, 181. Gratitude of men of letters to him, 181. Injurious effect of his system of protection upon literature, 182-187. The literary glory of his reign not his work, 188. Scarcely anything added during his reign to the sum of human knowledge, 189-202. Causes of this intellectual decay, 202. Universal decline of France in every department during the latter part of his reign, 210-212. His death, 213. The retrograde movement in historical literature in the reign of, 273. Causes of this, 273. His treatment of literary men, 274-277. His thirst for glory, 277. Voltaire's 'Age of Louis XIV.,' 296. His disposition to favour the King, 297 Louis XVI., rupture between England and France caused by the execution of, i. 485. His edict granting civil rights to the Huguenots, ii. 335 Loyalty, causes which weakened, in the reign of Charles II., i. 388. Origin of the deep feelings of loyalty among the French people, ii. 249. And among the Spaniards, 249 _note_. The loyalty of the English and French compared, 250, 251. Causes of the loyalty of the Spaniards, 455 _et seq._ Connexion between loyalty and superstition, 455. Old punishments for disloyalty in Spain, 458. The loyalty of Spain contrasted with that of Scotland, iii. 2 Lulli, the French musician, ii. 207 Lungs, connexion between carbonized food and the respiratory functions, i. 148. The lungs and liver always compensatory, 148 Mably, his admiration for England, ii. 229. Suppression of his 'Observations on the History of France,' 236. Guizot's edition of this work, 236. Character of his 'History of France,' 300 Macaulay, Mr., character of his 'History of England,' i. 394 _note_ Macchiavelli, his views as to the real history of Rome, ii. 314 _note_ Machault, controller-general of France, his edict against mortmain, ii. 332. Dislike of the clergy for him, 333. Favour with which he regarded the Jansenists, 344 Madden, Sir F., his edition of Wace's 'Brut,' i. 325 _note_ Madrid, decline in the population of, in the seventeenth century, ii. 501. Starving condition of the people of, 505, 509. Scenes of robbery and murder in consequence, 509-511. No public library in, in 1679, 527. Beautified by Charles III., 561 Magendie, his division of food into azotized and non-azotized, i. 55 _note_ Maize, its extraordinary fecundity in Mexico and Peru, i. 109. Most probably peculiar to the American continent, 109 Malaga captured from the Arabs, ii. 440 Malayo-Polynesian race, causes of the corruption of the early histories of the, i. 305. Eastern and western limits of the, 304, 305 _note_ Malebranches, his 'Inquiry respecting Truth,' ii. 209 Malesherbes, M., his attack on church property in France, ii. 333 Mallet, character of his 'History of Denmark,' ii. 299 Malus, his researches into the laws of light, ii. 362 Malthus, principle of his work anticipated by Voltaire, ii. 304 Man modified by nature and nature modified by man, i. 20. Inquiry into the laws of this double modification, 20. Inferences respecting human actions, 21. Two classes of actions, 22. The powers of man unlimited, 51. Modes in which his energies are checked by the energies of nature, 119. Laws of the process by which the mind of man is influenced by the aspects of nature, 119. Effects of the force and majesty of nature in the tropics, 120. Causes which give birth to superstition, 122, 123. Fictions in Sanscrit literature as to the longevity of the human race at an early period of the world, 135. Moral and intellectual progress of man, 174. No evidence of the improvement of the natural faculties of man, 176. Dependence of his progress on an improvement of the circumstances under which his faculties come into play, 178. The standard of action having varied in every age, the causes of action must be variable, 179. Stationary character of moral principles, 180. Progressive aspect of intellectual truths, 181. Ignorant men always mischievous in proportion to their sincerity, 183. Religious persecutions in Rome and Spain, 185-188. More virtue than vice in every country, 221. Inferences to be drawn as to the causes of social progress, 224. The totality of human actions governed by the totality of human knowledge, 229 Manchester, Earl of, joins the Parliamentary forces, ii. 151 Manichæans, their doctrine of predestination, i. 13 Manrent, in Scotland, iii. 65 _note_ Mansfield, Lord, his speech on the Theological Society, i. 436 _note_ Manufactures, few and insignificant improvements made in, in France during the reign of Louis XIV., ii. 193. Sudden rise of the manufactures in Scotland, in 1707, iii. 171, 172 Marat, his knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 224 Marchand, Prosper, his 'Dictionnaire Historique,' ii. 267 _note_ Margat, suppression of his 'History of Tamerlane,' ii. 235 Marlborough, Duke of, character of, i. 201 Marmontel, how treated by a French noble, ii. 239, 240 Marriages, determined by uniformity of sequence, and not by the temper and wishes of individuals, i. 32. Effects of the price of food upon marriages, 32 Marsy, his 'Analysis of Bayle' suppressed, ii. 236 Martin, bishop of Tours, Bossuet's estimate of, ii. 287. The Benedictines' life of, 288. His miracles, 288 _note_ Martyrs, adoration of, in the early ages of the Church, i. 145 _note_ Mary, Queen, restores England to Catholicism, ii. 7. But fails to effect a restoration of church property, 7 _note_ Mary of Guise, her marriage with James V. of Scotland, iii. 63. Her attempt to establish a standing army, 77. Becomes regent, 77. Deposed, 80 Masillon, the last of the great French pulpit orators, ii. 348 Masquerades forbidden by the French Protestants, ii. 70 Mathematicians, their pretence to certainty in their own pursuits, ii. 326. The study of mathematics in France in the seventeenth century, 189 Mathew of Westminster, his history of Judas, i. 316. His origin of the custom of kissing the Pope's toe, 317. His etymology of the Lateran, 317 Maxwell, Lord, iii. 71. His venality, 71 _note_ Mazarin, Cardinal, his anti-ecclesiastical policy, ii. 96. His toleration, 96, 97. His alliance with Oliver Cromwell, 98. Signs the treaty of the Pyrenees, 98 Mechanics, why less superstitious than agriculturists, i. 376-379 Medici, Catherine de', her protection of the French Protestants, ii. 25. Her foreign policy, 35 Medicine, decline of the science of, in the reign of Louis XIV., ii. 195, 196 Meetings, public political, establishment of the right of, i. 434. Passing of an Act intended to stifle religious or political meetings, 489 Melrose Abbey robbed by the English, iii. 15 Melville, Andrew, takes the lead of the Scotch reformed church, iii. 93. Begins a struggle with the State, which lasted for sixty years, 94. His name of [Greek: episkopomastix], 97 _note_. Appointed moderator at St. Andrew's in 1582, 101. His personal insult to the king, 110. Summoned by the king to England, 124. Imprisoned in the Tower, 124 Memory, aberrations of, the laws respecting the, i. 32 Mental laws, examination of the method employed by metaphysicians for discovering, i. 152. Failure of their two methods, 164. Mental laws either moral or intellectual, 168. Comparison between moral and intellectual laws, 168, 175. Necessity of ascertaining the fundamental laws of intellectual progress, 242. Advantages to be gained in that respect from studying the histories of Germany, America, France, Spain, and Scotland, 243 'Mence, Institutes of,' authority of in India, i. 75. Vast antiquity of the, according to the Hindu writers, 137 Menzies, John, the Aberdeen preacher, iii. 203 _note_ Mercenaries employed by William the Conqueror and his immediate successors, ii. 114 Mercury, mine of, at Almaden, ii. 540 Mescua, Mira de, the Spanish dramatist, ii. 479 Metaphysics; metaphysical inquiry preceded and often controlled by the physical, i. 10 _note_. The only successful mode of prosecuting the study of metaphysics, 17. Examination of the two metaphysical methods of generalizing mental laws, 156. Definition of the term metaphysics, 164 _note_. The English inductive and the Scotch deductive methods, 245 _et seq._ Robert Simson and Matthew Stewart, 247. Adam Smith, 249. David Hume, 250. Examination of the method employed by metaphysicians for discovering mental laws, 152. Failure of their two methods, 164. Descartes, the originator of the modern method of philosophy, ii. 81, 82. Analogy of his philosophy with the anti-theological policy of Richelieu, 83. The eminent characteristic of the philosophy of Descartes, 87. Analysis of his principles, 88, 89. Services which metaphysicians formerly rendered to the Church, 262. Analysis of the works of Helvetius and Condillac, 353-360. Rise of the reactionary party in France at the beginning of the present century, 389. See also Philosophy Meteorology, causes which have retarded the progress of, i. 377 _note_. Supernatural causes attributed by ignorance to changes in the weather, 378 _note_ Method, importance of the philosophy of, ii. 387 Mey, suppression of his treatise on 'French Law,' ii. 237 Mexico, authentic existing materials for forming an opinion on the ancient state of, i. 95. Characteristics of the climate of, and reasons for its early civilization, 99. Exuberance of the maize plant in, 109. The potato introduced by the Spaniards into, 110, 111. Extraordinary fecundity of the banana in, 111. Success with which astronomy was cultivated in, 112. Condition of the upper and lower classes of the inhabitants of, when discovered by the Europeans, 114. Custom of caste in Mexico, 115. Frivolous waste of labour of the Mexicans, 116. Their immense buildings, 117 Mezeray, character of his 'History of France,' ii. 270, 271. How treated by Louis XIV., 274, 275. His 'Abrégé Chronologique,' 275 _note_ Michael, St., foundation of the order of, i. 313 _note_ Micrometer, discovery of the, ii. 192 Microscope, invention of the, ii. 198, 199 Middle Ages, the childish admiration of the, dispelled by Voltaire, ii. 305 Middleton, Dr., ferment caused by his 'Free Inquiry,' i. 428 Mill, James, his method of investigating speculative jurisprudence, i. 426 Mill, John, his inquiry into the method of investigation which political economists ought to follow, i. 250 _note_ Millet, use of, as food in India, i. 71 _note_ Millington, Sir Thomas, his botanical discoveries, ii. 200. Causes of his opposition to ecclesiastical authority, i. 363 Milton, John, parts of his works translated into French by Mirabeau, ii. 225 Minana, Spanish historian, ii. 480 Mineralogy, French researches in, at the end of the eighteenth century, ii. 399. Doubts as to the true method of investigating, 399. The discovery of isomorphism, 400 Mines, military employment of gunpowder in, i. 206 _note_ Mirabeau, his knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 225. His professed atheism, 352 Miracles, the celebrated dispute respecting, i. 428 Missionaries, influence of religion on the progress of society illustrated by the efforts of the, i. 255 Mississippi, area drained by the, i. 97 _note_ Mohammed, cause of his death, according to Mathew Paris, i. 315. And cause of his becoming a heretic, 316. How regarded by Bossuet, ii. 286 Mohammedanism, area of the countries in which it is professed, ii. 286. Lofty ideas of the Mohammedan writers on the oneness of God, 287 _note_. The Mohammedans in Spain, 439 Molina, Tirso de, the Spanish dramatist, ii. 480 Monboddo, Lord, his lamentation over the extinction of pedantry in English literature, i. 437 _note_ 'Monconys, Voyages de,' i. 371 _note_ Money, notions of the use of, in trade, in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, i. 210-212. Right of coining allowed to the aristocracy of France, but never in England, ii. 115 Monks, results of Latin being colloquially employed by the, of the Middle Ages, i. 271 _note_ Monotheism, forms of religion preceding, according to Hume and Comte, i. 250 _note_ Monsoons, causes of the, i. 102 _note_ Monstrosities, animal, discoveries respecting, ii. 396 _note_ Montaigne, Michel de, first appearance of his essays, ii. 16. Difference between him and Rabelais, 16. Regarded as the first French sceptic, 16. Opinions of Dugald Stewart and Rousseau of his writings, 18 _note_. Immense influence of his works, 18 _note_. Compared with Charron, 19. His scepticism compared with that of Descartes, 86. His the first sceptical work published in France, 266 Montalvan, Spanish dramatist, his office in the Inquisition, ii. 479 Montbarey, Prince de, character of his censures of Louis XV., ii. 406 _note_ Montesquieu, his erroneous notions as to political economy, i. 212 _note_. His knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 218. His admiration for England, 228. His the first information concerning the real history of Rome, 314. Character of his 'Spirit of Laws,' 314. His method, and its value, 315 Montgomery, Robert, appointed Archbishop of Glasgow, iii. 100. Excommunicated by the General Assembly, 100. Submits, 100. Montgon, suppression of the 'Letters' of, ii. 237 Montlosier, his geological labours, ii. 368 Moral truths, little changes which they have undergone, i. 180. Moral truths in the New Testament quoted from pagan authors, 180 _note_. Influence of moral feelings on individuals, but not on society in the aggregate, 228. Separation of theology from morals, 424. Consequences of this separation, 425-427 Morals, Charron's, the first attempt to create a system of morals independent of theology, ii. 19 Morellet, l'Abbé, his translation of the 'Wealth of Nations' into French, ii. 219, 239. His punishment in the Bastille, 240 Moriscoes, their expulsion from Spain, ii. 485 _et seq._ Number expelled, 494 Morris-dances forbidden by the French Protestants, ii. 70 Mortmain, Machault's edict against, in France, ii. 332 Morton, the Regent, his persecution of the reformed clergy of Scotland, iii. 91 Mosaic cosmogony first impugned, i. 429 Mounier, his familiarity with the English language and English institutions, ii. 225. His proposal for the establishment of two Chambers in France, 225 Muhlberg, results of the battle of, ii. 446 Municipal privileges in England, ii. 119. Futility of, in France, 121 Murder, uniform reproduction of the crime of, i. 24, 25 Muscular system, waste or decomposition of the, i. 56 _note_ Music forbidden by the Scotch clergy, iii. 258 Muskets, the, of the fifteenth century, i. 206 _note_ Names, origin of the habit of generalizing, i. 297 _note_ Nantes, edict of, confirmed by Catherine de' Medici, ii. 25. By her son Louis XIII., 25. And by Mazarin, 96 Napier, Sir William, his military genius and works, i. 200 Napier, John, his discovery of logarithms, iii. 183 Naples, foundation of the city of, according to the writers of the Middle Ages, i. 313 Napoleon I., compared with Richelieu, ii. 27 Nasmyth, his researches into the structure of the teeth, ii. 385 'Nations, Morals, Manners, and Character of,' Voltaire's, ii. 297 Nature, laws of, origin of the perception of the, i. 9. Causes of the disturbances in the laws of, 30. Influence and results of the general aspects of, on the human race in its infancy, 39, 118. Modes in which the energies of Nature hamper the energies of Man in South America, 106. Laws of the process by which the aspects of Nature influence the human mind, its natural movements, and natural progress, 119. Feelings inspired by the force and majesty of natural phenomena in tropical regions, 120, 121. Physiological effects of the fear of earthquakes, 122, 123. Comparison of the material phenomena of Greece and India, 139, 140. Instance in the proportion of births of the sexes of the regularity of natural laws, 168 'Nature, the System of,' publication of, ii. 351 Necessity, doctrine of, its displacement of the doctrine of Chance, i. 9. Origin of the doctrine, ii. 343 Necker, M., his Report on the Finances of France, ii. 329. Eagerness of the French to read it, 329. Character of the work, 330. His anti-ecclesiastical policy, 333. His Calvinist opinions, 345. Newspapers, first publication of, on Sundays, i. 431. Establishment of political ones, 434. And of the right to publish parliamentary debates, 435. Vast increase in the circulation of newspapers in the latter half of the last century, 439 _note_ Newton, Sir Isaac, his imagination i. 124 _note_. His death, ii. 374 Niebuhr, his arguments as to the early history of Rome anticipated by Voltaire, ii. 311. The three principles fundamental to his history which it is impossible to refute, 311 Nile, effects of the overflow of the, on the civilization of Egypt, i. 48, 49. Herodotus's expression [Greek: dôron tou potamou], 49 _note_ Nîmes, insolence of the Protestant assembly of, ii. 60 Nobles. See Aristocracy Nonconformists. See Dissenters Nonjurors, the, amongst the bishops and inferior clergy, i. 408-412. The last of the nonjuring bishops, 412 _note_ Norfolk, Duke of, concludes the treaty of Berwick, iii. 81 North, Lord, overpersuaded by George III. to engage in war with America, i. 480 _note_ Norwegians, their invasion of Scotland, iii. 10 Nosology, the, of Cullen, iii. 426 Nutrition, M. Chevreul's generalizations of the laws of, ii. 198 _note_ Oaths, causes which have given rise to, in England, of every kind and in every direction, i. 282. Amount of perjury in England caused by legislation, 282 _note_ [OE]pinus, his experiments on electricity, ii. 362 Oils, amount of carbon in, i. 61 Okey, the fifth-monarchy man, ii. 155 Opinion, public, origin of the supremacy of, i. 209. The real cause of the abolition of the corn-laws, 273 Optics, discoveries of Descartes in, ii. 78 Orders of chivalry, origin of the, ii. 132, 133 Ordinance, the Self-denying, passed, ii. 153 Oregon or Columbia river, the only river of importance on the western coast of North America, i. 97 Orkney Isles, seized by the Norwegians, iii. 10 Orleans, Duke of, his residence in England, ii. 226 Osteology, comparative, Ambrose Paré's contributions to, ii. 195 Owen, Professor, his researches into the structure of the teeth, ii. 384, 385. His services to comparative anatomy, 386 Oxford, effort of the clergy to instil their principles at, i. 442 _note_. Pitt's denunciation, 442 _note_. Execution of the first heretic at, ii. 109 Oxygen in food, i. 55 _et seq._ Paganism, large amount of, existing in every Christian sect, i. 260 _note_ Paisley, population of, in 1700, iii. 28. Rise and progress of, 176 Palæontology, Cuvier the founder of, ii. 369. Its importance to geology, 369 _note_. Daubenton's labours, 371. Owen's, 386 Palatine, endeavours of Richelieu to save the, ii. 38 _note_ Paley, Dr., effect of his utilitarian moral system, i. 426 _note_ Palm-tree, the date, its importance in Africa, i. 83, 84 Palm-wine, of Africa, i. 84 _note_ Paravicino, Spanish poet, his sermons, ii. 480 Paré, Ambroise, his eminence in surgery, ii. 195. One of the founders of comparative osteology, 195 Paris, origin of the name of, according to the historians of the Middle Ages, i. 310. State of the pulpit oratory of, in 1771, ii. 348 Paris, Mathew, his statement as to the reason why Mohammedans refuse to eat pork, i. 315. Sismondi's eulogy of him as an historian, 315 _note_ Parliament, gradual diminution of the number of ecclesiastics in, i. 416, 417. Final expulsion of the clergy from the House of Commons, 418. Establishment of the right to publish the debates in Parliament, 435. And of the doctrine of personal representation, 435 Parr, Dr., classical style of his English, ii. 307 Pascal, Blaise, period in which he flourished, ii. 189. His great works, 189. His 'Provincial Letters,' 209 Pathology, characteristics of, iii. 410. Compared with Physiology, 411. Account of the generalizations of Cullen and of Hunter, 413. Difference between the science of pathology and the art of therapeutics, 416. Cullen's theory of the solids and fluids, 418. His theory of fever, 424. His nosology, 426. His services to pathology, 429, 447 Patin, his opinion of the English of the seventeenth century, ii. 214 _note_ Patronage of literature. See Protective spirit Pecquet, his discovery of the chyle, ii. 194 Pedantry of ancient English authors, i. 436. Discarded for a lighter style, 437 Pelagius, his doctrines as to free will, ii. 338. Absence of the speculative spirit in, 342. His learning, 342 Penal code, increasing severity of the, in the reign of George III., i. 463 Pensions, literary, injurious effect of, ii. 183-187 Perjury, cause of the increase of, i. 281. Amount of, in England, 282 _note_ Persecution of the Christians under the Roman Emperors, causes of, i. 185. And of those of Spain, 187. Causes of the diminution of religious persecution, 188. Number of persons put to death in Holland and Spain, 189. Old theological theory of the justification of persecution, 344 Persia, Arab conquest of, i. 46. Causes of the absence of authentic information respecting the early history of, 303. The 'Shah Nameh' of Ferdousi, 303. Antagonism between Mohammedanism and the old Persian history, 303. Results anticipated from a decipherment of the Persian cuneiform inscriptions, 304 _note_ Perth burnt by the English, iii. 14, 16. Population of, in the sixteenth century, 30 Peru, physical condition of, i. 107. Exuberance of maize of, 109. And of the banana of, 111. Condition of the upper and lower classes of the people of, when discovered by the Europeans, 113. Rigid enforcement of caste in Peru, 114 _note_. Frivolous waste of labour of the Peruvians, 117. Their immense buildings, 117. The effect of earthquakes in Peru in encouraging superstition, 122, 123 Pestilence, superstitions respecting, i. 127. Pestilences 'the harvests of the ministers of God,' 130 _note_ Petit, Antoine, popularity of his lectures on anatomy, ii. 406 _note_ Pharamond, authorities for the existence of, ii. 265 _note_ Philip Augustus, his policy in regard to the French aristocracy, ii. 115 Philip II. of Spain, his fondness for bacon, i. 314 _note_. His hatred of the Calvinists, ii. 341. His character, 449, 450. His war against the Dutch Protestants, 451. Object of all his wars and negotiations, 452. His celebrated Armada, 453. Supported in everything by his loyal subjects, 453. Ascendancy retained by him over the ecclesiastical hierarchy, 473 _note_. His cruelty to the Moriscoes, 485, 486. His character as a ruler, 468, 473. His part in the extension of the influence of the Church, 475 Philip III. of Spain, his cruelty to the Moriscoes, ii. 489 Philip IV. of Spain, his character, ii. 468 Philip V. of Spain, his accession, ii. 513. His policy, 513. Attacks the inquisition, but is unable to abolish it, 521. Opposed by his people in everything, 522 _note_ Philip the Fair, recognizes the right of the nobles to wage private war, ii. 116 Philippine Islands, pure form of the Polytheism of the, i. 305. Spanish conquest of the, ii. 464 Philology, study of, i. 2. Buffier the only Jesuit whose name has a place in the history of abstract philosophy, ii. 342 _note_. Examination of the Scotch philosophy of the eighteenth century, iii. 281. Causes of the success of the deductive and not of the inductive method in Scotland, 282. The Scotch method compared and contrasted with those of Germany and England, 289, 290. Summary of the most important distinctions between deduction and induction, 290. Hutcheson's philosophy, 292. Adam Smith's, 304. Hume's, 331. Reid's, 348. See also Metaphysics Phlebitis first recognized by Hunter, iii. 454 Phosphorus, amount of, in the brain, i. 57 _note_. First announced by Hensing, 57 _note_ Phrenologists, the principal obstacle in the way of the, i. 176 _note_ Phyllotaxis, ii. 397 _note_ Physical science, present state of, compared with history, i. 7. Physical, the natural precursor of metaphysical inquiries, 10 _note_. Remarks on the influence exercised by physical laws over the organization of society and over the character of individuals, 39. Effects of food, climate, and soil, 40 _et seq._ Democratic character of the physical sciences, ii. 409. Popular works of Desaguliers and Hill on physical truth, 432 _note_. Examination of the Scotch method employed in physical philosophy, iii. 361. The laws of heat, 362. Black's philosophy of latent heat, 367. Reasons why it is incumbent on physical philosophers to cultivate the imagination, 381, 382. Leslie's philosophy of heat, 383. Geological speculations in Scotland, England, and Germany, 388-393. Watt's invention of the steam-engine, 402. Methods employed by Watt and Cavendish in the discovery of the composition of water, 403. Nature of the supposed difference between the organic and inorganic world, 407. Life probably a property of all matter, 408. Division of organic science into physiology and pathology, 411. Theory in science, 414. Hunter's idea of uniting all the physical sciences, 443. The deductive method supreme in Scotland in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, 462. The two methods compared, 462-464. Science the ally of religion, 477. Attempts of the clergy of the reign of Charles II. to oppose the spread of physical science, i. 372. The term _natural_ science, in contradistinction to _supernatural_, as used at this period, 372 _note_ Physiologists, view taken by, of the origin of the sexes, i. 170. Probable causes of the small contributions of physiologists towards the power of predicting events, 171 _note_ Physiology, decline of the science of, in the reign of Louis XIV., ii. 194. Glisson's services to, 196. Characteristics of the science of, iii. 410. Compared with pathology, 411. John Hunter's generalizations, 428 _et seq._ Piracy of the Rochellois, in the seventeenth century, ii. 63 Pistols, invention of, i. 206 _note_ Pitt, William, the elder, his reputation as a statesman, i. 449. Reason why he was hated by George III., 450 Pitt, William, his subserviency to George III., i. 447, 448. His abandonment of liberal principles, 447. Prosecutes and persecutes his brother reformers, 447 _note_ Plague, the Great, i. 387 Plants, effects of heat and moisture on, the geographical distribution of, i. 96 Plato, his conclusion as to the truth or falsehood of spectral phenomena or dreams, i. 16 _note_ Platonism, its natural precursor the atomic doctrine, i. 10 _note_. Influence of the Platonism of Alexandria in developing the idea of the Logos, ii. 286 Poetry cultivated solely by the ancient Sanscrit authors, i. 132, 133. Indian metres, 133. Cause of the reverence felt for great poets, 294 _note_ Poisons, general theory of, i. 56 _note_ Poissy, conference of, predominance of the theological spirit shown in the, ii. 10 Political economy, study of, i. 2. Influence of the discoveries made in, in lessening the warlike spirit, 209. Misconception of the true nature of barter in early times, 210-212. Movement of the eighteenth century, 213. Smith's 'Wealth of Nations,' 214. His method of treating the laws of wealth, 249. Mr. John Mill's and Mr. Rae's inquiry into the proper method of investigation, 250 _note_. French translations of the 'Wealth of Nations' in the eighteenth century, ii. 219. Voltaire's opinions respecting, 304. Rise of the French political economists in the middle of the eighteenth century, 327. The revolutionary tendency of this economical movement, 327. Schism effected between the nation and government by the economists, 328. Influence exercised shortly before the revolution by the economists, 329. Examination of Adam Smith's 'Wealth of Nations,' iii. 314. Salutary effects of man's constant endeavours to better his condition, 319. Malthus's work on population, 326. Constant struggle between capital and labour, according to Adam Smith, 326, 327. Views of David Hume, 333 Politics, separation of theology from, i. 424. Consequences of this separation, 425-427. Effect of the protective spirit carried into politics, ii. 107 Polytheism, the predecessor of monotheism, according to Hume, i. 251 _note_. Natural creed of the Romans, 252. The religion of the Malayo-Polynesians, 304, 305 Pope, origin of kissing his toe, according to Mathew of Westminster, i. 317. Voltaire's Reasons for the unity and consolidation of the power of the popes as compared with that of the Greek patriarchs, ii. 303 Population, connexion between food and the laws of, i. 57. Case of the potato and Irish population, 66. A poor diet said to be more favourable to fecundity than a rich one, 68 _note_. Voltaire's ideas respecting the ratios by which population and food increase, ii. 304. Malthus's work on, iii. 326 Pork, in general use in Europe as food, for centuries, i. 314. Cause of the refusal of the Mohammedans to eat pork, according to Mathew Paris, 315. Eaten in Asia and Africa, 315 _note_ Porson, Richard, his letter on the texts of the Heavenly Witnesses, i. 429. His appreciation of the beauties of the English language, ii. 307 Portugal, physical causes of the superstition existing in, i. 123. Absence of science and triumph of the imagination in, 124 Potato, the principal food of the labouring classes in Ireland, i. 65. Time of its introduction into that country, 65 _note_. The potato crop compared with that of wheat, 65. Used as food by the ancient Peruvians, 110. Introduced into Mexico by the Spaniards, 110, 111. The starch of the potato frozen into saccharine in Southern Peru, 111 _note_ Pouissin, his works of art, ii. 209 _note_ Prathama-Raja, the Hindu poets' account of, i. 136 Precision contrasted with certainty in writing history, ii. 325 Predestination, probable origin of the dogma of, i. 9. Foundation of the theory, 13. Calvin, Augustin, and the Manichæans, 13. Ambrose, 13 _note_. Writers on the absurdity of 'an omnipotent arbitrary deity,' 13 _note_. Barrenness of the hypothesis of predestination in a scientific investigation, 14. The doctrine of providential interference bound up with that of predestination, 19 _note_ Preëmption, destruction of the prerogative of, i. 385 Prerogative, royal limits set to the, after the expulsion of the Stuarts, i. 402. None of our sovereigns since Queen Anne allowed to be present at state deliberations, 442 _note_. Reaction in favour of divine right, 445 Prescription, old customary French law of, ii. 115 'Presidial Jurisdiction,' by Jousse, suppressed, ii. 238 Press, efforts made by governments to destroy the liberty of the, i. 284, 285. Foundation of the public press in England, and its effect on English civilization, 386. Final abolition of the censorship over the, in England, 402. Practice of the English clergy of censuring all books that encouraged free inquiry, 414. First publication of Sunday newspapers, 431. Speech of Danvers as to the power of the press in his time, 484 _note_. War carried on in the reign of George III. against free discussion of the acts of the government, 488, 491. Vindictive prosecutions and persecutions of eminent men, 488. Importance of the press in England and France in the middle of the seventeenth century, 99 Preston-pans, battle of, iii. 154 Prévost de la Jannes, his 'Life of Domat' suppressed, ii. 237 Prévost, his views as to the laws of the radiation of heat, ii. 362 Priapus, Voltaire's remarks on the worship of, quoted, ii. 303 _note_ Pride compared with vanity, ii. 163 Pride, Colonel, his origin, ii. 155 Primi, the Abbé, his 'History of Louis XIV.,' ii. 276. Thrown into the Bastille, 277 Printing, early knowledge of, in China, i. 302 _note_. Legislative restrictions in former times on, 386 _note_. When first generally practised in country towns, 431, 432 _note_ Probability, Romish doctrine of, i. 22 _note_ Profits, in what they consist, i. 52. Always reduced by high wages, 74 Progress, moral and intellectual, i. 174. Comparison of the moral with the intellectual element, 175. See Knowledge; Intellect; Man Progress, social, inferences to be drawn as to the causes of, i. 224 Proselytism, why opposed by Charron, ii. 20 _note_ Protective spirit, effect of the prevalence of the, in France, in trade and in politics, ii. 106, 107. History of the protective spirit, and comparison of it in France and England, 108. This spirit not destroyed by the feudal system, but only assumed a new shape, 111. New form of the protective spirit which continues in France to the present time, 122. The results compared in France and England, 126. Activity of the protective spirit in France, as shown by the history of chivalry, 131-134. Effect of this spirit carried into religion at the period of the Reformation, 137. Attempts of Charles I. to revive the old protective spirit, 147. Results of the energy of the protective spirit on the issue of the Fronde, 160-174. The protective spirit carried by Louis XIV. into literature, and its result, 176 _et seq._ Lamentable results of the system of patronage in the reign of Louis XIV., 202. Reasons why government patronage should take a wrong course, 203. Illustrations of, 206. Reaction against the protective spirit in France, and preparations for the French Revolution, 213, 226 Protestantism, compared with Roman Catholicism, i. 261. Intolerance, bigotry, and persecution of the Protestantism of Sweden, 264. Intolerance of Protestants compared with that of the Catholics, ii. 51. Policy of Mazarin as to the French Protestants, 96 _et seq._ The war of Philip II. against the Dutch Protestants, 451. Refusal of Henry IV. of France to punish them at the request of the pope, 22, 23. The King's measures for their protection, 23, 24. The Edict of Nantes confirmed by Catherine de Medici and by Louis XIII., 25. Richelieu's liberal treatment of the Protestants, 37-39, 42. The Protestant Confederation of 1633, 39. Desertion of the Protestant leaders, and consequent fall of the Protestant party into the hands of the clergy, 47-50. De Rohan and his brother the only staunch Protestant leaders in 1621, 49. Causes of the intolerance of the French Protestants, 50, 51. Causes which produced their former superstition, 52-54. Evidence of their intolerance, 55. Decisions of the assembly at Saumur, 56. And of other assemblies, 57. Their interference in the functions of government and in other matters, 60. Bitterness of feeling exhibited in the works put forth by them, 61. Join the rebellion under Condé, and are defeated, 61. Their rebellion in Béarn, 61, 62. Civil war raised by them, and its character, 63. Their wealth, accumulated by industry and piracy, 63. The General Assembly of La Rochelle and its decisions, 64, 65. The consequent civil war, 66. Treaties of Montpelier and La Rochelle, 66. Interference of the Protestants in the commonest occurrences of life, 68. Results which would have happened to France if the Protestants had gained the upper hand, 71, 72. The rebellion of the Protestants put down by Richelieu, who, however, refuses to persecute them, 73. Siege of La Rochelle, 74. Civil rights conceded to Protestant by a royal edict, 335 Providential interference, doctrine of, i. 19 _note_ Prussia, Extent of popular superstitions in, i. 238 _note_. Origin of the name of, according to the historians of the Middle Ages, i. 311 Punishments future, Charron's views as to the doctrine of, ii. 22 _note_ Punjab, Arab conquest of the, i. 46. Puppet-shows forbidden by the French Protestants, ii. 70 Puritans, their government of England, i. 360. Their fanaticism, and little superstition, 361. Instances of their ignorance of the real principles of government, 361 Purveyance, destruction of the prerogative of, i. 385 Pyramids of Egypt, a testimony of the degraded condition of the people, i. 90, 92. Weight of the great pyramid, 90 _note_. Hypotheses as to the purposes for which they were built, 90 _note_. Estimate of the expense of building one of the pyramids, 91 _note_ Pyrenees, treaty of the, signed by Cardinal Mazarin, ii. 98 Quæns, historical error to which their name gave rise, i. 298 Quid emptores, statute of, ii. 119 Quiché Indians, corrupt Christianity of the, i. 265 _note_ Quinault, the poet of French music, ii. 207 Rabelais, not the first French sceptic, ii. 15, 16. His ridicule of the clergy, 15. Difference between him and Montaigne, 16 Racine, his works, ii. 208. Pensioned to write a history of France for Louis XIV., ii. 277 Rae, Mr., his inquiry into the method of investigation which political economists ought to follow, i. 250 _note_ Ragi, use of the grain called, in the south of India, i. 71 Ragnar Lodbrok, confusion in Saxo-Grammaticus's life of, i. 298 Raikes, Robert, his organization of Sunday schools, i. 430 _note_ Railways, effect of, in correcting national prejudices, and in diffusing desires for peace, i. 221-223 Rainbow, the causes of the, detected by Descartes, ii. 79. Notions of the Hebrews and of other nations respecting the, 79 _note_ Raleigh, Sir Walter, his military genius and works, i. 200 Ravaillac, murders Henry IV. of France, ii. 24. Accounts of him, 24 _note_ Raynal, l'Abbé, suppression of his work on the Indies, ii. 236 Reading clubs, formation of, i. 433 Reaumur, appearance of his work on the natural history of animals, ii. 197 _note_ Rebellion, the Great English, causes which gave rise to, ii. 147. Characteristics of the, 148. Difference between it and the Fronde, 149. Conduct of the nobles, 151, 152. The true character of the Rebellion, 154. Plebeian origin of the leaders, 155-159. Causes of its success, 174, 175 Reboulet, suppression of his 'History of Clement XI.,' ii. 238 Red Sea Canal, number of lives sacrificed in the construction of the, i. 93 Reform, the principle of, abandoned by William Pitt, i, 447. Mr. Grey's remarks on Pitt's conduct, 447 _note_ Reformation, connexion between the, and the views advocated by Richard Hooker, i. 351 _note_. Immediate fall of the Church in England at the first assault of the Reformation, ii. 4. Influence of the Reformation generally in increasing the power of the Catholic clergy, 5 _note_. The Reformation encouraged by the pride of Englishmen, 137. Analogy between the Reformation and the Revolutions of the seventeenth century, 138-140. Short existence of the Reformation in Spain, 450. Causes which brought about the Reformation in Scotland, iii. 62. John Knox, 75. The Reformation established, 78 Reform Bill, important effects of the, i. 502 Reid, Thomas, examination of his philosophy, iii. 348. Estimate of the value of what he effected, 353. Opposition between his method and that of Bacon, 356 Religion; views of Hume and Comte respecting monotheism, i. 251 _note_. Influence of religion on the progress of society, 254. Illustration from the efforts of the missionaries, 255. From the history of the Jews, 257, 258. From the early history of Christianity, 259. And from Sweden and Scotland, 263-266. Baneful results of legislative attempts to encourage religious truth and discourage religious error, 281-285. Origin of religious toleration in England, 337. The last executions in England for heresy, 345. The right of private judgment held sacred by Chillingworth, 349. Whose work formed a decisive vindication of religious dissent, 352. Passing of the Toleration Act, 402. Easy and rapid changes in the national faith under Henry VIII., Edward VI., Mary and Elizabeth, ii. 7. Charron's the first instance in modern language of the doctrine of religious development, 21. An end put to religious wars by Richelieu, 40. Authorities respecting religious wars, 40 _note_. Effect of the peace of Westphalia, 42. Origin of the difference between religious theory and religious practice, 51. Eagerness of the clergy rather directed against error than against virtue, 52 _note_. Causes of the energy and vitality of a religion not protected by the government, 53, 54. Descartes' remarks on the slaves to form in religion, 85. Causes which lessen the disposition to form new creeds, 263 _note_. Religious wars, massacres, and persecutions, the result of ignorance of the duties of governments, i. 262 Rent, theory of, i. 51 _note_. Considered as a division of wealth, 53 _note_. Rent in England, Scotland, France, and the United States, 75. In India, 76. Mode of ascertaining the true theory of rent, 250 _note_. Remarks on the theory of, iii. 336 Representation, personal establishment of the political doctrine of, i. 435 Reptiles, noxious, worship of, i. 126 _note_ Respiration, theory of, ii. 367 Retz, Cardinal de, character of, ii. 102. Secular view taken by him of political affairs, 102 Reviews, literary periodical, origin of, i. 433 Revolution of 1688, proximate cause of the, i. 399, 400. Importance of the, to England, 402. Sudden repentance of the clergy in having promoted it, 403 Revolution, the French, preparations for the, ii. 213. Precursors of the, 230, 247. Causes of the hideous peculiarities of the, 248. Its proximate causes, after the middle of the eighteenth century, 323. The first epoch through which the French intellect passed in the eighteenth century, viz., the attack on the Church, 323. The second epoch, viz., the attack on the State, 327. Rise of the political economists, 327. Sudden increase of works relating to finance and other questions of government, 328. Influence of Rousseau, 330, 331. Attack of the government on the Church, 332. Machault's edict against mortmain, 332. Excitement caused by the edict, 333 _note_. The anti-ecclesiastical policy of Machault's successors, 333. Religious toleration of the government, 434. Revival of Jansenism in France, and consequent overthrow of the Jesuits, 344, 345. After the fall of the Jesuits, the fall of the clergy inevitable, 347. Reasons for this, 349. Rise and progress of atheistical opinions in France, 351. Study of physical phenomena in France in connexion with the Revolution, 375-404. Effect of the American Rebellion in hastening the Revolution in France, 416, 417. Jefferson's part in the final blow dealt to the French government, 418. Summary of the causes of the French Revolution, 418 Revolution, the Scottish, of 1559, iii. 81 Rey, the first European philosophic chemist, ii. 197 Rhyme, antiquity of, i. 293 _note_ Rice, the general food of the people of India, i. 70. Nutritive qualities of, 70, 71. Immense yield of a rice-crop, 71 Richard I. of England, historical error as to his appellation of the Lion, i. 299 Richardson, admiration of Diderot for the works of, ii. 218 Richelieu, Cardinal, his character, ii. 27, 29. Compared with Napoleon, 27. Fails to diminish the power of the French nobility, 28. Effectually humbles the clergy, 29-31. His treatment of the clergy how regarded by them, 33. Charges brought against him, 34. Review of his career, 34, 35. Supports the new secular scheme of government against the old ecclesiastical schemes, 36. His liberal treatment of the Protestants, 37-42. His endeavours to save the Palatine, 38. The peculiar glory of his administration, 39. Correspondence of his policy in regard to the French Protestant and Catholic Churches, 42 _et seq._ Puts down the rebellion of the Protestants, but abstains from persecuting them, 73. Confirms the Edict of Nantes, 74. Determines on the siege of Rochelle, 74. Reasons why he put down the Protestant party, 75, 76. His liberal policy part only of a much larger movement, 76. Analogy of the philosophy of Descartes with Richelieu's anti-theological policy, 83, 92 Rio de Janeiro, vigour and profusion of the vegetation near, i. 103 _note_ Rioja, Spanish poet, ii. 480 Riolan, period in which he flourished, ii. 194 Ripperda, his services to Spain, ii. 519, 542 Roads in Scotland in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, iii. 5, 6 _note_. Aversion of the Highlanders to roads, 159, 160 _note_ Robertson, Dr., value of his 'History of Scotland,' iii. 19 _note_ Robinson, John, Bishop of Bristol, the last ecclesiastic who held any of the high offices of state, i. 417 _note_ Rochelle, La, intolerance of the Protestants in the town of, ii. 57. Determinations of the general assembly of 1620, ii. 63, 64. The civil war and its character, 63-66. Peace of La Rochelle, 66. The great siege of, 74 Rochester, first printing office in, i. 432 _note_ Rohan, Duc de, employed by Richelieu, ii. 44. De Rohan and his brother Soubise the only staunch Protestant leaders in 1621, 49. An amnesty granted to him by Richelieu, 75 Rohan, Chevalier de, his ill-treatment of Voltaire, ii. 231 Roland, Madame, her knowledge of the English language and literature, ii. 226 Rolle, his remark on the peers created by George III., i. 454 Romans, the, in Scotland, iii. 7. Character of their civilization in their best days, 8. Cause of their decline, 8, 9 Rome, causes of the persecutions of the Christians by the Emperors of, i. 185. Reason of the evanescence of the civilization of ancient, 267. Voltaire's services in purging the early history of Rome of its absurdities, 309, 310. Niebuhr's arguments anticipated by Voltaire, 310, 311. Montesquieu's the first account of the real history of Rome, 314. Machiavelli's views, 314 _note_. Vico's opinions, 314 _note_ Roses, wars of the, effect of the, upon the English nobles, ii. 138 Ross, Western, seized by the Norwegians, ii. 11. Annexed to the Crown of Scotland, 46 Ross, John, his violent sermon against James VI., iii. 107. Rouelle, his geological labours, ii. 368 Roundheads, title first bestowed, ii. 149 Rousseau, J. J., his opinion of the works of Montaigne, ii. 18 _note_. Persecuted by the Government, 236. Influence of his works, 330. Enthusiasm of the nation in his favour, 331 _note_. Immense demand for his works, 331 _note_. Belongs to the Calvinistic sect, 345 Royal Society, avowed object of the establishment of the, i. 371 Rubis, De, his work on the European monarchies, ii. 270 Russia, cause of the war between Turkey and, i. 195. And of Russian predilection for war, 196 Ruthven, Raid of, iii. 103, 104 Sabbath, the Scotch, iii. 265 Sahara desert, its extent, i. 47. Condition of its inhabitants, 48 Sailors, causes of the superstitions of, i. 375, 379 Saint-Fargeau, Pelletier de, his Jansenism, ii. 345 Saint Lambert, his professed atheism, ii. 352 Salamanca, reply of the University of, when urged to teach the physical sciences, i. 125 _note_ Sales, Delisle de, persecuted for his writings, ii. 237 Sancroft, William, his character as archbishop of Canterbury, i. 392. Dr. Birch's opinion of him, 392 _note_. His attempts to convert James II. to Protestantism, 395 _note_. His open disloyalty, 401, 407, 408 Sandoval, Spanish historiographer, ii. 480 Sanscrit, character of the works written in, i. 132, 133. And of the Sanscrit language, 134 _note_ Saracens, origin of the name of, according to the historians of the Middle Ages, i. 312 Saragossa besieged by Childebert and Clotaire, ii. 435 _note_ Saumaise, his opinion of the English people of the seventeenth century, ii. 214 _note_ Saumur, decisions of the Protestant assembly at, ii. 56 Saveur, considered as the inventor of acoustics, ii. 190 _note_ Saxe, Maurice de, his treatment of the actress Chantilly, ii. 243 Saxo Grammaticus, confusion in his life of Ragnar Lodbrok, i. 298 Scandinavia, causes of error in the early history of, i. 300. The elder and younger Eddas, 301. Pork the chief food of the Scandinavians in early times, 314 _note_. Scandinavian pirates in Scotland, iii. 5 Scepticism; the spirit of doubt the necessary precursor of improvement, i. 334. Hence the immense importance of scepticism, 335. First open appearance of scepticism in England and France, 336. Authorities as to the increase of scepticism in England since the latter part of the eighteenth century, 356 _note_. What the author means by the term scepticism, 357 _note_. Degree of suffering produced on some minds, 357. Legislative improvements of the reign of Charles II. caused by the sceptical and inquiring spirit, 388. Encouragement given to scepticism by the conduct of the clergy, 414. Rapid succession of sceptical controversies early in the eighteenth century, 427. First appearance of scepticism in France, ii. 14. Rabelais, 15. Intimate connexion between scepticism and toleration in France, 16. Montaigne, the first systematic sceptic in that country, 16. The first open declaration of scepticism in France, 18. Reason why scepticism was favoured by Henry IV. of France, 23. Scepticism of Hooker and Chillingworth, and of Montaigne and Descartes, 86, 87. Spread of scepticism in France in the middle of the seventeenth century, 95 _note_. Analogy between the progress of scepticism in England and France, 103, 104. Period when the spirit of inquiry began to weaken the church, 109. Commencement of the struggle between the advocates of inquiry and the advocates of belief, 109, 110. Rise and extent of historical scepticism, 261. The first sceptical book in the French language, by Montaigne, 266 Schism Act, passing of the, i. 452 Scholastic prejudices overthrown by Descartes, ii. 92 Science unknown to the Egyptians, i. 49. Relation between inventions, discoveries, and method, ii. 386, 387 Scotland, rent paid by the cultivator in proportion to the gross produce, i. 75. Character of the method of investigation of the great thinkers of, 245. Cause and effect of the divergence and hostility between the practical and speculative classes of, 246. Robert Simson and Matthew Stewart, 247. Superstition, intolerance and bigotry of the clergy and people, 264, 265. The bards of Scotland, 292 _note_. Origin of the Scotch people, according to the writers of the Middle Ages, 312. Abolition of episcopacy in Scotland, by William III., 406. Condition of Scotland to the end of the fourteenth century, iii. 1 _et seq._ Scotland and Spain compared as to loyalty, 2. Similarity of the two countries as to superstition, 4. Investigation of the causes of Scotch liberality in politics united with illiberality in religion, 4 _et seq._ Influence of the physical geography of the country on the course of events, 5. Scotch roads in the seventeenth century, 5 _note_. The Roman invasion, 7. The Irish invasion, 9. The Norwegian invasion, 10. Attacks of the English, 12. Immediate consequences of their struggle with the English in the Scottish character, 13. Agriculture stopped, 16. Cannibalism, 17. Wars on the borders, 18. The growth of towns stopped by the wars, and the power of the nobles thereby increased, 18. Circumstances favourable to the authority of the nobles, 19. Weakness of the Crown, 20, 21. Ravages of the Highlanders, 21, 22. Prevalence of barter, 23. Industry impossible, and the commonest arts unknown, 23, 24. Dirty habits of the people, 25 _note_. Scanty population of the Scotch towns, 26 _et seq._ Their utter feebleness, 32. Causes of the alliance of the Crown with the Church, 34. Superstition of Scotland, and its causes, 35, 36. Witchcraft, 37. Ignorance of the upper and lower classes, 41, 42. Triumph of the aristocracy over the Church and Crown, 43. Their subsequent decline, 43. Condition of Scotland in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, 45. Vigorous measures of Albany against the nobles, 45. And of James I., 46. And of James II., 49. Clanship, 50. The Crown encouraged by the clergy against the nobles, 54. Struggle in consequence, 55 _et seq._ The Reformation in Scotland the result of this struggle, 62. Battle of Solway and death of James V., 68, 69. Murder of Cardinal Beaton, 74. Career of John Knox, 75. Influence of the Guises, 77, 78. Mary of Guise deposed from the Regency, 80. Treaty of Berwick, 81. Supremacy of the nobles established, and destruction of the Church, 81. Quarrel between the nobles and the preachers about the wealth of the Church, 84. Presentation of the First Book of Discipline, 87. The shares of the new and old clergy, 87. The nobles said to have been instigated by the devil, 88. Persecution of the new clergy by Morton, at the head of the nobles, 91. The consequent rupture between Church and State, 93. The struggle under the leader, ship of Andrew Melville, 94. Attack on the bishops, ending with the abolition of episcopacy, 94 _et seq._ The Second Book of Discipline, 98. Struggle between the upper classes and clergy as to episcopacy, 100. Violent language used by the clergy, Melville's personal insult to the King, 110. The Gowrie conspiracy, 110. Boons conferred upon their country by the clergy, 112. Condition of Scotland during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, 115 _et seq._ Attempts of James VI. (now James I. of England) to subjugate the clergy, 115. He forces episcopacy upon them, 117. And sets up High Courts of Commission, 125. Tyrannical conduct of the bishops, 128. The reaction, and its causes, 129. Framing of the National Covenant, 132. Overthrow of the Bishops, 133. Oppressions of Charles II., 137-139. His attempts to establish a permanent despotism baffled, 140. Episcopacy re-established, 141. Dragonnades in the west, 143, 144. Cruelties of James II., 147. Consequences of the alliance between the Crown and the clergy, 147. The reaction of 1688, 151. Causes of the rebellion of the Highlanders in 1715 and 1745 in favour of the Stuarts, 153. Insignificance into which the Highlanders sank after 1745, 157. Beginning of the trading spirit, 160. Connexion between the rise of the trading spirit and the abolition of hereditary jurisdictions, 161, 162. Armour ceased to be worn, 161. Causes of the decline of the power of the nobles, 162, 167. Treatment which they received in London, 163, 164. Rage in Scotland for speaking with an English accent, 163 _note_. Causes of the abolition of clanship, 167, 168. Sudden rise of trading and manufacturing interests, 171. Their growth assisted by the union with England, 172. Facts illustrative of the history of Scotch industry down to the middle of the eighteenth century, 178 _et seq._ The first banks in Scotland, 181. Rise of a new and splendid literature, 183. Which, however, fails to diminish the national superstition, 184. Recapitulation of the history of the struggle with episcopacy, 191 _et seq._ Cromwell's chain of fortresses in Scotland, 194. Causes of the war of the people against Charles I., 197. Events which produced the solemn League and Covenant, 198. Effect and cause of Scotch superstition, 203. Zeal of the people to hear sermons of inordinate frequency and of terrible length, 203. Effect of the pretensions and arrogance of the clergy on the Scotch mind, 203, 269 _et seq._ Examination of Scotch philosophical literature of the eighteenth century, 281. And of Scotch physical philosophy, 361. Superstition and illiberality in religion still existing in Scotland, 469. Notions countenanced there respecting the origin of epidemics, 471. Correspondence between the Presbytery of Edinburgh and Lord Palmerston on the origin of the cholera in 1853, 473 Sculpture, condition of, in the reign of Louis XIV., ii. 209 Segovia, appearance of, in 1659, ii. 503 _note_. Decline of the silk and wool manufactures of, 503 _note_ Seiks, cause of their superstition respecting the wounds inflicted by the tiger, i. 125 _note_ Serpent, worship of the, i. 126 _note_ Serra, his views as to the exportation of the precious metals, i. 212 _note_ Serres, historiographer of France, importance attached by him to correct dates in history, ii. 267 Severus, his expedition against Scotland, iii. 8 Sévigné, Madame, her name for Queen Mary, consort of William III., ii. 214 _note_ Seville, decline of, in the seventeenth century, ii. 501 Sewell, Mr., his remarks on the doctrines of passive obedience and divine right, i. 394 _note_ Sexes, proportion kept up by the law of Nature in the births of the, i. 168. Opinions respecting the origin of the, 170 _note_, 173 _note_. Method by which the discovery of the proportion has been made, 172 Shaftesbury, Earl of, Lord Chancellor, his notions of political economy, i. 211 _note_ Shakspeare, his investigations of the human mind, i. 23 _note_. His pure English, ii. 307 _note_ Sharp, archbishop of St. Andrews, iii. 141. His cruelty and rapacity, 141 Sheldon, Gilbert, his character as archbishop of Canterbury, i. 391, 392 Shetland Isles, seized by the Norwegians, iii. 10 'Siam, History of,' by Turpin, ii. 238 Silk trade of Toledo, lost, ii. 502 Sinclair, Sir John, his services to statistical science, i. 33 _note_ Sion College, the only public library in London at the end of the seventeenth century, i. 431 _note_ Sigfussen Sæmund, his compilation of the Elder Edda, i. 301 Silesia, origin of the name of, i. 312 Simson, Professor Robert, his efforts to revive the pure Greek geometry, i. 247. Notice of him, 247 _note_. His reasons for recommending the old analysis, 248 _note_ Sines, law of the, pointed out by Descartes, ii. 278 Sins, specimens of the, invented by the Scotch clergy, iii. 261 Siva, antiquity of the worship of, in India, i. 141. How represented by the Hindus, 141. His wife Doorga or Kali, 141 Skye, Isle of, seized by the Norwegians, iii. 11 Slavery, favour with which it was regarded by George III., i. 447, 463. Burke's attack on, 463. Extinction of slavery in England, ii. 128. Its recent extinction in France, 129 Small-pox, extra European origin of, i. 130 _note_ Smith, Adam, publication of his 'Wealth of Nations,' i. 214. Its influence in a few years, 214, 215. His views as to the usury laws, 214 _note_. His services to mankind, 216. His method of metaphysical investigation, 249. French translations of his 'Theory of the Moral Sentiments,' ii. 219. And of his 'Wealth of Nations,' 219. Examination of his philosophy, as shown together in the 'Moral Sentiments' and in the 'Wealth of Nations,' iii. 305. His obliviousness and disregard of facts, 340, 341. His method of studying pathology compared with that of Cullen, 417 Smith, William, character of his geological speculations, iii. 391 Smuggling, the only means of keeping up trade during the evil interference of legislation, i. 277. Moral evils of smuggling, 278, 279 Social laws, triumph of, over every obstacle, i. 31. Best method of arriving at social truth, ii. 1 Socrates, effect produced by his method of dialectics upon some Greek minds, i. 357 Soil, influence of, on the human race, i. 40. The Great Sahara, 47. The valley of the Nile, 48, 49. Heat and moisture the causes which regulate the fertility of every country, 96 Soldiers, why less superstitious than sailors, i. 376, 379 Solids, Cullen's theory of the, iii. 418 Solis, the Spanish historian, ii. 480 Solway, battle of, iii. 68 Somers, Lord, prosecution instituted against him by the House of Commons, i. 452. Protected by the House of Lords, 452 Sorbonne, Duvernet's history of the, ii. 237 Sowrdis, Archbishop of Bordeaux, ignominiously beaten, ii. 32. Flies to Carpentras, 33 Space, the idea of, of the metaphysicians, i. 160. Authorities on the different theories of space, 161 _note_ Spain, Arab conquest of, i. 46. Physical causes of the superstition existing in, 123. Triumph of the imagination, and absence of science in, 124. Causes of the persecutions in, 187. Numbers of persons put to death by the inquisition in, 189. Pork, a common food in, in former ages, 314 _note_. Archbishop Turpin's account of Charlemagne's conquest of, 319, 320. Scepticism punished, and its promulgation prevented in, 336. Influence of French literature in, in diffusing scepticism late in the last century, 336 _note_. Outline of the history of the intellect of, from the fifth to the middle of the nineteenth century, 425. Heat and dryness of the climate, 427. And therefore droughts and famines frequent and serious, 427. Earthquakes, 428. Causes of the prevalence of a pastoral life in Spain, 432. Settlement of the Visigoths and establishment of their opinions, 434. Attacks of the Franks upon their Arian neighbours, 435. Rise of the influence of the Spanish priesthood, 436. Character of Durham's 'History of Spain and Portugal,' 438 _note_. Proofs of the power of the Spanish clergy, 437, 438. Harsh character of the Spanish laws against heresy and the Jews, 438. The eight centuries of struggle between the Arabs and Spaniards, 439, 440. Effect of the dangers of the Spaniards in exciting their superstitious feelings, 441. Their chest of relics in the Asturias, 441. Their miracles and dreams, 442. The three ways in which the Mohammedan invasion strengthened the devotional feelings of the Spanish people, 444. Capacity and honesty of Isabella in the war with the Arabs, 444. Ferdinand and Isabella's decree against the Jews, 445. The number of Jews actually expelled from Spain, 446 _note_. Domestic and foreign policy of Charles V., 446. His obedience to the tendencies of his age, 447-449. Character of Philip II., 449, 450. His war against the Dutch Protestants, 451. Number of persons put to Death by Alva, 451. Object of all the wars and negotiations of Philip II., 452. The Armada prepared to humble England, 453. Unshaken loyalty of Philip's subjects, 454, 455. Causes of the spirit of loyalty which has distinguished the Spanish above every other European nation, 455. The Arab invasion one of the causes, 456. The old ballads, 456. The poem of 'The Cid,' 457. Loyalty of the Spanish codes, 458. Consequences of Spanish loyalty and superstition, 461 _et seq._ Rapid progress of Spain in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, 463. Her territories in America and in other parts of the world, 464. Her military superiority over her contemporaries, 464. Her eminent literary men who were also soldiers, 464. Causes of her decline, 465, 467. Essential difference between English and Spanish civilization, 465, 466. The decay of Spain in the seventeenth century due to the weakness of her people, 470. The declining energy of the government the cause of the increasing influence of the clergy, 472. Davila's statement of the Spanish theory of government, 472 _note_. Flourishing state of the Church, 475. Her hold over the highest as well as the lowest intellects, 478, 479. Great numbers of works on Spanish ecclesiastical history, 483. Expulsion of the Moors from Spain, 483-485. Cruelty with which they were treated, 485-494. Effect of the expulsion of the Moors in impoverishing the country, 497. Steps which mark the decline of Spain, 500. Loss of population and of manufactures, 501-504. Increase of poverty, 504-506. Destruction of the military reputation of Spain, 506, 515. The whole kingdom unprotected, 509. Gangs of robbers and murderers in the capital, 510 _note_. The Austrian dynasty succeeded by the Bourbons, 513. Policy of the first Bourbon, Philip V., 513. The Dukes of Berwick and Vendôme, 515-517. The finances of Spain administered by Orry, 518. Alberoni Ripperda, and Konigseg, 519. Endeavours of foreigners to improve the country by weakening the Church, 521. The clergy forced to contribute to the taxes, 523. Alliances formed between Spain and the Mohammedans, 525, 549. Inertness and ignorance of the people, high and low, at this period, 526. State of medical science in the seventeenth century, 532. Foreign aid called in to remedy native ignorance, 536. Expulsion of the Jesuits, 546. Attacks made on the Inquisition, 547. Foreign policy of Spain under the influence of foreigners, 549. A prospect of the return of wealth opened up, 550, 551. Effects of the vigour displayed by Charles III., 552 _et seq._ Causes of his failure to produce permanent good, 553. Decline of Spain under Charles IV., 571. Endeavours in the nineteenth century to improve the country, 574. Causes of their failure, 575. Immense natural advantages of Spain, 583. Her great men, 585. Her progress prevented by national ignorance, 589. The essential vice of the Spanish people, 592, 593. Causes which keep Spain in her miserable condition, 593 _et seq._ Scotland contrasted with Spain as to loyalty and superstition, iii. 1 Stafford, William, his work on the theory of politics, 'A Brief Conceipt of English Policy,' i. 212 _note_ Stanyan's 'History of Greece,' ii. 218 Starch, amount of oxygen in, i. 62 Starvation, proximate causes of, i. 58 _note_ States-General of France, feebleness of the, ii. 121 Statesmen, why as a body they are always in the rear of their age, i. 213 Statistics, study of, i. 2. Importance of, 23 _note_. Of murder and other crimes, 24-29. Value of statistics in the light thrown upon the study of human nature, 33. Early writers on statistics, 33 _note_. Dislike of Adam Smith and David Hume for statistics, iii. 339. Objections to them, 339 _note_ Steam, effect of the application of, to purposes of travelling, in weakening the love of war, i. 219-221 Steam-engine, Watt's invention of the, iii. 402 Stearn, Richard, his character as Archbishop of Canterbury, i. 392 Stepney, Mr., his notions of political economy, i. 211 _note_ Stewart, Professor Matthew, his crusade against the algebraic or symbolical analysis, i. 247 St[oe]ffler, John, his predictions as to the deluge of 1524, i. 330 Stoics, the, on the preservation of consciousness in dreams and in insanity, i. 17 _note_ Stuart, Charles, the young Pretender, his stupidity and drunkenness, i. 444 _note_ Subinfeudation, effects of, in France, ii. 119 Suicide, the crime of, dependent upon the individual, i. 26. Futility of endeavours to diminish, by legislation, 26 _note_. Bentham on the perjury of English juries in cases of, 26 _note_. Regularity of the recurrence of, 28. Causes of, 28. Supposed effect of gloomy weather on the love of, 220 _note_. Statistics of, 28, 29 Sully, Marshal, ii. 43. His historical work, 266 Sumatra, superstitions of the people of, respecting tigers, i. 126 _note_ Sumbawa, the great earthquake and volcanic eruption of 1815 at, i. 126 _note_ Sunday schools begun, i. 430. Opposition of the clergy to their establishment, 431 _note_ Superstition, physical causes which give birth to, i. 122, 123. Earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, 123, 126. The worship of ferocious animals, 125, 126. The fear of death, 127. Pestilences, 127. Extent of popular superstition in Prussia, 238 _note_. Progress of the English intellect in the seventeenth century in shaking off ancient superstitions, 363. Instance in Scotland of the popular belief in supernatural causation, 373. Causes of the superstitions of sailors and agriculturists, 375. Terror inspired by comets and eclipses, 376. The study of final causes abandoned by Descartes, ii. 91. Connexion between loyalty and superstition, 455. Similarity between Scotland and Spain as to superstition, iii. 4. Scotland favourable to superstition, 35. Sources of superstition, 35. Cause and effect of Scotch superstition, 203. Superstition of the Scotch still existing, 471. Superstitions every day becoming effaced as physical science advances, 477 Surgery, decline of the science of, in the reign of Louis XIV., ii. 195 Surnames, origin of, in Europe, ii. 112 Sweden, intolerance, bigotry, and persecution of the Protestantism of, i. 264. Swedish heroes of antiquity, 298 Switzerland, Calvinism the popular creed of, ii. 339 Sydenham, Thomas, his reformation in therapeutics, ii. 196 Sympathy, examination of, iii. 310. Hunter's pathological speculations respecting the principles of, 450 Taille, the, in France, ii. 129. Authorities respecting the, 129 _note_. The diminution of the, proposed by the Fronde, 150 _note_ Talleyrand, M. de, his admiration for Charron's 'De la Sagesse,' ii. 19 _note_ 'Tamerlane, History of,' by Margat, suppressed, ii. 237 Tarrega, the Spanish dramatist, ii. 479 Tartars, origin of the, according to the writers of the Middle Ages, i. 313. And according to Whiston, 313 _note_. Effects of the barrenness of the steppes of, in keeping the people uncivilized, 45 'Taste, Essay on,' by Cartaud, suppressed, ii. 237 Taxation; settlement of the right of the people of England to be taxed entirely by their own representatives, i. 384. Disputes between the two Houses of Parliament respecting taxation, 384 _note_ Taylor, Jeremy, his abilities and virtues, i. 393. Marked neglect with which he was treated by Charles II., 393. His assertion of the doctrine of passive obedience, 401 _note_ Teeth of animals, researches of Nasmyth and Owen on the structure of, ii. 384, 385 Temperaments, the theory of, the principal stumbling-block of the phrenologists, i. 176 _note_ Teratology, formation of the science of, ii. 396, 397 _note_ Terray, M., his attack on Church property in France, ii. 333. His open protection of the Jansenists, 345 Test Act, the, i. 396. Suspended by James II., 397. Repealed, 426 _note_ Theology, state of the, of Europe from the sixth to the tenth centuries, i. 270. Attempts to make politics a mere branch of theology, 326-328. Theological justification of persecution, 344. Increasing indifference to theological matters in England in the seventeenth century, 350. Chillingworth's views, 350, 351. Connexion between the Reformation and the dogma of an infallible church, 350, 351. The authority of private judgment recognized, 352. Ecclesiastical power almost extinct in Europe, 354 _note_. Decline in British theology at the present time, 355 _note_. Efforts of the clergy to check the progress of scepticism, 356. Political character of the opposition to ecclesiastical authority in the reigns of James I. and Charles I., 359. Antagonism in the reign of Charles II. between the physical sciences and the theological spirit, 372. Reasons of the hostility of the clergy, 373. Separation of theology from morals and politics, 424. Effect of this separation, 425. Attempts to put down the Theological Society, 436 _note_. Theological influence greater in France in the sixteenth century than in England, ii. 6. Charron's the first attempt made in a modern language to construct a system of morals without the aid of theology, 19. Preparation of the way for the separation of theology from politics, 40, 41. Analogy of the anti-theological policy of Richelieu with the philosophy of Descartes, 83. Mischief done to the old theology by Descartes' principles, 90. Effect of the protective spirit carried into theology, 107. Former subservience of philosophy to theology, and universal interest which theological discussions once inspired, 262. Exactness of the knowledge of theologians on subjects on which nothing is known, 284 _note_. Reasons why theology is inferior to history, 289. Voltaire's attack on mere theologians, 308, 309. The question of free will taken up by theologians, 338. De Maistre's method of investigation, 389 _note_. Reasons why the theological or deductive method of philosophy was followed in Scotland, iii. 284. The deductive method of philosophy only applicable to theology, 464 Theory, necessity of, in science, but dangerous in practice, iii. 414 Thermotics, attention given to, in France, in the eighteenth century, ii. 361, 362 Therapeutics, Sydenham's reformations in, ii. 196. Difference between the art of, and the science of, pathology, iii. 416 Thibet, bards of, i. 292 _note_ Thomas, suppression of his 'Eloge on Marcus Aurelius,' ii. 238 Thomson, Hugh, the Presbyterian preacher, iii. 204 _note_ Thread manufacture of Paisley, rise of the, iii. 176 Thumb-screw, torture of the, iii. 149 Tigers worshipped by the Hajin tribe, i. 125 _note_. Superstitions of the Garrows and Seiks respecting them, 125 _note_. How regarded by the Malasir, 125 _note_. And by the inhabitants of Sumatra, 126 _note_ Tissues, food necessary for repairing the waste of the, i. 55, 58. Bichat's views respecting the, ii. 379-382. The degenerations of, 382 _note_. The study of, neglected by Cuvier, 383 _note_ Toledo, power of the clergy at, in the seventeenth century, ii. 437. Captured from the Arabs, 440. Decline of, in the seventeenth century, 502 Toleration, religious, origin of, in England, i. 337. Unusual amount of toleration in Holland two centuries back, 337 _note_. State of the two hostile creeds in England in the reign of Elizabeth, 338. Hooker's 'Ecclesiastical Polity' compared with Jewel's 'Apology for the Church of England,' 340. Causes which always hasten the march of toleration, 53, 54. Summary of the progress of toleration in England and France, 102. The religious toleration of the French government in the middle of the eighteenth, century, 334 Toleration Act, passing of the, i. 402 Toolholos, or bards of Thibet, i. 292 _note_ Tooth, golden, work of Dr. Horst on the, i. 332 Tories, the, re-established in power under George III., i. 443, 446 Tournaments, origin of, ii. 134. Extinction of, 134 Tournefort, his inferiority as a botanist, ii. 201 Townsend, his views respecting political economy, ii. 304 Tracheæ of plants, discovery of the, ii. 199 Trade-wind, tract north and south of the equator covered by the, i. 101. Causes of the, 192. Way in which the trade-wind is connected with the civilization of South America, 103 Trade, absurd notions respecting, in the 17th and 18th centuries, i. 213. Number of laws passed by the English legislature respecting, 213 _note_. Struggles of Parliament against the principles of free trade, 215. Objects of early commercial treaties, 216 _note_. Why the commercial spirit, formerly warlike, is now pacific, 218. Injuries inflicted upon trade by the interference of legislators, 276. Uncertainty of legislation the bane of commerce, 277, 278. Burke's advocacy of free trade, 462. Effect of the protective spirit carried into trade, ii. 107. Voltaire the first historian to recommend free trade, iii. 304. The free trade of the American colonies in the eighteenth century, 186 Tragedies of Corneille, period in which they appeared, ii. 209 Transubstantiation, relation of the Cartesian philosophy to the doctrine of, ii. 90. Development of the doctrine of, by the metaphysicians, 262 Travelling, advantages of, in producing contact and respect, and in weakening the love of war, i. 219-221 Travis, George, his letters on the text of the Heavenly Witnesses, i. 429 Trojan origin of different nations, believed in, in the Middle Ages, i. 309 Tuffnel, the fifth-monarchy man, ii. 155 Turenne, created a marshal, ii. 98 Turgot, M., his lectures and their influence, ii. 320. Sir James Mackintosh's opinion of his writings, 321. Influence he exercised shortly before the Revolution, 329. His anti-ecclesiastical policy, 333. Said to have been a Jansenist, 345 Turkey, causes of the war between Russia and, i. 95 Turks, their defeat before Vienna, ii. 447 Turku, the ancient name of Abo, i. 299 Turner, Sir James, his cruelties in Scotland, iii. 143, 144 _note_ Turpin, Archbishop of Rheims, his absurd history of Charlemagne, i. 318 Turpin, M., suppression of his 'History of Siam,' ii. 238 Understanding, Kant's views as to the scientific conception of the, i. 18 _note_. Why controlled by the imagination in India, and paramount in Greece, 138-146 United States of North America, rent paid by the cultivator in, in proportion to the gross produce of the land, i. 75. Causes of low rent, 76 _note_. Comparison of the history of England with that of the United States, 240. Characteristics of American literature, 241. Love of the people for the study of the law, 241 _note_. Policy of George III. respecting, 477, 479. His hatred of the Americans, 480 _note_. Effect of the Declaration of Independence in hastening the French Revolution, ii. 416 Usury-laws, Adam Smith's views as to the, i. 214 _note_. Jeremy Bentham's demolition of the, 214 _note_. Increase of usury due to the attempts of legislators to keep it down, 283. Efforts of the Church to suppress it, 283 _note_. Jeremy Bentham's treatment of the usury-laws referred to, 284 _note_ Vanity compared with pride, ii. 163 Vassy, massacre of, predominance of the theological spirit shown in the, ii. 11 Vattel, his views as to political economy, i. 212 _note_. His principles of foreign policy compared with those of Grotius, ii. 40 _note_ Vega, Lope de, his offices in the Church and in the Inquisition, ii. 479. His joy at the expulsion of the Moors from Spain, 496 _note_ Velly, character of his 'History of France,' ii. 300 Vendôme, Duc de, his command of the Spanish army, ii. 517 Veneration, origin of, ii. 171 Venner, the fifth-monarchy man, ii. 155 Vergil, Polydore, his attack of the popular belief in the Trojan descent of the English kings, i. 309 _note_ Verse, historical and scientific works written in, i. 293, 294 _note_. See Poetry Vico, his opinions as to the real history of Rome, ii. 314 Villaret, character of his 'History of France,' ii. 300 Villaviciosa, Spanish poet, his office in the Inquisition, ii. 481 Vienna, defeat of the Turks before, ii. 447 Villenage, extinction of, in England, ii. 128 Visigoths, their settlement in Spain, and establishment of their Arian opinions there, ii. 434. Attacked by the orthodox Franks, under Clovis and his successors, 435 Voisins, Gilbert des, his Jansenism, ii. 345 Volcanic eruption of 1815 at Sumbawa, i. 126 _note_ Voltaire, his visit to England and study of its language and literature, ii. 216-218. His admiration for England, 228. Persecutions to which he was exposed, 231. His method of writing history compared with that of Bossuet, 291. As instanced in his 'History of Charles X.,' 292. Turns his attention to physical and speculative science, 295. Returns to history, 295. His 'Age of Louis XIV.,' 296. His 'Morals, Manners, and Character of Nations,' 297. His intellect, 301. His habit of looking at epochs, and not at the character of the men by whom a country is governed, 301. His tragedies, 302. His endeavours to explain the origin of feudality, 302. His remark on licentious religious ceremonies, 303. The first historian to recommend free trade, 304. His anticipation of Malthus's principle, 304. His attack on the admiration entertained for the Middle Ages, 305. And for the pedantic admirers of antiquity and classical models, 306-308. Ignorant prejudice against him in England, 313. His vast labours aided by Montesquieu, 314 Wace, his translation into Anglo-Norman of Geoffrey of Monmouth's history, i. 325 Wages, in what they consist, i. 52. And on what they depend, 53. Enquiry into the physical conditions which over supply the labour market and keep the average rate of wages at a low point, 54 _et seq._ Effects of climate on wages, 62-64. Social and political consequences of the high rate of wages in Europe, 65. Highest, lowest, and average rates of wages in England during the last few years, 66 _note_. Rates of wages in Ireland, 67. And in India, 73, 74. Adam Smith's views as to the conflict between capital and, iii. 327 Wales, injuries done by clerical historians to the traditions of the bards of, i. 306 Wall, his part in Spanish affairs, ii. 544 Walpole, Sir Robert, endeavours of the House of Commons to hunt him to the death, i. 452. His refusal to tax the colonies, 478 War, decline of the practice of, i. 190. Causes of this, 190, 191, 198. Military spirit of Russia and Turkey, and its causes, 195, 196. Love of war extinct in England, 198. Contrast between the military genius of ancient and modern Europe, 199-202. Causes of the decay of this genius in modern times, 202-223. The right of private war allowed to the French nobles, ii. 115. Early extinction of private war in England, 138 Warburton, Dr., Bishop of Gloucester, his separation of theology from politics, i. 425. Effect of his opinions, 426 Watches, superiority of the English in the seventeenth century, ii. 193 _note_ Water, methods employed by Watt and Cavendish in the discovery of, iii. 403 Watson's 'History of Philip II.,' translated by Mirabeau, ii. 225 Watt, James, his invention of the steam-engine, iii. 402. His discovery of the composition of water, and the method employed, 403 Wealth, effects of climate, food, and soil on the accumulation of, i. 41. Effects of wealth on the existence of an intellectual class, 42. Physical causes by which the creation of wealth is governed, 42 _et seq._ Laws of the distribution of wealth, 51. Interest, profits, and wages, 52. Causes of the unequal distribution of wealth in India in all ages, 72-77 Weather, alleged effect of gloomy, on the love of suicide, i. 220 _note_ Wellington, Duke of, his character as a warrior and statesman, i. 201, 202 Welsh, John, story of, and the Popish mocker, iii. 212 Werner, A. G., character of his method of geological speculation, iii. 393 Wesley, John, his abilities as a theological statesman, i. 421, 422. Calumnies and insults to which he and his followers were subjected by the clergy, 423. His ambitious views as to his sect, 424 _note_ Westphalia, Congress of, purely secular policy of the, ii. 41. The revenues of the Church seized by the contracting parties, 41. Indignation of the pope at the treaty, 41 _note_ Whewell, Dr., his errors, ii. 401 _note_ Whigs, their long monopoly of power, i. 443. Displaced by the Tories in the reign of George III., 443, 446 Whitby, first printing office in, i. 432 _note_ White, Blanco, on free will, quoted, i. 15 _note_ Whitefield, George, his career, i. 421 _note_. Character of his sermons, 421 _note_. Excitement produced by him, 421 _note_. Opposition of the clergy to him, 423, 424 _note_ Wightman, one of the last English martyrs to religious opinions, i. 345 _note_ Will, free, controversies of the Calvinists and Arminians as to, ii. 338 William the Conqueror, his modification of the feudal system in England, ii. 114 William III., main characteristics of the reign of, i. 402, 403. Eulogy of Sir A. Alison, 403 _note_. Hostility between the King and the clergy, 405. His abolition of episcopacy in Scotland, 406. His deprivation of the Archbishop of Canterbury and six of his brethren, 410 Williams, John, Bishop of Lincoln, the last ecclesiastical lord keeper, i. 417 _note_ Witchcraft, period of the destruction of the old notions respecting, i. 363 _note_. Charge of Chief Baron Hale in 1665, 363 _note_. The last witches executed in England and in Spain, 364 _note_. John Wesley's belief in the existence of witches, 364 _note_. Repeal of the statutes against witchcraft, 364 _note_. Witchcraft in Scotland, iii. 37 Woodrow, value of his 'Analecta,' iii. 230 _note_ Wool manufactures of Spain in the eighteenth century, ii. 542 Writing, invention of, a cause of error in history, i. 296. Modes in which it effects this, 296, 297 Yeomanry, rights of English, ii. 119. Unknown in France, 120. Decay of the Yeomanry in England, 120 _note_ Yeomen of the Guard, establishment of the, ii. 7 _note_ Zamora, Spanish poet, ii. 480 Zoology, state of the science of, in France under Louis XIV., ii. 197 Zoology, generalizations in, of Frenchmen in the eighteenth century, ii. 375. The statical and dynamical parts of, 375. Impetus given to the science by Cuvier and Bichat, 376-381 Zurich, antiquity of, according to Swiss authorities, i. 312 THE END. * * * * * LONDON: PRINTED BY SPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUARE AND PARLIAMENT STREET * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: The original spelling and minor inconsistencies in the spelling and formatting have been maintained. Inconsistent hyphenation and accents are as in the original if not marked as a misprint. Index entries out of sequence have not been corrected. Text in italics has been marked with underscores (_text_). The ligatures OE and oe have been marked as [OE] and [oe], the acute accent above r as [/r] and the macron above a letter as [=letter]. The sign ^ has been used as a superscript. The table below lists all corrections applied to the original text. p. xii: 361-sqq. -> 361-seq. p. xiv: 420-sqq. -> 420-seq. p. 7: vol iv. p. 313: -> p. 313; p. 7: vol. xviii. p, 309 -> p. 309 p. 12: by the English. -> by the English.' p. 13: Somerville's Memoire -> Memorie p. 18: sovereignty over Scotland. -> Scotland.' p. 18: Chalmer's Caledonia -> Chalmers' Caledonia p. 20: days of Robert the First, -> First,' p. 21: 18, 27, 375; vol. -> 18, 27, 375, vol. p. 21: 485; vol. x. p. 584; vol. -> 485, vol. x. p. 584, vol. p. 23: Extract from the -> Extracts from the p. 24: mercery and haberdashery. -> haberdashery.' p. 25: vol. i. p. 512 -> 512. p. 26: the bishop and chapter. -> chapter.' p. 29: though it is is -> though it is p. 30: Great Tay, through Perth, -> 'Great p. 31: ces salles parées. -> parées, p. 37: the Spottiswoode -> The Spottiswoode p. 41: could sign his own name.' -> name." p. 46: justiciaries to assist. -> assist.' p. 50: not the king himselue -> himselfe p. 62: Calderwood's Historie -> History p. 64: Henry VIII., "in -> 'in p. 65: Pitcairn's Criminal Trials of -> in p. 66: favor ony heretike. -> heretike.' p. 78: 'the secound of Maij. -> 'the secound of Maij.' p. 80: he (the orator)' -> he (the orator) p. 86: on the extreame povertie -> 'on p. 91: "To requyre payment -> 'To p. 94: _Church and State in Scotland_ vol. -> _Scotland_, vol. p. 95: in this reformed Kirk. -> Kirk.' p. 97: and ordaines, That -> that p. 106: miscreants and bribers -> bribers. p. 107: salbe the worst.' -> worst."' p. 111: Edinburgh, 1847. p. xxxix. -> Edinburgh, 1847, p. xxxix. p. 119: of Montrose, in 1600 -> 1600. p. 121: pp. 265, 266, 272; vol. -> 272, vol. p. 129: twentie thowsand pounds." -> twentie thowsand pounds.' p. 137: The Diary of Mr. John Lamont, -> Lamont p. 147: Duke of York's instigation. -> instigation.' p. 147: instigation.' _Shield's Hind let loose_ -> Shields' Hind p. 147: See _Shield's Hind let loose_ -> Shields' Hind p. 148: According to Burnet, the -> 'the p. 149: with an exquisite torture; -> torture;' p. 152: greatest of his works -> works. p. 154: to about 4500 men; -> men;' p. 158: London, 4to, 1817, vol ii. p -> vol. ii. p. p. 162: Fountainhall's Notes on -> Notes of p. 204: _Burnet's History of his own Time_, vol -> vol. p. 211: whole counsel of God. -> God.' p. 215: before he reached him!"' -> him!' p. 218: p. 43, in vol i. -> vol. i. p. 224: _Binning's Sermons_, vol. ii. p. 118; vol. -> 118, vol. p. 226: his people by Satan, -> Satan,' p. 228: and continoues sick." -> sick.' p. 228: when this happened. -> happened.' p. 250: Fleming's Fulfilling of -> of the p. 250: Balfour's Annals -> Annales p. 253: then when they are are -> then when they are p. 254: and we should chose -> choose p. 262: On the 22d October -> On the 22nd October p. 264: The History -> Historie p. 280: _Chalmers' Caledonia_, vol -> vol. p. 287: _Gray's Precious Promises_, p. 139 -> p. 139. p. 288: _of Edinburgh_,, -> _of Edinburgh_, p. 311: vol. ii. p. 23, seqq. -> vol. ii. pp. 23 seq. p. 312: united with biography, -> biography. p. 313: vol. ii. p: 206. -> p. 206. p. 328: the wages of labour. -> labour.' p. 333: _Brougham's Works_, Glasgow, 1856. -> 1856, p. 336: to determine what Adam's -> Adam p. 338: Moral Sentiment -> Sentiments p. 349: of Smith, not -> nor p. 352: murder by persons unknown?' -> unknown? p. 358: pp. 36, 37, 340, 343; vol. -> 343, vol. p. 358: pp. 115, 116, 288-299; vol. -> 288-299, vol. p. 358: vol. i. p. 305; vol. -> 305, vol. p. 359: vol. i. p. 329, 334; vol. -> 334, vol. p. 361: into execution in his writings. -> writings.' p. 368: concealed in them,--_latet_ -> _latent_ p. 387: says of it, very grvaely -> gravely p. 392: strata from the year 1790. -> 1790.' p. 398: were of igneous origin. -> origin.' p. 410: if not superior, to Newton. -> Newton.' p. 436: _Hunter's Works_, vol. i. p. 43; vol. -> 43, vol. p. 473: 'The members were of opinion that it was -> 'that it was p. 483: Geoffrey of Monmouth, i. 324. -> i. 324 p. 484: statement respecting, ii. 281. -> ii. 281 p. 488: one of Linnæus, -> one of Linnæus, ii. p. 490: civil war, ii, -> ii. p. 491: at an early period in, -> at an early period in, i. p. 492: peace of Westphalia, ii, -> ii. p. 494: they appeared, ii. 208. -> 208 p. 496: his secular philosophy, 329 -> 329. p. 497: with the clergy, 420, -> 420. p. 497: for the relief of the, 463. -> 463 p. 498: Dryburgh Abbey -> Abbey, p. 498: sixteenth century, iii. 30. -> sixteenth century, 30. p. 500: term of years first authorized. -> authorized, p. 501: establishments of, -> establishments of, i. p. 502: first financial reforms, i. -> first financial reforms, p. 502: Fossils; -> Fossils, p. 504: Francis 1. of France -> Francis I. of France p. 505: surrounded his accession, -> surrounded his accession, i. p. 505: 'Letters' of, ii, -> ii. p. 506: of political degradation. -> degradation, p. 506: admiration for England, ii, -> ii. p. 507: studies in crystallography -> crystallography, p. 508: causes of the, i. 144. -> i. 144 p. 510: French by Le Blanc, ii, -> ii. p. 511: in the reign of Louis XIV., -> in the reign of Louis XIV., ii. p. 512: of the government, 494, -> 494. p. 514: Ismorphism -> Isomorphism p. 515: his accession, -> his accession, i. p. 515: 'Ecclesiastical Polity,' -> 'Ecclesiastical Polity,' i. p. 519: literary class, 239 _note_. -> _note_ p. 520: to favour the King, 297. -> 297 p. 520: the Jansenists, ii. 344 -> the Jansenists, 344 p. 521: of human knowledge, 229. -> 229 p. 523: drained by the, 97 -> drained by the, i. 97 p. 524: literature, i. 437 _note_. -> _note_ p. 525: Calvinist opinions, 345. -> 345 p. 530: Mathew Paris, i. 315. -> Mathew Paris, 315. p. 533: theory of rent, i. 250 -> theory of rent, 250 p. 534: Religious teleration -> toleration p. 534: clergy inevitable, ii. 347. -> clergy inevitable, 347. p. 535: pointed out by Descartes, -> pointed out by Descartes, ii. p. 543: once inspired, ii. 262. -> once inspired, 262. p. 544: in the eighteenth century, 558 -> 186 p. 545: conception of the, 18 -> conception of the, i. 18 p. 546: aided by Montesquieu, 314. -> 314 p. 546: tax the colonies, 478 -> 478 p. 547: office in, i 432 -> office in, i. 432